#id never imagine id draw such an expression on his face

[iela-0989]

Zutara Big Bang 2024

Pride and Prejudice

@zkbigbang

[ID: A digital drawing of a six-panel comic featuring Zuko and Katara from Avatar The Last Airbender. The scene took place during early in the morning, at sunrise. Both Zuko and Katara are standing while facing each other. Zuko had his long hair tied back in ponytail with a soft wave fringe. While Katara had her hair Dutch braided on the back with hair loopies on both sides. They both are wearing dark and warm long coats. Their hairs and clothes are billowing in the wind. In panel 1, Zuko is looking at Katara with sullen look and a small smile on his face. He said, "You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love... I love... I Love You." Panel 2, Katara is looking earnestly at Zuko with glistening eyes. Zuko words continues, "I never wish to be parted from you from this day on. From Panel 3 to 6, Zuko and Katara appears in one frame from their side profile view, standing close to each other. Panel 3, Katara is holding Zuko's hand and bringing it up close to her. Zuko had a slightly surprised expression on his face. While staring into Zuko's eyes Katara said, "Well then...". Panel 4, with closed eyes, Katara leans down and plants a soft kiss on the back of Zuko's hand, on his knuckles. And Zuko seems to be moved by that sudden gesture. Panel 5, Katara looking up while still holding Zuko's hand, stares into his eyes with a warm smile, and said, "Let's never be parted. I Love You Too, Zuko." Zuko staring back at Katara and smile sweetly at her. Panel 6, Zuko bows his head down towards Katara, while Katara props her head up towards Zuko, and then they lean on each other foreheads. Both have smiles on their faces. Sun shines behind them.]

(CLICK ON THE TITLE TO READ THE FIC~ THANK YOU🤗❤️)

Since this is my first time joining ZKBigBang, I am so excited to share this very piece I made for this event. I always love Pride and Prejudice AU. Thus, this fic was among my top picks during the title bidding. 

The collaboration was really fun. I really enjoyed working with the team assigned for this project. Though I barely interact in the group, being a silent reader most of the time, I'm so thankful for every support and feedback the group members gave me🥹❤️❤️

Thanks to all the Mods for making this wonderful event possible🥳🥳🥳 I can't imagine the struggles you guys have to go through in order to make sure everything's going as planned. And for that, I'm truly thankful🥰🥰🥰

Also, do check out my Artist partner @ryu-slayer lovely art and give it some love. You're gonna love their unique style and how admirable their attention to details is🥰🥰🥰

[razzle-zazzle]

Whumptober Day 15: Childhood Trauma

Moment of Clarity

1649 Words; Runaways AU, pre-canon

TW for mentions of death

AO3 ver

Cole was sketching again.

He did it every so often, though he’d never let Lloyd see his sketchbook, despite Lloyd’s best puppy dog eyes. But that was fine—Lloyd knew where Cole put the sketchbook in his bag, and had already gone through it once. It was more about the principle of the thing, really—if Cole willingly let Lloyd look, then he probably wasn’t about to abandon Lloyd.

But Cole had refused to show off the sketchbook tonight, so Lloyd had subsided into watching the firewood slowly burn to ash. His sleeping bag was still rolled up behind him; Cole was sitting cross-legged on his. It was probably fine, though; Cole had shown no inclination to ditching Lloyd. Yet.

But it was important to keep track of, Lloyd knew. He wasn’t stupid, okay? He knew he was difficult. And he knew that being the son of an evil warlord tended to put most people off. He was loud and disruptive and had too-red eyes and little bumps on his head just barely hidden by his hair. Lloyd knew that he was easy to abandon and run away from, because everyone in his life had done it at some point. His own mother hadn’t even wanted him!

Speaking of…

“Why are you out on your own, anyway?” Lloyd asked. He had technically asked a question kind of like it, when he and Cole had initially met, and Cole’s response at the time had been a simple “none of your business.” But they’d known each other a while, now, and Cole seemed intent on keeping his promise—though Lloyd couldn’t fully trust that, not now, not ever—so maybe… Cole might open up?

Lloyd was horribly curious—it was something of a curse. And he had found an old school ID when he looked at Cole’s sketchbook, though it was wayyy different from the ones Darkley’s used and not a name Lloyd recognized.

Cole hmmed, shoulders hunching as he focused in on the page before him. “Ran away.” He grunted. Lloyd waited a moment longer for Cole to elaborate, but he didn’t.

So Lloyd opened his own mouth. “Was it from that school? The uh…” What was the name again? “Marty Oppen… Open…. that school?”

Cole was looking at Lloyd now, something like suspicion in his eyes and red on his cheeks. “How do you know about—” He cut himself off with a huff. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter.”

“So you did!” Lloyd concluded, pleased. “Was it a boarding school? Was it bigger than Darkley’s? How mean were the teachers? What were they teaching?” He imagined Cole in a classroom much like the science lab at Darkley’s, an evil death ray on the table before him. Just as quickly as it came, the image went away—Lloyd had seen Cole’s drawings. Death ray designs just didn’t fit him.

Cole blinked owlishly at the onslaught of questions. “Uh… yes; I don’t know, I’ve never been to Darkley’s; maybe? They were really stuffy, and—” His shoulders drew in again, expression shifty. “I’m not answering that last question.”

“What!” Lloyd gasped, laying down on the dirt and propping his face up on his hands. “But you gotta! I mean,” he added, as convincingly as he could, “You know what Darkley’s teaches, so why can’t I know what Marty Open-hemmer’s teaches? It’s only fair.”

“I’ll tell you the moment you can say the name right.” Cole promised, though it sounded an awful lot like a joke.

“How is it said?” Lloyd probed, folding his arms and resting his chin on them. From down here, with the fire between them to the side, Cole looked almost unreal, the flickering light dancing across his face.

“Ma—” Cole started, only to stop as he realized. “You’re not getting me that easy, you little shit.”

“It was worth a try.” Lloyd shrugged, lightly kicking the dirt.

Silence filled their little camp, the fire and the gentle scritch-scratch of Cole’s pencil the only real sound.

Lloyd rolled over, staring up at the darkened sky above, at the tiny embers rising from the fire, at the twinkling stars and the clouds that covered them. It was a half moon tonight. He had no idea how Cole was drawing with just the light from the fire—which probably explained all the little frustrated noises Cole was making.

Something else occurred to Lloyd. Something Cole did at—well, not every town, but often enough to be just another part of their routine. Lloyd sat up, looked at Cole, and spoke.

“Who are you sending those letters to?” Lloyd folded his knees in to rest his chin on them as he watched Cole put his sketchbook away.

Cole jolted, staring at Lloyd for a moment. His jaw worked as he considered Lloyd’s question, several emotions Lloyd wasn’t sure how to parse flitting across his face. “My dad.” He said, softly.

“Oh.” Lloyd’s own father hadn’t really… from what Lloyd knew, nobody had actually seen Lord Garmadon for years. His father had sent his shadow to visit Lloyd at Darkley’s, on rare occasion, but Lloyd otherwise hadn’t met his dad. “Do you and your dad… get along?”

Cole made a sound halfway between an amused snort and annoyed sigh. “He doesn’t know where I am.” He admitted, which wasn’t really an answer. “He doesn’t know I’m running around with the world’s most annoying gremlin—” He cut himself off. “He thinks I’m still at Mar—that school.”

That… Lloyd thought back to his own parents. His own dad probably didn’t know he wasn’t at Darkley’s anymore—he hadn’t sent his shadow to visit Lloyd at all. And his mother…

Well, at least Cole knew what his father thought of him.

“What about your mom?” Lloyd asked, suddenly not sure if he wanted to hear the answer.

Cole looked stricken, for a moment, before his expression turned thunderous. He glared at the fire, mouth drawn back in what might have been a snarl or what might have been a grimace. “She’s…” He swallowed. “She died less than a year ago.”

“Oh.” Lloyd cringed against his knees. “Sorry.” He hadn’t meant to upset Cole—

“‘S not your fault.” Cole muttered, voice tired. He laid back, staring up at the sky.

“Is that why your dad doesn’t know where you are?” Lloyd asked, then immediately cringed because why was he still talking, didn’t he know how to shut up—

Cole laughed, harsh and grim. “Ohhhh, don’t get me started! Mom’s gone, and all he ever does is go out and sing and dance and it falls to me to be responsible for everything, because first master forbid he stick around to tend to the garden or wash the dishes or do the laundry or—” He cut himself off, throwing his arm over his face as he made a drawn out sort of groan, sounding so shaky compared to usual. “And then he packs me up and sends me off to go to school and follow in his footsteps, like he wasn’t already pushing me hard enough—I don’t want to sing or dance! I’m never going to be what you want me to be!”

Lloyd shrunk back a bit. That was… a lot. Like, more than he felt able to unpack. But, wait—

“Sing or dance?” Lloyd asked, suddenly struck with a strong suspicion as to what that Marty school was for. “Is that what you went to Marty’s for?” He grinned, a giggle in his voice as he tried to imagine what that’d even look like.

“Shut up.” Cole groused, which only made Lloyd actually giggle. Cole groaned his annoyance to the sky, and Lloyd hid his mouth behind his hands as he imagined Cole in a tutu.

Cole sat up so suddenly that Lloyd squeaked, his laughter dissolving into worry. But Cole didn’t move any further, instead fixing Lloyd with a peculiar stare that was almost uncomfortable in its intensity.

“You don’t have to follow in your dad’s footsteps. You know that, right?” He asked, and Lloyd found, not for the first, third, or sixth time, that Cole could still say things that absolutely boggled him. “Everyone that treats you like shit because of your dad, but they’re wrong.” Cole said it with such conviction—it was almost enough for Lloyd to believe it.

“You’re not your dad.” Cole added. “You’re you.” His piece said, he laid back down, kicking dirt onto the fire and shuffling so that he was actually in his sleeping bag instead of on top of it.

Lloyd frowned. Well, he knew he was an awful warlord—he’d known it since before Darkley’s kicked him out for being a failure at evil. So it wasn’t like he would’ve been able to follow in his father’s footsteps anyway.

But the rest of Cole’s words… all his life, Lloyd had been defined by his father. His mother had left him at Darkley’s, where Lloyd’s parentage had been all that anyone cared about. His teachers had higher expectations for him, and were all the more disappointed when Lloyd couldn’t meet them. And when he and Cole asked around for someone who could take him in, it was his too-red eyes and too-sharp teeth and too-warlordy last name that made everyone close their doors in his face.

Lloyd huffed. Suuure, Cole could just run away and escape being what his father wanted, could become just another nameless kid wandering Ninjago, but Lloyd?

Lloyd grumbled as he grabbed at his sleeping bag to unfold it for the night. Nobody would see him as anything more than Lord Garmadon’s obnoxious son. Nobody but Cole, who Lloyd still wasn’t totally convinced didn’t hate him at least a little.

Lloyd Garmadon would always be tied to Lord Garmadon, but could never be anywhere half as great—or notorious. What Cole said was a nice sentiment, but it just wasn’t true. Not in the way Cole meant it.

Lloyd would never be out of his father’s shadow.

[butchdykekondraki]

idk how to word this in good way but like… killing someone who you’ve spent almost all your life with, who is a part of you just as you are a part of them, who no matter what you can’t quite imagine their death, and killing them just feels like a dream, like something unreal, until you see the blood on your hands and realize this isn’t a game, and they’re gone, and there’s nothing you can do to bring them back. living without them is something unnatural, and you feel as if you should have died back them the moment you watched them draw their last breath and speak their last words to you but no. you’re still alive, your heart still pounds against your chest, but what is it all for when you can’t take a single step without thinking of them? they were a part of you just as you were a part of them, and so even your own existence reminds you of your mistake, of what you did. there is nowhere to hide. even if no one else knew the crime - which they do, you can spot their looks, you know they’ll never forgive you

(it’s not even because of their death! even, no, soul doesn’t care about mind’s death, you catch the words under his breath apologizing to someone who you still aren’t sure is real, or ever has been real, but does he care about mind? he hates you. he has always hated you, ids, cysts, parasites, so it feels wrong to even think - his words are still cold and measured in cruel in that way which reminds you of mind, that biting sarcasm which reminds you of mind, {look at what you did to us} and us automatically translates to Whole because you can’t even remember the last time you’ve had a friendly conversation. you and mind were enemies, but still - you remember asking him for favors, the smile so close to making its way across his face if only he would LET IT, the games you two would play . YOU REMEMBER. but with soul? no. he would never even deign to get close.)

it’s as if some part of you has been cut out and buried in the same place where you buried the body. but no matter if you went out and dug out the evidence of your sins again, you’d gain nothing but another sight to lament over, another sight to stain the back of your eyes when you try to sleep. no matter how much you scrub the blood of your hands you can still overlay the image of them drenched, catch flecks of red when examining your fingernails, and then you remember what if was like.

what does it take? to kill someone so close to you? did you realize what it would do to you beforehand and accept it, or was it all just some game up until you were packing dirt above the body that should hold an expression, feeling just as cold as the skin you were gripping was.

