#and like that’s so COOL !!!! that’s still magic to me like!!!!

[mysteryshoptls]

SSR Malleus Draconia - New Year's Attire Voice Lines

Due to event restrictions, Groovy related lines are locked until the event has been cleared. I will update once these are unlocked. Login line has been captured.

A Happy New Year to you. I bestow upon you a blessing of good fortune for your coming year.

Summon: If anything catches your eye, you would do well to call upon me without any hesitation. Allow this opportunity to pass you by, and there may never come another chance to experience my personal hospitality.

Groovification: --LOCKED--

Home: And so a new year begins.

Home Transition 1: I see that sales have a way of bringing joy to people. Even a shop mired in the bustling chaos can seem like such fun.

Home Transition 2: All this hindering snow need only be melted with a cast of a spell. Is it simply a human propensity to crave manually piling snow on high mounds?

Home Transition 3: I've had my fair share of attire that require much care to wear, but this garb is unlike any other. This is a rare experience, indeed.

Home Transition - Login: Working at the shop is rather taxing. I've become used to waking up in the mornings ever since I enrolled here, however being required to rise even earlier is taking its toll.

Home Transition - Groovy: --LOCKED--

Home Tap 1: While on break, Leech spoke on the proper way to provide customer service. He said it all comes down to changing up the tempo every so often... What sort of tempo should we be operating at while serving customers?

Home Tap 2: I've laid myself down in a snowfield before at the suggestion of an old acquaintance. I found the way it cooled my body down after breathing fire to be especially soothing.

Home Tap 3: The way Howl starts working waiting for instructions is an admirable trait. He could only be bettered by becoming more flexible in his thinking.

Home Tap 4: The products in this shop are beyond fascinating. I saw Viper gingerly returning to the shelves a magical item that even I know not how to use.

Home Tap 5: Is there something on my head? Ah, you simply find my hairstyle different. ...To be quite honest, I still have not grown accustomed to seeing it this way, either..

Home Tap - Groovy: --LOCKED--

Duo: [MALLEUS]: You should simply sit back and watch, Viper. [JAMIL]: It'll be dangerous if you go overboard, Malleus-senpai!

Requested by Anonymous.

[muntitled]

Better Than Drugs

Pairings: Namgyu x Fem!Reader | Brief!Thanos x Fem!Reader

Summary: Reconnecting with your shitty ex boyfriend in the games.

Warnings: Language, Substance Abuse, Toxic Relationship, Male Manipulation, Coercion, Smut (+18) mdni, High sex, Dub/con, Choking, Exchange of Bodily Fluids, Unprotected Sex, Unedited (we die like soldiers)

A/n: literally no one will read this but I need him and I wrote this for me!

Being treated like a lamb being led to the proverbial slaughter in a death game sucked ass but seeing your ex boyfriend there sucked even more, somehow. From your vantage point perched on your bed tucked away from all the central conflict, you notice them talking about you again.

Call it past bully traum but you knew when people were talking about you and although you couldn't make out what they were saying, a part of you just knew...

Another vote had ended and Namgyu was still staring at you, his head bowed, chewing his fingernails. He was watching you, while you were forced to watch as democracy crumbled around you.

Your brain made you think Namgyu was perhaps berating you in front of his new friend. Bad-mouthing you to absolutely no end, perhaps saying what a lousy, uptight girlfriend you had been in the outside world. How you kept him from his habit. How you tried to force him into rehab countless times.

And so you shrink into yourself, squeezing yourself further into your bed, hugging your knees.

How were you supposed to know the conversation went nothing like how you thought it was going?

"We need to get her on our team," Thanos had said when the voting concluded and they were watching you pick at your roll of tin-foiled kimbap.

"She's already on our team," Namgyu muttered, more quiet than usual as he watched you through the corner of his eye. He didn't feel like eating. He felt like doing drugs. And fucking, maybe, but eating? It never occurred to him.

Without you to remind him to eat, and to actually take care of his bodily health outside of his substance abuse, he really was a mess.

"Oh yeah," Thanos muttered dumbly before turning back to his own food, "Kay, well, I need to sleep with her."

Namgyu didn't even look up from his food, still leaning against the metal beds as he murmured a quiet, "Nope." Popping his lip, extenuating the 'p'

Thanos himself was rallied into silence as Namgyu casually clicked his tongue before adding, "I called dibs on that bro," he steals another glance. You're searching your chest for a piece of cucumber that's fallen out of the kimbap

This unfortunately, zeroes his gaze in on your ample chest, miraculously squeezed into that tracksuit jacket. Now Namgyu was thinking about your tits while Thanos' head whips to the side, his brow lifted.

Namgyu couldn't take his eyes off you since the games began. Watching you during voting time had stirred up all kinds of lost emotions. The easy and almost thoughtless way you had pressed the blue button before tucking your hands in your pockets, never sparing anyone a second glance. He had to adjust the bulge forming in his sweatpant. If it weren't for him you might have continued to go amongst the games as an anonymous spectre, with that cash prize as your only goal.

"I didn't know we were calling dibs!?" Thanos stomped his feet petulantly, "That's not fair, man. Not. Cool."

"That's the point of dibs," Namgyu said, pushing his hair behind his ears as he continued to stare you down. "Who knows how long we'll be here?" As he watched you, he tilted his head downwards, causing a thick shadow to fall over his eyes as he watched you. He leaned against the railings of the metal beds piled up to the ceiling, watching you tuck your hands deeper into the sleeves of your sweater. Really fucking cute.

"B-But Homies don't call dibs on girls!" Thanos whines.

"Yeah," Namgyu nods, "but, I'm gonna need more than magic pills and a homie to get me through the night," He made a ring with his index and thumb finger, pinching his one eye shut as he spied at you through it, "She can help,”

Thanos was quiet, eerily so. Good things never happened when Thanos was quiet,

"Let's go over to her right now then. Since she's stealing my homie-"

That immediately snapped Namgyu out of his lust-filled gaze, promoting his shoulders to straighten as he tried to stop Thanos from taking another step towards you.

"Senorita-" he said in a singsong voice and you rolled your eyes as you saw them approaching. Namgyu walked behind like the shadow he always tried to be, with his hands tucked in his pocket. Your bed is relatively low to the ground and your heart stammered when both their shadows fell over you.

"Don't have any change," your eyes whipped to your ex-boyfriend before narrowing, "Or drugs. Sorry." you mustered a painfully sarcastic smile as you attempted to turn in another direction, hoping they might take the hint.

Thanos' teeth stretched as Namgyu swallowed thickly, watching you in that distinctly predatory way of his as he propped his forearm against the railing of the bed. You hate how both of them make you feel and your eye scans in vain around the premises, hoping someone might save you from the duo.

"Lemme make this quick," Thanos said with his drug addicted hand gestures. "My bro wants you and whatever bro wants-" he taps Namgyu's chest behind you- "Bro gets."

Silence passed with you staring deep into Namgyu's dark, almost sinister black eyes. You admitted that you were still painfully attracted to him. Knowing that he knows your body. He's already seen what hid under your blue tracksuit, it was dizzyingly sobering.

He still seemed so devastatingly sleezy it bordered on attractive, like he didn't care about what anyone really thought of him. It still brought an uncomfortable amount of attraction that you didn't really know what to do with. "No thanks," you said, bending your head to take a bite of the kimbap.

"Cunt." you heard him mumble under his breath. That caused your head whip up to glare at him.

"I'm a cunt because I'd rather not fuck a drug addict?"

"No," Namgyu shrugged, "You're just a cunt."

Your nostrils flared as something diabolical ignited inside you. Up until this point, fear had been the only emotion you allowed yourself to feel. The fear of dying to keep you alive. But right now, you're being plagued with another emotion and it's setting you alight with interest.

Your dating preferences were never orthodox. You knew you could never truly be satisfied with any other timid nice guy, and that's what drew you to him. You hated admitting to it but Namgyu calling you a cunt did more than irritate you, it ignited you.

"I'm not here to make friends,” You marvel now, in the tense darkness, how confident you had been then.

“How about a boyfriend then?” Namgyu asked and Thanos whistled lowly as he mutters a ‘nice bro,’

“How about choking?” You shot back, “I tried the boyfriend thing and he stole all my savings to buy drugs.” Namgyu’s jaw ticked and you can see his fist fold and unfold. Thanos’ commentary continues. ‘Shit boyfriend-’ he says under his breath.

“Don't be a bitch so early in the morning…” Namgyu says finally before turning his head, somewhat distracted, “Or at least I think it's morning. Hyung do you think it's morning-”

Thanos raised his hands, “Morning is what we make it in here, bro.”

“Leave me alone of I'll fucking scream.” you cut through all their useless chatter, letting a tense silence settle between the three of you. Eventually, Thanos reluctantly pulls Namgyu away. Murmuring a quiet ‘just take a hint bro.'

Soon, you were left in your bed but not without one more backwards glance from Namgyu over his shoulder. He wasn't done with you and that thought sat heavily on your shoulders until the robotic voice from unseen speakers made the countdown to lights out.

The very last thing you remembered, before the overhead lights were snuffed out, was his black, almond eyes still watching you from his bed.

The blue 'O' velcroed to your breast burns a hole through your conscience as your eyes flutter open in the middle of the night, really needing to pee. The prize money acts as the only source of gold light illuminating the hall while everyone else remains soundly asleep.

Life in the games was so much more stomachable during the day, but when the lights went out, you were forced to sit with your thoughts. That piggy bank didn't have money inside it, it held bodies, and the ghosts practically filled this room.

Still, you can't help but whisper to yourself, “I really have to pee.” The only thing stopping you from going to the bathroom is the gaze you knew would somehow find you from three beds over. Your ex boyfriend watches you, even when the lights go out.

Paranoia be damned.

Cursing softly, you maneuvered yourself to the ground. Trying to make the least amount of noise possible as you moved through the row of beds.

If you were being followed you'd never know. Everything was too dark but a part of you sighed as you reached the small arched doorway completely unscathed.

Almost unscathed.

Your heart hammers in its cage when you feel his heavy arm settle over your shoulders. Your mouth falls open but Namgyu is already banging on the arched door with a closed fist. You flinch with every loud, metallic hit.

The little window opens to reveal a triangle-masked soldier. He stands there emotionless.

“My girlfriend's on her period- she's bleeding everywhere. We need the bathroom.”

There is silence from the Guard who is clearly unimpressed. Just before the little window is about to slide shut Namgyu kicks at the door, “Hey! I wanna fuck my girl- if you want, we could do it out here?!”

You try to wrench yourself out of his grip, toilet be damned but your heart absolutely sinks to find the pink soldier opening the metal door.

Namgyu only twirls, pumping his fist before pulling you in his arms, biting back a smile.

“Can't believe that worked,” Namgyu says, with a raised eyebrow and a happy little shrug as he drags you across the threshold. The trip to the women's bathroom is relatively short as you writhe and fight in his hands. There's virtually no reason for the pink guard to think any of this was consensual but they kept their stoicism on their face as you reached the girl's bathroom.

“We'll be quick,” Namgyu assures the guard with a tight sort of smile before pushing you into the bathroom, and closing the door after himself.

You trip on your way running into one of the stalls and he watches you, biting his nail.

“This is the girls bathroom, or are you too high to notice?” You hiss absolute venom as he bites his fingernail.

