#so she’d draw him the puppets

[genderfluid-insomniac]

Can you do Harbinger Headcannons for a reader who has a hard time with being social and recharges by being held? For example: they get overwhelmed after being out and about all day but have a very hard time asking to be held because they don't have the energy to communicate it. (Oddly specific but it's what I deal with)

A/N: I chose these by generating random numbers 1 through 11 and then choosing said harbinger by their rank. It’s purely by luck and I’m happy that Scaramouche and Arlecchino randomly got picked.

Also I had a very hard time finding anything about Pulcinella’s personality or what he’s like since we only saw him in the winter's interlude so if you’re reading this from the future and I’m wrong then I’m sorry. I tried my best.

Harbinger headcanons for a reader who has a hard time with being social and recharges by being held

Scaramouche

- Isn’t thrilled with physical affection but he does understand having your social battery being drained so you both compromised so no one would be uncomfortable and you got to lay your head on his lap while he ran his hands through your hair until you were ready to interact with others. Sometimes he also used your want to escape and get away from social gatherings because he doesn’t like them on a good day.

- Eventually he does come around and grow more relaxed about the whole thing, going as far as to hold you in more ways that you’re both comfortable in and have tea brought for the both of you. You will have to specify if you want a sweeter tea because he’s having his bitter as usual.

Sandrone

- Sandrone completely understands and often has her mechanical puppet use it’s hands to shield her from others so she’s “alone” in a sense. She is debating on making a hollow chamber in it’s chest so a person can rest in there comfortably and safely. You’re treated no different and if you aren’t sitting with her or on some part of the puppet (which almost never happens unless she’s in a harbinger meeting or called to see the Tsaritsa).

- You’ll never hear complaints or declines from her and you quickly taken somewhere else to recharge in her arms like how her mechanical puppet shields her with her arms or simply moving to another room. She’ll take you in her arms and let you rest against her chest, running a hand through your hair and cuddling with you in the hollow warm chamber if you ask.

Childe

- If it were any other person then he’d say pushing your limits is how you should live however this is someone he deeply cares about and knows that when you speak up about needing to be alone and recharge you mean it. You’re always a priority to him and fighting is a second but if he has harbinger work then he’ll do his best to cuddle with you till you’re alright. Childe will bring you along if he has easy missions that he thinks won’t injure you and make sure that you can be comfy but also safe while he balances you and his work.

- He is the best at cuddling and sis very attentive however once he’s has you in his arms you’re staying there for at least an hour or too. So I hope you don’t have anything important soon because even when your social battery is charged he’s going to be very happy with snuggling with his lover and being able to not think about work for once.

Arlecchino

- At first you’re scared to ask her at all since she’s very intimidating but since she’s very observant and perceptive it’s only a matter of time before she’ll talk to you about it. Arlecchino is very loving and soft when it involves you and she’d do anything for you. Pretty much anything that doesn’t break her rules. When you tug on her sleeve and discreetly glance at her with a tired shy expression the knave will excuse herself from the public conversation she’s having. You’ll be lead to an empty room hand in hand and placed on her lap as she runs her fingers through your hair or drawing circles on the top of your hand while you recharge.

- You both made a sign for when you feel like this and she respects it without any question and when she put the pieces together she cupped your face with no judgement at all in her expression. Kissing you softly and resting her forehead on yours. “Try to not be scared of telling me your worries or wishes because I love you no matter what, darling. Now do you want a signal to let me know or would you rather be held now and think about it later?”

Pulcinella

- You don’t need to ask him because he’s going to insist that you never need to ask for permission about anything that’s bothering you or making you uncomfortable and simply guiding you to a small empty room so you can recharge with him. He can also almost know when you’re running low on your social battery if he’s with you and ask you, normally he’s right 99% of the time. If he needs to do harbinger work then he will work on some of it but you’ll be sitting next to him in a hug or leaning your head on his shoulder.

- He’s rarely called for on missions and so you don’t interact much with anyone but him but when you do it’s usually for galas and formal events that makes it hard to sneak away to get away from socializing. He makes it work though, easily slipping out of the conversation he’s in and making an excuse of an agent calling for an urgent message while guiding you to a small isolated part of the room where almost no one can see the both of you. You cozy up to him and he’ll talk you quietly about meaningly topic if you want to be distracted or remain silent if you want it to be quiet.

