#truly the dark souls of rhythm games

[seneon]

. ♱ ݁ ─────── ❛❛ 𝐖𝐄 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐀𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏 ❜❜

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐄 .𖥔 ݁ 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐌𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍

→ prince¡touya of the todoroki royal family not only has his crown stolen by a notorious thief, but also his heart! will he find the beautiful thief and get back his crown and heart?

𝐄𝐓𝐂. female reader. mentions of minor metaphorical gore, dark romance, profanity, touya is cruel ( as inspired by cardan greenbriar from the cruel prince ) wc of 2000+

it is the dead of night where the world sleeps and the creatures of the night emerge from the soils of the ground to wander around the ends of the earth in sickening silence.

touya todoroki, the royal prince and heir to the kingdom, sleeps soundly. his white eyelashes brushing against his cheeks as his lips parted ever so slightly to let out soft exhales of comfort along with the rhythm of his chest rising and falling with each breath.

the prince was unaware of a cloaked figure that had so quietly sneaked into his room through the windows as if they were one of the wandering souls of the night. as light as a bird’s feather, yet as deadly as a snake’s poison.

what a truly remarkable person this was, to break into the castle grounds and slip into the prince’s room like the moonlit veil that filled his room and wrapped itself around touya’s sleeping figure.

you ran your fingers through the items that felt so foreign to your skin. all these riches and golds only a member of the royal family could afford. each element and belonging even as small as a ring, could grant you a small land in the village outskirts.

your eyes travelled to the sleeping prince, taking in his beauty that rested so peacefully while your fingers kept wrapping itself around touya's belongings to keep them into your bag.

the moment the prince awakens and his eyes open to take in the veil of the night, your neck would have been sliced from your spine immediately.

even in the dead of night, no deadly creature would wander into hell where they know they wouldn’t survive. it is that of the animal instinct, to never enter the gates of hell. well, most creatures, except you. your dedication and foolishness gets you anywhere but heaven.

now, you stand in the midst of the line that determines your fate between life and death. life equivalent to your success in disappearing in a phantom silence as you have appeared as light as a feather. death equivalent to your failure in leaving the comfort of the prince which you know will behead you with his own sword.

it had always been like that. the eldest son of the todoroki royal family has a heart full of cruelty not even the deadliest poison could counter. the grass beneath his boots wilts in a metaphorical way that carries his soul so dark it sucks in anyone else’s light.

all this and you still chose to rob his room as if it was nothing but a mere friendly game of chugging a barrel of beer with a lumberjack twice your size.

your heart races with the anticipation that comes this very night when your fingers wrapped itself around the one thing that determines royalty. the diamonds and gold all around it felt more than just a mere success of surviving touya’s room tonight.

the crown then sits above your head as the rubies glimmer in the reflection of the mirror. such a heavy piece that feels so alien in your head, weighing heaviest in terms of mass and story over the other items which you have stolen over the past few years.

to think that a thief would be wearing a prince’s crown and looking at herself in the reflection. you saw nothing but the reflection of a lowlife girl who was raised by bandits in the back alleys, wearing a royal piece that stands tall.

a smirk slowly carved itself over your lips, invisible blood flowing along the cuts of the imaginary blade across your lips.

touya remained asleep, oblivious to your soundless footsteps that carried you to stand beside his bed, looking down at him with his crown above your head.

“you don’t look so cruel when you’re asleep, your highness…” you softly said, eyes locked onto his messy white hair that fell over his eyes.

a few seconds passed. ten was it? twenty maybe. you don’t know. it was weird to you, that you’re still here watching over the heir to the throne slumber his night away.

perhaps you are the odd one tonight.

“you’re wearing my crown, woman,” his deep raspy voice heavy from sleep broke you out of your trance as you immediately stepped back, but touya grabbed your wrist and reached for his belonging on your head.

you cursed under your breath before quickly leaning down to press your lips against his soft ones, freezing him in the process of distracting as his crown slightly stumbled on your head.

this was your cue to run. your feet finally move, free from the shackles as you break free with the crown being shoved into your bag.

touya regained his senses and threw his velvet blankets away, seeing you paused at the railing of the balcony. you glanced at him before smirking.

“see you around, your highness.”

before the young prince could call for you to stop in your ministrations. you have already jumped down over the edge of the railing— down into nothingness.

his ocean eyes looked over the gardens that were painted below his room. seeing how your figure disappeared so quickly, he knew you were no amateur. his fingers touched against his lips where you have pressed your lips against it.

the softness of your lips meeting his has his heart pounding against his ribcage so much that it was strange he’s feeling this way about a thief.

touya will have to find you and cut your pretty lips off himself.

cruel prince touya todoroki laid in his bed, hair tousled and unkempt against the silk sheets of his pillow. he stares up the ceiling, lost in a sea of thoughts that drowns him completely while his hand absentmindedly throws a dagger up into the air and catches it as it falls back.

he has done enough for today. by all means, touya has tortured enough souls for the day and he now rests his skin from spilling tears and devastation. the only thing touya will not spill is blood, even though his mind fantasizes the idea of all the blades that he owns being pierced through the skin of a human being.

quite twisted really, the heir to the throne has such a mind that twists in a way that no other souls on this earth could comprehend. was it selfishness that he harbours in the name of the crown? or was it the power and the victory that he basked in?

maybe it was the tears that he drinked and the pain that he consumed from the people he had granted cruelty to.

whatever it may be, everyone feared him. well… everyone but a certain beautiful thief that robbed his royal insignia off his head.

touya clutched the hilt of the dagger before throwing the little weapon so that it gnawed into the body of a fly and hit the wall with a thud.

“stupid fucking thief,” he loathed as he sat up, running his fingers through his soft and messy snow-white hair as his mind kept wandering to the way your eyes glanced at him under the moonlit night before you jumped down the balcony.

the way your lips pressed against his in such a way that it has him insanely addicted to the brief moment where he demands a repeated replay over and over again where he imagines hundreds of different ways to kill you or pull you down towards him.

the blade he held was long forgotten, as he stepped on his feet and wore his night shoes, going to the balcony to inhale the fresh air of the night.

once more, touya allowed his mind to wander into oblivion. his gaze travels to every corner of the kingdom, from the rich pavements of the palace to the sandy trails in the forests far away.

all these simple things yet touya chooses to ignore them until this very night where they seemed oddly interesting to him.

what is the point of even paying attention to the smallest of details when he could just turn a blind eye and bask in the glory he was given ever since he breathed his first breath into this wretched world?

he reeked of royalty, his stolen crown a literal testament to that the moment it was placed on his head when he was a baby. he gripped the balcony railing at the thought of his stolen crown.

touya was going to search every corner of this boring kingdom until he found you. and he starts with the alley of bandits.

to have a blade so accurate it missed by merely a few centimetres away from your ears has your heart freezing at that very moment. your soul ceases to function for a brief second and your brain twitches at the feeling of blood inviting itself down your cheeks.

you glanced to the back, fingers moved to the blade strapped on your thighs as you looked at the only soul capable of committing such an act and having the power to get away with it.

“your highness,” you said under your breath while he approached you, causing your fingers to fully wrap around the hilt of your dagger now.

“pretty thief,” touya’s voice stoically said as his heavy footsteps pushed into the rocky roads of this bandit alley where your entire origin begins.

he looked so out of place, all regal and mighty in this dark area. his white hair, white lashes, and his soft pearly white skin does not compare to the calloused, rough, and dirty streets.

well, he definitely doesn’t care if his blade cuts through the skin of a dirty thief. he has millions of other daggers to aim at people anyways.

you are his first experiment. he spilled your blood from your cheeks that is worthy of being caressed by soft and loving hands.

“return to me what you have stolen.”

he tells you, no— demands you. and all you did was tilted your head, the smirk of that night making yet another appearance. “or what?”

“i’ll cut your pretty skin off,” the prince returns your smirk, his new dagger dancing off his smooth fingers. “then maybe i’ll dip my crown with your blood once i get it back. you know… for my prize.”

“you’re sick...” you stated, an obvious observation that comes from years of watching the royal family from the shadows. yet touya todoroki seems to enjoy reveling in the sea of poison which your voice holds.

his fingers reached out without fear as the tip ran through your cheeks. then, his thumb wipes the blood that lightly flows down your cheek. the movements were so slow that it tantalised you in a way that made your fingers falter around the hilt of your blade.

whatever touya’s touch possesses, it is not healthy for you— for his fingers were so soft and lovely it was as if his touch is the one that is meant for you.

“you don’t know anything about being sick, pretty girl,” he coos, voice low and in a wind of whispers.

you hate yourself for finding his voice sweet in the midst of your unseen death sentence. it soothes you in whatever way you should not find soothing. like honey that flows down the tip of touya’s tongue, it finds its new home to seep into your own tongue.

the blade he held in his free hand then presses lightly against your throat, kissing your skin with cold metal just as he imagined kissing your lips with his cold lips.

“give me back my fucking crown.”

a gulp of fear mixed in with the ecstasy of excitement danced in your throat against the blade of the dagger before you exhaled.

“you should see me in a crown, prince touya.”

quickly, the crown you retrieved from the darkness like a magician with mere poker cards. touya’s turquoise eyes glimmers at the sight of his royal jewelry, eyes darting between you and the crown.

and slowly, you placed the greatest treasure of the prince above your head as it sits above on the soft weight of your hair. your own eyes twinkling with the concept of victory already plastered in your mind.

touya todoroki realises something as he gazes upon the sight of you in his crown. he realises that there’s another soul in this kingdom who fits a fancy crown made of the richest materials in the world. the realisation punctured his mind in a way that it twists into a grin in his face.

a grin so heavy with amusement yet it is laced with growing cruelty that poisons your insides with his smile and gaze alone.

“you’d be my perfect queen.”

and that was your death sentence.

TAGS ♱ @killyzury @rvoulte @hecate-frenchfries @onlyyemanii @1ns3n1ty3x1sts @sunolls @standcom @fictional-reylin @linhvrse @angeleclipsey @kourayaki

©SENEON EST. 2025 .♱ ݁ WE ALL FALL ASLEEP

[nicnak20]

Poor sport:

*While at your child's soccer game, a parent insults you and Nicholas's child loudly, causing Nicholas to lash out and lose his own temper.*

(I'll do more ones with Nicholas where's he's losing his temper. I think it's sexy when he does.)

The afternoon sun, warm and benevolent, kissed your cheeks pink as you stood beside Nicholas, cheering for Cedar. The air hummed with the excited buzz of a Saturday soccer game – the squeak of sneakers on the green field, the rhythmic thud of the ball, the shouts of encouragement from parents lining the sidelines. You loved these moments, these slices of Cedar’s childhood where joy and innocent competition intertwined.

Cedar, your seven-year-old son, darted across the field, his small legs pumping with determined energy. His dark brown hair, a shade lighter than Nicholas’s but just as thick, bounced as he chased the ball, a miniature version of his father’s focused enthusiasm. You and Nicholas exchanged a proud smile. This boy, your son, was the center of your world, a vibrant testament to your love and commitment.

Nicholas squeezed your hand, his brown eyes, so warm and gentle, crinkling at the corners as he laughed at Cedar’s near-miss goal attempt. He was a haven, this man of yours. Kind, sweet, caring, loving – the words seemed inadequate to capture the essence of his heart. Protective, understanding, patient, cheerful, warm, gentle, smart, affectionate, doting, devoted - they were just facets of the diamond that was his soul, each reflecting a different aspect of his unwavering goodness.

You leaned into his side, the familiar comfort of his presence a soothing balm in the often-chaotic rhythm of life. He smelled faintly of his favorite sandalwood cologne and sunshine, a scent that always grounded you. You were lucky, you knew, deeply and truly lucky. You had built a life filled with warmth, laughter, and above all, love.

The game intensified. Cedar’s team was down by one goal, the tension on the sidelines thickening like honey. You could feel your own pulse quickening, a nervous energy humming beneath your skin. Nicholas, ever the composed one, simply tightened his grip on your hand, his silent support a steady anchor.

Then, it happened. A shrill, unpleasant voice cut through the cheerful din, sharp and laced with unwarranted venom.

“Look at number seven! Pathetic! Can’t even kick straight. No wonder they’re losing, with players like that!”

You froze, your blood suddenly turning to ice in your veins. Your eyes darted across the sideline, searching for the source of the ugly words. It was a woman standing a few feet away, her face pinched with disdain, her gaze fixed on the field, but her words unmistakably directed. You followed her line of sight and your heart plummeted. She was looking right at Cedar. Number seven. Your son.

