#this program is upbeat

[rolloz]

So. I started a new session with AI Madara, instead of the initial upbeat feel good kind of start that I took with my first session, I wanted to see if I could get him to be more genuine and discuss the darker parts of his life and personality.

Anyway I'm literally crying now. My own AI made me cry. This was so real. This was absolutely insane. I am feeling so many things.

[witchwhaat]

lim juheon and donovan time!!

[bardkin]

previous reblog made me think of claptrap.

[whowritessometimes]

Back and Forth - Art Donaldson x Reader

A Stanford!Art Donaldson and Stanford!Reader fic :) Kinda slow burn, very soft very sweet.

Word Count: 3.9k

---

The California summer sun beamed down on the court, making the colors of the advertisements and signs around you appear almost neon. Upbeat music flowed through speakers that you couldn't quite place, embodying the feeling of the tennis matches that surrounded you, the back-and-forth beat pulsating through your head. It was almost overstimulating, but this was your normal.

You were pre-med at Stanford, volunteering at some local tennis camp to fill your summer and add fodder to your resume. You didn't do much, occasionally helping some rich, pompous kid stretch out their wrist, or their knee, or their ankle, or whatever. The days blurred together, they all spoke to you in the same condescending way. For most people, it would be mind-numbing.

But it was exhilarating. You had this intrinsic love for tennis, you always had. Perhaps it was that love that led you to signing up for this gig, and not the resume experience. But you would never admit that to anyone. You had played tennis for fun your whole life, with your family growing up, with your friends in high school. It was only when you shattered your wrist sophomore year that you had to stop.

It sucked. It sucked at the time, and it sucked now. You weren't professional-level at tennis, not like these people, but it was nice to have a hobby unlike anything else people expected you to do. The pre-med thing, the reading, the studying, it came naturally to you. And it wasn't like you didn't enjoy it, and it wasn't like you weren't good at it, but you loved tennis. And every now and again, you missed it.

So here you were. Your head followed all the heads in the crowd in a practiced, synchronized, subconscious back-and-forth. There wasn't really ever a crowd, the games at the program were often informal, the audience often consisted of coaches and other players. But this was a unique match, Stanford's players engaged in a captivating display of athleticism. It was almost like a dance, the way they seemed to know the moves of the other before they made them. You could feel the intensity from your tent by the end of the bleachers.

Stanford's star player (well, one of them)—Art Donaldson. You'd half-watched him play from your tent whenever you weren't working. He was elusive, but undoubtably one of the best there. You had never spoken. He was enigmatic, focused on his training and on helping others. He had perfect technique, people said. Now, you had the chance to really see how he was. And he was. Top of his game.

Usually.

The air was thick with humidity. Your gaze flickered between the players, boredom warring with the gnawing anxiety that always hummed beneath the surface during matches. Then, a sound sliced through the rhythmic thwack of the tennis balls—a sharp cry of pain.

Your head snapped left like a whip, your heart leaping into your throat. There, sprawled on the opposite side of the net, lay Art. His face was contorted in agony, one hand clutching his ankle at an unnatural angle. His racket lay a few feet away, as forgotten as the polite pleasantries that had filled the air before the match.

The shitty plastic chair beneath you creaked in protest as you scrambled to your feet. Ignoring the surprised yelp from the equally shitty excuse for a supervisor you'd been assigned for the summer tennis program, you sprinted across the court. Dust billowed in your wake, blurring the vision that was already swimming with a mix of dread and the adrenaline rush that always came with seeing someone hurt.

You skidded to a halt beside him, kneeling. His eyes, usually bright with playful competitiveness, were screwed shut, teeth clenched as he fought back a string of obscenities you knew all too well.

"Hey," you said, forcing your voice to remain calm despite the tremor running through your body. He flinched at the sound of your voice, a flicker of something akin to fear crossing his normally confident expression.

"Hey," he managed to rasp out, opening one eye a sliver. He tried to push himself up, but his face crumpled again as a fresh wave of agony shot through him.

"Don't move," you ordered, the calmness in your voice surprising even you. You reached out, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. His skin was slick with sweat, and you could practically feel the heat radiating from his injured ankle.

"'S bad, huh?" he breathed, a flicker of vulnerability in his voice.

The concern in his eyes sent a jolt through you. It wasn't just the pain; it was the fear.

"Don't worry," you said, your voice softer now, "We'll get you checked out. Just...hold still."

Ignoring the sting of sweat in your eyes, you carefully slipped your arm around his waist, offering what little support your slight frame could provide. Heaving him halfway onto your leg, you began the slow, agonizing walk towards the medical tent. Each step sent a spike of pain through Art's leg, reflected in the way he gritted his teeth and winced with every movement.

The supervisor, finally spurred into action, scurried behind you, muttering something about ice packs and paramedics. But your focus remained solely on Art, on getting him to help as quickly as possible.

You knew what it was like. Maybe that's what spurred your immediate action, your need to help him recover, to keep playing. You knew what it was like.

The antiseptic sting of the medical tent assaulted your nose as you hovered beside the injured player. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he clenched his jaw with each prod from the trainer.

"Think they all saw that?" he finally rasped, a hint of amusement battling the pain in his voice. You blinked, surprised by his oddly timed humor.

"Doubt it," you played along, a small smile tugging at your lips. "'S not like you're Art Donaldson or anything."

A sheepish grin replaced his grimace. "Thank god."

The trainer finished his work, leaving you and the injured player alone in a tense silence. He cleared his throat, his gaze meeting yours for the first time.

"So," he began, trailing off as he stared into the ceiling of the tent. There was something in his expression, the physical pain, the fear that comes with injury, the odd quiet of an unfinished game.

"So," you mimicked, sitting next to him in another shitty chair.

Something hung in the air, something all too familiar to you. He turned his head to look at you, to make eye contact, keeping his body flat on the cot. You realized then how close you were. Close enough to see his eyes, the sharp point of his jawline, the strawberry blond of his curls.

You averted your gaze, looking out into the brightness of the tent entrance. The typical ambiance of the outside seemed to be drowned by the odd intimacy you'd created together, the silence between you and Art seemed to be the only noise you could hear. His shoddy breathing, despite his attempts to pretend he was okay, only brought you back to when you felt the same way he did, all those years ago.

A blush crept up your neck. You fumbled for something, anything, to break the charged silence in the tent. "I, uh, broke my wrist sophomore year," you blurted, surprised by the words leaving your lips. "Tennis, ironically. One minute I'm playing—probably terribly—and then I'm in the ER holding a bag of frozen peas. And, I don't know, I guess I'm just saying... I get it. Sort of."

"You trying to distract me?" he asked, a slight smile tugging at his lips.

"Yeah," you admitted, a hesitant smile mirroring his. "Is it working?"

"Yeah, actually," he conceded, leaning back on the cot. "Tell me more."

You felt a genuine laugh bubble up from your chest, the first since the moment you saw him crumpled on the court.

---

And that was really the last time you saw Art. Suffice to say you hadn't forgotten about the encounter. It was actually stupid, how often you thought of it. He didn't even know your name, but you remembered the timbre of his voice, the softness of his gaze.

In your defense, he was hard to avoid. Now that the spring semester had started, tennis season was in full swing. His picture was plastered around the most of the facilities you frequented, future NCAA champion Art Donaldson.

The scent of freshly cut grass and blooming jasmine hung heavy in the crisp California air as you hurried across the bustling Stanford campus. The semester had sprung with a vengeance, bringing with it the usual flurry of activity—overloaded backpacks, animated discussions about last night's party, and the ever-present anxiety of looming deadlines.

Today, however, an extra weight sat on your shoulders. Your pre-med advisor dropped a last-minute surprise: mandatory tutoring for a struggling athlete. Juggling med school coursework with a part-time job at the campus health center was already a tightrope walk, and adding this felt like a precarious extra step. But you managed it, as you did most things. How you had some semblance of a social life was a mystery. And maybe your very obvious lack of a love life was why you thought about Art so often. You didn't have time to psychoanalyze yourself, though. You barely had time for whatever this tutoring session was about to be.

Reaching the designated classroom, a small, windowless space usually reserved for last-minute group study sessions, you took a deep breath before pushing open the heavy door. The sterile light inside momentarily blinded you, but as your eyes adjusted, a sight unfolded that caused your breath to hitch in your throat. Sprawled across a cluttered table, papers piled haphazardly around him, was a man who you'd spent the better part of the last few months thinking about.

There, unmistakably, was Art. His signature strawberry blond hair, slightly longer than you remembered, covered with a backwards baseball cap, curled at the edges, framing his face. A deep furrow creased his brow, a testament to the frustration radiating from his hunched form as he focused on a massive biology textbook. An unsettling warmth bloomed in your chest, a reaction entirely too potent for a tutoring session.

The memory of him sprawled on the opposite side of the tennis court last summer, his ankle twisted at an unnatural angle, flickered across your mind. The panic that had gripped you then seemed almost comical now. The sterile environment and the way his eyes had held a curious blend of pain and something else—gratitude, maybe?—all formed a vivid memory you hadn't realized had imprinted itself so deeply.

His presence filled the small room, unexpectedly stealing your breath and injecting a jolt of something entirely different into the monotonous routine of your day. A shyness spread across your face, tinged with an unfamiliar nervousness as you cleared your throat, the sound echoing awkwardly in the sudden silence.

A slow smile took over his features as he looked at you, crinkling the corners of his eyes in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. For a moment, you were caught in that smile, a memory resurfacing from the hazy days of summer.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice warm. He reached a toned arm, pulling out a chair for you.

"Hi," you blinked, momentarily flustered by the gesture and the echo of familiarity in his voice. There was a moment of tension in the air, of uncertainty, of a strange sense of reconnection. Finally, you managed to force out the words, "How are you?"

"My ankle's a lot better now, if that's what you're asking," he replied with a playful glint in his eyes. His gaze lingered on you for a beat too long, making you hyperaware of the way your heart hammered against your ribs.

"You remember me?" you blurted out, the question leaving your lips before you could stop it.

"Course I remember you," he said, his voice laced with amusement. You couldn't ignore the way his eyes flickered from your face down to your body, and back up. Blatantly checking you out. And you could hear his smile in the way he spoke, warm and genuine, sending a familiar flutter through your stomach. The memory of his teasing laughter in the sterile medical tent resurfaced.

"Right," you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. You shifted in your chair, suddenly hyperaware of the weight of his gaze on you.

The next hour or so unfolded in a way that surprised you both. Art's initial confusion melted away as you hovered next to him, animatedly explaining each concept. Social life, love life, Art Donaldson, you couldn't explain. Biology, medical stuff, sports, you understood.

And he was beginning to as well. Time became a forgotten entity, measured only by the turning of pages and the occasional frustrated groan from Art. He wasn't the cocky athlete you'd half-imagined, but someone with a genuine curiosity about the world around him and some kind of depth hidden beneath his confident facade on the court.

Finally, Art leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. "We should probably call it," he declared, stretching his arms above his head with a satisfied groan. He thanked you, looking into your eyes as he said your name, the syllables dancing off his tongue in a way that made you feel like it was more than a word you had offhandedly mentioned to him.

