#it’s just a working dog that isn’t played with or given a job

[sodacowboy]

all the pet advice I see comes down to two things; 1) Treat your animals as if they have their own feelings and wants and needs, because they do. 2) For fucks sake stop assuming your animal is smart enough to even want to spite you in the first place. Clearly their needs aren’t being met. Do something about that instead of punishing them for your failure.

[the-bi-space-ace]

Echo hates medbay. He hates going. He hates being hooked up to machines and he will avoid it if given the option. He hates it so much the batch starts going with him just to make sure he actually attends.

When Tech comes with him he chats the whole time. He distracts Echo while the medics work and he clarifies and asks questions when he feels the need. Tech is an excellent distraction that Echo would gladly take any day of the week.

Wrecker treats medical visits like a game. He plays with supplies and makes faces over the medic’s shoulders to make Echo laugh. The medics always know there’s some shenanigans going on (they’re too smart not to) but at least Echo isn’t squirming and scowling at everything they want him to do so they’ll consider that a win. Echo is grateful when Wrecker comes with him because he’s never bored.

Crosshair makes every medbay visit feel like a mission. He stands quietly in the corner and watches diligently. Echo’s never felt quite so observed before. If Echo even looked uncomfortable Crosshair would square up like a particularly prickly guard dog. He turns into such a hover hen when the medic even implies something might be wrong. ‘Is it because you haven’t eaten since last night? Someone get a ration bar.’ ‘I bet it’s because you took Wrecker’s night shift last night. Don’t look at me like that I know you did.’ Echo loves him but also wants to throttle him.

Hunter questions everything. ‘Is it really necessary to take his blood today?’ ‘You’re not our usual medic. We’d like the usual medic.’ ‘We have a mission in one rotation we’ll need to make this snappy.’ The second the medic is gone to run labs, ya know do his job, Hunter leans in so no one else can hear them and is like ‘I’ll break us out of here don’t you worry.’ Echo rolls his eyes but mumbles a grouchy ‘thank you’.

Echo used to bulk at them coming with him but he never refuses them now. Whether it’s a check up or physical or illness or injury. He hates medbays. But he loves the batch.

[pollyanna-nana]

Louie isn’t evil.

Or: what Pikmin 4 tells us about his character.

BIG WARNING FOR PIKMIN 4 SPOILERS! (and the rest of the series)

———

I want to preface this by saying that I am in no way trying to be the end-all, be-all of character interpretations, but Pikmin 4 to me, at least, confirms the suspicions I’ve had since playing Pikmin 2 and 3 all those years ago that Louie ISN’T secretly evil, or possessed, or whatever else. He’s just… Louie. And I think that’s interesting in and of itself.

1. Olimar himself vouches for him, and clearly doesn’t think he’s a bad person.

Say what you will, but I’m inclined to think Olimar is a decent judge of character. Clearly he’s worked with Louie for enough time to see that while he’s not very good at his job, he’s not intentionally so— at least not in a malevolent way (will get more into this later). He also wants you to forgive him for Olimar’s sake, which can be read as self-sacrificing (as Olimar is known to be) but I also think hints at the soft spot he has for Louie.

It's also worth noting that he states during a end-of-day conversation that he told Louie that, since he's a new employee, he should do everything Olimar does... including throw castaways into the onion. Interesting that Louie took this so literally, but it does provide an explanation for why he kidnapped the Koppaites beyond "he's evil and crazy".

2. He really, REALLY loves his grandma.

Like, wow. He talks about her SO MUCH both in his Piklopedia entries and also elsewhere in the game. It's interesting. Worth noting is that he never mentions any other family members- unlike Olimar, who talks about his wife and each of his children independently. I've said this before, but the content of a lot of these entries implies to me that Louie was mainly raised by his grandma, likely since birth. And given some of her emails in Pikmin 2, assuming they're also canon to Pikmin 4's timeline... Well, Louie certainly had an interesting upbringing. But he clearly loves her all the same.

3. He has a mischievous streak and tends to do things on impulse.

This was already fairly obvious from the previous games, but I think it's worth noting that this game confirms that he's... would immature be the right word? In any regard, he doesn't seem to see himself as a "grown-up"- when in all likelihood he is. Personally, as a 22-year-old, I find that pretty relatable as I often think of myself as younger when in reality I am by all definitions an adult. This, along with his grandma still being around, makes it pretty much certain that Louie is a lot younger than Olimar and the president, likely in his early to mid twenties. Being a bit of a goofball isn't really out of the ordinary, all things considered.

THAT BEING SAID, he's clearly capable of practicing self-restraint when he wants to. What he says here about the red Pikmin is pretty significant, since we know he's willing to eat just about anything- but clearly he has some reservations about creatures that are friendly and helpful. Which leads to...

4. He loves dogs and fluffy things.

Same. But he doesn't even consider eating Moss, Oatchi or the Ancient Sirehound, showing that his creature-eating habits stop at things he recognizes as useful. He clearly also holds affection for things that are soft and fuzzy, and says as much.

5. He is so autism.

He plays with fidget toys. He loves certain textures and sounds. This guy is stimming all over PNF-404!!! I think this also lends some explanation for why his behavior is what it is- things like taking Olimar's suggestion to do as he does super literally even after crashing on an alien planet, his hyperfixation on cooking and tendency not to communicate and incorrectly interpret situations (thinking the Koppaites are kidnappers in 3, running away from you in 4). He could even be low or no empathy as well, explaining why it takes a hot minute to get him to understand why people are upset with him about something.

Interestingly this game also makes it clear that Louie wants to live on the planet, or at least thought he did while you were chasing him down, which makes a lot of sense when you consider that he doesn't really seem to fit in back on Hocotate. I, too, wish to run away to an alien world with all of the things that I like and no other people, so I get you, Louie.

6. He hates his boss and his job, and the golden pikpik carrot incident was likely premeditated.

This probably looks bad, but honestly? As a fellow work-hating anti-capitalist schmuck I get it. The president is for all intents and purposes a huge asshole, from sending Olimar straight back to the planet after selling his ship to not caring that Louie got left behind, just wanting to find the rest of the treasures. I doubt he is very kind to his employees, and doesn't seem very good at running the business. Definitely a funny character, but if he were my boss I would absolutely want to punt him into the sun.

From some other entries he clearly wants to sell certain things to accrue money, but it's for things like getting better kitchen tools and following his dream to have his own cooking show. Clearly being a freight driver isn't what Louie actually wants to do with his life, and he could not give less of a shit about what happens to the company. Very short-sighted on his part, but also again, yeah I get you Louie.

7. He... doesn't like the color red for some reason.

Honestly, I'm not even really sure what to make of this. Is it because it reminds him of the Hocotate ship? Or does he just not like the color? Would be very interesting considering that it's Olimar's signature color. Perhaps that's at least part of why he attacks you in Pikmin 2- though that's speculation for another day.

Also funny to me is his comments on the black-colored treasures. We know blue is his favorite color, but I guess he's also a bit of a goth at heart. Lol.

In conclusion.

I think Louie isn't written or intended to be evil, and Pikmin 4's portrayal of him was intentionally written to confirm this. He's just, as some have said, an agent of chaos, but that doesn't make him a bad person. Just an autistic 20-something working a shitty job he doesn't care about, who loves his grandma and has a mischievous streak and a hyperfixation on food. At least from what I can interpret, ymmv!

[honest-moth-of-silver-grove]

The Tiefling Bachelors Taking Care of Sick! Reader Getting Treatment

A/N: This was sitting in my drafts, finished months ago, but I guess I never posted it? Oh well, it’s here now! 

No one asked for this but it came to me as I was getting infused the other day. I really wanted Zevlor to manifest out of thin air and hold my hand  😔. Anyway, without further ado… Here we go!

Characters: Dammon/Reader; Rolan/Reader; Zevlor/Reader

Word Count: 1.1k 

TW: Brief discussions of illness, some fantasy medical talk

Dammon- 

Dammon is probably the most fussy of the trio. He’s bumbling around the tent, ensuring you have enough blankets and water. Or do you want tea? Juice? Whatever it is, love, name it and he will fetch it for you.

He means to be helpful although his nervous waiting on you does create an air of anxiety in the room. 

If he gets too manic, the healers have to send him out on an ‘errand’, so that he can collect his nerves and so you have time to yourself. 

When he returns, Dammon is much calmer, having been cornered and given a pep talk by one of the elder tieflings or your companions outside. 

He’ll sit across from you, and distract you by showing you his latest outlines/blueprints for swords and lathes and such. 

If you’re particularly stressed, or truly not feeling well due to the side-effects of the treatment, he might even show you his jewelry designs. Dammon was, of course, planning to give them to you as a present after you’d finished your treatment, but in the meantime, he’d like you to keep them in mind to have something forward to look to. 

If you’re sleepy, he’ll just stay at your side while you rest, sketching in his book or making idle chats with the healer. 

Dammon excels at ‘parallel play’ kind of dates. He quite enjoys it when the two of you are each doing their respective thing within a shared space. He’s more than comfortable amusing himself while you just chill out right next to him. 

Of course, before you leave, he asks the healers a million questions, scrambling down all their answers. How long will this last? What side effects should you look out for? What happens if things get worse? He wants to be prepared after they take their leave, and he sees it as his responsibility to take care of you as you recuperate. 

He’s really so sweet, like a little puppy dog. He’s not always the most helpful, and he has a tendency to get in the way, but his efforts never fail to lift your spirits at the end of the day.

Rolan-

Rolan is such a stickler for being an oppositional brat all the time. He gives everyone around him whiplash by turning into the most overbearing parental figure. You’d think he’d been possessed if it wasn’t for that trademark smirk of his. 

He’s constantly making you drink. No, he doesn’t care that you’re not thirsty, the healer said to stay hydrated throughout the process. And no, he doesn’t care that it means you have to get up to pee every 15 minutes. Urinary frequency is a small price to pay! Now be a good patient and drink your chamomile tea without any more complaining, yeah?

He watches the healers like a hawk, mentally recording their every word/move. He’s not a cleric or druid, but that doesn’t mean he’s entirely naive to healing magic. He wants to make sure whatever spells or potions you’re being given are up to his standard. 

And if the healing isn’t magical in nature... Oh boy, he’s going to be even more of a pill about it. He still hovers of course. But he also makes the occasional ‘helpful’ suggestion like: ‘I know a spell that could do that faster’, ‘Herbs are nothing compared to the power of the Weave’. The healers just roll their eyes and work around him. 

If he gets really grouchy, you’re gonna have to put him in a time-out. If not for your sake, then for the poor healers who are just trying to do their job. Rolan argues for a moment, but ultimately agrees, leaving to gather himself. 

When he comes back you can tell either Cal or Lia have spoken some sense into him, since he’s calmed down a bit. Rolan will sit with you, read to you, hold your hand if you beg ask, he might even perform a few tricks for you if you’re feeling up to it. 

He ushers the healers away as soon as they're done, wanting to just be alone with you. He puts up a tough exterior, but deep down he’s afraid. He cares for you so much. You, Cal, and Lia are his family, he feels it's his job to protect you, but try as he might he cannot protect you from your illnesses, and that hurts him deeply. 

You’ll need to comfort him once all this is all over. It’s as much an ordeal for him as it is for you.

Zevlor-

Zevlor is a worry-wart, bless his old paladin heart. His mind is always racing with endless possibilities- about the tieflings, about the grove, about you… It can be a lot for the commander to handle. 

But because Zevlor is a paladin and former hellrider, he has a good amount of experience working under pressure. He knows how to keep a level head and act on what is good for those around him, unlike what seems easiest to accomplish. 

He’s a very disciplined man, and he tries to get that discipline extended to you as you heal. He sets up a regime, for diet, exercise, and socializing catered especially to your needs and current abilities. He wants you to utilize this time to maximize your healing, and just let yourself trust that you are doing all you can to take care of yourself. 

He trusts the healers implicitly, knowing their expertise is much better suited to you and your current priorities. He’ll cater his regime around their recommendations, taking into accommodation your current feelings/moods of course. 

He writes out instructions for you to read while he’s away, busy tending to his duties. In the event he’s especially worried about watching over you, he’ll send Tilly or another one of his soldiers to check in on you periodically. 

Zevlor would love nothing more than to spend the entire day with you, keeping you safe in his embrace, but he’s wise enough to understand that even amidst these kinds of things, life must go on. He cannot abandon his duties as leader and you cannot abandon your life. 

Zevlor tries to maintain the status quo as best as possible, he doesn’t want your illness and treatments to entirely define your life, just as he wishes Elterel will not solely define his. 

Once all is said and done, he comes to find you, a warm broth in his hands. He settles down next to you as you sip your meal slowly, his tail coiling around your waist keeping you close to him. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do you, you don’t need to. It’s clear to you what’s in Zevlor’s heart. 

The two of you just sit silently together, enjoying each other's company, as you brace yourselves for yet another new dawn. 

I hope you enjoyed! 

If you like my work, please consider Buying Me A Coffee!

And most importantly, please Like and REBLOG! 

[eggyrocks]

rot: h. iwaizumi

chapter one -> a favor

word count: 6.1k

(masterlist ; written content ; taglist)

Her apartment is a piece of shit.

Rot has set in its bones, a permanent stench of musk and mold seeped into its walls. The bathroom is perpetually wet, and pieces of the ceiling frequently chip off and fall into her coffee. And it doesn’t help that there’s half smoked cigarette buds littered everywhere or greased soaked take out containers spilling out of the trash she’s too lazy to take out. But she doesn’t have it in her to blame herself. It was shit when she got here-there was hardly any motivation for her to take care of it.

Paint chips from the window as she struggles to jerk it open, muttering curses with a lit cigarette between her lips. The landlady has given her shit before about the smell of smoke that drifts out into the halls, and now she has to muscle open the painted-shut window in order to avoid her ire. She figures the old hag just wants something to complain about. There’s years of ash yellowing the walls; if she went at it long enough with some disinfectant spray and a roll of paper towels, she’d eventually reach the original, creamy white color of the walls.

She’s not the first smoker to rent the one-bedroom. She certainly won’t be the last.

Her teeth grind together, and her hands are starting to cramp, struggling against the wood. The apartment might be a piece of shit, but it’s the only piece of shit she’s got, and she’s not about to ruin it by pissing off some temperamental old lady. If she wants the smell of smoke gone, the smell of smoke is going to be gone (and what, is she supposed to climb down three flights of stairs to smoke on the steps outside every time she wants to light up? Please).

With one final grunt, she’s able to fling the window open, nearly losing a finger as she does so. There’s no screen, and the windowsill is decorated with years’ worth of grime, dust, and bug corpses. Distaste furls on her lip, and she holds the cigarette out the window, arm suspended in the air.

The night is cool and refreshing as it floats into her humid room. It’s always nicer outside than it is in her piece of shit apartment, and if she weren’t so convinced someone in this neighborhood wouldn’t hesitate to climb through any open window they could find (third floor or not), she’d leave it open all the time.

She flicks the end of her cigarette, and ash floats from the tip down to the sidewalk below. This isn’t really what she imagined when she imagined leaving. Her nose twitches, and she brings the cigarette to her lips. Chain-smoking and picking mold off bread and trying to lure in street cats to kill off rats that make their way up from the basement.

Leaving should look different. It shouldn’t have a sickly green tint to it. It shouldn’t be this distorted.

Her liberated life had played out so nicely in her head. Leaving would be the last hard part. She had figured, naively, that once the rot was cut from her, it would be the end to it. There’d be no more problems. It would be easy to be on her own. It would be easy to take care of herself. It would be easy to live in a shit apartment and work a shit job and make shit money and live off shit food and shit coffee and shit cigarettes. It was alone on the train platform, everything she owned stuffed into a single suitcase, that she realized she was dead fucking wrong.

She’s taken to keeping track of her problems with a numbered list.

If it weren’t for the dead bugs, she’d lean out the window, try to get the window to catch her hair. She’d get a good look at the street and the people who stumble through it. But instead, her arm goes sore, and she stares at the yellow wall in front of her.

Every day since she’s been here has been the same. An embarrassingly monotonous groundhog’s day.

In the morning, she wakes up to the sound of songbirds and the dogs in the apartment below her that continuously bark at them. At night, she falls asleep to the sound of whatever is going on in the apartment is going on above her: harsh footsteps, crashes, the occasional breaking of glass. In between, her mind numbs, and she mindlessly works the shift of whatever job she’s managed to get for the week.

She’s run through more jobs than she can count (she gets fired by anyone who makes the mistake of hiring her, problem #2). The grocery store fired her after she called a customer an ugly bitch at the end of a dispute over the price of plums (rage issues, problem #6). The restaurant she served tables at stopped putting her on the schedule after she called in sick one too many Fridays in a row (habitual liar, problem #11; chronic laziness, problem #5). The babysitting gigs she just stopped showing up to (she can’t stand to be around kids, and they can’t stand to be around her, at least she doesn’t have a problem with that).  

