#not sure where I want to take this

[kimboo-york]

The Orphans of Yunmeng

It happened so fast, so unbelievably fast, that even as they stumbled through the streets of Yiling, Jiang Yanli was not sure how they got there.

“This way, this way, here…come on!” Wei Ying was pushing and pulling them forward until they were in a dank, old alleyway. A’Cheng recoiled, but she grabbed his wrist and yanked him along. Even being older and (just barely) taller than he was, she should not have been able to maneuver him so easily, but she was certain he was going into shock.

Wei Ying was banging on a door half sunk in the ground, as if it had once been the entry to a basement to a part of a house that wasn’t there anymore.

“Open up, Lao Wang!”

“What the fuck do you want?” An ancient man in a twisted body pulled the door open. Jiang Yanli was not certain he actually had any teeth. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Wei Ying!”

“The fuck?”

Wei Ying groaned in frustration and shoved the old man backwards into the room, pulling on Jiang Yanli who in turn dragged A’Cheng along.

“Hey!”

“It’s me! Wei Ying!” Wei Ying said loudly, slamming the door shut behind him.

“You brat! Where the hell have you been?”

“I told you I got picked up by the Yunmeng Jiang sect, like, ten times already.”

The man looked more like a human yao than a person, wrinkled and bent with watery, clouded eyes. While he bickered with Wei Ying, Yanli stood very still next to A’Cheng, who still did not appear to be entirely present. He had not been entirely present since the panic attack back at Lotus Pier.

“Ying’er,” Yanli said softly, which brought Lao Wang and Wei Ying up short. “Where are we?”

“And who are you?” Lao Wang added, poking a long crooked finger at Wei Ying’s chest.

“I’m Wei Ying!” Wei Ying threw his arms up in the air in frustration.

“I know that! I mean them! Dressed too nice to street rats. I can’t use ‘em.” He banged his cane on the ground and sat down with a loud thump.

Yanli did not like the sound of that.

“That’s not why I brought them here, you wicked old man,” Wei Ying said, rolling his eyes. He turned to Yanli. “ShiJie, this is Lao Wang, pickpocket master of Yiling. I knew him when I was…when I used to live here.” He ended up looking down at the dirt floor and shuffling his feet.

“Oh.” She did not know what else to say.

“Been gone too long, you’re out of practice. Can’t use you either.”

“I’m not stealing for you!” He glanced over at Yanli. “Uh, not that I ever did. Because I didn’t! That would be wrong.”

“Then why the fuck are you here?” Lao Wang banged his cane on the floor again.

Yanli let go of A’Cheng and stepped forward, not too close, but certainly far closer to a grown man than her mother would have approved.

Her mother.

She bowed. “Lao Wang, I apologize for my brother bringing us to your home. We are in a desperate situation and need a place to hide.”

“ShiJie,” Wei Ying whined softly.

“No, Ying’er, there is no point in lying. Everyone…everyone will know soon anyway.” She held back a sob.

“No!” A’Cheng shouted and broke for the door. Wei Ying, obviously acting on instinct, tackled him to the floor before he could even grab the handle. The boys wrestled on the ground, shouting incomprehensibly at each other. Yanli knew who would win—who always won, and why that had really been such a burn to her mother’s pride. She stood there and sobbed while her brothers bloodied each other, unable to do anything to stop them.

“Ah, shit.” Lao Wang got up, waddled over and casually as tossing kittens around threw the boys apart with his cane and a martial arts move she had never seen before. There was a moment of quiet before A’Cheng broke down in heaving sobs, and Wei Ying scrambled over to hold him tight.

Yanli knew she should do the same thing. She should be strong for them. She should hold them and tell them everything would be all right. All she could do was stand there and cry.

“What happened, child?” Lao Wang asked softly, squinting at the tangle of her brothers. His hands were firmly set on his cane, but there was something soothing about his presence in that moment.

“Father��Sect Leader Jiang found out that my brother and I are not his children. Our mother was an adulteress.” She took a deep breath, wrapping her arms around herself, starting to shake. “He…he kicked us out.”

[hinamie]

subject, specimen, spectacle;

should i say that you're dead?

