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sturnsdoll · 7 days

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𝙂𝙄𝙍𝙇𝙔 𝙂𝙁 ˚୨୧⋆｡ - M.S

(headcannons!)

pairing: matt x girly/hyperfem!reader

warnings: hc's, sfw and nsfw but they are labelled as such.

nsfw warnings: dom!matt, sub!reader, implied spanking, dirty talk, mostly just super suggestive.

authors note: multiple people requested a matt version so here you go <3

SFW !

ೃ⁀➷ one of the first things matt loved about you was the way you express yourself through your style.

ೃ⁀➷ how could he keep his eyes off you with bows dangling and intertwined through your hair, belt loops or pretty much anything else you could stick em' on

ೃ⁀➷ watching you lay peacefully against your pink silk sheets never fails to lure him into crawling under your matching covers to cuddle and stroke your perfectly cared for hair into further relaxation.

ೃ⁀➷ anytime your cake-esque fragrance is sprayed around him he has to pull you into him. he's addicted to it like crack. he has to bury his face into your neck, inhaling like he'll never be graced with it again.

ೃ⁀➷ anytime he's out he's looking for things you'd accesorize with..

ೃ⁀➷ matt would be searching through every color of ribbon in every store he's in for a color, size or texture that you don't have.

ೃ⁀➷ matt would want to buy you makeup because he knows how good you feel about yourself while wearing it.. not saying he'd be good at picking out the right shades but hey, he tries right??

ೃ⁀➷ matt loves watching the bottom of your skirt dance and twirl while you bounce around your room with your fav artist playing..

ೃ⁀➷ you hum the lyrics while organizing your closet that's drowned in shades of pink..

ೃ⁀➷ "need help sweetheart?" "i'm okay, thanks" and even though he knew you were sincere from the sweet grin on your pretty lips, he'd get up from the comfort of your bed to assist anyways. he couldn't let your pretty little head get too exhausted now could he?

ೃ⁀➷ he knows how capable you are though, there's no doubt. he enjoys taking care of you but knows your more than able on your own

ೃ⁀➷ he would try his hardest to be assertive when he's angry but it was always impossible.

ೃ⁀➷ mid arguement you'd find yourself inching closer till you reach him. you take his hand. he can't ignore your perfect shiny acrylic nails (that he paid for) grazing along his palm to slowly interlock with his longer, masculine fingers.

ೃ⁀➷ "i'm sorry matt, i'll make it up to you. " you'd apologize sincerly.

ೃ⁀➷ before he could even think about saying no, your lashes batting up at him with doe eyes beneath them would usually force him to the final decision of teaching you how to behave another way...

NSFW !

ೃ⁀➷ "you think you look all innocent don't you?" now your backed up and corned against your makeup table. a few lipglosses knock over when the back of your thighs hit the table, your hands coming behind to steady yourself.

ೃ⁀➷ you'd nod your head. matt's dry laugh makes wetness pool beneath your skirt faster than you're willing to admit. "we'll see how much of a good girl you really are then yeah?" then next thing you know you'd be holding off your orgasms, being left begging for at least the 3rd time in a row.

ೃ⁀➷ and it never took much to get him going.

ೃ⁀➷ matt and you would be with his friends and all it'd take would be a graze of your perfect nails against his jeans for him to crave them wrapped around his dick.

ೃ⁀➷ your perfect pink lips pouting at him as you asked to go home early..

ೃ⁀➷ your eyes telling him you weren't wearing the shortest skirt you could find for no reason.

ೃ⁀➷ matt never really cared about you doing much for him sexually. making you feel good is what got him off. you were his princess and you needed to feel as such, in and out of the bedroom.

ೃ⁀➷ contradictory to that though, being a princess means being a bit of a brat and he knows how to deal with you when needed.

ೃ⁀➷ if it came to it, he'd pull you out of any social event (dinner, party, hangout, doesn't matter) and take you to his car.

ೃ⁀➷ your sweet demeanor never stopped him from ruining you.

ೃ⁀➷ "you think that shit's cute?" you quickly mutter back a "no" while knowing damn well that being bent over his lap in the backseat as your tears of pain and pleasure ruined your makeup was exactly what you were hoping for.

ೃ⁀➷ "who's dog was in here?" nick would ask matt the next day, eyeing at the nail shaped imprints in the seat cover. chris' head whips around from the front to spot your hair ribbon discarded on the floor. he put two and two together. "matt, there's absaloutely no way dude... in nick's seat seriously?!"

(sorry if any of the tags didn't work) tags ᥫ᭡ : @mattsrod @sturncakez @sturniololovesss @sturniolosstar @sstvrnioloo @watercolorskyy @pettydollie @sturniol0s @6ix9inewiturmom @sonicsmacks @orangelala

#matt sturniolo #sturnsdoll #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo headcannons #matt sturniolo x girly reader #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo triplets fanfic

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icy-bluez · 2 months

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Bake Me Some Hearts

Warnings: Established relationship, suggestive (Zayne), lots of fluff.

Synopsis: When you're in the process of baking something for them.

Characters: Zayne, Xavier, Rafayel

A/N: My search history now consists of 'which food explodes' 'can bread explode' 'how to bake' 'how do whiny cats behave'

Zayne:

You were making cookies or at least, trying your best to. Turning up the heat of the oven you waited, humming a song and happily dancing around the kitchen. Zayne had come back from work earlier, tired and exhausted, demanding your presence in the bedroom. He then proceeded to adorably fall asleep on your chest.

You had stroked his hair, rubbed his back and kissed him until you felt sure his nightmares wouldn't bother him, then got up to make cookies for him in an attempt to make him feel better. The 'ting' of the oven alerts you. Taking out the baked, cat-shaped cookies you start piping frosting on them. It wasn't until you started on the second batch that you felt two strong arms snaking around your waist. You giggle as your back comes flush with a solid chest.

"Hello my dearest snowman. Did you sleep well? " You ask. He rests his chin on top of your head before answering.

"I suppose. What are you up to now?" He asks, languidly, voice and octave lower and distinctly sleepy.

"I'm making sure the snowman is well fed."

"Mm. Come back to bed with me." He demands, nuzzling his nose to your neck.

"I'm almost done love, almost." You say, turning slightly and cupping his cheek. He places a kiss on your palm, closing his eyes. Adoration fills your heart looking at the beautiful man towering behind you. You smile, putting a bit of frosting on his lips.

"Just a moment."

Turning back towards the cookies, you started flourishing them with toppings and decorations till you were satisfied. Zayne licked off the frosting on his lips mumbling about it tasting good. Skeptically, you took a bite out of a nearby cookie. Satisfied you turned around to let Zayne take a bite out of it too.

"These are the only cats that won't run away from you."

"Well aren't you playful today?"

He leaned down to capture your lips, licking, sucking and tasting the inside of your mouth till your cheeks turned the darling shade of pink he loved.

"I would say they came out quite well." He comments whilst wiping off a bit of frosting from the corner of your mouth and licking it, never breaking eye contact.

Suffice to say you were fiercely red, dizzy and out of breath when Zayne lifted you up and put you down on the kitchen counter, kissing you silly. The both of you had only a half eaten tray of cookies to keep you company as the night got darker and the moans louder.

Xavier:

"Xavier stop that!" You exclaim, laughing as he tried his level best to bake a singular piece of bread. The one he had tried to make earlier had exploded, dramatically. He just added too much yeast.

"I don't understand...what did I do wrong?"

You just proceed to laugh harder, grabbing the corner of the kitchen table in an attempt to stabilize yourself.

"Your skill in exploding things seems to be getting better everyday." You had tears in your eyes, which you wiped, trying to control your laughter.

"At least one of us is having fun."

"Wait...hehehe, you have to make sure you don't add too much yeast."

You walk in front of Xavier, taking the mixing bowl away from him and adding a good amount of ingredients.

"Didn't I do exactly that?"

"No you dumped the whole packet in." He grabs a remnant of the bread that had exploded and puts it in his mouth.

"It's got a coarse texture but it tastes fine..?"

"Oh my god Xavier don't eat that! Haha!"

You proceed to knead the dough you made for a solid ten minutes, then add butter, knead it again until your hands are tired.

"Now we need to wrap it for a while, then let it rise for a while which might take about...2 hours. Can the sunshine boy's stomach wait that long?"

"Should we just give up on making bread? You have a ton of snacks in those cabinets." He says looking down at you with those beautiful blue eyes of his. You can't help but grab his face, pull him down and kiss his nose.

"Aww baby. Why don't you go get something for yourself and I'll make us some croissants in the meantime?"

"But I want to help as well..."

"Hmm, you can help by getting yourself the packet of frozen mixed berries from the fridge and eating them plus feeding them to me. I can tell you're hungry."

Xavier giggles softly, in that raspy, permanently sleepy voice of his. "You know me so well."

If there was anyone who knew exactly how touchy Xavier was, it was you. He never stopped touching you, grabbing your waist, kissing your neck and shoulders, pecking your lips and then running away. The golden sunrays infiltrated the room, as if drawn to Xavier. It highlighted your features and the both of you laughed at each other's shenanigans. Baking with Xavier was a bit too wholesome.

Rafayel:

"Hello Linkoln Police? This is your neighborhood famous artist, Rafayel. Yes...yes, I'm calling to complain about something."

You listen to your dearest, needy Rafayel whine on the remote-turned-phone as he sits on the couch in the living room that is adjacent to the kitchen. All you can do as you bake pastries is try your level best to suppress the smile threatening to split across your face.

"Hmm, the woman who stole my heart has been ignoring me the entire day! Callously might I add! I am so close to being admitted in the hospital for the disease-you-get-when-you-have-no-heart-syndrome!"

You burst out laughing.

"Hear that officer? That's her laughing! Menacingly! She has no sympathy for this poor, amazing artist!"

You walk up to Rafayel who was sat on the couch with a prominent pout on his face. He was definitely sulking.

"Really Rafayel?" You ask, still smiling. You sit down beside him, wiping your hands on a clean towel before touching his face.

"No..." He turns away. "I'm mad at you." (Sorry this reminded me of that lil cat picture with the caption 'no talk me i angy' I had to say it.)

"Babe I was just making pastries for us to enjoy later tonight."

"I know and I have successfully lured you away from the ferocious pastries with my charm." He says before tackling you onto the couch with him. You lie below him smiling and giggling at his antics. You look up through smiling eyes to see a grin on Rafayel's face.

"I missed you...I really did not want to go on that overseas trip..." He says and buries his face in the crook of your neck. You bring your hands onto his hair and start running your fingers through it.

"I know love, I know. But you're back now."

"Yeah and you're ignoring me..." He says, softly kissing the side of your face.

"I did not haha..." You turn your face to meet his lips in a gentle kiss.

"Well, would you like to help me out then? I'm only left with the decoration part."

"Only if I get to keep my arms around you the entire time."

You laugh again before kissing his forehead.

"Don't assume you were the only one who was suffering. I missed you too."

Rafayel smiles.

ANTHOLOGY LIST

#i love them all your honour #zayne love and deepspace #fanfiction #love and deepspace #zayne #rafayel #xavier #xavier love and deepspace #fluff #suggestive #rafayel love and deepspace

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dear-satan · 10 months

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together

vendetta!Leon S. Kennedy x fem!Reader summary: you and Leon split up. after a worrying phone call from Chris, you decide to visit your ex at his apartment. warning: Leon's alcoholism & severe depression era, younger reader

"He has not given a sign of life for over a week now. Please if you could check on him, I would be very grateful."

You stood motionless, with your hand raised in the air. Your gaze was stuck on the number 239 glued on the dark structure of the door, which you knew very well, just like what was behind it. You had, after all, lived in this flat for almost two years with your now ex-partner…. Who was the very reason you were standing here.

You and Leon separated about a month ago because of another argument between you. It wasn't caused by anything specific, in fact you didn't even remember the reason why it started, and now you considered your behaviour very childish. After all, the two of you were adults, and at that moment you behaved like complete children, saying the worst things about each other, culminating in your breaking up in anger at the other person. However, you still loved him, no matter how horrible the words he said to you, which is why, after a phone call from his best friend Chris, you immediately threw on your casual clothes and drove to his flat. You were afraid that Leon might have done something extremely stupid considering his alcohol problems and depressive states caused by everything he had been through so far.