Her current employment is at a video store. That she seems to be able to manage. At least better than all the other ones she’s had. And it’s easy enough. Rent out DVDs. Collect late fees. Let your eyes gloss over whenever someone starts to run their mouth at you. Beg your managers for extra hours so you can pay all of your bills this month (problem #1, tied in pretty directly to problem #2).

A sigh escapes her. The cigarettes burns down closer to her fingers. A piece of shit apartment, and she can hardly afford it.

Her head turns, and she eyes the living room behind her, surveying the cramped kitchen and the rotting front door just beyond it. Her eyes are lingering on the dull, brass locks that keep her door in place. She thinks that she should install new ones, invest in something more secure. And it’s because she’s fixated on those locks that she sees the door rattle as someone slams their fist against it.

The noise makes her jump, and she hastily puts her cigarette out on the window, leaving it to blow away in the wind. She just a few long strides, her hand is around her doorknob, and she’s cursing the lack of a peephole and figures that’ll give her something to complain about with her landlady. She unlocks the deadbolt but lets the chain lock stay where it is. She opens the door just enough to get a look at whoever’s on the other side.

It's her neighbor. Upstairs. She blinks.

There are three things she knows about her neighbor:

His name. Iwaizumi Hajime. She’s heard his perpetual guests call it out enough to have it committed to memory, as well as the names: Mattsun, Makki, and Oikawa (see also: Shittykawa, Crappykawa, various-one-worded-insults-Kawa). But Iwaizumi is for certain the one she’s heard most, both though bouts of laughter and panic yelling.

He has a very careful routine. He’s religious about it. She can hear his footsteps as he follows the same 24-hours daily. In the morning he’s always gone by the time she wakes up. At night, he’s out smoking on the front step when she comes home. And in between-

Whatever it is that he’s doing in that upstairs apartment, it’s none of her business. She has her ideas. She has her clues that she chooses not to see.  But she won’t even let herself think about it, nevermind say it out loud. Whatever it is, she doesn’t need to know. It is not her business.

The first time she saw him, he was smoking a pack of blues on the front steps that led into their apartment building. His black jeans were worn in, and his sweatshirt had tears in the sleeves. A dark purple bruised blossomed along his jawline, fading into a lighter blue as it crept up his skin, and into a sickly yellow when it stopped under his cheekbone. The shape of it distorted when he dropped his jaw to let out smoke. She slowed in her approach at the sight of him and averted her gaze. It wasn’t any of her business.

The first time she saw him, he didn’t say anything. He just watched as she rummaged through her bag in search of her keys, careful not to brush against him as she passed him on the steps. She pretended she couldn’t feel him staring.

Her interactions with Iwaizumi Hajime, neighbor, have always been uneventful. At most, he will give her a slight nod of his chin in greeting as she approaches, but usually he just watches as she fiddles with her keys or pretends to be furiously texting, thumbs aggressively slamming against the keys (the text with no set recipient usually reading: aaaajjdewppgaa).

But even with their nothing interactions, she still would find herself thinking of him. As she popped another plastic meal into her microwave, she would think of his hands: long and veiny and cut up fingers holding up a cigarette, knuckles red and raw and forever scabbed over. When she deleted voicemails, she thought of his eyes, sharp and observant and a shade of green she finds perplexing. She thought of where he might be as she took out the trash. She started to look for the outline of him as she got closer to home.

She chalked it up to the loneliness.

The more she thought of him, the more she noticed him. His new bruises. The way his footsteps sounded late at night. How his voice rose in agitation when he spoke into the receiver of his phone, words muffled by the thin floorboards and drywall between her apartment and his. She noticed the unusual hours he kept and the way his most frequent guests always looked over their shoulders on their way out. She noticed heavy looking boxes covered in thick blankets going in and out of his place.

And she’s not stupid. It didn’t take very long for her to piece it together and resolve to stop noticing him (she can’t, as hard as she tries, and feels she knows entirely too much about him, problem #4).

She notices, now, the way his mouth is pressed into a fine line, a fresh laceration that spreads across the bridge of his nose. His expression is composed but there’s a panicked movement in his eyes, flashing over the details of her face that he can see through the crack of the door. She raises an eyebrow at him. “I need a favor,” he says, speaking directly to her for the first time, slightly out of breath and words strung together in a rush.

She blinks again.

★⋆. ࿐࿔

Her thought process is convoluted. She’s still working on justifying it to herself as she stands on the tips of her toes, trying not to shrink under his stare as her fingers clean his open wounds, the tips of them now stained with his blood.

It’s the path of least resistance, she tells herself. Really, there was no good reason or excuse to deny him, and she couldn’t exactly give him the bare faced truth of, “no, I think you’re a gunrunner and I don’t want to be involved in that shit, thanks.” And even if she did, or could come up with any other excuse to slam her door in her neighbor’s face, she figured it would be better to be on the good side of Iwaizumi Hajime, neighbor and potential arm’s dealer.

So she opened her door for him, and told herself that it’s better to be owed a favor than it is to owe one.

Hands steady, she applies a skin-toned bandage to the deep cut over his nose, an extra pad of cotton underneath it. She thinks it might need stiches, but that’s not an opinion she’s about to voice out loud to him.

She steps back and moves to wash the blood off of her hands in her kitchen sink, lathering her hands up with extra soap and running them under water so hot it turns her skin red. The water hits the sink a rusty color. Iwaizumi lingers, standing in the same spot, watching attentively as she does so. “Want a tea?” she asks as she turns off the faucet, wiping her wet hands off on the front of her jeans.

Without looking back at him, she moves about her cabinets, opening one to find her (frankly, pathetic) collection of mugs. She pulls out one with a chipped-up, knock-off version of Pikachu (a yellow rat-looking thing called “Ponkadu” with the iconic catchphrase, “ponka, ponka,”) and another with unsettling, discolored cats, knocking around a ball of orange yarn that she's fairly certain used to be red. “Ginger, if you have it,” he responds, still standing unsurely in the middle of her kitchen.

She glances at him over her shoulder. “You can sit down, if you want.”

Mechanically and awkwardly, he does so. The floorboards complain under his shifting weight and the chair squeaks as he pulls it out from under her table. It’s only quiet again when he settles back against the chair, going still. “You’re not gonna ask me what happened?” he asks.

It takes a few twists of the knob for her to finally get the flame on her stove going. She places her kettle on top of it, and rips into her tea bags. “Nope,” she answers. He gets ginger. She gets green. He gets the cats. She gets Ponkadu.

She can feel the way he watches her as she moves about the kitchen, putting a dot of honey in the bottom of her mug. He hasn’t asked her name, yet, which she figures is fair. She hasn’t asked his. And he’s probably seen it on the envelopes that get haphazardly tossed on their front steps or slipped under their front door (and he probably knows just as much about her as she does him, considering that more than half of the envelopes with her name on them have a big red stamp of “payment overdue,” or “bill enclosed”).

The kettle on the stove hisses, and she’s quick to snatch it up and pour the boiling water into each of their respective mugs. “How long do you need to stay?” she asks, not meaning to be rude, but she’s pretty sure it comes across that way anyways. She sets a timer on the oven for four minutes and turns to face him.

Iwaizumi shrugs. “Just for a bit, while things cool down,” is his uncomplicated answer.

She nods, arms wrapping around her middle as she leans against the counter, waiting for the teas to brew. There are questions she could ask that she’s sure he’s anticipating, but she doesn’t bother, she knows the answer. (Q: Why can’t you just hide out in your own apartment? A: I need the alibi. Q: Why’d you come to my apartment? A: Location convenience and believability. Q: Could I get in trouble for being involved with this? A: Probably).

Her fingers tap against her side, and her eyes are anywhere but on him. And despite reaching into the deepest, dustiest parts of her brain, she cannot think of one thing to say to him. There aren’t really any standard conversational topics to whip out when your neighbor/local arms trafficker (alleged) knocks on your door and asks if he can stay there for just a few hours, he promises, and also maybe a Band-Aid, if you have one.

It doesn’t help that she feels unbearably vulnerable with him, sitting at her dining room table (okay, it’s a kitchen table; a wobbly little thing pushed off to the side of her kitchen, but calling it a dining room table makes her feel better), looking at her, looking at her living space. She wasn’t anticipating guests, not that she ever gets any.

Everything she owns is splayed out on display for him to see. Dirty socks on the couch that she kicked off while watching late-night reruns. A stack of CD’s piling up on the ground, unopened because she doesn’t actually own a CD player. Dishes with remnants of ketchup and soy sauce and chocolate ice cream on the bottom of her sink. Loose cigarettes. Dozens of dead lighters. Mismatched furniture, curtsey of sidewalk disposals and secondhand stores. It’s a flagrant display of poverty and laziness.

Iwaizumi nods his chin towards the least offense thing he can find: the pile of CDs. “Those all yours?”

She thinks it’s a stupid question. Of course they’re hers. This is her apartment. Everything is hers. But the most complex form of conversation she could come up with to break the silence was, ‘tea?’ so she can’t really hold it against him. “Yeah,” she answers, and then adds without thinking, “got most of them from my brother,” (problem #9, she just says anything without ever thinking about it).

He stands from his creaky chair and creeps closer to the display. She holds her breath as he approaches. One wrong exhale and the entire pile will go toppling. Iwaizumi kneels down next to the pile, and his looking at the spine of them. His brow his furrowed as his eyes skim over the album names, and she’s anticipating some sort of string of critiques about her collection, or lack of. “Anything you like there?” she asks.

Iwaizumi straightens up and looks back over at her. “Gotta be honest, I don’t know any of these,” he admits, moving to sit back at his designated spot.

This makes her scoff. Her brother had started a worldwide sort of collection. Japanese synth-pop. Ethiopian jazz. Russian new wave. British post-punk. American folk. The rarer and more obscure, the better. If he could hear now that her neighbor and possible weapons dealer was stumped by his collection, he’d be overjoyed. Even if she has added a fair few of Hikaru Utada albums since she’s taken it over.

“What do you listen to then?” she asks, arms still crossed around her center, as if she’s shielding herself from him.

“Just whatever’s on the radio when I drive, I guess,” Iwaizumi answers with a shrug. “Not really a big music person, typically.”

For a moment, she tries to imagine whatever could be happening outside her door while he sits at her kitchen table, nursing a potentially broken nose and casually discussing music preferences. She gives him a nod. “That’s fair.”

Iwaizumi taps his thumb against the top of her table. She can’t read his expression. Every time she’s seen him it’s always been the same, like he’s permanently plagued by some minor annoyance that downturns his brow and pulls his lips into a slight frown. It’d be intimidating if she wasn’t so used to that kind of thing. “Wanna play something?” he asks.

Involuntarily, she scoffs. “Get me something to play ‘em with and I’ll play you whatever you want,” she snarks, and then stops. The smart smirk she had on her lips falls, and she shakes her head. “Sorry, that was rude. I don’t,” she starts, and then stops, “nothing to play ‘em on.”

The oven clock, gracious with its timing, beeps three times. She spins around on her heel, turning it off and using a spoon to fish out the tea bags. Her cheeks are red as she grabs his cat mug by the handle and walks it over to him. “Ginger,” she says, placing it down on the table in front of him. “”S hot,” she says, and then thinks, obviously.

She returns to the safe space of her kitchen counter, and grips her own hot mug around the middle, leaning against the counter and holding it up to her lips. She’s blowing away the steam that rises from it. Iwaizumi has a hand around the handle of the mug, and he’s staring down harshly at it. “So, listen, if someone asks you-“

“You were here with me all night,” she replies, and Iwaizumi looks up at her with a raised eyebrow. “You met up with me after my shift ended at around nine, and then you crashed on my couch by midnight, if I remember right. You were still sleeping in that same spot when I woke up.”

Iwaizumi’s quiet for a while. His thumbs are fiddling against the mug. She slowly sips at her tea, and when it’s too hot still, she blows at the top of it. There’s a rhythm to the way he taps his foot against her floor, deep in thought, probably trying to decide whether or not he could trust her.

He can trust her. Even if he doesn’t know it. He looks over at her with a slight scowl. “And you’ll tell that to anyone who asks?”

She can read between the lines. The anyone he’s so worried about is, undoubtedly, the cops that might come to her to verify whatever version of events he presents to them. “Yeah,” she confirms, “anyone.”

★⋆. ࿐࿔

In the following weeks, she gets three visits. Which is three more visits than she got in her first six months of living here.

When she was a kid, her dad bought her a knife, and stuffed it in the bottom of her schoolbag. “You don’t ever leave the house without a way to defend yourself, bug,” he had told her, and made sure it was properly hidden by books and crumbled homework assignments. And it’s the only thing her father has ever taught her that has the slightest bit of validity to it. She’s rummaging through her purse on her way out, double checking for her pink cannister of pepper-spray and that same little knife, when there’s another knock on the door.

Her head snaps up, and she sighs. At this rate, she’s already gonna be late for work and her sixteen-year-old manager is going to write her up if she’s more than twenty minutes late one more time and she cannot think of a single more embarrassing scenario. One hand grips onto her pepper spray, the other undoes the deadbolt. She barely opens the door, and on the other side is a grinning man.

This one she recognizes. It’s one of the men who’s always in and out of Iwaizumi’s place. Sometimes occupying the front step with him and sometimes laughing so loudly she can hear it clearly from her living room. She closes the door, undoes the chain lock, and then opens it once more. Her fingers are still tight around the pepper spray, which she thinks is fair, considering he’s got both hands behind his back. “Can I help you?” she asks, trying not to sound agitated.

He grins down at her, brightly. He’s the pretty one. “Hey, I’m Oikawa Tooru,” he greets, a natural sort of flirtation in the tone of his voice. She can’t tell if he does it on purpose or not, but she can tell form the glint in his eye that, either way, he doesn’t mean it. “Iwa’s friend.”

She nods. “Yeah, I recognize you. Listen, I don’t wanna be rude or anything, but I’m late for work, so-“

“Don’t worry about it,” he dismisses. “Just wanted to give you this gift, from Iwa, since you helped him out the other night.”

He reveals his hands to show off a box, neat and fresh from the store. It’s unwrapped, so she can see right away that it’s a silver little CD player. Portable. Battery-powered. Batteries included. She blinks. “He’s real grateful,” he says, pushes the box into her arms and giving her a wink. And he doesn’t say anything else as he turns on his heel, headed straight for the staircase that leads up to Iwaizumi’s apartment.

She places the box on the kitchen table where Iwaizumi sat, and makes sure her door is locked three times before she finally leaves for work.

The entirety of her ten-hour shift is spent thinking about it. She processes returns, and she thinks about it. She stocks shelves, and she thinks about it. She gets yelled at, and she thinks about it. What she’s going to play first. Where she’s going to keep it. How she’s going to thank him.

It makes her nervous to think about, that he got it for her. That she sarcastically suggested it, and then he did it. It makes nervous to think that he was thinking of her after he left her apartment. It makes her nervous to think that he went out of his way to buy something for her. Even if he left it up to an errand boy.

And listen, it’s not like she’s never had the money to spare to buy one of her own. At least, she could’ve bought a really cheap one, if she wanted. But in her liberated life, she’s always found that there were more pressing, demanding things that needed to be bought. Food. Phone bills. Credits at the laundromat. Cleaning supplies. Train fare. Cigarettes. Every time she passed by an electronics store and considered it, guilt gnawed at her stomach. She never needed it as bad as she needed everything else.

She clocks out a few minutes later than she was supposed to. Maybe it’s a bit much for a thank you. All she really did, at this point, was let him sit in her piece of shit apartment for a few hours and make him a mediocre cup of tea. She thinks about giving it back. She’s not going to, but she thinks about it.

Iwaizumi is where he always is when she gets off of work, smoking the same cigarettes. And instead of ignoring him via fake text or difficult-to-find keys, she stops in front of him, painfully aware of the intensity of the stare. “Thank you,” she says, and it’s all she manages to say.

Iwaizumi brings the cigarette to his lips and inhales. There’s no bruises on him today. She looks at him and doesn’t feel the need to turn her gaze. “It was a gift to thank you with,” he says through clouds of smoke, “you don’t have to thank me.”

She shrugs. “I wanted to.”

He lets out a small chuckle. “Okay, well, you’re welcome then, I guess.”

She gives him a small nod, and then takes careful steps passed up the stairs and passed Iwaizumi. It’s only once she’s twisted her key and is pushing the door open with her shoulder that he says, “Remember though, this means you’ve gotta play me whatever I want, now.”

Inexplicably, her face gets hot.

