#i feel like this second (third) reading is stirring up some questions

[starmocha]

Oh, I'm still doing the recaps. At the very least for my own benefits in case I want to quickly reference something.

[Love and Deepspace masterpost ��� Beyond Cloudfall masterpost]

SPOILERS FOR SYLUS' MYTH - BEYOND CLOUDFALL, CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 2

MC and the dragon arrive in Ivory City. When they enter the Sanctuary, many of the followers scatter the moment they see MC, who is supposed to have been dead at this point.

Seeing where MC grew up in, the dragon quips:

Growing up in a cage like this... No wonder your soul is so dull.

MC grapples internally with herself. On the one hand, she wants vengeance against the Judicator's Oracle who judged her and ordered her execution. On the other hand, she also needs to focus on staying alive.

She suspects news of the Fiend's appearance in the Sanctuary must be spreading like wildfire in the city, and once the Legion of Justitia arrives to handle the dragon, she plans on slipping away in the chaos.

She starts to talk to the dragon, mentioning how her revenge will have to wait as the Judicator's Oracle who judged her isn't around, but she stops abruptly when she notices the dragon appears disinterested in her plan for vengeance.

The dragon notices a mural on the ceiling and questions MC about it. The mural, titled The Fiend-Slaying God, depicts a scene of "a god-like figure in a bright red cloak, wielding a long sword as he executes an evil dragon."

MC explains that this god-like figure is supposed to represent the Sacred Judicator, and the evil dragon is, in her words, "Ahem, that's probably you."

MC is puzzled that the dragon keeps staring at the mural.

The dragon doesn't deign her a response. Instead, he looks at the text beneath the mural and comments that it's been exactly 1,677 years since he was sealed away.

MC is puzzled that he can read the text. The dragon questions her, and she explains that the text is written in an ancient language that's been lost to time. Now, nobody can read it anymore. She asks him about the text.

"The Fiend is the very essence of malice and greed, skilled at twisting human desires. He drives mortals to turn against each other, leading them to their own demise. Given time, the world will be swallowed by chaos and descend into ruination. The Fiend's arrival marks the onset of Doomsday. During the Battle of Tarus, the Sacred Judicator, with a will of iron, stood firm against the corruption of evil. In a war so fierce, he emerged as the sole, honorable survivor." He sealed away the Fiend, the very harbinger of Doomsday, deep within the planet's chasm. With the curse of Doomsday lifted, hope was restored to Philos.

MC mentions that she has heard the Fiend has a destined archnemesis. She assumes it is the Sacred Judicator.

Dragon: What a lofty title. MC: Yeah, this story sounds pretty fake to me too.

MC attempts to stall for time until the Legion of Justitia arrives so she can escape while they deal with the dragon. She shifts the conversation and starts to talk about the dragon's archnemesis, assuming it is the Sacred Judicator.

Just as MC is about speak, a Justitia arrow, "forged from golden ore and crackling with electricity" flies through, but one simple motion from the Fiend has the arrow disintegrating into particles immediately.

The Sanctuary is suddenly engulfed in a dazzling light that blinds everyone. MC uses this opportunity to escape, but the Fiend calmly comments, "How impudent." With a snap of his fingers, MC is immobilized, feeling a sharp pain from deep within her chest. Her body moves on its own, forcing her to turn back around again, and she witnesses a gruesome scene.

The guards are slaughtering one another, blood splatters the wall, and the candelabras toppled, setting the drapes ablaze. The once pristine white Sanctuary now resembles a haunting purgatory.

The dragon beckons her to him with one firm command, "Come."

She realizes it is his right eye that is manipulating everything.

The dragon is aware of her plan to kill him, but he scoffs at her pitiful attempt.

Once again, a golden light mixed with black mist is painfully pulled from her body. In the midst of her agony, the voice returns, desiring the dragon's eye.

MC attempts to persuade the dragon to spare her.

Wait! You can kill me whenever you like. But if you spare me, I can help you achieve more! And— I want to live and I want your eye. It's like how you want my soul. Is there a problem with that? It's just too bad that I'm not as strong as you.

He humors her, asking for an example of how she could help him "achieve more."

She thinks on the spot, scrambling in her mind for anything that would appeal to a dragon.

I... can help you amass a large amount of wealth and collect a lot of souls—whatever you need, I can get it for you.

Without a word, the dragon whisks her away, taking flight and soaring in the sky. With another snap of his fingers, he manipulates the energy of the flames. The Sanctuary, set ablaze and crumbling, falls to ruin.

The dragon remarks calmly:

For something as tedious as revenge, this will suffice. No need for a spectacle.

As the sun sets, the Fiend flies away with MC in his arms, arriving at a lair perched atop a cliff just as nightfall descends.

MC: ...Is this your home? Dragon: Have you ever met a fiend with a home?

After looking around, MC realizes she can't return to Ivory City. She accepts that the dragon's lair will be her home for the time being.

She returns and converses with the dragon.

MC: I suppose... You won't be eating my soul for now? Dragon: Assuming that was still the case, why would I even bring you back here? Stay put. MC: If I'm going to live here, my living quarters should at least be decent. Your cave is too... basic. What do you think?

The dragon allows her to choose from his treasures. She appears to be shocked by the vast quantity.

The dragon motions for MC to explore his treasures. The lair's been unattended for a long time, being covered in cobwebs and rotting wood.

She finds the different weapons "brought" to the dragon.

MC: I never expected your collection would be all weapons. Do dragons have hobbies too? Dragon: Your kind brought them here willingly. MC: I imagine they weren't... particularly polite about it. Dragon: Indeed. It's a shame those who brought them to me are all dead, and I'm still alive. MC: So, the sword that sealed you away... Was it really "given" to you by the Sacred Judicator in the mural? Dragon: He was just lucky to get his hands on it and fortunate enough to drive it into my chest. But only its true master can wield its power.

MC recalls the sword is now inside her. She wonders if she is its "true master." She attempts to summon it, but nothing happens.

She continues to explore the dragon's lair and discovers other treasures, such as fine clothes, paintings, and musical instruments.

She stares, apparently with desire. The dragon encourages her.

As MC holds a gem, the dragon's tail coils around her, tightening. He laughs as she struggles.

MC: ...No wonder you spared me. You want to fatten me up before going in for the kill. Dragon: Even so, you still cling to that gem despite being so close to Death's sweet embrace. You truly are a source of entertainment. MC: Enjoy my company while you can. I might bring you a deadlier experience next time.

KEY TAKEAWAYS:

According to the legend in Ivory City, the dragon, proclaimed to bring about Philo's end, was sealed in the Abyss beneath the fiend-infested Tarus City by the Legion of Justitia.

The leader who drove his sword into the dragon's heart was revered as the "Sacred Judicator." He was glorified through monuments erected in his honor, and his followers built a grand Sanctuary in his name after his death.

The Sanctuary annually takes in some of the city's orphans in the Sacred Judicator's name. When the orphans come of age, a Judicator's Oracle will take them away to join the Legion of Justitia.

MC is implied to have been an orphan who grew up in the Sanctuary. However, instead of joining the Legion of Justitia, the Judicator's Oracle had MC thrown into the Abyss.

The dragon has been sealed away for exactly 1,677 years.

It's mentioned that the Fiend has a destined archnemesis, the sole person who can slay him.

The dragon reveals that although the Sacred Judicator had obtained the sword that should kill the Fiend, he was not the true master of the sword. Unable to fully wield the sword's power, he wasn't able to slay the dragon.

The greatsword now rests inside MC. She wonders if she is its true master then.

While all thoughts and opinions expressed in this post are my own interpretation of the reading, I actively encourage others to share their own view and offer their own perspective.

[chaussetteblanche]

and they were roommates

pairing : Spencer Reid x fem!student!roommate!reader summary : you are Spencer Reid's roommate, the team finds out about you when a case brings them to the university you study at word count : 2.5k warning : canon-typical violence A/N : the university is a random one I picked in Virginia, bear with me because I don't know how US university systems work, thanks :) I think this is a part one, there may be a part two or even more, idk, but tell me what you think !

part 2, part 3, part 4

"I- I'm sorry, what university did you say?" Spencer's frantic tone was immediately noticed by his colleagues. Suddenly, he seemed hyperaware of everything in the room. The loud AC, Derek's pen-clicking and the overwhelming smell of Emily's coffee. "Mary Washington University," JJ answered swiftly, eyes narrowed as she sent Reid a confused glance. The man in question mumbled a few words under his breath and shot up, grabbing his coat and scarf. "We need to go." His tone, unusually urgent, left no space for debate or questioning. He was out the door within seconds, followed closely by Morgan and the others.

When you'd applied for Mary Washington University, you had known you would have to get an apartment. You lived too far away to even consider taking the numerous trains and buses and subways to get there. So, when you had been accepted into your first choice of universities, you'd started apartment hunting. Or roommate-hunting, to be more precise.

To say you had been unlucky would have been quite the understatement. You'd visited four apartments so far and could not even consider living in one of them for a second. The first had been full of frat boys who made your skin crawl, the second was with an old, far right-wing couple, the third had been two sisters who'd yelled at each other for the whole time you were there and the fourth had been so crowded your were certain it was neither sanitary not legal for another person to live there. With the deadline of university starting and having to move all your things, you were starting to get quite anxious. But call it chance or fate, one day you stumbled upon an advertisement for an apartment in a nice neighbourhood with one person who seemed quite normal. This person was a state-employee (which meant a stable salary and that meant you wouldn't have to compensate for rent) who travelled often for work and liked to keep mostly to themselves. Not one for big parties, they preferred a night-in and rarely had people over.

So you'd put on your big-girl pants and had walked over to what you hoped would be your last apartment visit. You hadn't been expecting such a young person to open the door because of the way the advert had been written and because of what it said. "Hi, I'm Dr. Spencer Reid." You noticed he didn't hold his hand out and mirrored his behaviour. "Hi! I'm here for a visit!" You introduced yourself somewhat shyly, feeling intimidated. This man was at the most five years older than you and he was already a doctor?

He showed you around the apartment, which you liked very much. The rooms smelled like books and tea and everything was kept very clean. On the whole, it was tidy, even if a few books or articles were stacked in some odd places. The bedroom you'd stay in was large and luminous. After the tour, he made you a cup of tea as you discussed formalities.

"Uh, so, you’re a student, right?" he'd asked politely as he added a worrying amount of sugar in his earl grey. You bit back a teasing jest. You hoped maybe one day you'd get to place where you could comment on his daily sugar intake. "Yeah, um, I'm studying English Literature and Cinema." You stirred your tea, looking around the kitchen. Even though it was painted a dark, forest green, it still seemed luminous in the afternoon sun. "Oh, that's super interesting! I’ve always found texts in Middle English particularly insightful! I- I read the Canterbury Tales when I was about 10 years old. It’s fascinating the way in which issues which were already current then are still very present today, like in the Wife of Bath’s tale, for example-“

He cut himself off, leaning back into the couch. He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks dusted pink. “Sorry, you probably don’t want me to ramble about what you already know.” “No, I think it’s amazing that you would know that, actually. What else did you like in the Wife of Bath’s tale?” Spencer seemed to brighten up at your words and thus ensued a lengthy discussion of the avant-garde themes evoked by Geoffrey Chaucer. You were fascinated by his knowledge and found his passion especially endearing. Lots of your professors weren’t even that passionate when talking of late 14th century literature.

After discussing rent, which you would afford by waitressing at a local bar, lightly touching upon political subjects (on which you seemed to agree on), he finally told you that he was an FBI agent. "Excuse me?" you spluttered, leaning backwards in shock. "I'm a profiler with the BAU, the Behavioural Analysis Unit. I can show you my badge if you want." He stood up and reached for his bag, but you stopped him in his tracks. "No, no, that's okay, I believe you. I'm just surprised, that's all, sorry." His expansive knowledge of so many things seemed fitting for an agent of the BAU. After realising you were the first person who didn't demand his badge as proof of his profession, Spencer granted you a small smile. "You don't need to apologise. I- I know it can be a bit... off-putting." He sat back down and looked you in the eye. "Is that a problem for you, living with a federal agent?"

You thought about it for a second. As a general rule, you weren't a big fan of cops. Even more generally, you didn't believe in the structure of today's society. But that was a big topic. Plus, a profiler wasn't really a cop, was he? "No, that's not a problem for me."

You'd moved in a month and a half later. Things had been slightly awkward at first and you'd had to figure out what kind of dynamic Spencer and you had. But eventually, you’d found your rhythm.

