#because of it's dedication to hand drawn animation

[theslimeologist]

can we take a moment and ask what happened here? like what did they do to her??

oh.

[zip-toonz]

The fun thing about making pokemon aus is that the manga is just free real estate for me. I go on my little manga site and skim through the pages digging through pannels to make silly little edits

[solxamber]

Familiar, Not So Familiar || Lilia Vanrouge

You, a mage-in-training, attempt to summon a simple familiar—only to accidentally get yourself Lilia Vanrouge, a legendary fae with a penchant for chaos.

You have tried. You have tried so many times that the gods themselves must be watching your efforts like a soap opera, popcorn in hand, marveling at your persistence and misfortune.

Every spell you’ve ever learned? Perfect. Every potion you’ve ever brewed? Immaculate. Every single tedious little task required of an apprentice mage? Completed with at least passing competence.

And yet—this. This one, single, crucial spell has eluded you since the moment you first picked up a wand and thought, yes, let’s dedicate my life to this craft instead of something simple, like farming, or piracy, or a career in interpretive dance.

For years, you have watched your classmates perform their familiar rituals with ease. You have seen their little foxes, their wise owls, their unbearably smug salamanders perched on their shoulders like accessories in an enchanted fashion show. Oh, you don’t have a familiar yet? they’d say, voices dripping with polite condescension. That must be so hard! Magic must be so exhausting for you!

Yes. Yes, it is exhausting, Martha, you imbecile. Magic without a familiar is like trying to run a marathon uphill while being punched repeatedly in the stomach. It is like carrying a cauldron of molten lava with no gloves and being told, just don’t drop it! It is slowly killing you, and you are tired.

So tonight? Tonight is it. The line has been drawn. The candles have been lit. You have researched, you have practiced, you have painstakingly carved every single rune with the desperation of a student facing final exams with an empty study guide.

Either you summon your familiar, or you start looking into lucrative careers in something that requires zero magical ability. Candle-making. Tax fraud. Something.

You kneel before the summoning circle, hands clasped in pure, unfiltered desperation. Your voice is raw as you plead, as you offer up your dignity to the uncaring forces of the universe.

"Please," you whisper, nearly headbutting the floor. "Just this once. A cat. A dog. A single, semi-intelligent rat. Hell, a bat—bats are magical, right? I’ll take a bat. I’ll take a sentient pile of mold if it can cast at least one large spell without dying. Just something. Please, I am begging you."

The room is deathly silent.

And then—

A hum. A vibration in the air, as if reality itself is rethinking its choices.

The summoning circle does not glow—it erupts, an explosion of light so bright that your first instinct is to assume you have been smote for your insolence. The ground shudders. The candles flicker wildly. The sheer energy of the spell crackles through the air like the universe is taking a deep breath and laughing at you.

And then, through the haze, a silhouette.

Your first thought: That is not an animal.

Your second thought: That is not an animal, that is a person.

Your third thought: THAT IS A FAE.

Your fourth thought does not get to exist because your brain has blue screened.

The figure steps forward, hands clasped neatly behind his back, surveying the room with the air of someone who has just walked into an amusing play and finds himself the lead actor. He is floating, because of course he is. His wild hair is a chaotic mess of black and magenta, his sharp eyes twinkling with mirth, his very presence radiating power that should not, under any circumstances, be inside your living room.

Then he smiles, and you are abruptly hit with the horrifying realization that you know who he is.

The portraits. The stories. The absolute legend that is Lilia Vanrouge, former general, feared warrior, living relic of a bygone era, the kind of fae you read about in history books with the unspoken footnote of probably do not summon him.

And he is here.

And he is looking at you.

"Ah," he says, with all the delight of someone who has just stumbled upon something incredibly amusing. "How interesting."

You are frozen. Your body has stopped functioning. Your brain is actively trying to escape this situation by retreating into the astral plane.

Lilia tilts his head, observing your utter paralysis with great amusement, and then, with the flourish of a seasoned actor stepping onto the grandest stage of his life, he presses a hand to his chest and bows deeply.

"You have called," he proclaims, voice rich with dramatic flair, "and I have answered! For one year, I shall serve as your loyal familiar! May our contract be fruitful, our battles glorious, and our meals—" he pauses, grinning like a fox, "well, we shall see."

He straightens, clearly expecting some sort of response.

You do not move. You do not speak. You do not even blink.

Because you are still attempting to comprehend the fact that you have, against every possible law of magic, logic, and common sense, just summoned Lilia Vanrouge as your familiar.

The next morning, you awaken to the horrifying realization that last night was not, in fact, a fever dream.

Lilia Vanrouge is still here.

Floating.

In your kitchen.

Sipping tea.

With your mug.

You stand there, unblinking, as he lifts the cup in greeting, utterly unbothered by your complete mental breakdown. “Ah, you’re awake! Good morning, my dear summoner! Did you sleep well? Oh, never mind that, of course you didn’t—you must be so excited! Your first day with your new familiar!”

Your eye twitches. The existential dread is setting in. But there is no time to panic because you have class.

And now, for the first time in your absolutely miserable academic career, you have a familiar to bring with you.

Which would be a cause for celebration.

If your familiar was literally anyone else.

But no. No, you are marching through the academy halls with a floating, ancient fae war general drifting beside you, humming cheerfully, taking in his new surroundings like a tourist at a historical landmark.

Your classmates? Shitting bricks.

Your professors? Re-evaluating their life choices.

Your history professor? Actively vibrating in place. This is a man who has spent years studying Lilia Vanrouge, reconstructing battle strategies, debating historical inaccuracies, analyzing old texts to understand the mind of one of the most enigmatic figures in magical warfare. He looks at you, at Lilia, back at you, back at Lilia, and you swear to the gods above that this man is about two seconds away from weeping.

He wants an interview. He wants an entire dissertation. He wants to shake your hand for the sheer magnitude of this academic opportunity, and you are just standing there, barely holding onto your last scrap of sanity, because this is not a research opportunity, Professor, this is my life.

Meanwhile, Lilia is having a blast.

“Ohoho, what a delightful institution!” he muses, drifting through the halls, peering into classrooms, inspecting the architecture with a level of interest that should not belong to someone who predates half of these buildings. “Ah, look at that banner! I remember when these were in fashion—horrid little things, always got caught in the wind and smacked people in the face during duels. Ah! And look at these uniforms! What a quaint design! Oh, but that color… tragic choice, really, you should have seen the battle robes from my era. Those had flair!”

You press a hand to your face, inhaling deeply.

You are not going to survive this year.

But at the very least, you are about to have the first productive Offensive Magic class of your entire life.

For years, casting magic without a familiar has been hell. You’ve always struggled with large-scale spells, your body too weak to sustain the energy required. Your classmates have always had an advantage, their familiars supplying them with extra mana while you struggled to get anything stronger than a low-tier fireball.

But today?

Today, you have Lilia Vanrouge as a mana battery.

And you are about to find out exactly what that means.

The spell you’ve been struggling with for years—the one that has never worked properly, the one that has always left you half-conscious and questioning your life decisions—flows from your hands as easily as breathing. You don’t even have time to be excited because the moment the spell leaves your fingertips, the entire training ground erupts.

Not a small explosion.

Not a reasonable, manageable, academically acceptable explosion.

No.

You have just cratered the battlefield.

The shockwave sends everyone flying. The ground is smoking. There is a hole where the target dummies used to be. Somewhere in the distance, alarms are going off. Birds are screaming. Your professor is staring in mute horror at the absolute devastation before him.

And you?

You turn to Lilia, hands shaking, mouth opening and closing like a fish, because what the hell just happened.

Lilia, floating beside you, watches the destruction with the expression of a man who has just seen a slightly amusing street performance. He clasps his hands together, nodding approvingly.

“Well! Now that that’s done, why don’t we go find something fun to do?”

You are not going to survive the year.

It is supposed to be a quiet night.

Supposed to be.

You, a dedicated apprentice mage (read: overworked and underpaid student), have settled down with your magical theory book, prepared to suffer through the finer details of mana channeling. The lamp flickers softly, the air is calm, and for once in your chaotic existence, things feel peaceful.

Then, from the kitchen, you hear something.

Something that does not belong in the realm of mortals.

It begins with an unsettling hiss, followed by a squelching noise so visceral it sends a shudder down your spine. Then there’s a clank—something metal hitting the floor—then a thud, then another squelch. You are gripping your book so tightly that the pages crinkle.

And then—

A chainsaw.

You blink.

You tilt your head, straining your ears, waiting for your exhausted mind to correct you.

The chainsaw revs again.

There is a cackle—a delighted, mischievous giggle, unmistakably Lilia’s—followed by the sound of what can only be described as something wet hitting the walls.

You place your book down with the slow, measured movements of a person who has just realized that, against all odds, they are in mortal danger.

Before you can even get up, Lilia emerges from the kitchen, beaming, holding something that should not exist.

It is a plate of food.

You think.

At least, you assume that’s what it is. The thing on the plate is writhing slightly, like it’s trying to escape, its color shifting between shades of green that have never been found in nature. It looks less like a meal and more like something that should have been sealed away in a forbidden vault centuries ago. You are pretty sure it just twitched.

Lilia, looking pleased with himself, holds the plate out to you like a proud parent. “Here you go! A little something I whipped up! A good meal is essential for a strong mage!”

You stare at him. You stare at the food. You stare at him again. Then back at the food, as if hoping that, upon a second glance, it will suddenly become normal. It does not. It continues to vibrate menacingly.

You inhale slowly. You pray to the gods—the ones who have clearly abandoned you—and take a bite.

And then—

You almost meet them.

Your soul briefly leaves your body. Your ancestors appear before you, shaking their heads in deep disappointment. The concept of life and death ceases to have meaning. Time itself slows to a crawl as your taste buds experience a level of suffering once reserved only for cursed spirits.

You slam the fork down, forcing a smile that looks more like a pained grimace. “I—uh—actually, I’m not really that hungry right now!”

Lilia blinks, tilting his head. “Oh? But you just took a bite—”

You cut him off, nodding so quickly it could give you whiplash. “Nope! Super full! Wow, so full. Stuffed, actually. I definitely can’t eat another bite!”

Lilia frowns, looking genuinely disappointed, and for a brief, insane moment, you almost consider eating more.

Then the food on the plate shudders again.

And you decide that no matter how cute Lilia Vanrouge is, you simply cannot abide.

Later that night, you are once again seated at your desk, trying to get through your magical theory reading, when Lilia appears at your side.

For a brief moment, fear seizes you—until you see what he’s holding.

A cup of warm milk.

Just milk.

You stare at it, half-expecting it to start glowing or whispering in an ancient, cursed tongue. But no, it’s just milk. Safe. Harmless. Normal.

You accept it with more gratitude than you’ve ever felt in your life. “Thank you.”

Lilia settles in beside you, watching as you study, occasionally making little jokes, pointing out errors in your book’s outdated magical theories, offering insights that no historian could ever dream of. The conversation flows easily, his voice a constant, comforting presence, a bridge between history and now, between chaos and something softer.

And as you sit there, sipping your drink, listening to Lilia hum an old tune while offering you obscure magical trivia, you think—

Yeah.

Maybe he really is the best familiar you could have summoned.

Lilia does not like your magical theory professor.

At least, you think he doesn’t.

He’s always cheerful—borderline impossible to ruffle—but the moment you step into that class, something shifts. His usual smile dims, his eyes narrow ever so slightly, and his arms stay folded across his chest like a particularly judgmental gargoyle. It’s subtle—so subtle that if you weren’t stuck with him 24/7 (as your familiar, and definitely not because you enjoy his company), you might not have noticed.

But you have noticed. And it’s weird.

Even weirder? Every time you ask him about it, he gives you the most convincing performance of utter cluelessness you have ever witnessed. The first time, he even tilted his head, widened his eyes, and said, “Me? Dislike someone? Oh, dear apprentice, you wound me!” in the most theatrical, exaggerated manner possible.

And the thing about Lilia is, if he doesn’t want to talk about something, there is no force in the universe that can make him.

You gave up after the third attempt. If it was major, he’d tell you.

…Right?

Today, your professor smiles as she hands you a new assignment: a magic circle for you to analyze.

“You should be able to cast this with your familiar’s assistance,” she says, smiling in that teacher who’s about to ruin your life way.

You glance at the intricate diagram, tilting your head. “What’s it for?”

“Oh, it’s just illusion magic,” she assures you breezily.

And before you can say anything else, Lilia moves.

One moment, he’s standing behind you, silent as a shadow. The next, he’s in front of you, plucking the book from your hands with the effortless grace of someone who has definitely stolen things before.

His gaze sharpens as he scans the magic circle, his usual playful demeanor gone. His fingers tighten slightly on the book’s spine. Then, without hesitation, he snaps it shut and hands it right back to your professor.

“No.”

Your professor blinks, looking caught between offense and confusion. “Pardon?”

Lilia’s voice remains pleasant—but it is the kind of pleasant that makes your survival instincts scream. “I said no. My dear apprentice will not be casting this.”

The professor balks. “Excuse me, but I gave them an assignment. You contain your familiar—”

You raise your hands in exasperation. “Lady, are you kidding? This is a war general. You think I can just ‘contain’ him? You contain him.”

Your professor looks like she wants to argue. Lilia, meanwhile, tilts his head at her with the serene patience of a man watching a squirrel try to pick a fight with a dragon.

Then, he smiles.

It is not his usual mischievous grin. It is a deliberate, pointed smile.

