#chaos for all au
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deusvervewrites · 7 days ago
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Chaos for All X Valiant:
All Might: …hang on, Aizawa, you expelled young Midoriya?
Aizawa: I did. He has no heroic potential.
All Might: Fuck.
Aizawa: Look, just because your protege has your quirk doesn’t mean that-
All Might: No, not my protege. Nedzu’s.
Aizawa: FUCK
Meanwhile, at the illegal fighting ring:
Izuku: oh wow I’m having so much fun here!
The other fighters: *various noises of pain*
He better sleep with one eye open
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bluegiragi · 3 months ago
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generous.
early access + nsfw on patreon monster!AU masterpost
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Agatha: Okay but why are you guys bullying me so hard??
Jen: You’re dating death! Look at her!
Agatha looking at Rio, no skin and teeth all bared: She’s just kooky-
Jen: She’s a skeleton who takes the souls of the dead!
Agatha: Okay??? Would you rather have your soul taken by a man? I wouldn’t!
Billy: This is too much
Rio: I think my revel was better than yours little William
Agatha: Now now sweetheart no need to start arguing of course yours was better
Rio: Damn right it was
Jen: Wait so where’s Alice? Did you take her? Was she safe?
Rio: She was confused but ultimately did accept her death, she was very unnerved at my appearance but she couldn’t really say anything
Agatha: I love your skeleton look
Billy: You’re so down bad it looks desperate
Agatha shrugs: She’s my hot estranged wife who I haven’t seen in centuries, I’m surprised we haven’t snuck off somewhere yet
Rio: We can do if you want
Agatha: Okay-
Jen: No! Were not getting distracted, let’s just finish the road and then you two can do whatever you want with each other
Agatha: ¡vamos! Then
Rio: I love it when you speak Spanish
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demaparbat-hp · 2 months ago
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Thinking of how a birthday party on the ship with the 41st would look like 🧐?
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This is why they never get anything done.
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rarepears · 4 months ago
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Back in the same vein of #shang qinghua is the grandpa friend among the Cang Qiong peak lords AU where Shang Qinghua is one of the oldest Qing peak lords and also nearly a couple centuries older than the youngest Qing generation disciples/peak lords (ahem, Shen Jiu and Liu Qingge)...
One day, the artifact peak lord presents a new artifact discovered from the dusty shelves of Cang Qiong and puts it on the table. It's used to identify parent-child relationships. Specifically, it identifies who, if any, in the room are the parents of the person holding the artifact. *Insert random reason why the artifact peak lord had to bring it out - maybe it's for a low stakes mission for some disciples to undertake but requires a peak lord to transport the artifact because it is rare, expensive, and delicate.*
The Cang Qiong peak lords pass it out, mostly out of curiosity. Or rather, a peak lord is curious about the artifact that they are allocating precious minutes to spend discussing during the monthly peak lord meeting, so he grabs the artifact to take a look. Plus he's bored, so there's that.
The artifact is round, pearl like, and quite pretty with that cat-eye sheen on it. He looks at it from this angle and that, but ultimately, the artifact doesn't react or respond. It's quite boring after 30 seconds of toying it around, so he puts it back.
Naturally, this becomes an invisible signal for the other peak lords to have their turn taking a look at the artifact and a number of peak lords reach out to grab it - but of course, Yue Qingyuan calls dibs first as the sect leader and therefore the highest ranked peak lord. He's not so much interested in the artifact, rather he's getting it to give to Shen Jiu.
Except... when he grabs it, a golden light immediately forms between him and Shang Qinghua... and the artifact is claiming that Shang Qinghua is his biological father.
Silence, and then shocked gasps erupt all around.
Someone immediately asks, "Is this malfunctioning?"
Shen Qingqiu goes to yank the pearl out of Yue Qingyuan's hands, but the moment he touches it, a golden light shines between him and Shang Qinghua.
By the end of this meeting, it's discovered that Shang Qinghua "fathered" most of the Qing generation peak lords; that Shang Qinghua, as is standard for An Ding peak disciples, went on many missions delivering goods to/from various merchants and encountered many sex pollen incidents as the mission leader was led by, at best, a senior disciple; and that Shang Qinghua solved those incidents the good old fashion way with some strangers (ahem, not fellow disciples because they bullied him).