“Nah, I'm sober right now, which means I need something to take the load off.”

“Cool. Use your hand,” you sigh from within the stalls before dropping your pants to pee. It irked you that he was standing there, on the other side… waiting for you.

You make quick work of it all. Wiping, flushing, and making a beeline for the sinks. He lets you wash your hands but before you make it to the door his arms are wrapped around your waist.

“Uh Uh,” he tsks, “No ‘i miss you’ kiss, huh?” He drags you into his arms, kicking and screaming as he swipes your brains from across your panicked face.

“Only competent boyfriends get kisses,” Despite the fuss, the door doesn't open. Those guards have quite literally abandoned you in here to fend for yourself.

“I can make it up to you,” he said, “I miss you really bad, baby,” Namgyu's pushing your back against the sink, stained with that sickening, pastel colour as he lowers his nose into the crook of your neck. You writhe as he breathes you in deeply, before sighing. His erection pressed against your thigh.

“Someone else could walk in here,” you cry, feeling a dampness seep out of you, wetting your underwear. Your body was being traitorous because it was enjoying feeling anything other than fear. It yearned for it.

“Sto-” you attempt to catch your breath as he gropes at your breasts from over your tracksuit. “Stop touching me-” you say despite your legs getting weaker and weaker.

“You don't get to touch me anymore. You lost that privilege when you stopped being my boyfriend.” He was so much taller than you when he stretched his hand across your cheeks, forcing your neck back to make more space for his lips. A moan nearly spills out of you.

His hands are trembling and his tongue swipes out to lick the length of your neck. To your shock and horror, you melt in his grasp.

“You don't mean that-” he whispers against your skin. “No one's gonna fuck you like I do-”

“No one's going to steal my money like you do either-”

His hand flies down to your throat, choking as he says through clenched teeth, “I told you I had a problem-” he squeezes and for the briefest moment, you see stars. “I needed help and you abandoned me, you bitch-”

“I didn't abandon you-” His lips are on yours, silencing you in one messy kiss that him forcing his tongue into your mouth.

“You gonna be good for me, Huh?’ He says, hoarsely, your eyes glare up at him.

“Leave me alone-”

“You know I love it when you try to fight back,” his mouth breathes against your hair, “You trying to get me riled up babe, huh?”

His fingers find the lining of your own sweatpants and your heart stammers as he turns to push your front against the sink. Your hand grips at the cheap plaster and you avoid your own traitorous reflection in the mirror, lest you find not only fear in your eyes, but lust

“You know how bad I've needed this- fuck,” his voice cracks when fumbles his cock out, grinding against your ass with his eyes closed in ecstasy and his mouth hanging open. Your finger curls around the sink as the first moan slips out of you. It had his eyes flying open to look down at you in amusement and awe.

“I knew you weren't a completely stuck-up bitch,” he says, pulling you up by the base of the throat, “I knew you still wanted me.”

“I don't,” you squeak out as he pulls down your pants.

“No- but your body does,” he swipes your underwear to the side.

Your body spasms as he roughly sinks his digits into you once before pulling out.

He continues to swipe your arousal from from your ass to your puffy clit and the need wracks through your entire body, building as you arched your ass backwards against him.

“You miss me real bad,” he brings your fingers up in front of your face and your heart drops to find the arousal webbing his index and middle.

His mouth is by your ear, breathing heavily as he lines his cock up at your entrance, already leaking precum, “I know I gave you hell when we were out there-”

“Hell doesn't begin to cover- FUCK-” he rams his cock into you. Positively brimming with need as his hips stutter against you.

“Y-ou stole my fucking savings for drugs-” you get the sentence out quickly before moaning into the air, as your boyfriend fucks out all the frustration he's been carrying, all the need and the withdrawal.

“And I ate you out as an apology-” He reaches his hand around to clamp down on the base of your throat. Your mouth falls open when he cranes our neck back, his eyes boring into yours. “Don't you miss it baby, don't miss having me inside of you?”

“Y-Your eyes are diluted-” you begin to say, utterly incredulous. “You're high right now!”

His hips thrusts in shallow, quick strokes. “And your pussy's wet, guess we're both fucked.”

“That it…” he whispers, “Don't think I haven't forgotten the way you abandoned me out there… But in here,” your eyes roll to the back of your head, “You dont so much as fucking breathe without my permission.”

Your pussy tightens around him like a long lost friend, it knocks you out how deeply you've craved him. Needing reprieve from all the fear. “You're squeezing around my cock, you fucking slut-” that nearly has you seeing stars. Your body spasms.

Your eyes squeeze shut as his cock hits that particular pillow of nerves inside you, nearly flipping you off the edge.

You do it without thinking about it and his eyes widen as he presses that same hand to your clit.

“Spit on my hand,” he says, an edge to his voice that let you know he was far too close. You forgot how messy things got when you had sex with him. How much of a mess he made of you.

“F-Fuck!” Your eyes are squeezed shut as he reaches around to rub you to your orgasm. His movements only fumble when his hips start stuttering.

“N-Need you to cum for me-” he breathes out. “I’m jittery- baby. I need it- shit-” you slip into your orgasm right in front of him, milking his cock for all its worth. “F-Fuck this is so much better than drugs,” he murmers, eyes rolled back as a drunken smile ghosts over his face. He's in complete and utter euphoria.

Two rough knocks on the door signal the need for your return but Namgyu's cock is still spilling ropes of his cum inside you and you're doing nothing but taking it.

“I hate you,” you breathe out, because it's true. If it weren't for him you wouldn't be here.

His breath is warm against your neck as he says, “I love you too.

[peachesofteal]

MELOS (PART TWO)

main masterlist / Azriel's masterlist

Part One 5k words - AO3 Tags: 18+ mdni. Blood, feelings of fear and panic. Reader POV. Trauma. Protective Azriel. Canon-compliant, post ACOSF and HOFAS. "I would spend a lifetime earning your forgiveness"

The fly amanita has been eluding you.

It’s speckled red cap is usually so easy to spot, but you’ve been trudging through the woods all day, turning over logs and peering around tree trunks to no avail. You’re getting closer and closer to the break in the forest, the one bordering a large meadow rich with wildflowers, the one you hardly venture to unless you’re truly desperate for something specific.

You’re seriously considering it when something dusky red catches your attention from the corner of your eye, and you breathe a sigh of relief as you spot the healthy patch of fungi. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” you sink to your knees, digging down to the roots. The soil is wet, freshly damp from a recent rainstorm, and it sticks to your fingertips. “Such a pain in-“

Magic scrapes at your skin. Long gruesome fingers of something unseen try to clutch at you, drag you away, and your power surges to meet it, beating it back to the gloom it calls home. You shudder. The magic from your mother's blood, the gifts the Middle grants you, are enough to keep you safe, protect you from most things in this place, the ones nefarious and full of malice, but that does not mean they do not try. 

You exhale, breathing freely in the crisp winter breeze whispering through the trees, rustling the deadfall into small vortexes that spin across the wood, twisting upward in a delicate dance of changing seasons. You lift your face to the sun just as the wind turns dark, smoky grey, and then explodes in a burst of ink, onyx spilling around the mushrooms, wisps snaking through the stems towards your knees.

You swat them away.

Azriel.

You grit your teeth. Don't think about him, don't think about him, don't think- 

A shadow brushes against you like a feather, and you hiss. 

Azriel.

The male who tortured you. Used you. Gained your trust to hurt you. Suffocated you until you thought you were going to die, until spots appeared in your vision and your heart slowed. The male that hurt you, in more ways than one. 

Fooled into falling for a ruse, you believed it meant something every time your heart thundered when he was near, how your magic crooned for him, tried to reach for him, touch him. The pain you saw in him, over and over again, a mirror to your own, led you to believe in a fairy tale that never existed, a stupid notion about two halves of a whole, only for it to crumble and reveal manipulation and lies.

And after it all, whatever he gleaned from you he must have determined to be inconsequential, since no one has shown up at your door to haul you away for execution. No one came to imprison you, or banish you, or torture you, again. No one came to take you away from your home, your life, like you were expecting.

He did it for nothing.

The shadows are an ever-present reminder.

Ever. Present.

They collect in the corners at work, they trail along the ground as you run your errands, go to dinner, visit your only friend in the city.

Thankfully, they seem to stay out of your house, though in the middle of the night, it’s not so easy to tell.

You shoot them a glare. “Run back to your master and leave me alone, for the hundredth time.” You have no concept of a Shadowsinger’s magic, or an Illyrian’s, no idea if the shadows see, or hear, or speak. Their presence frustrates you, and his hoarse attempt at an apology that night still haunts you. Why does he not just come to speak with you? Explain himself? Justify his actions?

It’s been weeks, and still nothing. Silence from the Spymaster. Your rage that was once all consuming is starting to cool, leaving a mess of confusion and pain in its place. 

You need to let it go, you must, but the music persists, faintly there in the back of your mind, a melody you can’t forget.

It’s a double-edged sword, one that slices and stings. You see him in your nightmares, and your dreams. In the dark, you hear his voice, cold and calculating, pacing around you in a suffocating circle, and in the sun, you see him in the Middle, ablaze in a mist of brilliant blue, brushing his lips against yours.

You’ve grown familiar with how a room changes when one of the Wraith sisters arrive. Shadow rolls in like a fog, dissipating as they materialize, grey gossamer turning to smoky quartz, taking shape as a beautiful female, her eyes iridescent like black pearls. 

Rarely, do the twins ever come together. 

Today is the exception. 

Cerridwen gives you a half smile, gaze lingering on your clothes. “If I made you a new frock, would you throw this one out? It’s nearly in tatters.” You huff.

“This is my work frock; it’s supposed to be a bit messy.”

“It’s not messy, it’s falling apart.” She raises an eyebrow, and Nuala places a slender hand on the stack of brown paper wrapped packages on the table.

“How are you?” The question is loaded, expectant, and they watch you, analyzing every second of whatever is showing on your face.

“I’m fine.” Are you? The lie is so painfully obvious, and they exchange a look. 

“Azriel,” Nuala begins cautiously, “has asked if you would be open to seeing him.” You freeze.

“I..”

“In a public place of your choosing, in the city.” The very idea tips you off balance, blindsides you. Could you do it? See him? 

“With a third party, if you would like.” Cerridwen adds. Maybe this is your chance at closure, an opportunity to put it to rest. “Take some time to decide, and we’ll-“

“No, no. I’ll do it.” You scramble to think of a place where you’ll feel safe, somewhere you’ll be among many, and not few. “Is… Rose and Thorn okay? It’s in the Palace of Thread and Jewels.” They nod.

“Of course. And a third party?” You shake your head. Something in your soul assures you no chaperone is needed, and you allow it to guide you. “Very well.” Nuala waves her hand, wisps of storm clouds floating around her fingers-

And then Wraith sisters are gone.

He’s there before you.

Seated at a table outside, elegant and sculpted, an exquisite, eldritch beauty accentuated by strong, chiseled lines. His skin glows golden brown in the warm bath of the sun, flecks of caramel and green, honey and oak painted together like a priceless landscape in his irises. His wings are tucked in a tight formation at his back, but even in restraint, they shudder, their membranes more unique than a snowflake, more delicate than a spider’s web.

He’s almost too stunning to look at. The beauty of a god. A prince of shadow, shining in winter’s glow.

