#but your body is cold and unfeeling from lack of feeling

[chococolte]

☼ — pietas maris

♱ : my take on sagau childe

including ☆! — him as a worshiper, and his reaction to being your lover ⛧

word count. 5.6k

୨୧ — ꒰ cw. yandere, unhealthy relationships, possessive & obsessive thoughts/behaviors, religious + cult themes, cult au, g/n reader. i do not condone yanderes irl. ୨୧ — ꒰ a/n. now time for me to disappear back into the aether for another 6 months

The abyss is cold.

It is unfeeling, lacking warmth and passion. It is relentless, cruel, and unkind. It corrupts, ruins, and does so freely, without remorse or thought. It leaves you clinging to the hot blood in your veins, curled up and hidden in the dark reaches of its void.

Childe had always been versatile; quick to adapt, even at such a young age. He grew used to the emptiness, the swelling numbness, and the eventual gnawing loneliness left in his abdomen. They became a part of him as his lungs, as integral as air; to be without felt odd, foreign.

The glimmer of your existence kept Childe company. He did not know who you were, or how lucky he was— only that you brought him comfort, like an old lullaby, or a blanket worn from overuse. He reached for you when the darkness grew too much, too heavy a burden on his small shoulders.

He came to you with little offerings; small trinkets, tomes of unreadable text. Useless to him, but perhaps you would take pity on him in exchange, and let him take comfort in your presence for another day. Childe came to you with rubble shaped in hearts, the gentle breath of his voice as he spoke of his anxieties. He did not think of them as offerings then, merely gifts— pleadings for you to stay a little longer.

His hands, then unruined and soft, made you a makeshift altar crafted out of whatever he could find. He made sure to build it where he felt your whispers were strongest, where your light entirely overwhelmed the darkness overhead. Childe didn't think of it as an altar then, just a place to settle his findings, where he could pretend his sad, little effigy made of you was actually you.

The idol didn't look much like a person at all, and at the time, he didn't think of his behavior as odd. He desperately clung to you for survival, and with no other warm body besides his own, you were the only one he could talk too.

At times, he thought he was going insane. There was a pleasant buzzing in his ears whenever he neared your doll, as if it were calling him. Despite the fact that he had made it, proven by the tiny scars on his palms, he still felt as if it was yours.

In the darkness, Childe whispered to you. He said everything his mind could think, childishly exaggerated tales in hopes of impressing you. A foolish endeavor, considering you were a God— but he still hoped that maybe you'd think of him kindly, and let him bask in your protective glow for just one more moment.

He couldn't hear your words, but he could feel them. The twinkle of your laughter was like a soft whistle in his ears. When you were pleased, the air would lightly ruffle his hair. Despite how agonizing his loneliness was, at least he had you by his side.

Childe's innocence, as all things do, eventually withered away in that malevolent black.

He thought of you as his teacher; a guiding hand that trained him, molded him to fit against your palm. When he struggled against the abyssal beasts, he could feel you— a soft brush against his hand, a firm hold on his back, keeping him focused. You taught him when to still his blade and when to strike.

In the arches of his sword and polearm, in the taut and tense pull of his bow, in the whirlwind of his catalyst— you were there, shining from beyond the thin veil separating you.

When Childe was ripped out of the abyss, so was his connection to you. Like a thread snapping, he could no longer feel you; not in the darkness overhead, not in the grip of his blade, of the depths of his soul. You were gone, and he was once again nothing but a boy, lost and alone. Friends and family surround him, thankful for his return, but his mind is still reeling, still stuck in the abyss and the sudden emptiness left in your wake.

Despite himself, Childe had hoped you would have stayed, even once he was out. He thought he was done with being naïve, but that clearly wasn't the case.

He can’t feel you anymore. Where did you go? Why did you leave? What did he do wrong? Questions swirl in his head like whirlpools of thought. Childe feels like he's drowning, suffocating in the mess of his mind. His breaths come out short, quick and sharp. His throat squeezes, constricting his airways, as he realizes what's unfolded.

You left him.

He should've known better. On that first day, all you had done was take pity on him by letting him linger in your light. It was his fault for ever believing that he would never have to be alone again. That even if he had no one else, at least he had you.

This was the result of his own failure. If only he had proven himself worthy.

When his family found him, they found him gripping a small, rudimentary doll. Even when they reached their home, Childe was still clutching the thing as if possessed. When they tried tugging it out of his hands, saying it would help him eat better, he ripped it from their grasp, holding it to his chest.

Childe couldn't accept that you had left him so easily. At night, back in his warm bed, Childe tries to whisper to you again. The familiar warmth sinks into his pores, but it's nothing like yours. He nuzzles closer to the doll, ignoring how it tears into his skin.

"I'm here," he whispers.

Maybe you got confused. He knows you're a God, but even the Seven are not omniscient. When he was torn from the abyss, it was possible you hadn't meant to so cruelly cut the connection between you. Maybe you couldn't find him, and so he just has to tell you where he is.

So he whispers to you in the dark, just as he has so many times before.

Only this time, he's met with silence.

In the years that pass, you linger at the forefront of his mind, haunting him like a wraith. Childe can't bring himself to be rid of you, despite how it hurts every time he thinks about you for a little too long. He's still stuck, perpetually waiting for your return, despite how he knows you've long given him up.

Childe becomes Tartaglia, the 11th Harbinger under the Tsaritsa. He takes a new name, a new mask— he executes her orders dutifully, and he does his role perfectly. He acts as if she's you, despite how desperately he wants to believe otherwise. If he closes his eyes for long enough, he can pretend that the cold that seeps into his bones in her presence is yours.

But no matter how many names and identities he takes, he'll always just be your Ajax; the boy who still misses you, despite how short your time together was. And that fact is what burns him the most.

Maybe he should be angry. He knows he has every right to be. Angry that you left him, that you discarded him as if he was nothing. Maybe he should hate you— hate you for leaving him alone, as if you weren't the only thing keeping him sane. Hate you for leaving as if his love didn't matter to you.

He comforts himself by thinking of the time dilation he experienced in the abyss. You cared for him so much that you spun three days into three months. He likes to believe he meant something to you; he must've, because why else would you lengthen your time spent together?

Childe knows it isn't true. He didn't matter enough for you to stay, after all.

At night, Childe finds himself listlessly thinking of you. It's a silent mourning. Quiet tears fall down his cheeks, soaking the pillow beneath his head. He chokes down every heaving sob that threatens to break from his throat; clenches his jaw when they claw too close to his lips. He slaps a hand over his mouth when he's too loud, biting his fingers until they're bloody and marred by his teeth. What would you think if you saw him this weak? Saw the boy you built up crumble, all because he can't feel even the softest traces of your presence anymore?

You would find him pathetic. All he's done is prove that you were right in abandoning him.

When the memory of you is too much to bear, he clutches the effigy in his arms, squeezing it against his chest until it's sharp edges dig into his skin. Even after all these years, he's still kept it close. He tries to feel the visage of you that was once attached to its bearings, whispering for you under the night sky, hoping it'll remind you of your time in the abyss— hoping that tonight he will feel you again, ruffling his hair with tendrils of wind.

He never does.

Childe barely sleeps, but when he does, he dreams of you. You have no body, no face— he can't even begin to imagine what you look like, and he doesn't dare too, even when he knows he has nothing to lose.

He's back in the dark, but you're still there with him, providing him light and comfort. If he knew that leaving would entail being without you, he never would have left at all. Better to be with you than to die without.

Sometimes, he dreams of you staying with him even after he escapes. Your warmth is ever-present. He gifts you riches, now. You have a voice in his dreams, and he can hear you speaking to him. You're kind, and gentle, and he wants for nothing. He has you, and there is nothing more to want.

He dreams he never lost you at all. It makes reality all the more painful.

In a way he knows is pathetic, Childe hopes you at least found him fun. He hopes you found him entertaining, despite how the thought twists his heart and guts into little knots, until he feels vaguely nauseous at the notion. At least then you would have reason to remember him. At least he could say he meant something to you.

In a hidden corner of his room, there sits an altar for you. His wealth as a Harbinger means he has no lack of resources, and so he bejewels the altar until it glimmers even without light. It's obnoxious and opulent to the point of vanity, but he figures that if you like it, he'll earn another whisper of warmth from you— in the vain hope that you hear him at all anymore.

With his hands, now calloused and worn, he carves sigils into whalebone. He doesn't know what they mean, but they were numerous in the abyss; and so he etches them into bone, hoping that whatever they mean, it reaches you.

Childe pushes himself more than he should. His back aches from all the weight he carries on his shoulders, but he trudges forward despite how it hurts. He is more fervent in conflicts, and spectacular scenes of blood and viscera follow him every time he walks onto a battlefield.

His tongue forms words of devotion for the Tsaritsa as he slays another enemy, blood staining his fingers, but in his heart, he only ever speaks of you.

When he fights, Childe can lose himself. He can focus entirely on the movement of his feet, the precision of his blade. He can ignore how badly he misses you, and how in the back of his mind, he desperately hopes that the more blood he sheds with your teachings, you'll find him satisfactory.

Adrenaline rushes through his veins, and once again he lets himself be drowned by the rush, letting himself forget all of his pain.

Childe is proud of the way that no one can recognize his style of fighting. It is exact and sharp— every strike hitting its target with ease, filled with vigor and intensity. He enjoys the gazes of jealousy, but remains silent when asked. My teacher taught me, he says. He sheds no further light on the matter, and any instance someone shows interest in learning from him, he instantly refuses. Childe wishes to keep you close to his chest, a guarded secret known only to him.

Childish, perhaps. He knows it is. But if he can't have you, then he will have the knowledge of you. He will keep it to himself, and there it will stay, safe in his tight grip. 

It drives him insane, the way sees you in everything. When night falls, covering the sky in a blanket of stars, he wonders if you're staring at him from above. When the tides of the sea brush against the shore, he finds himself thinking of you as the moon— you are what anchors him, despite the fact that he hasn't felt you in so long. In his eyes, there is nothing you could not be, and with every breath, he only ever misses you more.

It's during his mission in Liyue that he feels you again. Childe is unable to breathe when he meets the Traveler, sensing you watching from their eyes. His heart thunders in his chest, tempestuous as a storm over the sea.

For a moment, he's happy. You're finally back. He wants nothing more than to run to you, to ask you why you left for so long, to ask how he can make you stay, but then he feels you— a familiar pressure bearing down on him, forcing him to say anything but what he wants to.

Childe watches the Traveler's back fade as it finally clicks for him.

You abandoned him for someone else. You left him... for this. The thought sends him reeling. You left him, just to go spend time with someone else— to give them the same company you gave him, to give them the same guidance you gave him— was he merely replaceable to you?

Was he just a test for you?

He should be angry. And he is, but the heartbreak overwhelms him. He's left choking, battling for air. The agony of having been tossed to the side, of having it be affirmed in front of his eyes. He wants to scream and cry, beg for you to return; but his throat squeezes every time he meets the Traveler, and the words die on his tongue.

You don't want him to speak. He's meant to play along.

Childe had waited for you for so long. Even after all this time, he couldn't get rid of the painful hope that you'd return. He had done his best to bottle his emotions, to keep them shut and locked inside, so that you wouldn't be disappointed in him upon your arrival. Proud that he never doubted you for a moment.

But he had. He had doubted you, cried at the lack of your comfort. Afraid of what it meant to be without you. Fearful of living, never getting to gleam your existence for a second time— and now you want him to pretend as if he never knew you.

As if he can't see the slight smugness in the Traveler's eyes.

His fight with the Traveler is personal. He bares his teeth, snarling like a rabid dog. His every strike is fast, precise with the intent to kill and maim. Childe hopes his emotions reach you, that you know of his bitterness and acrimony. That you know of how long he wished for you, how long he yearned for you to come back— how his frustration has twisted into pure rage, turned into a fine point. 

He just has to simply show you how he's better. He has to show you that he's superior in every way to your choice. That you should've chosen him over them. 

They are undeserving; watch how he rips through them like they are nothing, slicing through them like they are mist over sea. They are unworthy; see how easily he beats them into submission, how easily they crumble at his feet. The matter of the Gnosis is nothing to him, now— only whether you see how he should be the one you prefer. 

It's then that he feels it. Your rage. Your anger at having been battered and bruised. The Traveler stands back up, but something is different now. Their strikes are fluid, prowess and skill increased by an outside force. 

You. 

Do you hate him that badly? Detest him so much, to go so far as to bless another with your strength so they can prove themselves to be his better? Even in his Foul Legacy form, Childe is forced to retreat; forced to bow his head in defeat, weakened by the burden of his transformation.

The realization leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He's done the exact opposite of what he set out to do. All he's proven is that your right.

Childe feels your crushing weight bearing down on him. He spits the words out, calls them 'friend' through clenched teeth. He dances to your whims, just as he had previously. Unnatural, stiff movements and words that speak the opposite of what he means. 

And then you're gone, left along with them. He stares at their fading back. He can almost imagine you beside them, walking by their side just as you once did his. 

It hurts.

The next time he feels you, there is no sign of the Traveler. Only a tight pulling in his chest. 

He doesn't know what it means, or what it entails. But he follows, sensing you at the end, waiting for him. Childe doesn't allow himself to hope; that maybe, you have come around. That maybe you do care. That maybe, you never hated him— not truly. That you missed him just as he missed you. 

Maybe he meant something, after all.

When he reaches you, he feels it. You're happy. You're happy with him. He feels you reaching out, tickling him with strands of your will. You brush against his skin, burrow deep inside. Childe lets you, still unable to breathe.

He wonders if this is really happening. Have you come back to him, truly? Have you finally realized how much better he is? He feels you graze his soul, reaching deep within. Childe feels you envelop him, swathing him in warmth and comfort. 

You're home, you whisper. 

He only hears the ghost of your voice, a chime in the wind; but he hears the intent, the meaning behind your unintelligible words, even though he can't understand them. 

Childe breaks. 

SANGUINE NATUS ; first meeting/as a worshiper

If even just your breath could leave him weak, then seeing you for the first time makes his knees give out underneath him.

It's a foolishly embarrassing display, but Childe can't find it in himself to care. He falls to his knees quicker than his mind can catch up, unconsciously posturing himself to make himself seem as small and harmless as possible— anything to make you stay, even if it means sabotaging his image.

He tucks his shoulders inward, struggling between looking at you until his eyes burn and your image is seared into the back of his eyelids, or averting his gaze because just touching you with them feels like he's sullying you somehow.

His breath comes out short and sharp, his entire chest heaving with each shuddering, raspy exhale. Before he can even manage a sound, he's sobbing, crumpling to the floor— there's no care taken to your perception of him now, only the wailful cries of one lost in the weight of your eyes. Childe knows he's being pathetic, a mess of airy desperation and red eyes; everything he was when he felt the ghost of you leave him, and everything he wished you'd never see. But it's you, and for the first time, he can truly feel your eyes on him.

It's all too much to bear.

"I-It's you, it's you—!" Childe manages to choke, wet tears caking the apples of his face. His eyes strain, burning to see the visage of you through the blur of his vision. Nausea bites at him, his abdomen a sudden storm from the tears that lick at his cheeks.

Childe has always been austere in his worship; strict, solemn in how he acts out every religious rite. There is an icy silence unlike him as he moves, particularly whenever your sanctity is involved. His fingers still tremble despite his stiffness, the desperation loud in every twitch of his limbs. The desire to see you, after all is said and done.

