#Unrung

[littledancer9]

Unrung Chapter 10: Confessions

Summary: Dany and Jon start to unwrap their past.

She cocked her head at him when he reached for the hairbrush on the counter but did as told. He ran the hairbrush through her hair, starting at the ends till he worked his way up to her roots. She closed her eyes and her shoulders fell as the repetitive motion soothed her. This was Jon. This is who he was.  “How did you know to do that?” “Your hair has seen better days, Dany,” he deadpanned. “No. To start at the ends.” She frowned. “And that was your fault for pulling my hair.” His lip quirked up on one side. “I have sisters.” The brush ran through her hair, massaging at her scalp and then cascading down. “Arya’s hair was always in a rat’s nest when she was little. Think I even pulled some twigs out of there a few times.” She snorted, crossing her arms over her bare chest. She imagined a teenaged Jon wrangling a snot-nosed version of Arya with leaves in her hair. Did Vis ever brush her hair? “You’re a better big brother than most.”

Read now on AO3!

[dijidweeeb]

Motivational Music in the Morning ... #TurnpikeTroubadours, #Unrung ... From #aLongWayFromYourHeart [Official Audio Track] (2020) #MMitM1

[abalidoth]

The hmmm official circular art piece is AI art

Mhmm. I'm quite curious what kind of prompt engineering was done to make it. Not even sure where I'd start!

[thepolyamorouspolymath]

It is tragic what was done to so many groups, starting with the Natives, all the way through to the Irish who entered indentured servitude that somehow didn't ever end to escape starving. It sucks.

But we're all here now. We can't just deport everyone but Native Americans -- the population is too big. We can't undo the crimes of the past. We need to fix the crimes of the NOW. And NOW includes people from every corner of the globe, most who have never seen their ancestral homelands.

[clarkkentwoglasses]

Troubled Troubadour

[greenducksforever]

la luna

Pale orb suspended in the inky night, Silent witness to our earthly plight, Your silver face, a canvas for our dreams, Reflects the light of hope in gentle beams.

Oh Luna, keeper of lovers' secrets, Your waxing, waning phases mark our regrets, In your soft glow, we find solace and grace, A balm for sorrows time cannot erase.

Celestial guardian of tides and lore, Your pull on hearts forevermore, In gardens where your shadows play, We contemplate life's fleeting day.

Ancient companion, cold and bright, Guiding lost souls through the night, In your reflection, we see our own, A mirror of all we've loved and known.

As you traverse the starry sea, We mourn the moments that cannot be, Yet in your cycle, ever renewed, We find the strength to see life through.

Elegy of the Moon, a song unsung, Of whispered wishes and bells unrung, In your eternal, cosmic dance, We find the courage for one last glance.

At worlds beyond and dreams unfurled, At all the beauty in this world, And though we fade like morning dew, Our spirit soars, forever, with you.

[tk-duveraun]

Headcanons Prompt: Shen (Yuan) Qingqiu makes a deal with the System and falls into the Abyss in Binghe’s stead. What are your thoughts? How would he manage? What are the consequences? etc.

I think @sunderwight has an idea that SY takes the protagonist halo which is good and hilarious.

There's also the Heavenly Demons are Shapeshifters au

........

So we'll say everything goes the same up until MBJ is gone and LBH is revealed. The protagonist has to be blackened, the System says in frozen time as SY pleads. (Please don't make me do this, don't make me do this. This is the will of the gods.)

Anything but sending him into the Abyss.

[User may purchase 1 non-refundable Alternate Blackening Token. Once the purchase is made it can't be undone. User is reminded that 'anything' is a broad category.]

Don't hurt him.

[The Protagonist must be blackened.]

I'll take it. I'll take whatever punishment.

[...]

[User may purchase 1 non-refundable Alternate Blackening Token. Once the purchase is made it can't be undone.]

Do it.

...

Time resumes.

Suddenly, it's like when he was first in SQQ's body and trying to cultivate. He knows exactly what to do. It's so simple he could cry. He could throw up. He could cheer for joy that he doesn't have to hurt his little white lotus.

Binghe, look at this master. The bell cannot be unrung. The breaking of your seal has filled this place with demonic qi, more than this crack into the Endless Abyss would generate.

He kneels and picks up a shard of the broken Zheng Yang. He takes a numb and stunned Binghe's hand. He slices open the boy's palm

The sigil he draws on Binghe's face is messy, the blood used to draw it making streaks of mud, but it's fine. It's okay. Demonic Cultivation is meant to be quick and dirty.

SY feels blood leak from his qiqiao as it starts working. It drains Binghe dry of his demonic qi and replaces the cradle seal with one that will feed all of his demonic qi into SY no matter how far they may part.

Binghe's yelling. He doesn't know what's going on, but Shizun is clearly hurting himself so it's WRONG.

