#musings on the nature of my assumptions

[punsandposes]

my permanent issue is that i automatically assume everyone around me is bi if not proven otherwise so I automatically bestow the honor onto any character I like

Participation bisexual award

[6ronze]

DEJA VU

꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ — l&ds characters : sylus. zayne. rafayel. fem!reader format : short stories/HCs warnings : fluff. angst. sfw. unelaborated suggestive scenes in sylus’s part long story short : when they fall in love with you, but you never existed in the first place notes : inspired by zayne’s alternate universe where he fell in love w mc in his dreams but written my way + i haven't written in a whilleeee

ZAYNE

Zayne knew lack of sleep could cause hallucinations and make someone have their eyes playing tricks on them. What Zayne didn’t know was that he could fall victim to those conditions.

He was disciplined despite his busy schedule as a cardiac surgeon. Zayne made sure he took sufficient naps to make up for the sleep he lost the night before and went straight to bed after finishing his work. He’s maintained this same routine for years yet somehow, he still ends up hallucinating about the same woman he’s seen since childhood.

He was 11 years old when he started seeing this woman around. Zayne as a child thought she was kind, someone he felt awfully fond of. When he wanted to ask his parents if she was a family friend, they merely cocked their heads to the side in confusion asking ‘Who?’. The older he got, the more he was convinced she was just an imaginary friend that children naturally have. But was she really imaginary when he kept showing up in his slumber, his dreams, and even in his conscious mind?

Zayne is 27 years old now. And he’s more convinced than ever that her appearance in his head when he hasn’t even seen her, nor anyone looking remotely similar to her in Linkon City, was connected to his evol.

He’s long accepted that hypothesis of his for the past years was true. Since it was only proven right with the small snowmen he made during every winter. How fond he was of creating ice figures of the plushies he saw when walking past claw machines at festivals.

Zayne often stared at his creations and caressed the snow with the pads of his fingers. He always looked at them with care, feeling the inexplainable need to preserve it—to preserve her. Even if they were just fleeting memories.

RAFAYEL

An artist in Linkon City, Rayafel. His works were as known as his name. Most people were curious about the rarely seen artist, questions about him arising. The journalists that were lucky enough to get to chat with him for a few minutes finally asked —who or what was his muse?

Muse. An inspiration, a devotion—the true cause of his masterpieces that were both stunning, and heart-wrenching.

“My muse.. is a ‘who’. And before you start bombarding me with questions about the specifics—’ *Rafayel answered, taking his time before parting his lips to offer an answer. His eyes flickered over to face the journalist ahead of him, Rafayel’s lips pursed to straight line that wasn’t often seen from the expressive and blunt man.*

“Let’s just say she’s out of your camera’s reach,” The purpled haired man continued, his brows subtly furrowing as he stared into the eyes of the stunned journalist. Rafayel’s answer made room for assumptions, the implication of his muse being out of reach sparking media attention and theories.

In Rafayel’s mind after that interview were only filled with thoughts on how to bring her to life in this world. He had to be careful with his words—the execution. Rafayel wanted a piece of his muse to be shared, a mark, a small hint to others of who truly occupied in his mind when he made his art pieces.

Rafayel started seeing her in a nightmare. It was the same nightmare that reoccured even in the most comfortable nights like a reminder. The thing is—he didn’t know a reminder for what exactly. He’s never seen her, never met her, nor does he heard her name anywhere in Linkon City despite his efforts to search for her. She didn’t exist. Yet that never stopped him from feeling so familiar, so intimate with her, like she meant the world to him once—no, it felt like she still does.

SYLUS

Sylus has been the leader of Onychinus in N109 zone for as long as he can remember in this world. He’s had his fair share of blood and immoralities that came with the job but at least it made sense. At least, it was rational. For survival, animal instinct of a human, pleasure—he could find the cause for it even if it was twisted. But this. This wasn't something he could make sense out of no matter how much he twisted his mind to find the root for it.

He has a girlfriend. Someone he’s decided to pursue after years of merely picking and dropping gems of women he found attractive in the clubs he frequented. This woman matched him—he thought. This would work—he hoped. He just needed something. Anything. To get the woman he kept seeing in his mind off his thoughts.

One would have thought the mysterious girl sylus that plagues his mind was someone he knew. A past relationship, an acquaintance, maybe even a fling. Yet it was neither of those. He doesn’t know her. He’s never seen her in his life. He shouldn’t be thinking about her—fuck, how does he even how she looks like? No matter how much time he spent pondering, recalling, digging information about someone who looked like her, he found nothing. The only conclusion he came to make was that she doesn’t exist.

And maybe someone else might have thought she would appear in his mind in his dreams—but no. It was the darker moments. The near death experiences, the life-risking gambles he took with every decision he made. It was the moments where his eyes would flicker, and his vision would slowly swim into a haze, would she appear. He didn’t like it. Never liked how the sight of her during those moments actually soothed him in ways nothing else could. Her lips that he stared into almost coaxing him to go with her to other side where they could finally meet.

Sylus couldn’t lie—he was truly tempted to accept.

The brows of the white haired man furrowed deeply in the dead of the night of his quarters, glass of wine in hand. He stared out the view out the large windows ahead of him, his free hand lifting to run through his in a rough tug.

His frown never seemed to leave him. Not even after spending a sweet night with his current beloved. He could still see it. The distinct features of that gorgeous woman in the back of his mind.

Sylus gripped his glass tighter, internally scolding himself for thinking about another when his woman was right behind him, comfortably sleeping in his bed, under his covers. He grunted, laying his head back against the headrest of the armchair.

He was frustrated, curious, and all of the above. Feeling his jaw clench at the thoughts that swarmed his mind, he downed the rest of his wine in one gulp and got from his seat. He walked around his bed to the nightstand, placing his glass down.

His crimson eyes landed on his lover that slept in his bed, her bare body covered by the blanket. Sylus felt his frown begin to relax, a soft breath leaving his lips. He took a step closer to the bed, reaching out a hand to brush the hair from her face. His neutral expression turned to one of longing the more his fingers lingered on her skin.

He wanted to find her so badly. Sylus wanted to face her and demand she answer his questions. Although he knows that won’t be possible.

[sssarrrra]

Dying to stay alive. Why does Fyodor Dostoevsky enjoy being killed on purpose? Bsd analysis

Why Dostoevsky looks so young despite living for centuries? I think it's because he often gets killed. He literally has no time to age.

His skin care routine is being murdered every year or so. Maybe, even more often.

Fyodor CAN age, he isn't immune to it. He isn't immortal. He's ability isn't about eternal youth. He can get gray hair and wrinkles. But he doesn't. Dostoevsky looks almost identical to how he's been when he's met Bram centuries ago (minus a scar and an outfit). So why is it?

Let's assume that the physical "age" Fyodor naturally gains can be transferred to the new body he enters. And the only things that get "erased" are traces of harm left by someone else (bruises, cuts, scars, etc.)

Let's pretend that we know Fyodor's "biological" age. And it's 20. (That's just an assumption for this example!)

It would go like this: Fyodor's biologically 20. He lives until his 22, than gets killed. His "new" body will have the age of 22. Then he lives until he's 26 and dies unnaturally. He's biological age in the new body is gonna be 26.

And so on and so on. It means both his appearance and physic will gradually change. But we see NONE OF THAT. Present Fyodor is almost a twin copy of Fyodor from the past.

It means that Dostoevsky has never lived longer than a couple of years max without dying and respawning into a new body. He probably dies quit often and can't even get old enough because he simply doesn't have time.

Maybe, he has some mark on his calendar: "Need to die every year to keep my body young and relative healthy". And it's a strategy and nothing else. But I feel like there is more to that.

Dostoevsky probably enjoys the thrill of death (or near death) experience for various reasons.

People sometimes describe Dazai as a "suicide-addict", but THIS is a new level of it. These two share a hobby of trying to die often. But Dostoevsky not just tries. He dies. Fyodor's way of getting a rid of his stress is being brutally murdered by someone else. I wounder, if Dazai knew it how it would make him feel? To find out that Fyodor is drawn to death in the same way that he is? We'll find out eventually.

