#I mean I don't even like this goddamn country anymore | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

gentrychild · 5 months

Text

An anon who was rereading Anyone asked me what would have happened if Izuku didn't like eggs and how you tell a supervillain you don't like what he made and that you want something. I have bravely tried to answer said ask but Tumblr laughed at my pain, so here is it, on a new post.

------------------------

When confronted with the super villain Izuku had accidentally broken out of the most secured prison in the country, a man who had basically walked out of said prison as soon as he hadn’t been restrained anymore, Izuku did the only thing any rational person would do.

He ran like hell. No shoes, no plan, nothing except Full Cowl roaring in his veins and he fled.

At least, he tried to.

Strong tendrils stopped him dead, then hands picked him up by his shoulders and suddenly, his feet weren't touching the ground and he was forcibly brought to the kitchen table.

''No, no, no,'' All for One said with the tone one would employ with a disobedient pet or a very young child. ''Your breakfast is going to get cold and we have so much to talk about. Sit. Enjoy the eggs. If you don't like them, I can make something else.''

And he dropped him on his chair, before putting the plate in front of him. Then, he sat at the other end of the table, facing Izuku, his own plate in front of him and he started to eat. Slowly, his manners perfect, while Izuku was dying of sheer stress over there.

Then, he looked at Izuku. Then at Izuku's plate.

''You're not eating?''

Izuku looked at the man who had literally reduced people to paste last night and then at his plate of eggs and bacon, then back at the lunatic who was probably going to skin him alive soon enough. He needed to do something, to get the time to find a way out of this mess.

Now, any reasonable human being would have eaten a bit of eggs and bacon – well, eaten the bacon in Izuku’s case – but he had just woken up, was in a pre-caffeinated state and truly, Izuku had never claimed to have the slightest working relationship with sanity.

“I don’t like eggs,” he blurted out.

The supervillain, the very same man who had literally gone through a prison riot of fellow villains like he was running through wet paper, was startled so badly by those four words that he dropped his fork.

“What do you mean, you don’t like eggs???” he asked like this was a ludicrous notion, like everyone’s favorite breakfast should be eggs and bacon.

“Never liked them,” Izuku lied, by pure spirit of contradiction, far more developed than for most people, for it had been left with quite the amount of room after the disappearance of all his survival instinct.

And it was indeed a lie because, once upon a time, it had been his favorite comfort food, but when he had been a kid, during one of those weeks where his mom was gone and the neighbor supposed to watch over him was busy forgetting his existence, he had gorged himself on it at every meal until he had gotten so sick of it that he had been unable to eat them ever again.

All for One watched him with something that went beyond annoyance, it was the patented look of someone who knew one was messing with him and the words “You’re a goddamn liar” were probably fighting to be left out but he had no proof that Izuku was bullshitting him and if even if he somehow had a lie-detecting-quirk, Izuku would keep denying it because he probably wasn’t making it out alive anyway so why deprive himself of the chance of annoying his would-be-killer?

And actually, why wait?

“I prefer waffles,” Izuku informed him because, after all, All for One had offered him to make him something else.

All for One stared at him without saying anything, probably thinking about all the ways he could have killed Izuku back when they were in Tartarus. Meanwhile, Izuku gave the illusion to be staring back at him when he was actually thinking about the fact the window made a faster exit but All for One would have the time to catch him before he landed seven floors lower while the door offered him more options.

All for One eventually abandoned his plate and started to rummage through the cupboards, going straight to the place where Izuku and his mom usually put the baking ingredients. Either everyone organized their kitchen the same way, or All for One had broken in so many homes that he was just a pro at using any kitchen he found himself into.

“Do you have flour?” the lunatic called out. “I can’t find it.”

Izuku had already flowed out of his chair and was making his way to the door by walking backwards, trying to radiate nonchalance and not the need to RUN AWAY WITHOUT LOOKING BACK.

“Try the highest shelves,” Izuku helpfully suggested, his hand on the doorknob.

It was where his mom put the heaviest pots and pans they usually didn’t use, since everyone in this household needed to climb a chair to access it. With a little luck, they would all fall on All for One.

Izuku left the apartment, not even bothering to fully close the door behind him, and he ran. He was in his pajamas, had found his sneakers by the door and they were still in his hands as he booked it out of his neighborhood as fast as Full Cowl could carry him and he didn’t stop until his building wasn’t in sight anymore. Then, he stopped on a bench, the couple flirting on it deciding they could do that somewhere else when they saw him approaching, and he put his sneakers on, took a deep breath, and decided to run some more, still in the opposite direction of where Todoroki was living, and then, he would figure out a plan.

Unfortunately, liquid shadows chose this moment to appear right in front of him, revealing All for One, who was holding a bag from Waffle Palace in one of his hands.

“I didn’t find any flour or sugar so I just ordered in.”

Some people would have screamed or been startled but Izuku had already ripped the bench from the ground and thrown it at All for One. The villain batted it away with his empty hand but it didn’t matter because Izuku was already half way through the park, or at least until black tendrils grabbed him and yanked him back.

“Your waffles are going to get cold,” All for One sternly informed him before grabbing him by the back of his shirt and he warped again, this time with Izuku under his arm.

#I hope you see this Anon #anyone fic #anyone au

403 notes · View notes

adore-laur · 7 months

Text

HOME IS A FEELING

— former high school sweethearts reunite for a conversation about what went wrong 🌃

——

"Don't turn around."

The vague statement thrown your way sends speculations trickling through your brain. Those three words usually never mean anything good. What is it? Or who is it? Whatever the mystery, it makes you anxious based on your friend's wary expression.

"Just tell me," you say timidly, becoming tense in the diner booth with a forkful of red velvet cake halfway to your mouth. "Tell me so I don't have the urge to actually turn around."

"Your ex," she mutters, never one to beat around the bush, much to your appreciation. "He just walked in. Don't kill me for saying this, but he looks really good."

You kick her foot under the table and sink further into the leather seat. "Why is he here? He's supposed to be in another country."

It's not an exaggeration or falsity. Harry is supposed to be in not only another country but also another continent entirely—the Netherlands, to be exact.

Your friend risks another glance at the front door. "Well, he's back, and it's like he never left. Look at them..." She shakes her head slowly. "Hyping him up like he's a goddamn hero."

You assume she means the people you went to high school with. A hometown get-together with a small crowd of classmates from nearby colleges is being held at everyone's favorite local retro-style diner to celebrate the last week of summer break. It was going swell until Mr. Marine Biologist, who probably makes studying abroad his whole personality, waltzed through the door.

You cradle your left cheek with your hand to create a shield for your face in case he happens to look over. "I'm almost done with my cake, and then we can leave."

"Good luck," she sings. "The only booth open is the one right behind us."

Of course. Sighing, you silently pray that Harry won't come near you. You doubt he'll try to talk to you anyway since it's been complete radio silence on both ends for over two years. You're really hoping the breakup doesn't get brought up.

A sudden and forceful compulsion tells you to catch a quick glimpse to see how he looks, what he wears nowadays, and how he acts when you're not around. It's hard to resist.

"He's coming this way," alerts your friend through a spoonful of vanilla ice cream.

The universe must be listening, and you can't combat the urge anymore. Someone as beautiful as him begs to be looked at. You sure as hell didn't break up with him because he was unattractive.

Subtly peeking to your left, you see Harry in person for the first time in what seems like forever. It's only a short window of time where you can take in his presence as he walks closer to sit with a group of people in the booth behind you.

Black skinny jeans. Nothing has changed there.

Chelsea boots. Since when does he wear those?

A gray, tattered sweater, and a blue beanie. It's summer, for crying out loud.

Most surprising, however, is his hair, which now falls just a tad below his jaw. The same soft curls you would run your fingers through until he fell asleep.

You continue picking at your dessert, your mind running a mile a minute at the sight of him. The fact that he's behind you—thankfully facing the other way—but still inches away nonetheless is nerve-wracking. If you move your head back even the tiniest bit, it'll touch his own.

Did he notice you? Does he know his ex-girlfriend is in the same room and thinking about everything he could be thinking? Like how you never forgot about him as much as you tried to?

He's speaking, but you can't piece together what he's saying because you're too distracted by how his voice has deepened over the years. The rasp and British drawl are still there, and the warmth and comfort of it still make your heart race.

Your friend keeps stealing glances and looking at you with apprehensive eyes that cause prickles of anxiety on your skin. "What?" you whisper.

Before she can reply, you feel something nudge the back of your neck. You strain your peripheral vision and see Harry's elbow resting on the top of your booth.

"Oops, sorry," he says, twisting around in his seat.

You automatically turn and look at him. It's impossible not to since he's like a human magnet for the eyes. His face is so close to you now. Have his eyes gotten greener? Why does he have such beautiful lashes? Does he have more freckles on his nose since you saw him last?

Snap out of it!

"It's fine," you mumble, shaking your head and quickly turning around. Your heart feels like it's in your throat.

Finishing the rest of your dessert, you lean forward so he doesn't accidentally bump you again. Your friend raises her eyebrows at you and taps her foot against yours.

"So, your brother is coming to visit soon?" you ask, ignoring her questioning look and attempting to make any sort of conversation to distract from Harry.

"Yeah, tomorrow. My mom is going to weep happy tears."

"Aw. Remind me to visit her before the semester starts."

The leather seat suddenly squeaks behind you, and your breathing goes uneven for the third time tonight.

"You guys want anything to drink?" Harry asks his group of friends.

