#and outright destructive at worst

[sunnymoon-sunshine]

KICKS IN THE DOOR

Okay, so what if Bluestar’s prophecy was outright and blatantly wrong? What if it was a complete misreading of the sign?

Take Goosefeather’s Curse out of the equation. Bluepaw’s strange encounter with the fox and the fire could probably have been interpreted in many different ways.

She was separated by a predator’s jaws - she was SAVED - by a burning branch. What if her prophecy always meant that she would be saved from danger by fire, instead?

Bluestar was never meant to be fire. She was the ferocious mother of ThunderClan, its leader and queen. But ever since she was but an apprentice, StarClan had always known that fire would save her - and her beloved clan - from a danger that lurked in their very forest. Fire would save her. Fire would save everyone.

Perhaps, maybe, Goosefeather just couldn’t interpret it correctly because he hadn’t had the pieces to.

[orcelito]

I'm tired of the mood swings man like wtf is my problem

[leonawriter]

Thinking (again? Has anyone done this?) of Joker saying Akechi's name during Fear status and literally everyone assumes it's because he's flashing back to the interrogation and his near death experience.

Those present try to push Akechi away from him, when the affects seem to linger, and Akechi himself at first assumes this is the case as well.

They assume that the way Joker is looking around frantically is because he's still sure Akechi is "after him."

Except when Crow loses patience and slaps him out of it with a clawed hand and everyone (aside from Sumire) expects the worst, Joker doesn't freak out and run.

No, he relaxes and instantly, sheepishly, starts to calm down.

Akechi brings it up again when he self-destructively tries to push Akira away by reminding him of it, saying "a part of you is still scared of me, don't deny it-" only for that to make Akira laugh, angry.

He isn't scared OF Akechi. He isn't saying he never had been - it was terrifying, potentially facing death while powerless. But no.

When he's hit by Fear, the worst thing it dredges up is how he felt after Futaba said she couldn't find his signal, that he'd just heard Akechi die behind a barrier he couldn't get past.

It's the worst possible thing for Akechi to hear. It scares him, that trying to push Akira away won't work, that Maruki has his life as such a high value bargaining chip in Joker's eyes and Joker doesn't even know it, and it scares him in general that someone might actually care about him so much.

It means that Akechi outright knows that on 2/2 he's forcing Akira to create another new worst memory of losing him again.

And when he wakes up alive, it adds even more pressure to the idea of letting Akira know he's fine - because if he admits it, then he has to face the ordeal of being loved so much, so powerfully.

[bimboficationblues]

of course anticiv anarchists don’t care about appealing to “the masses.” obviously they don’t care about trying to persuade people of the rightness of anticiv thought in order to form a mass movement. broadly speaking they are nihilists that think the advance of climate disaster &c. is exceedingly *unlikely* to be undone or prevented from getting radically worse, and that the forms of alienation in place due to the convergence of different social technologies (“civ”) make existing political forms, including revolutionary ones, ineffectual time-wasting cope at best and outright destructive and exploitative to the people involved at worst. while a lot of the specifics are fringe, this kind of cynicism about the potential of mass politics is not actually an atypical mode of belief!

so many people aggressively harassing the few anticiv anarchists still on here are projecting their own values of mass politics onto them, and it makes for extremely bad arguments.

[yan-randomfandom]

Theraprism!Bill Cipher & GoLB!Reader

[DRABBLE] had a chat w my friend abt Golb from Adventure Time, and with the stronger-than-bill godly reader fics here rn, i got this idea! although this isn't romance, just pure mockery between cosmic beings

∆

You smiled. His bulging eye narrowed in return.

"Oh, Billy, you never fail to look just like your parents when you're at your worst."

He grew drastically larger in size, overwhelmed with rage and hatred, but the white room only limits him from becoming his full potential. The red color that dominated his body overpowered any other light, and Bill Cipher truly, desperately hated that fact.

As an embodiment of chaos and destruction, you oversee every detail, even the smallest speck, within your domain. Though, who's to say that everything already isn't within you?

And, of course... This guy?

"When they said I had a special guest today, I didn't expect it to be you, GOLB," he seethed, jabbing a finger at the glass separating you two. The action didn't really mean much when his enormous, glowing eye was taking the entirety of your vision.

"So, what? You came here to mock me? Aren't you supposed to be out destroying universes or something?"

Your smile widened. "Who said I wasn't?"

Bill paused, falling silent as he shrank back to his original size. His red hue turned yellow. Shame. He looked best when he was his father's color.

...

"Well, shucks," he scoffed, leaning back in his chair. "I suppose I should feel honored you’re here. Never realized I’d caught your attention, you freak."

"Always have. Especially after that little fiasco back on earth," you mused, a chuckle escaping your mouth. "I just came by to see how you're doing. You don't look so hot, Bill Cipher."

"Ugh, what, are you about to lecture me on how a human beat me?" he sneered as he crossed his arms. "Because I promise you he didn't—"

"Humans... are peculiar," you interrupted his rant early. Apparently, he didn't appreciate that and glared at you. "They have something we otherworldly beings don't. You know, if I had the choice, I'd choose to be human."

Bill sighed rather dramatically. "All those sappy feelings and weak bodies? You should be glad we don't have that. It's stupid, just dumb!"

To his surprise, you stood up. Well, being an entity like yourself, your time is strict. He's lucky enough he got to talk to you.

"Of course you would say that," you chided, meeting his gaze. The glowing crack on his body intensified in response. "And, yet, the Pines family defeated you using only their bond."

He doesn't reply.

"...I'm just saying that I miss Earth, my home. If I had known you actually had any chance of succeeding, I would have destroyed you already."

...

"Anyway, good talk. It was a pleasure to meet you," you remarked, bowing your head.

Bill quietly stared at your leaving human form. You are the ultimate disrespect Bill has ever encountered in his lifetime.

Right next to Stanley Pines.

∆

BONUS:

The axolotl blinked at you. "Being kinder to Bill was an option. We're trying to better him, after all."

You shrugged. "Look, Gills, I don't know the future, but what I do know is that I haven't met a being like him in a long, long time."

Bill Cipher is a stupid pest who got his powers from his own mistakes. Now, he chases over nothing.

if u dunno em, this is OG golb from adventure time! erm golb looking like a baby but feel free to change how u look like lol, we have imagination!!

just gonna outright say it,,, GOLB!reader used to be human! Just like Golbetty!!!

DEAREST WRITERS, IF YOU LIKE THE IDEA OF GOLB!READER, FEEL FREE TO MAKE YOUR OWN VERSION TOO!!! GIVE US FOOD PLS PLS AND TAG ME 👉👈

[mostbored69]

Through Ashes, New Light (Kinich x Reader)

The war against the abyss seemed to have affected every miniscule part of life and land in Natlan. Huge patches of greenery were burned to a crisp by Pyro vision holders fending off the monsters, houses and infrastructure affected by their flames as well, fighting tooth and nail for the survival of innocent bystanders and other warriors alike. The water of the Toyac Springs, after the initial impact, has yet to return to its normal vibrancy of blue, and the remnants of abyssal corrosion is very much still evident even with the help of the Meztli tribe’s manipulation and constant care of the water. Broken Geo structures littered the paths connecting each tribe. Thrown around in defense, perhaps, or simultaneously shattered with whoever’s spine was thrown against the hard rock. The war continued in the scenery. Every corner, inside and out, reeking of death.

Despite the power of elements obvious in each destruction, you only ever saw green. Dendro, vines, foliage, flashing before your eyes until you had stood in a healthily blooming forest surrounded by the screams forever burned into your memory. Your heart had never beaten anywhere this fast before. Like about to give out, or run away, without the rest of your body able to follow suit. Trapped, by the vines. It was all there had been, until nothing remained but a cold breeze where before your family stood.

You’d heard of Kinich before, very few people hadn’t. The Malipo, the hunter, and even fewer people had ever interacted with him personally - you included. It had come as a shock when the debris slowly settled and the vines retracted their grip, a while longer until you had the courage to open your eyes again, to be met with his heaving and bloodied frame. Sweat fell from his forehead, accumulated seemingly before he’d gotten here in the first place. His presence and state was proof enough of an appalling catastrophe developing throughout the nation in the most brutal manner, so seeing him alone drained you of hope faster than the cries of your tribe. People were still dying, right beyond the horizon. It did not end with your family.

Kinich had slowly turned his head towards you, breathing still heavy while the look in his eyes was utterly indecipherable. You wondered now, as you stared at your reflection in the water, if he had been equally puzzled by your expression: if it was just as empty and dazed, and what exactly either of you had witnessed already in this bloodshed. The void clearly present laid your hearts on your sleeves. It did not have to be said out loud, exhibited in any way for you both to understand the cloud of tragedy hovering over this land.