When Spencer left for work, you took care of his plants and sent him pictures of Geoffrey. Geoffrey was the cat you’d found on the street and taken in. He was named after Geoffrey Chaucer, author of the Canterbury Tales, your first common point of interest. Spencer had been reluctant at first, but you’d taken him to the vet, where he was tested and vaccinated, and the man had finally accepted him into your shared space. Now, he loved the little creature. Sometimes, you’d call him to ask how he was doing and whether he was safe. He’d always reply that yes, he was doing fine and no, he wasn’t in any danger, don’t you worry. He’d ask how you were doing and if you were staying on top of uni work and if you’d eaten and if Geoffrey wasn't being too annoying. As an orange cat, he had his particular tendencies.

When Spencer was at home, you'd always look forward to getting back from class. There was always that sense of comfort and ease when he was around. You had found a lovely routine quite easily. You'd both work or study, then cook, eat together and afterwards maybe you'd watch a movie or something. You were at a point where you could comment on his daily sugar intake, which he's started correcting since meeting you. He loved the Big Bang Theory and though you weren't such a fan, you loved the little laughs he let out and all the corrections he'd make. In general, you liked when he talked. Even more generally, you liked him. You also liked Friends and though Ross got on Spencer's nerves, he enjoyed being able to discuss it with you afterwards. The two of you got very close without even noticing.

Sometimes, you'd remember he wasn't just your roommate, but also a man. He'd make you a cup of tea and you'd stare at his hands a little too long while he stirred the honey in. Or he'd help you reach for a cup with his impressive height, his front just skimming your back with a shiver. He'd tell you to breathe and sit down when you were upset about something. A few times, he drove you home from a night out with your friends and laid his hand on your knee. He was the only one who remembered how you'd told him you wanted to kiss him.

With you, Spencer discovered many things he had never experienced before. A healthy, comforting and peaceful routine. A supporting, non-judgemental, healthy friendship. Easy laughter in the middle of the night and tired "good morning"s at dawn. Butterflies in his stomach whenever you touched him. A budding romance which kept him awake at night.

So when that was threatened, he just about lost it.

"Oh my God." "I can't believe this." "Is this a prank?" "Did someone call 911?" "What about her parents?" "Oh, that's sick."

Voices swarmed around your head, making you dizzy. Your hand rested over your mouth as you stared at the body strewn on the lawn. Much of the student body stood next to you, just as shocked. Mary Goldman had been her name. You'd crossed her just this morning in the main hall and had exchanged small smiles. You had thought that she looked really pretty today, but hadn't told her. You regretted that now. At the moment, her mascara had run down her cheeks and dried and her lipstick and been smudged. Bruises and cuts decorated her bare arms and legs and a big red stain sat on the side of her stomach. The contrast between her dead body and the green, thriving grass beneath her was haunting.

You turned away, feeling sick. You felt your friend's hand on your shoulder, a small source of comfort anchoring you to reality. Facing the road as you turned, you were surprised to see three big black SUVs speeding towards the crowd. You'd been expecting an ambulance, or cops. Not whoever these guys were. They screeched to a stop, drawing everyone's attention. A small dozen of people stormed out, all dressed differently though they all held the same aura of importance, knowledge and authority. You turned back to your friends. "Who are these-"

You stopped mid-sentence when you heard your name being called out urgently. You'd have recognised his voice amidst a thousand others. He spoke your name like no other. You frantically looked around, pushing your way to the large vehicles. When you finally spotted him, tears started pricking your eyes. "Spencer," you breathed in a half-sob. His eyes ran you over once, twice, assessing any damage. When he saw there was no physical wound, his shoulders sank in relief. He opened his arms and you rushed inside his warm embrace almost reflexively. Neither of you noticed the numerous pair of curious eyes observing your intimate exchange.

"Oh my God, Spence- What- What are you doing here?" you'd cried into his cardigan. You buried your face into his neck, inhaling the comforting scent he always bore. He wrapped an arm around your waist and another around your shoulders, holding the back of your head in a consoling manner. "We're- We're taking this on as a case, sweets. Are you all right?" He knew it was a stupid question but all the emotions and tension were barely wearing off and he didn't know what else to say. You pulled away but he kept you at arm's length, holding your cold, shaking hands in his warm, steady ones. "I- Yeah, it's just- I- I saw her this morning! How could she- Why would someone do this to her? To- to anyone?!" Spencer cooed and pulled you into another tight hug as you continued to ramble through your tears. When you'd eventually calmed down thanks to his words of reassurance, he pulled away softly.

Spencer understood what you meant perhaps more than anyone. The sadness, the shock, the anger, the need to understand. He gently wiped away the mascara under your eyes with his thumb. "I know, I- It's- Even I don't always understand, sweetheart, so don't- Why don't you go home? I'd come with you but-" You nodded, biting your lower lip. He gave you a sad smile. "I promise I'll join you as soon as this is over. You- you can make yourself a cup of tea and process all this and pet Geoffrey, okay? Classes are going to be cancelled either way." "I don't want to-" The look in his eyes kept you from arguing further. You nodded, giving him another hug. Before you left, an older man came over to you.

"I'm sorry to bother you, miss. I'm Agent David Rossi. I just had a question-" "Rossi," interrupted Spencer with a stern tone you'd never heard before. The older Agent raised an eyebrow at him. "Just one question." He turned back to you. "At what time did you say you saw the victim?" You inhaled shakily, running a hand over your face. "Uh, it must have been around quarter to eleven. I think- Yeah, somewhere between ten thirty and eleven." "Thank you, miss." You didn't miss the glance shared between the two men before Rossi retreated.

"Who was that?" asked Emily as soon as you'd left and Spencer had joined them behind the police tape. "No one," Spencer brushed her off as he kneeled next to the victim. Strangely, he hated the idea of someone who knew you dying. It felt too close to home. "C'mon, man, you lost your shit this morning, a girl you clearly know very well runs into your arms, you snap at Rossi and you expect us to believe you?" Derek raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. Spencer sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before looking up at the rest of the team. All were staring at him patiently. He stood up, swallowing.

"That was my roommate." He informed the team of your name and of how you'd been living together for a few years now. "Spencer, you've been living with a woman for years and you've never told us?!" Derek was all but hysteric. Hotch reminded him that everyone was entitled to a private life. "So, are you dating or something?" Emily prodded again. Spencer hesitated a second before answering. "No." Derek scoffed, appalled. "You mean to tell me you've been living with a beautiful woman like that for years and nothing's ever happened?!" "Not everyone is like you, Morgan," Emily reminded with a teasing smirk. Derek sent her an unimpressed look. "Look, let's all grill Spencer later, we have a case to focus on right now." Rossi, ever the voice of reason, directed everyone's attention back to the corpse laying next to them.

Needless to say, the BAU team did not need to interrogate Spencer or attack him with incessant questions to find much out. They'd seen by his behaviour that very morning how much he cared about you. They'd seen how relieved he had been when he'd seen you safe and sound. They'd noticed you'd only started crying when you'd seen him, a big sign of trust. They had never heard him call another by pet names such as "sweets" or "sweetheart". They'd read both of your body languages like a children's book and translated it easily.

Love. Comfort. Peace. Ease.

[leighsartworks216]

Yeah, 'Cause Maybe Then You'd Want Me Just As Much

Sylus x Mephisto!Reader

In the actual Nightplumes memory, Mephisto actually gets along with the dove but um fuck that, we want it to hurt. Also wanna say the "I'm busy right now" line is from the actual game, which inspired this tbh

Title from "Girl Crush" by Little Big Town

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, jealousy, self-esteem issues, self-worth issues, body dysphoria, shapeshifting, biting, fear of water, storms, pet names, crying, possibly ooc

Word Count: 3,699

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Ugh, doves. They think they're sooo perfect just because they're so round and cute and everyone loves them. Those pathetic little coos. A bird should make real noise, not just those dumb sounds.

So why is Sylus - a man whom you were led to believe had good tastes in avian creatures - giving it so much attention?

You bite his earlobe. His head jerks away on reflex, a soft hiss escaping through his teeth. "Behave," he chides. Doesn't even look at you.

You glare down at the pathetic dove again. Somehow it hurt its wing. And for some godforsaken reason Miss Hunter brought it to Sylus to look after. You know for a fact she has a doctor friend, why not foist it on him until she gets back from her trip? Yeah, Sylus is great with animals, but that's beside the point.

You bite his ear again. He sighs. "Do I have to send you on a mission?" You bristle at the question, feathers standing on end. His brow is furrowed as he gets back to examining the dove's wing. It's not even a bad break; it'll recover in no time.

So why can't he spare a second on you?

You try a different approach. With a more delicate touch, you preen the ends of his hair. He still doesn't glance your way. "I'm busy right now. Go entertain yourself for a bit."

Oh...

You step awkwardly on his shoulder, feeling suddenly too out of place there. Your wing almost clips his head as you take off for your perch. Even here, the wood just feels wrong under your feet. Your feathers are ruffled. They can't seem to relax. A chasm opens in your heart. Synthetic as it may be, you can still feel it. Like a black hole, sucking in all the light.

The dove coos. You can't stay in here. You slip out of an open window and fly off. Where to, you have no idea. Anywhere but here.

"Anywhere" lands you outside the window of a fourth floor hotel room. The light is still on, just a small lamp by the bed, but it's enough to see a familiar figure sitting against the headboard reading a mission brief. You tap on the glass.

Miss Hunter looks up with a start. The surprise quickly turns to a frown. She gets up in a huff and jerks the curtains closed.

You can hear a phone ringing inside a second later.

"Sylus! What have I told you about sending your bird to spy on me?!"

The faint crackle of Sylus's voice answers with a sharp scoff. "I haven't told Mephisto to do anything," he retorts.

"Then why is it outside my window right now, huh?!"

"Why don't you ask?" he teases dryly. "Maybe they missed picking fights with you."

"You-!"

"Goodnight, kitten."

The beep of an ended call. You tap on the glass again, softer this time.

Miss Hunter huffs inside. Moments pass, but the curtains remain drawn shut. You can't tell if the lamp has been turned off; you can't even hear her moving around. Maybe she's decided to take the "out of sight, out of mind" approach. Unsurprising, really. If she isn't ignoring you, she's shouting abuse at you.

A large crack of thunder rumbles through your circuits, stirring the air with electricity. You hadn't even noticed the weather - the clouds are dark, covering every sliver of sky for miles.

You tap on the glass more urgently.

The first droplets of rain begin to fall. Slow, random. And then more and more, all at once in a barrage of water. You press yourself tighter to the window and tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap-

The curtains are thrown open. The window lifts from its sill. Before she can angrily ask why you won't leave her alone, you fly in as quick as you can. Just in the nick of time, it seems, as the rain turns into a proper storm, lightning firing through the sky in a burst of light. You tumble onto the end of the bed, feathers ruffled.

She huffs as she slides the window shut, ready to tease you or yell at you, but another loud boom of thunder makes her flinch and close the curtains quickly, words stolen. "Fine! I guess you can... stay the night," she relents. She rounds the bed to sit back down where she was before. She picks up the tablet with her mission data and holds it up, pointing at you accusingly. "And no telling Sylus about anything you see here, got it?"

You caw back at her. You don't wanna tell Sylus anything right now. It might distract him from his sweet, precious dove...

Knees bent, she sets the tablet on her thighs and starts reading again. Rain hits against the window, picked up by a growing wind that slams it into the hotel building. Another shock of thunder. She curls slightly more into herself.

You preen your feathers. Align them all once more, clean them from the long flight here, soothe your nerves. All the while watching Miss Hunter's reactions to the storm. With every boom of thunder, she's startled from her reading. She does well trying to hide it. You can see the twitch in her eyes, the tension in her shoulders and hands as she holds tighter to the tablet, the way her knees pull in slightly more. It doesn't take a genius to see what's happening. The real question is why she's not doing anything to deal with it. Is it because she's trying to play it cool with you around? Not giving anything away so you'd have less to report back with?

You look around the room. It's nothing special. Certainly nothing as luxurious as the suites Sylus stays in. A suitcase is on the floor by the tv stand. A work bag is set on the desk. The perfect amount of stuff for a week-long work trip, you suppose.

You fly over to the desk, nails ticking against the wood.

"Hey, what are you doing?"

You poke your beak into a few of the pockets on the bag.

"Leave that alone! Don't go through my stuff!"

You wonder for a moment how soundproof these walls are, and just how confused someone listening in would be when she's answered by the caw of a crow.