[vintrage]

fire cannot kill a dragon BITCH

[choccy-milky]

sometimes you gotta lure your overly-studious ravenclaw gf into spending time with you 🥰 📚 ( from 'Every Teardrop is a Waterfall' by Kat_12739 on ao3, GO READ IT!!! the first story is about seb falling sick and still pushing himself/not admitting he's sick until he ends up in the hospital, the second story is about the birth of seb and clora's daughter and seb's reaction to clora almost dying in childbirth, and the third is about dealing with a fussy newborn lewis😭🥹THEY'RE SO GOOD AND SWEET AND SOMEWHAT SAD (not to mention beautifully written) so go check it out!!💖💖 )

[heartorbit]

find another role, carry on the show

[marypsue]

Man, it's cool and all if you see a metaphor for marginalisation in the monstrous, and if you want the power fantasy of 'what if you could just eat anybody who threatened you/pissed you off'. Me too.

However, as soon as you start saying 'no, these monsters are a 1:1 on Specific Marginalised Group, and you have to treat them in the fiction like they are directly representative of real human members of the marginalised group', BUT you also, in the fiction, make them hurt/kill/eat humans? And then try to shame me, your audience, for noticing or engaging with the bit where they kill people, because you made them directly representative of a real-world marginalised group? You have lost me, and also, I think, the plot.

[tenderjock]

I’m with you, my love The lights shining through on you Yes, I’m with you, my love It’s the morning and just we two

[doggirlhen]

the thing is you have to get a good grade in being an art commissioner. you cannot be a bitch when paying for art. you have to be patient and nice. i have not been perfect in my years of paying other furries for art of my funny animals but i can, with confidence, say ive gotten a good grade. artist friends of mine agree im awesome and fankly the Keys to being Awesome at being a commissioner are just like. being nice and recognizing artists arent machines. theyre people who have their own lives and are not infront of their tablet drawing for everyone 24/7. youll find them posting about some game or movie when youve been waiting three weeks for something and thats fine. youll find them having difficulty getting something exactly like how it is in your brain because, like all people, they cannot read your mind. you gotta have everything ready and upfront and be ready to answer questions. its fine to be a little nitpicky and a little "sorry im not quite sure on this pose, could you do X Y and Z" and not be an asshole about it. after a certain number of "can you do X different" you have to realize its either not going to be exactly how you want it to be or the artist is going to want to kill you with hammers. and thats fine. i think artists have every right to want to kill you with hammers.

[lazylittledragon]

Heya, feel free not to answer if this is uncomfortable, invasive or you just don't want to :)

I'm a trans guy and I'm, after top surgery, hoping to get laurel wreaths tattooed over the scars with florograpgy accents.

Do you have any advice for someone who's never had a tattoo before? Anyways to deal with pain, common courtesies for the tattoo artist, how the actual session goes, etc.?

Love ya,

Quimble

THAT'S A GREAT IDEA also absolutely!!!

don't stress about it or worry about being 'too much', for someone's first one i will talk through every single thing i'm doing and there are no stupid questions or too many concerns. also don't worry about twitching/flinching, it's not your fault and we know how to work around it

your artist should never make you feel bad about ANYTHING!! you can move the stencil as many times as you want and we don't care about your body or what you look like. if you need to take a break it's fine, if you need numbing spray it's fine. i would honestly rather slightly inconvenience myself than make you uncomfortable. as long as you aren't intentionally wiggling around the entire time or being a dick to the artist, you're all good.

yes it is going to hurt but it probably won't be as bad as you think it will be. when i got my first one i really hyped myself up and was very underwhelmed by the pain aksddfjfdj

bring something with you like a book or headphones if you need a distraction (as long as the tattoo placement allows it). i'm quite chatty most of the time but if you want a quiet session/no smalltalk you can ask for that

the actual session will go something like: show up, look at the design, make any changes if you want, test it out for sizing, put the stencil on and make sure you like it, then start the tattoo. afterwards they'll go through all the aftercare with you and either put on second skin (a film that sticks to your skin and protects the tattoo) or wrap it in clingfilm

if they haven't specified when you book the appointment then ask if it's cash/card/paypal etc and if it's cash, try and get it out BEFORE the tattoo appointment (just a time saving thing). also tipping is never expected but always Extremely appreciated :))

please please PLEASE tell us if you don't like the design/want to change the placement etc. personally i would be mortified if i knew someone didn't like what i'd done and didn't feel comfortable telling me. it's there forever so i want you to like it!!

