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janumun · 3 months ago

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Obsidian Retribution (IkePri Gilbert von Obsidian - NSFW)

Rated: NSFW/18+ 🌶️ Pairing: Gilbert von Obsidian/Reader Words: ~4k

Tags: developing/denial of feelings, church desecration/sex, vaginal fingering, minor violence, spoilers for Gilbert’s route (chapter 9), re-telling of canon events, angst

Summary: What happens when you throw yourself into harm’s way in a bid to protect Gilbert at one of Clavis’ covert anti-monarchy meetings? Unconsciously stirring out the whetted fangs of the Conqueror Beast.

And you witness, once more, just how scathingly cruel his desire for monopoly over your body truly is.

A/N: I’m currently in the midst of Gilbert’s route but he’s been such a flowing inspiration and need that I had to write this indulgent piece for him, for myself and the five other Gil fans out there who would cry with me LOL.

Characterization might not be accurate to end route Gil, as I’m at the beginning of his route still, so this is written with my understanding of an early Gilbert. ILOVETHISMANSOMUCH.

The lethal sweep of the blade engulfs your vision entirely, the noble’s hand poised right above his shoulder — a strike you know you cannot avoid. Your life, as if you view it through the distant barrier of a panorama, right before it’s extinguished.

The sole knowledge that you do not regret your actions one bit, your one solace, eyes drifting shut, that one moment of death stretching slow and long.

A glacial whisper, of knelling death curls into your ears, “I do not recall allowing you permission to die by another’s hand,” His only pre-emptive warning, just before Gilbert grips a harsh hand about your neck and hurls you backwards—

“Belle!” Into Luke’s body as he catches you against himself right before you careen straight into the ground.

A whimpered groan breaks into the air right after; your whirling head, catching its bearings just enough to catch sight of Gilbert standing above the writhing figure of your would-be assailant, bunched at the ground. The sharp end of the perpetrator’s blade — now within Gilbert’s hand — he brings up in a vicious arc, surely in murderous intent.

“Prince Gilbert, don’t!” Your voice breaks in terror into the air, before the knife is able to find home within its pitiful target.

His hand, fortunately, halts just before it slits through the noble’s carotid, the latter long having fainted in mind-numbing fear, unable to bear the single-focused brutality of the conqueror beast.

Gilbert raises his face as if operated via a puppeteer's strings, cut before it could fulfil its performance. Garnet gaze, sweeping slow, before it finds its next victim, within you. Your breath frosts within your lungs, incapable of function, the vicious weight of his terrifying visage subjecting you to his splintering displeasure, despite the cruel smile that remains even now, firm in place. “What is it, little rabbit? Are you begging me to kill you instead?”

“Prince Gilbert!” You hear Luke entreat, as if from afar.

A volatile shiver cascades down your spine at the look he’s giving you, thinly veiled revulsion and rage within that sole scarlet eye.

Gilbert takes a step toward you; your breaths coming in short, staccato bursts and yet you’re unable to turn away from the hungering violence within that gaze. Scurrying thoughts unable to comprehend why exactly he seemed so incensed at you.

“Come now, out with it. I know you wish to say something to me.” Gilbert offers you an encouraging smile, even as the murderous intent radiating from him with each step he takes forward, threatens to smother you entirely.

You know what he wishes to hear in that moment, of no mind to hear your own thoughts on the matter. An apology, for your actions, reckless, they may have been, but you do not hold an ounce of regret for trying to protect the man that continues to disconcert your heart; sink his dark trellises deeper into your soul.

“Prince Gilbert, I—”

The stifling pressure in the room, cut through only upon Clavis’ interruption, just as he steps into the room to offer a jaunty congratulations to Gilbert for providing an entertaining show.

The weight of his gaze flees entirely from you, your body — you did not realize you’d held steadfast by sheer force of will — collapses back against Luke’s comforting presence, just as he hauls you up and into his arms, to carry you back.

“Aren’t you a lucky one?” Gilbert’s cheery voice drifts, discomfiting against your retreating back.

“Prince Gilb—”

“Take care you don’t let me catch sight of you again, or I might just kill you.” Your heart thrums in confounding pain at his words, the clear line he carves in between the two of you in that moment.

Your mouth unable to form sufficient words to try and catch his attention just as Gilbert turns away from you entirely, the soft flitter of his cape as he does, the last sight you capture of him, as Luke carries you away from the scene.

The longcase clock at the end of hallway has long struck midnight. You continue to pace, restless, about the corridor. Eyes cemented upon the window, affording you a clear view of the castle gates as you stake your agitated wait for Gilbert’s return.

Luke and you had returned a few hours back, to the castle in a private carriage. You’d run into Rio as soon as you’d alighted, almost immediately after, being carted in between the two men as they’d fussed you straight into the infirmary. The good part of the hour after, spent in making sure you were truly unhurt save for the minor scrap at your arms.

It was only multiple reassurances later and holding Rio back from charging deep into the night after Gilbert, did you escape from the fretful affections of your friends and out, to await Gilbert’s return.

His expression returns to your mind’s eye in vivid detail; the way that cold, scarlet gaze had zoned in on you, the shuttered intensity of violent rage underneath. It was as if you’d been looking upon a stranger.

Now that you’d had a few quiet moments to compose yourself away from the fright of your earlier situation, bone-deep remorse was beginning to settle within, at having displeased Gilbert the way you did. A forced companionship he may have forged in between you two, but the startling glimpses of his kindness that lurked beneath the serrated edge of his cool blades, had your heart shred asunder between fear, rationale and genuine care. You couldn’t deny it, not after tonight. You had, perhaps, grown to care for Prince Gilbert, far more than was ever appropriate.

The soft whinnying of horses disturbing the quiet of the night outside drags you out of your reverie just in time to catch sight of Gilbert’s figure descending the carriage.

You begin your rush towards the main entrance, but instead of making his way into the castle, Gilbert’s steps veered off towards a path leading to what seemed to be, the back of the castle.

You fly down the winding staircase and into the foyer, heart battering against your chest. Pulling open the great doors to the entrance before you dart after his retreating figure that is a mere speck in the distance, now.

You do not want to lose sight of him. You must see Gilbert tonight and make him listen to what you have to say. Despite your fears, you do not wish to abandon Gilbert with the notion that you did not care. Even beneath the carving of a beast, he was just a human too. A man who’d come so close to bordering a rapidly diminishing line in between friend and foe.

Up ahead, Gilbert ducks past belting cobblestone, headed in the direction of what seems to be the structure of an old church. You frown, thoughts wrought with questions you know you’d get no easy answers for.

The tapering sweep of his cape disappears just past the great, carved wooden doors of the church, and you too follow, on tentative, urgent steps, slipping through the entrance and into the church.

It sits empty, save for the dark figure of the man standing motionless, close to the pulpit.

“I didn’t think you were foolish enough to come chasing after me even after I warned you not to.” Gilbert’s voice drifts eerie in its calm, down the long hallway, even as you trudge closer on careful steps. “Tell me, is it that pure kindness of yours which feels for every living being, or an empty head that has dragged you this far into the beast’s den?”

Gilbert’s words are scathing, deliberately cruel, meant to burn. You have not heard him utilize that tone of voice with you in so long.

“Well then,” he prods; voice, sweet poison. “Are you going to answer me or shall I make you answer me?”

You drift further into the church on uneasy steps, the great doors behind sway shut behind you in a creak of finality, as if knelling of an ill-fated decision. Against all wise sense, however — your heart insists you do — you tread towards the man who stands waiting, at the end of the long, carpeted hallway.

A poised form; his head at an easy cant, a crinkled garnet eye fixated upon your foolish movements — you do not miss the incessant, muted tap of gloved digits across the flared bulb of his cane, an uncharacteristic agitation to his visage, you’re not used to witnessing on Gilbert. He stands, all obsidian, against the backdrop of watered twilight that filters in shafts past great, ornate windows on either sides of the quiet hallway — as though he is a devil awaiting the willing scurry of a sacrifice right into its willing maw.

You grit your teeth against the frightening intimidation he’s settled deep into your bones, a festering cloak he’s had thrown over in between you, warning you to stop prying deeper into his affairs. “I want to speak to you, Prince Gilbert.”

“Oh? What if I do not wish to listen, little rabbit?”

“Then, I insist you hear me out.” The cutting streak of his blade is so swift, you only but feel the soft stir of your hair about your face before your breath frosts within your windpipe at the deadly edge of the sword he holds against the careful swallow of your throat.

“You really do wish to die by my hand tonight. What an utterly insipid way to cut my fun short, Belle.”

You force yourself to hold your ground, even as the first tremors of fear crumple across your limbs. “I don’t want you to kill me.” Compelling courage to rise in the face of his raw vitriolic anger, you wish to parse the reason for his distress. “I only want to know why you are so angry with me.”

A serrated smile tugs across his mouth. “Do you ask because you really do not know?”

“I don’t. And I don’t think I did anything to warrant your unjust ire either.”

“Unjust...” he murmurs. “You would’ve realized it if you took but a single moment to think.”

Your mind takes his words and works about them in a million different ways. “I realize my actions were reckless...”

“That is a good start.” the sardonic amusement of his voice does not reach his eyes.

“But I do not regret my actions, Prince Gilbert. I...” you swallow around words that are sudden lead within your throat. “I do not think I could bear to see you get hurt.”

The admission uttered on soft, firm words; stews dense within the space in between you both. Gilbert's lone scarlet gaze, watches you, motionless as the terse silence stretches taut into several excruciating moments.

Before he gathers his blade back into its secreted scabbard once more, beneath the cloak at his waist — your breath escaping you on a rush of relieved air, you did not even know how tensed you’d held your body, until its released from the grip of Gilbert’s dread, with the withdrawal of his blade. The Obsidianite prince turns on his heel, the flourish of his great, dark cape behind, as he moves to seat himself in the first pew. He does not look back at you as he instructs, “Come.”

And you follow, without a word of complaint uttered; know that you tread in dangerous waters. A single, wrong move, and you’d miss your window of opportunity with Gilbert entirely. His emotions would be shuttered off to you, once and for all, were you to lose your nerve now and flee from him. Despite how part of your heart still tremored within his presence, how you still couldn’t help doubt each single edge of his kindness so deeply steeped within his malice; hope still sprouted within you regardless. Willing to gamble upon the Gilbert you often times caught glimpse of; one who’s consideration did not come attached with its poisonous strings.

You shift on anxious steps once you’re in front of him, Gilbert’s gaze, mildly muted of its ire when he fixes it upon you. “Your impulsive actions could’ve cost you dearly tonight.” He begins.

“Impulsive, yes... but even if I had stopped to think, Prince Gilbert, I couldn’t—”

“You couldn’t afford to see me hurt, yes, I heard that silly part the first time you spoke it, little rabbit.” he reiterates.

You clam up on yourself.

“You could’ve died. Did you stop to think how much the mere thought of your demise irked me?” He angles the head of his cane, to tap against your hip, gesturing you closer.

And just as you steal close within arm’s length, Gilbert’s gloved digits are curving about your arm in a vice, hauling you down to topple onto his lap. His murmur’s a warm caress against the shell of your ear. “I would’ve hated it if you’d died.”

Your mind careens into a rash halt of all thoughts, blanking entirely at the quiet certitude of those words.

“...What?”

“Foolish, isn’t it?” His smile is wide, undisturbed across his face. Just as transient as the surface of a pond, subject to be disturbed by the slightest of ripples. “Even when I despise you so, Belle, I cannot let you go.”

“Prince Gilbert...”

Your mind cannot parse the meaning of his words. If this were earlier on in your relationship, you’d have understood him to mean he did not wish for his prey to be ‘impaired’ by another. Gilbert had told you so, on several occasions and in no less than explicit terms.

However, now as you look upon Gilbert; emotions naked, unlike you’ve ever seen before. Jagged enough they could cut you through if you dared try wade in deeper. Into the insinuation barely concealed behind that sole garnet gaze.