You gently knocked on the door listening for any sound, which didn't come. It may be silly, but you still had the keys, which you hurriedly took from your pocket and slipped into the lock, thanking yourself that you had not given them to him at the time.

You stepped inside and the smell of alcohol mixed with the concentrated air immediately reached your nostrils. "Leon?" You closed the door behind you, entering deeper. Most of the living room floor was covered in rubbish and clothes and the kitchen worktop was almost invisible from under a pile of dirty dishes. However, the sight of empty bottles of vodka and whisky crumbling on the table in profusion made your heart stop. It was very bad.

You directed your steps to his bedroom, peering inside through the half-opened door. He lay there dressed only in a T-shirt and boxers. His body was strangely entangled in the white sheets and his chest was rising evenly. He was alive, that was the most important thing.

"What have you done to yourself Leon…" you muttered quietly and the mattress bent under your weight as you sat down on it. You gently took a strand of his dirty hair falling over his closed eyes to then place your hand on his cheek. The stubble scratched the texture of your skin pleasantly as you rolled small circles with your thumb. He looked like a veritable wreck of a man making your heart cry. This guy was the whole world to you and you never wanted him to bring himself to such a state during your eventual breakup.

You froze when a faint purr escaped from his lips. His eyelids slowly began to reveal his beautiful blue irises contrasting with the purple shadows under his eyes.

"What time is it?" as if nothing had happened he snuggled his face into your hand, gloating over its warmth. You sat motionless, watching to see how the connections in his brain would allow him to identify you and assume the appropriate posture.

"Fifteen to six" your voice acted on him like a bucket of cold water. He rose rather quickly, causing a dull ache to set in his head at which he hissed, catching himself. "Are you okay?" the worry was palpable in your voice. You looked at his figure. His eyes were red and swollen and the shirt he was wearing should definitely have been washed at least a few times.

" I'm fine." you were pained by the tone with which he replied "What are you doing here?" he turned his head away avoiding your gaze.

"Leon after all I can see that-"

"How did you get in here?" he raised his tone slightly. Again.

Your expression changed from concerned to much more stern in the blink of an eye. "Not in that tone Leon. I'm here because you're acting like a shit, even though you're older than me." you began crossing your arms over your chest. He also changed his posture and finally looked at you. "You haven't spoken to anyone, and believe it. There are people who care about you." the expression on his face softened "Chris asked me to look in on you…. But as I see it, unnecessarily." You got out of bed heading in the direction you came from.

Tears flowed into your eyes but you, as a strong young woman, did not let a single one flow. You are not going to cry through him again, even less in his flat. You passed all the rubbish and grabbed the handle of the front door with the intention of leaving once and for all.

"Y/N wait." Leon's strong hand caught your forearm. You gave him a really stern look which made Leon crack in front of you for the first time. Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes which he felt, so he lowered his head. "I didn't mean to… I-I…" the tears fell on the light panels "I can't cope without you…"

His legs trembled, probably through lack of any energy. You saw all those junk food wrappers…. After all, Leon really couldn't cope in the kitchen and it was up to you to cook him whatever he wanted.

"Lee." you let him pull you onto his lap and hide his face in the hollow of your neck. His hands tightened on your blouse in turn yours rode slowly down his back.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything I said that day." his voice was breaking and he clung to you even more, as if to reassure himself that you were really here. "I love you… I love you so much Y/N. I beg… Don't leave."

Your heart was rumbling and more than a thousand thoughts were swirling around in your head. He was still your Leon and that would never, but never change. No matter what he did, you loved this guy with your full self.

"I beg Y/N.. I promise that-"

"Sit tight already" you smiled to yourself placing a small kiss on his head "You're a damn asshole Leon" he looked at you with a questioning look. You put your hands around his cheeks wiping a single tear falling from his eye. "But I love you so much. We're going to rebuild this together, okay?" he nodded slightly and a sigh of relief came from his lips as you hugged him tightly not noticing how much of a lamentable state he was in.

"Together…"

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acapelladitty · 7 months

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Captain Boomerang/Reader - Restraints (Kinktober #10)

Summary - You find Digger all tied up with nowhere to go and decide to tease him a little before setting him free. (This was a wee commission from the absolutely delightful @worri-wort who has fantastic prompts!)

The sigh of exasperation which flees your lips at the sight of him is one that you assume he must be used to by now. Planting your hands atop your hips, you meet his eyes and a silly thought flits through your mind that, at least this time, you’d been lucky enough to find him conscious and clothed.

“Really?”

Digger’s fingers flex in the closest thing he can manage to a shrug as his body writhes against the myriad of twisting, textured vines which pin him to the wall. A thick patch of ivy sits behind his frame, the flora providing a strong anchor for the vines to hold its unwilling prey steady as the base of it seems somehow embedded in the plaster of the wall. The scent of earth is heavy in the air, something primal and heady, and the strength of it makes you clear your throat delicately as you tap your feet against the flooring.

“I know I said I would behave.” Digger begins with the inflection of a petulant child. “But things happened, and I got into a little tussle with the plant bitch,” he smirks at the dismissive nickname as a flash of gold peeks free of his dingy teeth, “so she left me here like this. Told me to fucking rot.”

“And what did you do to deserve that?”

If anything, his grin grows wider and there’s something guilty hiding in the way his lips tilt to the side even as he keeps stubbornly silent.

“Well, that wasn’t smar-”

“Hey! I’m the victim here.”

“Maybe she’s right. Maybe you should be stuck there. God knows it might actually stop you from making a mess.”

“Aww, don’t be like that, darlin’. Come and untie me.” He winks and, as if to make his point, his wide body struggles against the vines for a solid moment to showcase just how trapped he was. “I’ll make it worth your while, sweetheart.”

Sleazy charm in full force, the pet names are desperate but effective as heat touches at your cheeks. A fact he is quick to notice as his expression lights up and his efforts to escape stop in an instant.

“Fine.” You agree, attempting to sound nonchalant about the whole thing and failing miserably.

The vines are rough against your hands, feeling oddly alive as you delicately and methodically unravel the most prominent ones which cross his chest and arms. So focused on the task, you push away the embarrassment which sits warmly in the pit of your stomach as your fingers brush across his thick body; first trailing across his tensed bicep before wrapping around his thigh to coax off a particularly tight vine from just below his crotch.

Heat radiates from him like a furnace. His naturally warm frame is soothing, and you enjoy the sensations of his skin peeking through the vines as you return to his wrists, unknotting and loosening with dexterous fingers as you work as quickly as you can.

“Get the lower ones first,” Digger cuts in, the words startling you from your focus, “they’re trying to strangle me goolies and it’s not something I want to live through.” His voice has deepened, the accent coming through more pronounced as he slurs over the syllable with a sudden roughness. It’s hot and you bite your lips as you follow his request.

Dipping your hands back to the vines on his thighs, a gasp snaps free of your throat as your wrist brushes the crotch of his jeans to alert you to the stiff bulge which juts out from the denim.

“Digger…”

“You’re the one touching me, love. Can’t blame a red-blooded man for getting’ a little hot under the collar and cracking a fat when-”

He breaks off into a throaty laugh as you bury your head against his chest, blocking out the worst of his vulgarity and hiding your embarrassment by focusing on the racing pulse of his heart.

His shirt is ripped, the pale blue fabric torn enough across his chest that the exposed reddish chest hair below tickles your cheek as you press against him.

“Babe, heads up! Look!”

Following his instructions, you tilt your head up and immediately feel his chapped lips pressing against your own as he uses the little bit of purchase you’ve given him to catch you by surprise.

His mutton chops are rough against your skin, scratching your cheeks as he devours your lips in a filthy kiss. He tastes of cheap beer and even cheaper cigarettes, the palette of a man long haven given up any pretence of giving a single fuck about his health, and it’s nasty in a way which makes your head spin. In an instant, your fingers are pressing into his reddened hair, the strands there sitting flat against his scalp due to his recently abandoned beanie as you hold him in place.

“Chances of a gobbie?” He growls as he pulls away. “Can’t get a guy all hard like this and not do anythin’ about it. What’ya say, baby?”

Fresh heat creeps along your cheeks as you shake your head. No way he was getting a blowjob. Not like this. Those were a reward for a good well done and he had really messed this little meeting he attended up. But the idea does have a little bit of appeal, particularly when he’s so restrained and unable to do anything and the mental image of you on your knees before him sparks a wicked heat in your chest.

Chuckling at your headshake, he offers you a childish pout.

“And here’s me thinking you liked me, darlin’. Not even chucking me a pity handy.”

Mischief rises in your thoughts, pushing past the embarrassment as a cheeky determination settles in your mind and your hand drops deftly to his crotch.

Unzipping his fly, you don’t miss the way his chest heaves in surprise as you pull his straining cock free. He’s already painfully hard and the obvious droplets of pre-cum which are smeared across his cockhead are hint enough to how turned on he is.

“Is this what the big baby wants?” You coo, rolling your fingers across his fat length as it juts free of his groin. The base of his cock boasts a health patch of russet pubic hair, and it tickles your fingers as your stroke away at him with a slow pace.

Panting already, his expression is slack and content to allow you to do what you want with him as he remains unable to move more than a few inches. A lurid, deep moan slips free of his lips as you rub your thumb across his cockhead, spreading the mess there further as arousal tugs at your own stomach, heat spreading across your skin.

“Just like that, babe.” Digger groans, his hips jerking slightly as he chases your hand. “So fucking good to me, so fucking good.”

Mouth going dry at the praise, you settle into a steady rhythm as you use his reactions to guide your actions. He makes a little whimper as you run your finger along the line where the shaft meets the head and the sound goes straight to your groin, inspiring you to do it two more times until the pre-cum is steadily leaking from his slit.

“Are you close, baby?”

“Yeah- oh yeah.” He mewls out, the noise utterly pathetic. “Gonna shoot off all over your hands, love.”

Before you could respond to that, he follows through with his claim and you feel his cock twitching in your palm as he comes. His release is stuttered; the mess coating your fingers as a few erratic droplets spray across his own stomach, staining both the shirt and vines which cover the wide area.

Continuing to stroke him through his orgasm, you keep your hand moving along his shaft until his groans have shifted from pleasure to discomfort as overstimulation touches at his heaving body. You release him quickly, your fingers shifting over to the final vine which holds his right hand in place as you pull it free with renewed strength - confidence thrumming through your veins.

Now freed, even if it were only one hand, his determination is immediate as his hand strikes forward to wrap around the back of your neck and a surprised squeak flees your lips as he pulls you flush against his frame. The heat radiating off him is even more pronounced and the blush in his cheeks is reflecting in the warmth of your own as he grinds his cock against your clothed thigh.

“Fancy a quick root, babe?” He asks, his one freed hand dropping to roll across your clothed chest as he squeezes the skin there roughly. “Give me five mins to recover and the little guy’ll be raring to go for another round.”

“Root.” You mutter, mildly pissed off at how good the pun is there.

Moving your feet quickly, you kick away the vines which are littered around the floor beneath you to make way for a decent space for a quick fuck once you’ve finished releasing him.

#captain Boomerang x reader #captain boomerang x you #captain boomerang #digger harkness #digger harkness x reader #digger harkness x you #captain boomerang fic #digger harkness fic #smut

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elementroar · 15 hours

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Flament Nagel, the Flaming Nail - Paracelsus theory(ies)

This was gonna go out earlier yesterday, but you know, Slayer happened lol.

I feel that ArcSys has been hinting that Paracelsus' 'true nature' is more complicated than described, even more than how his true form being kinda formless and his nature as a morph weapon that reacts to the emotions of his wielder.

So below is his appearance during A.B.A's Instant Kill move back in ACCENT CORE +R, which were a signature cinematic and flashy move that instantly destroys your opponent regardless of health. It's a retired game mechanic now in STRIVE.

So back in their previous appearance back in ACCENT CORE+R, this is the form Paracelsus briefly takes when performing A.B.A's Instant Kill, where he first flies up into the sky while she summons her door.

What’s interesting is it’s only in this form that we see him resemble his original name - Flament Nagel - which is misspelled German for “Flaming Nail”. In no other move or scene does he actually look or behave like a 'nail' that's on fire.

