#nobody has ever clocked me this accurately

[gayerthanyoulleverbe]

Me and my friend @menaathena made kin lists today and I got absoloutely DRAGGED.

Anyway it was all in good fun go check out her artwork she fucking rocks

[happyhauntt]

bury these bones — spencer reid.

writing masterlist | askbox

─── summary: spencer's day isn't anything more than average, but a surprise phone call and impromptu hospital visit have him rethinking his expectations.

─── pairing: spencer reid x autistic!medical examiner!reader.

─── warnings: fluff, a little angst, reader is autistic & a mom, no use of y/n. swearing. mild description of injuries (not serious), references to the 'lauren' arc of season 6, hospitals, this is mostly just flirting with a bit of background angst. i did do some research but honestly all facts & figures in this are probably Not Accurate and should absolutely never be repeated.

─── word count: 1.9k.

     IT ISN’T OFTEN THAT SPENCER is the first one into the office. More often than not, Hotch is already at his desk by the time dawn breaks, and Morgan can usually be found finishing up in the gym. Nobody ever expects Rossi to arrive on time — he usually strolls in a little after 9:30 with his blazer slung over his arm and a half-finished espresso in his hand — and Emily maintains some semblance of a work-life balance by appearing no sooner than work is supposed to start, if she can help it.

     The point, Spencer supposes, is that his routine usually falls comfortably in the middle and yet, today, as he emerges from the elevator and heads towards his desk, the bullpen is almost eerily quiet.

     Bizarre, he thinks, setting his bag down by his chair. The BAU is so often abuzz with activity, the low hum of worker bees all in a hive slipping into background noise, that to see it so empty is… jarring, to say the least.

     Spencer heads for the kitchen after a moment, ears ringing in the silence, and makes a pot of coffee before meandering back to his desk. A glance at the clock tells him that it’s still early, and as a mouthful of too-sweet coffee sits on his tongue, he reaches into his bag and draws out today’s paper, flipping through to the crossword.

     Silence is golden, after all. If he’s lucky, he’ll beat his personal best.

     He’s halfway through, about to move on to 6, down, when the phone rings. The shrill sound of it pierces the air, and Spencer can’t help flinching a little as it startles him. Eyes dart all over the bullpen, trying to locate the source of the noise, before they land on Emily's desk. The offending phone trills on and on. One of the lights blinks red. External call.

     He discards the newspaper on his desk, tucking a spare pen inside so the page isn’t lost, and strides across the office to Emily’s desk to answer the phone. It won’t be the first time he’s taken a message for one of his coworkers, and he suspects Emily would rather this than letting the call ring out.

     “Agent Prentiss’ phone.” His voice feels too loud in the sudden silence of the office, now that the ringing has ceased. “Dr. Reid speaking. Can I help you?”

     “Dr. Reid?” The voice crackling down the line lilts with confusion, and his chest floods with warmth at the familiarity of it.

     He can almost picture you, in his mind’s eye. The exact expression on your face as you hear him speak instead of Emily, the little scrunch of your nose, your head tilting to the side. It’s the same look you have when you find something strange inside a cadaver.

     The same bewildered wrinkle appears between your brows when you’re on the plane after a case and Spencer’s trying to teach you how to play chess, and you start to laugh and tell him you’re hopeless, but his persistence is endearing, so you let him explain the rules all over again.

     (You’ve only been part of the team for a few months, only accompanied them on cases a handful of times, but the sound of your voice is as familiar to him as the moon on a winter’s night. He can’t quite put his finger on when or how he became so attuned to you, drawn in the same way the moon pulls the tide, but he’s certainly not complaining.)

     “I keep telling you to call me Spencer.” An amused smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

     You scoff. “That’s not professional.”

     “Our technical analyst tucks fluffy pens into her hair, and on our last case together I walked in on you dancing to Abba in the middle of an autopsy. I think professionalism is a thing of the past.”

     “Bite me, Dr. Reid,” you say, but your words are flooded with affection. “Where’s Prentiss? Why are you answering her phone?”

     Spencer shrugs. “She’s not in yet. Anything I can help with?”

     Silence. If not for the sound of your breathing, Spencer might think the call dropped.

     Another moment passes before you swallow thickly, a quiet gulp that sends an odd zing skittering through Spencer’s nervous system.

     “I need a favour and I don’t want to worry Jackie.”

     From what he’s heard about your sister-in-law, Spencer thinks that’s fair. “Sure, what is it?”

     “Can you pick me up from the hospital?”

     Recent surveys conducted by NORC at the University of Chicago suggest that almost half of the American population dislike hospitals, so Spencer knows he’s not alone in his discomfort, but none of his facts and figures are helpful the moment he steps into the Emergency Room at St. Sebastian’s.

     The clinical scent of disinfectant sends a thousand tiny spiders crawling up his spine. He tries not to gag but he swears he can taste it at the back of his throat. Spencer forces himself to pause near the door and shuts his eyes, just for a moment, to focus on the solid ground beneath his feet rather than the lurching of his stomach.

     In his line of work, he’s no stranger to hospitals. To meandering through long, dim corridors in search of something to occupy his thoughts, of all the beige and stark white walls so bright it hurts his eyes, of lumpy hospital beds and IVs itching beneath his skin and that smell.

     He was here, not that long ago. He’d wept when they told him Emily had died in surgery, and she’s fine now, but he can still taste iron on his tongue and sometimes it’s still hard to believe she’s alive until she walks through the door unharmed.

     When he opens his eyes again, the ER is still the same, but the unpleasant churning in his stomach has started to subside. At the desk, he reels off your name, stuttering as he goes, before the nurse directs him over to Bay 3.

     I was in a car accident. That’s what you’d said on the phone, and his whole body had gone suddenly cold even though you’d seemed oddly cheery, and he’d had to remind himself to breathe. You were calling, not a nurse or a doctor, so it surely couldn’t be that bad.

     But he doesn’t believe it, not really. Not until he sets eyes on you himself. Not until he can see the truth right in front of him.

     You’re sitting cross-legged on one of the narrow ER beds. The curtain is pushed out of the way, and he can see your shoes have been tucked neatly beside the bed and your socks have little mushrooms on them. You’re not in a hospital gown but jeans, and a laugh bubbles up in his throat because your shirt says ‘meaner than I look’, which is patently untrue in his experience — but he also files this away in the rolodex of reasons you should call him Spencer, because you were going to show up to work dressed like this, and he never wants to hear the word professional out of your mouth again.

     He also wants to take a picture, kind of, because there’s something so endearing about the image. He’s often grateful to have an eidetic memory, but never more than in this moment. He wants to remember this forever.

     Spencer clears his throat as he approaches. The smile you send him as you look up and notice him is bright and wide and it makes him feel all warm and happy, like a cat curled up in a patch of sunlight.

     “What happened?” His gaze is wary as it trails over you from head to toe, quickly cataloguing all your injuries. You hadn’t explained much over the phone, and he hadn’t thought to ask in his haste to reach the hospital, but now his eyes snag on the bruise blossoming over your cheek and it’s all he can think about.

     You don’t look too bad, all things considered.

     The bruise looks worse than it feels. The collar of your shirt is speckled with blood, but the cut above your temple is shallow and sealed with two steri-strips.

     All-in-all, it could’ve been worse.

     “My tire blew while I was driving into work this morning,” you tell him as you tuck an errant strand of hair behind your ear. “The car spun out. All of this—” You gesture vaguely at your face, “was caused by the airbag. But I’m fine.”

     It’s not that Spencer thinks you’re lying. It’s not.

     But you can’t quite look him in the eye, and you’re wearing the same guilty expression you have when you pilfer the last of the coffee, so he’s not about to take your word for it.

     A quick glance at your chart offers all the answers.

     “You have a concussion!”

     “A mild concussion! Mild! I don’t even have a headache!”

     It’s a good thing you called him— or, well, Emily, rather than your sister-in-law. According to you, Jackie has been known to freak out over a paper cut. This might have given her a coronary.

     Spencer frowns. “You needed a CT scan.”

     “Precautionary measure.” A nonchalant wave of your hand follows your words. “I’m a doctor too, remember? I’m fine. Really.”

     “They say doctors make the worst patients.”

     You grin at him. “I already had a meltdown in the bathroom earlier. Scared a nurse. I think he wanted to sedate me but then he saw my lanyard and he took me to a quiet room to decompress. I’m good, I promise.”

     The lanyard in question is covered in little sunflowers and tucked inside one of your shoes for safekeeping. Displayed on one side of the little plastic window is your Quantico identification; on the other, a little slip of paper Spencer suspects you made yourself, judging by the pink floral background and slanting script that I’m autistic and trying my fucking best.

     The sight of it is familiar to him now, the same way your smile is seared onto his brain for eternity, but he recalls seeing it for the first time and chuckling. You’d offered to get one for him, too, gleefully declaring that you’re just like a sunflower, Dr. Reid, and there’d been so many butterflies in his stomach that he could have taken flight, then and there.

     Now he merely hums, and shoves his hands deep into his pockets. Stepping back, he watches as you slip your shoes back on and shoulder your bag, having signed a release form not long before he arrived.

     “Hey, Spencer?” Your voice is small, and the way you’re looking at him, all wide-eyed and wonderful, brings those butterflies back tenfold. He hopes the flush of his cheeks isn’t too obvious.

     “Yeah?”

     “Thank you for coming to get me. I’m really okay, I promise. I’ve had worse.”

     His heart pinches.

     He doesn’t like that you’ve had worse.

     “Well,” he says, after a moment too long of staring at you, “mild or not, I’m not leaving you alone for the rest of the day. We’re going to follow the concussion protocol. 65% of people reported developing hearing and memory problems as a result of missed symptoms of head-related trauma last year.”

     You’re watching him. The corner of your eyes are a little wrinkled. A fond smile toys on your lips. “I expected nothing less, Dr. Reid.”

[vanillaxoshi]

Elements Seperated - Human form not (really) needed

It’s nice, Gempa thinks, waking up to the warmth of your family, feeling their presence, knowing they’re all here. Safe and sound, but he needs to get up. Slowly not to wake his siblings, the earth spirit made his way out from under the blanket to welcome a new day. He glances at the clock on the table. It’s still early in the morning.

And it seems his older brother already got up too. Old habits die hard huh?

Slipping off the bed, Gempa’s form shift and changes. There’s no need for a detailed human form right away, just whatever will let them function. Both spirits ended up just looking like vaguely humanoid constructs decorated by their elements, but nobody will mind.

“Mrgh… Guys?”

Their master, Boboiboy asked in his sleepy morning voice. He must have woken up because of their absence.

“Yes, we’re here Ori” Gempa touched his forehead against Boboiboy’s, shards of mineral gently brushing Boboiboy’s bed hair out of his face.

“What day is it?”

“It’s a Sunday. You can sleep in if you want”

Boboiboy looks at his current state, surrounded by the still asleep orb elementals, chuckling.

“Yeah, I think I’ll have to be in bed for a bit”

“I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me”

A look in the fridge tells him he’ll probably need to go grocery shopping today, but for now, this is plenty ingredients for both breakfast and lunch, there are also leftovers from yesterday.

At the kitchen area, he spots Hali opening the cupboard with a limb made of red lightning, bringing out a bag of coffee instead of cocoa.

“Coffee?”

Gempa nods. He usually prefers tea but coffee doesn’t sound half bad this morning. The lightning spirit hits a few buttons, and got the coffee machine working. The delightful smell spreads throughout the house, successfully rousing another of their sibling out of sleep.

“Good morning you glorified chandelier”

“Good morning to you too, Hymenopus Coronatus”

No, Solar didn’t cast a spell on Hali. The two are simply calling each other by what they look like now. Gempa goes back to cooking after saying his own good morning to the spirit of light, seeing no reason to worry about a fight.

“I smelled coffee”

“Yeah, making some right now. Want any?”

“Obviously”

The sudden increase in lighting for a brief moment tells huge spirit of earth that Solar just had his coffee.

A warm beverage goes well with this peaceful morning, Gempa thought, as one of his arms brought the cup to his ‘mouth’. Just this finishing touch and breakfast should be ready. Suddenly, the doorbell rang, he could hear the fastest game of rock paper scissors ever happen, and Solar walking towards the door.

It’s natural one would prefer nice home cooked meals over rations, and Fang certainly isn’t the best chef, so eating at Tok Aba and Boboiboy’s house it is then. Not that he would ever admit that out loud, it’s embarrassing. He can give a compliment when it’s due though and it shall be expressed in actions.

But either he misremembered, or something bad has happened, as the one who opened the door… Whoever it is definitely isn’t human. A body made of light with no discernible features save for limbs, hands with blackened tips, and worst of all is their head. It was like one of those ‘biblically accurate angels’ he was shown by Gopal once, golden rings intertwined together, covered in silver eyes and mystical patterns. In the middle of it all, is a white dwarf.

It took Fang a few seconds to process what in the name of stars he just saw, but he reached for the door handle and pushes it back.

“My apologies, it seems I’ve gotten the wrong house-“ the alien said as politely as possible, while frantically trying to close the door.

“Wait a minute- Child it is I- Wait no, Fang it’s me, Solar!” The light spirit was also frantically trying to convince Fang it’s him, while keeping the door open.

Breakfast was nice, but Fang wished he had a warning about the elementals not bothering to look human today.

“Please, transform properly before opening the door?”

“Sorry about that. You know caffeine has no effect on us”

The purple haired alien could only sigh and bury his head in his hands. Now he knows why all those ancient civilizations were so spooked by the elementals

- By your pal, SP Anon

Drew the scenarios :)))

[thehellwemade]

fanfic masterlist (list will be updated)

Here is a small collection of fics I absolutely recommend. Most if not all of these fics are tagged explicit, so please beware of both ratings and tags, as they may vary. Please enjoy and remember; don't like, don't read.

Fandom:

Heaven Official's Blessing

No Paths Are Bound by Cataclysmic_Calamity (Explicit, Hua Cheng/Xie Lian, Wordcount: 1,158,737) Slow Burn A re-telling of TGCF where Xie Lian has his cursed shackle placed in his eyes, blinding him. And yet, through all of his struggles; there is always someone watching over him.