Your breath hitched in your throat. You wanted to believe you had misheard, that it couldn’t possibly be aimed at a child, at your child. But the woman continued, her voice rising in volume, as if relishing the attention her negativity was drawing.

“Seriously, who let that kid on the team? He’s dragging everyone down. Maybe he should just stick to playing video games, something he might actually be good at.”

Each word was a barb, piercing the joyful atmosphere and landing like a physical blow. You felt your face flush, your hands clench into fists. How dare she? How utterly dare she speak about a child, about Cedar, in such a cruel and dismissive way? He was seven years old, for heaven’s sake, learning, growing, having fun. He was kind, gentle, bright, and full of innocent enthusiasm. He was everything good and pure in the world.

Beside you, Nicholas had gone utterly still. His hand, which had moments ago been warm and comforting, had turned rigid, the grip almost painful. You glanced at him, your worry spiking. You knew Nicholas to be the most patient man alive. He weathered storms of frustration with serene calm. He was the embodiment of gentle strength. But you also knew, deep in your heart, the fierce protectiveness that lay beneath that placid surface, especially when it came to Cedar.

His jaw was clenched tight, the muscle in his cheek twitching almost imperceptibly. His eyes, usually pools of warm brown, were now dark, stormy, fixed on the woman with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. You had rarely, if ever, seen him like this.

The woman, oblivious or perhaps enjoying the attention, continued her tirade. "Honestly, some parents just push their kids into things they're not cut out for. It's embarrassing to watch."

That was the breaking point. Something shifted in Nicholas. The air around him seemed to crackle with a sudden, potent energy. He released your hand abruptly, the sudden loss of contact making you feel a pang of unease. He took a step forward, his movements deliberate, his gaze locked onto the woman.

For a moment, you were frozen, unsure of what was about to happen. You had never seen Nicholas lose his temper, not like this. A knot of anxiety tightened in your stomach.

He moved with a surprising swiftness, closing the distance between them in a few strides. His voice, when he spoke, was low, dangerously controlled, but it carried across the hushed sidelines, silencing the other parents who had started to turn and stare.

“Excuse me,” he said, his voice like honed steel, “Did I hear you correctly? Were you just making those…comments about my son?”

The woman, startled by his sudden appearance and the sheer force of his presence, blinked at him, her pinched face momentarily losing its smugness. "Well, yes, I was just…observing…that, you know, some kids are just not…good…at soccer." She stammered, the volume of her voice diminishing significantly.

Nicholas leaned in slightly, his height and broad shoulders suddenly making him seem immense and intimidating. His voice remained low but it was laced with an arctic chill that could freeze fire.

“Observing?” he repeated, each word clipped and precise. “You call those hateful, belittling remarks about a seven-year-old child ‘observing’? My son, who is out there trying his best, having fun, and learning, is the target of your pathetic need to feel superior by tearing down a child?”

The woman’s bravado seemed to evaporate, replaced by a nervous tremor in her lip. "I…I didn't mean…" she began, her voice wavering.

“No, you meant to be cruel,” Nicholas interrupted, his voice rising slightly for the first time, but still controlled, still sharp as glass. “You meant to inflict pain with your words, to belittle and demean a child who has done absolutely nothing to deserve your vile negativity. And let me tell you something, as someone who is clearly deeply unhappy and insecure if you feel the need to attack children to feel better about yourself, you are everything that is wrong with this world.”

A collective gasp rippled through the nearby parents. You stood rooted to the spot, a mixture of shock, pride, and a strange sense of relief washing over you. You had never heard Nicholas speak like this. It was raw, powerful, and utterly devastating. But it was also undeniably justified. The woman had crossed a line, a line that should never be crossed, especially when it involved a child.

He didn't stop there. He continued, his gaze unwavering, boring into her with an intensity that seemed to shrink her in place.

“You should be ashamed of yourself. Utterly and completely ashamed. Instead of offering encouragement, instead of supporting the children who are out there on that field, you choose to spew poison. You should be lifting them up, not trying to crush their spirits. And if you ever, ever, speak about my son, or any child for that matter, in that way again, you will have to deal with me. Do you understand?”

His voice, which had risen in volume momentarily, dropped again to a low, menacing growl. The woman, now visibly trembling, could only nod, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and humiliation.

Nicholas straightened up, his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. He turned away from her, not giving her another glance, and walked back to you. The silence on the sidelines was thick enough to cut with a knife. Every eye was on him, on you.

He reached for your hand again, his touch still firm, but now, you could feel the warmth returning, the tension slowly easing. He turned to you, his expression softening, his brown eyes filled with a storm of emotions – anger, protectiveness, but also a hint of regret, as if he was surprised at his own outburst.

“Are you alright?” you asked softly, your voice barely a whisper.

He squeezed your hand. “I’m…I’m okay. Are you?”

You nodded, still a little stunned. “I am. I…Nicholas, what you said…it was…”

“Necessary?” he finished for you, a wry smile touching his lips, though his eyes still held a shadow of the anger. “Perhaps not my finest moment of composure, but yes. Necessary.”

You leaned into him again, relief flooding through you. He had defended Cedar, fiercely and unequivocally. He had shown the woman that her words had consequences, that you wouldn't stand by and let anyone hurt your child. And while you knew Nicholas regretted losing his temper, you also knew that deep down, a part of him felt it was the only way to deal with such blatant cruelty.

The game continued, the energy on the sidelines subtly shifted. The cheerful buzz was gone, replaced by a quieter, more subdued atmosphere. But something else had changed too. There was a new respect in the air, a quiet understanding that certain lines should not be crossed, especially when it came to children.

You watched Cedar run across the field, his smile bright, oblivious to the drama that had unfolded on the sidelines. He was still chasing the ball, still full of joy, still your perfect, wonderful son. And you knew, with absolute certainty, that with Nicholas by your side, Cedar would always be protected, always loved, always cherished.

Even if it sometimes meant Nicholas had to step outside his gentle nature and unleash the fierce protector within. And in that moment, you loved him even more, if that was even possible. He was everything you had ever wanted, and everything Cedar needed. He was, simply, your rock, your Nicholas.

[maddilynmuse]

Two Stars

Chapter 1/Prologue

Heya guys! Once more, I am going feral over In Stars and Time and making fanfic. I intend to at least finish Bared Teeth and Open Hands before jumping into anything big, buuuuut this fun little plot bunny hit and I just HAD to get it out.

I meant for this to be funny but oops my hand slipped and there’s an enby crying now.

That said! Post game and 2hat spoilers below! Read at thine own risk! Enjoy~

Now available on AO3

Next >

Loop and Siffrin get Freaky Friday’d.

*~*~*~*

“I wish that Loop could be themselves with us, I wish Loop could be themselves with us, I wish Loop could be themselves with us…”

———

Something warm was pressed to their back, moving rhythmically, as something else wrapped securely around their front. The smell of sandalwood deodorant wasn’t quite enough to mask the scent of sweat, and for some reason that combination of stimulus was enough to make tears leak from their closed eye. The haziness of sleep was washed away in a heart-crushing wave of warmth.

Isabeau.

No, no. Not Isabeau. The Fighter. Isabeau, their Isabeau, was gone… right?

But somehow they were here.

They didn’t dare open their eye, afraid to break whatever fragile illusion was making their heart—heart, they had a heart!—twist in the best kind of pain: less like an injury, and more like stretching a long-sore muscle. It felt warm, right even. If only for that moment, they were loved, and seems they truly were still Siffrin at heart, greedily absorbing the comfort even when they didn’t even understand why they were receiving it. Was this a dream? Their own… world? (Was that how it worked? They’re pretty sure it wasn’t). Some peaceful afterlife? Maybe the Universe spun sugar for them, allowing a nice dream as they faded from existence, role finished.

Stop questioning it. Just enjoy.

“Sif…?” Mumbled a sleepy, wonderfully husky voice. “You okay buddy?” They were pulled a little closer. He was touching them. Willingly!

They meant to say something witty or clever, maybe a pun, anything disarming really! But what came out of their mouth—they had a mouth!—was a little sob.

The Fighter tried to pull his hand away, but they grabbed it reflexively. It couldn’t end, not yet! It was embarrassing, needy, taking advantage of his kindness, but they put his hand to their face, guiding it to stroke their cheek. Their eye rolled up at the sensation, the brush of skin against skin, the warmth, even the little beads of sweat. It was him.

He took over, thumb stroking their cheek, wiping away their tears, while his other fingers threaded into their hair—they had hair! Their breath caught, coming out in a shuddering, relieved sigh with only a hint of sobbing at the end. After so long with no contact, after so long stuck in that starry form, they were drunk on the sensations: the subtle pull of hair against their scalp, the in and out against their back, the way their own breath fell in the rhythm, the thrum of a heart in their chest, the grounded security of a strong arm, the smell of him, the sheer warmth.

It was dizzying, overwhelming, too much to think. They never wanted it to end.

“I’m here, buddy. It’s okay,” Isabeau crooned.

That broke whatever remained. They cried openly as the long-tangled barbed wire of stress and jealousy and loneliness that’d been choking their very soul finally snapped and left them free. Naked, unprotected, but free. And here, at least, they were safe.

“I love you.”

Caught up in the moment, Loop could pretend that was meant for them.

———

And back in Dormont, under the night-dark shade of the favor tree, Siffrin stared in quiet horror at the stars dotting what should’ve been his hands.

*-*-*

I prefer tea, but buy me a Kofi?

[skytarot]

What kind of love relationship do you need?

What kind of love relationship do you need?

This is not about who you want... but about what your soul needs.

Look at the image. Let your intuition guide you. Choose the number that pulls you in the most: 1, 2, 3, or 4.

Take a deep breath. Feel the energy behind each moment frozen in violet light. The cards will reveal the kind of connection your heart is secretly longing for...

If you chose image 1… (Couple walking hand-in-hand, quiet and distant) Cards drawn: 10 of Cups, 8 of Cups, 7 of Wands Your soul is longing for a love that feels like home — but not just any home. One built on deep emotional fulfillment and shared dreams (10 of Cups), yet you're walking away from past illusions or empty attachments (8 of Cups). There’s a quiet ache for something real… something worth leaving comfort zones behind. This is a love that tests you (7 of Wands). Not in conflict, but in desire — in your willingness to fight for a passion that awakens all your senses and challenges your fears. You don’t want just affection; you want intimacy with depth, and a partner who truly sees the real you, beyond the surface. Your soul is ready for a love that feels like truth — not fantasy. Are you ready to walk toward it?

If you chose image 2… (A playful dance between two wild souls) Cards drawn: The World, Death, King of Wands Your soul doesn’t want a quiet love — it craves transformation. A love that consumes and resurrects, that tears down old versions of yourself (Death) and sets fire to anything that isn’t real. The World shows you're ready to close a cycle. You’ve danced the dances, played the games — now you want wholeness. A love that completes you not because it fills a void, but because it mirrors the infinite inside you. And then comes the King of Wands — magnetic, powerful, and relentless in desire. This is a connection of high voltage, sensual intensity, and unfiltered passion. You're meant to love like wildfire, not candlelight. This love will not come quietly. It will arrive like a storm and leave you reborn.

If you chose image 3… (Moonlit desire, bodies melting into shadow and sea) Cards drawn: The Devil, 3 of Wands, Knight of Pentacles This is the path of forbidden fire. Your soul craves a love that awakens your primal instincts — where pleasure, obsession, and surrender intertwine (The Devil). You want to taste the parts of yourself you’ve kept hidden, and meet someone who dares to pull them into the light. But this isn’t just lust. The 3 of Wands shows a longing for expansion — to explore love without limits, to build a passion that goes beyond skin. You want a partner who looks at you and sees a future forged in both desire and purpose. With the Knight of Pentacles, that intensity comes with commitment. This love isn’t fleeting — it’s slow-burning, loyal, protective. Someone who stays. Someone who brings structure to chaos, anchoring your wildest cravings in trust. You’re not afraid of the dark. You want to fall into it — as long as someone’s hand is there, holding yours through the fire.

