#overall opinion: awful | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

after-witch · 6 months ago

Text

Bait [Yandere Geto x Reader]

Title: Bait [Yandere Geto x Reader]

Synopsis: You're taken as bait, but will Geto even bother? Companion piece to Fever Pitch and Bus Stop.

Word count: 3100ish

notes: yandere, kidnapped reader (er, twice?); violence against reader; some non-graphic blood and violence

There is a thin line separating your world at all times. It might be white or gold or every color under the sun, but it doesn’t matter, because you are the only one who can see it. The only one who knows what categories fall on either side of this decisive line.

On one side, there is something like comfort to be found. Something like acceptance. It is the world where you sit quietly when Geto tells you to be with him; the world where your heart flutters when he asks you to comb through his hair, or undress him for the day, or bring him his meal. A world where you are his good pet, and that is enough.

But on the other side, there is only one singular certainty:

He will get bored of you.

He will no longer find your compliance endearing. He will kill you, or discard you on the streets, and you’re not sure which is worse.

You’ve never been able to decide how much of his behavior towards you is actually endearment, and how much is a vague interest in the novelty of your compliance. Maybe it’s pointless to decide, because that thought always comes in cold and creeping: you’ll be gone, in a flash, like a wayward candle left on in the night. Dead or alive but without him, and isn’t that just about the same thing?

That thought slithers its way around you even in some of your best moments. When he pats the cushion behind him--a cushion, instead of the bare floor--and instructs you to comb out his hair for the evening. When the water is warm and your bodies are wet and close, and afterwards, you smell almost the same. At least for the night.

He’ll get bored of you, that reality hisses, and that will be that. Not even the twins could save you, if they were so inclined. You’re not sure if they would be, if it came down to Geto wanting to be rid of you. Sometimes, they are warm--sitting with you, reading with you, tending to you. Asking for your opinion like you are, perhaps, a person after all. At other times, they keep to themselves; watch you with something that might be wariness.

Nanako and Mimiko are the reason you are here, under his thumb, at his feet. They saw you and wanted you--like a mother, you think, when you’re feeling sentimental--and they got what they wanted. Geto told you this, once, your knees banging against the floor from where he dropped you like a bad dog.

And you don’t think he’s lying. Even here, now, in the sitting room with the girls, they seem to still like you overall.

Still.

If Geto wanted you to go away, you would.

And it’s this sole thought that pushes past the primal surge of adrenaline that comes when a rough bag is suddenly, crudely shoved down over your head.

He’s getting rid of me.

Over your heartbeat, though, you hear sounds that don’t match up with those bitter thoughts that whispered at your back for ages.

It’s not Geto in the room; not Geto who put a bag over your head.

The girls are shouting something--a yelp of surprise?--and there are too many strange voices, too many conflicting sounds. Someone’s fumbling with your arms, and you can feel the scratch of rope, but something about that awful yelp from one of the girls gives you the strength to shove them aside, to rip the bag off your head.

Strangers. There are strangers in the room. Strange men wearing black face masks, with their arms on the girls, rough and cruel. They’re carrying rope, too--to tie them up? To take them? To hurt them?

No. No.

You don’t have a plan. You don’t have the time or ability to think of one. Your body simply launches itself at the men, who aren’t expecting it, who trip and stumble when you throw your entire body weight against them to get them away from the girls.

“Run!” Your voice sounds foreign to your ears.

And the girls--oh, it makes your heart feel fuzzy--hesitate to leave you. But then they grip each other’s hands and run away. The sight makes your heart soar, for a moment.

They’re safe. They’ll get to Geto, and be safe.

And you--

You grunt against a stinking cloth shoved over your mouth and nose, and inhale a sharp, pungent scent that makes you gag. You blink against the coming grayness as you fall to your knees. Unconsciousness doesn’t come swiftly, and there’s an uncomfortable dizziness as your hands are tied behind your back, and someone hoists you roughly over their shoulder.

You can just make out what one of them says before you pass out--

“Fuck, I don’t know. Just--just grab her instead. He must like her, to let her around those kids.”

The sensation when the world gradually returns to you is a familiar one: you’ve been tied up. But instead of soft silks tightly pinning you to the bed, or winding around your body only to be hidden by your layers of clothing, it’s rough rope that keeps you bound to a cold metal chair.

The room that you’re in, when your eyesight returns with a blurry fog, is not Geto’s comfortable apartments but a bare room with concrete walls. The only decorations are--the realization comes with a dull acceptance--bloodstains against the wall, on the floor.

Ah.

This is where you die.

A sound--muffled, still, but a jarring screen all the same--makes you jerk your head. It’s another metal chair. But the person sitting in this one isn’t tied up--it’s a man, wearing a gray suit and puffing a cigarette that glows in the dimly lit space.

“Wakey, wakey.”

He blows a puff of gray cigarette smoke into your face, and you cough, throat acidic and burning.

It takes you some time to realize that it’s certainly one of the men who took you, who wanted to take--and maybe there is some justice in the world, because it seems they got away--the girls. There’s a bandage on his face and a vague memory comes back to you; your own hand reaching across his face, clawing at him with your carefully trimmed nails.

