#have i spent way too much time on this? YES

[hyperfixiation-station]

Behind Enemy Lines Pt.1

CW: Torture, Canon-typical violence, talk of derealization, disassociation Summary: You were a friendly medic, captured years ago and held prisoner, forced to do do the bidding of your captors. Years later, a man by the name of Ghost is dragged in and changes the trajectory of your life. A/N: I had severe ADHD, and i am unmedicated rn, and it makes it really hard to work on things unless I get the hyperfocused drive for it, so I'm sorry I'm so bad at making the other parts to my fics. Know that I will never abandon them. it just might take me a while. idea part 2

You fought back, at first. Way back when you first got captured, taken from your base camp and dragged through miles and miles of harsh terrain, blindfolded and bound. A medic you were, yes. But your team had trained you with the best of them. You spent the whole time trying to escape, kicking and screaming until they bound your legs and gagged you. You spent the first month of captivity refusing to talk to them, hissing and spitting and pretending their punches didn’t hurt. But it didn't take you long to realize it was better to cooperate, or to at least be civil. Civility got you less broken bones, less pain, more rations, more sleep. Cooperation didn’t come till later, when you finally realized your team wasn't coming for youthey were dead but you didn't know that.

Surprisingly, the whole mouth-getting-sewn-shut didn't happen till a couple years in... they were torturing someone, a man who said he had kids and a wife at home, whose only wish was that they left something recognizable of him so they could get some closure. You begged them to stop. Begged them to stop when his wounds became too numerous to count, too much for you to handle. Begged because you started to care for him as he told you about his son and daughter, how they want him home for Christmas(You didn't have the heart to tell him Christmas was 6 days ago) Told them that he would die no matter what you did if they continued. Well, they didn't stop, and he did die... and you found yourself ringing in the new year by being strapped to a table.

“We warned you to stop talking with him.” They said as they clamped the metal shut over your forehead and chin, holding you in place. “We told you to not get attached, but since you can’t seem to do it on your own, we’ll help you.” The feeding tube came 2 weeks later, shoved up your nose when they realized you were starving...they couldn't lose their favorite medic of course.

You stopped paying attention to the passage of time after that, spent most of your days drifting in and out of reality, moving through the motions with a practiced ease. And it would have remained that way, if it wasn’t for a man in a skull mask with a team- a family- looking for him. 

Your first introduction to him ended up with you getting a broken nose. Per usual, you were shoved into the cell, medical kit in hand, ready to fix up whatever damage your captors had done the their poor prisoner.

The mask he had been wearing when you saw him dragged in was gone, and he had a gash that went all the way through his cheek that would need stitching up. You pull out your equipment, moving slowly towards his bleeding face. 

he headbutted you the moment you got close enough for him to reach, and the crunch of bone and the gush of warm blood followed, not that you noticed. You were still in that dreamlike state, not quite tether to reality in the way you should be. You barely noticed when they tranqued him, and the only reason you didn't finish his stitches is because you passed out too(it’s hard to breathe through a bloody, broken nose)

The next time you approach more carefully, but he’s no trouble. Mostly because they left him completely strapped to the table this time. Today was a rare day, a time when you  could actually feel your feet on the ground rather than just see them. You feel bad as you wipe him down, your eyes flicking over the myriad of scars on his body. What’s one more you think to yourself as you get to work stitching a stab wound to his thigh. Just barely missed the artery here…that could have been bad news. Okay tie it off and- there we go. I think the only other thing that need to- oh, is he…talking to me? I should probably pay attention to that.

“-here?” His voice is gravely, though you suppose yours would be too after being tortured. He stares at you expectantly, and you shrug. You don’t know what he said, and even if you did, you couldn’t answer. You just move to his wrist, snapping the bone back in place. He inhales sharply, but doesn’t make an actual sound, which surprises you. But you don’t dwell on it, wrapping a bandage around his arm and moving to exit the room. 

“Y’ no’ g’nna lemme off?” His voice sounds, “they said y’ would.” You spin around, staring at him. You're not stupid. And even if your…bosses had said that, you still wouldn’t do it. Being trapped in a room with a man who is at least a foot taller than you and looks like he could kill a man with his glare? No thank you. 

You take a step back, heading towards the door. The man lets out a sound you would barely qualify as a laugh. “Sm’rt then.” He says to himself, “No’ gonna be that easy.” 

The next time you go in, you can't help but wonder what they want from this man. By now they usually would have killed him off. Oh well, not your job to wonder. You clean him up, splinting the fingers they had broke when he talks to you again.

"why don't y' let me die?" He says, voice just as gravely as before, "Put me outa m' misery?" You don't respond, just keep taping his hand. IT's something you ad asked yourself, right at the beginning. It would be kinder for you to just let your patients die. But you couldn't do it. Partially because you were punished anytime someone died before your captors wanted them to, but also because you were a medic. YOu were there to heal. You couldn't stomach letting someone die by your hand.

"Answer me!" The man snarls, bringing you back to the present, "For god's sake y' never talk, fuckin' mute." You don't respond, of course. Just finish your task and leave him to his thoughts.

He’s angrier after that time, you’ve noticed. The few times you're actually present, he’s fighting you. Usually not with words, but he bucks and doesn’t hold still. He’s tried to grab your medical supplies countless times, and one time you actually had to be pulled out because he jerked his arm while you were stitching him and somehow managed to drive the needle into your own hand. The few times he does actually yell at you, you’re usually not paying attention. You can catch words like “Dishonorable”  and “Disgraceful”. You aren’t entirely sure of the context of the words, but you can guess. You’ve treated enough prisoners who think that you are the world's worst human being, a blight to the medical field, to guess what he's trying to tell you. 

It's funny though, this man so full of hate. Because, for the first time in goodness knows how long, your feet are on the ground, and your head is level. Something about this man, his angry, uncrushed demeanor, even after weeks of torture, stirs emotion in you that you can’t quite identify. And maybe you should be grateful, thankful your head is on right, but you're not. You so desperately want to go back to that place of apathy and detachment, where your emotions weren’t so strong, were the pains of mishealed bones and poorly healed scars didn’t plague your waking moments. 

Or maybe it wasn’t the man- The Ghost, as you found out he was called. Maybe it was the fact that something in the air had changed. The air was electric, charged with tension so thick you could feel it even alone in your cot. They were watching you, you could tell. Could feel their eyes tracking your movements in a way they hadn’t since first giving you freedom to move around. 

You're not sure why. It’s not like you have anyone to go home to. You were an only child, and your parents had died long before you reached 18. All you had was your team, a team that had seemingly abandoned you. So why would you leave? There was nowhere to go. And yet they watched you. Was it because you were becoming more aware, more grounded then you had been in a long while? Was it the man, Ghost, who had them on edge? 

The answer came two days later. You were in Ghost's cell again, desperately packing gauze into a gaping hole on his side. You don’t know what had happened, but for the first time in years you were dragged from your cell, your captors muttering under their breath in a language you still didn’t understand as they thrust you into his cell. Blood was everywhere. Your best guess was that Ghost had been struggling and an instrument had slipped and gouged out a hole in his side. So here you are, packing gauze into the wound as you try to figure out what to do to keep him alive with your rudimentary supplies. 

You pack another piece of gauze in just as the door goes flying open. Men, dressed in black, wearing the same mask Ghost was, come bursting in. 

“Get back!” The one in the front yells at you, gun pointed in your face. You shake your head, hands pressed against Ghost’s wound. 

“Now!” You make a protesting noise, trying to gesture with your chin. The man looks down, eyes widening. 

“Aw shit- are you the medic?” You nod almost desperately. The man looks at you again, staring at your hands. They are shaking, pressed against the wound as you try to keep Ghost from bleeding out. 

“Fix him.” The man snaps. You shake your head and look up at the man, trying to communicate that you need more supplies. 

“Use your words.” The man gabs the gun at you, indicating he wants you to get on with it. You stomp your foot, shaking your head again. 

“What, what's that supposed..…you can’t speak, can you?” You nod, glad he finally got it. The man groans, lowering his gun.

“You’re coming with us, but you make one wrong move, and I mean one, I will put a bullet through your brain before you can even speak. Got it?” He gestures to the other two men with him, and together you lift Ghost up, carrying him out to safety.

A/N- anyways, here's part one. Sorry if it disappoints anyone

tags, sorry if i missed any:

@redzluvvesage @just-a-harmless-potato-05  @vesna-the-spring @princess312 @norsehorseofcourse-blog @bonniperinktrance @soggywafflezz  @littlebunie @sirbonesly @havoc973 @mommymilkers0526 @thegreyjoyed @pinkiliciousgunp0int @poopoobuttsy @darcellethedreamer @kamote-kuneho

[whadawhaaa]

Its been two weeks since the last earth-shaking explosion rattled the bunker my family has been holed up in during the war. The past three years have felt like a blur, a monotonous chant that I can't even remember the words to.

Most days consisted of mom quietly humming as she swept away the dirt, her hair seemingly becoming more gray and frazzled each time the bunker rumbled and dirt fell from the ceiling, extending the chore like a never ending loop. My younger brother spent most of his time playing through my old DS games, not like we had internet the moment the first bomb dropped. The first few weeks he would ask "How much longer" hourly and he seemed restless, complaining about the processed food and canned veggies we had to sustain on. As the weeks turned to months, eventually years he too became silent.

I remember my dad, explaining to Mom the action plan, helping us pack our emergency bags and sending us on our way. He told us he would see us soon, but I think we all lost hope within the first few months, even though my mom still tells my brother how Dad will be so happy to see us when we finally reunite on the surface

"This is different," I remember Dad's words as he looked up to the sky before seeing us off, "I promise you will be safe, I promise I will see you soon." With one last bear hug, off we went. Somewhere in the middle of nowhere after hours of driving Mom pulled off to the side of the road. The Pacific-northwest wilderness all around us.

"Where are we?" I looked up from my phone, immediately noticing the tears running down her cheeks, "...Mom?"

"We have to walk the rest of the way," she said, obviously trying to keep her voice from trembling. "Your dad has left markers, he told me I would recognize them."

She took a deep breath, "Grab your brother and your bags, I'll get the first aid kits and the rest of the supplies."

We got out and I opened the back seat, "Come on, Cam," unbuckling him from the car seat. He was so much smaller, only five when it all ended. "Time to walk!"

We trekked through the cold for what seemed like hours in one direction and then my mom stopped.

"There," she pointed at a pine off to the right, etched into it were to letters. "N + C" I immediately recognized mine and Cameron's initials.

