#which makes it VERY Hard to write image descriptions :(

[your-fave-uses-it-its-pronouns]

Raistlin Majere from Dragonlance!

Raistlin Majere from Dragonlance uses it/its pronouns!

[ID: Raitlin Majere from Dragonlance in front of the it/its pride flag.

The it/its pride flag has stripes of: yellow, green, light grey, grey, light grey, green, and blue.

The yellow and blue stripes are wide, the green and light grey are narrow. Raistlin is a character with long white hair, golden skin, and a long red robe, with a staff with a pearl-like orb on the end, posed with one hand raised with sparks of purple light coming out. End ID.]

[mad-hunts]

as far as jack could tell, jervis was really out of it; and it made him wonder it was due to something that had happened while he was out with his father, or when they'd gotten here. perhaps both. jack gnawed on his bottom lip, his eyes darting to jervis's hands, which were flexing like he was struggling with something. an eyebrow rose as jack contemplated asking whether he needed some pain medication.

since he didn't receive an answer to his question yet, jack figured he might as well introduce himself. ❝ uhh, well, you don't have to talk to me if you aren't feeling up to it. my sister told me that you fainted in front of her out there — so, i understand if you're still feeling sick. my name is jack, ❞ he scratched at the back of his neck as he continued to observe jervis. whenever the man tried to get up, jack approached him and was about to caution jervis that maybe he shouldn't by lightly touching his shoulder.

but he remembered matilda telling him something about the other really not liking to be touched, so he merely was going to verbally tell him. up until jervis laid back down himself, anyhow. jack couldn't hold himself back from frowning at his poor present state before venturing out of the room with a 'i'll be right back.' and indeed he had been, with two different vials, alongside a few syringes to inject into that IV bag: should jervis want to be medicated. jack figured it'd be easier to just do that rather than forcing him to swallow anything.

he placed those also on the table before tilting his head at the quote jervis had said until it clicked a few seconds later, ❝ that's a quote from through the looking glass, isn't it? and one that the red queen said in the story if i remember correctly. she was basically teaching alice that staying in the same place is falling behind, right? ❞ jack squinted his eyes at that before a thought came to mind. a soft snort left him, but one that was done of an innocent sort of amusement rather than malice. ❝ that is a kind of roundabout way of talking about survival of the fittest. but hey, lewis carroll was all about the whimsy of things, i guess. and its no big deal. ❞

jack pretended not to see the tears that the other shed for jervis's own sake. the blood on his lips was something he couldn't ignore, no matter how hard he tried, though. jack grabbed a washcloth from his pack and held it out towards's jervis's hand. once it was out of his hand was when jack set down that teacup, the slightly too long stripped pants he wore swaying across the ground. ❝ mm, you and dad were both asleep for nearly four hours. sure — i don't think that's silly at all. i keep something on me all the time from when my brother, julien, was still around. ❞ the bracelet he showed the other on his right wrist then seemed to be made up entirely of tiny conch shells.

julien was a big fan of the sea, which jack thought made his death all the more crushing. after seeing the state that the stuffed animal was in, he figured that that bunny must've been really loved; though it didn't really matter by whom it was. the end result was the same, as love changes you. jack knew this well as he'd never wanted anything more than to be embraced by the warmth of it.

he quickly shook that thought off, only to grab the two vials he got from the fridge once more. ❝ eh... the four hours actually went by rather fast. ❞ jack cleared his throat then, ❝ you know, i couldn't help but notice that you aren't looking so hot still, and so i grabbed some meds for you. but i won't force you to take them. i have a pain reliever as well as something that relieves vertigo. are either, or both of these, something you want? ❞

Eigengrau.

A faint hum buzzed in his ears; his mouth was so dry it felt like he’d swallowed a wad of wool.

The thin sheet beneath him brushed his fingertips as Jervis flexed his hands, cracking his eyes open a sliver. The room tilted, everything blurring at the edges. Ah… so he had fainted. Just as he’d suspected. No glasses, then.

"Hey. Ahh, you're awake… That's awesome. How are you feeling?"

The new voice was barely a whisper, young and uncertain—belonging to a boy, maybe sixteen or eighteen by the timber. Was this another of Barton's assistants, a friend of Matilda’s, or perhaps her brother? Jervis couldn’t quite remember; hadn't Barton mentioned something about having more than one child?

He winced, his body feeling heavy, leaden; aching everywhere. Slowly, he exhaled and tried to push himself upright—tried being the keyword. The effort brought only a wave of vertigo, dizzying and blue-hot, making his vision swim.

… ohh, god…

He swallowed thickly, curling into himself. Something wasn’t right. His glasses and gloves weren’t the only thing missing. He was in his socks, jeans, and a now damp charcoal t-shirt, his body slick with cold sweat. His graying auburn curls clung to his neck in tangled ropes. His boots were beside the cot, his messenger bag on a desk across the room. His overcoat and maroon button-down were draped over a chair.

A flicker of discomfort in his right arm. Burning. Tugging.

Jervis glanced down at the source: a plastic tube. A peripheral IV catheter.

"Ah, you know... 'It takes all the running you can do, to stay in the same place,'" he muttered, his voice clipped and hollow; Bermudian accent casual, almost detached. He turned his eyes to the boy; offered him a faint, strained smile. "Keeps things interesting, I suppose... but I appreciate your concern, lad."

He lifted his fingers to his cheek, feeling the moisture trickle down—salt on his lips. Tears, sharp and stinging. Jervis flinched and quickly scrubbed them away with the heels of his hands.

Cold metal pressed into his spine, tight around his neck—the chain with his and Sylvie’s wedding rings twisted against his skin. He must’ve been thrashing in his sleep. There was blood on his lips.

"Forgive me…" His vision swam as he watched the boy set a teacup on the small table beside the cot, just within view. "But I'm afraid I've rather lost my sense of time. How long has it been since I…?" He paused, his voice barely steady. "... if... if you don’t mind, could you please reach into my coat pocket? You'll find a small cuddly toy. A rabbit..." He rubbed his mouth, lowered his eyes. "It sounds foolish, I know... but it... it was my daughter's, you see..."

The boy nodded, moving quickly to retrieve the toy from Jervis’ coat pocket, and placed it on the table beside the teacup. The bunny was missing one of its button eyes, its white fur faded and matted. A pink satin ribbon around its neck was frayed and tattered.

“Thank you,” Jervis said hoarsely. “I must have been out of it for quite a while.”

[sttoru]

𝐌𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐌𝐘 𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃 . . .

⟣ sypnosis. you’re fed up with your rich abusive husband and finally decide to hire a skilled assassin to get rid of him in secrecy. one night when you’re left alone in your penthouse, you invite the assassin named toji over to give him the money he’s demanded to accept the job. things turn for the worse when your husband comes home early that day and catches toji and you together.

⟣ note. eeek. never thought i’d be here to write this out but i did and it turned pretty detailed if i must say. hope u all enjoy and appreciate my hard work. feedback / comments are greatly appreciated ! if the fic does well, i can make an alternative ending that’s smutty :3 wc: 7.4k

⟣ tags. toji fushiguro x female reader. angst, comfort. themes include abuse. reader is in an abusive + toxic relationship with her husband. implied age gap with husband. implied size difference with toji. mentions of guns + blood + m.urder. knifes.

“what is a successful marriage?”

that is one of the many questions that keep you up at night. you’ve laid awake for hours on end ever since you’ve married your husband, in search for reasonable answers. you’ve got many of them sorted out, however that specific question is one left unanswered.

it is very subjective—many can vary about the concrete answer. but one thing you know for sure is that your marriage is the exact opposite of what ‘successful’ means.

you were so full of yourself. you didn’t realise that your pride would also be your downfall one day; you’d constantly brag about having a rich husband who gets you everything you wanted. you were too blinded by love—or actually—by his money to notice the real him. the real, twisted and manipulative face of the man you were determined to marry.

his name was daisuke. from the yamamoto family. a family known in japan for its generational wealth and the many buildings and famous corporations it owns. you’ve worked at one of those companies and had met daisuke whilst he was on a visit. you’ve heard about his image by the public; sweet, caring and apparently wouldn’t hurt a fly.

unfortunately, the true him matched none of those descriptions. the true him only you—his wife—came face to face with at your shared home. you remember when it started. when daisuke began to turn into a nasty, abusive man whose anger is never restrainable.

your dating years were nothing but a dream. or, maybe you were too gullible to notice the signs and red flags your then boyfriend was showing. his love bombing, the manipulation, the gaslighting—you didn’t know better. if you complained about a minor thing that he had done, daisuke would apologise by sending you lots of money and presents. toxic, isn’t it?

but you didn’t care. you were happy and content with that being your compensation. the money was the evildoer that made you lose all your morals. the teenage you who said that you’ll never put up with a man’s disrespect was long forgotten.

even now, 4 years later, you put up with his verbal and physical abuse just to continue staying in that big mansion you live in. to continue getting everything paid for you. to continue getting lots of money by doing nothing but be his wife—his trophy wife, at this point.

it’s an easy life; ‘all i have to do is get through his abuse and it’ll be just fine’, you tell yourself that every night. it’s the only thing keeping you sane—a coping mechanism of some kind.

however lately, daisuke’s never skipped a day without being abusive towards you. he’d enter your home yelling and shouting, complains about the tiniest speck of dust in the house (which is not even your fault, it’s the maids’), reminds you how worthless you are in his eyes and the list goes on. he sometimes gets physical and throws stuff at you, causing multiple bruises and cuts to appear on your body after he’s done having his daily tantrum.

he might even kill you one day. it’s scary to think about; if he would, he easily could. he could one day just decide to be done with you and stick a knife in your body, leave you to bleed out and then order one of his men to get rid of your corpse. just like his family does to whoever stands in their way of success. you don’t want to discover how many people your husband has killed.

daisuke can easily get away with murder after all—the law is nothing but a thing to exist to keep the common citizens in the government’s control. to the rich, it’s like those rules don’t exist. court? justice? the so called independent judge? nothing money can’t buy. after all, money is power. money is innocence.

after four years of sticking with that rich man, you were getting tired. you were staying with him for his wealth, but was it actually worth it? besides, if daisuke hates you so much, why wouldn’t he divorce you instead? you don’t have anything going for you. except for your looks and youth, probably. that’s the main reason why daisuke coaxed you into marrying him—to show you off during events or parties. a complete and utter trophy wife you are.

you’ve been going to sketchy bars lately to let off some steam. you weren’t even there to drink alcohol. the sole reason for attending pubs was to forget about your own situation. you’d get weird stares since you’re always alone, sitting in that one spot in the far corner, no one wanting to come up to you because of that gloomy aura you’re emitting. and because you’re always dressed modestly from head to toe—not an ounce of skin showing. it was all the opposite of what most people would normally look and act like in bars.

‘what is normal?’ also a subjective question. society has turned it into an objective one, however.

“good day, miss.” a deep voice had interrupted your thoughts one day whilst you were doing your usual routine; sit near the bar counter, get a non-alcoholic drink, stare at the table for hours and question your purpose in life before going home to the reason of your problems.

a man, probably in his late 30’s or early 40’s, sat next to you on an available stool. he nonchalantly ordered a drink before making small talk. it was a nice change of pace for some reason. you had asked him his name. it was shiu.

that stranger had kept you company for hours until a call from your husband made you snap back to reality; you had to be home as soon as possible. judging by daisuke’s tone, you were in big trouble.

you remember how shiu outed his concern for your well-being by pointing out the bruises on your arm which you didn’t even know were showing.

you dismissed his worries with a fake smile and told him it was nothing, quickly pulling your sleeve back down. shiu seemed to let the topic go, but before parting ways with you, he handed you his business card. you didn’t know what it was for—what kind of services he could offer;

“call that number if you need someone to get rid of your problems,” was all you got before the mysterious man walked away. you couldn’t shake off the emphasis on the word ‘rid’. it sent a shiver down your spine.

that sentence of shiu’s echoed in your ears as tears streamed down your cheek after you arrived home. you were in your personal bathroom, hands shaking as you put a bag of ice on your fresh bruise, the small red and blue-ish area stinging. once again—you couldn’t avoid your husband’s wrath.

after having slept for a mere two hours that day in your bathtub, you’ve awoken to an empty house. daisuke was gone for work. luckily for you.

you hastily grabbed the business card in your purse and dialled the number. staring at the card, you’d think it was some kind of house cleaning service. that’s the kind of vibe it gave. little did you know that it was far from that.

a few rings later and you heard the same familiar deep voice in your ear; “good morning. with shiu kong.”

your heart was beating in your throat as you couldn’t gather the right words to say. maybe it was due to the little voice in the back of your head that warned you for something—you couldn’t pinpoint what the specific cause was just yet.

you answered eventually, “hi. uhm, you said i could call this number if i needed someone to get rid of my problems.” you pause and inhale deeply, “wh-what if my problem was.. a person? would you…” your voice trailed off, but the implication could not be missed by anyone if they heard the tone you used.

shiu seemed to recognise your voice, though stayed silent for a second or two at your request. when he replied, it sounded like he had expected you to ask him this—like he’s heard this many times before; “certainly.”

that’s when you realised what you’ve gotten yourself involved with. you were sweating and you had trouble breathing as you realised that.. this was your chance. to get rid of that man called your husband. your abuser.

you had decided to take on that opportunity and that’s how you ended up getting a phone call from an anonymous number right after your talk with shiu. the agent hadn’t told you anything other than the name of the person who’d contact you; ‘toji’, and said that he’d help you further.

you stared at the ‘no caller ID’ on your screen. this was him: the person who’d help you get rid of your problem. you gulped before sliding your thumb across your mobile to answer the call.

“hi, good m—”

“location.”

the husky male voice cut through your introduction and got straight to the point. your lips were parted to answer the man whom you guessed was ‘toji’, but your breath got caught in your throat for a second. do you just randomly give your address to a stranger? was that okay to do? you didn’t know—no, you didn’t care. if you got killed in the process or something similar, that’d be way better than to live another day in hell with your husband.

you dropped your address after some hesitation and toji just added a quick, ‘be there in an hour or so,’ before hanging up on you.

fast forward to 50 minutes later and you were pacing back and forth in your living room, trying to breathe properly and not have a second panic attack. daisuke wouldn’t be home until noon, so at least he won’t see whoever will enter your mansion in a few minutes. and if there’s a possibility that you get killed by this stranger, you’re sure that your husband would be more than happy that the job was done for him.

a loud tune. the sound of your doorbell. normally, you’d find the short melody relaxing, but now it sounded like something out of a nightmare. you made your way to your intercom and looked at the small screen—seeing a tall black-haired man with a compressed shirt and beige baggy pants standing near the gates. that must be toji—the man you talked to an hour ago.

he must be confident in his abilities since he didn’t cover up his identity at all when coming all the way over here.

you press a button and the gates open with a buzz. toji disappears from the little screen as he enters your front yard. the screen fades to black and you’re left alone with a sense of dread in your stomach. that only lasted for a couple seconds since the doorbell of your front door goes off.

“c-coming!” your voice cracks. you make your way over to the entrance of your home and breathe in. you open the doors slightly, peeking through the gap at the tall, intimidating man standing before you.

toji was kicking a rock to the side whilst waiting and looked up when you opened the doors. he seemed laidback, as if this was nothing but child’s play to him, “took ya long enough.”

you were appalled as toji simply barged into your home like he owned it. his strong, masculine cologne wafted through the air as he passed you by without giving you a second to process his intrusion.

your shaky eyes followed his bulky figure—the muscles that bulged through his shirt, which tensed every now and then. his aura was no joke either; it was horrifying to someone whom didn’t even know who he was or what he exactly did for a living.

“phewww,” the dark-haired man let out a low whistle as his eyes scanned the interior of the entrance hall, shamelessly touching a few expensive looking decorations, inspecting the material, “pretty damn rich, ain’t ya? this y’r daddy’s money?”

you shake your head and close the door behind you, staying there in case you needed to run. you are still wary of this situation, even when you had been the one that started this all.

“h-husband’s.” your voice was a quiet whisper. toji raised an eyebrow and turned his attention towards you. his eyes scanned you from head to toe. you looked pretty young. a fragile little thing, is how he described you in his head.

“husband? you?” toji chuckles dryly, before stepping closer to you, his body towering over yours. he lowers his head and stares at you from up close, his hands in his pockets whilst wordlessly looking at you.

you swallowed a bit of saliva and glanced back at the big man whom belittled you twice in just a couple seconds. you fumbled with the sleeve of your hoodie as the silence grew deafening—the only sound being your own soft yet shallow breathing.

your fingers scratched at the bruises under the fabric of your clothes, causing the cloth to slightly crinkle and glide up a few centrimeters with each rub before coming back down once your fingers stop. the instant you start touching those bruises, the itching just wouldn’t stop.

toji noticed this and looked down at your arm. his eyes caught a small glimpse of a wound on your wrist, but he didn’t seem to comment on it. with a sniff, he straightened his back and cocked his head to the right—face cold again as he glared at you;

“do ya know what kinda stuff i do?” his voice was booming, the deepness to it making you shiver. you press your lips together and search for answer, only to find nothing;

“n-no, i mean—“ your itching increases the more nervous you felt, “th-the man who directed me to you said you’d explain things further. all i know is that you can get rid of uhm— a problem of mine.”

toji scoffs and mutters something incomprehensible under his breath about his ‘stupid agent letting him do all the work’ before turning around. he lazily walks ahead as if he had all the time he needed in the world. once arrived in your living room, the man plops down on your couch, spreads his legs and leans back against the cushions. he really acted like he owns this place.

“i’m not the type to beat around the bush, little lady,” toji starts whilst his eyes follow you as you nervously sat on the chair next to the sofa, “so i’m gonna get straight into it. and if ya back down after this or get too scared ‘n call the cops, unfortunately, y’r pretty ass gotta go.”

toji swipes a thumb across his neck to indicate what that latter meant; killed. you’re gonna get killed if you learn his real identity and decide to expose it to anyone, especially the police. you blinked your tears away whilst thinking of that possibility and shook your head, putting on a determined face. you need to take responsibilities for your actions. you were the one who started this.

“all right. i promise that i won’t back down.” you reply after getting yourself together. toji’s eyes had left yours for a second to look around the grand living room—as if inspecting for something—before settling back on you. he quickly exhales through his nose; leaning his head on his hand while his piercing gaze burned holes in your skin,

“i’m an assassin.” toji says in a bored tone. he’s done this little introduction to his job so many times before to clients who hire him in for the first time, “i kill people in exchange for money. so, ya basically hired me to get rid of someone ‘nd i’m here to collect the money and information i need to finish the job. got that?”

there it was. the confirmation you needed and got without an ounce of hesitation coming from the man in front of you. you had expected this outcome (from the many you created in your head), of course, thus you weren’t that surprised. yet the fact that you actually have a hitman in your house, someone who can easily kill your husband, still makes you nervous.

“yes, thank you.” you eventually replied and nodded, taking a deep breath to calm your nerves. you looked up at toji and this time it wasn’t in a nervous way. this time it was in a determined way. toji notices this change and the scarred corner of his lip curled into a smirk.

“how much. . . money do you want for this job?” you go straight to the point. the dark-haired man grins whilst scanning your figure up and down shamelessly, enjoying the confident look on you. it suited you better.

“depends. who is it that i gotta kill?” toji asks, using his thumb to crack his index finger. you look around as if anyone could hear you. you were sure that no one was there with you, no maids no bodyguards no husband, yet your anxiety was still at its peak.

“my husband.” you reply quietly and point at the big picture frame on the wall near the chimney. it was a picture of daisuke and you. you seemed happy there, but it was all for show. that photoshoot was simply for his benefit, “daisuke. daisuke yamamoto.”

toji raises his eyebrow and stares at the picture. he’s heard of that name before. it was mentioned many times in the articles he reads. the assassin stands up with a grunt and walks to the chimney, letting out a small hum like he was thinking about it. not about if he could get the job done—no, his pride told him he easily could—but about the amount of money he wanted to get out of this.

there was a silence before toji turns around on his heels and walks over to the couch again, plopping down on the soft cushions whilst propping his feet on the table in front of him, “around seven million yen will do.”

that was about 50.000 dollars.

your jaw slightly dropped. it’s not like you haven’t seen nor heard of such big numbers before, it’s just that it was a little unexpected. but then again; nothing you can’t afford. with your husband’s money. the same money that ruined your life, is going to be used as a weapon to save it.

daisuke’s own money is going to be the death of him. and you’re the one to guarantee that.

“all right. i can get you that in cash.” you nod idly. your mind was clearly somewhere else—trying to remember the password to daisuke’s safe that was situated in a hidden room near his office. you recently found out that he keeps most cash, gold and other valuable pieces there, away from your sight. he was bad at hiding that fact from you, however.

one night, he came home drunk and it ended up with him confessing to you that he ‘won’t ever let a gold digger like you near his money again’ and proceeded to spill that he ‘has a secret safe which you won’t ever get your hands on’. eventually, you did. after a bit of snooping around, you easily found the hidden room behind a bookcase.

those fat stacks of money in there definitely add up to more than seven million yen. you’re sure of it. the only obstacle in your way is gathering that money. most of the time, daisuke locks his office before leaving home—or if he doesn’t—his maids will be in there cleaning.

