#yes come to the side of ANARCHY

[acearohippo]

Yes they should

The more I look at Bonnie and Jeanne, the more I think they should kiss

[spaghettificationandpretzels]

The Voice that Urged Orpheus

Should I be working on my many WIPs? Yes, but I had to write this. This is based on an anon request for kinkfest part two that I didn't do because they didn't follow the rules, but it got the ideas going, so I guess I'm writing it anyway. This is mostly smut.

Sons of Anarchy Masterlist

Song inspo

Contains: Voice kink, praise kink, blindfolds, fingering, P in V, aftercare, fluff.

2K words

I won't deny I've got in my mind now, all the things I would do - Hozier

It started innocent enough, with Jax telling you about his day while you worked away in the kitchen. Eventually, he grew tired of the handful of feet between you and came up behind you, resting his head on your shoulder while he wrapped his substantial arms around you as he spoke, the gravel in his voice tingling against your skin as it moved over every word. "Are you listening to me Darlin'?"

You shook out of your stooper and spun in his arms, smiling before pressing a kiss to his plump lips. "That's exactly what I'm doing, you were saying something about the wrong coolant."

He chuckled and reached a hand up to stroke your cheek with rough fingertips. "Yeah, that's about right." He placed his hands on your hips and spun you back around, patting you softly before sucking on his tongue. "I'll let you get back to it, I'll be around if you need me." There was something in his tone, a lit to it that let you know something was brewing in that pretty head of his.

You nodded. "Ok, don't go far."

His hands lingered on you momentarily as if he were making a final decision before kissing you quick and firm on his cheek. "I won't."

He was tightlipped about his plans all night, regardless of whether you could see them on his face or not. It took you walking into the bedroom with him behind you for you to know what you were getting into. On the bed was the thing taken from the trunk under the bed, a blindfold. He was smirking when you turned around, his bright eyes lit up with affection. "What are you planning Teller?"

He took your hands in his and pulled you close. "A night of pleasure for my wonderful woman."

You raised an eyebrow. "Ok, you gonna tell me where all this is coming from?"

He shook his head. "I just want to treat you."

You want to argue, tell him he was always good to you but the hunger in his eyes told you that any logical talk would be lost of him. "Of course my love."

He led you to the bed, sitting you down on the end before picking up the blindfold and lifting it to your face. "Can I?"

You nodded. "Sure."

You closed your eyes as he tied it behind your head, his fingers delicate so as to not catch any hair. You felt him run a flat hand all the way down your body from your neck to the edge of his reaper crew shirt, which you had elected to sleep in, tugging it twice before speaking right into your ear. "Can this come off?"

He stopped you before you could help him, pulling it over your head as you lifted your arms to help him, then he was shifted away from you, not breaking contact but leaving the bed so he could pull you to your feet. His hands were gentle in their guidance, one on your hips and the other on your shoulder as he led you around the room to somewhere on the perimeter. He settled behind you, his hands running up and down your bare back as his head returned to your shoulder. "Do you know what's in front of you?"

You could navigate your bedroom in the dark, so you had a pretty good idea. "The mirror?"

"Good girl." He had that lit in his voice he only got when he was turned on and you could feel something pressing against your back as he stood behind you. His fingers moved down the sides of your body, pressing firm enough not to tickle you as they made their way to the hem of your sleep shorts. "These off too?" You nodded, and he slid them down, taking your panties with them. He didn't just take them off, he dropped to his knees as they fell and then kissed his way back up your legs when they were out of the way.

The room wasn't cold, but it was brisk enough to leave you seeking the warmth from his hands as he slid them over your arms. His lips found the back of your neck, and you titled your head to make room for him as his beard scratched your skin. One hand left your body while his lips remained, and you heard the rustling of his belt before a thud as his jeans hit the floor. He stepped back for a moment to rid himself of his shirt, then he was pressed against you, in all his naked, solid like a brick wall glory. "Where was I?"

You shrugged. "No idea."

He chuckled and wrapped his arms around your body. "That's right, I was about to list all the things I love about you." He started on your face, taking your chin between two fingers to turn your head towards him so he could kiss you. "I love your lips, and not just because they feel so good, I like what comes out of them too."

He let your head go and focused on the mirror, his eyes roaming your body to pick something else to compliment. "I don't think I need to say how much I love your tits, they're fucking prefect." His rings gave a pleasant contrast as his warm hands touched whatever skin he could reach. "And your skin is so soft, if I had it my way, I'd always be touching you."

His gaze followed his hand as it moved on to your core. "And this pussy, where the fuck do I start?" His voice had gotten so rough that you didn't need to hard cock press to your back to let you know how turned on he was. You felt his teeth on your flesh, worrying marks into your skin like he was trying to stave off his desire by making his claim on you evident. His fingers slid through your slit as you gasped, and he groaned, speaking more to himself than you. "You're always so fucking wet."

You bit your lip as he pressed softly on your clit, trying to keep back the whimper that was rising in your throat, but he didn't like that, taking the thumb from his free hand and pulling your lips free from your teeth. "You have no idea what all those pretty noises do to me."

He changed tactics, sliding his fingers inside you and rubbing your clit with his palm. He didn't know where to look, your face with head craned back, resting on his shoulder, or his fingers sliding in and out of you. He settled for the mess between your legs, he could watch your face later in the night. He crooked his fingers to rub your G-spot, and his grateful groan reverberated through your ears as your knees grew weak. He happily let you lean against him, and you couldn't imagine how you looked as his deft fingers slowly stoked the heat inside you.

He kept a steady, even pressure with his palm, rubbing your clit in perfect circles that grew the waves of bliss like the wind builds the swell in a storm. He didn't know what he liked more, the way your chest had begun to heave or how you were beginning to rock against his hand as you approached the edge. "Jax, please."

He had forgotten his plan in all the wonder of watching you, and he kissed the shell of your ear to bring it back into focus. "You gonna cum for me pretty girl? I can feel the way you're squeezing me, you must be close." He was all but holding you up now, and there was nothing he loved more than the way you were trying to utter his name only for the pleasure of his fingers to steal it from your mouth. "Come on Darlin', be a good girl and cum for me."

It hit you like a train, with his strong fingers on your G-spot and his broad hand encompassing everything else. "That's it, there you go." He worked you through it with smug pride, taking each twitch and sigh and whimper as a boost to his already massive ego. He pulled his hand away, and you felt his wet fingers at your mouth, sucking them in early as you sucked your taste off them. He grunted and pulled them away before grabbing your face and kissing you, licking your taste from your lips as he snatched the breath you were trying to catch.

"You taste so fucking good." He gave you a moment, rubbing his face from ear to shoulder as his beard scratched your skin. When your legs were sufficiently stable, he led you back to the bed, prompting you to lay and get comfortable while he climbed on top of you.

You threw your legs around his waist, and he gripped his cock, running it up and down your slit. "Please, Jax, don't tease."

He chuckled. "I'm not teasing, I'm savouring the moment, can you let me do that?"

There was just a hint of desperate supplication in his voice, like if you had protested, he would have been powerless to resist your urging to continue. But he was in charge here, the love bites slowly coming to colour of your neck were proof of that, so you allowed him his fun.

"Whatever you want, I just …." You couldn't think, the arrogant bastard had slid home in one unwavering thurst just to prove a point.

Your nails dug into his ample shoulders, and he grunted as he started to rock his hips. The lack of sight made everything more intense, and you found yourself clinging to Jax like your life depended on it as his hips picked up speed. He pushed himself up on one hand, sliding the other between your bodies to rub your clit while he angled himself to hit your G-spot with each stroke. "Jax please."

He chuckled, his chest rumbling as he pressed his cheek to yours. "What do you need Darlin'?" You stuttered, the words stuck in your throat as he worked you closer to the edge. "Be a good girl and tell me what you need and I'll give it to you."

Your legs twitched, and he faulted for a moment before gathering his composure. "Come on Darlin'."

You focused on the feel of his lips on your skin and uttered out a response. "Whatever you want, please."

He slowed, and you could feel his gaze on you. "Whatever I want? Well, I want you to cum around my cock, can you do that for me?"

There was a smugness in his voice that was so painfully Jax and all you could manage was a nod and bury your face in his neck as he pushed you over the edge. He muttered praises in between your name and a string of curses, his pace losing its steady rhythm as he pulsed inside you. His hand slid out from between your bodies as his other failed, falling on top of you with a groan as he slipped out of you. He shifted slightly and you heard the click of a lamp before his hand was stroking your cheek below the blindfold. "The lights are off Darlin', I'm going to take this off now."

He slid it off your face, and you blicked the fogginess from your eye as his face came into view. "Hi."

He smiled softly. "Hi, you doing ok?"

You nodded. "I'm great. That was really fun, thank you."

His cheek wrinkled with a grin, and he rubbed your nose with his. "No need to that me, I had fun too."

He gathered you in his arms and took you with him as he rolled over, pulling you into his side as he ran his hand up and down your arm. "I'm gonna run you a bath in a bit, how does that sound?"

You sighed, a bath sounded nice. "Only if you join me."

He chuckled. "That's the plan." He nuzzled his nose in your hair and took a deep breath. "I meant everything I said, you gotta know how much I love you."

You snuggled closer and pressed a kiss to his chin. "I do, I love you too."

Fin

[thehereticdiaries]

WKTO: Holy Fuck, that's Ateez

Summary: You and your best friend have made it to the concert you've been looking forward to for MONTHS: Ateez! You have an amazing time, but at the end of the night you want nothing more than to crash onto the hotel bed. Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately?) those plans get interrupted.

Mix of tweets, texts, and written story! Let me know if this is any good, it's my first try at an smau.

Series Masterlist

"Y/N, come on I need you to help with my eyeshadow," Chelsea complained from the hotel room's bathroom.

"Okay, okay. Honestly, why did you even pick a look you know is beyond your skill set?" You grumbled, grabbing both of your makeup bags and dragging your best friend out into the main room.

"Because I have you!" She grinned at you and plopped on the floor in between the beds. It took you a little under an hour to do both of your makeup looks and get dressed {idk how to do makeup irl sorry if this isnt enough time}.

"Damn, we look so good!" You gushed as you checked your outfits in the mirror.

"Hell yea we do! But what now? We still have, like, seven hours until we need to leave."

"We sit in silence and go on tiktok until it's time to go," you said while grabbing your phone from the bed. "Just make sure you don't let your phone die. We have power banks, but we should leave at 100%."

"Excellent plan." Chelsea mirrored your actions, sitting next to you on the small loveseat against the wall. First thing's first: you needed to post a photo of your outfit.

Seven hours passed by very quickly with the help of edits and compilations. You buzzed with anticipation while you waited for the Uber in the lobby.

"Chelsea I am literally going to explode," you bounced on your heels in excitement.

"No because same. I can't believe I'm going to see them with my own two eyes," she grinned and smacked your shoulder repeatedly. You swatted her hand away, looking at your phone when it vibrated.

"Yes! Uber's here, let's go." You corralled her out the door and into the car. The driver, a lovely middle-aged woman, thoroughly complimented your outfits, letting the two of you ramble on about Ateez. There was no way in hell she would remember all of their names, but she was very sweet and nodded along in all the right places.

"Holy shit, this place is huge," Chelsea whistled at the size of the stadium. You tugged her into the entrance line, chatting with the other ATINYs.

"I love that you added San's anarchy symbol! Isn't it going to smudge, though?" A pink-haired girl behind you asked.

"I went on some cosplay blogs and found a really good primer and setting spray. The person that suggested them goes to conventions as Sukuna, Akaza, and Kankuro and their paint lasts all day," you explained, pulling up the photos the cosplayer posted.

The venue employees finally opened the entrances, stealing your attention from the girl behind you. Your impatience grew stronger the closer you got to the security line. You didn't really expect to find a spot at the barricade, despite Beomgyu's teasing. But you had luck and Chelsea on your side, and she managed to worm her way up front, dragging you along with her. At 7 o'clock on the dot, the lights dropped and music blasted from the speakers.

