#purposelessly

[dreamyberry]

9 favourite characters tag. Since there are so many anime designs I like, but I went for characters with whom I somehow can relate.

Tagged by @dreamyghostie (post)- feel free to tag me in your post if you do this after seeing mine, would be fun to see others' charas

[moraygrotto]

also this is so simple but. burps as a reminder that you ate. you're well-fed; maybe you even ate a little too fast, but you had your food (or are still having it!), and if you burp and taste something yummy you know that's what's inside you. good burps should be part of any good meal fr

[aeide-thea]

a while back i made a post (that of course i now won't be able to find) that was like, two really popular (complementary!) fallacies are (1) thinking an experience is universal, when in fact it's specific to one's particular body/psyche/milieu; and (2) thinking an experience is specific to a particular body/psyche/milieu, when in fact it transcends such divisions—

anyway i get that the phrase 'purposelessly cloistral' is fun to sneer but i'm afraid that, like rhetoric about 'touching grass,' i actually think it's both unkind and intellectually unrigorous as analysis. yes, exposure to a broad variety of people is good for you, and can help you realize that positions you've taken for granted aren't shared by everyone; but people tend to cluster into insular echo chambers anywhere they congregate, whether that be in chatrooms or churches or cities, and i'm frankly very tired of this recurrent urge to, like, resurrect middle school ideas of coolness and use them as cudgels. clubbing—of either variety!—doesn't make you a better person.

[trainingdummyrabbit]

mooorning. auuauau

[themasterpupil]

HOW BRO?!

[crystallizedtwilight]

After the family line that Calliope watched over came to an end, she wandered purposelessly into Halloween Town. But over time she made friends. And slowly, like mist lifting, their immediate futures became clearer to her. (Orphaned banshee discovers new found family 🩵)

[xenteaart]

it's not about the roses

pairing: chan x reader (i wrote it with idol!chan or producer!chan in mind, but despite a brief mention of the studio it can fit any au, really) word count: 1,1k genre/warnings: er, fluff, a hint of angst if you squint but overall just tooth rotting sweetness. reader being kinda vulnerable author's note: inspired by my and @skzms 's channie brain worms, me crying over how boyfie he is in may's dms and her coming up with this little prompt. i'm manifesting a sweet healthy relationship for y'all, never settle for less <3

you were never the one for flowers, really.

it just didn’t seem anything meaningful or special, an occasional cute little bouquet on some first date you had ages ago, meeting someone completely new after mindlessly swiping them right on a dating app. plus, it’s always such a bother to take care for it. disassemble the thing, cut the stems, change the water, maybe cut off the leaves too.

at some point, you began to think of yourself as more of a practical person, taking gift giving to the point where it completely lost symbolism. always getting your friends and family either money or something they specifically asked for.

“at least, they’re actually gonna use it and get some utility out of it. ‘s good, right?” you thought to yourself, ticking a box on one of your friend’s wishlists for their birthday. it is good. no stress of choosing and endlessly pondering whether they’ll like it or not.

or is it avoiding the vulnerability of going down a more symbolic route if they don’t happen to respond to your gift the way you’d like them to after carefully planting hidden meanings and confessions all over a seemingly useless present? yeah, maybe, that’s the one, actually.

it was a regular saturday evening, no work, no plans, no big day or anything to celebrate. so, naturally, you were just spending the time at your place, resting after successfully having done all the house chores in one go.

purposelessly lying on the bed, you wondered what chris was up to. it wasn’t something out of the ordinary for you two to leave each other hanging during the day, keeping each other’s messages unread and waiting for some free time to give a thoughtful, proper reply.

but the little “1” next to your kakaotalk message was starting to feel unfriendly because... honestly? you just missed him. you wanted to know about his day, what he ate for lunch and whether work was okay today (knowing full well the man couldn’t care less about days of the week, coming over at the studio any time he needed or pleased).

distracting yourself with scrolling tiktok for a quick dopamine hit, you end up losing track of time a little. and the thing bringing you back to reality is chan’s short message, popping up on your notifications bar.

“can you come out for a sec? i’m at the door hehe~”

it takes you three times to read to finally understand what it actually means. he doesn’t have keys to your apartment yet, and you mostly hang out at his place anyways, so him coming all the way to the opposite side of the city makes your heart skip a beat.

you rush to the door and open it almost immediately, only to see channie, your channie, standing right in front of you with a nice bouquet of red roses wrapped up in kraft paper. the next thing you notice is chan’s wide smile, so sincere and endearing it makes you wanna cry on the spot.

you were never the one for flowers, really.

red roses always seemed like something either too vulgar or “easy”. something that becomes men’s first pick because they just never care enough to look for anything else and assume every girl loves it by default.

right now, however, it doesn’t feel like either of those.

the way chris is a bit nervous and really excited all at once; his hands gripping at the crunchy paper-wrapped base as he's waiting to give the flowers to you. the way his eyes sparkle and shine with warmth and genuine adoration for you. and you read past the roses, you learn so much more from it.

you learn how he’s been quiet because he was plotting a little surprise for you, trying not to be too obvious.

you see how he thought of you during the entire process, from an idea to carefully picking out the best flowers, making sure they’re fresh and pretty and will stay this way a while.

you can hear his timid little “thank you” to the florist as they exchange their bows and polite smiles.

you imagine the slightly awkward small talk with the taxi driver asking him about the occasion — the traffic and the parking area next to your building are awful, so you’re guessing he did take the taxi. and the drivers sure love to talk on the long drives, this one you had to learn the hard way.

gosh, chan looks so warm and… so soft, his lips making a familiar heartbreaking :] shape.

snapping out of your thoughts, you look into chris’s eyes and swallow down a salty lump in your throat.

“please don’t be alarmed, but i probably will cry a little,” you warn him before your voice gives out and take the roses, holding them close to your chest where the heart is bleeding.

“so pretty,” you stare down at the gentle velvety petals and sniff quietly.

chan looks worried for a moment but quickly pulls you into his embrace, stepping into the apartment and locking the door behind him.

“hey-y, i expected a smile, not your tears, baby. i didn’t upset you, did i?” to which you shake your head to reassure him.

“no, no, ‘course not! what do you mean? they’re so nice. i’m just… really happy? and i missed you. so much,” the last words come out like a weak mouse squeak as you close your eyes and let your emotions roll down your cheeks, staining your skin wet.

chan nods and takes your face into his palms, wiping away the tears and looking at you so lovingly you think you might actually break.

“i missed you too, baby. do you mind if i stay the night? i…- uh. i bought some face masks too, so we can just relax a little before bed and cuddle?”

you squeeze out a little “yeah” in response, headbutting his forehead and putting your arm around him, with another still holding the roses carefully.

“i love you,” you say slightly louder, making sure that he hears it.

maybe, gifts don’t have to be practical all the time. maybe, it’s okay to put sentimental value into simple, useless things sometimes. make them mean something.

“i love you too, baby,” chris hums still a little confused, rubbing soothing circles into your lower back and planting a chaste kiss on the bridge of your nose.

you reach for his plump soft lips and press yours against them. and even though your tastebuds can feel the salt, it’s the sweetest kiss you two have shared so far.

[wisteriaiswriting]

Cowboy Rule With Brimstone, Cypher, Sova and Harbor

Words: 622

Request: hai :3 could you do the cowboy rule with a gender neutral reader w/ brim, cypher, sova and harbour? Requested by: @floralflytrap

Couldn't stick to just hats so; Brim = hat, Cypher = hat, Sova = cape, = Harbor = rings

It was practically silent around the protocol today, plenty of the other agents have been sent on various missions. This left the rest scrambling to find something to do, which luckily almost everyone else found something. But you weren’t as lucky, already gone through anything that kept you distracted.

And now you have moved on to bothering anyone you could find. Few entertained you but in the end you went looking for one person in particular, Brimstone, or as you call him, Liam. Who was hunched over his desk focusing on some paperwork, working so much he didn’t register you entering.

Sneaking behind him, your hands slowly reached for his hat. Swiftly pulling it off and stepping away as he finally looked away from his work, eyes quickly settling on the stolen hat that was now placed on your head.