Seeing you for the first time feels as though a wave has overtaken him, drowning him in brine and the cerulean of muddy waters. There is no hiding what he could barely contain before— jerky movements filled with need and the dolor of one disappointed before.

Childe no longer finds himself able to veil it by lies and rushing fights of adrenaline; now, it lies bare, and there's no burning ache to keep it hidden.

His fervor is relentless; a feverish desire to please you coalescing until it's unbearable for his skin. Your reaction to his cries could have been cruel or kind, and it wouldn't have bothered him; all that matters is whether he has finally proven himself worthy of standing by your side.

His worship is eager words spilling from his lips at night, the echo of your name a murmur from his mouth like the sigh of the ocean's waves-- his blades stained red, limp at his sides-- the burning in the back of his throat that comes from years of pleading.

You're here now, even if he can't be with you at all times; and that knowledge leaves him whispering to you, uttering every thought without a moment of reconsideration. It is a ceaseless endeavor, as every word is listless praise and endless adoration. There isn't a moment where he isn't thinking of you in some way, and the mere thought of the opposite leaves him feeling vaguely sick.

He wants to think of you all the time. Though it's such a small thing, in his mind, he has you all to himself— in the sense that there is no one else to take your eyes off of him— there, he can make you happy; there, he can make you proud of him. In that world, you have no reason to be rid of him.

Childe's always kept his habit of crafting you makeshift gifts. They're rugged, imperfect things, but laden with his fingerprints and the palms of his hands. Before, he could only set them still on his altar for you, and hope that it pleased you somehow. He was only ever met with silence, but he could pretend you were happy with him, and the idea alone was enough.

When he catches sight of a sea conch, its pale marks swirled across its smooth surface, he can only think of handing it to you. It's a beautiful thing, and so simple and crude a gift; but maybe you will find worth in such a thing, the simplicity of its nature, and praise him for it.

He gives them to you physically now, unable to shake the urge to do so. His hands always tremble when he hands them over, his knees threatening to buckle underneath him whenever your fingers brush against his. He will never fail to drown in the sensation, allowing everything that he is to become thoughts of you.

Childe has always worshiped you in bloodshed. In the past, he hoped it would leave you satisfied enough to come back; now, it's to prove how much better he is than everyone else. His fear runs deep, like cracks in the earth far below the water's surface, and the sickening feeling of dread whenever you praise someone else suffocates him.

It's unreasonable, he knows, and he has no reason to fear, not anymore— but his heart still quickens at the thought, and his stomach still twists.

It's an all too familiar feeling. When he was first torn from you, he felt as though his heart had been ripped right out of him; and the panic he feels only reminds him of it.

When he's inevitably forced away from you on another mission, he deals with it as quickly as possible, no matter how bloodied or bruised he leaves it. He is brutally unkind in his workings, his words always terse and clipped; a slight edge that never really seems to go away until he knows you're somewhere nearby.

It's when he's forced to stay away from you for a longer period of time that he breaks completely. Upon his return, he is instantly back at your side, heaving sobs and ugly tears running down his face. He can barely think, and a flurry of slurred words leaves his lips— begging to never leave your side again.

Childe knows better than to think he is deserving of your kindness, but he’s desperate to at least stay in your shadow. There, he could stay near you, even if he was swathed in black— even if his only glimpse of you was your back, he would be in bliss. To be near you in some form is all he could ever ask of you.

For all of the power you have granted him, it's only right that he use it for you. A mere word from anyone that isn't pure praise has his grip on his weapon tightening, the tendons on his hand taut and his knuckles pale. He remains entirely oblivious to any moral ambiguity in your actions— whatever you do is right and just; as you are the only one worthy of judging yourself, he does not dare too.

Instead, Childe draws his blade in judgement of others— he will act as your hand and executioner, the arbiter of your faith; it's with only vigor that he hands out punishment, a ferocity bold and true.

AMANS IN SPINIS IACET ; as your lover

Childe's dreams have begun to take a sudden turn.

It's not anything he can control, despite how hard he tries too. They pleased him at first, even though he still couldn't help the way his heart tightened at the idea of you somehow knowing. At that time, they weren't occurring enough for him to be worried, and the content themselves were innocent enough for him to think nothing of it.

You held him close to you, pressing benign kisses across his freckled cheeks, playing with his hair with soft fingers; little things that he could believe meant nothing at all, just a desire to feel your affection in the only way his mortal heart knew how.

The dreams turn nightly, and Childe finally realizes it's much more than that.

It begins at signs of your favoritism. Glances that last more than they should, summoning him to your chambers more frequently; Childe does not deny you, and he can't help the faint giddiness that clouds his mind every time he feels your gaze linger on him. It's a euphoric sensation to know that he is the one you are looking at; no one else. Only barely does he manage to rein in his emotions every time.

You speak much softer to him, and your touch is more affectionate. He turns drunk on your approval, willingly dancing to your whims if it meant having your fingers coiled in his hair for another moment. Before he can stop himself for even daring to think it, Childe lets himself believe he's special to you— and that is where the problem arises.

The thoughts don't stop. Even if he screams to drown out the noise, they still manage to be so loud. The dreams are relentless, more loving, more vivid. He can feel the warmth of your palms as you caress his cheeks, the weight of your breath when you draw your head near; they feel so real, that for a moment, he thinks you're the one sending them to him.

He feels as though he's dirtying you in some form, as if he is the one committing an unforgivable sin against you; somehow managing to desecrate you with just his thoughts alone. The idea sends him into a panic-induced frenzy, kneeling before his altar with rushed, unintelligible apologies on his lips.

Despite his self-hatred, whenever he wakes from one, Childe is left blissfully dazed, nuzzling into his pillow with hazy clarity— pretending that it's you, instead. He wonders what it would be like if his dreams were real, if he could really be so special to you in such a way; entirely irreplaceable, entirely yours.

It doesn't take long for his will to be eroded by his desperation. His desire to resist was already hanging by a thread, and as the dreams persist, any resistance on his end is lost. He falls ever deeper into an abyss of his own making, allowing himself to be undone by his own creation.

Childe has always been needy, but as his feelings rear their ugly head, it only grows worse. He has always loved you— and he had been struggling to choke his own feelings down for as long as he could, fooling himself into believing that they didn't exist in the first place. In his eyes, it's only right that you be the one to shake the foundation he lay; making him crumble until every dark part of himself is laid bare in front of you, only for your eyes.

There's a drastic increase in his desperation to be near you, and any lack of refusal on your part only exacerbates it. He neglects his duties entirely in favor of staying by you in some way or another, be it either by your side, or following you from a distance like a lost puppy.

Your admittance of feelings only makes Childe more fervent. He can barely hear himself speak, his heart fluttering against his ribcage like a caged canary. He can barely believe anything you're saying, and for a moment, he wonders if he's lost in another dream of his.

At your assurance, Childe doesn't dare to doubt you any longer. He falls entirely into you, allowing you to consume his every thought. He doesn't think to fight back, letting you envelop him until his every breath is coated in your name. He is yours, and he has no desire for anything more.

His desire for your approval now emboldens him. Childe's always acted out of an interest in garnering your attention, and though he now knows of your feelings, it does nothing to satiate him; instead, it leaves him hungrier, greedy with an eagerness to please.

He doesn't take from you without asking, but he asks enough for it to be a nuisance. Your affection is everything to him, and he can't bear to go a moment without it. He asks to lay his head in your lap, for you to play with his hair— the loss of your touch is the loss of himself, and sends him reeling back to memories of when he was without you.

The first time you kiss him, his legs instantly give out underneath him, a small groan leaving his lips. Childe doesn't bother to dull his reactions; you deserve to know how easily weakened he is by your touch, with even a brush of your fingers enough to leave him breathless and wanting.

As your favorite, Childe is quick to be rid of any competition. Whether or not you see them as possible suitors doesn't even cross his mind— the fear that snakes around his heart is ever-present, and if they're better than him in some form, it only grows in persistence. He doesn't hurt them, because surely that would upset you, and any devotee of you is worthy of respect— but he is quick to showcase his superiority, and to do so broadly without shame.

Childe grows used to his new status, and uses it to stay by your side constantly. Any attention you give to others is met with instant jealousy, seething glares sent to whoever stole your gaze, even if they only preoccupied a second of your mind.

He could never be mad at you, as clearly the fault lies within himself.

Any signs of your likes and dislikes are instantly noted. If you compliment someone for their behavior, he begins to emulate it, or at least he tries too. If you like Zhongli for how well he executes your orders, then Childe will be the same; only he will do it better, quicker, and prove himself still deserving of your love.

If he were perfect, then you would have no need for anyone else. If he were perfect, he would never have to worry about whether you'll grow bored of him the moment he stops being entertaining enough.

The thought of you with another leaves Childe sick without fail. He knows he has no control over you, and that if you wished to be rid of him, he would willingly walk into whatever punishment awaited him— but now that he has tasted what it feels like to be so utterly yours, he can't bear to imagine another sharing the same treatment.

You kissing another, holding another, letting someone else lay against you; all of it only serves to further blur his vision. Even if it is sinful of him to feel, he can't stop the emotions from swirling in his chest.

You are everything; the earth laid beneath his feet, the foundation of which he relies on. To be without you is to fall, to be without you means death; and if he must carve his skin and bone to fit the picture you want him to be, then he shall.

[melodic-haze]

HIIIII, I NEED MORE SUB ARLECCHINO CONTENT PLEASE I'M BEGGING YOU 😭😭

☆ — DEMO TRACK: sub!Arlecchino x dom!Reader pt. 3

☆ — TYPE: NSFW

☆ — CONTENT WARNINGS: Dacryphilia, squirting, other than that it's soft sex 🤷‍♀️

☆ — NOTES: THANK YOUBFOR GIVING ME ANOTHER REASON TO WRITE HER LOLLLLL

☆ — PARTS: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 (you are here)

Saur I've raved on about ROUGH sex Arlecchino but yk what's special? Soft sex with Arlecchino

This woman's been through HELL in her life. Even if she was already "cold and unfeeling", she describes herself, there's only so much a person like that can take before she reaches a breaking point. Really, she definitely already has, the poor girl

She's shut herself off from anyone that isn't in her inner circle, and even THEN they still find it hard to get her to open up

But like. They're not you so 😜

I feel like as much as she is all for it rough, she's actually much more hesitant to recieve a gentler touch. Kindness and love in any form is smth she isn't used to—aside from her children, the one figure that supplied her with that is dead with her past. Being with you was already enough of a stretch, now you want to show her how much you care for her? It's.. scary, like a sudden blackout as a child

Reassure her that it'll all be okay, please. Tell her that you'll take care of her properly and that she can let go of the walls she's built around herself this whole time to defend herself. Give her an easy out if she genuinely isn't ready for such a different form of an emotionally-charge exchange. When she's ready, she'll give you a wordless nod before tugging at your clothes

You take it slow with her by hugging her at first, letting her settle down like you're lulling a scared, hurt predator back into safety. Your hands slowly and carefully wander around her body as your lips press soft kisses on pale skin, with the exposed areas increasing as you take your time in taking her clothes off

She reciprocates in action, though her hands often still on your skin, lightly squeezing you as if there's a chance that you might fade away and this has been nothing but a delusion of hers. Take one of her hands in yours and press a kiss on her palm as you reassure her that you are right here and you aren't leaving her and that you are going to show her how much you love her to the point where she doesn't even know what to do w herself :(

As you take your time undressing each other, you lead her to the bed and sit her down on the edge by kissing her and pushing her down, and you feel her hum as she tries to settle her breathing. She lets you take the lead, not just because she gives you all the power over her behind closed doors but because she's in unfamiliar territory—hell, even when I said she needs it HARD to actually feel it, just the soft, caring gestures you're making is enough to make her shiver in need for you

Neither of you knew just how much of an effect it would have on her, but it's VERY clear when it's as it somehow her sensitivity had gone up quite a few levels from the way she's practically whimpering at you whenever you praise her for being so good for you.....that you're going to take such good care of her.......that you won't ever leave her alone..........

You kiss every inch of her body, leaving marks here and there against gorgeous pale skin. You mark her up from top to bottom, switching back and forth between branding her as safely yours and kissing her dumb and drinking her in. You practically sing praises and words of reassurance to this broken example of a person, telling her that you're going to give her so much pleasure and so much care that she wouldn't know what to do with herself.

By the time you finally press your fingers and rub on where the Harbinger needed you most? She's so utterly wet despite the lack of impact and roughness to your minstrations. And when you finally sink your fingers in within her, as if locking the both of you together, you hear a sob that leads you to look up in worry, thinking you've done something wrong.

..But if you did, then she could easily push you away, right?

When you finally see her face, her glossy eyes, her tears that slowly run down from her perfect face, you find your answer with that beautiful feeling of arousal rising within you at the sight.

She isn't mad at you, you hadn't done anything wrong. If anything, she's begging you to move within her.

"Please," she says as her blackened hands reach down to grab yours in an effort to insert you even deeper, her hips grinding on your palm, "I need you, I..."

She needs you.

Needing someone isn't an easy thing for the 'cold and unfeeling Father' to admit, and yet here she was.

And who were you, to refuse your lover's needs?

It's a tender exchange, one that's entirely new to your relationship. At first glance at her in a normal setting, perhaps even at a time before you two were together, and you wouldn't even think that she'd be crying underneath you at how good you make her feel, sobbing out heavy proclamations of love and clinging to you as you take your time in bringing her to her pleasure

Usually the pain you would inflict on her would've dulled out any other external pain she would've been experiencing—emotional pain, pain from the curse she bears—and yet for some reason it's as if you were guarding her from all of it, nullifying the effects they have on her and protecting her in your hold despite the obvious power gap between you

It takes her a while to cum. Not because it's hard for her to do so (it may actually be the easiest it's ever felt), but because not only does she want to savour this feeling of being taken care of for once, she's also waiting for your command. And when you do, it's as if a dam broke within her

She cums so fucking hard you wouldn't even have thought that you were going at it softly, though really maybe this was what she needed the entire time. And it probably didn't help that you dragged this on for such a long time too. All that pent-up release finally gets let out and she practically screams at the overwhelming feeling, with you helping her ride her high

Her legs shake, her thighs are involuntarily bucking up and she glitches violently for a brief moment that you can't help but feel slightly worried (you laugh about it later, much to her expense) but then you feel something warm squirt out of her. You look down and see it as she goes to claw the sheets—you couldn't help but smile.......and maybe indulge yourself a little

Your hand speeds up its minstrations, even as she comes down, and she look at you with slightly wide eyes as she basically starts up all over again. You just want one more from her, surely your pretty baby can do that, right? All for you?

Doesn't take long for her to squirt again, the corners of your eyes creasing with undisguised wonder and unfiltered love for her as she cums herself silly until no energy is left in her body. Hell, with the show she practically put out, it's not a surprise when you realise that you came with her

As you two settle down and you both lie on the bed, all wet and sweaty (though you can't bring yourself to care right now, why you have Arlecchino breathing heavily beside you), she wants so badly to return the favour. But you tell her that her enjoying the moment was all you needed. You both just lay there wordlessly after, perhaps even tangling your limbs together and kissing each other tenderly and showing how much you love each other

Arlecchino is a powerful woman in the end, much more powerful than you despite the reversed dynamic you have with each other, so it doesn't take long before she regains her stamina. She tells you to stay there (though you don't really have the energy to get up anyway) before she goes off to run the bath and bring back a glass of water for you. She treats you less like a cold and unfeeling woman and more of a warm and caring lover, utterly devoted to you, as she brings you to the tub and places you in front of her to clean you up and service you in any way, shape or form you want

It's really funny when it's you who fucked her silly and yet YOU'RE the one getting pampered, but she wouldn't have it any other way

And when you finally get out and get ready to sleep? When she hugs you, clings to you in your rest, you know full well that she has never been more devoted, more reassured, more loved than when she's with you

She's not alone and unloved anymore. You've made sure of that.