Haikyuu!!

Conquering The Great King by SuggestiveScribe (Explicit, Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru, Wordcount: 105,691) AU Iwaizumi blinked his gaze over to Oikawa, "Last time was supposed to be a one time thing," he said, voice low, lacking some conviction. Oikawa's lips twitched into a smirk and he brought them hovering just over Iwaizumi's, "One time thing, Two time thing, what's it matter as long as it's not a Relationship thing?"

Love In The Air

Invisible Ladders by surrealsunday (Explicit, Prapai/Sky, Wordcount: 204,556) Omegaverse, Enemies to Lovers Sky lives by one rule: Alphas are assholes. It’s that simple. And Sky isn’t ever going to be the demure, subservient omega he’s expected to be… never again. That worldview is turned upside down when Prapai steps into the picture – or more accurately, saves Sky’s ass. He’s everything Sky expects – pushy, cocky, arrogant – and everything he doesn’t – genuine, forthright, kind. Sky doesn’t know what to make of him and can’t seem to escape him. And then there’s that small matter of biology…

Kinnporsche

The Mortifying Ordeal of Falling In Love by Hawkshadow (Explicit, Vegas/Pete, Wordcount: 17,301) “If I had to rate you?” Pete pauses and tilts his head with a low hum, considering. “I dunno, a six out of ten? I thought you were a sadist, but you didn’t really give that impression. Are you actually kinky? That didn’t feel kinky. It didn’t do it for me.” Vegas looks like someone punched him. Hard. His cock is still out and his hair is rumpled and he looks devastatingly disheveled, like Pete was the one who just took Vegas apart and not the other way around. Or a fic in which Vegas fucks through all of Kinn’s bodyguards and lands on Pete, but Pete uno reverses it on Vegas leaving Vegas wanting so much more. Vegas gets humiliated and has to work for it.

For You (I'd Burn The World To The Ground) by cuteandtwisted (Mature, Kinn/Porsche, Wordcount: 41,765) Mutual Pining, Angst with a happy ending Porsche is Kinn's most vicious bodyguard. Feared by most and respected by all, he flinches at nothing and fears no one. (And if he feels his knees give out whenever Kinn enters the room, then nobody has to know.) Or: AU where Porsche grew up at the compound after his parents died serving the main family and spent his childhood/teenage years annoying his way into Kinn's thoughts (and heart), before an 'incident' turned him into Kinn's most lethal weapon.

I Gave A Second Chance To Cupid by haeseolar (Explicit, Kinn/Porsche, Wordcount: 61,195) Slow Burn, AU - Teachers, Romantic comedy, a lil angst Kinn sighs, glancing nervously at the clock on the wall. Two minutes, he promises himself, and then he’ll go figure out where the hell his class has disappeared off to.

Want and Need by bisexualbard (Explicit, Kim/Porchay, Wordcount: 49,237) Pining, CamBoy!Porchay Chay makes an OnlyFans, goes to therapy, drinks too much caffeine, and thinks about what he wants. Kim is just along for the ride. - Sequel/Kim's POV listed below.

The Miserable Art of Finding Your Words And Learning To Use Them by bisexualbard (Explicit, Kim/Porchay, Wordcount: 54,697) Kim reads some self-help books, plays a farming sim, bonds with brother’s boyfriend, and learns to use his words. Chay is just working on himself (and his amateur porn). - Kim's POV from Want and Need.

Ateez

Rebirth; A New Age by Roserosierosy (Explicit, Kim Hongjoong/Park Seonghwa, Wordcount: 257,865) ZombieApocalypse!AU, Enemies to Lovers Seonghwa attempts to survive during a zombie apocalypse and ends up meeting six loyal men and one incredibly cold-hearted leader to keep him company as they try to make it out alive.

Note: Although this fic is the second in the series on AO3, it is a flushed out and fully written version of the first one. 100% recommend to read this one before the first one, as they encompass the same story. Also, I have listed the sequel to this story below :)

I Found My Home In You by Roserosierosy (Explicit, Kim Hongjoong/Park Seonghwa, Wordcount: 48,674) ZombieApocalypse!Au Sequel to Rebirth; A New Age. Set fifteen years later.

BTS

Caustic by deepslowpanic (Explicit, Namjoon/Yoongi, Wordcount: 50,000) AU - Underground rappers, Enemies to Lovers, Slow burn Namjoon has had enough of Min Yoongi. The smug and cocky rapper always seems to know what to say to get under Namjoon’s skin to rile him up. All Namjoon wants is to defeat him, show Yoongi he belongs there so he’ll finally shut up. But then Namjoon finds Yoongi in an alley, beaten and bloody. Helping Yoongi isn’t easy, especially when it forces Namjoon to confront his own demons to find where he really belongs.

When It All Comes Down by JezebelSpeaks (Explicit, Yoongi/Hoseok, Wordcount: 88,248) AU, Angst With A Happy Ending, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn Yoongi is past the point where it surprises him. Hoseok has always caught his eye. It is what it is. Yoongi can live with it. Or Yoongi loves Hobi (not the whole story)

MCU

Keep Those Secrets Safe by ecaitlin (Explicit, Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes, Wordcount: 100,176) AU, Brainwashing, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining After being declared dead in a plane crash on the way to Paris, James Buchanan Barnes appears out of nowhere five years later and everyone wants to know what happened to him. All Bucky wants is to go back to the life he was forced to leave behind, but he quickly realizes that not everything is exactly as he left it.

Choices We're Given by ecaitlin (Explicit, Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes, Wordcount: 51,534) AU, Assassin!Bucky Steve Rogers is a good man and a good agent. There's really no excuse for the assassin in his bed.

The Witcher

Lavender by vands38 (Explicit, Geralt/Jaskier, Wordcount: 84,454) Porn With Feelings, Angst, Eventual Happy Ending A love story in 30 (sex) acts.

[kremlin]

you know, i don't do the super longform posts like i used to, i mean to say, i don't post them anymore, but i still do write looooong ass walls of text, they don't ever make it to my blog. idk. on re-read they all have a very distinctive, unmistakable smell of "bus stop crazy" to them, and even after fixing all the grammar mistakes & forgotten words & etc they graduate from nutcase scribblings to "manifesto"

all those posts go to pastebin, anonymously, and then on to reddit, which is a huge pain, i have to farm throwaway accounts for like a year, not posting at all, before i can post a pastebin link and not have it be spam filtered, just to gauge how accurate my self-assessment is. it doesn't work because nobody reads it, unlike this blog, where 5-6 people read it.

and even that isn't working due to a wild phenomenon. when you write about niche subjects unappetizing to a normal audience, it only really makes its way to the same freaks that you're already friends with. in my case, these are people i've spoken with at great length solely textually over the internet, for like, twenty fuckin years. it probably wouldn't surprise you to know that they can clock something i've written like eight sentences in. and this sucks, it defeats the purpose of trying to hide my Shame Posts from the world with anonymity, so let me tell you what i did.

i tried just, you know, making a conscious effort to write in the most unkremlin way possible, and the result was indifferentiable than something i wrote normally. like, didn't even fool them any longer than otherwise. sure. fine. i guess that isn't interesting. but i wasn't satisfied.

so i call in an owed favor to a buddy that has zero language skills, like, unless you are speaking to him and standing in front of him, every message, regardless of platform, will read like a business email, signature and all. total dingus. he's like 26 & perpetually on welfare, (like all elite programmers) but writes like he's your dad sending email with that fancy corporate-branded-outlooko client that auto-appends some long ass disclaimer to all your email. anyways, that's besides the point, i gave him something i wrote & asked him to rewrite it in his own voice. no dice. "this sounds like something kremlin wrote but he's doing some kind of joke i don't understand, or maybe he got hit in the head". fuck. so i write a WHOLE new thing, not even solely focused on some niche subject that auto-reduces the potential culprits to like 5 people, and i give his ass the broad strokes of what i wrote and asked him to flesh it out. only a marginal improvement. they still nailed me after just a bit more thinking.

so fuck it. i hit up "Gunther" which i don't have the right keys on my keyboard to type properly, there's two dots over the U. gunther is very clearly a german guy, which you can tell on account of him speaking German, and when you speak to him in english, he's all "wast ist das" and shit. so i try giving HIM the broad strokes and having him re-create it, which was an idea/concept he did not grasp fully or understand on account of us not really sharing a language exactly. guess what. it wasn't immediately recognized, at least, it took about an hour for them to deduce i was the author, and at this point i have given up, i have lost because these increasingly cartoon antics have become my signature, and i will never be able to escape the shame of my Weird Bad Writing. they even figured out it was gunther sort-of-ghostwriting it, since it didn't have the quirks of software translation & was sent using some fucking ISO/IEC charset that europeans prefer over utf-8, at least the ones i talk to, for completely unknown reasons. they try and explain it, and i can't figure out what they're talking about, not because i don't speak french & german but because i don't speak ÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈÈ

i will never -- and this is a solemn promise -- write in any other way than to bang out the whole thing in 1 hour, never organizing anything, never looking backwards even 2-3 words, never *ever* proofreading (i get someone else to do it for me with explicit instructions to only fix grammar & highlight completely incomprehensible gibberish that they couldn't decipher for my reluctant fixing). i will also never stop posting it.

[stainedglassthreads]

A lot of people have been talking about that new Undertale book that is available for pre-order. Obviously I don’t have it, so I can’t confirm or deny anything said within it. But I heard, in a section talking about how important the number three is to Undertale, it mentioned there only being three Dreemurrs. 

@/under-lore has dissected this, as well as there apparently being ‘three entities controlling the vessel’, and it does seem like something that can be called accurate. But it also just. Makes me incredibly sad? Just like how fanfics and AUs deciding the only way for a happy ending is to kill Flowey, it makes me sad when Chara, who was loved by the Dreemurrs so deeply, who monsterkind seemed to consider one of them, is considered ‘not a part of the happy family’. I obviously can’t tell why every single fanartist chooses not to include Chara, and I didn’t pay for any of that art so it’s not like I can complain about or dictate their artistic choices. But just... it’s sad. 

They fell into the Dreemurrs’ lives, they brought hope, they ruined everything, and now nobody even says their name aside from Asriel. They are the reason things are the way they are in the Underground now, but they’re also gone, but they may not have considered themselves the Dreemurrs’ kid, but they also made a sweater that says ‘Mr Dad Guy’ so maybe they did, or just wanted to make Asgore happy by pretending they did, or did it as a favor to Asriel? 

I dunno. Maybe the book was wrong, or meant ‘three boss monsters’ instead of ‘three Dreemurrs’. Maybe Chara felt they didn’t deserve to be a part of the family being human, or had bad hangups about people who are their ‘family’, as many headcanons of their backstory involve them either losing family members or coming from a highly abusive home. 

It’s also kinda interesting in a way, though? Kris experiences a lot of dysphoria about being human, but they DO seem to be considered by everyone, the town, Toriel, and Asgore, as being ‘Asriel’s sibling’. Everyone doesn’t refer to them and Asriel as being ‘like siblings’, Asriel is repeatedly referred to as Kris’ brother. Kris is viewed by many as being ‘Deltarune Chara’, and while I strongly believe Toby WANTS you to compare Kris to both Frisk and Chara, this could be a deliberate difference to further establish Kris as their own person. While both Kris and Chara have a deep discomfort with humanity, Kris considers themself a Dreemurr, while Chara considers themself ‘disposable’ or just ‘a soul’.  

Frisk, meanwhile, has the choice at the end of the game of deciding to stay with Toriel or go other places. If they do stay with Toriel, nothing ever says that they consider Asgore their father, or Asriel and Chara their siblings. Certain AUs, such as Inverted Fate, have Frisk choose to stay with someone who isn’t Toriel as their ‘family’. Perhaps they consider themself an honorary Dreemurr(it certainly is a popular headcanon), but there’s no confirmation that they do or don’t. 

At any rate. The book is interesting, but whether it’s ‘canon’ or not depends on your definition of canon. It grants a new way of looking at and contextualizing the game, but people are entirely free to just play the game and never even touch bonus materials such as the Winter Alarm Clock Dialogue and the book, there is a valid point of view that a story should be self-contained and not require materials published after the fact to be understood properly. 