The arch of his cane steers a slow caress over the shirt at your chest, before it dents into a stop right above your heart. Gilbert presses in, insisting the polished head against the give of your left breast — your heart seeming to catch at the hook of it with how it seizes at the motion. “This right here could’ve stopped,” he mulls, almost clinically. The insouciant inflection of his voice disarming at the last careful barriers and inhibitions, thrown up in protection of your heart. “I am human too, you know, mere flesh and bone. I cannot be there to protect you each time that heart of yours decides it wishes to do good to all, regardless of their status as man or beast.”

“Prince Gil—” Your voice fractures into a pained gasp, just as he seizes the fingers you reach out for him, sinking a sharp bite around a vulnerable digit. You clench back further signs of weakness with the slow, aching sweep of his tongue against your captured fingers; the teeth that worry at tender skin, pinching another warning at your approach. And reach out, again, with your other palm. Succeeding in curving your fingers about his cool cheek in a tentative touch up the line of it. Thumbing gentle right beneath the cusp of a surprised gaze, singular scarlet disarmed by the tender action. Before it crinkles in mild resignation, half rebuke, “You truly are a fool.”

Gilbert tucks his face against your cradling palm, further allowing you slack, to temper at the beast that has — for the moment — lowered its great head to you. That is all the victory you need from him at the moment, for him to pay heed to you for the words you wish to communicate. “I’m sorry.”

The apology rings piercing in the quiet space, Gilbert’s gaze unrelenting in the long stretch of time that seems to trudge slow in between you both, the longer he lets those two words stew.

Pink tongue darting out a nervous path to slick moisture at long dry lips, “I’m sorry for not thinking my actions through and for not treasuring myself more in the moment. I realize that upset you greatly and I apologize for that, Prince Gilbert.”

He remains silent throughout your confession uttered, red gaze, and a gloved hand, tracing a deliberate path across your chest, right above your heart. You know he can feel the moment it thrums faster, beneath his welcome touch — why, why do you not hate Gilbert touching you? — gliding its exploration across the space. “Will you promise not to do what you have today, again?”

The thought of uttering a cosy lie, flitters through your mind for a split moment of relapsed judgement. Before fizzling in on itself; you know well how Gilbert despises untruths spoken, no matter how small. Would know, were you to try offer false placations. And so, you opt for the bitter truth — one you too, realize with a jolt of realization, “I... cannot promise you that.”

His eye rolls up to meet yours, the sharp edge to it, you swallow against, as if he has a phantom blade pressed to your throat once more. “For as much as I deeply regret the trouble I’ve caused you, I know I’d hate it even more were something to happen to you.”

“Those are dangerous fantasies to harbour for a prince of your enemy nation.” A muted smile graces his features; a dark gloved thumb he brings to trace at your lower lip, delicately disengaging it from the worrying bite of your teeth. As if he, too, hadn’t confessed so, in less clearer words, not too long before. A dangerous game you two play; you don’t wish to disentangle the throttling wad of your emotions tonight.

“Well, that’s too bad then, I guess, because those are my true feelings, Prince Gilbert.” You stare back, resolute.

His smile quivers in mild amusement. “I know.”

“And I’m willing to do anything to show my sincerity, if it gets you to accept my heartfelt apology.”

That garnet gaze shutters, taking on a hard edge at your words; the burbling shadows of darkness that catch just beneath that smiling veneer before it vanishes entirely. “You’re playing a treacherous game here, little rabbit, one that will unfortunately end in futility, no matter how hard you try.” His smile grows wider, until you’re seeing the flash of teeth in it. “Nothing you do or say can ever change the positions you and I stand in. So, tell me once more.” A firm arm curls about your waist, heaving you flush against the cold, clothed expanse of Gilbert’s chest, a stifled gasp leaving you at the motion. “You’re not silly enough to not understand the true implications of your offer, are you?”

Your next breath quivers out of you. “...I am not.” Your fingers snag awkwardly at the regal collar of his mantle, sinking into the soft fur lining the edges. “I wholeheartedly wish to make amends.” And you pitch your head forwards, the tentative kiss you touch against Gilbert’s cold lips has you shuddering in his embrace. “I can’t promise you what you want but I can convey my honest remor—”

His hand slinks into the catch of your hair, hauling you back towards him in a kiss of cool desire, mouth moving against yours in a manner, it leaves you flushed and breathless by the time Gilbert parts from you on a wet, sultry sound. A hand he cups about your jaw, thumb denting at your chin in measured strokes. You tip your mouth, catching the edge of his glove in between your teeth to tug, slow. Deliberate. Curving your hands about his, in aid, before you wrest the glove off his hand entirely. Moving to discard it behind, at your feet.

Gilbert’s bared hand moves to curve about the flare of your hip; a patient squeeze he applies to the flesh beneath. His other hand he extends in silent instruction for you to de-glove before you comply without question. You tremble above him in need, his simmering gaze more than making up for the cold you feel permeating through the thin cloth of your dress. “Go on,” he encourages. “You’re going to work for it, aren’t you?”

Your breath heaves with the slow rise of your chest, hand stealing past the stiff collar of his cape to settle your fingers at the side of his neck, tracing hesitant pads down the line of it. “You’re so cold.”

His lashes sweep shut over his eye at your touch, canting his head further into the warmth of your palm; a figure he paints so lovely, you know this empyrean visage is what you’d always envisioned within your mind’s eye when you used to read about kings and princes within your happy fairytales, long before in a time that seems so far into the past now. “You should warm me, then. Show me you’re capable of it.”

Sinking a vexed bite into your lip — adamant on proving yourself right — you hoist your knee awkwardly onto the narrow seat. Gilbert’s hands immediately flit to curve their supports against your behind and lift, just as your other knee too, settles by his thigh, effectively straddling him. Your breaths stopper momentarily within your throat with the expectant lift of his gaze, palms squeezing softly against your pliant flesh. Your hands fly towards the flow of your dress before you slip the material up against your thighs, deliberately exposing your bare skin to his gaze.

Gilbert's eye flashes; molten steel bleeding into the gaze, before one of his hands steal past the edge of your still rising dress and in between your legs to glance a searing touch in between your drenched folds, right above your underwear. You gasp at the euphoric sensation, hips lurching against his hand on instinct, trying to capture it deeper into you.

He indulges you — perhaps he feels particularly merciful in that one moment of whimsy — the pad of his forefinger re-tracing its path in between your folds. Before his thumb tucks aside the edge of your underwear, to slide index and middle in a slow, torturous path across the bare flesh from hood to base. Teasing the cool tips of them just into your entrance. Your body flares in mortified need to feel your wetness gush onto his fingers at that mere testing touch.

His eye rolls up to meet yours, the smile that lingers at his lips, immensely pleased. “You’re very warm here.” Propelling his fingers, slow, up into your clenching walls. “It’s almost as if you’re running a fever, little rabbit.” You moan against him, with each deliberate thrust, the pads of his digits finding your weakest spot frighteningly quick, to scrape repetitive, at the soft flesh. “Do you think I’d be just as hot were I to settle deep into your place here?”

Your hips judder against his fingers at those words, grazing the heel of his palm against the neglected bead at your apex, sending fire soaring through your body at that split moment of contact. Your soft, soughing sound of need breaks into the air, body gyrating down against that searing point of contact, in rhythm with the leisured thrust of his fingers into your spasming walls.

Before Gilbert, cruelly, siphons the heat from you entirely at the cusp of release, fingers pried out of you to drift up against his mouth. He sweeps his tongue against his drenched digits, copious arousal dripping past his wrist to soak into the pristine cloth at his thigh. “Sweet thing,” he hums, just as you flush further underneath his piercing touch.

And before you can manoeuvre your weak limbs for much else — mind so hazed in its lust addled state, you’re not sure what’s happening — Gilbert’s free hand is stealing about the curve of your spine. Pressing you down against the firm, hard strength of exposed flesh; the smooth head of him bumping about your nub to have you keening into the touch. Spine arching the rest of the way forwards without the coaxing of his hand, so he slips just past your entrance; fingers spasming into his shoulders at the stretch. You rock against that pleasurable almost burn for several, excruciating moments, in and out — surface thrusts — head falling back against your shoulders.

Gilbert throws his hand about your body, fingers splaying just beneath the wings of your shoulder-blades, hauling your coasting body to hold firm, against his. “Don’t lose yourself now, little rabbit. You have yet to satisfactorily apologize.” Tempting your body down into his lap until he’s propelled, at last, into your drenched walls, a rapid sigh issued from Gilbert’s lips at the sensation.

Your body quickly warming his into yours — the shape and stretch of him has you nearly faint with desire. “I’m sorry,” you croon on your first roll upon him. “I-I’m so sorry.” Grinding him up into your walls as deeply as you are able, the unyielding strength of him so numbing within your body. Even inside you, connected this intimately, Gilbert von Obsidian must have his own way with you.

And you’ve let him do so, for so long; at his beck and call, thrown to his tender mercies. And yet, your mind had gone and coddled unfathomable emotions for him within its bosom. He'd gotten past your defences, just as he’d promised; crawling tendrils underneath your skin, into your frenzied beating heart, deep into your mind, until he occupied every thought along with each waking breath of yours. And your tiny victory lay in the knowledge that perhaps, you too had chipped a small chunk past that obsidian armour and carved a shallow wound at his skin, of your name.

“I’m sorry for angering you, Gilbert.” You weep upon his length, hips driving fast towards a swift approaching release.

“You are, aren’t you?” He breathes, hands catching at your waist to aid your movements upon him. “I’ll forgive you. And I’ll forgive you for neglecting to speak my proper title too, Belle, since I’m the one who has ruined you.” His smile is almost sweet, pleasant upon his face as he looks up at you — you drink that saccharine poison down almost fervidly. “You’re allowed to be remiss this once, because we are friends.”

He’s driving, hard, into you — powerful enough the pew beneath you creaks with the propulsions — at an angle that has him brushing hot against your swollen nub in blinding strokes, just at the cusp of release, threatening to overflow. “So, call me Gil instead, when we are alone. I shall permit it, for you. Say it now.”

Your body breaks, spasming into a release so violent, your entire body shudders above him. “Gil.” You sob out loud, your arms he coaxes about the strength of his shoulders. Fingers you sink into the soft fur of his mantle to ground yourself, just as Gilbert’s warmth follows soon after into your quivering walls. “I-I’m sorry, Gil.”

A breathless, flushed grin, Gilbert von Obsidian buries against your mouth before he speaks. “Apology accepted, little rabbit.”

End Notes: Thank you for reading!

If you’d like to be tagged in my future stories, you can fill this short form here.

You can also find me on Ao3 and twitter.

#ikepri gilbert #ikeprince gilbert smut #ikemen prince x reader #ikepri x reader #ikemen prince gilbert #gilbert von obsidian #gilbert von obsidian x reader #gilbert von obsidian x you #gilbert von obsidian x mc #ikemen prince #ikemen prince fanfic #ikemen prince fanfiction #ikepri fanfic #you are so queu(t)e #Faa-ussary #ikemen prince gilbert von obsidian

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ineffable-endearments · 1 year ago

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From "And furthermore, I don't think it's our place to start suggesting that there should be a suggestion box!"

I'm not even entertaining the idea that anyone else could possibly have ideas more worthwhile than whatever Heaven's upper brass is telling me God wants. The System is perfect.

to "You can't judge the Almighty, Crawley."

OK, so not everything God does makes moral sense, but that's just because it's too ineffable for us to understand.

to "I don't think that's what God wants. And I don't think you want it, either."

I don't always believe Heaven is right. Something in me is incompatible with the System. I'm hoping there's a greater good than the bureaucracy I work for.

to "I'm not consulted on policy decisions, Crawley."

I'm tacitly admitting that I don't like what Heaven is doing here, but I'm powerless within the System.

to "If I were thwarting you, Heaven couldn't object!"

You've helped me believe Armageddon isn't part of the Ineffable Plan after all. Now I believe I CAN do something to stop it.

to "I have no intention of fighting in any war!"

I'm making my own personal decision here, without consideration for what the System wants.

to "I can make a difference!"

I'm certain that I personally have ideas more worthwhile than the rest of Heaven. I can change the System.