SY can't hear him over the rush of power in his ears. This shouldn't work on a heavenly demon, but Binghe would do anything for him, give him anything.

When it's done Binghe looks human and so small.

"My precious boy" except SY's voice is wrong, it's cracked and broken and bloody. He draws Xiu Ya, its blade split through with black and red cracks. "Live well."

SY jumps into the Abyss.

[scoobysnakz]

1950's greaser Miguel 😭 that's that

a/n: i had something like this in my drafts i was so happy omg 😭 also im so sorry this took so long i ended up falling down several rabbit holes around 50’s culture for no reason whatsoever. idk how to feel abt this it’s rushed and not proof read at all!!! so sorry for any dumb mistakes

warnings: none really except maybe threats of violence and very poorly written angst bc i just cant handle it.

everyone had warned you to watch out for guys like Miguel- the loud, cocky ones that only think with their dick. but you’ve never been one to listen, not to overbearing second cousins and patronising aunts, anyway.

your ignorance to their advice doesn’t do much, though, because as much as you pretend, they’re right. he knows he could have any girl he wants, all he’d have to do is flash her that signature smirk, maybe wrap one of his toned arms around her waist, and they’re putty in his hands.

so why would he give you- the gut-wrenchingly awkward waitress at the diner him and his friends flood after work- the time of day ?

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

It's a peacefully slow day at the diner, booths just as empty as the tip jar and the counter bell unrung.

This would be the perfect opportunity to relax, count the cars passing by and try to work out if you can afford takeout for tea, but you are stuck talking to some random guy.

He's sweet enough, fairly attractive, and a large tipper. Hopefully, things don't get too difficult.

"So then I said to my buddy, Clarence. Y’know Clarence, sweetheart? Comes here twice a week with his wife on Tuesdays and then comes on Saturdays with his… lady friend?"

You internally grimace at his words. Your smile falters slightly but you fight to keep that forced, hospitality smile plastered on your face.

If working at this grimy diner has taught you anything it's that people like him don't want to see a strand of emotion other than flattery at their crude compliments.

"That wasn't a rhetorical question, darling.”

Your gaze snaps back to him, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly.

“Do. You. Know. Clarence?" he sounds much gruffer now, more stern.

Panicked, you shake your head a quick no.

You do know Clarence and he is even more pushy than this guy, always taking a not-so-conspicuous glance at your chest, 'accidentally' groping your ass.

Somehow, he knows you're lying and his expression hardens. "Don't lie to me, m'kay? I asked you a simple question and all you have to do is answer it for me."

The way his words are so slow to pass through his thin, leathery lips makes your stomach form knots.

You glance around the diner but there's no one else there, the very few people who had been there left the moment he came in.

Is there something you don't know? You've been working here for just over a month and you thought you knew all the inside secrets, the customers to flirt with to get the big tip, who to give extra sugar too because they're too nervous to ask for it themselves, which families will clean up after themselves. Obviously not.

The sticky brown tables are lined with half-eaten meals and a few bills that people left behind before running off.

You can hear the stove humming lowly in the kitchen and the man's heavy breathing accompanying it.

"I don't know who Clarence is, sir." your tone matches his, harsh and unwilling. It's nine forty-five on a Saturday and all you want is five minutes of sleep. "So either order something or leave. It's company policy.” you pick up a creased piece of laminated paper that says pretty much what you did but in a much more formal narrative.

His face contorts into a snarl as he glares at you, lips curling and nostrils flaring in a way that immediately makes you regret your sudden surge of confidence.

"You're lucky I don't hit women," he mutters under his breath.

Those words alone are enough to make your skin crawl. It's a threat, a cleverly disguised one, but a threat all the same.

"I'll ask one more time, sweetie. Do you know Clarence?" his voice is painfully condescending. Under different circumstances you would have chewed his ear off.

Before you get a chance to snap back at him the bell chimes as someone else enters the diner. You thank God, and whoever else is up there with him, that you are no longer alone.

It's a regular- Peter. You flash an uneasy smile, willing him to get the hint.

His mousy brown hair hangs flat on his head, a few strands wrapped around his daughter's pudgy fingers. Lazily, he turns to face you, eyes narrowing as he takes in your nervous expression.

“Everything alright?” he asks.

The man scoffs and rolls his eyes. “We're fine, get your coffee and go.”

It takes him a second, round brown eyes darting between the two of you before he sucks in a sharp breath and nods his head.

Peter knows he isn't intimidating, painfully the opposite. It’s almost impossible for him to come across as anything other than naïvely friendly… perhaps a little agitating, though. There's never a moment where a charismatic grin isn't etched into his thin, rosy lips or an awkward joke said to ease the tension. According to him, it’s his Achilles heel.

