#if i had more time this would look better but its fine

[eowynstwin]

peristalsis - iv

selkie!soap x reader. depression. suicidal ideation. strangers to "lovers." social isolation. self loathing. hint of neurodivergent reader. manipulative soap. . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.

previous

The other side of the bed is empty the next morning, when you wake up.

You feel it as the dregs of sleep slough off—an absence of weight. The heavy drape of the bedsheets around you. The lone sound of your own breathing, and nothing more—

It shouldn’t punch a hole in your chest. You shouldn’t be surprised in the slightest. What is for other people is not for you.

But you are. It does.

The little speck of hope that has survived every attempt of yours to exterminate it had flared a little brighter, fed by Johnny’s attention. A distant star in a clouded sky, finally reaching earth with its light. Stupid. You know better by now, and it should too. You’ve done this before, a hundred different times, a hundred different ways. The outcome is always the same.

You sweep your hand over the empty spot—

It’s still warm.

Your eyes snap open. At the same moment, you hear movement from somewhere else in the cottage, and then, through the open bedroom door, the warm aroma of coffee and cooking food wafts in.

You sit up. Pull the sheets up with you, clutched to your chest.

“Johnny?” you call. Tentative. Unsure.

“Aye!” a cheerful brogue responds from the kitchen. “Don’ move a muscle, I’ll be right there.”

Something sharp and hot pushes through your veins; the corners of your vision darken with it.

You realize you’ve stopped breathing, and inhale. Your need to be contrary subsumes completely underneath your shock. You sit completely still, suspended in place, as something sizzles in the kitchen.

He traipses into the room in nothing but an apron, carrying a tray with two plates of food and two mugs of coffee, which he sets on the end of the bed before he slides into the empty spot beside you.

You stare as if at a wild animal—if he notices your surprise, he doesn’t take it into account as he curls an arm around your neck.

“Mornin,’” he says, dragging you in for a kiss.

A long kiss—his mouth parts yours to permit his tongue, which he slides against yours as his fingers press upward into the soft underside of your chin. He inhales deeply before his lips leave yours, and you reel, listing toward him, as he pulls away.

“Sleep well?” he asks, hand dropping to your sternum to drag his fingertips between your breasts.

You blink several times. “Uh. Yes.”

“Bet you did,” he says with a grin. Then, he taps your neck—ink-blotting soreness with ungentle fingertips. “Sorry about this. Got too into it.”

He does not sound sorry in the slightest.

“It’s fine,” you say anyway, still blinking in whiplash.

He leans away to pull the breakfast tray up into both of your laps. “Made a classic English breakfast this time, but you eat what you like, bonnie.”

A classic English breakfast turns out to be eggs, sausage, bacon, beans, seared cherry tomatoes, and toast, which Johnny digs into with the gusto of the starving. You select a crunchier-looking strip of bacon and break it between your teeth, but you don’t pay much attention to the taste.

Johnny. His mohawk is mussed from the night’s sleep, and other than the apron, he really does appear to be completely naked. It seems like the first thing he did, when woke up, was not shower or dress, but head to the kitchen to start cooking.

For you. Again.

“Why?” you ask aloud.

He turns to you, one cheek rounded with food, dark brows lifted over bright eyes. “Hm?”

“Why did you make breakfast? You could’ve just left.”

Surprise on his face, freezing his expression. Then, consternation, dragging it down. “I wouldnae do that to you, bonnie.”

He says it so gravely—as if even the notion that he would make an early getaway amounts to betrayal on the deepest level.

“It’s,” you say, “it’s fine. It’s not like this…like…”

Like this meant anything. But didn’t it? You meant to punish yourself, with him as your scourge. A necessary reminder—a bitter pill you must swallow, over and over again.

Who better to deliver it than Johnny, because, hopes aside, he with his rockstar grin and wandering hands had not given off the slightest indication that he would stay the morning after a one-night stand. Let alone get up before you to make breakfast.

You had relied on that.

“I wouldnae do that,” he repeats.

Instead—here he is. Warm, bare shoulder against yours. Lashes dark over an insistent gaze.

You break eye contact, looking at your plate. “Whatever,” you say, for lack of any other response.

You pick at your food—it’s good, same as the meal he made you last night. Not pretentious, like he’s trying to impress you, but genuine and hearty. Tasty, the way breakfast in bed should be.

Puzzle pieces forced to fit together, despite belonging to different areas of the composition. A round peg the perfect diameter for a square hole. Incongruous. Confusing. Untrustworthy.

You continue to study him out of the suspicious corner of your eye as he goes back to eating, though it isn’t exactly any hardship. It seems to be a rare sunny day on the island, with warm, buttery light streaming in from the window. It catches the dark hair on his forearms, casts the sculpted expanse of his freckled shoulders in stronger repose.

You see it again—the wound on the side of his head. Nearly hidden by the dark stubble of shaved hair, but not invisible.

“What happened?” you ask.

He looks at you with a question on his face, and then sees the direction of your gaze. He nods to himself, as if he’s been expecting you to ask this whole time.

“Told you I served,” he said, setting down his fork. Then he notices you aren’t eating much. “Ach, bonnie, don’ let it get cold. You eat, and I’ll talk, aye?”

Begrudgingly, you spear some egg and clamp it between your teeth. He smiles indulgently, and continues.

“So you met Price. Was on an operation with him in London. Chasin’ this real bad fucker in the subway tunnels. He was tryin’ to set off a bomb, but we got to him first. Well, we chased him off the payload, anyways, n’ I’m demo, so I’m the one can defuse it.”

He looks at you. You bite down on a corner of toast.

“Guess he figured that part out, ‘cause not long after I get to the wires he comes back. Nearly takes Price out, so I get after him. Stupid mistake. Price can take care of himself, an’ we had backup. Fucker ended up shooting me in the head.”

Halfway swallowing that same bite of toast, you choke. “You—you got shot in the head?”

He nods. “Aye.”

You look again at the scar near his temple. A starburst, in a whorl of dark hair. Dead center in the silhouette of his profile, as if a paper target at a shooting range.

“Johnny—how the fuck are you still alive?”

He leans back against the headboard, folding one arm behind his head, exposing a thatch of curly dark hair in his pit. He runs his hand through the back of his mohawk, mouth canted at an angle.

“Got no fuckin’ idea, bonnie,” he says.

The expression on his face is, perhaps, the most human you’ve ever seen it. Consternation, maybe. Confusion. Aggravation. You’re not sure what you would call it, but just looking at him, you understand that that exact question is one he’s been asking himself since it happened.

Asking, without finding an answer.

“I’m,” you stammer, “I’m sorry. That’s a stupid thing to—I’m sorry.”

He turns to you and smiles. Chagrined, but forgiving. “It’s all right, bonnie. Have some coffee for me, why don’t you?”

You lift a mug and sip. He’s added cream and sugar to it, the way you’d made it yesterday morning.

“So, I survived it,” he goes on. “Woke up in the hospital a few days later. One in a million chance, they said, but I still had to learn to walk again, an’ I was out. Out, out. Medical discharge, thank you for your service, enjoy the rest of your life. The boys went off to kill the guy in Kastovia or Russia or somethin.’”

Quick as the bullet in his brain. Matter-of-fact. The story ending without him, with no hand reaching out to pull him back in.

Well, not quite—

“And then John Price came here with you,” you say.

He gives you a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes; strained, much like the only smiles you have to offer these days. “Nah. Came out by myself. He came after I’d been here awhile. Told me he was ‘worried about me.’”

The way this conversation is supposed to go, this would be the part where you would say of course he was worried.

“But he didn’t get it,” you say instead, seeing it etched into the grooves of his expression.

Johnny, in exile, alive when he shouldn’t be. Reckoning with the fact that everything he cared about did not care nearly as much about him. Figuring out how to live without anyone else.

Breakfast turns inert on the plate when you look down at it.

“No,” Johnny says, private and intimate, thick as molasses. “He didnae.”

“You seem okay now,” you say, diaphragm pushing the words up your trachea like debris on an incoming tide.

The Johnny you know—the smug, satisfied prick able to laugh at anything and everything—slides back into place.

“Yeah, can’t hide that from you, can I, bonnie?”

He looks at where you’re still holding the sheet to your chest, to the imprint of his teeth on your neck, and then back into your eyes. You know exactly what he’s about to suggest, and you intercept as he opens his mouth to suggest it.

“I’m still eating breakfast,” you say, forcing a whole cherry tomato into your mouth. It pops and squirts between your teeth.

He grins—too knowing. “Ah, that’s alright. M’ takin’ you to Callanish today, and I’ve got a’catch your supper first,” he says.

With that, he slides the tray fully onto your lap and rises, stretching his arms above his head with his back to you, tensing and releasing the muscles as if for your benefit.

“Callanish?” you ask, swallowing.

“Aye, on Lewis.” Then he turns around and, beating a forkful of eggs halfway up, kisses you on the mouth. “Why don’t you take a walk? Pretty today. I’ll be back ‘round noontime.”

Something hard in your chest, held tight between your lungs. Pressure bending the lid upwards.

“I didn’t say I was going,” you reply, but Soap just laughs at you.

He disappears from the bedroom, and you hear him retrieving his clothes from wherever he’d thrown them the night before. You start to shake with the effort of holding in, listening with straining ears as he dresses.

“Left some lunch in the fridge for you!” he calls, and in a stroke of bright luck you hear the front door open and shut before there’s any chance for you to respond.

Wind strokes its fingers through the thatches of the roof. Stillness retakes the vacated space.

You eventually bring the dishes to the sink, tray held in front of you like a shield, as if wary of some predator hiding just around the counter. You approach the fridge and crack it open carefully, imagining a wire you don’t want to snap. There’s a sandwich on the middle shelf, sitting on a plate, wrapped in cellophane.