Suddenly, you’re very self-conscious, fighting the urge to pick at the frayed threads of your dress, too aware of how faded its once emerald green is, how fast your heart is beating, anxiety and pin pricks of fear cascading up your spine, coupled with an undeniable longing that shakes you to your core.

An ocean tide too strong drags your eyes to his, holding you captive in its current, the two of you suspended, floating, woven together in a melody, same song you’ve been hearing, feeling, all this time, elusive, empyreal notes harmonizing across your soul, your magic. The heat of the patio, magic humming in the air producing the equivalent of a warm spring day, urges you out of the cold and towards the table, meeting him where he stands, so tall he towers over you. 

“Hello.” Your stomach flips. This is suddenly harder than you imagined, and you’re being torn in two, afraid and yearning, two sides of a coin. His eyes gentle, and he moves back a fraction, giving you space. You manage to clear your throat.

“Hi.” You can’t look away, and finally, after a second turned eternity, he motions to the chair.

“Would you like to sit?”

“Sure.” The words are stiff, like your back, and you hold yourself rigid, hands clasped together in your lap.

“Thank you for coming, I… I know this was a lot to ask.” You nod, unable to make your mouth move. “Are you well?”

“Yes.” You’ll need more than one syllable answers to get through this, and you fight against the vice squeezing in around you, trying shake loose the battle raging in your blood. There's a need to protect yourself, fortify yourself... and another, one humming a song of wonder, of desire, a song you don't know the words to. He takes a deep breath.

“There’s nothing I can say to excuse what I did, and I know you have no reason to trust me, but I-“

"What you did? You tortured me, you terrorized me. You made me feel like I was dying. and I... why did you… why did you waste your time tricking me into thinking you were… we were… it was all fake.” Your voice breaks, and his eyes flash with despair. “You tricked me into trusting you, letting you get… close,” you study the tabletop, fingertips tracing loops in the woodgrain, trying to maintain your control. You can’t let him see how badly it hurts; how awful it is to know whatever you thought was happening between the two of you wasn’t real, how he's shattered your own trust in yourself. How could you not see the deceit? How could have fallen for such a blatant deception? How could you allow yourself to be hurt like that? These are the questions keeping you from sleep as they toss about in your mind, scolding you, chastising you for allowing yourself to be so weak. Stupid. “Why waste all that time if you were just going to do it? The act itself was... it was terrible but the manipulation, the lie that came with it, feels worse somehow.” Your cheeks heat with shame, mortified at the tears now blurring your vision, and his hand twitches, almost jerks towards yours before sliding away.

“There are no words in any language, anywhere, to tell you how sorry I am. I would spend a lifetime earning your forgiveness, if you’d let me.” Everything you want to fight back with, the words you wish to bury him with, die on your tongue as you stare at him with wide eyes. “I don’t deserve to see you or ask for a moment of your time. I don’t even deserve this chance you’ve given me today but… nothing was a trick, it was not fake. I was a fool.” You know you should say something, but still nothing comes, and there’s a rising uneasiness emanating from his, shadows shivering around him in a halo. “I would ask you to strike a bargain with me.” What?

“A bargain?” He nods solemnly, face set with resolve, foreign limerence weighed down by sorrow reflecting in his gaze.

“Allow me to spend some time with you, to show you how sorry I am, to prove how real it was, and in return, I will owe you a debt.” You fight to keep your face blank, smothering an outward ripple of shock. Maybe he’s gone insane.

“You… the Spymaster of the Night Court… would owe me a debt.” You chew on it, toss it around between your cheeks, try to digest the enormity of it. A debt could be anything, it’s a favor, a wish, a request that must be granted, no matter what it is. You could ask that he drink a vial of poison, and he’d have to do it. Could ask him to leave Pyrthian, and he’d have no choice. Most importantly, you could ask him to leave you alone. Forever. “And if I asked you to never speak to me again?” He winces.

“That would be your right.” This is a bad idea. Your magic trills, vibrating with a strange yearning, again guiding you away from the rational choice and into an agreement.

“I will see you once a week for a month, and in return, you will owe me a debt,” you extend your hand, “and swear not to harm me.” You add hastily, expecting him to refuse, or attempt to change the terms, but he meets you with zero hesitation.

The magic hits you like a gale force wind, wild and too strong, planting itself in your skin to push ink to the surface.

A tree.

The roots sprawl around your wrist, twisting upward into a trunk and then outward into branches, spreading wide until they’re nearly touching on the inside of your forearm. He snags a finger under the cuff of his shirt to reveal the tattoo’s twin, the concrete vow between the two of you plain as day.

What did you just do? 

You’re taking advantage of the first meeting. Having a second with you, a powerful, formidable second, gives you an opportunity to trek into a more dangerous, more unstable part of the Middle in search of a rare mineral.

You’re also using it as punishment, irritated with the small twinge of guilt growing in your side. He strides along at your side silently, shadows skittering ahead across the forest floor, disappearing and reappearing at will, as if they’re scouting and reporting.

“Will you tell me where we’re going?” He finally asks, cocking his head to the side as you stop for a moment to catch your breath. He’s not winded at all, of course, and you’re starting to regret this choice, while also trying to avoid staring at him. Every time he moves into your line of sight, your palms sweat and you remember how his laugh sounded on the steps of your house, how he earnest he was when asking you questions. You remember the kiss, and the way his mouth felt upon yours. You remember it all, and butterflies take flight in your belly. 

But being alone with him in a dangerous place such as this, is also a stark reminder. A reminder of the last time you were alone with the Spymaster, truly alone, and how it ended. 

“There’s a cave a bit from here where a very rare crystal grows. Its mineral compound is a key piece to a specific elixir.” His lips twitch into a small, barely there smile, reading between the lines.

“You’ve brought me along for back up.” You smirk.

“You didn’t say what spending time together had to entail.” You shift your backpack. “It's just past this bog up ahead.” He stops short, eyes sharp, tensing.

“A bog?”

“Yes. You know… like a swamp?”

“Of Oorid?” You blink.

“You know the Bog of Oorid?”

“I’ve been there.” Now it’s your turn to scrutinize him. Could you have underestimated this male, again? 

“Why?” You shiver. You’ve visited the Bog before, twice, and left each time with a new scar, a new nightmare.

“We were looking for something.” We? Questions brew in the back of your mind, so many of them they’re hard to contain, but you’d hate to appear too interested in him and his adventures.

“Did you find it?”  He nods and says nothing. Fine then. “It’s not the Bog of Oorid, just a boring swamp. C’mon.”

You withhold a key piece of information regarding the swamp.

It’s quite hateful, if you’re honest, and a small part of you weeps at your own vindictiveness, but the vengeful side feels too smug, too satisfied.

“It’s this way.” You take the lead, stepping into the ankle-deep muck. “Sorry, you’ll have to get a bit dirty.” The trees here are warped, bent to the undertow of the swamp, stripped of their life, yet still thriving, flourishing in the inert, foul water. Wicked, and greedy, they creak and coo, relishing each cursed step Azriel takes. Your magic crests, drawing up through the Middle, and you smile to yourself as the mud reaches mid-calf. Right about now-

He hisses.

“Are you alright?” You call innocently over your shoulder, now paces away, reveling in the sound of him fighting against the sludge's hold. When he doesn’t answer, your heart quickens, and you turn.

He’s shaking his head, wings flared at his back, muscles flexing beneath his leathers, trying to work himself free, and you bite your tongue to keep from telling him it won't work.

The swamp is a collector, a keeper of things, admirer of the rare and unusual. You’re sure it’s never ensnared an Illyrian before.

“Careful,” you sing, “struggling makes it worse.” He’s knee deep but surprises you when he breaks a leg free and takes another step, cobalt blue siphons beginning to gleam, shining into the dark green stagnant water and pockets of mire. Interesting.

“Clever little witch.” He's amused, reverent, and you're irritated by his reaction. “How does it not trap you?” Keening echoes through your soul, frantic and tortured. It’s reaching for something, crying for something, steeped in a distress you don’t understand. An incessant tugging, the faint sound of a melody. A chiming of bells, ringing, and ringing, and ringing. You steady yourself with a deep breath.

“I ask it not to. My magic comes from the Middle, like my mother’s. It makes things... more amenable to me.” You make it sound far worse than it is to spook him, but he only watches you with interest, keen eyes dissecting you from the inside out.

“And will you ask it to release me?” 

“Maybe.” You shrug. He sinks farther, now trapped to his mid-thigh, and your pulse races. You had planned to leave him here, trap him here until you came back, but your magic is clawing at you, heart trying to beat out of your chest, fear and panic colliding with an instinct buried so deep, it can’t be cut out or ignored, an instinct trying to push you into his arms, pleading with you to help him. It hurts, trying to fight it is like trying to swim against a current, your muscles screaming at the struggle, your power thrashing in your veins. The music is no longer a delicate, enchanting thing but a symphony flowing into a fortissimo, brass and strings and keys digging into your soul.

It's too much, your heart pounds in your ears, magic shredding your restraint.

It's too much, and you long to go to him. 

Release him, you command the swamp, and it tightens its embrace, a lover clinging to another, refusing to relent.

Is this not for me?  

No. He is mine. Release him. Now. You press onward, urging the swamp to relax, it’s reluctant acquiesce bringing you a relief so strong you have to hold yourself steady. It recedes, and the two of you stand face to face, chests heaving. You don’t understand what’s happening to you, what this war that rages in your magic, your heart, your entire being means.

He closes his eyes, the shadows receding, disappearing entirely as he takes a long, measured breath, his hand pressing against his ribs, still deep in the dredge of the fen. 

"Are you alr-" 

“Is there anything else I should be aware of, before we continue?” He cuts you off, the heat radiating from his body coming in waves, and you push against the pull.

“No.” You croak. He inclines his head.

“Very well. Lead the way.”

“Why don’t you winnow here?” You're seated on a rock outside the mouth of the cave. The trek itself is the most dangerous part of this task, and the crystal retrieval was uneventful. Boring, even, as you walked side by side with Azriel in silence, contemplating the unexpected amount of remorse over the swamp settling in your stomach like lead.

“I don’t winnow to most places in the Middle if I can help it.”

“No?”

“You never what will be waiting for you, or what you will discover, when you arrive.” You take a bite of your apple and sneak a glance at him. “You’re not angry. About the swamp.”

“No.” He’s preternaturally still, but rife with intensity, alight with an ache you can’t describe.

“Why?”

“I deserve far worse from you.” You say nothing, because what can you say? It’s true.

But if it’s true, why does it feel so awful? 

You stand abruptly, eager to separate yourself from this situation, this confusion and confliction. “I should get these back.” Winnowing from the Middle, at least, is a perfectly safe option, and you’re eager for the escape now.

“Next week?” Your head is pounding, limbs twitching like your body has a will of its own, and suddenly you’re drained, magic and will quickly depleting. He steps closer, brows knitted together in concern. “Are you okay?” No. 

“Y-yeah. I’m going to… I’m going to go.” He frowns.

“You look ill.”

“I’m just tired. The swamp takes it out of me.” You lie weakly with a halfhearted smile that lacks conviction, and before you can do something stupid like reach for him, you draw on your power, giving him one last look. “Next week.”

You’re at the Palace of Bone and Salt when it happens.

