#filed under: writings

[mekandawn]

@daily-writing-challenge Words: Overcome/Blind Day: 3

Caythaes hadn't performed at Wings and Metal - they hadn't even performed for Fire Fest - yet already they were making plans for the Tournament of Ages. Why not? It wasn't as if they weren't already making plans for it; they'd floated the idea past Leon months ago, almost as soon as the World's Faire had ended. The desire to perform on a larger stage was not something new the corruption had planted in them…

…But as Caythaes gathered up their costumes and got ready for practice with Anzhin, they couldn't help but think about the themes and lyrics in their upcoming performances. About the themes and lyrics of their past performances as well. True, they'd always had religious and anti-Light undertones, but now…

See how you drape yourself in my regalia, the voice cooed as Caythaes brushed their fingers over their favorite red suit. They'd gotten cufflinks made of the black sun and upside-down symbol of Light made, and the symbol adorned the corset they liked to wear with it.

See how you cover your body in my symbol, it purred as Caythaes caught a glimpse of the red suns tattooed upon their chest.

"These are for Belore," Caythaes murmured, resting their hand over their heart so that their splayed fingers touched the tattoos.

Even the Sun can go dark, the voice countered, its tone light and teasing. Do you not call yourself the Solar Eclipse? My dearest Devoted One, how you wound me...

"I get your point. You're so sharp," Caythaes sang to themself as they took flight toward Shattrath. "Getting good reactions with your evil talk."

I understand all…  "I see no-"

Destructive urges… "I see no-"

It seems so perfect… "I see no-"

I see-

"I see no evil!" Caythaes shouted as they rocketed towards the ground outside Wings and Metal. The fire of their phoenix form blazed like a comet through the sky, churning up dirt and rock as they collided with the earth and skidded to a stop.

"Caythaes?" Anzhin poked his head out of the bar, dressed in his ghoul uniform and worriedly cocking his head at them. "Are you alright?"

Scowling at themself, Caythas dusted the dirt from the otherwise pristine priest robe they wore and shook their head. A moment later, they sighed and pulled their hair loose from its tie, running their fingers through the faintly glowing dark purple and orange strands. Once they were satisfied that they'd tamed any wild strands, they pulled it back into a ponytail, making sure to catch the lone tendril budding from behind their ear and tucking it out of sight. "I'm fine, I just…"

"Haven't slept well," they professed, giving Anzhin a tired but still reassuring smile. It wasn't a lie; ever since the whispers first started, Caythaes had slept fitfully, plagued by dreams of stardom and success. Perhaps in another context, Caythaes would have welcomed such visions, but normally they didn't dream at all. Squishy, the little voidbeast they'd adopted during N'Zoth's attempt to claim Azeroth, ate their normal dreams, leaving only those that were divinely induced.

"If you were a prophet…"

"I'm fine," Caythaes repeated tiredly, reaching up to cup Anzhin's cheek in their hand; he had his own share of burdens weighing him down. Caythaes didn't want to add their problems to the pile. "I promise. Don't worry. Everything is okay. I'll go to bed early tonight and everything."

"If you want company…" Anzhin began to offer, removing his helmet so that he could lean into Caythaes's touch, raising his hand to hold theirs in place against his cheek.

"No. No, it's fine," Caythaes demurred, shaking their head as they drew back and slipped past Anzhin into Wings and Metal. "Really. I've just been having trouble sleeping again. You know how it is."

"I do," Anzhin agreed, resting a hand on Caythaes's lower back as he ushered them inside, his expression still worried, but fond as they neared the stage. "And I know how you push yourself, my dear firebird. Please take care of yourself. For me."

"I will, I promise. I just can't wait to be on stage again."

#Filed Under: DWC #filed under: writings #dwc2023 #dwcday3 #Youtube

[cwritesfiction]

I will not overcomplicate my plot

I will not overcomplicate my plot

I will not overcomplicate my plot

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #writing #filed under: posts that will come back to haunt me later

[keulixeutin]

Lovelorn & Laughable

a/n: tried something more casual and shorter.

summary: it’s laughable that your friends think that bakugou, of all people, is dangerous to you. bakugou x gn!reader.

cw: fluff. established relationship. mentions of drunkenness and alcohol. mentions of friends being afraid that reader is in an abusive relationship (they're not).  gender neutral pronouns used.

wc: 986.

You’ve been dating Bakugou for eight months, and your relationship with the infamous explosive hero is a confusing case among your friends.

However, you don’t know how confused they are until Uraraka pulls you aside one day to ask if you’re okay—read: to ask if you’re safe.

You almost laugh in her face, but you’re able to keep it together in front of her honest expression.  It’s surprising how little they know, and it’s hilarious how wrong they are (which is wild to you, because aren’t they close with Midoriya who considers him one of his closest friends?).

It’s laughable that they think Bakugou, of all people, is dangerous to you.

Bakugou, who gives you his credit card three months into the relationship.

Bakugou, who changes his phone background weekly because he can’t decide on one favorite picture of you.

Bakugou, who searches for your hand to hold even in his sleep, who jerks awake whenever he feels you shift too far away in bed, whose frantic fingers search the sheets for you in his half-sleep.

That Bakugou.  Right.

Though you have enough self control to not laugh, you do let out a wicked snort.  You tell her to watch carefully next time you’re all together, and even when she tries to tell you that she has been, you shake your head and repeat it—watch carefully.

At the next group outing at a pop-up carnival, you arrive arm-in-arm with Ashido, Bakugou following close behind.  Midoriya’s the only one who eagerly greets your boyfriend, though you wouldn’t say the others give an unkind welcome.  You grin at the ones you know are worried—Asui, Iida, and Uraraka—though they don’t find this as funny as you do.