“it will take me some time, but…” your voice trails off as a pensive look falls on your face. you bite your bottom lip and try to figure out something—a plan. toji catches your attention again by letting out a deep sigh. he dismissively waves your worries away with one hand;

“tha’s fine, lady. i need some time to prepare for this job too—it ain’t an easy one after all.” the assassin comments whilst scratching the scar near his lips, also seemingly deep in thought about his own plan, “bet he got lots of guards on his ass, too. tch.”

there was another thought in the back of toji’s mind that bothered him. normally, he’d be pissed off if his client didn’t prepare any kind of money beforehand. maybe some compensation bills, or at least a little thing he can have before they give him the full amount.

but with you, he seems not to mind. he wouldn’t be mad if he left this place empty handed for the time being. maybe he actually feels pity for your situation. or was it something else?

toji scoffs at his wandering mind and inwardly tells himself to shut up about such dumb stuff. getting his money is what’s most important to him. if you die afterwards, he wouldn’t care.

that’s what he tells himself.

“anyways. you should gimme all ya know about him. y’re his wife, right? ya should know his routine ‘n stuff that i can work with.” toji speaks up after the ten seconds of silence. you nod at his question—he wanted every single piece of information about your husband, so you’ll give him everything. no details excluded.

you pull out your phone and show toji pictures you took from daisuke’s computer in secrecy. pictures of his daily schedule for the upcoming month. your prior intention by taking those was to know when to be back home or when to avoid him, but they could be useful for this as well.

you continue to explain when and where daisuke holds his breaks, where his main office is located, the bodyguards that accompany him every day and when they leave him alone— all the information you gathered.

toji can’t help but be amazed by your memory. and the fact that you can recall everything, small or big, about your husband. it certainly did make his job easier; now he doesn’t have to pry out more hints on daisuke himself.

of course, you had your reasons for knowing all the miniscule facts about daisuke. it’s how you managed to survive those four years of marriage.

“good. tha’s enough.” toji nods and stands up with a grunt, stretching his arms—the muscles retracting. you couldn’t help but stare at them; he must have gone through a lot of training to become an assassin. a skilled one at that.

“before i go,” toji continues as he walks past you without looking back, heading straight for the exit of the living room, “you should delete all cctv footage that ya got going on ‘round here. i’ll take care of further evidence, yeah?”

toji moves his index finger in a circle, pointing at all corners in the house. he doesn’t want to risk anything, “i’ll call ya once i get things sorted out. then i’ll get to work when ya hand me the money.”

you nod and make a mental note for yourself to do that immediately once toji’s gone. you still had an hour or two before your husband would return. you don’t think he checks the cctv footage often (otherwise he’d have caught you sneaking into his office before), but it’ll be a big problem if he actually does and sees a random man in his home.

“will do. thank you.” you reply to toji and get up to politely see him out of your house. that’s when the realisation kicked in; your husband will be killed by this man right here in front of you. goosebumps appeared on your skin—not from fright. but from… happiness?

this stranger will end years of torment for you. yes, it’s his job. he’ll probably disappear after he’s got the money and completed your request, and yet, you can’t help but be extremely thankful.

without thinking, you reach out and grab onto toji’s wrist to stop him from moving. the assassin doesn’t stiff or tense up by this sudden touch. in fact, he’s already sensed it coming and allowed it.

toji’s actually more surprised by the fact that his mind and body allowed you to touch him. if it were anyone else, he’d probably have avoided their touch, broken their hand or worse—cut it off.

he moves his head to the side and looks at you from his peripherals, though not fully turning to you yet. he doesn’t speak up either; he’s waiting on you to go first.

your heart was somehow starting to beat even faster. you bit your lip and mentally cursed yourself out for pulling such an action; you could’ve just waited to show your gratitude through the phone.

well, either way, there was no going back now so you might as well spill your words of gratitude right this moment. you took a deep breath and parted your lips, ready to talk, but was then interrupted by your biggest nightmare.

a familiar, chilling voice. your heart drops. your body freezes.

“i knew it.”

a looming figure stood near the entrace to the living room. you recognised him instantly, as did your body, which went into an almost paralysed state. your mouth went dry, your hands started shaking and your eyes widened to the point you weren’t blinking anymore.

your husband, daisuke, appeared out of thin air in front of toji and you. his gaze was solely focused on the way your fingers were curled around toji’s wrist. to top it off, he had only heard the last bits of your conversation: something about deleting cctv and money. his brain hadn’t heard the entirety of it—he had already taken wrong conclusions in his head.

daisuke’s veins were on the verge of popping as he took two big steps towards you—you taking two steps back in response.

“i knew you were cheating on me, you fuckin’ slut.” daisuke spits with his finger pointed right at you. he was ignoring toji’s presence for the time being. he had to deal with you first;

“i work my ass off all day and night to provide for you and this is how you repay me? by inviting a random dude over whilst i’m gone? ungrateful bitch.”

two insults in a row; one more and daisuke’s putting his hands on you. it always went like that. your mind felt like it was emptied, but you somehow felt relieved that your husband didn’t seem to know the real reason of why toji had come over. daisuke really thought you were just cheating on him, and that your words of ‘deleting all cctv footage’ was to hide that infidelity.

“it’s n-not.. like that, daisuke.” you try to soothe the raging man in front of you, but your attempts were futile. he was just three quick steps away from resorting to physical violence.

toji, in the meantime, had stepped off to the side. you were only his client, thus there was no need to interrupt a couple’s ‘dispute’. you weren’t anyone dear or special to him—just a client. a stranger that owes him money to perform a job.

the assassin leans against a nearby wall, crossing his arms over his chest whilst watching the scene unfold. it was unfortunate that toji’s target was right there in front of him; he could just kill him right now. get the job done and over with. but, once again, toji only got to work if he had the money. he only assassinates when his skills are paid for. not any earlier and not any later. those were his morals—the rules he lives by.

if toji wanted to, he could simply walk away and let you handle this stuff by yourself. daisuke accusing him of being your ‘thing on the side’ didn’t bother him. as long as your husband doesn’t know his real identity, he’s fine with whatever accusations that get thrown at him.

but, for some reason—the same reason from earlier—his body was yelling at him to stay. toji sighs; he knows he won’t ever win a battle against his heart’s needs. he decides to stay.

daisuke still doesn’t seem to care about this; all the man wants is to out his anger and accuse you of things he now has enough ‘evidence’ for. he was seething and fuming at this revelation.

“god knows what else you’ve done behind my back. i bet he isn’t the only one you’ve fucke—“

“stop! i’m not cheating,” you finally yell back. it was the first time in a while that you had gathered the strength to do so. it felt good now that you had stuck up for yourself, but you knew how this would end for you—probably on the floor. crying.

despite all of that, you decided to keep on going. it’s now or never: all you have to do is make up a lie, probably withstand daisuke’s anger again and hope it doesn’t kill you. just this once; all you have to do is survive this once and then you’ll be freed from him.

you’ll give toji his money and he will do the job for you. just a few more days—

“he’s.. he’s my friend’s husband. i invited them both over and he just arrived earlier than expected.” you quickly made up. it sounded a little convincing to you. toji’s low snicker of amusement in the back confirmed that it maybe was the opposite of convincing.

daisuke scoffs at the pathetic attempt of hiding your ‘infidelity’. with another step forward, he raises his voice a notch; “yeah, right! what a pathetic excuse.”

a second step—you were waiting on that third curse. that third swear word that would set hell loose in this house, “do you really think you can fool me with that? huh?!”

it hadn’t happened yet. you still had time to think of a plan to perhaps escape this situation. your eyes flickered over to toji, although it didn’t seem like he’d be of any help. of course, he’s just an outsider after all. a stranger whom you just met today.

assassins have already disregarded their heart emotions the moment they decided to go down the path of killing for a living. you wouldn’t even blame toji for not stepping in. you’re also but a stranger to him.

toji could see the glimmer of hope in your eyes when you looked at him. or maybe it was a call for help. a desperate look. he can’t tell the difference. though, what he can tell, is that there was a gnawing feeling in the pits of his stomach. a gut feeling that told him it’d be smart to interfere.

but there’s his rational thoughts that tell him to not get involved—to avoid any more trouble than needed. besides, what other benefits would it bring him if he did? toji doesn’t want to be seen as a hero or saviour by anyone.

his jaw clenches as the time ticks. only a couple seconds left before the cold-hearted assassin has to make a decision.

daisuke’s patience was running low. the tension was increasing and could burst at any given moment now. one wrong move and you’re done—

one wrong breath could result in the worst possible outcome.

your silence spoke volumes to daisuke. the way you held your head low, your eyes that flickered from the floor to the ceiling, your fingers that nervously fumbled with your clothes and your bottom lip that trembled unstoppably. that pissed him off.

everything about you pissed him off. daisuke didn’t see any benefits of having you around anymore. he hadn’t for the long time, however didn’t know how he’d get rid of you.

divorce? no, he’ll have to give some of his earnings to you. kick you out? a possibility, but that would ruin his reputation. blackmail? that option was now the best choice. he’s caught you with another man after all. with camera evidence.

but, daisuke wouldn’t be satisfied with that outcome. his rage was blinding him—more than usual. he has to make you learn your lesson. in a way that will have you begging for your life to be spared.

and thus, the last step was made. the deciding hands were raised—aimed for your neck. the final curse had left his lips;

“come here. i’ll show you how whores like you should be treated.”

killing intent. it was the first time you’ve seen daisuke’s gaze darken that much, his demeanour emotionless yet full of rage. you close your eyes and expect for the worse.

“tha’s enough.”

everything went blank to you. it was silent, your vision was black, your hands were above your head, your heart felt like it wasn’t beating anymore—had you met your end? had you already been murdered?

in that same instant, you could feel drops of liquid splatter on your face. a faint ringing sound in your ears—it sounded like fireworks had been set off. a loud ‘pop’ sound.

something hit the ground right after. it wasn’t your body since that someone or something landed right at your feet.

after that: utter silence.

you gathered all your strength once more and slowly opened your eyelids. your vision was a bit blurry, though the first shape you could make out was one of a man on the ground. and not just any man—it was the man whom you hated most. at your feet.

you would’ve never thought of seeing that image before. of your husband laying at your feet; both literally and figuratively. a red liquid gushed out of his head and soaked into your shoes.

a normal wife would’ve let out a blood hurling scream at the sight of her lover laying lifelessly near her. a normal wife with a healthy relationship, that is.

you did let out a scream at the sight of your husband laying lifelessly near your feet. but that wasn’t done out of panic for your husband’s life—or due to the pain you were in to see him dead.

it was purely because you hadn’t seen a corpse before.

“d-daisuke..?”

a normal wife would’ve called out her husband’s name in a futile attempt that he’d answer back. that all of it was a dream. that her beloved wasn’t dead.

your reason wasn’t anything close to that. you called out that name in hopes he wouldn’t answer back. that all of it wasn’t a dream. that your abuser was dead.

it was real. you were glad, yet extremely disturbed by the fact that there was a corpse at your feet. you didn’t want to see all of it happening—that wasn’t part of the plan.

you stumble back a bit, hands clutching onto the chair you bumped into as you did your best to avoid the gruesome scene before your eyes. you just wished someone would clean the mess as soon as possible.

it’s then that your gaze fell on the other person present in the room; the man who was standing with a gun in his hand. toji scratched his head with the barrel, cold eyes looking down at the corpse with a faintly visible disgusted expression.

the assassin clicks his tongue as he walks towards the lifeless body and puts the sole of his shoe on daisuke’s cheek as if he was stepping on a pile of dirt, moving the head back and forth to check for any possible ounce of life in there.

there was none. the soul had left its body almost instantly after that bullet went through his brain. toji sighs; this time at himself for acting irrationally, “should’ve tortured you to death for tryin’ to put y’r hands on that lady instead of givin’ you the easy way out.”

with a harsh kick to the head on the floor, toji gathers some of his saliva on his tongue before spitting on the man. doubling the disrespect; “consider yourself lucky.”

toji cocked his head to the right. that’s where he spotted you with a familiar look on your face. the expression of someone who just went through a traumatic experience. he’s seen many people react like you when facing a near death experience or when witnessing somebody die before them.

usually, he’d tell them ‘it’s normal, get used to it’ and leave it at that. this was different. it felt different with you.

“are you okay?” the words slipped out of toji’s mouth before he could hold them back. his tone was a mixture of genuine concern and confusion. the latter was due to his own state of mind at the moment.

you didn’t answer, but you put your hands on your mouth as if you were going to puke any moment now. your vision was getting blurry with tears, head spinning and body feeling numb and weird.

toji hesitates before stepping towards you. his hands reached out to hold you, though he stopped them. he’d figured you wouldn’t be comfortable with him touching you in any way or form. he just killed someone in front of you—

it’s not like you cared that it was your husband. that much was clear. you sniff and glance up at toji with such a relieved yet devastated expression that his arms instinctively wrapped around you and pulled you into his warm embrace.

it was an awkward hug since toji doesn’t really know the basics of comforting someone. he was a bit stiff, but you didn’t show any discomfort due to that fact. instead, you clung onto his body and left tear stains on his black shirt.

“shhh, shh. it’s fine. it’s okay.” toji whispers, whilst his big hands indecisively move around, trying to find a spot to rest on. one eventually lands on the back of your head whilst the other starts to slowly rub up and down your spine, “it’s over, yeah? all of it—it’s over.”

toji doesn’t have a clue about the exact details of what your life was like. why you asked him to kill your (now ex-)husband was none of his business. all he knew was that he was going to get paid for it, so he didn’t care what the reason was.

it wasn’t like he hadn’t noticed the scars and bruises on your body throughout your conversation either—but that as well—was none of his business. assassins do their job without any further questions. there was no need to have personal connections or relations with their clients.

yet, toji was going against those unspoken rules once more. all because of you. for you.

“thank y—you.” your voice was weak as you speak up. it sounded hoarse and tired, though the sense of gratitude was undeniably there, “thank you, thank you, thank you.”

a series of ‘thank you’s’ leave your lips whilst your body and mind were still trying to recover from the whole ordeal. toji was trying his best to keep by your side until you calmed down. that’s the least he could do—after the fact that he singlehandedly got rid of the main problem in your life.

“no need to thank me, lady.” the dark-haired man whispers, allowing you to mess up his shirt with your tears and tugs, “i did what i had to do.”

toji didn’t actually have to do what he did. he never does his job before he’s guaranteed the money. however this time, it was a different story. he did it without thinking. he had to. his body was telling him to move—and in a flash—it was done.

he tries to tell himself that it’s just him slacking off. that he isn’t possibly starting to care about another person. he shouldn’t; those complicated emotions would stand in his way. and yet. . .

“c’mere.”

toji lifts you up bridal style while you keep quivering against his shoulder. his hands had a tight grip on your body, his eyes a sharp gaze on the mess he created. with a sigh, he takes you upstairs to a random room—kicking the door open.

toji carefully puts you back on your feet and guides you to sit on the edge of the kingsized bed. he absentmindedly brushes a few strands of your hair back after wiping some more tears away from your face;

“i know it’s a lot to take in,” toji kneels down before you, looking up with an unreadable expression whilst wiping the tears from your cheeks. his warm palms make contact with your skin and it’s like you’ve forgotten all about what just happened, “but is it okay if ya stay here while i go take care of the rest? i’ll come back once i’m done.”

toji has his own ways of cleaning up after he’s done a job and most likely wants to put one of those techniques to use before any maid or guard comes to check in on the house situation. you sniffle and hiccup afterwards, trying to form a verbal response through your broken sobs, but to no avail.

you simply nod and lean into toji’s calloused hands—such rough and masculine hands—ones that were meant to protect instead of hurt you. you weren’t able to trust men after your marriage, however this one in front of you was unlike any other. even if he may not seem like it on the outside.

his touch was gentle yet firm. the pads of his thumbs swiped the wet skin under your lower eyelashes and you could’ve sworn toji’s gaze had softened for a split second before he caught himself.

he had to stand up, get rid of the mess and leave the place before he got too attached to you. the assassin cannot make such a grave mistake.

“i promise,” toji speaks up after a bit again, standing up after giving you a soft pat against your shoulder, “you’re fine. i’ll be back—ya have my word.”

there he goes; making promises he knows he probably can’t keep. ‘i’ll be back’, will he? he can’t. for your own safety. he has to treat you as just another client. none of what he did in this house could be spoken of anymore.

he slipped up this once. it needn’t to happen again. money. he does his jobs for money—when he obtains the money. he doesn’t kill his targets for the sake of others, for the protection of others.

he doesn’t kill for love.

toji wishes that all of this had never happened, because he knows that his heart will lead him back to you at the end of the day. he knows he won’t leave once he cleans up the mess downstairs. he’ll come right back to you.

and you have faith in that. you trust this stranger whom had practically saved your life with just one shot.

“i don’t know how to repay you.. thank you.” you manage to mutter through shallow breaths. you stare at the back of toji’s head as he makes his way to the door. he stops in his tracks to reply to your comment.

he stands still at the doorway and looks over his shoulder at you—the scarred corner of his lips twitching;

“prepare the money. tha’s how you can repay me.” toji replies and you don’t know if he’s joking or being serious because of that little grin on his face. a breathy chuckle follows and then the assassin disappears.

the door closes and you’re left alone in this space. left alone in the silence of the home that had treated you as its prisoner. you remember how your husband used to lock you up in your bedroom whenever you had done something to piss him off; taking away your freedom by keeping you in a room.

now it’s yours—your life is yours. you’ve fully gained your freedom back and can decide what to do for yourself. it seems like a foreign situation, a foreign world, a foreign concept; you can now actually do whatever your heart desires. without any restraints.

“what is a successful marriage?”

well, to you, it’s one with a satisfactory ending.

🏷️ : @satoruhour @squicksquak @omgeto @xmintpie @cursingtoji @obsidiannero @elmoees @x1aosg1rl @fushironi @ceceher @ajax1230 @toji-is-hot @jayugh @rinshoe @sligerate @satoryaa @luveblad3 @happystrawberrytyrant @ezraiix

[max1461]

Thinking about this post. "The only way to make a cell is from another cell" is somewhat of a troubling fact to me. I mean, not for any practical reason, just because it underscores the precarity of *gestures broadly*.

It's like, some people talk about trying to de-extinct the mammoth. And people are trying to sequence the genome of the mammoth, I don't know if they've done it yet. But even if they do, one of the problems with the idea of de-extinction is... to grow a baby mammoth, you need another mammoth! Last time I heard people talking about this, I think they were talking about using an elephant as a surrogate mother. But imagine if elephants were extinct too.

The point is that information is often tied to the systems that transmit it; even if you know everything in the mammoth genome, once all the mammoths are gone there's nothing capable of reading and using that information. Like when you can't read the data on a perfectly good floppy disk because your computer doesn't have a floppy drive.

This is related to why language death troubles me so much. Even the most well-documented languages aren't actually that well understood; linguists have produced more pages of work on English syntax than maybe any other specific descriptive topic and yet still the only reliable way to get the answer to any moderately subtle syntactic question is elicit native speaker data. We know almost nothing, we can barely extrapolate at all! And every language is like this, a hugely complex system that we know basically nothing about, and if the chain of native speaker transmission is ever broken it's just gone.

"Language revival", I mean from a totally dead language, is kind of a myth. It's like the "came back different" trope. In Israel they revived Hebrew, but Modern Hebrew is really not the same thing as Biblical Hebrew at all. I mean in a stronger sense even than Modern English isn't Old English. All the subtleties of Biblical Hebrew that a native speaker would have had implicit competence with died without a trace. All they left is a grainy image, the texts. The first generation of Modern Hebrew speakers took the rough grammatical sketch preserved in these texts and imbued it with new subtleties, borrowed from Slavic and Germanic and the speakers' other native languages, or converged at by consensus among that first generation of children. There's nothing wrong with that, but it would be inaccurate to imagine Biblical Hebrew surviving in Modern Hebrew the way Old English survives in Modern English. For instance, you can discover a great deal that you didn't know about Old English by comparing Modern English dialects. There is nothing you can discover about Biblical Hebrew by comparing Modern Hebrew dialects in this way.

There's nothing wrong with this, of course. I'm not like, judging Modern Hebrew. I'm just making a point.

Mammoths died recently, so we still have (some of?) their genome. Something that died longer ago, like dinosaurs, we have traces of them in the form of fossils but we could never hope to revive them, the information is just gone. Even if we're not aiming for revival, even if we just want to know stuff about dinosaurs, there's so much that we will never know and can never know.

We imagine information as the kind of thing which sits in an archive, because this is the context most of us encounter information in, I think. Libraries, hard drives. Well obviously hard drives don't last. And most ancient texts only survive because of a scribal tradition, continuous re-writing, not because of actual archival. So I think that imagining archives as the natural habitat of information is sort of wrong; the natural habit of information is in continuous transmission. Information is constantly moving. And it's like one of those sharks, if it ever stops moving it drowns. And if the lines of transmission are broken, the information is gone and can never be retrieved.