It breaks open.

Finally, you are alone.

You take the walk.

The sky is nearly cloudless, and the sunlight has transformed the island’s greys into a storm of jewel greens, with what is likely the last warm breeze of the year dancing across fronds of tall grasses. Clouds tower in the sky as if composed and painted there. You lock up the cottage behind you and find a walking trail to put your feet on.

Johnny.

It’s as quiet on the island as you’d hoped. No road noise. No humming power lines, or distant radio on someone else’s balcony. You can hear tiny insects singing together in the sedge, sea birds calling to each other. The voices of colliding winds arguing like old friends in the wide sky above you.

No other walkers on the path. It’s out of season for tourists, the nice weather a rare gift for the people who belong here and them alone.

Johnny.

You’ve tried to be happy. You have.

All you know is that when things start going well, it doesn’t last long.

You don’t know when it began—years ago, maybe, when you first noticed it. The pattern. Something you think of as a chill; rapid cooling, thermal shock cracking the facade.

It happens like this: you find out about group chats you aren’t a part of. Dinners you weren’t invited to. Conversations you might’ve enjoyed, that happened without you.

A problem. A serious one. But you were solution-minded.

For a long time, you puzzled it out. Acknowledged that the common denominator was you, in every circumstance—and so you looked at yourself. Found your flaws. Stared open-eyed into the mirror and confronted your own lack, internalized that no one owed you what you wanted from them just because you wanted it.

Love is action, isn’t it?

So you tried. You really did. You wrote down people’s birthdays. You invited them out for coffee. You commented on their Instagram posts. You messaged first, every time you’ve thought of them, memorized details about their lives, gave them plenty of space to talk about themselves—

After all, no one wants a friend absorbed in themself. People like to be remembered. Thought of. Considered.

You read books others recommended. You watched their favorite movies. Spent evenings catching up on shows they liked so that you could always have something to talk about with them, because that’s how it happens, right? Mychorrizae for the roots between trees. Fertilized ground.

It worked, for a while. And you nurtured the hope that, perhaps, there would be space for you, that something wonderful might eventually germinate.

Maybe conversations would loop back to you. Maybe all you’d done would be returned in kind.

Exhaustion bared a preliminary truth: it would not.

Puzzling more. The next solution presented itself—people don’t stand in front of mirrors all day. If all you do is echo them, what interest will they have in you? You provide nothing new, nothing more than what they already have.

Human beings love novelty, after all. Something new and shiny to turn in the light at different angles. You needed to gleam so brightly that what you’d been seeking all along could see you well enough to find you.

So you worked on yourself.

You took classes you’d been swearing to take for years. Joined a gym looking for endorphins. Dove into crafts, walking groups, trivia nights at the bar. Wrote out a cleaning schedule for your small apartment and kept to it. You spritzed your pillows with lavender, and ate more fruit.

Joined forums for things you liked. Got certifications for work and then chased down the raises they entitled you to. Went to interesting restaurants, found tiny little card shops or foreign grocery stores to explore. Learned to make Pad Thai from scratch.

Rounded yourself out. That’s what you did—you took the raw block of yourself and chiseled down into it, to set free whatever you found inside.

For another while, it was enough. Endorphins make people happy, and all that. And it seemed to be enough, becoming to attract; drops of water usually obey the laws of cohesion.

Only, in the middle of it, you observed the exact same phenomena as before.

Mirrors of yourself in others. People making the same efforts—which bore a richer harvest than you ever had available to reap. Bounties so plentiful they could barely hold it in their arms.

And you, close beside them, trying, and trying, and trying.

Hairline cracks forming.

In the end, still alone.

The teeth of the preliminary truth fit into the lock holding all the rest, and turned open the latch. They flooded your stomach in a rush, expanding, shattering their container, so abundant that they left no room for anything else. And they all connected, ligaments spiderwebbing inward to an undeniable nucleus—

There is something deeply, deeply wrong with you.

Invisible to you, but obvious to everyone else. A thing you cannot fix. A thing you cannot medicate. A thing you cannot self-care away. Unobservable when you look at it; happening just outside your perception.

Something you manage to hide, even unaware of its existence, only for a short while, before it spills out of you and makes a mess for all to see, entirely without you knowing it.

You do not know what it is. You’ve looked and looked and looked for it, and have not found it. You’ve sanded all the edges of yourself, hoping you might unknowingly catch it—but whatever it is must grow back, like a lizard’s tail or the arm of a starfish.

It must be ugly. It must be so shocking that when it rears its head, people feel so sorry for you for bearing it that they’d feel guilty rejecting you outright, and so they recede from you slowly. Masking pity with compassion, and hoping you won’t notice.

There is nothing good enough about you to accommodate for whatever it is. No matter what you do, you cannot make up for it.

So here you are, on a dying island in the North Atlantic. Far away from temptation—from what you can only, inevitably, ruin.

Hounded by a man who it would be madness to think cannot see that.

You watch one foot swing in front of the other, barely leaving any prints in the hard, packed soil exposed by every walker who’s come before you. You hadn’t brought sunglasses with you, assuming that you wouldn’t need them, and the late morning light is too blinding to look too far ahead of you.

Johnny.

It isn’t about you, whatever his interest is. You see that very clearly now.

You picture him—a special forces grunt, riding high on his own masculinity, suddenly cut down. Ripped away from everything that made him him. Cut off from anyone who might be halfway capable of understanding how that might feel.

And you—a lone woman, marginally fuckable. Obviously flawed goods. An empty well of self-esteem waiting to be filled.

Someone he can impress with a wink and a flex, and make himself feel better taking care of.

He’s enjoying getting to play suitor—that’s all. You don’t think you’ve seen many women your age on the island, so for him, this must be a rare opportunity. You can’t, you suppose, blame him too much. You understand what he’s doing, and why.

You’ve done it yourself. Chosen a likely candidate and thrown all your feelings at them until you’ve felt better.

That’s how people are, in the end—that’s how you are. People look to others to get what they want out of them, and in Johnny’s case, he’s getting it. Not even two days, and you spread your legs for him. You let him come inside of you with barely even a token fuss, because he felt you up and smiled the whole time doing it.

He’s using you. The same way you’re using him.

It’s a shitty thing to do. You are a shitty person for doing it.

And so is he.

Maybe that’s why you’re letting him.

When you return to the cottage, you find the door unlocked, and Johnny on the couch with a romance paperback open in one hand. He turns to grin at you when you walk in, and tosses the book on the coffee table without marking his place when he rises. Today, he’s wearing a dark sweater over yet another kilt, but this time—

“Your—fur, thing, is missing,” you say, in lieu of greeting.

He looks down at his hips, patting his thighs with his hands. “My pelt? Ah, yeah.” He grins. “Threw it off in a hurry, can you blame me? Couldnae find it. I’m no’ worried, it’ll turn up. You ready to go?”

You frown. “I guess.”

“Good! I packed your bag for ya already, but you migh’ wan’ to check if I missed anything.”

Your frown harder. “You—what? You packed my bag? Why would I need that?”

You swear his eyes twinkle at you. “Is a six hour boat ride up to Lewis, hen, an’ six hours back, no’ counting how long y’wanna stay at Callanish. Probably dock overnight.”

“I never said I wanted to go!” you snap, marching past him toward the bedroom.

“A’thought we were past that!” he calls after you.

You find your carry-on open on the bed, and furiously upturn it, dumping everything out—it disgorges its contents like intestines spilling from a slit belly. Three romance novels. Toiletry bag, phone charger, jewelry bag, a shirt mismatched to a pair of pants it’s crumpled up with. One pair of socks. No bra, no panties—and you think Johnny might have a shred of decency after all, but when you go to your suitcase, you find your carefully folded rows of underwear haphazardly unfolded, thoroughly pawed through anyway.

Johnny comes into the room as you stand up with appropriate undergarments in your hands, ire shoving smog from your lungs.

“You’re no’ gonna need those, bonnie,” he says with, the ever-present smirk.

“Fuck you,” you snap. You have never wanted to slap someone so much in your life, but somehow, you know he would catch your wrist in the attempt, and just use his grip to pull you in.

And you’d let him.

“Yeah, that’s why.”

You scoff, and go to repack your bag, folding your clothes and tetrising everything together so it will stand on its own when put down, ignoring Johnny’s leering until you turn around. You make no effort to hide how much you’re grumbling about fucking assholes with fucking boats thinking they’re going to get laid again just because they got their dick wet once.

You sling the carry-on over your shoulder once it’s packed and zipped—fully intending to complain the whole way, even as you go along with his nonsense.

It doesn’t feel good, exactly, but you don’t quite feel your stomach up in knots. You feel clear, at least. You know what’s going on. You know the limits of this dynamic. You can deal with it.

“Oh, one thing,” Johnny says, then sticks one hand into a pocket in his kilt.

He withdraws your phone.

Whole again, back together with a gleaming new screen. Nested back in its protective case.

“Saw you dropped it, so I took it to Castlebay to get it fixed,” he says, holding it out to you like a dog proud of the task it’s completed. “No’ a lot of signal ‘round here, but wanna make sure you can get to me if you need to.”

The words enter your hearing like cotton swaps, blurring the deeper they penetrate. You take it from him without a word. You tap the screen—there almost certainly had been signal in town, and repair places usually charge phones for free.

Nothing.

Just the time, and the stock background you never changed.

Stone lungs in your chest. In—one, two three. Hold. Out—three, two, one.

“Thank you,” you say, the words dropping like pebbles from your tongue.

“You’re welcome,” he says cheerily. “An’ I didnae know wha’ y’liked to read so I picked my favorites.” He quirks his brows. “Thought we migh’ get some ideas.”

“Okay,” you say. “Let’s go.”

He makes you brush past him on your way out of the bedroom, and follows on your heels close behind, enough that you can smell him, axe and diesel and salt spray and all.