They all tell him their desired orders, and shortly after, you see him walk past your booth. He heads toward the counter with long strides and hands he doesn't know what to do with. His back is turned, so you use your chance to shamelessly observe him. He looks different but familiar all the same. He has the same body, although he looks buff. Same friendly personality, although you've missed out on it lately. Same gentle presence, although it wasn't that way the night you separated.

"Didn't you once tell me that he always ordered ginger ale at restaurants?"

You look at your friend, processing her question. "Yes. He never mixed it with anything, either. Just drank it straight up like a freak."

"Gross," she says with a wince. "I think he just ordered one."

Once again, the counter is your focal point; this time, you notice the glass of creamy yellow liquid on it. You internally gag at how Harry could still drink that. Harry then walks back to his booth, skillfully carrying two glasses in each of his hands like he worked as a waiter in his past life. You don't even try to hide the fact that you're staring.

Eventually, he catches your eye and abruptly stops in his tracks. You watch him blink a couple times before he continues to the table and sets down the drinks for everyone.

"I'll grab some napkins," he murmurs, leaving again.

You slide your empty plate toward the center of the table and watch him fumble while taking out napkins from the dispenser. Why is he so nervous all of a sudden?

When he walks by for the second time, he jerks his chin up to the ceiling. You furrow your eyebrows in response.

He nonchalantly repeats the gesture as he starts passing napkins around. You shake your head, nonverbally telling him that you have no clue what he's conveying.

His jaw clenches before he mouths, "Come with me."

"Absolutely not," you mouth back as you fiddle with the sugar packets.

Harry huffs and sits in his seat.

Everything used to be so easy with him.

——

Two Years Ago

It was graduation day, and you were inserting a silver hoop earring in the pierced hole of your earlobe when three thumps gently rattled your bedroom door.

"Knock knock."

In the reflection of your vanity mirror, you grinned giddily. "Come in! It's unlocked."

Harry opened the door with a pout on his lips. "You're supposed to say who's there."

"Wha—" you stammered confusedly, turning around in your chair. "I hate you."

He shuffled inside and immediately bellyflopped onto your bed. "Wow. I missed you too."

"Just kidding," you said, flashing him a winning smile. "You left your laptop charger here, by the way. I set it on the kitchen table."

"Thank you, baby," he mumbled into your pillow.

"Don't fall asleep."

"Mm, c'mere." He lazily patted the space next to him. "Let's cuddle before we have to sit far away from each other for the rest of the night."

"It'll only be for a couple of hours at most," you replied, putting in your other earring. "Don't be so dramatic."

After tidying your vanity area, you stood and slinked into bed with Harry. The lavender-colored sunset filtered through your sheer curtains and created a serene ambiance. Harry's body rolled over on top of yours, his weight providing the perfect amount of warmth and comfort. The scent of his almond oil shampoo reduced your nerves. You reached for your phone and set an alarm for fifteen minutes from now so he would have enough time to get ready, then pulled the blanket over both of your heads, not caring if the hair you spent precious time on became tousled. It would mostly be hidden under the immensely unflattering graduation cap anyway.

Harry's clean-shaven cheek rested on your chest, and he planted a chaste kiss on your collarbone. He had always been the affectionate type. Touch was his love language, and he never failed to fulfill it with you.

Every touch strengthened your love for him. Every touch left you longing for more. Every touch felt purposeful.

——

You swear he's doing it on purpose. You know he is.

Harry keeps leaning his head back until it faintly touches yours. Nuzzling it, if you will. That, or he'll clasp his hands behind his head and loosely twirl a strand of your hair.

This time, he pretends to yawn and stretch his arms before tickling behind your ear. He knows goddamn well it's the place where you're the most ticklish. You pretend to have an itch and bring your hands back to slap his burning touch away, but of course, he takes the opportunity to be a pest and capture your fingers.

You yank them away and clear your throat. "I need to go to the bathroom," you tell your friend before getting up and making a beeline straight to the back of the diner.

When you open the door, you sigh relievedly when you find all the stalls open, and no one is lingering. You pace toward the farthest wall and rub your hands down your face. Two years without Harry, and not a single call or text, only the occasional picture you'd see of him when you caved and scrolled through his social media during particularly lonely nights. Yet tonight, he acts like you're best buds who can tease each other and initiate playful touches like you didn't end on a terrible note that made both of your hearts shatter into smithereens. Maybe this is some bizarre dream you'll wake up from and laugh about later.

You blow out a sharp breath and wash your hands before splashing cold water onto your heated cheeks.

"Were my hands dirty or something?"

Your whole body flinches. Now, he's just plain annoying. How long has he been standing there?

"Why are you in here?" you ask monotonously.

Footsteps come closer. You keep your back turned.

He laughs softly and says, "How've you been?"

Such a master at avoiding questions. "That wasn't what I asked."

"That wasn't an answer," he replies smugly. You can practically hear the satisfied smile in his voice.

"I've been fantastic, Harry," you say, your words laced with petty sarcasm. "What about you?"

"You sound stressed." He's right next to you now. "Is it because of your job? I heard you're an assistant teacher at the middle school."

Your hands grip the edge of the marble sink. "Who told you that?"

"I knew you'd be here," he says, as if it were obvious. "I had to ask people what you've been up to since you clearly weren't going to tell me yourself."

He asked about you? No, that can't be right. Turning to face him, you let your guard down just a little. "I'm helping with the summer school program."

Harry smiles. If you analyze it enough, it almost looks like a proud one. "That's amazing. What grade do you want to teach in the future?"

A conversation with your ex-boyfriend about career aspirations is entirely too casual for your liking. Doesn't he have friends to catch up with? Some ginger ale to drink?

You shrug and truthfully say, "I haven't decided yet. It's a big decision."

He nods, crossing his arms. "You've got time."

Silence hangs except for the drip of the faucet.

"So... I assume you're still studying marine biology?" you ask, already knowing the answer.

He hums an affirmation. "I'm almost done with my bachelor's degree, and then I'll be on my way to becoming one with the ocean."

You almost let a laugh slip out. "Well, I'm sure it's beautiful in Europe. I can't imagine the view every day."

He nonchalantly plucks a stray strand of hair off your sleeve, making your blood rush. "It is, yeah. It gets a little lonely sometimes, but it's been nice to live somewhere so different from what I was used to."

"You don't have a roommate?"

"Nope, just me. I don't really like sharing my space."

Only if it was with you. He's told you that before. Not that it matters now.

"I know. Don't know why I even asked."

It's a bold statement but a tenuous breakthrough in the barrier of the inevitable and awkward breakup conversation you're dreading.

Harry inhales and takes a step closer. "Come up to the rooftop with me. I don't want our first conversation in two years to be in the women's restroom."

You give him an apologetic look and say, "I'm sorry, but I can't. I have to head home soon and get up early for work tomorrow."

He toys with the bottom of your shirt. "Please."

It's a soft whisper that echos in the empty space, a begging tone chipping away at the walls built around your heart, paired with pleading eyes so clear and tender. Harmless.

"Okay." You'll kick yourself later for giving in so easily. "Okay, fine. Let's go." You pull out your phone and send a quick text message to your friend about where you'll be. She'll understand the weight of the situation.

Harry walks out of the bathroom, with you following behind. He takes a sharp right toward the concealed metal stairs leading to the diner's roof. He leaves some room so the two of you can walk side by side, your clothes rustling against each other in the narrow space. The rusty door opens, and you step out onto the flat concrete.

Little squares of light shine from the city buildings far away. They cause a strange feeling to wash over you. It can only be described as a powerful wave of hometown nostalgia, even though you never left. You wonder if it's hitting Harry as well.

He stands by the edge and leans his forearms on the railing, glancing at you with an unreadable expression. Is it reminiscence? Yearning? Regret? All could be the reason for the melancholy shift in energy.

"What did we do wrong?"

——

Three Months After Graduation

The party turned sour out of the blue. Harry's friend hadn't just said what you think he said. It was loud, so you must have heard him wrong. Why didn't he tell you? Why did you have to find out from his drunk friend who's not even close to him?

Harry definitely saw your face drop because he instantly pulled you into an unoccupied bedroom upstairs. You'd been arguing for the past half hour, neither one of you inebriated funny enough, but still throwing words that were more like weapons at each other—launching arrows at the heart, shooting daggers at the eyes, and slashing swords in the Achilles heel.

Your weak spot was him, and you were his.

You stood your ground as you spoke your closing statement with frustrated tears. "I'm never going to see you if you're abroad, so what's the difference if I just leave now and never see you again?"

"Will that make you happy?" He was being stubborn; you were, too. "Because obviously, I don't make you happy enough for this to continue. For us to at least try."

He did make you happy, but anger blindly leads people to say what they don't mean, especially in cases of love.

"Obviously not." Lies, lies, lies. "It's useless when we know it'll end badly."

Harry released a bitter laugh. "Fine. Have it your way."

"Fine," you repeated.

You should have fought for him, but what would have been the use if you had known it would only hurt you in the long run?

He roughly swung the door open and then turned around one last time. "You can come pick up your stuff at my house this weekend. I won't be home."

The door slammed shut, and reality sunk in.

——

The open sign of the diner flickers below.

"We did a lot wrong," you declare defeatedly, standing beside him.

"True, but we were eighteen and didn't know anything about communication or how to balance adult shit."

The conversation is heading toward a place you don't want it to go. "I really don't want to talk about our breakup, Harry. It's in the past. We've moved on."

He shakes his head. "Why? There was no closure whatsoever. I think it'd be good to get some now that we're face-to-face."

In the distance, you watch birds flock on the wire of a telephone pole. "Why didn't you just ignore me tonight? We've been doing fine without each other."

