#and seems to exist for that exact purpose but like

[fvckw4d]

The concept of queerbaiting annoys me. I was told that it refers to a work of fiction pretending to cater to a queer audience but then pulling back from it to avoid alienating homophobes, which is an incredibly specific thing. But a lot of people seem to think that it instead means "any time there's any gay subtex, metaphor, or ambiguity" or "whenever something from 1995-2012 was being a normal amount of homophobic for the era."

[rebelfell]

steve harrington x fem!reader

So periods are bullshit. That’s it, that’s the gist of why this exists. It’s also bullshit I haven’t been issued a Steve Harrington for this exact purpose.

cw: painful period, use of a vibrator, “unprotected” piv sex

18+, MDNI┃2.4k

Steve’s eyes blinked open slowly, reluctantly being drawn from sleep at the sound of muffled grunts and groans coming from behind him. The clock on his nightstand showed an abhorrent hour in glowing red numbers as he rolled over in bed and reached out to feel the warmth of your body beside his. The streetlight coming through the slats in your blinds illuminated your edges, showing the shape of you facing away, curled in on yourself and clutching your abdomen.

He pressed himself flush against your back, knees finding a home in the curve of your own, slotting against you perfectly and gently rubbing his hand up and down your arm.

“Bad?” he murmured, the sound of his voice still deep and rumbling with sleep. 

All you could do was grunt.

Shit.

He’d known it was coming since that afternoon at the grocery store when your mild expression had begun to sink into a sullen frown, wincing and pinching your eyes shut every few minutes. The cramps had barely started then, but seemed to have reached their maximum potential.

He reached down and pressed his hand against your lower belly, in the same spot you always laid your heating pad. Warm and broad and strong, the pressure of his touch provided enough relief for you to exhale a stilted breath. Enough for you to push out an answer.

“M’sorry I woke you,” you whispered, voice close to breaking.

“You didn’t, honey,” he assured with words as warm and solid as his body. “I wish you had. How can I help? Do you need anything?”

“Think you can do a quick hysterectomy?” you joked as best you could in your fragile state.

A soft puff of air danced across your cheek as Steve chuckled and gave your neck a kiss.

“Damn, I left my scalpel in my other PJs.”

“Rats,” you chuckled back weakly.

He nestled in closer, pressing his hand down a little firmer as he moved it in a soothing circle. You rolled onto your back, your nose and lips skimming his temple, his stray hairs tickling.

“Anything else?” he murmured. “Do you, um…do you want help?”

He tries not to sound too eager when he asks. 

It’s not the first time he’s offered assistance of this sort, and he never wants you to think he’s just using your pain as an excuse to fool around. But ever since you told him how orgasms helped with the cramps, he’d been more than willing to offer a helping hand.

Among other appendages.

“Yeah,” you replied after a long pause. “But I…I don’t think I can take anything in me.”

You looked down when you said it, unable to hold his gaze even in the dark. Normally, having Steve inside of you—literally any part of him—was a level of bliss you could hardly describe.

But something about this phase in particular sometimes made it too difficult.

After the lawlessness of ovulation when you were practically trying to mount him every hour on the hour, your body became much more discerning. The cramps made you achy, made it harder for you to enjoy anything besides purely external stimulation. And even that was tricky—your clit becoming stubborn and reluctant, only able to be coaxed out with the utmost delicacy.

You never felt sexy when you got like this. How could you when one of your organs was literally turning against you? Making you absolutely miserable just for not getting knocked up?

Getting off was more a means to an end, seeking pain relief rather than actual pleasure.

“That’s fine,” Steve whispered, nose brushing softly along the apple of your cheek. “I just want you to feel better. Whatever you like, yeah?”

“I like that,” you told him with a soft moan, tipping your head back as he rubbed his hand back and forth across your lower stomach.

“Yeah?” he hummed in your ear. “That helping?”

“Mmhmm…”

“I can get rid of these for at least nine months, you know,” he teased lowly, “Just say the word.”

You tried to groan at him, but it dissolved into a breathy sigh as his hand dipped lower, pressing down on your mound and massaging. You felt his nose nudging at your chin, bumping it to get your attention until you opened your eyes to meet his.

They were still hooded, half-lidded with sleep. It gave him a sultry kind of gaze, one that made your heartbeat quicken and a gasp rattle in your chest. His lips met yours in a languid kiss, slow yet eager, deep yet soft, his fingers now tracing over your quivering belly like he was trying to confuse your nerve endings. The kiss grew deeper, messier, needier, and his fingertips continued their journey upwards, barely skimming your skin until you shivered.

You whined into his mouth, arching your back into him, asking for just a little more, but his touch remained feather light and delicate. The pads of his fingers flicked over your nipples, guessing correctly that your chest would be too tender for anything more intense.

They pebbled under his touch, stiffening behind the sheer nylon mesh of your bralette. 

Steve groaned. His lips broke from yours, kissing down your neck, murmuring sweet whispers to your jugular you couldn’t quite make out. He kissed tentatively but persistently along the curves of your breast until his mouth found the hardened nub of your nipple. He laved his hot tongue over it, letting his warm spit coat it until he pulled away to do the same to the other one.

The shock of the cool air being pushed down from the ceiling fan overhead hitting your wet, stiff peaks has you gasping, the feeling oddly soothing as Steve slid down your underwear.

He dipped a finger into your center, swiping it through your slick folds, still not putting an ounce of pressure on your sex, just letting his digits glide at a leisurely pace. He could already see the effects of his attentions, the pinch between your brows disappearing, the corners of your mouth no longer turned downward. You let your eyes flutter closed, let your head sink fully into the pillow as you breathed steadily…in…and out…in…and out…

They stayed shut even as his gentle stroking ceased and he curled his hand around your own, lifting it to his lips. Your eyes opened just in time to see him kissing the soft pads of your fingers, slowly taking them into his mouth and swirling his tongue to coat them in spit. You then watched, practically hypnotized as he guided your hand down between your legs.

“Hold my place for me, honey. I’ll be right back.”

He slid open the top drawer of your nightstand so smoothly, you barely registered what he was doing until after he had produced your bullet and a bottle of lube from inside. Your own fingers continued his lazy slide through your folds, finding a pace and rhythm you liked while Steve absconded to the bathroom to clean your toy.

It takes him only a minute or so before he’s sliding back up next to you, the heat coming off his body preceding his return as he fondled the toy.

He clicks it on and touches it to the back of your neck, the vibrations rippling along your hairline. The pace of your own fingers holds steady as he draws it further down your body, running it over a few select hotspots he’s done more than enough research to know the exact locations of.

You worry your bottom lip with your teeth as he traces the outer curve of your breast, down to your rib—still light, but hard enough not to tickle. It’s almost like he’s sketching you with a piece of charcoal, following the graceful lines of your waist to your stomach. His breathing gets harder the closer he draws to your core until you withdraw your fingers and he replaces them.

“How’s that?” he husked, his lips at your ear now, his warm breath cascading down your neck. “S’good? Not too much?”

“N-no,” you gasped, all shuddery and nervous all of a sudden. Steve always had that effect, but especially when he was studying you so intently, so zeroed in on your experience. 

“Relax, honey. Just focus on me, yeah? You’re so pretty. My pretty girl making the prettiest sounds. I don’t know what I did to deserve you…”

“Steve—”

“S’true, baby, I think about it all the time. Y’know how many things had to go right? How lucky I had to get for you to end up being mine?”

He’s too good at this, all the lovey dovey shit that makes your head spin as you go back and forth between wanting to believe him wholeheartedly and your innate distrust. Not of him, but just of anything that chipped at your walls, that chinked in your armor—that made you want it like air.

But you let yourself feel it, let yourself get swept up in his sweet words that drown out the quiet buzz of the toy between your legs. He kept it on the lowest setting, knowing that anything higher would be too much, and he let it glide slowly through your folds, spreading out the lube and letting the vibrations tickle your lips before he even thought about bringing it to your clit.

“You’re so perfect,” he moaned, almost whining like he’s the one who needed more as your hips started to subtly thrust. “Do you know how crazy you make me?”

You can’t answer him, too overwhelmed by the pressure steadily mounting in your core, the hot flames of your arousal being stoked and fanned by his words.

“...just want you to feel good…”

His voice drifts in and out, your ears catching bits and pieces as your pulse thunders in them, rapidly approaching the precipice you can see you’re so close to it now.

“Will you come for me, honey?” he begged. “Come for me, I know you can—”

Your hand wraps around his wrist to hold him still, the nub of the toy pressing perfectly to your clit and the pressure tipping you soundly over the edge. A shuddering moan leaves your lips, your chest heaving with it, tears stinging in your eyes and leaking out the sides.

He slams his lips to yours, the most force he’s shown all night, swallowing the sound of your orgasm like it sustains him. Like it’s his favorite dessert. His lips vibrate back with a moan of his own until you relax your iron grip on his wrist. He pulls away just long enough to click off the toy and then swiftly returns to your kiss. It makes you keen into him, back arching off the bed.

”God, Steve…please,” you whimpered, pawing at the waistband of his pajama pants.

“What, honey? You want another? Anything you want, it’s yours—”

He brought the bullet back to your clit, but you batted it away. “No, no—need you.”

Your hand curled around his length, cupping him through plaid flannel to feel just how hard he had gotten pressed up against your hip. A low groan burst out and you thought for a second he might have come just from that. But he still twitched in your hand in response, gasping as he pushed his face close to yours, cradling your jaw as your sweaty foreheads touched.

“Honey, are…are you sure? I thought you said—”

“I can take it, I swear,” you whispered. “I need it, I have to feel you.”

It’s like night and day, the difference in the way your body reacts to him, and there’s no doubt in your mind what you want now. You can almost feel how things inside of you have shifted, how your organs have rearranged to take him in like it’s the only thing they were meant to do.

Steve let the bullet drop to the floor and he rolled on top of you, his bottoms and boxers shoved to the middle of his thighs. The short, thick hair on them rubs your own as your legs spread wide to accommodate his body, legs kicking up to hitch over his hips and ankles locking behind him.

There’s no pain, not so much as a pinch as he slides inside you and buries himself to the hilt. The slippery mess between your legs envelops him completely, walls fluttering and squeezing him so tight it makes Steve’s breath come out in halting gasps—grunting as he presses his face into the juncture of your neck and shoulder. Panting like he’s never felt anything so good.

His musk fills your nose—that smell that’s more than just his gourmand cologne or his woodsy body wash or the light, fresh florals of his styling products. It’s the smell of his skin and his hair and his sweat all coming together at once.

Something that’s pure…Steve.

“God, you…feel so…fucking…good,” he groans into the pillow, his words coming out stilted as he starts to thrust at a slow and even pace. You can feel his muscles quivering under your hands with all the effort it’s taking him to hold himself back.

“Faster, Steve,” you plead, clutching at the planes of his back, “I know you want to, please—”

“Fuck—nothing feels like you, honey. Nothing, nothing, nothing…s’the best thing in the world, I swear to god—”

He’s still holding back, still reluctant to fully thrust and pound in you the way you know—the way you can feel—he wants to. Your hands slide up to his neck, tangling in his tousled locks.

“Fuck me, Steve,” you whine, gripping tight to the hair at the back of his head, pulling it. “I want you to fuck me until you cum, fuck me full of you.”

“Jesus Christ, baby, you can’t just say that—”

He’s letting go now, his hesitation crumbling as his hips start to snap at a brutal pace. His gasps and moans mix with your high-pitched cries and the lewd slapping of skin, the soft creak of the mattress springs, the bedframe thump, thump, thumping against the wall.

You love the way he takes you like you’re the one thing in the world that matters; love the feeling of making him feel good, of taking care of him the way only you can—the way only you get to. 

It’s the same way he feels about you.

Ty for reading. Love you, mean it 🥝

[bomberqueen17]

tone indicators

I reblogged this post without adding any commentary bc queue and not a lot of computer time lately but like okay here's the thing about tone indicators:

they're yet another in-group set of coded speech. like an inside joke, or a meme, or a conlang. if you are in a group that uses them, they're great and perfectly comprehensible.

but if you don't happen to have come from inside a group that uses them, they are exactly as exclusionary as any other heavy jargon or inside joke or acronym. I mean have you ever listened to soldiers talk? The US Army communicates in heavily jargon-ified speech, liberally laden with acronyms, so much so that it's a self-referential joke to make up obscene or deliberately-obfuscated ones to slip into official reports since the sorts of people who'd kick up a fuss about obscene language won't understand them.

It is exactly the same thing. Except that's exclusionary on purpose, and tone indicators are exclusionary in effect but tout themselves as inclusionary.

So if I, an outsider to this, am reading along, and after a sentence, there's a / and then between one and three letters, that is not enough information for me to use to look it up.

This is absolutely inaccessible if you are not alreadhy in the group that uses it.

I wouldn't mind if the people who used them were just like 'oh ha sorry jargon, i'll try to explain if it's not clear, sorry i forget you guys don't know them' just like any other inside joke or meme or whatever.

But I was in a discussion with someone on a Discord and when I was puzzled about them including these weird slash-acronyms after their statements they were like oh how nice for you that you're not neurodivergent and don't need to use these.

Uh no. The opposite actually. I'm the kind of neurodivergent that needs context. I handle being excluded from conversations very poorly. And that's where I get pissed off, that people seem to be holding these up as the new be-all end-all of Finally Solving The Problem Of Ambiguous Tones In Social Interaction. The hell you are, kids. They're just another layer, and I'd say the worst one yet, out of many many many attempts to solve this exact problem. They are fundamentally inaccessible. Don't mistake the fact that you learned them (somewhere, in some context inaccessible to me) for them actually being universal.

Considered against the many different solutions that have been offered since text-only speech was invented, tone indicators stack up as among the very least-accessible of the lot, since they contain so little context in and of themselves-- if a key is not provided then they're totally inaccessible, and are exceptionally difficult for non-native English speakers, and in general require so much memorization or cross-referencing as to be prohibitively hostile to outsiders.