[stevensaus]

Measuring Time At The Turning Of Another Year

This is one of my favorite essays from my time in the military. It’s from 2001 – I know, because I mention snow. New Year’s Day 2000 for me was temperate and mild -- which seems like that's going to be the norm from here on out. It predates ever-present cell phones with built-in NTP clients. But this lesson still stays. “It’s okay. My watch is set to atomic time.” I knew better, yet I briefly expected to see a small nuclear generator strapped to his wrist, ticking the seconds away with radioactive precision. But no, it was just a regular plastic wristwatch (though with calculator pad and memory function) set just that morning to the most accurate time in the world. Apparently even more accurate than even the ticker clock on the Weather Channel, which disagreed with the watch by four seconds. Normally, such a small difference would be insignificant, but this was different. This was important. Someone – nobody was quite sure who – had noticed that we were running out of year. That there were only minutes left until midnight – few seconds remained of the first (or last, depending on how you want to count) year of the millenium. The previously subdued party erupted in a frenzy of channel-flipping, trying to locate the ageless Dick Clark or, failing that, a ball dropping somewhere in the world: an effort to find an “official” countdown to chant with. There are times when it becomes painfully obvious that I no longer live on the East Coast; New Year’s is the most obvious of them. As the channels flipped by, news, after-midnight televised parties resplendent with second-rate pop icons and drunken hordes, and even the occasional rerun of a sitcom confronted us. It seemed that our only timekeeping salvation would be in the precision of a small quartz diode, only hours ago calibrated to the National Institute of Standards and Technology atomic clock, a feat made possible by technology and an Internet connection. “We’ve still got three minutes,” the watch-holder announced. The relief was tangible – for a moment there, we were afraid we’d missed it entirely. Paces slowed, and our final preparations continued at a more sedate pace. That is, until the bathroom door swung open, and another guest who had missed the ruckus raised their watch aloft. “I set my watch to atomic time this morning! We’ve only got sixty seconds left!” I caught sight of my reflection in the window; outside the night was dark and freezing, moonlight shone upon the snow. Behind me the ghostly reflections of people scurried, bearing hats, noisemakers, poppers, champagne. Someone was making sure the kids – collectively and safely sequestered downstairs – were on-cue and taken care of. And we had no idea if the New Year had come yet. Did our resolutions count yet? Did we have time for a last cigarette, a last sugary snack, a final drink? Was it time to kiss someone, or wish for someone to kiss? Should we be toasting, singing, reminding our loved ones that they were our loved ones after all? Was it time yet to start fresh, to wipe the slate clean and try to do things a little better than we had before? Nobody knew for certain – the watches disagreed with the television channels, and all of them disagreed among themselves. No ball (or Dick Clark) was visible yet, and suggestions flew back and forth. “Try CBS.” “ABC! Dick Clark’s on ABC!” “Headline News always has a clock!” The mood was nearly frantic – several of the timekeepers already claimed we were in the New Year. Then: “Why don’t we just say we have twenty seconds left and start counting?” In a rollercoaster of emotion, the thought ran through our brains. Suddenly, we would decide when our New Year began. We, nobody else, would decide when to start anew, to hold ourselves to our resolutions, to love our families and remember our friends. From there, from that simple idea, realization spun outward: If it was possible to just say that the New Year began whatever time we wanted today, then we could do the same each day. Every day, every midnight, every minute could be a New Year, a new chance, a new opportunity. The New York ball suddenly glistened upon the television in gaudy glory; someone had found it. It was a replay; Mayor Guiliani smiling as the seconds counted downward an hour ago (despite the “LIVE” blazoned in the upper-left hand corner). Dutifully, we joined in, chanting away seconds with the televised throng; distanced by thousands of miles and nearly an hour of time. It was several minutes into the New Year, poppers popped and champagne drunk, that we noticed that the ball hadn’t agreed with either of the disagreeing watches, both meticulously set to atomic time. Featured Image by Nick from Pixabay Read the full article

[rystarkov]

Jealousy, Jealousy

Hi there! I never make posts and I’ve never written anything before, but I have the strongest urge to write Druig fanfic! So, here you go! This story will be about a girl named Evie who is also an Eternal, with her powers focusing on energy manipulation and also being telekinetic. She is closest with Druig and Thena, but Druig is like her platonic other half. She has been in love with him since the day they met, but he’s only ever had eyes for another. Enjoy!

Ever since the day we arrived, I have loved the planet Earth. The beings on this planet are different than the rest of them and as each day passes, I feel my love and admiration for the human race growing. I’ve seen them fight, kill, and be horrible to one another, but i’ve also seen them love like no other. The way they protect and care for both their young and their old always leaves me in shambles, which Druig never fails to make fun of me for. He says I shouldn’t get attached, yet I always see him breaking up fights whenever he gets the chance.

My name is Evie and I am thousands of years old, yet I still have the impulsive tendencies and looks of a twenty year old. According to Ajak, all of us have been helping planets grow, thrive, and flourish while protecting them from Deviants. I wouldn’t know, as all I can remember is the day that I met Druig.

I remember Ajak’s calm and inviting voice saying,

“It is time. Welcome to Earth.”

I could not remember who I was before this, or what my purpose on this journey could have been, but I could never forget the beautiful yet smug man that stood to my right. I remember looking over and making brief eye contact with him before quickly looking away, as my cheeks began to involuntarily blush.

I did not know who he was or even who I was, yet his allure still drew me in.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I heard Sersi say, unknowingly beginning a love story with Ikaris that would span lifetimes. I briefly forgot about the gorgeous being to my right and ran over to the window, gazing out at the planet before me.

“She sure is.” I turned around, hoping it was the beautiful man that was complimenting me, yet I found that his words had actually been directed towards another, and that they were staring lovingly into each other’s eyes.

Since that day, I have known no peace and I fear I never will. All I know is that I will always come second in Druig’s eyes, no matter how badly or how much I am completely and utterly in love with him.

“You’re staring again.”

I blink and look away, grateful yet annoyed at Thena’s accurate observation, and quickly shift my body in an attempt to pretend to be watching Sersi dancing with the locals.

“I was not! I was zoning out. There’s a difference, Thena.”

Thena rolls her eyes and scoffs, “You know, I’m surprised he doesn’t know already. He can read your mind, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“He can’t read mine, Theen. I remember he tried once when he couldn’t figure out why I was crying that one day, but I blocked him.”

I watch with an unamused look all night, as everyone has the time of their lives and I’m ready to go to sleep. The night passes by and Ajak has rounded us all up again as we head back to the ship to turn in for the evening. I bid everyone goodnight and they don’t blink twice, knowing that we all have had a long day and that I simply must be tired.

I gasp as I shoot up in my bed, beads of sweat dripping down my forehead as I feel my heart beating out of my chest. I had another nightmare, and I groan in frustration over the impeccable timing of it all. I look over at the clock and read, “2:43 AM.”

I get up to grab a glass of water as I quickly realize i’m not sleeping again anytime soon, heading out of my room only to come across Druig and Makkari having a late night conversation in Phastos’s lab.

“Evie! What are you doing up? Is everything okay?”

Makkari signed to me, the usual concerned look in her eyes. Everybody on board knows about my chronic night terrors, yet nobody (not even Ajak) could do anything to silence them.

Druig looked at me with annoyance in his eyes, as I had unintentionally killed whatever mood he had been attempting to set between him and the speedster.

You couldn’t have waited to get a glass of water? You knew I was in here.

I rolled my eyes as I grabbed my water from the fridge, of course I knew. But I would never tell him that.

I’m sorry Dru, I forgot! I’ll be quick, don’t worry! I hope the date is going well, I mean it.

I turned around as I finished my thought, and Druig gave me a soft smile. I knew he wasn’t actually annoyed with me, but the sting of him on a date with somebody who wasn’t me didn’t hurt any less.

“Sorry to bother you both, I’m going to head back to my room. See you in the morning!” I signed to both Makkari and Druig, with Makkari giving me the sweetest smile and the cutest goodnight in sign language.

Druig, however, gave me a pointed look, which I knew meant that we will talk about everything in the morning.

As I walked away, I couldn’t get my mind to quiet down. My mind was racing with anxiety from my nightmare, worries about my disheveled appearance in front of Druig and Makkari, and how I had finally come to the conclusion that I was in love with my best friend.

I practically ran to my room and threw open the door, most likely alerting the others of my distress but in that moment I didn’t care. I was angry, hurt, upset, and experiencing a pain I had never felt before: heartbreak.

Why not me? Why couldn’t he have found me beautiful, charming, adorable, and all of the things he sees in Makkari? We come to each other for everything, yet I will always be “just a friend.”

I want him to hold me while I sleep, I want him to give me forehead kisses and remind me of my beauty everyday, I want him to hold my hand and see me as the light of his life like he is to me. I want to be loved, but instead I’m all alone.

I begin to heave and suddenly my cheeks are soaked with the tears I never let fall until this very moment. I will never forget the way he looked at me when I interrupted the date, and then how he looked at Makkari right after as if she was the Sun and he was planet Earth, happily tied together in harmony.

The objects in my room begin to shake and I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t believe it’s me, as my power is quite simple. I can read minds, nothing more and nothing less. Makkari can run faster than the speed of light, and she looks effortlessly beautiful while doing it. Thena can create any weapon she pleases and win every single battle with ease, Gilgamesh can destroy an enemy with one single punch, Ikaris can shoot energy beams out of his eyes and fly around the entire globe without a second thought, Sersi can connect well with others and transform anything into whatever she wants, Ajak can heal with the slightest touch, Sprite can create allusions with the flick of a wrist, and Kingo can create orbs of energy that will leave an enemy either dead or close to it.

What can I do? Read minds. That’s literally it. When it comes to missions, I mainly stay on the ship. I am good at reading the minds of both humans and Deviants, as I can sense their presence, but Druig can do the same but better. I have no purpose, I am just dead weight to the people I consider my family.

I fall to the ground as the room begins to feel smaller and tighter, with the tears becoming more and more difficult to wipe away as there are too many. There’s wind in the room yet I am not commanding it. I feel a scream begin to bubble up in my throat as the realization of being both unloved and useless hits me like a punch.

Suddenly, I am thrown back against the wall and I let out the most guttural scream I have ever made in my entire existence. I continue screaming as the room fills with a bright blue hue and the side walls of my room are blasted out. I have no idea what is happening or who is doing that, all I know is I need to let my frustration out.

I feel an overwhelming surge of power engulf me and it feels warm, comforting, and familiar, as if this power or ability has been waiting for me to finally embrace whatever I have unknowingly been keeping down.

“Evie! Evie, are you alright? What is going on in there?” I hear Ajak yell throw my door, but I don’t care. I feel good for once, I feel like myself again.

I’m tired of being the girl that is always put last, that is never considered as beautiful or strong or desired. I am tired of Druig not loving me back and having to face that pain over and over again every time I step outside my bedroom walls.

I now know that sitting by and letting the world walk all over me is not the journey that was intended for me.

While my love does not love me, my chaos and my heartbreak do not ruin me. In fact, it was my chaos that made me beautiful.

[dreamingofchickens]

“Tommy is snake.”

Dream: monologues a cool ass speech that accurately describes his character using snake metaphors of all things, explaining the reasoning for his actions but not excusing it, all the while keeping it in character. And it works. It’s great. Very c!Dream. 

Non-Dreblr hot take: Tommy is snake. Dream is the hawk kicking the Tommy-snake. 

W H A T. 

No. But—what. 

Hold up. 

“I’m not gonna stop until you put me down. Because I’m no longer protecting my eggs. They’re already gone.”  

Does that sound like Tommy to you? 

Tommy is not the snake. I am at a profound loss as to how you could connect 'Dream Snake speech = Tommy'. The speech isn’t describing Tommy. It doesn’t ‘fit’ Tommy more. The speech isn't even about Tommy.  

Just because Tommy was traumatized doesn't mean you get to dehumanize Dream. That doesn't mean you get to reduce him to a power-hungry villain who abandoned his allies and only cares for himself and not much else. That doesn't mean you get to take his speech, a speech literally about that, a speech he made for himself, "a reserved guy" (aka an emotionally repressed bastard), expressing his feelings in the only way he knows how, in the only way he won't be judged for it, the culmination of all his past trauma and the main driving force of his character and use to further your own agenda. For fuck’s sake, he acts like someone hurt, who hides his pain because his pain has never been validated, ever. (Punz and Techno aside, it really hasn’t.) You speak of how Dream is a hawk who cares for nobody and nothing at all but kicking the Tommy-snake, but that's missing the point. Dream is the snake, not Tommy. Tommy would never be the snake, because he would never be Dream, and weaponizing someone else's trauma for shitty reasons is filthy and awful and something he himself will never condone–how would you think he’d react to Quackity justifying torture by claiming it was for Tommy? 

Dream is the snake, because the speech is Dream indirectly admitting to himself that Dream cared, because like the snake cared so much for those eggs, Dream cared so much for what was his, and just cause a snake's hiss isn't as loud as a hawk's call or if their body runs cold doesn't mean they don't. Care.  Dream is the snake because nobody sees him as human enough, so much so it's been drilled into his head (he was literally tortured). Dream is the snake BECAUSE he did bite back, because he'd been cornered, because it was a last resort, because in his mind he tried literally everything else, but biting was the only thing that worked. He wouldn't be the snake otherwise. 

Dream is the snake because it's not upset about being kicked too much, of being hurt, of being reduced to a mindless beast, because all of that is nothing—nothing—compared to the loss of his eggs. His nest was threatened, and he was supposed to protect them and now they're gone. This is Dream, telling the story of a snake silently crying for help until there had been no point anymore. This is Dream, speaking of loss. This is Dream, and he is lost, and devastated, and it's a fucking tragedy. 

The point is that Dream doesn't need to become a hawk. A snake can just be a snake. A snake is capable of hurting others. A snake is equally capable of loving others. A 'villain' is capable of grief, of loss, of love, of hate born from love. 

Did you ever think about that? 

Do you? 

______________________________________________________________

“Cause imagine the snake finally decides: Fuck you. I-I am just gonna bite. I'm gonna lie in wait in this bush, gonna watch your ankles go by, the clock ticking while venom slowly fills my fangs, and I'm not going to stop until you put me down. Because I'm no longer protecting my eggs, they're already gone. They were stolen by the hawks when you chased me away from my nest. So, some snakes do just bite. Do I? Do you? Not even once?” 

P.S. This is not an attack, more like an explanation after the straw the broke the camel's back. I'm just really upset. So much that I practically came out of lurking because as much as this has been a goldmine of a month for c!Dream and Dreblr content, I’ve been seeing just as many takes that just rub me the wrong way. I get that for many Tommy is their comfort character, but for some of us, c!Dream IS their comfort character. I have so many emotions for this green blob, and when they tried taking this too... I just want people to understand that Dream isn't a Disney villain, he's a person too. He's fucked up and he fucked up and that's just because he's fucking human. He lost so many things, let him have this. It’s just one fucking speech, dude. :(

[trashratsaws]

Okay so I caved and watched Goncharov (1973) and I have opinions to say.

So you know that scene where Katya and Goncharov have their first sort of argument which isn’t really an out loud argument but you can sort of tel it’s the beginning of the breakdown of their relationship because everything they say is so fucking tinged with hate. Like for real De Niro’s line delivery in this scene is unfuckingbelievable. But anyway, after they sort of come to a stalemate and Gonch leaves the room the clock stops ticking again which as we know is never insignificant it is always a reoccurring symbol for the broken passage of time which gets more frantic as the movie progresses.

What I found which made me insane was that when Katya leaves the room after Gonch, she kind of notices the clock, which the other characters don’t really ever do except for Sofia at the end, and she kind of smacks her lips and mutters “damn thing” before walking out of the room??? The sound of her heels was perfectly in time with the ticking of the clock when it started up again, with two heel clicks for every one tick of the clock, so they’re in time, but Katya is moving a little faster. In this scene, where Goncharov and Katya are just beginning to fall apart, and where Katya is so clearly aware of what is going to happen to them and to her, she directly acknowledges the thing that is going to destroy her, and in her first act of defiance she is trying to move faster than time. LIKE Y’ALL.