Too close—because, when you catch sight of something odd, you stop in your tracks, and he runs into you, having to catch you before he knocks you over over. Hands wrap warm around your upper arms, big enough to shackle.

There—wedged in the lintel, above the front door. Barely visible from this angle. A sliver of white spattered with grey. You’re not sure what you’re seeing, until—

“Johnny, is that your—pelt?” you say, frowning.

You point toward it; Johnny’s chin rests on top of your head, hands squeezing. Chest hot at your back.

“Look at that,” he murmurs. “How did that end up there?”

It looks well-packed into the angle of the thatch roof meeting the wall; nothing tossed away in a hurry, the way you imagine Johnny undressed the previous night, could have ended up where the pelt is now.

It was obviously shoved there.

Moonlit eyes dance in your dreaming memory.

You turn around to look at him. You open your mouth to speak, but there are no words waiting to leave it—and he beats you before you can come up with any.

“Why don’ you head down to the beach, an’ I’ll lock up here?” he says, looking down at you with pleased, half-lidded eyes.

A killer whale will toy gleefully with its prey. For hours, flinging it back and forth, punting it through the air with powerful flips of its tail. Whatever animal unlucky enough to have encountered it has no escape—it spends its last moments thrown skyward, soaring through the only habitat it could never understand, before spinning back down to sea, pulled back home by gravity’s ignorant love.

Too stunned on impact to be able to swim away. Still breathing—the body unaware that its life has already ended. Until the teeth closing around its neck is the only mercy it will beg for.

“Okay,” you gasp out, stepping back away from him. He watches as you escape, smiling slightly. In no rush.

Out the cottage door and down the path on shaking legs—you retreat to the kayak waiting on the sand, heart pounding against your sternum again, bolting from something that isn’t chasing you. Your nerves feel raw beneath your skin, unclosed circuits buzzing.

The short burst of warm weather is rapidly cooling; a passing breeze carries the chill of a cold night oncoming. You realize you left Johnny’s jacket in the cottage, but—you’re not going back for it. You don’t want to see whatever you left behind there.

Then you hear Johnny’s footsteps approaching. You jolt, tense—readying to flee. Turning, all you see is him holding the plated sandwich as he crosses the beach, jacket draped over the bend of his elbow.

“Forgot some things after all,’” he says, grinning—teeth clean and sharp.

“Oh,” you say, trying to keep the tremble from your voice, “yeah.”

You take it from him, and see that your hands are shaking. If he notices, he doesn’t comment.

If he notices, he’s probably enjoying it.

“Let’s get goin’ then!” he enthuses, taking your bag and setting it in the kayak.

There is no pelt around his hips.

next chapter early access

a/n: I won't lie, this was a rough one to write. Part of the prose of this chapter is inspired by september is a weary month by Yasmin Belkhyr. Not sure if this is the proper attribution but it's all I can find.

[mochacoda]

[teaser] python | csc

Pairing: Choi Seungcheol x GN!Reader

Synopsis: When you broke up with your boyfriend to work in a different country, you didn't expect to see him ever again. But when you transfer to your company's Seoul branch four years later, the department head is your ex, and he’s made it his objective to make your life a living hell for leaving him all those years ago.

Content: Angst, Fluff, Comfort | Exes to Lovers | Office AU

Tags: emotions, miscommunication, heartache, workaholic!seungcheol, insecure reader, a little drinking, konglish w/ translations, no "y/n," this is for everyone who voted for cheol in the poll, loosely connected to too nice (joshua)

Word Count: 8K (est. full)

Release Date: February 14

Masterlist

“I hate him,” you seethe, your fists balled up, crumpling your rejected proposal. “God, I hate him.”

Your coworker, Joshua Hong, looks up from his cubicle with raised eyebrows. “Who?”

You breathe in deeply, willing your rage to dissipate at the sight of his confusion. Poor Joshua doesn’t deserve your anger. “No one,” you say, clenching your jaw. 

Open-mouthed, Joshua blinks rapidly, eyes flitting over to glance at the office you had just walked out of. The door to the room is marked with a name plate that has 최승철 [Choi Seungcheol] in bold, gold letters. 

“I’m fine,” you insist, hands uncrumpling the document you had just attacked. 

“Uh, okay?” he says with a healthy dose of doubt, elongating the “o” in “okay.” 

“I just—” you begin, then immediately shut your mouth. “Ugh, forget it.”

It’s one thing to crumple a proposal up, and another thing to start bad-mouthing your boss out in the open. You throw the tattered outline onto your desk, then plop yourself into your chair. You rub your temples, and then mutter under your breath, “How did I get here?”

“Good question,” Joshua laughs. “Company synergy?” 

You groan, “Don’t ever say that word again in my presence.” 

“Mmh,” he says, walking over to your cubicle. “You won’t have to worry about my presence in a few months.” 

“Don’t remind me,” you sigh, dropping your head in your hands. 

Joshua would be leaving the Seoul branch and transferring to the New York branch in a few weeks. 

Curse your company for its commitment to “workplace synergy,” swapping out a handful of employees across all departments in its international branches every few years. If it hadn’t been for this horrible program, you wouldn’t be here right now. 

You want to rip out your own hair, at this point.

How did it even get to this?

When you first got a job offer at the New York branch of your dream company, your initial reaction was elation. Your second? Doubt. Leaving Seoul was almost unthinkable, not to mention the fact that you’d be leaving your boyfriend behind, too. 

For the first few days after hearing back from the recruiter, you knew you’d accept, but kept the news to yourself. You’d heard of so many horror stories about long-distance dating, and after a long period of consideration, you wondered what the point was. 

You knew your boyfriend—really knew him. You knew he’d make sacrifices for you at the expense of himself, and it was impossible for you to accept bogging him down with a 14 hour time difference. He’d stay up waiting for your calls, instead of getting much needed rest. He’d worry about you all the time, checking the weather in Manhattan instead of Seoul and calling you constantly instead of his family and friends. He’d wait on you for as long as you needed, in an almost obsessive way, thinking it could make up the difference in distance. But he deserved someone who could love him in person, all of the time. 

It’d be better for Seungcheol if you just let him go, freeing him to focus on what mattered more to him. Like work.

He loved you too much to break things off with you himself, so it was better that you did it. For his own good. 

That’s what you told him, at least. 

────୨ৎ──── Four Years Ago

“Cheol,” you said, teary-eyed. “Cheol, look at me.”

Seungcheol stared blankly at the ground, face frozen. 

“Please?” your voice cracks. 

“Who are you to tell me what I can and can’t handle?” he suddenly choked out, eyes flashing with hurt. His hands clenched, like he was holding himself back from saying more.

You swallowed thickly, reaching for his arm. “Cheol, I—”

“Don’t call me that,” he said, snatching his hand away from you. 

────୨ৎ──── Present

But you had swallowed the real reasons for the breakup. 

Because, deep down, you had always suspected otherwise. Somehow, everything had just become so complicated. Loving Seungcheol—which had once been something as easy as breathing—had become a dull pain in your chest, clouding your every thought with insecurities. 

Even from the start of the relationship, you’d loved him more, anyway. Back then, you didn’t mind it because you loved him so much, and he was always so, so sweet to you. But around the time of the job offer, paranoia had reared its ugly head, kicking your uncertain thoughts into overdrive. 

It was obvious that he didn’t really love you anymore. While you were job seeking, he was distracted. Always checking his phone, not really listening to what you had to say. He made time for you, but he didn’t necessarily make you feel like he loved you as deeply as you did him—it didn’t feel like he was the same guy that you started dating. 

Something about his actions just felt like he did them to claim that he loved you, rather than because he actually loved you. His actions were laced with a kind of surface level, superficial quality. 

He’d take you out to a fancy dinner, open the door for you, pay for the meal, drive you home—all the gentlemanly things he did when you started dating, too. But on the car ride there and back, and while sitting down eating together, he wouldn’t remember the things you had said about the little things happening in your life—a major change, when compared to the start of your relationship. 

And sure, he didn’t have an obligation to remember your next door neighbor's name. But shouldn’t he remember your favorite kind of pie, or your closest cousin’s name? Shouldn’t he just know not to check his phone every time it pings with a new email, or leave you to eat your stupid expensive pasta alone as he takes a call outside?

It was almost like Seungcheol had fallen out of love with you, but was staying with you out of some kind of obligation to continue what he had started? That was your only explanation for why he’d spend time with you, but wouldn’t pay close attention to the things you said. Every Thursday was movie night, and in hopes of trying to keep him away from work, you let him choose the movie every time. But what use was that, when he spent more time looking at his phone than the TV—and more importantly, you, for that matter? 

You’d been dating a ghost of a man. While you loved him, he tolerated you. 

If the two of you stayed together when you went abroad, he’d probably double down on texts, but he wouldn’t really remember anything you’d said if you mentioned details about them in calls. 

You didn’t bring any of these fears up to him, because you knew that he would continue to deny it. In fact, you’d imagined it in your head so much that you could see it when closing your eyes to sleep. If you confronted him, he’d deny that he didn’t love you anymore. But he’d be staring at the ground instead of looking at you. He wouldn’t admit that he was only with you because he enjoyed the consistency of your affection, and because he somewhat pitied you—and most importantly to him, because he wanted to prove to himself that he chose correctly when he started dating you. 

The pain of watching the love of your life push down his repulsion just to be with you was decidedly more horrifying than the pain of breaking up with him altogether. 

Right before breaking up with him, it had occurred to you that Seungcheol might not have ever loved you in the first place, and that just hammered in the idea that you were making the right decision. He’d get over the breakup fast. He’d probably be thankful for it in a few years, even. If you saw him again, you’d both probably laugh, and in his head, he’d realize that he was grateful that you ended things so that he could focus on his real love, his career. 