You finally find what you're looking for in a side pocket and pull it out. It doesn't really fit well in your beak, but you make do. She's just tossed her tablet aside to jump up and bolt over to you, but she stops when you fly back over to the bed.

She blinks at you, confused. "What are you...?" You hop across the cheap bedding and hold out the item to her. She hesitantly accepts your offering, and you drop the earphone case in her hand. Understanding dawns on her. "Oh... thanks."

You walk to the other side of the bed, going around the tablet to roost on top of the untouched pillow. It's kinda hard and lumpy, but at least you're not outside. With that much water, you'd certainly shut down. You have no idea how Sylus would retrieve you if you had, way up here. A bitter part of you wonders if he would.

Miss Hunter watches as you tuck your beak under your wing. You don't really sleep during the night, but you'll manage. She slips the earphones in her ears and plays some music on her phone. The storm outside, the faint pulse of music, and her tapping on the tablet are the only sounds.

She opens the window for you in the morning, when the storm has passed. With one last warning not to follow her or report back to Sylus, she heads out for her mission and you take your time flying back home. She asked about the dove only once during your stay. A bandaid around her finger reminds her not to ask again.

-

"What time did you get back, pretty bird?" Sylus crosses the room from the doorway, fully dressed for the night and reaching out to scratch you under your chin.

You scoot away, further down your perch, glaring at the pretty white thing on his shoulder. He doesn't try to reach you. He lets you step away, hand dropping and eyebrow raised. "Are you going to be this feisty all week?"

You caw indignantly. Of course you are! That should be you perched up on his shoulder! You should be the one preening under his attention! Instead, Miss Hunter brings along a new, cute little thing, pestering him to take care of it "for her", and now it's the only bird around here he cares about.

He tsks. "You don't have to be jealous, sweetie. It's only for a week. As soon as she gets back, you'll never have to see it again."

The dove flies down from his shoulder to the perch. Your perch! You caw obscenities as you take its place on Sylus's shoulder - your rightful place. He winces at how loud you are directly in his ear, wings spread to give you a larger appearance as you speak your mind to the little dove that seems to only stare up blankly at you.

He smoothes a hand down your back. For a moment you forget how angry you are with him, too, for indulging Miss Hunter with this stupid task. For pushing you away in favor of caring for the pretty little dove. For not saying more when she called him about you. For just that moment, the firing synapses of your circuitry tingle pleasantly where his fingers brush over your feathers and seeing the dove on your perch becomes bearable as you stand on his shoulder, your favorite perch of all.

"Easy, pretty bird. It knows this is your territory," he assures. "It's still young, that's all."

And then you remember that none of this would be happening if this damn bird wasn't here.

You caw one last time at the dove, nibble harshly at Sylus's ear, and retreat through the living room door. You follow the familiar twists and turns up into the tallest heights of the base, into an alcove full of your treasures and soft bedding. You don't come up here often anymore, but it feels safe. The one spot of the house that really is just yours; no matter what Sylus says, this is his territory, you're just given more allowances than other people. And thanks to the times in the past when the twins would try to toss things up as a competition, tossing pebbles and jewels and even bullets, you have the privilege of pulling shut a little door, fully isolating yourself in your sanctuary.

Small lights turn on at the flip of a switch that makes a pleasant click. They shine and shimmer against your piles of trinkets. Coins, jewels, jewelry, a shell casing or two - all in their respective piles.

You hop over to your nest: the finest twigs woven together into a bowl shape, with strips of soft fabric lining the inside. Laying in it is like resting in cupped hands. You imagine they're Sylus's hands, clean from ever having held any other bird in his lifetime. His thumbs smoothing down your sides until your feathers are fluffed and eyes are relaxed shut. Pressing soft kisses to your head as he talks to you. You want to be cared for like that. Is the dove getting that same attention?

You get up from your nest. You can't think about it. Can't allow yourself to linger on the thought for any longer than you already have. So you sort through your things. You begin dividing them up into new piles with a different organization system. One by one, everything is shifted over. You're not sure how long it takes. You don't care.

But once you've finished, it feels wrong. Settles uneasily in your gut. Everything is out of place, even though it's all organized. Everything isn't where it should be. You spend even longer sorting it all back.

-

You squeeze your eyes shut. Tighten your hands into fists. Dig your nails into your palm as you will your shape to change. Grit your teeth as metal panels try to shift in unusual ways. Synthetic feathers standing up along your head, neck, back and arms, shuttering with the strain.

You release a breath and everything comes back together; metal in place, feathers laying flat, body un-tensed. You pant softly. Inhale deeply, and try again.

It feels wrong. It's like trying to squeeze into a too-small shirt. It won't happen, and the more you try to force it, the more it hurts, the more uncomfortable you are, and the more the fabric strains at the seams.

You gasp deeply. You're lightheaded. You wobble where you sit on the roof, supporting yourself unsteadily against the snow-laden tiles. It takes a minute to pass. Your skin feels misaligned, like a twisted sock. You try to ignore it; it just means you're a little bit closer to succeeding.

"I thought I might find you up here."

You turn away from the voice. From the sound of Sylus's shoes against the roofing. He sits down a few feet away, eyes never giving up their gaze on you. You hate it. For all the time you've known him, his attention on you has never made you uncomfortable or unsettled. Now, you wish he'd just look anywhere else. Go anywhere else.

Secretly, deep down, you're glad he's finally looking at you again.

He tilts his head. Frowns at the strange way your feathers stick up, and the odd shift of the synthetic skin on your back. "The dove is gone," he says.

You nod. "I know."

Quiet.

"Do you want me to apologize?" he asks.

You shrug. "Doesn't matter. It's gone."

"But you're still upset."

You pull your knees to your chest, but you can't pull them up as far as you'd like to. It's like there's too much strain. A rubber band drawn too far out and waiting to snap or break under the tension. You try to ignore it. Play it off. Pretend everything is normal and that this is intentional.

He doesn't buy it for a second. It's the curse of growing up with him. Of being by his side most of your lives. Of course he knows something is wrong.

You listen to the shifting of fabric behind you. Nearly jump at the feeling of cloth placed on your shoulders. His heavy black coat, long and still warm from his body. You don't feel the falling snow. Yet you can't stop yourself from pulling the front closed around you.

His fingers skillfully brush along your feathers, soothing them down with ease. And yet they keep standing back up a moment after, revealing the distress of your thoughts. Before he can say anything, you do.

"Do you wish I was a dove?"

His hand stops, pausing mid pet. He reaches out to turn you toward him. One hand on your knee to face you to him, the other on your shoulder. You wince as he does. And he notices - of course he notices. He's frowning, brow furrowed, as he pulls aside his coat to expose your legs further. You don't meet his eyes, but you feel them.

"Is that what you've been trying to do up here?" he questions, voice tight with concern and gravity. "You can't force yourself into changing-"

"But if I could, would that make you happier?"

You meet his gaze. Imploring, begging him to tell you. Tell you that he's been distant this week because he realized just how much better doves are. Because he realized how much trouble you are, mechanized and synthetic and fake. Because you aren't enough now that you can't be anything more than you are.

His large hands rise to your face, holding your cheeks, keeping your attention on him. He leans forward slightly, foreheads not quite touching. "If you could change again, I would be happy to see you become anything you wanted. Whether that means becoming a dove, or a hawk, or a hummingbird. The shape you take doesn't matter to me, because I fell in love with you. Crow, or dove, or human. Just you."

You search his eyes. Those pretty garnet eyes. Searching for any hint of a lie. But you already know he means it. "You were so dismissive of me..."

He frowns, brow pinched, but he nods. He doesn't deny it. "I know. I'm sorry."

Emotion chokes up in your throat. "You didn't even ask Miss Hunter about me. Or- Or keep that dove from getting up on your shoulder." You hate that you can feel your face crumpling as tears bite your waterline. See the pain in his face as he diligently wipes away the ones that slip free. You hate that you're so emotional over this - over a stupid bird, but- "I don't want to be replaceable. I don't want to be just a pet to you."

"You're not-"

"Then act like it!" His eyes widen, shocked by your outburst. "Just stop pushing me away for Miss Hunter. Stop... stop waving me off and ignoring me. You're all I have, Sylus. I can't- I don't want to be replaced."

A sob tears its way out of you. Sylus can't recall a time he ever saw you crying - before or after the experiments. You were always happy, or curious, or angry. But never had you cried. Synthetic tears wash down your face, and it's his fault. An ache clenches his heart like a closed fist. He did this. He pushed you away, he made you feel unworthy, unimportant. Let a dove take liberties in your territory.

He draws you into his chest, arms wrapping tightly around you. You don't resist, even as he feels your feathers standing on end. They shudder with your cries. He smoothes his palms over them. Brushes them down, scratches the nape of your neck as he gently shushes you. You press your face into his collar. Your fingers curl tightly into his shirt. You hold on. Cling to him like he'll disappear if you loosen up for even a second.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs against your head. He means it. Deeply. "I should have acted differently. You are my closest friend. My beloved. And I ignored you."

He rubs your back overtop his coat, slowly. Feeling along your spine, your shoulder blades. It's still misaligned. Shifted out of place. You're in pain - because of him.

He's careful as he gathers you into his arms. He scoops you up, cradles you against him while doing his best not to hurt you further; he can't bear the thought of making things worse than he already has. Snow crunches beneath his feet as he stands on the tiles. He turns and begins carrying you inside.

"Let's take care of you now, pretty bird."

-

Just like trying to squeeze into a too-tight shirt, the removal can be tricky. Sylus makes it seem easy.

He rotates your legs until they pop back into the ball-joint, never lingering any longer than he has to. You lay on your stomach, quietly sniffling, while he seems to massage your back, slowly easing the metal into place. Each fix releases the strain. Each soft click eases your feathers back into a resting position.

When he's finished, he helps you sit up. Your legs overhang the table, dangling in the air. He doesn't look at you at first. Busies himself with grabbing a cloth. But then he looks you in the eye as he wipes away the watery formula of your tears. His brow is tight. Lips pulled down into a frown. His eyes, filled with remorse. You can almost see the plan formulating: all the auctions he could go to to buy the shiniest, most interesting things you love to cheer you up; of all the jewels in his treasuries, which would you like the most, if he doesn't just give them all to you; where will Miss Hunter be and when to give you the perfect opportunity to play tricks on her.

You don't want any of them right now. After a week of being pushed aside, of being distant, all you want is right here in front of you.

You nudge his hand away. He obeys without hesitation, dropping the cloth to the table and holding it there, restraining himself. He watches, slightly bewildered, as you reach out for him. You wrap your arms around his neck, drawing him down to your height, and hold him there.

He stands still. Doesn't do anything.

You squeeze him around his shoulders and he finally moves. Arms circle your waist, hands resting open against your back. You breathe him in, soak in his warmth. Your feathers finally relax. You finally relax.

"I don't hate you," you whisper beside his ear.

He releases a long breath, shoulders sagging under your arms. He's still tentative, still careful as he brushes his nose against your temple. "How can I make it up to you?"

A thousand diamonds. A million. No amount is too much. Nothing too far for him to reach. He would bake in the sun for a week if you said. Fly across the globe in search of the perfect pebble. Give you a whole new set of feathers, darker than midnight and softer than a kiss. He's prepared to give it all - what lengths will you have him go to absolve himself? What would it take for you to forgive him? How can he fix the damage he caused?

"Stay with me."

"You can ask for anything."

You shake your head. Turn your head to bury your face solidly in his neck. "I just want you again."

'Again' tears his heart to shreds. He scoops you up once more, trading places so he sits on the edge of the table with you in his lap. Your territory. "You'll always have me," he swears. "And I will spend lifetimes making sure you never doubt that ever again."

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry @that-lost-one @always-just-red @22carolina08 @lunaizhere @sine-nomine0 @beautifulthingsiadore @lalaluch @nothankyew @terriblesoup @jeleryyy @nezuswritingdesk @anaathxma @ssushi @mina7820 @monophobix @mentaltrouble2201 @mskaylacharite @nerrivm @ichosesparklingtorment @schnittled @animegamerfox @flamedancer13 @rebloggingislove @moonlight-inthe-sea @persepolys @satorubabee @sleepykittycx @perla-drg @17chuuya @slovesyouuu @leiakitty @lemonn015

[space-cowgirllll]

Tolerate It

pls enjoy this kinda angsty little thing I wrote a couple of months ago when I was really going through it in a relationship and have been too shy to post anywhere until today. I miiiiight have the second part to this halfway done. If this sucks I'm so sorry lmao it’s very lightly proofread and I have not written anything that hasn't had to be turned in for a grade in years.