Dostoevsky meticulously got himself killed probably more than 300+ times or so. And, yes, sometimes it was work related incidents due to his plans. But he didn't HAVE to die so often, did he?

It honestly seems, that for Fyodor "dying" is just an extracurricular activity he does to pass the time. Some ppl go their friend's house to play video games. And Fyodor goes to someone's place -> dies there.

Maybe, Dostoy tries to connect with people by "dying" by their hands? When he transfers his mind into a new body, it makes him feel less lonely, somehow?

For example, Fyodor didn't have to break into Bram's castle and chat him up about demons. He didn't have to put his life on a line just to see how Bram would react to his musings about world-politics. He knew he would die, obviously. But he went anyway. Just to "catch a glimpse" of Bram (in his own words). And then, of course to get murdered. Did he hope that Bram would be the one to deliver a final blow? Did Fyodor secretly want to "posses" Bram's body from that long, long time ago?

You know how ppl joked about Fyodor's hobby being captured on purpose? Add "dying" to this list, asap.

He's reasons for overusing his ability to "reincarnate" are probably complicated.

A part of it is a need to escape/ease his guilt. Dostoy wants to feel like a martyr that has a right to commit sin. Maybe, it's his own self-punishment, a form of self-harm. He believes these short or long moments of agony "erase" the harm he does to others or, at least, balance it out.

On the other hand, Fyodor is still a human who wants to belong. But he spent decades in paranoia and isolation that affected him immensely. So now the only "true" connection Dostoevsky can create with someone is when he inserts his consciousness into their body. The flow of new feelings/goals keeps him distracted from himself and his bleak view of the reality. So he does it over and over.

Or is it just a boredom thing? Like living is such a drug he can't help but try to die?

Dostoy is too afraid/guilty to go to heaven right away so he passes time by adding bits of different personalities to himself. He has this semi-free subscription to people's agendas, he only has to die to access them. It keeps him entertained. Like a Netflix but he has to die to watch a "movie" from someone's POV, with their goals/emotions intact still.

Dostoy wants to pick up a new passion/hobby? No problem. He just needs to find someone who likes that particular interest, and than get murdered by that person. Then Fyodor can gain their insights into the topic (possibly).

I wish I could see the way Dostoevsky envisions humanity. It seems like he's both enmeshed with it to the point of losing himself and at the same time he's discarded by humanity and isolated from it.

It's such a mixed-up experience. No wounder Fyodor's mind is so… Bizarre.

[catboxcoffin]

Battler/Kinzo/Projection

Battler’s narrative assault & sexualization is pretty interesting to me as an inversion of sexed roles, so I’ve decided to refine and paste some of my thoughts on it, beginning with Yasu-trice. Battler repeatedly has Kinzo’s (amatory) role projected onto him, both by Piece-Beatrice directly and Yasu’s authorial insinuations. (I won’t incorporate Meta-Beatrice into this analysis for a few reasons, the main being that I don’t think she is Yasu in the same sense as the others; secondarily that she is so gratuitous in her assaults and references that it would be nonsensical to lend any nuance to it. Plus, her indiscriminate performance in the earlier episodes is what sets up such a divergence later on)

I. Episode 4

Gameboard events are a requisite to understanding the skeleton of the stories that we’re actually being shown. Given the nebulous nature of the Meta and what it represents, a tale created and decorated in-universe in an attempt to communicate is generally more useful in viewing its subjects. On that note, the end of Episode 4 is a scarce instance where we are given a physical interaction between Piece-Beatrice and Battler. As Battler stands before the balcony denying her riddles and threatening her, Beatrice doubles down on her stern insistence regarding ‘testing’ him as the Successor, yet engages in innuendo the second he attempts to physically approach her. This presents a noticeable incongruence between Beatrice’s projected mythos and Piece-Beatrice as played by Yasu. She is physically distant, reading as almost shy. She’s stepped down from being an active harasser, instead functioning passively and reactively, ungracefully shifting between goals for the conversation. She is clearly very alienated from an autonomous sense of eroticism, which is why she instead endeavors to lure it out of him (despite her performative disdain). Her drunken sexuality is framed in relation to what she thinks hides ‘within’ Battler; her musings are based on the assumptions regarding <The Head>. She arrogantly asserts that her superficial form is his type, making sure to paint it as a shallow preference she’s pinpointed. (However even this is something she already knows as a fact, erasing any chance of the ���unpredictable roulette’ she seems to exalt. She has little real confidence in her desirability, and even less in her ability to make him remember his sin)

She continues her attempt at testing his resolve, presenting herself for her ‘new master’ to own her flesh and soul as furniture, victimize her into surrender, and, crucially, remind her of Kinzo. Because that’s what Battler is to her: a reincarnation of Kinzo, carrying his spirit and blood most strongly. And how could he be anything else? Yasu is ‘Beatrice’ incarnate, her predecessors being both swept away and brutally betrayed by Kinzo, and by virtue of Battler’s failed promise, he has done the same. Her conflict arises here: her love for Battler meshing with her repulsion towards Kinzo, and her inability to reconcile them as full people. The same assumptions about Kinzo’s relationship to preceding Beatrices that traumatize her into hatred are simultaneously twisted into a romanticized ideal, and she is continually unable to conceive of her relationships without paralleling these identities and dynamics she’s latched onto. She is an ancestral fatalist, resigning not only autonomy within her own life but puppeting her relatives’ souls as her own. They cannot sleep peacefully as themselves, and neither can an unadulterated Battler. Beatrice indirectly castigates Battler (or her idea of him blurred into Kinzo) through her earlier ramblings on the nature of love-as-lust and the cage of flesh, but later turns around and flirts with the ideas, even going as far as writing her piece to romance Kinzo directly, despite knowing she’s caricaturing her own mother’s harrowing circumstances.

II. Message-Bottle Furniture

Lovelessly—or, perhaps, in a twisted abundance of love—Yasu’s message bottles distort Battler’s entire character into something alien in his six-year absence. This is what it means for new truths to triumph over old truths. Battler, the boy who left his own family due to his indignation over infidelity and who sought the heart in every story, is suddenly a perverted beast. He is a vapid womanizer like his father and an exploiter of status and naïveté like his grandfather. Beyond his will, parodied projections of his profanity are exposed within the message bottles, existing to cement his sin as irredeemable. I believe this is both a semi-conscious self-justification on Yasu’s part (cutting out the moral ambiguity of him simply forgetting) and a way to cope with her own undesirability (by manufacturing a more ‘active’ sin, one that would require Battler to care in the first place).

(…Side Note: I like how the attempted grope of Shannon in EP1 encompasses both this hostile projection and a dance around the desire to be discovered… [Fake breasts]. It adds another layer of selfish assumption to her narrative: he was always a piece. He doesn’t solve the epitaph and he doesn’t remember her because he never had the chance.)

To reiterate, his character is degraded and he is manipulated as a plot device within the message bottles. The narrative hinges on his existence, yet he has little room to move—In fact, his actual presence is hardly necessary. He committed a sin that permanently scarred someone, and he cannot apologize. The victim no longer exists. Battler, as a concept, constitutes a motive for murder. In his absence, he is a myth.

Remind you of anyone else?

III. Kuwatrice-Kinzo / Chick Beatrice-BATTLER

This parallel creates an interesting issue. The line of descendant/reincarnation is blurred and there’s an explicitly incestuous tone, but it quickly becomes more of a foil than a mirror. Kinzo’s idea of reincarnation is pure delusion, Battler rejects it despite it being true; Kinzo is affectionately dominating, Battler is cold; Kinzo rejects his status as a father, Battler grows to accept it.

So, Kinzo’s role is subverted. This should be a good thing, right?

It isn’t. At least, not to the judge of sin.