Also Katya’s acknowledgement of the clock makes us sort of aware that SHE is aware that time is kind of broken? Like she knows that the way WE as the audience are seeing these events is not accurate, and she is aware of what is really happening, meanwhile she has to go on as a player in the story because inevitably nobody can outstep time. THE FUCKING LAYERS PEOPLE ITS KILLING ME.

[makeste]

BnHA 326: What’s up Kids, It’s Me, Your Old Pal Stain

Previously on BnHA: Ochako shamed the U.A. Clown Mob into letting Deku go back inside his own fucking school by giving them an hour-long speech about how not to be humongous dickheads. Kouta and Gigantic Fox Lady saved the manga by being the only ones brave enough to give Deku a hug. Shouto was all “man, all this togetherness sure does remind me of that promise you made that we would handle Touya together which you immediately bailed on, doesn’t it, Dad.” Aizawa was all, “for the one and a half people out there who thought that my losing an eye and a leg might actually make me less sexy, I’m very happy to prove you wrong.” All Might was all, “[standing outside the U.A. fortress alone in the rain talking to someone or something??].” Like seriously, what was up with that though.

Today on BnHA: All Might is all “here I am in Kamino having a belated mid-life crisis because Deku abandoned me and I’m a terrible mentor and everything sucks and I hate myself.” Stain is all, “don’t make me come over there and give you a ten page speech about why you’re still the goat while menacingly holding you at swordpoint the entire time” because idk if you knew this guys, but Stain is pretty crazy actually. Anyway so he does that, and then All Might gets all emotional, and then the lady from chapter 92 shows up and gives All Might’s statue an encouraging pep talk, and then Horikoshi is all “and it even stopped raining lol can you believe this shit I’m not even a little bit subtle,” and he really isn’t. But I still got emotional anyway, because seeing people reassure All Might that everything he’s struggled for his entire life hasn’t been in vain just got to me okay. Horikoshi knows I am weak to the All Might feels and he just goes for the jugular every time, that bastard.

lmao. “in the neverending downpour, All Might is...” yeah, thank you, glad we’re getting right to that then

“All Might is driving 95 mph in his busted ass car in the pouring rain, is what he’s doing.” huh

so basically a day or two after his adopted child refused to accept the handmade bento that he packed with love, my man is out here acting like he’s got nothing to live for anymore. this sure bodes well for certain prophecies on which the clock is still ominously ticking down

his fucking face though omg. is it weird that I’m kind of hoping more people ambush him just because I think it’d be funny to see them get their asses kicked like the last bunch

(ETA: or maybe he will just stand there openly not giving a fuck and basically daring them to stab him!! get it together please All Might.)

side note, “anti-hero supporters” is such a strange way of saying “people who hate heroes”, which I’m assuming is what they actually wanted to say?? this makes it sound like it’s a group that really loves antiheroes. “these Hannibal stans have been a real menace lately. time to go deal with them”

ha ha ha, fucking ouch

are you really gonna do it Horikoshi you bastard. are you really going to let that be the final encounter between the two characters whose relationship you once described as the vertical axis of the entire fucking story. are you really gonna?? huh??

huh

you’re telling me you were driving 112 mph and you still didn’t get there in time. you’re losing your touch old man. lol Todo’s ice is almost fully melted already, how late were you

(ETA: so apparently this is taking place after the end of chapter 325, meaning he went to U.A., hung out for a bit, saw the kids come back with his bedraggled half-dead protégé in tow, watched as they shamed the civilians into some long-overdue character development, and then was all “welp, time to go argue with the hero-hating faction or something because I’m feeling useless.” and Edge just let him go, just like that. though to be fair I have to imagine it’s pretty hard to say no to All Fucking Might.)

also belated lol at the fact that the kids were all “yeahhhhhhh we are definitely not gonna touch that thing, let’s just leave it here, he doesn’t need it anyway.” probably the right call to make since they couldn’t get a hazmat team on such short notice

fuck. ha ha ha fucking ouch part two

All Might please put that thing down before you get gangrene. also yeah, you dropped the ball, good for you to acknowledge it. nobody’s perfect and you did your best. but yeah you could have handled a lot of things completely differently. but I still love you

is Horikoshi really putting this flashback here. are you serious. what kind of fucking sadist

look, I swear I’m not one of those people that runs up and down the street shouting “DEATH FLAG!!” at every third panel lol. but this shit screamed Death Flag when we originally got it, and it’s screaming DEATH FLAG!!! even more now. like with the capital letters and exclamation marks and all. and that’s just a fact. I don’t like it but that’s how it is

ffkdjslk

“DID YOU READ THE SIGN??!” Horikoshi asks while zooming in maniacally because he thinks we’re blind or something. lol what

-- though actually, it only just occurred to me that this sign is actually written in English. I never really paid attention up until now and had been assuming it was written in Japanese and translated by the scanlators, but the writing here is clearly part of the original image. anyway so maybe that’s why he’s zooming in?? just to make sure everybody pays attention lol

okay fuck this

see, this is the whole problem right here. once again All Might is all on his own. Deku’s self-destructive angst spiral was fortunately brought to a grinding halt because he actually has support from his friends and family and teachers and classmates. but All Might never had that same kind of support, and it’s made all the difference between the two of them, and not in a good way. Katsuki wasn’t wrong when he said All Might and Deku were both cut from the same cloth. but now when it’s All Might’s turn to go all “I WALK A LONELY ROAD~~” once again, there’s nobody in sight

just, after forty plus years of him carrying this torch, I just wish someone would finally come along to let him know he doesn’t have to. all those things that he wanted to say to Deku are also things that he needs and deserves to hear himself. Aizawa was making a little progress there, but now he’s got his sad zombie cloud boyfriend situation to deal with, and we can’t expect him and his perfect hair to solve all our problems. someone else has gotta step up

oh my god

“you rang?” never mind I take it all back sob

omg why am I laughing. shit

this man truly has the best PR game in the series. we were truly convinced he was gonna suddenly become a good guy and defend All Might against the other villains or some nonsense. as if this wasn’t the same man who decided on a whim that Iida Tensei deserved to be paralyzed, and that his fifteen-year-old brother deserved to die for daring to be upset about it

lol even All Might is all “I genuinely never saw this coming” lmao

just want to say, for the record, I have always harbored a very sensible hatred toward Stain. feeling very vindicated right now. good job Past Me

adsfklwkfsdwgkj

ffffwefjslkg. ghsdlkg. dsfkkkslkjldwkjrg

STAIN: heard you talking shit old man

ME: smh that’s what I thought you’d say you dumb fucking Stain

STAIN: how dare you talk about All Might that way

ME: gljfljgk

(ETA: in hindsight I have no idea how I didn’t clue in sooner that he didn’t recognize him -- or, well, ~didn’t recognize~ him, to be more accurate lol. I think it was the whole “is that a slight against the heroes?” thing that threw me. Viz’s translation makes it much clearer that he’s offended on behalf of All Might specifically, not heroes in general. anyways.)

sob. so All Might is all “yeah I don’t blame you for not recognizing me in this sweet leather jacket”

good thing he still knows how to do this party trick

A+ reflexes on Stain’s part presumably pulling the sword back a few inches to keep this dumbass from impaling himself with his whole pufferfish routine. can you imagine if that was the gruesome death Nighteye foresaw. and he was just too embarrassed to say anything

lol anyways guess I was wrong about Stain everyone

way to fucking go, Past Me. you really biffed this one

oh wait

Stain sure is one wacky rollercoaster ride

oh fuck me lol I forgot how much I did not miss this

(ETA: “this here is the sacred ground where All Might gave up the last of his power and turned into a shriveled old man!! please ignore the part where I admit to knowing all about that, and yet pretend not to recognize said man when he’s standing two feet in front of me.”)

Past Me, I know we’ve had our ups and downs these past ninety seconds, but I’m really starting to think you were on to something. this dude has always been kind of insufferable. always acting like his high horse is a fucking giraffe when it’s actually a Shetland pony

dammit now he’s got All Might going off on a depressed monologue

oh my god my heart

shit

why the fuck does that hit so hard. he became a hero because he couldn’t bear to just sit back and let bad things happen to people who didn’t deserve it. I mean that’s basically the same as every hero ever, right? so why does it still hit so fucking hard every single time though. what is it about seeing someone so determined to stand up for other people and fight on their behalf. it just never loses its impact no matter how many times I see that determination mirrored in so many of my favorite characters

“I wanted to make the world a better place.” omg. but you did, though. like seriously, I feel like people are always dogging on him for not being 100% perfect, and fandom really doesn’t give him enough credit for everything he still managed to accomplish. this man came of age at a time when Japan was by all accounts a total shitshow, and singlehandedly managed to bring about an era of peace that lasted for four fucking decades. can you imagine having peace for that long?? that’s longer than I’ve been alive. shit

and he gave people hope. he inspired them and protected them and made them feel safe. and no, he couldn’t save everyone, because he’s only one fucking dude (and also because the whole time AFO was also out there desperately working to undermine him so that he could keep preaching his narrative of “heroes are bad actually”). but you know what he did do, is inspire multiple new generations of heroes who, if they can all manage to work together, will finally be able to accomplish everything he never could

so yeah. forty years of peace, and inspired the “that’s how we all became the greatest heroes” generation -- that’s a fucking win in my book. talk about having a net positive impact on the world. lol anyways now I’m all fired up and ready to fight anyone who tries to talk any shit about you, All Might

“but what if I talk shit about myself” okay listen up All Might I’m gonna need you to try just a little bit harder to work with me here okay. please calm down and stop blaming yourself for every single bad thing that’s ever happened in the world. do you remember that time Bakugou was blaming himself for Kamino, and you gave him a hug and told him it wasn’t his fault, and that he was only a boy, and that even though he was strong, even strong people can struggle with the burdens they place on themselves, and that you were sorry for not seeing that earlier? do you remember all of that? that’s what I want someone to tell you too, dammit. anyway please stop breaking my heart please and thanks

wtf

are you dead All Might

um

I don’t even have the slightest idea what’s happening lol

oh snap did he grab him so they could hide??

hold the fucking phone. don’t tell me this person in the background with the umbrella is here to actually do something decent??

oh my godddd

and here come the feels. oh boy. okay don’t mind me, I’m just gonna sit here sobbing over this fictional lady and her simple act of kindness in this weekly shounen manga that I care about way too much

FUCKING DAMMIT AND HERE’S A SECOND HELPING

DON’T MIND ME, I’M JUST GETTING DISPROPORTIONATELY EMOTIONAL OVER THIS WOMAN’S DETERMINATION TO HONOR A MAN WHO SACRIFICED EVERYTHING TO SAVE HER AND COUNTLESS OTHERS. I’M JUST HAVING SOME FEELS OVER HERE ABOUT HER HEARTFELT, DOESN’T-EVEN-KNOW-ANYONE-ELSE-IS-WATCHING FEELINGS OF GRATITUDE THAT COMPELLED HER TO COME OUT HERE AND MAKE THIS SMALL BUT POWERFUL GESTURE. I’M JUST OUT HERE GETTING ALL PROFOUNDLY WORKED UP ABOUT STATUE MAINTENANCE AND THE HUMAN RACE. NEVER MIND. JUST IGNORE ME AND CARRY ON

holy shit. I was not even remotely prepared. you can’t just do that to me. you can’t just leave all these death flags on my lawn and then suddenly shift gears to show me the best of humanity in a chapter where I was expecting the worst. that fucks a person up lol

OH ARE WE STILL GOING

my heart. you see that, All Might. your legacy is so much more powerful and meaningful than you think

...has. has Stain actually been giving All Might a pep talk this entire time

I give up lol. this dude is a fucking enigma

YAYYY

it may just be a metaphor panel, but I’ll take it lol. I missed them. nice to see the traffic light trio front and off-center. I know the whole “this is the story of how we all became the greatest heroes” thing had left some questioning whether certain characters would continue to play a central role in the narrative, and hopefully this will help to ease those concerns just a bit

anyway, so idk if it’s getting a bit chilly down there in hell, but damned if Stain didn’t just give an actual decent fucking speech

I have to say, earlier when I was whining about All Might not having a support squad, I really was not expecting Stain to be the one to come over and pat his head and reassure him that he made the world a better place

-- okay LISTEN

YOU CAN’T JUST COME INTO MY HOUSE AND HIT ME WITH THOSE ALL MIGHT TEARS AGAIN GODDAMMIT THIS ISN’T FAIR. my god. first 317 and now this

holy fucking shit

“I’m just gonna pretend like I haven’t been stalking him for two days and didn’t see the entire Deku bentogate thing go down, and then I’ll give him the whole big speech that I rehearsed, and then I’ll turn around and be all ‘BUT IF YOU’RE A TRUE HERO’, and then I’ll toss him the super-secret AFO wifi password that I stole from Tartarus. god I’m such a badass. fucking give myself chills”

so basically what you’re telling me is that this whole time my “what’s up kids” characterization of Stain from this shitpost has actually been 100% accurate. just want to make sure I’m understanding this right. okay then

“and then I’ll dramatically spin around and be all NOW COME KILL ME BITCH”

it must be so much fun to write Stain. drawing this coked-out maniac who talks like a chatbot that was trained to speak by reading Alan Moore monologues. that must be a trip

anyway so All Might is still crying, the awesome lady from chapter 92 is admiring her handiwork totally oblivious to the batshit insanity going on fifty meters to her right, and it’s finally stopped raining lol

“THE RAIN WAS A METAPHOR YOU SEE” yes, yes, we got it lol. thanks for that Horikoshi. don’t think we needed any help putting the pieces together on that one but I appreciate the effort

so that’s the end! and as I mentioned in another post, I had the count off by one chapter, but next week should be cliffhanger week! so break out your U.A. Traitor bingo cards, friends and fiends. either that or something else happens that I’m completely not expecting at all. which, based on my success rate with Stain predictions, I’d say is more than likely lol

mmm but anyway, so now that the Hug Deku 2021 campaign has finally come to an end, what’s it gonna take to get a hug for my struggling bento-preparing jacket-rocking world-weary death-flag-waving husband who is the worthiest man to ever live and deserves the fucking world, goddammit

[moon3thereal]

I’ll Do It (pt.2)

Part 1

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem! reader

Genre: idk what this is?? No smut, no fluff and no angst it's just. A fic. Just read it :)

Warnings: swearing, seduction, violence, guns, knives, blood, sexual implications, petnames (sweetheart/honey), readers pronouns are written as she/her (lmk if I've missed out anything)

a/n: the writing quality of this is just. Off for me, I came up w a fight scene and wanted to write it, hope yall enjoy tho, reblogs/likes and asks are always welcome :) P. S. My requests are open, however, don’t forget to check out my request guidelines first before sending in an ask! Thank you <3

!! Nobody is allowed to copy/translate/repost my work in any way!!