That day, you hadn’t spoken a word to each other. He had left quickly for everything else demanding his attention, the list must've been infinitely long, so the second you had found yourself alone again, the true realization of danger and loss began to sneak up your spinal cord with no care for the wound on your leg. Limping away still meant getting away, as far as possible from the continuing screams, the blood-soaked grass and the rubble of what was once your home. Had he blinded your sight for this reason? The worst thing was somehow gone: the bodies.

After encountering a group of survivors, your body couldn’t take much more in the false safety. The second your shoulders relaxed as you sat down, with someone tending to your leg and your eyes closing automatically, was enough to pass out despite the still lingering danger. Talking to them again days later when the rain had washed away most remnants of blood, you came to understand how they, too, had no hope of getting away. They had huddled together inside a decrepitated hut until… well, you’re not quite sure. Asking around produced contradicting or outright implausible answers, which naturally wasn’t a surprise considering the chaos all around. You had no reason to dig further. All that mattered was gone, and an explanation couldn’t satiate your doom.

Every tribe had since been working hard to rebuild what was lost, but they considered the people most affected by this war to be better off using the time to heal however much was possible. It’s still unclear whether this was a blessing or a curse, since not being distracted by the truckload of work meant sitting alone with memories and the purple water. It reflected your face like a mirror. Many people sat here day in and day out, and none of them would ever make a single sound. You recognized some faces from time to time: a mother without her child you’d seen crying in town, a man who’d walk home with a handful of wildflowers once a month, sometimes twice, for his wife, now not batting an eye at the succulent next to him. Everyone knew the lineup, though no one had the guts to speak. At least without a tone they’d use for a wounded animal.

Movement caught your eyes from across the water, solely a quick glance, a quick flash of color, made your skin crawl. For a couple seconds, your sight is replaced by a grayed memory of Kinich, who struggled to catch his breath and whose tight fingers around his weapon were stained at the tips. The picture faded in and out of focus until both the memory of him and the physical him turned their heads towards you in that blank expression, saying everything and nothing at the same time. You wondered what Huitztlan’s equivalent of sitting by the water was, whether or not he indulged. Whether no one dared to speak to him, either.

You’re first to look away. Back down at the water, there was no reason to hold eye contact. You had wanted to thank him many times, ask him of any details he remembered and if he was willing to share them, though you realized how much you’d hate to be asked that yourself. It seemed like a slap in the face were you to talk of anything other than the victory, and it’s evident he did his share of hard work for it. Even now at your tribe, not at home to bask in the dark under the sun.

Come to think of it, Kinich was really here despite that expression, similar to the husband and the mother and you. Was he indeed so strong to keep going just like that? You’d not heard much news of who exactly the other tribes have lost, though the total was high enough to doubt someone wasn’t impacted in any way. Especially him who traveled across the nation, a witness to the full extent of destruction during the havoc. He’d seen first-hand all the deaths you were now mourning as a people, and still he found the strength to come back in a feat that was unfathomable to you. Perhaps gratitude was appropriate, and he should at least know that much.

Your head shot up, fully expecting to find him waiting in the distance, but truly you had no idea how long you’d been in your thoughts for. He was gone already, and the sky had darkened with rain clouds. Instinctively, your shoulders slumped back down in disappointment, immediately relenting to the passed opportunity until you had enough of the plethora of horrible feelings that had been eating away at you. That much time couldn’t have passed, if you’re fast enough now. So, getting onto your feet swiftly, the chase after Kinich began.

While your legs carried you over the bridge as fast as possible, past the workers and the clerks who were barely evaded, all you could think about was what to say exactly. Thanking him for saving your life in a way it didn’t stress you both out any further seemed to be an impossible task, from words to pick and tone to choose to where to put your hands, there was no time to read up on etiquette as the clouds grew thicker and the path grew slimmer. Finally, up in the distance, there he was. Steady pace, you’d reach him soon, but the words chosen were not perfect yet.

He turned around once he heard you approach. Out of breath, winded, you clutched at your chest as you caught each other’s eyes, for the first time with emotion. Confusion against determination, it said less of your feelings than the blank stares you were used to, while a stone fell from your heart the second you spoke to him for the very first time. “Thank you, Kinich. Thank you so much.”

The rain began falling, first slowly but soon picking up in intensity. The surviving greenery around the path knew to cherish this blessing as nature stilled within the sound of heavier and heavier rain. The oddest thing, however, was that he, too, stilled. Unbearingly so: your fingers fidgeted nervously when silence is all you’re met with. At least his confusion subsided to be replaced with a calmer expression, but you wondered if it could’ve stemmed from the simple realization it was no monster who had run up on him. There went not wanting to stress him out further. Running at him crazed was possibly worse than a slap in the face.

“I’m sorry,” you said, though the sound did not even reach your own ears due to the rain. He titled his head, unclear whether he hadn’t understood you or why you would apologize, and when he turned from the path to slowly trott over to the mountain side, all left for you to do was follow him bewildered from a distance.

Natlan’s terrain presented many hideouts for the rain - in some cases, for danger - within the rock of its mountains. You’d heard stories of traveling merchants stuck in caves until a storm had passed, some trapped until a group of predators decided on a different hunting ground, or simply to cool down after long stretches. It was enclosed enough to feel safe, but remained a good view of the circumstances outside. The rain at the cave entrance flowed like white curtains in the wind. Like snowed in, a particular sense of privacy built itself up when you watched him sit down on the ground, both drenched by this point, without sparing you another look for reassurance, whether you were supposed to follow him in here in the first place.

There were no suitable words left in your arsenal to even spark small-talk, so for the first couple minutes he was plagued by a looming silhouette, standing somewhat awkwardly in the only source of light. Your plan to do this dignifiedly had failed from the very start, although luckily that fact was not apparent to you. It was the first interaction you’ve had in a while. Doing so to begin with was enough to convince of adequacy.

“The rain’s quite heavy, and shouldn't last too long. It’s safer to wait it out than go back.” While it was pouring buckets outside, the echo of his voice in the cave still made him audible enough for you to look up, sounding like a memory rather than the present. Unsure if it needed an answer, you remained silent for a while. “...You ran here. I don’t think that’s smart.”

The statement confused you more than anything, but it soon cleared up when his eyes wandered to your leg and approximated the area where the wound had been: given how it’s now smooth, he held his tongue. Water was a great, natural healer, and the experts in the tribe made quick work of any such trivial injuries once the chaos died down. It was never a reason to worry, and definitely not the cause for your pale complexion that day.

With a sheepish smile still feeling foreign on your lips, you answered him: “It’s taken care of, no fear. Thanks for your concern, but you saved me from any other wounds.” Regarding you for so long it rather pressured you to sit down as well, he eventually looked off to the side and offered some much needed breathing room. The rain’s white noise filled your ears like a daze, mixed together with the dreamy sound of your voices echoing off the hole in the mountain created a serene canvas. Almost scary, living in a memory.

“What’s your name?”

“Y/n.”

“You lived far from the tribe, there weren’t as many monsters and even less people. It wasn’t a hotspot at all, so there was not much for me to do. Should you regard me as some savior I’d advise you not to. There’s little glory in war-”

“They still died, you know? There was not much for you to do but it was enough to kill them - kill me as well, had you not shown up. Please don’t speak in that manner.”

He turned to look at you slightly surprised. Perhaps the first time someone didn’t watch their tone carefully when speaking to him after the tragedy, they’d usually smother people with either admiration or worry once they noticed that empty look, warriors and victims alike, as if it hadn’t come from the same, underlying causes. Both seemed to be the wrong reaction, however, for both reminded of death.

A considerably long pause began to drag before he finally spoke up. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure what you’d like to hear from me, so I went with my perspective.” You tried to force another smile while you leaned back against the cold rock, the drenched fabric of your shirt clinging onto the wall. This time, the smile was a bit easier to bear.

“You’re Malipo, I understand. There isn’t any particular thing I want to hear from you, not anymore at least.” The sight of the rain was captivating enough to steal your scattered attention, being given another small, though needed break in conversation. No longer used to holding one for so long, it took more energy than ever just thinking of words that fit whatever you tried to convey despite there not being much left on the tip of your tongue. It felt somewhat desolate again, in this memory.

“You weren’t supposed to go anywhere. The area was clear, there was no one to tell you where to evacuate, and after all, your leg was wounded. I don’t leave the wounded behind just like that, but when I came back, you had already run off - I hoped you had, but there was only blood. Later, at the stadium, there was no sight of you.”

“...I don’t remember much of it, if I may be honest, although it seems I give you quite the scare. Excuse me.” With much less devoid pupils, the difficulty of understanding one another spiked the more, especially when, after careful consideration, you locked eyes. “In fact, I’d like to forget about it for now.”

The quiet persisted long after the rain stopped. You weren’t sure who left first, from the dazy scene back out into the open, but the sun had already begun setting when someone stirred. Relenting, like the quick shower.