After their enemy is sucked into the door and it closes, Paracelsus returns but in Goku Moroha mode (the extreme mode above his usual Moroha mode) and slices the door in half to break it and ‘seal’ their enemy on the other side to ‘instant kill’ them.

He then slices the doors apart forcefully because he is actually rotated with his blade facing the door. Paracelsus is not facing us the audience in this animation. The 'face' facing us isn't his actual face morphing, but some kind of energy entirely.

What’s more, Paracelsus himself appears to be knocked out (😵) during the entire animation and only opens his eyes after the black smoke dissipates and seems kinda scared or confused at the end of it. Which suggests it isn’t even 'him' doing the attack with A.B.A, or at least not him consciously doing it.

There's the possibility that this smoke and the sludge we now see in STRIVE are suppose to be the same thing, but changed due to art evolution. A kind of formless mass Paracelsus takes on when he doesn't have a definite form, or a form that differs from his default.

I'm not saying Paracelsus was taken over by a completely separate personality or entity, because he still had agency and awareness, he still talked as himself in Moroha mode. And it's clear he enjoys/enjoyed blood and violence and he still reminisces about them with some fondness in STRIVE.

But when he says he "lost his sanity" during his bloodlust, I wonder if it was more like he was partially possessed, and he didn't realize it.

Paramirum

Coupled with his new transformation which is called “hyoui” (“possession”) internally, and his STRIVE axe form has both two 'heads' at once, and is actually a double-bladed axe with one blade broken off. It feels like hints and motifs that Paracelsus is or has multiple entities or personalities in one.

Like on his blade in Jealous Rage mode, that word on the blade is "Paramirum" which is actually one of the books written by the real-life alchemist Paracelsus. It means "beyond wonder". What's more interesting is that the roman numeral Ⅱ is on that blade too, right above "Paramirum".

Does that mean something like a second Paracelsus, or "Paramirum" personality is appearing on that blade? There is a goat's eye on that half in Jealous Rage, which gets much larger in hyoui mode. Could this be his old goat's head personality reappearing indepedently of the main Paracelsus personality?

(There's also text on Paracelsus' end in Jealous Rage, but I can't tell what it is from the gallery images, prolly will need to see the actual model textures)

It should also be noted that in his original Moroha mode, it’s shown that only one of his eyes lights up. So the idea of him being somehow ‘half’ isn’t entirely new to STRIVE.

It’s also not clear if Paracelsus is actually aware in red hyoui mode, and if it's actually him snarling with A.B.A in her attack. His regular face is apparently still there when the attack happens, according to this concept art, so it's a second face appearing on the blade half. Could this actually be a completely separate personality from the main Paracelsus?

Personal headcanon/theory

My personal headcanon now is that ArcSys is heavily hinting a dual-personality situation with Paracelsus. If he really is actually a twin-bladed axe that got one edge broken off, then maybe the Paracelsus we know is ‘half’ of his full personality and is technically incomplete. If Moroha partially reveals his other personality, maybe they use to both be present at the same time (both blades present) but now only one can take dominance at one time (as a single bladed axe).

Or a new personality is emerging that's in response to A.B.A's bloodlust in STRIVE.

There's also a lesser-known property of magical foci like Paracelsus, in that they described as 'physical proxies' to the real 'data' they're pulling from in the Backyard (think in computer terms: the main Guilty Gear world is really more like the Windows Desktop of reality while the Backyard is the actual hard drive).

It really doesn't come up much, maybe in I-No's story, but functionally doesn't mean anything for characters like Paracelsus. Usually.

But there's an interesting thing with what we see pop up out of A.B.A's door when she does her Keeper of the Key Overdrive.

The multiple tentacles are made of sludge similar to Paracelsus' form, have eyes similar to Paracelsus', and also sharp blades and red energy. The Jealous Rage version even reminds me of Paracelsus' other nickname, 'the Sanguine Gale', where he supposedly swung so fast that he sent blades of wind out to slash at enemies back in his berserker days. The Jealous Rage version has the tendril twist around like a tornado with blades extended.

My theory is THAT is part of Paracelsus' 'full body' back in the Backyard. A giant formless mass much like Paracelsus' true sludgy form, that is summoned A.B.A unlocks the way to it when she uses Paracelsus himself as the key, and reacts to A.B.A's wish for them to attack by forming blades and lashing out.

Maybe it's a giant collection of multiple souls, entities, and memories, because magical foci can be created from multiple things attaching to each other and an object or human. In its case, I can imagine it's the collective memories of warriors who died on the battlefield, that melted together in the Backyard and attached themselves to a weapon - an axe.

And Paracelsus could be just one facet of the collective whole that has grown independent in the physical world of GG.

But big reminder that this is all my personal speculation. I don't expect ArcSys to ever definitely say what's coming out of the door; because there's always the chance it's really just 'rule of cool' like most things in the game, to be honest.

But I like to think it's not a coincidence that A.B.A's new Overdrive has her actually use Paracelsus as a key now, and she's summoning something that looks like it's also sludge like him.

#guilty gear strive #a.b.a guilty gear #paracelsus guilty gear #aba guilty gear #arc system works #ggst

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obey-me-headquarters · 8 months

Note

do you have any SOFT(!!!!!!) pet au thoughts you haven’t got to talk about? your destorying lucifer’s egg post destroyed me so please don’t kill me again

Gosh, it's been a hot minute since I've thought about this au. But it still remains one of my favorites! Here are some soft headcanons I have for the au (along with some other random hcs, as I have a lot of Thoughts for this au that I've been waiting to Spill!!!)

This is more of a world building headcanon, but I imagine that demons like to sleep in nests. Usually this just means they get a old blanket or two from their owner, and the demon will curl up on the ground with it. Which makes you so confusing. When they come to your house and you have a fully decked out nest, with a collection of different blankets, all different textures and weights. What was even more surprising was the futon you laid out for them. For once they had the option to sleep on something that wasn't hardwood or, if they were lucky, carpet.

This is less of a headcanon, and more of something I assume as Canon in every (soft) pet au, but I always assume that the reader has all 7 demon brothers, or will get all 7 brothers once one of the brothers settle in and tell the reader about their brothers. Then the reader will track down each brother and adopt them. I also imagine that another reader (usually different from the reader who has all the brothers) adopted Diavolo, Barbatos, and Simeon. I imagine that the reader will adopt Diavolo first and then get Barbatos to help them take care of Diavolo because he's a high-class demon. I don't have a concrete idea on how they acquire Simeon after, but I think it would be an accident. Like they found Simeon abandoned and brought him home. I also like to imagine that both readers co exist in the same world, just because I don't like imagine one group not having a kind reader.

Out of all of them, I definitely think Diavolo is the most touch starved. He just isn't used to being touched gently. At least with the brothers, they all had each other at some point. Simeon is an angel, so he's been thought of as a more "softer" pet, and thus, humans wouldn't be opposed to cuddling with him or giving him a hug. Barbatos hasn't been touched much, but he is still very well behaved, so once in a blue moon, he would have gotten a gentle head rub. Plus, Barbatos thinks being a good pet means that he shouldn't want for anything, so it's not like Barbatos is begging his owners for cuddles.

Diavolo, on the other hand, wants to be cuddled. He wants to be kissed and held and for his owner to run their fingers through his hair. But he never had a litter mate, and he's a very high-class demon. So his previous owners were a little afraid of getting too close to him because they were worried he might lash out (even though that was furthest from the truth).

So when you come along and start casually touching him, Diavolo absolutely melts. You could playfully ruffle his hair as you walk past him, and Diavolo will get stars in his eyes, and thank you a million times. He will roll over and show you his belly if you so much as glance at him. When Diavolo realizes that you intend to keep softly touching him, he gets absolutely addicted. He knew he was touch starved before, but now it's like he's a thirsty man in a desert who just got a drop of water.

He's absolutely clinging to you, hands around your ankles, head rubbing against your thighs. He doesn't even care if he gets punished for being so needy. He just needs you so bad he'll accept any treatment you give him.

Lucifer is definitely like one of those cats who pretends like it's a completely coincidence that you two are in the same room. Sure, he wouldn't go into the living room all day, but when you go into it and start watching TV, he suddenly needs to be in there too. He won't engage with you. He won't even glance at whatever you're watching. If you offer a seat next to you, he'll scrunch up his nose and refuse.

But he'll watch you, of course you'll never catch him eyeing you. Whenever you turn to look at him, his gaze is somewhere else, but the moment you turn your focus back to the TV, you feel his eyes back on you. Slowly, he'll start moving closer to you, so quietly thar you don't even notice until you feel a weight against your leg and you look down to see Lucifer leaning against you, his gaze still nowhere near you.

Mammon definitely hides his valuables under furniture. He also has a pretty lose definition of what is "valuable," so basically, anything shiny gets pushed under the couch. He thinks he's being sooooo sneaky with hiding his stuff.

You drop the remote under the couch and find like necklace pendants, dead batteries, tinfoil, shot glasses, and like 50 pennies. He pretends that those things have ALWAYS been under your couch! But he gets all pissy if you try to take anything away.

He also hides all the toys you buy him. You'll buy himself something new and the next day it is gone. If you ask for it, Mammon will likely go get it to show that it's safe, but he refuses to tell you where he hidden it away.

Asmo LOVES Pinterest and has, like, a billion boards. He also somehow has 100k followers on it? He gets absolutely obsessed about the different room aesthetics, and there have been many times where you come home and see a completely new living room. He's one of your demons that can NOT be trusted with an unlimited credit card. He WILL spend three grand on fairy lights and will not be sorry about it.

Beel loves eating from your hands. He's a bit embarrassed admitting it, so it's just a fantasy for a while. Until you fed one of the brothers (probably Mammon, tbh, when he proclaimed he wasn't going to eat something he ate many times before. So you tried to convince him by holding it up to him by your fingers) and Beel couldn't help the sting of envy. Beel always found it was easier to admit he wanted something when someone else got it first.

So he shyly knocked on your door, holding an armful of his favorite snacks. It still takes him a minute to admit what he wants, and he's so grateful when you catch on and ask if he wants you to feed him. After that, your private snack time becomes a common occurrence.

Levi loves to redecorate his tank. He loves having his own space that is completely his, something that was a foreign concept to him before you took him in.

Barbatos will never admit it, but he can't stand the cold at all. He tries his best to hide this fact, and he's usually able to keep this hidden from his past masters (he doesn't like to think about the ones who figured it out), and when you first take him in he was determined to keep this a secret from you. Even when you're so nice to him, even when you give him comforts, no one else did, even when you don't punish him. This only moves him to keep his secret more, as he believes he shouldn't "trouble" you.

You only find out about his secret when you two are cuddling together in bed one winter night. It's a little chilly, and you think about turning up the heat. But before you can get up, you feel Barbatos shiver and cuddle closer to you. When you feel him shiver, you know instantly that he isn't a fan of the colder weather.

It makes sense. He is a cold-blooded demon. So you have no problem keeping the house warmer. You also buy Barbatos his very own collection of heated blankets. One for his own nest, one for your bed, one for the couch, and a few scattered around.

Barbatos knows that he's been found out the moment you present the blankets to him, but he can't find it in him to be scared like he did with previous owners. He knows that you'll never take advantage of his weaknesses to create harsher punishments for him. Plus, he finds that he quite likes to be taken care of.

I actually have a whole headcanon on how Solomon becomes a pet even though he's a human. I haven't had the chance to share it until now, so here you go!

So, I imagine that Solomon owned pets himself, he actually owned a lot of them (Asmo and Barbatos included, though maybe not in the same time frame). He wasn't a cruel owner, though maybe a bit neglectful as he was very focused on his studies. He mainly kept demons to study on and obtain demonic powers. He archived immortality by doing this, but it also came with a price; his soul was seen as more demonic than human.

So when he gets found by other humans, they assume he's a wild demon in hiding. So he gets put in a pound. No amount of convincing from Solomon makes the workers see the truth. They have heard dozens of stories from demons in their human forms arguing that they're really a human.

Solomon spends a long while as a pet, going from different owner's hands. He finally understands some of his previous demons behaviors, as the lessons get drilled into him.