[galactaknightyaoi]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, GALACTA KNIGHT!!!! And congratulations to Meta Knight for experiencing the Cain Instinct for the first time.

Galacta Knight, as you might've been able to tell already, is one of my favorite characters, and KSSU is one of my favorite games (the original SS was my introduction to Kirby!) so I wanted to go all out. Happy day, old man. I pray for at least 20 more years.

Oh, and don't worry! He's not upset about the cake smash, he thinks it's funny. And he got back at him.

As for the in-universe explanation for there being 16 candles in his cake?

... 500+ didn't fit in safely.

The birthday boy and his family were just a bit too flammable.

[moeblob]

Gavin mentally: wait... that doesn't add up........

[capquinn]

I always think about how Quinn said that one time he wished he was a really good dancer. So I can just imagine him popping off at his wedding.

oh i always imagine quinn to be such a free spirit when he's had a few drinks regardless of the occasion but his wedding? oh boy......

Stone-cold stone-sober Quinn is all calm, composed, and measured — he’s got that quiet, thoughtful energy that makes people lean in when he talks. But give him a couple of beers or maybe a fancy cocktail (because you know someone at your wedding got him to try something ridiculous, like a mojito with extra mint), and bam, you’ve got goofy, uninhibited, fully-vibing Quinn.

The night starts out simple enough, the two of you swaying to the first dance song while everyone watches. His hands are steady on your waist, his grin soft and shy, because he knows this part is a formality. It’s for the photos, for the tradition, for your parents who’ve probably been dreaming about this moment longer than either of you have.

But then the drinks start flowing, and Quinn loosens up. He’s not a big drinker, so it doesn’t take much — a couple more beers, maybe a glass of champagne during the speeches — and suddenly, he’s feeling bold. He’s the kind of tipsy where the walls come down in the best way. He’s smiling with his whole face, his arms draped over his brothers, swaying like they’re in some kind of group hug even when there’s no music. He’s making ridiculous bets with Jack and he’s got that wild, carefree laugh that you don’t hear nearly enough but hits you right in the chest every time.

You’re watching him from across the dance floor at one point, and he’s just glowing. His tie is loose, his hair a little messy, his cheeks flushed with that perfect mix of alcohol, heat and adrenaline. And then someone — probably Luke — drags him into the middle of the floor during some ridiculous party anthem, and that’s it. He’s in.

As the night goes on, he gets braver. He’s not doing any moves, per se — this isn’t choreography — but it’s that joyful, carefree energy that’s so unmistakably him. He’s bouncing around with his brothers, laughing as they egg each other on, pulling you into the mix every chance he gets. And then, at some point, it’s just the two of you.

Quinn’s hand finds yours, his other resting lightly at your waist as he spins you out and then back in, the movement quick and playful. You’re laughing too hard to keep up properly, your steps stumbling as he twirls you under his arm again, pulling you closer only to dip you dramatically, his grin absolutely dazzling.

“Quinn,” you manage between giggles, your fingers clutching at his shoulder for balance. “You’re going to drop me.”

“Never,” he says, breathless but grinning as he straightens you up. The twinkle in his eyes is brighter than the lights strung overhead, and the way he looks at you, even surrounded by friends and family, makes your chest feel warm and full. “You’re stuck with me now.”

You roll your eyes, your smile impossible to contain. “Oh, I’m well aware.”

Someone whistles behind him, and you catch Quinn’s head turning briefly before he’s tugging you back into another spin, this time clumsier because he’s laughing.

