#idk how I will recover from this like actually

[unfortunate17]

Hi! "Are you sure everything is okay?" for the 5 sentence thingy? 💜 ive been thinking about the new fools in a fable chapter all day idk how i will ever recover

Tina!!!!! Thank you for the lovely prompt, here is…..a Wilmon!soulmate/soulmark something 😖 hope you’re somewhat satisfied haha.

“Are you sure everything’s okay?”

Wilhelm looks away, gnawing at the ragged flesh of lip. Despite Erik’s voice echoing faint and tinny over the phone, his tone is far too knowing for his liking. “Yeah,” he repeats, slamming his locker closed. “I’m fine.”

“Wille, you know I can’t help you if you never tell me anything.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” he insists, “I’m just really fucking tired.”

“Fine,” Erik sighs, sounding exasperated, “if that’s how you’re going to be, then - ”

“Then what?” Wilhelm snarls, “if I’m going to be like what, Erik?”

“If you’re going to be like this,” Erik snaps, sounding frustrated. “I just called to check up on you, Wille, you don’t need to jump down my fucking throat about it.”

“Yeah, well, what part of I’m fine do you not fucking understand?”

There’s a long moment of silence. Then, Erik scoffs. “Okay,” he huffs an annoyed laugh, “you can call me back when you’re done being a dick.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah,” Erik says coolly, “fuck you too, little brother.”

The line goes dead then, and Wilhelm has to fight against the urge to throw his phone across the hallway. Instead, he finds himself slamming a palm against the front of his locker, the metal rattling loud and sudden around him. The resulting, sharp pain makes him hiss, even if his body is still thrumming with tightly wound rage.

He blinks down at his hand for a long moment and the cheery, golden heart etched into the back of it stares back at him mockingly. What is supposed to be a promise of love and understanding has quickly turned into Wilhelm’s worst nightmare. There has to be some way to get rid of it. Wilhelm can’t spend the rest of his life looking down at it, imagining and wishing for what could have been.

The soft sound of a throat clearing behind him interrupts his spiraling, and Wilhelm spins around at once.

Sure enough, it’s Simon standing there. Because of course it is. Simon in all his beautiful, curly-haired glory, looking as though he’s been touched by the sun itself.

He’s clutching a set of notebooks to his chest, eyes wide and worried. Wilhelm can’t help the way his own gaze zeros in on the back of Simon’s hand, desperate for even a glimpse of the matching golden heart that resides there.

It’s easy to find today, peeking out from behind Simon’s deep purple sleeve.

“Hey,” Simon says. He sounds awkward, hesitant.

For a second, Wilhelm is seized with the hope that Simon has sought him out, that maybe, Simon actually wants to talk to him. He wipes his palms on the sides of his jeans. “Hi.”

They stare at each other for a moment, caught in a breathless dance of silence.

Then Simon tilts his head towards the lockers behind where Wilhelm is standing, gesturing to the books in his arms. “Sorry, could I - ?”

The hope rushes out of him so fast that Wilhelm feels woozy with the loss of it. “Yeah,” he slumps, moving over, “sorry, go ahead.”

He watches as Simon moves to his own locker, twisting the lock open with long, elegant fingers. As he slides the books in though, he hesitates, eyes flickering over to where Wilhelm is still standing there, staring. “Are you - okay?”

Wilhelm swallows, his voice coming out hoarse. “Fine.” He grits his teeth against the urge to do something pathetic. “You?”

Simon’s arm jerks as he closes his locker door, turning the lock once more. “I’m good.”

“Yeah?”

At that, Simon’s eyes narrow. The first sign of a fight. “Should I not be?”

“I don’t know,” Wilhelm scoffs, “you tell me.”

Simon makes an aborted movement, almost like he’s contemplating making a break for it. At his side, his hands turn to fists. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“What’s my problem?” Wilhelm asks incredulously. “What the fuck is your problem?” There are distress flares going off at the back of his mind now, but Wille stamps them out as quickly as they light.

“What’re you talking about?”

“I mean - I’m not - ” Wille gestures wildly between them, “I’m not the one who doesn’t want this. Us.”