And that's fine, if what your'e doing is just meant for talking to your friends. But don't come into my conversations and berate me for not having memorized whatever incomprehensible set of acronyms you've newly-decided are the new universal truth. And what drives me the most insane is how many of these acronyms someone has now decided to assign a whole new meaning to are acronyms that are well-known and already existed and are in heavy use. So if you try to look them up guess what you get! is it gonna be the newly-created version or the one that's been in use for fifty to seventy-five years??

For one, P.O.S. has had a specific meaning in written and spoken English for a really damn long time and if you call me a piece of shit in the actual language I speak I am absolutely not going to interpret your conlang as having intended something nice. (YES REALLY THEY'RE USING THAT ONE TRY TO GUESS WHAT IT MEANS. NO. NO! I know. Fuck! That's wild. Absolutely the fuck not.)

[hydrobunny]

'cause he really knows me (so call it what you want)

tags: hurt/comfort, established relationship, argument?, happy ending! 1.1k words

a/n: slightly different style than my previous stuff but it's been a while. fic based on call it what you want.

nagi seishiro isn’t known for being a very public persona.

it’s usually reo who takes that crown; the heir isn’t afraid of posting whatever he has on his mind. his best friend, on the other hand, might as well as not exist for all the presence he has on social media.

you close out of nagi’s blank profile with a sigh.

the teen in question is barely three feet in front of you, headset glued over his ears as some fast-paced first person shooter game blazes on. as if he could hear the sigh, nagi turns around immediately.

“you good?” he asks, dark eyes flicking over your form in scrutiny.

you give him a smile. “fine.”

after a pause, he turns the chair back around, muttering some apology into the headset.

with another exhale, you roll over onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. sometimes you wondered if nagi was purposely ignoring you when you were over, or he was actually just that dense.

for god’s sake, you were in his bed. you had been in it for at least two hours, and he had been on the game for probably three.

you eye the back of his head again. all that time on his computer was going to give him a headphone dent soon enough. hell, if you squinted, you could already see it forming.

in one smooth motion, you roll over once again to step off the bed. “bathroom,” you say, not sure why you’re even bothering.

compared to his LED lit bedroom, the rest of nagi’s household is bright, with large windows littering almost every wall. the afternoon sunset peeks in through slightly closed window blinds, you breeze through the hallway, avoiding making any noise.

you’re not really sure where his parents go all the time. you saw them once, for a slightly awkward dinner, and then never again. either way, he doesn’t seem to mind, so you don’t press the issue. you’re pretty sure he’s spent more time with reo than them anyway.

(deep inside, you wonder if it bothers him. you think it might bother you.)

as you enter the bathroom, you realize that you didn’t even need to go.

so why are you here?

you stare at your reflection through the large mirror, eyes tracing the shape of your facial features slowly. is there a particular reason nagi finds better company in the form of online games? does something not fit his many likes?

you find your hand steadily approaching your mouth, and actively push it down. it’s taken you long enough to stop your anxious habit of biting your nails down to the quick, and you’re not excited to start that again.

instead, you go for something safer: turning on the sink and absolutely dousing your face. the coldness helps ground you, helps you realize that you probably should take the hint and just leave.

your phone’s in your hand before you realize, some dark emotion taking over to write a message to your boyfriend.

going home. ill text you tomorrow.

you’ve made a decision. and honestly, you think nagi’s made one too. you doubt he’ll even see this message- or even notice you’re gone- for at least an hour.

it still takes you two minutes to leave the bathroom.

the sound of your steps almost echoes in the large house. your vision blurs with every beat of your heart, and you know that you’re simply being stupid.

crying did not act as a viable solution. crying fixed none of your problems.

your fingers clasp over the door handle-

and there is a hand on your shoulder, bringing you to an abrupt stop.

“hey,” nagi’s familiar voice says. “why are you leaving?”

you turn. and you can spot the exact moment nagi realizes you are crying. his usually tired eyes widen to an extreme, then he’s stepping backward, taking you with him.

“y/n, what's wrong?” he asks. “did something happen?”

so the sobs start coming faster, for you realize he still doesn't understand- he pulls you into his embrace, and your cries become muffled by his soft hoodie. you can tell he’s trying to awkwardly console you from the rhythmic pats on the back.

when you finally manage to get out your words, he immediately freezes.

“sei- sei, it’s you.”

nagi gently pulls you away from his chest. he stares down at you with uncomprehending eyes, still so heartbreakingly concerned.

“it's me?”

those two words get your own tirade flowing.

“i don’t know if you know me anymore. i don't know if you still want me anymore,” you inhale, guttural. “i look at us and wonder if you would notice if i wasn't there. i look at us and don’t even see a couple. i- i think you might be better if i wasn’t here.”

there’s a beat of silence. he swallows.

“i would.” he says softly.

you meet his gaze.

“i would notice if you were gone.” nagi continues. you think he’s never been more ready to talk in his entire life. “y/n, i would notice- i can’t stop noticing you.”

“i don’t say it enough. i know. but i also know that you’ve changed your perfume lately. i know that you’ve been feeding the stray cat in your neighborhood. that you’ve been thinking about going to the beach. that you want another ear piercing. that you’ve started another save in my game.”

you blink rapidly.

“i know i don't sometimes act like it. but i’m listening, y/n. and i’m sorry. i’m sorry that i don’t tell you i love you. because i do. i love you.”

your mouth is hanging open, all tears stopped from sheer surprise. nagi stares at you, gaze searching.

you nod. it’s all he needs.

and so his entire body relaxes into you, and it’s just ironic enough to get you laughing. (and crying, again.)

“i love you too,” you manage out. “i love you too- and i’m sorry i made you leave your game, and i named the cat melon, and-”

nagi snorts into your shoulder.

there’s no more words to be said after that. you're both too busy laughing at each other, hands tangling in the other's hair.

it probably seemed a little strange to other people, having a boyfriend that didn't act like he was a boyfriend to the online world. one that didn't seem to mind long silences. maybe it did bother you, in the smallest sense there was.

but honestly, in moments like these, you were willing to let it go.

because in this moment, seishiro nagi was your boyfriend/lover/something. it didn't matter that he didn’t shout it from the rooptops, didn't matter that no one could put a label on it.

he was here. and he saw you. and that was all you needed.

[osakanone]

Crew attire cosplay?

Lately I've been thinking a lot about "what would separate mecha crew equipment from that of a tank crew, or a fighter crew": A lot of military surplus stuff is already really close to what we're going for, and I realized "Motorcycle boots look a lot more like mech pilot stuff than military boots do", which got me thinking what other odd equivalences exist.

The one which really surprised me was how famous mecha live action SF Gunhed used a wetsuit as a stand-in for "generic scifi bodysuit", and that it worked weirdly well, actually?

"Why not latex?"

Latex rips too easily in contact with straps and hard elements, overheats far, far too easily despite having the looks. Thin neoprene works. really well.

So I kept exploring.

One thing I did seriously debate is other than rappelling equipment, would a pilot need something like a rigid knee-brace for hard landings to protect the ACL when they disembark from the robot which is common with high impact parachute equipment.

Some varieties also include counter-weighted springs which make it harder for you to close your knee, but make lifting heavy things on your back and climb much much easier during the ascent phase.

That led me towards Deck Crew helmets, which meet the hood requirement, and of all things, chin wraps which are really unobstructive and you can eat and drink while wearing one pretty comfortably (I say this as someone currently stuck wearing one)

So what we're looking at here is the HGU-24 and HGU-25, often worn by deck crews because it gets along just fine with the famous MCU-2/P AKA "Millenium" mask famous with drone communities as they're designed to be worn together.

Its literally the exact same mask with a minor paint adjustment.

"What's the difference between a drone and a pilot?" "One wears AXENT and latex, the other wears HGU-25 and neoprene." "Anything else?" "Drones have less sex and do as they're told"

Its got the bash-plates you want for an ejector-seat, but it also has the padded foam you want for an impact element, and if it latches properly and the jaw mechanism is well made enough, you could probably include a hans mechanism attached to the jacket which locks into a socket in the pilot's seat to stop a pilot from breaking their neck in a collision.

What do you guys think?

Any suggestions? What I'm really curious about is what you think pilots would remove, customize or alter for practical or decorative purposes.

This is basically the result of roughly a year of casual research into pilot attire, outfits and looks.

The helm and the hood seem to be where the most manual cosplay stitching and 3D printing work is likely going to be required, with the wrap and helmhood.

Addendum:

I've not gone into waste management systems (UCL/FCL human-factors engineering stuff with internal and external recovery systems), since I'm looking at this mainly as an attainable costume or ensemble.

Edit:

I am learning some of you use aquatic mecha and find this unsatisfactory.

And you won't shut up about how the coolant mass flow rate lets you do really wild shit with your weapons my "land-loving" platform even can't dream of

While I am jealous by your sheer tonnage and the output of your reactors, I've got you covered.

Behold: Immersion suits.

They also make surprisingly good sleeping bags, even if you're on water.

They're literally designed to keep you alive if you're forced to abandon an oil platform, and are known to include a radio and even rations and a water filter.

[thegoogoomuckkk]

NOW PLAYING

LATE

Starring: Choso Kamo

Choso's a simple man with simple desires, & a morning meeting with Gojo & Yaga doesn't typically fit into those desires. . .not when he wakes up to you in his bed

Warnings! fem!reader, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, praise

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Choso’s biggest complaint about humans is that they’re all so complicated. He thinks he’s a simple guy, & he is. He eats the same thing for breakfast every morning, he tells Yuji the same thing before every mission (“Be safe, & be smart”), he gets ready in the exact same order everyday, & he loves his girlfriend. 

Truly, it’s that simple. He’s that simple. 

But when you tell him that you think you “wanna move in with you, Cho. Then we can be together everyday. When you come home from missions, or hanging out with Yuji, I’ll be there,” it throws him off. Not that he’s complaining, but it’s Thursday morning, he needs to leave in 10 minutes, & yet here he is, lying in bed with you still, tracing patterns on your shoulder, admiring your soft snores that you swear don’t exist, & he just can’t find it in himself to get up.

He never would’ve allowed anything to distract him from his job, from his purpose, so why can’t he get out of bed & start getting ready? Why can’t he seem to find the will to leave you? & furthermore, why on earth would he ever want to leave you? He doesn’t spend too much time pondering it; all these complicated questions leave his head spinning. He’s accepted the fact that he isn’t here to be a genius, he isn’t half-human to be the smartest guy around. As long as he’s fighting curses, protecting those he cares about, & loving his girlfriend the way she deserves, nothing else really matters, right? 

You’re just so vulnerable like this. Some deep, dark instinct in his brain is telling him to stay with his woman, protect her, make her happy. Of course, he doesn’t need caveman intellect to encourage these thoughts, Choso will do anything to make you happy. Even be late to a meeting with Gojo & Yaga. 

“Morning, pretty,” he murmurs against the nap of your neck, trying to be subtle in the way he grinds his crotch against your ass. But you'd sang this song & danced this dance more mornings than you could count. 

“Cho, you have to go to work.” Of course, you would decide to be reasonable right now, right when he needed you, needed to feel you, needed to taste you. He wasn’t trying to be a tease or a flirt, but you second guessed that when he trailed delicate kisses, with both his lips & his eyelashes from the bottom of your jaw to the base of your neck, to the valley between your breasts, to your navel, down your stomach until he reached the silk line of your panties. He looked up at you, begging for permission, & the answer you gave him was hooking your fingers under your panties & pulling them down to your ankles. He wastes no time in burying his face into your pretty pussy: kittenlicking your folds, pressing chaste kisses all over your upper thighs, finally providing you the stimulation your body is begging for by shoving his nose into your syrupy, sweet cunt. 

You’re losing coherency, trying & failing to get through to him in any way that “yo-you’re gonna be late, Cho,” & it’s barely a whisper, some form of a whine, & damn it, he’s thinking to himself, he must not be doing a good enough job of sucking on your swollen cunt if you’re still forming sentences. 

“Don’t care.” He doesn’t even spare you a glance, too entranced by the taste of you, the smell of your perfume mixed with your arousal. 

Choso was not the type of person to call out of work, but it was after your third date, when you’d taken him home, let him finger you & sat on his dick, that he was texting Yaga at 3:00am that morning after round four that he wasn’t going to make it in. You’d scolded him for that rash decision in the ten minutes it took his cock to get hard again, & lost all sense of rationality after that.

He was gonna get you there, he thought; sex-brained & dumb, ‘cause that’s how he liked you best. Of course, he loves his sharp-as-a-tack girlfriend, but he loves you even more when you’re like him: zeroed in on one thing. His one thing was almost always you. He knew you would never cheat on him, but the thought of you even thinking about another man—platonically, even—made him sick. 

You're clawing at his hair, still trying to talk sense to him, but the words are lodged in your throat, replaced with moans of his name, begging; as if you'd ever have to beg, when Choso's stream of conciousness consists of two words: "please her, please her, please her, please her—"

So he’s confident, when he slides two fingers into your weeping cunt, that he’ll have his way with you this morning, send an apology to the higher-ups, & make sure his girlfriend knows how much he loves her before he leaves. 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

is it obvious that i'm in love with him. . .orrrr. . . ???????

LOOKING FOR SOME MORE? MASTERLIST <3

LOOKING FOR SOMETHING SPECIFIC? ASK <3

[reflections-in-a-critical-eye]

Are You Sure?! Episode 3 observations

6/10 ☆

The entire theme and purpose of AYS has been changed in the Jeju segment. It seems there is no connection to the previous episodes. What was supposed to be a travel show through which Jimin and Jungkook would allow themselves to idealize their trip to become this memory of youthfulness right before enlistment, it has now turned into a Run BTS episode. One that has been made and edited with an entire different audience in mind.

The Connecticut episodes showed two adult men acting like adults. Goofy at some points, but it was something catered towards an adult audience as well. That was evident from the conversations they were having as well.

The Jeju episode so far seems completely disconnected through two means: a larger focus on activities mixed with child-like down time and the difference in dynamics between JM and JK in what is conceptually their show as a pair and how it has to adapt in the presence of a guest.