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #scaramouche x you #scaramouche #scaramouche x reader #genshin scaramouche #wanderer x reader #wanderer #childe tartagalia #childe x reader #childe genshin x reader #genshin childe #arlecchino #arlecchino x reader #pulcinella x reader #pulcinella

[walliedarling]

You are transported into an unfamiliar, colour-soaked world, with nothing except the clothes covering your skin and a pounding headache. When you stray into the first village you find, you look nothing like the people there. But though you think your body and your ways must seem monstrous to them, they take you in with nothing except acceptance. 

Or: You are transported to Home as a human, and the rest of the inhabitants are puppets. 

Frank is always frustrated when he’s as stumped by something as the rest of his neighbours. He’s supposed to be the one with the answers, after all. But no matter how hard he tries, he simply cannot classify you into a single genus existing in this world. Your bodies are, at least in general shapes, similar enough. And yet, the texture of your skins are entirely different, and you have things in your mouth you refer to as ‘teeth’ that he is entirely unfamiliar with. The fact that you call yourself an adult, and yet have parts of your body that are still growing, is strange to him as well. Even if it’s just your hair and ‘nails’, none of their bodies do anything similar. After the realization that your closest match would be a tree, rather than anything talking, he simply gives up on coming up with a conclusive answer. You deserve a category of your own. 

The first noticeable difference is, of course, the differing amount of fingers. Julie decides, lightheartedly, that this gives you an unfair advantage in arts and crafts! So many things are easier... She’d like to have an extra finger to crochet with as well, really!! Besides that, she’s absolutely fascinated with your hair and how it feels- She’ll want to try doing all kinds of different things with it.

You’re going to be glomped by Sally more times than you can count. It’s much easier for her to do so with you, you’re one of the few who doesn’t immediately topple over! There might have been the risk of one of the points of her stars poking you but, fortunately, they aren’t sharp at all. She tells everyone about how squishy you are and, soon enough, you’ve given almost everyone a hug. 

Barnaby, for a day or two, makes it his life’s mission to try and lift you up. But though he towers over you in height, he simply can’t lift you off of the ground at all! (It doesn’t matter how much you weigh. It’s simply impossible for people made out of fleece, stuffing and foam to lift a person of flesh and blood.) He asks you whether you’re filled with rocks or not, and while you say that you aren’t, you’re not sure if he entirely believes you. Every resident has their own theory of what’s ‘inside’ of you, you think. 

Wally is the one of who is most curious about you, though. He asks you lots and lots of questions, and is especially fascinated by the way you eat. He won’t stop staring. One of the first few things that he’ll ask you if he can draw you. He’s more intrigued by the sound of your heartbeat than he’ll ever directly tell you, and he tries to press his ear to your chest when he gives you a hug. After seeing you get a minor cut once, Wally has become convinced that one of the things that makes up your body is red paint. Perhaps he’ll ask you if he can use some to draw with, one day.

#i have more specific ideas abt wally with this scenario specifically i might make a seperate post abt that <3 #welcome home x reader #welcome home arg x reader #welcome home #welcome home arg #wally darling #sally starlet #barnaby b beagle #julie joyful #frank frankly

[honeycollectswhump]

prompt:

you think i actually care about you? cute.

with pet whumpee who started to truly love whumper and believed whumper loved them too

Love and Worship

[masterlist]

CW: pet whump, dehumanization, cigarette burns

There is a certain kind of satisfaction linked to spending one’s evening alone in the big hall, surrounded by nothing but gold and jewels, resting on only the softest cushions while occasionally being fed grapes by servants with shaking hands. Others may call it a dream; Mireille calls it a well-deserved daily life.

Everything is beautiful, just as it is supposed to be. The furniture is spotless, having been meticulously cleaned the second Mireille leaves the room, each gem is polished like the morning sun. The servants –about a dozen– wear only the finest clothes, which are almost as expensive and certainly prettier than anything they deserve. 

But what they deserve doesn’t matter, and who cares about the message trying to be sent, when the domestics look like they were taken from the streets? 

This, the big hall, the rooms, every single floor is art. They are a stage for only the finest performers, and sometimes that means having to clothe simple actors in garments more expensive than their life is worth.

