#He is so complex and deep that its hard to put into words sometimes

[phatcatphergus]

Hi, you reblogged me with a lore dump about Q! Tubbo and you mentioned that you'd be willing to do a character analysis? Please, I'm invested at this point

Ahhhhh omg hi! I can't believe you came back for more lol. You shall soon be a qtubbo stan like the rest of us.

I do want to preface this by saying that this is my personal lore interpretation so it's subjective. So many people have great analyses of his character, so I recommend watching a couple streams or looking at the tag for a broad scope as well!

That being said...

I think the best word to describe qtubbo is loss.

He was brought to the island having already lost parts of himself he didn't know. Through his time on the island, he lost respect, credibility, friends, family, teammates, nieces and nephews, penpals, godkids, mentors, and himself. He never had something he didn't end up losing, whether by choice or force. He loses what matters most to him, yet he continues giving his all to everyone he meets.

He came to the island with loss and no sense of who he was or where he came from, yet he spent all of his time for the benefit of others. He worked day and night so that other people wouldn't experience the loss of what he could prevent such as items or supplies. He never wanted anyone to experience what he experienced, even when they were the ones perpetuating it.

No one ever cared about him unless it was for a reason. His relationships were transactional and needed to be because who would ever care for someone with no firm sense of self or where you came from? When he couldn't provide a transaction of care, he made himself useful, he became indispensable so that even if people didn't like him for him, they could use his skills until they didn't need him anymore.

The only time he actually felt that someone cared for him, just to care about him, was Fred. Fred had no emotions, no sense of self, and no past to speak of. Fred was someone who had no reason to hate or use Tubbo because Fred was like Tubbo. Fred was the first person who could care for Tubbo because he wanted to, and not because of his use or someone's sense of responsibility.

Losing Fred meant losing the one person who cared about him without strings attached. Anyone else only cared about him because he was useful, a leader, an engineer, a neighbor, a business partner, a babysitter, someone to steal from, or just someone to poke fun at. Until Sunny.

With Sunny, Tubbo knew better than to expect her to stay with him. He learned from his past that he doesn't deserve something as wonderful as Sunny, that he can only love and wait until she is ripped away too. If he wasn't good enough to keep Fred, why on earth would he be even partially enough for Sunny.

He mourned her loss the day he got her. He knew he wasn't the best for her, he wasn't anywhere close to what Sunny deserved, but he did his best regardless and loved her more than life itself. Sunny became his tether and the only reason for him to stay alive. Sunny needed him like he needed Sunny. Sunny was the only reason he kept himself alive after Fred's funeral. Through the jeers, through the belittlement, through the disregard for his feelings, Sunny was there and provided him with enough purpose to keep going.

Fit and Pac dating made his only sense of security start to crumble. The two people he figured would stick by his side were moving along without him. They wouldn't need him in their life because they would need each other. They don't need his friendship anymore, his usefulness has worn itself out. He doesn't see them extending a hand to him as they step forward because he's too focused on the empty voids in his past where others should be.

He tries to break them up, and even if they hate him, he can rationalize that he did it for the right reasons. They may hate him but they're stuck with him, kicking and screaming by his side. Everyone tells him that he needs to find Fred, that he's projecting his romantic life onto theirs. In reality, he is too scared of leaving the island the exact way he started, with nothing to his name and no one by his side.

His character is such a battle between what he wants to do and what he feels that he needs to do. His entire run through purgatory was fighting others for eggs that weren't even his. He spends his days working on projects for other people and picking apart his failures when others can only see his success. He works tirelessly so that Sunny won't ever understand what it's like to be underestimated, beaten down, mischaracterized, and alone. Even if the world is against them, he will be in her corner to fight until his dying breath.

He loves so deeply and so purely. He tries to compensate for the lack of it that he has received after giving it away to whoever asks. He is depressed, anxious, and on alert. He has gone through trials and events with his head high and carrying the weight of others on his shoulders. He loves and he gives and continues to even when the people he gives his love to throw it to the side.

He has people in his corner, but his fear of them leaving has already made them vanish in his mind. He's a killer and a father. An engineer and a friend. A penpal and an adversary. He is loss and he is love.

[the-dendrophile-bookdragon]

Mister Targaryen's Curious Bookshop

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader

Warnings: tooth-rotting fluff, mutual pining, slow burn, Aemond being obsessed with the reader, a little bit of self-loathing and low self-esteem (Aemond), flower shop/bookshop AU

Summary: Aemond thought he would be alone with his bookshop for the rest of his life. Until the flower shop next door came back to life.

A/N: This fic had been sitting in my WIPs for ages. @hotd-bigbang gave me the motivational push to finally write it. And @targaryenrealnessdarling visualised my words so wonderfully, helping me imagine and feel this fic more.

Masterlist Taglist

Aemond had been working at "The Curious Book Shop" since college. It had become his refuge from the chaos of his family life and a break from his studies. He would hide in the deepest corners, surrounded by rows upon rows of books, studying for exams or reading for pleasure.

It was during one of his early morning runs that he stumbled upon his fate. Just around the corner from his apartment complex, he noticed a small bookshop. Something about it pulled him in as if it were calling out to him. The smell of old books gently wafted into his nostrils, and he felt as though he had entered heaven.

Aemond wandered the shop slowly, lazily browsing the shelves. His fingers grazed the spines of both old and new books. He spotted classics like *Frankenstein* and beautifully bound editions of Jane Austen novels, but there was also an entire section dedicated to fresh voices, new writers waiting to be discovered. 

Time slipped away from him until the bookshop keeper, a kind elderly man with snow-white hair, a stout build, and round glasses that made his eyes look larger—like a slightly overfed hamster—tapped him gently on the shoulder. With a warm smile, the man told him it was closing time.

Aemond felt a pang of disappointment. He had only explored half of the shop and longed to uncover every hidden corner. 

From that day on, he became a regular. His visits were so frequent that the old man eventually offered him a job. Aemond accepted without hesitation; it was a dream come true to work in a place filled with books.

Though Aemond had completed his business degree at Queen’s College in King’s Landing, he didn’t pursue the corporate path his mother and grandfather had carefully laid out for him. Instead, he chose to put his skills to use at the bookshop. His mentor appreciated his knack for numbers and calculations, and Aemond soon took over managing the shop’s finances and budgets.

For a long time, Aemond was simply an employee. His mentor guided him through all the shop’s nooks and crannies, revealing the secrets hidden deep within the endless rows of books. But when the old man passed away, Aemond was shocked to discover that, in his will, he had left the bookshop to him.

"Old Valyrian magic," his mentor had said one day as they placed new arrivals on the shelves near the cashier, "is rooted deep in every corner of this bookshop—in every rug fibre, dust grain, and wooden splinter. It is like the skeleton of this wonderful shop."

Aemond could feel it too—the raw power lingering behind closed doors, in the creaks of the wooden floor, and the way the air seemed to hum with ancient energy. Or, at least, he thought he did. The truth was, sometimes the shop seemed to have a mind of its own. Doors would appear where there had been none before, opening to reveal strange, hidden rooms. Other times, doors would remain locked no matter how hard he tried, as if the bookshop decided he wasn’t ready to enter.

One day, after stocking the historical crime books, Aemond’s curiosity was piqued when a door swung open just as he turned away from the shelves. This door, unlike the others, seemed to beckon him. It led him not to another room but to an entirely different dimension—a space outside the normal laws of reality.

There were no books written about the bookshop itself, at least none he could find, and so he started documenting his explorations in a leather-bound notebook. In it, he scribbled down every detail, theory, and oddity he encountered. He spent hours after closing wandering the ever-shifting landscape of the shop, venturing through realms that seemed to exist only within its walls. The bookshop was playful—mischievous, even. It would open random doors, then lock them again, guiding him through magical adventures far beyond the world outside.

One room in particular had become his favourite: The Hidden Library. It was a vast, seemingly endless space filled with row after row of books, stretching far into the sky. There were books of every kind—small, hand-sized paperbacks, large encyclopedic tomes, volumes bound in leather with golden lettering, some in languages long dead. History, botany, astrology, science, philosophy—the scope of knowledge was overwhelming.

The towering shelves formed a maze, a labyrinth of wisdom and mystery. At the heart of this labyrinth sat a large oak desk, polished to such perfection that it gleamed like glass. Above it hung an ornate chandelier, casting a warm, amber glow over the desk, perfect for reading or studying in the comforting silence of the library.

But the labyrinth had its whims. The shelves shifted at will, reshuffling the paths and the books. It was both awe-inspiring and, at times, deeply frustrating. There were days when the maze seemed to toy with him, taking him in circles or preventing him from finding the desk. Yet, Aemond knew it was the bookshop's way of showing off—revealing itself bit by bit, granting him access to its secrets.

Aemond often imagined that the Library of Alexandria must have been like this—filled with treasures of knowledge, books and scrolls that held the wisdom of the world, guarded by time and mystery. Here, in his bookshop, he was one of the lucky few to uncover these treasures.

But The Hidden Library wasn’t the only room that fascinated him. There were other hidden chambers—each with its own magic, its own allure. He spent so much time exploring these secret places that he realized the bookshop had become more than just his workplace. It was his refuge, his second home, and perhaps, more than anything, a living entity he had come to understand like a dear, old friend.

Next to the magical bookshop stood an old, battered flower shop. The windows were dusty, and the paint on the rusty frames—once a bright blue—was flaking off. The sunblinds were torn and faded, their colour washed out from years of rain and weather damage.

Aemond’s mentor had once mentioned that the old owner couldn’t keep the shop open because her hands were no longer as nimble as they used to be. “The arrangements she made were as magical as this bookshop,” he would always say. “A shame she had to close it. She had no one to take over.”

The old bookshop owner had seemed melancholic whenever he spoke of the previous florist, smiling wistfully as if he had secretly admired her, perhaps even loved her in silence. Little did he know that he would share the same fate, leaving behind his beloved shop.

But one day, the flower shop next door sprang back to life. The scent of spring flowers began to fill the street, drifting into Aemond’s bookshop. The windows were freshly cleaned, and a new, bright yellow sunblind had been installed, replacing the worn one.

A week after the shop reopened, he saw her. She had messy, short hair in a half-up, half-down style, and a soft smile on her rosy, full lips. Her eyes sparkled as she quietly mumbled to herself, carefully arranging cut flowers in a vase outside the shop.

Aemond didn’t want to admit it, but he enjoyed watching her. Lost in her own little world, she crafted magnificent art with flowers, leaves, and other natural materials. He marvelled at her creations every time he passed by, often stopping to buy a bouquet—sometimes just to strike up a conversation, sometimes just to be near her.

It was nearly closing time when she appeared in front of him, a bright smile spreading across her lips. Her hair was messy again, with leaves and colourful petals woven into it—likely by accident, as some softly drifted to the ground whenever she turned her head. 

"Hi, I'm your shop neighbour. Sorry for not introducing myself sooner; I had to unpack everything," she said, holding out her hand with a bright grin. "Lovely," Aemond thought as he shook her hand.

“I’ve been to your shop a few times. I should’ve introduced myself, too,” he mumbled sheepishly, a soft blush dusting his pale cheeks. His ears felt like they were on fire.

Her hand was so small compared to his, soft but marked with fresh scars—probably from working with thorny roses or other prickly flowers. She was always creating art, in any form or shape, and it showed.

Her voice was full of joy, and unlike so many others, she looked at him without a trace of disgust or discomfort. She didn’t flinch at his scar or the eyepatch. She didn’t even avoid his gaze, which most people did. She looked him straight in the eyes, seeing him as a whole person. A warm feeling washed over him at that realization—it had been so long since he’d felt this way.

“Oh! Yes, I remember you now. You always buy two bouquets at a time!” she exclaimed, gesturing excitedly with her hands. Her energy was infectious, Aemond noted, and despite the late hour, he felt more awake just watching her. “You must really like your life partner!”

His blush deepened, a small, embarrassed smile tugging at his lips. “Something like that,” he mumbled, feeling the heat rise in his face.

Clearing his throat, he squared his shoulders, trying to regain his composure as he towered over her. But she only smiled more, undeterred by his flustered state.

“No problem,” he whispered gruffly, shifting nervously from foot to foot. He averted his eye, staring down at the cashier counter. Why was he so flustered?

“Can I look around? I know you’re closing soon, but this is the only time I can visit because of my shop hours,” she asked.

He nodded solemnly, and her grin widened as she skipped off into the depths of the bookshop. Aemond couldn’t help but stare after her, his heart still pounding wildly in his chest. His usual calm demeanour was slipping, and his hands were growing sweatier with every passing second.

He watched her roam through the aisles, her fingers gently brushing the spines of books. A soft smile played on her lips, and her eyes sparkled with the joy that seemed to radiate from her. Her skin looked smooth, her hands had been as soft as silk.

Her hair was up in a messy bun, with loose strands framing her face perfectly. He tried not to stare too much, but he couldn’t help himself. She was beautiful—radiant, even. The flower girl from next door.

It was no longer unusual for her to visit him after her shop’s closing hours. Since their first meeting, it had become routine, and Aemond didn’t mind keeping the shop open a little longer for her. He enjoyed the peace, but even more, he enjoyed her presence. She brought a sense of chaos and life into his dusty, meticulously ordered existence—something he had always carefully avoided, but now realized he needed.

