#he fitted the male beauty ideals of his time

[sunderwight]

Thinking about an SV scenario where TLJ had kids before the whole Su Xiyan thing went down.

Like he was an emperor, right? And we don't actually know how old he was, though he was at least old enough that his sister's son was mostly raised to adulthood by him by the time catastrophe struck. It wouldn't have been at all strange or even improbable for him to have been married already, perhaps several times over, by the time he met Su Xiyan and actually fell in love with someone.

Obviously any known kids TLJ had would have demons queuing up to install them on the throne after he got sealed under the mountain (and others probably wanting to kill or oust them), but we could explain the perception that TLJ had no heirs with a little bit of deliberate planning or cleverness on their part. Maybe they also showed up at the ambush, saw an opportunity to escape a life they detested, and pretended to have been killed/sealed too before just walking off to go life their dream life as a theatrical performer or country doctor or fortune teller or something. Maybe there were a bunch of them and they all engaged in brutal in-fighting for the throne, except one who just took the first opportunity to fake their death and then nope'd out to the countryside. Maybe they were a hybrid like Zhuzhi Lang whom everyone discounted from the succession due to not inheriting the "good" genes, so they went and stayed with their mother's faction and dropped out of political events.

Honestly I'm kind of surprised we don't seem to have loads of Heavenly Demon OC's and self-inserts in this fandom. I bet PIDW fandom was flooded with them. Bet there were tons of "Binghe's long-lost cool older brother who gets his own massive harem and adventures and separate realms to conquer" type OCs and probably just as many "distant cousin of Luo Binghe's is a beautiful Heavenly Demon and the only woman fit to be his equal who does away with his need for the harem because she can keep up with his desires and cleanse xin mo all by herself" and etc.

God it would be so funny if Peerless Cucumber had a Heavenly Demonsona. The world's most unselfaware combination of those two types, Luo Binghe's long-lost distant male cousin who has no interest in building his own harem (seriously guys stop trying to compete!) but only wants to support Luo Binghe and offer him the companionship and compassion (brotherly, platonic!) that he truly needs and can't seem to get from all those 2D hussies he surrounds himself with.

Even funnier if the System makes Heavenly Cucumber a real character, and suddenly Shen Qingqiu is faced with his own idealized self-insert who is blatantly obsessed with Luo Binghe, obnoxiously over-powered, and living in the kind of glass closet that makes post-canon Shen Qingqiu want to crawl into a hole and die.

[mrpenguinpants]

Memorabilia [ Commissioned ]

— Unable to sleep, Sunday seeks help from the Astral Express's most unusual crew member. With each anecdote, he wonders if, someday, he too will have pleasant memories of companions to reminisce.

Word Count: 13k

Request: [ A platonic first encounter/found-family fic between the Astral Express and a male reader. Due to an accident, the reader is corrupted and has a "glitchy" appearance with multiple voices in their head. ] Reader is based on an OC, so there are a few extra details/lore, but no OC names or physical details are mentioned. This is still an x reader fic. [Masterlist]

Thank you so much for commissioning me and trusting me with your OC although this fic doesn't feature him specifically. I hope I did his lore and character traits justice. Regardless, I hope you like it!

It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes... sometimes, the memories claw their way back into Sunday's mind, suffocating and unrelenting. They descend without warning, shadows of a past he can never escape. Images of a time when he had pinned his own wings down, seep into his consciousness like spilled ink creeping across the parchment, staining everything they touch. They are vivid, merciless, and inescapable, dragging him back to the place where ambition bled into ruin.

In these recollections, he is not a distant observer; he is the architect of every misstep, every wound, every betrayal. The walls of Penacony stretch endlessly before him, their grandeur gleaming like a lie. Marble floors echo with each step, cold and unyielding beneath his feet, while gilded walls glimmer with an opulence that now feels hollow. They form a labyrinth—beautiful, yes, but suffocating—a maze carved out of blind conviction and arrogance. He strides through them as he once did, head high and eyes forward, an Aeon in form, resplendent and untouchable. But that same pride, so intoxicating back then, now feels distant and alien, like a suit of armor he no longer fits into. The faces are always there, clearer than he’d like, sharper than he can bear. They loom in the shadows and step into the light, their expressions shifting with every memory that takes shape: admiration, fear, then quiet simmering resentment. Their eyes cut through him, piercing the illusion of grandeur he once wore like a shield. He feels their gazes heavy on his skin, weighing him down, their unspoken accusations louder than any words. He remembers the promises he made—the oaths spoken with all the fervor of someone who believed he was doing what was right. Words that once rang with purpose, gilded by his ideals, now echo hollowly in his mind, stripped of their luster. Their weight grows heavier with each repetition, each memory, pressing down like the cold hand of inevitability.

And then, the worst of it: the downfall. The moment his grand vision crumbled under the crushing weight of his own hubris. The cries of those he swore to protect tear through the air—their anger sharp as blades, their pain sharper still, like a wound that never heals. He sees their faces, once filled with hope, now twisted with betrayal. The very people he had sworn to uplift have become his accusers. The world he had built, piece by careful piece, unravels before his eyes. And he is powerless to stop it. His actions, meant to save, have instead been condemned. What he had thought was salvation—the future he had crafted with such fervor—has become nothing but ruin, a collapsing empire of promises broken. His good intentions, like poisoned arrows, strike true and deep, far deeper than he could have ever foreseen. Each one finds its mark, each one a reminder of his failure. The sting of it lingers long after the dream has faded, the weight of those choices pressing down on his chest as if the very air had thickened in the wake of his decisions. And in that moment, in the bitter silence that follows, he realizes that no matter how hard he tries, he can never escape the truth: he failed.

Sunday wakes with a start, his breath sharp and ragged, his chest rising and falling in uneven rhythms. The memories cling to him like a heavy fog, stubborn and suffocating, refusing to loosen their grip. His hands tremble as he sits up, the cold sweat on his skin a stark contrast to the warmth of the bed beneath him. His eyes dart around, disoriented, searching for something familiar in the dim light.

Right. He's not on Penacony anymore.

The walls are unfamiliar, not the cold, opulent marble of Penacony’s halls, but the soft, worn wood and steel of the Astral Express. His room—no, his temporary space—is simple, much like the rest of the train, but it's a world away from the grandeur he once commanded. Here, he's just a wanderer. Ordinary and even inconsequential. No longer an Aeon, no longer the ruler of a broken vision. The weight of the past, the crushing responsibility he once carried, no longer weighs on him in the same way. But the echoes of that past still haunt him, slipping into his dreams when he least expects it, reminding him of who he was. He closes his eyes briefly, willing the tremors in his hands to stop, before slowly rising from the bed. The room is quiet, save for the low hum of the train moving through the stars. No pitiful looks of betrayal, no echoes of failure—just the distant sound of a train journeying onward through the vast unknown.

These flashes of mistakes made, when Sunday dazes off unintentionally, March had dubbed it "dream paralysis." In her ever-cheerful logic, the term made perfect sense—it was like sleep paralysis, but trapped within the labyrinth of his own thoughts and dreams. A clever turn of phrase, at least in her eyes. But no matter how neatly she labeled it, the reality was far from simple. To him, it was a suffocating experience, a haunting that left behind an uncomfortable weight—a constant itch beneath his skin that couldn’t be ignored. The feeling was relentless, the sensation of being trapped in a nightmare where even waking didn’t offer escape. More often than not, it ended the same way: a desperate sprint to the bathroom in the dead of night, where he’d stand beneath scalding water, scrubbing his skin as if he could somehow scrub the discomfort away. His skin would burn, reddened, and raw, but the rashes that followed only mocked him. They were a cruel reminder of his futile attempts to cleanse himself of a discomfort that ran far deeper than his flesh. It wasn’t just his body that was being scratched at—it was something deeper, something he couldn’t reach. Despite Mr. Yang’s steady, measured advice and Miss Himeko’s gentle, empathetic suggestions, nothing seemed to ease the unease that gnawed at him. It remained stubborn and unshakable, no matter how much he wished otherwise. Yet, for all his frustration, there was no way around it... until Caelus made a suggestion. It was a well-meaning idea, of course. Caelus, always the problem-solver, had come up with something that seemed harmless enough, but to Sunday, it was nothing short of mortifying. The idea itself was simple, but the potential consequences left him flushed with embarrassment: Would it really help to let someone else know what he was going through?

Tonight, however, the remembrance come with a relentless hunger, pursuing him with unyielding force. Each time he closes his eyes, he sees her—his sister, her beautifully sad smile as they both fall from the sky, tumbling into the depths of the dreamscape. He has no wings to stop their fall and no way to save them. The weight of it drags him down, spiraling deeper into a nightmare that refuses to release its grip. Sunday is tired, truly, deeply exhausted. It’s a weariness that sinks into his bones, leaving him hollowed out, drained of energy and resolve. His eyes burn with the constant strain, the never-ending conflict between the waking world and the one that holds him captive in his sleep. His head pounds, the rhythm of two worlds pulling him in opposite directions, each tugging at him until he’s stretched too thin to bear. His gaze shifts toward the door across the room. It’s sealed tight, yet somehow, it calls to him, its pull irresistible, like a siren’s song echoing in the stillness of the night. Dangerous, but impossible to ignore. A choice looms before him, sharp and undeniable. A path he’s walked many times before, though each time feels like the first, fresh with the weight of uncertainty. With a sigh that carries the full weight of defeat, he pulls his coat over his shoulders. The fabric feels like a second skin, familiar yet stifling. His hands tremble slightly as he steps out of his temporary room, the quiet hum of the Express a constant background to his thoughts. He’s not supposed to feel like this—like he’s walking away from something important. There’s nothing shameful about leaving, about taking this moment for himself. But guilt clings to him, sticky and suffocating, like a secret he’s too tired to keep. It’s far too late to be doing this, but here he is again. Driven by something he can’t fully name, something that draws him away from the safety he’s built for himself on the ship.

Nothing has changed. Nothing ever does. And still, he keeps walking, each footfall a soft echo of a decision he’ll never be able to undo.

The warmth hits him as soon as he steps into the hallway, a sharp contrast to the chill of his temporary space. He’s always preferred the cold, finding comfort in the way it sharpens his thoughts and isolates him from the world. With each step, he tells himself it will be the last. That he will stop, turn around, and retreat back to where he started. He promises himself that this time, it will be different. He won’t dream of them—those people, those faces, those ghosts from his past that refuse to fade. But with every step he takes, the promise slips further from his grasp, a fleeting whisper drowned by the weight of his own exhaustion. Now, standing in front of an unassuming door, the warmth seems almost alien, its presence too gentle, too inviting. It’s comforting, yes—but also unsettling in its softness, as if it carries a weight of expectation he isn’t ready to face. The door itself is plain—just another identical threshold in the corridor—but it’s the small detail on the corner that catches his eye. A sticker, carelessly slapped there by March with her usual irreverence. A simple star, grinning back at him with its wide, beady eyes and too-cheerful smile. At first, it seems like nothing more than a trivial decoration, an innocent touch of whimsy. Yet, there’s something about it—something in the way those eyes seem to pierce through him, like they know more than he does, more than he’s willing to admit. The smile feels a little too knowing, a little too mocking, and for a brief moment, he wonders if it's laughing at him, at the way he feels so far removed from everything this small gesture represents. For a fleeting instant, the urge to retreat, to step back into the cool isolation of the archives, nearly overpowers him. The cold offers sanctuary, a place where he can hide from the world’s expectations and his own restless thoughts. But his feet remain rooted, unwilling to obey the instinct to flee. Instead, something inexplicable pulls him forward, toward the warmth, toward the comfort of the door. Something that feels like it’s asking him to stay, even as he longs to turn away.

He raises his arm and knocks three times, the sound sharp and purposeful in the quiet hallway. He waits, letting the silence stretch out in front of him. If you don’t respond, he’ll simply turn and return to his room—no harm done. But then, a sound breaks the stillness: a muffled voice, static, then followed by the shuffle of footsteps. The mechanical hum of the door's engine stirs to life, and with a soft whoosh, it slides open, revealing you. The Astral Express’s most enigmatic resident.

Though you’ve been traveling with the Express for months now, even before Sunday’s arrival, he doubts he’ll ever grow accustomed to your appearance. He suspects it would never feel “normal,” no matter how long he's stayed in your presence. He doesn’t know the full story—not that he feels compelled to pry—but whatever happened to you, it’s left a permanent mark. Your form glitches and flickers, a jarring patchwork of neon hues that pulse and shift like a broken screen. Bright flashes of color flare in and out of existence, twisting into shapes that defy any sense of order. If he didn’t know better, if he weren’t so attuned to the dangers of the corruption, he might be tempted to reach out—to touch the glowing lights. To see if they felt as unreal as they looked, or if they would dissolve at his touch like mist caught in a breeze. But he knows better than to test the unknown.

"Sunday?" Your voice is softer than usual, a touch deeper as if the hour has wrapped itself around your words. Do you even need to sleep anymore? In the corner of his eye, he can see your hands flicker into particles of shapes that form into gray crosses, "It’s late. What do you want?"

The words aren’t unkind, but they carry a weight that settles uneasily in Sunday’s chest. He’s caught off guard, his breath halting for a moment. There’s something about your tone, something subtle, that makes him hesitate—a pull he can’t quite name, but one he can’t ignore. Even though he knows this is the right thing to do, even though it was Caelus who suggested it, the moment feels different than he anticipated. He stands there for a beat longer than he should, battling the strange urge to turn around and leave.

"My apologies, I didn’t mean to disturb you at this hour," Sunday begins, his tone more clipped than he intends, the words leaving his mouth with a sharpness he doesn’t quite mean. He immediately regrets the faint edge in his voice, but the annoyance festering inside him makes it hard to suppress. Why is he even doing this? Of all people—of all things, it feels ridiculous. He shifts his weight impatiently, unwilling to let the awkwardness fully settle in.

"I—" He cuts himself off, irritated at how he sounds, even to his own ears. Caelus had insisted that he talk to you, someone who might understand the disorienting weight of mixed emotions, someone who’d probably dealt with more than enough confusion himself. But standing here now, the whole thing feels like a stupid idea.

“I don’t know what to do with it,” he says instead.

"That bad, huh?" you remark flippantly, leaning against the doorframe with an air of nonchalance. The words catch Sunday off guard, and for a moment, he freezes, blinking at you in surprise. He had expected the usual volatile reaction—some distorted image of yourself breaking down, maybe even spiraling into an incomprehensible mess of glitches and shadows. After all, he had heard the rumors of your unpredictable mood swings, the flashes of anger, the strange moments when you seemed to slip between states of reality sprinkled with black zigzags. But instead, you reach for him, hand faltering in the glitchy blur of your form before stabilizing, your fingers finally wrapping around the tassel of his coat with surprising precision. The motion is absurdly gentle, like a small tug on a leash, and Sunday, in spite of himself, allows you to guide him inside your room.

He hums in response, a non-committal noise. There’s an unspoken understanding aboard the Astral Express. No one presses too hard, not unless there’s harm meant. As long as your secrets won't bring any danger to any of the passengers intentionally, no one will pry. It’s an arrangement Sunday can appreciate, even if it can lead to many dangerous paths.

As you lead the way, stumbling slightly as your form blinks in and out of reality, Sunday instinctively reaches out, his hand resting gently on your shoulder to steady you. A soft curse escapes him, his fingers tips burning even through his gloves at the slightest brush of your shoulder, as he nudges you just in time to avoid crushing one of Himeko’s gadgets under your erratic foot. Your room is a curious thing, with a charm all its own. It’s not as fluffy as March’s, nor as bare as his own quarters, but it feels lived in, touched by every person who calls the Express home. The small items scattered about—the faint traces of everyone’s personalities—add warmth to the otherwise utilitarian space. He can almost sense the traces of each person’s energy here, something unique to the crew in every object. It’s not a place of perfection, but it feels like it belongs to someone. To you.

"Interested? Need a bedtime story to go to sleep?"

Sunday blinks, momentarily caught off guard, then looks up to find you smiling at him with that familiar, teasing grin. The static hum around you pulses gently, soft yellow stars twinkling across your face and words, distorting the edges of both as if the world itself was slipping between reality and dream. It’s a strange, almost hypnotic sight, something he only see in the dreamscape. He huffs softly, a small exhale of air that escapes almost involuntarily, before looking away. His gaze drifts to the side, lingering on nothing in particular as he settles on the edge of your bed. The cool, unfamiliar comfort of the moment leaves him uncertain, and he remains silent, unsure of how to respond. What could he say to something so... absurd? Something so blatantly casual that it felt almost out of place.

"Bedtime story? I haven't heard one since I was a child," he finally mutters, his voice a low murmur, clearly not sure whether you’re joking or serious. After all, this—whatever this is—isn’t normal for him.

“You know,” you begin, eyes cast downward, “the first time we saw the Astral Express… I thought we made a mistake, walking into it. Felt like we stepped into the wrong universe altogether.”

---

The moment you step into the archives, pixels, and particles following you, you know you’re not alone. The quiet hum of the Astral Express is ever-present, but there’s something sharper lingering in the air—an edge of awareness that prickles at the back of your neck. The hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention, and your senses sharpen, alert to every small shift in the room. You don't need to turn around to know you're being watched. The weight of the gaze on your back is palpable, almost tangible, like a shadow that hangs too close. You pause, considering your options, but before you can make a move, something cold and unyielding presses against the side of your neck. The cold pressure against your neck tightens just slightly—enough to send a chill through your spine. Whoever is behind you is no amateur, you realize. This is someone who knows how to move in silence, how to strike without warning. Slowly, carefully, you let out a breath, knowing you need to react before the situation escalates further. The quiet hum of the ship feels distant now, swallowed by the tension building around you.

"Not here for trouble," you finally say, your voice low, but steady. "Just passing through."

The silence stretches on, thick and unyielding, as you wait for a response.

"State your intentions," the voice commands, low and steady, yet laced with a razor-sharp calm that cuts deeper than any shout ever could. The words hang in the air, each syllable calculated, each pause deliberate—an unspoken promise that any misstep would be met with swift retribution. You turn your head slightly—not enough to dislodge the weapon, but enough to catch a glimpse of its wielder. He’s tall, with piercing teal eyes that seem to see straight through you, and a faint energy radiates from the spear he’s holding against your throat. The voices in your head are thrown into a panic, mumbled words of different meanings that you can't decipher yet pound against your head. A flicker of annoyance, a burst of black zigzags, and that spear is now digging into the skin of your neck.

"You’re here to harm the Express," the man says in lieu of your response. It’s not a question. He’s sharp, this one. Smarter than he looks, and far more perceptive than you’d like. If you were a worse person, you'd bang your fist against the precious computers and send the man flying in a shower of electrical sparks. But you need him, and you need what the Express carries.

"Maybe," you admit, leaning just slightly into the cold pressure of the blade, testing him, watching for the smallest sign of hesitation. He doesn't flinch. "Or maybe we just needed a ride."

The man's teal eyes narrow, piercing into you with an intensity that feels like it could slice through steel. His grip tightens around the weapon, a subtle shift of muscle that speaks volumes about his readiness, "Then you’ll explain why we've been tracking an additional signal monitoring the train’s systems for weeks. Why your presence coincides with unusual disruptions in local Stellaron activity. And why my instincts are telling me not to trust you."

A grin tugs at the corners of your mouth, despite the palpable tension, despite the deadly situation. You can't help it—.