As we walked towards it I could see Mom's eyes darting around, scanning quickly and taking in every detail of the area, "Nic, I need you to help me find-" she cut off as in the distance she points at another tree with the same initials, "There!" she started running, "Look for them, Nic, we need to go!"

We followed tree after tree for miles, and eventually came to a clearing with a large boulder in the middle. My mother has been a stay at home mom for as long as I can remember, but she began digging around the pine needles and dirt at the base of the rock, as if years of training were kicking in.

Finally with an "Aha!" and some tugging at the base of it, a small tremor began, a hatch lifted about twenty feet away.

"Nic, I know we haven't explained much to you at this point, but I need you to be strong, your fifteen now and I don't know how long we are going to be here." Mom looked both terrified and stern at the same time, "We will be here until Dad comes and gets us, there is a very big war that is about to happen. Do you understand?"

I looked into the shadows beyond the hatch, "Are we mole people now?"

A small wave of humor wiped across her face "Nic, this is not the time for jokes, but yes"

Ever since then the bunker has been home. We listened and waited, stocks of canned and dehydrated goods sustaining us as the ground shook around us day after day for years. When the first day came without a bomb being dropped I don't think any of us realized, after three days Mom put Cameron down for bed and motioned for me to follow her out of the small bunk room we shared.

"Its been days now, do you think its safe?" My voice was raspy, I couldn't remember the last time I spoke aloud. Weeks? Months?

"I-I don't know," she turned to me with same terrified stern look she had two years before. I realized the pressure we were under, and not just from being fifty feet below the surface. "We need to wait until your father-"

"Mom, when are you going to stop acting as if he survived? We need to figure this out." Did anyone else survive? Who won the war? How long do we wait.

"Nic, it is very important that we wait, your dad is a very resourceful man and if he said he will come to us then I believe him" She walked towards the ladder in the corner of the room and looked up from where we climbed down.

"How long?" I asked bluntly, "How long do we sit here hiding before we accept he didn't survive? Something up there has been shaking us out in the middle of nowhere for years" I start to realize the time we've spent in the dark, disconnected, "There are so many things that could be happening and we cannot guarantee anything!"

"Two weeks." she said, without looking away from the only way up. "I will wait two weeks, and if no more tremors we can go to the surface. I will go to the surface and check if its safe."

Here I am, two weeks later trying to sleep as anxiety rips through me and what is going to happen tomorrow when we wake up. Will it be safe? Is there anyone left? Slowly as I drift to sleep, these unanswered questions exhausting me I feel a small tug. No, not a tug, a lift, as if a small wave pulled me above water briefly. My eyes snap open and I look at the battery clock next to my bunk, its time.

I walk out and I see my mom standing in the main room, dressed as if she had somewhere to go for the first time in months, and she did.

"I'm going up," she said, "Watch Cameron and I'll be right back down." She picked up a small device off the kitchen table, turning it on made it click and whistle, then silence. "I need to see if we are in danger from radiation."

She grabs the metal ladder, her foot on the first rung, "If its safe, we need to hope the car is where we left it otherwise we will be walking for a while" she began to climb up into the darkness.

After about ten minutes when I heard the hatch opening echo down the tunnel and again I felt the tug, stronger this time. It felt as if I was standing in the ocean and a wave tried to lift me off of my feet, I felt a tingling sensation course though me and release as if shooting out of my fingertips. When I heard the hatch close the sensation almost immediately cut off, "Shit." I said aloud, thinking to myself it must be radiation. I grew more and more anxious as I heard Mom's steps get closer and closer to the bottom until she appeared from the dark.

"Its-" She paused, turning around her face looking like a mix of confused and stressed, "Its clear, no traces at all."

Then what was that feeling? I must've looked a certain way while thinking and Mom read me like a book.

"I don't know what the was when I opened the hatch, Nic, but you're right. We cannot sit and wait until our food supply is gone, we need to find help." She grabs our bags and sets them on the table, quickly gathering supplies. "Go get Cameron ready."

We gather everything and I get Cameron dressed, he asks a hundred questions I don't have the answer to and I just keep telling him we need to go back to the car. Finally, we get go up. Mom first, then Cameron, then me. Slowly making our way through the dark until Mom stops below the hatch. Our dimly lit abode below us looks like a small speck five stories below us.

"My arms hurt!" Cameron whines.

"Give me just a sec to-hah! Found it!" The hatch clicks and Mom pushes it open letting in a burst of light and fresh air. My body feels light again, a sudden rush pushes me and I feel like I'm going to shoot straight up like a cork in a bottle.

We crawl out and everything looks surprisingly familiar. The air feels crisp with a slight tinge of fall and wet pine needles to give me an idea of the time of year. The sensation continues to pull me upwards, I feel pressure building as if I'm a balloon being pushed under water. The tingling sensation feels as if it is concentrated on the tips of my fingers and I look down and-

"Mom, what's going on!?" I hold up my hand and as I do sparks begin to shoot from it, no pain only pressure.

"I-I don't know Nic, are you ok? Does it hurt?" She looks horrified, "Shake it off!"

I start shaking my hand, I feel tears welling up even though I don't feel hurt, just scared. The sparks fade. I look down at my hand and see light blue lines tracing along my veins and fading up my arm. I reach out and the outlines pulse as if alive. My hand is no longer shooting sparks and I move my fingers to make sure everything is ok. They meet friction when I move them, something that feels almost like my old guitar strings pushing against my fingers, a clump of chords in my hand when I ball it into a fist. I reach out slowly and run my index finger down as if to strum the invisible instrument, quickly with each passing chord, a faint blue line lights up as I move downward, one by one lighting up and fading fast behind.

I take a step forward, and besides the pressure inside my chest, there is nothing stopping me moving. I take a swing with my hand and like a harp, the faint chords appear vertically behind the motion, fading as quickly as they appeared.

A voice rings through my mind, a voice like music.

"You have a natural talent, you understand the magic coursing through you as a beautiful song waiting to be played"

"Who are you?!" I say aloud.

"Nic, who are you talking to?" Mom looks so scared, Cam looks up at me, his eyes bright with curiosity.

"Its been a long time since I have been awake in this world, so many voices, too many for me to handle. At last I can hear the music through all of the noise!"

"If you don't tell me who you are, I-I-" I stammer out, not knowing what I would do if the voice doesn't give me an answer.

"Calm down, child. I am not here to hurt you, in fact I am your savior, your muse. Soon you will understand, soon you will play such beautiful songs for me, you will compose symphonies for my orchestra. For I, child, am Mystra."

The magic weave is real, every human pulls from it. But the vast Ocean that is the weave is not infinite and as the human population rises the power one can pull from the weave becomes almost non existent. Earth just faced a apocalyptic event that wiped out 80% of humanity and you feel the weave

[guppybibi]

part 2 to the johnny fic!

notes: this was pretty rushed,,,so it is fast paced..if u guys dont like this one i could always rewrite it! :3

taglist: @ennovi-9 @vvenus-child @msilwrites @tessakate @beatriceshadowmarvel2 @montenegroisr (for some reason i cant tag the others??) i'll try to do so in the comments

Grief was never an easy thing to heal from to begin with, so Simon has kept a close eye on you ever since. You refused to believe him at first, trying to pull out some sort of proof that you were with Johnny this past year but to your own shock, there was none. Not a singular one.

Luckily, Simon had a xerox copy of Johnny’s death certificate. The original copy was with you but it seems that it was burned to ashes based on the reaction you gave when Simon dangled it over your face.

But you really weren’t believing him, shielded in the denial you were holding tightly close to you. “Where’s the urn with half of his ashes then, eh?” Simon throws the question at you, his words unintentionally harsher than expected.

But he really doesn't get what you've been trying to convince him to believe, don't you remember spreading Soap’s ashes? He expected you to at least remember that part.

“The…what?” That was all you could manage to say right now, your voice failing you now of all times. “The urn with his ashes.” He repeats, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he intently watches your expression.

Simon starts to wonder how hard of a psychosis you went through, or if you ever took drugs after Johnny’s death. That would explain the hallucinations as well, there's no shame in it either. It's not unusual for someone to turn to substances during mourning, it's a common coping mechanism.

All Simon wants to focus on is you, for you to get better. Fuck Johnny for leaving you alone like this, the pitiful sight almost made Simon's face be a constant scowl.

Okay..maybe he was exaggerating but he’ll definitely throw a middle finger up to the sky later. Simon knows it'll probably make Johnny laugh his ass off…or worry. It really depends if he knew your current situation.

Either way, none of that stuff matters much. You have no choice but to be in Simon’s care.

He’s not quite sure what to do when you start crying into his chest the moment you two stepped into your house, no longer a home. He remains still, lightly patting you on the back as he guides you to the couch.