Part Two

You sit alone at the table wondering how you ended up here. The dinner you'd spent the better part of the evening preparing grows cold as you sip on what has to be your third glass of wine. From your spot you can see Abby standing at the counter, speaking softly into the phone while she reads through the mail that had piled up over the last week. You pick at your food, hoping she'll join you eventually, but when fifteen minutes turns into twenty and then thirty five, you realize you're wasting your time. The laughter from the other room tells you the work part of the call ended long ago. Pushing your chair back, not caring when the loud noise earns you a glare from Abby, you gather your plate and blow out the candles at the center of the table.

Abby moves to sit on the loveseat in the living room after her call. It doesn't take long for her to get lost in the new book she had just brought home. Your eyes shift to the untouched plate of food still waiting for her in the dining room and then to the apple in her hand. The sound of  your throat clearing catches her attention.

"Your plate is still at the table if you want it, babe." You gesture to the lone plate at her usual spot.

There's a pang in your chest at the sight of the floral arrangement you'd chosen for the week. Behind that, strong wind pelts rain at the window. The gloomy weather a perfect representation of the storm brewing inside you.

"I thought I told you I had an early dinner with a couple of colleagues."

"Oh."

It comes out as a whisper. Not bothering to tell her she hadn't called you back after her lunch break. Again. You make a mental note to put the plate away before bed, knowing she'll pack it for tomorrow.

Your arms are elbow deep in soapy water, trying to rush through the last couple of dishes before she retreats to her study. The clanking of pots and pans fills the quiet space. You scrub at a particularly stubborn spot, trying to think of a way to bring it up without sounding too obvious.

"How was work today?"

"Fine." Your wife replies, not elaborating further.

"It's the twenty first, right?" There's some hesitation in the question.

"Yup."

Okay.

She doesn't look up from her book when you shuffle past her a little while later, placing a steaming mug on the coffee table. Her hand caresses the soft skin of your thigh and you perk up when she mumbles a soft thanks, placing a quick kiss on her temple. The sleeping cat on her lap stirs when you give him a gentle scratch behind the ear.

You settle into the sofa across from her and watch her read. She's in the cotton pajamas and fuzzy socks you'd laid out in the closet for her. It makes you feel ridiculously overdressed. Your hands fist the skirt of your dress, feeling foolish. There's a dark spot on the satin material from leaning over the wet counter.

The record player in the far corner of the room catches your attention. You miss the nights where she'd play you one of her favorites and dance with you around the living room before letting you sit on her lap as she read out loud to you. You never thought you would miss those boring medical journals. These days you're lucky if you get more than an hour with her before she locks herself in her study.

It hadn't always been like this. The two of you have been together longer than you've been apart. Visions of eleven year old Abby teaching you how to braid her hair for soccer practice flash in your head. Crawling into her bed in the middle of the night after another nasty fight between your parents. Summer vacations to her family's lake house. Her and her parents at every dance recital and play you'd ever been part of in high school. Realizing at sixteen that your feelings for the girl weren't so platonic. Then moving into the spare bedroom down the hall from her a year later after coming out to your family. Prom dress shopping with her and her mother, sneaking kisses in the tiny fitting rooms. The Anderson's were the family you never had.

Navigating young adulthood with Abby had been fun. You'd rented a tiny apartment in Seattle and paid way too much for it while attending university. It wasn't much, but it was home. You remember the dance parties in the tiny living room. The time the blonde begged you to let her keep the tiny cat she'd found in an alley on the way home one random afternoon. Going on dates and exploring the city. Staying up late and fantasizing about what life would look like in ten years. The look on her face as her thumb rubbed small circles on the exposed skin of your belly after you'd shown her your list of baby names. Getting married just after graduation.

Abby had never been too busy to show you how much she loved you, no matter how busy she got with school. Packing your meals for work, making sure your car had enough gas in it, organizing stay at home date nights whenever your schedules aligned. And you doing the same for her when she was up to her eyebrows in work for school.

The notes were your favorite. They had started appearing randomly after you'd been unexpectedly laid off. You'd been moping around the house for weeks, losing hope after not hearing back from any of the companies you'd applied to. Always in your favorite color, the purple post it notes could be found stuck to the wherever you'd see them first thing in the morning. The silly declarations of love and the affirmations always made you smile.

Those days were long gone. You were slowly going from high school sweethearts to two people who simply co-existed. No matter what you did or how hard you tried, it was getting harder to deny the lack of warmth in her eyes when she looked at you sometimes. Today proved what you had been too afraid to admit to yourself. The only person who had ever felt like home has slowly started becoming a stranger that slipped into your bed later and later each night.

Your eyes start stinging and you bite down on your lower lip. There's no way you're breaking down in front of her, not tonight. The warmth radiating from the fireplace does little to keep away the chill running through your body. Shaky hands bring the mug to your lips, hoping some tea would calm the nausea swirling in your stomach. You're not surprised to find yourself unable to keep drinking after a few tiny sips. Abby's favorite mug grows cold on the coffee table and you're positive she doesn't even remember it's there.

The sound of her phone ringing startles you both. Abby snatches the phone off the counter, a tired sigh leaves her parted lips when she sees who's calling. She jogs up the steps, intently listening to whoever is on the other end of the phone. You pick at the chipping nail polish on your left hand, watching the way your engagement ring glints in the dim light of the fire. Your stomach dips as you slip the stack off your finger, placing them in the small bowl on the coffee table.

"Are you going somewhere?" Your head shoots up to where she's standing in the threshold. The sight of her in a fresh pair of navy blue scrubs doesn't surprise you. Her loose bun traded for a tight braid that hangs over her shoulder.

"No. Why would I be?"

She gestures at your dress. Eyes roaming over your face, finally noticing the makeup you'd carefully applied hours before. You see her lock in on your empty hand, her sculpted brows furrow in confusion. Please say something. You beg, just wanting to understand why this is happening. Was she so busy she couldn't even bother to ask what's wrong? Did she even care anymore?

The constant buzzing of the phone in her tote bag answers your question for you. She shakes her head and turns to the door, stopping to slip her feet into her sneakers. You follow silently behind her, wondering if you should say something.

"Abigail?"

She hums in acknowledgment, not bothering to look up from her phone. Her fingers move at lightning speed across the touchscreen. Your nails dig into the palm of your hand, fighting the urge to snatch her phone and chuck it against the wall.

"What?" She asks again when you don't speak up. The look of annoyance on her face has you taking a step back.

"Nevermind," you turn towards the coat closet, pulling out her winter jacket. "It doesn't matter." You don't have to look back to know she's rolling her eyes.

"I should be back before you leave for work." You busy yourself with the already organized closet, pretending to move things around while she gathers the rest of her things.

"Be careful." You mumble, blinking rapidly to stop the tears from flowing. Not trusting yourself to say much more without your throat closing.

"Always am." She plants a kiss on the back of your head and heads out the door. It's only when you hear the sound of her car pulling away that you let yourself cry. No longer caring about the mascara that is certainly smearing.

Unsteady legs carry to the foot of the stairs where you collapse into a pathetic heap. Tears freely flowing down your cheeks, further staining the material of your dress. Your hands harshly pull at the fabric, wanting nothing more than to rip it off. The pins in your hair clatter loudly on the floor as you harshly pull them out.

Your sobs echo throughout the empty house. Pain radiates through your body, from somewhere in your chest to the tips of your fingers. The nausea has increased tenfold. You inhale sharply, resting your head on your knees. Watery eyes fixed on the front door your wife had just walked out of, this gut wrenching feeling of loneliness overwhelms you.

"Happy anniversary Abby."

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

Dommmee… Domme come out and playyy… we know you have something to sayyy

The warming comes with a laugh, the soft brush of his lips over her cheek as he slips behind her. Joe's fingers are still wet from the dishes he's drying, teasing at the gap between the leggings and the camisole--cropped, she'd worn it out for her errands earlier in the cooler June heat.

"Behind," Joe hums, the sound of his feet shuffling over the floor echoing behind the plip, plop of the pot dripping above the full sink.

"What's your plan for tomorrow?" Domme asks, unflinching at the cold touch. "Do you go in tomorrow or Tuesday?"

"Tomorrow. Media day, remember?"

The pot settles into the rack, a soft clack as it nestles in against the bowls. "I knew it was soon. Thought it was Tuesday."

"Hmm, you want it to be Tuesday so you can bring your work laptop and watch, don't you?" His question ghosts over her cheek, only to be followed by a kiss.

"I might tell a joke, but I'll never tell a lie. Yes, I would kill to witness a media day."

"Easy there, tiger. Let's not get too loose on murder."

"Arson?"

"Better," Joe laughs, fingers curling around the handle of the pot. "Next year, we'll swap those remote and in office days in advanced.

So, the thing is Domme has a warning. Yet between the mid morning huddle and the headache from the screens, Domme hasn't been paying attention to anything unless it's dire. Not even the time on the clock, not the short buzzes of her phone. In fact, she's been so slow due to the headache that even her lunch falls later than normal.

By the time she looks, there are several text message threads--a couple friends, some store alerts, and Joe. Damn, either the post killed you or work is actually awful, read the most recent text from him.

6 digits. It's only 6 digits to unlock her phone. One a tap to get into Joe's thread. Only a scroll to get to see his earlier message. The link to the Instagram post, the half an hour gap between that and his follow up about her being potentially dead. And a message from his morning, I'm feeling Pho for dinner. Care to make it a date?

Pho for dinner sounds great. Battling a headache, but if this cover shot is any indication, I will need mouth to mouth resuscitation after viewing.

It's just a tap, but highlight of the lights over his forearms, the slight flex is enough to make Domme choke on her sip of water. The soft flutter of wind over his face, the slow open of his eyes--an icy pop in the dark room--only makes her grin, even as the heat stirs in her belly, thighs clenching in the emerald green dress pants Joe picked out last night for her.

Her inhale is choked off again, Joe now with his back facing the camera, Burrow stretched across the pads, the black jersey slipping down into lines of him, an almost 'V' shaped illusion down to the point right at his lower back feeding into the white pants, the bubble of his ass.

It's not even a filthy feeling when Domme leans her elbows onto her desk and lets the video loop through a second time, this time catching the hands on his hips, the way he palms the football with one hand, a twist of his wrist and fingers sending the oblong item spinning slowly. It's heat, attraction, desire, pride all mixing together.

She knows what those fingers can do, how they've danced along her hips and thighs, curled into her pussy just right, how she's watched him suck her arousal off them, chin glistening, eyes unfocused in the way Joe gets when he's under, when he's all primal thought and pathetic whimpering--when he's hers in the most sinful way possible.

Domme ensures the sound is off, but lets the video loop a third time, dragging her eyes down to his thighs, knows just how soft and firm they are beneath the threads of those pants, feels her mouth salivating for a taste of him again.

I like my eggs scrambled. I know you know this. Just a reminder. She pairs the tease with a winking emoji, ensuring to reply directly to the message of the link.

Just above her quip lies, Headache? Everything okay?

Eyestrain, I think. Going to eat, lock myself in the bathroom and think of peeling you out of those damn pants to see if it helps.

Her phone shakes before she can place it down to dig through her drawers for the tiny bottle of Aleve she has. A reply from Joe stares back at her. Do not get fired for masturbating in the office bathroom. Not when you have me at home that can and will scramble your eggs for you.

His bubble lights up again, so she waits, watches the flicker cycle through for about 30 seconds or so. If the headache's bad and nothing helps, let me know, I'll pick you up from work early.

Thank you, baby, I'll keep you posted. So, now, I know I agreed to Pho for dinner, but I have a pitstop between your thighs before then--think we can pencil that in?

At this point, I think it's a takeout sort of night because it's not about to be a pitstop if I'm involved. We can try a dinner date later this week.

[frodothefair]

꧁ Nobody Like You ꧂

Pairing: Éomer / Lothíriel ┃ Rating: T ┃ Words: 1500

Preview:

“Well, I had better ask you, as well,” she said, an acid-green edge slinking into her voice. “What is your relationship with Hafrith, anyway?” There it was. Now that the words were out, she felt free. Vindicated, even. Éomer raised his eyebrows. “My – relationship with her?”

Summary: Having traveled to the Eastfold and met the brother of Hafrith, her chief lady in waiting, Lothíriel questions Éomer about his past, and learns more than she bargained for.

