#roman is only briefly mentioned

[monkeythefander]

Dukeceit Headcannons 💚💛

I wanted to participate in Dukeceit Week 2024 somehow, so since I don’t have time to draw anything I thought I’d write some headcannons based off of the 7 prompts for the ship week.

@dukeceit-week-2024 @imnotgrimimjustagrumpyreaper

The prompts were the following:

April 6th- Sunflowers/Ocean

April 7th- Road trip/Roadkill

April 8th- Cats/Rats

April 9th- Teeth/Hair

April 10th- Cowboys/bootleggers

April 11th- Bodyswap/Sharing clothes

April 12th- Coffee shop/Dive bar

April 13th- Antiquing/Free day

Content warnings: mention of roadkill (dead animals), mention of having funerals for said roadkill, mention of hair clips that look like teeth, brief mention of battles, mention of a dive bar and drinking alcohol. Let me know if I missed anything else.

Click below the cut the read the headcannons.

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- For their first date, Remus and Janus decided to go out for dinner by the beach in the imagination. Remus wanted to give Janus some flowers, so he picked a bouquet a sunflowers. Of course, Remus ended up picking sunflowers were dead because they were from his side of the imagination. The creative side was a bit worried that his date wouldn’t like the flowers since they were dead, but Janus smiled when Remus gave him the flowers and said the bouquet was lovely. The couple then had their dinner, and afterwards walked on the beach. Remus convinced Janus to take off his shoes and stand in the shallow part of the ocean with him. Remus playfully kicked some water at Janus and the two end up chasing each other around and splashing each other. Overall, it was a good first date.

- Remus and Janus like to take road trips through Roman’s side of the imagination once a month. The two drive around in a car and occasionally stop to cause chaos. On their trips they’ll sometimes stumble across some roadkill. In these situations, Remus will have Janus pause their journey for a moment in order to have funerals for the roadkill.

- For Halloween, Janus and Remus always wear matching/couple’s costumes. Their first Halloween together, they dressed as a rat and a cat. Remus was the rat because like rats, he likes to dig through garbage. Janus was the cat because like a cat, he sometimes makes a purring noise when Remus cuddles him, because Remus feels very warm and the cold-blooded deceitful side finds the body heat very calming. Janus was embarrassed when he purred for the first time, but Remus just smiled and said he found the sound adorable.

- Remus’s hair would often get in his face since it’s somewhat long. He found having hair blocking his eyes to be annoying, but couldn’t find any clips or hair styles he liked to fix it. Janus noticed Remus’s hair style struggles, so he asked Roman to help him design hair clips for Remus. Once the design was planned out and made, the deceitful side gave Remus hair clips that looked like teeth. Remus loved the clips and would wear them often.

- For the second Halloween Janus and Remus celebrated together, they dressed up as Woody and Bo Peep from Toy Story. Remus wanted to reuse the cowboy costume and Janus already has a shepard’s crook, so the costume choice was easy.

- Remus likes to borrow Janus’ hat and capelet. The dark creativity says it makes him feel more powerful and like a fairytale villain when he battles with Roman.

- Remus made a dive bar in his side of the imagination for him and Janus to go to. The two frequently go there to drink and slowdance. Janus uses these outings as an excuse to wear the fancy dresses he owns.

- There is an antique shop in the Light Side of the imagination. Janus likes to go over there occasionally to look for decorations for his room. He’s found a few nice paintings of snakes when shopping there. After they started dating and it got closer to Remus’ birthday, Janus wanted to find an antique item to give as a birthday present. The deceitful side did a lot of searching and eventually found an old, wind-up rat toy. It would be the perfect gift for Remus. So, Janus got the wind-up rat and gave it to Remus on the creative side’s birthday. Remus loved it and proceeded to send the rat toy running around the light side of the mindscape. The creative side hoped the rat toy would scare the light sides. Janus just watched his boyfriend’s antics with a smile on his face.

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End notes: Thanks for reading! As always, if you like any of these headcannons and want to make a fanfic or fanart based on them you can. You just need to ask me first, and then tag and credit me in the post so I can see it.

-Monkey💜

AO3 Link to these headcannons: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55072036

#sanders sides #sanders sides headcannons #remus sanders #janus sanders #roman sanders #roman is only briefly mentioned #dukeceit #remus x janus #remus sanders x janus sanders #dukeceit week 2024

[fatesundress]

⭑ patience, please, and thank you. tom riddle x reader

summary. you and tom have always sought to best one another in school. it doesn’t help that upon graduating, you work for opposing shops.

tags. rivals to … rivals with benefits? lovers? there’s no real animosity just #flirting so i don’t know, SMUTT minors begone, fluff that may be ooc to some but Not Me, reader literally learns archaic latin for this man, poor boy x rich girl trope if you squint, pureblood reader (and mentions of pureblood marriage politics), explicitly f!reader this time sorry!, fem anatomy, fingering, piv, tldr tom riddle would be turned on by the culminated tension of an eight-year-long academic rivalry.

note. i was 5k words into something else (that is probably better) before this came to me and would not go away so. here it is. don't know where all the smut is coming from. head empty

word count. 6.4k

The bell to Borgin and Burkes knells low and hollow in your ear as you enter, and there he is. Prim waistcoat and perfect hair, tucking books away with a wave of his wand. Far too pretty a thing for a dusty place like this, you think, and you smile with your head held high, pretending to take in the inventory as if that's ever been your reason for coming here.

“You mightn't consider leaving at all," Tom says, regarding you briefly before returning to his books, “if you're going to return this often."

“Oh, Riddle, but then what would you do without my company? Talk to the bones?"

“A tempting offer when considering my alternative.”

He leans against the counter to watch you as you make your way down the aisle, fingers jolting as they brush the shelves of dark paraphernalia, preemptively casting a locking jinx on a particularly nasty skeletal hand that grabbed you once last year.

“Is there anything you're looking for?"

“Nothing in particular,” you hum as you peruse, “Curiosities of your friendly competitors.”

“Friendly,” he repeats, like he’s tasting a strange flavour.

You smile with just enough polished barb that you hope it bothers him. “Most cordial. And I am nothing if not the dutiful volunteer for the task." 

It is an objective truth that you are good at many things. Tom is good at all of them and perhaps one more: being pushed significantly and never showing symptoms of breaking. You'd like to be the one to change that.

“I presume you intend to leave with something?" There's a challenge in his voice, clear as day, as he stands straighter, but — not bothered. Not bothered, just intrigued. His hands fold behind his back and his chin comes up, daring you to say a single snarky thing that isn't true — that you're here to taunt him. Not to buy a thing, and not to enjoy his company.

It was such a boring day before this. If he only knew, he might have a tad more sympathy.

“Breathe, Riddle — if you can through all the dust in here — I've plenty of money to spare; there’s no need to fret about me leaving empty-handed." You select a book at random to prove your point, waltzing closer to hand Tom four sickles from your coin purse.

You're pleasantly surprised to see him actually smile, the corners of his mouth stretching with only the slightest degree of mirth. He reaches out and takes the coins, setting both upon the counter before turning up his nose at the book in your hands. “It must be an enthralling read to capture your attention."

You smooth the cover over with manicured hands and shrug at the indecipherable title. “Well, I’m remiss not to have a clue. I believe it's in Latin."

He runs his hand along the book, thumbing the pages with a raised brow. “It’s a history text. Ancient Roman institutes of magic.” His gaze returns to you. “Will that be all?”

You roll your eyes. He would know a dead language — it's such a remarkably Riddle thing to do — probably just for the sake of knowing it. 

“Yes, if that's satisfactory enough that I may be permitted to walk the premises without causing offence."

“Of course. Though I do expect a review of it soon," he adds, “to know whether my time hasn't been entirely wasted."

“A review?" You laugh. “And I suppose you ask that of all your customers? Mind the matter of it being in a language I don't know; it would take me a few months for a crude translation at best."

“Only my best customers," he says with a small shrug, as if that isn't a completely arbitrary standard he's just pulled out of nowhere. “In that case, you've the better part of a year to read it," he adds, and the smile on his face is less thin, less restrained, more cocky.

You raise a brow, scanning over the words on the first page as if hoping something will stick out. It's all gibberish. “I'm being timed now, am I? I don't recall accepting the task."

"Do you not?"

You scoff. "Of course I do."

“Or perhaps I could translate for you?" he suggests, “It's really no bother for me."

You should be offended — he's eternally eager to see you fail — but your stomach flips at the premise of a challenge you haven't felt since you were in school together, and most importantly, you never fail. “Give me a date, Riddle.”

“I think by Christmas would be fair. Does that give you enough time, or shall I set it a bit later?"

“Christmas," you agree, shaking his hand with all professionalism you can muster (this is, after all, a very professional exchange), turning away, and smiling to yourself as the shop bell tolls again.

It’s only weeks before Christmas when it occurs to you that this isn’t even for anything. There’s no prize should you win, no one else is aware of it, it’s a great waste of time when what began as a passable weekend hobby has now drowned you in English-Latin dictionaries and histories of Ancient Rome. The shop surpasses last year’s sales and you’re dozing off into your mother’s pastry dish during the family celebration. Even your father telling a rather pitiful tale of his Polyjuiced visit to Borgin and Burkes can’t keep your attention when he drones on about how easily he fooled Mr Borgin into remembering the details of some spat twenty years ago. Your brain is in a half-scattered language. It tugs you to what might be the most depressing December 25th of your life if you’re forced to give Tom the gift of your failure.

So you double-down. Your social life is nonexistent. You’re three quarters through the textbook and dreaming about duelling Tom under the Arch of Constantine, and he wins, and he wins, and he wins each time. It only propels you more. You’re downing Invigoration Draughts like a drunkard with a cradle of firewhisky. 

And you do it. 

You finish the damn book, you think you might have actually fucking learned Latin with how deep the words have rooted in your skull, and you win.

You win, in your prettiest dinner dress, snow clinging to your hair, wrapped in a brand new coat as the shop bell tolls and you step inside.

You’re grateful you don’t say as much (which you were planning on doing — planning on slamming the door shut behind you and carolling your bloody success) because it’s Mr Burke at the counter this Christmas evening, not Tom.

“...Miss?” He regards you with perplexity behind the counter.

You blink, recollecting yourself and stepping forward to shake his hand. “Mr Burke. My family wished to extend their best wishes for the new year.”

“Quite a gesture," comes a familiar voice from behind you as Tom steps out from the staircase, dressed in a dark suit and overcoat, like he’s just been out. He’s smiling. He looks disgustingly well.

You glance between the two men, and Burke bows curtly as if made aware of something he’d previously been warned of. “To yours as well, miss.” And then he’s off to assist the only other customer, an elderly woman in fur-lined green with so many glittering pins in her hair she resembles a Christmas tree.

“Riddle,” you say, facing him, unable to hide the triumphant grin that digs into your cheeks. You hand him the book, and atop it, your three pages of articulate, edited review.

“You made it. You read it," he acknowledges, though you doubt he’s surprised, and then nods to the stairs. “Come.”

You follow him up the narrow spiral into a short corridor, taking one look back at the old woman, now clasping a shrieking bauble you gladly turn away from. The door Tom opens is unlocked, presumably where he’d just come from, and — you feel a bit overwhelmed if you’re correct, but you have no idea what else it could be — presumably his flat.

When you enter, the door shuts behind you with an empty click of the latch. The room before you is rather sparse, a kitchenette in one corner, a cramped study in the other, with books upon books and scrolls stacked high on shelves along the dark walls. There's only the barest of seating, two armchairs beneath a dim desk lamp, a small table beside the fireplace, and… a bed, of all things, separated only by a thin divider and the courtesy of enough distance not to immediately draw the eye. You, of course, can't quite help it, gaze lingering on the tidy sheets and back to him.

It isn’t a thought you do well to dwell on. Too many directions for your imagination to roam.

“Well then," you say, hanging your coat at the door and trying not to display any overt anticipation as the parchment rustles in his hand, “Shall I just sit and await your evaluation?"

He raises a brow. “I was going to ask if you’d like tea. Do sit, though.”

Oh. Yes, right, you’re rushing things. Hospitality. Decorum. Consideration. You suppose Tom Riddle would extend those things for the sake of posterity if nothing else. “Something black, if you have any, please.”

The water comes to a boil quickly under the steady heat of his magic, and you’re sinking into a shockingly comfortable armchair taking in every shape and blemish of the room while you’re in it. You don’t have to guess that he doesn’t have many guests.

“Darjeeling,” Tom says as he offers you a steaming cup, “if that’s satisfactory.”

You resist a scowl at his mocking tone, placing the tea on a glass coaster and glancing purposefully at your work (your magnum opus, really) once more. “Perfectly.”

Tom notes your look with a smile, settling into the seat opposite yours. 

You take a sip of tea and lean back. “Do go on.”

“Eager,” he mutters, but begins.

He skims over the opening line before flipping the book open as if to be sure you haven’t made it all up, and then you think you probably could have made it all up if you wanted. Read one of the hundreds of magical histories of Rome that certainly existed — probably in your own shop, at that — and gathered much the same conclusion. But you did not. Tom must know you did not. 

The silence is thick as he reads, waned only by the crackle of the fireplace and the occasional turn of a page. His brows furrow the way you always remember catching in school, like he's concentrating on a particularly hard puzzle, and you have to busy yourself with a nearly empty cup of tea to pretend not to notice the way his beauty is something almost delicate. Framed by firelight and the indigo gloss of the night shining in through the window, you imagine his hair mussed, his long eyelashes speckled with snow, his cheeks pink from the cold. You wonder about him in a nicer suit than this. You could buy him one, if you liked.

And then, at last, he looks up over the parchment, expression carefully measured. “I'm impressed.”

You put your cup down and you can’t help it. You're smiling. You're proud. His approval is like bottling the tail of a rainbow (which you’ve been told is possible), and it's a feeling that’s been absent from you for so long, it's never come from him — Merlin, you've always wanted it to come from him, haven’t you?

“You’re impressed?” you ask, as you love nothing more than to push. “Is that all?”

He loves nothing more than to keep his face impassive, but there’s a twitch there. Something you’re aware you can only spot because of how much attention you pay him. 

“I enjoyed your perspective on the Romans’ utilisation of firedrakes. It was well-thought.”

“Well-thought?”

“Quite good, yes.”

“Good," you say, grinning in the bulk of your triumph, “I suppose that means I win."

Win. You’re not winning anything but the implication that Tom is somehow losing. Still he does not break, and you think at seventeen he would have. At nearly twenty his smile just grows. “Have you ever done anything less?”

Is he pushing too? That could be fun.

“Oh, first year tribulations. Nothing since — you wouldn’t remember.”

“Hm, I do recall an unfortunate lesson with a matagot in Beasts, and that must have been, what—” He tilts his head as though to ponder it— “fourth year?”

You narrow your eyes. “Paid an ever-close watch on me, did you, Riddle?”

“As close as anyone else.”

“And by that you mean to say—?”

“Only that it’s a most fascinating custom, the matter of pureblood marriage. It was hard to avoid your name in a common room full of your particular politics.”