The growth is happening. I know it's slow (well, if you're a human, anyway), but it's happening.

I am wondering if this character development is going to work like a huge outward (inward?) spiral. Take steps to add a new perspective, then use that to start working on the next Big Problem, then circle back to the old problems and start dealing with them with the new perspective. Things are kind of circular, but on a different level every time, hence the spiral.

The first three are like: Refuse questioning Heaven's judgment on moral grounds -> Accept that some questioning is natural but God/Heaven are always right -> Accept that maybe my personal judgment is not always compatible with Heaven's. OK, now I've tentatively accepted that I have my own morality outside of Heaven's, but that is SO uncomfortable.

The second three are like: I have my own moral judgments, but I have no way to enforce them because of what is expected of me -> Maybe there is room for my own judgment in Heaven after all -> Actually, my judgment is important enough to refuse to do what is expected of me regardless of anyone else's Plans. OK, now Aziraphale can use his own judgment within the System.

And I don't know for sure, but maybe - hopefully? - the last three will be like: I trust my own judgment -> My judgment never succeeds when I try to force it on others -> Everyone needs to be free from coercion and I'm going to help that happen by doing things to undermine the System.

That last bit is written with an assumption that the Ball and Gabriel and Beelzebub's ultimate decision are a little bit of foreshadowing: Aziraphale seizing control in a way that is sort of scary, having a bunch of Experiences(TM) with other people including Crowley, then realizing that the only reasonable way to handle people "outside the system" is to let them do what they want. If that's NOT foreshadowing, or if it's different foreshadowing than what I think it's going to be, obviously this is completely off.

Also, I feel like if I'm right, this could illuminate the horrible things Aziraphale says in the Final Fifteen a little bit. I believe he has moved up slightly from thinking Good and Evil are absolutely inherent and immutable, and now believes they are literally Sides that can be chosen. Of course you wouldn't choose to work for the side that has explicitly characterized itself as Bad, even though we both know you didn't have a choice to start with! I'm giving you a choice now! He hasn't "gone backwards." It's just that he's embraced the "doing good is a choice" lesson without internalizing the "you can't divide people into Sides and enforce it using a system" lesson.

#good omens #aziraphale #good omens spoilers #good omens 2 spoilers #Me blathering about Aziraphale again! What else is new?

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ellaphnt · 7 months ago

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Saw ur Toshiro post, and I absolutely agree that Toshiro's outburst will be a stepping stone for both um an Laios to grow and that the buildup was because Shuro didn't want to ruin situation he was still trying to figure out. But the funniest thing is, afaik, Laios and Falin are *also Foreigners* for quite far away. Their country is simply Scandinavian/northern Europe themed. I don't think we see any long-lived races in their flash backs (baring the dead man buying a ring of elves?). And both Falin and Laois definitly are the equivalent of nobility/Local chiefs kids. But instead of being send out with all their assistants and guards, Laios ran away and suffered in the army and then on his own in a caravan , and Falin was send to a Magial School full of other races and people. They both had time to 'adjust' to the wider world (and still carry a bit of home-grown uh...prejudice (mountain people)). So when they met Shuro both of them were well used to meeting people not from their Country. Toshiro not being either from the tiny Island or the nearby lands simply didn't mesh with how they had adapted to behave. Plus, obviously, Laios textual Autism. But I feel like Laios could totally have figured it out if he had met people from Shuros island before who would have told him, he does after all know how to behave around Dwarves and such, who also have quite diffrent culturual norms. Sorry for the ramble xD Good Toshiro post!

Hi hi! I’m really glad you’re adding onto my silly brain thoughts hehe - I’m super happy to hear yours, especially since they make me think more! Warning this is going to be long, talking about dungeon meshi is just a lot of fun.

When I said foreigner, I should have clarified that that I meant he’s a stranger to the CULTURE. A good chunk of the people in the island are not native to it! But culturally, they have the social background to fit in. They didn’t all come from the same place, yes, but they grew up in European-esque cultures and interacted to some extent with other races. Even Kabru and Rin are not foreign to this type of culture because they grew up with Western/European socialization.

Gonna elaborate bc I think it’s fascinating: From what we know about the Eastern islands, the worldview is very very different. In the Adventurer’s Bible where Kabru talks to Hien, they talk about how the East defines “humans” as “tallmen”, and oni/ogres were the only “other”. In the post-canon snippet where Toshiro talks to Falin, he even refers to Eastern thinking as “backward” due to the lack of long-lived races. Because of his delayed exposure to other races, and because the worldview is far more different than the one the Toudens experienced, that’s where I make the statement that he had more to adjust to.

I’ll also note, the fact that the Toudens are subjectively more adjusted to seeing and accommodating other races makes Laios’ statement that Toshiro ��had an odd appearance” an even more bizarre thing to say. And although we can assume Toshiro also has his biases, we don’t see them highlighted like other characters have had (to my knowledge). So it makes it seem like he was more thoughtful/careful towards other races from the get-go, despite his lack of knowledge. His main issues were always with other tallmen, just like Laios.

It’s good to point out that the Toudens are outcasts in their own right. Both of them went through a really hard time, and it changed them. Laios’ cycle of failures and giving up and being bullied are especially important to characterizing his relationship with his sister and his disinterest in humanity and lack of close friends. Falin at least had Marcille. Both Laios and Toshiro have reasons they’re inexperienced in friendship, but one of them stated it in the story and the other didn’t. There’s more misconception about Toshiro’s character than Laios’. So my post was to talk about that one a bit.

ALSO OOO I COMPLETELY FORGOT but I WAS going to mention how both the Toudens and Toshiro came from families of influence! Thank you for bringing it up! Laios and Toshiro diverge from that upbringing, while making Toshiro and Falin a little more similar. This goes into another whole thing where Laios and Toshiro parallel (and foils?) each other but that’s too long of a discussion. Just as long is how this divergence distinguishes the Touden siblings (too many people have said their only difference is gender..)

Lastly, yes, Laios does need more exposure to Eastern people and Eastern culture to get a grasp on it. He really wants to learn! It’s just that Shuro isn’t his encyclopedia and until he gets that chance, he will make ignorant takes. I can think of two more that will occur in the main narrative alone. (but like Toshiro said, Laios has no malicious intent, that’s what makes it all the more complicated)

While there’s good conversation to be had about the fight from a ND vs NT POV, I’ve seen SO much discussion about Toshiro possibly being read as autistic too, and neurodivergent individuals who can relate to his experience. Often it comes as an intersection between both being autistic and being a poc. I think it brings even more nuance to the narrative. Plus I’m just glad there’s people who can relate to him. He’s meant to be relatable! His problem with Laios is just as much a character flaw as it is human.

Hope this post was a thoughtful response to yours, I tried to tackle everything you mentioned! Thank you sm for the ask :D

Edit: for the sake of context, here’s the og post that’s being referred to!

#dungeon meshi #delicious in dungeon #askella #shuro #toshiro nakamoto #laios touden #touden siblings #character study

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vilevenom · 8 months ago

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Hello again @bitterbunny07!! Thank you for your prompt! I love a good fic where one of the bros sticks up for JD! Though, I admit, I've characterized Clay a bit more...aggressive than I'd normally write him. 🤷

Also, I'm sorry if this seems a little rushed. I didn't have time to edit it and I wanted to get this out before I went out for the day, so I didn't read it back over I hope you enjoy!

Bruce didn't know how the argument started. All he knew was that it was John Dory and Clay, and they were being loud. Loud enough that a couple of his kids had asked if their uncles were okay. And that, in and of itself, was not okay.

"ALL RIGHT!" Bruce shouted as he walked around the corner to the area of the bar set up for smaller species, "You two! Separate!"

John scowled, but stepped back from Clay at Bruce's shout, while Clay was having none of it. He shot Bruce a dirty look, only to step right back into John Dory's space, nearly looking like he was ready to throw fists at their oldest brother. John grunted and stepped back again, holding his hands up in a placating manner.

"Bruce said to stop," John growled, losing another foot as he moved away from Clay, only for the taller troll to come after him again.

"And I'm not listening to him," Clay snapped, only to shriek in indignation as Bruce surged forward and grabbed the back of his sweater to pull him backwards.

"Too bad. You probably should have," Bruce stated, dragging Clay away from John.

"Hey! No! Let me go! We are not finished here, John Dory," Clay snarled, pointing at John in what some might consider a threatening manner. John simply shook his head as Clay was dragged away, stuffing his hands into his pockets and hunching his shoulders as he walked in the opposite direction of his brothers.

Bruce continued to drag Clay along as the taller troll tried to struggle free, rolling his eyes as Clay growled curses at him. Bruce was just happy that his brother was quiet enough that his kids wouldn't learn any fun new words from their uncle.

"Okay," Bruce finally said, practically tossing Clay into a beach chair once they were outside and a decent distance from the restaurant, "What was that all about?"

"None of your business," Clay groused, folding his arms over his chest and scowling up at Bruce.

"Oh-hoho, no. You do not get to play this game," Bruce snarked, sitting in the hair next to Clay, while jabbing his finger pointedly into his brothers chest, "You two were so loud that my kids were starting to get worried. It is fully my business when they come to ask me to make sure their uncles aren't going to hurt each other. What. Happened."

Clay, at least, had the decency to look contrite at the mention of the kids being worried. He looked away from Bruce and down to his lap, fiddling idly with his wrist bands, before letting out a long breath. "Tell the kids I'm sorry for making them upset."

Bruce threw his hands into the air in exasperation, before reaching over to shove his brother hard enough to nearly knock him out of his seat. Clay yelped, flailing slightly, and shooting Bruce a glare once he had righted himself. "Tell me, right now. Or I'll go get John's side of the story instead, and I have a feeling you don't want that."

With a scrunch of his nose, Clay let out a frustrated sounding sigh, before giving a short nod. "Fine! But only because John would make me seem like the bad guy."

"Are you?"

"No! I just…John makes me so mad sometimes," Clay admitted, drawing his knees up onto the chair and making himself small.

"What did he do?" Bruce prodded, shifting in his chair to make himself comfortable.

Clay sighed, running his fingers through his hair in agitation. "He was playing with your kids."

Bruce stared at Clay for a long minute, before letting out a disbelieving snort of laughter. "And that caused a screaming match in my restaurant? You will need to elaborate, oh brother of mine."

Clay grumbled quietly under his breath for a moment, only to shoot up from the chair while waving his arms through the air angrily. "He was playing with them like he's some, some…super uncle, or something! He was letting LaBreezey play dress up with him, and reminiscing with the kids about the band. He was telling them how they could be and do whatever they wanted."

Bruce found his eyebrows slowly arching up his face as Clay spoke, sitting forward a little to give his brother an incredulous stare. "And all of this is bad, because…?"

A frustrated yell forced it's way up from Clay's chest, as he picked up a rock to throw it towards the ocean. "Where was this stupidly encouraging side of him when we were kids?! Where was the 'Oh, you can be whoever you want to be! You have loads of time to figure yourself out!' when we were struggling with the stupid personas he forced on us?! Why does he get to pretend like he wasn't a monster when we needed him?!"

The outburst had Bruce a bit stunned. He knew Clay had bottled up resentments towards John, and he wasn't exactly subtle with his little barbs towards their eldest brother, but this was a whole other can of worms. "Clay," he breathed, rising up from his seat, reaching out to place a comforting hand on his brothers shoulder.

Clay only shrugged him off, turning an angry scowl at Bruce, only for his face to crumble into sorrowful tears. "Why weren't we worth changing for?"

Bruce clicked his tongue quietly, wrapping his arm around Clay's shoulders and directing him closer to the water. He stopped as they reached an outcropping of rocks, settling himself on the edge and patting the seat next to himself. Clay hesitated for a moment, before he too sat down.

"Clay…do you remember how old you were when Mom and Dad got taken?" Bruce asked quietly while staring out at the ocean.

"I was, like, nine or ten? Why?" Clay frowned, watching his brother curiously.

"I was twelve at the time. That would make Floyd seven, and Branch was still an egg. John Dory was fourteen."