From a tranquil sort of view, the seasons seemed to change overnight. Leafs fell in the softest breeze, and the water lulling in the distance drew autumn in a soothing light. The weather had been working for every tribe’s benefit, not too cool and not too hot, since after all the work was done, it offered an opportunity to enjoy the newly rebuilt infrastructure and bask in the water that had returned to normalcy. The world appeared ready to let go, with news spreading that this upcoming spring should blossom beyond any records for a grim reason somebody’s yet to admit, but they tried their hardest to force the earth back in its usual rotation, ecstatic for ordinary days to return. You were uncomfortable, more and more. They looked too ready and too sure.

One good thing about so much rebuilding having been done was the fact these streets and houses were often vastly different from before. Old and jagged wood had been replaced, stained and sun-bleached tapestries made anew - while the patterns and general shapes stayed the same, the tribes must’ve looked the way they did in the time of the first heroes. So untainted, though now it was a simple illusion. However, the new view made you able to return and live, without horrible daydreams, in your old home. The unfamiliar house had never been so quiet.

A saving grace in terms of somehow integrating back into society was bestowed by an older shopkeeper who had lost the only employee under his wing: his own son. As tragedy often did, the tribe fit back together like a mismatched puzzle. You looked at each other and saw the dead, but no matter how bizarre, it was the only thing remaining to keep some going and fighting against the pressure deep in their stomachs, that, indeed after a closer look at their reluctance to smile as brightly as before, was still present. A zeitgeist ingrained in the whole generation.

Working with the shopkeeper had its advantage far beyond a sense of family. The man was older, his body not cut out anymore to be marching off for goods or lifting them in the first place. Though lovable, even communication was past his time, so it left only you for the task. Each assignment felt like a vacation away from personal tragedy, and correspondence with the Scions of the Canopy offered the rare chance of stumbling upon Kinich every once in a while, both at his tribe and at yours. They said he’d been busy these days, whenever you asked for his whereabouts. You smiled and nodded, smiled and nodded, since a truthful reaction was not appropriate considering you could barely call him a friend.

It had been weeks since you saw him last. The nagging feeling you’d get every time a courier came without having required his help, or walking back after delivering some goods and being let down when there was no glimpse of him, accumulated throughout weeks to the point even starting a new day felt too much of a hassle. Something made your heart throb whenever he’d stop by and politely keep a conversation with the old shopkeeper. You’d stand off to the side, exchanging some words of courtesy and maybe, if you were lucky enough, your eyes would meet and you could give him your best attempt at a smile. Each time it became more genuine. You had hoped he noticed the change, like a child showing off their drawing.

The skill to smile slowly regressed as you made your way back to the People of the Springs, carrying the hefty bag filled with Yumkasaur fur and Koholasaur scales (ethically sourced, as the old man would say). Kinich was still nowhere to be found today, and on top of that the delivery was misscheduled. The merchants for this order weren’t even at the Scions of the Canopy to pick up their stuff, which meant you had to carry it all back due to - not pointing fingers - a particular someone’s bad ears and/or memory.

When you at last returned to his storefront, the sweet old man was sitting with an apologetic smile and a cold cup of soda awaiting you personally. No possible way you could be mad, not after what you’ve done for each other, though the exhaustion and persisting annoyance had you drop the backpack and grab the cup, bowing down to him briefly before turning on your heel and heading back from where you came. Tomorrow it would be all forgotten, but today you were off work. He’d go back home soon as well, the sun slowly setting left no other choice but to call it a day.

Home… or house, although further from the tribe, was no struggle to get back to after having done a thorough job warming up your legs already. The view on the way was as scenic as it got for now, birds chirping, water flowing, no stairs to climb even inside. Before it fell into itself your parents’ home had two floors indeed, whilst during the Great Renovation you had practically begged everyone helping to keep it a small bungalow, a bunker against the empty space that would have otherwise haunted you into insanity, which turned out to be the right thing to do when they had refused your help over and over for the sake of ‘healing’. A bedroom, maybe, and a bathroom, and a kitchen, please. They had made those weirdly spacious, feeling pity.

The goats your family kept used to mow the lawn for free, ethically sourced labor, to quote, though not so much on your part. They required a crazy amount of work and care, things you had barely left for yourself by the end of the day, so the hard decision to give them away into better hands had soon fallen with teary eyes and a snotty nose. It was for the better, you still told yourself, for they were loved and brushed and fed after surviving such disaster, and the lawn was overgrown with wildflowers that popped in color year-round in a strange and ironic tradeoff. You’d never seen him as someone who would keep goats, the husband. Sometimes you braided the grass in between the flowers leading up to the door, perhaps it made her happy, leading up to the one step of the entire house, before the entrance. Occupied now, by Kinich.

His attention was fixed on the dewy grass - the braid had loosened over time - as the sun illuminated tiny water drops on each blade. The light hit his face now almost at eye level, and what a sight that was for sure. You had tried your best to extend every conversation with him, whether about the sweet tea the old man made on especially hot days or a group of saurians behaving strangely near the tribe’s borders, while some of these were even held when you could catch him in private, although since the night of the war, there had yet to be a moment you two were truly alone. Until now at sunset, back where it had begun. With no way to have prepared for this and no manual to follow, the only option was to improvise.

You had spotted Kinich somewhat late, and not expecting him whatsoever made your approach no surprise. Fairly sure he heard the ever-so-soft footsteps in the grass, since sticks and dead leafs betrayed any newcomer to even mild attention for the surroundings, similar to how the deer sounded in the morning whenever you left your window open. He didn’t look up, however, not until you stood before him.

Another inanimate expression that could’ve taken you hours to analyze was met by your confused gaze and tilted head, but, like him, no words. There was no real reason to lock the front door - any potential abyss monster in this area would’ve been strong enough to rip it off its hinges, and anyone picking the lock was an idiot for picking the house with the least appeal -, so you trotted inside after a couple moments.

“You can come in, Kinich, it’ll be dark soon. All the bugs crawl towards the light.” With that, you turned on the lamp in the kitchen, already brighter than the remainder of sunlight and backlit his sitting frame through the open door. He did eventually listen and grabbed a seat by the table, awkward in unfamiliar terrain. Some color returned to his face as you put your belongings on the counter and faced him, shoulders forcefully relaxed and trying out another form of a smile. Drained from the whole day made it a challenging task.

“I haven’t been around for a while and there’s still a lot of work to do, but today I finished a mission and had some freetime.” You could only nod to this. Not on close enough terms where you could expect an explanation for his whereabouts or even reveal what kind of frustration it caused, anything else felt wrong. He leaned back into the chair a bit, keeping his eyes on you. Only after making sure he truly was not getting another response did he continue, but the pause alone was enough to make your fingers fidget. “People said you’ve been asking for me. Is something the matter?”

Even trying your best to keep your tone as casual as possible, it appeared to not have been enough to fly under the radar, and looking back it should’ve been obvious by the way you scanned through the crowds before giving up and asking outright, although for some reason you hadn’t considered the possibility of him finding out and acting on it. In truth, there was no real reason for your curiosity. It wasn’t worry per se. He was a grown man with a huge sword and a vision, but it wasn’t for loneliness either. The sight of him here, in and of itself, was easing to the heart no matter how bashful the confrontation, and before you could begin to stammer over an explanation, he slowly rose from his seat. “Y-yes, I did ask, but nothing’s the matter. You didn’t have to come all the way here or wait for me. I’m sorry.”

Walking into the light calmly, it shone on him from above and drew a soft shadow across his features. He gave a gentle smile that took you by surprise, and you wondered if it was as rare of a sight as you thought it to be. Who had been lucky enough to see?

“Why did you ask for me, then? I’m back on my normal schedule and have time to spare, if there’s anything you need me for, please don’t he-”

“No, no, you’ve done enough for me,” you interrupted, waving your hands in front of your chest and shaking your head. It was more than just the truth, Kinich really had done all he could and the longing for a glimpse of him was not something you were entitled to, but here you stood in front of him, about ready to explode. A soft sigh left your parted lips. With confusing feelings, your shoulders slumped. “I… I think I just missed you. There’s not much to my day but you’re always a great addition, I looked forward to whenever we met. If it comes off as strange, please know it’s not my intention.”

Saying these things out loud made your skin crawl, it didn’t matter if they were the truth or not. All those days were still spent on keeping an eye out for him, if not in your tribes then on the paths between them, and the nights continued in the absence and disappointment that made your body roll into itself on the bed, under the covers, so maybe you did miss him. It only made sense. According to the look on his face, he wasn’t yet convinced either.

Your breathing turned shallow when he stepped a little closer, causing dizziness with every second devoid of a reaction to the point your cheeks slowly reddened and your eye contact began to waver. Even knowing who he was, the presence of a man without anyone else around felt partially imposing and intimidating, more so because you had no real experience. Now struggling to improvise, the ball was in his court.

“You missed me… yes?” He used a tender tone, though it did not help with your burning face and sweaty palms. A hesitant nod was all he got and tilted his head - perhaps he wasn’t all that scary -, causing a strand of hair to fall into his face. Handsome, too, it was a fact you hadn’t really sat down to unpack just yet, but having it now thrown back at you held the potential to make your knees buckle and voice quiver were you to try and speak. Trying to push that thought aside, you had to manually focus on his next words. “So… what can I do? You still called for me, Y/n, is it just to look at me?”