Plus it's taken as fact that Shang Qinghua fathered those peak lords given that not all peak lords were his (as that would immediately be concluded as the artifact no longer properly working) especially when they interrogated Shang Qinghua so hard that they squeezed out from his mouth that he's managed to rizz up an extremely powerful influential demon ruler purely through acting pathetic. Somehow this weakling has the moves to seduce any and all, even the married and most beautiful.
---
(Only Shang Qinghua knows that it's only the peak lords that he actually gave a name to instead of leaving as namely NPCs in PIDW that are marked as his children.)
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edorazzi · 5 months ago
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Page 25 of my Miraculous Mentor AU comic A Matter of Trust! In which Felix is offered a downright horrifying solution to get rid of his Miraculous early, and Plagg explains the rules behind the magical bond! 📜💋
Index | Start | Prev | Next
Weekly updates each Sunday! You can also read ahead early on Patreon (with three brand new pages tonight, totaling 30!), and/or buy me a Ko-fi if you'd like to support my work! 💖
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puppetmaster13u · 9 months ago
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Prompt in Memes 4
Another prompt, but in memes because trying to gather my thoughts is hard sometimes lol.
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opera-ghost · 2 years ago
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phantom of the opera + twitter
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chrisrin · 8 months ago
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HE'S GONNA STEAL--NOT JUST YOUR HEART--BUT EVERYTHING YOU OWN AS WELL!!!
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strange-birb · 1 year ago
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Roy and cass side profiles for the secret band AU!!!
Roy is backup guitar cass is the lead bassist
Roy and Jason on stage are feral and everyone loves it
Cass bends in inhumane ways while she bass solos :)
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v10l3tz-thmblr · 30 days ago
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Would yall believe me if I said I made these just for the shits and giggles. Ehe?
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[Not in order!] Satbk au belongs to me
Rockstar Silver au belongs to @ken-yamh
Sing for Blood au belongs to @hayweerc
Death and Love au belongs to @lm-tomatito
Bound by Chaos belongs to @hayweerc
Dadpio belongs to @retrocandyfloss
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deusvervewrites · 7 months ago
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Valiant X Chaos for All:
Aizawa: *expels Izuku*
Nedzu, seeing a feral child in convenient mentoring distance: >:3
Nedzu really said "is anyone gonna teach that" and didn't wait for an answer
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sasheemo · 10 days ago
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Friday Thoughts
Chapter 2
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Chapter Summary: You struggle to focus during your morning shift after a restless night, thoughts lingering on the evening before. A text arrives, set to alter the course of your weekend.
Word Count: 4.3k
Chapter Index
Read on AO3
You wake up with a start, your chest rising and falling rapidly as your heartbeat pounds in your ears. The room feels stifling, your skin is damp with sweat, and a faint shiver runs down your spine despite the warmth of your tangled sheets. 
For a moment, you lie there, disoriented, clutching at the fading fragments of a dream that slips through your grasp.
Images of Agatha flash in the haze of your half-formed memories, vivid yet blurred. You can almost see the teasing curve of her smile, the glint of her icy blue eyes catching the light, and the cascade of her dark hair falling untamed. Her voice echoes faintly, curling around you like a spell, though you can’t remember what she said. It’s maddening, this lingering sense of her, the indelible mark she seemingly left on you.
The night has been nothing short of unbearable. Each time you’d stirred awake, it was as if her presence still clung to the air around you, intangible but oppressive. You tossed and turned, trying to shake her loose, but she always crept back in. A shadow in your subconscious, drawing you deeper every time you closed your eyes.
Your bed feels heavier than usual, like it’s trying to hold you down. Your body begs for another hour of sleep, just a little more time to recover, but your brain is already awake, unkindly replaying the events of the previous night.
“Maybe, I should ask you out next time.”
Agatha’s words echo in your head and you groan, pressing your palms into your eyes in a futile attempt to block it all out, as if willing the memories away could undo the knot in your stomach.
You check the clock: 6:30 a.m. The shift at the café starts in thirty minutes. A tired chuckle escapes you—there’s no time to process anything, no time to wallow, just time to get up and keep moving.
For a brief moment, you consider calling in sick. Would it be so bad to stay in bed, avoid the world, and pretend that none of this happened? But the thought of lying there, alone with your thoughts, feels worse.