“Ah,” you hum, summoning the teapot from the kitchenette to pour another cup, “so my potential marital affairs are what drew your attention. And here I was thinking it was because I was the only person who could ever best you.”

He stops your tea mid-motion, and you still as he sends both the pot and the cup to the table beside you. “Can it not have begun as one and have become the other?”

“Well, your curiosity knows no end; I should be flattered by such multifaceted interest.”

“So you won’t mind my inquiring.”

“Whatever you wish, Riddle.”

“Upon the current status of your betrothal.”

You blink, and then laugh. “There is no betrothal. At present.”

“At present. Is it subject to change?”

“There’s always talk,” you offer, and it offers impressively little.

“Elaborate...”

“I don’t know that you’re in any position to be making demands,” you gibe, “considering I paid four sickles to prove you wrong and I haven’t anything to show for it but my pride.”

He smiles. “Not enough to sate your desire to make me grovel, it seems.”

“You? Grovel?” You gasp, fingers circling your knee idly. “What a fascinating concept… Wait now, I’m trying to paint the picture.”

“Is that not what you came for?” he asks, and it’s odd to see him amused by the idea. You push and push and he just continues to take. “To prove me wrong? To puncture my pride?”

You shrug innocently, even though you’d just said as much. “I’m here to wish you a Merry Christmas.”

He laughs, a warm, quiet laugh — more of a breath than anything — but true if you can read him at all, and that’s a bit alarming. “Of course. Near nine months of exhaustive translation all to bid me a nice holiday. It sounds almost like grovelling, doesn’t it? Wait, now, I’m trying to paint the picture.”

You bite back your smile. Damn him. He’s never been funny before. That’s a problematic development.

“Fine.” Your legs are already crossed and now you’re crossing your arms too, and you look very reserved compared to his relaxed stature. “A match would, of course, need to be of good title.”

“Of course,” Tom says, without even an attempt at masking his amusement.

“And he would need to be rich.”

“Naturally.”

“It would help to be from one of the Sacred Houses.”

“I should not expect anything less.”

“And I suppose age is a factor,” you go on. You push, and push, and push. Tom is impervious. He takes.

“What age would do well?”

“Near enough to my own. For health, of course.”

“For health,” he agrees delightedly.

What the hell are you talking about?

“It would be preferable that he be handsome.”

“And of his character?”

“Most agreeable.”

“Docile?”

“Hm, docile, yes.”

“It is a long list.”

“I’ve been told I’m a difficult woman to sate. Far too prideful, apparently.”

Your fingers are drawing figure-eights on your thigh now, and Tom’s eyes flash briefly to the motion. You stop as though caught, and you aren’t sure why.

“A defamatory accusation,” he says quietly.

You wonder if his voice has always had that tinge to it: the gravel underlining his polish like the crack of the fire, and — that must be why it’s so warm in here, too. It has been that way since you arrived, hasn’t it? Such polarising temperatures between your walk in the snow to this, you must have only just adjusted… an hour after arriving. It’s completely logical.

“So there are talks,” you repeat, if only because you’ve blanked on all else.

“Well,” he says, eyes boring into yours in a way that makes you feel transparent, “I wish you all the best. If it at all helps, you can now add a moderate understanding of Latin to your list of virtues.”

You drape an arm across your chair to match his easy posture. (And how is it he manages to look regal and informal at the same time?) “My list of virtues? Elaborate.”

He shakes his head with a small smile and you point an accusatory finger at him. “Ah, ah, Riddle — I won, remember? And I indulged your inquiring regardless.”

His eyes narrow. “You do want me to grovel.”

“It’s Christmas.”

“I don’t believe that’s the purpose of the day.”

“And that matters to you?”

He leans forward, looking over you as if your supposed virtues will reveal themselves upon scrutiny. It’s a bit offensive, really. You’d hope he could find more than enough with one glance.

He settles, after a long moment where you feel almost bare, on, “Your pride is agonising.”

It’s — not exactly what you were hoping for. Not quite grovelling, by any definition, but then, what did you expect from him?

“Excuse me?”

“Your stockings are ripped at the calf.”

“Riddle—”

“Your lipstick may have stained my teacup. It is a shade I’m rather fond of, but I do not wish to see a trace of it left behind.”

“Quite good,” you say through gritted teeth.

“And I should not be agonised — incautious and unfettered at a sliver of skin or the gesture of your mouth —” You realise with horror that he’s speaking through something constrained too — “and yet I am.”

It’s — is that a confession? Have you broken him? Have you won again? Your stomach flips and it doesn’t feel at all like winning. He certainly doesn’t look like a man who’s lost. In fact, he’s watching you intently, and at your lack of response, the constraint forming a taut line on his lips seems to slip back into something deliberate. Curious.

You recover to the best of your ability. “It is a short list.”

“Shall I go on?” he asks, and it’s an answer, too: no, you have most definitely not broken him. He looks a bit like he’s found a neat pathway to breaking you instead.

“I’d hate to debase you further.”

He leans in, and he might be about to stand, and that might be an irreversible thing to do. “Are you sure? I can’t imagine you’ve painted the picture yet.”

Oh, you’ve painted the picture. You’ve painted a gallery.

“I find the image regrettable half-done. No point finishing it now.”

You do not.

“And besides,” you add, “I know my virtues.”

He smiles, and he’s half orange in the firelight and half blue in the night, green somewhere in the middle, and he should be condemned for being this beautiful. “Elaborate.”

You shouldn’t. “I’m intelligent.”

“Mhm.”

“I’m a quick learner.”

“So I’ve seen,” he agrees, still leaning in.

“I’m good at my job.”

And then he stands.

It is an irreversible thing. Your heart lurches like it knows he’s going to do something that cannot be undone. Your heart lurches because it is a thing you’ve anticipated, quietly, on late nights in scrolls of Latin so you might be able to pretend to mistranslate them — you know, in your first tongue and any other, that you do not want it to be undone.

“Anything else?” he asks. You aren’t sure if you’re resentful of the proximity of his seat to yours or grateful for it, because it takes no time at all for him to be standing before you.

“I’m well-mannered,” you say, and it comes out quieter than you mean for it to. “Lettered in etiquette.”

“Etiquette," he repeats slowly, in a voice dripping with sarcasm, and you don't quite know how he manages an intonation like that, but there it is, dripping with so much contempt you’re surprised he doesn’t fall over.

It wouldn’t be terrible if he did. He’d land right on top of you and put this little game to rest.

Instead he reaches a hand to your cheek — your hair — and brushes it like it’s an absolutely standard thing to do. He pulls away just the same. As if his hand is familiar with the shape of your face because it’s been there before. You'd definitely remember if it had.

“Of course,” you breathe, “patience and pleases and thank yous.”

“In all your manners, you might provide an example.”

Fine. If he’s going to be difficult. “I’d say I’m displaying great patience right now.”

“Hm.” His hands find yours where they sit on either arm of your chair, and his figure is blocking all light now. It shines on his shoulders, casts him like an aura. “That’s one.”

You look at his lips, and don’t bother to look away. You incline forward as much as you can when you’re caged in like this, until his breath is on yours and you can smell his cologne.

“Please,” you say, and for the challenge in it you don’t feel too humbled.

He is most obliging.

His lips just barely brush yours at first, and you did say you were patient — so you wait. The feather-light touch of them stills before it deepens, his hands pressing down on yours. Your open mouth. His tongue. You're kissing him, breathlessly and frantically and completely, and it is all you want.

Tom pulls back and you instinctively push forward. You will your eyes to open and he’s still right there — he hasn’t gone anywhere (what a deranged concern that is) — lips an inch from yours, and he’s smiling.

“That’s two.”

Oh. Oh, he’s an aberration in human variance. There’s something incredibly wrong with him.

There isn’t a way of turning gratitude into a challenge, you think. It doesn’t ask for anything. It appreciates. In this case it would more closely resemble worship. Thank you for your kiss, Riddle, I’d be nothing without it.

So you search to find a way around it that still gets you what you want.

“I’ll need a bit more than a lousy kiss if you want to see me grovel, Riddle." Your voice is a bit rough. You don’t know that your confidence lands the way it typically does.

But you came here to — what was it — puncture his pride? Push him until he breaks? You’ve already made it halfway, and you are, after all, very good at it.

And you suppose he wants to earn the third, because he scowls and then he’s kissing you again and this time his hands are on your face, and perhaps they are somehow familiar with the shape because they fit around you in some inexplicably whole way, like they were made for it. With your hands free, you’re carding your fingers through his hair, hoping for that vision of him you imagined earlier, with thick, messy waves and flushed cheeks.

Tom brings a hand to your waist and tugs you in, and you’re partly pulled from the chair by his insistence and overwhelmingly pushing to get out of it yourself, lips never leaving his as you stumble past the meagre divider to his bed.

The backs of your thighs hit the footboard and your knees buckle, gasping away from Tom’s mouth as you reach for the bedpost. His breath is heavy as his hand curves to the small of your back to keep you steady, your dress bunched in his fist, and there’s a heat in him pressed against you, like a match being held to kindling. And in the flash of fire when it finally strikes, everything in his eyes is clear, singularly focused, and he's pushing you to your back, splayed across his tidy sheets as he kisses you with bruising ferocity.

There's an urgency now to his movements that wasn't there before, and it's a stark contrast to his usual calculated demeanour, but that feels like winning. That feels like breaking Tom Riddle, whittling years of practised constraint to… this. That draws the third: makes you nice and grateful like he asked, because no part of you wants his careful fortitude here. You want to ruin him.

He appears to want the very same from you, which wrecks the whole thing.

Your legs move to wrap around him and he stops you, one hand pinning you by the hip and then down, past where you think he’ll go, as he finds the hem of your dress and lifts it from your calf to your knee. He draws circles over the thinly-clothed skin and you can do nothing but lie there, panting a little, staring at him with less patience than you’d proclaimed to have. And then his fingers move upwards, and they’re drawing figure-eights, and you understand that if this isn’t a taunt, nothing is. He copies your earlier motions. He does not kiss you. His fingers trail higher and higher and they’re soft like the shadows framing his face.

Finally he finds the waistband of your stockings and begins to tug them down your hips, stopping when he reaches that sliver of skin revealed by a tear in the fabric, taking your leg and hiking it up so he can look closely. He smiles, finger sliding down the tear in such a precise, meticulous fashion you can’t help but think he’s doing it on purpose. The moment does not linger when he pulls away, shuffling your stockings down the rest of the way so your legs are unclad before him, your heels already kicked off somewhere across the floor.

He watches your sharp exhale when he ducks down to kiss the skin of your thigh. A shiver runs through you at his softness, another when you see his face, see his eyes go dark with want of you.

His constraint is back, and it’s fucking detrimental. The only silver lining you can find in it, and you hope to be correct (haven’t you been so far?), is that maybe that means Tom Riddle can be broken in litany. Maybe he amends his ruination now but you can carve it out of him again later.

“Come here,” you say, your voice ragged.

Tom frowns, one hand pursuing a dangerous path up the inside of your thigh. “And here I was under the impression you wanted me to grovel.”

“Oh,” you huff, “is that what this is? Not some feeble attempt at winning after I —”

You grip his hair as his fingers curl under the lace of your underwear, as he smiles at the dampness there, the way your argument dissipates beneath his touch. “Winning?” he derides, breathy to match your tone in a way that feels cruel rather than considerate. You nod even as your breathing accelerates and he lifts the skirt of your dress to rest over your thighs, his eyes darting between your legs and your own heavy gaze as if he can't decide which is more intriguing. And then he slides a finger across your heat and you think he’s made his choice. "Is that what you think I want?"

You blink, feeling a bit lost. "What else is there?"

“Will you thank me after this?”

Right. That. You swallow, head falling back on his pillow. “Doubtful.”

“Hm,” he mumbles, some kind of consideration that can only be answered by the movement of his fingers against you, slow as they seek to learn you.

You arrest the moan that rises in your throat, teeth clenching together as Tom climbs over you once more, his body keeping you in place to watch the sustained details of your expression as one of his fingers dips inside you. You hiss, and his gaze burns into you, his mouth parted with a degree of awe and you think perhaps this is the picture he painted — you, under him, eyebrows pinched together as your hands scramble for purchase on his chest, fighting to remain intact.

But then his thumb brushes up against your clit and you let out a sound — half a moan, half a mewl. Tom doesn't give you a second to recover as his lips come down on yours again, hard, desperate, like he's trying to inhale you. And you let him, you take the little bit of ruin he surrenders in the great expanse of yours.

Even if you could quiet your noises you stand to think Tom would feel them, taste them, bite down on them like he does your lower lip, a second finger coiling into you. Your hand smacks at his wrist, clutching his arm with such intensity you can feel every sinew of his movement as he works away at you. Your legs are trembling, pressing around his waist an act of simultaneous resistance and desperation as you push upwards for friction and conquest.

You find both. Undeniable hunger — how he groans softly against your open mouth, how the imprint against your thigh is hard under his trousers, how he wants you.

His ministrations only intensify when your hand searches for the buckle of his belt, gripping your jaw like he needs to watch you fall apart before you can find parity in your desperation. It isn’t an impossible wish; your mind is hazy at the push and pull of his fingers, curving where his thumb draws ceaselessly on the other side, and you think, as much as you’re able right now, that he could succeed. But you force your eyes open to the space where your hand is wedged between your bodies, yanking hastily at his belt and sighing into his shoulder as it unfastens.

His trousers are unbuttoned, unzipped, and you’re arching into him with laboured pants even when your hand slips past them to find skin you've never travelled before.

Tom’s motions stagger when your fingers brush experimentally over his length, and you suddenly understand his ardent focus. You can’t help but stare at the way his jaw ticks, a hiss parting through gritted teeth, and the fact that you’re doing this to him is almost enough to push you over the edge. You grip him in one hand, and his fingers move again like some act of defiance, tightening his hold on your jaw. And then you’re pumping slowly, carefully, the only way you think to with the intention of pleasing him. Of weakening him.

He turns your head so you’re gasping into the pillow, neck exposed for him to press his mouth to. His teeth and tongue are on you and your hand slips from him for a moment as you shudder. Fuck him. This isn’t enough. You won't lose like this.

You tug at his waistcoat now, snapping open the buttons until the last few are clinging on by cheap threads. You’ll buy him that suit, you think. One that you can shrug off as fervently as you like without worrying about tearing the seams.

Your removal of his shirt is not aided by the swelling fire inside you, how the attention of his fingers has remained steady through your squirming and it feels like it’s culminating to something fatal. Your fingers grow shakier but don't stop their pursuit until every button is undone and you can soothe their trembling by pressing your palms against the warm expanse of his chest.

And then they’re back in his trousers, pushing them down his thighs as he continues to chip away at you. You bite back moans and blink through your dizziness.

Tom stops, and it might be more devastating than if he hadn’t. Your body is taut, a fine, thrumming wire spared a moment before snapping.

“More,” is all you say, tracing the shape of him through his briefs.

“More?” he asks. There’s a small mercy in the rasp within in his voice, the uncertainty despite himself. “I suppose that means I win.”

