#wordy writes

[wordycheeseblob]

Mattias Osbrink x Reader (Ikemen Prince)

Snow Sand Sakura event hosted by the most wonderful @violettduchess and @dear-mrs-otome

Word Count: 1.8k

Angst

Premise: It was not meant to be, thus fate had torn your paths asunder.

Dark was the night. The stars refused to show their face, shying away from the radiant glow of the palace; their envoys descending to the earth in the form of freshly fallen snow that glistered as it passed the windows adorned in flowers of frost, saluting the guests inside yet keeping a respectful distance and then, becoming invisible in the darkness.

It's not the incandescent parade of snowflakes that caught your eye, but what lay past it. A whimsical singularity of the ballroom's windows was its height; no ordinary house would stand to risk letting the cold in, bringing an austere look to almost all of Achroite's buildings.

But this place was for show, not living.

Even for their size, you're far below to get a glimpse of what was going on inside.

You observe their dancing forms... or rather the specter of their movement hinted by the subtle shifting light and how, at times, it tangled in the birches branches, shimmering through the crystal rime. You see it vividly as if you were present, the spins of fitted puffy skirts and whispers of delight. But you don't yearn to be there anymore; despite its brightness, there's nothing more than shallowness inside.

You were becoming quite blasé about the spectacle. It could not compare to the first ball you attended when you arrived at Achroite, alighting from the carriage, one of many, and then inside, absolutely dazzled. The lively chatting of the foreign guests animated the atmosphere throughout the halls.

The banquet table was cluttered with all sorts of food; caviar, wine, fruit juice, fried partridges in sauce, food heavier than refined which came with living in the north, different types of bread, pastries, and confectioneries. So, so many of them. Some nobles sauntered more powdered than a beignet; even so, most people there were educated and polite but made friends mostly from ennui.

No, it was all the same. It's just that now you see it with completely different eyes. When it comes to nobles, the bunch were nothing but performers, and when you saw the frivolity for what it was, the spell that held you had immediately broken.

Keeping up appearances was more draining than you thought so you left for a walk in the gardens that were covered in a blanket of white.

The ghost of your memories descends the stairways, sliding their hand over the balustrade and perambulating through the silvery landscape in places you didn't care to notice at the time.

That was when you first met. Someone called out to you pointing out that you were stepping on the castle lawn, the nonexistent lawn buried underneath heaps of snow. It was somewhat awkward and you sincerely hoped you'd never meet again. Back then you didn't know that man was Mattias Osbrink, Achroite's ex-military prince.

Alas, from that day onwards, you kept running into each other almost routinely because wherever you went, much to your dismay, trouble followed suit, and Mattias followed trouble.

Throughout your first days of stay, you had gotten mixed up in an assortment of melodrama which put you in the spotlight more often than you would have liked. As if someone was actively trying to pin the blame on you and sabotage your mission. Your head hurt from thinking how you even got out of it. You think you must have been a troublemaker in his eyes as it became a game of cat-and-mouse because whenever you wanted to escape, slip somewhere else to take a breather, he was there blocking your way, tall with a strong build, and a raised eyebrow. It annoyed you to no end. You were sure it was the same for him, although he never outright showed it. When it came to maintaining order, he was pedant, relentless, and very diligent in everything he did. That in itself was a strength and a weakness.

You really came to know each other. More than that of an acquaintance, it might have been an understanding like that of an officer and outlaw that have known each other's antics for some time. Turned out Matthias didn't really think you were behind it and tried to get the ones pulling on the strings through you. And maybe to anyone else, it might have looked like he was using you but that was not what you believed. You chose to help him, something of an alliance of ragtag detectives.

And to your surprise, the culprit really ended up being caught.

And somewhere along the way, it may just have become an unusual friendship. Despite his fastidious ways, that just might have been his way of showing kindness. Perhaps there was something else, deeply rooted in his adamant fight against injustice. The maelstrom of drama and intractability had passed in the blink of an eye, you really weren't interested in remembering the details. The time for your departure was slowly but for sure approaching.

But strangely, you didn't really want to go home anymore.

Matthias spent almost all his time drowning in legislation and paperwork, but in those last peaceful days, after the trouble was resolved and your assistance no longer needed, he somehow had time to magically run into you as he did before. Maybe more often even.

He happened to cross paths with you, and you happened to need his help with translation to which he would merely nod, adjust his glasses and skim through pages also pointing out any inconsistencies. And you just happened to sometimes find him in the gardens, walking in the same direction.

He didn't talk much. Mattias was curt and always to the point, and you didn't mind that. You preferred it to the flattery and overly adorned flowery language of the court.

¨You seem in a world of your own¨ He said scraping the snow off his gloves

¨Pardon?¨

¨The books. You're always reading in your free time¨

¨Do you think it's a pointless thing to do?¨ You lowered your book, not sure how to respond.

"Not at all. In fact, I've read quite a few books myself. Perhaps I could suggest a good read for you?" he offered.

It was to further your understanding of their native language and culture to improve the diplomatic relationship as he put it. Seemed somewhat pointless since it was almost time to leave, but you appreciated his effort to connect with you. And despite his reasons you were honestly surprised by his interest in your readings and eagerly shared your favorite authors.

You remember apologizing for getting so engrossed to the point where by the end of your enthusiastic speech the sky's rim had gained a crimson tint and the air's crisp cold painted your noses pink.

But this repeated frequently; he would bring you a book and then listen to your ramblings about it.

You enjoyed talking and he enjoyed listening.

And somewhere along the way...

You loved that fool, and you were a fool for loving him.

Too engrossed in daydreams of the past, you don't acknowledge the heavy crunch of snow approaching. Its halt. The slight dip of the wooden bench beside you. Your eyes don't stir from their designated place.

¨ Please, look at me.¨ A cult, rich baritone mixes with the muted waltz unobtrusively.

You turn. It's him, but you already knew that. That thick, navy blue sheepskin coat fastened hastily gave him an unkempt appearance. He must have left in a hurry. His soaked boots only added to the look. Matthias wore his reading glasses, the ones he used to pore over countless documents before, now foggy and hopelessly opaque as he stared at you with a serious expression. Despite yourself, this makes you chuckle and his eyes crinkle slightly as he smiles in return.

You steal his glasses to clean them with your linen handkerchief. Matthias doesn't stop you. His gaze is downcast, white lashes littered with flakes. You reach for him, setting the now pristine pair of lenses on his ears, but as you want to move away, he holds your hand in place, resting on his face. Your eyes finally meet, and it's more painful than you hoped.

" Stay " he asks you quietly but resolutely.

You study his expression, concealing from your eyes a dread that whispered that if you ever were to part, there would no longer exist hope of reuniting. You fear the same because deep down you know it might be true. To get to Achroite you had traversed Obsidian, a harsh and hostile land, and the truce that allowed for your secure passage was as fleeting as your stay.

This diplomatic mission was the only ticket.

You know you have to go: as Belle will always have a duty to her homeland, though it no longer felt like home. It was your duty, your secret burden, and you, its devoted martyr. It was unbearably painful having to love silently, withholding the truth that yearned so badly to be told. But even knowing that you wish you could be selfish just this once and linger.

Instead, you choose to put out the searing feeling using reason.

The words burn on your tongue, but you are mute. Lips sealed, your form encased in an icy cast. His eyes soften. Hushed and, which you may have imagined, almost woeful, he speaks the words you could not bring yourself to say aloud.

"Know... that I loved you."