With a heavy sigh, you force yourself to sit up. The dream, the memories, the exhaustion—they’ll have to wait.
You shuffle out of bed with all the grace of a zombie, your limbs heavy and reluctant to obey. The cold floor jolts you, drawing a sharp breath as you force yourself toward the bathroom. A quick shower will have to do, there’s no time for anything more, even though what you really want is to stand under the steaming water until you feel human again.
The spray of lukewarm water stings your skin, a poor imitation of comfort, but you bear it. Shampoo, rinse, towel—everything feels mechanical. Your mind is still clouded, replaying snippets of your restless night and the weight of her voice, her presence, her gaze.
The mirror fogs over as you step out of the shower, and you stare at your reflection with a faint grimace. You look as exhausted as you feel, the bags under your eyes a testament to the chaos in your head. You wrap a towel around your hair and shuffle back to your room, pulling out the first set of clothes you can find: a pair of jeans, a hoodie, and sneakers.
Still towel-drying your hair, you glance at the clock. Shit, it’s already 6:50.
You hurl the damp towel on top of your bed as you shove your feet into your sneakers, barely tying one while the other remains stubbornly untied. Grabbing your bag, you throw it over your shoulder and head for the door.
The crisp morning air bites at your damp hair as you step outside. A chill runs through you, but you tell yourself you’ll warm up on the walk to work. Westview may be small, but it’s convenient. The café is only a few blocks away, and you almost never need your car.
Your steps quicken as you make your way through the quiet streets, the town still waking up around you. The sun barely peeks over the horizon, painting the sky in pale shades of gold and pink. Normally, you’d take a moment to admire the view, but not today. Today, you’re too focused on putting one foot in front of the other, trying not to think about how unprepared you feel—both for your shift and for the emotions swirling in your chest.
But work doesn’t care if you’re tired. Work doesn’t care if you didn’t sleep. And work definitely doesn’t care if your thoughts are consumed by someone you probably shouldn’t even be thinking about.
You push the door open and step inside, bracing yourself for the morning rush.
The café is already buzzing, the smell of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries greeting you like an old friend. You grab your apron from the hook in the back and tie it around your waist, fingers fumbling slightly as your body struggles to keep up with your mind.
“Morning!” your coworker greets, already busy steaming milk for a cappuccino.
You manage a small smile in return, mumbling something resembling a greeting before slipping behind the counter. The machine hums steadily, blending into the chatter of early risers and the clinking of mugs. You know this rhythm by heart—take the order, pour the coffee, hand it over with a polite smile. Repeat.
But today, your focus is nowhere to be found.
“Two lattes and a muffin, please.” a customer says, pulling you back to reality.
“Right, uh, coming right up.” you stammer, forcing a smile. 
Your hands move almost on autopilot, scooping grounds into the espresso machine and steaming milk. You should feel at ease here, this is muscle memory by now. But your thoughts keep slipping away, drawn back to her.
You can’t shake the image of Agatha from last night: the way she moved through every room with effortless grace, like she owned every inch of space without even trying. Her voice was a contradiction—smooth and lilting, yet sharp enough to cut through the air, through your thoughts, through you. 
And her eyes… God, her eyes. The way they always seem to linger on yours for just a heartbeat too long leaves your mind in chaos and your cheeks burning with heat just thinking about it. There’s something about her gaze that never fails to make you feel exposed, as if she sees right through the practiced smiles and careful words, unraveling every layer she can find. 
But it’s not just how she looks at you, it’s the way she always seems to know, to touch something buried deep within, something you’re not sure you want anyone to find.
You let out a quiet sigh as you finish the lattes, sliding them across the counter to the waiting customer. “Here you go, enjoy!” you mutter, though the words feel hollow.
The minutes stretch into an hour, and the café grows busier. You try to focus, really, you do. But every so often, your mind drifts back to her. And to the couple of days ahead.
Normally, you’d welcome the weekend. For the past four months, weekends have been predictable—Agatha never asks you to babysit Nicholas. Saturdays and Sundays are her time with him, and you stay out of the way. It’s been that way since the beginning, and you’ve never thought much about it. But today? Today it feels… different.
You wipe down the counter during a lull, the rag moving in slow circles as your thoughts wonder. 