When you take him in Solomon has been pretty broken in, believing that he's really just a pet. Through your kindness does he start to regain some of his humanity, and learn that he doesn't mind being a pet if he's your pet.

#ask #obey me pet au #obey me #if you saw any spelling or grammar mistakes shhhhhh no you didnt #i had to write this in a BUNCH of tiny sessions because i kept getting called away #and now it is VERY late but i wanted to get this done #so. gn #i have more of these just. tired atm lol.#ask me for more of them later lol

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boundinparchment · 9 months

Text

Dream a Little Dream of Me - XLII

Celestia had a cruel sense of humor. He knew this, even before his days as a student. But to be given a soulmate? Now, when he openly blasphemed against the cursed island in the sky? He would outlive you and the dreadful fated bond that haunted your shared dreams. There was little point in this. He could at least put a Vision to good use. People were nothing but disappointments. He had no use for you. Until you pulled the bow across your instrument and awoke a part of him long buried by self-hatred and arrogance. Soulmate AU; Il Dottore/Female reader w/ established personality and backstory. Slow burn. Lore and world speculation and interpretation within; follows canon story where possible. Rated Mature. Rating subject to change. Mind the tags. On AO3 here.

As you picked through your belongings to find something remotely suitable, last night’s words echoed in your mind. That was the most he’d said on the entire matter of your fated bond in the weeks since you set sail from Sumeru. Zandik was, of course, occupied with a great many things but how much time was enough?

Time, the world’s most expensive commodity.

Settling for the warmest clothes you had, you dressed and padded out to the sitting area, trying to ignore the phantom hand tickling the back of your neck. On the coffee table was a tray of food, covered, and a pot of presumably coffee or tea with a scribbled note. Beside it, a box roughly the size of an average hat box, plain white and unassuming.

You didn’t need to do more than observe the scribbled note to know who it was from; although unsigned, you could tell just by the cramped letters and ink blots. Steam slipped out as you uncovered the dish and, glancing through the note again, you realized Zandik had left you a small menu. Pirozhki (savory-filled buns), kasha (porridge, in this case a mix of grains), eggs (no translation needed). A light fare but probably for the best after last night.

You poured a cup of coffee and fixed it to taste. You finished off your coffee before pouring a second cup and dug into breakfast. The food on the ship had been decent for what it was but the second you bit into a pirozhki, it was as if your tastebuds were coming back to life. You couldn’t recall the last time you’d had such flavorful food until your gut sank at the thought of a crowded inn’s dining room.

The memories weren’t the finest but the food certainly was, you thought as you finished off the porridge and poured yourself a final cup of coffee. You took a sip as your eyes wandered over the white surface; you’d felt the object glaring at you as you ate.

The box came with no explanation and the note didn’t mention it. It must have come after the tray. Or before but then there might be some indication of what it was, if that was the case.

Either way, it wasn’t from Zandik. He always provided details.

You put the porcelain cup down and pulled the top off carefully with both hands to reveal nothing but a bundle of fabric. A glint of metal peeked out from the wrapping and you untucked the soft material to reveal a bird carved into metal, its wings spread wide as it soared, head up as it flew. Abstract shapes, not unlike the ones you saw in the Akademiya and in Sumeru, made up the shape of the bird’s head before the texture gave way to detailed feathers. The metal bird curved, you realized, when you took it out of the box, as if the wings were meant to wrap around something.

Behind them, you found fastenings, and upon further inspection of the package, you found the means to keep it in place.

A mask.

Inspecting the back, you discovered that, much like the veil, it did not obscure vision as well as it appeared to. There were well-crafted slits between the feathers that provided plenty of light to then allow the interior coating to behave as if the metal was nothing more than translucent glass.

You didn’t pretend to understand but even the best craftspeople in Fontaine never quite managed to make such a marvel.

The veil was certainly more comfortable, now that you’d adjusted to it, but who had…

A note nestled at the very bottom of the wrappings caught your attention and you plucked it from its place, staring at the swirling script. Every time you read and re-read the note, your eyes could only focus on the signature and the seal. Expectation danced between every letter without ever needing to announce itself.

And along with it, acceptance.

Not that the Tsaritsa’s approval was necessary but it made things a great deal easier, you supposed.

The mask fit as you expected it to, sitting perfectly over your eyes and nose. Fastening it took some time but it stayed without issue and never felt as if it needed adjustment. Your vision was unobstructed while the mask accomplished exactly what it set out to do: hide your face.

You gathered what sheet music of yours you had left, the worn folio soft in your hands, and departed for the music room.

With enough guidance and a few lucky turns, you managed to locate the music room the Tsaritsa mentioned. Great windows overlooked a courtyard, plush handwoven carpets sank under your feet, and the furniture was so exquisite you could only imagine the labor involved. The room looked more like an underutilized salon than anything else, with two sets of doors opposite one another for through-traffic.

It had been a long time since you touched a piano. You'd trained on the cello since you were a child but your education insisted on a second instrument and a piano was commonplace. Taking up composition only reinforced the choice but you'd adapted over the years and your ear preferred a different set of strings. Composing from your cello wasn't wrong, as you told Zandik what felt like a lifetime ago, but a piano provided a more neutral playing field for most.

No one interrupted as you slid the beautiful dust cover away and lifted the wooden keyboard cover to reveal glossy keys. It was maintained cosmetically, but…

A glance into the body told you the strings were intact and didn't appear to carry signs of poor aging.

You tried to ignore the pit in your stomach at the thought of snapping one. Or several.

That initial day was clumsy, halting, and even as you remembered positioning, you hoped no one could really hear the dissonate notes of what they likely thought was a child playing. Embarrassing. Not only were you rusty in general, the tool you had to work with was not your forte, compounding the frustration.

It got better. Within a few days, you made it through several songs with aching fingers and could feel the notes on the sheets.

Pantalone was the first visitor you had and his smile unsettled you just as it had when you met him in the hellish bowels of the Palace. His jovial appearance reminded you too much of the men and women you used to be around, that you knew; a kind visage that disarmed so efficiently that by the time one realized it, the damage was already done.

You stopped abruptly upon seeing him cross the threshold and shut the door behind him and his light laugh reminded you of a knife against glass, as if proposing a toast.

"Don't stop on my account, mademoiselle. I only came to investigate who might be making use of the Tsaritsa's private rooms."

The insinuation made your jaw tighten. He didn't leave and instead stepped further into the room, standing on the other side of the piano as he gazed out at the courtyard. There wasn't much to see; snow whipped in heavy sheets, obscuring even the brightest colors outside.

You swallowed as you willed your eyes to focus on the sheet music, hair prickling on the back of your neck. It was evident that he didn't think much of you; you hadn't needed to interrupt that conversation between him and Zandik to recognize that. The Geo Vision at your hip, tucked away for safe-keeping, was warm through the fabric.

You weren't powerless, not anymore.

"The odds of someone like the Doctor finding a soulmate are close to zero, I hope you understand," Pantalone said.

Your fingers were hovering over the keys, poised to play. And here you thought you might actually be able to get your mind back into the flow.

"Close to zero," you replied. "But not zero. A chance is a chance, Lord Harbinger."

"And yet you sit up here while your Harbinger stalks the halls of his laboratory."

Golden eyes fell on you and you suppressed a shiver. Mora left out in the snow was warmer than his eyes.

"No doubt the Tsaritsa is testing you, by allowing you to grace her halls with your presence. Her Most Noble Majesty tests us all. Quantifiably, you fail every benchmark of a proper partner, let alone a soulmate.”

You steeled your expression as your heart squeezed and your fingers twitched. Venom danced on your tongue but you held it, swallowed the bitter acid rising from your throat and the hurt along with it.

How presumptuous. To be told you were not good enough, proper enough, by a stranger who hardly knew you.

He was right, he was right, he was right, though, wasn't he? Here you sat, in sunshine and warmth, while Zandik got up to who knew what. You saw your soulmate for a few hours a day at most and you were certain he wasn't sleeping. The bed was always cold, even in the middle of the night, haunted by a figure who was your soulmate in all but, well, soul.

You rose from the bench and gathered your papers to do did the only other thing you could do that didn't involve breaking anything: flee.

Pantalone leisurely walked over, never daring to crowd you but making it impossible for you to not notice his presence as you slid the papers back into your place and closed the folio.

"Excuse me, Lord Pantalone," you said, turning and bowing deeply before you made your way to the double doors.

You heard the wooden key cover slap into place, a loud crack of wood-on-wood as gravity did the work. Unconsciously, you flinched. You were so careful to make sure the instrument was taken care of while you used it. And you hated the way the sharp sound echoed. It made your teeth ache.

"I don't know how you fooled him, of all people. Or whether this is an act on his part entirely. Quite frankly, I don't care. I don't believe this farce."

Your grip tightened on the folio. He was nothing but polite and no one would ever believe you if you claimed otherwise. You knew this game. And it was far easier to kill with kindness than it was to dig one's heels in with someone like Pantalone.

You opened the door and looked back just long enough to reply, "That is your prerogative, my lord. Good day."

You pretended not to see the ghost of blue hair and white coat peeking through the other set of doors across the room that day.

Just as you pretended not to hear the grinding metal and shouts and a singular smash from the closed workshop when you made your way down into the labs.

Two more days passed before you received another visitor, a young woman with dark hair that trailed behind her as she went. She wore an intriguing eye cover that, if she were to open her eyes, would reveal them in full despite the lattice-work of fabric. Hairclips in the shape of wings kept the mask and a few locks of hair in place. The stranger brought a stack of sheet music with her and her smile was so eager that you overlooked her sharpened canines.

Accepting the sheet music was tantamount to a deal but you couldn't determine what, precisely, you'd agreed to.

She introduced herself as Columbina and sang with as much passion as an entire choir unto herself. Her vibrato added a richness that you were certain you'd never heard from a human voice before, running through you and warming you better than the nearby radiator ever could.

“He gets like this sometimes, our raven of wisdom," she said on her third visit in as many days. "Shuts himself away from the world. Sometimes, he just needs a little coaxing. After all, you cannot earn the trust of an animal on a single apple, no?”

You saw her eyes once when she took your hands in hers to warm them. They were large and brilliant, and could never be matched by the stained glass in Fontaine or the kaleidoscope toys you grew up with. She was beautiful, terrifyingly so, and you wondered how many had walked to their death to see those eyes again.

She placed your hands back into your lap as the doors opened and a tall woman with white hair strode in, her red gaze sharp as she finally laid eyes on her target. The stranger held herself so rigidly that you wondered if she might snap in two from the wind outside.

"Here you are, little dove. Playing with something that isn't yours again?"

"Just waiting for you, Arlecchino. Is the matter settled?"

"I came back for what I needed to. I must be off in time for the main event."

Arlecchino, as the stranger was known, curled a black hand under her chin as she looked at you before she turned, hair moving like a stream of water.

"Funny, I swore you played a cello, interloper," she said as she walked away.

You kept your expression as still as stone as Columbina giggled and said her goodbyes. Once the doors clicked shut, you tried to find the last bar you played, all the while wracking your memories. Did you know Arlecchino? Should you have? Out of all the dinner parties and salons and gatherings you performed at, surely someone of her visage would have stood out.

But of course, what good were your memories when they depicted a past that hadn't happened?

Your fingers slipped and dissonance notes ended the bar you were working on in a disgraceful cacophony.

Capitano was next, you recalled, his figure hulking in the doorframe, inky like a shadow. He sat quietly on a nearby sofa, his foot tapping in time with the metronome you rescued from a nearby bookshelf. The First was an abyss unto himself, literally unreadable, but you found his presence comforting, rather than unsettling.

He spoke only once, about the beauty of your playing and ability to create an entire universe from nothing but sound. His words were melancholic and yet instilled some kind of hope that only came from those who knew the harshest realities of the world.

You were graced by the Tsaritsa not long after. Much like her captain, she was quiet, contemplative as you played, paused, reworked a set of notes until it flowed with such perfection that your body moved on autopilot. The Archon smiled to herself.

"It is a marvel how two such individuals like you and my Doctor are paired together, how different the two of you tackle your endeavors" she remarked before she departed. "And yet you are all the more compatible for it. I have been told that your old instrument was destroyed; I look forward to hearing you play properly."