There are other men behind him, quiet, watching the two of you with their hands folded. There are probably countless of these men, waiting for orders, in the rest of the building.

“You hear me yet? Or are you still all fucked up?” His eyes narrow; his voice is gruff, no-nonsense. There’s some grit behind it. You wonder how much of his gruffness is because their plans were thwarted, and how much is because you managed to get a good dig into his flesh. Maybe both.

Your lips part, and you feel a film of stickiness keeping your mouth together peeling as you lick the inside to give yourself some sort of moisture. Your voice comes out hoarse and dry, despite your efforts.

“I… can hear you.”

Your hands flex from their bound position behind your back, pressed harshly against the chair. There’s no way to get out of this, not on your own. And you are on your own, because Geto would not bother getting you from here.

You can imagine what happened as clearly as anything, despite the lingering effects of whatever drug they used on you.

The girls would run immediately to Geto, and tell him what happened. He would look them over to make sure they weren’t hurt. He would ask who attacked them, how many, what they looked like, and if they could remember any other identifiers. Then he would probably think back to who might have done this… someone with a grudge? Some enemy he’s made?

It would only be then that he would realize the girls said you had been taken, and he would sigh. Perhaps he'd be annoyed that he lost his pet, but that would be the end of that. It would be too much of a hassle to get you, too much of a bother. He’d need a plan and perhaps men to back him up and heaven knows you weren’t worth…

Your head snaps to the side, pain blossoming on your cheek, as the gruff voice huffs out from above you.

He slapped you.

“Are you even fucking listening to me?”

You’re not trying to be distracted. Really. It would be better to stay focused, since you’re going to die here. Maybe you can think about your life from before all this, that would surely be a more pleasant ending than spending your last moments dwelling on Geto leaving you here.

“Sorry,” you say, out of reflex, more than anything.

The man sighs and runs a scarred hand over his hair. He takes another puff of his cigarette.

“I said, you’re our bait for that greedy sorcerer. Once he shows up, we’ll do this on our terms, and our boss’ll get his curse removed in exchange for keeping your pretty little head intact.”

You don’t mean to do it, you swear you don’t. The reaction comes from deep inside you, from that part of you that’s been stepping over the line where you know that you’ll eventually be discarded by the man who took over your life.

Your lips quirk. And then, from your stomach, into your chest, it happens: you laugh. A harsh, almost braying sound that bounces off the bloodied concrete walls.

The man’s face contorts, and perhaps he might hit you again, but there’s something freeing in this moment that makes you not care. What’s another slap to the face, when your blood will spray the flat end of those walls before the night is over? Whenever they realize that Geto won’t be coming for you, that you’re the worst bait they could have possibly chosen.

That you’re simply a pet that’s more trouble than you’re worth.

The feeble jerk your body makes when he screeches his chair back and gets in your face, hot cigarette dangling from his lips, is reflexive. You’re not scared of him, or what he might do--you’ve faced far worse.

Spittle hits your sore cheek when he growls out--

“What the fuck is so funny?”

You don’t tell him--

What’s so fucking funny is that they think Geto will actually come for you. That he’ll deign to respond to their blackmail, the heavy presumption of it all, just to rescue you.

A trinket. A pet. A toy.

You smile, and wait to die.

Surprises are not something Geto particularly enjoys, unless they end up working to his advantage. And there is a keen sense, as he picks up the sudden sounds of scuffles and running feet and shouts, that this is not going to be a surprise he welcomes.

Something in him turns dull and heavy when he sees the girls running down the hall, hair askew, missing the smiles they often sport around him--instead, their faces are etched in worry, fear, and a terrible sort of uncertainty that he hasn’t seen in them in years.

Everything connects together like an unwanted puzzle. The sounds of a scuffle. The girls with their gasping breaths, their flailing limbs, words that tumble out together like spilled marbles--

“They took her.”

Her.

You.

You, whom he expected to find sitting quietly, sweetly, with Nanako and Mimiko when he returned to you in an hour or two. Yet everything was wrong. Topsy-turvy. There would be no quiet evening where you looked up at him with ridiculous doe eyes, hoping to please him, eager to do whatever he told you.

There would be no warm satisfaction in his gut at the sight, no pleasant tingling in his skin as he bade you to do as he pleased.

Instead, he would be spending his time retrieving you, and what if–the thought comes, and it’s disturbing how much the thought seems to weigh him down. What if you’re already dead? Disposed of, a corpse?

No. He shakes his head. They wanted you as bait, clearly; or rather, wanted the girls. Pride puffs in him that you protected them, at least. A small lightness in a sea of grey.

Still–you were gone, and uncertainty weighed heavy in the air as he weighed the best options for retrieving you.

It was an unpleasant surprise, after all.

They--whoever they were, it did not matter. Perhaps the girls already told him, but their identity wasn’t important. Not only because Geto didn’t have the slightest care over who they were, but because they would be dead in a matter of hours, if not sooner.

No one disrespects him like this and lives.

The thought of their filthy monkey hands dirtying you, a pet he had risen up from the lowest of the low into something more palatable and pleasant, made acrid bile climb into his throat.