After their final goodbyes, Ateez disappeared backstage. The overhead lights blinded you as they powered on. Your cheeks hurt from smiling so hard and your throat hurt from screaming for three hours straight.

"That was better than amazing. That was life-changing. A true religious experience," Chelsea sighed dreamily. You hit up the merch booth before heading outside to wait for your ride back to the hotel.

"Are your ears ringing as bad as mine?" You leaned your head on Chelsea's shoulder.

"Oh definitely. We really should have listened to Hyeongjun and Yuna and gotten earplugs," she agreed loudly.

"You're shouting." You pinched her knee as emphasis. She rolled her eyes and pulled you to the Uber that parked nearby. It was past 11 when you got back to your room and you were starving.

"I'm getting DoorDash, what do you want?" Chelsea asked from where she splayed out on the floor. The two of you ordered an excessive amount of food, sitting in a comfortable silence while you waited.

"David will be here in five minutes with our food, go wait in the lobby." You glared at the older girl.

"Why me? I'm comfortable."

"You still have your shoes on. Just go, please," she whined and shot you her best puppy eyes.

"Fine. You're lucky you're cute." You grabbed your room key and trudged down to the lobby. You tapped your foot impatiently, looking around at the artwork on the walls. A group of very familiar faces entered from a side door, and your eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.

Despite your best efforts, you couldn't keep your eyes off the idols. You sat like a deer in headlights. Did you want them to notice you or did you want to launch yourself into the sun? Yes. Well, they did notice you, but they were much more subtle with their glances.

Before Hongjoong could stop them, Seonghwa and Yeosang approached you.

"Hi! You're an ATINY, right?" The eldest was the first to speak. You nodded, unable to form a coherent sentence. "Were you at the show?" Again, you nodded.

"Skipping the small talk, did you know we were staying here? Did you follow us from the venue?" Your jaw dropped at Yeosang's questions.

"No! No, of course not. I booked a room here a couple weeks ago because I found a deal on Groupon," you quickly explained yourself. "I'm so sorry if I freaked you out, I swear I didn't know."

"Looks like Hongjoong and Jongho were worried for nothing. I'll let them know," Seonghwa smiled at you before turning back to his other members. The others eyed you with a mix of apprehension and interest. You were very aware of Yeosang standing two feet to your right.

"How did you like the show?" Yeosang titled his head, waiting expectantly for your answer.

"It was amazing. I had so much fun, it was unlike any other concert that I've been to," you praised, feeling shy under the idol's gaze.

"I'm glad to hear it."

"I knew she was at the show." You jumped slightly when San suddenly appeared next to Yeosang.

"You knew?" The older boy furrowed his brows.

"Mhm. I recognized her hair and belt." You flushed as their eyes trailed over your body. You awkwardly clasped your hands in front of you to hide your exposed midriff.

"Are those real?" San gestured to the symbols on your thigh and hip.

"The one on my leg is. This one is paint."

"It held up really well," Yeosang noted. You fumbled over your own thoughts. You were practically short-circuiting at this point and couldn't figure out how to continue the conversation.

"Are you Chelsea?" A man wearing a DoorDash hat handed you the large bag of food when you nodded.

"That's a lot of stuff for one girl," San teased.

"It's not just for me. Chelsea is my friend, we ordered on her account. Speaking of, I should really get back to my room. I'm sure she's wondering where I am." You began a hasty retreat.

"Wait, what's your name, then?" San asked before you could turn to the elevator.

"O-oh, I'm Y/N."

"Well, Y/N, we're having breakfast at the cafe across the street tomorrow at 9. If you're interested, you can join us. Bring Chelsea, too." You gaped at the idol, unable to process the invitation.

"Uhm, okay. Yeah! Sure, I'll talk to Chelsea about it. Uh, gooodnight," you stuttered and scurried away to the elevator.

"Goodnight, little ATINY!" San called out just before the elevator doors closed.

Permanent Taglist: @furfoxsake22 @babygirlskz98 @miniverse-zen @holly-here @corgilover20 @eastjonowhere @bookswillfindyouaway

Series Taglist: @staytinyluv

[mikavlcs]

Astraphobia

Pairing: Wednesday Addams x winged!reader

Summary: You’re not a fan of thunderstorms. Wednesday knows and tries her best to help you through it.

Warnings: soft/ooc!wednesday (she’s a simp)

Word count: 1.7k

Notes: this was requested by @mvddison99​, i had some fun with this. hope you enjoy! 

Masterlist

Wednesday walked through Ophelia Hall’s many corridors with purpose.

Her bag bounced against her back lightly with each footfall, rattling the contents within, but she paid it no attention. Her destination and the raging tempest outside were the only things on her mind.

She had been venturing around Jericho looking for leads when she took notice of the signs. The weight of humidity in the air, the sudden change in wind direction, the vanishing sunlight as dark clouds rolled in—it was all indicative of one thing.

An impending thunderstorm.

Wednesday, of course, was ecstatic about this. She had loved thunderstorms practically her whole life. Her mother took her out to experience one firsthand when she was only months old, and she’d been enamored with them ever since.

They were unforgiving, unyielding, and unstoppable. A spectacle of Mother Nature’s natural chaos.

Even now, on her journey to your dorm, she was enjoying the unrelenting patter of the rain as it poured from the clouds above, and the bright flashes of light that momentarily lit the dark halls, signifying the inevitable destruction of striking lightning.

Having such organic anarchy occurring just on the other side of the glass was calming to her.

So yes, Wednesday loved thunderstorms. What she didn’t love was their effect on you.

Because you had the exact opposite opinion of her in this respect. Where she felt adoration, you felt fear. Where she held respect, you held dread.

The reasoning behind your dislike for storms was unclear. Which led her to believe that there either was no clear rationale at play, or it was trauma related. Being afraid of something so astonishing was foolish, especially considering the chances of ever being struck by lightning were (unfortunately) incredibly low.

But things like fear and trauma don’t abide by the laws of rationality, so she was willing to look past the logical fallacies for your sake.

For this reason, she pivoted the moment she realized what was coming and began heading back to school, abandoning her search for another day.

Her walk back to Nevermore took all of twenty minutes, including a slight detour to her dorm along the way, and the storm was already in full force, its onset abrupt and violent. Just as Wednesday liked it.

The onslaught of rain pushed her forward, quickening her pace as she rounded the last corner down your hall. She slowed as she approached your door, reaching out to twist the knob and finding it, thankfully, unlocked.

Quietly, she pushed the door open and stepped inside, eyes already wandering around the familiar room.

Instead of the usual sunlight, strings of decorative lights that you scattered around the room illuminated the space. Your bookshelves and the myriad of trinkets resting on their individual shelves remained untouched. The open textbooks and worksheets on your desk told her that you were doing homework just before the storm hit.

She had to resist the urge to roll her eyes when she spotted your uniform, haphazardly discarded on the floor in front of your closet.

Moving upward, she saw that one of your extra bed sheets was strung up over the large window and, for a moment, Wednesday stupidly wondered how it got up there before remembering your extra feathery appendages.

Her gaze then flicked to the bed, where she found your distressed form, and her feet stilled.

This wasn’t the first time this had happened, nowhere near, but the sight always gave her pause.

Because when you were unrestrained from both your physical confines and your apprehension surrounding your extra limbs, you were a vision of magnificence.

When finally freed from their leather bindings, your wings unfolded and slowly stretched to show off their wide span. Fully unfurled, they looked like a biblical Renaissance painting come to life. (Though she’d never speak it aloud, she was thankful to have seen them enough to even draw the comparison.)

The power in them was obvious, and when your confidence was stirred, and you flaunted them—usually with the frivolous intent to impress her—they were absolutely breathtaking. Seeing you carry yourself with such assurance, wings resplendent and otherworldly, was enough to make even her dead heart skip a beat.

And that was nothing compared to seeing you take flight.

To witness you push off the ground with the force of a hurricane and storm the sky was almost poetic, an experience she could hardly describe with words.

That was why seeing you now, curled in a ball at the head of your bed with your wings wound tightly around you was tragic in a sense.

But she wasn’t here to write a Shakespearian sonnet about the inherent calamity of your situation, so she shifted her focus back to the situation at hand. She had seen you in this state before, so she knew the steps she needed to take.

She closed the door as softly as possible and ventured to you, sitting on the other side of the bed and setting her bag on the floor. You gave no indication that you heard her come in, but she knew you were aware of her presence. You always were, somehow.

Silently, she racked her mind for something to say, but you took the initiative and spoke before she could.

“How’re you liking the storm?” The words were muffled by your legs, but she heard them clearly enough.

“It’s sublime,” she replied, sighing contentedly as the wind blew against the window so hard it whistled. “This seems to be a particularly heavy one.”

As if on cue, there was a flash of light, dulled by the grey sheet but still eye-catching, and the primal bellow of thunder followed only moments later.

Wednesday smiled. Given how powerful the clap of thunder was and the way the very Earth itself seemed to shake, the lightning had to hit somewhere nearby. She hoped it was her therapist’s office.

The sound made you flinch, wings wrapping themselves even tighter around you. Her smile faded as she watched you, finding herself slightly unsure.

Sure, she had done this before, but the notion of comforting someone came no easier than the first time she put herself in this position. She again searched for the right combination of words to soothe your anxieties. In the end, she settled for something simple, but hopefully effective.

“You’ll be fine, you know,” she said evenly, “Even in the regrettably unlikely event that the storm tears the walls of this school down in its fury.”

You peeked up from behind your knees, skeptical. “How do you know?”

“Because a mere thunderstorm is no match for my angel of death.”

The nickname was one you coined as a joke. A ploy to get her to call you by something—anything other than your name since she ostentatiously vowed to never endow anyone with a nickname.

Naturally, your attempt didn’t work, but with repetition, the moniker did end up growing on her. Slightly. It was an admittedly attractive title, and her reciting it had the desired effect on you now. Your lips quirked, wings relaxing their tight coil around you.

“Your angel of death?” you repeated, smirking. She rolled her eyes.

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” she advised, cutting her eyes at you, “because I’m never saying that again.”

“Oh, we’ll see about that.”

You let out a small laugh, and Wednesday felt some of the tension in her muscles relax. You seemed a bit livelier and less wound up, literally. But reassurance was only half of the solution, and now it was time to utilize the other—distraction.

Reaching down into her bag, she pulled out a folder and flipped it open. You watch her, curious.

“What’s that?” you asked, studying both her and the folder in her hand.

“The manuscript for the current novel I’m writing.” She sighed through her nose, turned to you. “Would you like to hear it?”

You gaped, mouth dropping open in shock. She waited patiently as you struggled to formulate a response.

Finally, you sputtered, “You…you’re actually letting me read one of your novels?”

That wasn’t technically correct. She asked if you would like to hear it not read it, but she let it slide. “That is what my offer entailed, yes.” She looked away, flipping the folder closed. “Unless you don’t want to—”

“No!” you interrupted, wings flaring slightly in alarm. “No, I—I do, I promise.”

Wednesday nodded, opening the folder again and removing the manuscript. She looked down to the opening sentence and, swallowing the pesky bout of nerves that suddenly rose, began to recount Viper’s latest gory adventure.

Once she started reading, she didn’t stop, only sparing quick looks at you between chapters. She also made no comment when you slowly began to inch closer to her. Even when you wrapped her in the warmth of one of your wings, she read on with only the smallest of hitches in her voice.

Eventually, the storm passed. The rain slowly subsided, and dark clouds dissipated to reveal the rising moon’s luminous glow.

By that time, Wednesday was around 40 pages deep, tucked under your wing as she narrated her story. You were now right beside her, silently reading along with her as she spoke.

She trailed off after the last sentence of chapter three when she felt eyes on her. Looking up, she saw you already looking back at her, a small, disgustingly soft smile creeping up on your face.

Her eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Nothing, just…thank you for always doing this. You don’t have to, you know.”

“I know,” she said simply, “and I’m here anyways.” Briefly, she turned back to her manuscript before turning to you again. “Would you like me to continue?”