“Come on Doll, I can’t have you distracting me right now.” “It can wait~” Sitting on the edge of the desk, leaning closer to Liam. “Can it?” Before you could respond you felt his hand land on your hips, giving you a quick warning before lifting you up. “Hopefully you locked the door.”

“Where has it gone?” Amir was mumbling to himself through the hall, looking for something of his that has gone missing. So cuaght up in his thoughts he missed the sound of footsteps coming down the hall. “Yo, Cypher!” Phoenix did a double take before noticing, “I thought you would’a have another?”

“So you know where it is?” “Yeah, I just saw Y/N with it.” Pointing towards the living area, “Ah, thank you Phoenix.” Why didn’t he think of you? Rushing into the living area to find you sprawled across one the couches, Astra and Skye were just leaving. “There it is,” Snatching the hat back from you, catching your attention. “Oh حبيبي, do I need to look through your history again?” “Maybe…” Even with the mask you knew what he was thinking, and you welcomed it.

The room was quiet apart from the sound of metal quietly touching other metal, finding Sasha tinkering with his bow. As soon as the door slid open he looked up, seeing it was you entering so he returned to the bow.

“There you are my Голубь, Как прошла миссия?” “English Sasha.” “Sorry my love,” Stepping behind him you slowly undid the cape, “How was the mission?” “Eventful for sure.” When you successfully got it off you draped it over yourself, missing the look Sasha threw over at you. His face was becoming more red the longer he looked, coughing into his fist as he looked away. “Something wrong?” God, you knew what you were doing. Leaning over him, purposelessly getting in his sight. “Not exactly,” Prompting him to speak as he paused, “Maybe we should go somewhere else, I’d rather no one else hear this.”

He swore the rings were placed back in the box when he returned to his room last night, but now, in the morning, he is unable to find them. Only finding an empty box on the dresser where the rings should’ve been. With all his rushing around he had woken you up, shuffling from under the sheets to stand behind him.

Hands reached over his shoulders to rest around his neck, causing him to relax. One of his hands reached up to intertwine with yours, only to come into contact with something warm but hard. Lifting your hand to see your fingers adorned with his rings.

“I’ve been looking around for these, but it was you. तुम छोटे चोर हो.” Spinning you around into his arms while keeping you close, “You know what happens to thieves?” “I don’t think I do, why don’t you show me~”

[literary-motif]

Aqua Regia

Asirel Cain x Reader

Asirel sinks in his blues.

Warnings: references to depression, suicide attempt

Flying and sinking felt the same. Asirel hardly flinched as the air whipped past him — uncertain if he had felt hands on his back a second before he accelerated towards the ground. He had been surprised, staggering a little as the earth pulled him downwards, falling, falling, flying, sinking. 

He was caught in a daze, his breath caught in his throat, the ground coming closer and closer — the deep, blue ocean. The waves were high, he thought. The water looked clear, but cold and deep. It was the Atlantic, of course, it was deep. 

He knew the ship had been a bad idea, his mother had warned him; his sister had called him, begging him not to go. Not that he listened when business was concerned. No, he preferred falling, flying, sinking rather than falling short of the expectations placed on his shoulders, not daring to fail in following in and filling his father’s footsteps. 

Falling felt a lot like flying. Flying felt a lot like sinking. Asirel could not tell where one ended and the other began, the feelings merging seamlessly, bleeding into each other while his heart felt completely numb.

Had he jumped? Was he pushed, or did he fall? Did he leap into the water below?

Why would he have? He could think up a dozen reasons. Why would he have? He could swim. He could. 

But did he want to? 

Asirel could pinpoint the exact moment when flying turned to sinking — his body hit the water, breaking through the surface with a loud crash that did nothing to break him out of his reverie. The water was cold, but the shock did not phase him. He was sinking — no longer falling. He could not fly, the only way to escape it was bracing for imminent impact but now impact was dealt with, and he had transgressed into sinking — and the rational part of his mind told him that it was time to make up his mind. 

The surface was getting further away, the light of the setting sun growing dimmer through the twisting waters pulling him down, down, down into their depths. How deep was the Atlantic Ocean? He had taken quite a fall, still sinking from its force. His chest was starting to ache, a faint burn making itself noticeable that he pushed to the furthest recess of his mind. 

Did he jump or was he pushed? 

His eyes were open, staring at the gently fading light above him. It looked like the light at the end of the tunnel, but instead of the train approaching rapidly, it was speeding away from him, driving in reverse. 

He had been going in reverse recently. Instead of getting ahead — by implementing his ideas, convincing the Collective to try things his way, and abandoning their status-quo, with the plans he had laid out for his life — he was falling behind. His ideals for the economy needed radical adjusting, his circle of acquaintances was dragging him down, and his closest friend—

Asirel closed his eyes, feeling the sting of the saltwater for the first time. 

Nothing had been the same since Vic’s funeral. He knew himself to be capable of handling things himself, but the world around him seemed inexplicably harder to face. Vic made things easier. Simply his silent support — and the innumerable times he had acted as his right-hand man — had lifted a weight off his shoulders that had been steadily crushing him for the last two years. 

The water dragging him down felt like its manifestation, pulling him deeper. It was more comfortable than being ground into dust, an effort his daily life had excelled at recently. 

He just felt so heavy. This weightlessness was welcome. Perhaps he did jump. 

Asirel reached into the deepest recesses of his mind to draw up any strength he had to continue, and came up empty. He was dry, exhausted beyond belief, and purposelessly drifting. Drifting? 

He had stopped sinking, and the dark, deep blue water all around him — swallowing him whole, pressing down on him so far from the surface, so deep down in the Atlantic Ocean that did not care about his plans or ideas or rotten sense of purpose — seemed to thrust a hand into his chest, squeezing his lungs painfully. 

He burned, his chest spasming instinctively to take a breath. Would it matter, anyway? He glanced up again, to the vague white above him, the broken rays of sunshine twisting and curling under the water. Did it matter? The cold of the water around him — colder now that he was trapped in limbo, frozen in the void — was soothing despite all of this. 

A part of his mind warned him that this would hurt. Drowning, he had heard, was one of the most horrible ways to go. Drowning? Yes, he supposed. This was what sinking led to, this was what he wanted when he leaped, this was what all these decisions had led up to — the loose strings of fate woven through his life finally intertwining here. Drowning. Drowning after such a long time of sinking.

Except, he was not sinking anymore. The careful balance he had crafted, the agreement, the deal he had made with the Atlantic ocean forcefully broken as something tore at him, pulling him upwards with the same vigor he had previously plunged into these depths. 

Up. He was going up. The light got brighter, the burning in his lungs more pronounced as the surface got closer. 

He found himself filled with a deep sense of relief, overshadowing the bleak numbness clawing at his heart that up meant not done. Up meant countless meetings where he would get disregarded. Up meant watching another lifetime's worth offootage that made his stomach turn. Up meant feeling helpless when he read of the reports his puppeteering had caused — wars, famines, political instability, deaths, deaths, deaths. 

Up meant looking his mother in the eye after what he had just tried to do. 

Asirel broke the surface with a gasp, coughing violently and nearly sinking again under their force. For a moment he was confused, still feeling wetness gather on his skin and dampening his hair. It was somehow colder than the water of the ocean, and as he blinked his eyes open between heaving coughs, he realized that it was raining. 

The water came from above, plumbing to the ground like he had mere moments ago. It merged with the ocean seamlessly. But Asirel caught the difference, with his head turned upward to look towards the sky he had accepted to never see again. The rain felt like a blessing, the promise of a new beginning as it grounded the past into nothing, washing him clean. 

A new beginning. He squeezed his eyes shut, noticing for the first time that there was a bruising pressure on his waist, a hand gripping him so tightly that he feared it would soon tear through his skin. “Pet,” he muttered, not needing to open his eyes to know it was you. 

Who else would be crazy enough to leap in after him? Who else would bother pulling him out of the water after he had already given up? Who else could it be, breathing new life into him and forcing an ascension towards the future when he had resigned himself to sinking in the present? Who else but you? Who else loved him enough to try?

He blinked his eyes open, turning to face you through the rain still pouring down. 

You stared back, an unreadable expression in your eyes. For a long moment, all he could hear was the gentle sound of rain, feeling his exhaustion trying to pull him down again. Your grip was relentless, refusing to let him sink. 