He’ll be here for a while, won't he?

~~~

It's been weeks since you've known about Johnny’s death, but the only thing Simon could notice was the lack of improvement.

You were rotting in bed, relying on Simon completely for you to do basic tasks. You spent most of the time crying and sleeping, an endless cycle that even made Simon feel like he was going crazy.

“C’mon, eat up, luv. I made you some soup. We're runnin’ out of groceries as well, wanna tag along later?” He offers, holding up the spoon full of soup to your mouth. Expectedly, with a disinterested look, you turn your back on him.

He sighs, putting the bowl aside. “Alright, I won't make you go but the offer is still up.” He says, pausing when he hears footsteps get closer and closer to the door.

It's…weirdly familiar. Simon could recognize people based off of their footsteps alone, but he simply couldn't place his finger on this one. As it got nearer, you seemed to notice it as well..

The two of you make questioning looks at each other. “Stay there, I’ll go check it out.” Simon stood up, making his way to the door until a certain someone pops out.

“Bonnie? Ye there? Git us some groceries.”

…Another shared look between you and Simon.

“Oh good, there yer are, lass. Simon? You're here too? Glad there's another set of hands then.”

Simon’s gaze moved to you, seeing your eyes water up with tears. But that wasn't what caught his attention, it was the hole through this…Johnny’s head.

[cheeseatlantic]

i made a fort, idc that im old. i love my fort!!!! so you guys should too 🤷

HOLD THE FORT DOWN

It started with a rainy day and too much downtime. You were curled up on the couch, engrossed in a book, when Johnny sauntered in, a mischievous glint in his eyes. That look was always trouble.

“You look bored,” he said, plopping down next to you, way too close for someone who clearly had an ulterior motive.

“I’m not,” you replied, not even glancing up.

“Well, I am,” he said, his accent thickening as he stood up with exaggerated flair. “We’re makin’ a fort.”

You blinked up at him. “What?”

“A fort,” he repeated, already grabbing cushions from the couch. “Ye know—blankets, pillows, the whole deal. Best way to pass the time.”

“Johnny, we’re not ten.”

He shot you a mock-offended look. “Speak for yerself. I happen to have the heart of a bairn.”

“And the attention span of one too,” you muttered, but he was already dragging the coffee table closer, tossing blankets over the top like a man on a mission.

Within minutes, the living room was transformed into a chaotic masterpiece of mismatched sheets, cushions, and a couple of chairs he’d commandeered from the kitchen. Johnny crawled inside, peeking his head out with a grin. “Well? Ye comin’ in or what?”

Sighing, you set your book down and crawled into the fort. It was surprisingly cozy, lit by the faint glow of a string of fairy lights he’d apparently swiped from somewhere. “Alright, I’ll admit it—this is kinda nice.”

“Kinda?” He scoffed, pulling a bag of snacks from who-knows-where. “This is a masterpiece. A marvel o’ modern engineering.”

You laughed, leaning back against a pile of pillows. “Alright, architect, what’s the plan now?”

“Movies, obviously.” He held up a tablet triumphantly. “And snacks. Oh, and absolutely no leavin’ the fort. It’s sacred ground now.”

“Sacred, huh?”

“Swear it on ma honour,” he said, completely serious—until a chip fell from his hand, and he scrambled to catch it like his life depended on it.

The two of you spent the rest of the day cocooned in your little fortress, watching ridiculous movies and laughing at Soap’s running commentary. By the time the rain stopped, you couldn’t even remember why you’d thought this was a silly idea in the first place.

“See?” he said, grinning as he popped another chip into his mouth. “Told ye this was genius.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was a smile tugging at your lips. “You’re lucky I like you, MacTavish.”

He grinned wider. “Aye, I know.”

give me characters to do random shit on! i love taking requests, literally abuse tf out of my inbox if you want :)

[anxiousapplepie]

Gotta ask since its been on my mind a bit but how CAN a rose— with magical regen and limb regrow and somewhat functional immortality— get a trauma bad enough to limit their capabilities? Not putting a shade on that but i am curious. Is there some permanent effects that cant be undone with magic/death? Incurable illnesses? Birth defects?

Actually now how Do roses appear? I know you mentioned white buds (?) which i take are children/teens but where do they come from? Do they just. Spontaneously appear? Get put together robots 2008 style but from wood? Bloom from the ground as flowers? Im so curious

YES! I think it's possible for a Rose's trauma to limit their magical capabilities. Honestly, this thought hadn't occurred to me until you asked about it, but I squinted at the magic system like "math checks out your honor! Fits perfectly!" And DOUBLE YES, there is some illnesses and birth defects that can affect a Rose's capabilities. In fact, I've already introduced two Roses who have something called Rot, and boy howdy it seriously effects the way they fight. PFFT also you have no idea how much delight I got from your question about where Roses come from. And as much as I'd like to tell you, that's going to take too long to answer right now

Instead I spent a long time drawing this XD For real tho, Lapis has so many questions and Mort is going to need to take time to give her a crash course on Rose biology and how they procreate. Later. XD

[cowboylikeyouu]

yes omg finally people who understand!! i always see people on tiktok talking about fake scenarios but they all insert themselves and i just.. don't. never have, never will. i've been doing this constantly since i was like 7, and for the past 5 years it's been mostly winterhawk scenarios, but it all started out so batshit crazy i just have to write it down here, i apologize in advance lmao

it all started with filly unicorns?? i collected all of them and had a bunch of CDs and i was always imagining stories about them. ashia was my absolute favorite, she was the first one i ever had, and she always featured as the main character in every scenario.

then i got to the 4th harry potter book and was SO obsessed with it that i was like "i need ashia to go to hogwarts & be a part of the tournament!!" so that's exactly what i did. i made her attend hogwarts multiple times in my mind, she was a part of the marauders, of the golden trio, once she became a teacher afterwards, once she was minister of magic, that girl has done it all.

then i read gregor the overlander by suzanne collins and was obsessed with it for quite some time, so obviously ashia got herself a nice bat to fly on, and bc i kinda got attached to my own personal harry potter univserse, it just all kept existing in that same universe lol.

then came the hunger games obsession, so ofc i threw ashia into the arena, alongside some harry potter & gregor characters, and i all slaughtered them in my head at the ripe age of 11 bc HEY, it all in my head i can just rewind and they're all alive again yay!!!

mind you, ashia is still a purple unicorn lmao and it's impossible to explain the logistics behind all of this. she obviously took the role of katniss when i threw her into hunger games & used a bow & everything, and i have no fucking clue how that worked with her being a unicorn and all. but hey. MAGIC!!!!

most of the characters were in a band together as well at some point and went on tour and everything, bc being a hogwarts student, hogwarts teacher, minister of magic, hunger games victor & mentor and a commander in a weird underground war with gigantic animals obviously wasn't enough for our favorite purple unicorn ashia!! the band stuff was a crucial step tho that's still very present in my fake scenarios today lol bc i never had the ability to listen to music normally, i always had to imagine someone either performing it live or in a music video. so every. single. song. i listened to back then went straight into my daydreaming databank where i tried to find a way to somehow relate it to one of the characters so that i could imagine that they were the one who wrote & performed it.

at some point between this era and the next i decided that ashia being a unicorn was too ridiculous for me now, so i spent an entire day customizing her human design in my mind until i was satisfied with it.

THEN came the skulduggery pleasant obsession (especially the dead men obsession) and it was such a major obsession that i deleted the entirety of the harry potter x hunger games x gregor universe from my head, got rid off all the characters except for a ashia, and made her a part of the dead men (pretty much the avengers of the SP universe) & made dexter vex (one of the dead men) fall in love with her (i was SO obsessed with that man back then). i was always imagining them on missions & in wars, and ashia or dexter always got horribly injured, bc man i was always starving for the hurt/comfort.

i kinda missed the whole band-thing tho bc again, it was the only way i could actually enjoy listening to music, and bc i hadn't really understood the concept of multiple universes back then, i always felt like i had to squeeze everything i wanted for those characters into one universe, so i made the dead men split up, and ashia & dex became a super successful music duo, and then i always jumped back & forth in time depending on if i wanted dead men content or music content.

it went on like this for quite some time, until i finally discovered winterhawk in 2019.

it took me exactly one avengers tower fanfiction to be like "okay bye dead men" and start daydreaming about the avengers instead. ashia was still my baby tho, and dexter was her baby, so i took them both to the mcu with me. at first, i was still mostly daydreaming about those two becoming a part of the avengers & stuff, until i was SO obsessed with clint & bucky that my entire attention focused on them, and that hasn't changed one single bit since then.

the same music problem occurred, so naturally, the avengers became a band as well as superheroes. at the same time. makes total sense. that was also the time where i was old enough to really be on tiktok & shit, and i wanted social media to be a part of my daydreaming as well, so i made all the avengers couples adopt some teenagers who then had tiktok accounts. in retrospect, that was the cringes era by far, but i was 13/14 alright, cut me some slack.

anyways, that was also the time where i REALLY started discovering ao3 and reading 250k words a day, and at some point between a high school & a coffee shop AU i FINALLY realized i could just... create multiple universes in my head.

and since then i've been throwing bucky & clint in a different universe every week, watching a whole fanfic series about it in my head, and then going to a new universe or revisiting an old one (ashia & dex still feature regularly, my mind just can't get rid of them)

my favs include but aren't limited to: at least 7 different actor AUs, 5 musician AUs, 3 AUs where bucky is an actor & clint a singer/songwriter, 1 avengers band AU, 6 different college AUs, 3 different high school AUs, 2 doctor AUs, multiple teacher AUs including some teacher x single!dad stuff, a hogwarts AU, a hunger games AU, a skulduggery pleasant AU (notice how we're going back to my roots?), a model AU, and multiple productions of various relativ tv shows with the avengers as the contestants.

i definitely enjoy the singer/songwriter AUs the most bc i can & will find a way to relate every single song to them in that AU, even if it takes an entirely new universe where they're in completely different situations. i have so many playlists that are basically just fictional albums for different AUs, it's my fav past time activity.

whoah okay that was a long one, but yeah that's where i'm at rn. i'm always imagining those stories while falling asleep, but i do it at almost all other times as well. long car/bus/train rides? i'm daydreaming. taking a walk? i'm daydreaming. boring lecture? i'm daydreaming. zoning out of a conversation to recharge? i'm daydreaming. watching a movie/show? 70% chance i'm daydreaming while watching it so i'm basically watching two things at the same time. it gets annoying sometimes when i gotta be productive but the story in my head just hits too hard to stop thinking about it, but most of the time it's a goddamn blessing bc i can literally never be bored. there's always something to watch in my mind 🤷🏼‍♀️

anyways, sorry op for yapping in ur reblogs😭

i can assure you, you're not the only one who's doing this to a concerning degree <3

Anyone else's only way of falling asleep is to make up fake scenarios of fictional characters in your head?

Like, I don't even insert myself, I'm just writing movies and shows in my head at this point.

Tonight's episode, Wade and Logan, tomorrow's? Who the fuck knows!

(Seriously. I just write fanfiction of Wade and logan in my head to fall asleep. It's concerning, I know.)