Author’s note: Based on the characters and dynamics in the fanfiction The Golden Hall. May end up getting feathered into a later chapter, though things may change before we get there. Soft jealousy, but also good communication. I had to write this to flush the Hemingway-related terrible-ness out of my system.

Tags: @konartiste @from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras @emmathefanficgal @dilettantefeminist @butoridesvirescens

When Hafbrand took his leave, Lothíriel went over to the vanity and sat down, pulling her earrings from her earlobes. She then took the brush and drew it several times through her hair, but even so, she watched her husband in the mirror as he shuffled his papers, and then removed his vest, along with the circlet from his hair.

Wearing it brought him no joy – she noticed it when they first left the capital, sharing a room wherever they stayed. He took off any finery, and any regalia, the moment he could.

“What was that all about?” he asked.

Over her shoulder, she saw him glance at a letter.

He seemed unconcerned, yet she knew him better by now. There was an undefinable note in his voice that reminded her that even as a married woman, and even in Rohan, where the mores were looser, to receive a man alone in her chambers was no ordinary event.

She drew the brush over her hair before she answered.

“Hafrith,” she said simply. “I had questions about her.”

“Ah, what sort of questions?”

He was reading the letter – now boldly unconcerned. In fact, the name of the chief lady in waiting seemed to placate him.

Which stirred some discontent in her, for she did not want it to be that simple. Indeed, every time he spoke of Hafrith, it only concerned the immediate moment – her duties, the qualities of her character, her service to the realm.

She knew nothing of their past together, and would not have known, had Hafrith not told her. And somehow, this stirred an ugly feeling.

She turned around, rising from her stool, and crossed the room in several strides.

She stopped before him – so close that if she wanted, she could have plucked the parchment from his hands.

“Well, I had better ask them of you, as well,” she said, an acid-green edge slinking into her voice. “What is your relationship with Hafrith, anyway?”

There it was.

Now that the words were out, she felt free. Vindicated, even.

Éomer raised his eyebrows.

“My – relationship with her?”

He chuckled, tossing the parchment to the side. 

Lothíriel raised her small, proud chin, but said nothing further.

Éomer leaned against the table, his lips curling glibly around his words.

“Well, to begin with,” he said, “Hafrith is my second cousin once removed on my father’s side, and my third cousin once removed on my mother’s side –”

“Wha---?”

Lothíriel faltered, and Éomer inclined his head.

“Well, yes,” he smiled. “I think it is safe to say that all noble families in Rohan are distantly related – though I expect it is the same in Gondor?” He cocked an eyebrow. “And then, to answer further, she is my friend and loyal servant, and eight years ago, we were betrothed.”

He smiled once more, seemingly unburdened, and released a breath.

But the furrows in Lothíriel’s brow only grew deeper.

“Oh, and when did you expect to tell me that?” she scoffed. “When we were married for ten years?”

He reached for her hand, but she kept it at her side.

“I’m – I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I did not think it was so important.”

His eyes were dewy in the candlelight, just as she loved them, but even so, she squared her jaw.

“It is very important – to a woman, anyway.”

And like a good husband, he lowered his head, clasping his hands before him.

“I’m sorry.”

Lothíriel turned away and strode to the other end of the room, turning stiffly on her heel.

“Did you love her?”

She had wanted to ask him, but even she was surprised at how easily, how glibly the question came.

Except, at first she could not look at him.

It took her several moments, and when she did, there he was, his head bowed, his hand clasping the table with the knuckles at sharp angles.

“I did,” he replied at last. “But not at all like you. There is nobody I’ve loved like you.”

Lothíriel felt ill.

Indeed, if there was a chair nearby, she would have collapsed into it – but the vanity was at the other end of the room, and so was the bed.

Instead, she pressed her hands stiffly to her sides, like a soldier standing guard.  

“She – she did not tell me that,” was all her answer. “She said it was only a vague inclination on your part – those were her words. Are you saying it isn’t true?”

Again, Éomer inclined his head, but then he shook it.

“No – no, she would say that,” he sighed, his expression growing tight. “Good. After all, it is how I behaved – what I told her, though not in so many words. There is no sense blowing on embers before dousing a fire. I could think of no easier way…”

His voice trailed off, but he kept his eyes fixed firmly upon her.

And beneath his gaze, Lothíriel wished to sink into the floor.

She felt dizzy.

But somehow, it did not feel like enough.

A part of her had tasted blood – her own – and wanted to twist the knife further.

“Did you – did you ever bed her?” she stammered. “Do you love her still – even a little bit?”

Her eyes grew hazy, and she must have swayed where she stood, for Éomer hastened to her side.

“No – no…” He clasped her hand, drawing her to him. “I would not do her the dishonor, and no, I do not love her still – it was long ago; we were different people…”

Lothíriel slumped against him, and pressed her head against his shoulder.

She must have looked pitiful, and her stomach twisted.

Of course – of course he would say the right thing, whether or not it was true. He was like that – perfect to an infuriating degree.

He pressed his hand against her head.

“No,” he repeated, the strands catching lightly against his calluses as he stroked her hair. “In truth, she seemed so young – she wasn’t, of course, not in the eyes of the law, but as soon as she came of age her unscrupulous father tried to push her on Théodred, who was more than twice her age and recently widowed, and then, when that came to naught, she was offered to me. And so, I took to feeling guilty even looking at her, and I could not have bedded her if I tried… That’s why I asked for a longer engagement, at least two years, but then, she came to love another.”

He sighed, and pressing her ear against the top of his chest, Lothíriel tried to discern what sort of sigh it was.

Regretful?

She pressed her fingers into his back, and stood mute, soaking in his warmth.

And Éomer hugged her closer, pressing his cheek against her forehead.

His warm, stubbled cheek, with his neat, dark-blonde beard that she had come to love so much.

“Well, Hafrith has a child, you know,” she said, the words leaking out of her like slow-flowing blood.

A final twisting of the knife.

In part, she regretted saying it when she could not see his face, could not tell if it was the face of a man learning that he had a child he never knew about.

But she could not pull away. She could not have moved if she tried.

Éomer’s hold on her tightened.

“H-Hafrith?” he stammered. “No… No… How – how is that possible?” His tongue was tripping over the words. “She is so…”

He raised his head, for she no longer felt its pressure against hers.

She sighed, and with a slow, deliberate movement, peeled away from him.

Her head was heavy.

She nodded, glancing up.

“Yes – and I thought the same thing,” she said, “But you do recall that she went away when your betrothal ended and she was not allowed to marry the other man? She was gone for nearly a year. It happened then – in fact, that was why she left. But they took the child away from her, and they said they’d give it to another family to raise.”

She gazed at him, and blinked away her tears.

A silence fell, and he nodded gravely.

His features, deep-cut granite in the light, were one part incredulous, one part chagrined.

But they did not look like a man who learned he had a child.

Somehow, she felt like she could rest easy on that point.

She drew a breath, and pressed her hands against his chest.

“Well, at any rate,” she added softly. “That is what I sought to learn – what happened to that child. And forgive me my anger – and my suspicion. It was foolish of me.”

He sighed, and drew her to him.

“No, not foolish at all,” he said. “Indeed, it is I who should be asking your forgiveness. I should have told you, and from now on, there shall be nothing unspoken between us.”

She nodded, and smiled against his chest.

“Yes, no secrets.” 

He chuckled.

“Yes, and so in that spirit, if I may ask, what did my clever, resourceful queen discover?”

[pinkaditty]

luca, subaru & jiro!! 💚

waaaaaahhhhhhh tyty 4 the ask!!!!!!!! <333

some potential spoilers (?) for tkdb

⋆˙⟡ luca: what sweet treat would you assign to your favourite ghoul?

answer: well. haku's my fav and i would assign him a crepe cake, specifically this matcha one I had at a boba place once. if i had to assign him a specific taste, he wouldn't be overly sweet. he'd have a light, mellow sweetness, mixed with an acquired taste. if you've never had a crepe cake, they typically aren't as sweet as standard cakes, and matcha was more a taste i had to grow accustomed to in order to enjoy. and essentially, that's what that matcha-flavored crepe cake was to me. i prefer sweeter things typically, but he's an exception.

⋆˙⟡ subaru: you get to go into a haunted house attraction with two ghouls. who do you pick?

answer: okok i KNOW we've already seen subaru in a haunted house but hear me out on subaru completely letting go of his inhibitions first and then going to a haunted house again. just hear me out. it's quite clear at this point he enjoys horror and the generally macabre, and honestly, im right there with him (if you've seen some of my reposts yea). i think it'd be fun if he really just allowed himself to be himself at a haunted house. id be so excited.

the second ghoul that's the first to come to mind is honestly jiro. i like his laugh and if he laughed at my spooked expressions, so be it. i think he deserves a little joy. plus he's so long that he makes a useful shield methinks. i don't do well with jumpscares so as long as i have someone who is capable of completely blocking my vision im good!

⋆˙⟡ jiro: you're going on an inter-house mission with four ghouls. who do you pick?

answer: before you read my answer, please know i live to cause trouble.

anyways. first ghoul: haku. reliable, quick-witted, and can hold himself together in stressful situations. plus you'd literally have to peel me off of him anyway.

second ghoul: jin. yes. why? teleportation is useful and also i need to see him and haku interact oh my fucking god. me begging the devs pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease i need to see the chronic heartthrob and frosty bastard, both with an obvious crush on mc, interact. please oh my god.

third ghoul: towa. why? i like him sorry. based strictly off of physical appearance, he's one of the most attractive ghouls imo, plus he's a total sweetheart. he serves as my comedic relief while the other three stir up drama.

fourth ghoul: yuri. why? i need to see his pathetic wet cat expression when he finds out he's on a team with his former frostheim dormmates. my god it would be so funny. can you imagine.

thinking of jin giving haku icy glares as haku attempts to look anywhere except directly at jin while yuri shrinks into himself in the corner and i happily fold flower crowns with towa without a care in the world just seems so funny. so funny. i need this to happen. like im giggling this would be so hilarious. if i were mc i would actively pretend to be none the wiser to their history while just laughing in my head the entire time.

plus im a genuine angst enjoyer. i wanna know their history and see the gaping scars the clash left behind.

submit your own ask from this post here (lin's ask game) or this post here (aya's ask game)! there is no limit to the questions you can ask so please feel free to fill up my inbox!!!!!

[donaidk]

Franco Colapinto - Cracked Silk II

Summary: Franco Colapinto, a young, charismatic Argentinian businessman living in Madrid, known for his charm, success, and spotless reputation. Cara Aros , a sharp, elusive woman who refuses to play by anyone’s rules, especially his. No one would have expected the two of them to fall into a flirty game of guesses over coffee, but what starts as playful curiosity slowly unravels into something deeper, riskier, and dangerously close to the truth about the world Franco was born into, the one Cara is determined to expose.

Parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9

Pairing: mafia!Franco Colapinto x oc!female

Warnings: it is a mafia fic... so... the usual? lol

Masterlist | Taglist/Queue | Request

It was late morning, one of those soft, overcast days that made Madrid feel more like a secret than a city. Franco sat in his usual spot, third table from the window, but for a random reason he decided to have his back to the window, looking onto the busy center of the café. The place was narrow and understated, tucked between a bakery that burned everything after ten and a bookstore that hadn’t changed its window display in five years. That was why he liked it. Reliable, anonymous, a place where he could hide away for at least a little bit. The kind of place where no one asked questions and the barista remembered your coffee order without expecting a conversation about your weekend.

He had his laptop open but wasn’t typing. He’d answered three emails in forty minutes, skimmed a few reports about their new shell company in Valencia, and told the guy who managed their crypto assets that yes, he was allowed to be aggressive, but no, not stupid-aggressive. His phone was facedown next to his espresso, silent. The way he liked it.

It was almost like his usual morning routine, but his head was still not back to normal after last night. He simply just couldn’t shake the memory of the girl and all the feelings she managed to stir up inside him by just declining any offer he tried to make. It had been a few hours since she disappeared in the crowd. He hadn’t gone looking for her, not exactly, but he’d kept his ears open. Dropped a few casual descriptions around. No one had recognized her. No names, no hints, no “oh, you must mean so-and-so.” Which meant one of two things: either she was a nobody with excellent taste in fashion and one hell of a poker face, or she was someone important enough to move in these circles without needing to be seen. Franco hadn’t decided which he liked more.

He sipped his coffee. The café was quiet, just the way he preferred it. A couple tourists by the wall flipping through maps. A man reading El País near the back. He was mid-thought, wondering if he should cancel that dinner with the logistics partner from Alicante when he heard it. A voice. Clear. Low. Confident.