The use of your name, the way he casually let it fall from his lips as if there was never once to wonder whether he’d remembered it in the first place, made your eyes widen ever so slightly and the rest of his sentence fade into oblivion. Unfortunately, that is, since you continued to remain silent and observe him. His skin, that had tanned during whatever mission had kept him occupied and wandering through the land, and the tight muscles under his shirt moving rhythmically with his breathing, the soft strand of hair, the growing smile the longer you thought about this, all in focus.

Meeting his eyes for the first time in a while, they seemed to have undergone drastic change. The rare instances of genuine interest in his demeanor had not prepared you for the warmth that was apparently possible, that drew you in, so without approval from your brain, you took a step forward. Still leaving space that neither were able to close so far.

“There’s nothing I want, just… you.” Attention pulled to his lips when he sighed, you quickly looked away to not give the wrong impression. It wasn't an annoyance in his tone, something else entirely that you could not confidently place, and if you weren’t a deer in the headlights right now you would’ve appreciated the soft care he put into each of his actions. Genuine: you wanted to be the same.

“You didn’t seem to be a clingy girl. It must’ve been frustrating, then, all this time. I apologize.” His words took you aback once more, unsure whether you had to defend yourself or not, but his face revealed not a hint at a joke and begged to wonder what responsibility he thought to have for someone he happened to save one horrible day. You didn’t want him to do more. Not him, not the people of the tribe, not your friends or the old man, they had all done enough. So why was he still looking at you like that? A different kind of pity, without reminding of what you lost.

In the end, it was you who closed the gap. Slowly, at first, but you couldn’t take it anymore. Throwing your arms around his neck, he wrapped his hands around your waist in a tight and surprising embrace. It happened before you could realize, dragging on silently for longer than you could’ve hoped, and the stress of the past weeks visibly diminished into thin air as you fully relaxed against him. It did something to the both of you. The unexpected proximity gave way to a handful of new sensations - your warm body against his, the smell of your sun-soaked hair, standing on tiptoes to bury your face into the crook of his neck, and in turn you got to feel the gentle stroke of his fingers on your back, drawing circles that crawled up your spine.

It was only a matter of time before you pulled away slightly, just enough to look him in the eyes. The air you breathed began to mix, hot, steamy, you had never been this close. As if scripted, both of your gazes were pulled down to each other’s lips, parted and waiting painfully, though it was another gap someone had to find the courage to close. This time, luckily, it was him pulling you back in, not even with enough time to spare for another thought when he saw the way your chest rose up and down, those soda-tinted lips he could taste on your tongue, the sweat, still glistening on your skin. How could he have the heart to deny such delicacy, knowing his presence casted those shy smiles and red cheeks? Precious, he only wished to have known sooner what exactly you needed.

Full version on AO3 (linked). Thank you very much, have a good day and stay safe!

[weepingtalecowboy]

People often make Wild the problem child

And obviously it fits

But legend's middlest of middle child energy let’s him get away with literally anything Wild wants to do

And he is so much worse than Wild

Wild gets called out for collecting monster parts

And he gets lectured while he has to see legend rip out the guts of several monsters and… just hoard them for the fun of it

And nobody even seems to see him do it right next to him because his middle child status makes him ignored by default

(He will at some point hand them over to the old witch for potion… but as long as it isn’t happening all goes right into his not so little hoard)

There are literally two games dedicated to collecting organs for the hero of legend campaign

Link between worlds and link to the past

Wild dives of a cliff and dies as a result

Legend wants the result of being dead and does the same

Legend dies not out of recklessness but to change his gear

(And he does it a lot as well)

Wild burns forests

Legend has the equivalent of a flamethrower for a fire rod and can create fire tornadoes

And even has the magic ability to set stuff on fire with just his hands

(Again link to the past and link between worlds)

Yet when he does it he again doesn’t get noticed while Wild gets lectured for it

Wild throws a rock in self defense

Legend throws anything not nailed down

(Including rocks,self summoned blocks, pots and also a literal sign he stole ,shrubs he uprooted (link to the past) , several explosives of unholy destruction (triforce heroes) and more importantly fairies he uses as bombs… somehow (cadence of Hyrule), sand rod exists so he can throw sand at people (link between worlds)

And again he does it when nobody is looking

Even worse he dresses up in cute outfits and then fights monsters looking fancy (triforce heroes)

Like a linebeck outfit

The Zelda outfit Wild wanted so badly

Fierce deity's armor for some reason

And the worst of all …

A cat girl outfit

Like legend can do that yet Wild can’t run around in boxers

Legend can also turn into a painting apparently because why not

And he uses it to cheat (Wild saw it first hand)

Wild gets asked to clear his slate yet legend has a full orchestra worth of instruments (including a piano and a cello) in his own

With a ton of other stuff

Yet Wild is apparently the problem!?!.!

The chain just ignores legend like the middle child he is that’s why he can get away with anything

[ghcstao3]

Price survived the sarin gas inhalation but it benched him for quite some time so Ghost had to take over the CO's responsibilities.

so now Gaz joins Ghost and Soap on missions and is forced to listen to their horrible jokes on comms.

but one day Soap says something so smutty to Ghost that Kyle is convinced Soap's days are numbered but to his utter surprise Ghost rolls with it.

Gaz suspects that Soap's and Ghost's bond is deeper than they let on.

don’t worry, happens to the best of us haha. love this idea btw im so sorry it took me so long to get to it 😭

-

Gaz has seen and heard… a lot during his time in the military.

From having witnessed the much more traumatic gore and destruction and men gone mad with power to the decidedly less impactful crude jokes and stupid things soldiers get up to in their downtime, Gaz doesn’t think much could surprise him anymore.

As it would turn out, however, there’d been one thing that he’d left unaccounted for: his lieutenant and fellow sergeant’s flirting.

Now, he’s heard Ghost’s awful jokes before. He’s heard the offhand teases and ‘buy me a drink first’s, but without Price as the voice of authority, Gaz discovers that there is far, far worse to be said between the two of them—specifically by Soap.

The team’s first mission without Price, with the captain still in early recovery, Gaz gets the general sense of testing the waters. The mission itself goes off without a hitch—they couldn’t call themselves an elite task force for nothing—but the comments not meant for Gaz but still said over comms are certainly… something. Bordering on raunchy. But it’s fine, whatever, Gaz has heard far worse from soldiers who aren’t even friends, let alone whatever Ghost and Soap are.

The second mission is already worse.

Soap seems to have taken Ghost’s silence as permission to continue with his over-the-top flirting, and Gaz has already begun to worry at what point it becomes too much. At what point Soap will cross the line, and at what point Gaz will have to figure out what to wear to his friend’s funeral.

The second mission, none of the above occurs. They all make it out alive and with minimal injuries—though Gaz could argue his brain has already been scarred by what Soap seems to deem appropriate to say to his lieutenant.

It’s the same thing for their next few outings. Price is doing better but is still out of commission, and Gaz cannot wait until he’s back, it’s started to get so bad. He’s heard more than he wishes to forget. He thinks it’d do him well to have his mind erased, scrubbed clean of Ghost and Soap’s worsening banter, but alas.

But up until this point, anyway, he’s chalked it all up to the lack of Price in their ears not letting them get away with the awfully filthy talk and increasingly terrible jokes.

Gaz is fearing for his own life when it happens.

Mercifully, Price is green-lighted to go back into the field at some point during the task force’s current mission, so Gaz has been counting down the days until finally, finally someone with a voice of higher authority than Ghost’s can cut through the line and tell them to either knock it off or keep it to their own channel.

They’re almost in the clear, Gaz thinks, and just as he does is when Soap says something that no way in hell Ghost should be tolerating.

“—bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you, LT? Havin’ me on my knees, cryin’ and beggin’ for mercy?”

Honestly, it isn’t the worst Soap has said these past few months. Not by far. But it’s the directness and very clear implication of what he means that sets Gaz on edge—because surely, surely even Soap couldn’t possibly outright proposition Ghost with a blowjob and not be reprimanded for it.

Yet for some reason, Ghost’s response is not keep it tactical, but rather, “Ask nicely and you might get it the other way ‘round.”

Gaz isn’t sure how to move on normally from hearing that, but he manages, somehow. The only good thing to have come from Ghost’s reciprocation is that it manages to make Soap go quiet for the remainder of the mission, unless there’s something critical to be mentioned.

It doesn’t click for Gaz right away, too focused on the mission and figuring out the most effective method of brain-bleaching, but hopping off the heli back at base and watching Soap drag Ghost off to god knows where is certainly telling of something that he’d missed all this time.

He’d bring up to Price later, he thinks. The captain ought to know if Ghost and Soap were really a thing—and if not yet, well.

They probably would be soon enough.