The second one comes thirteen days after that.

She’s got a layer of sweat on the back of her neck and her hair’s pushed out of her face with a bandana. The CD player sits on top of her kitchen table, playing an old scratched up copy of London Calling: her brother’s favorite. The mess got to her. She had started in the kitchen, scrubbing the burnt food off of her oven and trashing her food-poisoning level of expired leftovers.

Somehow, in the thick of it, she’s made more of a mess than she started out with. Full trash bags falling over in her living room, useless knick-knacks she’s managed to collect that would be better off in the trash, piles of clothes she plans on getting rid of (divided into two groups: ‘maybe I can sell these,’ and ‘these would be best to donate,’).

Her hand is down the drain of her bathroom sink, cleaning out the gunk and collection of her own strands of hair, protected only by a thin, yellow, rubber glove, when the knock on her door echoes around her apartment. “Fucking hell,” she grumbles, yanking her arm out of the sink, along with a clump of her hair, and carefully slides off the glove. She leaves it on the surface of the sink to be a later problem.

When she opens the door, she’s tired and out of breath, her body sore and aching. The door cracks open, halted by the chain lock, and she goes cold and rigid at the sight a police officer, standing outside of her door. “Can I help you with something?” she asks, tone not necessarily impolite, but it’s hard not to hear just how much she does not want to help. The door can stay locked.

There’s a fair few things she’s learned about cops (and lying to them) in her twenty-something years of living. Keep your distance. Don’t give them more than they need. They’re not your friend. They don’t wanna be your friend. She’s careful to keep her expression level and unbothered.

The cop starts up with his spiel. He’s sorry to bother her, ma’am, but he just has a couple questions, if you don’t mind. It shouldn’t take up too much of your time. You don’t wanna open up the door, do you?

She opts to answer any questions he might have through the thin space allowed by her chain lock. And the cop asks the questions she would expect him to ask. Where was she fifteen nights ago? Was she alone? Who was she was? For how long? Does she remember what time, exactly? Was he here the whole time? Are you sure? Are you positive?

Answers flow out of her easily, naturally. Fifteen nights ago, she was here. Like most nights. No, she wasn’t alone. Her neighbor was here. Iwaizumi. He hangs out here with her, sometimes. For how long? All night, why are you asking? What time? Exactly, she doesn’t really remember. She got off work around nine, and he fell asleep on her couch, maybe a bit after midnight? If she had say. Yeah, he was here the whole time. Yeah, she’s sure. Yeah, she’s positive. Why are you asking?

The officer thanks her, disappointed, and leaves with his head hung, disappointed. And she figures that, whatever Iwaizumi did, they were sure that he did it. And the only thing that stands between them and him, is her. She closes the door behind her and makes sure that it’s locked.

That kind of thing, it doesn’t really bother her. Her sense of morality is not dictated by written law, and she’s not going to be the one getting in the way of another person’s living, whether it’s honest or not. There are hard lines she wouldn’t cross, or help others get over. Of course. There are for everyone. But those lines aren’t in sight, so she’ll keep her mouth shut.

A shudder goes down her spine, and once the door is closed, nerves prickle at her skin. She hates talking to cops. Every time’s worse than the last. She shakes her head, trying to shrug it off, and returns to her pile of hair in the sink.

Her third visit comes three nights later, when she’s fresh from the shower, water dripping from her hair down her neck. She’s got a pint of ice cream in her hand, legs crossed on her couch as she watches reruns of Inuyasha. She presses the spoon against her tongue. They’re airing season two, but she’s only caught up halfway through season one.

She got off work a few hours ago. She’ll sleep for a few hours. And then she’ll wake up and go back to work. Then it’ll happen again. Standing on her feet for hours. Getting talked to like she’s scum by people who take video rentals too seriously. Being belittled by her boss. Making barely enough money to pay rent for her shitty apartment. It’s depressing. It’s boring. She shoves another spoonful of ice cream into her mouth to try and distract herself from it.

“Whatever you think life’s gonna be like away from here, it’s gonna be worse than you think. And I bet, when you realize that, you’re really gonna start to miss me.”

On her television, human-faced fruit falls from a demon tree. She puts her ice cream down. At least she hasn’t got to that point yet.

From above, she can hear footsteps moving. She can hear his door open, and swing shut. She can hear him stomp down the stairs. Her head is already turned in his direction when his fist raises to knock on her door.

She shifts off the couch and steps towards her door. She undoes the deadbolt. She undoes the chain lock.

Iwaizumi greets her with a smile once she opens the door. He’s wearing a t-shirt that reveals the clear definition in his arms. Her eyes linger there for a second too long before they flick up to meet his. “I owe you a favor now.”

★⋆. ࿐࿔

Iwaizumi’s not stupid. He never has been. He’s careful and deliberate and sure, in everything he does. And that’s the reason his record’s clean. It’s the reason he’s never been caught and the reason he’s been able to keep this whole thing going. He doesn’t second guess himself. He doesn’t make mistakes. He doesn’t get desperate.

With one, recent exception.

His internal reasoning: his gut tells him she’s trustworthy. He just looks at her, and he knows it. She acts like a private person, keeping to herself and minding her own business. She never has guests. She’s never given him any trouble. Never looked at him like she was scared of him. And, no, it’s not just because she’s pretty. It’s not just because he likes the smell of her fresh lemon perfume blended with the smell of her menthol cigarettes. It’s not just he wants a reason to talk to her, to knock on her door.

Iwaizumi would never do something so stupid.

She sits across from him, cross-legged on the (recently mopped, from the looks of it) floor of her living room. She is carefully studying the layout of CDs in front of her, and he is carefully studying her. The sort of messy way she lets her hair fall. The boxers she wears as shorts and the way they hug the bottoms of her thighs. The boxy shirt that hangs off her shoulders, loose and wrinkled, sporting the name of some band or movie or whatever that he’s never heard of.

Iwaizumi likes looking at her. He doesn’t act caught when she lifts her gaze to see him staring. She doesn’t blush. He wants to see her blush.

She leans forward and picks a CD. Iwaizumi tilts his head to read it. New Order. “Can I ask you a question?” he says, because, at this point, he figures that she won’t.

“Go for it,” she answers with a shrug, extracting the CD from its case with care and precision, movements delicate.

“How’d you end up here?” he asks, watching her face as she bites down on her tongue, placing the CD face down into the gift he got her. “I mean, girl like you, figure you should be enrolled in university or something.”

Her finger is firm against the play button, and the CD whizzes to life. “Girl like me,” she repeats back, though it sounds like it’s mostly mumbled to herself, a touch of bitterness to her tone. She shakes her head and looks up at Iwaizumi. “Is that the kinda question you’d answer? Honestly.”

He smirks. “Nah, I guess not.”

Music is slow to start up. It skips a bit, at first, but then it smooths out as the song progresses, evening out. Iwaizumi doesn’t look away from her. “I didn’t like it at home, so I left. This is where I ended up.”

Iwaizumi shifts, his hand reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and he fishes out a pack of cigarettes. He’s already got one in his mouth when he asks, “Mind if I smoke?”

Her response is a shake of her head, and she pushes up to stand on her feet. Iwaizumi watches her legs as she walks towards the window and, with a bit of a struggle, jerks it open. The early spring air drifts into her living room and cools it considerably. Iwaizumi lights the end of his cigarette. She grabs her own pack and an old cap to a pint of ice cream she’s been using as an ash tray before she sits back down, across from him.

She puts the cigarette to her lips, and before she can reach for her own, Iwaizumi lifts his lighter up, and the flame catches on the end of hers. She inhales, and Iwaizumi watches as her pupils dilate. “Thanks,” she says when she turns her head to let out a cloud of smoke.

“No problem,” he says, and leans back, resting his weight on the hand he places behind him. Iwaizumi jerks his chin and asks, “You gonna cash in that favor any time soon?”

“Hmm,” she muses, flicking the tip of her cigarette against the already ashy cardboard. “Think I’ll save it, for now.”

an: PHEW this was certianly a lot. flexing my writing muscles so this might not be great. right now im planning three total chapters but idk i might end up writing more and dividing the story up differently. if you've made it this far pls let me know what u think im so extremely nervous/anxious lmafo

if you enjoy please leave a like, rb, comment or ask <3

taglist: @wyrcan @thechaosoflonging @publicbathroompanic @bedeater @rottingt1tz @rintarawr @deluluforcarlos55 @ahseyy @localgaytrainwreck @cherrypieyourface @baskin-robinhoods @polish-cereal @iheartamora @ferntv @eclecticeggknightpsychic @httpakkeiji @does-directions @pinkiscool @michivrse @causenessus @cannibalsrider @cherrypieyourface @kmwife @k8nicole @oikasenpai (fill out form linked in masterlist to be added)

[changingplumbob]

Pancakes Household: Chapter 9, Part 12

Time for Eliza's birthday!

For reasons you'll soon read about her style change happens sporadically over this part

Tiana's thoughts will be in brackets for communication

Bob: She’s asleep, it took a while but she’s snoring now

Eliza: You do a good job with her Bob

Bob: I guess. I just feel like she deserves the world and I fall short

Eliza: Hey, you never fall short to me or our older kids. Tiana will be no different. That's just your gloomy side trying to throw you off. Now, care for some birthday celebration

Bob: But your birthday isn’t until tomorrow

Eliza: Is it? I guess I’ll go to bed by myself then

Bob: *laughs* No you don’t! Come back here, let me treat you

As normal Eliza doesn’t need much convincing to join her husband in bed.

3:30am and Tiana wakes with a start. What is she doing here? This isn’t the crib it’s… the playmat? How did she get here? Sounds like a pile of poop to her. To emphasize this she poops her diaper in angry infant mode.

Eliza: Good morning Tiana. Mother's just come to check on you

Tiana: *coos in grumpy* (wakeup time is the worst, what's so great about being awake)

Eliza: Now I’m afraid daddy seems to have come down with Starey Eyes so it’ll be you and me against the world today

Tiana: *coos in still grumpy* (daddy was going to show me cooking)

Eliza: Hey there miss grump, you really don’t like wakeup time do you? I guess we’ll have to find something fun to do

Eliza scoops up Tiana and blows a big raspberry on her tummy before carrying the grumpy infant to her ensuite. Tiana angrily fusses all the way but doesn't have enough coordination to flail out of Eliza's grip.

Eliza: Now Tiana this big thing is called a bath and here we have a seat, just for you. How about that

Tiana: *coos curiously* (is it comfy)

Eliza: Let’s take off your- oh you used your diaper, lovely

Tiana: *smiles* (it's warm in here, I think I'll pee)

Eliza nestles Tiana in the special infant seat and fills the tub with warm water and bubbles, constantly checking the temperature. Tiana smiles as Eliza tickles her nose and she tries to pat at the bubbles. When she is all clean Eliza gets her dressed and feeds her a bottle.

Bob may be feeling awful but feels like he would be a failure as a chef if he can’t make his own wife a birthday cake. Despite his head screaming at him and generally feeling dizzy he goes through the motions of cake making, luckily all the past bakes help him do the process pretty quickly given the circumstances. Then he rings in to let his boss know he’s ill before adding candles and heading back to bed.

Onyx: Happy Birthday mother! I thought you were going to have a party

Eliza: Your dad isn’t well so I decided to cancel

Onyx: Make a wish mother

Eliza: *laughs* okay, here goes

Adulthood has reached Eliza! In celebration Tiana grabs her feet for the first time and Onyx gives Strawberry a loving pat.

Eliza: Good luck for the exams

Onyx: Thank mother but I don’t need luck, I studied

Eliza: That’s my kid!

Onyx: See you after school Tiana

Tiana: *coos questioningly* (where is sibling going, sibling not leave me) *cries*

Eliza: Oh Tiana, it's alright. Onyx will be back later, yes they will

Tiana: *sniffles* (mother promise?)

Eliza works on some tummy time with Tiana who learns how to roll onto her back! Strawberry is impressed. Eliza settles the infant on the mat for a nap and goes to grab a late breakfast. She eats it on the couch while talking to the dogs. Not the birthday she imagined, but one that she doesn’t mind. Hopefully all this time at home will help her be full of energy when she returns back to work.

Eliza is happy to spend the main part of the day cleaning while Bob rests up. Once Tiana has finished her nap Eliza begins a dance workout. Soon enough she has to stop however as Tiana has begun to sparkle while she plays with her toys.

Eliza: Are you going to have a milestone honey

Tiana: *giggles and coos* (I am mother so you don't need to trade me)

Eliza: You’re laughing! Oh that’s adorable! Daddy will be impressed, yes he will

Excited at her daughter’s progress Eliza decides to give a game of peek-a-boo a go. Unfortunately Tiana worries her mother has disappeared and bursts into tears.

Tiana: *cries* (Mother is gone! Why did she leave me! Did I do something wrong? I was trying hard for her and daddy)

Eliza: Oh I’m sorry! Mother is here, mother is here

Tiana: *sniffles and coos* (promise to never leave me again mother)

Eliza scoops Tiana in her arms and cuddles the infant close until she stops sniffling. The pair are practicing sitting when Onyx and Fergus arrive home.

Eliza: How was the aquarium

Fergus: Fine, I've got homework. See you and Tiana later

Tiana: *coos and wobbles* (so this is sit)

Onyx: Mother, great news, I aced my exams! Again! Can we maybe talk about getting a horse now

Eliza: That’s it Tiana, keep your head up. Oh I don’t know Onyx, the household is pretty full

Onyx: But mother-

Eliza: Darling if you look outside does it even look like we have room for a horse

Onyx: *points* Yes it- OMG MOTHER

Eliza: Oh dear Tiana, your sibling is pretty loud when they want to be

Tiana: *giggles* (Onyx is funny)

With a chorus of thank you’s over their shoulder Onyx races outside where they spotted the foal Eliza had purchased for them.

Onyx: Oh you are pretty. What shall I call you? Hmm, I know, Maelstrom! Yeah, that’s a good name

Maelstrom: *neighs* Hi

Onyx: Oh how rude of me, are you hungry? Do you want some milk

Maelstrom eagerly grips on to the bottle Onyx holds for her and guzzles away.

Onyx: You know, I wanted a horse but a foal is even better. Now we get to spend more time together! I know I have cheer and school and stuff but I’ll be your best friend, I promise

Maelstrom: *neighs* sounds good to me

The foal spent the evening running around the property having a good time. Unfortunately the exploring took its toll and Maelstrom began to feel scared. Hearing the change in general noises from their bedroom Onyx went to comfort their new foal. Maelstrom was skittish from the new big world but with love and affection returned to being happy. Looks like Onyx is a natural.

And at midnight Bob felt well enough to put in some dad time. After giving Tiana a cuddle he knelt down and practiced sitting with her.

Bob: And up we go, how is that huh

Tiana: *giggles* (I up for daddy)

Bob: Who’s the cutest infant in the world? Is it you? Is it you sitting

Tiana: *giggles* (I am cute)

Bob: Alright and back down we go. Wait, what are you doing honey? Eliza!

Eliza comes rushing into the nursery in time to see Tiana roll from her back to her tummy all by herself. Bob is overjoyed and Eliza gives Tiana a snuggle, telling her how proud they are.

That’s it for this chapter of the Pancakes. With 3 new additions (4 if you count the dust bunny) the household is now running at maximum size. I didn't get as much done with the teens as I had planned but hey, can't make real life not happen. Thanks for your patience and support readers!