The market is packed to the brim, overflowing, most caught up in the approach of Winter Solstice. It’s still weeks out, but all are always eager to celebrate the city’s favorite holiday. Boughs of holly and evergreen, ribbons of red and green decorate the square, twinkling fae lights nestled high and low. You’re looking for bone marrow, but can’t help loitering by the chocolatier’s stall, his perfectly crafted confections artfully arranged in pyramids stretching far past your head. He catches your eye with a smile. “Would you like to try anything?”

“Oh, no, but thank you. They always look so lovely.” He pulls a pink chocolate swirl from the collection that’s caught your eye and holds it out to you.

“On the house then, for Solstice.”

“Thanks so-“ Your gratitude is stolen by a groan, one rattling upward from beneath your feet, the entire market rumbling so violently the stalls creak, their goods tipping to the side.

A quake. 

They’re rare, but not unheard of. The mountains breathe, stretching and straining, the plates they’re built upon occasionally shifting and realigning, all of it causing Velaris’ foundation to shake. These things you know, but you’ve never experienced it firsthand, and you didn’t expect such… force.

The shopkeeper dives beneath his counter, others running in every direction through the market, panic and fear permeating the air. They’re looking for cover, afraid the second and third story buildings may come crashing down on their heads, while others try to outrun it, sprinting away as fast as they can manage.

It’s pandemonium. Everyone is being tossed around, marble and wood falling and rolling, and you’re frozen, rapidly trying to weigh the options, decide what to do when something catches your eye.

A child.

She’s standing in the middle of an aisle, screaming for her mum, and without hesitation, you snag her around the waist to tuck her into your chest, covering the back of her head as you curl into a ball and huddle beneath the counter of the first stall you see.

That’s where you stay, for the next ten minutes. Curved over this little girl who can’t be more than two, holding onto her as tight as you can to quell her screaming, trying to calm her. Things fall on you, something scrapes the side of your face, and it stings, but you don’t let go. You can’t.

You’re somewhere else in your mind. In the Middle as a child, running as fast as you can to the boundary, trying to get to safety as your mother howls. Claws scratch down your back, blackened, putrid magic tries to drag in the bowels of the forest, all while horrid shrieking and crying fills your head. The boundary is too far, and you fold yourself into a hollow, a damp, muddy nest inside the base of a tree where you hold your breath and sit really still, just like you were taught.

The quake ricochets around you, but the screeching in your ears is not from this time, this moment. It’s from then, you and this small child in your arms now the same, scared, alone, and crying for your mothers.

Even once the rumbling stops, you don’t move. Too afraid it will start again and you’ll be caught in the open, you wait. The sticky, festering sap of the memory clings to your synapses, refusing to let you go, embedding itself beneath your skull like it needs to live there, as if you could ever forget. There are moans from the injured, confusion and worry from those who took shelter, but multiple voices rise over the din of everyone else, giving instructions, looking for the wounded and those who need help immediately.

“- was right here, but she let go of my hand… there were too many-“ a frantic female’s voice echoes over through the market, and her terror is met by a kind, reassuring voice.

“We’ll find her.” The girl in your arms makes no attempt to free herself, still shivering in your hold, clinging to you with all her might, and you stay rooted to your spot.

There’s a brush of magic against your mind, a gentle caress that probes the dense sedge wall, and you push it away, opening your eyes to see a beautiful female crouched in front of you. “Hello.” The High Lady. The little girl finally moves, wriggling against you.

“Mara!” Her mother calls, rushing over and scooping her into her arms, sobbing. She looks her daughter over and then holds her tight before trying to approach you. “Thank you, thank you,” she’s reaching for your hand, trying to squeeze it in a manner of gratitude, of love, but you can’t move, still grappling with the noise ringing in your head. There’s more conversation, more of the High Lady’s voice, patient and gentle, and another’s, deeper, heavier.

“-shock, maybe?”

“-go get him,”

“Cassian-“ The second voice is enough to startle you back to yourself somewhat, and you carefully stretch your limbs, crawling out from under the counter and away from them, standing up on your own two feet. The High Lady holds her hand out as if you steady you. “Easy. You’re hurt.” Hurt? You instinctively touch your face, fingers coming back stained crimson. You need to get out of here, need to get as far away from all of this as you can. You’re still trying to right yourself, convince yourself you’re here, not there.

“Maybe you should sit down.” The other one, the big Illyrian who you met in this very place months ago, watches you with concern. You’re shaking, lungs expanding, searching for as much air as they can find, warm trickle of blood falling over your lips and down your chin. Pain registers slowly, no longer isolated to your face, but in your side too, and when you press your hand to your ribs, wet fabric squishes beneath it. More blood.

“Let's get you to a healer,” the High Lady tries, motioning to your head, your side, and when you don’t respond, she frowns, glancing at her companion. The wailing is finally quieting to a point where you can properly think, but words still won’t come, and she’s about to say something else when shadows swirl around the three of you, and Azriel drops from the sky.

Azriel. Your heart sings his name, and the double-edged sword cuts to the quick, opening you up to a strange spark in your chest.

He looks… awful. Insane, even. Wide eyes find you, his wings stretched into a defensive position, shadows spread around him in a dark cloud, and his fear is so palpable you swear you can feel it. All you can do is stare at him as he frantically takes you in, focus never wavering, even as he speaks to those at your side. “What happened?”

“We found her under here,” Cassian points to your hiding spot, “protecting a little girl. We think she’s in shock.”

“She needs a healer.” He grits, hands flexing and relaxing from flat palm into fist, repeatedly.

“We know.” The High Lady angles her body between you and the Shadowsinger. “Az,” her voice is serious, with an undercurrent of authority, “maybe you should back-“

“You need a healer.” He ignores her, and you shake your head. You need to get out of here, to get somewhere safe where you can try to rip out the rot of these memories still nipping at your heels. 

“I need to go. Home, I need to go… home.” I need to go home? That’s the best you can come up with? Cassian snorts, and Azriel says your name, an edge of dominance cutting through the haze of your mind. The blood loss is making you woozy, and the ground is unsteady, continent turning over as you start to feel sluggish. Your vision grows blurry, and then there’s a hand on your cheek.

“Look at me, it's okay.” Azriel murmurs, and you try. You do. There’s something about his touch, the texture of his hands that soothes you, comforts you, but the world is falling away, and darkness is taking you, tugging you into the lull of sleep.

You curl your fingers into his shirt, a last-ditch effort at staying upright, at staying awake, looking up into a never-ending swirl of hazel, green moss and bright umber drenched in panic.

They’re the last thing you see before everything goes black and you slip under.

[swappermanent]

Freckles

Being a closeted trans guy isn’t easy for anyone these days. Trust me, I’ve got the scars—metaphorical ones, at least—to prove it. But when it comes to my family, the challenge isn’t what you might expect. They’re not exactly waving rainbow flags at every Pride parade, but they’re not storming drag shows with pitchforks either. They’re comfortably, frustratingly middle-of-the-road when it comes to identity politics. You know the type—“We support you as long as it’s not too inconvenient.”

So, no, the problem isn’t their politics. The problem is the Elber Family Reunion Swap.

Let me explain. Every summer, my grandparents rent this massive villa somewhere in the world—we’re talking infinity pools, tennis courts, and a “staff quarters” vibe. It’s fancy. During this week of forced family bonding, Grandpa Elber breaks out his magic for what he calls “the ultimate empathy exercise.”

Yeah, magic. Real magic. My grandpa is an actual wizard, and no, I don’t know why he isn’t out saving the world or something. He claims this is his legacy, his gift to the family. And the gift? A body swap. Each of us trades bodies with another family member for the week to “better understand” their perspective. Sounds wholesome in theory, right? Sure. Except it comes with rules.

The first rule: you can only swap with someone of the same gender. According to Grandpa, this is because “genders have different energies” or some other magical nonsense he uses to justify it. The second rule: while in someone else’s body, you must act like that person. It’s considered bad form—borderline taboo, even—to behave “out of character.” The goal is to fully immerse yourself and live as them for the week.

This is the part that fucking sucks for me.

Growing up, I naturally got shoved into the women’s group. It didn’t matter that my hair was short or that I always would hang out with my male cousins all the time. When swap week rolled around, I was guaranteed to end up in the most hyper-feminine body available. Cousin Leah, with her long curly hair and pastel sundresses. Aunt Beth, whose shoe collection was a stiletto-filled nightmare. Once, I even got swapped into Great Aunt Carol, whose hobbies include flower arranging and oversharing about her cats.

It was torture. Absolute, unfiltered dysphoria. Butvery year, I’d smile through gritted teeth as relatives gushed about “seeing life from a different perspective,” counting the minutes until I could escape back to my flawed, but familiar, body.

But this year was different.

Nine months ago, I started taking T and told my family I wanted to use he/him pronouns. While their reactions ranged from awkward to mildly confused, they mostly rolled with it. And over time, my voice got deeper voice, the angles of my face sharpened a bit, and I started carrying myself more like a guy. Sure, I wasn’t "there" yet, whatever that meant: I hadn’t had top surgery, and my voice still cracked when I tried to lower it too much. But for this year’s reunion, I was cautiously optimistic that there was a chance—however slim—that I might finally swap with a guy.

The thought alone made my pulse race. Grandpa said he had no idea what would happen, that the magic would sort itself out. But if it worked—if the spell actually recognized who I was, not who I’d been forced to be—it would be life-changing. For once, I might not have to endure a week of floral prints and makeup. For once, I might get to experience a body that offered a glimpse into my future as a man.

---

On the evening of the swap, the family gathered in the villa’s massive living room, the air thick with incense from whatever mystical preparation Grandpa had cooked up. I sat cross-legged on the floor, trying not to look too eager. Across the room, Uncle Marco—rugged, broad-shouldered, and looking like he belonged on the cover of Men’s Health—was chatting with Cousin Dylan, who somehow made even a hoodie and jeans look effortlessly cool. If the magic did swap me with a guy, I hoped for one of them.

Grandpa raised his hands, muttered something in an unrecognizable language, and completed the spell. A wave of dizziness hit me like a truck, and everything went dark.

When I came to, the world felt... different.

Looking down, I saw strong, freckled arms with pale skin peppered by coppery freckles. The faint lines of veins ran beneath the surface, threading down to hands that felt capable, solid, real. My breath quickened. A quick glance at the mirror across the room confirmed what I already realized: I was in Theo’s body.

Theo. My cousin Theo was the only other openly gay member of our family. He was always unapologetically himself, and—if I was being honest—so effortlessly masculine it made my chest ache.

I tried not to stare too long in the mirror across the room—tried not to make it obvious—but I couldn’t help but take in the details. My hands shifted tentatively, brushing over the flat expanse of his chest. I could feel the firm definition of his pecs under my fingertips, the strength that lay just beneath the skin. A shiver ran through me as I slid my hands up to his shoulders, savoring the way they tapered down to his arms. My fingers traced his biceps, squeezing lightly, marveling at the power there.

My throat tightened as I flexed one arm, watching the muscle shift and ripple under the skin. For the first time in my life, I looked at a reflection that didn’t feel foreign. This was it. This was who I was supposed to be.

I feel a stirring in my pants, an undeniable reaction to the overwhelming experience of feeling up my own muscles. For the first time in my life, I have a dick. Hesitantly, I let my hand drift lower, subtly pressing against the fabric of Theo’s jeans. The weight of it, the reality of it, is electric.

