#but never in the face of the action either

[acid-ixx]

— related post !

socialite! (secret himbo/bimbo) reader who takes one look at bruce wayne in a gala and you decide you'll use your (dumbass) alluring charms on the man to spend a night with him and it ends up successful. you had the best bed-breaking sex in your life, never once questioning all the taut muscle underneath his polished thousand-dollar suit; now crumpled by how handsy you were taking off his clothes. he was great with aftercare, too, carrying you off to one of his luxury bathtubs to bathe you and leave even more marks on the expanse of your back whilst massaging your naked body (you didn't even think for a second at the romantic implications his actions had).

then you're at one of luthor's galas the next time, being interviewed by this cute man with eyeglasses, who calls himself clark kent, with the cutest country-boy accent, who looks too tall to act all lanky, but you're not one to judge. you take one look at his baggy suit, ignore the pen and paper in his hands and drag him off to one of the spare janitorial rooms to have, quite possibly, the most pleasurable quickie you've ever had spent inside a cramped closet, your sweat sliding off each other as your bodies move in a harmonious tandem. you give him a kiss on his collar right after the momentary sex, and giggle at the skittish blush dispersing on his face, as if he didn't just give you a reason to go home early due to the limp on your step.

after everything, they were buried in the back of your mind. they were great fucks, yes, you never had a moment of horny zenith not until you met them, yes; but your relationship (if you could even call it that) with both men were purely sexual and a one-time thing. you never really thought of them, you prioritize your social life and reputation above all else, not your coster of other rich people you've slept with.

but one day, you see both in the same room as you in another gala. you're oblivious to the sets of eyes hungrily taking you in, or how quickly they shove off other people just to move closer the moment their attention land on you. you take a look at the two men, biting your lips whilst your eyes devour the memory of their muscled pecs squished between your index and middle finger, and their thick thighs pistoning you back and forth, all hidden under all the clothes covering their body; and whisper not-so silently:

"i can take them both, not in a fight."

sadly, you'll never know that they're both at each other's throats after hearing your confession, ready to take each other in a fight if it meant having you in their arms once more. you'll never know just how bruce managed to throw in a microchip in your bag before you're escorted home by his limousine, or how clark watched your sleeping body in your apartment as superman just to make sure you slept well after he pounded you to oblivion in that closet.

all you'll know is that you're going to score them into fucking you once more either way. after all, if they're both the best choices when it comes to pinning you down and going crazy on your body, then you'll do anything to achieve that aching goal with the both of best worlds.

you're unaware that they'd do the same thing for you, though. but it's not out of the intentions to merely sleep with you, no. they're also planning to find a pathway into your heart while at it.

so... welp, guess that's just an added list of all the other suitors you had fighting over the chance of having another night with you.

a/n: gender-neutral reader. no bodily gender mentioned at all. this is purely sexual content with some plot. i blame my irl best friend for this (the single dialogue was me thirsting over the characters through our chats). yes, i post this after posting angst. am i shameless? also yes.

[okwonyo]

COLOGNE, 或──── clingy boyfriends.

❛ 𝗂’𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝗍, 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗆𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄.

1THOU&2HUN 𓈒𓈒 日语 ⠀ ╱ fem!rea ⌕ fluff non idol au ──dis. skinship kissing と ⠀ ( 𝑜𝑜𝑒𝑢𝑣𝑟𝑒𝑠 )

지아 ⠀⦂ ⠀ 𝖣𝖤𝖢𝖮𝖱 𝖬𝖸 𝖳𝖧𝖱𝖤𝖤 🎀

reblogs ˊᗜˋ +feedbacks · C𝑙𝑖CK

HEESEUNG

it always happens when he is half asleep— in the middle of the night especially.

he loves to lock you in his arms before he dozes off. his strong arms wrapped around you while you hide your face in the crook of his neck.

and he hates, he loathes, when you move away from him. he hates when you take your warmth away from him to go somewhere else. he whines whenever you do, “are you trying to kill me?”

he holds your wrist from his comfortable position on the mattress. “‘m thirsty,” you whisper as he scratches his eye. “i will be back in a few seconds, hee,” he nods, although his grip gets tighter.

your first mistake was to think that he was going to stay in bed alone. although you assure him that you are coming back, he gets out of bed and follows you to the kitchen.

the much taller and more muscular man holds your hand to not stumble over anything.

⠀ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ﹙ᵕ ᵕ⠀look under the cut ! ♡

JAY

he never says it. he is not the type to use too many words, especially when it comes to things like this.

action over words, as always, he catches you by the waist as you pass by him. comfortably sat on the sofa, he pulls you on his laps and you barely budge— eyes fixed on your phone.

he puts his chin on your shoulder. not even to look at your phone but at you. he tightens the embrace around your waist as the shape of your side profile gets engraved in his mind for the ninth time.

you still don’t give him enough attention, however. and it makes him a little sad, even more needy, ten times more touchy.

instead of using words, as anyone else would do, he puts his cheek against yours. like a cat turned into a man, he rubs his skin against yours sweetly.

it makes you giggle after a bit. you put your phone to the side and turn around to kiss while he falls to the side.

JAKE

he is always clingy. he is the epitome of the boyfriend who never leaves you alone. you are always touching each other in a way: either by standing close, holding hands or hugging.

his clinginess did get to you at some point of the relationship.

you are not really the type to reach out first, in public at least. but if he does, you let him, no matter where you are.

“sorry if i am too clingy, my love,” he tells you against your shoulder. he gave you a bear hug whereupon you were talking with your friends a few minutes ago and never moved. “my heart was screaming for you all day.”

you pat his head, cradling your fingers in his hair. he hums tenderly as you speak, “it’s okay, baby,” you chuckle. you turn your head slightly towards him, kissing his cheek before continuing whispering, forgetting your friends, “i missed you too.”

he stays silent for a moment as you still play with his hair. after a moment, he starts to leave wet kisses on your cheeks. again and again.

SUNGHOON

“oh my god,” you say. the way your boyfriend looks at you while walking in the living room tells you everything you need to know. he looks at you in the way he does when he wants. “get away from me.”

when your lover wants, it means that he wants you. in his arms, laying on his chest or him laying on yours. under the warm covers or on the sofa. it means he gets clingy, it means he just manhandles you wherever.

“hi, sweetheart,” he greets you with a soft voice. your heart melts, despise the words you spoke a minute ago.

he leans in, aiming from you who lays down prettily on the sofa, chasing after your delicious lips. you hug his neck and he takes it as an opportunity to lean back up. sliding his arm around your back strongly, he presses you against himself.

“i want cuddles,” he tells you against your lips. he tells you in a sigh, desperate and needy.

you hum. “do your thing, big boy,” and he gets up, picking you up in the process. you hug his waist with your legs as he walks to the bedroom.

SUNOO

you knew it. from the moment his eyes locked with yours, with his stupid smile, you knew it wasn’t going to be just one kiss.

it has been maybe more than one hundred kisses by now. but his hand on the back of your neck keeps you in place. alongside with his tongue swiftly dancing in your mouth.

he pinned you against the wall as soon as you finished getting ready. he is ruining your makeup but you don’t have enough strength to walk away from that.

whenever he pulls away to catch a bit of air or change angle, you whisper, “i really have to go,” before kissing him back when he comes back.

to which he responds by rubbing the back of your skin with his thumb and smile, “stay with me for a while, baby,” he pleads in your mouth. “i don’t want you to leave,”

and you give in. from their comfortable position on his waist, you put your hands up and wrap your arms around his neck. he aims for your waist and pulls you close.

JUNGWON

when he gets clingy, sometimes, he just gets a little bit more annoying that he already is. he pinches your sides, slides his cold hand under your shirt, pokes your cheek. anything to get your attention.

but more times than not, he can be less annoying and much more touchy— in a loving way.

“god, i missed you like crazy,” he mumbles as he hurriedly walks toward you. he hugs you quickly after you take off your shoes. “i feel like it has been a lifetime since i saw you.”

you giggle— he has been like this all day. his nose hides in your neck while you pat his back gently, “i was out for an hour, won,”

his embrace tightens around you. he readjusts his his head’s position, “it felt like a million years,” he groans. “never do that to me again.”

you pat his head gently, “i’m here baby,” you whisper. “let’s go cuddle for the next hours, mh?” he nods.

RIKI

neither of you know how it started. but, he grew to be really hopeless without you around, to the extent where it is actually pretty funny.

your boyfriend follows you everywhere you go, without exception. wherever you are, anyone can assume that a tall man is not far away from you.

and said tall man can get even worse when he loses sight of you for a minute.

“you are such a duck,” you tell him in a chuckle. your voice is pretty quiet, but he is so close that he doesn’t need you to speak louder. as much as he can’t act like he didn’t hear. “i’m not going to disappear.”

his arm presses against yours even more as he looks down, “can’t a boy wish to be one with the girl he loves?” he tells you as you walk towards the next clothes hallway.

“you are almost walking on my feet,” you laugh, bumping your shoulder against his to push him away a little.

he stumbles away for ten seconds and comes back, draping his arm on your shoulder, “don’t go away from me!”

ㅤㅤ𓈒ㅤㅤ𓈒 taglist open

[timmydraker]

Tim who has never been good at understanding the words of Shakespeare and Dickens.

He can understand metaphors and knows about philosophy, but he’s always struggle to truely grasp the tragedy and helplessness so may of them hold. The idea of someone being doomed from the start, by the author and the narrative or maybe just the world they were set in, just doesn’t really make sense to him.