Very precarious.

[eluxcastar]

Hello Riri! :]

I'm in my platonic harbingers with a child reader era, and you're one of the few people I follow who writes platonic stuff on an occasion. So here's my request!

Here's the small storyline I have. Reader is the child of a god (you're free to decide what they are the god of, if you want) who is extremely well known around Tevyat, and puts on a very intimidating and serious presence. Yet one unfortunate day, the readers parent dies, so now they have to take on their legacy at a too young of age. Making them grow up out of their childhood much faster and pressuring them into becoming exactly like their parent. Cold, intimidating, and serious.

And out of all the mortals the reader has met, the harbingers are who they find comfort in. They could be lecturing some other mortal one minute, and the next minute, they see one of the harbingers. They're grabbing them by the hands, bouncing on their tip toes with a bright smile.

(Hope you're having a good day! And please don't overwork yourself<3)

Fatui harbingers with a child god

── ୨୧：fatui harbingers & reader

୨୧﹑synopsis :: child reader taking over as archon and basically immediately proving why child rulers are a bad idea but it's ok because it's cute and endearing

୨୧﹑genre :: fluff

୨୧﹑content :: gn reader, god reader, signora might be ooc tbh I struggled to think for her, not proofread

୨୧﹑words :: 3k

this has been in my inbox for some time, even though I've really wanted to do it for ages. I'm sorry honey it took me a while to get to it. the description of their parent at least to me was giving mr zhongli when he was morax and I immediately thought of the ramifications of him faking his death in the rite of descension which makes me wanna write something else BUT THAT'S FOR LATER

I meant to post this four and a half hours ago but suddenly it was like twice the length I thought it would be and uh yeah that was not the plan but enjoy the food served hot and fresh

There has hardly been a moment of grief since you were orphaned, and the people are turning to you for their next overseer. You, small, fragile, and ill-prepared, are the one they wish to see take up the pillar left in your father's wake. You weren't ready, and maybe you never would've been, embraced by the caring side of your well and truly mellowed-out father and cherished by the people as the child of the nation.

Your transition from people's treasure to people's guide was jarring, and you're still not used to it. You move with what pleases and hide what brings deep frowns and disappointed eyes. The people no longer want a child but a god. They want their pride, once a god who had walked by their side for millennia, now the passing generation of a god as the mantle shifts to his blood.

It's hard not to notice what they make you, now the spitting image of your father, though you can only parrot his earned wisdom and show a brave face to keep the nation from despair.

You have but a single ally—the Tsaritsa—someone whose messengers approached you to ask for your father's gnosis and who gladly agreed to offer you an invitation to Snezhnaya at your request to speak to her personally, quite honestly not knowing how to say that you frankly didn't know what to do with the gnosis. Though you could keep it, you're unsure how to harness its power, wield it, or even control it. Your father was strong, you're not.

She is an intimidating presence but gentle. She knew of your father for as long as she had been an archon—though they weren't on good terms toward the end—perhaps you could understand her more than he would. He was the original archon in his seat, but you are an inheritor like her. In her lands, you are the careful balance of both a god and a child, spoken to with the grace of a higher power but the softness that is befitting to a young child.

It is as you are.

Tartaglia is the first to seek a test of your strength, though you wish not to hurt him and convince him to wait. So long as the answer is someday, he allows you to let him down easily and settles at indulging your requests to join the snowball fight you noticed him having. You want to join in, fidgeting and with your gaze flickering between the smiling children and your feet. You push away your every want to join them and play as well, but remind yourself of the people who would scorn you. It's unfitting for a god to behave like an immature child, you remind yourself, but every hope of remaining steadfast to that is gone as Tartaglia notices you watching.

His offer is merely that—an offer. He speaks with a snowball forming in his hands as he approaches, his thick coat engulfing his form and the red scarf bundled around his neck to keep him warm. You have to look up to meet his eyes, playful and perhaps a little mischievous. Tartaglia holds the snowball out to you as if it were his peace offering.

"You look like you want to join the fun. Care to throw a snowball or two with us?"

"May I?"

And with that, you take his offering.

Pantalone's musings and the intentions of his gifts are not beyond you. He means to win you over and perhaps spoil you a little. It is coddling, and you notice it. He wants what he wants, and he will get it out of you, but it is also not beyond him to recognise that you are...naïve, endearingly. Pantalone can lavish you in fine silks all he wants, but you have received many offerings, so they don't particularly sway you as he had hoped, and he moves on. Your true weakness lies in children's toys, the many things you have been denied since you have been forced to steel yourself. The smile that twitches at the corners of your lips as he presents you with the first is enough to confirm it.

Toys are made for children; though you try to deny it, you are still a child at heart. Gifting a child a toy they will try to pretend they don't cherish but will protect with their life is perhaps the quickest way to earn their favour. He watches as you fiddle with the arms of the plush cat when you think nobody is looking, asking it questions and then responding to yourself in an all-too-dedicated voice you put on for this cat. 

"Oh, Mr Cat, would you like some borscht too? It's very good."

"Yes, please, I would love to try some!"

Pantalone admittedly can't deny that you come with your own charms.

Signora spoils you what many of your aids have tried to before you, the chance to fix your hair, marvel at a pretty lady and wish you were half as sophisticated as her. She is your role model, second only to the Tsaritsa. She is beautiful and elegant and willing to teach you her ways as long as you continue to show up as cute as you are. Fix your posture a bit, head up, and walk everywhere with purpose, even if there isn't one. She has mastered the art, and you want it. Pantalone has his own appeal, a sophisticated man who learned through blood, sweat and tears, but there is something so distinct about Signora that makes you run to her at your first problem of presentation.

Like your mother, she will take you by the hand, lead you to a mirror, straighten your back, tilt your head up by the chin, and tell you to look at yourself now. Each time, you stare dumbly in awe of her reflection standing behind you, observing you like something precious, and it fills you with the confidence you need to heed her advice. It doesn't occur to you that Signora looks at you that way only because she thinks you're cute in your efforts, but too much like a child who got into their mother's perfume to be taken seriously.

"How others see you is important. Do you think they want to see their god with their back slouched and head hung? Hold your gaze above the people."

"It's-- well, different. I think I just look tense."

Sandrone has also come to realise that your weakness lies in toys, though she will not admit to aiding and abetting Pantalone's endeavours to find you a plushie. Instead, she shows you Katheryne. You have seen Katheryne before; you are sure of that, and that is only confirmed as Sandrone informs you that she exists in every branch of the Adventurers' Guild, including the one in your homeland. Katheryne is your access to knowledge, and the Northland Bank is your connection to Snezhnaya. Sandrone offers you comfort, the path that will lead you back to where help is and where you can go when you become overwhelmed by responsibility.

She likes your company, a reluctant admission that does not come cheap as she bargains your silence with the knowledge that she's aware of your liking for your cat toy. The embarrassment that overwhelms you is palpable until she offers you her workshop to play when your quarters are so overcrowded by your aids. You couldn't come to Snezhnaya alone for your safety, and it leaves you stranded without a moment of peace at times.

"Really?...and I can just, stay here? For as long as I want?"

"Isn't that what was offered to you?"

"Well...yes, thank you."

Scaramouche, whom you meet adjacent to Sandrone, is ill-tempered in the presence of others but a tad nicer when it comes to you. He does not drop his rough-around-the-edges personality to melt his heart out of his chest for you, but you manage to strike the perfect cord in his to gain liberties others cannot, having him share sweets with you. You learned at one point he really doesn't like them, leading you to wonder why they suddenly appeared ready and available for you to stuff your pockets full and snack on them when nobody's looking. You earn his favour through endearment and talk to him like he's normal because he is.

He is the child of a god, though in a different capacity to you. He was not loved quite so dearly by his mother and cannot share with you the pain of losing someone who treasured you. He was merely abandoned. There is the vague part of you that shuns the idea his softness is pity, sympathy even, as you're stuck stumbling through the world alone. It is all too familiar to him, and if candy will make you smile at him so cheerfully and hug him so tightly, then candy is a simple trade-off.

"Are you sure you don't want any? These are yours."

"Sickly sweet things make me feel like my teeth are fusing together. You can have them."

Pulcinella reminds you of home, the trinkets gathered on a whim that he keeps, the years showing through the rooms dedicated to him as you notice things your father told you of in stories. These are stories that Pulcinella will start off on without prompting, indulging your curiosity before you even lowered your guard enough to show it and casually enough that you slowly ask more. Every item holds a story: what it is, how he obtained it, why he kept it, who it was for. You see many such things around what used to be your house, but you don't know all of the stories, treasuring the ones you remember.

Pulcinella doesn't recall every story either, as some of your pointing and questioning is met with remarks of how long it has been. It is the only thing you feel you share with him, a living space filled to the brim with memories. Many of your trinkets don't belong to you, but his do, and it's nice to hear someone tell you stories again as he lets you pick from the collection of sweets in your pockets to eat when it suits your fancy.

"What about this? It reminds me of a lumenstone, the ones from the chasm."

"It is, and it came from Liyue when I asked that one of my subordinates bring it back for me. You must have a fine eye for these things."

"Not really, only lumenstone and noctilucous jade glow like this."

Arlecchino's offering to you is company, and plenty of it. Children who are so far removed from the stretch of news beyond the issues of the Steambird they manage to get their hands on that they wouldn't know your face from a haggler on the street. Father brought a guest to play with, and that's what matters as they induct you into their games, teach you the rules, and regard you exactly as they regard every other child their age. You are given the choice to simply become nobody, and you love it. Though you were once only a child, you were still the child of a god, and everyone knew it. Now, you elicit excitement only because someone new enters their lives, someone to learn about and befriend, merely a guest their father brought them.

Despite her sharp exterior, she is sweeter to you than you expected. You thought Arlecchino might be scarier, meaner, harsher, but she softens when she speaks to you. It is not with the cutthroat demeanour she holds speaking to the Harbingers and lacks a degree of the stern attitude she fronts to the children. You are not the average child, and it's necessary to treat you with some degree of respect, but you notice she's gentler with you than others, and it almost makes you feel special.

Columbina has sung you to sleep many times during your stay; her voice is sweet and more than enough to calm you. You let her hold your cat plush and dance with you in the hallways with the excuse you need knowledge of these things should you aspire toward being an archon, even if spinning around until you fall on the floor from dizziness and burst out laughing is a tad non-traditional. Columbina can see things others can't notice more than the human eye is capable of, and you'd rather not know what that's like. Something in the way she speaks tells you that it's hardly adjacent to anything human, closer to you, but still quite far off. It's interesting to hear the strange things humans have no business knowing.

Your hand is grasped in Columbina's, her fingers holding you tenderly. Her eyes are partly obscured beneath the lattice of a mask she wears. You're not sure if you could really call it a mask. She steps back, tugging you with her, and spins you in time with the steps she takes, each accompanied by a shift that forces you to keep up with where she moves, her other hand on your shoulder. It is the closest you will get to proper dancing, though merely a fool's waltz. You can't dance; being spun down a hallway while you struggle to match her movements feels much like you imagine a waltz would.

"It's not really proper dancing if we have no pattern to it."

"There is no such thing as proper dancing. If you'd prefer it, I could sing."

Dottore is someone you did not expect to be so open to the idea of you, and your assumptions were proven correct by his apprehension to engage with you. He is curt with you at best and avoidant at worst. You are a child filled with the yearning to touch everything that doesn't belong to you, desperate to hear too much about the things that don't concern you. You are young, needy, and with no concept of what is beyond you. Dottore's unique abundance of knowledge is appealing to you, however. He knows things your father did, many of which he didn't tell you, but Dottore will, so long as it gets you to sit still and stop interrupting him. You may be convinced you have pocketed your unnecessary emotions away, but he has seen you, and that is an insulting lie.

Your wants are written on your face plain as day, so long as people pay enough attention to you to care what you feel. He does not especially care, not for the child of a god, but it helps to know what you want to stick your nose in most. It helps to know how you benefit from him, and on luckier days, you might even catch him in a better mood when he is willing to indulge your interest in his knowledge. Your capacity to understand, let alone remember, hardly worries him.

"So you have clones of yourself? And they just...work for you?"

"Not exact clones—segments. They have wills of their own and use them as they see fit."

Capitano is strong, a man of few words, and he does not abhor your presence quite so strongly, nor does he indulge your more childish desires. What you get from Capitano is respect, the highest honour you can get from his book in your eyes, and it comes from your perseverance. You're running around working so hard when you're so young, and you deserve a break sometimes. You deserve a quiet place to curl up in the corner with that cat he's caught you hiding under where no one can bother you, and maybe with a few sweets you always seem to have these days. That corner still does not exist, though he will find you one if you want it. 

You show no signs of slowing down, are energetic and eager and are far too committed to the act of being something you're not to listen to him when he tells you to rest. Gods must all be fickle. The most he can do for you is make sure you're safe and happy as you will be in your position, maybe wipe your hands of powdered sugar when you find pastries at the market you want and recklessly eat them without thinking of how you'll clean up short of wiping the remnants on your clothes, but you'll never do that as you are.

Pierro once made you nervous. He is a stern, serious man who never smiles. Pierro is steadfast in loyalty and never wavers, which is precisely what you have begun to aspire to be now that that is what has been asked of you. You could never hope to replicate the kind of dedication he has, and perhaps that is part of what sways you. Though you have become so comfortable behaving childishly around some people, you fear you may never be around him, whether because you fear his disapproval or yearn for his approval. Despite that, he is arguably who you trail around behind most, quiet, observing, trying to figure out how to copy and apply what he has to yourself.

It settles the quick realisation he reminds you most of what the people saw in your father. Someone like him is someone people envision fostering a nation to prosperity, and you fight your own subconscious to keep all of your slipping habits, making sure he never sees you sneaking candy, hiding your cat plush from him, refusing Tartaglia's every offer to play games around him. You're not sure why you think that will make him like you more, having long ago gained his favour, unable to notice the faint smiles and the conscious effort to make you believe he doesn't notice you out the window barreling snowballs at Tartaglia.

You are still a child at heart; he is just about the last person you can hope to hide that from.

[former-ghost-of-the-internet]

One Night in Medellín

(Screen shot and image edits done by me)

Summary: Takes place during s2ep5, when Los Pepes first attacks the narcos on the streets of  Medellín. You lose your hearing during a standoff and are dumped at the Search Bloc base. Javi comforts you in the aftermath, finding ways to communicate through your temporary deafness. 

Javier Peña x f reader

Word count: 3526

Rating: 18+ for some dark content in the background. My blog/‘place I keep my reblogs’ is very Mature, so no minors allowed there, sorry.

Warnings: series typical violence, hurt/comfort, soft Javi, tiny bit of your blood, descriptions of panicked reader, generally able-bodied reader, might read as shorter than Javi, only one instance of female clothing for a funny awkward moment, no specific descriptions of reader, hopefully this is fairly inclusive for everyone. No y/n, no smut.

Authors note:   100% bad information on everything medical related in this story. Any cultural inaccuracies are my own fault too. Apologies to Steve Murphy for being the butt of a joke or two. First time writing in second-person. Not American so the spelling will be slightly different.

Please enjoy 😊

....

Medellín nights were always festive, despite one man’s war with the Colombian government. 

You’d had a long but good day, far far away from the UNICEF office and in a little communa church hall, where you and the other doctors and nurses had vaccinated as many children as could be rounded up. Even the abuelitas had rooted out the most stubborn kids, and either guilted them into coming down, or whacked them in the right direction with their walking sticks and shoes, if not open palms on skulls. Each time was a commotion, and to ease hurt childish feelings, you slipped enough pesos into their hands for an ice cream. For the hard-working abuelitas a coffee cart vendor happily provided free coffee, after you had thrown a pretty smile his way and warned him the little old women were worked up enough to be a threat to anyone not on their side. And he absolutely wanted to be on their side. 

With the unused vaccines stored at a major hospital, and saying goodnight to the local doctors who’d been right next to you since sunrise, you’d headed to a hole-in-the-wall restaurant one nurse raved about during one break you’d taken with her, with free coffees, thanks to a sharp glare from the abuelitas, bless their hearts. 

It was further from the city centre than where you’d been told to stay close to at night, but you hoped your very bright UNICEF shirt would offer some protection in the dark. Even your backpack had a big red cross on it. Anything to say you were a doctor, here to help, and absolutely not a threat. 

The restaurant was packed, even the few plastic tables shoved outside were full, and the small waitstaff offered paper plates to take-away, which many people had chosen, and sat on the street curbs to eat, under the yellow streetlights.

At last the line to order, which the waitstaff had banished to wait outside the actual restaurant, had shortened to only you and the two men in front of you. They both carried full gym bags. And as you noticed with a slight chill through your spine, handguns tucked into their belts. They chatted together without a care in the world, as you looked away to make sure you didn’t see their faces, even in low-light. 

You stared up the street to the top of the hill and the man who walked down it with an assured swagger, encased in khaki pants. Like he’d stepped out of the jungle. 

You frowned as he passed under a streetlight. Something about his face was familiar in a bad way. 

He had his focus on the men standing next to you, and in a blink, drew his own handgun out. 

An arm grabbed you around your shoulders, pulling you back into a chest, your backpack falling to the ground. Then the cold metal of a weapon held to your ear. 

Shouts in Spanish between the men, some sort of negotiation happened as you tried to simply breathe. This is what everyone was afraid would happen to you, from the president of Colombia, to your superiors, and your family, down to the Medellín officials and a couple of American DEA agents. They’d all wanted you to stay out of the murder capital of the world. You’d told them no one would target you. The local doctors were still here, so why shouldn’t you? 

Now you were a human shield, not because of your work, but because you were the closest person to grab. You had never considered the possibility of it before this minute. 

The man behind you moved a step back, taking you with him. Except your legs refused to work, staying where you had left them. Another step back, dragging you along, and your legs crumpled underneath you, making you slide down his body at an awkward angle. Enough for the man in khakis to shoot.

The bullet entered his chest right by your ear. All sound stopped and you were falling.  

You landed on a dead man’s chest. On instinct, you curled into yourself and away from everyone, hitting the rough and hard concrete of Medellín’s streets. 

Hands grabbed you and hauled you to your feet, half carrying you to a waiting SUV. First you, then your backpack were bundled into the darkness of the back seat. The dead men’s gym bags also ended up with you. The owner of the hands hopped into the front, and the driver took off.

A hand came back to tap your cheek, grabbing your chin and twisting your head to look up. The accidental light of street-lamps and cars flashed across your view. He smiled at you and his mouth moved as if he was talking.

You frowned and focused on his mouth. None of his words were getting through to you. You blinked hard to try to clear away the fuzziness of the world, but it changed nothing.

His mouth made these exaggerated shapes and his spare hand moved in circles, like a hamster spinning uncontrollably on a wheel. Maybe he was shouting at you.

You blinked again to be sure, and then had to shake your head. You couldn’t hear anything.

He smiled then tapped your ear and gave a thumbs down. You nodded. 

That caused an explosion of arms from him, as he whacked his driver on the shoulder. Looking back at you, he took note of the UNICEF insignia on your shirt, and you realised where you had seen him before. Carlos Castaño. A paramilitary man based in the jungle, fighting communist guerrillas. 

You had met once before. You’d had to get permission from every side, paramilitary commanders, regular military commanders, government officials, and even the guerrilla commanders, before they let you step anywhere near the Amazon. All so you could vaccinate a few children in a communist village.

The communists had been straight-forward to convince, once you talked in their lingo, focusing on healthcare for all. For the others, a bribe that came out of your pocket, another a promise not to get in the way of anything and to get out in under 24 hours. The Castaños you convinced by saying the communists were dirty, potentially disease-ridden plague carriers. If the brothers couldn’t promise you every communist in the jungle dead in three months time, then they had to let you in to vaccinate, so no epidemic could start from their continued existence. 

You hated saying it, and drunk too much later that night to get the sound of it out of your mouth, but it worked. Those kids wouldn’t die from a preventable disease. But you couldn’t save them from a bullet shot by mad, greedy men. 

Carlos smiled at you again, and pointed his driver to take the next left. 

Some minutes later, the car pulled up to the curb.  Carlos turned to you and put a finger over his lips and shushed you. Then he dragged the same finger across his neck and finally pointed it at you. 

You didn’t know what your face was doing at this point, you probably looked like a scared rabbit, all wide eyes and trembling body. Carlos broke and laughed at you, waving you out of the car. You fumbled with the car door, and stumbled onto the dark, damp street, dragging your backpack with you. They sped off into the night as you stumbled with your own weight.

Not far away, in a pool of white light, was a gate-way guarded by Search Bloc officers. Carlos had dumped you, the little lost foreigner, in front of their base. Your legs co-operated long enough to get you to the gate.

The guards stopped you with one hand up and the other resting on their rifles. You raised both hands up, and announced to everyone’s ears but your own, your name and nationality, that your passport was in your bag. The words felt like they slurred coming off your tongue, like they were heavier than usual. You wondered if you made any sense, but one man nodded at you to continue. It took you no time to dig out your passport. 