Chick-Beatrice is not a new creation; this is a glimpse of the Beatrice that first adopted Shannon’s bud of love for Battler six years prior. At this point, ‘Beatrice’ was still individuated. She wasn’t yet mutated by the legend of the witch, the solving of the epitaph, or, arguably, her Battler-desirability complex. This, I assert, is the closest we see to a pure ‘Yasu’ in later years, as the remainder of her true self that resided in Shannon had already been compartmentalized by that point. This is why Dawn is so tragic. Battler has allegedly solved her heart, yet even in his ‘enlightenment’ he is dismissive of her. To the first-time viewer, this rejection is bittersweet: he is waiting for the ‘real’ her to return. Issue is, that is the real her. This is the ‘Shannon’ he knew, before she was twisted into a sadistic amalgam of escapist fantasies dressed up with his desires. By all rights, Chick should align much more with the ‘Shannon’ that loved Battler. The dutiful “blindness of a girl in love,” willing to wait a century to be noticed. But he doesn’t understand that, bemoaning being too late while literally being thrusted another chance to do it right. Of course this chance doesn’t apply to reality, but it never did. He was already facing a postmortem trial for his failure in life, and the end of Meta-Beatrice marks his failure in death.

Battler is fated to only ever have a paternalistic, sympathetic affection towards Chick. Even after learning the truth, it will always be Beatrice that he loves. As much is clear in his Twilight gameboard. He recognizes Yasu as a vessel, but she’s virtually indistinguishable from Piece-Beato, an actor serving as the means for the illusion and providing a sympathetic backstory. Ange was right—there’s no point in having someone love in your place.

Regardless, Battler is himself. If he’d only inherited enough of Kinzo’s blood, maybe he could have loved all ‘iterations’ passionately and indiscriminately. Kinzo fabricated connections out of nothing, he ‘understood’ the reincarnated soul, and he was willing to die before he let her escape. His overbearing, cloying affection had a certainty that I believe Yasu envied, in a way. To be kidnapped and caged forever would be morbidly romantic, to her at least. How tragically ironic that the fatalist who desired to be carried away ended up having to orchestrate the game of love&communication herself…

IV. The Head

Aside from what I’ve mentioned, Yasu has a final, strikingly obvious reason to project Kinzo onto Battler: deflection.

Yasu is a disastrous parallel to Kinzo. They share the disturbing quality of willpower exceeding their body, a flippancy regarding life and death, living in spite of frailty. They are born with and die with nothing. She too dances with the magic of the roulette, staking fate on a miracle. She too ‘met’ Beatrice as an attempt at severing her regrets in life; she too summoned the Golden Witch and received a fortune at the cost of her soul; she too felt blessed and mocked by the myth of Beatrice, after wandering half-dead in a life that was not her own. A life in which she had been suddenly given power as a prank of fate, with the included (mis)fortune of polydactyly. They were each forced to endure Endlessness, awaiting the revival of love that may never come, desperately discarding their dignity for the sake of resurrection. The epitaph chooses both Kinzo’s and Beatrice’s successor. To ‘see’ is to answer the riddle. Just as Kinzo did to ‘Beatrice,’ Yasu has sewn the Ushiromiyas’ souls onto the island with magic, allowing them neither power nor form. Both are vulnerable kings protected by their own castles, refusing to speak the truth. Their massive wealth will be distributed, but the secret tales die with them.

Yasu was afforded unbelievable power by solving the epitaph, but it ended up destroying her with knowledge she did not want. She was given the reasoning that kills love. Upon the horrific discovery that her romantic feelings not only couldn’t be consummated but were incestuous as well, it is almost certain that she would feel the same repulsion towards herself as Kinzo. From that moment, she too was lying about the true nature of her relationships with the ones she loved. She too could not curb her affection or fear in time to tell the truth. There is no path she can make for herself, as she cannot live independently of projected roles. Incapable of individuating herself from Kinzo with self-identity, the logical conclusion is to invert the roles and make herself Beatrice, and more importantly, Battler Kinzo. Then, she must pray for the miracle that someone would come and solve the epitaph, taking back the role she was so haunted by and carrying her to a better life…

[sydneys-adamu]

puzzlepuppy fic masterlist :) 

organized by series! gif by @chefkids

stay with me wherever you go: carmen (emotionally balanced) and sydney (also emotionally balanced) are well equipped for long distance and handle it very very well and very very normally.

not.

travel lightly, but keep me in your back pocket, okay?: sydney gets an offer and carmy almost fumbles his chances. again.

write me like it’s your last time, I’ll read it like it’s my first: carmy and sydney are an ocean apart. naturally they start exchanging love letters.

heal me when I’m hurt, I don’t care how far you are: sydney’s injured while away, all the while wishing her damn boyfriend was still with her at the very least.

tell me my love is enough, yours is etched on my heart all the same: sydney finally comes back home, and carmen makes a choice (for him, a no brainer.)

in another world it’s still you: a montage of sydney and carmen choosing each other again, and again, and again. (AUs in no particular order!)

forever alive, forever forward: sydney needs someone, and carmy is the one who tries to save her. (sheridan road au)

the singing of a body (electric): carmy and sydney are linked, for better and for worse. (soulmate au)

burn down the disco: syd and carmy want each other, even when the world tells them they're not supposed to. (black mirror hang the dj au)

this heart, with all its changing hues: rewind in time, sydney and carmen meet at CIA. it's not an instant friendship. (culinary school au)

wind and water; cloud and fire (meet me where the roads connect): sydney and carmy meet. sydney sees carmy. carmy sees sydney. not particularly in that order. (soulmate au)

the last five years: carmy, sydney, and a love story told in reverse. (divorce au)

the law of threefold return: bored and unassuming, sydney accidentally casts a love spell on her business partner. (love spell au)

a yellow blue countenance: in which carmy's desperate and sydney can't die with a perpetual witness by her side. right?

it starts with a swipe: boy meets girl, girl hates boy, boy is colossally screwed. (dating app au)

there we two, content: carmy and sydney get a cat. he’s the love of their life. send tweet.

maybe this is just the next step: carmy, sydney and the adventures of cat parenting.

time with you is time well spent: a holiday montage with sydney, carmy, and their cat by their side.

miscellaneous: canon compliant silliness

time nor place, distance avails not: it's not sydney's *first* choice to take her ex to get his wisdom teeth taken out, but so is the irony of life. at least carmy makes it easy (nope).

ceaseless musing (my soul is where you stand): sydney's dad makes an assumption, so she asks her very good friend carmen for a small favor.

a curious token (would the talkers be talking?): sydney and carmy's lover's quarrel through richie's eyes. maybe he helps, maybe he doesn't.

of cities fill’d with the foolish: mom and dad (sydney and carmy) aren't on the same page. at all. naturally this leads to an appointment with a couple's counselor.

an unknown want (the word of the sweetest song): the ever ambitious sydney asks carmy if he can teach her to draw.

as I ebb’d with the ocean of life: two airheads figure out what they are to each other. (post s3 tales to be told)

the long calm, the darkness, the swell: outside ever, carmy and sydney have the conversation they've both been avoiding. one conversation paves the path for more. and more. (post s3 fix it of sorts)

late in the autumn day: time passes. sydney and carmen have shit to figure out. and moves to make.

[jjkamochoso]

Flufftober Day 5: Acorn, Chestnut, Pinecone

@flufftober

Fluff

Noritoshi Kamo x gn!reader

Warnings: none

You closed your eyes and sighed contentedly, leaning back against the large tree. The sun shined high in the afternoon sky, its light filtered through the large gray clouds looming overhead. You shivered when a chilly autumn breeze flew through the air and you crossed your arms across your chest in an attempt for warmth.

“Are you cold?”

“Was I being that obvious about it?” you replied as you opened your eyes. Noritoshi extended a hand to help you up and you gratefully accepted it. He quickly took off his jacket, his concerned eyes never leaving yours.

“Here, please take this. I don’t want you catching a cold,” he said, draping his jacket on your shoulders.

You cozied up into the fabric that smelled just like your chivalrous boyfriend. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” he responded, taking your hand in his. “Let’s go for a walk. You’ll stay warmer that way.”

You and Noritoshi walked together, silently appreciating the beauty of fall all around you. The crunch of leaves could be heard with every step you each took, the vibrant yellows and oranges creating a volcanic-like explosion underfoot.

“You know, my mother used to ground these up and use them in breads and other dishes this time of year,” Noritoshi observed thoughtfully, picking a few acorns off of the tree in front of you. He slid them into his pocket and resumed your walk.