"Instincts, huh? You trust those over facts? Dangerous habit for someone like you," the edge in your voice is almost playful, but there's an undercurrent of challenge that hangs in the air, thickening the space between you like a storm cloud waiting to break. He doesn't respond immediately, but the subtle tension in his jaw speaks volumes. His mind is already working, piecing together fragments of information, weighing what little he knows against what he's yet to figure out.

"Listen, I have something you need. Those twins? Stelle and Caelus? We're the same," you say, your voice slipping into something quieter, a complete tonal shift that catches him off guard. "You're not wrong. We're not here entirely by coincidence. But harming the Express? That’s not our style. If we wanted to, we’d have done it already. But we will, if we need to."

The words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken implication. For a moment, his gaze flickers—just a split-second hesitation, barely perceptible. It’s enough to make his grip loosen just a fraction, a slight shift in his stance. The crack in his armor to protect his own companions, however small, is enough for you to notice. You don’t let the opportunity slip by, "You can lower the spear, or we can stand here all day while your friends wonder why you haven’t come back yet."

The man studies you for a long, heavy moment, the tension crackling in the air between you. Finally, with deliberate slowness, he withdraws the spear, the sharp edge of the weapon no longer pressing against your skin. The atmosphere in the room doesn’t exactly lighten, but it does shift—enough to let you draw a breath without the sensation of impending danger gnawing at your chest.

"If you make one wrong move," he warns, his voice cold and unwavering, like steel on the verge of snapping, "I won’t hesitate next time."

You nod, casually brushing nonexistent dust from your jacket, the act dismissive but calculated. "Duly noted."

He takes a step back, his eyes never leaving you, still as sharp and calculating as ever. You feel the weight of his gaze, like a silent promise that he’s not done watching you. In the midst of it all, an unexpected thought crosses your mind: This man is going to be trouble for you. Smart, careful, stubborn to a fault—he’s exactly the kind of person who sees through people like you. What a bother.

---

"We were kind of a bastard back then," you admit, a bitter smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "Surprised Dan Heng even gave us a chance to tolerate us."

"Us?" Sunday asks, the word hanging in the air, his curiosity piqued. It’s been gnawing at him for a while now, this strange way you refer to yourself as if there’s more than one person within. You give him a half-hearted grin, it's grim, before tapping your head, then making a motion with your hand—a fluid up-and-down flick of your fingers, as if mimicking someone talking. Each finger meets its thumb in a rhythmic gesture. The understanding dawns on Sunday, a quiet realization creeping in. Some things, some details, are better left up for interpretation but never the truth.

"So," Sunday continues, shifting the conversation, "you arrived without warning, gave them every reason to be cautious, and still managed to walk away unharmed. That’s... fortunate."

It's quite frankly offensive that the same situation happened twice. If the Express keeps giving hand-outs, maybe the train will one day sputter out of fuel.

"Dan Heng could tell we weren’t there to cause trouble—at least, not immediately," You shrug nonchalantly, the motion effortless. The words are spoken with a hint of amusement, as though the whole situation had been a delicate dance, one you were somehow able to navigate without triggering the full force of suspicion.

Sunday tilts his head, his expression thoughtful, "Or perhaps he exercised more patience than most would in his position. A rare quality, considering the circumstances."

"Maybe," you admit with a faint smirk, though Sunday’s gaze remains steady, as if searching for something beneath your words.

He lets out a quiet hum, his voice softening as he speaks, "Trust isn’t something easily earned, especially with the Astral Express. It’s a privilege, not a guarantee."

Right now is his chance—his opportunity to rebuild trust that was shattered before it was ever truly given. The weight of it settles on him, heavy and undeniable. He’s not sure if he can ever fully erase the past, but this moment, this fragile opportunity is all he has left. It’s a test—a chance to prove that he can be trusted, even when everything before suggests otherwise. The quiet moment of self-reflection is broken by the jingle of keys. Sunday turns his head to see you holding up a keychain, its odd charm catching the light. It’s a trashcan, miniature, and oddly endearing. It has cartoony arms forming a thumbs up, the lid slightly opened to show the black trash bag inside. The absurdity of it makes him pause, a flicker of amusement pulling at the corners of his lips.

"Another story?" he asks, his tone light but laced with a hint of curiosity, as if he's not sure whether he wants to hear more or is merely indulging you.

---

"You two need something?"

You don’t need to turn around to know that Caelus and Stelle are lurking, their presence is as obvious as an elephant in a room. The twins are hidden behind a potted plant, doing their best to remain inconspicuous, but their attempt is about as subtle as a bull in a china shop. They peer out from either side of the skinny plant, wide-eyed and guilty, like two kids who’ve just been caught raiding the cookie jar. They don’t move, sharing some silent exchange between themselves—one of those unspoken conversations that only twins seem capable of, their eyes darting back and forth with a kind of synchronized rhythm. You don’t have to wait long before you decide to break the silence. Leaning casually against the wall, you snap your fingers with a sharp, deliberate sound. It’s a quick, attention-grabbing motion, and to anyone who might be watching, you might as well have been trying to corral a pair of raccoons. The twins, startled at first, perk up immediately. Like clockwork, they abandon their hiding spots and scurry toward you, grinning sheepishly as if they hadn’t been caught in the act at all.

"Well? You two are the most unsubtle pair of idiots we know," you say, your tone flat but with an edge of amusement. "So what were you two trying to do?"

You level them with a stare, eyes flickering with jagged, glitching teal squares that ripple beneath the surface of your corruption, catching the light like fractured glass. The momentary flashes make your gaze feel sharper, more unsettling, but the effect doesn’t seem to faze them. Stelle is the first to break the silence, a grin tugging at the corner of her lips.

"We were trying to scare you," she admits, her voice playful, but there’s a mischievous lilt that betrays her intent. She taps her chin thoughtfully with her thumb and index finger, adopting an exaggerated stance like some kind of inquisitive scholar. Her eyes gleam with an almost theatrical curiosity, her gaze flickering between you and Caelus. Caelus, ever the mirror to his twin, nods in agreement, the corner of his mouth twitching into a grin of his own. He matches Stelle’s pose, almost to the letter, his subtle smile hinting at some shared joke. The synchrony between them is uncanny, and it’s clear they both find this moment far more amusing than it has any right to be. You raise an eyebrow, your patience thinning, waiting for them to elaborate. Stelle’s grin widens even further, and Caelus, picking up on whatever idea is dancing through her mind, mirrors her expression with a gleam of mischief in his eyes.

"We’re bored," Stelle begins, her tone dripping with exaggerated seriousness as if she’s about to reveal some profound, existential truth.

"Really, really bored," Caelus chimes in, his voice practically bouncing with the energy that radiates off him. He shifts from foot to foot, practically vibrating with pent-up energy, as if he’s struggling to contain his excitement.

"We were gonna try to scare you," Stelle continues, leaning forward slightly as if sharing a great secret.

"But then you found us and spoiled it," Caelus finishes with a dramatic sigh, throwing his hands up in mock defeat. Their synchronized performance makes it hard not to smirk. The sheer childishness of their attempt, paired with their boundless energy, is somehow endearing, despite the fact that you feel like you’re dealing with two hyperactive children who think they're being clever.

You shake your head, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips despite yourself. Leaning forward in mock disappointment, you raise an eyebrow, "Yup, good job. We were totally scared."

Caelus huffs indignantly at your sarcasm, his pout deepening as he crosses his arms over his chest, making a show of being offended. Stelle, never one to miss an opportunity for drama, rolls her eyes so dramatically it’s almost impressive. Then, without warning, they share a look—a silent exchange so loaded with meaning that you can practically hear the unspoken conversation between them. It’s a look that says more than words ever could. And then, just as suddenly, they launch into a silent argument, their exaggerated gestures and comically furrowed brows making the entire scene seem more like a theatrical performance than a real disagreement. You watch them, amused, for a few moments, shaking your head at their antics. And then, as if an invisible cue has been given, they stop abruptly, turning to face you with matching, exaggerated expressions of innocence.

With sudden synchrony, the two of them pull something from behind their backs. It's a keychain—strange and, to say the least, unexpected. You stare at it as Caelus hands it over, his grin widening.

“It’s for you,” he says, his voice light, but there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes. It’s a small trashcan keychain, with a tiny, empty can dangling next to it. It's...quite ugly if you're being honest. You look up at the two racoons, your eyes screaming "seriously?" but you still take it from him. Stelle beams with pride, crossing her arms and watching you intently as if waiting for your reaction.

"It’s a symbol," she declares, as though it’s some grand gesture of deep significance. "Of our collective boredom."

You blink at the keychain, shaking your head. It’s utterly silly, but in that weird, inexplicable way, it’s perfect. It’s the kind of quirky, offbeat gesture that somehow fits this strange little crew you’ve found yourself with. Hands too wide, arms too open, and eyes far too crescent. You roll your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips is unmistakable as you slip the keychain into your pocket.

"Thanks, you two," you mutter dryly, the glitch in your hands weirdly stable enough to not drop your new gift, "We’ll treasure it."

---

Sunday watches, his expression a mixture of restrained bemusement and reluctant fondness as you finish retelling the tale. He hasn’t had the chance to experience the twins’ antics first-hand, but from Robin’s stories and the occasional interaction, it’s clear that Caelus and Stelle are the type to act first and think later. Silly, carefree, and utterly unburdened by the weight of anything that doesn't immediately concern them. It’s almost baffling how easily they offer their trust, without a second thought, to someone like you—a stranger, someone whose past is tangled with so much uncertainty. His gaze drifts to the keychain still resting in your hand, and he suppresses a quiet sigh. A small trashcan with a gusto of positivity might have been enough to irritate him in another context. But right now, in this odd, unexpected moment, it doesn’t do what he expects. Instead of irritation, he feels something else—a strange sense of warmth. It's silly, it truly is. It reminds him of the cartoons he's indulge when Robin would tug on his sleeve to please, just for 2 minutes, watch the newest episode with her. Despite the complexities of everything else weighing on his mind, it serves as a reminder of something he’s almost forgotten.

It’s fleeting, like a brief flicker of sunlight through a cloudy sky, but it settles in his chest with an unfamiliar comfort. A quiet smile, barely perceptible, tugs at his lips. You set the keychain down on your bedside table with deliberate care, moving on to the next object. A plushie of a white ball. There are slanted blue and purple eyes stitched on with a scar going across the left eye.

"It's called a Wubbaboo. They're mischievous Astral Spirits that possess individuals and commit pranks for fun. Although they are not deadly, they have the potential to cause trouble and should be kept from breaking loose. March found it funny to compare them to us," you say, an annoyed notch in your eyebrow as you squeeze the "wubbaboo" until it's face is smushed together so close you can't see the angry eyes staring right back.

---

The neon lights of the room pulse erratically, casting every-changing glows over the crowd. March 7th bounced from one foot to the other, her bright eyes locked on the brightly lit claw machine ahead. Inside, the prize—a pink plushie with a dopy grin and pink cheeks—sat just within reach, taunting her with its unyielding proximity. Her gaze was unwavering, her fingers twitching with anticipation.

"Come on, just one more try," she muttered under her breath, digging into her pocket for the last of her coins. The weight of them, small and cold in her palm, felt like a promise she couldn’t quite break. She'd come this far—surely the next try would be the one.

Behind her, the air hummed faintly—an odd, almost imperceptible static that seemed to vibrate with a quiet energy. It was the kind of noise that made the hairs on the back of March’s neck stand on end, a discomfort she couldn’t quite place. At first, she paid it no mind, her full attention fixed on the claw machine. She slipped the last coin into the slot, her gaze narrowing with steely determination as the machine beeped, signaling the start of her next attempt. But then, from the corner of her eye, she saw it. A figure. Someone watching her. She turned instinctively, expecting to see one of the crew members, perhaps Caelus or Dan Heng, idly observing her antics. But no. The figure she locked eyes with was unfamiliar, unsettling in a way she couldn’t immediately define. Your form flickered—barely a glitch, just a brief ripple in reality, too subtle for anyone else to notice. But to her, it felt like a silent warning, a quiet anomaly that sent a shiver racing down her spine. The space around you seemed to warp for an instant, as though reality itself was struggling to contain you. March blinked, but when she looked again, you were still there—just standing, waiting, like an enigma she hadn’t figured out yet. And that strange, unsettling feeling refused to leave her.

“Oh, hey!” March called out, her usual energy slicing through the lingering unease like a burst of sunlight. “You’re here to watch me win this plushie, right?”

You didn’t respond immediately, your attention unwavering from the claw machine. There was something about the way you stood, casually leaning against the wall, that felt... off. Not the way someone would watch a simple game play out, but with an unsettling precision—like you were studying the machine’s every move. Your eyes tracked the claw with such intent, it was as though you were dissecting its every twitch, every mechanical shift, as if the game were a puzzle to be solved. March tilted her head, momentarily curious about the strange intensity radiating off you. She didn’t mind the silence��after all, who needed words when you had her enthusiasm to fill the space? But something about the way you held yourself made her feel like she was performing on a stage where you were the only audience.

“What? No encouragement? I’m about to win this thing, I can feel it!” She threw a grin over her shoulder, half expecting the same playful teasing she’d received from the others, but you didn’t flinch. No laugh, no words of support. Just your eyes, fixed and unmoving, on the claw’s next movement. It made her pause, just for a moment. But only for a moment. Her confidence bounced right back, her smile widening as she adjusted her grip on the controls. “I’m telling you, it’s happening this time. Watch and learn!”

You finally looked at her, your expression unreadable for a moment, then a flicker of something—amusement, maybe?—passed through your gaze, "If you really believe you're about to win, there’s no need for encouragement."

March raised an eyebrow, her smile fading just a little as she tried to make sense of the shift in your tone. She knows that you're quite aloof, not prickly per say, but you definitely don't indulge in the express's whims. But that's okay! Dan Heng was just like that until she managed to whittle away those iron walls.

“Uh, okay... but I still need all the luck I can get,” she said, trying to shake off the eerie undertone in your voice. She turned back to the machine, her fingers hovering over the controls, the tension of the moment stretching out.

"Luck has little to do with it," you added softly, your eyes flickering to the claw again. There was something in your tone, something that made March pause, just for a second, as she processed the weight of your words. But before she could respond, the machine gave a soft beep—your prediction, it seemed, had been right. Along with the last of her coins.

“Gah! I ran out of time! I’ve been trying to win this plushie for hours!” March whined, her voice carrying a mix of light-hearted frustration and exasperation. “The claw just doesn’t grab it! I’ve tried every angle, but it always misses. It's like the machine’s rigged!”

You simply raised an eyebrow, because obviously all the arcade machines are rigged, and take a step closer. Your fingers twitched, the subtle erratic energy that often surrounded you almost palpable, as though the air itself hummed in response. A mischievous glint flickered in your eyes, the pink diamonds trailing after you beneath the neon lights of the arcade machine shimmering more vibrantly than usual. Without a word, you slid into position next to her, your hand reaching toward the controls with an almost practiced ease. March's frown deepened in confusion, her brow furrowing as she watched you. Before she could protest, the machine seemed to shudder with a strange, low hum—a sound so faint that it barely registered at first, but enough to make her pause.

“You—what did you just do?” she asked, her voice a strange mix of awe and disbelief, as if she couldn’t decide whether to be impressed or unnerved by what had just happened. Her words seemed to hang in the air, heavy with confusion and fascination. You didn’t offer an immediate response, just watching the machine as your fingers twitched again, a barely noticeable movement that seemed to set the air vibrating with some hidden force. For a split second, the claw hung motionless, as if frozen in time. The hum of the machine stilled, and everything around you seemed to hold its breath. Then, with an almost imperceptible shudder, the claw jerked downward, the movement sharp and precise as it latched onto the plushie’s corner. The machine groaned as it whirred to life again, the claw lifting with slow, deliberate force, its grip firm yet delicate, holding the plushie aloft as it dangled precariously by a single corner, swaying ever so slightly. March’s eyes widened, her mouth falling open in utter disbelief. Her jaw dropped, her voice barely a whisper as she stared at the plushie now hanging in midair, clearly suspended by some matter. You stood there, still as ever, a subtle glint of something in your eyes—a fleeting amusement, or perhaps something more calculating, like you had known exactly what would happen all along.

"Just a little glitch here and there," you said, your voice cool, though there was a faint static buzz beneath your words, as though your presence was subtly affecting the machine's circuits. "Machines like this are predictable if you know how to... persuade them."

March stared at the plushie as it was deposited into the prize chute. She scrambled forward, pulling it free from the machine with a loud, excited gasp. "I—I can’t believe it! I actually won it!"

“Looks like you’re finally getting lucky," You watched her, your arms crossed as you leaned back against the wall, your eyes still flickering with that odd energy.

March couldn’t help but laugh, clutching the plushie tightly to her chest, "I should’ve asked you to help from the beginning! I’ve spent hours trying to get this thing. I owe you big time!"

"You’re welcome," you said, though the words were laced with a strange, robotic quality. Your eyes flickered again, as if you were seeing the world in a way no one else could, "But next time, maybe try using your own hands instead of relying on glitches. It’s better that way."

"Nah, I think I’m gonna keep asking you for help," she teased, her energy back to its usual brightness. Her grin alone would power the arcade with how brightly it was shining, “You’ve got the magic touch.”

You raised an eyebrow, pink diamonds flickering once more, but this time, you hurriedly brush them away, "Whatever you say."

As March bounced away, clutching the plushie, she suddenly stopped, eyes wide with a new idea. Without warning, she turned and grabbed your arm, tugging you toward another claw machine nearby, "Alright, you helped me get mine, now it's my turn to get you one!" she declared, practically bouncing with excitement.

"You don’t have to do that," you protest, but March was already running to the coin dispenser to buy more arcade tokens, determined as ever.

"Nonsense! You made my night, so now it’s my turn to return the favor," she said with a grin. "Besides, this one has a super rare plushie. It even looks like you! You’ve gotta have it!"

---

"It took her another two hours to win once. We could feel the voices in our head getting louder. Any longer and who knows, maybe we would have started smashing machines and gotten us all kicked out of Penacony sooner," you say, your tone light but with an undercurrent of something darker, like you might be persuaded to actually go back and cause mass property damage just for the fun of it. Although Sunday is no longer apart of running Penacony, he hopes that you keep that little side adventure sealed in a box.

"Sounds like it was... fun," he murmurs, his voice as steady and measured as ever, but there's something else—something unspoken in the way he looks at you, a subtle acknowledgment of the weight behind your words. It reminds him of Robin's not-so-subtle attempts to drag him away from his office. The puppy-eyes unbefitting her image, how she's bemoan and cry like a spoiled child despite being the most generous person he's ever known. You lean back, letting the memory of the night with March linger in the air between you both, but it’s not the laughter that stands out now. It’s the strange, almost imperceptible warmth that comes with sharing something so unremarkable, yet so anchoring.

"Yeah. I guess it was. But, you know, I don’t need any more prizes. I can't find half my things under all this fluff. Though I’ll admit, it’s nice to be a part of something so... simple for once," your words trail off while your fingers absentmindedly trace the edges of a leather-bound notebook resting nearby. It's a habitual gesture that helps you center yourself, pulling away from the chaos of your thoughts, gray crosses make their reappearance with each stroke. It’s a small thing, yet it feels oddly comforting as if you're balancing yourself to something real amidst the constant shifting of your mind. You don’t look at it directly, but the weight of it under your touch is familiar, as though it’s tied to a version of you that’s been buried, one that doesn’t need the noise or the complications of the present to feel whole.