[manicandobsessive]

Icarian | L.H.

Chapter 2: July

“But you arrived like sunlight in the gloom. And burned off the haze when the year was still new. Keeping me going, how you show up like July.” Andrew Hozier Byrne

Ch 1. > Ch. 2 > Ch. 3

Warnings: swearing, pet names, pure fluff, seriously it’s so sweet, mutual pining, no use of y/n

A/N: i have returned!!! apologies for how long this took, i went back and made a plan and outlined chapters and whatnot. i really love this one i hope you guys enjoy it! <3

WC: 4.1K

“Logan! I swear to fucking-”

“Swearin’ to what now, sweetheart?” The man asked with a smug grin. Logan was leaning over the railing of the mansions’ staircase, two floors up from where you stood. You scoffed at him in irritation, absolutely exasperated with his behavior. Which only further fuelled his amusement.

“Fucking get your ass down here.” You grit out through clenched teeth, even more agitated at the deep rumble of his laugh in response. It wasn’t so much his behavior that angered you, but the desire that burned beneath it. Every chuckle he let out sent shivers down your spine, every smile made the hair on your neck stand on end. It was pathetic, if not for the fact that it was Logan.

It’d been no more than three months since Logan suddenly showed up. Three months since you and had him clicked instantaneously. You could confidently say at the current point in time he was your closest friend.

And at times your worst enemy. For example, this moment exactly.

If there was one thing you’d learned in the period of time you’d spent getting to know the mystery that was Logan Howlett, it was that he absolutely loved to instigate. A sucker for drama if you’d ever met one. And while, yes, you and him terrorized Scott frequently. He seemed to love getting a reaction out of you independently.

He soon learned with great pleasure that you gave back as good as you got. He reveled in it. Logan annoyed the living hell out of you at times, but simultaneously- you were too in deep. Somehow his ridiculousness- his unwavering immaturity, only made him more appealing. ‘

And sure, maybe you’d fallen a little deeper than friendship. But you assured yourself it wasn’t like that to him. You guys were friends, best friends. That was it. That was all it ever would be.

Oh, how wrong you were.

Everyone saw it. Everyone around both of you knew. Seemingly, Logan and you were the only oblivious ones.

Logan walked through those halls like ten tons had been lifted from his body. He no longer hunched his shoulders. He didn’t stomp from point A to point B subconsciously. He even went so far as to say a brief greeting to those he passed by. You, the same. While you never were as outwardly reluctant to social interaction as Logan had been, there was a notable exchange. The other X-men, who’d known you more closely, had seen your distaste for being cooped up at all times flip to being almost excited to stay inside. There was a skip in your step. You smiled more. Logan hung outside the confines of his room more often.

And when you were in a room together, it was good luck to everyone else. There had been a bond that always existed, you two just had to find each other.

On the downside, both of you having been stubborn fucks prevented any further growth of the relationship.

Logan was aware. He was, in fact, way too aware of the effect you had on him. Seeing as he’d stuck around for three months straight. No plans for anything else. Not even a thought or consideration of leaving, not while he knew you would be here. He wouldn’t be able to, he thought. He felt this invisible thread practically tethering him to you. It was something that no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t shake. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to in the first place. You had been a light, and not just to him- but to everyone. You were oblivious to the way you lit up a room. The way your warmth had effortlessly radiated to those around you. A simple flash of your smile made his day.

He often wondered if that was your mutation. If you weren’t really just a human, and you had some unknown gene of heightened empathy. How he wished he could match that level of gentleness.

Logan was burdened by his mutation. Originally, he planned on making sure you’d never find out. He was convinced you’d never accept him the way he is.

But that didn’t happen. The day you’d found out was one he’d never forget.

~

“Fucking shoot me then!”

His voice echoed through the halls. Claws extended and all. The whole nine.

He felt the familiar rush of adrenaline coursing through his adamantium skeleton. His heart thudded behind the cage of his chest- he knew in that moment exactly what he needed to do.

A few of Strykers’ men charged at him- apparently with the lack of knowledge that he could, in fact, not die. Logan took their bullets like they were nothing but a mere inconvenience. He felt no more than an itch from them, after all. He sliced through the men one-by-one. Not a single fucker survived. He’d be damned if he let someone danger the entirety of the mansion.

The rest of the X-men appeared, all at the front door at one time. Seemingly having taken care of the remaining nuisances from the outside. Logan tensed and whipped around. His hostility was evident in the way his muscles contracted under his thin tank top and how his claws stayed extended.

“We took care of the rest.” Ororo stepped forward, speaking up after a moment of silence between the group and Logan. Who seemed less than thrilled at their lack of assistance.

“Thanks for the help.” Logan grunted sarcastically, having been already pissed at the intrusion. Now, even more so at the fact that he took the blows of most of the men. The team seemed to always rely on him. His healing, his strength, his violence. He felt partially used, when he cared to look into it. But most of the time, he didn’t give enough of a shit.

His eyes scanned over the group of X-men: Jean, ‘Ro, Summers, hell- even Chuck.

Pause. Where the fuck were you?

He spoke your name in a whisper. It was soft, almost intelligible, and his heart began racing yet again with the idea that they could’ve gotten to you. He was under the impression you were an X-man of course. Why wouldn’t you be?

He never would’ve assumed you were any less than the others. You radiated the confidence of someone ten times more powerful than any of his teammates combined. He respected you beyond words. And of course, he found himself caring more than he should. More than he could deny.

Your soft spoken- slightly raspy from sleep- voice calmed his frantic movements in an instant. His shoulders dropped to his sides with the breath he let out. One he wasn’t even aware he was holding. Damn you had him whipped.

“Y’alright?” You rasped with half lidded eyes and a yawn. You rubbed your eyes with the back of your knuckles, a movement he’d noticed you do when you’re tired. You furrowed your eyebrows in crystal clear confusion. Having slept like the dead through the entire event of the night.

Logan huffed the smallest of laughs. An imperceptible smile playing on his lips. You’d have thought he’d seen a ghost with the expel of air that left his body, loudly at that.

Your eyes widened at the sight of his, still reflecting light off of them in the dead of night. You weren’t scared, just- surprised. And obviously still half asleep. You had no idea what mutation Logan harbored. Clearly, he’d had one. He was much stronger than the average man, and a million times bigger. Figuratively and literally with the way he towered over most of the tenants of the mansion. But that was the extent of your knowledge. You never thought to ask, as you gathered from your first few interactions that he wasn’t one to just open up. But you trusted that he would eventually.

He retracted them almost immediately at the look on your face. Standing frozen in the middle of the common area. He was bracing himself for the reaction that was bound to occur. He was used to it, people running from him. People being scared. Calling him a monster.

Didn’t make it sting any less.

The last thing he wanted was for you to be scared of him. He softened his posture, an attempt to seem less intimidating. Which he couldn’t really do if he tried his absolute best. It was in his nature to be on the defense. So naturally, when you blinked, your eyes opened wide in shock- his walls were built high.

You took the first step. Walking downstairs in the most graceful manner, at least from Logan’s point of view. Anything you did was perfect to him. He wasn’t a religious man by any means, but you looked like an angel.

You composed yourself. Determined to make sure the man knew you weren’t scared of him. To show him that this didn’t change any part of how you saw him whatsoever. You could sense it from the moment he’d made eye contact with you. You quickly pieced together the reason he didn’t tell you what his mutation was in the first place. He was afraid. But you wouldn’t have that. Not with Logan.

You silently walked up to him, resting a hand on his arm. He tensed just slightly. Afraid of the next thing, the next word. You looked at his face. A small smile gracing your own. He refused to meet your eyes, he focused more on your hand. The one now comforting him in the smallest of touches.

“Logan.”

You spoke in such a manner that he could never ignore you. Doesn’t matter if it were life or death. He’s not sure if the world was ending that he could ignore your sweet voice to save it. To that, he turned his head just slightly. Meeting your soft eyes, which made his own soften in return.

“Sweetheart,”

He spoke so rough, so rugged. He seemed like he was on a mission to make you flinch away. To prove himself right yet again. But you were nothing if not stubborn. And he wasn’t going to get you to back off that easily.

“I’m not scared of you.” You took the words straight out of his mouth. He stood there, soft eyes, his mouth agape. His expression was one of relief and surprise. He wasn’t sure why he doubted you in the first place. You with your unwavering kindness, your beautiful soul. Something that even a blind man could see.

His mouth opened and closed a few times. He felt like a stupid fuck. He was left with no words to say. No attempts to push you back, it was useless. You and him both knew it to be. Plus, he was in no rush to let you go.

“I’m not scared. Not of you, Logan.” You repeated. Stern but gentle, just like every other aspect of your being.

To your surprise, he smiled. He looked into your eyes with his own and he flashed you that grin that only few got the luxury of seeing. It wasn’t prideful. It wasn’t cocky. It was a smile of appreciation, something to convey what words couldn’t express. He’d only hoped you’d gotten the message.

And while you two were no more than friends, your approval seemed to be the only thing that mattered to Logan.

~

From that day on, Logan hung around like a shadow. The two of you were inseparable and even more so, unstoppable. It was clear that this wasn’t some typical surface-level relationship. Whatever was between you two ran deep, and it was only a matter of time before it became more.

You were something to Logan that was unable to be disregarded. Like a light straight to the great beyond. Like you were created for him and him alone. He so desperately needed to keep it in his clutches. Even if he was dead-set on never falling in love. He had to have you around in some capacity, though it was hard not to let himself dive in head first.

You made even the darkest days feel like the brightest, no matter what you did. Simply existing near you whether it be watching TV or silently admiring you, made Logan’s mood instantly become brighter. The whole of the mansion noticed. Charles being the first, of course.

Logan warned him from the start. He was stubborn enough to go as far as telling Scott he’d sew his mouth shut if he so much as teased either of you. He wanted no part in making anyone think you two were more than close friends. Despite his wild imagination creating a perfect world where he wasn’t concerned you’d get hurt because of him. A world where his past was merely a memory and you were his present. One where the two never mingled.

As long as he kept you at as much a distance as he could, he could keep from worrying himself sick. Didn’t mean he wanted to though. He craved to be closer to you. To hold you, kiss you, know you inside and out. The three months you two had been like this, it had only gotten significantly worse. And his desperation was even more conceivable to the naked eye.

~

Ororo, on the contrary, had a blast teasing you.

“So,” She began, pretending to innocently be catching up with you. You were more than accustomed to her nosy behavior. Her meddling didn’t bother you, it was amusing so to speak. But when it came to Logan, that was a sensitive subject. And you were well aware that she was all in on the drama when the pair of you were involved.

“How’s he been?”

You scoffed, your eyes practically rolled to the back of your head. Perhaps an attempt at seeming indifferent to the situation when you knew damn well your heart sped up at the mere thought of him.