“Look! A chestnut tree!” you pointed out a few minutes later, excitedly walking toward it. “My mom used to roast these all the time!”

“Isn’t that more of a Christmas tradition?” he asked.

“It is, but they’re so yummy I used to ask for them as often as I could,” you murmured, the happy memories flooding your brain while you collected the nuts. Continuing on, you kept your eyes trained on the different trees you passed by to see what else was interesting enough to catch your attention. Without hesitation, both you and Noritoshi leaned down at the same time.

“Pinecones!” you exclaimed simultaneously, letting out happy giggles at your childlike wonder.

“The beauty of nature never fails to surprise me,” he mused, inspecting the pinecone he picked up. You did the same, taking note of all the fine details offered in its brown, prickly body.

“Should we take some back with us?”

“Do you eat these too?” he asked, his eyes wide with wonder.

“No,” you laughed, “but they’d make for perfect fall decor.”

“I see.”

His face was tinged pink with embarrassment at his assumption but you paid no mind to it, giving him a sweet kiss on his cheek that caused his blush to deepen a few shades darker.

[awkwardgtace]

Warm Proposal

What's this? Day 9 Warmth, a little late but still on time. I had like 5 ideas none worked how I wanted so I mused a little. I hope you enjoy

Warm Proposal

It’s been years that I’ve known you. Since your world shattering steps threw me off my feet. Since the moment you saw me and crouched to see me better. You were a force of nature. I thought I'd made you up.

I’d been trapped by that blizzard. Lost and homeless, but you found me. Set me free. Took pity on my poor self and offered me your gloved hand as a place to go. I readily climbed on. Any fate you gave was better than dying in the cold.

You lifted me with two fingers. Dangled me over your hand. I thought you had regretted the kindness. Instead you pulled your glove off with your teeth. Set me on your bare palm. The warmth of your skin was a blessing on my frozen skin. A blessing I didn’t think I deserved, but accepted nonetheless.

The cloth of the glove was a shock when you pulled it over me. I almost asked you to put me down, but your fingers curled over me. Your gentle words offered safety. A place to call home. I cried. No one had been that kind in far too long.

Your steps rocked me. The pulse beneath your skin was a lullaby. I fell asleep quickly. You kept waking me up. I thought it was cruel at first. Once I realized you were keeping me alive, I thanked you. At least I did in my mind. If I never have, thank you for keeping me awake that night.

The warmth of your home bled through your glove. The door slammed behind you after you opened it. I realized I could still die. Some giants were cruel. I thought, at least I’d die warm.

You walked around with me in your hand. Water ran. A kettle screamed. Your clothes scrunched as you walked. Your steps had softened. I assumed your shoes were off.

It felt too soon when your fingers poked into the glove. Pulled me out of the warmth. The air felt cold without your skin. You promised it would be only for a few seconds. I whined.

I thought you lied to me. Until you put me back on your palm. The warmth had lessened. It was better than the air. I curled into your skin. You curled your fingers over me.

Before you, I thought I’d hate being held. It would be painful and cruel. I’d be nearly crushed or made sick. You were gentle and moved slowly. The opposite of my assumptions.

I yelped when you squeezed me a little. It made you laugh. I realized then that I liked your laugh. Your steps started again. It was the perfect thing to push me to sleep. You squeezed me periodically. I felt like a stress toy. With the warmth you offered I didn’t mind.

All this time, I’ve never known why you saved me that night. What made you curl up on your bed with a human whose name you didn’t even know. I’ve had my guesses, but a part of me knows it doesn’t matter. You saved me that night.

It’s been a mystery why you heard my story the next day. I couldn’t understand why you gave me a place to stay as I got back on my feet. The trust you placed in me shattered any part of me that could break it.

You gave me the chance I needed. The one no one else believed I deserved. That kindness did more than the warmth of your body that night. That kindness changed my life.

It’s why I’m here today, with you. I’ve known you for years. I’ve loved you for years. I’ll love you for all the years I have left. With that said, with the memories I’ll never let go of, would you do me the greatest honor of my life? Would you, my love, my darling, my savior, my best friend, my second chance, marry me?

“Yes!”

[universesweetheart]

Your Umbrella (Dazai x Reader)

I love him. My baby, my love, my sunshine is safe and happy in my bed.

Wrote this before watching today's new episode! This feels rushed because I was too excited for the new episode to wait to write it out. Sorry babes, Dazai is my top priority.

Post episode Mars: I giggled and kicked my feet like a little girl! That was some gay shit, but HELLO DAZAI IS ALIVE! My babyboo ahh.

(Also did you guys see the chapter236 JJK leaks?! I shall write for Gojo...I'm coping)

Writing is how I cope.

In which we talk with Dazai while we both overlook the setting sun (see what I did there hehe)

Bye now - Mars ♡

Together on a bench, onlooking the sunset, you and Dazai sat in silent. The rays of the warm sunlight pleasant on your skin and face. The clouds, a pretty colour of orange and yellow. The blue contrast of the sky blended nicely.

“Why are you a detective?” you asked Dazai, you were in a sulky mood today, you felt… drifty, for lack of a better word. It was one of those days where you wake up and question your existence. Why were you you? Why did you want to do this job? Why did your life turn this way?

Dazai shifted his gaze to you, his eyes looking at yours. He let out a silent sigh before giving you a smug smile.

“Don’t I look like I belong here? Plus it’s quite interesting” He looked up at the pretty clouds and then muttered under his breath, “This job comes naturally to me”

“Brushing my teeth comes naturally to me but that’s because I’ve done it a million times” you stated, and you heard him chuckle.

“I suggest you don’t compare your little daily routine to my life darling” he snorted, eyes still on the sunset.

“Do you take pride in your job?”, you continued to probe. Your mind was curious, but your heart wasn’t. Your heart feared triggering him and making him angry, a product of your own troubled past. But you knew Dazai, you wanted to believe you did, and he wouldn’t snap like that. He was too much of an unserious person. But what if?

Dazai gave a small nod, confirming your assumption. He turns to look at you, “it’s because of my job that I’ve been able to accomplish many things” his smile smug, “Impressive, yes? Heh.”

“Many things like?” You seem to not take the hint to not go further but you couldn’t stop yourself.

“Handling guns” he jokes and you chuckle, it wasn’t even funny. His voice just made everything sound giddy.

“Have you accomplished happiness?” you tilt your head and look back at him.

Dazai freezes up but quickly basks it with a little laugh and turns backed to face the sun. A desperate attempt to avoid your eyes. “Do I look unhappy?” he muses, his voice teasing.

“I’d rather not judge a book by its cover. You tell me.”

Dazai laughs, “What a curious thing you are, asking me such a thing” he smiles, it’s not pretty you think.

“Should I be irritated by your little question or find it funny how straightforward you are” He asks you with a little smirk. When you don’t answer and just stare at him, he adds “Happiness had abandoned me, I’ll say, a very long time ago.”

Abandonment? Was this the closest Dazai will ever allow you to be? Desperate and lovesick, you grabble at any piece of crumbs he gives. It’s pathetic. You attempt to keep your cool, but you’re sure he knows how you really feel. He seems to always know everything.

“Doesn’t that contradict the philosophy ‘Happiness is found inside of us’?”

Dazai glances at you for a moment, then back to the sun, he let out a small hum of interest. You really had a way of surprising him, not that he’d ever let you know that.

“I suppose so, however the happiness I’m searching for cannot be reached. I assure you that.”

You stole a glance at his face, he seems to be reminiscing on something. Or maybe that was just another façade to lead you astray from his true feelings.

“Why not?”

With a bit of hesitation, he smiles, eyes bright. A change that catches you off guard, Dazai shifts closer to you. The edge of his trench coat brushing up against your pants. He lowers his voice several octaves, almost in a forbidden whisper, “Because I am searching for one thing that cannot be obtained.”

Your eyebrows shot up, “And what’s that? Dinosaurs?”, a futile attempt to lighten up the conversation. You wanted so badly a shred of him, the real him, but now that you think you’re getting it, you’re not sure. You’re running away.