AYS somehow managed to show in the first two episodes a bit of a more complex look at the Jimin and Jungkook relationship that also included an element of intimacy that was heavily present throughout their trip. Once in Jeju with their guest, it quickly became apparent that for those familiar with BTS variety content before the hiatus, that the audience will not witness anything new that they haven't seen before. The trio vminkook in 2023 was the same as the one doing a wlive a couple of years before or paired in a run bts episode. It remains a surface-level dynamic that has barely changed because it is not meant to show that when they know the usual recipe works for the fandom at large. Acting as buffoons is what army wants. (Consequently, the Jeju episodes might have the biggest ratings due to that exact reason).

Nevertheless, small comments and more subtle things have made some cracks that open a door into what might exist right underneath the surface.

Demanding to be on a trip two days before the flight had obviously led to changes in itinerary and sleeping arrangements. It had also showed that there was a push for the guest to be on the show coming from him and a bit of displease with that, disguised as jokes and subtle jabs throughout the first day on the island.

Jimin being sick again and suffering from nausea in the first part of the day had a contribution to how the activities moved forward. It became apparent that he is not only the glue of the trio, but also the one constantly aware that they are in the role of entertainers. Even so, sickness can do enough that his energy level in the afternoon was clearly low. Tagging along and being half enthusiastic to an activity-packed day.

Depending on the context and the people surrounding him, it's interesting to notice Jungkook's level of involvement and the way he chooses to behave. Theme park and water guns in the situation in which he's influenced to goof around are quite different than a trip in which he can show more of his mature side with someone that is on his wavelength.

[spencerrsmopbucket]

Recovery | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader Summary: After a brutal break-up months ago, you come to Spencer in horrible condition, seeking solace. Word Count: 3,548.

When you'd first met the wonder that was Spencer Reid, it was unexpected. You'd bumped into the man in a Quantico coffee shop, spilling (thankfully lukewarm) coffee onto his white shirt and red sweater. A blush immediately spread across your cheeks as you awkwardly patted the chuckling man down, apologies bubbling from your lips. You'd made promises to buy him another set of clothing, to write a messy note to his boss explaining why he'd be late getting back to work; you were so apologetic. But in his eyes, so beautiful.

As soon as Spencer had set his eyes on you, he knew. From your messy wind blown hair, to your blushing cheeks, to your sheepish smile. The sweater and jeans you wore, your beat up converse. The camera hanging around your neck, very telling of what your profession was. Photography. He knew that he had to know you.

He made a deal with you. If you allowed him to take you out for coffee on the weekend, all would be forgiven. He didn't even care about the shirt.

From then on, you had a bond with Spencer Reid. Your coffee date was blissful. You spent the afternoon introducing yourself to each other, spilling any detail you could. You'd learned so much about Spencer that day. You learned that he was technically a genius, with an IQ of 187 and a reading pace that seemed impossible, but he didn't believe in the concept of a genius. You learned that he was an agent in the FBI and loved his job, although he sometimes had a nagging thought that he had another calling somewhere out there. You learned that his favorite color was purple, he loved classical music, and he regularly read 10 or more books a week.

In return, you let him learn things about you. After all, the entire purpose of having you for coffee was so that he could know you. All he wanted was to know you.

About you, he learned that you were passionate about photography; you were passionate about photography because in every photo there's a memory that will never burn out. He learned that you had two younger sisters, whom you cherished. He learned that you were a nanny for a while because you absolutely loved kids and you loved the gentleness in the profession. All in all, he learned that you were a very gentle, soft person.

As weeks turned into months, Spencer wanted to use all of his pastime to continue knowing you. To know you for longer, to know you deeper. When he was with you, he didn't feel so glum. He didn't feel the darkness of the horrors he always saw in his job. He didn't feel nearly anything unpleasant. You made him feel warm and soft, like his insides were full of butterflies and pillow fluff and kittens.

Finally, after three months, he had the courage to kiss you. He had the courage to welcome you into his messy life, to ask you to stay in it. You became Spencer's girlfriend and he couldn't have possibly been happier. He was certain that meeting you was the best day in his entire life.

For a while, it was bliss.

He kept you to himself for a while, not wanting his job to affect anything you had. He knew his job was sharp, it was dark, and it was disheartening, and you were none of the above. He didn't want to introduce you to his coworkers for a while. Not until he was certain that bringing you into that lifestyle wouldn't violently shake things up.

He was guarding you. He was preventing the world from taking you away from him, like it had Maeve.

But eventually, the discussion came. You were tired of being hidden from the parts of Spencer's life that he needed the most help processing.

Your exact words, the words that made Spencer's strong resolve crack, were a question: "Spencer. Do you want me in your life, or only in part of it?" The idea of you thinking that Spencer wanted you to be secluded to one small part of his existence broke his heart. The next week, he arranged a dinner in which the team could meet you.

Of course, they loved you, as Spencer had expected. Who wouldn't love you?

For a while after meeting the team, things were calm. He could finally talk to you about work because you had usually spoken to Penelope and knew what he was dealing with anyways. Everything was normal. Everything was peachy.

Until he began to notice you withdrawing.

You stopped calling as much to check on him (you usually called as soon as his lunch break started), you stopped waiting at his apartment for him to get out of work as much (you usually stayed the night at least three nights a week to watch black and white films with him and eat takeout), you stopped your going out weekends with Penelope and JJ. The more he noticed, the more alarmed he was.

Then, to end it all, the dam broke.

He got desperate. He wanted you to go back to how you were, loving him, being the soft part of him, taking care of him, salvaging all of the parts of him that his job was taking away.

That awful night, when he had finally coerced you into having dinner with him, he asked the question.

"Name, um.. Are you happy?" He asked quietly, his food untouched. He had been freaking out for days, wondering what was going on with you. His gentle voice was riddled with worry.

His face paled when you looked up at him. Your eyes were full of unshed tears and you bit your lip before you spoke.

"Spencer.. I love you. But no. I'm not happy."

His heart was shattered. Forget shattered, absolutely pulverized. You weren't happy, which he should've noticed sooner. He should've known that all of the signs pointed to this, pointed to you leaving. He should've known not to introduce you to BAU life, not to taint your relationship with horrors and darkness.

Because that's what you'd said when you were breaking up with him. It was too much. It was too much to hear about someone dying every day, serial killers, blood and guts. It was too much for you. And he'd known it was before he'd even introduced you to it. He'd known you were too soft and gentle and good for it. And that's what hurt him even worse.

It felt like dying to let you leave that night, knowing you would never be coming back.

You'd never be coming back for him to confide in, you'd never be coming back to make him feel warm again, to be effortlessly beautiful in his presence, to kiss him, to lay in bed with him and pretend to love movies that you hated. It killed him.

The aftermath felt like it would never get better. His chest hurt when he woke up in the morning, when he did his cursed job, when he attempted to eat dinner, when he went to bed at night and got barely enough sleep in the cold bed that you were usually on the other side of.

He wanted to beg, he wanted to grovel at your feet, he wanted you back in his arms. But he knew it would hurt you if he tried. He knew his life was not compatible with yours. So, he let you go.

It was an absolute nightmare, one he couldn't wake up from. But he let you go.

Weeks passed. A month passed. Two months. And nothing about Spencer's condition changed. In fact, his team figured it had worsened. He was paler, more irritable, and the worst symptom was the fact that he threw out less and less random statistics each day.

Eventually, Penelope contacted you.

"Look, Name.. Spencer isn't good. He's not himself. Is there anything you can do? Are you willing to help?" She'd asked. She knew that you could reach Spencer like no other. She'd always loved that about you, before you left.

Your answer was exactly what she'd expected, but she didn't hold any resentment. She knew why you'd left and she'd known you wouldn't be willing to come back, even just for a moment.

"I'm sorry, Pen, but I don't think that would help either of us. Not Spencer and not me. Eventually, we'll both feel better. Best wishes."

You'd given a different variation of that response to everyone that had reached out. Penelope, JJ, Emily, and even Derek.

They stopped reaching out. Spencer slowly improved, just as you said, though he was never really himself like he was before. A couple more months passed without a word from you, even as Spencer prayed to a God he didn't really believe in just to see you for even a moment.

Tonight, he sat on his couch, slowly eating a carton of Chinese food. The rain poured outside, tapping on the windows of his apartment complex. Thunder occasionally sounded. It was a normal night for him, the TV quietly playing reruns.

For you, though, it wasn't as normal of a night.

For the past two weeks, you'd been held captive by a man that was obsessed with your ex boyfriend, Spencer Reid.

The man, Hank Terrill, had successfully evaded the genius. He'd known about Spencer before their run in, hearing all about his involvement in FBI cases and exactly how smart he was. He was obsessed with the fact that Spencer and his team had been unable to catch him. He'd killed two women and was virtually undetectable. He was addicted to being on the run, to being chased, and was enticed by the idea of a genius being unable to catch him. It gave him a sick thrill.

He wanted Spencer to chase him again. So, he took you, who he'd carefully noticed was important to Spencer. Little did he know, though, that you'd casted Spencer out of your life and wanted nothing to do with him.

And Hank Terrill was too much of a pussy to be direct. He was too intimidated to reach out to the FBI and say that he had someone important to them. So, he kept you, getting increasingly angry that Spencer wasn't noticing.

The torture was nearly unbearable. At times, you hoped it would just kill you.

You'd been burned, branded, cut up, choked to the point of unconsciousness, beaten, waterboarded, verbally abused, mentally manipulated, starved, and taunted. Any time he was angry, he came down those basement stairs and crafted up something new to do to you.

The worst part was the big, raw branding on your back. He'd burned a mark into your flesh, happy that when he finally gave you back to Spencer and went on the run, the man would have something to remember you by.

He definitely wasn't expecting to lose you so soon, though. Not before he got what he wanted.

That stormy night, you'd ripped yourself from your binds, cutting your wrist as a consequence. You got yourself free, limping but still able, and ran. You ran far, you ran fast, and you escaped. Your lungs burned and your body was exhausted, but you willed yourself to keep going.

Eventually, soaked in the rain and dripping blood, you came to a familiar street corner. Spencer's apartment was right in front of you. You let out a ragged breath, a relieved cry, and approached his door, knocking with your good hand, the one with the unsliced wrist.

You felt a warm tear run down your face as Spencer opened the door, his eyes immediately going wide.

"Oh.. Oh my god." He gasped, his body glued to the spot he was in. Your appearance made his throat burn with nausea.

"Spencer." You said, your voice cracking. Your entire body shook violently. Spencer's eyes cruised your body quickly, seeing everything.

You were covered in blood, your clothing ragged and ripped. You were soaked with rain and cold to the touch.

"Name, I.. come inside. God, let me help you." He rushed out, his body finally breaking from its freeze. He moved to your side to support you, gently grabbing the arm that seemed the most clear of injury. Supporting your weight, he helped you into the apartment and shut the door behind you.

You winced at his touch, but your lip wobbled as fresh tears came down your face.

"I'm sorry.. I just didn't know where-- where else to go." You said quietly, looking up at him with red rimmed eyes.

He shushed you, sitting you down gently on the couch.

"Oh no, no no no. Please don't apologize." He muttered softly, taking your battered face gently into his hands. He scanned it, looking for any type of injury, and came across a cut on your forehead. His eyes softened at the sight of you; in fact, they were almost pained. "I could never be mad at you for coming to me, never." He says, lightly tracing your cheek with his thumb.

His eyes traced the rest of your body, noticing all of the bruising, all of the blood, all of the trauma. His eyes filled with tears quickly as he fought them back, wanting to be strong for you. You were hurting much worse than him at the moment.

"I.. How?" It was the only words he could get from his lips. He was speechless at the sight of your condition.

You exhaled shakily, your lip continuing to quiver with the force of your tears.

"I was.. I was in the park. Two weeks ago. Taking pictures, and.." You started, a miserable sob leaving your lips before you could finish. Spencer frowned, wiping a tear from your cheek.

"And?" He pressed gently. He needed to know what had happened.

"Someone came up behind me. I don't remember much else from then.. But I remember waking up. I was in a basement. A small one. It was cold and I was.. I was strapped to some sort of table. And.. And.."

He looked at you softly, intertwining his fingers with your good hand. He stroked your hand gently, his finger unintentionally smearing stained blood.

"Take your time, dove. I'm right here. Not going anywhere." He muttered. Your nickname, dove, slipped from his lips automatically, unnoticed by him. But it caused a pang of something in your chest.

"He said his name was Hank. He, um.. I was in his basement for a while. Not sure how long. But he hurt me." Your voice cracked, tears steadily continuing to flow. "He told me he knew you. He told me this would keep happening until you came to save me."

Spencer's eyes squeezed shut, his face contorting in pain. Someone that was trying to target him took you. It was something he'd thought of way before he'd even introduced you to the team. A risk he was trying to avoid. He felt at fault. But he knew he had to be strong, for the moment.

Glancing down at you, he remembered the injuries.

"Are you okay if we finish talking in a moment? You're bleeding. We need to tend to your wounds." He said, looking at you for confirmation.

You nod and wince, as if you just remembered that you were hurt.

"I think we need to go to the hosp--"

You rapidly shook your head, your eyes widening in anxiety.

"Please.. Please just.. Not tonight at least. Can we just do first aid? Just for tonight, Spence? Please?" You begged, your grip tightening on his hand.

It was against his better judgement. You really needed to see a doctor. But just getting out of a situation like this.. You would survive one night without it. You needed a mental break, you needed comfort. Sighing, he nodded.

"Okay. We'll be going tomorrow though. No argument." He said softly, helping you stand. "I'm going to bring you into the bathroom, okay? I'll take care of you there, hm?"

He supported almost all of your weight, gently walking you to his bathroom. When you got into it, he sat you down on the toilet seat. Rummaging through the closet, he pulled out a first aid kit.

Opening it, he made sure he had everything he needed, before turning his attention back to you.

"Is it okay if I touch you here?" He asked quietly, his hand ghosting over your face.

Swallowing hard, you nodded. He began to lightly brush dried blood from your face so that he could see the damage clearly.

His eyes zeroed in on a gash on your temple. Blood had crusted around it, so he knew it wasn't exactly fresh, but he was sure it would begin bleeding again if he wasn't gentle with it.