---

The corridors of the Astral Express were unusually still that afternoon, the kind of stillness that felt more like a pause—like the entire ship was holding its breath. Welt, ever perceptive and attuned to the nuances of his crew, couldn’t ignore the subtle shift in the atmosphere. There was a hum in the air, almost imperceptible, yet it was unmistakable to someone who knew the rhythms of the train as well as he did. Something was off, and it wasn’t just the absence of the usual banter.

He found you in one of the lounge areas by the window, sitting on a plush chair, your back rigid and unmoving. Your eyes were fixed on the stars outside, yet they seemed distant, unfocused, as though you were seeing something far beyond what was visible. A flicker of tension lingered in the air around you, something that made the quiet feel unnatural. Welt’s instincts tingled, the way they always did when something wasn’t quite right. He stepped closer, careful to keep his presence subtle, but as he neared, he saw the flicker of anxiety in your movements—the twitch of your fingers, the way your gaze darted restlessly around the room, as if you were trying to catch hold of something just out of reach. Your mouth pressed into a thin, controlled line, betraying the internal struggle playing out behind your eyes. It was like a storm was brewing just beneath the surface, one he couldn’t quite read. It also didn't help the black zigzags cascading down from your head like water. The suddenness of it struck him like a spark before the crackle of thunder—quick and sharp, but brimming with an undeniable intensity. Something had changed in you, something deeper than what words could reveal. And Welt, ever the observer, felt a weight settle in his chest. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

“You’re not okay,” Welt’s voice broke the stillness, soft yet firm, the kind of tone that held no room for argument but also offered a space for understanding. He knew you’d hear him, even if you weren’t ready to respond.

You didn’t answer immediately, but he could see the shift in your posture—the slight stiffening of your shoulders, the way your hands clenched and unclenched, restless, as if they were desperate for an outlet. Your eyes flickered to him, but they never fully met his. They danced around the room, unfocused, searching for something just beyond the edges of the present. And Welt knew, without needing to read further into the subtle tension in the air, that something was brewing beneath the surface. There was a storm in those eyes—wild, untamed, as if your emotions were battling each other in a silent war, and your mind was struggling to keep up. The turbulence inside you was palpable, though you made no effort to show it outwardly. But Welt, who had long learned to read the unspoken, could see it—the flicker of something, a fleeting moment of vulnerability, quickly masked by a wall of distance. He stayed quiet for a moment, letting the space between you linger, his gaze steady but patient, waiting for you to find your footing amid the chaos. He knew you didn’t need his answers or his help—not yet. What you needed was someone to acknowledge that what you were going through wasn’t something to hide, something to sweep under the rug.

“Talk to me,” he urged, his voice softening, an invitation more than a demand. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Talk? Why does everyone want to talk? I'm sick of hearing other people's voices-" You spit, those same black zigzags spilling down from your mouth like tar. Your corruption flares up, lashing out towards Welt like hands if he hadn't raised his cane, the pressure of a blackhole swallowing them with one motion. Although your powers are strong, Welt has dealt with beings far more dangerous. Right now, you only look like a lost boy whose confused and anxious. You flinch away, the dark matter in Welt's cane temporarily mixing with your curse snaps you back to reality. "It’s happening again,” you murmured, the words barely a whisper, but they carried an undeniable weight that seemed to hang in the air, heavy with the force of a brewing storm. It's as close of an apology as you can say, the admission of your weakness. Your voice, strained and fragile, barely reached the space between you and Welt, but the tension it carried was palpable, suffocating the room. It was as if the words were not merely spoken, but dragged from you—born of some unseen pressure that twisted around your very being. Welt’s brow furrowed, a faint crease appearing between his eyes as the words sank in. His normally composed exterior slipped just slightly, concern flickering like a distant ember. He stepped closer, but the distance between you both felt miles apart like there was an invisible barrier keeping him from reaching you. His steady, calm demeanor remained in place, the calm before the storm, but there was no mistaking the quiet alarm in his eyes. It was the kind of concern that didn’t need to be spoken—it was in the way he watched you, the careful way he approached, as if unsure whether any sudden movement might cause the fragile equilibrium of your mind to snap. He wasn’t a stranger to the Antistar’s influence, the thing that had fused with your body somehow. Welt had witnessed it before—the way it sank its claws into people's mind, its voices echoing in their thoughts like a cacophony of distant whispers, each one dragging their host deeper into a void. He had watched the shift, the way their thoughts could become erratic, spiraling into madness. But this… this felt different. Your eyes, wide and unfocused, darted around the room like prey under a predator’s gaze. They never settled, as if your surroundings had become something foreign and threatening. There was an almost panicked quality to your movements, your hands fidgeting in agitation, fingers twitching involuntarily. Welt could see it—the rapid rise and fall of your chest, the way your muscles tensed, anticipating some unseen danger. Yet you kept everything constrained under a deteriorating cracking iron fist.

“Let it out,” he said, his voice soothing, though there was a firmness to it, like he was anchoring you to the present moment. “Tell me what’s going on in your head. If you lose control, I will be here.”

You clenched your hands tightly, the fingers trembling ever so slightly. The irritation, confusion, and pain on your face were unmistakable. You weren’t ready to speak, but Welt could see the frustration in your eyes as you fought to keep control, as if you didn’t want to burden him with it.

“The voices… they’re too loud,” you muttered again, the words barely coherent, slipping from your lips like the last tether to reality was breaking. You weren’t speaking to him now, he realized. You were speaking to something else—somewhere inside yourself. Your eyes flitted around, unfocused, the flicker of your gaze darting in every direction as if trying to escape the storm inside you. But no matter how hard you looked away, the shadows seemed to follow, pressing in on you, crowding your thoughts. The chaotic whispers, fragmented and incoherent, spun like a whirlpool in your mind, each thought louder than the last, pulling you under. Welt’s hand twitched, but he held himself back, unsure if any touch would push you further away. He could feel the shift in the atmosphere—something heavy, suffocating, that seemed to darken the space between you both. It wasn’t just the usual voices. This was something deeper, something suffocating that made the air feel thick, pressing against your lungs, forcing every breath to feel like it could be your last. Your fingers twitched at your sides, and for a moment, it looked like you might collapse under the weight of it all. Something about your posture—rigid, almost as if frozen—suggested that you were fighting an unseen force, and that fight was taking all the energy you had left.

“You don’t have to hold it all in,” Welt continued, his tone never harsh, just a calm, steady presence. “You’re not alone in this, you know. We’re all here for you.”

Welt moved a little closer, sitting down beside you, not crowding you, but close enough to let you know he was there. He didn’t rush you. He didn’t expect an answer. He simply waited, letting the quiet space between you become a bridge. Slowly, you exhaled, the tension beginning to ease.

“I don’t know how to stop it,” you admitted, finally, your voice trembling, “I can’t escape it… the memories, the voices, they keep mixing together. It’s too much. It feels like… it feels like I’m breaking apart sometimes.”

The words were barely there, barely above a whisper, but they carried the weight of everything you’d been carrying—everything you didn’t know how to deal with. Welt remained silent, letting you say what you needed to, the gentle hum of the train filling the space between your words. After a moment of silence, Welt reached into his coat and pulled out a small, simple notebook. It was nothing special, just a black hardcover with blank pages inside, but there was a certain gravity in the way he offered it to you.

“I know it’s hard to sort through everything in your mind,” he said, his voice steady, “But sometimes, putting it down on paper can help. Whether you write, draw, or just let your thoughts spill out, it’s a way to process what’s going on inside. It’s yours. Whenever you feel like you need it.”

His gaze is soft and steady as he handed you the notebook, the worn leather cover catching the dim light of the train’s quiet lounge. He didn’t need to say anything more; his gesture spoke louder than words ever could. It was an offer, an invitation to channel the chaos, to make sense of the dissonance swirling in your mind, even if just for a moment. You took the notebook from him with a quiet nod, fingers brushing against the cover. It felt like a small tether, a lifeline to something that might help you regain control. There was a subtle warmth in the action, like an invisible thread connecting you to him, a silent understanding between you both. You couldn’t bring yourself to meet his gaze just yet—your eyes still too full of that swirling storm, too fragile to hold his steady, unshakable presence for long. But even so, there was a shift inside you. A tiny, almost imperceptible lightness that you hadn’t felt in a long time. It was like a small weight had been lifted, just enough to let you breathe a little easier. The thought that there might be a way to bring some order to the chaos, even if just for a fleeting moment, was oddly comforting. It wasn’t a cure, and it wasn’t a solution to everything, but it was something. And that was more than enough for now.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, the words carrying far more weight than the simplicity of their sound. They were more than just a polite acknowledgment—they were a recognition of the space he had given you, the quiet support that had anchored you in the midst of your turmoil. The storm inside you hadn’t fully passed, but the gentle pressure of the notebook in your hands and Welt's presence beside you made it feel like there was at least a small way forward. And for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough.

---

Sunday’s gaze lingered on the notebook, the silence between you both stretching out, comfortable yet laden with unspoken thoughts. His eyes, usually so guarded, softened as he watched you trace the edges of the book. It was a small thing, but there was a kind of quiet understanding in the way his attention remained fixed on it—on you. He was listening, more than just hearing, letting your words settle in the space between you, weighing them with care.

"A notebook?" he asked, his voice as calm and neutral as always, but you could feel the subtle shift beneath it, the way he was registering the importance of this new detail. You nodded, a small sigh escaping you as you let your fingers graze the leather cover, feeling its familiar texture beneath your touch. Something was grounding about it, something that allowed you to breathe a little easier, even if just for a moment.

"Mr. Yang said... writing, drawing, anything—just getting it out of our- my...my head could help." The words left your mouth more easily now, a little less guarded than before. You allowed the vulnerability to show, even if only for a brief moment, “It didn’t seem like much at first, but it kind of made sense. Maybe if I put things down on paper, I could start making sense of it all.”

You could feel the weight of his gaze still on you, a steady, almost intangible presence that let you know he was fully engaged with what you were saying. The way he didn’t rush to speak, didn’t offer unsolicited advice, allowed you the space to process your own thoughts aloud. It was rare, and it felt like a small gift. He didn’t respond right away, and you could tell that he wasn’t just hearing your words—he was truly absorbing them. His silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but instead it was thoughtful, almost as if he was searching for the right way to acknowledge what you’d shared without diminishing it. You briefly remember that Sunday used to act as a confessional when he was still in Penacony.

"I see," His voice was quiet, but the way he said it—like the weight of your words had a place in the quiet space between you—felt like an unspoken agreement. He understood, in his own way. There was no need for further explanation, no need to fix it, because he saw what you were trying to do. Finally, you leaned forward, placing the notebook gently into his hands. His eyes widened slightly in surprise at the gesture.

"Take it," you said, your voice steady now, "Welt’s right about one thing—getting it out, even if just on paper, can help. But sometimes, it’s hard to know where to start. Maybe you could use it. I know you’ve been carrying your own things, too, and...I think it might help. If you want."

Sunday's gaze lingered on the notebook in your hands, his fingers drifting over its surface as if weighing its significance without quite touching it. There was a slight furrow in his brow, a quiet contemplation that seemed to speak volumes about the thoughts running through his mind. The air between you was thick with the stillness, the kind that held space for unspoken words, for the things that were never said but felt deeply all the same. The silence stretched, comfortable yet heavy, before his eyes finally lifted to meet yours. His expression, as always, was carefully neutral—an unreadable mask that kept his thoughts hidden from view. Yet in the soft, steady look he gave you, there was something else, something that wasn’t contained in the lines of his face or the calmness of his voice. It was gratitude—subtle but unmistakable. It was a warmth that lingered in his eyes, a quiet acknowledgment that said more than any words could.

“I appreciate it,” he said, his voice low, carrying an uncharacteristic vulnerability. The words were simple, but they felt like a rare offering from him, a small crack in the armor he wore so effortlessly. Sunday, who usually kept his emotions tucked away in the recesses of his mind, was letting a piece of himself be seen. He took a slow breath, as though trying to ground himself in the newfound realization, considering the offer you'd made with a seriousness that reflected just how much it meant to him.

“I’ll think about it,” he added quietly, his voice softer than usual, but carrying an openness that had been absent before. It wasn’t a promise, not yet—but it was a crack in the door, a willingness to entertain something different, something new. And in that moment, you knew that it wasn’t just the notebook that he was considering. It was the space you had offered him, the chance to let something out that he hadn’t known he needed to. You nodded, your heart settling a little. The connection, small as it was, felt like a shared understanding. Neither of you had to carry the weight alone, even if you both still had a long way to go. You bat the sheets, flipping them over to make room as you clumsily slip under the covers. Sparkles of pink diamonds and yellow stars dust your cheeks. You scoot over a bit, patting the empty space beside you.

"So, Sunday, the night is still young. What other stories do you wish to hear?"

---

The soft hum of the Astral Express reverberated through the still morning air, a gentle reminder of the vastness of space surrounding the train. The faint glow of the sun barely peeked over the horizon, casting the world in muted hues of gold and lavender. Himeko, having long since grown accustomed to the quiet rhythms of the morning, made her way to the kitchen with a peacefulness that seemed to come only at this hour. She savored the calm that hung in the air, as though the world outside was still asleep, cocooned in the early hours before the day fully began. No noise, no urgency, just the steady pulse of the train and the promise of a new day. With each step, the familiar scent of brewed coffee and the faint warmth of the kitchen grew stronger, tugging her further into the solace of the moment. The corridors of the Astral Express, usually bustling with the energy of the crew, now felt like a world apart, as if time had slowed in reverence to the serenity of the morning. It was in moments like this, before the demands of the day began to pile up, that Himeko felt the weight of everything that had happened in the quietest way possible. It was as if the train itself whispered secrets to her in these brief, fleeting moments of solitude. She opens the kitchen door manually, not quite ready to disturb the peaceful atmosphere, only to stumble onto an unexpected sight. You were standing alone in the kitchen, a cup of tea cupped between your hands over the sink in case you accidentally spilled it's contents, staring out the window with an air of quiet contemplation. Himeko couldn't help but notice the way the soft light from the window caught your features, highlighting the tired lines under your eyes, and the subtle shift in your posture. Teal squares just on the ends of your heels, small and insignificant. It's probably the calmest your glitches have ever been since you joined the Express.

"Good morning, is it just us today?" Himeko greeted, her voice gentle but warm as she stepped inside. You startled slightly at the sound of her voice, blinking at her with a mix of surprise. You hadn’t noticed her approach, too wrapped up in your own thoughts.

"Morning," you mumbled, your voice soft yet not quite there, "The twins and March are probably going to sleep in since the Express hasn't reached its destination. Mr. Yang mentioned that he'd be cooped up in his room since he'd had a burst of information for his animation. Dan Heng arrived earlier but slinked off like the lizard he is."

Himeko laughs, your not-so-subtly rivalry with Dan Heng is always amusing. One day she hopes that you and him will get along since your personalities are similar, yet she doesn't think that day will arrive anytime soon.

"And Sunday?" she asked, a quiet concern slipping into her tone. Although it's obvious that she's prodding at the fact you've left their newest member out of your count, your expression remains the same. You didn’t immediately respond, your gaze dropping to your hands, fingers tightening around the warm ceramic of the cup you still held.

"Sunday visited us... last night. It was," you tap your fingers lightly against your cup, the words lingering a moment before you continue, "productive."

Himeko’s soft chuckle fills the space between you, her gaze sharp and knowing as she observes the subtle shift in your posture. The way your fingers tap nervously against your cup, the faint tension in your shoulders—every detail betrays the discomfort you're trying to hide. It’s clear that something has unsettled you, and she doesn’t miss a beat. It seems that Sunday had finally decided to take Caelus’s advice, something Himeko had been quietly anticipating. She’d often wondered how many nights she would hear his pacing echo through the quiet halls, his restless steps a soft but constant reminder of his inner turmoil. It wasn’t until now, after all this time, that he had worked up the courage to knock on your door. As she watches you, a quiet satisfaction lingers in her expression. For someone like Sunday—so reserved, so distant—it was a rare and significant step, and she can’t help but wonder what this moment means for both of you.

"I didn’t know you two had gotten so close," she remarks, her voice light with curiosity, "I always thought Sunday preferred his solitude. Guess you’ve managed to break through that shell of his."

"It’s not like that," you mutter, your words a bit awkward as you try to navigate the conversation. You rub the back of your neck, the heat rising to your face as you glance briefly at Sunday, still unsure how to explain the situation, "Just... paying it forward..."

---

The train was quiet in the dead of night, save for the soft hum of the engines that kept it steady through the stars. The glow of the emergency lights created a muted, warm atmosphere in the corridors, but the calm didn’t last long. A muffled cry cut through the silence, followed by the sound of something hitting the floor. Himeko, ever attuned to the sounds of the Astral Express, immediately snapped awake, sitting up from her chair in the lounge. Her instincts told her where to go. Without hesitation, she stood and moved swiftly down the narrow hallway, her footsteps quiet but determined.

When she reached your door, she paused for a moment. The sounds of distress were unmistakable—night terrors, or something close to them. She gently pushed the door open, finding you curled up in a tangle of blankets, breathing erratically, your body still twitching from the remnants of a nightmare. Himeko’s heart softened. She had seen this before, though not in the same form. Everyone aboard the Astral Express carried their own burdens, but sometimes those burdens took the shape of dreams that could tear through the night. Without a word, she stepped inside and softly sat at the edge of your bed. Her presence was calming, like a tether to reality, something solid in the wake of your fear.

"Hey," she said softly, her voice gentle but laced with a quiet concern, waiting for you to stir. The silence stretched between you both, heavy with the unspoken understanding. When your eyes finally fluttered open, still bleary and clouded with unease, she offered a small, reassuring smile—a quiet balm for the storm inside.

"Nightmares, huh?" she asked, her tone light, but there was no mistaking the empathy in her voice. You blinked up at her, listening intently, your pulse beginning to slow as her calming presence wrapped around you. You nodded slowly, the motion almost automatic as you tried to shake off the lingering remnants of the dream that clung to your mind like shadows. Your breath was still ragged, the echoes of the nightmare pulsing in the back of your skull. Himeko didn’t rush you, her gaze soft but unyielding, the kind that could see through the cracks in even the toughest exterior. She gave you a knowing look, one of those rare expressions that only someone who had seen the weight of the universe could wear—a quiet strength that could fill any silence.

"It’s funny," Himeko said, her voice softening as she leaned back slightly, her eyes distant for a moment, as though recalling something personal, "I found that sometimes, the best way to chase away the nightmares wasn’t by fighting them head-on."

She paused, letting the words linger before she continued, her tone quieter now, as if inviting you into a shared secret, "Instead, I focused on objects. Sounds strange, doesn’t it?"

She let out a light, almost melodic chuckle, the sound warm and comforting, before brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The gesture was casual, but there was a quiet elegance in the way she carried herself, a kind of understanding that only someone who had seen the weight of the universe could possess, "But honestly, it works. You begin to connect memories to things—simple things. A chair that reminds you of a calm afternoon, a necklace that brings back the feeling of warmth from someone you care about, or even a map that shows the way to a place that feels safe. Objects like that—they become more than just things. They become anchors in the storm. They bring back something good, something peaceful when everything else feels chaotic."