Simon’s expression crumples. “Wille - ”

“No, like, it’s fine, it’s not that I - care that much. But - ” Wille laughs, the sound ringing hysterical in the empty corridor, “you’re supposed to be mine.”

Simon’s face floods with color. He looks outraged. “Don’t ever say anything like that to me again.” He turns his back to Wille, turns to the door, turns to leave him behind once more, and a panic so vicious claws its way up Wille’s chest that he can barely breathe.

“Wait,” he begs, reaching out to grip Simon’s warm shoulder. “Wait, Simon. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

Simon stills, uncertain eyes flickering back to him over his shoulder.

“What I mean to say is,” Wille struggles for air. He has to get this right. It might be his last chance. “I’m yours. We - we’re a match.”

Simon is quiet for a long time. When he finally speaks, it’s only to say, “So?”

“So - we - we’re supposed to be together,” Wilhelm hopes he doesn’t sound like he’s begging but he’s not sure if it’s really working.

“Says who?”

Wille swallows tightly, tracing the soft, delicate curve of Simon’s jaw with his eyes. “I don’t understand. Did I - did I do something wrong, Simon? Is that why you don’t - want me?”

Something jolts across Simon’s face then, a raw emotion that’s gone before Wilhelm can fully catalog. Suddenly, he scrambles towards the door. “I have to go,” he tries to duck out of Wille’s grasp. “The bus is going to - “

Wille catches his wrist, tugging until Simon turns to face him, his eyes wide and wet. “Just tell me why,” Wille begs, “I’ll leave you alone after this, I promise. Simon. I’ve had this mark since I was four. I’ve been looking for you for - for - ”

“And I’ve had this mark since last Wednesday,” Simon breaks, voice loud enough to make him wince.

Wille flinches, his insides going cold. “What do you mean by that?”

“Come on, Wille,” Simon rolls his eyes. He looks angry, brows pulled together unhappily. “Your friends shit on me all the time. Your cousin shits on me all the time. And you just stand there and laugh.”

“I don’t laugh!”

Simon looks at him in deep disbelief. “Uh - yeah you do. And it’s whatever. It’s not like I expect you to stand up for me or something. We barely know each other.”

“But we could get to know each other,” Wille shoots back hotly.

“For what?” Simon lets out a breath of bitter laughter. “It’s not like you would’ve looked twice at me if it weren’t for that fucking mark.”

Wilhelm feels his mouth part in shock. He does a double take of Simon, of the lovely silhouette of his slender shoulders, his soft looking curls, his smooth, unblemished skin, the button nose, the fire that lights his dark eyes, the steel that lines his spine. “That’s not true.”

But Simon only rolls his eyes. “Wake up, Wille, we literally have nothing in common. You’re not my fucking soulmate.”

Wilhelm bites back a sharp flare of hurt. He lets go of Simon’s wrist. “Okay. Fine,” he concedes, vision blurring with tears. “Maybe I’m not your soulmate. But you’re definitely mine.“

From his pocket, his phone buzzes twice. Wilhelm shoots Simon one last smile, drinking in his sweet, wide-eyes gaze before he turns, pulling the offending device out just to give his hands something to do. Perhaps he should call Erik back now, maybe even come clean about everything.

He waits for the telltale sound of receding footsteps, but they never come. Instead, there’s a quiet shuffling, followed by a blissful line of heat pressed along his back.

Simon buries his nose in crook of his neck, and Wilhelm almost jumps out of skin from how good it feels. The heart on his hand feels like it’s singing, warm and alive.

“Alright,” Simon whispers, looping an arm around his middle. The fear in his voice is palpable. “Let’s try then. If you’re so sure.”

Wille reaches down to thread their fingers together, hearts lining up as one. He shakes his head. “Not if you don’t want to, Simon.”

“Of course I do,” Simon’s voice is very quiet, “that’s what makes it so scary.”

Wilhelm squeezes his hand tighter, too afraid to breathe. “You can trust me.”

There’s a long moment of silence, weighted in its intensity. Against him, Simon’s frame shakes. “Okay.”