Part of him knows it’s because he was born with a vintage silver spoon placed delicately in his hands, but there’s more to it than that.

See, most of the bad things that have happened to Tim have either been consequences of his own action or the fact that his friends and colleagues all have the same dangerous job.

To him it just makes sense that bad things will happen and so he can just… prepare for it. He can do what he can to fix it or move onto something else and push away his own feelings because what else is he supposed to do?

So, no, things like Hamlet and Dorian don’t really click for him

At least… until he thinks about Jason.

Born in poverty with a world surrounding him that would not bother to care or offer help to him purely because of how he looks of his parents.

A mother who loves him endlessly, only to fall into the drugs she tried to protect him from.

Finding out that mother didn’t even give birth to him, but the father that never showed anything other than distain and cruelty was still his own.

Being given Robin, hated by the first one for a time, only to die in the suit by the hands of a mad man all because his real mother sold him out.

Waking up in a coffin, digging himself out and roaming around catatonic and the only thoughts he can actually process is that he must be a ghost.

Being taken by a league of killers, lied to and trick and tormented into thing a perfect weapon.

Realise his mentor, who he once thought the father he deserved to have, has failed him and let his killer free because of something as fickle as a moral compass.

Seeing that mentor seemingly replace him with a perfect rich kid who doesn’t swear or complain or sneak off without permission from what he can tell.

Having no real friends in that time.

Having no one to trust because everyone had an ulterior motive. Everyone uses him.

And through out it all, even with all the hate and the bitterness and injustice he had been faced with, his first course of action is to make the home he first had and the only one he will ever have… safer.

To protect the kids like him from becoming statistics and killers, from the pain he felt and the false promises of the Batman.

Jason keeps honesty and integrity, even when no one else offers it to him in return.

Tim can’t understand Macbeth or Antigone or Othello, can’t see why someone would write something so morbid just to try and entertain.

But he can understand, or at least try to understand, Jason Todd.

Because that is someone who had actually been hurt for no reason. Someone who had been tormented by the universe, by fates and coincidence, with no real lesson being taught other than the world hates him.

Sure Jason has Roy and Biz and Artemis and Kori, but what about a brother?

Dick tried, he still does, but he fails Jason over and over by trying to make him ‘better’.

Damian doesn’t really care too much, not out of malice but there’s just not much of a connection between them.

Cass tries, but Jason is always awkward around her and that’s not his fault, you can’t hide a thing from her.

Duke liked Jason a lot, but again, the newest Bat is trying hard to find his place in the world of vigilantes and can’t quite find it in himself to be too close to Jason’s violence.

But Tim…

He’s morals have always been held together by the simple fact of ‘it’s not really that approved of’ and not much else. He won’t kill, but unlike the others he is happy to leave a Rouge in a sinking ship and not feel a hint of guilt.

He adores Jason’s Robin, he knows to some extent how much he lost with that, and now he knows that Jason might not need much more than a few good things.

Small things, nothing that will trick him into thinking the world is apologising because it won’t, but enough to show him that Tim thinks he’s still worth something.

Tim won’t try convince him to become a better person or to stop killing, he might ask him to be a bit more rational and probably won’t be able to stop himself from giving tips on how to run his business, but he wouldn’t ask for his violent brother to change.

Because unlike everyone else, Tim knows that violence exist for good reason.

If it keeps his Jason alive, Tim will gladly hold onto his blood soaked hand.

[writingwisterias]

How the different eras of Leon react when you tease them? (Wolf whistle, hand on their hip, slapping their ass, etc) gotta make that gorgeous man blush!!! >:)))

Hi Anon!

I bet he has the prettiest blush ever as well omg..

Warnings: Fluff, Teasing, I love Leon blushing sm he would look so pretty

GN!Reader

RE2:

I think it would be really funny if you slapped his ass whilst at home

Like hes still getting used to the whole domestic situation after Raccoon City

So let's say he's bent over to do something, vaugly forgets you are even there and then you slap it

He sort of like jolts slightly, definitely blushes like a dark pink blush

He whips his head around so fast in just pure shock only to be met with your wild grin.

Would also eventually get afraid to walk up the stares in front of you.

It's not your fault it's in your face and just so perfect and squishy.

You could never do it in front of people he knows, maybe a little squeeze if you are stood next to him.

Or even a small pinch if you walked by him

But he would get embarrassed by it and give you such a sad puppy look that it makes you feel bad.

RE4R:

So his arms right...HUGE

You just can't resist touching them.

Like you will come up to him and either poke it or like full on squeeze.

Get goosebumps if you use your finger to follow the outline of his muscles or veins.

The same with his hands, I know he's got the veiny hands underneath his gloves.

Will get flustered if you hold his hand and make sure all the blood runs to it so they really pop.

Also blushes if you leave little bite marks on his arms.

Infinite darkness:

He's not afraid to wolf whistle you so why can't you return it.

He does it all the time to you it's only fair

The only thing is, yours is louder

I think he acts like he wants to be the center of attention. Everyone knows who is so he's normally the center of attention anyway.

But if you whistle him and suddenly everyone stops what they are doing he'll glare at you

Impressed by the volume of the wolf whistle but will glare at you.

You will also do it if you leave him in an aisle at the store to go and get something but then you walk around to the other side and scare him with it

Like I'm saying full on jump you almost feel bad

Eventually gets the idea and will stop doing it to you as much

Damnation:

Piggy backs

I'm talking like you both head out to the bar to get drunk...of course he needs a drink buddy

You get so drunk that you can barely walk so you put your faith in him to either get back to your place or his place

Eventually he gives up and just crouched in front of you

Even though he's the one that initiated the action he's still like freaking out in his head

Because you trust him enough to get back safely

But he's also blushing because he loves the way that you are fitting on him and how you feel against him

RE6:

Sitting on his lap

Like doesn't matter if there's a chair free or whatever

Just perching on him optionally is enough to make this man blush

Because like what's the reason. His head doesn't compute

There's clearly a perfectly good chair why have you chosen to sit on his lap in front of everyone?

He's not arguing, like he's smitten

He loves the fact you like him enough that you'll just sit in his lap

But he just doesn't understand why

Vendetta:

Talking positively about him

Like not praising him to his face, but like just actively talking about him

Say your at a family event and he had a good mission

You're just boasting about how great he is at what he does

You know he hates the job and is struggling but everyone else seems impressed and almost thankful for his work

I think he would hate it, the fact you are talking about him in this way and its almost teasing to him because he feels like he doesn't deserve it

But when he actually takes in what you are saying he will blush and stutter because in his mind how can you say all of this about him?

Like he's just a drunk overworked agent in his mind

But in yours he's like a hero

Death Island:

Laying your head in his lap

Like first of all you are dangerously close to a certain area so you are teasing in that way

Secondly he's blushing because why are you so cute like this

His hand just instantly goes for hair and playing with it, stroking your head like some kind of cat

Imagine like everyone around and you just do it because you always do

And he's just awkward because he doesn't want his friends to think a softie but it's also comforting

But to make it worse you nudge your head back and accidentally brush against something that makes him very red in the face

[iasirene]

Thinking about how Curly is a fantastic example of how men who participate in patriarchy are not exempt from facing its abuse. Curly is a passive enabler of Jimmy, while he does not directly assist in his crimes he doesn’t stand up to him or do anything about it, and this inaction was a catalyst for the destruction of the entire Tulpar crew. Curly would rather keep the peace and protect his friend, as I’m sure he has done plenty of times before. It’s routine to him at this point. When Curly is left permanently disabled after the crash, he is reliant on Anya and Jimmy to give him his pills. Anya does it for a while but cannot stand the noises that Curly makes-which is understandable given what happened to her. Jimmy shoves the pills down Curly’s throat in a very brutal and violent way, abusing his body just like he abused Anya’s. Anya and Curly mirror each other, abused by the same man, but Curly didn’t understand what it was like to have his bodily autonomy taken away from him until it was much too late. Curly did so much to protect his shitty friend from the consequences of his actions, and Jimmy doesn’t care. He never did. Jimmy still treats him like absolute garbage. He even goes as far as blaming him for the crash, to avoid taking responsibility. Curly is not protected because just because he protects his horrible friend. A lot of men delude themselves into thinking “it won’t happen to me, I had his back.” Mouthwashing has many lessons, but I believe one of the primary ones is don’t be like Curly, much more than it is don’t be like Jimmy. Because there are many men who are just like Curly who have not committed rape/sexual assault but still protect abusers either out of fear or a fucked up sense of obligation. While rape is ALWAYS the fault of the individual, it is also imperative that other men call out predatory behavior, even if they are “just jokes.”

I have found myself sexually excited at the sight of cartoon horses.

[zevrra]

professor!viktor who is very strict in class. he’s no joke, all seriousness and sass; until it’s just the two of you. sitting back in his chair, red flush on his face, flustered as your hands grab at his thighs. he doesn’t speak as he stares at you. he just softly groans as your hands undo his belt.

you both knew that: this, whatever ‘this’ was, had to be the worst idea either of you have had before. did it stop you from undoing the front of his slacks? nope.

nothing would stop you from turning your diligent, focused professor into the bashful, whimpering mess only you got to see. when he doesn’t ask for it with words but with his eyes. when they ‘oh-so-longingly’ glance your direction with a look only you can understand. a small look that led you both to the here and now, with your hand wrapping around the base of his stiffening shaft, slowly stroking him off all with a smile. and you never say much, too afraid that if you speak it will break the spell he’s under, so you let your actions do all the talking for you. until your mouth is full of his cöck and his whines fall on your ears; while his fingers grip your hair and he mutters under his breath that it feels so good.

