#post-Gang of Secrets

[daddiesdrarryy]

Hermione: Why won’t you introduce me to your secret boyfriend, Harry?Everyone knows but me. Even Ron knows!

Harry: Okay, it’s just that you can be a bit…judgmental, ‘Mione

Hermione: What a stupid thing to say, Harry. Name one time when I have been judgmental

Ron: You just did

Hermione: Oh, I see. Mere seconds ago

[cum-villain]

Thinking about the 999th round. The round of the Yoo Joonghyuk who sacrificed all of himself for his companions, who gave up his life in a deal to keep them safe. And this being he made a deal with, they must be nothing good, but so long as his companions can reach the end, he can make peace with it.

But his companions cannot accept this. This man who gave up everything for them, how could they not give up everything for him in turn? In their ruined world, how can they not search for the being who ruined it? That Plotter, who schemed their beloved companion away from them, how could they not hate that person? Such an insult, that the Secretive Plotter wears his face. Because he isn't their Yoo Joonghyuk.

But he is Yoo Joonghyuk. He's Yoo Joonghyuk of the 1863rd round, who once gave up his life for his companions, and made a deal with an outer god to protect them. He himself became an outer god to search for his origin, for the one who will not allow him a demise, and he discovers that one of his own tragedies, his near-successful 999th round, was his fault. He was that outer god who destroyed himself. A being that cannot bear to be whole, so many memories that he must split himself into kkomas to stay sane.

And 999 is one of those kkomas. He's not exactly "Yoo Joonghyuk", none of them are now, but his life was in the 999th round. And those outer gods who despise the one who killed him, they were his companions, and what they despise is his future. How can he face them, when his life as "Yoo Joonghyuk" is so long gone, when he died and eventually came back as "999"?

Eventually, his companions come to accept that their Yoo Joonghyuk is gone, that the sins of one version of him do not mean that all of him must be destroyed, that there can be forgiveness of the square circle.

So, what must they be thinking when they see the Oldest Dream nearly killed by his own future?

[z0mbiew00d]

Finished my Impulse life series binge so here have some Scottpulse text post memes

[galahadwilder]

After a week of insisting to Alya that no, he and Marinette were not going to get together, he's in love with another girl, Adrien is both delighted and mortified to learn that actually, the other girl is Marinette and he's been acting like an ass all week. He falls into being Marinette's boyfriend quickly and easily, with all the gooey idiocy expected from a Lovesquare relationship, but one question keeps eating at him:

What is he going to tell Alya?

After all, he's been telling Alya no for a week. It won't be believable if he just suddenly claims he changed his mind, and he doesn't want her to think that he considers Marinette a second choice or backup option. He needs an explanation that sounds plausible while also not making it clear that he's not settling.

He shuffles through explanations with desperation. Maybe he and Marinette were secret pen pals? Or they knew each other from virtual Mecha Strike events, but only by their gamertags? They've actually been secretly dating for months but had to hide it from his dad? He'd realized he'd fallen out of love with the "girl from his work" and realized he'd actually been in love with Ma--no, she'd never believe that. He was so used to Anime relationships that he'd mistaken respect for love? Maybe, hard stretch, not great.

The next day at school, Alya sees the two of them necking and asks what changed, and Adrien launches into a long, complicated, incomprehensible explanation that he hopes will mollify her while protecting their identities.

This is approximately when Marinette realizes that she forgot to tell him that Alya found out a year ago.

[kisaraslover]

at the risk of sounding like a Very Hurt Person ill be frank. Seto Kaiba being set up as a traumatized, mentally ill kid with PTSD, who had to cope alone and heal alone and bury his past and reinvent himself, proving to and deeply convincing himself that he can do anything in the process, resulting in this narcissistic double ended blade persona, which, narratively speaking, only gets stomped on, by the good guys, antagonized, by the good guys, and as the Merciful course of action the good guys: Force Him Back Into Accepting And Becoming His Past Self (literally cant imagine a worse fate for anyone who had to erase their past and remake themselves tbh) With Its Past Loves And Past Hurts:

this shit suck lol

[halfahelix]

Merry Christmas @luckychatons, I'm your Anarchist Gang Secret Santa!! Here's a little what-if animation inspired by Re-creation where Mirakung Fu Luka witnesses Bug Noire in action!

[lancerious]

thank you for being #1 lancer fan the world needs more lancer fans

Ho ho ho, of course!! Lancer is CRIMINALLY underrated I tell you, kid deserves WAY more attention than he currently gets

Glad to see another Lancer fan pop in <3!