The idea of not seeing her for two days feels inexplicably strange. You tell yourself it’s a good thing, that you won’t have to face her again so soon after last night, after the way she made you feel—like you were living in some wild parallel universe where Agatha would actually ask her younger babysitter out so casually. 
But there’s another part of you, a quieter, more desperate part, that hates the idea.
You picture her at home with Nicholas, probably reading or cooking something together. You’ve seen glimpses of their weekends before, little clues in the way Nicholas talks about them on Mondays. It’s their time, just the two of them. No babysitter needed.
You should feel relieved. Relieved that you won’t have to navigate the weight of her presence so soon. Relieved that you’ll have space to breathe.
But… what if you don’t want space? What if relief is the last thing you feel? What if the only thought consuming your mind is the pull of her orbit, the irresistible gravity that is drawing you back to her, no matter how much you try to resist? What then?
Your coworker’s voice breaks through your thoughts, snapping you back to reality. “You good?”
“Y-yeah…” you say quickly, forcing a smile. “Just tired.” 
They raise an eyebrow but don’t push it, which you’re grateful for.
Tired. That’s an understatement. But it’s easier to blame exhaustion than to face what’s really gnawing at you.
You glance at the clock, counting the hours until your shift ends. Until you can go home, close your eyes, and maybe, just maybe, find some way to keep her out of your head.
It’s nearly halfway through your shift when your phone vibrates against the counter. You glance at it, expecting a spam notification or a weather update, but your stomach drops when you see the name on the screen.
For a moment, you just stare at the notification, frozen in place. 
Agatha never messages you outside of scheduling changes, and even then, it’s rare. You wipe your hands on your apron before picking up the phone, your thumb hovering over the screen for a second longer than necessary before you unlock it.
Her message is brief and straight to the point, as always, but it’s enough to send your mind spiraling.
-Morning, hon. I’ve got some work to catch up on this weekend. Think you could keep Nicholas company for a few hours this afternoon? Let me know.
Your heart skips a beat as you read it, then reread it, and then—just for good measure—read it again. She’s never asked you to babysit on a weekend before. Weekends are her time with Nicholas, untouchable and sacred. Why now? Why today?
The rational part of your brain tries to take control, telling you it’s probably nothing. Maybe she’s really just busy, or maybe Nicholas asked for you. But the other part of you, the part that’s been living rent-free in your head since last night, is already racing ahead, imagining every possible subtext and intention behind her words.
You glance at the clock. Five minutes have passed since the message arrived, and you haven’t responded yet. She’s probably expecting an answer.
Quickly, you type back, your fingers fumbling over the keys.
-Of course, just let me know the time.
You hit send and immediately regret the phrasing. Does it sound too eager? Too formal? You shake your head, trying to push the doubts away.
Her reply comes almost instantly.
-Perfect. 4 PM?
The casual ease of her response does nothing to calm you. You feel the heat rise to your cheeks as you quickly type your reply.
-Sure, see you later.
You slide your phone back into your pocket, trying to focus on the tasks at hand. But it’s no use. Your thoughts are already drifting to the afternoon, to her house, to her.
You spend the rest of your shift caught in a whirlwind of emotions, memories and anticipation creating a deadly mix that throws your usual rhythm at the café completely off balance. Every time the bell above the door chimes, signaling a new customer, your heart jumps, half expecting to see her walk in, though you know she won’t.
You try to focus on the tasks at hand, but your thoughts keep pulling you back. You catch yourself biting your lip as you replay the messages in your head for the tenth time. It’s nothing, you tell yourself. She just needs a little help. But a tiny, most definitely delusional, part of you refuses to believe it’s as simple as that.
By the time the shift ends, you’ve convinced yourself that you’re overthinking it. It’s just a normal day, just a normal message. And yet, as you clock out and head home, the weight of anticipation settles heavier in your chest. 
The walk home doesn’t do much to clear your head. If anything, the crisp air only sharpens the edges of your thoughts, making it impossible to push them aside.
Once inside, you toss your bag onto the couch and collapse beside it, letting out a long, frustrated sigh. The message from Agatha keeps playing in your mind, looping endlessly, until it’s almost like you can hear her voice saying the words instead of you reading them.
You tell yourself to relax, to just sit down, maybe eat something, and stop overthinking. It’s just babysitting. Just Nicholas.