This time, she told him in advance where she intended to wander, mindful not to repeat the incident from her first visit. That day, she had innocently ventured into one of the magical rooms, and Aemond hadn't heard from her for hours. Panic had set in when she failed to respond to his calls. By the time he found her, it was nearly midnight, and both of them had early mornings ahead. She explained that a door had appeared before her, opening on its own, and she hadn’t been able to resist stepping through.

Luckily, it was The Hidden Library she had found, a room Aemond knew like the back of his hand. The labyrinth of bookshelves had shifted, subtly aiding him in locating her more quickly than it usually would allow. Other rooms might not have been so kind, and Aemond had been relieved when he spotted her amidst the endless rows of books.

When he found her, she hadn’t been panicked or distressed. In fact, she had a stack of books balanced in her arms, her face lit with pure delight. "This is magnificent!" she had said, her voice filled with awe as she wandered between the ever-changing shelves.

His heart had pounded in his chest when he saw her, but not out of fear anymore. Something else stirred in him—his heart skipped, or maybe it leapt with joy, something akin to a yearning he hadn’t felt in a long time. Aemond was no stranger to intense emotions, but this was different. It wasn’t the fiery anger or the cold, bitter loneliness he was used to; this was warm, fluttering, almost sweet in its intensity.

Crushes were for middle schoolers, weren’t they? He tried to tell himself that, but there was no denying it anymore. Watching her flit through his magical bookshop with that infectious enthusiasm, her joy at discovering something new—it made him feel alive in a way he hadn’t in years. 

He stood there, watching her as she made her way through the aisles, completely at ease in the strange, shifting shop. She never seemed bothered by the oddities or the magic; if anything, it only seemed to fuel her curiosity and joy. And as much as he tried to keep his distance, Aemond couldn’t help but be drawn to her.

Maybe crushes weren't just for middle schoolers after all.

Aemond had never imagined he'd find himself standing in a magical greenhouse with the quirky flower shop owner next door, watching her flit between plants and books with the kind of excitement that only she seemed to possess. The realisation that he had a crush on her had grown stronger with every bouquet she brought him, each one slowly wilting or drying out under his care despite his best efforts.

When she playfully teased him about his inability to keep her gifts alive—remarking that she’d thought a magical shop would do the job for him—Aemond could only smile sheepishly. He had no explanation, other than perhaps his unfamiliarity with the deeper, older magics of the place. Maybe, he mused, if he had studied Valyrian magic more closely, he’d have been able to keep her flowers flourishing. 

Then one day, they found it—The Glass House. It appeared out of nowhere. He had restocked some sections of the shop while she was aimlessly wandering around again. His eyes sometimes drifted over to her. Watching her read passages out of books quietly. Making a note of which book she held longer so he could give it to her when he bought another bouquet from her.

They both turned into the same aisle when the door appeared right in front of them. Just right at the end of the rows of bookshelves where usually a wall was.

She stared at him with big eyes. “Is this normal?” She looked up at him with a bewildered expression. He nodded nonchalantly, he was used to it. “The bookshop likes to play.” She giggled gently at his deadpan words.

“Tell me more.” Her bright smile made his lips quirk up slightly. “Well, I don’t know how the magic works. The old owner couldn’t tell me either. But I found out the doors mirror the moods, likes and needs of the person standing in front of it.”

“Like the Room of Requirement?” Aemond snorted at her question. “More or less. The door stays and only disappears when it isn’t needed anymore. To make room for another door. A few doors had disappeared when my mentor died. It felt like the shop had mourned him.” 

He let his eyes wander over her face. To check if she understood what he was saying. She nodded lowly. She seemed to be deep in thought. Mulling over his words carefully. “There are multiple doors in the bookshop. Not one like in Harry Potter. Maybe even hidden ones. But most of the time they are prominent.”

She nodded softly. Looking at the door that had appeared in front of them. Vines seemed to wind around the wooden front like they were alive. Forming a large tree taking up nearly the whole door. To her, it seemed like the tree in the Nordic myth, Yggdrasil.  "So if I would go through one of those doors, it is like I would go through a portal. Like the wardrobe in Narnia?” Aemond snorted as he put another book onto a shelf, holding “The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe ” in his hands. Coincidence? In this shop, less likely.

“I see the shop more like the Tardis.” He mumbled. He was reaching up to restock the “Lord of the Rings” bundle packs back on the fantasy shelf. A classic he seems to run out of every week.

“Because the store seems small at first glance but it gets bigger with every new door opening?” She stood beside him, holding the stacks of Agatha Christi novels for him. “Yeah, like that.” He smiled at her, a rare occurrence that had happened more often since they spent time together. She hummed thoughtfully. “I like my Narnia reference more.” Aemond chuckled. “I am hurt.” He pouted playfully at her, making her giggle.

Suddenly the door opened next to her. She shrieked, which made him look up at her. His body was alarmed. Ready to fight whoever dared to scare her. He blushed slightly when he realised what he was thinking. And that he would fight a door for her.

Her fright was not long living. She was too curious to be scared for long. “I can make it up to you. Go on! Go inside and I follow you, Doctor.” He laughed gently. Putting away the last of crime mystery books before turning to the green door. “Well… Geronimo!” He mumbled playfully into her ear. Making her blush.

He turned the golden knop. With a gnarling sound, it slowly opened. A breeze of warm wind blew into their faces gently. 

Aemond held the door open for her to go inside. She shyly thanked him. Her eyes grew big at the sight of what lay behind the inconspicuous door. Aemond had to keep up with her as she rushed inside the door.

She stopped in the middle of the room. Her breathing hitched in her throat as she took in the room overgrown with lush green plants. Her smile reached up to her ears. Her small body vibrates from excitement. “Look! A greenhouse library!” He smiled as he watched her flitter around the room.

Strangely, it wasn’t as humid as a typical greenhouse. It was pleasantly warm or cool, depending on what they needed at the time. On either side of the house stood hip-high plant tables made of stone, filled with plants both known and unknown, their blooms and colourful leaves on display for visitors.

In one corner stood two cosy-looking emerald armchairs with a table between them. They looked so inviting as if they had been waiting for him and his companion. Friend? he wondered about what he should call his shop neighbour. His little flower girl? His heart pounded against his ribcage. What was he thinking? His little flower girl? She was barely his friend—acquaintances, maybe? Slowly he started to confuse himself, distracting him from marvelling and listening to her.

But his heart knew what his mind refused to admit: he wanted her. He wanted to explore his magical bookshop with her.

They moved on. Going into the garden section. She already held three books in her hand. Opening them at random pages to read them at the same time. It was an endearing sight he didn’t like to avert his eyes.

She talked animatedly about the various plants, suggesting that he put her half-dead flowers from the front of the shop in the Glass House so he wouldn’t be so sad when they died. She stopped short when she realized she was alone in another corner of the greenhouse, having abandoned the orchids to return to the centre of the room—back to the two emerald armchairs. Back to him.

The sight of her wide-eyed excitement as they entered The Glass House was enough to make Aemond's heart leap. Plants of all kinds surrounded them, lush greenery spilling over the stone plant tables. Despite the greenhouse setting, the air was a perfect balance of warmth and coolness, catering to their comfort. In the centre of the room were two emerald armchairs, an inviting sanctuary in the midst of the botanical splendour.

He watched her eagerly explore the space, picking up books on gardening and flipping through their pages with a joyful energy that he found utterly endearing. She chattered on about the plants, suggesting with a grin that maybe he could bring her dying bouquets here, where the magic could keep them alive.

Aemond was about to respond, but the words caught in his throat. His mind wandered to the sensation of her small, scarred hand in his earlier—a hand that had felt soft, delicate, and utterly natural in his. He couldn't stop the warmth that spread through him, a feeling he wasn’t entirely sure how to deal with. What was she to him, really? His heart wanted to call her something more than just a shop neighbour or even a friend. Something like "his flower girl" seemed to fit, but it made his chest tighten with a strange kind of longing. 

As he stood there, lost in thought, he barely noticed her wandering off to the other side of The Glass House. He only snapped back to attention when he realized she had returned, her presence suddenly close again. She held out her hand, a playful glint in her eyes. "I saw another door opening," she said softly, her voice filled with excitement. "Your bookshop is telling me something. Want to come with me?"

He looked down at her outstretched hand, feeling a mix of emotions he couldn’t quite name. Hesitation flashed briefly before he took her hand, its warmth seeping into his. “Let’s explore the rooms together, then,” he said, his voice quiet but filled with resolve.

She led him through the new door, and they entered a room unlike any other he had ever seen. The ceiling stretched impossibly high, filled with swirling stars, planets, and constellations that shimmered and moved like they were alive. The smell of ancient books filled the air, wrapping around them like a comforting, familiar blanket. It was peaceful, serene—a perfect contrast to the excitement they’d felt in The Glass House.

They both stood in silence for a moment, awestruck by the beauty of the room. Later, they would come to call it "The Sorcerer’s Room," convinced it had once belonged to a powerful wizard—a figure out of legend, someone like Merlin.

But for now, Aemond was content. Content to explore the wonders of his magical bookshop, not alone this time, but with her by his side. And more than the magic of the shop, it was her wide-eyed wonder and infectious joy that captivated him the most. As they wandered deeper into the room, he felt her hand tighten around his, and for the first time in a long while, he realized how much he enjoyed sharing this world with someone who made it feel even more magical.

Since the discovery of The Glass House and The Sorcerer’s Room, she had spent most of her time in both rooms—studying the plants or curling up in the emerald armchair to read. She looked like a cat when she did it.  

In The Sorcerer’s Room, she would lie on the floor and point out different constellations. He would lie next to her, hanging on to every word that left her lips.

“Black tea, steeped for nearly ten minutes with a dash of milk.” He set the large yellow cup with white daisies in front of her on the small coffee table. She smiled softly up at him.  

“Thank you,” she said. She had lost track of time as she read in the emerald chair in The Glass House, a blanket she had crocheted herself thrown over her lap. At his sweet gesture, her heart thudded harder against her rib cage.

His heart leapt again at her soft smile.  

“Am I here often enough now that you’ve already memorized my tea-drinking habits?” she chuckled softly.  

He grinned involuntarily. “It’s an odd way to drink tea,” he teased, “but I like odd things,” he wanted to add.

She giggled softly, making his heart flutter again, before taking a sip. She closed her eyes and let out a content hum.  

“Perfect,” she whispered, her bright eyes twinkling in the soft glow of the light in The Glass House, like stars sparkling in the night sky.

His body warmed at her smile. A rare smile crept across his own, thinner lips. He leaned slightly closer, inhaling the floral scent of her perfume—so fresh and light. He wanted to fall asleep with his face nestled in her neck, to wake up to her warmth every morning.

The realization hit him hard. His body grew tense, every muscle and fibre rigid as he looked down at her. His knees nearly buckled as he stared.  

Her perfect little smile haunted his dreams and every waking moment. Her eyes hypnotized him whenever they caught his gaze. She was an enchantress, though she didn’t know it.

He cleared his throat and sat down in the other emerald green armchair next to her, trying to focus on his book. But every five seconds, he lost his place, and after a few paragraphs, he had no idea what he had been reading.

The reason was clear: she, his shop neighbour. The sweet florist next door. A woman so kind and warm that he wanted to envelop her in his arms, keep her close, and never let her go.

He was growing possessive. He caught himself growling at male customers from time to time, surprising even himself. He had never acted like this before. Not with his ex, Alys, or with Floris, the girl he dated for one semester at university.

This was different—a deep, primal urge. To be close to her. To take care of her. To provide for her. To be hers, just as he wanted her to be his.

The more he thought about her, the more horrified he became at how deeply in love he had fallen. His heart raced, his hands grew sweaty, and they trembled lightly, clammy with nervous energy.

The most fatal mistake he made at that moment was looking over at her. His lone, piercing pale violet eye drank in her worried features.  

Strands of hair had fallen into her face, and he watched as her nose wrinkled slightly, one strand tickling it. Her bright eyes examined him carefully, her worry growing the longer he sat like a statue in the emerald armchair beside her.

“Everything alright, Aemond?” she asked, her voice soft. The sound of his name on her lips was enough to make him swoon. So sweet, so innocent.  

“Yes,” he rasped, clearing his throat. “All is well. Never been better.” He rambled, trying to regain his composure.

She raised an eyebrow at him, clearly unconvinced. He felt trapped, like a rabbit staring into the eyes of a predator. What was she doing to him?

He couldn’t keep feeling like this—trapped in his own body. It was a sensation he had tried to avoid since childhood, an unhealthy way to cope with anxiety. He knew that well enough.  

Aemond abruptly stood from the armchair and rushed out of the room into the main selling area of the bookshop, trying to hide between the shelves. But he could hear her soft footsteps following him. She had thrown the blanket aside and followed him as fast as her shorter legs could carry her. 

He tried to outrun her, taking sharp turns every few steps but suddenly stopped at a dead end. Cursing himself for not paying attention to his own shop’s layout, he glared at the wall. A part of him wished for a new door to appear so he could disappear, but nothing happened. The wall remained still, unmoving.  

She chased after him the best she could. Her legs were much shorter than his, and while he could take one step, she needed four to keep up. She tried anyway, her eyes fixed on him as he turned corners.