Previous ... Next (New Goth)

[sco07ut]

ok one person asked about the reasonings behind my furry au so here’s (almost) every character in the show (sorry)

tubbs + edward: weird inbred pug adjacent dogs, i don’t even need to explain this one but the noses, the breed’s reputation for interbreeding, the viciousness untrained dogs can exhibit

val: deer, aside from the obvious visual link (mark gatiss’s lankiness and grace when playing val has undeniable deer-like qualities) deer are also surprisingly brutal at times despite being herbivores. they’ve been known to eat small birds to supplement nutrients & i feel like this ties into her matching harvey’s freak even though he usually seems to be weirder than her at first glance

harvey: toad, for obvious reasons

benjamin: frog, because despite being in the same (animal) family, he’s too different + wrong to ever be accepted by harvey. there’s this fundament divide between them that’ll never come together. (val being a deer could also be seen as her being more accepting of benjamin since she also isn’t a toad and doesn’t have those standards)

chloe + radclyffe: frog tadpoles (in that life stage where they still have a tail but have grown all four legs), doing an excellent job at pretending to be toads

geoff: pig, pig mask from apocalypse + him being the ‘fat one’. there are probably better choices but honestly idk i’m just feeling pig vibes for geoff. perchance for violence when you least expect it but also strangely endearing

mike: boar, the slightly better version of the pig, bigger and tusk-ier. also with a violent streak (asking geoff to kill his wife in the anniversary specials). they’ve got a sort of sturdy feel about them which for some reason i relate to mike

brian: mouse, pathetic and cowardly, he never stands up for himself against geoff + just endures what’s going on, though perhaps with a bit of snark (adjacent to a mouse biting you with their tiny little mouths)

pauline: fox, animal associated with a tricky & cunning nature and in fables is almost always the crow’s opposition. fated to be enemies etc. foxes in folklore are known to use deception for their own gain or to get where they need to be (the burger thing, going behind mickey’s back as part of the deal to be released from prison, pulling off the entire dementia life insurance scam)

ross: crow, animal associated with a tricky & cunning nature and in fables is almost always the crow’s opposition. basically same as pauline, they’re both tricky and manipulate the other into doing what they need to do. also, when it comes down to physical prowess, the fox is always going to win

mickey: capuchin monkey, s3e1. on a more serious note, monkeys are associated with being creative + cheeky which i feel just work with mickey’s personality. the capuchin part comes from the fact that they have adorable sweet faces and aren’t anywhere near as terrifying as your more well known species (chimpanzees, orangutans, gorillas, whatevs)

cathy: weasel, also often considered a tricky, cunning character in fables + in my mind a weasel would be like the fox’s enemy. idk if that’s a thing in real life

hilary: cow, his dvd extras bio having his fav animal be moo cow + the cow mask in apocalypse + his wife being a literal cow

maurice + his wife: llama and goat respectively. maurice being a llama is mostly just to contrast against his wife since they’re more reluctant to just eat what they’re given, compared to goats who’ll devour whatever they can get their trotters on (linking to cutting the special stuff into her own meat, making something subpar but still edible)

sam: politicians are often associated with snakes & snakes also have a reputation for eating whatever they can fit their mouths around (sam still eating the special stuff despite acknowledging that it ‘isnt right’ or whatever he said)

farmer jed tinsel: collie, hard working farm dogs but liable to going absolutely insane if left to their own devices (see, andrew)

chinnery: giraffe, linked to the giraffe from apocalypse + just as a personal aside, melman from madagascar 2 (who becomes a shoddy doctor). also visual similarities, being tall and blonde. this one is more of a stretch but you could argue that the way giraffes give birth (standing up to allow their newborn baby to fall six feet upon entering this world) could be analogous to chinnery’s veterinary practices - swift and brutal

charlie + stella: swans, someone accurately pointed out the whole ‘mated for life’ thing, which (if we ignore the specials) is what charlie n stella are pulling off. swans are also vicious little cunts which links to their personalities quite nicely. & another stretch but swans can be fiercely protective of their offspring, which in a way could parallel the way stella copes with julie’s death, she’s fiercely protective of her memories of julie

les: songbird, but like specifically one in captivity alone, doomed to sing forever but never find their calling (sorry)

babs: peacock, much to her displeasure, visibly amab but still undeniably beautiful + eye catching

iris: rabbit, we have all heard the phrase breeding like rabbits. also, does can start procreating at 4 months old which parallels iris having judee at 14 (sorry if this is how you found out about that). i think there’s also something to say regarding iris’ like neverending supply of energy to work as many jobs as she does + also (sort of) look after 11? kids vs rabbits/hares in folklore being swift + energetic

judee: pedigree cat, the very image of wealth and luxury, her entire existence came at a high cost. these cats are also very high maintenance, between properly looking after their fur + dealing with the medical issues that can stem from dodgy breeding. stereotypically quite bitchy animals too

bernice: sheepdog, i did have a brief debate with the gf over what sort of animal would best represent a religious leader. particularly in christianity, parishioners are referred to by their pastor as a flock (& it also ties into the biblical stories of shepherds travelling to see angels or the birth of jesus or whatever), so it would stand that their leader would thematically mirror an animal that could lead a flock. i did consider a ram (especially because the horns would be a fun nod to bernice’s utter demonic personality) but ultimately i settled on an english sheepdog since they also have a bit of a rough side + have cute little fringes like bernice

pop, richie + al: wolves, distinct hierarchy in their family, reflected by how wolves will generally always submit to pack members with more authority than them

ollie: chihuahua, ne’er before have i seen an individual so clearly afflicted with little man syndrome. yappy + annoying + prone to picking fights with everyone sorry i mean the wrong people

phil: cheetah, for cheating his way to the top by sleeping with that one guy. only half joking. also partially appearance based

dave: capybara, very tolerant, reflects him putting up with ollie for so long. genuinely struggled with this so that’s the only explanation i have aside from they both also have brown fair

tish: koala, also purely vibe based. she seems like she would have stds SORRY

lance: bearded dragon, a lizard species that can regrow their limbs (lol)

ernest (ableist guy): labrador, generally well-meaning but far more likely to mess something up than actually be of benefit to anyone

mick (cave guy): mole, underground vibes

sorry can you tell i don’t have many thoughts about some of the bg characters

ally + henry: hyenas, known to be violent animals + the obvious ‘laughing’ parallels to them being cunts in the cinema and also their appreciation for killingths

vinnie + reenie: two old hens, always clucking and tutting about something. slightly scratchy personalities vs chickens being known for scratching up the ground (it’s a stretch i knoww i’m running out of ideas)

pam, pamela, whatever: elk, the bugle. that or those baby seals you see on tiktok making stupid, weirdly human noises

herr lipp: donkey, ass jokes

frau lipp: bat, vampire jokes

i wish there was more to these but it’s literally what it boils down to

papa lazarou: some sort of freakish chimera, primarily a lion (ringleader of the circus and plays into the idea of there being one lion in the pride + a bunch of lionesses, him and his wives) but with other bits and bobs of other animals like a chimpanzee (evil) and a crocodile + elephant (representing the animals he stuffed wives into). my girlfriend was also like ‘what if his extra parts were bits he took from his wives’ which i thought was hilarious and am stealing

alvin: sheep(?), thematically used to represent people who follow the crowd + are quite mainstream, in this case this refers to his sexual practices. also considered to need someone else to be the decision maker, this could apply to both sunny and judith

sunny: dolphin(?), known to seek pleasure + highs by snorting sponges or whatever. sexual freaks

judith: praying mantis. pure vibes

@dangerliesbeforeyou @sleepysuburb (hope you guys don’t mind the tag, just saw u were interested in seeing more the tags :])

[happysparklingshadows]

𝚂𝚑𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚂𝚑𝚒𝚙𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝙷𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚜 ('𝟿𝟼)

𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚂𝚑𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝙷𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚜

♡ Shauna is a Libra Sun and Aries Rising 

♡ Shauna’s favorite color is blue. When Shauna was in elementary school with Jackie, Jackie bought her a best friend necklace with a blue and pink heart. Jackie bought it for her to pick but really wanted the pink one, and Shauna always picked the blue one. Blue has always been her color ever since. 

♡ Shauna is a Dog person. Shauna gives off she is a Big Dog mom vibes. Shauna is distant with her emotions but very close with dogs. She just has a special connection to them. She always points out a dog in public (never approaching the owner just to say hi) and cries every time a dog dies in a movie. But at the same time, Shauna doesn't seem to be a person who would want an pet but she just likes the look of them.

Shauna's spirit animal is the Rabbit.

♡ Shauna is a stone-cold introvert. She doesn’t like meeting new people, she doesn’t like talking to people she is not prepared to speak to, and she doesn’t like trying new things. Shauna never complains about it or doesn’t do things if they are out of her comfort zone if you want. She would go to dances and dates in public, but she was shy. 

♡ Shauna’s favorite food is a little basic, but she doesn’t give a fuck. She fucking loves a good burger and some fries. She doesn’t care if an egg is on top, tomatoes, mayo, mustard, lattice, whatever. 

♡ Shauna's childhood could have been more stable, to be honest. Shauna’s mom and Dad divorced after her mom gave birth to her youngest brother, Ian. Shauna is the oldest Daughter of two younger brothers,  and her mom is constantly working at her job at the hospital to keep them all afloat. Shauna’s dad wasn’t perfect, and she always knew he wasn’t a good dad; he was an alcoholic and couldn't get his life together. When Shauna was 13, her dad remarried, started a new family, and stopped seeing them all. Shauna was always fed and had clothes on her back, but she has always been responsible for her brothers and the house when her mom was at work. All her life, she has played second mom, and she isn’t even mad at her mom because she can’t help that she needs to pay bills, but it is her dad’s fault for all of it.  That is why Shauna was so taken in by Jackie, and somewhat why she was envious of who Jackie was, because she had a perfect life, and she was perfect. Shauna never even had a chance to be perfect in her eyes. 

♡ Shauna’s sex drive is pretty high, wanting sex every other day. She wants to just hold you and touch your skin almost always. She is a soft Top! 

♡ Shauna’s biggest vice is Drinking at a party. Shauna is from a family that I feel has some addiction problems because she is usually quiet about Natalie’s drug use and defends her without being close to her at that party. I think Shauna has an issue with finishing every drink she is given. She has to see the bottom of the cup, but when she is not partying, or it’s in the settling to drink, Shauna never drinks. 

♡ ⚠️Unpopular opinion⚠️ Shauna really doesn’t like confrontation all that much. When Shauna fights someone, it feels like she is in a corner. Shauna isn’t always the friendliest, but she doesn’t like fighting people, especially with you. Shauna would be so sweet to you, and only you, like she will never put up a fight unless it is really needed. 

𝙳𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝙰𝚄s/𝚄𝚗𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎s

♡ Royalty AU! Shauna would be your guard because, of course, you would be the princess of the Royalty AU! Shauna is just someone who doesn’t seem like they would be the most crucial player in a royal court or even really fit in, so I see her as an outsider who is welcomed there like a guard or food taster. 

♡ Delinquent AU! Streetracer, Shauna has a lot of built-up rage inside her, and she is just an adrenaline junkie. The minute she got her license, she always started to speed, and it started by going a few miles over until it was her going 120 mph down the highway. She doesn’t care. She might even steal parts to make her own racecar like “Fast in the Furious.”

♡ Supernatural AU! Vampire. She likes the taste of blood in YJ Canon. She licks the blood on her fingers when she cuts the meat in the show.  

♡ Superhero AU! Black Widow because they are emotionally distant and checked out to live in their environment. Like Black Widow is stupid intelligent, hot, and strong, just like Shauna. 

♡ College AU! English Major with a Minor in Sex and Gender Studies. Shauna is very quiet and shy. She would be so scared to talk to the professor after class about an assignment. She doesn’t join clubs until the sophomore year of her college career, and she doesn’t go to parties much.

𝙿𝚛𝚎-𝙲𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚑 𝙷𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚜

♡ Shauna is the one in middle school to be the first to introduce that she likes you romantically, and you did the same. I feel like Shauna needs a little reassurance regarding romance because she doesn’t believe anyone would love her for her. 

♡ Shauna really likes to read and write a lot. She likes to have sleepovers with you to share the poems she found that made her think of you, she will read you the ones she wrote about you, and she likes to spend time together quietly. She likes to do the ADHD parallel quality time thing when you two do your own things. 

♡ Dates with Shauna consisted of going to parks and walking around with your hands holding. She likes to go outdoors and have fresh air while spending time with you alone. She likes the privacy of being together on a walk. No one else really listens to what you are saying. 

♡ Shauna is the more Avoidant partner. Shauna would avoid you when you start dating so she doesn’t disappoint you. When you confront her about that, she corrects her avoidant tendencies. Shauna needs her alone time, and she gives you your own alone time. She likes that you two are comfortable enough to give space, unlike her relationship with Jackie. 

𝚆𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝙷𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚜

♡ You and Shauna are in a Trio friendship with Jackie. And instead of Jeff, Shauna and you have lied to her for months about your relationship. Like Jackie BBQ canon, it always happens, but it wouldn’t be because Shauna is pregnant because she is in a WLW relationship. 

♡ Shauna always gives you the first cut of meat because she loves you. She gives you a piece with extra fat and lets you have her more gristle pieces of meat if you like them. 

♡ Shauna is very pointed and gives an attitude about your sleeping bag being away from hers, like Jackie. I imagine that scene when Shauna goes to the attic with Taissa against Jackie’s wishes. I feel like they are like that to each other. Shauna wants you to sit next to her, to be by her when she is sleeping, and she doesn’t like the idea that you are away from the cabin without her with you.  Becomes very protective. 

♡ Shauna becomes slightly more relaxed about sex but is still the same high sex drive girl she was before the crash. She really loves you, and she just wants to spend time together. She is a lot more into kissing you, and she is more into making love than just straight-up fucking. 

Jackie Headcanons ✿ Taissa Headcanons ✿

[sweetprfct]

Written in the Stars

Joseph Quinn x Fem!Reader

Summary: You are a believer in fate but after getting your heart broken, you had stopped believing it. Until you met Joe. Suddenly, it got you questioning if fate is real or not.

Author's Note: I truly enjoyed going back and re-editing this story and re-publishing it. As per requested by everyone, I will be re-publishing Permanent December. It's my very first Joe fic series, so it's very special to me. Anyway, thank you for the support with this series! :)

Wordcount: 2.2K

part one - part two - part three - part four - part five - part six - part seven - part eight - part nine - part ten - epilogue

London, United Kingdom.

“Sofia? That’s the same name as Sofia!” 

Sara chuckled softly, pulling her ten year old daughter closed to her side. She brushed her brunette hair softly as Sofia said, “It is me.”

Sara chuckled again as she heard that small gasp, making Sofia giggle quietly too. 

“But what happened to the Prince and the Princess?” 

“Rosie, don’t be dumb. Isn’t it obvious? The story is about mum and dad.” 

Rosie pouted at her older brother as her warm brown eyes turned into puppy dog ones before burying her face on Joe’s chest. She sobbed quietly as Joe cooed her and pulled her close in his arms and brushed her brown curly hair. 

“Francis, what did I tell you about being mean to your little sister, and we don’t call anyone that word.” You told your six your old son, who was sitting next to you.

Francis hung his head low, his curls falling down his forehead as he let out a sigh. “I’m sorry, Rosie.” 

The fireplace warmed the living room that all of you were sitting in. Snow was falling outside as Christmas approached the city of London in just a few days. The kids had been wanting to hear a story before bed and all night long, your four year old daughter had been repeatedly asking you to tell her a nice love story about a Prince and a Princess. Wes and Sara had dropped Sofia off at your house for the weekend since they wanted to go on a nice weekend getaway alone. You honestly didn’t mind since Sofia was such a sweetheart and very mature for her age. She loved to help you bake in the kitchen with Rosie, while Joe would watch television with Francis or play video games in the living room. 

“It’s okay.” Rosie pouted as Joe smiled down at his daughter, who was sitting on his lap. 

Rosie was a Daddy’s girl. Always had been since she was born. You always wondered why she was so attached to Joe even when she was just a few months old. As she grew older, you could see why. She looked like her father with those brunette curly hair and big chocolate button eyes, and she was starting to be like him too. Everywhere Joe went, she would instantly follow him, ask him questions about his job and how she could also be in the movies. When she was around two, she had given you the hardest time every time Joe had to fly to the States to do some interview or shoot a movie. Rosie would always stay by the window and wait for Joe. She would ask you a million times every day when Joe would come home. 

“Sweetheart, he’s gonna be here by Friday.” You would tell her. “In the meantime, why don’t you help mum bake some cookies, yeah?”

That was how you and Rosie had gotten closer. Through baking. She certainly still chose to hang out with Joe most of the time and even go with him on movie sets, so she could see how his movies were made. But you were glad that you had found something that you and your daughter could do together. Francis, on the other hand, was always next to you. He was always interested in what you do at work, asks you questions about how to make friends at school because he was a shy kid and sometimes, he would even ask if he could just stay home instead. You worry about Francis sometimes because he always had a hard time making friends at school. So, you always tried to understand him, but you also wanted your two children to get along since Francis always loved to tease Rosie. 

“Mum, what happened next?” Rosie asked again, her eyes then turned to gazed up at Joe.

Joe cleared his throat and said, “Well, one year later, they got married and then after that, they moved to London with your Uncle Wes, Aunt Sara and Sofia.” 

“Your mum was pregnant at that time with Francis.” Sara added. “She had the hardest time in the hospital.”

Francis gazed up at you and asked, “How come?”

“You just wouldn’t get out.” You chuckled, poking the tip of his nose lightly. 

“She was in the hospital for 18 hours.” Joe continued. 

“And you, my darling…” Joe tickled Rosie on her side, making her giggle and held onto Joe’s hand. “You were just too excited to get out that you were two days early.” 

Rosie clenched her small fist into Joe’s shirt as she tried to stand up on his lap. Rosie wrapped her tiny arms around Joe and hugged him tightly, making Joe smile and held her in his arms and softly rubbed her back. 