If you were honest with yourself, you would admit that there was a bit of selfishness driving the breakup, as well. There was no way you could handle Seungcheol sacrificing things for you—if he lost sleep over you, if he worried about you, if he was distracted by you—because you knew he wouldn’t be doing it for love. 

Because he only ever cared out of a superficial need to prove to himself that he made the right decision in asking you out all those years ago. Not because he really loved you. 

Yes, he probably never loved you, and he would never know the real reason why you ended things. 

────୨ৎ──── Four Years Ago

“You give up so easily,” he spat out. “Was I nothing to you?”

Tears were running down your face. “Don’t. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

Seungcheol laughed, then buried his head in his hands. “God, to think I almost—” 

He stopped, jaw tightening, then shook his head like he couldn’t believe it.

────୨ৎ──── Present

A hand comes down sharply on your desk, jolting you awake. 

“Sleeping while on duty?”

Wide-eyed, with tear-stained cheeks, you look up to face your ex-boyfriend. “부장님! [Department Head!]” 

Upon seeing your red-rimmed eyes, Seungcheol falters.

Swiping at your under eyes quickly, you bow your head to him slightly. “I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”

He swallows roughly, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. He opens his mouth, like he’s about to ask you why you were crying, and your heart drops. 

You will crumble if you hear the tone of voice he had used when you broke up with him.

“Excuse me,” you blurt with choked words. 

You don’t dare to look at his eyes. Instead, you get up from your seat, then immediately flee to the bathroom.

────୨ৎ──── Four Years Ago

“You can focus on work, now,” you squeaked out. 

Seungcheol scoffed again, a cruel sound of disbelief. “What makes you think I give a damn about work right now?”

“Don’t you? Always?” Tears welled in your eyes.

His eyes flashed with something you couldn’t quite describe. He seemed angry, but not just at you. At himself, too—his hands were balled into fists at his sides, fingernails digging sharply into his palms. His throat bobbed, and you could see the intense restraint he was forcing on himself. He opened his mouth with a sharp breath, then closed it again, as if he wanted to say something but stopped himself. 

Masterlist

Author’s Note: get ready for a rollercoaster

Disclaimer: nothing i write is representative of how svt acts off camera, take their names as stand-ins for oc’s!!

Taglist: @syluslittlecrows - @junplusone - @fragmentof-indifference - @junniesoleilkth - @woncheecks - @peachypie97 - @viciousdarlings - @11zzyy

[svetamillss]

Hiii I'm really sorry.. I’ve never really requested much on tumblr,so I apologize if I’m doing anything wrong. I wanted to ask if is it possible to write some platonic headcanons for some characters like(Hyun-jo,Semi,no-eul,Saebyeok)with a younger sister reader?like how would they act if they had a younger sister?it doesn't matter if it's in the games or outside.(also if you can't do it its completely okay,and I'm sorry for my bad English<33)

Headcanons: you are their younger sister🤍

Featuring: Cho Hyun Ju x Reader(f), Se Mi x Reader(f), Gang No Eul x Reader(f), Kang Sae Byeok x Reader(f)

Warnings: agnst, there is no love line here, it's not pairings!

A/N: Your order is very wonderful, thank you!! I hope I met your expectations!

🤍🤍🤍

Cho Hyun Ju

You and the girl were very close. You were the only one from her entourage who supported her when she admitted that she wanted to become a girl. You both left the family and started living together.

Unfortunately, you have collected a lot of debts because of Ju's operations and you didn't have enough money to live on at all. That's why you decided to agree to the offer to play games.

But the girl didn't know you were here and when she saw it, she was very angry with you. After all, you could have been in trouble (she just took care of you).

When you told her that you came here for her, she was so ashamed that she even cried and asked for forgiveness for you having such a worthless sister, you immediately began to calm her down and kiss her face (it was your way to calm each other down).

In the first game, you held on to your sister's back, also holding hands with her (so she understood that you were next to her).

You both voted for the cross, but it didn't help, and you continued to play. Hyun Ju didn't let you go for a minute, you slept together, you even went to the toilet together. When the guys wanted to meet you, she immediately started a serious conversation with them, making it clear that she would not allow it.

You both prayed to get out of here together and live happily again.

- It's because of me you're here, I'm a bad older sister that the younger one has to pull me out of the bottom. - Ju said when she stroked your hair before going to bed.

- You are the best and most beloved sister, I love you very much and we will get out of here and go to live in Thailand.

Se Mi

You and your sister have always been together. Consider that she raised you. You are very close, so you decided to go to the games to win more money.

Even though you realized that games are for survival, you continued to play, because you two were scared outside, and games are a chance for a normal existence.

Se Mi always protected you, helped you pass the games, because she was more courageous and strong.

The girl didn't let Thanos and Nam Gyu approach you, who wanted to get to know you better, but your sister made it clear that she was ready to kill for your safety.

After all, after the third game, you wanted to get home, so you voted for the cross, thinking that it would all be over soon.

- Don't worry, honey, tomorrow there will be a second vote and we will return home together. And now you have to hide well under the bed so that they don't find you. - she said when she led you away from everyone, to a safe place.

- And you? I don't want to hide without you! Don't leave!

- There is a place for one person, I found another safe place and will go there, but I will be next to you. Time will fly by and I'll be back soon. And now lie down and don't get out of hiding. - Finally, Se Mi kissed you on the forehead and helped you get under the bed, after which she left.

You prayed all nighttime that your sister would be fine. But, unfortunately, your prayers were in vain. When you finally managed to get out of the hiding, you immediately ran to look for your sister, but instead of your sweet and cheeky Se Mi, you saw only a body lying between the beds. Your sister had a cut throat.

All you could do was close her eyes, your face was wet with tears. Se Mi saved you, but she couldn't.

Gang No Eul

You and your older sister were able to get out of Hell. From The DPRK. But, unfortunately, she lose her husband and daughter.

You spent a lot of effort and money to find a little girl, but it was all in vain. Everyone said she was dead.

But the two of you didn't want to believe it and continued to fight. That's why you wanted to join the games to raise more money for the search. No Eul you didn't say that you decided on such a thing, because you knew that she would be against it, since the girl was strict with you, but so she showed her love and care for you.

You were scared at the games, so after the first game, you clicked on the cross, hoping to return home to your beloved sister with at least a small amount. But you didn't succeed. There were more people who wanted to continue and you had to continue.

You've always thought about No Eul. You cried at night, because you missed her very much and wanted her to hug you. You were afraid that you would die and never return to her again, and she would not even know where you disappeared.

But you didn't even suspect that your sister was very close to you. But on the other side of the game. She was one of the guards who shot the losing players. And when she saw you at the first game, she wanted to drop everything out of horror and run out to you, shout, and then save you from this horror.

But she couldn't. She was powerless. Therefore, she only had to hope that you were fine and alive. And she had a fear of being the one who would have to shoot you for losing the game.

Kang Sae Byeok

You, your older sister and younger brother were able to get out of the DPRK, but, unfortunately, since your brother was a minor, he was taken to an orphanage.

So you and Sae Byeok had to survive and earn money to take the boy from there.

You had enemies, a lot of debts, so the two of you decided to join the games to earn enough money and finally live a real life and family.

There were a lot of victims, but you stayed together. Your sister took great care of you, because you were much weaker than her. She didn't allow anyone to approach you, you were safe with her.

You both thought you'd get out of here soon. Together. But this game was too terrible and easily played on human trust.

When you were told to divide into teams of two people, you united with your sister without hesitation, thinking that you would manage.

But you didn't know that you had to play against each other.

Sae Byeok sat slooped almost the whole game, she blamed herself for everything, and you were thinking at that time, what to do. And you made a decision. You will save Sae Byeok, because she deserves to live more than you.

You decided to make the Marbles game for yourself. You offered to play in the following way: whoever throws the stone further, he will win. The girl agreed and threw quite far. And you didn't even try.

How many screams were there from your sister, you rarely saw her crying, but you understood that she was about to lose a loved one.

When you explained why you did it, she burst into tears even harder, and you just smiled, hugging her for the last time, and then gently pushed her to leave and not see you dying.

- Thank you for played with me! - those were your last words for her. The next moment there was a shot, and then the sound of a body falling to the ground. But Sae Byeok didn't turn around, knowing that you wouldn't want it. She left the room in tears.

But who knew that your victim would be in vain. After all, your sister was killed before the very last round, not keeping her promise to get out of here alive.

🤍🤍🤍

[goodlucktai]

so then i took my turn

in stars and time pairing: isafrin (onesided) (but not really) word count: 2k title borrowed from yellow by coldplay alternatively—if you don't have your own north star, store-bought is fine :)

read on ao3

x

You don’t connect the dots right away—as a matter of fact, you won’t connect these particular dots for years—but one night you look up at the starry sky and you make a wish. 

You’re tired and your legs are sore from a day full from end to end of walking. The road is long, and the end of it looms dark and inevitable ahead of you. You do your best to be a bastion of optimism for Mirabelle and Odile, but you don’t know how well you do. You don’t know if your best is enough on its own. Shamefully, selfishly, you think it would be nice to not be the only one determined to make a bleak day brighter just because. 

There isn’t a Favor Tree there to catch the wish when you make it. There’s no ritual behind it. You don’t even know you’re going to do it until the second you do. 

You look up at a curtain of tiny twinkling lights, not fully understanding their place in the family of things but appreciating the stubborn, knife-like way they pierce through the night and shine anyway. 

Maybe they’re the ones you’re praying to when you whisper, “We could use a little help.”

The next morning, your group crosses paths with a traveler. 

The traveler appears out of nowhere, dispatching a Sadness three times their size without even losing their floppy pointed hat from its place on their head, a curved dagger in hand that, much like its wielder, seems entirely too small to pack the punch that it does. The encounter starts before you even realized a Sadness was creeping behind you and ends before you can jump in to help. 