His eyes softened. What you would've gone through hurt his heart.

"Oh, sweetheart.." He said breathily, frowning. "What have they done to you?"

Your eyes begin to fill with tears again, but you fight them off. You watch as he pulls out a cotton ball, gently dabbing alcohol onto it.

"This is going to hurt a little bit, okay?" He frowns, looking into your eyes. "Just.. breathe. And let me know if you need a break."

You stifle a hiss as he slowly wipes blood from your temple, cleaning the wound. His eyes soften at the pain in yours as he moves to clean your other wounds, a frown curling his lips down.

"I know. It'll be over soon." He soothes, letting you take his hand.

The process of him softly cleaning the blood from your body made you want to cry. For two reasons. Firstly, it hurt like hell and he hadn't even seen the branding mark on your back, which was going to hurt even worse. And secondly, you didn't feel deserving. You'd left him. You left when things got hard. You never turned back to check on him. And now here he was, tending to you in your time of need. You let out a soft noise, like a wounded animal.

He finished cleaning the blood from your body and pulled out a tube. Antibiotic ointment. But before he could start, you spoke.

"Spence.. Um.. There's something else." You utter shakily, shifting on the toilet seat. You lift your shirt, showing the wound on your back.

You hear a pained gasp and the tube of ointment clatter onto the floor.

"Jesus. Oh dove, oh sweetheart." He said, his voice devastated. He felt bile rising in his throat as he shook his head, not wanting to believe what he was seeing. His face traveled between the mark to your face, his eyes filling with tears.

"Spence.."

A tear dropped from his eye as he repositioned you, pulling you into his body. He trembled against you, mumbling.

"I'm so sorry, dove. God, I am so, so sorry." He said, gripping your clothes limply.

He stroked the back of your head and neck gently, his breaths shaky. He couldn't believe it. It broke his heart how much pain you must have been in. He couldn't even think about it, he didn't want to think about it.

For a minute or two, he held you there, a soft sniffle occasionally sounding from him as he cried silently. He mumbled apologies into your hair, kissing it gently.

When he pulled away, his eyes were red rimmed.

"We need to clean it. It would be easier if you let me take you to the hos--"

"No." You said firmly, handing him a cotton ball and some alcohol. "Please, Spencer." You said desperately, your lip quivering. He swallowed harshly and nodded, taking the objects from you.

He shakily applied alcohol to the cotton ball.

"Ready?" He prepared you. It was him that was unprepared. He knew this was going to hurt like hell. For him, but even more for you.

You mumbled an approval and he swiped the cotton ball over the branding, wincing at your whimper. It made him want to bawl his eyes out.

"I know. I know. I'm so sorry, dove, I'm so sorry." He said shakily, finishing the cleaning as fast as he could. "I'm almost done. I know it hurts, baby." He said, struggling to keep his own tears at bay.

When he finished cleaning it, he leaned down to pick up the dropped ointment, squeezing some onto his fingers. He slathered it onto the burn, noticing your relieved exhale. He knew this ointment was good; it cooled and took pain away almost instantly. He made quick work of applying it to all of your other wounds too, his slender fingers brushing them delicately.

When he was done applying ointment, he wrapped your wounds in gauze wrap gently.

"Too tight?" He asked, waiting for your answer.

You shook your head no, allowing him to resume his work. By the time he was done, he felt a little better. But the thought of what had happened to you plagued him. It made his chest ache.

Helping you stand, he lead you to his bedroom.

The familiar space was calming to you as you sat at the foot of his bed, watching him.

"I'm going to give you the ones you used to like. You want those ones?" He asks quietly, rummaging through his dresser. With your mumble of approval, he retrieves the tattered shirt and boxers you always wore when you spent the night. He hadn't been able to wear them in months.

He hands you the clothing, glancing down at you with soft eyes.

"Do you need.. help? Or do you want some privacy?"

You swallow hard, your muscles aching.

"Can you, um.."

"Yeah. Yeah, absolutely." He says, coming forward.

It's not awkward at all, surprisingly. He peels off your soaked clothes, drying your body gently with a towel. Then, he dresses you delicately, careful not to cause you any pain. When he finishes, you eye the hairbrush on his dresser.

Yours. He'd never thrown it away. He couldn't.

"Will you brush my hair?" You ask quietly, looking up at him. A faint smile crosses his lips, refreshing compared to the despair you'd been seeing since you crossed the threshold of his door.

"Yes. Of course." He says, grabbing the brush. He sits on the bed, nodding towards his open legs. You shift to sit between them, sighing contentedly as he starts running gentle fingers through your tangled hair.

Beginning, he runs the first stroke of the brush through your hair, brushing the tangles from one section. You hum, leaning back against him. A wider smile comes across his face.

It had been a while since he got to touch you like this. He missed it.

He continued brushing your hair quietly, until he'd gotten the last tangle, and tapped your thigh gently.

"All done."

You shift away from him, looking at him.

"Thank you. Thank you for.. All of it. You didn't have to-- You didn't owe anything to me." You look down at your lap, picking at your fingernails. A habit you had.. You would pick until you bled.

He reaches out and grabs your hands, intertwining your fingers with his. He looks at you lovingly.

"I will always, always take care of you. Whether you want me or not. If you ever need me, I will always take care of you." He says, pulling you into a soft hug. He kisses the top of your head comfortingly.

You exhale softly, clinging to him.

It came out of your mouth before you realized, before you could stop it.

"I love you." You say breathily, hiding your face in his chest. You don't know why you said it. It was stupid to. After you left him, how could he ever want to be with you again? How could he ever feel the same? You were a fool. You were an absolute--

Your thoughts are interrupted by him pulling you away slightly, his eyes meeting yours. There's intensity in them, but also softness. Most notably, there's love.

"I have never stopped loving you. Not in all that time you were gone. I will never in my life stop loving you, Name." He says firmly, caressing your bruised face with a gentle hand. "I wish I had been there. I wish I could've protected you. I wish none of this--" His voice cracked as he looked down at his lap, a tear soaking into his shirt from his watery eyes. "I wish none of this had ever happened. But I will spent the rest of my life protecting you and helping you heal from this if you let me." His voice is watery and desperate as he strokes your face with his shaking hand, looking into your eyes with his tear soaked ones.

You exhale in surprise, but you nod frantically. You shove yourself into his arms, hugging him tightly.

"Okay. Okay. Yes." You said breathlessly, letting him hold you tight, despite the slight pain it caused you. "I missed you so much, Spencer. I love you." You rush out, a desperate sound leaving your lips.

He brushes a hand through your freshly untangled hair.

"I love you. I love you so much." He returns, kissing the side of your head. "Never letting you go again. Never."

[thewertsearch]

Familial Determinism

Or: let's make wild, uninformed guesses about the troll Ancestors, based solely on the lives of their descendants!

As a bearer of the lowest blood on the hemospectrum, Aradia’s ancestor was probably as poor as she is. She may have been an archeologist like her descendant, assuming the field existed in her era, but I'm much more interested in her potential necromancy.

On the instruction of your ANCESTORS, you have recovered MYSTERIOUS TECHNOLOGY from the ruins, and convinced a friend to adapt it into a GAME THAT WILL BRING ABOUT THE DESTRUCTION OF YOUR CIVILIZATION.

See, due to her bloodline, Granny Megido is the most likely ancestor to be behind the Voices. She's the only one who can claim a direct relationship to Aradia, and I think she was probably still around in the modern era - as a ghost, of course - guiding her young protege, as she worked to trigger the apocalypse.

What's your story, Granny Meg? How did a lowblood medium discover the secrets of Sgrub, centuries before it arrived? How much did you know back then - and how much influence do you still have, even now?

If Alternia's past is anything like its present - and it certainly seems to be - then I can't see Tavros's ancestor surviving there for long. If he survived to adulthood, then it was probably as a peaceful nomad, or perhaps some sort of ranger.

Either way, I don't think he'd involve himself with other trolls, instead preferring to spend time with his planet's wildlife. Basically, I'm picturing Snow White with a mohawk.

Sollux’s ancestor is undoubtedly still a techhead. I know it's centuries in the past, but this is proto-Sollux we're talking about. He'd invent technology if he had to.

Actually, that might have been his role. He could have been one of Alternia's first engineers, leveraging his Sgrub foreknowledge to contribute to Alternia's technological advancement.

Congratulations, Sollux Senior - you helped turn a nation of pirates into a space empire.

Karkat's an interesting one. In a more primitive society - ie, one without Imperial Drones - it might have been easier for him to hide his blood color.

...actually, he might not even have Karkat's blood color. It's possible that Karkat's candy red mutation is unique to him, and the other Vantas has yellow-green blood, like his Trollian position implies he should. That would result in an ancestor with a very different social position to Karkat, and the two could be substantially different as a result.

Nepeta’s current lifestyle would translate perfectly to a primitive Alternia. Her ancestor could easily still live in a cave – and since shipping is probably her calling, too, I'm picturing her as an accomplished matchmaker.

Kanaya’s situation is rather unique. Jadebloods are rare, and inextricably linked to the Mother Grub, so her ancestor has some of the strongest ties to her counterpart.

We're actually aware of an ancient Mother Grub, who may have been alive in the time of the ancestors - which hints at a relationship between Kanaya's ancestor and the next troll on our list.

That would be Terezi's ancestor, whose symbol adorns the Doomsday Scale. This device was probably a collaboration between the Pyrope and Maryam ancestors. Its purpose is unknown, but the Gate symbol is proof that someone had Sgrub foreknowledge. Curious.

Anyway, aside from this side hustle, Pyrope was probably a legislacerator. I wonder if the Alternian legal system was as broken then as it is now?

Equius... well, I don't really know, actually. He certainly feels like the kind of guy who’d model himself off his ancestor, so he was probably a pro-hemospectrum horse enthusiast.

Gamzee’s ancestor could have gone one of two ways. If Sopor Slime existed back in early Alternia, he might have been as docile as his descendant used to be. If it didn’t, he was probably the exact kind of bloodthirsty monster that Gamzee is currently regressing into.

I know which option I'm putting my money on, and it's the one that would make Gamzee proud of his 'Subjugglator' ancestors. Can you guess which?

Eridan’s ancestor is the Orphaner, which makes me think he has a similar role as a slayer of lusi. My best guess is that he killed the custodians of adult trolls.

Feferi is an odd case, because her ancestor would probably be an extremely famous historical empress. Fuchsia blood is so rare that Feferi is literally the only modern troll who has it, so I wouldn't be surprised if her ancestor was revered in her time.

What did you do to Alternia, Pexies? Did you help make it what it is, or - like your descendant - did you try to make it better?

[kikyoupdates]

Made to Destroy ⭑˚💎⭑ 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑢𝑒

bnha x op!reader

op!reader, my hero academia x fem!reader, reverse harem, over powered reader, f!reader

You are the product of a series of twisted experiments, an anomaly that shouldn’t have ever existed in the first place. Thankfully, you are taken into the arms of a hero and given a new purpose in life. But as you soon discover, it isn’t easy to deny your true nature, especially when you were made to destroy.

story masterlist | next

You awaken.

It's a strange feeling, to go from complete darkness to a world of bright, shining artificial lights. The sudden exposure sends your senses into overdrive and causes you to blink repeatedly, to the point that your eyes start watering. 

“...I can’t believe it,” you hear someone mumble. “It actually worked. I’m a genius!”  

There’s a man in front of you. He’s got a bushy mustache and a pair of distinct, thick-rimmed goggles that prevent you from seeing into his eyes clearly. An elderly man, although it’s hard to tell his exact age. The only other noteworthy thing about him is that he’s wearing a white lab coat. 

And based on how widely he’s grinning, he seems to be rather pleased about something.  

He quickly clears his throat. “Ahem. I suppose I shouldn’t get too ahead of myself. I need to test all your senses first. You can hear me, I’m assuming? You’re certainly reacting to visual stimuli, like the light shining in your eyes. If you can hear me and understand what I’m saying, nod your head once.”  

At first, you just blink, still disoriented and confused, but soon enough, his words sink in. 

You nod, and the man—Dr. Garaki—seems even more pleased than he was just a few seconds ago.  

“Excellent!” he exclaims, and you watch as he scribbles something down onto a clipboard. “Language comprehension is working just fine too. Although now it’s time for the real test. Listen closely, please. I’ve decided I want to call you [Name]. Can you try saying that? Try saying your name for me, little one.” 

You stare at him for a few moments, and even though you understand what he’s asking of you, it still takes a while for your mouth to move the way you want it to.  

But eventually, you succeed.  

“[N-Name],” you repeat, sounding a bit uncertain at first. You knit your brows together and try again, and this time, it’s far less shaky. “[Name].” 

“Oh, marvelous!” Dr. Garaki praises. He even claps his hands together, incapable of hiding his excitement. “Yes, what a truly wonderful job! Well done. It suits you, too. I really have a knack when it comes to naming my creations.”  

He doesn’t ask you to say anything else, so you sit perfectly still, just staring at him. However, you’ve just learned something. You have a name. 

For some reason, it makes your heart clench, and you’re not quite sure how to describe what you’re feeling.  

Perhaps that’s another thing you have yet to learn.  

“You really are a masterful, prodigal creation,” Dr. Garaki says, stroking his mustache. “It’s incredible. All of your senses appear to be fully functional, and not only that, but you can understand things and communicate, just like a real human would. I always thought that creating Nomus would be the greatest exploit of my career, and I failed so many times before when I tried to artificially engineer a human without a corpse as a base... but you managed to surpass all my expectations. Perhaps I should call you my little miracle.” 

You don’t understand what he’s trying to say, but once again, he seems rather pleased.  

“Best of all is your appearance,” he continues, brushing a finger against your cheek. “Just looking at you, everyone would assume you’re an ordinary little girl! I truly have outdone myself this time around. The Nomus are beautiful in their own way, but you are a carbon copy of the human race. A perfect replication.”  

This man sure likes to talk a lot. Or maybe he talks a perfectly normal amount, but you just don’t have any other frame of reference to compare it to.  

Dr. Garaki steps closer to you and smiles. “Now, then. I still have some tests to finish running, so be a good girl and sit still. Don’t worry. It’ll only take a moment.” 