“Such a Daddy’s girl.” Wes commented, making everyone chuckle softly. 

“I love mum too.” Rosie pouted, laying her head on Joe’s shoulder as she yawned.

“I think it’s time for bedtime.” Sara got up from the sofa. 

“Yeah, I’ll put her to bed.” Joe got up from where he was sitting and went down the hall to set Rosie down for sleep. 

Joe set Rosie on her bed gently and pulled the covers over her, tucking her in as Rosie gave him a sweet smile and said, “One day, I want to have my soulmate.”

Joe laughed softly, kissing her forehead. “Not until when you’re 40.”

Rosie pouted at Joe’s little tease. “Goodnight, sweetheart. I love you.”

“Goodnight. I love you too, Dad.” Rosie smiled, closing her eyes and hugging her little stuffed teddy bear that was next to her. 

Joe stared at his daughter for a moment, brushing her hair softly. Tonight, looking back at his journey with you, he couldn’t help but think about something he read the other day in Sara’s bookshop. Sometimes, he still couldn’t wrap his mind that he has this family. That he has his beautiful family with you. It made all the wait and the complicated situations before seemed all worth it. 

“Dad?” Francis appeared at the doorway in his pajamas. 

Joe looked over his shoulder and got up from where he was kneeling. “Hey.”

“Mum said it’s bedtime.” Francis reached for his hand. “D… Do you think you could tuck me in?”

“I thought you said you were getting too old for that?” Joe raised his brow. 

Francis shrugged his shoulders and looked down at his feet. “Maybe… not.”

A small smile slowly tugged on Joe’s face as he picked up his son. Francis laid his head on Joe’s shoulder and said, “Dad?”

“Yeah?” Joe set Francis down on his bed and tucked him in. 

“Do you think… Will I ever make friends?” 

Joe looked down at his son. You and Joe had talked about this, and Joe knew how worried you were that Francis felt lonely at school. Joe could see it in Francis’ eyes too that he felt lonely and insecure over the fact that he was the only one who was always left out in school, especially during team activities because no one would pick him to join the group.

“Of course.” Joe reassured him. “You’re a wonderful person, and I know someone will see that. You know I was the same way before? Then, I met your Uncle Wes and ever since then, we were inseparable. Just like your mum and your Aunt Sara.” 

Francis’ expression suddenly lightened as he gave Joe a small smile. “Thanks Dad. I love you.”

“I love you too.” Joe leaned down to kiss Francis’ forehead before making his way to the door. “Oh, and if they don’t want to play with you, you always have me.” 

Francis smiled at his father before closing his eyes and went to sleep. Joe quietly closed the door behind him and made his way back to the living room, finding you and Sara talking to each other. 

“That sounds heavenly.” Joe heard you murmur to Sara. “I’m sure you two will have so much fun.” 

“Yeah, I think we kinda need it, you know?” Sara grinned. 

“Maybe you two will have too much fun.” You nudged Sara, teasing her as she felt her cheeks heat up. 

“Please.” Sara laughed softly. “Maybe.”

You gasped softly, surprised that she actually agreed. Your eyes widened in surprise. “Really?”

“Yeah, I think it’s time.”

You let out a small squeal as you pulled her into a hug. “Then, definitely have so much fun.”

Sara laughed and turned to where Sofia was sitting on the sofa. “My sweet, come here.”

Sofia put her book down and walked over to where you and Sara were. You watched as Sara kneeled down in front of her and smiled. 

“We’ll be back in two days. Be good to your Aunt and Uncle, okay?” 

“Of course, mum. I love you.” Sofia smiled, giving her a hug. “I’ll miss you and dad.” 

Sara smiled, hugging her daughter. “We’ll miss you too.” 

“Okay, I think we have to go, darling.” Wes chimed in as he knelt down in front of Sofia also and pulled her into a hug. “I love you, darling.”

“I love you too, Dad.” Sofia smiled, giving both of her parents kisses on the cheek. 

“C’mon. I’ll put you to bed.”  You reached for Sofia’s hand. 

“It’s okay, Auntie. I can do it myself.” 

You raised your brows at Sara as she looked at her daughter proudly. You couldn’t help but chuckle and nodded your head. Sofia truly was so mature for her age, and Sara and Wes did raise her very well. You felt Joe’s hand on the small of your back as you both walked Sara and Wes out the door. 

“Well, you two have so much fun.” You gave them both a hug. 

“Thank you.” Wes smiled. “And thank you for taking care of Sofia.”

“Of course. She is so precious, and the kids love her when she’s around.” You said.

“Okay, well, we gotta go.” Sara and Wes gave the both of you one last hug before making their way to their car. 

You took a deep breath and closed the door behind you. You raised your brow at Joe when you saw him looking at you with his adoring eyes. 

“Come here.” Joe reached for your hand. 

“Why?” You laughed, sliding your hand in his. 

“Just come on.” Joe nodded his head towards the direction of the kitchen. 

You watched as he stopped in the middle of the kitchen and left you there as he walked over to the speaker and played a slow song for the both of you in a low volume.  

“Can I have this dance, miss?” Joe bowed his head at you with one hand reaching for yours. 

You laughed, shaking your head as you took his hand. You gazed up at him with a smile on your face, your eyes locking with his chocolate button ones. 

“That story was romantic, wasn't it?” Joe asked you the same question he had asked you back in New York when you heard Mr. Cheng’s story but this time, he was referring to your story with him.

You hummed softly and said, “It really was.” 

“You know I remembered something earlier. Something I read at the bookshop.” Joe murmured. 

“Yeah?”

“Did you know in Korea, there’s this thing called “In-Yun,” which means fate.”

“Oh god, Joe.” You laughed softly, shaking your head as the both of you continued to dance. 

“No, hear me out.” Joe chuckled. “They said that In-Yun is fated paths that entwine two people together throughout their past and future lives and they said even just a brush of a shoulder with a stranger, they said that it must mean they mean something to each other in their past lives. Then, they said that if you had married your soulmate, it’s said to be the result of 80,000 layers of In-Yun in over 80,000 lifetimes.”

You grinned, shaking your head. It had been so long since you and Joe talked about the whole “fate” thing. It also had been a while since you thought about it. You were just surprised that Joe still thought about it until now, especially that you were the one who loved to believe in those things before. 

“So, do you think we have 80,000 layers of In-Yun because we’re married?” You asked.

“I told you once that every path I tried to go to away from you, it always leads to you no matter what.” Joe murmured, the expression on his face turned into something serious. “Whether that’s in our past lives or in the future lives, I know no matter what the situation was, my heart will always lead back to you.” 

You smiled, stopping on your feet for a moment and leaned in to kiss him softly. “80,000 lifetimes.” You grinned. “That’s a lot.”

“Yeah.” Joe grinned. 

“I believe it too.” You replied. “I always have.”

“I love you so much.” Joe whispered.

“I love you too.” 

You grinned as he leaned down to kiss you deeply. You smiled through the kiss as he pulled you close to him, wrapping your arms around his neck. Whether that was an invisible red string that connected you and Joe together or because you two have 80,000 layers of In-Yun in over 80,000 lifetimes, you knew that your path always had led back to his heart too. Pulling away from the kiss, Joe set his forehead on yours as you both continued to slow dance blissfully in the middle of your kitchen. 

“Your past and mine are parallel lines. Stars all aligned and they intertwined.” -Taylor Swift, All of the Girls You Loved Before

The End. 

********

Taglist:

@palomahasenteredthechat @sunvick @eddies-acousticguitar @demonsanddemogorgons @joesquinns @mmunson86 @ghostinthebackofyourhead @corrodedcoffincumslut @figmentofquinn @tlclick73 @browneyes8288 @munsonluvrr @ali-r3n @ficsbypix @capricornrisingsstuff @missonlypost @ali-in-w0nderland @amberolivia666 @lalalala-melmosworld @niallersfreckles @nanas-lasagna @emma77645 @indulgence-be-thy-name @readergf @ladamari68 @1paire2vans @d4rk4ng3l86 @paleidiot @josephquinnsfreckles @readergf

[mailjeevasfan]

hi thsi is the first rime i ever did this request thingy, so sorry if i did it wrong or someyhing ☹️

..but mayeb some just some gwnral dating matsuda or mello hcs 🤭

thank u for ur req! you did just fine 😁 i think i may have done something similar for these so apologies for any repetition (i kind of just ended up rambling icl)

-matsuda and mello x gn!reader

-matsuda/mello relationship hcs

༺♡༻

matsuda relationship hcs ❦

-whilst matsuda was working in the task force, things could be quite hectic. given that you guys living together, sometimes it’d be a pain as he’d have to stay overnight at work. sometimes he would even have to stay away from home for longer than that. however, he would definitely text/call you as much as he was able to and bring you some sort of gift as an apology. like flowers or something pretty romantic like that. even if you reassured him that it was fine, he’d still feel obligated.

-this is also kind of linked to the incompetence he’s led to feel after being unappreciated a lot at work. you have to reassure him often, but you ofc don’t mind. your comfort is honestly what keeps him going

-you guys live a very comfortable life after the kira case is closed. right after the meeting with near, matsuda was distraught and you did everything you could do make things better for him. once again, having you around was what really kept him going

-ok that was all kind of sad let’s have some happiness now

-matsuda always makes time for you no matter what. you guys are always going out for dinner or just chilling and watching a movie or doing whatever but he always makes sure he spends time with you

-he loves rom coms and a bunch of snacks with you. you have attempted to show him a variety of horror movies but he just clings to you

-i do feel that matsuda would be a dog lover and would love to have one. however he probably loves most animals so whichever pet you wanted would be perfectly fine for him. i guess he’s kind of a golden retriever boyfriend on his own anyway

༺♡༻

mello relationship hcs ❦

-things can be a struggle with your relationship very often. mello has certainly got a lot going on and as much as you want to help him, there are a few things that hold you back. he doesn’t want to accept help from anyone but he also doesn’t want you associated with the danger of his job. however, if he really is in desperate need of help, he would trust you. this is somewhat of a comfort to you because you know that you’d be there in a heartbeat

-you would typically go out fairly often for food or whatever before the explosion, but after the incident mello was very very hesitant to go out. his insecurity also took a toll on his general mood and therefore affected your relationship. you managed to help him through this and become more comfortable with himself

-although mello is a serious person more often than not, you do encourage a lightness out of him every now and then. (although he’d never admit it in a million years)

-you guys hang out with matt and play video games sometimes and he gets competitive of course, but it’s a more laid back and humorous kind of competitiveness which is nice to see

-i can also imagine mello being drunk at some ungodly hour and dancing around the kitchen. he INSISTS that you join him

-when mello isn’t wearing his usual clothes, he’s probably wearing a band t shirt and joggers. you frequently steal these t shirts and especially love to wear them when he’s away for a while

༺♡༻

[ultimateplaylistmaker]

How do you think Makoto`s and Nagito`s luck work?

*deeep breath*

*Slams my ruler onto the whiteboard* ALRIGHT

To understand Makoto and Nagito's luck, we must first understand Luck in the Danganronpa universe.

First off their are multiple types of luck, and not all luck talents are built the same. That's the first thing you need to understand, every luck talent is a unique personal talent to each individual. Luck talents can't really be compared because they're so different from each other and can even create other talents.

Case in point the true second luck talent we had in the series...CELESTIA LUDENBERG. While not the ultimate lucky student, her gambling talent is NEAR COMPLETE LUCK, something she FREELY ADMITS.

While this kind of thinking is more associated with Komaeda, it is actually CELESTE who first brings up luck as something beyond just chance, but instead as something more akin to religion. She even compares it to fate, Celestia will tell us in her FIRST free time event exactly what she thinks of luck. Which correlates well with Komaeda’s thinking. First of all the immutability of it, that you are simply born with that luck and nothing can ever change it, then there is the thought there is no inbetween luck it is only Good luck or Bad luck and it’s those two things that determine basically everything. Celestia and Komaeda have a very similar worldview, the only difference is the fact Celeste’s luck is only good and has such given her a much more positive view of it. Celeste seems to have spent a lot of time thinking about luck, and has a lot of faith in it, seen how in another free time events despite not knowing how to even play, she won a Shogi gambling competition.

While Celeste has a habit of exaggerating and dramatics, I think she’s telling the truth about this story, it matches up with her beliefs after all. No skill or talent carried her through to the end and to victory, just pure luck, her gambling luck that is the basis of her talent.

From this we learn that luck talents are much broader then just ‘lucky student’ and can make up a lot of different talents based on how it presents themselves with everyone having unique sets of luck and activation requirements. With both her and Komaeda sharing similar views on luck, it’s clear that those with lucky talents tend to find luck to be immutable and simply just a piece of ones self that can never be changed. Luck is everything to those with powerful enough luck, to the point it becomes almost blinding and overshadows skill, though Celeste seems to feel a bit ashamed that she didn’t at least make an attempt at having skill at Shogi. A little dog can’t become a big dog, and someone with bad gambling luck can never have good gambling luck and vice versa.

This isn’t true.

As you may have noticed if her gambling luck is that good that it overrides skill completely, then how did she lose? By how her talent works as long as it’s a gamble, she wins. Period. Nothing to be done about it. How did she lose the gamble of her life?

Easy, Makoto’s luck works as a luck nullifier.

You may be asking what the hell I’m talking about and I redirect your attention to the short story of Makoto Naegi’s Worst Day Ever.

“People often say that men are defined by their names, and indeed, in his thirty-two years on Earth, Jutarou had never once thought of himself as unlucky. In fact, he had been blessed with abnormally good luck. By the very nature of his work, he had found himself in a number of dangerous situations in the past, but every time—without fail—a series of fortunate flukes guided him to safety. 

While his luck could be considered one of his strengths, he wasn’t fond of admitting it. 

Rather, allowing himself to end up in situations where the outcome was in fate’s hands was unacceptable to him. He knew good and well that, in his line of work, even the smallest of slip-ups could mean disaster. 

Jutarou was a thief. 

The most important thing to him when he was on a job was reducing the potential influence of forces outside his control—luck, other people—to an absolute minimum. In his mind, a thorough, well crafted plan was the cornerstone of any job. He always formulated and executed his plans by himself, and any job for which that wasn’t possible, he wouldn’t take. There was nothing worse than being betrayed by a partner who let his greed get to his head, and besides, Jutarou didn’t need anyone slowing him down. And he especially didn’t need to be asking for help from on high. 

Naturally, his current job was no different. He had planned everything and put that plan into action all by himself. His target had been a small jewelry store in a nearby shopping district. Jutarou had received information that, despite looking run-down, the store had a hidden stash of extremely valuable jewels. And to top it off, the owner was a bit of a penny-pincher, so security was light. 

It was an incredible opportunity—the kind that you only ever got once or twice. 

So Jutarou crafted an intricate, but bold, plan, and then he went through with it. Naturally—as far as he was concerned—everything went without a hitch, exactly as it was supposed to. His plan was perfect, leaving no room whatsoever for outside interference. And there had been none. 

Spoils tucked away in his bag, he calmly stepped onto the bus. Jutarou liked to make use of public transportation as much as possible while on a job. It was easier to blend into the crowd in a bustling city by riding a bus or train than it was driving a car or motorcycle, and by dressing like a businessman on the job, he practically disappeared. 

The disguise worked, too. Not a person on that bus gave him a second look as he took an open seat at the front. 

Finally certain he had completed his work, Jutarou let out a small sigh of relief. As the bus vibrated gently beneath him, he silently basked in the satisfaction of a job well done. 

And then, a sick twist of fate made quick work of everything he had accomplished. Only, it wasn’t his luck that laid everything to waste—rather, he was just caught in the crossfire of some teenage boy’s misfortune. Some boy who just happened to climb onto the same bus as him. It was a stroke of bad luck so overwhelming that even Jutarou who, up to that point, had been blessed with such incredibly good luck, was helpless to prevent it”

Meet Jutarou who appears to have a luck talent of his own, the main antagonist in the short story. While he doesn’t like purely to rely on it, he notes that he is a very lucky man and multiple times in the story comments about how his luck never fails him. Until it does. Makoto Naegi’s bad luck was so strong, it had OVERRIDDEN his good luck, giving Jutarou bad luck to give Makoto WORSE luck. 

This trend continues throughout the story, despite Jutarou’s best efforts and best luck to get himself not arrested, Makoto’s sheer bad luck is enough to dissuade EVERY attempt as the situation only gets worse and worse for Makoto until it ends up with the groceries that Makoto was ORIGINALLY SENT TO GET ending up basically exploding. 

This incident directly leads into Makoto getting into Hope’s Peak, as his luck is SO BAD that in that same explosion the original lottery winners invitation gets destroyed and they do a new drawing, this time pulling Makoto’s name.