“Please,” you whispered. “I really like it so far.”

“Of course you do, I wrote it,” she stated, stifling the rush of warmth that came with your approval of her work. Her confidence was rewarded with another laugh and the accompanying stutter in her heartbeat.

Flipping the page to the start of chapter four, Wednesday ever so slightly leaned against your side and began reading once more, knowing that in spite of circumstances, there was nowhere else she would rather be.

[xewanu]

HELLO FELLOW SPLATLANDIAN, LITTLE "COLOR THEORY" LESSON HERE

In today's episode ? The symbolism of the green//pink theme in Splatoon

Okay so it all goes back to the great turf war. It seems to have been the first ever color picked, representing octolings vs inklings. We all obviously know that inklings won, pretty unfairly, and octos were pretty much forced to step back. Ever since, the green//pink and inkling//octo themes have been omnipresent in the Splatoon universe.

In Splat 1 comes Callie and Marie. They are not opposed as octo vs inkling, yet pick a side in a Splatfest (Octopus vs Squid, won by Callie, on the 10th of October 2015, Squid side), and end up opposing to each other, as Callie vs Marie. The outcome is clear, Marie wins, Callie is sad about it, and joins her pink theme by joining the octo troups (I'd REALLY like to know how the pink//green theme would've been handled if she won). So yeah, the Squid Sisters give us a continuity that Splatoon 2 MASSIVELY used LOL.

So let's continue with Off The Hook, shall we ?

First of all, can I point out the fact the colors are not the exact same bright pink and green we knew this far ? Yes ? Alright thanks. MARINA RAN AWAY !!! SO SHE'S GREEN !!! You have no idea how I love the entirety of these colors symbolism, reader. But yep, Marina is obviously green because she rejects her past, as seen in the Octo Expansion logs. Also, her color ressembles very slightly sanitization. A mutation. You following me this far ? I find Pearl being pink actually adorable, her color isn't THIS muted. It fits Marina, and also implies hey, no octoling racism here. Zamn this making me tearful.

Continuation to the green//pink linked to squid//octopus is this. I REALLY love the possible yin yang reference with the shirts btw. We think inklings are so good and perfect, but maybe there's evil within them, to the opposite of octolings, who are actually not as mean as depicted by Craig. I'll also point out the inkling in the poster is smiling, fist clenched, confidently, as the octoling is a bit less self assured, looking concentrated. The need to win for their nation, teehee okay sorry I'm reaching :3

Oh you knew it was coming you DEFINITELY knew. Yup. Agent 24. To me they sign the end of this stupid "inkling vs octoling" war. 3 first saves 8, 8 then saves 3 and Craig (And Inkopolis but yeah LMAO.) To me it really means "This is where we end the fight", 3 sees the potential in 8, and doesn't see them as an enemy nor a threat, but a partner (NOT ROMANTICALLY SPECIFICALLY, you ship who you want, but they do seem like they respect each other). Splatoon 3 doesn't return with pink//green, or inkling//octoling. We can play an octoling, who fights octolings, to protect octolings. Our ink is just yellow, we fight non octo bosses. We fight along Octavio. The band is red, yellow and blue, the primary colors. Harmony, although their principal song's called Anarchy Rainbow. All colors mixed together :'0

Okay, thanks for coming to my ted talk BYYYE.

[stsgluver]

synopsis. gege ensures that you’ll never really get your satoru back.

wc. 750

"chairs?" you raised an eyebrow at ieiri who placed two foldable chairs down side by side, gesturing for you to take one. satoru’s glasses were resting on the top of her head.

"comfort,” she said like it was obvious. a tone so dismissive and natural it almost wasn’t like you were about to potentially watch satoru die. if you even saw him at al. “it's been a stressful few weeks thanks to this idiot getting himself locked up."

you scoffed. an understatement to say the least.

it had only been nineteen days, but in those nineteen days everything had gotten so so so much worse. you hadn’t even had the chance to give nanami the memorial he deserved and your heart ached at the loss of your close friend. your heart completely fragmented into pieces, however, when you thought of megumi and his current state as sukuna’s vessel.

you weren’t sure if you’d be able to look satoru in the eye.

“hey,” ieiri grabbed a hold of your hand that had balled itself into a tight fist, knuckles turning white. “this will work. we’ll be okay.”

you give her a tight-lipped smile back, gently squeezing her hand in response. if you opened your mouth, all that would come out would be another broken sob. ieiri was basically your sister, but to lose all four people you’d started this mess of a world with… you’re not sure you had it in you to cope.

satoru was your tether to sanity. you hated the jujutsu world — it was an inherently misogynistic society built upon pillars of conservative outlooks. satoru had become this beacon of what could be and offered you a glimpse of a world where curses don’t dominate your every decision.

to lose satoru would be to lose a star. he was the foundations that kept the crumbling world stood and without him there’d be anarchy. without him you’d have nothing to lose.

"jacob's ladder!"

you’re brought back to

"missed me?" that voice.

you spun on your heel and yes, gojo satoru, the man you loved was standing right there. his blindfold was gone and his uniform ripped apart but he seemed to be in one piece. you were terrified to touch him, to speak to him, to acknowledge him.

because in your dreams, the moment you believed he was real you woke up. you didn’t want to wake up again. you were almost catatonic.

“baby? you’re still with me?” he sounded like he was teasing you, an airiness in his tone that anyone with ears could pick up on. but his eyes told a different story.

he was worried — terrified even. neither of you thought you’d see the other again alive.

“can i touch you?” he asked when you failed to respond to him. it wasn’t inappropriate, satoru was just scared you’d run off. he’d never seen you so on edge in all the years you’d worked side by side.

you meekly nodded and he cupped your cheeks in his hands, leaning forward to press a kiss to your forehead. the second you felt his lips on yours and you didn’t find yourself sitting up straight into bed, the dam broke. you all but collapsed into satoru. your very real toru.

his reflexes were quick and he caught you by the waist, holding you to him as he tried to comfort you with sweet reassurances into your ear.

you wanted to apologise but no words beyond your quietening sobs could be formed. instead, you cling to his shirt instead, willing for this contact to never end so you’d never have to live another moment separated.

“i love you. never forget that,” satoru kissed your forehead again, lips lingering as he breathed in your shampoo — well, his. despite the fact the constant reminder of what you couldn’t have pained you, you used his shampoo and wore his clothes far too large for you to just to be able to smell him. you were doing everything in your power not to forget.

your pull back slightly, just enough for an inch or two of space to be created as you tilted your head up to your husband. he looked ethereal despite all that had happened.

you opened your mouth to ramble your congested thoughts (i love you toru, i’m sorry about megumi, please forgive me. i could never forget you) but a jarring sound as you stiffening and tightening your grip on satoru.

sukuna’s laugh shattered any glimpse of peace satoru had brought back to you.

tags ! @bontensh0e !

since you wanted more xxx

[randomnessofthehighestorder]

My ranking of Arcane S2 soundtrack

Because they outdid themselves this season…

(Spoilers ahead)

Paint the Town Blue - Ashnikko came up with such a bop for our favourite Loose Cannon and her followers. Consider me a Jinxer for life! 💙

Ma Meilleuer Ennemie - this scene was so beautiful! Ekko and Powder dancing the night away, I could feel their chemistry from the other side of the screen. Timebomb shippers, rejoice! Oh, what could’ve been…

Enemy (intro version) - the song stayed the same for the intro, but the visuals! So much symbolism! My Film Studies brain and English brain were analysing like the wind! Also this song is a classic…

Come Play - as an Arcane fan and a Stay, it made me so happy that they were gonna be featured on the soundtrack, especially when I heard it in the most epic scene in the show: Zaun entering the war against Noxus, the twin cities united against a common enemy. (Stray Kids everywhere, all around the world!)

Remember Me - the intro was so hauntingly good and the main song was so beautiful. It always makes me think of the scene it came with: Vander’s watercolour memories of life before the bridge riot, which in turn makes me cry. This show really knows how to tug on my heartstrings…

Blood Sweat and Tears - I know Ambessa was the villain of the season, but you gotta admit, her song and music video was awesome! I mean, she proved herself worthy of life in front of the Kindred and survived being shot with an arrow, while being pregnant with Mel! She truly is the Matriarch of War. (And yes, that is her official LoL champion title)

Sucker - I had Ep 2’s opening on loop because of this song, it’s so good! The scene that went with it was so good too. Jinx walking through Zaun in the aftermath of Silco’s death, avoiding the Chembaron war at all costs. Man, it really set the tone for the episode…

Heavy is the Crown - this dramatic remix of the 2024 Worlds anthem was perfect for this scene. When the strike team pulled up in the council meeting, I was like “oh shit, it’s getting serious”.

Hellfire - Caitlyn was on a path of vengeance in this scene, but the animation was so cool! The strike team really tore up the Lanes…

Renegade (We Never Run) - I have never danced so much to a fight scene, but this song made me bounce as ass was being kicked. Jinx and Sevika are so badass!

What Have They Done To Us - when the family reunited, I cried so much! What a way to end an episode. The song made it extra sad… 😭

The Line - twenty one pilots outdid themselves with this song! But the scene it came with made me shed a tear lowkey. Vander’s memories fading away in favour for Viktor’s glorious evolution…

Fantastic - CaitVi finally hooked up! True love wins! 👩‍❤️‍👩 🎉

Cocktail Molotov - Vi’s emo pit fighter era was so cool, despite the fact that this was also her post breakup era. Take note: alcohol and violence is not the best way to get over a breakup…

Rebel Heart - another Djerv Jinx anthem and it’s glorious. A perfect way to set off a rebellion, anarchy style! 🤘

To Ashes and Blood - this scene was so epic. The boys going through an Arcane mind trip, while the strike squad battle Jinx and Sevika. This was when I realised shit was getting so real… (also those chants are Shuriman. For those LoL players and loreheads, IYKYK…)

Isha’s Song - she made the ultimate sacrifice to protect her mama. Rest in Peace, Isha… 😭

Wasteland - poor Jinx. She went through it this season. It made me want to give her a hug. 🫂 Hopefully she found peace and broke the cycle…

The Beast - a metal song for such a metal character. Warwick Vs Jinx was so terrifying and so awesome at the same. There’s a reason his champion title is the Uncaged Wrath of Zaun…

I Can’t Hear It Now - RIP Cassandra Kiramman. This scene was so beautiful and sad…

Spin the Wheel - I did not know Mick Wingert could sing, but this song was so adorable! Contrasted with the flashback from the other universe, it really showed how things are different there…

These songs were amazing and such great fits for the show! I wish this show never ended so we could get more amazing music collabs along with amazing animation… if you haven’t heard the soundtrack, go listen to it!

[lay-z]

the daughter and the huntsman | 1

captain j. price x female!reader

Summary: While most of what is left of society keeps fighting and trying to adapt to the new world order, some people are still desperately trying to fix things. Wrapped up in all of this mess as one of the best combatants left, Captain Price gets assigned a very special mission.

Warnings/Info: Zombie Apocalypse AU | 18+ | strangers to lovers; age gap; cussing; horror; blood/gore; eventual smut; angst; suspense; hurt/comfort; dark!content; canon-typical violence; multiple POV's

☠️ 》 Masterlist

》 This story is set in the same universe/timeline as my other CoD story 'knights in shining tactical gear'!

The Captain listens intently, sitting in his large office chair with his arms crossed in front of his chest and his legs crossed at his ankles while Kate Laswell briefs him on the latest status of the global pandemic from the safety of her office on the other side of the world.

Dead people rising and coming back to live only to become mindless cannibals craving human flesh by all means.

It's not something John has ever believed possible, no matter the horrors he's seen and experienced during his military career. Still, every known government keeps vehemently denying ever experimenting with biological weapons. Even though the proof is right in front of everyone's eyes, roaming every capital's city street.

Well, maybe the politicans aren't lying after all, no matter how shady and corrupt they are. It doesn't seem like anyone was prepared for this disaster. Everyone is equally screwed nowadays.

"You hear what I'm saying, John?"