With a short inspection of your passport, and a torch flashed into your face, the guards waved you through the gate. One of them touched your ear and brought it up to your eyes to show you blood. The other held his radio up to his mouth. 

As you checked your ear for more blood, a police car came from the base, and the guards helped you in. A short ride and you were taken inside the bright building. The lights blinded you, and you tried to cover your eyes, barely seeing the medic ushering you to a bench. 

You kept blinking, like if you could turn off the world for a bit you would be alright again. You’d be able to focus, to think, to speak, to hear. The outside world was right there in front of you, and as much as you tried to reach out, you were locked behind your eyes. 

A warm hand caressed your arm and shoulder, bringing your attention to its owner. Javier Peña. He stared at you with big brown eyes, looking you over better than any doctor. His hand slid down to yours, keeping it safe under his. 

Javi listened to the medic, then his attention went to a nearby officer, and you saw his lips ask a question, his eyes straying to the dark streets beyond the base. You shook your head, grabbing his shoulder with your other hand, pulling his eyes back to yours, shouting out your warning in clumsy sounds you couldn’t quite hear. If you had your way, no one, not even the narcos, would be out on those streets tonight. Especially not him. 

Because Javi cared. No matter what anyone, or even he said. His heart cared for so many people you’d lost count, though he tried to keep it secret from the rest of the world.

And somehow, somewhere, he decided he cared about you too.

Javi nodded, as serious as ever, and cupped your cheek. Message understood. Relieved, you crumple into him, his arm wrapping around you to hold you close. His chest rumbled, maybe talking to you, or maybe to the officer. After a few breaths, he squeezed your hand and tilted your body back to look at him. He nodded towards the stairs. You nodded back and he helped you up, letting you lean against him.

He led you upstairs, past many doors, until he reached one particular darkened room, and ushered you in. You recognised some of Javi’s colourful shirts piled on a chair, and larger piles of Steve’s shoes, pants, and tops, scattered over half the room and one of the two-tier bunk beds.

Javi led you to a small desk, its small lamp draped a soft light over the room, pulled out the chair for you, and poured a glass of whiskey. He made sure you had both of your hands cradling the drink before he let you take the slight weight from him. You sipped a little at the strong drink, watching as he first gathered up his few visible clothes, shoving them in a suitcase, and then collected Steve’s mess, roughly sorting and folding, then at last dumped into a closet.

Javi went to the neater bunk bed, not Steve’s, pulling back the thin covers, inviting you to rest there. But you didn’t move. You just sat there blinking at the world.

He came back to you, dropped to a knee, and untied your shoelaces, gently taking off your shoes. Setting them aside, his eyes looked you over again, and settled on the whiskey in your hands. He pointed at it, and then glanced up at you. It took a second or two before you realised he was asking if you wanted more. You shook your head and moved the glass away from you. Javi plucked the drink out of your hands. He had a quick debate with himself, ended with a short shrug, and then downed the remains.

Putting the glass on the desk, he swallowed again, before catching your gaze with his. He lifted both hands to his chest, cupping them like the air was something heavy he could hold up, and jiggled them up and down. Then he pointed at you and made a gesture like he was swiping a cobweb away. You frowned and he repeated the sequence. This time his cupped hands looked like a bikini top. You still had no idea what he wanted to say.

With a quick lick of his lips, he reached forward and tapped a finger on your bra strap under your top.

Your face heated as you realised his question. Did you want to take your bra off? Yes, you did, and you nodded at him.

Javi joined you in nodding, but then put a finger up, telling you to wait. Another nod from you, and he was on his feet, dragging out his suitcase again, digging to the bottom of it. At last he brought out a khaki green t-shirt, and placed it on the end of the bunk for you. As you got to your feet, he shoved the suitcase away and retreated to the door, closing it behind him.

He could have stayed and turned his back, but maybe Javi thought that was too hard to mime. You change out of everything except your undies, draping it all over the back of the chair, and slipped on the t-shirt.

The door remained shut. It felt colder without him in the room. You rubbed an arm to try to stop your shivers. Was he coming back? Should you wait? Or was this everything you could expect from him? He had done plenty for you.

He’s probably not there. Why would he be? He’s got files to read still, the radio to sit by, informants to call, Steve to rescue, or maybe he’s finding another bunk to sleep on. So long as he stayed on the base it would be fine. He would be fine.

The hallway is empty. It has to be. You were on your own, you just had to be alright with that. And you would be. Eventually.

It would take time but you would be good again.

You huddled into yourself, your eyes dropping to the ground, as you tried to make your heart understand that Javi had done enough for you tonight. Then you saw the shadow under the door, like something was behind it. Your hand was on the knob before your brain could think.

Javi twisted his body to face you. He had stood guard on your door as you changed. The worried look over his features seems to be a permanent guest this evening.

Your eyes must have said please come back, as he maneuvered you inside with a gentle hand above your elbow, and followed, closing the door again. He sat you down on his bunk bed, and then further down to lie on your back.

He rubbed your arms a few times, slow and comforting, staring at you for a while. At last one hand came up to cup your cheek and he pressed a kiss to your forehead. You nuzzled closer, his mustache tickling your skin. Your heart, mind, and body called out for Javi to stay. Nothing else would help you, could soothe your tremors, calm you and find yourself again, like being close to him.

Javi drew back, and your hand shot out to grab his arm, gripped tight so he couldn’t leave you.

His hand still cupped your cheek, his thumb soothing over the slight hurt he’d caused.

When your breathing eased, you pointed at him and then at the bunk below you.

Javi looked over his shoulder at the door, like he was saying he would find another place to sleep, but that wasn’t what you meant.

You jostled his shoulder to get his attention once more, pointed forcefully first at him then at your bunk. Not another bed, this one. With you. This time he understood. His eyes flicked from place to place, your bunk and then Steve’s bunk, even down at his shoes as he thought of something, and then he nodded.

You were shuffling to make room for him when he stopped you. Javi pointed at you then covered his eyes with a hand. He wanted you to keep your eyes closed, so he could get comfy too. But it meant you’d be down another sense. No sight and no sound. The world would be even further from you.

His eyes begged you to trust him. You took a few deliberate breaths, and he waited for you, watching for any sign of major distress. At last, you nodded and used both hands over your eyes to show you weren’t peeking.

In your darkness and quiet, the only company you had was the bunk under you and Javi’s weight next to your thigh. You could smell his aftershave and cigarette smoke, not overpowering, but most definitely there with you, and not leaving anytime soon. Nice and comforting and him. You took deep breaths of it.

He shifted his weight forward, one way then another. Shoes, you guessed. He came back to you, and did a short wiggle. Something landed next to your arm, soft and warm. His shirt.

Javi’s weight left the bunk completely. Panic made your muscles clench, and you forced your hands down into your eyes, trying to glue them in place, and breathed as best you could.

Something rougher and stiffer and warm landed on top of his shirt. Jeans? He was still here.

You waited a long, long moment for something more to happen.

Two fingers tapped the back of your hand. A deliberate action, purposeful, a message to you. Safe to look now. You drew your hands away and saw Javi standing next to the bunk in a pair of white boxers, folding his shirt and jeans away in his suitcase. He leaned over and placed a quick kiss on your forehead. A thank-you for your bravery.

He left before you could catch him, going to the bottom end of Steve’s bunk, lifting it up and closer to your bunk. He repeated with the top end, and you got to your knees, reaching over to grab the metal frame and pulled it in snug next to yours.

Javi, the genius man that he is, had just created a queen-sized bunk bed. Room enough for your body and his broad shoulders.

You watched as Javi climbed into his side, wondering how he wanted to sleep, when he draped his arm over to you, hugging you to lay snug against his side, your head resting on his bare chest, one of your arms across his waist. He fussed with the covers for a moment or two, making sure most of your body was underneath it.

He was warm and smooth and solid. Safe. At last. You breathed in deeply, his unique scent filling your nose, and then let it go. Another in, and out again.

Your heart had settled. The world was as far away as it needed to be right now. Or perhaps the world was as small as this room, as this bunk. This man. Your arms around him, and his around you.

If your eyes closed tonight, Javi would be there, under your touch.

One more thing left to do. You shifted to look into his eyes. They were filled with concern, until you whispered your thanks to his ears alone. Even a tiny smile on his lips crinkled the corners of his eyes. You couldn’t stop yourself from planting a kiss to his cheek. One of his hands cradled the back of your head, and he nuzzled his nose against yours as soon as your lips left his skin, then moved up to your forehead, kissing it again.

Those brown eyes locked with yours for a moment, before he closed his eyelids, and then opened them quickly and nodded at you.

He wanted you to close your eyes. So you did. You felt Javi lean in closer still, and then his lips placed a kiss first on one eyelid, then the other.

Opening your eyes, you pressed your forehead to his, and moved your hand from his chest, to soothe over his jaw, his chin, then trace over his lips. You wanted to kiss him there. And from the glint in his brown eyes, he wanted it too.

But it wasn’t the right time. Both of you knew it. Besides, you wanted to hear him.

Javi’s lips twitched into a soft grin as if he heard your last thought. His mouth formed words, slow but firm. Three short words. Then he settled you back down onto his warm chest.

You felt Javi’s heartbeat against your cheek, counted its beat without numbers, let its languid pace lull you further towards sleep, until at last your eyes closed with the peace he gave you.

And in your dreams Javi’s heartbeat was your world.

....

Thank you for reading!!!!!!!!!!!!

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

This thoughts still cooking, so it might not make sense, but I think Thomas (Tomas?) Astruc is a very good case study on how being too attached to your own ideas can hinder your story telling.

I don't mean this in a "Thomas's original idea for the series was bad", but rather that he seems so attached to this concept that he can't stand other people having a differing view from him.

Chloe's the titular example here. Some people thought she deserved a redemption arc, and instead of just saying "nah, I don't think so" and continuing to write her the same way he had been, he had to prove them wrong, prove that his idea was the only correct one, and so turned her into the spawn of Satan and let her rule over Paris for some reason.

Instead of making Marinette less stalker-y, he wrote an entire episode poorly justifying it. And, imao, somewhat diminishing what PTSD actually is and does to people.

I'm not saying he has to make any change (though I think making Marinette less stalker-y would be a good change), but instead of 1.) sticking to his resolve or 2.) taking the criticism, he clung dearly onto this perception of his characters and his writing suffered because of how much he had to twist things to "prove" that his original assertions were right. And also that everyone who disagreed with him was wrong and didn't understand

idk if that makes sense, but the concepts been lingering in my head recently

It makes perfect sense! I've had similar thoughts. It's hard to say for sure, but Miraculous may be a case study in "kill your darlings". I'm not deep into the behind-the-scenes lore and I was not here in the early fandom, but I do know that, at some point, a much darker version of the show was pitched. That's why these exist (image source):

[Image description: two sketches styled like comic book covers. Both have the title "The Mini Menace Ladybug". The left cover shows Marinette's silhouette in a doorway. The door's glass and the glass of a nearby window are broken. In the foreground lies a hand holding a ladybug charm. The hand is limp and surrounded by blood, implying that someone is injured or dead. The right cover is Ladybug doing a spinning kick while looking angry.]

We also have this evidence of the darker original concept:

Jeremy Zag then proposed another project... which he was unable to sell to broadcasters... the project was called "Ladybug". No one was interested, as the project was aimed more at an adult audience... Sébastien had to make sure that the project could be broadcast on Disney and TF1.... Thomas wanted to make a series for adults, but at the time, it was very complicated to make a cartoon for adults. What's more, they didn't have enough money to take on such a project. Sébastien finally agreed, but there were some changes to be made, which Thomas accepted... In the end, Thomas Astruc's entire project was discarded, leaving only the love story between the two heroes and the city of Paris, where the story was to take place.

I've been aware of this darker origin story for a while due to Tumblr and, because of this knowledge, I have often had the thought, "are the writers trying to sneak elements from this darker version into canon?" Because that's the most likely explanation for what's going on here.

If I'm right, then I think that was a terrible move on their parts. They needed to let go of the story that they couldn't sell and embrace the story that they're being allowed to tell. It's why "kill you darlings" is such good advice. Many good stories have been ruined by writers clinging to an idea that ultimately doesn't work for some reason.

It's why the sitcom How I Met Your Mother has such a universally hated ending. The show was originally supposed to go for two seasons and so they wrote an ending that would fit the second season. The show ended up running for nine seasons and, by then, the ending didn't fit, but the writers kept it and left everyone with a bad taste in their mouths, which is not what any writer wants. That's why you have to do what's best for the story even if it means abandoning something that you really love.

This early version of canon may also be why the writers are so obsessed with Marinette. My understanding is that this concept had her mainly acting as a solo hero and, oh look! What is one of canon's biggest problems? Marinette being treated like a solo hero even though she has a partner and, later on, a team!

Not saying that this theory has to be true, just saying that it would explain some things. And if they're poisoning canon by trying to include elements from their darker original? Then it makes sense to assume that they're also doing it for smaller stuff. Like I'm pretty sure I've read that the head writer wanted Chat Blanc to be a lot darker originally, but no one would green light it, so we got an incredibly lackluster episode that spat in the face of the genres Miraculous' is trying to be part of while also falling to have the sort of impact we'd expect from an episode like that. It's a good example of a darling that really should have been killed. It just doesn't fit.

(Totally unrelated sidenote, but is your blog name from Tangled? Because that's what I immediately thought of and it made me smile!)

[miaoua3]

hi^^ can u req for a joshua fic where in bf!shua took gf!reader to a date to celebrate the eldest daughter day, and made her feel like a teenager again — amusement park date, matchy headbands, sharing cotton candy, shopping galore after (which she didnt really got to do stuffs bec she busy with her ‘eldest daughter’ duties ykeim 🥺). just joshua making her feel like she deserves this treat too. thank you!

(sorry english isnt my first language 😭)

heyy! (first of, your english is perfect sweetie, have more trust in yourself❤️), and sure you can- i love writing fluff with our joshua, he’s just so sweet that he makes it impossible to not want to write the fluffiest things with him☹️anyway, i hope you enjoy this and that you take it easy! love you

Care For You

Pairing: joshua x f!reader

Genre: fluff, comfort (no hurt), amusement park date, healing your inner child, joshua best bf ever, mentions of bad relationships with your parents

Description: after noticing that you had a hard week (as well as hard life in general), joshua decides that the amusement park date is long overdue for the two of you❤️

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

joshua has always been very observant of the people he holds and loves dearly. even the things they themselves wouldn’t notice, he does. it’s always been in his nature to give out comfort to those around him who have hard time.

so after he noticed you move a bit slower, talk a little less, your dark circles get a bit darker, your work keeping you up a little bit longer than usual, getting easily annoyed at little inconveniences, he knew what kind of week you were having and how much pressure you’ve been putting on yourself.

you were always a little bit of an overachiever-nothing you ever did seemed enough for you. you have always been like this, ever since he had first met you.

joshua, based on the few things and stories you told him, knew that these issues and habits stemmed from your early childhood and they continued well into your adulthood. being the oldest daughter, who always had to act perfectly and accordingly, who your parents always had to count on not to disappoint them, who had to be this perfect image of a daughter for your younger siblings to have to look up to, who had to, in a way, raise them yourself, certainly seemed troubling to joshua.

joshua’s heart always ached whenever he saw how unkind and cruel both you yourself and your family were towards you.

especially when he saw just how good, hardworking, and kind you were to everyone around you.

he always wished he could somehow help you. to see how kind and loving you were. to make you see how proud of you everyone was, and how highly they thought of you. to heal what he never even broke.

so, that’s why, on the saturday night, as you came home from yet another excruciatingly exhausting day at work, you were bombarded with his gentle smiles, hugs and kisses, as well as a dinner that he prepared for you.

you knew your boyfriend well enough to see that this was just a setup for something bigger.

so you weren’t even surprised to have him wake you up the next morning at 6am (on your only free day).

this better be good, you thought as you looked at him through blurry eyes.

joshua, who was already dressed, was sitting on the bed beside you, his big hand gently patting your head.

smiling gently at you, he then spoke “hey baby, sorry to wake you up but we have somewhere to be, get up so you can get ready”, he pauses to kiss your forehead before continuing “the breakfast is ready and on the table. cmon now”.

no matter how unhappy you felt about being woken up so early, you were ready to hit the road (wherever it may lead you to) an hour later, still a bit sleepy but also excited for the new adventure that your darling boyfriend was taking you on.

holding his hand while he was driving, you find yourself feeling at peace for the first time in more than a week-as a matter of fact, so at peace that you felt yourself slowly drifting off to sleep again.

just as you were about to drift off to the dreamland, you felt his fingers slowly let go of your hand to instead caress your cheek carefully and gently, as his whisper reached your ear.

“sweet dreams, my sweet girl.”

the next time you woke up, it was hours later and the car wasn’t moving anymore, and your boyfriend was nowhere to be seen.

you tried to look for any signs as to where you might be (or where your boyfriend might be for that matter), but just then joshua opened the door to the driver’s side and got in.

seeing that you were awake now, he immediately smiled. “hey sleepyhead, just in time”, he said as he stretched across the middle section to give you a brief peck on your lips.

you, still kind of clueless and disoriented, just ask him “…in time for what?”.

joshua, finding you absolutely adorable, just smiles as he responds “you will see in a little bit. but first- breakfast.”, and then he’s getting out of the car and to your side to open your door for you.

five minutes later, you find yourselves in front of a cafe. but not just any cafe.

you find yourself in front of a cat cafe.

something you have always dreamed of visiting since you were a little.

you, slowly and with hopeful eyes, turn to joshua and with a trembling voice ask him “really?”.

joshua, fighting the urge to puke from happiness and summon all of the gods possible just to high five them for letting him make you this happy, gently smiles as he tucks a bit of stray hair behind your ear. “really.”

that’s all you needed to hear to quickly jump and hug him tightly for a little second before grabbing his hand to drag him inside.

trusting joshua to order something for you that you will like, you immediately sit down on the floor and let yourself be surrounded by all the possible cats there are, cooing at them as they rub themselves against you and climb all over you.

you were a bit busy by giving all the cuddles to the cute, beige and fluffy cat in your lap to notice how adoringly joshua was looking at you, as well as him snapping a few pictures to have this day be remembered by.

after half an hour of you just being preoccupied with the cats, joshua finally called you to eat because your hot chocolate was slowly getting colder to the point it would be undrinkable.

after an hour of you eating (and cuddling with cats some more), you find yourself in the car again. joshua, still refusing to tell you where you were going to, was only smiling excitedly as he was driving.

whatever it is that he’s taking me to, it must he good you think to yourself as you watch his excitement bounce off of the roof of the car.

and as you stood in front of a huge amusement park, you understood his smug and excited smiles.

because this was better than good for you.

this was something you have always dreamt of doing, but were never allowed to do while growing up due to your parents deeming it “a waste of everybody’s time”.

joshua just looks at you-to see how you’re feeling, what you’re thinking. he was so excited to have done this for you, he has been looking forward to seeing your reaction since he thought of the idea.

ever so slowly, you turn your had towards joshua, your eyes big and glossy, looking at him as if they were saying “is this for real? im not dreaming?”.

joshua, with a proud but humble smile, just says “surprise”.

in one moment he’s looking at you, smiling at you.

in the next he’s trying to keep you both standing, tumbling a little bit due to you jumping onto him, your face burying itself in his neck, arms wrapping themselves tightly around his waist.

regaining his balance, joshua hugs you right back just as tightly, his big hand gently taming down your hair.

with all of the gratefulness you’re feeling for him, you whisper in a somewhat broken voice “thank you. thank you. thank you.”, repeating the words like a mantra.

joshua just closes his eyes as he kisses the side of your head, still softly patting your head.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

to say that the whole day was spent doing nothing but what you wanted was a given. joshua honestly didn’t care what you were doing as long as it was what you wanted and that you were doing it together.

so, naturally, you two started by riding the teacups. and if joshua felt like puking every spin the cup you two were in spun into? well he surely wasn’t going to tell you and ruin the mood for you.

the moment you two saw the stand with silly headbands in the distance, joshua knew what your next stop was.

so that’s why not even five minutes later he found himself with mickey mouse inspired headband (that was also matching your own minnie mouse headband) on top of his head. and naturally, you just had to take millions of pictures of you two together because how could you not when joshua was looking so damn cute?

following that, you dragged him to the sweets stand, where there were all sorts of candies available. as he did the whole day today, joshua naturally paid for the candies too. he wasn’t surprised at all when you shyly asked him if you could buy you a heart shaped cotton candy-and of course he said yes.

how could he ever say no to the love of his life?

while you were sitting down on a bench, joshua was looking up at the map of the whole amusement park and what rides you could go onto next-all while you were feeding him pieces of cotton candy here and there.

seeing that the park had a lot to offer, you two decided to just walk around for a bit and explore what you could ride next while the cotton candy in your stomach settles down a bit more so you won’t have to puke it all out as a result of the said ride.

and so came all the rigged games.

the moment joshua saw you looking at the big white teddy bear that you can only win by hitting the target with an arrow, he knew that he was going to do everything in his power and spend so much money just to win you that stupid teddy bear.