"I wish..." Your lament is choked and raspy, "I wish... I never..." tears well on the corners of your eyes, and he gently brushes them away. It hurt the way he looked with tacit understanding. "May...be then it... wouldn't hurt so... much" Your words were trembling, you've never seen him look so earnestly at you.

Your breath hitches, and he pulls you close. It feels like an eternity but also like a memory already.

He is the first to pull away, carefully holding your shoulders. Your fur coat no longer remedies the cold.

He pats his coat and retrieves something from a pocket.

"If it's inevitable, I want you to have this"

He hands you the small object, a handcrafted ornamental music box. Holding it gingerly, you wonder if he was the one to piece it. Your fingertips hover over the gilded letters embossed on the margin as you read them. Those were two digits significant to the number of the musical composition. The title left unmentioned.

You try to hand it back, but he presses his rough hands over yours, trapping the dainty object in your hold along some of his warmth.

"I'm sorry I can say nothing more consoling to you, for love in action is a harsh and dreadful thing compared with love in dreams" The phrase is beautifully spun, but it did not belong to him. A passage from the book he gave you. He said it just to give his feelings form. Perhaps he too, was at a loss for words. But even so, he slowly let you go.

You falter when It opens with a tink. Already Wound, it plays a foreign waltz. There is a cold, mysterious, haunting beauty to it. It is not downbeat; nevertheless, it evokes emotions that you know too well. Yearning, nostalgia, and... heartache. It was like looking through a lens into another epoch, long-lost in time. He gives you a rare smile.

You couldn't tell him, but he understood and accepted it in silence and tranquility.

Snowflakes fall around you, waltzing rhythmically, lackluster, slowly burying the footsteps long after he's gone. You didn't stop him. Not only that, you saw him off while the tune lulled you in the stillness of the night. Caressing your treasure, only then, do you notice the inscription inside its golden dome. A poem. He shared your interest in books, shared stories, and loved to reference his favorite achroitian and foreign authors, be it a quote, or a quip.

But there was no witty remark this time, merely a Farewell.

𝑰 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖;

𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝑰 𝒎𝒂𝒚 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒇𝒆𝒔𝒔, 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏;

𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒅𝒐 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝒊𝒕 𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔, 𝑰 𝒅𝒐 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒂𝒅𝒅𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏.

𝑯𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒆-𝒕𝒊𝒆𝒅, 𝒚𝒆𝒕 𝑰 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒚 𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒑𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒋𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒊𝒅 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘;

𝒔𝒐 𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒚 𝑰 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒅, 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒔𝒐 𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒚,

𝑰 𝒑𝒓𝒂𝒚 𝑮𝒐𝒅 𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒐.

Poem by Alexander Pushkin

You can find the waltz Farewell here, on YT

Well, I'm not really a writer usually and I don't know much about editing a story. So when my head hurt about it I thought: hey, at least it's out there.

A/N: I honestly don't know. I wanted to trim this leaving the first cut and last, cutting everything in the middle. Sometimes context isn't needed and each can work as a standalone fragment, but though they're less fleshed out than I would have liked, I really enjoyed some things in them and couldn't bring myself to do it.

[stupidlyverbose]

Leo knows that he's overprotective. It's a trait of his that his brothers have complained about over and over again, but he can't help it. They're his brothers, his family, his everything; it is his job--no, his duty--to keep them safe. So he is overprotective. He asks for check ins, he keeps an eye on them topside, and he's always watching for injuries. Leo's overprotective and he knows it.

Sometimes that manifests in him walking around the lair as everyone sleeps, making sure they're in bed and sleeping and breathing. The part of him that makes his heart race, the part that makes him pace for hours on end, the part that Donnie calls PTSD-induced anxiety, is only satisfied after he knows that his family is safe.

It's on one of those nights, when it's like his very mind is itching and his lungs don't want to work until he's sure, that he finds Mikey. He's just checked on Donnie--for once, his genius brother is in bed instead of asleep on his desk--and Mikey is the last one before Leo goes to bed.

He silently makes his way to his brother's room, stops by the door, and goes to open it, confident that Mikey is asleep since he always is at this time--when he hears a low moan. Leo freezes, blood rushing to his face. Oh.

He... Should have expected this at some point. He's walked in on Raph and Donnie but never Mikey, so he really should have expected this but--

He didn't. Now he's frozen in place, mouth dry as he listens to his baby brother touch himself.

Normally he's able to shake himself loose from the mortification and flee. Normally he's able to leave and go to his room and pretend that it never happened. But right now he can't. In fact, he's leaning closer, straining to catch more of the noises Mikey will make.

The sound of moving sheets and the quiet squeaks of the old mattress. A sigh and the soft squelch of something thrusting in and out of--of--

"Leo," Mikey groans. Leo almost chokes and can't stop himself from peeking into his brother's room. Mikey's on his bed, back arched the best it can be with his shell, two fingers buried in his cloaca. His eyes are half lidded and trained on the ceiling and his fingers are glistening--

Arousal begins to bubble in Leo's gut and he can't seem to look away as Mikey's cock drops and his baby brother wraps his free hand around it. Leo watches, mouth open, feeling himself start to grow wet, as Mikey desperately jerks himself off, calling Leo's name the entire time.

When Mikey's head turns to look at the door, Leo bolts, heartbeat thundering in his ears. He slams his door shut behind him, slumping against it and staring down at where his own cock stands tall. He groans and sinks to the ground, covering his face in shame.

"What is wrong with me?" he mutters in despair, and resolutely does not touch himself. Nope. He's fallen this far. He isn't going to fall farther. Instead, he drags himself to bed and desperately tries to empty his mind.

Tomorrow is going to be so awkward. He's just lucky Mikey didn't know he was there.

(Across the lair, Mikey grins to himself. Ha! He knew Leo would be into it. Now he just has to get his brother to come into the room instead of just watching.

Another day, maybe.)

[juniorectobiologist]

ouppies PART TWO

PART ONE <-here

[lucabyte]

A belief in Nominative Determinsim

[literaryvein-reblogs]

4 Strategies to Avoid Wordiness

Wordiness is when a sentence contains words that, if removed (or replaced with a shorter alternative), convey the same message and remain grammatically correct. It may happen when you use more words than necessary within a sentence, especially short, vague words that do not add much meaning.

Omit unnecessary words by using a "who does what" construction (Take out: it is, there is, there are, which, that, this, and self-references such as in my opinion, I think, it seems to me.)

Wordy: It was a night that was dark and freezing when the ship Titanic was struck by an iceberg.

Better: An iceberg struck the Titanic on a dark and freezing night.

Avoid too many abstract and difficult words

Wordy: “Conservatism is the paradigm of essences toward which the phenomenology of the world is in continuing approximation” (William Buckley, Jr.).

Better: Conservativism is the belief in absolute values whose expression change with the times.

Shorten sentences by rearranging ideas

Wordy: The president of the school board that presides over Dade County schools is accepting of the participation of students in alternative classes of their choice.

Better: The Dade County School Board president allows student to choose electives.

Omit repetitious words and ideas

Wordy: The cookies are baking in the oven. The cookies are chocolate chip.

Concise: The chocolate chip cookies are baking in the oven.

Notice how the wordy phrases below can be reduced to one or two words:

along the lines of = like

as a matter of fact = in fact

at all times = always

at the present time = now, currently

at this point in time = now, currently

because of the fact that = because

by means of = by

due to the fact that = because

for the purpose of = for

for the reason that = because

have the ability to = be able to

in the nature of = like

in order to = to

in spite of the fact that = although, though

in the event that = if

in the final analysis = finally

in the neighborhood of = about

until such time as = until

[irisbaggins]

In rewatching the season, I'm noticing how clever Aabria and Brennan were in crafting Tula's story. How well thought out everything was.