“Why don’t you cast it first?” he asks, tone deceptively light.

Your professor stiffens. “That’s unnecessary, I already—”

Lilia’s eyes gleam. “Go on, then. Just illusion magic, isn’t it?”

The tension in the room spikes. Your professor, who has just spent the past five minutes acting like the spell is no big deal, suddenly looks very nervous.

“Oh, well,” she flounders, “I—it’s meant for—um—student practice—”

“Ah,” Lilia hums, nodding sagely. “So you’d assign a spell you wouldn’t cast yourself to my dear apprentice? How interesting.”

Your professor’s expression freezes.

And that’s when you realize something.

Lilia knew.

He knew the moment he saw the circle that something was off. He recognized it. And whatever it was meant to do, it wasn’t just harmless illusion magic.

Your professor coughs, clearly scrambling for a way out. Lilia waits, ever-patient, eyes half-lidded like a cat watching a cornered mouse.

Then, before she can say anything else, he turns to you. “We’re leaving.”

And you do not argue.

Outside, Lilia floats beside you, humming a little tune. You don’t say anything for a while, still processing.

Finally, you sigh. “You’re not gonna tell me what that spell actually was, are you?”

Lilia’s grin returns, bright and playful. “Who’s to say~?”

You groan. “Lilia.”

He chuckles, reaching out to pat your head in a way that is both condescending and annoyingly affectionate. “Let’s just say I’d rather not have to un-curse you anytime soon, hmm?”

Your stomach sinks slightly. You glance back toward the classroom building, frowning. Your professor has never pulled something like that before. But before you can dwell on it too much, Lilia floats closer, arms crossed.

“Promise me something,” he says, tone suddenly softer.

You blink up at him. “What?”

“Run your spells by me before casting them.” His smile doesn’t falter, but there’s something firm—unshakable—beneath the usual playfulness.

Your first instinct is to argue. To say you know what you’re doing. That you’re a capable mage. But then you think about how fast he moved. How easily he spotted the issue. How your professor, faced with his simple challenge, folded like wet parchment.

“…Okay,” you say.

His smile widens, but this time, it’s warm. “Good.”

And then, just like that, he’s back to his usual self, floating ahead, dramatically stretching as if he was the one who had to deal with a dangerous spell.

“Now that that’s settled,” he sighs, “why don’t set something on fire?”

You press a hand to your forehead.

At first, it was little things.

Your professors started assigning you slightly more advanced spells—reasonable enough, considering your mana pool had technically expanded (read: you accidentally summoned an ancient fae war general as your familiar). You could handle it. You were handling it.

But then it got worse.

Much worse.

It started with offensive spells. The usual: fireballs, lightning strikes, the occasional tornado. And then, gradually, the assignments escalated into city-leveling disasters.

One moment, you were casting a moderately powerful explosion spell. The next, you were being instructed to conjure something called the Wrath of the Abyss—which, from the name alone, sounded like it had no business being taught in a school.

Lilia, floating serenely beside you, casually flicked his fingers, erasing the spell from your assignment scroll. “No,” he said.

You didn’t argue.

The final straw came when you were assigned a spell so ridiculously strong that had Lilia not interfered, you’re pretty sure you would’ve smited an entire town off the map.

That night, exhausted and frustrated, you marched to the headmaster’s office to finally have a conversation about this.

And that’s when you heard it.

Muffled voices.

The headmaster and your professors—all of them—discussing how to weaponize your newly expanded mana pool. How to push you further, how to ensure you could be controlled—with force, if necessary.

You stood there for a long moment, processing.

Then you turned on your heel, went back to your dorm, and drafted the most polite resignation letter you have ever written in your entire life.

By morning, you were gone.

Which brings you to now.

Laid out on the couch.

Bored.

Contemplating your life choices.

Lilia floats around the new house, inspecting it with the air of a man who has been evicted from kingdoms before and now finds the concept of moving vaguely amusing. Occasionally, he hums in approval. Once, he sticks his head into the kitchen and mutters, “I could work with this.” (You choose to ignore the implication.)

Eventually, he drifts over to the couch, settling next to you. He watches you for a moment, eyes softer than usual, before reaching out and gently patting your head.

“…I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

You blink, turning your head to look at him. “For what?”

He offers a small, almost wistful smile. “For everything. You wanted a small familiar. A cat, perhaps. A gentle companion to aid your studies. And instead… you got me.”

Something about the way he says it makes your heart squeeze.

You sit up, shaking your head. “That’s not your fault. It’s not your fault humans are garbage sometimes.” You snort. “Honestly, I should be the one apologizing to you. You got roped into this mess because of me.”

Lilia laughs softly. “Oh, please. This is hardly the worst summoning I’ve been part of.”

You roll your eyes but lean into him anyway, resting your head against his shoulder. “I mean it, though. I’m glad you were there to look out for me.” You exhale, closing your eyes. “I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else. You’re the best fit for me.”

There’s a pause.

Then, Lilia shifts slightly, tilting his head to look at you.

“…You know,” he murmurs, amusement creeping into his voice, “it almost sounds like you like me.”

You groan. “Lilia.”

He chuckles, clearly pleased with himself, and lets you rest against him, draping an arm over the back of the couch.

The TV plays some mindless reality show in the background—something ridiculous, the kind of show where two rich people argue over whose yacht is shinier. Lilia occasionally makes a quiet, offhand comment about the historical implications of their arguments, which, considering he’s been around long enough to have historical context for everything, is both fascinating and deeply concerning.

Still, as you sit there, comfortable and safe, a strange sort of peace settles over you.

Maybe this is okay, too.

Moping is unsustainable.

Yes, your dreams of becoming a renowned royal mage have withered and died like a houseplant you swore you watered (you didn’t). Yes, the academy tried to turn you into a walking magical war crime before you dropped out. And yes, you are technically in magical witness protection now.

But you refuse to let that get you down.

You are a problem solver. A forward-thinker. A survivor.

And what do survivors do? They pivot.

Thus begins your new life as the proud owner of Mystic Remedies, a charming little potion shop in a sleepy town where nobody knows—or cares—that you once accidentally summoned a literal fae war general as a familiar.

And surprisingly? Business is booming.

Apparently, people love magic when it’s used for normal things, like fixing bald spots or whitening teeth or getting rid of that one really stubborn pimple that refuses to die no matter how many times you pray to the gods. Your bestselling potions?

“The Shine of Youth” – Teeth Whitening Elixir

Results are instantaneous and blindingly effective (literally. One guy came back complaining his teeth were so white they were reflecting sunlight into his own eyes.)*

“Regrowth & Renewal” – Anti-Baldness Tonic

The town’s balding population has never been happier. One man sobbed openly in your shop after seeing his full head of hair for the first time in twenty years.

“Vanisher’s Touch” – Acne & Scar Removal Serum

One (1) drop and your skin becomes as smooth as a newborn’s. Side effects include strangers asking you for your entire skincare routine (which, obviously, you refuse to share because you are making BANK off of this).

And presiding over all of this?

Lilia Vanrouge.

Your fae general, immortal menace, questionably helpful familiar.

At first, you thought Lilia would just hang around for company. Maybe help with security. Offer sage wisdom. That kind of thing.

You were wrong.

Instead, he has taken it upon himself to be your business partner.

Which would be fine, except:

1. Lilia insists on being the shop greeter.

“Welcome, weary traveler!” he announces grandly every time someone enters, even if it’s just the lady from next door.

2.He also bows dramatically every time, which has led to multiple people thinking they’ve accidentally entered a royal court instead of a potion shop.

3. He makes up fake tragic backstories for your potions.

The baldness potion? “Crafted from the tears of a forgotten god who, himself, was once afflicted with hair loss.”

The teeth whitening elixir? “Distilled from the ancient wisdom of a radiant moonbeam, stolen by a trickster spirit under the cover of night.”

The anti-acne potion? “Forged in the fires of celestial vanity, when the first star envied the smoothness of the moon’s face.”

The customers eat it up. Business doubles because people now believe they’re purchasing legendary magical relics instead of DIY cosmetic solutions.

4. He takes “quality control” VERY seriously.

You once caught him drinking the hair regrowth tonic.

“Lilia,” you said. “You have hair. You have a lot of hair.”

He took a long, thoughtful sip, smacked his lips, and simply said, “Quality assurance.”

(The next day, his hair was so voluminous it looked like he had absorbed a lion. He seemed thrilled about this. You refused to comment.)

5. His idea of “helping” with potion-making is... distressing.

One time, you left him alone for five minutes.

When you came back, he had somehow produced a glowing purple substance that was hovering slightly above the table and making whale noises.

You didn’t even ask. You just threw the entire thing out.

Lilia disappears sometimes in the middle of the night. You’ll wake up, the room unnaturally quiet, and immediately know he’s gone. Not gone gone—he’s not that dramatic—but somewhere else, wrapped in thoughts you never quite get to see.

Tonight, the air is cool when you step outside, wrapping around you like a second skin. You don’t have to search long. He’s on the rooftop, perched with all the effortless grace of a creature who defies gravity. His eyes are locked onto the moon, silver light washing over his face, his usual impishness replaced with something… else.

You’ve seen Lilia in many states—mischievous, chaotic, wise, deeply concerning—but you’ve never seen him like this.

So, naturally, you make the entirely reasonable decision to scale the side of the house.

It is not a graceful process. There’s a lot of slipping, a lot of swearing, and at one point, you’re pretty sure you get stuck in a position that defies basic human anatomy. Lilia watches all of this unfold with what you know is barely suppressed laughter, but he doesn’t help.

Rude.

By the time you haul yourself onto the roof, panting like you’ve just wrestled a bear, Lilia looks at you like you’re the strange one here.

“…You could have used the stairs,” he points out.

You glare at him. “Yeah? Well, you could’ve not brooded on the roof like the protagonist of a tragic novel, but here we are.”

For a moment, you think he might tease you, but instead, something in his expression softens. Like he hadn’t expected you to come. Like the idea of being found was somehow surprising.

You settle beside him, deliberately sitting close enough that your arms brush. Lilia doesn’t say anything, just leans into you, his weight light but grounding.

“I’m grateful you left immediately when you did,” he murmurs, voice quiet in a way that makes you pause. “I wasn’t prepared to lose you.”

You don’t ask. You never have. Lilia carries centuries in his gaze, in the way he moves, in the weight of the things he doesn’t say. But this? This moment, this sliver of vulnerability? This is his truth, and you’ll never push him to unravel more than he wants to.

So you nod. You pull him closer. And you sit there, pressed together beneath the vast, endless sky, offering nothing but presence.

Because sometimes, companionship is enough.

Despite all of this—despite the dramatics, the chaos, the fact that you are pretty sure Lilia is making up 90% of his fae wisdom on the spot—your little potion shop thrives.

You get to help people. You get to live peacefully.

And best of all? You get to spend your days with someone who makes life interesting.

One evening, as you’re closing up, Lilia floats beside you, watching as you count today’s earnings.

“You’ve done well for yourself,” he says, tone oddly soft, absent of his usual teasing lilt.

You glance at him, raising a brow. “We have,” you correct, shoving the last of the gold into the till. “I’d be lost without you.”

He hums in amusement, resting his chin in his hand. “Flattery will get you everywhere, you know.”

You snort. “It’s not flattery if it’s true.”

There’s a pause.

Then, after a moment, he reaches over—ruffles your hair with genuine fondness.

You pretend to be annoyed, but you don’t move away.

(And later, as you sit together, sharing a cup of tea under the quiet glow of lantern light, you think—maybe this life? This ridiculous, unpredictable, strangely wonderful life? Maybe it’s not so bad, after all.)

The first time you created a potion for hair growth, you barely had time to marvel at your genius before Lilia grabbed the vial and downed it in one gulp. No hesitation. No patch test. Just the unwavering confidence of a man who believed you were capable of alchemy miracles despite your previous track record, which included but was not limited to:

Accidentally making a love potion so strong it made a squirrel propose to a tree.

Brewing an invisibility elixir that only made clothes disappear (awkward).

Concocting a sleeping draught that did, in fact, induce sleep—just exclusively in yourself.

So, really, this blind faith of his was either heartwarming or deeply concerning.

The effect was immediate. Lilia’s short, fluffy locks exploded outward in a dramatic cascade, flowing past his shoulders, his waist, and then pooling onto the floor in a heap of silky, midnight strands. He blinked at you from behind his newly acquired curtain of hair, looking entirely unbothered, while you sat there in stunned horror like an artist realizing they’d just painted the Mona Lisa using finger paints.

“Well,” he said cheerfully, lifting a section of his hair with mild curiosity. “At least I won’t have to buy a blanket anymore.”

You groaned, already reaching for the shears. “Sit down. I’m cutting it before you trip and break your immortal neck.”

Lilia plopped down in front of you, perfectly content as you gathered the thick locks in your hands, marveling at how soft they were. You ran your fingers through them, untangling strands, watching them catch the light like the finest silk. Somewhere in the middle of methodically snipping away, your hand brushed against the nape of his neck.

And Lilia—Lilia of the endless energy, mischievous smirks, and unpredictable chaos—tilted his head into your touch like a cat craving warmth. He let his cheek brush against your palm, the weight of him light but deliberate, and you felt something in your chest hiccup.

Oh no.

Nope. Absolutely not. You were not going to sit here and have an emotional epiphany over a haircut.

You cleared your throat and kept cutting, pretending you didn’t notice the way his eyes fluttered shut, how he sighed just the slightest bit when you raked your fingers through his hair again. You ignored the warmth curling in your stomach, the way your heart stuttered like a miscast spell.