Hurriedly, he excuses himself and Mayday and pushes his chair away from the counter before stumbling out the door. Your eye twitches with slight irritation but you push past it; there’s no point staying angry with Peter when he didn't have any obligation to ‘save’ you.

Smirking, the man looks at you. It’s just the two of you now.

You know you shouldn't have begged to take the closing shift alone. You had assumed you’d keep all the tips, get to clean up with whatever music you like playing and have some downtime before trudging through the busy New York streets. And now you know how idiotic it was to think that.

“Hey, bebita.” the shrill sound of the bell doesn't do anything to dampen obnoxiously loud entrance.

You drag your gaze over to the source of the tall shadow that’s blanketing the top of the sticky, wooden counter. It takes you no time at all to recognise that sturdy build and dark heap of slicked-back curls.

Your eyes scrunch as your lips utter a silent thank you to God for freeing you from the burden of this creep and a little less grateful plea to get rid of Miguel as soon as possible.

Don't get it wrong, you couldn't be happier someone has come to rescue you from whoever this balding weirdo is but you might be a little more giddy with glee if it wasn't Miguel. It’s not that he's a bad guy or anything but things can get a little tense between people when one of them stands the other one up.

Miguel slides onto one of the stools next to the man, who is now looking considerably less confident now that there's a 6’9 man sitting next to him.

“Can I get a coffee, please,” he orders with an awkward curve of his lips that doesn't quite form a smile.

“She’s busy right now, might want to go someplace else, lad,” the stranger says with a nod towards the door, almost trying to act pally with Miguel. But he knows better than that- surely.

You can see Miguel’s jaw tensing from the corner of your eye but you brush past it, finding amusement in his irritation.

“You know how I like it, black, no sugar,” he says before turning his attention back to the man.

You make your way down to the other end of the counter where the coffee pot sits, encompassed by splodgy brown rings stained into the wood. You wonder how long you can stay down here, how many excuses you can come up with before one of them grows weary and snaps.

The wash cloth is still damp, you know it is because you wiped everywhere down at least fifty times whilst waiting for your unwanted visitor to leave. You begin to scrub the battered wood again, trying in vain to remove the surplus of coffee stains that you know won’t budge.

It’s not even late and you’re exhausted. Just the thought of getting on the train has your eyes growing heavy and shoulders sagging. And now, you have to deal with two of the most irritating people to exist.

“Hurry up with his coffee, we have things to talk about!”

You whip your head around, eyes narrowed with spite and lips parted to spew whatever crude insult spills out first but Miguel beats you to it.

“What?” he scoffs.

“She’s taking forever, acting like we have all the time in the fucking world!”

Without any hesitation, Miguel is up, towering over the balding reprobate. His expression is calm, surprisingly, but the slight clench of his jaw can't hide from your watchful gaze. You’re tempted to intervene, cautious of the mess Miguel’s infamous outbursts leave behind, but this loathsome man getting put in his place is more than worth it.

“Apologise.”

The man swallows, yellowing eyes widened with panic. On his own, the man is intimidating. He’s taller than you and it’s easy to tell he works out but he's no Miguel. Side by side, he looks like an influenza-ridden Victorian child whilst Miguel continues to stand proud, attracting all attention like a pompous black hole.

His chapped lips move but no intelligible words come out, just a serious of worthless splutters and squeaks.

Miguel rolls his eyes. “Apologise to the lady. Now.”

Only silence follows. Silence so soft and crisp you swear you can hear the snowflakes falling on the dirtied pavements outside before they instantly melt away. That’ll be fun walking home in.

“Por dios,” Miguel groans, “You have one last chance, tell her you’re sorry or I’m dragging you out and telling everyone how much of an uneducados, baboso bastardo you are!”

“I-i only understood bastardo,” the man stammers and you just about manage to muffle the chuckle that bubbles in your chest.

“Getting kicked out it is,” Miguel sighs.

You watch through amused eyes as Miguel grabs him by his tattered collar and drags him towards the door. The man continues to protest this, blabbering about how he's more than happy to apologise and that he has friends in high-up places who won't be pleased to hear about this, but Miguel doesn't care.

He chucks him out into the street and you don't even have to see his face to know he’s smirking as the idiot lands flat on his ass because you are too.

The bell chimes his entrance once again, a proud grin on his face as he saunters towards you.

“So?” he questions expectantly.

Pushing past your amusement, you shrug your shoulders.

“I just kicked out some dick head for you and you’re not gonna say anything?”

“He didn't get a chance to pay, so you’re gonna have to cover it.” you flash him a sarcastic smile before picking up the tip jar and pushing it towards him, “and tip.”

His eyes narrow before he pulls out his wallet and behind to leaf through a series of wrinkled tens and twenties before pulling out a fifty. “Treat yourself.”

Again, you offer a forced smile before taking the jar away and opening the register to change the fifty for five tens. Your ears perk at the sound of his exasperated sigh, the corner of your mouth twitching into a grin at his irritation.