[mooishbeam]

ㅤㅤㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎『♡』 Ode to Rue

♡ featuring: pianist!sunday x reader

♡ synopsis: In the dazzling Penacony Grand Theatre, a fallen angel known for his haunting performances captivates you with his music.

♡ wc: 3.3k+

♡ tags: slight angst but mostly fluff, sunday pianist, canon-divergent

notes: I highly recommend you listen to La Solitude during the piano scene. It was my inspiration for the fanfic. its been a while so im a little rusty, pls forgive me :( thank you all! art by snifflesmp4 on ig! comments and reblogs are appreciated! ♡

song link (Spotify): La Solitude

The Penacony Grand Theatre hangs like a thoughtless prayer in the deep expanse of dark and starlight. Gossamer hangs from the bronze halo, tethering the theatre to the sparkling planet it threatens to ascend from. It is just as outstanding, however, covered in stained glass and benevolent sculptures, with a pair of angel wings that rise above the domed roof.  

Seeing it up close, you can barely pick up your slacked jaw. Nothing like you’ve seen before, an attraction that stands as the centerpiece of Golden Hour and commands the attention of all who encounter it. You’re reluctant to tear your eyes from the telescope, enraptured by its elegance. Still, residents walk by as though it were the dim alleyways of the Fading Echoes. The muffled voice behind you utters something you don’t quite register. Dainty layers of your cream petticoat brush against the unusually slick concrete, and you push your knees together as you squat to match the angle of the telescope. You can hardly contain your excitement.  

Because today would be the day you witness the renowned pianist in action.  

The rumors carried itself back to Belobog. You seldom cared for gossip, or the dwindling appeal to venture away from your warm manor into the bitter cold. But even the maids began to wonder.  

The talebearer tended to the kitchen as she spoke. A nameless angel, who must have descended from heaven, had been driven to madness by a catastrophe so devastating he could not prevail against it. Caught in the midst of a dying planet, he turned to music to expel the torture wracking his shattered mind. She claimed to have seen it, the room of the pianist. Walls etched with forgone prayer, a rushed and messy verbal overflow. There were said to be crosses methodically placed around those prayers, with sickening, glowering eyes that seemed to judge your every waking move. Music sheets haphazardly scattered with compositions he’d never finish, scores that could never be.  

Penacony, the planet of festivities, home to the Charmony festival. It made your eyes roll to indulge in such frivolous matters. On either end, you had no one to accompany you, and so you never attended. But the prospect of witnessing his madness in action piqued your interest, and ever since you’d been calling the theatre, hopeful for a reservation.  

The angel was unpredictable, though, sometimes choosing to cancel at the minute of his expected arrival. He was not without criticism, some enraged at his pure disregard towards the audience. After each show, he disappeared behind the curtain and left without a trace. Others said he appeared to loathe the very thought of being onstage. It made you all the more interested. To have such varying perceptions meant he had a gift far greater. To hear his genius was the highest privilege.  

A gentle chorus whispers from the hypnotic depths of the arena. “My lady.” You turn your head to face the voice, yet your eyes remain glued to the lens, as if the music will cease to exist should you avert your gaze.  

“The show will start soon.”  

You’ve taken your plush seat front row, beyond the crimson portiere and into the theatre. The seats are occupied by impatient, rather loud elite. Pocket watches and monocles, ridiculous top hats that earned a soft snort under your breath. Their attire wasn’t made for a place such as this, but you couldn’t say much yourself. It is more akin to a house of prayer than an outlet simply for singing. Decorative columns with lavish scripture rose to the ceiling where they came together at the corners to form the shape of a sun. Your eyes trail up, to the embossed medallion art of flying doves chasing the never-ending cycle of day. In the middle, an opulent chandelier dangles thousands of twinkling diamonds and dimly lit wax candles.  

“Marvelous” you gasp, panning to the stage before you. Rows of long, bronze organ pipes line the back wall, framing the massive stage. A divine glow peaks from behind the curtain, spearing slivers of warm, glimmering light.  

This space is incomparable to any opera house you’ve attended in Belobog. You feel unworthy to speak above a whisper. It’s almost sacred, crawling with benevolent structures and hymns you couldn’t decipher. Perhaps it wasn’t meant to decipher—meant to find you instead.  

You’re restless with anticipation bouncing around in your churning stomach. Its halls play a generic tune as more are seated. A million questions run through your mind. Who was he? Were the rumors true? What horrors did he see? Who was his teacher? You weren’t afforded the smallest of glimpses. Even the gaudy posters promoting the show didn’t show his face, choosing to represent him with a pair of angel wings. He must’ve declined a photo shoot. A pianist…who hated the piano? Or maybe it was the lack of tact, or genuine appreciation for the music. The pictures that received more attention for the scarcity of the show than for the soul of the symphony.  

You’re fiddling with your gown when suddenly the lights fizzle out, leaving only the meager glow of the chandelier above. Hitches, then nothing. A silent audience in the wake of a brighter stage. It reflects in your eyes, an unshakable longing reaching just behind the curtain. The same pit you felt, at the foot of a frosted cathedral on your last shred of hope; the deadly hands of a loving Aeon.  

The tableau, adorned in gold trimmings and tassels, begins to waver, and your breath tugs like molten iron in your chest. It begins to scale upwards into the cornice board, offering sight to the set.  

A simple, black piano with a stool to match takes center stage. You hear an audible sigh. A snicker. You wait, glossy eyed, infatuated by the sight. It’s truly barebones, no ball peonies or accompanying ensemble. Everything he needs awaits him. Everything he has exists on that stage.  

The spotlight casts onto the piano, spurring dust particles.  

The right curtain moves slightly. If it weren’t for that, you wouldn’t have noticed the hooded angel come into view. It’s eerily quiet as the audience is hushed quickly in his presence. A few vague murmurs here and there, but nothing more. Hardly the footsteps of the angel, stepping in airy, elegant movements across the stage. Had you closed your eyes, it’d be lost to the background.  

He’s burdened by a navy hood, draped across the expanse of his laden shoulders. You can’t remove your eyes from the hovering blessing bobbing behind his head between movements. Black gloves embellished with gold and silver rings arranged so they wouldn’t clink. He walked with professionalism unexpected of just a pianist. The cloak seldom flared by his stride, though when it did, you caught the dark patterns of his boots, a garter taught on his thigh. The faintest strands of grayish blue peak from under the hood, soft and silky.  

One foot after the other, silent and orderly—comfortable with being invisible.  

As expected, he doesn’t regard the crowd. He smooths his cloak under his thighs and takes his seat in front of the piano. The minute details surrounding him worked with intent. A calculated click to his side releases a book with intricate detail, similar to his halo, with an eye on the back cover. A songbook? Notes? You can’t tell. However, the moment he places it on the rack, it fans open on its own. The front cover slams against the piano, and you’re stunned to see the pages flicking wildly, a mild radiance on the edges. The sound of paper fills the air. Then it stops.  

He brings his slender fingers to his hood, and in one fell swoop, the fabric slips away.  

The empyrean feathers of once cowered wings unfurl at the taste of newfound space. Broad, downy wings extend like a stretch, as if preparing to fly. The canary-colored spotlight enacts a seraphic air onto the pianist. Half of his face is lost to obscurity, but you still study his perfect ivory skin, drawn to subtle pinkish hues near his eyes and downturned lips. His hair spills over his shoulders, meeting with fluffy wings now comfortable on his sides. He wore an expression both content and lost, a soul far removed from the scene before it.  

Suchlike a painting you think. Whether it be the growing swell in your heart or unforeseen heat, his presence itself was breathtaking. You’ve seen art reminiscent of this in the Everwinter City Museum, oil paintings of angels in effortless beauty. Divinity just out of reach.  

His long lashes flutter for a second, and you watch his chest heave deep before expelling an extended breath. You hold yours.  

His eyes close. The audience goes deafeningly silent.  

He starts. Near machine with zero hesitation, a graceful melody waltzes to the keys summoned by lissome hands. Sweet, airy in tune as it graces the walls of the opera house.  

It evokes a childlike dream. Carefree summers, a vacation with no winter, planets with no struggle. You marvel the way his wrists roll over the keys. Refined, fluid, but commanding. Deserving of honor. His expression never changes, but his eyes—stirring with vibrance, like he was coaxing notes from the harmony itself. Captured by song, weaving a tapestry of forgotten memories.  

Still, there’s a harsh end to them, a teetering peak that keeps you on edge. Pads confidently moving under the swift turns of the music. The piano seems to come alive on its own, unbroken as the emotion pours from his veins to the object. Each high point, a reminder of a dream's eventual death, a memory lost to the throes of time.  

Suddenly, the deep clashing of the piano raises the hairs on your skin. He slams with graceful power, a note that should be out of place. It sends shivers up your spine.  

Your mind is heavy. You feel it in every sense of the melody. In the crooks of your walls, buried in the cracks where no one could see it but you. You saw him, filling your world and becoming of nothing. The knot that crumpled in your throat at the gravestones of your family, or the corners of the home you became accustomed to as you isolated yourself from the world. The tears you rarely shed for the sake of your family name, only allowing them to fall when a blizzard hammered against the windows loud enough to subdue your wails. Desperate for the kind words of anyone who’d spare a glance. You’ve tasted it countless times. A pitiful, bitter drink.  