Specifically, the bear. It's been mentioned so many times before, but with the context of the completed season, I cannot help but be in awe at the skilful storytelling at display here. The way in which the Blue is described to appear wrong only in reference to Tula and her heart, the way in which Tula talks about curiosity and and having experienced knowing someone who died because of it. Of how Aabria describes to Izzy how Tula looks when she heals the bear, of how Aabria specifically points out that Tula recognises the commonalities between herself and the bear. These breadcrumbs that mean little in the beginning, that tell everything at the end. It's amazing, stunning, masterful storytelling. I am in awe.

[trans-androgyne]

“If you believe in sexism against men, you must believe in racism against white people!”

No??? Begging people to stop cobbling together their feminism by copy + pasting racial dynamics onto sex and gender dynamics. You can’t just say “oh, I get it, men are the white people of gender!” and call it a day.

If white people were to be prescribed rigid roles under racism to the point where any minor deviation is severely punished often with violence, then yes, I would say the structure of racism is negatively impacting non-conforming white people.

As a transmasc, though, I am very aware that manhood and masculinity are extremely heavily policed under patriarchy. Those men who conform are on top and get plenty of benefits from the system. But anyone under patriarchy who does not conform to the prescribed roles of “amab = masculine man” and “afab = feminine woman” (sexism!) is in fact very much punished.

A man who wears a skirt or paints his nails is punished. A man who has “feminine” interests or does “women’s work” is punished. A man who shows the wrong emotions is punished. And a man who was assigned female at birth is most certainly punished (for breaking both the rules of man = amab and afab = woman). This is all sexism. Calling it that does not imply that men do not benefit from patriarchy. But it does mean you have to confront sexist ideas you may yourself hold about both women and men.

[mizushidokoro]

"Ryuurin, Hanpatsu, Tsugai no Ryuusei" -- the incantation for World Slash, and an epitaph to Gojo Satoru.

In JJK, incantations are supposed to boost power of a particular technique. When Sukuna used World Slash to kill Gojo, he imposed a binding vow that allowed him a single-use activation without the requirement of a hand sign, in exchange for using incantations and directing the attack for all subsequent uses.

In this post I'll examine the specific phrases in Sukuna's incantation and argue that each phrase of the incantation corresponds to an application of Gojo's Limitless technique. Then I'll briefly relate this to the binding vow requirements to argue that Sukuna's promise to never forget Gojo for the rest of his life is one of the conditions of that binding vow.

1. "龍鱗"

First, "ryuurin" (dragon scales) describes the basic application of Limitless, a strong defensive barrier like the scales of a dragon. This one is the most obvious, hinted at by Sukuna's words at the beginning of the fight, telling Gojo he plans to "strip away his scales." More will be said about the dragon references, in the discussion of the third phrase.

Less relevant but still interesting - there’s also a Buddhist reference here, according to this forum post:

At surface, straight value, it is just the literal scales of a dragon. The word can also be used to mean "a large quantity of things". Ryurin is also a metaphor for the power/authority/influence of heroes and of the Heavenly People (the residents of the Japanese version of the Devaloka, where devas and gods reside. Just a heavenly realm, basically.) Lastly, Ryurin means a dangerous condition/situation or a dangerous thing. So. For Sukuna, its basically 'dangerous divine power/authority'.

2. "反発"

Next, "hanpatsu." Hanpatsu means recoil, which is the equal and opposing force of an action. This describes Purple, which is the rebounding damage created by the collision of Red and Blue. At first I thought hanpatsu described Red, because Red is a “repulsing” force. Except “recoil” is not the same thing as repulsion. Another possibility was that hanpatsu described the relationship between Red and Blue — Red as the “equal and opposite” of blue, and vice versa. But we know the two aren’t equal in power, and neither technique is accurately described as the “recoil” or rebounding force produced by the other.

3. "番いの流星"

Finally, "tsugai no ryuusei." A few things here. First, the wordplay and translation. Like ”Ryuurin”, this term references dragons. Here Ryuusei, meaning meteor or comet, is also pun on the word dragon, ryuu (which isn’t novel, see the Japanese word for Pokémon move Draco Meteor, et al.). So a plausible English translation could also be “Twin Dragon Meteors.” Second, how dragons are relevant to Sukuna’s mythology. In Hida, there is a temple Senkoji said to be founded by “Ryomen Sukuna … approximately 1,600 years ago. A central architectural feature of the temple it Dragon Ceiling, a portrait of two dragons painted by Kano Tansetsu on the ceiling of the main buliding. From the website,

According to temple legend, a general of the Sengoku period committed suicide there by seppuku, staining the floor with blood. For the repose of general’s soul, the floorboards were incorporated into the ceiling of the main temple. Some time later, Kano Tansetsu visited Senkoji and painted the dragons on the ceiling. At Senkoji, the objects of worship include not only the main temple and the priest’s quarters, but also the entire temple complex.

According to this Reddit post, the temple’s founding tale describes how Sukuna fought off a dragon god living in the mountain and built a shrine in its place. So — from the fact that dragons are the mythological enemy of the figure Ryomen Sukuna, we may infer that the words of the incantation refer to an enemy or target of the World Slash technique.

What could "twin meteors" refer to other than the related techniques of Limitless, the twin floating spheres Red and Blue?

Another potential connection to Red/Blue rooted in dragon mythology is the tide jewels — the tide-ebbing (a repelling force, like Red) kanju and tide-flowing (an attracting force, like Blue) manju, possessed by Ryuujin, the Sea King.

The final reason I think the incantation refers to Gojo’s technique is because of Sukuna’s explanation in 236 for World Slash — he describes the process of developing the technique as figuring out how to target Limitless with Dismantle. So it makes sense that the incantation to power World Slash operates by describing its target, not World Slash itself.

It also lends significance to the order of the incantation — first visualizing the most generalized application of Limitless (ryuurin), then passing through Purple (hanpatsu) to finally arrive at two separate applications, Red and Blue (tsugai no ryuusei) — a conceptual "bisection" of Limitless into two discrete components.

4. Binding Vows

Isn't this pretty romantic? But wait there's more. We know now after Chapter 255 that in exchange for unleashing the World Slash that killed Gojo without using the hand sign, Sukuna now has to recite the incantation every time (+using the hand signs and directing the attack with his palm) he uses World Slash.

Assuming what I've previously argued is true (the incantation describes Gojo's Limitless), this gives Sukuna's last words to Gojo another layer of significance. When Sukuna tells Gojo he will never forget him, it's not just an expression or a promise, but a statement of the binding vow Sukuna has to make in order to land the killing blow. In other words, the cost of killing Gojo is having to remember him forever, to integrate him into Sukuna's own technique through a verbal invocation that must be made every single time Sukuna uses the world bisecting slash. Yeah, that's pretty romantic.

[kkvqwrites]

You Flinched | 141 Headcannons

Don't mind me, just some 141 boys reacting to finding out reader has a history of abuse or DV. We all know that our boys would never harm a loved one, but I began thinking about them responding to their loved one being triggered. Because trauma isn't rational.

CW: DV mentioned/alluded to (not on-screen), trauma

Characters: Simon "Ghost" Riley, Johnny "Soap" MacTavish, Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, John Price, gn!reader

Word Count: 2,833

A/N: Yes this is self-indulgent because I have my own history and use my comfort characters to help. So I hope it can help someone else in the same way it helps me. Also forgive me, I threw it together on a whim and didn't really edit it.