John blinks a few times as his vision focuses back on the pixelated computer screen in front him. Perhaps he isn't paying as much attention as he should be.

"I'm uh -"

He sighs in defeat and rubs his calloused hands over his tired face. Not being able to sleep nor rest in the past 28 hours is slowly starting to show an effect, even on him.

"Could you repeat the last...uh part?"

Meanwhile, Kate shakes her head with that certain look of disappointed judgment yet compassionate understanding. His mother used to give him a similar one and it always hit John right in the gut.

"You should get some sleep and consider that an order, Captain. Surviving off cigars, black coffee, and rage can only take you so far and we still need you over there"

John snorts as he just wanted to reach for his cold cup of black coffee standing right out of frame. He stops mid-move and crosses his arms again with a shrug.

"Eh, could be worse. Ya know what sorts of stuff and blokes I've survived before. 'Tis little virus is nothing", he says with a nonchalant shrug.

Kate clicks her tongue, shaking her head again.

"Oh, but it is. It's even worse than we've ever imagined. Two weeks, give or take, and most societies and governments around the world will have failed"

"Haven't they already", John mutters under his breath then cranks his stiff neck from left to right until the muscles pop.

"Exodus. Anarchie. The imminent downfall of humanity, John. That's what I'm talking about here"

She speaks hauntingly now, enunciating every word with obvious distress and care. It's a tone he's never heard her use before, not even during past seemingly hopeless operations.

"Ya speak as if the world has ended already"

Her head drops forward, her shoulders heave and John sees that she sighs deeply while her hands stay folded as she desperately tries to keep her composure, and now he's really starting to feel bad.

"Kate?"

"Yes and no, it hasn't ended yet. Not quite yet anyways -", she finally answers coolly.

"As I was explaining before, while you were peacefully zoning out on me...With the resources we're still provided with, we've managed to gather and save the lead scientists, virologists, scholars, researchers, basically every big-brain person, and whoever we could get to come with us from all around the globe to work on a cure together"

John purses his lips and runs a hand through his wiry beard as he ponders the given intel.

"Sounds a lot like classified information to me. Something you usually wouldn't tell over a nervy, unstable internet connection"

Kate chuckles then, an out-of-character sound in this situation and she waves her hands dismissively.

"Well, usually dead people stay dead and don't come back to hunt the living"

Now John is the one to laugh.

"Touché"

A sudden knock on his office door alerts John and he straightens up in his chair before Gaz pokes his head inside the room.

"No worries, sir", the young Sargeant assures calmly. "Just wanted to inform ya that the squad is back from patrol"

"Any incidents?"

Gaz shakes his head as he enters the office and closes the door behind him.

"Is that Sargeant Garrick?", Kate asks curiously and John's focus shifts back to her as he gives a short nod.

"Well then -"

She straightens up in her chair, clears her throat, and reaches for something off-camera before she pulls up a black file.

"we might as well discuss the matters now."

"Matters? Plural?", John asks, his suspicion rising as he waves Gaz over to take up a seat across from him before he finally reaches for the cold cup of coffee. He'll definitely need more fuel to get through the rest of this briefing. Meanwhile, the Sergeant sits in one of the chairs as Kate begins to explain.

"One's an offer, the other more like a...request. The US government has organized several so-called Alpha Teams. They're comprised of nationwide special forces soldiers and we'd like them to operate globally to support and fight the outbreak in designated areas. With the help of the AT's we're trying to build and establish additional safe zones around the world -"

"I see where you're going with this, Kate", John butts in.

"I uh don't, sir", Gaz says, scratching the back of his neck.

"What I'm saying is that I'd like to recruit not only you to join one of our Alpha Teams, Sargeant Garrick, but the remaining members of the 141 as well"

The quantity of Task Force-141 has diminished drastically since word about the outbreak of an unknown virus in some remote village somewhere in the Amazon has first spread through rumors and whispers online until it turned into a full-blown pandemic within weeks.

Bloody hell, the Captain is one of the few officers left keeping the base and its inhabitants afloat. When everyone else deserted and fled, whether to go back home to keep their families and loved ones safe or because they simply couldn't handle their new reality, he stayed behind to fight for the rest of the living.

"Both Ghost and Soap are still MIA. We haven't been able to contact and regroup with either of them as of yet. Only members left on base as of now are Gaz and König, and I can't -"

"No, you're right, John. You can't.", Kate interrupts the Captain swiftly with a significant edge to her voice.

"Now, about that other request..."

Weary eyes, steel blue and framed by wrinkles as he squints, stare back at John when he glances into the rear view mirror.

Bloody hell, when did he get so old?

Worry lines.

That's what his mother would call those kind of wrinkles back in the day. A term used to make one feel better about oneself.

Worry lines, sure. They happen when you're on your own, watching your own back of necessity in a hostile environment, 24/7, and by god, John is on his own in this. Why did he agree to go on this mission again?

Oh, right, to help safe human kind. Bollocks.

He adjust his boonie hat over his forehead once more when the sun continues to reflect on the rear view mirror, blinding him.

During his travels, country roads have proven to be less blocked and risky than their highway counterpart, but accidents can happen anywhere and John is not in the mood to deal with anything going sideways now.

31 klicks.

Only 31 more klicks to Sheffield. Not that his mission ends then, no, but at least he's finally made it to the AO. A road trip of four hours, give or take depending on the traffic, has taken him six days to complete. Six fucking days. Thanks to the lack of running gas stations.

And the actual mission, a search and rescue, will only begin once he gets there.

At least Laswell was able to give him some intel, more like a clue.

"Try St. Roslin Children's Hospital first. She had just started working there when things got messy -"

Finding a needle in a haystack, that's what this mission is.

Perhaps John should knock on the woman's door first; see if she's still living in her flat before he goes out of his way to seek out a hospital which has been overrun by now most likely.

The Captain scoffs at his own thoughts but his eyes flick to the tattered map spread out on his dashboard; the location of the hospital marked and circled with red ink. Old school yet functional. He doesn't miss technology too badly.

Eventually, the warm, late summer sun gets overshadowed by the clouds chasing it since dawn, and John isn't surprised by the thick raindrops suddenly hitting the truck's windshield.

Tags: @itsasecrets-things @mildlyhopeless @ipoopedmypants47

[eldragon-x-moved]

Okay let's talk about how actually Bill is attached to Ford and genuinely sees him as a friend and maybe even likes him more than literally anyone else which was originally going to mainly revolve around Weirdmageddon, however I absolutely needed to add creator commentary and extra-canon in order to dig into Bill's mentality.

First, I'd like to point out this comment by Hirsch from the Sock Opera DVD commentary about how Bill views Mabel:

“Bill genuinely believes that Mabel’s kinda like him. He sees Mabel as a chaos agent. Like, Mabel has got a little bit of a seed of anarchy in her, she’s a little bit selfish, she likes to have fun at whatever cost. And Bill is all those things times a billion. So he thinks when he lays it all out for her like: ‘How about instead of being lame, you do something fun! And crush whoever you want in the process!’. He thinks that’s gonna go over. And he’s not wrong in seeing that side in Mabel but Mabel is a better person than Bill Cipher.”

as well as this bit from "Dipper's and Mabel's Guide to Mystery and Nonstop Fun" written by Bill:

Both which pretty much confirm that Bill likes Mabel and assumes they're alike based on a couple similarities, which adds up when you look at how he treats and interacts with Mabel in the show but let's not derail.

The point I'm trying to make here is that if Bill can get attached and relate to a twelve year old he's known for half a summer, it's pretty easy to imagine he probably feels similarly about a guy he's known for thirty years and is the character who by far has the strongest connection to Bill.

Of course for Bill to relate to Ford there has to be some similarity in the first place. And there are! You could compare Ford's willingness to build an interdimensional portal to gain knowledge and admiration to Bill's desire to reach beyond his own two-dimensional world and eventual attain of knowledge and power.

Of course, Ford isn't the first person to attempt to build a portal for Bill. But the similarities run deeper than that.

So you know how Ford's been ostracized for all his life and leaned into trying to be outstanding and special which was encouraged and made worse by Bill?

Because Bill namedrops the author of Flatland in the Bill Cipher AMA when asked about his birth dimension.

and on top of that, in Journal 3 Ford describes a dimension called Exwhylia which references Flatland and suggests Bill could have come from a similar dimension.

To keep it short for those unfamiliar, Flatland is a book about a place of that same name and describes it as a plane where three-dimensionality is incomprehensible, only the heads of society are allowed to know about other dimensions, the social system depends on a strict hierarchy, everything that risks deviating from the norm is shut down, may be worth mentioning here that triangles are near the bottom of the hierarchy too.

Yeah I don't think I need to really explain that Bill would absolutely hate it here and it's really jarring how much this place clashes with him.

Anyway do you see where I'm going with this? Bill probably being shunned by his world and Ford's whole deal?

About the leaning into being special thing, Flatland people are really just. people but shapes. So to me it implies Bill didn't always have his powers (on top of him literally saying "I wasn't always this way" in Weird 3 while talking about his newly gained powers and before talking about his old dimension). Can you imagine how much gaining those brought out the worst in him? I think he was already self-centered before but now he has more reason to see himself above others.

Now obviously, Bill just claimed Ford was special and called him his friend as a manipulation tactic, but it's significant to remember that we're talking about the guy who said this:

and is pretty much confirmed to apply this mindset to himself:

I think that while yes, Ford and Bill's friendship started out as nothing but manipulation on Bill's part, he really grew attached to the guy based on what they had in common.

Unfortunately, Bill does the same mistake with Ford as he does with Mabel and assumed he's more like him than he really is. I mean,

Bill wrote this into the Journal during Ford's paranoid era. And I don't think he's just rambling because he says "don't you understand" and "I ask you" which very much sounds like he's trying to be convincing.

Anyway, yeah I think this scene from Weirdmageddon 1 was really another genuine offer, rather than just plain and simply Bill mocking Ford.

Also Weirdmageddon 2 pretty much proves to me that Bill does see Ford as special. Just look at how he's always carrying golden Ford around in contrast to all the stone-turned townsfolk being built into his throne. Literally special treatment! In a bad messed up way.

Also a big fan of this episode showing that Bill does not care about the well-being of his so-called friends (which is even more outright in the uncut storyboard version of this scene)

really cementing the fact that not only does Bill see himself above mortals, but above everyone and really the only apparent reason they are friends is because they support Bill and he thinks they're fun.

So yeah it is absolutely possible for Bill to regard Ford on a similar level as them, maybe even above them. Finally, let's talk about the penthouse scene because I have a lot of feelings about that one.

-

After attempting to charm Ford, Bill's first move in trying to negotiate is talking about his old dimension and how restricting and narrow-minded it was. Already brought this scene up earlier but honestly the fact that he just drops that on Ford is wild to me.

Like, this is the same guy who, according to the Axolotl, yearns for his old dimension but denies to himself that he deeply regrets destroying it. Bill hates showing vulnerability. He hates even acknowledging it. He only cares for vulnerability if it comes from other people for him to exploit!

So him telling Ford that his dimension was awful and he was genuinely miserable there is huge. Not just him telling Ford that, but also just the expression? The tone? This is the most sincere Bill has ever been throughout the show and possibly the most sincere he's been in decades, centuries, millennia, God knows. Even if it's still filtered through a lie he's been telling himself for most of his life.

And yeah obviously, Bill was desperate and needed Ford to help him at this point but I think it would've been "easier" for Bill to just. Maybe try and solve the barrier problem himself. Ford figured it out, so surely Bill can at least try instead of, Idk, laying his heart out to the person who has dedicated his life to killing him.

I think Bill tried to make Ford relate to him in this scene for the sake of getting him to join but also maybe, just maybe, Bill craved connection? Dude's a lot more sentimental than he seems and lets on and spending an eternity only befriending people who you'll put below yourself after killing everyone you've ever known has got to get lonely.