1.5k

GIF IS NOT MINE! CREDITS GO TO WHOEVER MADE IT

Ever since the three fateful words were uttered, your work life had turned a complete 360. An apartment in Capitol Hill was rented under your alias, you'd received a file on Natasha Romanoff, and your alias is a co-owner of a night club that Natasha apparently frequented.

Not surprisingly, you spent the first day swiping the S.H.I.E.L.D card relentlessly under essential expenses. Your explanation for 400 dollars spent on books was "I do have to be knowledgeable if I'm to converse and intrigue the Black Widow don't I?" They were fantasy and romance books. You were bullshitting. But in your defense, you did need some nice banter lines to charm the charmer.

You hadn't expected the fancy apartment that was way overpriced, S.H.I.E.L.D wasn't known for luxurious accommodations for their agents undercover, you thought sourly with the memory of living in a rat infested basement fresh in your mind when you were investigating a woman who was suspected for god knows what.

This whole thing was an anomaly from your usual insignificant missions. The fact that you were actually given a file with legitimate information to work with was practically unbelievable, and then the card, the apartment, Capitol Hill?? This is how S.H.I.E.L.D treated its priority employees, you realized with an internal jolt.

Several case files flooded your desk, mahogany, the kind that fancy people with fancy jobs and fancy lives own. Well according to your alias' file, you were officially a fancy but rebellious young woman who, more accurately could be described as a pretentious snob with too much money for her own good, was fresh out of college whose working on a criminology degree and living off mommy's fortune.

The irony in that backstory was amusing in the most twisted way. You glanced at the clock, 9 P.M, you wanted to be at Viper at 10. Taking one last look at the files you'd thoroughly examined because you really  didn't need to get caught out on your first day on the job, you picked up a jacket and keys to your Harley, yes a custom Harley Davidson, all yours.

Fury is shamelessly buttering you up, everything on this protection assignment was unnecessary and yet you took all the advantage you could, because why ever not? S.H.I.E.LD has never given two fucks unless one of their precious super agents aka the avengers are in risk of being compromised. You took a sweeping glance at your mirror image, this was what you imagined when you joined S.H.I.E.L.D in the first place, this was what an agent with your level of skill set deserved.

When you pulled up at Viper, it was already overcrowded with party-goers, bright LED lights were obvious around the terrain, the music was blasting. It was highly plausible that Fury bought half of the shares for this place which conveniently also constructed your cover.

You took a few seconds to even out your breathing. This was the one assignment that could jeopardize your entire career. Closing your eyes, you rethought your alias, a "Marissa Stanton" posh name, posh personality, bursting with confidence. You had to be her, not act like her, not pretend you're her but be her, like how you were trained to do so.

Stepping into the club in a ridiculously exorbitant pair of red bottomed, six inch heels, you held your head up high, with the poise and dignity of an invulnerable woman who had the world at her feet, okay that was a bit of an exaggeration, no one so much as glanced at you, the whole room was filled with people who dressed, looked and spoke exactly like Marissa Stanton.

Just as you were told, a gorgeous redhead was sitting at the bar with an entire bottle of vodka in her hand. You sidled up to the bar and started mixing up a cocktail. A man in the back had ordered one for no other than Natasha, at least that's what you were going to tell her, you were never good at starting conversations.

"cocktail for you sweetheart, from the mystery man in the back" leaning closer you whispered conspiratorially "he's more cowardly than mysterious in my opinion, wouldn't waste my time with that one" the side of Natasha's painted lips tugged upwards in amusement

"and who would you be, if I may ask? I've never seen you before" you took your jacket off and threw it over a stool "yes it's hard to imagine that you'd forget me if you've seen me before, I'm Marissa, you can call me Ris, my mom bought me half the shares of Viper, birthday gift" you said nonchalantly with the dismissive tone of the wealthy "ah, must be nice " she said taking a chug of her vodka, you eyed her with a feigned frown "that is literally the most cliché 'badass' act ever l, vodka with a leather jacket?" you actually found it incredibly attractive and incredibly gay, but Marissa certainly wouldn't.

She raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow "I don't think that's true honey, I think you happen to quite like this look" she pinned you with her frustratingly piercing gaze, after a few seconds too long, you cleared your throat and swallowed in embarrassment as you felt heat creep up your cheeks "do you always do this to poor innocent baristas?" you attempted a sarcastic tone and failed miserably.

"you are far from that aren't you? You're not poor, you certainly aren't innocent and you're not just a barista" your faces have come particularly close at some point of the conversation and you knew she could feel the heat radiating of your skin.

"I think we should take this conversation somewhere else, shouldn't we sweetheart?" the way she uttered that pet name completely melted your brain "do co-owners get the privileges of private rooms perhaps?" she slid a finger down your bare arm

You nodded, barely comprehending the words she was saying and instead focusing on the way her lips moved with every syllable spoken. Without any reasoning, you'd followed her into your private rooms in the club despite your gut and brain screaming at you to resist, but every cell in your body was aflame with want.

"Natasha..." you'd breathed out when she slid her hands up your waist which was only clothed with a thin silk slip. In a split second, you suddenly snapped out of it and remembered that's where your gun was hidden. It was too late.

She grabbed the hilt and had it pointed at your temple "now why would an poor, innocent bartender have a gun in her dress y/n y/l/n" son of a bitch. You grabbed hold of all the emotions raging in you, schooled your expression into one devoid of all confidence and morphed it into fear "I- I just-please don't.." you let a quaver into your voice for good measure. She faltered, just for an instant, a fleeting moment of doubt, that was all you needed, vulnerability usually dissuaded even the best

In three moves, you disarmed her, the victory was short lived though, she kicked the gun out of your grip before you could even secure it, wrestling each other for some time, she pinned you to a desk, you'd come prepared this time, or so you thought, you pressed a curved knife to her throat, with enough pressure to break surface skin and glimpse a thin sheen of red well around your knife' dangerously sharp edge, on her account, she barely flinched. "you're good y/l/n, but do you not know the fundamentals? Don't bring knives to a gun fight." she gritted out

You scowled vehemently, the amount of times you'd heard that shirty piece of advice was absurd "that's only if you don't know how to work a blade, I'm S.H.I.E.L.D, I was sent here to protect you, now will you take the gun off my waist? I bruise like a peach"

When she sent you a suspicious glare, you scoffed "if I was some deranged assassin, I would've already slit your throat and let you shoot me" slowly taking your knife off her neck, you lifted it up to her eye level, standard S.H.I.E.L.D issued. "why on Earth would you flip the gun on me" she pinched the bridge of her nose frustratedly and thrusted her gun into the back of her jeans

"well, I really don't like having a gun shoved in my face" you said returning your knife to its thigh sheath, feeling cold air against your back, you fingered the ruined silk of your dress "oh great, this isn't normally how people undress me in the bedroom Romanoff" she stared at you incredulously and grudgingly took off her jacket and pushed it in your general direction. Your eyes caught on the label and you smirked "so it's true what they say, the devil does indeed wear Prada" you said before pulling on the surprisingly warm leather jacket

"we should talk." Natasha said in a crisp tone "well I know a place, but on one condition" you replied. Shutting her eyes as if praying for any semblance of patience "what?" she implored. "refrain from murdering me this time?" despite her annoyed expression, a surge of amusement rose up clearly on her face

"gladly, I'm hoping you'll return the favor"

Taglist: @marvelwomenslut @phoenixofash @michelle-dsn @midgardianweasley @jokertgkk @yeeterthekeeper @unexpected-character @zolvaska

[thedistrictsleepsalonetonight]

Cupid is stupid (Or Weiss asks a lot of questions and finds love in all the softer places)

Falling in love, Weiss discovers, rather inconveniently in the middle of a fight, is a lot like wielding a weapon.  

There’s the push and the pull, the drawing blood and taking of it. Weiss is rather inclined to think of it as a violent, bloody dance — the way she’s almost constantly tripping over her own feet trying to follow her partner when she has no idea what her next move will be. Then, of course, there’s the fact that whoever she’s dancing with is equally as clumsy as she happens to be, which Ruby definitely is.

“Thank me later,” she quips, after she’s done saving the idiot’s ass for the millionth time in her life. And then it hits her right in the chest, not a Grimm’s blow, not a weapon, and worse that Cinder’s fiery spear that had impaled her a couple days ago — this is affection. Not the kind she feels for Yang or Blake or any of their other friends, it’s the kind that turns her inside out whenever she so much as sees a malevolent force heading towards Ruby. The kind that automatically reaches out to touch Ruby when she’s near, that draws her eyes, unbidden to search her out in a fight.

Ruby catches her a while later, holding onto her hand as she hangs off a moving train, and Weiss can do nothing other than blink back at her — at her bright eyes, and her hair whipping around in the wind. She then proceeds to whisk them both to between two train carriages, in a flurry of red. When Weiss tries to step away, to catch her breath, she finds she’s stuck to the ground, or more accurately, entangled with Ruby. They’ve got their arms wrapped tight around each other, and with every movement, strands of Ruby’s hair land onto her face. Weiss doesn’t know it then, but all of her molecules have indeed just been rearranged. She has a feeling that stupid thing in her chest has been put back together to form Ruby’s name instead.

*****

It’s almost offensive how easily she feels the cold when she’s supposed to be the Ice-Queen. Yang would say something stupid about her not having a thick skin because she grew up in the literal lap of luxury (and she would be right, but that’s beside the point) and Blake would probably punch her in her arm, but thankfully, nobody’s noticed yet. So she stands in the corner of the porch, looking out at the rapidly falling snow outside the creepy house.

“You’re cold,” Ruby murmurs when she sidles up to her.

Of course. Of course Ruby sees. “Everyone’s cold,” Weiss says back.

Ruby shrugs, gently reaches for her hands, her eyes on Weiss’ the entire time. Is this okay, she seems to be asking, and Weiss, helpless, can only nod.  

Ruby covers Weiss’ hands with her own, raises it to her face and like it’s a secret, breathes warm air into their cupped palms. She’s no longer looking right at Weiss, instead focusing her attention onto their hands, and Weiss, like any other time she���s lucky enough to get to stare at Ruby freely, takes this opportunity to do so. The cold in her bones has instead been replaced with warmth — Ruby warmth, the particular shade that she can only find around Ruby — and even the tremendous crash of Qrow and Jaune breaking down the door registers to her as though coming from far, far away.  

Ruby blows one last gust of warm air into their hands before they make their way inside. She doesn’t let go, though. Weiss realizes she didn’t want her to, anyways.

*****

There are around ten people in the house besides the three people who actually live there, and not enough beds. It’s a logistical nightmare.

“Or,” Nora says, smirking in a very wink-wink-nudge-nudge way while she side-eyes Ren, “it’s an opportunity.”

Ren colors, fiddles with his collar until he’s sunk half into it. They’re all polite enough to look away; the sight of Ren, embarrassed is physically painful to witness.

“We’ll — we’ll manage, won’t we?” Ruby pipes up, smiling brightly, and Weiss sees them all smile back in reflex. Sometimes she wonders if she’s the only one Ruby can twist around her little finger — other times she is reminded that she just has that effect on people. Why else would they follow her to the ends of the planet? When Ruby talks, people believe.  

(When Ruby talks, Weiss physically feels her heart careening out of control, skidding into a blind curve with no idea what lying ahead. On and on and on, like Ruby’s running up ahead and Weiss follows, with just her voice for company)  

They end up cramped in two rooms — Maria gets the bed in the guest room, in honor of her being practically a fossil, a fact that gets Yang’s ears boxed when she says it aloud. Oscar, Jaune, Nora and Ren plant mattresses on the free space on the floor and are snoring in fifteen minutes. Qrow claims he won’t sleep much, and finds a rocking chair that he pulls close to the window, and he sits there, swigging rum ominously every once in a while. The rest of them decide to concede the couch in the living room to Ruby, who looks the most exhausted. And when Weiss gets up because she can’t sleep, she sees Blake and Yang snoozing next to each other, their hands loosely held close to Blake’s chest.

“Can’t sleep either, huh?” she hears from somewhere beside her when she goes out to the porch, and whirls around, only to see Terra sitting in the corner. Adrian is perched on her lap, watching the soft snow drizzling outside.

Weiss smiles at her, feeling a little awkward about the entire thing. Shrugs. “Shouldn’t he be.... asleep?” A quick glance at the clock confirms her suspicions. It’s almost one.

Terra chuckles. “He conked out at seven. He wakes up in the middle of the night at least once. This — this helps him go back to sleep. Plus,” she pauses to bend a little and deposit a tiny kiss on top of his tiny head, “it’s one of the few minutes I get to spend with him in the day.”

Weiss thinks of her own childhood, of nightmares and staying up all night terrified, because there was no way, absolutely no way she was allowed to wake her parents up for any reason besides imminent death. The Schnee estate was vast, confusing and filled with entirely too many showpieces no one would ever use, full of winding staircases that lead nowhere close to comfort.  