You don’t really have any idea of what’s normal or not, which is why you don’t move a single muscle as he straps your limbs down to the chair and makes sure to tighten the fastenings shut, so that you can’t break free.  

You are ignorant. You can’t possibly know any better. So, when Dr. Garaki inches towards you, gripping a scalpel between his fingers, all you do is stare at him quietly.  

And then there’s just pain.  

It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before, and you scream out at the top of your lungs as Dr. Garaki slices into your flesh, showing zero remorse.  

You’ve only ever spoken your name, so you’re not quite sure what to say to get him to stop, but eventually, the words bubble up to the surface.  

“S-Stop... stop it! It... hurts...” 

“Oh-ho!” he muses. “Already assembling sentences on your own, I see. You register pain just like a normal human would too. It’s truly splendid!”  

Despite your outcry, he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even bother to apologize. He just keeps carving you up, ignoring all of your tortured, anguished screams, as well as the look of sheer desperation on your face.  

It feels like you’re about to die. You’ve only known what it’s like to live for a few brief moments, and already, it’s going to be taken from you.  

All this pain, all of this blood... and yet, you still haven’t died yet.  

Why?  

“Ah-ha!” Dr. Garaki exclaims. He steps back and grins cruelly. “It took a while for your body to respond, but there it is! The regeneration is finally kicking in. For a moment, I was worried I hadn’t transplanted the Quirk correctly. Thank goodness everything is in order.” 

He finally stops. You let out a shuddering breath, and you’re suddenly aware of a damp feeling on your cheeks, as well as the fact that your vision is blurry.  

Oh. You must be crying.  

“No need for tears, little one,” Dr. Garaki reassures. “Go on, take a look. Your body is repairing itself as we speak. Everything is going to be just fine.”  

He’s right. Just a few moments ago, you were in so much pain that it felt like you would cease to exist, but now you watch as your bloody, mutilated skin pieces itself back together, until you’re practically brand new. 

The injuries are gone, and so is the pain.  

Dr. Garaki smiles. “See? There’s no reason to be afraid. I’ve made you durable. An incredible creation you may very well be, but you’re of no use to me if you break right away.”  

Something about what he just said doesn’t exactly sit right with you. A voice in your head is telling you to trust this man and listen to everything he says. To follow all of his orders without fail and carry out his ambitions.  

But another voice in your head—admittedly, a much smaller one—is telling you the exact opposite.  

And for some reason, that’s the voice you choose to listen to.  

“It hurt,” you mutter accusingly. “I asked you... to stop.”  

Dr. Garaki frowns, clearly bewildered. “Hm? You sure are becoming increasingly talkative. You must be absorbing information even faster than I thought you would. But like I said, you’re fine. You can handle far more damage than this. Trust me. You can always trust me, alright?”  

No. You get the feeling that you shouldn’t trust him. You shouldn’t trust a single word that comes out of his mouth, and if you stay here, there’s a very good chance that he’ll hurt you again.  

So, the solution is obvious.  

You need to leave.  

“I’m leaving,” you declare. Dr. Garaki proceeds to stare at you in disbelief, and he even sets his clipboard aside so that he can give you his undivided attention.  

“You’re not leaving,” he frowns. “And why would you want to leave? I’m your creator. I brought you to life. I engineered you specifically so that you would serve me and obey my commands, and you say you want to leave? How does any of that make sense? Is it possible I made a mistake somewhere...?”  

He scratches his mustache, unable to make sense of the situation. Even now, there’s still that irritating voice that’s telling you to obey, but you grit your teeth and fight against it, refusing to succumb to the pressure.  

And then you feel it. Something wells up from deep inside you, and as you stare down at the infuriating bindings that are tying you down to the chair, you suddenly realize: Oh. I can break these. 

So, you do.  

“...what in the world?!”  

Dr. Garaki lets out a squeal as you break free of the restraints and kick the chair to the side. He instinctively reaches for the scalpel, then points it towards you, most likely as an act of self-defense.  

Unfortunately, seeing that bloody scalpel again elicits painful memories, and it makes you really, really angry.  

You feel it again. It’s as if something is bubbling up inside of you, desperately seeking release. It pulses and flows, moving through your body in the form of energy. Power. Strength.  

“You’re out of your mind!” Dr. Garaki screams. “You’re supposed to listen to everything I say! What’s wrong with you?! You’re a faulty product! You're damaged goods! Now, sit back down and stay put before I—”  

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence. You swing your arm out, and he should be thanking his lucky stars that he managed to jump away in time.  

Destruction unfolds. You’re not quite sure what you did, but you made sure to channel all the strength you could muster, and now the room you’re in—which upon closer inspection, is some kind of lab—has practically been torn to shreds.  

Dr. Garaki is trapped underneath a pile of rubble, and he whimpers helplessly. “I-I don’t understand. The only Quirk I gave you... was the ability to regenerate. Is this... some kind of mutation? But how did it...”  

He passes out, either from shock, pain, or some combination of the two.  

It’s then that you spot a hole in the wall that must have formed when you unleashed your attack earlier. It’s quite small, but you’re fairly small too, so there’s a good chance you’ll fit.  

You drop to your knees and crawl. It’s a snug fit, but you manage to wiggle your way through, and after a brief patch of darkness, you emerge on the other side.  

A bright sky greets you. It’s sunny and warm, and you decide that you quite like this feeling. It’s certainly far more pleasant than being inside the lab, with its murky scent and unnatural lights. It seems as though your decision to leave was the right one after all.  

You clench your hand into a fist. That strange burst of energy you felt earlier is completely gone. You must have used up all your strength. But it’s okay. You’re free now.  

You’re free, and you will discover all that life has to offer.

story masterlist | next

More chapters are available on Quotev or Wattpad!!

⊱.⋅follow + post notifications on for story update announcements or join the author's discord!⋅.⊰

Check out the author’s library!

[utilitycaster]

Daggerheart Character Build thoughts!

I am actually out at work and haven't checked the version that's since come out, but I did participate in the character build beta, and the NDA is officially lifted, so here's my thoughts from that! It's definitely limited since I just made a L1 character and didn't go through gameplay, though I surmise about some aspects of gameplay.

Overall, it clearly seems to be made by people who love a lot of things about D&D 5e but wanted both more flexibility and more simplicity, which is difficult. I think they succeed.

To that end, it takes away some of the crunchier aspects (precise positioning, exact amounts of gold) and I think for some people that will be a problem, and that's valid, but ultimately this game wants to both allow for interesting mechanics in and out of combat while also not being terribly math/map/resource management heavy. It is a hard line to walk; most systems either go hard crunch or go entirely gooey.

The dice mechanic (2d12, Hope and Fear system) is fantastic; look it up but I think it handles mixed successes more gracefully and interestingly than a lot of games.

The playtest was not super clear on armor and evasion choices (or indeed what evasion means; it seems to be sort of initiative but sort of dex save, or maybe more like the Pathfinder/old school D&D varying ACs by scenario?). It was much, MUCH clearer than D&D on weapon choices (part of why I play casters? Weapon rules in D&D are annoying and poorly explained and many people rightfully ignore them) so I'm hoping this becomes clear when there's a full guide rather than just the character creation info.

The character creation questions by class were fantastic and in general, and this is a theme, this feels like it guides people towards collaboration. FWIW I feel like D&D has that information, but the way it's presented is very much as flavor text rather than a thing you should be doing. Daggerheart makes this a much more core part of creation. The Experience mechanic is particularly clear: you better be working with your GM and really thinking about background, rather than slapping it on as a mechanic.

The other side of character creation questions is that it really encourages engagement with the class, which is something I've talked about. I think either subversion for the sake of subversion, or picking a class for the mechanics and aesthetic but not the fundamental concept, will be much harder to justify in Daggerheart, and I think that's a good thing because when people do that, their characters tend to be weaker.

The downtime is designed for you to write hurt/comfort fanfic about and this is a compliment. There are a number of mechanics that reward RP, particularly one of the healing mechanics under the Splendor track. I feel like a weakness of D&D is that when you try to reward RP it's really nebulous because there's not actually a ton of space to put that - you can give inspiration, but, for example, the empathy domain Matt homebrewed actually feels kind of off because it's based on such fuzzy concepts amid mechanics that are usually more rigid. Daggerheart comes off as much cleaner yet still RP-focused, and I'm excited to see it in action.

A judgement of Candela and I suppose Daggerheart might be that it's designed for actual play. I've mentioned before that I know people who are super into the crunch and combat and numbers of TTRPGs and are less story-oriented, and again, that's valid, but actual play is just storytelling using a ttrpg and so yes, a game that encourages RP while also having mechanics to support that and influence it is an extremely good goal. I am not an actual player, but I do like D&D games with a good plot and not just Go Kill Monsters, and I want to play this. (I also have some real salty thoughts about how if you modify an existing game for AP purposes that's staggering genius apparently, but if you make your own game how dare you but that's another post).

And now, the classes/subclasses. I am going to sort of use D&D language to describe them because that's a point of reference most people reading this will understand, but they are not one-to-one. A couple notes: everyone can use weapons and armor. HP is not totally clear to me but it seems to be threshold based - everyone has the same HP to start but people have different thresholds and armor, so the tank classes have the same amount of HP but are much harder to actually do damage to.

All classes are built on a combination of a subclass and two domains. There are 9 classes and 9 domains. This technically means that if you wanted to fuck around and homebrew you could make up to 36 classes (27 additional) by just grabbing two domains that weren't otherwise combined, which is fun to consider for the potential. Anyway I cover the classes and briefly describe domains within them. You can take any domain card within your domain, regardless of subclass.

There are six stats. Presence, Instinct, Knowledge, and Strength map roughly to Charisma, Wisdom, Intelligence, and Strength. Dex is split into Agility and Finesse; Agility covers gross motor skills (jumping, most ranged weapons, "maneuvering") and Finesse finer ones (lockpicking and tinkering, though also it does cover hiding). The really big wins are first, no CON score, so you don't need to sink stat points into something that grants no skills but keeps you alive. The second one is that the "hybrid" classes spellcast from their physical stat. This is fucking fantastic. The thing about ranger or paladin or the spellcasting subclasses of rogue and fighter in D&D is that if you don't roll pretty well you're locked into the core stats and CON and nothing else. (This also doesn't have rolling for stats: you assign +2 to one stat, presumably your main, and then distribute two +1s, two 0s, and one -1.)

Your HP, Evasion, and Thresholds are set by class, and there's a core ability; the rest is all from the cards you take for subclass and domain.

Leveling up is very much based on taking more domain cards (abilities) but has a certain degree of flexibility. It's by chunks: in leveling up anywhere levels 2-4, you can, for example, increase your proficiency by +1 once, so if you wanted to do that at level 2 but your fellow player wanted to wait until level 4 and take something else at level 2 instead, they could. It allows for more min-maxing, but also everyone has the same level up rules and differs only in the abilities on the cards, which is very cool.

Bard: Grace (enchantment spells) and Codex (learned spellcaster stuff; the spells available are definitely arcane in vibes) based, Presence is your main stat. The two subclasses map roughly to lore-style stuff and eloquence. Core class ability is sort of like inspiration but not entirely. It's a bard; I like bards a lot, and this is very similar vibes-wise to your D&D bards. If you like D&D bards you will like this.

Druid: Sage (nature spells) and Arcana (raw magical power spellcaster stuff), Instinct is your spellcasting/main stat. The two subclasses are elemental but frankly cooler than circle of the moon, and a more healing/tranquility of nature focused one. I really think Marisha probably gave feedback on this one, because the elemental version is really strong. You do get beastform; it is quite similar to a D&D druid under a different system, as the bard, but the beastform options are, frankly, better and easier to understand.

Guardian: Valor (melee tank/damager) and Blade (damage). Strength based for the most part (Valor mechanics assume strength) though you could go for like, +2 Agility +1 Strength to start. This is barbarian but like. 20 times better. It is, fundamentally, a tank class, and it is very good at it, with one even more tank-focused subclass and one that is more about retaliatory damage. You do have a damage-halving ability once per day, but really guardian's questions are incredible. I think Travis and Ashley likely gave feedback. Also rage doesn't render you incapable of concentration as that doesn't seem to be a thing, so multiclassing seems way more possible (you are, I think, only allowed to do one multiclass, and not until you reach level 5 minimum, which I am in favor of). Yes, you can be a Bardian.

Ranger: This is what I built! It is based on Sage and Bone (movement around the field/dodging stuff) and it is Agility-based, including for spellcasting, which is a MASSIVE help (as is, again, the fact that CON isn't a thing.) The subclasses are basically being really good at navigation, or animal companion. Most importantly to me you can be a ranger with a longsword and you are not penalized; Bone works with either ranged weapons or melee.

Rogue: Midnight (stealth/disguise/assassination spells and skills) and Grace-based. Yes, rogue is by default a spellcaster, which does help a LOT with the vibes for me. One subclass is basically about having lots of connections (as a spy or criminal might) and the other is about magical slinking about. Hiding/sneak attack are also streamlined. I will admit I'm still more interested in…almost everything else, but I think it evened out a lot of rogue weaknesses.

Seraph: Splendor (healing/divine magic) and Valor. This is your Paladin equivalent. It is strength-based for casting, again making hybrid classes way less stressful. Questions for this area also incredible; you do have something not unlike a lay on hands pool as well. Your subclasses are being able to fly and do extra damage; or being able to make your melee weapon do ranged attacks and also some extra healing stuff, the latter of which is my favorite. Yasha vibes from this, honestly. Single downside is this is the only class where they recommend you dump Knowledge. I will not, and I never will. Now that I don't have to make sure CON is high? I am for REAL never giving myself less than a +1 Knowledge in this game.

Sorcerer: Arcana (raw nature of magic/elemental vibes) and Midnight based. Yes, sorcerers and rogues now share a vibe, for your convenient….less enthused feelings. Instinct-based, which intrigues me, and the core features are in fact really good. The two subclasses are either one that focuses on metamagic abilities, or one that is elemental based. I would play this for a long-running game, though it's not my favorite, and I can't say that for D&D sorcerer (except divine soul).