Not that I think Bill truly saw ford as an equal, Absolutely Not, but I think Bill saw in Ford someone who could understand him. Someone who, at least for a short time, just simply enjoyed and appreciated his company as a friend. Maybe even a more naive version of Bill himself who hasn't yet realized what's good for him, which is really ironic because Ford is the one ended up stirring his life into a positive direction where he can be truly happy again, while Bill revels in his own misery.

Well. So much about this eleven second long scene I think about way too hard 👍

Bill then goes into his whole tangent about just trying to free the dimension of restrictions and making it into a fun and better world which is reflected in the Journal 3 messages from earlier and ends up on this:

Because this is what Bill believes to be Ford's ideal. He wants knowledge and admiration? Why here you go! Surely there's no reason Ford wouldn't agree to helping Bill now, right?? He's offering him everything he could ever want! He'd be part of his group! Everyone gets what they want!

And again, yeah Bill could've just made things up and immediately tossed Ford to the side as soon as he would've given him the equation to break the barrier, but that little scene where he talks to Ford about his old home dimension just. Really drives it home for me that he does in some way truly sees Ford as his friend. Y'know, on top of literally everything else I talked about here.

-

EDIT: Like the fool I am, I forgot to bring up a point about Bill keeping Ford alive during Weirdmageddon despite Ford posing a huge threat to him which is odd but uuh just read this, it pretty much covers it.

[ricardian-werewolf]

Take Me to War.

Chapter 1: If not to heaven, then Hand in Hand to hell.

Gwayne Hightower X Original Female Character. (slow burn, Medieval perceptions of marriage and womanhood)

Sunne in Splendour x House of the Dragon.

Word count: 3.48k words.

AN| This is the first time the author has written for Gwayne Hightower, so please be kind! The author also only has a surface level knowledge of House of the Dragon/Game of Thrones, so please be courteous when making comments or suggestions. The Author is a history student with a special interest in the Wars of the Roses and Ricardian sources, so knowledge of that period will be largely correct.

Summary:

Reeling from the battle of Bosworth Field, fifteen year old Cecily-Anne is a princess without her throne, family, or hope. Forced to play her hand with both hands tied; a seemingly mystical intercession forces her into a world that is shockingly similar to the England she knows, yet also drastically different. It is there as a mere lady in waiting, that she is forced to pick a side in a war that has been played over in her England for decades. It remains to see as to whom will come out from this "Dance of Dragons," unscathed and whole.

Tws: Brutal violence, implied sexual violence, sexism of the medieval period, religious mention, brutality.

Taglist: @lordbettany, @rmelster, @portiaadams, @mihrsuri

If you liked it, please reblog and comment! Every kind word keeps more of them coming!

Blood flecked Cecily-Anne’s face, her skirts and hands. She stared down at her palms, running them together as if she wished to clear the mess. Raising her head, she could only stare in wide-eyed horror as Henry Tudor’s sword drove its tip into her father’s chest. The crunch caused her to flinch visibly. No one had bothered to remove her from the camp, to put her into sanctuary. All of the chaos of the battle had left her here. She was supposed to have only observed the preliminary actions and then been swiftly retired to the nearby Grayfriars priory in Leicester. 

But now she stood at the hands of the most likely man next to kill her.

Or wed her. He could wait, for certes. She was only ten-and-five years, not even yet showing signs of womanhood. But to a country teetering blindly towards anarchy, this was the only movement forward to solve so many problems. However, as she shifted uneasily from foot to foot. With her skirts turning soiled with the still-warm blood of her father, Cecily remembered Elizabeth Woodeville’s many daughters. Maybe he would choose one of them, and leave her well enough alone. Maybe clemency would work with this…. Bastard of a prince?

She would refuse to bend her knees and acknowledge him as the god-chosen king. No. The rite of the crown would go to Teddy. Or passing him, Meg. She would need to make arrangements, seek out Johnny and Kathryn. They would need to know of Richard’s death.

Suddenly, a hand clenched around her upper arm and she shrieked, blindly lashing out. 

“My lady, please!” A voice hissed. Female, french sounding. Véronique de Crécy. Cecily looked up into the lady-servant’s face and caught the tears forming on her lashes. “Do not cry out. You have been granted the right of sanctuary with the nearby nunnery. They are doing this out of the mercy of your womanhood, Chérie.”

“Mercy?” Cecily hissed as Véronique dragged her from the battlefield. She could only watch silently with doe-wide eyes as her father’s corpse was stripped to the flesh. Then, it was dumped over the back of a steed. “No-” She began to scream, thrashing in her mother’s servant's arms. Another hand clamped over her lips, silencing her.

“Do not make a sound, Princess. Keep very, very quiet.” Francis Lovell hissed. “It is horrific, yes, but this is what Tudor dictates, and we must bend the knee or be slaughtered.” He effortlessly dragged her through the leagues of white-tented campsites to a waiting horse and litter. Mistress Burgh, who had tended to her since infancy, examined her skirts silently. 

“By the holy mother-” She began, then looked into Cecily-Anne’s whitened face. “Come, lovely. We must be getting you home.” 

“My F-father-” Cecily jerked her head up as she watched the white rose being put to the torch. Suddenly, the fight drained from her and she fell to her knees, the veil of her hennin swimming about her face like gossamer wings. “No, please, No!” She sobbed, wrenching off her hennin and veil with a firm tug. Her hair fell from its pins, spilling about her face.

“What is the meaning of this?” A voice sneered. “I find it most…” Cecily looked up into the face of a man who she would forever remember. Standing over her, clad in plate armour of pure silver with work of ferns and ivy was Thomas Builder, retitled Thomas Melbourne. A minor lord, he had backed her father until the end, and then revealed his hand when Tudor had taken the advantage. His eyes gleamed like emeralds in the watery sunlight shimmering overhead, and he bent down to lift her chin. 

“Unfaithful to your late Father, Princess.” His voice was velvety, meant to be soothing. But it merely made Cecily more vicious, more angered. She whacked his hand aside and bared her teeth. She raised her hand, and formed a fist. Her father’s knights who had served him now formed a Testudo around her. 

“Ah, princess.” Melbourne sneered again. “These men are traitors. They ought not rush to thy defence.”

“They shall.” Cecily rose on unsteadily feet, but squared her shoulders. The moment of grief within her was pushed down deep inside her, and she shut it away. She would not allow herself to show how much she hurt. He would not see how much she longed to lie down in the blood-splattered grass where her father had fallen, and implore God and his saints to take her too.

Please, Holy Mother, protect me from this man’s aims and evils. She prayed silently, her fingers sliding to the crucifix around her neck. Suddenly, she gasped as Melbourne parted the Testudo around her, ignoring the pike-axes grazing his cheeks. His hand snaked up and grasped hers. His eyes blazed with pure hate, and he grabbed the crucifix in hand. It did not burn him, which Cecily hoped it would. She could only sob as Melbourne yanked the chain forward, dragging Cecily along with it. She was pulled from the safety of her knights and thrown roughly to the ground. 

Around her, a cheering and jeering group of Tudors’s soldiers had gathered. At their head was Margaret Beaufort, clad in mourner’s black. Briefly, Cecily was reminded of her mother’s poisoned words against the mother of Tudor. She flashed her teeth again, snatching out a hand to grab something. But her hand was pinned under the black-metal foot of Count Adhemar’s boot.

“There she is.” He crowed as Tudor pushed through his men and raised his visor to regard her. “What a wonderful wife she would make for you, Your grace.”

“You deem him your king?!” Cecily snarled, crying out as Melbourne grabbed her hair and pulled her head back with a sickening crack. Looking up at him from below, Cecily was able to see his lengthened canines, and she shuddered in horror. It seemed as though not only was Tudor ungodly in his mortal affairs, he consorted with demons to win him victories.

She crossed herself, murmuring the lord’s prayer under her breath.

“She should be killed, Henry.” Margaret cried. “If she is not, she is a threat to your legitimacy. Any son she bears and the blood of the Yorks remains stronger than ever.” 

“There is still the matter of those two boys. Tell me-” Tudor turned now to Cecily, and stepped over her so that his legs were on either side of her hips. She looked up at him even though she couldn’t look him in the eye. Her breaths came in heavy, rapid gasps as Tudor grabbed her by the chin and lifted her head.

“Did your father kill the princes, girl?”

“No!” Cecily cried instantly.

The smack of his ringed hand to her face made Cecily cry out again. Around her, even some of Tudor’s knights were making murmurs of discontent. No one struck a princess, or made a movement against her. Yet, Cecily knew easily how vulnerable she was. With no strong woman such as her grandmother to speak in her defence, she was powerless. Véronique’s words were as good as naught.

“Then where did he put them?”

“I have no knowledge of where-” Cecily sobbed again as Tudor rained down another blow. She was saved a third as Margaret’s hand reached out and pulled Henry’s fist back. “Please, no. Do not taint your victory with such sin. God will find it distasteful.” 

Please, Holy Mother, protect me from this man’s aims and evils. 

Tudor glared at his mother and then Cecily. His thumb stroked her thrumming pulse point, and then he spat in her face. “Be glad that my lady mother raised me to be merciful. If I was not, I ought to put you in your place as you deserve, wench.”

Cecily shuddered. 

She watched with widened, fear-filled eyes as Tudor’s men departed with their king at the head. Atop Tudor’s head was the crown of King Edward, the very crown that had been affixed to her father’s helmet. A sob burned through her lungs and she pressed her knuckles to her streaming eyes. Wrapped in the spanish silks she had been gifted as part of her engagement to Joanna of Portugal’s younger cousin, Cecily-Anne Isabel Plantagenet knew that without a doubt that she was a marked woman.

As she was helped into the litter by Véronique, Cecily watched as Tudor’s men took down the White Rose of York. Her breath hitched as the Whyte Boar of Gloucester was unpinned from her father’s command tent. His squires who’d survived the battle were lined up in order of age. She watched with wide eyes devoid of all emotion as a barber surgeon and priest went about taking confession. Then, they were beheaded in front of the spot where her father had taken mass just that morn.

The battle of Redmore Plain had lasted a scant few hours, but the impact would fester for weeks. As the wheels of the litter began to turn and Cecily’s few knights fell into step beside the litter, the princess pressed a hand to her mouth and wept without shame. She clung weakly to her mother’s crucifix and the ring on her finger that had been the coronation ring of her father’s. Tudor would forge another ring, another crown; another state.

All of the work her father had done would be ashes and cinders. The North would not go quietly, which brought her some level of comfort. But their refusal to bend the knee would bite them soon enough. Sin had come over England with the miasma of plague, and it would stay thus until either the Tudors were ousted, murdered or ran out of heirs.

Pressing her hand over her eyes again, Cecily sighed deeply. 

“Write to Manuel and please inform him that the wedding is…” She waved a hand in front of her face. “Annulled. Ensure the Church knows also. I am certain they will be flooded with requests of dispensations for Tudor and whomever he chooses as his lady wife.” She looked to Véronique, who gave a quiet nod of acknowledgement.

“And you, cherie?”

“I believe I shall take a night in that nunnery you inquired for me. In the morn, we shall see where I am going. Whether it be the Tower Greene or the wilds of Bruges, I shall be excited to know.” swirling the cup of wine handed to her, Cecily drank deeply. Grief and shock had made her caustic. She would not wish to be anything other than that. As she drank more, she turned to debating in her mind how she would subvert Tudor’s wills for her execution. 

She should be killed, Henry.

She is a threat to the crown!

Was that same thing not spoken of about her Aunt Elizabeth? The very woman who had seduced her uncle to the bedchamber and made him a father to several children of health and vigour? Had that not been said of her own mother, whose wealth of lands in the north along with Aunt Isabelle set up a bloodless war between her father and mad uncle George? Had the women not birthed two sickly children for both sets of parents? Had fate not delivered her brother to God’s embrace far sooner than expected? Then a scant half-year later her own mother? 

Cecily smacked her hand against the wooden screen, and screamed low in her throat. She was well and truly alone, left to shoulder the burdens of a crown cracking more with each passing hour. The lords of London would throw the gates wide to the invaders, burn Crosby Place and Baynard’s to the ground. She would be bereft of a husband to-be, left to rot in a Court that would not place her in a position of honour. She would have to bend the knee to play favour, but her actions a few hours earlier would drive that thought from Tudor’s mind with the swiftness of a spring breeze.