This house is tiny and full of love. Every dent on the couch talks of tickle fights and places someone was so happy that they bounced their way into almost breaking it; the lower parts of the walls are scribbled over with crayons and blue hearts and stick figures of smiling people. She thinks back to dinner when Oscar and Nora burned whatever pie abomination they were supposed to be baking and then they’d all crammed into that tiny space to try to salvage it, and Weiss could’ve sworn even the tiny gaps between them were overflowing with love.

(This is a house someone would want to walk into at the end of the day. A place of shelter. A home)

“Jaune did mention you, you know?” Terra says, after a while, and Weiss is startled out of her train of thought. “In his letters to Saphron when you kids were at Beacon. He was particularly effusive in his description of you.”

“Oh dear lord,” she says, burying her face in her hands because that phase of her life seems so far, far away now. “I’m so glad he got over it. Not before singing an awful made-up song on his guitar, though.”

Terra laughs, softly, and Weiss notices that Adrian’s fallen asleep against her chest, his head resting on the arm she’s moved awkwardly to brace him.  

“Saph worries about him,” Terra says. “He makes sure to text her updates, but she can tell when he’s left a lot out. He’ll text her something like roadtrip and she knows to translate it to we’re on the run and have no idea where our next meal is coming from. He’s her only brother and kinda the baby of the family. And she.... she frets.”

“And when she worries, you worry,” Weiss completes.

When Terra looks up at her next, it is with all of her emotions plain on her face to see. Weiss reads consternation, affection, helpless desperation and blinding, blinding love before she bites at her lip and wipes it clean. Nods.

Weiss goes back inside a couple of minutes after they do, Adrian’s head hanging off his mother’s shoulder as they make their way to his room. When she walks in, she catches a glimpse of Qrow, snoring with a blanket now thrown across his torso, and movement off the corner of her eye. Oscar gives her a boyish grin, holds up a finger to his lips, before he disappears back to the guest room. She climbs over Yang and Blake, and finds her way, inexplicably, to Ruby’s side.

At some point in the night, Ruby had apparently kicked off her sheets and they now lay half-thrown over her legs. Weiss kneels at her head, looks on. At her impossibly young features, and her mouth that has fallen open, and the few strands of hair that are strewn across her forehead. Weiss wants to kiss the spot where they meet, wants to kiss the tiny freckle just beside her nose, her snoring mouth. She flushes, and balls her hands up into tight, wanting fists.  

When the urge passes (passes in a way that thirst in the desert passes, always there beneath the surface, just pushed back down enough so one can concentrate on more important things), she pulls the sheets up over her body, and tucks the ends, carefully over her shoulders. Her fingers wander, unprompted, to Ruby’s face, where they trace the path of her hair, and brush it away. Once. Twice.

And Ruby stirs beneath her hand, and then is staring at her, wide-eyed. There is no fanfare to how she wakes up, no protracted sigh or stretching. Weiss guesses it’s a product of their on-the-run lives — when there is no time to breathe, one gets used to waking and sleeping easily. In the end there they are, with Weiss kneeling next to Ruby, their faces shrouded in moonlight, staring at each other.

“I’m sorry I woke you up,” she whispers, after a beat. Her hand is still resting on Ruby’s face. When she moves to bring it back, Ruby stirs. Her hand comes up to cover Weiss’, keeping it there.

“It’s okay,” Ruby whispers back, still holding her goddamned hand close to her face. Weiss can feel her breath tripping all over itself, like it’s not sure what to do in such close proximity. It’s almost intimate, she imagines, the both of them with their heads huddled together. If she leaned forward a smidge, their foreheads would touch. A head tilt — and here the thought makes her feel hot all over — and they would be kissing.

(The distance suddenly feels almost awfully unbearable to her)

Ruby’s still staring up at her, her eyes still wide and serious. When it all becomes too much, Weiss moves her hand to cover her eyes.

Ruby’s lips curve up in a sleepy smile. “What?”

“Stop,” she says, flustered, “stop looking at me.”

“But I like looking at you,” Ruby tells her, sounding amused and Weiss is one hundred percent sure she is going to die tonight.

(She doesn’t mean it she doesn’t mean it she doesn’t mean it she doesn’t — then — she means it in a different way than what you’re hoping for so shut up shut up shut up)

“Shut up,” she says, finally, then adds. “Dunce.”

Ruby giggles, then her mouth stretches open into the hugest yawn ever. Weiss laughs, boops her nose, because she simply must.

“Sleep, okay?” she says, one last time. Then, without thinking too much about it, she leans down and presses her lips to Ruby’s forehead.

She’s not sure, but Ruby looks a little like she’s blushing. She blinks a few times, then says: “Now I will.”

Weiss’ mattress is just below the couch. Five minutes after she lies down on it, she feels Ruby’s hand travel down and rest on her head. It is to the continuous motion of her hand through Weiss’ hair that sleep finally takes her when it does.

*****

Winter is all angles and bones. Not just physically, but also in the way she carries herself. She is sharp edges and words that cut easily. Weiss knows it’s not just her — the Schnee family tends to make knives out of people and then set them upon the rest of the world to hurt and maim. Weiss knows that better than anyone else, knows that some blades draw blood unwillingly.  

Also knows that Winter is trying her very best to change.

But her posture is still ramrod straight, refusal to relax written into every single one of her cells. They’ve all split up after their celebration for their newest promotion to Huntsmen and Huntresses: Yang and Blake having disappeared on a trip to explore the city, Ren, Nora and Jaune off to gorge on Atlesian delicacies, and they’d left Oscar practicing sparring with Ruby. Winter had dropped in to invite her out to a celebratory dinner at Atlas’ finest dining establishment, and so here they were, sitting awkwardly in front of each other, eating whatever was on their plates.

Weiss wonders if Winter would die of shock if she dared to reach over and steal one of the dumplings on her plate. The Weiss of two years ago wouldn’t even have entertained the thought.  

Today, she thinks about it maybe five seconds before picking one up and shoving it into her mouth.

Winter’s eyebrows are arched. “You know Father would disapprove of the declination of your table manners.”

“Good thing I don’t care, then,” she replies, flippantly. “Do you?”

Winter rolls her eyes, takes a sip of her wine. “You’re my sister, Weiss. You could take half my liver and I’d only call you a boob. Or something equivalent.”

That’s how Winter Schnee loves. In casual gestures, in standing behind Weiss, ready to sacrifice herself at a moment’s notice. It is not the unwavering, adoring devotion of Yang and Ruby — Yang wouldn’t even entertain the thought of a potential hurt coming her sister’s way, jumping into action to save her before she even asks. Winter, however, needs to make sure Weiss can take care of herself, only hanging back in case things get too dire.

She smacks her hand with the chopsticks when Weiss reaches for another one. “I offered up a liver, you go looking for my heart? Behave, Weiss.”

It makes her laugh.

And it’s this foreign.... ease, for lack of a better word, that has Weiss’ tongue loose enough for her to shoot Hey, Winter, you ever been in love before an hour later, when they’re walking back to the military complex.

Her sister seems to be choking on thin air — she coughs and squawks and makes all sorts of undignified noises, before smacking Weiss on her head to make her stop laughing.

“I’m sorry,” Weiss says, when that hysterical bout is over. “Just wanted to see the look on your face. You don’t, you don’t have to answer that if it’s too personal.”

“Imbecile,” Winter mutters, but she turns to face her anyway. They’re almost at the building that has their apartment, and they stop almost simultaneously, standing in front of each other and trying very hard to avoid looking into each other’s eyes.

Winter hesitates, then speaks again. “Really want to know?”

Oh. Wow. Okay. “Yes,” she nods, trying to look casual about the whole thing.

“Once,” Winter tells her, running her hands through her perfectly coiffed hair in a very uncharacteristic move. “Before I joined the military.”

“And what happened?” Weiss asks, after a prolonged pause.

Winter’s smile is both sad and amused. “Father found out about her. What do you think?”

And she doesn’t know if it’s the easily dropped pronoun, or the way she can still read the utter loneliness in her sister’s eyes, but Weiss finds herself taking a step forward and wrapping Winter up in a hug.  

(Winter is all angles and bones)

And stiff limbs. “What,” her sister says, hesitantly, “Weiss, what are you doing?”

“Hugging you.”

“We don’t do that,” comes the prim response.

“We also don’t steal food off of each other's plates, Winter,” she replies, easily, still acutely conscious of the way Winter is just pressed against her stiffly. “As far as major changes go, I personally wouldn’t mind seeing a lot more of this.”

Winter’s arms come up, finally and hang loosely off her shoulders. As far as hugs go, it’s not the most comfortable one.  

(As far as hugs go, it’s one of the best Weiss has ever had)

And that’s' the moment, she becomes aware of movement from somewhere up high. Winter’s back is facing the building, so she’s in the perfect position to tilt her head up and see—

(What in God’s name?)

Oscar, Jaune, Nora, Ruby, Blake and Yang and crammed into the same window, peeking out at them, and appear to be giggling furiously. Ren, thankfully, seems to have enough dignity to not stoop to the level of these utter pains in her ass.

“What the—”

“Weiss?” Winter asks, still awkwardly hugging her. “Something wrong?”

She laughs. “Depends on what you define as wrong,” she says, and disentangles, so Winter can turn around and see for herself.

“Oh dear.”

A chorus comes sailing from above. “Hi, Officer Winter!” they all say, and then disperse, laughing madly. Only Ruby remains in the end, waving at them shyly.  

Winter, to her utter surprise (and really, it shouldn’t have been. If the evening had taught her anything, it was that she didn’t give her sister enough credit), waves back. When she turns back to Weiss, she’s even smiling a little.

“I like that one,” she tells her, eyes glinting with what Weiss can only define as mirth.

“Everyone likes her,” Weiss replies, shrugging.

“Do you?” Winter’s eyebrows are raised, and Weiss cannot help dropping her gaze, bringing a hand up to rub at the back of her neck. Winter’s hand falls on her hair, ruffles it up a little.  

Her parting words are Be careful, you boob. Weiss pretends not to understand.

*****

Blake and Yang are easy to figure out. Even Weiss, who has a general tendency of being clueless in these matters, can see the way Blake kind of — withers, when Yang isn’t around. There’s a light in her eyes that’s only visible when Yang’s close to her, a subtle confidence in her shoulders that says Yeah, I’m good now. Blake and Yang carry their love in their bodies, always moulding themselves to the other’s relative position. Weiss is sure even they don’t realize it yet, the way they always seem to come together when they’re in the same room, this unconscious meeting of opposite poles that ends in relief. They’re tangled hands, arms resting around shoulders, feet nudging each other, eventually leading up to secret smiles in team meetings.  

Sometimes, Weiss is sick of the whole thing.

Oftentimes, Weiss wants them to be happy so, so much that she fights the urge to push them into a room together for two hours.

“They’ll be back soon, you know?” she tells Blake, who hasn’t moved from the window since they finally made contact with the rest of the team. Blake whirls around, relaxes, then accepts the coffee Weiss is holding out to her.

“Thanks,” Blake says. “I just—”

“I know, I know. You worry.”

“I just,” she says, tugs at her hair with her free hand, “I just, I don’t know how anyone does it. Stay away, I mean, I — it’s like I can’t breathe properly when I don’t see her.”

And Weiss has done it once, a long time ago, although the magnitude of her feelings wasn’t known to her back then. Back when her father had locked her up in an ivory tower and she had no idea what Blake or Yang or Ruby were doing, if they were even alright. But she still stayed up all night, wondering if Ruby was okay, if she had eaten, if she was thinking about Weiss.

She imagines having to leave Ruby for a moment now, and the melancholy that washes over her almost brings her to her knees.

“Some hypocrite you are,” she says, teasing Blake gently, “with all the find yourself schtick you gave Nora earlier.”

She laughs, and Weiss finds herself hoping it’s taken her mind off of Yang for at least a little while.

“I like your brother,” she says, then. “He’s adorable.”

“Can you say that to him, please?” Weiss begs her. “And can I please be in the room when you do so?”

There’s another moment of levity. “Hey,” she starts, frowning a little. “Do you know where he is right now? Haven’t seen either him or my mother after the whole Grimm debacle.”

“I last saw him with Ruby,” Blake says. “I think he’s.... quite taken to her, actually.”

Weiss sighs. “Of course.”

(Ruby is the pied piper, after all. Everyone would follow her to the ends of the planet)

(Weiss? Weiss would walk with her beyond it)

Blake grins at her.

“What?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she says, mischievously. “Seems he’s not the only Schnee who’s quite taken with her.”

(Blake deserves the massive bump running headlong into the glyph Weiss conjures up in the next second. No doubts about that)

*****

The end of the world comes after the night before the end of the world.

Like a protracted moment of utter calm before the cacophony starts, they all comes together, and eventually split up to the places that give them the most peace. Weiss takes a tour of the house once. Her mother’s sleeping on a chair next to Whitley’s bed; Weiss covers her with a blanket before she moves on. Jaune and Oscar are sitting guard over Penny, next to Ren, who has squeezed himself in beside Nora. Yang smiles at her warmly when she comes upon her and Blake in another room. Blake’s fallen asleep with her head resting on Yang’s lap. She wanders around for a little while more, until she finally comes upon Ruby in her bedroom.

“Why is it,” Weiss says, “that most of the time I meet you, I have to tell you to go to sleep?”

Ruby turns, smiles at her, but the smile is fractured in places. Weiss takes a step forward, closer.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“Nothing, nothing, I,” Ruby takes a deep breath, looks around. “I can’t believe you lived here.”

Weiss lets her change the topic. “What’s so unbelievable about that?”

“Just doesn’t look like you, that’s all.”

“That’s because I don’t exactly belong here.”

“Where do you belong then?” Ruby asks, looking right at her.

With you. “With all of you,” she says. It’s true. “Blake and Yang. And Jaune and Nora and Ren and Oscar. And even — that stupid alcoholic uncle of yours. And—”

“—and?” she asks, a lopsided grin on her face.

“And you.”

Ruby sighs, steps forward so they’re in each other’s personal space.  

“Weiss,” she says once, quietly.

Weiss closes her eyes, takes a step forward of her own, blindly, feeling Ruby’s steadying hands on her shoulders, her back, her hair. She feels a hand carefully moving against the scrunchie holding her hair together.