He scoffs quietly and leans his body against the railing. "Really? I was homesick for months because of you. You felt like home to me, you know that. The feeling never disappeared no matter how much I pushed it down."

You throw your arms out. "Then why didn't you call or text me? I would've replied, Harry. I'm not that cruel."

"I thought you hated me," he says. "I wouldn't have blamed you. I just couldn't stand having you hate me, so I thought it'd be easier not to talk to you."

It's the classic tale of a high school mindset. You think you're doing the right thing until it slaps you across the face with the hand of cluelessness. You wonder what would've happened if Harry had reached out. Maybe you could've figured it out.

"I didn't hate you," you admit. How could anyone hate him? "I mean, I might've thought that I hated you, but if anything, I still loved you for way too many months after."

Harry looks like he wants to say something, but you continue. "Like you said, we were young and didn't know how to balance a relationship and our lives outside of it. Two years can really mature a person, and we both needed to do that without each other."

He nods while stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Yeah."

The conversation stops at a dead end. There's nothing else to say since it's a mutual understanding of what went wrong.

The breeze picks up, and you shiver before asking, "How long are you here for?"

He clears his throat. "I'm staying with my mum, then I have a flight back to the Netherlands in a few days. I have to go back for an ecology camp."

"That's nice," you say. A couple of days. That knowledge causes an unwanted sinking feeling to take place in your stomach.

"Do you…" He raises his thumb to his mouth, nervously biting his fingernail. "Can we maybe talk more before I leave?"

It's an open opportunity, but what would it lead to? What would come of it? Would it be worth the pain?

"What's there to talk about? You're leaving soon, and then we'll never speak again."

You've taken logical truth more seriously over the years. You've learned that holding on to false hope is dangerous for the heart and mind.

"That won't happen," he replies with a pensive gaze. "We've grown and know how to communicate now. There's so much we've missed in each other's lives that we can talk about. I don't know where you live or the places you like to go anymore, who your friends are, or what new songs you like to listen to. It kills me."

A shaky breath escapes you. "It doesn't matter. We're not right for each other. Call me selfish, but I don't want a relationship where we barely see each other. I'm sure that's not what you want either."

"So, that's it?" he asks, staring at the sky. "Do you not want to give this another chance?"

You can't imagine a more complicated question to answer, but it seems you've known the answer for a while. Gently grabbing Harry's chin and tilting his face down, you say, "Right person, wrong time. It would never work with the distance, and you know that. Deep down, we both know, as much as it hurts to admit."

"What now? We're back to being strangers?"

"Harry, I don't think we'll ever be strangers. I know too much about you."

You're trying to lighten the mood, but Harry's sad eyes aren't helping at all. Instead, you focus on the stars twinkling brightly across the black sky and the single car driving by on the otherwise empty street. Every second that ticks by, he seems to move closer to you.

"If this is the last time I see you," Harry says apprehensively, "can I hold you for a little while? Give me that, and I won't ask you for anything else."

It'd be foolish to say no, wouldn't it? You need to feel him just as much. He's too significant of a person to let go of without a proper goodbye.

"You can hold me."

And so he does for the last time.

Harry closes the distance and embraces you like he always used to — his cheek resting on your head and his arms completely winded around you, squeezing the sides of your body. Breathing you in like he's scared of losing you. It's just you and him standing on a rooftop and holding on to any last bit you can get of each other.

You're tucked so far into his chest that the only thing you can hear is his heart pounding. He's warm and sentimental, and the nighttime chill makes you melt into him even more. He eases you — every laugh, every tear, every moment you share with him was brought about by the ease of being around him.

"You still feel the same." A pang ripples in your heart because of your own words, and a sob desperately tries to crawl up your throat.

Harry nuzzles his nose into your hair. "Yeah? You still smell the same."

You laugh, but it's choked with sadness. "What, like shitty teen store perfume?"

"No, you smell like home. Like when I used to go to your house for sleepovers, and you'd always light those vanilla candles."

Another pang, this time from his vulnerable confession. "I should go," you say, deterring the conversation from any more agony.

He doesn't argue. "Yeah, me too. I never really liked those people in there anyway."

You smile, stepping away from his arms. "I'll walk you to your car."

He nods, and the both of you retreat down the stairs, exiting the building through the back way to avoid any distractions. After reaching the front of the diner, you find his black Jeep sitting alone in a parking space. It's nice to know he still has it, considering it's a car with good memories, like Harry driving you to school every morning and picking up coffee. Or eating fast food outside the high school after a football game. Or nights of endless kissing and professions of love before he walked you to your doorstep.

Facing him under the moonlight tonight, it's time to officially move on.

"Bye. It was really nice to see you." A tear unexpectedly falls from your eye. Maybe it's due to the chilly temperature, but you know better.

Harry's face crumbles. Your composure shatters.

"Please don't cry," he pleads, biting his lip to stop it from wobbling. However, it's too late, and both of you give in to the misery and drama of it all.

"Now we're both crying."

He rubs his eyes and leans against his car door. "God, this fuckin' sucks."

"We'll be okay," you say weakly. "It's fine. We went two years without each other. You'll forget about me soon enough, and it'll be like this never happened."

You're only trying to convince yourself at this point.

"I never forgot about you. You were the first person I fell in love with. How do I move on from that?"

His choice of words isn't something you gloss over. Is he insinuating that he hasn't moved on yet? Should you tell him you haven't either?

Logical thinking, you mentally tell yourself. Don't say something that will make it harder to leave.

"I have to go home now." But isn't home standing right in front of you?

"Okay," Harry says. "I guess… good luck with everything. I hope teaching goes well for you."

You kick away a pebble on the pavement. "Thanks. I hope you become one with the ocean."

He laughs breathily, his dimples popping out for the first time tonight. He then inhales and gazes somewhere far away as his smile dies. When he looks back at you, he nods once before getting in his car.

"Wait."

He freezes. "Yeah?"

Don't make it harder.

Leave.

Don't hurt yourself.

Yet the way he looks at you is enough to ignore those logical thoughts. You lean forward and kiss his cold cheek, and it's like his entire body deflates under your hesitant touch. "Thank you for making me happy during the time we had together," you say against his tear-stained skin. "I never got to tell you that."

Harry sniffles and nods, then kisses your cheek a little longer and softer.

A lasting pang. A lingering sting. A sharp twinge.

Why?

Because the words he whispers to you cause silent tears to fall down your face when he finally closes the door and drives away.

You still mean so much to me.

——

Opening the door to your bedroom, the silence echoes louder than usual. The small space is where memories with Harry can still be found. There's the blanket he used to lie on, the desk he would sit on to help you study, and the dresser you used to keep his shirts in to wear when you missed him. The most tragic thing is an empty photo book on the top shelf of your closet that was meant to be filled with future road trips that never got planned. Next to it are unused polaroids for dates that stopped happening.

Piled at the bottom are a few that actually got used. A picture of Harry when the both of you went to a homecoming afterparty, and you didn't want to drink alcohol, so Harry drank orange Hi-C cartons with you to make you feel better. A picture of Harry on a floating water bouncer at the lake by your uncle's cabin when you went on summer vacation together after junior year. Your favorite picture of him is when he's turned around in the seat of the school auditorium, smiling widely. It was back in high school when nothing could separate you from him.

The pictures remind you of a time when you were in love—not only with him but with life. They feel like home to you.

That feeling of home seems impossible to catch now. It's like chasing a butterfly that keeps escaping from the loose grasp of your hands because you don't want to hurt it.

Are you the hands, or are you the butterfly?

——

The journal on top of Harry's suitcase mocks him. He shouldn't open it, but logical thinking has never been his strong suit.

The first page has pressed and dried lavender taped onto it from the first date he took you on. The next has your drawings in the margin from when you would steal his journal while he studied. Yet most of the pages are filled with lovesick entries about you.

- January 29th -

Last night, I told her I was falling in love with her. She said no one had ever told her that before, and I couldn't believe it. How could someone not instantly fall in love from the moment she walks into a room?

Then she told me that she loved me too. I swear I almost cried with happiness. She's the one for me. I see us being together for the long haul.

I hope she sees the same thing.

- June 6th -

We graduated! We're finally done with high school!

When they called my name, my eyes went to hers first. She looked so proud of me. I wonder if I could convince her to rent an apartment with me instead of staying in different dorms.

College will be strange, but we'll get through it together. I have no doubt we'll adapt and find time for each other.

I always have time for her.

- August 2nd -

I think I'm going to tell her about the college I chose. She's not going to take it well. It's abroad, but it's the best school for marine biology.

She wants to stay close to home, but I want to get out and travel. There's nothing hard about talking through some of our differences, right? Long-distance relationships can work if you put in the effort. We can do it.

If this ends up biting me in the ass, you'll never hear from me again.

Harry stopped writing in his journal after the breakup. It's almost funny, he supposes. He jinxed it in the last entry. He thought of the worst-case scenario, and it came to fruition right before him only days later.

Blissful ignorance is what he'll call it. Two high school sweethearts who didn't know what would hit them. Foolishly in love and blinded by reality. But the thing is, it's not easy to just move on from it. Especially when he brought those damn vanilla candles from his dorm room to his mum's house so he could sleep better at night.

So he can be reminded of home.

It was never a place when he was with you. Home became a feeling that bloomed without warning. It took him by surprise when he found himself wanting to be around you all the time. His home was entirely, ultimately, and unconditionally you.

Harry closes his journal and brings it with him as he heads out the door to search for a drop of that feeling in the places you used to go.

The places he will write about until his hand aches as much as his heart.