But one of his turns was too fast. He managed to shake her off, leaving her out of breath and disoriented. Her mind raced, trying to figure out where he had gone. Her gut told her to go left, but her head insisted on right.  

Finally, she found him, standing rigid at the dead end. His back stiffened as she approached. "Why are you running from me?" she asked, her voice soft but tinged with confusion. He didn’t turn, as if trying to ignore her.

She stepped closer. "Did I do something wrong?"  

"No!" he immediately shot back. She jumped, startled by the suddenness of his response, a gasp escaping her lips.

Hearing the sound, he turned toward her. He had scared her—a thing he vowed he would never do. "I’m sorry," he murmured, reaching out, and she let him touch her arm. Her baby blue jumper felt soft under his hand. "I’m so sorry," he repeated, his voice quieter this time.

"It’s alright," she said, stepping closer. "I’m just a jumpy person."  

She looked up at him, her eyes shining even in the dim light, like stars in the night sky.  

"You’re so beautiful," he whispered under his breath, but she heard it, smiling bashfully.  

"Thank you," she replied, her cheeks heating up.

They moved closer—toe to toe, chest to chest. Aemond looked down at her while she looked up.  

"You have beautiful eyes," she mumbled.  

"No, I don’t," he responded, his tone harsher than he intended.

She frowned at his self-deprecation. "They’re both unique in their own way, and I think they’re beautiful." Her protest was met with a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips.  

"Don’t tell me what to think," she said, glaring at him playfully.

He chuckled. "If you say so."  

She huffed in disbelief, frustrated by how low his self-esteem was. Words weren’t enough, so she let her actions speak for her. She leaned up and kissed him gently.

His breath caught in his throat as their lips met, and a tingling sensation swept over his body. Slowly, he pulled her closer by the waist, careful not to make her stumble. Her arms wrapped around his slim frame, her fingers digging into the wool of his jumper.

The kiss lingered, electric sensations running through both of them. Eyes closed, they held each other tightly. But eventually, they had to come up for air.  

Their chests heaved, eyes wide and pupils blown, but big grins spread across their swollen lips. They didn’t need words—silence spoke volumes, carrying more meaning than a thousand words ever could.

[allidoistrytrytryy]

a moment's silence when my baby puts her mouth on me (cove holden x reader)

ao3 version here

summary: Cove Holden and the black underwear (from Patreon moment 2, if you know you know), except it's his own surprise on a random Friday (smut with feelings)

word count: 3,116 words

tags: smut, porn with feelings, porn without plot, light dom/sub, switching, sexual intimacy, they're in love your honour, author has been feeling insane about cove for years and lately about the black underwear so here we are (female reader implied but i tried to be as non-descriptive as possible, can be a male trans reader too)

You were exhausted, your fingers rubbed at your eyelids and at your forehead, trying to take the headache away.

You had had a large project at your job, long hours, and planning that took too much of your time. You came home late, too late, so late sometimes Cove would already be in bed or asleep on the couch, always waiting for you (even though you had told him to sleep, not to wait up for you if you were too late, but he insisted every time).

You sighed at the thought of your fiancee. You missed him too much, missed being able to have time with him, going out on weekends or lazing around after work to watch a show you would fall asleep through anyway, snuggled in his warmth.

You hadn’t been able to do that in more than two weeks, always working, always in contact with your coworkers to continue the project even deep into the night. You were glad today was the presentation, and then you were taking a few days off, away from everything.

You felt the fear in your gut at the presentation. You were nerves on legs, as you always were when you had to talk in front of an audience. You knew that would never change, the way you spaced out, waiting and waiting, at your desk.

Your phone buzzed on your desk, which took you out of your thoughts and the ball in your stomach. A smile crept up on your face before you even had the time to read what the text said, at the name appearing on your screen.

Cove.

Romeo: You have this, show them what you’re made of. Love you. <3

You smiled hard, your finger rubbing at the heart emoji with the text, at the picture you had set as his picture on your phone. A picture of him asleep on your couch, snuggled under a blanket, his long hair freed from its usual low bun.

You hadn’t been able to resist the urge to take a picture, and your fingers had gone through his hair.

You sent him a heart back, now fired back up. You could do this, go home and kiss your fiancee senselessly until you fell asleep snuggled into his warmth.

And the presentation happened. It went well, and you shared smiles and compliments with your colleagues. Sighs of relief. You could all go home peacefully tonight.

Which you did. You sprinted to your car when the hour came, your colleagues’ laughter following you down the elevator. They all knew you were eager to be home again, to be with the fiancee you talked about too much. (You couldn’t help it. You loved Cove Holden too much, loved him since you were eight. What could you do?)

The drive went quickly and you arrived at your little place a bit further from the city in record time. When you parked in your spot, next to Cove’s car who was already there and home, you realized you had forgotten to send him a text. You bit your lip, hoping he hadn’t waited for it.

Five unread texts with Cove inquiring about the presentation, worried. Shit.

You climbed the stairs of the apartment complex quickly, your keys already in hand. You entered.

”I’m home! Sorry, I completely forgot to answer your texts, I’m so so...” You interrupted yourself by the sight of your living room, your coffee table with a range of plates and food, and even a cake.

Hands sneaked around your waist, a kiss on your hair, a chest against your back. Your fiancee enveloped you, mint, citrus and this particular ocean smell in your nose and you finally relaxed. “Hi sweetheart, how was it?” he asked gently.

You turned around in his arms and, as always, you had to crane your neck to look up into his eyes. You hadn't been fortunate with height while Cove had had too much of it over the years. His arms circled your waist. “Went smoothly, we can finally breathe now,” you answered and got on your tiptoes to kiss him quickly, which he answered with that giddy smile he never lost around you. “Now, what’s all of this, Covie?”

”Well, I knew it would go perfectly since it’s you,” you rolled your eyes at the remark but the smile betrayed you, the blush even more. “and wanted to celebrate it. I got your favorite things from your favorite places and got a cake.”

Cove looked like it wasn’t even an effort, and it wasn’t in your relationship. You both made so much effort, so much again and again for each other that it was just normal. But, it didn't change the fact that you were always touched by every gesture.

You still couldn’t phantom how dear you were to this man sometimes. You still couldn’t understand how your heart never seemed to stop expanding for him, taking in every piece, every detail, every word and action from him.

Your hands dragged his face to you, to kiss him deeply, like you had wanted to since you had finished the project. He sighed against your lips, that content sigh, his lips and tongue entangled with yours. An intimacy you could never get enough of.

”I love you so much,” you whispered against his lips and his eyes misted over, your crybaby, always yours.

”I love you too,” he whispered as if he didn’t want to break the calm of the moment, wanted to stay in this moment suspended in time.

Until you dragged him to the couch to drape yourself over him, eating and barely paying attention to whatever was on the TV as background noise. You talked about the project. He talked about his day and his own job.

When you finished, he pushed you to the bathroom. “Go take a bath, relax, I got the dishes,” Cove reassured and you pouted.

”But, I can help, I didn’t get dinner so it should be me,” you whined in his shoulder and he laughed while pushing in the bathroom while you couldn’t do anything.

”No way. Go, now,” he kissed your cheek and you still pouted as you got into the bathroom.

You did well on what he had told you to do, spending too much time in a hot bath until it got cold, your body wrapped in your comfortable fuzzy robe. You finally stepped out to get to the bedroom, itching to put your pajamas on, and fall asleep next to Cove.

The too-large shirt was in your hands, actually just one of Cove’s shirts you had stolen and never returned, as you did since you were teenagers, even before you were officially truly together. You hadn’t realized why the light was so dim, hadn't realized Cove was on the bed.

You turned your head slowly and you felt your knees wobble, felt your eyes widen until they almost popped out of your skull.

You had seen Cove in all types of clothes and nakedness over the years. You knew him and his body by heart, the moles, the sleeve on his right arm that you loved to kiss all over, the dips, and where the redness would creep. But right now? You were speechless.

Cove fucking Holden was sat against the headboard, half-lidded eyes on you, but you could see the blush high on his face and ears and down his neck. He was naked, well, except for the underwear but it was the underwear that made you want to scream.

It was black but it barely hid anything, the green happy trail visible from that delicious V-shape you liked to bite, down a dangerous low dip. Straps followed his hips and they showed his hipbones. You almost wanted to ask him to get up and show the back, to see how it looked over that ass you loved too much.

”Surprise,” he simply said, wanting to sound sultry but ending up at excited, embarrassed, waiting.

The shirt slipped through your fingers, forgotten on the floor, and you were still speechless. “What...are you...” you swallowed hard, heat at the back of your neck, on your ears.

Large shoulders were shrugged and he tilted his head, “I… we talked about how I wanted to try some...lingerie out and I thought it would be a good idea for a celebration.”

He was still waiting and you could see how waiting affected him, the redness ever more present on his face and down his neck, the quick jostle of his knee. You approached the bed slowly, eyes laser-focused on him.

You could feel a restraint slowly unfurling in your gut, a wait. You had missed Cove and his hands on you, you had missed the everyday intimacy but you had also missed the sexual intimacy you shared. You both couldn’t have enough of each other sometimes, a pull between your hearts and your bodies.

Your hands settled on the edge of the bed, and you crawled slowly to him, putting up a show for his eyes and his eyes only. The robe dipped down and he gulped, his eyes on your cleavage, on your bare chest visible underneath. You smirked, finding a place between his legs, hands on his thighs, so so close to the dangerous piece of underwear that threatened your composure.

”So, you decided to gift my eyes with this, baby?” you whispered, a finger playing with a strap at his hip. “You’re way too good for me.”

Cove gulped again and you wanted to bite at his Adam’s apple, leaving marks on his pale skin until everybody would know. He shook his head.

”What? You don't agree that you’re too good for me?” you asked, a little pout at the words, your eyes on his face. You were playing the game of how sultry you could be, how much you could push it until his own restraints broke. “Maybe I should show you.”

Your hands traced the straps and the edges of the underwear. Your mouth found a nipple as your hands traced but never touched where you could feel a hardness growing and growing. His moans hit your ears and you smiled, your tongue playing from one nipple to another.

”You don't have to...” he tried to say, his moans high, and god, did you love how vocal he could be. He was always so vocal, so good.

”I want to, so be a good boy, baby,” you whispered, bit at the side of his chest, so muscular, so pretty. He moaned higher, hips bucking against your chest. Your mouth traveled down and down, following the green trail of hair. “Driving me crazy with this, Covie.”

Your hands caressed the hardness over the fabric, but your mouth found the tip already out with how hard he was. The dip was so low that the tip was the only thing visible, so your tongue swirled around it, the saltiness hitting your tastebuds. You moaned, fingers at the straps.

”Oh my god," Cove whined loudly, hips bucking again, the tip making its way deeper into your mouth. “Shit, sorry sweetheart, I didn't mean to...”

You shook your head and pulled at the straps downward, until the underwear sat underneath his cock and you pushed more and more into your mouth, desperate for more, to make him feel even better.

”Fuck, fuck, fuck," you heard him repeat and you wanted to smile, to tease him like you always did because he only ever cursed in those moments, so gone, so desperate.

More and more, until you felt tears in your eyes, until you breathed through your nose, hands at what you couldn’t fit down your throat because of how big he was. But you loved it, thighs clenching to relieve the ache that formed in between.

It wasn’t about you, even though you could spend hours between his legs, to look at his head thrown back, his eyes closed and face scrunched up, like now. He looked out of this world, long hair around his head, down his shoulders, redness still at his face, sweat down his neck and on his chest. You couldn’t believe he was yours still.

”Shit, sweetheart, I’m gonna… I’m...” Cove’s voice rang out and you felt how tight his balls were getting, see how his abs tightened. He was close, and a part of you wanted him to cum in your mouth, but you had another plan.

You popped off his hardness with a loud pop, saliva around your mouth, and his head rose up, his eyes opened in question. You crawled back up his body, your hands opening your robe, until you could throw it on the floor beside the large bed. You settled on his lap, hands on his shoulders.

You swatted his hands away before they could fall on your hips, and you saw the small pout on his face that you kissed away with a laugh. “Sorry, no touching baby, be good a bit longer for me,” you kissed along his face, nibbled at his neck, leaving a few hickeys as your hips moved, your wetness rubbing on his cock.

Cove whined still against your shoulder, “But you look so good… And you’re so wet,” he moaned, groaned. “Let me touch you, please,” he begged but you shook your head, your hips rising up to catch the tip at the edge of your wetness, of your warmth.

You slowly sunk down, your own moan unable to stay in your throat at the delicious burn his cock always gave you, that fullness that always took your breath away. You hummed as you sank lower and lower.

His eyes were closed tightly, his body trembled when you finished back on his lap, the length fully inside you. You stayed still, enjoying the moment, and his hands stayed beside his hips, beside the underwear that was still underneath his cock, trapping his legs in place. He was taut, all muscles tight and restrained.

”Please, please, move," Cove begged and you could only answer with your hips moving up and slamming back down.

Your moans intertwined with Cove’s, as you rode him, slowly, building a faster rhythm with every breath, every moan. You rode him, a deep pleasure building in your stomach, pleasure built with his moans in your ear, your teeth at his shoulder.

You rode him until your thighs trembled and his hips, so restrained until now, slammed up in response. You almost screamed his name. It had hit that one spot deep inside and your body had fallen down onto his chest.