Watch close, you mouth to them.

And they do.

At first, they think you’ve got some mild form of Stockholm Syndrome; they think that you must be used to trauma and that you can’t tell your relationship is a bomb ready to go off.  All they can see are his scowls and shouts.  All they can see is the angry child who grew bigger, stronger, and more powerful than he was a decade ago, a man who must be utilizing all of his strength and anger to keep you trapped.

Watch, you tell them again when they try to pull at you for a quick intervention.

They’re still doubtful, but for you, they try again. 

This time, they see things—they see Bakugou, maybe not the way you do, but different than how they used to.

They see how his shoulders always touch yours when he’s seated, how he accompanies you to the food stall so he can pull his wallet out, how he always glances back to see where you’re at as you linger at each stand.  They see him scowl with cheeks colored pink as you fix his hair in the whipping wind.  They see him lean into your ear and whisper something that makes you laugh as he points to an ugly pig plush prize.  They seem him pull you away from the group and sneak off into the crowd when he thinks no one’s watching.

Still not fully convinced, they finally approach Ashido about your relationship, about whether or not you’re truly safe and loved.  She’s first taken aback because she thinks they’re making a dumb joke.  Then, when she sees that they’re genuinely concerned, she doubles over in laughter, cackling so hard and so loud that there are hot tears in her eyes and painful cramps in her stomach.  She gasps out in between giggling and snorting about how incredible it is that they could believe something so obviously impossible, ignoring their expressions of irritation and shame.

Well, Bakugou doesn’t drink around you guys, so that’d probably help, huh, she says when she’s finally calmed down, wiping at her eyes.  At their confusion, she explains that he’s needy when he’s drunk.  I’ll give you a sneak peek, she smiles conspiratorially.

Pulling out her phone, she opens up the folder created specifically for sentimental Bakugou photos.  Ashido shows them a picture of him passed out on the couch, face resting against your lap with a firm grip on your calf (This was last week when he was plastered after four drinks!), another of him with you up on his shoulders in the pool, fiery smirks on both your faces (They beat me and Denki in Chicken, ugh!), and finally, a picture of him kissing you around a corner, which was immediately followed by a blurry photo of Bakugou swinging at the camera  (I don’t remember this one, actually, but this happens pretty frequently!).

Perhaps they hadn’t been watching closely after all, they think.

Ashido shows them several more photos, each with Bakugou sappier than the last, and she ends it by cooing about how cute the both of you are.  She says she’s surprised that neither you nor Midoriya have shown them anything, and Midoriya stammers out something about privacy, and they mention that they hadn’t expressed their horror in full until recently.

Horror, Ashido repeats, and then it turns into another full-blown cackle in public.

When you and Bakugou make it back to the group, you take one look at your friends and grin, seemingly aware of their newfound understanding.  They look back at you, abashed, but you’re too preoccupied with your bag of souvenirs and the ugly pig plush in your arms to be mad about their misconceptions.  Anyways, the pig was bought, not won, and you’re excited to share the story with the others.  Bakugou is on his phone again, subtly leaning against you; when Uraraka passes by behind him, she sees that he’s not scrolling through his apps but deciding a new background photo, stuck between one of you throwing the camera a kiss or laughing in the sunlight.  She watches him pick one and then favorite the other one.

#╰【 TAGGED AS … 】❖ ━━━━━ ❛ reader「 gender neutral 」 #╰【 TAGGED AS … 】❖ ━━━━━ ❛ fandom「 bnha 」 #╰【 TAGGED AS … 】❖ ━━━━━ ❛ character「 bakugou 」 #╰【 TAGGED AS … 】❖ ━━━━━ ❛ titled「 lovelorn & laughable 」 #╰【 FILED UNDER … 】❖ ━━━━━ ❛ novae writes 」 #bnha x reader #bnha x gn!reader #mha x reader #bnha fanfics #mha fanfics #reader inserts #dynamight x reader #bakugou x reader #katsuki x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou x gn!reader #bnha fluff #bakugou fluff

[thescrapwitch]

What if Morgoth's parlay was a different sort of trap?

He sends the message, dangling the promise of the Silmarils, and of course Maedhros agrees to go. Of course he brings more than the agreed upon amount of force, forbids any of his brothers from riding with him. It's a trap, obviously, but he won't drag them into death with him.

But Morgoth is counting on that. Because that means Maedhros is bringing the best of his soldiers. That everyone who stayed behind - Maedhros' brothers, those who might have been injured from the Dagor-nuin-Giliath and could no longer fight - will be thinking about their king. They will be distracted. Less defended. Vulnerable.

And then...

Maedhros arrives at the parlay meeting grounds and waits. And waits. Morgoth does not come. A coward, Maedhros thinks, and he rides back with his soldiers to his camp.

They see the smoke first. Maedhros' heart turns cold.

Too late, Morgoth's true intentions become clear. It was a trap, but Maedhros did not spare his little brothers by not letting them come with him. He looks at the devastation the Enemy has left behind and screams.

(later, his followers will say that he looked like Feanor. That his eyes burned with a dark fire, a horribly familiar mix of grief and madness)

In Angband, Morgoth forces the six sons of Feanor to kneel before his throne and laughs.

#file it under 'oh god why do i have so many WIP ideas' #'when will I be free from them please have mercy' #my writing #silmarillion #maedhros #morgoth

[newtabfics]

Bully/Degenerate Itto x Nerdy/Secret Pervert Fem!Reader Headcanon School AU.