Every single syllable felt as if it were fresh snow upon your tongue, refreshing but fleeting. If She were displeased, would She not tell you so? Or was she playing games, as the Harbingers seemed to do amongst themselves?

"Thank you, moya Tsaritsa."

That night, you made your way down into the depths again. More grunts, more shouts, more sounds of fury. And yet he hardly ever made time for a meal, if you could call it that, stayed only long enough to ensure you slept.

You weren't sleeping, though. Not anymore. Notes were jumbled in your head and you couldn't get the rhythm and cadence just right. You misread sheet music, took your foot off the pedal too early, couldn't control your fingers as deftly. It was a miracle you'd survived the Tsaritsa's scrutiny.

You'd lived this before. Another life, another timeline, you'd been separated only when it was convenient, never allowed to see what he was doing unless he brought you down himself. Your work suffered for it and even now, you could feel the way your blood sang with a need that nothing else would satiate.

If only you could…

Just as your hand hovered over the handle, poised to turn it, your wrist failed you. Instead, your pressed your forehead to the rusted metal, closed your eyes, and hoped that the silence you heard meant he'd finally fallen asleep.

Not today.

You weren't imagining Zandik hovering at the threshold of the door across from you, within your view. But it certainly felt like you were hallucinating when you felt a presence on the bench beside you as you were playing. Dressed down and missing his signature coat, you only caught a glimpse of indigo and aquamarine before you continued sight-reading, focused on a piece Columbina had brought you.

He sat, hands in his lap and head angled towards the sheet music (or so it seemed, for his eyes were covered), still apart from his breathing. His leg brushed yours as you moved your foot to switch pedals and he only adjusted enough to ensure he wasn't in your way.

As you reached the bottom of a score, a gloved hand reached out and turned the page before you could and withdrew with little interference.

Zandik never stayed long but you swore his smile grew a little wider each time he departed.

You missed your cello.

You missed him.

Or what you knew of him, at any rate.

One particular morning, your fingers had a mind of their own and you didn't stop to scribble down clusters of notes. All you could do was feel and it was too much to bear, no other outlet than to pour what you could into an instrument that felt so counter-intuitive to your muscle memory. Music enveloped you, wrapped you in a blanket and placed you front of a fire that never seemed to die out. You felt eyes on you, weary and yet still the burning with such ambition and drive that they might as well contain stars; for a moment, you were back on a stage in Sumeru, an audience of one yet to reveal themselves in the dark.

The notes trailed off, lost, the rhythm slower now that you'd spent your fervor. The white keys beneath your fingers were heavy, as were the thoughts that followed.

Before you could pull away, a hand joined yours and picked up the motif again, as if it were nothing more than a dropped stitch to be brought back into the fold. You counted, your left hand picking up the other notes as Zandik's continued, providing a steady foundation as you found the flow again. He pulled away just in time for your right hand to slip under his and take over, finishing out the song.

Zandik stayed only long enough to cup your hand and bring your wrist to his lips, right where you pulse raced below your thumb. And then every aching finger and your palm.

For all of that progress you seemed to have made, he felt like a ghost in your bones. He was never entirely present nor absent, simply there.

This wasn't what you came to Snezhnaya to do, you thought bitterly as you watched him leave, your fingers still tingling from his breath.

That night, you traveled down the stairwells, flight after flight. The more distance you put between yourself and the Palace above, the less likely you were to turn back.

Omega's last words to you swam in your head: When the time comes, you too must play your part.

It hadn't made sense at first, especially then.

But you were the only person, as far as you knew, who had the proper context for Zandik's suffering. Others might attempt to fix or utilize their position as a soulmate to make the other whole, but both implied each of you was inherently broken without the other. Which was fundamentally untrue. Romantic, perhaps, but entirely untrue.

The journey together, enhancing one another, was what soulmates were intended for.

Zandik was not keeping you in a cage, in your shared quarters, like a prized canary but his emotions and withdrawal isolated you all the same. They locked you into a dance with the wrong partner who kept stepping on your toes and couldn't feel the rhythm.

You were not here to live in an echo of your memories, of your nightmares.

And didn't Zandik deserve better, too?

You shoved away the mental image of Omega's dying expression as you arrived into the lab proper. Zandik was nowhere to be seen but that didn't mean much, based on your experience with him in Sumeru.

This time, you pushed through the workshop door, bracing yourself for whatever would be inside.

Grief was everywhere you looked, woven into the very air. Gurneys and metal tables were strewn about. Bodies (for what else could they be, you thought) were sprawled around the room, some in body bags and others left out in the open. Missing limbs, tubes dangling from open torso cavities where organs would otherwise be, core components thrown about like candy.

Now that you looked closer as you stepped over and around, you saw synthetic flesh torn to ribbons, components fractured and wires left in tangles. All of them unfinished in their disassembly.

It wasn't like him to waste resources like this. If something could be reused, repurposed, he always found a way. Perhaps he was attempting to remedy that but in such a mess, it was impossible to tell, and it had been weeks…

One particular Segment, with shorter hair sporting a waistcoat and a pink bowtie, laid near a wall, legs and arms angled like a ragdoll's. The wall above him was stained with whatever oil and fluids the Segments functioned on and you remembered a slam when you came down so long ago.

You couldn't help but focus on one in particular, intimately familiar, its arm dangling by a handful of wires off of the gurney. The limb looked as if it had been wrenched from its socket, some of the metal scratched. A bundle of wires spilled from the cavity in its head where a set of eyes would be, cheeks stained with oil.

The only word that came to mind as you stared at Omega (for what other Segment would carry such streaks) was hatred. Nothing about the Segment, the machine, had been cared for, save the body bag. But the zipper was broken, no doubt wrenched apart in fury.

As you went further in and drew closer to the worktables and equipment, the clutter thinned out.

On the edges of the pile was a boy.

One you remembered playing with on the seams of the nations, accompanied by a third companion with a name you could not recall. You paused as you knelt down, wondering for a moment if he had been there. Doubts escaped you as you reached forward and brushed away teal bangs and you had to press a hand over your mouth to stifle a cry as you saw lifeless garnets stare back at you.

Without thinking, you pulled the boy into your lap, trying and failing to get his eyelids to stay in place. Why couldn't he have been sleeping? Why did he have to look as though he'd watched the world come tumbling down?

It had though. All because of Omega.

Cradling the boy, you looked around again, surrounded by vacant and lifeless husks. Your memories would be the only secondary record of them left, muddled though they were. You didn't want to forget them but then again, half of your memories were nothing more than lies and what good would those serve?

You were still holding the young Segment when ornate boots came into your vision, followed by dark pants and a blue shirt.

"This needs to stop, Zandik."

#dottore x reader #il dottore x reader #il dottore #dottore #fic: dream a little dream of me #soulmate au #il dottore x female reader #dottore x female reader #fem!reader

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saphirered · 1 year

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hi, a request about a winter ball with Rhysand x f!reader, where she has a amazin dress with de details os stars and Rhys admiring her from far as she talks to people, and they dance in the ball, have some kisses as well and finish in their room with some spicy moment, thanks

Love this concept! Spicy went a lil' smutty in the end but if you're not comfortable with that, you can skip the bit below the dotted line. Happy reading! 😘

Ever the lover of grand displays of lavish dramatics Rhysand feels perfectly at home among the dancers and chattering courtiers. He may love a lack of decorum equally but it’s no secret he’ll take expensive silks and marble floors opposed to being knee deep in the mud and freezing. A winter’s ball is the perfect place for a break from the chaos of his brothers, or so he’d claim because at the end of the night he’ll likely be negotiating peace for the conflict Cassian undoubtedly will have caused, and be given a full report of all ongoings from Azriel, if he manages to shake the Shadowsinger in the first place. One day he’ll learn to tell them to stay home. At least Morrigan and Amren know how to behave, Mor taking a particular interest in some of the guests and they in her, and Amren getting a little closer for comfort to the prince of Adriata but for his sake, Rhys will ignore what he saw and picked up on. Instead when he turns his attention away from his family, he feels chills running down his spine, suddenly eerily aware of the cold season, as if he were standing among the Illyrian mountains this very moment. When he sees an ice queen personified not in heart but certainly in appearance he is certainly caught off guard.

You wear a gown more of crystals and beads than fabric, sheer where these precious and precise designs do not weave together. It must be worth its weight in gold for it certainly looks heavy even if you do not show it in your posture. Never once do you wane. You remain ever impeccable and move with a grace and relentlessness that suits the element you’ve chosen to represent. You put the entirety of the winter court to shame with your beauty. You hold your head high, the crown of crystals like icicles on the verge of melting woven into your hair befitting of your entire visage. Anyone assuming you to be a queen would be entirely in their right. You’d taken the seasonal theme quite serious and Rhysand suddenly feels a little underdressed in comparison. Of course he donned his usual black but opted for some silver work, beading and the appearance of a frosted texture to his jacket. He should have opted for that platinum crown, the one with the brightest diamonds because suddenly if he imagines standing even remotely within your radius, he’d feel like a shadow as opposed to your radiance. Never had he felt discontent with being a shadow others thought twice to approach.

Of course the courtiers swarm to you, vying for your attention. You smile through, you make pleasant conversation with them and you clearly know what you’re doing and he won’t deny the smile it’s brought to his face when he may or may not have picked up on some parts of conversation where some rather desperate flirtations are ever so skilfully dismissed. While you are certainly the centre of attention, Rhysand is stuck conversing with those of his own court, and putting up the usual facade of the cocky and cruel high lord. He has a reputation to keep and never has he felt the desire to just be himself more. He’d resigned himself to admiring the ice queen of the ball from a distance but then he realised, he’s the High Lord of the Night Court. People get out of his way. All it takes is invoking that dreadful presence to scare away these desperate idiots, if only just to speak to you before he returns to his usual life, his usual thoughts. He just wants to know, has to know and so he strides over.

The male draped in dark fineries, his eyes have wandered to you several times now, or at least that’s how often you’ve caught him staring. You’d expected him to approach you at some point, like so many others have. You’d have humoured him, out of curiosity. Would he come offer you the moon on a string? Or would he resort to simple flattery? But then you noticed, those violet eyes. You know this male. You’ve let him before, long ago. You doubt he remembers you, but that look makes you suspicious, maybe he does. From what you hear, he’s not just any simple male, he’s the High Lord of the Night Court. Leave it to you to have… history with one of the most powerful beings in all of Prythian. He’s grown more handsome but what softness he held, or what you remember, has been replaced by a shield of darkness. Still he carries that cocky smirk that promises no good. You wonder, will he approach? Does he remember you? Will he save you from all these fools trying to charm you into their good graces at best, their beds at worst? He always did have a bit of a hero complex but the more stories of him you hear, the more you begin doubt he is the knight in shiny armour, and the more you see he might have turned the evil overlord, just like his father. You hope it’s but gossip, but lies.

Then he begins to approach, people know better than to stand in his way, some might make a show of attempted bravery, by allowing the darkness to overcast just a second before they rush aside, choosing life over the ire of the terrifying high lord of night. He smirks, puts on a display of arrogant confidence, and that’s when you see it; he puts on a display. The attention keeping you busy this night, scatters and leaves only the genuine conversationalists, until you excuse yourself, turn your attention to him. You decide to play the part you were dressed for, become a face of neutrality covered by a shield of freezing cold indifference. you clasp your hands together and tilt your head to the side just ever so lightly, awaiting an introduction, or anything really because you don’t know what to expect. He bows his head in greeting, never once does that cocky smirk drop, and never once do his eyes leave yours. They stare right through your soul. He does not speak but offers you his hand. And then you feel a brush against your mind, gently and never intrusively, akin to a knock on a door. You decide to open it.

“It has been far too long.” Those are the first words he chose to speak, or rather think to you? Perhaps not his smoothes moment but at least you humour him with mental laughter, and the faint up turning off the corner of your lips. He can’t believe it took him this long to figure it out, to realise who you are, or rather who you are to him. It must have been centuries at this point and you’ve changed much, but so has he. He’d found himself wondering sometimes over the years, wondering what became of you, where you might be. He expected you to live the quiet life you’d talked about, a life of freedom. Perhaps you have gotten it. You certainly know how to make an entrance and certainly gained attention of plenty of important and powerful people, but that hardly ever is a quiet life.