Simon "GHOST" Riley

Simon is usually very careful with how he presents. He knows he's big, he knows he's intimidating, and most of all he knows what it's like to be vulnerable and scared of someone bigger than you. He knows when to use his voice/stature to his advantage (like on the battlefield) vs when to tone it down (like in private). He never wants to be scary to those he loves, ever. In fact, he wants his loved ones to have the opposite experience from what he had growing up.

That said, we all have our moments. It was, you both could admit, a silly argument over what ended up amounting to a non-issue. He was fresh back from the field and sleep-deprived and you had had a long shitty day and so a small disagreement became an argument. Somewhere in the bickering Simon decided he was over it. He stood, crumpling the paper he was holding into a fist and raising his voice, which he almost never did.

The combination of the fist and the yelling was what did it. He stood up so tall, so fast, and suddenly you were eight again, hiding in the cupboards and terrified to make a sound. Not knowing what would happen if you were found, but knowing for certain it wouldn't be good. When your parents went into their rages, there was nothing to do but hide and wait it out. As if reciting a dance you knew by heart, you shrank back, hands coming up defensively.

Simon noticed instantly, despite your best attempts to play it off. He knew all too well the look of a terrorized inner child and recognized it immediately in your pale face and shrinking posture. It broke his heart; he immediately regretted lashing out as it was, but this was even worse.

He'd step back, giving you space. He'd ask permission before approaching you and before hugging you, and once you gave it you'd be wrapped in an embrace that was both tender and hard as steel. He'd hold you for a long time, not saying anything. If you cracked and it all came spilling out, he'd listen intently. If you didn't want to talk about it, he'd respect it and not breathe a word about it until you were ready. You could feel in his heartbeat his need to make you feel safe warring with his desire to find whoever made you afraid and teach them a lesson about fear.

Simon is a man of actions, not words, and he's never been a fan of "sorry" and instead prefers follow-through. Now, though, the word poured from his lips. Wrapping your arms around him in return, you forgave him wordlessly.

The next free time you both had, he'd surprise you by taking you to a shooting range. Another weekend, he'd teach you basic knife skills and how to throw a decent punch. If questioned, he'd say it was something he'd been meaning to do for a while with a dismissive shrug. But you had a hunch, even if he couldn't or wouldn't verbalize it, that he was sharing with you the ways he'd learned to overcome feeling powerless when he was younger. By learning to defend and fight back, you could take your agency back and walk into the world unafraid. It didn't matter that he'd grind anyone who bothered you into dust, because it was about you and making you feel empowered. Simon wasn't one to give you bouquets of flowers and poems, but he could give you this. And, slowly but surely, it started to work.

John "SOAP" Mactavish

You and Johnny were out with some mutual friends at the pub one night, drinking and having fun. Your boisterous Scotsman was ever the social butterfly, and he never failed to bring the party wherever he went.

You and a friend were laughing at something on your phone, and when you handed it Johnny to show him, you froze as your eyes saw an unmistakable silhouette over his shoulder. You recovered quickly, sure that it was a mistake, but not quickly enough. Johnny's face went serious as he studied your expression, which was suddenly tense.

You'd play it off, not wanting to ruin the good vibe. You'd even double check to reassure yourself that it wasn't him, but your stomach would sink once you looked back. In a corner of the bar, nursing a glass of dark liquor, was your ex. He noticed you at the same time, and the eye contact made you feel sick.

At this, Johnny would take a look for himself, and would pick out the man eyeing you from across the bar right away. After giving the man a once-over, he'd turn back to you.

"Is that who I think it is?" You'd nod. You had told him bits and pieces of how your ex treated you, but left out the worst of it lest Johnny go on a rampage to defend your honor. He's loyal to a fault and would not take kindly to anyone mistreating people he cared about.

The unfortunate thing was, being special forces came with an ability to read people and situations, and your reaction to seeing your ex filled in the gaps well enough for Johnny to understand what wasn't being said. You were scared, and the man seemed to know it by the smug expression he wore as he stared at you.

Rather than cause a scene, as you had feared, Johnny scooted so he completely blocked your view of the other man (and the man's view of you via his broad shoulders). Seamlessly, he'd continue the conversation with the folks around you as if nothing was amiss, despite his hand never leaving your thigh in a move that was at once possessive and reassuring. You leaned into the touch, comforted by Johnny's presence and relieved that the situation had seemingly blown over.

A bit later, Johnny announced he was going to the bar to get another round for the table. On instinct, your gaze shot to where your ex had been sitting, but his seat was now empty. Breathing a sigh of relief, your eyes turned to follow Johnny through the room. You could never get tired of looking at him. It wasn't until he reached the bar and clapped a fellow patron on the shoulder that you realized the individual he was talking to wasn't the bartender, but your ex who had moved seats. Keeping his hand on the man's shoulder, Johnny struck up a conversation like a true natural.

Oh no.

You braced for a commotion, but Johnny's expression and body language stayed friendly and open. You couldn't hear what he was saying to the man, and if asked he'd tell you he was just introducing himself. But when he let go of your ex's shoulder and flagged down the bartender to order a drink, the other man threw some money onto the bar and all but ran out the door.

The place would become a frequent haunt for your friend group, but you'd never see your ex darken the doorstep again after Johnny's talk with him. Good riddance.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

You and Kyle had been going steady for a bit now, and you were excited to introduce him to your family. Well, most of your family. You didn't have a good relationship with your stepdad, and Kyle respected that it was a sore spot for you. He would never pry, but he could pick up on how your tone would change when your stepdad would come up in conversation, how your posture would change when your mom dragged him into the frame to say hello during your video chats.

A big family dinner was the perfect opportunity to introduce everyone to Kyle, and you were looking forward to it. Truly. You had a nice outfit picked out and Kyle bought some fancy wine to bring, hoping for a good first impression. He needn't have worried; your aunts and cousins all fawned over him, and your uncles were endlessly impressed by his stories from his job. Long story short, he was a hit.

He stayed by you all night, stroking the back of your hand with his thumb as he made conversation. At first, you chalked it up to being the new guy in the room, but the ease of his posture suggested he wasn't nervous. Rather, his frequent check-ins started to make it feel like his closeness was for your benefit. You were the one who was nervous, looking over your shoulder every few minutes praying you didn't see a certain face in the crowd. You loved your family, but get-togethers always came with a certain amount of anxiety. Every time your eyes strayed around the room, Kyle's followed, taking in the crowd. Even more frequently, you caught him sneaking glances at you, as if assessing if you were alright.

You were alright, until the front door opened and you heard a specific voice boom in greeting. Your mom and stepdad strode in, late as always, your mom carrying the casserole dish and your stepdad slapping a case of beer on the counter. Your demeanor changed immediately, shrinking yourself as if you could become invisible if you just hunched enough. It didn't work, of course, and they spotted you within seconds. Before you could react, Kyle was in front of you, placing himself between you and your parents with a smile and his hand out to shake.

"I'm Kyle, heard lots about you," he said neutrally, shaking hands with both of them. They turned to you, but Kyle spoke again. "How was the drive? Heard you had to come across that new expressway, have they finished that yet?"

It was like that the rest of the evening. Kyle remained an immovable barrier between you and your stepdad, keeping him engaged in conversation and unable to address you. You and your mom were able to slip away shortly to help set the table and catch up, and every time you snuck a glance at the men out of the corner of your eye, the view was the same: Kyle orienting himself as a physical wall, keeping you out of eyeshot. His body language was at-ease, his smile friendly enough, but his eyes were tight, not like they had been when talking with everyone else.