[novlr]

How to write the cold

The way we feel cold is universal, but the way we contextualise it is not. Cold has a variety of connotations for readers, so it's important to decide how to use it, and what mood you want to convey in your scene.

While cold is often associated with negative aspects in writing, if there's anything the winter season teaches us, is that it can be a positive thing as well. Rather than just using the word cold, in your next writing project, try to contextualise it. Describe the weather, the light on the snow, the comfort of warmth after an icy swim, or the fear and loneliness of the dark on a cold night.

Here are our quick tips on how to write the cold:

In nature

Clean mountain air

Glittering ice crystals

Unique wildlife, like snow hares or polar bears

Snow muffled sounds

Steam rising from hot springs

Icy water in rivers and lakes

Overcast and rainy

Bright sun on fresh snow

Icebergs, glaciers, and ice floes

Storms and blizzards

Branches moving and creaking

Frozen ponds

Morning frost on grass

Snowdrops pushing through snowdrifts

Crisp and clear night skies

Wolves howling in the dark

Bare branches scraping against windows

Eerie shadows

Foods and objects

The scent of cinnamon and nutmeg

Heavy winter coats and scarves

Rich, hot meals with lots of gravy

Tea or coffee left out too long

Ice-cream, sorbets, or ice-lollies

Metal that is cold to the touch (like pots and pans or door handles)

Cold beverages straight out of the fridge

An icy bath

Freezer trucks or walk-in refrigerators

Dry ice

Crisp, fresh sheets on cold nights

Ice sculptures

A tap with a drip that freezes in place

Frozen celebratory drinks (like daiquiris)

A single cube of ice floating in a whisky glass

A cold pack for an injury

Character moods

Isolated

Lonely

Aloof

Sad

Comfortable

Snuggly

Focused

Panicked

Indifferent

A lack of affection

Calm and calculated

Disengaged

Serene

Depressed

Awestruck

Anxious

Reverent

Melancholy

Nostalgic

Impatient

Frustrated

Reflective

Character body language

Hunched shoulders

Crossed arms

Shivering

Snuggling into something warm

Rub hands together for warmth

Tight or strained expression

Biting dry lips

Furrowing brow

Glaring against brightness

Tense and rigid stance

Stand close to others

Slow, deliberate steps

Move quickly to somewhere warm

Sitting relaxed in a warm space

Actions and events

Start a fire or build a shelter

Winter hikes

Outdoor activities like skating, skiing, or sledding

Traffic jams or snowed in cars

Frozen lakes cracking underfoot

Dodging icicles falling from rooftops

Going ice-fishing

Long sea voyages

Frostbite

Suffering from a cold, the flu, or pneumonia

Brainfreeze

Snuggling under a warm duvet

Sipping from a steaming hot drink for comfort

Cold-water swimming

Walking to work in the rain

Christmas in the Northern Hemisphere

Chrismas in July in the Southern Hemisphere

Reading a good book by the fire while it snows outside

Positive aspects

While cold is often associated with negative emotions, using it as a juxtaposition can often help to accentuate the positive feelings you want to convey.

If it's cold outside, a character enjoying a hot chocolate under their duvet will give a much more positive impression than if they were simply staying in bed.

The beauty of the natural world in winter, like snow, ice, and winter foliage can also be used to create a scene of happiness and wonder.

Negative aspects

Cold is often used to describe characters who are emotionally detached, calculating, or generally unfeeling. It's become an easy way to clue your readers in to how they're meant to feel about your character.

There are also more creative ways to use the cold, however, like describing the disappointment of forgetting about a hot drink you put down somewhere and only remembering when it's already gone cold, or the feeling of shock after you first step out of a warm shower.

Helpful synonyms

chilly

frigid

icy

wintry

frosty

cool

nippy

freezing

glacial

brisk

chilled

cool

polar

bitter

snowy

raw

refrigerated

arctic

rimy

draughty

[seancekitsch]

Is it Casual Now? : An Adrian Chase x Reader Kinktober fic

warnings: blood kink, this is messy, fingering, smut, fwb adrian, slight mask kink

“What happened to casual?” you pant, breathless as you struggle to stay standing upright.

“Oh, fuck casual!” Adrian exclaims, the mask muffling his voice, “Who cares about casual when you look so stunning like this?”

His glove comes up to your cheek to smear more blood against your face, and then he lightly slaps you cheek, teasing you. Your lips peel open with laughter as you scrunch your nose at him, narrowing your eyes at the red visor. 

His ungloved hand moves deeper, two fingers pushed into you all the way to the knuckle, his wrist pulsing to his own rhythm. Your lip curls up into a silent groan, and you don’t dare break what you think is probably eye contact with Adrian. He’s testing you. He’s just waiting for you to crack. The second you give in and moan or close your eyes he’s gonna throw you around like a rag doll or something; Which, isn’t terrible… but thats not how this started. 

When you first accepted a ride home from headquarters from Adrian you didn't expect him to walk you into your apartment and kiss you like a man starved. Then it turned into a regular thing, quiet moments, little kisses and hookups that you both agreed were casual and low key. Or so you thought. 

You don’t dare close your eyes, but you do shift your gaze over his shoulder for a moment. Your eyes settle on the door, ajar and doing a piss poor job of giving either of you privacy from the others.

“You look so pretty like this,” He says, thrusting his fingers particularly hard to get you to fold, “Maybe I should chop a guy in half in front of you more often.”

Your eyes move back to his, widening at his lack of care.

“Be quiet,” you hiss, nodding your head towards the door.

It’s taking literally everything in you not to moan honestly. His fingers are working you open so well, and of course it helped that you were already soaked because Adrian saved your ass out there. His middle and ring finger are deep, and you know he can feel you clenching down on them; he can feel exactly what he’s doing to you. Between you, you can hear the sounds of yourself and your pleasure, Fuck, you must seem so pathetic. 

“But you like this,” Adrian whispers, and his head falls against yours, his body presses you against the wall. 

“Fuck,” you pant, your own words escaping you. 

“What if I…?” he asks, his hips jolting against yours, leather and canvas on leather and canvas. Friction. You nod at him fervently. Yes, yes anything. Everything Adrian. Everything Vigilante. 

Adrian does you the either courtesy or mercy of pushing you further away from the door across the wall, until your hip is pressed into the sink bowl of the bathroom. His free hand slides away from your face, down your body and making sure to feel all of you on the way down. His hand takes down the front of your top, smearing the setting stains across your chest and abdomen. He only breaks contact from you to reach for the buckle of his tactical belt, clunky and loud. There’s no way the others don’t know what’s going on, but if they say anything you don’t hear it.

��So fucking pretty all covered in blood,” Adrian mutters as he pulls himself from his pants, hard and wanting.

“You’re such a pervert,” you sigh, mouth falling open at the sight of him already leaking. His hands are back on you and pushing you roughly, turning you around to face the mirror. His hands find their way to your pants as well.

“Guess that makes me your pervert, huh?”

If you could see his face right now you’re sure he’d have a stupid big grin on it, but all you get is the cold unfeeling red visor.

He pulls your pants down only as far as they need to go, only to your thighs, and lines himself up easily. For a brief second, his whole demeanor softens. Through the mask, he places a kiss on your clothed shoulder. Then he pushes into you until his hips bottom out against your ass. It takes everything in you not to moan, a shuddered gasp all that you let slip.

He pulls out almost completely, and then back in again. A challenge, you realize as you steady yourself against the sink, pushing your ass back against him.

“Wanna see what you look like covered in other body fluids,” he remarks, ungloved hand reaching back down to your clit. Fuck, it feels good. 

“Gross,” you reply, and Adrian chuckles from behind the mask. 

“Hey!” He says, again too loudly, his gloved hand squeezing your hip. 

“If it’s so gross why are you so wet for me?” he asks, at least a little quieter this time. Well, he’s got you there. You don’t have an excuse for that. You just glare at him through the mirror and lean into his touch even more, letting him have that little win. He speeds up, still pulling almost completely out of you before slamming back in, brutal as the force jolts your hips in his grasp. His fingers on your clit speed up their pace, Adrian clearly eager to watch you lose your composure. Your knees wobble, arms on the sink threatening to buckle. Fuck, he’s good at this, you think as you bite your lip, trying not to let him know how good he really is. 

“C’mon don’t be shy, I know you love when I do this,” Adrian teases, leaning more of his weight against you, smearing the blood covering him against the back of your shirt. He removes his mask with a quick tug to the crown of his head, curls falling out from where they were compressed.

“Our friends are out there,” you remind him, but it’s clear Adrian doesn’t really care. Any discretion of your little arrangement can be kissed goodbye at this point.

He switches his motions with his fingers on your clit, clockwise now counterclockwise and timed perfectly with the rhythm of his thrusts. Your elbow buckles under his force, and the drop and change of position has you moaning into the sink bowl, loud and embarrassing as it echoes off of the ceramic.

“That’s my girl,” he coos, speeding up as you clench around him, “gonna make me come all over you, paint you like a fuckin’ Rembrandt.”

So, Adrian knows about Dutch Golden Age painters. Interesting. You don’t dwell on that much, not when he’s snapping his hips into you hard enough to bruise now. Not when his hand hasn’t left your clit. Not when blood and spit cover your reflected faces in the mirror. He’s right, you’re both a sight to fucking see. It really is beautiful. You lock eyes with him in the mirror, and it’s all over. That was all Adrian apparently needed, his hips stuttering as he releases inside you.

“Fuck, babe, you see what you do to me?” he asks as he slow his hips, but speeds up with motion of his hand. It doesn’t take long for you to follow him, clenching and coming around his cock still inside you, biting your lip until it bleeds too. 

He hesitates to slow down, bringing you back down slowly before he stops completely. He presses a kiss to the side of your head, lips smearing into the blood in your hair, copper and bitter, crimson and guilty. Not of murder, although a cop might think differently, but of blowing your cover on the casual situation you held gingerly between you. He kisses you again, the man that you walk-of-shame’d from his apartment many mornings, the man who sliced another man in half today for coming after you because you yourself killed his henchman. Adrian kisses you again as he pulls out, gentle with the motion and holding you still with his big warm hands. 

He smiles at you from the mirror, wide and bright. You can’t help but smile back at him, despite the nerves that start to ice out the warmth you feel from him. You pull up your pants hastily, and turn to face him in the bathroom that now feels way more claustrophobic than before. He chuckles and smears his hands across your face, clumsy and blurry without the help of his prescription. You’re both still covered in blood. So much for sneaking away with the excuse of cleaning up. You join in his laughter, but yours is slightly forced.

“Maybe we can… pretend they don’t know,” you suggest in a whisper to Adrian as he leads you out of the bathroom. His hand remains on yours, funny in the way that it brings comfort and peace despite the guilt and embarrassment pooling in your gut.

“Oh, we totally heard all of that,” Chris scoffs, not at all giving you the grace or space to play it off. Great. You grimace and refuse to look anywhere but Adrian.

“Oh, C’mon guys you know I had to clean up my girl, she had blood all over her!” Adrian offers, as if that’s an excuse.

“She’s still covered in blood!” Leota exclaims.

“Your girl? What the fuck, are you dating?” John asks. You’re lucky Emilia is fucking ignoring all of this, at least. She’s texting and refusing to join in. 

But John’s question strikes a chord. This is the second time he’s called you his, despite all of the talk you’d had about keeping things chill without a label. 

Chris’ phone pings. 

“Oh, not fair, Harcourt!” he shouts as he digs a ten bill out of his wallet. She was paying attention, and betting on you apparently.

“Are we?” you ask, voice small and unsure. To be his wouldn’t be terrible. He’s your favorite person on this team and a good friend, doesn’t help that he’s gorgeous. It might be nice doing take out dates on a busboy salary and sleeping in snuggled up together. In fact, you can picture it pretty clearly. In fact, you’d been doing that at least three nights a week for the past month. Fuck. You’ve been dating Vigilante. Totally not casual.

“I think so. Pretty cool right?” Adrian’s smile grows wide, proud of himself. 

“Sure,” you answer, a grin spreading on your own face too. 

Fuck casual. 

[dotster001]

Yandere Chevalier headcanon please 🥺

Summary:Chevalier x gn! Reader

CW: yandere,physical harm to reader, murder, psychological harm to reader, Stockholm syndrome, kidnapping, blood, isolation, food and water deprivation, probably more but consider yourself warned

A/N: idk how dark you expected it to be, but this is the brutal beast we're talking about so.... also! I have an in progress series where I look at the Yan journey of ikepri characters after their routes, so if eventually there is a fic that is very similar to this, think of it as a rough draft

When he falls, he falls hard. Not that you'll ever know. To you, he'll always look unfeeling and cruel. Most days you can't help but wonder if he hates you. But it's so far from the truth. For the first time, he's filled with love and warmth. And it's so overwhelming that he doesn't know what to do with himself.

He tries to let you live free for a while. After all, he would fight to the death if someone held him under lock and key. For a while he's successful. Until one day, in his distraction over you, an assassination attempt gets a little too close to you. You aren't hurt. But you find yourself drenched in blood as Chev runs the assailant through. Your haunted face is revealed as the body in front of him crumples. And he realizes that he can't leave you on your own. Not if he's going to be a part of your life.

He thinks he is fine with your hatred. After all, he loves you, and that's what matters. He can't expect you to love him back, not when you're chained to the headboard of his bed. He's used to people fearing and hating him. And yet he's beginning to feel a new feeling. A new, nasty, aching feeling in his chest. When he holds you and all you do is whimper, the ache worsens.

And people begin to notice. Chev, king, and master of his countenance, is cranky. Only Clavis and Sariel know the truth, and while Clavis is initially amused, eventually, even he needs his boss to get back to normal. So, it's not very gentlemanly, but he places a book, that's been secretly popular in the town, on Chevalier's desk unceremoniously. A dark romance, where the love interest succumbs to Stockholm syndrome and falls for their captor. It wasn't an openly popular book, but someone had to be purchasing all those books.

Chevalier had scoffed at his brother's gift, initially thinking it was a joke. But upon further inspection, he realized it was a piece offering. A genuine gift. A piece of advice. If anyone could psychologically break a darling into submission, it would be him.

And he does. It's not perfect submission, he still wants you to be you, but it's enough that you grow dependent on him. Just as before, you can't be sure if he loves you or hates you. And that's the crux of his control over you. If you're good, he'll heave a heavy sigh and give you affection. If you're bad, it will be like you don't even exist in his world. You are dirt. Dust. A bug beneath his feet. Only good darlings get love. Just like every other fool in his life, you're a pawn in his game. You just happen to be a fool that makes him feel butterflies in his stomach.

He doesn't like to hurt you physically. But he will if he has to. Nothing too damaging, part of your appeal is your aesthetic, after all. But if you do something stupid like think you can escape (and all you have to do is think it. He always knows) he might slap you, or hit you with a riding crop. If you make it a step outside of the room, he won't hurt you. But someone you love will be killed right in front of you. And you will be tasked with cleaning it up. If you somehow make it farther than step outside the room (aka, he lets you as a trust test) prepare to be isolated in a cold damp dungeon cell for as long as it takes for you to pass out from lack of food or water. Then he'll nurse you back to health so that all your mind sees is how kind and doting he is.