[hogwartseighthyear]

wax paper

"your girl" series: part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | (part 4)

(can be read as a standalone)

pairing: neville longbottom x fem!reader word count: 3.7k tags: rated G, house-neutral reader, fluff, established relationship, maybe a smidge of angst, no Y/N used summary: neville introduces you to his parents. note: cue me strolling in like it hasn't been over a year and a half since i last posted a fic. this is based on a request i lost a long time ago for something with neville's family (iirc). i might come back later and give it another edit since this was a bit hasty, but for now, enjoy and thanks for reading! (cross-posted here to AO3)

After spending the last several years living through an outright war, the months immediately following Voldemort’s demise were tinged with a sense of unreality.

You mourned for the lives lost and the destruction that had been wrought. You slept fitfully and replayed the worst moments of the Battle in your nightmares. Sudden, loud noises sent you diving to the ground with your wand in hand, reminding you of crackling spellfire, flashes of green light hurtling overhead, smoke in the air and screams ringing in your ears.

Yet, for every moment of grief and pain, there was hope and happiness in equal measure. Wizarding Britain was gradually reassembling. The Ministry was being gutted from the inside out, Aurors were hunting down wayward Death Eaters, repairs were underway at Hogwarts. For the first time in a long time, the future didn’t look so bleak.

And somehow, in the midst of it all, you’d started dating Neville Longbottom.

You’d both confessed your feelings just after the Battle had finished, when you and Neville finally managed to escape the cacophony of noise and emotion in the Great Hall and retreat to the quiet shores of the lake. The two of you were still singed and bloodied and covered in dirt, but it hadn’t mattered in the slightest. When you finally kissed him, it felt like coming home.

It was difficult to separate you and Neville that following summer. In all honesty, the amount of time you were spending together might have been excessive, if not bordering on codependent, but considering the hell you had just endured, neither of your families voiced any complaints. May, June, and July passed in a languid procession of warm afternoons in the back garden and hours of general lazing about around each other’s homes as you recuperated from, well, your whole adolescence.

You and Neville had already accepted Professor McGonagall’s offer to return to Hogwarts to properly complete your education, and while you were looking forward to it, you knew that it wouldn’t be easy. So, you greatly appreciated the chance to take a break from life before the fall term rolled around.

One day in early August, you were doing just that, lounging on the couch and reading a particularly interesting chapter in Dragon Species of Ancient Mesopotamia, when the fireplace whooshed with a burst of green flames. To your surprise, it was Neville who stepped through the Floo into your living room.

In a rare turn of events, you and Neville didn’t actually have plans to see each other until tomorrow. Today, he, Ginny, and Luna were scheduled to meet in Diagon Alley for an interview with Farida Wolff of the Daily Prophet, who was interested in writing an article on the student rebellion the three of them led during the Death Eaters’ rule over Hogwarts. Afterwards, Neville was planning on paying his parents a visit at St. Mungo’s; fetching money from his Gringotts vault; getting fitted at Madam Malkin’s for new robes; picking up treats for Seymour, the Longbottom family owl, at Eeylops Owl Emporium; then joining his gran in the evening for a belated birthday dinner with his great-uncle Algie and great-aunt Enid.

A glance at the clock told you that while Neville’s interview must have just wrapped up, he definitely hadn’t had time to finish the rest of his errands in downtown London already. There was no reason for him to stop by your place. And yet here he was, wearing a rather nervous expression.

“Hey. Is everything okay?” you asked, sitting upright, a worried frown quickly overtaking your face.

“Hi. Um. Yes,” Neville said haltingly.

“Are you sure?” you asked. “Did something happen during the interview?”

“No, no, the interview was fine.”

You waited for further explanation, but he remained silent.

“Neville?”

He dithered for a few more moments before taking a deep, steadying breath and finally looking at you.

“I was just about to go see my parents,” he said, standing a bit straighter, “and… I was wondering if… you’d like to come meet them?”

Your eyes widened. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” Neville said, this time with more conviction. “I know they don’t really— They can’t exactly, you know—” He cut himself off, his mouth twisting. “But. I’ve already told them about us, and it would mean a lot to me.”

“Okay,” you said, unable to keep the slight tremor out of your voice. “I’ll come. Of course I’ll come.” 

Meeting your boyfriend’s parents for the first time was nerve-racking on principle, but meeting Neville’s parents was especially so, considering how fiercely guarded he was when it came to them.

He’d told you what happened to his mum and dad during the First War, but it had always been a sensitive topic. You remembered how agitated he’d been when his friends ran into them at St. Mungo’s a few Christmases ago. Neville was protective of his parents; he didn’t want anyone witnessing them in their vulnerable state. And yet here he was, asking you to meet them.

No pressure, right?

You smoothed your hands over your lap and looked down at your outfit: the soft, comfortable one you’d been lounging around in all day while you read. “Oh! I should change before we go. And fix my hair. Shit, wait, give me a few minutes,” you babbled as you stood from the couch, anxiety already churning in your stomach, but Neville caught you before you could rush past him.

“Love, you look fine,” he said.

“I look like I just rolled out of bed!”

You were too busy fretting over your appearance to notice the way Neville rolled his eyes, though his expression was still unmistakably fond. You refocused only when he put his hands on your shoulders and turned you to face him.

“You’re beautiful, I promise, but”—he stressed the word when you went to open your mouth again—“if it makes you feel better, I was going to suggest we Disillusion ourselves anyway.”

It took you a moment to catch on to his reasoning. “Oh,” you said with a sympathetic wince. “How bad was it this time?”

“At least ten different people asked for my autograph.” Neville kept his voice low, as if he were saying something scandalous. “I tried telling everyone I didn’t have a quill, but then some of them conjured quills for me, so I just signed what they asked. I felt like the world’s biggest prat!”

Fame was something Neville was still struggling to get used to. He’d been largely shielded from it these past few months, considering that the two of you had been living like hermits. But on the rare occasion he happened to wander out into public, there was almost always someone who recognized the Boy Who Killed Voldemort’s Snake.

“We’ll have to brainstorm some new excuses,” you said with a resolute nod.

Really, you should have remembered that magic exists when you came up with the quill idea, but to be fair, it was better than Neville’s plan to claim that he was sick with the highly-contagious doxy flu anytime a stranger tried to approach him.

After putting on a pair of shoes and casting your respective Disillusionment Charms, you followed Neville through the fireplace, Flooing directly into St. Mungo’s reception area.

The chaos inside momentarily stopped you in your tracks. You’d never had a reason to visit St. Mungo’s before, and you couldn’t help but gawk at the various witches and wizards gathered in the large waiting room. One man swaying unsteadily in line appeared to have his legs spelled on backwards. A woman whose entire body was covered in green boils napped in a nearby chair. There was even a man seated against the opposite wall with a continuous stream of soap bubbles pouring from his ears and floating up to the ceiling.

Neville, of course, didn’t seem to be phased by any of it. He’d surely grown used to such sights after visiting for so many years.

“This way,” he said, taking your hand and leading you through the double doors past the inquiries desk. He took out his wand to remove the Disillusionment Charm only once you’d reached a quiet stairwell.

“That felt a bit… unauthorized,” you said, patting nervously at your hair and hoping you were still presentable. “Will we get in trouble if someone finds out we haven’t, I don’t know, signed in anywhere?”

“No, they keep track of everyone who passes through the Floo. Whoever’s currently attending mum and dad probably already knows we’re on our way. Although”—Neville sent you an apologetic look—“they’re on the fourth floor.”

The last time you climbed four flights of stairs at once was during the Battle of Hogwarts, caught in a panicked crowd of students rushing through the castle and ducking spellfire. The months since then had been, for the most part, very slow-paced and sedentary. Your legs were not going to like this.

“Right. Well.” You straightened and took in a big breath. “Up we go.”

You and Neville were both huffing and puffing slightly by the time you reached the fourth floor. In the brief pause the two of you took to catch your breath, you made a mental note to find a magical solution to make climbing stairs more tolerable. Some sort of numbing charm below the knees? No, tripping would be entirely too easy. A Feather-Light Charm? Possibly, though if you cast it too strongly you might be liable to launch yourself over the whole staircase and into the wall.

Whatever. You’d figure it out later.

You followed Neville along the Spell Damage corridor, straight to a door at the far end, which happened to be the entrance to the Janus Thickey Ward. He knocked, and a few moments later a lock clicked from the other side and a middle-aged witch in green Healer robes answered.

“Neville, dear!” she greeted, reaching up to give his cheek a fond little pinch.

“Hello, Miriam,” Neville said, enduring her fawning. You had to hold back a laugh.

“I’ll say, it was such a wonderful surprise to see you were stopping by. And with company, no less.” Miriam turned her twinkling eyes towards you.

You introduced yourself, giving her hand a polite shake. “I’m Neville’s—” You paused, not sure how you should label your relationship in front of Miriam. The fact that you and Neville had started dating was something only your immediate families knew, so far.

You cast a questioning look at Neville. He nodded at you, a small smile curving his mouth.