When everyone grabbed a seat, Kyle pulled a chair out for you before quickly stealing the spot next to you from your stepdad. You looked at him with gratitude and he squeezed your knee reassuringly under the table, all the while maintaining conversations with those around him as if nothing was amiss. If you hadn't already loved him, you certainly would have after that night.

Captain John Price

Ah, spring cleaning.

Well, it was November, but still. It's refreshing to get rid of old stuff and start anew, but it's also essential when you're combining two households. John had finally convinced you to move in with him, so the two of you were creating piles labeled "Keep" "Trash" and "Donate". Upon reaching the bottom of an old box labelled "Miscellaneous," you came upon something that had your stomach churning. Old records: Johnny Cash, the Sex Pistols, the Doors. You hadn't realized you had them, and you weren't particularly fond of who they belonged to.

You didn't realize you had frozen in place until John snapped you out of it, coming up behind you with a hand snaking around your waist and his chin resting on your shoulder.

"Whatcha got, love?" He whistled when you showed him.

"The condition those are in, you could get a pretty penny. I didn't know you collected vinyl, I'd have bought a player."

"They're not... mine." You explained, as briefly as possible, that they were your ex's and must have gotten mixed up in your stuff when you split several years ago. He hummed in understanding.

"Right, then. To the garbage with it?"

It was the logical solution. He hadn't asked after them, so he must not miss them that badly. You would rather lie down in traffic than have any contact with him. But John's comment about their value stopped you from throwing them onto the "Trash" pile. Damn your too-kind heart, always causing problems.

It was easy enough to find your ex's contact info; you had changed your number after the split, he hadn't. Soon enough, you had agreed on a time for him to swing by and grab the stuff when he was free. The rest of moving made the days go by in a blur of organizing and unpacking and bickering over where the toaster should go and which wall to mount the TV on. That is, until you looked at your calendar and realized that it was today. This afternoon was the interaction you'd spent the week trying not to think about. You'd stepped around the box of his things all week, mentally blocking out why it was sitting in the front hall. You'd managed to stay busy, and bury your anxiety in the endless tasks that come with setting up a new home.

But time had run out, and in mere hours you were going to be face to face with someone you had once sworn never to see again. The realization made the room feel too small, made the air feel too warm, made you feel like you were suffocating. Suddenly you just had to get out.

"We need... yogurt." You blurted, walking too quickly and too loudly into the foyer to grab your keys.

"Yogurt? Right now?" John called from the kitchen.

"Yes, right now! For... for a recipe," you mustered, hoping you sounded convincing. This had been a mistake, a huge mistake, and your brain was screaming RUN! RUN! RUN! as loudly as it could. Hand on the doorknob, however, you froze. If you left, John would be here when your ex arrived. He'd answer the door, introduce himself, and hand off the items. Shouldn't that be ideal? No contact between you and him, simple and easy. But rather than provide relief, the thought made you sick to your stomach. It felt like a defiling almost, to think of him entering your new sanctuary and meeting the love you thought you'd never have. It felt wrong on every level, and your feet rooted to the spot in agreement.

"Still here, love?" John came into view, the book he'd been reading in hand, finger acting as a bookmark. "I was thinking, I could go if you wanted. Just text me what we need. Don't you have someone coming by?"

Yes - that's it, you thought. Have John go, get him away from here before he could arrive. You'd handle it on your own; you'd done it before.

Nodding, you stepped aside, slipping your shoes off next to the door. John put his book down and approached, taking your place and grabbing his keys off the hook. He turned to kiss your forehead, but stopped short and stared at you. He noticed for the first time that you were fidgety, as if anxious for him to leave when usually it was the exact opposite. His ever-observant eyes spent several seconds taking you in, and you knew as he asked the question that he already knew the answer.

"Everything alright?"

Of course it was! How silly to think otherwise! You began playing it off, the same way you had gotten so good at doing back when you and he were still together and your friends would ask you the same thing. Just hyper, just busy, just this, just that, always an excuse to avoid saying "I'm afraid." Afraid of what mood he'd be in, afraid of what awaited you when you two would be alone later. Fear you hadn't felt in a long time, but could feel now just as bone-deep as it had been back then. As if your body had stored it as muscle memory just in case this day came.

"Are you nervous about something?" It was another question you could tell he already knew the answer to, and you wanted to feel irked about it, but looking into those eyes you suddenly just felt tired. Tired of carrying the fear and the uncertainty alone. So you exhaled for a long time, and slowly told him exactly what you were nervous about.

It felt good to get it off your chest. Until now, no one had ever known the extent of what had gone on. You expected John to explode into some fit of hyper-masculine protectiveness like guys on TV, but he didn't. He listened to you talk, and then he nodded and sat on the couch, reopening his book on his lap.

"What are you doing?" You eyed him suspiciously, unable to believe that that was the end of the conversation.

"Well, I'm waiting right here. And when this lad knocks, I'm going to answer the door and have a little chat with him."

[frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe]

@steddieangstyaugust Day 14 - Wordy Wednesday: Lake

i’m challenging myself to keep all these at either 127 or 1,270 words each, see day one for more of an explanation!

The last time Eddie visits his Uncle Wayne, he meets a mermaid.

He’d gone under the water to fish up a bright coral pink rock he’d spotted from above, and happened to glance up, looking out into the lake from under the surface, only to meet a pale face dotted with what looked like freckles.

Inhaling the clear lake water, sputtering as he stands, the pale face joins him above the surface.

“He–” another cough, “Hello…?” he greets, questioningly.

The face only studies him further, looking him over from head to toe. 

Eddie squats back down into the water, it’s much colder above the surface now that he’s used to the water’s chilly temperature.

A bright shimmering blue tail skims past his knee.

“Wow! You’re a mermaid!” he says, astonished, finally noticing the rest of the boy’s freckled torso just under the crystal clear water. “I’m Eddie, what’s your name?”

“Eee–” the boy frowns, “Eeadding?”

Eddie points to his chest, “Ed-dee.”

“Edddeee.”

“Yeah! I’m Eddie,” he points to himself again, “You are…?” points to the mermaid (merboy?)

“Ssst–” his face scrunches, he squeals some sort of noise under his breath, “SteeEEE–” He cuts himself off again, shrinking from the pained look on Eddie’s face.

“Sorry, that was just loud.. Is it Steeee…” Eddie wracks his brain, “Fin?” He completes the only name that comes to mind, wincing at ‘fin’ being the only syllable he possibly could’ve imagined while in the presence of a literal finned person.

Maybe Stefin giggles, lifting his tailfins out of the water.

Eddie grins back, “Stee-fin?”

Even More Possibly Stefin nods, a sharp-toothed grin stretching from ear to ear.

“Well Stefin, wanna help me look for rocks?”

Together, they scour the shallows of the water behind Wayne’s cabin for hours

They fill the whole grocery bag Eddie’d been toting around with him by time Wayne calls for him at sundown.

“I’m leaving for home tomorrow,” he tells Stefin, not knowing that would be the last time he’d ever see his friend, telling the beautiful creature “I’ll see you next year though! We come back at least once every summer, promise.”

The merboy had smiled so brilliantly at him, the freckles Eddie had just then realized were tiny blue scales shining in the evening sun. He didn’t want to leave.

But he had to. Eddie left.

Elizabeth got sick.

Al got arrested. 