You can't win against the brutal beast. Geniuses have tried and failed. And one day, when you no longer have the foolish urge to fight him, when the prey finally recognizes it has lost, he might tell you he loves you.

[cmyksky]

dirge

Summary:

The rigid walls of the Forest Temple grow colder by the day.

From within their confines, the subdued cries of mantas echo across unfeeling stone. Musing, weeping, mocking.

A Forest Elder oneshot. Rated G. 660 words.

Read on AO3 here!

The rigid walls of the Forest Temple grow colder by the day.

From within their confines, the subdued cries of mantas echo across unfeeling stone. Musing, weeping, mocking.

Rain screws their eyes shut, and for just a breath, there is silence—no light creatures. No storm. No fear. Just a forging hammer and anvil, as it was in the beginning.

“... Elder?”

Ah, yes. The visiting light miner still stands unmoving at the foot of Rain’s shrine, silent as though a single audible inhale would shatter the stone they stand on. They had asked to visit the temple only a few sunrises ago, and Rain would have turned them away if not for the insistence of the Prairie Elder.

(“You must hear your people out. Times grow darker,” they warn. “They look up to us. Do not let them down.”

Rain narrows their eyes, but nods. So be it.)

“Speak,” they command, turning at last. Their subject stands disheveled, rain-drenched hair streaming over their shoulders, hand pressed to their chest as though weighed down by the air itself.

“Forest Elder,” begins the miner, taking a steadying breath. “We don’t understand what is happening. Darkness encroaches upon our mines, sprouting up in every crevice. Even in the mines close to the temple.”

Rain holds back a strained sigh. They have ruled over this realm for generations; the seeming lack of distrust in their own Elder lights an uncomfortable bitterness in their chest, swallowing the voice that tells them to not look down upon their people. As though Rain did not build this realm from the very first stones, deep in the forest when the first ancestors hesitated at the droplets piercing through dense canopy overhead, shivering in the cold with little for shelter. As though they were somehow unfit to rule their realm.

The miner stands with a barely-visible tremor about them. “The light creatures fear us far too much to assist us as they once did. And the Flame…”

Rain tenses. Their frigid words hardly even come as a question.

“What about the Flame?”

A flinch from the miner.

“The Flame is…” they shift their feet. “Uncooperative.” The sentence spills from their mouth with hasty trepidation, like they fear the very suggestion will never allow them to reach the Light after death. Then, more quietly:

“The people are scared of what this means. We cannot dispose of all of this Darkness, Elder. Our fire is not enough to burn it away. Some of our miners lie immobilized in the cold, and the growth cracks through their bodies like it’s nothing. One of our miners is dead because of the Darkness.”

Rain takes a thunderous step forward, clutch on their forging hammer tightening, and the miner takes multiple steps back.

“And who would I be to deny the will of our King? Have you no faith in the power of our Kingdom? In the technology that we have built, that I have built with the other Elders?” Their voice is low, dangerous. Good. The people need to listen.

The miner stammers, searching Rain’s masked face. “My Elder, I meant nothing by it—”

“Correct,” Rain cuts in with a silencing hand. “You did not. We have always learned to survive and thrive through change, and this time is no different.” They find the will to pause and breathe, tone evening out despite the tension in their frame. “I will consult with the Elders on this matter. I, too, feel this darkness,” they concede.

I, too, feel it more than anything else. The Light no longer lends its ear, and we are without its guidance.

“You may leave.” Not an act of giving permission, but an order.

The light miner turns, head bowed and hurried footsteps ringing out against carved stone. Outside, the torrent grows ever-heavier, drowning the realm in its ceaseless noise.

Rain gazes down at the fragmented power diamond on their anvil, and the unrecognizable reflection in the shards stares back.

[pearblossommina]

ToG Read-A-Long, Tower of Dawn, day 7

Ch 32

First official date!

(Cute)

(I would have thought we were past this by now)

(But still cute)

(Chaol and Yrene like to take it slow)

(Progress, maybe)

Ch 33

Nesryn and Sartaq are indeed having an adventure. Kind of an Indiana Jones.

Ch 34

Wait Falkan is a shapeshifter like Lysandra!

Is he related to Lysandra!

Maybe he was her mysterious father? Did she say her mother never told her who her father is??? (or was that Aedion) (lol)

(Maybe he’s just no one) (maybe he’s just a friend)

Ch 35

“A gesture to his body. To the twenty years he'd given up. He winced against what the movement did to be wound. "I could use it. I could change. Badly, and not often, but I can manage it, if I concentrate."

Hmm

So - like - Lysandra doesn’t know what she looks like - and was stuck in a beautiful body that’s not really the one she was born with. She doesn’t seem to be able to return to her original body, because she was in this form when magic first vanished and she doesn’t remember what she used to look like. Does she not feel the concentration, of holding onto a shift, for that beautiful outer appearance? When she modified her breasts to be smaller, does that take concentration? If she wanted to, say, change her hair color, that would be an easy thing to do, right? What if she wanted to get rid of a gray hair? For vanity reasons?

I guess what I’m saying is: does shapeshifting magic separate itself from aging? Like, when she was a little girl, she was able to turn her body into a different little girls body, but more beautiful. Does that mean Lysandra be able to shift into any form, but only at the current age she is right now?

Because this guy sold his youth to spiders

Can he not shapeshift into a younger version of himself? Can Lysandra? Is it just hard to do that, takes a lot of magic and concentration? Or, is it a separate, third thing, and spiders eating your youth magically overrides any other sort of magic, and even if someone HAD the ability to shapeshift to make themselves younger, they would no longer have it, if they were in the specific scenario that Falkan is in?

I’m probably going off on the world’s most random tangent here but I’m super curious about shapeshifting in general because of this guy.

Ch 36

36 chapters and we’re finally hearing from Aelin and the other members of the main cast (wow) (lol) (imagine if you were reading this book in real time. What agony that would be - to wait a whole year after that cliffhanger - and STILL NOT KNOW what’s going on 36 chapters in -)

(I mean) (I’m so lucky I’m reading these books in a big old binge post-completion-of-series) (but I can appreciate how annoying that must have been to the die-hard fans reading as they were being released)

“He had seen Aelin do terrible things.

He still dreamed of her gutting Archer Finn in cold blood. Stin dreamed of what she'd left of Grave's body in that alley. Still dreamed of her butchering men like cattle, in Rifthold and in Endovier, and knew just how unfeeling and brutal she could turn. He had quarreled with her earlier this summer about it - the checks on her power. The lack of them.”

Don’t make me sick, Chaol. She had to do that - it was right. In the name of what happened to Nehemia. You understand this better than anybody. Since you’re still blaming yourself, for what happened to her.

“This will be the great war of our time," Kashin said quietly. "When we are dead, when even our grandchildren's grandchildren are dead, they will still be talking about this war. They will whisper of it around fires, sing of it in the great halls. Who lived and died, who fought and who cowered."

I like this guy. Seems like a good dude. Seems like he cares, about hope, and goodness prevailing over evil. He’s just like you used to be, Chaol. You two should become friends.

[funkylilomen]

here you go, i hate it

{[ Headache | Heartbreak )}

As she walked away, CJ could feel the pieces of his heart being dragged along the ground behind her. Heat rose up in his face as tears started tugging at the backs of his eyes.

He needed to let everything go. He needed to lie on the ground and cry until his head hurt. He needed to bleed his heart out. He needed to–

No, he couldn't cry. Not here. Not now. He had to compose himself. This was a public park, after all.

He was tired of holding it all in.

But he had to.

There were too many conflicting thoughts and emotions rattling around in his brain. They drowned each other out in an attempt to be heard, but he couldn't concentrate on any of them. It was giving him a headache. All of this arguing was too much.

But he couldn't let anything out. No, that would be unconventional.

That's it. That was the last straw.

[What are you doing!?]

(I'm sick of this! I'm sick of you!)

[Nonono– YOU PROMISED!!]

CJ clutched his head in pain. It felt like something was tearing him apart from the inside. Then, the sound of a gunshot rang in his ears. It bounced around his head with such agony that he was forced to double down on the concrete.

They fell backwards, pressing their palms against their eyelids, trying not to scream. A few torturous moments passed before the pain subsided and the high pitched echoing in their ears dulled. When they were able to open their eyes again, there was nothing. Not even CJ himself. Well, technically speaking, the person sitting on the nonexistent ground now was, in a sense, still him, but... not. They were only a fraction of their own self, barely recognizable separated from the Whole.

Inside the lack of expanse were two other human-like figures, though they weren't quite human. One was hunched over on the ground with their teeth gritted, clutching their chest tightly. Lines that resembled the patterns on circuit boards ran down their arms and face. {Logic, reasoning, deduction, rationality...  Cold, unfeeling, emotionless, cynical...} The other had a gun in their hands, pointed down at the person on the ground. They were shaking and breathing heavily, with tears streaming down their face from behind a blindfold. {Emotion, morality, empathy, pleasure... Impulsive, overbearing, depressing, clueless...}

They looked... odd. Both of them lacked any color aside from the vibrantly colored lipstick they wore. What was even more unsettling about their appearance, though, was how eerily familiar they seemed. It was like looking in a mirror and seeing your reflection, but there's something off about it: it's not entirely you. It still looks like you, except there's something terribly wrong with it in a way you can't quite point out or explain.

The person in blue lipstick—the one on the ground—slowly regained their composure. Visibly struggling, they stood up, revealing the gaping hole that had been blown through their chest.

Thankfully, it wasn't visible for very long. They calmly raised their hand above their head, letting a flow of light that matched the shade of their makeup circle down their arm and around the wound. Soon enough, there was no sign of the injury left. Even the clothes that had been torn through and bloodied now looked perfectly unscathed. They adjusted their overcoat and straightened their posture, the pained look on their face subsiding as if they had never felt it in the first place.

Slowly, they turned their head to glare over their shoulder at the other—the one in purple lipstick. With a droning, monotonous voice, filled with such disdain and scolding that made the other two wince, they simply managed  two words: [You missed.]

A look of disbelief washed over the other as they lowered their gun. (B-but- I shot you! R-right in th–)

[Right in the heart?] they spat, turning their body to fully face their opposer.

The one in purple's face fell as they realized their mistake.

A booming laugh shook throughout the nothingness, one of mockery rather than humor. [Truthfully, I can't say I'm surprised. You never do think anything through, do you?] The one in the blindfold clenched their fists tightly at their sides as the other spoke, shaking a little more violently than before. [No, of course, you don't,] they continued, a thin, malicious grin across their face. [If you did, maybe you wouldn't act like a child all of the time. Or maybe you would actually keep your oaths. You're honestly so pathetic, just so–]

(ShutupshutUPSHUTUP!!)

They raised their gun, a stream of violet light encircling it until there was a long, pointed shovel in their hand instead. Without hesitation, they charged at their counterpart, ready to swing it down against their head.

The one in blue, startled by the other's sudden outburst, put their hands up in defense. They grabbed the shovel by its handle and pushed back against it towards its original wielder in an attempt to fight back.

The two were locked in conflict, each trying to knock the other down. Both refused to let go of the weapon in hopes it would allow them the upper hand.

(God, you're so arrogant! I'm tired of putting up with you!)

[You promised we wouldn't do this! We both swore that this wouldn't happen!]

(You are ruining our life! You can't keep pushing me away!)

[Me? I'm the one who's ruining our life? You're the one who's doing nothing more than holding us back! If anything, I should get rid of you!]

(You say that, and yet, you never even try to listen to me!)

[Give me one good reason why I should!]

As the two argued, pushing back and forth against one another, the other person in the expanse—the person who simultaneously was and wasn't CJ, who knew exactly what these figures in front of them were, what they themself were, and why any of them were here in the first place—stood up. They walked, slowly, calmly, towards the two feuding rivals, whom both were too focused on the other to acknowledge this new presence. With one swift, calculated motion, they snatched the shovel from right behind the scoop and yanked it out of the other two's grasps with little effort.

As they did so, vibrant red light flowed from their hand and coiled around the tool. The blunt edge of the spade gave way to three forked blades, a glint of danger emanating from the steel. Now in their possession, was a trident.

With the skill of someone who had done this time and time again, they whipped the weapon around so that the blades were poised directly at the two who had clashed with one another for far too long; the Heart and the Mind. Taken off guard, they both stumbled back in surprise. Neither of them dared to say anything.

A piercing, irritated look was shot at the other halves of the Whole, first to Heart, then Mind. They clicked their tongue in disdain.

"I think you forget who's really in charge here," the Soul scowled.

[argentnoelle]

mirror (read on ao3)

Ever since the cult he’s had nightmares. And you could do nothing about it except watch, for a long time not even understanding, not able to say a thing. It took years before it occurred to you to comfort him, one night when the drapes are pulled so close against the dusty air that the room feels full and stifling. You have found your words, found the space where his mouth, flat at the corners, turns down with resignation when he says, “you heard me again?”

“Yes.” You step closer: after all, he has not yet told you to go. That otherworldly gleam hidden behind the rucked-up mess of his bangs. Curiously human in one that seems so cold, and yet he has a heartbeat even now, something you feel under your questing palm. Thud. Thud. He twists back on his pillow and regards you shrewdly. “What is it, then?”

“Nightmares,” you say. “I don’t understand them.”

“No, I don’t think you would.”

“Well?”

“I think about them,” he says slowly. Tilting up his head, regarding the cavernous ceiling. “About the fire that burned every single bone. Nothing was even left for a funeral. And I think about you.”

“I remember,” you say. “I heard your voice. Calling me out of the darkness. Why,” you add with a hint of teasing, “are you afraid of the monster you brought upon you?”

He huffs a laugh. “Afraid? Now, don’t be silly. I’ve seen far worse things than you.”

“I suppose,” you admit. 

He winds his fingers around the edge of your lapel, pulls you closer, enough that you can feel the breath from his partly-opened mouth. If you were human, you would understand this weakness. And weakness it seems to you, slipping down into torment again and again, haunted by memories. Why, then, does your own lack of understanding irk you? One such as you should always be able to control every situation, use it to your advantage: but you have no cure for this. The frantic beating of his heart under your hand, his still, curled form, the wary and ironic tilt of his lips. “Don’t trouble yourself about it,” he orders.

“I would never,” you say, and your gaze falls to his throat. You’re only hungry, and your hand clenches in a fist, moves back to your side. You’re only hungry, and the sound of his blood is a temptation you don’t know how to bear. 

He notices: of course he does. He is the one who owns you, body and soul, and no one else has ever regarded you as anything other than an unfeeling thing, a vessel for teeth and hatred, a mindless beast.

And once again he repeats the old refrain:

“It won’t be long now, dear Ciel.”

You scoff. “Long enough, Undertaker. Long enough.”

He laughs. 