“Can I?”

She nods, feels her hair pulls free. Ruby helps detangle it, the braid, and ends with tender hands, smiles.

“I like your hair,” she says, then makes a soft sound in her throat, urgent, wanting. “Weiss.”

“Yes, Ruby?”

“Weiss, Weiss, Weiss,” Ruby says, again, and now her forehead is tipped against Weiss’.

“What, darling?” Weiss murmurs, and feels Ruby’s shuddering breath in response. There’s a small, desperate kiss pressed to her hair, then her forehead, and amusingly enough, her nose.

“Weiss, I have to tell you—”

“—wait!” she says, not moving. It’s not like she could. A Grimm could be standing in the room right now and it couldn’t draw her away from Ruby. She touches Ruby’s cheek gently, feels Ruby sigh and sink into her palm. “Please — please don’t say what you’re about to.”

(A part of her, the stupid, hopeful part knows what it is and craves it, dreads it, mourns it already)

“And what am I about to say?” Ruby asks, her eyes burning with something Weiss can’t find the words to define.

“Something incriminating, I fear.”

“You fear?”

“Yes. But I also — I hope.”

“Then let me say it,” Ruby implores. She removes her arms from around Weiss, grabs her hands and raises them to her lips. Kisses her knuckles carefully. “Weiss, you know already. You must know.”

“I do, sweetheart, I do,” she says, resting her head against Ruby’s collarbone. The two of them have been circling each other in some dance that Weiss hasn’t been able to pin down yet, have been hurtling, at alarming speeds towards unknown cliffs, and the same way that Ruby has to know that Weiss would split herself end to end for her, that if cut into pieces, Weiss would bleed for her happily, Weiss knows.

(All love is violence. She knows that better than anyone)

“Tell me,” she starts, “tell me when there is peace.”

“But there will never be peace!” Ruby says, and her voice cracks. Weiss raises her hand blindly to press at her cheek and feels the warm moisture sticking there.

She rises on her toes so they’re level again. “There will be.” Weiss would make sure of it. For Yang and Blake, who need time to get their fledgling love off the ground. For Ren and Nora and Jaune who have lost too many friends already. For Oscar, who deserves a chance to grow up and for Qrow, who deserves a chance to feel young again. For Penny and Maria and Pietro and her mother and Whitley and Winter.  

For the girl she loves.

For Ruby.

When they kiss, Weiss thinks she’s shattering into a million pieces, like she would never be the same again, even if reformed into someone who resembles Weiss Schnee on the surface. How could she, with the memory of the movement of Ruby’s lips now imprinted on hers, her fingers tracking indelible marks through her hair — tomorrow, she will remember, a week later, she will remember, if somehow, she couldn’t see Ruby for another thirty years, her skin would remind her, every day.

*****

The end of the world comes before the day after the end of the world.

Weiss wakes up in the woods, empty handed. She wakes up, and thinks of Ren and Nora and Oscar, hopes they got to safety. Of her mom and Whitley and Winter. She thinks of Jaune who tried carrying her to the door. Of Yang who fell infinite miles into the void before Blake fell an equal distance to her knees, of finding Gambol Shroud and trying her very best to gather her courage to honor her teammates best.

Weiss wakes up in the woods, stumbles to her feet, looks around. There’s water to be searched for, and sustenance to be gathered. She’s got a long journey ahead of her, after all.  

Ruby’s waiting for her.

[hotchley]

Congrats on hitting 500! 🎉. Can you please do 2 from the fluff prompts for Rossi and the rest of the team?

Thank you! This is so bad because I do not write fluff well, but it was so funny (to me. Literally nobody else is going to laugh.) Umm... yeah. I wrote this in the car home. Ignore any errors, I didn't proofread.

Everyone is OOC. I had to do that to make it more fluff-like, just go with it.

2: what have you done to my kitchen?

Trigger Warnings: eating, food, food mentions, eating habits, birthday/birthday celebrations

read on ao3!

With hindsight, it probably wasn't the best idea the BAU had ever had.

At the time, it had been.

See, Rossi was always very concerned about the eating habits of the rest of the team. Which did make sense given that Reid was the best example. And that was because he ate three meals a day, everyday, at the same time. So the bar was below the ground.

He would bring in snacks, and then suddenly remember that his blood pressure meant he couldn't eat them, so Derek had to. He would accidentally make too much lunch, which would pull JJ away from her files. Apparently Hotch absolutely adored a certain food (he hated it) which always made Emily eat it. Aaron just took what he was given without complaining because Dave had far too much blackmail for him to risk his wrath.

So the team thought they could return the favour. Weekly cooking lessons- they weren't really lessons, a more accurate way of describing them would be Rossi's pretend cooking show the rest of the team watched- had become a tradition after the first one. They reached a point where Will, Beth, Savannah and the kids tagged along. Sometimes Alex and Kate would pop in, and they had a rota to dictate who would deliver to Ashley.

The first time Emily went had been an experience for everyone.

And even though they all knew that the many accidents involving Rossi's food were deliberate and always had been, they played along because it made him feel good, and it was a very lovely thing for him to do. He wasn't always good at showing his love the way it was needed, but with this, he always tried.

So as his birthday came closer and closer- although he kept denying it, not wanting it to become a big event- they decided how they were going to celebrate and show their appreciation for everything he had done at the same time. It was such an easy decision it was almost laughable.

They were going to cook for him. And not just a single meal. No, a feast, that the entire team, past and present, could enjoy. JJ and Morgan, as the most competent adults were making the mains, Emily and Spencer had been tasked with the sides because there was no way they could mess up a salad and Penelope and Hotch were sorting out desert.

It had been a perfect plan. Strauss was going to take Rossi out in the morning, and he would spend the day with her, Joy, and some of his other friends because apparently, he had those. Hotch would then turn up with Jack and take the spare key from wherever it was hidden- he wasn't allowed to say, and the rest of them would turn up after. By the time Rossi came home, everything would be ready. It might be a good time to place some emphasis on the had.

Aaron hadn't been able to find the key. Instead of waiting to see if someone else could get it, he'd thrown a rock through the window, climbed in and unlocked the door from inside. Unfortunately, Rossi's alarm was silent, so it was only the sirens came closer did he realise what was happening. And if that wasn't bad enough, Will was the cop they'd sent. He found it funny. Everyone whose name wasn't Aaron did.

He thought that would be the end of their problems. It was just a start.

His and Penelope's cake batter had gotten mixed up with one of the dishes JJ was making, which would've been fine, but they couldn't tell which one, so they'd both needed to start again.

And whilst that was happening, Derek had burnt his. Aaron had cursed Rossi for having an electric stove, which led to Jack politely asking what a "fudging mochafluffer" was. Emily told him what his dad had actually meant.

Emily had put a bowl in the microwave. She'd asked Aaron if it could go, and when he'd seen that it was just butter and chocolate- she was helping Penelope- he said yes, because he assumed she would've checked that it was a microwave proof bowl. She hadn't, and the bowl melted, leaving the microwave full of burnt chocolate and partially melted butter.

Spencer had somehow managed to avoid injuring himself, but that was all. He had been tasked with making salad. Vegetable salad. As in, a salad that contained vegetables. When Aaron went to help Emily determine whether a sauce was too hot- it was, by a large amount- he was covered in sprinkles. Jack's laughter identified him as the culprit.

Then, because of all the restarting and incidents and quantity of food they were making, they'd run out of dishes. After all, Dave was one person most days. Four, if Joy and her family came down. The most he ever had at one time was the team and family. Even then, only a few pots and pans were needed.

But because they were already running well behind schedule, they'd just tried to wash, dry and use alternative containers if they needed them urgently. With all six of them- and Jack- in the area, a few were dropped, and some didn't even clean in the dishwasher.

In short, the whole thing was a disaster. But as there was no clock in the kitchen, everyone assumed they still had time to salvage something. Anything, so Dave's birthday wasn't a disaster.

They didn't. Because as Aaron and Emily argued about why anyone would want to eat toasted lettuce- Emily's point was the lettuce had come straight from the fridge so putting it on the toaster would get it to room temperature, Aaron's was that he'd heard smarter things from Sergio- a key turned in the lock.

Erin walked in first, only realising what had been done in her absence when Dave walked through the door. He blinked. Then he rubbed his eyes. And then he pinched himself. When it became clear that he wasn't dreaming, he groaned.

"What have you done to my kitchen?"

And that was a good question. Every surface was covered in half-finished dishes, bowls, cutlery, food and other unidentifiable substances (Emily's cooking.) The six of them were a mess, their clothes completely ruined, and Aaron- who must have won the argument about lettuce- had some in his hair.

"Surprise?" Aaron said, completely deadpan.

"Dear me. Right, all of you, out. The spare bedroom has clothes for all of you. Get changed, and then we'll sort this out."

The team left, feeling terrible.

That feeling faded, because when they came back, Dave was eating one of their many not quite complete dishes. Straight from the bowl. But he seemed to like it! He actually liked it!

"We just wanted to do something nice for you," JJ said.

He shrugged. "I know. Erin kept checking her phone, so then I basically annoyed her into telling me. I know you've basically ruined my kitchen, but your intentions were good, and I appreciate the attempt. Truly. It was very sweet of you."

"Does this mean we get out of having to clear up?" Emily asked.

"No. We'll worry about that later. You must be starving, doing all of this since whenever it was."

"We started a bit later than planned," Penelope confessed.

"Oh I know. Very graceful dive Aaron. You do realise the spare keys are in the same place they've always been?"

Aaron frowns, then walks out, and reaches down somewhere the others can't see. When he comes back, his cheeks are flushed. "Oh."

"Indeed."

"Wait, you can't cook anything. It's your birthday!" Derek says.

"Whoever said anything about cooking?" Dave replies.

Right on cue, the doorbell goes. Dave takes the bag, giving the student on the other side a generous tip. He turns back, pizza in his arms. When he sees the shocked looks on everyone's faces, he shrugs.

"It's good."

Spencer laughs, and gets the extra paper plates out.

They sit in the living room, some of them on the couch, some of them on the floor, and Dave realises that despite everything- or maybe it's because of his broken window and messy kitchen- this has been the best birthday he's ever had.

It's a feeling only solidified when each member of the team takes one final slice of pizza without a single thought of anything other than enjoyment.

[wri0thesley]

Trusting - Melone x Reader (Kinktober Day #7: Hypnosis)

NSFW. 18+ ONLY. Neutral reader. Hypnosis kink; coming untouched, kind of voice kink? Consent is discussed within the fic and heartily given. 2k.

Melone’s teammates don’t seem to trust him. But you do. 

Melone has a lot of very interesting ideas. 

Some of them you indulge him on, some of them you do not - sometimes, Melone goes too far even for you, and though he pouts a little, he marks it off in the neatly ordered files of his mind and busies himself with something that he knows you’ll have no objection to. You and he are remarkably well-suited - you suggest the ideas just as often as he does. 

When you’d first become an item, your teammates had twisted their lips and told you to beware of the blond, warning you that he took things too far. You’ve noticed that they’re wary around him - that nights out at the bar are not extended to him, that nobody wants to sit beside him. Your boyfriend does not seem to mind - but he is often distracted. His eyes often take on a distant cast. He taps away at his laptop, concentrates very hard on the paperwork that Risotto gives him, and you think perhaps he is so engrossed in his work precisely because he has nothing else to think about. 

It makes him a very good assassin - and, too, it makes him a very attentive lover when somebody does want to give him the time of day. 

You learn every inch of Melone’s body intimately - the curve of his spine, the scarring of his eye beneath the mask, the way his throat bobs and breath hitches when you touch those particular spots in the spaces between his ribs. In return, he learns you - the part of your neck that has you a melting puddle, the words that have arousal coiling low and heavy in your gut. 

He has never hurt you - you don’t think he would, despite what the others whisper about him and his stand. Professionally, Melone is clinical - personally, he is hot and desperate for your love. He doesn’t say so much in words, but the feel of his arms around you and him nosing into your neck and sighing your name is enough to convince you. 

So when he brings it up, you do not hesitate all that much. 

He’s brought up some far stranger things as possibilities in the bedroom - some of which have required specialist equipment, or even changes to the structural integrity of your bedroom. Those you’ve gently put down, just for the logistics of it - but this? Melone just needs a pocket watch and chain and maybe a blindfold, and you figure those are things you have no real complaints of being used in the bedroom. 

Part of you, too, thinks it’s bullshit. You don’t think Melone - for all of his psychoanalysis and fake science mixed in with real science and intensely accurate knowledge of the human brain - is actually going to be able to hypnotise you. 

So, you obediently let him get you comfortable on the bed, dressed in only a too big for you shirt. You obediently let him sit himself in front of you, check your pulse quickly, make sure that you were absolutely fine and comfortable with what he was going to do. 

“It’s probably going to be intense,” Melone tells you, his face very earnest and sweet - it is sweet, to see him like this. So present and switched on. You find yourself smiling at him, and only some of the smile is because you feel so silly. “So if you want to not do this, tell me now - I don’t think you’ll be able to when you’re under.”

“I’m fine,” you tell him. You reach over and squeeze his knee. “I promise.”

He smiles back at you, exclaiming;

“Di molto!” He reaches for the pocket watch laid on the bedside table, chain delicately pinched between thumb and forefinger. He brings it a little way’s away from you, his hand held fairly high so that the clock-face is level with your gaze. “Alright, amore. Watch the clock sway. Listen to the ticking. Let yourself breathe in, slowly.”

You listen to what he’s saying, focussing your gaze on how the watch is swinging in the air. The tick-tock of the second hand seems a little longer than you’re used to. You let your body breathe in deep and release as it wants to, the air seeming to stay in your chest cavity more than you knew it could. 

“That’s right,” Melone is murmuring. His voice is low and lilting. “Back and forth. Back and forth. Tick tock. Let all of your thoughts just . . . melt away.”

It’s easy to lose your thoughts listening to Melone’s low tones, like the soft hum of a radio a few rooms over. You have been stressed recently, haven’t you? The feeling of your tensions draining away is almost physical, like cool water trickling down your spine. 