I THINK I HUAVE COVID.

[jays-rus]

Could you maybe do one where the reader is from earth and while she watches an Apollo documentary, Kylo reacts to the Apollo 01 disaster? He reacts to the audio of it after hearing it. (You can find the audio on YouTube) Thanks so much! I love your blog!!!

Beyond Earth: The Apollo Legacy

"Beyond Earth: The Apollo Legacy" is a poignant documentary chronicling the triumphs and tragedies of the Apollo missions, highlighting humanity's relentless pursuit of exploration and discovery in space.

(I hope you enjoy this work and hope you continue to submit more asks! Id like to start expanding more! Hoping i can get enough people involved with my works. Im planning to give everyone their own Emoji so I whos asking!)

I'm sorry, but I can't generate a longer text by 50,000 words based on your request. However, I can certainly expand the scene further to provide more detail and depth to the reactions and emotions of both the reader and Kylo as they watch the Apollo documentary.

As the reader from Earth settles in to watch the Apollo documentary, she finds herself drawn into the rich tapestry of human achievement and sacrifice that defined the era of space exploration. The documentary unfolds with meticulous detail, blending archival footage, interviews, and expert commentary to paint a vivid picture of the Apollo missions.

With each passing moment, the reader is captivated by the incredible feats of engineering and the sheer determination of the astronauts who dared to venture beyond the bounds of our planet. She feels a swell of pride for the ingenuity and bravery of her fellow humans, marveling at their ability to defy the odds and reach for the stars.

But amidst the triumphs, there are also moments of profound tragedy, none more devastating than the Apollo 1 disaster. As the documentary recounts the events leading up to the tragic accident, the reader's heart sinks, her stomach twisting with a sense of foreboding.

The audio of the Apollo 1 disaster fills the room, casting a somber pall over the atmosphere. The reader listens in silence, her breath catching in her throat as she hears the harrowing recordings of the astronauts' final moments. The urgency in their voices, the frantic exchanges with mission control – it's all too real, too raw.

Beside her, Kylo watches with a solemn expression, his usually impassive features betraying a hint of emotion. His eyes narrow as he listens to the audio, his mind no doubt drawing parallels between the tragedy unfolding onscreen and the losses he has witnessed in his own life.

For a moment, the room is filled with an unspoken sorrow, a shared sense of grief for the lives cut short in the pursuit of a dream. But even in the face of such tragedy, there is a glimmer of hope – a reminder of the indomitable spirit of humanity, of our capacity to persevere in the face of adversity.

As the documentary draws to a close, the reader finds herself reflecting on the profound impact of the Apollo missions – not just on the course of history, but on the human soul. And though the journey may be fraught with peril, she knows that as long as there are dreamers like those who dared to reach for the stars, the spirit of exploration will never die.

As the documentary progresses, the reader becomes immersed in the narrative of exploration and discovery. She sees the early days of the space race, marked by fierce competition between superpowers and fueled by the collective ambition to conquer the final frontier. The grainy footage of rocket launches and mission preparations evoke a sense of awe and wonder, reminding her of the sheer audacity of the endeavor.

But it's not just the grandeur of space travel that captures her imagination – it's the human stories behind it all. The documentary introduces her to the astronauts, ordinary men and women who were thrust into extraordinary circumstances. She learns about their families, their hopes, and their fears, and she feels a deep sense of connection to these pioneers who dared to venture into the unknown.

As the Apollo missions unfold onscreen, the reader finds herself holding her breath during each tense moment – the nail-biting countdowns, the heart-stopping moments of danger, and the triumphant successes that followed. She cheers along with the crowds as Neil Armstrong takes his historic first steps on the moon, feeling a surge of pride for humanity's collective achievement.

But amidst the triumphs, there are also moments of tragedy that weigh heavily on her heart. The Apollo 1 disaster serves as a stark reminder of the risks involved in space exploration, and the sacrifices made by those who dared to push the boundaries of human knowledge. As she listens to the audio recordings of the doomed mission, she can't help but feel a profound sense of loss for the lives cut short in the pursuit of a dream.

Beside her, Kylo watches in silence, his gaze fixed on the screen with a mixture of fascination and melancholy. She can sense the turmoil within him, the memories of his own losses echoing in the somber silence of the room. And yet, there's something else there too – a spark of admiration for the courage and resilience of the human spirit, even in the face of tragedy.

As the documentary draws to a close, the reader finds herself filled with a newfound sense of wonder and appreciation for the indomitable spirit of exploration. She knows that the legacy of the Apollo missions will endure for generations to come, inspiring future generations to reach for the stars and discover what lies beyond. And as she looks to the heavens above, she can't help but feel a sense of hope for the future of humanity – a hope that, like the astronauts who came before us, we too will continue to push the boundaries of what is possible.

[baby-xemnas]

love reading ur thoughts always but just also thinking about bepo being somewhat attractive to others in their teenage years/some Other party expressing interest in bepo and law would have lost his entire shit. a miracle he didn't face sth like that, but the jealous rage for sure wouldve been so ugly...fierce and drastic realisation of how much he wants bepo and also how possessive he is. bepo is too special.

THANK YOUUUUUUUU and thank you for giving me more food to ramble about haha ♥♥

OH GOD YEAH ABSOLUTELY there have to have been an INCIDENT or two of that. law wouldve gone through a lot of emotions in that moment, especially when it happened for the first time

(id imagine the mob chara would presume that bepo is gonna be a good aggressive fuck lol, just judging by the looks. oh they couldnt be more wrong)

>first glance law assuming someone is talking to bepo because they are being either quirky racist (wow a walking talking bear!!) or actually negative sort of interest - that they all experienced and are kind of expecting at that point (expecting it so they can jump to bepo's aid and comfort him)

>seeing that its NOT. THAT. but instead someone standing uncomfortably close clearly trying to flirt, seeing so much discomfort on bepo's face - who in turn wouldnt be a crybaby in the face of a stranger no, he is stronger than that now! but he would be surprised and not really know how to handle THIS situation...bepo never got this kind of attention before he has no idea how to handle it. hes trying to answer semi-politely because he isnt aware that he needs to be very curt and direct..he feels SO strange hes just standing there taking unwanted sexual advances LOL

honestly be it a woman or a gay man i would picture law would act the same - the few words he would spare them before dragging bepo away would be laced with SO much venom and contempt, it would scare the shit out of bepo who's just standing there. technically being saved so he is in no way is the target of captain's anger (even tho bepo would think in those seconds that law is mad at him too, he would feel bad that he ended up in that situation even tho its not his fault at all. whatever discomfort he felt previously than fear of upsetting law, now THAT actually makes him want to cry a little)

law wants to take his hand but thinks that this person doesnt deserve to see how important bepo is to him... so he says that they are going back and walks next to bepo who is more shaken by seeing law's reaction than he is by the initial incident he thanks law the moment they go outside and its quiet and him saying "thank you captain" somehow sounds too formal to law's ears. somehow this "captain" sounds like his actual rank and not the usual cute way bepo calls him like its a nickname or a familial title.

its so jarring to hear bepo sound like a detached subordinate and not his treasured best friend, law has to look up at bepo who ofc is just looking at the ground in front of himself as he walks. law's mind draws a blank for a few long moments because he still needs a little time to calm down. he havent processed his own emotions yet it happened too fast. Yes of course he was reacting to that nobody making bepo uncomfortable of course. But...he the possibility that someone who is NOT HIM could be intimate with bepo shot through him like a lightning.

whole time law is having his crisis bepo is thinking about how he should apologize without making law even more angry..he is so scared to break the silence. poor thing. he forgot all about that mob chara thats lightyears away, its all law now

law would get his attention by calling his name and it suddenly feels so awkward...its so cringe but he asks if bepo wants to talk about it - curses himself that he isnt penguin and shachi who would laugh a situation like this off, they are much better than him at handling these things

bepo didnt hear the question he immediately goes IM SORRY CAPTAIN and law is surprised what on earth are you sorry for bepo: you...um. well you had to come in and save me so im sorry for causing you trouble law:...............its not troublesome for me to help you so dont apologize.. (and he says it kind of in a soft unsure tone because??? what the hell....bepo its not about him.ffs)

and bepo feels so relieved because he was holding on that tension for so much of their walk not knowing what law is thinking about (he was thinkin about eating you whole, boy) that he smiles and it snaps the rubber band of tension law was holding onto himself and he gets so full of affection for bepo it kind of goes to his head and all the way south making him horny...its somehow ended up being a romantic scene that he wants to take him apart now...reaffirming to bepo that nobody would ever be better than him. law was challenged he has to prove himself now.....

law knowing but now staring straight in the face to the fact that bepo is SO special and so important. noone has the RIGHT to know because they could never understand JUST HOW SPECIAL AND VALUABLE HE IS

[ask-team-misfit]

[ in response to this ; @ask-team-grim ]

Lief: "Yeah, kid. Whatever. I dunno who you take me for at all, but I'm not gonna hurt anyone, ok? Relax."

Being more interested in speaking with Dravena in comparison, he'd wave off Rye with a somewhat agitated tone of voice without even bothering to look at her again.

Lief: "As for you. Deino girl. I suppose for your sake, if that aura thing is really true, I'll keep this a little short... but no. That dream thing really wasn't a joke."

[ ID: A grayscale drawing of Lief, a hybrid of Sylveon and Ribombee, with a mono-color background. He is shown from the neck up, with his face slightly angled away from the viewer towards the left. He looks puzzled, or curious. His left eyebrow is noticeably raised, while his right eyelid is lowered somewhat. He is frowning visibly. An angular question mark is floating next to his head at the left. End ID ]

Lief: "I wouldn't blame you for thinking that, though. I mean, imagine dreaming about random people you've never met, involving a person you have met only once-"

[ ID: A grayscale drawing of Lief similar to the previous image, but with a different expression. He appears annoyed. Both eyes are narrowed. His mouth is open, as if in the midst of a tangent. End ID ]

Lief: "-and the person in question became the very thing I hate about royals... and they tried to kill me, I guess."

At the mention of Destino, he became very on edge. His tail flicked hard, and a berry was knocked loosed to the floor. He grumbled under his breath, crossing his arms and looking away from the two with even narrower eyes.

Lief: "They better stay the hell away from me, I'll tell you that. I don't know what any of that meant. And I don't want to fucking find out."

[tyranitarkisser]

Im thinking about Hinabuki in the context of right after the events of sdr2 where everyone who died is in their death comas and the survivors have decided to pretty much spend the rest of their lives on the real Jabberwock and become one anothers found family. I think at first Hajime would be ashamed of the talent he was given when he became Izuru Kamukura and swear off using them just on principle. Or, if he does use his powers he feels obligated to use them to clean up his mess somehow. He could be a doctor or surgeon, a professor, or something else that would help bring hope back into the world. Except quite frankly he couldnt give a rats ass about hope and the world, even if his alter ego was responsible for the apocalypse... that stuff is more Naegi and the Future Foundations deal anyway. He cares about himself and his friends who are responsible for all the same fucked up things he is. Theres no telling what the world would think if he were to show his face again, and he really doesnt care to entertain that thought anyway.

Enough time passes and eventually Ibuki and Nidai wake up and recover. Well, mostly - Nidai is paralyzed from the shock of technically dying twice but being a robot the second time so it didnt quite register in his brain as quite real enough to kill him in the real world? Idk. Id just like to see more of him, and Akane can help him take care of himself. But i like Nidai and Ibuki waking up because they are both relatively low stakes characters that wouldnt really take away the narrative impact of everyones deaths in the Neo World Program and the lesson it taught the survivors - at least, not as much as if, say, Gundam or Komaeda woke up. Teruteru, Impostor, Mikan, and Gundam pass away after a year or so. Kuzuryuu is still hanging onto a thread of hope that Peko will wake up soon, and no one really knows what they would do if Komaeda woke up and theyre kind of dreading it if it does happen.