“Drop it.”

“Drop what? He’s been around you more than anyone, it’s a simple question.”

You almost laughed at her terrible acting skills. Almost being the key word, if you weren’t so reluctant to ruin the precious bond you had with the man. Ororo wasn’t exactly known for subtlety, at least for you. She was a close friend, definitely the person you confided in the most at the mansion, even if it wasn’t much. If you were to tell anyone about this infatuation, willingly, it would be her.

It was just infatuation, right?

She could sense the gears turning in your head. A smirk plastered on her face at the sight. You looked down before muttering out a response.

“Just, he’s a good guy is all.”

“Mhm, a good guy who you wanna-”

You were swiftly interrupted by a rumble of another voice. The sound now a distinct indicator of who had entered the room.

“Whaddya wanna do?” Logan quirked an eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe with the corner of his mouth twitching. A dumb attempt to hide his smile. His arms crossed over his chest, as they always were. He seemed to love making appearances like that. At least from what you’d known. The creak of the floor as he sauntered towards the two of you made you take a deep breath in and out. One you’d hoped he hadn’t caught.

He flopped into a recliner, his arms on both armrests and his legs sprawled. It made your entire body feel like it was on fire, the way he could do the most basic of motions and look effortlessly attractive. It was annoying, to be frank.

You rolled your eyes. Not only to mask- once again, your clear state of nervous desire. But also because of the way Logan managed to invite himself into your space, not that you had an issue with it. He had made it known that he followed where you went. It was a sign of endearment, as the telling smirk on your lips showed.

“Oh. Nothing, just talking about who’s bones your woman over here wants to jump.” Storm instigated, all with a telling smile, of course. You almost screamed, if it weren’t for the bark of laughter that escaped Logan. And the way your mind raced with the fact that he didn’t stop Ororo from calling you his girl.

“‘N who would that be, darlin’?” Logan asked you, smiling all the more. He had to have known. He’d probably fucking known since the day you’d met him. And yet, three months later, you still had convinced yourself it was an infatuation. You had only spent every waking moment with him, after all.

“Nobody.” You mumbled, looking at your feet. Fully planted on the ground and ready to skip town if necessary at this rate.

“Don’t sound like nobody to me.” Logan urged a response, the one you’d given wouldn’t cut it. And if, god forbid, there was someone out there that wasn’t him who’d caught your interest. He’d have their fucking head on a platter.

“She’s just messing with me,” You look up, regaining some form of composure. You were reluctant to show Logan any type of romantic affection, despite the nagging feelings inside of you. The truth being- if you were really reflecting on it- you wanted nothing more than to do exactly that.

Logan hummed, clearly not convinced whatsoever. He read you like a book, no matter the time or place. And additionally, he had no shame calling you out on it. As you did for him. However, for some odd reason he didn’t press the matter. Which you were silently thankful for.

He knew if it were someone else he’d have lost it. So with the little self control he had left, he brushed the issue under the rug. For your sake, of course.

~

A knock startled Logan and he stirred from a restless sleep. Not that he ever had a restful sleep. He grumbled, throwing a forearm over his eyes at the sudden light spilling in from the windows.

You walked in, as you had done before. You always knocked, but Logan rarely responded with more than a simple grunt. Sometimes so low that you missed it, so you started to just invite yourself in.

He lifted his arm slightly, catching a glimpse of you in the light. You stood at the foot of his bed. Clad in a summer sundress, something he couldn’t resist on any woman. And you, well he was a lost cause. He was just a man after all.

He smirked, you caught it. Despite your obvious annoyance, the position you always ended up in with him was amusing. Him being the one getting scolded for yet another missed mission debriefing, you being the one to lecture him since the team was well aware of his soft spot for you. He’d never get mad at you, he was sure of it. He couldn’t. It was impossible to.

You started to believe that he was skipping meetings for these moments alone. Maybe the thought was a little delusional, but he’d missed at least four and at the rate he was going, it seemed he didn’t plan on stopping.

“Sorry, doll-”

“Don’t gimme that bullshit.” You crossed your arms, puffing your chest just slightly while you cut him off. Logan thought it was adorable, you trying to be defiant. He knew deep down you anticipated these moments just as much as he did.

“I gotta sit down there and listen to Scott bitch about you not showing up. And I’m not even a fucking mutant!” You huff, your annoyance was clear with the way your voice raised ever so slightly. Though, Logan was bold to assume it was more towards Scott. And if he’d asked, he’d have been correct. Logan could be insufferable, but he was still Logan. And though you were irritated, you knew he could take the brunt of your frustration for you without flinching.

“You better get your shit together, or I might start thinking you’re doing this on purpose.”

“So what if I am?” He countered with a raise of his eyebrow. You scoffed, despite the crimson that dusted your cheeks. He sat up against his headboard with a victorious smirk.

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips gave way to your true feelings.

“You’re insufferable.”

He shrugged, his smug expression still present on his face. Oh how you wanted to kiss it off of him.

“I could hit you right now.”

“But you won’t.” He countered, always a response.

You groaned, throwing your head back and turning your back to him. Walking towards his door.

“Wait, doll.” You paused, back still to him while you glanced over your shoulder.

“C’mere.” He gestured for you to sit next to him. On his bed.

Sure, you’d been in his room before. And maybe you two hung out there once or twice. But you always made sure to sit in another chair, or if anything the edge of his bed. Never had he invited you in it, let alone next to him. And so close, too.

You hesitantly shuffled over to him. Slowly lowering yourself to sit down. His broad shoulder brushed yours. He smirked, as he always did with you. He looked down into your eyes as you looked up into his. Your face was the epitome of how shy you felt around him. Especially at times like this.

Your big innocent eyes, the soft reflection of the light on your skin. The way your lips looked so soft and inviting. It was all too much and not enough for Logan.

And then, he moved your hair behind your ear. A movement so subtle it could’ve meant nothing.

Or everything.

You blinked, your heart pounding in your ears.

“Ya mad at me, sweetheart?”

You scoffed, knowing damn well you never could be. And Logan, well he may just have wanted to see you get all flustered. Hearing your heart race made his own pick up speed.

You subconsciously leaned into his touch, a small smile on your pretty face. He wished he could have stopped time and taken a picture. One to keep for himself alone.

“No, asshole. Just, go to the meetings. So Scott will leave me alone.” You added onto the end, a little something that would hopefully give him a push. You wanted to believe that if you asked him to do something for you, he’d do it.

And you were right.

He huffed and smiled, dropping his hand to now rest on to of your own. You weren’t sure if he was doing it consciously or not. It made you a flustered mess either way.

“M’kay. I’ll go.” He replied, his voice gruff and soft all the same. He brushed his rough thumb over your soft knuckles. It made your heart grow ten sizes. The way he treated you so gently. It didn’t go unnoticed.

He stood from his bed, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. “Only for ya’ though, darlin’.” He added the last part, the small kiss spurring on your emotions even more. He smiled as he left the room- his room. All but leaving you sitting on his bed, wide eyed and flustered. You scoffed in disbelief, a smile following promptly after.

You up and left his room moments later, once you’d finally composed yourself, and you practically skipped to your room. The energy eminanting off of you was prominent. Your thoughts so loud that Jean, who was just passing through, caught them without even trying.

Jean despised the way the two of you had acted with each other. It was sickening how sweet he seemed to be for you. He’d never once given her that same softness. He’d never given anybody that softness, to her knowledge. Even in the deepest depths of his infatuation with her. It was a type of gesture that nobody had seen from Logan.

And while everyone else found it adorable, the way he followed you like a lost puppy. The way he talked about you like you were his entire world. Two people who could be no less than meant for each other in every sense of the word.

She was disgusted.

Part of her wished desperately to be happy for you guys, to act like the rest of the X-men. But the inconsolable jealousy she felt took over the mere fiber of her being every single fucking time. And not only was she upset with Logan, who no longer spared her as much as a second glance. But she hated herself for how she felt. For having her own boyfriend, one who loved her like no other, and still having the nagging thirst to ruin you and Logan.

Something was up with her. Something nobody except her and Charles had known was coming a long time ago.

[gundamthey17]

Day 5 of Payneland Promptfest 2024

I am in fact still working on the Payneland Promptfest 2024 prompts..... maybe I'll finish by December of 2025

Day 5: Snuggling (alive!au)

(the ao3 link has more info about the backstory for this au if anyone's curious. it's not super necessary for this fic, but i spent an inordinate amount of time on it because i am incapable of writing a story without context)

Summary: The Dead Boy Detectives (who are actually very much alive, thank you) find that the heat has broken in their flat-slash-office. 

xxx

23 December 1990

“Charles, do stop kicking the radiator.”

"You tried your way. Now it's my turn, innit."

Edwin, who was seated at the desk and holding the phone to his ear, sighed. "If tools were ineffective, I highly doubt blunt force will do the trick."

"Won't know until we try, will we?"

Edwin rolled his eyes as Charles continued kicking.

"What did maintenance say?" he asked between kicks.

"I am still on hold."

"Bloody brills."

Edwin pinched the bridge of his nose, a sure sign of a budding headache. Charles knew he ought to stop kicking the radiator, but he needed to vent his frustration somehow.

"You are not going to accomplish anything beyond potentially hurting yourself or breaking it further. If you would just be - yes, hello." Edwin motioned for Charles to be quiet. He covered one ear as he spoke into the phone. "Yes, that is correct. No, we still have power, just no heat... I beg your pardon?"

Charles looked up at the change in Edwin's tone. 'What?' he mouthed, but Edwin shook his head and continued speaking.

"But we have no heat! It is snowing, for heaven's sake! Is there no way you can - but I - very well. We will see you then." Edwin hung up the receiver with more force than was strictly necessary.

"What did they say?"

"As it is currently after business hours, and the start of a holiday, they cannot send anyone out to fix the heat until Wednesday."

"What? Can't you try the emergency maintenance number?"

"That was the emergency number. Apparently, lack of heat in December does not constitute an emergency," Edwin said, his voice dripping with contempt.

"What a load of bollocks!" Charles looked around their flat-slash-office. He shivered. "They seriously expect us to spend three days like this?"

"Evidently so."

"Bollocks," Charles said again.

Half an hour later, Edwin was still sitting at the desk. He had put on his coat, but otherwise seemed to be steadfastly ignoring the rapidly falling temperature inside the office.

Charles, wearing two jumpers and his jacket, had other ideas. He was in the process of raiding the bedroom and the closet for every single blanket they owned, and tossing them into a growing pile on the small couch. Even the tiny, crocheted throw blanket got added to the pile. (They had received it as partial payment for a case. It was canary-yellow and supposedly enchanted to always smell good without ever needing to be washed. It was too small to really make a difference, but Charles had already committed to finding every blanket, so onto the pile it went.) He muttered a steady stream of curses under his breath as he worked. When he had gathered every last blanket, and the couch itself was hardly visible anymore, he climbed into the middle of the pile and nestled himself in. Even after all of that, Charles was still shivering.