Oh, you were beneath him, of course. There was no doubting that. But the stench of these stranger’s mediocrity and ape-like helplessness would coat you like dust, undoing so much of his hard work.

Geto collects only the finest things and oh, it had taken time, but you now counted among them.

He doesn’t need a plan. Why would he, to counteract a foolish kidnapping perpetuated by some half-baked mafia gang? They stood no chance against him. Even without his curses. He’s not sure he’d even release curses against these monkeys; it would be a waste of time and talent.

All he does is nod to the girls, who have curled up on his sofa, holding each other tight.

“I’ll be back.”

At this, they smile, and he can see their breaths coming easier, their shoulders relaxing down.

He doesn’t even need to tell them that he won’t be coming back alone.

It is, as with so many things, a certainty.

The lingering pain after they left you alone was not too awful. Yes, your lip was bleeding--the man wore metal rings--and your neck was sure to bruise, if you were left alive long enough for the skin to get all mottled.

But you had expected the pain, and that made it easier to manage while you waited for them to return. They would probably kill you now. A gun to the head, you think. They wouldn’t want to waste time with messier and slower implements, unless they were that angry about their “bait” plan failing.

You had expected the pain, and now you expect the door to open, for those no-nonsense guards to come through and simply pull out a gun and that would be that. Would there be pain? For a moment, maybe, but hopefully not more.

You don’t expect what actually happens.

Shouts--that quickly turn to screams.

Clanging of metal, the sound of something being struck and sliced.

Thumping, an awful, dull sound; like a carcass at the butchershop being let off its chain.

And then that door in front of you creaking open to reveal the last person in the world you ever expected to see in the doorway.

Geto.

Geto, with blood sprayed on his face, gore clotting on his clothes.

It’s so unexpected that you don’t believe it until he’s behind you, the familiar warmth of his body turned upside down with the new stench of metallic blood, mingled the scent of your own sweat, the lingering puffs of cigarette smoke.

It’s not until he’s made you stand up, that he’s right in front of you, tilting your chin up to look at him that the realization comes.

He came for you.

He killed for you.

It’s too much--it’s too much to realize the reality beyond that line was bullshit the entire time. It’s too much to realize that you were, perhaps, worth something after all. Too much to see Geto covered in blood and wonder, briefly, if he had been hurt in the process of your rescue.

It’s too much, all of it, and you black out.

From adrenaline, from injuries, or perhaps from sheer disbelief.

When you wake up, you are sitting on the floor of Geto’s spacious bathroom. Disorientation keeps you on the floor for too long, because then there are hands--Geto’s--on you, pulling you to unsteady feet.

Despite the swaying of your body, there is something grounding about all this. You, and Geto, in this familiar space.

Geto stands in front of you, face impassive, still covered in specks of blood. The reek of his blood covered clothing is stronger in this space, an invasion of stinking metal.

“Strip,” he tells you. Your body obeys before your mind registers the command fully, hands trembling as you peel off clothing stuck to you by sweat and a bit of blood. Most of it wasn’t yours.

He tsks at your naked form, and shame creeps down your collarbone--stopping cold when he opens his mouth again.

“Remove my clothing.” Another order, obeyed just as quickly, but perhaps with more brightness than you thought possible. If he still wants you to do this, it means he doesn’t find you too disgusting, does he? He can’t, if he’s allowing you to touch him like this.

He doesn’t give the clothing a second glance--he’ll probably burn it, and yours too--as he steps toward the tub.

The bath has already been prepared, though without the usual luxuries Geto asks you to slip in for him; lotions and salts, dried flowers and oils.

Still, it is a comfort when Geto steps into the tub. It is all familiar to you, expected--welcomed, even. The way the water sloshes as Geto steps inside, the warm heat of the water rising to greet you as he beckons you closer. The firm, damp grip of his hand as he steadies you, lest you slip and annoy him.

"Wash this filthy monkey blood off me," he says, when you’ve settled in, his voice soft and clipped.

Is he angry with you, you wonder, or the people he’s killed? Would he think on this later, and decide that it was far too troublesome to go after you in the end? Maybe the next time you were a target, he wouldn’t save you after all. He’d leave you to die and mutter that once was quite enough. He--

“Well?”

“Sorry,” you murmur, not a reflex this time but a genuine apology. You were making him wait. That wouldn’t do.

So you take up the cloth and gently wipe at his face and body, where those flecks of blood have sprayed onto him like troublesome paint. You go slow, soft, just like he’s taught you to do.

It’s the softness of the moment that pushes the words from your mouth. If he had not brought you here, if you two were not together in the warm, naked intimacy of the water, you might never have dared to ask.

“Why did you save me?”

You don’t even stop wiping at his skin, dipping the cloth into the water and watching it run red. Not until he grips your wrists with his wet fingers, making you drop the cloth.

He pulls your hands closer to his mouth and presses a kiss to your damp skin. Soft. Gentle. A streak of blood near his mouth catches on your skin.

“I merely took back what is mine.” His eyes roam over you; you, the pet he owns, the pet he’s created. How cold his words are. Strict, no-nonsense. What you’ve come to expect from him.