Across the room, Grandpa—now in Dylan’s body—continues explaining the rules of the swap. His deep voice fills the air, and I catch myself half-listening. My attention flickers to Dylan’s slumped form, unlucky enough to be swapped with Grandpa for the third year in a row. Poor guy. I thought the swaps were supposed to be random, but maybe Grandpa has a knack for landing in his sexy body every summer.

I glance over at my former body. Dysphoria is etched into his—my—features. Theo’s jaw is tight, his hands clutching at my chest as if trying to make sense of the reality he’s been thrown into. It hits like a punch to the gut. I know that feeling all too well, and it sucks to see it written so clearly on my face. Worse still, it’s a stark reminder that I don’t fully look like a guy yet. Not the way I want to.

Grandpa’s voice booms as he finishes his speech. “Let’s all have a fun week!” he declares, his tone lighthearted but commanding.

I turn back to the mirror, drawn to my reflection like a magnet. My smirk curls naturally, unbidden. For once, the face looking back at me feels real, tangible, mine. And damn, does it feel good. Fuck I hope this week never ends

[mads-hemmo]

It’s Nice to Have A Friend - Jschlatt

Part 1

Reader has been lonely their whole life. They have never been in a relationship. They don’t understand why no one will love them but their best friend, Schlatt has always been in love with them.

Part 2

From a young age, you have always been a hopeless romantic. Your favorite content always revolves around romance of some sort. You even have had your wedding planned since you went to your first wedding at merely six years old. Your plans are forever cemented on a Pinterest board that you continue to add to about monthly. I mean your taste has changed since 2015, but some things still remain true.

The only problem is that you haven’t got to experience romance yourself. At the ripe old age of 25, you have never been in a relationship. You have had your first kiss, but it wasn’t magical. You only did it because you hated being the college kid who had never kissed anyone. You slightly regret it, but at least it was out of the way.

The only good thing is that at least you have a best friend who you made a marriage pact with. You and your best friend Schlatt, met in middle school. When you were both sad and single in high school, you made a pact that if neither of you were married by 40, you would get married. It was just a silly thing that you both constantly laugh about.

When you met Schlatt in middle school, the two of you immediately hit it off. You saw Schlatt sitting by himself one day and decided to sit by him. You had a few classes with him and thought he seemed like a cool dude. At first he acted like he wanted to be alone, but you learned soon after that he really didn't have many friends. The two of you learned you had a lot in common. You both loved Nintendo, especially Mario Kart as well as computer games.

The one difference is you loved all things romance whereas Schlatt only cared about gaming and baseball. The really fucked up thing about the universe is that Schlatt has had multiple relationships while you remain single. His relationships usually never lasted, but it was still strange. The universe also made you bisexual and you still somehow manage to be lonely. But at least you had your best friend, Schlatt and that stupid marriage pact.

The hardest moment for you was when Schlatt decided to move to Austin, Texas. It was the longest and farthest apart you have ever been from each other. You knew it was good for career and would help him grow his channel, but it sucked being apart for so long. Thankfully, Schlatt made the decision to come back home to New York. When he came back, it was like nothing changed. You had your best friend back and nothing could make you happier.

Most of your nights lately have been spent hanging out at Schlatt’s apartment playing Mario Kart like you did as kids. Tonight was no different. Schlatt was playing as a Villager and you were playing as Cat Peach. “I tried downloading Tinder again,” you say, randomly.

“Why?” Schlatt asked, his eyes located on the screen.

“Maybe there’s someone new. We live in New York. Who knows who might have moved here? Maybe my soulmates!”

“Toots, how many times do I have to tell you? One, your soulmate is not going to be on tinder and two, you’re better off with a true New Yorker than some new kid that wants to make it on broadway or some shit.”

You sigh. “Oh my god, but imagine they are on broadway! You know my love for musical theatre! Maybe we need to go watch a show. The lead being so into their part locks eyes with me and we realize we are truly in love like the characters on the stage.”

Schlatt lets out a small laugh while rolling his eyes. “You are ridiculous, (Y/N),” he says, looking at you.

“You’re just mad that I’m kicking your ass right now.”

“You wish, Fucker,” he says, his competitive spirit coming back.

The two of you continue playing until you both decide you're hungry, so Schlatt orders pizza from your favorite place. “You staying the night?” Schlatt asks, grabbing the Bénédictine bottle and a few solo cups.

“Might as well. It’s the weekend after all,” you say, pouring the liquor into your cup.

“The guest room is always open for you. However, the cats have made it their own, so they might sleep with you.”

“It would be nice to have someone or something laying beside me even if it is just cats. I did always say I was going to be the crazy cat person, but the tables have seemed to turn,” you joke.

“I’m a very proud cat dad. They make great content and the ladies love them,” Schlatt says, moving his eyebrows.

You laugh at him. You miss the way his smiles grow with each laugh that leaves your mouth. “Did I tell you I started a new hobby?” You ask him.

“No? How do you have the time to have another hobby? What happened to crocheting or reading or shipping random men together?”

“I’m still doing all those things and I ship people of all genders. Anyways, I started coloring.”

“Coloring? Like with crayons?” He asks, not in a malicious way, but with genuine curiosity.

“No, with alcohol markers and white gel pens to add highlights. I saw it on TikTok of course and it’s been really fun. It’s also very stress relieving.”

“Can I see some of your finished work?” He asks, his eyes not breaking contact with yours.

“Oh yeah, sure,” you say, pulling your phone out. Sometimes you find it strange how Schlatt actually cares about your hobbies and various interests. He never makes you feel bad about it. He just lightly teases you, but you know that’s just how he is.

Schlatt looks at the pictures you took of the pages you have colored. “Awe I love the little kitty. They are cute! This is really impressive, Toots. It looks like you printed these out. Maybe next time you come over, you should bring your markers and we can color together. Mine won’t be near as good as yours, but I bet it would be fun,” Schlatt says.

You hold your pinky out and Schlatt wraps his around yours. “I’m holding you to that, Big Guy.”

“You know I’d never break a pinky promise. You bring the markers and I’ll bring the Bénédictine.” The marriage pact was formed on a pinky promise and that makes your heart feel warm.

You hear the doorbell ring and realize that your pinkies are still connected. You quickly get up to go answer the door. You see a very handsome man holding the pizza boxes. “Here’s your pizza,” he says. “It’s not everyday that I deliver to someone so pretty.” He winks at you.

“You’re too nice. Hold on, let me grab your tip,” you smile, turning around. You see Schlatt and he hands you a ten dollar bill. “Thank you.”

“Sorry I didn’t realize you had a boyfriend. I couldn’t have flirted with you if I knew,” the guy apologizes.

“He’s not-“ you start.

“Don’t worry about it, dude,” Schlatt says, grabbing the pizza and handing him the money. “Have a good night.” Schlatt closes the door. He goes to the kitchen to grab plates before coming back to the living room.

“What was that?” You ask him.

“What? I just finished what you were going to say. That guy also was probably a high schooler.”

You just decide to not push it any further, knowing that Schlatt is probably right. “What movie do you want to watch?” You ask.

“As long as it’s not a musical, I don’t care what we watch. I recommend Tokyo Drift, but you’re the guest,” Schlatt says, with a piece of pizza in his mouth.

“We can watch Tokyo Drift. It’s been awhile since you picked the movie.”

Schlatt smiles at you. “Thanks Bub.” He puts the movie on.

It doesn’t take long for you to pass out. Schlatt knew it was inevitable. You usually fall asleep during a film and with liquor and pizza on your belly, it’s no surprise when he hears your soft snores. Your head makes its way on Schlatt’s shoulders. He smiles at you and he feels his heart start to race. He wishes you weren’t so hard on yourself and saw how amazing you were.

After about twenty minutes, he realized that you were pretty much out. Instead of having you sleep on the couch, he gently picks you up, bridal style and carries you to the guest bedroom. He carefully lays you down and places the blanket over you. He watches in awe as jambo cuddles beside you. When he knows you’re definitely asleep, he kisses your forehead. “I love you. Sleep tight, Toots,” he says, cleaning up the living room before going to his bed. Schlatt wishes you were laying beside him. He would hold you tight and never let you ever think you were incapable of being loved. He falls asleep, happy with the fact that you are asleep in his house and not with someone who doesn’t deserve you.

A/N: yay!! New fic!! Thank you to 🍓 anon, and everyone else who suggested this req!! Hope you enjoy the first part. Sorry I’m posting this in the middle of the night! Let me know what you know!!

[deusfoundry]

cedric's pov

cedric is a mess.

an adorable, achingly beautiful, somehow even more attractive mess. but still, a mess.

he approaches you, seated in one of the once meticulously arranged chairs now messily sprawled across the great hall, with two glasses of punch in hand. you take one of the cups from him with a whisper of gratitude, and all he does is smile at you in return.

your palms begin to take after the rest of your body, coated in a light sheen of sweat from all the dancing. the pattering of your heart picks up, like it so often does when cedric flashes that smile of his. but in here, under the warm and cool lights hung with magic on the ceiling merging together to cast its bright rays on cedric, on the high of his cheekbones that form shadows on the lower half of his face, further accentuating his features as if he doesn't already look like he's been sculpted at birth by aphrodite herself. on his eyes, a shade of blue so indescribable that you can't decide if it's more comparable to the skies on a warm summer afternoon, clear and free of clouds, or the seas, vast and endless and possessing the ability to swallow you whole.

in here, cedric looks positively ethereal, and it makes the quick and steady beating of your heart turn erratic. fluctuating between highs and lows, from a speed that turns your ears red to one that makes it so that all you can hear are loud, deliberate thuds.

it hurts, what he's done to you, without ever really doing anything. the wild mix of emotions he's sending through your veins in overwhelming waves from just standing there with a smile on his pretty face.

it hurts, so much that your hands shake from the violent need to pull him close by the collar of his wrinkled suit, splashes of spilled punch a stark contrast to the white cotton. to run your hands through his hair, card your fingers through those messy locks of his, the gel he'd use having completely worn off as the moon ascended to its peak. to kiss him, lay claim on his lips, steal his breath until all you know is him.

it hurts, because you know you can't act on these urges. you'd gone to the yule ball as friends, after all, nothing less, and certainly nothing more. he'd ask you almost immediately after mcgonagall had made the announcement to spare you from the the trouble of having to look for a date and him from the barrage of invitations he's bound to get from every other girl in hogwarts and beauxbatons.

he'd ask you because it was convenient, and what right did you have to hold him, kiss him, when you're just friends.

so you sit there, so awfully close that your limbs are practically glued, laughing at his jokes as you cradle the heart you've hopelessly handed to this boy with hair spun like threads of gold.

so. the kissing cedric stupid at the yule ball kinda took a turn for the worst ... also this is the most angst you'll get out of me chat i suck at writing pain

[brucebocchi]

Ranking 2024 anime, Pt. 3: #30-21

hey, this post is also available on my ko-fi, so please check it out and consider tipping/donating as i do this for free and am currently between jobs. you can find part 1 of the list here and part 2 here. thanks!

We're chugging along. I'd say we're finally getting to the good stuff, and there is plenty of good at this point in the countdown, but I also just really like complaining.

Let's get it.