Compline found Cecily-Anne kneeling before the altar of the Blessed Virgin Mary, her mother’s crucifix chain in her fingers. She had always found solace in prayer, not for the religious aspects, but the simple acts of running her fingers through the beads. The easy recitation of her prayers and catechisms soothed her. She always had a list in her mind of who to implore on behalf of the Father for His favour - the poor, sickly, needy. Her family members who suffered more than most came second. As part of her selfless devotion that some saw as frenetic, while others viewed it as a sign of true humility, Cecily wore a long veil and forgoed a prayer kneeler. Her heavy skirts of velvet and stiffened brocade did well enough. The order of Augustinian Canonesses had taken kindly to the young princess and put her at once into sanctuary. As an order of 1337 nuns confined to the limits of the priory’s property, they were over-delighted to have a guest. After supping in her rooms, Cecily had gone with the younger initiates to pray Compline before retiring. 

As she turned her face upwards to Mary’s figure with her arms spread out in a gesture of welcome and warmth, Cecily prayed to one woman only.

Her lady mother.

“Maman, I implore you. Please, let me know that I am not in vain to ask for you. Let me know that my pain is not all I shall feel. T-there is no way forward for me that I see. You always spoke to anyone who asked that I could solve my way out of any problem the Lord put before me, and now I find myself without.” Tears dripped down her face and she angrily shook her head, slamming her fist into the floor. The nuns who prayed quietly behind her stilled in their prayers at the sound of her fist. 

Cecily shot them a look and made the sign of the cross without breaking eye contact. Her devotion would be unshakable. The chapel at Middleham bore marks of her nails in the soft stone as she had poured out her grief in the days after Ned’s death. Now, she drew her nails once more down the expanse of stone. One scratch for her mother, one for her father, and another for Ned. 

“Please, Maman. I beg of you, do something. I cannot live in an England that is without the security of your light, of Father’s judgement. I can only implore the Lord for why he chooses to test me.” She bowed her head again. “I beg that Father is at peace, for some knowledge that he is safe, that he is happy to be reunited with you and Ned again. Please, do not worry for me. I am as well as I can be.” She wiped a tear from her eyes. Yet, they seemed to not stop, even as she forced herself desperately to not cry in the Lord’s house.

“Child…” The Mother Superior murmured. Cecily jerked her head away. She hated to be touched, to be perceived. She brought her hand up, to quieten the woman. The blood froze in her veins suddenly as the Mother Superior grabbed her hand, and then she heard a harsh voice that was her mother’s hiss; Open your eyes!

Cecily’s eyes flew open, and she recoiled. For where the statue of Mary had stood was now a cut. A cut in the space of the room, that through it showed… another space - a field with trees in the distance. It was unheard of. No miracle such as this had ever been written of in a canonical history or court romance. Cecily’s head jerked up and she looked at the Mother Superior. 

“D-do you see that?”

“Yes.” The Mother breathed, her hands clammy around Cecily’s. Her skin itched painfully and longed to tug her hand free. Yet Cecily stayed in that woman’s grasp as the Mother pulled herself up from a kneeling position. Cecily’s fingers instinctively closed tight around the crucifix chain and she ran it over her lips. 

“Speak to me again, Maman.” She whispered, her lips barely moving.

Go forward. The cut will not hurt you, child.

Cecily shuffled forward, her skirts swishing as she moved. Her skirts, the ones still caked with her father’s blood. The deep blue was stained a runny wine-dark purple and caked in a scent so foul that the other nearby nuns had their noses pinched. In the flickering candlelight, they looked like demons sent from the very brimstone and fires of Hell she feared. Somewhere deep in the back of her mind, Cecily was half conscious of the fact that her mother never called her “Child.” Yet, the grief of so much loss…. Made her feel the exhaustion within her more sharply.

Crossing the nave before the altar, she stared up at the cut with widened eyes, and reached a hand out to touch it. Instead of the pain of burning or the cold of snow on a winter’s night, she felt merely warmth. Through the ugly gash, she could see waving grasses in a stiff breeze, and squinting, making out the forms of men waiting amongst the trees. Some of them were on horses, and she wondered if they could see her. What a shock they’d get! 

The cut will not hurt you, child. She remembered her mother’s words spoken just moments before, and looked back at the nuns. They had gathered together in a small grouping at the back of the chapel, and amongst them she saw Véronique gripping Francis Lovell’s hand tight in hers. What stilled her suddenly was the expression on Véronique’s face - pure, unadulterated fear. 

Go! Go, and do not look back, child!

Cecily’s head turned to look back at the cut and she stared once more through it, her hand still stretched out in front of her. The crucifix dangling from her hand caught the sunlight filtering through the trees, and she smelled the scent of freshly hay. Distantly, she felt as though she was back at Middleham, playing with Ned and Kathyrn and Johnny. Tears filled her eyes again and she closed them as her mind wandered. 

Yes, child. Step through. You are almost home. Just another step-

Cecily could feel the sunlight on her hands; her face, and she turned her palms upwards towards the light and warmth. Yet, suddenly, the sounds of screams filled the air. Looking down, Cecily’s face turned to horror as she stepped not on freshly cut grass but blood-stained earth. An earth-shattering roar split the air as she looked up to the sight of a dragon armed with a rider opening its maw wide. A column of liquid fire flowed from its gaping jaws and set the forest before it ablaze. The men under it, clad in deep green tunics with a silver tower were swiftly enveloped in the flames and a horrific screaming sound met her ears. Throwing her hands over her ears, Cecily turned back to look for the cut.

She found it gone. 

“MAMAN!” She screamed. “What is the meaning of this?!”

A test, child. You implored for my judgement.

“A TEST?!” Cecily shrieked. 

I am the holy mother, all who worship me are tested in some way or another at some point. This is yours. Take with it what you will.

The warmth she’d felt turned shockingly cold, and Cecily cringed back, fear filling her veins with cold sand. Around her, men screamed, crossed swords and brutally massacred one another. Stumbling blindly, she turned whatever way was quietest, and began to stumble across the battlefield that would later be called Raven’s Rock. As she reached what she hoped was a line of tents consisting of faces who would be willing to listen to her tale, something sharp and long embedded itself in her leg.

The ground tilted dangerously under her, and Cecily’s face smashed into a jagged rock. Atop the rock’s surface she felt soft lichen caress her cheek, and barely had time to fist the crucifix more tightly into her fingers. The next moment, the darkness of injury and exhaustion washed over her with the strength of a tide, and she was dragged into its swell.

Over her head, two soldiers bearing the same uniforms she’d seen earlier discussed what to do with this princess in a tongue she didn’t know. After a few moments more, a knight with ginger hair and emerald green eyes came to survey her chaining up. He took his helmet from a squire and left at once to take up arms against a foe who was merely his sister’s closest friend and the supposed former heir of the Iron Throne. The false Queen Rhaenyra had made war against Alicent Hightower’s chosen son and it was unto this war that Princess Cecily-Anne was dragged unwillingly into. A war that was set to shape a generation and dynasty had merely changed time and space, but the rules were the same - a woman’s place was not upon the battlefield. 

End of Chapter 1.

[varusha-asmoday]

Hehe I have a few questions, hopefully I'm not bothering you ^^

Do you believe hell is an actual place? I've seen some people argue that the demons are spirits, therefore have no bodies, so they don't reside in a specific place. There's no hell country, no intricate Geography or politics and stuff like that. Just little bubbles created by the demons. What's your opinion about that?

How do the spirits interact with eachother? What's the most interesting interaction you've experienced?

That's all for now ^^

~ 🐈‍⬛

Oooh yes these are such good questions!!!

1.) YES! I believe Hell is a place but it’s not a place like Germany or Jupiter where it’s a place that resides within a physical space. Hell is a place in the same way that your mind, your dreams, and your astral plane are places. Hell, and all other realms like it exist in the astral, a spirit world, separate but parallel to our own. There’s no physicality to them, at least to the degree that we’re familiar with physicality (atoms and molecules and all material etc.) Hell is an incredibly diverse realm, and all the spirits and entities that inhabit it have their own realms or “bubbles” as you called them. These realms are given form as they are shaped by those who occupy them. Think about when you do meditation/trance and you enter your own astral space. Everyone’s space is different, unique, and constructed by them. My astral space is a swampland, yours may look like a forest, a palace, a cave, etc. Those are all spaces in their own way. Now just imagine that on a larger scale, where there are several of these planes that are able to interact with one another and exist as a collective. That is Hell. There’s a lot more to it, but that’s the basics of what I’ve figured out so far.

2.) To give you the short answer, they interact with one another no different than we do. We as humans are physical beings that possess consciousness and that is how we interact with one another in the ways that we do. Spirits, although they lack physicality, they still possess consciousness. They ARE consciousness. Now, this isn’t true for ALL spirits and gods, but it applies to most. Not all spirits possess a will of their own, but all spirits have their natures— the ways they behave and the roles they play in the universe. I’m getting a little sidetracked, but this is something I plan to dive into further in my future posts. As for the most interesting interaction I’ve experienced, it’s a tie between two instances: how Satan and Asmodeus interact and how Lucifer and Asmodeus interact. While Hell is a domain ruled with freedom and individuality, it isn’t total anarchy. There’s actually a lot of bureaucracy and politics in Hell. That is the end of Hell that Lucifer primarily works with, while Satan rules over the harsher parts of Hell. What Satan has repeatedly told me is that Asmodeus has a history of taking him to court over various matters with the intention of getting something out of him. Satan is not a man of politics so one can imagine it rarely works in his favor, so a lot of the time I am interacting with the both of them, Satan is exhausted and irritated with Asmodeus. Funny enough, it’s a different outcome when it comes to Lucifer and Asmodeus, where instead Asmodeus is the one that is exhausted by Lucifer. I’ve had it happen on many occasions where I’m working with Asmodeus and he’s teaching me some skill and Lucifer cuts him off and takes over because he feels he would be a better teacher than him. So those two are almost always fighting with one another when they’re around me. When my gods have these disagreements and fight with one another, it’s never out of hatred for one another— it’s actually quite the opposite. They’re all spirits of Hell, and they’re all on the same side and work together on all things. It’s just that they’re so rooted in their own natures and that they’re such pragmatic beings that disagreements arise and they do everything to eventually come to agreement with one another. But in the meantime, they sling insults at one another, take each other to court, gossip, etc. It’s fun to see that side of them and kind of be a part of it.

Hope these answers were helpful! Thanks for the ask! 💜

Ave.

[slyandthefamilybook]

If you don’t mind, can you explain why you want Israel to be abolished? Not in the anarchist sense of ‘I want all states abolished as an ideal’, but actually wanting it dismantled while states are still a thing. I think that’s your view anyway— I remember that, in the post heritageposts and his minions went after you for (really sorry about that btw, I’ve also been harassed on here but luckily haven’t had one of the big bloggers come after me), you said that you want Hamas to surrender and then after that have Israel dismantled. You don’t have to reply if you don’t want to, I’m just trying to understand that view a little more when it’s not egregiously Jew hating, even if I won’t agree with it, and also you seem like a very nuanced and compassionate person. I hope you’re doing well, and have a nice day!

It is very much in the anarchist sense. I don't think Israel is the only state that should be abolished; I think we should get rid of all nation-states. It's not something I've really had the opportunity to talk about much outside of the Current Situation so I understand that it may have come off like I think Israel is singularly...idk. Dismantle-able. I think we tend to think of these things in terms of immediacy; countries that are currently at war are constantly teetering on the verge of collapse and are therefore primed for anarchy. On the flip side we also often forget our political idealism when real people are suffering. No non-Jewish anarchist is calling for Hamas to be dissolved, despite the fact that they ostensibly abhor centralized government in all its forms. To them Hamas is the final bulwark between Israel and total decimation of the Palestinian population and so calling for them to step down in the anarchist sense is tantamount to signing the death warrants for everyone in Gaza. They're wrong, but the idea is sound. You can't defeat the mechanism that allows people to organize at a national level while its people are currently endangered. That's why I've said no "revolution" can precede peace which is where I differ from the Hamasniks who think the revolution will bring peace (because they don't care about the safety of the Israeli population). Ultimately I think liberalism is like a sword: it's a tool that I need because everyone else has one, much as I would rather none of us needed on in the first place.