(on ao3)

[vipier]

❛  i  can  feel  your  heart  beating .  ❜

TWO BEASTS AT REST, DOCILE, TUCKED IN THE DEPTHS OF A CAVE CARVED INTO A MOUNTAIN FACE, AVOIDING THE DESERT HEAT. they have burrowed deeply enough that they have lost sight of the entrance, their chosen cavern lit only by a small fire flickering not far from them. despite the merciless sun scouring the sands beyond the cave's mouth, the chill in the depths of the cuts deep, such that it almost feels refreshing in comparison, requiring the use of their packed bedding – and enough to justify the additional use of body heat. not that tristan feels he has any particular need for a reason, other than the nature of them both as suspicious creatures more likely to snarl at a touch too gentle than willingly accept it. they are lethal enough to have earned plenty of individual attempts on their lives.

it isn't the first time @godwitch has reclined against his chest this way, not the first time they've found themselves entwined, innocently or otherwise. the witcher would claim that endless travel makes for strange bedfellows, but in truth, he finds it not to be strange at all, but rather, the logical progression of their circumstances. together, they create some inversion of the storybook tales in which valiant knights faithfully serve benevolent queens ; she, a beastly goddess, as beautiful as she is terrible, and he, the assassin's blade silent at her side, prepared to do as bid. for them, then, a restrained courtly love would stand to no reason. they hunger, and so they feast when they become ravenous, often after battle, eagerly consuming the blood of others from the canvas of each other's flesh. this sort of peace is rarer, a breath held amongst the chaos of the flight of the queen with no crown and her outcast sellsword.

his eyes do not open as she speaks, the warmth of her breath brushing against the flat of his chest with each word, but a distant hum escapes him deep in his throat, more a rumble than anything. he is not a creature predisposed to rest particularly, with senses perpetually heightened, predisposed to feverish dreams of past horrors. but for now, however briefly, he is docile, teeth tucked neatly behind his lips and metaphorical claws only pulling gently through her hair, against her scalp, like some pauper's imitation of a lover, of intimacy. as though he would know what it looked like, felt like, tasted like, if he tried. it is only after a long pause – long enough that it nearly seems he hadn't heard her – that he speaks, his voice a low rasp in his throat, not even loud enough to find the slightest echo in the wide chamber.

" did you think I had none, cold unfeeling wretch that I am? " keen enough ears might detect the slightest hint of amusement behind his words. his kind, if scattered and hardly allies amongst the various schools, all share a particular reputation which might lend itself to believe witchers lacked hearts as well as souls. but he knows that the dragoness knows better, as keen to the fictions in his myth as he is to hers. " they were meant to remove it after the trials. alas, that they forgot. " a dark chuckle escapes him, one that would sound sinister to most ears, although doubtlessly she has grown used to it by now. his fingers tighten in her hair, not enough to pull properly but to be firm, to tilt her head upward so that he can meet her eyes when he opens his, slitted and reptilian and keen even through the half dark. " have you a mind to tear it from my chest and eat it yourself? "

[televinita]

Ship-a-palooza!

Loki/Sylvie is currently whipping my brain into an absolute frenzy because a) they're back! I'm ready! hit me!, but also b) like nothing has happened that I can cling to yet, so I've churned up all this shipping energy in preparation but there's no place for it to vent. Which is giving me insomnia.

So last night, I was on YouTube putting in I-don't-even-know-how-many random keywords trying to call up...something for my voracious mind to settle and snack upon, and after a bunch of meh I somehow I hit a trifecta of new-to-me-AND-ALSO-PERFECT comfort-cuddle times:

Supergirl 2x14: Kara & Mon-El, the latter of whom has a whatever face despite my respect for this crossing over from fiction to reality in a much healthier way than her previous costar relationship, but that matters zero percent because WHAT IS HAPPENING, WHAT IS THIS PERFECTLY POSED COUCH SNUGGLE COMPLETE WITH FOREHEAD KISSING. (ignore the disruptive ending of the clip)

2. Hellcats, the show I know about but have never seen anything from, featuring my dashing reliable fave Matt Barr, 1x18: basically THE EXACT SAME SCENE AS ABOVE?? anyway I can't focus on anything being said because I am obsessed with how his hand never stops moving, constantly running soothing motions over her back except once when he briefly pets her hair (!) before tightening into a full hug. This is like watching a 10.0 gymnastics routine. Everything choreographed to my exact peak desire.

(stay tuned I am definitely coming back to them at some point; this has gone from "would be nice to see someday" to "banging down the doors demanding access")

3. And then I stumble into "it's alright, I'm here," which by the title alone is already making me sit up straighter, "a short film about depression" (interest rising) where "a young man has a depressive breakdown in front of his unsuspecting friend" [seems more like girlfriend. given the kissing and all.]

And it...is just the entire standard contents of my daydreams, splashed out for the world to see. This is the kind of stuff I run when I lack new content or am bored with the old content and just need maximum cotton fluff STAT, this is what happens. All the tears, all the comfort via at least five differet varieties of cuddling, including falling asleep together.

And then for an EXTRA layer, I can't stop obsessing about how the lack of polish not only makes this look far more real compared to the above to, this...is actually what I've experienced in life. Like exactly. Complete with not knowing exactly what to do or say except to Be There and offer uncertain but earnest hugs and reassurances, because how do you imitate what you've seen on TV when it's real and it turns out all the observational study in the world does not actually prepare you to be good at it. But you try and it seems to help, at least for a bit, maybe. It's kind of overwhelming to see yourself in a scene like that.

(Side note: the actress in particular is such a highlight; I hope she finds more things to act in because she has such quiet but compelling charisma. But adding to the "televinita this is your life" feeling -- roughly my body type? her hair the exact length and color of mine, thicker but otherwise the same style, complete with slight frizz that I don't even realize is a thing until I see it catching the light on film and recognize mine does that too? I am losing my mind)

=========

Anyway I would like to bless whatever the equivalent of book fairies* are for sending this set my way; I've never had this kind of luck with finding clips before but this is everything I needed and with perfect timing, too.

*it's the much less romantic, cold-hard-science of unfeeling algorithms, ain't it

[daydreamerdrew]

Comics read this past week:

Marvel Comics:

Iron Man (1968) #95-103

In this batch of Iron Man issues I went from November 1976 to July 1977, according to the Marvel Wiki. These were 17-page stories. Issues #95-97 were plotted by Gerry Conway and scripted by Bill Mantlo and issues #98-103 were written by Bill Mantlo. All of the issues were penciled by George Tuska. Issues #95-98 were inked by Don Perlin and issues #99-103 were inked by Mike Esposito, with Pablo Marcos inking a 2-page flashback in issue #102. And issues #95-97 and #101 were colored by Don Warfield, issue #98 by Roger Silfer, issues #99 and #102-103 by Phil Rachelson, and issue #100 was colored by Janice Cohen.

In issue #95 Tony says, “Next time whoever wants to strike at me through my friends and employees might not stop at taking them hostage! Unless I can make it seem that Tony Stark is as cold and unfeeling as the armor he wears. Just a callous millionaire playboy!”

At the end of issue #95 the heart attack that had been teased by Tony having conspicuous dizzy spells throughout the preceding batch of issues finally happened. He says, “Don’t… understand! Armor held- But I feel so… weak! So dizzy! Got to pull myself together! Come on, Avenger! You’re no novice! There’s a job to be done and- No good! Can’t… stand! Even getting hard to think straight! So… tired! Heart’s pounding… Heart?! No, it can’t be! It-” before dramatically losing consciousness. At the beginning of issue #96 he’s rescued by Jasper Sitwell who pulls him onto a jetcraft and flies him away from the fight. When Tony wakes up his armor has been plugged into the ship’s battery and he says that that’s good specifically because he’ll need that power for the fight. Sitwell protests, saying that, “You look- and sound- like death warmed over- and it’s not going to do anybody any good to watch you throw your life away in a suicide attack on Ultimo!” He tells Iron Man, “I know how you feel, sir. Inaction, for men of our calling, is often harder than to bear than the deadliest of battles!” But then says that’s he’s realized that, “Success lies in teamwork, and not in individual acts of glory!” Tony’s response: “Teamwork is fine in its place, but there are just some things a man’s got to do alone!” Right after this he thinks to himself, “Who am I kidding? Since I recharged in the jetcraft my armor is back up to fighting strength- but the man inside still feels like a wrung-out dishrag from that pain and dizziness a few minutes ago. It was almost as if- No! Mustn’t even think that!” Then throughout the fight he has to be conscious of his weakened state, for example, saying, “Have to engage armor’s cooling system! I can’t afford to have the change in temperature trigger the dizzy spells- not now!” In issue #97 Tony has another heart attack when he’s attacked before he has had the time to properly recover from his last fight. He thinks, “But… lack of power to armor… shouldn’t… cause p-pain! Not unless the strain- were taxing my heart! But… that’s impossible! My damaged heart was replaced by a synthetic organ! I-It can’t give out! I’m cured! Uhhh! G-Go on, Stark! Lie here g-gasping your l-life away like a fish out of water- a-and tell yourself again how you can’t possibly be having a heart attack! Tell yourself how well you are! G-Go on, m-mister- t-tell…” He manages to crawl (as well as fall down a flight of stairs) to a place where he can plug himself in, but he asks himself, “Will the pain return each time I neglect to recharge? Will the shock cause my body to finally reject my synthetic heart? Am I once again a prisoner inside the golden armor of Iron Man?”

In the opening of issue #98 Tony has been awake for 48 hours working on a version of the suit that’s more streamlined for the purpose of having to power his heart and has accepted that he will once again have to wear a chestplate all of the time. During this he is ignoring a congressional subpeona regarding suspicions that he had sold the U.S. defective weapons systems and that he’d been selling weapons to the U.S.’s enemies. Tony thinks to himself, “I- I don’t dare appear before that committee! Not until I know my chestplate will keep my heart from failing again!” This really stood out to me because of the way that Tony’s heart problems were first revealed to the public after he had gone to such lengths to keep them a secret, which was that he had a heart attack in front of congress while testifying in response to a subpeona about Iron Man’s secret identity in Tales of Suspense (1959) #84 and while he was unconscious on the ground his shirt was opened and the reporters there took pictures of his chestplate.

In issue #98 Krissy Longbottom, who first appeared in issue #91, is implied for the first time to secretly be Whitney Frost, also known as Madame Masque. Up until this point she had been straightforwardly portrayed as Tony’s secretary so I suspect that this is an invention of Bill Mantlo’s. The villain Midas reveals her real identity to Iron Man in issue #103, explaining that she had been defending Tony by hindering his plot to legally take over Tony’s company up until that point. Back in issue #95 Tony had thought, “Good woman, Krissy. She doesn’t let the turmoil around Stark International throw her for a minute! But there’s been a lot of good women in your life, haven’t there, Tony? Maybe it’s time for a new one… No! If it isn’t bad enough that I’ve started acting like a living advertisement for ‘Nostalgia Illustrated’- I’ve even forgotten my decision not to allow myself to get involved with-” Tony’s immediate response to the revelation is, “NO! Everything taken from me- even her! Nothing left- because of you!!” This is confusing to Midas, who says, “Really, sir! I should think Mr. Stark- your employer- is the one who has lost all! Not you!” Whitney tells Iron Man, “It is just we two now, Iron Man! I… Can we not… help each other?” Tony says nothing but picks her up and flies off with her and the narration says that, “He knows not what he will do- but he needs someone beside him! Above all else, he needs not to be alone!”

The Incredible Hulk (1968) #260-266

Within the main The Incredible Hulk book I went from March 1981 to September 1981, according to the Marvel Wiki. These were 21-page stories. Issue #260 was plotted by Sal Buscema and scripted by Bill Mantlo, issues #261-262 were written by Bill Mantlo, and issues #263-266 were plotted by Sal Buscema and Bill Mantlo then scripted by Bill Mantlo. Issue #260 was penciled by Sal Buscema and inked by Sal Buscema, Sal Trapani, Frank Giacoia, Walter Simonson, Marie Severin, and Bruce Patterson. The rest of the issues were drawn by Sal Buscema. And issues #260-261 and #264-266 were colored by Bob Sharen, issue #262 by Barry Grossman, and issue #263 was colored by Bob Sharen and Don Warfield.

In issue #260, which takes place in Tokyo, Glenn Talbot finally catches up to the Hulk. I was surprised that the fight between them was only one issue because it had been built up to for awhile. Glenn Talbot apparently dies at the end of the fight. Of more interest to me was the Hulk’s relationship with a Buddha statue throughout the issue. The Hulk was walking through a forest saying, “Hulk only wants to find someplace where he can rest, eat… and be left alone,” when he found it. He says, “Hunh! Little statue is green… like Hulk! Statue cannot eat- yet puny humans bring statue food! They must be afraid of statue like they are afraid of Hulk! Maybe it is because Hulk and statue are both green? Yes, that is it! Hulk and statue are on the same side!” He decides, “Hulk will stay here, hiding in the forest and eat the food the puny humans bring to the statue! This is a good place to be green!” This is when Talbot attacks him. The Hulk becomes upset that, “Golden ship has hurt Hulk- and turned forest of the green statue to ashes!” He says to the statue, “Green statue is alright? Hulk was afraid golden ship had hurt you! Do not be afraid! Hulk will protect you!” And then, “The ground cracks, smoke hisses up from below- but Hulk will not let anything happen to you, little green friend!” At the end of the issue the Hulk says to an old man, who he had recognized as also on the same side as him because he was also trying to protect a Buddha statue, “Take care of this place! It made Hulk feel good!”

In issue #261 Bruce gets a job at a clinic under a false name where very suspiciously the administrator’s son is kept drugged and locked up because he keeps trying to escape, believing that he’s adopted and that his so-called parents are actually aliens. Bruce is uncomfortable with this, but then it’s revealed that the son is actually adopted, though it is he and not his parents that is the alien, when his medications aren’t adequately administered, allowing him to change into his true form and remember what he is. The father explains, “We never told him- but physical changes at puberty made Mark suspect a difference between us and him!” Bruce is triggered to transform into the Hulk by the alien son attacking them all but during the fight the parents intervene. The father says, “Hulk, whatever that creature is- wherever he comes from- my wife and I raised him as our son!” The mother says, “We- We can’t stop loving him just because he’s different… just because he’s bad!” The Hulk is confusing by this, saying that, “Boy is not boy! Boy is monster!” This enrages the father, who asks, “Who are you to call my son a monster?!” In the end the Hulk jumps away, distraught and agreeing that, “Hulk is nothing but a monster!”

In issue #262 the Hulk sees two people with earth powers, Avalanche and Landslide, fighting and thinks, “There are two earth-movers, but their battle is not with the Hulk! Good! Let them destroy each other! But Hulk will leave this place…!” But coincidentally Betty Ross and Rick Jones are also there and are endangered by the fight. Betty sees the Hulk and calls out to him for help. The narration describes, “He has known her- and loved her- in both aspects of his identity. Though time has taken them down different paths, the Hulk has never forgotten Betty Ross.” The Hulk questions why he should help when “every time the Hulk tries to help, he is attacked… called a monster” but the narration says, “In his heart, the Hulk already knows the answer. For Rick. For Betty.” At the end of the issue, after the Hulk has rescued a plane full of people and taken down the instigating villain, he is still targeted by the police, which the Hulk recognizes as what always happens to him. Betty tells him, “You’re right, Hulk! They’ll never understand! They’ll never even try!”