The traveler looks as surprised by your thanks as you were by his sudden arrival. He tucks his knife away, hides his hands beneath his voluminous darkless cloak, and peeks at you through a curly cloud of hair. 

In that moment he resembles nothing more than a tiny tidepool creature retreating into its shell. You think, absurdly, about scooping him up. 

Mirabelle will tell you later that she had almost let first impressions get the best of her, assuming that the mysterious rogue would be unfriendly or standoffish. Odile chimed in that she knew better than to judge a book by its cover, but found herself surprised by the vibrant personality their new friend revealed as the hours went by on the road with nothing to do but get to know one another. 

You, on the other hand, were a lost cause from the second Siffrin opened their mouth. 

“You looked like you could use a little help,” they say. “Just a stab in the dark.”

A joke is the last thing any of you were expecting and maybe it wasn’t a joke but the emphasis was so pointed that you open your mouth before you can overthink it and say, “And you were right! You’re pretty sharp.” 

Mirabelle looks politely confused and Odile looks like she can not believe this is her life. The traveler’s dark eyes turn wide and bright and they lift their chin out of the collar of their cloak enough that you can see the stretching corners of their grin. 

“Would you say I’m a cut above the rest?”

Oh, yeah. You’re in trouble. 

——

Siffrin is still very new to the group the first time your quest comes to a temporary stop in a friendly little town resting alongside the natural bend of the road, tucked away in the hills. It’s lucky timing to be certain, because the four of you are in dire need of a restock of pretty much everything and you don’t have a ton of daylight left. 

Odile makes the executive decision that it would be the most efficient use of their time to divide and conquer. Mirabelle goes to secure lodging, you’re tasked with tracking down a general goods store for blankets and tarps or a tent if you can find one, Odile is taking charge of tonics and medical supplies, which leaves the food to Siffrin.  

He’s given a specific list of purchases to make and pointed in the direction of the market. You find him there a little more than an hour later. The late afternoon sun is burning low in the sky and Siffrin is drifting aimlessly with exactly none of the items on his shopping list and, inexplicably, a handful of ripe carambolas. 

It’s the end of a long day at the end of a long walk, and Odile, to her credit, manages not to outright snap at your new friend. But her tone is distinctly impatient when she asks, “Should we write you a note next time?”

She clearly isn’t expecting Siffrin to take her seriously, or for them to nod so eagerly that the wide brim of their hat flops with it. She blinks, surprised, sharp eyes flicking over their face. And then the whole of her softens, that blink-and-you-miss-it compassion she likes to pretend doesn’t exist just on the inside of her prickly exoskeleton. 

“Noted,” Odile says. Her voice is still brisk but not irritated anymore. “It’d be better for us to buy fresh when the market opens again in the morning, anyway.”

“Yeah, good thinking, Sif,” you say, immediately jumping on board this mission of banishing the awkwardness still clinging to your friend’s hunched shoulders. 

You would be the first to tell anybody who asked—or anybody within your vicinity who wasn’t even interested in hearing about it, really—that Siffrin is more than capable. He’s quick-footed and clever and a menace with his scissors craft and also with his wordplay. You know damn well that Siffrin doesn’t need a bodyguard or a cheerleader. 

Sometimes you wish you could be those things for him anyway. You wish you could pluck him right out of every situation that makes him feel uncomfortable or self-conscious or small. It’s better when he’s laughing, doubled over and hugging his stomach, noisy and taking up all the space he needs. 

But instead you settle for nudging him conspiratorially, tipping your chin toward the fruits he purchased, and adding, “Berry good thinking.”

He goes absolutely still at the touch of your hand, eyes like lamps. You have the sense, for just a moment, sudden and nerve-wracking, that you did something wrong. Then he smiles. 

“A-pear-antly,” he says, smile only widening when Odile groans. “My ideas are one in a melon.”

But you catch them rubbing their arm where you touched them. You can only tell because their cloak falls open for a second as they turn, revealing their fingers buried in their own sleeve. And you kick yourself for just assuming that Siffrin is as tactile as Mira and yourself are just because he laughs as readily as them. Odile doesn’t like to be touched, either, and you’re easily capable of respecting her boundaries. You can just as easily respect Siffrin’s. 

And it’s totally fine!! you think, dashing away every lived-in daydream of holding Siffrin’s hand or burying your fingers in his darkless hair. His hair that probably feels as downy soft as rabbit fur. You would probably never know but that’s so fine. 

And if it feels like your crush just got a million times more hopeless, well. That’s your personal business. 

——

The written reminders become a common thing. Mira likes to draw little animal faces or hearts on the notes she writes. You doodle along the edges of yours, looping patterns or jokes that it makes your heart warm to imagine Siffrin reading to himself and snickering over. 

Odile doesn’t embellish the pages but she sometimes folds them with a few crisp, practiced presses and presents Siffrin with a note in the shape of a bird or a cat. She rolls her eyes when her friends gasp in delight but sometimes isn’t quite quick enough to hide her smile behind her journal. 

Siffrin is silent so much of the time that it’s easy to forget that he’s actually very silly, and very sweet, and achingly sincere. You watch him cross tasks off his list as he completes them, shimmying his shoulders to a victory tune inside his head, and you just—Change, you like him so much. Too much. It’s a lot to carry. Where are you supposed to put it down?

“When should we start to worry about that, do you think?” Odile surprises you by asking. She’s looking where you’re looking, at your forgetful rogue double-checking where he’s supposed to go next. Even though, like, you just discussed it as a team, and he’s not even all the way down the street yet. 

“What? Sif?” You frown. “They’re fine. They just—they just have a hard time remembering stuff.”

Odile gives you a look that makes you feel uncomfortably seen. Which is not out of the ordinary for her. This particular look says I know about your dumb crush and thus far I’ve done you the favor of not detailing for you just how much it stands to potentially complicate my life so you can do me the favor of not playing stupid. 

You might be projecting. It makes you straighten your shoulders anyway, like you’re still a Defender on the job. 

“Last night at dinner, Mirabelle asked them about their knife, and Siffrin said that it originated in their country as a tool for raking and farming,” Odile recounts briskly just to drive her point home. “And then Mirabelle asked what it was called, and Siffrin disassociated mid-word.”

That’s the best word for it, but also not, because it’s too clinical to do justice the way it made your heart plummet into your stomach. 

Siffrin’s eyes had turned vacant, expression faraway. They sat there with their fork hovering above their plate like a sleepwalker, like someone had reached into their soul and turned the light off inside. It lasted about six seconds but it felt like as many hours—long enough that Mira started to lift her hands, as if there was something in front of her that she could heal, and Odile moved her chair back to get up for help, and you said his name twice, louder the second time, heart lurching anxiously. 

Then Siffrin blinked, and smiled, and said, “Sorry, Mira. What was the question again?”

Yeah, you remember. And you didn’t sleep a wink all night because of it. You laid awake and stared at the tuft of pale hair peeking out from the bundle of stolen covers on Siffrin’s side of the bed the two of you shared and wondered what happened to them. What their mind could possibly be trying to protect them from, that even a little history lesson about Siffrin’s faithful dagger was enough to trigger its defenses. 

Let me in, you think at him, desperate with wanting it, with wanting him to hear it. Let me help. 

The space between you sometimes feels like an ocean between two countries. It would be so easy to touch him. You’re very careful not to. 

“He’ll come to us when he’s ready,” you say, hoping that by saying it out loud you’re making it true. “If we can trust him to lead us through danger, we can trust him this much, too, right?”

Odile sighs, but not as though she disagrees. It’s a little like the way she sighed when she first met Mirabelle, and learned about her quest, and said, “And you’re how old?” She sighs like that a lot. 

——

Mirabelle is your leader but it’s Siffrin you all follow, Siffrin who leads the way through mazes and certain dangers. He’s always a step ahead, sniffing out traps and picking his way around them, light on his feet and as weightless as a bird when he perches over this or that trigger and warns his friends to step carefully. 

“Fix your face,” Odile mutters, smirking, when you spend a second too long admiring his form. 

“MADAME,” you say, totally normal, totally not a shriek. 

Mirabelle turns and looks curiously back at you, too far ahead to hear, thank Change. 

Siffrin told you once about something called Polaris. He said it was the brightest star in the Ursa Minor constellation, and always led true North. He beamed at you, safe in the knowledge, easy in his element, and said, “I can find my way home from anywhere.”

He didn’t remember telling you, and looked politely confused when you asked him about it later, but you never forgot. 

Polaris. Nonsense to you, a made-up word that doesn’t mean anything, but you relive the way he said it over and over. He said it like someone who belonged somewhere. Someone who could never get lost, because there was a map in the stars that he knew how to read. It sounded like a fairy tale. 

But sometimes you catch him glancing up at the sky before picking a new direction to walk in, and it always ends up being the right way to go. You watch him run ahead to find a safe way forward for the rest of you, his pale coat a beacon in the dark, and think about something he called the North star. 

——

“It’s getting dark,” Mirabelle frets, clutching her hands together anxiously. 

“Frin’ll be fine,” Bonnie scoffs, as if they hadn’t adamantly and at the very top of their lungs refused to start dinner until Siffrin arrived. 

“Are you sure you put where we were meeting on their reminder note, Mirabelle?” Odile says wryly. 

“Oh no!!” Mira says frantically. “I don’t think I did, oh no!!” 

Your group is one missing part away from whole, and none of you are inclined to go inside yet. You linger out in the yard as daylight dwindles into nothing. 

A few of those lights in the sky begin to shine through the dusk. They catch your eye. 

