#i am what you designed me to be i am your blade you can not complain if you also feel the hurt !!!!

[jessepinkmvn]

She looked at me at the end. Like a child, looking to her father. But I was never...

[rhenuvee]

Playing Animal Crossing New Horizons with HSR Men

Warnings: ugly villager slander, established relationship (can be platonic or romantic)

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Argenti: Your fellow knight of beauty grows quite fond of the game, immediately finding the freedom of creativity in decoration endearing. He always gives you compliments on your OOTD, and takes screenshots whenever you design a new area on your island. Argenti gave himself the gardening job- spending his bells on red rose seeds. He gets proficient in following the flower guide, and is very proud of himself if he ever gets a golden rose on your island. He loves the villagers, finding them each very cute, and even beauty in the "ugly" villagers. "Did you see the villagers wearing the red rose on their head? I must say I am flattered they love it so much. Though, I am more happy that they appreciate the beauty of our island." He enjoys documenting the beautiful places in your island with photos <3

Aventurine: From the beginning he points out the fact that Tom Nook is a capitalist, which makes you roll your eyes thinking he thinks this game is silly. However, it is quite the opposite as it doesn't take him long to get out of his home loan debt and is somehow extremely lucky. It's unfair to you that he could just log in on any given day and have the best deal for turnips. However because you are his favourite he says he’s willing to buy you whatever you want, he guesses. He happens to be able to catch rare species like the Coelacanth, and it infuriates you but you really can't be if it's helping the museum. "445 bells per turnip, sounds like music to my ears~" "What's that? You want this violin? Well I guess I could spare you a few bells... is one million okay?"

Blade: Let's not kid ourselves here- it takes a lot of convincing and help from Silver Wolf to get him to even be in the presence of Animal Crossing. He says he would much rather stand and look at the wall (SW: "You already do that everyday"). Eventually he sits himself next to you, and listens to your giddy rambling about what to do in the game while he puts on a serious face not saying anything. After the preliminary tutorial/startup gameplay, he finally says, “…why is this rat harassing me for money.” However, the loans aren't the worst but the villagers chasing him down are. He purposely ignores them and grumbles when you tell him to answer ):/. He prefers to watch you play, but because he sees you smile and laugh at his sarcastic comments, he thinks it's not so bad.

Boothill: He's definitely down to try it out, but he ends up being a bit of a troll. He doesn't really mind cute/ugly villagers, until he judges them for what they say. “That’s right, (y/n) did catch all those fish.” “Did he just ask me if he could call me Muffin.” “WHAT DO YOU MEAN I GOTTA PAY ANOTHER LOAN?!!?” Yeah… he quickly feels the grindy-ness, complaining that Tom Nook was working him like a forkin’ dog. A little bit of comical rage, but he won’t lie he is enjoying it. He also asks if there are any guns and he is disappointed, so he opts for the net. He's a little rough and rowdy, but he does it in style. That being said, he 100% spends his extra bells on a cowboy outfit.

Dan Heng: He agrees instantly- aw :(. He knows you (and March) have been begging him to play. He’s is fairly good at it- gets out of the tent quickly, masters catching creatures, a nicely organized house… He’s quite resourceful too, chopping down trees and going to mystery islands to farm the heck out of it. The villagers love him, both of you often seeing them run to him with the little sparkly flowers. And even though he's normally serious, you can't help but fawn over how sweet he is with the villagers. "...She wants to call me Shmoopy, do I-" "YES." Villagers asking him to catch a fish? He's immediately on it. He remembers their names and treats them like real people :(

Dr. Ratio: "Is it educational?" Bro is such a nerd. You deadpan at him, and sass him for expecting this to be IXL or something. He is also one to get through the tutorial part easily. You expected him to be overly critical of the game, but he finds appreciation in the museum: both the creatures and the art. Is it a farfetched idea that I think he'd know how to tell the reals and fakes right off the bat? "Do you really think Da Vinci spilled coffee on his work?" At least it saves you the troubles of wasting your bells and getting a fake. I think your island would not be a mess, and would have at least a few statues (you know the ones) which add his touch to it.

Gallagher: Honestly he's happy as long as he gets a little area for himself. Kind of a wild card this one- somehow calm and chaotic at the same time, and it's puzzling because how is he doing such weird things with a straight face? Trolls the villagers quite a bit (he's lucky ACNH villagers are nice) by hitting them with a net (just once though) and giving them different catchphrases every time they ask. "Why is Bob saying 'spaghettini' at the end of his sentences?" "Um, because I thought it'd be funny? Also I'm kinda hungry so-" "Gallagher ):/" Despite the randomness, he is wholesome at times. He is also one to compliment your new outfit, and stargaze with you on the new area you decorated.

Gepard: He's busy so you weren't expecting too much from him, but he takes pride in having a well-rounded island. He gets so excited when he catches a new species that you don't have yet- what a cutie. Also goes full throttle when there's a bug-off or fishing tourney. Despite being a video game, I feel like there will be some way he messes up taking care of plants. The flowers overgrow, the turnips rot, and he doesn't understand why the trees aren't growing? But with some tips from you along with your island designing skills, your island rank moves up and he is BEAMING. "Zucker asked about you." "...he did?" "Mhm, he asked how you were doing, and said he saw you laying out pathways on the island."

Jing Yuan: He finds it so cute when you ask him to play. Lowkey like Blade where he likes watching your happy expressions when playing. He's happy that this game provides him a way to relax while not getting bored. Secretly an enjoyer of villager drama: "Wolfgang wants to apologize to Audie with this present. What happens if I don't deliver it?" "Again? Ah, just give it to her quickly." "...what if I don't." "...Jing Yuan." Oddly I feel like he'd enjoy the group stretching (what an old man), and encourages you to join. Like the "Dozing General" he is, there will be times when he's inactive and gets the bed head.

Luocha: You weren't expecting him to enjoy the game, but he's surprisingly willing to be resourceful. His storage is full of materials, which you scold him for because this is the reason for his empty undecorated house. But he always has things you need so you can't exactly complain. Also one to be pretty smart with managing bells and resources, able to maximize their worth. When the island gets visitors like Label or Flick, he has items ready. "Luocha... where did you get that coat?" "This? It's a designer piece, from Miss Label." I'd say he does have a sense of beauty in design, so thankfully your island is gorgeous.

Sampo: Sympathizes with Redd like a true scammer. "Aw look, he just needs a bit of money to get started... he even gave us a 'cousin's discount'." However, a rivalry starts with Redd when Sampo's first art piece turned out to be fake (scammer gets scammed moment). He asks if he can be the salesman that he's supposed to be. When villagers run up to him to offer bells for an item he has, he accepts thinking it'll get him a deal along the way. Unfortunately friendship gets you nowhere in terms of home loans. I'd say he's pretty good with the turnip stonks, so there's a balance. Also TRASH ISLAND. I'm sorry, but your man is a hoarder, "But what if I need this?" (Literally me.)

Welt: When you ask him to play he asks why the animals are crossing. He finds the style and characters are so cute, and he can see why you enjoy it. This is definitely a way he gets in touch with his "youthful" side. He loves the creative freedom in the game, even getting indecisive about how to design your island, and thinking of what outfit to wear. He once made a simple t-shirt for fun, but was surprised when he saw a villager wearing it. It'd be so cute and funny when he learns new emotes- and he just spams them with a straight face. Not gameplay related, but I feel like in his free time he'd draw you both in villager form <3.

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[kyojurokoibito]

"LET ME PAY YOU!"

Pairing(s): kyojuro rengoku x reader

Synopsis: how kyojuro met his civilian wife

Genre: fluff

Warning(s): n/a

Kao's Notes: just something to put out there while i work on requests in the meantime :) enjoy! <3

"EXCUSE ME, MISS!"

"OH MY G—!" *BANG* "OW!"

you hit the top of your head on the bottom shelf of your stall as a loud voice rang through the night. you ran a popular food stall in the small, lovely town you call home. people loved coming by your food stall for the service, the food, and for a chance to talk with a beautiful lady. each day, you decided to try a new recipe, and everyone was eager to see what you'd be serving every day.

"forgive me," the loud voice called again. "it was not my intention to startle you!"

"i-it's alright." rubbing the crown of your head with a slight pout, you rose to look at the owner of said voice. "i–um–wasn't expecting many people to come by this late, so you caught me by surprise."

taking in the man's appearance, you quickly gathered he was a demon slayer. the distinct design of his haori, the nichirin blade at his hip, and the obvious uniform was a dead giveaway.

you smiled, "would you like something to eat while you're here? i'm making gyu kushi(beef skewers) on top of rice, along with some mochi tonight. you'd be the final person i'm serving!"

the man's smile nearly blinded you, "yes! i would appreciate that very much!"

"great!" his smile was so contagious. you couldn't help but to deliver one as well. "how many orders would you like?"

"that depends," he stated loudly, excitedly slamming his hands on the counter and smiling at you. "how many are you willing to make?!" that's...the first time you've received that response.

"o-oh...uh..." you looked beneath your stall again. "well, i could make the rest of my inventory for you..." you lifted your head to look at him with a nervous laugh. "although, it's a considerably large amount of food, sir."

he laughed, "if you are willing to make it, i am willing to eat it! and no need to call me, sir! i am rengoku kyojuro!" you couldn't stop yourself from laughing along.

"then i'll be happy to make it for you, rengoku-san!"

kyojuro watched you gather the ingredients and quickly get to work on prepping his food. it was clear this was like second nature to you. you worked so diligently and moved with unwavering certainty.

"so," you began as you continued cooking but kept your gaze on kyojuro. this caused the hashira to look at you. "what brings you by this late?"

"a mission," he stated proudly, his smile never leaving. "it is completed, but i always stop by to check on towns nearby!"

"well, that's nice of you," you stated before finishing his first plate of food and handing it to him. "here, have a taste before i make the rest."

he loudly thanked you before placing the beef skewer between his teeth, pulling one of the chunks of meat off with his teeth.

"TASTY!" another bite. "TASTY!" a bite of rice. "TASTY!" a bite of mochi. "TASTY!"

you clapped your hands in delight, overjoyed that the hashira found your food so tasteful.

"so, everything tastes okay? would you still like to have the rest, rengoku-san?" you asked, although you're sure you already knew the answer.

"yes! i would love the rest!" he began fishing around in his pocket. "how much would it be?!"

"oh no," you quickly shook your head and quickly began preparing the rest of the food with a content smile. "i never charge the slayers that pass through. it's the least i can do for you all."

"please!" he slammed a pouch of coins onto the counter, causing you to shriek at the loud noise. he leaned forward, eyes boring into you with conviction. "ALLOW ME TO PAY YOU!"

"i-it's no trouble, really!" you jumped back from the close proximity. he only leaned in closer.

"THIS AMOUNT OF FOOD WOULD SURELY MAKE A GREAT PROFIT FOR YOU!! LET ME PAY!!!"

"b-but, the sales i've made today are more than enough already!!!"

"TAKE MY MONEY!"

"i don't need to!!!"

you two continued back and forth like this as you finished cooking the remainder of his food, packaging them nicely in cute boxes, which only fueled his desire to pay you. as you had given him the last box, he beckoned you to him.

"if you will not let me pay," he placed his free hand on his hip. "then allow me to escort you home!"

placing a hand on your chin, you paused to mull it over. it was pretty late, and you did live on the other side of the town. even if it was small, it would grant enough time for a demon to stake its claim on you.

"alright," you finalized with a greatful nod. "sounds fair!"

on the way, you both engaged in a quiet, lovely conversation. topics ranging from your cooking, his work as a slayer(at least the parts he could tell you), or your childhood, the atmosphere around you was peaceful. now, the current subject of the conversation was family.

"yes, you're right," you respond with a smile as rengoku concluded a story about his little brother. "it can be difficult to care for little siblings. especially if the parent is...more or less present." you cringed at your lack of better term, but kyojuro didn't mind at all. "my parents, unfortunately, fell victim to a demon, so i understand."

"very much so, and i am sorry to hear that! my condolences to you!" he responded with a solemn nod before asking his next question. "i take it you have a sibling then?"

"mhm," you nodded with delight as you drew nearer to your house. "i am the eldest of seven."

"SEVEN?!" he immediately fished the pouch of coins back out before shoving it in your direction. "SUCH A LARGE FAMILY! NOW YOU REALLY MUST TAKE MY PAYMENT!!!"

"i told you already," you pushed it back toward him in defiance. "i don't need it!" he tossed the pouch towards you, leaving you no choice but to catch it. "hey! take it back!" you tried to hand the coin pouch back to him.

"my apologies," he exclaimed after using his other hand to hold the food as well, even though he didn't need to. his smile never faltered as he blatantly ignored your attempts to return his money. "but my hands are full! i can not hold anything else!"

"but you were carrying it one-handed this whole time! you can just–"

"my hands are full!"

"but–"

"i can not carRY ANYMORE!"

"ren–"

"IT IS A PERFECTLY LEGITIMATE REASON AS TO WHY YOU MUST KEEP IT!"

you gave up.

kyojuro–1

y/n–0

upon reaching your house, you turned face kyojuro and gave him a polite bow.

"thank you for walking me back, rengoku-san," you stood straight. "you really didn't have to...nor did you have to pay me."

"it was no trouble at all," he smiled down at you. "and please, call me kyojuro."

you opened the door, and entered the doorway to your home chorus of "NII-SAN" called out to you. fondly shaking your head at your siblings(who were supposed to be in bed by now), you turned back to the hashira and returned his smile.

"alright, well," you placed a gentle hand on one of your little brother's heads, who'd been tugging on your shirt to get your attention, and replied in a hushed voice. "goodnight, kyojuro. have a lovely evening, and please travel safely."

he visibly brightened once he heard his name fall from your lips, and a gentle smile was bestowed upon you.