Inexplainable, profound sorrow.  

He’s faced it, too. His wings appear stiff, flared and fire-scorn. Taut with the tension in his fingers. Alone and forgotten, dancing across the piano with such aloofness, shouldering the weight of the notes. A pause in between, and you shifted to the edge of your seat unconsciously. His fingers were methodical, searching for an answer he hadn’t fully discovered, finding belonging on the notes. This was his signature way of scribbling. There was no fated wall or room of eyes, nor the frantic manifestos of a madman. The piano was his journal—seeking meaning in the music.  

You aren’t sure what draws you to him. If it’s the chaos of his song, the unnerving focus, breathing in the melody for a second time. Wrapping himself in a sound of pure calamity, and somehow looking beatific and at peace, as if whatever he’d given up on was already somewhere underwater, out of reach and destined to drown.  

You understood now, why the audience was the most insignificant part of the performance. He played for no one. It was a a prayer to the choir, the last crumbling wish of a fallen angel.  

The crescendos landed harsh, unfinished, dying brutally in your ears. Tortured overtones ran soft, unexpected and fleeting before another crash. War across the keys, fighting a battle he wouldn’t win. On the piano there was bloodshed. And in this moment, he shares that war with you. Your eyes swelled before you could notice, splitting goosebumps across your skin.  

He throws his head back, letting his wings droop as he plays. Trailing his digits from the highest octave to the lowest, slowly closing his eyes once again. His posture reads of a Greek tragedy—falling from the sky, allowing fate to capture him or embrace the awaiting darkness. Was there anything left for an angel forsaken by an Aeon? Who could the fallen turn to for comfort?  

There’s a pit in your stomach.  

He throws both hands on the keys for the final crest, a booming sound sending vibrations through the floor. A dreams end.  

Then it’s quiet.  

His head returns to its rightful place, hanging low past his shoulders. Poised hands slump away from the piano, and the book closes to mimic.  

Hood coming up over his head in the aftermath, and he slumped away from the piano.  

He takes the book and tucks it back on his side. He stands, and the audience erupts into cheers. He flinches at the sudden noise. Pulling his hood over his head, he uses his fluffy wings to shield his face. Whistling, praises, and pleads for an encore can be heard from the whole interior. You barely hear it, muffled to the chatter around you.  

Because you’re sobbing. Fat tears stream down your cheeks, blurring your vision, resemblant to a small child with a scraped knee. In this noise, no one can hear you cry. It didn’t matter anymore, reputation or not. You needed to cry.  

But you swear you see it; a single tear trailing down his cheek, below his pouty lips, dropping with a shimmer. It couldn’t be a trick of the light. You find yourself staring past his wings. His eyes were Baltic amber, spiced honey with warm hints of midnight brilliance. Your heart skipped a beat.  

He steps away from the spotlight and exits just as fast, to the tragic dismay of an applauding crowd. 

He was but a stranger. Gone as he was, gone as you knew he’d be, your mind rejected it. A ridiculous impulse tests your restless legs, pushing you up out of your seat.  

You needed to know something, anything about him.  

His name.  

You’re on your feet quick, barely picking up your dress as you skip steps towards the hallway. The gem encrusted hair pin securing your updo slips to the floor when you whip your head towards the back exit. You don’t bother to go back for it. A hairpin was replaceable; this is a once in a lifetime opening.  

Pushing the exit, a fit of cold graces your shoulders. You forgot your coat in the theatre. It may be cold, but it’s not Belobog. You keep running around the end of the building, skirts picking up in the wind, a cool breeze biting your tear-stained cheeks. You stop in your tracks.  

A small boy with a head full of hair looks up at the man with a halo. You watch as the black gloves you studied carefully hand a stack of coins to the child. He flashes a gapped tooth smile, and the hand interlaces through his hair, ruffling it.  

You approach steadily. You’re clammy now. Struck with the chance, you can't formulate a string of words to save your life. The conversation shifts into focus.  

“Run along, now. It’s getting late” he says. That glacé, somber cadence stops you in your tracks. A voice befitting for an angel. The sentences elude you. You’d forgotten what you came to say. Aeon's help you.  

The child skips away, and you’re trained on him until your eyes snap back to the man now observing you. His eyes. On you.  

“Oh…um, sorry…” You can’t maintain the gaze imparted onto you. It’s much more intense without hundreds of eyes doing the same, even with his face somewhat obscured.  

“My apologies miss, was I too loud?” He asks with a courteous hand to his heart, tender voice sticking to your brain like thick pools of honey.  

You shake your head wildly “Ah, no! I’m sorry,” you hesitate, unsure if you should divulge your recent attendance. Granted, you understood how weird it may come across to search for the performer post-show, but it was too late for you to retreat. “I was just at your performance.”  

“Ah…” He pans to the floor, lashes fluttering underneath the street lamp. This version of the pianist is unsure, a confidence reserved for the stage. Then he regards you for a second, unmoving. “Was it enjoyable?”  

Enjoyable…that wasn’t it. It was suffering, a beautiful torture for those who’ve survived hell. You have to physically bite back to words, and yet they pour out of you.  

“It was lonely” you blurt, rubbing your arm to soothe your awkward disposition.  

His eyes widen briefly. You watch his flushed lips part and close. He felt human again. He, too, could be lost for words. When he doesn’t speak, you continue.  

“I am also…”  

“…going through things.” His earrings dangle in the wind, and you feel like a fool right about now for wasting his time. You manage to look everywhere but his face. Two studs on his left wing and lustrous curls meeting around his neck near a thorny choker. Such beauty should be forbidden.  

“The only way to go is forward. I hope you will do the same” he lilts. You gaze into his eyes.  

“Have you uncovered…what you’re searching for?”  

He pauses a long while, wind picking up in the space between you. You aren’t sure if he recognizes that he’s touching his book cover. “Not yet. There is a long journey ahead of me, lined with plenty more mistakes. But I’ve been given a second chance. I will do what I’ve set out to do.”  

It’s an answer enough for you. You nod, leading into a half-curtsy. He interrupts, “May I ask you…is there something you found within my music?”  

You aren’t sure. It could’ve been nothing at all. Or maybe the winter snow was worth treading, if it met unlatching from those hopeless shackles. “I don’t know. I think I’d have to find it within myself first.”  

His eyes crinkle and his lips curve into a cloying smile. The gentle undertones in his face burn rosy tonight, resembling a blooming carnation. “That’s a great answer.”  

Heat creeps upon your ears, and you look away, a slight crack in your throat. “I’m assuming you won’t play again, then? Since, your journey…”  

“Yes. That is correct.”  

Sad but not surprised, you’re grateful for this opportunity alone. “Alright, then”, you clasp your hands together, “May the Aeon’s guide you to safe planets and safer skies.”  

“You, as well” he smiles. You toy with your fingers, ashamed to ask for extra beyond this.  

“What’s your name? If you don’t mind?”  

“Sunday.” An odd name. So odd you believe it to be a lie. Nevertheless, you accept it.  

“Okay. Goodbye, Sunday.” You return a grin before turning on your heels.  

“Goodbye.”  

You’re walking back, but footsteps are coming towards you. When you look, a royal blue tweed restricts your eyesight. It binds you, heavy and warm to stave off the chill. Sunday puts the cloak over your body. He’s inches away from you, securing the tie near your neck. The light peaks behind his halo, streaks of gold aside the night kissing his delicate features. You feel his breath on your frosted nose, hot despite the air. He smells of salt and sugary pudding. Thankfully, the weather prevents your blush from being too obvious.  

“And do be careful tonight. It’s rather cold…” his voice trails off, waiting for you to catch the hint.  

“Oh! I-it’s (Y/N).”  

“It’s rather cold, (Y/N)” he puts an emphasis on your name. Each syllable, smooth and undeniably gratifying from his lips. He pulls the hood over, a finger ghosting against your cheek as he retreats. “Sweet dreams.”  

He leaves this time, never looking back.  

The ill-fitted garment about your shoulders. Heavy on your heart like a stone. You breathe into it. Salt and toffee pudding. Something blooms in its barren embrace.  

Pleasant, snug and all encompassing. Yet bittersweet. A final farewell to no destination.  

A hug. A hug is what it was.

[yerrmar]

❧ GLUE SONG pt6☙

warning: swearing, cheesy ass kissing scene, kind of implies doing more than kissing, she/her usage for reader.

summary: you hate the whole of your dads hockey team except his and your favourite player Luke Castellan.

evie’s notes: i haven’t written a kiss scene in a while so im sorry if it’s shit and cringey💔

pt5

You could hear your heartbeat in your head, your stomach churned with nerves. Luke Castellan, the boy you've despised since the day you met him because of how arrogant and cocky he is, is now making you feel so weak in the knees. The mere thought of him even laying a finger on you makes your whole world shake. But why?

Because he complimented you once? Or because his cockiness can be quite attractive at times? Maybe because the boy looks like he was hand made sculpted by the Gods. Either way, this feeling towards him was so unfamiliar yet it felt so natural.

You didn't even have time to fully get yourself together before he showed up at your door, the boy lived 20 minutes away yet got there 5 minutes after he texted you. Slowly, you peeked out your window to try and capture a glimpse of him before being face to face with that damn smirk of his that made you either want to punch his face or kiss his lips.