You try scrolling through your phone, but the screen blurs as your thoughts drift. You grab a book from the coffee table, but the words don’t stick. After twenty minutes of pacing the living room, you give up entirely and head to your bedroom, determined to at least figure out what to wear.
It should be easy, you’ve done this many times before—picking comfortable, practical clothes you can move around in while keeping up with an energetic eight-year-old.
You pull a few options from your closet, laying them out on the bed as you stare at them like they hold the answer to some unspoken question. A hoodie and jeans? Too casual. A sweater? Maybe, but which one? You catch sight of a blouse tucked in the back of the closet and hesitate. Too much?
You shake your head, frustrated with yourself for even thinking about it. Agatha’s not going to care what you wear. She’s probably too busy with her work to even notice.
But then again…
Your fingers brush over the fabric of the blouse, and for a brief moment, you imagine the way she might look at you. Would she say something? Would she even notice?
You groan, tossing the blouse back onto the bed and grabbing your favorite sweater instead. The soft, worn, deep purple fabric feels like a quiet reassurance as you pull it over your head. It’s familiar, it’s reliable, comfortable without making a statement. It’s a safe choice. Just what you need.
By the time you’re ready to leave, your stomach is in knots, twisting in ways you didn’t think were physically possible. When you woke up this morning, you’d told yourself nothing could feel worse than how you felt then. Turns out, the day had other plans, and it’s really outdoing itself.
The house looms ahead as you walk up the path, your heartbeat quickening with every step. You tell yourself it’s just the cold air or the anticipation of dealing with Nicholas’ boundless energy, but deep down, you know better.
When you reach the door, you hesitate for just a second before knocking. It’s a firm, polite knock, nothing too eager. You shift your weight, staring at the faint glow from the windows as you wait.
The door opens a moment later, and there she is.
Agatha is on the phone, her gaze flicking to yours briefly as she raises a finger, gesturing toward the device by her ear to signal it’s a work call. Without missing a beat in her conversation, she steps aside to let you in, her tone clipped yet composed as she discusses deadlines and budgets.
She gives you a small nod, gesturing toward the living room, before closing the door behind you and disappearing up the stairs, her heels clicking softly against the steps.
You can’t help but marvel, briefly and absurdly, at the fact that she’s wearing heels. At home. While working. For no one but herself. Who does that? Then again, it’s Agatha. Of course she’d find a way to make “business casual at home” look not just effortless, but devastatingly good.
You stand there, the faint echo of her voice drifting down from the second floor as you awkwardly toe off your shoes. It’s not the first time you’ve been greeted by her while she’s on the phone, but today it feels… disappointing.
For a moment, you linger in the entryway, half expecting her to finish the call and come back down. But minutes pass, and the only sound is her voice murmuring faintly in the distance.
Nicholas barrels into the room, breaking the silence. “You’re here!” he says, his face lighting up as he grabs your hand, already tugging you toward the couch. “Come on, I’ve got something to show you!”
His enthusiasm is a welcome distraction, and you let him pull you along, trying to focus on his chatter instead of the constant awareness of Agatha somewhere above you.
But even as you sit down and try to focus on the toy he’s enthusiastically explaining, her presence clings to the edges of your mind, refusing to let go. Her voice seeps through the ceiling like an uninvited melody, pulling your thoughts upward when they should be grounded here, with Nicholas.
You’re here for him, after all. And yet, no matter how much you try, you can’t seem to fully tune into his chatter. A pang of guilt settles in your chest as you realize how distracted you are today, how unfair it feels to him. He deserves your full attention, and instead, all you can think about is the woman upstairs. His mother nonetheless.
Nicholas doesn’t seem to notice how distracted you are—at least, not at first. He’s too busy running circles around the living room, bouncing between a pile of toys on the carpet and his favorite spot on the couch.
“Look at this!” he says for the fifth time in ten minutes, holding up a plastic spaceship with a proud grin.
You smile and nod, mustering a “Wow, that’s so cool!” reaction that you hope sounds convincing. But even to your own ears, it feels off, like the words don’t quite land the way they should.
It’s not his fault. Nicholas is as bright and full of energy as ever, his enthusiasm spilling into every corner of the room. But your mind keeps slipping. Every time he holds something up for you to see, you catch yourself glancing toward the ceiling, half-listening for the faint sound of footsteps or the low murmur of a voice that isn’t his.