"I have this feather. Although it doesn’t resemble a traditional bird's feather with its pointed tip and flared edges make it stand out, it is a feather nonetheless. The kind of thing you don't question at first glance, but once you hold it, it seems to carry a weight of its own. It used to belong to someone else, someone who, in the quiet moments, always had it with her. She would carry it everywhere, as if it were an extension of herself. Her constant companion and a token of something deeper. But when she was gone, all that remained was her feather. No explanations, no grand gestures—just this simple, delicate thing, left behind like a piece of her that couldn’t be taken away. It’s strange how something so small can carry such weight, but in its quiet presence, it holds memories, echoes of a time now past," she continued, her voice soft yet unwavering, as if the weight of her words could carry the silence between them. Though her conversation remained one-sided, she spoke as if the act of sharing brought a strange kind of comfort, "Whenever the weight of the past begins to creep up on me, I hold it in my hand. To an outsider, it's just a feather, nothing extraordinary—but when I grip it, it’s as if it anchors me, as if it has the power to guide me through the storm. Somehow, it helps me find the peace I need, even if only for a fleeting moment. There are a lot of ways to fight the darkness, you know. Sometimes, it’s about finding what makes you feel grounded. What pulls you back when it all starts spinning out of control."

You let out a shaky breath, nodding slowly as her words sank in, each one settling in the quiet spaces of your mind. Her presence was a balm, softening the tension that had coiled tight within you. The storm inside, once turbulent and overwhelming, seemed to lose its force in the calm of her company. The stillness of the night, which had felt suffocating moments ago, no longer held the same threat. With her there, her voice a steady and unwavering anchor, everything seemed a little less overwhelming, as if the weight of the world could be borne, even if only for a while.

"You’re not alone in this," Himeko added, her smile soft and kind, "We all carry something heavy with us, but we don’t have to carry it alone. And when the nightmares come, don’t be afraid to reach out. We’ll get through it together."

You nodded again, a quiet sigh escaping as a sense of peace began to unfurl in your chest. The nightmare didn’t vanish entirely, but its grip had loosened, its hold no longer suffocating. Himeko’s words, simple yet profound, were like a balm, soothing the lingering traces of your fear. The storm inside you settled, its chaos quieting in the warmth of her presence. Himeko rose to her feet, her movements fluid and graceful, as if she were part of the very calm she had helped create. The soft rustle of her clothes was the only sound as she stood, poised and serene, her quiet strength radiating through the room.

"Get some rest," she said gently, her voice quiet but full of warmth. "Tomorrow is a new day. And if you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to find me, alright?"

With one final smile, Himeko turned and left your room, leaving the door slightly ajar behind her. The quiet comfort of her words lingered in the air, and the night didn’t feel so long anymore.

---

"I never properly thanked you for that night," you say, the words leaving your mouth with a quiet weight, as if they’ve been waiting to be said for far longer than you realized. The moment feels suspended, fragile—an acknowledgment that feels both overdue and somehow vital. Your voice falters slightly, but there’s a tenderness in it, an unspoken appreciation that lingers between the lines. Himeko turns toward you, her gaze softening as she takes in your words. You already know what she's trying to say without having to hear it, she's never needed to hear your thanks because that was never the intention.

"I’m proud of you," she says instead, her voice steady and warm, the sincerity in her tone making the space between you feel more intimate, more real. It makes your hand momentarily glitch, your cup spilling momentarily before your fingers phase back into reality to catch it, "It’s not easy to open up, but you’re doing it. That’s what matters."

The simplicity of her words settles into you like sunlight breaking through clouds. You smile faintly, a quiet flicker of gratitude stirring deep inside, the kind that doesn’t need to be said out loud to be understood. The tension that had been coiled tight in your chest begins to ease, like a storm passing on the horizon. Her words, so gentle yet unyielding in their kindness, carry with them a warmth that softens the sharp edges of your past. The heaviness that had once seemed insurmountable becomes a little less oppressive, as if, for just a moment, you’re allowed to let it all go. A burst of orange circles pop from your cheeks that you hurriedly wave off but those circles, shining brighter under the light, only move to dodge your hands.

"I’m going to leave you to your morning," she says, her tone light but you can hear the underlining of laughter in her words. Her smile is a quiet promise, one that lingers even as she begins to step away, "Just remember, if you ever need anything—anything at all—you don’t have to carry it alone."

Her words settle in the air, offering you an unexpected kind of strength, a quiet reminder that you aren’t as isolated as you sometimes believe. She moves toward the door, her movements fluid and graceful, like a gentle breeze passing through a still room. As the door clicks softly behind her, the sound feels like the closing of one chapter and the quiet beginning of another.

You remain where you are for a moment, your mind still. The warmth of her presence lingers in the room like the afterglow of a setting sun, soft and comforting. The steady hum of the train continues around you, its familiar rhythm filling the silence she left behind, a constant reminder of the world that moves on. It wasn’t much, this exchange—just a few quiet words and a gesture of kindness. But in this moment, it feels like the first true step toward something you hadn’t known you needed: a reminder that you’re not as alone as you sometimes think. The weight of your thoughts, once so suffocating, seems a little lighter, and for the first time in a long while, you allow yourself to simply breathe.

---

Hi, thank you for reading! I kind of went crazy and I hope the alternating switch between past and present made sense. I'll reblog this with further writer notes but I wanted to include the research bits in order of appearance. I can't guarantee the full accuracy but I hope I didn't get anything wrong.

Also: I couldn't explore the full lore of this reader, but if you're interested in knowing more, please reach out towards the original creator: @thezboss

Colours and Shapes

Gray: Neutrality and detachment | Crosses: Balance and reflection

Black: Sadness and Fear | Zigzags: Instability and disruption

Yellow: Happiness and optimism | Stars: Aspiration and guidance

Teal: Calm and clarity | Squares: Stability and straightforwardness

Pink: Compassion and playfulness | Diamonds: Confidence and value

Circles: Unity and Harmony | Orange: Warmth and impulsiveness

Trash Can Keychain

Not an actual trash can keychain, but if you bought a full set of HSR chibi figures, you were gifted an extra figure of a trash can.

Pink Plushie

The plushy that March wanted is the pink happy face that sits on her bed inside her room. It's beside the dog plushie.

Himeko's Feather

The feather Himeko is referring to is Fu Hua's feather. Shout out to my Honkai Impact fans (I've never played the game).

[moonstruckme]

hi! What about a fic if one of the Mauraders or TASM peter with a reader who's insecure about her big boobs? Like ik everyone thinks it's ideal but honestly sometimes it really sucks when shirts don't fit right or everything looks slutty or u can't go braless or alternatively a fic about their gf overhearing someone say they r an ass man but she has a small butt?

Thank you for requesting!

cw: insecurity around breast size

tasm!Peter Parker x fem!reader ♡ 1k words

You’re looking in the mirror, and you want to feel good about yourself. Really, everything looks the way it should. Your hair looks better than it would on an average day, that new eyeshadow thing you tried actually turned out nicely, and your dress fits the way it’s supposed to. 

Just, the way it’s supposed to fit doesn’t really seem right to you at the moment. 

“Peter,” you call in the direction of the bathroom, “if I ask you about something, can you promise to be honest with me?” 

You hear water splash in the shower, signaling your boyfriend is finally rinsing out his hair. In classic Peter fashion, he seems like he’s going to be late to his own banquet. Oscorp is having a formal event to recognize the achievements of their scientists this year. Peter’s done even more than most, and he’s expected to give a speech before the food comes out which you’ll be lucky to make at this rate. You were supposed to get ready together, but he’d spent the majority of the time flirting with you while you did your makeup in your pajamas. 

“Duh, I’m always honest,” he calls back. The shower shuts off. “That’s why they call me your friendly, honest, neighborhood spider-man.” A pause. You wonder if he can sense the dry look you’re sending his way. “Fine, but I’m always honest with you. Shoot, sweetheart.” 

“Okay.” You give yourself one final, disappointed look-over in the mirror before heading towards the bathroom door. “I’m serious, don’t sugarcoat anything, but do you think—” 

The door swings open, and Peter’s right in front of you, beads of water still visible on his torso and a towel wrapped around his waist. 

“—this is too slutty?” you finish, quieter, right as he blurts, “Oh my god.” 

Peter blinks. His head does a tiny shake, as if trying to rid himself of a dizzy spell. “What?” he asks. 

Probably not your best phrasing. “I just mean, is it too booby,” you try again. You have the urge to tuck your arms around your middle self-consciously, but you worry that would only make the boob predicament worse. 

“Baby.” Peter’s still looking at you like you’re speaking another language. “What?” 

You look down at your highly visible cleavage, then back up at him. “You know what I mean,” you say softly. 

“Okay, speaking from a strictly straight male standpoint,” Peter says, unabashed as his eyes dip to where yours just where, “I can’t condone the idea that there is such a thing as too booby. But even if I was, like, a ninety-five-year-old conservative woman, I couldn’t—I would still think you look beautiful.” 

Your heart balloons. It’s not a compliment you got much before you met Peter. Hot, sexy, sure, but not beautiful. 

“God.” The word slips from your boyfriend’s mouth so softly it almost sounds like a prayer. His hands find your waist, skimming down the satiny material of your dress to rest on your hips. “You’re amazing. Is that the eyeshadow trick you were talking about?” 

You nod, cheeks warming. “You watched me do it.” 

“It looks different with the dress on,” he agrees. “Fuck. Not to be corny, but you’re seriously taking my breath away. I can’t breathe right now.” 

A little laugh stutters out of you, and Peter smiles. He’s looking rather breathtaking himself, fresh-faced from the shower with a piece of damp hair still clinging to his forehead. You unstick it and comb it back in with the others already fluffed up after being toweled off. He smells like his shampoo. 

“Can I kiss you,” he asks, “or will I mess up your makeup?” 

“Be careful,” you warn, smiling as you lean in. 

He is, but his hands give away his hunger, bunching in the fabric at the base of your spine to get you closer. He makes a low, needy sound in the back of his throat, and for half a second you wonder if it’s for your benefit but then you remember that he was right earlier. Peter is always honest with you. 

You laugh when you pull away, going to get a bit of tissue paper to blot away the lipstick you’ve left on him. A glance in the bathroom mirror shows that yours is, thankfully, intact. 

“Are you sure this dress will be appropriate?” you ask, less insecure now but still nervous as you wipe at Peter’s upper lip. “Regardless of how much you like it, it’s still a formal thing and I don’t want to be…indecent.” You cringe. There’s no word that sounds nice. 

Your boyfriend’s brows furrow. His hands skim up your arms, and he looks like he’s about to reply when you fold the toilet paper and stick it between his lips. “Blot,” you murmur. 

He does. “Sweetheart.” He squeezes your upper arms, a silent request for you to look up at his eyes. You find them soft and earnest. “There’s nothing inappropriate about what you’re wearing. It is a formal thing, and you’re wearing a formal dress. You look beautiful.” That word again. Your cheeks burn. Peter kisses one of them. “No one is going to have anything to say about how you look other than how beautiful you are,” he promises. 

You let the sincerity of his words seep into you, pooling like a warm drink in your belly. The inside of your lip finds its way between your teeth. Now you’re feeling bashful for other reasons. 

It’s obvious by Peter’s grin that he can tell. He gives your arms another squeeze before moving you out of the way and going to where his clothes are laid out on the bed. 

“Actually, that’s pretty convenient for me.” He discards the towel on the floor, slipping on a pair of boxers and then starting to button up his dress shirt. “You’ve just taken a whole bunch of pressure off my speech. No way anyone’s gonna be looking at me while I’m up there now.”

[dzhukhe]

Ranma ½ headcanons, in light of the upcoming new anime:

the thing about Ranma 1/2 as a manga is that each character mistakenly believes they are the protagonist of a different genre than the one they are in.

most of us recognize that Kunō believes he is the romantic protagonist of a jidaigeki or some other samurai drama, where those who oppose him are comic villains and he cuts a dashing figure, his morality defined by being the handsome samurai. In a cowboy movie, his character would have a white hat and teeth to match.

Kodachi, in turn, believes she is the heroine of a shojo manga, and will force this view on the world if she has to scatter the flowers herself.

those who have read far enough in the manga may recognize that Konatsu views herself (arguably justifiably) as the star of a Cinderella story.

perhaps less apparent is Ryōga's perspective on his life as a romantic tragedy. This is a young man who speaks of his own "heart of glass", whose fantasies are full of flowers and wide sparkling eyes. Estrogen would not fix him, but it couldn't hurt.

Mousse and Shampoo live as though they are the stars of more traditional romantic comedies; their uses of martial arts, poisons, magic, and other forms of violence are justified in the view of each one by their perspective that they are the Good Option.

I would argue that Shampoo even seems to see herself as her personal cultural equivalent to the "All-American Girl Next Door" character type; she works for a living but has conventionally beautiful features. If you were to compare them to Archie comics characters, Shampoo sees herself as the Betty; the only opponent she really seems to spend much time worrying about in the manga is Akane, who from Shampoo's perspective perhaps seems like a pampered daughter of wealth (look at the size of the Tendō property) who lacks traditionally feminine skills like cooking and murder.

Genma and Sōun are convinced they're in stories about filial piety, where they will be rewarded by their children being skillful, loyal, successful, and fitting ideals of masculinity and femininity while caring for them in their old age.

we don't see as much of Ukyō's perspective, but it's evident that she sees Ranma as a side character, the man she's going to marry in order to mind the home while she focuses on building her career as a cook.

Akane in the manga is maybe the most grounded in the reality of her world: she recognizes the martial arts anarchy around her, she calls out other characters on their delusions, and her big flaws in her self-image are less about genre and more of a conviction that she should be able to succeed at something just by trying really hard. If she's stuck in an idea, it's the notion that her life is an inspirational story of what you can achieve with raw effort alone...never mind things like following recipes or actually practicing sewing or swimming, Akane's ready to skip to the end of the training montage!

and Ranma?

what is Ranma's delusion about the nature of the story?

it's simple.

Ranma is convinced she's the male lead.

[fillinforlater]

Friends that can keep a secret

Male Reader x Jo Yuri (ft. two male friends)

Length: 3.500 words

Tags: foursome, gangbang, MMMF, drunk sex, seducing, a faux game of spin the bottle, making out, sharing a girlfriend, rimming, face fucking, double penetration, anal, spanking, rough sex, anal creampie, riding, cowgirl, protection, not_your_girlfriend!Yuri

TW: there are other male OCs in this and you fuck a girl in all her holes, I dunno, if you don't like that, feel free to leave

Inspiration: @breach12 for the request/prompt

(A/N: here is something I promised to write quite a while back. It's finally finished. I changed the prompt quite a bit, but I hope the person who requested it likes it (and y'all too))

“Should you knock or I knock.”

Daehwi grins and you roll your eyes. He can never make things easy.

“Dude, just fucking knock.”

You and your friends recently finished another semester in college. You really had to think, was it the fifth, the sixth, the—no, it was the sixth. It felt like forever since you enrolled in that university with it’s unimpressive name and even less impressive campus. In the end, you made it through this time without impressive grades or interesting stories, but maybe this is your ideal life.

Calm and uninteresting, at least to others.

Your friends are a bit different. On one hand there is Daehwi, the crazy one. He is like a wild animal, free from every and all constraints but a slave of his desires and instincts. He gets a lot of girls, hookups, relationships, break ups, scandals—nothing ever slows him down. No matter how stupidly crazy his ideas are, they always work out and in the end, even his grades pan out. Daehwi has either figured out how to live a perfect life or he is just insanely lucky.

But he is a good friend in time of need.

On the other hand is Junseo. He is one hell of a cutie-patootie, caring for every one of his friends, colleagues, even profs. No bad word ever comes from his lips and he is always punctual. Literally always. He trades loyalty for loyalty and is the perfect example for genuinity and consistency. It is only fair that he got the most beautiful girl as his girlfriend.

Junseo is a great friend, but sometimes Yuri takes up all his time.

Yuri is the rock star on campus. She can make the entire university fall on their knees by grabbing a mic and singing her heart out. She is talented, smart, gorgeous—the crush of many, until they find another girl to smash. Yuri was never ready for one night stands, and so it was only fitting that Junseo and her fell in love gradually. No hookups, just pure, romantic love.

Love without you. You watched from afar as your best friend fell in love with your crush. That crush on Yuri that everyone has at least once in their campus life, it still lingers in your heart. You have to suppress it almost daily, but it is a tiny stain on your otherwise good life. Suppress it for Junseo, especially today when you get to celebrate another successful semester at his place. 

"Oh hey guys, come in!" Junseo opens the door with a wide grin and a surprising pink hue on his cheeks.

"Yo!” Daehwi shouts until his chest vibrates. “We bought beer, let's celebrate—damn, did you start drinking without us?" Daehwi puts down the two six packs and starts to aggressively pinch Junseo’s cheek. You start to laugh as the two playfully fight like two lion cubs.

“I brought some snacks,” you shout and try to get their attention. Fun is good and all, but you’re still standing outside and the cold air is brushing past your sensitive calves. "I got them for you, but if you don’t move, I’ll eat them all alone."

The three of you finally make your way into the flat and onto the couches. You feel the good vibes radiating throughout the room and it only gets progressively better. The first step to make such a celebration unforgettable is good beer and surprisingly, the cans Daehwi bought (at least you hope that he bought them) are filled with it. You down two of them easily, Daehwi is already on his third while Junseo reaches for a Soju bottle to create an intoxicating mixture. 

“Damn, I didn’t know you got Soju,” Daehwi groans in ecstasy as he takes a swing straight from the green bottle. “Your grades must have been terrible.”

“Nah, it’s not that,” Junseo responds with a pout. “It's because this might be the last time we have a celebration like this.”

“Huh, how so?” you protest and get a handful of crackers into your mouth, not willing to accept that such a well-kept tradition would end tonight, without warning.

“It’s because, next semester, I’m done, so the party is gonna be bigger. And afterwards, with work and all, I don’t know if it will work out like this again.”

“Shit, life is really catching up to us.” Daehwi clicks his tongue and you can already see that his drunk, a bit more melancholic but still wild and direct self appears. After all, he can’t keep himself from downing liquor. 

“If only I knew,” you sigh, angry that you forgot that Junseo was already here when you started to study. He was always ahead and now he will be the first to leave behind college life and become a truly normal person. “I would have brought stuff to make this more memorable.”

Junseo grabs the hem of your shirt and there is this drunk grin on his face as he babbles: “Don’t worry, I have things planned.

“Yuri, dear, you can come in now~”

Honest to God, you forgot about her for a split second—you will never for the rest of your life. Yuri walks in, the walk of a supermodel. Her high heels clack on the wooden floor, her hips sway in that stupidly short miniskirt, her eyes sparkle when she winks at you. You’re staring everywhere at once, to the point your throat goes dry again and you quickly need another drink. Luckily, Yuri brought more Soju and hands you a bottle.

“Congrats on beating another semester,” she says with a saccharine smile that stuns you, glues you to the couch, all to the amusement of Junseo beside you. “You gonna take it or not?”

“Su-sure, thank you.” Grab the bottle like an idiot and drink from it like one. Daehwi isn’t any better, dry lips stuck to his can while his eyes are glued to Yuri’s back. She makes sure to stick out her ass for him to see the nice curve. The green plaid skirt is barely long enough to hide her cheeks as she kneels next to him, hands on the table, searching for crackers or chips.

“Yuri, you are gorgeous,” Junseo compliments his girlfriend with a wicked grin and Yuri responds with an expression so sly and sexy, you almost drop your bottle and spit out its contents. Those two must have been drinking before Daehwi and you arrived, otherwise they wouldn’t be so bold.

“Damn, what the hell is going on with you two?” Daehwi bluntly asks them, but all he gets are glances from the couple and a confused shrug by you. “I bet you two are drunk already. Better stop now before any accidents happen.”