30. KonoSuba: God’s Blessing on This Wonderful World!, season 3

I have a tendency to refer to the more brainless and/or trashy anime I watch as “junk food.” You know the kind; the ones that don’t really add anything to your life and don’t stand up to the more fulfilling series, but still get the job done when you go into autopilot. I’ve found that, as a habitual (non-metaphorical) snacker, I tend to just reach for something when I’m bored so I have something to do. And looking at it objectively, I don’t tend to enjoy myself while doing it and I usually don’t feel good afterwards.

I feel much the same way about watching KonoSuba.

Not that I think it’s ontologically evil or anything, but KonoSuba often has just as much going against it as it does working in its favor. For every joke that hits, and some of them absolutely do hit, there’s another that makes me question why I’m even watching it. I’m not against dark or even occasionally offensive humor; I adore It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, a show to which KonoSuba often draws comparisons. The issue is that, at its worst, KonoSuba defaults to either “this person is a pervert,” “this person is a pedophile,” or “this man got sexually assaulted.” My issue isn’t with the subject matter so much as the fact that they rarely rise above the level of base shock value and that they keep happening like that. It almost feels perfunctory, like the writers had quotas to meet.

It’s not all bad, though. Even having only gotten into KonoSuba in early 2023, I still found myself lamenting its hiatus, and An Explosion on This Magical World somehow only made the heart grow fonder for the party members that weren’t Megumin. I appreciate that Darkness plays a pivotal role in the third season, because Darkness is hilarious and terrific. This season had a couple of the best jokes and goofy facials in the series. 

Overall, it’s a bit of a wash, but I can’t be too upset. It’s more KonoSuba, and it’s reached the point where that’s practically a value-neutral statement.

29. Wistoria: Wand and Sword

I don’t really have much new to say about Wistoria. It’s not the best magic school anime I watched this year and certainly not the best fantasy, but it looks terrific and it’s a fun enough time if you turn your brain off.

And turning your brain off is a necessity here because Wistoria’s story is as basic as it gets. It’s more or less Mashle if it wasn’t a comedy, and it’s such a transparent, dirt-simple power fantasy that it might as well be an isekai. Guy’s trying to keep a promise to his childhood friend, he sucks at the one thing everyone else does to the point of getting bullied left and right, but he’s super crazy strong in a his own special way. Actually, shit, I just described Kaiju No. 8.

Rule of cool wins out here, and this show does look phenomenal, but it might be better enjoyed via YouTube clips. I’m curious to see where the story goes from here, but I’m not completely sold yet.

28. Chained Soldier

Chained Soldier is horny isekai trash. Chained Soldier fucking rocks. We got big monsters, wild action sequences, unique and memorable character designs, casual femdom, solid comic relief, interesting (if predictable) twists, uncensored boobs, it’s got it all! 

It’s not the best-looking show in some parts, but that’s forgivable. The production values were fine, all things considered, and the action sequences in particular were terrific throughout, but I’m really glad this series is changing studios for the second season. I’ve read ahead in the manga (don’t judge) and Passione is gonna do a bang-up job as the action and shameless fanservice both ramp up.

It’s early in the story and a teensy bit shaky, but Chained Soldier is already a fun time. I have reason to believe it’ll only get better as it goes. And not just because of the boobs.

27. Suicide Squad Isekai

You wanted an isekai starring the Suicide Squad, and by God did you get one. This is a perfectly serviceable series by Suicide Squad standards and a pretty middling isekai otherwise. Nothing about the world in which this series is set is all that interesting or groundbreaking, but you’re here for anime Harley Quinn (and a few other DC villains I guess), and this show delivers.

Fluid, expressive character animation (when the studio wants it), a terrific Japanese voice cast, and entertaining hijinks among Batman’s infamous rogues’ gallery combine for a plenty fun time that ultimately doesn’t have much staying power. If you liked the James Gunn movie, you’ll have a decent time here. No more, no less.

Between Uzumaki’s disastrous production, Lord of the Rings: War of the Rohirrim’s apparent mediocrity, and last year’s unwanted, execrable FLCL Grunge, I’m just glad that at least one recent anime production with Jason DeMarco’s fingerprints on it came out unscathed.

26. ‘Tis Time for “Torture,” Princess

I ended up watching so many discrete series during the winter season that it’s probably not a coincidence that my bottom four series on this ranking (and six of the bottom ten) all aired during that season. When you filter feed, you’re gonna take in a lot of garbage. Sometimes you need some stuff that’s “just fine” to clean the palate.

‘Tis Time for “Torture,” Princess is probably a bit better than even “just fine,” but it’s not gonna be a ready recommendation. The premise is pretty one-note on paper: Warrior princess got captured by demons, they try to coax intel out of her via temptation, she folds, the intel is worthless, and the cycle begins anew. But if a run of over 250 manga chapters and climbing is any indication, the series manages to keep it fresh. Time for “Torture” works because it isn’t beholden to its premise and instead decides to play hopscotch with its own framework. Gradually but noticeably, the unnamed princess and her inquisitors and “torturers” become friends, they all enjoy the spoils of her snitching together, and they really just keep it up because that’s how this stuff is supposed to go. 

Nine months later, I still don’t know why I liked this show so much. It’s just the right amount of silly to me, and it’s cute as hell where it counts. Not the best thing I watched this year but far from the worst. If you want something dumb and weirdly wholesome that’ll make you chuckle here and there, it’s a good pick.

25. Jellyfish Can’t Swim in the Night

This is one I’m still agonizing over a bit. Jellyfish Can’t Swim in the Night is a terrific show on so many levels, but I still felt let down by the end of its run. It wasn’t even in the same ballpark of disappointment as Uzumaki or Metallic Rouge, thankfully. Like Uzumaki, it couldn’t live up to the promise of its all-timer debut episode, but on the flip side, Jellyfish largely maintained its high production value. Like Metallic Rouge, it felt like the narrative largely spun its wheels until the writers realized they only had two episodes left, but Jellyfish didn’t leave me feeling like I’d just wasted four hours of my life.

This series already had massive shoes to fill if it was going to be the best showbiz anime produced by Doga Kobo airing this year (“I’d have two nickels” and so on and so forth), but Jellyfish Can’t Swim in the Night unfortunately ended up getting outclassed on several fronts by shows that just did almost every element better. It looks terrific, it has a memorable cast, the music’s great, and it’s a welcome entry in the “Girls Doing Things” anime canon, but it was outclassed in its own broadcast season by Train to the End of the World, Girls Band Cry, and Yuru Camp. The real shame is that it seemed to have designs on being a tremendous LGBT show if it played its cards right, and instead opted to throw those cards in the air and walk away by the end.

I’d still recommend this show if you temper your expectations of any real narrative punch. There were some tremendous original series that aired this year, but Jellyfish Can’t Swim in the Night just didn’t reach those higher levels. There’s a whole bunch of good in there, but they couldn’t quite piece it all together.

24. Mushoku Tensei: Jobless Reincarnation, season 2, part 2

I’m gonna be real here: I’m sick of writing about this show. It’s exceptionally well-made and, on balance, easily one of the best anime of the decade so far, but the subject matter can touch such controversial and uncomfortable territory at parts that I can’t recommend it to anyone. 

The back half of Mushoku Tensei’s second season actually did a lot of work towards making up for a lot of the less-tolerable moments in the preceding ¾ of the show, even delivering a couple of the spring season’s best episodes, and then it gets weird again near the end. Not nearly as bad as it gets in the first season, nor in the worst moments of this season’s first half from 2023, but still off-putting, even for people who stuck with it for this long. I expect this to continue.

Mushoku Tensei is a great show. Don’t watch Mushoku Tensei.

23. Undead Unluck, second cour

David Production’s adaptation of one of Weekly Shonen Jump’s most inventive and ambitious action series continued into the start of 2024 as the story just continued ramping up and getting wilder.

Undead Unluck had an interesting, if occasionally uncomfortable start, with a fascinating power system and tons of secrets left to be revealed, and as it continued you could start to see the camera slowly pulling back. Midway through its second cour, shit completely hits the fan and any expectations you may have had fly out the window. Undead Unluck’s debut season was an amusing curiosity for most of its run, but the status quo is upended so effectively midway through the second cour that I was completely hooked. There were some infuriating pacing issues at those exact moments that were enough for me to dock it several spots on this list, but it’s still absolutely worth watching.

I decided to read the Undead Unluck manga a couple months ago and for as wildly as I thought the anime ramped up its scope by the end of this run, it turns out that the series as a whole goes to even crazier lengths than that. I’m completely sold now and cannot wait for more.

22. Kaiju No. 8

Counter to the series I just talked about, Kaiju No. 8 is one of Shueisha’s least​​​​ innovative battle shonen series. And that’s okay! Nothing wrong with wanting to see people fight giant monsters and one who can turn into a giant monster himself, and maybe you don’t want to have to deal with Attack on Titan’s incoherent politics to get there.

There is fundamentally nothing special about Kaiju No. 8, but I do appreciate that the protagonist is an out-of-shape thirtysomething desperately clinging to his hopes and dreams. No particular reason. There’s some interesting worldbuilding early in the story, and although it does lend itself to protag Kafka’s strengths in battle (non-”turning into a monster” category), it all falls to the wayside when it’s time for monsters, guns, and explosions. And I’m fine with that stuff, but I was hoping for a bit more of a hook.

All in all, this is a very well-made show, if a little muddy-looking at times. I wouldn’t have chosen YUNGBLUD and OneRepublic for the opening and closing themes, but it didn’t hamper my enjoyment of the show. I just like complaining about that stuff. Looks good, sounds good most of the time, and endearingly dumb. Can’t go wrong with that.

21. Mashle: Magic and Muscles, season 2

I ranked this show’s first season pretty low on my 2023 list, but I was willing to stick it out for another season, and I’m glad I did. Mashle really finds its footing during the Divine Visionary exam arc and irons out a lot of the issues I’d had with the first season, primarily how little the comedy initially landed for me.

A series that initially had my eyes either rolling or glazing over quickly recovered my attention early in the second season. Creepy Nuts OPs are a cheat code, I swear. Even putting the killer music aside, Mashle looks a lot better as well and has a much more engaging story in its second season. You can really feel it gaining its footing and finding a bit of swagger as the season goes on. The fight sequences are much more engaging this time out, and sometimes you get all the satisfaction you need out of seeing an emotionless weirdo punch the shit out of a mean nerd. A bunch of the jokes even land this time around!

I’m glad I stuck this out. Mashle is, at the end of the day, a hilariously blatant Harry Potter send-up, and frankly has no good reason to hit like it does, but I’m finally sold. At the rate it’s been going, Mashle seems to be set to adapt the entire manga, and I’m looking forward to seeing all of it.

[citrusses]

trash tuesday thursday

thank you @garagepaperback for tagging me and no thank you for calling that masterpiece of emotion you dropped "trash." this is from an 8th year-ish drarry fic I have medium abandoned where the students don't stay at Hogwarts and have to do internships instead of just attending classes. And would you believe it harry and draco end up at the same internship! they're also living together for pining and sexual tension reasons. the below snippet references drinking, drug use, and harry sleeping with another person. i haven't written an ending for this fic but theoretically it's a happy one <3

Harry woke up sweating, his mouth stuffed with cotton, his throat sore, his eyes burning.

Celine was there, in his bed, her hair fanned out around her head like a halo. There were two parallel indents from Harry’s sheets cutting across her cheeks, and somehow the presence of imperfections on her beautiful face only made her seem more like something out of a museum. Beautiful. Pristine. Not to be touched.  