“Win?” 

His gall almost, almost pulls you back to reality. But he’s — he’s pulling his trousers further down and your body, like some separate entity to your mind, is flush against him when he’s finally free of all obstructions. 

“Mhm,” he hums, and almost-reality dwindles away into fucking nothing — disappears before your eyes when he brings his finger to his tongue and tastes you.

You tear him back to your mouth with a sound that so desperate your humility shouldn’t be able to take it but that's all gone now. His lips are wet and swollen and you’re adjusting yourself so his hips are lined with yours, and your head rolls back when he positions himself against your core and stays there.

“I win,” you breathe. “Everything else is just—”

He moves, hands on your waist as he presses ever-so-slightly inside you. You clutch wildly at his arms, your eyes wrenching shut.

“Look at me,” he says softly. His thumb caresses your cheek as if any act of his acts of tenderness are at all actually tender and not depraved requests for your resignation. 

You shake your head. “It’s ju-just—”

He sinks further, unhurried, and you feel like crying, your body clenching around him as the pressure deepens.

“Just what?” he asks, peppering kisses along your jaw.

“Just… um, just…”

“Hm?”

“I win... s’just… cheating…”

You feel him smiling against your neck, and then he detaches his lips to observe you, nodding with false sympathy. “You win.”

And he shifts himself forward so he’s pushed to the hilt. 

It’s a lie. It’s a lie as Tom holds you against him, carving kisses into your skin that burn, as you shudder a moan into the thick, hot air, as he begins to move rhythmically inside you, your fingers digging crescent moons into his spine and dragging.

You don't win.

If you are steel honed over years, it’s this moment that you melt, and you think if you were to be fused again it would be in a different shape.

And you mean that. You honestly feel liquified when he splits you slow like this, rolling his hips as you cling to him for strength like he isn’t the thing shattering you. 

You rock to meet him, you bury your nails in his back, you rest your moans with your teeth in his shoulder — whatever you can think to make this fair. Make true to your word. You are going to break, it's true, but you are going to break Tom Riddle too.

“Fingers,” you mutter, far too much of a demand for the way it almost stumbles into a sob, but Tom makes a strained sound in the back of his throat as if it gratifies him that you want it enough to ask.

“Thank me,” he answers on a harsh exhale.

You bite at his collar, shaking your head, but your legs are starting to shake and you wouldn’t ask if it was something you wanted — you mask it as an order because you need it. Because you imagine what he’s doing now combined with his thumb on your clit and it’s enough to make your abdomen clench just thinking about it.

Instead one of your hands forsakes the sweet curve of his muscles every time he thrusts into you so that it can snake between your own legs, and you mimic his earlier ministrations just long enough to drive a moan from your lips before Tom’s eyes dart from your lips, the rise and fall of your chest, to the hand missing from his back.

He grabs it with a scowl, pinning one wrist and then the other above your head.

“Stubborn,” he hisses, and he buries himself inside you like it's something personal, persistent in his strokes when his fingers finally rub over you how you wanted.

And you know you’ve done it when his head falls on your shoulder and you feel yourself tighten around him. His grip on your wrists is punishing. His mouth on your shoulder is stringent. He’s hard and full inside you and his fingers slide against you in delicate, torturous contrast. You know because it all stutters a bit when you pull him into a kiss, when you know you’re about to plummet into oblivion and he’s gripping you through it like you might steady him — like you aren’t the thing shattering him.

When you do, it’s something visceral. You think you might be spinning, or floating — screaming, maybe — spilling ill-mannered expletives in strings with his name because your hands are still trapped under his and your body can do nothing else. What you know, undoubtedly, is that you’re coming down from it for a long time, in a haze when you manage to breathe the words into his ear. “Thank you.”

Tom breaks. It’s the most beautiful you think he’s ever looked; eyebrows cinched and pink mouth parted, hair mussed like you wanted, neck tense as he stills inside you and you feel every part of him let go.

Your legs are too weak to cling to him through it, and you just pant under him, blinking languidly and in awe.

You stay like that for a long time.

He leans in when he finally pulls out of you, kissing you like one form of contact must be replaced with another. It's the same with his hands. He sinks into the space beside you and releases your wrists just to cup your face instead.

Yours come up instantly and shamelessly to his hair, craving nothing more than to curl your fingers through the dark mess of it. You trace the sharp shape of his cheeks, too, like his did to yours, like you need to memorize the lines of his expression and the heat of his skin before the world outside seeps in and it all goes cold.

But you pull away and you can't imagine it will.

There’s something in his eyes that feels new. Longing like he’s shed all pretence of acting like nine years of treading the lines of this rivalry has ever been anything but a pathetic display, like he knows you've shed it too. It makes you catch your breath to think this is what it feels like to be desired by Tom Riddle; that you desire him all the same; all this time.

“You know,” you say, and your voice sticks dry to your mouth, “I still win.”

He shakes his head. He smiles. You want terribly to kiss him again.

“I’ll just have to find something else to best you in, won’t I?”

You pretend like you’re considering it and not just staring at him. 

“I think by Christmas would be fair.”

#tom riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x you #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle smut #tom marvolo riddle #voldemort #voldemort x reader #tom riddle imagine #tom riddle oneshot #harry potter fanfiction #wizarding world

[buns0fst33l]

— sub!König —

-Cod men scenarios-

König x GN Reader

MDNI Suggestive themes

TW: brief mention of injury/warfare

Not proofread, also I used Google Translate

König, who’s secretly a switch but only under very particular circumstances.

Normally, he wants to be in charge. In his head, he wants to be in charge. When he’s with you intimately, he wants to be in charge. But there’s a very particular set of circumstances that have him rolling over to expose a soft underbelly he didn’t know he had.

You have plans to get lunch with him after a three month leave. He comes to you, excited as always. But there’s something about him coming back at the exact moment you’ve finished getting ready to go out that absolutely wrecks him.

Now, he loves you and finds you to be “an enchanting creature”, even when your face is puffy and your complexion is shit and you feel like ass. And he is excited to come home to you and worship your lovely body regardless of what state it’s in. Usually it’s the middle of the night, when you’re in your most natural and comfortable state, which he loves.

But something about this is eating him alive.

You’re wearing your favorite outfit. Your hair is freshly washed, mostly dry but still slightly cool to the touch from the remaining bit of moisture. You’ve just finished lathering yourself in lotions and oils and perfume. The delicate metal of the casual jewelry you’ve chosen compliments your skin tone in the most angelic way, glittering with little reflective shimmers as your body moves around to preen itself.

‘Wie ein Hase,’ (like a bunny) he thinks to himself. The warmth and scent of your shower is still wafting off of your water-softened skin deliciously.

As soon as you notice him, you move so fast it’s funny and bounce your way over to the objectively creepy brute who looks ready to eat you alive. Ugh, the domestic sight of your warm smile and cute bare feet quickly padding over to greet him has his soul fucking melting.

With all the grace of a bull in a china shop, he grabs you, picks you up, and sits on the couch with you straddling him. Both of his massive, too-long arms are wrapped around your torso like pythons and his face is buried in the crook of your neck. He’s shamelessly huffing in deep lungfuls of your scent like an animal, inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth noisily. With every breath, he scoots that crooked, handsome nose of his an inch in another direction to get more of your scent. Once he reaches just behind your ear, you squeal and push on his shoulders at the unexpected tickle it causes. His arms are still keeping your body pressed closely to his.

“Hello to you too….Are you having fun?” You tease him lowly, reaching to grab the sides of his face and pry his big head away from your body and into your line of sight. He resists for a second, but then allows it, looking into your eyes with heavy eyelids.

He’s so textbook masculine and somehow adorable at the same time. Those strong, dark brows of his are relaxed and those intense, steel-blue eyes are lidded over even more than usual, droopy and sleepy-looking. The faintest bit of pink dusts over his strong cheek bones and crooked Roman nose. His pretty, thin cupids bow lips are slightly parted and his tongue darts between them briefly as he gives you a slow nod in response to your question. His breathing is quiet, but deep and heavy. A barely-restrained pant.

One of your hands leaves his face to push back the silky black strands of his hair with a gentle but efficient swipe and you can’t help but coo at the way his eyes roll back and flutter shut at your gentle touch. Your hand finds its way back to his jaw right away and you lean in, clicking your tongue lovingly at the pitiful mess he so quickly became.

Oh you have no idea the effect you’re having. All he’s seen for months is ugly, angry, dying and bitter men. Even triumph stunk of unwashed, musty clothes, metal, caked-on sweat, infected stitches, sun-rotted blood stains. And suddenly he has what feels like a newly made doll, crafted by god just for him, finished just in time for his weary soul to lap up like a starved dog. Instead of grime and sweat and oil and god-knows-what-else, his callused fingers greedily smooth over your expanses of clean, delicious, fuckable-smelling flesh.

His palms drag over your sides and back and his fingertips grab at your clothes and drag over your scalp eagerly. You smile softly at the state he’s in and grab his wrists. He allows you to pull his hands off of you, but scoots his hips forward and against your body like he needs to make up for the physical contact you took away.

“Liebling…bitte…” his voice cracks a little. You bite your lip and search his eyes, feeling a power trip wash over you. You grasp it delicately, afraid you’ll accidentally break the spell he’s under if you bring his attention to it.

“What do you need, Kö?” You whisper to him, thumbs stroking his huge forearms you’re holding in front of you. Your hands don’t go around all the way. He is just… allowing you to be in charge of his absolute tank of a body. He is being so mushy for you right now. He bites his lip and whines quietly.

Oh you need to see where this goes. Fuck your lunch date, you can get takeout later.

Please like or reblog if you enjoyed! 💋

✨banner/divider created by @cafekitsune!✨

#konig #reader #dom!reader #sub konig #könig x reader #call of duty #headcanons #mommy #? #scent #gn reader #cod mw2 #codmenideaworms #cod headcanons #könig #sub!konig

[invinciblerodent]

a short and very incomplete list of some items that make me, a bisexual, unable to pay attention to whatever the fuck the characters are saying

The Potent Robe (and all the other robes in this style) on Gale. they make his shoulders go V. especially from a shorter PC's angle, where he looks tall and broad in addition to being just. so warm and infinitely kind, I mean come on now. Honorable mention to the jewel sitting right on top of his sternum and the intricate linework leading to it that just draws the eye to itself, so you kinda have to look at his titties.

The silly stupid useless hats that should not look good on anyone, but make Astarion's li'l ears go < >, and it's unreasonably good, especially when he like. looks up from under the brim and under his lashes like that???? no. this man? this man is wearing a be-tassel'd bucket on his head. how is he still charming. this should not work and he has no right to be charming like this.

The otherwise pretty ugly helmets that do nothing special beyond like adding +1 to STR saves and don't work on anyone really, except they Fuck Severely on Wyll, and Wyll only. this one? with his horns? it makes him look like some sort of gladiator, a wrathful Roman god of war and conquest, and what the fuck. i know just how polite and respectful he is, and the cognitive dissonance alone makes this weirdly hot.

This camp outfit. With these piercings. And this snarl. On Karlach, because seriously what the hell. No, really. What is this. She, and I cannot stress this enough, looks like every single woman I've ever fallen briefly in desperate, heart-consuming, life-altering love with at any rock/metal show, only red and on fire, which is. also hot. Look at the way the lines of that top frame the glow of the engine, and the metal accents match her vents and hair disk thingies, I mean come on. This look is that of a woman who could (and should) whisk me away on her motorcycle.

Ketheric's armor on Lae'zel. The shape language. The way the ridges of the teeth and the gold bit in the middle kind of mirror the edges of her ears. And the way the dark neckline meets and bleeds into the lines on her neck, and mirrors the lines on her face. The tarnished gold accents that match her complexion with the green complementing it so nicely. The power. The beauty. What a great look. A+. i'm doing whatever she says I should, which is a problem because she's literally asking me to make a deal with a devil.

honestly just disrespectful, the lot of them

#squirrel plays bg3 #slamming my hands on the table; yes i'm hornyposting #gale dekarios #astarion ancunin #wyll ravengard #karlach cliffgate #lae'zel #lae'zel of k'liir #i've yet to find something that makes me this rabid on shadowheart #but i was thinking about that cute blue v-neck top that reminds me of a butterfly #that's just very y2k hot chick and i'm very into that #but not THIS into it you know

[harrowharks-iliac-crest]

The Nine Houses

Worldbuilding/Lore

<< Previous: Masterpost

-

The Nine Houses refer to planets, named, presumably, in order of colonisation. I'm befuddled as to which one is which planet, if we're going on the assumption that this is the solar system. This is what I've extrapolated from reading:

First is Earth.

Second is most likely Mars - gathered from the fighting energy of its house, proximity to Earth and viability for terraforming, and also this:

"[...]Each Beast is different. I have fought numerous now, and each Beast is quite unlike any other … Number Two spewed quicksilver and remade itself into hundred-foot spikes. Number Six kept sucking us into enormous sphincters and spraying us with worms. I cannot even remember what it looked like. I remember Number Four … it was a humanoid creature with a beautiful face who held me under the water, and it spoke in a lovely voice but it only repeated, die, die—and I recall Number One as a great and incoherent machine … when I saw it I thought it had a great tail, and a thousand broken pillars on its back, but Cassiopeia saw it as a mechanical monster with swords for wings, and great horns of myelin, tessellated over with graves.” It was the Saint of Duty who said, restlessly: “Number Eight was a giant head.” “Finned like a fish,” said Augustine, lost in reverie. “Its ribs were bloody bandages, and its teeth protruded through its own skull, tangled about its face like a nest. It was red, and it had a single eye of green that moved all about the body …"

Metal-related appearance, from the planet notoriously rusty.

Actually, this passage describing the Resurrection Beasts - revenants of the planets - was the thing that got me into trying to assign planets to Houses based on, mostly, vibes.

Forth could be Venus, based on this passage alone. I could easily be wrong.

Sixth is Mercury I reckon. In the epilogue of HtN the setting is described as very hot - close to Dominicus. I reread it now and I don't think it's ever mentioned to be set on the Sixth, in fact parts of it actively contradict that assumption, but somehow I seem to have gotten that into my head anyway? But even so, Sixth is described as the one closest to Dominicus - notably this passage:

The Emperor dropped to his haunches and eased the white robe off Mercy’s dead shoulders. He shrugged his naked body into it—coyly pulling it closed—and he stretched his jaw in his mouth, and wriggled the tip of his newly grown nose. “Right,” he said, and closed his eyes briefly. Then he said, “The sun has stabilized. Hope the Sixth House didn’t get cooked in the flare.”

This to me pretty much confirmed the Sixth as Mercury.

Eighth, in the above passage about the Resurrection Beasts, is described in ways that immediately make me picture Jupiter. Red, a single eye of green moving all over the body? Ribs were bloody bandages? A "giant head" - Jupiter, in Roman mythology was the king of the gods? Am I way off the mark here?

And Ninth is Pluto, furthest from the sun, cold and desolate. And solid. (How are they pulling off living on gas giants?)