"goodnight to you as well, and thank you."

as you closed the door, kyojuro happily went on his way but stopped. he couldn't believe he forgot such an important piece of information.

oh well, he'll simply have to find his way back to you because he never got your name.

[zephyrspace]

queen of thine heart

riddle rosehearts / gn!reader

synopsis : they say the queen of hearts always had her loving husband rule alongside her. unfortunately for heartslabyul, their queen's king attends a different academy. but you know what they say, distance makes the heart grow fonder.

or ; in hearing your lover's recent overblot, you disregard the rules and infiltrate nrc to make sure your queen is alright, much to the surprise of the cards.

content : established relationship, implied childhood friends, rsa!reader, fluff, sprinkle of angst, crack, no use of yn, reader is not the prefect, reader is referred to as 'king' in a gender neutral way (like how riddle as queen), fic is more focused on the dynamic of their relationship rather than of the relationship itself (but perhaps another fic is in order...), riddle's pov kinda?, just a very short oneshot.

word count : 1.5k

The door opens but nobody that's already in the room thinks too much of it, until someone unfamiliar speaks.

"Good evening, Card Soldiers."

The mild bickering ceased to exist entirely. The door clicks shut.

The first years couldn't tell if it was an illusion or not, but they swear they saw the Housewarden of Heartslabyul tense at the sound of the person's voice and averted his gaze. Shoes tap against the floor tiles until they stop at the foot of Riddle's designated recovery bed.

The newcomer wore the eyesore that was the Royal Sword Academy uniform, but the things that caught the attention of specifically the Prefect would be the scarily regal presence that the person exudes, and the badge pinned against the left lapel of the stranger's blazer, an exact replica of the crown Riddle adorns on his school tie.

They brandish a polite smile, "you are dismissed."

It was clear to everyone that this person will not accept any other answer than compliance - "RSA? Who're you to tell us what to do? And what are you even doing here?" - well, except for one.

Ace raises a brow, lacking any form of decorum or respect, as per usual. The temperature of the room seemingly dropped, and yet, the stranger was still smiling.

Before Ace gets an answer, he feels a sharp jab at his side and a hand resting between his shoulder blades. Trey is quickly ushering all of them out of the infirmary. The heart soldier watches the academy student and the Vice exchange a look and a nod.

The door clicks shut once again.

With everyone now gone, you walk over to Riddle's left of the bed. Right hand against your heart, you bow your head, a custom.

"I greet the sovereign of Heartslabyul, the everlasting law, the Queen of my own heart," you cannot hide the smile in your voice and Riddle hates it in an affectionate sort of way.

"Must you always greet me incorrectly?"

"I am but a mere servant to your rule," you give him a cheeky grin, and with a touch as light as a feather, you take his right hand to press a quick kiss to the knuckles. Riddle sports a pout as he retracts his arm, but you never take him seriously when he's beet red, always a sucker to your flowery words.

Despite this, he has not once looked you in the eyes since you arrived.

Silence and tranquillity floods the atmosphere but anybody can feel the underlying tension beneath the layers. You shatter the quiet.

"I came as soon as I could." You sit down on the edge of the bed and he shuffles to the opposite side so that you do not fall off.

"I know." Riddle's sight is focused on the bed sheets where his hands rested. He watches your hands clasp over his, your touch is warm and just slightly sweaty, but he would never care for something so little.

Besides, he can tell by the sound of your breathing that you're still recovering from the journey. Upperclassmen say that it takes almost two or three hours to walk from one end of Sage's Island to the other, and this is without factoring the mountain you'd have to climb to get to NRC.

"I really thought I lost you when I was notified by one of the cards." Riddle can feel your stare and the sorrow in your words. You probably dropped everything to get here.

"I know." He takes a quick glance at the clock on the wall. How did you even manage to get to the college in just a little over an hour since he was admitted into the infirmary?

"You need to make me lots of crosswords to make up for it." The Housewarden clenches his jaw and thinks you are too forgiving compared to how much inconvenience and worry he's caused you.

Why are you not reprimanding his recklessness? Why would you risk a dorm-arrest to visit him with no prior permission? He reckons that your sentence would last at least a week if the professors find out of your absence, two weeks if you used a broom without authorisation. After this, would you think of him as a nuisance or embarrassment and leave him-

Sensing all of his inner turmoil, you reach out to carefully fix his dishevelled hair back into place and cup his cheek, coaxing his head in your direction so that he finally, finally looks at you.

Riddle's eyes are glassy with unshed tears, but the steadying pulse under the palm of your hand is soothing, your gaze is soft and full of something that is unconditional. Riddle knows that he can stay looking at you until forever falls apart.

Thumbing the flesh gently, you are watchful not to touch any gauze or smudge remnants of ointment. "Crosswords aside, I implore that you tell me, my Queen: What ails you so? Have I done something to be undeserving of your gaze?" Though, that last part was supposed to sound more like a joke.

"No!" He belts out before he could process your teasing lilt. "I mean- I- That's not- Ugh!"

Riddle gives up at the sight of your smug face and relaxes into your hold for just a few more moments, not caring for his burning cheeks or the delicacy that his lover offers him, only wanting to feel them wholly and fully.

He expels out a shaky breath, sits up straight, and lets everything go. Riddle tells you everything. The collars, the unbirthday, the tart, the duel. Riddle expresses his revelation about his mother and her rules. He confesses that you were right this entire time, and that he hopes you can forgive him for the times he denied it and admonished you.

Riddle's story ends and your brows furrow with guilt, "I knew I should have transferred to Night Raven. Maybe it would have prevented-"

He is quick to lace your fingers together with his own and silences you right away. "Perish the thought. You are not to blame. Not you. Never you."

Deciding to reward his efforts of attempting to distract you from your own thoughts, you sigh and lean in so that your foreheads touch, and Riddle does not oppose the connection. Closing your eyes, you breathe out lightly, quietly, as if only the two of you existed.

"You have tormented yourself in such a manner for far too long, my loveliest rose."

At that moment, Riddle swears up and down to The Seven that he has never been so in love. He looks down at your joined hands and smiles for the first time that day.

"I promise not to do it again, my Liege."

[ Extra ]

"What the hell was that for!?" Ace rubs his side tenderly after Cater elbowed him earlier. He earns disapproving glances from his seniors and unsurprising stares from Deuce, Prefect and Grim.

"Be more careful, Ace-y. They're the Housewarden slash Ruler of their own dorm back in RSA, but is also the Honorary King of Heartslabyul because they're Riddle's partner," Cater pulls up pictures of you from the academy's official magicam and shows the first years. "So that means they're in the same position of power as him in 'labyul, so you need'ta treat them like it."

Ace snatches the phone from his grasp and scrolls through the content, in denial. The other first years crowd around him. "Partners? With that Tyrant?? There is no way Housewarden was able to pull before me."

They all stare at the photos of you doing a plethora of activities, presumably around the rival school. Gardening, directing students, baking, tea parties, generally doing nice things. Yuck.

Ace tries to find your personal magicam but Cater yanks his phone back, exasperated, "I think they've been together for almost two years now, so it's not like it's new news."

"Myah, I don't know about you guys, but this 'King' of yours looks like a weak-ass, lovesick simp. Simp in capital letters, bold font and red text," Grim had lifted himself up and peaked through the window in the door to the infirmary, watching the royalties speak softly to each other.

The two third years give each other a look and both can vividly imagine the sound of your laughter and you saying that you wholeheartedly agree with Grim.

"I still don't get why you just followed their orders without question. I should show them the mighty power of The Great Grim, and then we'll see who's the real king! Nyahaha- Yowch!" Deuce had smacked the monster in the head.

Trey leans against the wall beside the closed entrance, crosses his arms and chuckles at the statement. He looks over his shoulder and also observes the duo inside.

"I've known them since we were kids, and trust me, Grim, they aren't someone you can mess with and get away with it unscathed."

He chooses not to mention how Grim fails to see the pure concentration of magic emanating from your figure.

[spinningwebsandtales]

Imagine Having To Patch Soshiro Up After A Kaiju Attack

Soshiro Hoshina X FemReader

Rating: T+

Warnings: Blood, injuries, mentions of death, teasing, and kaiju remains

Word Count: 1k

(A/N:) I am enjoying the Kaiju No. 8 anime immensely and it's giving me all sorts of ideas to write! I have several more Kafka ones in my drafts and I want to write more for several other of the male characters. So keep an eye out I may write your favorite dude! I'm also thinking about opening my requests back up in case anyone has any Kaiju No. 8 requests, even though my drafts are insanely full. We'll just see but until next time happy reading! ~Countess

The suits made by Izumo Tech were a marvel of innovation and technology. Designed to give the members of Japan's fiercest warriors; The Defense Force, a fighting chance against the Kaiju that plagued their country. But still the warriors were only human no matter how amazing the suit.

Your booted feet thundered against the broken asphalt, breath heaving in pants as you raced across the now quiet battlefield. Just seconds ago it was Hell on Earth as you and your fellow soldiers fought for your very lives. But now Kaiju matter was splattered against everything. It was going to be quite the mess for whatever cleaning crew was open to do the dirty job. The attacks had become more frequent here lately, that the few companies that specialized in Kaiju clean up were becoming overwhelmed to get the different attack sights back to some semblance of normalcy for the citizens. But even that problem was far back from your mind. Only one person had you running so hard after fighting so intensely. Soshiro had gone silent after dispatching some of the smaller ones with his blades. You knew he had sustained injuries, but for him to go quiet, it wasn't a good sign. There was closer Third Division officers nearby but you knew with whatever stamina you had left you could make it. Your worries taking over any rational thought in your mind.

Konomi echoed in your ear, leading you straight towards Soshiro's location. Her frantic directions wasn't doing much to calm your nerves, but as an officer you couldn't let your anxiety show.

"Just around this corner," Konomi said. You thanked her turning down your communication device as you skidded around a pile of rubble. There leaned up against what remained of a wall was Soshiro. He held his side, eyes closed, and protective mask discarded at his side. Though winded and exhausted from the long race here, you gripped your rifle tighter the sling hitting your neck and tangling in the wild strands of hair that had broken free. Blood coated Soshiro's face and the fact that he wasn't responding to footsteps coming closer was more than concerning. Fear was beginning to grip your heart, when you finally got at his side.

"Two cracked ribs and significant blood loss," Konomi's sudden voice through the comm caused you to jump. "He's not critical just yet but I do have the medics on route to your location."

"I can staunch the blood flow," you replied. "I'll try to get him conscious again too."

"Good idea. I'll keep monitoring his vitals and let you know if anything changes."

"Copy."

Unslinging the rifle from your neck, you set it close by in case any threats remained. You removed the small med pack from your belt and got to work. Tapping at his cheek, you started working on getting Soshiro awake. Several moments went by and it wasn't until you put pressure on one of his worse wounds did he finally groan.

"Vice Captain," you continued to pat his cheek. "Vice Captain Hoshina! Soshiro wake up!"

He stirred, bleary eyes blinking against the bright sunlight before his gaze finally found you.

"Welcome back to the land of the living sir," you sighed in relief.

"So I died," he groaned. "And here I thought I was immortal."

"Well you didn't die but you do have a long road to recovery. You're pretty banged up and look terrible. The Kaiju Captain blew to smithereens looks better than you."

"Officer (L/N)," Soshiro groaned more as you wrapped several wounds tightly in gauze, "did anyone ever tell you that your bedside manner is garbage?"

"We're out on the battlefield and you're not laying on a bed sir," you grinned before going back to placing pressure on a wound that was too large for bandages. "Beside manners don't exist out here."

"Fieldside manner then," he glared. "And if you press any tighter to my side you're going to stab my lungs with my ribs."

"That's not me. That would be your suit keeping you from jostling your cracked ribs."

"(Y/N)! Vice-Captain Hoshina's vitals seem to be stabilizing more. Medics are inbound and will be there shortly," Konomi updated you and you acknowledged her.

"You had me worried Soshiro," you sniffed, hands stained with his blood. You had turned your comm off so you could talk with him in private for just a moment. You both didn't have long anyway with the evac team so close by.

"Sorry," he grimaced. Righting himself up more he wrapped one arm around your neck and pulled you in tight. "I'm sorry I worried you so much. I take risks but this time my decision wasn't the right one."

You held him as best as you could without hurting him further, "I'm just so glad you're okay!"

You hated crying but the relief you felt, had you breaking down in seconds. Soshiro wasn't used to seeing you cry and it broke his heart. Always the strong soldier, you couldn't help yourself around him as you wanted him by your side forever.

"You're not hurt are you," Soshiro asked as he stroked the back of your hair.

"No." You breathed deep, calming yourself and wiped your eyes. "Does that mean that I have surpassed the great Soshiro Hoshina in skills?"

"Absolutely not. We both know that my blade skills leave everyone else in the dust," he scoffed.

"Yeah but I didn't decide to use my ribs to stop a kaiju punch."

"Shut up."

You laughed kissing his forehead quickly, as it was the only place not covered in blood, as the boots of the medics came closer.

"I'm glad you're okay," you whispered. Soshiro couldn't answer as he was suddenly surrounded by several medical officers. He nodded towards you as you picked your rifle back up and started to go join the other members of the Third Division. The battle wasn't over just yet as you needed to look for more survivors. But you felt the burden lift from your shoulders knowing that the man you loved was going to be okay and was in capable hands. The fight with the kaiju continued on but if you stayed by Hoshiro's side you felt like you both could make the world a better place together.

[aspoonofsugar]

Hi! Where do you think Alastor's arc is going? Redemption or villainy?

Hi!

Thank you for the ask, I loved watching Hazbin Hotel and I am happy I can write for the series :)

As for now, I think Alastor will spiral and hurt Charlie very badly, but he will eventually redeem himself (probably in a key moment). That is because Alastor is framed as Charlie's Jungian shadow.