Harry, on the other hand, felt like a sack of shit left to spoil in the sun, and he didn’t smell much better. He needed to shower. He needed food. He needed water. 

It would be useless to try to cast Agumanenti in his current state. Whatever water he could conjure right now would probably taste as foul as Harry’s breath currently did. 

He debated going into his own bathroom, but ditched the idea because he was terrified of speaking to Celine if she woke up. Guiltily, he moved the duvet off of himself, and awkwardly rolled off the bed, placing his feet down as quietly as he could on the cool floor. He’d never been so grateful for Grimmauld’s incurable draughts. 

In his boxers, he crept down the stairs, trying to piece together the rest of his night. They’d Apparated back to his bedroom. He was lucky they hadn’t splinched their arms and legs all across London.

At least they’d had the sense not to rely on magic for protection and contraceptive charms. Harry’s brain felt pinched with the effort of trying to remember it. He was almost positive they’d done the charms. Like, ninety-eight percent sure. Ninety-five, at worst.

Harry liked Celine well enough, and God knows she was attractive. Objectively speaking, that is. Harry actually hadn’t felt all that attracted to her before last night, when the lights started spinning off Draco's hair and the drugs they had taken hit his bloodstream like bombs going off in his veins.

In the greasy light of a hungover dawn, this all was looking like a pretty horrible decision. They still had weeks left of the internship, and things between them at work were bound to be awkward now. Would she want a relationship? She hadn’t seemed that keen on Harry, either, in their prior (sober) interactions at work. 

He wished he’d had the sense to grab his glasses before sneaking out of the room. Vision blurry, he rounded the corner, and drew up short when he registered that someone was already in the kitchen. 

“Did you have a good night?” Draco asked waspishly. Despite the fact that he’d been matching Harry's pace the night before, not a hair on his head was out of place. He was wearing that fucking dressing gown, and a mug of tea was steaming on the butcher’s block like something from a domestic still life. His composure made Harry’s hangover feel immediately worse. 

“Er, yeah,” Harry answered, wishing Draco would move away from the sink. He wanted to put his entire head under it. 

“I looked for you, after I came back from the loo.” 

“Oh,” Harry said stupidly. “Well, actually, I ended up—” 

“I know exactly where you ended up, Potter,” Draco snapped. “The walls in this cursed house are as thin as paper.” 

Harry felt his face flush. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to, like, piss you off…” 

“Why on earth would I care what you do. Or who you do it with.” Draco didn’t even ask it like a question. His tone was flat enough to balance a marble on. 

“I never said you would,” Harry bit back, irritated. “Can you please let me get a glass of fucking water, and then we can continue whatever this is when I’m not about to actually die from thirst?” 

“What, you’re so hanging you can’t even cast?” Draco said meanly. "Impressive command of magic as always, Potter."  

“What’s crawled up your arse today, Malfoy?” 

“That,” Draco hissed, “isn’t any of your business, now is it?”

okay tagging @sweet-s0rr0w @thehoneybeet @getawayfox @rainstormradish @maesterchill @the-invisibility-bloke @wolfpants @skeptiquewrites @toomuchplor @lemonlimelea if you have trash or treasure to share!

[almmoon006]

You gently knocked on the office door, opening the dark door. It was quite cool inside, the cold winter wind was making its way into the room through the wide-open window. You clicked your tongue briefly, went to the window, and carefully closed it, making sure that not a drop of cold air could escape inside. No matter how much you wanted to light a fireplace right now, you knew perfectly well that the things in this room were subject exclusively to its owner.

Your lips curved into a slight smile.

Severus was sitting on a chair at his desk, head cocked to one side, and... asleep. His chest rose and fell steadily, and the fine wrinkles on his face twitched from time to time.

You went to a small closet in the corner of the room and took out a fluffy warm blanket, now carefully covering the man with it. Your fingers gently touched the wizard's face, removing especially long dark strands of hair from his face. Exposing your pale forehead, you leaned closer and placed a short kiss on his face.

***

Candles played softly with their yellow flames on the dark walls, drawing chaotic shadows. Your hands carefully placed various fruits and herbs into a small glass teapot. No matter how much you love magic, the good old Muggle habits remain the same. And food and drinks taste better when you make them with your own hands, with your soul and love, right? Soon, pieces of cinnamon and cloves were added to the sea buckthorn and orange slices, and you poured a generous portion of boiling water over the black tea, inhaling the intoxicating aroma with pleasure. A warming healthy drink, just what you need on a cold winter evening.

Suddenly, a pair of strong arms wrapped around your waist, gently pressing you to your broad chest. You immediately smiled, leaning back against the body of your beloved man, your consciousness was filled with your favorite smell of books, wormwood and light notes of smoke. His movements were gentle and sleepy, like a little kitten just waking up. My thumb traced simple patterns on your skin through the thin fabric.

"You saw me fall asleep, but you didn't wake me up," he said in a sleep-hoarse voice that sent shivers down your spine.

"Students can be exhausting, so I thought you could take a well-deserved weekend off.

Severus just grunted, burying his nose in your neck. “Thanks."

"You should stop relying only on warming charms, silly," you said with a slight smirk on your lips, turning around in a tight embrace.

You gently wrapped your arms around the man's neck and kissed his cheek. The muscles of his shoulders and back were still very tense after sleeping in an uncomfortable sitting position for a long time.

"Tea? Massage? Me?" You purred, running your fingers through your long dark hair and lightly scratching your sensitive skin. The man closed his eyes blissfully, letting out a long mumble.

“Yeah. I wouldn't mind. All of that. But first, tea. And I'm hungry.." in response to the last words, his stomach rumbled softly, causing a slight blush to appear on the man's pale cheeks.

"Of course. Chicken with vegetables," you winked and reluctantly left your beloved embrace, heading for the still hot oven.

[gosecretscribbles]

Stanuary 2025 Week 1: Mindscape

Summary: Stan is on the beach looking for clothes to steal when heatstroke sets in. He pops out of his body and into the Mindscape, where our favorite Dorito is hoping to make a deal.

AO3 link

Stanley was cold. 

He got up and walked.  Sand and candy wrappers crunched under his bare feet.  Shorebirds chased the waves back and forth.  Gulls chased the occasional flying chip wrapper.  It was really hot today.  Why was he cold again?

Whatever.  He was busy.  He was sick of hand-me-downs.  Pa only bought Ford new clothes.  Stan was sick of hand-me-downs.  By the time Stan got them, it was because Ford had almost outgrown them, which meant Stan only wore them for a week before they were too tight to really wear.  So he was going to find a few charitable tourists and borrow some semi-new stuff. 

Except there…weren’t any tourists.  That was weird, too.  And the gulls were gone.  And he was <em>cold.</em>  If it was so hot, why was he shivering?  Shivering sucked.  Stan got up and started walking.

Had…had he been lying down?

“Stupid sand,” he grumbled.  Must’ve tripped.  Ugh, he was cold.  He squinted.  Oh, duh, there were no tourists because he was headed the wrong way.  He could see the shadow of the Stan O’ War over by the cliffs.  They’d only been working on it a couple of months, but they’d stowed some basic running away supplies in there.  Water and chips and a couple towels.  He could use a towel.  He got up and started walking. 

The Stan O’ War was getting close now.  He felt a little better already, and a whole lot lighter.  He grinned.  <em>See?  Stan-the-Man’s still kickin’.  You know what, forget the beach.  I’ll go to the boardwalk and steal the clothes right off people’s backs!  Literally!</em>

“I’ll train a pet fly!” he said aloud.  “I’d make it go up people’s shirts and bug them until they took it off.  No wait, a pet wasp.  Wasps are cool.  I’ll tie some string around it like a leash and feed it…whatever wasps ate.  Apples?  Oh, I could use Shanklin!  No, wait, if I sic Shanklin on them, Shanklin he’d just tear up the clothes.  Okay, no Shanklin.” 

He was still working out his plan when he reached the boat.  He put one hand on the side of the boat and lifted his foot to step over the broken wood.

His hand went straight through the boat.

He fell forward with a sharp cry, expecting more pain as wood dug into his leg.  But he didn’t even hit the ground.  He looked down.  He was floating.  Apparently. 

“Huh.”  He waved his hand through the boat again.  Come to think of it, he hadn’t heard his own footsteps for the past…however long.  “Am I a ghost?  Oh man, Sixer’s gonna <em>love</em> this!”

“HEY THERE, KIDDO!”

Stan looked up.  Lounging against the mast was a bright yellow triangle.  It had one eye, little stick limbs and a top hat.  He snorted.  “A bow tie?  What are you, an insurance salesman?”

“HA!  YOU KNOW WHAT THEY SAY, KID!  DRESS FOR THE JOB YOU WANT, NOT THE JOB YOU HAVE!”  The triangle swooped down and circled Stan.  “YEESH.  YOU WANT TO BE A TRASH HEAP, KID?”

“Depends, what’ll you pay me for it?”

The triangle laughed and zipped away, coming to rest on the rail of the boat.  “YOU KNOW WHAT?  I LIKE YOU KID!  NAME’S BILL!  HOW’S ABOUT I HELP YOU GET SOME REAL DUDS, HUH?”

“Yeah?  You the magic money fairy?”

“EVEN BETTER, KID!”  The triangle multiplied itself in a ring around Stan.  All the triangle-guys tilted in slightly and their shapes turned into screens.  He saw recordings of himself, like he was watching his memories play out on TV.  The time he got Ford’s old jeans.  The time he patched up Ford’s old belt with tape.  The time Ford ripped a white T-shirt, so when Stan got it, he started rolling up his sleeves.  “I’VE BEEN WATCHING YOU, KID.  WHY STOP AT A WARDROBE UPDATE?  I CAN UPDATE YOUR WHOLE LIFE!  NEW HOUSE, NEW YOU, NEW FAMILY!  WHADDAYA SAY?”

“Nah.”  He turned and started doggy-paddling through the air.

The triangle was suddenly in front of him again, a little too fast.  His yellow edges seemed to snap with static.  “HEEEEY, BUDDY!  PAL!  WHAT’S THE RUSH?  I’M OFFERING THE SALE OF YOUR TEENY TINY EXISTANCE!”

“Con,” Stan said flatly. 

“WHAT –”

“<em>COOOOON,</em>” Stan said flatly, sounding bored.  He lounged back on thin air.  “Pretty bad one, too.  Is this from the moldy corn chips last night?”

Bill was definitely buzzing with static.  The yellow flashed briefly to red.  “CORNCHIP?  GUESS AGAIN, KID!  YOU’RE IN THE MINDSCAPE!  I’M AS REAL AS YOU ARE!”

Stan frowned.  “Mindscape?  I’m dreaming?”

“DREAMING, ASTRAL-PROJECTING, DYING, WHAT’S THE DIFFERENCE?  DO YOU REALLY WANT TO RUSH BACK TO A FLESH PUPPET THAT’S HOT, HUNGRY, AND TIRED?”

“Yep.  Bye.”  He swam through Bill. 

Bill turned bright red and got way, way bigger.  Bigger than a dump truck.  His eye turned black with a slitted white pupil. 

“<strong>BIG MISTAKE, KID –</strong>”

“Con.”

“<strong>I’VE BEEN WAITING A TRILLION YEARS – </strong>”

“Con.”