Wilhelm exhales deeply, nodding. He tries his best to ignore how it sounds like Simon is lying.

[yourbiggestcrybaby]

Pure

Mattheo Riddle x Fem!Halfblood!Reader

Warnings: Mattheo is a jerk, insults towards half-bloods, idk

Mattheo and you have always been enemies. Mattheo insults you perhaps to try to distract himself from his undeniable feelings for you, you insult him back, thats part of you routine. One night, in the common room, Mattheo goes too far and you cry. He feels guilty and tries to fix it, but you have had enough.

The Slytherin common room was dim, the flickering green fire casting shadows over the stone walls as you tried to focus on your notes. It was late, and you were hoping to get a few minutes of quiet studying, but the familiar sound of footsteps approaching made you tense up. Without even turning, you knew who it was.

Mattheo Riddle strode in, his left foot repetitively tapping the floor as he lingered just close enough for you to feel the weight of his gaze. He watched you for a moment, his face unreadable, his stance unusually calm. Normally, he was quick to throw in a smug remark, but tonight he just stood there, looking at you with an intensity you couldn’t quite place.

“Still studying?” he asked, his voice softer than usual. You almost missed the gentleness there, but it was quickly overrun by a familiar sneer as he added, “Thought you’d be used to all this by now.”

You glanced up, surprised to see him looking at you with something close to curiosity. “Some of us actually care about our studies,” you said, keeping your tone neutral, trying to ignore the flutter of nerves his stare was stirring up.

“Oh, I know you do,” he said, an almost mocking note creeping into his voice. “Trying to prove you’re as good as the rest of us, aren’t you?”

The words hit a nerve, but you ignored it, burying yourself back in your notes. This was how it always was with Mattheo—him throwing barbs, you dodging them, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

He moved closer, leaning over your shoulder, his voice dropping to a low whisper. “You can study as much as you like, but you know you’ll never be more than what you are. You’re never going to be one of us.”

You stiffened, feeling the familiar ache that his words always seemed to stir up, but you didn’t let it show. Instead, you forced yourself to stay calm, to keep your voice steady. “And what exactly do you mean by that, Mattheo?”

His smirk widened, and there was a flicker of cruelty in his eyes. “Come on, don’t make me spell it out,” he sneered. “You can wear the Slytherin crest, you can memorize all the spells you want, but it doesn’t change the fact that you’re not pure. That’s something you can’t study your way out of.”

His words hurt, they were calculated to wound, and for a moment, you felt the sting of tears in your eyes. But you forced them down, refusing to give him the satisfaction. This was Mattheo’s favorite way to get to you—digging at the one thing he knew would make you feel like an outsider. But tonight, the anger in his words seemed more intense, his gaze harsher, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d come here tonight with every intention of making you feel as low as possible.

You took a steadying breath, meeting his gaze with as much strength as you could muster. “I didn’t realize blood status was so important to you, Mattheo. Didn’t think the Dark Lord’s son would be so old-fashioned.”

A flash of anger crossed his face, and his smirk faltered. But he recovered quickly, stepping back and crossing his arms, his expression hardening. “It’s not about being old-fashioned. It’s about knowing your place,” he said coldly. “I don’t know why you’re so desperate to prove you belong here when you’ll never be a real Slytherin.”

Your chest tightened, his words sinking in deeper than you wanted to admit. You looked away, trying to keep your expression calm, but his voice just kept cutting through the air, each word sharper than the last.

“It’s pathetic, really,” he went on, his tone dripping with disdain. “Watching you pretend like any of this matters, like you’re somehow the exception. But the truth is, you can’t change what you are.”

“Why do you even care?” you shot back, unable to hold the question in any longer. “Why are you so determined to tear me down every chance you get?”

He opened his mouth, a flicker of something softer crossing his face, but it was gone in an instant, replaced with that same cold, calculating look. “I don’t care,” he said flatly, though his tone wavered for a second. “I just think it’s pathetic, the way you try so hard to be one of us.”