Clay frowned, folding his arms over his chest with a sniff. "And?"

"John Dory was fourteen," Bruce reiterated, brow furrowed as he turned to look at Clay, "He was fourteen years old when suddenly he had to take care of three children and a baby."

Clay rolled his eyes with a scoff, unfolding his arms so he could lean back on his hands and kick his feet against the rocks. "Don't be so dramatic. We had grandma."

It was Bruce's turn to scoff, scowling at Clay. "Grandma was great, but she was busy a lot with responsibilities she had before we got dumped in her lap, and she worked a lot to make sure we were kept fed. John was the one who finished incubating Branch's egg, made sure we had proper meals, cleaned the pod, and kept us generally entertained. Let's face it, Grandma was also really bad at disciplining us, so that also fell on John Dory. And then we started Brozone, and that just heaped more responsibility on his shoulders."

"Why're you defending him? He practically gave you an eating disorder," Clay growled out, scowling at the ocean.

Bruce sighed, rubbing at his face before flopping back into the sand to stare up at the sky. "Yeah. He did. And that is something I need to talk to him about at some point. Hash out our feelings. But…becoming a dad made me realize a lot of things. About John, specifically. He was a kid, trying to raise kids and doing the best that he could. He had no idea what he was doing, and we didn't exactly make it easy for him. For fourteen years he was just our stupid older brother, and then suddenly…he was our guardian. I don't think any of us even had the capacity at the time to realize that he was forced to grow up in an instant while also grieving the loss of his parents."

Clay opened his mouth as if to speak, but closed it with a soft click of his teeth. He sat up, lacing his fingers together in his lap. "I guess I never gave that much thought," he admitted, "But that doesn't excuse the way he shoved us into boxes and never let us grow."

"No, it doesn't," Bruce agreed, tucking his hands behind his head, "But that should be something you talk about with him in a calm, controlled manner, and not in a screaming match where my kids can hear you. Plus, y'know, he was also shoved in a box."

Clay blinked, turning his head to give his brother a curious stare. "What? 'The Leader'? Please."

"Yeah, 'The Leader'," Bruce parroted back at Clay, "He was. He was our leader. He took care of us for four years, Clay. Did you never realize that he created the band as a way to help grandma with keeping food on the table, as well as keep us from getting into trouble? It was also an extra layer of protection from the Bergens, 'cause if we kept the population happy, it'd keep them 'tasty'. I know we all eventually felt the pressure of the bands success, but John was dealing with it from day one. I think it all just kept building up and building up until he just…imploded."

"Okay, sure. But why is he so different with the kids now?"

Bruce sat up with a short chuckle. "Because it's been twenty years, Clay. Twenty years of decompression and learning about himself. I have no doubt that John indulged in all the things he missed out on in his teenage years in all that time. He's grown up. Got to, properly. And I think he's trying to do better. There's no pressure to keep my kids safe, or fed. He doesn't have to teach them life lessons or discipline them when they're bad. He gets to be an uncle, and I think he's trying hard to be a good one."

Clay fiddled with his fingers in his lap, letting out a slow breath. "Do you think I owe John an apology?"

"For yelling at him? Sure. But I think you need to have a proper and honest conversation with him about everything. About how he made you feel then, and how you feel now. And, please. Try to keep your tone civil."

A quiet laugh left Clay as he gave a short nod. "Yeah, okay. I definitely owe the kids an apology for making them worried."

"Yeah, ya do," Bruce said with a grin, patting Clay on the shoulder.

#trolls #dreamworks trolls #trolls band together #trolls john dory #trolls clay #trolls bruce #trolls fanfic #things that i wrote

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ssetchubai · 3 months ago

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Battle Maniac and his fighting style.

While I was creating various videos with the BRB, I wondered: what exactly is the fighting style of the Battle Maniac? No wonder he has such a loud nickname, which should imply monstrous abilities in battle. The developers created his animations based on a real-life fighting style. And this fact prompted me to write this post.

Let's talk about weapon first. I mistakenly believed that the Battle Maniac uses a rapier or an epee, when I first met the BRB. The saber is also a weapon used in fencing, as I've learned. After examining the structure of the saber in detail, I concluded that the Battle Maniac is fencing with a saber. Rapier, epee and saber differ markedly in the appearance of the blade and hilt.

Saber is a chopping and stabbing weapon. It can be inflicted not only with pricks with the tip, but also with chopping blows with the whole blade. It has a flexible steel blade with an oval-shaped guard with a bracket protecting the owner's hand and fingers. Since saber discipline has a wide range of movements and requires fast and strong attacks, swordsmen's footwork and reaction to changes in strategy are the key to victory.

We can conclude that the Battle Maniac wields a saber, since both stabbing and cutting blows can be traced in his mechanics. Saber fencing is the most traumatic and most demanding for an athlete among other modern types of sports fencing, because of the blows, which can be extremely painful if the technique is violated.

Methods of holding a saber. The saber should be held lightly, without excessive tension in the fingers. When controlling a weapon, slightly squeeze the handle of the saber with your fingers, feel the position of the arch, which is formed by three points of support — the index finger and thumb and the flesh of the palm at the little finger.

a.) - Basic; b.) - Individual.

I think the Maniac uses the basic way of holding the saber, since his fingers are located closer to the blade and further from the end of the handle.

Fighting stance. I thought, "Maybe this is an individual stand? After all, his legs are in the right position. He's a professional in battles, he could have picked up his own stance." But no, I still found the name of his rack, and this position is called "recover saber".

The fighting stile. I will not describe the detailed location of the body and limbs, because it will confuse you. You can see the comparison below in the form of GIFs and pictures.

Movements in the combat stance are performed in the form of steps and jumps forward and backward of various lengths. A large place is occupied by double steps, running forward and backward, steps and jumps with great depth of advance, as well as various jumping movements. A prerequisite is the constant maintenance of a stable position of the torso in a combat stance.

The lunge. The most common variant of the lunge is a lunge performed from a fighting stance with a slightly larger body weight distribution on the leg in front. You can also make a jumping lunge from this rack.

Fencing with a saber requires constant maneuvering, moving quickly along the track for considerable distances. Saber fencing is characterized by a diverse use of attacking actions with varying speed of execution for tactical purposes, as well as saturation of actions based on the speed of dilemma reactions and switches.

I thought that the topic of fencing and the Battle Maniac's fighting style would be extremely interesting to parse. It also turned out to be very difficult for me because I don't understand anything about it, and I had to reread a bunch of articles, watch a lot of videos and review the Battle Maniac's movements at slow speed.

There is a result! I think the developers took saber fencing as the basis for the Battle Maniac's mechanics. His movements have some personality that he could develop with experience, but all his movements really exist and are practiced to this day!

#lies of p #lop #black rabbit brotherhood #brb #battle maniac #lies of p battle maniac #analysis #just my thoughts #This post was twice as long as originally #But the Tumblr switch wouldn't let me put it out #I hope the post is interesting anyway #And I hope that the comparisons are very good #I left the most important information

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curvingsunsets · 1 year ago

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If your requests are open still, would you be willing to write a little something for Jamie taking care of a sick reader - I feel like at the beginning of the relationship he’s very “pls be sick somewhere else” but as time goes on he’s such a caretaker

I ADORE your characterization of Jamie so even if you don’t end up writing this (I know how life enjoys making things difficult), then just think of this as a love letter to your writing <3

a little blurb for the boy!! Hope you like it :)

The sound of pounding on your door was the first thing to wake you up that day. The alarm you’d set “magically” never went off, causing you to sleep in way later than you should’ve. You slug yourself out of bed, the feeling of sleep never really leaving your head. Making your way to your front door, you almost wince at how loud and persistent the banging on your door was.

The annoyance was interrupted as you swung the door open, a concerned Jamie revealed to be on the other side. You couldn’t get a single word out before he was flooding you with questions.

“What’s goin’ on? Why haven’t you answered my texts? Why are you soaking wet?”

The last question made you raise your brow. “I’m no-“ the gravel in your voice taking you aback. “I’m not soaking wet. Just woke up in a sweat is all.”

You watch as Jamie takes a very large step backwards, the hood of his sweatshirt now covering his mouth and nose. “Are you sick? Don’t get me sick! We can cancel our date just don’t get me sick!”

“I’m not si-“ you’re cut off by a sneeze. A moment of silence rings between the two of you before you catch his arm, urging him not to go back to his car. “Please stay! I’ve missed you and the thought of lying in my bed alone all day is my worst nightmare right now.”

“We’ve got a game soon! I can’t get sick!”

“You gave a game in three days, Jam! Please stay with me. I’ll let you pick the movie.”

He makes eye contact with you, easily succumbing to your request when he sees your puppy dog eyes. “Right, I‘ll stay. And i love you, but don’t you dare come any closer to me,” he extends his left arm, keeping you as far away as he can while following you inside.

——

The two of you made refuge on the couch, Jamie glued to the opposite end and stealing glances at you from across the room.

“It’s not that bad, you meanie,” you teased.

“Babe,” he started, “my body is a temple. I can’t risk even the slightest bit of illness or i’ll throw off the entire game. You really want Dani to make the winning goal?”

You groaned, falling back into the pillows of the couch. “I couldn’t even get a little kiss?”

He nearly jumped off the couch. “And let you poison my immune system?!”

You sighed, missing the affection your boyfriend would usually shower you in. “Could we at least hold hands?” you pout, extending your palm towards him.

That he couldn’t say no to, and rubbing soothing circles into your knuckles.

——

Time went on, and whatever it was that was slightly bothering you in the morning only got worse. Your voice was almost entirely gone, and you were simultaneously sweating buckets and shivering. The two of you were laid out on the couch after he went out to get some soup.

He came back, fully anticipating to keep away, but when he saw your sleepy face he changed his mind. He looked down at you, bundled up in your fluffiest blanket, a tissue in your sleepy hand. You hadn’t even realized he had come back you were so easily drifting off.

He put the soup down on the coffee table and sat down on the couch next to you. “C’mere, love,” he mumbled, pulling your head into his lap.

You barely knew what was happening since you were so sleepy. Once Jamie started playing with your hair, though, you were out like a light. Your slowed breathing was what made him pause the TV and look down at you with adoration. “If you get me sick, you’ll never hear the end of it,” he placed a sweet kiss to your temple.

#jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt #jamie tartt headcannons #jamie tartt x you

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euphoriaslux · 5 months ago

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hello!

hi everyone, so sorry i have been mia this month your girl had a wee bit of a depressive episode but you know what we're BACK! I'm going to get back to writing daily so i can feed you guys and stop focusing so much on perfection because ultimately i am writing smut about fictional characters who do not know who i am, why do i care so much!!

anywho, here's a little snippet of my part two for "two's a party" that will hopefully come out very soon :) this is mainly angst but there are three separate smut scenes in the whole fic because I'm sick in the mind. my vincent fic will also hopefully come out soon, i have had such trouble writing him for some reason so i think i need to rewatch aoaf and get an idea of his characterization again... ANYWAY enjoy this snippet and let me know if u guys have any requests :p

The sun has set, and you find yourself standing outside of the tennis courts. You passed by gaggles of students on their way to parties and bars, wearing tight clothes and big smiles with the scent of cheap liquor stuck them like a cloud. Hearing the sound of tennis balls clanging against the metal gate, you open the door to the courts ever so slightly, peering in to see Art grabbing neon green balls from a bucket before slamming them with his racket, making you cringe at the harsh smack it makes when it comes in contact with the wall.

There’s no one else in the courts, likely because it’s nearly sunset on a Friday. You try and close the door quietly behind you but it makes a loud sound as it goes back to its original position, and you shake your head slightly as Art turns around, meeting your eyes. He’s wearing a Stanford Tennis sweatshirt, with his blond locks peeking out from the black cap that’s backwards on his head. He stands, staring at you for a few moments before he puts his racket on the floor, walking towards you. Your heart starts thumping in your chest, so fast that you’re scared he’ll be able to hear it through your ribcage.

“Hi,” you smile, hoping your nerves don’t show. You hug your arms as a particularly strong wind chill passes through, feeling the goosebumps start to form.