“There are no accidents tonight,” Junseo says firmly and makes room in the middle of the table for an empty Soju bottle. “No accidents, no boundaries, no questions asked. Do you two understand?”

“Well, that is a question,” you try to respond with wit, but it’s quickly forgotten when Yuri spins the empty bottle.

“Whoever this bottle lands on gets to have a free wish—kinda like truth and dare, except everyone else has to accept the dare and what you want to do to them.” Yuri’s words have your mind rotating faster than the bottle; is she for real? No limits, no boundaries? No one will ask questions? Can you just—go for it? Ask her to love you for this one night—no Junseo, just you?

Your wish fades to black when the bottle stops and points straight at Junseo, who does not hesitate and grabs his girlfriend at the wrist. Blink once, blink twice and she already sits on his lap, right next to you, and he is ready to stick his tongue into her eager mouth.

“My wish is that everyone fucking loosens up and just watches.”

The most tense thriller could not be more engaging for you. To see Junseo fondle Yuri, her tight little body, her covered boobs, her flawless back, down to the edge of her skirt has you sweaty all over. All over, again, he doesn’t stop and goes for that long, blonde hair and combs it back. Yuri moans and her nails dig into the back of the couch. Then they go back to making out, provocatively loud and Yuri’s top almost slips over her boobs.

You’re not the only one starring. Daehwi gets into position behind them, and he shamelessly looks under Yuri’s skirt—what he finds must be utterly mind melting, because he quickly grabs the bottle and points it at himself. He clears his throat to get everyone’s attention and for a second, the silence is heavier than a black hole.

“I-it’s my turn.” Daehwi gulps, the couple pants. “Can I pull down your skirt, Yuri?”

“Sure, just let me get up.”

With a final kiss on the cheek, Yuri leaves her boyfriend’s lap and stands in front of the kneeling Daehwi. She reaches for his hands and places them on her hips. This was the final straw, the last chain that held back the savage animal. Daehwi roughly yanks down Yuri’s skirt; with every gasp, more of her lower body is revealed until—nothing but a skimpy thong. You get to see it from behind only for a second, because Daehwi immediately spins Yuri around to knead and lick her cute butt cheeks. 

You’ve only heard stories of Daehwi’s sexcapades, the endless rounds of loud smashing, of groaning, of cumming—you never knew he could become so feral at the touch of two small round buttcheeks. It seems to work however, Yuri is definitely feeling herself, hands in her hair, head thrown back as she moans profanities towards the ceiling.

Suddenly, the head of a bottle crosses your vision. Juseon has the green thing pointed at you, on eye level and you don’t let him even start his sentence before uttering your own wish. It’s a bit desperate, but totally accurate to your situation and pent up feelings.

“Yuri, I—I want to make out with you, o-on my lap!”

“Oh yes, for sure~”

Followed by the still manically kneading Daehwi, Yuri climbs on top of you and goes straight for your mouth. Her tongue, still glazed in liquor and tiny chips particles quickly turns into the most delicious treat you have ever had. Yuri engages the kiss, starts off what could have been an equal dance but she quickly succumbs to your sudden dominance. 

Call it a return to your monkey brain, anything but civilized. You fuck her mouth with your tongue, play with her hair lovingly while tormenting her slender frame with rubs and squeezes. Yuri’s giggles urge you on more, you become bolder, reach into the top of her bra—there is no bra, just bare tits to fondle and knead the way only Daehwi would, though he has transitioned to eating Yuri’s ass, thong pushed to the side. 

You’ve lost sight of Juseon, but who the fuck cares when you can stick your hands down to where the sun doesn’t shine and find Yuri’s pussy. She is laughably wet, her juices dripping on your finger while your teeth move to bite her collarbone. She moans and hugs your body, pressing herself further down your length which has been an issue in the tight confines of your jeans for way too long—

“Yuri,” Juseon suddenly shouts. “I think you’re the last one to make a wish.”

You pull out your fingers from those drenched folds and even Daehwi backs off from the feast that is Yuri’s ass. Everyone listens closely when Yuri finally gets her wish out.

“I want you three boys to finally get your cocks out and fuck them into my tight holes until I can’t walk anymore. Don’t think, just fuck me.

“I’m your semester trophy tonight.”

Juseon suddenly stands next to you, feet in the cushions of his couch and his pants meet them quickly. He whips out his cock and as if her lips were magnetically drawn to it, Yuri starts to kiss and lick over it. From tip to base, she does not leave out one spot. Equally sudden is Daehwi, who’s pants you can’t even see anymore, but his cock is clearly pressed against Yuri’s cheeks and then on the ring in between them.

To your surprise—not that you ever actively thought about it—their cocks are just average in size, maybe even below that. Yours might be bigger, but they get girls and relationships all the time—your thoughts shouldn’t become so weird, especially because you have already pulled out your own dick and begun to stroke it to the hardest it has ever been.

Yuri, while her face is getting fucked slowly, her boyfriend’s cock entering and leaving her lips, gently places an unwrapped condom into your sweaty hands. Good thing that they are prepared, because you of course did not bring something like this to what could’ve been a harmless party.

Harmless college parties? Yeah, no, who are you kidding. Just roll the plastic contraceptive over your hard shaft and then try to find Yuri’s pussy. Those hot folds, they are right there—further down. You rub along her midriff, navel, even her crotch but are unable to find it.

Yuri pops Juseon’s cock from her lips and smiles at you while her hand continues to lazily jerk the throbbing, wet thing. She reaches in between your legs and finds your thing poking her belly. 

“Should I help you?” she asks and you avoid her eyes in embarrassment—only for a second thought. Something draws you to their sparkle, lewd and thrilled, while she tries to adjust on your lap until— 

“Ah, fuck, Daehwi, wait!”

“Wha-what is it?” he asks with a somewhat annoyed growl, hands wrapped around Yuri’s waist, cockhead perfectly aligned with her asshole.

“Give me a second. I want all of you to thrust in me simultaneously. I never felt something like that.

“It’ll be great.”

You gulp when Yuri gets you to the entrance of her light pink cavern. This is it, the moment you’ve been waiting for for a long time—not really waiting, just dreaming of. Luckily, you don’t need to dream anymore and just focus on not exploding the moment you—

“Now, fuck, now.”

The signal sends your hips upwards in a thrust. It’s not a full thrust, only half of your cock fills Yuri’s insides. You couldn’t commit to all of it; you need to flex your thighs to keep yourself from cumming too quickly. Daehwi and Junseo do not seem to care about that: both went all in from the get go, filling Yuri’s mouth and ass to the brim with their dicks and their thrusts don’t stop. 

Daehwi’s rough, feral pumping gapes Yuri’s ass and you feel every second of it. He is on the other side, careless, just like in the stories from the countless one-night stands that loved his enthusiasm. This is not enthusiasm, more unbridled sexual desire. He chases his own orgasm every time her ass meets his crotch.

For Junseo it’s similar. He seems to really enjoy Yuri’s drool running down her chin, sometimes even stopping the thrusts just to spread it all over her face with either his tip or a finger. You totally understand why he indulges in the way Yuri looks, all messy and silly, but you’d love to hear her moan louder—you want to see the strongest kind of bliss on her features.

Instead of your own pleasure, you try to find Yuri’s spots and poke your cock against them purposefully. You’re a lot slower than the other two, but your stamina does not decrease at all. Unlike Daehwi, you don’t need any brakes to catch your breath. You just continue to fuck Yuri in this mesmerizing rhythm that has her humming on her boyfriend’s shaft.

“Is this good, do you feel good?” you ask her in between deep breaths, arms around her torso, while she finds stability on your shoulder again.

“Yesh, yes,” she mumbles as Junseo flops out of her mouth. You see him shaking, losing his mind when she starts to twist his tip with two fingers. “You can go faster, harder—don’t think of me. I’m just the reward.”

“Too bad.” Whisper in her ear. “All I can think about is my reward.”

Yuri’s expression shifts, like she is trying to challenge you, like she doesn’t believe that you really care about her, like she—and then she can only think of Daehwi again, who goes on another rampage in her back entrance, while covering her ass with hard spanks.

A tender pain on your lower lip when she bites it. You halt your thrusts, but Daehwi makes it feel like Yuri bounces and rubs on your entire cock. You hear both the guys scream profanities while your own profanities are stuck, unable to come out because of Yuri’s bite.

“Yuri, babe, I’m—” Junseo can barely stand. “I’m so close.”

“In my mouth?” she asks, cutely-lewdly.

“N-no, I want to… finish on your ass.”

“Great idea.” Yuri jerks his cock harder and starts to stick out her ass which seems to trigger another orgasm. Instead of politely asking, Daehwi just growls like a wolf to the moon and Yuri feels his thick cum flood her rectum. “Yes, fuck! Fill that ass, creampie me!”

Now that wasn’t cute at all. Just lewd. Lewd like her fucking face when Daehwi’s cock loudly pops out and Junseo sprays his cum all over those red buttocks. She looks thoroughly satisfied with all the white on her skin, in her hole—maybe she isn’t thinking yet of the mess on her couch, the carpet or on her clothes. 

“Fuck, guys, that was—

“Why haven’t you finished yet?”

Yuri looks at you, as if she expects you to just burst from the look in her eyes. No, she underestimates you. Your stamina is still going strong and your enjoyment of her cunt hasn’t diminished by a single percent.

“I-I can still keep going!”

“Really? Let’s see about that.”

As if you had fucked a million times already, Yuri’s riding and your upwards fucking synchronizes instantaneously. When she crashes down, all of your cock fills her hole and when she rises, you’re right at her entrance, ready to repeat what can only be described as heaven—an entry to happiness. 

But happiness isn’t a dominant emotion right now, hell, you don’t even want it. You just want Yuri and her snug pussy always around you, hot and milking you with that flawless texture. The pink thing should accept you the entire night and with how eagerly she slams herself down on your manhood, she wants it too. 

Maybe Yuri feels happiness, maybe that is your wishful thinking blurring with her mindless expression, mindless moans, mindless tongue that suddenly searches for yours and you engage in a tornado of kisses that leads to Yuri resigning. Her body is all yours now, yours alone, and she is begging to cum. Trophy this, award that, in the end she has her needs and you will fulfill them.

Hold onto her waist and like in the final battle of a video game, use all your knowledge and skill to stimulate the inside of her pussy. Nothing can stop you, not the cum from her gaping hole that drips on your balls, not her weight laying on top of you, not the shocked gaze of Junseo—he must have never seen his girlfriend get fucked so well.

“Fuck, I’m-I’m,

“I feel so good, don’t stop.”

Yuri’s whine feels like a victory. You know she will climax before you do. This is all you’ve ever wanted. After this, you can let your feelings for her die in peace. But for these last few thrusts, she is all yours. Her entire body and mind is occupied by you, and so you claim her with a gentle kiss and a not-so-gentle flick on her clit.

“Who makes you cum?”

“You! You, you make me—ah!”

That scream is so long, so good; she is so tight, so perfect. Yuri trembles, electric shocks of pleasure surge all across her body. Her cunt is so tight and hot, you don’t feel the condom anymore and release your seed into it with lazy pumps. Yuri mewls when she feels the hot sticky mess which sadly misses her hot, messy holes and instead sticks to your dick.

“Okay, fuck,” Junseo sighs and sinks onto the carpet. “That was hot, that was crazy.”

“I knew you’d like it,” Yuri weakly says, a bright but tired smile on her lips as she looks back to her boyfriend. She turns back to you, face in adorable scrunches “Lemme, uhm… clean up.”

“Oh, yeah.” You quickly try to get your composure, because you’re still balls deep inside her. “Fuck, sorry about that.”

“Don’t apologize.

Junseo can never hear that. He never will. And Daehwi is long asleep. Those following words are just for you.

“That was the best thing ever.”

[wyvernest]

would you be able to write something about chubby!reader having body issues and thinks she doesn’t deserve miguel because he’s so sculpted and beautiful, but miguel reminds her how perfect she is? (in whatever way you think is best)

i just love reading these types of fics and they really help boost my confidence 🥹

tysm! <3

hope you like it<3

aphrodite

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!reader

warnings: fluff, established relationship, body dysmorphia

summary: you start feeling self conscious right before your date, and miguel isn't having any of it

translations are at the end

Miguel had finally made time to take you out. You are well aware of the fact that he is a busy man, and had decided against pressuring him to abandon his work overtime.

But tonight was for you. He had planned out the perfect date, from the restaurant, reservations, to the tiniest details; what day would be best in terms of weather, your job, and his duties. 

To say you were overwhelmed with excitement was an understatement. He had always been so caring and considerate, looking for ways to make you feel valued and appreciated even when time itself stood against his efforts. Finding unadulterated joy in asking you out like it was your first time getting closer to each other over and over again, the 'honeymoon phase' spark never once leaving your relationship, contrary to popular belief.

And so here you are, in your shared home, getting ready for yet another date with the most handsome man you've ever seen. 

He's already fully dressed, fixing himself in the mirror. His black suit sits oh-so perfectly on him, hugging the shape of his large back and shoulders, tight enough around his biceps, so that they still bulge through the material when he brings a hand up in his hair to tame some dark strands that had fallen out of place. It accentuates the line of his abdomen, having his large thighs finish off the whole look. 

He stands in front of the bedroom mirror, in his striking royal height, the man that ancient Greeks probably had as a muse when they sculpted the ideals of the male body. His dark, cocoa brown hair is brushed back, silky and soft. His perfectly contoured face is dimly lit by the low, warm bedroom lights, his features prominent: the bridge and line of his nose, squinted piercing eyes along with a downright intimidating set of brows His sharp jaw is held up high while he works with his tie, expert hands skillfully experimenting around an array of various knots, pondering upon which fits best.

He truly is quite the sight, you melt at the tableau before you, holding back a sigh seasoned with nothing but the very heights of being irrevocably enamoured.

His whole presence screams strength and mature dominance, with a hint of incontestable luxury.

Resuming your own outfit, your own body still only adorned in nothing but a pair of panties and a bra, you head to the closet for the one dress you have been imagining yourself in for the whole week since he offered you the invitation. You couldn’t be more excited to finally try it on and admire yourself with it, have people look your way while wearing it, with an arm hooked around the one and only Miguel O’Hara. 

Putting it on and adjusting its stretchy fabric over your curves, your smile starts to fade. This isn’t what it looked like the first time I tried it on, you mentally conclude, and the more you look at it, the more things you wish you hadn’t noticed. You pull at the material, the hem, the sides, the neckline, anything you can think of that maybe, just maybe, could fix it. Panic starts to drip into your nerves, what will you do now if it just won’t look good? Screw it and go out with it anyway, and then feel all eyes on you for the rest of the evening? What will people think when they see you, merely decent, next to him? And otherwise, what other option is there? To pick some other dress that can’t possibly be more appropriate for the occasion, since you had bought this one specifically for the place you’re going, and still not look the part?

Your breathing starts to quicken as you keep fumbling with the textile around your shape, attention half directed to the open wardrobe, scanning every shelf and hanger for a second option. 

Suddenly, the floor creaks, bringing the echo of incoming footsteps. And there he is, standing behind you, hands on your tense shoulders. You almost despise the image before you; his impeccable, calm and stoic image, next to you, discouraged and deeply insecure in evident comparison.

“What were you thinking about just now?” his words river down over the shell of your ear on a hot breath that has shivers shot down your spine.

“Nothing, I’m getting ready”, you cover it up in a sing-song voice, not wanting to dig deeper into letting him know that you don’t deem yourself pretty enough for him, let alone expect him to find you more attractive than you do yourself. Unfortunately, he’s too smart for your little diversion.

“Don’t lie to me.”, his tone serious, voice deep. His eyes rank up and down your body in the mirror, and you feel an acute need to just disappear. “Que guapa.”

He presses a kiss to your temple, and you feel rosy heat rise to your face.

Your mouth speaks before you think.

“Does it look good?”, he senses the hesitancy in your voice.

“Baby, you’d look like a goddess wearing a potato sack.” he speaks matter-of-factly, as if his statement equals water is wet, the honesty in his declaration evident with the speed with which the words left his mouth. You can’t help but let a giggle break through your disconcerted face, surprised with the association.

“What, like Marilyn Monroe?”

“No, mi alma, like you.” He wraps his arms around your middle, pulling you back into his embrace as you look at eachother in the reflection before you. His expression softens, visibly relaxed and happy to have you close to him. 

“These curves, every part of you, I know them as I know myself.” His palms slide over your hips, and all the way back up to your shoulders, effectively chasing away any hint of doubt and worry, cleansing you of anything that isn’t love.

“Eres la mujer de mis sueños.” He bends down, his lips reaching the crook of your neck. “No hay nadie como tú."

You let yourself fall back into his tempting embrace, knowing that he’s exploiting your weakness for him speaking Spanish so low and deep into the vulnerable skin of your pulse point, completely forgetting about the date and the dress. 

“And if you don’t like the dress, I’ll gladly rip it off.” He exhibits his talons as a warning, the curved edges of the claws grazing your bare shoulders intently. “If anything, the dress isn’t good enough to be worn by you.”

translations:

que guapa - how beautiful

mi alma - my soul

eres la mujer de mis sueños - you're the woman of my dreams

no hay nadie como tú - there is no one like you

a/n: again, if any native speakers see anything wrong with my Spanish please let me know🤍

[maxdibert]

I feel like the main reason why people love the marauders era so much is because it is very easy to create a bunch of aesthetics out of it. It's the 70s so people already glamorize it and make it edgy etc. and that's why the fans get lost in their stories. It's all fun and games, dancing, fighting, passion and rebellions that people just romanticize every single character and completely erase or downplay who they actually were. Like with Lily, James, Remus and Sirius. They all smoke cigarettes while listening to ABBA after a day of making silly pranks or fighting for a "cause" during a war. People just project their desires and fantasies into these characters when in reality they all kind of sucked and noone would probably want to live in an era of war and rising fascism with these people.

Honestly, I have no issue with them creating a parallel universe where it's practically a Muggle school with occasional spells because everything about that fandom’s dynamic is basically your average teen drama series. I get where that comes from, and that’s fine—the inseparable friends trope, high school drama, self-discovery, and all that stuff we’ve all related to at some point, even if those of us over 25 find it boring now because it feels far removed from our lives, which are more about paying bills and antidepressants. But I understand the fandom. I understand why they love to idealize it. I get why they’re so into creating "headcanons" that aren’t even headcanons but just rewriting the canon to reflect their image and make them feel seen.

My only real issue, the one thing that genuinely bothers me about that fandom, is that they include absolutely everyone—characters who canonically didn’t even overlap in school years, characters who are canonically psychopaths and torturers, characters who are literal garbage—and they justify everyone. Everyone except one. And that one character, unsurprisingly, is Severus Snape. The canonically poor, canonically unattractive, canonically unmasculine, canonically non-conforming to hegemonic standards of masculinity in both his time and ours. He’s the one who always gets all the hate. He’s the one labeled the homophobe, the sexual predator, the violent one. The one it’s okay to call ugly, disgusting, or make fun of for supposedly not showering or mockingly use his bully-given nickname. Only him. No one else. Just him.

And it disgusts me because that fandom didn’t used to be like this. They didn’t do bashing for no reason; they weren’t this childish.