His dark, curly hair clung to his forehead, damp from the rain, spilling over just enough to shield his eyes. He was wearing a pair of baggy sweatpants and of course a compression shirt, it looked like he'd just come from the gym which really didn't help your screaming heart.

You barely gave him time to knock on the door before you threw it open and closed the door behind you, stupidly forgetting that it was currently pouring down. And there it was, that fucking smirk he wore like a crown.

"Hey, princess." Oh gods, was he trying to kill you? His eyes moved slowly over you, lingering on every curve, every line, as if he was studying a masterpiece—finding beauty in both what was perfectly in place and what was deemed imperfect. "The jersey really does look better on you."

You roll your eyes, unable to hide the smile creeping onto your face. "Oh, shut up," you say, crossing your arms, your voice sharp but your gaze betraying you. "You really think I'm going to fall for that?"

Luke grins, taking a slow step forward. "Fall for what? The truth? That jersey's practically made for you." His eyes flicker over you, deliberate and teasing, but there's a warmth in his gaze that he knows you can't ignore.

You scoff, turning away to hide the flush creeping up your neck. "Gods, you're unbearable."

He steps in your path, cornering you just enough to make you feel the tension between you. "Because you secretly love it," he says, voice lowering a touch. "You like it when I push your buttons."

Your eyes snap to his, and you force a scowl. "You have a ridiculous amount of confidence for someone who can't take a hint."

"Yeah?" Luke leans in a little closer, his smirk never faltering. "Funny. You've been giving me plenty of hints, princess. We gonna ignore that tweet you posted?"

You stare at him, lips parted, but you can't keep the smile from tugging at the corners of your mouth. "You're infuriating," you mutter, but it's half-hearted at best.

"And yet, here you are," he says, grinning even wider. "Outside in the rain with me."

You don't know what came over you at that moment because one minute you were shivering from the pouring rain and the next your body was suddenly filled with warmth when you pulled him into a tight embrace, your heart racing in your chest. Luke's eyes widened for a moment surprised by your bold action, but softened quickly into a look of tenderness as your lips met his in a soft, sweet kiss. He wrapped his strong arms around your waist, pulling you against his broad chest, as he returned the kiss with a gentle passion. Your bodies pressed close together, you could feel the warmth of his body against your own, chasing away the cold from the rain that still poured around you. Gods this was so cliche.

"What was that for?" Luke asked, his voice low and warm, a small smirk on his lips.

Your cheeks flushed with heat, and you averted your gaze from his intense stare, suddenly feeling shy and flustered. "I—I don't know," you managed to stammer out, your voice breathless. "It just felt right, in the moment..."

He chuckled softly, Luke's hands still wrapped around your waist, his thumbs rubbing slow, comforting circles against your skin. "Well, I'm not complaining," he said, his smirk widening. You tried to come up with a snarky reply, but your mind was a swirling mess of emotions.

He noticed the flush and teased you even further. "Wow, you're speechless for once, that's new."

You huffed in annoyance, trying to hide your growing embarrassment, but it was hard when he was so close, his eyes fixed on you with that infuriatingly charming smirk. "Can you not be so annoying for once," you muttered, your voice soft.

Luke smirked, moving a strand of your soaking her that was stuck to your face behind your ear making you feel like you were about to collapse. He let out a soft hum and pulled you tighter against his chest. His hands wandered under your shirt, and he began to toy with the bare skin of your hips. "Nah."

Luke didn't want to stop kissing you, not when he finally had the girl he'd been pining for since the day he met her. He dipped his head back down to pull you in for a deeper and longer kiss. His hands moved up your back, slowly lifting the fabric of your jersey as his hands roamed underneath it.

He continued to kiss you, now with even more eagerness than before. One of his hands came up and grabbed ahold of your face, his thumb gently caressing your cheek. He pulled you as close to him as he could, not wanting any space between your bodies.

The couple's moment was interrupted by the sound of the Stoll brothers laughing and cheering. Luke broke the kiss and let out a loud huff, clearly annoyed. "God damn it.." He muttered under his breath, before turning his head to glare at the two younger demigods.

"Finally!" Connor cheered phone in hand whilst Travis whooped behind him shaking his fist in the air.

"Do you mind?" Luke huffed, whilst you stood there embarrassed as hell.

"Nope! Enjoy yourselves love birds!" Travis cooed as Connor turned around and pretended to be making out with someone.

Well, the moment was ruined, but oh gods were the butterflies going absolutely crazy in your stomach when you looked back up at Luke and he was staring at you with such tenderness, his eyes soft but full of longing, as if he could see straight into your soul. The way he looked at you—like you were the only person on earth, the only person that mattered—made your heart skip a beat. His gaze was full of love, and for a moment, it felt like the world had disappeared, leaving only the two of you, wrapped in something unspoken but deeply felt. You let a cheesy grin take over your face "You coming in?"

travisstoll

♬the perfect pair • beabadoobee

Liked by yn.ln and others

travisstoll FINALLY omg took them long enough

connorstoll such a moving moment i cried

travisstoll i could feel their love

thelukecastellan and then you ruined it

travisstoll i think the fact that you replied to this an 2 hours late proves we in fact did not

seaweedbrain EW EW EW

yn.ln you guys are such creeps

travisstoll you just begged me to send this to you in the dms

yn.ln your point?

xo.silena AHHHH YES OMG my babies😭

clarlarue motherfucker stole my wife wtf

c.rodriguez your wife stole my man😔

clarlarue it’s okay because we have each other🥰

thelukecastellan you’re not allowed to be cute under a post of me and my girlfriend being cute

yn.ln girlfriend? hold on when was this discussed

thelukecastellan was you taking off my shirt not implying it?

wisegirl guys can you not discuss this in person you’re literally together right now

thelukecastellan mb

thelukecastellan

♬Glue Song • beabadoobee

Liked by yn.ln and others

thelukecastellan i love my girlfriend😍

c.rodriguez gang you just got together

thelukecastellan and? i love my girlfriend

yn.ln i love you too😽😽 but you’re forgetting my dad follows you

thelukecastellan oh shit

thebestcoachever happy for you both not liking that last picture

thelukecastellan sorry sir😔

seaweedbrain you tell him to keep it in his pants cap🫡

thelukecastellan stfu

wisegirl finally omg going back and forth between messaging you two about each other was exhausting

yn.ln now me and luke can double date with you and percy🥰

wisegirl okay there was no need😔

seaweedbrain why would we double date?

yn.ln sh sh percy it’s okay

thelukecastellan LMFAO

tags:

@s0urw00lf @lucylovesme @blairfox04 @kidkrowk @rafslytherin

[ashyjingles]

jason grace headcanons

as requested by @sacrifical-lamb-core

ive been known to enjoy some more feral leaning jason grace but this is more of an authoritative take on his personality if you will. feel free to add to or dispute anything i have here!! this is all kind of a jumbled mess of first-come-first-serve deal in my head and i have yet to go through and weed any out

he has problems with authority. not outwardly; in fact, to everyone else, he’s the picture perfect kid who follows all of the rules. but that’s because he’s terrified of what would happen if he stepped out of line. he grew up with lupa, who was incredibly harsh to ensure survival in her pups. and then when he got to the legion, all of the officers were required to uphold the law. jason saw what happened to people who stepped the line, and the results were never pretty. (in son of neptune they mentione tying someone in a bag with weasels and throwing them in the little tiber for fuck’s sake) he grew scared to even TOE the line. 

because of the previous hc, he’s scared of kids. he knows how rambunctious they get, and he knows that if it came down to it, he would have to punish them and follow through on it by necessity. its what all his predecessors did after all. but he doesn't want to harm them. hes always had that soft spot for the new and/or younger kids. so he’s not scared of kids themselves, he’s scared of being the one to give them consequences to their potential actions. he leaves that to someone else with more guts

the previous two leave him with a lot of cognitive dissonance that he never really gets over. he’s an incredibly empathetic person and no matter how much he tries he can never really stop that feeling of regret when he has to punish someone who clearly regrets their actions. but give them an inch and they'll take a mile. he has major problems with dissociation where he removes his sense of self from the scenario and lets his logical processing take over without any emotion. reyna has had to pull him back from it a few too many times.

between the dissociation, magical amnesia, adhd, and constant brain damage, that boy has one of the worst memories youve ever seen

he really likes steak. specifically rare steak. (wolf!jason truther…)

he can see electrical currents! and can. see? wind currents. its more of a knowing the wind currents are there without thinking about them rather than a visual thing though. its how despite his poor eyesight he was an excellent fighter before he got the glasses

jason has really sharp canines! so does thalia! they get it from their mom, who filed her own canines down for a softer appearance and would have done the same to her kids once they were old enough for that type of dental work. 

jason is left handed, but because of military-style training early on it was forcibly trained out of him either because nobody realized he was left-handed or because they looked down on left-handedness for the sake of unanimity in the formations on the field. he just thinks hes naturally ambidextrous

gay. mlm. boy kisser for certain that man does NOT like girls. he treated reyna and piper the exact same despite one of them being his girlfriend (and treated reyna in a way where she thought he might have liked her back) because he treats them both in accordance to his emotions toward them: ie, he likes both platonically, which is why theres no difference. he just cant tell.

he fucking LOVES mint. says brushing his teeth and chugging a cold glass of water makes his mouth feel like being up in the air and 15 thousand feet with the wind in face.