And yet, and yet--

He presses his lips to your knuckles again, and inhales the scent of you, all traces of cigarette smoke on your hands washed away with the bathwater.

#yandere jjk #yandere geto suguru #yandere geto #yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere #afterwitch writes

1K notes · View notes

gideonisms · 27 days ago

Text

in the next book john gaius will say "I am overall a bad dude who lies to all the people I love and wants to take over the galaxy so as to use its resources. this is canon and the opinion of the author" but people will say "aw he didn't mean it"

#jgjhkgkjkkkjk

224 notes · View notes

jackiepackiee · 8 months ago

Note

I have a request! Can we have atsushi, dazai, ranpo, chuuya (+yasano, if desired you can cut out some characters) with a fem!ballerina s/o

ex: does big roles, (giselle, black swan, clara) and their opinions about her profession. ty!

𝐵𝒮𝒟 𝓍 𝐵𝒶𝓁𝓁𝑒𝓇𝒾𝓃𝒶! 𝑅𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝒲/ 𝒜𝓉𝓈𝓊𝓈𝒽𝒾, 𝒟𝒶𝓏𝒶𝒾, 𝑅𝒶𝓃𝓅𝑜, 𝒞𝒽𝓊𝓊𝓎𝒶, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒴𝑜𝓈𝒶𝓃𝑜

𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 - 𝒩𝒶𝓊𝓇

𝒯𝓎𝓅𝑒 - 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝒹𝒸𝒶𝓃𝑜𝓃𝓈

Atsushi Nakajima

Whipped

You’re dating for a bit, and he’s seen your practice

But when you invite him to the stage door for a quick good luck kiss before his first show, he’s in AWE

Your costume?! He almost dies

You’re perfect!

(His fav is Sleeping beauty when you’re Aurora)

So when he finally sees you on stage, music and lights and dance

He almost passes out

If it wasn’t for the fact he had to watch you, he would’ve gotten some air

He’s just so in love

He loves to come to rehearsal

So well behaved, completely silent

Just watching you the entire time, in amazement

He doesn’t have money to offer for costumes or lessons, but he will be the biggest supporter in your life

He is however confused by everything

He isn’t very artisticlly intellectual…

And when you first break in your shoes, he screams

He thought you were wasting money and destroying them… if only he knew

He’ll give you massaged each night after shows, especially if you also had a matinee

Dazai Osamu

He is no longer as serious, but he will become the most reserved and mature gentleman you know when he sees your shows

People will think he’s a regular at these events, and everything will look at him with awe

And his attention will only be on you

Obviously he’s going to look at the other performers, but his eyes are glued on you

Secretly bored when you’re not on stage

He’ll see you, but after that he is childish again

Picking you up into his arms, probably coughing from the smell of hairspray in your hair

“Gosh, I can’t breathe! Your hair is perfect, but this is too much.”

And if the ADA happens to be there too? Don’t be surprised

He is always talking about you when work is boring

Atsushi thinks it’s the coolest, and is looking at your like you’re a goddess

(He’s like your son, and he looks up to you. Dazai loves that)

Back to ballet, he will kiss your cheek

But nothing else, he hates to ruin your makeup

And when you come home after?

He holds you all night after a show

He’s a master at anatomy and will massage you your body in every place needed

Before show texts “break a leg, but not actually! Cant wait!”

Overall? A fan, but more of a lover

Ranpo Edogawa

Most people think Ranpo has no attention span, and they’re mostly right…

But! He is fully able to focus on your performance

Loves your darker roles

But that’s mostly because he thinks that darker characters have more depth

This man is a thinker, and while he loves your dancing he prefers the story

And adores the way you are able to tell a story or send a message by your body movement

He loves more feminine roles too, but he appreciates your beauty more than he can focus

That’s the only reason he can stand the shows

Because he can obviously tell the entire story before the first dance sequence is over

You shine on that stage, and he’s infatuated

His eyes are OPEN

After your show, he’ll smile like a little kid

That maturity he had at the show? Gone, he’s himself again

Loves the shows about mysteries

This guy will ask Poe to write a show, and have him hire a choreographer to make a new shoe just for you to star in and for him to enjoy the story

His childish behavior is love, and intense affection because he’s so happy with how well you did

He praises you, so take it

He doesn’t do that for anyone else

Chuuya Nakahara

Classier than ever

Goes to each show with a box seat, sitting alone or with Koyo

Everyone thinks “oh, that guy is so mysterious”

Thinks you’re literally a light in his life

A bright beauty in his dark world

And when you walk onto that stage, he is focused on you like a hawk

Not scary, but such attention to detail that his stare is unbreaking

Not looking at a single other performer, unlessss they are your friend and you tell him about them when you’re rambling about your rehearsals

He’ll give them a glance, but only because he wants to be ready for every single topic of conversation you may wish to have

And when you’re done? He tells you to come out to see him in your costume, even if your director doesn’t allow that

He’s Chuuya Nakahara, he gets what he wants from anyone

He wants to give you a kiss when you look like a doll, dressed up perfectly

He hugs you, and tells you every time

“You were incredible. Go get more comfortable darling, I’ll wait outside the backstage. We will talk in the car. Maybe a little treat is waiting?”