This leaves the Third, Fifth, Seventh houses to be matched with Saturn, Uranus and Neptune. At a loss, still, for how gas giants are supposed to be colonised. The general infrastructure of the pre- and post-resurrection world/Empire has me asking questions like, where do they get the materials to build starships and feed their officers? Metal and plastic seem abundant. In terms of food we've mostly seen snow leeks, Canaan House and the Mithraeum, all of which are probably exceptional to what a regular House person eats. There is some talk of John's expansion and colonising efforts, so do they just go to random planets - are there aliens in this universe? (Is Alecto one?) So the Empire is expanding, mining colonised planets for ore and oil to turn into plastic - though that would indicate a lot of life on a lot of these planets, so I'm gonna guess that whatever happens to those planets isn't kind to the native flora, fauna and people.

Of course, there's always the option that this isn't meant to be the planets at all, and even if it was, it might be a lot more metaphorical. Or just actually a completely different world to ours, not the solar system at all. (Though there's many explicit and implicit pop culture references which would indicate the First to truly be Earth, so we're sticking with this theory.)

Are they actually on the planets - we haven't seen any planets other than First, and Ninth, arguably big exceptions; the Epilogue seems to be set on a moon of some kind, after a more thorough reread. The Actual Planets are dead, or rather resurrected, with their revenants on the hunt. Could be that the Houses do stand for the planets, and some people might be living on (or near) the actual planets, but a lot of people are actually living away from the solar system entirely - born into "Houses" far from the sun, into the Emperor's war machine. It's hard to tell.

Either way, I'm not gonna assign any more planets now until I know more.

>> Next: The Resurrection

#does this count as liveblog? i'll tag it as if it does for now #tlt liveblog #tlt theories #the locked tomb #tlt #no nona the ninth spoilers please #the locked tomb liveblog #tlt spoilers #gideon the ninth #harrow the ninth

[floralcyanide]

𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐀 𝐕𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧 • 𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫

Part Two

Roman Bridger x AFAB!Reader

The day Roman first laid eyes on you, he knew he had to have you. There was something about you that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, and usually, he was good at reading people off the bat. But you were a different story. Naturally, you only opened up when necessary, not letting people in if you didn’t have a reason to. So you were guarded, and Roman didn’t like that. He wanted to worm his way into your life, no matter what it took.

If that took delving into his twisted past again in order to get to you, so be it.

AFAB - (assigned female at birth) someone who is born female but can identify with she/her or other pronouns. reader pronouns are gender neutral, so people who use any pronouns can read, but female anatomy will be used and described in this fanfiction eventually.

warnings: mentions of murder and minor character death.

word count: 1394

author's note: I may write a chapter from Roman's POV while he's in the process of killing someone. That would be so interesting to write!! Here's chapter two. (: thanks for all the feedback on chapter one!!

series masterlist | masterlist | add yourself to the taglist here

this fic has been cross posted to ao3.

ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ʀᴇᴘʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴇ, ᴏʀ ᴄʟᴀɪᴍ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀs ᴏɴ ᴛᴜᴍʙʟʀ, ᴀᴏ3, ᴡᴀᴛᴛᴘᴀᴅ, ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴡᴇʙsɪᴛᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴘᴇʀᴍɪssɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ᴜsᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ɪɴ ᴀɪ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀᴛᴏʀs ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀʀᴛɪғɪᴄɪᴀʟ ɪɴᴛᴇʟʟɪɢᴇɴᴄᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴀʏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴜsᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ᴛᴏ sᴇʟʟ ғᴏʀ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛɪᴏɴ.

It’s been a month into filming already, and because Roman is so particular about how every scene is laid out, you’ve only filmed a few scenes total. You can’t begin to imagine how the cast has barely progressed overall. Then there was a script rewrite. And then another. Other than that, everything was fine. Roman talked to you whenever he had the chance to, which you found odd- but not too odd because you did have a major crush on him. So far, you have learned a little bit about how he ticks. You know Roman’s a perfectionist, but that could be seen from a mile away. He likes his coffee black with a hint of sugar, which he basically lives on while on set. You haven’t seen Roman eat once. Also, he’s hellbent on getting you on the main cast for whatever reason. He says you have a lot of potential, which you don’t really see within yourself. You like being hidden but seen at the same time. Like, if someone looks close enough, they’ll see you. That goes for life in general too. You have barely told Roman anything about yourself, and he’s somewhat pushy with that. You wonder why because there’s no possible way he’d like you back. But you told him he’d get to know you in due time. Then he’d realize you’re a brick and be uninterest in you in every way. There’s not much about yourself that you think is interesting enough to tell.

On another note, you accidentally became friends with Cotton Weary. Your initial meeting happened a few weeks ago. He was on his cell phone, not paying attention to where he was walking with a cup of scalding coffee. And sure enough, you just so happened to be in his path, also not paying attention. You were too busy replaying the conversation you just had with Roman in your head. It was the first time he mentioned you being a part of the main cast, and it flustered you. Why would you want to be in the main cast, anyway? You think to yourself. Who would you even play? Why is he so- your thoughts were interrupted by a deep gasp coming from your chest. Your torso had been covered in boiling hot liquid, and as it slid down your skin, you angrily looked up at whoever it was that subjected you to this.

“What the hell?” you screeched, and the man who spilled the drink on you nervously looked around.

Other people on set pretended they didn’t see anything, but a blonde girl came barreling to you.

“Goodness, are you alright? Cotton, were you daydreaming again?” she rolled her eyes, briefly scurrying over to a nearby table to grab some napkins before she returned to you.

“Cotton? Like, Cotton Weary?” you furrowed your eyebrows as the blonde carefully dabbed at your shirt.

“The one and only,” he said cockily, and the girl assisting you glared at him, causing him to purse his lips and look down meekly.

“I didn’t mean to yell at you. I’m sorry,” you cringed.

“It’s alright. I should’ve been paying more attention,” Cotton said, shaking his phone in his hand before shoving it into his pocket.

“You’re absolutely correct. You better hope Roman doesn’t hear about you assaulting an extra. You know how he is with them,” said the blonde girl, who you still didn’t quite recognize. You took some offense to her automatically assuming you were an extra, but you didn’t blame her. 

“Not to be rude, but what’s your name? I don’t think I’ve seen you before,” you asked as she looked at your shirt, satisfied that it was dry enough.

“She’s Sarah Darling,” Cotton says before the girl can open her mouth, “She plays Candy Brooks.”

“Ah,” you snapped your fingers, “I recognize you now. I just don’t really interact with the main cast much. Being an extra, and all.”

“You’re fine,” Sarah smiled, waving a dismissive hand before tossing the napkins. She almost walked back over to you, but Roman popped up and beckoned her to come over to him.

“Are you okay? There aren’t any blisters or anything, right?” Cotton asked worriedly as his eyes flickered between you and Roman.

“Not yet, but I’ll be okay. How about we both agree Roman doesn’t find out? I feel like he’ll baby me,” you said, making an annoyed face as you glanced at him.

“Why’s that?” Cotton asked, prodding a quiet conversation between the two of you about how much of a perfectionist Roman was.

“But I mean, he’s good at what he does. As long as the story is done its justice, I don’t care how many rewrites there are.” Cotton said, “Even if I’m the first to be killed off.”

You scoffed, “It’s unfortunate. But at least you’re in the movie.”

“True,” Cotton nodded his head, “Well, I should head to set. Roman doesn’t look too happy that we’re conversing and not working.”

You dared to look over at Roman, who looked like he was nearly seething at the sight of you talking to someone else. You gulped and looked back to Cotton.

“Yeah, we should probably get to where we need to be. See you around,” you smiled, waving off Cotton as you walked past Roman. You crossed your arms to cover your stained shirt and acted as if you didn’t see him there with his glaring pout.

Later that morning, you changed into a new shirt, and burn cream was very heavily applied to your torso by the medics. They said the area would be red, but it didn’t look like it’d blister, much to your relief. Roman, as far as you know, still hadn’t heard about it. You were glad because he seemed really peeved earlier. Roman hearing that Cotton spilled hot coffee on you probably wouldn’t go over too well. But one upside is now, over the course of a few weeks, you’ve become well acquainted with Cotton and Sarah. When they would see you on set, they always said hello. On most sets you’ve worked on, the main cast didn’t really give a shit about you. But it’s refreshing to know that well-known people know you exist. 

It’s a rainy Thursday, and you’ve forgotten your rain jacket. It hardly rains out here, so you weren’t expecting it. You show up to the set soaking wet and very bewildered once you notice the hysteria going on around the set. Your face is twisted in confusion as you weave around people, trying to avoid being pumped into. What the hell is happening?

You nearly sigh in relief when you see Sarah notice you from across the room. She excuses herself from the other cast members as she heads toward you with a solemn look on her face.

“What’s going on?” you ask, wringing out your clothes.

“Cotton was murdered,” she says.

Your heart skips a beat, “Pardon?”

Sarah looks around and pulls you toward an unoccupied corner, “Cotton and his girlfriend were found stabbed to death in his apartment this morning. No one knows who did it, but everyone is freaking out.”

“Oh my god,” you gasp. 

You didn’t know every single thing about Cotton, but you did know he wasn’t that bad. For someone who spent a year in prison while innocent, was almost sentenced to death, and was framed for murder, he was kinda nice. He could be ignorant sometimes and full of himself every now and then, but other than that, he was a pretty stand-up guy. It’s a shame someone killed him. And it’s a shame you didn’t know him longer. You’ve long forgotten about being soaked to the bone by the weird rain shower. 

“Roman is worried about the movie,” Sarah frowns.

“Rightfully so,” you grimace, “It doesn’t look good that Cotton was murdered. Which is odd since he’s supposed to be the first to die in the movie.”

“You don’t think it’s someone from the cast or crew, do you?” Sarah asks, nervously biting her fingernail as she glances around at everyone nearby.

“I don’t know. But let’s not assume that just yet,” you say, trying to remain calm, unlike everyone else in the studio.

“You’re right. Hollywood is unhinged nowadays, anyway. It could’ve been anyone.”

“Right,” you nod.

Sarah is right. It could be anyone.

taglist:

@elliotss @jokersgrf @bridgergf

#roman bridger #scream #scream 3 #Ghostface #roman bridger x reader #roman bridger x reader smut #roman bridger smut #ghostface x reader #ghostface x reader smut #ghostface smut #scream fanfic #scream fanfiction #scream fic #Ghostface fanfic #Ghostface fic #ghostface fanfiction #floralcyanide writes

[cheese-wizard]

Hi, Hello, don't mind me, I just want to get my thoughts an theories for the Magnus Protocol out there. I haven't engaged much in discourse yet so perhaps some parts will be repetitive but there will be spoilers for tma.

I don't think we can apply Smirke's 14/15 to the world of protocol since it just doesn't make sense for Jonny and Alex to use the same system again but I have a feeling there is going to be a way to classify them and I have quite a feeling that it has to do with the alchemical symbols.

I only briefly skimmed the Wikipedia page for some of them but one thing I thought about was that the Symbol for Salt and Mercury are on the crest of the OIAR (and some in the background) and just like with the last cover, I am not going to dismiss any of this for stylistic choices.

I saw a post a few days ago talking about how salt stands for the human body and by extension flesh related horrors/body horror/etc etc and from what I've gathered, mercury stands for Spirit or mind or whatever and each of the main elements in alchemy corresponds with planets. (Do I smell a potential system for fear classification there, or do I need to do some further reading into the symbolism? 👀 Maybe both.)

So like Mercury is the Roman god of a lot of things but a lot of the time he is referenced for traveling and communication which leads me to associate him with technology and the internet as well since, interconnectivity, information travels fast bla bla bla.

I don't have any clue if the speed up arrow thingys in the crest mean anything alchemically but if it means something about combining technology and the human body/mind and we already have Norris and Chester who once were human and are now uploaded to the miracle box that is Windows NT. As much as I like the idea of JMJ error referring to Jon Martin and Jonah, I am not sure about the Jonah part because it could also very well be the case that some guy Alice mentioned from the people that "have gone weird" before, just somehow ended up part of the computer and it might happen to our beloved office staff too. (Perhaps not exactly since Alice would probably recognize their voices but maybe it's like the not them getting to you. I just noticed a hole in my theory and am trying to keep it afloat lol)

Let me know what you think and if you have more knowledge on alchemical symbolism

#the magnus protocol #tmagp #tmagp theory #tmagp speculation #the magnus archives spoilers #tma spoilers

[delimeful]

in sickness and in health (7)

warnings: arguing, fear/panic, lying, injury mention, gratuitous sarcasm, lmk if i missed any!

-

Virgil exchanged one quick, panicked glance with his attacker-turned-rescuer, and knew he was screwed.

Regardless of their sudden, deeply suspicious change of heart, there was no way this guy was going to stick around to get caught on behalf of a Monoxide borrower, former member or not.

And if they stayed, they would be caught. Virgil was already as good as in Roman’s hand, his escape interrupted at the worst possible moment. Perched at the top of the pitcher without a hook to grapple down with, he was essentially stranded above a bone-breaking drop.

The moment the other borrower bolted, Roman would be spurred into action, and Virgil would be right back in the pitcher where he’d started.

Maybe with a fellow captive, depending on how quick the borrower was.

… The concussed borrower. Right, so they were both screwed.

Heart racing, Virgil let the rope fall from his grip, keeping a steadying hand on the thin lip of the pitcher as he turned to wait for the human’s approach.

The human, who was still standing there, gesticulating wildly. Had he been talking at them this entire time?

“--realized they were suspiciously well-timed firecrackers, and you know what they always say about timing in my Theater 102 course–,” he continued, before abruptly cutting himself off. “Hey! Excuse you, I’m trying to have a conversation here!”

Virgil turned to see that the other borrower had simply started walking away. They glanced over at him briefly, their carefully faux-casual gait not even stuttering.

“Oh, no, do go on,” they drawled with an eye roll, like they were bickering with an annoying stranger in a colony instead of sassing a human. “I was so deeply entertained by your self-congratulatory monologue.”

Virgil held his breath, feeling slightly faint as he waited for violence to ensue.

Roman squinted at them for a long moment, and then smiled beatifically. “Why, thank you! It’s good to know someone around here appreciates my theatrical flair. Not everyone can pull off the flair required for such a thrilling aha moment, you know.”

“Mhmm,” the stranger agreed, sounding entirely insincere and yet somehow managing to prompt Roman into an entirely new tangent about dramatic reveals and cliffhangers. They met Virgil’s wide-eyed incredulous stare with an extremely smug look.

They weren’t actually walking away, he realized belatedly, but towards the bag Virgil had abandoned on the counter when they’d had their first unfortunate encounter.

His bag held all his recent borrowings, and more importantly, his hook, which was basically the only thing that could feasibly get him down from his current conundrum without endangering the other borrower further.

They weren’t leaving him. Like an insane person, they were actually trying to salvage the situation, and somehow, it was working.

“--believe that they cast me as an understudy for that chronic overactor, it’s practically criminal!” Roman continued.