Luck talents have no effect on Makoto because his luck counteracts it, it doesnt matter how good your luck is, if Makoto’s luck wants to involve you, you have no control over the luck in the situation anymore. From this we learn Luck talents interacting with each other can have odd effects, especially if Makoto is involved.

There is a second piece of evidence that Luck talents aren’t quite as straightforward as “you’re born with it” and his name, is the mortal god himself, Izuru Kamukura

As Hajime Hinata, his luck is well, it’s not great, but I wouldn’t call it bad either. He’s average, very plainly average. Then he got a lobotomy and became Izuru, and suddenly something has changed. Izuru DOES have good luck, and he has an intense amount of control over his luck that he can even can beat Komaeda in a gun fight. Which means not only is Luck a real talent despite how Komaeda bemoans, it has some way to quantifiably measure and implant it as his Luck talent is just as artificial as the rest of his talents. Luck isn’t just chance or fate, it’s a legitimate part of someones body that can be implanted into someone else with the right tools. Which is, SO MUCH TO UNPACK. 

We don’t learn HOW they implanted luck, so we can only guess where luck resides within a human body. Wherever it is though, this implies while people are indeed born with a specific luck pattern that is otherwise immutable this pattern can be tampered and changed by an outside source with the right know how. Celeste is essentially correct in the fact humans are born programmed with the luck they have, but we lack the specifics. I am pointing a gun at the hope cultivation program if you’re going to break the geneva convention at least LET ME KNOW how you implanted fucking LUCK!

Luck is beyond just how we view luck in our world, luck is an inherent part of them, I’d dare to even call it another sense. Like a sense of sight or sense of direction, everyone has a sense of luck. Some don’t have much of it, some of them have little, and some of them have enough of it that it almost seems like a magical power.

Of course now that we have a loose understanding of how luck just works in this setting, this tells us little on how luck works for those two specifically.

Makoto’s luck is known to be the most confusing even in universe, as his luck is a liar. Bad luck often is good luck often is bad luck. It is impossible to tell if something is good or bad when it comes to his luck until like three years later after all the dominoes and butterfly effects have mostly settled. Celeste says there is no in-betweens but Makoto’s luck LOVES its grey areas. Making things be both bad and good at the same time, Makoto’s luck cannot be divided into good or bad because it’s always both at the same damn time. The only think about his luck that’s in any way clear is that it refuses to let him die. No matter how bad his luck seems, the moment he could genuinely die, his luck swoops in to grab him from the brink. 

Like yeah he lived thats good but now he has trauma and thats bad and now he can help and thats good but that helping is also being used as propaganda and that’s bad. Makoto lives in a state of greys, his luck refuses the black and white views of Celeste or Komaeda, everything his luck does will be both bad and good, creating mostly just confusion. It’s easy to see how Makoto just kinda shrugs it off as just unfortunate and moves on with his life, his luck keeps trying to be good and bad at the same time.

Then there’s Komaeda, who has only bad luck. Which you may be saying “what? But his luck can be good!” and I ask you how good his luck really is? His luck constantly kills the people around him and even killed him. Sure sometimes he gets paltry rewards like money or freedom, but in reality, the scales are NOT balanced. An inheritance can’t make up for dead parents, winning the lottery  doesn’t erase the trauma of being kidnapped.

Even moments where his luck seems to work in his favor only makes him miserable, winning russian roulette wasn’t a triumph or good luck for him really, it only drove him insane. 

If I had to name Komaeda’s luck I’d go for something like short term benefits with long term consequences. The bad effects of his luck always echo farther and go on for longer then the good effects which are often quick distractions or quick victories. However Komaeda lets himself settle for this, pretending like the scales actually have any meaning, letting himself have bad luck and thinking the small rewards of it measures up to the sheer amount of bad luck it took. 

Komaeda’s luck can give him the things he needs in the moment, but there is always consequences for it’s use. Komaeda pretends like it's an equivalent exchange, but actually looking at, even the 'good' parts often brings him suffering. Like yeah he's rich and has freedom, but he's lonely and unable to connect to people. Even the best parts of his luck are only good short term before also becoming more akin to bad luck.

His luck is basically a deal with the devil, he receives pain and suffering, and he receives... a whole bunch of sodas! Just ignore the fact the scars will last longer then the soda and you can pretend it all balanced out.

It’s easy to see how he fell into the viewpoints he did when he basically has to lie to himself to make his luck more tolerable or seem fair. Especially because unlike Makoto's, his luck seems perfectly willing to kill him if he's not careful.

Of course these are only my current views on their luck cycles, my mind and thoughts are CONSTANTLY changing on this, because it’s just, so nebulous. One of these days I’d love to do a luck deep dive on all the characters and see what other talents are secretly luck talents.

[lipglossandsacrifice]

Not required to answer this, just some lore I’ve compiled. So we’re lucky both the game and lore pages for Orin Ayo are still up because then I would be fucked, but unfortunately Breakthrough can’t be played unless you happen to find an archived version.

For Dave Ruy though, all you really need to know is that he used to work at a medical supply chain company, which he hated. He dreamed of being able to work with all the big dogs like doctors and nurses, but that dream never became a reality. He grew hateful and resentful of his own life, feeling like it was going nowhere. Then, he began to project that hate onto others, blaming them for all that has gone wrong in his life. With that hate, he sought out a new goal in life. He faked his death, quit his job, and recruited two other friends, Paige Cook and Hue Bickers, to start something bigger than themselves: A cult ran by a new man, Tab. Paige was an electrical engineer while Hue was a programmer, and combined with Tab’s medical knowledge, they began experimenting with a substance called ferrofluid. Their goal was to find a way to immortalize a person’s pain, before the goal shifted to killing those who deserved to die and torturing them for all of eternity. This is where the main them of Orin Ayo comes from. However, it wasn’t fated to last. The first mistake came from Paige when she missed her assigned target and shot Ethan at a parade. She was tortured and I presume she’s dead. Then, Hue got piss drunk and got himself killed by a tiger, to which Tab blamed the groundskeeper and proceeded to torture him until Tab didn’t feel joy from it anymore. He then learned that someone stole his old identity which happened to be stolen by a dude he didn’t like (Derick), so he killed him too (won’t elaborate because it’s in the documents). Then, Tab learns about the apartment fire and the forcing of Kurt to burn the place down. Lastly, Hety Banker, another cult member, went off the deep and and killed Lilac before dying at a hospital. Everything was falling apart, and the people he trusted are either dead or betrayed him. So, he gathers up all the documents associated with the cult and their activities, scatters them by Derick’s corpse to absolve the cult of blame, and then turns himself in. For 2 years Tab stayed in prison before he was given a second chance. The cult had access to impressive technology, and if Tab agreed to use it for good, he would have his own medical research facility he gets to direct so long as he shows complete obedience to the hospital he works under. This kicks off Breakthrough, which takes place three years after Orin Ayo

Orin Ayo game: https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/881670502

Orin Ayo Character Profiles: https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/904500450

Orin Ayo Lore Document (subject to change): https://docs.google.com/document/d/19xC3qvjp5AcPiMudQer3jacrEeJrMSGoKqALOMH9Vz0/edit

Be sure to check the wiki too, but don’t always trust what’s there. The main thing you wanna look for is James’s full unburnt document. Feel free to pick and choose what you want, I know the story isn’t really written the clearest so there might be things you just wanna flat out change lol. That’s what I do

Feel free to DM me if you got any questions

(ooc: thank u, i'm gonna toss this up onto the blog and then save the link for future reference! ^^ )

[calaisreno]

Point of View in Fiction: Some Observations

I did a poll on point of view in fanfiction a while ago. The results didn't surprise me; I knew that some people just don't read 1st person stories, and most people don’t care about POV. I was more interested in the reasons people gave for their preference.

It's a personal thing, how someone tells you a story, and if you don't like the narrative voice, you will associate it with other things. Readers don’t often think about voice, but it is one of the most important ways a story draws you in, or sends you to the back button. I suspect it's narrative voice that is affecting some readers more than POV.

I’ve never hit the back button on any fic because of the POV. I have hit that button because of format, paragraphing, and a few other issues. I’m an English teacher who taught creative writing for many of those years. Now I don’t read things that feel like student writing-- simply because I can’t enjoy reading something if it feels like I should be grading it. If there are spelling errors or common grammar mistakes that I see over and over in student work, I don’t read it. It might be a good story, but I can't put myself in the right headspace to appreciate it because it feels like work.

Judging from the replies to the poll, some people associate first person POV with bad writing, but there are many other things that flag a story as badly written. And a badly written story isn’t necessarily a bad story. (Barbara Woodhouse assured us that there are no bad dogs; this may be true for stories as well, but choice is an individual matter. There are some breeds I would not choose as a companion.)

I was given the task of teaching creative writing because the admin in charge of the schedule at my school needed another English elective and I had a hole in my schedule. I was an avid reader and had written a lot of original fiction at that point, and thought having students write poems and stories might be a nice change from essays and book reports. My feelings about it were not relevant. Nobody cared whether I was qualified; it was either Creative Writing or Study Hall (i.e. Purgatory) for me. I did not hesitate.

The reality: I loved it and hated it.

Many of my young writers were reluctant, having been placed in my class to fill a hole in their schedules; they did not enjoy writing in the least. A hundred words was an accomplishment for some of them; if they could break this barrier, they got smiley faces and exclamation points. Others were wildly enthusiastic, producing pages of badly spelled and punctuated narrative, a chaotic jumble of scene and dialogue with random flashes of brilliance.

Grading a story is not like grading an essay. The fledgling writers who are serious need to know that spelling, punctuation, and grammar matter: it’s the suit you put on for the interview so you get the job. The ones who dislike writing need encouragement to see that it doesn't have to be punishment. It can be play.

A few observations from my years working with student writers:

Inexperienced fiction writers tend to use POV 1st person more often. Most of these writers are also enthusiastic readers. First person POV helps them find the camera eye focus they realize fiction needs. However fantastic, the story they write is their story, intimate and personal, and 1st person feels most comfortable to them. They need encouragement and a few friendly suggestions, not a paper bloodied by my red pen. In writing process, first drafts are allowed to be horrible.

The non-readers in my class were the most reluctant writers; they often failed to understand POV and wrote from an outsider third-person POV which ended up being more of a summary than a story. My job was to show them how to pull scenes out of the summary. People talking, doing things.

We all start somewhere.

Publishers note that first submissions are often written in first person. It is not that they reject these stories because of that; the stories have other amateur flaws and the POV is just a flag for other issues. First person is not bad, it’s just harder for new writers to pull off well.

Several novels I’ve recently read use first person narrator to good effect: Piranesi comes to mind, The Rule of Four, and Moriarty. The Left Hand of Darkness is a story I can’t even imagine in third person-- and it has two narrators! The original Sherlock Holmes stories (all but a couple) are written in first person, with Doctor Watson narrating.

There are choices even within a first person narrative. The main character doesn’t have to narrate. Watson isn’t the main character in ACD’s stories, Holmes is. Watson is an involved/interested observer (a common use of first person); he stands in for the reader, seeing the mystery unfold, not understanding what all the clues mean until— surprise!— Holmes reveals the solution. I have read mysteries where the first person narrator turns out to be the murderer; the shock value of this fades if you use it every time, but it’s effective on some stories. First person is not bad, if chosen for a good reason.

And third person has its own set of problems. The multiple “he” and “his” that need clarification. The accidental wandering out of limited point of view into semi-omniscience. Even a close, third-person limited narrative provides some distance from the viewpoint character.

Second person is rare and considered gimmicky. I wrote a story in second POV once; the only comment from my most admiring reader: NO. Just, NO. Since that horror, I’ve used first person with second person address in a couple stories (Blessings and The Story of Us, if you’re curious). It’s not a choice I’d often make, but sometimes it’s the right one.

Several of my favourite fanfics use the first person brilliantly. (Pointing to ivyblossom’s The Progress of Sherlock Holmes and The Quiet Man.) When reading, I generally don’t notice point of view unless I think about it; if the narrative flows, the choice obviously works. I don't read much in other fandoms, but think that the Sherlock fandom has a lot of really talented and experienced writers, better than many published stories I’ve read.

I use first person in some of my stories, usually because I’ve found a narrative voice I like. I’ve also rewritten stories after the first draft, changing POV (first to third, or third to first) because I thought it would work better. My feeling is that neither is better in general; in a specific story it should be a deliberate choice, not an accidental one. It’s one of many things to think about when writing a narrative. Voice is one of the most important.

My conclusions:

Reading for pleasure means that the best story is the one you love. It’s a personal choice, not a debate.

Writing well develops over time, as a product of many things. If you’re writing for pleasure, not pay, you should write what you love. Do not change your story because of what a poll says.

If you’re unsure or unhappy about what you’ve written, find a beta reader. Ask them questions. Pay them in adoration. Return the favour; it’s a great way to learn.

Polls are useful only for provoking thought. My thanks to all who participated!

[a-chinese-doll]

Cursed Passion

"Please, please, please, please!"

A pair of intense sapphire-like azure eyes stared up at you as Gojo Satoru, the leader of the band Death Paintings, clung desperately to your leg, begging you to be part of their latest music video.

"I'm beggggging you!" he wailed dramatically.

You had no idea why he was so insistent. Maybe the band was just so freaking cheap that they couldn’t afford a proper actress, but either way, you weren’t exactly convinced you were the right person for the job.

"Satoru, my acting skills are absolute garbage… you’re asking the worst person possible," you replied, rejecting him for the fifth time.

"If not for me, do it for Choso! He’d be thrilled to see you starring in the video for his song."

That gave you pause.

Choso, your best friend for… honestly, you didn’t even know how many years anymore, had written an autobiographical song, Cursed Passion. And, as per the band’s usual tradition, it was now his turn to play the main character in the music video, while the other members would appear in the background, either playing their instruments or performing along.

But still…

"Come on, Choso would be shocked by how god-awful my acting is. Just drop it already," you sighed.

"Please, please, please!"

And, well… in the end, you had never been able to say no to those damn puppy-dog eyes. Satoru was a cunning fox.

Which was why you now found yourself all dolled up in your own dressing room, while a team of frantic stylists and makeup artists worked tirelessly to prepare you for your big debut.

Dressing up like this wasn’t really your thing, but you had to admit—the gothic dress they had carefully selected for you was breathtaking.

The bodice hugged your chest, making it look far more noticeable than usual. The fitted waist flowed into a layered tulle-like skirt, while the sheer, billowy sleeves cascaded all the way down to your hands. And, as if that wasn’t enough, they had even dressed you in a matching lace bra and panties—because apparently, in a music video, your lingerie also needed to match the aesthetic.

Frankly, they probably cost more than your monthly grocery budget.

Not to mention the makeup—two long, false lashes framed your enormous eyes, accentuated by a dark line of eyeliner, while the lipstick on your lips was a deep red with black undertones.

A makeup worthy of the finest brands, perfectly in tune with the band’s style and the dark tones of the song. You never would’ve imagined looking this incredibly attractive, this seductive, given your constant lack of self-confidence.

"The hell?"

Meanwhile, in the band’s dressing room, Choso’s usual aloof facade had been replaced by an expression of disbelief and shock.

He knew he had to shoot a music video with someone, but he had expected some random actress—someone used to this kind of thing—not… you.

And to make matters worse, he absolutely hated surprises.

"Hey, hey, relax. Isn’t it better to do this with someone you know rather than a total stranger?" Geto Suguru—another member of the band—had a point.

But Choso wasn’t having it.

"No way I’m shooting that video with her!" he snapped, raising his voice.

"Oh, come on. She’s your best friend, isn’t she?"

Sukuna, sprawled lazily on the couch with his legs wide open, took a slow sip of his beer before flashing a devilish grin.

"Don’t play dumb," Choso gritted his teeth. "Of course she’s my best friend… my best friend… and my forever crush!"

His composure was crumbling.

"You should be thanking me!" Gojo chimed in smugly. "At the very least, this video gives you a chance to finally do something about it!"

"That is the WRONGEST way to go about this!" Choso barked, clearly exasperated. This kind of frustration was foreign to him—he was rarely ever this pissed off.

As mentioned, Cursed Passion was an autobiographical song.

Choso—the always unconquerable, ever-distant member of the band —had been surrounded by gorgeous women, one after the other, each of them honored to even breathe the same air as him. And yet, not a single one had ever lasted beyond the second date.

And Cursed Passion was about that very curse.

His inability to love. The fact that every single relationship—every fleeting touch, every night spent tangled in sheets—was nothing but sterile, carnal, empty sex. Because no woman, no matter how stunning, how sexy, how utterly irresistible, had ever been enough to quench his insatiable thirst.