“You are so petty you know that, hermosa?”

You slam the register shut, mettle blooming in your chest at the dumbfounded expression on Miguel’s face.

You remain unblinking as you glare at him, not a slither of emotion is present on your face other than pure unbridled spite. You’ve never been able to wrap your head around his confidence. Sure, he's conventionally attractive and can tell you how the reason you never see stars at night isn't because of all the light pollution but because they know they’ll never compare to the grace of your smile or the dazzling beauty of your eyes all in Spanish. But is he really that amazing?

He pulls out a small metal tube from his pocket and pops it open. “Toothpick?” he offers, sliding one between his lips, “cherry flavoured.”

You keep staring disdainfully at him, expression unmoving.

“I’m starting to understand why he was in such a grump,” he mutters to himself, although his eyes are still carefully trained on you, “with service like this, any man would end up in a funk like that.”

That does it. You slam your fists on the tacky counter with a furious groan. You’re so fucking tired, not one single person in this entire rat-filled city has manners, the last thing you need is some self-obsessed playboy messing with your emotions.

Palms stinging , you look back up at him. His eyes are slightly widened but he stays silent, slightly baffled by whatever just happened.

“Get out, Miguel.”

He scoffs and stays where he is, clearly not oblivious to how infuriating he is.

“I’m not joking. Get out.”

His expression falters slightly but again, he simply refuses to move.

“I am so tired of people walking all over me, not an ounce of courtesy or anything. I'm not letting you, of all people, treat me the same.”

Slowly, he stands up, pushing his toothpick holder into his inside pocket.

“Please,” your voice cracks as tears sting the corners of your eyes, “just get out.”

You don't wait to hear the door close before allowing yourself to crumple, head falling onto your folded arms on the counter while unwanted tears trail down your cheeks.

You can’t believe you just broke down that, completely unprovoked. Miguel didn't help but whatever just happened was… it was more than unnecessary it was just plain childishness. How could you have allowed yourself to get so worked up? Normally you’re so collected, and always know how to act, yet the second that cocky idiot is around your emotions run havoc.

Then, your nose breathes in that familiar cedar and menthol smell. Internally, you groan.

“Look, I’m sorry that was out of order,” he mutters.

You roll your eyes. It's all well and good being able to apologize for being a dick one time but when you're continuously being a douche the effect tends to wear off.

“How did you even get behind here?” you mumble into your arms.

Ignoring your question, he slowly wraps an arm around your waist. You jump, at first, but allow yourself to relax. It’s nice being held, even if it's awkwardly and by someone you detest.

“Let me walk you to your car.”

What a gentleman.

Sniffling, you lift your head and turn to face him. “I don't have a car, Miguel!” you croak out.

What could pass as either a pout or a thoughtful frown forms on his lips as he stares at you. Whatever it is, it reeks of sympathy that you didn't ask for.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’ve said that.”

“No. I’m sorry about before.”

You scoff. It’s like he refuses to listen to you on purpose.

He runs his fingers through his hair, a sigh pushing past his lips. “I’m sorry about not showing up.”

It takes a second or two before you get what he means. You raise your brow, taken aback by his sudden ability to take just enough responsibility to apologize but not enough to actually say what he did. It’s funny, in a way, that it took you having to yell at him and break down crying before it even clicked that he should apologize.

“It’s fine, you were a dick and I got over it.” you lie.

He scowls, clearly unimpressed by the lack of enthusiasm his apology earned him. He steps a little closer, fingers grazing against your middle. Instinctively, your stomach clenches at the contact but you don't move away.

“That’s… that’s fair.”

You hum in agreement but remain silent.

“Forgot how to speak?” his voice is smooth like velvet but you don't take the bait. You’ve been in this position before, Miguel holding you close, a sudden softness to his demeanour whilst he comforts you. And last time it ended with you crying into your pillow until you fell asleep.

His hand turns your face towards him, thumb tracing the outline of your lower lip. “Que niña tan linda,” he utters.

Your upper lip curls up in disgust and you push him away. You might be exhausted and emotionally distraught but that doesn't mean you don't have common sense.

Something, you’re not quite sure what, flickers across his expression as he bites down on his bottom lip.

Defensively, he holds his hands up and takes a dramatic step away. “Misread the room.”

You laugh. Again, it's not even a proper apology, just something to clear his conscious until he does something equally as idiotic. It would take a miracle for him to give a heartfelt, meaningful apology and you sincerely doubt any miracles are coming his way.

Another awkward silence fills the room. It's not like the one before, though, there’s no fear of death or ill-mannered slobs taking up all thinking space. Just you and Miguel, stood dangerously close while you cumbersomely sniffle away your tears.