——

#harry styles fanfic #harry styles imagine #harry styles x reader #harry styles angst #harry styles au #harry styles one shot #harry styles #adore-laur #home is a feeling

500 notes · View notes

am-i-the-asshole-official · 21 days

Note

WIBTA for ditching my parents for my birthday?

Some backstory: I (17F) am turning 18 as of 2024. The 17th birthday is a lot more important in my culture because that's our country's age of majority, and my parents had insisted on celebrating it with a whole party/massive dinner like most other girls do, but I am in fact a loser and absolutely hate these festivities. I am also gender nonconforming/masc and the parties are like, think princessy stuff that I don't super vibe with. My mother is like me. She hates birthday parties and feminine clothing. I have no idea why she was pushing it so hard, but eventually her plans for my birthday fell through. I told her not to bother getting me gifts or anything because I thought I had evaded the celebration ordeal.

However. Much to my misfortune. My whole family decided to barge into my room at 2 in the morning to shower me in confetti!! Confetti!! It was all over the goddamn place, on my bed, in my clothes, etc. I hid under my blanket because there was nowhere else to go and my parents like to do this (barge into the one area of the house I occupy, and start demanding stuff) and my mother was telling me to at least come out for pictures. I was literally in my pajamas like dawg what.

I couldn't take it anymore and started screaming like a banshee because that was the only thing that would get them to leave, but they still stuck around for a couple more minutes being awkwardly like oh... sorry... you really hate this. My room was full of pink balloons (my favorite color is yellow???) and they got me an enormous cake with frosting. I hate cake and especially I hate frosting. It was actually hell.

Anyway more insane stuff happened, not important, but that's essentially the disaster of a seventeenth birthday that I had. I know they want to do something for my eighteenth. I really don't like celebrating things, nor do I particularly want to, but judging by that whole ordeal I think they're going to try something again anyway.

So my plan is to just... not come home after school. Or if I don't have school then I'd just go out in the morning. I don't leave the house, so I don't have curfew, and I don't even want to stay out that long. Just long enough that they're all passed out and I can escape ANY AND ALL ATTEMPTS at giving me gifts, congratulating me, and shooting confetti all over my fucking room.

They're probably not going to call the cops, I'd tell them I'm going out and not kidnapped, just not where and for how long. I also think they kind of can't call the cops on me because I've been a legal adult where I'm from since the disaster birthday. Maybe that will help with the plan. I honestly think I'm just going to go to a café and write or something. I'm so over it, I want to have a birthday that isn't messy, that day means absolutely nothing to me and confetti pisses me off. Since my childhood my birthday has never been about me, like I don't really get what I would like to get, so I'm cool with not celebrating it at all. It doesn't matter.

To me simply avoiding them for the whole day is such a win-win scenario but I don't really know if this is an underdeveloped frontal lobe speaking. I also know they're likely to buy a cake in advance and I may be ruining plans by disappearing. My birthday is late in the year, so I have time to think about it, but I do think my parents are kind of insane. I don't think I can talk them out of doing any more of this stuff. Sorry this got long, but WIBTA?

(And yes I would love to move out but capitalism)

#aita #am i the asshole

78 notes · View notes

vulpisnocturna · 10 months

Note

Hey, how are you ?:)

I love your writing, it simply makes my day whenever I see a notification from you. 💖

I don't know if you write Madara, buuuut I just read the ex boyfriend Itachi request and I want to ask you the same scenario with him.

If you don't like the idea or if you're uncomfortable with it, I apologize

Hi lovely, I’m all good, I hope you’re doing well :) Thank you so much, means the world 🤍

And of course, Madara’s not my go to but I don’t have any issues writing about him. However, this may be more yandere ish than Itachi’s just because of Madara’s personality and entitlement lmao

Warnings: yandere Madara, obsessive love, possessiveness, jealousy, emotional manipulation, murder of threats to Madara’s inexistent relationship, toxic ex

I do not condone any of this in real life, this is fiction and purely entertainment. If you are likely to be triggered by any of this, please avoid interacting with this post.

-When he hears you say you want to break up, it doesn’t register. Why would you say something so ridiculous? He can’t compute. He’s imagining things, obviously. There’s no way you’d say that to him. You don’t love him anymore? That’s preposterous. He treats you like a goddamn queen. He’s handsome, rich, buys you everything you want, makes you scream in bed, protects you with his life, he even cleans and cooks for you. Him. Uchiha Madara. Just for you. So it’s not possible. It’s just not-

-Whilst this tirade is going on in Madara’s head, you’ve left. And he hasn’t even had a chance to reply. Now he’s angry. All the heartache he’s feeling, he’s shoving that down and replacing it with anger. How could you do this to him? Leave him when he dedicated his entire life to your happiness? No. No, absolutely not. He’s getting you back, no matter what he has to do.

-He’s too proud to have a conversation with you. He won’t let you see he’s hurting. No, you’ll have to come back to him and say you made a mistake

-He stalks you. Constantly. Tells himself it’s for your safety. After all, only he can protect you. None of your friends are capable of doing that

-He starts by sweet talking your family. He’s always there, talking about how you are on a break, and although he respects your choice, he still misses you and hopes that you are happy. Your family loves him. He’s such a doting man, powerful, from an incredibly good clan, and he clearly loves you. What the hell were you thinking leaving him, y/n?

-Once he’s done that, he goes onto talking to some of your friends. Yes, you are still together, but you’re just on a break. You confront him at some point and say he’s clearly missed the point and you have broken up with him. Madara says he’ll give you some time to think on it. You wouldn’t want to make hasty decisions

-When you start dating another man, the depth of his fury is immense. The next mission he goes on, he’s MIA. Nobody knows what happened to him. Madara comforts you, saying that it’s tragic, but that you shouldn’t have expected someone so weak to survive long in that world. After all, not everyone is like him.

-When it happens to the second man you are with, and Madara shows you proof that he was on a mission on the other side of the country, you can’t take the pain anymore. It’s just horrible to feel that kind of dread all the time with someone else. With Madara, you were never afraid. After all, only Hashirama was stronger than him in the whole world. And he treated you well, you can’t deny that. But he was so jealous and possessive…

-When suddenly you’re on a mission and you’re overpowered, you think you are going to die. But he saves you. And suddenly, you think you see what you once saw in him again. That kind of reliability, the strength, the confidence and the underlying anchoring love that guides his actions. Yes, he’s never stopped loving you. He’s still looking out for you. And maybe, just maybe, you want to be his once again.

-Madara knows he’s nailed it when he sees you walking towards his house. He acts all surprised and asks you if you’re sure, and that of course he loves you and wants to make you happy, but what if you are not? But his plan worked. And you’re happy, and he doesn’t have to race across countries to murder vermin anymore

#naruto #writing #fanfiction #madara uchiha #uchiha madara #madara x reader #madara x you #madara x y/n #madara imagines #madara headcanons #yandere imagines #yandere madara #uchiha headcanons #uchiha imagines

251 notes · View notes

givemea-dam-break · 1 year

Note

Hello! Could you do a Lockwood x reader where it’s like an enemies to lovers please? Thanks :) ❤️

a/n: abso fucking lutely i'm obsessed with this idea omg thank you, this is a long one, so be warned. i hope you enjoy! it doesn't have much of the 'lovers' part, so i'd be more than happy to write a part two if anyone wants :)

warnings: language, mentions of abuse (for a case, not the reader) gn reader

full series collection: here

Doughnuts. All you wanted was some goddamn doughnuts from your favourite bakery, but even that had to be ruined by some stuck-up, arrogant boy who had a penchant for wearing obnoxiously long jackets that were surely impractical.

Breathing a sigh through your nose, you gratefully take the box of glazed doughnuts from Arif.

He's striding towards you with those concerningly long legs, and it's only when you get closer to the door that you realise he's on a mission. If he'd wanted to make some snide remark, he would've done so in passing, but, no, he's making a beeline straight for you.

"Lockwood," you say tightly, gripping the box hard.

"(name)," he says, plastering on that infamous 'Lockwood Grin' that you cannot stand. "I was wondering if I could speak to you."

"Isn't that what you're doing now?"

If you didn't know any better, you'd think the sarcastic comment hadn't bothered him, but a muscle ticks ever so slightly in his jaw. Almost unnoticeable.

"I mean, out of the way of customers," he says, gesturing behind him to the line of people at the till. "Mind if we sit?"

You really don't want to, partly because he's a pompous ass that screwed you over a year ago, but also because you would much rather be sat in your flat, stuffing your face with glazed doughnuts while reading that new book your flatmate lent you. But something in his expression, his posture, tells you that it should wait and, against your better judgement, you trudge over to one of the small tables.

"What do you want?" you ask, crossing your arms. "There are things I'd much rather be doing than speaking to you."

Lockwood sits across from you, and that face of his - oh, how you want to punch it. It's as if his resting face is just one of pure confidence and arrogance, and you hate it.

"What? Sitting home doing nothing until you get a call for a job?" His brow raises in question. "Yeah, well, I've got a job for you. Lockwood and Co need help on a case."

You scoff. "And why would I help you? Last time I did that, you stole the job right from under me. DEPRAC rules, you said. Bullshit."

"Look," Lockwood says, "I didn't mean for that to happen. New rules had come into place that I didn't know about. But we need you, (name), even if it pains me to say."

"Well, it doesn't pain me to say no." You slip your bag on, which had been sitting on the ground by your feet, and stand, grasping your doughnut box. Then, sarcastically, "Have a great day, Lockwood."

"Wait, please."