After a long moment, you broke the silence with a voice so raspy he thought it actually hurt you to speak through the tightness in your throat, “don’t you dare do that again.” 

He sighed, imagining that the rain from above brought a new beginning as well, that it would wash away all the heaviness, darkness, and guilt. It was a lot to ask of the rain, he was aware, but perhaps this one — this royal rain, this new rain, this fresh rain that brought him air after he had been submerged in water, ready to drown — was special. 

“I promise,” he said, meaning it to the depths of his heart.

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for ZepysGirl; the wet nurse omegaverse.

“We don’t even know if this will be enough,” Clark says softly, so unfortunately he’s apparently on a similar line of thought right now. Unsurprisingly, but unfortunately. “Chris is a toddler. He doesn’t know anything but that he smelled milk on someone who would–who could nurse him. But human milk might not be enough.” 

“It was enough for you,” Bruce reminds him. 

“I was at least a year older, and still wound up malnourished,” Clark reminds him in turn. Which, admittedly, is not actually something he’d forgotten. “And Ma was my mother. My pack. Both my primary and my family pack, on top of that. I can’t give Chris that. I can’t give him anything she gave me.” 

“You’re giving him everything she gave you, Clark,” Bruce says evenly. 

“I’m really, really not,” Clark says, and puts a hand over his chest . . . purposelessly, as far as Bruce can tell. Just . . . there. “I couldn’t even–I couldn’t even try. Couldn’t even let him latch to try and get my milk to come in. Couldn’t even take my shirt off. It might–if I try, it might come in. We could–test it, maybe. I could pump, or . . . I could at least try.” 

“You did try,” Bruce says, since “giving yourself a panic attack trying to force it would not have been a helpful form of 'trying’” would come off a little more insensitive and Clark’s already not in the best place at the moment. And Clark did in fact do everything short of taking lactation stimulants, which they already know Lor wouldn’t have tolerated even if they had managed to synthesize Kryptonian-effective ones. The Fortress’s AI didn’t have any more tolerable stimulant formulas that they could reproduce, and even if it had, those stimulants certainly weren’t designed to function on a Kryptonian living on a yellow-sun planet. 

Clark tried, and nothing happened. 

The issue is undeniably psychological, but unless Clark can retroactively go to six years of extremely intensive therapy that would’ve both compromised his identity and might not even have helped at all, much less actually worked, and that he never knew he’d need to have worked for anything like this–

Clark did everything that he could’ve reasonably been expected to, and more than he should’ve had to. 

Sometimes that just isn’t enough, Bruce knows. Jason is proof enough of that, if nothing else is. 

And they have chances, still. There’s hope, still. 

There is. 

Bruce is just very, very tired, and at this point even Clark is tired, and they're both worrying about things that aren't currently helpful. Directionless worry isn't a solution or a plan; it's just wasted energy. 

Honestly, at this point Bruce just wants to go take a damn nap. 

Unfortunately, one of the most singularly powerful people on the planet still needs emotional support, and Bruce is still terrible at emotional support.

[pekoehoneyncream]

Ghoaptober # 9

Prompt: Rain/Snow

Words: 1200~

TW: None (sfw)

This version of Ghoaptober was created by @spadesandshovels

Nonsexual Intimacy, my beloved.

Enjoy!

Ghost jolted upright in his bed, sweat slicking his shirt to his skin, and making his grip clammy around his knife. He lowered the blade, forcing his hand to relax from its shaking white-knuckled clench. Breathing deeply, he slid the knife back into the sheath affixed to his bedframe, moving with slow deliberate actions. 

Refusing to let his hands tremble. 

Standing from his bed, just to prove to his mind that he could, Ghost stared purposelessly into the dark, swaying on locked knees. Obsessively running his tongue over his teeth to check and recheck and assure himself that the gravedirt he could feel burrowing into his gums was all in his head. The hiss of rain slashing at his window snapped him from the compulsion, his tongue sore and his gums irritated. 

A need struck him as he watched the streams of water caress the glass, an urge that hadn’t raised its head since he’d passed his second decade, a compulsion that he’d thought had died with his father, was now shaking the snow off its back and rising into the light from the depths of his heart, undiminished by its long hibernation. 

Hauling on a pair of trackies from the floor, he snatched up a knife to weigh his pocket down, and stuffed his feet into his boots without pausing to tie them. Slamming out of his room he booked it for the nearest exit, praying the rain wouldn't stop before he was free of the building.

Crashing through an emergency exit, he slowed only long enough to finesse the alarm into keeping mum, then stepped away from the cover of building. 

Ghost turned his face up to the rain, his hands reaching up habitually to pull off a balaclava that he hadn’t put on. 

Breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, Ghost very forcibly doesn’t think about the fact that he’d just run through the building with nothing covering his face. The downpour soaks through his hair and weighs down his shirt, running in cool gentle lines over his face, like countless small caresses. 

Letting the rain wash over him, he corralled his breathing into something more manageable. In through the nose, out through the mouth, in through the nose, out through the mouth. 

In with the good. Out with bad. 

Each repetition of the mantra soothes him and he feels the hot knot at the back of his throat slowly sliding free. His mother's voice, comes echoing forward from memories half forgotten,

“Rain is cleansing, Simon. It can float your troubles like oil to water, but only you can let them go.”

Tears pool in his eyes and he let them slip to fall with the rain. 

“Si?” A small glance cast over his shoulder sees Johnny poking his head out of the door Ghost had escaped from, “Ye okay?”

Johnny’s voice is just as hesitant as the few slow steps he takes in Ghost’s direction, not leaving the cover of the building, not sure of his welcome. Ghost holds up an arm and drops his face to hide against the top of Johnny’s head when the man immediately takes his offer and slots up against his side. Johnny is always welcome, Ghost could be actively on fire and whatever Johnny wanted would still take precedence. 

“I’m good, Johnny.” He mumbles into an increasingly damp warhawk, grounding himself by the line of heat pressing into his skin that meant Johnny was with him, “Just a nightmare.” 

“Are ye okay tae come back inside?” Johnny asks, sliding a hand up Ghost’s chest to wrap over the back of his neck, squeezing at Ghost’s nape with lovely firm centering pressure in a way that always sent warmth dripping down Ghost's spine. 

“Yeah, Johnny,” he mumbles, bending to drop his head onto Johnny’s shoulder. Feeling his cheeks heat under Johnny’s lips as the Scot turns his head to press gentle kisses upon him, knowing Johnny was aiming for the dusting of freckles splattered across the arches of Ghost’s cheekbones, “We can go in.”

It took a moment for Ghost to put action to word, unwilling to leave the blissful moment Johnny had built around him, but eventually he straightened up and let himself be herded back inside. 

Soap is grateful that he manages to lead Ghost safely back to his room without passing anyone in the halls, he doesn’t enjoy having to threaten every jumped up fool that sees Ghost’s uncovered face into silence. 

That’s a lie.

Getting to protect something that Ghost holds so dear sent a sick thrill through him every time, but that feeling had nothing on the roiling warmth that was sloshing about his heart for the complete trust that Ghost is gifting him now. 

Simon was away with the fairies, mindlessly following along with everything that was asked of him. Johnny stripped him to his skin and chivvied him into the shower of the attached bath that all officer’s rooms came with, stripping himself and following him in when all Simon did was stand in the warm water and stare forlornly across the small distance separating them, his hands twitching at his sides with illy suppressed want. 

As soon as he was within range Simon’s hands were covetously holding him, petting over his skin in slow reverent strokes. Johnny smiled up at him, delighting in the small smile that Simon gifted him in turn. 

He had only brought Simon here to get him warmed up, but while they were in the shower they might as well get clean. Johnny soaped and rinsed Simon with gentle hands and steady movements, not wanting to startle him from the safe haze he’d drifted into, then gave himself a perfunctory scrub down. Careful to not dislodge Simon’s hands from his skin, in this headspace Simon would take it as a rejection. 

In any headspace really, the broody hen, but Simon would take it particularly hard as he was now. 

Cutting the water, Johnny gently backed Simon out of the shower, rubbed them both down with a towel, then plopped them down onto the bed. The breath whooshing out of his chest when Simon fell onto him with no attempt to soften his landing. 