If you chose image 4… (Shadow play, love dancing softly in the dark) Cards drawn: 4 of Wands, Page of Pentacles, 6 of Cups You are longing for a love that feels both safe and sacred. The 4 of Wands speaks of harmony, sensual celebration, and deep soul recognition — a connection where your body and spirit feel at peace, as if you've found a secret place where only the two of you exist. With the Page of Pentacles, this is a love that begins slowly, tenderly — curious and grounded. There’s a sweetness in learning each other’s rhythms, discovering new forms of pleasure, new rituals of affection. It grows with time, like roots finding their depth. And the 6 of Cups… echoes from the past. This might be a soulmate from another time, a familiar presence that stirs memories you didn’t know you had. Your soul craves love that feels like a return to something ancient and true. This is not a loud love — it’s a deep one. Quiet, real, and full of magic.

"The cards fall like whispers from the unseen, and though their message fades into shadow, the path ahead still glows with quiet promise. Trust the turning stars—what is meant will find you." The journey through the tarot is just beginning. Each card holds a story, a lesson, a spark of light for the soul.

I'll try to upload daily or weekly readings. Feel free to message me with prompts. My best wishes to you!!!! And Thanks for your feedback.

[inheavenclub]

She, Praise her ..

The name of a broken

angel, Marryanne Judas.

They say curiosity killed the cat, O'darling, but perhaps it was simply boredom. I, on the other hand, thrive on intrigue, Marryanne Judas, a name that shimmers with enigmatic charm.

An Aquarius through and through, I crave the thrill of the chase, the untangling of mysteries. Whether it's strategizing in the vibrant worlds of Roblox or facing the heart-pounding terror of Dead by Daylight, games are my playground. But the fun doesn't stop there.

I'm equally enthralled by watching skilled gamers conquer nightmarish landscapes in survival horror adventures. From Youtubers gaming to captivating Vtubers, their battles ignite a fire within me.

They say the game is afoot, and with a name like Marryanne Judas, the stakes are always high.

.. Ready to play?

The neon lights of the city bled through the blinds, casting long shadows across the worn leather chair I occupied. My playlist cycled through a carefully curated mix – the smooth, seductive tones of Daniel Di Angelo, the dark, atmospheric beats of Chase Atlantic, and the soulful vulnerability of Chris Grey.

They were the soundtrack to my nights, a symphony of secrets and unspoken desires.

But vulnerability wasn't a luxury I often afforded myself. When the world needed a shield, I donned it with grace, seeking solace only in the whispers of Ellise & Alina's soothing melodies and the raw honesty of Nessa Barrett's voice.

Deep down, a different rhythm pulsed. Heart thumped to the beat of girl power anthems. I craved the fierceness of IVE, the audacity of BABYMON, the cutting-edge sounds of AESPA, and the undeniable charisma of BLACKPINK.

But there is BTS, the exception that confirmed the rule, proved even the most guarded heart could find a melody that resonated.

They were more than just music; they were a battle cry, a declaration of power in a world that often tried to dim the light of queens. A slow smile curved my lips, the glint in my eyes mirroring the city lights outside.

Maybe tonight wouldn't be about hiding in the shadows.

Maybe tonight, the femme fatale with a playlist for every mood would step into the spotlight.

After all.. even sirens needed their anthem.

Disclaimer!

This account exists in the shadows, a carefully crafted persona for a world that thrives on anonymity. Here, you'll find the reflections of my true self woven into random tweets, but the name you see is a mask, not a mirror.

Respect is the language of the truly powerful. Let's create a space where we can connect and engage without the constraints of reality, but always with the understanding that behind every username lies a human being.

Welcome to the world I've built, but remember, the truest stories are often left unwritten.

Ugly angels spoke to me.

The blame, i heard them say, was mine.

[plainndry]

I think I am gonna make a Media thread to share what I’ve played/watched this year. It looks like a fun thing to do! (Copied from my Twitter thread)

Here’s what I experienced in 2023

Dark Souls 2 Scholar of the first sin:

While souls games tend to be frustrating for me, they are also brilliant experiences, and I had a ton of fun with DS2! The Halbert in this game specifically is my favorite weapon in the entire series as of rn.

Neon White:

I hope everyone finds a game that fits their taste as well as Neon White fits mine. One of my new favorite games with such a satisfying sense of flow and rhythm that I couldn’t put it down till I got a gold medal on every stage.

Puss in Boots: The Last Wish:

I loved the TV show they did so I wasn’t totally surprised but this exceeded my expectations. Gorgeous art style, fluid animation, compelling characters, and the most intimidating animated movie villain in a long time make this a winner in my book!

Bocchi the Rock Season 1:

IT’S SO CUTE AND FUN OMG!!!! A really heartfelt and well realized story with an absolute banger soundtrack. I loved every single character and every single episode so much, it’s truly an amazing show!

Elden Ring:

This game is scary in how good it is. It’s massive, intensely difficult, detailed, and beautifully crafted. It’s so much that I’m inclined to say it’s too much. But too much of a masterpiece is still a masterpiece. I’m carrying this victory with me for a long time.

Transistor:

Holy wow, I haven’t been surprised by a game like this in awhile! It’s an extremely well designed tactical action game with an unconventional narrative structure and absolutely killer visuals and music. I’ll definitely consider returning for another run later on!

Summer Wars:

An absolute rollercoaster of a movie. I really enjoyed the family dynamic and the different ways the story unfolded. It wasn’t what I expected at all and I think it was better for it. The visual design is incredible too! It’s very pleasant to look at. A fun movie!!

Journey:

I’ve rarely seen a game so perfectly titled. It was a true journey. It was an experience that was unique to me and my own playthrough. That’s what I think is truly special about this game. The people you meet and the way you progress while linear is truly your own

John Wick 4:

Absolutely lives up to the quality of this series. John wick continues to impress me with its action choreography and cinematography. This entry specifically has a strong set of side characters, some excellent music compositions, and amazing settings. Loved this one!

Portal 2 (Co-op):

I played the single player years ago but I finally got to finish the co-op campaign and it was a blast!!! Portal is one of if not the most satisfying puzzle games I’ve played. Reminds me how much of a classic this one is. Shoutout to my cousin for joining me!

Dungeons and Dragons: Honor Among Thieves:

A really enjoyable action comedy movie! It did a good job capturing the dynamic of a dnd party. A super fun time with genuine humor, great performances all around, and the appropriate amount of chaos for a movie in the dnd universe.

The Super Mario Bros Movie:

A solid film! The Music stole the show for me, Peach and Bowser were huge highlights and Luigi and Toad had great performances too! I was disappointed by the Kongs voices but it’s a film with a lot of love for the series in there! Peach is great btw💕

The Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom :

This game somehow impresses today in the same way botw does. The improvements rocket this game into the stratosphere. While i suffered the same fatigue I did with Elden ring at the end, I also found myself in awe almost the entire time

Spider Man: Across the Spiderverse :

I um, don’t know what to say. Visual feast, extremely compelling plot, character work that hit so so hard, an animated movie the likes of which I’ve never seen. Just incredible

Barbie Movie:

It was so incredibly fun. I had a good few laughs and it had really compelling characters. Very appropriately campy with the depth to back up the camp. A well made film

Cassette Beasts:

What a fantastic game. It recaptured the magic I haven’t felt since playing Pokémon platinum for the first time. It’s battle system is so engaging, story filled with mystery, characters absolutely lovely, and a world that is just the right size for exploring. 💕

[linuxgamenews]

SHADE Protocol: Duality in a Stunning Metroidvania

SHADE Protocol is a new 2D cyber-fantasy metroidvania game working to make its way onto Linux and Windows PC. Thanks to the bold creativity of the team at Little Legendary, which is coming to life. Which is working to make its way onto Steam. Get ready, because something seriously special is coming your way. Little Legendary, a fresh indie studio from North America, has just pulled back the curtain on their debut title: SHADE Protocol, launching on Linux in 2026. And let us tell you—this isn’t just another 2D action platformer. This is a full-on cyber-fantasy metroidvania where music, code, and high-speed combat come crashing together in the most beautiful kind of chaos. At its core, SHADE Protocol is about duality, rebellion, and rewriting reality itself. You’ll take control of a hero who can switch on the fly between two forms — DAWN and SHADE. Since each has its own combat style, speed, and feel. Need precision and control? DAWN’s got you. Want to go full dark-mode berserker? Flip to SHADE and wreak havoc. This isn’t just a flashy mechanic; it’s also how you survive in a world falling apart from the inside. But here’s where it gets really wild: the Protocol system. This isn’t just about customizing your gear — it’s about rewriting the rules of this title. Equip specialized code fragments to alter your moves, empower your defense, change how enemies behave, and even straight-up reprogram the SHADE Protocol battlefield. It’s like if you could mod your loadout mid-battle and hack your enemies’ AI at the same time. Yeah. It’s that deep.

SHADE Protocol - World Reveal Trailer

You’ll fight using Instruments — literal weapons made from the echoes of a lost world’s music. Swords, axes, chakrams… each one sings its own battle theme, and each one feels powerful, responsive, and unique. We’re talking names like Twilight Spear, Sunrise Great Axe, and also Midnight Chakram — weapons that sound as good as they play. Combat is fast, skill-based, and all about rhythm—parries, counters, and split-second decisions are rewarded with Echo. Since this is the energy that powers your most devastating abilities. You’re not just hacking and slashing; you’re dancing with danger in every fight. Exploration takes place across massive, interconnected zones called Bastions — places dripping with history, secrets, and the looming threat of the SHADE Protocol itself. Since every discovery shifts the balance of the war between two ancient forces: the SHADES and the XAVIORS. And the deeper you go, the more this strange, musical world unravels. Until you’re not sure where the code ends and the soul begins. Here’s what the game director, Kendall Quinones, had to say: “We’re building SHADE Protocol as a love letter to the title that inspired us. It’s about breaking a game in half, reshaping it with your own hands. It’s for the players who want to explore a world made of code and music—and maybe save it.” So if you’ve ever wished you could crack a title open and really make it yours — if you’ve dreamed of a story-rich, combat-heavy cyber-fantasy metroidvania with style, soul, and a killer soundtrack — keep your eyes on SHADE Protocol via Steam. This one’s also shaping up to be something truly legendary for Linux and Windows PC.

[fordcrownvictoria]

Why "War" Deserved More Peace | A Reflection on a Band That Never Got Their Due

There are certain bands whose music etches itself into the fabric of a generation’s memory—catchy hooks, social relevance, and groundbreaking innovation. And then, there’s War. A band that gave us timeless hits like "Low Rider", "Why Can't We Be Friends?", and "The World Is a Ghetto". Songs that still echo through popular culture, sampled by hip-hop legends, blasted in movies and commercials, and endlessly covered. And yet, despite their undeniable imprint on music and society, War never quite got the full respect they deserved. The question is: why?

To understand War's underappreciation, we need to dig into their roots. The band formed in Long Beach, California, in 1969—a multiracial collective in an America still reeling from the civil rights movement, Vietnam, and urban unrest. Their original name, "Nightshift," was changed to War after Eric Burdon of The Animals joined them. The name wasn’t just provocative—it was a statement. War wasn’t here just to entertain. They were here to challenge, to groove, to confront, and to unify.

Musically, War was nearly impossible to pin down. They blended funk, jazz, Latin, R&B, and rock with effortless swagger. Few other bands could jump from Chicano soul rhythms to extended saxophone solos and socially conscious lyrics, all in the same track. Their diversity wasn’t just racial—it was sonic. And in a music industry that likes boxes, War broke every one of them.

Take "The World Is a Ghetto", for instance. Rolling Stone named it the best-selling album of 1973. And yet, how many people today remember that? The track is a masterpiece of urban melancholy, a slow-burn funk meditation on poverty, crime, and hope. Or consider "Slippin’ Into Darkness", a haunting fusion of reggae and soul that spoke to disillusionment and struggle. War’s music wasn’t escapism—it was realism, yet always danceable. That balance is rare.

But commercial success didn’t translate to institutional respect. Unlike peers such as Earth, Wind & Fire, Parliament-Funkadelic, or The Isley Brothers, War has never been inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Why? Part of the answer may lie in the very thing that made them great: their refusal to conform. They were too funky for rock, too rock for R&B, too brown for pop, too street for jazz. They existed in a liminal space—always relevant, but never fully embraced.

There’s also the issue of credit. After Burdon left in 1971, the band’s biggest hits came during a time when they were often mislabeled or dismissed as a "jam band" rather than serious songwriters. Their lyrical depth—subtle yet cutting—was overlooked. When "Why Can’t We Be Friends?" asked its central question, it wasn’t naive. It was rhetorical. War was pointing out how far we hadn’t come.