It’s a price Mireille is more than willing to pay. Money is never an issue and of course, they don’t outshine her.

Mireille leans back, letting her long black hair drape over the backrest, and takes a drag from the cigarette held loosely in her hand. She looks like a painting, like the pride and joy of a knowledgeable collector. Every single movement is deliberately elegant in a way that has been taught to her since childhood. A woman like her is worth her weight in gold.

Smoking is just another habit she picked up along the way. It’s part of a perfectly curated image, the mysterious lady, the untouchable femme fatale. A calculated show, one that Mireille cannot go without and the thought of abandoning it makes her hands shake, even though she’d rather die than admit it.

Decidedly, she stops that train of thought before any conclusions could be drawn that would be unbecoming for a lady of her calibre. 

Mireille draws in a deep breath through her cigarette and blows the smoke in the air, watching it drift lazily through the hall. Right next to her, her ashtray kneels on the floor, waiting patiently. 

Out of all of her purchases, he’s her favourite. He is undoubtedly beautiful, about as fine as a diamond, with golden hair and shining blue eyes. But then again, Mireille paid good money for his looks. His beauty is not a compliment, it’s the majority of his worth. She would not be satisfied with anything less than perfection.

Her adoration for her companion-decor goes further than his beauty and the entertainment he brings into her life though. There is something about this particular item that her other servants lack, whose fondness for her doesn’t go beyond an innate, natural sense of loyalty.

Her ashtray worships her. Mireille doesn’t need to hear him say it (and it’s not like he was made to speak in the first place). She can simply tell by the way he looks at her with nothing but pure reverence in his eyes. He offers himself up with eagerness and wears the burns like compliments on his skin. 

It’s intoxicating. 

All of her life, men and women alike have adored her, but this is a different, addicting kind of love. Without a doubt, she is the centre of his universe and Mireille would not have it any other way.

The cigarette is nearly burned to the end. After one last drag, she turns her attention towards her ashtray, pondering how she is going to leave a mark this time. There is so much to choose from, although the little round scars are beginning to pile up. It’s a game for her and a blessing for him. 

“Give me your tongue, won’t you?” Mireille purrs and the ashtray complies immediately, of course. He straightens, eager to have received a command –both mindless puppet and loyal mutt–, and holds out his tongue for her. The thought of disobeying her order would never even cross his mind. 

Something about the way he offers up such a vulnerable part of himself without hesitation gives Mireille a rush every single time. She presses the still-glowing cigarette end into the soft but marred flesh. It should cause a visceral reaction, even after the scar tissue must have numbed the nerve ends.

Her servants would whimper and cry in his place. They wouldn’t know what to do with themselves, shaking in anticipation and fear of the pain. Instead, her ashtray barely shudders and keeps his body rigid and still until she is done.

Only then does he lift his eyes to her face, searching for her satisfaction. Just being allowed to look at her is reward enough for her ashtray, and his eyes shimmer with devotion. When she graces him with a smile, he vibrates with excitement and joy. 

She lifts her hand to his head and pets him and the ashtray all but presses into her touch, content with a job well done. That’s the difference between her servants and her ashtray. He is looking forward to getting burned by her, there is nothing in the whole wide world that he’d rather do.

“You really are enjoying this, huh? Do you actually think I care about you? That’s so cute.” Mireille smiles.

And her stupid little ashtray just melts under a touch he thinks speaks of mutual affection.

taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0 let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

#this may not be 100% what you were looking for #but i hope you enjoyed it nontheless #writing stockholm-ish whumpees isn't my usual cup of tea so here: have whatever fucked up thing they have going on #also maybe this'll give some insight as to why ashtray can't speak #it's one of the reasons anyway. there are multiple :D #The Ashtray #ashtray/skye (oc) #honey's writing #pet whump #pet whumpee #conditioned whumpee #lady whumper #whumper pov #whumpee and whumper #human ashtray #ashtray whump #ashtray whumpee #object whump #object whumpee #dehumanization #cigarette burns #burns #human furniture #asks #anon

[psalacanthea]

this is for everyone but mostly @tadpole-apocalypse who is of the very correct opinion that Astarion's sibling Petras is in dire need of bullying. I happen to agree, so I took a small break to write something in post-game. :P (is spoilery for my current fic but not hugely)

...