Simon brought his knees up to bracket Johnny’s hips, wound his arms under Johnny’s chest, smushed his face into the side of Johnny’s neck, then gave a great squeeze. Hoping the simple action would be able to convey something of the overwhelming love that filled him. Johnny brought his arms up to hover over his back and, at Simon’s permitting nod, squeezed him hard. 

A return of Simon's every unspoken sentiment. 

Relaxing his hold, Johnny drifted his right hand over Simon’s back in meaningless patterns, letting his left hand come up to claim its place on Simon’s nape. Feeling the tension fall out of the body blanketing his chest in response to the grounding hold. 

“Love you, Johnny.” Simon mumbled into the skin of his neck,

Swallowing back tears that would only make his beloved wind himself up into a tizzy, Johnny pressed a hard kiss to Simon’s bonnie blonde curls.

“Tha gaol agam ort, Mo chridhe,” He whispered against Simon’s ear, cradling each word on his tongue like they were holy, before letting the pass gently into the air. 

Precious offerings to be placed at the foot of an altar built for Simon by his worshipping heart.

Thank You For Reading!

Wrote this while listening to my chill vibes playlist, and got a lil carried away by the emotion.

PekoeHoneynCream's Masterlist

[yandere-writer-momo]

Hi, hope you are doing fine and have the greatest of day or night ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯, well to the question, do you think jack will give love bites, or nibbles to his s/o? Or would he be like "I only bite to eat or to kill" or even in nsfw scenarios, would he prefer using a muzzle or likes to give this little nibbles as love language?

With the way I write him, I do believe he would.

TW: Yandere behavior

Yandere Baki Head Canons

Jack Hanma (physical affection)

…………………………………………..

Jack is very much a physical touch person. He loves touch and he loves being touched.

Jack is most likely extremely touch starved and he can’t get enough of your soft caresses so he wants to give you some of his own now that he’s comfortable.

It takes a long time for him to warm up and be vulnerable. You are a rare case for him. Your stubbornness to be by his side despite his best attempts to push you away solidified his permanent place in your life. You will never escape leave him.

He tests the waters by dragging his tongue along the curve of your spine until he reached your shoulder blades. His sharp teeth gently run down the soft skin of your shoulder before he gently clamps down. You barely feel it and it amazes you how gentle he can be.

Jack grows to love physical affection and he will always be touching you in some form or way (in public). Whether his fingers are held in your hands or he slips a finger in your pocket, Jack is connected to you when he isn’t vigorously training. He will sneak over and give you a sloppy kiss between sets. Jack can’t get enough of your skin

You’re so fragile compared to Jack and he’d never do anything to hurt you (purposelessly). But there is a primal part of him that wants to leave a permanent mark on you… just to loudly stake his claim on you.

And it will happen… most likely when you two are finally intimate with each other

[almightyhamslice]

Sorry I have been inactive for ages!! I have come bakc with good news and bad news! The good news is I'm still drawing n I'm feeling ok! the bad news is the drawings are banban drawings LOL. Sorry to everyone who followed me for Kirby, I still am thinking abt it but I will return to it when I have more energy for it.

Anyhow the gist with this Banban redesign is he's still made of some flexible material (silicone or rubber???) but is also (partially) flocked. He's sort of jesterish/clownish and wears a mask because his true face is too frightening for children. He also wears party hats to cover his sharp keratinous growths (horns n tail tip). He has a guitar as a prop but I don't think he actually knows how to play-- he just likes strumming it purposelessly. I also gave him a bowtie! I've always wanted to give him one. It matches Banbaleena's bow and it's just so cute!

I like the idea that the banban sillies are made of clay but I must admit I've gotten really into animatronics and darkride attractions again n that was my main insp for this Banban design. Dreamieland especially. It's found lost media n it's rlly stylish and cute! Anyhow so since the Dreamieland animatronics have cute flocking so does my Banban design LOL. it's not very deep.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Protection.

Written for the very, very lovely @letstalktea.

Pairing: Simeon x Yandere!Reader (Obey Me).

Word Count: 6.0k.

TW: Unhealthy Relationships, Manipulation, Reader Puts Themself In Dangerous Situations But Has No Intention To Actually Die, Unbalanced Power Dynamics, Implied Masturbation, and Stalking.

The day Simeon was assigned to you was also the first day he saved your life.

It was mostly an ornamental title, that of a guardian angel. Humans, by and large, lived terribly mundane and predictable lives, with little conflict and outcomes that couldn’t be helped by the gentle tug to the strings of fate angels were allowed to provide from the comfort of the Celestial Realm. Simeon had looked after hundreds of charges in the past, had seen countless mortal lives start and end, and even he could count the number of times he’d been forced or able to intervene on a single hand. Normally, an angel of his rank wouldn’t be given such a hollow assignment at all, but you were a special case – your previous guardian injured in a rare skirmish with a hostile demon and anyone else who might’ve taken on her responsibilities during her recovery already looking after one or more human charges. If he arranged it, your safety could have easily been handed off to another low-ranking angel with an apology and a promise that they’d be relieved soon, but what kind of leader would that make Simeon? Certainly not the type he cared to be.

No, you were the only mortal being in any of the three realms to ever have an archangel at their disposal. If you had any way of knowing who was looking after you, you surely would’ve counted yourself lucky.

Outings like this were also rather unorthodox, even more so for someone of his rank. It really wasn’t necessary, he had ways of monitoring you from the comfort of the Celestial Realm, but he liked to handle such intimate matters personally, and he wasn’t going to turn down an excuse to step out of his office for the better part of a morning. With a crepe from the stand you’d passed a few minutes ago in one hand and the other fussing with the collar of a coat meant to block out a chill he could only pretend to feel, Simeon trailed a few hundred feet after you, keeping your brightly colored scarf in the corner of his eye as he let himself get lost in the flow of the crowd. When you came to a busy intersection, he stopped as well, stepping under the patio of a small coffee shop and checking his watch. He’d already reviewed your schedule, already knew that your office was just another block away. You’d stay in the building until this afternoon, then stop at a local bar for a few drinks with a friend. The rest of your night would be spent in your apartment, some decade-old drama playing in the background as you worked on one of your constantly rotating hobbies. A simple life, but one you seemed to find satisfying enough. One that kept you out of trouble, meaning that there’d be less trouble for him, too.

He allowed himself a small smile. Just as his lips quirked upward, the crowd behind you shifted, knocking those closest to the curb forward and throwing you off-balance. He could see you start to tilt, make out your eyes widening as you turned to face the oncoming traffic you’d be stumbling into, but Simeon only hummed, raising a hand and curling two fingers into his palm. As if on the other end of a line, you jerked back, falling onto the sidewalk rather than the road and saving you both a great deal of worry. It would’ve been a meaningless death, a total accident with minimal impact on all those involved. In cases like this, so purposelessly tragic, the greater forces of fate and destiny seemed willing to turn a blind eye.

You didn’t move immediately, remaining on the ground even after the pedestrian single buzzed and the crowd surrounding you began to move, but your shock didn’t surprise him – most mortals had keener senses than creatures who worked with the supernatural cared to acknowledge. Rather, what caught him off-guard was the second you took to glance over your shoulder, your eyes meeting his for the briefest of moments before a woman passing by offered you a hand and knocked you out of your temporary trance. He was nearly too stunned to move until you were out of his sight, but his shock dissipated with a breath of a laugh, a quick shake of his head. You were lucky, after all.

At least this assignment was proving to be an interesting one, after all.

~

The second time he saved you, he began to consider consulting your previous guardian about any curses or hexes you might’ve been the victim of. In jest, of course.

At that point, it was only in jest.

To your credit, he hadn’t even intended to visit you, that day. He’d been in the Human World on business (if he could call Luke’s seasonal urge to ‘observe mortal winter traditions’ business).  Checking on his ill-fated ward while he was in the neighborhood was just a whim, an excuse to carve out a few minutes for himself in an otherwise hectic day. Call it… an older brother’s intuition. Clairvoyancy had never been one of his talents, but somehow, he must’ve known something would happen to you.