The treat is always exactly what you want

Necklaces? Dress? Tickets to something? It’s there, at the moment you would love it most

Always helps you wash your hair when you get home

Running warm water in his fancy shower, hands making quick work on your hair and all the products that held it together

Will buy one of those high tech foot massagers for when you’re done

He hates how you’re in pain

And will do anything to make you feel better

Because you’re perfect, and he loves you

Yosano Akiko

Brags to each and EVERY member of the agency

Makes all of them attended at least one show

(Her favorite is black swan, you’re just sexy in that one 🤷🏻‍♀️)

If you could see her from on stage while you’re preforming (obviously you can’t) you’d see her paying more attention to you than she has to anything in her entire life

You’re the dainty and sweet girlfriend, and she’s your badass man-killer woman

She is incredible at anatomy, and gives you the best tips on warming up

Best ways to strengthen and grow your muscles without getting larger

Ugh, she’ll put her hands on your waist while teaching you how to twist and turn to stretch a certain way

You know how she loves shopping?

She will make at least one date a month a shopping date

Making sure to buy the most high tech and recommend leotards for practice

New shoes that need breaking in?

She owns at least 14 hammers

Nails? Gone. Foot board? Snapped into shape.

Thinks you’re PERFECT but is the best shot talker of the others?

The girl who thinks she deserved the lead, but didn’t get it so she hates on you?

Yeah, a glass of wine and Akiko will tear that girl to shreds with insults

But she’s supportive!!

Pretty girlfriend x sexy girlfriend life

767 notes · View notes

mattyriddlesbitch · 2 months ago

Text

It Should Be You

Mattheo Riddle x F!Reader

Warnings: cussing, mentions of the battle of Hogwarts, mentions of death, pretty angsty

Another one way off schedule but I was inspired and wrote this in 1.5 hours. Enjoy.

4 years. It had been 4 years now since you last saw him. Your boyfriend, Mattheo who tragically passed away during the battle at Hogwarts. He tried protecting you as best as he could. He tried keeping you out of everything involving his father. He just disappeared a few days before the battle without a word and was never seen again. The word spread was that his father killed him and the ministry accepted that, marked him as legally dead and moved on.

Only you and a few of his friends held a funeral for him. It took several hours and his best friend Thedore physically pulling you away to get you back home from where you guys set up his headstone. With no body, you guys were able to set up a little headstone for him in an empty field near Hogwarts. That was his home. It felt like the most appropriate place.

Your relationship may have been difficult at times, especially with everything with his father. But he was the sweetest, funniest, and just overall best boyfriend-best partner-you ever had. No one before or after him made you feel the way you did with him. His death completely broke your heart into pieces, and never even fully recovered.

After a few years, your parents set you up with a man your age, Nathaniel. He was sweet and kind and you got along with him just fine, but he wasn't Mattheo. But you being with him made your parents happy and you didn't completely hate him. He was better than the other guys you dated, other than Mattheo, obviously. And he never saw your love for your late boyfriend as competition. He would support you and help you with your grief. Which made you feel a little worse about everything.

You liked the guy, but you didn't love him. That sounds so awful, but it was true. Your heart belonged to Mattheo. Even in his death.

Still, he was second best to Mattheo. And since his death, you felt so lonely. No one could really blame you for trying to move on.

So when Nathaniel asked you to marry him, you agreed. You went through the motions, pretending the wedding was with Mattheo instead. You picked out the colors you talked about previously, the flowers, the songs, everything was what Mattheo and you already decided. Your fiance didn't really care anyways about wedding planning. He just wanted you to be happy.

Your poor bridesmaids thought it was about you finding the perfect dress, and that was part of it, but it was mostly just knowing it was the most perfect dress for your and Mattheo's wedding.

The only part that made you break down was wedding dress shopping. You could hear Mattheo giving his opinions about the dresses. “Too low cut, too lacy, too simple, not you, absolutely not.” But the one dress you put on where you could just hear him say ‘yes’ and admire you, it made you burst into tears.

The wedding that won't happen because he's dead and you're marrying Nathaniel.

Once the wedding was planned and set, the time felt like it flew by. Suddenly you were in the bride's room getting your hair and makeup done and getting into your wedding dress. You asked everyone to leave once you were ready and just sat down. The noise of the rain coming down hitting the window was the only sound you could hear.

Of course it had to rain on your wedding day. Though, it was fitting.

You looked at the pictures of you and Mattheo on your phone, trying not to cry and ruin your makeup.

“I'm sorry, Mattheo. It should be you. But you're not here. I…” You swallowed, turning your phone off and looking up. You had so much more to say. Like how you wanted to grow old with him and marry him and, and, and…

Merlin, you were still in love with your dead boyfriend, but marrying some poor guy just so you wouldn't be alone and make your parents happy. How shitty is that?

Maybe you could grow to love Nathaniel. He isn't bad.

If only you could shut off that annoying voice.

But he isn't Mattheo.