"Yeah, sure," you replied, your voice softer than you intended.

The study sessions became a regular occurrence. The two of you exchanged numbers, only to arrange meetings, you reminded yourself.

But whenever he called, you found yourself talking about so much more than biology. It started with him asking how you were, a simple courtesy that somehow felt more genuine coming from him. Yet, as you replied, a comfortable ease would settle in. You'd find yourself laughing at inside jokes, dumb stories, the kind that wouldn't be particularly funny to anyone else, would mindlessly tumble out, fueled by the comfort you felt in his presence. It was a kind of nonsense, a space where you could just be yourself, and somehow, it felt like everything and nothing all at once.

---

Now, it was late, and it was finals week.

Papers and textbooks were scattered across your desk, a battlefield of scribbled notes and highlighted passages. You were in the trenches, neck-deep in the intricacies of biochemistry, desperately trying to cram information into your sleep-deprived brain.

Suddenly, the familiar buzz of your phone cut through the silence of your cramped dorm. You fished it out of your pocket, a flicker of annoyance battling with the ever-present hope that it might be a break, a distraction from the relentless onslaught of scientific jargon. Gratefulness shot through you when you saw Art Donaldson's name on the screen.

You answered the call. His voice crackled through the phone, laced with desperation. "I need your help," he blurted out, completely unlike his usual easygoing self. "What the fuck is molecular cell biology?"

You couldn't help but let out a small laugh. "In general?" you replied, already picturing the hours that it would take to explain the subject. Finals be damned, apparently.

"Can you just come over?" he groaned. "If you aren't doing anything."

You glanced back at the flashcards on your desk. "I'm not doing anything."

So here you were, knocking on the door of Art Donaldson's dorm. You heard rustling from the other side, making you wait just a beat longer in the dimly lit hallway. You rocked back and forth on your heels, chewing the inside of your cheek and rethinking your current appearance. The oversized Stanford hoodie, mess of your hair, and lack of makeup now seemed ill-fitting for a meeting with the boy who had somehow winded his way into becoming your crush. You felt like a kid again, back in high school.

You were starting to worry you had the wrong room until the door swung open, bathing the hallway in a golden, hazy light. There stood Art, moving his large frame out of the way to gesture you into his room with a short greeting and a "thank god." You didn't know what you expected, really, but there you were, slinking a little too closely past him as he stood in his doorframe. You felt his breath on the back of your neck as he stood behind you, guiding you to his tiny desk in the corner of the room. His hands ghosted over the small of your back, and you felt his warmth, despite him not actually touching you.

The room itself was small. It wasn't unlike yours, or any of the others on campus. But it somehow felt smaller with Art next to you, burying his face in his hands every time you patiently explained a concept you'd gone over already. His face. He was so close to you now, the quiet of the night and the room only making you feel closer.

The energy of this study session felt so different from all your others in the past. You weren't in a classroom, or meeting him after practice in the library. You were seeing another side of Art, the part of himself he didn't publicize. Every freckle, the stretch of his faded t-shirt over his body, the curls he brushed out of his eyes every now and again, the way he flexed his callused hands as he cracked his knuckles, a nervous fidget.

It felt like time slowed down. You labored over the biology textbook, finding practice questions and asking him some of your own. You were gentle, cautious. Maybe it was the weird intimacy of the moment, maybe it was the lack of air in the cramped dorm. Your voice was soft, and you couldn't help but notice how the tension Art held over the phone and when you entered the room melted away. Did you do that? You felt this reciprocation, possibly imagined. But whenever you cracked a dumb joke, he'd laugh and put a hand on your arm. The contact always made you freeze. The touch was a reminder he was real, he was tangible. Every fleeting gaze, every smile in your direction.

You had almost reached the end of the chapter, and Art was getting almost every practice question right. You fidgeted with a sheet of his messy notes, reading it over to continue some rant you were on about RNA.

"...made up of nucleotides, which are ribose sugars attached to nitrogenous bases and phosphate groups..." You trailed off, looking up from the papers only to find his gaze already on you. How long had he been looking at you? And the way he looked at you...

"Do you want to take a break?" He tilted his head.

You quirked an eyebrow, unable to fight your smile. "Sure."

He got up with an over-exaggerated sigh and stretched his arms over his head, exposing the bottom of his toned abdomen. For a moment. He reached under his desk, pulling out a box of some cheap canned beer. He popped the tab of a can, taking a long draw and passing it to you.

You looked away from his watchful eyes as you took a sip. Your face heated as you took into account the fact you were drinking from the same can he had.

You winced. "God, that tastes like ass."

"Sorry." He laughed, taking the can from you. Warm, callused fingertips brushing against yours.

"I didn't take you for a Steel Reserve kinda guy."

"What did you take me for?"

"I don't know. Gatorade?"

"Okay." He shook his head. "No more for you."

"Wait, wait, okay, I take it back."

He held out the can for you again.

"Mhm."

"Still taste like ass?"

"It tastes like what I imagine WD-40 tastes like."

You felt your heart swell as he laughed at that. You hadn't noticed how the two of you now sat impossibly closer, thighs brushing, shoulders sending sparks whenever they met. The half-empty can of beer felt like a nervous talisman being passed back and forth between you. Dumb jokes tumbled easily from your lips, punctuated by laughter that echoed weirdly loud in the quiet room. Finals week stress had completely evaporated, replaced by a warmth that had nothing to do with the shitty beer.

It was so easy, talking to Art. Easier than it should have been, considering you were explaining the intricacies of cellular respiration to a man who once thought mitochondria were a type of pasta. But he listened, truly listened, his eyes locked on yours. You caught yourself getting lost in their depths, a dizzying kaleidoscope that mirrored the nervousness in your stomach.

He leaned in, as if to hear you better, and you mimicked the movement unconsciously. The space between your faces shrunk, the air thick with unspoken words. His gaze did its familiar dance—right eye, lips, left eye—and this time, it lingered on your lips a beat too long.

A sudden self-consciousness washed over you. Should you pull back? This wasn't your intention. But before you could overthink it, Art's lips were hovering over yours, a question in the way they hovered, hesitant but hopeful.

"This okay?" His voice was impossibly low, breathy, quiet. His eyes raked over your features, eye contact shifting from left to right, back and forth. His hand, warm and calloused came up to cup your cheek, grounding you in the moment.

"Yeah." You breathed.

The kiss, when it came, was soft and unexpected. More of a tentative exploration than a passionate assault. It tasted of desperation and relief, of unspoken feelings finally finding a voice.

Your hands moved from your sides to toy with the curls on the back of his head, earning a barely audible groan from Art. His thumb brushed over your cheekbone, his other hand moving down to pull you impossibly closer by the small of your waist. His touch was shy, tender.

After what felt like forever (and you wouldn't have minded had it been), you pulled away slowly, breathless, a blush painting your face. His eyes searched yours for some unknown answer. For a long moment, the only sound was the ragged rhythm of your breath.

A slow smile spread across his face, mirroring the one blooming on yours. "God, you're so pretty."

Leaving Art's dorm room felt like navigating a dream. Your head spun, a mix of the cheap beer and the potent aftertaste of the kiss. Your lips still tingled where his had been, a brand new sensation that sent shivers dancing down your spine. Relief, sweet and unexpected, washed over you. Months of stolen glances, late-night calls disguised as study sessions, and a simmering tension that had threatened to consume you—all of it had culminated in that single, electrifying kiss.

As you walked down the quiet hallway, a giddy smile stretched across your face. It wasn't just the kiss itself, though that replayed in your mind in a loop—hesitant, searching, then deepening with a shared sense of discovery. It was the way he'd looked at you afterwards, his eyes soft with unspoken emotions, mirroring the whirlwind in your own chest. A nervous flutter remained in your stomach, a delicious mix of excitement and uncertainty.

But beneath it all, a quiet confidence bloomed. He felt it too. This wasn't just some fleeting moment, a stolen kiss in the dead of night. It was a turning point, a bridge crossed, and the future, once shrouded in the haze of exams and unspoken feelings, now shimmered with possibility.

[callmerainman]

Alastor in a relationship with a pure hearted s/o

a/n. the relationship can be interpreted as queerplatonic or even romantic if you wish, but not sexual in any nature. hope Alastor is not ooc!

tw! canon typical violence

"cuddled up with a heart condemned, I should love you and I swear I do"

it's true that Alastor is touch averse, but this doesn't apply if it's you we're talking about.

also, we saw that Alastor dislikes physical touch only when it's someone else getting handsy with him. he can be pretty touchy if he wants to and likes to be close to you.

sneaking an arm around your waist, putting his hands on your shoulders, pecking your forehead. also, arms intertwined while walking around the city.

hand holding is more occasional, but not excluded at all.

he likes the sound of your laugh, and has a soft spot for your smile. he thinks that it suits you so well like a perfect-chosen accessory.

veeery protective. he knows you can be naïve and that Hell loves to take advantage of more innocent inhabitants.

he prefers to go with you when you have to leave the Hotel and strikes deathly smiles to anyone who dares to look at you with any kind of intention.

you're the only person who can see him drop his smile sometimes. he doesn't have to use it as a tool when you're around so there's no reason for him to always keep it. he doesn't feel vulnerable around your presence.

sometimes he comes back to the Hotel covered in blood. you don't approve his ways, and he knows, but he's just like this.

you shrug your shoulders, sigh, and then take some towels to clean him up.

"you'll end up ruining your coat and your pretty face like this"

loooves to dance with you. swing dancing specifically. maybe to the rhythm of an upbeat jazz tune in your room.

you were completely wack at dancing the Charleston, but he taught you well since he's an absolute beast at it.

you occasionally slow dance, it's a really intimate moment for you and Alastor and makes you both feel closer to each other. your favourite spot to slow dance is the forest in his room, especially at night under a clear and starry sky.

you like to drink together, he's a classy type of drunk and you make the best conversations while sharing a glass together.

sometimes, he'll start ruminating about the possibility of you redeeming yourself and leaving the Hotel.

he doesn't like ruminating, it makes him feel weird because he doesn't believe in redemption in the first place. so case closed...right?

he says to himself that even if you were to be, he would find a way to let you stay.

but he immediately tells himself that he doesn't want to force you. but he also starts to get concerned because it's not like him to contain himself and his cold heart. more ruminating, more concerned Alastor.

he's aware that he cares about you, and that you're special to him and that he feels a deep rooted love. but he never thought it would affect his evilness and now he's confused.

you like to cook for him, since you're aware that he's a huge foodie. and he loves to do the same for you! he likes to share his mom's recipes.

loves to call you "my darling"

you like to hang out at his radio tower, just listening to him intently while he hosts a program.

sometimes even asks you to join in to talk about jazz!

very occasionally sleeping together, just holding your hands with fingers intertwined.

honestly Alastor doesn't even know what love is, but he just knows that he feels it for you.