(spoiler alert: it took him 45 minutes and much more than he expected to win that teddy bear but it was all worth it in the end as he watched you squeal and jump around with the said teddy in your arms, struggling to hold him in your arms due to its humongous size).

the moment you spotted the tank filled with little goldfish, you immediately dragged him to try to catch one. (this time, you did tell him to stop trying after 10 minutes because you felt so sorry for him trying so hard for you.)

after playing many more games (and losing terribly at them), you saw a booth that said “tarot cards- one reading 5$” and you again, dragged joshua by your intertwined hands.

for some reason, the woman that did the readings had the policy that only one person can enter the booth-which screamed ‘scam’ to joshua but alas, who was he to say no to you?

and so he waited outside for five minutes that it took for the woman to read you your cards.

when he saw you coming out, he noticed that you had a weird expression on your face-not quite sad or upset, but more so like you were processing some thoughts.

feeling a bit uneasy, joshua gently grabbed your arm and rubbed a tumb over your shirt as he asked “you okay, baby?”

breaking out of your trance, you smile reassuringly at him. “yeah. you should go in though. the lady is so wise and she really knows what she’s doing”.

at your insistence, joshua pushes the dark purple curtain out oddly his way so he can enter.

waisting no second, the middle aged lady spoke “ah, we have another sceptic and nonbeliever hier”, she chuckles as she focuses on mixing the cards together.

joshua just looks at her like a deer caught in the headlights.

amused by his reaction, the lady points her ring cladded hand to the chair across her “please, sit my child”.

still unsure and now also a little bit confused, joshua sits down and looks at the lady in front of him with furrowed eyebrows.

not paying his confused state any mind, the lady asks him “so, what will it be. love, money or career?”

joshua focuses all of his attention on her quick hands mixing the cards together, opens his mouth to answer before he gets interrupted yet again “love it is then”.

now thoroughly freak out, joshua just watches with wide eyes as she slowly takes out 5 cards and puts them on the table in front of them.

how the hell did she knew what i was going to say?

the lady hums as she looks at the cards with a thoughtful expression.

“you’re afraid that you’re not doing enough for your lady huh? I wouldn’t worry too much about that, if i were you. instead, i would focus my energy on making her open up more to you, she seems to be carrying a lot of darkness within herself. let her let it all out and you two will get even closer than you are”.

she then taps on the middle card in the first row with her long nail. “i sense some big energy from you, energy that could bring you two potential problems, but as long as you two communicate and always choose each other over letting the problem win, you two shall be fine.”

she then points to the card next to that one. “unfortunately, she will have to deal with a big heartbreak in the near future, someone in her close family will be the one to do it. that will be the time where you will have to be strong for the both of you and take really good care of her. but worry not, for you will help her tremendously at those times.”

the lady then looks at one of the card on the bottom and smiles “ah, so we are already at the stage where we’re looking for the ring huh. make it simple-the whole thing. instead of grand gestures, she will treasure you showing that you care for her much more. make it intimate and sweet.”

joshua blushes at being exposed, especially because he just started looking for a ring not even two weeks ago.

she hums again as she looks at the cards again, before suddenly grabbing his hand, turning it palm up towards her. looking at it for a second, she closes his hand and taps the back of it lightly. “you have nothing to worry about, you two have a love story straight out of a romance novel in front of you. just makes sure to always take care of her heart first and it will all be fine”, she smiles softly at him.

just as he was about to leave the tent, the lady calls for him.

“ans joshua?”

he turns around and looks at her with questionable eyes.

the lady smirks at him as she answers “go for the second ring. she will like that one much more”.

blushing furiously, he quickly escapes the tent and looks around for you before his eyes find you already looking at him.

approaching each other, you question him about how it was, all while he avoids answering your questions, saying things like ‘so stupid, who would even believe all that”, muttering profanities at the lady, all with rosy cheeks.

it is only after five minutes of walking away from the tarot tent that it hits joshua.

he never told her what his name was.

looking at you to his right, joshua just thinks to himself that…

maybe the lady had the right about the second ring being the right pick for you.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

after riding more rides that made him almost puke your lunch out (the huge rollercoaster being the worst one out of all the others), joshua then starts dragging you by the hand, for the first time that day not being the one to be dragged around.

he seemingly knew where he was headed, his grip on your hand strong in fear not to lose you in the crowd, his broad shoulders and short hair being the only thing you could focus on.

the night was slowly setting on the sky, the stars barely visible due to all the light pollution in the park, and yet the only thing you could focus on is your lover in front of you and how warm his hand felt holding yours.

looking at him and on the whole day he organised for you today made you realise that this, right here, the person in front of you, was your true family. there hasn’t been a day since you two met where he hasn’t taken care of you and your heart. and then today? you can’t remember if you ever felt this…carefree and youthful. it had you wondering if this is how children should feel like? is this what it feels like…to have somebody love your inner child with all of its ‘faults’ and imperfections? you certainly wouldn’t know.

but looking at joshua…you just might be getting the idea about it.

you were so focused on your thoughts that you didn’t even notice where you were headed until you two were standing in front of what you could only describe as your dream come true.

a ferris wheel.

the minute you realised what was coming next, you gasped and started jumping up and down next to joshua, in process shaking him too due to him still holding onto your hand, his smile getting broader and brighter the longer he looks at you being so excited.

after a few minutes, your turn to buy tickets comes too. but for some reason, your boyfriend wasn’t quite done with being secretive and all that-because you find him whispering something to the man behind the counter, as well as handing him way more cash than the two tickets cost.

when you question him about it, he just smiles as he responds “you will see soon enough”.

your boyfriend had this weird habit, where he preferred sitting next to you rather than across from you, says that he would much rather feel pain in his neck from having to turn his head to be able to look at you than to reach across the table or whatever it is that is between you two to be able to hold your hand.

so, naturally, when you two enter the carriage, he sits right next to you.

and after a few minutes your carriage starts to move.

the view below you leaves you breathless. thousands of little lights in the distance, all twinkling in different colours. the people below you looking so incredibly small, you would’ve never guessed that they were right there, at the same place you two have spent the whole day.

you find yourself gasping and keeping your mouth open the whole time.

the fact you only realise later when joshua shows you a photo of you he took just now.

you carriage makes one full turn.

and then the second turn.

but then, on the third turn, it stops right on top.

just as you start questioning joshua what is happening, a single firework goes off in the night sky.

and then the second.

and then you lose the count of how many firework there are. multiple going off at the same time, looking like they’re fighting for the dominance, they all look so pretty, going off in so many colours and shapes.

you find yourself wondering…is this what a child feels like watching the fireworks for the very first time? it must be, because why else would you feel like this watching this beautiful sight for the very first time?

yes, your first time watching the fireworks.

something nobody ever knew about you.

not even joshua.

(or so you thought.)

after a few minutes, the magic comes to a stop, the stars now being the only thing to see in the night sky.

ever so slowly, you turn around to look at your boyfriend, a gentle smile grazing the edges of his mouth.

normally, joshua would find himself panicking at the sight of tears rolling down your cheeks. knowing (or, well, presuming) why you were crying, he just reaches with his tumb to wipe away the little droplet falling from your eyes.

to be completely honest, joshua never cared enough for firework and meteor showers like you did, probably because he has witnessed those things so many times, he forgot how surreal it must be seeing it for the very first time.

but looking at you right now, he found himself thinking one thing only.

joshua was never going to take one single firework going off for granted ever again.

smiling a little while his tumb still runs your cheek, he asks “did you like it?”

and that seems to have done it for you.

because suddenly, without any warning, you start sobbing, gripping the front of his shirt as you lower your head onto his shoulder.

joshua just hugs you closer, his hand gently patting your head.

through sobs you find yourself saying “t-thank you, thank you so much-so much f-for today, i-i can’t even- i- you make me so-so happy, you are l-literally my dream man, y-you are everything i have ever- i have always dreamed of i-i-“ breaking off in the middle of it to let out all the sobs you had to hold in in order to get your words out.

joshua suddenly brings both of his hands to your cheeks, bringing your face up and in front of his own.

with all the seriousness and honesty he possesses, he says “you are my dream come true too, baby. actually, better than any dream i have ever had. you are my reality, that’s what makes you even better.”

kissing joshua, right there, in the little carriage, you find yourself thinking one thing and one thing only.

if it were possible, you would spend decades being and feeling like a little child.

as long as you get to do it with the love of your life beside you.

[xoxochb]

please!! leo x ares!reader🫶🏻🫶🏻

— pop (rock) star!! ✧˖°

★ - “pop star fuck around and act like I'm a model / I don't like the cameras but I love it when you ogle”

warnings: per usual swearing (save me), I don’t play guitar so descriptions may be incorrect, established relationship pairing: leo valdez x daughter of ares a/n: I actually had SO much fun writing this, I hope you like it as much as I did anon :)

💿 - now playing… pop star by coco & clair clair

——— ౨ৎ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

“Is it difficult? learning guitar?”

“uhm…” you remove your fingers from the guitar strings to focus on the question for a moment “it depends, I think. mostly on what song you’re trying to learn. some are easy some are hard.”

“oh.” leo purses his lips and lets you continue strumming the guitar. you had been playing a song you came up with yourself, something random you had made when you were bored over a rainy day. leo had been there, encouraging you to proceed making it. so you did. you had wrote a paper worth of notes and cords to your song. not yet had you conquered a name for it, for now it’s just “(name)’s song,” which in theory could work. or not.

leo watches attentively as your fingers run over the strings, calloused and nails painted black (he asked you if you painted them any other color— in return he warned a glare so he chose not to question your decisions again. moral of that story: don’t ask ares kids why they do certain things, just accept it). your hair cascades over your face like waterfalls over mountains, veiling your eyes and preventing you from seeing further. he fights the urge to reach out and tuck the strands behind your ear or maybe even tie your hair up. your lips pressed into a tight line as you focus intently on your playing. he’s helplessly enamored with you, may the gods of olympus save him from looking like a lovesick idiot.

“hey, take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

leo, embarrassed, snaps from his daze with a cherry red blush over his cheeks. you laugh, and this only brightens the color. “uh… sorry. I got distracted.”

“by my hands? you’re real taciturn, valdez.”

“I’m just watching you play, that’s all.”

you sigh and continue until he speaks up again, making you stop playing with a frustrated huff

“can I? take a picture of you?”

you furrow your brows. “what? why?”

“so this can last longer.”

“go ahead. my polaroid’s in my drawer.”

happily and excitedly, leo hurries to your bedside table to find your camera, sitting directly where you stated. he takes that and some film and sits back down on the wooden floor with you, careful not to trip over your wire in the process (he did that once— ended up in the infirmary for two days with a concussion). he places the film into the camera and positions it to be his previous eye level, so the photo is identical to his sight prior getting up. then, he presses the photo button and the camera flashes, nearly blinding you in the process.

he waits eagerly as the polaroid photo very slowly dispenses out of the top of the camera. when it’s an inch from finished he rips it out himself and starts shaking it around to get it to show the image faster. you place down your guitar beside you and crawl over to leo, placing your head on his shoulder.

“how long does it take to show up?” he whisper-asks

“not long. have patience.”

he sighs and places it on the floor as he awaits the photo to print fully. for the time being, he takes your closest hand and toys around with the rings on your fingers. some he had even crafted himself and gifted you, those special rings had his initials engraved on the inside. bored, he averts his eyes to the photo that he sees had fully developed. he gasps loudly and picks it up with a wide grin.

“hey, look! I’m gonna hang this up on my wall in the forges.”

“you’re joking.”

“I never joke.”

a lie, but in this specific scenario he surely wasn’t joking. that photo stayed up there for the rest of his time at camp

[chiakery]

Something I've noticed while watching the Burrow's End on my laptop: the bits of writing we see during the intro are in Polish!!! They're quite blurry and you can read only some of the words but it seems like it's some sort of instruction manual or technical description of a vehicle! (Easy to guess based on the images, I know, but do you know how hyped I am to see my native language used in D20 show???)

Here for example, you can make out words "- numer silnika (rys. 7)" (tr. engine number (sketch no. 7)); "jego kadłubie po lewej stronie, nad" (tr. it's cockpit on the left side, above); "rozdzielaczem zapłonu" (tr. ignition distributor) and "numer podwozia odbity na" (tr. chasis number imprinted on).

Here's the second image where you can read something, although it's far more difficult this time. We've got "chodu" in bold on the very top of the page, which is most probably the back half of word "samochodu" (tr. car), description under the picture says "umieszczenie numeru silnika" (tr. engine number placement). There are also words that look like "production", "more important" and "spare parts" but it's hard to make them out, even if there's a larger piece of text showed here

[cinnamon-galaxies]

𝐂𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧

Pairings: Alastor x gn!reader Summary: In which Alastor tries to get rid of you by giving you a dangerous task and explores your room once you have left. What he discovers are things he wishes he could unsee... Warnings/Tags: explicit and suggestive content but no smut, 18+, MDNI, gn reader, Emberlynn-coded reader, unrequited love, reader is obsessed with Alastor and he can barely handle it, second-hand embarrassment, cringe, like, lots of it, exaggerated descriptions, comedy, mentions of violence, murder and death, very brief mention of suicide (Alastor barely keeps his sanity), fandom slander and random references (you either get it or you don’t), Alastor needs his own warning, humiliation, a whole bunch of passive aggressiveness and sarcastic remarks, trash-fic Wordcount: 6.5k A/N: This is a spin-off to my other Emberlynn-coded reader story ‘The Simp’. It can be read as a standalone, though I suggest reading the original first for a better understanding of the reader’s messed up personality and their complicated relationship with Alastor. This one escalated a bit more than I planned. It was originally meant to be much shorter, but I ended up having way too much fun writing it. Comments, Likes and Reblogs are always appreciated!

Masterlist

   It was a morning like any other in the hotel. The air was still and tranquil, the residents just beginning to stir as they readied themselves for the day ahead. Alastor strode through the dimly lit halls, his mind set on a singular destination: your room.

   A familiar weight settled in his stomach, a feeling that had lingered since the day he claimed your soul. Your insufferable presence had become a constant in his existence, haunting him with a mix of irritation and curiosity. He braced himself for yet another day filled with your exhausting demeanor, yet he knew he had an important task to assign to you.

   As he approached your door, he could already hear the faint sounds of movement within – your usual morning routine, perhaps accompanied by some melodramatic humming. The thought made his insides twist, but he reminded himself of the necessity of the task at hand.

   In front of your door, Alastor closed his eyes and took a deep breath to prepare himself for yet another one of your annoying tirades, then knocked. Once, twice – the door opened when he moved to knock a third time and he almost punched the air. Immediately, his crimson eyes darted down, and there you stood, already dressed despite the early hour, with an eager grin plastered on your face, your expression brightening like an unexpected sunrise breaking through the clouds.

   “Good morning, Alastor!” your squeaky voice disrupted the early quiet of the hotel and Alastor cringed inwardly, his ears twitching at the painful frequency. He opened his mouth to retort with a dry greeting, but before he could utter a single tone you already interrupted him, the words spilling from your mouth like an accelerated record, “Is something wrong? Do you need my help? It’s still so early in the morning and you knocked on my door – I mean you never knock on my door, so there must be something wrong. Is there anything wrong? Do you need my help? Please let me help you, Alastor!”

   Instant regret grew inside of him as he tried to keep up with the neverending flood of your words that were uttered so fast he barely managed to understand what you said. He just stood there, staring at you with his mouth slightly agape, overwhelmed and the wheels turning in his head as he tried hard to piece together the fragments of what he caught from your extensive monologue.

   “Uhm…” He blinked, staring at your worried but also anticipatory expression, the adrenaline heating up your face like a tomato, making it appear as if it was about to burst. He imagined your head exploding and withheld a chuckle, the mere thought of all your blood and viscera spilled around your room a delightful image in his head.

   “Well, my dear, I do in fact have a task for you,” he eventually said, his voice much calmer than he felt. He always relished the stillness of his sleepless nights, when you finally left him alone, allowing him to unwind from the stress you constantly stirred within him. If he weren’t already dead, he’d probably be at risk of a heart attack from your relentless annoyance. Seriously, how could someone as utterly miserable as you be so exhausting? Maybe he should consider seeing a therapist before he completely snapped. It wouldn’t be long before he lost all the control he’d worked so hard to maintain. He could feel it, deep in his bones – the silent scream of agony echoing within him.

   You immediately straightened your back at his words, crossing your hands behind your back in anticipation. “Oooh, a task! Tell me! I’ll do it as soon as possible!”

Here's the missing part filled in:

   “I sure hope so…” Alastor muttered beneath his breath before he tilted his head to the side and responded much louder, “Well, it is something of high importance…” he drawled out, the radio static in his voice crackling, and he could swear he saw your eyes gleam.  

   “What is it, Alastor-kun?” you interrupted him, and Alastor’s eye twitched, though he did not further elaborate, choosing instead to let the moment linger with a teasing smile.

   “Well, you see… I need you to fetch something from Cannibal Town. There’s a butcher on Carcass Lane who sells the most delectable venison in the entire Pride Ring. I need you to grab some for lunch. Here’s the address and the list of items I need.” He handed you a crumpled piece of paper, a glint of mischief dancing in his eyes, and you snatched it from his hands, pressing the note almost against your face while you read it.

   Alastor raised his eyebrows as he watched you literally absorb the information, then you looked up and nodded exaggeratedly.

   “I'm on my way!” you declared and scurried past him, the wind of your fast movement causing Alastor's hair to flutter. He turned around with a narrowed eye and crooked smile, a look of irritation on his face, but you had already disappeared behind the corner before his eyes could follow. He stared in the direction you just disappeared for a few more seconds before his smile widened into a predatory grin, flashing his sharp and pointy canines with a sudden, exhilarating thrill that sent a shiver of anticipation down his spine. This was an easy success. You really were so desperate to serve him that you were stupid enough to run to Cannibal Town alone. You, a small little creature, pathetic and completely helpless, were nothing more than prey for the people in this part of the city. Maybe, if he was lucky enough, you'd get eaten before you even reached the butcher shop, and thus a problem would've been solved without much effort on his side. Genius.

   Still standing in the doorway, he turned back around. Alastor had never dared to knock on your door before – because of obvious reasons which have just been confirmed to be true. But now that you were gone and hopefully not returning, he got curious. Without further thought he entered your room and closed the door behind him, turning on his heels to take a look around. His eyes widened with every detail that caught his eyes. Bright pink and violet walls clashed with white polished furniture that could've been sourced from a doctor's office. The cabinets and shelves appeared almost sterile compared to the atrocious clutter in and around. Dozens – no, hundreds – of plushies and figurines were crammed into the tiniest of spaces. It was a chaotic explosion of color and fluff, a seemingly random assortment that defied all attempts at organization. The shelf was filled with books and boxes that were somehow puzzled into the space like some kind of a real life Tetris game. The walls – dear Satan, the walls – were suffocatingly plastered with posters in colorful palettes that showed a wide range of grotesquely exaggerated, wide-eyed monstrosities. The eyes of the characters – if they could even be called that – were so enormous that they seemed ready to fall out of their skulls, while their breasts rivaled their heads in size. It was as if the artist had taken every ridiculously hyper-sexualized fantasy and spilled them out on paper to create those unnatural horrors of eyesore that depicted an unhealthy and disrespectful portrayal of the female body. How were their waists so small? Did they even have organs in there? Alastor raised his eyebrow as he eyed the pictures. Some of those creatures bore animalistic features with cat ears, bunny tails and other appendages like they were common in hell, yet seeing the mere addition of those features on such grotesque figures was more than unsettling to him. The others were probably supposed to be human but their proportions were so out of control they looked like misbuilt mannequins from the fashion store of mistrust.

   Alastor's eyes drifted further across the wall until they landed on the image of a pale man with sharp pointy ears and curly white hair who was mid-bite on a woman's neck, the blood pouring from the wound and running over the woman's chest in a subtle yet intendedly suggestive way. The text read ‘Baldur's Gate’.

   What in Hell's name was a ‘Baldur's Gate’?!

   Before his mind could even attempt to comprehend this madness, his gaze landed on another poster with the same writing and same world – but this one featured a woman swooning in the arms of what could be an octopus-man hybrid.

   Alastor blinked, horrified. Yes, that was indeed an octopus with glowing eyes and squirming, slimy tentacles wrapping themselves around the poor woman as though she were just another victim of this abhorrent nightmare. Wait – were those tentacles caressing her?!

   He gagged, the taste of bile appearing on his tongue. “This is disgusting,” he hissed, a shiver running down his spine. He could barely process what he was seeing. ‘Baldur's Gate’? Hell, maybe you belonged there. Maybe he'd be doing you a favor by sending you straight into that absurd world where vampires, octopus-men, and God knows what else ran free, far away from him, where you could fulfill your worst fantasies of–. He neglected the thought before he could finish it, his stomach churning and the threat of another gag rising in his throat.