This was fine. Just a normal, everyday occurrence. No significance whatsoever.

(You ignored the fact that, long after the potion’s effects had worn off, Lilia still asks you to fix his hair for him.)

It has been a year.

A whole year since you knelt in front of a summoning circle, begging the universe for a small, manageable familiar—a cat, a bat, anything reasonable—only for reality to spit in your face and drop a war general into your living room.

A year since Lilia Vanrouge, former general, ancient fae, and walking eldritch menace, declared himself your familiar with a dramatic flourish while you stood there questioning every single life decision that had led to that moment.

And now, it’s time to let him go.

You knew this day would come. You told yourself you wouldn’t get attached. He was never supposed to stay forever. He has actual, important, world-changing things to do, and you—what are you? A small-town potion seller with a thriving business in male pattern baldness reversal and anti-aging tonics. This is not a worthy occupation for a fae of his caliber.

So why does the thought of him leaving feel like your heart is about to crawl out of your chest, slap you in the face, and then dramatically expire in protest?

You’re an adult. You can handle this. You will handle this.

Night falls, and you set up the ritual.

The summoning contract that bound him to you for a year must now be undone. The process is simple: draw the circle, say the words, and Lilia will be free to return to whatever grand, fae-magic-drenched existence he had before meeting you.

Your hands shake as you carve the sigils into the ground. You tell yourself it’s just fatigue.

The circle is perfect. The words are ready. You steel yourself, take a deep breath, and—

SCRATCH.

You blink.

Your circle is ruined.

Because Lilia just dragged his foot through it like a toddler messing up a sandcastle.

“Whoops,” he says, tone entirely insincere.

You stare at the ruined circle. Then at him. Then at the deep, deliberate groove he just scraped through the sigils.

“…Did you just—”

“Oh dear,” Lilia sighs, not looking remotely sorry. “How clumsy of me.”

You narrow your eyes.

Fine. Fine. You can work with this. You redraw the circle, faster this time, heart pounding, trying not to think about how every stroke is another step toward the inevitable.

But as soon as you finish it, it vanishes.

You gape. “What the fu—”

Lilia, sitting lazily on your kitchen counter, swirls his wine glass and hums, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

You try again. And again.

Each time, something goes wrong.

The chalk disappears. The ink dries too fast. The lines curve into nonsense when you look away. Lilia, drinking his wine, watching you struggle, looking like a cat who just knocked over an entire shelf and is waiting for applause.

Then, finally, the last straw.

You painstakingly carve the circle one last time, standing up with triumphant determination—

And Lilia immediately spills his wine on it.

He gasps, eyes wide with the fakest, most dramatic shock you have ever seen. “Oh my. How unfortunate.”

You drop the chalk.

You inhale, slow and measured, like a parent about to scold a misbehaving child.

Then you turn to him.

“…Hey,” you say, voice trembling, not with sadness, but with the sheer, earth-shattering realization that this little fae menace is playing with you.

He takes another sip of wine, as if to fortify himself against the incoming confrontation.

“Do you,” you say, pointing at him, “not want to leave?”

Lilia smiles. That infuriatingly cryptic, all-knowing smile that he has given you exactly one thousand times over the past year.

He doesn’t answer.

And you are done.

You grab him by the collar, yanking his floating self down to your level, because no. Not this time.

“Say it.” Your heart is racing, your voice shaking. “Stop playing with my feelings and just say it.”

For the first time in a long time, Lilia looks genuinely surprised.

His bright red eyes flick over your face, searching, calculating.

Then, gently, effortlessly, he kisses you.

It’s soft. Unhurried. Like a promise instead of a confession.

When he pulls away, there’s no teasing, no smug amusement. Just quiet certainty as he murmurs, “I thought that was obvious, little mage.”

And you—

You think, yeah. This is perfect.

The day after the kiss is, by all accounts, completely normal.

Lilia is still Lilia—dramatic, whimsical, and absolutely insufferable in the best way possible. He flits around the shop like a particularly mischievous specter, rearranges your potions in ways that make absolutely no sense, and startles at least three customers by dropping upside down from the rafters like a bat with a caffeine addiction.

The only difference are the little changes in his proximity.

The way he brushes a little closer, his fingertips lingering on yours when he hands you a vial. The way he leans in when he speaks, voice a low murmur that sends shivers down your spine. The way his eyes—sharp, playful, knowing—linger just a second too long, like he’s drinking in every reaction.

Your regulars notice immediately.

“You two finally figured it out, huh?”

“About damn time.”

“Oh, we’ve been betting on this for months—Edgar, pay up.”

Even the old woman who only comes in for her arthritis tincture pats your cheek with grandmotherly approval, declaring, "He’s a little strange, but you always liked strays."

By the time you close up for the night, you’re warm with laughter, exhaustion, and the sheer reality of it. Of him. Of you.

And then there’s a weight on your back, light but unmistakable, arms winding around you as Lilia attaches himself like a particularly affectionate cloak.

“You still haven’t actually asked me to stay,” he hums, his chin resting on your shoulder. You can hear the grin in his voice, teasing and pleased.

You roll your eyes, exasperated and utterly, helplessly fond.

Then, without warning, you turn, grabbing his face in both hands and kissing him hard.

He makes a soft, surprised noise against your lips before immediately melting into it, responding with all the fervor of someone who has absolutely been waiting for this. His hands tighten on your waist, pulling you closer, and you swear you can feel him smiling into the kiss.

When you finally pull back, breathless and a little dazed, you meet his gaze and say, firm and sure,

“Stay.”

Lilia blinks, as if he wasn’t expecting you to actually say it. Then his lips curl into something unbearably soft, unbearably fond, and he whispers,

“Till the end of my life.”

Masterlist

[madaqueue]

TEAR MY FLESH, HOLD MY HAND, FEEL MY WARMTH

the weight that lies in a pinky promise

pairing: suguru geto x gn!reader

themes/content: curse/canon au. fluff, angst. mentions of fights/difficult childhood. (wk: 3.2k)

a/n: this was originally gonna be for flufftober but it got a lil angsty teehee so here we are :) also the mouse on my computer stopped working so i did all this formatting on my phone bc i'm that dedicated to serving you guys this fic

Suguru was a soft child. Chubby hands, round cheeks, gentle steps.

He was sweet in all the ways a child ought to be, at least according to your parents - sweet in all the ways you weren’t.

You, on the other hand, were loud, jarring, unreserved. “A handful,” you were always described as by those who attempted to care for you. Perhaps that’s why they allowed you such a great extent of freedom, tugging against the length of a leash they tried to place around you, but they’d need stronger chains to tie you down.

And yet, you and Suguru found your similarities - you were both unencumbered by expectations. I am who I am. In spite of everyone, in spite of the ways they tried to dig their tight hands around you and force you into something you weren’t. You are who you are.

The first time you met him, all you saw were tiny feet kicking the air, unable to reach the ground from where he perched upon the park bench. He was the only one not screaming, something you appreciated, something novel. Your life had held such chaos, constant arguments, slamming doors. The peace that wrapped around his small frame seemed to exude a comfort you craved, even if it couldn’t be articulated by your six-year-old mind, you were drawn to it. To him.

“Hi,” you chirped, lifting yourself next to him.

“Hi.”

When you grinned widely at him, he returned a thin-lipped smile, as though he had been trained by wild dogs who took eagerness as a threat, who wouldn’t dare snarl unless as a warning.

(He noticed your absence of fear immediately - how could you approach him so easily? Had you not been taught to be wary?)

(You had been taught. “Avoid strangers, they’ll hurt you.” But you would never choose the harm of the monsters you knew. Better to take your chances in the wild.)

Averting your gaze, your dirtied fingernails began absentmindedly picking at the green paint coating the wood beneath your legs. Your eyes landed on his knees, scuffed and bloody.

“Did that hurt?”

Without looking at you, he shakes his head. “No, I’m just clumsy. I fell off my bike.”

“That’s okay,” you hum, “I get bruises all the time. You must be pretty tough if it didn’t hurt.”

And this time, he giggles, crooked teeth poking through. “Anyone can get hurt, it doesn’t make me tough.”

Leaves rustle overhead as you let out a thoughtful sigh, allowing the sounds of the breeze to fill the silence. It’s comfortable, you realize, no tension hanging in the air like there always seems to be at home, no threat looming around the other side of the kitchen counter.

You tug with all the strength your muscles can muster at a large strip of paint. With a final pull, your palm catches along the fraying wood, splinters digging under your flesh as you let out a choked cry.

Immediately, the boy’s small hands wrap around your wrist, pulling it to his face. Worried eyes inspect the wound. “Are you okay?” he asks without looking up.

A small whimper falls from your throat, lower lip trembling as you hold back tears. “Y-yeah,” your voice wobbles.

You’re lying. He knows you’re lying - you aren’t particularly hard to read, he grows to learn, somehow always wearing your heart on your sleeve. It’s a trait he admires (perhaps because he’s never quite able to place his there so visibly).

When he frowns, you almost giggle at the sight - no child should frown like that. It’s endearing, the way his eyebrows furrow, mouth tugged downward.

“Can I make it better?”

It takes very little to make you trust him, but you believe he wouldn’t hurt you. Just as animals seem able to sense intent, an implicit knowledge that the human freeing them from a cage won’t inflict additional pain, you know that his stubby fingers won’t dig at your flesh and make you bleed.

So, you nod.

Determined eyes turn from your visibly pained face to your aching palm. Slowly, he removes the shards of wood from your skin. When you wince, he pauses immediately, waiting for your shoulders to relax before he continues. By the time he’s finished, your bottom lip is red from biting into it but the pain isn’t even noticeable, not when every nerve in your body seems focused on the warmth coming from his fingertips still lingering on your wrist.

“There,” he breathes through the softest smile, “all done.”

“Thanks,” and you can’t help but grin back.

“And see!” He’s beaming now. “You were very tough!”

Your laugh is brighter than the sun, more calming than the birds chirping overhead, a sound he can’t help but mirror. His desire to cheer you up, to comfort you through it all, makes your cheeks warm.

“I’m Suguru, by the way.”

He opens up easily to you, an honor you don’t quite understand yet. When you introduce yourself, he repeats your name back slowly, the vowels sweet like the flowers blooming nearby. It sounds good in his voice.

A whistle cuts through the humidity, immediately drawing Suguru’s attention.

“I gotta go,” his face draws into that adorable pout again.

“Oh.” Dropping your attention, it falls to your freshly healed hands resting in your lap. “Can you do me a favor?”

Expectant eyes meet yours.

“Promise me I’ll see you again?”

This time, he smiles so wide his cheeks push up into his eyes, crinkling at the corners. Holding out a hand, he gently grasps yours as he intertwines your fingers.

“Pinky promise,” he grins, linking them together with a shake.

Through a giggle, you mimic, “pinky promise.”

He shuffles off the bench, clumsy feet landing on the ground before he hobbles off to the waiting arms of a parent who seems to love him. Your heart aches for a moment before it stills - you’re happy he has someone to take care of him, to pull the splinters from his hands and clean off the scrapes on his knees.

It’s a miracle when you both get placed at Jujutsu Tech. It takes very little for you to abandon the place you called home, having jumped at the first chance to leave your childhood behind, but having Suguru there makes it even easier when you get approached by a strange man with dark hair and glasses who touts himself as the principal of some elusive school a few hours away. They’ll pay for your housing, your food, anything you need to survive for the next four years so long as you agree to train and work for them. It was an easy yes - you would have done more for less.

And of course, there was your so-called “power.” The two of you had danced around the subject for years, hesitantly testing each other’s experiences to not unload worry onto the other. That was the thing about Suguru - he was always looking out for you, and you, him. He never needed to ask if you were thirsty, he’d just bring you tea; you never had to ask if he was lonely, you’d just find him sitting alone on the same park bench.

It was Suguru who finally broke on his thirteenth birthday while the two of you made your way through town, snowflakes hanging in the air.

“Do you ever…see things?” he asked, shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his jacket in a futile search for warmth.

From the corner of your vision, you caught the faintest glimmer of fear in his eyes. And you understood immediately.

“Yes.”

His shoulders visibly relaxed, hot breath puffing into the air. “Thank god,” he murmured.

Again, it wasn’t a surprise, per se - the two of you had shared everything. It only seemed natural that you would share this ability to see curses, the monsters hiding in the shadows.

“Do they ever…scare you?” Your voice felt small as you asked - you hadn’t yet reached relief, or at the very least, neutrality towards these things.

And he sees it in you, too - the dread he felt when he first saw them, the pang of terror that shoots up his spine when he catches one moving in the dark. He’s grown more accustomed to their presence, but there’s still that thread of fear lingering, choking him when he gets tangled in it.

“Yes.”

Cold fingers lace through yours, squeezing your hand reassuringly.

“But I’ll always keep you safe,” he smiles that sweet, soft smile, “pinky promise.”

The training wasn’t easy. You hadn’t expected it to be, obviously, but fuck was it hard.

Suguru excelled initially, as he did with everything. The others in your small class also show great potential, Satoru in particular, but Shoko’s abilities develop in her own way, too.

It’s nice to finally feel like you have a place where you belong, to have people to return to, people who care about you, who love you. It’s nice to be here, even if it pushes you to your limits everyday, because you know you’ll always have someone to come home to - to know you’ll always have Suguru to come home to.