“That’s not the only thing that’s criminal,” the stranger muttered, looking as though they’d heard this particular speech one too many times before.

“What was that?” Roman asked, and then seemed to process that they’d traversed a good chunk of countertop. “Wait, where are you going?”

He stepped forward slightly, craning his neck to see around the warped glass of the pitcher, and Virgil felt his grip on the glass grow tangibly sweaty. The stranger, crouched next to Virgil’s bag, paused mid-rummage.

“I’m merely trying to multitask,” they replied, blinking innocently. “I’d just love to sit here and listen to you go on and on all night, but I have my own pressing responsibilities to fulfill. Ones that you– or rather, mostly your twin, of course– have already complicated.”

“Responsibilities?” This earned them a dubious up-and-down glance. “Like… catching dewdrops in flower petals, or...?”

Virgil wondered if the human was nearsighted, to miss that vexed eyebrow twitch.

“Contrary to your entirely flattering assumptions,” they grit out, “I am actually here on much more pressing business. The life-or-death kind.”

“No way.” Intrigued, Roman shuffled closer, entirely drawn in by the mystery of it all. “I mean, we knew it was serious, with Patton ending up in the hospital and all, but it really wasn’t just an accident? We thought it had to be ghosts for sure, but if there’s fairy criminals– Are there fairy assassins?!”

Virgil felt his blood run cold, as though he’d just plunged through a sheet of too-thin ice and dropped into freezing waters. And yet even through the shock, the symbol branded on his arm had never felt more searing.

The stranger met his terrified gaze through their own burn scars. The two of them had been marked by the same hands, and both of them knew exactly how spot-on Roman’s guess really was.

The moment they told him what Virgil was, the moment they revealed the bloodstained legacy he’d been born into, it was over. Patton had fallen deathly ill, and a human-murdering cult member had been sneaking around in his walls. No matter how oblivious Roman could be, he was more than smart enough to connect the dots.

They might not be his humans, but Virgil had seen enough of the twins to know exactly how vicious they could be in defense of their friends.

He was as good as dead.

The stranger’s expression flattened out, and they looked away with a sharp jerk of their head.

“I wouldn’t know anything about that. I don’t specialize in assassins,” they lied, voice airy.

While Virgil attempted to remember how to breathe, Roman had uncapped a pen and was frantically scribbling shorthand notes on his arm, apparently vividly inspired by the implication that there were fairy assassins out there.

As casual as anything, the stranger tucked the metal curve of Virgil’s hook into the loop of his belt. His gaze was unreadable as it flitted over Virgil, but this time, it didn’t linger.

“Oh, oh, I’ve got it!” Roman announced. “You two are partners! The grizzled veteran and the bright-eyed rookie, a classic crime-solving set up!”

Virgil didn’t even want to know who had been assigned what role. The stranger seemed to be thinking along the same lines, spreading their hands disarmingly as they responded.

“Oh, so close!” they said, a hint of mockery in their smile. “Actually, the criminal that I’m bringing to justice… is your unwitting trespasser up there.”

With a suitably shocked gasp, Roman turned to stare at Virgil. The stranger also turned to stare at Virgil, but at a considerably slower pace, wearing the sort of malicious glee that one typically saw in a cartoon cat that had successfully caught the canary.

Oh, you lying snake.

The scornful words tangled up in his throat the moment the human’s heavy gaze landed on him, years of deeply-ingrained instincts keeping him entirely mute.

So instead, he lifted up his free hand and flipped them off with as much vitriol as he could feasibly work into a single gesture.

“See how the miscreant wounds me even now,” the stranger said, pressing the back of their hand against their head as though they might enter a swooning faint from the offense. “Clearly, a human as quick-witted as you can understand how important it is that I complete my task and make them pay for their crimes.”

Roman nodded emphatically, completely taken in. “That’s why you were helping them out of the pitcher! Not to help them escape, but to prevent them from escaping the firm hand of justice!”

“I knew you’d understand,” the stranger agreed pleasantly, taking a few steps towards Virgil and his makeshift glass prison. “In that case, if you’ll just stand aside while I retrieve the culprit in question…”

“Oh, of course!” Roman replied, and then cast a considering look at where Virgil was dangling. “Actually, since it’s our fault— really, more Remus’s— that you have to go to the trouble in the first place, let me just—,”

“There’s no need for that, truly,” the stranger tried to cut in, clearly having caught on faster than Virgil. Their words were rushed, but still not fast enough to prevent Roman from reaching out and plucking Virgil off the edge of the pitcher, easy as anything.

Easy for Roman, anyways. Personally, being abruptly lifted into the air by a hand bigger than him was causing some difficulties for Virgil.

Mostly the fact that if this kept up, the heart palpitations were going to take him out before the humans or murderous victim of his former cult could.

“There we are,” Roman announced grandly, holding Virgil slightly aloft in front of the stranger in offering, like he’d grabbed them a tissue instead of an entire living person.

Virgil made eye contact with the other borrower, who looked mildly chagrined, and then gave in to the feral raccoon that lived in the back of his mind and twisted around to bite the human.

“Jiminy fucking Christmas,” Roman swore, immediately dropping Virgil as though burnt. “You bit me!”

Virgil made a sound like a deflating air mattress as he hit the ground backfirst, the impact knocking the wind out of him.

“Did you see that? They bit me!”

He ignored the sting of rapidly-forming bruises to roll to his hands and knees, his breathing coming in wheezing stops and starts as he tried to refill his lungs. There were borrower-sized steps approaching, and Virgil snapped his head up to glare furiously at the stranger. “Don’t.”

They stopped short, holding their hands up in a mockery of nonaggression.

“I can’t believe you bit me, and not Remus!” Roman had never sounded more offended.

Right. That was a cue to leave if Virgil had ever heard one.

He got to his feet, attention already locked onto the nearest wall entrance, and staggered the first few steps forward before a hand latched onto his wrist.

“Stop right there,” the stranger said, the words demanding but the tone of voice closer to a warning. “You’re not going anywhere like that.”

Virgil was tempted to take a swing at the guy, since apparently the first concussion hadn’t knocked enough common sense back into their head. He yanked his arm away with a scowl, but then froze mid-motion at a flicker of movement overhead.

“Don’t try me.” Roman had overcome his affronted shock long enough to move a hand to hover ominously over Virgil, clearly prepared to intercede if he tried to make a run for it. “Remus has brought over seventeen feral rats into our home, I am extremely well-trained in grabbing without getting bitten.”

“How convenient for me,” the stranger said, their gaze fixed squarely on Virgil. “If you would turn around? I obviously can’t take you back until you’re properly secured, and it’ll make things easier on all of us if you just play along.”

Virgil glared back in silence for a long moment.

It wasn’t that he didn’t understand their scheme. It was an insanely risky ploy that required extensive knowledge of the human in question, but the end goal was clearly to get the both of them back into the walls and safely out of human hands.

It was just that the last time he’d turned his back on this particular borrower, they’d literally attempted to run him through. Virgil found he wasn’t too keen on putting his undefended back to a guy who had tried to test out the structural integrity of his internal organs less than thirty minutes ago.

Unfortunately, the alternative was testing the structural integrity of his internal organs against a human who had dropped him less than thirty seconds ago.

Virgil turned around, his entire body drawn taut with tension, and let the stranger wrap some twine around his wrists in an ineffective parody of handcuffs.

“Perfect,” the stranger said, nudging at Virgil’s heels until he got the hint and started their trek towards the wall. “And now, thanks to your gracious interference, our villain can be tried for their crimes in front of a judge with the appropriate legal representation. The system is unimpeachable, the punishment will fit the crime, good triumphs over evil once more, et cetera.”

“‘Et cetera’?” Virgil muttered incredulously.

“You shut up,” the stranger whispered back.

“You know, when I heard about fairy courts, I was kind of envisioning something entirely different,” Roman mused, before visibly refocusing. “Wait wait wait, you can’t just leave! You haven’t even revealed the dastardly crime, or how they almost got away with it, or how you figured them out!”

“Oh, I really can’t delay. Fairy court is just so very time-sensitive, I’m afraid,” the stranger lied without hesitation, continuing to march Virgil forward as smoothly as possible. “I’ll have to return to tell you all about it later– of course, you’ll have to keep this little encounter to yourself. We aren’t typically supposed to disclose such sensitive information to anyone, let alone humans, but I’ve found myself irresistibly charmed by your moxie.”

“Aw, you’re just saying that!” Roman flapped a hand in faux-modesty, and then gasped. “Was I the bright-eyed rookie all along?”

Before the stranger could answer, Remus slid into the kitchen on socked feet, with so much momentum that he slammed against the counter. The painful thud of torso meeting marble did absolutely nothing to deter the grin on his face.

“Okay, bad news, I totally biffed my half of the divide-and-conquer plan. Good news, the other little guy is cool as hell and I’m calling dibs on hanging out with that one in advance,” he announced, and then visibly focused on the two borrowers in front of him. “Woah, what did I just walk in on?”

“You can’t call dibs in advance,” Roman instantly retorted, and then smacked Remus’s shoulder. “Stop being gross, the handcuffs are because they’re being taken away to fairy jail. After facing a trial required by fairy due process, I guess.”

The stranger’s grip on Virgil’s arm tightened, and they sped up their pace for the first time since Roman had entered the room. Virgil would feel more reassured if they weren’t still moving at a very ‘definitely-concussed’ sort of rate.

“I leave for five minutes, and you hand our puny poltergeist over to the cops?” Remus demanded, stretching his arm forward to block their way. “Ro-bro, it’s like you want me to disown you.”

“I would so disown you first, and you know it,” Roman hissed back. “Besides, they’re not a cop, they’re like, the fairy version of a hardboiled detective!”

“I don’t care how gay the detective is, that still counts as a cop!”

Unable to progress past Remus’s flesh barricade, Virgil glanced back at the stranger; they were pinching the bridge of their nose with visible irritation.

“Aren’t you going to say something?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

“Like what?” they snapped back, voice equally quiet. “Anything I would say to fool Roman, Remus will rebuff! Anything I would say to convince Remus, Roman will reject! There’s no winning with these two!”

“Oh, great, so we really are screwed,” Virgil bit out.

“Not necessarily,” the stranger replied, unconvincingly. “They’re still distractible by nature. If we contribute to the argument, rile them up–,”

“‘Rile them up’?!” Virgil twisted around further so they could get the full effect of his disbelieving expression. “That’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard. That’s insane. You’re insane. We’re going to die.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I suppose you preferred being stuck in the pitcher?” they retorted sharply. “Far be it from me to inconvenience the cultist who fractured my skull!”

“I’m not– You tried to stab me first!”

Whatever they said next was entirely drowned out by the twins, who had escalated their own fight into near-shouting territory. Virgil was only catching every other word, but it sounded like they were yelling about a completely unrelated topic.

Every time Remus responded, his arm lifted slightly further off the counter, like he was only barely resisting the urge to put his brother in a headlock. Virgil locked onto the movement, a spike of anticipation filling him.

“Shut up, shut up,” he interrupted the stranger, ignoring their irritated scowl. “Look!”

The moment they noticed the potential escape route, their displeasure instantly fell away in favor of smugness. “See? I told you they were distractible. My plans always work out perfectly.”

The kitchen light flicked on and off a few times, startling the twins into silence and drawing every eye to the figure standing in the doorway.

“Hey, kiddos,” Patton said, rubbing a hand sleepily over his face. “It’s called a sleepover, not a shoutover. What’s going on?”

Stranded out in the open with three humans looming over them, the stranger endured Virgil’s scathing look with a pained grimace.

“Alright, fine. We’re screwed.”

#sanders sides fic #sanders sides g/t #ts janus #ts virgil #ts roman #ts remus #ts patton #isaih #in sickness and in health #my writing #writing #g/t

[robinnsblog]

✨Who did it?✨

Or, as an alternate title:

I can’t believe I have to play Devil’s Advocate for Ozzy…

Yes, your honor, he did haunt Elise until she passed away, ruined Roman’s life as collateral, sort of kidnapped Henri and almost murdered Goldia. I can’t deny that he is, in fact, the main villain in Pocket Mirror and sole responsible for the events in that game.

However!

In Little Goody Two Shoes, he isn’t the only schemer behind the scenes. Our second player is Walpurga — and I don’t think we’re giving her enough credit. It’s easy to misjudge her as a secondary threat in Elise’s path when, actually, she’s the main instigator.

I dare to say that she’s even the one to start it all, the one who led Elise to her eventual downfall! Ozzy just took the merit after she was out of the picture.

But before I go through the events of the game, let’s review what some characters have to say, in special when it comes to the lore. We’re going to be judging…

… their credibility.

Our dear Rozenmarine here is talking about Ozzy by the way, and we have already established that he is, in no shape or form, a benevolent entity. Nonetheless, she’s the most truthful character towards Elise: she even warns her of the heavy price she’ll have to pay for her wish. Not even Walpurga, who is the first one to mention all of this information, alludes to such a thing; in fact, she even outright lies about it when she says that the Gifts will be “all that’s requested in return”.

The other character that gives the most exposition is Father Hans, and like Rozenmarine and Walpurga before him, we have to take his words and judgement with a grain of salt — in special when it comes to Walpurga and her sanctification.

Case in point: if a witch is a human woman and Walpurga is the consciousness of the woodland surrounding Kieferberg, can we truly call Walpurga a witch? Or is a human woman a forest now?

Despite the flaws in his logic, Father Hans doesn’t question much the nature of what he’s trying to summon and when he does, briefly worrying about the possibility of Walpurga being a demonic entity masquerading as a witch, he foolishly believes he’ll be able to take care of it. If you’re aware of one of the endings, you know how well that went.

His judgement, therefore, cannot be trusted.

On one hand, the demons themselves refer to Walpurga as a witch as well — and it’s likely they know more about this than our two faced priest. On the other, they also don’t hide their contempt by calling her creature and wretched thing, so it’s just as probable they’re insulting her and refusing to respect her as a fellow “patron saint”.

Meanwhile, in one bad ending, Rozenmarine is way more respectful and names her “old god”…

Either way, my previous statement about Father Hans still stands. However, does that make the demons a more trustworthy source of information? Several characters —mostly Golden Maidens and Walpurga, who has ulterior motives— disuade Elise from listening to them, and to tell the truth, they don’t reveal much about themselves or their reasons to not raise suspicion. In a twist of irony though, they do reveal the deceit of others more than being deceitful themselves: it’s Murim who points out Walpurga disguising herself as Rozenmarine and being the actual culprit behind the horses and Apfel’s disappearance, after all. And it’s also Ozzy who lets Elise know that Walpurga had been misleading her from the very start — although far too late, at the very end: “You’re yet to pay for what you truly desire! That witch made you think otherwise, did she?”

In conclusion, we can’t take what they say at face value — or at least, not all of it. Still, they do offer important insight into the lore if you know who and what to believe.

An interesting bit I want to highlight and that gives a different interpretation of the game is related to Walpurga’s true identity: if she isn’t a witch, but a being similar to Ozzy and his Marquises, her inactivity during the 18 years Elise was alive could be linked to the need of a witch of her own, since they act as a sort of medium between realms.