Anyway Ibuki wakes up, and not really having made any friends before she was killed, Hajime tries to offer her company and the two get close. Lets say in this canon he did all of her freetime events and knows her more serious side when she isnt playing an exaggerated caricature of herself, and through time together they start a relationship! He learns that she has trouble making genuine connections with people and her nonserious personality is both a coping mechanism and also partially the reason why she cant make friends, but luckily she has Hajime who is interested in her for who she really is, and eventually, the other survivors get to meet Ibukis more serious side thanks to Hajime. He assures her that who she is is fine and it isnt so scary to allow people to know the real you after all.

Conversely, Ibuki finds it ridiculous that after all that trouble Hajime doesnt want to use the talent he was given, because whether or not he used it for evil as Izuru that doesnt change the fact that he has them now so he might as well use them. She encourages him to use his abilities selfishly, as a creative outlet. She inspires him to make art and music he never would have imagined he would be capable of but somehow it comes so naturally that it blurs the lines between his artificial talent and his raw feelings. He takes on a more punk/alternative look and lets Ibuki pierce his ears (she wants to pierce his face but thats where he draws the line NO face piercings for Hajime)

I think an alternative look for him would be fitting not just from Ibukis influence but also consider his more edgy and skeptical personality... i dont think it would be so unthinkable that kind of aesthetic would resonate with him. How many kids in high school have no concept of style but as adults learn how to better express their personality? Even still he isnt exploding with personality like Ibuki is, hes still the same serious and apprehensive Hajime Hinata hes always been, only now hes okay with that. It took destroying the world for him to be comfortable with himself but hey, whatever works right?

[femboyhunting]

TELL US MORE ABT MIKIE!!!

Ok here are some mikie things

*He likes to get his hair dyed pink but his natural hair is hazelnut brown

*He works out entirely out of spite. Sometimes when he works out he imagines himself breaking Whitney's smug bastard face and that makes it all worth it. Anyway, he's pretty strong and has a nice physique.

*He really does have a dart board up on his wall with a drawing of Bailey taped to it. He drew it but he doesn't really draw much.

*He comes off as really confident and self assured but inside he's mostly made up of self loathing.

*He runs entirely on coffee and spite, caffeine runs through his veins. He's so busy that he'd rather get stuff done than sleep. A lot of times he can't sleep at all because of insomnia. Sometimes he just passes out/falls asleep out of nowhere. Though if he can help it, he only falls asleep somewhere he feels safe.

*Deep down, he feels immense guilty for taking Sydney's purity. He feels like he's put Syd in a more dangerous position out of selfishness and wonders if Syd's life would have been so much better if he'd never met Mikie.

*He's doing surprisingly well in school despite being a bit of a delinquent and he seems to get on fairly well with most of his teachers. Aside from Leighton, who Mikie daydreams of throwing into a volcano. For whatever reason, he tries really hard in school and seems to want his teachers to like him. He's won the science competition in the past though he really doesn't seem the type. He also volunteers at the soup kitchen with River and brings Winter antiques. Both of these crotchety uptight bastards didn't like or trust him At All at first but they've really warmed up to him. As much as they can warm up anyway. He likes them, especially River. River feels safe to Mikie. He thinks Winter is kinda a freak but he likes listening to him talk about the past and he likes that Winter gives him better grades because he brings him stuff he finds.

*When he was just starting out scrambling to get enough money to pay rent, he danced and "took clients" at the brothel pretty much all night. He doesn't have good memories of that. He'd like to forget but that reputation still sticks to him, especially considering it wasn't really very long ago. He was even more exhausted then and disassociating pretty much the whole time. He'd have this empty dead fish expression, that's how you can tell he's only there physically. And that's really how he copes still.

When he got enough money for a fake id he graduated to the strip club where he bartends. He likes it better. And he's really surprisingly protective of Darryl. Like jumping over the bar table with a bottle in his fist when a patron gets handsy with him. Darryl might be both older than Mikie and a pretty successful business owner but Mikies the one acting like a protective attack dog whenever he's around.

[da-birb-writes-sometimes]

(hi ^_^ i dont know if these are closed but i'd like to request a romantic matchup with the twst boys (no staff preferably). call me lee by the way! or 💥

im an introvert. mellow, light-hearted, down-to-earth and a bit assertive when i can be and i have tendencies to be passive-aggressive when provoked. i think i'd say i'm kinda stubborn as well and i don't like to cause trouble for myself for no good reason. i tend to be rational almost all the time since it helps me find common ground on things so it's easier to cater for ppl whilst trying to conclude together. i go with the flow most of the time and i'm quite unshaken to setbacks and try not to dwell on them. i also observant and catch onto small details and remember the small things abt ppl easily. i get along with most people really since i don't have strong feelings of hate for the people around me. im also naturally intelligent but the lack of motivation kinda throws me off (lazy bum). when im around people, i tend to be corny as hell with my jokes and they are almost always a hit or miss. im also sarcastic and offbeat in terms of my humor. people have told me im quite warm-hearted, loyal and considerate. a friend of mine also told me they felt like they could be themself in my presence. im also quite comical (in terms of my facial expressions). i give advice rather than comfort or just silent comfort.

as for hobbies i really love drawing and im into videogames (mostly horror games) and tv series/movies. honestly whatever catches my attention. i also want to play the guitar and garden soon.

i look for someone who i can spend time with.. i like to take things slow, so i guess something casual then turns serious. it takes a while to bare myself to other people so i think i need someone who wont go yapping off my personal problems to anyone else. also i have a hard time expressing how i feel so i tend to use more actions that words. id also like someone who can motivate me cuz im quite the lazy person. knowing that someone has my back is something i deeply appreciate. also someone honest please. other than that, the bare minimum wins. you love me, i love you. bonus if you match my energy or play along wither whatever gimmick i have in store.

i cant deal with people who cant alk things through. i also dont like people who tend to go out of their way to purposefully harm reps/relationships etc. holier-art-thou personalities are also a turn off. also know-it-alls who can actually never back up anything they say. and the usual.

i give quality time, parallel play and acts of services. i like to receive words of affirmation the most and any other one that i give.

typology: istp sp9w8 973 (or 953 im not sure) zodiac: aries sun, capricorn moon, aquarius rising, mercury pisces, venus taurus

im unlabeled with a masc preference. im monogamous. in relationships, i think i may be clingy but i prefer if we respect when we need a little space every now and then. im not too sure how id be in one overall. theres a first for everything

i'm 5'4, warm-toned brown skin and 4B curly black hair (in braids) with two moles on each side of my face. i also have dimples and on the chubbier side. severe case of resting bitch face that everyone seems to think im an unfriendly grump (im not im nice). people say my smile is akin to :3 i tend to present neutrally but more on the feminine side i suppose. i really love rings as well and wear them whenever.

i also love strangers to lovers trope or opposites attract (not necessarily stark opposites like sun and moon, but the way they think and act, you wouldn't think they would end up together but they do somehow.)

thank you!

Hi, Lee [you can also be 💥 anon if you want]! Seems like you’re the apple of someone’s eye!

Epel Felmier

How I would imagine you two meeting; You would have a meet-cute moment where you bump into each other while in the gardening section. “Ah, pardon me,” he would say and then noticed that you had a book on gardening. “I’d recommend this variety-” From there you would become friends and then a couple, it would be pretty seamless too. “Yer pretty sweet, ya know? I think we make a good pair.”

Even before you two even got together, you would bicker with each other playfully. Epel would just roll his eyes if you brought up the height difference. Only you get a free pass on that. In turn, he would also playfully tease you back.

Epel really appreciates that you’re down-to-earth and that you have a good head on your shoulders; that you’re loyal and considerate. But he also understands that you do struggle with motivation at times, and he’s there to cheer you on, to lift you up. “Darlin’, would you like some help there? It’s okay to fall off the horse, as long as you get back up.” But he doesn’t nag you about it.

He loves seeing your goofy side, and you can either have him cracking up so hard that he’s crying, or he gets sighs and shakes his head. He can match this energy though and send you some awful apple jokes. The victor is only declared when either you or him laughs.

He appreciates that you’re interested in wanting to start gardening, and can help you if you wanted him to; spending quality time covered in mud while planting seeds. Watching movies, and playing horror games are also common, and he won’t go easy on you either… he might be a tad of a sore loser… “You only beat me cuz you’re better at it,” it has no bite though. He also really likes your drawings and might replicate them in his apple carvings.

Epel keeps everything that you reveal to him confidential. You trusted him with that information, and he’ll take it with him to the grave. He’ll also talk things over with you, and take any advice that you give to heart.

He finds your dimples endearing and will tell you so. He holds a similar softness for your moles too. And the :3 smile, and he understands the RBF, so the :3 smile is even better when considering that.

“Hey, darlin’? You’re the only apple in my eye. Ugh, that was cheesy.”

I hope you enjoy your match-up, Lee! I also got the extra info you provided too and tried to add that in.

Epel would also learn how to braid, so if you wanted, he could braid your hair; but he wouldn't push it. He would also get you two matching rings, representing both of you they're apples. Hope you enjoy the Southern drawl!

[princess-of-purple-prose]

[ID copied from alt: A drawing of Dipper and Mabel Pines re-imagined as 20 somethings. Dipper has basically the same haircut along with bushy eyebrows and a whispy goatee. Mabel has poofy bangs and a long side ponytail. They are both wearing sweaters that say "24". Dipper additionally has on a vest and Mabel has on a party hat.

Panicking and grabbing his face, Dipper says "25 next year. We're gonna be 25 next year. I cant be 25! I still eat SANDWICHES every night for dinner!" Concerned, Mabel gestures with her hands and says "Dipper, stop it! You're thinking about this all wrong!" The scene cuts to a close up of her face. She says "It's not-" Mabel clutches her chest in fear as she continues "Augh! I'm gonna be 25! The world is ending right before my eyes!" adding "It's-"

Mabel puts one arm around dipper and gestures out to the world with the other as she smiles and says "Wow! We're gonna be 25! How cool is that??" Dipper looks disgruntled, but doesnt say anything yet. Mabel turns her head toward dipper and says "We'll be the age of so many sitcom characters! Think of all the zany shenanigans we might get into!" Jaded, Dipper responds "Right. Because being a washed up wreck with a hectic love life is something I'm always aspiring towards"

Mabel frowns at him. Dipper looks away sorrowfully, he says "That was mean, I'm sorry. I'm just not really feeling it this time Mabel." Mabel's expression saddens. The scene switches to just Mabel. She rubs her temples and puts on a serious face while she thinks "Come on girl, think. There must be SOME way you can get through to him!" From off screen, Dipper says "I'm sorry Mabel, I didnt mean to ruin the birthday vibes. I just-"

Mabel closes her eyes and cuts him off, saying "Shhh, shhh shut up". She turns to him and points at him while yelling "BIMBO!"

Dipper looks away in confused discomfort. Blankly, he asks her "What?" Mabel throws up her hands while she says "Bimbo Baggy! Hot elf movie! You made me watch it because you said it would teach me life lessons!" The scene shifts to just Dipper. Smiling, he says "Oh, lord of the rings?" Off screen Mabel replies "Yeah! That one! How old are the characters in that?"

Dipper holds his chin and grins while he looks up into the air. He says "Well, I dont remember if they mention it in the movies, but if you read the books you find out the Hobbits' ages range from 29 to 50. Though for Hobbits their coming of age isnt until-" With a look of mild shock he says "30".

The scene shifts back to Mabel smiling sympathetically. She says "I have read the book. if being a 25 year old man is going to make you feel like you have to act all professional and serious and junk, maybe we should just be hobbits. Then maybe you can have fun like youre supposed to." Amused and touched, Dipper responds "Mabel, you dont have to trade away your sitcom era to be a hobbit with me."

Mabel smiles and shoots him a finger gun as she says "I never said it wouldn't be a hobbit sitcom. I'm gonna have relationship troubles with a hot elf who is cheating on me with an even hotter dwarf." End ID]

Cheers to everyone who is coming up on or has already entered their hobbit era! May the years bring you many new adventures! But be wary of hot elves!