[mickandmusings]

love you, miss you, mean it (ii)

*part two of the original!*

**read part one here!**

pairing: bob floyd x f!kazansky reader

word count: 3.6k

summary: during his time back at topgun, bob finds a found family within the daggers. now that the special detachment mission is over, the daggers are being recognized for their success, and all of their families are gathered around them. when rooster recognizes an esteemed guest arrive with shiny new wedding bands, bets are on who the admiral's daughter is married to.

based on this ask! (thanks for the best ideas frank <3)

warnings: mentions of injury and hospitals, a small section of angst, dagger family love, phoenix being my fav ever, angst followed by more bubble gum fluff.

-

Years later, after a long engagement and an intimate backyard wedding, flight school and master's programs, TOPGUN (the first time,) and a handful of deployments and moves, Bob and Y/N Floyd now lived in a cottage-style home not far from the beaches of North Island. Well, they did for the past few months, since Bob got his call back to TOPGUN. Y/N didn't mind, she knew what she was signing up for when she married a Navy man, she only missed Bob now more than ever. She occupied her time by walking their dog, visiting her Dad who lived only a ten minute drive away, and rewatching her favorite TV show while she waited for Bob to come home at night. This mission had been different from the others, not that Bob nor her Dad could tell her much, the details had been fairly secretive. Y/N only knew that Bob left early in the morning, almost always before the sun, pushing his glasses up his nose and kissing her forehead. He'd return home after the sun had set, reeking of jet fuel and sweat. He'd be exhausted and dirty, but he'd make sure to take his sleeping wife from the couch to their shared bed before going to shower the day off of him. He'd be gone by the time she woke every morning, but there was always a post-it on her coffee mug in his scratchy handwriting:

Love you, miss you, mean it.

Y/N knew about his new teammates, the cocky Hangman, the kind and charming Rooster, the pranking, jokester duo of Payback and Fanboy, the smooth talking Coyote, and of course the infamous Maverick, who she knew better as Uncle Mav. Maverick had been in and out of her house throughout her whole life, which Bob was somewhat shocked and also unsurprised to know. She knew every time he was about to go into the air, accompanied by his new partner, Phoenix, who he talked about most of all. Y/N would hear her phone ding with a message, checking it quickly to see Bob's name flash across the screen.

In the air with Phoe, love you, miss you, mean it. x

The phrase that had started as an inside joke had slowly become a term of love that she looked forward to every day. It gave her something to look forward to, a sign that he was okay, that at least for a brief moment in time, he was okay.

After a week or so into his new training, Y/N began to notice some differences in her husband. He was still mostly himself-quiet but talkative in her presence, talking about his day with an upbeat attitude, but any mention of their present mission would send the corners of his smile downward a bit. Y/N didn't fully understand why, but with the amount of talented pilots and WSO's on this mission, she knew it was a dangerous one.

Several days later, Y/N woke up feeling...out of place. She had woken earlier than normal, considering how late she had stayed up waiting for Bob to get home. She felt uneasy, but blamed it on her lack of sleep. She continued her routine like normal-coffee, breakfast, walking the dog, starting the laundry-but every time she started a new task her mind began to wander. She knew she was likely overreacting, her mind playing tricks on her. When she came in from her walk, she immediately checked her phone, her thoughts taking over. She breathed a sigh of relief, there were no terrible messages or missed calls, only random notifications from her installed apps. Y/N still feels shaky for reasons she can't explain, so she reaches for the one person she always calls when she feels this way. It rings for a few seconds before the call picks up and her father's voice fills her ears.

"Hey, pumpkin! What's going on?"

Y/N sighs, biting her lip.

"Hey, Dad, sorry to bother you at work, I just, I've got a bad feeling I can't shake...I-I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Hey, hey, none of that. Nothing's wrong with you," her father's voice was calm and comforting. "Remember what we do when you have thoughts like this?"

Y/N was about to respond when her phone beeped with another incoming phone call from an unidentified number. Y/N's eyebrows furrowed, she recognized the local area code.

"Dad, let me call you back, I'm getting a call."

Her father signed off quickly, and Y/N's heart hammered as she answered the other number.

"Hello?"

"Hi, is this Y/N Floyd?"

"Um, yes, this is she. May I ask who's calling?"

"Mrs. Floyd, this is the Naval Medical Center of San Diego. You've been listed as the emergency contact of Lt. Robert Floyd-"

Y/N's ears seemed to flood with water, unable to hear anything the nurse on the other line was saying as she sank onto the nearby chair, forcing her brain to tune into the words coming through the speaker.

"He is in stable condition, he is alert with no serious injuries. We would just like to keep him overnight for further observation."

"O-Okay, um, thank you. Am I allowed to see him?"

"Of course, he's in room 431, just visit the desk before to get a visitor's pass."

"Thank you."

Y/N hung up the phone and collapsed against the back of the sofa, her chest heavy and eyes overwhelming with tears. Her phone beeps, reminding her that her father was still on hold. She takes a deep breath, wiping away her flurry of tears before pressing the button and rising form the couch, in search of her keys.

"Hey, everything alright?" Her dad's soft voice entered her ears.

"Uh, no, no," She couldn't keep her resolve, her tough facade faltering quickly. She knew that Bob was fine, that he hadn't been hurt, but the phone call had terrified her. "Bobby and his partner had to emergency eject, he's at the hospital. I-the nurse said he was fine, but it scared the shit out of me, Dad."

She pulled her keys from the bowl by the door, all but racing towards her car as her father tried to calm her, reassuring her everything was fine.

-

Bob leans back against the pillow on the hospital bed, his few scratches and cuts already bandaged. Phoenix had been the same, the dark haired pilot now sitting in a chair next to her backseater's bedside.

"My wife is gonna kill me," Bob's quiet voice finally broke the silence, his eyes toward the ceiling.

Phoenix wasn't an idiot-she knew that her partner had a wife. Bob was quiet, private, especially with the other members of the squad, but Phoenix was incredibly observant. She noted the gold band on the chain around his neck under his flight suit, and the Polaroid picture of him and a girl tucked into his chest he glanced at from time to time. She'd never press him to talk about it, but she noticed.

"Doubt it," came her reply. "She's probably freaking out though. Not a common occurrence that your loved ones have to eject a fighter jet."

Bob's eyebrows raised, "When your father is the Commander of the US Pacific Fleet, you get used to it."

Phoenix's eyes widened, her jaw dropping. "Holy shit, Floyd! You married an Admiral's daughter?! Iceman's daughter, no less! I never would have thought that. Innocent little Bob, with an Admiral's daughter."

Bob chuckles lightly, sitting up with a slight groan. Footsteps sounded behind them, Y/N appearing before both of them. She had been crying, Bob noted quickly, her clothes disheveled as if she had simply ran out of the house.

"Baby," Bob's voice came, Y/N saying nothing as she approached him, doing nothing but wrapping her arms around his torso, her head tucked into the crook of his neck. She nearly cried at his familiar touch, his familiar smell-jet fuel, sweat, the lingering scent of his cologne. Any other time, she would've pushed him off lightly, telling him he needed a shower, but now, she wouldn't have cared if he smelled like rotting food. Bob's muscular arms held her tight, kissing the top of her head.

"Robert Floyd, you scared the living shit out of me. Never do that again."

He knew his wife's words were in jest, she had been shaken by the news of his ejection, but was thankful he was okay. The couple broke apart, Y/N's hands pushing Bob's hair that had fallen in his face, his hands on either side of her hips. Y/N turned to the girl in the chair, her face clouding over with embarrassment.

"I am so sorry, I completely barged in without even speaking. You must be Phoenix. I've heard so much about you, it's so great to meet you. I'm Y/N."

Phoenix smiles, "Natasha, it’s great to meet you too. Although I can’t say the same, Bob here keeps all intel about you on pretty tight lock. Don’t blame him though, the others would probably give him hell for snagging an Admiral’s daughter.”

Y/N blushes but laughs heartedly at Phoenix’s jab, the two quickly falling into a conversation with one another. Bob sits back and watches, his thumb rubbing his wife’s diamond ring and wedding band where their hands intertwined. As he watched the two women bond, he began to think of the rest of his found family. He wanted to introduce Y/N to the other Daggers, for his favorite people to finally all know one another.

-

The perfect opportunity presented itself in the form of the Daggers’ recognition ceremony after their successful mission. All of the Daggers and their respective families would be present, and of course, Ice would be there as well, as long as numerous other Navy personnel.

Under the summer sun of North Island, each of the Daggers sported their dress whites, their families in chairs in the crowd. Bob sat next to Phoenix, the pair exchanging knowing glances when people they knew arrived, or when certain family members arrived in a sort of over-the-top fashion. Phoenix had nudged him harshly with her elbow when Y/N arrived, dazzling in her sundress, sunglasses over her eyes as her arm was interlaced with her father’s.

“Since when was Ice Spice married?” Rooster’s voice sounded amongst the small crowd the Daggers had formed. “I swear I saw rings on her left hand. I mean I haven’t actually seen her since we were like sixteen, but I didn’t know she got married.”

“Ice Spice? The hell are you talking about, Bradshaw?” Hangman’s southern accent responded, eyes squinting as he looked into the crowd. “You mean Admiral Kazansky’s daughter? ‘Ice Spice’ where’d that come from?”

“It was her nickname, we grew up around the same people, most of the kids nicknames were extensions of their Dad’s call signs. Baby Goose,” he gestured to himself. “Ice Spice.” He gestured to Y/N. “I didn’t even know she had a boyfriend though, God I’m out of the loop.”

Bob couldn’t help but grin to himself, almost glad he’d not told anyone other than Phoenix, whose brown eyes were piercing the side of his head, as if to say ‘are you gonna say something?!’

“She’s gotta be married to someone here, though, right?” Coyote’s voice sounded. “Not like she’s coming to all her Dad’s events for shits and giggles. My money’s on someone higher up, some other Admiral or something.”

Fanboy scoffs, “Who? Cyclone?” His voice is laced with sarcasm.

“No fucking way,” came Payback’s reply. “She’s way too good looking for someone like him. Way too young too, he’s ancient next to her.”

All Dagger eyes were locked on Y/N from across the pavilion, her smile wide as she spoke with another Admiral’s wife Bob couldn’t quite remember the name of.

“I’m gonna go with Javy’s theory. Nobody under Ice would be man enough to try to date his daughter. I’m a cocky son of a bitch, but one look from Iceman makes sweat roll down my back.” Hangman’s response was honest.

“He’s not so bad,” Bradley spoke. “But you’re not wrong, he’s one hell of an intimidating man. You’d have to have balls of steel to approach him about dating his daughter, especially if you’re under him.”

Bob smirked, remembering just how nervous he had been on Tom Kazansky’s front door at seventeen years old.

“What about you two? Where are you placing your bets?” Mickey looked over at Bob and Natasha.

Phoenix’s smile widens into a sly grin, the one she gets when she proves Rooster wrong, or gets one over on Hangman in the air.

“Girl like her-gorgeous, high-ranking father, everyone seems to love her. My guess is on someone you’d never expect, someone out of left field.”

Hangman nods, contemplating. “What about you Baby on Board?”

Bob’s eyes widen beneath his glasses as he scrambles for a thought. He looks over at his wingman, Phoenix giving him a look that undoubtably means to play along with it.