All restraint broke in his body, his hands at your hips, so tight you knew you would feel them still tomorrow, “Sorry, I can’t...” he breathed out, before his hips slammed up again and again, his hands guiding your hips down every time.

“Fuck, Cove, Cove,” you repeated his name, your forehead on his shoulder, your eyes on the spot that joined your two bodies together, his cock sliding in and out.

His name on your lips broke him again and you lost all control you had on the situation. His hands manhandled you on your back, almost ripped the underwear that had started it all off his legs, and he had your legs folded against his chest before he slid back in.

The breath was knocked out of your chest, your hands tugged at his hair, and your eyes were on him always. The muscles bulging with every movement, the sweat trickling down, the pure ferocity and desperation on his face.

Cove wasn't always pushed to this side of dominance, if not ever. Not to this degree. You both liked to switch, to play with what were the limits and new things, but falling back into lovemaking most of the time. Here, your gentle sweet Cove was gone, to leave a rougher Cove you loved too, your moans encouraging him.

”Don’t stop, Cove, don’t stop," you begged, hands desperate in his hair, hips moving to answer every thrust deep inside, against the spot. You could barely talk and he could only groan and moan, his own mouth busy on your nipples, back arched.

You were getting closer and closer, and he could feel it, the way you arched more and more, the way you were tighter and tighter around him, the way your moans only got louder. His eyes were on your face, a hand moving down from your hip to the nub of nerves, so wet from everything.

Your head tilted back into the pillow, “Cove, I’m… I’m gonna cum,” you moaned, warned and he hummed in response, his thumb insistent on your clit, in time with every thrust. Your back arched even more, the pleasure exploding in your stomach, behind your eyes, and in your whole body until you were left a trembling thing underneath Cove.

His thrusts slowed down, but your hips moved and you shook your head. “No, don't stop, need you to cum,” you croaked out, voice spent, hands still tugging at his hair.

”I don’t want to hurt you,” Cove moaned over you, eyes half-lidded on your face, but you shook your head again. You tugged him closer, forehead against his.

”You can’t hurt me. Please Cove, I love you, please,” you begged, his thrusts were erratic and you could tell he was close.

”I love you, fuck, I love you so much, I love you," he repeated against your cheek, and you hummed, answered back, until he moaned louder.

Until the final thrust, until he came deep inside you with your name on his lips and you kissed his face.

Cove detangled himself from you only to bring back a wet washcloth, to wipe you and himself. You only got up to go the toilets, fast and impatient, to find him back in bed, under the covers.

You cuddled in his arms, your cheek on his shoulder, legs entangled to look at him. Content, beautiful. It was magical, as always, to go to sleep with him every night, to have him be the last thing you always saw at night.

”Well, that was a nice surprise," you giggled and he smiled lazily. “I’ll be the one to surprise you next time.”

He groaned lightly but laughed, forehead hitting yours gently. “If you want me to really die, sure,” and you could only laugh, his lips on your eyelids, yours reaching up to kiss his eyebrows. “Go to sleep, sweetheart.”

You hummed, “I love you, Covie.”

His smile grew larger, and his cheeks turned red as always, “I love you too.”

And you fell asleep, safe, happy, home, where you belonged.

[cultofsappho]

Ive come to the realization that the reason theres a small but loud group of people who are showing nothing but hate for the rwrb movie is because they have completely unrealistic expectations. People are forgetting that this is a cheesy romantic comedy, thats supposed to look and feel like a cheesy romantic comedy. This isnt going to be moonlight or gods own country or some other critically acclaimed, oscar nomintaed queer film that makes straight people go "hmm maybe they do deserve rights and respect🤷‍♀️"

Its gonna be a cheesy adult romantic comedy, thats gonna be a bit camp and over the top and thats exactly why its so good. I dont want to think about every gay movie I watch. I want to watch it and see two queer people fall in love and thats it. Thats how deep it goes. Maybe a sprinkling of politcal commentary in between.

There is this issue thats become bigger and bigger every passing year, that people expect every bit of queer representation to be the best thing ever. There can not ever be anything cringey or different or silly, and if it is then they send endless hate towards it, and in an industry that already hates to show queer people on screen, its this viscious cycle of someone finally being greenlit to make queer media, the media gets endless hate for not being perfect, the studio cancels the queer media before giving it a chance because theyve just 'proven that it wont make money', suddenly everyone is saying 'why do they keep canceling queer media😢', cycle repeats.

Im so over it. Let gay people be slightly cringy or cheesy or campy. Let queer media exist without putting it on this huge pedestal. Just enjoy things! And if you dont, dont watch it! Move on, find something better to do.

Yes!!! Thank you so much anon for putting this feeling into words much better than I could have!

"I dont want to think about every gay movie I watch."

Thank you.

I want light-hearted rom coms about queer adults just being queer adults and havig fun. I want comedy adventures where the characters just happen to be gay. I want more horror where at the end the final girl kisses a girl and can't belive they lived but not because they're gay. (suprisingly several of these exist and I love it)

I don't always want to think about the plight and horrors of being queer today with every queer movie I watch.

Sometimes, yes of course, I want to be seen on that level.

(Nimona, which came this weekend is a perfect example of a queer movie where I felt very very seen but also had a good time and was an incredibly silly fantasy adventure movie. But, still had the queer expereince intertwined.)

I'm looking forward to a movie that will be 90% rom com, and 10% realism/heavyness. re: being outed is a real thing that happens to people. famous people.

Alex and Henry go through some heavy shit. There's seriously traumatizing stuff at the end of the book. They're both dealing with mental illnesses, complex families, and rock-or-a-hard-place situations. I want all of that honored.

And, at the same time, I'm expecting a straight-to-streaming, mid-budget, movie that had to pass through a LOT of straight hands and board meetings to get to us.

Not to say we should love and accept every queer movie that comes out automatically, they have been done wrong in the past. (example: I skipped call me by your name bc the age gap still makes me too uncomfortable to watch)

But we have to give queer movies a chance to fit the genre they were made for, the tone they are made to be, and give queer creators a chance to show they are us annd they know us. The director is Bi. He's spent so much time going on about how much he related to Alex that he needed to make this movie. It's his first directing role, and I'm giving him a chance.

[magnetosupporter]

Sooo

lately since ive been reading the comics and watching the '92's show I have come up with a thought that i guess only tumblr fandom may welcome it and i'd to share it with you guys

well, since watching xmen 97 i have been completly in love with rogneto, and even went to read the comics to know more about them and their relationship and what had lead them towards the end so she actually end up marrying another guy, and dont get me wrong, i do enjoy watching gambit and think he's a funny character, cool powers and memorable lines, but i do not like to see him with rogue, but ive came to be cool with this fact since he makes her happy.

ever since watched EP. 5 i had the thought that he was somehow ""childish"" on what he said to rogue when she taught him about her previous relationship, and at first, i did get it, he was hurt, hurt to see she choosing somebody else. choosing someone he thought was no good (in all ways possible) and most important, choosing someone who could give her what he could not.

I mean, he's not wrong, indeed, there are some things deeper than skin, everyone knows that, but not this, not for her. I think, love is so much more than sex, but sex is also a part of love. You can say you love someone without ever have touched them, but sometimes, some moments, when you're so in love you wish to... kiss them. To hold their hands, to hug them, to strip them out of their clothes and touch them bare, kind of touch so intimate, so deep, to bring happiness and pleasure to the other and get yours from it. Its not the thought "someone has their needs", we can live without sex, its okay, but sometimes you wish more, and you are not wrong for dreaming big. Rogue has the right to dream big, to love, to touch, to give herself to someone and be loved, touched, desired. She has the right to have dirty fantasies and even, maybe, dream of having children of her own.

It is unfair to her to remind her what she alredy knows. She never forgot her love for gambit, for the thing deeper than her skin, but with that she was also reminded that even with happy moments she couldn't kiss him desperatly without bringing him pain. It is not causing herself pain that scares her, but hurting someone she loves the most. And we gotta agree that he saying that to her was probaply the most unfair thing someone could have ever said to another. Gambit was wrong, and unfair. And i do think he was childish in this moment, even though he was also hurt.

With saying this to her, I think he scared her, wronged her for choosing herself, her dreams and needs over love. Im not saying "she should have choose sex over love", because I know her moment with Erik was long gone, and probably wasnt so deep as the present one with gambit, but i do know she loved Erik, as he was wholeheartly given to her. There was just so more complex things between rogneto than i could say right now, but the point is: she has the right of being loved, and choosing this for her, even if it isnt with somebody we would like to.

She has the right of choosing herself and not being called selfish for that, because she is not wrong. She cannot be wrong in this matter, its her life we are talking about. We know how much of a hell her powers are to her, so, how can you blame her for choosing a path that wrong bring her or the ones she loves pain??

I do know that in the comics she learns how to control her powers and so many more things, but im talking about EP. 5, that little moment when everything seemed so... hard to go thru. Do not wrong my girl, she deserves to be happy and dont even try saying shit about Erik to favor your r*my, because Magneto may has done plenty wrong things in his life, but he also loved her more than he could put into words. He loves her in every universe, even if she does not choose him.

(not to forget the difference between their reaction on being rejected, but this is a matter for another time)

[sebastianswallows]

The English Client — Fifteen

— PAIRING: Tom Riddle x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: The year is 1952. Tom is working for Borgin and Burkes. He is sent to Rome to acquire three ancient books of magic by any means necessary. One in particular proves challenging to reach, and the only path forward is through a pretty, young bookseller. A foreigner like him, she lives alone, obsessed with her work... until Tom comes into her life.

— WARNINGS: angst and fluff

— WORDCOUNT: 3.5k

— TAGLIST: @esolean @localravenclaw @slytherins-heir

I

“Riddle?”

“Yes, Mr. Oso?”

“Have you finished authenticating that copy of Colonna that came in last week?”

“I’m writing the report now, sir.”

“Well hurry up. He needs it tonight.”

Tom rolled his eyes and kept on working. The Baron’s glorified butler had caught him mid-sentence and now he barely remembered how he wanted to end it.

“What was that?”

He hadn’t said anything, but he knew it was rather what he hadn’t said.

“Yes, sir,” he hissed.

And he reminded himself for the fourteenth time to figure out an enchantment on his new fountain pen to get it to write on its own just as his quill did. The problem was that unlike a quill its more complex mechanism required there to be more steps in the enchantment, and he hadn’t even begun to figure out how to get it to reload its reservoir when it ran out — which at his rate of writing was about once every few days. He’d just about resigned himself to having to put a spell on the ink pot too.

Ambrogio was more of a slave driver than old Caractacus Burke — perhaps because rather than being an indispensable addition to the shop, Tom was a threat to him. Or so he flattered himself with thinking in his more unhappy moments.

And when his wand hand itched, he went upstairs to her.

Whatever she had been doing, she always smiled upon seeing him. Sometimes she got up and went over to fix some unnecessary thing about his tie or a stray curl of hair or rub an imaginary ink stain off his cheek. He gladly stood there and accepted being fussed over.

If she was too busy she stayed right where she was — behind her desk or up a ladder or leaning over the telephone — and Tom would just come over, place a subtle hand on an innocent part of her body, and caress her in gentle motions. Not infrequently he soothed both her and himself in this way. She always shivered at his touch and said it was because his hands were cold — and oh how he liked to leave them in her care and allow her to warm him with little rubs between her palms or, even better, up between her thighs. And when he had the good luck to catch her at work in the storage area at the back he didn’t fail to interrupt her with a kiss that lingered even longer at her throat, beneath her ear, above her chest, and straying lower. There was always a hard surface to push her up against or down on and in the dark his hands could freely stray.

He loved, if the word ever applied to him, to hear and feel it when her breath caught. Her fingers moved gently through his hair in secret moments like this, carefully so as not to give away what they had done together. She seemed to be especially fond of the hair at the nape of his neck where it was shorter and a little curled, just right for her fingers to play with. When his kisses reached her heart, falling low and deep between her breasts to mix with her perfume, he clung to her hungrily and sucked in her warmth with everything he had.

And then it was back to the bottom, down the ladder, down to hell, where the living dead was waiting for him. That is, if it was late enough for the fiend to be awake. Tom always brought with him something back to serve as an excuse.

“Jasmine tea,” he smiled. “Would you like some too?”

“No, thank you,” said Ambrogio, on the few occasions he even happened to grace Tom with a response.

Oso had his own worries, of course — with each refusal his secret was closer to being revealed.

Tom grinned. If only he knew how pointless it was to hide…

II

Activities in the under-shop began picking up imperceptively at first, then in big swaths that overwhelmed all the other work they were doing. He didn’t need to ask why. Why the Baron needed five books a day appraised just as Tom finally enchanted his fountain pen to write all on its own. Why he came wheeling down there at all hours. And why Ambrogio started working during daytime — which did not by itself cause, but was no doubt connected to, his attitude growing increasingly cantankerous.

But Tom asked anyway.

“There will be an auction next week,” said Ambrogio with an air of supreme privilege as if Tom should have been impressed, but by that point, he didn’t have it in him to fake it anymore. “Your presence will be required.”

Snacks and refreshments were to be served at midnight both before and following the auction. It didn’t escape Tom’s notice that there was also a New Moon that night, but he couldn’t decide yet whether that had any connection to the timing, or with any spells Ambrogio was casting.