Nicholas plops down beside you, tugging at your sleeve. “You’re really distracted today.” he says, his tone more observant than accusing, though it still hits like a punch.
“Am I?” you ask, trying to sound casual, though the knot of guilt in your chest tells you he’s right.
He tilts his head at you like he’s trying to figure something out. “Yeah. Usually, you’re way more fun.”
You let out a soft laugh, ruffling his hair to hide the fact that the comment stings more than it should. 
“I’m sorry, buddy. I guess I didn’t sleep great last night.” It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth either.
Nicholas doesn’t press the issue, already leaping to his feet to grab another toy. He’s resilient like that, bouncing back faster than you feel like you deserve.
For a while, you try to lose yourself in his energy, letting him pull you into his games and stories. He shows you his drawings—one of which features the two of you as stick figures, standing side by side under a cartoonishly bright sun.
“See? That’s you!” he says proudly, pointing to the taller figure with messy hair.
You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I don’t think I’ve ever looked better.”
His giggle is infectious, and for a fleeting moment, the weight in your chest seems to loosen.
By the time you hear the soft rhythm of footsteps on the stairs, a couple of hours have slipped by. Nicholas has kept you busy, his enthusiasm boundless as always, but your focus has been flickering on and off, caught somewhere between him and the occasional echo of Agatha’s voice from upstairs.
Agatha appears with an effortless grace that borders on unfair, one hand resting lightly on the railing as if she doesn’t actually need it. Her dark hair shifts with each step, a wild, natural wave that catches the light briefly before falling back into place. The heels she’s wearing—a sleek, elegant pair that look more suited for a runway than a staircase—click steadily against the wood. You can’t help but think about how you’d probably twist an ankle just trying to stand in them, let alone descend a flight of stairs with such poise.
Her face, illuminated by the warm glow of the overhead lights, carries a quiet fatigue. There’s no irritation, no sharp edge to her expression, only a subdued calm, like someone who has carried the weight of a long day and has decided not to let it show. It’s Saturday, and you know she’s been working, but somehow, she looks composed, refined, and entirely unbothered, as if the very concept of exhaustion has learned to negotiate with her.
You try to busy yourself with the blocks Nicholas has scattered across the carpet, but it’s impossible not to steal another glance as she steps into the room.
Her gaze sweeps over the scattered blocks, the half-built castle, and finally settles on Nicholas, who is still enthusiastically adding to his masterpiece. 
“Everything alright down here?” she asks, her tone smooth and even, though there’s a touch of warmth in the way she looks at her son.
“Mom, look at my castle!” Nicholas exclaims, waving toward his creation without missing a beat.
Her lips curve into the faintest smile as she nods. 
“Impressive.” she says, the word carrying a weight that makes Nicholas beam. Then, her attention shifts to you, her smile curving just slightly deeper, with an edge of amusement that feels as though it’s meant just for you.
“And you?” she asks, her head tilting slightly. “Are you surviving?”
You clear your throat, trying to ignore the way her gaze makes your pulse stutter. 
“Yeah, I think so.” you manage, a warm smile forming on your lips as you glance affectionately at a very busy Nicholas, though your voice feels too small for the space.
She hums softly, the sound thoughtful as it drifts through the room, before turning and heading toward the kitchen. You take it as your cue. Standing, you brush your hands against your sweater.
“If you’re done for the day, I can head out now.” you say, keeping your tone polite, casual. “Give you two some time to catch up.”
Agatha stops mid-step, turning her head just enough to glance at you over her shoulder. 
“Head out?” she repeats, her voice carrying a note of surprise, as though the thought hadn’t even occurred to her.
“I just thought…” you falter under her gaze, your words tangling. “Since you’re done working, you wouldn’t need me anymore.”
She turns fully now, leaning against the counter, her movements as composed as her expression, her eyes scanning you like she’s trying to read between the lines of what you’re not saying.
“It’s getting late.” Agatha says, her tone deceptively casual as she ignores your reasoning entirely. “You probably have plans for the evening. A date, maybe? It is Saturday night after all.”
The question rolls off her tongue with practiced ease, airy and playful, but her gaze fixes on yours with unsettling intensity, as though she’s already unraveling your reaction before you can form it.