And then there’s the moment when “Mr. Brightside” comes on, because of course someone put it on the playlist, and Quinn goes for it. He’s belting out the words with absolutely no restraint, his arms flailing as he jumps to the beat. By now, he’s fully sweaty, his shirt untucked, his tie somewhere across the room — and he doesn’t care. He’s clapping along, pulling you into the chaos with him as he dramatically yells the chorus right in your face, like it’s a competition. You’re yelling it right back, both of you completely off-key but louder than everyone else, leaning in closer as if sheer volume will win you some imaginary prize. And because it’s Quinn and he’s just drunk enough to embrace every second, he grabs Luke by the shoulder to scream, “jealousy!” in perfect unison, the two of them dramatically pointing toward Jack, who rolls his eyes but joins in anyway.

By the time you both tumble onto the hotel bed, the night has finally caught up with you. Your cheeks hurt from laughing, your feet ache from dancing, and Quinn is sprawled out beside you, shirt untucked, with a faint stain of something red from the buffet (or maybe it’s from when you crashed into him with a drink — who knows at this point?). His cheeks are still flushed, his hair a little damp from the sheer effort he put into being the life of the party.

You glance over at him, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. “So, when did you become a dancer?”

He huffs a laugh, eyes half-closed, his voice soft and teasing. “Marriage changes a man."

[rawbin-hsr]

OMGGG Your latest smut fic is so amazing!!! The smut is absolutely delicious! but....the angst is breaking my heart so...could you please write a continuation or part two where the reader confronts Aventurine's dark internal thoughts and comforts them? A fic where they actually get him to believe that they love him for real, where they tell him that he's not a monster and that he wasn't ruining them.

You've got it ! (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

Aventurine x Reader

You treat Aventurine with more respect than he deserves. (Part 2)

Read part 1 here !

CW: dehumanisation (internal, thoughts Aventurine has of himself, referring to himself as a “monster”), lots of mentions of death, passively suicidal Aventurine, violent imagery (through metaphors, nobody is actually physically harmed), intrusive thoughts, Aventurine thinks kind of vicious things about you (refers to you as "stupid", "brainless", "naive" etc), cursing.

Lmk if there’s anything else I should warn about !!

Small note: Spoiler alert sorry, but you will not completely fix Aventurine in this fic. Making any real progress would take YEARS. The trauma he's gone through and his beliefs about his own humanity are EXTREMELY deep-seated, just one conversation would not be enough to make him truly believe he was loved. Super sorry since I'm sure that's not what you wanted (you specifically requested they "truly get him to believe that they love him for real", but this does still end on a hopeful note so I hope you won't be too disappointed (•ᴗ•,, ) )

Sometimes Aventurine gains enough clarity to remember where he stands. More importantly, he gains enough clarity to remember where you should stand. That is to say, as far away from him as possible. Unfortunately, you are never keen on doing that. 

In these moments of clarity, he distances himself. If you won’t do it, he has to. He needs to. He needs to even when he can feel the little pieces of him that you’ve managed to haphazardly glue together splinter into tiny shards again, even when it feels like every step away is a step walked on shattered glass. He can hardly be called a ‘person’ anyways, what does his suffering matter? He has already lost so many good things, why not add another loss to the tally?

He reads your texts, but he doesn’t respond. He hangs up on you the moment you call. By doing this, he makes sure you know he is alive. Both because he knows it would devastate you if you thought he died, but even more so to make sure you know he is intentionally ignoring you. He hopes at least some part of you hates him. He thinks part of him hates you.

But he can never stay away for long. Like a werewolf called by the full moon; like a vampire to blood; like a siren to a sailor. Thoughts of you always cloud his mind too much to do what is right. He reminds himself he will destroy you. He comes back anyways. He is too selfish not to. 

And you welcome him with open arms every time. Sure, sometimes you yell. Sometimes you berate him. Sometimes you cry. But he never does something beyond the bounds of what you’ll forgive, even though he tries to. You’re patient to a fault. Though he feels bad, he never takes it fully seriously, because you always hold him with so much sweetness, even when your words are filled with righteous anger and justified hurt. You always end it by reminding him that you love him. Something clenches in his chest; something that is not his heart, because he has none. He claims he is sorry, but you both know he will do this again. He always does. You know he will hurt you over and over, even if you don’t know the extent. You know he will test you, that he will ignore you, that he will cling to you and that he will taunt you. You don’t know he will drag his claws through you and tear you to ribbons; you don’t know he will sink his teeth into your neck and drink all your blood; you don’t know he will lure you to sea and drown you. You are never aware of the true danger you are in. 