In issue #263 the Hulk tells Rick and Betty that, “All Hulk wants is to be left alone, to find peace, to live someplace where Banner can’t find Hulk!” He explains, “Hulk knows now that it is Banner who hunts Hulk- who hounds Hulk- who torments Hulk even in Hulk’s sleep!” Rick says, “We’re your friends, Hulk- and Doc Banner’s friends! We know the pain both of you have experienced! We want to help free you both!” The Hulk asks, “Free Hulk from Banner?” And Betty says, “Yes, Hulk- and free Bruce Banner from you!” Once the Hulk transforms back into Bruce the group attempts to make their way to one of Bruce’s old abandoned desert laboratories, where Rick and Betty will help keep Bruce from turning back into the Hulk while Bruce works to try to finally cure himself of the Hulk. In issue #266 they are attacked by the High Evolutionary who wants to commit suicide but is unable to because his armor keeps protecting him, so he purposely goads the Hulk into fighting him in order to have his armor destroyed. At the end of the issue the Hulk says, “He made Hulk help him get what he wanted by placing Hulk’s friends in danger! Hulk should hate him, but all Hulk feels is sorry! All he wanted with all his power was to find a way to die! All Hulk wants to do with all his power is to find a way to live! Living is harder, Hulk thinks- but better than dying!” It is unfortunate then that the compassionate approach taken by the Hulk’s friends, in comparison to the approach taken by the antagonists to capture or kill the Hulk, is to try to cure Bruce of the Hulk, which I feel is paramount to killing the Hulk, rather than having anyone actually working to try to find a way for the Hulk to live.

The Defenders (1972) #92-97

In this batch of The Defenders issues I went from November 1980 to April 1981, according to the Marvel Wiki. These were 22-page stories. All were written by J. M. DeMatteis, and the breakdowns for the art of all of the issues were drawn by Don Perlin. The art of issue #92 was finished by Pablo Marcos; issue #93 by Joe Sinnott, Al Milgrom, Frank Giacoia, and Mike Esposito; issue #94 by Joe Sinnott and Al Milgrom; issue #95 by Joe Sinnott, Al Milgrom, and Frank Giacoia; issue #96 by Joe Sinnott and Sal Trapani; and the art of issue #97 was finished by Joe Sinnott, Sal Trapani, and Jack Abel. And all of the issues were colored by George Roussos.

This is the beginning of the new writer’s run and I am unfortunately really not liking it. Dr. Strange is now the leader of the Defenders again even though he has long since left the team. He has consistently worked with them since then on occasional special missions, but no reason is given for why he’s now so willing to be regularly involved. And his home is now being used as the Defenders’ base even though it was accurately said in issue #91 that he’s not “keen on having the Defenders as permanent guests” because it was too hectic for him back when they previously were. Also in issue #91 there was a full page spread of a map of the area surrounding Patsy’s mother’s home that Patsy inherited when she died, as that was becoming the Defenders’ new base. This was captioned: “Note to Defenders devotees: Be sure not to misplace this priceless map, because we’re sure you’ll want to refer to it from time to time during future non-team epics!” This house burned down in issue #94. Also, in issue #91 Patsy talked about her conflicts with her mom regarding her making Patsy a child model and then writing teenage romance comics based on Patsy. In issue #95 Patsy learns that before her mother died she made a deal with a demon promising Patsy to him in an attempt to extend her life, which I felt brought a much less interesting element to that conflict. In issue #93 it was revealed that Kyle is now paralyzed and in issue #95 it was revealed that he’s actually only paralyzed during the day, which I am frustrated by because it’s such a drastic change to his character when I had liked him before. In issue #92 the character Hellstrom, the Son of Satan, who last worked with the Defenders in issue #25, becomes a recurring character again, which would be fine but unfortunately he replaces the Hulk on the highlighted characters box on the cover starting with issue #94. The Hulk was only in the first two issues of this batch and I didn’t think that his portrayal was a good Hulk characterization, it leaned too far into making the Hulk child-like, which was surprising to me because I didn’t have any issues with the depiction of the Hulk in the The Hulk! (1978) story I read written by J. M. DeMatteis last week. There overall isn’t, I think, a very strong continuity to the depiction of the relationships within the Defenders. For example, the Hulk exclusively referred to Dr. Strange as “dumb magician” when the Defenders first formed in Marvel Feature (1971) #1 up until The Defenders #12 when he finally accepted that Dr. Strange was really his friend and has since just called him “magician.” And overtime the Hulk has become more cooperative with Dr. Strange and grown to respect him. However, even though he still considers him a friend and works well with him, the Hulk is now inexplicably back to calling Dr. Strange “dumb magician” again. Also a brand new character, the Gargoyle, joins the team in issue #94, who I really don’t care for and wish wasn’t there.

the Black Widow story in Bizarre Adventures (1981) #25

When I started reading Black Widow comics I started with her first self-titled solo series, Black Widow (1999), having already read her earliest appearances in Tales of Suspense (1959) and not being interested in reading Avengers or Daredevil comics, where I believe she primarily appeared after that. I hadn’t realized that she had a few solo stories within anthology comics. This 22-page black-and-white story was published in January 1981, according to the Marvel Wiki. It was written by Ralph Macchio and drawn by Paul Gulacy.

In this story Natasha was given the assignment by S.H.I.E.L.D. to kill one of her old teachers, Irma Klausvichnova, to which she thinks, “I’m not looking forward to this, Irma, but business is business.” Right after this it’s shown that Irma has been killed and replaced with a lookalike named Stacy Cromwell by S.H.I.E.L.D. that’s leaking data to them and thinks, “Strange… Normal procedure in such an operation would be to overrun the fortress- not pussyfoot around like this. The front office must have its reasons, though. Mine is not to question why…” From the perspective on a third spying person we see that Natasha’s intended contact, Raymond Bishop, sees but does not speak to her. Natasha is able to board the train that will take her to where Irma is anyway and it’s while there that Bishop makes contact. He tells her that it was a test to see if she would still be able to do it. She asks why she should accept that explanation and he says, “For the same reason you accept anything else in this business.” Natasha fills in, “I have no choice.”

When Natasha confronts “Irma,” saying that she was sent there to kill her, Stacy is initially in disbelief. Natasha says, “We once worked for the same organization… Shared the same goals- that’s changed now. Though I won’t ever forget what you-” Stacy, thinking that Natasha has defected back to the Soviet Union, cuts her off, saying, “Then you’ve- You’ve gone over to the other side. You’re not with us any longer.” Natasha, thinking that she’s just now learning about her original defection from the Soviet Union to the United States, says, “Not for some time now. And I would have thought you’d have known that. You, of all people.” Rather than Natasha, it is Bishop that shoots and kills Stacy from behind. He then goes to kill Natasha as well, but then he too is shot and killed from behind, this being done by the man that Natasha had slept with at the beginning of the story before she’d gotten her assignment, Langley, who is also the unknown figure had been spying on her earliest.

Langley explains to Natasha that the entire situation was a ploy to see if Bishop had gone over to the other side. Natasha wasn’t intended to reach the false Irma before Bishop and Bishop had actually been told that S.H.E.I.LD. had replaced Irma with Stacy, so the plan was for the chaos of the situation to give Bishop the opportunity to kill Stacy if that’s what his loyalties led him to do. Bishop was also told that Natasha was suspected of being a traitor on the chance that he would let his guard down with her under the belief that they were both secretly on the same side. Langley tells Natasha, as an explanation as to why she was told her mission was to kill someone that was secretly a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, “We couldn’t deviate from standard procedure in this case and arouse your suspicions. Bishop might have been alerted if you acted strangely.” Natasha says, “And were you there in the shadows long enough to save Cromwell’s life- or did she have to die so you could be certain about Bishop, you miserable bastard?” Langley’s response: “Take it easy. You know the final word- we all do. Everyone’s expendable. Everyone.”

Natasha still questions, “How do I really know it’s all true, Langley. How do I know that this Irma’s really an imposter… Or that you and Bishop weren’t working together and got turned on him for some reason? Can I ever be certain you didn’t really want me to kill this woman?” And her final question is, “How do I know- you’re not a double-agent?” The answer is a resounding: “You don’t.” And the ending of the story is Langley hysterical, apparently buckling under the weight of the subterfuge he orchestrated.

The lesson that Natasha is meant to learn seems really similar to what she tries to teach Yelena Belova in Black Widow (1999) and Black Widow (2001). In the 2008 book she tells Yelena, who wants to be the Black Widow, “You learn to be lost all the time, so as to never be able to direct anyone to your employers. Or your heart. Or your vulnerabilities. And for what, rooskaya, for what? To play pawn to any one of a dozen governments that will shoot you in the back just for becoming the dispassionate creature they require?” And in the 2001 book Natasha tells Yelena, as an explanation of her own plot that psychologically tormented Yelena, “I wanted you to understand, finally, what it meant to be a spy. We are not like Daredevil or the others, Yelena. We are not heroes. We are tools. And tools get used.” I was also reminded of the ending of Black Widow: Pale Little Spider (2002), a book starring Yelena, when regarding a plot to manipulate Yelena into being a better Black Widow, one of the key participants said, “She truly loved Colonel Starkovsky, General. If she ever learns that this was all an exercise, that we were responsible for his death, she could go rogue. You’ll have to kill her.” The General responded, “If it comes to that, Captain. We can always make another Black Widow.”

Fawcett Comics:

the Captain Marvel stories in Whiz Comics (1940) #74 and Captain Marvel Adventures (1941) #60-61

In this batch of 10 Captain Marvel stories I read through the Captain Marvel appearances in May 1946, according to the issue cover dates. These stories ranged from 7 to 11 pages.

The story “Billy’s Big Day” (writer unknown; possibly drawn by Pete Constanza) in Captain Marvel Adventures #60 has Billy unable to call on Captain Marvel after being tripped and chipping his tooth, giving him a heavy lisp, while running an errand for Sterling Morris. He plans on going to a dentist to get his tooth fixed but is determined to finish the errand first. Throughout the story there were many times Billy was prompted to call on Captain Marvel and then was forced to resolve the situation by himself. Halfway throughout the story Captain Marvel appears as an astral projection behind Billy, saying, “That was quick thinking, Billy! You’re getting along fine without me! I’m proud of you!” And Billy says, “I feel as though Capt. Marvel’s spirit is hovering around, giving me moral support!” And at the end of the story, errand successfully completed, Billy says, “I’m sort of… well… proud of myself! I delivered that packet, against all kinds of hazards, without the help of Capt. Marvel! This was my big day!”

the Mary Marvel stories in The Marvel Family (1945) #4-9 and #13

When I was previously reading through the Mary Marvel solo stories in Wow Comics (1941) and Mary Marvel (1945), I was skipping the Mary Marvel solo stories in The Marvel Family, which is an anthology book that contains both family team-ups and solo stories. So I thought I would go back and read those missed The Marvel Family solo stories before continuing on with her Wow Comics and Mary Marvel appearances. In this batch of 7 Mary Marvel stories I went from September 1946 to July 1947, according to the issue cover dates. These stories ranged from 7 to 9 pages.

The story “Mary Marvel Becomes a Fairy Godmother” (creators unknown) in The Marvel Family #5 is a spoof on the Cinderella fairy tale. In it Mary Marvel comes across and rescues a girl named Ella who was being abused by her stepfather because he didn’t want her going to a party. Afterwards Ella tells Mary Marvel that she still can’t go to the party because all she has to wear is rags, so Mary Batson gives Ella one of her own dresses and has her driven their in her family’s limousine. In the end it’s revealed that Ella is actually the daughter of a kind wealthy man and her “stepfather” had kidnapped her as a baby to bring her up as his drudge. This revelation gives Mary Marvel the allowance to bring the “stepfather” to jail, because him being arrested won’t reflect badly on Ella anymore. The story ends with Ella, depicted with a Cinderella storybook, saying, “It was just as if Mary Marvel was my fairy godmother! And even my Prince Charming showed up- my own dear Daddy!”

The story “Mary Marvel and the Quizzical Crook” (written by Bill Woolfolk; possibly drawn by Pete Constanza) in The Marvel Family #6 takes place at Billy Batson’s workplace, Station Whiz. The reason for this is that Billy’s boss, Sterling Morris, has asked Mary to fill in for Billy’s usual broadcast. The reason why Billy can’t make it is difficult to make out due to the quality of the fiche scan. Mary says, “But- But I’ve never been on the radio!” But Mr. Morris tells her, “It’ll make a great human interest story! Sister taking brother’s place in an emergency! You’ll be terrific!” After the news broadcast Mary also helps with, and foils a scheme to cheat at, a quiz show.

[beinfriends]

List of Faults

stolen from: another old meme i did tagging: you!!!!

bold what applies to your character.   Italics for somewhat  / sometimes.

Absent-minded - Preoccupied to the extent of being unaware of one’s immediate surroundings. Abstracted, daydreaming, inattentive, oblivious, forgetful.

Abusive - Characterized by improper infliction of physical or psychological maltreatment towards another.

Addict - One who is addicted to a compulsive activity. Examples: gambling, drugs, sex.

Aimless - Devoid of direction or purpose.

Alcoholic - A person who drinks alcoholic substances habitually and to excess.

Anxious - full of mental distress or uneasiness because of fear of danger or misfortune; greatly worried; solicitous.

Arrogant - Having or displaying a sense of overbearing self-worth or self-importance. Inclined to social exclusiveness and who rebuff the advances of people considered inferior. Snobbish.

Audacious - Recklessly bold in defiance of convention, propriety, law, or the like; insolent; braze, disobedient.

Bad Habit - A revolting personal habit. Examples: picks nose, spits tobacco, drools, bad body odour.

Bigmouth - A loud-mouthed or gossipy person.

Bigot - One who is strongly partial to one’s own group, religion, race, or politics and is intolerant of those who differ.

Blunt - Characterized by directness in manner or speech; without subtlety or evasion. Frank, callous, insensitive, brusque.

Bold - In a bad sense, too forward; taking undue liberties; over assuming or confident; lacking proper modesty or restraint; rude; impudent. Abrupt, brazen, cheeky, brassy, audacious.

Callous - They are hardened to emotions, rarely showing any form of it in expression. Unfeeling. Cold.

Childish - Marked by or indicating a lack of maturity; puerile.

Complex - An exaggerated or obsessive concern or fear.

Cruel - Mean to anyone or anything, without care or regard to consequences and feelings.

Cursed - A person who has befallen a prayer for evil or misfortune, placed under a spell, or borne into an evil circumstance, and suffers for it. Damned.

Dependent - Unable to exist, sustain oneself, or act appropriately or normally without the assistance or direction of another.

Deranged - Mentally decayed. Insane. Crazy. Mad. Psychotic.

Dishonest – Given to or using fraud, cheating; deceitful, deceptive, crooked, underhanded.

Disloyal - Lacking loyalty. Unfaithful, perfidious, traitorous, treasonable

Disorder - An ailment that affects the function of mind or body.

Dubious - fraught with uncertainty or doubt. undecided, doubtful, unsure.

Egotistical - Characteristic of those having an inflated idea of their own importance. Boastful, pompous.

Envious - Showing extreme cupidity; painfully desirous of another’s advantages; covetous, jealous.

Erratic - Deviating from the customary course in conduct or opinion; eccentric: erratic behaviour. Eccentric, bizarre, outlandish, strange.

Fanatical - Fanatic outlook or behaviour especially as exhibited by excessive enthusiasm, unreasoning zeal, or wild and extravagant notions on some subject.

Fickle – Erratic, changeable, unstable - especially with regard to affections or attachments; capricious.

Fierce - Marked by extreme intensity of emotions or convictions; inclined to react violently; fervid.

Finicky - Excessively particular or fastidious; difficult to please; fussy. Too much concerned with detail. Meticulous, fastidious, choosy, critical, picky, prissy, pernickety.