What is the Jungian Shadow?

According to Jung, the shadow is what a person represses, both positive and negative. So, it can be one's violent tendencies, but also one's potential and energy. It really depends on the person.

So, why does Alastor fit the Shadow Archetype? Well, first of all:

Alastor's powers make use of shadows. Not only that, but Alastor's own shadow is very expressive and shows the demon's repressed feelings. In other words:

On the one hand Alastor embodies the shadow, in the sense he represents what Charlie refuses to face

On the other hand Alastor himself represses his emotions behind a smiling face:

Alastor: Just because you see a smile, don't think you know what is going on underneath. A smile is a valuable tool, my dear. It inspires your friends, keeps your enemies guessing and ensures tha no matter what comes your way, you're the one in control.

This is a good characterization for a jungian shadow because the shadow grows stronger and more dangerous, when it's ignored. So, the most one refuses to face their feelings, the most these feelings fester and grow powerful and dangerous. This fits Alastor both when it comes to others and to his own character:

He takes advantage of an emotional unstable and vulnerable Charlie to strike an abimguous deal with her. Similarly, he uses Husk's gambling addiction to steal his soul. He uses people's weaknesses an unsolved problems to take over.

He suffocates his feelings, which symbolically manifest in his powerful shadow-tentacles. His design and abilities are representative of his psychological coping mechanism, which is nothing, but repression.

As written above, though, the Jungian Shadow can be both negative and positive depending on what one hides. This duality is shown in Alastor's two roles in Charlie's arc:

He is a demonic archetype (even moreso than Lucifer, the titular devil), as he waits in the shadows for a chance to manipulate Charlie

He is an evil mentor, as he genuinelly likes Charlie, sees her potential and wants to guide her towards greatness:

She's filled with potential that I could guide

This isn't a contradiction, but complexity. Alastor is chaotic and mixes negative traits and intentions with positive ones. Just like what people repress can be both bad and good, usually at the same time.

This is clear when it comes to the Princess of Hell:

Charlie to Alastor: What's that you said about smiles?

Charlie is similar to Alastor in how she represses herself behind her pollyanna persona and her smile. This doesn't mean she is faking her altruism and generosity, but that she is using these traits to hide something else:

Lute: The only reason you're still here is that Daddy gave you and your Hellborn-kind a pardon from an exorcist's blade. How does that feel? To know how little you matter.

Deep down, Charlie invests herself in the Hazbin Hotel project because she wants to matter. She feels powerless and unimportant, as a result of her parents' neglects and of Hell's difficult situation.

So, our protagonist has strong self-issues that she refuses to face:

Husk: Princess is a bleedy heart who wants to solve everybod else's problems, 'cept her own.

That said, this isn't the only thing Charlie represses. The Princess of Hell hides:

Every negative emotions she feels, like her self-hate or her anger at Vaggie for hiding her true identity:

Rosie: How does that make you feel? Charlie: Just... angry? Because we share everything! Because she always supported me, and my ideas, and now I don't know whether or not that was just more of the lies... Oh no, that's a horrible thing to think! Do I think that? Yes! No? Kinda?

Her most violent and aggressive side, which makes so she is unable to make full use of her powers:

Vaggie: Well, I mean... You're the princess of Hell, but you don't really use the power that comes with that. Mybe you can, I don't know? Command a little more... authority. Charlie: But that's so mean.

In short, by repressing her negative feelings, she also represses her potential. It is only by facing herself as a whole, that she can fully grow and bloom into her most powerful and complete self:

This is made clear in Charlie's quest in Cannibal Town. There, our girl is at her lowest, but she is pushing herself forward for the sake of her loved ones. She is trying to imitate Alastor by smiling, even if she is sour inside. However, things do not go well and it is only through her heart to heart chat with Rosie, that Charlie is able to pull herself together and inspire her people. Symbolically, she gets through them not with a 100% optimistic song like "Inside of every demon is a rainbow". Rather she opens her speech, by showing vulnerability and honesty:

It's a feeling like a rumbling in your gut That you could finally be faced with A billion needy faces I guess what I mean to say is For the first time in my life I might have to be ready for this Ready to be the one who's leading from the front Gotta come into my own Gotta come into my throne Gotta take charge and defend my only home And although I kinda feel unsteady Now I need to be ready for this

She affirms who she is and her willingness to grow into herself:

For the first time in my life Maybe I can be ready for this I can be the marshal leading the parade I can come into my own And I think I've always known My destiny could never be postponed When Adam brings the battle here I must appear like I'm ready for this

So, it is only by tapping into her own shadow that Charlie can be successfull. It is through expression and not repression that she can reach her goals.

What about Alastor?

He is the same, but so far he has been refusing to open up to others:

Angel: He's been here a while and he's still a big, creepy mystery.

That said, his time at the Hazbin Hotel has had an impact on him. He is forced to deal with others without killing them:

Vaggie: Pentious's eggs are all over the place. I need you to get rid of them. (...) Humanely!

He is shown cutting ties with a poisonous friend:

He openly admits he likes the people of the hotel:

Alastor: Ah, an enjoyable collective to be around. I admit one could get accustomed.

However, he still refuses to openly show vulnerability and ends up like this:

Let's highlight that Charlie and Alastor are foiled in The Show Must Go On song.

Both stand in the ruins of their homes/dreams.

The Hotel:

I took a hotel, and I destroyed it I know I could have done better Better, instead of letting you down

The Radio Station:

This place reeks of death There's a chill in the air And I barely escaped being killed by a hair

And both decide not to give up and to keep pursuing their objectives. However, Charlie is framed positively, while Alastor negatively. Why?

Charlie sings about her feelings openly and is supported by her father and found family:

Alastor sings about his pain privately and even then he barely shows his desperation before going back to his villanious mask:

Symbolically the moment Alastor reunites with the Hotel Crew, he sings:

And we're doing it with a smile!

He is back in control of himself, ready to hide everything behind his neverchanging smile.

So, Alastor is both Charlie's negative foil and Jungian Shadow. As her negative foil, he is bound to spiral. As her Jungian Shadow he is bound to be saved. Why is that so? Two reasons.

The Jungian Shadow can't be killed, but needs to be integrated with.

The main themes of the series are redemption and love, so it is improbable that Charlie won't help the person, who co-founded the hotel with her.

If anything, it seems that our princess is progressively asked to forgive, inspire and see the good in more and more complex cases.

It starts with Angel, who willingly stays at the Hotel. It goes on with Pentious, who infiltrates the Hotel, but makes no real damage. Then Lucifer, whom Charlie loves, but that has been absent from the majority of her life. Finally, Vaggie, who breaks Charlie's trust.

Each conflict Charlie has challenges her in a different way and helps her discover herself and grow. She is bound to meet new struggles when Lilith becomes a broken pedestal and finally when Alastor betrays or hurts her. Still, she is going to forgive and to understand them.

Charlie is going to see the good in Alastor and to better understand herself as a result. As a matter of fact Charlie's journey is one where she is slowly discovering a world, which isn't black and white:

If Hell is forever, then Heaven must be a lie If angels can do whatever, and remain in the sky The rules are shades of gray when you don't do as you say When you make the wretched suffer just to kill them again

Just like people aren't black and white. Just like she herself isn't black and white. By saving Alastor, she is gonna save herself too. Together with the whole universe.

And what about Alastor? Well, he needs to work on himself, as well. He too must integrate with his shadow, who is embodied by a certain character:

Husk is a powerful overlord, who lost his soul to a demon. Just like Alastor:

Husk: Big talk for someone, who's also on a leash.

Alastor and Husk are both on a leash. Still, Husk admits it and starts working on his shortcoming:

Husk: You're a loser, just like me

Alastor instead affirms his willingness to be in control and to pull the strings:

Once I figure out how to unclip my wings Guess who will be pulling all the strings?

Alastor is a loser, just like Husk. Just like all the characters in hell. Sinners vs Winners. And yet, he refuses to admit it. This is why he makes no progress. Similarly, he wants freedom, but enslaves others. This isn't going to work out, which is why I am fairly certain he will eventually set Husk free. Probably by doing so, Alastor will make the first real step towards his own freedom. He will start integrating his own shadow.

Thank you for the ask!

[slowd1ving]

STRESS, STRAIN: THE TALE OF YOUNG MODULUS AND A FORLORN PHYSICS STUDENT ゜゜・BLADE DRABBLE

Dealing with a stalker roommate? No problem, Kafka's got the perfect solution: staying with the unapproachable and cold Blade. Teetering the thin line between sleeping on the streets and facing his rumored wrath, it sure is hard keeping your balance when the engineering student is anything but civil. gender-neutral, physics major reader paired with college au + band au (will come into play in another part I swear) see here for some basic designs for them warnings: some violence? consumption of alcohol, arguments, blade being a dick, college au wc: 6.3k

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

✧ Perhaps it’s lucky that your acquaintance Kafka finds you at your most dire of moments, or perhaps it’s your Achilles-level misfortune finally catching up to you. Dorm changes aren’t particularly infrequent, sure—but dealing with a stalkerish, obsessive roommate is definitely story-material for when you’re downing shots. Literature major Kafka isn’t one to turn her magnanimous back on whom she considers a friend, even if said friend is currently wallowing their sorrows away by complaining about the lack of available dorms to make the switch and drowning in hard liquor.  ✧ Saviour Kafka, who plays for notorious metal group Stellaron Hunters (she’s a suave electric violinist), finds this a perfect opportunity to help out the cute guitarist from the rival Trailblazers! Her deft fingers are already sending a message to her pinned contact and drummer: Bladie, finally found you a roommate. Respond. It should be okay to put two college students (in bands infamous for their tense rivalry on– and off–campus) together in the proverbial lab rat cage; after all, neither of you are aware of who the other is behind the elaborate masks. It’s not like there’s a deficit of music groups at the Astral Institute—so who will ever know? Don’t ask how she knows the face behind the pretty Venetian mask. She won’t ever tell.   ✧ Honestly, she’s not sure how the bad blood started (she helped spread the rumours). All she cares about is doing you a solid!

“You think the streets will accept me for who I am?” Even with your head slumped over your forearms and the smell of cheap vodka clinging to your clothes, Kafka thinks you look naively charming in the dim amber lights of a bar pretending to be upscale. And by naive, she means very naive—for real, how can a physics major be so gullible as to not question their roommate’s deranged tendencies until it’s far too late? It’s hilarious. 

She’d dissect how this mood is perfectly, pathetically fallacious to your situation; yet her mind is too honed in on the buzz of her phone as Blade finally replies to her text. 

“Kafka,” you bawl into a stack of papers you’d salvaged from your ransacked dorm. “What if the asphalt doesn’t like me when I’m sleeping in the streets?”

21:48 > ok. 

Kafka, being an expert at metaphorical and allegorical interpretation, translates Blade-speak easily: let’s discuss this tomorrow, please and thank you. 

“Found you a roomie,” she murmurs delightedly, watching with her hawk-keen eyes as you sit up drunkenly. 

“That was fast, even for you,” you wipe your eyes cautiously—still wracked with the occasional hiccup. “Who is it?”

“Blade. You know him?”

✧ That sobers you right up.  Of course you know him. Nicknamed Blade for how cold and unfriendly he is, you’ve personally seen him in engineering lectures: making people shiver from just his gaze alone, and on one notable occasion, making his project partner cry after his infamously harsh criticism of her proposal. It’s common knowledge that he practises various martial arts, but the rumours that circle around him like vultures whisper of how he uses them on the streets. But whilst you doubt the reliability of the latter talk, it’s hard not to picture his hands dripping sanguine when his eyes glint the same shade.  ✧ Honestly, how bad could it be? It’s not like you have any other options unless you want to wake up with your roommate standing over you while you sleep again. After her, you doubt he’ll be any more of a walking nightmare.  ✧ Perfect!—Kafka is a bit too enthusiastic at your reluctant nodding, but you cast it from your mind as you pack your stuff with Caelus and Stelle standing behind you like a pair of twin guard dogs. One good thing about this is that you can finally take your guitar with you (rather than storing it safely at Dan Heng’s room) to the apartment—because of course he’s too good for the dorms. Though, after experiencing your batshit roommate, you really can’t blame him for avoiding this area.  ✧ Maybe, just maybe, the rumours about him being insane too are false and you can finally have a peaceful night’s rest without fearing for your life. 

Yeah right. You hate him. You genuinely hate the man over in the room next door. The passage of time on your phone indicates it’s only been a week since you showed up with five boxes of belongings and a nervous smile on your lips—but the agony you’re going through prolongs this mental period to eternity. 

Sisyphus embodies futility for evermore; as do you when you’re knocking on his door for the nth time to beg him to quiet down on his drums. The timings are so meticulous and calculative that you’re sure you could work out a linear sequence to this situation if you tried. 

Exhausted from the laboratory job you’re juggling on top of band practice and reading on Dirac notations? No problem—Blade’s busy expressing how you feel in terms of loud crashing and banging that you hate to admit is (very technically) skilled.

Recalling your first encounter—your nervous smile and his cold indifference as you moved into the room next to his—it’s not hard to imagine that he’d be inconsiderate of you. Those red eyes had slid right past you like oil on water: judging you to be not worth his time to even greet properly. In fact, it’s like he’s trying to chase you out so you leave him alone for good. 

The deep mahogany door swings inward, and you’re left facing an unimpressed, scowling Blade. With the way he’s clutching those drumsticks, you’d think he was about to skewer you—but you’re a bit too preoccupied with how he’s only sporting a pair of loose navy trousers that cascade languidly from his hips. 

“What do you want?” Laconic as ever, he gets straight to the point with his question—as if he can’t possibly fathom why you’ve come knocking. Just like this morning, just like last night, the night before, the night before yesterday’s—every damned night is a problem. 