Sorry if this is incoherent, I haven't haven't had my coffee yet. Tl;dr is: Would I like to see all nation-states including Israel be abolished? Yes. Do I think that will happen? Not in this lifetime, especially not with the Current Situation. So I'm not going to go around pretending it is, because then everything I do will be utterly useless

[eldelasuerte]

B..ba..baffy..?

(I'm so srry if I'm like spamming ur asks but I hope u don't mind)

Nah I'm open for asks ☺️ you're fine dude dw 🫶

Oohh I love this concept but it hits different for baffy

Bear with me

Daffy might not be exactly soft but he IS more open than bugs

On everything lol

This Is why Daffy is a rock, hes way better at managin his emotions than bugs

AND also why you could pair Daffy with any other character without resulting on him feeling wattered down

At their core all looney Tunes have a soft heart, thats what looney Tunes are about, about portraying intense emotions in a humorous light AND also anarchy lol, theres no situation that has no silly side

Baffy hits different because bugs and Daffy BOTH navigate violence separate and together

But whereas Daffy has to more often take the L bugs has to ALWAYS win (most of the Time)

Whereas Daffy is able to lose and still gets to keep his core intact

Bugs prudence, wit and stoickish (when used right hilarious) nature Is the thing that separates him from other characters

This is what makes modern bugs who he is, and while both parts (bugs and Daffy) are to blame on their eggshellish relationship bugs fault is this facade that keeps him from being authentic and forming a true connection to Daffy

And we could excuse it with hipothetically saying that if bugs, used to being the "bigger person" were to put his fear to vulnerability aside and actually reciprocate Daffys affection in a decent attentive way a partner does Daffy would still choose himself over it

BUT Heres my hc with Daffy, hes emotionally intelligent

he knows bugs well enough because theyve both been on the same situations, he knows how bugs responds to feeling cornered, he knows the facade, so when bugs does this thing of acting nonchalant he calls him on his bullshit, he knows bugs biggest pet peeve is his unability to let things go, he's obssesive and just as intense as he is and his efforts are not to bring the softness but the intensity out him, and bugs just wont give in because he cannot let Daffy get a rise out of him, that would mean he wins and bugs cant loose

Thats why theyre like that, they like eachother authentically

Daffy is constantly (alledgely subconciously) looking for the part of himself that he recognizes in bugs (bugs started as a copy of Daffy) but if bugs gives up on his facade, not only loses what makes him unique but also bc of the misscomunication usually present in their relationship, could be thinking on losing Daffys attention

Even tho Daffy is open and better at managin his emotions, he still has a looong way to go to be comfortable with normal affection even moreso with bugs

BUT theyre both also naturally sweet, this is where their passion comes from, so theres still hope for them, the thing with them is just how well balanced their dysfunctional relationship is, like you could think bugs Is the most "mature" but is actually Daffy who Is better at managin emotions as a normal individual, also the one whos open for the other one to be himself Is just bugs has layers and layers of repression for being put against the eraser so many times

And despite everything you cant really say bugs doesnt accept Daffy for who he is, he has limits with him, which yes make Daffy be better but heck you could say he is aware of his emotional walls that Daffy wants to tear down and this Is the reason he spoils him so much lol

theyre both soft with eachother in a way the other needs

Theyre both selfish in a way that doesnt help the relationship

[stellas-et-abyssum-vincite]

2:32 PM ~ *Chiori*

Summary: Working for Chiori isn't that bad. But you should really make sure her boutique is clean before she arrives...

Pairing: Chiori X G/N!Reader

Genre: Fluffyish Drabble

Word Count: 658

Warning: N/A

Masterlist

Working for Chiori isn't so bad if you remember to stay on her good side. And after working for her for a couple of years now, you've learned a handful of tricks to keep her happy. As long as you made sure she always had access to her favorite tea and treats, and that her workshop wasn't messy in any way, you were in the clear.

That's why you always hated new shipment day.

It was like the delivery people had never delivered a day in their life. You tried to be the first one in the shop on new shipment day so you could mitigate the stress of organizing and rearranging before Chiori even arrived. And every time you got to the shop, you would always find it an absolute mess that would last most of the day. It was frustrating to say the least, but it was even worse when you couldn't get the front room clean before Chiori arrived. It's not that she was ever mean to you, it's just she always gave that disapproving look before going about her business.

So you were currently up to your waist in fabric, trying to sort through the many boxes that Chiori ordered. You had to have everything sorted by fabric type, color, and pattern. If not there would be anarchy.

"The silk goes here... and the linen goes over there..." You mumbled to yourself as you sorted through the many different bolts of fabric. "Mustard yellow cannot go next to citrine, but it also cannot go next to cobalt."

Taking a bolt of maroon velvet, you hoisted it over your head and tried to put it in its proper place. But you threw yourself off balance, which in turn made you fall into a pile of satin. You groaned to yourself and took a moment to just lie there, frustrated with the mess you currently found yourself in.

"My, my. Someone is in quite the predicament." You heard Chiori chuckle from the front door. You didn't even hear the bell ring.

You tried to swim out from all of the fabric around you so you could properly greet her, but she had to help pull you up. There was just too much to go through and you didn't have enough time to go through it all. 

"Goodness, I didn't think I ordered that much..." She mumbled as she looked around at all of the fabric scattered everywhere.

You shrugged, dusting yourself off out of habit. "Well, the Spring Festival is coming soon and all the ladies in Fontaine will be begging for new dresses for the occasion. I'm not surprised you needed all of this for all of the orders that are sure to come your way."

"I suppose you're right." She pursed her lips as she continued surveying the shop. She then tsked under her breath and shook her head. "No, we simply cannot. Not today."

"Pardon?"

"We will not open today. There is simply too much work that needs to be done and I am not about to entertain potential clients in this mess. No, no, you and I will simply have to remain closed today so we can organize and clean. With so much work that will be coming our way very soon, this boutique can handle one day off, don't you agree?"

You nod at her explanation. Of course, any time Chiori said anything it all sounded very logical to you. "Yes, I agree."

"Good, now if you would please lock the door and keep the curtains drawn, I say we get to work." She nods before grabbing a bolt of chiffon and another bolt of taffeta. "And perhaps put a kettle on. I think I would like to completely rearrange the whole boutique while we're at it."

You suppressed your mild groan of irritation. Nevertheless, you knew better than to argue with her. Besides, it could be fun. "Yes, of course."

[downs1de-has-moved]

CHARACTER STUDY: DEAN WINCHESTER

Appearance

Is your muse tall/short/average?: Average, on the taller side (5'11")

Are they okay with their height?: He's okay with it. It's not like he can change it, and he hasn't heard any complaints about it.

What's their hair like?: Dean's hair is naturally dirt blond. He often sports a shaggy, messy look and doesn't style it, mostly letting it do its own thing. Regarding length, now it's medium, but he used to keep it longer.

Do they spend a lot of time on their hair/grooming?: No, only the basics, and as long as he doesn't look too messy, he's good to go.

Does your muse care about their appearance/what others think?: He used to, much more when he was younger. Over time, he realized that wasn't important because looks can be deceiving. He'll clean up if he has to, but he doesn't put much effort into how he looks on downtime.

Preferences

Indoors or outdoors?: Outdoors

Rain or sunshine?: Sunshine

Forest or beach?: Forest

Precious metals or gems?: Precious metals

Flowers or perfumes?: Flowers

Personality or appearance?: Personality

Being alone or being in a crowd?: Being alone

Order or anarchy?: Both

Painful truths or white lies?: Painful truths

Science or magic?: Science, by a slight margin

Peace or conflict?: Peace

Night or day?: Night

Dusk or dawn?: Dawn

Warmth or cold?: Warmth

Many acquaintances or a few close friends?: Few close friends

Reading or playing a game?: Playing a game, hands down

Questionnaire

What are some of your muse's bad habits?: Drinking a lot more than he should, hooking up with a lot of strangers, relying on sarcasm and witty remarks when he gets uncomfortable, and being overall pretty reckless with a tendency to charge headfirst into dangerous situations without thinking things through thoroughly.

Has your muse lost anyone close to them?: Plenty of people, starting with his mom at an early age, then his dad, followed by his girlfriend, and then his mentor.

What are some fond memories your muse has?: He has a lot of fond memories, despite all the bad he's been through, but his favorites are the simple, everyday ones, like hanging out with his brother, talking and laughing into the night. Or spending time alone driving his car, with the windows down and the radio up, feeling the wind and the road.

Is it easy for your muse to kill?: Yes. He wouldn't say it's easy, but it's part of the job, and he's done it enough that it doesn't bother him as much as it should.

What's it like when your muse breaks down?: When Dean breaks down, everything catches up to him: all the stress, pain, guilt—everything he's been bottling up comes spilling out at once. He gets angry and defensive and pushes people away, shutting himself off from everyone and isolating himself, drinking like there's no tomorrow, trying to find a way to drown it all out.

Is your muse capable of trusting someone with their life?: It doesn't come easy for him, but when he does find someone he can trust, he'll trust them with his life in a heartbeat. The list of people he trusts is short, including his brother Sam and the angel Castiel.

What's your muse like when they're in love?: Dean's quite intense when he's in love. He wears his heart on his sleeve, gets protective, and does anything for the person he loves. He puts himself in danger without a second thought as long as they're safe. However, he's terrified of falling in love because the only time he's done it, he's lost them, so he often holds back.

Tagged by: @amirneir (ty <3)

Tagging: @theweredrifter @amanandgoodatit @chingonaclaws @turnandface (Kieran) @ellevenie and you, reading this!

[darkdemeter]

Child Reader Fluff Crossover Darksiders/FF16 AU! What if S/O is the new Eikon of Leviathan, most known as Leviathan the Lost? And yes, I actually have seen the Rising Tide DLC, but this is just a What If AU. Anyway, S/O still originally came from the Earth version of Darksiders, but her Leviathan Eikon ancestor must have traveled from the FF16 Dimension and lived peacefully in the Darksiders Dimension, their descendants never once awakening the power...until now. What if she had awakened the power for the first time against Moloch? Like War and Strife were down and gravelly injured and S/O tried to save them with Potions and everything she can and Moloch spots her and is about to tear her apart while Strife and War watch in fear and rage, ready to force Anarchy and Chaos to come. Before Samael could step in, S/O, out of fear and wanting to protect War and Strife, transforms and is completely out of control with her water powers, damaging Moloch but obliterating the rest of his army and turning a lot of Hell into a steam bath. Despite being out of control, one thing she never let go was her desire to protect War and Strife, curling around near them to not let harm. In the end, after Samuel finishes off Moloch, S/O returns to normal after gentle coaxing from War and Strife, but is exhausted and deeply asleep and doesn't remember anything. Vulgrim and Samael examine her soul more closely and discovers a terrifying power hidden. Strife and War knew they can't return her back home just yet now.

・What If issue: Secrets Of The Deep・ GUIDE HER WAY HOME

⚤ (Platonic!) Strife and War x Female Child!Reader Depictions of violence and blood, angst ✎ 2.5k

✎ So this was originally going to be a comic, but then I changed my mind cause… *looks at script* my art isn’t there just yet. So yeah!

↳ MASTERLIST ・ ↳ TAGLISTS ────────────────────────

Deep in the dynasty of your family tree, there is a secret. A well kept and preserved one. It was to remain as such because of its potential to be used in the sway of Heaven and Hell.

Elrikka, the long since past matriarch on your mother's side, fled from her world when they came after her. The Empire. More so they were after what she was. The Eikon of Leviathan. Through the ripple of the void between worlds, she came to this one. Only then, was she and her babe safe. 