Fixated - In psychoanalytic theory, a strong attachment to a person or thing, especially such an attachment formed in childhood or infancy and manifested in immature or neurotic behaviour that persists throughout life. Fetish, quirk, obsession, infatuation.

Flirt -To make playfully romantic or sexual overtures; behaviour intended to arouse sexual interest. Minx. Tease.

Gluttonous - Given to excess in consumption of especially food or drink. Voracious, ravenous, wolfish, piggish, insatiable.

Gruff - Brusque or stern in manner or appearance. Crusty, rough, surly.

Gullible - Will believe any information given, regardless of how valid or truthful it is, easily deceived or duped.

this is insanely long so the rest is going under the cut.

Hard - A person who is difficult to deal with, manage, control, overcome, or understand. Hard emotions, hard hearted.

Hedonistic - Pursuit of or devotion to pleasure, especially to the pleasures of the senses.

Hoity-toity - Given to flights of fancy; capricious; frivolous. Prone to giddy behaviour, flighty.

Humourless - the inability to find humour in things, and most certainly in themselves.

Hypocritical - One who is always contradicting their own beliefs, actions or sayings. A person who professes beliefs and opinions for others that he does not hold. Being a hypocrite.

Idealist - one whose conduct is influenced by ideals that often conflict with practical considerations. one who is unrealistic and impractical, guided more by ideals than by practical considerations.

Idiotic - Marked by a lack of intelligence or care; foolish or careless.

Ignorant - Lacking knowledge or information as to a particular subject or fact. Showing or arising from a lack of education or knowledge.

Illiterate - Unable to read and write.

Immature - Emotionally undeveloped; juvenile; childish.

Impatient - Unable to wait patiently or tolerate delay; restless. Unable to endure irritation or opposition; intolerant.

Impious - Lacking piety and reverence for a god/gods and their followers.

Impish - Naughtily or annoyingly playful.

Incompetent - Unable to execute tasks, no matter how the size or difficulty.

Indecisive - characterized by lack of decision and firmness, especially under pressure.

Indifferent - The trait of lacking enthusiasm for or interest in things generally, remaining calm and seeming not to care; a casual lack of concern. Having or showing little or no interest in anything; languid; spiritless.

Infamy - having an extremely bad reputation, public reproach, or strong condemnation as the result of a shameful, criminal, or outrageous act that affects how others view them.

Intolerant - Unwilling to tolerate difference of opinion and narrow-minded about cherished opinions.

Judgmental - inclined to make and form judgements, especially moral or personal ones, based on one’s own opinions or impressions towards others/practices/groups/religions based on appearance, reputation, occupation, etc.

Klutz - Clumsy. Blunderer.

Lazy - Resistant to work or exertion; disposed to idleness.

Lewd - Inclined to, characterized by, or inciting to lust or lechery; lascivious. Obscene or indecent, as language or songs; salacious.

Liar - Compulsively and purposefully tells false truths more often than not. A person who has lied or who lies repeatedly.

Lustful - driven by lust; preoccupied with or exhibiting lustful desires.

Masochist - the deriving of sexual gratification, or the tendency to derive sexual gratification, from being physically or emotionally abused. a willingness or tendency to subject oneself to unpleasant or trying experiences.

Meddlesome - Intrusive in a meddling or offensive manner, given to meddling; interfering.

Meek - evidencing little spirit or courage; overly submissive or compliant; humble in spirit or manner; suggesting retiring mildness or even cowed submissiveness.

Megalomaniac - A psycho pathological condition characterized by delusional fantasies of wealth, power, or omnipotence.

Naïve - Lacking worldly experience and understanding, simple and guileless; showing or characterized by a lack of sophistication and critical judgement.

Nervous - easily agitated or distressed; high-strung or jumpy.

Non-violent - abstaining from the use of violence.

Nosey - Given to prying into the affairs of others; snoopy. Offensively curious or inquisitive.

Obsessive - An unhealthy and compulsive preoccupation with something or someone.

Oppressor - A person of authority who subjects others to undue pressures, to keep down by severe and unjust use of force or authority.

Overambitious - Having a strong excessive desire for success or achievement.

Overconfident - Excessively confident; presumptuous.

Overemotional - excessively or abnormally emotional. sensitive about themselves and others, more so than the average person.

Overprotective - to protect too much; coddle.

Overzealous - marked by excessive enthusiasm for and intense devotion to a cause or idea.

Pacifist - opposition to war or violence as a means of resolving disputes.

Paranoid - Exhibiting or characterized by extreme and irrational fear or distrust of others.

Peevish - Expressing fretfulness and discontent, or unjustifiable dissatisfaction. Cantankerous, cross, ill-tempered, testy, captious, discontented, crotchety, cranky, ornery.

Perfectionist - A propensity for being displeased with anything that is not perfect or does not meet extremely high standards.

Pessimist - A tendency to stress the negative or unfavorable or to take the gloomiest possible view.

Pest - One that pesters or annoys, with or without realizing it. Nuisance. Annoying. Nag.

Phobic – They have a severe form of fear when it comes to this one thing. Examples: Dark, Spiders, Cats

Practical - level-headed, efficient, and unspeculative. no-nonsense.

Predictable - Easily seen through and assessable, where almost anyone can predict reactions and actions of said person by having met or known them even for a short time.

Proud - Filled with or showing excessive self-esteem and will often shirk help from others for the sake of pride.

Rebellious - Defying or resisting some established authority, government, or tradition; insubordinate; inclined to rebel.

Reckless - Heedless. Headstrong. Foolhardy. Unthinking boldness, wild carelessness and disregard for consequences.

Remorseless - Without remorse; merciless; pitiless; relentless.

Rigorous - Rigidly accurate; allowing no deviation from a standard; demanding strict attention to rules and procedures.

Sadist - The deriving of gratification or the tendency to derive gratification from inflicting pain or emotional abuse on others. Deriving of pleasure, or the tendency to derive pleasure, from cruelty.

Sadomasochist - Both sadist and masochist combined.

Sarcastic - A subtle form of mockery in which an intended meaning is conveyed obliquely.

Skeptic - One who instinctively or habitually doubts, questions, or disagrees with assertions or generally accepted conclusions.

Seducer - To lead others astray, as from duty, rectitude, or the like; corrupt. To attempt to lead or draw someone away, as from principles, faith, or allegiance.

Selfish - Concerned chiefly or only with oneself.

Self-Martyr - One who purposely makes a great show of suffering in order to arouse sympathy from others, as a form of manipulation, and always for a selfish cause or reason.

Self-righteous - piously sure of one’s own righteousness; moralistic. exhibiting pious self-assurance. holier-than-thou, sanctimonious.

Senile - Showing a decline or deterioration of physical strength or mental functioning, esp. short-term memory and alertness, as a result of old age or disease.

Shallow - Lacking depth of intellect or knowledge; concerned only with what is obvious.

Smart ass - Thinks they know it all, and in some ways they may, but they can be greatly annoying and difficult to deal with at times, especially in arguments.

Soft-hearted - having softness or tenderness of heart that can lead them into trouble; susceptible of pity or other kindly affection. They cannot resist helping someone they see in trouble, suffering or in need, and often don’t think of the repercussions or situation before doing so.

Solemn - deeply earnest, serious, and sober.

Spineless - Lacking courage. Cowardly, wimp, lily-livered, gutless.

Spiteful - Showing malicious ill will and a desire to hurt; motivated by spite; vindictive person who will look for occasions for resentment. Vengeful.

Spoiled - Treated with excessive indulgence and pampering from earliest childhood, and has no notion of hard work, self-care or money management; coddled, pampered. Having the character or disposition harmed by pampering or over-solicitous attention.

Squeamish - Excessively fastidious and easily disgusted.

Stubborn - Unreasonably, often perversely unyielding; bull-headed. Firmly resolved or determined; resolute.

Superstitious - An irrational belief arising from ignorance or fear from an irrational belief that an object, action, or circumstance not logically related to a course of events influences its outcome.

Tactless - Lacking or showing a lack of what is fitting and considerate in dealing with others.

Temperamental - moody, irritable, or sensitive. excitable, volatile, emotional.

Theatrical - having a flair for over dramatizing situations, doing things in a ‘big way’ and love to be ‘centre stage’.

Timid - tends to be shy and/or quiet, shrinking away from offering opinions or from strangers and newcomers, fearing confrontations and violence.

Tongue-tied - Speechless or confused in expression, as from shyness, embarrassment, or astonishment.

Troublemaker - Someone who stirs up trouble, intentionally or unintentionally.

Unlucky - Marked by or causing misfortune; ill-fated. Destined for misfortune; doomed.

Unpredictable - Difficult to foretell or foresee, their actions are so chaotic it’s impossible to know what they are going to do next.

Untrustworthy - Not worthy of trust or belief. Backstabber.

Vain - Holding or characterized by an unduly high opinion of their physical appearance. Lovers of themselves. Conceited, egotistic, narcissistic.

Weak-willed - lacking willpower, strength of will to carry out one’s decisions, wishes, or plans. easily swayed.

Withdrawn - Not friendly or Sociable. Aloof.

Zealous - A fanatic.

[wesawbears]

Another OFMD fic from yours truly!

For the prompt: "You know that thing where characters spend their first night together (sex entirely optional) and everything is all Emotional and Significant, and then Character A wakes up alone the next morning and is all “oh they left :(“ and then they find Character B in the kitchen making breakfast or somesuch?"

Or, Ed wakes up alone and thinks Stede left. Stede has an unfortunate mishap with the marmalade.

--

Ed woke and was immediately greeted with three strange circumstances.

First, it was light out, sun streaming in through a slat in the curtains. He usually didn’t sleep in late enough to see the sun, catching a few hours where he could get them. Second, he was warm, nestled in a fabric that made him want to rub his bare skin against it, instead of the usual threadbare rags that chafed, if he fell asleep with a blanket on at all. Third, he wasn’t in pain. There was no crick in his back from the hard ground, no pull in his knee from having it hitched up as he slept against whatever wall or stool or chair he managed to find. Overall, the last night had been the best sleep Ed had had in…fuck, years. Decades maybe.

Last night comes back slowly, in a pleasant ache in his hips, the ghost of lips on his. Stede Bonnet didn’t do anything by halves, and that apparently extended to the physical pursuits of pleasure. What he lacked in experience, he certainly seemed to make up for in enthusiasm and Ed couldn’t remember liking being with a lover more. They laughed at the awkward bits, and smiled through the good parts. He couldn’t recall there being as many good parts with anyone else.

Speaking of Stede, Ed rolled over, “Mm. Did that knock you out as good as it did for me?”

Instead of hitting the warmth of another body like he expected, the spot next to him was cold and Ed felt it through his veins like hitting ice water. Like thinking there’s another step and feeling the horrible lurch as you realize, no, this is wrong, the ground is so much closer than you thought it would be.

He sat up, drawing the blanket around himself. What had felt like warmth and comfort and safety feels cold, unfeeling, and yet he still draws it up like a shield. His body feels too exposed, embarrassed that he could be stupid enough to show himself to Stede. He doesn’t know if he can bear the walk to where he’d abandoned his clothes, but surely Stede doesn’t want him sullying his bed, his things any longer.  

Drawing in a ragged breath, he tries to think of where things went wrong, a moment that was bad, but he can’t conjure anything up. But Stede was like that, wasn’t he? Too kind to say when Ed was being too much. He wouldn’t kick Ed out of bed. Hell, he probably wouldn’t kick him off the ship. Yes, he was the type to wake, tuck Ed back in, and slip away before he’d have to face the morning after, to face the reality of having him in his bed the next day, out of place in his nice, warm bed. Later, he’d tell him that things didn’t have to change, he just didn’t want the physical stuff. He’d be kind about it, too kind, and Ed was too in love to tell him no. In over his head.

In. Out. Another breath. Ed could….he could do this. Stede had said, he’d said that he wasn’t leaving again. So Ed could get himself together, put on his clothes and push down everything as he’d always done and walk out ready to captain. That’s what he’d always done. He just needed one more minute.

“I wasn’t sure which marmalade you’d like, so I’m afraid I got carried away- Edward?”   

Ed heard the clatter of a tray and startled out of his thoughts just before he felt Stede’s hand cup his cheek. “Ed, darling, what’s wrong? Are you- oh, Lord, I didn’t hurt you did I?”  

Ed shook his head, leaning into the touch despite himself. “Thought you left.” 

Stede’s face does a series of complicated twists, confusion and horror and…fondness warring across his face before settling into the same resolve he shows whenever there is a situation to be handled with unearned confidence. “Oh, Edward. Sweetheart, no.” His smile turns sheepish. “I, ah, thought you might like breakfast in bed. It’s…fairly traditional after a first night together. I didn’t think you would wake up. But then, well…”  

 “The marmalades.”  

 “Yes, the marmalades.”  

 Ed ducked out of the tender hold, eager to let this whole thing go. “Right well, better show me them. Before I lose interest and all.”  

Stede gave him a moment by gathering their breakfast, along with his tea. “Seven sugars, one dollop of milk.”  

 Ed busied himself with the food, before feeling Stede’s hand on his. “What? There some secret marmalade trick I'm missing?”  

 Stede frowned. “I didn’t know.”  

 Ed’s brow furrowed. “Didn’t know what?”  

Stede’s hand dropped to the hem of his shirt. “I didn’t think you would- Mary never liked it- anyway, I just didn’t know that you wanted to wake up with me.”  

Ed’s eyes widened. “Course I do. Don’t be stupid.”  

Stede smiled then, the soft, surprised one where his eyes crinkled up a little.

“Well, now that I know…I will make it my imperative to ensure you never wake up alone.”  

Ed coughed. “Yeah I s’pose…I could like that.”

Stede’s smile widened. “Wonderful. Now, darling, you have to try this one, it’s a simply marvelous pineapple. Very expensive abroad, but native here.” He pressed a bite to Ed’s mouth and he tasted it, catching the tip of Stede’s finger with his tongue.

“Mmm. Good. Not as good as who’s holding it, but.”  

“Edward Teach. Are you propositioning me?” 

“Only fair. You did the propositioning last night.”  

Two spots of red spread across Stede’s cheeks. “You horrible minx.”  

Ed smirked and leaned back against the pillows. “Well, luckily, the captain gets to make his own schedule. So the question is, what are you going to do about it?”  

Stede closed the gap between them to press his lips firmly to Ed’s, parting them gently before pulling away. “Well, I certainly won’t allow you to spill good marmalade in our bed. Half a second, my love.” 

Ed watched him walk away and felt himself settle. Maybe he could get used to mornings in bed if they were all like this.  