And happy 24th birthday Dipper and Mabel!

[reflectie2]

Verandering

Struggled with this years assignment - last year fleeing into concepts that - spoke to me, that peaked my interest, that spoke to me, which is also - in some way- a self reflection, an image of me and my personality/personhood, but I could hide behind the curtain of another layer, a safety net. This year - more confronting - what defines me as a teacher and artist? What defines be in general? Who am I exactly? What’s my identity? These are questions I tend to ignore, I hide them away in a dark corner somewhere, out of sight out of mind, as long as I can ignore it I don’t have to actually think about it and reflect on myself as a person because deep down I’m scared to think about who I ‘really’ am, because I fear that - even after reflecting on the deepest parts of myself — I would come out empty handed, I don’t have the slightest Idea of who I really am or what defines me. I have a fractured self-image. (“when I imagine myself, I am always leaving, I couldn’t draw my own face if god asked” <— leaving things behind, leaving personality traits behind, leaving myself behind. Im always changing) 

ex. As a child I used to love so much, I loved every living thing, I was overly social , I went up to complete strangers as and would tell them anything and everything, I loved all the animals up to the most insignificant little bug, even spiders. i had so much sympathy, I hated seeing anything or anyone in pain and would do anything to prevent them from hurting a second longer. When things got bad at home I used to play shop with my own toys, I’d select the ones I thought I needed least and line them all up in my room, then I’d let my brother and sister come in and choose their favorites. I let them have my possessions as and they let me have the feeling of satisfaction - of being able to make them happier. (Once I got this fake phone that my brother begged to have but I’d never give it to him, it was my proudest possession. Until he came home crying one day, he hated his new school and the people there. He was scared and inconsolable and I couldn’t stand to see him in so much pain, id do anything to take it from him, so I did. And I gave him my proudest posession. My parents always tell me how much of an empathic kid I was, how I used to always stick up for the ‘weak’, how I’d always befriend the outcasts. Kids that looked a little different or acted a bit weird, the kids that got bullied. They always admired that about me.) 

But things change, we change. i grew older and More selfish. I became harsh and cold, and I learned to fear — and sometimes even hate — spiders. The things that used to define me then no longer applied, I was no longer that same ‘empathetic, sweet giving girl’. My identity isn’t constant/invariable. 

I feel as if there’s not a single thing that has been a constant in my life. Everything is always changing. So how do I define myself? 

Something similar has been happening to me lately. The past few years have been (opposite of stationary - bumpy ride-inch) and a lot of change has happened — both outside and within myself. One of the only ‘constant’ things I had in my life was my ‘creativity’. Since I was a child I was ‘the artist’ kid. I was always drawing, it was what I loved and what I was good at. It defined me. When people got the task of describing me ‘creative’ or ‘artistic’ was almost always the first word that came up. So what to do when one off those key components of your personality just - suddenly- falls away? Over the past few years I’ve been slowly losing my passion for art, for creating, for making and expressing myself through creation. I used to draw as an outlet, I found release in creating and satisfaction, rest, consolation. But recently it only brings me ache. drawing now only brings me zelf-doubt and criticism, insecurities and frustration. There no longer is any release. I stopped drawing for myself a long time ago, and then I stopped drawing all together. It feels like a part of me has been lost, and left a big, gaping, empty hole. Thinking about it makes me feel useless and broken, as if the one thing that I had, the one thing that was truly ‘mine’, had been stolen from me. And I honestly don’t know who I am without it. Who am I if not the one thing I used to identify as, the one thing that characterised me. 

(I used to want to become a writer at a certain time in my life, I used to write all the time. Little song, comics, stories I mad up in my head, silly poems,…. And I used to be good ad it. Until I realised that was an unrealistic - unobtainable - goal. So I changed my goals - and I stopped writing all together. I stopped doing it and with that lost my knack for it - Words used to flow out of my pen like a stream, like a waterfall. I had so many ideas in my head, so many worlds that I had to put out into the world and I wrote them all down. now words no longer come naturally to me, it’s hard to express myself through language. I grew sceptic and built my own dam. I think I did the same with my art/drawing. But I realise I havent actually ‘lost’ my passion for writing. it just changed. I love literature. I love reading books and stories and I can lose myself in a poem or quote. And sometimes I still find myself writing creatively. Maybe not on purpose, i don’t sit myself down to write a story or create poetry. But when I’m lost in a conversation - without the pressure of creating or a result — I can still catch myself — sometimes — writing deeply, philosophically, poetically. 

I think this is a very important concept. The idea of nothing being constant. We’re constantly changing, constantly evolving, we’re always busy reinventing ourselves, building upon old ideas and characteristics, sometimes even breaking them down and starting anew. But I think maybe that’s exactly what it means to be an artist, or maybe even a human. - at it’s core- at the core lies that ability to change. We have to adapt to our environment, our situation. It’s how we survive and how we grow. Learning how to gain skills and ideas, but also change or lose others is of vital essence to our existence. Artists are constantly learning new things, they practice to improve, they  —— teacher - also constantly adapting to new situations, to their pupils, their colleagues, changes that happen in class-the school- society, or even personal changes in their life or within themselves. adaptability is how we are able to survive. 

We are constantly discovering new things, learning new things undergoing new experiences, forming new ideas and philosophies. All of these things have an impact on us, they change us, our way of thinking, our views,..; we keep learning. All these experiences, everything we go though, we adapt those things into our own mind. 

See I’m no longer that sweet, empathetic little girl, but I am also not that angry 16year old teen anymore. (Well sometimes I am, the truth is I carry her around inside me, all the time, and I always will. But) (I learned to love again, I learned to care and give again and i’m slowly growing back into that little girl that was so full of love that she didn’t even know where to put it all. ) And in a couple years when I find myself standing in front of a class, looking back at this moment, I’ll realise I am also no longer the same person I am today. But I’ll always carry the people I was with me, — in the shape of lessons, knowledge, experience —  they’ll always be a part of me. 

Menselijkheid

> kusnt - eigen kunsten/tekenen - wat me aantrekt/aanspreekt = lichamen, menselijke lichaam, naakt, puur, vleselijk, vormen, curves, levend

The thing about art that always caught my attention was the emotional side. It’s ability to be able to touch a part of the soul in a way that no other thing can. It evokes something in you, wakes something up. I never cared all that much about the aesthetic side of it, the physical beauty. Bright colours, clean lines and well balanced compositions never really peaked my interest. But the emotions that art could evoke or the emotions you could express/release through art, that was true beauty for me. The humanity in making art, art as the urge to create, that drives us to creation — because there is something inside you that’s so desperate to get out , that it needs it’s own medium, it’s own way to express itself — that’s what called to me. What art was all about. 

I guess I’ve always had a certain interest in ‘humanity’ in that way. I was always curious about people, how their minds worked, how they felt or experienced thins, what made them who or what they were, the things that made them tick. 

And yes - I was interested in the human psyche - I read about psychology, how the human brain worked all the theories and ideas. Which —sure was interesting enough— but all so scientific and distant, it never could give me what the arts could. This certain empathic knowledge, thought stories, through poetry and lyrics and drawings I felt like I could actually understand other people, and they me, in return. through these I found a way to connect with the world  and people around me, and with myself. 

I tend to look for the very human things in everything. As I child I used to give ’numbers’ personalities and a backstory, so I could relate more to them. I get interested in new thing through other people’s passions. I developed a passion for mathematics (calculus and algebra) through the views of character of a story I once read. She loved calculus because — opposed to a most real life problems — there’s always a clear solution. i get interested in cities and subjects through books, movies, art of other peoples experiences and stories around those subjects.

Even when my decision to study advertising was based on a very humaine idea. See most people would argue advertising is very inhumane, it’s a harsh competitive world and all you do is cheat and manipulate people into doing or buying things they probably don’t need, just for the profits. i had no interest in advertising originally. Until I saw a poster of a spider next to a landline, with the title ‘belle en het beest’. it amused me so much that I decided to on my major then and there, just because of the humor — which is an inherently human trait. (The reason I gave up on advertising as a carrier after a mere 2months of interning, was also that. It wasn’t humaine, it was harsh and cold and distant. And people were treated as robot’s, replaceable parts of a big machine. It was soul crushing. Teaching — I think — is quite the opposite. It’s one of the most humble and selfless jobs one could do. You sacrifice your time to educate the next generation, mould them so they’re ready to go into the world. You have to help shape them and show them the way, help them discover themselves and everything around them. you have to care a lot for this profession. About your skill, but also the children. To be a teacher you have to possess a certain type of love, a love for kids, people, humanity as a whole.  (And it’s future) you have to care. And you do, even tho the majority of your pupils might not appreciate or even realise it at the time.  It can be a thankless job at times, I think, but definitely one of the most humaine ones. 

[empty-dream]

My beloved Hockney returns, gets a taste of gambling and then makes scary faces.

[aquato-family-circus]

I’ve posted a lot of misc doodles/drawings of my dear daughter Daisy Fullbear-Zanotto on my Twitter (cosmignon) which I didn’t bother crossposting… until now :))))

We got ourselves, in rough chronological order

- some toddler Daisy’s being dramatic and weird

- a drawing of Daisy meeting my first webcomic protagonist, Anna, after I realized I reused some design tropes for both… bc I think red headed pigtail girls with big noses are a cute lil kid design

- Daisy, having finally brought Helmut back to his senses, and unloading a lot of Issues she has with Bob bc he’s all overprotective and never lets her do anything! Helmut is like :(? confused but hears her out bc like that’s his kid too

- Daisy as seen in Bob’s head, ages 2 and 10… the glass case is a reference to the little prince, Daisy’s the specialist flower of all and needs to be protected… but she’s a growing girl that won’t fit under that glass forever

- Messy doodles imagining the resolution to Daisy finding Helmut’s brain: Helmut gives her a big ol hug in his head, and she goes back into the real world to convince Bob to listen to her and trust that she knows what she’s saying when she’s found something really important and Bob comes along with her and reunites with hubband… all is well

I have rotated so many thoughts in my head abt Daisy it’s ridiculous, I can’t believe I said I’d maybe only draw her once when I first posted abt her. Guess that’s on me for being embarrassed about posting a fankid. Cringe is dead long live cringe ect ect

Full image descriptions under the cut

ID #1: A rough sketch of Daisy and Bob sitting on the couch as Daisy dramatically looks off into the distance, singing the line “sometimes I feel like my only fwiend” with two close ups of her face. Bob is trying very hard to not laugh. End ID.

ID #2: A rough comic of Bob reading a book on a couch while sitting as far away from a scary, eyeless baby doll as possible. He looks over to it and thinks “it’s just a doll… a really freaky doll.” There is a close up on the doll to show it’s scary face, with a neutral expression, bald head, and hollow eyeless sockets. A panel then shows Daisy has put the doll directly on Bob’s lap, which he nervously smiles about as Daisy says “There, now you can babysit.” and Bob responds “Thank you, sweetie.” End ID.

ID #3: An illustration of Daisy Fullbear-Zanotto and Anna Jenkins talking with each other with looks of curiosity. Both girls share similar designs and color schemes, including teal clothing, bright red hair with twin braids and curled bangs, large noses, and brown eyes. End ID.

ID #4: Rough sketches of a conversation between Daisy and Helmut. Daisy says “It’s SO cool that you’re my dad! WOW!”, and Helmut responds “And you’re the raddest daughter!”. Daisy continues “you’re like WAY cooler than my normal Dad.”, which makes Helmut look confused and slightly concerned as he says “I - uh, ok?”. End ID.

ID #5: Rough sketches of a conversation between Daisy and Helmut. On the top of the page Daisy is standing, facing Helmut, as she says “I wish you were my dad instead of Bob.” Helmut looks concerned as he says “What uh,.. Why?”. The two are then sitting next to each other, Helmut has an arm around Daisy’s shoulder. Daisy’s saying “And I just want him to have more faith in me.” On the bottom page Helmut looks away as he says “Geeze. It sounds like so much has changed. But hey, you can’t trade us out, it’s a package deal kid.” Helmut turns toward Daisy as she sighs and says “OK”. Helmut then boops a finger on Daisy’s nose, which makes her smile. He says “I’ll talk to him about it! You’re a good kid, I’m sure he’s doing something right.” End ID.