Degenerate Itto who loves to bully you. He likes teasing you for being a bit quiet nerdy girl. You're just such a pathetic, meek thing.

Degenerate Itto who only goes to the library to read some manga and cut class. He doesn't have anywhere else to be so he might as well read some comics in the library right?

Degenerate Itto who hears the soft whimper and follows the noise. He hears your voice softly and peeks around the corner. He sees you at one of the tables, head resting on it as you're twitching and writhing.

"Hey. The fuck is wrong with ya shortie?" He asks, approaching you and frowning at your flustered face as you push yourself against the table a bit.

Degenerate Itto who knows the gesture all too well and pulls your seat back. It doesn't matter how fast you rip your hand out from under your skirt, he can see your slick on your fingers.

"Oh damn, Shortie. You're a nasty pervert. Touching yourself in the school library."

He grabs your wrist and pulls your fingers to his mouth. He licks and shivers as he tastes you, licking your fingers clean and smirks at your flustered expression.

"C'mon. My car. I can make you feel so much better than your fingers."

Degenerate Itto who knows how to eat pussy. He's got you laid out in his backseat with his huge arms locked around your waist. He's holding you in place as he slurps loudly, thrusting his tongue as he licks out your orgasms.

Somewhere in the background, you swear you could hear AC/DC playing and want to roll your eyes at the stereotype that he is but instead your eyes roll to the back of your head and you're sobbing and moaning as you grip his hair and rock your hips against his mouth.

His dick is throbbing under his jeans as he grinds against the seat, desperate for more than just eating you out. He's whining and moaning into you.

"Fuck, nerd. You're so tasty. They should make a candy that tastes like you," He hummed. "So many guys would be buying it, hoping to taste you."

Degenerate Itto who laughs and pulls back right as you're about to come and palms himself. He looks to you and asks, "Can I fuck you now? I really wanna fuck you but...shit. Baby, I think I might break your little pussy."

Degenerate Itto who gets pussy drunk and keeps pumping you despite how many times he's already made you come. He's addicted. He's so fucking hooked on you as he feels you squeezing him.

"Oh my fucking god yes, Baby!" He moans, gripping your hips tight as he makes you ride him harder. "God yeah. Look at you. Riding my dick like a little bitch in heat. You're so fucking sexy like this, Shortie. That's it. Milk that cock. Ride that cock cuz it's the only cock you're ever gonna think about again, right? Yeah?"

Degenerate Itto who pumps you full and buries himself so deep, he swears he feels your cervix. He probably was now that he thinks on it.

Degenerate Itto who, after you've come down from the high and he's helped clean you up, doesn't hesitate to get Plan B.

"I mean, it's my fault for fucking you out. I got a little carried away."

Degenerate Itto who asks you on a date after.

#file under: things I've been wanting to write but don't have the mental capacity to write full fics #drabble #headcanons #itto x fem!reader #itto smut #itto x reader smut #arataki itto #genshin au #genshin smut #itto genshin impact #tw dark fic

[milkteamoon]

Jon doesn’t think he has a fear of doors — entamaphobia, or whatever you call it (and yes, it’s a thing, he’s done more than a few simple google searches about the subject). It’s not that doors themselves are particularly the issue here. They’re just wood, they’re not a particularly terrifying shape, they’re not going to grow teeth and try to eat people like they did in that one movie he’d watched with Georgie years ago, and he’s not an agoraphobe. Or a claustrophobe. Or any other type of -phobe that is seemingly linked to fear of doors, which he doesn’t have, mind you, because it’s not the door itself.

Georgie had once asked if it had something to do with the uncertainty. Something about “not knowing what’s on the other side”; something with a simple cause and a simple answer. He’d had to explain it to her a bit after she’d found him standing outside of her flat near midnight, just the same as he’d been doing for the past two hours, all because he couldn’t bring himself to raise his goddamn fist and knock like a normal person; of course, that hadn’t been the first time, but he doesn’t tell her that. He doesn’t tell her about sleeping in the hallway as a child after the wind had blown his bedroom door closed when he’d gone for water. About missing so many classes in high school they’d called his grandmother, because his teacher kept closing the door before he’d get there. About having to go buy new clothes because he couldn’t bear to open his fucking closet after he’d accidentally knocked the door shut, and god does he know just how irrational he sounds. It’s stupid that he’s like this. It’s downright ridiculous. And yet... and yet, and yet, and yet —

So: when Jon moves in, he gets his own key to their flat. Mr. Spider’s doors don’t have locks, he tells himself, so Mr. Spider can’t come in. That makes sense, right? If Jon has rules, then so does Mr. Spider. If Jon has a key, then he doesn’t have to knock, and if he doesn’t have to knock, then Mr. Spider can’t come through. Georgie keeps the rest of the doors open — when he’s home, at least — and Jon thinks he must be the only person in the world who feels safer seeing the darkened living room from their bed.

When Jon moves out, he takes his key with him and trades it in for a new studio flat. Less doors, you see, nothing but the bathroom and the closet, both of which he wedges open with a cheap pack of rubber doorstops; it’s easier if he can see in. If he can see into the room before he pulls the door open, then Mr. Spider can’t be hiding inside, right? It makes sense. He knows it does.

He gets a new job and starts waking up at six in the morning just so he can get there when most of the other employees arrive, so he can rush through with them or catch some poor sap’s eye who hangs behind long enough to hold the door for him, just to be polite. Jon acts polite back and tells them thank you. He always waits until he’s seen at least three go inside, because he knows Mr. Spider takes his meals in small portions. It makes sense. It has to. If he was so hungry, then he’d have taken Jon too all those years ago, and not just maybe-Daniel-Michael-Thomas as his lonely guest for dinner. Is he still there, he wonders sometimes, seated at Mr. Spider’s table? Jon doesn’t know. He doesn’t dare to find out.