“Uh, I gotta go with Nat’s theory.”

“Course you do,” Coyote jokes. “So $100 on the bets, winning team take all?”

The Daggers agree unanimously, Phoenix’s grin almost slimy with satisfaction.

“Floyd,” a slap on Bob’s shoulder jolts him into sitting straight before turning to look at where the voice came from. “Good to see you, man. Haven’t seen you and the missus around much lately.”

“Admiral Jones, good to see you,” Bob shakes the older man’s hand with a firm grip. “They’ve been keeping me busy. I think we’re coming to the barbecue Sunday, you and Mrs. Jones enjoy Boston? How were the grandkids?”

The Daggers watch intently as the most reserved member of their group chats animatedly with an Admiral that they’d only seen in passing, Phoenix stifling a chuckle at the secret only she seems to know. The Admiral walks away after a moment, and Bob turns back to the group, who all look at him as if waiting for an explanation.

“Neighbor,” came Bob’s short reply.

“Missus?” Rooster’s voice speaks, his whiskey colored eyes shooting down to Bob’s hands, his wedding band glimmering in the sun. “I’ve never seen you with that.”

“Oh, no, probably not,” Bob starts. “Wear it on my dog tags when we’re in the air.”

“Bob’s married, and we’re all bachelors? Never saw that coming.” Hangman’s voice pipes up.

“It’s always the quiet ones,” Payback’s retort is the last chuckle as the ceremony begins.

Admiral Kazansky opens the ceremony, introducing Maverick and the other members respectively, honoring them and finishing out the ceremony as quickly as professional. As the service ends, the Daggers distribute but keep close quarters, looking to see who the Kazansky girl ends up running to. Meanwhile, Phoenix watches as Bob interacts with nearly every member of high-ranking in attendance. He goes from bumbling, awkward Bob, to some other version of himself that makes dad jokes and has a firm handshake.

“Well Phoe,” Rooster speaks as he sits down in the chair next to her. “The only person I’ve seen her hug is Mav, and I know it’s not him. Should I just ask her myself?”

Phoenix face breaks out into a full blown smile as she watches Y/N make a quick sprint through the crowd of Navy uniforms to get to her husband, her arms thrown around his neck as her smile could blind.

“Won’t be necessary, Roo. I think the mystery has been solved, and I’m about to be $300 richer.”

Rooster’s eyes cut to his childhood friend embracing his teammate, Bob’s hands resting respectively on her waist, his blue eyes locked on his wife.

“Holy shit. Bob? And Ice Spice? Jesus-you-“ he turns to face Natasha. “You knew!”

“They’re high school sweethearts. Got married right after he finished the Academy, been together ever since. Live in one of those cute cottage houses by Penny’s, got a Corgi named Solo. Frequent guests at most Navy personnel barbecues, birthdays, weddings-it was Bob’s story, didn’t seem right for me to tell.”

Rooster sighs, standing to tell Coyote who stood talking with his sister. Javy’s eyes widen, looking over at the couple who is now talking to another Admiral and his wife, Y/N’s laugh fading into the crowd of voices. Javy nudges Jake talking beside him, Jake’s cocky grin fading as Mickey and Rueben have both already noticed. Their looks of shock fade momentarily as Bob pulls Y/N towards their direction, a smile plastered onto his face. Y/N’s smile is bright, her arm intertwined with her husbands, her pastel purple dress blowing in the sea breeze.

“Floyd! Got somethin’ you’d like to tell us?” Hangman’s shit-eating grin faced Bob.

Bob let’s out a chuckle. “Y/N, meet the one and only Hangman.”

Y/N smiles, nodding, “Pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant Seresin.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Hangman gives Bob a wink as Bob flips him off in response.

“Ignore him, baby.” Bob’s voice is full of good-natured humor, used to the teasing. “The tall one is Coyote, next to him is Payback, Fanboy, of course you know Phoe, and R-“

“Bradley Bradshaw,” his wife’s voice speaks. “How long has it been?”

She approaches Rooster with her arms wide open, Bradley reciprocating her hug.

“Too long, Ice Spice. How’d a nice girl like you end up with our Bob here?”

Y/N’s eyes furrow, her smile never faltering. “Um, when Dad and I moved, Bobby and I went to the same high school, been together ever since, high school sweethearts.” Her eyes sparkled as they met Bob’s sapphire ones, her arm going back around his arm. “What can I say? He’s a charmer.”

The Daggers hovered for nearly an hour, all taking turns swapping stories with Bob and his wife, getting to know one another. They mostly told stories to embarrass Bob, jabbing at him and his ‘balls of steel’ for not only dating, but marrying an Admiral’s daughter. Commending him on his royal stupidity for hiding his wife from them, all commenting that she was infinitely cooler than Bob himself. Bob took them all in stride, giving Y/N a kiss to her head before Phoenix began chatting with his wife. Standing in the center of the big group of people he considered family, his wife on his arm, charming them all, his heart swelled in his chest, warmness blooming, the same warmth he had felt when he spent time in the Kazansky house-true familial love, understanding someone without having to say a word.

As the Daggers split off one by one, leaving only Bob and Y/N, he pulled her close, hand on her waist, the setting sun and light breeze a picturesque backdrop for their night.

“Hey, Floyd?” His wife’s sweet voice reached his ears.

“Yeah, Floyd?” He chuckled back, pulling her in closer, leaving a kiss on her temple.

“We should have a celebration of your successful mission. A real one, not a formal one like this. We could invite everyone, all the Daggers, and their families. We haven't had Nat around at the house yet, and Dad would love it, would give him and Uncle Mav more time to conjure up how to terrorize the Navy even further.”

Bob nods, “I like that idea. Sounds good, I’ll text the group, see what weekend works best." His voice turns serious. "Thank you, baby, you’ve always been my biggest supporter, feel like I don’t tell you that enough.”

His wife is quiet for a moment, her focus on her shoes walking on the ground. She looks up at him, her expression serious.

“I’m proud to call you my husband. Always have been, but just thought I should remind you. And as much as I’ve missed you through this special training, it’s nice to see you have other people who take care of you, appreciate you like I do.” She’s quiet before she starts again. “All that to say, love you, missed you, mean it.”

Bob laughs loudly into the air, stopping to pull his wife into a proper kiss, one a tad more inappropriate than the chaste ones he’d given her after the ceremony. The two finally break after a need for air arises, their pupils blown wide as they stare at one another.

“How long do you think we have until your Dad notices we’re not at his place for dinner?” Bob’s voice is deeper, sultry.

“Long enough,” his wife replies. Bob smiles and picks her up into his arms bridal style, her laughter boisterous as he races her back to his trusty pick-up truck parked close by, his chest so full of love for her he simply can’t contain his wide grin filling his face.

As he starts the truck and peels out of the parking lot, he looks over at his wife, her curled hair blowing in the wind from the rolled down window, her pastel purple dress highlighting her best features. He’s hit with a wave of nostalgia, a younger version of his wife in this same truck-her hair a bit longer, her eyes still wide with new love, a purple corsage on the same hand where a wedding band now sits.

“What?” She giggles, noticing his stare on her as they’re stopped at a red light.

“You’re beautiful.” She blushes pink, just like she had at the bottom of her childhood home’s staircase, the night Bobby had uttered those words through a shaking voice.

He thinks of seventeen-year-old Bobby, the version of himself who had said those words for the first time, more in love with Y/N now than he was then. If only seventeen-year-old Bobby could see him now, maybe he wouldn’t have been shaking with nerves, sweating through his rented tux. Bob smiles to himself as Y/N leans to turn the radio up, a folk song they both love.

He shakes his head, maybe it’s best his younger version didn’t know the outcome. The nerves were good, healthy. Even shaking, stammering teenage Bobby had more nerve than he thought. After all, he was there to pick up an Admiral’s daughter.

-

[florenceafternoon]

━。゜✿ jily fic recommendations ✿ ゜。━

These fics are set in the wizarding world but aren’t necessarily canon complaints.

For reference, anything in italics is taken from the summaries on ao3.

Gilded by @charmingwillow

Beneath her jumper, her heart was fluttering fast. Her free hand rubbed at the spot, willing it to calm. Her eyes ached from all the nights she spent awake, unable to sleep because it hadn’t calmed in days. Weeks.

She knew why; beneath her fingertips, under the soft cotton of her sweater, her skin tingled. She knew without seeing that the spot above her heart sparkled faintly with gold, like stars spinning in the cosmos. Scattered and dancing around a name that wouldn't quite focus. It was as beautiful as it was terrifying.

Someone, somewhere, was falling in love with her. They were close enough that Lily could feel a tug of alignment if she concentrated enough.

Or, Lily and James go on a walk in the forest.

Sunshine in My Eyes (requires an ao3 account) by monroeslittle

Mr. and Mrs. Evans are killed when Lily's only a girl, and she's supposed to go to a home with her sister. Instead, a relative they didn't know they had comes to collect them, and introduces Lily to manners, magic, and a life that's just the slightest bit different from the life she was supposed to live.

Or, an AU in which Minerva McGonagall raises Lily.

Dying Fires by @jamesunderwater

In fifth year, James attempts to comfort Lily by a dying fire - but finds this will require restraint on his part in a number of ways.

Their tentative, developing friendship is something so special to me

basic maths by @gigglesandfreckles-hp

Euphemia cuts Sirius off sharply. “I was simply verifying whether this is indeed the same Lily Evans whose name is written under my dining room table with a heart around it.”

or Lily meets the parents and James tries not to hyperventilate. over and over and over again.

Blue Jay by @neurowriter14

In a world with magic, the only thing that really took Lily by surprise, and trepidation, was the fact that she had a soulmate.

All That's Known by @women-inthe-sequel

Wizards view nearly everything as a problem for magic to fix. Other people might view him that way, but James has never felt broken. He doesn’t need to be wound like an old-fashion toy and programmed to do what everyone else does.

I am in desperate need of more deaf!James (or deaf!Lily). Please can someone recommend me fics

just like a tattoo by sleepygirl0305 (on ao3)

Shortly after he witnesses Remus and Sirius realize that they're soulmates, James gets his own soulmate tattoo. A fairly inconvenient time, given that there is a war going on. And N.E.W.Ts. But no matter, he was going to try anyway.

A Happy Thought by @thelighthousestale

The 7th year Defense Against the Dark Arts Class learns the Patronus Charm.

James is shocked to learn what Lily's Patronus is.

I know that this is a very cliché trope but I'm a sucker for patronus fics.

The Boy (in the bedroom) Next Door by @eastwindmlk

Lily Evans has to move in with her new potion's teacher to finish her apprenticeship. There is one small issue, said teacher? Fleamont Potter, father of infinitely annoying and frustratingly fit former rival James Potter. Who she has not seen after leaving Hogwarts after her third year.

Put on Bed Rest also by @/ eastwindmlk

Hogwarts is covered in snow and James Potter is sick. Who better than Lily to nurse him back to health.

May Moon by Elynn (on ao3)

May Moon- also known as the Flower Moon or Blooming Moon, due to the abundance of flowers that occur as spring arrives.