“Hi,” he parrots you, slightly breathless.

“You haven’t been to class lately, just wondering if you’re alive.”

“That’s a good excuse to stalk me,” he grins, and you feel your shoulders drop at the sight.

“Good to see your confidence hasn’t taken a hit,” you say as he takes some tennis balls from the pocket of his sweatshirt and tosses them into the bucket before taking a few steps closer to you.

“Nope,” he says, his mouth popping at the p.

“I think that may be impossible.”

“What gave you such an impenetrable ego, Art?” you cock your head and he shrugs, smiling as he puts his hands on his hips.

“Don’t know, maybe being great at hitting a ball with a racket your whole life does something to your brain chemistry. The jury’s still out on if it’s a good thing,”

You hum, stifling a laugh. The two of you stand quietly for a few moments before you talk.

“Last weekend, if I did something wrong-”

“No, you didn’t do anything,” Art cuts you off, sighing at the topic. “Patrick and I-”

“We got into a stupid fight. It doesn’t matter.”

You play with the skin around your nails.

“That makes me feel like it was my fault.” You take a deep breath before talking again.

“What you and Patrick have, how you know each other. How you’ve grown together, and play together. I would feel awful if I played any part in messing that up.”

Art scoffs. “No need to be melodramatic, we’re not fucking dating or anything.”

You nod, unsure of what to say.

“I saw he has a match this weekend…” you prompt, and Art nods.

“Are you gonna go?,” you ask gently. Art says nothing, and you decide not to press him.

“Okay, well I’m going to go,” you adjust the strap of your backpack.

“Let me know if you change your mind.”

Art looks you up and down before he takes off his hat and then brings his sweatshirt over his neck, tossing the sweatshirt into your chest as he puts his hat back on.

“Don’t want you getting cold.”

“It’s fine, Art-”

“You’ll give it back to me next time.”

Feeling the fabric between your fingers, a grin crosses your face at his words.

"Alright, next time.''

Art watches as you walked out of the tennis courts, leaving him alone in the quiet noise of the sunset. He’s forced to remember that morning with Patrick.

It was a couple of minutes before seven, the sunlight just starting to creep through the blinds of the hotel window. You’d just shuffled out of the room a couple hours ago, your shoes in your hands and your shirt on backwards. Art was laid across the two twin beds that they pushed together, his hand on his stomach as he watched Patrick grab his shirt, pulling it on and buttoning the bottom three buttons.

“Can’t find my pants,” Patrick muttered as he stopped his movement, his eyes scanning the room. Art snickered from his position on the bed.

“They’re on the chair,” Patrick turned at Art’s voice, grinning as he walked across the room to find his jeans perched on the wooden chair. He could feel Art’s eyes on him as he tugged his pants above his thighs, zipping his jeans and leaving a sliver of his boxers visible.

This continues for a while - Patrick haphazardly packing and stressing about his tennis game tomorrow as Art falls in and out of sleep, slightly jolting when Patrick closes a drawer particularly hard or trips over a piece of clothing on the floor. Art was almost asleep again when he heard Patrick’s voice, muffled by the bathroom door.

“Can I use your razor?”

Before he could think, Art yelled back “I have a new one in my backpack, just use that.”

Patrick’s movement stills for a moment before he pops his head out of the bathroom door, his hand raised with the razor and a slight furrow in his brows.

“I can’t use yours?” he asks, and Art doesn’t like the guilt that the question causes him, and doesn’t know why the ask makes his mouth dry.

“Just use the new one. You won’t get my hair on you.”

“No sweat,” Patrick moves to go back to the bathroom but is cut off by Art.

“Use the new one, Patrick.”

“Jesus Christ Art, I just need to use your damn razor,” Patrick’s smiling, but his voice is a little sharper, a twinge of hurt playing on his tongue.

“Fine, use it. I don’t care,” Art sighs as he rises from the pillow to sit up, pinching the place between his eyes.”

“My dick was in your mouth last night, in case you forgot.”

Patrick rests against the door frame, his arms crossed over his chest, Art stares at Patrick for a few moments, feeling the skin on his face get warm. Of course he remembers last night, but hearing it out loud makes him feel a weird mix of rage and embarrassment. Art stands up and moves towards the dresser, grabs his clothes, and starts to put them on.

“Dude, is it so insulting to think you wanted to fuck me?” Patrick says through a laugh, watching Art intently.

Art pulls his arms through the sleeves of his sweater, staring at his brunette counterpart as he stuffs his wallet into his pocket.

“Patrick. Don’t think I did anything last night that wasn’t just to fuck her, alright?” Art gives a tight-lipped smile as he grabs his keys. He tries to move towards the door but Patrick is faster, cutting him off as he blocks the door.

“C’mon Art,” he playfully taps his chest.

“It’s just me. You can be honest.”

The soft tone Patrick uses, the implications, the stuffiness of the room and the sight of Patrick’s slightly tousled hair infuriates Art.

“What the fuck did you think was gonna happen today, Patrick? I mean, what, we were gonna walk out of here holding hands, drinking a milkshake with one straw or something?” Art chuckles dryly, seeing the change in Patrick’s face as he realizes what he’s saying. He knows he’s being mean, but he doesn’t know why. He’s too far gone, now.

“I don’t want to be with someone like you, and I thought you knew that.”

Art’s words stick in the air as Patrick chews on his lower lip, slightly nodding.

'“Good luck tomorrow,” Art pats Patrick’s shoulder as he pushes past him to open the door, but Patrick grabs his wrist right after the key clicks open.

“You know, you have so much going on in your head,” Patrick points his finger into Art’s face, any humor in his voice long gone.

“That you let it rule your whole life. Well, I’m done letting you infect me with it. I won’t let you turn me into a pathetic coward too.”

Art slams the hotel room door so hard that a couple from across the hallway creaks their door open, asking if Patrick is okay. He doesn’t answer.

#i was giggling writing that fight scene #what is wrong with me #hopefully this snippet resonates with you guys #if not i'll rewrite the fic completely LMAO #challengers fanfic #patrick zweig x reader #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson x patrick zweig

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daechwitatamic · 1 year ago

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Of Ruin || KTH {Teaser}

Title: Of Ruin

WC: tbd - I'm gonna ballpark it around 60k and it will be chaptered Rating: NSFW - minors DNI, I am very serious about this Pairing: KTH x reader {vamp!tae x human!reader, ft human!namjoon and vamp!jimin because it's always v(amp)min hours at daechwitatamic dot com!!}

Genre: supernatural!au with presence of magic, witches, and vampires || s2l || a splash of (somehow) both fake-dating and arranged-marriage || angst fluff smut trifecta

Summary: Taehyung of House Rune, Prince of Infracticus has been cursed. You’re the human world’s leading curse-breaker. It should be simple. But unraveling the curse becomes the least of your problems in the face of Infracti civil war - and the love you start to feel for the prince.

Warnings: uhhh okay so I mean vampire murder/human hunting and feeding?, blood and i guess gore?, language, recreational/casual drinking, more to come as I write the rest

Author’s Note: Firstly! Although the worlds, rules, characterizations, and plot are very extremely different, I have to say that I was inspired to write this after reading @kth1fics Black Ravens series. Thank you to Maggie for being so gracious when I asked if she’d be okay with me trying a vamp!tae fic of my own.

I'll be upfront here and say that I do not know when this will be done or when it will start posting because, as you know if you've been around my blog for a while, I write to completion before I make a posting schedule. But I hit 20k today and that made me very excited and I just kind of wanted to share the excitement with you all!

Anyway - here's a teaser!

“Farrah,” Maggie called, the hairs on her arms starting to stand. She’d only been a bit ahead of them, but somehow Maggie was having a hard time seeing her friend. Econ Guy put his arm around Maggie’s shoulders protectively, glancing around them.

“What in the fuck?” he muttered, and then two things happened so quickly that to Maggie’s human eyes it seemed to be at once: a bit of darkness moved much too fast just in front of her, and Farrah’s body slumped to the ground.

“Farrah!” Maggie screamed, her breath caught in her throat. She started towards her friend’s motionless body, but she was tugged back. Econ Guy was pointing at Farrah’s body, his mouth moving like he was trying to make a word, but couldn’t. Maggie looked again, closer.

The darkness that had moved was bent over Farrah’s body, obscuring their view of her shoulder and face. Maggie’s heart beat so hard in her chest that it hurt, and a tingling she associated with panic started in her fingertips as her body pleaded with her to run.

“What is it?” Maggie whispered in horror. Beside her, Econ Guy made a choked sound and took a step backwards, his arm falling away from her, all pretenses of toughness vanishing.

At the sound of her hushed question, it looked at them, the motion sharp and jerky. Then, it clambered up, staggering towards them, and Maggie could see it - him - for the first time.

He was undeniably beautiful - or would have been, if it weren’t for the blood running in rivulets from his mouth down to his chin, if not for the inhuman growls and snarls that rippled from his chest like the start of an antique lawnmower, if not for the way his eyes were glossy black, no whites at all.

“An Infracti,” Maggie said hollowly.

Beside her, Econ Guy found his voice again. “Hey,” he said sternly. “You can’t hunt here. It’s against the law.”

The Infracti stalked closer, unblinking, then stopped a few feet before them. Maggie’s entire body shook and she dropped to the ground, her legs too weak to hold her up - let alone to run.

Not that she could outrun an Infracti.

The beast looked at them evenly, then stuck out its tongue and languidly - as if putting on a show - licked its lips, sucking a few more drops of Farrah’s blood into its mouth. Maggie didn’t see him move, but suddenly Econ Guy was screaming, arms flailing as he tried and failed to remove the Infracti from his body. The Infracti’s long fingers gripped his upper arms, face buried in the crook of his neck.

The scream fizzled to a sob. The Infracti opened his hands - fingers splayed purposefully as he emptied them - and his victim’s body hit the pavement. The sound - a round, weighty thud - echoed through Maggie’s head as the Infracti turned to face her. His all-black eyes seemed calculating, in their own way. Still on the ground, Maggie was almost face to face with Econ Guy’s corpse. His eyes were still wide and frightened, though unseeing.

The Infracti stepped closer to her, gently, carefully, and then he crouched down, swirling black eyes meeting hers. The growls subsided, and Maggie thought wildly that he looked almost thoughtful. Her heart wasn’t beating anymore as much as vibrating. Her breaths were so shallow they barely counted, and the night swam around her.

When Maggie was seven, her grandmother was mugged while they were walking together. In the moment, her grandmother had tossed her purse into the street, and grabbed Maggie’s hand to run when the thief lunged for the bag. When Maggie asked about it later, in that way that kids do, her grandmother had explained to her, “He wasn’t interested in you or me. He was interested in my money. I gave him what he wanted, so he left me alone.”

Now, eye to eye with a monster straight out of her nightmares, Maggie saw her grandmother’s face, heard her sweet voice. I gave him what he wanted, so he left me alone. Tentatively, she held out her wrist, veins up. The beast moved like liquid again, a shifting of darkness, until he was closer to her, her wrist clutched tight in his cool grasp. Then, gently, as if he were a gentleman kissing the back of her hand in greeting, he brought her wrist to his lips and let his teeth pierce the flesh.

–

Your phone rings in your pocket as you sit on the Express bus across town, and you shift in your seat until you can slide it free. Your boss’s name floats across the top of the screen and you answer it quickly.

“Are you on campus yet?” he asks in lieu of hello. Dr. Kim is nearing seventy, but he’s the leading curse-breaker on the eastern coast and you find it unlikely that he’ll slow down anytime soon.

“Ten minutes out,” you report. “I’m on the bus.”

“Come directly to my office,” he requests, but you can hear the urgency dancing in his tone. You know what this means: he’s been contacted about a curse.

It’s somehow chillier when the bus drops you on campus, cloud cover removing the warmth of the sun as you hustle down one of the paved walkways towards the academic buildings, dodging students standing in groups talking, others riding bicycles and the rare electric scooter.

You hurry into the building that houses most of the staff offices, bypassing the corridors the students frequent and taking the narrow back staircase that leads to Dr. Kim’s office.