Can someone from that crowd explain to me why they hate J.K. Rowling so much when they’re perpetuating the same garbage stereotypes? Why do they think they’re so avant-garde by changing the sexual orientation of every male character while relegating the female ones to decorative props, pairing them off so they don’t interfere with their MALE ships? Why do they think they’re more progressive for making Sirius "feminine" while villainizing Severus, a character canonically mocked for being unmasculine? Why do they label James Potter as a saint under the rainbow flag and call Snape a homophobe when it was James who canonically mocked Snape for his appearance and for not fitting the mold of hegemonic masculinity? Why do they go on about body positivity, headcanoning Regulus with crooked teeth or Lily as plus-size, while turning around and mocking Snape for—God, this is so laughably ridiculous—not fitting beauty standards? They literally have posts laughing at him for having a big nose or greasy hair and then have the nerve to act like making Lily plus-size in their fics is groundbreaking?

Do they not realize how utterly hypocritical, cynical, and cringe they are?

If this wasn’t the case, I honestly wouldn’t give a damn about that fandom. I wouldn’t care if they idolized a bunch of bullies or treated a group of budding psychopaths as misunderstood kids. Really, I wouldn’t care. But trying to sell this idea that they’re so inclusive, so free of prejudice, and that their view of these characters is doing the world a favor when they’re perpetuating the same prejudiced, discriminatory, classist, and misogynistic crap as J.K. Rowling on one of her better days on Twitter? They can go straight to hell with that.

Stop bashing a character for no reason, especially when that character canonically embodies everything they claim to be fighting for with their pastel pink version of "That '70s Show." Give me a break. Tell it to someone else.

[camillechan]

The light Emissary - Azriel x fem!reader (Chapter 1)

Hi guys! Here I am! Back for more actions! The first chapter after the prologue of my fanfic! Please, don't hesitate to leave comments about how you feel, how is it written and how I can improve myself!

Summary: Azriel and Y/N are suppose to meet at nightfall to do an under cover mission. Will they be able to seek what they need?

Rating: 18+

Warnings: Nothing also on this chapter, but for the incoming sexy times, violence and all that jazz.

Previous chapter / Next chapter

-------------------------------------------

Chapter 1:

Y/N P.O.V

As soon as I arrive at the Day Court, I walk at a determined pace towards the armory. The interior of the Day Court palace is a masterpiece of light, gold, and elegance, designed to embody the eternal brilliance of the sun. Vast halls are bathed in a warm, golden glow that radiates from the walls, creating an ethereal and divine atmosphere. Polished marble floors shimmer in tones of pale gold and cream, veined with silver that catches the sunlight streaming through towering arched windows. High, vaulted ceilings are adorned with frescoes of sunny skies, soaring birds, and glowing celestial bodies, framed by intricate gold and white plasterwork. 

Magical golden orbs provide illumination when sunlight fades, ensuring no corner is ever cast in shadow. The Grand Hall boasts a breathtaking sunburst chandelier of enchanted glass and gold as I pass through it. Every element of the palace—from the glowing plants to the subtle floral fragrances—exudes tranquility, warmth, and timeless beauty, embodying the ideals of clarity and radiance that define the Day Court.

Everything I own, from my armors and weapons to my clothes, reflects the same description of this place. I need to find something suitable for the incoming mission. Something that will fit  for a spy. I have a feeling it won’t be easy to find what I need, but we do have spies in the Day Court, don’t we? As I reach the door, a messenger from Helion catches me before I enter. Mistiel, a childhood friend of mine. As my eyes set on his face, I remember our first encounter.

He had always been a whirlwind of sunshine and laughter, his golden locks catching the light with every playful tilt of his head. From the moment we met, he seemed to embody the very essence of joy, his presence like a warm breeze on a crisp day. His eyes, a sparkling shade of amber, held a mischief that was both endearing and infectious. There was a charm to him, not just in his radiant smile but in the way he seemed to find humor and light in the smallest things.

Growing up with him was like being tethered to a storm of energy—always moving, always laughing, always dreaming. He had an uncanny ability to lift my spirits, whether it was with a clever quip or a spontaneous adventure. His laugh was the kind that made others join in without knowing why, a bubbling, unrestrained sound that could pierce through even the darkest moods.

Despite his effervescent nature, there was a depth to him that he rarely let others see. In quiet moments, when it was just the two of us under the starlit sky, he would share his hopes, fears, and dreams with an openness that felt like a gift. He had a heart too big for his own good, always putting others first, always searching for ways to make the world brighter for those around him.

He was a contradiction—bubbly and carefree on the surface, yet fiercely loyal and protective underneath. I could never decide if his golden hair was more fitting as a reflection of his sunny disposition or the warmth of his soul. 

“Y/N, you are back. I could sense your arrival. How was the meeting with that spymaster?”

His voice brings me back to the present. The blond male is smiling faintly, but I can tell he is annoyed. His slender body is tense and his hands are in fists at his side.

“Good. We are gonna investigate my lead tonight.”

I tell him nonchalantly. He sighs and passes a hand in his short hair.

“It’s a bad idea. I know we are “allies” with the Night Court, but we can’t trust them fully. You shouldn’t put yourself in danger. Have you told our High Lord of that mission of yours?”

He reprimands me now. I furrow my brows and cross my arms on my chest. What happened to that warm boy I thought about a moment ago. It’s me who is annoyed now.

“You can’t tell me what I can or cannot do. I don’t want to waste Helion’s time if the mission leads to nothing.”

Since I outrank him, Mistiel backs down.

“Fine, but be careful.”  

He turns gracefully on his heels and leaves me there. What is going on with these males about being careful ? I know how to take care of myself. I shake my head and enter the armory. I look around carefully. 

The Day Court armory is a radiant haven of light and precision, where functionality meets artistry. Sunlight streams through narrow windows, amplified by enchanted mirrors, illuminating rows of golden plate armor adorned with delicate sunburst and floral engravings. 

The air carries a faint metallic tang, mingled with the scent of polished wood and leather. Weapons are masterpieces—swords with sun stone-inlaid hilts, golden-tipped arrows, and bows strung with enchanted silk. Shields gleam with radiant sunbursts, while enchanted items like speed-enhancing bracers and light-shielding cloaks add a magical edge. The armory embodies the court’s ideals of brilliance and grace, preparing warriors to shine like the sun in battle. 

But, shining in battle is clearly not what I have in mind for an undercover mission. I sigh and start to shuffle objects around. A mess later, I finally find a black leather armor that is sleek and form-fitting, designed for agility and stealth. Its surface is smooth yet durable, reinforced with subtle etchings of shadowy patterns that seem to shift in the light. 

I grab two twin black daggers that are equally menacing, their blades sharp and gleaming with a faint, dark sheen. The hilts are wrapped in textured leather for a secure grip, with understated designs that hint at deadly precision. Together, the armor and daggers exude an aura of lethal elegance, perfect for a shadowy warrior. Exactly what I need. Relieved that I have found what I need, I leave the room fully armored. I have the impression it will be a rough night.

***

As agreed and on time, I winnow to the Night Court border, the rendezvous point. I am fully prepared for what is coming and can’t wait to confirm my suspicion. I hope we will be able to find the information we are looking for to locate the damn Cauldron. I look around to see if Azriel is already here. As if on cue, the shadow clung to him like a second skin as he materialized from the darkness. I can see his eyes rake over my attire, noting the daggers at my waist. His slick voice pierces the silence of the night.

“Good, you’re prepared.” 

He murmured, voice low. He moves closer to me.

“We will fly there. We will be able to assess the area from the air.”

He unfurls his wings, the membrane dark against the night sky. Without any warning, he steps closer, strong arms encircling my waist.

“Hold on tight and don’t let go.”

He whispers into my ears sending shivers down my spine. He lifts me against his chest. My pulse quickens at the contact of his body against mine, but I don’t have much time to focus on the feeling since we launch into the sky. I grip his shirt, to pull myself closer. I have never flown with him before. The wind whipped around us as Azriel’s powerful wings cut through the sky. He held me close, his scarred hands firm but gentle. After a few moments, his voice resonated deep in my chest, his warm breath on my ear.

“We are approaching the area. I’ll put you down and go back to scout a bit. Hang it tight, we are landing.”

His muscles tensed as he began our descent, shadows swirling around us to conceal our approach. We land into a forest.As soon as our feet touch the ground, he releases me. I instantly feel the cold breeze of the night hit my back. 

“I’m gonna go scout, hide. I’ll be right back.”

He launches once more into the air. I watch him disappear concealed by his shadow. I turn around to assess my surroundings. The towering trees from this forest form a dense canopy, blocking all but the faintest glimmers of moonlight. The air is cool and heavy with the earthy scent of moss and damp leaves. Soft rustlings and distant calls of nocturnal creatures echo, their sounds amplified by the eerie silence. The ground is uneven, covered in a mix of gnarled roots and fallen foliage, while patches of mist swirl low among the trunks, adding an otherworldly feel. 

I place an hand on one of my daggers to reassure myself. I move a bit forwards, knowing the camp should be close by. Suddenly, a twig snaps nearby. In one fluid motion, Azriel is already back and pulls me behind a tree, pressing me against the bark. His body is shielding mine, wings half-unfurled. 

“Guards.”

He breathed, lips barely moving. 

“Two of them, armed.”

My heart is racing one mile an hour. I try to keep my breathing low. I can feel some kind of tug in my chest at the proximity of our bodies. I can feel the weight of his chest against mine and his scent… I close my eyes to try and regain my composure.

“When I give the signal, we move. Silent as death, understood ? Follow me close.“

His hazel eyes are locked onto mine, intense and unyielding. I want to stay hidden against him, but I need to focus on the mission. I peer into his eyes.

“Lead the way, Spymaster.”

He nods, giving me the signal. He moves silently, shadows clinging to him like a second skin. His scarred hand reaches the lower of my back and guides me forwards. We move in the dark. I follow him as we approach a dim lighted camp. Two guards are monitoring the entrance.

“I was able to see from the airborne view at least thirty soldiers in there. At the center of the camp, there is a war tent. Probably where we can find the information we need.”

His voice is above a whisper, he is still close, too close. With the shadows at his command, we pass through the entrance without much problems. We move fast, but quietly towards the tent he mentioned. Strangely, the entrance of the tent is not guarded. I look towards Azriel.

“This is weird, why isn’t it guarded?”

He hums as an answer and his kneen eyes scanning a bit more carefully the area. He pushed a bit more in my lower back.

“Let’s go. If something happens, I'll get us out.”

As we reached the entrance, he lifted his hand to stop me from moving further.

“Lay low, I will go check if it’s safe.”

I crouch and hide myself in the shadow of the tent. Azriel moves inside with grace. I wait for a couple of minutes, before his voice calls me from inside.

“It’s safe. Come in.”

I enter in a swift motion, my eyes adjusting to the soft light in the tent. I watch around. Two guards are unconscious on the ground. Azriel is already searching through bookshelves that are placed against the wall.

“Let’s hurry. I’ll search here, go look towards that table.”

He points towards a huge table at the center of the place. I walk closer without any noises and start looking at the paper sprayed on it. There are some texts irrelevants, but by moving the documents around, I find a map marked with red dots written across Prythian. 

“Azriel! Come and look at this.”

In an instant, he stands next to me, his eyes intensely watching the map.

“What are those?”

I can see he is thinking fast, trying to figure out what those red dots mean. Suddenly, I feel a dark energy pulsing from behind. As I get my daggers out, my body feels rigid. I drop my daggers on the ground. Azriel is now facing the direction of my frozen stare. Then, a voice, rich and dark, can be heard.

“Well, well, well… What do we have here ? An Illyrian and a kitten in my tent. Interesting…”

My eyes widen, we are in trouble.

[thegreymoon]

Mo Ran is so gay it isn't even funny.

Now, this is just my opinion and I realise other people have their own interpretations, but this whole episode is super telling to me of just how unreliable his narration is about having tons and tons of sex with people of both genders in his previous lifetime. He's just so... oblivious. None of this reads as a man with a lot of previous experience with many different people. He did not pick up on her flirting with him at all. Sure, he did have a lot of insane sex in his past life, but as the book unfolds, it becomes very clear that most of that sex was with Chu Wanning. At best, there were only a handful of other people he was involved with, and one was a prostitute he was paying, while the other was his wife whose relationship with him was also transactional.

I know people argue that he is bisexual because he married Song Qiutong, but when we actually get her POV on their marriage, it turns out that they had unenjoyable sex only a handful of times, at least one of which was him taking her from behind and very much imagining that it was Chu Wanning in her place. There are plenty of gay men who end up married to straight women (and vice versa) for whatever reasons and none of this makes them any less gay. He also identifies as a 'cut-sleeve' himself at one point, so he doesn't seem at all confused about his sexual attraction to men. Later on, when we finally get his unaltered POV on his life in the brothel, it comes out that he considered the girls there as sisters at best, never as sexual partners. The only other named sexual partner is Rong Jiu, who is male, and I can buy that there were possibly other people who looked like Shi Mei that he was with under the influence of the cursed love spell, but there was never any real attraction there, which is why some argue that he is attracted only to Chu Wanning and would still be attracted to him regardless of gender.

But I think that this is also not true. He definitely was obsessed with Chu Wanning from an early age, which makes it hard to see what his preferences would have been if Chu Wanning wasn't in the picture, but that chapter when he finally realises his feelings also reveals that he does have a type, which he never dared to think about before because he thought he was unworthy of having a choice. However, Chu Wanning fits this type to a tee, so it's easy to run away with the idea that he is shizunsexual and that Mo Ran's attraction begins and ends with him.

With that said, we do get confirmation later on that he does find other men attractive, in particular, Jiang Xi. It's just that he never has the space or the inclination to do anything about it because of his preoccupation with Chu Wanning. In the extras, when Mo Ran misunderstands Xue Men's relationship with Jiang Xi and thinks they are having a love affair, in his unfiltered Taxian-jun state, he is full of approval because he personally finds these powerful, beautiful, prickly, emotionally unavailable older men to be the height of attractiveness. If Chu Wanning hadn't been in the picture, Mo Ran would have definitely been attracted to Jiang Xi or someone similar. Even Ye Wangxi, whom he also fixates on, fits this type (except for the older man bit because I understood her to be only a few years older than Mo Ran). The fact that she turns out to be a woman also cannot be used as an argument for Mo Ran's bisexuality because she very much presents as a man throughout the book (but whether or not she actually identifies as one is debatable).

In short, Mo Ran does have a type of man he is attracted to and it is definitely men that he likes, regardless of his few dubious and very unsatisfying dalliances with women. While Chu Wanning definitely fits this type of ideal man, there are other men out there whom Mo Ran finds attractive too, it's just that he is too unhinged about Chu Wanning to actually do anything about it. Also, I very much doubt that Mo Ran was nearly as promiscuous as he makes himself out to be because he reads as very oblivious when it comes to sexual relationships in general. Even with Chu Wanning, who was right there and about to pass away from sheer horniness that he couldn't even begin to disguise, Mo Ran was still going, "Shizun is so pure and virtuous!" 🙄

(I'm not going to get into the whole Shi Mei situation and how badly he misread him every step of the way too, but that is because his brain was so badly mangled by him that he really stood no chance on that front until it was entirely too late.)

[desmon1995]

The Warriors and their Odyssey of misogyny

I can’t stop thinking about how The Warriors is more relevant now than ever, especially in the wake of the 2024 election. This isn’t just a story about gang conflicts and survival—it's a brutally honest reflection of the world that marginalized people have to navigate every day. At its core, it’s about fighting through a sea of misogyny and toxic masculinity to survive in a system that’s dead set on crushing those who don’t fit its narrative.

Let’s start with Luther. He’s a white incel in every sense—angry, destructive, and, above all, ready to deflect blame the moment he’s caught in his own violence. After killing a black female activist, he immediately accuses the Warriors. Cleon, a character who knows what it means to fight for your community, begs for reason, for justice. But it’s hopeless—Luther’s lie spreads through his gang the Rouges, and every gang believes him. They want to believe the white man’s narrative. This is how the Warriors become outcasts, hunted by everyone.

What’s chilling, though, is how The Warriors dives deep into the nuances of toxic masculinity, showing it in forms we recognize all too well.

First, we have the Turnbull ACs—the poster boys of hyper-masculine violence. They’re the first to pursue the Warriors, and they’re more than willing to turn their hunt into something brutal. The ACs don't just want revenge; they want to dominate, to assert their power over the Warriors in every violent way possible. All in the name of Cyrus, no less—a symbol of a leader they’ll never understand. And they’re acting this way because of a lie, blindly following a dangerous white man’s narrative without question. It’s the rawest depiction of machismo and rage—almost an anthem of how Men of Color end up perpetuating harmful Eurocentric viewpoints just be a part of a society that hates them too.

Then come the Orphans. The Orphans are all talk, acting like the typical online "alpha males" we see on Reddit or Twitter. They talk big about their strength and what they’d do to women, but they’re nothing but insecure. The moment a more feminine-presenting Warrior flirts with them, they back down, only to puff up again when Mercy questions their manhood. It’s pathetic, really, but also painfully real. As soon as the Warriors fight back, the Orphans crumble, showing us exactly how performative their masculinity truly is.

Then there’s the Hurricanes—the only group to stand with the Warriors. They’re queer, and they know what it’s like to be outcast, to run because society sees you as something to be destroyed. The Hurricanes offer a quiet, resilient kind of mentorship, showing the Warriors that they don’t have to run—that they can fight. The solidarity here is beautiful, and historically resonant. Queer rights and women’s rights are so deeply intertwined because they’ve both faced the brutal crush of patriarchy, especially from those determined to keep the world “pure” and “safe” for white, conservative ideals. The Hurricanes help the Warriors see their own power, and it’s their influence that eventually allows them to survive.

But the most frightening group? The Bizzies. They’re the “nice guys,” the false allies who sing about being there to help. In their song “We Got You,” they say everything marginalized people want to hear. They’re supportive, kind, and reassuring—until they get you in a dark place, where your screams can’t be heard. Cowgirl lets her guard down with them, only to find out that their support was a façade. The Bizzies are insidious because this happens all the time in real life. Fake allies talk about helping marginalized people but vanish or even turn hostile the moment things get difficult. In 2024, we’re reminded every day that this kind of allyship is hollow.

A recent Vulture review questioned why most of the male characters in The Warriors are “bad” and argued that this one-sided view “limits” the story. But here’s the thing: this isn’t one-sided for those of us who are marginalized. For women, queer folks, and people of color, this is our reality. The Warriors reveals what’s true for many of us: that we have to rely on each other, and that the fight for our own freedom is in our hands because no one else will fight it for us without diluting or dismissing it.

In a way, The Warriors is the sequel to Hamilton we need in 2024. It’s a call to action, a piece that understands what it means to exist on the fringes of a world that was never designed for you. For those who think this story isn’t “realistic,” I urge you to think about what it means to live without the privilege of being heard, of being believed. This is the life marginalized communities face every day—the struggle of knowing that no matter how loud we shout, society might never listen.

We’re the ones who have to make our voices heard. And The Warriors reminds us that we’re not alone in this fight.

[batsarebetterthanpeople]

I want to write a meta on Stede Bonnet of Our Flag Means Death and internalized homophobia. A lot of this is going to be a rehash of something I said to an anon back in october of 2022 but I feel like it deserves to be put out without rancid anon takes attached.

Our Flag Means Death as a show is trying to do a deconstruction of toxic masculinity. I feel very comfortable in saying that seeing as David Jenkins had "A lot of what we're taught about what it means to be a man is wrong" and a show about gay men with a thesis like that is necessarily also deconstructing homophobia, even if it doesn't center homophobia, which ofmd does not, it keeps it in just out of frame at all times, because it prefers to center queer joy. However that doesn't mean it's not there and I want to talk about the one place where it exists that I feel like people don't really touch on.