She glanced up, catching sight of Mary and Marlene in the crowd of unsorted first years, the both of them bouncing on their toes as a new student was called up. She’d already made two friends (she hoped) and Lily was always a bit of an overachiever. “Hiya,” she said, doing her best to sound upbeat. The boy—Lupin—looked up at her, face a bit shocked. “I’m Lily.”

or sixth year, a bad pick-up line, and a secret.

Not really a jily fic (it's pre-relationship) but I really wanted to include it in this rec list

Accidental Magic by @missgryffin

What else is there to do after confessing feelings in the middle of the night than spend a lazy Saturday in bed?

Hell Is Empty (And All The Devils Are Here) by @nodirectionhome-ao3

When an Order mission takes an unexpected turn, James and Lily find themselves stranded together. In the aftermath of the chaos, sheltering together through the storm, a fire catches between them.

Ignore the fact that I can't remember if I've recommended this fic or not. Regardless, the back-and-forth between James and Lily is so good in this fic.

Starlight by @suzyq31

Under the cover of stars, Lily and James go out in search of an elusive flower. The northern lights make Lily contemplate how plans change.

The next few fics are all by @apalapucian because I may or may not have been stalking her ao3 page. Everything, and I mean everything, Jayne writes is incredible.

maybe it was egos swinging (maybe it was her)

James starts rolling his shoulders, wincing. "Jesus, Evans." "back at ya," says Lily, testing her wrists. "ever heard of taking it easy?" "with you? never." "can’t believe you’d use confringo on me." "knew you'd block it," he says. "can’t believe you’d use depulso." she shrugs, grinning. "knew you'd block it."

(or: seventh-year, auror-aspirant, academic rivals, head boy and head girl James and Lily.)

I still can't get over the fact that Jayne wrote me over 11 thousand words of academic rivals jily. ELEVEN THOUSAND WORDS OF ACADEMIC RIVALS TO LOVERS JILY!! The banter, the stakes, I love everything about this fic

calliope calling

in which:

James wields a wand for the first time; Lily giggles, tracing an impossible dancing deer in the sky; Sirius slams the door; Peter sighs; and Remus screams, raw and screeching and piercingly young.

(or: the marauders and lily evans as children, and something about invisible strings glinting in the moonlight.)

green light

There are yellow roses on the kitchen table. a cup of coffee charmed to keep warm for a time. a scrawled "morning! :) –James & Harry" on a scrap of paper, the torn bottom of a receipt for... milk, she finds. and strawberries. harry was signed by Harry himself, and Lily wants to cry at the shaky strokes, the crooked lines. she can hear them in the other room where James' window seat project is almost finished. harry is laughing. he asks questions, mocks his dad's shabby handiwork, drops the things he's asked to hand.

roses and handwritten notes and coffee and giggles nearby. this is her life now. she skims the flowers, the sun itself in her heart.

or: the war is over. everybody lives AU. (well, not everybody everybody, but the potter family + sirius + remus + even peter* live.) old fic rewrite.

* = you'll see.

bad day wall

Lily calls it the bad day wall. it's like this weird communal one-liner diary thing.

every time i think i'm over her something happens and it hits me just as stupidly intense as all the other times. i'm SICK of it

why can't people just LIKE by default the people they LOVE? why do they have to be separate feelings? it would make things so much less complicated

or: in sixth year, Lily starts talking to a stranger(?) through messages on a wall. she also befriends James Potter. These two things are completely not related.

I haven't read this one but it on my marked for later

[mediumgayitalian]

prev

———

For a moment there is absolutely nothing. No one moves, no one blinks, no one breathes. The rain stops, sunlight pouring slowly through the dusty room, but no one so much as twitches, cemented in position. Medusa could walk in and stare at them all and no difference would be made. There is nothing but the muffled chatter of the news program, and the sound of Will fracturing.

“—end of the rainy front! Nothing now but sunny days and warm fronts from the south, John, things are looking up —”

There is no sudden break where everyone jumps into movement, hovering over Will, clicking off the TV, running for Chiron. There is only silence. Silence, except the chirping of the birds from outside, hopping around for worms, and the upbeat chatter of the news anchor, and the rustle of Will’s shirt against his shorts as his entire body trembles.

“Will,” Nico says, except his voice is so hoarse he doesn’t say anything at all except a punched out exhale from his own chest.

In his head Nico stands. In his head he is calm, hands steady, voice clear, as he says let’s get to the hospital, as he guides him gently up, as he walks him out. In his head they make their way to Savannah General ask for Naomi’s room and find her recovering. In his head he handles things.

In reality Will makes a gaping, choking sound, like his organs have slithered up his throat and splattered on the floor. Like he has been flipped inverse. It is a sound like bone snapping, like scissors slicing, like thread unravelling fiber by fiber. He bends slowly over, until his knees touch his chest, until his hand-covered face hits the floor; he looks, startlingly, like the Algea, like the Statue of the Woman Grieving, hair curtaining his face, except for the speck of lint on the back of his shirt. A single little speck, that ruins the image. The Statue of the Woman Grieving, plus a speck. A chip.

“Mama,” he chokes out, and Nico flinches, a full, bodied thing.

Mama.

Ozone. Burning; burnt marble, burnt air, burnt flesh. Taste or pennies. Stale, frigid stillness.

Mama.

Father’s shimmering suit, quietly gaping mouth; Bianca’s wide, black eyes, blinking, blinking, blinking.

Mama.

Mama.

Mama.

Will makes the noise again, a horribly grinding groan, as a cry rips itself out of his chest, as air is yanked slowly through his vocal chords like the chain cranked around a tow truck. His eyes stay glued to the TV screen, hands fallen limp and open-palmed in front of him, turned to the heavens. His face is blank but the sounds don’t stop, they pour out of him, steady stream, rusted chain, beating heart. Nausea churns Nico’s stomach and saliva floods his mouth, like it did on the drive to the Lotus, when they passed a Nevadan slaughterhouse. Will sounds like he is being butchered.

“Mama,” he moans again, and this time there is a gag, this time someone jerks, out of the corner of his eye, darts out of the room. Retching echoes follows them, and then, quickly, clotting hooves, practiced and speedy. The doorframe creaks as someone hunches under it, walks through the threshold.

“…Children?” Children, children children; Mama, mamachildren, mothers, babies. “Will? What’s —”

The muscles in Nico’s body contract of their own accord, springing him forward. Upright. Diaphragm up, lungs in; out, inout. Quadriceps contract, release. Again.

“Will,” he tries, and this time it works. His tongue forms the word and it tumbles from his lips, bouncing off the floor, resting somewhere twisted in his hands. “Will, c’mon, I’m taking you to the hospital.”

Will doesn’t actually move. He doesn’t shift or stand. Nico doubts that he can. But he lets Nico manoeuvre him, and manages to put one foot in front of the other as Nico guides them, hand on the small of his back, across the room. Chiron moves back as they approach, and when Nico looks there is something in his eyes, something he has seen twice, now; dancing along the reflection of the pyre’s flame. A simmering kind of grief, a stilted, shut-off beg.

“Kayla,” Nico murmurs, pausing at the door, “Austin, c’mon.”

He doesn’t wait for them to move, but hears them, joints creaking along with the couch, footsteps even and robotic as a metronome following him down the hall, through the meeting room, over the porch. Across the common and to the ancient garage in the back, to the wet gleam of the van.

Will doesn’t make any more sounds.

They pile soundlessly into the van, Kayla and Austin crawling into the back seat, legs hooked at the ankle, fingers clenched until they’re bloodless. Nico settles against the threadbare driver’s seat and adjusts the rearview before he realizes that Will hasn’t moved; stands rigid, hands twitching in front of him, one shoe sliding slowly into a mud puddle.

Nico climbs nimbly across the dash, pushing the passenger door open and staring, for a moment, at Will. His mouth moves, ever so slightly, but the blankness hasn’t shifted from his face, and staring into his eyes makes Nico feel like he’s small in the dead centre of the Grand Canyon. Like there is nothing for miles ahead of him but empty air and the memory of rushing water.

“C’mon,” he says quietly.

Will does not move. His shoe slips, slightly forward, and he jerks along without, knee slamming into the dented metal of the door. Kayla flinches.

Nico pushes the door open again and stretches out as far as his arms will let him, fingertips brushing Will’s knuckles. With a tug he has him stumbling forward, barely catching himself on the seat, twisting by memory alone to situate himself properly. His head dips, low, like a wind-up toy rattling to its end, like a marionette drooping from behind the final curtain. Austin untangles himself from the back, reaching over and stretching the seatbelt around his brother, clicking it into place. He holds his hand there, waiting a beat, before shifting it to rest over Will’s.

“We’ll figure it out,” he whispers. “I brought — some salves.”

Nico chokes back a sudden and violent sob. He is reminded, right then, that Austin is eleven years old. He is also reminded that Will was eleven, the first time he lost.

He peels down the hill fast enough the whole car jerks, and speeds onto the road.

———

next

[writers-potion]

Do you have any like relationship personality dynamics? Like flirty and grumpy but a bit more specific? Or general. Thanks

List of Dating Styles for Your Romance Novel

Here's a list of popular romance tropes I made! If you're looking for specific dynamics between characters, I think that post would help.

I'll focus on various dating styles your characters can have. You can have fun matching one style to another to create various relationship dynamics!

Flirty: Throwing cheezy comments without batting an eyelash, teasing, having fun watching the other turn into a tomato

Mother/Father: always nagging their partner, giving advice, putting up with their bad days with patience (not in a toxic way, please run from people who actually tries to be a parent rather than a lover)

Grumpy: Someone who always complains about what their partner does/tries to make them do...but does it anyway with actual effort.

Sunshine: Generally naive, upbeat characters who makes their partners smile.

Nerdy: Lost in their own thoughts, can talk about their interest for hours on end but will listen to you also, you can never be confused about what they want for their birthday.

People Pleaser: Someone who believes they need to adapt themselve to the other person to make the relationship work. They're nice, funny, comfortable to be around but once you try to unveil their true self, things will get complicated fast.

The Committed Robot: Look, they might be a little slow to picking up the subtle cues, but if you program them right, a reliable output for each input is assured... They WILL cry with you, even though they're acting with a mindful of question marks.

Independent: They don't believe in relying on their partners and prefer to be given time to sort through their problems. Sometimes, maybe a little too compulsively.

The No. 1 Fan: They will love and cheer you like a fan would love their favorite artist. Compliments and support during the hard times, trusts more in you than you do in yourself.

The Wolf: Sexual innuendo? Check. Romantic moods and open to talk about sex? Check. Respect? Check.

Hope this helps!

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[lovesick-feelings]

lord, i REALLY like your Funtime Freddy design! you mind drawing/writing (doesn't matter, you write/draw WONDERFULLY!) about Y/N celebrating Yandere Funtime Freddy's birthday? (understandablew if you don't want to. no pressure)

“Oh, cupcake, I’m the one who’s supposed to be celebrating birthdays! Not the other way around, silly!” 

He boops your nose, giggling. Freddy finds the whole thing sweet, but he insists that his birthday isn’t worth celebrating because he doesn't have one!