Dazai laughs amused by your response, the corners of his eyes crinkling up as he closes them, letting the laughter overtake him. “Good observation, but no” he clicks his tongue playfully, “To put it simply. I am searching for one thing to fill…” he sighs out and shakes his head a little.

“Ah” he giggles, “I’m not sure what I’m searching for” he deflects. He doesn’t know if he should share, if he could bare to say it out loud. Because to say it out loud would mean to admit it. To acknowledge it.

Bullshit. You knew it was a lie. He was a liar. Damn your heart for falling for him.

Looks at him, “It’s okay” you said with a sigh, “I’m searching for myself in a way,” you decided to turn the conversation on you to avoid going to go down the road of awkwardness.

“The thing…I’m searching for doesn’t exist, love doesn’t exist.” He sounded like he was in pain. Like it pained him to say that. To tell you that. You find yourself feeling guilty, did you pressure him?

“Love isn’t limited, so again, why?” you continue.

Once again for the multiple time, Dazai laughs “Curious little thing indeed” he turns to look at you, “Think you have a chance, Bella?”

You find your face heating up and keeps your eye on the sun to avoid his gaze.

“Do you think you could meet my standards? They’re quite high” he teases and once again you think he’s deflecting. A big distraction to avert your eyes from peering at him.

He holds his head up high, his gaze on you unwavering. You aren’t looking at him, but the intensity of his eyes pins you to this old bench.

“Are they high to protect your heart?” you blurt you before you even knew what you were saying. “Sorry!” you instantly apologize.

Dazai was surprised by your statement, yes that was exactly what it was. He stayed silent for a moment, contemplating your words. “Perhaps,” he sighs, shall I take a chance? He questions himself, a battle between his brain. “I have set out expectations that I’m even unsure about myself.” He spoke and then stayed silent. He waited for your next words. His heart was pounding yet his face had a smug smile.

“Expectations are like umbrellas, they stop rain and sun from reaching us” you state, and then laughs.

“Indeed, but what’s your point?”

“Rain is like pain, yes your umbrella, your walls, protect you from it” you cross a leg over the next, eyes drinking in the sunlight. “But you miss out on the warm sun too.”

Dazai ponders to himself for a moment. It appears you’ve managed to grasp a greater sense of him. Did he underestimate you? No, he wouldn’t be so careless. “Quite the profound analogy you have there, it’s fascinating.” He smiles at you, “How did you come to this conclusion, might I ask?”

“You know, I like sun especially in the mornings and evenings, it’s like a warm hug” you fiddle with your shirt, “but I also like rain, though sometimes storms are too harsh for my umbrella.”

Dazai observed you for a while, the silence between you two comfortable. He noticed the light pink tinting your cheeks and the way you avoided his eyes. You had intrigued him, maybe he truly had a soft spot for you.

The silence was not comfortable for you, did you overstep? Did he find your analogy dumb? Your mouth acted on its own, “I always use my umbrella” you stated, “But one harsh storm broke it, and I was drenched with a skeleton of an umbrella” your eyes have this faraway look, he notes.

“And then the sun hit me and I wasn’t ready and I was scared” you breathe out, closing your eyes. Dazai thinks the sight is better than the setting sun, “But it dried up my wet clothes and wet skin and wet hair. It felt warm and…yellow” you laugh softly, “yellow is such a beautiful colour, yes?”

He hums, “Are you saying that you decided to get rid of your protection and walk and bask in the sunlight that you so adore” his voice is light and teasing. His eyes laser focused on you as if you’d burst open and come up with a new revelation.

“Yes, sun being metaphor for love. Rain for pain, umbrella for protective walls and wet for I guess, depression?” you break down your words, trying to make him understand. He already understands, he just loves your voice so much.

“To translate from my understanding, you’re saying you choose love regardless of the costs?” you nod.

“You fascinate me,” he admits boldly, “Do you have someone in mind?”

“Someone in mind?”

“For love, the person you choose will be a caliber of that, do you?” He shifts his eyes to the clouds. A blissful sight.

“When I say sun is love I don’t speak of lovers. I would say I’m my own sun. A lover would be a mirror, reflecting to me how bright my own sun shines.” Your lips presses together into a thin line.

“A mirror, I see” he chuckles. “Oh, you curious little thing” he smiles.

“Then can we test this?”

“Test what?”

“Let go of your umbrella and let me be your mirror,” he takes a hold of your hand, “Belladonna,”

“Osamu”

His heart stops when you whisper his given name. It sounded so beautiful falling from your lips. “Say it again” he leans in and connects your lips together.

[another-supernova-girl]

Change of Plans - Wyatt Walker ("Ida Red" 2021) x Fem Reader

Based on the following request from @hibiskooks : For the (Halloween) prompts: How about babysitting your friend's / neighbor's kids together with Wyatt and going trick or treating with them 🥹 and/or getting a drink with Wyatt afterwards 👀 This is about 3% angst, 97% fluff, and hopefully posted in time to hit before Halloween is over where requester lives 💙🎃💙 Gif is mine.

(( word count : ~ 950 ))

The sound of giggling children coming from inside the the wrong front door of the duplex Wyatt stood outside of was the first indication that something was amiss. His knock at the front door had gone unanswered, but the curtains were only half-drawn to the side of it, and as he peered through the window from outside, his assumption was confirmed. He stood back up straight, perching his folded glasses over the junction of his button-up shirt as the door finally swung open, and his exasperated girlfriend finally appeared.

“Wyatt,” she managed, her eyes briefly squeezing closed at the sound of something toppling to the floor, deeper inside the dwelling, and out of sight. “Remember how we, uh...were gonna hang out tonight, and I was going to pretend to be scared by whatever horror movie you picked out, and...whatever that led to?”

More squealing and crashing from beyond the half-opened door sounded behind the young woman at the threshold, and a somewhat familiar child scampered by. “I do,” Wyatt stated simply, a warm smile forming on his lips as his gaze returned to the somewhat frazzled young adult in front of him. “Change of plans?”

“Uh, yeah,” she sighed, opening the door further to welcome him inside. “My neighbor got called in for a last minute shift, and I was foolish enough to answer the door.”

Wyatt sauntered in, his eyes following the twin six-year-olds as they chased each other with their respective props, a broom and a pitchfork. “So we're on chaperone duty?” he assumed aloud, wandering to the couch and plopping down, knees falling apart as he unwrapped a piece of candy, extracted from an overflowing bowl on the table.

“Well, I am...you don't have to-”

“Nah, I like kids. I haven't got to take little ones around since Darla hit middle school, and decided she was too old for a Halloween escort,” Wyatt mused. “I ain't got a costume, though.”

🦇

The sun was just starting to disappear beyond the horizon as the quartet prepared to set out, the children donning faces covered in green and red grease paint makeup to match their witch and devil costumes. Wyatt had actually managed to surprise his girlfriend when he appeared from inside the bathroom with drawn on red stains dripping from the sides of his mouth, a ridiculous pair of plastic vampire teeth covering his natural, human ones.

“Well, damn...I hadn't exactly planned on a costume for myself,” she mumbled as she inspected his silly, fake fangs.

“Don't suppose you happened to spend any time on the cheer squad in school,” Wyatt mentioned, quiet enough for the children to not notice, as if they could hear anything over their own enthusiastic noises. Candy was the last thing their hyper little bodies needed.

“Um, ew...and no,” she answered, giving his chest a little shove, shaking her head, smiling still.

“Why ew?” he answered, and she rolled her eyes, stepping in the direction of the bathroom to gather up the last of the costume paint before they left, the far taller man at her back following her.

“I don't exactly want you thinking about teenagers when you look at me,” she mumbled, dropping the makeup into a zipper bag.

“Sweetheart, you know it ain't like that,” he murmured as he wrapped his arms around her from behind, the two of them glancing up to the mirror before them. Wyatt, a full head taller than her and then some, placed his chin lightly atop the crown of her head, his gaze traveling over her features, pausing at her neck. “I got an idea,” he whispered as he reached into the bag she had yet to seal, taking out a red paint stick and watching closely in the mirror as he drew a couple of red dots at the side of her throat. “There,” he stated simply.