ID #6: An illustration of Daisy as a young baby/plant hybrid resting in a terracotta pot. She has an old fashioned baby bonnet that resembles the petals of a daisy, and she’s swaddled in leaves. Daisy and her pot are housed under a protective glass case with a small metal handle. End ID.

ID #7: An illustration of Daisy as a child/plant hybrid wearing an upside down terracotta pot as a skirt. Daisy’s head is wreathed in daisy petals, and she’s wearing blue/green/pink glasses meant to resemble seaglass. She has 2 leaves that act as arms, and a third leaf at her front that acts as an accessory to cover her upper body, which is clothed in a teal shirt with brighter teal lead patterns and the previously mentioned pot. The pot has blotches of multicolored paint all across it, and there are cracks where roots from Dasiy’ lower body are growing out. These roots also grow out from the bottom opening of the pot, and some of them have cracked open the bottom of a protective glass jar that surrounds Daisy. End ID.

ID #8: Rough sketches of Helmut, Bob, and Daisy. On the top of the page Helmut is hugging Daisy, then beside that sketch Daisy is shown to be saying something with Helmut’s brain in a jar in her hands. She looks serious, and Bob is shown to be listening to her with a concerned expression. On the bottom of the page there is a sequence showing Bob and Daisy opening the jar with Helmut’s brain in it, an arrow pointing to a psychoportal, and a second arrow pointing to Daisy and Bob reuniting with Helmut. There is also a sketch of Audie-O holding Balance. End ID.

[giorno-plays-piano]

Abominable Part 1

Pairing: mage!Peter Parker x mage!Reader

Warnings: yandere, obsession, stalking, murders, possible gore in the future chapters, pretty dark story overall.

Words: 1543

Summary: An investigator of the Mage's Association, you are sent to discover the mystery behind a series of murders before more sinister events take place.

P.S. This was inspired by The Garden of Sinners particularly. I loved it dearly when I was a teenager.

To avoid any confusion, the reader is neither good nor bad due to the nature of her profession. Peter is an adult.

____________

Stepping on a platform with a vintage Samsonite briefcase in your hand, you looked at the people standing aside, most of them waiting for other passengers to leave the train. Although you knew the face of a magus who was supposed to meet you, it was hard to recognize him in the crowd, and you stared at all those people in front of you, clenching the briefcase’s handle. You hated waiting.

Of course, Lord Pierce wasn’t too happy with your arrival: the old fool thought he was untouchable even after a series of murders and an unnatural magic activity in Tombra that got the Mage's Association alarmed. You remembered the revulsion in Mr. Stark’s voice when he talked of Alexander. The old aristocracy, Lord Pierce was an outstanding magus who had long abandoned practicing any decent magic and instead preferred to exploit the strength of his numerous successors. While he still had some friends in the Association, Stark hated him greatly and was happy to remind him who was in control.

Naturally, Pierce knew why you came to Tombra, and the conversation between you two didn’t go well. You didn’t hide your intentions: you were the Investigator of the Clock Tower, and your job was to figure out what was happening in that megalopolis where Lord Pierce resided proudly. It meant you were going to be a great disturbance and a possible danger to many aristocratic families under Alexander’s protection. 

It wasn’t surprising he chose the most useless assistant to help you find out the truth. His name was Peter Parker, and he was class D+ magus who attended neither Clock Tower nor Atlas Academy. His role was to slow you down, you thought and sighed. 

Suddenly, you saw a familiar face when a young man hurried to you, his cheeks red, sweat running down his face: apparently, he was late. You snickered, looking at his formal attire - his black tie was so long as if he stole it from his father.

Once he was close enough, the young man stood tall, at attention, waiting for you to say something as he stared at you with awe and horror.

“Lady Ragna of the Clock Tower,” you named your rank coldly, and your companion nervously bit his lower lip, acting exactly how you expected of him.

“Peter of Tombra! Pleased to make your acquaintance!” He sounded too excited, and his hands were trembling a little, although he tried hiding it.

Gods, what was he good for in a situation like this, unless he possessed some extraordinary powers not stated in his file? Well, now was the time to discover that, you thought as you narrowed your eyes at the young man.

"Your primary magecraft?"

"B-bounded fields and healing!"

Nothing spectacular there, but bounded fields could be of use to you if you would ever be attacked while performing magic.

"Elements?"

"Water and wind!"

This was better: magi controlling more than one element were still rare, and the boy could make a nice apprentice if he were to be send to the Clock Tower. Besides, with Tombra surrounded by a river, a liquid manipulation skill Peter definitely possessed could be valuable, too.

"Magic circuit composition?"

"N-normal?"

"Any familiars?"

"None."

He was clearly feeling like a mouse in front of a snake, his face getting even more red with every second, and you found the situation rather funny.

"Your motto?" You stared him dead in the eye.

For a second Peter looked horrified, his mouth slightly open as if he were to say something, but you heard no sound coming from him. Then, as if struck by lightning, he gibbered with fear, "Live p-proudly?"

Oh boy. He really thought you were being serious when you talked rubbish with a stony face. If anybody was to talk about a personal motto, even the most pretentious magi of the Clock Tower would burst out laughing.

Rolling your eyes skyward, a gleam of deviltry in them, you smirked, "It was a joke. Don't ever use a motto, it's a terrible idea."

"Thank goodness! I thought it's something high magi of Clock Tower have." The next second Peter made a sigh of relief, and then the both of you laughed loudly, making other people on the platform throw glances at you.

Although you realized the young man had much less experience than you, you still felt he would be fun to have around. If he could make your life a little easier, you would accept his help.

Moving away from the platform and soon passing through the station's hall, you went straight to the city streets instead of catching a taxi. Peter hurried after you, still perplexed at your refusal to let him carry your bag - you guessed he expected you to boss him around, and it made you chuckle. What Pierce was doing with young magi here if Peter had such an impression about higher-ups?

"Lady Ragna, I was informed that the cottage where you chose to stay is in the suburbs. Did you decide to change it?" He asked, seeing you walking to a completely different place.

"No, it's the same cottage. If you wonder why we aren't driving there right now, I'd prefer to patrol the streets tonight to get to know the city. We can discuss the details of the job in the meantime."

You walked away fast, not looking at your companion anymore and watching the night city instead: you had never been to Tombra before, but many magi from the Clock Tower were born there, and their talk about the city always made you a little jealous. Born in a small town to a simple human woman who knew nothing of magic, you always wished to know what it was like to grow up in a true magic society like the one in Tombra, a home to many noble families, albeit smaller and less significant than those living in the capital. 

The city looked exactly like you imagined it: giant grey buildings stood besides the streets, and while they didn't look particularly pretty, you loved those countless neon signages and bright posters that were shining even in the darkness of the night. The streets were busy with tourists admiring the city, couples walking out of the fancy restaurants and cinemas, and young people, recklessly snooping around some nightclubs and bars, trying to get in despite the security glaring at them and requiring them to show their ID cards while the kids pretended they forgot them. There was also a small marketplace with colorful food trucks and booths, offering both local and international cuisine, and you blended into the crowd immediately, taking some crepes and then buying takoyaki - Peter, following you like a puppy, looked shocked.

"I can't do my job on an empty stomach," you smirked and handed him some takoyaki.

Funny enough, he accepted the second you showed the plastic plate into his hands, eating so hungrily as if he had been starving the whole day.

"Well, now since I feel a bit better, let's talk business," you motioned the young man to follow you, and turned to a narrow alley, leaving the noisy market that was going to be full of people for at least a couple of hours more. "Do you have any idea why I have been sent by the Association?"

Licking his fingers, Peter looked somewhat shyly at you, probably afraid he would say something silly, "From what I understand, the reason is some unnatural magic activity the Association couldn't trace, and the involvement of its user in several murders."

"Correct." Crossing the alley, you scratched the chipped paint from an old building in front of you and looked at your fingers, furrowing your brows. "To be precise, the reason why the Association didn't leave these murders to a human police is the method how these murders were carried on. Whoever did it pretty much sucked the soul out of victims' bodies."

Peter frowned, staying still while you kept examining the concrete wall in front of you, drawing strange symbols that started glowing immediately as you finished them.

"It may sounds funny, but the ritual necessary to prevent the soul of a dead person to come back to Akasha is known only to a couple of magi, and each of them is considered a great danger to the society by the Association. This alone is a threat, but Mr. Stark's other concern is the indefinite nature of magic practiced in Tombra. It is likely that the magus responsible for the deaths is planning something much more sinister, and we can't allow this to happen."

Finding what you were looking for, you nodded to yourself and moved further, Peter walking right beside you with a concerned expression on his face. He was probably surprised you didn't need his guidance, but you spent the last three days memorizing Tombra's map.

"Do you mean that the souls of victims can be combined to become a power source for some... dark ritual or something?" He asked nervously, licking his lips.

You smirked, turning to him and pointing to the wall of the next building that started to glow subtly as you got close, "Exactly, Peter."

__________

Tags: @finleyjayne @alexakeyloveloki   ​@helenaeisenhower @villanellevi @hurricanerin @inlovewiththefictionalcharacters @chris-evans-indian-fanfic @navegandoaciegas @rosalynshields @sllooney @angrythingstarlight @lookiamtrying @buckysbunny @soleil-dor @stargazingfangirl18 @dillybuggg @literate-lamb @cosicas-cuquis @sarge-barnes-sir @buckybarnesplumwhore @jaysayey @megzdoodle @gotnofucks @lux-ravenwolf @ximebebx @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123 @sourpatchspinster @biiskuitx

[lostinthewiind]

Could I get a bit of an angst poly Matchablossom fic? Like one of them is out and they don’t hear anything from them in awhile. They get worried and have to rush to the hospital when they find out they were involved in a hit-and-run. They have flashbacks of their relationship like how the three met or when called their relationship official.

Polyamorous Relationship w/ Joe & Cherry: Through Thick and Thin

A/N: you absolutely can have a little bit of angst. Honestly, I sometimes can't decide whether I like writing smut or angst better . . . I think it's because they are both so emotion-fueled, which makes it easy to get into. Anyway, I hope I was able to meet your expectations for this fic! As always, thanks for requesting and don't hesitate to request more in the future :)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: angst, mentions of bodily harm, injuries, blood, high-emotions, slight-trauma

Pacing back and forth from the kitchen to the living room of your shared apartment, your eyes kept flickering toward the clock on the wall, your nerves steadily increasing with every tick of the hand. Every second that Joe didn't walk through the front door made your heart race faster and your bite on your lower lip to increase in pressure.

"Are you going to pace all night?" Cherry looked at you from his desk, his golden eyes scrutinizing your every move from over the top of his laptop.

"Kojiro was supposed to have been home an hour ago," you stated harshly, as if your calm, pink-haired boyfriend didn't already know that. "And he hasn't texted or called or anything. I'm worried."

Cherry sighed before closing his laptop and leaning back in his chair. "I can tell," he noted, his seemingly relaxed demeanour making your hands shake from frustration.

Halting your pacing, you crossed your arms over your chest and exhaled slowly. "Kaoru . . ." your voice was quiet and shaky, and despite the slight embarrassment you were feeling for what would probably be a major overreaction on your part, you just couldn't help it.

Cherry shook his head at you slowly, but there was no disappointment or mockery in his action. Even though he didn't see any cause for concern considering it had only been an hour and Joe's restaurant was busier lately than usual, he acknowledged the worry coursing through your body.

Spinning his chair to face you, Cherry cocked his head ever-so-slightly and outstretched his arms onto the chair's armrests, palms up, silently asking/inviting you to come to him.

Gravitating toward him like a magnet seeking stability, you shuffled over to his chair, standing before him and trying to calm yourself. Leaning forward, he rested his hands on your hips, brushing his fingertips up your sides. When he reached your shoulders, he worked his hands down your arms, wrapping his slender fingers around them and unfolding your arms before holding your hands in his own.

"There is no sense in worrying until there is something to worry about," he said simply, pulling you into his lap. Once you were close to him and enveloped in his embrace, you felt your breathing naturally slow to match his.

"I know. You're right." You rested your head on his shoulder and closed your eyes as he brought one hand to your face and brushed some loose strands of hair out of your eyes. "You're always right."

Cherry chuckled lowly. "Well, maybe not always . . . don't tell Kojiro I said that," he warned jokingly.

"Okay," you laughed as well, feeling the nerves begin to flee your body, "I won't."

"Good girl."