Warrior: Blade and Bone, and the recommended build is Agility but you could do a strength build. Fighter! One subclass is about doing damage and one is about the hope/fear mechanics core to the game that I have NOT talked much about. I will admit, the hybrid martials and Guardian are more interesting to me but you do have good battle knowledge.

Wizard: Codex and Splendor. Wizards can heal in this system; farewell, I will be doing nothing else (jk). Knowledge-based, and you can either go hardcore expertise in knowledge, or be a battle wizard.

Other scattered thoughts: healing is not as big a deal here; there is no pure cleric class! There is also no monk, warlock, or artificer. There is not a way to do monk as a weaponless class really though you might be able to flavor the glowing rings as a monk weapon and play a warrior. Wizard, meanwhile, with the right experiences and high finesse, would allow for some artificer flavor. Cleric and Warlock are the two tough ones and I will admit those are tricky; I feel like you'd have to multiclass (which you cannot do until level 5) between perhaps seraph and a caster class and you're still going to come off very paladin.

[starlazergazer]

It’s Not Too Late

Pairing: Anakin x Reader

Request: Anakin gets a second chance to have true freedom and peace! Reader comes across Darth Vader for the first time after order 66 and attempts to pull Anakin back on the right path.

Warnings: None, some angst

Word count: 3k

A/N: Only in this one very instance can you fix him! I know the request asks for fluffy but I made this super angsty instead with some fighting banter between Anakin and the reader so I hope you like it because I loved writing it!

You’d heard the whispers, how could you not, though no one was ever brave enough to tell you them to your face. Not that you blamed them. That your best friend Anakin Skywalker could be the famous Darth Vader, Palpatine’s personal padawan, was so ludicrous, so ridiculous, you wouldn’t have let anyone utter the accusation in your presence leave unscathed.

And yet still a part of you knew.

The day it happened, the exact moment it happened, you could feel it. More than a disturbance in the force, more than a breaking of prophecy: a betrayal, a very personal very painful betrayal.

But still looking up at the man you had thought you once knew from your position chained on the floor you felt the last part of your hope die, unaware even that that hope had existed in the first place.

“I didn’t want to believe the rumors” you shook your head at him, eyes bouncing back and forth between those familiar but very different blue ones.

“And here I thought you’d be happy to see me” a smirk grew over his lips as he looked down at you. And somehow those words hurt worse than seeing him walk around with such authority through the empire’s army, more than seeing a new infamously red saber strapped to his hip.

“You’ve changed” you shook your head back up at him, feeling the lump grow in the base of your throat with each passing minute “You are not the Anakin I knew”

“I am exactly the Anakin you knew” he chuckled back at you, crossing his arms over his chest as he sat down calmly in the chair before you, causally crossing one leg over the other “Just finally lived up to my full potential”

And you didn’t know how to respond to that, to his complete acceptance, even beyond that his full belief that he was being aided by the dark side of the force, that it was somehow making him better, stronger. “What do you want?”

“Your base” he answered plainly, leaving forward in his seat to rest his elbows on his knees staring down at you “the rebel base, I want coordinates”

“What makes you think I have them?” You asked with a shrug, watching the smug smile slowly fade from his face.

“Don’t play dumb it was never a good look on you”

You felt your own anger spike within you as his did. He clearly didn’t know you that well if he thought you would give it up this easy. “What happened to being the chosen one?” You taunted him, turning to pressing his buttons on purpose, proving even if just to yourself that at least you knew him “you were supposed to-“

“-bring balance to the force yes I’ve heard it all before” and oh how you relished the anger in his tone, in the way the words hissed out through a clenched jaw, the way his eyes narrowed down at you ever so slightly, you’d always enjoyed messing with angry Anakin “answer the question”

“I’m just saying if you wanna talk about playing dumb, does turning to the dark side really seem like the best way to go about that?”

“Says the one chained to the floor” he pushed to his feet towering over you as he spoke “Now because of our past I’m giving you a chance here, a chance to answer to me instead of the emperor, do not mistake this kindness for weakness” and before you could respond he was turning around and walking back through the door, but you weren’t done. You couldn’t let him leave it like that, couldn’t let him bring up your past friendship like it was nothing more than a bargaining chip to be cashed in later.

“You know I thought we had lost you with order 66” You called out after him “I mourned your death” you couldn’t even bring yourself to feel shame over the way your voice shook, overwhelming amounts of anger and betrayal trumping any and all other emotions within you.

He didn’t even look back as he spoke in a disturbingly monotone voice “Anakin Skywalker is dead. I am what remains”

You shook your head at his response though he couldn’t see it, hating him for the way he tried to hide from what he has done, shelter who he once was from the man he has become.

A bitter laugh escaped you “No, you don’t get to distance yourself from your own actions, you don’t get to protect that jedi you once were by calling yourself a different name.”

His body went rigid at your words, the surprise from your outburst evident in his reaction, it wouldn’t surprise you to learn that you were the first person to ever call him out on it.

“Anakin Skywalker was my friend” you pushed on, spitting the words at his feet “and you tarnish his memory with every action done in the name of the empire"

Anakin spun around on his heel at your words, a dangerous smirk on his face before he knelt down squatting before you, an all too familiar mischievous twinkle in his eye “You know I always liked the way you spoke your mind no matter what” A taunt in his tone, a look that dared you to step out of line “You never really knew when to shut up did you? I suggest you learn”

“You forget that I know you” you taunted back, leaning in even closer to him, showing him he wasn’t scaring you by forcing proximity “you can’t hide behind your charms from me Skywalker”

Still the smug smirk didn’t drop from his face, his eyes taking a second to bounce between yours before locking on a piece of hair that fell in front of your face. Slowly his hand reached out, effortlessly tucking it back behind your ear like he had done a thousand times before. And suddenly you were back beneath the stars with him, talking about the future, upcoming missions, battle strategies, just about anything you could think of to keep him out there with you.

His hand struck with practiced efficiency, reaching out to grab your chin before you could even comprehend its movement, his fingers digging into your cheeks as he held your gaze on his “You will tell me where the rebel base is or I will take you to see emperor Palpatine, and trust me neither of us wants that to happen”

And even though the mere gesture of pulling your hair behind your ear had sent your heart racing and your mind reeling you forced your eyes to lock onto his, pushing down any feelings of familiarity, telling yourself exactly what he had just told you moments ago Anakin Skywalker is dead, he is what remains

“What’s the magic word?”

He cracked a smile at that, still holding you in place for a few seconds longer, giving you one last opportunity to answer before finally dropping your face, muttering a soft “so be it” before standing back up and heading for the door.

-

It had been easy to escape your bindings, too easy honestly, to the point that a small part of you wondered if you had been meant to escape them in the first place, if this was what your past with Anakin was worth to him, a chance and a poorly hidden saber.

You broke for the nearest town as soon as you could, keeping low and your thin scarf pulled over your face knowing it was far too easy to stick out in the empty desert.

You didn’t make it that far.

“You really thought it would be that easy?” His voice taunted you from behind, your body sagging slightly as you heard it, you hadn’t even noticed his approach.

“Yeah honestly” you returned, spinning around to face him “planning was never your forte”

He chuckled softly at that, shaking his head, casting his eyes down to his feet as he rested a single hand on his saber on his hip, looking far too much like the Anakin you had once known long ago. “Tell me where the base is Y/N”

And even though it remained unsaid you could feel the threat in his voice, in the way he glared at you, in the way his hand on his saber twitched.

“Are you not going to ask me about him?” You knew now wasn’t the time for the question, knew it was dumb to press that particular button now, but you couldn’t stand letting Anakin cast him off like this, cast you off like this.

He faltered at your question, his shoulders dropping slightly, his hand slipping from his saber. “You’ve been in contact with him?”

“Of course I have” you sighed, “And Ahsoka, Rex” you let your sentence trail off, hang in the air, let him come to you and ask the question if he wanted to know.

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air as Anakin waited, as you waited, only breaking when his voice spoke up, a shake in it you weren’t expecting “are they-“

And maybe it was the way his voice shook, the way his posture slumped, the way those all too familiar blue eyes were silently begging you, but you took pity on him, chancing a small step forward as you finished his sentence “they’re okay. Ahsoka even removed Rex’s chip, they’re all okay”

Another silence hung in the air, an almost imperceptible nod in Anakin’s head as he stared down at his feet, only looking up to chance a look at you when he finally spoke again, in a small defeated voice “just tell me where the base is Y/N, that’s all I need, then I can turn around and pretend I never saw you here”

You sighed at that, shaking your head softly “You know I can’t do that Ani”

He chuckled bitterly at that, going for his saber, igniting it, his face illuminating in red as he did so.

And instinctively your hand went to your own saber, ready to draw it and defend yourself, ready to be caught up in a sparing match with Anakin just as you had so many times before, but no, you had to remind yourself, it wouldn’t be just sparing this time around, not anymore.

You unclipped it from your belt, taking a moment to feel its weight in your hand, before tossing it to the side, watching the sand around it kick up as it landed a few feet away from you. “I won’t fight you”

Anakin shook his head, his eyes snapping to your saber on the ground next to you, a bitter laugh that didn’t full materialize on his lips “I’m not falling for that”

“Its not a trick” you shrugged, opening your hands before you, “I won’t fight you”

“Pick up your saber Y/N” he yelled at you, still holding his own before him, still poised to strike but holding back, waiting “I will not tell you again”

You watched him with a small shake of your head “Ani I can’t fight you”

And for a second you just watched his chest rise and fall quickly as a war raged in his mind, as he debated his next steps, before a frustrated yell ripped through the air and he was charging at you, and you couldn’t help yourself, you closed your eyes, a breath catching in your chest as you waited for the inevitable, and kept on waiting.

A tentative eye opened to see a bright flash of red, hovering just above your shoulder, just waiting there. Your gaze followed it up to Anakin only to see he wasn’t looking at you, he was looking down at his saber. And you could tell from the look in his eyes, from the way his grip kept changing, from the rapid fall and rise of his chest, that he was trying to talk himself into it.

Then a sigh and the blade was retracted, Anakin refusing to meet your gaze as he stepped back “get out of here Y/N”

And immediately you took a step back, your body begging you to run, to put this place and Anakin as far behind you as possible. But still you couldn’t.

“Come with me”

His gaze snapped up to yours in surprise, his eyebrows crunched together in confusion “I can’t” it came out as more a question.

“You can” you tried to encourage him, taking a tentative step towards him “You can come with me now and we can figure the rest of it out”

“I work for the empire” he spoke softly, “the empire isn’t what you think it is, they’re doing good, I’m doing good”

You sighed with a shake of your head, still inching forward, still holding out hope “You, you became the very thing you sought to destroy. Turning your back on everything you once stood for”

“Did I?” he challenged you calmly, repeating thoughts you knew he’d already gone through a thousand times before “or am I still upholding my same beliefs. I vowed to serve the republic and I still do, no matter what name it goes by now”

“You vowed to serve the people of the republic” you corrected “and now under the empires rule those people suffer”

“under the empire’s rule they are safe” he countered “From the time we were children we were told we were meant to be peacekeepers and that is exactly what I am doing now”

“You call this peace?” You couldn’t help but chuckle “How many die each day because of the empire’s tyranny”

“Because of the resistances rebellion” he countered but there was no malice in it, not the same angry argument as before but rather a debate.

“Look at them Anakin” you gestured to the town just before you, at the people begging for scraps outside of the bar, at the buildings crumbling from lack of maintenance “this is the effect the empire has on people”

Anakin shook his head at the sight before him, his eyes casting back down to the sand too quickly.

“Look at them” you repeated, putting more force into your words, practically begging him “Look at what the empire has done to this town, what you have done.”

“The empire stopped the war” Anakin’s gaze suddenly snapped back up to yours, a new defensiveness in his tone you weren’t used to hearing from him “these people are at peace, they do not fear for their lives anymore and that is what the empire has done”

“These people are starving” you objected, trying to keep your voice light but firm “they no longer fear death at the hands of intergalactic war but rather storm troopers on a power trip, bounty hunters, vagrants. They are far from safe”

“And what would you have me do now?” He demanded, exasperation in his tone “I stopped a war, I gave everything to stop a war”

“And now?” you questioned him “you did it, you stopped the war, why are you with them now?”

Anakin didn’t respond to that, his mind churning as his eyes bounced back and forth between yours, not saying a word as his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.

It all seemed to click for you then, where his hesitation was coming from, his stubbornness, his need to believe he was right, had been right all along “It’s not too late for you you know”

Anakin froze on the spot, eyes jumping up to meet yours, desperately willing for you to continue.

“You made a few mistakes, took some missteps but you can still do good”

“I’ve made a lot more than a few mistakes” his tone was soft and dejected.

“That’s okay” you tried to assure him with a shake of your head “You can still do good”

He shook his head in response, eyes finally lifting from you to scan the town around you “that’s not who I’m meant to be, that is not my destiny”

“Screw destiny” you countered quickly “it wasn’t long ago your destiny was to bring balance to the force and now the jedi order no longer exists. There is no more destiny there is just the choices you make here and now”

“I can’t” he objected weakly with a shake of his head “I can’t just leave”

“you can” you countered but saw as he refused to listen to you, taking steps back, so you forward, without a second thought wrapping your arms around his neck, whispering the words into his ear “Ani you can”

And you felt him go rigid under your touch, refuse to give in, but not quite pushing you off.

“Let go what you have done in the past” you tried to urge him “focus on what you can do now. And right now you can help them. You can help me”

And slowly you felt his arms come up, first placed awkwardly on your back, giving you a chance to take it all back, before slowly wrapping completely around you, pulling you deeper into him, a shaky breath escaping him as he did so, as he buried his face in your hair “I don’t know how it all went so wrong”

“I know Ani I know” you assured him softly, rubbing a hand up and down his back “but now we can work to make it better”

“We?” You heard the hope in his voice and couldn’t help but chuckle, chuckle and fight to keep the tears at bay.