He likes his job. He likes his coworkers. He likes his desk with no walls, dumped in the middle of a messy bullpen. He likes Mr. Bouchard, he thinks, strange as he is, who keeps his office door open so that Jon doesn’t have to knock when he goes to him for questions. “Open door policy,” he’d mentioned once during Jon’s training, and nodded at him like he Knew some secret between them. Jon knows that Mr. Bouchard doesn’t. That doesn’t stop him from being grateful.

And then...

And then — 

And then Jon gets a promotion.

Jon moves out of research. Jon gets rid of his old desk. Jon gets a new office — a private one, Mr. Bou- er, Elias, ensures him cheerfully — one where he won’t be disturbed during work, because this office comes with a door. An old door. One that creaks something awful when it’s first pushed open, and no amount of rubber stoppers will stop it from closing on its own. How professional, Jon wants to laugh, but he knows it will come out like a sob. How ridiculous that he’s tried so hard, and yet he always seems to end up at square one.

And the thing is? Jon knows it’s just a door.

Of course he does. He’s not stupid. It’s- it’s just a door — just wood and metal and oil for the hinges — there’s nothing special about it, there’s nothing he can’t see on the other side through the little window that displays the rest of the bullpen. He says that he’ll manage. He thanks Elias for the opportunity. He can’t very well turn down a promotion just because his new office has a bloody door on it, no matter how much that childhood instinct screams at him to run away, get away, get far enough away.

The window helps, for the most part, but he still tells his assistants not to knock. Cites something stupid about how it will ruin his recordings if they do. They seem to buy it just fine and get in the habit of simply coming in when they need him — or at least, Tim and Sasha do. Martin, of course, forgets this rule about a week after Jon tells them, and Jon’s certain the panic attack he gives him is justification enough to have the man transferred back to the library. If Jon could report him about it. Could admit that the half hour he spends in the restroom afterwards is because he’s trying not to throw up from terror and not because he just ate something bad, but he realizes who sounds like the irrational one here.

So he manages.

He manages.

It��s simple if he breaks it down. There are steps and rules and lines that he doesn’t cross. That Mr. Spider doesn’t cross. They have an agreement, he thinks, to some extent, because while Jon didn’t invite himself to dinner all those years ago, he still invited someone. That makes sense, doesn’t it? It makes sense. An old favor. Don’t knock. Don’t open the door. Don’t knock. Don’t open. Don’t knock. Don’t — 

Someone’s knocking on his office door.

A crisp, simple knock knock, just like anyone would do before a closed door. A common courtesy. A meaningless gesture. A chance for him to open on his own time, if he’s busy, but that doesn’t stop the jolt of ice from shooting up his spine.

Jon knows it isn’t his assistants. He knows, he can see them, all sitting at their desks shuffling through papers and boxes like he’d told them. No, it’s Elias at his door, with his neatly tailored suit and wristwatch that he checks as he waits. He can’t see Jon, but Jon can see him. Just like Jon can’t see Mr. Spider, but Mr. Spider can see him. Funny how that works, isn’t it? Doesn’t really make much sense.

The knock comes again, two quick raps, and Jon has a choice to make. It’s Elias at the door, not Mr. Spider. He stands up. He walks over. He places his hand on the knob. It’s Elias behind it. He can see this. He knows this.

The thing is, Jon’s never been afraid of the door itself.

The thing is, he thinks Mr. Spider knows this too.

Jon opens the door.

Elias looks up, meets his eyes, and then smiles.

“Ah, Jonathan,” he says pleasantly, “just came to see how you’re settling in.”

#anyway. ANYWAY. #tma #file this under: random motifs I'm oddly passionate about #sorry this was meant to be a meta post but it turned into creative writing. idk what came over me #my writing #the magnus archives

[stergeon]

#file under 'things only i will find funny': byleth taking a smoke break in the alley behind enbarr palace before afternoon rush #fe3h #fire emblem #byleth eisner #edeleth #it's unfair that a woman can't simply be a jacked af war hero vessel of the goddess with no fashion sense and legs for days #noooo #you also gotta do stuff like 'write the name of the person you want to receive your note on the note before you pass it' #we all must learn these lessons. #from reddit

[anonfromtheflight]

What if one of the S3 parallels it's to the S1's scene with Wille quietly singing a line of what he remembers from Simon's song (he was too dazed because of their kiss to remember much, not judging my relatable boy) while he and Simon are being cute together and asking Simon's what's the next line and Simon singing more of it to him???

(Maybe they can even talk about how Simon should change some of the lyrics since they're together now and maybe scrap the Hillerska from it and explicitly make it a love song to Wille????)

WHAT IF????? WHAT THEN!!????

#Post brought by Spotify playing Simon's Song as soon as I arrived to work. I haven't started anything yet this is the first thing I write! #WILMON ENDGAME #OKAY YES #wilmon #Wilhelm #Simon #Young Royals #filed under: things i want to happen #I know it won't actually happen BUT A GIRL CAN DREAM!!!! 🗣️ #S3 wish list

[rosieofcorona]

can't stop thinking about cullen returning to honnleath after inquisition and becoming a farmer. using his hands to till the soil, to deliver lambs and calves and foals. he's still disciplined, but the routine only soothes him. he's still strong, but this work doesn't strain. his hands are still bloody but they're bloody with life, brutal and beautiful, as only life can be.