“Good. Let all of that go. You’re tired, aren’t you?” Melone makes a soft noise in the back of his throat that feels like a physical caress. “Your eyes are heavy. You’re so tired you’re going to drop, if you don’t let your eyes close and your mind go blank . . .”

Your eyes are heavy. Molasses-thick, your brain feeling half-melted and pliable, you let them fall. Your entire body feels thick and not-real, heavy everywhere. 

“Good,” Melone breathes softly. “Now. I’m going to touch you. First, your face.”

You feel Melone’s fingers scoop up your chin, his breath against your lips. He smells like vanilla. One of his gloved thumbs swipes across your bottom lip. “I’m going to kiss you,” he says. Soft lips meet your own - Melone’s skincare routine could rival any celebrity - and Melone is softly nipping at your bottom lip, sending lazy spires of pleasure all through you. 

In your heavy, hypnotised state, everything feels like it’s been intensified threefold. Every drag of Melone’s lips against yours, the soft warmth of his breath, the fingers that dance over your neck. 

“I’m running my fingers down your chest,” he murmurs to you. You feel it, the pads of his fingertips warm. “I’m going to take off your shirt.”

Fabric over your waist, over your chest - you feel cool air on your skin and your nipples stiffen into peaks. 

“I’m touching your nipples,” Melone breathes. “They’re hardening for me. You like it when I pinch them like this--”

He pinches your left nipple and hot electricity lances through you, adding to the heat low in your belly. You shift, whimpering, and he lets out the ghost of a laugh. You’re winning - you’re not hypnotised. You can feel everything he’s doing to you, more ardently than ever before. You swear you can feel every whorl of his fingertips as they move from your nipples, dragging down your stomach. 

“You’ve got goosebumps from the slight scratch of my nails on your hips,” Melone tells you, and you feel them - pinpricks on your skin, Melone’s fingers scratching an itch of needing to be touched. “You’re spreading your thighs for me. Oh, look at you - you’re excited.”

You do, and you are. The way that the closed eyes and the awareness of the clock ticking in the back of your mind have heightened your senses mean that touches that before might have just made you shiver have you full-blown turned on, and your arousal is obvious between your legs.

“Is this for me?” He asks, and the laughs softly again. “What am I saying? Of course it’s for me. You’re this excited for me. I’m touching you, now - oh, look how your skin is jumping.”

You feel the little jolt when he finally makes contact with that hot aching part of you. Your sigh is choked in your throat, as Melone’s fingers continue to dance all over you, stroking and petting. You’re all over heat, down there - every part of your lower body feels like it’s in flames. Your thighs shake with the pleasure of being touched. 

“I’m going to take off your underwear,” he says, and you gladly lift your hips. The drag of the fabric against your swollen and aching lower half feels torturous, but it’s worth it for the cool air to hit you - it’s worth it, too, for Melone’s hands to return and touch bare skin instead of fondling you through slick fabric. 

“You’re close,” Melone tells you, and you nod, gyrating your hips towards him, searching out his fingers again. “I haven’t stopped touching you, don’t worry--”

“Don’t stop,” you whimper, the first thing you’ve said since he began. You fancy that you can hear the smile in his voice when he assures you that he won’t stop, soft little noises of comfort as his fingers continue to work on you, ceaselessly petting and rubbing at you. Those flashes of white-hot want are frequent behind your eyes, now - every hair on your body standing up straight. He’s still wearing his gloves, and the texture of those against your heated lower half . . .

“You’re going to come for me,” Melone murmurs, his own voice very low now. You know he likes it when you’re helpless for him - you know he must be close too. You can’t hear the slick noises of him handling himself, but you can imagine how hard he must be in his body-suit, watching your body jerk with his movements as your face remains serene. “You’re coming, amore--”

You come at the order. You were coming before, weren’t you? There’s no way that he could have made you come just by telling you to do so! But come you do, your body trembling, the tight ball of tension in your stomach finally becoming unravelled, tight strings snapping as aftershocks roll over your needy, heated skin. Even the stickiness of your arousal and orgasm doesn’t feel unpleasant right now, though you wonder if Melone feels differently. 

“Good,” he hums. “Very good.” The hand between your legs gently pulls back, stroking your thigh reassuringly as it goes (even that small sensation has you shivering. “You did very well.”

You can’t quite make proper words. Your mouth seems to be plugged with honey, your tongue too lazy to move. You concentrate on the sounds of Melone’s voice, as melodic and even as ever--

“Now. You can still hear the clock, hmm? Concentrate on it again. I want you to say it in time - come on, now. Ground yourself. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.”

Little by little, your tongue seems to free itself from the strange hold. Little by little, moisture returns to your throat. And after a few more moments, your voice is mumbling along with the clock. 

“Yes! Now. Move your hands, just a little - clench your fists. Ah, yes, yes, di molto! Breathe in, and out . . . Open your eyes, amore.”

You let yourself adjust, body snapping out of the trance-like state. Maybe Melone had put you under, just a little bit . . .

Your eyes drift open. You’re suddenly hyper-aware that there’s fabric against your thighs. You look down, baffled - you’re still wearing the old shirt. The one that you swore that Melone had taken off of you. 

“I--” your eyebrows dip into furrows. You’re baffled, as you grab the hem of the shirt, peeking below - to see that you have also somehow regained your underwear. They’re soaking. You have to have come whilst still wearing them. “M-Mel? I . . . you took these off.”

You look at your boyfriend. A smirk is curling the corner of his lip. You stare at him, trying to take him in - his face is flushed from watching you, and there’s an obvious tightness in his already-tight body suit . . . But his hair isn’t ruffled. His fingers don’t glint with your wetness. In fact, aside from having put down the pocket watch, it appears that he hasn’t moved at all. 

“I haven’t touched you,” he tells you, a thread of unrestrained glee running through his voice. 

“You must have,” you protest weakly. “I can’t have . . . without even being touched . . .” Your cheeks heat up. Melone is still grinning. 

“Everything I did,” he says. “I did with my voice. I didn’t think you’d be so sensitive, but you were under so quick--”

“I can’t have,” you try to say, but his story is seeming very likely. There’s no way he could have put your shirt on without you feeling it - and absolutely no way that the underwear, in its current soaking wet state, could have been slipped back up your thighs without you complaining about it. 

Oh my God, he actually hypnotised you - and what’s more, he hypnotised you into coming just by talking to you! You knew Melone’s dirty talk was good, but not that good . . . The real weight of what Melone could do with this newfound power makes you glad you’re sitting down. You feel dizzied by the possibilities, light headed - but the way that the thoughts of being controlled by Melone affect the region between your thighs is very heavy and obvious indeed. You squeeze your thighs together. You wet your lips. 

“Would . . . would this be something you’d like to do again?” You ask him, hoping you don’t sound too eager. But Melone knows you too well. He’s moving up, slinking like a cat to sit beside you on the bed and draw you in for a heated kiss, pressing your thigh against the hardness in his body-suit as a reminder of what exactly your shared performance had done to him. 

“I thought you’d never ask,” he purrs into your mouth. “I have so many ideas.”

[nightwingshero]

Judgement ⚖️

I had the amazing opportunity to commission the wonderful and talented @oliviawildesjawline to do Wren Blake as Nemesis personified in the role of Judge. And OMG!!!! IT’S AMAZING!!! You’ve completely blown me away with this piece! This is just...this is way better than I imagined it, and the colors?! You never fail to amaze me. Thank you so much for making this a reality!!! It’s absolutely perfect and I CAN’T STOP STARING AT IT!!!

Joseph always told John that his sin would come around in another form. But the cycle never broke, and Wren’s sin comes around in the form of one she thought as a friend. Wren faces her first Judgement as Herald of Eden’s Gate, and the scales aren’t tipping in Jess Black’s favor. .

It’s hard to breathe sometimes, I found. Wasn’t anyone’s fault in particular, but I could feel the weight of something in my chest. And whether it's my own sin curling its hand around my lungs or the guilty that refuse to answer for what they had done, one couldn’t say. It was just so heavy.

Facing your demons was something people preached about, insisted on, despite how utterly terrifying it could be. Confront those feelings, the dark and long-legged spiders that formed cobwebs in the back of your mind to whisper the poisonous thoughts you believed to be your subconscious. They’re traitorous things, always sticky and malicious, knocking the angel off your shoulder with utter disdain. Crooked smiles taunting as you fall down and down until you can’t even tell that you’ve fallen into the pit of Tartarus itself. But yes, face your demons, darling.

And I’m face to face with her now.

Die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain. Forgive and love or watch as your sin comes around in a new form. The words were meant for both me and the man I spend my nights with, both of us on the different sides of the same coin. It makes me contemplate, hearing a clock tick, but there is no clock here. No, not down here.

I tilt my head, careful not to allow my own wrath to consume my very being, igniting something that would burn out of control. My own test. And I realize the ticking is coming from my jaw, the words finding refuge there to avoid the sharp tip of my silver tongue. My words are like bullets, and I always preferred the personal touch of a blade over the gracelessness of a gun. Guns didn’t teach lessons.

I guess you could say they never got the point across.

My burgundy lips are twisting, a dark sneer that I had learned from the best of the best. And I feel as if it is his hand that’s guiding my actions, his tattooed digits tracing the coolness of my skin as if I was a marionette, but I am so much more. I am my own being, my own actions, my own existence.

I am my own Herald.

I wonder if that makes her heart beat faster, knowing that no other will interfere, she’s in my domain. Joseph wouldn’t even dare to put his hand upon the scales, refusing to taint the will of God because Judgement is sacred. A ritual that must be done right or else we pay the price. A soft hand or the steel of my knife, each calculation is accurate and precise, one wrong call and it unravels the bonds we weave for ourselves.

Rolling my neck, I can feel the tightening of an imaginary snake around my neck, it's comforting hissing and flicking tongue in my ear, and I swear I can feel just the slightest scratch of his beard. He’s not here, but I feel him.

You must always face your demons.

There’s hesitation within me when I swore that there would be none, a slight sliver of doubt piercing the insides of me, because I’m not sure if I can do this clearly. Fairly. A delicate line between revenge and vengeance and it has woven itself around my fingers, arms, entangling all the way down my spine. There should be metal there, but I fear that it’s only the thread keeping me standing straight.

I am alone.

Doing this on my own is an important feat. A necessary one that I take seriously. Perhaps a rite of passage, but I feel like I’m on the precipice of falling, or diving, and it steels my resolve. My dark heels click against the concrete floor, echoing against the harsh walls that match the harsh glow of light. I remembered my first time in this room, my shirt ripping apart as if it were nothing, fear pumping into my veins with just enough adrenaline. A toxic cocktail of endorphins, but I can practically taste the bitterness of her anger as she glares from her chair.

It’s exciting, almost. Oh god, the absolute thrill and I return her glare, because I am alone. Nobody is coming to save her, and I am the only way out for her. It doesn’t sway her actions, her feelings, for she is still so encompassed with loathing. She can’t see what is in front of her. What her pride has done to those around her, and I’m suddenly ready to pass my Judgement by just the slight reminder of her horrid actions. I still feel the warm blood on my hands and the tears that flowed that night. I want her blood in return, eye for an eye.

I swallow and shove what I can to the side, keeping what remanence of the control I had left. I rub my hands against the tight black pants, a wishful thought of them helping to hold me in place as I take another step forward. Her eyes follow, and I’m sure she means to be threatening with the look in her eyes, but I feel like laughing at her. The poor thing is tied and gagged, what threat was she? I fight the urge to rip the tape from her mouth just for the satisfaction of causing some sort of pain.

Reaching her, I rest my knee on her chair next to her leg and she jerks away. I have to fight the laugh because she’s ridiculous. Always acting like a child, always so damn selfish. I click my tongue, the organ finally rising to the occasion because I am done being silent. The words are screaming, clawing at the insides and I’m shocked that I have yet to spit blood upon her face out of spite.

I grab her face instead, and god, the relief I feel for it. The black nails pressing against her flesh, indents around my fingers. I feel the sweat, and I’m not shocked. This room was always a bit hot, and I was ready to remove the black button up to cool the hot skin underneath, but I thought better of it. It was almost a relief to feel the sponge against my chest so long ago, John showing me he was willing to give, but I won’t give her the blessing of reprieve. I am not merciful; I am not here to love her.

“I heard you refuse to Confess.”

My words, finally freed, are low and oh so soft. Had it been anyone else, my voice would have been a caress, comforting enough for them to come closer. But she knows better, and I can tell that from the way she’s looking at me, that I am nothing but a demon to her. A traitor who hid her horns so well that it was her sins that had to reveal them. And that’s fine. I’ll be whatever she wanted me to be.

I’ll be what I had to be.

A demon for her, a righteous Judge for them.

A whore of Babylon or The Baptist’s wife.

Nemesis.

So many crowns, thrones even, and no matter how heavy, I stood tall with my head held high as they all fell to my feet with praise or with blood in their mouths. I would protect my flock from the poison of those who slither in the shadows, spouting lies upon lies and destroying whatever was in their path. I almost pitied them.

Almost.

“You know that my Judgement comes after the Confession, don’t you dear?”

I’m taunting her and her eyes burn brighter. It’s answered with my nails piercing through her skin, blood pooling just a bit, and I hear her grunt of pain. She’s underestimating my rage, her betrayal. Her actions have spoken more than her lips ever could, so it’s fine. But the urge to make her feel something, to show just how scared she should be, is getting the better of me. Perhaps my wrath wasn’t contained, and I find it hard to feel regret for it. But I just smile, baring my teeth.

The scales have tipped, even if they were just a bit crooked to begin with.

Lowering myself, my lips find her ear. If I listen closely, perhaps I could hear the ghost of her beating heart pumping in her empty void of a chest. A falsity to make her seem more human than puppet, but we both know that it's wood underneath this skin. She was nothing but a mere tool at his disposal, and I had every intention of breaking it.

“That’s alright. Your silence is enough for me to pass Judgement, and oh dear, the sins you’ve committed…you should start praying to your God for forgiveness, honey. You won’t find any here.”