He spent days carrying crates of alcohol down from upstairs and cleaning crystal glassware while Ambrogio went through the inventory once again. The room with the food was connected by two wide doors to the auction room. There were seating plans to arrange as well, and books to place in special boxes the day before the event in the section just behind the stage. The last few hours before it started were spent arranging food trays under Ambrogio’s watchful eye.

“What is this?”

“These are the canapés, sir.”

“And where are the drinks?”

“Over there?”

“Idiot. Do you not see what you did wrong?”

“Please enlighten me.”

“The canapés and the drinks should be placed side by side. They make the guests thirsty. Move them at once.”

“Right away, sir.”

“And what of the other hors d’oeuvre? Did you bring the caviar?”

“Yes.”

“And what is on the bruschette?”

“Half are with tomato and basil, the other half with prosciutto and olive oil. No garlic, sir.”

“Did I ask that, you insolent whelp? Did I?”

“No, sir.”

“How many?”

“Twenty-four of each.”

“And are the deviled eggs ready?”

“Yes, here. They’re ready for their exorcism, sir.”

“Watch that cheek, boy, or you’ll see the back of my hand. Has it occurred to your suckling brain that tonight has to be perfect?”

“Every hour, Mr. Oso.”

“Get moving and shift those drinks closer to the other table.”

III

The hall beyond the curtains filled as guests came pouring in, all of them proceeding through the trap door with complete familiarity. They arrived at different times, but steadily. Mr. Malfoy was not among them.

Two elderly Italians arrived first, a signor Luce and Verdi, one quite tall and thin but bent like a gnarled tree, the other fat with a misshapen body that looked like it was melting, both of them with grimy, flaky heads of bone-white hair. A lone figure followed them some five minutes later, and Tom could not catch his name but were it not for his resplendent suit old darkest blue with golden buttons he might have taken him for a stray — his face was blistered with red and purple sores that streaked between, across, and over his deep heavy wrinkles. Three ladies followed, middle-aged and bloated around the waist with skinny arms and clean long necks from which hung rows of pearls like nooses. Tom thought he heard Oso mutter les trois grâces beneath his breath but he was back to being as silent as the grave when he turned. His back was facing Tom as he busied himself preparing the books for presentation.

And so the group of bidders gathered, formed mainly of old people in fancy dress but a few younger ones as well, each on the arm of somebody important. Oso led the auction on his own, with Tom watching from behind the drapes which housed the books for auction, like actors waiting for their curtain call.

The view from the back was enough to put fear into anyone who stumbled in, which was probably one of the reasons why they’d gone through so much trouble to conceal it — many others came to mind, like taxation, pricing, and the source of all those books which nobody seemed to have much evidence for, in spite of Tom’s hard work of authentication. The black and white heads of the crowd bobbed in uneven waves in the flickering candlelight, framed by velvet curtains that looked like flowing blood. The ceiling was low and carved in stone, its uneven roundness looming like a shadow over this festival of wealth. And in front of it all, on a stage rimmed with blackened silver, stood the vampire in his polite black clothes, his face looking more pale and gaunt than ever, eternal, by the lectern and the pedestal on which the books sat. The scenery from Tom’s point of view was so dire and demonic that it just had to be contrived, designed that way on purpose to impress upon the bidders how secret their gathering was.

The Baron certainly seemed to have a flair for the theatrical, although it was suspicious that he was not already there. Ambrogio said he might arrive long after midnight when only a few select participants were left.

To be on the sidelines, serving no real purpose while fortunes were promised and spent, was not the punishment Ambrogio envisioned it to be. Tom was quite content to watch the spectacle and learn. He recognised a few of the books he’d recently authenticated, including one four-volume series that was to be sold in bulk. He’d placed a charm between the pages of its second volume, nothing more complex than a bundle of leaves and flower petals, dried and left there as if forgotten by passed proprietors — an exact replica of which Tom held in his pocket. It whispered to him like a living thing, echoes of old forest nymphs that spoke in ancient tongues. They were sensitive to magic and complained like children if any was hostile to them. They had complained quite virulently all day, although their little voices were easier to ignore once the auction started.

“Going once. Going twice…”

“Four million and twenty-five thousand.”

“Four million and twenty-five thousand for signor Ekatlos.”

“Four million and thirty.”

Tom stood alone all night and watched the proceedings. He paid particular attention to Ambrogio’s handling of the items, both before and after. It was a little harder to sneak up on a vampire than he expected, but he did catch a quick glance of his wand. It was a faded brown and mostly straight with long and gentle undulations.

“Quit skulking about like a land-eel. Go see to the guests, and try not to make a nuisance of yourself.”

“Yes, Mr. Oso.”

Once the bidding was announced to be over, the attendees moved in an orderly fashion into the other room where they could finally mingle and chat. They hovered around the alcohol like flies and Tom saw more than two ladies stuff napkin-wrapped hors d'oeuvre in their purses.

He’d decided to neglect his duties and go pick up his jacket when a rain of cries billowed behind his ears, speaking in old fey: “he’s killing us.” Tom turned and hurried to the back office to find Ambrogio in the middle of casting a spell. It looked like the peeling back of a veneer. Light came from the books faint enough to seem like a layer of liquid dust.

“What do you want?” Ambrogio asked without turning, his wand now out of sight.

“Noth—”

“—ing.”

Tom turned his head at the voice that had spoken beside his and was surprised to find their upstairs colleague there — his girlfriend. She looked scared and sheepish like a child caught eavesdropping. He wondered if she’d noticed the magic being lifted from the books, and he further wondered if it was the first time she’d witnessed it.

“I just wanted to see if you were done,” she said, her eyes shifting from Tom to Ambrogio.

“Not yet,” said the vampire, “but you may leave. Both of you. I’ll deal with the guests and lock up once they’re gone.”

“Alright,” she said, ���t-thank you. Good night.” Her gaze turned expectantly to Tom.

“Yes, good night,” he said. “Thank you for —”

“Leave.”

IV

They managed to catch the last tram. They were the only people on it riding through the start-poxed night, and the emptiness of everything around them made it seem unreal.

“Why were you still there?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean working at this hour.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw that little smile again.

“They want me there, just in case they need something brought downstairs.”

“But Oso is there. And now, so am I.”

“Like I said, it’s just in case…”

“You shouldn’t stay there so late.”

“Well, it’s not exactly up to you,” she said in a tone he couldn’t quite interpret.

There was accusation there, and there was tiredness, and a sense of giving up that he’d experienced more than once in his career as well. Tom couldn’t quite place why it bothered him, her working hours, or why he even cared. He just knew that he did.

“Perhaps it should be,” he said.

She chuckled and reached over to grip his chin with the tips of her fingers.

“You can’t even afford to buy one little book. You think you can afford the whole shop?”

Tom smirked bitterly. “That’s not what I meant,” he said, then quickly dipped his head and bit her fingers. “And you know it.”

“Ow! Tom!” she laughed.

“Just getting revenge for earlier.”

“Who’s the animal now…?”

V

It was around the time of Tom’s first auction that he found a place to rent. In fact it was a few days before that new moon that he moved out of the hotel. He even managed to find something within walking distance of her flat, which he was inordinately proud of. They walked home together after work and spent time in her flat until the late hours of night or even until morning.

When Tom made his evening tea he poured her a cup too, and when she had the strength left after work she’d cook them pasta or risotto. Perhaps it had been too long, but Tom could swear it tasted better than anything he’d had at Hogwarts.

And if she didn’t, Tom would cook, managing to do it at least once without a bit of magic — which he was loathe to do, and only because she was there next to him.

“We can buy something from the restaurant across the street and take it home, maybe,” she said when they were going home together late one night. “I want a pizza… Haven’t had one in ages.”

“Alright, if that’s what you want. But… what’s a pizza?”

“Oh caro bambino mio!” she laughed with delight, to Tom’s great puzzlement.

He was happy in his solitude, in his new flat away from noisy tourists or the peskiness of hotel maids, but he found some value too in spending time with her.

When they got home she’d turn on the radio or put a record on of something he scarcely recognised, like jazz music or classic symphonies by Elgar, and they would eat and drink their tiredness away. If not for her, Tom might have no idea of what happened in the world, or at least among the muggles. She was quite amused to hear his questions about what, to her, must have been obvious things, but she didn’t mock him beyond a giggle.

But more than listening to music Tom liked it when they read together. She laid her head over his lap once she got sleepy, and his fingers could get lost in her hair. More than once she had him read his books to her — quite troublesome for Tom, as it meant he could not bring his own books there and had to pretend to be interested in pedestrian muggle editions — but between his words and fingers caressing her she fell quite fast asleep. As did he, soon enough.

And then, there were yet more selfish reasons why he preferred to sleep with her. They came as a surprise even to him, but there was something… magical about falling asleep with her by his side. Like a snake on a warm rock, he basked in her body. Her palm over his chest, her head by his shoulder, their legs entangled... It was a dangerous feeling, one he could only compare to melting away and being absorbed. Total entropy.

His head would naturally gravitate to resting by her own, temple to temple, and sometimes when he woke up in the middle of the night he’d find, to his horror, his hand placed over hers, pressing it to his chest right where his heart was.

He always woke up before her, which was a bit of a bother as the duty of making breakfast fell to him. But then he’d walk back in the bedroom and find her sound asleep, her face buried in his pillow, her arms curled tight around it, and perhaps the smile that gave him was something of a consolation.

VI

The night after the auction was a little different than the rest. They were both quieter, still stressed and tired, and Oso’s horror still lingered in Tom’s mind. She collapsed with a sigh on the armchair while he put their coats away.

“I’ll make us tea,” said Tom from the hallway.

“You don’t have to…”

“No, I need it too.”

“That bad?” she said with a smile in her voice.

He didn’t want to admit just how much so — although it hadn’t all been bad. Aside from Oso’s torments, he’d learned a lot that night.

Tom cursed as he fiddled with the mechanism of her stove. Why couldn’t it just be a cauldron and flame? He hissed. If he were at his flat, he’d have it ready with a wand flick… But then he’d have to contend with the spartan furniture, the ugly cutlery, and the table that quaked whenever he put anything on it. He felt more like a person in her cosy little home, like there was more to life than drudgery.

And, if he was being honest with himself — a rarity — there was a savage charm to doing some things without magic, like folding his clothes away, polishing his shoes, or, in this case, brewing a cup of tea. A different Tom was woken then in his heart, in his mind… An equally as dark, relentless, proud young man, but with a surging self all around him filled with things he left behind when he first stepped on the Hogwarts Express, when he was Sorted, when he snuck into the Forbidden Section all those years ago. He didn’t often have cause to think about it, but he had lost unknowable parts of himself as he learned more about magic, the Gaunts, the Riddles...

The old Tom that was before that had never quite come back. At least, until he started spending time with her.

Tea was ready just as she was changing for the night. The overture from Wagner’s Parsifal was playing on the radio speckling the diaphanous dark with long tremulous notes of grief like pins and needles through the air. Her shirt was hanging off a chair, her skirt folded above it, and she had just thrown on her soft nightgown as Tom stepped through the door. He placed the tea beside her on the table and rewarded himself with a touch of her skin. His palm brushed the length of her naked back from one shoulder to another.

“Your skin is warmer now,” she smiled, turning to rest her hand over his chest.

Her eyes lingered on his for a moment as if she found relief there. Then, playfully, she started tugging on his tie. Tom smiled at her invitation, but his mind was far away. It was still in the dungeons with that book.

“Did you ever see him do that before?” he asked as she continued to undress him.

“Who?”

“Oso. That thing he was doing after the auction.”

She threw his tie over her clothes and took a sip of tea, moaning pleasurably at the taste, then returned to unbutton his shirt.

“He was getting them ready for packing, wasn’t he?”

So she hadn’t noticed anything. Not the wand and certainly not the magic. Tom was disappointed, but not surprised.

“Why?” she asked as she pulled him to the bed.

“No reason…”

He took the rest of his clothes off in silence and she went to lay down, the cup of tea held to her chest.

“I think he was doing some sort of ritual,” he finally said as he put on his pyjamas, a pale green set he’d brought over one night and had since just left there.

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” she chuckled, head leaning back both soft and heavy against the pillow. “They love to do all sorts of things like that. Rituals that have a purpose they don’t bother to tell me about. They like their secrets.”

“It certainly seems so,” he smiled, “although they’re not as good at it as they would like.”

[autumnfangirler]

OC Speech Mannerisms

got tagged by @zoneofsmites for this! it looks fun, but also idle it is Very bold of you to assume that i have any idea what my characters sound like ever/lh. However. this is an excuse to finally talk about my pirate captain slut hans so im taking it. gonna tag @misfit-alley @b33tlejules @localcryptic @darkfire1177 and @hyper-pixels if yall are up for it?

NO. OF SPOKEN LANGUAGES: 1 / 2 / 3+

he knows at least three! i dont know what languages he knows (because that requires world building and i do Not have that figured out) but its something that comes up occasionally, especially for hostage negotiations.

TONE OF VOICE: high / average / deep

i???? think?????? im going to be so real with you im not sure what he sounds like, but i feel like he might have a deeper and smoother voice.

ACCENT: Yes / No

tentatively putting yes, but he definitely didnt Used to. he ended up developing one the more he traveled and stayed with the crew. hes always been good at adapting accents though.