   But then, his eyes caught something worse. Yes, worse. Somehow the room found a way to outdo itself. Layered posters plastered the other wall – yes, layered – leaving almost no surface of the actual wall visible underneath. And the images – Satan help him –  the images were so obscene, he couldn't withhold himself from widening his eyes in shock. Muscular men – half naked and grotesquely exaggerated – posed with claws, fangs, and the most ridiculous expressions of primal desire imaginable. Texts like “Alpha” and “Bite me, baby” screamed from these posters. But the final blow came from a particular poster showing a dripping wet, absurdly muscular mafioso leaning into a shower, a caption in giant, sultry text reading, “Are you lost, babygirl?”

   Alastor's jaw practically unhinged as his eyes widened in horror.

   What. The. Fuck.

   He averted his gaze, barely suppressing another gag, and found himself standing in front of a shelf, hoping for some brief moment of sanity. But no – his hopes were shattered. The shelf was packed with small figurines or more cat-girls and octopus men, between them some green-haired man holding two Katana in his hands and one between his teeth. How the hell could he even fight like this? This didn't make any sense at all. And – was that the sculpture of spaghetti with a face?! He stared at it with one eye widened and the other narrowed, his lids twitching under the pressure and his smile was shaped into a confused grimace. Why the Hell did you have spaghetti on your shelf?! But of course that wasn't all. Between those figurines were even smaller creatures that looked like they'd crawled from the very bowels of an overactive, perverted imagination. With a roll of his eyes and a deepening sense of disgust, he glanced at the books. Big mistake.

   How – just how could every single corner of your room be even worse than the last?! He was barely able to keep himself from laughing as he read the titles of the books that were stuffed into the tightest of spaces. Each one was worse than the one before: “Bound by Blood and Lust”, “Slave to the Beast”, “Taken by the Overlord”, “Marked by the Alpha”, “The Alpha's Virgin Omega”... and even more dreadful titles. “My Immortal” was the most normal of them all. But even a harmless title could hide one of the worst stories in all of history. If Alastor knew one thing, then it was that one should never judge a book by its cover – or in this case: title.

   He took a deep breath, stepping back from the shelf, his gaze still locked on the chaos around him. He found himself standing before your desk, turning with a low hum, eyes scanning the mess of paper stacks and notebooks with a bizarre mix of morbid curiosity and utter disgust. Your room was like a car crash – something no one wanted to witness, yet impossible to look away from. In a nutshell: It was absolutely atrocious.

   With narrowed eyes he took one of the paper stacks in his hands and shuffled through the pages. Most of them were notes and doodles, some better than others, but the majority looked like the deformed mannequin creatures from your posters – only more disturbing. Their eyes, grotesquely oversized and much rounder and bigger than the ones from the posters, were filled with far too many reflections, giving the eerie illusion of tears, yet each character wore an unsettling grin, twisted and unnerving, disturbingly similar to his own at its worst. He continued his expedition through your mess, not surprised to find some drawings of himself but shocked by the sheer quality and painstaking detail you had put into them. Then, his breath caught in his lungs. His eyes widened, pupils constricting in disbelief as he stumbled upon yet another drawing of him – this time, barely dressed, with a lewd speech bubble in the corner. ‘Oh, don’t be shy, little one. I promise, this is one signal that’s sure to reach every part of you…’

   He instantly flung the papers aside, recoiling with a loud, distorted radio screech. You truly were a creature of Hell. Did your parents even love you? They must’ve been really bad people if they managed to spawn such a fucked up creature like you… Maybe it was a good idea to just leave the room without exploring your personal belongings any further. Not even getting mauled to death by bloodthirsty dogs was as traumatizing as the deep, dark abyss of your mind. But before he could turn away, something caught his eye. A pink notebook that was adorned with glitter stickers and handwritten quotes lay right in the middle of your desk, a few pens strewn around it as if you were just using it. He knew he shouldn’t. Every single look was worse than the one before. He knew this flashy notebook would most probably hide even more stuff he would regret to ever have seen. However, there was a quiet little voice that tried to lure him into doing something he knew he would regret.

   With caution he approached the desk again and reached out his hand, his finger tips grazing the surprisingly soft material of the cover. He held his breath as he took it into his hands and opened it. The first page was adorned with hearts and tiny flower doodles, the image of a cathedral radio in the corner. In the middle of the page stood written in flourished cursive: “Static Lust – A Dark Romance Fanfiction”. Underneath, your name.

   He frowned. What was a fanfiction…? With a bad feeling in his guts he turned the page and began to read your surprisingly neat handwriting. His eyes flew over the words, taking in every sentence and he cringed inwardly at the badly written plot. The story was ridiculously self-indulgent, starring you as a tragic figure that was kidnapped and brought to Hell by none other than… him.

   Alastor blinked when he read his name, wrinkling his nose and inhaling a deep breath. Of course. He should’ve known. Fan-fiction. Knowing how hard you were in love with him should’ve prepared him for what he was about to discover.

   As uncomfortable as he felt, he continued this little venture into the literal intonation of your deepest thoughts. Somehow, it amused him. It was as if he was reading your diary, just more messed up. And most definitely pushing his boundaries. 

   You portrayed him with a personality that couldn’t be farther off from reality: a lovesick obsessive who wanted nothing but to corrupt you, possess your soul and your whole being. He couldn’t believe what he was reading. The sheer absurdity of it all – the dramatized seduction, the over-the-top description of his passion for you were unbearable to read. Yet, he couldn't stop himself from continuing the story. His eyes continuously trailed over every sentence, soaking in the words as if his life depended on it while his heart sank deeper into his guts. His expression was completely motionless and his already pale face drained of even the last bits of color. The worst was: it didn’t stop here. As the story progressed, so did your so-called ‘romance’.

   His fingers trailed along my jaw, claws grazing my delicate skin as he kept his gaze locked with mine, crimson eyes boring themselves into my very core as if he was reading my soul. I felt completely naked under his gaze, caught between desire and a flicker of fear at his imposing form.    “Be mine,” he growled with a deep sultry voice, the radio static gone and his hot breath grazing against my cheeks. Sharp teeth glinted from behind his smile, a silent threat yet so intriguing. The danger, his power, his possession were palpable. Everything left me completely breathless and a shiver ran down my spine, causing the butterflies in my stomach to flutter wildly around. It was a tingling feeling, one that jolted electricity through my veins and into the depth of my core.

   He swallowed hard at the description, nausea taking over his stomach, replacing the appetite he just had for a tasty bite of rotting venison. He would never say something like that to you. He would never do something like that to you. And most importantly, he could never love you. He wasn’t even able to love. But even if he were, he'd be more likely to fall for Lucifer than he would ever waste a single thought on you.

   ‘Be mine.’

   He let out a huff. You were already his. Certainly not in the way you wanted it to be, but he owned your soul. Which meant he could do to you however he pleased. But nothing similar to this bullshit from your writing, obviously.

   Alastor’s eyes narrowed as he continued to read and the story development was truly as bad as his characterization and anything else. The more he continued, the more his eyes widened in horror. It didn’t take long for the writing to turn explicit – vulgar and smutty. Each sentence was dripping with suggestive language, painting a picture of you and him in intimate situations.

   I couldn't resist him any longer, the way he dominated the room, the power in his every movement. My heart raced as he leaned in closer, his voice a seductive purr that caused my hairs to stand up. “You were a naughty little thing,” Alastor whispered, his lips brushing my ear and his voice dropped to a baritone that vibrated in his throat, “and you deserve to be punished.”    I shuddered, feeling my entire body tremble in anticipation. “Alastor…”    “Uh, uh, uh,” he brushed me off, his nose grazing the skin on my neck while his hot breath sent shivers down my spine and right into my core.     “Say it. Say, ‘Punish me, Sir,” he commanded, and I–

   Alastor slammed the book shut for a moment, closing his eyes as if to cleanse himself from what he had just read. He let out a sharp exhale, then opened the notebook again with a resigned sigh, morbidly fascinated by the sheer audacity of your words. His smile became brittle, twitching as he forced himself to read on.

   Alastor pressed me firmly against the wall, his finger tracing a line down my neck, the touch gentle but brimming with control. I felt his sharp claws graze my skin, leaving faint red marks that would serve as a silent testament to his claim over me. I remained still, terrified that the wrong move could turn his claws from teasing to lethal.    “So naughty…” he growled in my ear, his voice sending a shiver down my spine before he stepped back, creating a cold distance between us. The sudden loss of his warmth sent a chill through me, goosebumps prickling across my skin as I resisted the urge to reach for him, knowing he wouldn't tolerate such disobedience.    Alastor’s intense gaze swept over my body, lingering on every inch, and I could feel the heat pooling between my legs, the wetness trailing down my thighs. “Strip,” he ordered, his voice leaving no room for hesitation. I obeyed without a second thought.

   This was absurd. This was disgusting. This was absolutely disturbing. This was how you viewed him? A domineering, smoldering lover? The mere idea was enough to make his skin crawl.

   He gagged once more, the mere thought of touching you making him recoil in pure revulsion. This went beyond simple disgust. It was something far deeper. What was any of this supposed to be? Did you actually believe he could ever reciprocate your twisted feelings? Were you truly so desperate that you wrote an entire book about him doing such indecent things to you? He couldn’t comprehend it, and it only worsened his already low opinion of you. He knew he shouldn’t have read it, but did you honestly think he wouldn’t find out eventually?

   Part of him just wanted to die again. To disappear and never return, to tear out his eyes and brain and offer them to his equals in Cannibal Town. Was there anyone in Pentagram City who still performed lobotomies? He definitely needed one after this monstrosity of an insult to all literature ever created.

   He flipped through pages in haste, no longer bothering to read the entire story, just skimming over a few lines here and there. With every word, it became more unbearable. The grotesque images your writing forced into his mind were intolerable, destined to haunt him for the far future where they would resurface in his rare moments of sleep and flash before his eyes every time he looked at you. It was obscene, nonsensical, and revolting. Violating not only his sense of decency but also his personal boundaries.

   What started off as a toxic fast-paced back and forth between the two characters turned out to be nothing more than a pure over-sexualized scandal. You and Alastor would do it everywhere. In the bed, in the shower, in the hotel's parlor, on the counter of Husk's bar – even on the balcony while you glared up at one of Vox’s drones, knowing damn well the television freak would watch. He even found a chapter in which he took you into his radio station and broadcasted your moans all over Hell, so everyone knew that you belonged to him. 

   “Ah, Alastor-kun!” I moaned in both pain and pleasure.

   “Punish me, Mister Radio Demon, Sir!”

   “Ah, harder, deer-daddy!”

   “YAMETE KUDASAI!!!”

   He slammed the book shut again and dared not to open it again. What. The. Actual. Fuck. Was wrong with you?!

   His face was white as chalk, his eyes twitched and for the first time in decades, his smile had disappeared and instead, his face was adorned by a completely and utterly traumatized grimace. This was… this was an affront to his dignity, to his entire being.

   His thoughts raced like a whirlwind as he imagined every possible way to make you regret this. To punish you – not in the way you do desperately wanted – but actually punish you in the most gruesome and painful ways he could imagine. Over the decades, Alastor got creative with his murders. Maybe he would even discover new ways to torture a soul before tearing it apart, shredding it into pieces to ensure not only your death but to erase your existence from history entirely. Perhaps he’d even find a way to prevent you from ever being born at all.

   Fuck.

   But until then, he would keep his rage silently hidden inside of him, deep behind the walls he had constructed to maintain his control.

   Alastor let out a laugh, though it was more out of frustration than amusement, the sound hollow and laced with irritation. Of all the souls he could have ended up owning, it had to be yours – lovesick simp with a disturbing penchant for writing self-indulgent filth. Oh yes, you were destined to be his punishment. The punishment Alastor most probably deserved in his afterlife. But before he could continue his train of thoughts, he got interrupted.

   “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!” your frantic voice shattered the silence of your room as you burst through the door, nearly knocking it off its hinges. Alastor flinched, startled by the sudden commotion. His head turned a full 180 degrees to face you, accompanied by the snapping of bones and sharp crackle of radio static, and you froze mid-step, locking eyes with him.

   You blinked once, then twice. “Oh, Alastor! I'm so sorry!” you cried, your eyes glistening with tears. “I’m so, so sorry! I screwed up!”

   He stood there, holding your notebook, his expression frozen like a deer caught in the headlights. His heart raced in his chest as you hurried toward him, trembling slightly.

   “I went to the butcher, but I forgot my purse at the hotel! I had to come back for it!” you rambled, breathless, and Alastor’s brows furrowed in confusion. “I’m so sorry I won’t have your supplies in time! Please forgive me, Alastor! Or punish me! I’d love to be punished! I–I mean – I deserve to be punished! I can also punish myself if you prefer! Just forgive me for being so stupid!” you pleaded, completely oblivious to the fact that Alastor stood in front of you with your most mortifying secret in his hands. 

   Tears streamed down your face, but Alastor just stared, mouth slightly agape, yellow teeth peeking through as he stood there, overwhelmed. He held your notebook in his hands, the disturbing contents trapped between its thick covers, while you rambled on about a forgotten purse and your desire for punishment. All the while, you remained utterly unaware of the true embarrassment in front of you.

   “Uh…” Alastor exhaled at a loss of words.

   You gazed up at him with teary, wide eyes, then your eyes slowly drifted down to his hands. Realization hit you like a train. Your eyes widened and grew so big in size that they rivaled with the creatures on your posters, the color from your face draining, turning your skin from pale to snow-white in an instant.

   “No...” you breathed, your voice weak and barely above a whisper. You shook your head slowly, stepping back, repeating the word in disbelief, as if doing so could undo the reality before you.

   Alastor's initial shock dissolved into a wicked grin. His pupils constricted, and the glow in his crimson eyes intensified with a dangerous gleam. Watching your horror unfold, filled him with a surge of dark satisfaction and the thought of simply torturing you felt far too mild now. No, this reaction was much more satisfying, much more delicious. His eyes gleamed with cruel amusement as an idea took root. This wasn't just good. It was perfect. The situation was playing right into his hands.

   “Well, my dear, it appears that you've stumbled into quite the predicament, huh?” his static-filled voice broke the uncomfortable silence and he turned around fully, tilting his head in a derogatory manner. “Care to explain?” He asked, his fingers tapping against the book one after another, the sound of his claws clapping against its surface a haunting melody. His voice was much too light and way too cheerful for what he felt on the inside, but it was the perfect way to confront you with the danger you just put yourself into. It made him hard to read. It put him in charge.

   “Well… uh… uhm…” you stumbled, momentarily speechless. Alastor could see the wheels turning in your head and he noticed your pale cheeks turn a red color that was almost as vibrant as his coat.

   He took a step closer and tilted his head further, almost holding it at a 90 degrees angle. “Well…?”

   “I– it's not what–” you started but Alastor interrupted you.

   “Save this nonsense. This is exactly what it looks like, dear. Now, tell me, what is this thing you're so ashamed of, huh?”

   You began to fumble with your shirts, fingers fidgeting with the fabric as your breaths grew more ragged. “I–I–It's… a diary!” you shouted that last word. “A diary! Yes, yes! Nothing more! Just a few thoughts about my life at the hotel!” you tried to save yourself from this situation, crafting a lie that was so obvious that even the most stupid person would've seen right through it. And, after all, it's not that Alastor didn't just read page after page with an abhorred expression. But you didn't need to know. Not yet. He'd let you squirm a little before dropping the bombshell. So, he just raised an eyebrow and turned the notebook in his hands, eyeing it from all sides with faux curiosity. “Is that so?” he drawled and you seemed to shrink under his looming presence and intense gaze.

   You nodded hastily, your whole body vibrating with the simple movement. “Yes! Yes…”

   “Well…” Alastor paused for a moment, glancing down at the supposed ‘diary’ and then darting his eyes at you from under his lashes, a quick flicker of mischief dancing across his features but no less intense.

   You swallowed. And Alastor could see your throat jolt up and down.

   “Well,” he repeated, “if it's just about the hotel, then I guess you wouldn't mind if I take a look.” He moved his hand to open the notebook but your panicked voice interrupted him.

   “No!”

   He stopped his movement, thumb and index just touching the upper rim of the front over. He raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. “Oh? And why's that?”

   “Because… because… it's not good. It's just… bullet points and quick notes. Nothing special, really! Just ugly smearing and shitty drawings!” You explained in a rush, nervously shifting your weight from one foot to the other while you bit the corners of your cheeks and your hands kept fumbling with your shirt.

   Wait. Drawings? Alastor blinked. There were illustrations in there too?! He swallowed. Hard. Though his expression did not reveal any of the discomfort that crept through his veins like a venomous snake on the hunt for something to eat.

   “Oh come on, they can't be so bad!” Alastor assured while he made sure his fingers lingered at the very same spot, a silent threat that he could – and would – open the book any second.

   Tears welled up in your eyes again as you stared up at him with pursed lips, a pleading expression on your incredibly blushed face as you silently, yet loud enough for everyone to hear, begged he would put it aside and dismiss your personal belongings. 

   You folded your hands in front of you as if praying to some God, your voice barely above a whisper, “I mean it, Alastor. Please don't open the book. Please…"

   Oh, this was delicious. This was so much better than any torturing method he had imagined just mere minutes ago. Your pleading expression, the fear in your eyes, the way you so desperately tried to keep him from opening the book while you were completely unaware of the fact that he had already read its contents. That he knew about your deepest, dirtiest desires, your pathetic longing for him that must’ve affected you so strongly you spend hours and hours of your free time to create something this atrocious… He could see your body tremble. He noticed every inch of your skin on fire, every single hair standing on edge. He smelled the panic that surged through your veins and heard the blood rushing through your arteries, powered by the frantic beating of your pounding heart in your chest.

   The silence between you stretched on and Alastor enjoyed every second of it, reveled in this moment of utter uncertainty. He heard your ragged breaths, how you tried to force yourself to keep your breathing as steady as possible, fighting against the tears that glistened in your eyes. Alastor realized you resembled the drawings he’d discovered in that chaotic stack of paper, and his grin grew even more sinister, exposing his sharp fangs in all their menacing glory.

   It was at this moment he knew time had come to drop the bombshell. To reveal the truth to you and humiliate you with the product of your own creativity.

   “‘Deer-daddy’, huh?” he casually quoted one of the lines from your story and he saw you twitch, his sadistic satisfaction growing even stronger.

   “What?” you whimpered in shock but before you could say more, Alastor opened the notebook and flipped to the very page where he read it, turning the book around for you to face your own writing and pointing with his clawed finger at the line.

   “Here it is, ‘deer-daddy’,” he repeats again, tapping against the page twice. Then he inhaled deeply, raised one eyebrow and looked at you like a disappointed parent. “First off, I am not your father,” he clarified, his tone still casual, a subtle hint at the hidden danger underneath his facade. “And secondly… Wouldn’t that make the whole plot of your story a little… incestuous…?”

   The trembling of your body intensified and your breaths got quicker, impossible to control as you found yourself at the brink of hyperventilation.

   “Oh, come now, dear. Why so nervous…?” he drawled and your lips began to tremble.

   “You…” you started but your breath caught in your throat, your voice trembling as much as your body. “You… read… it…?”

   Alastor fell silent for a moment, his burning red eyes taking in your pitiful state. Then his smile widened, casual yet unnervingly so, before he cheerfully exclaimed, “Of course I did! How could I resist this flashy little booklet you so obviously displayed in the middle of your desk? I simply had to read it!” He closed the book and thrust the cover into your face, an exaggerated gesture meant to highlight its eye-catching design. The stickers you had playfully plastered on now seemed to mock you for forgetting to hide it away.

   Holding the book closer to himself again, he shifted his gaze between it and you. “But let’s be honest, dear. Your storytelling could use some work.” He opened the book again and flipped through the pages. “You started off strong with your self-insert and their dramatic backstory – it caught my interest at first. But come on. Kidnapped into Hell? By the Radio Demon, due to a ridiculous Halloween bet gone wrong?” He raised an eyebrow at the sheer absurdity of the plot before he continued, “First off, summoning me to Earth requires much more than a little pentagram, some candles, and a radio. I deserve better sacrifices than that. And do you honestly think I’d find a pathetic little human being, especially one like you, interesting? What could you possibly offer in return for my favor besides your fragile soul? I’m not the kind to wait years or decades for a death so a bargain can be fulfilled. It’s simply… inconvenient.”

   You stared at him, dumbfounded, as he critiqued your writing like an editor at a publishing house.

   “And kidnapping someone just because of their ‘tempting nature’ and without further motive? That’s quite foolish. What if the Sins found out? Or other powerful beings in charge?” He stepped closer, glaring down at you with a still raised eyebrow, his casual demeanor betraying a hint of enjoyment in your discomfort. “Don’t you think they’d come after you if they learned that a human managed to survive a descent to Hell? Honestly, you’re missing quite a thrilling plot here.”

   Alastor’s eyes flicked over the pages, taking in fleeting words without truly reading. He didn’t need to reread to recall the errors and striking details; they were burned into his mind – probably for the rest of eternity. As he took a deep breath, he stumbled upon a lewd drawing of you and him tangled together on a desk – something he must’ve overlooked before and wished he could forget now. So, there were illustrations in this book. You didn't lie.