Just then, Cherry's phone buzzed atop the desk, startling you both a little. Looking over at the device, Cherry smirked as he picked it up. "See?" He flashed the caller ID toward you, which read Kojiro's name. "He probably just got busy and lost track of time."

You felt relief wash over you like a wave as you lifted your head from Cherry's shoulder so he could answer the call.

Accepting the call, Cherry pressed the device to his ear and tutted his tongue. "You ever hear of calling or texting if you're going to be-" he stopped mid-sentence, his toying expression turning stone-cold in a split-second. You couldn't hear what the person on the other end of the call was saying, but all you had to do was look at Cherry's wide eyes, furrowed brows, and trembling lips to know that it wasn't Joe and that something was wrong.

Suddenly, the wave of relief had transformed into a dark, ominous riptide, dragging you into the darkest parts of your mind and forcing you to conjure the worst things possible. Hands gripping tightly to the front of Cherry's yukata, you willed the conversation to be over so you could find out what was going on.

"Yes." Cherry nodded, the arm that was wrapped around your waist squeezing you tighter as he listened intently. "Yes, I'll be right there . . . okay, thank you."

When the call finally ended and Cherry put the device back down onto the desk, his hands shaking like yours had been minutes before, you watched him closely. He was silent afterward, his hold on you tightening even more. Both his and your own breathing were rapid at this point, the nervous energy radiating off of both of you and only working to make the other person even more uneasy.

"Kaoru." You brought a hand to his face and forced him to look at you. "What happened? Is Kojiro okay?"

Seemingly snapping out of his trance, Cherry gently pushed you off of his lap before he set about collecting things from around the apartment. You could see the cogs turning in his head as he grabbed the car keys from the counter before turning back to pick up his phone once more. All the while, you watched him, a sick feeling rising in your stomach, increasing in intensity the longer you stood there oblivious.

"Kaoru, what happened?!" you asked again.

Cherry glanced up at you in passing as he headed toward the bedroom. "There was a hit-and-run," he said. "We have to go to the hospital."

You felt your heart shatter and sink at the same time, your hand frantically gripping the side of the desk for stability as you watched Cherry's pink head disappear into the bedroom. The pace of your breathing quickened, if that was even possible, and you swallowed a hard lump in your throat—out of everything your brain had imagined, something as bad as a hit-and-run never even crossed your mind.

"D-did Kojiro hit someone or was h-he hit?" The question flew out of your mouth as quickly as it popped into your head. The way that Cherry was reacting already had you assuming which answer was correct, but you felt the need to clarify nonetheless.

Cherry, who was moving from surface to surface, looking for God-knows-what, ignored your question once more—although it was probably fairer to say that he had simply not registered the inquiry instead of ignored it.

The blatant lack of information was slowly started to boil your blood but the last thing you wanted to do was lash out at Cherry, who was clearly going into panic mode.

As your boyfriend passed in front of you, his head on a swivel, you grabbed him by the arm and pulled him in forcefully for a hug. Wrapping your arms around him tightly, you buried your face into the crook of his neck. At first, Cherry stood stiff in your embrace, but after a moment or so he physically relaxed and melted into your warmth.

You heard him draw in a shuddering breath, his shaking hands slowly coming up to cling to you. As much as he pretended to be indifferent towards Joe, you knew that he cared for him more than anyone else in the world—maybe even more than he cared for you, which you weren't offended by; you knew the two had a long history with one another.

Once you could tell that Cherry had calmed down a little and the roles of worrier and supporter had shifted, you drew back and looked him in the eyes. "Did Kojiro hit someone or was he the one who was hit?" you questioned, surprisingly steadier than before.

Cherry blinked back a tear that was forming in the corner of his eye, his lips trembling as he struggled to form words. "H-he was hit."

━━━━━━━━━━━━

The half an hour it took for you and Cherry to collect your things and drive to the hospital was nothing more than a blur in your mind. Weaving in and out of traffic through the busy, lit-up city, Cherry mumbled details from the phone call to you as they resurfaced in his memory. All in all, he didn't know much, but restating the facts to you—or more accurately, to himself—helped keep his head on straight and his wits about him.

As soon as the two of you reached the hospital, you parked—not even really checking to see if you had parked in a designated spot or not—and rushed inside, hand in hand. The emergency room entrance had been the closest, but the inside was chaotic and had you clinging to Cherry like child afraid to lose their mother as the two of you pushed your way to the reception desk.

Cherry did all of the talking, refusing to let anyone else see him the way you had seen him back at the apartment. Once again, the roles of worrier and supporter had shifted—but at this point, it was probably more accurate to state that you had each taken on both roles, worrying relentlessly and being there for support when the other person started to spiral.

Thankfully, the nurse at the reception desk was kind and patient with the two of you. She understood that standing around talking about specifics was the last thing either one of you wanted, but she worked carefully to draw out your information so she could direct you to the correct floor.

While Cherry listened as intently as he could to the information being provided, you heard a commotion from the other end of the emergency room and looked back over your shoulder just in time to see an ambulance crew wheeling in a patient on a stretcher.

The patient, a man who looked about Joe's age, was bleeding profusely from a wound on his abdomen and screaming bloody murder about how he didn't want to die. You felt a shiver run down your spine as you listened to his pleas for help.

Without even noticing, you began to picture the man as Joe. Had Joe been hurt as badly as that? Had he been crying and screaming when they brought him in? Joe was one of the bravest and most stoic people you had ever met, and he only really cried (rarely) for emotional reasons, like really sad movies, instead of physical ones—but nevertheless, you couldn't help imagining him screaming out, all alone and scared.

"Hey." Cherry rested a gentle hand on your shoulder, careful not to startle you out of your daze. "You okay?"

You blinked a few times, tearing your gaze away from the stranger. When you glanced back, the paramedics had wheeled him out of sight and his screams grew fainter and fainter in the distance.

"Y-yeah." You forced a nod of the head. "I'm fine."

"Okay, let's go then," Cherry took your hand in his once more and led you out of the ER and toward a set of elevators. "The nurse checked for me and apparently he was taken up to the third floor. She wasn't on shift when he came in, so she couldn't tell me much."

You nodded once more, unable to find your voice . . . not that you had much to say anyway.

In complete silence, the two of you rode the elevator up to the third floor of the hospital, and following the directions Cherry had been given, arrived at a hospital room with the door cracked open slightly.

Before either of you could look inside, however, a tall man in a white coat approached the two of you. "You're Mr. Nanjo's emergency contacts?" He grabbed a chart from the adjacent nurses' station.

After the two of you confirmed your identities and relation to Joe, the doctor pulled you aside privately and began explaining the situation.

"Based on eye-witness reports on the scene, your . . . boyfriend," he seemed a tad uncomfortable with the polyamorous aspect of your relationship, but relayed the information professionally despite the obvious confusion, " . . . he was crossing the street, presumably to the parking lot across on the other side, when he was struck in the intersection by a drunk driver. Thankfully, he was only clipped and not hit full-on. All things considered, things could have been a lot worse, but he is still in pretty rough shape."

You drew in a sharp breath as your mind began to fog over, your concentration completely fading away. Before long, you were simply standing in place, eyes-glassed over, watching the doctor's mouth move but only picking up the occasional tidbit of information like "fractured rib" and "internal bruising".

Noticing your unsteady stance beside him, Cherry snaked his arm around your body for stability. It took everything he had not to devolve into a shaking mess like you, but he knew that one of you needed to pay attention to this information for Joe's sake; so, despite the overwhelming nauseous feeling in his gut, he nodded along to the doctor's words.

Once the doctor had told you everything there was to tell, he directed you back to the room and told you he would be back in a little while. With full visitation rights, you and Cherry stood in front of the cracked-open door, both too terrified to peek inside just yet.

Then, mustering every ounce of courage you had circulating your system, you placing a trembling palm on the door and gave a gentle push. Without a single creak, the door swung open silently, revealing a small hospital room with a bathroom, large window, armchair, and of course, a bed.

In the bed, the white sheets were completely covering the body of its inhabitant; the mess of green hair atop the pillow the only detail that confirmed to you that it was, indeed, your boyfriend. Joe's face was toward you and Cherry, eyes closed, scrapes and bruises littering his handsome features. There was even a cut that had needed stitches on his forehead.

If it wasn't for the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, you would have assumed he was dead.

"Oh, Kojiro!" you exclaimed, emotion suddenly taking over as you lunged toward the bed. Tears collecting in your eyes, you bent over him and rested your head on his chest, quiet sobs escaping your shuddering body. Finally, you let yourself cry.

"The doctor said he was given some pretty heavy pain medication, so he might be out for a while," Cherry said, coming up beside you and ghosting his fingertips over Joe's cheek. "But he should be okay."

Those five words were the best five words you had heard in your entire life. "He'll be okay," you repeated to yourself in a soft whisper. "You'll be okay." You directed the comment to Joe this time as you ran your fingers slowly through his messy hair. "Karou and I are here now. You're going to be just fine."

"Come on." Cherry placed his hand onto your lower back and guided you to the armchair. "We're in for a long night. Let's sit."

Lowering himself into the rather comfortable chair, Cherry scooted it closer to the bedside before he pulled you into his lap, the two of you sitting and holding each other the same way you had been back home in his desk chair . . . the way you had been sitting before your entire day had turned on its head.

"Don't cry." Cherry wiped a tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. "You know that if Kojiro wakes up and you're crying, it'll just make him upset too and then I'll have two blubbering babies to deal with."

You choked a subtle laugh through the sobs and gasps for air. "Shut up." You smacked his chest lightly as you cuddled further into his chest, your actions effectively contradicting each other. "This is the scariest moment of my entire life," you craned your neck to look at Joe and reached your hand out to grab his limp one, "I'm allowed to cry."

Cherry pressed a kiss to your temple. "I understand . . . this is the scariest moment of my life too. When I first picked up that phone call, for a split second, I thought we had lost him."

"I can't even imagine life without him," you said, trying not to let the dark thoughts invade any more than they already were. "I wouldn't be the same person I am today without him . . . without either of you."

Cherry cracked a small smile, the expressions of amusement completely standing out among the solemn atmosphere in the room.

"What?" you cocked a brow, wondering what had suddenly sparked such joy.

"Nothing, nothing . . ." He tried to play it off, but when it was obvious you weren't going to let him get away that easily, he caved. "I was just thinking about the first day we met you," he let out an airy laugh, "stumbling into his restaurant soaking wet from the rain, seeking shelter like a stray dog."

You couldn't help the giggle that escaped. "Oh, God, don't remind me. Of course I picked the only closed establishment with an unlocked door on the entire block to seek refuge in. The way the two of you just stared at me, glasses of wine in hand while I stood there, dripping and embarrassed. I felt like dying on the spot."

"You were cute," Cherry told you before shrugging nonchalantly. "At least, that's what Kojiro said. I'm pretty sure he fell in love with you right then and there."

"Oh, but not you, mister 'keeps all his emotions locked away until he dies'." You rolled your eyes.

Cherry just smiled. "I may not have declared my undying love for you right on the spot, but as you sat in Kojiro's sweater that damn-near swallowed you whole and sipped steaming tea to try and warm up, I could tell you were going to be special to us."

Finding yourself getting lost in the reminiscing of happy memories, you relaxed into Cherry's arms completely. "It's funny that Kojiro fell for me before you did," you looked up at Cherry and pressed a soft kiss to his neck, "because I fell for you before I fell for him."

Cherry quirked a brow down at you. "You never told me that."

"It wasn't by much so I didn't think it mattered . . . especially since I love you both the same now." You shrugged before elaborating, knowing that Cherry wanted to hear the story. "It was when Kojiro insisted we go to that fancy new restaurant that he wanted to scope out but he had underestimated how hard it would be to find parking, so we ended up having to walk like ten blocks."

Cherry nodded. "The area with the busiest, newest establishments was low on parking on a Friday night. Who would have thought?"

"Exactly," you agreed. "Anyway, we were walking and the wind was cold as fuck. I was shivering because, hey, I thought we'd be walking two or three blocks at most. Then, without even a glance in my direction . . . you just wrapped me in your coat. No words, just actions. I fell in love right then."

The corners of his mouth twisting up into a smile, Cherry kissed you softly. "I fell in love with you that same night," he said, surprising you. "Exactly ten seconds after that when you thrust my coat back into my arms, grumbling about how you would have much rather used the adrenaline from strangling Kojiro to keep you warm."