[szaryherbatnik]

Ive been thinking about this for a while now, have dororo and kururu had more than two or three conversations? And then i started thinking more about the episode/encounter structures.

Im not a writer, but i am a consumer of way too many tv shows. Something that keroro really lacks is the amount of episodes driven by specific characters. In most episodes each character has a storytelling purpose apart from just being funny. Thats *fine*, of course its fine because i watched all the episodes and wasnt bored 99.9% of the time. So the formula pretty much works.

But some of my favorite epsiodes are the ones that have interactions between the characters that normally dont interact!!! I got so excited when i saw a kururu interacting with tamama episode. Or kururu and fuyuki shopping for a pc. Or the god damn dororo hat episode. THESE ARE SO MUCH FUN. Id give so much to see more episodes like this.

[daddiesdrarryy]

Harry: So is your secret fantasy also Malfoy dressing up as a sexy Healer too or am I gay?

Ron: Always the second one, Harry, always

[seas-of-silver]

Mr Sandman, Bring Me A Dream

Summary:

He tossed and he turned, but he was all too awake. He tried everything he could think of: exercising to exhaustion; taking a long, hot shower; playing soothing music to lull him to sleep… but nothing worked. Every time he closed his eyes, the images from his nightmare would flash in his mind and he’d be wide awake again.

Continue reading at:

AO3

[feralboo-the-weirdo]

Mel: So, Jayce and Viktor Mel: According to this, you two are being accused of: Armed Robbery, Vandalism, Drug Abuse, Grand Theft Auto… Jayce: We had a bad day. Mel: And… MURDER?! Viktor: It was a pretty bad day…

Mel: and you didn't invite me?

[bungobble-my-balls]

Omg we got sskk on October 3rd and Sigmatsu on October 4th.

Come on Asagiri get us an Atsushi ship for every day of October.

[oceanwithouthermoon]

hi i NEED to know more abt your mermaid au (if you dont mind u.u)

HIIIII THANK U FOR ASKINGGHGG

so basically in this au, everything is prettyyy much the same except that aren is a merman..

after his meeting with kusuo, it becomes painfully obvious that kusuo doesnt belong there but aren still thinks hes just a cool foreign mermaid.. but he keeps asking so many questions about where hes from and kusuo is already in so much shock he cant keep up the act anymore and tells him hes from the land.. (he probably couldve just told him to leave him alone, but truth be told he had a hot merman right in front of him and he literally just found out mermaids exist ??? so why would he do that)

so after learning kusuos secret (which wasnt explained in full, he really just said he has powers and aren thinks its some sort of secret human magic) he begs him to give him human legs, and kusuo has to explain that he cant use his shapeshifting ability on other people, and the only similar thing is hypnosis, which wouldnt work.. SO kuboyasu introduces him to mermaid magic !! which isnt all that powerful at all.. they just have certain minor spells, charms, and incantations that can have small effects.. so they work together and find a way to make his shapeshifting ability work on kuboyasu!! maybe its a thing similar to saikis limiters, but its like a pendant or a pair of earrings infused with a combination of magic+kusuos powers+technology

and soooooo he transfers to PK!! (with kusuos genius+mind control, its easy to cook up a fake ID+birth certificate and all) and everything else is pretty much the same, including even how kusuo attempts to ignore him at school at first+then spies on him without his knowledge.. but theyre also secretly romancing each other outside of school hours in the literal ocean..

it definitely took a while for kusuo to trust him enough to take him on land btw so they also spent a lot of time in arens home but i havent put much thought into what/where exactly that is or about his family and mermaid friends and such..

either way, even when he trusts him, aren still messes up and almost spills various secrets a lot lmao.. it shouldn't be that hard because hes been told his whole life that humans were dangerous because they couldnt handle things they didnt understand (like.. magic) but somehow he still manages to slip up many times on BOTH of their secrets (good thing their friends are DUMB)

"so aren, where do you live??" "in the sea-" gets elbowed by kusuo "sea.. outh.. district??" "huh??"

[nocentis]

Black Arum ┆ Siegrain

Content warning: main character death, cannibalism, gore, toxic/unreliable narrator, highly canon divergent character portrayal. Read at your own risk. You will probably take psychic damage from this.