“For you to invest in soundproofing,” you scowl back, too tired to keep up the fragile facade of politeness. At least when you practise with the electric guitar, you can easily hook it up to a pair of headphones and protect the sanctity of silence elsewhere. Actually, you don’t think he even knows your guitar exists with how considerate you are of your asshole roommate. 

“Why should I?” he crosses his arms, looking directly down at you. If you looked closely, the slight stretch of his lips resembled a smirk—but you’re definitely mistaken, since the man never so much as smiles. The cold expression accompanying his crude words sums up his thoughts: if you don’t like it, beg Kafka for whatever other solution she has. 

His inky hair sways from where it’s tied back, and you resist the urge to yank it until he sees sense. 

“For better quality of life,” you grit out. 

Those eyes turn into sardonic crescents. “I’m good.”

And the door is shut. 

✧ Fortunately, you’ve managed to fall asleep in the middle of the practise room before on countless occasions; tuning the heavy thumping comes easy after a while when you’re exhausted and practically dead on your feet. The problem is during the day—doing your assigned reading and writing up results from practical work comes much harder when you’re constantly accompanied by the rhythmic percussion of a madman who favours metal. It gets so rowdy that you seriously consider whether he’s part of the Stellaron Hunters and knows you’re a Trailblazer—it would make sense, after all, if he was just feeling extra spiteful. However, from the trembling students claiming to be his previous roommates, this is just common treatment: him basically telling them to beat it and never return.  ✧ Two can play at that game. Upon complaining to Kafka of his (rage-inducing) musical tendencies, she suggests that you get back at him with your electric guitar. Don’t ask her how she knows, no she’s not trying to instigate and watch the chaos—Kafka attempts to reassure you. You don’t trust the shady writer one bit, but both Data Analysis major Dan Heng and Environmental Studies student March 7th give the plan the go ahead. If you’re not mistaken, you can hear a touch of personal grief in the normally composed Dan Heng’s voice—something so poignantly irritated you wonder what the story between them is.  ✧ Contrary to his nonchalant attitude, it’s clear he’s annoyed by the loud chords that buzz through the apartment. As soon as he picks up his drumsticks, you plug the guitar to the amps and thoroughly mess with him. You know enough from Caelus’ repertoire to place each genre of music Blade starts to play (which is limited to metal). No problem—you play various styles that decidedly aren’t metal and are so discordant with his own tempo you can’t help but keep a grin on your lips. He’s much too stubborn to knock on your door, but the irritated twitch of his eyes in the kitchen belies just how aggravating this is. And when you know he’s scrawling down notes for his classes, that’s when you’re practising your metal riffs and playing around with the fretboard. If you’re feeling particularly nice, you’ll play along to some darkwave gothic music—something relatively more calm—but these occasions are few and far between. 

Chromatic eyes pierce your back while you deftly chop vegetables for your dinner. Really, now’s the best time to do work: when you’re busy with cooking and not insistent on plaguing him with jarring melodies. For someone so logical when it comes to his meticulous classwork, he sure doesn’t seem it as he leans against the counter on the other side of the kitchen—sipping water and just staring at you while you Julienne an onion. 

You shoot him a withering glance as you toss the slices into a bowl on the side, and he glares at you with a matched fervour. If it weren’t for the fact that you literally don’t have anywhere else to go—Caelus doesn’t even have a couch for you to sleep on—you’d have moved out a long time ago. 

It’s a rustic space: sage green cabinets filled with charming, mismatched plates and cups; glossy white counters that house various herbs and the occasional plant; a lacquered table in the middle that has a vase holding a singular dried flower. An orange lily—still retaining a vibrancy that conceals just how long it’s been there. You wouldn’t have expected this style of decor from him, but at the same time, you doubt it’s his influence so much as Kafka’s. 

“Do you have a problem?” you probe icily, turning back to where you’re slicing a carrot into thin matchsticks; if there was a god somewhere, you’d hope it could transfigure the man behind you into the root vegetable you’re enthusiastically chopping. 

“No.” And when he speaks again, he’s right behind you. There’s a sink to your left, but he’s much too close as his breath ghosts over the nape of your neck. Affronted, you turn around; only to watch as his eyes widen minutely, glass of water slipping out of his grasp and spilling down your front. 

“You dickhead.” Your hands angrily grab at his collar—unheeding or perhaps uncaring of his reputation for violence as you feel the cold seep into your skin. You’re seething; for someone with such good reflexes, this is a new level of low in attempting to chase you out. Or perhaps it’s revenge for finally getting under his skin. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

It’s a little too late when you realise the position you’re in: skin showing through the translucent material, breathing shallow from your infuriation, face glaring right up at his. 

“Sorry.” His voice rings out insincere—and there’s that damn faint smile still toying at his face as he looks directly at you with that heavy gaze. “My hand slipped.”

You shove him back, too disgusted to acknowledge him any further. Maybe if you turned back around, you’d see the tiniest pricks of red on his face as you tossed your soaked shirt into the washing machine—leaving you in a damp vest while you continued cooking for yourself. Maybe if you looked back at least once, you’d see the amusement in his eyes as you maul the bok choy on the cutting board. 

Those are maybes.

There’s particular things you know for certain. One, you despise him and his existence. Two, he abhors you and your entire being—because why else would he be so insistent in making you leave out of your own volition?

✧ It’s the time of year that you hate: joint engineering classes so you can cover the materials aspect for your physics studies. Well, it’s not like you hated it from the very beginning—you’ve hated it ever since you realised that once again, you’d have to be in the incorrigible presence of Blade. While he did finally install some soundproofing in his room, he’s taken it upon himself to linger wherever you’re present. Typing up your notes on the deep maroon couch with a mug of lavender tea perched on the coffee table? He’s in the window seat, looking over a thick reference manual for tensile strengths. Going to meet bassist Dan Heng so the two of you can play around with various lines for your next song? He’s at the convenience store you briefly stop at, gazing at you before he glares at your friend. Practising a slow solo in the living room (it’s really got the best ambience)? He’s tapping out a beat that you can very faintly now hear—one that surprisingly goes with the electrifying chords.  ✧ Point is, you’re ignoring him and his presence—while he’s inching ever closer. It comes to a head at the lecture hall; you decide to sit in the third row, since it’s both far from the back (where he usually frequents) and it doesn’t make you look like a beg. When you glance at his predestined seat, it’s empty—unsurprisingly as he’s there usually a minute before the professor—while the seat next to him is taken by a girl you’ve seen before. Despite his horrible personality and the (probably true) rumours surrounding him, there’s a few stragglers who genuinely want him. And you genuinely want those people to seek help because it’s clear something went wrong in their lives for them to be thirsting over a man who looks like he eats cigarettes for breakfast.  ✧ He comes in late, as you expect, but you freeze as he places his bag down next to you. Aghast, you can’t help but stare; yet for once he’s not meeting your eyes, and it’s far too late to make a scene and move elsewhere—not when the professor’s just arrived and is keen to start the lecture for materials. He doesn’t talk much, but you’re so distracted by his presence pressing slightly into your sides that you forget that today the professor’s deciding on the pairs for your projects—mouth agape, you stare in shock as she assigns them based on who’s sitting nearby. To be generous, she says, yet there’s nothing generous about this arrangement as his mocking eyes meet yours. He knew, you seethe, storming out of the hall right as the class wraps up. 

“I hate him.” Your molars grind bone-against-bone as you harshly press angry chords into the fretboard. “I hate him so so so so much.”

“Who are you talking about?” March 7th—in charge of the synthesiser—glances first at the bassist to your side, then back at you. Her eyes are wide in sympathy, yet it’s useless in the face of your despair. 

“Blade.” Poetically, the word is accompanied by the deep twang of Smoke on the Water as your fingers move mindlessly on your precious baby. What, your roommate?—she queries. No, a pet fish—Caelus responds, but you tune them both out. 

“He knew the professor would assign groups like that,” you groan. “That’s why he sat next to me.”

“He’s definitely trying to get you to leave his apartment out of your own will,” Dan Heng’s smooth cadence is somewhat soothing—and his conjecture is one you’ve come to yourself—but the accompanying baseline he’s playing to the song makes his theory sound comical. “But he won’t screw up his own project like that.”

You sigh, and the melody falls apart as you bring it to a grinding halt. 

“Believe me, I know just how much he values his projects.” Your head throbs upon thinking about that poor girl sobbing, and the bassist coughs to stifle a laugh. 

“What did he say that one time? ‘Your vapid idea would be better used on death row than as a functioning building’,” Stelle—the vocalist and also the only Psychology major you know who doesn’t unnervingly stare at you—imitates the deep reverberations of his voice, and you’re astonished at how it’s recalled verbatim (down to the exact adjective).

“I’m surprised it got round that far,” you suppress a smile—after all, it’ll be your head on the chopping block next. “You should’ve gone into theatre like Caelus did.” 

What a waste of talent, you shake your head mock-ruefully, which quickly turns to true woe as you realise just the predicament you’re in. 

✧ It’s not a complicated assignment. Well, it shouldn’t be: designing a sound structure based on the whims of the architectural class (whom you loathe); except that Blade is notorious for being a severe critic for civil engineering partnerships—like seriously, out of all hills to die on and it’s civil engineering. You begrudgingly create a new contact for him in your phone; a digital space just for him, which almost makes you throw up at the thought.

(+2 unread messages) <Dickhead> (new contact) 10:11 > library.  10:11 > east block, 20 minutes.

You stare incredulously at the chat, which is neither phrased as a question nor a request but an encrypted demand. The fuck? Infuriated, you take the break between your reps now rather than later, swilling down water while you irritably type out a reply. 

No can do. < 10:15 I’m busy. < 10:16

The reply comes less than a minute later; three dots animating themselves into existence while you wipe the sweat off your face with a towel. This prick. Well, it’s not so much a reply as an acknowledgement of your words—because he doesn’t reply, but rather your phone starts buzzing and you fumble while looking at the expletive lit up brightly on the screen. 

You’re sorely, sorely tempted to press the red receiver on the device. 

“What do you want?” you scowl, and you hope it translates through your voice that you’re revolted by his mere radio presence. 

“Where are you?” He ignores your question; voice vibrating low through your headphones, and you can’t help but shiver, just a little. Even through the thick towel, you can still feel crescents being formed in your palm from your nails—you sincerely wish you were throttling him instead. 

“None of your business.” 

There’s a budding migraine blossoming to life in your temple as you finally hang up. You think that’s the end of it—after all, it was literally yesterday that the groups were assigned. 

But when you shoulder the gym door open—skin still damp and warm from your shower, clean clothes sticking ever so slightly to laved skin—there’s a sleek car parked outside, and you frown when Blade opens the driver’s door. 

“I’m going to report you for stalking,” you grit out, pressing your body to the cool glass of the building. “How the fuck did you know where I was?”

“Kafka,” he replies simply, and of course, that crazy woman was the one who viewed your private story and sent it to him. “I’m picking you up.”

“No you’re not.” Seriously, he thinks you’re that easy to convince—

“I’ll shut the fuck up with the drums for these two weeks.” 

It’s almost miraculous how quickly you slide into the passenger seat. 

✧ You’ve never been in such close proximity to him before (if you don’t count that day in the kitchen). At least, voluntarily. When you close your eyes and lean back against the headrest, you can smell the faint, woody scent of his cologne. It’s different from the putrid tide of Axe the average engineering student drowns themself in—rather, it’s got the deep undertone of oud and something sweeter. You don’t expect it; maybe if he smelled like first impressions, he’d stink of blood and a dumpster fire.  ✧ Don’t fall asleep—he remarks, and you can feel his eyes on you briefly. Eyes on the road, prick—you retort, but your own lids are still tightly shut. Therefore, you don’t see how his gaze traces the remaining water droplets from your shower: how his hands linger on his gear stick so he can feel the emanating warmth from your damp thigh.  ✧ He freezes. Gross. He doesn’t like anyone, and only tolerates the rest of the Stellaron Hunters since they’ve seen him at his lowest and yet still find ways to bug him. And you. He wasn’t expecting you to last as long as you have. He certainly wasn’t expecting you to irritate him in your own way, and actually manage to aggravate him enough to force him into soundproofing his room. Actually, he still doesn’t know why you did that. He doesn’t know why his heart picked up slightly at the sight of you in that soaked shirt. And in the end, he still doesn’t entirely know why he chose to sit next to you for that lecture instead. It’s to annoy you, he decides. No point in deliberating too much about it.  ✧ It’s surprising that the two of you don’t immediately argue over the project; some eco-facility for sports that surprisingly was chosen unanimously by the pair of you. Eyes flitting to each other and back, it was a miracle you both had the same idea somehow. And it’s surprising when despite your lack of experience in civil engineering like this (you usually opt for mechanical on projects like these), you carefully consider the missing parts in his outlines—security cameras, sound systems, and tiny edits to the structure to really amplify the architecture.  ✧ He doesn’t mind your presence. That’s what shocks him. As you doze off with your head pressed into the crooks of your elbows, he doesn’t reprimand you like he would with anyone else. Instead, he places the material reference guide down and stops considering cement foundations. Before he gets the chance to poke your forehead, your phone buzzes against the table—lighting up with a name he didn’t think he’d see.  ✧ Dan Heng. He knows you’re friends with the guy, but there’s a burning sensation as his eyes watch the pop-up turn into another message, then another. What does he want? In real time, there’s a particular irritation that blossoms with each new notification. 

<Dan Heng> 20:19 > Are you still up? 20:19 > My roommate’s going to move in with his girlfriend, so you’ll be able to…

The message is cut off, but Blade isn’t stupid. He knows exactly what the implication suggests, and there’s a certain coolness in his eyes as he stares the message down. Isn’t this what he wanted? Yes, this is precisely the ending he hoped for: you moving out and him getting his space back to himself. 