“I said extra shot, no foam. I’m not trying to be annoying… I just really need it to be what I asked for.” The words would have never made Franco freeze, but the sound carrying them did exactly that.

His head didn’t snap up. He didn’t turn around like some idiot in a telenovela. He just sat there, very still, blinking once, twice, while every cell in his body replayed the sound. It had to be her. He didn’t know how he was so sure, but he was. Something about the cadence. The slight roll of her r’s. The precise way she said “annoying,” like she knew exactly how far she could push without tipping into it. His fingers slipped from around his coffee cup, his eyes still trained on it for the time being. For a second he questioned if it was just his imagination playing sick games with him, but in the end his curiosity won, and he let his head turn towards the counter.

There she was. Five meters away, standing at the counter in a long beige coat with a black scarf wound tight around her neck. No heels this time. Her hair was loose, a little damp from the weather, and she had a leather laptop bag slung over one shoulder. She looked... different. Less polished. Still stunning. Still entirely unaware that he was here.

He waited. Watched her pay with a black card and thank the barista in a tone that said she wasn’t the kind of person who forgot her manners, even when tired. Then she turned and stopped like her flats grew roots into the ground as their eyes met.

For a second, nothing moved. Her fingers tightened slightly on the coffee cup just as his heart, stupidly did a little skip. She didn’t look shocked but rather mildly annoyed. It almost worried him, a reaction so different to how anyone would act while meeting him. She seemed to battle with herself for a few seconds, before finally letting her legs take him over to his table and Franco couldn’t help a smile take over his face.

“I knew I wasn’t hallucinating,” he said, still grinning.

She didn’t return the smile. “You stalking me now?”

“I was here first. This is my place.”

She narrowed her eyes. “That’s exactly what a stalker would say.”

He laughed. “Sit with me. You owe me at least a name.”

She hesitated. Looked over her shoulder at the door. Then back at him.

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“But you came in here, and fate, or caffeine dependency, has decided otherwise.”

It got a roll of her eyes as a reaction, but her mouth twitched. Franco stood just long enough to pull the chair across from him enough and sat back down again, wordlessly inviting. After a long beat, she followed. Pulling the chair further out she sat down as well, setting her coffee down with surgical precision. Then she looked at him, finally, fully. Up close again, he noticed new details. Tiny gold hoops in her ears. A pen tucked into her coat pocket. She smelled like bergamot unlike the cold air still stuck to her coat from her morning walk to work. He sat across her, waiting, giving her time and a chance to set the pace. She didn’t speak, however, almost like she was still testing him, all the control in her hands.

“Alright,” he said sighed, his impatience winning. “let’s start again. Franco. Still not selling anything. Still not networking. Just curious.”

“I remember.” She wasn’t surprised at his words, like she knew he would break.

“And you are?” he tried again.

She looked him dead in the eye. “In a hurry.”

“That can’t be your name.”

She sipped her coffee. “What do you want, Franco?”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, voice lower. “I want to know what you do. Who you are. Why you keep showing up like a character in a book I can’t put down.”

Her eyes didn’t soften, poker face in place like it never left since the night in the museum. But they didn’t leave his, and he immediately took that as a small win.

“Why?”

“Because you got under my skin. And I hate that.”

Her expression flickered, something between surprise and amusement, so unlike her although he barely knew her.

“Flattery.” she said. “That your usual tactic?”

“Honestly? No. I’m improvising.”

She looked at her coffee. Took another sip. Then, finally, “My name’s Leonor.”

Franco blinked, gave himself a second to try the sound of it in his head. “That’s a name I didn’t expect.”

“Why?”

“Too regal. You seem more...” his frown wasn’t exactly a clear answer, but it was all he could give immediately.

She raised an eyebrow. “Careful.”

His half laugh was out before he even realized. “Dangerous.”

Her pause and the way her eyebrow relaxed worried him just as much as it made him curious if he chose the right word.

 “Good. You’re not as dumb as you look.”

Franco smiled, her insult affecting him just like anyone’s flattery. “And what does Leonor do when she’s not fighting about her right for the correct order of coffee?”

Leonor leaned back in her chair, cupping her coffee like it was warmer than it actually was. Her fingers had a sort of restless grace, tapping, adjusting, tracing invisible lines around the paper of the cup like she was buying time or measuring how much she wanted to say. Franco watched the dance of her hands more than her face for a moment, trying not to look too interested. Failing miserably.

She tilted her head slightly. “Let’s make it more fun. You guess.”

Franco blinked. “What, your job?”

She nodded once, very serious. “You get three guesses.” There was almost a faint smile on her lips. “You seem to think you’ve got me figured out already. This should be easy for you”

“That’s not fair. I barely actually know you.”

“That’s the point.”

“Do I get hints?”

She tapped on her cup’s lid again, then said, “Nope.”

Franco ran a hand through his hair, exhaled hard through his nose, and squinted at her like she was some sort of high-end Rubik’s cube. “Alright,” he said. “Fine.” He studied her face. She wasn’t giving him anything. Not a twitch, not a shift. She could’ve been in a poker tournament and taken everyone’s cards by now. “You’re... a consultant,” he tried. “Management. Maybe finance. You have that 'I'm not allowed to wear sneakers at work' look.”

Leonor didn’t blink.

“Wrong?” his eyebrow shot up before he could even catch it.

She shrugged. “Two guesses left.”

“Okay, okay.” he leaned back and folded his arms. “You’re a therapist. No, wait… psychiatrist. You listen to other people’s problems and then bill them enough to afford five coats like that one.”

Still nothing.

He groaned. “Come on. That was a good guess.”

She smiled, barely but it was easy to see if you were looking for it. Exactly was Franco was doing, trying to catch any particle of a positive reaction.

He pointed a finger. “That smile tells me I’m close.”

“You think I’d make it that easy?” The hand coming up to her chest, feigning offense, her lips still twitching with the smile she was trying not to let show.

“You’re cruel.”

She raised an eyebrow. “One guess left.”

He leaned in. “Alright. Here’s the deal. If I guess right, you have to buy me coffee next time.”

“There won’t be a next time.”

“Now you’re just being defensive.”

She didn’t seem to be affected by any of his words, seemingly just as relaxed as someone on a vacation. “Shoot.”

He stared at her, narrowing it down, ruling things out. “You’re a writer.” he said, finally, but got no reaction still. “You write… not fiction, though. You write those hard-hitting think pieces. Maybe columns. Something like ‘What the Hell is Wrong With Everyone and Why It’s Their Fault.’”

“You’re reaching.” Her huff could have been taken for a laugh but was more about annoyance.

“I’m right.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” It was all just a game to her after all.

He was choosing his next words carefully just as Leonor glanced at her phone, which had just lit up beside her coffee. Her eyes flicked over the screen and her expression finally changed, just for a second. A tiny crease between her brows, something he wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been looking so damn closely. Then she stood.

Franco blinked. “Wait. That’s it?”

She grabbed her bag and slung it over one shoulder. “I told you. I’m in a hurry.”

“What kind of job interrupts coffee dates with mystery men?”

She looked down at him. “The kind where things go sideways quickly.”

“Law,” he said again, grinning now. “That’s a lawyer line.”

She didn’t confirm or deny. Just slid her phone into her coat pocket. “You blew all your guesses already.”

As she turned toward the door, he said, “So what happens if I guess right again next time?”

Leonor looked over her shoulder, halfway through the exit. “Don’t get cocky.” and then she was gone again with the chime of the bell over the door.

Franco sat back slowly, the heat of her presence still clinging to the air across from him. The fact she didn’t decline there being a next time made him immediately grin as the fact settled in his head. "Leonor." he murmured to himself, trying the name out again, just for himself.

It didn’t quite fit. Something about her felt too sharp, too watchful. And despite everything, all the silence and the mystery, the refusal to give him even the smallest truth. He liked it. He liked it too much.

[bekolxeram]

I'm not on bird app, and TikTok is geoblocked here, so I don't usually get too deep into fandom drama, nor am I interested in it. Unfortunately, it seems like the drama is spilling over here, and it has me questioning my reading comprehension for the past few days honestly. So here goes nothing, if you don't want to read about fandom discourse (which I recommend, for your own mental health), feel free to ignore this post. I just feel like I'm going insane so I need to get it off my chest.

From what I've read here, someone on bird app demanded Lou to explain some racist/misogynist memes he posted on insta over a decade ago, which were still on his page until very recently. Lou replied with this screenshot:

(Username crossed out to protect their identity.)

I've heard rumors of a certain subsection of the fandom impersonating bucktommy fans in order to stir up controversies. Again, I'm not on those sites, I can't confirm that, but I do admit the timeline is a bit suspicious. I get why some of you immediately rush to defend Lou and theorize that he was hacked, but I feel like it's such a cop out. Too many problematic figures get off scot-free just by claiming they were hacked. I'll hold out my judgement on that until more verified information comes out.

So for consistency's sake, I'm going to play devil's advocate, let's assume it really was Lou who tweeted that. I still don't see how it makes him an ableist?

First, it wasn't him who made this comment, the owner of that instagram account did. It wasn't even someone else's tweet or meme that he reposted, or did he signify his agreement to this statement. It was literally someone else's insta bio, a line that somebody else used to represent themself.

Second, look at the insta account itself. It's a K-pop stan account with 0 post and only 1 follower. It follows 19 celebrity pages, so it's safe to say someone made this account especially to snoop on celebrity news. How did Lou even find out the existence of such an account? That user must've initiated some kind of contact with Lou first, either through DMs or comments. Lou's an actor on a hit TV show, I'm sure he gets random comments from strangers every day. For a random stan account to stand out, they must've made an impression, probably not a good one either.

Third, it was posted as a direct response to someone demanding explanation for Lou's past problematic insta content. Why would he make an unrelated ableist joke about bullying blind kids in response to that? It's clearly a sort of gotcha attempt at pointing out the hypocrisy of the people pestering him online lately. They accuse Lou of being a bigot and try to get him fired, but at the same time they make jokes like this, so they're not in a place to judge him. Which is..... a shit retort. Lou's social media history WAS problematic, people have to right to question him on that. Him hitting back is whataboutism, but it doesn't make it less true, those people ARE bullies.

As I've said before, you don't have to be okay with Lou's past. I personally don't care, as I don't know him as a person, I also don't know who he was 10 years ago and what kind of environment he was in. As long as he's not actively using his platform to promote harmful views or using his fame to exploit people, I'm as okay with him as his co-workers are.

You do you, you can dislike him, outright hate him even, but you have to ignore all context and twist words around in order to paint him as an ableist asshole with this and this only.

[nelapanela94]

Nelaaaa!!! BB TODAY I AM HERE FOR SOME NELA X LEVI HEADCANONSJDJD .. tell me the little stufff toooooooo 🤍

Hi lovely. This one was so fun to write. <3 thank you for the request and please let me live in my delulu world 🌎

Levi and I currently live in Marley (What's left) in a coastal town where the streets finish at the beach.

Levi, though he doesn't admit it, is still afraid of the elevator. He just can't trust it. It jars him when it quivers right before stopping, and he hates it's tight and stuffy. He prefers swallowing the pain in his leg to risking getting stuck and climbs the stairs up to the third floor. And it is worse when the chains start to screech pleading for maintenance. In his defense, he claims it is a great exercise. He takes his time and says hi to the brats who live in the second floor. Sometimes he brings them desserts from the tea shop.

Levi loves sea food, specially shrimps. That is why I took some cooking classes with Niccolo. Steamed, stir-fried, tempura, in pastas, salads, rice and ceviche, I had to learn every preparation. Though we usually eat at home, we love trying new restaurants in town. From fancy to fast food. Once I tried to cajole Levi to a street food stall but he refused, questioning their cleaning procedures.

Levi owns a tea shop downtown that has been awarded twice by the city's chamber of commerce for excellence, quality and service. He was interviewed and his photo appeared in the newspaper, with Gabi and Falco thumbing up behind him. We still have the clippings of the articles, and Levi had the stars framed. He spends all day drinking tea, doing accounts, making payments to suppliers, bossing everyone around, the latter his favorite. When he loses his patience, he jabs the staff with his walking stick on the back of their knees. He also likes to go on Sundays to the spice market where herbs and spices from all corners of the world are found. He takes them home and experiments with them to develop new blends. Although sometimes we have purged by accident.

Meanwhile, I work at the post office right across the street and in my break time we had lunch together in his office and take naps.