he’s half asian! beryl grace is asian (i usually go with either thai or vietnamese) and usually i just went with wasian but then the show came out and now i go with blasian. or maybe beryl grace is wasian? whatever the case, i always pictured him and thalia as having some sort of asian descent.

hes really good at archery. dont tell anyone its just him controlling the winds though

hes such a dog person oh my god

his eyes light up like circuits/lightning when he uses his powers. specifically his lightning powers. 

jason doesnt have dyslexia but he does have dyscalculia. like, really bad dyscalculia. but he still greatly prefers reading in latin!

jason hated reading for the longest time because they didnt have any books purely for enjoyment on base. in new rome itself they had bookstores with plenty of books. (they were mostly classics because they didnt have too much contact with the rest of the world, but they were more than just military reports or old historic scrolls you needed express permission to even breath on) but when he discovers newer books he finds himself really liking them! though his favourite genre is definitely classics, and when someone breaks the news to him that he couldve had these books the entire time hes devastated

when he was younger he was better at latin than english because most kids who arrive at camp jupiter know english already and theyre well equipped at teaching people latin, but not english. they had to send him to a school off base/in new rome for younger kids to learn some more rudimentary skills

it was under juno’s orders that he lived on base. she wanted him to be as prepared as possible for his future, which meant starting his training bright and early. otherwise he probably would have spent some time in camp jupiter as a normal kid until he could at least, oh i dunno, read and write. tie his shoes. eat with cutlery. take a bath by himself.

if jason had been there long enough without the swap ever happening, when he stepped down from praetor (not for another longggg few years) he would have done law in new rome. 

if post swap jason grace had the opportunity to do law in new rome, he would have pushed for rules regarding kids safety. of course, if another jason case were to happen nobody would have been able to deny a god(dess) but jason was never a normal case, was he?

can you tell i like lawyer!jason

less of a headcanon more of commentary on his character but as strong of a character as he was, camp half blood taught him how to have a back bone. in rome he was incredibly disciplined and had no trouble ordering other people around, but it was always in accordance with new rome’s laws. camp half blood taught him how to abide by his own moral principles rather than ones that someone else gave to him. (after all, new rome was about unity while chb was about individuality.) 

he honestly really likes his work as pontifex maximus. it fulfills his inner desire to be doing the ‘right’ thing by rome’s standards (especially because the title is highly revered) while giving him the room to express his creative desires, which is something that he had never been able to do. its also not at the cost of someone else, which usually ended up happening when he was upholding the law as praetor

this one works in contrast or in tandem with my previous bullet on his sexuality (specifically the comment on how he treated piper and reyna): he knew that reyna had a crush on him. he didnt know why he couldnt feel the same. queer culture wasnt really a thing in the modern world for the time it took place, and i dont imagine new rome was any more progressive. he didnt understand lots of things about his sexuality at the time. he didnt know that not liking girls might have been an option, and that he didnt have to like reyna back. so he tried his best to convince himself into having feelings for her, which led to reyna thinking they were reciprocated. once he met piper, that confusion happened all over again and even without his memories he found himself repeating the process

his favourite is blue like the sky, and ironically his and thalia’s eyes

thalias eyes are slightly darker than jason’s. more grey as well. jason’s are the brightest fucking blue youve ever seen. think the clearest, sunniest day youve ever seen, and it still doesnt hold a candle to his eyes. thalias are more like the sky before a storm.

jason can feel (along with see as given by previous bullet) electrical currents. he could feel someone switching a light switch from half a mile away if he thought about it

hes constantly brimming with static electricity and WILL shock everything he touches. a handshake? you get shocked. he tries to open a car door? literal sparks. as a kid he had to wear electricity resistant gloves because he didnt have a hold on it and it became dangerous because when his emotions are heightened, so are his powers. if he gets angry or excited or sad the air around him smells like ozone, and sometimes you can even see the sparks

cows really like him. straight up adore him. theyre his favourite animal!

he smells like ink, ozone, and something metallic. some people say blood, but hazel says its something like copper or nickel

[yannisdesk]

Just saw someone say that making Caitlyn feel all-consuming misery over her actions is "misery p0rn" but her not being held accountable for her actions at the hands of any sort of justice due to how Piltover is structured is realistic.

Okay.

The last part is true. I don't expect Caitlyn to be thrown to whatever the Runeterra version of the ICC is (there is none) by the new council she just reinstated that only has its power back because she surrendered her power. I personally have never argued that. I don't even want Caitlyn to serve time in prison or die in battle. By being held accountable I mean held by the people she's personally hurt, such as Vi. Face some tangible consequences from the people of Zaun, who she gassed and oppressed for nearly an entire year. Idk, something.

Maddie doesn't count. Caitlyn never did anything wrong to Maddie to deserve that specific betrayal; it was made kind of obvious that she'd been under Ambessa's yoke from the beginning. Also, that was not "holding her accountable" - that was a spy doing what a spy does, or a jilted lover getting petty revenge if you want to interpret it that way. For all we know, Caitlyn could've rejected Ambessa's offer to becoming the leader of Piltover, and Maddie would've either been placed as a plant to whoever ended up taking that position, or still sent by Ambessa to somehow undermine whatever plans Caitlyn would've ended up having at that point.

But her feeling all-consuming guilt is unrealistic "misery p0rn"? Frankly, that's a load of bullshit. People who commit atrocities like that should feel bad about doing those things. When you become the head of a military dictatorship, co-sign locking up masses of civilians on trumped up charges, and engage in chemical warfare, the realization of what you've done should shock you to your core. You should feel like shit. Coping with what you've done should be difficult. That's a part of growing as a person and anyone that has ever had to face the fact that they've done something to seriously hurt another person, me included, recognizes this. The argument that she should get to walk away self-righteously patting herself on the back because she freed Jinx and sacrificed her eye is absurd, and not even something Caitlyn as a character would agree with.

Am I personally saying there's no way for Caitlyn to move forward? No, I was fully expecting to her to come out of her dictator era, and to have some sort of well-done redemption arc that would make sense and add depth to her as character. But much like Vi, her character just wasn't given that space because it was a lot of moving from one plot point to the other without being given time to breathe.

This isn't even about disliking or liking Caitlyn as a character, I personally have always been fond of her and even identified with her to an extent; it's really about not agreeing with how her arc was handled and the greater implications of it.

Sidebar: And let's keep this a buck-fifty - y'all only make this argument because you like Caitlyn or identify with her in some way. Other characters simply do not get that same grace. A lot of you who make this argument are the same ones that pop blood vessels over Ambessa to the point where people can't even express interest in Ambessa as a character without you jumping down their throats.

[the-rebel-archivist]

a kiss to gain something, for amadis/illario? 👀

This one really spiraled out of control and I could not stop myself, some pre-game trysting of my favourite messy couple who are definitely not in love do not @ them. It did not escape my notice that the Rook background event that separates them from their faction happens approximately at the same time as Lucanis is presumed dead

Amadis de Riva / Illario Dellamorte | 1778 words

If Amadis were a good little Crow she would have been packing. She would have been obeying her Talon’s direct order to take her things and get out of Treviso ‘with immediate effect.’ She would have followed along like the perfect soldier she was supposed to have been.

Good little Crows don’t find themselves in a rented tavern room next to a man that same Talon has told them to stay away from who refuses to tell them his name. Good little Crows fall in line and obey no matter how little information they’re given. No, Viago had made it clear to her how much she was not, in fact, a good little Crow after her actions against the Antaam and so any attempt to be one hardly seemed to matter.

The sullen face of a once-good little Crow stared back at her from a dingy mirror as she ever so carefully traced her lipstick over her lips and tightened the tie on her robe.

Illario was distracted tonight. Even when his clever hands were on her body his mind was somewhere else entirely, traveling the peaks and valleys of her flesh by rote and muscle memory, guided less by passion than by experience and yet seemingly just as bent on losing himself in her as she was into him. Did he know what had happened? Did he know it was her who had ruined the Talons’ plans and her who would be so unceremoniously exiled? 

Worse yet, where did his allegiances truly lie? It was a desperate thing to suspect a Crow of treason and yet not improbable, especially when he had cultivated a mystery around himself the way he did. It was becoming tiresome that he still refused to name his House. Trust was already an expensive commodity in Antiva and could not support further suspicion.

“Something on your mind?” she prodded gently, taking a seat beside him on the bed, curling one bare leg beneath her and laying the other across his lap. He accepted it with an aimless drift of his fingertips across her calf, but looked away for a moment too long before responding.

“It’s nothing,” he said with his liar’s smile, his expression shifting into the softened mask of a lover that had been absent a second prior. The finesse of it always amazed her; she mentally noted it with professional appreciation. If she had had a closer relationship with the truth herself she might almost have called it natural.

“Contracts don’t usually spook you.”

“It’s not a contract.”

“Ahh so it is something,” she said with a dangerous smile, leaning closer to him until her shoulder bumped gently into his, rocking the two of them ever so slightly off balance until she settled against him. “House business, then?”

He huffed a harsh breath from his nose and the top corner of his lip curled cruelly, faster than he could catch up to the expression to crush it into an intimate unconcern, a smile free of conflict. He hadn’t managed his eyes though, not completely, not well enough for her scrutiny, not enough for her to be able to mistake the desire for reassurance, for justification, of some act he was reticent to speak of.

“Something like that.”