Each first born child carried the mantle to inherit the Eikon when their time is right and their predecessor returned to essence. But by generation, the secret was lost to the depths of the dynasty. Leviathan once again became The Lost in the bloodline you carry on��

“It’s a pity, Horsemen. I was expecting so much more.” 

“K—geugh!” A grunt muffled but the spittle of blood is forced from Strife as his chest is kicked into, pinned beneath Moloch’s foot. 

Strife’s unarmed hand clutches hold of his ankle to no avail. Any attempt he made to dislodge the master’s weight atop him was met by a sharpened talon embedding itself into his shoulder and ripping into his chest. 

“For a privileged pack of wolves meant to be feared… you’re just mutts chained in a yard.” Moloch’s words breath hard that the stench of his rotten breath causes Strife’s nose to recoil into a wrinkled sneer. 

Moloch only pushed his taloned feet deeper, earning a sharper, higher pitched whine from Strife as his body contorts, straining under the duress. Redemption right at his fingertips. 

Moloch’s grizzled mouth twists and spirals into a mangled, off centered grin capable of making any stomach churn. “What’s wrong, Horseman? No witty comeback?” 

“I–I’m gonna— Keugh!” Strife’s cut off by the vulgar slam of Moloch’s hand wrenching hold of his head, clasped hold of him as if he were already a skull to be admired in the palm of the master’s hand. 

“Save your breath,” Moloch tuts, “don’t bother making threats you can’t keep. You’re already dead… I’m just enjoying making it last.”

War’s body staggers in his attempt to even rise to his knees, elbows shuddering under the weight he intends to holster in his shoulders. His blood spills from his torso like sore splutters of a volcano ready to erupt, oozing and spaying out into a pooling heap around him until his armor is stained. 

Through the gaze of his blurred vision, terrible bruising and cuts sustained from the battle make it hard to see Strife’s predicament. It makes it harder to reach his brother. His hand reaches out only for his body to stagger and falter forward with a heaved grunt far too much of a burden for his lungs to carry. 

His sword… right there, Chaoseater lays before him in the dirt and mingle of its wielder’s blood, tasting it. He can taste the bile of it in the back of his throat, coughing until it coats over his tongue and tickles down his chin. 

“St–Strife…” War wheezes out just as he falls forward. His chest expands with a violent fit of coughing and then… he sees you. The last potion and you’re caught between who to give it to. It would be wise to give it to War. But it was in your best interest to get out of there. War sees that through your fear of what you see, your heroes brought to their knees, you’ve the look of determination to reach him. To give him the healing potion he needs to recover and save Strife. 

His very brother’s life weighs in the balance. His life does. 

But so does yours if Moloch sees you. 

War’s cowled head droops, shaking adamantly the moment you make to run to him. His eyes plead for you to run. 

You have to run. 

“L-little one…” War whispers, the verse of his plea dying into the wind. “Go…” 

Your bottom lip screws tightly inward into that pout and War knows far too well what it means. Your eyes glazed with a fat streamline of tears, you push through it with a huff and you run to him, the bottle you carry slowing you down considerably given that it’s practically the same size as you. But you heed not to the danger of Moloch. You cannot bear to see your heroes falter.

To see your older brothers defeated.

“B-baby! No!” Strife yelled out, his hand that was still tugging at Moloch’s leg to pry him off reached out for you to the point his fingers clawed the air in their strain to get to you. 

Moloch’s gaze was drawn to you. “Ah, a lamb to the slaughter. How fitting.”

The grotesque nature of his face marked by that ominousness that only a demon of his class was capable of. It makes both War and Strife’s stomachs churn. 

And as his newly acquired prey, with no Horsemen to protect you, he pounced. 

Anarchy and Chaos are at the end of their tethers, willing to be unleashed as Moloch’s shadow overtakes you. The force of his landing sends the dust against you, whipping you viciously and knocking you back. You clutch tightly to the healing potion and you land with a contorted jolt. Your arm stings and the fabric of your sleeve is torn, ripped into by the sharpened narrow of Moloch’s claws. Your mitten hand dabs at the wound and hiss.

That momentarily fleet of pain spurs within you the courage you need. For so long your Horsemen have been the ones to protect you. When you were the one to get knocked down, they lifted you back up. When a thousand swords rose against you, they were the first and only ones to shield you. No matter the blood and bruises, there was always a calm campfire, a warm supper to fill your belly and a bandage to assure you that you would never go without aid. 

It was your turn now to save them. Now more than ever, they needed you to shield them from the swords, to provide the bandages and assurance of safety. 

“Don’t you dare touch her!” War growls as he pushes himself up onto one knee, hand just curling around his blade’s hilt when Moloch beats him do it. 

No other being or creature could lift that blade other than the red rider. So Moloch got creative. He used whatever strength War had to his advantage and pivoted his own blade against him. Through his back, Chaoseater divided through flesh and bone until it breached the other side covered in a slickened layer of blood and embedded itself into the ground; pinning War to his knees.

Moloch moved in a dance of carnage with the symphony of pain he wrought. The agony reflected in your eyes and highlighted by the fire, that illumination of fear… of despair… It's empowering. 

Strife’s hand raised Redemption’s barrel with a wincing eye squeezed shut to take aim at Moloch’s head. Just one shot. That’s all he needed but the tension in his arm made his aim quiver, unfocused. 

“I won’t have you spoiling the fun now.” Moloch swung his body around and with ceremonious exalt, his tapering garb flowing around him, he spears his sword at Strife and its blade shatters the Horseman’s last resolve by striking him in the shoulder. 

Redemption is knocked from his hand with a curse yelled to the heavens. “I’ll fucking kill you, Moloch!”

How endearing it was to make petty, empty threats from his position. “Don’t be so hasty, Horseman. I want to revel in the pure, raw anguish in your failure to protect your little ward as I tear her apart.”

Moloch’s head turns slowly to look at you, followed by the pursuit of his shoulders and his body. He stalks towards you now and your eyes meet the blare of devilish depravity. Of cunning evil. 

“Sometimes… The heroes die in the end. And I like stories that have a tragic ending.”

“Baby!”

“Little one, run!”

So many voices from around you call out to you. Deep within a voice beckons you. Summons you to heed a call. That voice deep within calls your name but it is one you have never heard before. It sounds… familiar and yet, its cadence is not of your mother or grandmother. But she sounds… familial. 

“Leviathan… awaken.”

The current of that phantom winds manifests into something visible and very much powerful. Like a storm that envelops around you, Moloch is sent flying back before Samael could intervene to come to your aid. 

The master slides and skids to a halt as he drags his claws deep into the ground and his visage twisted into a scowl. You dare rebuke him with such… pathetic, mortal sorcery? 

But he is cruelly mistaken. For it is not sorcery you harness before his very eyes. Something ancient, mystical and unseen before. A power unknown takes possession of you, your body its vessel to be unleashed. Your eyes burn with a brightened luminescence of pale blue that spreads about your body in twirling, spiraling tendrils as you’re covered by a breach of water that materialises from nothingness. 

“Stop… don’t hurt… my bwrothers!”

The column of water becomes a tsunami around you, pouring and flooding as the creature before their very eyes is no longer a child… but the scaled body of a leviathan. But not one they are familiar with. The body is much too lithe and the head is shaped differently, the large, fanged maw revealing hundred upon hundred of teeth is billed with a sharply pointed horn akin to a spear. Closer to the head and neck is a crown of fins and whiskered appendages. 

It all happens far too quickly to recognise what it is you’re doing. You’re not… you’re not the one in control. You are merely a spectator in your own soul, a body trapped in the engine of the depths. The vessel given over to Leviathan the Lost. Awakened. 

Crashing waves are sent throughout the field, washing away any who are incapable to battle a tsunami and Moloch among his army. But unlike them, he manages to breach the surface and survive the storm of water, the oceanic scene that swallows his kingdom hole in the bowels of your own making. Out of the one and pure instinct to protect Strife and War, Leviathan huddles them in, forming a protective bubble to cover them as a dome. 

The spectacle around them. The mesmer of water crashing over the dome’s surface, unrelenting to wash away all doings of evil outside. Samael had sought higher ground and watches, eyes aflame with renewed fascination. You hid your secret well… if you even knew of its existence prior. But the way the leviathan acted of its own accord, lost to the temper of the oceanic storm within its heart, he doubted that very much. 

You were just a passenger in the creature’s form. 

By the time Strife and War manage to recover their strength, they find Moloch, lashed by the crushing waves. War swings high and just as Moloch had done to him, he drives the master’s own sword through his chest. Moloch heaves a wheezed grunt as his blood pools around him, washed away by the lapping puddles of water and each breath he tastes is laboured. War’s grip on the blade’s hilt grows intensely, easing the blade to rub and push against any internal organs or to further mince his flesh. 

But the sudden turn of smugness of Moloch’s death gives cause for concern. 

“You played right into his hands, Horsemen.”

Strife pushes Redemption’s barrel right to Moloch’s brow, eyes narrowed into a golden glare. “Don’t bother making threats you can’t keep, Moloch.”

“I tire of demons and their threats,” adds War with a growl. 

“There are no more threats to make…” For his demise was nothing more than the ultimate power play. And Moloch’s warning to the Horsemen about the company they keep was met by a brutal finish by Samael. His weight promptly crushing Moloch’s skull just as he tempered War and Strife with the prodding mystery of the Animus. 

“That demon would not shut up.”

“Yeah… who knows what he might have said next. I think you do, Samael.”

“What is the Animus? What are you hiding—”

“Horsemen!” Samael barks and his gaze drifts upward. Strife and War do the same to find Leviathan… draped and tired out, resting yet still in the prime of releasing more tyrannical waves should you be provoked. 

“Baby…” Strife slowly approaches and your head sharply turns to face him. “You remember us. Strife, War… we wanna take you back with us. You’re okay, Moloch’s gone now… he’s not going to hurt us.”

“Come back to us, little one.” War’s words are softly laced and that tiredness releases Leviathan’s hold on you. The body dissipates into a glittering nebula of turquoise and blues, your body slowly drifting downward until you land in Strife’s arms. 

“She’s exhausted,” he says to her brother who fixes some strands of your hair behind your ear. You cuddle into Strife’s chest, cheek pushed against him as your breaths come and go heavily and slowly. 

“Through the portal, Horsemen. It would be best to get her to Vulgrim and I suppose… you are owed the truth.” 

You lay swaddled in blankets and your head plushly laid against a pillow. Under the watchful eyes of Dis, Vulgrim assesses you with careful evaluation, sensing the now revealed and raw power you hold within. 

“Interesting… most interesting,” he would hum between pauses of silence and hum thoughtfully to himself. 

Strife paced back and forth as War sat himself against the formation of stone, waiting as patiently as he could for a behemoth about to implode into literal Chaos. 

“Is she okay, Vulgrim? What’s going on with her?” Strife asks once again for perhaps the millionth time in the span of an hour. 

“Hush!” Vulgrim raises a hand and with a tilt of his head, he then turns to face the Horsemen. “She will recover, although that may take some time. A few hours at most. The power she contains is… most curious. It’s a power that does not exist in our universe.”

Strife asks as he crosses his arms, “So then… how could she have gotten it?”

Samael waves a hand over you and within a matter of seconds, his omniscience senses the mystery behind this power of yours. “Leviathan the Lost.”

“Who?” Dis drawls, voice low and audibly with her skepticism.  

“The Eikon of water. He has been lost for some time… it would appear that an ancestor of hers was also the bearer of his power before she must have fled here… to our world.”

“She? Wait, wait— what is this whole mambo-jumbo shit? I don’t get it— what is going on with our girl, Samael?!” Strife’ own patience was wearing thin at this point. No longer did he care for the pester of his wounds and healing bruises even if a certain jerk of his body meant he was almost keening over. 

“The ancestor was female. As have the others who carried the Eikon's legacy. But I sense that some time ago, it went dormant. Until now…”

“What does this mean for her?” 

Samael hums with a gravelly tone. “She can’t go home just yet.”