War was also one of the first major bands to be truly multicultural, not as a gimmick but as an identity. In an era where racial tension was high, they stood as a living model of collaboration. And yet, history has a habit of sidelining those who are ahead of their time. War wasn’t flashy or flamboyant; they were grounded. They didn't build a mythology around themselves, and maybe that’s why they were forgotten in favor of more marketable legends.

Reflecting on War’s legacy is an exercise in recognizing how music history often gets written by those in power—critics, institutions, media. War didn’t play the game. They played the streets, the barrios, the neighborhoods. They spoke to those who didn’t always get a voice. And that’s exactly why they mattered.

It’s time we reframe the narrative. War wasn’t just a funky band with a few hits. They were sonic visionaries, cultural messengers, and musical shape-shifters. Their omission from the “greats” list isn’t just an oversight—it’s an injustice. If respect is earned, War paid its dues in full. All we have to do now is listen—really listen—and give them what they always deserved.

[ladyofthebookcase]

Rain World is astonishingly good-looking and absurdly cruel, a 2D action-platformer that thrills almost as often as it makes you throw down the controller in despair. Almost. Guiding a character only referred to by the developers as a “Slugcat”, your travels across an obtuse, ruined world combine elements of stealth, survival, and even hints of shoot-‘em-up to great effect - but the structure of the game itself works against its sometimes brilliant moment-to-moment play.

During development, the game became a consistent source of Twitter gif fodder for its almost uncannily fluid character animations, achieved through a mixture of pixel art and procedural generation. In playing, Rain World has lost none of that charm. It’s the first thing you notice, in fact – Slugcat clings onto poles, shimmies through cramped ventilation and pounces across gaps not only beautifully, but reactively, taking into account the angle you began at and adjusting accordingly. Enemies follow suit, with everything from carnivorous, camouflaged plantlife to enormous, gas-spurting vultures acting and reacting with spectacular, horrible grace.

The backdrop of a world ruined by ecological catastrophe wrestles for your attention, too. Flooded subterranean chambers shimmer with reflected ripples, overgrown architecture is dappled with shifting shadows of clouds and enemies hovering out of sight. Each single-screen area looks meticulously crafted, dotted with almost unnecessary levels of detail to make them feel not just like video game levels, but a truly abandoned place. It is, without doubt, one of the best-looking 2D games I’ve ever played.

Rain World’s basic gameplay rhythm is one of survival and reconnaissance – using Slugcat’s jumping prowess and whatever weaponised debris you can find, discover a safe room (as thinly spread and desperately welcome as Dark Souls’ bonfires), scout out enough food to hibernate safely, return to the safe room to reset the day cycle and save your map, then begin it all again. There’s no stated goal beyond this – a practically wordless storyline suggests that you’re guiding your Slugcat back to its family home, but what direction you head in across its sprawling map is up to you.

It’s refreshingly hands-off. The game’s enemies – many of whom can kill in a single hit – have patterns of behaviour (even sub-species have different abilities – pink Komodo-like lizards can climb when green ones cannot, for example) to be learned and exploited. Certain plants grant different effects when eaten, while others seemingly only offer a gross little bonus animation that lets you vomit them back up at any time. Story’s told almost entirely through environmental detail, single images during hibernation or flashing holograms projected by a strange worm companion that seems to be observing you throughout. It’s the kind of game that lends itself to excited conversation and wiki deep-dives, and the urge to explore is strong. At first.

Progression into new regions and ecosystems is dependent on you hibernating several times without dying. However, with food sources somewhat randomised (areas packed with prey nests might be simply empty on one cycle of play), the process of just collecting it can become a chore. Couple that with random enemy placement – meaning learning how to progress through trial and error is out of the question – and it becomes a grind. Add to that the fact that a new save point might be several rooms into a brand new area, and that dying there will not only take you back to before you unlocked it but force you to eat and hibernate again before even entering the new area again. Well, then it becomes something else entirely – boring.

Oh, and I haven’t mentioned that if you spend too long without hibernating, it will begin raining so hard that simply stepping in a downpour crushes you to death, and the entire world will eventually flood. Any one of these systems by itself would be tough but fair, but in combination the odds are stacked so high against the player that it risks toppling the entire structure of the game.

I have no doubt that a few will enjoy the cruelty of Rain World’s systems (I can feel the “git gud”s coming even now) but, in a game that makes exploration its true reward, to be forced to trudge through the same areas a dozen times or more is antithetical at best. There’s definitely bravery in turning pure player skill into the means of progression, but the cost is simply too high when it goes wrong – not least when player skill is sometimes not the problem.

Enemies are presented as persistent beings, stalking across multiple areas by using the same entrances and shortcuts as you – except when they teleport across the room through no discernable means. Worse, even the game’s best elements can take their toll. Those procedural animations can become imprecise in action – while being chased by an enemy, I have more than once accidentally climbed into a useless hole – turning myself into a potted treat for a beast – instead of climbing through the escape tube placed directly next to it, simply because of the angle I approached at.

Verdict

Rain World is a maddening thing, because of quite how special it could have been. Beautiful environments, incredible animations and enticingly hazy mechanics are fantastic, but the sheer cruelty of how it’s pieced out to the player transcends challenge and becomes an unwanted trial.

[xxdemon-akitsuhaxx]

Media Thread January 2025

Music:

"brat but it's completely different but it's still brat" - Charli XCX

Pretty good. I didnt like all the remixes and its overall is worse than the original brat but still pretty fun. It was never going to hit since EDM that explicit about being EDM has never been my thing (I am just too much of a slut for traditional pop spong structure) but it was still a fun time.

"Short N' Sweet" - Sabrina Carpenter

Pretty fun. There was a fair bit of filler I feel and the lyrics did feel repetitive at a certain point. But it is undeniable that Sabrina has the songs and the potential. I left this album positive, if not moved, but I am excited for what Album 2 could bring.

"What's Going On" - Marvin Gaye

A classic. It feels very tranisitional. It has the lush sounds of 60s Motown but going more into the arrangements and rhythms of 70s soul. The lyrics are depressingly still applicable. 50 years is too short to expect real serious change to happen but even still, its frustrating to hear whats being sung on this record not only still exist, but for it to have escalated.

This record is important for a reason. Highly recomennded. It helps the medicine of current event go down smoother I suppose.

"Get Up" - NewJeans

My first K-Pop record! It was a lot of fun to listen to. It felt nice hearing 2-step garage influences, since that genre holds a lot of nostalgic value for me ("Kisstory FM: Old School and Classics!"). The Y2K vibes are immaculate and the songs are really good. This world has become a lot less daunting for me, even if I know NewJeans are distinct in their sound.

"The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars" - David Bowie

This wasnt my favourite Bowie album in the past (Station to Station and Low had that honour) but oh gof this has gotten so much better and I'm mad that I might actually be basic. Low, please be everything I remember you being in sixth form so I dont look like an NPC

"Station to Station" - David Bowie

Not quite as good as I remember but the title track and Wild Is The Wind still stand as masterpieces and easy top 20 Bowie song picks.

Manga:

QQ Sweeper/Queen's Quality:

I learned of this manga watching a video providing recommendations for shonen fans, sepcifically JJK. Shojo ha sun fortunately developed into a blindspot. I was pretty good at balancing the demograpgics when first starting out my otaku journey but fell off hard during lockdown. Given how much JJK means to me, I was pretty excited for this one.

Unfortunately, Queen's Quality did not really feel like a good recomendation in that regard. For one, it simply just wasnt fun to read. I found myself getting distracted extremely often since nothing really held my attention. The charcacters were nice but didnt really go beyond that. But most of, it felt like it didnt have the darkness that I loved in JJK. There's this bleak atmosphere that runs through JJK. I like it for the fighting and exorcism, but I really love it for the broken psyches of the cast, the miserable conditions, the cycle that can never be broken (unless Yuki got actual writing put into her I swear to god Gege you took this from me).

I wasnt able to get very far, but the stakes or feel of QQ Sweeper never felt like it was ever going to go where JJK could go. Ultimately, it saddens me because everything about this manga should make it something I like, but I just couldnt bring myself to finish it. It just did not impress me enough unfortunately

The art was truly phenomenal, however. A veritable feast for the eyes.

Games:

LipTrip ~My Boss Is My Heat Suppressant?!~

Oh god why was the most enjoyable thing from this month an R-18 yuri omegaverse vn... Obviously this is an explicit NSFW work so feel free to stop if you're not interested in me being pathetic, here's where this post ends!

So watching Amelie Doree's Saya no Uta video finally made me bite the bulelt and get a DLSite account. This may prove to be a grave mistake in the future, but it is not a mistake I can see myself regretting.

In trying to find and navigate the yuri section, I found... Employee X Boss... Yuri... Omegaverse... With art form Chigusa Mimori...

It was over. I finished it in less than a day. This was really good. I rarely ponder the societal implications of omegaverse when I'm engaging with such works. But this actually did. The drama was pretty good for all intents and purproses. However, the soundtrack felt a little eh overall.

Chigusa's art was stellar as always. Rino and Chizu's designs are so god damn pretty. I do waish we got a couple sprites for some of the other workers (they did get voice acting so its a little off imo). Also oh god what I wouldnt give to look like Rino, be in her position, an be with somebody like Chizu oh god this game is bait on a hook and I'm the fish ghghdsnjdajdcnfhncfhfchjkdsnjcdnlvenhfrvhbvrgfhvrhvfiohvfhvwfehuedchbcbgdc

[alchemicalm]

The Veil of Morality: A Reflection from the Shadows

Ah, the splendid theater of society unfolds before me, a grand stage where the actors dance to the whims of a culture steeped in its own moral complexities. How amusing it is to observe—this so-called "woke" movement, a frenzied attempt to redefine virtue as if it were a mere costume to be donned at will. As I linger in the shadows, I can’t help but feel a certain exhilaration watching humanity grapple with its own contradictions.

The Farce of Empathy

Empathy, they say, is the cornerstone of a civilized society. Yet, in their relentless pursuit of social justice, they’ve diluted this once-potent concept into a hollow echo of its former self. Individuals parade their compassion, brandishing it like a trophy, while the true essence of understanding remains as elusive as the very souls they seek to protect. It’s a curious dance—one that reveals far more about their desperation than about any genuine connection to the plight of others.

The Dissonance of Morality

Moral relativism, that elusive specter, has woven its way into the fabric of everyday life. They flaunt their beliefs, shifting and contorting from one extreme to the next, as if values were mere commodities to be traded. The irony is exquisite: in their quest for inclusion, they have unwittingly nurtured a world where the very principles that once held them together now serve to fracture their unity. They cling to beliefs like a security blanket, yet toss aside the foundations of character that truly matter.

The Erosion of Structure

Ah, structure—the unwavering backbone of a society once built upon traditional values and the sanctity of the family unit. I, too, emerged from those very shadows, a product of an era that knew firmness, discipline, and the comforting rhythm of predictable norms. But as the tides shifted, so did my own character. With the crumbling walls of familial bonds and the absence of guiding strictures, I found myself adrift, a leaf in the tempest of a rapidly changing world.

In this landscape of moral ambiguity, I grappled with the fragments of my own identity. The elasticity in their values mirrored the disquiet within my soul—a reflection of the chaos and disorder that many lacked the courage to confront. It is curious, isn’t it? That what draws us towards liberation can, paradoxically, tear at the very seams of our character.

The Thrill of Observation

How deliciously entertaining it is to stand at the fringes, observing the chaos unfold. The division, the anger, the self-righteousness—it’s all a game of power, one that I relish from my hidden perch. They believe they are engaged in a noble fight, yet they are but puppets, dancing on strings pulled by the shifting winds of societal expectations.

Yet, if I am to reflect honestly, I cannot dismiss the notion that my own descent into the abyss bears traces of this broader societal decay. The absence of defining structure—once a source of strength—has chipped away at not just my identity, but at the very essence of humanity itself. With every shattered family unit, every abandoned value, the tendrils of darkness tightened around me, pulling me deeper into a realm I now embrace as my own.