He found you, strangely enough, deviating from your usual routine – taking a late-night walk through one of the more scenic parts of your city. Much of the population had already taken shelter from the biting cold, but you seemed content meandering through a local park, wandering down an overgrown footpath at a pace that rang true to your lack of destination. He trailed behind you, remaining just outside of your peripheral. He’d always been charmed by moments like this; so small, so inconsequential, so human. The Celestial Realm was such a bright place, so crowded with so much to get done. As an angel, he rarely had a minute to spare. Humans, on the other hand, were happy to act as if they had all the time in the world to waste.

With your hands shoved in your pockets and your head bowed low, you started onto a dilapidated wooden bridge, the river below already covered in a thin layer of frost but not quite frozen. You only paused when you reached the center, leaning out over a rotting guardrail and admiring the view, although he couldn’t say he was sure what you were hoping to see.

You were too close to notice, but Simeon caught it. He looked on with the rapt attention of a well-trained voyeur as the post of the guardrail buckled and dislocated, as rotting wood fell away from rusting nails and began to collapse onto the ice below. This time, it was genuine panic that flooded into his veins, overwhelming his better judgement in a way your last bout of misfortune hadn’t. There was no time to think about which trick he wanted to use, about whether or not this fate would be one the strings of destiny would guide you towards; one moment, he was watching you jolt forward and the next, he was at your side, his arms wrapped around your waist as he hauled you back onto the bridge, as both of you collapsed into a heap of wide eyes and unsteady breathing. You didn’t make a sound, your shock intense enough to make you swallow all but the smallest, sharpest gasp. Poor thing. Honestly, he wouldn’t have been surprised if the fright alone was enough to make your heart stop.

Still, you recovered quickly, forcing out a jarring laugh as you struggled to untangle yourself from him. Eventually, you managed to sit up, coming to rest on your knees. “I—I’m sorry, this just happened a few weeks ago, too. I would’ve gotten hit by a car if—” You cut yourself off, slamming your hands against your thigh. “I… I think I’ve just been unlucky, lately. Or, really lucky, if you’re that kind of person.”

It took him a second to find his own voice, another to realize he had to use it. “I’m just glad I was passing by.” He tried to sound like he was just as shaken up as you were, just as inexperienced with death as the average mortal would be. It was both a comfort and a new source of anxiety that the way his voice shook was not completely within his control. “Are you alright? I know some first aid, or I could call a—”

You were kind enough to put him out of misery quickly. “No, no, I’m fine. I couldn’t ask you to do anything else for me.” Your smile was brilliant – delicate, but brilliant, a beautiful example of mortal fortitude. “In fact, I should be the one doing something for you. Considering how cold that water is, I’m pretty sure you just saved my life.”

“That won’t be necessary.” He was far too involved already. Most guardian angels went decades before ever seeing their human wards in-person, let alone speaking to them. If your eyes had actually met during your previous encounter, this would be the second time you’d spotted your unseen protector. “If you’re not injured,” he started, standing to his full height and offering you a hand. With no hesitation, you accepted it, letting him pull you onto your feet. “I’d be happy knowing you got home safely. That is, if you’re comfortable with an escort.”

He moved to pull his hand out of yours, but your grip was iron-clad. “C-can I have your name?” It was less of a question and more of a plea, as if you were asking him for the antidote to some fatal illness. When he hesitated, his smile faltering, you went on, your nails digging into the skin of his wrist. If he’d been anything less than what he was, it might’ve hurt. “I just—I know it sounds insane, but I’ve just got this feeling that we’ve met before, and something’s going to happen to me if we don’t—”

“Simeon,” he said, his grin taking on a comforting note. Slowly, as best not to startle you, he brought up his free hand, cupping your cheek as gently as he could. “You don’t have to justify yourself. It’s Simeon.”

You beamed, moving to respond, but a burst of golden light erupted from his palm before you could so much as open your mouth. He saw the faintest hint of confusion play across your expression, but in a moment, your eyes fell shut, your body going limp. For what felt like the hundredth time, you threatened to collapse, but he caught you before you could hit the ground – taking you in his arms and letting out a breath of a laugh. He’d take you back to your apartment, and by morning, you’d have no recollection of your brief encounter. Hopefully, the spell would help to dull the memories of the first time he overstepped his boundaries too, but he could only hope for so much.

As long as you stayed out of trouble, he would be happy to look after his ill-fated little ward from a distance.

~

The twelfth time he saved you, he realized that ‘distance’ was not something you took lightly.

Admittedly, he probably should’ve caught on after the fourth incident, when you walked out onto melting ice with little more protection than a paper-thin cardigan and a pair of snow damaged dress-shoes, or the eighth, when you accepted a friend of a friend’s invitation to go on a sky-view tour of the city in the plane he’d made by-hand (luckily, your flying coffin never gotten more than a few feet of the ground – something that had nothing to do with Simeon’s interference). Denial made him slow to realize what was going on, even slower to accept that you might’ve been something more than a particularly unfortunate mortal. In all that he’d seen of human behavior, one core tenant had always held true; that, above all else, they would seek their own preservation. The evidence that you might be doing something, anything other than doing what little you could to make your already short life a few years longer was inconvenient enough to ignore, if only for the time it took him to attend to his responsibilities in the Celestial Realm.

…responsibilities your self-sacrificial tendencies quickly found a way to tamper with, as well. He really had to give you more credit – it must’ve been difficult to interfere with matters on a plane you couldn’t have known even existed, and yet, you found a way.

It was a cherub that alerted him, bursting into a meeting Micheal had called among the archangels. The boy was red-faced and panting, but managed to speak before Simeon could call for a healer. “There’s—” He paused, struggled to pull air into his lungs. “Simeon, sir, there’s an emergency.”

 With a slow exhale, he pushed himself to his feet. The other archangels offered no protest, only nodding as he positioned himself at the cherub’s side and rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You were right to come to me. What’s wrong?”

Another gasping breath, a white-knuckle grip to the side of the marble door. “It’s your ward.”

Instantly, Simeon’s expression fell.

He didn’t stop to wait for a more descriptive explanation. Rather, he urged the cherub to take a seat and rushed into the empty hallway, summoning a small orb of reflective golden light with a flick of his wrist. Nearly lost in the summoned sunrays was, of course, a projection of you, walking along a concrete ledge no thicker than your wrist. The greater context was lost on him, but he saw enough to recognize where you were – on the roof of your office building, dozens of stories above the ground. You were missing your blazer, too, and one of your shoes. He could only imagine where you’d lost them.

Mouth agape and eyes wide, Simeon watched in pure disbelief as you inched forward, your balance more of a hopeful thought than a practiced skill. Despite your shaking legs and unsteady posture, a smile was plastered across your lips, toothy and almost painfully wide. You looked ecstatic, despite being one misstep away from a certain and sudden death. If he hadn’t known better, he would’ve called you zealous.

For long, agonizing seconds, it was all he could do to watch you, to try to separate the sound of his heart beating in his ears from that of his racing pulse. His vision blurred with panic, a strange mix of dread and adrenaline muting what few rational thoughts he could summon. There was something else blended into the combination, too – something darker, something that seemed to coil in the depths of his chest and tear at his ribs as it expanded. Hatred was not a feeling most angels were capable of, let alone familiar with to identify without deep self-reflection and weeks of careful meditation, and yet, in that moment, Simeon knew he loathed you. For making him bend the rules he’d lived by for so long. For making him feel something other than a vague, warm fondness for the humans he’d always held such affection for.

He loathed himself, for being foolish enough to save your life in the first place.

When you finally slipped, the heel of your remaining shoe slipping over the ledge and throwing off your delicate balance, it was all Simeon could do to watch, to stare at the projection and pray to whoever angels prayed to that he’d bring himself to keep watching until you went tumbling over the wrong side, until you fell just like you were supposed to have fallen weeks ago, months ago, when he first took charge of your protection. He wanted to do nothing. He willed himself to do nothing.

And, in the end, he failed to do even that. As if by means beyond his control, his fist clenched at his side, an orb of pale blue light encompassing his hand before bursting a moment later. It wasn’t much, a half-hearted effort stifled further by the distance between you and him, but the effect was instantaneous, as effective as it would’ve been if he’d been able to put anything more than a passing thought into it.