Some instinct within her cried danger, growing louder and spilling into her guts as she searched for answers that she knew she wouldn’t receive in those eyes that seemed nearly black in the dim light. He continued to play the lover but she knew better, she knew him like she knew her own limb, they had never needed names for that. 

Who or what she couldn’t tell, whether herself, her country, or someone wholly unconnected to either, but she knew beyond any doubt that some betrayal was an inevitability, and knew just as strongly that whatever happened she would guarantee that she would not be anywhere near the fallout of it.

Still, their game played on. He had one more chance to end it, whether or not he knew it. One chance for the honesty she had no true expectation of.

“And am I still not allowed to know which House?” she asked, looking up at him through her long, dark eyelashes and allowing an errant curl to fall in front of her face. “Still worried that we may be mortal enemies?”

Illario’s smile turned wickedly sharp as he took the offered bait and smoothed the hair from her face, cupping her cheek and lifting her chin toward him.

“If I’m not already your mortal enemy I will be very disappointed,” he said, the warmth of his breath prickling on her skin.

You are, she thought as she closed her eyes and pressed her lips to his, pulling him close against her and holding tightly to him. You can match me, you may be my weakness, but you will not be my undoing.

She banked the smell of him within her memory, the sincerity of the sweat on his skin overlaid with the artificiality of his chosen cologne. There was no small chance that this was their end now, and it would be for the best. But for a moment, for just one single moment, she could pretend that this was all there was, that they were happy, and that neither would ever feel the sting of the other’s betrayal. All a fiction, certainly, but she couldn’t resist the indulgence of it even still. 

Backing off, she broke away from him, her resolve steeled. The weight of their secrets and their untruths had simply become too heavy; there was no other option than this. Perhaps it had always led here. Perhaps Viago had had the right of it when he warned her away, though the thought of validating that stung more than Illario’s deflections. 

He followed after her with his hands, resting an arm around her waist; for him too, it seemed, it was easier to bury himself in whatever this was than to face whatever had him so preoccupied.

“I’m leaving Treviso,” she said flatly, reclaiming her leg from across his lap and setting it on the floor. She might have shrugged out of his grasp completely had he not tightened his grip on her as she spoke. “I don’t know when or if I’ll be back.”

“Why?” he asked, straightening up with what seemed to be genuine surprise. “Where? I may be traveling soon, I could meet you.”

Not this time, she thought, more wistfully than she had imagined she would when she’d run over the ways this conversation might have gone beforehand. She had not thought that he would look at her like she was the sun and had banished him into shadow. He ought to have been grasping, scheming, he ought to have been his usual conniving self. Not this earnestness that nearly threw her off course. She could recover though, she must now.

“A contract,” she lied. “And no, I will not tell you where. You’ll enjoy yourself well enough wherever you are without me,” she teased with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. She didn’t mind; though he had on occasion followed after her for a post-contract holiday they had never been anything near to what might have been called exclusive.

“Will you tell me if I am very, very nice?” Illario purred into her ear, pulling her closer to him and nuzzling his nose into her neck.

Amadis tilted her head back, leaning shoulder to shoulder, a hair’s breadth from his lips. “You have never been very, very nice a day in your life,” she said in a low voice, kissing him once more, biting gently at his lower lip before separating again. “And I would hate for you to start now.”

He laughed and the vibration through his chest rippled through her own.

“I could also be terribly-” he began, voice smooth as velvet, nipping at the tip of her ear. “Incredibly-” he continued as he slipped a hand into her robe and worked it slowly downward. “Not nice at all,” he finished, his fingers teasing the top of her hip bone. 

Another day perhaps he might have tempted her to let go and meld into him. A small, easily crushed notion in the back of her mind wished it might have been that day. It was not. It could not be.

“There is nothing you can do to convince me, mio caro,” Amadis said with a wicked little smile, lifting his hand away and placing it on his leg. She ran her fingers over his as she let go, giving them a single squeeze. They were slightly cold to the touch; his circulation was slowing. “Not when you have secrets of your own.”

“We all have secrets, we’re assassins,” he said, seemingly more sharply than he’d intended. The slightly frantic expression in her eyes told her it was taking effect; his taut control over his tone and himself had loosened. Bit by bit his mask was falling and it seemed all he could do to force neutrality on his features. Just one moment more, that was all she needed.

“You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine,” she pushed , one final chance after the last one. One more moment to seal his own fate and by extension theirs.

“Then I suppose we’ll both remain a mystery,” he said firmly and she put the possibility of the antidote she carried out of her mind. 

One hard blink, then another, and then the muscles in his neck started to go slack. Blearily he attempted to push her away but only succeeded in falling into her shoulder, his movements sluggish and slow as though he were moving through water.

“You did this,” he accused through slurred words as she laid him down softly onto the bed. She was gentle, smoothing the hair from his face and lifting his legs off the floor. 

“I don’t know what it is you’re planning, but I don’t want to be anywhere near it and I’m afraid I can’t risk you following me. You’ll be alright in a few hours.” Picking up a handkerchief from the nightstand, she wiped her lipstick away thoroughly and precisely, as she had been taught by the expert poisoners of House de Riva. “Dream of me,” she said quietly, her voice a low rumble, and pressed a last, untainted kiss to his brow.

“I’ll dream of your blood on my knife.”

“But at least you’ll still be thinking of me,” she told him as his eyes fluttered closed and he faded away into unconsciousness.

Perhaps there was something of a good little Crow in her after all.

[enniewritesathing]

memory management (parallel 1)

⏮️Previous || (📚Previous Stories) || ▶️Beginning

Charles: "Please. Surely, you'll reconsider your course of action after what I have to say."

(The Werewolf growls. He can easily snap Charles' neck and be done with it... but that's far too kind of a punishment.) "I really doubt that, but you can try anyway."

(Charles watches as The Werewolf paces back and forth, never taking his eyes off of him. Another growl. He's on a timer of indeterminate length. He has to choose his words carefully... perhaps there could be a chance he can get out of here alive.)

"You don't want to do this. You're scared and you've... lashed out."

(Charles braces himself for a fraction of a second as The Werewolf shifts his weight too fast for his liking. He's safe, for now.) "This is all a cry for help, you know--"

The Werewolf: "Shut the hell up! You don't smell like the others."

(Charles blinks at the blunt question. It didn't work. He can't possibly have-- ah, yes, an oversight that he didn't account for. Lycans were known for their remarkable senses and Johnathan is no exception... there is very little that he can hide from him.)

(The Werewolf curls his lip.) "Your blood smells old and rotten. And your voice. Why do you have two tones in your words? I don't like your eyes, either. Everything about you is wrong."

(Charles laughs despite himself. Just like that, his plan is dead.)

"It seems that I won't be able to get anything past you; I am the proverbial and alleged mad scientist. Of course, I won't be normal; I've been unwell for years."

(The Werewolf points a clawed finger at Charles.) "That is not what I meant!"

(Charles sighs and looks at his hand.) "You're right. We've both been unwell for years and I've figured out something in the last ten minutes. Despite my efforts, everything I've done to get rid of you... stubborn beast. I thought I could break you to the point where the mere thought of escaping would never cross your mind again."

"Ha! Clever dog. Waiting for us to flush the toxins out of your body. Just enough for you overcome it. You were all but dead. You were dead. Or he is dead and your sheer hatred is what revived you? I'm not sure. Your heart stopped for a very long time and your healing abilities were pushed to the brink. Nothing short of a miracle, as much as I loathe the word.

Perhaps it is true that death works differently for occults..."

(The Werewolf narrows his eyes. ) "What are you saying?"

Charles: "I have a hypothesis, but I will need you to listen before you do anything else."

(The Werewolf huffs.) "Fine."

Charles: "Thank you. I told you, I've been unwell. I've lost count for how many years. Sickness... has always been a part of me since I was a child. Plagued me. There were times I wished for Death, but it never came. I reached adulthood; I was still fragile but I made what time I had count. In the meantime, I read arcane and obscure books and combined it with my accrued medical knowledge."

"Fortune smiled upon me one day as I was introduced to a rather charming... individual. Hm."

(Charles pauses. He can't remember their face. Has it really been that long? What would they think of him now?) "They entertained my proposals to cure myself. There were substantial risks involved, and honestly, had it been anyone else, I would've been committed. We found a way."

"I used their blood in very small dosages over the course of months."

"My sickness worsened as well. One night, I saw the Grim Reaper standing over me. I closed my eyes and waited for that cold hand to take me. It never came but morning did. The light in my room was brighter than I remembered; my eyes ached... but my body felt different. It was different. I didn't have that haze over me. I was light.

"I was cured; naturally, there's consequences the way I went about it."

"In that elation, I discovered that my skin and eyes became sensitive to the sun. Not like I liked it in any fashion. My poor appetite was nonexistent. I required little sleep now. To some, that is a loss, but for me?"

(He laughs.) "I got what I wanted. Those losses were very acceptable; I was alive for the first time; I cheated Death."

The Werewolf: "You call me a monster and yet you do that?"

(Charles looks up at The Werewolf with a smug grin.) "Oh, that's very rich coming from you, Johnathan. What you said made me realize something that I'm sure you'll appreciate -- the lengths someone will go through for some semblance of normalcy. Surely, that is a reasonable thought process?"