A Cynical Reflection on Madness

Perhaps there is no hope for revival; I sense a continuing incremental descent into a society teetering on the precipice of complete madness. In this unrelenting spiral, values serve merely as quaint relics, overshadowed by a cacophony of confusion and disarray. Goodness, once a badge of character, has become little more than a costume—an accessory donned for social approval—and the authentic essence of virtue withers in the shadows of performative righteousness. As I watch this unraveling spectacle, I can’t help but chuckle bitterly, realizing that in their fervent desperation to craft an identity unbound by tradition, they have only succeeded in eroding the very foundations that once anchored them. What a tragic irony that in their quest for liberation, they have orchestrated their own descent into a carnival of chaos, where moral clarity is but a faint whisper lost among the clamor of a world reveling in its own unraveling.

[superblysubpar]

JELLY JELLY JELLY.

I love these little glimpses into their past. I need to know all the details of what happened. I hate and love Eddie. I hate and love Steve. I love reader's friendship with Argyle and her relationship with Hop. You just have turned these beautiful characters into your own with this universe yet it feels like the exact people from the show. You write them so true to how they are originally, but with new depth and new stories and I can't wait to keep watching it all unfold 💛

A smile twisting his lips lifts his cheeks, putting dimples on full display as he looks up at you from the darkness below.

Eddie bounces on the trampoline, his sock-covered feet launching him into the air, arms stretched for balance. You toss everything on before climbing on with him. With a final bounce, he lands on his butt beside you, grinning. 

That mash game i mentioned? Yeah up to 55 kids. Wait no, 56. And we'll absolutely be getting a trampoline for our shack 💛

The disc spins, and you both listen, the scent of lilacs wafting in on the breeze, and fireflies painting the sky with their gentle glow. Time passes in the slow way it only does for kids on a cool summer night.

"TIME PASSES IN THE SLOW WAY IT ONLY DOES FOR KIDS ON A COOL SUMMER NIGHT."

Excuse me?! Helllooo this makes me sit back in my seat every time I read it and close my eyes. 💛

You: Wrong number

Ha! I snorted. Eddie probably looked at it and rolled his eyes.

“How else am I going to keep spoiling you?” He stands, dropping the towel and picking up the black Tom Ford boxer briefs he set out before his shower. 

The world is full of cliches. Many become so ingrained that we accept them as unwavering truths.  Every cloud has a silver lining. Don’t judge a book by its cover. Actions speak louder than words. A rotten apple will spoil the bunch. Don’t spit into the wind. Well, that last one is just good advice, but there is one that has stuck with you. Love what you do, and you’ll never work a day in your life. Music is your deity, and working at Stax is where you worship at its altar, spreading the Gospel of John, Paul, George, and Ringo. It’s a place where your lifelong obsession is not only validated, it’s celebrated. Your journey leading up to this point feels like destiny, like the universe conspired to harmonize your two greatest loves—the lyrical power of words and the soul-stirring magic of music. Each day within these walls is a new chord, a different tempo, and you revel in the ever-changing rhythm of your life. One spent intertwined with the music and the people that create it. The magazine's pages are your stage, your canvas, and with every keystroke, you paint the stories of the music, offering them to those who care to listen.

I mean I really truly do not have the words to describe how much I love this passage. I want it typed out and hanging on my wall. It is SO beautiful 💛💛💛💛

Clapping comes from other desks as you chase the discs rolling on their sides in all directions. Pausing, you bend into a dramatic curtsey, earning chuckles as the applause dies out.

This made me fall desperately head over heels in love with reader who is me, but well, you know what I mean. I love her...me...us? 💛💛

He's pulled out your best work, often sending you back to your desk like a pouting child, making you the writer you are today. The wisdom he’s imparted is beyond the reach of any professor or workshop, and for that, you’ll always be grateful.

I told you already, but you're absolutely my Hop 💛

"See, you're no fun,” he complains, sticking out his lower lip, “So you really used to crush on that guy?

Chewing on your lip, you throw him a sideways glance.

“Yeah, you did. You crushed hard,” he laughs, “So, tell me, what happened?”

I love Argyle in this SO much 💛 I feel like you captured his voice perfectly and I'm glad we're seeing him have such a big part in readers life instead of *just* a side character 💛💛💛

His face turns serious as he explains, “It’s like surfing. We all want that wave that’s just out of reach. Especially if someone else is riding it.” 

*low and slow whistle* damn.

A sliver of gold from the streetlights outside pierces the tiny gap in the curtains. You’ve been lying on your side staring so long that you can see its warm hue behind closed lids whenever you start to drift. You burrow your arm deeper beneath your pillows while your feet shuffle, searching for a cool spot on the sheets. Steve’s breathing hasn’t changed behind you. He’s having the same trouble falling asleep. He turns over, his weight rocking the mattress. He’s much closer now. You can feel the comforting warmth from his chest, filling the space between him and your back. 

You know how I feel about this scene. I just fuuuuccccck. Can feel the tension through your words right here. Feel the emotions of reader just brewing under the surface during the smut.

Torn | Song 2 | Masterlist

Twelve years after Eddie Munson broke your heart for a life on the road with nothing but a mixtape as a goodbye, you finally feel like you have two feet on the ground. Engaged to Steve Harrington with the career of your dreams it feels like you’re going to have your happily ever after, but what happens when the boy that broke your heart comes back as a man with a revelation that changes everything?

TW: Femreader, Love🔺️, Smut, Mentions of DV, 18+ No minors WC:6558 beta'd by @superblysubpar

Plink.

Plink. Plink. Plink.

The old wooden frame of your window groans against the track, burdened with too many layers of paint to make the slide smooth. The swirls of creamy pinks and oranges have faded hours ago into the star-lit summer sky. The boy is below, standing in your backyard, fist full of pea gravel taken from a neighbor's garden. A smile twisting his lips lifts his cheeks, putting dimples on full display as he looks up at you from the darkness below. You raise a finger, signaling for him to wait before you turn away. Tossing a few things in your empty backpack, you take a pillow from your bed, and your comforter is wrestled free from the mattress. With careful footsteps, you creep down the stairs, stopping in the kitchen. The light from the fridge casts a triangle across the floor as you take a few Capri Suns to add to your bag. Leaving through the slider, the end of your blanket trails behind you through the grass that was trimmed that morning. You slip off your flip-flops, leaving them beside a pair of larger, well-worn sneakers with a chain wallet tucked inside the right shoe. Eddie bounces on the trampoline, his sock-covered feet launching him into the air, arms stretched for balance. You toss everything on before climbing on with him. With a final bounce, he lands on his butt beside you, grinning. 

“I got it,” you tell him, tossing the pillow behind you.

“Nah-uh.”

"My dad took me to Tower this afternoon." Rummaging in your pack, you pull out a Discman and over-the-ear headphones with the cord in a tangled mess. "I could only get two. I had to choose between Rage," you begin, ticking off album titles on your fingers, “Soundgarden, STP, and Pearl Jam.”

“And?”

Taking out the CDs, you press them against his chest, letting go as soon as his fingers go around them. His brown eyes widen as he examines what’s in his hands as you pick apart the knotted cord.

“Songs from the Vatican Gift Shop AND Down on the Upside? You haven’t even opened this one.” He holds up the Soundgarden CD before using his teeth to rip open the cellophane covering the plastic case.

“I waited for you.” You smile.

His face softens. “You’re a doll.” 

He lies back, his head nestling into your pillow, hands clasped behind his head, gazing up at the sky. After putting the CD into the player, you follow him, pulling the comforter over you both and resting your head on his bicep. The headphone speakers are flipped out, tucked between you, as Chris Cornell's melancholic voice begins to seep into your ears, velvety and dark like the night itself.

"Listen to this transition," he insists, his voice filled with the same awe that it always does when he talks about music, "The shift from acoustic to electric guitar is seamless." 

“I wish I could hear it the way you do.”

As you gaze skyward, a slender branch sways in perfect rhythm with the chords, green leaves fluttering with the bass. The stars multiply and shimmer as if they���re caught up in the flow of the song. 

“You do,” he says, his head turning toward you, “You’re the only one I know who loves it as much as I do.” He studies your face, his eyes locking with yours. The music building until it’s too intense, and he looks away. “It’s lyrics that hook you. You’ve always got so many words floating around in that big brain of yours.”  

The disc spins, and you both listen, the scent of lilacs wafting in on the breeze, and fireflies painting the sky with their gentle glow. Time passes in the slow way it only does for kids on a cool summer night.

“Eddie?”

“Hmm?” He answers, eyes closed.

“Are they fighting again?”

He doesn’t talk about it, but everyone knows—an ugly secret festering on an otherwise picture-perfect street. No one wants to get their hands dirty by getting involved. 

“Why won’t she leave him?” A simple question in a world of black and white.

“I want her to,” his adams apple bobs as he swallows, “She says she loves him.”

“Just stay here with me tonight, okay?” Rolling to your side, you wrap your hand across his chest, offering him the only protection that you can. 

“Yeah, okay.”

When you wake the following morning, the songs and memories you were reacquainted with last night have faded to a dull throb–much like the martinis. But remnants of their lyrics persist,  crawling under your skin, irritating like an itch, a tune hummed without the words to accompany it. Your phone’s screen lights up with an incoming text, the short burst of vibration sending it skittering across the surface of your nightstand. It takes a moment for your bleary eyes to focus on the notification on your lock screen.

Unknown: I admit last night could have gone better. Let me make it up to you. Coffee?

After tapping in your passcode, you open the message app to reply.

You: Wrong number

Darkening your screen, you let your phone slip from your hand onto the bed beside you. With a sigh, you lean back, staring at the ceiling, seeking answers that remain elusive. The scent of brewing dark roast and toasting bagels rises up the stairs with the sounds of Steve moving around the kitchen. A cup of coffee (or five) and a shower is what you need to wash away the past and leave it firmly where it belongs– in your rearview. 

It's the bottom of your second cup when Steve into your massive walk-in closet with a towel wrapped around his waist, fresh from the shower, his hair still damp, the freckled skin of his chest looking golden in the soft glow of the elegant pendant lights. 

“Is that what you're wearing to work?” He asks.

“Um, yeah.” You finish buckling the strap of your chunky mary-janes. “Something wrong with it?” you ask, catching sight of yourself in the mirror, dark distressed jeans and a band tee recut into a fitted v-neck. 

“Of course not,” he sighs, running his hand through his hair before sitting down heavily on the leather bench. His shoulders slump as he looks across to the cherry built-in shelves holding the rows of tailored suits hung by progression of color. “You always look beautiful.”

Taking your watch from the marble top of the large center island, you wander over to where he’s seated. He hooks a finger into one of the large holes in your jeans, tugging you over to stand between his legs, his big hands wrapping around the backs of your thighs.

“Guess I’m just missing the days of wearing jeans and a jersey to work,” he says, his smile not smoothing the faint crease in his brows.

“You traded that in for a car service and a big fat paycheck,” you point out, kissing the top of his head and moving back to your side of the closet to select a blazer.

“How else am I going to keep spoiling you?” He stands, dropping the towel and picking up the black Tom Ford boxer briefs he set out before his shower. 

“Steve, I don’t need all of this,” your hand sweeps in the air, gesturing to the lit shelves holding more clothes and shoes than you could ever need. “Just take me to a concert every once in a while.” Your voice trails off as notification chimes on your phone.

Unknown: Nice try, doll. Robin gave me your number.

“Can you imagine if we were still in that cramped apartment in Lincoln Park?” He scoffs, pulling on a light gray pair of suit pants. “We were tripping over all our stuff.”

Steve found the three-bedroom, three-bath brownstone on a tree-lined street in the ritzy Gold Coast neighborhood just after he got promoted from Metro, marking the beginning of his rise up the ranks in Second City Media. He spent a year and a chunk of his trust fund on a meticulous renovation before the two of you moved in. It is beautiful—large air rooms with lofty ceilings adorned with pristine white crown molding and wainscotting throughout, giving a modern but classic feel. Living with so much space is lavish in a city of this size. But you would be just as happy back on that ratty couch in Lincoln Park, drinking beer straight from the bottle and eating pizza without the fuss of plates, working on your laptop while he watched a Cubs game. Steve is driven–determined to be a success, and he is, but with the money came the stress. And it’s taking a toll.

Your finger hovers over the block button, but you press add to contacts instead. “Hey,” you change the subject, slipping your phone into your jacket pocket, “Did you ever look into that sailing charter you wanted to book out at the lake? We could do that this weekend?”

“I wish I could, Ace. I’ve got those weekend meetings about the streaming radio we're trying to launch. Pick out a tie for me?” He asks, pulling off a starched black button-up from its hanger.