We spend hours in the cleaning supplies aisle because Levi can't decide between lavender, cinnamon and apple or citronella. In any case, he decides on all three. One day after work, he brought home a wooden barrel with a crank handle. He explained that it was for washing clothes, although it took me a while to understand how it was operated. He acquired it at a home novelty fair after the inventor convinced him by promising to make our lives easier. I thought it was a scam, but he made it work! It really saves us time and I don't have to ruin my manicure anymore.

On my last birthday, Levi got me a gramophone. We love dancing in the living room despite our clumsy feet, and we’re often off the beat. But who cares, with a drop of wine sprinkling the mix, we hardly notice it. I’ve been collecting discs from thrift stores and garage sales, cramming our place, so Levi felt compelled to build a box to store them safely.

As you might guess, Levi is little fond of PDA. He only feels confortable holding hands, however, from time to time I’d steal a kiss to tease him. He grunts and mellows right after, blushing like a teenage boy kissing his crush for the first time. In private, on the other hand, he’s embarrassingly clingy (don’t ever mention it). When we’re reading in the sofa, he’d snuggle on my chest and loves it when I drop kisses on his head and coddle him. He loves hugs from the back and unexpected kisses on the cheek. Levi is milk with sugar but needs to keep a reputation.

We love traveling. For our honey moon, we visited a tropical island in hizuru. Roasted on the beach all day. He’s still wary of the sea water, can’t stand the slimy animals brushing his legs. But he enjoyed the scenery, the food, drinks and long loving sexy sessions in our suite with ocean view. We’ve been to other places, even though the voyage makes us seasick. We’ve seen temples, museums, archeological sites, lavender fields, all captured in photo albums.

Levi and I live a slow, tranquil life after the war. I think that we deserve that respite. <3

[real-life-cloud]

26 w/ krbk? 👀

teehee thank you !! such a cute prompt.. very fun to write! ♥ i sort of mixed it with '23: waking up' a little bit hehe

you can read the drabble on ao3 → here

you can see the prompt list → here

⛅

Prompt 26: Bed Hair wordcount: 1.2k

Eijirou was used to waking up alone.

The last time he’d slept in the same bed as someone was probably when he was a little kid. He used to sneak into his older sister’s room when he had nightmares. But the last time that happened must’ve been nearly a decade ago. He hardly slept anywhere but his own room.

So when he woke up that early summer morning, his first thought was, ‘Where am I?’ 

That was a quickly answered question. His memories of the night before drifted back in pieces—he invited himself over to Bakugou’s house for a sleepover. Bakugou complained about it the entire time, but he never told him to leave. He was funny like that. Eijirou had a lot of fun that night, they did some of their summer school work together and played video games. Dinner was great, and Mr. and Mrs. Bakugou seemed to really like him, too.

When it came time for them to sleep, (Bakugou’s eyes began to droop around 8 o’clock, but he dutifully stayed up with EIjirou until 10 PM. Eijirou didn’t have the heart to tell him that was still early for him.) instead of staying on a mattress on the floor, Bakugou told him to, “Shut the fuck up and sleep on that side of the bed. It’s plenty big enough.”

So he easily came to his senses and realized he was in Bakugou’s room, in Bakugou’s bed.

His second thought was, ‘Holy shit, I’m basically cuddling Bakugou.’ 

They were facing each other, Eijirou’s own arm slung over his friend’s torso. The shared covers were a twisted and tangled mess, and their legs were much the same. He distinctly remembered falling asleep facing away from each other, not touching. They must’ve both chased each other’s warmth in their sleep. His face reddened at the thought.

His third thought wasn’t much of a thought at all, really. More of a feeling—a tug at his heart, a hold on his lungs. Because Bakugou looked serene.

His face was completely relaxed for once, something Eijirou didn’t think he’d ever seen before. He wondered if anyone had. He felt a little boost to his ego at the thought.

It was a rare sight to see his face so smoothed out. All the harsh lines and wrinkles of his usual scowls and sneers were nowhere to be seen. And it wasn’t like his more blank, bored face either. He looked so calm, so vulnerable. The side of his face was pressed into his pillow, and Eijirou thought he spotted a line of drool, much to his amusement. He had one hand clutching onto the sheets with the other just barely grazing Eijirou’s chest. His breathing was slow and easy.

Eijirou could’ve stared all morning.

Of course, it was right then that Bakugou’s eyebrows pinched together and he began to stir.

It was like all the bitterness in his body came back in stages. First his eyebrows, then his nose scrunched up. A twitch of his mouth, a flex of his fingers. He nuzzled his head in his pillow a little more, like he was fighting against wakefulness. Eijirou watched it happen with both curiosity and endearment. He could feel a dumb smile make its way onto his face.

Bakugou pried one eye open, and Eijirou belatedly thought that maybe he shouldn’t be staring so hard. Probably too late for that now.

Red eyes, sharper than his own, bleared at him sleepily. Bakugou looked confused for a handful of seconds, before he rubbed at his eyes. The shift made Eijirou realize he still had an arm wrapped around him—he took it back a little too quickly.

“Uh, morning, man!” He said with a toothy grin. He hoped his face wasn’t as red as it felt.

Bakugou grumbled back, saying something with little resemblance to actual words. His voice sounded lower than usual.

Once Bakugou took his hand away from his face and looked at Eijirou with clear eyes, though, he paused. Then, Bakugou did the last thing he would’ve ever expected. He laughed.

It started small. An unbelieving huff, not much of a laugh at all. Followed by a snort, then a wheeze.

“What?” Eijirou asked, thoroughly confused.

Bakugou muffled his laughter.

“What is it??” He asked a little louder, an embarrassed smile creeped onto his face. He pushed up from the bed and cocked his head to the side. And that was the final straw.

A sharp bark of laughter broke from Bakugou’s throat, followed by a positively evil sounding giggle. If asked, he’d liken it to a witch’s cackle or maybe a snickering goblin. Eijirou adored the sound of it.

He had never heard him laugh like that before. Usually, his laughter was mean and mocking. But this was something pure. Unadulterated amusement. He never wanted it to stop.

But he still didn’t know what was so funny. Did he look funny? Reflexively, he looked down at his pajamas to see if he had somehow changed into something ridiculous in his sleep. But it was the same blue tank top and plain sweat shorts that he remembered changing into. His visible confusion just made Bakugou laugh harder.

His laughter was contagious. Eijirou felt a chuckle of his own bubble up in his chest. “Why are you laughing at me, dude!?”

Bakugou calmed down enough to catch his breath, but still had to fight a giggle to get his words out. “Look in a fucking mirror or something, idiot. Oh my god.” He finally said.

Eijirou felt around the bed for his phone in a hurry and quickly pulled up his camera app, then set the camera to front facing mode. He noticed straight away.

“Oh.” Was all he said. It had Bakugou falling apart in giggles again.

It was his hair. Oh god, his hair. He must’ve fallen asleep without taking the gel out again. But even the couple times this happened before, it didn’t look this silly. You’d think it would be hard for his hair to look messy, since he spiked it in all directions anyway. But he would have you know that he worked very hard to make his hair look a certain way. Every spike was in its place. Usually. But definitely not that morning.

Most of his hair was going in one direction, with a steep cliff of a flattened edge where his head had rested on his pillow. The back was a mangled mess, like he’d shook his head back and forth in his sleep too much. One horn was still proudly pointed up and the other was stuck to his forehead. He couldn’t blame Bakugou for laughing. 

He started laughing in earnest, too. “Oh my god, I look so stupid.”

“I know!” Bakugou wheezed.

They laughed for a good long while. It would simmer down back into quiet, but all it took was them catching eyes and they’d both be back in stitches. Eijirou’s face hurt from how much he was smiling. His chest felt full to the brim with affection, spilling out with every wheeze and giggle. Bakugou looked so pretty when he was happy. He wanted to stay like this forever.

His next thought that morning was, ‘I want to wake up like this for the rest of my life.’ Bedhead and all.

[psychics4unet]

Hiii cutieee

Can I get a free reading??

todayyy was my farewell party... And I wanted to know how people viewed me in man Vs women form plssss

Thank youuu✨

Free Psychic Reading By Egyptian Sand! (7$ PAID READINGS ARE ALSO OPENED!)

The first symbol I see is a triangle 🔺, pointing upwards. This represents strength and leadership. It suggests that people, especially men, may have viewed you as someone with authority, capable of guiding and inspiring others. You might have had a strong presence at the party that left a lasting impression.

The second symbol is a heart ❤️. This shows that women may have seen you as compassionate and caring. There’s a nurturing energy around you that resonated with them, making them feel comfortable and connected to you.

The third symbol is a wave 🌊, representing change and movement. This symbol reflects that you left a sense of impact, with some people, both men and women, feeling a sense of transition or emotional depth about your departure. It might have stirred up some reflections about your influence in their lives.

In summary, men likely saw you as strong and inspiring, while women saw you as caring and compassionate. Both groups, however, experienced a deep emotional impact from your farewell, making them reflect on your time together. ✨💖

Got questions or need some insight into your life? I'm here to help with personal psychic readings! For just $7, you can get answers to up to 7 questions! More info at:

In case anyone else here on tumblr would like a free psychic reading, Click the link and follow the instructions (I answer only to those who follow the instructions, thank you): https://www.tumblr.com/psychics4unet/773593300218314752/free-psychic-reading-with-egyptian-sand

[imjustheretoseetheprivateblogs]

AxZ Week Day 5: Poetry

@senshixshitennouweeks

In Silver Millennium, Serenity hands her a slip of parchment, claiming she found it tucked into the hollow of a tree where she had met with her beloved Endymion (she suspects that she was simply playing matchmaker).

The words compare her to a pool of water on a hot day, keeping refreshing, serene, and reflective in pleasing rhyme and meter.

Though it’s short, it’s words stir something in the princess of Mercury and she wishes to know who made such lovely phrases on the tiny blue planet that Serenity is so fond of.

Soon, Serenity brings her more messages that flatter her about her mind and her ambitions, mentioning her beauty to punctuate the writer’s fascination with her.

She never finds out who it is, though. The Silver Millennium falls soon after.

He’s in the library, looking for inspiration for a new energy gathering scheme for their great ruler. His last plan had backfired spectacularly (Video rental stores were not an antiquated idea; it was novel and retro!) and he was going to find something full proof. Beryl was getting impatient.

He pulled a book from the shelf and opened it. A piece of loose-leaf paper, folded into eighths fell from between.

Curious, he picked it up and unfolded it.

I wish to share my words, read the lines of text, to let others know my dreams.

The words stir something in Zoisite and, against his better judgement, pulls out a pen and scrawls a reply, trying to match the number of syllables and give it some kind of rhyme scheme.

Your words have found me now, and filled my heart to the seams.

It’s a simple poem, nothing he’d want to show anyone, but at least he got it out of his system. Putting the paper in between the pages of the book, Zoisite puts the book back and heads for the music section. He’d always been interested in that, so maybe something would inspire him.

Just as he turned the corner, a girl with short dark hair and blue eyes turned the corner and took the book he had just replaced.

The two of them stand awkwardly a week after their second (really third) meeting. They could sit down in one of Crown Arcade’s many booths, especially since it was a slow day, but that would mean sitting across from one another or, God forbid, beside one another.

She’s still not sure trusting him is a logical decision.

He’s still not sure if she even wants to talk to him.

The tension is thick and cloying, a sensation like wearing an old frayed sweater by a campfire.

“So… um… you like to read?”

It’s a dumb question. Between the three books she’s carrying and the reading glasses in her pocket, anyone could see that.

“Yes,” she answers simply. There’s no malice in her voice, but no feeling either. It’s a simple fact.

He retreats to his room when he returns home, trying to write his heart out on a yellow legal pad and trying to take his mind off how Mizuno could even tolerate him ever again.

It’s all chicken scratch though. Even simple fluff poems about flowers being pretty seem to be hard for him to write.

A call from his prince draws him out of his stupor and into battle against a leftover creature.

It’s a bulky, bulbous monster called a Daimon that was apparently made by science.

“Are we winning?” Nephrite calls after his sneak attack completely fails.

“Do you want the truth or one of those little white lies to make you feel better?”

Jadeite’s frustration is understandable, if the improvised bandage on his leg is anything to go on. Mars’s fire seems to have no effect on the creature, Tuxedo Kamen and Sailor Moon are pinned by the Daimon’s onslaught with Nephrite and the other senshi are still trying to make their way across town.

“Mercury Aqua Rhapsody!”