You can feel it, Miguel’s intense gaze burning holes into the side of your face. He doesn't look away, just keeps staring at you, unblinking and unmoving.

“Bebita.” you allow yourself to look at him. The harsh, flickering yellow lights hang close to his head and burn the corners of your eyes. “I think you’re the most beautiful girl in the world.”

“If you thought so, I wouldn't have been left standing outside the movies for an hour in the rain waiting for you,” you mutter snidely.

Ditching his previous tactics for forgiveness, he groans. “I told you already, I was busy.”

Everyone had warned you to watch out for guys like Miguel- the loud, cocky ones that only think with their dick. But you’ve never been one to listen, not to overbearing second cousins and patronising aunts, anyway.

Your ignorance of their advice hadn’t done much, though, because as much as you’d pretended, they were right. He knows he could have any girl he wants, all he’d have to do is flash her that signature smirk, maybe wrap one of his toned arms around her waist, and they’re putty in his hands.

And you'd fallen for his flirtatious trap once before. Hook, line and sinker.

You force your gaze away, deciding eye contact with him isn't worth the optical damage that will surely present itself sooner or later.

“You have a house phone, could have called me or the diner, hell- Peter would have been happy to be your little messenger pigeon!” it all comes out at once, a toxic blur of anger and regret that has been burning in your chest since the moment he walked in tumbling out your mouth before you could get a chance to stop yourself. “You are the scum of the earth, Miguel. I hope you know that.”

He lets your words settle in the air, arm slowly retracting from your waist and coming to rest on the countertop. His lips are pursed into a tight line that hides all emotion but the remnants of a frown tug his brown eyes downwards.

“Peter had come out, before, telling me that some creep was in there bothering you.” he glances back down at you, waiting for something other than fury to be represented on your face only to realise his optimism was all in vain and continuing on. “And I thought… maybe if I sort this out for her, she’ll forgive me.”

“You trying to be a good person now doesn't make standing me up okay.” you pause, angling yourself to face him, a sudden wave of sympathy crashing over you at the sight of his shiny eyes. “I forgive you, for now.”

This time, he doesn't even try to hide the pleased smirk on his face. His obnoxiously sharp canines poke proudly over his bottom lip and that ridiculous cocky twinkle is back in his eyes. If he was a dog, his tail would be wagging to no end.

“Does this mean we’re friends now?”

You scrunch your nose and shake your head. “I can't be friends with someone who tips with a fifty, it’s too ironic and tacky.”

He clutches his chest in feigned offence before a low chuckle rumbles from deep within his chest.

You aren't too sure what you are, in all honesty. The two of you had started off as acquaintances, which led to a strange friendship which had snowballed into him kissing you in the kitchen after closing hours before he stood you up on your first proper date. And now you’re both here, laughing even though you’re certain you wanted him dead almost a minute ago.

“Can I try again, then? I want to get it right.”

You shrug, you only live once.

[johnwickb1tsch]

~ Enigmatic Stranger ~ Part 4 WIP

a young!John Wick x fem!Reader roundrobin fic… by @sweetwolfcupcake , @treedaddymcpuffpuff , & @johnwickb1tsch

part 1 part 2 part 3

You remember the first time you met Donaka Mark, at a party in your father's house.

Your father had urged you to get yourself out of your room and mingle with people, do some networking, live a little. It was ironic, maybe even hilarious in some dark twisted way, that you decided to fulfill that directive by talking to the tall gentleman in the immaculate dark suit who seemed set apart somehow from the other guests. You’d actually felt sorry for him. He’d seemed as incapable of enjoying himself in this frivolous setting as you were.

Looking back now, you assume that innocent bungle had proved the crucial moment of your undoing. You were awkward--Donaka Mark was not. He knew how to lead a conversation, even if he had an intense manner of doing so. There was something hypnotic, but unsettling, about his dark gaze weighing on you. Withstanding that handsome, older man’s attention was up to that point in your life, one of the bravest things you’d ever done.

Little did you know the chain of events you’d set into motion–but that bell could not be unrung.

By the time you’d excused yourself from him you had chills, and an uneasy sense of forboding. You knew your father occasionally associated with some unsavory characters, but no one had ever given you the creeps quite like Donaka Mark had.

The second time you ran into Donaka Mark, he just happened to be in the street near the office building where you work, and invited you to lunch. You'd politely declined, because you were meeting your boyfriend. It had even been true–at the time.

The third time you crossed paths was in your father’s study, Donaka’s knuckles stained with his blood. He’d looked at you with his shirtsleeves rolled up over his powerful forearms, and a primal hunger burning in his dark eyes.

“There’s the dutiful daughter now. Y/n, your father has a bad habit of not paying his debts. What would you be willing to do, to save him?”

You knew your father had a gambling problem in the past…but that was supposed to be under control. Yet when you looked at the man seated in the chair who raised you, and he shook his head, mouthing the words, “I’m sorry,”--you knew your life was changed forever.