“—girlfriend,” you finished.

All your other current anxieties aside, saying it out loud still made you feel embarrassingly giddy.

“Girlfriend!” Miriam exclaimed, beaming at you and Neville. “Oh, isn’t that just delightful! I’m Miriam Strout; I’m so pleased to meet you, darling. Come in, come in.” Healer Strout ushered the two of you through the doorway.

The Janus Thickey Ward was a long, open room with a number of beds lining the walls, each sectioned off by a set of floral-patterned curtains. Despite the somewhat sterile feel of the tiled floors and the off-white walls, the residents here were long term, and the collection of personal effects made the room a bit friendlier: things like knitted blankets, family photos, stacks of books, house slippers. You could even recognize a song by the Forty Phantoms playing on a radio somewhere nearby.

“Your father’s been a bit sleepy this morning, Neville, but he and the missus were both awake the last time I checked. I’m sure they’ll both be happy to see you,” Healer Strout said, locking the entrance once again with a wave of her wand. “Are either of you thirsty? We have a new elf in the kitchens that makes the most excellent cup of masala chai.”

“That’s alright, Miriam. We’ve got it from here,” Neville said.

“Thank you, though,” you added on.

“Of course, just tell me if you need anything.” And with that, Healer Strout stepped away to tend to a nearby patient who was standing on top of his mattress, stretching to pin a photo to the wall amidst an already-excessive number of portraits. All of which appeared to be self portraits.

He looked awfully familiar, in fact.

Wait. That wasn’t…?

“Gilderoy, you silly man, what have I told you about climbing up there?” Healer Strout called out fondly. “Falling down and bumping your head is the last thing you need!”

You whipped around to look at Neville. “Lockhart?” you whispered.

He nodded with a grimace. “Don’t make eye contact, he’ll take it as an invitation to show you his fan mail collection.”

The two of you hurried away.

Neville lost a bit of his steam as you neared the end of the ward, slowing his steps and running a nervous hand through his hair. You were nervous too, but you still made the effort to send him a supportive smile. He returned it, a bit wobbly, but there nonetheless.

And then before you knew it, you were standing in front of the floral curtain drawn around the very last two beds. “Mum? Dad?” Neville said. He grabbed the edge and pulled it open.

You’d seen photos of Alice and Frank Longbottom from their Auror days; Neville’s gran had several hanging proudly in her home. You’d always been struck by Neville’s likeness to his mother. Sure, he’d ended up with his father’s height and smile, but the rest belonged to Alice: his coloring, his round cheeks, his gentle eyes.

Now, though, it was evident that the life and verve you’d seen in those photos had been drained from Neville’s parents over the years. The familial resemblance was much more difficult to pick out in their current state.

Frank was propped up in his hospital bed with a heavy quilt draped over his lap, donning a thick, knitted jumper despite the warm weather. He gazed vacantly out the nearest window, which had been spelled to show a pleasant view of the English countryside. Meanwhile, Alice was sat in an armchair between the two beds, wearing a pink cardigan over her nightdress and fiddling with something small and papery in her hands.

They were both gaunt and pale as a sheet. Their hair had turned white, and their skin had creased and wrinkled, aging them far beyond their years. Neither Frank nor Alice reacted to their son’s arrival, and you had to wonder if they even realized anyone was there at all.

“Hi guys,” Neville said quietly, stepping forward and sitting himself on edge of his mother’s bed.

It took you a moment, but you eventually managed to unstick your feet from the floor, making sure to close the curtain behind you before taking a seat next to Neville.

He cleared his throat and continued. “It’s Tuesday, August 4th, 1998. I turned eighteen last week. Sorry I didn’t stop by sooner for my birthday, but I wanted to bring someone along this time.” Neville introduced you then, telling his parents your name.

“Hello Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom,” you said, your hands clasped tightly in your lap.

Again, they showed no reaction. Not that you thought you would get one out of them. You just weren’t used to it yet: speaking to someone so unresponsive.

Neville, however, was clearly well practiced in these one-sided conversations with his parents. “I know you’ve, erm, heard quite a lot about her,” he continued, casting a somewhat sheepish glance your way. “I just figured you should finally meet each other, now that we’re together. Though, really, I should’ve— I should’ve brought her ‘round a long time ago. She survived meeting Gran when we were twelve, after all.”

You huffed a laugh, remembering how terrifying the formidable Augusta Longbottom had seemed back then, nearly making you sick with nerves when faced with her hard, assessing eyes and stern tone. Neville had to assure you multiple times that his gran didn’t hate you the way you feared she might. In fact, after taking some time to warm up to you, she actually grew to be quite fond of you, often asking after you in her letters while Neville was away at Hogwarts.

You’d always remained quietly cautious of her, knowing how easily and often her sharp words could cut through Neville. There was no doubt Augusta loved him, surely, but that didn’t mean her standards for her grandson weren’t high, or that the comparisons she made between him and his father weren’t harsh. It was only over the course of the last year that Neville had finally gained his gran’s approval, and some of the bumps in their relationship seemed to have smoothed over.

“It wasn’t so bad. We get along pretty well these days, I think,” you said, looking to Frank as you spoke of his mother.

You weren’t expecting to find anything other than Frank’s blank stare still fixed on the window, unmoving, save for the slow rise and fall of his chest—which is why it was so startling when he sat forward and rose to his feet with a quiet grunt. You straightened your posture, briefly thinking he was going to approach you, but Frank’s eyes skipped over you and Neville completely as he shuffled past his bed.

Neville followed suit and stood. “Dad?”

“Is he okay?” you asked with a concerned frown.

“Yes, uh, he’s probably just headed to the washroom,” Neville said, already trailing after his father. “I’ll walk him there. We’ll be right back.”

They both passed through the curtain, where you heard Healer Strout call out, “You boys alright?”

“All good, Miriam, I’ve got him!”

That left you alone with Alice.

You floundered, unsure how to fill the silence between you, punctuated only by the crinkling of whatever Alice was still turning over in her hands. You tried to think of what a mother might like to speak about with her son’s girlfriend upon their first meeting, but you didn’t exactly have a frame of reference for this sort of thing. The only common ground you could find with her on short notice was, well, Neville.

“Neville is really good at Herbology,” you blurted. Then, sheepishly, “…You probably already know that, though.”

Great start.

“It’s what most people know about him. I mean, people who actually knew him before the Battle.” You realized a moment too late that the reminder that her son lived through the horrors of war might not be well received by Alice—assuming there was a chance she could understand you, even if she couldn’t respond—and you quickly moved on. “I struggled with it more the further along in school we got. I’m pretty sure the only reason I managed to pass my Herbology O.W.L. was because of Neville. He made this for me while we were revising that year, see?”

You reached underneath the collar of your shirt and pulled out the necklace that hung there more often than not. The pendant was a petal Neville had plucked from the flutterby bush the two of you had spent time tending to in one of the greenhouses. With the right combination of charms—and some help from Hermione, he’d later admitted—the petal had been hardened and polished, as though encased in glass.

You remembered how the urge to grab his face and kiss him had swooped through you when Neville presented you with the gift after your exams, and you remembered how little that urge had surprised you, even then.

“The fact that we only recently started dating feels rather ridiculous now, looking back on everything,” you muttered, rubbing your finger across the smooth edge of the petal as you peered down at it. “I can’t even pinpoint when I started… fancying Neville. I suppose I’ve always loved him in one way or another.”

You looked up to Alice, feeling somewhat shy and hot in the face after sharing something so honest, and found that her own gaze had risen to settle on your necklace. You stilled your hand and held it out for her to see. She stared for a long moment before returning to her fidgeting. Except this time, she began twisting something, the crinkling sound getting louder.

You leaned forward for a better look at what Alice held in her hands. It was a piece of Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum, you realized. The was a whole dish of it sitting on the nightstand behind her.

She unwrapped the gum and placed it in her mouth, then held out the wrapper for you.

“Oh… alright,” you said, taking the wrapper. Did she want you to toss it for her? There was a small bin tucked next to the nightstand, but it was clearly within her reach. Uncertain what to do, you smoothed out the waxy piece of paper into a neat little rectangle, idly admiring the gold foil around the edges.

It wasn’t much longer before Neville and his father returned. Once Frank was situated in bed, Neville returned to his seat by your side, smiling at both you and his mother. However, he froze when he caught sight of the Drooble’s wrapper in your hand.

“Neville? Are you alright?” you asked.

“Is that—? Did she give that to you?” His wide eyes darted back to Alice, whose jaw was working as she chewed on her gum.

“Yes. Was she not supposed to? I can throw it away—”

“No!” Neville’s outburst made you pause from where you’d risen to your feet, and he grimaced at himself, urging you to sit back down with a gentle hand on your arm. “No, no, sorry. It’s fine.”

“Well, if you’re certain.”

“I am.” He hesitates for a moment. “She’s… giving you a gift. It’s all she has to give, really. But it’s for you.”