And in the time between the state of Tennessee gaining custody of him and being placed with Uncle Wayne permanently, Wayne sold his little homestead, settling in a two bedroom trailer in the heart of Indiana.

He understands it all now, of course, Wayne making the decision to move where he knew he’d have consistent work year-round was a necessity, but that first week, an already confused Eddie had asked after only a couple days in the trailer when they’d be going home to the lake.

“I don’t live there anymore Teddy. Live here now, in Indiana.”

“But what about the cabin?”

“Sold it, kiddo. Bought this place instead.”

Eddie’s eyes welled up for what felt like the zillionth time in a month. “But what about the stove? What about the bonfires? What about all the rocks I haven’t found?” What about Stefin? He thought to himself.

“Now son–kiddo, s’alright! We can always plan a trip to the UP if y’wanna.”

“Back to the cabin?” Eddie had asked, hopeful.

Wayne shook his head, “Probably camp at McLain instead.”

“That’s on Lake Soupier?”

Wayne snorts, “Yah bud, s’on Superior.”

Eddie took a moment to consider it, then nodded resolutely. “Okay Uncle Wayne.”

They never went back up to Michigan, let alone all the way up to the UP.

The first summer in Indiana was the only time Eddie asked.

“Sorry kiddo, can’t swing it this year. Maybe next time.” Wayne had said, and Eddie watched.

The whole rest of summer, into the fall, especially in the winter, the red-stamped envelopes would stack, then disappear whenever they would go into what Wayne liked to call ‘broke mode’.

Clearance aisle canned goods, store-brand everything, sandwiches packed into brown paper bags with little else.

Eddie grew up, failed his senior year once, twice, managing things the third, and leaving Hawkins for Chicago, hoping to make it big somewhere, somehow.

He manages to, but not in the way he originally thought, falling into club ownership after the man he’d been working for passed, leaving his business to Eddie.

Wayne gets sick when Eddie’s only 28; he drives down to Hawkins and stays with him about a month before he’s gone.

Eddie goes back to Chicago one Uncle short, goes back to work.

A week after Wayne is cremated, a notification pops up in his inbox. An alert he doesn’t remember setting.

Eddie grins, “You sneaky bastard.”

Wayne’s cabin and surrounding acreage have come up for sale.

It’s not even a thought, there’s no decision to be made. Eddie offers over asking and gets the keys handed to him on his 29th birthday.

He’s still a part owner of his club, gets a check every month that pays the mortgage, but his new day to day consists of fixing the cabin, wandering in the woods, and strolling along the shallows of Lake Superior, looking for rocks.

One day, while walking north along the shore, he stumbles across a hidden little alcove.

The rock face juts in from the shoreline, behind a trickling waterfall. It’s not huge by any means, but it looks like someone’s already came by and carved the sand here away, making a knee-high pool that connects the rocky face of the shore with the lake.

He skirts around the little pool, walking along a narrow strip of sand to the sparkling waterfall.

A shocked scream is yanked from his throat as soon as he peers into the alcove properly though, because there, doing a very astute impression of a dead fuckin’ body, is a merman, leant casually back against the wall of the cave Eddie’d just approached from, snoozing away.

The creature whips its head around at Eddie’s yell, teeth bared and a hissing screech slithering out from between his lips.

“Holy Shit! You’re a—”

The merman stops hissing, “Eddie?”

Eddie blinks at him. “Jesus H. Christ.. Stefin?” The blue tail, the shimmering freckle-like scales, the still horribly beautiful face. “You’re real.”

“You’re back— real?” Stefin asks, incredulous, “You didn’t think I was real?”

“I was a kid with an astounding sense of imagination, sue me.”

Stefin rolls his eyes, “Figures why you never came back to see me.”

Eddie blinks at him again, “What? No! No, I couldn’t! My mom— my dad– Wayne— It’s a long story, okay?”

Stefin harrumphs, sitting back against the stone wall. 

“I still can’t believe this, I always thought I’d imagined you.”

“Well you didn’t.”

“Yeahh, I can see that now, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Wha— nevermind, So, how’ve you been?”

Stefin’s head lolls around, he had to’ve just rolled his eyes. He stands up, “Why do you care? You’ll probably just leave again.”

 “No, I bought the house my uncl—” Hang on, what?

Stefin shoves past Eddie to hop down onto the sand, avoiding landing on his feet in the water.

“You’re walking.”

“Amazing observation skills.”

“You’re naked.” And super hot, holy shit. Eddie averts his eyes politely.

“Again, very astute.” He grabs a bundle of cloth, pulling on a pair of shorts.

“How— Can I take you to dinner?”

“Why.” He pulls a shirt on over his head.

“To explain properly. And also because I missed you.”

Stefin turns, looks him over. His gaze softens minutely. “Sure. I’d like that.”

MY FIRST MER!FIC!! HALLELUJAH!!

also, this kinda got away from me, so it's really only light angst 😅

see the collection on ao3!

[sanctus-ingenium]

I’m really inspired by your world building and the creatures you use. I’m trying to kickstart my own world using Celtic, Norse and Scottish myths (it also involves werewolves because they’re cool)

But I’m stumped and a bit overwhelmed. How’d you start your project and what were huge sources of inspiration for you as you worked on The Black Horse?

hi there!!! this will probably get wordy i have a lot of thoughts on this but here's how i built up my inver setting

i had the characters first, and the werewolf establishment was basically the first thing invented about the world. I wrote a decent amount about the characters in the pre-1st draft slush pile just getting a handle on their voices, their history together, etc. the first slush draft was in painstaking chronological order telling of their lives from birth to like age 40 - it wasn't pretty to read but it meant I knew what big moments formed their worldview, their relationships with others, things like that. and then i got to pick and choose which ones would feature in the actual 1st draft, and which i would leave unsaid, in flashback form, or only in the form of vague allusions. the plot and world events changed significantly as i wrote the actual 1st draft so this ended up only being useful for backstory stuff and not book plots, but it was still good to have.

There was an important moment of a character being kidnapped into a faery realm, which is what started me off thinking about fairies in general. they weren't originally a part of this world - it was an undefined space before just for the characters to exist in, because i was (and still am) more interested in the characters than the worldbuilding. but i still like for there to be SOMETHING there in the background, and it gives a lot of opportunities to inform characterisation, so i started to make my setting. I picked the Púca as a pivotal being & major inspiration source to include because of its relatively large presence in the fringes of my childhood in stories told by my older relatives and i like the unusual aspects about it as well, how it has been both heroic and malevolent in different stories. you have to remember i grew up in this culture too, i knew a lot already, and that's what got me thinking of alternate Earth history - as in, the setting of Inver as alternate history, not wholly original fantasy set in a fantasy land.