---

@sweetwolfcupcake @treedaddymcpuffpuff 😆🦝🦝

[littledancer9]

Unrung Chapter 9: Mai Tais in the Snow

Summary: The morning after Dany gets her first tattoo is plagued by visions of Jon’s past.

There you are, soldier! You almost missed breakfast,” Dany greeted him from the kitchen. He’d yet to have the chance to shut the door or toe off his shoes.

“You’re up early,” he murmured, nudging his sneakers into a straight line by the door.

“I’m always up this early,” she chirped as his toaster dinged.

“No you’re not,” he snorted. He’d spent enough mornings watching daylight seep through her curtains to know she did not rise with the sun.

“No, I’m not. You want toast? Butter? Jam?”

“Um. Sure. Butter is fine.” Ghost trotted by him, licking his hand before he went to sit by Dany’s side. He pulled out one of his barstools, sitting down to watch her skip around his kitchen, opening drawers and banging around in his refrigerator, helping herself to what little he kept on hand.

She popped her head from the side of the fridge. “Orange juice? Coffee?”

His brow lowered on his face and he checked his watch. 6:15 AM. “Coffee is good.”

Like a light peeking through the fog, she smiled behind the steam of coffee wafting over the mug when she served him. He nodded his thanks, the strangeness of her behavior enough to pull him from the trenches of his memories.

“Seven hells, Daenerys, how did you make this coffee?” He sputtered. His throat burned as he attempted to swallow the hot sip. Thick, ashy, and laced with a few grounds, he hadn’t had coffee this awful since the Wall.

She frowned, crumbs dotting her lips from the bite of toast she’d just taken. “I don’t really drink coffee.”

Read it now on AO3!

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

https://www.tumblr.com/brf-rumortrackinganon/765497170033016832/httpswwwtumblrcombrf-rumortrackinganon765495?source=share

Ah no, he could've reframed the way he was telling the story. But the fact that he mentioned his name and his communications team didn't even think if it was good to put it out.

William just blatantly fanned the sense of importance Harry thought he has because his brother who he has been attacking for years mentioned his name.

Hence, Catherine needs to think twice because his husband will force his brother through her throat again like what he did in the Windsor Walkabout once Harry comes running back.

So we've gone from William acknowledging that he and his brother have a shared memory of their mother to Kate being written out of her own marriage and career.

Look, I get that people are angry and upset. But to be so upset that you're erasing Kate's own autonomy, her own spine, her own agency, her own ability to communicate with her husband? Before anything has actually happened?

That is quite the reach.

You can acknowledge a shared history with someone you're estranged from, no longer speak with, and are no longer close to without it meaning that you're open to reconciliation or that you secretly desire everything to be back to the exact same way it was before the abuse, anger, and years-long assault on your family. That's a bell that can't be unrung so even if Harry does come back, his relationship with William has been permanently and irrevocably changed. It will not be the same. It may look the same, but it won't be the same and it certainly will not feel the same.

[inmyaera]

The Bell Tolls And It Can Not Be Unrung

A poem by Aera

Tears run down the hill of a beast as your beautiful problems destroy my world

Blood runs down the prairies of my skin

Branding a heart until I reach my bone

A pantomime designed specially for you

Yet you turn away to stare at the real girl with real lips, real hips, and everything precisely true

You take my time and spend it on another girl, so my heart bangs

Each and every time you do, there goes the bell

Clang��� clang… clang…

I bend over backwards for this jaded routine

Because I have abandoned the idea to fill my pockets with unlimited green

If there wasn’t a you, it would be a journey that filled me

An exploration to and fro

And I can’t help but obey as the shackles grow

With each one collected

Clang. clang. clang.

I could stare at your back all day and you wouldn’t even feel my gaze

Breathing deep down your back like a familiar haze

The bell tolls and it’s me who rang

The midnight girl with the high noon clang

I see myself as I see the girls on TV with the flat stomachs and the straight board bodies

I look in the mirror and see the second description but with the wide shoulders and the awkward gut

It sinks out of my chest

And I writhe in pain

My spite is endless and powerful

She could run army’s out of Spain

You meet her in your dreams

Her whisper like a ruthless gang

With each impending death

The bell booms

Clang. Clang.

Clang.