He also hadn’t grabbed anything to entertain himself with, or turned on the telly, before settling into his blanket nest. And once he was inside, he was loath to come out again. Surely, at some point, physics would take over and the blankets would have to start doing their job. Surely Edwin would finish whatever he was working on and – and what? Talk to him? Anything to occupy his mind and distract him from both the boredom and the bloody freezing office. He tried to wait it out, to be quiet and patient and let Edwin work.

He did not last long.

“Edwin,” Charles whined.

Edwin hummed but did not look up from his writing.

“I’m still cold.”

“And what exactly would you like me to do about that?”

It was a good question, that. Charles hadn’t actually thought about it. But the answer became immediately obvious. “Come sit with me.”

Edwin’s pen stopped. He glanced up at Charles. “What?” he asked, and there was a slight edge to his voice that Charles didn’t know how to interpret.

“Please? It’ll be warmer with both of us.”

"I find it improbable that you can still be cold under all those blankets."

"I've got bad circulation. Look!" Charles held out his hand. True to his word, his fingertips were pale and bloodless.

Edwin frowned at that, but he shook his head. “I am busy. We have a case, if you recall.”

“So? It’s a holiday, and clearly no one else is working. If emergency maintenance can take a holiday, we ought to be able to.”

“I am sorry, Charles. There is simply too much to do.” Edwin started writing again.

"Edwin! If you don't come over here, I'm gonna freeze to death."

"Charles," Edwin said in a scolding tone. "Given your history, you should not joke about such things."

"Given my history, I'm allowed to joke about such things," Charles retorted. "Come on, I know you’re cold too. I can see you shivering."

Edwin sat up straighter and pulled at the collar of his cardigan. “I am perfectly fine.”

Charles sighed. He suspected now that he knew the true cause of Edwin’s reluctance, but he was unsure if he ought to press the issue. The wind picked up, rattling the window, and Charles shuddered reflexively. Abandoning caution, he said, "Look, mate, I know you don't like touching, but if there was ever a time -"

"I never said I don't like touching," Edwin said quickly.

Charles looked at him curiously. "Didn't have to say it, did you. You go stiff every time I so much as pat your shoulder."

Edwin set down his pen and pressed his fingertips together. "I... am not used to it," he said slowly, choosing his words carefully. "But that doesn't mean I do not like it."

“Would you be willing to give it a shot? Please?” Charles hated the note of desperation that had crept into his voice. “I’m really bloody cold, mate.”

Edwin sighed and stood up. "Let me put the kettle on, and then I'll join you."

"Aces!" Charles couldn’t keep the grin off his face.

—--

Charles made an opening in his mountain of blankets so that Edwin would be able to sit next to him on the couch. Edwin handed him a steaming mug of tea and took his seat. They wrapped the blankets around themselves, their shoulders just barely brushing together.

Charles stared pensively out the office window at the falling snow. "Do you ever think about what would happen if we got caught? Do they arrest people for truancy? Or would they just split us up and force us to go back to our parents?"

"I think the latter is the most likely, though I shudder to think of the consequences. My father would have me institutionalized."

"For reals?" Charles turned to look at Edwin, but Edwin's eyes remained focused on the opposite wall.

He nodded. "He said as much before sending me to the school." They never mentioned St. Hilarion's by name if they could help it. "Said it was my last chance to prove that I could be... normal."

Charles snorted derisively. Then, feeling like that wasn't enough to fully communicate his disgust, he added, "That's bollocks."

"That is all assuming, of course, that the demon does not find me first." They never used Sa'al's name either. Edwin was unsure whether it could hear its name being spoken, and neither of them were keen to find out.

"That thing is not gonna take you away from me. Not a chance in – well, you-know-where." He gave a crooked grin.

The ghost of a smile flitted across Edwin's face. He took a cautious sip of his tea before asking, "And what about your parents?"

With a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, Charles said, "My dad would probably just beat me senseless. He’s done it for lesser offenses." He shrugged, feigning nonchalance, and let out a single, humorless chuckle. 

Edwin finally looked at him. "I will make sure that never happens again," he said fiercely.

Not quite knowing what to say, Charles nodded. "Cheers to that," he muttered, lifting his mug.

"It is irrelevant anyway. We are not going to be caught. We are presumed dead; no one is looking for us. We just have to make it for another year, and then we will be of age and we won't have to worry about the police or our parents."

"And we're gonna figure out how to undo a demon sacrifice, so we won't have to worry about that bastard anymore either."

Edwin's brow knitted. "I do not know if the ritual can be nullified without the caster. Since Simon and the others are all dead, it may not be possible."

"We will figure out a way. I promise."

Edwin suddenly pushed the blankets off and stood up. Charles’ face crumpled as he feared he’d gone too far. Edwin noticed and smiled placatingly. "It is all right. I'm just getting a book."

Charles sighed, relieved. He smiled too, a genuine one this time. "Brills! How about another one of those Poirot stories? I like him. He's a fun chap."

"He is a fun chap," Edwin agreed. He grabbed a large hardcover book from the bookshelf nearest to the desk, and returned to the couch.

Charles shifted under the mound of blankets so that he could put his arm around Edwin's shoulders. "This okay?" he asked quietly.

Edwin nodded. He cautiously leaned back against Charles' arm before opening the book. "What about The Adventure of the Clapham Cook? I do not believe we have read that one yet."

"Don't think so. Let's hear it."

Edwin cleared his throat. "At the time that I was sharing rooms with my friend Hercule Poirot, it was my custom to read aloud to him the headlines in the morning newspaper, the Daily Blare.”

—

Several short stories later, Charles had fallen asleep. His head lolled against Edwin's shoulder. Edwin was surprised to find himself feeling quite comfortable. Between the blankets and their combined body heat, he hardly noticed the frigid temperature of the room. He gently set the book aside. Then, hesitantly, he rested his head against Charles'. Charles did not stir. With Charles' comforting warmth next to him, and his soft curls under Edwin's cheek, Edwin closed his eyes. Soon, he too fell asleep.

[gallifreyriver]

Reblogging again for the above addition (I had forgotten to add it with the first bit it due to still recovering from the realization the bit I did add hadn't been Ai) and also to include the following from the notes:

because both are relevant to what I'm going to say next, which is that we need to have a conversation both about doublespeak and gaslighting.

To just jump right in, Trump did indeed describe Elon Musk's knowledge of voting systems as the reason he won Pennsylvania. (Timestamp) And yes, Elon very much did the hitler salute, not once, but twice, after his speech. (Video) (Also the shooting a person bit- Trump said that too, but I'll bring that back up later.)

I bring those two up first to address how the first set of tags mention that the bit about Trump talking about rigging the election could indeed actually be meant about his delusion that Biden rigged the election in 2020- but it could also be doublespeak.

(Before I start tho, the first set of tags obviously mean well and this is in no way an attack on them. I'm not even saying they're wrong- I'm just saying this opens up a conversation that needs to be had)

To explain what I mean, I need to again mention how that before he says,

"...and we got the World Cup too- and you know it's only because they rigged the election that I'll be your president representing you there. You know I got both of them. I got the Olympics, and I got the World Cup. Then I said, 'You know it's too bad- one was in 2026 and the other was in 2028," and I said, "I won't be there, I won't be your president!" ... but then they rigged the election and now we won so I'm going to be your president for the Olympics, and for the World Cup."

the comment about Musk, the voting computers, and Pennsylvania was already mentioned, where he said:

"...and then he journeyed to Pennsylvania, where he spent like a month and a half campaigning for me in Pennsylvania. He's a popular guy- and he was very effective- and he knows those computers better than anybody- all those computers, those vote counting computers- and we wound up winning Pennsylvania like in a landslide, so it was pretty good. It was pretty good. So thank you to Elon!"

Clearly, due to his massive ego, he wants so badly to brag about what he did, but can't.

His comment about Elon was pretty damning- possibly the closest we'll get to a confession. However, because he never outright says the words, "Elon tampered with the computers," that leaves just enough doubt for it to be said that he's was just complimenting Elon on being "cool" and "smart" and that the "landslide" just so happened because people obviously just loved Elon so much (barf)

And because he's never shut up about claiming the 2020 election was rigged, it's also very easy to come to the conclusion that, "Well, when he says "they" rigged the election, he must really mean Biden in 2020."

And I can agree to a point- he very well might have meant Biden! However, this just as easily could be doublespeak as well- another confession said in just such a way that it's very easy to claim he meant something else.

And it's kind of time, due to everything else he and his supporters have said/done yet gotten away scot free with- like people trying so hard to brand that nazi salute as literally anything else, and how his supporters tried to brand the insurrection as tourists visiting the capitol, and the fact that Trump has shown that he can say and do whatever he pleases with no consequences to the degree that he committed 34 felonies yet still was allowed to not only run but also be elected president- that we kind of need to stop giving him that benefit of the doubt.

Again, I agree that he could have meant Biden- it is possible. But also the exact words he used were "but then they rigged the election and now we won," which is a weird way to say it if he meant Biden in 2020, and combined with the fact that he made no effort to specify 2020, or Biden, anywhere in that whole paragraph it took him to say it- I'm reminded of one reporter, Zachary Wolf, who had been covering Trump back in 2017, who said "What does he mean when he says words?" (You may remember the line from an episode of John Oliver's Last Week Tonight about Trumps copious lies)

I fully understand not wanting to possibly spread misinformation- because that's what "they" do and we don't want to feel like we're as bad as Trump supporters or fall into pulling their tactics-

But I also say it's time we stop giving him the benefit of the doubt- because look where that has gotten us.

Doublespeak and gaslighting are designed to confuse and to make you not want to call out what you hear or see because you're afraid to look stupid or "crazy", and it's also designed so that people who are afraid to make waves will default to either believing the more innocent possible meaning or ignoring the problem altogether, because it's easier than fighting back- especially when you see those around you staying silent, downplaying the harm, or even outright denying that the less-innocent meaning is even a possibility. (eg: "It's just locker-room talk" or "It's not a hitler salute- he's just awkward! He was throwing his heart to the crowd!" or "They were just tourists")

All of which only emboldens those who are engaging in the harm and their supporters because it means there are no consequences for that harm. To the point that even when there are people calling out the behavior, many people, even prominent people, it still doesn't matter- because there's just enough doubt that the supporters will happily give the benefit of said doubt and fight for them, or at very least not oppose them.

And it works so well that there's now a chance we might never have another election again.

Again, maybe he really did mean Biden and 2020. But there's also the chance, given everything we do know and have seen, that he really didn't.

Did Trump just admit to rigging the 2024 U.S. Elections????

LIVE????

ON. NATIONAL. TV??????