One of your bridesmaids knocked on the door to let you know it was about time to walk down the aisle.

You sighed before taking a deep breath and composing yourself. You left the room and got ready with your beautiful bouquet of flowers.

“Sunflowers, because they remind me of us since they face the sun to live, just like how I need you to live.” Mattheo's words echoed in your head as you looked at the flowers.

You looked up in time to hear the piano playing as the first couple walked down the aisle. You wanted to burst into tears again. This is not what you wanted. It should be Mattheo at the end of the aisle. Not Nathaniel.

The rest of the couples went, leaving you by yourself, about to turn the corner to take your first step when the main door behind you burst open. You turned to look at the cause of the noise and saw him.

Mattheo fucking Riddle.

He was standing there, still in the doorway, out of breath, drenched from the rain outside. He was exactly how you remembered him. Though his hair was longer, showing the curls better.

You couldn't even speak, you were so stunned.

“Don't marry him.” The words rushed out Mattheo's mouth as he was still catching his breath.

“What?” It was all you could manage.

“Don't fucking marry him.” He said, coming over to you now.

“I'm not hallucinating, am I?” You whispered to him when he was standing right in front of you.

“No, no. I'm sorry. It's a long story, but when I heard you were getting married, I couldn't…” He swallowed, looking down at the wedding dress. “Please tell me I'm not too late.”

“You're alive. What are you doing here? Where have you been?” You asked, all sorts of emotions running through you.

“Stopping your wedding. God, you're so beautiful.” He said, cupping your cheek with one of his hands. “Don't marry him. Run away with me. And I'll answer everything.”

“Mattheo, I…” You sighed in disbelief.

“Please. I'm here now. Please?” He moved his hand off of your cheek to grab one of your hands.

You looked behind you to where everyone was waiting for you just around the corner.

“(Y/N), love, please? I'm giving you the rest of my life. Just walk out of here with me.”

You could hear the piano stalling the music as they waited for you and you saw your mom peek her head around the corner to see the delay, her jaw dropping at seeing Mattheo.

He smiled before turning back to the exit and pulling you with him in a run outside. You hair, makeup, and dress were all ruined within 10 seconds, but you couldn't care less when the man you loved for years was now running away with you.

“I'm sorry.” You told her before dropping the bouquet and turning back to Mattheo.

#slytherin boys #slytherin boys x reader #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle fluff #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle angst

214 notes · View notes

yvesdot · 2 months ago

Text

How To Get Roughly 50 Notes On An Original Writing Post And Possibly Net A Single Reader

I had someone ask today how I get people to click through and read my writing, and I'm realizing that I've never actually made a post all in one place of everything I do to get a new piece of short fiction off the ground... so here you go! How to get (some) eyes on your work, even if it is not published anywhere of interest and you don't have a marketing team behind you.

The #1 thing is presentation. You want to get people's attention, and once you have it, convince them to keep paying attention. Fortunately, people tend to be both reasonable and predictable, which means all you have to do is follow The Formula.

(original post link)

Here's the formula from the above post broken down:

[giant horizontal title card, preferably animated to catch the eye] OR [a few tasteful parallels, if you're good at parallel posts]

TITLE (linked to where you can read the piece) / wordcount

a quote that is representative of the tone, themes, prose style, and/or the "promise of the premise"

A longer pitch, featuring the overall subject of the piece (transsexual reality TV drama), any comp titles (Detransition, Baby), the main draw (in this case, watching trans people be awful to clueless cis people), major themes (performance), and any other promises you'd like to make (food romance and tigers). You can see that the quote I chose delivers on the promise of trans people intellectually outperforming cis people-- if I were a reader, I would be more likely to trust that the rest of the pitch was accurate based on that assurance.

If you have any positive reviews on your piece, say so. If it has won any awards or contests, say so. If your work has made people cry, Doja Cat - Say So. Always. Generally speaking, more personal and more detailed is better, but keep it to one or two people-- e.g. "when I gave this to my S/O to read he shot milk out of his nose so far I had to go clean under the couch" or "my favorite review of this piece is the reader who said they read it chapter-by-chapter under their covers because they wanted it all to themself." This should be one sentence.

Depending on where the story is published, what you usually promote, etc., it may be worthwhile saying the story is free. Use your judgment on whether the reader can tell.

I also like putting my links at the bottom so someone seeing this on a friend's dash can easily track me around the 'Net. They make me look more professional (I now include a link to my website) and they visually balance the post, in my opinion. This post also happened to have some additional links for bonus content.

This is not as high stakes as it seems. I'm not 100% happy with the pitch here, and I'm not 100% happy with the graphics I've used in other cases. These are some bones that help to sell the piece even when the details aren't as sharp.

REBLOGGING

When is the last time you read something the first time you saw it on your dash? I schedule reblogs of all important posts at least twice over the next 2-3 days, often three times so I can get the morning/afternoon/evening reblog. If your followers tend to be more active at certain times, go ahead and use those. In the past I've intentionally scheduled posts for times I knew more popular mutuals were active, and it has paid off!