But the issue stems from Dan Heng. He can’t have that. He can’t have you moving in with that man of all people. Anyone else would be fine, he insists to himself. 

Dan Heng. Dan Heng. Dan Heng. 

There’s a certain hypothesis he’d like to test. With your guard down like this, he snaps a photo of you with the drool leaking onto your sleeve—sending it directly to you. Just like clockwork, your phone lights up once more with a message. It’s not ‘Blade’ that’s texting you. 

<Dickhead> 20:20 > [photo.jpeg attached]

He grits his teeth, clutching his textbook until his fingers ache from the strain. No, he won’t give that bastard the satisfaction of taking his roommate like this. 

He’ll play nice. When you find someone who works this efficiently with you, while managing to hold their ground under his intimidating gaze, it’s hard not to want them to not scurry away. 

Eat shit, Dan Heng.

✧ Somehow, mercifully, you manage to complete the project with that weirdo. It’s strange—he’s surprisingly more cordial than ever. And with his inky hair pulled into a loose bun, glasses perched on his straight nose—it’s hard to imagine he’d ever made that poor girl cry in front of everyone like that, but you’d witnessed it yourself. So with a sigh, you remind yourself that he’s just as much of an asshole as the rumours say. But, staring at him so relaxed like this, these two different Blades are hard to ever merge.

“Something on my face?” He’s still writing with his glasses sliding down his nose. He sounds irritated, as per usual, but the tiny smirk painting his face lets you know that no he’s not irritated, he’s just being an arse just as always. 

“Yeah, pen,” you mutter, looking away as he finally glances up at you. When you glance back at the desk where your laptop precariously shows the still-unfinished presentation slides, he’s gazing up at you with an indecipherable look in his eyes. 

It almost puts to rest the image of a dickhead. 

“There’s no pen, though,” he purrs, voice low while he rests the manual back on the table. “I’ve been reading all morning.”

Nevermind—he’s as much of an asshole as he regularly is. 

“Who knows,” you comment offhandedly, slowly sliding a blue biro your way as soon as he looks back down. There—you attempt to inch forward to draw on his face, but he catches your wrist from across the table between you. 

You freeze. Shit, you screwed up. With how relaxed he is, it’s getting easier and easier to forget the rumours of his bruised knuckles that follow him like a shroud. His eyes glance coolly at you, then at the incriminating weapon within your fingers. 

“What are you doing?” Maybe he’s the questions first, beat up later kind. 

“Getting revenge.” Shameless, you think, but definitely not as shameless as getting told to effectively shut up with the drums yet having the audacity to keep going louder. 

His lips part, and your eyes nearly stray to the pink colour of them. Then, he smiles—something so cynical and disturbing you can’t help but shiver and twist your arm out of his hold, all so you can watch him askance. 

“I can see why people find you scary,” you shudder, tapping your biro on a square notepad. 

“And you don’t?” An innocuous question, but one that almost sounds accusatory. 

“Nah,” you make a disgusted noise, like you’re trying to suppress vomit. “You’re just a prick.”

In the end, that same prick ends up rolling his sleeves upon your request so you can litter blue ink upon his forearms. With how pale he is, it resembles delicate ceramics painted with cerulean landscapes. And while you do include etched illustrations and swirling designs, you make sure to include several phalluses dotted around—just so he lives up to his contact name. 

“Wow,” he remarks sardonically. “Maybe you should quit physics and join the liberal arts programme.”

You ignore him, taking a few shots of your handiwork and sending them to Kafka, captioned I feel like this truly reflects his personality and making sure all the tiny dicks are in full focus. 

“Maybe I should,” you shrug. “Then I wouldn’t have to deal with you, at least.”

“Likewise,” he responds, but it’s not as satisfying to think about you quitting as he thought it would be. 

It’s stupid. He finds that he doesn’t want the ink to wash from his arms, not so soon. 

When you log into your account to touch-up the presentation, you spot the comment he left back in the library on the presentation slides—timestamped to the exact twenty past five. 

17:20 > Maybe if you stopped staring at me, we’d be done sooner. 

It’s the longest sentence he’s ever typed out to you—but that’s exactly what makes it so galling. 

go fuck yourself < 22:31

22:31 > ooh you want me so bad aha

You pause, staring incredulously at the text, then to where the bathroom’s situated. The water’s definitely running.

… < 22:32 damn this idiot’s really getting scammed and hacked < 22:33 crazy < 22:33 [feynman’s twin] sent laughing emoji < 22:33

22:33 > on the daily lmao 22:34 > same two old man passwords for everything

Types like one too < 22:34

22:35 > right?? 22:36 > we should be friends btw 22:36 > [Blade.] sent contact silver-W

Dang he really put a period after than name too < 22:37

22:37 > top ten edgelords 22:37 > [Blade.] sent laughing emoji

[feynman’s twin] sent laughing emoji < 22:37

It’s not until the morning when he’s looking over the (surprisingly well-done) slides that he finally notices the string of (highly unprofessional) messages that he definitely did not write. 

His head throbs and his eye twitches as he reads through them—burning holes through the wall separating him and you. He hopes you receive the subliminal nightmares he’s so graciously sending you. 

It’s a fiercely deliberated decision. With a heavy heart, he finally presses [backspace] on the typo next to his nickname. 

He only hopes you won’t notice. 

(Silver Wolf notices—immediately screenshotting the new handle [Blade] and sending it to you.)

✧ Good things come in threes. Getting through this project, not getting beat up by that nerd, and getting through the presentation smoothly. By that, you mean you do most of the speaking while Blade clicks through the slides. However, contrary to all expectations, his voice comes low and rich—neither stumbling through the knowledge nor forgetting the important parts. It’s so shocking you can’t help but stare at him; something he definitely notices, judging by the self-important smirk he sends you.  ✧ Perhaps a little too good. The pair of you leave the lecture hall separately—after all, it’s not like you want to be in his presence any longer, and he doesn’t particularly want to be in yours either. But you do want the sweet energy drink that’s been chilling in the shared fridge for the past few days: as tantalising as the very nectar of the gods.  ✧ It’s when you enter an alleyway shortcut that you witness her—your old roommate. Vaguely, you recall she used to have a crush on Blade (a match made in heaven if there ever was one); perhaps that’s why she’s inching towards you with a pipe that is tetanus’ wet dream—so grimy you think you’ll immediately die if you’re struck by it.  ✧ All this over him?—you think with disgust as you try back out of the alleyway, only to collide with the towering body of her boyfriend: some guy unfortunate enough to be entrapped by her pretty face and definitely not her personality. She doesn’t want you, and he (aforementioned: Blade) doesn’t want her either. It’s rather tragic, but woefully you can’t spare any pity for them: not when you’re about to get beat and for what? A successful presentation with Blade?  ✧ They’re amateurish enough that you manage to evade them for a minute, but the alleyway’s too narrow to slip past them, and you’ve never been in a fight like this.  ✧ You’re cornered when he appears: some twisted knight he is.

“You’re late,” you heave, bruises on your knuckles and that man’s face. 

“You…” Blade trails off as he sees the blood spatters on your clothes, and his expression twists into one he’s glad you can’t see—not when his broad shoulders face you in an impenetrable wall. The two idiots—Tweedledee and Tweedledum, judging by how disturbingly gullible they are—stiffen immediately upon his timely arrival. 

He’ll handle it like he always does. 

But it’s certainly strange. Why does he feel so much angrier than he does normally?

✧ It’s late afternoon: dusk barely kissing the rooftops of the city, stars just about peeking from the violet firmament. You didn’t ask questions when he made enough space for you to slip out the alleyway: heart lodged in your throat as you quietly sat down at the local café with blossoming pain in your ribs and fists. Stupid, you were stupid to think that crazed girl would ever leave you alone.  ✧ Maybe it’s counterintuitive to feel safe when he steps into the small building. He smells faintly of blood: a terrible, metallic odour spilling onto his clothes and flesh. But beneath that, there’s a lingering scent of that woody oud—you can’t help but sink into it.  ✧ They won’t bother you ever again—he murmurs as the door jingles behind both of you. You didn’t kill them, did you?—you mutter back, half-sarcastically. No, but it probably hurt quite a bit for them—he shrugs. “Let’s go home.” ✧ Home. He says that, but there’s still that offer from Dan Heng to move in with him—one you’ll probably accept. Blade may have saved you, but he’s still a dickhead who has made numerous attempts to kick you out. 

“Ow, fuck,” you hiss as he dabs antiseptic on the various cuts on your hand. It’s well into the evening now, and you’re currently sitting on the bathroom counter with your injuries on full display. 

So infuriating. You glare at the man standing in between your legs—unscathed completely. Worst of all, there’s a smug smile on his lips; whatever worry he might have had over you has completely dissipated. 

“You couldn’t let them hit you once?”

“Bitter much?” he returns easily, swabbing another cotton ball with alcohol and pressing it against the large cut on the side of your forearm. It stings, but you grit your teeth and bear it—much too annoyed with him to show any more pain. 

In this position, the resentment you feel towards him turns faint; a veil seems to obscure the burning sensation. 

“You talk too much,” you seethe. “What happened to the prick who kept his mouth shut and ignored me?”

Tendrils of his jet-hued hair brush your cheek as he inches forward. “If you like, we can go right back to that—playing at my whim included.”

He hasn’t felt like this in years—back when he was still a boy named Yingxing and unmarred by the burdens life would eventually place on his shoulders. 

“Let me do it myself,” you argue back. 

“Nah.” Silver Wolf will pay for calling him an old man. “You won’t do it properly.” 

Another brief kiss from the alcohol against your bloody knuckles, and this time you can’t hide the slight wince on your face. It takes quite a lot of self-restraint to not dent the tweezers—he should’ve done so much worse to the two who tried this, besides beating the shit out of them and getting Kafka to land them behind bars. 

“That rod probably had tetanus on it,” he shrugs, rummaging around in his disused first-aid kit for plasters and bandages.

“Yeah, I thought that too,” you shudder. It's this moment of casual, same line thinking that strikes you as being far too strange. He's so close you can feel each puff of air when he exhales: practically scalding the bare skin stretched over collarbones. Too close—and if he keeps talking like this, as if he’s no longer disgusted by your presence, you won’t be able to deal with it. 

“What’d you do to her?” he questions, but it’s not the ‘no wonder she attacked you’ tone—rather than that, it’s like he’s trying to prompt you into distraction. 

“This is actually your fault,” you scowl, irritably casting your mind back to when she used to talk your ear off about the man standing here. 

“How so?” Nonplussed, he starts rolling the bandage across your arm—evidently, he’s experienced with this sort of thing. 

Stalker roommate. Stalker roommate has crush on engineering maniac. Stalker roommate sees that your new roommate and engineering maniac are one and the same—you summarise, too tired to give the specifics. He sees the way your lids flutter closed from exhaustion; for once, he’ll use Kafka to get more of the information you omitted. 

“Honestly, you two freaks would be perfect for each other,” you murmur absentmindedly. At that, he pulls the bandage tighter against your skin and you draw in a pained inhale. 

“You should try stand-up.” His voice is thick with revulsion, and it’s quiet for a few brief moments as he gets started on patching up the scrapes left on your back. You’re sitting on a stool now: unable to see his face but awfully mindful of how his hands brush over the skin layered over your scapula. 

“You still haven’t thanked me.”

“Thank you, my aggravating saviour,” you say, much too insincerely. “But that reminds me that I’ve got good news for you. That should suffice as a symbol of my gratitude.”

What is it?

“One of my friends has a room free, so I’ll probably be able to move out soon.”

The worst part is, he knows exactly who this friend is. His hands freeze on the band-aid he’s smoothing on your skin; too absorbed in his murderous thoughts to notice how you stiffen at the prolonged gesture. He’s not jealous; these are merely stirrings of friendship—this ugly, amorphous thing writhing in his gut and condemning him to senseless anger. 

“That’s not good news,” he breathes, and it’s a little too quiet as he finishes wrapping the final bandage around your bruised ribs. 

For the first time ever, Kafka receives a text from Blade that doesn’t consist of just one word. 

<Bladie> 20:33 > I need advice. 

Oh, this is interesting. 

What are friends for?—she coos, making sure to show Silver Wolf the glaring achievement in Blade’s range of text vocabulary. 

He’s clearly been on the rear end of bad news; while for her, on the contrary, this just means her scheme is moving along very nicely.  

[felassan]

Some thoughts on this article from Game Informer [source]. ^^

Teia and Viago as the 'face' of the Crows/the Crow 'agents', pretty please..? 🥺 👉👈 And I hope maybe Strife and Irelin can be the same but for the Veil Jumpers..? :D

Customizing qunari Rook's horn type and material reminds me of Taash's gem-horn design

Which faction do you think has the coolest casual threads? in my mind's eye [wild speculation] it's a toss up between Mourn Watch and Antivan Crows :D

What do sword and shield warriors 'hip-fire' with?

What is a "night blade" :D

Faction selection/backstory (while not playable) determining who Rook was before, how they met Varric, and why they travel with him reminds me of the different origins in DA:O and how each possible HoF crossed paths with and was recruited by Duncan in a different way.. 🥺

Factions and groups in the world working together to save it.. it felt like there were hints of this in Tevinter Nights. In that book, we saw different groups and factions from across Thedas working with the Inquisition, with varying degrees of cooperation, on being concerned about Solas. Yet other groups were also interested in keeping tabs on him. now we see the same kinda thing in DA:TV with different groups being involved in saving the world from the Evil Gods.

"'You help them, they help you now" but first they all have serious problems you need to solve' has echoes of how in DA:O, the HoF solved a problem for each major group (Dalish elves/werewolves, Circle Tower/templars, Orzammar etc) before they would obey the Grey Warden treaties and agree to help fight the darkspawn for the final battle

Do you think that some of the voices in the Thedas Calls teaser trailer were some of the 'faces' of the factions? For example, the Antivan Crow woman speaker as the face of the Crows, and the Nicholas Boulton-sounding Warden man speaker as the face of the Grey Wardens?