The young woman before him stared at the red “bite marks”, shaking her head slightly, her gaze rising to the plastic fangs Wyatt bared in their reflections. “I guess low effort's better than no effort.”

🦇

Block by block, hour by hour, the evening finally turned to pitch black night, save for the occasional street lamp, and the front doors illuminated by electric lights indicating they were dispersing goodies to trick-or-treaters. By the time the quartet circled back to the duplex the majority of the group resided in, the tiny feet of the children were so sore and tired that they had given up walking, each being carried by one of the two adults, smears of red and green staining the shirts they wore.

“I really hope this isn't giving you ideas,” the young woman spoke up as she glanced over to her significantly older boyfriend, and the sleeping child, limp in his arms.

Wyatt's lips quirked up in a smile. “Well...maybe a little,” he confessed. “No serious ones, though-”

“Wyatt, we've been dating all of six months, and you've already spent a month of that in jail-”

“I know,” he huffed, quiet for a few moments before he glanced her way, reaching out to brush his fingertips over her shoulder, and her own fingers that clung to the child slumped against her chest. “Puttin' up with me is stress enough, darlin', I know.”

“I didn't say that-”

“Babydoll...I ain't ever gonna ask you to do nothin' you don't wanna do,” he assured, his steps coming to a pause when hers did the same. “Come 'ere,” he murmured, stepping closer, ignoring the protests of the waking children in both their arms as he smeared the fake blood drawn on his face in a tender kiss. “Now, lets get these kiddos home...just 'cause you don't want any of your own, don't mean we can't practice makin' 'em.”

🦇 🦇 🦇 🦇 🦇 🦇 🦇 🦇 🦇 🦇 🦇 🦇 🦇

tagging : @one-of-thewalkingdead , @gissellec1 , @rainingrabbits89-blog , @pinkflowerwombat , @sashimeep , @strangererotica , @the-butchers-baby , @callsign-fangirl , @hibiskooks , @jessy02 , @charliehoennam , @pinastrihaven , @amethystblackkchaos , @bleeding-heartz , @lucy-sky , @gt-rxn

If I forgot anyone, I apologize, and please let me know if you want to be tagged in the next one

COMMENTS AND REBLOGS AND TAGS ARE DEEPLY APPRECIATED. 💙

[jackthepeeper]

English is not my first language, I have a very limited experience in writing

CWs: none

Zenyatta/GN!Reader

Summary: fluffy description of you painting Zenyatta's portrait (you love him) (nothing much really happens, I just wanted to be nice to him)

"Zenyatta," your soft voice cuts the silence with way less certainty than you have in your brush strokes, "are you meditating right now, as I draw you?"

"I find it to be the easiest way to pass time while being completely motionless. So yes... Why do you ask?" You heard the sharp wheeze of his vizors' shutters opening and, even though his stature remained still, you knew he was, in fact, startled awake. Joints locked to hold the pose perfectly, he was the best muse you could've hoped for.

"I just thought that would be very in-character," your eyes scan the thoughtful expression he's permanently frozen in, and you catch yourself reading way too much into the emotionless faceplate, denying the omnic a chance to actually express himself. Humans love their assumptions. "You can stop holding the pose so diligently, you know. It's a portrait, not a still life."

Your words hang heavy in the air, accidentally bearing more meaning than intended. No matter how hopeful Zenyatta might be towards humans, there's still a soft pleasure for him in knowing that to you he's never been a "thing", something that he's been considered one too many times in his life. You care enough for him to always be a person.

The monk imitates a cough, rubbing the scruff of his neck as his joints click free one by one. He stretches, and you recognize him moving in a deliberately animated way to ease the tension. "I suppose I misunderstood the nature of having a portrait painted," his voice is calm, soothing even, "But if I move, wouldn't that interrupt your drawing?"

"I just want you to be yourself," you stumble on your words, trying to pick the right meaning, the snowball of your thoughts growing more and more dangerous the lower your eyes crawl along the shapes of the omnic's body. He's incredibly pleasant to look at, a perfect amalgam of form and function, the golden ratio personified. He looked effortlessly divine in every pose he chose, and drawing him felt like breathing - a need, something you'd die without.

You have to chase the fleeting thought as you note the way he tightens the grip on his knee, a pang of strictness that brings you back to reality. "...Just be yourself. I know you don't usually meditate completely still, do you now?"

He chuckles, bringing his fingers up to cover the place his mouth would occupy. "That is truly unlike of me. If you insist..." You track the orb he effortlessly levitates out of place as it makes its way around his arm, coming to rest a few inches above the pool of his palm. He toys with it, spinning the ornate object in place without touching it as he tilts his head to the side. Looks deeper into the magic he possesses, tries desperately to connect to the energy hidden beyond the interaction that looks so simple under his command.

There's warmth in your chest, a fuzzy feeling that somehow feels akin to the way a ray of sunshine hugs Zenyatta's form with upmost care. The composition of the portrait finally falls into place: your muse has always been so much beyond the expressionless metal flesh that a mere thought of his true glory makes yor heart swell.

[poibynt]

Just finished HTTYD book 4 (I am relistening to the series completely out of order why not) & the Hysterics, specifically Norbert, clock Hiccup and Fishlegs as Hooligans pretty damn fast. This might just be assumption, seeing as Hooligans are the most likely people to be on the Island of Vilany since it neighbours Berk but that's not a total given. Not to fall into my forever habit of fleshing out and complicating fantasy settings to be more realistic but is there a possibility that different viking tribes have distinctive clothing which marks who they are, or maybe that they speak different dialects? Its been a while but I remember something about there being like 70 something words for rain 'in the Berk language' not Norse, in the first book (I think I could be wrong). Also, in 8 Hiccup says that Ugg runes are hard to read, thus meaning the Ugglythugs have a mildly different writing system to Hooligans (or...shit handwriting (carvewriting?) but also so does literally everyone in this series so). They have to all be speaking Norse since there's never any issues with communication throughout the series. Hiccup is shown to be a bit of a polyglot but other characters never seem to struggle to understand each other. However, it would make sense if different tribes have drifted away from the standard Norse that was likely spoken during the OG Wilderwest days enough to have distinctive accents or maybe mild dialects (like, tribes closer together who interact way more have kept in lingiustic lockstep so the Hooligans and Bogburglers have very similar vocab but just some different accents whereas the Hooligans and the Beserks would have less in common & their Norse would sound more dialectical to eachother) OR maybe the tribes have existed as distinct groups since before the Wilderwest unification/were created and maintained during that time period and to maintain a cohesive nation (what....the fuck did the OG Wilderwest look like actually? Like politically, how did it operate? That is a whole other post but I'm assuming there was some element of centralisation and unification seeing as how it's talked about in the series) standardised Norse grew in popularity but the original languages of the tribes still influenced speakers and fused with the standard Norse. Which would make sense with the 70+ Hooligan words for rain, since historically it seems like native names for flora, fauna and the natural world stick around since imposed or adopted languages often don't have replacement words for these things or don't need to rename all the birds or whatever. Idk, maybe Hooligans have really distinctive helmets! People who know more about linguistics than me feel free to muse, ponder and or contradict me.

[creatingblackcharacters]

hi! thanks so much for your hard work and effort. your resources have rly proved invaluable! if I may I'd like to ask a quick question about a specific Black character I've been developing.

her name is Kira, and she's a 13yo living in a large artist's loft/studio w her older sister, who is a well-known sculptor. (her mom and dad were test pilots who were lost in space, part of the narrative is her solving the mystery of what exactly happened.) I also understand that absent parents are a common trope and want to make it clear that their disappearance is due to foul play from a futuristic space exploration organization, and that they have been doing their best to make their way back to their daughters amidst weird aliens, a reunion that will take place in the middle of the story.

A lot of her story is about finding her own muse and her own unique voice thru nontraditional art: she begins the story only assembling premade models (like trains, planes, Gundam models etc) and eventually, through maturing and gaining a better understanding of her family and herself, begins combining many different parts of various models with her keen understanding thanks to putting them together so often.

my question is this:

I would love for Kira's hair to help express this change, especially with its importance and the thematic reiteration of her finding her own style/expression. At the beginning, I was thinking it could start in simpler cornrows, as a protective hairstyle could show how she's protecting herself by keeping her creativity to herself. (This is in contrast to her sister's flashy, colorful, fun braids!)