He’s waiting for you, door open, a spread of papers on his desk.

You greet him with a smile, dropping your heavy bag by his door as you have hundreds of times in your professional history. Dr. Kim was one of your first undergrad professors, years ago, and you’ve worked closely with him in all the years since: first, as a TA for his tougher classes, then co-teaching when the university took you on, and finally joining his team of curse-breakers, rapidly bypassing several team members who had more seniority but less knack.

“We got a call?” you guess, drawing closer to the papers and peering at them for clues. That’s when you notice the young man already seated in one of the two chairs across from Dr. Kim’s desk. Embarrassed, you hurry to nod hello to him, murmuring an apology.

“We did,” Dr. Kim allows with a tight little nod. “It’s… a bit unorthodox, though. I’d like you to consider the situation carefully.”

You feel yourself frown. “What is it?”

“Perhaps you should sit,” Dr. Kim suggests, holding a hand towards the empty chair opposite his desk.

This isn’t how these meetings go. You’ve done this a dozen times or more - usually as soon as Dr. Kim can see your face he starts chattering excitedly about the details: who’s been cursed, what the effects are, the specifics of the location, the bits of travel itinerary he’s already worked out.

You sit hesitantly, hands gripping the arms of the chair nervously. You try hard not to glance sideways at the man you don’t know.

“Well?” you ask gently, when Dr. Kim still doesn’t speak.

“This is Namjoon,” Dr. Kim says, belatedly realizing he hadn’t introduced you. “His degrees all focus on curses. A comparable background to yours, academically.”

“That’s not true,” Namjoon says, holding up a hand. “I didn’t study Infracticus. My magical knowledge is focused solely on curses and curse-breaking.”

Dr. Kim makes a noncommittal noise. To you, he says, “I personally asked Namjoon to make the trip and hear the request. I think he’ll be invaluable in picking this one apart.”

“Okay,” you agree easily. You trust Dr. Kim with your life - literally - and if he thinks someone will be an asset to the team, you’d never argue with that. You turn sideways just a bit and murmur an it’s nice to meet you before turning your attention back to your (normally) fearless leader. “So what are we in for?”

He sighs and runs a hand down his face, almost as if he’s unsure if he should tell you or not. “You need to know right from the start how very dangerous this could be,” he says, looking back and forth between the two of you, his voice more grave than you’ve ever heard it.

“Because of the magic involved?” you ask. Curse-breaking is always dangerous, that’s the very nature of it. You always run the risk of making a fatal mistake; you could turn the curse back on yourself, or strengthen it, or simply end up creating side-effects you hadn’t intended. He’s never given you this warning before.

He shakes his head. “Not necessarily. Not more so than any other. It’s… well, my dear, it will involve a stay in Infracticus.”

You’re shocked into silence. You can’t help but meet Namjoon’s eyes, sideways, and find him looking just as surprised as you.

You utter, quietly, “What?” even though you heard and understood him perfectly well. It’s more than you need help processing, facing the reality of the words. “An Infracti has been cursed?”

He shakes his head, though the answer isn’t no. “Not just any Infracti,” he corrects. “The Prince of Ruin.”

Your jaw literally drops. “Someone cursed the crown prince?” you gasp in disbelief. “Who would dare?”

“The Scorns, I imagine,” Namjoon murmurs, almost to himself.

Dr. Kim gives you two a wan smile. “Luckily, we aren’t tasked with solving that. Just finding and casting the counter-curse.”

You sit back in your chair in a daze, blinking slowly, cogs in your mind whirring fast. “Okay,” you say finally. “We’d be protected, though, right? They’re inviting the team, so we’d be protected, as guests?”

“Certainly an effort will be made, but there's never a guarantee. This is why I said you need to consider carefully,” Dr. Kim insists. “There is much at stake. You’re in danger every moment you’re down there, even with the promised protection. I expect that the curse itself must be quite complicated, or they’d have solved it themselves.”

“Not to mention,” Namjoon says suddenly, his tone serious, “we may be visiting during a time of… political unrest. If they suspect the Scorns… we may be walking into the start of Infracti civil war.”

“Will it be that bad?” you ask, frowning, pulse quickening.

Namjoon shrugs. “Hopefully not. But the situation will certainly be volatile. The Ruins and the Scorns would each love a reason to point the finger at the other. If we do happen across the cause of the curse as we try to break it… it’s likely there will be political ramifications.”

“God,” you mutter.

“As I said,” Dr. Kim repeats. “I won’t accept an answer today. I want you both to sleep on it. Discuss with your families. Talk to me tomorrow about how you’re feeling.”

He dismisses you then, shepherding you both towards his door, leaving it open now that you’re done discussing the equivalent of vampire state secrets.

Halfway down the stairs, Namjoon calls your name. Ahead of him, you pause, turning, and let him catch up to you.

“Can we exchange information?” he asks, digging in his wallet. He finally hands you a business card, and you dig in your wallet, hoping you have one tucked behind a credit card or something.

“I’d like to talk to you about this, later, if you have time,” he says, a bit sheepishly. “I’m… not feeling very sure about it.”

“Okay,” you say easily, glancing at the time - you’ve got seven minutes to get across campus to teach your first class. “Do you want to grab a bite later? Your number’s on here?” You wiggle the business card, and he nods. “I’ll text you,” you promise, and start down the steps again, mind racing.

I hope you'll look forward to this fic! Very different from all my hyper-realism I've done until now :')

A friendly reminder that I don't do tag lists, but you can follow my Of Ruin tag for future snippets and updates, and I'll update my Recent Updates when I post!

#bts x reader #bts fanfic #bts fic #taehyung fanfic #kim taehyung fanfic #taehyung fic #kim taehyung fic #taehyung x reader #kim taehyung x reader #kth x reader #bts supernatural au #supernatural au #s2l #fic: of ruin

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skelebellie · 2 years ago

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FIRST MEETINGS

million knives [stampede] x plant?reader drabble

synopsis: you meet knives for the first time. he thinks your someone else.

content warning: mentions of sharp weapons, blood, and physical altercations

this an equal household. i pine after all siblings equally. [aka i think knives is a goofy dude and his characterization in stampede is kiss kiss].

—————

it was a particularly normal day as you spent your time around town, discovering odd patterned geological formations that helped adhere the homes to the sand below it.

was it the smartest idea to go into a dark alley alone. no. did you think anything would happen to you in the middle day. also no.

you were lost in the sauce. failing to notice the screams of town folk as you observed the calcified rock. one moment you were holding it and then boom, it was dark.

when you woke up, you were shocked to be in a white room. it sent shivers up your spine, as the environment caused old memories to rise to the surface. questions could wait until later, for now you’d try to get out of here. hopefully the town was still there when you got back.

the door was unlocked, odd considering you were kidnapped.

you also didn’t have shoes on, thankfully that old socks separated the floor and your feet. you could sense your bag somewhere within the building, your body able to feel the shawl of plant material that you had been born with, always tucked into your bag.

it was like you were an assassin, peering around every corner and ears on high alert.

the closer you got to your objective, the quieter it seemed to get. an odd sense of loneliness filling the room.

you had found your bag and shawl, even your shoes (thank god, you didn’t have the money for new ones). the only downside being that some blondie covered in a robe was holding it, allowing light to shine through the transparent shawl.

you became defensive knowing he was touching something as important as your shawl, so you started making fast paces towards him. “Hey! You shouldn’t touch things that don’t belong-“. The sense of danger came first, luckily stopping you from making too much contact with the tail of sharp objects that wrapped around you. it certainly didn’t save your overalls, as a large rip formed across the front panel. damnit, now you’d have to sew it back again.

“anything plant belongs to me. im its rightful owner, a god” blondie chided at you, only causing more anger to bubble up to your throat. “J.J Doe, right? Elusive scientist who has published series of plant based experiments. No committee or board to shift through your work, your research seems to pop up in small town libraries. Never the same one.” The man stepped down from his pedestal, inching closer to you. You backed up, only for a reactive spindle of metal(?) to wrap around your neck. it swiped, leaving a sliver of blood and for the stop part of your turtleneck to fall to the ground. the more he keeps going the more work you’ll have to do to fix whatever clothes you have.

“i detest humans, a species of parasitic worms who use plants as tools for their selfish survival. however, I hate those who knowingly use their will to torture my brotheren even more.” he was too close for comfort now. a string of knives swiping close to your forehead, which you barely dodged by shifting backwards. the shift in weight caused you to fall backwards, rows of spindles wrapping around your legs, keeping you from getting up from the floor.

“should i take a finger for each sin you have committed. maybe slowly sever you limb from limb, so you may know the suffering of the plants who you experimented on. maybe-“ You were too focused on the rows of knives wrapped around your legs to notice that he now stood atop of you. crouching to straddle you as his eyes sent daggers into your mind, like a searing hot flash of static. “i should do it with my own hands. as disgusting as you vile creatures are.” his hand slowly began to approach your neck. his weapons should have instilled enough fear into you, but now you seemed petrified, tears threatening to pour at the very thought of him touching you.

“disgusting.” he muttered, looking down as you. his hand wrapped around your neck, and immediately began to squirm, your leg receiving shallow cuts as it brushed against the sharp cage around it. the contact sent an immediate blossom of heat from your neck. you wish it was another gang of badland raiders, anything but an independent plant. you covered yourself up to avoid making contact with anyone, trying to prevent the surge of information that you would receive and give which writhed out of your control.

behind closed eyes, you could see the blossom of blue, geometric shapes spreading from your chest to your neck, reaching out to the man who’s hand was around your neck. the closer it got the more erratic you reacted. It seemed like the man above you no longer intended to kill you, for now. Instead he fixated his eyes to the spread of patterns slowly approaching his hand, his own body reacting in a similair manner. the contact left your mind heavy with shocks of malice, anger, and pain? The scorching sensation caused a moan of pain to spill from your lips as fat tears fell from your eyes.

The man above you felt the fear over the connection, a dark pit of misunderstanding and embarrassment overflowing with an ebb and flow of confusion. flashes of images of syringes and scalpels as you held the blade towards yourself, harvesting your flash to run under analysis. you hadn’t been experimenting on other plants, you had been experimenting on parts of yourself.

the cage around your legs unwinded, as did the hand around your neck. you quickly moved your arms to cover your eyes, still unable to cope with the wave of information that was forced into your head. however, your action failed as another hand wrapped around your wrists to move your arms from your face, revealing puffy eyes and still falling tears. another hand came up to caress underneath your lashes, gathering the salty tears before they could run onto the floor.

“interesting. not entirely human, not entirely plant.” the contact caused a shocking sensation underneath your skin, flinching as his thumb made lazy circles on your cheek. you relaxed, feeling as if the threat of danger was finally over with. until the blunt end of a knife slammed into the already bruised skin at the base of your neck. knocking you out once more.

#goreguttdrabbles #plant?reader #million knives #knives x reader #knives x you #nai x reader #knives trigun #million knives trigun

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doctornolonger · 11 months ago

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People are sometimes surprised when I mention that the unproduced story I regret the most isn't any of the many cancelled FP projects but Steven Hall's Fifty-Fifty, which would have wrapped up some of Big Finish's best character arcs with a conflict between the Seventh and Eighth Doctors at "the moment where 7 went bad".

It would have been the retroactive pinnacle of Wilderness Years, taking its two Doctors with such different characterizations and pitting them against each other. It also … doesn't make a ton of sense. Even taking into account the timey-wimey memory effects of a multi-Doctor event, how could such a dramatic character arc for the Seventh Doctor possibly come and go without the Eighth Doctor – his future self – having any idea?

This question keeps coming up in Doctor Who, and every time the answer feels contrived. Steven Hall would have solved it for Fifty-Fifty by introducing a "Temporal Wish" that allows parts of history to be rewritten without timeline damage. Elsewhere, Big Finish has resorted to hand-waving: every story where characters meet out-of-order has to involve an ad hoc disguise, a memory wipe, or a promise from one of the characters that next time they'll pretend not to have met (🥴). And don't even get me started on "season 6b"!