“No!” the word bursts out of you, too loud, too fast, and you immediately feel the heat rush to your face. 
“I mean- no, I don’t. I wasn’t- there’s no date.” You’re rambling now, tripping over your own words, each one more unnecessary than the last. “No plans. Just me. Alone. Tonight. At home.”
Oh my god. Please, stop talking! Your brain is screaming now, waving an emergency shutdown flag you’re clearly ignoring. Forget a facepalm, you’re ready to dig a hole in the floor and disappear forever.
Her lips curve into a satisfied smile, the kind that makes your stomach twist in ways you don’t entirely understand. She tilts her head slightly, her voice dipping into something almost indulgent. 
“Well, then.” she says, her tone steady, laced with a quiet finality that makes her next words feel inevitable. “Stay for dinner. It’s only fair after pulling you away on a Saturday.”
It’s not a question—it’s a statement, smooth and effortless, like the decision has already been made for you. And before you can find a way to respond, she turns back toward the counter, pulling open a cabinet to retrieve a bottle of wine.
You’re left standing there, frozen in place as your mind races to catch up. She’s never invited you to dinner before—or any meal, for that matter. Sure, she’s a human being and eating is, obviously, a basic necessity, but the thought of Agatha Harkness doing something as casual as sharing a meal feels almost surreal.
Your plans for the evening are rewritten in an instant. You weren’t planning on doing much, just collapsing on your couch and replaying the last twenty-four hours in your head. But this… this is something else entirely.
You glance at the clock, as if grounding yourself in the reality of the moment, and then back at Agatha. She moves through the kitchen with her usual grace, completely unfazed, her movements as fluid and intentional as her words.
It feels like a door you didn’t even know existed has been cracked open, and you’re standing on the threshold, unsure of what’s waiting on the other side.
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noocturnart · 15 days ago
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Might be doing fanart of a fanfic I really liked,,,
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The whole thing I’m planing on doing is actually a little crazier than that
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in-my-loki-feels · 11 months ago
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I can't stop thinking about pairing this guy:
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with this guy:
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Just something about the absolute goofball energy of the first, running into the megalomaniac energy of the second. I feel like President Loki would be all "I am here to rule and nothing's going to stop me!" and the Mobius variant would be confused but on board and also distracted by a dish on another table: "Oh yeah? Cool, cool, tell me more. Hey, are you going to eat that?"
ETA: I ended up writing a short thing for this idea. Adding a link here in case the one in the reblogs isn't obvious.
There is now a 4+1 expanded version up on AO3!
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tiredwriter2003 · 10 months ago
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Halloween Dancers
I had an idea, I'll probably write it properly later but for now I'm getting it out of my head. I was reading a post a out Dash being a talkshow host and leading to them outing Amity and this came to mind.
A cousin of a citizen of Amity heard all about all the crazy stuff going down, they keep them updated in their weekly phone calls, but thought they were making it up. Eventually divolves into an argument and they decide to look to prove them wrong. And find the internet oddly sanitised, which makes them look deeper. Eventually they get others involved wondering tf is going on over in Illinois. They manage to break through but mess up, instead boosting the signal so much that the halloween livestreams take over a large chunk of American media. T.v. s, computers, phones, etc all playing the phantom streams, where someone sees phantom just chilling and starts streaming. this time it's Samhain and the place is eerie. Blue tinged fog covers the place, it's dark out, no living person in sight and the camera pointed to the sky. In the sky you see glowing figures dancing to music coming from nowhere. An ageless youth in regal clothes spinning his partner, white hair drifing like he's underwater, his partner dressed like the pharohs of old spinning alongside him. A woman dressed in victorian ballgowns joining their dance. Other etheral beings coming out of the woodwork, spinning in the sky alongside their king. The dead dancing in the starlit sky as the veil becomes thin enough they can all come through with no major issues. And this haunting scene taking over every screen within the signals range. As the hours go by the sun begins to rise and the fog fades. they bow and begin to fade back into the realms, leaving the original three waltzing in the sunrise as the stars fade before leaving themselves and the stream cuts off.
Turns out their cousin wasn't lying, wierd stuff is going on in Amity, and no one, including the JL, knew about it. Someones head was going to rule for the lack of info. This stunk of a coverup.
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