Stede is a character that comes from a background of wealth, of rigid adherence to social norms that he was never able to fully fit into. There are rules for what men do and what women do and those rules must be obeyed and Stede learns this the hard way, by getting tied in a boat and having things thrown at him for picking flowers. By being bullied relentlessly for being soft and weak. Under such conditions you can’t not internalize those rules.

Stede also is very insecure, in episode 2 it's established that he struggles with feelings of inadequacy. A lot of Stede’s guilt comes from his inability to preform the roles of husband and father, roles which were thrust upon him without his consent and stand in opposition to his identity as a gay man, at least in the 1700s. Stede considers himself a coward for his inability to preform these rolls. Stede is unable to forgive himself for being unable to fit into the heterosexual expectations that society as placed on him.

Blackbeard is also a hypermasculine figure. A role that Ed finds himself unable to fit into. That’s why Ed and Stede seem to be in the same place when they first meet. They’re both trying to break out of these rigid boxes that have been forced upon them. Blackbeard is less heterosexual, more specific, but it’s still a distinctly male expectation which is tied up in cultural ideals about masculinity, especially non-white masculinity. And the whole show Izzy, a gender conforming character who seems to go out of his way to talk down to any man he perceives as even a little bit soft, is trying to force Ed into it, and when he tries to imply that Ed isn’t Blackbeard enough he does it by emasculating him

Ed is open, at least when he's made to feel like he's in a safe environment, about not wanting to be blackbeard anymore. Stede suggests retirement and provides him space to experiment with reinventing himself, but at the end of the day Stede doesn't believe him because Stede venerates Blackbeard as one of the most fearsome pirates of all time (something I expect to be a large point of contention between them in the next season). When Ed finally shakes off his captaincy and tries to leave Blackbeard behind for good Stede ends up blaming himself for it, because he perceives Ed's desire to leave a role that is hurting him behind as him being ruined, the same way Stede perceives his own failure as a husband and father as an inherently corrosive thing.

Unpacking Chauncey's speech in season 1 episode 10 and why Stede agrees with it is fundamental here. Gay people have been for centuries been portrayed as corrupting influences trying to convert people to our lifestyle. We've been portrayed as horror villains. Our sex is portrayed as defilement. We're accused of being groomers who want to corrupt others to our way of life, we're accused of recruiting. This is one of the more classic homophobic tropes. So when Chauncy says you're a monster who defiles beautiful things there is venom and oppression behind it. And Stede agrees to it because he does believe himself to have corrupted Ed away from being Blackbeard into being kind of a pansy like Stede. And that he defiled his family by leaving despite it being what he needed to do.

And so his reaction to this is to shove himself back into the closet and try to be Mary's husband again.

I'm not passing moral judgement on Stede, it's just difficult to interpret the show without seeing the subtextual journey of overcoming internalized homophobia that Stede goes on.

[aphrostarot]

Leo Woman:

Title: “The Knockout”

For simplicity's sake, I will use the pronouns “he/him” for the male versions of the signs and “she/her” for the female versions of the signs. This is not to say that the people who identify with the male or female versions of each sign identify with those pronouns. This post is focusing on the different sexes (male vs female) not gender. Gender is fluid and I am in no way labeling people with these posts. Also, these posts are focusing solely on the Sun signs of each zodiac, other birth chart placements may cause someone to not fit into everything I have described.

Masterlist

Mind (how they think):

The Sun rules the sign of Leo, which is represented by the authoritative Father Principle. Male Leos express this characteristic by having huge amounts of energy, an innate sense of ease, and a sense of entitlement. Female Leos express this as a revolt against the patriarchy, a call to leave the universally accepted patriarchal society that is dominated by men.

Typically, she is raised as a latchkey kid, with her parents mostly absent during the day.

She becomes a strong supporter of self-reliance because of this, honing her survivalist skills in the process of creating a stable home environment for herself.

There is oftentimes a dramatic reason for the absence of one or both of her parents. It is most times the mother who is absent in her life, due to divorce, death, or more often just emotionally absent in parenting the Leo female.

The Leo woman's father is most often strict and strong-willed, though has a more sporadic presence at home. In the extreme, he is a tough disciplinarian, dogmatic politically, religiously, or both, against whose dictatorial nature the little Lion girl privately begins to rebel.

Despite pretending to comply with her parents' rules, she disobeys them nonchalantly, secretly following her own path. Her path is rarely what you would expect.

Although she suffered from the strict temperament of her father, she often credits him with giving her the courage to stand up for what she believes in.

She focuses most of her time on her passions, usually those that involve stepping into some sort of spotlight.

It is easy for her to gain the respect of teachers and other grown-ups, due to her self-reliant nature.

It isn’t until she realizes that survival depends on cooperation with others, particularly with other females that she cultivates a pack of women who share the same ideals as her.

As the only fixed-fire female in the zodiac, she excels at pursuits that require sustained action and creativity.

If she sees a creative plan or concept that isn’t being done justice she will step in and develop it into something that fits her image of what it should look like.

It is her birthright as one born under the sign of wholeness and completion, to envision how a half-baked concept could be sufficiently fleshed out and then accomplished.

She isn’t always conscious of her tendency to usurp other people's territory. Regardless, she may easily gain a reputation for being commandeering.

The biggest lesson she will have to face psychologically throughout her whole life is learning when enough is enough. Megalomania is often her undoing.

Body + Soul (what they look like inside and out):

She is infused with so much physical and emotional energy that she often seems larger than life.

She is haughty, cunning like a cat, somewhat savage in her movements, athletic, often exhibiting a defined musculature.

Her brand of beauty is often distinctly fiery, made all the more vivid by her style choices, as she often kits herself out in boldly revealing clothes, brightening her hair to a golden red or flaxen blonde.

Unlike the male Leo who guards his autonomy at all costs, the female Leo eagerly invites a circle of admirers who’ll unfailingly honor her inherent self-styled VIP status.

She is not generally loving, she saves her fervent devotion for just one or two lucky, and hopefully hardy, individuals.

More than most fully matured females, Leo remains devoted to one long-standing best friend from childhood, someone whose life should revolve around her, though rarely vice versa.

She doesn’t so much enter a room as storm it. Her vivacious body language is as eye-catching as her colorfully coordinated appearance.

Her voice stands out, a gravely honeyed growl that regularly crescendos into explosions of full-bodied laughter.

She is naturally fit, blessed with a low percentage of fat and a muscled physique.

There are moments in her life where she could put on some weight. However, that is usually a manifestation of a “blocked” emotional life; and often she’ll lose that weight just as quickly as she put it on when she deals with that blockage.

If she does, however, happen to be bigger than the average Leo woman that does not mean she will hide herself in baggy clothes. She will still be very confident and flaunt herself the way any other Leo woman will.

The Leo woman is generally beautiful, however, there is often a hardness to Leo's face that saves her from being considered ‘pretty’ by others.

No matter her race, her skin is often pale, with freckles, or uneven in tone.

Her skin is usually on the dryer side.

She usually has a heart-shaped head with an infamous mane that frames her face.

Her hair is surprisingly straight, sparse, and dry, she goes to great lengths to make it look more voluminous, often overhandling it.

Her jaw, like the rest of her, is strong and well-defined, her neck sinewy, her shoulders athletically square, as is her upper torso. She has very little curve, even at the waist.

Her boobs are perfectly formed and almost always symmetrical, and she knows this.

Nothing about her body language suggests that she is insecure. She moves deliberately, with a natural grace that is slinky like a cat’s rather than delicate as a swan’s.

Her legs tend to be lean and mighty with the calf and thigh muscles visibly ripped.

Her hands and feet tend to be rough and dry. No amount of cream or other cures can counteract that.

She can’t help but exude naturally raw sexuality, no matter the fashionable clothes she wears, the careful grooming she does, or the constant cosmetic makeovers she gives herself.

Her body temperature tends to hover just above normal. When she is looking for a lover she prefers someone who also runs just as hot as she does.

The Leo woman does not do phony. Mainly because they simply can't pretend to be something they are not. They are terrible liars, tending to overdo it, and giving themselves away along the way.

She finds success by being a bit of a copycat, running with others’ only half-baked ideas. She completes what others stumble upon or pioneer, doing up all she takes on.

She can be loud and pushy. In time she should adopt a sense of calm in the candid expression of her opinions.

A poorly aspected Leo personality will be characterized by brutal curtness and bullying directed primarily at those she maniacally curses for being “better” than herself, unwitting objects of her signature insane jealousy.

Leo will have you know she never caters to anyone by herself. However, she expects others to do any and all the grunt work, while she remains a calm, cool command central.

Only people with a visible passion akin to her own will catch her attention. Those she deems lacking this particular trait, deserve to play the part of handmaiden or fool for her emotional edification.

Sex + Sexuality (what they are like in bed and what they look for in a mate):

Leo Woman Interested in Men:

Leo woman interested in men is drawn to a man with ardent natures, who appear to wear their hearts on their sleeves.

Leo women are notorious for falling head over heels in love with a dark and dashing man. Blonde men usually are not someone whom a Leo woman thinks twice about.

She will typically lighten her own look up, however, to appeal to the men she likes. She goes for a look that most resembles the sun, golden hair, tanned skin, warm warm-toned colors in her wardrobe.

Men ruled by their hearts are those she seeks to capture.

She tends to be blatantly obvious in her feelings. She doesn’t want the man she likes to have to guess whether she likes him or not.

This is to say, she is the one who does the pursuing. She doesn’t typically like a man who pursues her.

She is a master of flirtation, once she’s convinced of a man’s interest in her, she’ll play cat and mouse, toying and teasing him unabashedly.

She tends to think that her naturally tough, ambitious self may frighten men, so, she will instinctively act comically feeble-witted, like the school brainiac who swears she’ll fail tests, only to ever scare A-pluses.

If she is ever pursuing a man, it is because there is intense passion present. If there isn’t she will not waste her time.

She is not quick to fall in love at first sight.

She is an outrageous flirt with an insatiable appetite for sex. But, sex to the Leo woman is a vividly demonstrative means of making an emotional attachment.

She guards her emotions fervently. Though, through sex, exercise, and ambition she shows them.

She is a true romantic. She believes that men with visible passion will love her more fully than she perceives other, more stoic males to do.

It is the promise of sex, not sex itself, that she uses to get men.

She likes to give her partner the impression that they are running the show, and to do this she allows him to act more selfishly in bed. At least, at first.

She will typically take a more passive role, pretending to play the role of a woman who will make no demands in the relationship, with the hopes of not scaring him off.

In truth, however, she is one of the most commanding women in the zodiac.

She wants nothing more in life than to love, and this is something she is wildly capable of doing.

She expects her partner to love her just as much as she loves them.

There is nobody more devoted than the Leo woman in love.

Because she is a fixed fire sign, she will attach her full, feverish energy to whatever creative or loving pursuit has her attention.

To be loved by her is like being offered a challenge, one that demands a man expressing his feelings to the fullest capacity.

She may put her partner through the emotional ringer, constantly demanding more proof of their interest in her.

She will do this until she learns a life lesson that almost every Leo woman will need to learn in their love life; to back off.

Far too often in her life, she will bark up the wrong tree, especially when it comes to romantic interests.

Early on in her life, she will far too often end up in relationships with himbos because of her overbearing nature when pursuing someone.

Once she comes to this revelation, she will learn that she needs to ease up, both in her pursuit of someone to be in a relationship with and in her pursuit of constant validation once she’s in a relationship.

She usually learns the hard way that love chased is often the one hardest to keep.

The man who is lucky enough to get the Leo woman in bed will have to overwhelm her. Only by doing this, will they actually prove themselves worthy of her love.

She wants a man who can keep up with her, some healthy competition is what she really craves.

She enjoys besting and being bested in bed.

She thrives on high-powered men, those who generate growth in the world - makers, shakers, movers, and manufacturers- self-made men and kings of industry, leaders worthy of her company.

It takes a special kind of man to be with Leo, one who gives way to her fiercest dramas, remaining unruffled, but who will nonetheless refuse to be whipped by her.

She will at some point in her life learn that for her, of all women, Mr.Rights are few and far between.

This is when she learns self-love is exactly what she needs to feel fulfilled in life.

She will fuel her love of herself with the admiration of others.

She tends to find the love that she seeks when she least expects it - while she is focused on her personal ambitions.

She demands a great challenge from men, demanding whether they can break her self-protective barrier and love her as much as she loves herself.

Until a man is successful in breaking down her barriers, an emotionally evolved Leo is living proof that if you love yourself, the whole world loves you back.

If the Leo woman has been burned enough times trying to engineer and force relationships, she may one day find herself willing to let a man take the reins in driving their relationship.

Leo women can be so self-consumed that they can’t help but attract men who are secure enough in their masculinity to not feel threatened by her.

She craves someone who will stand up to the rigorous rough and tumble lifestyle and sex life she enjoys without fear of crushing his ego.

She likes to battle her lover for dominance in the bedroom. This is not to say that she is usually a dom. Rather, she is more of a switch and prefers her partner to be one too.

She is an enthusiastic lover and a fast learner.

For her, sex needs to feel like play.

She expects her partner to successfully, and willingly, put her through her sexual paces.

This explains why she typically goes for younger guys.

She appreciates a younger man's innocence and wide-eyed enthusiasm when it comes to sex, and she will eagerly take on the role of their teacher.

She’s not usually one to hesitate jumping into bed with a man too early in the relationship. She needs to check out the merchandise before she fully commits to someone and this is the only way she knows how to do that properly.

She can have a wandering eye when she is in a relationship with a man who doesn’t satisfy her.

Size does matter to her, especially girth.

She is not one to like slow and steady sex, she wants it rough and fast. Not fast as in a quickie more like fast-paced. Marathon sex is exactly what she craves.

She’s not necessarily verbal, more like noisy, and a screamer.

She has no interest in role-play and is turned off by men who seem to be too in their heads in bed.

She wants a man who agrees that sex is about getting off as furiously as possible.

Sex needs to be equal give and take for her to be satisfied.

She hates oral and is not one to ever do it and when she does it tends to be quite toothy.

She prefers to reach her climax vaginally, clitorally is too acute for her to feel fully satisfied.

Since she is rarely in touch with her femininity, she does not like a man who is in touch with his own.

She requires a fiercely masculine lover who will be able to handle her ferocious, aggressive self and make her look like a delicate flower in tandem.

She is so often the leader in all aspects of her life that when she finds the right man she will be willing to let him take the lead in their relationship.

Leo Woman Interested in Women:

Leo women no matter their sexuality have a very intense relationship with other women.

The Leo woman interested in women is especially provocative around women. She will always be pushing buttons - pointing out weaknesses, challenging opinions, questioning motives, and especially poking fun - behavior that is intended to test other women’s mettle and elicit emotions.

She likes to turn up the heat on other women, whose placid natures she blames on society's crushing domination of her gender.

This is why she pokes and prods at women so much, so she can see if they have passion in them. For when they explode even in anger she will smile at them with a look that says “I knew you had it in you “.

Most of her relationships with women start with her poking fun at them, gauging whether she has the requisite impassioned responses she’ll later hope to encounter in the bedroom.

Her type of woman is typically the straight-passing girl who will give her the thrill of feeling like she showed them the ropes of sex with another woman.

She also enjoys stealing a woman from their boyfriend.

Unlike the straight Leo woman, she is okay with being in touch with her masculine side

She is relationship orientated in the extreme, usually going for a plain Jane woman who she says has “potential”.

Sex without love is particularly empty for her, what she longs for is rarely found in one-night stands.

Sex for her means the absolute sharing of emotion, and if she’s not feeling the love, she’ll have nothing to give to them.

When she does find someone she loves, she will fall hard, and the subsequent outpouring of her emotions can make any woman feel overwhelmed.

She is profoundly loyal and demands the same in return.

She guards her private life and her lover as fiercely as a lion would her cubs.

Since she is more dominant and prefers to be, she demands that her lover be the femme in bed, often wearing frilly lingerie, performing seductive stripteases, and otherwise indulging in stereotypically female trappings.

She will verbally taunt her love while simultaneously working them over with toys, driving them to orgasm to orgasm.

She is a hopeless romantic, forever surprising her lover with tokens of her affection, or spontaneously whisking her off for a candlelit dinner or surprise weekend away.

As long as she and her lover can be alone together, all is right in the world.

Since Leo is ruled by the 5th house which is associated with procreation and children, all Leos dream of having kids.

Sperm is sometimes all the gay Leo woman thinks a man is good for.

While adoption is an option, she may prefer to produce her child. However, this child can not be made out of wedlock so, before she has a baby with her lover they need to get married.

Leo women can fall out of love without warning. They are rarely promiscuous, rather she will leave her lover and jump into a relationship rather quickly, often getting married many times in her life.

She wants her lover to be successful, so she can flaunt her and her lover to any person she meets.

She is comfortable when surrounded by only men, oftentimes she tends to act more masculine than the most masculine of men.

She will protect her lover passionately.

She doesn't have laissez-faire relationships; she fiercely bonds and extravagantly luxuriates in the lush environment of a fertile, thriving, infinitely hot, and heavy relationship.

[littledesertfox]

Do you have any favorite pictures of Rommel?

I do! Actually too many to decide which ones I like best, I think😅 But these are some of my favourites, I tried to kind of sort them into different categories (beware this is gonna be a long post):

Please note that the positive descriptions or "gushing" that may occur in this post refer strictly to his appearance, not his views or actions! I guess that makes sense since we're talking about pictures here, but just wanted to clarify it.

These are some of my favourite portraits of him, especially the first two are some I really like. This is probably just me talking in my own biased opinion, but I genuinely do think that he had a very beautiful face. Like, he looks so soft but still masculine at the same time? And his facial features just compliment each other very well. Somehow I also really like looking at his eyes (which is funny because I'm horrendously bad at that in real life😂), especially the first 3 pictures just have something very tender about them.

Next up, fully body photos! The second one is probably one of my favourite pictures of him ever, I don't know exactly what he's doing but he looks very funny xD But also these pictures always make me think that I can't help myself but find his body shape genuinely aesthetically appealing, and I've been trying to identify why that is. I think I just really like that he doesn't look like the "ideal" of a stereotypically masculine man, while appearing in no way less masculine because of that. Like, he wasn't built very tall or broad (I've read that he was about 1,68m, of course people were just shorter on average back then, but on photos together with others he often still looks rather small), he had a small torso and more slanted shoulders, overall just a more soft and (in my opinion) almost dainty body shape. I feel like the uniforms he typically wore just added to that, for example in the way they accented his hips quite a bit in some photos. Personally, I find this type of man with softer features like him just much more aesthetically attractive than a stereotypical dudebro/"alpha male" (I hate that word so much bruh💀) kind of guy. Plus, it also gives me an odd kind of reassurance in regard to my own gender expression. I could go on about this but I think I'll rather save that for a later post because this already got quite long.

Next a category that is very special to me🫶 Photos together with his chief of staff and best friend Fritz Bayerlein! I'd honestly love to add more of these, but they are sometimes a bit harder to find online. There are quite a few photos of them together in Bayerlein's biography, but I haven't scanned or taken pictures of most of them yet. I hope to post some of them in the future though, maybe also with some background information. I love all of these, but I especially adore how genuine and effortless Erwin's smile look in the second one. From all the things I've read about them, I like to think that he and Fritz really had a deep and trustful bond and cared a lot about each other.

I don't know how many pictures I can still fit into this post, so I'll finish it off with a few more that don't belong to a specific category:

Proud dad Rommel with little Manfred🥺 I feel like this is also a more uncommon photo where he's not wearing his usual uniform.