For a moment, you hesitate. The way he said please tugged at something in you, something deep down and buried. One of his hands has reached across the table as if to grab yours, and you frown.

"Listen, I know we don't get along anymore, but this case... We need a Listener, a good one."

"Thought your Listener was the best in the country, or did you scare her off, too?"

He looks a little pained at that, but only for half a second. Then, he gestures for you to sit again. Reluctantly, you do so, but only because that little part of you, the part that you buried the last time you trusted him, is screaming at you.

"Lucy is out of action for a bit," Lockwood explains. "She's visiting family up north, but this isn't a case we can pass up. We need a Listener for it, and you're the next best thing. This time, I'll make sure you get your cut of the pay. This one is under Lockwood and Co, not DEPRAC."

You shouldn't accept the offer, you really shouldn't. Last time, he had taken the whole share for his company because "Whoever secures the source gets the pay", and you'd been left living on scraps for a fortnight until your next case came through. He'd promised you countless things before the case, after the case, and he'd fallen through on all of them.

But this... It's been a while since you've been on any case but some measly Type Ones, and you have to admit that you're itching to have a challenge, to really put your Talent to good use.

"Tell me about the case, and I'll think about it."

He perks up a little at that. "From the description the woman, Mrs Wyatt, gave us, something her granddaughter told her, we assume it's a Type Two, but a strong one. George can't find much, if anything, about the home to help us understand the purpose of the ghost or what a possible source may be, hence why we need a Listener."

"Right." You take one of the doughnuts from your box and take a bite out of it. "How much of the cut will I get? I understand you have a company, and that'll inevitably cost more, but I have bills to cover, too, and freelancers don't get nearly enough work."

"Forty percent," Lockwood offers.

You pause, taken aback. In all honesty, you would've accepted twenty-five percent - it was reasonable, and jobs with Type Twos often earned a lot more, so it's not like you would be going skint, but forty? It's more than you could've hoped for in a situation like this.

That doesn't mean you'll turn it down.

"Alright," you say. "Deal. Give me an address and a time, and I'll be there."

The house that looms over you is tall and foreboding despite its sandstone exterior, framed by beautiful flowering plants and some kids' tricycles and bikes in the driveway. It's a two-storey house, not overly large, but something about it has dread coiling in your stomach.

After the meeting with Lockwood, you decided to do a little bit of research yourself, and it turned out that he was right. Obviously, your research skills were nowhere even close to the standard of George's, but there was nothing except for some building plans for the house dating back to the early twentieth century.

So, here you stand, confused and annoyed, checking the watch on your wrist impatiently.

Late. Lockwood and George were late.

You expected as much, but it doesn't mean that you're not irritated. The sun is making its descent in the sky, and, although it's summer, the creeping darkness that is miles away from overtaking the sky still gives you a chill.

A Type Two in a house with no known malevolent history or any kind of strange deaths. Strange, but not entirely unheard of.

"(name)! So sorry we're late."

You turn, scowling. "You realise we now only have, what, twenty minutes to scout out the house and set up defences?"

Lockwood and George stumble to a stop in front of you, panting from running and carrying their heavy gear.

"Again," Lockwood says, "we're sorry. Let's get in there, shall we? Make a start?"

He makes for the front door and, begrudgingly, you follow shortly behind, George trailing after.

The interior of the house is cosy, with warm-toned flowery wallpaper and photographs hanging in frames from the walls. Children laughing in coloured photos, or black and white polaroids from even further before. A few plants are scattered, on the table lining the wall, in the corner of the hall beside the stairs. A patterned rug lines the hardwood floor.

You take it upon yourself to set up an iron chain circle in the hallway, setting a lantern in the centre for dim light while George and Lockwood explore the kitchen and living room, setting up circles there, too. All of the rooms are the same - warm-toned walls, photos everywhere, soft-cushioned seats, and the soothing scent of lavender and, strangely, bergamot.

"Sixteen degrees in the hall and the kitchen," George calls.

"Fourteen in the lounge," Lockwood replies. "You hear anything yet, (name)?"

"About to try."

Taking a deep breath, your senses begin to fade away until all that's left is silence, thick and heavy. There's nothing, no traces of sound, until... Tapping, like a walking stick on wood. Ever so faint, but persistent, followed by slow shuffling feet.

"I've got something," you say. "Upstairs. Someone walking, using a walking stick."

Lockwood appears from the living room, donning that annoying grin of his. "Perfect. George, you stay down here and monitor the rooms, make sure nothing is down here. We'll go upstairs and see if we can find a source of some kind."

He strides up the stairs, and you follow, making sure to keep your senses open. The tapping is still going, but it's slowly getting louder. There's something more behind it, something you can't pick out.

"Lockwood, wait."

He stops short, turning back to look at you. "Everything alright?"

"Wait here a minute."

You pass him on the stairs, cautiously stepping onto the landing. There are three bedrooms and a bathroom, but one door hangs open slightly. You inch closer, but find yourself pausing a few feet away.

Shouting. It's muffled, but you can hear it well enough. A man and a woman, arguing furiously, and then, a sharp crack, like something being hit. There's a loud cry of pain, and you flinch, stumbling backwards. Then, a cry of anger, the sound of a woman's rage, another loud crack, and, finally, silence.

"(name), what's wrong?" Lockwood's fingers brush your arm, and, usually, you would've scowled and shrugged him off, but to have the comfort of something living nearby calms you a little.

"It's only ever been Mrs Wyatt's family living here, right?"

"That's what George says. Why?"

You swallow the lump in your throat. "I think she missed out on some important details."

"Such as?"

"I think she killed her husband."

Lockwood chokes on air but regains his composure quickly. "What?"

"In her defence, he was an abusive prick, I think. And, if my guess is worth anything, his walking stick is the source."

You're glad that Lockwood doesn't ask you how you know that. Instead, he draws his rapier and checks the temperature outside the bedroom door.

"Nine degrees and falling," he says. "Growing malaise... It's still early for a ghost to be this strong."

"Set up an iron circle outside the door," you suggest. "I'll watch your back, then we can open the door and look in. One of us hunts for the source, the other keeps watch."

"You know," Lockwood says while pulling iron chains out of his bag, "I'm hiring your services. I should be making the plans."

You shrug. "I'm a freelancer. I go by my own rules and strategies. Now, I'm going to go inside and search for the source. Watch my back."

He's about to protest, but you draw your rapier and step into the bedroom before he can.

If not for the chill that cuts straight through you upon stepping into the room, it would have been lovely to see. The walls are a pretty shade of green, and the bed is made - untouched. A massive mahogany wardrobe towers in the corner beside the large window.

"Be careful," Lockwood says from the circle. "There's a deathglow by the wardrobe. It's bright."

Slowly, cautiously, you make your way over to the wardrobe. The scene from earlier replays in your mind, but the tapping of a walking stick has gotten louder. Nothing happens as you inch closer, but dread and tiredness make your limbs heavy - Lockwood was right, it's too early for the malaise to be this strong. It's not even entirely dark outside.

"(name), watch out!"

A chill cuts right by you, and a bright light glows as the ghost, appearing from god knows where, launches itself in your direction. You leap out of the way, falling backwards onto the bed and swiping your rapier in a figure-of-eight motion. Lockwood runs from the iron circle, throwing a salt bomb at the ghost, which disappears momentarily.

He grasps your hand, pulling you off the bed. "At least we know who the ghost is now. Mr Wyatt."

You breathe heavily, eyes widening before you push Lockwood out of the way. The ghost of Mr Wyatt, a middle-aged man - maybe in his late fifties upon his death - dressed in a shirt, dress pants, and a patterned sweater vest, rages over and would've ghost-touched Lockwood if not for you moving him. You duck out of the way, slashing with your rapier again, but the ghost reforms quickly, pushing you backwards.

All of a sudden, your feet are separated from the ground, and you're thrown backwards. Your back slams through the glass of the window, shattering it, and, for a moment, you think you'll fall to the ground, breaking every bone in your body and dying a horrible death.

It would certainly be a way to go, falling from a window, but your fingers latch onto the window frame, pierced by the sharp glass still attached. Your grip is weak, and your arms are shaking badly. The ground is so far below...

"(name)!"

"Get the source!" you shriek, trying not to look down. "Wardrobe!"

"George!" Lockwood shouts.

You can't see much of what's happening, but you can hear it: Lockwood's feet dancing across the ground as he fights off the ghost. As you slowly pull yourself up, not to much avail, you catch a glimpse of him nearing the wardrobe, pursued by a very angry ghost.

"Hurry!" you cry. Blood seeps down your hands, your grip slipping on the window. "Lockwood!"

Another few seconds and you'll fall, but the room is suddenly silent, filled only by Lockwood's heaving breathing. His footsteps hurry over, and then he's leaning out of the window, grasping your arms in a strong grip. He pulls you through the window, and your faces are too close for a moment. You're acutely aware of the warmth of his hands through your jumper, of the sound of his heartbeat, so close, so loud. You swallow hard and stumble out of his grip onto the bed, breathing heavily and trembling.

"Was I right?" you ask, trying to hide your fear. "Was it the walking stick?"

Lockwood pants, sitting on the bed beside you. "You were right."

Heavy footsteps sound on the landing, and then George stands in the doorway. "Did you get the ghost?"

"Yes," Lockwood says, his voice angry. "Where were you?"

"I couldn't hear you," George said. "It was like there was some sound block or something. I've heard of ghosts doing that before."

You take a deep breath. "Either way, it's gone now."

"Thanks to you," Lockwood says. "If not for you, we wouldn't have known what the source was, or where it was."