Each spec being tied to a faction explains the faction symbols being on the specializations, as here. From this, we can see that the faction each spec is tied to is as follows:

Mage: Death Caller - Mourn Watch Evoker - Shadow Dragons Spellblade - Antivan Crows Rogue: Duelist - Antivan Crows Veil Ranger - Veil Jumper Saboteur - Lords of Fortune Warrior: Champion - Grey Wardens Reaper - Mourn Watch Slayer - Lords of Fortune

The Mirror of Transformation returns. Do you think that means Rook will also be able to go to the Black Emporium, like Hawke in DAII and Inquisitor in DA:I? Will Xenon the Antiquarian also return? ^^ Maybe not though, since it's said the Mirror is in The Lighthouse

I'm not sure about "If you find yourself unhappy with your lineage or your class, you can change them using the Mirror of Transformation". It was previously reported that "You can change your character’s physical appearance at any time during the game, but not their class or backstory" [source] [prev post mentioning it]. I guess one article is incorrect, but am not sure which. or maybe this aspect of the game changed in development. ^^ UPDATE: please see here re: an update/clarification from Game Informer on this. it reads:

"Editor's Note: This article previously stated players can change their physical appearance, class, lineage, and identity using the Mirror of Transformation. That is incorrect as class, lineage, and identity are locked after you first select those. The article has been updated to reflect that, and Game Informer apologizes for any confusion this mistake may have caused."

What do you think is the problem[s] faced by each faction that we have to solve? :D We got some hints about this already. For example, for the Crows, something "is amiss" in Antiva and they're trying to uncover the source. The Qunari have also invaded Antiva. For the Wardens, they just recently discovered one of Ghil's underground monster labs and learned there are 11 more (Tevinter Nights), and ominous tremors of unknown cause have been creating disturbances in the Anderfels lately. The Lords of Fortune have lost dominion over the coasts of Rivain and dragons are laying waste to their ships. The Shadow Dragons probably have the Venatori, who are still around and up to mad shit, to contend with. Arlathan Forest is currently all timewarped, reality-fragmented, awash with darkspawn and corruption etc. For the Mourn Watch.. maybe the Veil rips and weakening has caused more premature possessions of corpses and demons possessing corpses and wreaking havoc in the Necropolis, or the Nevarran politics stuff? In TN Dorian also mentions learning from a Mortalitasi mage that there are things "past the Veil of our world, neither demon nor spirit". maybe they're having problems with those things?

[source]

[jackoshadows]

I think we don't talk enough about how Jon Snow secretly had a sword made for Arya at Winterfell - without anyone knowing! And that this was something he was planning on for a while, with the intention to teach Arya some fundamental sword skills - without anyone knowing!!

It reminds me about how much Arya must have poured out her heart and soul to Jon Snow about EVERYTHING, considering how much Jon knows about her. The very best of confidantes who guarded their secrets with each other and are the most loyal of siblings.

It was to Jon Snow that Arya goes, after being bullied for her looks, worried that she too was a bastard and Jon who consoled her (ignoring his own pain at being one). It's Jon who praises her as pretty and clever and understands that deep curiosity and ambition in her.

It's Jon who understands that Arya is interested in something different and that this is also deserving of attention. The ONLY person in the whole of Winterfell - not her parents, her other siblings, her teacher. Only Jon Snow.

I can imagine Jon and Arya just hanging out in a quiet corner of the Godswood, under the weirwood, with Arya pouring out her frustrations and chatting about playing with the serving girls and Jon talking about his day practicing the sword. They know each other so well, that they are famous for finishing each other's thoughts. They share such a singular bond that he even got her sword name right!!

Arya seemed puzzled at first. Then it came to her. She was that quick. They said it together: "Needle!" The memory of her laughter warmed him on the long ride north. - Jon, AGoT

Making Needle wouldn't have been easy considering it had to be done secretly. Clearly Jon thought that both his father and Catelyn wouldn't have been happy if they knew that the bastard was having swords made for their daughter.

"Give it to me." Reluctantly Arya surrendered her sword, wondering if she would ever hold it again. Her father turned it in the light, examining both sides of the blade. He tested the point with his thumb. "A bravo's blade," he said. "Yet it seems to me that I know this maker's mark. This is Mikken's work." Lord Eddard Stark sighed. "My nine-year-old daughter is being armed from my own forge, and I know nothing of it. The Hand of the King is expected to rule the Seven Kingdoms, yet it seems I cannot even rule my own household. How is it that you come to own a sword, Arya? Where did you get this?" - Arya, AGoT

Jon Snow took the time to research swords that Arya could hold and handle. He must have been up in Maester Luwin's turret looking through books for the design and asked questions of the Winterfell master-at-arms Rodrik Cassel about Braavosi swords.

She giggled at him. "It's so skinny." "So are you," Jon told her. "I had Mikken make this special. The bravos use swords like this in Pentos and Myr and the other Free Cities. It won't hack a man's head off, but it can poke him full of holes if you're fast enough." - Jon, AGoT

He'd had Mikken make a sword for Arya once, a bravo's blade, made small to fit her hand. Needle. He wondered if she still had it. Stick them with the pointy end, he'd told her, but if she tried to stick the Bastard, it could mean her life. - Jon, ADwD

It had been so long since he had last seen Arya. What would she look like now? Would he even know her? Arya Underfoot. Her face was always dirty. Would she still have that little sword he'd had Mikken forge for her? Stick them with the pointy end, he'd told her. Wisdom for her wedding night if half of what he heard of Ramsay Snow was true. Bring her home, Mance. I saved your son from Melisandre, and now I am about to save four thousand of your free folk. You owe me this one little girl. - Jon, ADwD

After getting the idea of what kind of sword works for Arya's small hands, Jon then goes to Mikken, requesting that he make a small Bravo's blade. I feel certain that Mikken had no idea that he was secretly having a sword made for the Lord of Winterfell's daughter. I wonder what Mikken's thoughts were on Jon Snow wanting that specific blade made. He clearly did not think it important to mention to Ned. And no one knew - not Robb or Theon or even the Winterfell master-at-arms!

Given how sudden the whole deal was with Ned leaving for King's Landing, IMO, it's clear that Jon was planning on secret rendezvous with Arya where he could show her the basics of using a sword. Jon is certainly no Syrio Forel and Arya certainly learned more from an actual Bravo master fencer than from Jon Snow.

And yet just knowing that Jon had Needle secretly made and was planning on secret lessons for Arya because he knew just how desperate she was to learn something different, something unacceptable for Winterfell's daughter and that he did so at the great risk of displeasing a father he looked up to and the Lady Catelyn Stark who already wanted him gone.

He truly is Lyanna's son in every way that mattered.

[criticallyinneedofadar]

Hey! I hope you're doing well!

I was wondering if you could do a little something with the reader being Gil Galad sister and falling for Celebrimbor everytime they meet (Gil galad teasing his sister about it👀).

Fluff or angst, I let you choose 🫣❤️‍🔥

This was so fun to write!! It might be a bit ooc from Gil Galad but I love the idea of him being an absolute menace to those he's close to.

The Princess of Lindon

The first time you met Celebrimbor, you couldn’t understand why your brother held him in such high regard. Standing in the gilded halls of Lindon, he seemed a touch too serious, his golden hair catching the sunlight in sharp lines that matched the geometric precision of his voice. His words, though, carried weight: precise, deliberate, but never unkind.

“You must be Ereinion’s sister,” he said, bowing his head slightly, though his eyes—bright as polished mithril—never left yours. “He speaks of you often.”

“Oh?” You raised an eyebrow, flicking a glance at your brother, who stood at Celebrimbor’s side, his mouth twitching in a barely restrained grin. “I hope only good things.”

Gil-galad didn’t bother hiding his smirk. “I told him you’re stubborn as a dwarf and twice as likely to quarrel.”

“Charming,” you shot back, your tone sweet as honeyed wine, though your gaze lingered a moment too long on Celebrimbor’s face. He was watching you, amused.

In the days that followed, you found yourself seeking his company more than you intended, drawn to his quiet passion for his craft. Each visit to his workshop was another step into a world of firelight and molten beauty. You marveled at the works he created, from delicately wrought circlets to great armaments destined for Elven lords.

“What do you think?” he asked one evening, holding up an unfinished pendant. Its design was intricate, almost fragile—a series of interwoven vines encircling a starburst.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmured, your voice softer than you intended. When his fingers brushed yours as he handed it to you, the heat from the forge wasn’t the only thing warming your cheeks.

+++++++++++

The afternoon sun poured through Lindon’s archways as you descended the steps leading to Celebrimbor’s forge. You had intended to slip away unnoticed, but your brother, as always, had other plans. Ereinion appeared out of nowhere, his long strides carrying him into your path with a smirk that could melt glaciers.

“Off to the forges again, are you?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest. The crown of Lindon glittered faintly in the light, but his expression was anything but regal. Mischief radiated from him like heat from a forge.

You sighed, stepping around him. “Yes, brother, I am. Kindly move.”

“What gift have you for him this time? A poem? Another rare flower?” He waggled his eyebrows. “Or are you simply going to gaze at him longingly until he notices?”

Your pace quickened, but he matched you step for step. “Perhaps you should write him a letter, sister. Something heartfelt. I can help! How about—‘Oh, Celebrimbor, your hands of steel and heart of fire have utterly captured me—’”

You stopped abruptly, spinning to face him with a glare sharp enough to rival any blade in Celebrimbor’s workshop. “Do you ever stop talking?”

He grinned unabashedly. “Not when I’m having this much fun.”

“I’ll have you know,” you began, jabbing a finger at his chest, “that your meddling will get you nowhere. Celebrimbor and I are merely—”

“Friends? Colleagues? Acquaintances?” He rolled his eyes theatrically. “Sister, even the trees know how you feel. You could outshine the Two Trees with the way you look at him.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but no words came. The accusation struck closer to home than you cared to admit.

Taking your silence as victory, Ereinion leaned down, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Listen, all I’m saying is, if you’re going to keep this up, I expect an invitation to the wedding. I’ll even officiate, if you like.”

You shoved him—gently, though it didn’t stop him from stumbling back a step, laughing as though he’d won some great battle.

“Go bother someone else,” you snapped, marching off toward the forge.

“Don’t keep him waiting!” he called after you, his voice still laced with amusement.

++++++++++

Years passed, and your visits became a quiet ritual. Sometimes you brought small gifts—a poem you’d written, a rare flower you’d found during a walk through Lindon’s forests. Other times, you simply sat in the corner of his workshop, content to watch him work, the rhythmic hammering of metal a soothing cadence.

Gil-galad noticed, of course. He noticed everything.

“Planning on making him a crown, sister?” he teased one afternoon, catching you on your way to Celebrimbor’s forge.

You glared at him. “Planning on minding your own business?”

He feigned a look of shock. “Oh, but it is my business! The sister of the High King consorting with Eregion’s lord? What will people think?”

“They’ll think you’re insufferable.”

“I am insufferable.” He grinned, leaning in. “But at least I’m not pining.”

Your glare could have felled an Orc, but Ereinion only laughed, throwing an arm around your shoulders. “Go on, then. Don’t keep him waiting.”

++++++++++

It wasn’t just your brother who noticed. Galadriel, with her piercing gaze and sharp tongue, was impossible to fool. She cornered you one evening after a feast, her eyes gleaming with something dangerously close to amusement.

“Celebrimbor?” she asked bluntly, swirling her wine.

“What about him?” you replied, feigning ignorance.

Her lips curved in a knowing smile. “You watch him as though he’s a riddle you’re trying to solve.”

“And you watch everyone as though you know the answer,” you shot back, though your face betrayed you, the faintest flush creeping up your neck.

She laughed—a rare, musical sound. “He’s a good man. Just be careful. His heart is tied to his craft as much as it could ever be tied to you.”

++++++++++

The moments you shared with Celebrimbor were often quiet, but each one built upon the last, weaving a bond as delicate and strong as mithril. He never spoke openly of his feelings, but his actions spoke for him. He listened when you spoke of your dreams and fears, crafting small trinkets to match your words—a silver leaf when you told him of your favorite tree, a delicate sunburst when you mentioned longing for the warmth of Valinor’s light.

One night, as you stood beneath the stars, he handed you a simple ring, its design understated but flawless.

“For you,” he said, his voice almost hesitant. “A reminder that even the smallest things can endure.”

You slipped it onto your finger, the cool metal warming almost instantly. “It’s beautiful,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”

He hesitated, then added, “Not everything I make is for kings.”

++++++++++

By the time Elrond began visiting Lindon more frequently, the dynamic between you and Celebrimbor had become a favorite subject of teasing.

“Have you told him yet?” Elrond asked, his expression far too innocent for someone meddling in your affairs.

“Told who what?” you replied, pretending to be oblivious.

He only smiled. “You’ll know when you’re ready.”

++++++++++

Ereinion wasn’t often in Celebrimbor’s forge. The High King had little need to concern himself with the intricacies of smithing, but today he’d come with a purpose—a commission he needed to discuss. Yet as he pushed open the heavy doors, he paused, one hand still on the iron handle.

The scene before him was not what he’d expected.

His sister and Celebrimbor stood close together, the soft glow of the forge casting golden light over their faces. Celebrimbor’s hands cupped her face, his thumb brushing her cheek, while she held onto his tunic as if afraid he might vanish. They were locked in a kiss—tentative at first but growing deeper, the unspoken feelings between them finally laid bare.

A sly grin grew on his lips.

“Am I interrupting?” he called, loud enough to startle them apart.