Although that raises the question: who could be Walpurga’s witch? Let’s review the story from the beginning first.

Around the time of Elise’s birth, in a far away place, Rozenmarine and her dreams of fate were born as well, while one of the last remnants of Walpurga’s cult was being burnt at the stake — that, instead of Elise being conceived, might have been what truly weakened Walpurga.

Later, during their pilgrimage, her granny taught Rozenmarine everything she knew, including Ozzy’s folk tale. Like His name being lost to time, the reason his story was spread about in Rozenmarine’s coven could also had been forgotten; Elise did mention it sounded like a cautionary tale and perhaps, it originally had been — do demons like competition, I wonder.

As previously said, Elise’s genesis had fascinated Walpurga. She wanted back what was taken from her and also recreate what Ozzy had done that day to no avail. No matter how much that ate at her, in 18 years, she didn’t target Elise yet.

Not even Father Hans, perturbed by Granny Holle’s dead bed confession 10 years ago, acted upon his suspicions until both demons and Walpurga made themselves known in town. Or maybe he did, if Elise saying she felt ostracized after her granny passed away is anything to go by.

It’s when Rozenmarine reached Kieferberg, when everything happened all at once again: she met Flocke and her fateful dreams stopped; Elise got attacked by roots in her own home, but never again, and she dreamt of Ozzy’s realm even before getting the shoes; and a windstorm hir town, stirring Father Hans into action, believing it was the result of Granny Holle’s pact with the demons years ago.

Suddenly, everybody had a bone to pick with Elise. What changed? Rozenmarine.

This scene here is what makes me think Rozenmarine is Walpurga’s witch. In the bad endings where Walpurga kills and possesses Elise, she does so by impaling her with roots or branches like the ones that appear here. Not to mention, it all occurs next to a St. Walpurga’s statue, like it were a macabre foreshadowing of her involvement in the plot. If she could always have done an attack such as this, why then and not before? Elise had been alone for years, living in a house far away from town — nobody would have heard her scream for help. It’s, however, easily explained if Walpurga required of an intermediary to physically manifest.

The curious thing is, like I mentioned earlier, that it doesn’t happen again. For some reason, Walpurga doesn’t get a second chance to attack Elise within her own home. Coincidentally —or not—, in the next morning, we are introduced to Flocke, who mostly stays around the house with Rozenmarine.

That incident, and Rozenmarine’s dreams about fate coming to an end, I believe are related to Flocke’s presence. It would be in Ozzy’s best interest, if Rozenmarine was supposed to aid Walpurga, that she were to be as much confused as possible about her true purpose in Kieferberg — lo and behold, depending on the ending, she has a different idea about what that purpose was.

Thus far, we have a back and forth between Ozzy and Walpurga, and it keeps going: unable to go after Elise directly and following the demon making his move to snatch her first —the shoes—, Walpurga lures the girl into venturing the woodland by telling her about the Gifts.

You’ll think that Ozzy would be pleased with the idea, after all, it played in his favor. But, judging by this mysterious line of his: “Although you didn’t quite need them (the Gifts), did you?” And the look he gives Elise after she returned with the basket, maybe things weren’t going according to plan at all.

This is going to be pure speculation, however, it’s undeniable that Elise and Henri have certain parallelisms between them: their isolation and desire to escape it. Perhaps it goes further than that and Henri’s fate was supposed to be Elise’s as well: I don’t think he had to go through the Trials or sacrifice The Good Company, after all, he wouldn’t have followed her mother’s footsteps had there been someone in his life to alleviate his solitude, and it’s highly doubtful Elise would have told him about the Gifts to begin with. Like Henri, maybe she would have died in her sleep after the deal was sealed and she gave her name as payment, becoming Ozzy’s new loyal servant.

Furthermore, it could be possible that Ozzy only asked for her first born to spite Walpurga, who had been a sore thorn in his side through the whole game. Failing to procure Elise, she lost her only chance to become a woman and bear life in her womb, so what better way to twist the knife than to ask for a child with the sole intention of eating it? Because then, I don’t know how to explain the presence of the moths in the bad endings where he wins otherwise: did Ozzy kill Walpurga offscreen and steal her familiars? Maybe so.

As I said, it’s pure speculation, like Ozzy slowly grooming Henri into a demon, treating his name the same they do their own —with mystery— and giving him duties that eerily resemble what Murim and Aziel are tasked to do. So, in other words, let’s get back in track.

Before Murim was sent to meet Elise, Walpurga had kept herself busy with Eugen’s horses. We later find one, twisted into an enormous monstrosity —inspired by Mari Lwyd, maybe?—, which attacks Elise. It could have been Murim’s doing, however, he had already given Elise the Testament, meaning she had passed the Trial and was free to leave — like in Aziel’s domain. Not only that, the monster only appeared after the reason our heroine stayed —a disguised Walpurga—, finished her creepy monologue.

Walpurga apparently had something to gain if Elise died within the woodland, or else she wouldn’t have forced her back in Murim’s grove to rescue Apfel. In this second incursion, she also made an interesting revelation that supports this theory.

She always wanted the Gifts for herself — like Rozenmarine had explained at the start of the game, they represented Elise’s whole being. If she were to get her hands on the Tender Flesh, she gets Elise’s body; if she gets the Sweetest Nectar, Elise’s blood; and if she gets the Good Company, Elise’s love. And it illustrates so wonderfully why the endings happen the way they happen: if the Tender Flesh and/or Sweetest Nectar are offered, she can’t possess Elise and would rather she died in a pyre or have her turned into a tree; if the three Gifts are correctly offered, Elise is untouchable, the parts representing her under the protection of demonic sigils; and if Elise failed to offer any Gift, because they’re on her person one way or another, Walpurga gets to wear her like a costume.

Why the demons would do nothing after technically being offered and accepting the Gifts in the good endings, is a mystery on its own. Perhaps the commitment they were all on about, was the commitment to love? That brings us to Aziel’s grove and all of its mixed messages.

The next morning Elise rescued Apfel, Flocke can be witnessed throwing a tantrum and promptly leaving — Ozzy obviously displeased with Walpurga interfering so brazenly. The back and forth between the two beings never stops, even if Walpurga makes no further appearances —thanks to Aziel— other than in the endings and those branch attacks inside of Ozzy’s realm which, judging by his sigil after they have already crossed the portals, perhaps he’s trying to dispel instead of summon — the mist is also suspicious, being almost identical to that which follows the moths.

While in her domain, Aziel kept insisting to Elise that she should indulge and dive deeper into her desires, while pointing out that she has yet to discover what they are. It might be a red herring, but after Elise had confessed her wish to the old hag in the beginning of the game, Rozenmarine warned her with urgency that she shouldn’t disclose it to anyone. We’ve got to remember that one of Father Hans’s documents also describes how the woodland —Walpurga— harbored people’s wills, wishes, desires and sins in the past. Was Aziel trying to make our heroine know that her desire had been tampered with? Truth be told, Elise seems to yearn leaving Kieferberg more than riches, giving weak excuses as to why she doesn’t: “… if only it was that easy.” It is, in fact, since in the good endings she just does that. So, it could be possible.

The mixed messages, however, made themselves present during Aziel’s boss fight. After encouraging Elise to pursue her wish until then, Aziel asked to be shown how much Elise cares for her love interest. And if that wasn’t enough, she one-hit kills her if her answers didn’t prioritize her paramour —heavily foreshadowing the requirements for the good endings— while giving her this quote:

“Rather self-serving, aren’t you? You’re not worth my time, let alone His!”

Recalling the scene with the Golden Maidens, you can’t make me believe that some of them truly loved anyone in their lives, lest pass this Aziel’s test. Like, between the three first Golden Girls, who was supposed to be The Good Company: the one being murdered or the one thrown under the bus? The main one fitted the self-serving moniker perfectly and yet, Ozzy was to await for her in his banquet.

The fact that Ozzy would allow the Golden Maidens prowl around and warn Elise left and right is suspect as well. In his defense, he does say that they’re hard to tame.

Did the demons want Elise to succeed? Or perhaps they were quite content with Walpurga losing. If it’s the former, what a plot twist!

Nonetheless, I believe we have answered the original question quite well: who did it? The one who kickstarts the whole conflict is Ozzy, being responsible for Elise’s very existence to begin with, but the one who actually makes the first move to snatch our gal and keeps the pace of the game is Walpurga. Father Hans is also there, aiding Walpurga by ruining people’s livelihoods, when the demons only pulled what amounted to pranks in comparison — crows standing around menacingly and stealing some grain, and floods that caused no lasting damage.

🦋Still, I hope you enjoyed my descent to insanity and that you now appreciate Walpurga as the proactive villainess she is — not everything was Ozzy’s fault, even if he would love you to think so.🦋

#robinn.txt #lgts #little goody two shoes #pocket mirror #I finally finished writing this I’M FREE!!

[cocrante]

I Start Over With You

[SOLANGELO FANFIC]

summary: After the great battle against the forces of Gaea, Camp Half-Blood and Camp Jupiter had formed a long-lasting alliance. Everything had gone well, and everyone was ready to start anew. This included Nico, who, after confessing his feelings to Percy, was prepared to open a new chapter in his life—perhaps the happiest one the Fates had ever written.

note: the chapters will be updated every Wednesday. If you want to read upcoming chapters of the fanfiction in advance, I invite you to follow me on Patreon. Subscribing is not necessary, these chapters will be added for free on the platform on Mondays and Fridays. Following me there is just a kind and free gesture to support my work c:

Reblogs are highly appreciated c:

[CHAPTER 14]

THE CAMP JUPITER WAS JUST AS HE HAD LEFT IT, with the only difference being the new temples being erected, following the architectural patterns indicated by Annabeth. The Roman camp couldn't look better. It still bustled with nature spirits, lares, and fauns trotting through the camp's streets, occasionally hindering a hero in training. Some demigods strolled through the paths, discussing the upcoming war games. Others stopped and pointed at Nico, wondering why he had returned. With all eyes on him, he headed towards where Reyna was waiting.

The hall was bright, the tiles reflecting the sunlight, and the marble columns giving the building a regal appearance. Sitting there, waiting for his arrival, was Bellona's daughter, his adventure companion and trusted friend. She stood up, walking towards him and placing a hand on his shoulder. "Welcome back to camp, Nico" Reyna greeted, leading him outside. "I found a decent place in the city, and you can come to camp whenever you want" she said, heading towards the Roman city that mimicked the style of the Italian Rome, with its warm and round colors, making it almost feel like being on the same European peninsula.

Bellona's daughter told him - during the journey - that things at the camp had improved since the new agreement with the Greeks. She had received messages from Camp Half-Blood that summer, announcing that in the fall they would receive visits, so combat techniques could merge along with culture and lifestyles. "It wasn't easy" the girl explained. "Many are tied to the Mos Maiorum, the senate itself started by saying it was sheer madness" she sighed. "But even they cannot go against the will of our gods" Nico nodded, understanding the difficulty of accepting something different. He had been through it himself, and only the gods knew how long it would take for others to accept him as a camp member.

"But enough about the camp" Reyna said, noticing a certain silence from her friend. "It's been a while since we talked, besides that conversation the other day"

"I've been busy" he briefly recounted the past few weeks at Camp Half-Blood, mentioning something about Apollo's son, avoiding telling her about the Capture the Flag game and especially the kiss on the hill. The girl didn't make a sound, just let him tell, noting a slight and thinly veiled smile every time he mentioned Apollo's son. "He's a good friend" he concluded, letting out an imperceptible sigh.

"Just a good friend?" she dared to ask, as she had seen well beyond the tough exterior that protected him.

The boy took some time before responding. "Well, yes" he confirmed, though not entirely convinced. Reyna simply pursed her lips, not asking him more about that boy. If he wanted to tell her, he would, she thought. "Okay" she said, stopping in front of a building. "First floor. Your school is just a block away, you can't miss it. I've also taken the liberty of getting your books"

Nico was truly speechless; he hadn't imagined she had done him such a big favor. "Thank you, Reyna" he looked at her with deep gratitude.

"Don't mention it! For anything, you know where to find me" she handed him the keys, giving him a final pat before returning to the Roman camp.

Nico twirled the keys between his fingers, anxious and terrified to go in. He opened the door, dragging his suitcases behind him, climbing up to the first floor. There, he entered the comfortable apartment Reyna had found for him. It was a bright and warm room, the walls painted in a matte yellow and divided in half by charming Roman motifs. It seemed completely the opposite of his gloomy cabin.

Having found the bedroom, he unpacked his belongings there, hiding the box he had taken from camp in a drawer. He put away all his clothes, the few that he had, in the wardrobe, and having emptied the suitcase, he flopped onto the bed with a sigh. He didn't stay there for long because as soon as he touched the mattress, someone rang the doorbell, forcing him to go and answer. It was a real joy when he realized it was his sister, who had just knew about his arrival at camp. The two greeted each other warmly; Hazel had been missed more than anyone. Along with her was her boyfriend, the son of Mars, who seemed to have grown a couple of inches during those weeks.

Frank gave him a pat on the shoulder, quite happy to see him again. They had never really talked, but he was still part of Hazel's family, and that was enough for Frank to like him.

The son of Hades invited them both into the still-empty apartment, making them comfortable in the living room. He had a lot to tell his sister about those weeks at Camp Half-Blood, avoiding dwelling too much on Will and what had happened before arriving in New Rome. He also told her about Jason, who seemed to have completely rebuilt his life. "I'm really happy about that" exclaimed Hazel.

"Piper is such a good girl, those two make a beautiful couple" she told him, with Frank nodding in agreement.

"How's Percy?" asked Frank. The son of Hades just shrugged.

"Well, at least he hasn't gotten into any new trouble" he then told them about the absurd climbing wall challenge, of Jason being determined to win and not faint every two seconds.

The three spent the afternoon together, inviting Nico to join them for a bite to eat. The son of Hades agreed willingly, following them outside the building.

There were still many things Nico wanted to tell his sister, all carrying the same name. However, it was difficult to talk about them with Frank around.

They mostly talked about the Roman camp and how it had evolved in such a short time, telling him the same things Reyna had hinted at earlier: some problems that had arisen at the beginning, the decision to build more temples dedicated to minor and almost forgotten deities. "You should have attended the council" sighed Hazel, squeezing Frank's hand. "The Senate didn't want to hear any reason. According to them, we had to continue with our traditions" she briefly recounted what had happened after their return to camp.

"Some demigods thought the same, obviously" explained Frank. "Centuries of tradition thrown out the window" he grimaced.

"But even they had to bow to the will of the gods" Nico guessed. The son of Mars nodded.

"Thanks to the gods, they opened their eyes, our societies cannot survive if we don't collaborate. This was evident even this summer" added the boy, getting a nod of approval from Nico.

Frank began to speak freely, monopolizing the conversation a bit. He cared deeply about New Rome now that he had become praetor, telling them about the boring Roman bureaucracy that Jason had mentioned that morning, the holes to fill, the people to meet, all the supervision needed during the construction of the temples. "We could rely on Annabeth, she's a real architect!" exclaimed the boy.