DEMEANOUR: confident / shy / approachable / hostile / other

if you can get past the fact hes a pirate, hes very easy to make conversation with!

POSTURE: slumped / straight / stiff / relaxed

he has a habit of standing with his hands on his back or resting at his sword a lot.

HABITS: head tilting / swaying / fidgeting / stuttering / gesturing / arm crossing / strokes chin / er, um, or other interjections / plays with hair or clothing (fidgets with his hems) / hands at hips / inconsistent eye contact / maintains eye contact / frequent pausing / stands close / stands at a distance

he likes his beard :) genuinely probably the most normal guy you could talk to, hes practically perfected the art of social interaction.

COMPLEXITY

VOCABULARY: ⬤⬤⬤〇〇

tends to keep his words straight forward, but sometimes he accidentally lets something more flowery slip through.

EMOTION: ⬤⬤⬤〇〇

SENTENCE STRUCTURE: ⬤⬤⬤〇〇

PROFANITY

FREQUENCY: ⬤⬤⬤〇〇

im giving him points because he could absolutely swear more than he does considering the fact hes a pirate.

CREATIVITY (in regards to profanity): ⬤⬤⬤⬤⬤

that said he Does love himself some wordplay.

BOLD ALL THAT APPLY: arse. ass. asshole. bastard. bitch. bloody. bugger. bollocks. chicken shit. crap. cunt. dick. frick. fuck. horseshit. motherfucker. piss. prick. screw. shit. shitass. son of a bitch. twat. wanker. pussy.

IMPORTANT QUESTIONS

DO PEOPLE HAVE A HARD TIME HEARING OR UNDERSTANDING YOUR CHARACTER? - almost always / frequently / rarely / never

DOES YOUR CHARACTER'S INTENDED POINT COME ACROSS EASILY WHEN THEY SPEAK? - almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely / never.

hes a leader, what good is he if he cant get his point across?

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER INITIATE CONVERSATIONS? - almost always / frequently / sometimes / never.

his favourite thing to do before being a pirate as a past time was to disguise himself and strike up conversation with any table he found particularly interesting that day.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER BE THE ONE TO END CONVERSATIONS? - almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely / never.

he doesnt Usually have a reason to end the conversation, but he also isnt interested in taking shit from other people. if the topic doesnt interest him, he Could sit it out, but hes also far more likely to politely (or rudely) excuse himself from conversation.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER USE 'WHOM' IN A SENTENCE? - yes / no / only ironically

YOUR CHARACTER WANTS TO MAKE A COUNTERPOINT. WHAT WORD DO THEY USE? - but / though / although / however / perhaps / mayhaps.

HOW DOES YOUR CHARACTER END CONVERSATIONS? - walk away / ask if that's everything / say that's everything / give a proper goodbye / tell their company they're done here / remain quiet / they don't.

WHAT SOCIAL CLASS WOULD OTHERS ASSUME YOUR CHARACTER BELONGS TO, HEARING THEM SPEAK? - upper / middle / lower.

IN WHAT WAYS DOES THE WAY YOUR CHARACTER SPEAK STAND OUT TO OTHERS? - accent / vocabulary / tone / level / politeness / brusqueness / it doesn't.

hes much better spoken than he looks at first glance, and is surprisingly amicable with most people (though that last bit depends on whether youre a target or not).

[redninjaoutfit]

i want to understand: why ship tad and peanut?

I've been gathering my thoughts on this topic for such a long time because I have so so many but its so hard to articulate them sometimes. THEY ARE SO NEAR AND DEAR TO MY HEART YOUR HONOUR MY ANGSTY SONS

More under the cut cause it's gonna be a whole lot of words

For starters, I just enjoy the enemies to lovers trope in general. I think seeing someone else's flaws to the point of considering them annemesis and still managing to move past that and fall in love with them down the line is very poetic. Having to battle through hate, one of the most misguided and complex emotion one can feel towards other people and coming out victorious, conquering the concept you have of someone and replacing it with an image so dissimilar to how you perceived them before... I get a lil kick out of it. It takes incredible maturity and willingness to cooperate on both sides of the relationship to move past hard feelings, to find common ground and build something substantial and amiable on that very ground. The former enemies actively heal and grow as people alongside one another, it's a very beautiful concept.

HATE AND LOVE ARE NOT TWO SIDES OF A SPECTRUM!! They're standing next to each other, separated only by a thin sheet of paper which is so easy to rip through once you move past the issues which divide you.

For Tad and Peanut, the obvious and unavoidable source of conflict is their allegiance to their respective cliques. The Preps and Greasers are supposed to despise one another out of principle which they very much do. Consequently, as of the events of the game, neither have any possibility to openly display their many compatible characteristics around one another. Hence why the animosity festers.

When I talk about the many compatible characteristics of Tad and Peanut I mean MANY. SO MANY. You might notice I did not say similar as I don't find they are carbon copies of one another, their lives are very different, however, their very cores slot with each other perfectly. It all falls into place.

Peanut, as I'm sure everyone already knows, has a painfully and one-sidedly dependent relationship with Johnny who is assumed to have saved him in some way, judging by the contents of his character quotes. He's fiercely loyal to his leader to the point where it's overwhelming and he actively fears disappointing Johnny in any capacity (not aided by the fact that he's implied to have feelings for Lola). Not to mention, as a second in command, he's got big shoes to fill, shoes he doesn't deem himself good enough to fill. Though he seems content with being trapped in Johnny's shadow he does show a sense of longing for freedom and a deep self-consciousness about his abilities.

Tad on the other hand is not second in command, quite the opposite, he's at a disadvantageous position in his clique with his newcomer status. Yet the expectations he has to meet at the forceful request of his father are just as if not more ambitious than Peanut's. With how prominently Mr Spencer's abuse towards his son altered his character and mindset, Tad is thus trapped in the role of the usurper, exactly what he feels (and knows) his clique-mates see him as. His opinion of the topic is largely apathetic though the apathy seems forced and learned.

His destiny as his father's extension has been set in stone, as has Peanut's servitude to Johnny. Neither feel they can do anything about it.

Both deem themselves worthless and void of purpose when they are not of use, not going along with whatever demands have been put onto them. They convince themselves (Peanut moreso than Tad) that their prison is a comfortable one, that the end goal of their struggle will be satisfactory yet know deep down all they want is freedom.

In this way they are very compatible, enough that they see a bit of themselves in the other which is part of the reason their bad blood runs so deep, especially on Tad's part. They see the collars hanging heavy around their necks and tug on them in hopes the other won't notice the perpetrator's own. It's easier to depersonalize yourself from your own issues than to face them head on.

I can definitely see them snapping on one eventful occasion - a supernova of unspoken emotions ready to surface - their reconciliation would not be a serene, drawn out ordeal of slow acquiescence. They fire each other up to the point of accidentally creating a spark which leads to a flame. A common flame between them in whose glow and light they can finally see each other's true colours, which will not burn them like it usually does but rather provide warmth, much needed after the long years spent in their cold, oppressive jail cells.

They would be like two dogs chained to a tree and left for dead tasting food again and rediscovering the comfort of a plush pillow - striving to maintain the warmth of mutual understanding conceived on that very day and would no doubt cultivate it to the best of their inexperienced ability. They both know by then the other is a novice in terms of... well, everything when it comes to being appreciated.

They rediscover love together and that's why I think they are so very beautiful and compatible as a pair!!

THAT'S IT... UM SORRY FOR RAMBLING AND THIS BEING MUSHY AS ALL HELL THEY JUST MAKE ME SOB AND WISH FOR THEM TO HAVE A BETTER LIFE. THE POTENTIAL IN THEIR RELATIONSHIP IS IMMENSE AND I WILL NOT BE SILENCED ABOUT IT. THEY CAN HEAL EACH OTHER LIKE NOONE ELSE CAN!!!

[not-goldy]

i was the one who wrote the post about jk choosing/proritising his 97 liner friends over jimin. i guess i was harsh with my wording and i think it was caused because of the lack of jikook in a way (sounds stupid i know) we dont know how much time is left before all remaining four members enlist in the military (they would enlist this year itself, that much is clear) and there's a chance jimin would leave soon seeing most of his schedule is done (that we know of) and i was expecting a jikook live before the torturous two years we'll have to go through without them but i dont really see any chance of that happening now. jk also has music bank on jm's birthday and we know its a really tiring event and it can take a full day to get done with the whole thing, so chances of jk and jm interactions are again very slim.i think i just miss them and desperately wanted to see them. i know just because we dont see them doesn't mean they dont interact off cam but i wanted to see them on a live or tiktok or something. so seeing jungkook make tiktoks with that mingyu during both seven and 3d era just...ruffled my feathers in a way. also saw a lot of 'gyukookers' on my tl so yea that was annoying as well. i kinda assumed jm won't be in the live as it was a post-album announcement live, but still...

so yea, knowing that jungkook won't be much active on jm's b'day and not getting the oct 4th live as well kinda saddened me. does not excuse my behaviour but that's what happened.

Thanks for being real and for being honest.

I think you are human in every sense of the word so I can't be too hard on you or even hold you to it. We've all been there. I know exactly how painful and frustrating it can be. But I'm here for you okay?

I would be that person to bring you back to reality and keep you grounded when you drift, I will call you out if I have to and I will point out the errors of your ways and it would almost always be out of love- if I however sense you actually hate any of our captains I'll deep fry your titties, lace them with acid and spoon feed them to you🤧

You can dm me anytime with any grievances you have and I'll listen. Or just tag your asks with rants and I'll know how to respond without putting a target on your back.

I wish we have a jikook live too.

I wish they release the seven tiktok challenge they filmed on the boat.

I wish Jimin has a happy birthday and not feel unloved or cared for or that he matters to those that matters to him the most.

And I feel Jungkook had to keep repeating he'd be busy on the 13th so we don't make a huge deal out of it if we don't see him around that day.

Sometimes I know they feel they are in a three way relationship with us where we are the pets and children they didn't ask for but have living in their basement.

They don't just have to care for eachother they have to care not to bruise us too. It's a complex symbiotic parasocial relationship dynamic we have with them.

We care and sometimes they care that we care. But that's not fair to them.

We are the kids who keep complaining daddy forgot mommy's birthday. Daddy was seen with female in his car. Daddy came home late. Daddy forgot to take the trash out. Daddy yelled at mommy. Daddy didn't eat mommy's meal. She worked so hard to make him his dinner. Daddy doesn't love mommy. Daddy is a fuckboy. It's almost as if we want to date mommy ourselves and nothing daddy does pleases us.

If it were a horror movie we'd be the changeling they'd be running away from🥲

It is well with us. Love you okay?

[hyunpic]

Hiii Vilma ✨ I’m sorry I don’t want to be a bother but would you mind listing some books that Hyunjin recommended at some point please? If you have some time?

I know some threads are very easily findable online so I don’t want you to think that I’m using you bc I know Google exists but the thing is that those threads are only visible by people who have Twitter / X and I don’t have an account so I can’t see it :( (with all not-due respect, fuck Elon Musk) Really feeling like the beggar ant meme lmao I’m so sorry

Thank you so much 💕

i got u!!!! don’t worry about about using me or anything 🫡💘💘 i put down some synopsis of the books too. i hope u can find something to read from there 🥹 also this probably isn’t a full list but i tried to include as much as possible!!

fire salamander by han kang: a collection of seven short stories tied to one keyword "recovery". the author shows the issues of a human's suffering and loss, as well as a human's will to lead a life without giving up despite the pain and frustration.

i want to die but i want to eat tteokboki by baek sehee: a successful young social media director at a publishing house begins seeing a psychiatrist about her depression. it is a book to keep close and to reach for in times of darkness. it will appeal to anyone who has ever felt alone or unjustified in their everyday despair.

temperature of language by lee kijoo: the author of this book claims that language has temperature. he encourages us to use words that can comfort others with warmth instead of cold words that hurt them.

the setting sun by osamu dazai: the setting sun deals with the decline of japan’s aristocracy in the wake of world war II, and portrays characters adrift in a world that no longer feels familiar.

no longer human by osamu dazai: the poignant and fascinating story of a young man who is caught between the breakup of the traditions of a northern japanese aristocratic family and the impact of western ideas.

almond by son wonpyeong: it tells the story of yunjae, a young boy born with a difference. yunjae has a brain condition called alexithymia that makes it hard for him to feel emotions like fear, anger, and empathy.

contradictions by yang guija: contradictions is a coming-of-age tale that explores the paradoxes and contradictions of the human condition and delves into the meaning of personal happiness

proof of gu by choi jinyoung: a heart-moving novel written with beautiful sentences, which questions the meaning of life or the meaning of death through the death of a lover and the subsequent feelings of loss and condolences.

the old man and the sea by ernest hemingway: through his struggle, santiago demonstrates the ability of the human spirit to endure hardship and suffering in order to win. it is also his deep love and knowledge of the sea, in its impassive cruelty and beneficence, that allows him to prevail

someone harmless to me by eun young choi: the novel collection portrays various relationships, especially relationships of women including a love story of a lesbian couple, a story of two girls who grew up in oppressive patriarchal atmosphere and a story of two sisters who spent their childhood persistently fighting but sometimes understanding each other.

the preciousness of everyday words by kim eana: through the use of everyday words, lyricist kim eana finds solutions to the complex emotions and frustrations in relationships encountered in life. (<- this was recommended to him by stay but he ordered it so i included it here too )

[lazulisocinfodump]

Adminverse Sec is A Complete and Utter Mess of A Person - An Essay

Sec is trying so very hard to make everything work for everyone. Shes trying to encourage everyone, life people up, strive towards everyone Getting Along, trying to mediate. Trying to give good advice.