His sister turned first, her face a picture of mortified surprise. Celebrimbor, ever composed, cleared his throat and took a step back, though the slight flush on his cheeks betrayed him.

“Ereinion!” she exclaimed, her tone sharp enough to cut. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same of you,” he replied, striding further into the room. “But I suppose I don’t need to.”

She glared at him, arms crossing defensively. Celebrimbor, meanwhile, was very pointedly looking anywhere but at the High King.

“It’s about time, really,” Gil-galad continued, his grin widening. “I was beginning to think I’d have to forge an alliance contract just to get the two of you to admit it.”

“Brother, dearest,” she said, her voice low and dangerous, “go away.”

He ignored her, addressing Celebrimbor instead. “Welcome to the family, old friend. About time you made it official.”

Celebrimbor opened his mouth as if to respond, but your glare cut him off. “Don’t encourage him,” you hissed.

“Encourage me? I’m practically overjoyed!” Ereinion raised his hands in mock surrender. “But fine, I’ll leave you to your…moment. Just remember—dinner tonight. And don’t be late.”

With that, he turned on his heel and strode out, laughing under his breath. Behind him, he heard his sister mutter something about his insufferable nature, but it only made him smile more.

He had waited years to see her happy, and now she was. That, to him, was worth every ounce of teasing.

[maopll]

Hi!

Could I request Dan Heng, Blade, and Caelus with a very sleepy s/o?

Sweet Dreams —

# honkai star rail !

⌗:, a/n : sleeping beauty trope. how lovely. but caelus would be really sweet towards you I'm pretty sure !!

⌗:, warning : none. only wholesome moments w/ your lover <3

⌗:, pairings : dan heng, blade, & caelus w/ gn!reader (separately)

DAN HENG —

Clothes? check. Guide books? check. First Aid? check. He took note of every single item that was in the bag he frequently took during trailblazing expeditions which had every single important thing. However, he does not remember putting you in the checklist nor finding you half-asleep on the bag. Somehow, you managed to snuggle yourself inside the bag while having your legs and hands close to yourself. Sure it didn't look comfortable but the question was 'how did they sleep like that?'

Heaving an exasperated sigh he said "wake up [name] the preparations for the expedition aren't done yet" and rubbed on his temples. You woke up with droopy eyes and yawned. "The smell of the old books truly helps you sleep well," and once again flopped yourself on the bed. He finished packing and went to join you on the bed. He rolled you over to the other side and made space for himself. He hugged you close to him as you entangled your legs with his. You snored softly as he kissed you on the forehead. "Good night dearest."

BLADE —

He was looking at the Xianzhou from atop a building. Or was it a cliff? you cared less since the sleep was already starting to get to you, and you really needed a nap. Balde turned back to report to you that the work is over, only to find your legs crossed and leaning on your weapon for support as you slept on it. He has seen this many a times before.

"[name], dear, please get up there's a lot of things that we need to do. Your sleep can wait." However, his words were futile since you only just replied with a "hmm". He wad having none of it. Like his usual routine, he princess carried you on his arms and trodded his way towards the designated location. You cracked a soft smile on your lips. You had to admit that this was primarily the reason you would fall asleep at odd places and at odd times. He knew of this but indulged you often to let you feel his strong bulky arms under your shoulder and let you snuggle yourself to his chest. "You're a sly one aren't you?"

CAELUS —

What time is it? Perhaps 6 in the morning. It's hard to tell the time because of how dark the underworld in Belobog is. His hair was deshelved, and clothes were wrinkled. He came from the showering after freshening up. Even after 2 hours, you were still asleep. He slowly creeped into bed and tackled you. You were jolted awake by him smothering kisses all over your face and neck.

"Oh aeons! Babe that's!" but to no avail could you get enough word out. He held you close to him not letting you escape, "isn't it about time you get up from the bed hm ?" His words and actions didn't match. He had you trapped between his strong pair of arms all while snuggling beside your neck. You huffed and said "fine fine! just give me 5 more minutes. Y'know I keep my word..." by this time yours words were quite slurred, a clear sign of the imminent arrival of sleep. He sighed, "what am I supposed to do with a sleeping beauty as my partner?" and looked at you fondly for a while.

[levemetal]

Hi hello, I rushed this and I cannot be arsed to properly render this. I have other things to draw, many of them. But also. I really put too much effort into the flat of this that I kinda burned myself out LMAO

ANYWAY CALAMITY/GHOST KING SHEN JIU DESIGN. Take it, cherish him like I would. I wanted to dress him up like the pretty princess he is <3 Plus, ghost kings a la tgcf gotta slay in all categories so here we go. I'll ramble more about the more coherent thoughts I have but you can tear ghost king SJ from my cold dead hands. ٩( ᐛ )و

His motivations more becoming a ghost king/calamity are fairly straightforward if you're familiar with Shen Jiu and all the funky workings of his mind. It is to be stronger than everybody else and attaining a place that cannot be taken from him cause he has the power for it. So that no one else can have any power over him either.

However this also means that he does not necessarily have any grand plans of what to do with that power. I imagine he'd be a recluse, living off and alone somewhere hardly getting involved in the affairs of the living and gods etc.

If he does, I imagine it might more be in the style of killing slavers and otherwise bad men. Maybe a sort of brothel workers protector, getting rid of the most problematic and horrible clients? Let your imagination wander!

For a title? I have no clue man, I am not good enough at words for this. Something with green or teal as the color and leaves. That's how far I got.

Now the juicy stuff, POWERS. Leaves. Leaves and fans is the tldr version. I imagine he'd use the qi-infused leaves as in canon, just far more deadlier (probably) and conjured rather than just reliant on leaves off trees in the vicinity. For a weapon, if available (read: SY is not possessing SJ's OG body, or Xiu Ya was not obtained) I think he should get to keep Xiu Ya, or otherwise a blood weapon shaped after it. Tho if I had to give him a blood weapon a la Hua Cheng's E'ming, it would be a fan. The blades on it would likely be shift on, both an edge to cut with and places for darts to fly out. Otherwise in terms of weapons I could see daggers very well too for SJ. They'd suit him, as he could get in and get a quick stab or just throw them from afar. With his fighting style that likely has a lot of the ruthless tactics of his youth incorporated, I think it would fit just like a battle fan.

Otherwise, I do see him being a capable shapeshifter, or some sort of abilities to stay in the shadows undetected. If he needs some sort of animal or communication/surveillance skill associated with him, I personally would pick ravens. Spiritually created ravens as a sort of spying network and surveillance method.

Another juicy detail could be cultivation method. Tgcf does mention that the ghosts still have their own form of cultivating their power. For example, He Xuan eats and absorbs the abilities of other ghosts, whereas Hua Cheng is mentioned to cultivate via slaughtering. The xianxia in tgcf is rather vague now that I have a few more danmei under my belt, and specifically Devil Venerable also wants to know has given me a looot of thoughts about some interesting ways to detail this if it is so desired for a setting. Do please keep in mind tho I haven't really researched cultivation and the wuxia/xianxia 101 worldbuilding yet so this may not make sense. Anywho:

For Shen Jiu in particular I'd find it interesting to give him his own form rather than just copying either Hua Cheng (most fitting imo) or He Xuan (bonus eating disorder included, hooray!). So here are some ideas I had in no particular order:

- Take the core melting aspect from mdzs and applying it to ghosts (sorta): dissolving and absorbing the cores/qi of cultivators and ghosts alike, thus claiming the power for his own.

- Blood. Think less vampire and more slaughter. The messier the kill essentially, bleed the victims dry and absorb the blood to transform it into qi. (Thank you returning Dragon Age brainrot)

- dvawtk's Path of Slaughter. It doesn't really fit SJ as it relies on constantly finding stronger opponents to fight and challenge, especially ones stronger than oneself and persevering against the odds. Not his personal choice but it would poetically fit him and his entire life pretty well.

That's all for now. If you made it till here.... have a gold star: ⭐️

[ruinandrue]

Introducing Inkwarren: A dark fantasy TTRPG of woodland adventures!

Hi all! I'm Matt, and I am an Atlanta-based indie ttrpg designer currently developing Inkwarren, a dark woodland fantasy TTRPG of swashbuckling tactics and storybook intrigue. Today, I'm going to talk to you about what Inkwarren is, what inspired it, and the design goals I have for the game. Inkwarren is already in preliminary playtests, and I hope to have public playtests sometime in the near future.

What is Inkwarren?

In Inkwarren, players take on the role of woodlanders- animal wanderers of the massive Woodland, who use magick, wits, and weapons to take down foes supernatural and mundane. Your woodlanders' wandering band may be a band of mercenary adventurers, a band of high-spirited rebels, or even a band of scoundrels and ne'er-do-wells just looking for their next score.

One player takes on the role of the Voice in the Dark, a guiding force behind the story that presents challenges, describes consequences, and narrates the actions of the woodlander's foes.

Inkwarren aims to merge modern-style deep narrative rules with exciting, flashy, swashbuckling battles that emphasizes teamwork, movement, and positioning. Character creation is a deep and choice-driven process, that fully contextualizes a woodlander within the world and sets them on a path to a truly memorable story.

Inspirations

Mechanically, Inkwarren borrows from and is inspired by games like Dungeons and Dragons 4th Edition, Modiphius's Dishonored, ICON, Blades in the Dark, and City of Mist, mixing design trends of modern tactical fantasy games with deep narrative based trends found in other systems. Inkwarren's combat also shares inspiration with the Hades series of games, aiming to emulate the fast-paced action where movement and positioning are just as important as the attacks you use.

Narratively, Inkwarren is inspired by The Secret of NIMH, Dishonored, Redwall, Root, and Hollow Knight. When designing Inkwarren's eponymous setting, I want to evoke the gravitas and melancholy somberness of Hallownest from Hollow Knight, with magic as eldritch and strange as the Outsider's gifts in Dishonored. With this, Inkwarren is still a game about hope, and aims to capture the optimism-despite-adversity and little-heroes-against-great-foes vibes of stories like Redwall or The Secret of NIMH. I have to credit Root for originally giving me the idea to shift my game concept to one where the PCs are little woodland creatures.

Choice, Sacrifice, and Hope

Inkwarren's core mechanic emphasizes choice, intent, and narrative weight. The base 2d10 roll is modified by the woodlander's own Virtues (core strengths like Brawn, Nimbleness, or Insight), combined with a Style to define how they're using that Virtue (such as performing an action Cunningly, Quickly, or Sneakily). Difficulty is measured by Risk and Effect, that assign narrative weight to the severity of consequences a woodlander faces, and how effective they will be if they Prevail.

When woodlanders just don't roll high enough, they don't simply fail- they Falter. Faltering grants Hope, a resource that can be used to Persevere and succeed despite consequences on future challenges. With Hope, failure is never the end- it simply closes one door, and opens another.

Swashbuckling Battles

Inkwarren's Battle system emphasizes movement, positioning, and teamwork. Woodlanders interact with the battlefield through exploits, combat disciplines that have a variety of different effects to use on the field. Exploits have an at-will root effect that can be used as a woodlander's bread and butter, but more powerful effects are always within reach. By using root effects, meeting battle objectives (such as defeating enemies or reaching escape points), and continuing the fight (by ending rounds), woodlanders build Momentum, a shared resource pool by the entire band that can be used to power a woodlander's most powerful abilities. Woodlanders can spend Momentum to use an exploit's powerful bloom effect, or power a duo effect that they can use to combine their abilities with those of another ally. Momentum doesn't deplete until the Battle is over-- use it for quick bursts, or build up to unleash more powerful attacks against your foes!

Other rulesets like charging attacks, staggering mechanics for bosses, climbing on top of larger foes, environments, high ground, and ally turns (that don't clog up combat) also add gravitas, pace, and exciting tactical decisions to make Inkwarren's Battles so engaging.

Sweeping Narrative

Inkwarren's narrative mechanics work to ensure that solving problems outside of Battle carry just as much weight as Battle itself. Inkwarren's narrative ruleset includes:

The Doubt system allows woodlanders to call upon the Voice in the Dark for aid, but at a cost: as the woodlanders build Doubt, the Voice can spend it to increase the danger of the surroundings, unlock new abilities for foes, or act as a mastermind behind the antagonistic forces of the narrative.

Narrative abilities called flourishes that woodlanders can use to interact with the world.

A special character-based tour de force that a woodlander may use to do something truly legendary, although infrequently.

Rest Activities woodlanders may use to Cook Meals, Spar, Entertain, or Pray to give themselves bonuses and restorations for use later.

Wounds to carry over how trials in-combat affect a woodlander after the Battle ends.

Rules for Tongues that establish a woodlander's knowledge of a language with several levels of fluency.

Ties, which are narrative bonds with NPCs woodlanders may use to increase their effect against them, or burn them to ask for a favor.

And So Much More!

Deep character customization for woodlanders, including a Coat mechanic that allows you to play as any little animal your heart desires, unique and evocative traditions like the ghostly historian Folklorist or the passionate Warrior-Poet, rules for mysterious and magical artifacts called esoterica, an in-depth crafting system, and more!

If you've gotten this far, thanks for reading! I'm so excited about this game, and I hope to share more with everyone soon!

Tìoraidh!

[milksnake-tea]

hello my favorite star rail writer i am back bc i saw you reached 1k followers (CONGRATS BTW I DIDNT SEE EARLIER BC I STARTED CLASSES) and im a sucker for mutual pining its sickening to see two ppl so in love and blade, so blade + fluff prompt 10 would be amazing :D

extra points if mc isnt a fellow stellaron hunter, like in my head reader is sighing dreamily while march 7th is all "thats a wanted criminal"

❀ ˎˊ- prompts: You two have been pining over each other for God knows how long, and your friends are sick of it. ❀ ˎˊ- 1k followers event ❀ ˎˊ- character: blade ❀ ˎˊ- warnings: none! just fluff :D ❀ ˎˊ- a/n: IM SORRY THE LAST PART MADE ME LAUGH SO BAD GOODBYE I LOVE THAT !!! also..... IT GOT KINDA CRACK IM SORRY GOODBYE IT'S LESS PINING MORE DAN HENG BEING DISAPPOINTED IN YOU

It wasn't often that Blade strayed outside the mission.