Maybe that’s why you one day feel comfortable enough to corner the creature that has taken on the appearance of a lover. You sit down next to him in bed one evening after one of his many attempts to push you away, your expression grim. You look straight ahead, right into his dead eyes, unaware that a monster is towering over you. 

“We can’t go on like this,” you say. For one moment, the crushing relief and devastation threatens to consume him, and he’s not sure which of the feelings is stronger. For one moment he can’t breathe. 

He hacks our a laugh, his skin straining. Something is shifting beneath his flesh, something ugly and dangerous. He needs to leave and he needs to do it quickly. 

“You’re right, we can’t,” he agrees, his voice a lot more steady than he feels. He feels the urge to grab you and shake you until you pass out. He feels the urge to suck out your life force until your body is an empty husk. He feels the urge to slam your head into the bathroom sink in the next room over. He feels the urge to shoot himself in the head, because he does not want to do any of that. 

“I love you,” you say, unexpectedly. Or maybe it’s not unexpected. You always say such stupid, brainless things. (You say it with sweetness. The only sweetness he can offer in return is the sweetness of bacteria digesting rotting meat. Is the flesh his, or will it be yours?) He laughs again. 

“I thought we were breaking up,” he says. Smirking, as if it’s funny. (It isn’t.)

“No, we’re really not,” you say firmly. He snorts. 

“Maybe we should.”

You don’t answer. Instead, you come closer. 

Get away, he thinks. Run, you fucking idiot. 

You don’t have many flaws, but the ones you do have are insurmountably big. You are too forgiving, you are too kind, you are too selfless, you are too naive. You will kill yourself doing this one day. You will let him kill you.

Your arms wrap around him. He can’t help but relax. The thing lurking under his human disguise grows more restless. 

“I don’t hate you,” you say, unexpectedly. And this one really is unexpected, because what made you say that? Your arms squeeze around him tighter. “I thought I was being obvious enough about that, but you’re so bad at understanding it.”

The feeling he has is the same as the feeling he gets when he realises a deal is going awry. You are the highest risk stakes he has ever made a bet on: will he ruin you, or will you ruin him? What you could do to him is so much more serious than death. He knows that he is holding a losing hand. He doesn’t even know what he stands to win.

You kiss his neck. He shudders. 

“Why are you so scared of me?” you ask. 

Scared? He is not scared. What an outright laughable concept. Neither of you are scared, but if one of you was, it should be you, but you aren’t, for some reason.

“What gives you that idea?” he chuckles, but his voice is not as steady this time, and he can feel his smile slipping. (What is wrong with him? He doesn’t want to think about it. The answer is always ‘everything’.)

“Your hand is shaking.”

It is, but that is not because he is afraid. Fear is a human response, borne from the desire to live. It is instinctual. It means kicking and screaming, it means clawing your way out of hell for the chance to see another day, it means fighting for the life you don’t want to end. He cannot die, you see. Death cannot occur twice. Just because his body reacts, that does not necessarily mean he can truly fear any longer.

(Then again, maybe his reaction does not come from the thought of his death.)

“I’m not scared,” he says, and his voice sounds a lot weaker than he had expected. You pull him closer, cradling his head against the crook of your neck. His blood is pulsing too quickly.

“It would be okay if you were,” you murmur. “I know you don’t know how to be loved. That’s okay. I’ll teach you. You just have to let me.”

Squash. Slice. Tear.

Maybe you are the monster. He can feel your claws prying his chest open; he can feel your teeth dig into his flesh; he can feel something that is not air fill his lungs. The biggest difference between you and him is that he devours, while you give. You painfully shove something back into the cavity meant to contain his soul, you pump blood back into his system, and you fill whatever gaps are left in him with something that is first cold but quickly warms. 

(He realises, belatedly, that something is pumping inside his chest again. But it can’t be a heart, can it? He lost that so long ago.)

“I’ll kill you,” he manages through gritted teeth, claws digging into your shirt. It is not a threat. It is not a warning. It is just the truth.