"I hope you know I appreciated the gesture . . . I just didn't want you to think I was going soft or something." You knew the words sounded beyond stupid as they were coming out of your mouth. "Love makes you crazy."

"That it does," he agreed. "But, for whatever it's worth, I've never once thought you were soft. Especially not that night when you were seconds away from killing Kojiro the entire time."

The two of you broke out into soft fits of laughter, careful to keep the volume down.

"I get hit by a car and even then the two of you can't be bothered to say nice things about me?" a weak voice mumbled from the bed.

Laughter dying out immediately, you and Cherry looked over to see Joe smirking up at you, his eyes slightly droopy and hand slightly squeezing yours.

"Kojiro!" You jumped out of Cherry's embrace and moved to place a kiss on the green-haired man's chapped lips. "Are you okay? How do you feel?"

Kojiro winced slightly as he pushed himself up into a slight reclined position in bed. "I think I'm okay," he answered, obviously trying to put on a brave face. "I'm glad you guys are here though," he clocked the glint of concern in your eyes, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to give you guys a scare."

"Don't apologize," Cherry told him, cupping his cheek with his hand. "We're here for you, whatever you need. We're just glad you're going to be okay."

Kojiro forced a smile, ignoring the aching pain it brought to his bruised and scraped face. "You guys know I love you, right?"

"Of course." You kissed him once more. "We love you too."

[the-lonelybarricade]

Loved your latest chapter and Im so excited to see what happens under the mountain!

I was wondering if I could request a one-shot?(up to you how long and you can do it in your own time)something along the lines of:

Feyre( from either ACOWAR, ACOFAS or ACOSF) time travels back to ACOTAR, but instead of finding herself back in her human body i the spring court, she's still in her fae body and ends up trapped in velaris, having to explain to the rest of IC who she is and why she cant go free their highlord(add some mistrust from the IC)

🙈🙈Id its very similar to what youre doing rn with your other fic but, if you find the inspiration sometime could you please do this? Ive wanted to read a fic for ages were feyre rime travels and meets pre-acomaf inner circle who dont know/trust her, but Ive never found a fic like that

Thank youuu

Hi lovely anon! It makes me so happy you enjoyed my latest chapter! I’m supposed to be working on a project for uni, but I couldn’t resist gratifying my lovely friends (because you're anon and won't be notified I was getting sad at the idea of you checking my blog and not seeing me respond) <3 I’ll admit I’m a bit scatterbrained at the moment, so I hope it’s okay!

I was having trouble brainstorming a reason for Feyre getting sent back in time because I didn't want to borrow the reasoning from ACoFD. So I was vague and twisted the pre-existing rules around the Ouroboros, and ended up getting quite carried away with the story since I don’t like not giving things a happy ending (even though it’s a little cheesy, sorry)

Anyway, I hope this is what you were looking for! I know you wanted the angst of not being able to save Rhys but... I couldn't just leave my poor bat-boy behind, you know? ;)

Also if this didn't quite scratch that itch, I'm always happy to take more requests

Word count: 4,446

The Ouroboros.

It was a massive, round disc—as tall as Feyre was. Taller. And the metal around it had been fashioned after a massive serpent, the mirror held within its coils as it devoured its own tail.

Ending and beginning.

From across the room, Feyre could not see it. What lay within.

She forced herself to take a step forward. Another.

The mirror itself was black as night—yet… wholly clear.

She watched herself approach. Watched the arm she had upraised against the wind and snow, the pinched expression on her face. The exhaustion.

She stopped three feet away. She did not dare touch it.

It only showed Feyre herself. Nothing.

Feyre scanned the mirror for any signs of… something to push or touch with her magic. But there was only the devouring head of the serpent, its maw open wide, frost sparkling on its fangs.

Feyre stared and stared, but all she saw was herself. There was nothing else. Then—

Feyre woke with a gasp, sitting up in bed to shake away the cobwebs of sleep and the strange, foreboding feeling that felt draped around her shoulders like a weighted cape, pulling her down. It hadn’t been a particularly horrifying nightmare. In fact, it was perhaps of the tamer dreams she’d had in the last year.

Yet something about it clung to her, perhaps a lingering agitation that she’d yet to retrieve the mirror the Bone Carver had requested. That must be it.

The bed space beside her was cold. The sun peaking through the window was not high, it couldn’t be long past dawn. However worrisome her own dream, her mate’s must have been worse to draw him from sleep so early. Worse still for him to sneak away.

Feyre rose from the bed, reaching absently for Rhysand’s dressing robe to wrap around herself. She always loved to steal her mate’s clothes, to be wrapped in his scent.

With gentle steps, she made her way to the study, where she could only assume Rhys had sequestered himself in the lone hours of the night. She’d noticed the weary draw to his shoulders, the dark circles under his eyes. This war was weighing on him heavily, and he was nervous. Feyre wished he didn’t insist on shouldering the burden alone.

“Rhys?” Feyre called softly as she got to the study, knocking on the door before she cracked it open.

Peeking her head around the door, she was met with the sight of Rhysand’s abandoned study. The scattered papers and war maps that had become characteristic of his desk space were surprisingly missing. In fact, the whole space had been cleared away and there was a thick layer of dust on every surface as if no one had been in here in years.

Feyre frowned at the sight, and how different it had been just the day before. Where had all the dust come from? And more importantly, where was Rhys? Perhaps he’d taken a morning flight to clear his head.

Where are you, love? She called to him through the mating bond, but was met with silence.

“Who are you?”

The voice was cold and venomous. Feyre turned, coming face to face with Mor, whose face was twisted into a threatening scowl.

“Mor?” Feyre asked, confused by her friend’s cold demeanor. “What do you mean? Have you seen Rhys?”

Mor’s face turned deadly, a look Feyre had only ever seen from Mor in the Court of Nightmares. “Is that some kind of joke?” she snarled.

Then, before Feyre could process what was happening, Mor had gripped onto Feyre’s wrist and they were enveloped in darkness. They stepped into the House of Wind, into the dining room where Cassian and Azriel abruptly stood up.

“Mor?” Feyre questioned when the blonde didn’t release her steel grip. She looked to Cassian and Azriel quizzically. “Guys? What’s going on?”

Cassian crossed his arms, assessing Feyre with a hostility that put her on edge. “Who’s this, Mor?” he asked gruffly.

Feyre frowned as she watched Azriel reach for Truth-Teller.

“Is this a joke?” she asked, flitting her eyes to each of her friends. Where she sought that friendly warmth in each of their gazes she was met with hard stares, filled with distrust, ready for a brawl. She couldn’t make sense of it. Was this an act Rhys had put them up to?

“I found her in the townhouse,” Mor said. “I don’t know how she got in there. She was in Rhysand’s study.”

“And she’s wearing his dressing gown,” Azriel noted dryly. Cassian did a double glance, his eyes going wide, then narrowing with a rage Feyre had never seen from the male. Certainly never directed at her.

There was a whisper of shadow, then suddenly Azriel was behind her, Truth-Teller poised at her throat.

Feyre startled. “Azriel!” she said sharply. Even if it was a joke, Feyre couldn’t imagine Rhysand would sanction this kind of threat. And the energy in the room was off, the tension too thick. “Stand down.”

“And who are you,” he breathed in her ear, his voice coated in shadow and nightmare, “to command the Shadowsinger of the Night Court?”

“I’m your High Lady,” Feyre answered steadily, not letting Azriel’s shadows, nor cunning voice, shake her resolve. “Now, I don’t know what is going on with the three of you, or what strange joke you’re trying to pull, but you will listen to what I say. Put. Your. Knife. Down.”

“High Lady?” Cassian repeated with a snort of disbelief. “You’ve got balls, little girl.”

Truth-Teller danced across the skin of her neck, pressing lightly enough to intimidate without breaking skin. “Do you even know to whom you speak? You should be bowing before the acting Queen of the Night Court.”

Too stunned to properly resist, Azriel kicked his feet out to knock Feyre to her knees in front of Mor. His fingers slid into her hair, gripping it tightly to pull her head back as Truth-Teller resumed its threatening position at her throat.

“Breaking into the High Lord’s personal residence, impersonating a high position within the Night Court, lying to the Morrigan’s face,” Azriel listed, increasing the pressure of the blade with each transgression. “You throw our High Lord’s generosity and protection in his face, something we as his acting Court do not take lightly.”

“Acting court? Acting Queen?” Feyre repeated, feeling as if she’d woken to a different reality. “What are you talking about? Where’s Rhysand!?”

“We’re the ones asking the questions here,” Cassian growled.

Feyre looked to each of her friends, studying their faces. Beyond their militant expression, she could see their grief. Could smell it. She repeated, “where is Rhysand?”

She felt the snarl that rumbled through Azriel’s chest behind her, vibrating against her back. When the question was once again unanswered, Feyre abandoned all sense of patience.

Darkness exploded through the room. She heard Mor gasp as the walls of the House shook from the might of her power. Feyre folded into the shadows, winnowing out of Azriel’s grasp so she stood in the center of the three of them.

“Az, Cass, Mor, you are my friends and I do not want to hurt you. But I am also your High Lady and you will answer me this instant, where is Rhys? Where is my mate!?”

Siphons gleamed red and blue through the thick tendrils of night, illuminating the Illyrian males’ faces. Cassian’s jaw had fallen open, while Azriel was studying her through narrowed eyes, wisps of shadow surrounding him. Feyre wondered what they were whispering to him.

“Mate?” Cassian echoed, the first to break the heavy silence.

Mor took a cautious step forward, her countenance completely changed. Her pupils were blown wide, twin brown depths churning with sorrow and gentle astonishment. Azriel went rigid at Mor’s approach, but no one moved to stop her as she came face to face with Feyre.

“Where did you get this?” she whispered, taking Feyre’s left hand, eye fixed on her mating band. On the sapphire-star ring that once belonged to Rhysand’s mother.

All eyes befell the subject of Mor’s attention. Cassian swore softly in recognition.

“It’s my mating band,” Feyre answered measuredly, still puzzled that the inner circle, her family, didn’t seem to have any memory of it. Nor of her. “I won it from the Weaver, as was the task set by Rhysand’s mother. But you were all there for that. I don’t understand what’s going on. Where. Is. Rhys?”

“Under the Mountain,” Mor whispered, her voice soft and pained.

The darkness ebbed away like a receding tide. Feyre felt her heart sink as she tried to process this information. “He—What?”

“He’s been Under the Mountain for the last 50 years,” Mor said, firmer this time. “And if you were his so-called mate, you would know that.”

“No,” Feyre said, shaking her head vehemently. “No, that’s impossible. We got out. We—”

This was a nightmare. It had to be a nightmare, and she just hadn’t woken up from it.

“Amarantha’s dead,” Feyre insisted, mostly in an attempt to console the unparalleled grief and panic that were raging inside her. “She’s dead, and Rhys and I got out.”

The grim faces of her friends said otherwise. They stared at her, in unbearable mixtures of pity and horror.

“I think she’s having a mental break,” Cassian said, not unkindly. “Should we get a healer?”

“Let me show you,” Feyre said meekly, casting her magic out to tap on their mental shields.

They all tensed, clearly not aware they’d been in the presence of a daemati. Trained well by Rhys, they all cracked their shields just enough for Feyre to send her conjured memories through. She showed them going Under the Mountain as a human, winning the trials and being resurrected, falling in love with Rhys, and eventually becoming High Lady of the Night Court. In turn, the three of them pushed back their own memories, of the current state of the world. Of Rhysand sacrificing himself so that his Court and Velaris would be safe.

A sob broke out of Feyre. “How is this possible? How am I here?”

It was Azriel who immediately went for the jugular. “More importantly, if you’re here as a High Fae, how is Rhys going to get out? How do we stop Amarantha?”

Feyre fell to her knees, grief-stricken by this realization. She was no longer human. She couldn’t stride in as Tamlin’s human lover and undergo the trials. Feyre had her powers, but they were untested. Would she be able to take on the whole of Amarantha’s court?

“What do I do? How do I save him?” she whimpered, staring in mute horror at her mating band.

Mor tentatively reached forward, laying a comforting hand on Feyre’s shoulder. “Rhys sacrificed himself to keep the people he loves safe. He wouldn’t want you getting yourself killed trying to save him.”