But shes only Mid at it overall. And She knows it.

(Warning, this might get kinda heavy, this dives headfirst into messy mental health issues)

Sec wants to be useful soooooo bad but simultaneously think they are mostly worthless AND that their actions/words have a big impact on people. Its a weird contradictory belief.

People often mistake self-hatred as a virtue, as a type of humility. Sometimes people think self-hatred is the opposite of pride when it really isn't. Sometimes, self-hate is really just the most painful variant of Self Obsession.

And Sec Hates Herself.

I mean, part of it is she has The Big Fat Mega Depression. And Depression can cause you to spiral into self hatred. But also, She is full of blaming herself for events she actually had very little control over. But this self-blame is also something she is using to hide from herself that fact that she deeply resents her older sister.

Arlee was so amazing, so special, so talented, so bright and loud and attention grabbing. And Sec? Sec was never special. Never talented. Never worth much. Can't she have a piece of what her sister Arlee was? It isn't Fair!

And Arlee was the person who loved her the most, yet even she did not think she was worthy of respect? Even she was willing to disregard anything she had to say? Even after how much Sec supported her? Consoled her? Forgave her for the crappy things she tended to do out of impulse? Reined her in from destroying herself again and again?

Arlee was the one who loved her the most, and she was not willing to try and fight for their relationship once Sec started pulling away? And to top it all off, she went and DIED on her, leaving her ALONE with no hope of fixing things? For something stupid as a fight for the sake of her pride? Was Sec not even worth living for vs dying for saving face?

And then there is the resentment Sec *is* aware of in herself. Like the resentment she feels about wanting the kindness she tries to give other people to be given to her. Can't being Nice cause people to love her, give her affection, think she is special? Kinito is meant to be Everyones Best friend, he is meant to be somebody who Loves, who gives you attention and care. Yet no matter how much she tries, or invites, or offers... she simply is not the priority even to him.

And Sec knows that this line of thinking is irrational. She knows this whole situation is FAR from being About Her. But the feelings won't go away. And it just gives her more ammo for her self-hatred.

Often the thought going through her head is: "I'm only pretending to be kind, to be nice, to care. But I'm a lying fraud that only cares about themselves. If I actually cared, I would leave the situation and stop interfering with people who can actually do something."

Its not really the full truth though. Sec is a genuinely kind person. She does very much care about all the characters in adminverse. She really, really wants Everyone to have a happy ending (Yes even Scary Face, just not at the cost of Casey dying lol). She wants everyone to have hope. She wants everyone to be free from their suffering, to grow to become better people. She wants the rifts between Sonny and Nito and Casey and Nito to heal, or at least for them to come to an understanding.

And even if everything ended with her being nothing more than a footnote and forgotten, she would be genuinely very happy for everyone if things get better for them. In spite of her resentment. Sec would put her life on the line to save Kinito, Owl, Casey, Sonny or Addie if it came down to it.

But Sec also has a martyr complex, deep self worth issues, unresolved resentment, is drowning in grief, sadness and self-pity and is disgusted with herself for it. And she won't talk about most of it .

She only talked about Arlee's death because she wanted to shock Kinito out of his complacency AND show that she had firsthand experience of what his path might end up being if he didn't change. And then later to show that he was not Alone in carrying mistakes and guilt he could not fix.

Sec Hates being guilt tripped and does not want to do that to others (despite the fact that she kinda does guilt trip others, just more subconsciously). But she is hypocritically trying to give emotional advice and support when she herself is the emotional equivalent of a dumpster fire that she won't seek help to put out.

This lady is trying to save others from drowning knowing full well that she herself is drowning too. What does she expect?

[teddyqd]

POV 👀

YAAAAY YIPPEEEE this got so long but have 1.2k of Sam yelling at a fandom teen <3

POV — something that’s already happened, retold from another character’s perspective

Mr Crowe’s eyes rove over the lake of fans with this unplaceable emotion in them. It’s almost like he’s not all here, seeing something other than a group of people desperate to hang off his every word. I raise my hand a little higher, waving my immaculately crafted, one-of-a-kind replica of the intricate Redshifter above my head in hopes that it’ll catch his attention. There’s a moment where it seems like he’s going to point to me, when instead he indicates yet another scruffy-haired guy in a graphic tee. It isn’t even official merch. But it’s fine. It’s alright. There’s still plenty of Q&A time left. I lower the flashing rifle back onto my lap and try to pay attention. They’re talking about something to do with his short story collection from a couple of years ago. It’s interesting, but hard to hear, what with the awful mic that keeps popping in and out, and the rushing of blood in my ears.

Mister Crowe. Thank you for your work. I have a question about what inspires you. Why do you write? I rehearse the question over and over, so much so that I nearly miss when the current speaker sits down and they call out for questions again. I stand up almost too fast, whacking my knee on the chair in front of me. The mum sitting there (clearly dragged here by her kid) glares at me venomously as I mouth an apology and grimace before looking back up towards Mr Crowe and the host. As I stare up, scared to blink, the question morphs in my mind. I can barely keep a hold on it for a second. Mister Crowe. Thanks for all you’ve done. I wanted to ask about your inspirations. Why do you write? Mister Crowe, your work saved my life, thank you. My question’s about why you write. What inspired you to start? Mister Crowe, sometimes it feels like your work was made to invite people in. It feels like you wrote it for me to make a home in. How? Why? Mister Crowe, do you feel as at home in the worlds you create as I do?

“You,” his weird accent draws the word into two syllables, “In the Redlight cosplay.” That could be anyone. I’ve seen, like, five Redlights today, “Nice Redshifter.” I’m the only one with the Redshifter, though. Given its complex design, most people opted for the sleeker (if canon inaccurate) Greenshifter. A shock runs down my spine as the mic is passed down the row. I’m sure I look like a deer in the headlights as it drops into my hands.

“Hi.” Oh, god, my voice is loud. What the fuck was my question? All I can think is that I’m talking to Carrion Crowe, and I’m making a fool of myself in front of Carrion Crowe, and Oh god is that what my voice sounds like?

“Hi.” He’s looking right at me. Well, no, he’s looking at the top of my head, but I think that’s about as close as he gets to looking someone in the eyes, “What’s your name?”

“S- Skye!” I blurt, trying to will my cheeks not to burst into flames, “I’m Skye. I- I, uh, named myself after your character. My, my question is… I wanted to ask, because… It just feels like… Sorry. I’ll start again.” His eyes flick to the clock on the wall of the shop, then back to me, then away to another cosplayer. I take a deep breath and force my anxiety down. Just for 20 seconds, then I can shake it all out. I can do that much, “The thing is, your stories feel really real. Even though, of course, they’re not. It’s just that they’re like another actual world. Somewhere where me and, I think, a lot of people have found a home. And I was just wondering… Why do you write like that? Or, maybe it’s better to ask how?“

That gets his attention. He stops fidgeting, stills entirely actually, and looks at me with an expression I can’t read. There’s a long silence, and I’m sure I’ve somehow put my foot in my mouth and I’ll have to excommunicate myself from the fandom before I’m cancelled for bringing a downer on the first Q&A that Mister Crowe’s done since he was a debut author. I’m already mentally drafting my grovelling apology post when he finally speaks.

“It’s funny you say it’s not real. It is. To me, at least.” His voice wavers in a way it hasn’t for the other questions he’s answered. Gone is the flat affect machine-gun essayist speaking about Ga’al reproduction, and in its place is a flighty, airy voice and focused eyes, “You and I live in, ah, different realities. Our experiences, the ways in which our realities are shaped, are different. And so are our perceptions. Even if you came into my head, saw through my eyes, we’d still be seeing different things. Take colours, for example. It is impossible for us to know, beyond reasonable doubt, that what you and I call ‘red’ is broadly the same.” He’s speeding up, now. He stabs a finger at the poster behind him, at that iconic tricolour streak that blasts from the engines of the Galaxyhopper, “Most of the time, that doesn’t really matter. Your red is my blue, but we both know what to call each colour to communicate what we mean, so to speak. But… Sometimes it slips. I’ll describe red as, god, I don’t know, the colour of joy. And you’ll say, what, no, that’s the colour of sadness! And that’s the gap we can’t cross. I can’t describe to you in any real way what my red looks like, not in a way that you’ll be able to map onto your red and see the differences.”

Someone next to me coughs, and I can hear murmuring from further back rows. The mum in front of me has looked up from her phone to stare at Mr Crowe. The mic is cold in my hands as he continues to ramble.

“It’s not a perfect metaphor, I’ll admit to that much. What I’m- What I’m trying to say is that these books are my world, my reality, my attempt to translate the untranslatable. To transmit it from my mind to everyone else’s, and you need to understand that I will never do it right, okay? It will never be what I see, and you all,” and he’s looking directly at me now, his eyes wide and wild and angry, “Will never truly understand. Does- Does that answer it? What was the fucking question again?”

All of a sudden, all of that energy leaves him, and he looks like a deflated balloon. It’s only when the person next to me gently nudges me that I realise I’m still holding the mic to my mouth. I manage to eke out a thank you before shoving the mic into someone else’s hands and picking my way out of the audience, towards the exit. My heart hammers in my chest, and my head is filled with fog. The words replay in my mind, the way he was so possessive in calling it his world, the venom in his words as he told me I’d never understand it, not really. Fuck. Never meet your fucking heroes.

[rose-lunaire]

snow on the beach | regulus black x gn!reader

inspired by snow on the beach by taylor swift (feat. lana del rey). the story of two people rewriting traditions. happy new year everyone!!

pairing: regulus black x gn!reader

warnings: heart-fluttering is expected!

family home. the place you’re supposed to feel most at ease, welcomed and safe. but within the world of sacred heritages and centuries-old dynasties it sometimes felt more like an elaborate prison. your mother the main guard, your siblings and cousins fellow inmates unwillingly participating in this masquerade-like event. yet this year was supposed to be different. the man of your life was standing by your side thought the dragging ceremonies, squeezing your hand every time a quiet sigh escaped your pouty lips.

he understood your pain better than anyone. hating the lineage you were forced to continue. still, having no will to abandon it completely. hell, there were times when you envied the fearlessness of sirius’s choice. admiring his courage, wishing you had as much strength as him. one glance at your boyfriend’s face was enough to keep your fantasies at bay.

“are you alright?” he mouthed over the sounds of a christmas carol. his concern so out of place with the joyful notes of the song, you cracked a weak smile. regulus joined your hands together and led the chorus with his solemn voice. the depth and complexity of his feelings ringing with every word he sang, making you thankful he managed to spend holidays with you. he fitted so well in the festivities, mingling with your family members, ever so stoic and charming standing by your side every second of the day. nursing old wounds under the moonlight.

times like these you were thankful that you never ran away, for it would mean you would never get to see regulus in you home. the way his face lit up tasting your mother’s dishes, complimenting the stuffing of the pie you made. the way his baritone blended in perfectly with the choir of your family’s voices. snickering when your father told one of his many terrible jokes and making silly faces with your sister’s children.

there were no dark undertones to the celebration with him by your side. no snarky comments reached your ears. the candlelight reflected in his eyes was so bright you couldn’t notice how great aunt janice looked at you two. too lost in your own world, you were busy fantasising about the life you wanted to build with regulus. he seemed so much younger than his usual self, burdened with his family’s expectations and brother’s shadow resting upon his face. he was in peace.

slowly the dining room started emptying. children being put to sleep, some family members departing for home. that’s why nobody paid attention to the young couple leaving. laughing like two kids who were playing hide-and-seek with their parents, hiding behind the doors and about to surprise them. “where are we going?” your boyfriend’s voice felt distant from the wind. but you couldn’t be bothered neither by the snow drifts nor the blowing mistral. you tugged onto his sleeve, dragging him further, your careless laughter the only clue he had of the destination.

the view was hard to distinguish because of the snow but then it all made sense. the sudden change of surface that made his boots sink a little deeper. faint salty smell and humidity in his throat. “careful now baby” you whispered. as cliff was ending abruptly the sea came into full view. powerful in its silent struggle against the wall of sand, the horizon nowhere to be seen. stars blending with tiny snowflakes resting on the locks of your hair.