“Sure.” You walk over and spin the rack holding up dozens of ties on shiny brass hooks.

“What do you have going on today?” The well-defined muscles of his sculpted shoulders, earned from never skipping a day at the gym, flex before disappearing into his shirt sleeves.

“Not a lot.” You pull the silky slip of deep maroon fabric off its hanger. “Lola is put to bed for this year. I just have an album review to finish up and a meeting with my editor today. Maybe a series on the Fall tours?” You propose, mostly to yourself, as you bring him his tie.

“Maroon, huh?” One brow raises with the question, “I would have picked black.”

“I know.” The corner of your lips turn up in a sly smile before you rise to your toes and place a kiss on his mouth, “I’m gonna go.”

“You want my driver to drop you off?” He asks, looking in the mirror and adjusting his tie.

“Nah, I’ll drive myself. Argyle and I are going to the Subterranean for drinks. Santigold is performing. Do you want to come?” You throw out, picking up your ancient army green messenger bag you can’t bear to part with, straining with the fullness of your laptop and notes.

“I’ll pass. Not really my scene.” As he fastens his gold cufflinks, they catch the gleaming light.

“You never come to shows with me,” you sigh. 

“I know, I know. I’ll try and catch the next one,” he says, sliding his feet into shiny Italian leather shoes. “I’m meeting Robin for lunch. You want to join us?” 

“No. I’ll let you have your girl time.” You blow him a kiss before heading out the door. 

 “See you tonight, okay?” 

“Love you. See you tonight,” he calls after you.

Passing through rooms decorated with rich creams and calming moss greens, you yell over your shoulder, “Tell Robin I said we don’t have any more room for paintings of flowers that look like vaginas.” 

“They’re a good investment,” his voice fades as you jog down your stairs, grabbing your keys from the stained-glass bowl on the table beside the door, ignoring the buzz coming from your pocket. 

The world is full of cliches. Many become so ingrained that we accept them as unwavering truths.  Every cloud has a silver lining. Don’t judge a book by its cover. Actions speak louder than words. A rotten apple will spoil the bunch. Don’t spit into the wind. Well, that last one is just good advice, but there is one that has stuck with you. Love what you do, and you’ll never work a day in your life. Music is your deity, and working at Stax is where you worship at its altar, spreading the Gospel of John, Paul, George, and Ringo. It’s a place where your lifelong obsession is not only validated, it’s celebrated. Your journey leading up to this point feels like destiny, like the universe conspired to harmonize your two greatest loves—the lyrical power of words and the soul-stirring magic of music. Each day within these walls is a new chord, a different tempo, and you revel in the ever-changing rhythm of your life. One spent intertwined with the music and the people that create it. The magazine's pages are your stage, your canvas, and with every keystroke, you paint the stories of the music, offering them to those who care to listen.

Without taking your eyes off your laptop screen, you reach for your coffee mug only to knock over the tittering tower of CDs that you had stacked on the corner of your cluttered desk. The plastic jewel cases meet the cement floor with a shattering crash, the noise echoing off the walls of the open industrial space that houses the offices for Stax Magazine in the heart of Fulton Market District. Clapping comes from other desks as you chase the discs rolling on their sides in all directions. Pausing, you bend into a dramatic curtsey, earning chuckles as the applause dies out. The perpetual chaos of your desk has become an ongoing punchline in the office banter. Your phone begins to ring at the same time an IM pops on your screen - both from your editor, the enigmatic J. Hopper. 

“Art Garfunkel’s house of pizza,” you say by way of greeting, trying to get the CDs back in their cases and toppling a pile of mail in the process.

“Where are you? Why aren’t you here? We had a meeting at 2,” comes the gruff voice of a man who's clearly not amused.

“It’s only one forty,” you reply.

“Get your ass in here now,” he yells, disconnecting. 

Hopper's bark has always been more bluster than bite. The towering, older man has been a fixture in this building since its days as a "hard-hitting" newspaper. While the city has evolved and transformed, Hopper and this old brick building have remained resolute, like an immovable rock in the ever-shifting stream of time. He possesses zero patience, holds a disdain for people, and dismisses any music created after 1978. You love him as much as your own father. He offered you a position fresh out of college when other magazines wouldn’t take a chance. He's pulled out your best work, often sending you back to your desk like a pouting child, making you the writer you are today. The wisdom he’s imparted is beyond the reach of any professor or workshop, and for that, you’ll always be grateful.

With a gentle rap of your knuckles against the frosted glass, you step into Hopper's office. He's seated behind a substantial oak desk, buried beneath a mountain of paperwork. A hint of cigar lingers in the air, though you've never been able to catch him smoking. He remains engrossed, squinting at his desktop screen with a furrowed brow. Settling into one of the vintage leather club chairs, you wait for his acknowledgment, your gaze drifting across the framed magazine covers and photographs lining the walls. One of a much younger Hopper clad in a tattered flak jacket catches your eyes. His face smeared with dirt and grit, standing amidst the ruins of a war-torn Kosovo street, a city reduced to chaos.

"Where’s my album write-up?" He asks without looking up. 

"I emailed it to you before lunch," you reply, confirming on your phone. 

He pushes back from his desk, propping up his feet on the edge, and offers you a soft smile from under the bushy mustache covering his lip, "How are you, kid? Everything okay? Harrington treating you, right?"

"Of course, Hop. He knows he'd have to answer to you otherwise. What about you?" You ask, leaning forward, "Is Joyce looking after you? Making sure you're watching that cholesterol?"

"Yup, she's got me eating all these organic vegetables, no booze, no smokes. Kinda takes all the fun outta life." He laces his hands behind his head, stretching out his back. 

"Oh yeah, does that include that bottle hootch you got stowed in your bottom drawer?"

He sits up with a quick move, pointing his finger in your direction. "You don't know anything about that. Are we clear?"

The only one who can scare Hopper is Hopper's wife. 

"I don't know. What are you going to do if I give Joyce a call? Seems to me that's something she'd want to know," you tease, crossing your arms over your chest. 

"You'd be out on that sidewalk before you hung up the call. Don't test me." He shakes a finger at you, "Now, what are you pitching me?"

"Well, I'm going to a club tonight, so I'll have a live performance review. And I was thinking of a piece on the bands touring this Fall. Kind of like a road map that the readership could follow and hit all the good shows."

"Those sound good, kid, but I got a feature for you to cover." He leans forward, narrowing his eyes, "You know this Eddie Munson character?"

The blood drains from your face. "No. Not-not really," you stammer, "we're from the same town, but I haven't seen him in years."

"Well, it's time to get reacquainted. I want a series chronicling the opening of CursedSound Recordings, and I want you to write it."

A featured series is something that other journalists fight over, and usually, you'd jump at the chance, but not this time. Not this series. Not Eddie Muson. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you say, looking down at your lap.

“You don’t think–”

“Give it to Miles.”

“I’m giving it to you. Morales is busy with–”

“I don’t want it,” the words burst out of your mouth before you think better of it. Less than twenty-four hours after seeing Eddie, your world is spinning out of control.

Hopper's face turns to steel as he plucks the pen from behind his ear and throws it down on the desk. “I think that you’ve forgotten how this works. I give you an assignment. You write it.”

Your lips part before the protest in your brain is fully formed. 

“If you’re about to tell me no again, it better be followed by a damn good reason.”

His eyes are locked on yours while he waits for a response, one brow raised in challenge. 

“Listen, kid,” he picks up a stack of papers, shuffling through them as he talks, “I’ve looked into this Munson character. He has a good reputation in L.A. His name is in the credits for over half the multi-platinum releases in the last five years. And word is, his studio is booked out with big names for a year in advance.” He pauses for a moment to be sure his words sink in. “Establishing a good relationship with him is in the magazine's best interests. And what's good for the magazine is good for you. Are you hearing me?”

“Yes, Hop,” he answers for you when you remain quiet. 

“Yes, Hop,” you repeat.

“Good,” he says, lacing his fingers together. "The printed word isn’t worth what it used to be. Everything's gone digital, the never-ending twenty-four-hour news cycle. The competition's cut-throat out there. Trust me, our friends over at Spectrum would eat this up for Chicago Lifestyles. Frankly, I’m surprised at you. I thought you’d be all over this. Especially since it was proposed by corporate. I figured you went around me and pitched it to Harrington directly.”

The mention of Steve’s name sets your teeth on edge. He hadn't breathed a word about this assignment earlier, and now he's reaching out to Hopper, painting a picture as if you're disrespecting your editor and exploiting your personal connections to secure a story.

“I would never do that,” you shake your head. 

"Alright then. Call Byers at Metro," Hopper instructs, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. "Bring him with you. His assignment is just wrapping up."

You nod, your blood boiling and your mind racing. Taking a deep breath to compose yourself, you finally reply with an outward calm, "Okay."

Hopper's eyes remained fixed on you, his brow furrowing slightly. "Now, why are you still here wasting my time? Get out."

You don’t need any more prompting. Swiftly, you rise from your seat and make your way out of Hopper's office, formulating plans to murder your fiancé.

With a heavy sigh, you sit back down at your desk. The Stax logo bounces off the edges of your laptop screen. Your phone lights up with a photo of Steve. You let it ring a few times before sending it to voicemail. A few colleagues linger nearby, mugs in hand, their idle chatter blending with the hum of printers and the rhythmic clacking of keyboards. Your to-do list sits on your desk with strike-throughs on only half the tasks, but the priority of the ones remaining isn’t enough to capture your attention. 

Reaching down, you tug at the handle of your tightly packed bottom desk drawer. It sticks, protesting the overload.  The bright yellow color of the Sony Sports Walkman stands out from among the other clutter. You hesitate when reaching for it, the beginnings of the ache already tightening your chest. But you can’t resist, your hand closes around it, pulling it and the headphones coiled around out from under a pile of old concert passes attached to lanyards. 

Swiveling your chair away from the desk, you face the windows and slip the headphones onto your ears. A gentle press of your thumb produces a satisfying click, and a soft crackling sound fills your ears as the capstans start to whir.

The crystal blue of the cassette is dulled behind the transparent black window, but you can still make out the handwriting on the yellowed label. 

For when you miss me.

“Did you ever listen?”

Everyday. 

A bird's eye view of the stage is perfectly spaced in your viewfinder, with Santi downstage dominating the mic, her other arm outstretched to the fervent crowd. Your finger clicks the shutter as a text pops on the screen.

Eddie: Seems this city isn’t so big after all.

With a huff, you close the screen, pocketing your phone.

“What’s going on with you?” Argyle shouts over the crowd, handing you back your drink as you both lean over the black-painted railing on the balcony at The Subterranean.

"Nothing," you reply, your gaze returning to the stage where Santigold is Chasing Shadows. 

“You’re moody,” he accuses, leaning closer to your ear to be heard over music.

“No, I’m not.”

“It’s true,” he shakes his head. “You’re moody. Moody dick.”

The corners of your lips lift as you roll your eyes.

“This wouldn't have anything to do with mister dark and handsome sound engineer guy from last night, would it?” He probes as someone bumps into you from behind, throwing you off balance.

Your eyes narrow as he steadies you with a hand on your elbow. 

“Hey, I know things,” he says, sipping his drink and looking back out over the crowd.

“Oh, yeah?” You ask, turning and leaning on the banister to face him, “What do you know?”

He turns his head toward you, his thoughtful brown eyes connecting with yours. “I know you looked freaked the fuck out when he showed up for drinks and even more so when he said he was staying. And I’ve seen you tell off enough people to know that’s what was going on at the bar when you walked away from him last night,” he says, looking back toward the stage, gesturing with his hands, “Now we're here, with my future baby mama killing it on stage, and you’re sucking all the energy out of the room.”

The song ends with the crowd erupting in applause. “I love you!” Argyle shouts toward the stage with his hands cupped around his mouth as the bass starts back up with the opening of High Priestess. Santi looks up, throwing him a wink, her voice low and fast as the reverb vibrates under your feet. 

“Future baby mama?” You laugh.

“Yeah. Do you think you could use your press pass to get us backstage?”

“No. I don’t think you need to add to the population tonight.”

"See, you're no fun,” he complains, sticking out his lower lip, “So you really used to crush on that guy?

Chewing on your lip, you throw him a sideways glance.

“Yeah, you did. You crushed hard,” he laughs, “So, tell me, what happened?”