╳┆A lure was stuck in the soot between his lungs. Many times he'd felt the tug — enough that the wire fray had worn a rut where his ribs met — and many times he'd found her on the other end, reeling for remnants of him that no longer existed. She would aim to break him open, sift around in the cinders for those specks of him she wanted to confiscate, keep for herself, so that she could finally be rid of him. Once those flecks were washed and panned, the remains would reek like plough mud closure. For that reason he would come to her whole, every whit of ash accounted for.

A cherry little game they'd play. Her with flint and steel, eager to reignite that paltry spark of "good" that flickered freely for a lapse before he remembered himself. Him with tinder and kindling, letting it light only to call on the rain again. Her with just enough hope. Him with just enough time.

That resolve was so very compelling. More than her beauty, her candor, and even that glow he so loved to bask in — that luster he wanted to hold between his teeth and bury under his nails — more than that, her tenacity was a toothsome temptation, and he wasn't keen to deny himself anything.

So when he felt the pull, he caved to the beck and spooled the lisle. That day, the line seemed lighter, thinner, than it ever had. It should've been strong. Tensile. Instead it felt gossamer fine and just as frail, poised to tear at an ill touch, and he wasn’t exactly renowned for his gentle hands. Still, he gathered it with both palms and wrapped it proudly around himself like a ceremonial sash, grin scrawled across his face something devilish.

╳┆He found her lying in the shade beneath a long-lived magnolia, still and silent as she never was, with the color of her namesake spread around her head in halo streaks. Battle-torn, as she so often was, and yet uncannily... passive.

Anything he'd planned to say went out the airlock. Instead, he stood there with an anchor in his stomach, reaping the benefit of doubt.

Not a frown nor a sigh when he darkened her sanctum, only heavenward eyes tearless and unblinking and a resigned breath just short of peaceful. That worn tether waned phantom thin, light as helium, and the tension in his chest went slack.

There was no definite snap. No dramatic severing or ear-popping moment of clarity. Only the vague sense of loss so fresh a wound that denial was a numbing salve.

“Get up,” his voice a command, sandgrit against whetstone, thickened by an unnamed antigen.

The silence felt like mockery. A placid scene void of chittering fauna, clouds' drum, or even the most timid breeze. It wanted him to hear the absence of her breath and the stillness of her chest. It wanted him to hear the hollow. The empty. The nothing. Wanted it to resonate; to find the furthest reaches of his mind and clean them out until all that was left was this icy, clarifying silence.

He knew the end when he saw it. This was something much worse. It was robbery.

Her life wasn’t for the world to take. It was for him to hold in his hands. 

Something wet and pathetic slicked his tongue — some whiny, pleading thing — and it was stubborn as oil. The authority slid to the back of his throat and left him choking, “You are the indomitable Titania. You’ve laced fingers with Death time and again only to rise and slay and conquer, so get up.”

Her warmth was set to a slow drip, spilling from her in tired beads and seeping soundlessly into her chosen ground. Little whispers of her lost to greedy loam, sullied, never to be returned.

A waste of precious love. The sod won’t drink of her as he will. It will take of her and give back what? New “life” so fragile and fleeting? A feeble weed will take root, bloom its days few, and curl itself inside out? Pathetic. An insult to her legacy. An insult to the diamond-split sharp of her bladesoul.

His heart boiled over — popping, sticking, simmering sicksweet saccharine. It colored him cloying, flooded his mouth, and forced him to kneel at her altar.

"Please," he keened, hollow and morose, and his own pleading sickened him, “Say something.”

The sun trickled through the leaves like ichor, lighting up her black-blown eyes and the thin ring of honey surrounding them. Dim, distant, and dead as the moon.

His hand carved a path to her face, fingers featherlight against her fading flush. He brushed her bangs from her eyes and forced an unbroken breath through his quavering mouth. He traced each scar too faint to see and the parts of her skin their star kissed. Memorized the map of her face — each curve and crease, each fine hair, and every eyelash. He would carve out a space in his mind in her shape and fill it with the thousand sweet nothings he kept in his pockets.

He gathered her hand and threaded it with his own. When he opened his mouth, a rickety twine escaped from the deepest point of his chest, so he forced his jaws shut to keep the grief corked. He uncurled her fingers and pressed his cheek into her palm, trapping her there against his own scarred skin. His eyes fell shut as he breathed in this borrowed touch — this moment fated, stolen from him by this world's insatiable avarice.

He kissed her palm directly in the center; held it against his mouth and felt his own ruined breath echo back to him from the deepest grooves of her skin. Again, he begged, “Please, Erza.”