Just as the sword he wielded, Blade cut through his missions with precise cuts, following Elio's script like law. While Kafka and Silver Wolf would take liberties with their scripts, going off to shop or to fight, Blade stayed at his designated spot, staring blankly at the clock until he was called upon once more. He never did more, never did less.

So to see him gazing off into the distance, a hint of a smile on his face, was definitely out of the ordinary.

"What's on your mind, Bladie?" Kafka asked, her pupil-less eyes peering at her partner from behind her drink. "It's rare to see you so... restless. Has the mara been bothering you?"

Blade shook his head, a disgruntled sigh escaping him. His gaze reached past Kafka, focusing on the silhouette of your person as you chatted away with Dan Heng.

Kafka hummed, tilting her head as she played with her straw, mindlessly stirring her beverage. "Hm... Then is it them?"

Blade's fingers stilled. Kafka smiled, knowing she had hit the spot.

"So it is," she mused, stifling a giggle as Blade shot her an annoyed look.

"They're talking to him," Blade muttered, laying his hand flat against the table. Surprisingly, the mara did not strike, nor did Blade become irritated. His voice was gentle, soft like the breeze.

"Indeed they are," Kafka took a sip, licking her lips at the burn of alcohol. "Do you wish that was you, Bladie?"

Her teasing wasn't lost on the man, but he didn't bother with a reply.

"No," Blade murmured, resting his head in the palm of his hand. The artificial sunlight of the Xianzhou bathed you in a heavenly glow, your carefree laughter a sweet symphony. "I wouldn't dare disturb such beauty."

And yet, it seemed as though fate had glanced his way, just as you had. Your eyes met with his, and you smiled, waving at him. Blade's heart thudded in his chest, and for a moment, life returned to him.

His hand twitched, wanting to return your greetings, but the rough drag of his bandages stopped him. Blade averted his gaze, hiding his slowly flushing skin behind his palm.

Kafka snickered at his predicament, quickly snapping a photo of his flustered state and sending it to the other Stellaron Hunters. Instantaneously, Silver Wolf sent back a vomiting emoji, while Sam excitedly congratulated Blade on his newfound emotions. Elio didn't reply, he never does.

"Aren't you adorable," she cooed, turning her phone off and tucking it away. "You know, I doubt they'll mind if you just walked up to them."

Yes, you certainly wouldn't mind. However, your very disturbed friends would.

"What are you doing?" Dan Heng hissed as you waved to the Hunter, grabbing your wrist and snatching it down. "You know how dangerous that man is."

"But isn't he so cute?" you chuckled, the tips of your ears flushed. "Besides, he hasn't done anything to hurt me yet."

"Yet being the operative word," Dan Heng sighed in exasperation. "I hope you didn't forget how he threw a sword through me."

"I try not to think about it." You stretched back your arms. "Don't get your tail in a twist, Dan Heng. I'm just being friendly."

"That's not what your face says," Dan Heng commented, poking your cheek. "I can still see you mooning over him."

"I am not- mooning over him!" you objected, swatting his finger away. "I was just... thinking."

"Of course you are. Thinking of the man who stabbed me, that is."

"And he looked good doing it- Dan Heng!" you yelped as Dan Heng elbowed you. Your friend only crossed his arms, raising a brow at you as you glared at him. "Alright, alright, fine. I just- I know I shouldn't like him, but..."

"There's a but in this?"

"His arms are really toned, okay? Have you seen his muscles?"

Dan Heng gagged, pretending to throw up over the railing. "Far closer than I'd like to admit- Point being, he's a wanted criminal."

You stared blankly at him. "So?"

Dan Heng stared back. "What do you mean, 'so'?"

"I can fix him."

The only words you could use to describe Dan Heng's face was pure disappointment. Swiftly, he turned on his heel, and promptly walked away from you, quickening his steps as you chased after him.

"Hey! Where're you going so quickly-"

Dan Heng stopped for only a moment, his expression unreadable as he glanced back at you. "I don't talk to people who kiss wanted criminals."

You held up a finger. "To be fair, I haven't kissed him yet-"

"I'm leaving."

reblogs w comments are appreciated !!

[sanguineterrain]

For the drabbles!!

Can you walk? I need you to walk for me! With Dick, if that sounds interesting to you!!

Loved the Drabble you posted, you’re a talented writer!

thanks very much nonnie 🥺❤️ wanted to switch it up and whump dickie boy >:)

"can you walk? i need you to walk." - dick grayson x gn!reader. tw: injured dick, bullet wound, reader tasers a bad guy. dick's not dead i prommy!! Loosely based on the Nightwing 2021 comics.

prompt lists are here! i reblog all fics to @sanguinelibrary

****

You wake up to the beeping of the distress signal. Instantly, you're awake, fumbling for the comm bud to put in your ear.

"—in, do you copy? Nightwing needs help, he's—"

"Where is he, Babs?" you ask, flinging the sheet off of your legs and jumping into your suit.

"Blüdhaven City Hall."

"What the hell? Alone?"

Barbara sighs. "Yes. I didn't know until the mayor texted."

Anger flares. You tamp it down because Barbara hasn't done anything wrong, and it's not fair to snap at her for Dick's stupid choices.

Besides, the anger is only to mask the chilling fear that bubbles up.

You stick to the rooftops like Dick himself had taught you when you were first getting the hang of the vigilante thing. You're more like Barbara in that you prefer to stay on the sidelines and help.

But if Dick is in trouble, you're there.

Your heart pounds; you can barely hear the instructions Barbara's giving you as you approach City Hall.

"Is he conscious?" you ask, interrupting her.

She doesn't answer at first.

"Oracle," you press, gritting your teeth as you descend down the roof access stairs. "Is he awake?"

"I don't know. I lost his comm link."

The fear sharpens. Your heart beats so fast, you're afraid you might collapse.

"He's alive, though. His suit vitals are still elevated."

You run faster, flying down the stairwell. It takes some searching to find Dick since his mask camera is also destroyed, according to Barbara. But you manage to track him down relatively fast.

Dick is bound to a chair, puddles of blood at his feet. You rush over and pull at the knots without thinking, growing frustrated when they don't turn loose.

"Blade on your left side."

You startle hard at Dick's voice. He lifts his head slowly and you stifle a gasp at his face. One of the lenses of his mask is cracked. His cheek is bloody and nearly black with bruises. His suit is torn and dirty.

They'd left him for dead.

"I found him, Babs."

You hear her sigh of relief. She starts to organize your exit route. You're only half listening as you slice through the ropes with the blade you forgot you had in your left pocket.

Dick's arms hang at his sides even after you free them. They'd done a number on him.

He watches you as you free his legs next.

"Suit looks good on you," he says, head lolling. "Peak design, if y'ask me."

"You're so stupid," you say, bowing your head so he can't see the tears that sting your eyes. "This was an idiotic thing you did, Dick."

"Alias names only in the field," he reminds you.

You yank the rope harder than you mean to and free his legs.

Dick has to use his whole body to push himself off of the chair. Even so, he stumbles, and you rush to catch him. Your heart jumps to your throat. Of course he'd hide how bad his injuries are.

"Oracle, call Batman."

"No," Dick grits, shaking his head. "Don't call him."

"You can barely move. I can't carry you myself."

You wish you could. As furious as you are, you'd carry him home.

"Am I calling him?" Barbara asks in your ear.

A door slams somewhere upstairs. Cold sweat erupts all over your body. Dick looks at you, and you know he heard it too.

"Guys, am I calling Batman or not?"

"No, we can do it," you say against your better judgment. "Can you move?"

Dick nods rapidly, though you don't totally believe him. You sling an arm under his arm, then wrap your other arm around his waist. He puts nearly all of his weight on you, though you can tell he's using what little strength he has left to try and shift his weight.

The two of you go like that, Dick half limping. You try not to think about how his blood stains your suit.

You move slowly, which unfortunately means that the goon upstairs catches up to you. He pulls out a gun, and Dick shoves you aside before you can advance. He pays the price for it when the goon shoots his leg.

Dick screams.

Quick as Flash, you grab an escrima stick and charge the taser to two thousand volts. Then you ram it into the goon's gut.

He drops like a sack of potatoes. You don't check if he's breathing.

"We don't kill," Dick says as you return the stick to his back holster.

You harshly cut the goon's shirt with your blade and tourniquet Dick's bullet wound. He hisses in pain.

"I didn't kill him," you snap.

"You could've. What the hell was that?"

"That was me stopping him before he blew your brains out!" you shout. "That was me making sure the commissioner doesn't have to fish your body out of the river!"

Dick's head thumps against the wall. His suit is slick with blood. "That wouldn't have happened."

"You could've died tonight, Dick! Why can't you get that through your head?"

His eyes close for too long on the next blink. You kneel in front of him immediately, shaking his shoulder. He grunts.

"Dick, no. Wake up. Don't do this, you gotta stay awake for me."

"'M awake," he says groggily. "I'm..."

"Oracle," you say, panicked. "Vitals."

"His heart rate is sluggish; he's lost a lot of blood. You have to—"

"Dick," you say, shaking his shoulder again. "Dickie, you gotta get up. Can you walk? I need you to walk for me."

"'Kay," he whispers, barely lifting his arm.

"Okay, I've got you. Ready? One, two—"

You lift him and stagger under his full weight.

"Sorry," he murmurs, and you feel sick.

"It's okay. You don't have to apologize. I shouldn't have yelled, I'm sorry. Stay awake, okay?"

He hums. You manage to establish a decent gait between the two of you. Dick stumbles along, trying his best to walk independently.

You're almost out of City Hall when Dick collapses. This time, he doesn't get up.

"No, no. Wake up, Dick, wake up. Come on, come on!"

You shake him as hard as you'll let yourself. Dick doesn't stir.

"There's so much blood," you say, your hands sticky with it. "B-Babs..."

"I'm sending help right now. B's on his way, okay?" She sounds just as wrecked as you feel. "Just hold on."

You cradle Dick's head and suck in gasping breaths, keeping pressure on his thigh.

That's how Batman finds you, shaking and hunched over his son.

[daughterofyore]

{{Drabble}} George and his anxiety.

wc;; 661

summary;; George has anxiety about an upcoming speech and you calm him down.

contents;; fluff, sweet nothings, loving caresses, stressed George and signs of mania.

a/n;; although I do write smut mainly I wanted to start filling up my repertoire of work. So, I decided to add in a very small lil drabble for ‘just George’. :)

!!W!!;; none really, signs of his mania? (Shaking hand) and anxiety.

George, sweet loveable George. He sat in the upholstered leather chair at the large mahogany desk in his study, his thumb and index finger pinching the bridge of his nose. He didn’t raise his eyes to meet yours, he didn’t even glance up as you walked into the study. Your dress hissed along the ground, it’s brilliant floral design cascading down the sides, bedecked with jewels and your hair in a very fashionable up-do. A very classic Georgian era outfit.

You approached his desk, placing a gentle hand on his back between his shoulder blades. “What troubles you dearest?” You question him softly, beginning to rub small circles on his back. He looked up at you, brows scrunched together and eyes glassy. Had he been crying?

“I am… frustrated my dear.” He slapped a hand on top of papers, a quill lay discarded to the right. Ink leaked along the table, threatening to spill off the edge and onto the expensive carpets below. “I have to ready a speech for government. Make my presence known and make sure they remember me.” He scoffed incredulously, shaking his head as if it was hard to believe. “Yet, my nerves will not settle. I am beginning to panic and-“ you noticed his hand began to shake, the tell tale sign of an episode threatening to take hold of him. You squatted down at his side, gently placing a hand on his knee, demanding his unwavering attention.

“My love, I will help you be the best you can be. I know you will do excellently for there is nothing you can’t do.” A small smile tugs at your lips and his quiver in response, fighting back a wave of emotions. “You will be amazing, an excellent king and a wonderful speaker. You need not worry about how they perceive you. You are George, King of the United Kingdom’s.” You stood, taking his face in your hands. Cupping his cheeks and whispering, “And you are my husband.” His shoulders slumped and he stood, now towering over you. He held your gaze, smiling.

“My beautiful wife.” He brushed his fingers along your cheek, they no longer shook. “What would I ever do without you?” His voice broke a bit, but he held firm in not allowing tears to fall. You reached up and squeezed his hand.

“I’m sure you would be fine, I am merely a help.” He shook his head, making a disgusted face.

“You are absolutely not! Yes, you may help me but you are so much more. You are my wife, my love, the mother of my children you-“ He sighed, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you to be flush with his front. “You are everything and more. Venus could not compare to your divinity.” You hid your face in his chest, trying to conceal the blush creeping along your face.

“Come darling, let’s go and get some tea to settle ourselves.” You spoke into his chest and he chuckled at your shyness, tenderly grasping your shoulders and pushing you back so that he may see you.

“I love it when you blush. You look so cute.” He smirked, pressing a kiss to your forehead and taking your hand in his. He began to walk towards the parlour. He told Reynolds to bring you tea and confectioneries, once he had vanished down the hall and around a corner George spun to you and scooped you into his arms. He began to rush down the hall, eliciting screams and giggles of joy from you.

He pushed the door open with his foot and lay back on a chaise longue, placing you on top of him. He began to trace lazy circles over your stomach once you were both settled. His other hand playing with your fingers. Before the servants knocked on the door with the tea he whispered into your ear, his breath hot and titillating.

“I love you, my beautiful wife.”