They’re pretty, and you’re a deeply romantic person, so you don’t hate the idea of there being some kind of design up there that you just can’t seem to ever see properly, no matter how much you squint or tilt your head. You like to believe it’s there anyway, that one night it’ll just click and you’ll be that much closer to understanding the mystery wrapped in tragedy wrapped in fantasy of your favorite person. It’s enough that Siffrin believes it, when he remembers he believes it. 

But as pretty as they are, they’re not very reliable. You can’t always see them. Some nights aren’t good for stargazing. Sometimes the sky’s cloudy. 

Good thing there are other lights to see by. Warmer and brighter lights, more dependable by virtue of being placed by loving hands. You left lanterns on the path to the clocktower for Siffrin, beacons to guide him the way he’s always guided you. You will never, for as long as you live, let Siffrin get lost. 

You don’t say it out loud but you’re worried about them. They looked tired today. In front of the Favor Tree, they seemed one harsh wind from blowing completely apart. Trembling in front of you as if you both weren’t standing in full sun, in a way that reminded you of the day after they lost their eye. 

He had been in so much pain that his limbs all quivered with it, but he still managed to carve out a smile. He still managed to scrounge up a joke. You learned then that you’re not really certain you can trust him when he says he’s okay. You can trust him with everything but himself. 

Siffrin said he was okay earlier. He kept looking over at the Favor Tree like he had something to do. You wanted to touch his trembling shoulder so badly that your hand ached with wanting it. You know better, so you left him alone. 

You hope he gets whatever it is he wants badly enough to actually ask for. 

[slashingdisneypasta]

Disgraced Prince Hans of the Southern Isles x SleepingCursePrincess!Reader || Oneshot

*feat the Evil Queen, Ursula and Maleficent as 3 evil witches.

Plot: When Hans' true loves kiss actually breaks a curse. // Or // Imagine prince charming waking you up from your sleeping curse,, except YOUR prince charming is bound in cuffs and chains and a guards big strong hand on his shoulder when you wake.

Also, Hans is having recurring nightmares of being stalked by 3 long-dead fairytale witches (Well, 2 and a fairy) from somewhere very far away (Or very far below). That cant have anything to do with this sleeping curse can it?? 🤔

Warnings: Save for the cursing- nothing that's not already in Disney Movies. Unedited. Also may or may not make sense at all.

Tagging: @asperol-with-izzy , @disney-android-foundation , @lady-love88 , @marinerainbow , and @ryantryan6969 .

All the way back home, Hans was having dreams. Or nightmares. Nightmares of sharp nails scraping and grabbing him, eyes on him, and mysterious whispering voices. He'd wake up and he'd still be half back there, he would still hear their voices, even with the ship swaying and dipping under his body and dirty water trickling under the door into his cramped little cupboard-cabin. The long journey felt even longer with these dreams hanging over him; there being nothing else to occupy his mind except the humiliating near-miss Hans suffered in Arendelle.

Ugh.

He's new~ What's he in for, hmm?

You know I don't know that, sea witch. He's no use to us anyway.

Some powerful witch, you are. We can see him but we don't know anything.

-I don't see you doing anything, fairy.

No matter darlings~ He's cute. Much better then our old one-handed captain barnacle breath, hm?~

Don't get too excited, Ursula. He could be as boorish as Gaston.

Oh don't say that. What do you think, queenie?

Whatever.

The names swam around in his head like whatever beasts lived under the sea beneath the ship. Ursula, Gaston. But then there were more.

What are you hoping to find in these baby villains you keep watching, anyway, queenie?

I don't know. A necromancer, maybe. We need to get out of here, don't you agree?

We already had one of those, remember? That 'horned king' creature was no help to us.

I'm open to suggestions, fish. Well? Any ideas in that tiny pathetic goldfish brain?

Oh, certainly none for you~

Great. Get out, go harass Claude or something.

What the hell was a 'horned king'?? That wasn't something that Hans would imagine himself. He's never had an interest in dumb fairytales, magic was no use to him. Power was power, and that came from being in charge. Being King. But... the closer to land Hans got, the fainter the voices became. As if the ocean had a closer connection to the source, like a looking glass. And that, surely, was the work of magic wasn't it??

... -then it got worse.

I think you need to leave this one alone, Hildie. He's becoming aware, like Yzma.

She was crazy, Maleficent.

Still.

Maybe its a good thing if he knows we're watching. It has been a while since we had any quality entertainment...

... Oh, now now dear Hildie~ Don't short-change yourself; you make an excellent fool.

Just for that, I'm not going to tell you what I plan to do to him.

By the time the ship docked, the disgraced Prince was all-nerves. And not entirely about seeing his dumb older brothers again or the punishment they're bound to enjoy giving him. What were those nightmare-witches talking about? 'do to him'?

It never crossed his mind once that whatever that meant could hurt you.

~

When Hans left, you were perfectly fine. A little upset that he was leaving you, and you knew his plan to marry the Queen of Arendelle- but, mainly fine.

So why are you laying in your bed in the middle of the day, now? Why did you look... dead?

Hans found his voice for the first time since Arendelle, an accusatory tone lacing through his words, turning to look directly at the dignitary that lead him here to this room. He was loud and clear, as if he was still important here. "What happened to them?"

"I believe they were cursed, sir, while you were gone." When Hans eyes narrowed slowly, the little man sped on. "Your- your brothers do not wish for you to know ab- about this, but I believe it to be the only way to save the princess."

"... how do you mean? Talk faster, or I'll have your throat slit in an instant."

Surely the man knew that line was just an empty promise, because he clearly had no power anymore- he had bars wrapped around his wrists, a short chain between them, and a guard (Well-paid by the dignitary) glaring at his back. But the dignitary spoke faster anyway; a nervous man. "I- I believe a true loves kiss could wake her, sir! I believe that true love to be you!"

"True loves kiss?" Jesus christ, that pissed him off. If he never heard those words again it will be too fucking soon.

The man looks surprised, at this harsh reaction from the prince. His voice goes pathetically small. "... Well, aren't you and the princess be- betrothed!??"

"Yes." That was true. You were. And you did love each other- since you were kids. Since he was 6 and you were 5, and you would send him letters every week even when everyone else forgot he existed.

That didn't make Hans like any of this any better.

"P- please your highness." The dignitary begged, his eyes flickering from him to you and back.

Hans looks back to you, a scowl still on his face. You looked alive, at least. Just... very still. And you never slept this way, flat on your back. graceful. You weren't supposed to share a bed until you were married, but you had- so he knew you slept like a graceless freak. There was definitely something wrong.

And there were those dreams... "The witches." Hans whispers, glaring at your form. Except he wasn't glaring at you, he was glaring at Them.

Not that you weren't used to that look on his face. That was pretty much just his face.

"... P- pardon me?"

"What!?"

"You said some something, sir."

"No, I didn't." With that, Hans shrugs the guards meaty hand off his shoulder and kneels by your bed. Picks up your hand on his and holds it to his chest. His eyes soften a tiny bit this close to you, where the other men in the room couldn't see it happen.

Goddamnit, he thinks. Its worth a try.

~

When Hans' lips touch yours in that quiet room, watched by a cranky guard and a nervous dignitary, he feels scarcely a breath slipping past yours. The only way that he knows you're alive is by the very very slow rise and fall of your chest.

In just a manner of moments, though, your fingers come to life and grip his, and you breath in deep through your nose, kissing him back. Like magic.

Despite himself, a small smirk slithers across his face after he finishes kissing you, watching your pretty eyes open up and look foggy- then confused- and he's yanked back up to his feet by the oaf of a guard in charge of him. "Time to go."

"Hey! Wait, I demand you- "

"You're no boss of mine these days, princey." The man growls into his ear, a note of cruelty in his voice. What did I ever do to this guy? Hans wonders, scowling again.

"Wait!- " That was your voice, oh so confused. Your eyes are big and round, taking in the scene. The dignitary quickly helps you to stand, but doesn't let you approach Hans.

"Please princess, he has to go. Everything will be explained."

"But- "

She cuts herself off, this time. But she doesn't need explanation. Hans watches the realisation dawn on her as her calculating eyes drift slowly from the guard, to him.

The plan went awry. Now he's in serious trouble.

"Don't worry, Y/N."

"How am I supposed to not worry!??"

"Just promise to write to me, huh? Promise."

"... fine." And I'll yell at you with every letter of the alphabet, her eyes tell him. He chuckles. Yeah, I got it.

"Come on now, lover boy. To the tower."

~

Not 10 minutes later, the tower cell slams shut on him. Dust from the roof falls down on his shoulders and hair, and his cuffs are still clamped down tight around his wrists creating dark purple bruises.

... after a moment, Hans curses and kicks a hard stone wall. "Fuck!"

-and then a familiar voice creeps into his mind again. The witch. 'Hildie'.

"Great. Now that I know you're hearing me, prince, I have some instructions for you.

And understand; if you don't do as I say I am fully prepared to give your sweet little princess another gift. One she wont be broken so easily out of. So listen carefully.

... first of all my name is not 'Hildie'. You may call me your majesty."

[skribbledarker]

VAMP SANJI WIP UPDATE!1!1!1 i finally got off my ass and started writing ts so. have a snippet. context is that Sanji’s germa genes are starting to take effect OHHH hes not gonna have anything good happen to him from here on out sorry yall…enjoy

—

“I missed you.”

“Wh—” Sanji completely forgot he wasn’t alone. He jumps and the knife slips; Sanji registers a sharp pain in his thumb before he really has the chance to process what the hell Zoro just said. “Ow, shit—”

“Cook?”

“Ugh, fucking nicked myself,” Sanji hisses. he sticks the tip of his finger in his mouth, sucking on the pad of his thumb to stave the bleeding off when the coppery taste of way more blood than there should be fills his mouth.