Astarion couldn’t be back soon enough.

People were trying to get Zynatheri to decide things, and utilize her power and parcel out judgments, and she just didn’t want to!  The way she’d explained it to Astarion was most sensible.  They were making a society of vampires.  The politics were going to be corrupt!  Why not start the corruption from the top, where it belonged?  She’d much rather be his puppet than do work.

And now Petras had showed up, knowing Astarion was gone, and demanded an audience.

She’d already been in the bath, of course, which meant she’d had to heave herself out, throw on some slippers and her robe, and storm down to the meeting room.  And then on top of that inconvenience, the part of the palace they did have access to was massive!  Enormous ebon corridors where every step echoed, gigantic frescoes of her horrible ancestors and their horrible spider goddess, every surface slick and shiny obsidian.  Even the smallest light penetrated far here.

Echoes, too, which she rather thought was the point– every single sound carried.

Dwarfed by the architecture, a clammy bite to the air making her skin prickle, Zyn passed through the hall and into a freshly emptied chamber.  The last of the crumbled stone had been moved, the bowed-in stone wall on the left side propped up and tidied up as best as they could.  It still looked…rough, but they had seven– six now– thousand vampires to look after.  Cosmetics were still a far distant concern.

Before they could try to hire stonemasons or wizards, they had to ensure said professionals wouldn’t be eaten the moment they stepped into the city.

It was rather touch and go.

Passing by a low torch, Zyn clutched at her robe, annoyance turning into frustration and amusement as she mulled over the irritating arrival.  Of course.  The instant he found out Astarion had left on an expedition to scout further into the city, Petras came to poke at her.  After all, she was a surefire way to draw Astarion’s attention.

And Petras very much did want Astarion’s attention, like any annoying little brother.

Not that she knew much about siblings.

In the antechamber outside of the meeting room, a huge vaulted space of ebon columns and recessed ornate sconces of blackened iron, Zyn paused.  She tucked her fingers into the component pouch at her belt, searching within until she found her sending wire.  Untangling it from the mess, she lifted it to her lips and hummed softly into it until it vibrated in her palm.

Closing her eyes, she sent her voice to her beloved.  “Petras has come to try something.  Little schemer.  I’m going to offend him terribly, so please be prepared.  I love you, dearest, so be careful.”

While she waited for a response, she tucked her wire back away.

Astarion’s voice reached her mind within a few moments.  “And I love you.  If he dies, he dies, but do try to keep him alive?  We need him to do the work we won’t.”

He’d managed to just hit twenty five that time!  Oh, excellently done.  His rhythm and pitch might be horrid at best, but her darling could handle a bit of wordplay.  

Steeling herself with that slightest snatch of Astarion’s voice to comfort her, Zynatheri began to do something she had to do so rarely now.  She was going to play a part.  Glad she hadn’t gotten dressed, she loosened the neck of her dark green, velvet-trimmed robe, letting it slide off of her shoulder, lazy and careless.  She tugged out the comb in her hair, letting it untwist, uncoil down to her ankles.  The delicate golden comb went behind her ear, contrasting the silver of her swaying hair.

Lazy, idle, uncaring- decorative.

An easy enough ruse.

With the embroidered silk of her robe sliding up her arms, she reached up and pushed open the doors.  Normally they were left open because they were so bloody big.  Petras must have closed them behind himself, for some petty purpo–

“Forgive me, sometimes I don’t know my own strength.”

The doors were pulled away from her hands, her weight shifting dangerously, and although she knew it would likely aid in making a complete ass of Petras, she still couldn’t bring herself to fall into his arms.  Yuck.  Avoiding his hands, she caught herself and stepped back, staring at him through the now-open doors.

Gods.

She looked at him critically for just a moment– hair unfortunately similar to Astarion’s again, despite the fact that he didn’t have the curls for it.  He was wearing his nicer set of clothes, which should have been respectful, but wasn’t.  All it meant to her was that he really was trying something.

“Yes, that’s clear,” she said sardonically.  His strength was severely lacking in areas other than physical.  A complete lack of charm, for one.

And he wanted to be Astarion?

The very idea was laughable.