The words sank in, every syllable feeling like another twist of the knife. You could feel the heat of tears in your eyes, and you quickly blinked them away, refusing to let him see how much his words had cut. But he saw something in your expression��some tiny flicker of pain—and for just a moment, his own face softened, like he was almost… regretful.

He shifted awkwardly, glancing down and rubbing the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “Look, I didn’t mean it like that,” he muttered, his voice low, almost unsure. “I just—”

“Yes, you did,” you interrupted, your voice trembling despite yourself. “You meant every word. You always do.”

He looked at you, his face falling, the usual arrogance nowhere to be seen. For a second, it almost looked like he wanted to take it all back, but he seemed lost, unable to find the words.

“I just…” he started, but you cut him off.

“I don’t care, Mattheo,” you said, swallowing hard to keep your voice steady. “I don’t care what you meant, or why you feel the need to make me feel like this. Just leave me alone.”

You watched as the regret in his eyes deepened, his expression twisting with something almost like pain. He looked away, his shoulders slumping as though he was trying to hide the guilt etched across his face. He hesitated, lingering for a moment, like he wanted to apologize but couldn’t bring himself to say the words.

“Fine,” he muttered finally, his voice barely audible. “If that’s what you want.”

There was no arrogance in his tone, no sneer in his expression. Just a hollow, defeated look as he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing through the empty common room. But just before he reached the door, he stopped and glanced back at you, his eyes shadowed with something raw and unspoken, as if he was silently begging for another chance.

But you stayed silent, your eyes cold as you watched him go, refusing to give him even the slightest hint of forgiveness.

And as the door closed behind him, you let out a shaky breath, the weight of his words settling heavy in your chest. He was gone, but the ache of his insults lingered, echoing through the empty room.

[scatterbrainedart]

Desert duo is a disease and I am on my goddamn death bed

[little-pondhead]

The Curse Of Hope

_

Danny is in another universe. He had a reason, but he doesn’t remember anymore. He can only stare, horrified and disgusted, at the sickest city spirit he’s ever seen. Shivering and swaying with every step, core exposed, and ectoplasm leaking from wounds that are decades old. A ratty blanket was thrown over their shoulders, barely hiding the spirit’s pale grey skin and protruding black bones.

The spirit didn’t even sense him until he reached out to touch its wispy shoulders. The spirit flinched, clutching at the dozens of trinkets hanging from their neck and tucking in on themselves like they were expecting a blow.

“Oh, shit,” He swore, floating back a few feet, hands in the air, to show he meant no harm. “I’m sorry. I promise, I’m not here to steal from you.” The spirit shivered again and rolled a pearl necklace in between their fingers. A nervous habit. “Uh, I like that pocket watch? It’s very nice.”

That got their attention. They peeked at Danny, and he saw that more tattered cloth was covering their eyes, blending in with the stringy hair that reached the ground. Their blanket fluttered weakly, revealing hundreds of thousands of tiny marks etched into their skin. Scars, really. Scars that wrote out curse after curse onto the spirit’s very being. They burned with evil intent, and even reached inside the spirit’s body and wrapped around their core.

Occasionally, blinding specks of color raced across their body, temporarily erasing the writing, but it always returned quickly. He watched, a little detached, as one particular line rewrote itself across their rough forearm, drawing fresh ectoplasm like someone was writing it with a thin knife.

“Are you…alright?” Danny stuttered. A stupid question.

The spirit cocked its head. He couldn’t see their eyes, but he felt their burning gaze as they pondered the question.

“The pain of others becomes mine own.” They rasped. “The lights of the city dim as rotten wealth clogs mine veins. Magicks long forgotten have eaten mine skins, pulled mine cloak, and darkened mine skies. Helios has refused to grace mine doorstep, and the seasons of the Earth have revoked their kindness.”

Danny held his breath. It felt like he was the one with the exposed core, not the spirit.

The spirit shivered once more. “Tell mine soul, little lamb. How could this Forsaken City know peace, when it was long since ripped from mine hands?”

Shit, he needed Frostbite. And maybe Clockwork. Now.