“So it has been. It’s good to see you, Rhys.” Despite your appearance, you radiate a warm embrace on a cold night, one he’s longed for far too often be that in the Illyrian camps or in simple loneliness when it came to haunt him.

You take a step forward, towards his outstretched hand, still offered. Without much of a doubt in your mind, but simply one for show, you place it in his, watch the courtier watching this whole interaction for their responses are quite pleasing; varied from confusion to bewilderment, jealousy and envy. In his eyes you can see he enjoys this just as much. It’s a mutual understanding when he Brings your knuckles to his lips, placing a tender kiss atop and holds on, guides you along to the dance floor where another song comes to an end and couples leave or step in for the next dance about to start. When you step through, with the High Lord of Night on your side, it makes pairs think twice about joining, and instead they opt for staying clear.

“Looks like we’ll have an audience.” Words spoken out loud. The first ones you truly heard from him all night. You repress the urge to snort. Of course that’s what he’d say.

“Every the drama queen.” You retort under your breath and that grin of his grows as he faces you at the centre of the floor, one hand on your waist, the other behind his back. You place one hand on his shoulder and use the other to lift your heavily embellished skirts so they drape beautifully.

“I’m not the one wearing the crown.” He dips to whisper in your ear and you feel goosebumps scatter across your skin, much to Rhysand’s satisfaction because he doesn’t need to be a mindreader to see your response. Your eyes narrow after you recover and the dance starts.

“I assume you forgot yours at home, high lord?” Against the proper movements you rise your fingers to rest under his chin, brush along his jaw until they stroke along his cheek, to what some might describe as seductively. The look you give him certainly does not help.

“I couldn’t decide which one to wear. Perhaps your keen eye could help me choose my attire sometime? You seem to be quite the expert.” He lets his eyes wander suggestively. Such a shame the dance requires to your turn, though feeling your back pressed against him, as his arm rests around your waist, makes up for it and the way you tilt your head up to look at him as you sway together almost makes him forget you’re not the only ones in this room. You might look like ice but Cauldron be damned you certainly spark a fire within him.

“Since you seem so desperately in need of my touch, I will gladly offer my assistance.” You breathe, smile turning somewhat wicked. He threw a ball, and you simply hit it out of the park. No need to be shy about it. Not that you have any intentions of being so. It became clear that your previous interactions, some dalliances in younger years have not gone forgotten, and the attraction still remains. Wether it will be longterm or just another fling, who knows? For now you’ll indulge in the time you have. You’ll live in the moment and this moment is a good one.

“Are we still talking about apparel?” Rhys knows very well the intent behind your words, just as well as he knows the meaning behind his own. You made him feel like he belonged somewhere all those years ago. You make him feel so now too. That hasn’t changed. You look gorgeous but equally beautiful is your mind. Attraction is only partially physical and right now he’d desire nothing more than to bask in your comforts, the ones you offer aplenty. Though, with the way you look at him now, he’d love to take that heavy dress off you should you desire it so.

“Do you truly care about appearances?” You spin, the beads and crystals at the hem hitting the floor, and swaying across it as you continue the dance. Every step is precise, within rhythm, and perfectly executed. You’d expect nothing less from a noble raised, and you’d certainly learned too, if these are the events you’re attending. They come with certain rules, certain expectations and you’d always been one to defy expectations. That’s exactly why many of the males look at Rhysand wishing to be in his place now, staring daggers at him, or simply crestfallen they are not holding you in their arms but they could never satisfy you, not truly. You’d want more. You’d want truth without decorum but the ability to act. You need change and adventure, you need chaos and not just some prim and proper lapdog seeing to your every whim, or worse someone who would try to shape you into the perfect little trophy. Rhysand offers you adventure and freedom and maybe that’s why you agreed to him, indulged him and are quite satisfied with where this evening is going.

Centuries ago you met a young male with a bright mind, strong opinions and a dream for a better life, a better future, and the willingness to sacrifice what he had to to make that come true, yet never at the cost of what he holds dear. Now you see a high lord with many secrets, and far more on his plate than he should carry but someone with a love for what he does, even if he hates the bad parts, even if he hates being who he is here in the public eye, but you know what he holds close to his heart, what he protects and preserves. He would not exchange this for the world. You share his dreams, his ideals and his hopes and that lets you know, this is right. These choices are right.

“Only when I have to. Which right now, I suppose I don’t care about appearances.” The music comes to an end and you are face to face. You take a step back, step out of his arms and suddenly feel yourself cold without him there. You curtsey. He bows. You take a sep back, and another and another, staring into those violet eyes daring him to follow until you reach the edge of the crowd and then you turn on your heels, cast one final look over your shoulder and leave the ballroom. Rhysand, slowly follows behind, grins and watches you move through the people. Couples start filling the dance floor once more as he leaves, and plenty of eyes are on him, just as plenty are on yours. Rhysand scans the crowd for his companions, and finds he better should have stayed ignorant so he pushes those thoughts aside, sends a warning and informs them he’ll be elsewhere and they better behave themselves. He knows it’s useless but he couldn’t care less right now, not when he follows you, not when he connects with you as you tap your temple when you look over your shoulder once more to see him still following.

“Come on then. Don’t leave a girl waiting.” You humour and he laughs.

Weaving through the people and leaving the grounds of the event you lead the high lord of the night court up the stairs, the path to your chambers feeling far too long. Once you’ve reached the fourth floor you wait at the top of the stairs. Rhysand tentatively covers the distance, standing but two steps below you when you drop your hands on his shoulders, brushing along the silver work of his jacket. He dares bring his hands to your hips as he steps up one more step, as you stand on the edge of the top of the stairs; hair’s breath apart.

“May I?” He asks, eyes cast down towards your lips, slightly parted before they return to your eyes. You don’t reply in words but instead press your lips to his. You kiss him like there’s no tomorrow and Rhysand shares your sentiment, his hands wandering over your hips, along your waist, around your back pulling you closer to him, against him before one wanders to the underside of your breast, where between the beads and crystals that cover what’s expected to be covered but leave just enough skin exposed for you to moan into his mouth at that touch and given you weave your fingers into his hair, pull lightly at the roots and press closer into him, he repeats the motion.

“Sixth door on the right. Now” You instruct between kisses and you feel his lips curl upwards against yours. Rhysand sweeps you off your legs and lifts you in his arms, not once breaking contact with you and follows the hall without as much as a stumble. You drape one of your arms around his shoulders for support but let the other come to play with the closures of his jacket, undoing the ones you can read already.

“So eager.” He chuckles, allowing you to open the door.

“Not like you mind it but keep being cocky and you can stay out here.” You retort as he steps past the threshold. At your silent request he puts you back down, onto your feet. with a snap of your fingers lights spark to life in the interior, not too bright, but enough to reflect off your dress and basking you in a silver blue glow, one that reminds Rhys of real ice but also the stars he so admires. Leave it to you to charm him wholly. A dangerous thing, but he likes a little risk every so often. He certainly won’t back down from this one, especially not when that risk looks ravishing.

“Once upon a time you called it one of my more redeemable qualities.” He jokes and comes up behind you and discarding his jacket on the way. He brushes his fingers along your neck, sending shivers down your spine. You cross your arms and snort.

“How ignorant I must have been.” You roll your eyes but then your attitude dies down when Rhys’ lips trail along the column of your neck and you feel his fingers trail down the buttons down the back of your dress. Slowly he undoes the first and when you make no protests, instead moan when you feel his teeth graze along the dip of your shoulder, he moves on to the next, and the next and the next. With it he kisses lower and lower, with each button undone until he reaches the last one, right above your tailbone. You hold the dress to your chest, and turns as the high lord of the night court sits kneeled before you, looking up to you.

“You look like a queen.” He comments.

“So I’ve been told.” You let one of the straps drop from your shoulders.

“You’ll look equally regal without it.” You urge him to rise, and when he does, ever so gently removes your hands from where they hold the dress in place, he pushes the final strap off your shoulder and so the fitted garment slides from your body. Rhysand admires your form, even curve, every dip, every mark, freckle, scar and spot. He admires every inch of your body.

“And you are entirely overdressed.” You take a step towards him, letting your fingers trace along the waistband of his fine trousers, pull free the shirt he wore underneath that jacket, and begin to lift it over his head. Rhysand watches as you trail along the markings on his torso, from the tattoos to the scars he’s collected over the years. You don’t shy away, you let your hands roam, and behind them follow your lips. He can’t do anything but watch you, as you trail down, slowly but surely make your way to the closures of the fabric he wants to get rid of but he’ll let you play the game now. Plenty of games he’ll have the opportunity to play later.

————

You run your fingers over his length, still covered and feel him tense, feel him twitch and you tut. You’ve pushed your luck because next you feel his hand brush along your breast, ever so lightly along your nipple, enough to tease but never enough to give you the true satisfaction. Rhysand laughs at your frustration. You suppose it’s payback and you get the message. You pull him free, make quick work of his final garments, and guide him along to your bed. When you push him to sit, he moves back on the bed, lets you crawl over him, lets your hands wander as you are face to face, crown still atop your head and he’s never seen anything more arousing than the image of you above him, looking like a true queen, in nothing but that crown. His hands fall to your hips, stroking around the roundness of your behind, as you kiss him deeply, tongue clashing with his and you ground your hips downward, along his aching length. He just raises his hips to meet yours, before he lets his fingers sink between your lower lips. He moans when he feels your own arousal. Perhaps he might have made a comment about how so little has gotten you so wet but now does not seem the right time and instead he moans your name when he feels your fingers wrap around him and give a tentative stroke up and down in retort.

“Enough games?” Rhys mutters against your lips as he presses his forehead against yours.

“Yeah. Enough games.” You moan as you feel him line himself up and you simply let yourself sink down. You drape your arms across his shoulders and rock your hips as his paced thrusts meet your movement. He relishes in the way your breath catches, in the little sounds you make, when you whisper his name, ask for more and he is happy to give it to you. The ice queen melts in his embrace and neither of you would have it any other way, not when you find sweet release time and time again. You’ll deal with the aftermath of your not so inconspicuous escapade some other time. For now you’ll enjoy each other’s intimate company.

#rhys x reader #rhys x you #acotar x you #acotar x reader #rhys acotar #acotar #acotar rhys #rhysand fanfiction #rhysand x reader #rhysand

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pascaloverx · 5 months

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Strangers?

Part Seven

previous part final part

Author's note: This fanfic is set in the creation of Jenny Han. Conrad Fisher and other characters mentioned in the future do not belong to me. I hope you like this fanfic, depending on how it goes, I'll decide if this fic will have more parts or just this one. This fanfic is recommended for all audiences, there will be no adult content in it, only possible inappropriate language and alcohol consumption. This author would like to say that the next part will be the last of this fanfic. So enjoy!

You're unsure how to react to the fact that your mother and Conrad have been discussing the appropriate baking time for cookies for at least thirty minutes. He insists your mother used to bake them for a maximum of 20 minutes, while she stubbornly claims they need more time for a crispier texture. Your mother decided to bake cookies for you all to enjoy with tea. Conrad offered to help her, and now you're setting the kitchen table for an afternoon tea together.

Your mother asks after expressing her interest in learning more about Conrad and him starting to open up about his life: "So do you have a younger brother who was with both of you at the beach yesterday?"

"Yes, ma'am. I want to make it clear that I respected your daughter, and we were accompanied by my brother and sister-in-law," Conrad responds, attempting to be well-mannered, perhaps a bit overly formal.

"Darling, I have complete trust in my daughter. I'm sure you all behaved well yesterday. And there's no need to call me 'ma'am'; Y/M/N is fine with me." Your mother says, taking the cookies out of the oven and placing them on the table with Conrad's assistance.

"How about we set the interrogation aside and enjoy the food?" You suggest, bringing cups and plates to the table. You smile as you catch Conrad expressing gratitude for the idea out of the corner of your eye.

"Just one last question before we have tea together: what are your intentions with my little girl?" Your mother asks with a serious expression. Conrad looks like a frightened mouse upon hearing your mother's question, and you disapprove your mother attitude with a glance.