Petras stepped back politely from the doors.  “I’m sorry, I should have reassured you.  There was no reason to hurry.”

Why was he being nice?

Ew.

“I didn’t,” she replied, swanning past him and heading for the far end of the table, where her and Astarion’s seats overlooked the rest.

“So you intended to meet me in…wearing that?”

Hells, she wanted to put a hole in him.  Or some lightning.  “I wear what I like in my home.  Please leave your notions of ‘society’ behind.  That world rejected you.”  She turned at the head of the table with a flare of her robe, hair annoyingly clinging and twisting.

Gods, right, this was why she kept her hair up or shorter.  Ugh.  It was so heavy.  “I would rather speak of a new world.  One that we create.”  She sank into her chair, gesturing for him to take his.

Much further down the table.

But instead, in some sort of power play, he walked up the line of chairs, running his doughy hand along each one.  Zynatheri tried not to be judgemental, but she was a bit of a snob when it came to hands.  His fingers were short, and not tapered elegantly.  They were repulsive in a way she hadn’t known she’d felt until they were attached to the man himself.

Now every time she saw someone with similar digits she would have no choice but to be disgusted.

“You cut your hair again.  I thought you’d been so determined to grow your hair out, now that you’re a ‘full vampire’ at last,”  Zyn said, refusing to be cowed when he leaned on top of Dal’s chair and stared down at her.  Sometimes it was difficult being the lone mortal.  

“You can’t still be holding a grudge over that,” he said, annoyance touching his face.  He even leaned back a little, his body language betraying his attempt to manipulate her by seeming friendly.  Well, more than friendly. "I didn't mean to kill them."

"But you did."

Here she’d thought he was coming to whine and threaten, but instead he was attempting seduction.  As much as these siblings of her lover infuriated her, she felt a deep and profound sympathy for them all.  They had all been harmed in the same ways, and had some of the same behaviors, and she could not help but give them grace.  Which was Astarion’s fault.  He was the one who had softened her heart to his past suffering, after all.

Was it any wonder that concern now extended to his siblings?

It was a strange sensation, the simultaneous desire to protect and care for them, mixed with the constant desire to cause them harm– bully them– both mentally and physically.  Was that what they called…siblings?  If so, a great many things she had read and witnessed in her life suddenly made much more sense.

 All of that to say, she was worried that if Petras was trying to seduce her, there was something very wrong with him.  That was dangerous.  The family, co-ruler, victim and tormenter both dynamic they all had was precarious, volatile.  If it collapsed, so would their delicate, tenuous grasp on the spawn in the city.

That might mean death for them all.

“Whatever you need, if it’s reasonable, I won’t block you– in fact, I’ll help you.  There’s no need for this,” Zyn said firmly, hoping that was all it was.  Maneuvering, and not…lust or a desire for her blood.  If it was bloodlust she could just smack him silly and not feel guilty. "I have no desire to pretend we're friendly."

A well-placed bit of vicious mockery and she’d have him sobbing.

In response, he leaned towards her, Zyn holding her ground with annoyance as he came closer.  When his hand darted out, grabbing her by the neck, she only felt relief.  Oh, good.  He’d come to do something stupid.

Petras glared down his nose at her.  “Listen here, cattle.  You’re going to watch your tone and do what I say, or I’ll snap this pretty neck of yours.”

Coming from Astarion that would have been attractive and threatening; Petras just managed sullen and bossy.  Hardly impressive.  Plus, the cattle thing, which was stunningly unattractive.  She stared at him flatly, eyes half-lidded, lips pursing into a line.  His hand tightened, fingers pressing into the sides of her neck.

Ugh, no, if she didn’t retaliate he’d ruin choking for her with those shapeless, ugly hands of his.

Rather than say something snide, she gathered her rising anger and breath while she still could, and screamed directly in his face.  The thuderwave hit him full-force, and Petras went arse over teakettle, hand ripped from her throat as he slammed into the heavy stone chair and then went tumbling to the black tile, landing heavily on his back and skidding.

“That’s it?!” she demanded, voice fighting with the echoes of her scream.  Zynatheri  shot to her feet and stomped after him, eyes blazing with fury.  “All of this just to do your best Cazador impression and attack me?  You pissing malcontent!  You whey-blooded simpleton!  Astarion isn’t stupid and your plan isn’t clever.  He’d uncover what you've done, and then you'll be dead!”