It hits you on a sunny day in October when you’re watching him spar with Satoru. Fists fly, a mix of black and white flashing across the grass. When Gojo lands a particularly well-timed punch, Suguru’s body lands with a thud in the dirt.

You’re on your feet in less than a second, shoving Satoru out of the way as you stand over the dazed boy on the ground. He looks beautiful like this, you think - his hair splayed out around him, blood trickling from his nose, lips tugged into an awestruck smirk - before you shake the thought aside.

“Are you okay?”

Panicked hands run over his torso, checking for injuries before they land on his face. Cupping his jaw, he can’t help but breathe a laugh at the worry painted across your features. His palms come to rest along your wrists, dark eyes meeting yours.

“I’m okay,” he sighs. Now that you’re here. “I’m tough, remember?”

Every muscle in your body releases tension just at hearing his voice, his calming aura once again blanketing you, bringing you under the warmth of his peace.

With a playful punch to his shoulder, he feigns a dramatic wince. “Just don’t get hurt again, okay?”

He knows it’s impossible - it’s the nature of the job, of the responsibilities he holds. He will be hit and bruised and battered and brought to the brink of death again and again, but right now, that’s not what you need to hear. Because you know it’s impossible too; and you also know Suguru is strong.

“I pinky promise,” he halfheartedly grins. He promises to at least try. For you.

Wrapping your finger around his, you let the heat of your bodies fill the air, vibrating in tune with the cicadas lining the trees. His hand is soft in yours. It feels like coming home - the familiar walk up the steps, the paint on the front door cracking from where palms had rubbed against it time and time again as the handle turned. The wooden floors are worn in with the path you take through each other’s lives, from the kitchen to the living room to the windows, gazing over the backyard.

Suguru had a swingset, you remember. You figured out how to use it the first time you ever sat on the sun-worn rubber, going higher and higher and higher until the toes of your shoes scraped the sky. But Suguru always struggled - he couldn’t quite move his body in the right way to grant him flight. He would get frustrated with it rather easily, until your small hands rested against his back. With a firm push, you set him free into the air, his feet kicking perfectly with all the momentum a child’s body could hold.

Maybe gravity was discovered by children on the playground. There had to be a reason they couldn’t swing forever; there had to be a reason they couldn’t reach the sun.

The problem is, though, that a star’s heat dissipates with distance. It can’t always warm you, not when your feet land back on the ground.

Over the next year, Satoru began going on more missions alone, and Shoko stayed behind to hone her healing, leaving you and Suguru in the purgatory between power and nothingness. And most days, you feel closer to nothing.

It’s eating at him, you realize. The missions, the responsibility, the whole fucking thing is taking bites out of his soul with sharpened teeth and leaving nothing behind but a bloodied mess of torn expectations. It makes him smaller and smaller, pulling pieces of him until there’s nothing left.

You can see it in the way his clothes hang loose on his body. His shoulders slump forward, the shadows beneath his eyes growing darker each night he spends with his gaze locked on the ceiling.

The foundation of his soul is crumbling, the front door barricaded closed. The windows are boarded up. You can’t see your childhood anymore. All the grass in the front yard is dead.

You miss when the sun’s rays shone through him.

You miss when he was warm.

Finding him resting on one of the old benches in the school’s courtyard, it creaks beneath your weight as you sit, the only sound breaking the stagnant silence of the summer air. That’s another thing you’ve noticed - sometimes, Suguru is so quiet you aren’t even sure he exists. If you weren’t here watching his chest rise and fall, could you even prove he was breathing?

He says nothing when you rest your head on his shoulder, not that he needs to, of course. He hasn’t said much lately, mostly responding to everyone else’s overflowing conversations with empty smiles and sad eyes.

You aren’t sure how much longer you can take it.

“Suguru?”

His body doesn’t even shift in response to hearing his name, but you feel his eyes on you even though you can’t see them, your gaze instead focused on your hands resting in his lap. Picking at the skin along your nails, you continue.

“Are you okay?”

He’s grateful you can’t hear the way his heartbeat stutters (because then you’d already have the answer to your question).

“Mhm,” he hums, his lips never parting. You miss the way they used to curl into that childlike grin, it’s been so long since you’ve seen it.

You know he’s lying, but unfortunately, you want to believe him. You want to believe him so badly it feels like you’re trapped underground, buried under your love for him, banging on the floorboards overhead, but there’s no one around to hear. There’s dirt in your lungs and you can’t breathe. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

Silently, you hold your hand in front of him, pinky raised in a question.

Would you promise?

On instinct, his own hand lifts from his side. It hovers just inches from yours, but he hesitates. The gap between them grows farther with each second they don’t intertwine, stars pushing one another apart, unable to collide. The steadiness in him wavers for a moment as you watch his fingers shake.

He can’t.

When he collapses into you, everything falls apart. Arms wrap around your frame, hands grabbing fistfuls of your uniform. He clings to you like a lifeline, the only thing keeping him from drowning. Because as a child, no one ever taught him how to swim - maybe they didn’t see the point in learning such a useless skill, or maybe they thought they were protecting him. But now, he’s been thrown into relentless waves of grief and with each breath more briney water fills his chest and he’s gasping and scared and he doesn’t know what to do except hold you. The tears falling from his eyes taste like the sea and they burn his throat, but at least for a moment his legs can stop kicking. For a moment, he has someone who can keep him afloat.

Your palms rub slow circles into his back as he cries. The sound is sharp and painful, carving into the still-beating flesh of your heart, but at least it exists. At least he’s here. At least he’s alive.

Placing your lips to the top of his head, you let them rest there as his body shakes.

“It’ll be okay, I’ve got you,” you whisper into his skin, surrounded by small strands of hair pulled loose and warm from the sun. “I promise.”

As things tend to do, they eventually get easier.

You and Suguru talk to the higher ups about changing his schedule, only going on missions with at least one other sorcerer so he’s not doing all the work by himself. They bargain and ultimately even agree to grant him dedicated days off to rest. And finally, you feel as though you’ve been granted your miracle, the scales of fate begrudgingly tipping in your favor.

(If all your pain meant that Suguru’s would be lessened for even a moment you would do it over again a million times. If all your suffering meant that Suguru wouldn’t have to endure it for a second longer, you would suffer for eternity.)

Even as fall returns and the sun shines through the sky less and less, things feel brighter. The two of you find yourselves in the school’s cafeteria making tea every night, and he learns he sleeps better with you in his arms.

When the four of you gather around a picnic table outside to recap your recent assignments, you tell some stupid joke, one that makes Satoru groan and Shoko roll her eyes through a smirk, and you hear it: Suguru laughs. And for a moment, the world stops spinning.

You all exchange glances before turning to face him, his cheeks pushed up and pink, eyes closed in bliss. You can’t contain yourselves as you join him, fits of giggles lilting through the crisp air.

That night, he welcomes you into bed with open arms waiting beneath the covers. His lips are curved into a grin as he places a gentle kiss to your forehead, a newer part of your routine, one that makes your entire body vibrate.

Snuggling against him, the warmth of his chest radiates into your skin, each beat of his heart a welcome melody.

“Hey Suguru?” you murmur.

His voice is laced with sleep as he answers into the darkness, “Yeah?”

“You’re really strong, y’know that?”

Letting out an airy chuckle, he rolls his eyes. “I’m nothing compared to Satoru-”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

You can hear the air entering his lungs with each breath. He takes in three before he responds. “I know.”

Long fingers trace circles into the bare skin of your arm.

“Suguru?”

You know what you have to tell him - you’ve been holding it for years, keeping it close to you, carrying its weight through each day until you barely notice it anymore. Maybe it’s the change of the seasons, a different density to the air, but suddenly it has begun to feel heavy in your hands.

“Yeah?”

His hands make their way up your neck until they rest along your cheek, guiding your gaze to him through the dark.

Three breaths in, three breaths out.

“I love you.”

You can’t see him smile, but you feel it. The warmth of his palm leaves your face for a moment until you feel it again along your hand. He intertwines his pinky with yours. “I love you, too.”

[dmitriene]

simon riley is touch starved, the gnawing need to feel and touch is hidden and buried deep behind his austere façade, the one that actually covered in wide, bleeding cracks, which are about to come apart like stitches on an unhealed wound.

he denied himself tenderness, stubbornly lifting his chin and turning his nose at any caresses and tenderness for so long that when you appeared, when the pads of your fingers skipped for the first time over his sturdy shoulder, he felt an almost wild hunger.

simon's whole body was buzzing with deep need, bubbling up in his lower abdomen in bright flashes of heat, making his skin tingle and sting every time his dark, sulken whiskey eyes fell on you.

it was hunger, genuine, animalistic, the desire to see your gaze only on his eyes, to feel your hands on his body, everywhere, over the thick layers of his gear and underneath, on the wounded, scarred and burning skin, where your gentle and tender touches felt as a pleasant and soothing cold.

he likes it when you kiss his scars, thin and wide, from bullets and knives, a particularly painful scar on his ribs, but each of them seems to disappear and dissolve under your soft lips, down to moles, to his shoulders and spine.

your touches cover his entire body from head to toe, with kisses, light scratches from your fingernails after the long, drawn out nights you spend under simon's body, with your legs spread wide to accommodate his hips, kissing the animal growls from his pale lips and leaving bright buds of marks on his neck.

you have tamed the wild wolf in human form, but he will be the most faithful and the most loving to you, until his last breath and heartbeat, because his whole life and existence is dedicated to you, and only you.

because you're the only one who, without fear, without prejudice or disgust, has accepted him as he is in your hands, letting his growls turn into purrs.

✎ 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵. 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴. 𝘢𝘰3.

[yandereunsolved]

Yandere self aware Maegor—burn the book and escape to another country (requested)

cw(s): yandere themes, misogyny, violence, and a breeding fixation

Yandere Maegor became aware of your presence early on in his childhood. It was some time after his eighth name day. He had just stabbed to death a palfrey. The poor thing only lightly kicked him while spooked. Just then he heard a sort of gasp and turned his gaze to the sky. It felt like he was looking through a watery veil. He could see your face, your surroundings, and your fingers gripping onto what looked like a book of some sort. 

A stable boy came running towards him after hearing the pained screeches of the animal. In that moment the connection was broken as the watery veil disappeared and he was left staring upward with a new feeling sprouting within his soul. It was red hot and made his chest ache. He wanted you back to soothe the pain, but the damn stableboy took you away from him. 

The boy broke your connection.

So he slashed the stableboy's face in half and let him writhe in agony on the grassy field. That was Maegor's first taste of you. His first taste of exploring the darkest recesses of his desire, all thanks to you. He couldn't get enough, and he needed more. It is his right. 

Yandere Maegor was betrothed to Lady Ceryse Hightower and thought it was the perfect time to try to reconnect with you. Throughout the years, he has seen glimpses and even heard your name being spoken by someone else. That should have been him! This was his time to make you need him in every way, just as he needs you.

For many nights he treated himself to his newlywed spouse's body. He would have her covered in sweat and exhausted, and still he would go. He knew it pleased you to some extent. He always refused to look into his wife's eyes during this time because his head was trained upwards, staring at you. 

He always saw you during those times. That's why he was so insistent to constantly drag his wife to bed. It was like some gateway that was always open when he was inside of her.

Still, that bitch remained bare. Full of his seed, and she still couldn't produce any heirs. Worthless woman. He would scoff any time she tried to initiate. What gives her the right? She hasn't earned it.

Yandere Maegor was never one to stuff his head into books and frolick around like a pansy. That was the detestable lifestyle his half-brother Aenys lived. Still, his scarred hands found their way to dusty old scrolls that even the maesters forgot of. He learned of a strange phenomenon some Targaryens experienced. They had deemed it to be 'naejot ūndegon aōla' (to see yourself).

A certain awareness that very few had every scrapped the surface of. Dreamers were more likely to have such a revelation? ability? He couldn't find much information on it, considering the chance to study this anomaly was a rarity. 

He asked Aenys and he knew nothing. Typical.

Yandere Maegor dedicated his extra time to trying to reach out to you. He knew sex was one way to reach you. He really didn't want to touch a woman every time he wanted to interact with you. The both of you would never get any alone time. Not to mention the fact that it is quite hard to hear someone over long drawn-out moans. 

So he would meditate. He would lock himself in an isolated place for days just for a chance to see your visage once again.

He had minimal luck.

Yandere Maegor seemed to only marry women with cursed wombs. Bedding anyone was a way for him to see you, but bedding his wives had a ninety-percent success rate for being able to see you. Still, he needed an heir and was left without one. 

Was this a sign? He took it as one.

No one could change his mind on it.

You had been specially made for his seed. If you were unable to bare children due to your anatomy, he could—would find a way. You were meant for him. It was no wonder that no one else could satisfy him as you could.

You made him crazed without a touch. A feat no one but you achieved.

Yandere Maegor still felt as if you were the one after learning of his third wife's betrayal. She cursed his potential heirs! He doubts she could have cursed you. You are incredibly unique. Someone who is one of a kind.

So he uses his dead wife's book on sorcery and potions to interact with you bit by bit. He's astonished that he is in written text but is also thankful, as that is incredibly advantageous for him. He flips pages and changes the text. He dares to reach out to you through the pages and gently caress whatever part of you he is able to get ahold of. 

It's pure bliss for him, pure horror for you.

Yandere Maegor will find a way into your world. He will bring you into his. He will find a way to concoct a potion of vitality for you both. Although you seemingly do not age by much in his eyes. You are just as stunning as the first time he saw you. There's so much lost time to make up for.