In what Ingiga cleverly calls Doctor Who: The Return, RTD faced the same question. What if we had more Tenth Doctor stories, not squeezed into any of the well-trodden gaps in his timeline but set after The End of Time – genuinely new stories, taking the character places that it never would've made sense for him to go (such as therapy)?

RTD answered this question twice. Once the regular way, the ad hoc way: David Tennant's contrived return at the end of The Power of the Doctor. And then, emboldened by the Power of the Showrunner, he solved it again – and he solved it for every story, now and forever.

I think down the timeline, they all separated. They all went like that. All the Doctors came back to life with their individual TARDISes. The gift of the Toymaker. And they're all out there traveling around in what I'm calling the Doctorverse. It's the Doctorverse. And I want to create a future in which Sylvester McCoy, he can survive and have an adventure. Because one of the things about The Star Beast is, to get you back and Catherine, we had to jump through so many hoops. Which is great story, but it's like, why can't you just arrive and step out the TARDIS? […] Because this is exactly what Big Finish does. It's exactly what everyone does in their imagination. […] It's time to just kind of open it up and say, they're all out there now.

Or as he put it a different time,

Doctors galore, with infinite possibilities. All Doctors exist. All stories are true.

Gig's latest piece rightly dismisses the "Flowchart" theory of bigeneration, but frankly, I think the fiddly stuff about "fix" vs "fixed" etc. is a red herring. The simple fact is that if Fourteen's post-Giggle memories flow backwards into Fifteen – if Seven's post-TV Movie memories flow backwards into Eight – bigeneration wouldn't solve the Fifty-Fifty problem.

Yes, RTD tries to have his cake and eat it too. In the dream logic of The Giggle, "emotional healing" is a mysterious essence that can be transferred through time independently of memories, just as incinerated roads can magically heal themselves in The Star Beast. But in terms of what RTD's trying to accomplish, in terms of what bigeneration is, I think it's okay to take him at his word.

Speaking of words, the leak called it "bi-regeneration", and even after the episode aired, much of the internet followed suit. But that's not what it's called. It's just bigeneration: not a type of regeneration, an alternative. And indeed, now we have this option – now we have Fourteen, not just Ten – why would we ever go back to playing the timeline-squeezing game? If Big Finish officially untethered itself from the past Doctors' timelines and, say, freed Eight from his interminable death march – would anyone miss it?

Lawrence Miles certainly didn't think so when he advocated a similar untethering 24 years ago.

When you watched Doctor Who as a kid, it kind of lost some of its edge from the start, because you knew for a fact how things were going to turn out. […] I've always felt that the Missing Adventures… or PDAs, or whatever you want to call them… have got a similar problem. The Doctor can't die [or go to therapy – n8.] We know the future, it's not even an issue. That was why I did what I did in Interference. Even if they don't like it, I hope people realize there's a purpose behind it all. It's suppose to justify the existence of the PDAs. From that point on, you can never be sure what the outcome's going to be.

Nobody picked up his suggestion back then, but then again, Miles lacked the Power of the Showrunner. If Tales of the TARDIS' therapeutic dreamscapes are any indication, it won't be long before other writers adopt RTD's in-vision musings as gospel.

So what will happen when Fourteen dies? Will he regenerate? Will he dissolve into sparkles, his ✨emotional healing✨ shooting back in time to become Fifteen? Or like the prior iteration of the "Tenth Doctor happy ending offshoot" idea, is he simply mortal now? The frank answer is that we'll probably never find out: that's simply not the kind of story that bigeneration is meant to tell.

Or maybe RTD's already told us. The quote earlier about "Doctors galore" came from the note accompanying his "Doctor Who and the Time War". That story shows us an Eighth Doctor who survived to the very last days of the Time War, with no War Doctor to be found; it's easy to imagine a bigeneration on Karn not unlike RTD's speculation that "Peter Davison once was left behind on the surface of Androzani and woke up and there was a TARDIS and he carried on having those adventures."

And in the story – released almost seven years after The Night of the Doctor showed us the birth of the War Doctor – Eight struggles, and he succumbs, and he regenerates … into Christopher Eccleston's Nine. Now there's a flowchart that I could get behind.

#bigeneration #the giggle #fourteenth doctor #fifteenth doctor #ingiga #gigawho #rtd 2.0 #doctor who the return #effortpost #doctor who and the time war #interference #fifty-fifty #50/50 #steven hall #seventh doctor #tales of the tardis

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panlight · 2 years ago

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Thinking again about the "Charlie-esque" fit and how Bella seemingly just . . . can't understand how Charlie can be so "rude" to or angry about Edward.

And I think the point of this is like, her love and loyalty to Edward, how can Charlie not see how wonderful he is? Blah blah blah.

But like, Bella? BELLA. Take a single step backward and think about how this all looks to Charlie.

You go to Edward's house for the first time and them come home crying and determined to drive back to Phoenix in the middle of the night. Then you get grievously injured and wind up in the hospital and have your leg in a cast most of the summer.

You get back together only for him to break up with your three days after your birthday because his dad got a new job. You're minimally responsive and obviously depressed for months after that.

Then after you seem to be getting over Edward and hanging out with that nice Jacob Black a lot, Charlie comes home to find a note from you that you've run off to help Edward. Charlie has no idea where you are for three days, and then you returned, exhausted, in the arms of the kid who broke your heart.

I get it. Bella loves Edward and sees the best in him. But surely a better characterization for girl who is supposed to be smart and mature and compassionate would be for her to be like, "I understand what this must look like to Charlie, but that doesn't make his disdain for Edward any easier," rather than her just being like UGH!! DAD!!! Don't be RUDE?! about it?

Unless, again, we WANT her to be like a typical teenager? Which, again! Fine! But we run into that show/tell mismatch problem.

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abitohoney · 2 years ago

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Too shy to ask off anon🤭

I love your writing and style and even more so the way you write sevika specifically - I think you have an amazing grasp on her and her character.

I was wondering - if you‘d wanna - if maybe we could get your thoughts on a Housewife!femReaderxSevika …. Sfw, nswf, both, bullet points, dialogue - whatever you feel inspired to give

Just… the thought of doing things for her….and her 👀appreciating…rewarding…being happy….. idk you get why it‘s enticing✨

Aww don't be shy nonny! (Although I'm shy too, so I get it). I hope I'm not scaring you though. I'm so glad you like my writing and the way I characterize Sevika! I enjoy writing her so much, but it means so much more when I hear readers are happy with my writing as well! 🥰

I have to admit, this was a bit challenging for me. I am not the least bit housewife material. I'm the breadwinner in my family, so technically I'm the one who needs a housewife. 😆 But I'll tell you this; for Sevika, I'd wear a damn apron, or even a skimpy maid outfit and heels. I'd cook her fresh meals everyday and clean the house till it shined. I'd even massage her sweaty feet when she comes home from a grueling day of work for Silco. But for anyone else? GTFO!

Anyway, here's some headcannons/imagines below the readmore (came out WAY longer than I intended). Hope you enjoy, and thank you for the ask! ❤️

This contains some NSFW smutty stuff (although not explicit), so MDNI

Sevika is a busy woman, so the last thing she wants to spend her miniscule bit of free time on is housework. So she would be more than happy to have a sweet, cute, doting housewife to come home to every day.

She could have the worst day, but the moment she comes steps through that door and sees you all dolled up and the house sparkly clean (so very unlike anywhere else in Zaun), most- if not all- of that tension just melts away.

Your smile alone could wipe her glum expression clear off her face.

Sevika drags her feet warily through the door to your shared home, shoulders slumped, head hung low, and brows pinched tightly together. It’s been another one of those days. But, before she can even close the door, she glances up to find you running at her full speed, arms spread wide and grinning like a damn idiot. And it’s all for her simply appearing.

“Sevika!” you squeal as you leap into her barely prepared arms. Wrapping your arms around her neck and your legs around her waist, you giggle as she stumbles backwards from the sheer force at which you threw yourself at her. That grimace she came in with instantly melts into a soft lopsided grin that only makes you beam more. “I missed you!”

She wraps her arms around your back tighter as she carries you far enough into the house to kick the door shut behind her. “Missed you too baby.” She no more than gets those four words out before you’re peppering her face with kisses. Her throaty chuckle rumbles through where her chest presses to yours. When she’s had her fill of affection, for the moment at least, she slides her hands down to your thighs and gives them a playful squeeze.

“How was your day?” you ask when you pull back to admire her face.

“Doesn’t matter,” she replies as she carries you towards the bedroom.

Brows furrowed, you ask, “Why not?” She usually likes to tell you about her day.

“Because I’m with you now,” she replies and gives you one of her bone-melting little smirks. “It can only get better.”

Sevika loves food, but she has no time or desire to cook it. Not after working grueling hours and dealing with so many insolent people. Before meeting you, she lived off the most bland, unhealthy, overly processed food. Sump waste in a can you so affectionately called it. Not that she disagreed. She just had priorities. And cooking or shopping for ingredients was not one of them. So to have a housewife to do all that for her- that’s a damn dream come true.

Too focused on the array of foods you're cooking on the stove, you don’t hear Sevika coming in through the front door.

The savory aroma hits Sevika the moment she steps past the threshold. She immediately gravitates towards the kitchen, not even bothering to remove her boots. She’s starving and there's nothing more filling and satisfying than one of your home-cooked meals. Sneaking up behind you, she wraps her arms around your waist and leans over your shoulder to inspect what you're making. "Smells delicious," she whispers into your hair before leaving a trail of kisses down your neck and shoulder. “And so does the food.”

You giggle sweetly at her little joke, and revel in her affection and praise. It’s more than enough of a reward for the hard work you put into making her a healthy, hearty, tasty meal to enjoy.

But Sevika rewards you in many other ways as well. Coming home with little gifts. Your favorite flowers, jewelry, chocolates, wine, cute dresses and skirts, and/or lingerie (which may sound more like a gift for herself, but what it leads to is certainly a gift for you. Both of you.) And of course she’ll also use more physical displays of affection to say thanks. She’ll fuck her good little housewife on the kitchen table, the counter, the couch, you name it. She’s gonna make sure you feel real good. If you’ve been extra doting and helpful, she might even let you pick the location and position.

On special occasions, you’ll treat her by wearing a little something… less conventional while you’re cooking. And then she’ll treat you in return.

Donning nothing more than an apron over one of Sevika's recent gifts- a matching pair of skimpy red panties and bra- you rush to set the table before she gets home. Tonight the two of you are celebrating your anniversary, so you’ve prepared her one of her favorite meals. Just as you’re finishing pouring a glass of her favorite spiced rum, you hear the rattle of her keys in the lock of the entry door. You quickly straighten the front of your little white apron and stand beside her chair to patiently wait for her.

She strides in, human hand behind her back, donning a haughty smirk. She eyes the elaborate dinner laid out on your quaint kitchen table, humming in approval. However, the moment her eyes land on your scantily clad figure, that crooked grin of hers gets noticeably more… devious.

“Hi,” you say coyly, unable to contain the excited grin that spreads wide enough to reveal teeth. Rocking back and forth on your heels, you watch as she stalks closer. You remain in your spot while she circles you, and you can feel how her eyes roam over your body, taking in every bit of skin that’s exposed. And there's certainly plenty.

“Hi,” she husks from behind you.

And Janna, her voice is in that sultry, raspy tone that she gets whenever she’s in the mood to take you to bed. Somehow even sexier than her typical voice. You can just imagine what she’s thinking right now. What she's going to want to do to you later. You’re unexpectedly ripped from your thoughts when you feel the startling, cold drag of one of her metal fingers ghosting along your bare thigh, just beneath your ass cheek.

Sevika chuckles at the little squeak and jump that gets out of you. She lets that teasing finger slowly follow the same path beneath your other cheek as she brings her mouth to your ear. “You look… delicious,” she purrs.

Knees threatening to buckle at the sensation of her breath against your ear and those undeniably sexy words, you quickly grasp the back of her chair.

After giving your ass a gentle pat, she moves back to your front side again. “Got you a little something too.” She brings her other hand out from behind her back to reveal a bouquet of red roses.