Petras pulled himself up to his elbows abruptly, hair just cut back into his old mimicry of Astarion’s falling into his face, making him look all the more stupid.  “I am fully capable of hiding a body!” he retorted, vibrating with pure offense.

Her own fury rose in tandem.  How dare he think for even a moment he’d be capable of killing her?!  “Even if you failed your way into success, he would never stop until he found out what had happened to me,” Zynatheri retorted, stepping in and kicking him back down to the floor, her hands balled up in her robe.  He started to struggle back up but she stepped in, planting her foot and shifting all her weight onto it. 

She ground her heel into his chest.

“You will listen to me.  Astarion’s survival is all that matters to me, and you being content enough not to do anything foolish is important to me because of that.”

His scarlet eyes blazed, lips pulled into a sour, furious grimace.

“All of us are better off because you are alive, so stop trying to die,” she said, dragging her foot across his chest as she pulled back, heel pressing the whole way.  Dropping her robe, she smoothed her hands down her soft hips, glaring down at Petras.  “But never forget– you are beneath me.”  She smiled, slow and mocking, their eyes holding with a vibrant intensity.  “So stay beneath me, or I might notice you when I’m feeling less…altruistic.  Your oafish presence offends me.”

His fingers clenched into fists.  “How dare you.  Let go of me!”

“Let go of you? You are entirely free to go,” she said, gesturing with one hand.  “Have you forgotten where the door is, I wonder?  What a very poor memory you have, Petras.  You attacked me.  Don’t play the victim.”

Why the Hells was he still lying on the floor?  She wasn’t even that strong, she couldn’t have kicked him hard enough to do any damage.  What a dramatic little twit.

Well, if he wasn’t going to leave first–

It was petty to step on his shoulder on her way past him, but she did it anyway.  A test, perhaps, to see if he would retaliate, but that was just an excuse.  The little arse had annoyed her.

He made a small sound in the back of her throat as she ground her weight into his shoulder, but that was all she heard apart from the soft echo of her own footsteps.  When she glanced back at the exit to the meeting room, he had pulled up to sit and was staring at her, rage barely contained.  She smiled, sweetly.

“Next time your humiliation will be public.”

Oddly, he didn’t snap back immediately, but the intensity of his stare grew all the more intense and venomous.  Perhaps he was learning some self-control.  When he spoke at last, it was mocking.  “I can wait.  Sooner or later, Astarion will tire of playing with his food and you’ll be just as dead.”

Was he trying to get her to smack him around more?  Ugh.  As if she was going to rise to such poorly crafted bait.

“See yourself out, little brother!” she sang mockingly, spinning dramatically and swanning through the doors.

It was an excellent exit despite the insults he was shouting after her, which she was quite smug about. Zynatheri shuffled through the antechamber, yanking her hair over her shoulder so it would stop twisting around her ankles.  Very good, very dramatic, hair like this, but she’d forgotten what a nuisance it was.  Well, Zyn might as well go chop it off.

Part of her did regret not teaching the brat more of a lesson, but– wait.

Had he been trying to get her to slap him around a bit more?  Was that all on purpose?  If so, that meant…oh dear.

Malice and misfortune, of course it was.

Zynatheri knew it was a waste of what power her poor body could handle channeling in a day, but Astarion was gone and she needed someone to share this with.  Without him, what was the point in anything?  If she couldn’t speak with him, why speak at all?

In her haste, mirth bubbling like a spring, mixed with the delight of sheer horror, Zyn Sent to her beloved without counting the words.  “Darling, oh my beloved viper!  My sanguine heart.  Come home, I’m suffering.  I may have just accidentally fed one of your brother’s fetishes.  Sorry–”

Her fingers clutched around the tangle of wire in annoyance as she was cut off, lips pursing.

“Well,” Astarion responded in her mind, highly amused, “I suppose curiosity killed my little fox, didn’t it?  Poor darling.  I’ll be home before you know it.”

Pouting to herself, she went skulking back to her bath to scrub the feel of his hand from her skin.  All she could do was hope she was wrong, and hope it never happened again.  Zynatheri had a small, sneaking suspicion that this was far from over, however.  Gods and archdevils, she wanted to kick the little pissant around some more.