It hurts a little to stand up. "Long as I get paid, I'm happy. Now, can we get out of this house?"

Lockwood's eyes linger on you a little too long. "Come back to Portland Row with us. We'll get you patched up."

You want to refuse the offer, but your fingers are torn up, bleeding, and there's glass stuck in some parts of your flesh, plus, Portland Row is closer than your flat.

"Fine."

It's safe to say that ghost hunting was the best career path for Lockwood - he'd be a shit doctor, to put it simply.

"You don't have to put that much cream on the cuts, you twat. It'll all just squeeze out of the plasters and go all over my hands."

Lockwood's grip on your hand is gentle as he begins applying plasters. "It's supposed to help fight off the chance of infection. Surely more is better."

You groan, but there's not much else you can do. Your other hand has already received the Doctor Lockwood treatment.

You've never really spent this much time this close to Lockwood, but part of you - one you want to tear out, rip up, and burn - doesn't mind it. That part doesn't mind the scent of tea and cheap shampoo, or the feeling of his hand enveloping yours in a grasp so soft that it's barely there.

Get it together, you tell yourself.

You have to remind yourself of why you two don't get on in the first place: the last case you worked on together, the snide remarks made since, but... is it worth keeping that up? Yes, you were hurt, and, yes, it still stings thinking about your trust in him a year ago being betrayed in a way that might seem small to most, but is it really worth keeping it up? All the anger?

Your flatmate has told you on multiple occasions to move on, to forgive, even if you don't forget, and now, watching Lockwood tenderly patch you up as if the last year of arguing and avoidance never existed, you almost want to listen to her.

Lockwood tilts his head up to look at you, and you freeze, having been caught in the act of staring at him. His cocky grin appears, and you groan, looking away.

"Thanks," you say, pulling your plastered hand out of his grip. "I better head home."

Lockwood hesitates. "Why don't you stay? It's late, and it's a half-hour walk to your flat from here. Lucy's room is free."

You scoff. "Today's case may have gone well, but that doesn't mean I want to stay under your roof for the night. You'll probably poison my tea."

"Alright." Part of his tone sounds disappointed, but the expression on his face shows none of the emotion. "I'll get the money sent to you as soon as."

"Good." Standing, you pluck a biscuit from the tin on the kitchen table. "And, uh... Thanks for saving my life."

He grins wide. "Any time."

Hesitating, you watch him for a second longer - the way he moves as he packs away the first aid kit, the way his eyes flick from the table to you.

Something about your relationship has changed. Even now, you no longer feel the burning hatred for him. No, it's simmered down a bit. Now, it's a mild dislike with a touch of... what is that? Admiration? Gratitude? Ew.

"See you around, Lockwood."

"See you, (name). And, again, thank you, for helping with the case."

"It was whatever."

#lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood x reader #lockwood and co #lockwood and co x reader #lockwood and co fanfiction #george karim #anthony lockwood #lucy carlyle #givemea-dam-break #fanfiction #x reader #lockwood and co netflix

258 notes · View notes

threadsun · 1 year

Text

Sweets🍭 Asks: "Heeeey! It's me! I've just been struggling with ideas because....ive been thinking about things unrelated to sunny day Jack

BUT HEAR ME OUT

Remember that one fic you wrote with Jean and Joseph with teacher MC

Yeah that but...mc is the director\creator of the sunny time crew and here's the kicker

They are extremely miserable

They hate their job

They hate their life

They hate children

They probably hate Jean and Joseph too

Will that stop them from flirting with this tired annoyed grumpy director?

Nope! I mean Jack and Rory were made to make people happy!

It's gonna be a piece of cake

...right?"

Oh Sweets hellooooooo!!! I love you!!! You always bring me the absolute most banger ideas!!!

I love the idea of them both falling for this person who looks like they haven't slept in weeks and visibly loathes every moment they're on set lmao

Content: hatred of children, general depression, ngl reader just sort of sucks, smoking, absolutely shamelessly dirty flirting, suicidal ideation/joking about suicide, reader is not okay

Coffee isn't enough anymore. You need an IV drip of caffeine straight into your blood stream. Or some heavy drugs. Or a real hard blow to the head with a baseball bat. At this point, you're not picky. Whatever gets you off this stupid set.

The SunnyTime Crew Show. Your crowning achievement. The idea that made your career. Shown across millions of tv sets all over the country every single day. Shown to all those little ankle biters you can't stand the sight of, too young and useless to so much as wipe their own asses.

It's all bright colours and simple words and stupid, terrible songs that get stuck in your head on loop until you want to bash your brains in against a wall. Not that it takes much for you to feel that way these days. Especially given the people you're working with.

Joseph Haberdae and Jean Laurent. Rising star and bossy diva. The constant bickering. The even more constant flirting. The adlibbed lines. The relentless cheer while the cameras roll. And the insufferable questions when they don't. They take the whole thing so fucking seriously. Like this is anything more than some drivel for parents to shove their kids in front of when they can't be bothered to parent anymore.

Maybe you don't hate the kids, maybe it's the parents you resent. Always shoving crying babies into your arms during live recordings so their "precious child" can get a better look at the set. Demanding the show teach this or that lesson. Begging for the Crew to come work birthday parties.

But no, you can't stand wiping little noses and listening to the shrieks. Kids have always given you the creeps, but now they piss you off. Always saying weird things and rubbing their sticky fingers all over set. You're just lucky the stars are better with the kids than you are.

"Should we cut?" Your brought out of your stewing annoyance by the sound of your PA whispering in your ear.

You down the last of your coffee and shove the cup into his hands, a silent demand for more. "Cut!"

You hadn't noticed the scene end. But it didn't matter, Joseph and Jean had started improvising lines anyway, as they so often did. Your eye twitches in annoyance. You don't spend your time yelling at the writers to get every line perfect just for these idiots in costumes to make shit up.

"Haberdae, Laurent." You snap your fingers and point to the spot in front of you. "Everyone else, take five. Then we reshoot. We get it right this time or every single one of you is out of a goddamn job."

As the rest of the cast and crew file out for their break, the two men stand at attention before you. They know where this conversation is going. It's the same one you have every time they so much as change a single word from the script.

"So, which school was it?" You cross you arms and scowl at them both.

They exchange a look of confusion before Joseph ventures a reply. "What?"

"Which school? SoCal? Columbia? You do RTF at Austin?" They can tell your tone is derisive, but they're still not sure what you're getting at. You roll your eyes. "Where you studied screenwriting. I assume you've got some writing background, since you're always changing my fucking script."

Oh. Ohhhhh. Okay, they're on the same page as you now. Joseph has the good grace to look chastised, staring at his feet like a kicked puppy. Jean isn't one to be so easily intimidated. He raises an eyebrow and shrugs.

"What was it today, your assistant got you the wrong coffee? Or did some kid get ketchup all over your copy of the script?" He's used to your bad moods. They both are, but he's not swayed by them. "If you'd actually watched the take rather than staring off into space, you'd realise it was better than the shit your writers came up with."

You purse your lips. He's... probably not wrong. It's hard to find good writers who are willing to throw their talents away on a show like this. And they do both have an admirable understanding of their characters. Much as you hate them, they're true to your original vision. The vision you wished you'd never had.

With a reluctant sigh, you move to rewatch the take. Your PA hands you your coffee and a lit cigarette before hastily retreating, not wanting to be caught in the crossfire of whatever's going on. It's a relief, the burn of the smoke in your throat followed by the burn of the scalding coffee.

"Watch."

Joseph's behind you, hands hovering just over your waist as his breath brushes against your ear. Damn this infuriatingly handsome man and his lack of personal space. You grit your teeth and focus on the screen, ignoring the huge man all but pressed against your back. He and Jean crowd you, trying to get a good look at the viewer as you play back the scene.

It's... good. Better than the script. You don't want to admit it out loud, but their additions make more sense with the episode's story, and sound more like Jack and Rory. Damn them.

"See?" Joseph's lips brush against your ear, one hand making contact with your waist for just a moment to give it a soothing rub. "Not bad, right?"

You shove him aside, taking a long drag of your cigarette and pretending to mull it over. As if there's any question. He watches you closely, with all the eagerness of youth and all the ego of an actor who knows he's good at his job.

"Fine." You breathe the word out in a plume of smoke. "It's good enough, I guess. We don't have time for another take anyway."

Joseph grins, leaning an arm on your shoulder like you're an old friend rather than his director. "Come on, you can admit it. We're good."

You sneer at him, trying to nudge his massive forearm off you. But he doesn't budge. Instead, Jean takes up an identical position leaning on your other shoulder.

"So tense," he tuts and shakes his head. "Come on, you can praise us sometimes, you know."

With a roll of your eyes, you resign yourself to once again being crowded by the two men. You can't honestly say you mind it. "Why, so you can get off to it later? I've got about as much interest in stroking your goddamn egos as I do in stroking your pathetic cocks."

"Watch out," Jean's voice is a familiar, teasing lilt. Though it feels directed as much at Joseph as it is at you. "Talk like that might just get Joseph all riled up."

"Eugh." You mime throwing up, ducking from under their arms to grab your coffee and down some more. "Don't need to know about your humiliation kink, thanks."

Joseph's redder than he'd care to admit, but he tries to brush it off. "You know, I didn't realise you thought about stroking our cocks that often. Or our egos."

"Maybe a quick romp would help loosen you up a bit?" Jean suggests, raising an eyebrow with a quirk of his lips. "Keep you focused on your job. Is that why you've got that thousand yard stare every time we shoot? Too busy thinking about fucking us in our dressing rooms?"