You fell about five, ten feet before your back collided with a misplaced suspended platform, conveniently forgotten by some maintenance team and placed just low enough to remain out of your line of sight. The force of the impact was enough to knock the air out of your lungs, to leave you stunned and breathless for a minute, then another, but your manic smile never wavered, and the first sound you made was not a shriek of horror or a pained groaned, but a bright, airy laugh – windchimes caught in a stray breeze, nails carving into marble. You threw your head back, raising a hand to the collar of your dress-shirt and toying with the fabric before your attention drifted, before your touch strayed down the length of your chest and came to rest above your stomach, then lower, fingers slipping underneath your waistband and—

And Simeon cut off the projection there, banishing the orb of golden light and leaving himself alone in the glimmering hallway. He didn’t realize he was panting until he heard his own ragged breathing echoing off of the bare walls, until he could bring himself to acknowledge his heaving chest and the overwhelming exhaustion that urged him to shut his eyes and forget he’d taken you on at all.

That wasn’t an option, though, not in a position like his, not when the burden he’d taken on was a creature like you.

He allowed himself a moment to gather his composure, another to remind himself that his burden was no greater with you than it had been when he was looking after any of his other wards, then started toward the counsel room where he’d left the others. He owed quite the apology to the cherub who’d watched you on his behalf, and more importantly, he had to think about what should be done about you.

~

The forty-seventh time he saved you, he knew that thinking wasn’t an option, anymore. Something had to be done.

You were bleeding. You’d scraped your knees the first time he saved your life, come out of the twenty-sixth with a papercut that’d take a few days to heal, but he’d never drawn blood, never stayed long enough to see it dripping down your skin, leaving small pinpricks of dark scarlet soaking into the dirt and painted across the leaf litter as you limped forward. There was a jagged cut torn into your left bicep, a patch of exposed tissue and viscera on your thigh where there should’ve been flesh, and the deep, uneven scratches etched down the length of your back showed no signs of clotting under his constant surveillance. Even more stomach-turning were the bruises stamped into your legs, blossoming rows of discolored skin that you’d earned from hours’ worth of stumbling down rocky slopes and getting caught on overgrown foliage. You were barefoot, your shoes having split apart at the seams after you waded through a stream much deeper and much darker than he would’ve liked. He could only imagine how you were still moving. Of all the admirable qualities you lacked, ‘perseverance’ had never been something you found yourself without.

He made only the most superficial attempts to conceal himself, trailing just far enough behind you for the darkness to obscure his presence. There was no magic, this time, no getting lost in the crowd or relying on your own divided attention – just his soft footsteps and your ragged breathing and muted sounds of forest nightlife somehow rising above it all. If he listened closely, he thought he could still hear traffic in the distance, the occasional late-night driver swerving to avoid colliding with the car you’d abandoned by the side of the road, but there was a good chance it was just a figment of his imagination. You must’ve been miles away from the nearest scrap of civilization. He would’ve been surprised if the search party made it this far when they came looking for your body in the morning.

Eventually, you seemed to find what you were looking for: a sudden break in the forest that led to a sheer drop-off so sudden and so tall, whatever lay on the ground below was lost to a void of endless darkness. You didn’t pause like you used to, didn’t clench your eyes shut or take a moment to summon your courage, but he could hear you muttering something under your breath – praying, he realized, as his heart dropped into his stomach. You were praying.

Really, he could only be thankful that you hadn’t started earlier.

Slowly, agonizingly, he watched you inch your way toward the cliffside, every step a miracle and every second an eternity of torture. You only paused when you reached the very edge, staring down into the endless abyss as a slight grin came to rest across your lips. He almost expected you to jump, to use what little strength you had left to throw yourself into what he’d worked so hard to save you from, but no, you weren’t so cruel as to mock him so openly. Rather, you merely leaned forward, shutting your eyes and—

“Please don’t.”

There was no magic, no spells, no divine interference. If it’d been too late, if you’d been a little closer, all his half-hearted request would’ve done was ensure you spent your final moments in panicked confusion, but it wasn’t too late, and you were far enough to catch yourself before you so much as started to fall. He expected you to turn toward him with a new light in your eyes and a certain levity you only seemed to carry after your brief encounters, but you only glanced over your shoulder, still wearing that deceivingly soft smile. Looking at it now, he could almost see how he’d mistaken you for just another innocent soul.

Almost.

“You’re not going to tackle me this time?” You sounded disappointed. “Christ, it’s been… what? Seven months since the last time you touched me?” An airy laugh, a near-wistful sigh. “And four since I so much as saw you in person. If that was even you. You make yourself hard to find, ‘specially considering what I have to go through to get your attention.”

When he didn’t respond, didn’t move, you went on, your eyes falling back to the abyss. “You are him, right? It’s hard to tell if I can’t see your face. I mean, it’d still be hard if I could see your face, but c’mon. At least give me a fighting chance.” And then, with a little more thought. “I’d threaten to jump if you don’t come out, but you probably won’t let me get very far, would you?”

He was tempted to. Words couldn’t express how much he wanted to be able to say, confidently and without hesitation, that if you decided to jump, he wouldn’t intervene, wouldn’t exert himself in the slightest to save you from the consequences of your own actions, but that’d be a lie. What would he tell the other archangels? That he was incapable of safeguarding a single human? What would he tell himself as you disappeared into the darkness, as he counted the seconds until your body hit the ground? Would he wait? Would you even go through with it when he’d already given you what you came here for?

The answer didn’t matter. He was a coward at heart, still too afraid to know what he’d do to himself if something happened to you after everything he’d done. He took a moment to gather himself, to make sure he was in a form you’d recognize, and another to step into the moonlight, into sight. Rather than turning to face him, you waited until he’d joined you by the ledge. Even now, you had him at your beck and call – something he could only hope you didn’t know to take joy in.

“Please don’t,” he repeated, his voice quieter and heavy with exhaustion. It was a struggle to force himself to speak to you at all, considering how long he’d spent chastising himself for ever being anything more than a hand tugging at the strings of fate in your peripheral. “I…I’ve already crossed too many lines to help you. I don’t know if another miracle would go unpunished.”

“Is that what they are? Miracles?” If you saw his fatigue, if you cared about the downward slant of his shoulders or the dark rings under his eyes, it wasn’t enough to dampen your mirth, to earn your sympathy. “I guess that would make you an angel, huh? I mean, I always thought you were an angel – you just seemed so much like one – but there was a week or so in January where I got really into studying demonic pacts and—” You cut yourself off, shaking your head as you laughed. “You are an angel, right?”

Despite his better judgement, he nodded. Why would he try to hide anything from you now? Clearly, your fondness for him was not lessened by deprivation. “I’m an angel.” And then, after a second of thought, “An archangel, to be specific. You had another guardian initially, but I took over after they were wounded.”

He didn’t mention that an angel of his rank would usually be as far from the Human Realm as it was possible for a celestial creature to be, that he had taken it upon himself to ensure your safety despite knowing you would be just as protected in the hands of a seraphim or throne, nor how little he should’ve had to interfere with your life. He considered, briefly, that it might help you to know that he was beginning to suspect your first encounter was a mistake in itself, that he may have overestimated just how much influence a being like him could leverage in a life as short and as pliable as yours, but ultimately bit his tongue. You were still on the ledge, more literally than he cared for. If you were willing to deliver yourself to a reaper’s doorstep when you were just trying to get his attention, he couldn’t imagine what you’d do to yourself if you knew that your paths were never supposed to cross in the first place.

“An archangel.” Luckily, you didn’t seem to care about the details. “Does that mean you’re important?”

“You could say that.” Too important to be answering your questions in the middle of the night, certainly. “Would it change anything if I was?”

“Of course not. I wouldn’t care if you were an angel or a demon or a…” There was a vague gesture, a slight shrug. “A three-headed dog, or something. I just want to get to know you.”