Conrad responds sincerely as if it was the most natural and quick response he can think of — "The best and most genuine intentions, ma'am. We shared a special connection that I would like to develop, with her consent, of course."

"She'd like to say that she doesn't enjoy seeing her mom interrogating the guy she just met and found Conrad's intentions interesting." You respond confidently. Your mother, munching on a cookie, seems to grasp that you prefer not to delve into the details of this 'new relationship.' She then offers more tea and cookies to Conrad. He was about to accept when he received a call and hastily excused himself from the table.

"Mom, no more questions when Conrad comes back. I don't want to scare the guy." You add, emphasizing your desire to keep the atmosphere relaxed.

"I just wanted to make sure he's the right guy to date my only daughter. You can't blame me." Your mother says, expressing her protective instincts. Before you could say anything, Conrad returns to the table looking agitated. He seems somewhat concerned, piquing your curiosity.

"Did something bad happen?" You ask, gently holding Conrad's hand. He looks at you with a certain tenderness before responding.

"It seems like Jeremiah and Belly had an argument, and she asked for some time to think. She called me because she needed to talk to someone who would understand." Conrad explains. Something inside you is awakened when you hear Belly and Jeremiah in the same sentence. It looks like a car alarm going off in your head. You know deep down why Belly called Conrad.

"You should go check on her. I'm sure she needs you." You say, trying not to appear hurt by the idea of him leaving. However, you understand that he cares for her, so it's best for him to go and comfort her, right?

"Sorry for the question, but who is Belly?" your mother asks, and you and Conrad exchange glances before responding.

Conrad says, "My sister-in-law." and you respond at the same time, "His ex-girlfriend." The conflicting responses create a moment of shared surprise between you and Conrad.

"It seems complicated, but I also think you should support the person who called you. If she reached out, she trusts you to know she needs help." Your mother advises Conrad. He seems convinced that he should go after Belly. You are confused about why you feel uncomfortable with the idea of him going, if you yourself are encouraging him to go.

"I apologize for having to rush out, but thank you so much for welcoming me into your home so spontaneously." Conrad expresses, expressing gratitude as he prepares to leave. His mother says softly that it was a pleasure to welcome him to your home and that he could come back whenever he wanted. She gives him a jar of cookies to take and they say goodbye in front of the house. You follow Conrad to his car almost without making a sound.

"Drive safely. The traffic is a bit hectic now, but I hope you'll manage..." Just as you're about to finish speaking, Conrad leans in and kisses you. A kiss that seems to convey more than words. I can sense that it's our way of saying goodbye.

"You were the best surprise I've had in months, I'll come back as soon as I sort things out with Belly and Jeremiah." Conrad seems to be embracing a truth that you know only exists in fairy tales. Unfortunately, in the real world, there's no "and they lived happily ever after..."

"You should go after the woman you love and help her. The longer it takes, the riskier it becomes for you." You avoid directly responding to Conrad. Clinging to false hopes would only hurt you now. Conrad hesitates, it's as if he doesn't want to leave your side. Without saying anything more, he gets into the car and drives away.

And so two months have passed since you met Conrad for the first time, since you were enchanted by him and let yourself be swept away by someone whose heart belonged to someone else. You're finishing getting ready for your third job interview this week. An opportunity at a university cafeteria that is not far from your home has presented itself and you are optimistic about what fate has in store for you. You left home almost late, not having time to say good morning to your mother or have a decent breakfast. But you convince yourself that a slice of pizza from last night and coffee are all you need. You're in such a rush that you don't even notice that you're running like crazy around the university campus without being able to find the cafeteria. You only stop when you bump into someone in the middle of the road. The two of you in positions opposite each other.

"Of all the people I imagined myself bumping into on campus, I never imagined I would have the privilege of bumping into you." You hear that voice and recognize its owner right away.

"Conrad?" You ask, looking directly at Conrad, who is smiling unabashedly at you. It must be fate playing with you.

#conrad fisher x reader #spotify #conrad x you #tsitp conrad #tsitp fanfic #the summer i turned pretty #conrad fisher fanfic #reader insert #belly conklin #conrad fisher #jeremiah fisher #original character #Spotify

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scoundrels-in-love · 1 year

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In the morning when I wake, you fill my lungs with sweetness

Vash wakes the last and it gives him a chance to quietly enjoy the view of Meryl working away on an article, dressed in nothing but Nicholas's shirt and the marks they both left on her. M rated for implied adult fun times. Also on AO3.

Vash wakes up slowly, awareness dripping in sweetly. There is sunlight pressing on his face even through the curtains but it’s more pleasant than frustrating, a soft scratch of pencil against paper and his toes aren’t hanging off the side of the bed (which isn’t as frequent an occurrence as he would like).

He remembers it is not the first time he wakes this morning, but in the early hours, he had let the even breaths of Meryl and Wolfwood lull him back into dreamless, warm sleep. As he cracks an eye open, it seems the other two have already started their day. In fact, Nicholas is nowhere to be seen, it’s only Meryl that is sitting down in the middle of the bed.

Before she notices that he’s awake, Vash decides to just take her in - it’s a view he has appreciated a hundred times from different angles and still can’t get enough of. She is wearing nothing but Nicholas’ shirt, buttoned in the same half-way manner he often does, one leg propped up to give base for her notepad and the other half tucked beneath her. He can tell she’s in the zone from the way she doesn’t stop even when she hits a hitch, but scribbles a bracket (a little annoyed, but not enough to pierce the paper today) instead and hurries on to pursue the thought.

He loves seeing Meryl like this, at ease and in her element, all the while wrapped up in him and Nico - figuratively and sometimes also literally. The thought makes him smile, recall yesterday and slide his gaze up her leg. It’d take little to shift, press a kiss to her knee and then higher, higher still where she would welcome him with a sighed moan and hand carding through his hair. When Nicholas would return with their coffee and food that he’s surely out to fetch, he could join them.

But then the coffee would get cold and Meryl would get thoroughly distracted from her writing and he can behave better than that. Or at least try to. Vash sits up and moves behind Meryl, pressing a languid kiss to the hickey Wolfwood left on the side of her throat last night (there must be at least a few red marks on her breast and inner thigh where he himself got overzealous, but he will soothe those later). Meryl turns her head to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth before returning to her writing, though she melts back into him and Vash wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her even more firmly against his chest.

He reads over her shoulder for a moment, but then gets distracted by her ear and nuzzles into it, enjoying the texture of her warm skin and Nico’s bronze ear cuff. When Meryl doesn’t react, he gets bold and bites the lobe just so, careful not to draw blood with his sharp canine.

“Vash!” she exclaims with no real fire (the angry one, anyway) behind it and swats at his arm. “I’m trying to work here.”

“And I’m trying not to eat you up whole.” The line makes her snort and roll her eyes (though he can’t see it, but he knows she must have), just like he had wanted.

“Nico should be back any minute now, I think they might even have donuts here.” She pats the side of his face gently over her shoulder.

He is tempted to say they could get started ahead on a different kind of dessert, but decides to settle down and just hold her to him. A sense of contentment blooms in his chest, fruits into happiness that he cannot contain and he lets it overflow into a soft vibration.

Meryl taps her pencil against the notepad a few times and then sets both aside, shifting so she can look up at him easily. Her smile is warm and soft, it fills him up even more and his purring, as they've taken to calling it, grows in volume.

Still, he is curious. Always curious about what goes on in her and Nicholas' minds. Their little and big joys, the pains they're determined to conceal and just the way they see the world. So he tilts his head to the side and asks: "What?"

"I just like seeing you happy."

"And you got stuck in writing." He glances at the notes, how she's started writing the same sentence thrice before striking each attempt through. Vash knows it is likely his fault, at least in part, but can't find it in him to feel guilty

"And I got stuck. But mostly the first thing." Meryl shrugs a little, her smile unwavering.

It strikes him then, as it often does these days. She loves me. I am loved.

It is an odd thing, to know that he is loved and believe it. Him, with a bounty over his head and cruelty hounding him down even faster than he can run some days, with his body that is more scar tissue with a roadmap of metal than smooth skin, a body that glows under their love and touches. With his idealism and how unused he is to voicing when he feels less than perfect, which both sometimes frustrate his partners, but never enough to not hold onto him. In fact, they do so even tighter on the days things seem to fall apart. He does the same in return.

There are no words to say this, no words in which to put his own love and gratitude into like a precious, ornate container, so Vash does the next best thing - leans down and kisses her. Sweetly, intently and with all his heart. Meryl responds in kind, her hand cupping his face gently. They don't break apart even when the door opens.

"Now that's what I call a ‘welcome back’ view,” Wolfwood says as he steps into the room, closing the door with his foot as his hands are full carrying a loaded tray of food. Vash pulls away from the kiss just enough to tell him a cheery good morning.

“No need to stop on my account,” Nico shoots back, trying to look as if he is not hurrying to set the food down and sit down on the bed, but failing quite miserably, at least to Vash’s familiar eye. Besides, Nicholas's nonchalant act is already thoroughly undermined by the warmth in his dark eyes, crinkling at the corners. (He often looks at them like they're the only thing that matters, only thing that makes sense in the world and Vash never gets tired of pouring the same adoration back into him.)

Meryl and Vash exchange a look, grins spreading, before they simultaneously tackle him onto the mattress and give him a proper welcome back, all playful touches and light kisses peppered over his face at first, but soon their hands slip beneath the jacket he's shrugged on for half-assed decency and lips start to linger, explore what little noises they can draw out of him.

Needless to say, the coffee is cold a long time before they get to it. None of them really mind.

#trigun #trigun stampede #vashmeryl #mashwood #my fic #rainy writes stuff

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hollowsart · 6 months

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My reviews of free art apps I'm testing on my phone:

NOTE: These are based on my preferences and opinions. I don't use a lot of apps and tend to stick to just 1. Please do not use this as a basis for whether or not you yourself should get the apps, it is best if you test them out yourself as they may be beneficial or even different for you and your set up.

Medibang Paint: 8/10 (not uninstalling, keeping for the files)

it was a 10/10 but then they updated and now it's not as great. lost another point when it started bugging out. Otherwise the app is extremely good. zooming, the image is still crisp, the strokes may be pixels, but I don't mind it. the UI is very clean and clear. you can see and understand the icons for each button and tool, easy access to everything you need + you are able to customize the brush settings and get some fun and unique textures out of it. it's super user and beginner friendly without the need for a "tutorial" to hold your hand in figuring out what things do and what they are.

I would gladly accept suggestions for free drawing apps similar to Medibang. or any cheap app that may cost money, because if Medibang refuses to behave, I may need to make a decision that I really would rather not make.

Ibis Paint X: 1/10

confusing UI. doesn't matter the DPI, you zoom in and every brush stroke is extremely blurry for some reason and that really messes with my eyes. extremely tedious to figure out, you would need to spend an extensive amount of time trying to find everything to understand the app. this app is like the opposite of Medibang. Even with the tutorial holding your hand to figure out what is what and where, it is still extremely confusing and unclear.

Autodesk Sketchbook: 2/10 (used to use you on kindle)

nothing like how it was on my kindle. on an older phone of mine it lagged so bad and had a different type of overall UI setup going for it, but I was able to at least draw something on that one despite the ungodly lag. this one? just as bad and unclear as Ibis Paint X, except the tools and settings are not scattered on the screen. you have to click an unclear button to find the brushes to change them and then another unclear button to customize them. the quality of the strokes are just about the same as Ibis Paint X in that they are extremely blurry.

Infinite Painter: 3/10

the UI is still sparse. a tutorial is shown telling you what is what and overall less tools visible than the previous 2 apps, this is unfortunate. However, the brushes are not blurry, but are pixelated like Medibang. a slight odd latency when making a stroke, not something I'm fond of, personally, but the selection of brushes aren't too bad, I suppose. Not for me tho. got distracted playing with the brushes and textures, but I don't think I'll be drawing anything. I would say if you're not put off by things here, you could probably get used to this and enjoy it. definitely better than the others listed besides Medibang.

the brush collage:

Clip Studio Paint: 1/10

first time trying this one out. took the longest to install. it takes a weirdly long time to start up?? definitely not a great first impression here. too clicky and sticky with the rotation, tedious to navigate to do anything. wow this app is not great. it looks horrible with the UI, too. clean screens are not good. it's off-putting. also it is by default recording me draw??? the heck? seems to be only 1 brush option, little to no actual customization of the brush. no clue where the layers were if there were any at all. overall?