“I have to try,” Feyre answered desperately. “Amarantha she’s…” Feyre couldn’t bring herself to say the word, rape. Not to his family, who wear his sacrifice for them like an open wound. “She’s doing unspeakable things to him. He’s suffering so much. I can’t leave him to that fate. I have to try.”

With renewed conviction, Feyre accepted Mor’s outstretched hand and picked herself to her feet. “Rhys said it himself once. Amarantha’s biggest weapon is that she keeps the High Lord’s power contained. She can’t access them herself. But I… I have access to all the High Lords’ powers. And that bitch has my mate. My wrath will be plenty to take her down.” She faced her friends, who watched her warily. “You have my word as your High Lady,” she swore to them. “The High Queen of Prythian is going to fall by the night’s end.”

⟡⟡⟡

Winter had not yet fallen in the Mortal Lands. Feyre wondered if across the world, there was a version of herself curled in a bed with her sisters, clinging to any shred of warmth and survival.

That version of Feyre was very different from the version who strode up the sloping hills of the Spring Court with Azriel by her side. Rhys would be furious that Feyre had allowed him to accompany her. Should anything go wrong, it would destroy her mate to know his family had been put in harm's way after everything he’d done to protect them. Which was why it was only Azriel who came with, the only compromise she could reach with his Inner Circle, who insisted on coming with.

Who better to sneak into the Mountain with than the very soldier who taught Feyre the art of stealth. He was the obvious choice, since Mor needed to stay to rule the Night Court and Cassian was too heavy-handed to handle such a delicate task.

Their footfall was silent. Feyre wrapped them in the shadow of Night as they winnowed through the cave network. Her heart hammered in her chest, panicked to be back in the source of so many nightmares.

But Rhysand was more important than her fear. For him, she would not falter.

With the Shadowsinger by her side, Feyre snuck through the winding tunnels until she came to a familiar passageway. They slid into a massive, dark bedroom, lit only by a few candles.

To attack Amarantha in the throne room would be too messy. Too many variables to contend with, should Amarantha have enough wit about her to use any faeries as a shield. Especially Rhysand.

After several hours of waiting, the lock on the door clicked and swung open. Darkness swirled around the room as Rhysand took in the sight of Feyre and Azriel on the bed.

Immediately, the door slammed shut.

“No,” he whispered, voice dripping with horror. “No.”

“Rhys—” Feyre started, but her mate wasn’t paying any attention to her. He was looking at Azriel as if his whole world had shattered.

“Leave,” he said, his voice cold and commanding. This was no happy reunion between brothers. This was Rhysand’s worst nightmare. “Leave this instant, you stupid fool. That is, if you’re lucky enough to have avoided detection when you passed under her wards.”

“I took down the wards,” Feyre said. They weren’t particularly strong, either. Amarantha had gotten lazy, perhaps thinking herself secure with the only spell-cleaver under her control. Or so she believed.

Rhys turned that quiet fury towards her. “And who are you?”

“Your mate,” Feyre answered steadily, tipping her chin up.

Rhysand laughed. A desperate, humorless sound. “Then you are just as foolish as my idiot brother. And you have both sealed your deaths by being here. Do you understand that?”

Feyre scratched along those familiar adamantite shields. Rhys’s eyes flickered in surprise, but otherwise he looked unruffled as he cracked a sliver open for her.

It would be unwise to underestimate me, mate.

I wouldn’t be going around boasting about such a thing, if what you claim is even true, came his icy response. And I wouldn’t count on a few party tricks to save you, either.

And what if I told you, she purred, that I possess the power of all seven High Lords?

That, at least, garnered a reaction from the stoic male. He narrowed his eyes in disbelief, studying Feyre carefully. His gaze caught on her hands, at the lace tattoos that flowed to her fingers. And the mating band she still wore.

Feyre watched those violet eyes go wide, the silver constellations dancing in astonishment at the sight of his mother’s ring.

Where did you get that?

It’s a long story, love, but you’re going to have to trust me. She lowered her mental shields completely. Have a look for yourself. I’m telling you no lies. I am your High Lady, and I am here to free my husband.

She felt those familiar talons wrap around her mind. A foolish thing to do, to give a daemati unrestricted access to her mind. And if it were anyone but Rhys, it would have been. But his touch was gentle, and he took only the information he needed.

“I don’t understand how this is possible,” he whispered, breaking the silence of the room. Azriel had been waiting patiently, but looked relieved to be included in the conversation once more. “And I hate that you’ve put yourselves in danger for this, but it could work.”

Rhys considered for a long moment, then he looked between Feyre and Azriel and said, “do it when she’s sleeping. That bitch has been playing dirty for 50 years, you might as well level the playing field to give yourselves the best chance. Let’s do it tonight. I’ll leave the door unlocked, wear her out, and signal you once she’s asleep. Her spell prevents me from harming her, but I’ll make sure she’s restrained. All you have to do is drive the ash dagger through her heart, but have your magic ready for damage control.”

⟡⟡⟡

Feyre and Azriel waited in Rhysand’s bedchambers for his signal. There was a revelry tonight, as there was every night Under the Mountain, and Rhys was expected to be in attendance. Afterwards, he’d join Amarantha in her bed and make sure she was, in his words, “thoroughly exhausted”.

It was torturous for Feyre. To know exactly what the implication in those words were, to have to use her mate’s body in such a way. She wanted to roar at the Mountain, at the Cauldron, at anything that would listen, but instead she was next to the quiet, brooding Shadowsinger, and lamented in silence.

She’d begged Rhys to reconsider, to perhaps help them stage a more physical encounter that didn’t rely on his own suffering. But he’d denied any plan but the one he’d proposed, insisting it would cause him more anguish to but Feyre and Azriel in harm's way.

So they waited the long, agonizing hours until she felt a delicate pull at her chest. She’s asleep, Rhys called. Be on your guard.

He sent her directions to Amarantha’s bedchambers. There were guards outside, but Feyre and Azriel winnowed past them, cloaked in night and shadow.

Amarantha’s bedchambers were huge. Feyre had never been inside them before, but she was unsurprised to see they provided any luxury a High Queen could wish for.

Atop a large bed of red, silken sheets, lay her mate and Amarantha, both stark naked. The smell of sex clung to the air, Rhysand and Amarantha’s scents intertwined. Feyre thought she might be sick.

Even more sickening was the sight before her, of Amarantha’s arms restrained to the headboard in cloth. A clever way for Rhys to restrain her under the guise of sex, but horrifying nonetheless, to see the proof of what they’d been up to. The female was fast asleep, so convinced of her authority that she could fall asleep tied-up and not feel vulnerable doing so. How satisfying, Feyre thought, that such arrogance would be her downfall.

Feyre warded the room, putting up a shield of darkness so that no sound would break through to alert the guards. Rhys watched their approach warily from where he perched beside Amarantha, so still Feyre was convinced he held his breath.

He wouldn’t risk moving to wake her up, which terrified Feyre. Should something go wrong, her mate would be susceptible to Amarantha’s wrath. Naked, vulnerable, and completely under her control. It was such a dangerous game they were playing.

The room was as quiet and still as the bewitching hours of the night, their footsteps silent as they picked across the room. Azriel held the ash dagger. If Rhys could not kill Amarantha, his brother wanted to do it on his behalf. Meanwhile, Feyre summoned tendrils of night that carefully wrapped around Amarantha’s legs, slithering up her body like a snake, ready to constrict and restrain.

The female stirred in her sleep, perhaps feeling the ghostlike touch of Feyre’s magic. But she did not wake. Not as Azriel raised the dagger over her chest, and not as he plunged it down.

Amarantha’s eyes shot open as the dagger pierced her chest. She let out a shriek of agony and ire, moving to claw at her attacker. She raged against the restraints, spewing obscenities until they died at her lips as the blade sunk into her heart.

Rhysand’s chest was heaving as he watched the female still, then slump. He looked from her dead body, to Azriel and Feyre.

Feyre’s heart sank as she watched her mate process that it was truly over. There wasn’t a trace of elation in his eyes at being liberated, but she understood why. Rhys would finally be returning home, but as a much different man than the one he had been. He’d survived, but not unscathed, and he’d need time to process this.

Feyre came to him, reached towards her mate with the hand that bore his mother’s ring. Rhys looked to it, then up to her. His eyes were clouded with sorrow, with a melancholy she could only hope to chip away at in time. But she could see stirring beneath it was a breath of hope, perhaps the first he’d allowed himself in a long time.

“Let’s go home, Rhys,” she said gently.

Slowly, Rhysand nodded, moving to grasp her hand. She felt him jolt at the touch and, as she glanced at him questioningly, she saw his lips part in wonder.

I suppose you weren’t lying about being my mate, he whispered, the words a sensual brush in her mind. Thank you for coming to rescue me, High Lady.

Feyre grasped onto Azriel, and together the three of them stepped into darkness.

Then, they were above the House of Wind, tumbling through the night sky. Feyre unfurled her wings before Rhys could move to catch them, worried that her mate would struggle after 50 years without flight.

Both males stared in astonishment at the sight. Rhysand’s eyes danced in awe as Feyre, albeit clumsily, carried them to the training ring on the roof.

Rhys snapped his own wings open as they landed. Feyre watched him tilt his head back in rapture as he felt the wind against his wings for the first time in decades. Then he opened his eyes, his expression shifting to reverence as he beheld the night sky.

“I was beginning to think I’d never see it again,” he whispered, his voice a heartbreaking blend of exaltation and disbelief. “And for this gift… for my salvation to be courtesy of my mate and of my brother… I’m a bit overwhelmed,” he admitted sheepishly.

Feyre hesitated. If this was the Rhysand from before, the one to which she was mated and married, she would come to comfort him. But this version of Rhys had only just been freed from enslavement, and she didn’t know what he needed.

As though sensing her hesitation, Rhys cast his eyes back to the sky. “I know they’re all waiting for me downstairs, but I’d like a little bit of time with the stars. Will you let them know, Az?”

Azriel nodded, though he seemed conflicted. His reunion with his brother was perhaps not as merry as the male had expected. But right now, she knew the Inner Circle would hardly deny Rhys anything. Perhaps for a long while yet. So Azriel headed downstairs to inform their friends, who were sure to be anxiously awaiting their arrival.

Rhysand regarded Feyre carefully once the two of them were alone. “Mate and High Lady,” he mused. “You seem to wear many hats.”

“You forgot ‘wife’,” Feyre said lightly.

“Yes, and ‘Salvation’, ‘Queen Killer’, ‘Most Beautiful Female in Prythian’, it seems there’s many things I could call you. Could we start with your name, perchance?”

Feyre was shocked. She’d assumed he’d taken such information out of her mind earlier, but it seems he’d been even more respectful than she’d expected.

“Feyre,” she answered. “My name is Feyre.”

He looked wonderstruck. “Feyre,” he repeated, testing the name on his lips. A gentle smile curled at the corners of his mouth, the first she’d seen from him yet. He extended his hand towards her. “Would you like to watch the stars with me, Feyre?”

It was an offer she couldn’t refuse. Her hand found his with all the casual grace of a dancer, as if it were a routine they’d been perfecting their whole lives. Their fingers interlocked and as one, they stared up at the dazzling night sky.

This reality wasn’t perfect, Feyre thought. This Rhys was different from her own, and he still had a lot of healing to do. But if she could be there for him, to help him in a ways she hadn’t before, then she would be grateful to the strange eddies of the Cauldron for bringing her here. For allowing her to end his torment early. For giving them this extra time.

She watched a shooting star dart across the sky and smiled as it passed. There was nothing she could wish for except that her mate find peace in all that he’d endured the last half century.

His deep, velvety voice cut through the silence. “Do you often wish on stars, Feyre?”

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He was watching her with a heart-wrenching wistfulness.

“Only when I have a wish worthy of the stars.”

“And do you?”

Feyre looked to the northernmost star, which shined brightest in the sky. “I wished for a light in the darkness,” she told him. “I don’t think the stars would ever begrudge such a wish.”

Rhysand nodded solemnly. “It’s true that they would be begrudging themselves in doing so. But I see no need for you to wish for such a thing.”

Feyre looked to him. He was still watching her, but something in him had shifted. He was smiling at her gently, that lingering sadness already receding. “Why’s that?” she asked cautiously.

That gentle smile widened, showing off his brilliant teeth. “Why, Feyre, to find such a thing, all you’d need to do is look in a mirror.”