Pulling back from him softly, noting the way his arms seemed reluctant to let you go completely, just enough that you could look into his eyes. “You and me, we’ll make it right”

[rxzennia]

echoes from afar

– tales of the voracity pathstrider

✎𓂃 your friends… they call for you. this was from a few version updates ago, but i've been mad busy and unmotivated these days… :( lore with a sprinkle of aventurine. a very, very tiny sprinkle. so i thought i could get this up last week. i am a clown. also, samsung's one ui 6 is so ugly (edit: i got used to the ugly ui. still doesn't quite like it, though. but i got used to it enough to tolerate it). 

→ part ii (wip? deciding. lmk if a sequel sounds cool.)

you didn't think you'd hear your own species ever again. oroboros is somewhere in the universe, qlipoth was probably keeping them out of where civilizations are, and the rest are all either dead or scattered. but here you are, hearing distant screeches from a star system lightyears away from yours, the sound slowly getting closer, closer, closer.

the war between aeons seems inevitable now that you've walked the land amongst mortals, seen their strife, and tasted the ever-so-familiar touch of entwining paths heralding the conflict. the longer you spend living, masquerading as someone who will someday die, you see the violent undercurrents under every calm ocean, as if everything is running on a countdown.

of course, you will never truly understand any of that; time has never been a limited resource for you.

you can almost hear the screeches of your own kin right by your ear

but you know, clear as day, that there's only you on the balcony right now

you're alone on the balcony of aventurine's bedroom, your boss snoring away comfortably cuddled up to his cats

you haven't been able to sleep for a while

not since you've heard the first cry of a leviathan in literally ages

leviathans seldom communicate with one another, so why would they suddenly reach out now?

and you were fairly certain that oroboros is the only other one left

well, the only one that's still actively doing who-knows-what somewhere, anyways

either what you're hearing is the lingering cries of those who are already gone

or you're delusional and you're hallucinating

aventurine doesn't seem to notice your absence, probably because of his abundance of things to cuddle with apart from your person. a good thing, you suppose, because your chronically stressed boss needs his beauty sleep.

you don't intend to drag anyone into your worries. it's nothing you can't handle alone – or, rather, it's not something mortals can handle, even with an organization as robust as the ipc. your existence, your true descent of a dusk leviathan, your connection to the aeon of voracity, none of which are burdens your companions should bear. 

it's these quiet moments when your kin raises their voices and sing in your ears

no, scrap that poetic shit, more like screech in your ears

they recognize prey, they recognize a hunting ground, a free-for-all

it's only natural, you suppose, lest predators start to devour each other in hunger

they're trying to locate you, the sound echoing, bouncing back, as they seek out food

"i'd strongly advise against doing that," you mumble, patting your scarf idly, as if you can't be bothered to care

they're not too far from where your true form slumbers, it seems, and it's easier than a cakewalk to force them into submission

and yet, you cannot locate them

you have their general location, but you can't pinpoint their exact coordinates

you try again, and again, until you come to a realization

they're dead a long time ago; there is nothing for you to find

their wails echo into nothingness, a void that is even more empty than oroboros's stomach

by the time you realize the purpose of these ancient cries, your true form is already stirring from its slumber. in all its majesty, its maw parting to split heaven and hell, until it swallows the carcasses of your kin, until it slithers through the stars, seeking out its next meal.

for the first time in the entire two thousand amber eras of your "existence", you feel hungry. famished, even, and it is a strange feeling.

have you gotten too accustomed to the mundane?

have you been domesticated?

quite some good questions, actually

how long has it been since you've actually allowed yourself the pleasure of devouring planets?

far too long

but it's wrong to eat civilizations

it's wrong to put an end to so many histories and futures because you were feeling peckish

it doesn't even actually "fill" you, so that's just triple the wrong

well, by the textbook definition of wrong, anyways

you don't really understand, but you know the general consensus of "eating people bad"

but your stomach yearns for the familiar feeling of life in its void

you turn around to take a peek at the peacefully sleeping man in the bed, safely tucked away in the blankets

a perfect prey right there, defenseless and unsuspecting

it would be so easy to just gobble him up without anyone noticing

and you could slip away just as easily

your entire profile is fabricated – you can always just make another "you" elsewhere 

but you find yourself extremely reluctant to even wake your extension coiled around the oddly-shaped cats

you find the trust that mortals impart upon you a gift of most intrigue

it is such a fragile, precious thing, and yet they offer it to you freely

especially this man who you serve as an assistant…

aventurine. 

it isn't even his real name, but you find yourself mouthing the syllables again and again. this man who is bestowed the title of a gemstone, wielding the power of the amber lord who strives to protect mortals from your kind like you're some sort of eldritch horror, yet also the one who has you wrapped around his finger.

and you're one of the select few he holds close to his heart. against all odds, he had let you into his heart, see his wounds and scars, and trusts you with all of them. he might act the way he does, but you know how delicate he is underneath all that bravado.

out of curiosity, you try to move the leviathan amongst the pile of limbs, sheets, and felines

as you expected, it doesn't want to answer

it seems that your body doesn't want to act on any malicious intents

you really did get domesticated… 

oh, aeons, it'll come back and bite you in the ass someday, won't it?

even if you have no qualms about eating anything that's not intelligent 

like monsters and stuff

but still

you shouldn't have developed aversion to devouring entire persons

…

it is what it is, you suppose

but holy fuck, those screeches from galaxies away just would not stop

"fucking oroboros, shut the hell up already," you groan, pulling up your scarf to muffle your complaints, "i'm not eating anyone here."

if there was someone behind all this pestering, you definitely would've gone and beaten them up. but. but. there's no one behind this. none that you can think of.

unless it really is oroboros themselves, which you'll have an even bigger problem on your hands. you really hope it isn't.

the noises clear up into words, whispering into your ears

consume. devour. feed. destroy. 

cast them into the void. let them be your sustenance. take their power as your own.

you are a predator. why are you among prey?

they are many but fragile. why do you still hesitate?

no.

no, they are not fragile.

they are not prey.

they are not sustenance.

do not speak of them as if they are nothing but food.

what do you know of the people inhabiting the countless planets in the cosmos?

what do you know of the storms they have weathered?

humanity is stronger than you would ever know.

tonight will be a long night, it seems. you can only hope that this doesn't manifest as some sort of personality disorder. come morning, these thoughts will go away as your mind becomes occupied with work.

there are four system hours until then. 

a leviathan like you, a monster of the cosmos… 

shut up. shut up. shut up. shut up. shut up.

be quiet already.

wish as you may, they will continue to torment you.

why? because they seek answers.

how long will you keep wearing the skin of sheep?

[freedomfireflies]

The Angel and the Fae

Summary: The one where Harry is an angel that falls in love with a garden fairy.

And even the heavens can't keep you apart.

Word Count: 3.2k

Harry thinks you’re the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen.

He decides this the moment he sees you. Resolves instantaneously upon a fleeting glance that you – with your long hair that flows beneath the crown of white lilies atop your head – will be the reason he falls from heaven.

He watches you from the edge of Aspen Hollow. Never once stepping foot past the sacred edge that surrounds the ethereal garden where you preside. Not even a feather from his wings is permitted to dance into such holy ground.

A fawn has crawled its way into your lap. Entrusting you with its care and safety as its eyes fall shut and it blissfully settles into your delicate and soothing embrace. 

You’re speaking to it. Softly. Comfortingly. Trailing your finger from its nose down to its spine.

“There, little one,” you’re cooing. Hushed yet reverent. “Sleep now.”

Harry considers himself lucky to be able to hear the way your heart beats beneath your chest. Steady. Rhythmic. Calm. You’re happy. Content and filled with tranquility.

He detects the exact moment you sense him. Catches the hitch in your breath and the jump of your pulse.

He readies himself to explain – to assuage you. He expects your fear, your resentment. Expects you to cast him out. Forbid him from returning.

Instead, you seem…curious. Hesitant but inquisitive, and when your head turns, his lungs just about cave in.

And in that moment, when your eyes find his, his purpose changes. His entire reason for existence is plucked from one instrument and played on another. A tune so beautiful, so melodious…it makes his heart sing. 

You’re watching him much like he was watching you. But you don’t move from your spot on the grass, instead keeping the fawn safely tucked away in your lap.

You blink, and Harry swears he can feel the flutter of it against his cheek. 

“Hello,” you call quietly, your gentle voice carrying across the few hundred yards from where you reside.

You must know he’ll be able to hear you, and Harry straightens up dutifully, his wings following suit. Expanding some as if to display a sense of chivalry. 

“Hello,” he calls back, equally as soft.

You seem to study him for a moment, and Harry swears this is the longest he’s ever gone without breathing. 

“You aren’t supposed to be here,” you tell him, and he nods once.

“I know,” he admits. “I suppose I just…found it hard to tear myself away.”

You glance down at the sleeping doe on your lap, and he feels his insides twist now that your eyes aren’t on him.

“I apologize if I’ve disturbed you,” he adds, hoping to encourage your attention back.

You hum faintly and brush your palm down the baby deer’s back. “You have not.”

This makes Harry’s mouth curl up into a giddy smile. “Then would you mind if I stay? Only for a moment? I feel quite at peace here.”

You regard him carefully. Inquiringly. “I would imagine an angel is quite often at peace.”

He considers this. “Peace is a privilege,” he finally replies gently. “And it is one that is often lost on me.”

This seems to surprise you, your lips parting delicately as Harry’s pulse begins to thump in his ears. “Then you may stay as long as you’d like.”

His grin doubles in size as he nods his appreciation. “Thank you.”

However, when he remains planted near the tall oak tree that sits beside the edge of the garden, you glance back over.

“Angel,” you call, and Harry’s entire chest caves in. “You’ll disturb me more if you hover like that.” 

He hesitates, looking over the soft but hallowed grass only inches away. “Angels aren’t allowed inside The Garden.”

“Not unless invited,” you correct, and he straightens up. “And I am inviting you in.”

Still, Harry can’t make his feet move, despite the way his wings are desperate to carry him to you. Centuries worth of warnings and guidelines are attempting to remind him of his place, of his duty and his loyalty to the heavens. But that does nothing to dampen his urge to go forth and take.

“Angel,” you repeat with a glimmer in your eye. “Come.”

And that’s all it takes for his foot to instantly cross over into sacred ground.

The moment his wings pass through the invisible barrier, a forceful wind ripples across the garden. Echoing between the trees and the grass as the billowing of air sweeps from flower to flower. All the way to the other side.

You feel your eyes widen as you watch him approach. He’s hesitant but intrigued. And perhaps you know better than to invite him in, but your heart aches to provide the handsome figure a moment of serenity.

He studies every petal and vine as he walks through, wonderstruck by the enchanted orchard. He smiles brightly when a blue jay swoops down beside him, the small bird fluttering around his head a time or two before disappearing back into the branches. 

And the angel laughs. A sound that resembles the moment a wave breaks against the shore. Loud and lively before it settles and softens.

“This is beautiful,” he says, and you nod.

“It represents serenity. A moment of calm before the next stage of life.”

You both look to the small creature in your lap, and the angel’s expression changes. “Are you saying hello…or goodbye?”

You smile gently, trailing your fingers down the sleeping fawn’s spine. “We are saying hello.”

Those clear, green eyes seem to sparkle at you as he grins. “Hello,” he repeats.

You nod again. “She’ll be sent down soon. The moment the sunlight disappears behind the mountains.”

The angel is intrigued, crouching down a few feet away as he studies the way you trail your palm over the soft coat. “Is it hard to let them go?”

“No,” you answer easily, smiling some. “They are meant to live. To flourish. To exist outside of this realm and give back to the earth what it has given to them.”

The garden falls quiet. You feel him watching you while you watch the creature in your lap. He seems to be wrestling against another question and you chuckle to yourself as the fawn awakes.

“Off you go,” you whisper quietly, helping the wobbling baby doe from your lap before it’s bounding toward the grass and disappearing out of sight.

Left alone with the quiet angel, you both stand and turn to each other. Now provided with a better glimpse of his large frame and sizable wings.

He straightens up under your inquisitive stare, feathers fluttering as the wind passes between you. “I appreciate you allowing me in,” he says tentatively. “I don’t mean to break your rules.”

“They are not my rules,” you correct, waving his apology away. “I believe that anyone who needs a moment of stillness should be given one.”

This seems to charm him. “And I believe you are the first and only fairy to think so.”

You grin. “Perhaps. But I’ve never understood the divide between angels and fairies. Both are providers of comfort and refuge. It seems silly to be at odds with each other.”

He hums, and you wonder if you’ve offended him. “I agree,” he says, and you feel your muscles unwind. “But the heavens have a different belief.”

“They believe that just because fairies were created by a different hand, we are not to be trusted," you snort beneath a quiet breath. "That we are all tricksters and supernatural entities unworthy of eternal salvation.”

“Are you?” His tone is playful, and you feel your smile return tenfold.

“I am a garden fairy,” you reply. “I tend to the trees and the animals. I don’t have time for tricks.”

His look of amusement seems to mirror your own.

“And you?” you ask next, gesturing toward him. “An angel without peace is like a heart without rhythm. Why do you come here when you know better?”

He takes a moment to consider his answer. “Truthfully, I don’t know,” he finally responds. “There was a pulling. On my soul. My wings. They led me here and I wasn’t quite sure why.”

“Well, have you found the peace you were looking for?”

His eyes meet yours. “I have.”

Another unspoken moment dances between you as your attention drifts toward the very plumage he displays so proudly. 

You’ve seen angel wings before but never this close. Never when they were near enough to touch. Truth be told, you weren’t sure you’d ever get the chance, and you imagine the quiet angel can hear your heart racing.

But he’s smiling at the way you stare. Seemingly amused by your fascination and wide eyes as you watch the cream-colored feathers flutter against the wind.

“They’re…beautiful,” you admit softly, attention following the curves and dips of each row expanding from his back. “Are they heavy?”

“Not normally, no,” he tells you. “Only in times of great sorrow.”

Confused, you raise a curious brow.

His grin grows. “Each feather symbolizes that of someone I’ve watched over. And when they move on, a piece of their soul stays with me. It lives and it breathes, and it is.”

He steps closer and you feel your breath catch, awestruck by the way the large pennons begin to curl around his frame.