Sanji lets the knife clatter to the counter as he scans the sink area for a dish towel, the pain from the cut throbbing dully as he grabs one and quickly bunches it over the digit. Zoro shifts from his perch on the couch, the bottle he was holding clinking on the wood as he puts it down. “You sure?”

“Yeah, m’fine, just—“ Sanji scans the counter for any stains, and oh, that is a good chunk of flesh with a fingernail sticking out of it just sitting on the table. That is a quarter of his thumb. on the table. What the fuck. Sanji feels panic well up inside him, because he just sliced off half of his fucking finger.“—Oh.”

“What the hell are you doing over there?”

The words go in one ear and out of the other. Carefully, very carefully, Sanji removes the towel from over his thumb (Chopper would be fucking screaming at him for not putting pressure on the wound, but he needs to see the damage) and…

…It’s fine. His thumb looks fine, whole. Once he frantically wipes the rest of the blood off, there’s barely even a cut. Again, what the fuck, because Sanji knows he just chopped off a good portion of that digit and it’s laying right next to him.

And then Sanji watches, breath tight in his chest, as the remaining wound on his thumb starts knitting itself together. The cut fully closes, leaving nothing but pink, tender, skin behind, and everything seems to grind to a halt as Sanji realizes exactly what this means.

“Do you need a bandage?” Zoro is somehow behind him now, looking over Sanji’s shoulder, and he scrambles to throw the dish towel over the incriminating chunk of his finger still on the counter before the swordsman can see.

Sanji barely spares enough focus to bat him away with his other hand, still reeling from the revelation. “Go– fucking sit down, it’s not even bleeding anymore.”

“Whatever. You’re being weird.” Zoro throws his arms up in defeat.

“Your face is weird!”

“I’ll gut you.”

“Shut. Up.”

“Fine,” Zoro tromps back his perch on the galley’s couch while Sanji struggles to keep his breathing in check.

It was stupid, really, for Sanji to think that he was in the clear. To believe that everything would all suddenly be over after he’d finally gotten rid of the last of the influence Judge had on him. Or, well, thought he’d finally gotten rid of– Even in its absence, Germa still manages to be ever-present in everything he does. Sanji really should’ve known better.

He pulls a breath in, oblivious to the eyes (eye, really) on his back, wrapping up the offending piece of finger in the towel and chucking the entire thing into the garbage can. Sanji will finish up here, go to sleep, and pray that he’s still him in the morning, because what else is there to do in this fucking situation?

The galley is blissfully silent as Sanji picks up the knife again, finishing off the rest of Franky’s potatoes quickly and carefully; Zoro doesn’t comment on what just happened, or what he said earlier, and Sanji is quietly very glad for that. The entire time, the knowledge of what’s happening in his body sits in the back of the blonde’s mind like a stone. Heavy, threatening to bowl him over with the weight. It stifles him, even as he moves deftly to clean the kitchen and not-so-nicely give the marimo a boot to the ass.

when Sanji falls asleep that night, he dreams of his name: whispered on faceless lips while a sword plunges gently into his chest.

—

ugh i have a slur to say. the two of them are homo leve 100 thousand and Sanji is about to start having a BAD TIME. oka

[my85volvo]

Part 3! I'm still working out how Tumblr works so I'm not sure if I have to tag @renmackree again? Or will you just see my update? God, I'm old.

The priest banged his head against the bed frame behind him in his scramble to move away. Simultaneously, the new follower sleeping in the bed jolted up and whipped his head around to stare directly at Derek before recoiling against the wall.

Derek was taken aback by the boy's hostility. Even the new follower seemed upset. Did he not do exactly as was asked? He left at the boy's command. He wore clothes befitting of his status--he had been more than accommodating. If this were 3,000 years ago, he would have easily found another to fill his role. But, as it stands, the old god needed him. And judging by the state of the accommodations in front of him, the boy needed him, too.

“Dude, do NOT wake me up like that anymore,” said the priest.

“Why are you so upset?” Asked Derek. “I did as you requested.”

The new follower was the next to respond.

“Um, what?”

Derek sighed and rolled his eyes, annoyed that these humans were so vexing.

“It's him, Scott. My hallucination,” the priest explained.

“He's wearing clothes.”

“That's all you have to say about this? He teleported into your room!” The priest flailed his arms for emphasis.

“He probably walked through the door!”

“How did he even know where I was?”

“Dude, you only go to, like, 3 places. You're not hard to find.”

“Eh-hem.” Derek cleared his throat to get their attention.

They looked like grown men, but apparently, it was acceptable for men of this era to bicker like children in front of a deity.

They both looked up at him expectantly.

“Now, today you are to receive my blessing as high priest. And you--"Derek looked at the new follower on the bed. “You may receive a boon as well since I am feeling generous. Though you will not delegate my priest to the floor again, as his station is far above yours. Understood?”

The new follower looked at him as if he had brown two heads.

“Amazon slipper orchid,” the priest declared, still seated at his feet.

“Pardon?”

“Prove to me that you're a god. Find me a living Amazon slipper orchid from the Rainforest.”

Derek crossed his arms and scowled.

“I am not an errand boy.”

“You asked what it would take to build my faith. This is it. no more tests.” The priest seemed honest, so Derek acquiesced.

“Fine. And then you will receive my blessing?”

“Sure, whatever.”

“Very well.”

Derek closed his eyes and concentrated on the beauty and lifesource of the flower. The last time he walked the earth, the people called it Lady's Moon, but its loveliness had not dwindled at all since then. When he willed himself to appear before one, the crisp forest welcomed him under a canopy of verdant leaves. Gingerly, he uprooted the flower from the remnants of a decaying tree, imbuing strength into the roots and protection through the stem.

When he stepped through the veil to return to his meager flock, he found the two men bickering. Again.

“I'm just saying, you can't trust him, Stiles! You don't know anything about him!” Cried the new follower.

“Dude, he's magic. Real, bona fide, hogwarts-level magic. How is your mind not exploding right now?”

“What if he wants to sacrifice you to his dark master or something? What if–”

“Eh-hem.”

They were both seated on the bed now, and at Derek's interruption, they both whipped their heads toward him. Their expressions were wide-eyed and weary, as if they were children caught stealing sweets before supper.

His priest was the first to speak.

“...you found it. You really found it,” he said with a chuckle.

“Did you doubt me, priest?”

“Yeah, actually. I kinda did.” The priest reached out to touch one of the delicate petals, but he thought better of it at the last moment and withdrew his hand. “And it's Stiles. My name, that is. Not priest.”

“Stiles,” Derek repeated with a smile.

“Um, excuse me, but we don't want anything to do with gods or magic, okay?” The new follower glared at him in defiance. “So you can go find some other priest and leave my friend alone.”

“That's Scott, just ignore him,” said Stiles with a wave of his hand.

“Stiles!” Scott threw his hands up in exasperation.

“Hey, could you conjure up a pot or something?”

“You said no more tests,” Derek said, eyeing him with suspicion.

“It’s not a test. I just don't want the flower to die while we wait.”

“Please, Stiles, can we just–” Scott interrupted.

“The flower is strong. It will be fine for many days,” Derek spoke over him. “You can place it upright in one of those empty tins if you like.”

Derek nodded towards the beautifully painted, deep red canisters stacked on the ground near the window.

“Alright, Dr. Pepper house it is.”

Stiles grabbed a can and shook out a few drops of liquid into his mouth, then motioned Derek to help him transfer the flower into its new home. Scott continued voicing his grievances while Derek ignored him.

“Dude, come on, you can't seriously be listening to this guy! He's dangerous!” Scott whined.

“He's hot, and he brought me flowers. Best first date I've had in a while, honestly.”

Stiles was still carefully stuffing the long roots into the can while he spoke.

“What if he hurts you?”

“I would never,” Derek growled. “He is my anchor to this world. To hurt him would be akin to cutting off my own arm.”

“Really? That's so sweet,” Stiles smiled.

Derek felt a grin come unbidden at the priest's words. Finally, Stiles was beginning to trust him.

“STILES!” Scott yelled, frustrated at his lack of influence.

“ENOUGH,” Derek boomed.

He spoke from deep within his body, letting his power bleed into the command. The window rattled, and the stack of painted cans toppled over at his voice.

“You may not command my high priest, boy. You are but a follower, not a ruler. Know your place.” Derek wouldn't tolerate the mistreatment of his own, no matter how ignorant they may be.

“I'm not your follower,” Scott said with a quiver in his voice.

He was clearly afraid to stand his ground, but he was still fiercely loyal to his friend. Derek admired his loyalty, though this misplaced tenacity was frustrating.

“Okay, let's all just take a breather here,” said Stiles. He had finished placing the orchid and was now holding his hands up as if to separate him from Scott. “Wolf of the Wool, please don't be mean to Scott. He's my best friend, and he's just looking out for me.”

Derek glared in response but said nothing.

“And Scott, I will literally explode from curiosity if I don't hang out with this guy and get some answers. Magic is real. This is my life now.”

Scott cast his head down, defeated. The three of them sat in uneasy quiet for a brief moment before Derek broke the silence.

“It's Wolf of the Wood,” Derek said.

“What?” Asked Stiles.

“You called me Wolf of the Wool. I am the Wolf of the Wood. You should know the name of the god you summoned.”

“Oh yeah, that makes more sense. But I definitely didn't summon you, dude.”

“Don't call me dude. And you swore an oath to me, then left an offering at my altar. What was your purpose if not to revive me from my slumber?”

“Did you…summon me by accident?”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

Derek cocked his head to the side in confusion.

Stiles was silent for a moment, staring at the ground and appearing to be in deep concentration. He finally looked up with a sheepish grin on his face.

“Whoops?”

Derek felt his face fall. All his excitement over coming back to earth and...he wasn't even wanted? Did Stiles believe in him at all?

"Did you ever want my blessing?" Derek said, his voice despondent.