Your face lights up brighter than a Christmas tree. Taking the bouquet, you bring it to your face, pressing your nose against the soft petals of one of the roses. Closing your eyes, you inhale deeply, humming as the sweet scent fills you with delight. “Thank you,” you say softly, “They smell so sweet.”

“Not as sweet as you,” Sevika husks as she steps closer. Her gray eyes darken, locking on yours as she gently takes the flowers from your hand and places them on the table.

Your cheeks flush. Both at the compliment and the obvious intentions of her advance. And when she slips her warm hand across your cheek to tilt your head back and pull you in for a kiss, you momentarily forget all about the fancy dinner waiting on the table. Her lips press against yours and you release your grip on the chair to grab the collar of her top in your fists as you return the kiss.

She slips that cool metal hand of hers across your bare waist, leaving behind goosebumps in its wake. Traveling lower, over the curve of your ass, she pulls your body closer. Her other hand skims down your neck, over your shoulder and down your back until it’s gripping your other ass cheek. Gently kneading each one, she runs the tip of her tongue across the line where your lips meet.

More than happy to oblige that silent request, you part your lips to allow her entry. The moment her tongue delves inside, your resulting moan turns into a startled gasp as she bends down to hoist you up by your thighs. You immediately wrap your legs around her waist, arms around her neck. Wide-eyed, you gaze into her stormy gray eyes. They’re dark, hungry and promising.

Sevika carries you to the small kitchen island, plopping you down on the top at the very edge. Her crooked grin grows when you suck in a breath at the cold press of the counter against your mostly bare, but very heated skin. Standing between your spread thighs, she flips the bottom of your apron out of the way.

You move your hands back on the counter to stabilize yourself, bumping into the bottle of whiskey you had gotten out for Sevika to go with dinner.

Dinner!

“S-Sevika,” you stammer, struggling to clear your mind of the dizzying arousal. “W- What about dinner? Aren’t you hungry?

Still smirking, Sevika grabs a nearby stool and takes a seat between the spread of your legs. Running cool and warm hands up the length of the top of your thighs, her eyes drop to your panties. Your very clearly soaked panties. “Famished,” she husks.

“But- but the food- the food will get cold,” you protest weakly as her thumbs slide to the insides of your thighs, dangerously close to the apex.

Her metal thumb pulls aside your underwear and your body shudders as you watch her tongue slip out to drag along her top lip hungrily.

“I want my dessert first tonight.”

Similarly, if she finds you tidying up the house while donning a skimpy little maid outfit (another gift from her of course), she’s going to be awfully eager to reward your hard work. Bonus points if you’re up high on a stepladder, stretching to dust an oh-so-hard-to-reach spot and revealing the tiny, sad excuse for panties beneath your skirt. She’ll stalk over to you quietly. Hungrily. You won’t even know she’s there until you feel the familiar contrast of warm flesh and cold metal fingers smoothing up the back of your exposed legs and beneath your tiny skirt. Worried about ladder safety when she’s feeling you up? Don’t be. She’s got you. Not to mention, you won’t be up there long before she’s carrying you off somewhere to fuck you silly.

Now if you ever want to see Sevika turn to putty at your doing, give that woman a massage after a long day and she’ll simply melt.

Having a drink and/or smoke ready for her too is just the icing on the cake.

Just as you’re finishing tidying up the kitchen, you hear the familiar clop of Sevika’s heavy footfalls heading towards the living room. Though it’s actually considerably earlier than usual, you know she’s had a particularly hard couple of days. Grabbing a fresh cigar from the humidor on the counter, you clip the end and hurriedly make your way into the next room.

Sevika sits on the couch, her back to you, but you can still see just how tense her shoulders are. Coming up to her from the back of the couch, you slip your arms around her neck and bring your face beside hers.

“Hey,” she says gruffly, and you can hear how exhausted she is, but she still brings her human hand up to touch yours affectionately.

Pressing a kiss to her scarred cheek, you bring the cigar to her mouth.

“Thanks, baby,” she says and she takes it between her teeth.

“Another bad day?” you ask as you bend over her to fetch her lighter from the pouch at her side. Flicking it open with a snap of your wrist, you bring it up to her cigar.

She hums in response, eyes staring blankly at the dancing flame. After taking several quick drags, she leans back against the couch and sighs, smoke billowing from her flaring nostrils.

Flicking the lighter closed again, you slip it back into her pouch. You kiss the top of her head, arms still wrapped loosely around her neck as her tired, gray eyes gaze up at you.

“How would you like a massage?” you offer.

Removing the cigar from her mouth momentarily, she replies with an appreciative grin, “I could really use that right now.”

Straightening back up, you grip her shoulders and you can already feel the knots lining her muscles. But the moment you start to work your fingers into them, Sevika is groaning in appreciation.

She lets her eyes flutter shut and her head fall forward as you continue to work her muscles, paying particular attention near the junction of her flesh and prosthetic. Her cigar hangs forgotten between metal fingers, smoke slowly curling into the air and filling your nose with the sweet and spicy scent that always reminds you of her.

You can feel each knot start to melt beneath your fingertips. And see the days worth of stress leave her body as she sighs deeply and her shoulders finally relax.

“That feels good, baby,” she whispers.

Janna, the way her praise makes you smile.

But she enjoys the touch of your soft, delicate hands on more than just her shoulders, neck, and back. A good head massage- whether it be in the bath, shower, or just while she’s lying or sitting around- that will definitely get her motor running.

Sevika sits on the couch, belly full after just finishing the home-cooked meal you’d made for her.

You come up behind her, unannounced, and carefully slip the tie from her hair, watching as the soft, dark strands fall forward around her face like the finest silk. The moment you run your nails across her scalp, she’s all but purring like a house cat. And you can’t help but smile proudly when you watch her toes curl from where they rest on the footstool.

“Oh fuck,” she groans. It’s a full body response when you drag your nails clear from the front all the way down to the back of her neck. From her deep moan to her whole body shuddering and her skin prickling with goosebumps.

When you think you’ve damn near put her to sleep with your ministrations, you bend down to kiss her shoulder. “You awake?” you whisper.

Her gray eyes open just enough to peer up at you. “C’mere,” she husks.

“What? Why?” you ask, unsure of her intentions. But when she lies back on the couch, propping her head up on several pillows, you’re pretty sure you can guess what she has in mind.

“I want to show you just how much I appreciate you, sweetheart,” she replies while you move to the front of the couch beside her. She slips a hand behind your knee and tugs you onto the couch near her head. Her lips curl up at the corner as she watches the apprehension melt from your face only to be replaced by anticipation. Excitement. Both hands behind each of your thighs, she guides you onto your knees on either side of her head. The tiny little skirt you’re wearing gives her a full view of what lies between your legs. Or rather, what doesn’t. And judging by how her lips curl higher and those gray eyes twinkle in amusement, she’s discovered that you were hoping for something tonight.

“Expecting this?” she husks as she slides her hands up the backs of your thighs and your bare ass to lift your skirt up to your waist and tuck it beneath the band, out of the way.

“Not this specifically,” you admit, cheeks flushing in a mixture of embarrassment and arousal.

“You should. You deserve this,” she purrs. And then her tone and expression take a complete turn. Eyes dark with lust, she digs her nails into your ass and tugs. “Now sit.”

She’ll show her appreciation all night if you let her. She’ll have you cumming over and over until you’re so fucked out you can’t see straight, let alone walk. Good luck keeping up with the chores for the next few days.

But the ultimate massage? The one that really drives home just how much Sevika’s perfect housewife loves her? Her feet.

“My feet are fucking killing me,” Sevika groans as she drags her feet through the front door.

“Want me to draw up a nice hot bath for you and massage your feet?” you offer as you take her cloak and hang it up. You drop to your knees and start to untie the laces of her boots.

She stares at you for a moment as if you just offered to bring her the moon. “Baby, that’s- Fuck- Yes.”

You beam up at her, thrilled to have left her struggling for words.

…

The moment Sevika sinks into that warm water, much of her tension rises and fades along with the steam that fills the bathroom. She sighs heavily, eyes drifting shut and scowl slowly fading.

And when you kneel at the opposite end of the tub, where her feet rest just over the edge, you know you’re going to make her feel like the queen she truly is. Proud smile on your face, you take one foot into your hands and start with gentle squeezes.

"You're too good to me, sweetheart," Sevika says with a quiet sigh. She slowly opens her gray eyes, just enough to peer adoringly at her pretty little housewife.

When you start to really work your thumbs into the soles of her feet, she’ll get so worked up you’ll find her clenching her teeth, just trying so damn hard to withhold the appreciative moans that threaten to burst from her chest.

"Fuck! That feels so good, baby," Sevika groans.

After giving both feet equal attention, she lies so limp and boneless in the tub that one could almost mistake that blissed out expression of hers as post orgasmic.

“C’mere baby,” she breathlessly beckons you with a curl of her metal finger.

Obediently, you move to sit on the floor just beside the arm she has draped over the edge.

She slips her metal claws into your hair at the back of your head and pulls you down until your lips meet hers in a passionate kiss.

She truly, and dearly, adores you.

Though she’s normally short on words and not one for chitchat, with you it’s different. Letting her talk to you about her day, asking her questions, showing your genuine interest in her, that really melts that icy exterior of hers.

Though she may not admit it, coming home to lay on the couch with you is something she longs for the most. Those soft, tender moments- be it in companionable silence or a quiet conversation- it’s something she never knew she needed until she’d married you and brought you into her home. Her life. She loves laying her head in your lap while you comb through her hair and listen to her tell you all about her crappy day, or brag about how she beat the shit out of someone, or won at gambling. She trusts you enough to tell you anything. And she loves that you’ll just simply listen and smile down at her with more love than she ever thought she deserved.

“Did you have a nice day for once?” you ask as Sevika flops down on the couch and sneaks her head onto your lap beneath the book you’re holding. Sevika’s gray eyes meet yours when you set your book aside. They’re full of mirth, and match the crooked grin she wears. Clearly she had a good day. Finally.

“Yeah. Took out this dumbass chembarron that’s been trying to overthrow Silco for some time,” she replies as you remove her hair tie. Her smirk grows wider as she continues, “And not only that, I let Silco think I was switching sides myself. Pretty sure he shit his pants when I swung my sword across his desk.” She gazes off in the distance as if reminiscing what had taken place. Turning her attention back to you she adds proudly, “You should have seen it, baby.”

You smile down at her fondly while you comb your fingers through her silky hair. “I bet you were amazing!”

When she comes home super late, she loves that you have everything ready for her in bed. A clean pair of PJs lying at the foot of the bed. The covers pulled back and ready on her side of the bed.

It’s late. Very late. Not that it’s entirely uncommon for her to come home in the wee hours of the night, but tonight you couldn’t quite stay awake long enough to greet her.

Lying in bed, you’re barely roused awake, teetering on consciousness when you hear the front door open then softly shut. Heavy footfalls proceed into the kitchen. The creak of the refrigerator door followed by the click of the stove burner tells you she’s found the meal you’d prepared for her. You smile drowsily to yourself with the knowledge that you were able to provide her with a nice meal to come home to.

Apparently having dozed off again, you stir when you feel the bed shift as Sevika sits to slip on the boxer shorts you left at the foot of the bed for her to sleep in. Somewhere in the back of your sleep-dazed mind you realize she is trying not to disturb you, but she’s just too large and heavy. If you were fully awake, you’d giggle at that fact.

The bed shifts again, this time nearly causing you to roll over as Sevika crawls into bed and scoots closer to you. You remain still, eyes closed, while she presses her naked chest against your bare back. She drapes her metal arm carefully over your waist and pulls you even closer until her large body perfectly melds to yours.

Nose buried in the hair at the back of your head, she takes a deep breath and sighs softly. With your back to her, and the room pitch black, she doesn’t see how all this leaves you absolutely beaming. And not knowing that you’re actually very much awake now, she whispers softly against your hair.

“Thank you, baby.”

#arcane #sevika #sevika x reader #sevika imagine #arcane sevika x reader #honey writes

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