"The only thing they asked of me was to consider my new found path. How will I use my gift? Well, I became one of the top doctors of this region. I've worked on, that some might say, miracles. I researched on any and all occults, pouring over centuries of data -- whole, incomplete, and even proven myths and falsehoods. Why, I even found new, better treatments for ailments that have plagued mankind for centuries!

"Then there were the curious matters of werewolves. What I had was very insufficient -- elusive lot. It bothered me that there were hardly any medical knowledge on them. I became obsessive. Surely, they cannot be extinct!"

"One night, I got a call about a boy suspected of being a werewolf. His mother was terrified, on the brink of tears; she had lost one son exhibiting the same symptoms -- unexplained sickness, severe mood changes, an impossibly high fever without any clear cause yet it clears in a few days time... on this particular night, the moon was full."

"My initial tests confirmed it -- the boy's a werewolf. I worked backwards; his mother was latent. His deceased father was latent as well... but his twin brother was active right before he died. My theory told me that he was too young to handle the transformation."

"The stress of the beast awakening almost killed the boy, but why did it awaken early, I wondered? When he regained consciousness, I told him what happened. He was old enough to understand what was at stake but he was young enough to still have that certain innocence. One I didn't have."

"I told the boy that he had a monster inside of him, that it will eventually get stronger and take over when he gets older. That he will want to cause death and destruction like the werewolves before him. Why, he could even harmed his loved ones. Or worse. I realized that this little boy was in a similar position I was all those years ago. Just as I vowed to myself, I vowed to find a cure, by any means.

"But I had to bide my time as my intended methods were... harsh. It would've been frowned upon if I started too early. My plans were contingent on the boy following my simple order: resist. Resist until he couldn't bear it anymore. He was around seventeen when this started to happen; that's when we allowed you to take his place."

The Werewolf: "Is that supposed to make me feel better? You manipulated him and everyone else to get what you wanted! You couldn't bear to fail!"

(Charles laughs low.) "Oh, Johnathan. You poor, wretched child. I did no such thing."

"You're so naïve."

// Next ⏭️

[walkawaytall]

Okay, I’m about to be real blunt: They literally are not carbon copies of one another, and it is so odd to me that this is commonly held fanon???

You know how I know they aren’t carbon copies of one another? Because Leia lost way more than Anakin did but doesn’t appear to have even been tempted by the Dark Side. She never knew her birth parents (which, okay, this appears to not have affected her much, at least consciously, but it’s still a really early, major loss); she didn’t even know she had a brother until they were adults, so I imagine there is a certain level of grief surrounding what their relationship could have been had they known each other their entire lives; she lost her entire planet — which includes the family that raised her, by the way, as well as every friend, pet, home, store, tree, and mountain she ever loved, not to mention all the people who she grew up knowing she would be responsible for one day; she had the man she loved ripped away from her and sold off to the space mob to be murdered for like a year; and she watched her newly revealed brother/close friend walk to what she clearly believes is going to be his death at the hands of Vader, who tortured both her and the man she’s in love with and cut off her brother’s hand. And that’s not even getting into all the misery that was heaped on her in the sequel trilogy or any non-movie material.

All of that happened to her, and she proceeds with hope and action. She doesn’t go searching for ways to make sure she’s never hurt again or go to extremes in order to keep those she cares about within her grasp. I’m sure one could argue that Leia has no way of seeking out the Dark Side for help because she doesn’t know she’s Force-sensitive. But she has ample opportunity to do what normal, everyday humans do when they’re afraid of feeling the pain of loss, which is isolate themselves or try to control the movements of those they’re afraid to lose, and she doesn’t.

Like, there are three years between A New Hope and The Empire Strikes Back, and everything about the way she interacts with Luke and Han in ESB implies that she has maintained some level of affection and friendship with both of them that is different from her professional relationships. A deleted scene has her responding to the news that Luke is going to be leaving as well as Han by bemoaning the fact that she needs to learn to only rely on herself — meaning that is not something she’s currently doing.

And, while she is clearly affected by the threat of Han and Luke taking off, she also doesn’t appear willing to do anything extraordinary to stop them. She tries to talk Han out leaving, which is a pretty normal response for the insane situation they’re in, and she begs Luke in Return of the Jedi to not face Vader, but she doesn’t go to extreme lengths to keep either of them around even though their leaving clearly hurts her.

It seems like people see that Leia can react intensely/angrily, and because Padme doesn’t do really that, they default to her being just like Anakin. This is bonkers for a couple of reasons:

People are not required to be exactly like one of their bio parents. Like, I know George Lucas is a fan of mirroring certain characters, situations, etc., but there is not really any evidence that I’ve seen that the intent with Leia was to be analogous to Anakin (plus, he already did that with Luke! Or does Luke’s outburst during his face-off with Vader and Palpatine followed by his recognition of their similarities upon seeing Vader’s mechanical hand followed by “I am a Jedi, like my father before me” mean nothing to people???).

If you actually examine the situations in which Leia reacts with anger, they are pretty specific to life-threatening situations in which everyone is yelling at everyone, or a couple of times when Han is actively trying to antagonize her (which I feel says more about their ability to get under one another’s skin than it does Leia’s general state of being). Luke and Han are just as quippy and sarcastic and eye-rolly and impatient as Leia is a lot of the time, but her anger is often focused on, and I honestly think it’s because her character is being contrasted with an expected princess archetype. And that’s fine; Leia is a fun subversion of a well-worn character type. But Leia also chills out a lot when she’s feeling more secure/less threatened, and I would argue that’s probably closer to her “normal” than how she acts when she’s just spent a few days being tortured for information followed by being forced to watch the destruction of everything she loves. (She remains very capable, proactive, impulsive, and clever even when she’s less of a ball of anger, too, so it’s not like the tempering of that anger results in her being any less Leia-like on the whole.)

I just don’t see how Leia is considered “exactly like Anakin” when she generally makes good, non-possessive decisions while maintaining hope in the face of great tragedy, while Anakin has a history of doing the opposite.

In summary: a woman being a little shouty and sarcastic ≠ a man murdering innocent civilians and turning almost completely evil.

mourning leia and anakins potential father-daughter relationship because of how vader destroyed her is another level of tragedy

they will never know they are a carbon copy of the other

she will always (rightfully) hate him

[loving-jack-kelly]

also like. edmund as a character. his whole arc in tltwatw is about learning to think, to be thoughtful and kind and respectful when it's needed but not to let go of his independence. to follow orders when they're right instead of rebelling because he can, but to break those same orders when he knows it's time to choose to do what's right. and then in prince caspian, edmund is the big brother. peter is older, pete has more technical authority, but edmund is the one who really understands. edmund kills the witch. edmund believes lucy because he remembers how stupid it is to dismiss her just because he didn't see it too. edmund is king edmund the just because he understands the difference between pride and justice. peter is magnificent, he's strong and powerful and good at getting people to listen to him, but he's prideful and brave more than he is courageous and wise. edmund lost his pride when he betrayed his siblings and never wanted to pick it up again, because pride is what got him in his mess in the first place. and so edmund becomes the voice of reason. edmund stands in peter's shadow and doesn't complain because he knows this is how it's supposed to be. he doesn't need to lead, he just needs to guide.

also don't even get me started on how the only people who defeat the white witch are aslan and edmund. edmund breaks the wand while peter fights somebody else, aslan kills the witch. peter is tempted by the power and edmund shatters the illusion from behind as somebody who's already fallen for her tricks.

[rxttenfish]

while aaravi remains firmly within "yeah miranda has a difficult personality and isn't very easy to get along with + has many rough edges which are slowly being worked on but still going to be an issue" after having been very much so within the camp that miranda is a Vexing Bitch upon first contact/getting to know her, she DOES go from "miranda is unpredictable and dangerous as a merfolk and large macropredator and her emotions are inscrutable and random" to "merfolk aren't very hard to understand or predict and it's very easy to stay on the safe side if you keep basic rules in mind and don't freak out the second something unexpected happens"

[giantkillerjack]

Favorite part about Death Note is that Light gets the Note and IMMEDIATELY becomes a serial killer fascist with a god complex.

No build-up, no Fall From Grace, no slow corruption of a good boy gradually becoming a monster. Just-- SPEED RUN STRATS. And I love that for him.

Tbh, I think there are a lot of folks (especially boys) from my high school days who would have immediately become monsters if given the power of life and death over every person around them.

It's kind of like how when people have apparently casual ableist beliefs, and you push them to elaborate on that just a little bit, they'll often end up openly saying stuff like "well, some people are just too disabled to be worth the resources it takes to support them." - Which is... eugenics. It's just eugenics, justified by the myth of scarcity. Now these folks almost certainly won't call it eugenics, or even think of it that way. But that doesn't make it NOT a core belief of the Nazis.

In a similar way, Light seems like a nice and well-adjusted boy with strong beliefs. No harm in that.

But to paraphrase Lindsay Ellis in her analysis of the Game of Thrones ending, "Power doesn't necessarily corrupt. Power reveals." [I think she was quoting someone else when she said this. It was someone who wrote a biography on LBJ. Whatever. Lindsay said it and she's smart as hell and I recommend her videos.]

And 15 minutes into the Death Note musical, I'm already thinking about how so many beliefs "casually" held by well-adjusted, nice people immediately reveal their monstrousness when talked through to their natural conclusion.

And I wonder how many of those people, given the power of life and death over everyone around them - the power to take their ideas to their natural conclusions - would also immediately reveal how their lack of self-reflection has laid the groundwork for them to become monsters.