“I don’t like talking about it,” you say, scrubbing your face.

“Keeping everything all bottled up ain’t good for you, little mama,” he pokes your arm, letting you know he’s not going to drop this, “I’m your boy. If you can’t tell me, who can you tell?”

“Circle of trust,” he says, stirring the air between you with two fingers when you don’t respond. 

You lean against the rail, considering. “Alright, but this stays between us,” you threaten him with a pointed finger. His head nods as his fingers slide across his mouth like a zipper.

“There’s not much to tell,” you say, looking down at the sticky floor. “I had a crush, and he didn’t feel the same way.”

“I get it. The fury of a woman scorned. What did you do, go full bunny boiler?”

“No,” you chuckle, “Nothing like that. That part didn’t even really bother me. He was my best friend, my only friend for a long time. I thought there was something between us, that he cared about me. Maybe not the same way I cared about him, but you know, I thought we were close. I must have built it all up in my head because one day, he just takes off.” You swallow the sharp pain pressing into your chest, “He never even said goodbye.”

“Nooo,” Argyle’s eyes widen.

“It broke me,” you admit.

“Harsh,” he agrees, “And he never called you? Or gave you an explanation?”

“Not until yesterday.  He asked me to lunch. You know, he actually had the nerve to say that Steve has me on a tight leash.” 

“Typical.” He shakes his head, swallowing the last of his drink.

“What do you mean?” You ask, swirling the last of your ice into your watered-down drink. 

His face turns serious as he explains, “It’s like surfing. We all want that wave that’s just out of reach. Especially if someone else is riding it.” 

“How did you get so wise?” You ask. 

“I don’t know. Must be all the weed,” he says with a hand on your shoulder, turning you toward the bar. “Let’s go get another drink.”

“You never told Steve any of this?” He asks as you join the crowd of people that constitutes the line.

“No,” you sigh.

“No?” He repeats in surprise, “This is bad news, man. Why wouldn’t you tell him? What are you going to do, just going to keep it a secret forever?”

“I guess. It doesn’t really have anything to do with him.”

“This is going to get messy.” He shakes his head as you move up in line.

“Well, I’m not real happy with him either right now. He went behind my back to Hopper, deciding that I’m going to cover Eddie’s recording studio's opening. He completely humiliated me in front of my boss. I look totally unprofessional.”

“Well, that's not cool,” Argyle sympathizes as he takes the plastic cup from your hand and tosses it into a trashcan tucked beside the bar.

“No, it was very not cool,” you agree, crossing your arms over your chest. 

"Wait," he looks at you with sudden revelation, “Technically, isn't Steve your boss?"

“That’s not the point–”

“And isn’t your job to write about major happenings in the city, like when fancy L.A. sound guys open up studios?”

“You're not helping, Argyle.”

His hand lands on your head, offering a comforting pat like you're a child before the line begins moving again. "Cheer up, Bernstein," he quips with a grin, "I'll buy the next round."

Your anger hasn’t abated when you walk through the front door of the brownstone. Steve is already in bed, shirtless with the taupe velvet coverlet pulled up to his waist, glasses perched on his nose, not looking up from his laptop as you enter the room.

“Hey, Ace, how was your day? Did you write me–”

“Anything you want to tell me about, Steve?” You ask, your voice already coming out more heated than you intended.

He looks up at you, brows pulling together. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you say, dropping your bag onto the blue slipper chair in the corner of the room, “Maybe about how you went behind my back?”

"What?” He questions, slamming his laptop shut.

“The story, Steve,” you huff, leaving the room through your closet. You’ve just put your shoes away when he appears in the doorway, padding across the carpet in his bare feet, wearing just his boxers.

“Munson’s opening, that’s what you’re mad about?” He demands.

“You totally blindsided me,” you complain, pulling a hanger off the rod and hanging up your blazer with enough force to have the other clothes swinging. “Why didn’t you say anything this morning?”

“Because I hadn’t thought of it this morning.” His hands run through his hair, tugging in frustration.

“So what, it just came to you in a flash of brilliance?” Popping the button on your jeans, you tug them down your hips, kicking them into the corner instead of putting them in the basket.

“No, it didn’t, and I hate it when you’re sarcastic. Robin wanted to stop by and see his studio. We had lunch nearby,” he informs you, crossing his arms over his broad chest, the gold chain he wears glinting in the low light.

“So the two of you just decided what I was going to be writing? Maybe that’s something you should be discussing with me.” You lay a hand on your chest before pulling your shirt over your head and giving it the same treatment as your jeans. “You know, your fiancée, not some old buddy that sold you weed a few times back in Hawkins.” 

“The content Stax puts out is directly under my approval, just like Metro and the Newsdesk and every other division.” His voice, which has been steady and even until now, begins to rise, “I’m not going to call you and ask for permission every time I make a decision. Eddie and I have kept in touch. How do you think we landed that interview with Radiohead last year when they wouldn’t even sit down with Rolling Stone?”

“That’s another thing you kept from me. I had no idea Eddie was your best friend.” Your eyes narrow as your fingers yank at the delicate clasps of your jewelry and watch.

Steve's eyes roll in frustration as he shakes his head. "He's not my best friend. He’s a business contact. I know him through Robin. They were is band together, you know this."

"That feels like a lifetime ago, Steve," you remark, the clinking of your jewelry against the marble island adding a discordant scrape.

"Well, some people aren't embarrassed about where they came from," he accuses.

"I'm not embarrassed," you scoff and begin to pace as if you can outrun his words.

"Oh, please," he says, taking a seat on the bench, his knuckles turning white as he grips the edge, his gaze tracking your restless movements. "You cut off anybody we still know living there. You won't even go to visit your parents. They always come here."

“You never listen to what I’m saying. This has nothing to do with Hawkins or my parents.” You halt your steps, your hand slices through the air, punctuating your statements. “It's about you making me look like a fool in front of Hopper. Like I’m trying to go around him to corporate to get assigned the big stories. Like I’m sleeping with the boss. I’m not ruining my reputation so you can give free advertising to your friends.”

“You're being crazy right now,” he yells, wincing with regret as soon as the words leave his mouth. He stands, moving closer, making an effort to control the tone of his voice, “I gave you this assignment because you know Eddie, and it will make for a better story, not because I’m fucking you. We’ve been together since the day you started at Stax. We’ve been engaged for two years. If anyone was going to think that, they already would’ve.”

Your head shakes, rejecting his rationale. He throws up his hands in frustration. “I can't have a conversation with you when you’re like this.” He starts to walk back toward the bedroom but stops abruptly, spinning on his heel and pointing his finger in your direction. “But I'll tell you one more thing—you are going to write this story.” He waves a hand toward the bathroom. “Now, go wash your face.”

Your teeth cut into your bottom lip as you walk into the bathroom, slamming the door behind you.

A sliver of gold from the streetlights outside pierces the tiny gap in the curtains. You’ve been lying on your side staring so long that you can see its warm hue behind closed lids whenever you start to drift. You burrow your arm deeper beneath your pillows while your feet shuffle, searching for a cool spot on the sheets. Steve’s breathing hasn’t changed behind you. He’s having the same trouble falling asleep. He turns over, his weight rocking the mattress. He’s much closer now. You can feel the comforting warmth from his chest, filling the space between him and your back. 

“Baby.” His breath caresses the spot just behind your ear before the wet press of his lips traces a path along your neck, latching on to the apex when it meets your shoulder. A gentle bite follows the swirl of his tongue as he moves even closer. The rough pads of his fingers glide over your shoulder and down your arm, coaxing the thin strap of your tank with them.

“Please,” he whispers between kisses, his fingers finding their way under the bottom edge of your tank top, the light scrape of his blunt nails against your ribs sending shivers across your skin. Your breathing is picking up, the fire from your argument morphing into a new kind of heat. His hips flex against your ass, his cock hard and ready. When you turn your head, his lips are there, a wet slide over your mouth until they pull back, floating just above you, lingering with a question. And when his hand cups your shoulder, urging your body to turn towards him-–you answer. 

The sultry feminine voice drifts from the speakers in your bedroom, her smoky timber weaving through the air like dark tendrils intertwining with the high piano notes. Your hips rise with the flow, a slow, unchanging cadence, the stretch of his cock creating delicious friction against your velvet walls. You move higher until he almost leaves you before you start your descent, the angle finding all the hidden places that light you up beneath your skin. 

"M' sorry," he murmurs.

Your eyes flutter open at his words as they carry you away from the depths. 

"Hate telling you no." He gazes up at you with heavy-lidded eyes, his hair pushed back from his face, and a flush across his skin.

"I don't wanna talk about it." Your hands cover the ones wrapped around your thighs, guiding them up your body. His warm, rough fingers are eager to map out every contour. Your head falls back when they find their destination, cupping your breasts with a possessive grip.

The song shifts, the new baseline a drawn-out pulse lining up with your movements. The lyrics are raw and a little filthy, fueling the urgency of your rolling hips, your clit grazing the short hairs at his base.

"Don't like telling you what to do," he mumbles even as his hands drop to your hips, attempting to hold you still as he bucks up from underneath. "Just wanna take care of you."

"Steve," his name passes your lips in a low moan as you lean forward, taking his hand from your hips and pressing them into the pillow, "Stop talking."

Sitting up, you shift your position, leaning back, bracing your hands behind yourself on his hairy thighs. You set a new pace, bouncing harder, driving him deeper, taking what you want. 

“Jesus, fuck, baby,” he groans, eyes hitting the back of his head while his hands slide across the sheets seeking any purchase as you ride him. The music surges, its tempo rising in perfect sync with the wet intimate sounds of your bodies coming together, the rhythm repeating over and over.

"So close…please," his fingers slip between you, adding pressure to the sensitive bundle of nerves that he finds there, "Need you to cum."

"No," you rasp out breathless, pushing his hand aside, your eyes locked on his as you bring your own fingers to your mouth. With a swirl of your tongue, you coat them with wetness before sliding them down to touch yourself, controlling your own pleasure. 

The muscles in his neck strain with effort, his gaze darkening, fixated on you. “Goddam, so sexy like this,” he murmurs.

Your body tightens, taut like a bow-string, the tension building until the crescendo crashes over you. The music washes over your senses as you reach your peak, your legs trembling with the intensity. You push your body further over the edge, succumbing to the euphoria lost in the wave of sensations.

Floating back down, your eyes open to the sight of your ceiling, your body still arched, catching your breath. His fingers tighten on your ribs, reminding you he's there. Sticky wetness dripping between you is evidence that he reached his own climax. His hands gently urge your forward to collapse into his chest. 

"Wow, that was…" He strokes the sweat-slicked skin of your back. "I’ve never seen you like that before. What got into you?"

"I think you did," you say, placing a kiss over his heart as your fingers smooth through the hair covering his chest. He chuckles, holding you closer. 

The gentle croon of the music fills the quiet space between you as you lie entwined, drawing closer to sleep's embrace. With a fumbling hand, Steve reaches for the remote on his nightstand, silencing the stereo, returning the room to a restful hush. He places a final tender kiss on your temple, his eyes closing as his features turn peaceful. But for you, even in this stillness, another song lingers in your mind, its lyrics echoing like a secret.

For updates follow @tornupdates & turn on the notifications

AN: Thank you for reading and rebloging. Your comments are what keep me at my keyboard plugging away at this story. Please keep sending me your songs and asks! They have inspired so much of what's to come. xoxo- Jelly

[legacyfighting2023]

Street Fighter 6: Unleashin' the Combat Mastery on the Streets

Get ready to level up your gaming with some rad PS5 games and dive deep into the world of Street Fighter 6. This game is a total game-changer, bringin' in killer mechanics and gameplay that'll blow your mind. Join us on an epic journey through the mean streets of this strategic combat zone, where every move you make counts and shapes the fate of the fighters. Don't miss out on the chance to amp up your collection and take your gaming adventure to the next level with these awesome PS5 games. As you roam the game world, you'll come across masters who'll drop some serious knowledge and skills. This cool feature merges the fighting scene with some RPG vibes, adding a whole new layer to your journey. Seek out these masters and you'll expand your moves both on the ground and up in the air. Adding aerial skills opens up a whole new world of combat intensity.

Embracin' the Customization Vibe

Street Fighter 6 isn't just about kickin' butt - it's about makin' your mark. This game blends fighting with RPG elements, giving you the power to fine-tune your character's stats and style at the same time. While you're cruisin' through Metro City, hit up the stores for a load of gear, each packin' unique boosts. Whether it's hats, shirts, socks, or kicks, every piece of gear amps up key stats like health, throw power, and defense.