Sketchbook Lite: 0/10

immediate ads. forces you into an ad that says 'start free trial then pay $14.99 a month uwu' instant hate. stroke quality is blurred, UI is WAY too empty. I like the dark mode, but YIKES. you exit out of the app for a sec and then back in and you are smacked in the face with the same invasive ads as you started out with. you are NOT getting my money that I do not even have to begin with. instant uninstall.

#ghostie mumbles #//long post #I uninstalled all except medibang. none of these were good sdkjfsddhsf #these are all the apps I could find. anything else is extremely cheap and is for very little kids to entertain them for a few minutes.#but even I would get bored after a minute or two. seriously not good for actually drawing.

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morganaseren · 2 months

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((I'm finally back with part 2 of this post for @illusivesoul! Sorry that this took so long again, friend! 😅))

Pairing: Morrigan/Niamh Cousland/Bethany Hawke

AU: The Poets Must Be Out for Blood

---

Kieran was a blessed boy.

Curiosity had originally surrounded him during his initial appearance in court. He'd been a mere babe then, balanced on his mother's hip as he idly gummed on the wing of a stuffed griffon toy while he stared with wide-eyed wonder at Orlais' marble and gilded halls.

Morrigan drew no end of suspicion and fear with her presence. She was an extension of the Empress' power and so was capable of sowing fear into enemies and the occasional unruly ally alike. Her son, however, was quite the opposite in demeanor. Even with his youth, he had somehow drawn several prominent members within and without the empire into his orbit.

Knight-Enchanter Bethany had been a fixture within the Imperial Court for the better part of a decade, serving less an advisory position to Celene as her mentor Madame de Fer did but was no less a protector. She also seemed to have some familiarity with Morrigan--one that hadn't been denied but neither woman seemed willing to elaborate further upon. Her protection had also extended to Kieran, for she often watched the boy when business required the Arcane Advisor's--admittedly exceptional--expertise elsewhere on the Empress' behalf.

It wasn't odd to find the two wandering about the Royal Gardens in the early afternoon, either strolling through the sprawling landscape, his small hand clasped excitedly in hers, or gathering herbs within it as he focused on the task with child-like determination.

At the end of the day, Kieran was always delivered safely back to his mother's side by the ever gentle and watchful Knight-Enchanter. The process was repeated on enough of a regular basis that those within the Imperial Court began speculating upon the relationship between the two women, especially when the boy had grown old enough to form words. It was perhaps no surprise at all when he had eventually taken to calling the Knight-Enchanter Maman--the Orlesian name for one's mother.

That, of course, had set a number of tongues wagging among the nobility. Speculation began anew with fervent intensity, especially as they turned their attention to Kieran's physical features. His eyes were the perfect mirror to his mother's--a distinct and piercing gold--but while his hair was the same dark shade, it was... different in texture. While it wasn't quite a match to Bethany's tighter curls either, it was at least closer to hers in appearance than Morrigan's own.

As both women were powerful mages, it didn't seem so farfetched an idea they might have conceived him together using magic. Thus, the mystery of Kieran's absent "father" seemed to have been solved.

...at least until another two seasons had passed.

---

"Sire!"

The word rang across the promenade with barely-contained enthusiasm as the toddler took off from his mother's side and that of his Knight-Enchanter guardian to run toward the figure standing in the midst of the curious crowd.

The woman in question wore the familiar blue and silvers of the Grey Wardens. The intricately-crafted steel pauldron that sat atop her right shoulder--depicting a griffon with its wings extending upward--indicated her prestigious rank among the Order while the fur mantle of the cloak upon her opposite shoulder designated her Fereldan heritage. Even beneath the light of the mid-autumn day, however, there was a specter-like quality to her eyes with how pale they were--a paleness that was further enhanced by... familiar feathery tresses framing her face. Granted, one eye was half-obscured by an ink-black fringe.

...Not unlike Kieran's own forelock in appearance, some realized, utterly mystified.

"Hello, my Little Lord," she said, scooping the boy up into her arms when he was within reach, their kinship all too apparent now beneath the many watching eyes. "Have you been behaving for your mother and Bethany while I've been away?"

A tittering giggle met her inquiry as he wrapped his arms around her neck, tucking his face against it as if to hide the sound of his mirth. A dark brow arched at the gesture, but there was little denying her indulgent smile as she languidly strolled toward the women in question.

"Your laughter tells me 'no,' which means I'll hear no end of your activities from them both soon enough..."

Although seldom a seen presence in Orlais, those who knew anything of the Fifth Blight were familiar with Niamh Cousland--younger sister to the Hero of Ferelden and was also the country's own Constable of the Grey.

Like both Bethany and Morrigan, she was another powerful mage--one who was very capable of tearing the heavens asunder if rumors were to be believed. The watching nobility couldn't help but think them to be true as they felt the aura radiating from her--less the respective spring breeze and burning heat of summer of the Knight-Enchanter and Arcane Advisor and more akin to rolling thunder enrobed in a winter's kiss.

The theory they'd had regarding Kieran's parentage was then further turned on its head as they regarded the three women--clearly comfortable and content in one another's presence.

Had his actual conception been borne of the Arcane Advisor and the Warden-Constable, or was he perhaps an... intriguing combination of the three?

Either theory filled them with discomfort, for there had admittedly been discrete talk within the upper echelons of Orlais to use the boy against the Arcane Advisor, especially when the woman so easily foiled any subtle plots against Empress Celene. However, with the new evidence presented before them, it now seemed... an ill-advised idea at best. For the Warden-Constable whom had struck the killing blow against the Archdemon and the two women who held back the tides of darkspawn threatening to overwhelm them all... Well, what threat could a mere mortal soul hold in comparison?

So, yes, perhaps it was better that the boy was left alone when it came to any matters concerning The Game.

#dragon age #bethany hawke #morrigan #female cousland/bethany hawke #female cousland/morrigan #OT3: Paper Boats Floating on a Stream #AU: The Poets Must Be Out for Blood

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clatterbane · 9 days

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More Swedabilly comfort food here tonight! Not the most colorful meal ever, but satisfying.

I got a craving for old school baked macaroni and cheese, and also some fried cabbage with plenty of onion. This cabbage got some Creole seasoning and a little Vegeta.

Wasn't aiming for the style of macaroni where you can cut pieces off, but a little more spoonably custardy. The flavor turned out good, though. Next time I would use more milk to the same amount of eggs. Using a smaller across deeper pan for that amount of casserole probably would have helped too.

I tried something a little different to deal with the particular sorta difficult brand of GF macaroni I was using (Semper), and gave it a lukewarm water soak for a couple of hours in advance instead of precooking it. Just treated it like the usual slightly underboiled kind once it was nice and evenly hydrated through. Works great to soften up the "no boil" lasagna noodles and make them behave more like fresh/cooked in terms of cooking time and liquid balance in the dish--so, why not try it here?

That did get the texture of those noodles much better than usual, and rehydrating them before cooking them for a shorter time may be a good strategy for dealing with that particular brand of macaroni in general. It normally has pretty well the opposite of the more common "fall apart to mush in the blink of an eye" GF pasta failure mode. Hard to get it rehydrated and cooked through evenly. You can boil the stuff for 15 minutes and it still has a well before al dente half-crunchy layer in the middle. We'll see if soaking beforehand helps next time I do want to just normal stovetop cook the stuff.

Anyway, besides the assortment of cheeses we were working with in the fridge? The main Swedish part came in with the easy fried Pac-Man slices of falukorv on the side.

And, I guess, my condiment choice to go with the sausage: a roughly 50/50 mix of Johnny's BBQ Original (just too smoky and sweet for my taste) and Felix Chilisås which I like better than the Heinz.

More spoons than I really had to spare, but at least I am feeling pretty well fed right now. I did manage to finish everything on the plate there, so now I feel like I'm about to pop.

#personal #food #comfort food #macaroni and cheese #fried cabbage #falukorv #gluten free

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pigeonwhumps · 1 year

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Stabbed

Finding Safety masterlist

Stabmas special!

Taglist: @littlespacecastle @whumpymirages @flowersarefreetherapy @painful-pooch

Cass is stabbed.

775 words

CWs: BBU, pet whump, stabbing, dehumanisation, forced to fight, mentioned suicidal ideation (of an unnamed character), implied death

Cass circles the arena, knife clutched in his hand. He doesn't want to stab anyone, but he's becoming increasingly worried that he might have to, to get out of this match alive. It's not supposed to be a fight to the death, but he recognises the desperation in the other pet's eyes. He's seen it before. She's planning to die today, and if he's not careful he'll go with her.

The woman narrows her eyes at his hesitation and charges, dagger held high. He dodges the first hit, but barely manages to nudge aside her second try as he attempts to reach her hand. He just wants to stop her stabbing him. But all he manages to do is move her aim slightly, so she hits near his shoulder instead of somewhere vital.

Cass' shoulder explodes with fire as she buries the dagger inside him up to the hilt. He crumples to his knees, barely noticing the thud, his own screams, the cheers and boos and announcement of the winner, over the throbbing pain.

As his vision fades, though, he does hear Tyrone, whose voice he's been trained through time and pain to always listen to, barking orders. His voice is slurred but he sounds urgent. Cass isn't sure why, and doesn't have time to work it out before he slumps against the sawdust, unconscious.

Cass groans as he's pulled out of the darkness, the pain and tingling coming with him. He wishes he could pass out again.

"Ah, the mutt finally awakes. Come on, open your eyes."

Cass forces his eyelids apart, peering blearily up at the textured plaster. Maybe he is still unconscious, and this is just a dream. It doesn't make sense. He seems to be... indoors? The floor's warmer than the garage, but going by the ceiling, it has to be Tyrone's house. He can feel a cuff on his ankle, but there's no muzzle, and only one mitt's on. His chest and upper arm are swathed in clean white bandages. What's going on?

"Aaliyah, help him sit up so I can talk to him."

Cass feels a warm arm snake behind his back and he gasps as he's helped upright, a small cry of pain escaping him. He seems to be seated on the floor of the kitchen, and Tyrone's in a chair at the table. He gives Cass a shark-toothed grin.

"You're awake and aware. Good. We thought you were done for for a moment there. Aaliyah even cried. Don't worry, she's been suitably punished for it." Sure enough, as Cass looks closely at Aaliyah he sees the tear-tracks on her cheeks, the awkward way she's holding her left arm. "Still. I didn't lose my fighter to a selfish mutt. And she won't be troubling us any longer."

Cass swallows. He's usually the selfish mutt. At least the girl got her escape though. He doesn't want to ask what happened to her, even though Tyrone is clearly expecting him to, just in case she didn't. In the case that her punishment is worse than that, he doesn't want to know.

"I see you're learning what acceptable behaviour is in this house. Good. So long as you behave, you can keep your muzzle off for now. We had to call a vet for you, to stop you from dying, and he said you're to stay somewhere warmer than the kennel for at least a week. So you can stay in the kitchen until you're well enough to go back outside. If you make any sound that I can hear then you know what happens. Just stay still and quiet in that corner like a good mutt. And your mitt's off because of the risk of nerve damage, I'm not removing it every time you need to do your exercises. They're on that piece of paper beside you, I know you can read, follow them. Or don't, if you want to be punished for losing even more fights. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," growls Cass roughly, deciding not to get his muzzle put back on immediately. Tyrone nods.

"Good boy. I need to sort something out, I'll be back in a minute."

He saunters out, and Aaliyah rushes over to him, crouching down. She wouldn't normally approach him without Tyrone's express permission, he must've really worried her. He gives her a quick hug, careful not to strain his arm too much.

"I'm okay. I am."

She nods. Cass isn't sure what else to say. He knows he scared her, but there's nothing he can do about it.

It won't be long until he has to go in there again, after all.

#whump #whump writing #bbu #box boy universe #box boy #box babe #pet whump #forced to fight #stabbing #dehumanisation #mentioned suicidal ideation #implied death #sanctuary pigeonwhumps #cass oc #aaliyah oc #tyrone oc

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