So then I had to think about the implications of that, and here is where I think a lot of authors adapting extant mythology fall short. A world where faeries/mythological monsters/gods based in real cultures exist and people interact with them is indistinguishable from our own. We already live in a world where people interact with faeries in their own way; I've heard many older relatives recount stories of being trapped in their fields by faeries, how you can only escape by taking off your jumper and putting it back on inside out. There was no question as to whether they believed this was a concrete, meaningful interaction with a supernatural being. We have a motorway that was diverted while it was being built because the builders didn't want to risk cutting down a hawthorn tree. There is a deep stigma against harming hawthorns. Now, tell me how things would be any different if faeries were real irl? ftr I do not believe in the supernatural whatsoever, not even a little bit, but it is impossible to deny that I live in a world deeply shaped by it - I need only look out the window at the stands of whitethorn around my house to know that. because the main expression of that supernatural element is in how the people of that culture react.

you cannot, you cannot pick and choose only the monsters from a legend and leave behind the people who made & propagated that legend. you're only taking a single thread from a rich tapestry. I'm not arguing that other cultures should be untouchable, far from it, I'm just saying that to truly appreciate it, you need context for everything you adapt. you gotta know what you're writing about

in that sense, the people are more important to building Inver than the faeries. a citizen of Inver not immediately affected by the main plotline would likely never see or interact with magic in their lifetime, but their society is still shaped by it. so is mine (though that's more on the catholic church than anything else)

So now that I'd had that realisation, I decided to dump a lot of the traditional fantasy tropes I'd been working with. Think basic fantasy setting stuff, pop culture "The Fae" tropes, even the terminology of 'Fae' at all - that is not something I've ever heard the older generation in my life call them. It's just 'fairies' to them (although I did shift the spelling to match the Yeats poem because I could not handle writing characters making accusations of being A Fairy and have it not come across as a unintentionally homophobic accusation lmao). I did some research; mostly on JSTOR, using my institutional access, because my own university is mostly science and didn't have a big library of anthropological texts. I read An Táin Bó Culainge which is honestly one of the greatest stories of all time PLEASE READ IT if you are at all interested in Irish myth. It is a fantastic story and extremely comedic as well (a canon mmmf foursome lol). In terms of academic sources specific to the Púca, I have a drive folder of pdfs I will share with anyone if they ask.

I decided I was not going to include anything from what people actually think of as pre-christian Irish mythology - no fianna [rangers notwithstanding], no Ulster cycle, no Tuatha Dé, no Irish gods. All the things I include are post-colonial aside from the notion of the Otherworld in general. This decision wasn't necessarily accurate to what might have happened in this alternate history (given that christianity still has no real foothold in Inver) but it is a colonised society after all. It's why I got slightly steamed once when someone filed my Púca art into their irish deities/irish polytheism tag (I have my own issues with iripols/gaelpols for the same reason I dislike people taking myths out cultural context and in this case contemporary cultural context), because the Púca is in fact a postcolonial being - it comes from the UK, and likely the mainland as well

One of the last things I did before starting on my 2nd draft, which is what turned into Said the Black Horse, was decide to always capitalise the word 'Púca'. Because what really clicked from doing my research and remembering what I'd heard as a child was that the Púca is a specific character. Not a species, not a class of monster. A character, one guy. And you'll find this everywhere - the obvious example is the Minotaur being one specific guy, the son of Minos, not just 'a minotaur'. One very funny consequence of speciesifying mythological characters is dnd ppl saying their character is A Firbolg (fir bolg is plural!!). Fantasy bestiary books like Dragonology or Spiderwick Chronicles have done some amount of damage to how people relate to myths and legendary creatures, and I am not immune as someone who loves speculative biology, but in Inver I decided to cut all of that out.

Next once I got that out of the way I had to think about tone, atmosphere, and intended results. I didn't achieve my holy grail of a very atmospheric, undefined, and uncertain story that provides no answers, due to limitations in my own abilities, but I tried. I have given less than 1 second of thought to how magic or faery biology in Inver works because that is not conducive to the atmosphere of a fairytale. Many of these source myths and legends are really about the fear of the unknown. They are rationalisations to explain away something unknown, some mystery of life, and you cannot explain the unexplainable and expect it to carry the same punch as the original myths that you are drawn to adapt. That's also why I try to never actually give facts about fairies, but instead I talk about what people think of them. The word 'considered' does some insanely heavy lifting in that linked post lmao. Is any of what I wrote true with regards to the Red King?? It is for the people who believe it.

I'm saying all of this because these are all points I had to think about before writing that 2nd draft, but also because I think they're worth considering for your own story as well. I'll admit I invented my werewolves from scratch, they have no mythological basis, because they pre-date the faery stuff and also I wanted them to fill a very specific role and appear a little more concrete than the other supernatural elements. It is what it is; I wanted a werewolf element that didn't match myths and legends (and honestly was partially inspired by me rolling my eyes about those posts going around moaning and whining about 'the doggification of werewolves missing the point of werewolf stories'. I thought, well, there's more than one story you can tell with a werewolf - it isn't always 'i fear the beast within', sometimes it's something else! sometimes it's daddy issues! it's okay to make something new)

ok i think that's all i have to say.. modern Inver is a bit different, that worldbuilding is largely the same but with a big dose of actual ecology because the main characters are rangers and in Inver in 2017, rangers mostly do environmental monitoring. and that's a whole different sort of worldbuilding lol

good luck with your story!!

[cautionszz]

saw in your pinned that you take drawing requests and you should draw janecallieroxy...the yuri

this isn't very polished but here they are!!!

[choking-on-ice]

okay so yk how I said Jimmy would make a great semi-oblivious shoujo anime protag? well here's my proof! lookit him! he was built for it!

SO much "I can fix them, I can save them from themselves" energy just to be met with "I will crush mountains and boild seas to have him, we will rule this scorched earth together" shot right back at him from both sides

(also I know Kara's eyes are blue canonically, but Kryptonians seem to change eye colour alot based on their power usage so I headcanon that her eyes would be a bright glowy red bc of how often she uses her more destructive powers)

[soulprompts]

send in " what makes you think they're alone? " for the sender to unexpectedly show up and rescue the receiver from being attacked by an enemy, after the receiver had started to believe they were alone against this threat.

alternatively, send in " just in the nick of time. " for the sender, having been cornered by an enemy intent on harming them, to be the one being unexpectedly saved by the receiver.

[turning-monday-blue]

Sweets (1/?)

The snugness was barely tolerable. She had overestimated herself. She looked surreptitiously over her shoulder and ducked around a corner. The only thing following her were her bad decisions, but she felt chased all the same.

Okay. Calm down. Breathe (but not too deep). Evaluate the situation. What are your options? Can you loosen anything?

She looked down at herself. Past her swollen breasts, past a fluffy roll of upper belly, she examined her waistline. Nope. The button was the only thing keeping the zipper together, and vice versa. For the millionth time, she lamented her morning. What a bright idea, interviewing for a job with a snack company. She was very well aware of how sweets affected her.

Could she find somewhere discrete to wait out her... little metabolic mishap? She looked around for a discrete nook to accommodate her fresh bulk.

The little atrium she had found had a series of plush benches around the walls. She sighed and headed for the one in the corner. She sucked in as best she could and sat down. Some horny little corner of her mind made note of how it felt as her tight belly shifted against her puffy thighs.

Sitting like this, only barely upright lest bending too far compromise her jeans, she couldn't ignore how her waistband was trying to cut her in half. She thought back to how she had done this to herself. The lovely HR manager had very explicitly pointed out the basket of the company's sugary offerings there in the middle of interview table. The woman had been insistent that she try at least one of each, gushing like any good salesperson about their rich flavors and subtle textures, occasionally even peeling one out of its wrapper and handing it to her.

How could she have done anything but eat what was offered to her? And by a beautiful woman, no less. She knew how her body reacted to food like this, but she had been desperate to make a good impression, to look good and eager and employable. A good girl. She ignored that last thought, and the accompanying shiver through her frazzled tummy.

She closed her eyes and tried to steady herself. Breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth (but not too deeply). All she had to do was calm down, and give her body a chance to do the same. Then she could find a back door to sneak out of, go home and hope that somehow that she hadn't blown the interview.