“When their soul is happy, the wings feel weightless,” he continues, a far-off look in his expression. “And when they’re sad, when they cry…my wings cry for them.”

There’s a pleasant sort of ache in your chest. “You’re a guardian angel.”

“I am.” His arm outstretches for you, palm to the sky as he silently requests your hand. “Here.”

Hesitantly but with great keenness, you oblige his instruction, sliding your fingers along his skin.

The moment the contact is made, you both seem to jolt. Magnetized by the feel of his flesh against your own. A stark contrast that’s somehow hauntingly familiar. Soothing in a sense. Destined.

He brings you closer, guiding the tips of your fingers to his wings. Ghosting them across the soft feathers as you suck in a quiet breath and feel the entire weight of the world on his back.

He holds you for only a moment before allowing you to travel the expanse of his wingspan on your own. Delicate strokes along the rows of quills that seem to bask in your touch.

“How do they feel?” he asks quietly, almost as if not to startle you.

Your lips roll into your mouth as you search for the right words. Or any word that could even begin to come close to describing such an ethereal sensation.

“Magical,” you finally say, and he smiles.

“Certainly no more magical than a fairy.”

Smirking to yourself, you lower toward the grass, and extend your hand. Your fingers dance above the blades momentarily before you make a quick snap of your wrist.

Instantly, a flower springs forth from the dirt. Sprouting up out of the soil in full bloom as the angel’s eyes widen.

You pluck it from its roots and straighten back up before offering him the small, dainty lily stem. He steps forward, allowing you to guide the flower behind his ear and tuck it between soft, chestnut curls.

“How do I look?” he asks.

You laugh. “Magical.”

He holds your giddy stare for a second longer before he murmurs, “You’re quite beautiful.”

A bit stunned, you smile, and wave the compliment away. “You must be standing too close.”

With a cheeky hum, the angel suddenly steps back, his wings now fluttering about the air until his feet lift from the ground.

Then, his feathers carry him a few hundred yards away before he lowers back down, studies you, and calls, “Nope. Still beautiful.”

Despite yourself, you laugh again. “You’re quite forward for an angel.”

“And you’re quite timid for a fae,” he retorts, returning to you as a rustle of wind sweeps through your hair. “I was expecting a bit more fearlessness.”

“I’m only fearless when I choose to be,” you tell him. “But I just met you. Why should I share all my secrets when I don’t even know your name?”

The handsome angel considers this before nodding and stepping up to you. “Harry,” he says quietly, as if the answer is reserved only for you. “They call me Harry.”

A stunning name for a stunning man, and you feel your pulse jump while it makes a home in your mind. “Harry,” you repeat, making him grin. “That’s quite pretty.”

He runs his tongue over his bottom lip. “And what do they call you?”

You lift one shoulder in a gentle shrug. “I suppose I don’t really have a name. Or at least I don’t have anybody to use it if I do.”

His eyes soften while he glances over the crown of delicate white flowers woven between the locks of your hair. “Then I will call you my Lily,” he decides, and there’s a new sort of blossoming in your chest. “If I may.”

You struggle against such merriment. “You may.”

“Good.” He seems equally as enchanted, and for the first time in almost a hundred years, you feel mesmerized by an angel. Then, his chin motions just behind you. “The sun is beginning to set.”

Turning, you find that it is, and your heart soars as you eagerly reach over and take his hand to drag him toward the middle of the garden.

It’s an action made without much forethought, the need to feel his skin against yours almost like instinct now.

For a moment, you both hesitate. Unsure of the presumptuous act until Harry squeezes your palm, and silently encourages you to lead him where you’d like to go.

You take him toward the middle of the meadow, just beside the calm stream of water.

There, you find the baby fawn. Standing curiously on the other side, waiting to bid you goodbye.

You and the angel come to a stop on the edge of the grass just as the sun is filtering between the trees. Casting a golden hue across the orchard and setting the secluded hollow aglow. 

And just as the stars are beginning to take their place in the sky, the sweet doe meets your eye, and lifts its head.

You smile. “Goodbye, little one.”

Its left ear flicks before it turns on its heel, and leaps over the hill. Disappearing from sight as it’s carried into another realm.

Leaving The Garden behind.

Harry seems to hold his breath from beside you as he looks down. “And will it be okay?”

You lace your fingers with his and nod. “It will.”

Silence settles between the trees, between your hearts. It’s comfortable and it’s still and the faint sound of rustling leaves calms your racing pulse.

You look over and allow your attention to trail across his face. Taking note of each line, each edge, each crinkle. The shape of his lips, the slope of his nose, the curve of his jaw. The dimples in his cheeks and the dark hairs of his eyebrows.

He’s quite handsome. Alluring, in a sense, yet oddly safe. You imagine this was by design. To help those he protects, and comforts feel more at ease in his presence. 

And while you’re looking at him, you notice he’s looking at you, too. Just as intently, with nothing but admiration. He studies the faint, golden sparkles that litter your skin. The way they glimmer beneath each drop of moonlight, a common feature amongst fairies.

You imagine this isn’t the first time he’s seen a fae’s enchanted flesh. But he indulges in the sight of you, nonetheless. Indulges in your magic.

Then, he steps forward, and you feel the air shift.

“May I confess something?” he whispers, and you sense his slight hesitation.

“Of course.”

With a deep inhale, he tentatively reaches out his hand and ghosts the tips of his fingers along your cheek. “…I feel an overwhelming urge to kiss you.”

Your lashes flutter while the insides of your stomach twist and turn into impervious knots. “Oh?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Mhm. And I know that breaks…every rule in existence.”

“And then some,” you breathe, struggling against the desire to push yourself into his palm. 

You wonder if this is part of the ruse. If perhaps you feel so enamored by him because that’s what a guardian angel does. It encourages you to feel more susceptible. Maybe this pull to him is nothing more than magic.

Still, it pulls you, nonetheless. 

“I want to kiss you, Lily,” he murmurs, moving closer until the front of his chest just brushes against your own. “And I’m afraid I don’t quite know what to do now.”

And you know the admonitions. Know the rules, the history between angels and fairies. You know that his very presence in this garden is inviting trouble into paradise, and yet…you have no yearning to tell him to go. 

Because you don’t want him to go. You don’t want him to take his hand from your cheek. You don’t want him to leave this sacred orchard at all, and even though every fiber of your being, every nerve-ending, and every cell in your body is desperately attempting to warn you…you push into his touch, anyway.

“I think…you should kiss me,” you finally say, grasping onto his wrist.

This answer surprises you both. Neither one of you understand it or have the knowledge to comprehend the repercussions. 

All you know is right here, right now. His hand on your face, his lips much too close, and his aura. His effortless ability to make you feel like you’ve just come home.

His thumb follows the outline of your cheekbone. “Are you sure?”

You squeeze his arm a bit tighter and nod once. “I don’t see why not. What’s the worst that could happen?”

He grins – a wide, toothy grin – and you decide that it might be the most beautiful thing in this whole garden. “What a fearless way of looking at it.”

With that, he kisses you. Presses his lips to yours and takes each strained breath from your lungs.

It’s hesitant and it’s unsure and it’s perfect. A moment in time meant just for the two of you, here beneath the large willow tree and the pale light of the moon.

Eventually, he pulls back, but he keeps himself close. His mouth moving to your cheek while your eyes fall shut.

And you drink him in. His scent, his skin. Memorizing each inch of the angel in your arms as you ask yourself what you did to deserve such wonder.

“I’m afraid I have to go,” he says. But it’s heavy, the way he speaks. “If I don’t return soon, they’ll come looking.”

You nod your understanding and swallow the lump in your throat. “Go,” you whisper. “You have souls to protect.”

This makes him chuckle before a wounded look of remorse settles on his expression, the palm of his hand slipping around the back of your neck.

He dips down to rest his forehead against yours, almost as though looking for balance. Stability amidst a sea of uncertainty, and you’re more than happy to offer it to him.

“My Lily,” he exhales, and the sound of your name on his tongue sends a shiver down your spine. “I am so glad my wings brought me to you.”

Smiling, you nuzzle the tip of your nose against his.

“May they bring you back again.”

The next parts will be all the angst and turmoil and fluff and smut, I swear, I just had to do the background first HAHAHA WE ARE THROWING ALL THE TROPES INTO ONE POT AND COOKIN' BABY!

Amazing credit for the beautiful dividers to @firefly-graphics 💞

~ Other Harry Blurbs

~ Full Masterlist

Taglist: @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @keepdrivingkisses @swiftmendeshoran @tiredinwinter @straightontilmornin @justlemmeadoreyou @harrysdaydreams @tiaamberxx @peterparker1sgf @myfavfanficsever @littlenatilda @vamprry @fdl305 @tchalametishot @ssaama @indierockgirrl @likeapplejuicenpeach @vane28282 @lukesaprince

[merakiui]

victorian era doctor riddle rosehearts and his darling patient suffering from hanahaki disease.

dr. rosehearts who is the finest medical practitioner in town, renowned for his expertise and intelligence in the field. so it's only fitting that, as a noble and only child hailing from a wealthy set of parents, you are given the best treatment available. riddle sees so many affluent families and so you're no different. this disease, however, is an oddity. it's very scarcely documented in old texts, and most of the information regarding it has been lost to time. supposedly, the cure to this flowery ailment remains unknown. for riddle, this is as much of a challenge as it is an inspiration. he will cure you; that's his promise as a proud doctor.

so to better monitor you and keep track of your condition, riddle suggests you be moved into his home. a temporary arrangement, of course. it's not nearly as grand as what you're used to, but it is quite spacious. it's half hospital and half home, a place in which patients come to him. for isolation purposes, if their illness is particularly dangerous, amongst other reasons. and what reason would anyone have to doubt the great dr. rosehearts?

your parents are desperate. they'll do anything if it means you'll stop coughing up petals or complaining of a throat scratched sore by persistent thorns. riddle collects samples of the petals in hopes that the town's botanist rollo flamme can identify the exact species, where it commonly grows, how to safely manage it, and so on. it's a peculiar case, one riddle has only ever spied remnants of in old notes.

you rely so heavily on dr. rosehearts, your way of life compromised. you beg him to help you, to get rid of whatever's causing this. it takes time, but rollo identifies the flower. it's a curious finding. such a flower is not native to this part of the country. in fact, there should be no reason for it to be here, for it cannot thrive in this type of environment. riddle is left puzzled. just how did such a flower find its way into your system? what is sustaining it? is it sapping your life away? so many questions arise, yet none can be answered in full.

most importantly, what does the timeline look like if death looms on the horizon? how long does he have before the worst strikes?

it has been some time and, though he knows he ought to remain impartial, dr. rosehearts has found himself infatuated with his poor patient. he tends to you like one might a rose in a garden, diligently and ever so carefully, pruning away signs of sickness in order to keep you somewhat healthy. it feels inevitable, even more so when your legs give out and, much to your horror, little branches with tiny leaves begin to poke through your ankles.

so now you're placed in a wheelchair, and that is that. most days he thinks you're more doll than human, especially since your spirits seem far more dampened than they once were. you wither in your chair, quiet and wistful, longing for good health. though it's in his profession to save, he's never seen you in a more beautiful state. like a statue doomed to exist in stiff silence. like a single flower struggling to brave harsh conditions. like a doll destined to be taken care of by his gentle, capable hands.

he was never allowed dolls as a child. such toys were distracting according to his mother. but now he has one for himself and, even if he thinks himself too old to play with dolls, you're one he just can't put down.

perhaps it's for the best that your legs are broken and your lungs are weak and your entire body is supported by this parasitic plant. with this, he's given the chance to finally indulge in one of the many things he was denied as a child.

the appeal of a doll is that they are versatile. they can wear an entire wardrobe of clothes. they can be bent into various positions. they can look upon you with glass eyes and smile with rosebud lips. and they can't speak. never speak!

riddle doesn't need to be traditional for something so unethical. weddings and rings and courtship mean everything in his dreams, but he is a man watered with logic and sensibility. and you are just a quiet, fragile rose drowning in unwanted, suffocating affection.

[bioethicists]

my wife brought up a brilliant point this morning: a huge problem with the way we view psychology (a problem which is frequently exploited + used to justify a lot of just. shitty work) is that it lives in a no-man's land between "social sciences" + "natural sciences" in the collective imagination.

consider: one of the first works which spurned my interest in psychiatric abolition was durkheim's work on suicide. as a sociologist ("social scientist"), he uses pretty rigorous quantitative methods to show that suicide is much less correlated with levels of depression than it is with cultural factors (like religion, country of origin, marriage rates). however, people do not respond to the medicalization of suicide by saying "well, durkheim proved that suicide isn't a mental illness symptom, so this is unscientific"- this is obviously a drastic oversimplification of his work + it's commonly understood that sociology does not "prove" immutable social truths.

similarly, i would not comment on a study which identifies changes in t-cells over time among hiv+ patients by arguing that it didn't deeply explore the social environments or past traumas they had experienced, (even though those could have an impact on t-cell count), because i understand that is not the purpose of the research + ultimately they had to choose to control for these factors without centering them in order to obtain important medical information. "this information is meaningless because it doesn't include each patient's trauma history" would be an absurd critique.

among the general population + many self-assured researchers, psychology gets both the privilege of being a "social science" (so we can't expect it to be TOO exact; it's complicated; it's not really saying that's ALWAYS true; if it proves inaccurate that's because culture/social factors must have muddied it up; we can't really expect PROOF for most of it) as well as a "natural science" (you can't question its basic presumptions or you're a science denier; the dsm describes real things which existed even before it was written; it obviously is rooted in biology even if we haven't discovered how yet; reducing its measures to quantitative evaluation is fine + unproblematic).

my point here isn't to argue that psychology is a "social" or "natural" science, but rather that we need to rethink what work those categories actually do + whether the distinction between them is as strict or meaningful as we believe it to be. our strict dichotomies between "objectively proven truths" + "social observations which are ultimately just informed opinions" are exposed when we look at a field which seems to be uncomfortably situated within both. what kind of work might become possible if we abandoned this dichotomy, rather than bickering over whose work belongs in which club?