@drawing-dinos82

[forunct]

[3:49 am] ♡ + drunk!reader, caring!jungwoo

you’ve been out with your best friends celebrating their engagements all night. you had spent all day yesterday helping their partners plan both proposals, one was an intricate scavenger hunt through their favorite hiking trails and the other was a surprise photoshoot with an elaborate background. it was really difficult keeping the both of them distracted for the day, considering how close the three of you are but you made it happen. it warmed your heart to see their faces as their partners popped the question. it left you with just the smallest bit of jealousy though, things with jungwoo are great but you’re not sure what the next step is if not an engagement and that worries you.

things are starting to slow down at the club and you’re missing jungwoo and his warm embrace. your friends are starting to float towards the bar to order glasses of water, and you’re starting to think this is the perfect time to call it a night.

“i'm starting to get tired,” you drag out the word tired to emphasize your exhaustion. they both nod in agreement, this has been the latest you guys have stayed out since college.

one by one, each of your ubers showed up to take you back to your respective homes and partners. you’ve had quite a bit to drink so your reaction time is severely off. jungwoo startles you as he swings the front door open while you search for your keys.

“jeez, you scared the crap out of me!” your hand is over your heart trying to get it to slow while he looks at you. jungwoo mumbles a half coherent apology as you take in his appearance. his hair is disheveled, he’s in his pajama pants, and no shirt. you assume he was sleeping before he heard the uber pull in the driveway. he’s pulling you inside before you can even form any kind of greeting.

“i’ve been waiting for you for hours y/n,” jungwoo walks you to the couch to help you take off your heels. “you told me you’d be back by 2 am, not 4 am, baby.” you can hear the concern in his voice, you clearly worried him.

“i know and i’m sorry, we were only supposed to go to two bars but we were having so much fun and got a little carried away. i should’ve texted you.” your voice is small, you know what you did was wrong.

“yeah, you should’ve,” jungwoo’s tone is sharp as he’s helping you take off your jacket and the hair pins from your hair. “i could’ve picked you up, y/n. you know how i feel about ubering this late.” the guilt is racking up by the second and all of the emotions from the night are starting to make your throat close up.

“i’m really sorry i worried you jungwoo,” your voice started to crack and he immediately took you in his arms, obviously regretting using such a stern voice on you when you’re drunk.

“i’m sorry i’m being snappy, baby. it’s just late and i haven’t slept since you left.” jungwoo’s voice is just above a whisper as he tucks your head under his chin. he’s rubbing small circles into your hip as you curl into a ball next to him.

“do you want to marry me?” the question comes as a surprise to both of you after it leaves your lips. it’s a question you’ve been wanting an answer to for awhile, you were just unsure of how to ask it, turns out being blunt was the best way to get it out.

jungwoo’s silence is deafening to you, it feels like it goes on for minutes when in reality it only takes him thirty seconds to give you an answer.

“1000% yes. that’s a no-brainer, my love. i want to spend the rest of my life with you. i love you.” you can hear the smile on jungwoo’s face and your heart warms after he tells you exactly what his intentions are. you prop yourself up on your knees to see his face, just looking at him makes you smile ear-to-ear.

“i love you too, jungwoo. so much.” he smiles back at you, his eyes leaving yours for a second to steal a glance at your lips before leaving you breathless in a heated kiss.

[markantonys]

Just started A Crown of Swords and I'm so Cauthorpilled that I'm like "well if Mat were here he'd be doing a much better job of taking care of Rand than Perrin and Min are." In the show I do hope they involve him in Dumai's Wells just so we can see him angst over Rand's sanity and grief. I want my boys to suffer and I want them to suffer TOGETHER dammit!!

i agree!!! on all counts! perrin hasn't seen rand since tear and even then barely talked to him, so his knowledge of rand and ability to understand rand is woefully out of date. min never knew rand prior to The Plot taking over his life (despite her and his claims that she reminds him of the shepherd he used to be. girl you knew that shepherd for about 2 hours.) but you know who has known rand his whole life AND has been right by his side for a lot of time recently including throughout his important formative TSR-TFOH arc, and is thus perfectly positioned to balance understand of both old and new rand? that's right, mat! i would argue that at this point in the series, nobody knows rand better than mat does or has spent more time with him than mat has.

mat is also demonstrably good at soothing and anchoring rand when he's upset. a) tending to him when he had channeling sickness and short-circuiting his identity crisis with "you're rand al'thor, that's who you are, with the ugliest face and thickest head in the two rivers", affectionate insult paired with genuine affirmation which comforts rand enough to send him into a peaceful sleep despite his feverish state. b) when rand is feeling some type of way after hearing the story of his birth parents, everybody else leaves him to be alone but mat stays and sits quietly with him all day, correctly reading that rand doesn't want to be badgered with conversation but also doesn't want to be left all alone. c) rand voluntarily chooses to teleport into mat's room in the middle of the night to vent at him when he's all up in his own head, thus showing us that mat is rand's chosen confidant, the person he instinctively wants to talk to when he's having a bad time, even here in LOC when he's pulling away from and growing mistrusting of just about everybody he loves. not mat. he still wants to talk to mat about all his plans and he even asks him something about "how do you know when you're in love?" which i think is the closest rand ever comes to confiding in an outside party about his romantic chaos lmao

in conclusion, mat is too good at helping rand and that's why he was narratively banished from his side just at the moment in the story when it became time for rand to downward spiral and feel isolated!

and yes, i've been saying since i read LOC how much i want dumai's wells to be a big full-cast event in the show! i'm thinking that after s2 finale had mat cradling rand at falme, s3 finale should have rand cradling mat in rhuidean, and then s4 finale should have mat cradling rand at dumai's wells, and we can continue alternating throughout the show's run.

[azen13]

Same anon who asked for the yan!wrio hcs. I wanted to thank you for it! I loved it. And you’re absolurely right! I think you hit the nail on the head regarding how he will act as a yandere. I loved it so much I might as well ask for another fic, hehe 🤭

I wanted to ask if you take requests that include reader with x or y traits. If yes, I wanted to ask for this specific scenario: (if you dont mind, I’ve asked other genshin yandere writers to write this as well and I’m asking you too because I’m really curious on how you’d write this!) Yan!Wriothesley with an oblivious reader. Basically everyone knows wriothesley is infatuated with her, including the guards and inmates, and everyone knows he’s killed for her, except she herself. I wanted to see what you think Yan!Wriothesley would do if he was met with such a reader. It can be a HC or a fic, anything you’re comfortable with!

Thank you for your timee💕

Pensato

A/N: Hello again anon! Thank you so much for this ask. I love Yandere!Wriothesley and Wriothesley in general, so writing for him is such a treat. I think I may have gone a little bit off-track but I hope this will suffice! Thank you again for your ask!

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

CW: Yandere Themes, Murder

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Though the weather was far from fair, this was certainly the most beautiful day Wriothesley had spent on the surface for a multitude of reasons. Rain pattered against stone in a wonderful little waltz, providing a soothing ambiance to the day’s activity–you had invited him on the surface to go shopping in Rue d’Arpont, an enchanting street in the Court of Fontaine full of little boutiques and bistros. 

Being that Wriothesley lived in Meropide and didn’t deal with the fickle Fontainian weather on a regular basis, he didn’t have an umbrella, providing him with a convenient excuse to loop an arm around your shoulder and keep you slotted against his side. It was a certainty that by that evening, at least three tabloids would be printed regarding the mysterious Duke of Meropide’s unexpected relationship with one of Fontaine’s premier pianists. Neither you nor he seemed to mind the thought of that much–though, Wriothesley knew you had hardly thought of that happening when you happily offered to shelter him beneath your umbrella. You simply wanted to help a friend, and Wriothesly had taken the opportunity to mark you as property of Meropide in the process.

“I’m glad you invited me to join you.” Wriothesley’s voice broke through the quiet precipitation, the sound of every droplet of water bending to accompany the melody of his words. In the distance, murmurs lent another texture to the quiet building symphony. Just as Wriothesley took a breath, thunder called in the distance and lightning responded, smashing apart the tender composition. A line of electricity arced across the sky, fingers curling down from the clouds to try to grip Fontaine in its gnarled hand. 

This wouldn’t do. With so little time together, Wriothesley longed to keep your attention firmly focused on him. Neither weather nor your naive whims would disrupt the tempo of life he had set for you, now and forever. “Seems like it’s getting really bad.” Wriothesley’s arm dropped from your shoulder, sliding down your side to grasp your waist. By the way your head turned back to him–eyes widening with such innocent surprise and your cheeks ripening to a gentle, flushed pink–he had your attention again, a fact that made his heart flourish. “Maybe we should find some place to get lunch? My treat.” His free hand pointed towards a small restaurant with what appeared to be a greenhouse by its side. Through the drenched window panes, rows of trellises full of little cream-colored flowers seemed to cover the walls. It almost seemed like something only a dendro vision holder could create, so ethereal and elegant.

A bashful smile shone across your face, as soft as the sun’s first kiss of light at dawn. “That’s very kind of you, Monsieur Wriothesley, but-”

“Ah-ah-ah, no ‘but’s. I insist.” Though your voice was as enchanting as a siren’s song, Wriothesley knew better than to indulge in your innocence. Your virtues became vices with how sharp they were, and Wriothesley knew that if he didn’t exploit them, someone with much more wicked schemes would. “Consider it a congratulations for your performance in Meropide.” As he steered you over to the entrance of the bistro, his mind meandered down streams of memories, tracing back to the roots of this desire to protect you.

A letter. One wedged between manila folders stuffed with forms and transcripts that was brought to his desk as part of his daily work. About two hours after beginning paperwork, his hand weary and barely grasping his pen–his preferred weapon of choice when battling the bureaucratic beasts the Maison Gestion conjured–he found his fingers lifting up a letter that was blissfully light. Upon opening it up though, he quickly realized he was in for a different sort of battle: every word on the page was written in cursive and wild and wispy as wind and waves, to the point where it was almost indecipherable. Fifteen minutes passed by as Wriothesley tried to decipher exactly what each letter meant. Eventually, he understood the message: a famous Fontainian pianist was requesting permission to come to Meropide to perform for the prisoners.

That was the seed that you had planted in his mind. The people of Fontaine held such revulsion for Meropide and its inhabitants, it seemed startling that someone–much less a figure as cultured as a musician–would want to come to Meropide on their own free will.

But you did.

He wrote back, not accepting your request just yet, but feigning suspicion. Further details would be required before he could approve of such an event, including the answers to several questions. Among them, a simple, unadorned “Why?”.