#ignore me I am in a cycle of obsession #I wanna write this so bad #cullen rutherford #commander cullen #dragon age: inquisition #dragon age: origins #file under: fic ideas

[distort-opia]

What if, whenever he's sent to solitary, entirely restrained and trapped with his own thoughts, Joker writes diaries.

It's canon that he knows Morse code, and that he's used it to communicate with other inmates through the walls. And it's also canon that he's the kind of guy who draws and scribbles and writes down thoughts and schemes. It definitely helps organize the chaos in his head... and if sensory deprivation gets thrown in, there's no doubt Joker goes a little more insane each time he's left utterly alone. He needs stimulation, and being made unable to move freely and given nothing for his mind to chew on must be torturous.

So maybe he writes journal entries in Morse code, tapping away with whatever limb he's got available. And maybe one day, entirely by accident, Bruce hears the pattern. He goes back to the Batcomputer and has it analyze all the data from Joker's cell that's available, has it translate the Morse code into text.

Bruce buries himself in the Cave for days on end, reading. What if there's some kind of crucial clue in there, after all? But they're all either letters to Batman, or to Joker himself. Sometimes they're entirely disjointed and make no sense, other times they're painfully self-aware. They're sad and contradictory, either describing Batman's death in graphic detail or begging him to come back, to save him, to kill him-- and Bruce won't ever be able to look at Joker the same way.

#...file this under sad angsty epistolary one-shots I'd like to write but don't think I ever will #needed to put the idea somewhere. it's been haunting me #batjokes #batjokes headcanons

[thegirlsarethriving]

just finished undertale. ok i see the vision. i now understand yall's Sans-to-Benrey obsession pipeline. and the Papyrus-to-Tommy Coolatta pipeline

#undertale #hlvrai #hlvrai2 #benrey #tommy coolatta #papyrus #benry #hlvrai benry #sans undertale #sans #undertale sans #undertale spoilers #i loved Papyrus so much and the whole time i was playing i was like hmm he reminds me of someone...? TOMMY. HE REMINDS ME. OF TOMMY. #i played pacifist but i saw how if u kill every1 n spare Papyrus Sans tells him every1 else is on a vacation bc truth would be too hard #file under: lies Gordon would tell Tommy if anything happened to Sunkist or his dad Gman #we wanna protect Tommy but on the other hand. the horrors r everywhere & Tommy go ham with a gun (he's terrified & acting on pure instinct) #(even tho Tommy has definitely faced his share of horrors in contrast to how Papyrus's loved ones try to shelter him from bloodshed) #i wanna write a paper psychoanalyzing Sans and Benrey in comparison to each other SOOOOO badly #it's been a hot minute since i last watched hlvrai (have seen it at least 4 times but not recently. did watch bbvrai live tho!) #im so extremely tired rn so i can't form proper thoughts :( but like: #they both have unfathomable otherworldly power and knowledge of their respective universes #but u wouldn't know it bc they're presented as just some chill guy who likes to make jokes and Vibe man #sike! they're a being of elderitch levels of power #they both act in accordance to game code but Sans can control parts of it (can see the timeline) while Benrey is much more subject to it #in some ways they are the antithesis of each other's motives but also contain the same vibes (all-powerful guy laidback n funny final boss) #Sans is judgment but doesn't interfere with the timeline. Benrey takes action that's “i knew this was gonna happen” #Benrey is fought as the final villain whereas Sans is arguably the final hero fight #anyways THEIR VIBES ARE BOTH SO !!!!!!!!!!!!! #idk if they'd be besties or mortal enemies #they can bond over being “unserious” (but they both take their true jobs very seriously. security guard and judgment bringer respectively)

[mekandawn]

@daily-writing-challenge Words: Divine/Tradegy Day: 2

Resisting the urge to scoop Pin into their arms and curl up in a ball, Caythaes rose to their feet and gently dusted their robes off. Much like how Fate had run into Aberrus in gleaming silver armor and now lay on the floor in blackened, twisted armor, Caythaes's workclothes had shifted as the corruptive forces of the Shadowflame washed over them. A high collar nearly as tall as their ears flowed downwards into a metal ribcage made of gold and spiked metal plates rested on their hips. Heavy pauldrons weighed down Caythaes's shoulders, pale green eyes rolling around in golden settings, glancing this way and that, taking in their surroundings and wicked looking metal caps decorated the fingers of their gloves.

Reaching up, Caythaes felt a pendant at their throat, the image of an upside-down symbol of the Light haloed by a black sun rising into their mind. It was something they'd discussed with Anzhin just weeks before; a symbol for the Solar Eclipse that could be sold as a pin much like Anzhin's own star or Velathra's moon and dragon's paw.

Only the day before, Korvax had teasingly suggested that if Caythaes were a prophet, he'd have to bring them offerings of kisses. At the time, Caythaes had replied that they were only a simple Seer, and if they did turn out to be a prophet, they were going to throw themself into the ocean. Now, his voice echoed through their mind, the once soothing rumble twisted into a dark, seductive whisper.

The truth was, Caythaes did often fantasize about being a prophet. They yearned for the recognition, respect, and praise that came with such a lofty position, and the idea of standing before a restored Sanctum of the Sun among a crowd of followers devoted to Belore caused their heart to ache. Once, Caythaes had worked towards that goal - or at least, they'd railed against the Light with a heart full of frustration and anger - but in the years since, they poured that energy into their performances.

After all, what was the difference between adoring fans hanging on your every word on stage and a temple full of worshippers assembled to hear you preach?