Because the only woman he had ever truly wanted… the only one he dreamed of holding in his arms…

Was you.

"I am not shooting that video. You guys should’ve consulted me before pulling this bullshit," Choso growled, pacing back and forth in the dressing room like a caged animal, fists clenched, eyes shooting daggers at the rest of the band.

"Oh, come on… what’s the big deal? A little kiss… some light making out…"

Gojo was not helping.

"Like hell I’m making out with her! I’m not touching her—I can’t—holy shit! But… does she even know about this?"

"Yeah, so… she actually has no clue about the nature of the video," Gojo admitted, sticking out his tongue playfully.

"She is going to kill us."

Choso’s face went pale.

Because, yeah—this wasn’t just any music video. It was PG-18. The song’s content was… spicy.

The script involved a partially censored make-out scene.

Not that Choso minded—God knows how many times he had fantasized about pinning you against a wall, kissing you breathless, leaving bite marks down your neck…

But the idea of forcing his tongue into your mouth, even if it was technically just acting, sent a cold chill down his spine.

"No way I’m shooting that video," he repeated, voice firm.

Gojo sighed, his patience clearly wearing thin as his foot tapped against the floor in irritation.

"Well, tough luck, buddy. It’s too late to find someone else now. And honestly, I’m quite surprised to hear you’d rather shoot it with some random actress instead of her!"

"At least if it were someone else, I’d never have to see them again in my life. But Y/N…"

His voice dropped.

"Just shove your damn tongue in her mouth already!" Sukuna snickered, rolling a joint between his fingers. "Here, take a hit. Might loosen you up."

"I don’t need that shit," Choso snapped, pushing away the freshly rolled blunt.

"Five minutes till the shoot!"

A voice echoed from the hallway, tolling like a funeral bell.

Choso flinched, his guts twisting with anxiety.

"Give me that," he muttered, snatching the joint from Sukuna’s hand. He had never been this nervous before.

His bandmate let out a loud laugh as the carefully rolled blunt disappeared between Choso’s lips.

"Go all in—one deep hit. You’ll loosen up and actually enjoy it."

"Jesus, what the hell are you even saying?" Choso snapped, his ears flaring up a deep shade of magenta.

It’s just acting. Pure fiction.

He kept repeating it to himself, as if saying it enough times would make his body believe it.

Meanwhile, the band was already gathered on set, waiting for the director’s cue.

Sukuna, lazily stretching his arms, was busy checking out the dancers who would be performing in the background. Gojo, of course, was grinning ear to ear like he had just sealed the deal of the century. Suguru, ever the detached one, simply stood there, waiting for the shoot to begin.

And then there was Choso—chronically anxious, gripping his temples like he was about to be executed.

The stylists, pleased with their work, finally led you onto the main stage.

And that was when Choso forgot how to breathe.

"Oh, shit."

It was all he could manage—his voice trailing off—as his jaw dropped.

Because there you were, standing under the bright stage lights, your body wrapped in that sinfully gorgeous gothic dress.

And you looked absolutely breathtaking.

You glanced around until your eyes landed on the guys.

"Hey, guys!"

With a bright smile, you hurried over to them, bowing slightly in gratitude.

"Satoru, thank you so much… I apologize in advance for the terrible acting you’re about to witness."

Satoru grinned. He knew you were perfect for this role. And he also knew you weren’t going to hate it as much as you had previously claimed.

"I’m sure you’ll do great," he said smoothly, adjusting his signature dark sunglasses.

Then, your gaze fell on Choso.

His usually pale complexion was even paler than usual—except for the deep red dusting his cheeks.

"Choso…" Your voice snapped him out of his trance. "Are you okay? You look super pale… and your cheeks are burning up. Are you sick?"

Sick?

Sick was an understatement.

Choso’s number one struggle at that very moment was keeping his uncontrollable lower body in check.

God, you looked stunning in that dress.

The tulle skirt fell just high enough to reveal more of your legs than it probably should have. And your chest—fuck—that bra pushed you up so perfectly, making it impossible not to stare.

He wanted to curse every single one of his bandmates for this.

But deep down… maybe he should be thanking them.

"No, I’m fine," he forced out, clearing his throat. "I’m just… not used to shooting videos like this."

"Videos like this?" you repeated, tilting your head in confusion.

But before Choso could even attempt an explanation, the director’s booming voice cut through the air.

"Alright! I want sensuality and passion in this scene!"

Your brows furrowed.

"Choso, kiss her! And I mean kiss her—make it intense. Use that tongue!"

"The fuck?" you blurted out.

Choso, meanwhile, was going from ghostly pale to a progressively deeper shade of rouge.

The director, however, paid no mind to your outburst.

"Then, pick her up—pin her to the wall—kiss her neck, wherever you want… and then take her to the bed. Kiss down the dress, along her chest, I don’t know—look, you’re young, I assume you know how to fuck."

His words rang in your ears.

"I… I don’t think I heard that right."

You turned to Choso, tugging anxiously at his hoodie.

"Did I hear that right?" Your voice trembled slightly as it reached him.

Choso said nothing, eyes locked on the floor.

"We could… we could cut the erotic parts," he finally mumbled, voice barely above a whisper.

"Are you out of your damn mind?" Gojo immediately interjected. "Dude, you wrote the song. Cutting all the spicy parts would make zero sense!"

"I wrote the song. I decide the video." Choso’s voice was low, controlled—but laced with tension.

"You’re such a fucking pussy, man." Sukuna’s irritated tone cut through the air.

"A video with a little spice will skyrocket the views. Quit being a pain in the ass and shoot the damn thing!"

Then, with a wicked smirk, he added, "Look at Y/N—she’s insanely hot. If you don’t wanna do it, I’ll gladly take your place."

Choso stepped forward immediately.

"Like hell you’re touching her."

But before things could escalate, you quickly intervened.

"Okay, everyone calm down," you said, raising your hands. "No one told me this was the direction we were going in…"

"Because if we had, you wouldn’t have agreed," Suguru cut in, his voice level and matter-of-fact.

You opened your mouth to argue—then shut it.

Because, well… he was right.

"Would you have agreed?" he pressed further.

You huffed. "No. Obviously not."

"Exactly." Suguru patted your shoulder with an infuriatingly calm smile. "Surprise effect works better."

Then, without warning, he pushed you forward. Straight into Choso.

Your embarrassed gaze met his wide, glossy eyes.

"Well…" You let out an awkward chuckle. "Choso… let's just do this. Quick and painless. Get it over with so we can go grab a drink or something…"

You were trying to ease the tension, to make him feel better.

But his face was still painfully stiff.

Because Choso felt so fucking guilty about this.

Or at least… he should have.

Since the guilt was blending into something darker, hotter, even  twisted.

Something hungry.

"Okay," he murmured, his voice fading into silence.

And then, with no further discussion, the two of you were ushered to the center of the stage—under the bright, blinding lights, surrounded by cameras rolling from every angle.

The set was ready—gloomy, dark, suffocatingly intimate.

The cold wall where you were supposed to be pinned. The bed waiting for the most intense scene.

You gulped, eyes scanning the space, wondering if you'd actually make it to the end of the day.

Beside you, Choso wasn’t faring any better. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, his fingers twitching at his sides.

"Roll the music… aaaaand—ACTION!"

The moment the song began, both of you stood there.

Frozen.

Staring at each other like complete idiots.

A single bead of sweat trailed down Choso’s temple, while you fidgeted with the hem of your sleeve, waiting for him to move.

But he didn't.

He just stood there, watching you.

Watching your embarrassed posture.

Your barely restrained nervousness.

Your lips, slightly parted, chest rising and falling faster than normal.

You looked so… submissive.

So devastatingly appetizing.

"What the hell is going on?" The director’s voice thundered across the set.

"You’re supposed to kiss her!" Gojo cupped his hands around his mouth to amplify the sound.

"I know what I’m supposed to do…" Choso snapped back, but his voice caught in his throat.

He couldn’t move.

Not because he didn’t want to.

But because if he did—he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop.

"Restart the music, damn it!" Sukuna barked at the sound crew.

Choso turned back to you, voice so low it was barely a whisper.

"I’m sorry… They shouldn’t have dragged you into this…"

It wasn’t an apology for the scene.

It was a plea—begging you not to hate them.

Not to hate this.

Not to hate… him.

You let out a sigh.

"It’s okay, Choso. It’s just a video… though I do expect a cut of the profits." You tried to joke, hoping to lighten the tension.

And for a second—just a second—he smiled.

But the moment the music restarted; his lips fell back into their usual stoic line.

And this time…

He stepped forward.

Your shoulders were grabbed by trembling hands. A gentle pull toward him.

Choso’s face was drawing closer—slowly, irreversibly, dangerously.

Your breath hitched.

Instinctively, you shut your eyes, brows furrowing—as if you were bracing yourself for a slap rather than a kiss.

And then—

Soft.

His lips brushed against yours, featherlight, fleeting—so impossibly delicate it barely felt real.

You cracked your eyes open.

Choso’s were squeezed shut, his expression tense, his nose scrunching slightly.

Because he knew.

He knew this wasn’t enough.

He knew that chaste, innocent little peck would never meet the standards the scene required.

"What the hell was that supposed to be?" The director’s exasperated voice yelled at him, stopping the music.

"Are you kissing your grandmother or the woman you wanna fuck?" Sukuna’s voice followed immediately after, mocking, cutting.

A deep sigh. Gojo crossed his arms, shaking his head.

Choso had everything—the sex appeal, the natural magnetism, the deep, sultry voice that made girls melt—but the second it came to you…

He was completely and utterly useless.

A fucking pussy.

"Listen, pull that kind of bullshit again, and I swear I’m taking your place." Sukuna’s voice was a low, venomous hiss.

Choso shot him a murderous glare.

You, on the other hand, were still struggling to process what was happening—if this was real or if the blinding lights flashing in your face every time the scene was cut had somehow transported you into some kind of fever dream.

A fever dream where Choso…

Your best friend.

The man you had secretly loved for years.

—was kissing you.

Maybe it had been just a peck.

But for you, it wasn’t just a peck.

It was the kind of kiss that sent your heart spiraling, your stomach twisting, your skin tingling.

"I’m sorry," Choso whispered, his voice low and regretful, snapping you out of the stupor of your disbelief.

But before he could finish, you cut him off.

"I’d rather you make out with me like a damn savage than let that idiot Sukuna touch me. Just do it, okay? It’s only for show, right?"

Only for show.

Right?

…Damn no.

There was nothing fake about this.

Choso’s dark eyes locked onto yours, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip.

And you could see it.

The way his expression betrayed him, his face burning, his gaze flickering down to your lips.

This wasn’t acting.

"Rolling again!" the director shouted. "If you don’t do it right, we’re bringing Sukuna in!"

Sukuna grinned, arms crossed, watching like a predator waiting for an opening.

He wouldn’t mind throwing you around a little.

And whether it was the weed finally kicking in or the damn fear of seeing you at someone else's mercy, something inside Choso snapped.

Because the second the music hit, you swore, you saw something insanely demonic flicker in his eyes.

"Forgive me," he breathed—just a second before the director’s voice rang out:

"ACTION!"

And then—

His lips crashed onto yours.

But this time—

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t hesitant.

It was voracious.

Devastating .

A sharp yank—

Your body slammed against his, flush, no space left between you—

And then, heat.

His mouth pried yours open, tongue diving deep, claiming, conquering, pushing you back, back, back…

Fuck.

He was practically shoving himself down your throat. Like he wanted to consume you whole. You swallowed hard, trying to push him back, just for a second, just to breathe.

But Choso was on you.

Ravaging you.

Devouring you like a starving animal tearing into its prey.

"OH—NOW THAT’S A KISS!"

The director’s voice boomed through the studio, echoing off the walls, but Choso didn’t even flinch.

Not when the other band members stared, speechless…

Not when Sukuna’s smirk widened…

Not when Gojo muttered, "Well, damn."

No—

Choso was too far gone.

"Proceed with the wall scene!" the director called out.

And oh shit—

He didn’t need to say it twice.

With his lips still fused to yours, tongue dancing with yours, your mouth so damn welcoming, Choso shrugged off his hoodie…

And you barely had time to process before…

Oh. Oh, God.

That black, skintight crop top.

His chiseled chest, muscles strained, tight against the fabric. His engorged biceps, thick, flexed, trembling with adrenaline.

You barely let out a gasp before he grabbed you!

Arms locking around your thighs, body lifting you effortlessly, pressing you high against the cold wall.

The impact made you shudder, your breath catching in your throat as his lips finally—finally—tore away from yours.

Only to drop.

Dragging down.

Down your jaw—

Down your neck—

Hot breath ghosting over your skin…

"Choso…" you gasped.

You tried to say something—anything.

Tried to remind him that you were still in a room full of people, that this was just a music video, that this was all supposed to be an act…

But all you got in response was…

A low, deep, utterly wrecked growl.

That growl... THAT growl, had you wet in an instant.

Your legs wrapped around him, your cunt clenching around nothing when he answered back, "Wanna fuck you for real." His voice gravelly, panting, so drunk on you.

And when he lifted his gaze to lock eyes with you, biting your lower lip, you felt the truth behind the act.

Months, years of self-restraint shattered in that single immoral scene.

Just as the script demanded, Choso yanked you off the wall, pulling you close, so damn close, while the weight of your body surrendered completely to him. His arms wrapped tightly around you, his lips never leaving your neck, sucking, feasting on it until it was marked properly.

Your hands grabbed his broad shoulders, gliding down his veiny arms, as he gently placed you on the bed, positioning himself over you, hovering—threatening.

And what could you do?

You’d be a fool if you didn’t submitted to that raw, lustful moment, as his needy eyes silently begged you not to resist, not to fight back.

So you let him stretch out over you, your hands tangling in his hair, his disheveled pigtail falling loose, hair cascading down his neck as he, unfazed, buried his face in the crook of your neck—kissing, biting, lapping.

One of his hands lingered on your face, caressing it, worshipping it, when suddenly, his thumb slid over your lips, only to be shoved unexpectedly into your mouth.

"Suck it..." His voice, hoarse, made the command feel almost inevitable.

You obeyed, sucking at his thumb, feeling it press against your greedy tongue, your cheeks caving in, allowing Choso to smear your lipstick across your mouth, down your chin.

"This is one hell of a scene!" the director praised.

But in the room, the band members had realized that this was no longer a farce... and perhaps it was time to tone things down a bit...

And it became clear the moment the scene, where Choso was supposed to kiss the hem of your dress near your chest, turned into a full-on erotic film.

As his left hand slid down, down, down along your dress, to your thigh, slipping under the fabric, the other hand suddenly and adventurously hooked into your bra, pulling, yanking until your bare chest popped out. Instinctively, Choso's free hand moved to cover your exposed breast - no way he was letting your nipples show to anyone else - as his mouth latched onto your other round, aching bud, sucking deeply.

"Choso..." Tears of pleasure started to form in your eyes, even though, out of dignity and because you were practically in front of cameras, you tried everything to bring him back to his senses.

But your taste—it was a drug Choso never wanted to detox from, and he was pulling out the best of himself... as he performed in the best way possible, according to every detail he had in mind, to give the best performance of his life... not for the crowd, not for his fans, but for you.

The music blaring, the intoxicating scent of your skin, that damned gothic dress that made you so sensual—Choso’s teeth wrapped around your nipple as his hand began to venture along your lingerie... so damn... erotic...

Did he really want to fuck you in front of everyone?

As his restraint completely shattered, Choso detached himself from your breast, fondling it with one hand, the same hand that shamelessly traced down your dress, caressing your tulle skirt, and positioned itself suggestively on the waistband of his jeans.

Gosh, Gosh, Gosh, he was really working on the belt to loosen it, as his hips began grinding against your thigh, his succulent bulge pressing against you.

"Choso," you begged him... but for what?

To keep going, to take you audaciously in front of everyone... or to stop, for your dignity, for his... for both of you? It could still pass as some insane, real-life performance.

But lucky... or unlucky... just as the zipper of his jeans was pulled down, the music came to a halt.

"NAILED IT!" the director shouted, pumped up by the take.

Choso’s eyes shot wide open, pupils shrinking as the lights flared back on, locking onto you, his breath ragged as he scrambled to make sense of what had just happened. Snapping out of his trance, he quickly grabbed the zipper, realizing it was down and tried to hide the obvious bulge straining against his clothes.

His wild, untamed hair hid the intense flush of embarrassment spreading across his face, but the rosy hue of his cheeks was unmistakable to your eyes.

Still reeling from the confusion of the moment, you stayed on the bed.

Staring at him in shock, hair sprawled across the pillow, your lipstick and eyeliner smudged under his touch and the tears of ecstasy rolling down your cheeks.

His hand was still firmly placed between your legs, where it felt so right.