Of the armors innumerable now haunting this hallowed ground, this one least befit her. 

He revered Death. If there was a god, surely it was Death, he thought, for Death asks for nothing but life. The dead don’t know that they’re dead. They know a split second of euphoria and then a sharp, definite end. Isn’t that the work of a gracious god? One last stroke of color whether in peace or peril, and then eternal rest. Back to the dust you sprouted from.

But now he couldn’t see any of that beauty he often waxed poetic about. All he could see was change yet to come. All he could see was her, and he wanted her back.

He wanted her back, yet he knew better than anyone that there was no such thing as resurrection. While Death might be gracious, it was not generous, and it was not to be reasoned with.

The thought of her buried deep, bathed by the dark and abandoned to rot — it washed his mouth acid sour. It ate straight through his tongue and lingered in the roots of his teeth, burning, raging redhot in his jaws’ marrow.  A grave didn't suit her anymore than a pyre.

Soon she would be cold. Stiff. A feast for flies and their insatiable young. In the days to come, she would bubble and bloat and sallow. Her skin would loosen and slough off. The sun would bleach her bones. The meat of her would melt into oil and fat and bogspit. She would mix in with the soil, the groundwater, and this thankless magnolia would thrive.

It was tall, thick, with branches spread in all directions. The lowest of its limbs showed off the varied deep greens of its large waxy leaves, their undersides a chalky brown. A few white flowers bloomed, palm-shaped petals open in praise like they'd come to witness and worship. There was no question why she'd chosen to crawl here. It must've reminded her of home.

Despite its beauty, it was hardly worthy of her. Nothing in this ravenous world was. Her grave should be carved within his chest. There, he could keep her warm. He could host her in his veins. One day, they would wade the waters of woe together. Until then she could live under his skin.

He wouldn’t allow her to spoil. Wouldn’t place her gently into time’s whittlesome hands only to lose her peel by peel by rotting peel.

This world has taken much from you. Do not allow it to take her too.

A carnal ache etched itself into bone, a depth of passion he hadn't felt since he wrought for a false Heaven.

She is a fruit, ripe as a plum and twice the taste. Peel her open. There is a seed at her core. Plant it in your soot-field chest and watch her bloom anew.

What are these hands for if not this?

Flesh like sheets of silk. Muscle like rope. Blood like honey. Bone like an ivory trove. The splitting, the squelching, the straining, ripping, snapping; it burrowed marrow-deep and lingered there. Her chest peeled apart like jagged teeth, jaws croaking their rusted tune, and inside that redslick maw was the center of the universe.

The heart upon its throne, still as she, shielded by her precious lungs. It slid into his palm like it was always meant to be there. Raw, rich, and so very scarlet. Its sinews strained against his pull — those hollow vines that fed even the furthest parts of her — so he wrenched them free and draped himself in them like matchless finery.

Eat. Eat ‘til you’re sick. There’s a hole the size of her in the pit of your stomach. Eat until you fill it. 

What are these teeth for if not this?

Tough as leather; smooth as rubber. His teeth slid right off the rind and clicked together with nothing but metallic sheen between them. He gnashed at that ink-dripping muscle until he found a spot weak enough to tear apart. It tasted of rare meat and iron; a heady gore thick enough to drown in. He swallowed, gasped, and that first new breath felt like a blade.

The child inside him saw her split-open ribs as his cradle. He wanted to crawl inside, curl up, and die. He wanted to paint himself her color.

He lost his vision to the hot, angry wash. His own sobs were a distant sound, muffled by meat and blood and his own desperate fingers. He was numb in the mouth and in the shake of his hands, but he forced himself to eat, eat despite the choking, the gagging, the wet, weeping remorse.

Don’t you dare throw her up. Be grateful. Swallow and say thank you and finish what you’ve started.

He bit into his own palm, indistinguishable from her core, and he cried out in sour relief. His hands spread raw grief over his face, through his hair, and down his neck.

You’re no better than this starving world.

He curled into himself, hands clutching his own aching chest, and despite the cloudless sky, he called upon the rain.

[bittsandpieces]

can we see your pussy somewhere?

✨️fetlife✨️

[goldenzingy46]

star wars modern au but chewbacca isn’t like, some guy, he’s just in full fursuit at all times. nobody has seen him without it. leia has watched him climb into a bathtub fully clothed. i love finding bonkers reasons to make star wars work in a modern au