Why had they chosen the stage name of Solar Eclipse? Where had the idea for the symbol really come from? Had they been a puppet for something dark all this time without realizing it?

The thought chilled them to the core, but before Caythaes had a chance to dwell on it, someone shouted their name and snapped them out of their reverie. 

The Adamantine dragon had begun its assault anew, and Caythaes had to focus on keeping the adventurers in the room with them alive and on their feet.

The whispers would be drowned out in the heat of battle.

Everything would be fine.

#Filed Under: DWC #filed under: writings #maydwc2023 #dwcday2

[motel-gothic]

#spnedit #supernaturaledit #sam and dean #sam winchester #dean winchester #season 1 #1x01 #motel scrapbook #filed under: saving people hunting things #i need better tags i'm just trying to inspire myself for writing

[keulixeutin]

Hard, Harder, Hardest

a/n: hi.

summary: during a hero panel, bakugou thinks about how he can’t help but orbit you and obey.  bakugou x fem!reader.  

cw: suggestive. 18+.  no pronouns used, but fem!reader in mind while writing + mention of female anatomy; also, reader wears lots and lots of pencil skirts.  bakugou pining after you and imagining the nasty.  sub!bakugou and dom!reader vibes (at least, i tried anyways lmao).  reader wears glasses.

word count: 2,183.

Despite the nonchalant way Bakugou was leaning back in the chair, anyone could see he was stiff and irritable: he was scowling and rigid, the curve of his back not quite following the curve of his seat.

He couldn’t help it though.  He was supremely uncomfortable.  He hated this shit, hated being on the stage, following some stupid itinerary, dealing with stupid activities and games to get people to see the “softer” side of him.  What the hell did people need that for?  Wasn’t it enough for him to do his job, protect the city, beat down the shitty villains, and be the fucking best?  Number two hero or not, he didn’t sign up for this stupid celebrity shit.  They could write a slew of articles complaining and criticizing him, but he hated sitting around in the spotlight.

You, his personal assistant, fucking knew this, yet you still, behind his fucking back, worked with his PR team (and that fucking Shitty Hair Hero) to accept the Hero Convention invite and add it onto his schedule (his schedule that you knew he didn’t look at because he trusted you to be good at your job)—and then to not even to tell him until ten minutes before he was supposed to get ready for it?  He had been fuming.

Bakugou’s leg shook underneath the table impatiently and irritably.  A woman dressed in a maid outfit with home-made Hawks wings stepped to the microphone and asked Round Cheeks about her martial arts usage in battles.  The next fan, someone with blue scales scattering across their face and arms, asked a question to a sidekick three seats away whose name Bakugou didn’t know and didn’t care to know.  Internally, he was pleased with this current line of questioning.  As long as no one addressed him, he could sit and pass the time with an annoyed glare until this whole thing was fucking done.

But, obviously, the universe loved dashing his hopes.  The next person that stepped up to the microphone was cosplaying an older version of the Dynamight costume, which was ego-boosting and cool to see, of course, but that itself wasn’t enough to make any of this entertaining or interesting.

“This question is for Dynamight,” the fan began.  “What would you consider your hardest battle?  Also, I’m your, um, number one fan…!”

It was an easy question.

People wanted to know battle specifics, but his hardest fight?  To date?  Currently?  

Controlling his fucking raging hard-on whenever you with your stupid perfume and your mean laugh entered the room.

Bakugou hadn’t wanted a personal assistant.  Shitty Hair and Raccoon Eyes stubbornly pushed their agenda onto him whenever they noticed at the beginning of the year that he had been swiftly losing control over his wildly hectic schedule.  Between the patrol, the agency work, the hero work, and the unending meetings—all just the tip of the iceberg—he had been struggling to find any time for himself, personally and professionally.  Despite his violent vehemence, Shitty Hair and Raccoon Eyes still strong-armed him by nagging him until they were red in the face and accepting applications on his behalf, narrowing it down to a set of five that he was to choose from.

He had picked you because you looked meek in your photo and you were soft-spoken in the interview; he figured that you’d run off after being on the end of his short fuse for a week straight.

But, by the end of that week, with him having just yelled about the type of tupperware his food was packed in, you had very softly and very firmly told him to watch his fucking tone, or you’d make sure that the only time he sat down for the next six months was on stage in front of an interviewer and audience with a fiercely binding contract that ensured he couldn’t skip without heavy monetary punishment.

(“I have my ex-lawyer-boyfriend wrapped around my finger,” you had said, your voice deadly calm as though you were telling him you had started a new hobby and not threatening your boss, the number two hero.  “I will make sure there is so little wiggle room in that contract—every single Hero Convention from here to goddamn China will have you by the balls for the next six months in the strictest legalese.  Do you understand me?”

He couldn’t lie—he was shocked into silence by how fucking hot that was, how fucking hot you were, wearing the tightest pencil skirt, shifting your metal glasses while you threatened him.

“Now eat your rice.  The leeks, too, please.”)

He couldn’t explain it.  Ever since then, things were—different.  He was hyper aware of you, of how far away or how close you stood near him, of how you were usually in some sort of skirt; his eyes were glued to your backside, to the sneak peek of upper thigh every time you shifted in your seat, mind wandering to how it’d feel to have that thigh pressed against his neck and his face. He was suddenly obsessed with how you spoke, realizing he had mistaken your quiet for meekness, for submission. You were soft-spoken, yes, but there was a weight to your words, one that required obedience from those you were speaking to.  Now he could see that your smile sometimes curled at the corners into a sneer, and that your eyes were sharp, narrowing with a finality he found himself unable to ignore.