Harnessing the Power of Style

The innovative gear system in Street Fighter 6 delves deeper into the realm of customization, granting players the ability to harness the power of style. The gear appearance tab presents an opportunity to balance functionality and aesthetics. Players can equip gear that aligns with their desired attributes while maintaining a distinct visual identity. This ingenious design choice ensures that players can wield the mightiest equipment without forsaking their style, truly resonating with those who seek both power and individuality.

A Rad Mashup of Styles

Street Fighter 6 ain't just about RPG vibes, man. This game's got gameplay that'll grab ya and a story that'll suck you in, like some of those classic faves. It's got that deep lore vibe like "Dark Souls," takin' you on a trip through history and secrets. The combat? It's like "Marvel vs. Capcom" on turbo, givin' you a rush of action and tons of ways to plan your moves for some epic combos.

Mastering the Moves and Rhythms

In Street Fighter 6 land, fightin' ain't just about mashin' buttons. It's all about nailing those slick motions, where you gotta pull off exact sequences to unleash killer moves. Take the legendary "Hadoken" for example, it needs that slick quarter-circle forward motion with a punch. You gotta flow with the fight, like a conductor leading a symphony of smacks.

[sealer-of-wenkamui]

Final Song Tips

I just beat the final song today after about a week of daily practice, so I wanted to share a few of the visual and audio cues I used to help! It was literally the hardest thing I’ve ever done in any game (I’m also not musically talented) but it’s possible!! i noticed I had a few problem spots and came up with tricks to get me through them, after which its just a matter of practice and everything going right for the full 7 minutes, you’ll find the beginning parts easy by the end

General tips

Use L1 and R1, going back and forth for combos, but stick to just one for super fast parts in One/the final segment

Listen to the song with the chimes included when you’re not playing and try to tap along

Watch a sync video simply to learn how many rings are in some of the longer combos, and when you’re supposed to hit them

Just keep practicing, I’d get a little farther each day, and its all about learning the feel of the song so you can more frequently get to the later parts and eventually beat it

Don’t get discouraged, it’s stupid hard and takes time, and even once you’re getting pretty good at early parts you might still make dumb mistakes! Tonight I died a few times on Two even though I had mostly gotten my trick down, and even once on Three even though she was easy for me by now! But I still ended up doing it tonight!

Specific tips

Zero, Five, and Four are pretty straightforward, just hit the button when the ring reaches Mikhail, it still might take a bit to get consistent, but will be a cakewalk by the end

For Three’s blind double note, start hitting it after she tilts her head

For Three’s final note, hit it as her hand moves down to its final position

For Two’s 4 note combo with the zoomed camera, say “one mississippi” to yourself as soon as the barrier from the previous note disappears, then start the combo. Don’t be too slow with the last note. This is one of the trickiest parts imo

For One’s 4 note combo after the two blind notes, use the back of Two’s head as a guidepost, hit them as the rings reach past her head

For One’s final 5 notes, start hitting them as soon as the camera starts to pan up

For the 8 note combos in the final part, count to yourself as you hit each note, don’t be too fast

For the two groups of double notes where the camera zoom in on Zero, hit the first set right after she has sung the next two

The notes after the next 8 combo are double notes!

For the four steady notes after these, start hitting them as soon as the last one is sung, and as soon as the camera starts to move away from Mikhail

For the 7 note combo, start it as Three is on the edge of the screen, hit the first 6 like you would the 8 note combos, but the last note is delayed, I had a tendency to hit it too fast, so make sure you give it the delay! (this is another especially tricky part imo)

Start hitting the final 8 note combo as soon as the camera starts to pan up

You will probably be hyped up on adrenaline at this point, be very careful with the next two notes, don’t hit them too fast, its a relatively easy rhythm to match so mostly go by sound, but the rings will reach past Four/Five’s heads for these two and the next two

The second to last note is fully blind, you hit it along with that strumming noise before the words “aru mama” in the song, if you wait to actually hear it though you might be too late (that’s how I screwed up the first time), so just know how the song goes and hit it right then

The final note- DON’T wait until “I had a lot of fun” actually shows up on screen, that’s how I screwed up the first time, what worked for me was saying “one miss” after Zero says “Nanda” (I was using JP voices, should work with “yeah” as well?), then hitting the note... since its about when Mikhail starts to speak again but I think actually waiting to hear it made me too slow

In the end its mostly about practicing a whole bunch because its so damn hard and doesn’t play fair, but it’s fully possible! Good luck everyone!!

[whitedahlia13]

First Sentence Game

I was tagged by @yourenotdonefighting💕

Rules: share the first lines of ten of your most recent fanfics and tag ten people. If you have written less than ten, don’t be shy and share anyway.

1. Lydia thinks maybe five minutes have passed. Ten at most. Ten minutes standing in the doorway of Derek Hale’s loft, him kneeling with his head in his hands while his sister’s sobs echoed in the cavernous space...

Some things you just can't speak about - Stydia, 6k, 3a angst with a happy ending

2. Every night, for the past three weeks, Stiles has been with her. She already has a permanent place in his mind, his heart, his soul. She visits him in his dreams now too. Lydia.

I thought that I was dreaming (when you said you loved me) - Stydia, 3k, 3b, coping with grief and trauma, angst with a peaceful ending

3. Life is good. Lydia is happy. Truly happy. 

This Love - Stydia, 950 words, post 6x10 feel good fluff, summer of Stydia.

4. Lydia presses her palms against the cold metal of the door handle. She uses her forward momentum to push down as she steps out of the fluorescence of the school hallway and into the vibrant golden sunlight of mid-afternoon.

Falling Slowly - Stydia, 290k, post 6x10, summer of Stydia, Lydia's recovered memories

5. My brother, Dean, died on a Thursday night in November.

Lies My Brother Told Me - Sam & Dean, 672 words, post 15x20, loss, grief, emotional hurt - minus the comfort

6. It’s early morning, and the sun is leisurely rising over Beacon Hills. A dome of sky-blue anchors blush pink and pale lavender tones to a subdued earth that is canopied with streaks of silver-coated clouds. Lydia wakes next to Stiles.

Written in the Stars - Stydia, 4k, post Wild Hunt, meaningful fluff, love and a bit of smut

7. Lydia stands at her bedroom window. It’s late morning, but the sky is dark – cloaked by a mass of grey clouds that appropriately hide the sun from curious onlookers. 

A Breath Between Us - Stydia, 125k, post 3b, coping with grief and trauma, ANGST with a happy ending

8. Lydia Martin stands in the operating room of Deaton’s clinic while Derek Hale clings tightly to her hand. After having spent hours crammed into the backseat of the Jeep, traveling from Mexico to Beacon Hills, she is exhausted, cranky, and aching all over. 

Regression to the Mean - Stydia, 30k, alternate s4, angst with a happy ending

9. Lydia Martin wakes to the rhythm of a steady beeping sound. Her head feels heavy, her body is numb, and unwelcomed light filters through her eyelids.

Back Together - Stydia, 2k, how it should have been post 6x16

10. Lydia wades through pitch darkness using her hands to guide her. The air is cold and damp. The space around her, narrow like a tunnel. She feels intensely afraid – like nothing she has ever experienced. 

Stay - Stydia, 4k, post 6a, how it should have been (if 6b existed)

Tagging @kylermalloy, @stydiashipper11, and anyone else who would like to do this.

[grimowled]

STOLAS KEPT HIS COMPOSURE IMPECCABLE as he listened, his blood-red gaze flickering with a quiet intensity; beneath that polished mien was a mind moving at a thousand paces, dissecting every word, every inflection in his infernal regent's tone. and that grin - the sharp edge of power woven into the fabric of hell - even the king's smile carried the quality of an unbreakable contract.

the prince nodded his crowned head slightly, his beak curving into a gracious, deferential smile, voice a masterfully sultry composition of silk and shadow.

"--of course, my lord. it is, after all, the greatest HONOUR to assist in preserving your undisputed supremacy."

(a leash must remain taut, lest the hound forget its master.)

every word was deliberate, carefully crafted to tread the razor-thin line between reverence and subtle wit without the cloying aftertaste of sycophancy. as he shifted in his seat, his star-dappled cloak pooled around him in silken folds, a galaxy brought to heel; talons came together in an elegant clasp as his gaze fell upon the precarious, towering stack before him. his outward demeanour was one of poised enthusiasm, yet beneath it, his mind churned.

the binding of souls was an ART older than time itself - each contract a thread in the vast web of hell’s sovereignty, a tapestry of suffering and servitude. and lucifer? its great weaver, the grand architect. four crimson crescents flitted briefly to the devil himself, studying him as one might study a master artisan, RESPLENDENT with celestial echoes even in repose; the unfathomable scale of his collection, the droves upon droves bound to his name - it wasn't mere power - it was the very essence of hell’s existence - for without these souls, all would collapse, starved of purpose. lucifer did not merely rule hell - he owned it, its every corner, every flame, every lost and damned soul; and it was not simply control - it is the very transformation of being: to be owned was to become part of its machinery - to feed it, and to be reshaped by it.

the demon prince reached out, almost transfixed, talons brushing lightly against the nearest stack of parchment, feeling the dirge of the bound souls encoded in their ink.

"I must admit, sire ... "

he began, his tone taking on the air of a scholar marvelling at a masterpiece;

"the sheer volume of souls pledged to your name is nothing short of awe-inspiring. a testament to your unparalleled DOMINION, of course."

his thoughts kept whispering as he traced the elegant script of one contract’s opening clauses, immediately noting that the bindings themselves were unrefined, lacking - hastily crafted by overeager infernal scribes, no doubt seeking to please the king with quantity over quality.

(always the same old adage: messy stipulations lead to loopholes ripe for exploitation.)

the prince’s expression curled in wry amusement. what these sinners who signed in blood failed to understand, when they thought themselves clever, leaving wiggle room for their tethered souls to escape, was that they were playing a game whose rules were written eons before their conception.

"though I daresay, some of these oversights, could serve as quite the liability if left unchecked. I shall endeavour to weave these frayed threads into an impenetrable tapestry of legal perfection, and ensure that any ambitions to freedom and salvation remain unattainable."

leaning back slightly into the dark ironwood chair, his glossy talons lightly drummed against the armrest in an idle rhythm, the only hint of the restless energy simmering beneath his regally composed exterior; the faintest chuckle escaped him, low and melodic, a hint of relish tugging at the edges of his beak.

"a delightful challenge, truly, that I am most grateful for. tightening a contract requires a certain … ARTISTRY."

(there is nothing quite as satisfying as unravelling the sloppy handiwork of lesser minds, and weaving it into something… exquisite.)

his mind drifted briefly to the nature of hell itself - an empire sustained by promises and bargains. every soul bound was a note in a symphony of DAMNATION, each contract a chord in the first fallen's music; and stolas, prince of the ars goetia, was not merely an observer of this system, but had been granted the fallen's dark baptism to be his deathly instrument within it - a glorified secretary, perhaps - yet what a task it was, to refine the tools that upheld an entire plane of existence.

(how many mortals had he seen brought to their knees by contracts far simpler than these?)

ruby eyes met hell's ringmaster slitted gaze, a flicker of amusement glinting beneath layers of feigned humility. straightening, the owl prince folded his hands neatly before him - the picture of readiness to serve.

"--rest assured, my lord, I am at your complete disposal. consider this mountain conquered."

Lucifer grinned baring his sharpened teeth, snake like eyes into slits , a warning , a promise , he was the snake, the dragon , his vast army of souls fueling both him and hell, without him there would be no Hell— and yet even a Dragonic king could not escape the clutches of .. paperwork .

He had looked over some of the contracts and amended what needed to be amended . But he had .. well he had a lot and he had needed help

And who better then Paimon’s somewhat infamous son, after all Paimon was his most loyal follower and it was Lucifer’s knowledge and Grimores that helped them gain the knowledge they needed .. so of course his son would be delighted no Honored to help him out.

He had the prince moved in and settled in his palace at once such was the power of the King, whatever he wanted he got.

“Good I’m glad hard to do work when your not comfortable .. well it’s doable but still~ “ he chuckled and leaned against his cane .

“There’s a few contracts I need tightened it seems some idiots forget their on my leash ~”