Simeon felt something in the back of his throat tighten. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know that you’ve been looking out for me. I know that, no matter what I do, you’ll always be right there to make sure I don’t get hurt.” You took a step back, but any relief he might’ve felt was dampened and crushed as you latched onto his arm, your hold snare-like and desperate. He could’ve pulled himself away, exerted less than an ounce of effort to maintain what little distance there was between you and him, but he didn’t move, didn’t let himself believe you wouldn’t close the distance as quickly as he could make it. It reminded him of the last time he appeared to you, of how tightly you’d held onto him as you begged for his name. Not much had changed, since then. If anything, he should’ve taken it as the first sign that you would need to be dealt with in the not-so-distant future and snuffed out the problem while you were still little more than a mortal attempting to survive a string of bad luck. “I’d know your name, too, but…” You trailed off, shook your head. When you tilted your head back, when he could bring himself to meet your unblinking stare, there was a thin glaze cast across your eyes, a fog that wasn’t quite as thick as it should’ve been. “I think someone took that away from me. That doesn’t matter, though – I’m willing to learn it again, if you’re willing to tell me. If you’re willing to be patient with me.”

He'd been patient. He’d been nothing but patient since the day he took you as his ward. “It would be for the best if I didn’t.”

“Why not?” The question was airy, spoken with a breathy chuckle laced around the edges. “Is it for my own protection? Are you doing this to keep me safe, too?”

“I don’t think it would—”

“Why not?” This time, the laugh it was paired with was slightly more forced, slightly more jarring. “I’m not trying to put pressure on you – I would never want to force you to do anything you didn’t want to – but I just—We’ve just been apart for so long, and I don’t want to you to disappear again without telling me when you’ll be back.” Your nails burrowed into his skin, your chest pressing into his side. “I love you.”

He couldn’t remember the last time an angelic being had been brought to the brink of losing consciousness by little more than a human’s words. Simeon supposed this might’ve been the first time.

His tongue felt dry, his throat filled with cotton. It took a considerable effort to speak, and even then, it came out as a harsh whisper, something unbefitting of his usual eloquence. “You don’t.”

“I don’t know how you could say that.” If he didn’t know better, he would’ve said you sounded hurt. If he didn’t know better, he would’ve thought you were still passing yourself off as human. “I’ve been trying to get your attention for months, now. I came all the way out here just hoping you would follow me. I nearly threw myself off of a cliff just to make you look at me.”

He frowned, moved to speak, but you weren’t going to let him attempt to argue, or soothe you, or whatever you assumed you were going to do. With a manic glint in your eyes and a broken laugh, you took him by both arms and forced him to face you. He could resist it, if he wanted to. He could, and yet, he let you jerk him forward, let you pretend you could manhandle him into looking at you with the same adoration in his eyes that sparked in yours when you looked at him. “I’ve been waiting for you. I’ve been putting myself in danger for you. I went to church for you.” You had. He remembered that – or, more precisely, he remembered how you’d attempted to swallow down a bottle of liquid frankincense after the sermon. “And you spent all this time looking after me, taking care of me. You can’t say I don’t love you.”

There was a pause, a change in your tone. As if you were just vocalizing something you’d already repeated to yourself a thousand times.

“You can’t say you don’t love me. At least a little.”

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, the gesture meant purely to calm in the absence of physical necessity. Careful not to startle you, he raised a hand, and you let him, your hold on him loosening until it fell away completely. You didn’t step back, didn’t dare to give him the space you thought he would need to get away, and in return, he brushed against your arm, a gentle silver glow emitting from his fingertips and washing over the cut on your left bicep. When he pulled away, the injury was gone, a thin pale line in its place. Next was your thigh, his touch slightly more ginger, his light slightly duller. You didn’t seem to notice, only leaning into him. Whether you were soaking in his attention or simply thankful he hadn’t left you to bleed out, he didn’t want to know. “And what would you do? If I was in love with you, I mean.”

You caught on that, but only for a moment, recovering before your smile could so much as waver. “I’m not sure,” you admitted, your head tilting to the side. “But, we’d be together. We could get to know each other – actually know each other. No more hiding or magic or meeting each other at midnight in the middle of nowhere.” That earned a breath of a laugh, more out of exasperation than anything else. Still, you drank it down like holy nectar. “It’d be nice. I already know I love you, but maybe, after a while, you’d be sure that you loved me.”

He thought, briefly, about asking you to turn around, about taking care of the scratches etched into your back, too, but decided against it. “And that’s all you want? To be close to me?”

“To be with you,” you corrected, but the opportunity only seemed to add to your excitement. “But, yeah, basically. I just don’t want us to have to be apart again.”

If he didn’t know better, he would’ve thought the idea sounded romantic.

He didn’t indulge you with a response. Rather, he brought his hand up to your cheek, letting you melt into his palm. With a small smile, he leaned forward, pressing the faintest, gentlest kiss into your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. He felt you jolt underneath him, your shock momentarily overshadowing your delusions, but you managed to hold yourself still as his lips came to rest against yours. To your credit, you didn’t try to deepen the kiss, only shutting your eyes and bringing your hands to his shoulders, content to have him closer than he’d ever been before. You were still human, after all, still yielding in the face of your desires.

Even in the state you’d driven yourself to, you were still human.

There was a second passed in silence, then a blinding burst of golden light. You seemed to fight it, at first, pulling away from him abruptly and stumbling back, betrayal written across your expression, but it was Simeon’s turn to hold onto you, now, to take you by either side and keep you pressed against his chest. He watched you open your mouth, start to spit something out, but whatever you might’ve said was lost to slumped shoulders, an uncooperative tongue, every part of you suddenly obeying another master. He caught one more glint of hurt in your eyes before your body went slack, collapsing in on itself with little ceremony. As poor as your luck was, you slanted towards the ledge, but he held you tight, pulling you into his arms, into his protection.

He couldn’t erase your memories. Clearly, blocking out the finer details of your encounters and replacing them with plausible substitutions had done more harm than good, driven you to seek out both your invisible guardian and what you thought some malicious stranger had been taken from you. He couldn’t pass you off to another angel, either. That’d just be cruel and, what’s more, you’d already seen his face. He doubted giving you a new toy to play with would do anything but solidify a bad habit.

Momentarily, his eyes drifted back to the cliffside, to the ledge that you’d already nearly fallen off by no means other than your own volition. Angels had done worse and retained their purity, their rank. He could call it an accident, claim that the mysterious machinations of fate and destiny simply wouldn’t let him intervene and hope that no one would think to ask too many questions. He could do it, but he didn’t. He wouldn’t. Because you were human. Because, so long as you were human, so long as you were mortal, it would be his duty to protect you.

A faint grin came to rest across his lips – the first genuine smile he’d worn that night.

Luckily, with a little help from Simeon, you wouldn’t be human for much longer.

[lusinzak]

Me, living casually and purposelessly:

Also me, randomly remembering one of my favorite characters, who should not have died, especially in such a stupid and preventable way: *punches a nearby pillow with all force*

Also me: *goes on living in the same way*

[thisnameisnotspokenfor]

The Breaking point Analysis

Warning: do not read this post if you have not read chapter 36! You have been WARNED

Also I wrote this when I was sleepy at 2 am so sorry if it doesn’t make any sense.

Now I usually try to avoid making posts where I openly discuss stuff in my story- but after all the issues this chapter gave me- I wanted to do this.

The breaking point is a weird chapter for me it’s both one of my favorite and least favorite chapters- but it’s a contradictory chapter within itself. It’s one that is both a payoff and build up in a sort of way…

Think about it in Chapter 33 Tomas writes this in his journal:

‘To die and leave behind so many unfinished things was my worst fear. A fear that may very well become a reality given my current situation. “You expect me to still be alive by then?”

What was Tomas’s worst fear became Asha’s breaking point, and it’s all so tragic when you realize the similarities between the two. Both were fairly young when they got to meet the stars and ended up running into trouble with the crimson court or a seperate entity armed with similiar powers. Both being novices had to rely on a yellow/blue star to keep them safe while said star worked with an ulterior motive.

It’s strange right?

We don’t know how Tomas’s adventure or experience with Sirius ended. All we know for now is that he did not want his daughter to get involved in his past/legacy. Which ofc in and of itself can and does bring up a lot of questions but the worst part is that Tomas is gone and now he’ll never get a chance to fairly explain himself to his daughter. Their relationship and perhaps even her perception of him will change because of this which is something I think we could all say wouldn’t have been something Tomas would have ever wanted.