Fuck, he was even aware of how you smelled.  He often caught himself inhaling deeply as you passed by, trying to preserve the smell of your shampoo inside his chest.  Whenever you leaned over to show him something on his calendar, he had to fight the urge to press his nose into your hair, to bury his face into your neck where your veins pulsed with perfume. Once, you had left your jacket at his place after a long night of explaining and rearranging the weekend itinerary to ensure nothing would be amiss while you were out of town. He had fallen asleep with his face pressed into the fabric the entire weekend, your scent lulling him into the most comfortable and serene sleep of his life.

Things got even harder when you caught on.  Quick, too, two months in.  The skirts got shorter; your shirts were unbuttoned enough for a heated glance of cleavage; and he frequently found you in compromising positions, bending over his table to grab something instead of walking around, or dropping things at his feet requiring you to lean over to pick up.  It was hardest when you used this newfound power of yours to get him to do things he didn’t want to do—like attend interviews or take off-days.  In his frustration and confusion in the early days, he had once furiously asked if you had a quirk he didn’t know about, to which you laughed wildly in your eyes but coolly said no.

“Dynamight?”  The host pulled him from the memory that had began to take over Bakugou’s attention—the one where, after getting caught in a heavy downpour, you had graciously changed in front of him and cruelly wouldn’t let him touch.

Bakugou was about to respond that nothing had been hard because he was too fucking strong, but he made the mistake of glancing to you, standing off to the side with your phone against your ear.  You were good enough at your job that you were able to efficiently multitask, paying attention to both the conversation on the phone and the Hero Panel.  As if you could feel his intent, you gave him a hard stare, your fine eyebrow raising expectantly at him, almost daring him to put one toe out of line in this nationally broadcasted panel.

The look boiled his blood—and the heat went straight down south.

Yes, things had gotten extremely bad when you had realized your effect on him.  

He was grateful for the table.

Bakugou gave an answer about a villain whose name he couldn’t remember but whose shadow soldier-producing quirk had irritated him the entire fight, and then he ended the response with a muttered thanks to the fan.

He glanced back to you, another mistake—“Good boy,” you mouthed.

Fuck.  He bit back a groan.

There was a mean glint in your eye as you held his stare; it wasn’t a long one, but it was enough to create a heavy weight in the pit of his stomach; it was enough to make his heart stutter and jump.  You turned away first, breaking the eye contact to finish the conversation on the phone, yet it felt like he was the one who had caved.

The rest of the panel continued with Bakugou scowling at a spot on the table or the wall behind the audience, but he participated more than he had originally decided to.  He answered the questions directed at him and remarked offhandedly on other people’s answers whenever he felt like it, eliciting laughter from the fans and eye-rolls and playful arm smacks from Round Cheeks. 

At the end of the panel, the heroes had twenty minutes to decompress before the meet-and-greet. Bakugou and the others were ushered off the stage and back into the make-up room to relax.  After the make-up artist checked that nothing needed to be reapplied, you appeared with a phone against your ear still and a tote bag over your shoulder.

“I’ll check his calendar and get back to you,” you said.  “By the end of tomorrow at the latest.  He’s currently doing the Hero Panel, but if I can find a moment to check and confirm, I’ll let you know earlier.”  

You paused, listening to the person on the other side.  Bakugou took the moment to rake his eyes over your form.  Your pencil skirt stopped inches above your ankle, but there was a slit over your left leg that traveled up—up, up, and up—to your tantalizing thigh.  Your skin was creamy and smooth with lotion or oil.  Whenever you shifted your weight in irritation at something that was said, the fat of your thighs rippled in a way that had his mouth watering.

 “…As I said,” you continued, “Dynamight is currently occupied with the Hero Panel.  If I can grab a moment, I will check with him and his calendar, but I’ll be sure to give you an answer by the end of tomorrow.  Yes, of course.  Yes, you, too.”

Your voice was light and polite, but dry and firm.  You hung up, and then your attention was fucking finally on him.  

You pulled several plastic containers out of your tote bag and set it on the table in front of him.

“Don’t scarf it all down,” you advised.  “But eat a little.  Regain your energy and pick up your mood so you can meet the fans.”

“Not hungry,” he grumbled, wondering if he could convince you to let him rip the slit a little higher.

“Eat the fruits at least,” you said, moving the containers around until the smallest one was on top and opened, revealing grapes and cut apples and mangos. 

“You eaten yet?” he asked.

“No, but I’m fine,” you said, but you picked out a grape anyway.  His eyes honed in on the way your fingers push the fruit past your plump lips.

Bakugou swallowed, neck tense, heart hammering in his chest.  He didn’t know when the leash had tightened so heavily.

“What?” you asked, noticing his gaze.

“Nothing.”  He averted his eyes.

“Oh, I see,” you said, amused, and he found that he hated your tone and simultaneously ached for it.  “You want a reward for earlier, hm?”

He didn’t respond, but he didn’t need to.  Despite his attempt at disgruntled nonchalance, his body was obedient to your voice in a way he couldn’t physically deny or control, no matter how much he dug his nails into his palms or ground his teeth.  There was always a twitch and shift in your direction; there was always a fiery red on his cheeks; there was always the need to orbit and obey.

“You don’t get anything for properly answering a question the way you’re supposed to, Katsuki,” you remarked.  

“Tch.  Whatever,” he grunted, suppressing the involuntary shudder at his name on your lips.

“But if you do well today”—you plucked another grape and then pressed it against his mouth—“maybe you can get a reward later.”

You slid the grape into his mouth, fingers lingering at his lips in a scandalous way that journalists would kill to capture.