You looked over at Neville in surprise, emotion suddenly twisting inside your chest. You could see some of it reflected in his face, the crinkle of his eyes, the slope of his mouth. A face you loved so dearly, made of the two people sitting across from you.

You swallowed a bit roughly and held onto the wrapper with care. “Thank you, Mrs. Longbottom.”

Neville pulled you into his side and laid a kiss on your temple.

[houserautha]

okay so imagine feyd standing infront of the mirror only in his boxers doing smth while you're sitting on the bed acting like you're reading but you're staring the feyd's body and feyd notices (or he doesn't) either ways he goes to the bed without saying anything and just lays down and you keep down your book and lay down too. You guys turn off the lights and feyd turns away. This was one of the rare days where feyd fell asleep. Unable to get the image of him infront of the mirror out of your mind, you start pillow humping. you try to be as quiet as possible but feyd feels you moving and your fast breathing. He glances towards you just to see you pillow humping, he remembers you staring at him(or he doesn't depending on whether he saw you or not). What do you think feyd would do next? I need a oneshot on this fr.

This ask breathed life into me, god bless

Feyd-Rautha is a lot of things.

Arrogant. Hotheaded. Selfish. Cunning.

But he is also hopelessly gorgeous, which might be why you put up with all of the other things. It tends to be quite distracting at times, especially now, when you’re doing everything in your power not to outright drool over him.

He stands in front of the vanity, reflected in the mirror of the vanity. Feyd concentrates on wiping away the black war paint from his body, sliding a cloth down his chest and over his muscled stomach. It’s slow, agonizing work, seeing that it refuses to wipe away.

You’re not sure if he can feel you staring or not.

You’re not sure if you want him to or not.

The book you were previously immersed in lowers as you peer at Feyd, appreciating the contrast of the dark paint and his alabaster skin as it runs and streaks, stubbornly sticking. Beneath the sheets of the bed, where you lay, you cross your legs. Feyd continues his diligent ministrations.

He twists to reach a dribble of paint out of his reach, elongating his body and rippling the muscles in his arms. The breath rips from your lungs. Feyd curses under his breath as he runs the cloth over him, drawing your attention to the dip of his clavicle, the plane of his chest, leading down to his low-hanging pants.

The worst part, however, is his infuriatingly alluring gaze. Dark eyes, dark lashes, inspecting to make sure that he’s free of paint. You think of how they roam over you when you are naked, when you’re exchanging playful insults, how they had seen death and destruction and also looked upon you with affection.

Feyd, apparently oblivious to your rapt attention, disappears into the bathroom.

You close your book and leave it on your lap. The words are on your lips — inviting him to you — when he stalks towards the bed, turns off the lamp, then flops down next to you. It’s not uncommon for him to be so exhausted that he doesn’t have it in him to talk. But it’s rare for him to sleep, though, and the soft sounds of his snores float through the air and chase away any of your indecent thoughts.

Vaguely frustrated, you turn off your own bedside lamp and tunnel under the blankets. You consider reaching out to him. Feyd works so hard and you know that he deserves this seldomly earned rest. You retract your hand.

Maybe you should sleep too.

You turn to your back and stare at the ceiling, waiting for it to claim you. But it never comes.

The aching between your legs seems to intensify with each passing minute, to the point that sleep would be entirely impossible. You have to relieve some of this pressure and, since Feyd isn’t there to offer his assistance, you’ll have to do it yourself.

And you’ll have to be quiet.

Taking one of the pillows, you slide it under yourself, tucked between your thighs. The first grind of your hips against it is almost enough to make you gasp out in pleasure. You clench jaw together. Starting slow than going faster, you roll against the pillow, desperate for the friction. Soon you’re nearly breathless, close to an orgasm, when his name slips from your lips, “Feyd.”

“It’s about time.”

The surprise of his deep, rasping voice sends your orgasm retreating. Panting, you freeze. How long had he been awake? You hadn’t detected any differences in his slumbering form. Something like shame burns your face.

“You—how—”

“You think you can please yourself without me knowing about it?” He doesn’t turn. Silence presses down on you as you try to swim through your desire to the more logical part of your being. “Well don’t stop on my account.”

“I just didn’t want to wake you —”

“If you think I’ll be cross for that then you certainly don’t know me as well as you claim.”

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see you. “I was trying to be respectful. You never sleep.”

“Nonsense. I sleep fine.”

You kick the back of his thigh. For extra insult you push your cold toes into him and this finally earns you a reaction. In a movement too fast for you to dodge, he rolls over and captures you in his arms, pulling you against him. You squeal in delight.

“Finish, jewel,” he rasps in your ear, breath warm on your neck, “then it’s my turn.”

[orcelito]

honestly i did such a good job at not completely exploding or self destructing tonight. i deserve a fucking medal.

[sapphsorrows]

I don't get the point in being a Facts and Logic Atheist Skeptic if you're going to blatantly ignore the fallacies of the transgender ideology.

Everyone makes fun of the circular reasoning of Christians but no one makes fun of the very obvious circular reasoning of the trans movement. One of the reasons "what is a woman" is such a fantastic question is because they can't answer it. "What is a woman?" "A woman is someone who identifies as a woman." "Ok, well what is a that? When you "identify" as a woman, what does that mean?" It's very similar to asking a Christian "how do you know the Bible is true?" They say "the Bible is true because it's God's holy word." "Ok, well how do you know that?" "Because the Bible says."

Not only that, but transness in itself is an entirely spiritual belief. You're essentially trying to "fix" your body, which isn't even broken, to further reflect your soul. The idea of a soul is inherently spiritual. I find this especially true of nonbinary people who go through surgery and have their nipples removed. Many of them say "well, I wasn't supposed to have nipples" or "nipples make me dysphoric," and it doesn't make any sense. Nearly everyone on planet earth has nipples, what do you mean you weren't "supposed" to have them?

When you listen to trans people talk about their gender identity, it's extremely religious. Even with things like "trans joy," I can't help but think of the old sold "I've got the joy joy joy joy down in my heart." Well, I guess if JKR doesn't like it she can sit on a tack.

When they talk about their transition, they're "on a journey," they're "connecting with their gender." When they do finally transition, and cry because they "finally feel like their true selves."

What does that even mean? There is no "true" self, the self you currently have is your true self. You were never not yourself. You were never broken. Anyone who told you that you were was trying to sell you something.

The fact that most skeptic youtubers aren't even a little suspicious of this movements is very confusing to me. It's still possible they could be, but god forbid you say anything.

The trans community is one of the most toxic things I've ever been a part of. In my opinion, it's like Scientology on steroids. If you leave, you will lose friends, and you may become the victim of targeted harassment. If you even hint that you might be questioning it, you will be met with suspicion at best and outright hatred at worst.

In my opinion, it is one of the most popular, regressive and destructive cults currently operating in the US, and one of the reasons it's so dangerous is because it specifically targets mentally ill teenagers and gay kids. It sells the idea that something is wrong with them. It leads them down the path of medicalization and sterilization. In many ways, it's the modern day lobotomy.

This is the biggest medical scandal of our lifetime. If you're not at least a little bit skeptical, I worry for you.

[allastoredeer]

My favorite appleradio dynamic is prejudiced Lucifer x sassy bitch Alastor.

In Dad Beat Dad, Alastor may have started the passive aggressive jabs, but Lucifer escalated to death threats (Alastor's head on a plate) with shocking ease.

Like: "Okay, Luci. You're at a 10 and I need you at a 2." Man literally needed less than half a reason to start that Loony Tunes bout.

I like to imagine it's a side effect of his need to control everything. Like he was fighting both sides of the argument rapid fire in his head and was then meeting the escalation of an imaginary Alastor.

Sort of like how he answered for/with Charlie when she thanked him mid-song for offering his help free of charge.

It's the type of overreaction that someone that aggravates others for fun would love! Enter Alastor, Certified Public Troll with only a passing acquaintance with self-preservation.

New Mission: How far can I go before this could be considered self-destructive tendencies?

Alastor unintentionally disproving Lucifer's "All sinners are the same" philosophy by just being the worst... and then Lucifer has to face the horrifying realization that he likes the bastard. XD

Lucifer: All sinners are bad.

Alastor: *being the absolute worst person Lucifer's ever met*

Lucifer: You know what, maybe other Sinners aren't that bad actually

But yes, prejudiced!Lucifer x sassybitch!Alastor is my bread and butter. It's so good. They clash so much and that's what makes it fun.

And literally, Alastor may have been passive aggressive first, but the way Lucifer ramped it up was impressive. I made a post before going over the scene when they officially met, and, like, Alastor's comments overall? Not very antagonist. Or, the words at least. Passive aggressive, sure, but the most outright antagonistisitc he got was when he called Lucifer short.

Whereas it was immediate dislike on Lucifer's side.

All Alastor said was (both in response to Lucifer's reaction to his bar and the very first time they spoke to each other): Just some of the renovations we had done. Adds a bit of color! Don't you think?