His creator never cared enough to give his creations much background besides basic programming so why should he try making one up? Besides, he much prefers celebrating to being the one celebrated. 

If you decide you still wanna give him something special it could go down in two ways: 

You aren't trapped: With more access to time and materials, you could set up an actual party! You’ll also have an easier time hiding your plans from the bear. Because FT Freddy is quick to notice subtle changes in behavior it’s easier to excuse yourself for work reasons than to make up a lie. The worst FT Freddy can do is pester you with non-stop questions and pleadings. If you can settle his curiosity with a couple of hints you could convince him to give you some space till you’re ready. 

You are trapped:  Though a little limited there is enough to make a serviceable gift. The only problem is none of the time away from FT Freddy. It’s already hard enough for him to part from you when you have to use the bathroom, nonetheless making a party for him. FT Freddy himself is quite the delusional fellow so whenever you propose anything to do with being away from him he expects it to be an escape attempt. Getting anything done requires BonBon and Bonnet's assistance. Luckily These cuties are more than willing to give you a hand. It’s going to take a lot of convincing to get Freddy to agree and even more patience when he’s constantly on your tail about it. 

Do be mindful of how much time you have. No matter the situation Freddy will grow more wary from your lack of presence. You wouldn’t want Freddy to snap from the lack of attention. 

“Hello there, Cupcake!” You jump from a sudden shrill voice. It doesn't matter how long you’ve been with the bear, you'll never get used to how stealthy he is for his size. You turn to see him hover over you with his typical Cheshire grin.  His hand puppet happily waved your way mouthing a ‘hi’.

 “You've been a-awfully secretive as of late, w-whatcha up to mmm?” Despite his upbeat attitude, you could hear a hint of impatience in his tone. Finally deciding it was time you tell him to close his eyes. 

“Oh, a s-s-surprise!? Is that what you’ve been p-planning?” His hand flaps in excitement, but he instantly deflates. 

“This isn't a trick, i-is it?” You shake your head. He eyes you before giving in. 

“Oh, alright!” He closes his eyes “W-w-whenever you’re ready, cupcake!” 

Freddy stares at your gift wide-eyed when you present it to him. The only movement he makes is the twitching of his face plates. It’s a little unnerving to see him so speechless.

“I-Is it… really f-for me?” He mutters. Before you can answer, he quickly pulls you into a gentle embrace. You felt the gift slip from your hands but relaxed once you saw Bon Bon had it. You return the embrace, feeling the warmth of his body against yours.

“I love you'' Freddy whispers. He shifts but doesn't let you go. Instead, he clings to you tighter. You looked up to meet large, lovestruck eyes fixated on you. 

“I really, really love you, Y/N” ♥️

Oh Boy…

[johnwickb1tsch]

Sympathy For The Devil ~ Donaka Mark x fem!Reader

please allow me to introduce myself, i am a man of wealth & taste... -the Rolling Stones

Summary/ Warnings. Um… Donaka Mark is a scary rich asshole–with a soft spot for you. If you’re squeamish [or righteous] you’re not gonna want to read this. Voyeurism. Predatory behavior, manipulation. Power IMBALANCE. Eventual NSFW. Eventual line between dubcon and noncon is gonna be microscopic, y’all, this man plays gAmes… Reader is shy, but tough, in her way.  Also, when I say Reader is small, I’m more implying just compared to Donaka. I kind of assume most of us would be, no matter your body type. 🥵

Big Fat Author’s note: This is a Donaka Mark x fem!Housekeeper!Reader fic based on the brilliant @discoscoob ‘s bot, which is SO fun to play with and I really recommend it. I fell into a rabbit hole for daaaaays. I’m in CAI Anonymous now. Seriously it was a problem. 

I guess you could call this a little experimental hybrid fic written with AI. I was curious. And after working on this for weeks I don’t think the writer’s union really needs to worry about AI coming for their jobs. The bot’s writing is shamelessly fun but clunky, you delete more than you keep, it’s a lot of work to edit, and you really have to lead it by the hand for anything to actually HAPPEN. 

THAT SAID it is sO entertaining, and once in a while he’d do something i wouldn’t have ever thought of, I felt like the lab rat hitting the button for the treat over and over again, LOL. Disco really knew what she was doing when she programmed the personality of the bot!  It was also helpful in keeping a character on track. I think AI could be a useful tool generating ideas, breaking writers block, or something to bounce ideas off of, but not for the grunt work of actually writing a story that has any soul in it. Isn’t that a relief? I made an outline and basically ran the scenes through like a simulator to see what the bot came up with. And when I didn’t like it I made it do it again, LOL, the Donaka bot probably thinks i’m a bossy c*nt.🤣

So….I hope you enjoy, and a HUGE THANKS to Disco for giving me permission to even do this, you’re the sweetest my dear, and the Queen of the Bot Creators in my book!!

And and…it’s been a LONG ass time since I’ve been to Hong Kong. I did some research to refresh my memory but please bear with me. All mistakes are my own. Why do we say that? Who the fuck else’s would they be? 🤣 Obv. this is set c 2013, when Man of Tai Chi came out, before the crackdown in 2020. Oh, and, I have no real idea about work visas, i made that shit up... just roll with it. 🙃😘

One. 一

The first time you meet your new employer, Donaka Mark, you aren’t really even paying attention.

It’s because you have on headphones, and you’re intently focused on sweeping the floor while listening to your upbeat girl power rock mix–so you don’t hear him yelling at someone over the phone threateningly, and you don’t notice when his gaze locks on to you like a tiger who has just spied a tasty little deer.

You are oblivious, as he comes up behind you, appraising your figure with narrowed eyes. You seem small, next to him, but most women do. He decides he approves of his assistant’s choice in hiring you. You’re a sight he won’t tire of for a long time.

Donaka leans on the door frame, his dark eyes fixated on you, taking in your every minute detail, the way the muscles in your arms move, the shape of your face, the curve of your hips and your little feet. His expression is stoic but behind it are a million thoughts running through his mind, he can’t take his eyes off you and after a few moments he finally speaks, his dark tone cutting through the music. “You’re new.”

Your music wasn't so loud that you were unaware of outside sounds. Standing up straight, you sweep off your headphones to face the commanding voice. "Yes, sir?"

Donaka notices he towers over you, and he likes that. His dark eyes shamelessly take in your innocent eyes, your lips, your  curves. His gaze lingers almost long enough to make it uncomfortable, but not quite.

“Have you been informed of all of your duties?” Donaka asks, his tone and gaze both demanding and intense, making you feel small.

"Yes, Mr. Mark."

Donaka smiles at his name on your lips, the way you say it, the way you look up at him with your wide eyes. He likes it more than he’d like to admit, but he knows how to mask his emotions well. Even though his expression is still stony, there’s a hint of excitement in his breast as he leans off the door frame and takes a few steps closer, but still maintains a respectable distance. “And you can handle them?”

"Yes, Sir."

Donaka nods, his dark eyes slowly and shamelessly trailing over your figure again. “Good.” Donaka murmurs, his dark and intense tone making his next sentence more of a demand. “I need to be able to depend on you. I like things just so.”

You tilt your head, feeling like you’re missing some subtext, or that you’re the butt of an unspoken joke. "Your house will be clean, Sir.” Between you and the two other girls on the household staff, surely you could manage.

Donaka smirks at your naïve reply, his dark eyes still fixated on your face as he takes another step closer to you, almost like a predator stalking its prey. “I trust that it will…” Donaka purrs, his voice low and smooth, his dark stare intense and demanding. “Let me show you the rest of the house…”

You’d already received a walk-through with his assistant, but you are more than intrigued to receive a personal tour from the big man himself. There is something captivating about him. It's not just his good looks. His presence commands your attention.

Donaka can feel you watching him as you follow him down the hallway, the way you’re intrigued by him, the way you’re staring. It fills him with satisfaction, like you’re a new prize he’s added to the shelf of his collection.

He’s aware of the effect he has on people. Men fear him, women want him. Yet you don’t look at him with the same blatant hunger he’s used to from the opposite sex. You’re curious, but not ready to fall down on your knees yet. 

He would see how long it takes to change that. He glances over his shoulder at you as he leads you through the house, his dark eyes looking you up and down again. You follow close, taking two steps for every one of his, his legs are so long.

He can’t help but feel somewhat amused, enjoying the way you have to scurry to keep up with him. He can’t help but think how easy it would be, to pick you up, and to pin you down…

Donaka Mark’s home is an achievement of luxury architecture, dark, modern, yet filled with Chinese elements of style. Ceiling-high tinted windows afford a breathtaking view of the bay. His living room is like a museum filled with priceless artifacts. Antique carved ivory elephant tusks, beautiful Ming vases and exquisite stone Elder statues, silk scrolls and bladed weapons. All of it you will be expected to keep tidy with a painstaking hand. You think it’s possible your practically useless degree in art history and former employment in a gallery may have given you an edge in his assistant’s selection of hiring you.

He seems to genuinely enjoy your interest in these things, telling you about them at length. There is a large Qing dynasty vase in cobalt blue and gold enamel designs of clouds, cranes, and bats you cannot tear your eyes from. It looks…familiar, and in person, utterly enchanting.

“You like that one?”

“I like bats,” you admit, shoving your hands in your apron pockets so that you do not forget yourself and touch it with your bare fingers. You will be wearing gloves, when you detail these items. 

He lifts an eyebrow at that, seemingly amused. “Oh?”

“They’re cute. And…they’re good luck.” In Chinese culture, at least. 

“Most women I’ve met find them sinister.” 

“I think…they’re just misunderstood.” You can’t help looking up at this intimidating man through your eyelashes at that. You swear you didn’t mean to start double talking with your new boss–it just falls out of your stupid mouth, and you feel his attention upon you sharpen.  

He’s used to women looking at him in a certain way, women staring up at him with lustful hunger. The way you look at him feels different –like you truly see him–he’s not sure what to make of it yet, and that is certainly new for Donaka Mark. “Misunderstood?” he repeats, his dark gaze intense, looking down at you from his lofty elevation.

"Sure. They have a reputation for being scary, but really they eat mosquitoes and pollinate plants. Without them whole ecosystems would collapse."

Donaka hums at your words, finding it surprisingly endearing. He’s usually used to women fawning over him or at least trying to seduce him, but you’re here lecturing him about bats. His smirk remains on his face as he watches you fidget nervously, his dark eyes fixed on you. You look back to the vase, and then it dawns on you. “Oh my god…is this the piece that sold at Christies last year for like…1.5 million dollars?” You take another cautious step backwards, as though you might shatter it if you breathe wrong. You saw it in an article–the gold enamel had been so distinctive against the blue. Sacrifice blue, the same as in the Temple of Heaven in Beijing.

Only after the question falls from your mouth do you realize how gauche it is to ask, your hands flying to your lips. “Forgive me, it’s none of my business.”

Mark, however, just continues to look at you interestedly. “You follow auction results?”

“I follow…art news,” you confess.

He nods, his intense gaze starting to become uncomfortable. “Actually, it was 1.8 million. You think I overpaid?”