“<strong></em>STOP SAYING –</strong></em>”

“COOOOOON.”

It might’ve been scary, but Stan had already proved that they couldn’t touch each other when he ghosted through Bill.  He was pretty sure this was all real, though.  Mostly because he’d never ever dream up a bowtie and a top hat.  What was that even about?  Was the money fairy running for president or something?  At least grow a beard, Mr. Shiny Abe Lincoln!  Or get lasers.  Lasers were cool. 

If this was real, though, then he wasn’t sure what had happened to his body.  He didn’t really remember dying, so maybe he was just…part ghost?  He’d been walking around on the beach before, so his body was probably somewhere on the sand.  He wanted to go back to it.  But it actually was nice not to feel hungry or tired.  That, and the sun was starting to set.  Ford might’ve gone looking and found him.  And Stan really didn’t want to lead this thing back to his brother.  He wasn’t sure if being a ghost meant people could see them or not.  If they could, though, Ford would take one look at Bill and go all Obsessed Robo Nerd.  No thanks.

It took a few hours, but Stan eventually made Bill go away by singing “I know a song that gets on everybody’s nerves” over and over.  Bill started making weird screechy noises at him, which was absolutely <em>hilarious.</em>  But the sun was setting and he really needed to find his body before the gulls tried to eat him for smelling like corn chips.

Sure enough, he spotted his body slumped over a little way up the beach.  Looked like he’d collapsed face-down.  (Okay that was a little bit funny.)  The tide was coming in up to his shoulder.  Ford had found him, at least, and was dragging him out of – oh, wait, no, he was dragging Stan <em>into</em> the water.  A flock of seagulls surrounded them, periodically trying to dive-bomb Stan’s body.  Ford was trying to fend them off with a bent beach umbrella. 

“Back, ye beasts!” Ford shouted at them.  “BACK TO THE DUMPSTERS FROM WHENCE YOU CAME!”

…Alright, so Ford wasn’t completely trying to kill him.  Just drown him.  Apparently. 

Stan braced himself and dove back into his body.  He didn’t even have a full second to think, <em>It worked!</em> before gravity yanked him face-first into the next wave.  He flailed, coughing hard, and all of his limbs threatened to crush him under his own weight.  He thought he’d felt cold before.  He was practically freezing! 

“Stan!”  Ford grabbed Stan’s head and pulled him above the wave.  Which did not help.  Ford realized this and switched dropped him –

“OW!”

– and then grabbed Stan under the armpits, hauling him a little further up the beach.  The seagulls drew back, sullen disappointment in their beady little eyes. 

“Sixer,” Stan croaked. 

“Stanley!  You’re alive!”

“You – tried to – drown me!” he managed between coughs. 

“I’m trying to cool you down!  How long were you out here?  You’ve got really bad heatstroke, you’re burning up!”

Is that what this was?  Heatstroke felt like a bad fever, times a thousand.  His body hurt and he was so cold his teeth were chattering and he couldn’t even see and he felt so dizzy he was going to throw up. 

“Wanna go back t’ the mind thing,” Stan groaned, and then almost screamed when the next wave crashed over his legs and back.  It was so cold, why was it so cold and why did it hurt so much? 

“…making sense.  It’s okay!  We just – okay, we can’t go to a hospital, but I read about heatstroke!  You can’t sleep – no, that’s concussions.  But it’s fine, we’re cooling you off –”

“<em>Hurts</em>.”

“We have to, Stanley, you could die from heatstroke!” 

Ford’s face was really pale, actually, even in the orange light of the setting sun.  No wait, it was night.  Because it was all dark.

“It’s not dark, I just opened the umbrella.  Uh, you’re cooling off, you also need to drink a ton of water <em>not the seawater!</em>”  Ford yanked Stan’s chin up above the waves.  Stan tried to bite him.  He was thirsty!  “No!  It’s 3% salt, processing salt in your kidneys takes more water, you’ll actually dehydrate drinking it –”

Stan lost track of what Ford was saying.  His head was pounding and his vision was going all dark.  But Ford was making nerd noises, which must mean that everything was okay.  He closed his eyes.  This time, instead of a weird talking triangle, he saw black, and slipped down into a heavy sleep.

[kommandonuovidiavoli]

Side B: a new AU concept

So, me and @numbuhinfinitys were talking and she asked me "what happens to Reyna and DCFDTL's relationship in your time set?".

And it got me thinking: as the AU is, it would be impossible for Reyna and/or other OCs to exist, since there is a set story that needs to happen and characters have specific roles that leave next to nothing for them to happen outside said story.

So the answer would be "it doesn't exist because they will stay as kids and won't fall for anyone". BUT at the same time, I found myself wanting to interact with other people's OCs, and I want them to interact with mine too!

And that's where Side B comes in: Side B is basically the same AU as my normal one BUT people's OCs exist, interact with it and maybe might also change the outcome of certain events or just influence them! It's a way so I can create more stories and have people in it without me getting a headache because changes need to be made (LMAO).

Going back to Reyna: in Side B, she is like an 80s magical girl: a cool teenager idol that Penny loves a lot who can turn into a kid who lives with the DC and protects them from KND attacks! This is the base of her role, and things can be built and happen from here: Nigel might know her from GKND and also her childhood days and doesn't trust her because she lives in the Villa (and he has lived here too for a short time). He also might not know Reyna is also protecting the Children from Father himself! There are a lot of possibilities from here, maybe Sector V somehow doesn't remember her and is just chill. Maybe they might like her Teen Idol self.

Let's make two other little examples using @kandykatz 's blorbs: Carol is in love with the Interesting Twins; but from my AU we know they are decommissioned at this time. In Side B, they could still be commissioned because Carol managed to have them spared and they are happy together. Or, they are decommissioned and Carol still loves them and goes on a trip to win their hearts again. Or the pain was just too much and she got decommissioned as well to forget about them but somehow they meet again. There are a lot of possibilities for this!

Same for Aiden: in my AU Patton is an evil guy; Aiden could be evil too, or he could be a TND operative in a secret relationship with Patton, or they broke up and now there's bad blood between them. Aiden might convince Patton to go back to being good. OR, he never became a villain because of Aiden!

Of course, it's up to anyone to decide how their OC are, as long as they are mindful of my world! My DMs are open if you wanna plot a specific event!

Side B will go together with my normal AU, but posts tagged with "Side B" specifically mean that they are events that completely change or differ something inside the story!

Side B is what my story would be if other people where in.

If you made a post with our characters interacting, you already are inside Side B!

I'm excited to see what else my AU could be!!! Thanks to anyone who will join!

[sora-fish]

Destineds ears went down as he frowned, shrugging a bit “I- I don’t know? I mean that’s what Noir told me, and I know he wouldn’t lie about something like that. He said he would be fine if he just stayed in the real world- I don’t know. We’re trying to figure out a way to make sure he doesn’t but it’s still a big problem..” Destined sighed and buried his face in rabbits shoulder- it wasn’t something he liked thinking about, but it was hard not too. Especially when Noir attempts to explain his world just to end up coughing up blood- it was scary! But- he should be ok. His face wasn’t moved from Rabbits shoulder, but at the same time, it got a little better, just finding comfort in the other instead of being sad about whatever situation he found himself in. “It sounds like he’s at least magical! And yea! He is!! And- oh!! That’s- cool?” Destined looked in slight concern- that was not what he would be expecting but really that’s ok, just another different. Though he didn’t really know his dad all too well so any worry was surface level- he just hoped the same was for Rabbits Vyncent.. even then he couldn’t get out any more then that because he just found himself resorting to those back and forth noises, natural for Destined to fall into, almost missing the comments afterwards but just blinking and focusing up again. “I’m glad!! This is the first time I’ve been here, crisis was just in my living room!! And my William- Noir- has been! He met Crisis and 15 but I’ve never heard him mention an apartment so we might need to find another way too sneak in”

Slides into your ask box, Hi sketch!!!

I wanna slowly hand you Isekai!Vyncent (still need a specific name for all these people 😭) to Rabbit Dakota cause Isekai Vynce is especially creature coded and I think it would be fun if we put them in a box…. YIPPE

HIIIII WELCOME TO THE RP CHAOS HEHEHE

Loooovvveeee putting Rabbit in a box, my favorite past time <3. And creature coded characters my beloved… U want feral Rabbit or regular Rabbit :D? (Feral Rabbit: SOOO jumpy and skittish and stuck in his instincts)

[necrotic-nephilim]

what's fun about shipping Tim with Dick, Jason, or Damian is he has, at some point, hallucinated all of them to comfort himself. even when he doesn't like them or particularly get along with them, he has to imagine/hallucinate them just so he has the power to go on. Tim's concepts of the Robin mantle and what it should be is so fun, because he respects the others through the Robin mantle. Tim worships Dick because he was the first Robin. he wouldn't be Robin if Jason hadn't died in the mantle. and a lot of his frustration with Damian is he feels Damian isn't honoring the mantle correctly. when you ship Tim with the other Robins you can't divorce their identities as Robin from it because Tim will always see them as a Robin first and that's so fun and fucked up. like.

batman (1940) #456

Tim perceiving Dick as *Robin* cheering him on, not Nightwing, which is the version of Dick that Tim actually knows? that's just. wild of him. he will always view Dick as Robin first, his personal hero but also the original of the legacy. his love for Dick is shaped by that.

and then of course, even when he's hallucinating/imagining Jason cheering him on, it's *still* through the lense of being reminded how Jason failed? subconsciously believing that Jason got himself killed because of his actions, and that being a lesson for Tim to learn from? Jason isn't a person to Tim, he's a moral lesson about how to be Robin. any potential idolization he could have of Jason isn't because he loves Jason, it's because of the lessons Jason's death taught him.

and then, even though him hallucinating TIm is from the New-52, which makes characterization all kinds of questionable, i do think it makes sense for TIm to hallucinate/imagine Damian after Damian's death in an attempt to cope with it.

teen titans (2011) #18

to an extend, he sees Damian's death as in part his own fault. and even hating Damian, Tim needs the comfort from this to cope with Damian being gone. he's angry that Damian even was Robin, and has to learn something from Damian's death and how it impacts the Robin mantle, and teenage heroes as a whole. like, Tim can pretend he hates Damian all he wants, even getting taunted by the image of Damian, but there's still an underlying love to their relationship.

i think that's just the fun of shipping Tim with any of them. you will never divorce Tim's views of them from the Robin mantle and how fucking Unwell he is about anyone else who's been Robin before or after him, to the point he has to hallucinate them comforting him when he's at his lowest. it's always going to be a little unhealthy, a little toxic, and driven by Tim's relationship with being Robin as well. i need more Tim being weird about Robin in these ships.

[sealbee101]

the s actually stands for serving

close up!!! vv

[cupophrogs]

First Mission

@clownsuu @thelone-copper

[gammija]

i don't like this tweet I've seen going around because it's precisely the other way around

sound is waves in the air, an analog signal, and vinyl records have a groove of varying widths engraved in them, another wave - you went from a wave to a wave, this makes sense

digital though? how did you take an entire songs worth of sounds and lyrics and instruments and express them only in the binary language ones and zeros - and -back again- with essentially a lot of really tiny wiring and resistors and capacitors and whatnot. and out comes music

the only reason the vinyl seems more mysterious than the digital is because you're so used to computers that their wondrous magic feels ordinary