Your response came quick, written in the same mesmerizing slanted script. The way you wrote was conversational, as though you were simply talking to a well-known friend and not an imposing, powerful stranger like Wriothesley. The answers to Wriothesley’s more logistical questions were thorough and cooperative, though he could hardly care. He was willing to handle everything, from the moving of the piano to the security of the concert. If anything, your answers only confounded him more and more. Trust seemed to bloom from every sentence, the very paper reeking of benevolence. Since he had been a child, Wriothesley had never allowed such flowers to grow in the garden of his heart; instead, they withered into ash, leaving his body barren of such tenderness.

A warmth pooled in his chest, trickling steadily into each of his limbs. Briefly, Wriothesley wondered if this is what it would feel like to drink Sinthe.

His next letter was simple: a time, date, and place. 

You arrived in Meropide minutes before his letter requested you come, not that Wriothesley minded. Preparations had been made well in advance so the day would proceed smoothly, and Wriothesley had spent many sleepless nights pouring over the list of procedures to make sure you wouldn’t have a bad time in Meropide. Wriothesley escorted you to his office, made you a cup of tea, and offered you a pastry before you went out to perform. While you sat, he noticed in your lap was a small burlap sack that one might use as a Mora pouch. 

“You don’t need to tip me for letting you perform here, you know.” He elected to frame his question as a joke, adding in a teasing smile to make the picture he painted look more convincing. 

Despite your career in the arts, you seemed to be no actor by the way that you squirmed in your seat. “A-aha, I was…shopping earlier.” As you spoke, your eyes seemed to ricochet in their sockets as they glanced at every corner of his office. 

Wriothesley was ready to press further. By this point, he had ruminated on your letter for far too long, as though examining every stroke of every letter to glean some new facet to your intentions. The few minutes he had spent talking to you only confirmed many of his thoughts, reinforcing the budding desire to shield you from any potential criminals that could have done you harm. Even though he had a question ready on his lips, he decided to stay quiet. He planned to keep a close eye on you as you stayed in Meropide, so any suspicious behavior would be easy to observe. Plus, he trusted you. Not fully, but the seed you had planted in Wriothesley’s heart had taken root and sprouted.

When the clock in Wriothesley’s office struck noon, he escorted you out and towards the makeshift venue the prisoners and staff of Meropide had prepared for your performance. It was nothing extravagant, just a simple metal platform with a well-used baby grand piano, but the shoddy backdrop only made you stand out more as you took the stage and sat down. Your fingers slipped up towards the keyboard. As you began to play, Wriothesley had to lean in just to hear the faintest whispers of harmonies. Each note seemed to evaporate, congealing into airy clouds of sound that slowly moved across the room. The music crept towards a crescendo, your hands occasionally dropping into the lower registers of the piano as the auditory sky began to darken and rumble with thunder. 

And then, just as it seemed you were ready to send lightning shooting across the crowd, you released the tension with a torrent of rain. Your hands fell up and down the keys in a blur, glissandoing one way before arpeggiating the other. Finally, as quick as the tempest began, it stopped. Birdsong filled the air, a gentle gust of wind tickling newborn leaves and making them rustle with laughter. 

You hadn’t even released the keys, but Wriothesley wanted to ensure he was the first to congratulate you for your performance. After he began clapping, a rapturous applause echoed throughout the room. You may not have been a vision holder, but you were still capable of such otherworldly feats, conjuring images simply from the vibrations of strings.

While Wriothesley wished to congratulate you for your playing, many other prisoners had the same idea, rushing up to you eagerly. Some leaned in too close, others clapped a hand on your shoulders, all of them seemed to stoke some fervent flame deep in Wriothesley. He kept his lips shut and simply waited, though. None of them were breaking the rules of Meropide, after all.

The line shrunk at a snail’s pace, as it seemed that each new person wanted to talk to you longer than the last. By the time there was only one person ahead of Wriothesley in line, impatience flickered imprudently in his mind. When he saw how engaged you were with this prisoner, though, the flame of impatience quickly burnt itself out, and from the ashes rose a fire that burnt stronger. The prisoner was an old man in his forties or fifties from the looks of it. He wore such a dour expression it seemed as though he was a wax statue in a hot room. The words you spoke to him were furtive, your fingers reaching into the pocket of your pants. As deft as a magician, the Mora pouch Wriothesley had seen earlier slipped from your fingers to the prisoner’s, who quickly pocketed the money.

Before the prisoner could even turn around, Wriothesley had begun taking wide steps back to his office. If you called his name, he didn’t hear, nor did he care. The guards would escort you out when the time was right and take care of any other matters. His presence wasn’t required there. Instead, he had a much more pressing matter at hand. Walking in a ring around the room, Wriothesley flung open cabinet after cabinet in an agitato, ignoring how files shot out and fluttered to the floor. After each one had been revealed, he began to comb through every single form with surgical precision. There was a cancer in Meropide, and it would be removed with no delay. 

The diagnosis was quick. After three or four cabinets, his hands opened a form and read a name he had memorized with such certainty, he didn’t even need to check your signature. As he read the case, his anger ebbed and flowed, constantly changing directions like a river over time. What once was jealousy quickly returned to its original course: protectiveness. Your father was a former merchant with a penchant for gambling. Eventually, he became so mired in debt that he had to turn to less savory business to make money. Namely, selling Sinthe. 

You weren’t the issue. No, far from it. Instead, your father had weaponized your wholesome nature and pointed the tip of the blade at your heart. With how you carried yourself it seemed that it hadn’t pierced you yet, but that didn’t mean it had other effects. The form–which was quickly being crumpled by Wriothesley’s hands–contained a photograph of your father, still that same gloomy expression. Beneath the contours of your father’s face, Wriothesley saw his own adoptive parents take shape. He felt the familiar stab of betrayal, of trust razed and devastated.

Wriothesley believed in rehabilitation, but he also believed in justice. And in a place such as Meropide, where every rule was of his own design, justice would be enacted in accordance with Wriothesley’s wishes. When your father was summoned to Wriothesley’s office one day and never reappeared, everyone in Meropide knew what happened. Weeks later, when you were invited to return to Meropide for tea with Wriothesley, as you walked along the metal promenades of the prison, you noticed how the prisoners cast you strange glances, but couldn’t understand why. Week after week, you continued to return, allowing Wriothesley into your world. 

All those meetings had led him to the surface, to a small bistro on a quaint street. The two of you were brought into the greenhouse, though the sight surprised both you and Wriothesley. Instead of real flowers and trellises, it was an optical illusion; someone had painted the image of a garden lining the walls of the building. 

“Why are there no real…” your voice tapered off, but the waiter was quick to pick up on your question.

“We used to have real flowers, but too many people would pick them. Eventually, the cost of replacing them became too great, so we contacted an artist to paint them.” The waiter shrugged then left.

After pulling out your chair for you, Wriothesley sat down opposite to you and sighed. “What a shame. It looked pretty from the outside.” A few seconds of silence passed as you fiddled with the tablecloth. “Anyways. Say, have any performances planned? I’d love to hear you again.” At the sight of a gentle smile gracing your face, Wriothesley felt himself perk up a little with pride.

“Not at the moment. Sometimes I’m booked, other times I’ve got nothing, and right now…” 

Sensing opportunity, Wriothesley quickly jumped back into the conversation. “Well, if you ever need anything, I’m here for you.” His hand slithered across the table and brushed against your palm, fingers full of barely-restrained greed. He could offer you an entire world of opulence and comfort, protect you from those that seek to undermine your innocence. A delicate wildflower such as yourself might wilt temporarily after being transplanted, but in the long run, a stable environment will allow you to flourish without all the threats of nature. You may be the musician of the keys, but Wriothesley has mastered the song of your heart. When he takes you for himself, all that will be left of you in this world is the silent echo of your sweet melody. 

Your cheeks flushed, you smiled bashfully. “Thanks Wriothesley.” 

[neverenoughmarauders]

Just going to frame this because it’s so true, so important and well articulated:

abuse itself is a complex system of relationships. It’s not just pure sadism, it’s often about a twisted understanding of love where pressure is put on the child — “I’m doing this to you because I love you and want what’s best for you”

And here’s the thing. Stakes don’t matter if your protagonist does not care about them. Something as small as being able to eat a chocolate bar can feel immensely important if the protagonist has just spent chapters telling you how much they want to eat chocolate and how much hard work goes into procuring that chocolate (yes, I am thinking of you Charlie). Yet, I feel nothing when the bridges around New York once more get destroyed in some action movie, why should I?

I quite like a little scene I wrote between Orion and Sirius, and I’ve pasted an extract below. Why? Because SIrius can’t bring himself to speak up against his father because he cares about his father’s option. Later (sadly off page) Sirius goes against his father, which is a much bigger deal because we know there is a cost to it. Not just surviving another curse, but ruining something, perhaps permanently - their relationship:

'You play well, Sirius,' Orion said approvingly some time into the game. 'Am I to understand it that you've found time to play a fair bit, in-between all your school work and mischief?'

Orion raised his eyebrows as he finished the question.

'I play with James Potter,' Sirius said, hating himself for feeling a surge of pride when Orion had complemented his play.

'And he's a good opponent?'

'He is.'

'Better than you?'

'I win more frequently.'

Sirius kept his replies short, unsure whether he wanted to prove to his father how worthy James was as a friend - or how unworthy he was.

'I wouldn't have expected any different from you. Still, that is impressive from the Potter boy.'

As it was not a question, Sirius had nothing to add. Technically speaking, James was likely better than Sirius at Wizard Chess, he just got distracted too easily. But his father didn't need to know that.

'It shouldn't come as a surprise,' Orion continued. 'His mother and father are exceptionally talented - in their own way, and blood matters immensely.'

Blood mattered for shit in Sirius' view, but he couldn't quite muster the courage to say so, not when he was playing against his father. Not when he was spending time with the only intelligent soul in this godforsaken place.

Dear Snuffles, Hope you’re okay, the first week back here’s been terrible, I’m really glad it’s the weekend. We’ve got a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Umbridge. She’s nearly as nice as your mum. I’m writing because that thing I wrote to you about last summer happened again last night when I was doing a detention with Umbridge. (OoTP)

fandom: obviously walburga didn't torture sirius or physically abuse him at all! she grieved him so much when he ran away!! he was her favorite!!!!

canon: *explicitly compares walburga to umbridge right after umbridge tortured harry for 7 hours*

[feelo-fick]

does chilchuck get an cunty outfit like marcille did or does he stay in his usual outfit? (im assuming he becomes the master of the dungeon in the tragedy au) because i think he deserves one, let him have a funny outfit

no clue what you mean by "master of the dungeon" -- but chilchuck is on vacation , so i dont imagine him wearing anything super fancy. just whatevers comfortable + presentable enough :D his usual outfit is for work , so thats out of the question, of course.

(inspired by @cabinette's dm chilchuck design :D)

[moeblob]

A lil guy !

[pinkcaraz]

valorant montage kpop edit but make it carlos winners || c. alcaraz (after school - weeekly)