“You think too much,” you admonish him. Your tone is as gentle as your words are cutting. “I wish you would trust me more. You’re so determined to ruin your own life, and I don’t like it.”

“That’s just how I am. Deal with it or leave.”

“I’ll deal with it, then.”

Like a werewolf called by the full moon; like a vampire to blood; like a siren to a sailor. He will destroy you. But you accept it. 

He has tried time and time again to push you away, but he is weak. So incorrigibly weak, and though your flaws are insurmountable, his are all-consuming. He is a monster in all the ways that matter. But you stubbornly will not leave despite that. 

(Maybe that makes him a little more willing to try to change his nature. Just a little. Just for you. If you will not leave anyways, maybe he could try to make his presence a little less torturous.)

“Just… please stop ignoring me,” you sigh, nuzzling into his hair. Tenderly, tenderly, tenderly, so tenderly it makes his skin crawl. Your claws are softly piercing into him and he is helpless, unable (unwilling) to fight back. “I can deal with everything else. I just hate it when you do that. I can’t keep going weeks without speaking to you. I know you have some kind of… weird ideas that I’d be better off without you, but that’s not true. I love you, and I love being around you. I can’t help you when you cut me off at every corner.”

Cut, slice, slash.

Something in him breaks. Something he knows cannot be salvaged. Something he knows you would not want to salvage. Something he is not sure if he wants to salvage either, now that it is broken anyways.

He breathes a shaky breath, his fingers — his fingers, not claws, not this time — digging into your back. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, and he does not feel the urge to bite down. Though his eyes feel wet, it would not be enough water to drown you. 

He knows your line of logic is wrong. He knows the fact remains unchanged: he is a monster of a man. He will ruin you. But maybe your presence sparks enough electricity to keep his heart pumping, just for a little while, and maybe he can wait until things actually start going downhill before he lets you go. Maybe he can remember how to be a human for a bit, maybe he can pretend he is. 

“I just… don’t want to do something I can’t take back,” he whispers. “Not with you. You’re the… the only good thing I have left. I don’t know what I’d do if I…”

“That’s sweet, but I’m not as weak as you think I am,” you reply. “I’ve held out this long, haven’t I? Put more faith in me.”

He smiles.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

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My inbox is open, feel free to send in asks or requests, I'd love to ramble about things <3 Also reblogs are EXTREMELY appreciated the final push I needed to finish this was from a very kind individual who reposted and analysed my writing I've been riding that high ever since they did that ily bro

[shitpostingkats]

Alabasta Ace is so funny.

Like the strawhats keep commenting that Ace is so polite and restrained compared to Luffy but like. This dude drags himself out of the ocean just to thank them for looking after his brother and offer to help wash dishes. Mans asks "Are these guys bothering you?" and proceeds to blow up an entire fleet with his bare hands. He trips over himself to make sure all of Luffy's crew likes him and no, really, you don't mind that he's a weirdo???? That we, I mean he, are feral little insane guys who take up space and emotional labor and are kind hard to handle? Really???? Cool cool cool hey just a reminder I can help out with anything that needs doing. I got lost in the desert but donnut worry in the 0.6 seconds since you last saw me I have somehow acquired water and provisions for several weeks. Don't ask me how!

Peak oldest sibling behavior.

[cecoeur]

How do you sleep at night? No one to hide behind Betrayed every alibi you had You had every chance to make amends instead you got drunk on bitterness And you still claim that you're innocent, it's sad

[maelancoli]

i'm kind of late to this but i just finished reading the scholomance trilogy by naomi novik and i feel like it is such an underrated urban fantasy?? taking the chosen one trope and turning it on its head with a fmc who has been prophesied to bring death and destruction, who is imbued with terrible power, but cannot even properly use said power to solve any of her obstacles because it would obliterate them and her soul. it takes a tired trope and the idea of an 'overpowered mary sue' and throws it back in your face by showing how all the power and destiny in the world is useless against a system filled with corruption that has burdened you with an easy way out (evil/destructive magic) that you can't take so now you have to work twice as hard as everyone else just to do simple, constructive spells instead of flicking your wrist and being done with it.