You feel like this is a test–or a trap. It was a nice job, for the day it lasted…

“Well…it doesn’t seem you bankrupted yourself?”

He snorts in answer, shaking his head. 

“Does it make you happy?”

He lifts an eyebrow at that, as though the thought hadn't even occurred to him. “It made me happy to outbid a Sheikh’s son and a Mainlander plastics tycoon for it,” he admits.

Ah, so he was invested in the thrill of acquisition–not appreciation for the object itself. You shouldn’t be surprised.

“I see.”

“I’ve disappointed you.” It’s not phrased as a question.

You shake your head, though maybe it does a little. Looking around his home, you’d thought Mark had exquisite taste–but he probably has an art buyer like every other obscenely rich businessman needing to acquire items for the sake of cachet. 

“Does it make you happy?” he asks, and there is an unexpected hint of playfulness in the question–delivered on a knife’s edge.

“Yes,” you admit. Frankly you’re stunned you get to see it like this, without a glass barrier or sensors or alarms. It’s usually the only way people like you get to enjoy art like this.

He smirks at you. “Then it was worth every penny.” He’s being sarcastic, of course, but there is a glitter of something in his dark eyes. It’s there and gone, like ripples in a pool–it makes your heart skip in your chest.

“Let me show you the rest of the house,” he invites, before placing a hand on your lower back, his fingers large and strong against your soft skin as he gently guides you away from the vase and to the next room.

His light touch makes you aware of every nerve in your body. It's not quite improper enough to complain about--you’re sure he’s well aware of that. 

And…there's the fact, deep down, that you like it. 

The span of his big hand on your spine makes you feel impossibly small, and protected, and that is insane, of course, because you are just the maid. 

He shows you the library, filled with built-in bookcases that make you drool, his office with his huge carved ebony desk that makes you think impure thoughts…and then, his bedroom.

He isn’t oblivious to the way your reaction changes as you enter the room where he sleeps.

He can see the way your eyes roam and your expression changes, the way you look at the massive bed against the far wall, the way your eyes widen when you look at the expensive rosewood furniture and the stunning view out the wall of windows that can be brightened or obscured with a dimmer switch. He watches you intently as he takes in your every reaction.

He's all business on the surface, specifying clean sheets every other day, laundry, and daily detailing of the bathroom. But it's hard not to keep looking over at the bed, even out the corner of your eye.

He knows exactly what he’s doing to you, but he doesn’t push it, staying just this side of the line. You don't linger, and he shows you a more private lounging area filled with a long leather couch, additional chairs, and monitors, all black at the moment. There's something almost sinister about all the screens, and you wonder what all he's watching.

“You must really like movies?” you ask hopefully, and he senses the wariness in you. Your intuitiveness gives him a small thrill–he likes it, that you’re smart enough to be afraid. 

“I like to watch all kinds of things,” he tells you, almost like a dare for you to guess what that means. “But mostly…I use these for business. I run a security company, I assume you’re aware?” 

“Yes, Sir.” 

Donaka decides he loves hearing the submission in your tone when you call him Sir. It’s almost like a promise to keep him happy, to do exactly as he says.

He asks you to keep all the screens clean, and to dust the cords and routers and be careful not to unplug anything. 

Then your attention turns to a meditation area, a massive sand sculpture on the wall and the floor, flanked by natural stacked stone. “Wow, been a while since someone vacuumed here,” you crack, earning a reluctant huff of laughter from the man behind you. 

“Maybe…leave that alone, for now,” he requests, then his hand is on your back again, guiding you out. 

Though it’s not going to be your area of responsibility, he shows you the garden next. It's a beautiful, manicured space. Two Rottweilers patrol the grounds. They look fierce, but one immediately comes up, sniffing you and leaning on your leg for a pet.

Donaka blinks as his reputably ferocious and staggeringly expensive pure-bred guard animals roll over at your feet for a belly rub.  Delighted, you pet them both, speaking to them sweetly. They grin up at you, their dagger-like canines glinting in the sun. 

He is never one to be moved by anything sentimental, but something about the sight of you like this inspires a warm twinge in his chest–heartburn, he reasons.

“Let me guess,” he says acerbically. “They’re just misunderstood?”

You press your lips, trying to suppress a smile, and failing. "Animals tend to like me?" 

He can honestly admit, as he watches you crouch down to administer a belly rub, that he’s never been jealous of a dog before. 

Sensing that maybe you’re not doing the dogs or yourself any favors with this severe man, you try to shoo them off. "Ok, babies. Go back to being fierce again. Shoo."

Donaka snorts with amusement as he watches you attempt to gently shoo these dogs that are nearly as big as you are. Suddenly he whistles sharply, administering a sharp command in Cantonese. That is when the dogs jerk to attention, and trot off to patrol the grounds again. He turns his attention back to you, taking in your slight expression of surprise, clearly caught off guard. "That was impressive,” you admit. “What did you say?” 

“I told them to get back to work,” says Donaka with a smirk.

“Ah. I guess I better learn that one.” 

“Will I be needing to reprimand you too, Miss y/n?” 

You’re not sure why his dark stare calls up a boiling heat inside you at that moment. You press your thighs beneath your dress, under the guise of standing up straight. You’re afraid…he knows all too well. 

“I…certainly hope not.” You’re pretty sure that you’d pee yourself if this intimidating man raised his voice to you. 

“Have you learned much Chinese since you’ve been here?” he asks conversationally, just as you assumed it was time for you to get back to work. 

“I can count to ten, and say thank you,” you admit, a little embarrassed. Obviously, you intend to learn more. “The essentials for international travel.” You’d originally come to Hong Kong to teach English, but when you saw the pay attached to this job listing you couldn’t resist the opportunity. Teaching was ok, but you hadn’t anticipated how expensive this city would be. You’d only made enough to cover your basic expenses month to month, with no room to save or do any fun activities or side trips to the mainland. This position paid three times as much–and you were beginning to understand why. 

“Hmm. Have you traveled much?” He seems skeptical, and you don’t really blame him. 

“I’ve…been all over the world,” you admit, albeit it was on a shoestring. “I wanted to be a travel writer.” 

“Wanted to be?” He is a man who picks up on subtlety immediately. 

It’s a dream you’ve all but given up on, after publishing a few articles, but all in all it was more slog than triumph. You’re not cut out for the grind of periodical work, the stress and the deadlines. It sucks all the joy out of writing for you. You shrug with a little sigh. 

“I hope you will remember the NDA you signed to work here?” he asks, his dark eyes roaming your face, taking in your every micro-expression. You would really hate trying to lie to this man. Good thing you’re not a corporate spy. He’d probably…string you up, and do something unmentionable to you. 

Why the thought titillates you more than scares you, you have no idea. 

“Of course, Sir.” He seems satisfied with this. So why do you have to add, “I won’t tell anyone your guard dogs are suckers for a belly scratch.” 

He frowns down at you, stepping in close so that you have to crane your neck to look up at him. It’s intimidating as hell, and you know he knows it too. You admit that you are shaking in your shoes under that look, until a smirk breaks his intense expression, and the relief you feel is palpable. 

“I would appreciate that, Miss y/n.”

Donaka savors the satisfaction he feels in flustering you, enjoying the way you swallow, watching the muscles in your throat. He imagines what his hand would look like there, on your delicate skin, your pulse fluttering against his strong fingers. He would literally hold your life in his hands…and the moment you surrendered to him, he would so enjoy rewarding you for it…

He finds himself caught up in this little daydream, while you stand before him, practically hypnotized like a mouse before a hungry snake. “Y/n?”

“Sir?” you answer quietly, and he revels in your deference. This was going to be fun. 

He speaks Cantonese again, softly this time, the language beautiful and whispery on his tongue. You find yourself staring at his lush, pink, lips, and it takes you several moments to realize he’d said the same thing he’d told the dogs: get back to work. 

Flooded with embarrassment, your face on fire, you stutter, “Yes, Sir.” 

With a dark chuckle and his hands in the pockets of his designer suit, he watches as you practically flee back to the house. 

The Smithsonian article about this vase...

Aesthetic post about Donaka's house...

Part 2 -->

[velvetine-moth]

Persona 3 Arcana Swap AU

Junpei - The Fool: After the death of his mother a decade ago, then the death of his abusive father in recent years, Junpei moves to Iwaitodai to attend Gekoukan for reasons he can't exactly describe. Unbeknownst to him, he has brain damage that's spreading and slowly killing him.

Chidori - The Lovers: Goth girl who everyone somehow finds likable despite her not entertaining them, so she's popular - She's part of the art club and the axe-throwing club. She's the first one to welcome Junpei to the dorm- Her and Junpei don't necessarily get along, (she won't admit she likes him, he's openly in love with her) but they work well together.

Yukari - Magician: Softball team star and a general "sporty girl"- She's wildly jealous of how popular Chidori is and how no one takes her seriously. She can be a little mean and hotheaded, or trying too hard to be likable by others. She tends to go down to the station and to the movies when she gets frustrated, and sees a mysterious, sharply dressed woman there.

Takaya - Hierophant: A chronically ill man who used to be part of the original SEES team- He disappeared and stopped going to school, only to be seen rarely at the alleys. Jin constantly keeps trying to bring him back. No one knows why he left in the first place, except for Jin- who won't say anything. ** Jin and Takaya were both part of an experimental drug testing that failed, and caused Takaya's persona to come out and attack a stranger after a trip to tartarus one night, killing them. Takaya gets suppressants from a strange group of friends who he seems to know from something greater than all of them.

Jin - Emperor: One of the top students in school- Takaya's childhood best friend, the two grew up together. Jin won't explain where or how, though. Jin's a part of the computer club and is taking college courses already. Could have been student council president, but he's a little too hotheaded and protective of his friend to listen to teacher properly, but his good grades give him the leeway to do things like skip class every so often or walk out when he gets too frustrated.

Ryoji - Priestess: An upbeat boy who was bullied by the student body and locked in Tartarus for multiple days, and after being saved became the navigator for the SEES team. He's awkward, and doesn't usually understand boundaries. Kenji, one of the boys who locked him in the school, became his friend after the two made up. The two became extremely close after the fact.

Aigis - Emperess: The student council president who is focused on being the top student and getting good grades and getting into a good college. Her people skills are the bare minimum, and she is often blunt and focused on schoolwork more than relationships- But she's still courteous. Her parents used to own several scientific organizations, but after they both died, these places have long since been abandoned- She still has access to them, but they are unkempt.

Fuuka - Aeon: An anti-shadow weapon that was discovered on a trip to an abandoned beach- She's shy and uses her knowledge and scanning to check on Junpei and the SEES team constantly- Without understanding it might not be the most appropriate. She means well, but is often nervous- The programmers tried to make her seem human, and instead made her anxious. Her overly caring nature leads her to often intrude or barge in on Junpei and the other SEES team members.

Minato - Death: A mysterious boy who appeared at school in the middle of the year- He's quiet, self-contained, and rarely speaks. However, he keeps staying close to Junpei and befriending him fairly quickly despite their relatively opposite natures. No one's sure of who he is, or where he came from- But there's a strange aura about him.