And THIS was Lucifer's face ⬇️

"And you are?"

Like, Alastor didn't even sound that passive aggressive. The most I could give him was the smirky little face he gave Lucifer

(god, why is Alastor so pretty right here though??? maybe that's why Lucifer was so mad. Boi turn down those bedroom eyes, Luci can't think. That was Alastor's first plan. He was going to seduce the king of Hell, but then Lucifer insulted his bar, and he decided they were throwing hands instead).

I'm of the opinion that Lucifer was antagonist towards Alastor first and Alastor was just matching his energy (albeit very readily LMAO his eye was twitching the moment Lucifer walked through the door).

Also, yes, thank you for bringing up Lucifer answering for Charlie, cuz I think that's something a lot of people overlook.

Well, maybe he didn't answer for her exactly. I imagine it's just what he wanted her to say, but still, look at Charlie's face ⬇️

She doesn't look very comfortable.

In fact, she looked awkward, annoyed, frustrated, and uncomfortable throughout most of her interactions with Lucifer in this episode.

(there's a lot more but tumblr has a picture limit)

Wheras, this is what she was like with Alastor:

like

DAMN

Okay Luci, I see why your insecurities were firing on all cylinders.

We all know that Alastor wasn't genuine about being a father figure to her, but there has to be something to his and Charlie's relationship if she's looking at him like this. Especially in front of Lucifer.

I'm getting off topic though, I could do a WHOLE other post on my thoughts about Charlie's relationship with Lucifer VS Charlie's relationship with Alastor, and why it is the way that it is.

Anyway, yes, I agree with you. Lucifer 100% escalated the fight between him and Alastor. He went from zero to sixty with no hesitation, and he wasn't even AWARE of Alastor and Charlie's relationship yet. Essentially, the way I see it, he was acting that way toward Alastor for the sole reason that he's a Sinner which is the definition of prejudice.

And I want to clarify to anyone reading this, this isn't me hating on Lucifer. I love Lucifer. I love his character and his flaws and his insecurities. I love the way it all affects how he interacts with other characters, both negatively and positively. This is what makes him so interesting to me.

He holds so much capacity for love while also being so heavily flawed and it is 😙👌 delicious.

[deadlyangelofpurity]

The overall defanging of Hell in Viv's shows crippled it. Like it's become very noticable that when Viv wants you to like a character she will legit pull every stop imaginable regardless of whether it makes sense to ensure this happens.

The problem is not only is she not subtle, but her show is in Hell. This is like the worst place for this kind of thing. Seriously Ozzie going on how about consent is great and how his crystals can't be forced to take you places(Omg this is so fucking stupid). Does anyone remember how this was harassing Moxxie in his first appearance and how he later let's Veroiska(you know the rapist) perform at his club and let's her have a crystal to use sex magic on unsuspecting people with her friends?

Viv, I know you're relying on your fans being immature fools who won't question your writing can you stop trying to twist yourself into a pretzel by defanging your own characters and making your setting pointless. All of this to avoid having Ozzie be an outright rapist because she doesn't want him to be unlikable even when it makes the setting feel stupid because some tacky moth pimp wannabee is somehow more evil than a Eldritch being that has existed for eoms. It's so obvious she's trying to dance around the problem and her fans will defend her saying Rape isn't about lust and that it falls under Wrath but that feels like a cop out. Also I'm pretty sure most destructive/evil behavior could realistically fall under multiple sins at once so I'm not sure why that doesn't apply here.

Seriously I think her shows being in Hell is not needed at this point. This safe edgy stuff doesn't work, especially since Viv wants to have it both ways. She wants to be edgy and cool, but she's too scared to go all in so she's pretty much playing ping pong with the story.

[scienceninjaturtle]

MULTIVERSUS: COLLISION DETECTED #5

Written by BRYAN Q. MILLER

Art by JON SOMMARIVA

Cover by DAN MORA

Variant cover by JON SOMMARIVA

1:25 variant cover by KENNETH ROCAFORT

$4.99 US | 32 pages | Variant $5.99 US (card stock)

ON SALE 11/13/24

With a countdown clock ticking down toward zero and skies filled with the villainous Devoid’s digitizing drones, Steven Universe’s Multiversus Force prepares for the worst beneath Wayne Manor. But with the Joker, the Wicked Witch, Harley Quinn, and Brainiac all under the same roof, it’s only a matter of time before an already explosive situation outright self-destructs!

[merwgue]

Cassian and Mor’s relationship is one of the more baffling dynamics in the ACOTAR series. The emotional and psychological complexity, combined with their outright failure to establish boundaries, creates a toxic cycle that affects not only them but those around them, especially Nesta and Azriel. Let’s break down the layers of dysfunction and toxicity in their relationship:

Cassian’s Conflicting Feelings for Mor

1. Cassian’s Obsession with Mor: Despite claiming to see Mor as a "sister," Cassian’s actions contradict this on multiple levels. He constantly defers to her, listens to her, and essentially worships her, giving her power over him that goes beyond a normal sibling-like relationship. This level of deference to Mor is particularly troubling when you consider his supposed bond with Nesta.

The Issue with Nesta: In 800 pages of A Court of Silver Flames, Cassian doesn’t tell Nesta that he ever had feelings for Mor or that there was a confusing dynamic there. Hiding this from Nesta, who’s supposed to be his mate, creates a deep foundation of dishonesty. If Cassian really saw Nesta as his equal and mate, why wouldn’t he be more forthcoming about his past with Mor? It’s a massive breach of trust.

2. Not Defending His Mate: When Mor suggested that Nesta be sent to Hewn City, a place she knows is hell for women, Cassian just agrees with her. The fact that he doesn’t defend Nesta, his mate, from such a terrible fate says a lot about his priorities and loyalty. If he truly cared for Nesta, he would have stood up for her against Mor, but instead, he goes along with Mor’s suggestion. This is not just a minor oversight; it speaks to his lack of respect and protection for Nesta, the woman he’s supposed to be bonded to.

Mor’s Manipulative Behavior

1. Using Cassian to Deter Azriel: Mor’s sexuality is complex, and while it’s understandable that she doesn’t want to hurt Azriel with the truth of her bisexuality, her continued use of Cassian as a shield is incredibly damaging.

Leading Azriel On: Mor knows full well that Azriel has feelings for her, yet she doesn’t put a stop to it. Instead, she uses Cassian as a way to keep Azriel at bay without having to address the real issue. This is manipulative and shows a lack of emotional maturity on Mor’s part. By leading Azriel on, she’s effectively psychologically torturing him, allowing him to believe there’s hope when she knows there isn’t.

2. Impact on Friendships: Mor’s behavior has ruined the dynamic between Azriel and Cassian. By constantly using Cassian to divert Azriel’s attention, she’s driving a wedge between the two friends. Azriel is left heartbroken and confused, while Cassian is complicit in the manipulation. The emotional toll this takes on all of them is enormous, and it’s a huge part of why this relationship dynamic is so toxic.

The Destructive Power Dynamic

1. Mor’s Control Over Cassian: Mor’s influence over Cassian is clear—he constantly defers to her, even over his mate, and prioritizes her feelings and opinions. This gives Mor an uncomfortable amount of control over Cassian’s actions, even when it’s to the detriment of his relationship with Nesta. This imbalance in power leads to further dysfunction, where Cassian is torn between loyalty to Mor and his bond with Nesta.

2. Lack of Boundaries: The fact that there are no clear boundaries between Mor and Cassian’s relationship is what makes it so volatile. Mor continues to use Cassian when it suits her, and Cassian is unable (or unwilling) to set boundaries that would protect his relationship with Nesta or his friendship with Azriel. Without these boundaries, the entire inner circle becomes entangled in a toxic web of unspoken feelings and unresolved tensions.

Emotional Fallout

Nesta’s Marginalization: Cassian’s inability to prioritize Nesta over Mor, or even stand up for her, marginalizes Nesta in the worst way. She’s left feeling unsupported and dismissed, while Mor continues to hold an elevated status in Cassian’s life. This is not the foundation of a healthy mate bond.

Azriel’s Pain: Mor’s manipulation of Azriel is nothing short of emotional torture. Azriel is left in limbo, constantly yearning for something that will never happen, and instead of addressing the issue head-on, Mor keeps him at arm’s length, leaving him emotionally fractured.

---

Conclusion: A Relationship Built on Dysfunction

Cassian and Mor’s relationship is rife with manipulation, dishonesty, and a lack of boundaries, creating an environment that’s toxic for everyone involved. Cassian’s failure to defend Nesta, coupled with Mor’s manipulation of both Cassian and Azriel, has created a destructive cycle that harms everyone around them. Rather than being a relationship built on trust or loyalty, it’s one marked by emotional confusion, power imbalances, and psychological damage. This dynamic ultimately undermines Cassian’s supposed bond with Nesta and Mor’s friendships, creating an ever-present cloud of dysfunction within the inner circle.

Ty @litnerdwrites for letting me use your post as inspo❤️❤️❤️