Young Rommel! I got to be honest, I enjoy pictures of him as a young man and I don't think he looked bad in the slightest, but I still think he's the type of person who gradually just started looking better and better as he got older. I wonder how he'd have turned out though if he got to live longer.

I just think he looks a bit funny with a Stahlhelm on😂 Not quite the way how you're used to seeing him.

I first came across this photo when I was maybe 13 or 14, and ever since I've wondered if it just had to do with the image quality and age, or if Rommel actually shaved his legs😂 Like, they look so smooth. I don't know about you, but if I was leading an army then shaving a legs would pretty much be the last thing I'd think of doing. Maybe he also simply had just very little or very light body hair though, I think it would fit in with the rest of his appearance.

I could go on for longer but I think this post is already long enough so I'll stop for now. At first I thought about making an extra category for family photos as well as for WW1 pictures of him, however I don't have a lot of them saved and was mostly using pictures here that I already had and didn't have to look up first. This was very fun though, I just love looking at all kinds of photos of him. Thanks for the ask <3

[beautiful-vil]

Vil Schoenheit: Profoundly Misunderstood (An In-Depth Character Analysis)

FULL NAME:

Vil Schoenheit

NICKNAMES:

Beta Fish, Beautiful Vil, Roi du Poison

NAME MEANING:

Schoenheit is German for "beauty"; since Snow White is a German fairytale, and the Fairest Queen was famously obsessed with maintaining her beauty, this makes for a fitting surname for the Pomefiore housewarden.

Vil is a French name, a variation of the word “ville”- this fits the elegant, European-inspired nature of Pomefiore. The name Vil also sounds like “evil” or “villain,” which seems like an allusion to the Evil Queen whom Vil is twisted from. It also relates to how Vil was constantly typecast as a villain throughout his acting career.

AGE/BIRTHDAY:

April 9 (Aries); 18 years old

SPECIES:

Human

HEIGHT:

183 cm

GENDER AND PRONOUNS:

Male; he/him (I do like fem Vil, though.)

HOMELAND:

Shaftlands

DORM:

Pomefiore

YEAR:

Third year

CLASS:

Class C (No. 23)

HOBBIES/TALENTS:

Singing, acting, modeling, fashion, makeup, general stage presence, leadership

CLUBS:

Film Studies Club

BEST SUBJECTS:

Potionology

MORE INFORMATION:

Vil is one of the most popular celebrities in all of Twisted Wonderland, with a huge net worth. Though he loves his work as a singer, actor, influencer, and model, he has currently put his career on hold in order to focus on his duties as Housewarden and his academic success at NRC.

He is twisted from the Evil Queen, from Snow White and the Seven Dwarves.

EXTERNAL PERSONALITY:

Vil comes across as extremely confident, fashionable, and elegant, if somewhat haughty. He can sometimes come across as overly critical of others’ appearance, because he expects perfection not only from himself, but from everyone around him. There’s a certain regal quality about him, and he’s a natural leader. He also comes across as somewhat effeminate, and gets bothered by students like Epel who try to pointlessly conform to a gender binary. Vil believes himself to be the most beautiful man on campus and expects everyone around him to know it. He wants everyone in his dorm to conform to his high standards of dress, diet, and comportment.

INTERNAL PERSONALITY:

Despite his haughty exterior, Vil is actually deeply afraid of failure, or of being anything but the best. He feels that must be the most beautiful, the most successful, the most talented, or he’s completely worthless. He tends to be incredibly hard on himself if he makes the smallest mistake or fails to achieve complete perfection, and he often seeks validation from others rather than within himself. He is an incredibly hard worker and strives to do his absolute best in everything he does. He’s incredibly passionate about the arts, whether that’s fashion, musical performance, or theatre, and likes to challenge outdated, heteronormative, or patriarchal notions of sexuality and gender. He struggles to forgive himself for mistakes, and this “phantom guilt” is what ultimately leads to his overblot; though his friends all forgive him for his attempt to poison Neige leBlanche, Vil is unable to forgive HIMSELF.

MORALS:

Vil firmly believes that hard work is the key to success; if it first you don’t succeed, you just have to try harder, do better, give it more time and effort, push yourself to your limits until you finally succeed. He believes there are no such things as “girly” or “boyish” hobbies- the gender binary is arbitrary and pointlessly confining. He believes there’s no point in doing anything unless you give it 110 percent. He also greatly appreciates the value of beauty, and every single aspect of his appearance is a conscious choice. After all, image is everything, especially when you’re famous.

GOOD AND BAD HABITS:

STRONG WORK ETHIC- Vil believes the only way to succeed in life is through giving it your all.

CHALLENGES SOCIAL NORMS- Vil challenges the antiquated and misogynistic ideals of students like Epel.

PRIZES SELF-CARE- Vil understands the importance of taking care of your appearance and treating yourself like royalty.

OVERLY CRITICAL OF OTHERS Vil tends to be displeased with students who aren’t as well-groomed or well-mannered as he is.

INSECURE Vil chases the validation of others, rather than believing in his own innate worth. He’s unable to grasp that if he believes he’s the fairest of them all, it doesn’t matter whether others agree or not.

OVERLY CRITICAL OF HIMSELF- Even when others forgive Vil for his mistakes, he is often unable to forgive himself. Even when people offer words of praise to Vil for his acting, singing, or modeling, he often insists that “that was far from his best work”- his voice was strained, his stage presence was lackluster, his hair was out of place, etc. He’s unable to simply take a compliment- instead, he’s constantly thinking of ways he needs to improve.

FEARS:

-Never breaking out of his “pretty villain” typecast

-Failure

-All of his hard work being for nothing

-Not being good enough

-All of his fans turning against him one day

-Disgracing the legacy of the Fairest Queen

MAGIC MAIN DESCRIPTION:

Vil is naturally talented at brewing potions, as well as any magic that has to do with one’s appearance. He is able to magically make himself seem naturally charming, beautiful, or endearing to an audience, a talent that comes in handy for someone like him, who constantly has eyes on him.

UNIQUE MAGIC:

Fairest One Of All - Allows Vil to place a curse on anything he touches, with any conditions of his choosing. It is so powerful, not even Vil himself can undo it until the previously specified conditions are met.

CHILDHOOD:

ERIC VENUE

Show business runs in Vil’s blood; he was raised by one of the most famous actors in all of Twisted Wonderland, Eric Venue. Eric was a very caring and loving father who taught Vil everything he knows about achieving a perfect performance. Vil inherited his father’s love of making an audience adore him.

TRAPPED IN A TYPECAST

Inspired by his father, Vil started acting from a young age, taking on roles in school dramas and TV shows. But Vil was always casted as the role of the villain or the bully, which started to bother Vil early on in his acting career. He didn’t understand why he was constantly categorized as a “villain,” and wondered what it was about him that was so despicable. Was it how he looked? How he acted? To make matters worse, he seemed to have been frequently bullied in school.

He desperately wanted to break out of his typecast and play a hero's role, and to achieve that he would put himself through rigorous training and effort both into his skills and appearance. Yet he was never chosen for anything but a villain's role, which left him feeling frustrated. Despite his building negative feelings, Vil never stopped putting in the effort or giving up his hope as he was growing up.

NEIGE LEBLANCHE

Throughout Vil’s career, Vil constantly co-starred in plays, photo shoots, commercials, movies, and TV shows with fellow celebrity Neige LeBlanche. They often starred together as the leading roles in media projects, with Vil playing the elegant villain and Neige playing the innocent hero. While Neige always seemed to want to become friends with Vil, and seems to feel a certain level of sentimentality towards his co-star, Vil eventually started to resent Neige for how he felt that Neige was constantly overshadowing him. He deeply envied Neige’s popularity and felt like he could never compare, no matter how hard he tried.

MIDDLE SCHOOL YEARS:

MEETING JACK HOWL

You’d think a celebrity like Vil would have lots of friends; in truth, Vil may have had adoring fans, but he essentially had no real friends in childhood. His only friend was his neighbor, Jack Howl. Jack didn’t judge Vil for his onscreen persona the way the other kids in the Shaftlands did. Even though Jack and Vil drifted apart somewhat when Vil arrived at NRC, they both still regard each other fondly and respect their shared history.

CURRENT WHEREABOUTS:

Vil is currently in his junior year at the prestigious academy of magic, Night Raven College, and is housewarden of Pomefiore. He is currently taking a break from the limelight in order to focus on school, and in an effort to make a name for himself outside of his father, he has changed his name from Vil Venue to Vil Schoenheit.

ROLEPLAY SAMPLE:

𝑽𝒊𝒍 𝒕𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒅 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒐𝒕 𝒊𝒎𝒑𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒍𝒚 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒌𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒓 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑷𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒇𝒊𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒎, 𝒉𝒊𝒔 6-inch 𝒉𝒊𝒈𝒉 𝒉𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒄𝒍𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒓𝒉𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒎𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒂𝒔 𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒖𝒓𝒑𝒍𝒆-𝒂𝒏𝒅-𝒈𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒏𝒂𝒊𝒍𝒔. “𝑹𝒐𝒐𝒌, 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝑬𝒑𝒆𝒍? 𝑯𝒆’𝒔 𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔𝒂𝒍.”

𝑹𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒔𝒉𝒓𝒖𝒈𝒔, 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒍𝒚 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒂𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒇𝒖𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒔 𝑽𝒊𝒍. “𝑰’𝒎 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒆, 𝒎𝒚 𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝑹𝒐𝒊 𝒅𝒖 𝑷𝒐𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒏.”

𝑽𝒊𝒍 𝒈𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒔, 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆𝒅. “𝑻𝒄𝒉. 𝑶𝒃𝒗𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒍𝒚 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒖𝒑 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝑺𝑫𝑪 𝒓𝒆𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔𝒂𝒍 𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒃𝒆 𝒂 𝒕𝒐𝒑 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝑬𝒑𝒆𝒍. 𝑰’𝒍𝒍 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒉𝒊𝒎 𝒂 𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒏 𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈-𝒕𝒐 𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓. 𝑶𝒉, 𝒘𝒆𝒍𝒍. 𝑰𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆, 𝒘𝒆’𝒍𝒍 𝒔𝒊𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒚 𝒓𝒆𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒉𝒊𝒎. 𝑰 𝒘𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝑬𝒑𝒆𝒍 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒖𝒏𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒇𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝒃𝒆𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒐𝒓 𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒅𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒑𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒆.”

𝑯𝒆 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒂 𝒑𝒓𝒆-𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒐𝒏 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒉𝒐𝒏𝒆, 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒎𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒎𝒐𝒅𝒆𝒍. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒑𝒂𝒑𝒆𝒓 𝒐𝒇 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒉𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒂 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒊𝒇𝒖𝒍 𝒑𝒉𝒐𝒕𝒐 𝒐𝒇 𝒉𝒊𝒎𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇, 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒇𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒏. “𝑨𝒍𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕, 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆𝒔, 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒐𝒏𝒆! 𝑳𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒂, 𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏!”

𝑨𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒔, 𝑹𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒖𝒅𝒔 𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚, 𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝒔𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔. “𝑶𝒉, 𝒎𝒚! 𝑹𝒐𝒊 𝒅𝒖 𝑷𝒐𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒏, 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒔𝒊𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒚 𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒏𝒊𝒇𝒊𝒒𝒖𝒆! 𝑻𝒓𝒖𝒍𝒚, 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒃𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒔 𝒚𝒆𝒕.”

𝑽𝒊𝒍 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒔 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅, 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒐𝒏 𝑹𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒅𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒇𝒖𝒍𝒍𝒚. “𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒌𝒔, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒅𝒍𝒚 𝒎𝒚 𝒃𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆. 𝑴𝒚 𝒅𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒔𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒍𝒚 𝒐𝒇𝒇-𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒕, 𝒎𝒚 𝒗𝒐𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒂 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒇𝒍𝒂𝒕 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒅 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒆, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒚 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒆 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒍𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓. 𝑰’𝒍𝒍 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒐 𝒎𝒖𝒄𝒉 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒏𝒆𝒙𝒕 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆, 𝒊𝒇 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒂 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑵𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒆 𝑳𝒆𝑩𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒉𝒆.”

“𝑶𝒉. 𝑾𝒆𝒍𝒍, 𝑰 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒊𝒅 𝒘𝒆𝒍𝒍, 𝑹𝒐𝒊 𝒅𝒖 𝑷𝒐𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒏.”

‘’’𝑫𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒆𝒍𝒍’ 𝒅𝒐𝒆𝒔𝒏’𝒕 𝒄𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒕. 𝑰𝒇 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏, 𝑰’𝒍𝒍 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒆𝒗𝒆 𝑷𝑬𝑹𝑭𝑬𝑪𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵. 𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒕 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒔. 𝑵𝒐𝒘, 𝒍𝒆𝒕’𝒔 𝒓𝒖𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒄 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏. 𝑰’𝒍𝒍 𝒅𝒐 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆!”

𝑹𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒔𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒐𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆. “𝑶𝒉, 𝑽𝒊𝒍…”

[unhetalia]

dreaming about historical model Alfred…..

This is purely self-indulgent

In a nations-are-known scenario: yk those videos that are like “hair through the decades” where they do the most popular hairstyles from 1890-2010 on one model. Like that but times a billion. I want magazine style fashion history. I want Georgian era clothes to 1950s retro to armor.

Realistically I think sightings of AFJ would be much more akin to Adam Sandler but in my heart he’s a model. & I also think (again, in my heart,) he has at least close to the ideal male proportions. Maybe not perfect but like… perfectly average while still being considered unique. Just enough wiggle room in the measurements to be uniquely pretty while still conforming to the ideal. Does any of this make sense. What I mean is he’s a good dress up doll and I want to play dress up with him.

Hi, I love this! I have no idea about Adam Sandler (is he not sighted regularly? Is that why he was brought up? Or do you mean he dresses terribly when he's out and about?) but here are my AFJ thoughts in a public AU (which, great timing, I have a fic I'm writing that features that so my brain is SUPER thinking about this).

In terms of public appearances — AFJ is seen out and about a lot. Probably the only one seen around more is Arthur, who is a diplomat and knighted and just a very prolific member of the British government. AFJ, unlike Arthur, is a private citizen, and in fact, his right to criticize the government is literally in the constitution (I want to get more into this at some point but not now), so not only is AFJ seen out and about a lot, he's chatty.

But in terms of his wardrobe — well, my thing has always been that AFJ doesn't give a shit, alas, but also he's... ethereal, and so despite not being fashionable in the traditional way he's a bit of a trendsetter. People will ask him where he got his shurt and his answer will either be the 1800s or an op shop, but he makes it WORK. There's a whole series of coffee table books that's just his wardrobe over the years.

I've mentioned before how in-universe I firmly believe Alfred's considered the most attractive, even among the Nations. I think his face is just... pretty. He looks youthful, with long eyelashes and large, doe eyes. Just androgynous enough to make him look unique, but not teetering towards looking feminine.

Body wise, I actually adore how Hima drew him here —

in that I LOVE the softness of his body even while he looks obviously fit. He doesn't have abs, you can see some softness around his tummy but you can also see that slight hint of muscle there, too, then it curves to his breedable hips. I think this is Al at a 'healthy weight'. In my head, Alfred sometimes loses weight because of disordered eating, both because he's the type of person who doesn't eat when working (canon) and also because he DOES have body image issues that causes him to diet (also canon). Due to the fact Hima has NEVER shown AFJ actually looking overweight while showing him despairing at weighing scales, it really built in my head this idea that Al has some body dysmorphia.

Shit? That got dark? ESPECIALLY because I think this is something the public would notice.

Back to lighter topics - there's an "eco friendly fashion" movement inspired by Alfred's ability to look stylish while also only buying secondhand/keeping clothes for a long time. It's actually very neat! People also acknowledge that Alfred's fashion only work on him because he's so beautiful anything he wears seem chic, but also people do some really cool stuff with secondhand stuff or even like. Making their own clothes. In order to encourage people to do this, they do competitions on best outfits and whoever gets the most votes actually has their outfit worn by Alfred aka LITERAL DRESSING AL LIKE A BARBIE JUST FOR YOU, ANON.

[gettinontopic]

Transandrophobia is real and it isn't about Trans Women opressing Trasn Men its about how the patriarchy attacks all masculinity that isnt the Cishetallo peri-sex able-bodied white man style that's been cultivated since this land was stolen!!!

It covers anyone who's felt like their identity was dictated by them not being allowed to be a man, or being forced to be a man due to factors they couldn't control. It covers anyone who's masculinity was punished because they aren't a man or weren't a man at one point.

It covers how the patriarchy treats masculinity like a prison and anyone who fights that is treated like an escaped prisoner.

[More under cut bc this got way longer than I originally meant]

Patriarcy hates you if you aren't cis no matter how well you preform, designed to try and make you feel like to relax you have to pass as their idea of man, even if thats not anywhere near who you are as a person.

God forbid you be assigned male and the go through and different puberty then they want. Or god forbid you have a physical traigh that the Patriarchy doesn't thing adds up to man. And go fuck yourself if they assign you male and then find something that makes them sneak off, change shit (possibly without parental consent either) and say "haha we were wrong its a healthy baby girl actually!" Only for your classmates to mock you as you start to have seemingly a "wrong" puberty for girld your age.

It hates you if you aren't white, and sees your masculinity as Femininity (in a derogatory way) or as a funny mimicry of its own. It laughs at you or marks you as more violent no matter how many of the acceptable White Words you use. It kills you if you inspire too many people to like you and agree with you. Your're treated stange and forgein no matter how many of you there are in the world around them.

It hates you if you aren't the ideal allo. If you look at romance as anything as Husband and Wife in a Nice White House and with at least Two White Kids and behind your White Picket Fence. If you look at friendship as anything other than secondhand to romance. It teaches you to see critisisms of centralizing romance and sex everywhere, as personal attacks to lash back on.

It hates you if you are a Women who likes masculinity. Because the Patriarchy doesn't see Women as somone who should have masculinity. Women bring new ways to look at masculinity and new ways to present it. Thats is a threat to the Patriarchies need to keep tight fitting boxes.

Butches, cis or trans, are treated like ticking time bombs who should be carefully wire cut so they don't explode and leave their self crafted masculinity where the Patriarchy has to see it.

It hates you if you aren't able bodied. It looks at you as something to be fixed to fufill a role that it assigned, not nature. It looks at you as a failure for not being able to preform the song and dance it choreographed. It mocks you and abandons you because it knows you can't keep up, the goalpost always moving past what you prove you can do.

No man has a mobility aid until he's old. No man has sickness in his body until he earns it (by being old) Men can always lift heavy things (and must hurt themslves being a proud old man). Men always work the Jobs. Men always have working bodies and big muscles (but not fat haha. Never fat thats gross).

The Patriarchy hates fat. Fat makes you a failure. Fat means you aren't a worker. Fat means you're probably greedy with food. Fat is something to be bred out of us or forced off of us and god forbid someone know they're loveable while fat. Patriarchy find fat people who love themselves and it tries to convince them with every breath that they should take it back. It's made to humiliate bodies that don't fit an imagined porn outline.

The Patriarchy hates you if you're a child. Boy or Girl it sets you up to assume distrust in each other. It eagerly shoves away children who don't fit a future beauty and behavior mold and even children who can pretend they fit, are left empty because it's not what they want to grow into. It's what the Patriarchy told them they had no choice but to grow into, as it covers their eyes and ears to better things.

...

Are there other words too? Yeah. There is. There's so many words that overlap and explain lots of these. And this is one of them.

It's for the demonization of masculinity in a society that recognizes only 1 as correct. It's about the Patriarchy and it being a glutton for giving punishment. It's about the System and how it intsects with us as people.

Please find it in you to understand that we are all fighting this together, and that Patriarchy whats you to hate a word more than you hate the system that made that word real.