Currently, I'm thinking she ends up with a more versatile natural haircut that allows for change depending on how she wants to appear.

I am nonblack, and I want to be as respectful as possible while creating a multilayered character, and while I have done some research, I would really appreciate your perspective on if her hairstyle changing like this would be a respectful option to show her growth, as I don't want to make assumptions or be accidentally insensitive especially considering the importance of hair in the Black community.

Thanks again for all you do, I really appreciate your taking the time to read this! (And if you have any other ideas or comments ,I would love to hear. She is a beloved OC and I am always working to improve her character! :)

She sounds good to me so far 👍🏾 best of luck with your story and character!

[kemendin]

OC Questionnaire

Tagged by @sweetearthandnorthernsky, thanks!

Gonna answer these for BG3 Dhamari:

1 - Does OC have recurring themes in their nightmares? Why? Are they aware of the 'why'?

This is such opportune timing on this because I was just musing over Dhamari’s nightmare situation the other day!

Does ‘trauma’ count as a theme? Cos he’s got a lot of that - mostly unacknowledged - from his life in the Underdark/drow society. But there’s an added twist now, which was unintentional on my part until I decided to just run with it - he also has prophetic dreams. The most concrete example is from my fic, where among other things he dreams about what it might be like if Gale were to use the orb and blow himself up.

The catch is, Dhamari only dreams of possibilities, of potential futures, nothing definite. And these potentials are usually so tangled up with events from his past or just random brain imagery, that Dhamari doesn’t recognise them for what they are. Occasionally, something will happen and then he’ll remember he dreamt of it weeks or months back, and he’ll sort of squint internally and then go ‘nahhh coincidence’ and carry on without dwelling on it. He’s not much of an overthinker xD

I haven’t yet decided if this is an effect of being tadpole’d, or if it’s more of a general Dhamari thing. But either way I like the idea of him having these bare glimpses of the future and not being aware enough to do anything about it :3

2 - If your OC was to overhear their name in a conversation; what would they assume the conversation is about? Why? Is this assumption accurate?

I don’t think Dhamari would pay much attention honestly. If it’s anyone in the majority of the party, especially early on in the game, he’d likely assume it was something negative about him, given his normal demeanour and behaviour (unfriendly, and he’s well aware of it).

Later, if the speaker is someone whose opinion he actually cares about - Gale, of course, or perhaps Wyll or Jaheira - he’d actually make a point of closing his ears to the conversation, because overall he’d still assume it was something negative about him and he’d rather not hear it. His faith in someone else’s good opinion remains extremely fragile for quite a while, and when he finds it, he’s fearful of having it tarnished. But hey, Dhamari, you should listen in more often - you’ll hear a lot more good about yourself than you expect.

3 - There’s a spider, cockroach, silverfish, or some other nasty bug in your OC’s house/room/apartment/etc.! How do they deal with it? Do they squish it? Capture it to release it outside? Scream and run for the hills? Leave it? Something else entirely?

Growing up in drow society means it’s still deeply ingrained in Dhamari to not harm spiders. If one of the larger varieties attacks him, his survival takes precedence, but if it’s just a little one creeping around, he’ll ignore it. Other bugs and pests he’ll squish freely without a second thought, he’s not squeamish at all about that.

My questions!

1. What is your OC’s preferred/favourite environment? Bustling or serene, filled with people or totally alone? Do they like being out in nature or surrounded by technology etc? Do they have a favourite climate/weather type?

2. What’s something your OC is often conflicted about? A choice they made, their place or purpose in the world, a relationship they have with someone, etc? How does this conflict manifest, and how do they deal with it, if at all?

3. Does your OC have an object that’s particularly important to them? Why is it special? Do they carry it with them, or if not, where do they keep it? How would they react if it were lost/stolen/destroyed?

And I shall tag: @saephrond @jacksothereye @parseolegacy @certified-anakinfucker @pentacass @skullinacowboyhat @tiredassmage

[helluvabun]

RadioApple.... thing

A/n: Could be seen as not RadioApple since there's not romance, but it was written with that dynamic in mind. They're also a little OOC but I did my best. 1056 words

Lucifer's heels clicked softly on the floor of the common room as he entered, punctuating the silence. His usual bravado shimmered, muted by a flicker of something else as his eyes fell upon the lone figure in the corner.

Alastor.

Seated in a plush armchair, legs crossed, his cane resting on his lap, Alastor’s smile widened at the sight of Lucifer, though it remained sinister despite its brilliance. His red eyes gleamed, locked onto the fallen angel with predatory intensity. The static hum that followed him seemed to grow louder, feeding off the charged atmosphere between them. Lucifer observed the demon who had so arrogantly claimed a place in the Hotel.

Of all the souls in Hell, Alastor irked him most. He could tolerate the chaos of Sinners and their predictable ambitions, but Alastor was an affront to his very nature. The Radio Demon was a constant challenge, a reminder of the audacity of mortals who dared tread too close to divinity and came up short. Yet, there was something infuriatingly captivating about Alastor’s self-assured grace that kept Lucifer from dismissing him entirely.

"Lucifer," Alastor greeted, his voice dripping with vintage charm, distorted like an old phonograph. "What a delightful surprise! Come to join me for a quaint little chat, or do you simply wish to bask in my presence?"

Lucifer’s lip twitched, his gaze narrowing as he approached, the tapping of his cane echoing in tandem with his steps. "Hardly. Though I suppose I should be flattered by your assumption that I would have the time—or inclination—to indulge you."

Alastor chuckled, a deep sound that filled the room. "Oh, don’t be so dour. I hear it’s unbecoming of a king. Or is it that I make you uncomfortable, dear old Lucifer?"

Lucifer halted, his wings shifting beneath his coat. His gaze was sharp, like shards of glass, though it failed to pierce Alastor’s permanent grin. "You give yourself too much credit. You’re merely… amusing at best, Alastor."

Alastor’s smile remained, but something darker flickered in his eyes. "Ah, amusing, you say?" His voice lowered, mockery never quite leaving. "Tell me, why do I have the distinct impression that I’ve been living rent-free in that labyrinthine mind of yours?"

Lucifer’s wings flexed, feathers bristling, but he remained calm. "Rent-free? Perhaps. But the moment I find you an inconvenience, you’ll be evicted without hesitation."

Alastor rose to his feet, smooth as silk, towering over Lucifer despite the angel’s proud posture. He stepped forward, coming closer than was polite, obliterating any pretenses of civility. "I wonder," he mused softly, "is it your daughter’s project that keeps you around, or is it something more personal?"

Lucifer tightened his grip on the cane, but his gaze never faltered. "I’m here for one reason, and it’s not to entertain your delusions. Charlie’s dream… it deserves protection."

Alastor leaned in, his grin nearly brushing Lucifer’s cheek. "Oh, but what about your dreams, Lucifer?" he whispered, the static around him caressing the air. "Or are those long dead, buried beneath centuries of failure?"

Lucifer’s eyes flashed with fury, but before he could respond, Alastor stepped back, his chuckle low and melodious. "For someone who claims to be above us all, you’re rather predictable. Everything about you—your righteousness, your arrogance—it’s all so tiresome."

"Careful," Lucifer growled, the forked tip of his tongue slipping between his sharp teeth. "You forget your place."

Alastor laughed again, wrapping his taunt around Lucifer. "I’m fully aware of my place, old friend. Right here. Standing toe-to-toe with the so-called King of Hell, yet you never quite manage to rid yourself of me."

Lucifer’s wings flared, a display of power radiating through the room. "Don’t mistake my patience for tolerance, Alastor. There’s a difference between allowing something to persist and being unable to remove it."

Alastor turned, his grin shrinking just for a moment. A flicker of something almost human passed through his eyes. "I don’t think you want to remove me, Lucifer. In fact…" His voice softened, playful lilt gone. "I think you need me."