[xiaowhore]

scribbled hearts.

premise. alhaitham learns to stop falling asleep in places that aren't his bed the hard way. (alternatively, in which the librarian doesn't follow the script to wake sleeping beauty.)

Kaveh finds Alhaitham furiously scrubbing his face in the bathroom.

At first, he's absolutely ecstatic. For all that Alhaitham refuses to practice skincare, he's never gotten a zit on his face. An earth-shattering revelation to Kaveh, who maintains a strict nightly skincare routine—he's never gone to sleep without a moisturizing facemask. It's not the most infuriating thing about his roommate, but it annoys him that a guy who only washes his face in the morning has clearer skin than he does.

Is this it? Is Alhaitham receiving retribution at last? Is he finally suffering the consequences of his carelessness?!

But when Kaveh cranes his neck to get a better look at Alhaitham's face, he doesn't see any of the sort.

“Dude...” Kaveh can't even laugh due to sheer incredulity, staring at Alhaitham with a pitying look. Alhaitham thinks it would be less irritating if he just laughed in his face. “Did a third-grader pick on you?”

Alhaitham grits his teeth, wiping the remnants of ink on his face. He's mostly gotten rid of the sparkly anime eyes you drew over his eyelids, but it still looks like a fading black eye. The blush lines on his cheeks are a work in progress, but they'll disappear with some effort.

“They have the maturity of one, at least.”

Alhaitham has met his fair share of librarians—there's the stern, no-nonsense kind he's gotten forehead flicks from every time he's caught dozing off on his thesis paper; the introverted bookish type who stutters as they nervously but firmly tell him off for hogging all the books a certain class needs for a report; the motherly sort who smuggles him coffee in his all-nighters when he looks like death itself...

And then there's you.

Cheekier than his brat of a roommate, you somehow manage to annoy him like nobody else can. He'd rather have you scold him for treating the library as a second bedroom than clip ribbons to his hair whenever you catch him sleeping. Hell, he'd take a skull-shattering forehead flick over doodles on his face any day. But even if he preaches his troubles to anyone willing to listen, they're never sympathetic.

Because for some reason, you're never like this to anyone else.

If anyone at campus were asked to describe you, they'll say you're a model student. Scholarly, courteous, standing tall with dignified grace; you're the perfect picture of a goody-two-shoes. Nothing like the childish brat who terrorizes his nap schedule on a daily basis.

People who have a vendetta against him is nothing new. What he doesn't understand, however, is what he did to be the object of your wrath.

“Maybe [Name] likes you. Kind of like how boys bully the girl they like,” is the ridiculous answer Kaveh gives him, dropping those words like they weigh nothing with a nonchalant shrug. Alhaitham would think it more likely for the reverse to be true; your insistence to dedicate your time into ruining his day is nothing short of admiration—surely a testament to just how much you hate him.

...Okay, so maybe Alhaitham could guess a few things for why. There's been a handful of times (read: it happens at least thrice a week) he kept you stationed at the library longer than you had to be because he fell asleep until closing hours, and he has a tendency to forget returning the materials he borrows for his thesis to the library...

So. Perhaps this was a consequence of his actions after all.

He argues that there are far more mature methods to resolve this issue, though.

Alhaitham stares at the crudely drawn portrait scrawled on his arm, deeply unimpressed. Although he's not one to boast about his looks, he's rather sure he isn't as much of an eyesore as you drew him to be, his nose an exaggerated point (a literal triangle) and his lips wide open as he drools, dangerously close to the rectangles he guesses are supposed to be books. Don't sleep on the reference books!! You'll get drool all over them >:(, reads the scribbled letters beside the portrait, an angry face scrawled haphazardly next to them.

(Still, by the corner of his eye, he spots a cup of his usual order of coffee, a neon pink sticky note pasted on the lid: Wake up and finish your report quickly, I have a show to catch at 8 :>

It would be easier to hate you if being bratty is all there is to your personality, really.)

You scribble all over your notes.

It's a fact Alhaitham has known about you since long ago. Everything else about you is neat and orderly, but every page of your notebook has some sort of doodle on the corners. They range from meticulous side-profiles of whoever sits beside you that day to meaningless hearts and smiley faces akin to what a five-year-old child might make.

If you've chosen to be more artistic for the doodles you draw all over him, perhaps Alhaitham might not mind as much. It's unfortunate you much rather prefer drawing exaggerated tear streaks on his face.

“I'm quite certain this is a form of harassment,” Alhaitham grumbles, rubbing his face with makeup remover. As pointless as it is to express his woes to the cause of said woes, he finds himself seated before the reception desk to keep you company anyway. “I don't understand why you're still doing this.”

“It's a punishment for falling asleep and keeping me holed up in here to guard the library until it closes,” you drone, fixing the library cards. “And yet you still refuse to stop. Is it really so hard to go to the dormitory instead?”

Alhaitham shrugs. A sigh inevitably escapes your lips.

Eventually, you run out of stupid things to draw on his skin whenever you catch him sleeping.

You start to write your shopping list on his arm instead.

“Why on earth would you need three cartons of eggs?” Alhaitham leans against the desk you're stationed at, reading the bulletpoints on his skin.

Eventually, Alhaitham gets used to scrubbing off your vandalism too. It's his personal brand of skincare.

“They're on sale today,” you reply, signing the papers requesting new stocks of books. “And I was planning on baking, so it's better I have plenty of ingredients for trial and error.”

“Sounds heavy,” he hums, eyes scanning the rest of your list. “Want me to come with?”

At that, your pen stops moving. “...Why?”

“I need to buy cereal.”

(No he doesn't. Kaveh went on a grocery run yesterday.)

“Sure, I guess...?” It's an unexpected development, but you wouldn't turn away an extra pair of hands. “Should we get going, then?”

“Yeah.”

You raise an eyebrow. “...But you didn't borrow a book today yet. Aren't you getting anything first?”

Alhaitham looks around. “The book I wanted isn't here, so I suppose I still have to wait a few days for it.”

“What is it?” You click your pen, reaching for your notepad. (You already have one of those, Alhaitham seriously sees no point in you writing down your grocery list on his arm.) “I'll tell you when it gets returned.”

“...No, it's fine. Let's go, the eggs you wanted might be all gone if we take our time getting there.”

You jolt up in alarm, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “You're right, we should hurry!”

For all it's worth, you're pretty gullible.

“You're still keeping that up?”

Alhaitham looks up from his laptop, fingers halting in their movement. “What do you mean?”

Kaveh scrunches his nose, pointing at the scribbles on his palm. “Your weird mating ritual. Can't you two communicate like normal people?”

Alhaitham glances at the mess you've made of his arm, full of little messages and doodles you wrote back and forth to each other during Biology period. Alhaitham had been, perhaps for the first time, not feeling drowsy. Regardless, you've taken to treating his skin as paper (“Save the trees,” you told him once, ignoring the disbelieving expression on his face), and Alhaitham has already accepted that you won't stop doing it as long as you still find it amusing.

“We do talk. Normally.”

“And if you do, why are you still doing... that.”

Alhaitham doesn't have anything to say to that. He did think it was inconvenient to wash all the messages off, and there are far more practical modes of communication.

But for some reason, he can't find it in himself to say that he outright dislikes it.

And maybe he traces the shapes you draw on his skin, in the private confines of his room where no one can see him. Maybe he admires the smooth strokes of your penmanship, the adorable curls of your letters, the bubbly font that always makes him chuckle because it's just so like you.

There are hearts sometimes, or even flowers when you feel like drawing something more detailed. The ugly sketches of him sleeping are somewhat annoying, but he still finds himself endeared. Though some things are appallingly inaccurate—you've done his nose a horrible injustice more than once—he notices the correct placement of beauty marks on his face, the sharp edges of his eyes, the meticulous dimple that faintly appears when he smiles.

A thrill runs through him when he thinks of you paying attention to him, more than you've ever given anyone else.

And, well. Alhaitham's certain he's been doing plenty of that for you.

“Don't you think you're being unfair?”

You pause in your typing, averting your eyes from the computer monitor to glance at Alhaitham. “Unfair in what, exactly?”

He mindlessly spins a pen with his fingers, staring at the blank canvas that was your arm compared to the sketchbook you've made out of his. “You're the only one who writes on me.”

“What, you want to write your shopping list on me for a change?” you arch up an eyebrow, unperturbed. “I thought you said it was impractical.”

“I never said I wanted to write my shopping list.”

“What else would you write, then?”

Alhaitham reaches for your arm. “Give me your hand.”

You blink, not quite unwilling yet confused all the same. You offer your hand and he uncaps his pen, scribbling on your palm. You've never been on the receiving end of this little game, so you're not sure what to expect from him.

“There.” Satisfied, he lets go and stands up. “I'm going home for the day. Good luck with the rest of your shift.”

“See you tomorrow, I guess...?” you wave at him in farewell, but he's quick to spring on his feet and dart out the door. “What's his deal...”

You turn over your hand, seeing a string of numbers written in neat font.

“Oh.”

Alhaitham feels silly for anticipating a text like some lovestruck teenage girl who exchanged numbers with her crush.

The blinking cursor on his blank essay document almost looks mocking, and as time passes by, the only word he's managed to type out is “The.” Even so, his attention is completely locked on his phone, devoid of any notifications.

If it weren't for Kaveh being nosy the other day, he wouldn't have gotten the idea of giving you his number. He did think something had to change, but he didn't know how to get there. But now that he's gotten this far, he can expect a little bit, right?

At last, his phone chimes its long awaited notification. Alhaitham is quick to ditch his laptop and shuts it closed, reaching for his phone where it sits on his desk. He swears he's never typed his password so fast before in his life.

Unfortunately, the text he's been anticipating for a good portion of the day is nothing but a disappointment.

Unknown number: eggs milk whipping cream flour

Unknown number: baking powder cocoa powder vanilla extract sugar

What was he expecting anyway?

He sighs and leans back on his chair, solemly pushing his laptop open. He doubts this message requires a response back.

Another notification lights his phone.

This time, Alhaitham doesn't even have the energy to unlock his screen. He squints at the notification preview.

Unknown number: wanna come over when I finish baking the souffles?

He doesn't quite drop his phone in shock, but it's a near thing.

You: I'll go carry the groceries too.

Unknown number: thanks! 💖

[ordinaryschmuck]

You know what I'm impressed by? 3D animation looking like it's 2D. And I don't mean 3D animation giving cell-shading like you'd see with Borderlands, TellTale games, and Marvel Studio's What If...? I mean stuff like this:

Taking the fluid, snappy, and often overly expressive shots you'd see in a 2D, hand-drawn cartoon, but giving it a 3D makeover.

This is a tactic I feel like got popularized by the Hotel Transyvania series. Genndy Tartakovsky, the goat of animation, directed the first movie like he would for his 2D works, having motion and models that were often stiff and slow for the moments they needed to be, but can also look snappy and expressive like any hand drawn cartoon would to make the scene more comedic.

Now, that's not to say there haven't been attempts in the past. Hell, even Laika has tried to do the same thing in stop-motion:

But it's with Hotel Transylvania that I feel like this tactic really started taking steam, being that thing that pushes the envelope of animation just a bit farther. It's not a tactic that's as realistic or as heavily detailed as your other favorite animated films, but it's still impressive in its own right. Because, you see, it's not as simple as making a character that should be 2D and just giving them a 3D model. Just look what happens when animators put Timmy Turner into the world of Jimmy Neutron or making the 80s Ninja Turtles team up with the 2012 ones:

It creates this weird uncanny effect looking at something that was MEANT to be hand-drawn and giving it that third dimension it was never intended to have. Granted, this is all to have the characters fit in with another show's art style, but you can tell that it doesn't work because it's not supposed to.

That's why when a CGI animated project tries to look 2D, they keep the idea that it has to look good, regardless if it was hand-drawn or CGI. To accomplish that requires both changing and altering the models the right way and knowing where the camera is facing. Take this one shot from The Amazing Digital Circus:

Here's what it looks like from the side:

From behind:

And from the other side:

Shout out to animator Protj for giving this neat behind the scenes detail. Check out their whole showreel of Episode Three for yourself, by the way.

And yeah, this shows why this type of animation style is often difficult to pull off. Anyone could have just DRAWN a shot like that, but to shift the model in such a way where it mimics the style is impressive all on its own. It's so much more hard work, all done for no reason at all aside from style points. They could have done this in 2D and it would have been just as fine, but sticking to it being CGI, it shows an extra level of dedication to the craft that I can't help but applaud over. I'm impressed with looking as real as possible, but there something so much more impressive about a CGI show or movie looking as cartoonish as possible.

[dicenne]

((Prior to my show, Selysona and I did a tribute to an old friend, I'll post my words before the show: For those of you around 2020 and before, and familiar with the Tarts, you probably saw or met Migisia and Andjela, our resident power couple that were both a huge part of this guild. They were around pretty much just as long as I have been, officers of the Tarts for some time, and helped shape the guild into what it is today.  It’s with a heavy heart that I have to break the news that we lost Migisia recently. It was unexpected, and she was way too young. We have Andi's permission and blessing to speak of her here since both she and Migs were and will always be one of us. A rare tauren performer, she did a lot of shows with her animal companions and was always a crowd favorite for it. She adored performing and adored this guild, and she certainly left her mark on those of us who performed alongside her, myself included. Without her and Andjela, it's hard to say where this guild may have gone when some of the rest of us had to step away for a while. So raise a glass, or a handful of glitter - because she LOVED her glitter, I don't think there was one person free of glitter at ToA one year because of her. A dare *might* have been involved in seeing how much glitter she could use in a set time. Let's just say records were set that day! I'll be dedicating my Fire Fest performance tonight to her. So this is for you Migisia, my fellow Tart, my friend, may all your glitter light our way.))