I also schedule a reblog for a week and a month and sometimes even a full calendar year out, because I know there is going to be that person who tags the piece '#to read' and instantly forgets about it, only to get excited when they see it weeks later. I am very often that reader. The goal is to catch people when they're ready to read immediately, and this is a game of chance.

Every so often, I go through my entire #writing or #important writing updates or even just #popular tag(s) and queue two dozen posts before shuffling my queue to redistribute matters. This keeps my older work circulating, ensuring new readers get a chance to see older pieces and giving those older pieces another shot at dashboard space. (More on #popular later.) This sounds like a lot, which is why you have to space everything pretty far apart. Fortunately, this is the world's best site for cool things to reblog. I guarantee you that you can find something new you love to post in the meanwhile.

COPING WITH FAME

The post above is what I, a published author, consider "doing well" for a post about my writing on Tumblr. As of October 10th, 2024, over two years after its initial posting and over five years into my posting doggedly about my original fiction, it has 77 notes. More than half (43) are likes. Around half of the reblogs are me promoting my own work or the same very sweet person dutifully reblogging me every time I do so. Glancing through the reblogs now, I know of four people whom I can confirm have read it. Presumably, there are more who are completely silent and have never interacted with the post whatsoever. Genuinely: wahoo!! I am so grateful and happy for the attention and reception of my work.

This is the number one thing I suggest: focus on what you have, and not what you lack. Imagine your post from the perspective of an outsider: even one reblog means you convinced that one person to spread your art! How cool is that! This is also good advice because moping is simply not helpful; it will not get you more reads. (And no, neither will guilting others. Kill that vent post in your head!)

GETTING FOLLOWERS

I don't have that many followers. Of the followers I do have, people are very unpredictably active. When I hear about other people's follower counts I am consistently surprised, because people with half of mine will have fans and haters the likes of which I could not possibly dream of. I follow 500-follower folk who post "I ate a strawberry today" and get 6 asks ranging from "Wow I respect you so much for eating that strawberry" to "I'm going to come to your address at [REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED] and shove bananas down your throat for hating on my favorite fruit."

I point this out to establish three important things. 1) Be grateful for what you have (in my case, 0 anonymous hate asks about fruitpinions), 2) followers have far less impact on interaction than one might think, and 3) followers don't engage with the things you might like them to.

Think about yourself. Are you more likely to reblog a photo of a cat in a pumpkin (alright, here) or something advertising fifteen minutes' worth of writing, which could be, for all you know, bad? Or, for that matter, by a person you should not like to support? Reblogs on generically interesting things are 'safer' (unfortunately) than reblogs on art, and it makes perfect sense that people are skittish around the latter. People don't often reblog things they haven't read, and nobody can reblog every artpost on their dash. Having someone else put it there, however, is incredibly powerful—someone's vetted this post as Worth a Reblog, after all. Having more followers allows for much more of this.

(Followers don't guarantee any one sort of interaction, but having more of them is rarely bad. Rarely.)

Across my most popular posts, one theme becomes very obvious: people like things that apply to them or their blog. I try to post writing advice/opinions/memes every so often, because I know I have a loyal base of writerfolk who like to see that from me, and it's "easier" to reblog than my writing. This is simply the nature of the universe. I used to pretty frequently go into the #writeblr tag and check out what was recently popular so I could figure out how to serve the same base, and from time to time it worked.

You're welcome to examine the list of #writing posts that made it to 100 notes, because each tends to have a notable reason behind its success: a reblog with an exceptionally good review, a contest win, a wordcount that lends itself to pasting the whole thing in one go.

(Posts about my book's release are a notable exception, in part due to Blaze and in part due to my absolutely relentless flogging of their reblog buttons during the ~year of promotion. Also in large part to a dedicated circle of friends who passed the post around nonstop! Thank you so much!!)

A lot of people will tell you to attempt covert reciprocal promotion. You know—reblog a lot of stuff, in the hopes that people will reblog yours. If I could change one thing on Tumblr, it would be this: the culture that quietly encourages disingenously interacting with other people with a secret True Goal in mind. (On the autism website.)

Please, for the love of all that is good and holy, do not do this. If you comment on other people's work, do it because you're happy to do so. When I released Paper Tigress, I went through everybody else who responded to the same prompt and read their work, because I had the day off and I was curious. This has led to Paper Tigress having more comments on Reedsy than one of my contest winners, and even outranking the shortlisted story in the same prompt category. However, this would have been a waste of my time if I did not genuinely enjoy reading the other stories. I read 80+ stories, taking several hours, and gained 30 comments from the venture (half my comments are my responses).

Crucially, I do not promote other writers' work on Tumblr in the hopes of them reading or boosting mine. This is the #1 tip I see thrown around that I viscerally disagree with. While, again, I am grateful for engagement with my work regardless of the context, I do not want people suffering through my work in the hopes that I will promote them. I work a full-time job, and my reading calendar is perpetually overbooked, including with work by my absolute best of friends. Even if it wasn't, I think it would be quite insulting if I were posting works in the hopes that someone would choke it down like medicine. I post what I think is good so that people can read and enjoy it. If you are not enjoying it, I do not want you to feel as though you have to read it. My aim is to give to others what my favorite authors have given me, which is most certainly not A Bad Time Spent Being Dishonest In The Hopes Of Getting Something Back. You have better things to do with your time. Please be honest.