His body was buzzing at your words.  He couldn’t help but hoarsely ask, “What’s the reward?” 

“Whatever you want it to be,” you answered, smug as if you could read his thoughts, as if you knew he was imagining you suffocating him with your cunt and thighs, as if you knew that he hadn’t been able to help himself on stage, looking to you as though he would’ve said anything to hear good boy again.

#╰【 FILED UNDER … 】❖ ━━━━━ ❛ novae writes 」 #╰【 FILED UNDER … 】❖ ━━━━━ ❛ 18+ 」 #╰【 TAGGED AS … 】❖ ━━━━━ ❛ reader「 no pronouns used 」 #╰【 TAGGED AS … 】❖ ━━━━━ ❛ reader「 she/her 」 #╰【 TAGGED AS … 】❖ ━━━━━ ❛ fandom「 bnha 」 #╰【 TAGGED AS … 】❖ ━━━━━ ❛ character「 bakugou 」 #╰【 TAGGED AS … 】❖ ━━━━━ ❛ titled「 hard + harder + hardest 」 #bnha x reader #mha x reader #bakugou x reader #katsuki x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #dynamight x reader #bnha reader insert #bnha fanfic #bakugou fanfic

[wheels-of-despair]

The Last First Day Pairing: Eddie Munson x You Summary: This is it. Eddie Munson's last first day at Hawkins High. His final senior year. Class of '86, baby! Contains: Eddie and Evil Woman being annoying and ridiculous and so in love they don't care about making a scene, Higgins being So Done with them, a little suggestive humor. Words: 700ish

"BABY!"

You whip around in the crowded Hawkins High hallway, packed full of students hustling toward their next class on that always-awkward first day of school, searching for Eddie's voice. Where is he? What's wrong? He's not in trouble already, is he?

When you finally spot him and make eye contact, his jaw drops.

"It IS you! I haven't seen you in FOREVER!"

He literally saw you an hour ago, when he picked you up for school. And every day of the summer. And almost every day of the previous school year. But you know what he's doing, and you can't deny him this. Not on the first day of his last senior year.

You'd bullied the guidance counselor into putting you and Eddie in most of the same classes. It had taken some work to convince her that it really was for academic reasons, but in the end, she'd given in. What's the worst that could happen? He'd already repeated his senior year twice. The only way to go is up. Or, as most of the administration hoped: out. And since the faculty didn't seem to care about helping him get there themselves, they decided to let you give it a shot. You'd show them. You and Eddie would show them all.

Right after this happy reunion with your one and only.

"MY EDDIE! YOU FOUND ME!"

His face lights up when he sees that you're going to play with him. You stretch out your arms, thankful you'd shoved everything in your backpack after your last class, and rush toward him. Eddie takes off too, and after several grunts from people who'd been rammed into, the student body begins to duck to the side and clear a path for you.

You collide with a thump and hold each other in a crushing hug when you meet in the middle of the hallway, like you hadn't seen one another in years. Eddie finally lets go and reaches for your face, and holds it in his hands like a treasure.

"Oh my god, you're so beautiful! I'd almost forgotten what you looked like!" He's loud and he's obnoxious and you'll never love anyone more.

"I missed you!" You lean in to punctuate with a kiss. "So!" Another. "Fucking!" Another. "MUCH!" A longer one, which ends in a wet smack worthy of a cartoon. "Please don't ever leave me alone for that long again. I'll die. I swear, I'll die without you." You're also being loud and obnoxious, but not entirely untruthful.

You gaze into each other's eyes, in the middle of that crowded hallway full of people scoffing at you, and you think this just might be the happiest you've ever felt. The bell rings, but you can't bring yourself to pull away from him. Not yet.

A grown-up presence announces itself with a sigh, and you and Eddie break eye contact to look at Principal Higgins.

"That was the warning bell, which signifies that it's time for The Munsons to proceed to their next class," he says tiredly.

Eddie gives him a mock salute and hooks an arm around your neck, pulling you away from Higgins and toward your next class. Which you have together. You smile and lean into him, basking in the fact that you were just referred to as The Munsons.

"Pretty sure we just got married," Eddie observes.

"Oh yeah?" you grin. "Is Higgins an ordained principal?"

"Yup," Eddie says, eyes forward. "I've been studying in this place for a looong time. I know how things work. We're married now."

"Are you gonna carry me across the threshold into English class?" you tease, giving him a playful poke in the ribs.

"Don't tempt me, Mrs. Munson," he smirks. "I'm gonna wait 'til science. There's a human anatomy unit during senior year." He waggles his eyebrows at you. He should know; he's failed it twice.

"Is the unit… hard?" you ask seductively.

He stops just outside the classroom door and leans down to whisper in your ear, so only you can hear. His hair tickles the side of your face. "Not as hard as the unit that'll help you earn extra credit after school."

#writings of despair #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #file under: things that somehow doubled in size after they were “one proofread away from being posted”

[newtabfics]

Gale.

His fucking purple clone. Plowing his partner together.

He loves it. He loves holding them between them and pumping up into them like they're the only thing in this world. He loves spit-roasting them. He just wants to feel his partner begging for him and only him.

Hell, in his tower, he will smirk from the couch as his clone mounts them like an animal and treats them like less.

The way tears roll down their face in frustration because Gale tells them they cant finish because its not HIS cock inside them, just a replicate.

Ends up begging and moaning as the clone continues the relentless drive.

#drabble #bg3 smut #bg3 gale #gale smut #gale dekarios #bg3 #file this under fics i want to write but can't think beyond the blurb #gale x reader #gale x fem!reader