From an outside perspective it might seem like sexual harassment in the workplace, but... you encourage it in your own way. You could easily set boundaries if you wanted to, but their flirting—however much they annoy you—is the only interesting part of your life right now. The only part that doesn't make you consider jumping off the roof of the studio.

"Too busy thinking about the easiest way to off myself, more like. Still trying to decide between throwing myself in the reservoir and just jumping in front of the next car I see."

"Well, wouldn't that be a waste of a pretty face?"

Jean's not worried by your theatrics. It's not the first time you've loudly proclaimed your intentions to off yourself, nor will it be the last. It never stops you coming in the next day, looking as dead behind the eyes as ever, and yelling at everyone you see.

"Pretty face." You snort, trying not to choke on your coffee. "What, is it the eyebags or the fact that I haven't had time for a decent meal in months?"

"I think it's your smile." Joseph's always so... genuine. He flirts like Jean, of course, but sometimes he'll throw something so earnest at you that it winds you. "We don't get to see it often, but... you've got a really nice smile."

It feels like he's punched you in the chest, not given you a sweet compliment. It's time to put a stop to this for now. The flirting's gone past entertaining and straight into that dangerous territory that leaves you worried you might do something stupid. Like fall for one or both of them. Not to mention, you've still got half a day of filming this bullshit left.

"Fuck off to makeup, be back on set in two. We'll pick up with Rory's baking lesson."

With a stern nod to the stage door, the two hurry off. You feel like you can breathe again. When they're around, you start to get claustrophobic. Or maybe coulrophobic. Or maybe just... you feel vaguely nauseous at even the shadow of a thought about having romantic feelings for either of the frustrating, handsome actors.

Nope.

No way.

Definitely not.

Not while you have the world's worst tv show to direct.

God you hate your life.

#swwsdj #something's wrong with sunny day jack #sdj jean #sdj joseph #joseph haberdae x reader x jean laurent #gn!reader #18+ only #sunshine #sweets🍭#dear director au #crosspost

70 notes · View notes

docholligay · 14 days

Text

BOY ARE YOU TWO ABOUT TO REGRET GIVING ME THE MILDEST POSSIBLE ENCOURAGEMENT.

I love Phil Ochs. He is easily my favorite of the protest folk/folk revival whatever you care to call that style and time in history. Bob Dylan is a better poet (but I mean, Jesus who can live up to Bob Dylan?) Joan Baez has a much better voice (A reviewer once said Phil had a 'nasally effective range of about half an octave' and given how many times he brought up/joked about it, i assume it stung), nearly everyone was easier to get along with, and yet with Phil Ochs it is love for me. I love the way he sings, it's simple and straightforward and sometimes plaintive in these ways that go beyond vocal theatrics. I like his patter, I like his humor, I like that he is willing to fight with Bob goddamn Dylan, I like the way he moves, i don't know. Fucking mess of a man. Love him. Do not get me started when i've had a few unless you're prepared to not get a word in edgewise for the next 20 minutes.

To the point, that a lot of the time I won't put anything of his on a mix album I make for someone! How stupid is that? I don't know, some things feel personal even thought they very decidedly are not. It's stupid. It's human. Whatever.

ANYWAY, SOME OF MY FAVORITE PHIL OCHS SONGS FOR THE UNINITIATED I THINK YOU SHOULD ALL LISTEN TO THEM. BUT I ONLY WANT TO KNOW IF YOU LIKE IT SO I THINK YOU ARE BETTER THAN OTHER PEOPLE.

The Power and the Glory: When I said Phil Ochs, man with a huge fucking FBI file on him by the time he died at only 35, wrote my favorite patriotic song, this was it. Beeb even knows part of this song, because when I walk her to the Y, I sing to her part of the way, and this is on the playlist.

There But For Fortune: This actually became a minor hit for Joan Baez! (Adding to his frustration about his own life) It's a really beautiful song about not thinking you're above anything.

I Ain't Marchin Anymore: I included this because if you've heard a Phil Ochs song in an American History class or something like that, it's this one. I do like it! It had an immense effect and I would be wrong to exclude it. It's much more of a straightforward protest song than anything else on this list.

Outside a Small Circle of Friends: I think about this song all the time, a cheerful rag about indifference to the suffering of others. Don't put yourself out! Remember, you need to think about what makes you comfortable!

No More Songs: This song always makes me so sad. I love it, but it does. After this song, he would only ever record about 5 more tracks. He never had another album. He had massive writer's block, he was disillusioned by the way the world was going, he was an alcoholic, he was very clearly starting to lose it*. And seemed to realize he was losing his grip. I love this very sad country-folk song, and I think a lot about the line, 'Is anybody home? I only want to say, I'm sorry."

*and boy did he. As in, for awhile he assumed a new name and said that person had killed Phil and replaced him lost it. Ranting about the Cia and the Fbi trying to kill him lost it. Getting into intentional barfights with patrons over nothing lost it. I feel bad, because as much as a pain in the ass as he could be, reportedly, he also clearly had a lot of people who felt a lot of affection for him. His brother tried to have him committed. His sister wrangled him from off the streets to live with her. His friends tried to help and encourage to record. Even Bob fucking Dylan talked to him about doing a tour together, and when Phil put together a benefit concert that was in danger of being canceled for lack of ticket sales, Dylan was like, 'I'll play" and it sold out immediately. Lots of people tried really hard to pull him out of it. But it was just...he felt like a political, personal, and artistic failure, he was out of his goddamn tree, and it was one of those situations where I just want to be like, "You tried your best, everybody! I'll accept literally any emotion about this from any of you but guilt." I feel bad for everyone.

12 notes · View notes

tcfactory · 1 month

Note

Lmao, I'm Mexican. Here's a list of what people (aka, Europeans I met during my stay in Europe ) were surprised about:

-México has cars (idk what he thought we used to move??? Horses???)

-We have running water

-Speaking French

-Electricity

-There's more to mexico's culinary arts than tacos

-The existence of Mexico city as an actual Metropolitan city. Like, surprised it didn't look like the 1800's there (idk)

-The fact that I was fully vaccinated??.? (idk why ??? I mean, I know why but still. For the record, mexico has a pretty nice vaccination schedule)

Yeah that honestly tracks. I'm not even surprised by any of these, goddamn.

People coming here are oftentimes split in their expectations between like 1. thinking we are wandering horse-riding nomads straight out of fucking Mulan because HUNgary (I don't even try to explain anymore that we are not descendants of the huns, there was more than one related horse riding nomad culture in the area at the time you pumpkins) or 2. expect some dirt poor soviet-era communist hellscape straight out of the like fucking 1940s or something where there's one car in the entire settlement and we only have electricity on Sunday evenings.

It's kinda insane if you start to think about it.

And honestly I can't even guess where you have been in Europe based on those comments you got, because Mexico is so far away it feels more like a fairytale rather than a real place for so many people. They only know it's even real because of American movies and shit and sometimes it's really easy to forget that all the popular media is created by The Rich And Powerful Countries that see all of us 'backwards' folk as like. Barely better than savages, if I'm frank.

I had a media class a few semesters ago where we dug into it a little how the American/British/French/etc. lens so dominant in the media influences everybody's perceptions of the world and you could watch in real time as some of my classmates started to reevaluate what they thought of South America, Africa, the Middle East, etc. when they realized that we all are painted with different flavors of the "oh you fascinating little savage you are trying so hard to look civilized haha" brush.

Anyway, a friend was in Mexico city last year and took some really really lovely photos. We don't have cities that big here (for scale, Mexico city has almost as many people as my entire country, actually) so I hope I get to visit and see it with my own eyes one day.

10 notes · View notes

honeysider · 5 months

Note

https://www.tumblr.com/honeysider/739803375060811776/youre-pathetic-in-every-respect?source=share I'm actually interested in what you think the answer is. I'm not saying this to antagonize or bait you, I really want to know. As someone who has seen third parties fail and fail again when trying to breach into bipartisan leadership (don't get me wrong, I don't like either party) it's hard to see how leaving things to the masses (who will most likely vote for Trump) or up to a third party that probably won't win; I'm quite literally at a loss of what to do.

Here's how I see things, personally. You can't fix things in one or even two elections, and you certainly can't fix things by voting for the same party over and over again. This might get rambly.

Like, I wont even get into the viability of elections as a means of engineering political change because I'm assuming you dgaf about that (not a dig, most people consider all the other political stuff like on-the-ground work to be too much for them). I'll explain it in a way that made sense to me when I decided to not waste my time voting in presidential elections.

I do not believe in The Democratic Party or Biden's specific policies as vehicles to advance either my self interest or the interests of others in the country. The lesser of two evils argument doesn't even cut it anymore. Biden is enforcing Trump's old immigration policies even going so far as to continue building the goddamn wall. He doesn't support universal healthcare. He crumbles against any kind of pressure that isn't only rhetoric, basically threw up his hands and gave up when student loan forgiveness was attacked by the courts, and supports the genocide against Palestinians financially. He is mostly indistinguishable from a Republican, save for the theocratic aspects.

Why would I vote for someone I don't believe in?I might go vote for Cornel West because simply put I believe in more of his policies than Biden's, if I vote at all.

And that's the main thing that bothers me about the vote blue no matter who philosophy. You're never supposed to vote for who you believe in. In the primaries you are expected to unite around the Most Likely Candidate To Win The Election, not the candidate who you agree with. I remember when people screamed at Bernie voters because they were voting for the democratic socialist, not any of the mainstream moderate front runners and he started winning states. Pundits and analysts and party activists had a meltdown until the Democrats managed to wrangle everything around Biden.