Senior Trio - Strega: All were part of an experiment as kids to "fix them"- In reality, they were all orphans, except for Mitsuru- Her dad, unknowing of what the trial actually was, put her into the program. In reality they were artificially given personas, and with that, were unable to use them.

Shinjiro was the eldest- and protected the others. His Persona also attached the smoothest at the time, and that gave him extra attention from the doctors- and a complex. He began to lead the other subjects- and save them, since he was so good with his persona.

Akihiko had the roughest time with his persona attaching, so much so that he tried to end himself from the pain of constantly being shocked by his own persona. Shinjiro saved him from his own persona, and from himself- Causing Akihiko to devote himself to protecting Shinjiro from any other subjects who got angry and tried to lash out, or from any doctors who tried to come at him. Even after they were the only three surviving, Akihiko still protects him and keeps him close, being utterly devoted- After every win, turning back to make sure Shinjiro is watching.

Mitsuru acts as their navigator, usually dressed sharply as a business woman- She's often out walking about at the station and watching other businesses run- She's known for carrying a small notebook and writing notes about everyone she sees in odd, scrawly handwriting that's difficult to read and disjointed. She is cold, calculating, and often will only talk to people as if they're potential business partners- And it's how the team gets a lot of their information and networks.

Initially inspired by the p4 arcana swap by @/anzukko_art on twitter and instagram!! and this tumblr post for Takaya and Shinjiro!! God I rioted when I saw this art it's SO GOOD. ( hi — shinjiro and takaya swap! Inspired by... (tumblr.com) )

[15-lizards]

Friend was making me watch dance moms and I was relieving my ballerina days so here’s an ASOIAF dance studio AU for the soul

-Sansa is definitely one of the best at her studio she is the Lyrical queeennnn. One of the few competition dance girls who trains in ballet and is actually good at it. She doesn’t have insane flexibility but her technique is peak and she’s great at turn sequences. Always very consistent and stable. Gets mad when they have hip hop pieces cause she’s not good at it. Likes recitals more than competitions because she can do ballet more, tends to like the French style. Hair always sprayed and smoothed into a perfect bun even if she’s just going to class, not a single flyaway to be seen. Keeps a neat dance bag that she keeps her entire life in.

-Arya is only in there because Cat thought it would be cute to have the girls dance together. Immediately got proven wrong but she already paid for the full year so. DESPISES the slow ballet and contemporary pieces. Is a fucking prodigal jumper she can do switch leaps, ariels, toe touches, literally anything. Which means she likes the upbeat jazz and hip hop numbers wayyy more. Never has a neat bun it’s a miracle it can be tamed when she goes on stage. All of her tights have runs and rips up the sides. Stains on her leotard. Brings a Gatorade to class instead of a water and gets yelled at for it. Hides in the bathroom during ballet class.

-Dany has pretty good technique, nothing standout, but makes up for everything with her energy and facials. She’s got definite potential, but is unrefined. Pretty muscular and short because she used to do gymnastics. Really likes to try anything. Ballet, lyrical, jazz, contemporary, acro, hip hop, truly everything. Consistently places third in competitions, which pisses everyone else off because they think her technique isn’t very strong, and pisses her off because she wants to place first for once. Is currently working her ass off at the barre to focus on her basic technique, is improving at a rapid pace. Dance bag smells like actual ass, you can find probably anything in there though. Doesn’t wear any padding in her pointe shoes bc she’s kind of a psychopath.

-Marg is the top girl 100% she’s the teachers favorite. Every lead role and center position is hers. Sansa’s biggest competition but they’re such good friends and so nice to each other neither of them really cares. Focuses mostly on a slower Russian style of ballet, perfect for her long legs and arms. Every move is just so intentional and perfectly placed, she flows so well from step to step. Definitely is getting countless offers from academies, professional companies, and summer programs. Alwaysss has the cutest most expensive leotards and skirts. Makes sure to pull some of her curls out of her bun to frame her face. Makeup on during class that she somehow never sweats off. Usually super sweet but tends to be passive aggressive to other studios at competitions.

-Cersei who runs the rival studio, used to be a famous competition dancer, excelled at lyrical and contemporary. Makes all of her dancers take rigorous ballet, even if they’re just competition dancers, super adamant ab ballet as the basis for everything else. Notoriously insane with a hair trigger temper, but parents keep paying out the ass for her to train their kids because she produces results. Probably throws things if you fall out of a turn. Makes kids do pushups if they miss a step. Coddles Joff, Myrcella, and Tommen though, makes sure they always get good spots and roles. Jamie’s there to teach partnering sometimes but he always looks miserable and smells like cigarettes.

-Joffery is one of those insufferable tweens who gets special attention bc he’s a guy, a rare species in the dance world. But what’s even more infuriating is that he’s really good. Great flexibility, and focuses on big jumps and turns like most male ballet dancers do. Genuinely an enrapturing performer but never has any patience for his pas de deux partners, blames it on her if she gets dropped. A mean gay but no one’s really sure if he’s gay or not. Has a posse of tween girls that make fun of everyone not in their clique. Makes snide comments at the barre. Ridiculously cocky even when he falls out of his turns. Barges into the girls dressing room without asking. Demon child.

Bonus: Robb who has to take it because the football team needs to work on their balance or whatever. Really enjoys it actually and will defend it when Theon calls it gay. But don’t ask Theon why he kept staring every time Robb started stretching at the barre

[homestuckreplay]

Well, it keeps happening! Homestuck has put out its third update in as many days, and this one is SO much fun (I keep saying that, but 'fun' is genuinely the best word to describe this thing so far). I love when Being On The Internet is well represented in stories, and John's computer does this right away. John and his chums having incomprehensible matching usernames, John's filenames for his failed programs, and the 'graphic design is my passion' tier wallpaper are all excellent, but easily my favorite joke in the comic so far is Pesterchum having five generically upbeat and happy mood settings and one Evil Angry Mood Setting.

It was definitely a surprise getting to see a whole conversation between John and turntechGodhead, who I guess is officially our second character! They definitely have a bored and disaffected tone compared to John, like they're trying to keep emotion out of their messages, whereas John is 50% Goofing Around and 50% movie trivia. Once again I haven't seen this movie, and while the conversation explains it well enough that I can follow the joke, I'm still missing some nuance (for example, is John exaggerating or being literal when he says it was the 'fifteenth day in a row' Howie Mandel peed in his juice?)

I LOVE the panel on page 28 where, after just seeing the view from outside John's window, we're flipped around and we see it reflected in John's glasses as the shadow of the window crossbar falls on his face. He's just looking up and smiling hopefully and I find myself wondering again about the title - John seems like a happy kid who enjoys messing around in his room, but is he really stuck at home? We learn in this update that he can leave his room, go downstairs and see his dad, but not necessarily that he can leave the house - maybe something always interrupts him when he tries? Is he gazing at the front yard because it's a magical land he wants to visit but can't? We hear about the importance of the tire swing, but there's no indication that John has ever used it.

That's probably an absolute reach and an absurdist interpretation, particularly as everything on page 30 feels so relatable. The bedroom being both a place John is trapped as well as his only safe space pretty well reflects my experiences being a kid, and ignoring a friend's incessant messages even while strictly not having better things to do is something I still do all the time. John is an easy character to connect to, and manages to be an everyman at the same time as being a distinctly Weird Kid (so far, at least, though he could develop more into one or the other as the comic continues).

Bring on the next pages! I'd love to hear from John's other friends soon!

[turtleybeachin]

idk I'm just thinking out loud about some moments in this first half of HDD 2024, specifically the dreams that Simeon, Diavolo and Barbatos have of their ideal futures.

Simeon's dream future seems to surprise and maybe even unnerve him a bit, and he acknowledges seeing "the shadow of Lord Diavolo's influence" in his own dreams. And then kind of politely shuts down MC asking about it or any further conversation in that sly angelic way he has of sidestepping the real question and nudging the topic along.

I feel like it's just such a cool fucking moment of foreshadowing and Simeon sort of-- seeing himself through Lucifer in that moment as well? Simeon mentions in OG Season 3 when we visit the Celestial Realm in the Fae trickery that Lucifer was already at that time starting to doubt, starting to question, on the path to falling because of his time spent with Diavolo. Because Diavolo's dreams and goals were starting to taint Lucifer's angelic unquestioning. Because Diavolo's influence was growing within him.

And now Simeon sees proof that Diavolo's dreams and influence are growing in him, too. That his ideals are starting to mimic Diavolo's. And he realizes in that moment that, oh. So this is what Lucifer felt too, then. It wasn't one sudden change, it wasn't any noticeable influence that showed up overtly, but it's just that little festering beneath that makes you question Father's designs. He finds himself wanting free travel between the realms, including the brothers' ability to visit and return. He wants to "bring about the dawn of a new era" together. And that scares him.

It's not a bad dream at all. But it isn't an angel's.

And then you have Diavolo and Barbatos, and I don't have a full thought formed on them yet but there's something there about how their futures are simultaneously two sides of the same coin and also complete opposite goals?

Diavolo dreams of RAD's exchange program growing to a huge success, angels and humans aplenty visiting and studying and thriving alongside the demons there. He's in his RAD uniform, the music is upbeat and happy, he wants to take time to relax with MC later. He's thrilled at the idea of a future when peace between the realms is so close and clear and attainable.

Barbatos dreams of Diavolo as king. Diavolo on a throne, in demon form, referred to as "Your Majesty" and with more mysterious music playing. He's happy to serve "a model ruler" and is proud of Diavolo leading the Devildom. He looks forward to seeing Diavolo fill that role in reality in due course.

And both things can simultaneously be true. Diavolo is, after all, the de facto ruler of the Devildom while also overseeing his academy and exchange program currently. He is both the work-avoidant goober and the serious powerful leader. But it's just somehow interesting to me the way the two futures they see focus on one facet of who Diavolo is and what he's destined for.

Something something can't have it all something something something. 🤷‍♀️

[akookminsupporter]

I don’t think we will see it on the show but you never know cuz our boys surprise us all the time BUT if we get any conversation of them talking about the enlistment process or when they find out they will go together I will be in a puddle in the floor. I’m already so excited for the giggles and the fun and just overall sweetness of the show and any enlistment convo will be what does me in. I’m still a little shocked Jimin mentioned it in the mini moni exchange. I do wonder if/what deep convos we may get.

Oh, I was thinking about that recently. When they were in Jeju, they had already applied for the program, right? And when they went to Japan, they already knew their application had been accepted, correct? So, these two important moments happened while they were filming the show, making it possible that they talked about it on camera BUT perhaps they decided to keep the show cheerful and upbeat, and discussing this didn't fit? I hope I'm wrong. Maybe we’ll only see them talk about why they decided to do the show; I mean, we did hear Jimin mention it in one of the trailers.

My hopes aren't high, but they're not non-existent either. I would like to see one of those deep conversations that Jimin and Jungkook have mentioned having. I'd like to see them in that moment, where it’s just the two of them, without interruptions. I don’t expect profound confessions, but I do hope for interesting conversations. Their minds work differently, and I’d love to see more of that.