She opened her eyes again and caught sight of herself in a mirror across the room. Holy crap, she was huge. She had been her normal, narrow self, and her outfit had fit very very normally, when she had arrived. But now? Now it looked positively painted onto her. Her breasts were trying to spill out of her tastefully exposed bra and over the lapel of her blouse. She was more balloon than woman at this point. She ignored another tingle.

As she watched herself in the mirror, she noticed something change. Slowly but surely, the last wrinkle in her blouse smoothed out. Uh oh. That meant... she was still filling out. Panic. She tingled again.

No. No. Calm. Breathe (but not too deep). She closed her eyes again, and could feel her plump body quietly grow. Crap.

Panic. Calm. Breathe (but not too deep). Calm.

Maybe if she didn't look, it would go away. That had never worked before, sure, but there's a first time for everything, right?

As she rationalized to herself, she noticed the sound of heels clacking towards her hiding spot. Panic!

Maybe their owner would pass and not notice her?

No such luck.

The woman who had interviewed her rounded the corner.

"There you are!"

She struggled to stand. So tight.

"You left your purse upstairs. I get it, though. Interviews can be pretty stressful, huh?"

Like nothing had changed. Did this woman not notice that she was currently three times the size she was when she had shown up? Could this woman not hear every seam in her clothes creaking in harmony? Could the woman not see how wide and deep and round she was becoming?

"It's such a beautiful handbag, I almost wanted to keep it for myself!" The woman laughed. "Oh well."

She took the bag from the woman. "O-oh! Thank you!" Leapt out of her.

"Listen," said the woman, "technically I have to review a few other candidates, but I think you're a shoo-in for the position." The woman moved closer. "No one else has shown so much... enthusiasm." Closer still. She basked in the smell of the woman's musky perfume.

"Oh... that's great!" she managed to squeak out.

"In fact," the woman continued, "if you'd like to come back upstairs, we can have you fill out the onboarding paperwork now, so you don't have to come back just to fill out some forms if... when we give you the job." So close now.

"Um! Okay!" What.

The woman placed a gentle hand on the side of her massive, tight, growing belly. "Listen, between you and me, that passion you showed today will take you far with us. Do you feel like the offer is fair? We can negotiate further if you need." The woman's eyes were so sincere.

What was going on here? She could barely think.

The woman placed her other hand on top of her belly, well hidden by her burgeoning breasts. "I do hope you'll say yes."

"Um..."

There was a pop. Her button pinged away across the room from her overburdened jeans. It made a little thwack sound as it hit the far wall. Her zipper flew down, zizzing audibly. Her belly erupted through the breach. Her blouse retreated upwards. The tingling became a roar. All the while, the woman, as though no tectonic shifts were happening right there and then, continued to implore with borderline puppydog eyes.

The world held its breath with her. How had this woman not reacted to any of that?! What? Was the woman still waiting for an answer?

"...okay?" She tried. She wasn't sure if her brain was still working. "Sure?" Best to stick to small sentences.

"Yay!" cheered the woman, "I really think you'll love it here!" The woman launched in for a quick hug around her exposed belly. The woman's arms didn't go even halfway around her. And still the woman didn't seem to notice that anything was wrong.

"Well! If you'll follow me back to the elevators, we can at least get the formalities out of the way."

The woman took her by the hand and pulled, still gentle. She followed, mutely. Even the horniest, shamiest corners of her mind were silent, waiting with bated breath.

As they reached the elevators, the woman pushed the up button and stood to the side. "Please," said the woman, "after you!"

On autopilot now, she stepped into the elevator and... wedged into the door. Stuck. What. Panic? Calm? The elevator dinged again as if to say "I'm waiting!"

The cold of the elevator doors brought her back to reality. She put a hand on either side of herself and tried to pull herself in. As though this were somehow normal, the woman chirped "Oh, here, let me help!"

She felt a gentle pair of hands press into her oceanic bottom. Her horny brain thrilled again. She clamped down on those thoughts. No time to be a pervert.

Between the two of them, they muscled her into the elevator. She turned to face the doors in time to watch the woman press into her in order to let the doors close. Normally equipped for eight full-sized human adults, due to her immensity, it very barely fit two.

"We need floor thirty," said the woman into her barely contained cleavage. She tried to reach for the panel of buttons, but by now there was simply too much of her in the way.

"I've got it," said the woman, reaching behind her without looking.

They rode the thirty floors quietly. She could feel herself still widening, pressing towards the walls of the elevator car. Her embarrassment had burnt out, leaving only a kind of stunned peace in her mind. She tried to will her body away from the woman, but where else could it really go?

By the time they reached their destination, the woman was firmly pressed against the doors, still showing no indication of the extra-ordinariness of the situation.

As the doors opened, the woman stepped back, grabbed her hands, and pulled as she tried to wiggle through the door. Eventually she floomped through, and they set off toward the HR suite.

Full-on waddling now, she felt an inner tension release. She had stopped growing. Relief. If nothing else, at least things had stopped getting worse. Sure, she was almost round enough to roll. Tingle. Sure, her clothing had been reduced to barely covering her... rude areas. Tingle. Sure, a beautiful woman was acting as though this was all perfectly normal. Tingle tingle tingle. But hey, at least it finally wasn't getting worse.

The woman pushed open the double doors to the HR suite and welcomed her in with another glittering smile. They seemed to be the only ones there. The woman led her, patiently, to the front desk area. The woman ducked behind the desk, looking for something.

"Hmm, it looks like I'll need to go print off more some more copies of the forms. Shouldn't take more than a minute or two." Finally she'd have a moment to collect herself.

Then the woman produced a basket, laden with various goodies, from underneath the desk. "Here! Help yourself, sorry to make you wait." Uh.

"Oh, here, allow me," said the woman, picking out a chocolate confection, peeling it, and pressing it into her mouth. "I'll be right back!"

She chewed and swallowed the treat.

Uh oh.

[gloriousmonsters]

the entire vibe of twilight princess is just *touches ground* something terrible happened here

edit: OKAY a few people requested/expressed dismay that so much was just in the tags so I'm taking them from the tags and putting them under a cut here :P i'm happy people like them

#no gerudo in the gerudo desert. the twili being the product of ancient magic mass incarceration. zelda's depression and guilt and fuckin#'i don't deserve a bedframe' type room. the triforce of power keeping ganondorf alive - what do the gods want? guess they must be crazy#or maybe we kiiind of fucked up (no gerudo) (arbiter's grounds) (there was a war in ocarina and we don't talk about it)#(and there is an implied war potentially one of attempted extinction hidden between the pages of TP's history)#(hyrule's very good at not talking about its wars) (zelda says 'this is the least i can do' and tries to kill herself to save midna)#(your shade from the past teaches you how to kill and tells you to seek power and teaches you to kill again)#(putting an enemy on the ground isn't enough unless you finish them quick)#(your shade from the past wears armor. the spirits slipped chainmail under your kokiri clothes.)#(the monsters that claw blindly at you are the warped souls of the captured. the benevolent spirits of light insist they're beyond saving.)#(the arbiter's grounds is so so full of the furious dead. in the desert. the gerudo desert)#(the princess sees you not knowing who you are but only seeing that you are a monster and are chained and she apologizes)#(zelda gives her life to save midna and when ganondorf dies she prays in silence)#no esteemed deed is commemorated here etc etc#anyway. ignore all that. i'm obsessively thinking about the idea/theory of link fighting on the side of the gerudo in the past of TP#(hence his appearance on Ganondorf's armor) bc it makes everything Even More Fucked Up#thinking abt this game depresses me so much. i love it