“focillio” regulus murmured under his breach, warmth from his wand encapsulating the both of you within its protective bubble. as if his mere presence wasn’t enough to set your insides on fire. there was a bonfire of passion hiding beneath his long lashes, deep below the icy surface of his pupils only for you to see. and it was hungry. ever since you left the house it was begging to be set free and devour you both.

before he could even but his wand in the back pocket of his pants your lips landed on his. a little flustered at first, he responded eagerly. the kiss was sweet, full of grateful inexchanged feelings, it was patient, slowly progressing into a full-blown make-out session. your hands were wrapped around his frame, drawing hearts onto his lower back. you didn’t notice when your face ended up nuzzled in his cashmere scarf, inhaling regulus’ scent. his head weighting on your shoulder, grounding you in this intimate moment.

but then you felt a cold pinch on your exposed neck. and then another two before snowflakes decorated the crown of your head. “bloody hell, im so sorry!” your boyfriend jumped away from you, scratching his hair in embarrassment. you just laughed and kissed his cheek. “you’re just too distracting” he murmured bashfully, causing you to erupt in laughter once again. “what? why are you laughing at me?” oh dear, he looked like a lost puppy. “i’m just really happy. that’s all” you confessed. regulus held your cheeks in his hands. “i love you, y/n l/n” you went on your tiptoes to reach his face and join your foreheads together. “i love you too, regulus black”

[fondcrimes]

your comment about not being able to move on from stsg - i get that so much ToT it’s frustrating sometimes i’m ngl

what drew you in to their relationship? what do you like or think about often? personally something i really love is how tragic their relationship is. it doesn’t seem like it would’ve ever worked out in the world they live in, but despite everything their feelings feelings stay alive for around a decade

oh wow, thank you for sending me this ask! i will take any chance to get on my soapbox abt satosugu hehe

okay the shippy feelings are quite simple to explain, the fantastical world of jjk is buttressed by a style of realism i rly enjoy, so like imagining stsg school days and puppy love is super fun and thrilling for me. i feel similarly abt their breakup, their story has like wong kar wai film potential which i looooveeee. i put my stsg playlist on repeat and imagine the stsg arthouse film of my dreams.....

anyway the thing about satosugu that initially drew me in was angst bc i love the whole "doomed by the narrative" type of ship, but it's their inevitability that fascinated me. their friendship deterioration was inevitable bc of their role as sorcerers in the world. the material fallout of their friendship is also inevitable, as its woven through the main plot with profundity and dare i say care. i like to shit on gege and i have beef w his writing decisions, but i appreciate the way he portrays morality/duty and kind of juxtaposes it with personality/natural inclinations/true beliefs. gojo and geto are powerful, unfortunate, doomed, but their different approaches to their duty as sorcerers (and gojo's response to geto's defection) are authentic.. they can't help but be human despite their power and strength. i resent fanon interpretations that simplify the moral complexity of gojo's position following geto's cult era, it's not like geto or gojo made their choices for each other in the sappy romantic way. i ship them romantically bc of the immense depth/narrative weight of their friendship... like i love how fraught it all is. things like gojo essentially letting geto fuck around for a decade is interesting and shows how deep their bond was and how much it meant to gojo, so much so that he couldn't stand on business and carry out his purpose for jujutsu society. also speaks to his moral dilemma, he doesn't exactly believe in what he's meant to do which leads him down a path of regret.

and then there's the basic stuff like gojo being this privileged, idolized kid with little to no socialization (no peers), i think its extremely precious and tender when young ppl sort of imprint on the first person they get along with. that's my interpretation of satosugu's friendship as first years.. as powerful and smart as gojo is he has these innate weaknesses due to his upbringing and disconnect from people so his response and heartbreak abt geto feels extremely realistic and humanizing. geto doesn't know he's gojo's soft spot...like their friendship was more emotionally and psychologically codependent than either of them realized which makes it even more hard-hitting that it dissolved as abruptly and traumatically as it did.

i think geto is one of the most sympathetic examples of "radicalization" so to speak, the fact that he injests curses and turns evil is a stroke of genius imo, the emotional reality of curses and resentment about ppls role in the world is one of jjks narrative successes. his pain is tangible and i think its meaningful that he has this deranged sort of wisdom following his mental break. there's no redemption at the end of his path and he knows it, he lets his convictions destroy him, its terrible and harrowing but its everything to me. his normie beginnings as a sorcerer (esp compared to gojo) also make this so interesting, like at some point he rly believed in a cause that gojo never really had illusions abt. the levels of betrayal.... gojo's feelings abt geto defecting are for lack of a better word relatable and believable. ideological extremism is something that more and more of us in the contemporary age are having to deal with due to amplified social deterioration and political polarization and i think more ppl relate to this somewhat ambiguous grief of friendships/connections in an emotionally hostile world. to me gojo deals with ambiguous loss on multiple levels: loss of his only best friend, loss of someone he had unresolved feelings for, loss of a voice of reason in his life, loss of his strongest emotional connection to the people he protects, as well as losing his way as the strongest sorcerer in jujutsu society.

gojo and geto's arcs both represent the inherent tragedy and fatalism that come with living in a broken, hurting world and trying to protect it, as well as who/what u might lose in the process. i'm no determinist irl, i don't believe in the greco-roman understanding of fate at all. i will say… it can be hard to distinguish fate from choice sometimes. but analyzing the philosophical elements of silly shounen manga is a super fun mental exercise :3

[cinnamon-bunni]

hm... 4, 7, 11, 12, 17, 21, 22, 24! happy new year, bunni!

4. Total number of words you wrote this year That's hard to find tbh....I didn't end up posting a lot of fics, so i dont only have to just check my statistics on ao3, but all of my possible fics ive written this year in my wip docs as well. the total i got was 58,171 words (~35k of it being WIPs and not posted)! so definitely not as much as i wrote last year which was (i think over 100k), and also not including all of my notes ive written. i did not do a lot of writing this year, so hopefully next year i'll wrap up all of my big fics and post them all <3

7. longest completed fic you wrote this year Again, i did not write a lot this year, much less finish them lmao. if you were to ask about uncompleted fics, we would have a different story--but alas, the longest completed one was Once More, With Needles, sitting at 4,414 words!

11. fandom you enjoyed writing for the most this year hm....obey me, I suppose. its hard to say really, but enjoyment from writing specifically, i'd have to give it to obey me. what can i say, the cast is just really fun to write (even when levi is impossible to write, like what the hell man i have rewritten your part in my undead fic like 3 separate times and am continuing fixing it, like what the hell man i trusted you and then you dont behave for me). like this year specifically i realized how much i love each and every character--those like lucifer reminded me as to why i love the game and the characters, and people like mephisto and raphael randomly won a spot in my heart. theyre all just so so fun to write <333

12. favorite character to write about this year lucifer!!! even though i only have like, one fic that features him thats out and finished lmao; hes such an interesting and complex character, yet is one whose mind i can easily slip into when i need to write when its his pov. idk, sometimes i find myself struggling to write characters like levi or even asmo sometimes--mainly from my own failures to pay attention to their canon interpretations and making them not out-of-character--but lucifer is surprisingly one i can always rely on to be easy and fun to write!! he is angst galore and so emotionally constipated, hes great <3

17. fics you’ll continue next year Heart Melts for sure!! i originally wanted ch3 to be out before the new year, but ive been drafting and redrafting all of my future chapters (i am trying my best to make it a psychological horror in order to match the tag that i put on the fic, but idk if its going to live up to the hype that people have for this fic ^^;;) so i sadly didnt get time to finish it. maybe by the end of January ill have it out--heres to hoping its done by then! and maybe i might continue Dirty? I didn't even update it this year lol--its def one i dont wanna leave discontinued, as i have all of the chapters planned out, but i just have many other projects that i wanna focus on and also i really wanna rewrite it, so ive been debating doing that first or just to finish then rewrite it. in a perfect world, i'll update that one too lol

21. most memorable comment/review I have two that come to mind!!! in all honesty all comments make me sooo happy, but these ones specifically is just,,,idk man, they just hit a certain way that itches that scratch in my brain that needs validation lmao i love rereading these all the time <3 theres these comments for Messy Makeup:

(make me go insane from them saying i wrote multiple fics that were their favorites <33) and of course there's this banger of a comment from @/snugglebunnies!!! idk if youre reading this but thank you thank you thank you for inspiring me so much with your fics!!! i love them so much, and this comment was just incredible! from the fic Heart Melts:

(love when people leave quotes, no matter how long or short!!!! such deep analysis is what i live for!!!!) and of course, sending out so much love to everyone who leaves a comment on any of my fics, no matter how big or small they are <333

22. events you participated in this year i didnt participate in any events this year! i tend not to do events tbh, theyre not really my style, as i dont do well with due dates unless i have months in advance lol;; usually i might do one, maybe two, events a year, but those are usually simple gift exchanges or something. nothing caught my eye this year, and ones that did i just didnt have the time to do, sadly. but! i do plan on doing the sonic big bang next year, which will be my first ever "bigger" event ive been in! exciting, but also really nervewracking as ive never posted sonic content and idk how well i'll do staying on schedule. but its still something i really wanna do (have a great fic planned for it!) so i still wanna give it a shot and do my best on it lol

24. favorite fic you read this year from this year is really hard to say--i think all of my favorite fics were found last year lmao so its a struggle to think of one. @heleentje's BOTW fic Moonlight has been a fantastic read (even though i havent finished it yet;;; i promise will soon!!) and just hits all of the right notes for me!! The batman fic Performance Piece is also definitely up there for me, as it captures so well what i want in my own writing when it comes to writing characters, especially when it comes to inner-dialogue (i might just go back and reread that one again lmao)

as of posting, i have about twenty minutes left before the new year. so happy early 2024!! 🥳🎉💝

[nattyontherun]

I just read all ur naruto fics and I feel insane.

Me about fictional characters: they get me.

I absolutely refuse to be emo in someone ask box but screams at you so much.

“How much do you lose to mourning, when what you lose is everything you’ve ever had? How can you acknowledge yourself, when all you have left to acknowledge is the you who never grew past your hurt? // Existence was ruination, to Sasuke. Existence was the slow descent into insanity.” I’m literally rolling around on the floor thrashing around. Hearth fire (and the rest of the series) WRECKED ME by the way if you even CARE. Me when the parallels in a fic to my life literally grab my by the throat and stab me but also wrap me in a warm fuzzy blanket and pat my head. Literally sent me deep into a very contemplative mood after reading it.

“… would have to live on because if not him, who?” “…because mourning, in its own way, is a form of safekeeping.” Hello I have died.

Also I don’t mean this in a derogatory sense but when I went to ur ao3 profile and read u have a psych degree I was like. That makes so much sense lmFAO.

Also also on a slightly more serious note, well it��s not that serious tbh, but I also do be dissociating and the way you described it was idk it felt weirdly good to read. I used to lose days at a time. I’m not as bad now but I’ll still lose hours here and there. I am not one to externalise things so I don’t have the capacity to describe things to people when asked but we’re I to try very hard it would probably be similar to how you wrote sasukes experience.

Oh my god tho. Oblivion. YOUR MIND IS SO POWERFUL. Your mind is literally so so so powerful. I’m shaking.

Anyway maligayang pasko at mag ingat ka 🫶🏻

This just made my holidays! First of all thanks??? I'm as surprised as you are that HF has been so monumental for me????

I've been told on a multitude of occasions that I have the unfortunate(?) habit of putting a lot of myself in fics. What I explore--thematically at the very least--is often just me chasing after the worms that haunt me in my dreams, yk? It's not like I'm a perpetually sad or moody person--quite the opposite really--but if I don't contemplate stuff I go through at least a little bit, where would that leave me? As uncomfy as it is, it's better to know yourself too much than not at all.

But YEAH! HF! Mindboggly amounts of woah topped by a surprising amount of hope? Sometimes I think I made it too melodramatic and "floaty" for lack of a better word and then I get comments like yours and I start rethinking my spirally thoughts. I just have so many OPINIONS about how canon treated everyone, but mainly Sasuke. If they weren't gonna let him die, by god give him the justice he so deserves?? He has like zero closure and an overwhelming brother complex and all canon does to fix that is say "revenge bad, here walk around some" FAWK no????

Anyways I have a psych degree! I don't use it for much rn but it's glossy and makes me feel good about myself sometimes! I like to think I'm not so obvious about it but I also feel like I always talk about it to anyone everytime so bvcedjsnj where was I going with my reply?

Right. Right! I meant to say that, as per the dissociation thing--far be it for me to claim I know anything about it beyond what I've read in a couple journals but I do tend to 'lose time" so to speak, myself? When I'm stressed or depressed or anxious or some horrid conglomeration of those three horrid things lmao. It's NOT fun, and I don't wish it on anyone, and I hope, if you can, you can speak to someone about it because suffering, in whatever way, however much, doesn't have to be a thing we just settle with yk? Idk. I wrote HF with this thought in mind that just because things can seem absolutely ass over tits at any moment doesn't mean it's always gonna be like that. I love the struggle story, I love ANGST--writing it, reading it--but there's something so devastating and inspirational about wanting to stand back up after stumbling. Human tenacity and resilience will always be infinitely more heartrending than sorrow itself or whatever philosophical way you can spin it...

I feel like I just lost the thread of my response all over again. I'm sorry! It's nearing 3am, I just got off shift, and I'm in one of those moods again... just... I care very deeply about people as a concept, and the way we mold ourselves around each other's lives until every one of our struggles is an extension of our community, which is an extension of our history and so on. I'm not super good about being in the /now/, the details of general existence aren't my best friends. But if characters get to act however the fuck they want to act, if they can build themselves back up from nothing, explore themselves in ways you or I never could, maybe never is just a qualifier we give ourselves to excuse our inflexibility and stagnation?

Something, something, the ultimate goal of the human experience will always be Self Actualization.

Anyways Anon, sorry about all the rambly philosophizing, I've probably scared you off now fbvehcskffbcrehd but you made my whole month!! Maligayang Pasko sa inyo po!!! Ingat ka lagi!!!!!!! And to whoever even bothers to read all this rambling,,,, in English: Merry Christmas and take care always, Mabuhay!