-Or-

Danny meets the spirit of Gotham City. The villains and rogues that have plagued the city for decades are literal curses that are taking quite the toll on Gotham, and honestly, Danny isn’t sure how much longer they can hold out. The heroes seem to be doing some help, and are probably the reason Gotham made it this far, but the poor city needs help from the Realms if they want to get better.

Luckily, Danny can provide that help.

But only if he could get Gotham to leave their city behind. Because recovery is going to take a very long time.

[aibouart]

i drew a streamer i started watching recently who was playing LN1~

their name is obakechan !

[the-moogle-of-your-nightmares]

one thing i really deeply wish is that i'd had access as a kid to the plural community and information that are more easily available today, instead of my first experience with plural community which both took it seriously and was nonjudgmental having been 10's era tul/pa.info lmao

[magentagalaxies]

always found this little parallel between how scott speaks about buddy cole vs danny husk fascinating:

(top quote is from this 2017 vulture interview, bottom quote is from paul myers' 2018 book "one dumb guy")

'he's smarter than me. braver than me. he's better than me'' vs ''danny may not be the smartest or the bravest but he's a very decent man''

[androidboy]

-

[akkivee]

once again thinking about my ideal 3rd drb match up and how it’d stack up with plot beats and so far all i got is

🔴💥⚪️: true hypnosis mic opponents, maybe jakurai ends up on a side for further development to save yotsutsuji and that’s against ichiro’s current goal

🔵💥🟠: haven’t quite figured out why, but rei vs samatoki is the angle i’m thinking about

🟡💥🟣: all plot stakes division vs no stakes division lol idk really but i’m leaning towards a bonds angle or if hypmic wants to be real freaky, the side effects angle 🤔

[fumifooms]

Just finished Fool Night vol 7 (chap 63) and clutching my head. Mayhaps I shall never be the same. Oh Mukuru Izumi the villain that you are… "What’s back teryas? Veer usses?" "What’s oxygen? Is it like air?" "What’s that? What are you holding?" "Do you think I can live happily one day?" Just shoot me mysterious masked guy it’ll hurt less idc anymore just do it. This is my csm Aki I feel the tragedy in my bones even more here

It’s the cycle of revenge right, that goes on and on until there’s no one left to avenge the last one murdered— And the thought that there’d be no one that would remember or care or want or try to avenge Mukuru is the fucking saddest thing I’ve ever heard.

Trying to be as vague as possible to avoid spoilers but man. Fool Night, the manga that’ll make me cry over trees… Like so far I’ve only cried once and it was during the first umm trees field scene right, because it was simply too fucking real yeah that’d happen yeah, but my god. They’re not just trees they’re lives and they’re not just lives they’re humans and more but does it matter and what are souls???? What are feelings????? What is communication?????? "Oh sure I’ll bring you to Shiika." then that. evil.

…….. And also today I started NegaPosi Angler!!! Great and comfy so far very looking forward to watching it every week. For anyone who didn’t know yet I have a weird ultra fixation on fishing in media in general, Tsuritama and River King are two of my fave things, sooo this is perfect for me lol, came around just at the right time too. Big recommend. Surprisingly topical since both NegaPosi and Fool Night deal with poverty hm. It’s csm Denji meets FN Toshiro except this guy fixes his life through fishing. Bless.

2 works that make me say "I want to live!!" in very different ways! 😀 Fool Night’s out in english through Viz what are you doing here go check it out

[themanwhowouldbefruit]

my doctor was sooooo fucking worthless and unhelpful im going to masturbate and i hope it fucking kills me

[b4kuch1n]

gonna start subjecting u lot to my rambling abt classic viet authors

[bibleofficial]

being an adult SUCKS i’m naked standing here in the kitchen searching ‘soup how to’ bc i forgot my towel in the clean laundry bag on other side of the flat

[quarklynx]

Casually flirting with the idea of fucking around and getting a master's degree. The time will pass anyway, right?

[pepprs]

im home and already swallowed by despair. can you believe i was in CHICAGO a few hours ago. and now im here. lol

[skitskatdacat63]

this video makes me want to sob and throw up and scream and cry and collapse onto the floor