But then Choso suddenly jerked back, his body stiffening as he pulled away. His voice was frantic, his words tumbling out in a rush: “Sorry, sorry, sorry—damn, I’m so sorry!”

“Perfect! That’s the intensity I was looking for! You two were amazing!” The director was over the moon, thrilled with how the scene came together, perfectly in sync with the words echoing in Cursed Passion:

In your arms, I burn in paradise, but your touch drags me down to hell. Ride me through the dark, entering your gates where Heaven lies, beyond the abyss, to Nirvana's desire, where pleasure meets pain, and shadows vanish. I enter your realm, as I lose control, we rise. In this world of phantom banshees, you're my only light, my angel divine, guiding me through this darkness, where our souls intertwine.

The timing of the scene was perfect, as the intense exchange of intimacy flowed seamlessly with the rhythm of the words.

The band members exchanged glances, letting out a collective sigh of relief, knowing the director was the only one oblivious to the fact that, soon enough, Choso would really get down to pounding into you relentlessly.

You slowly rose from the bed, your head still spinning from the lack of air.

Choso’s voice betrayed the panic he was feeling, and he couldn’t stop apologizing to you.

“Hey, hey, it’s fine... it’s okay... calm down.” Your voice was soothing and tender.

Choso's hands trembled, so shaky that he kept them in his lap, as if he was afraid of himself.

“Choso...” you whispered his name, gently caressing his jaw and lifting his chin.

“It’s okay,” you reassured him, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the side of his mouth.

"EH?" He looked at you bewildered, completely unable to comprehend how what had just happened could possibly be okay with you.

But your moment was interrupted by Gojo’s voice. "What the—?".

Choso quickly turned his gaze, his eyes locking onto the opposite wall, away from the band leader.

Sukuna chimed in with a loud whistle. "Damn... at least get a room..." He laughed like an idiot, as usual.

"Wasn’t that... a little reckless?" Gojo asked, wrinkling his nose.

"It... maybe... was," Choso replied, trying to regain his usual aloof expression.

Meanwhile, Geto helped you to your feet. "Are you okay?" he asked, concern in his voice.

Without thinking, the words left your lips. "I couldn’t be better," you chuckled to yourself.

Your eyes once again landed on Choso, who met your gaze with a subtle, almost imperceptible smile.

"Well... at least the scene turned out well... can’t complain," the band leader’s blue eyes met yours.

"Maybe putting your hand under her skirt wasn’t necessary..." he scolded Choso, who lowered his head like a child in trouble.

"Thanks for your... work anyway," he turned to you.

"No problem," you replied, embarrassed. "It was... my pleasure."

Damn, if it had actually been your pleasure, right?

The group suppressed a laugh.

"We still need to shoot the rest of the scenes, though," Geto suggested.

As they rearranged themselves to figure out what to do next, you approached Choso, who still couldn’t bring himself to look you in the eyes.

He knew very well that his actions would lead to consequences, to awkward explanations.

"I think you and I need to talk..." you said, lowering your voice.

Of course, he looked down again. But what was there to say? The stoic, impassive Choso—the unreachable one in the band, who had dismissed all his shallow, insignificant relationships, waiting for his angel divine, as he had sung about in his song—had just delivered that flawless performance with you.

There was nothing more to explain.

"I think... what happened speaks for itself..." his words got stuck in his throat.

"If you're ready... once the video is finished, we can take some time to talk about it... I don’t mind what happened."

Choso’s cheeks turned crimson. He could no longer wait to rid himself of that weight on his chest. "It’s you..." he whispered. "You’re the protagonist of my song... the only breaking spell to that... cursed passion..."

The butterflies in your stomach did seven spins, and you could swear the hairs on your arms stood up at the sound of his confession.

"I desire you... with all of myself."

His pleading eyes begged for you, he was so mortified for what had happened. But if only you could give him a chance, you could ease the emptiness in his heart with your love...

"It’s never too late..." you whispered, wrapping your arms around his waist.

"If you need me so much, I can help you exorcise your curse."

There was a silent moment of exchanged glances, where your eyes spoke for themselves, conveying the unspoken answer that Choso had always wanted...

"I..." His voice faltered, struggling to find the words...

"Wait, wait, wait," the director’s voice pierced your ears, as he scrutinized the video playback on the camera, surrounded by the band members.

You and Choso turned to him, slightly disappointed by the interruption of the romantic moment.

"I don’t like how this part of the video turned out," the director pointed at some small details no one else seemed to grasp. "Mind shooting it again?"

Shooting it again...

If you hadn’t cared about what had just happened, then Choso sure as hell didn’t either.

A wide grin spread across his lips—no hesitation, no second thoughts.

In one swift motion, he pulled you back into the scene, his grip firm yet smooth.

Lust slowly eclipsed the last traces of regret in his eyes as his smirk deepened. "Damn, forget being sorry. If we’re doing this, let’s make it count."

He kissed you fiercely, parting only when the music started again.

"Let’s try that one more time—and this time, we’re finishing it in the dressing room," he murmured, a low chuckle slipping from his lips—only to be swallowed by another unstoppable kiss as the camera started rolling once again.

[fogwitchoftheevermore]

👀 martyn and/or rendog for the mcyt blaseball au?

Oh my god ok so time to divulge a secret. While I said there were three legs of this AU (Empires, Hermitcraft, and the Life Series) I just cannot get the Life Series branch to Totally work. I don't know why, I just have a much more difficult time assigning teams to the Life Series players than any other SMP. I think it’s probably got to do with how wildly different everyone’s story is in any given season and something to do with the fact that dying in a Life Series is just wildly different that dying in Empires or Hermitcraft and that difference just doesn’t transfer quite right to a Blaseball AU.

However the Life Series branch of this AU does exist, and it has basically just become a treebark AU at this point, so you're in luck. You're especially in luck because Martyn still exists in the Hermitcraft AU, so I'll give you them in both!

Let's start with Hermitcraft, because that's the simple one.

Ren Dog is a shortstop for the San Francisco Lovers with the Charm modifier. He spends his time off the field as the test dummy for Doc’s experiments or Martyn’s video games, making any given reporter fall in love with him, and watching a lot of Flormula 1.

The Charm modifier is one that allows players who have it to periodically charm their opponent into failing. In Ren’s case, this means getting the pitcher to throw an extra ball or two with a well timed smile or wink. All the lovers have it, but ladies (and gentlemen and others) get in line, because Ren is particularly good at it. Ren is also the captain of the Lovers- self appointed- because he thinks he’s good at that (he’s not but they let him have this).

Martyn isn’t a player in this universe (but it’s not off the table! It never is off the table to become a player, if the Hermits are looking to add anyone to season 10). He’s just a regular guy doing regular guy things. He and Ren are at the very least living together, I’ve not decided if they’re married. I don’t know why but something in my bones is telling me that Martyn is a video game dev for his day job.

Ren’s Assigned Garages Song: i’m in love with a blaseball player

Sorry I’m not giving Martyn one because he doesn’t play

Martyn Inthelittlewood is our Parker Macmillan in this AU because I am nothing if not consistent.

Martyn I started his career as a first baseman for the Alaskan Immortals during Pre-History. He was one of the best players in the League and made the Fans, some of whom are Watchers, because the metaphor is literally right there, lots of money due to his Profit modification, which increased idol payouts x10. Fans of teams that weren’t the Immortals got jealous and cursed him with Non-Proft, baring any Immortals fans from making money off of him, as well as Firewalker, which would curse any team he left with team wide instability. If the Immortals Watchers wanted to make money off of Martyn, they’d either have to leave the team that he was single-handedly bringing to every championship or risk his leaving the team killing the entire team.

The Watchers chose to risk it.

And then a lot more stuff happened to Martyn I that I’m not gonna get into, and I’m going to assume that you’re a Blaseball fan, anon, so you already know all this anyways. If you’re not, I’d absolutely be willing to explain but this post is already so long without it. Anyways, Martyn I gets trapped in the Vault for an undisclosed number of years and clones get made of him that don’t remember any of this.

We don’t know what happened with Parker II, so we don’t know what happened with Martyn II either. This will never fail to make me deeply deeply angry.

Martyn III is made the intern-interim commissioner of the newest era of Blaseball, the era in which Ren was a season 1 player.

Ren Dog was a first basemen for the LA Tacos while they were still the LA Tacos. He’s our Wyatt Mason in this AU, if you haven’t gathered. This also means he should be way worse of a player than I made him but I felt bad doing that. When the Grand Unslam happened and the world fractured around him, every member of the Tacos suddenly lost their names, the only identifier Blaseball players had at this point, and became Ren Dog. Martyn III guided the Fans (Watchers and Listeners alike cause why not) in restoring all the members of the team, except for Ren. Because that’s just not how this works. It never is.

Ren dissolved into static and became the Microphone, his own entity separate from the gods and management of Blaseball. He plays by his own rules and helps save the world from the guys in charge. Martyn III might not be a fan of the guys in charge, but he doesn’t understand the Microphone, and it scares him, and he doesn’t know why.

It should be known that while Blaseball was running I was a diehard for Parker/Wyatt, and so that heavily effects this whole thing. Specifically, a very important thing to me was that Wyatt/Ren was a normal person during pre-history when Parker I/Martyn I was playing Blaseball for the first time. The Boss (the Watchers) weren’t his biggest fan and maybe, just maybe, the Watchers pulled some strings to put Ren in the latest iteration of Blaseball so they don’t run the risk of him and Martyn III meeting each other and talking for too long. What happens to Ren in the Grand Unslam is just helping keep them apart even more.

However, what Ren is doing as the Microphone is bad for business. Very bad. So maybe they pull another few strings to send Ren very far away for, ideally, a very long time. And maybe they equally orchestrate some bad things happening to Martyn III and Martyn IIII so that they finally get the perfect puppet with Martyn IIIII.

But nothing ever works out the way they want. Because the game, the business, is falling apart at the seams. Because Martyn I is still in the Vault, dead set on getting out, and when Martyn IIIII finds out that he isn’t his own person? That he’s a clone of a man that’s still alive and still angry? That he’s missing memories most of his life because they were taken from him?

Yeah he doesn’t take it so well.

He finds himself asking the Microphone- Ren- for help. He doesn’t know why. But Ren can’t reach him where he is, so Martyn takes ahold of the Microphone himself, directs the new generation of Fans into taking down the old ones, the Watchers, who are now management and straight up ending the world. And he does take them down, but the world still ends, and inside that Black Hole, everting gets weird for Martyn.

It’s a side effect of taking up the Microphone- you don’t do that and not get weird.

Ren’s still not quite around, never really will be again, but now that Martyn’s taken up the Microphone, they can talk. And this Martyn is not the one that Ren knew and loved long before all of this, but he also kind of is? He used to be, even if he doesn’t remember it? But admittedly, Ren isn’t the Ren that Martyn knew either. They’ve both changed beyond belief, and maybe they can have something new together now. And maybe having something new means having it in the void at the end of the world but, well, at least they get to have it.

I care about them a lot in this AU they make me crazy.

Martyn’s Assigned Garages Song: firewalker with me

Literally what else did you expect

Ren’s Assigned Garages Song: ENCORE

I’ll be frank this one’s a bit of a cop out because Rain is a Garage and this is a Blaseball song but it wasn’t released under the Garages label. But look it’s just so good.

[bullet-prooflove]

The North Star - Part Twenty One: Tuscany - Terry Bruno x Reader

Welcome to mine and @the-hinky-panda The Bronx universe featuring our favs Terry Bruno & Mike Duarte.

This story takes place several years after 'Blood Out'. Terry still lives in the Bronx and works in Manhatten SVU.

Following on from @the-hinky-panda story 'The Dog' Mike has retired from the NYPD on medical grounds due to seizures causes by the attack. He has a therapy dog called Bono and lives with @the-hinky-panda character Meredith.

Tagging: @legit9thlunaticwarrior @the-adzukibean @beardedbarba @wooshwastaken @justreblogginfics @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @storiesofsvu @anime-weeb-4-life @witches-unruly-heart @spaghettificationandpretzels @chavez-ashley @kiwiithecrazybird @proceduralpassion @crazy4chickennuggets @callsignartemis @kmc1989

The North Star Series - Part of The Bronx Universe

Part One: Moments (NSFW)

Part Two: Case of the Ex

Part Three: Her Worse Half

Part Four: Always

Part Five: Ask Me Again (NSFW) 

 Part Six: Degas

Part Seven: The Heist

Part Eight: A Part to Play

Part Nine: Home

Part Ten: Safe Space 

Part Eleven: Weak

Part Twelve: Got Your Back

Part Thirteen: Familia

 Part Fourteen: Gunplay

Part Fifteen: Friendly Fire

Part Sixteen: Alive (NSFW)

Part Seventeen: Karma

When you’re recovered from your injury and signed off to fly, Terry whisks you away to Italy. He thinks the change of scenery may be good for you, that being away from the city may give you some mental space. He can tell you think so too because for the first time in your relationship you don’t fight him on the cost.

You spend ten days in Tuscany, exploring Florence, visiting vineyards, eating well and sampling wines from the region. You bask in the beauty of the architecture, the history, the art. You spend nights making love in an airy room, with the breeze flowing across your skin and Terry whispering the most magnificent things into your ear.

The pace is different here, it allows you to slow down, to breathe.

On the last day Terry finds you sitting on the balcony with an expresso, clad in only a silk emerald, green robe that hugs the contours of your body. You look blissful and at peace. He wonders if it’s time to make a change, maybe the two of you should retire, buy a property out here, maybe a vineyard. There’s one for sale not far away and he’s already made a tentative inquiry. He likes to have options, to have all the information at hand.

“We can stay you know?” He tells you as he looks out across the view.

It’s stunning here, serene and rustic, he thinks the change of pace could be good for the both of you. The truth is coming here, living like this has been a wake up call for him. There’s a lot of things that he’s been thinking about, but he isn’t sure how to broach them.

“And what would we do?” You ask him, playing out scenario.

Terry takes the seat alongside of you, his hip bumping against yours. His arm comes to rest upon your shoulders, thumb skirting over the fabric as you lean into him, your head coming to rest upon his chest.

“Grow grapes.” He murmurs, his lips brushing over your hairline. “Make wine.”

Your hand coming to rests upon the space where his heart resides, fingertips toying with hem of his own navy blue robe as you tuck yourself against him. He loves the way you feel, the way you fit just right.

“It sounds like you’ve given it some thought.” You remark.

“A little.” He admits.

“Do you think you’d be happy?” You ask him, it’s almost a sleepy mumble. He can feel the rise and fall of your chest against his as you speak. “Leaving it all behind for a life like this?”

Terry sighs, closing his eyes as he kisses the silky strands of your hair.

“I think the job is burning us both out.” He tells you honestly. “I think what happened to you, what they were going to do with Paul, is another sign that the NYPD don’t prioritise their officers and I’m losing faith in the system. It feels like every time I win a battle, the next one is just around the corner. If it’s not me, it’s someone I care about. It feels like the job is costing me more than it’s giving me at this point.”

“Is this your way of telling me you want to retire?” You ask him, tilting your head up towards him.

He looks down at you surprised because the truth is, until he vocalised his feelings, he hadn’t realised just how serious he was about the whole thing. It started as a flirtation but now it’s tangible and he wants it, he wants it so fucking badly. It wasn’t until he left New York that he realised how much he was suffocating. It’s the job he thinks, he’s spent entire years pouring everything he has into it and in return it’s bludgeoned not just him but the person he loves. He thinks of what it did to Duarte, how the other man carries the scars of it on his flesh. He knows it’s time to get out.

“Yea.” He says softly. “Maybe it is.”

He feels the way the conversation turns; he sees it in your expression. You’re not leaning against him anymore, your upright, your palm splayed in the centre of his chest. He didn’t mean for this to happen, but it has, and it hurts, it hurts so fucking much it feels like he can barely breathe.

“What does that mean for us?” You ask him. “If I’m not ready to do that just yet?”

Terry stares straight out at the countryside. He can’t go back to that job, to that life. It’s going to kill him one way or another, it almost killed you. You’re not ready but he is, and he needs to take this leap, with or without you.

“I don’t know.” He tells you because it really depends on you.

Make a commitment and stay here with him or go back to the job, that almost ruined your life. It should be a no brainer…

But he remembers that morning he asked you to move in with him, the hesitation. You shy away from shit like this because it feels too big, too real. He knows how it’s going to end, him here alone in Italy and you in New York, drowning.

You don’t say anything as you stand up and walk away from him. He stays sitting in the loveseat as you head inside through the French windows. He listens for the click of the bedroom door, and he knows that you’re packing, that you’ll be on a flight straight back to New York and there isn’t a damn thing he can do about it.

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