[rf-times]

Hey this might be a bold question to ask but do you think that the patriarchal society we live in is inherently pedophilic? Like I really feel it's not talked about enough especially since statistically the overwhelming majority of pedophiles are men but I think it's also kinda true that most men are prone to being pedophilic because of their socialization. I mean most bihet men will be socialized to think it's okay to actively desire and pursue sex from a group of people they think are beneath them , their whole obsession with virginal purity, beauty ( which is almost strictly associated with youth esp for women)+ the perfect ideal women not needing to be as educated as men and free of any autonomy all just point to the "perfect women" being a little girl :/ And whilst people have pointed out " omg so many men are pedophiles" I still think there's this lack of acknowledgement of just how closely pedophilia and patriarchy go hand and hand together. I'd even go as far as to say femininity itself is pedophilic ( and not just as a gender role assigned to women as a behavioral guide but also to an extent some beauty standards). Do you have any theories on why it's so common in men? This is my own personal theory that I haven't heard before but I think that one of the other reasons why men are attracted to childlike innocence is because they socialize themselves to be so violent and unfeeling with each other that they look for this type of salvation and comfort in women to heal them and comfort them for the harshness of the world ( that ironically they implemented). It's like the innocence some people find in pets to comfort even the most cold hearted people since animals won't really have any negative thought or feelings towards horrible people ( men). But instead of men wanting loyal pets that "unconditionally" love them ....they want a partner unassuming and innocent without their own actual opinions, which is akin to a child without much autonomy. And since grown women are human beings with experience and more of a free will, men opt out for the youngest girls they can get away with having sex with. I think for a lot of men their wet dream would be to go to war and return home to a nice home cooked meal made by their child bride to comfort him.

No you're absolutely right, patriarchy is inherently pedophilic because children are easier to control and subjugate, and so are women who are socialised their whole lives to emulate childlike mental states, bodies and social dynamics. I think your theory holds some weight, there is definitely a psychological dynamic to men using women for personal comfort and to sustain interpersonal relationships along with wanting women with as little autonomy as possible, who exist just to be amazed at men. A lot of male intellectuals have created the lie about adolescent girls having the best fertility and mindset for motherhood in order to justify pedophilia (when not outright saying that its because girls are more malleable and feed into men's complexes), but this is not true, this is because patriarchy is based on having reproductive control over women, and the tactic of subjugating women from girlhood is more effective overall to this end goal than conventional wisdom on fertility, maternal and child health. It's also a case of socialisation taking on a life of its own with men and societies radicalising themselves towards more extreme forms of subjugation in their sexual behaviour and psychology.

[seijorhi]

Through the cold, I'll find my way back to you

Me attempting a multi-part fic?? More likely than you think! I wrote this fic because this blog started with Hawks and Dabi and kinda got a bit of traction with soulmate au’s so to me it made sense to post it for my first anniversary. I hope you guys like it! 💕

Touya Todoroki (Dabi) x female reader, Keigo Takami (Hawks) x female reader

TW canonical character ‘death’, a little angst and maybe a slight hint of dub-con (if you squint your eyes a little)

Part I, II

You’re eleven years old when your parents take you by the hand, sit you down on the couch and tell you that your soulmate is dead.

It doesn’t make sense. There’s a hollow ache inside of your chest like something important is gone but you were with Touya only yesterday. You had the rest of your lives together, you were gonna leave with him, start something better…

You feel empty and you can’t understand it. He can’t be dead, that’s not how it works. You find your soulmate and you get to ride off into the sunset. You get to be happy, everyone knows that.

But it doesn’t sink in until you’re kicking and screaming by his grave and Endeavor won’t so much as meet your eye and your parents are pulling you back because there’s no body.

There’s nothing left of Touya Todoroki.

And there’s nothing left of you without him.

—

They call it the bloom. A simple touch, the first from your soulmate’s hand, and the mark appears on your skin like drops of ink spilled into water. You’ve always thought it beautiful, the delicate black pattern imprinted on your wrist.

You can still remember the heat you’d felt when it happened. Not the burning kind you knew him capable of, but like the warmth of a fire seeping through you. And you remember the way those bright, blue eyes had widened as you’d tripped and fell, taking him with you. His mark was over his heart; Touya always was stupidly smug about that.

You were just kids. Angry and scared and lost, but you had Touya and Touya had you.

(Not that that counted for anything in the end. He still died alone.)

They say it’s rare to find your soulmate before adulthood, but you’d been one of the lucky ones.

Lucky.

The word tastes bitter on your tongue now. It’s not that you disagree exactly – even now, years after his death you’re glad that you had time with him. You would’ve been grateful for a minute, for a mere glance at his face. Two and a half years with your soulmate was a gift, but having him, losing him so young only meant that you had more years of your life to struggle on without him.

And sometimes you catch yourself staring at your mark, lost in thought. Touya was the one with all the plans, you were always just the tag along, happy to go anywhere so long as he was the one leading you. You wonder what he’d think if he could see you now. Not the Hero you’d let yourselves imagine, though you suppose you both knew deep down that was nothing more than a pipe dream for someone like you.

Gazing around your cramped, messy apartment, debating exactly how badly you need this shitty, barely-enough-to-scrape-by job, you can’t imagine he’d be impressed.

God knows your parents are disappointed, but that’s nothing new. The Quirkless daughter of two mid rank heroes – well, the only thing you ever had going for you was being Enji Todoroki’s future daughter in law, and everybody knows how that one ended.

But part of you likes to think that maybe Touya wouldn’t judge you too harshly for it. You’re doing the best you can. You’re surviving, all on your own, that has to count for something, doesn’t it?

There’s a text message awaiting you when you roll over and grab your phone.

Happy Birthday x

Natsuo never forgets. The rest of the Todoroki’s – you ceased to matter to them the day they buried an empty casket for their son. Natsuo’s the only one who bothers to check in on you, make sure that you’re keeping your head above the water. It’s usually just a message here and there, and he calls you on Touya’s birthday. And on the anniversary of his death.

It’s painful for him, but you suppose you’re the only tangible connection he has left of his brother.

You stare at the message for a moment longer, a strange feeling tugging at your heart. Typing out a quick reply, you set your phone down and fall back onto your bed, staring up at the ceiling with a sigh.

Today of all days, you’d honestly rather just roll over and let the hours pass you by, but your boss isn’t that forgiving and as much as you hate to admit it, you need this job.

The hotel’s already abuzz by the time you clock in, your manager’s jaw tight, a frown pinching at his face. As much as you don’t like him, you can’t exactly blame him for the bad mood – in less than three hours, the ballroom will be filled with a media circus and a plethora of pro heroes. Some big promotional event before the hero rankings are announced; you honestly don’t care.

It just means that everybody’s on edge, you’re gonna spend all day stuck in heels, smiling blandly while you serve people who won’t so much as look twice at you.

And then there’s the real reason you’re dreading today. 6’4”, blue eyed, broad shouldered, currently burning holes into you from across the ballroom while you carry around a platter of canapés. The last time you’d seen Enji Todoroki in person was two weeks after the funeral, and he’d ignored you entirely.

That was years ago; you weren’t even in your teens. Half of you had hoped that in his infinite arrogance and the complete lack of care he’d shown since his son’s death he would’ve forgotten about you entirely.

From the way he’s spent the last twenty minutes staring at you while bulldozing past reporters, though, you’re not feeling all that confident.

And for the life of you, you can’t figure out why your presence seems to be disturbing him so much, considering you’re really only there to serve and then fade into the background. It’s not like you’re chasing after him, demanding an autograph much less any kind of acknowledgement – you’re not exactly thrilled to be here either. Things work just fine with the two of you pretending the other doesn’t exist.

Does he think you’ve planned this? Some big ‘fuck you’ to try and mess with what you’re sure will be an announcement of his retainership of the number one position? Even while Touya was still alive, his father didn’t have a place in your life – he was off training his youngest, you barely saw him and you were glad for it.

While he might have hated him, some part of Touya still idolised him, craved his approval, but Enji had never been anything to you but a selfish, unfeeling monster. A bully.

But now he’s staring at you, slack jawed and wide eyed like he’s seen a ghost and it’s harder than you thought it would be to keep that smile plastered across your face knowing he’s watching your every move.

Your cheeks feels hot, and it only gets worse when you realise that Endeavor’s less than subtle behaviour is slowly but surely drawing attention from others in the room. A few curious reporters have shot you odd looks, heads cocked for a moment before dismissing you as just another waitress, hardly headline worthy.

The other heroes are less quick to brush you off. Mirko, current number five, elegantly clasping her glass of champagne in a gloved hand keeps shooting furtive glances between you and Enji, Gang Orca’s beady eyes following you across the floor, a flicker of what you’re fairly sure is concern maring his face.

It’s mortifying. Your smile is stretched and painful, your throat tight and you feel utterly exposed, but there’s nothing you can do. The flame hero doesn’t seem to care about the attention he’s drawing, or that with every passing minute it gets harder and harder for you to maintain that professional, customer service demeanour you need for this job.

And you’re beyond caring if he’s embarrassed to find his firstborn’s soulmate has sunk so low in his absence, you just want him to stop staring so you can finish your shift in peace. But it seems like the flame hero has other plans, because you’re just beginning to seriously weigh up your chances of keeping this job if you just up and walk off right here and now when Enji’s limited patience finally reaches its threshold.

He doesn’t bother offering excuses towards the poor reporter trying to pry an interview out of him, he just abruptly sets his drink down and starts stalking towards you. Rationally, you realise that with all these people here, he can’t make too much of a scene.

It’s just that even the thought of having to talk with him, to look into those blue eyes that are so painfully familiar yet wrong–

You can’t do it.

Not today.

And so you spin on your heel, stomach lurching. The silver tray in your hands stacked high with champagne teeters and falls, crystal glass shattering on the marble floors drawing gasps from the crowd. Endeavor calls out your name but you block him out, desperately weaving your way through the stunned mass of people.

Most of them give you a wide berth, likely due to the oversized hero barrelling after you. He calls your name again, louder this time. It’s not a scream, or a yell – it almost sounds pleading, though you can’t possibly imagine why. Endeavor doesn’t do pleading.

Your cheeks are burning; there’s too many people staring and hot tears begin to prickle at your eyes. A flash of red blurs past your field of vision and you start, a sharp squeak slipping out as a figure lands before you, blocking your exit.

Handsome with bushy eyebrows, dirty blonde hair messily brushed back and golden eyes gleaming; the hero in front of you would be impossible to mistake, even if it weren’t for the sweeping blood red wings sprouting from his back. Hawks, the current number two pro-hero and the only man standing between you and your fumbling escape.

Your body’s slow to catch up with your mind though, and as you try to stop, backpedal and side-step him at once your foot catches on your ankle. It’s instinctive, the way your arms fly up, wildly trying to catch yourself before you fall on your ass.

Just like you suppose it’s instinctive for him to rush forward to do the same.

It happens in a split second, your fingers brushing the skin of his neck just above the collar of his shirt, his hand grasping at your waist to steady you. Beneath his gloved hand a familiar burst of heat warms your skin.

Time slows to a crawl. The ballroom, all the gathered heroes and the press, your co-workers, they all fade into the background as your eyes dart to your fingertips, resting gently on the side of Hawks’ throat. There, a soft, inky black mark begins to unfurl spreading up to his jaw, disappearing below the collar of his turtleneck.

Over the quiet hum of the classical music playing in the background, you hear his breath catch.

He has you dipped, the two of you frozen as if in a dance and for a moment you dare to meet those piercing golden eyes. There’s a clicking sound, a camera shutter you distantly register, but while it makes your heart jump, Hawks pays it no mind.

He stares at you with impossibly wide eyes; open, vulnerable and raw.

And then he blinks, and that glimpse is gone, his grip tightening as he slowly sets you right. He doesn’t let you go, however.

“Hawks,” Enji’s tone is low and gruff, a warning this time.

Tension, thick and crackling with electricity hangs in the air between the three of you, amplified by the crowd of onlookers. All those journalists, chomping at the bit with the realisation of a juicy story playing out right in front of their eyes. Your name’s called out again, not by Endeavor, but by the reporter he’d cut off before – eyeing you now with an eager leer that has you recoiling back into Hawks’ embrace.

It’s enough to jerk the winged hero into action. His mouth finds your ear, his thumb sweeping soothingly along your side as he speaks low enough for only you to hear.

“You wanna leave, baby bird?”

You don’t remember nodding, but you must have, because in the space of a single heartbeat Hawks has you hoisted up in his arms, those powerful wings spreading wide – and you’re flying.

—

“I don’t think I have a job anymore,” you laugh drily, staring down at the city lights twinkling on the horizon.

Beside you, Hawks snorts in agreement, “Hell of a way to make an exit, though.”

He’s not wrong. You can only imagine what the tabloid headlines will say tomorrow ‘Pro Hero sweeps hotel waitress soulmate off her feet’ ‘Hawks mates for life; Endeavor jealous?’ Even if by some miracle your boss wasn’t intent on firing you on the spot, you’re not sure you can even bear to show your face there again.

It’ll be a pain though, trying to find a new job while your face is plastered across every less than reputable news outlet.

Perched atop the rooftop of Hawks’ hotel, halfway across the city, the wind ruffling gently through your hair, everything feels… surreal almost. It’s your birthday, and instead of crashing through the door of your apartment, exhausted and aching before falling face first onto your bed and not moving for the next few hours, you’re here. With the number two pro hero. Who, incidentally, is your second soulmate.

Having more than one soulmate, it’s not unheard of, just… rare.

And your hand’s entwined with his, his gloves long since discarded, his fleece lined jacket draped over your shoulders. Touya’s mark, long since blossomed across your inner wrist lies starkly between the two of you, unignorable.

“It was his son, wasn’t it?” he asks eventually, breaking the fragile silence as he toys with your fingers. When you nervously risk a glance up, Hawks doesn’t look angry or upset or even that jealous. Those golden eyes study your face with an odd kind of curiosity, but there’s no trace of resentment there. “Touya, the one who died. He was your soulmate.”

It’s not a question, but you find yourself nodding anyway. A part of you’s almost surprised he put it together so quickly, but you guess being a pro hero of that calibre requires a little more than just having a strong quirk.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, because what else can you say?

You can’t possibly imagine how he’s feeling right now, what thoughts are running through his head. You’d accepted a long time ago that while you’d love Touya Todoroki until your dying breath, he was gone; that chance of a fairytale happily ever after going with him. Another soulmate wasn’t something you’d ever considered, much less wasted time longing for.

And yet here you are, another mark inked across your skin and it feels wrong somehow, yet also completely right. Imagining being on the other foot; putting yourself in Hawks’ shoes – a pro hero soulmated to some insignificant, quirkless waitress, and not only that, but finding out she has another soulmate, somebody she loved before you, a ghost of a memory you’ll always be competing against… you honestly don’t know how you’d feel.

“Look at me,” he whispers, calloused fingers coaxing at your chin. Heart thrumming like a hummingbird's you comply, letting out another soft squeak as Hawks takes the hand still entwined with his and lifts it to his neck, right above his mark.

He smiles, nuzzling into the touch as your breath stutters. “You’re mine, aren’t you?” Again, you find yourself nodding without even really being conscious of it. It doesn’t seem to matter to Hawks though, whose smile widens at the sight of it. He leans in closer, his breath fanning across your face as molten pools of honey drink you in. You wonder if he can feel the way your pulse is racing under his touch, mixed emotions warring inside of you as he cups your cheek.

“And I’m yours. That’s all I care about, baby bird.”

He’s drawing you into a kiss before you can even comprehend the words, soft lips moving against yours. Gently at first, but that sweetness gives way to a burning urgency as he pulls you closer, holds you tighter.

Hawks kisses you like your lips hold salvation, and it’s frightening and thrilling and it feels like every nerve in your body is electrified when his teeth catch at your bottom lip and he moans your name.

There’s some part of you that realises that you’re moving too fast – soulmates or not he’s practically a stranger – but as you break for air, panting and breathless and Hawks looks at you with those burning, beautiful eyes; you’re helpless to resist.

“Keigo,” he tells you as he lays you down on his bed, crawling up between your thighs with a gleaming, hungry smirk that’s nothing less than predatory, “Call me Keigo.”