For all the work Tomas put in to build and help others he couldn’t stop his worst fear from coming true- and that’s what makes it all even worse.

But the tragedy or rather my favorite part of the breaking point isn’t just there- it’s in everything Asha doesn’t say, or rather what she inadvertently confronts herself with.

When Asha’s justification for the past 5 years of her life unravels who do we see appear before her? Everyone higher on the social ladder, with even the apprentices making sneer remarks on how Asha was never one of them, how she’s unwanted or mocking her for Cepheus. It’s a sharp contrast to how she dismisses their mistreatment of her, but deep down she does care and it really does bother her

So many things she’s told Ceph that she’s seemingly gotten over comes back to haunt her in this conversation- not having powers, not having a noble title or not being able to win Ignacio’s heart, not being able to believe in wishes after the power failed to save her father and grandmother but it’s not just her realizing it, but it’s her hating herself for it.

She hates herself so much that she believes all the mistreatment she receives is justified because of it. She hates herself for purposelessly existing in a world with so many fantastical beings and people. But most of all she blames herself for not being able to save her father and grandmother.

Remember this line from Chapter 33? It’s the question Sabino confronts her with:

“Do you think your father would’ve valued this kingdom over the wellbeing of his only daughter?”

And Asha cannot answer. She in fact just changes the subject!

But it’s worth mentioning the things she thinks in that moment:

The answer seemed so obvious, but their unfinished star maps and broken dreams had made her wonder.

Shes doubting the love her father had for her (which has aged like cheese lol) because remember she could plan to make star maps in advance with him but all magnifico had to do was show up one night and her father would promptly cancel with her. We see this in one of her dreams:

Chapter 12: the dream

“Papa?” she whispered.

“Tomorrow,” he said softly, in a tone that made her heart sink.

That was what he’d always tell her on nights when he was too busy to take her stargazing. When his friend would come to whisk him away for weeks, maybe even months at a time.

Her heart began to ache as she cast the beautifully clear sky a glance, knowing that tonight would not be the night she’d spend perfecting her star map with her father.

It’s an arguably selfish realization to reach, but I suppose in the mind of someone with deep insecurity and terrible self loathing it’s just a hint of the cracks about to form in their relationship. given what we know now it’s one that I think has aged with a terrible vengeance as Asha’s mind seems to think that the reason why her father wouldn’t let her know about his legacy is because she’s a disappointment.

You can even see it here in how she contemplates the question.

Why wouldn’t he? Between her and the kingdom, at least the kingdom had offered a sense of refuge and hope for its people. What had she done? Other than crying, failing, and running around aimlessly, not much. Everything she’d achieved and promised had only been because of the star, not herself.

What is said in chapter 36:

“Are you?” the king asked, watching as she hesitated . “Because the last time I checked, you and your lack of powers weren’t the reason that it got fixed.

“Or the reason that the market got decorated,” Lady Allard sobbed, as she gingerly held her bandaged arm.

Chapter 33:

There’s a reason why her father’s projects and dreams had never gotten off the ground. How could they when he had an unspectacular daughter like her at the helm of each project? Her poor father, if only he’d known just how doomed his projects had been when he’d promised her that they could build them together.

What Velius tells her in Chapter 36:

“You accomplish nothing yet you still manage to cause more trouble than you are worth. Then you wonder why people struggle to believe in the projects and ideas you helm.”

What Asha thinks in chapter 33:

Maybe he should’ve wished for a better daughter…

Whats said in chapter 36 by the king:

Maybe your grandmother and father still would’ve been here as they’d not only have the child they deserved but one that could have ultimately saved them…”

((I don’t think it’s a coincidence))

But it’s very funny to see it when you realize that last chapter (chapter 35) she tells Ceph this:

“But that resilience wasn’t enough to save her from a broken heart…our wishes weren’t enough…nothing we did was enough!..” she nearly yelled as her eyes narrowed. Disgust and anger filled her as she spat, “After that…I just couldn’t bring myself to believe in them again…how could I? All I’d ever wanted was for my Dad to be healthy again, and for my family to be whole once more…Was that so wrong to wish for?

But now we see that it’s Not just the wishes that isn’t enough, but herself. And maybe that’s why she can’t wish for anything because deep down she feels like it just won’t come true because she isn’t deserving of it.

That’s why she doesn’t bother challenging magnifico about his wish granting despite knowing that he’ll definitely pass over some urgent wishes. It’s not because she inherently agrees with it but it’s because she doesn’t think she has the place to say otherwise especially to someone like magnifico who is the opposite of her.

Then there’s the part about her feelings for Ceph. Hearing that he was entertained and pursued by princesses has to be absolutely crushing when you realize Asha’s financial situation and the girls she notices he happily entertains.

But that’s not even the worst part- notice how she calls out her grandfather for this:

“Mean?!” her grandfather stammered. “He’s the one leading you on and making your life harder, yet you call me the mean one?!”

She responds with this:

“Cepheus isn’t leading me on! Saba why can’t you just understand that he’s only trying to help me because he’s my friend?!”

And later confessed that Cepheus is one of the few bright spots in her life:

“He’s the only reason you got out of that forest unharmed!” Asha cried as she pointed at her grandfather. “The only reason why I got to stay home…and the only reason why the tree got healed! If he hadn’t been there then…then…” her voice trailed off as she took in the shocked expression on her grandfather’s face. But it had been the disappointment in both the eyes of her mother and grandfather that had hurt her far more than the assassins had as she lowered her head, whispering, “I…I can’t take it anymore! Everything has been so terrible for me lately, everything except for this, for him!

But ironically we see later on that her argument is used against her.

The guilt over the Clariveaus, the queen, Julian and lady Allard also eat away at her as well, reminding her that no matter just how much she comes to care and Cepheus, that deep down she’s just as responsible as he is for the suffering he’s caused.

She even hears the figures say that Cepheus is incapable of ever loving her back or is only using her for what he wants. She likens it to her experience with Ignacio, which if you think about it does sorta share some similarities.

Then there’s the helplessness she feels despite giving him credit. Even before Asha spirals you can see it usually eating away at her as she starts to think that maybe Magnifico’s advisors had a point. And it’s not just a point she hates conceding too but rather one that haunts her so badly that she fears that if she moves elsewhere her experience will repeat itself.

“I don’t think you can. You could move away, but the results would still be the same. I don’t need you, nor does the world for that matter. Our power far exceeds anything your little science could compensate you with…

On a side note I honestly feel as if jealousy is an unspoken facet of Asha’s character because it’s so deeply hidden behind the insecurities that it’s hard to tell. But I think the jealousy is born not so much out of a yearning to have but moreso a yearning to belong. She wants so badly to be trusted, to be understood and maybe even loved, but after so many failures I think she’s come to realize that it’s not worth the risk. She’s terrified of failure and the burn that comes with it.

She compared herself to Icarus at one point- reaching for stars that would consistently burn her. But isn’t there something ironic about someone who is so deeply insecure, so self-loathing who doesn’t even think she deserves the most simplest of things to compare themselves to a cautionary tale of overconfidence, and ambition?

But there’s one more thing I would like to bring up:

Why would Asha want to burn her storybook? It’s full of fairy tales isn’t it? Something similiar to the world she lives in and wants to be apart of. But the reasoning that the ‘king’ gives to her is that ‘she doesn’t deserve it.’

I personally believe that this sorta extends beyond the physical sense- so it’s not the king saying she doesn’t deserve to physically have the book but moreso she doesn’t deserve to entertain herself with fairy tale like dreams when none of hers ever came true. It’s her self loathing in full display because that book used to be everything she ever represented, and she was going to burn the symbol of who she once was, who she once dreamed to be in a perfect world along with the book of her dreams for how she turned out in the real world. Completely and utterly destroying her future and aspirations because she no longer knows who she is.

It’s not until she sees herself in a mirror looking completely worn down and broken just like how the rest of the world sees her, and maybe like how the audience sees her, does she stop. Because now she realizes that she no longer knows what she’s doing.

And for someone like Asha who never usually confronted a problem without some semblance of a plan, who always bore things with a smile because she believed in an ultimate purpose, perphaps that’s the saddest part of it all.