LIFECYCLES

The performance space falls silent and a vast darkness spreads, obscuring all vision. Slowly, a constellation begins to form above, distant points of light awaken in red, green, yellow, and blue, suspended midair, faintly glowing, unmoving yet alive. There’s no pattern, no reason to their birth, only emergence. They shimmer softly, each light delicate and new as if becoming aware of the world around them.

Then, there’s movement. Dicenne steps into the space as if drawn out of the void itself, his form barely illuminated. A soft wisp of fire curls from the edge of the shield he carries, flickering with the same shifting colors as the stars above, echoes of a Stellar Nebula. His body moves in a wide, circular path, limbs carving slow arcs of colored flame through the air. Each motion feels exploratory, as though he's beginning to understand what it means to move and to exist. The fire mirrors this early wonder, neither aggressive nor fierce, but gentle and curious, licking curiously at the air around him.

Dicenne surges forward, gathering speed before launching into a powerful front aerial, his body arching through the air in a forward flip with no hands to ground him. He lands seamlessly, the momentum not breaking, but bending as he folds into a wide butterfly kick that sends him into a horizontal spin, suspended at times as if gravity has not fully claimed him yet. His body flows like the clouds of dust and gases of a newborn nebula, wandering, weightless, and wonderstruck. The embers trailing from his shield sketches fleeting patterns in the dark, momentary galaxies born and gone in an instant. 

Above him, the stars pulse and flicker, their soundless rhythms responding to his dance. Some blink into being only to fade just as quickly, their brief lifespans tacitly folding into the void. Others swell with light, burning steadily. A small cluster nearest to Dicenne glows with a subtle, steady beat, their presence quiet yet unwavering. His sword remains sheathed for now, unnecessary in this chapter of becoming. He is not a warrior yet. He is stardust, forming shape and wonder. A beginning.

The fire sharpens, no longer gentle, but focused and alive. A blue flame ignites along the edge of the shield, swelling brighter, and untamed, until it burns with purpose. In one fluid motion, he draws the sword and it erupts in luminous cerulean, casting a sudden flare of brilliance across the dark. At this instant, everything changes and he has become a Massive Star. Dicenne moves like a comet unbound, radiant and unstoppable, carving his path through the cosmos with the certainty of something that knows its power.

Dicenne's steps are bold now, each grounded and sure while the fire crackles with energy and conviction. He strikes outward with his blade, whirling it in wide, controlled swipes. The shield is no longer a passive thing, it slams against the ground in a thunderous rhythm, sending lustrous blue sparks scattering across the stage. The fire mirrors his heart, blazing and generous, too big to be contained.

His tall, athletic frame is on full, intoxicating display. Muscles roll and flex with every deliberate movement, bare skin glistens with sweat that catches the flickering blaze. Each twist and turn pulses with a placid, magnetic energy, his strength both commanding and fluid. The sheer physicality of him is mesmerizing, his mass not slowing him but fueling him. He throws himself into a back handspring, shield flaring wide with the impact, followed by a spinning leap that sends a fiery ring out across the stage’s edge.

There’s a raw, exhilarating heat in this moment, a pleasure that borders on almost sensual in the way he knows his own strength. Every twist of his hips, every sweep of his weapons, every exhale from his lips speaks of a man in full command of his body and his world. It’s a confidence that smolders beneath the surface, seductive and unyielding, pulling every gaze into its orbit. This is his apex, a blaze of brilliance, warmth, and irresistible gravity. The stars above him shimmer like a celebration, the ones closest glow brightest, pulsing in time with the music. He is alive, admired, and completely unaware of how fragile it all truly is.

The tempo shifts as the sword’s flame flickers with deeper, more complex hues, while the shield’s glow dims to a steady, somber crimson. Dicenne’s steps slow, not from fatigue, but from something far heavier - reflection, burden, and the weight of passing years. He moves now as a Red Supergiant, glowing with a constant, enduring scarlet light shaped by time.

He grows more still between movements now. Not weaker, he remains a pillar of heat and strength, but more solemn. The fire that trails him glows deeper now, burning a rich, smoldering blood red, and the motions take on a ritualistic quality as he returns to some of the steps from before, but now they are slower, laden with memory. The sword glides rather than strikes, the shield protects rather than slams.

He launches into a powerful front flip, twisting through the air with fierce grace. As he lands heavily, the impact sends a flare of molten fire bursting outward from his feet, scattering sparks in all directions. His chest lifts with slow, steady breaths. Muscles taut and defined shift beneath flesh slick with sweat, the firelight tracing over prominent tattoos and old battle scars. There’s a tranquil, heavy sorrow in him now. Each movement carries the heaviness of what has been lost, what once was shared, and what can never return.

Above, the stars change. Some vanish in silence. No drama, no warning, just absence. The stars nearest to him dim and two blink out at once. He falters, but he does not stop. He steadies, finds his stance again, and moves forward. The blade spins, slower now, but still burning. The shield guards, though its light is not what it was. There’s a kind of love in his persistence, a loyalty to motion, even when the fire grows harder to carry. It is not sadness that moves him, but endurance.

There’s a sudden silence beneath the music. His feet drag, the fire wavers, and the shield slips from his grasp. The Supernova begins. The collapse is quiet at first, he curls inward with the sword barely glowing in his hand. Shoulders rise to ears, knees buckle, and his breath hitches. It is not a scream nor is it a fight, but instead it is the moment before release. The whole of him pulls tight around something cracking inside.

And then, the light ERUPTS! He throws himself outward, body flung into space, arms stretched to the sky as an inferno explodes from his core and the ground around him in chaotic trails, an orchestration of light, color, and ash. Red, blue, gold, and violet glitter explodes in every direction, scattering like the remnants of a Supernova. In one frozen heartbeat, he appears suspended in the chaos, arms extended, face lifted to the heavens, ribbons of heat spiraling around the sword that hovers above him.

He rotates slowly in midair, limbs outstretched in every direction as if reaching for the whole of existence. Then, the shockwave hits. The stars above briefly flash a brilliant white before a cascade of multicolored glitter bursts from the heights of the theater. It rains down in every hue of the rainbow, swirling through beams of firelight, drifting like cosmic dust, and settling across the stage floor in a shimmering layer. 

Dicenne remains trapped in the breath between moments as the shockwave continues to ripple outward. The flames wrap around him in slow motion, kissing the cut of his muscles, sliding down the line of his throat, gilding sweat and skin in molten gold. Glitter still falls in thick, radiant sheets, clinging to his body and turning him into a silhouette of shifting color against the storm. The world blurs around the edges; sound, light, and time all stretching and expanding from the epicenter that is him. For this one, impossible point in time, he defies physics. He is starlight and collapse, he is the center of all things. Bare, burning, and utterly beautiful.

He lands hard on one knee, sword scorched, shield abandoned. Everything is quieter now, and he does not rise again. This is the end of the star and for a long moment, nothing follows but falling starlight and soft music winding down.

No rebirth, no resurrection, just the echo of something furious but fleeting. A life lived and a star gone, yet something remains. The stage seems to lean toward him, pulled by something unseen. He stays kneeling, unmoving, as the darkness around him thickens. Bit by bit, the air begins to pull inward. The glitter drifting above starts to fall in slow, deliberate arcs toward him, and the light bends with it. Subtle, steady, as if all things on the stage are being drawn to where he kneels, restful and waiting.

A pinpoint collapse, silent and infinite. At the center of it all, the shape of a man remains still and lingering, his presence anchoring something far greater than himself. A Black Hole. He doesn't move, he doesn’t have to, the world moves around him now. Time stretches thin, lights flicker out at the edge of the starscape, not with violence, but in surrender as if bowing to something they cannot fight. 

He is not empty, he is a monument. A final gravity, etched in fire and silence. The last breath of a star that could no longer burn, but would never be forgotten.

@succulent-tart @tartfirefest

[weebsinstash]

SIIIIIIIIIIGH oh my god though the power of across the spiderverse cannot be understated because I still think about Miguel O'Hara at least once a week and he's ruining me so I have a new idea for you guys (also did any of you see there's gonna be new Spiderman 2099 comics where he gets a Symbiote. Spidey 2099 being driven by his new Symbiote to finally act on his urges after hiding them from you completely for YEARS and just unleashes them all on you like a decade delayed volcanic eruption, just fucks you like an absolute animal who's about to go extinct and you're the only mate for miles--)

So anyways I was initially actually thinking of this for uh like Batman or the JL or whatever but, usually I come out here with my ideas, "what if Miguel meets you for the first time and you two get to know each other and he's crazy for you" but now I'm gonna hit you with "what if Miguel meets Reader and it's his first time meeting you but you've actually met different versions of him before" and it's in the most dramatic way possible (besides that "spiderwoman 2099 Reader who lost Miguel as her husband as her canon event falling prey to new Miguel who lost his wife as his canon event" idea anyways)

Miguel meets you when he chases an anomaly into your universe and finds himself drawn to you instantly, like magnetism, just so curious to learn about you, talk to you, spend time with you, and yet... you seem... off-put by him. You don't meet his eyes in a normal way, and there's a certain... agitation you regard him with more than once. He just wants to get to know you and you're practically AVOIDING him, even as you work for the Spider Society with him practically having to force that watch into your hand

He then finds out with all of these infinite universes, that there's a SECOND Spider Society, ran by another Miguel O'Hara

.... who is your ex-boyfriend

who never got over you

who still wants you back

who you're very obviously uncomfortable around, if not outright scared of, and everyone can immediately tell this second Miguel, let's call him Migs, is maybe not all entirely right in the head. He sees you and his entire personality changes. The tone of his voice. The light in his eyes. The way his smile pulls tight. The clear predatory interest.

Miguel is working with you amd there when Migs is 'introduced' and Miguel is INSTANTLY not only fiercely "territorial", but once he sees that you're actually kind of SCARED of this guy, well... Miguel doesn't want him there. Period. But Migs doesn't want to leave. The man claims you're still a member of his Arachnid Association, that everyone misses you, that HE misses you, misses working with you, misses holding you, FEELING you-

Like can you even imagine... Miguel watches you go from someone who is very unresponsive around him, giving him short answers, really only working with him when necessary, being intentionally emotionless, and then Migs comes out, and your hands are shaking, and you're breathing harder, and for a split second you look at Miguel and he KNOWS you're asking for help and he KNOWS he can see tears, even if you look away moments later trying to compose yourself, and it's ON, this guy has to LEAVE, Miguel doesn't even need a story or explanation he just KNOWS this motherfucker needs to get away from you and get out

Too bad the twist is that Migs is just a less intelligent and just more openly blatant alternate of Miguel, and you were just served on a silver platter to an infinitely more charismatic, more wizened, just as obsessive predator who you are now just SO grateful to. He's your HERO! Not to mention, you know, there were other people in the Arachnid Association that kind of gave you bad vibes, so, you should obviouslyyy stay under the protection of the Spider Society which Definitely :) isn't just as filled with eyes watching you as the last place if not even more, just smarter and more emotionally dedicated :) you can Totally relax here :) ignore that your Spidey Sense goes off sometimes when you're """alone""", it's just nerves, and you should totally totally totally tell Miguel or Peter B or your closest trusted "normal platonic friend" alllll about anything that happens and all of your feelings in detail! I mean, aren't they there to support you? They'll go over their game plan at the next meeting. You know, the secret ones you don't know about, the ones that are always only about one specific special person and I'll give you one guess as to who it is...

[pumpkinsy0]

If I know art (which I do☝️🤓) I know that Ponyboy's art book(s) aren't all aesthetic drawings of plants or the sunsets. That's in his 'safe' book, his more 💥unsafe💥book has more risky sketches. Like anatomy of humans and animals, occasionally an oc of his. BUT I think, he likes drawing the stupidest animals he can find, then putting someone's head on it. Especially when he's mad. He has a page dedicated to Steve as a mosquito or Dally as a bald rat. But his favourite, Curry's face on a shrimp. He finds it so funny because as an artist, he can do this and nobody will know he's putting Curly Shepherd's (who's ego can be bigger than his muscles) face onto the body of a shrimp. A damn shimp. All because he didn't share a blunt or smth 🤦‍♂️

-🧊🍵 (boo, I'm alive)

hiii ice tea anon whats goin awnnnnn

AND since u brought up pony and his sketchbook here r some other hcs i have for it but i have no way of seamlessly transition into each of em so im just saying things whoops!!!

•curly isnt big on full on drawing, hes more of a guy who just doodles on small pieces of paper, but pony always collects them and sticks them in his book

•pony only makes those stupid drawings of curly either bc curly annoyed the hell out of him or bc it annoys curly to b drawn that way. curly likes being ponys muse only when ponys drawing him to flatter him, if pony doesn’t curly just tries tricking himself and pony into believing that he was actually drawing tim

•when pony has a drawing that doesnt look that good or just better suits the second book he has NO shame in ripping that bad boy out, pony would rathey shit in his hands and CLAP before letting someone know about that book or his other drawings like that

•pony basically has a fursona he draws himself as and has literally assigned everyone else in the gang their own fursona

[justsomerandomfanfic]

X-men (and maybe also X-men villain) matchup pls! Im a straight woman with brown hair and amber eyes, I wear glasses but dislike wearing them because I got bullied when I was younger because of them. Im very insecure about myself but will protect the ones I love,mostly im cheerfull but i also can be very sad quickly(moody) sometimes grumpy ( mostly in the morning). I'm easily worried and feel easily stressed. I will always do my best and always want to help people Kinda goofy and derpy sometimes. I also like to tease , I can be very pervy also and sometimes am a little socially awkward. I'm rather clingy to the ones I love. I do love animals, plants and games! I have sometimes migraine (but luckily enough not that much) INFJ , Hufflepuff . Tysm!