The tension between them became a palpable force. For a moment, neither spoke, the silence stretching taut like a wire, ready to snap. Lucifer’s expression darkened, studying Alastor, the depths of his mind churning with unspoken thoughts.

"Need you?" Lucifer’s voice cut through the stillness like a blade. "You overestimate your importance. You are a mere ripple in the ocean of eternity, and I…" His wings flared wider, casting shadows, "am the storm that commands it."

Alastor tilted his head, smile returning, now sharper. "A storm, yes. But storms eventually fade. What remains after the tempest? The echoes. The whispers. The memories of those who survive."

Lucifer’s eyes burned with rage, his voice rising. "Enough of your riddles, Alastor. Speak plainly or be silent. I am not in the mood for your games."

Alastor chuckled softly. "Oh, but where would the fun be in that?" Leaning on his cane, he tapped it lightly on the floor. "Let me be clear. This hotel… your daughter’s dream… it’s fragile, delicate. And you know it’s on the verge of collapse without the right influences." His gaze flicked to Lucifer, unwavering. "You may be the storm, but I am the voice in the static. Without me, all you will have is another failure."

Lucifer tightened his grip on the cane. "You are nothing but a meddler, Alastor. A parasite feeding off the dreams of others. I could end you with a thought, and yet here you stand, as if you hold power over me."

Alastor's grin widened. "Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. It’s not about power. It’s about purpose. You could destroy me, but what would you lose? What pieces of this grand puzzle would fall apart?"

For a moment, Lucifer hesitated. The weight of those words gnawed at his resolve. He knew Alastor was dangerous, a wild card in a game where every move mattered. To remove him now could unravel more than just the Radio Demon’s schemes.

Alastor saw the flicker of doubt, and his grin turned almost gentle. "You see it now, don’t you? You may despise me, but you can’t deny I serve a purpose. Chaos needs order, and order needs chaos. Without one, the other withers."

Lucifer’s expression hardened, but his silence spoke volumes.

Alastor’s voice, velvety and dark, slid between them like a serpent. "So, tell me, my King… what will you do? Will you embrace the storm, knowing I am the wind that keeps it raging? Or will you let it die, taking your daughter’s hopes with it?"

Lucifer locked his gaze on Alastor, cold and calculating. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke, low and dangerous.

"Stay out of my way, Alastor. Or you’ll learn how much of a storm I can truly be."

Alastor’s smile returned, gleaming with satisfaction. "Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it, Lucifer." He bowed mockingly. "But let me know when you’re ready to admit you need me."

Lucifer turned on his heel, wings folding against his back. "Remember your place, Radio Demon," he growled, walking away.

As Alastor’s words lingered, Lucifer stood resolute, wings poised and powerful. With a final glare, he left, the door swinging shut behind him. The conversation sealed but left behind a promise of further clashes, an inevitable dance neither could escape.

[psalacanthea]

WiP Wednesday

Since Durge and Gortash won the Friday poll, I'll pull something out of the other BG3 fic for WiP day. My pace with the new chapter is a little slow, between taking a week off and now dealing with Pain, but hopefully tomorrow I'll be able to focus enough to make some real progress.

From the Astarion x Tav longfic, a little bit of WiP for your amusement. (if you would like to be tagged to do your own in the future, pls let me know)

...

“Well, if you used that sensible mind you keep claiming to have, you’d know that obviously I’m her patron,” Astarion sneered at Shadowheart.  His voice relaxed, going lazy and dismissive once more.  “And muse, naturally.”

Zyn considered drawing a gigantic curly moustache on her sketch of him.  It was rude to interrupt.  “My peerage or lack thereof has not yet been shared– please avoid making assumptions about me.”  No, this wasn’t right.  He looked too…neat and tidy.  She grimaced at her sketch, and then glanced back up at her subject.  “Could I see a little more collarbone on the left side?”

“I’m not giving it away,” Astarion scoffed.

��Darling it’s for aesthetics, not expression of base lechery,” she begged.  “Your neckline is too symmetrical, it doesn’t give me ‘careless dandy’.”

Astarion scowled at her, lifting her stolen goblet as he demanded, “regal!  Make me look regal!”

How dare he not trust her artistic acumen.

“Even if your life depended on you appearing ‘regal’, I doubt I could oblige,” she snapped. "You egregious twink."

Shadowheart laughed faintly.

Astarion gasped, lifting a hand to his chest. His not nearly bared-enough chest.  “How dare you!  I am your patron! I could have you thrown out on the street!”

“Oh please, if there’s one thing upstart would-be nobles need, it’s portrait painters.  There’ll be another dozen of you by teatime.  You can dictate when you pay me, you contrary piss-puddle”  Zyn added shading to his neck, pausing as she glanced up to find his eyes on her.  He didn’t look angry, despite the insult.  He was smiling.  Ugh, that was the wrong expression entirely!  “Tilt your chin to the side!  Again. I told you to stop moving.”

Astarion sighed in annoyance and rolled his head to the left, hair swaying.

“I have no idea what’s going on, and yet I can’t look away,” Shadowheart said.

She settled down abruptly, pausing with one hand on the ground to snag one of Astarion’s pillows.  He made an irritated noise, but didn’t bother retaliating.  Zyn’s briefly riled mood flared up again.  Why could she have a pillow, but Zyn hadn’t been allowed one?

Traitor!

Zyn glared at Astarion until he glanced away from the goblet of wine he was staring into contemplatively. Her nose wrinkled as their eyes met. The pasty reprobate sighed heavily, eyes rolling skyward.

"What now?"

“You’ll not be welcome in my bed any longer if I catch you giving someone preferential treatment over me,” she threatened him.

“You–"  Astarion stared at her in shock, and then laughed, lifting a hand to his mouth. "Aha. Ha!" He dissolved into laughter as he sprawled back onto his pillows, ignoring her scowl.

Zyn slapped her stub of twine-wrapped pencil down on the paper, leaving a crumbled line as the tip snapped. "Stop it."

“Hah! I can’t believe you actually thought that would work!”

“I mean it, this is serious!” she whined as he started laughing over her again, throwing his head back. “You blaggard! That's it. It's moustache time.”

[radiomurdeer]

I see people asking a lot about affiliates and if anyone wants to be affiliates and figured I'd just make a post. I know people use terms interchangably but they're not actually interchangable. The terms refer to specific things and I think a lot of people are new to the Tumblr rpc and just making guesses on how things work based on what they're seeing. There's also less rp helper blogs in general so some of this stuff fell out of common knowledge / people don't have the context on why the terms are such.

Mains: people you prioritize when doing replies. This is usually discussed between muns, and often is something that develops naturally. Sometimes they may be referenced in other replies or asks but not always.

Exclusive: I will only write that character with you. So it would be like me, an Alastor, only interacted with one Vox blog and did not interact with other Vox. As with mains, it's usually something discussed between muns and develops naturally.

Affiliates: a closed rp group. These are NOT mains but it's what people often get it mixed up with. Affiliates means that you are sharing your main verse with this group. That the events that happen on their blogs influence your own and vice versa. That these other blogs are INTEGRAL to your blog's main verse. That when you get an ask about a character, you will reply referencing the blog within the group. The term is from when there were two kinds of blogs in the rpc community, independent and affiliated. Affiliated blogs went down in popularity as Discord rose, since the groups just moved to servers instead. Generally to get on with an affiliated group you have to apply, and keep up a level of activity. There are often events for only that group, and they don't often allow duplicates.

Bonus:

Group verse: the independent's answer to affiliates. This may or may not be closed. An example of a closed verse would be the war on heaven one that I think cast-you-dxwn and hellsirenqueen are running. Single muse slots, by invitation only not everyone can participate. An example of an open one would be staticintone's RAM one. A group verse may or may not be the blog's main verse, and is usually only listed on their verses page and tagged with the verse tag when used.

Even if people don't quite know the reasoning for it, labeling people as affiliates when you mean mains tends to ostracize since the assumption is 'oh they they are already rping with my character, no point in interacting'. If that's your intent with affiliates, go for it. Otherwise maybe rethink the terminology you're using. As writers, we know how important word choice and accuracy is. Hopefully having a little context helps!