The conversation gradually dwindled with the setting sun, coloring the green hills and the tips of the tallest buildings. Under that light, the city of New Rome seemed like a replica of the authentic Rome. "See you around" said Frank, bidding farewell with a nod.

"Of course" replied Nico, finally managing to spend five minutes alone with his sister, who had not missed the agitation and urgency to talk only with her. She was really good at reading body language. "Let's talk about what you forgot to tell me tomorrow, okay?" the girl smiled kindly, speaking near Nico's ear, who simply nodded and thanked her.

She walked away, the smile on her face leaving him in the driveway, which was slowly darkening.

The son of Hades returned to his apartment, finally lying down on the bed he had longed for all day. His mind was strangely empty, yet so full of thoughts that he didn't exactly know which ones to grasp.

He ran a hand over his face, forcing himself to get up, put on pajamas, and set the alarm for the next day. It was while turning the red hand that the air seemed to fold on itself, gathering the light like many small tiles, then opening into a window of light. On the other side, there was a brightly lit bedroom, although it was clearly night outside. The walls were covered with band posters, along with some photos and concert tickets now weathered with time. At the center of that window made of light was the boy who had been at the center of his thoughts all day.

"Hey!" Will was radiant as usual, but his smile faded when he noticed that Nico might be getting ready for bed. "Did I disturb you?" he hurried to say, regretful for not being able to call him earlier. Nico shook his head, placing the alarm clock on the nightstand.

"No, it's fine" he replied, unable to hide a certain embarrassment.

"Okay—" he tried to smile, but it was clear that something was wrong. All day, Will had berated himself for giving him that cheek kiss; he shouldn't have done it. Who knows what Nico thought now. "So, school starts tomorrow, huh?" he said the first thing that came to mind, even if it was rather mundane and predictable. Nico sighed, still not believing that he would really be picking up paper and pen again. "Yeah" he replied. "I'm kind of nervous" he hinted at a smile, sitting on the bed.

"It's normal" Will tried to cheer him up. "At least you won't have the fear of being expelled eight times" he joked, tilting his lips sideways. Nico stared at him, realizing that for the entire time, that was the first time he had looked him in the eyes.

"Then I guess they'll be more prepared for hyperactivity and dyslexia issues there" the boy continued. Nico struggled to imagine Will with such problems—at camp, he seemed like such a normal guy that Nico often forgot that, like most demigods, he suffered from hyperactivity and dyslexia. Life in mortal schools was often challenging.

"Do you start tomorrow too?" Nico asked then, breaking his silence.

"Yeah" Will sighed. "If it weren't for my friends, it would be a torture" It wasn't the first time he had said that, even during the days spent together at camp, Will always talked about his school and how heavy the schedules were, thankfully lightened by his two friends he had made during the past year. "Did you already get the list of extracurricular activities?" he asked, just to liven up the conversation. "It arrived yesterday, mom already signed me up for that music course. May she be blessed, I wouldn't know what to do without her" he said, unable to hold back a clear laugh. Nico thought about how it must be to have a mother; the only memory he had of his was of a faded smile, and maybe it wasn't even real. At that thought, he became saddened.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Will asked, concerned to see that dark expression.

Nico simply shook his head, coming out of his thoughts. "Nothing" he lied, trying to look at something other than Will's blue eyes. "Just tired, I guess" he said, trying to convince him with that excuse. Apollo's son tried to believe it, without delving too much into the details. "When does the course start?" he asked the next moment.

"Next week, while auditions for the choir are this Friday" he replied, and at that thought, he immediately became enthusiastic.

"A smile will be enough to get you in" Nico weakly smiled, imagining him auditioning for the school choir.

"Do you think so?" Will laughed.

"I think so" Nico answered so seriously that Will didn't know if he was really joking or being serious. He decided to take it as a joke.

The two continued to talk for a while, avoiding touching on the "hill kiss" topic. It seemed that both were fine with it, yet they couldn't deny to themselves that after that morning, a kind of strange tension had arisen. Will would have liked to explain, give him a reason for what he had done, yet something prevented him, perhaps the current situation. He thought that maybe it would be more appropriate to talk to him about it in person. Yes, he would do that when he returned to camp. However, he had not taken one thing into consideration:—"Remember during the game in the woods?" Nico suddenly reminded him, wanting to get that thought out of his mind that had been buzzing around all day. Will swallowed, hoping he hadn't heard it. "Yes" he replied, torturing his lips.

"You were about to tell me something" Nico continued, hoping he could talk to him about it now. Apollo's son nodded; he didn't want to tell him like this, via a message, but actually, at that moment, there was no one who could interrupt them. Will parted his lips, ready to tell him the truth. "Well, the thing is that..." he stammered, trying to find the right words, and as he struggled, the message was slowly dissolving.

"You'll tell me tomorrow" Nico hurried to say.

"Goodnight, Nico," he said just as quickly, before the window of light disappeared, leaving the son of darkness in the shadows.

"Goodnight, Will"

[CONTENTS]

1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5 • 6 • 7 • 8 • 9 • 10 • 11 • 12 • 13 • 14 • 15 • 16 • 17 • 18 • 19 • 20

#🖇️ : fanfiction #i start over with you ☀️☠️ #solangelo #will solace #nico di angelo #riordanverse #percy jackson #pjo #pjo fanfiction #camp halfblood

[queenie-says-free-palestine]

Hi queenie! I hope I don't sound ignorant, but every single article on Palestine and Israel seems heavily biased and stuff, so I just wanted to ask you if you had a fully-fledged and explained post or something about the situation? Or, if you don't could you explain it to me?

I really want to know what's happening between the two places.

Sorry if I sound rude or ignorant

sorry this took a while to answer ive been kinda busy lol

dw idm !! im happy to explain it to you, but keep in mind that im only human n there might be missing info. all the information i use is verifiable—i didnt go off of rumors or anything like that

i explained the history briefly in a post i made on my main blog where i was tryna detail the israel-palestine situation:

zionist movements began in maybe mid 19th century, jews worldwide were being persecuted and they wanted a land to themselves. they had their eyes set on palestine, even tho the palestinian bedouins there have been living in palestine for at least 1500 years

wwii left millions of jews stranded, so in 1947, the united nations suggested dividing palestine into a jewish and arab state. the jews accepted, but the arabs rejected it. this rejection was ultimately ignored, and israel declared itself a state in 1947, leading to palestinian arabs being displaced and a war starting between israel and arab nations. this was known as nakba—literally the arabic word for disaster, it mainly refers to palestinians being displaced after israel declared independence

the six-day war of 1967 was a conflict ultimately won by israel—they took control of the west bank, the gaza strip, and east jerusalem. conflicts got worse from here, and violence against civilians grew. its been snowballing since then

now, what i didnt mention here was that jews do have a history in the land, but the reason i didnt mention that was because the vast majority of that history dates back to 2000 years ago, when they were exiled by the romans, n they still claim ties to the land due to this history and also the religious significance it has in judaism, as it has been mentioned in the torah several times. not to mention that jerusalem is the location of the west wall, which holds extreme significance in judaism

they have almost always lived in palestine as a minority. in fact, whent the un plan was made, the jews were given 55% of the land despite only being an estimated 30% of the population

what i also didnt mention is the extremely disproportionate number of casualties. the usa and uk have both been vocal in aiding israel, and esp the usa helps fund its military n help it build its military, whereas palestine has virtually no method of defense. according to the un, roughly 6400 palestinians and 300 israelis have been killed since 2008, not including recent fatalities, and not including the 60 years from the nakba until 2008

im sure youve seen videos or seen stories on the news of dead palestinian children, and these deaths are sometimes celebrated by israel because they were fighting back against the idf, however this form of "fighting back" is usually firing rocks at tanks using slingshots, and then proceeding to get shot

now, whats going on now is a result of the "snowballing" i mentioned. the problem was meant to be solved by the oslo accords, which was meant to be an agreement to help issues on both sides (for palestine it was meant to help economic development in palestinian society, as well as stop the construction and expansion of israeli settlements in the west bank n gaza strip. for israel it was meant to make a promise of peace, ending hostility esp from extremist palestinian movements such as hamas). however, the promises made in these accords were never met

now, hamas is something youve heard abt often, im sure. its an extremist militant group who works largely in gaza (they have absolutely no soldiers in the west bank, although they do have some support there) whose main objective is to take back palestine and give it to the palestinians. however, their methods of doing so are extremely unorthodox, as they tend to take courses of action such as smuggling rockets via a series of tunnels, suicide bombings, and also they largely target civilian populations

its also notable that they were voted for by the gazan population in 2006, where half of the population were children, so only a maximum of 50% of the gazan population voted for them. since this voting was also in 2006 (17 years ago) and the gazan population is still 50% minors, this means that only a maximum of 25% of the gazan population today were part of those who voted for hamas

what happened a couple weeks ago at the start of the war was that hamas had been planning for abt a year an attack on israel in retaliation for the thousands upon thousands of palestinians who have been killed, and the thing is that no one suspected it. thats one of the reasons why it shook the world

in the first couple days, israeli casualties outnumbered palestinian casualties, reaching abt 600 while palestine sat at just under 200. there was a music festival which hamas attacked, killing 260 civilians, injuring even more, and taking an unknown number of hostages, some of whom were not israeli and in fact just people visiting from other countries on israeli visas

israel retaliated heavily, with the israeli defense minister referring to palestinians as 'human animals', and they warned 1.1 million gazans to leave northern gaza (despite the fact that gaza is a 41km*12km piece of land thats been closed off for the past fifteen years) because they were going to level it. they also bombed a hospital, which is against international law and is a war crime, admitted it in a string of tweets, and then deleted them

they also damaged gaza's oldest church, the third oldest in the world which is estimated to be 1600 years old, where 400-500 palestinians were hiding. theres around 27 fatalities confirmed and an unknown number of people still trapped under the rubble

additionally theres a load of claims of things hamas has done (beheading babies n raping women being the most popular allegations) but basically none of these have based sources, and a lot of things israel accuses hamas of include crimes that members of the idf (israel defense force) has committed against palestinians in previous decades

so please fact check everything you hear, and be wary of biased sources

#hope this is okay! #palestine #free palestine #israel #gaza #from the river to the sea palestine will be free #فلسطين #save palestine #fuck israel #israel is not a country

[dreamweaversfavsandthoughs]

Rick and Morty S7 Ep. 9: Mort: Ragnarick

(God is dead and we killed him…and killed him…and killed him)

Turn away now to avoid the Viking hordes of spoilers ahead

My Favs

Delightfully unhinged…

This is a perfect description of the episode (and this season as a whole)

Somehow this episode combines the afterlife of Norse mythology, Pokémon, Bigfoot becoming an enemy-turned-ally and a showdown with the leader of the Roman Catholic Church into a story that is cohesive and wildly entertaining. Every single screen grab of this episode is one WTF moment after another, probably more so than any other episode to date.

…and sacrilegious

Did I mention that the villain of the episode is the Pope himself? Well it is.

“Fuck you, I’ve been tired”

Gotta love a sassy Morty moment.

Feral Clone Rick

I can imagine the conversation the director had in the recording booth,

“ Hey Ian, we’re going to need you to sound like a rabid squirrel at this moment. No, more rabid. More rabid.”

Plus, I don’t know what comment the writers are saying by implying a feral, animalistic version of Rick can make his way up the hierarchy of the Catholic Church….

Heavy Metal song during the tower defense sequence

Bigfoot being transported into Summer’s clone

Honest moment, I didn’t get why Summer/Bigfoot commented on how small her feet was the first time I watched this episode. I am slow on the uptake.

Poooooooope!

Popey Ball

I love me a corny pun and the fact that Rick had to point out this very corny, very obvious pun was icing on the cake.

Saying goodbye to Bigfoot

It absolutely killed me that they forced Bigfoot, who is just some guy at this point, back into the woods like he some stray animal. So mean!

Not My Fav

I wish we could have explored other afterlives.

When I saw the cold open for this episode I got really excited because I’m a bit of a mythology and religion nerd and I was expecting that this episode was going to be more of a deeper dive into different kinds of afterlives. It was a little bit disappointing that we only visited Valhalla and, very briefly, Jerry’s concrete and fog machine heaven. If I had written or pitched this episode I would have loved to see Rick and Morty hop around to different religions’ afterlives (Greek, Egyptian, Christian, Buddhist,etc.) and use different elements of those afterlives to harness infinite energy and defeat the Pope. Maybe in an early draft they went in that direction and it just got too bogged down and they had to cut back. Or maybe Valhalla is the only afterlife that Rick had a chance of getting into. He sure isn’t getting into Christian heaven after this episode.

My Thoughts

The concept of an afterlife is a bit tricky to develop in a show where one of your main characters is a staunch atheist and there is a scientific and naturalistic explanation for everything, including things that are traditionally associated with the supernatural, i.e. the afterlife. Of course, the explanation is nothing but science fiction mumbo-jumbo, that is said rapidly and moved on quickly, less we dwell on the nonsense too long. Nevertheless, I prefer the attempt to create consistency in the show's philosophy rather than have the writers throwing their hands in the air and conceding to the existence of the supernatural. Curious observation, we never see any deities in Valhalla and the Valhallans haven’t either since Rick is able to convince them that he’s Odin. Feral Rick being hung on a crucifix didn’t escape my attention either. It’s a running joke that Rick’s a god but maybe it’s not a joke after all…

This seems like a standalone episode but there has been a trend since season 4 or season 5 to have the penultimate episode connect with the finale, so I’m interested to see if this trend will continue. I don’t buy that Rick wants to tap into the afterlife just for the wealthy of infinite energy. Do you?