HI again!

I hope you like your matchups!

I love X-Men <3

<33333333333333

Enjoy!

Romantic Matchup; X-Men

~~~

Romantic;

~~~

X-Men;

Logan Howlett -

You were one of the newer professors at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, specializing in subjects like literature and botany, something peaceful that balanced out the chaos of a mutant academy.

Logan, being his grump self, wasn't exactly thrilled about meeting the new staff members, but he took notice of how dedicated you were to the students.

You both ended up bonding over shared moments in the teacher's lounge.

Usually, you sipping tea while he downed a Coke, exchanging dry, sarcastic comments about the latest mutant drama or student drama.

Logan was instantly drawn to your protective nature.

You reminded him of himself - to an extent.

Ready to fight tooth and nail for the people you loved.

He was one of the first people to notice your insecurities, especially when you hesitated to wear your glasses.

He never pushed, but one day, he casually told you, "They make ya look smark, bub... But ya look good either way."

Morning grumpiness?

Logan finds it hilarious and endearing.

He has the same issue of waking up grumpy before his morning coffee, so he gets it.

He’d purposely greet you in an annoyingly chipper way just to mess with you.

"Mornin', sunshine. Ready to face the day, or ya need another hour to glare at your coffee?"

He never minded how clingy you were with people you loved.

Hell, he wasn't great at verbal affection, but he'd always return your touches, whether it was a hand on his arm or leaning into you when you sat close.

Sparring matches in the training room.

You were nowhere near as strong as Logan, with those metal claws and bones he has, but you were quick, and he liked that.

Garden walks were a must.

You loved plants, and Logan found himself gravitating towards the calm of the greenhouse with you.

Even if he pretended that he was just there to make sure you were safe and to keep you company.

You'd drag Logan into playing games with the kids, and while he acted gruff about it, he secretly loved seeing you laugh and be goofy.

He is terrible at video games by the way.

You both had a sharp wit, and it was a game of who could make the other flustered first.

You had a pervy streak?

Logan would absolutely play into it.

Lots and lots of teasing, which was just flirting if you really looked at it.

Logan didn't realize that he was in love with you at first.

He just found himself gravitating to you more and more, getting more and more protective in ways he didn't even notice.

He'd sense when you were stressed before you even said anything.

Casually dragging you out of the school for a ride on Scott's motorcycle.

You started noticing that Logan watched out for you in quiet ways.

Always keeping a drink for you in the lounge or kitchen fridge, making sure students didn't give you a hard time...

His glare always sent a message.

And giving you his jacket when you forgot yours.

One day, you were reading in the library - Logan was sitting beside you, just for your peaceful company - when he noticed that your glasses were slipping from your nose.

Without a word, he reached out and pushed them back up the bridge of your nose for you.

That was the first time he said that you were beautiful.

It happened on one of those nights when you were spiraling - doubting yourself, feeling overwhelmed.

Logan found you sitting outside, eyes wet, and sat next to you in silence.

When you muttered, "I just feel like I'm not doing enough... That maybe I'm not good enough for this job..."

"Bullshit. You give everything to this place, to these kids, to me."

You blinked, "To you?"

He huffed, looking away, clearly uncomfortable.

Then, softer; "Yeah, dearlin'. To me. Ya are more than good enough. Honestly, I think ya are too good for this place."

This conversation somehow led to him confessing, which led to you confessing, which then led to your first kiss.

Logan isn't a big talker.

But his actions say everything.

He brings you coffee in the mornings, even if you're grumpy.

Loves when you get clingy.

Wrap yourself around him like a koala, he loves it.

Will carry you around.

He'd run his hands through your hair absentmindedly whenever you sat together, just because he liked the feeling of it; calms him too.

You love stealing his clothes. More than half of his flannels are in your closet, under your pillow, or on you.

When you return them - after the scent of him is gone - you leave little notes in his pockets.

Logan gives you a flurry of nicknames; darlin', sunshine, sweetheart, baby, bub, and more.

He loves picking yu up when you're too tried to walk to bed.

Will drop you on the said bed once he gets there.

Forehead kisses.

Nose kisses.