   Blinking, he turned the page, pushing aside this humiliation for a moment to continue his critique, “While your writing style is surprisingly enticing, the rest of the story lacks character development, thrill, and depth. It could have been executed much better – if we ignore the fact that it centers around me being your beau and engaging in... inappropriate activities while indulging in exaggerated displays of carnal desires. You’re a filthy little thing, aren’t you?” He chirped, glancing at you with anticipation, waiting for you to form a response. But you were speechless. Not a single word managed to leave your lips as you just stared at him, dumbfounded, your mouth agape and eyes widened in horror and confusion.

   Alastor sighed. “Oh come now, dear. If you can be so bold to bring such an imagination to paper you can surely just answer my question.”

   “I–,” you stuttered, pausing to gather your strength to do as he commanded. But instead, the words tumbled out as an apology. “I–I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude–”

   “Uh, uh, uh, dear!” Alastor interrupted, waving his index finger in front of your face. Your eyes squinted, tracking its movement. “We both know you’re not ashamed of intruding on anything related to me. Considering you’ve been following me around with those doting eyes of yours ever since the day you begged me to take your soul. You’re a bold little creature, utterly devoid of dignity, feeling the need to humiliate me in the process.”

   He closed the book and handed it back to you. Your trembling hand snatched it from his grip, and you hugged it protectively against your chest, closing your eyes and taking deep breaths to steady yourself. Meanwhile, Alastor continued his scolding, stepping closer until there was barely a foot of distance between you. He tilted his head, looming over you like a predator, eyes narrowed and teeth flashing.

   His voice dropped, growing darker with each word, the static crackling around him making the air feel charged as he hissed, “I suggest you cease this violation of my privacy before I make sure you regret every little thought you’ve ever dared to indulge in regarding such frivolities.”

   For a fleeting moment, his eyes turned an abyssal black before returning to their fiery hue. It was a subtle threat, yet clear as day. He lingered, staring down at you, savoring your pathetic state, before shadows engulfed him, pulling him into darkness until he vanished completely, leaving you alone in your room with just your thoughts and the memory of the consequences of your inappropriate behavior.

   Yes, he definitely needed that therapist.

[vampysblessing]

haiiiiiiiii just wanna req a smut fic of btm trans ftm reader and nanami in an established healthy relationship where nanami came home late after work bc he was forced to work overtime (he despises overtime) AND HES VERY FRUSTRATED and pent up maybe... and wanted to cool off by just eating his husband's 🐱 out bc he hasnt had dinner yet ykwim HHAHAHA and then go all soft for aftercare.... ggrgggrrrr m so delusional...

its jujutsu 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 (btw u can do this req anytime u want even tho this is like a cliche req but i wanna see on ur perspective how u write abt this!!! take ur time if needed ya!! have an orange while ur at it 🍊)

⠀⧽⠀⌢⌢⠀"i'm starving."﹕nanami x trans!male reader

⠀⧽⠀⌢⌢⠀summary﹕nanami had to work overtime and came home hungry, so he decided to have you as his dinner.

⠀⧽⠀⌢⌢⠀notes & warnings﹕use of "cunt" on the reader, first time writing descriptive smut so it may be bad, oral being given & received, breeding/creampie, mention of reader getting pregnant (only used as dirty talk, though), overstimulation, reader has hip dips, nanami just being a man of consent, soft aftercare

⠀⧽⠀⌢⌢⠀word count﹕2.4k

the sound of nanami’s stomach growling, followed by a sigh from the man, was damn near enough to make him go insane. if he gripped his steering wheel any tighter, he might’ve popped a vein.

images were racing through his mind, teeth gritting, his focus set awry from you. ‘focus on driving, nanami. you're almost there,’ he told himself over and over like a matra. but he couldn't focus. what was your goal, sending him pictures of yourself like that, knowing he was working overtime?

he was starving. on one hand, for actual food, but another, he didn't want food, he just wanted you.

overtime didn't make it better, either. not to mention, gojo made it his personal mission go bother him as much as he could. but thankfully, all his annoyances were set aside (sort of) as he finally pulled into the driveway, getting out of his car and slamming the door. unintentionally of course, he was usually gentle with such things as to not damage them or wear them down quickly.

the front door opening made you perk up from your spot on the bed. you were on your phone, laying on bed, but now you sat upright, patiently waiting for your husband to come in.

nanami didn't exactly walk in and scoop his husband up like normal, muttering sweet nothings, complaining about his day. instead, he walked in, dipping two fingers in his tie to loosen it, then hastily grabbing your legs to pull your body closer to his own. you let out a surprised yelp, awkwardly chuckling.

“(name.)” he started, his voice firm, which made you tense a bit.

“um.. yes, nanami?”

“i'm starving.”

“i can go get you something, i know traffic is bad. or i can c-”

“no,” he interrupted you, jaw clenched, and hands pulling off your shorts. you, of course, knew what he meant by now and knew what to expect. nanami didn't even need to say anything further, he was looking at you like you were prey and he was ready to eat you alive (which he was).

before you could even blink, your shirt was pushed up but not taken off, boxers laying on the ground, and nanami was tearing his clothes off as well. he didn't have plans to go straight to sex though, not him. he's a patient man who waited long enough to have you in the palm of his hands, and he’d be damned if he didnt savor every moment, if he didnt savor every bit of you. right now, he needed you like water, and seeing the hunger - almost desperation - in his eyes turned you on.

“you're already wet.”

“well.. you're already hard!”

a brow raised, testing you to keep talking, which you didn't.

“can i?” he inquired. he already knew the answer, but he liked to hear you say what you want him to do.

“for fuck’s sake- yes, of course! c’mon, nanami, just get to it!” now you were the desperate one. it was ironic, a smile pulling at the sorcerer’s lips.

he laid down on the bed next to you, your curious eyes watching and following his every move, but you didn't quite catch the way his sneaky hands pulled you onto his chest, then adjusted both your positions to pull your cunt right over his face.

you were shocked at the position. quite honestly, he’d never done the sixty nine position with you, he just ate you out whilst prepping you, let you suck him off (if he didnt pin you to the bed beforehand), then it went to penetrative sex.

his tongue dragging along your clit, fingers digging into the soft skin of your hip dips, sent a shiver down your spine. you weren't sure what to do now, hips attempting to jerk against his lips, but to no avail thanks to his strong grip.

“suck me off, sweetheart.” his voice was like honey to you, a whine leaving your lips as you moved your body down to follow his order. as soon as the tip of his cock was in your mouth, you felt his tongue dip into your hole. your brain fogged for a moment, moaning against his length, which made him groan from the vibration.

with every lick, suck, and “mmm” nanami would give, you would try your best to suck him off. your head bobbed up and down, tongue dragging along his veins, trying your hardest to deepthroat him. sadly, you had to use your hand for whatever your throat couldn't take.

nanami was a gentleman too. a bit of a sadist when it came to sex, but still a gentleman. he knew you were insecure of your chest sometimes, so he would leave your shirt on for you so you could decide if you wanted it on or off. he wouldn't force his entire cock in your mouth because he knew your limits, although sometimes he did enjoy using your mouth if you let him.. the way you cried and gagged around his dick was too good. but, he’d never go against your wishes, so he always asks just to be sure.

you thought so fondly of your husband, just as he thought so fondly of you.

immediately, your thoughts were interrupted by a finger slipping in your hole, your free hand gripping at his thigh like a lifeline. your bobbing stopped, pulling off his cock with a ‘pop’, and trying to catch your breath.

“nanami, please..” you didn't even know what you were begging for. more of him, maybe? another finger? more of his tongue? neither of you knew, but the only thing on your mind was him.

… and the way he stopped the moment you did. this bastard!

“keep sucking me off if you want more.”

you frowned, then huffed, but complied and stuffed your mouth full with his cock again. your head moved up, down, up down, over and over.

“good boy, (name). very good.”

you could hear the shitty smirk in his voice, and it made you more wet - if you could even get more wet.

another finger slipped inside your cunt, both his digits thrusting inside of you while he bit, sucked, and nibbled at the back of your legs. you were in pure ecstasy, thighs trembling slightly already.

his tongue was one thing, but the way his fingers curled, thrusted, and stretched you out so perfectly was surreal. it was pure ecstasy, and nanami knew every button to press, every sensitive spot of yours, every string to pull to make you moan and cum for him. he knew everything about your body at this point, using that to his advantage, of course. how couldn't he? with the way you squirm and beg for him?

“wait, nanami-” you interrupted your own sentence by cumming, a loud moan leaving you. he didn't even notice how you stopped sucking him off, he was too engrossed in fingering you.

he frowned, though. he wanted to taste your cum on his tongue, but alas, he’d have to lick it off his fingers. then eat you out again, of course.

even though he didn't get to cum yet, he didn't mind waiting, his fingers pulling out of you to lick them clean. as soon as they were licked off, he moved your body and sat up. you were soon laid on your back, legs spread, confusion spreading across your features.

then, you watched as nanami lowered his head once more between your thighs and started licking between your folds. your back arched, crying out from the overstimulation, hands grabbing at his hair and pulling lightly. he ignored it though, his thumbs spreading your cunt apart for his eyes to see, tongue licking up and then sucking on your clit.

you had turned into a mess. squirming, moaning, whimpering, grabbing anywhere and anything you could, yet nanami somehow managed to keep you still long enough for you to reach another orgasm.

this time, he got to really taste you, his tongue lapping up your juices like a thirsty man. your body was trembling and spazzing, chest heaving up and down with each breath.

“there, now im full.” he smiled, standing up. he pulled your body closer to his, your ass nearly hanging off the bed, then he lifted your hips just a bit.

“ah- nanami, wait, please.. let me catch my breath.”

“of course.” one of his hands moved to caress your cheek, then grab at one of your hands, bringing your knuckles up to your lips. he let you calm down, your body relaxing more, moving your hand up to cup his cheek, which he leaned into.

“you can go ahead now.”

without wasting much time, he lined his cock up to your entrance, then pushed in. he didn't move too fast so you could adjust, but he certainly wasn't slow with it either. once he bottomed out, he lets you really adjust, hearing your whines and whimpers.

your hands gripped at the bed sheets beneath you, eyes squeezing shut.

“look at me, (name). i want you to see me when i start to fuck you.”

you slowly opened your eyes to watch him, the both of you making eye contact as he began to move his hips. you had to refrain from letting your eyes flutter closed again, moaning out.

it was all too much, but also not enough at the same time. nanami filled you up so good and made sure you felt loved.

his thrusts began to quicken, hands roaming along your body as he fucked into you. it made your body tingle.

“can i- shit- can i take your shirt off?” he breathed out, pulling at your shirt, to which you nodded. he nearly tore it off of you, then pulled your legs up to rest your ankles on his shoulders, giving him a much better angle to drive his cock into your cunt.

“you feel so good, my love.. so tight.” his vice was breathy and almost whiny, mesmerized by the way your body jolted each time his hips met yours, the way beads of sweat formed around your body and your hair stuck to your forehead, and the way your mouth hung open, just letting any noise be heard. you made no effort to silence yourself.

you both were mesmerized with each other. nanami looked so pretty when he fucked you, it was a much different sight than his more professional look.

however, your smile - which you had no idea had formed - faded due to nanami stopping. you whined and tried to move your hips to get friction, squirming around, but before you could even speak, you were lifted.

then the realization hit you that he was just changing positions, his knees making the mattress sink when he got on it, and your legs being pushed further back.

this time, he didn't give you time to adjust. he practically slammed his cock into you, his body hunched over, palms on each side of your head. the sound of skin slapping started echoing through the room, but it was hardly heard from your loud moans.

he just put you in a mating press, and it felt like he was somehow deeper than before. it was all too good.

“... can i.. cum in you this time?”

just from his question, you came. you squealed and arched your back once more, hands going up to cover your face.

“please, yes!”

nanami smiled at your response, kissing your hands to try and get them to move. you did move them, letting him capture your lips in a rather passionate kiss.

his thrusts got rougher, but sloppier, so you knew he was getting close. one of his hands went to rest on your stomach, lightly pressing on it, then stopping as soon as he reached orgasm. he broke the kiss so he could groan.

“ah, fuck. i hope you get pregnant, (name). i want.. to see your belly get round. no doubt, it'd be cute to see you carry our kid.”

as if to prove his words, he thrusted again, pushing his cum deep inside of you.

both of you were in pure ecstasy, but especially you. he was pressing sweet kisses to your face and neck, the both of you starting to calm down from your highs.

once he pulled out, you whined, feeling empty. he picked you up, wrapping your legs around his waist, and carried you to the bathroom to clean you up. you heard some water run, not even paying attention to the way he managed to hold you with one arm, albeit with the help of your legs around him. then soon after, you were placed in the bath.

he sat behind you, scooping some water to run along your arms and hair. you began to come to your senses, relaxing into his touch and letting out hums of content as his fingers scratched at your scalp, the orange scented shampoo filling your nostrils.

“how do you feel, my love?” he questioned, rinsing the shampoo out before kissing your cheek.

“hmm.. good.. a little tired, but good.” you leaned your head back against his chest to smile up at him, a smile which he returned and leaned down to kiss.

“good. i apologize for being so abrupt.”

“i kind of expected it. i did mess with you by sending those pictures..”

“you are truly a menace for teasing me in such a way, especially during overtime. but i love when you take naked pictures of yourself to send to me.”

his hands traced along your arms, fingertips brushing against your skin, making you giggle and move away.

after he had finished cleaning and kissing all over you, you moved so you were facing him and began washing him as well. he didn't question it. he always found it nice how you gave him aftercare as well, even though you were the one with trembling legs.

“you know, you don't have to treat me as well. i am the one who exhausted you.” even despite his words, he leaned into your gentle touches, eyes closing.

“i know, but you still did all the work! i'm sure its tiring.”

“truthfully, i never tire of doing anything with or for you.”

your face burned at his sentence, a stupid lovesick smile pulling at your lips. you didn't say anything after, just repeating his words in your head and finishing your bath with him.

as soon as you were both done, he got up and lifted you out, wrapping a towel around you both. you dried off, walked into your closet, and put your pajamas on. nanami did the same, lifting you up again to carry you to the living room.

“i’ll wash the bedsheets, can you find a movie for us to watch? then maybe i can cook for us or something..” as if on cue, you heard his stomach growl, making you chuckle with a nod.

“love you, nanami.”

“where’s the ‘i’?”

“i looove you, nanamiiiii!”

“i love you too, (name).”

reposting and translating my works are allowed, but please do not claim my writing as your own. this was written by @aidensixeye.

[zangtang]

Everything can change at any point!

Create images here: https://www.bing.com/images/create?FORM=GENILP before i say anything else though: not following someone else's prompts means you'll likely find some wild and unexpected things yourself. If you follow my prompts like they're laws, you will only ever get results like mine. There are people doing much cooler, weirder things. Don't get restricted by this.

the site was VERY BROKEN for the last 6 days, you haven't been banned. You get 15 boosts a day which usually override any current downtime, but the popup thinks you get 25 a week, which is an indicator of how busted and poorly planned they were for this flood of users. It's not too hard to create illegal results, and there's millions of users, so it's very unlikely a human is ever looking at your results. Unless you're doing really spectacularly terrible things, of course. If you get the warning as soon as you enter your prompt, change the most controversial aspects of your prompt immediately, as repeats of this will get you suspended for increasingly long times. It is possible to make alt accounts with throwaway emails though. It's unconfirmed but it appears that US residents get priority access during US times, and UK residents can only reliably make things from 7am to 1pm for example. Weekend access is a crapshoot. I don't personally pay for ChatGPT so I can't say anything about the alleged priority access you get there, but even that can be slow and restricted during the worst times (I assume this will the their priority to fix though). There are many conflicting reports about whether it's more censored or not. Reports is a very fancy way of saying reddit comments.

Everything I superstitiously guess about prompts:

you can be very descriptive and write in natural english, or you can be very brief. both methods work, I suspect both versions do different things. repetition and restating the same thing in other ways also seems to emphasise (possibly.) Prompts can be quite chaotic and contradictory - you can describe a lot of things happening and it may surprise you, so have fun with weirdness! some words are "heavy" against the automated filters, and can be safe in one prompt and unsafe in another. think of it like buckaroo, the AI is trying to find meaning in your prompt and it will sometimes combine things and get mad about it. be aware of politics and words that may be used in erotic senses, and switch those up.

this is the format I use the most because i am super lazy and unimaginative. items in [ ] are optional and can be anything, and I don't know how the word order matters - in old Midjourney it mattered quite a bit according to guides, but now they're all pushing to parse natural english I'm not so sure:

[number of] [body type] [age] [nationality] [male noun or job] wearing [clothes], with a [size, shape] belly, [hair description], [pose], [location, time of day, weather, lighting, era], [facial expression or attitude], [actions]

The number of guys can be vague like "several." Also placing a number here will generally result in all men being fat. To add a second, very different person (even women! imagine the power), simply describe that in plain english later in the prompt. Try adding "with friends" or something and seeing what happens.

Mentioning body type is separate from mentioning that he has a large stomach because "fat man" alone doesn't make him very fat. also, the body type prompt will dictate his physical build underneath the belly - this allows you to make mpreg very easily, for example. Mentioning his belly separately also seems to be a key part in making clothes not cover it up. However, DallE has clearly gotten much better at this for some clothes, but not all of them. Formalwear is improving, though tactical vests no longer do the cute thing they used to do, and football shirts still ride up reliably. Nationality can be weird, and you can use it to exploit stereotypes, or it can be an eye-opening view of stereotypes from countries you barely know about - want to know what differentiates an Angolan man from a Kenyan man? Probably don't trust AI results! I suspect some countries are controversial due to current politics, and I suspect some are controversial due to fetishy stereotyping. However, if for example "English man" got censored, consider going for capital cities or famous regions, eg "London man." Maybe look up sports teams from that country. I'm a big fan of the "Italian-American" prompt but lately it's gotten quite a few results blocked, so I'd switch to "New Jersey," maybe even "New Jersey Italian."

"Handsome" may slim your results down, or even break the prompt entirely. Consider making your men footballers or rugby players, mention trendy haircuts, or using out of date synonyms to get round it. AI isn't all that likely to give you especially ugly results anyway, particularly if you specify ages under 40. It doesn't get the hair precisely right, but even a generic prompt like "short thick hair" can help. Giving your character a job may dictate what he'll wear, but you might want to specify what clothes you want anyway. Don't mention either if you hope he'll turn out naked. Certain jobs are tricky to use, as AI strains to be as unpolitical as possible - it doesn't want you doing politicians and it sometimes seems to refuse anything that might make the police or military look bad. However, it will accept "wearing a [colour] uniform/pilot shirt" very happily, because it's duuuuumb.

Mention trousers, footwear or even just feet if your results keep zooming in too much. (It'll also zoom in if you mention too much about his face, I think.) Side view appears to make certain prompts fatter, but will often mean he's looking away - you can add "Looking at camera" if you want that. Metallic and plastic clothes can have very fun and weird results, especially if you change the location to a night setting in the rain. Gladiator costumes will reduce his clothes to a few leather straps.

"Flex pose" and "strong pose" will get butch bodybuilder poses (it will also buff up the muscle mass) and "battling strong winds" gets very superhero poses. At least when I was trying these out, I found I couldn't actually get proper bodybuilder poses or mention of superheroes past the censor, but it's been a few weeks so who knows what it's up to now. Give them all a go!

Casual poses and actions can liven things up a little if you just want portraits but don't want it to repeatedly be the same thing facing you directly. Getting out of a car, climbing stairs, leaning against things, adjusting his clothes or putting on a coat, all these kinds of things work. Smoking or drinking does quite a lot. "Tired" or "Exhausted" changes his attitude a lot too, your leans get leaned into more.

Contact words can be a little difficult, so consider ways to exploit using soft contact, or be very wordy and detailed about it so it's not misinterpreting you. "Patting him on the back" is a fairly safe phrase, but DallE isn't intelligent, so it will allow the contact but it will struggle to be precise, especially when the bodies are fat or not positioned in a way they can reach the back - the result of this is that there will be a lot of belly pats. Prodding in the stomach, pointing at the stomach, these both work, but I think DallE is vague about stomach=torso and you may want "pointing at his belt" to give a lower focus. Admiring can direct attention and vibes, whispering will draw their heads closer and make them interact somewhat. Embracing and hugging work but is very heavy for the censor, "hugging on his shoulder/belly" seems safer for some reason. Shaking, grabbing, "examining/concerned about his belly" can work. Bizarrely, squeezing past another man in a narrow corridor/doorway/cupboard works if you want a LOT of contact. And if you want unpredictable contact, fighting can work.