"Um, not particularly?" Stiles must have felt pity for him, because he quickly amended his statement. "But I'm sure it's a great blessing! The best blessing! You can totally bless me, if you want. I'd be honored."

Stiles looked up at him, hopefully.

"You probably don't have anything prepared."

"Okay, what do I need to do?"

"This is stupid," Scott interjected.

"Different ages had different ceremonies, usually involving the whole tribe," Derek started, ignoring Scott's comment. "At the very least, there would be some sort of goblet or bowl of special significance that you would use to drink my blood--"

"Hard pass," Stiles said quickly.

Derek frowned.

"I mean, um, is there like another way to get the blessing? One that doesn't involve me swallowing your bodily fluids?"

"Of course. We can copulate."

"No way," Scott said.

Stiles was silent, but his face was turning a furious shade of red.

"That's, um, well...it might be worth a try," said Stiles, looking down and rubbing the back of his neck.

"Stiles, you can't be serious."

"Scott, did I get in your way when you were adamant about taking home Allison Argent even though she's definitely in a crazy murder cult? No. So don't cock block me."

"That was different, and you know it. She wasn't going to hurt me."

"She had a crossbow and handcuffs in her car. At school. At least this guy doesn't have any weapons. You don't have any weapons, do you, Mr. Wolf God?"

"I have no need of weapons."

"See Scott? It's fine. But...I'm not really, um, experienced with that stuff, so can we get to know each other first?"

Derek scoffed, as if the idea was beneath him. Honestly, this entire situation was beneath him. Since when did he have to beg to bestow a piece of his power to a lowly human? Would it be better if he just left, waited for the human to die, then went back to sleep? A part of him hated that idea. He yearned to experience this world with his new priest.

While he should be furious that humans were treating him with such insolence, he found that he couldn't fault Stiles for long. The boy was honest and pure, and Derek could tell that he had no selfish motives for power whatsoever. It was refreshing to have a high priest that didn't lust after position or status. It was...entirely new, actually. As frustrating as the boy was, Derek couldn't deny that he wanted to keep him close.

"Listen. If you won't take my blessing, at least take this."

Derek withdrew a small vial from his jacket pocket, plucked a hair from his head, and carefully closed it into the small tube.

"Having a piece of me close will connect us. You can call me, and I will come. If you are injured, swallow it to heal yourself."

"Um, thanks?" Stiles took the offered gift with some confusion.

"I was serious when I said I would not harm you. As my high priest, my blessing would protect you from aggression or disease. Without it...then it falls to me to protect you."

Stiles gave him a look that was somewhere between longing and sadness. Perhaps he was finally understanding the gravity of the situation.

"Yes. Until you choose to receive the blessing...if you choose to at all."

"So, now what? You just hang out in the woods until I call you?"

"Sounds boring."

"Yes, a bit."

Derek waited patiently while Stiles chewed his lower lip in thought, and Scott continued to scowl at them both. After a moment, Stiles seemed to muster up the courage to speak again.

"So, ummm...wanna go out for breakfast?"

That's it for now, I think! I really liked this prompt, and now I want to go back and rework a few things from the earlier parts. I’ll be adding this to my Ao3 WIP list, because I am physically incapable of writing something under 10k words, and it's getting a bit long for Tumblr. I was really happy to get some encouraging words in the tags, so thanks!

Derek is the old god of the forest, forgotten and unworshiped for centuries. Towns were built around his forests and the alter where once offerings were laid has been overgrown. Derek believes himself to be lost and resigns to an endless slumber.

That is until a college kid stumbles on his alter and offers the large stone wolf a piece of his sandwich.

Now, awake and once more worshiped, the god must protect his new high priest Stiles at all cost. Which means blending into a world he knows nothing about. And going to college.

[dailyzawa]

july 2

[richardsphere]

Coming from someone more on the other side of the fanbase here... Please know that this is all intended to be sincere, and not as any dig towards your personal enjoyments of the show. Im taking the original question in good faith and am answering in as good a faith as i can. -- I think there is a misunderstanding in the question being asked. None of this has to do with the Antikuma, plain and simple. nor even really if she is or isnt traumatised. But that the things that made Mari's stanbase continuously cried "but she's traumatised so its fine for her to be a hypocrite in X manner" were explicitly confirmed by later seasons to be for non-trauma reasons. Now i as far I recall, The show never portrayed her as traumatised. ( even if the dream exists, though i do not remember it, a single dream does not a trauma-arc make) Or at the least, that the trauma didnt influence those of her behaviours that her fans used the trauma to excuse ad nauseum. Mari's defenders used Chat Blanc as an excuse to say "No she does respect CN, she's just traumatised and cant trust him because of the trauma". It was a thing mari's stans inferred (and at the time, couldn't be adequatly disproven) because it allowed them to easily explain Chat's side-lining without making their favourite character look like an inconsiderate hypocrite. But then the show went on, and had Marinette explicitly state that no. It wasnt trauma, it was that Mari is guardian and Chat is not allowed to expect to be anything but Sidekick number 4 (after Rena, Bunnix and Viperion). No partnership, no negotiation, just subordination without respect or agency. Chat Blanc Trauma would definitly have been part of a better show, and it makes for amazing fanfic fuel. But it just... isnt (meaningfully) cannon. The sum total of influence that Chat Blanc has on the cannon plot is a singular moment (an outright plothole) where they have CN suffer a flashback to a timeline he has no way of knowing about so they can write him out of his own story. As far as the narrative is concerned Chat Noir, a character who does not remember the events in question, is more traumatised by it then Marinette. That is all that CB amounts to. as far the show is concerned, Marinette isnt traumatised by CB, Adrien is. Everything the fans use the trauma to excuse was simply Thomas going: "girl power means boys arent allowed to expect basic human dignity, respect or a voice in matters that directly effect them". The antikuma has brought this topic back into conversation because of the suit going pale creating a similar white-cat visual, but it didnt cause the realisation that the Trauma either never cannonically happened, or didnt cannonically influence LB's multi-season mistreatment of her supposed partner. What matters to the people saying that isnt if the trauma was real, what matters is that as far as LB's chat-based hypocrisies are concerned it might as well not exist. -edit i accidentally posted this unfinished. Once more, i want to emphasize that this is not intended as a dig towards anyone specific, just as an observation and clarification as to how/why the people whom are saying that are doing so.

ok but why the fuck did tumblr fans suddenly decide chat blanc never traumatized marinette in any way? like genuinely how did you get that from watching this show? we saw her having a nightmare with him in it— i forgot what season it was— but like… a gazillion things happened since that time. she fought her boyfriend’s dad and saw him go to the afterlife hellooooo? if anyone’s her prime source of trauma it’s gabriel now and it’s very much made clear in the intro. why does marinette have to think about chat blanc every second of her life damn?

also the antikuma thing… i’m not gonna lie, chat blanc didn’t even cross my mind till i saw people making connections. that’s just chat in a grey suit i’m crying y’all decided he’s reminiscent of chat blanc on your own, dont be mad at marinette for not thinking of him 😭

[bmpmp3]

grabbing kanru hua by the collar. where is manual mode kanru. where is she.

[wonder-worker]

A.J Pollard’s biography on Edward IV was so cringe lol (generic; minor but frustrating inaccuracies; intensely judgmental at times and oddly dismissive at others while never considering the broader context; entirely diminished and trivialized Elizabeth Woodville as both queen and wife of his main subject in the name of "defending" her; created a false dichotomy between Edward and Henry VII’s styles of ruling and lauded the latter at the former’s expense even though Henry literally followed Edward’s example for the very things Pollard was criticizing Edward for; had a downright nonsensical and thoroughly misleading conclusion about Edward’s legacy & Richard’s usurpation that was based entirely on hindsight, Pollard's own assumptions, and the complete downplaying Richard’s agency and actions to emphasize what Pollard wrongly and misleadingly claimed were Edward's so-called 'failings', etc, etc)

I wanted to buy his book on Henry V but after reading this shitshow and the synopsis of that book, im guessing it's going to be 10x worse, so...no thanks

[andragoras-in-vanity]

i finished veilguard, my life has no meaning, also what yhe FUCK was that post credit scene, im afraid. and i cant wait for the next one tbh. i hope my rook gets to be a lil well remembered hero who stays ready as the veilguard but has decided to protect thedas from demons and twisted spirits using their expertise as a mourn watcher and my likely connection to the fade, ya boy would spend time learning ancient elvhen funeral practices from bellara and how they effect the fade too.

i just want my boy to have some peace with his husband, go on ...safer adventures...cause his heart nearly gave out a few times and itll take a while to put it back together again. hes always going to be looking for harding and honouring her too, i want to think she was the one he went to when he had panic attacks. i think hed be searching spirits and the fade, and hed go visit hardings mom (would probably cry more than she does too especially if she looks like lace). hed have tea with mahanon and visit the griffins, and the caretaker a lot, but when its all over and everything is mosty recovered and he visits vorgoth and myrna he gets a lecture from myrna and a begrudgingly relieved hug, and vorgoth doesnt really say much but takes him aside and pats his head like when he was child and would hide from his lessons because they made him feel dumb.

i love dragon age, i never want the series to end, i need to revisit inquisition again

[itsalwaysdark]

like i wouldnt mind like. Not having new linear games post 5 its judt that sims 4 wasnt even supposed to Be The Sims 4 it was a last minute pivot and the base code is so outdated and was broken On launch so like. i just wish we could have the final actual sims game be like. one that was always intented to be a major sims release AND be intended to be so long term . yk

[milkweedman]

Coincidentally my usable warp is like exactly as long as my dining room. Point is tho, i am finally done thank fuck

[wellthatschaotic]

coworker (derogatory)

[donttouchtheneednoggle]

ik Doing It Scared is a massive part of helping anxiety and just life in general but I'm still mad about it