[dust-in-her-face]

emily prentiss is being isolated and i don’t know what that means. but it’s nothing good.

and no, i don’t think she made the wrong choice to keep bau-gate quiet. she’s not the only one aware of the existence of that thing and she made a call. she inherited it from someone who also kept the team in the dark about it. what does anyone from the team knowing about ai p*rn existing? emily knew it was a bell that could not be unrung.

i think luke should not have done that but if he absolutely had to…that wasn’t the way to do it. but as always, i respect how luke does exactly what he says he is going to do. there’s a darkness in him and a lethal edge.

rossi was sixth-sensing this shit with his wife. now he’s going full on gaius baltar on our asses. lords of kobol, watch over that man.

i still do not trust tyler. i am fine being wrong about this in the end but i don’t trust anyone outside of the team in this voit mess. that fucker created a web and the team is caught in it.

also fucking brian.

aaand didn’t trust this damsel in distress for one goddamn millisecond. i know your game, princess. you didn’t get me in scream, you are definitely not getting me in criminal minds. that girl plays crazy too well.

am i the only one who thinks the stuart house sounds like the dozier school?

and last, a wish upon a star—

please for the love of god end this sicarius storyline in season 17. i am tired of seeing voit’s smug punchable face.

[callmearcturus]

what do you mean by TC is a black box? what does that mean?

/pops gum loudly.

Sure, I've been avoiding this landmine a while lemme shove my foot onto it.

TC doesn't do serious interviews. He barely does press. everything out of him is a soundbite, and that's obviously a very deliberate choice on his part that probably has a few motives behind it. He consciously, actively avoids sharing anything beyond his enthusiasm for cinema and his work.

As someone who clearly has found a Problematic Fave in McQuarrie-era Cruise, I have thought about all that a lot.

One. I think that TC had to work consistently and deliberately to rehab his image after everything, and I think he's damn careful not to endanger the tentative equilibrium he's managed to build over literally about twenty fucking years.

Two. I'm old enough to remember Tom Cruise Crazy era, and one of the things that's... interesting to me with the maturity and hindsight of sitting here in 2023 is that, yes, a lot of TC's actions and associations were concerning back in that period, back when he was in the news. But the world didn't react with concern. The world, broadly speaking, called him a fag and a freak in a way that I hope we wouldn't today. I hope that "hey this huge star is part of a cult and is acting erratically" would cause even superficial concern today and not... what it did back then. Because I def remember songs and memes about that shit, and my family made jokes about him being a lunatic. Classmates talked about him being a closet case. It's what everyone did. I didn't realize that was fucked up for a long time.

I do genuinely wonder what TC's relationship with his audience and with the media would be if there was literally an ounce of compassion in the coverage about him. But we'll never know.

Three. TC has been literally world famous since 1983. Forty years. I....... literally cannot fathom that. What that does to someone. The very idea of it hits me with existential terror.

Four. I don't know anything about his life today. I don't really want to know because I've always been of the opinion that... I don't want to know shit about celebrities major or minor. I don't need to know, and I think it's weird that we accept that people must forfeit their privacy for even minuscule fame.

(The disgusting hounding and harassment of Jonny Sims, writer of The Magnus Archives, comes to mind. This is why I don't follow anyone like Neil Gaiman on Tumblr either, it feels invasive to me personally.)

Like, I know this cuts both ways. I am relieved when a famous person is a cool person. But also I would rather know nothing about them, because that inherent demand that they present their self for scrutiny and entertainment seems like bullshit to me. I don't think any of us are entitled to that. I think the fact so many entertainment industries demand that is repulsive and I wish that was a bell that could be unrung.

Point is: I don't know shit about TC's personal life. My genuine hope is that in this part of his life, as he's surrounded himself with people who seem passionate and supportive, i hope he's found his way out of the turmoil of the CoS (or is in the process of doing so). But while that is my hope, I don't think the details are any of my fucking business. And frankly, I think its obvious that he agrees.

Hence, he is a black box. Which I respect, as I'm a big fan of boundaries.

[gralunaisland]

Genuine question - do you dislike the gruvia ship to the point where say hypothetically if she were to get major development in the future you’d still hate it ? Would you be neutral to it ? Or do you think her character is irredeemable to the point of no return ?

Is gr///via Truly Irredeemable?

First of all, sorry for the extended hiatus!

Second of all, that's a fantastic question!

I actually have a similar post where I talk about something like this, where the question essentially was "how would you write juvia's character in a way that you would actually like?"

It's a pretty short post so I recommend checking that out too, but as for your question:

Hypothetically, and I mean very hypothetically, juvia could redeem herself as a character (but that would require loads and loads of sincere apologies and repentance and trying to make things right by people, which we all know juvia is too selfish to do), but even still, it would not be good enough to the point where gr///via would be healthy.

You can think about it this way.

Let's say a guy sexually harasses this girl, stalks her, creates merch of this girl to get himself off to, inflicts damaging emotional manipulation on her mind, ignores her consent and discomfort, makes something as deep as her father's death all about himself instead of her grief, and cusses out any guy who gets close to her, essentially trying to isolate her from any of her close guy friends.

Now switch out guy with juvia and girl with Gray. (Switching genders tends to help put the immense toxicity of this ship into perspective for people, which is unfortunate, but it's how our society operates right now.)