For more dynamic safe contact, try sporting actions. Baseball slides, football tackles, that kind of thing. It's hard to get them to lie flat and the AI seems to resist allowing heads to touch the ground, but "lying in a hammock" works pretty well, and sometimes specifying what the head is touching works. pretty much every minor prompt variation and scenario I've ever used:

"falling onto a broken chair/breaking an object with his weight" "washing windows" "with waiters helping him up" "with friends bringing him food" "falling over another man" "outside of a skyscraper washing windows, harness for safety, hoisted" "hyper-obese man wearing denim dungarees with an enormous inflated belly, drinking from a hose" ("blowing into a hose" gets better expressions for that IMO) "stuck in a broken narrow red british phonebooth with another man, bursting out with his enormous belly, black trousers" "bent over eating at a pie eating contest wearing a dirty white tank top with an enormous round belly and his face hidden buried in messy pie" "sitting on a throne next to a very fat 35 year old spanish monarch" "lying on his back the floor, enjoying a banquet, side view, tired expression" "very fat 35 year old handsome british man wearing tracksuit and gold chain with a hugely distended beerbelly, man with a massive round stomach, washing his car in a carpark at night side view" "at water park, stuck in a water slide" "before and after weightloss picture, in the left he is X and in the right he is Y" "with a large round belly spilled over eating at a banquet with an enormous round belly, bronzed, with waiters helping him up/being prodded with a fork" "washing dishes and leaning over his belly on a freestanding enamel pedestal basin" "climbing and leaning against a stepladder to change a lightbulb on the ceiling [with friend holding the stepladder steady]" "side view, photo of two 40 year old beefy handsome fat italian-american rugby player with a hugely distended round belly, resting hand on his chest, wearing a tracksuit with a gigantic round sagging stomach, gold chain, raining, whispering in a car park at night, leaning/hugging on shoulder, tired, stern expression looking at camera, smoking a cigarette" "side view photo of two strong 40 year old handsome samoan rugby player with a hugely distended round beerbelly, chest hair, wearing a white formal shirt and black suit, hugging on his belly, proud expectant father, boyfriends outside a busy pub at night, stern, looking at camera, raining" "two fat los angeles rams handsome footballers wearing white pilot shirt and plain tie and black trousers pushing through a narrow saloon door with their enormously distended beerbellies, stern" "photo of very fat 30 year old hunk rugby player with enormously distended belly, carrying his belly in a wheelbarrow" "very fat 35 year old man wearing white pilot shirt with an enormous round belly, tough man with a very large beerbelly, too fat for small broken airplane seat sitting on another man, fat belly spilling over armrest and pressing against over man, black trousers, slightly concerned, suave" "being carried on the back of a flatbed truck" can turn them into horrific lardvalanches but you don't get much control over it

original characters do not steal prompts: "30 year old man who looks like he's the main character from the game Uncharted with an enormous distended round beerbelly, with one hand on a bar in a pub, nathan" This is sometimes surprisingly effective, but most often it'll simply draw vibes from the IP mentioned, so you can use it to get specific settings at least

Try spelling the names wrong or reversing the name order - sometimes it'll even accept names sprinkled throughout the prompt. Repeating the name may increase its effect (it might also not!) Also it's speculated that placing the celebrity fraud in a place or situation they would normally be found in helps. That said, I could only get a Robert Downey Jr if I made him dress as a gladiator. So maybe weirdness and ingenuity are your strengths. see also https://www.tumblr.com/baron-bear/731903035856584704/what-do-you-use-for-your-ai-stuff

[disasterarea-podcast]

So given the writer’s strike, some people are concerned about their shows and movies being postponed or canceled, and aside from the fact networks have already BEEN canceling shows for no reason for years (I still maintain a healthy anger about what Netflix did to Sense8), I thought I would suggest some books on disasters you might want to read if you’re into that sort of history. Which you are if you’re here, I imagine.

Note: I’m suggesting these books because most books on disasters don’t get a huge audience, and so I recommend them because this sort of writing can be hard on the writer and requires a bunch of research. We throw so much money at true crime, we can spare a few bucks for the stories of people who died in disasters.

Also, please check with these with your local small bookstore or library. Amazon can be great, but let’s lend a hand to those who need us more.

Recommended books:

“The Circus Fire,” by Stewart O’Nan - This is one my favorite books on a disaster, because the whole thing creates a very vivid image of the circus prior to the fire in Hartford in July of 1944. There’s one specific line in the book which always makes me pause because it’s so affecting, about how everyone who escaped being able to hear the sounds of the animals screaming as they died - except all of the animals were out of the tent by then.

“The Only Plane in the Sky,” by Garrett Graff - This, I highly recommend you get on audiobook. It’s an oral history of the events of 9/11 with a full cast, and it’s incredibly affecting to listen to.

“Ada Blackjack: A True Story of Survival in the Arctic,” by Jennifer Niven - Ada Blackjack was a badass: flawed and weak at times, but hardy and steady when necessary. Half of her story is how she survived, but half is how she was exploited following her rescue. Both stories need to be known.

“Alive,” by Piers Paul Read - If you’re watching “Yellowjackets,” this should be required reading. If you’ve seen the movie adaptation from the 90s, there is WAY more you don’t know. The story of Uruguayan Air Force Flight 571 is a tough read, but a worthy one.

“A Night to Remember,” by Walter Lord - This is to disaster nonfiction what “In Cold Blood” is to true crime. It’s not a long read, but it’s a great one. Lord had the advantage of writing the book while many of the Titanic survivors were still alive and could give a very good description of what they went through.

“Dying to Cross,” by Jorge Ramos - I recommend this not just because it is good, but because it is timely. Nineteen people died in an un-air-conditioned truck as they were attempting to make their way into the states from over the Mexican border. It’s a horrific story, and one that humanizes an issue for whom some people need to be faced with the humans involved and what they go through.

“Bath Massacre: America’s First School Bombing,” by Arnie Bernstein - Harold Schecter also wrote a very good book on the Bath school massacre called “Maniac,” but I have a preference for this version. It’s a good reminder that schools in the U.S. didn’t just become targets in the last twenty years or so.

“Into Thin Air,” by Jon Krakauer - I feel like this is a gimme, but it’s a fantastic book from someone who was actually on Mount Everest during the 1996 disaster and knew those involved very well. I happen to like Krakauer’s work anyway - I even like “Into the Wild” despite my feelings about McCandless and his legacy - but it’s understandably my favorite.

“And the Band Played On,” by Randy Shilts - The one thing I will say is that Shilts’ treatment of Gaetan Dugas is *rough* to say the least and outright wrong on some points, God knows. But it’s still an amazing book, and if you come out of it not wanting to dig up Reagan and punch him a bunch I’m impressed at your restraint.

“Triangle: The Fire That Changed America,” by David von Drehle - The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire is one of the disasters I am most interested in, and I would argue this is the definitive book on the subject. Also, if this book introduces you to both Clara Lemlich and Frances Perkins … I mean, talk about badass women.

“The Radium Girls,” by Kate Moore - Look, I’ll say this. If you know of the Radium Girls, this is a great book on their story. If you don’t know, go in blind and prepared to be horrified.

“Red Famine: Stalin’s War on Ukraine,” by Anne Applebaum - Ukraine has always been a target. During the Holodomor, they were victims of one of the worst genocides in history.

“Midnight in Chernobyl,” by Adam Higginbotham - Like the miniseries? This is a great source for more information for what happened at Chernobyl and all of the ass-covering involved.

"Boston Strong: A City's Triumph Over Tragedy," by Casey Sherman and Dave Wedge - If you’re interested in the Boston marathon bombing, I really thought this book did a good job of connecting the stories of the victims, the authorities searching for the killers, and the killers themselves.

“Show Me the Bodies: How We Let Grenfell Tower,” by Peter Apps - As I understand it, Apps did a lot of covering the Grenfell Tower fire for the British press, and it shows. He provides a mountain of information, and you will come out of reading this book absolutely LIVID about what authorities allowed to happen in Grenfell and so many other council estates in the UK.

“Dark Tide: The Great Molasses Flood of 1919,” by Stephen Puleo - I feel as though the molasses flood gets treated like a joke a lot of the time, but y’all, twenty people died. That area of Boston was *wrecked*. The photos of the devastation are terrifying. Puleo treats all of this with the proper respect it deserves.

“In the Heart of the Sea: The Tragedy of the Whaleship Essex,” by Nathaniel Philbrick - Forget the movie. Read the book.

“The Great Influenza,” by John M. Barry - Want to read about the 1918 flu epidemic? Want to be mad that a hundred years later we didn’t learn a damn thing?

Now, that’s just a start. If anyone wants, I can always post photos of my disaster book collection on Kindle and next to my recording desk. Or if there’s a specific disaster you’re interested in, I may know of a good book about it you can read.

But just remember if SAG and the directors’ guild joins the strike too - there is so much out there to occupy your time until they come back. Entertainment work is work, and it deserves to be supported financially and fairly as such. Rock on, WGA. ✊

[childrensward]

Making Accessible Interaction Banners - a Guide by Binoo "ChildrensWard"

Interaction or "DNI" (do not interact) banners are a staple of the age regression community, but too often are they made without taking accessibility in mind, whether it's because they're unreadable, have excessive eye strain, or aren't marked with alt text.

Therefore, in the hopes that I can help people out with this, I decided to write a mini guide on how to make your banners accessible for as many people as possible!

Under the "read more" cut, this guide will cover the following:

Fonts, and how to choose the best ones

Text, and what your interaction banners should say

Colour contrast, and why it's important in making your graphics accessible

Eye strain, and why it generally should be avoided

Alt text and image descriptions, and how to write them

And an example of an interaction banner I made using the criteria I've written in this guide!

So, without further adieu, let's get into the real meat of this guide!

Fonts

Fonts are easily the most important thing about an interaction banner! It's how you're going to best convey the contents of your banner in a way that's readable to the viewer. Here's a quick and firty rundown of the different kinds of fonts, as well as which ones you should (and shouldn't!) use for your banner:

Body Copy fonts are your basic Sans and Sans Serif style fonts that you'll most often find on books and websites, because they're some of the easiest fonts to read in smaller text (10-14pt) due to their lack of details. Examples of Body Copy fonts include PT Serif, Arial, Comic Sans, Roboto, and Helvetica Now.

Display fonts are often used for headers and subheaders and include features such as being thick, having unconventional letters, and, on occasion, being in all caps. However, these fonts should not be used for body or small text, as they will be very hard to read. Examples of Display fonts include Futura PT, Elephant, Noto Serif Display, and Shoreditch.

Script and decorative fonts are subtypes of display fonts, with the former having a handwritten quality to them, while the latter are considered to be the fun display fonts. However, you should be very careful with using either of these fonts- not only can they be hard to read on their own, but neither should be used specifically for body or small text in any circumstance. For the sake of readability and accessibility, however, I'd be more inclined to avoid using these fonts.

Text

Aside from the fonts that your text will be written in, the text itself is also a mandatory aspect of your banners. After all, it's what banners are entirely based on, and it's the very thing that tells you who can and can't interact with your posts.

However, there's something important to keep in mind, and that is how much text you're trying to cram into your banner because you're trying so desperately to fit your entire DNI criteria onto it.

What I think is important when it comes to making your banners is to keep any text you have on there as short as possible. If you bombard your banner with all this specific criteria, then you're more likely to make your readers confused, whether or not they happen to be a screen reader user.

When making your banners, ask yourself the following questions when deciding on your criteria:

How likely is it for someone interacting with the age regression or similar communities to fit this criteria? Have I come across a good number of people who fit this criteria that makes it worth mentioning?

Is this criteria at all relevant to the content I'm presenting? Do I need things like inter-community discourse terms from other communities on my banner if I'm making content specifically for age regression?

Is there any "unspoken" criteria that everyone agrees upon that doesn't need to be included? These might include nazis, racists and white supremacists, homophobes and transphobes, ableists and eugenicists, misogynists, anti-choice, etc.

If your answers show that the specific criteria is not relevant, then it's best to leave it out to keep the information on your banner more clear and concise.

Colour Contrast

While colour contrast is something often talked about in web development circles, it's also an important skill to learn when making any sort of graphic design- which is what interaction banners essentially are. Without taking colour contrast into mind, you're left with a banner that may not be easy for most people to read; let alone those with low vision or blindness. We also need to think about things like people who may be using old or outdated monitors, people reading on smaller screens (like a smart phone), and bad lighting and glare. As Contrast Rebellion puts it: aesthetics are important, but aren't the ultimate goal of design.

Okay, so you've understood the reason why colour contrast is important, but how do you put it into action? How do you know your colours of choice are readable?

Well lucky for us, there's many resources out there that help us in choosing the right colours! Here are a few of my favourites:

CSUN: Color Contrast - An introduction article on colour contrast, why it's important, and some examples of good and bad colour contrast choices.

Random A11y - If you don't have any colour combinations in mind, Random A11y is here to help! With it's vast amount of randomly generated colour contrast combinations, you'll have plenty of options to work with. Don't like the combination you're given? Just click on the "new colours" tab to generate a new palette!

Colour Contrast Analyzer - This is a free program for Windows and Mac that helps you with colour checking with a variety of different features; including multiple ways to select colours (CSS color formats, RGB slider, colour picker tool), and a colour blindness simulator.

Accessible Colors - If you don't want to or can't download the program above, then this website works just as fine with checking colours, too! Just enter in the hex codes of your colours, the font size and weight, and which level of conformance you'd like your colours to pass.

Eye strain

A bit of a sore topic for some, but I feel I must put it bluntly for people to understand: making your colours easy on the eyes of the viewer should be your top priority over your aesthetic. Some people, like myself, have certain health conditions that are triggered by eye strain, and by continuing to slap extremely contrasted rainbows on your banners, you're continuing to put disabled people through worsening symptoms, all because you feel the need to retain your aesthetic.

Many of the same resources shared in the Colour Contrast section can also help you to rule out any eye-straining palettes. Also, a general rule of thumb to keep in mind is: if a colour palette is eye straining enough to cause you some mild problems, then it's enough to cause someone with a disability more severe symptoms.

Alt text and image descriptions

I think a lot of us find writing alt text to be daunting- I know I did for a long while, which is why I never wrote any for my posts until recently. But really, once you get the hang of it, it can be very simple and easy to write! Even so, people who don't know how exactly to write alt text often fumble with this- either writing too much or too little, not being clear enough, or just copying the image caption and calling it a day.

Here's some tips and tricks on writing better alt text:

Alt text generally follows the Object-action-context rule. In the words of Alex Chen at Medium: The object is the main focus. The action describes what's happening, usually what the object is doing. The context describes the surrounding environment.

Be specific and concise, and even consider the content of the post or webpage it's on as well. You'll also want to consider the function or purpose of the image, and what you want your viewers to gain from it.

Keep your alt text short, as long descriptions with too much flowery language and filler words can be distracting when using a screen-reader. Generally, most screen-readers will cut off alt text at around 125 characters.

Avoid using "image of..." or "picture of...," as HTML codes will already identify your images as such. However, in this case, mentioning what type of image it is can add context.

Always check for spelling mistakes, as this can affect the user experience, causing interruptions and confusion.

Not related to interaction banners specifically, but avoid including alt text for decorative images that are used to make your post prettier. In this case, insert the word "null" in your alt text fields.

Image descriptions are a little different in the fact that they're allowed to be more descriptive than alt text, considering screen readers won't be able to cut off any alt text at 125 characters. Even so, it's still best to keep your image descriptions as short as possible to save from redundancy and confusion.

Please remember that writing alt text and image descriptions can take a lot of practice and trial-and-error, so don't give up if you can't get it right the first time! Write and rewrite it as much as you need to, or even consider changing your interaction banner altogether if you think it can't be described in words concisely.

An example

Taking what we've learned above, let's take this banner I made just for this post as an example of these characteristics put into action.

In this example, I have chosen the hex colour #4D0000 for my text colour, and the colours #B5F3DC and #E3B158 for my background. According to CCA, the contrast ratios for my colours of choice are 12.8:1 and 7.9:1 respectfully, which both meet the minimum contrasts of 1.4.3 for AA and 1.4.6 for AAA.

I have chosen the font FS Lola Bold, which is a type of display font that's best for headers and subheaders, but not so much any body or small text. I don't have to worry about this though, because I don't have any small text in my banner.

I've also kept my criteria to a simple "No DDLG/CGL interaction," because I feel that this is the most relevant information regarding the content of my blog and the posts I make. Short and simple, yet specific to who I don't want interacting with me. I also like the idea of my favourite fictional characters protecting my blog, which is why I've included another short sentence for it!

Here's an example of what the image description or alt text for this banner could look like:

[Image description: Banner that reads "Toopy and Binoo protect this blog, no DDLG/CGL interaction!" On it are the titular characters from the show. /End ID]

And if I were to have both alt text alongside an image description, then the alt text could be as simple as what the banner reads, which would be:

"Toopy and Binoo protect this blog, no DDLG/CGL interaction!"

Remember, you don't have to go into every little detail with your image descriptions or alt text, because then it can become very confusing for certain people to decipher! Keep it simple and state the minimum.

Closing words

I think that's everything that I wanted to cover in this post. Of course, there's more to accessible design than just text and fonts alone, but when it comes to interaction banners, it's usually the focal point of the images, which is why it's so vital that people with disabilities can also read your banner- especially when they contain important information about your personal boundaries.

Age regressors often pride themselves for the image we've set up for our community, that it's safe for everyone to join and no one will be judged or excluded for who their are. But the reality is, we still have lots of work to do before we're ever at that place, and making our community more accessible is just one of these steps that we should all be encouraged to take. Besides, what kind of message are we sending if we don't take the steps to make our space as accessible as possible? How do you think it'd feel to realize that a community you wanted to join is actively hostile towards you because of the refusal to learn how to accommodate for them? Especially when we have such a huge demographic of disabled people in the community, we can and should be doing better to accommodate for everyone as much as we possibly can.

Learning accessibility is a skill that requires time and practice, and I don't expect anyone to be perfect at it the first time around. The aim of doing these things isn't to make sure that every single thing is 100% accessible in every single way imaginable and with no mistakes whatsoever; but to instead encourage, develop, and incorporate good accessibility practices into our every day lives.

Thank you for reading,

- Binoo

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

What do you think about Sabrina? Are you like her, dislike her or neutral?

I don't have strong feelings about Sabrina beyond a general distaste for her "redemption." Sabrina was played as way too much of a willing bully for me to absolve her of her past actions without some serious apologizing on her part. Just look at these matching smirks from the Derision flashback!

[Image Description: Chloe and Sabrina smirking evilly while plotting to hurt Marinette]

That was the episode that blamed Chloe for all of Marinette's problems while showing Sabrina doing all the actual dirty work, which is very much a running theme in this show. Most of the things that Chloe gets blamed for should see at least part of the blame going to Sabrina, too, but that's not what we get in canon. Sabrina spends multiple seasons helping Chloe torment people only to be welcomed on to team Miraculous before she even reaches her "redemption" moment (see: Penalteam). Now that Sabrina has done her one good dead, she's redeemed and is a permanent holder as a reward for that single good act, I guess?

The whole thing makes me deeply uncomfortable when I compare it to the way that the show handled Chloe. I only bring that up because, when it comes to Sabrina, I can't avoid thinking or talking about the Chloe thing because you never see Sabrina without Chloe! They're a matching set! They even have similar base stories with Chloe's parents influencing her behavior via their abuse and encouragement just like Chloe influenced Sabrina (which could have been a great discussion about abuse leading to abuse if this element of their writing had been even remotely intentional). Redeeming one and not the other invites you to make the comparison and it's unfortunately a comparison that's deeply lacking on multiple fronts.

If Chloè didn't earn a redemption - and I really don't think that she did, her redemption never truly stated - then neither did Sabrina. A sob story doesn't undo the harm that you've caused. A redemption doesn't even undo the harm! You can fully "redeem" yourself and still be rejected by those you hurt because your victims don't owe you a relationship. (Side note, this is where Chloe and Sabrina fall for me. In the early seasons, you could redeem them onto the team. Now? The writers took these two way too far to the point where they feel like totally different characters and even break early canon episodes because Marinette's treatment of them doesn't match who they supposedly always were.)

If they really wanted to redeem Sabrina, then they needed to highlight what makes her story different from Chloe's. As is, it feels massively hypocritical to welcome Sabrina onto the team after all that she's done to cause harm and after how little she's done to right that harm. At best, canon Sabrina should have just gone off to a new school to get a fresh start without Chloe. At worst, she should have become someone else's minion. Either way, she should not be treated as one of the "good guys."

Outside of that mess, Sabrina is just your standard minion character who gets minimal development, so it's hard for me to have a strong opinion on her. I think she's used well in the first few seasons, but she's still one of the characters that I'd cut or at least cut back on if I had my way with canon simply because she's not really necessary for the show to work and the cast needs to be cut down significantly. It's not that I hate her or anything like that. I just don't see why Chloe needed a minion or what Sabrina adds that another character can't.

For example, you could give Sabrina a solid character arc around developing healthy friendships and letting go of Chloe's influence, but why give that to her when you could give it to Mr. I've-never-really-had-friends-before-and-I-really-should-have-a-character-arc-around-that who also happens to have grown up with Chloe as his only friend? (That's Adrien by the way. Why go with Sabrina when you've got him unless you're using Sabrina to contrast Adrien in some way?)