CONCLUSION

Realistically, the readers I have, I gained through being a published author for five years promoting my behind off on Tumblr, the least forgiving social media for promotion. People like it when you have a book they can buy, especially if it has Goodreads reviews that make it look like you have been vetted for them. Many people who follow me have read only Something's Not Right and nothing else. (Many people who follow me have read everything but Something's Not Right.) I have posted dozens of pieces on Tumblr and Wattpad (and AO3). I gained a small number of readers writing and posting fanfiction for the Locked Tomb Tri(?)logy, even though I marketed it absolutely terribly.

Just keep writing. Keep writing, keep posting, and keep making sure everyone who follows you knows you write. And keep writing because you want to. There's no better advice than that.

#writeblr #writeblr advice #writeblr tutorial #writeblr tips #writeblr community #writing advice #writers on tumblr #important writing updates #txt

148 notes · View notes

midnight-in-town · 2 years ago

Text

About Yor: she isn’t dense, but most likely indoctrinated by Garden

So I wanted to address this for a long while now, because I’ve seen one too many posts talking about Yor like she’s just an aloof assassin who doesn’t care about things outside her direct environment, which is why sometimes she says dense things.

I’m well aware that she’s a fan favorite so people don’t mean her harm, yet I think the whole story actually hints at way more than her being dense, especially considering her background and who she still works for.

In other words, since Yor was trained but also half raised by Garden’s leader, the Shopkeeper, it’s likely that, considering how they operate and what they’re about, they instilled in her a conditioned dependency since childhood or teenage years that would make her unable to learn things on her own without asking for their opinion, making it very hard for her to turn against them ever.

Want a striking example? Her encounter with Melinda Desmond.

Not only did she not know who Melinda was (but I mean, that at least could be understandable)...

...but she also didn’t know what a First Lady is.

Sure, it’s funny on first glance, but after thinking about it, what does it betray? That Garden probably made sure over years Yor would never get the slightest basic info and understanding on what politics of this country are all about. Because if their strong soldiers start to get opinions of their own, then they could start disagreeing with Garden and turning on them. So, “let’s prohibit people having free thinking, so that they can remain good little pawns” as we “fight for peace in our country”.

In fact, for Yor, until a short time ago (when she met Loid and Anya), all she did was thought and decided for her by Garden and, to this day, she still voluntarily asks them for their agreement when she opens up her close circle little by little: she asked them if it was okay to marry Loid and then she asked them if it was okay to befriend Melinda.

To be honest, that’s a scary ass thought process to envision, when Yor’s an independent working lady well into her 20s, but this shows how deep Garden’s indoctrination runs in Yor, since they got hold of her as a child/young teen.

Another striking example is the way she always describes her job, in an almost childish way. Her nickname “thorn princess” aside, I always found it interesting that Yor’s aware she’s an assassin but she isn’t morally anguished at all about killing people and never mentions or distinguishes any grey area in her missions. In fact...

... it’s all in black and white and she clearly thinks that the people she kills are all evildoers (which as we saw in the recent arc with the Red Circus isn’t always the case and begs the rhetorical question “why does Garden get to decide who’s evil?”), therefore “she’s not doing anything wrong”, which also pretty much betrays how she was pushed into it.

Long ago, Garden probably baited Yor with Yuri’s protection and told her that, since they’re “about peace”, Yor’s work would just help them to “fight against evil”. As a child, she wasn’t mentally fit to understand the deeper implications and then she was mentally conditioned to always do and think like Garden tells her to, which promotes this systematic childish description of her assassin’s job.

Finally, please take notice of the Shopkeeper’s reaction the first time she tries to argue about her work, in the ship arc:

Enough said, Garden’s awful. I’m sure there are more examples throughout the story, but I now want to talk about future character development.

After all, since the story obviously calls for Yor to ditch Garden, to protect what’s actually important to her (Yuri, Loid and Anya), we actually do see her changing little by little so far, thanks to her living with Loid and Anya. Her coworkers quickly mentioned that she’s more lively ever since she got married and the ship arc overall emphasizes that her family is starting to become more important to her than her job, so there is high hope for Yor. :D

Additionally, while she’s still far away from noticing that Garden mentally drove her into a corner, she now openly voices her concerns that “she’s not normal” but that she wants to understand why in order to learn how to change.

To be fair, fighting against indoctrination is tough and takes time so I’m very proud of her for slowly realizing that she ought to decide for herself from now on. :D

TL;DR Yor is not dense. She was indoctrinated as a child by Garden and can only (for now) see the world through the filters they taught her.

Ironically enough, the only character who knows about her real job and could, thus, notice that Yor isn’t being critical about Garden...... actually can’t because she’s a four year old who is too young to understand that Mama’s job is wrong. Well done, Endo-sensei!

#Spy x Family #yor forger #anya forger #loid forger #yuri briar #melinda desmond #garden #shopkeeper #sxf theory #my analysis

3K notes · View notes