Even if this "guy" would be able to apologize and mend his ways, the damage has been done. The trust has been broken. Trauma has been inflicted.

That bell cannot be unrung.

So, while I'm all for forgiveness, I do not believe that forgiveness means a second chance at having a relationship with someone who has literally abused you. They had their chance, and they blew it and you up.

Just think of a different scenario of a toxic relationship. What if the guy had cheated on this girl before? Even if he genuinely feels bad and apologizes, how can you trust him to not cheat again? Why did he ever think it was okay to cheat in the first place?

You could ask those same questions of juvia.

So, to answer your question, I would still hate it even if juvia repented. she doesn't get to abuse and hurt and manipulate and come out on top with Gray remaining in her clutches. Any good their relationship could have been is merely fruit from a poisonous tree- poisoned by juvia's past abuse.

See, even if Gray were to stay with her after she admitted to her wrongdoings, who's to say that he isn't too far gone, too deceived, too Stockholm Syndromed, to know what's best for him, aka running from that "relationship" as fast as he possible could? He might not even believe her that she'd done anything wrong.

So, if juvia really and truly regretted what she did to Gray, then she would let Gray go and not try to keep her claws in his heart. Therefore, there would be no gr///via in the world where juvia is redeemed as a character.

Anyway, thank you so much for your ask and your patience! It was a really fun question to answer!

[townofcadence]

The first time Artair taps into his potential too far is--- messy, to put it lightly. It's like one of those pop-up tents, where once it's out of the bag, getting it back inside the original dimensions is a struggle. Even folding it at the seams isn't enough, you need to twist the frame, contort the body, until it's forced to fit back inside.

Once Artair taps into that part of himself too much, it's a bell that can't be unrung. His body doesn't know how to configure itself, and he has no control, no understanding of how to be what he is. What happens instead is a body that seems to be fighting itself, shifting with a mercurial nature into so many configurations, manifesting one power more and then another in rapid kaleidoscopic shifts. He has too many limbs, arms that shouldn't be, hands disconnected from his torso that still move. Each one is tipped with long, inhuman claws and growing thorns from darkened palms and fingers, except where shallow lacerations bleed gold. He has feathered wings growing from his back but also from places they shouldn't be coming from, until he's a massive sprawl of them-- they unfurl in a shimmering array of colors, and some vanish just as quick as they came. The arms appear, disappear, split into even more hands.

His eyes blink in and out of existence, a dizzying perception that sees more than humans and leaves him churning in the vertigo. His body bleeds gold like rivers and his hair floats like it's underwater and there are mouths not on his face but tucked in the strands. Flowers twine their way around his bones, his form, and long antlers tipped with cherry blossoms bloom on his head, too large, too long, too heavy.

His ribs shimmer through his skin in lines he can see despite what should hide them, and parts of his skin lose color until they are just voids of nothing, numb and cold. His body fractures itself into pieces in a moment, his irises shattering to pieces and the same happening where from his skin to his marrow a shard of him breaks off, floating away. The wind whips around him, but he is untouched in the vortex, centered in the eye of the storm that reaches the sky and breaks it open.

He contorts as his bones move where they should be, as his body continues to break until he's no longer recognizable as anything but a fractured mess-- and then in a blink he is back to the same moment, the same beginning, where he is unfurling all over again, too much spillage to control.

This time it's different too, a different amalgam of limbs and eyes and formless shape, rain drowning him and lights arcing along his skin like electric circuits, as he struggles to have a body at all, one that makes sense. But in the pain and contorting and the terrorizing change, it's hard to remember what a body is, how one felt to have.

It's hard to even remember what he looked like, except broken, and that thought only twists him further until he's melting with kintsugi lines of lightning cracking through his form. His mouths are filled with black ichor now. The flowers in his antlers are dying and dropping off in petals. The flowers wither beneath him and the water ripples in a pool around him. Moss grows on him and he can feel all the world in his heartbeat, all the tangled emotions that make them. Wounds open, old and new along his form that cannot rest.

His body breaks and reforms faster. What is a person? How do you be one? Has he ever been? Monster monster monster. What's real? What's him and not just someone else? Where did he ever begin? There are whispers all around him and they are all him, different versions, different times.

But he is just him, and he is so small except he's not, he's as vast and limitess as the universe, but he's also constrained in this form, a vessel of meat and blood and physicality. What's inside him strains against it, like a beast against a snare. But he's just not ready. Not yet. Not enough.

His form falls apart again, breaking into stardust. It begins again, and his mind struggles to collect the pieces. It's too much. All he can do is beg his own body for respite.

It doesn't know how grant such a thing. He begins again, again again again, dying and cycling and changing and shifting over and over and knowing he's only just scratched the surface-- until oblivion takes him.

He wakes up human, except now he knows he never was.