So point 1, I will only vote for people I believe in. If the Republicans win as a result of enough people doing the same thing, the Democrats should have pushed a better candidate.

And that leads to point 2, Blue No Matter Who doesn't perpetuate a regrettable-but-tolerable lesser of two evils situation. It enables democrats to be as evil as their opponents, just no further than their opponents. The Democratic Party Platform used to include Universal Healthcare, and now it's literally been erased from the platform. Democrats have had three terms between Bush and now and we have only now pulled out of Afghanistan, and we still have troops in Iraq? What? Guantanamo Bay is still active? "Enhanced interrogation" is still being used? The Patriot act is renewed every time it comes up without a yell or a peep? Power is being increasingly centralized in the executive branch? All the big controversies from my childhood are still mostly unsolved today due mostly to Democratic inaction and ineptitude with a dash of Republican malevolence.

My only tool is abstaining from the process. The only thing Democrats believe in are election victories. If you just give them votes no matter who they run they won't care about seriously pursuing real beneficial policy. Let them lose elections until they get the picture.

And look. I know its hard and its scary to imagine Trump in the white house again. But Biden's doing like 99% of his policy anyways, so really all you're voting for now is a facade of political professionalism, not for what you actually believe.

So don't vote, withhold it until Democrats get a clue and get more involved or at least more knowledgeable about state and local politics.

If you want to hear about the Revolution and stuff there are better people to talk to than me tho lol

#sorry i typed this on mobile

8 notes · View notes

thecarnivorousmuffinmeta · 1 year

Note

Omfg, Swanhilde is completely and utterly usurping Bella's position as mother (just without the explicit title) even more thoroughly than even Rosalie ever could have done, and all without actually trying to do so! It makes me wonder how this situation would go with Hong Bellamy instead of Swanhilde Bellamy. Could you elaborate on that, Muffin?

The Seventh Seal.

To catch readers up. Bella's gift traveled back in time but ended up in Renesmee's body instead, concluded it was Renesmee's gift now, had to make a hallucination to keep Renesmee company, and then made that hallucination a person when the Cullens wigged out.

When it's Hong's female alternate form, Swanhilde, Bella loses her goddamn mind out of insecurity/feeling usurped in every way.

It's Hong Instead

Bella's fine now.

Oddly enough, a strange, beautiful, man fixating on her daughter and being the missing brother the Cullens never mentioned doesn't bother her in the least. There's no sense of competition, asking why Edward didn't choose Hong, no comparing herself to Hong and feeling herself come up short in every field that matters.

Bella's actually relieved as she'd been terrified about what the lack of Jacob would mean for her daughter. Hong's not her imprint, no one will be, but he's more than willing to babysit and form an emotional connection with her that the other Cullens (sans Rosalie but let's not mention her) aren't interest in.

Bella's Hong's number one fan and is very eager to get to know him as a brother-in-law to help cement her place in the family. She eagerly accepts the story of him being away in Europe and not having a cell phone during all the time Bella was in Forks. She accepts Alice not being able to find him for the trial as he's a hybrid, like Renesmee, Alice can't see him and had no idea where to look.

It's Edward who's going to be a problem.

What's Wrong with Edward?

Now, Edward's not the first anymore. He wasn't the one who started off the Cullens, it was Carlisle finding Hong in France/Germany (Edward does not question too deeply why a man by the name of "Hong" would have that appearance in that country at that time period except to grouse about it internally).

Added onto this, Hong has excellent control, never left the diet, is well-traveled, is a learned musician, can even do things like cook, and has always been and always looked more human than Edward.

Hong is everything Edward wants to be, and he does it effortlessly.

Now, Hong returns, and it's to the delight of Edward's wife and his daughter.

And it just gets worse. Hong talks freely with Carlisle about all the years they spent together when Edward hadn't been turned yet/when Edward left to eat rapists, Esme dotes on him as if he were her own son, everyone gets along with him even more than they do Edward.

And Hong, while stupidly gifted in a way even Edward has to recognize, has none of Edward's drawbacks. His gift isn't always on, he can respect the family's privacy, but he always knows what he needs to or can quickly find it out.

Edward begins to realize that he was happiest when Hong was away, that Hong returning changes things.

Hong even fucking looks more like Carlisle than Edward does, something that bothers Edward tremendously in Midnight Sun.

Edward Pretends it's Fine

Edward wants to be the better man, so he puts a smile on, and pretends this is great.

However, he breaks.

Bella's gushing about how amazing Hong is and how she wished she could have met him earlier in Forks. She pesters Edward with all sorts of questions about what Hong is like during the high school routine, how long he was in Germany for, how Carlilse found him, how he and Edward first met, what he thinks of Bella, etc.

Edward answers these curtly and tries to deflect the answers back to himself. Don't you want to know how cool I was in high school, Bella? Hong's boring, he's the pity brother.

Renesmee's also gushing about Friend/Uncle Hong, look daddy, they made a picture together! "Don't you want to talk about me, Renesmee?" Edward asks and Renesmee sort of stares because she hasn't seen Bella or Edward in three days.

At talk of them moving, on whether Hong should stay home to babysit full time or attend high school with them, on realizing that Hong Bellamy truly is back to stay and will be with them forever, Edward just dies inside.

Edward, feeling deeply insecure, realizes he can't do this.

Edward Subtly Hints Hong Should Go Back to Europe

Edward approaches Hong and starts dropping hints that it's great Hong came back and all, amazing, Edward missed him so much, but this isn't the best time.

Bella's new to vampirism and is in a very delicate place with the loss of Jacob (oh right, you didn't know that Hong, because you're not actually important). Renesmee's growing up fast, lost Jacob, and has deep emotional issues as shown by Friend. That Hong looks like this Friend character could only execrabate them.

The best thing Hong can do for the family is go back to Europe for a few years and keep--doing whatever he was even doing over there.

Hong refuses.

Edward then approaches Carlisle with this same argument. Wow, so great Hong's back, missed him tons, he should go to Europe because wife and baby. Carlisle reminds Edward that he can't and won't banish Hong to Europe, plus, that would just make Bella feel rejected and Renesmee as well.

Carlisle also doesn't see what the problem is. Hong's great with Renesmee, Bella seems to like him and seems to be making strides since Jacob's uh--whatever happened to Jacob, everyone's missed him for years, why would Carlisle kick him out when he's finally come home?

Edward has no good answer to that and goes away to stew.

Edward Gaslights Himself

Edward tells himself that he doesn't dislike Hong for unfounded reasons. That there appears to be nothing outwardly wrong with him, no pig-headed vanity like Rosalie, no violent past like Jasper, means that whatever's wrong with him must be more sinister.

Just what was he doing away for so many years anyway? Are they sure he stuck to the diet?

Why come back now after the danger is long over? Surely, even if the Cullens couldn't find him, he would hear through whatever means Vladimir and Stefan heard.

Edward tells himself that Hong is not only dislikable but a malevolent actor, an unworthy fraud, someone who only pretends to be this perfect but isn't truly.

He's come back, clearly, to ruin Edward's life personally.

Edward Confronts Hong Again

This time, Edward brings out the big accusations, he knows what Hong's up to. Hong plans to take the only thing Edward's ever loved, Bella Swan, away from him along with all of Edward's family and his daughter because he's an evil menace.

"HONG BELLAMY ISN'T EVEN A NAME" - Edward Cullen

Hong, once again, refuses to leave and also cannot understand what Edward's fucking deal is.

Hong has one job in life, one, protect Renesmee, and for some reason Edward's yammering onto him about Hong sleeping with his wife on the sly.

"Cool story, bro," Hong says then leaves the room.

Edward Summons a Family Meeting

Edward rings the proverbial gong and summons the family to dramatically tell them all his suspicions about Hong. Hong is a Volturi sleeper agent, he always has been, that's why Carlisle found him in Europe and why he didn't attend the trial. He also is clearly sent as a hybrid because they know that Alice's visions will be blocked.

Now, he's here to destroy the coven forever and ruin their lives.

Rosalie points out Hong could kill them all at any time.

Carlisle points out that, when he first met Hong, the Volturi had no reason to send a secret agent to infiltrate the coven he didn't have. They also have no reason to have secret agents. Period.

Emmett points out Hong's now been her for months and hasn't done anything. Wouldn't Hong have sold them off to the Volturi ages ago if that was the case?

Alice points out that, as much as Hong annoys her because ew vision blocking, he was here long before she showed up and so couldn't have been chosen by Aro to prevent her visions.

Renesmee shows the pretty picture of a rainbow that she and Uncle Hong drew together.

Bella's mortified. She's just mortified.

The family awkwardly suggests that maybe what Edward needs is a break and a vacation. He and Bella can go somewhere, they'll take care of Renesmee (read Hong will take care of Renesmee), and he can destress.

(Rosalie has also now gaslit herself into having distinct memories of Edward always having loathed Hong from the start out of jealousy and insecurity.)

Edward never thought the entire family, even Alice, would disbelieve him and feels not only abandoned but betrayed.

He confronts Bella later, she at least has to believe him, but Bella suggests that maybe they all just need to calm down a bit. What the others said sounds reasonable and Hong seems kind of amazing (and hot).

It Escalates

As you can imagine, we keep escalating, as Edward has to get rid of the threat to his family.

#twilight #twilight meta #twilight headcanon #twilight renaissance #the seventh seal #hong bellamy #swanhilde bellamy #renesmee cullen #edward cullen #anti edward cullen #bella swan #rosalie hale #alice cullen #carlisle cullen #the cullens #meta #headcanon #opinion #themythicalfedora

66 notes · View notes