Lots of kisses.

~~~

X-Men Villain;

Erik Lehnsherr -

You met Erik as a fellow mutant, someone he could talk to without judgment.

You understood his pain, his anger, his determination to change the world.

The friendship started as intellectual debates, discussing politics, morality, and what it meant to be a mutant in a world that feared you.

Erik found your passion and convictions fascinating.

You weren't afraid to challenge him, to make him think.

He admired that.

There were many long nights spent talking about philosophy and the future.

Erik always listened when you spoke, his eyes intense, drinking in every word.

You would train together.

He helped you refine your powers, and you helped him find moments of peace when his anger got too much.

You grounded him.

When Erik's rage threatened to consume him, your voice was the only thing that could bring him back.

He didn't just like you.

He respected you.

That was rare for Erik.

He realized he loved you when he caught himself protecting you without thinking.

His body moved before his mind even could register the danger.

The tension was palpable.

Hands grazing.

Lingering stares.

Conversations with too much unspoken emotion and tension.

It happened after a mission, adrenaline high, emotions raw.

Erik grabbed your wrist, pulling you into him.

"I need you," He murmured, his breath warm against your skin. "Not just as an ally. As someone more."

And then he kissed you - hungry, desperate like he was afraid to lose you.

Erik wasn't soft, but with you, he was gentler.

You were the one person he let see his scars - both physical and emotional.

Forehead touches instead of words when he couldn't express how much you meant to him.

When Erik went down his dark path, it broke you.

You fought - yelled, cried, begged him to stop.

But even as enemies, there was always longing in his eyes.

Whenever you were faced with fighting against him, he would never hurt you - he couldn't.

Erik found you again years later.

He wasn't the same person, and neither were you.

But, when he reached out for you, voice hoarse with regret, you let him in again.

[heiznx]

𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐚𝐥𝐬 (𝐈)

✦ ┊ meeting him in shakkei pavilion.

what to know ┊ this includes wanderer’s backstory, added scenes, removed scenes, and the timeline would be confusing.

parts ┊ part one (you are here), part two, and part three.

ㅤ

You were not a god.

You played the game and had your heart flutter, break, and be stolen by many characters; the lack of romantic content would send you to your fantasies filled with what-ifs and imaginations of how characters would act if you do this or do that.

At your first arrival, you were confused about where you were, so what if you played the game? The game was not realistic, it was a 3D game with drawn or modeled items, and when you saw everything, it wasn’t the same as the game.

The difference was huge and so was the troubled feeling in your heart.

Almost everything was handed to you when you started walking around the place; the river was incredibly clean to drink on, the trees always have something to give, and the abandoned places have fabrics to give you.

Still, it’s not that you can actually feel safe in this place, not when everything was not as ‘modern’ as your world was, and you never knew how you had come to transport in this kind of place in the first place.

It was only when you stumbled upon a domain at night, the marbled structure with a symbol of three pointed sides, glowing together with the nearby plants that you don’t recall the name of because it was the least of your worries.

Genshin Impact.

You read works like that fandom, can’t say that you were as dedicated as the rest were, but you knew a few, because you tried to study the characters due to their appearance or their interesting personalities.

Alternative universes, and you were transmigrated like that? Unbelievable. You don’t have the power that those alternative universes have in which you were the god, and you didn’t have anything special; you weren’t aether or lumine, you were just you.

Tired, you sat by the tree and hugged your knees to your chest while using the fabrics you found as a way to keep yourself warm; you didn’t feel hopeful. You had no information about where exactly in Teyvat you were, what year, or who were the trustworthy people currently alive.

Frustrated to be away from the place you were used to and comfortable, tears stung your eyes, prompting you to place your palms over them as if you’re trying to shove the liquid back in your eyes—it worked though.

You shed a few tears, only a few, and the glowing light was a comforting feeling to you; it’s only been a day and you can’t help but wish to see a few people that was known in the game so they could be your source of comfort or the reason for you to know where to start.

How could you rest in an unfamiliar place? You closed your eyes, your tears piling up again even if you thought that your mind no longer had thoughts. You pulled the fabrics closer to your body and you tried to rest.

It’s too cold.

The domain couldn’t be too dangerous, you assumed, because in the game you have to turn on the mechanic to summon the monsters, and you could use the warmth of the place—it was not like you were in Dragonspine after all.

You looked up and held on the domain doors, pushing it open to have yourself be comforted by the light, but dread filled your body when someone was actually in the domain; you never encountered anyone yet in your travels, animals, sure, but not humans or monsters.

The person had a purple cloak, white clothing, purple hair and—you recognize him; this was not a person, but the puppet of the Shogun. The character you cried over was just a few meters away from you.

It was canon that he was pretty, he was described to be.

Your heart clenched as you saw him, laying in the middle of the domain that looked like it was taken from a place in Inazuma and shut locked in the domain, like a garden inside a bottle—as far as you know, he had no idea it was a domain.

Even if the trees were pretty and the view was a sight for sore eyes, you can’t help but tear up again; out of all the people you had to see first, it had to be the character your heart broke for so many times.

You now know the year it took place and where you were, and it did not ease the pain in your heart to know he could’ve been here for who knows how long, but you had to wipe your tears.

You wanted to help him, but what can you do? Not even you were from the world, no one knows you here, and you weren’t any different from him. You also didn’t want to change his future, because what if he doesn’t meet Lessor Lord Kusinali?

“Scara—” you said but your mouth clammed.

He has no name yet.

The puppet, however, turned to you, his face of curiosity and yours teary but you smiled regardless. At least you can take him out of the domain earlier than a certain samurai would, but you never knew the details.

You held the worn out fabric close to yourself, the scenery inside the domain being warmer than outside. You’re not sure what to say as you hesitated to even come near him; you can’t just give him a hug out of nowhere no matter how your heart breaks at his innocent stare.

“I’m sorry…” you whispered. “I did not know you were here and it was just cold outside.”

Your cheeks felt warm, embarrassed, and you’re not even sure if the puppet right now can even talk to you or understand your words because he was someone that wasn’t given a name before he was discarded.

Even your reason felt stupid, you sounded like you were invading someone’s home when it was a domain that anyone can walk in and walk out of—or can they?

You looked back and didn’t see the domain door and your heart dropped. This was the kind of domain without exit until you finish what is at the end of the domain, and you don’t remember what was inside this domain because it has been so long.

“Are you okay?”

Your heart nearly fluttered because this was someone who was now a blunt and not really soft-spoken person in the game, so hearing this tone on the character felt different, uncomfortably different.

“Oh, yes, uhm…” you said, stuttering your words a little before you hesitantly approached. “I… I’m sorry, but do you know what’s inside this place?”

To your observation though, he looked interested and flustered at the same time; you felt bad, because it was most likely because you were the first person he talked to ever since Ei left him there.

You nodded and then he replied, “Nothing…”

“Nothing?” your anxiety paused for a moment because you were bewildered, and he just nodded at you.

If there was nothing inside, then why was he still here? He could’ve gotten out on his own—unless he didn’t know how to get out in the first place or did he not know it was even possible?

“I… I see,” you muttered. “Hey… uhm… I’ll trust you since you said there was nothing…”

What else are you supposed to say? You can’t reveal anything from the game because it could affect the future, you thought of it like that as if you didn’t change the future by being the first person to meet him, and now you were going to attempt exiting the domain.

You felt a little stiff as you smiled at him and waved, the redness of the spot beneath your eyes and nose worrying him for some reason, because he never saw a human before, a human like you, at least.

He followed you, and you didn’t feel uncomfortable with him following you, except for the fact that he was following you—makes sense?

If you did find the exit, he would leave early too and you’ll destroy the timeline hours after you just arrived in Teyvat. You weren’t confident that you could give him a better life than what was ahead of him because you did not pay attention to details.

However, you do know that you can teach him to properly deal with his pain and emotions when the time comes, but you weren’t someone who graduated at psychology or anything that involves mental health; you’re just someone who observes.

“What are you doing?”

You can never get used to his tone, but he watches you slide the doors to the side or push them open in an attempt to find the exit, and he even follows you down the ladders and such.

“Investigating…?” you said but it sounded like a question, even the puppet was confused about your words, and you felt like you were going to flush again. “I’m just looking.”

You didn’t want to say you wanted to leave, because you didn’t want to hurt his feelings, you were probably—are—the first person he had ever met, and if you feel like if you found the exit, you wouldn’t be able to leave him without the shame and guilt building over you.

“I’ll go investigate with you,” he said and you felt something punch you in the gut by how innocent and soft-spoken he was. “I’ll help you.”

You smiled a little and then you turned around to continue walking.

In just a minute, you realized the puppet had no idea what investigating actually was and he was pushing and sliding doors open as you were earlier, in a way, what he was doing was right, but he looked endearing like that.

Endearing—the thought made your heart break again for the nth time. This person near you was someone who made you cry for days because you hoped his life would be better, because you felt like you understood his pain even if you hadn’t experienced it in the way he did.

You helped look around for exits, and you often look at drawers as well. You found a few mora and then when he noticed you were keeping circular gold coins, he started giving you the same looking coins whenever he sees one; it felt like you were robbing the place.

“Thank you, Kabu—” you clammed your mouth again. “Just… thank you.”

Clearly, as someone who never really had a social life, the puppet didn’t know how to respond to you, and your heart softened immensely. You continued, “The response usually is… ‘you are welcome’ or ‘you’re welcome’... It also can be ‘no problem’ if you weren’t burdened by what you were doing or ‘I’m happy to help’.”

“You’re welcome.”

Your heart warmed up, but then you realized that the reason why the puppet responded that way is because he probably can’t distinguish his own feelings right now; he had no lessons about his feelings and most likely didn’t know if he felt burdened by helping you or if he was happy to help.

You felt like going on your knees, crying and groveling in pain, because you messed up with him each time you opened your mouth to say something.

In the end, the last place you two checked just had to be the exit; you never tried to open it but it was the last door there, so it could be it for real, but you can’t find yourself to open it with the puppet in your presence.

“I realized you were looking for doors,” the puppet says. “Are you leaving?”

You don’t understand why he said leaving as if he didn’t plan to leave himself. You looked at him and whispered, “I really liked your company, even if I want you to come with me, I can’t do anything for you out there… I don’t know what will be out there, and I can’t help you…”

It was painful that you had to make the decision for the both of you, because you can’t trust the puppet, who barely had any interactions or say at the start of his life, make a decision; it was like he was a child in your eyes.

“You don’t know what’s out there?” he asked, his head tilting to look at you and your expression; he noticed that the redness of your eyes and nose disappeared. “How did you find me?”

“I wasn’t really looking for you, I was looking for a place to stay because it’s cold outside,” you said before you realized that barely hours had passed so it could still be cold outside. “I… you won't happen to be bothered if I stay, do you?”

“Can I… know more about you?”

He is so cute, once again, you want to grovel and cry about what he was going to go through and the fact you could do something about it but you didn’t want to because you weren’t confident enough to give him a better life.

You nodded before you sat down near the exit, leaning your back on the wall. You smiled at him and then pats the space beside you, at least, you want to try being beside a character you deeply adored.

Perhaps he felt some connection with you.

The puppet asked about your life and the basic information you know about Teyvat; he felt something he couldn’t point out when you told him that you don’t know anyone outside, it’s as if you two are new to the world, but you were human, no?

He doesn’t understand how you don’t know anyone and no one knows you, certainly, you’ve been outside longer than he was.

You had to pretend that you’ve been sheltered and it’s your first time going outside, which was, in a way in your modern life, true; you were quite introverted. He sensed a connection there.

He suddenly claims that he wants to go outside with you; he wants to experience what it is like outside too, with you, who he felt a connection with—someone he could relate to—someone he thinks he can trust, even if he wasn’t familiar with that concept yet.

You tried to explain to him that it won’t be easy, but he still wants to be with you still, you two are exploring the world for the first time, and he likes that thought.

ㅤ

ㅤ

You didn’t try to give him a name, even as he held your hand when you two left the domain after you took a nap to see that the sun was rising.

It wasn’t inevitable, when you entered that domain, you could’ve steeled your heart to go through everything and then leave him, but you couldn’t just ignore him, because for you, he was human.

He wanders around a lot, had you not been holding his hand, you would’ve lost him already, but you did let go of his hand and let him explore, just hoping he would scream if he ever encountered anything—not that you can save him though, but will save him.

You looked at the domain, trying to remember where Tatarasuna was. Maybe, just maybe, if he’s not too attached, you can safely leave him with the first person that ever found him: Kisaragi.

Tatarasuna was near a domain, but this domain, what domain is it? You don’t even remember. If Kisaragi found the puppet, then Tatarasuna must be nearby, no?

You look back to see that if you squint, you can see Seirai Island. You really must be near Tatarasuna, if you keep walking, you’re bound to find it—or if you wait Kisaragi might come by the domain and find you two.

You kneel away from the water and drop all the currency from the pouch; Mora was something you had a lot of in the game before you started leveling up a lot of characters just because you like them.

It can barely be used for food. You barely had 50 Mora with you.

The puppet watches you curiously and he comes back and kneels down beside you, wondering about your expression as your finger circles around the coin, refusing to acknowledge that you barely have money to go on.

You look at the puppet, prompting him to look at you. He’s so pretty and so carefree since he barely knows anything yet, and you didn’t want to teach him about poverty so early.

“Did you finish looking around?” you ask as you gather the coins and put them back in the pouch, and the pouch didn’t have some sort of void so you can feel its weight.

He nodded and you smiled at him; it won’t be easy to decide his future. You didn’t want to change his life in the game you were in, but you also didn’t want him to go down the road he did.

“Come on…” you stood up and offered your hand to him, hopefully, you would spot chests or eggs to cook. “Let’s look for a place to stay, but if we can’t… we might have to go back here and then look around again.”

hzn ┊ IF YOU NEED TO BE MEAN BE MEAN TO ME :((( this is spoiler for the future chapters, ngl i want to put them in one but for some reason i limit myself to 2-3k words per post. im so not over his backstory even though i havent played it yet like i dont wanna break my heart

[choco-mooooose]

Ok off the bat things in the season 3 poster WHICH I AM SO EXCITED FOR WOW

- a schoolbus shining light on her (bus hijacking incident)

- the door creaked open on her with what I think is both Loid and Yor’s… shoes? At first I thought it was just loid, and I would’ve said that’s referencing his backstory, but I think they’re there just because they’re the other main characters yk

- a play soldier helmet (😭😭😭😭)

- a volleyball (Yor and Melinda and the women’s club- I don’t remember the name right now)

- a tea set, which I think Yor had tea with the women if I’m remembering correctly

- an onion (😭😭😭😭😭) (he’s chopping onions when he’s recruited)

- I know the tag in the right-hand corner has something to do with Loid’s backstory. I think the whole corner over there is dedicated to him, just as the left corner is for Yor.

Honestly I’m not sure if the lamp has any significance, especially since it’s shining a light, but they might’ve needed another object in the poster.

I think the light making a star shape probably references the Stella she will earn this season. I wonder how many chapters they’ll cover, though. Each season/cour has covered about three volumes’ worth of story, so if this is similar, the anime will have pretty closely caught up to the manga. This poster is mostly just showing things from volumes 10 and 11, so I’m wondering if this season will just be a bit more drawn out and only include things from those chapters.

Anyways, I’m excited!! This announcement came sooner than I thought!!

[utilitycaster]

In honor of that poll, which has apparently been answered by a bunch of loser rogue-fuckers, and was also written by someone who doesn't even have the update that gives you twelve poll options, please have a good ranking of sexiest D&D 5e classes, from me.

This only has the 13 officially published 5e classes so do not ask me about classes that are not that. Also, the existence of a handful of sexy or unsexy characters of that class does not a sexy or unsexy class overall make. I'm sure these two statements will not shut down all annoying people but by god I hope they shut down some.

Paladin. Self-explanatory: if you don't agree, you better explain yourself, unless you think they are outranked by...

Wizard. As Liam O'Brien said, what's sexier than wizards? And I said "paladins, but no one else." I'm also going to fuck up an Octavia Butler quote and say that her journal did not explicitly state that single-minded devotion is sexy but it is, and that's why wizards and paladins are, undisputably, the top two.

Warlock. Would be higher than wizards on the basis of sheer raw charisma but some warlock classes (archfey, hexblade) are extremely sexy and some are...pots in need of very unique lids, shall we say.

Bard. This is for competency and knowledge of mythology and musical instruments. If you're into some kind of memeriffic 20 CHA 7 INT Roll To Seduce bro shit, get the fuck out of here.

Ranger. Their combat abilities are not as great as they could be but this is also without a doubt the class that will invite you over and make a delicious foraged mushroom risotto and have lit candles they made themself. They are good with animals and can identify constellations. Entire package.

Barbarian and Fighter are tied. Do you prefer a flow state and passion or do you prefer dedication and persistence? Axe or sword? Raw power or precision? Equally valid; it's a matter of personal taste.

Cleric. One of the gods thinks they're special; it's hard not to be drawn in by that. Also, healing is the sexiest magical ability. Points off for the possibility of sanctimonious behavior.

Druid. This is just personal taste but I would find it weird if my partner was sometimes a giant scorpion, and I feel rangers are just the far sexier nature-loving option. People for whom druids are #1, I see you, I respect you, I disagree with you, but I do think you're valid.

Monk. Here's the problem. Yes flexible; everything else is kind of a solid "eh" for me. Honestly I think it's because D&D separates out dexterity and strength even though monks technically need both, and so the low-strength monk archetype really doesn't do it for me. It's not unsexy but it never wows me, and honestly in real life martial arts is usually more an aesthetic joy than a sexy one for me.

Sorcerer. Often physically attractive but I do not love a nepo baby, and absolutely the class least able to make you breakfast. Class most likely to attempt to make you breakfast and manage to fuck up scrambled eggs.

Artificer. Love the class but unfortunately I can only think of Belle's father in Beauty and the Beast (1991) when I think of what an artificer looks like. Wizards claimed the hot nerd spot; artificers never had a chance.

Rogue. Anyone can wear black leather. Anyone can twirl a butterfly knife and the ranger is going to be better at using it. You know what rogues are best at? Leaving through the window without waking you up. That's it. Bards have the same skills and then some and they're hotter by design. There are other classes with superior physical skills. Burst damage is already not actually that useful in 5e combat and even less so in the bedroom.

[lelielholmes]

can you write some head cannons about Sophina x fem reader? Please and thank you :D 

Sophina x Reader HC

Summary: Your bond is one of silent defiance: quiet glances in public, hidden smiles, hands brushing under the table, a home filled with unspoken love in a world that doesn’t understand it.

Author's notes: I hope that the anime gives her more screen time than the manga.

Warnings: Conservative society(?)

In a society where magical bloodlines and traditions are everything, relationships that don't fit the mold aren’t quietly ignored.

Sophina and you, despite being in a committed relationship, are officially listed as "roommates" even after graduation - both for appearances and protection.

Easton Academy

- You met Sophina at Easton Academy after being assigned as her roommate. It was purely random and you were terrified. Her reputation preceded her.

- Sophina was a prodigy: elegant, composed, top of every class. You? Barely passing. You had heart but lacked the finesse the magic school demanded.

- She was annoyed at first. You cluttered her side of the room with notes, forgot enchantment rules, and once exploded a potion. But instead of requesting a new roommate, she tutored you.

- Her reasoning? "I don’t want to waste time adjusting to someone else." But secretly, she found your sincerity… refreshing.

- Nights spent studying became moments filled with warmth. She’d make sarcastic remarks, and you’d shoot back with clumsy jokes that made her actually laugh- a rare sound.

- You kissed for the first time after she won the Divine Visionary exams. She said it was “a moment of weakness.”

- ….but she never stopped kissing you after :)

Post-Easton Academy

- You both moved in together under the guise of "sharing rent" in the capital.

- Sophina is a rising star in the Bureau of Magic, while you took on a smaller role- like maybe working with magical creatures or tutoring kids with low magic potential.

- She keeps her public image flawless. In private, she lets her guard down. She hums while brushing her hair, reads next to you, and always leaves the window open so your cat can jump in.

- You often wake up before her and watch her sleep, her usually stern face so soft and peaceful.

- She always drinks her coffee black-until one day you gave her a sweetened one by mistake. She complained… but drank it anyway. Now she always asks you to “make it how you do it.”

- You still call each other ‘roommate’ around others. But when she hands you your lunch before work, she slips in a note: "In a world full of scorcery, you're the only truth I trust.”

- You kept every note. They're hidden in a worn-out book she once gave you-The Fundamentals of Enchantment - with a smiley face drawn inside the cover.

- That was the first book she used to tutor you.

The Knowledge Cane

- She's constantly surrounded by nobles, warlocks, and the press-many of whom wouldn't hesitate to condemn your relationship if they knew.

- She handles it all with poise, but you see the toll it takes: the way her jaw clenches when they bring up "preserving tradition," or how she avoids eye contact during formal events.

- One evening, she comes home late, the moonlight catching the shimmer of her official robes. You're waiting with tea.

- She sinks into the chair beside you, exhaustion taking over her face.
"They said love makes you weak," she mutters. "But all this time, loving you is the only thing that's made me stronger."

- Sometimes, you help her organize her endless research and reports-your handwriting is neater, anyway. She pretends to be annoyed when you doodle hearts in the margins... but never erases them.

- During a rare public address, Sophina is asked what inspires her dedication to knowledge.
She pauses, then replies:
"Because knowledge leads to truth. And truth should never have to hide."
You lock eyes with her across the crowd. She doesn't smile-she never does in public

- but her fingers subtly tap a rhythm on the podium; the code you two made up for "I love you."

⛥ ⛥ ⛥

Spoiler Alert: Once Mash defeats Innocent Zero and society starts accepting magic-less people, You and Sophina come out as lovers :)

and Yes! The other divine visionaries had a bet whether you were dating or were just ‘rommates’. Kaldo, Ryoh, Tsurara & Agito won the bet. Rayne, Renatus, and Orter lost.

Orter just crossed his arm and said he never participated in such ‘childish games’. Which is partially true, however, Ryoh got his opinion on the relationship one day; and ever since that was considered his participation. We all know Ryoh can be very persuasive.