#rick and morty #rick and morty season 7 #rick sanchez #morty smith #rnm #rnm season 7 #rick and morty spoilers #rnm spoilers #mort: ragnarick

[soldatrose]

today in "what the fuck did i just read", the triumvirate, or the death of cicero! :

basic plotline: the proscriptions have begun but cicero's name is not on the lists yet. cicero refuses to leave rome despite the pleas of tullia (not dead!) and sextus ("disguised as clodomir, chief of the gauls" and hidden by cicero). he wants to either make octavian uphold the republican system or die in the process. he does in fact die in the process.

play is called "the triumvirate". mark antony is not a character in it

(the way he's mentioned throughout the play makes it look like he's standing outside rome with a knife in both hands though)

fulvia, not a character either, is the ultimate bogeyman (woman?)

tullia and sextus are both very into saving cicero and the republic. they're also in love! and constantly want to die!

the statues of caesar and pompey (this one toppled and broken*) are present on the stage and the characters regularly address them

*which is echoed textually by characters calling pompey the "miserable ruins of human greatness" and a "mutilated marble"(!!!)

octavian is also in love with tullia and seeks to marry her btw. a fair amount of blackmail ensues.

around the beginning of the play tullia goes "forget me clodomir we can never be together you're a gaul and a king and i have to marry pompey's son 😔🤚🏻" and clodomir is just. standing there. being sextus.

lepidus is also there! his only role is to be absolutely pathetic in act 1 and to get his shit wrecked by both tullia and cicero

octavian is uh. still octavian. but in love. and very annoyed about the fact that his Feelings are getting in the way of his getting autocratic shit done. "let's just kill everyone" is one of the solutions he briefly contemplates

twice in the play someone says brutus did a better job at honoring caesar by killing him than octavian by carrying on his legacy

sextus tries to convince cicero to come with them to sicily and goes "when you return you'll be the one with the power to proscribe people!". babygirl no

much like a&c octavian marrying octavia to antony, cicero calls tullia "this other me" which makes it sound like sextus is marrying cicero

clodomir-sextus actually gets very worked up against octavian on behalf of the gauls. and later goes "are you mad that i, a gaul, am more roman than you will ever be??"

philip (pompey's freedman) is sent by octavian to assassinate clodomir-sextus and first mistakes him for pompey's ghost

one scene has cicero giggling and kicking his feet while showing tullia and sextus his name on the proscription lists

it gets extremely unclear who proscribed cicero?? i think octavian proscribes him to scare him off into leaving the city but fulvia gets to octavian's soldiers first

at one point cicero goes off against octavian like "i'm sure you don't love tullia and just want to marry her so you can marry ME". same speech includes the sentence "i have penetrated you more than you'd like to" bc french is like that

forgot to mention maecenas is also there and keeps miserably going back and forth between cicero and octavian. has a breakdown after cicero's death and starts calling octavian a blood-sucking leech

sextus wants to make a suicide attack on octavian. philip and sextus's troops aren't so keen on the idea, so they just kinda kidnap him and leave rome

tullia discovers cicero on the rostra and kills herself in front of octavian to change his life's trajectory forever

it doesn't

#spam tag #crebillon #suicide mention #put it under a cut because it's long #this play is Not Good but you really can write anything when you put it in alexandrines #also the list was getting too long but there are so many Moments #lepidus tells cicero he Knows clodomir is sextus on account of 'i have loved pompey too much and known his sons too well' and?? lepidus??? #one of the octavian/cicero fights has cicero leaving the stage in tears and tullia arriving like 'what did you do to my dad??' #also at one point cicero briefly suggest that he sextus and lepidus form a triumvirate #anyway. this was fun. going to nap now

[acingthistest]

Prinxiety Week: That's How You Know

Prompt 1: Movie Night

tags@prinxietyweek

summary: Virgil and Roman had been sat in the living room for a couple hours. Tonight was their movie night; it was a way to bond with each other. They’d been doing it for a while now.

TW: none :D (though please notifiy me if I need to add anything)

Characters: Virgil, Roman, and Patton (who's only briefly mentioned)

I wrote this intending it to be romantic, but I think it can be read as platonic Prinxiety as well

It was shortly after Virgil’s acceptance when they had started. Roman wanted to try and get to know him better. Though he didn’t have much to go off of in regard to an activity they could do together. He knew that he liked Disney, which was a surprise to Roman initially. So, one-night, Roman asked Virgil if he wanted to join him to watch some Disney movies. It took a lot to convince him, until eventually, with some assistance from Patton, Virgil had finally given in.

“If I say yes this time, will you leave me alone.”

“I promise, though I’d doubt you’d want that.”

“Fine, if it’ll get you to stop.” Virgil had said, rolling his eyes.

It had been awkward at first. Neither of them had been saying anything, and while that would be basic etiquette for movie watching, the silence was rather uncomfortable. Until one off hand comment turned into another, resulting in a mini debate with the two as the movie played in the background. It was nice sharing opinions on each subject. To see things from a different perspective. Even if one of them was all dream-like and fantasy filled, while the other was dark and pessimistic. Yes, they disagreed on most things, but the times where they both already had the same opinion were almost magical. Finding out they shared a common observation was wonderful since they had already expected the other’s counter argument. From that point on, they decided to do this at least once about every 3 weeks.

They were now currently in the middle of “Enchanted”, both dressed casually Roman comfortably laid up against Virgil, while Virgil messed with his hair. Roman didn’t mind though, even if it was messing up his good hair day. Every day was a good hair day in his books.

“He is so you coated, and I hate that I know it.” Virgil remarked, staring at the screen. He was referring to the movie’s resident prince character, Edward.

“He is your standard Disney prince, so it makes sense why you get that vibe.” Roman chuckled, his brand was adjacent to a Disney prince. In the words of Logan, it was a reasonable conclusion or something like that.

“But I think it should the other way around?”

Virgil began to braid a small section of Roman’s hair, rather than just running his hand through it, as their conversation carried on.

“Eh, I’m around you more often. It feels right to say it this way.”

“Well I appreciate your company.” Roman spoke softly. Reaching to the nearby bowl of popcorn they’d brought over.

“You better, you’re the one who asked me to be here the first time.”

Roman gasped at the shift of tone in the room. Though he honestly shouldn’t have been surprised.

“You’re the one who asked if we could continue movie nights!”

They had taken a break due to the events that had occurred as of recently. Some things became a little much.

“You didn’t have to say yes.” Virgil scoffed.

“But I did want to continue these.”

“Then stop complaining. You got what you wanted.”

Roman turned his head up to look at Virgil.

“I guess I brought this upon myself.” He stated, smiling as he readjusted himself.

“Stop moving, you’re gonna mess me up.” Virgil uttered. Roman obliged and refocused his attention on the movie. Virgil tied the two braids he had made together. Just one last finishing touch he thought to himself. Virgil tried to be discreet adding it in.

“Not bad if I do say so myself.” He admitted aloud, grabbing Roman’s attention away from the movie.

“Wait lemme see.” Roman summoned a mirror in his hand. He stared at his reflection, seeing what Virgil had done. Two neatly done braids adorned with mini stars in them.

“Where did you get these?” Roman asked, turning to face Virgil and pointing to the stars in his hair.

“A master never reveals their secrets.” He answered with a wink.

“The suspense is going to kill me from the inside, oh no!” Roman said sarcastically. They both laughed at the statement and continued to watch the movie. When Patton entered the living room in the morning, he walked in to see a sleeping Roman while Virgil was scrolling on his phone. Virgil waved to Patton as he let out a small squeal of delight.

#prinxietyweek2023 #sanders sides fanfiction #prinxiety #roman sanders #virgil sanders #i rushed this and it shows

[ryuichirou]

I know you said you won't rant about Vil anymore BUT YOU ALSO SAID YOU DIDN'T WRITE _EVERYTHING_ THAT YOU WANTED TO

sooooo... can you please still do this? I'm begging you on my knees orz You are literally one of the very few people here who engage with Vil as a character thoroughly whithout dumb him down or seeing him as one dimensional egoist (wich is an extremely weird take)

Dear Anon, I am super super super SUPER late, I’ve received your ask a couple of weeks ago already… I really hope that both Vil and you will forgive me lol Thank you for enabling me to talk about him more though!

Also, I am very happy to hear that you think my perception of Vil is thorough; he is a great character, and the fact that he is so misinterpreted only makes him more interesting to dissect and explore.

I’ll start with a hot take: I think that Vil is the nicest housewarden after Kalim, despite also being one of the super strict ones. I briefly mentioned it in my previous reply, the rules he sets for his students make much more sense than the ones in Heartslabyul, and as a housewarden he isn’t driven by his own gain (like Azul, for example). He also isn’t manipulative or backstabbing, not because he wouldn’t be able to pull that off (like Kalim, for example), but because he just has no interest in it. Vil genuinely wants people around him to better themselves, and not only in a physical appearance sense.

Which, of course, could lead to conflicts, like the one he has with Epel: Vil believes in his own principles, he is certain that he knows better because it’s his lifestyle and his perfect work ethics that gave him everything he has in life. And since all of this is pretty normal to him, he might have it difficult to adjust to other people’s pace, or might not even want to do so.  

Vil is amazing, but he isn’t absolutely flawless (shocking), but this is exactly why his character works so well. His better traits lead to his negative traits; they’re tied together, like it always is in any human being. He is super hardworking, but he also expects others to be ready to work as hard as he does. He is very focused on achieving his goals, but by doing so he might ignore the fact that others are overwhelmed with his pace and intensity. He knows his own worth and is very self-confident, but he also has very high standards for himself and is his own worst critic. He is creative and inspiring, but he also can overthink things in search of this perfect artistic expression that he wants to achieve.

I also find it fun that the idea of Vil being misunderstood comes up several times: he really seems to be perceived as some sort of cold-hearted elitist, at least by Epel. Like in the book 6 (..spoiler warning?), when Vil kisses Rook and Epel (and Yuu), there is this vibe of “what, you thought I wouldn’t be happy to see you and want to kiss my boys who came to save me?”, and yeah, why wouldn’t he? To Vil, showing affection isn’t an unnatural thing, he just doesn’t do it when it’s inappropriate: i.e., when he’s acting as a housewarden. In fact, just before he kissed the boys, he scolded Rook for being a horrible vice-housewarden and leaving Pomefiore unattended, but still, showed his gratitude in a gentle and loving way right after that.

Since we watched Harveston's Kelkkarotu event, I also wanted to mention something about it. Long story short, Epel didn’t want to ask Vil (or Rook) to come with him, because he really didn’t want Vil to boss him around and force him to act politely and cutely in front of his grandmother. Now, I am more than happy with the team Epel ended up with, god it was a fun event, but I can’t help but feel a little bit bummed out because we didn’t get to see Vil’s and Marja/Maruya’s interactions. The thing is, I actually disagree with Epel. I think it makes perfect sense for his character to think that Vil would’ve acted this way, but I feel like Vil is the “When in Rome, do as the Romans do" type of person. Why would he force Pomefiore standards on Epel while he is in his hometown? They aren’t in Pomefiore anymore, and Vil wouldn’t be a housewarden at that moment: he would’ve been Epel’s upperclassmen and (hopefully) a friend who is visiting him in his hometown. Vil’s told a bunch of times that one needs to behave according to their position, circumstances and occasion, so there wouldn’t be a point for a strict housewarden Vil to boss Epel around: he has no authority there, Epel and his grandmother do.

This is purely a speculation based on my perception of Vil, of course. But still, I would’ve loved to see Vil (and Rook!) there with Epel lol

Also, I can’t write a post about Vil without mentioning Rook, so I’m sorry, I’m going to talk about the end of the book 5 again.

I really love the fact that despite feeling hurt enough to cry when he found out that Rook had voted for Neige, Vil wasn’t petty or even angry about it. And for someone who’d literally tried to poison Neige like an hour ago, he accepted Rook fanboying over him quite easily, because he knows Rook and trusts him enough to know that he wouldn’t backstab him just because he is a Neige fanboy, and that he (Rook) probably has other reasons. Which is surprisingly mature for someone who just went through an emotional roller-coaster, if you ask me. I don’t think anyone would’ve blamed Vil if he got angry and even more upset with Rook, but the only thing Rook got was “what a cruel man you are” or something among those lines.

I actually think about this line a lot. Imagine being so un-petty that even when your closest person and biggest supporter (seemingly) backstabs you and exposes himself as a fan of a boy who’s pretty much ruined your entire life, instead of saying “yeah fuck you too, asshole” simply out of emotions, you just say this. “I know this isn’t why you voted this way, I am not an idiot”. The trust he has in this man, god their relationship is good lol

(OtomeAyui translation and official translation)

So, yeah. All I’m trying to say is that Vil isn’t stupid or egotistical: he is in fact quite wise and mature, also respectful when he needs to be.

Sigh…

In case you haven’t noticed yet, I love Vil a lot lol

#replies #about characters

[flash-exchange]

Ahoj, holiday season!

Would you look at that, it appears our beloved suitors have already started their vacation.

Who else sent us postcards? Are there any connections between them? What misadventures befell them? Well, there's only one way to find out -- stay tuned!

Best wishes from the crew of IFE.

Transcriptions below the cut.

Greetings from Prague. Thank you for looking over the mansion on my behalf. I hope our residents are not causing you any trouble?

We went to see Charles Bridge. Its construction started in 1357 under the auspices of King Charles IV. Do you know about Charles? Charles of Luxembourg? Born Václav, the first King of Bohemia to become the Holy Roman Emperor? The founder of Charles University in Prague? Charles IV, ranked first in the 2005 edition of Největší Čech TV show?

Charles’ reign is commonly referred to as the Golden Age of Bohemia. Given the fact that he made Prague his capital, founded the first university in Central Europe, focused on diplomacy, not to mention the Golden Bull… ! It is only understandable. 

Has le Comte perhaps… considered expanding his family?

Sebastian

--

Greetings! Prague is so beautiful. I only wish I took my paints with me… Although, Theo was able to supply me with some without any problem. He’s been acting strange, though. He didn’t even touch his pancakes this morning… 

We’ve visited a botanical garden. Would you care to see my sketches once I return? I think I’ve captured the beauty of the flowers there just right. But it’s a shame you weren’t here with us for the butterfly exhibition… Perhaps I should paint them too.

I almost caused a little accident at the Charles Bridge, but nothing happened. If Theo mentions it, don’t worry.

Does le Comte intend to join us? I’ve briefly talked with a man… I forgot his name… He said he’s his old friend.

Let’s come back here together one day,

Vincent

--

Hondje,

Tell le Comte that his old acquaintance is scheming something. Vlad’s been following me and my broer for days now. 

We’ve been to a botanical garden today. Broer wanted to sketch some of their orchids and other plants for practice. We learnt that there are butterflies in the Fata Morgana Greenhouse, so we went there. The moment I turned around, I could see a black cloak fluttering in the corner of my eye. I know he was there.

Also, what is it with those ridiculous fees for painting at Charles Bridge?! Vincent wanted to make a wish, so we went there. He set up his easel, and we almost got fined… They listened to Sebas’ rambling about the king, though, and left us off the hook.

Be a good puppy and notify le Comte that something is off. What could Vlad want from my broer?

--

You humans truly produce quite lovely things. The world I’ve seen today… I’m glad.

It’s been a while since I’ve been to Prague. It’s grown a lot, but the botanical garden is still here. If anything, it’s more beautiful than I remembered it being. It hosts butterfly exhibitions now too? Haha, I like the name of the greenhouse – Fata Morgana. Fitting.

Charles Bridge is also still here. Did you know that touching certain statues there is supposed to have some specific effect? Haha, who knows if they work… But I tapped the plaque with St John of Nepomuk just in case. It says I will come to Prague again. I hope to take you with me then. It’s been one of the wishes I made at the cross there. It’s a little morbid they placed it at the spot where St John fell into the river, but that’s just how you humans are, no? Curious, curious things…

Let’s meet in the dreams.

Vlad

#sebastian #ikemen vampire sebastian #ikevamp sebastian #ikevam sebastian #vlad #ikemen vampire vlad #ikevamp vlad #ikevam vlad #theodorus van gogh #ikevam theodorus #ikevamp theodorus #ikevam theo #ikevamp theo #ikemen vampire theodorus #ikemen vampire theo #vincent van gogh #ikevamp vincent #ikevam vincent #ikemen vampire vincent #ikemen vampire #ikevam #ikevamp #ikemen series