Glittering streams of water streak at the creature, enveloping it in ice and suddenly, Zoisite’s mind fills with descriptions for the attack and for the trickling otherworldly harp strings that accompany it.

Even when Sailor Moon purifies the creature in a dazzling display, Zoisite’s attention is still on the Senshi of Water.

The muse has struck him hard and maybe he can work up the nerve to thank her.

She recognizes his words when he submits to her, on a sheet of green paper, a poem about Hermes.

He recognizes her’s when he sees her handwriting in her little blue notebook.

Soon, little notes are passed between them. Verses plucked out of the ether to make little compliments.

Soon, they’re talking at length of wordsmiths and writers; who they like, who has the best descriptions, which would fit with music, which writer sounds like they would have voted for Shinzo Abe. Soon, it grows more intimate. Love poems, shared between the two of them, games that become heated the more passionate the poetry.

And the two of them begin to wonder when their games will be played to a work of their own composition.

[ladysomething]

Hiiiii!

First of all, all hail our queen, this chapter blew my mind, and writing with injured wrist is impressive as hell! (Take all time you need, perfection takes time and patience is a virtue, some should remember that)

Now I also totally get if you won’t answer this ask because of the second part, so I will praise your work some more: when you eventually finish, the quality of writing and the plot and everything will definitely make this THEE fic to be turned into a real life book, it’s better than most of contemporary literature out there right now!

What I wanted to ask (besides the praise bc fr this is right now THAT fic) how do you feel about the comments, as there are currently three types of comments (if I may analyse a bit - max is sad hence I am sad commenters, praising the work and third type: did you even?-ers) and reading them I got a feeling that some of them are taking this whole fic a bit too seriously? I get it, freedom of expression, but why do some feel the need to basically attack (DiD yOu EvEn ReAd ThE pReViOuS- obviously we all did 😬) other users for expressing their opinion on the work? Do you have any thoughts on that? Obviously high engagement is good for the fic but as someone who likes to read the comments as well, it wasn’t as pleasant as it usually is today.

Again, as I said, no pressure to answer (because it might create a discourse in your asks)🩷

Loved every chapter, excited for some more lore, whenever it might come to light.

imagine me turning a 300k omega verse fic into my debut novel. what a power move from me.

and to answer your questions ... ok, bear with me here, because I already know I'm about to ramble.

but I guess. I don't really know how I feel about it. on the one hand, it's very flattering for people to feel that strongly. on the other, I don't like that readers can make other readers uncomfortable.

but then, I'm not entirely sure what place I'm supposed to have in that discourse. it's not really for me to decide what insights readers do or don't have, or how they engage with other people. I would always step in if things got genuinely nasty (especially if its in the comment section of the fic), which I have done in the past, but an author's responsibility is kind of a grey area in fic.

I of course wish that people could always speak kindly to each other, but I also think it's easy for tone to be misinterpreted in comments. I also don't see the comments linearly - when I get emails saying there's been a comment, the email doesn't tell me its in response to another comment. I have to go and seek that information out, which I often don't do.

all of which is to say - I don't usually know what kinds of conversations are happening underneath chapters, particularly when there are as many comments as there was on this chapter.

as for why I think it's happening ... honestly, I just think that this chapter stirred up a lot of emotion for a lot of people. most readers have either been on team Max or team Charles for a long time now, and from what I've observed, their immediate reaction is always to take the side of THEIR character. I think they often do also come back and go "hm, maybe the other person had some points too" but in the moment, the immediate, knee jerk reaction is to defend their character, and to "hate" on the other one. that's always going to spark discourse, because nobody can really agree on who's right and who's wrong in this fic (which is by design, of course).

anyway, I hope that kind of provided a little bit on insight.

[hazeism]

hi!! wanted to ask if you have any favorite books, either that you've read recently or of all time. Your prose is insane and I need to broaden my own vocabulary so if you have any book recs, fiction or nonfiction, I'd love to know :')

Hii :D ! ahaha, what a well-timed question; lately I've become the kind of guy who just really wants to talk about what people are reading, or are planning to read, and responding in kind, so thanks for giving me an opportunity to indulge that, haha. What a wicked invention the printing press was!!! (Also--thank you!! I'm glad my prose is to your taste. I'm happy !💕)

If you don't mind, I'll put a cut on this right away, because I know I'm very talkative, but let me put a TLDR above for all the novels/authors I mention here. Disclaimer also that I am kind of a dunce (I think you know this) so I like silly shit a lot of times . please be nice to me adfhbjkdg. :D

(No nonfiction also because I'm a frivolous and unworldly little sprite or something but if you want straight philosophy [which counts] come back and I'll do my Top Ten Epic Platonic Dialogues Compilation for you .)

TLDR: Read any UKLG you get your hands on, Cain by Jose Saramago, or any Saramago (though maybe not Skylight, which is not a good introduction to Saramago), very much enjoyed Sartre's The Age of Reason recently, Shadow & Claw or The Fifth Head of Cerberus by Gene Wolfe. If you feel like it, come off anon and tell me what you like, so I can give more tailored recommendations!!

Now if you're asking for favorites, like just the particular and arbitrary objects of my partiality, that stir my stupid little heart, the true answer is probably UKLG's The Farthest Shore, just because it is very special to me. I can't, of course, in good conscience, recommend the third novel of a six-novel fantasy series to someone (but of course read Le Guin, everyone should be reading Le Guin, it's dire for universal soteriology that we all read Le Guin; You'll probably get told to start with Left Hand of Darkness, and that's pretty solid. I liked The Lathe of Heaven as well. And if you read any Le Guin it doesn't hurt to pick up a copy of the Tao. I love the Tao man.)

Some friendlier recommendations, though:

José Saramago is someone I really consider peerless; There's no way to pick up a Saramago and not know who's written it. Cain is a bit drier, a bit more abrasive (almost accusatory, in that particular way you'll find in a Buddhist parable) and bleak than some other Saramagos, but it's one I like (perhaps for the trite reason that I like bucolic atmospheres and Classical antiquity as a setting) so it's the one I'll put forward.

Uhh, I've also been enjoying Sartre's Roads to Freedom lately, starting with The Age Of Reason. I'm partway through the second novel and umm... despite all the other things you could say about Sartre, lmfao, let it not be said that he is not a serious literary force. Serious is maybe the only word for it. Dire, too. I keep a commonplace book, so usually I take excerpts, but this was the first time in memory that I felt compelled to commit entire pages, ahah (I just took pictures though, fuck copying all that).

If you're itching for esoteric language, Shadow of the Torturer (as usually collected with Claw of the Conciliator in a single omnibus edition titled Shadow & Claw; the first of the give-or-take five volume Urth series) by Gene Wolfe will scratch you BLOODY. If you're particularly fussy, you might be irritated by your compulsion to Google, but I find it really makes the experience when you type in a word and the only results are "what the fuck did Gene Wolfe mean by this?" hahaha; Honestly, though, those kinds of complaints are borne from a lack of immersion, but you'll notice pretty quickly that the verbiage is a pretty crucial vehicle OF the immersion.

It may or may not become a commitment, though, if you like Urth enough to want to read through, so if you want Wolfe without the strings--though less of the exciting vocabulary, which is pretty necessarily constrained to Urth--I'd really highly recommend The Fifth Head of Cerberus (the novella OR the novel, I mean the former is volumized in the latter so just start it and if you feel like stopping then stop, haha). Mr. Terminal E is incredible but I scrape enough time out of my daily life to gush about his crazy literary density so I won't do it again here (you should ask my coworker, lmfao, who one time went "stop, hold on, hold on." because my face started getting really red while I was explaining to him some Wolfean gesture). If you read any Wolfe, and I mean ANY Wolfe, because his permatypes and his manipulations of them are endlessly interesting, feel free to come back and chat with me over it!!!

I guess I have to disclaim that my habit is mostly to pick through an author's corpus over a course of, usually, a couple years, and then sometimes I'll read things that will inform my understanding of the genre conventions or currents that the author is writing in (been enjoying Golden Age sci-fi recently)--it's not really as deliberate of a process as it sounds, but I think if you were to map my habits, that's the landscape of it. This means, though, that my reading is actually pretty narrow in scope, and I am not very well read or very knowledgeable in general (who is, in this economy) but it does mean that of the authors I do like, I can probably find the novel that'll work best for your taste.

If you want to come off anon, or I guess just leave another message, haha, (or if someone else wants to, idgaf, we're all friends here at tumblr user hazeism) describing the things you like or look for in a novel I can probably give you a more relevant recommendation. I've been dosing people up a lot lately tbh, it's like a parlor trick I've been doing; I have a conversation with someone and afterwards they'll have a PDF with a relevant Asimov story in their messages, hahaha. I can't help myself sometimes.

Come back anyway, though, if you read anything I talked about, okay? I want to hear about it 🥺

And alsooo (turning to face the audience) if anyone ever wants to put recs in my inbox (or my dms : ) slow replies though sorry I'm a hermit) I'd be happy to take 'em down. Can't guarantee I'll read them in a timely manner, or that you'll ever find out if/when I do, but it's good for me to leave my comfort zone.

[grassangel]

Thoughts on GO2

Spoilers ahead

So I might just be a bit pleased with myself that I read Bad Grace, oh, 15 years ago? Which I always muddle up with Manchester Lost, but is definitely the superior fanfic because it's actually kind of likely. And given the ending of GO2? Very definitely likely that like Bad Grace, the second coming of Christ is going to be a girl and she, like Adam, will agree that Earth's quite nice actually. (And be implied to get together.)

Which will make some fans complain that Gneil has been reading fanfic on the sly, but like. that's the hallmark of good fanfic: working with the same ingredients and stirring in a similar fashion landing you a similar dish. And the Good Omens fandom is over 30 years old, there's been plenty of time to experiment with technique and ingredient combos.

And possibly also why Gneil has emphasised he can't read fanfic, because yeah, this does happen often enough that writers/authors will tread the same path as fic writers and have to prove their independent working.

Am I a bit miffed that the third act isn't Heaven, Hell and humans waging war against God? A little. But I suppose my personal second act headcanon of Heaven & Hell vs humans as the official third/final act is good too.

Anyway, I did feel the six episodes was a bit too long for what Gneil admits is pretty much a bridging season to get everyone into position for how the sequel would have started. Even if having s1: 6 episodes, s2: 6 episodes and s3: 6 episodes all lined up read like 666 is very funny. I did like that we finally got a bit more of Crowley Questioning things, Aziraphale's awful 'the poor have more chances to do good!' stance and showing, if not saying, that demons are from angelic stock. (I might have been mentally shouting 'Angelic stock!' every time I saw Crowley in his heavenly disguise before watching this season.)

There was a lot of 'Aziraphale and Crowley through history' - which yes, we all loved the cold open in s1, but I at least liked it because it was a depiction of The Arrangement and how it came about - and these bits in this season were decidedly NOT about The Arrangement. (Though again, I did like how we were shown Crowley is skeptical of this whole 'God's plan' thing.)

I would have appreciated more layering to the narrative and more parallels to Crowley and Aziraphale. Yes, we got Maggie and Nina, Gabriel and Beezlebub, but both of those pairings barely featured. Personally I'd have included Beezlebub in the Job sequence to further ram home the whole 'equal but opposite' thing. I'm surprised there wasn't a flashback to Jane Austen's heist with pointedly familiar people, and I would have rather had that than the WWII sequence, which rather lacked the opposite, but equally incompetent, heavenly snooping. Maybe have Nina and Maggie going around after Aziraphale and Crowley talking to the other shopkeepers about Nina's stance on the lights. Have a bit more demonic grumbling about Beezlebub - whether about her being a hardass trying to track Gabriel down or her not doing much since the Armagedidn't. Also, more of the fly and Jim being protective about it.

Because yeah, the last episode didn't quite feel earned. It would have felt more fitting to keep the general last 10 minutes, but like how Maggie and Nina aren't a certain thing, Aziraphale and Crowley aren't either so what is the point of the kiss? Like keep Aziraphale's notion of turning Crowley 'good' (please read that in the same way Michelle Gomez said 'good' in an extremely thick Scottish accent as Missy) and his extremely misguided belief that Heaven is good because they're heaven, but less kissing and more appealing that they're the same and humans don't need either demons or angels to do good or evil. (I personally love to hate Aziraphale being an asshole, and that was possibly the truest to the book part of the series.) (And while I do love a 'Crowley turns back into an angel' fic, I pretty much only like it when it's incidental/he does too many 'good' things/God decides to fuck around.)

No notes given on Muriel. I love her and want to be her friend.