But if he liked it...

Ugh, having siblings was complicated.

#bg3 #Baldur's Gate 3 #bg3 fanfiction #Astarion x Tav #Tav: Zynatheri Rivati #Pale Petras

[crackshipparadise]

Until I Found You Chap. 7-Your Name is Moonjumper??

I’m excited to share this chapter! This chapter has been in my head for weeks since I planned it! I quickly had to work on this story before working on any other fanfictions, which I was doing until my brain said, "Work on this one before anything else" or “Why not both?!”

Also, give big thanks to @bittybattybunny for the drawing they made for me! Go check out their stories! She writes really good fanfictions and is an amazing artist!!!

Give a big thanks to @gigilefache and @mun-auroralore for being my beta readers!

Enjoy!

Sara slowly opened her eyes-and quickly gasped upon noticing that she wasn’t on the ground, but flying in the air. 

“W-What?!” She exclaimed, confused as to why she was flying.  She looked up-and felt her heart drop when she noticed a ghost carrying her with his puppet strings. She tried to remove the strings from her hand, but couldn’t.

“H-Hey! What are you doing? Put me down!” Sara yelled.

The ghost looked down, causing Sara to shiver as she saw his mask. They took her up onto a rooftop so no one else could see them.

Once she was on her feet, Sara struggled to get the strings off her-but the ghost went ahead and removed them from her. After the strings were removed, She was able to meet the ghost face-to-face.

He wore a red regal outfit, a crescent moon-shaped mask, and had blue hair.

Sara stepped back-but saw she was on top of a roof and yelp. 

“W-Why did you bring me up here?” she asked.

The ghost titled his head, confused. He floated closer to Sara.

She realized she couldn’t step back any further and was terrified. 

“Don’t come any closer!” she cried.

The ghost froze. He looked hurt by Sara being so upset.

“I told myself: No more ghosts, no more entities, and no more supernatural crap!” Sara cried.

The ghost tried to reach out to her-but she slapped his hand away. 

“Go away!” Sara screamed, turning away as she started to cry.

The ghost stood there for a while; he didn’t do anything other than watch her cry. He felt bad, and decided to leave her alone for a bit.

Before the ghost could leave, Sara took a glance and saw him floating away from her. Once she was calm, she brushed the tears from her eyes, and slowly went over to the ghost.

“Hey, sorry I snapped like that,” she said, calmly. “I just had a bad experience with ghosts and entities, especially those with puppet strings.”

The ghost turned to her, then looked at his hands, before frowning.

“It’s not your fault,” Sara reassured him. “You don’t know me.”

The ghost’s eyes widened. He looked like he was trying to speak, but he couldn’t. 

If I speak, she’ll know who I am, he thought to himself.

As Sara stared at the ghost she realized he looked different than many of the entities she’d met in her life. 

“You act different than many of the entities in my life,” she stated.

The ghost tilted his head in confusion, mouthing the words, “How so?”

“Well…” she started, “for starters, you're not that creepy-and two, you don’t talk.”

The ghost frowned and tried to talk-but he shook his head.

“I’m guessing you can, but you don’t want to,” Sara ventured.

The ghost’s eyes widened as he nodded with a smile.

“So, do you have a name?” she asked.

The ghost nodded. He opened his mouth ready to say his name, but held back. He thought for a bit-and snapped his fingers when an idea came to mind. He then used his fingers, showing Sara he had two words in his name. 

It then came to Sara that the ghost was doing charades to help her guess his name.

“Okay, your name is two words,” She realized.

The ghost nodded and pointed at the sky. 

She looked up and tried to guess what the ghost's name was. “Is it Sky?”

The ghost shook his head and pointed at the sky again.

“Star?” She guessed again.

The ghost sighed and decided to point at the moon this time, hoping to help her.

“Oh, Moon! Your name is Moon?” Sara answered.

Moon nodded in reply. However, he motioned his name had two words and had to act out word number two. However, Moon was stuck, as the movement to part of his name had to involve legs. 

He was going to try though; it shouldn’t be too hard, right? 

Moon made movements to look like jumping up and down-but without legs, it looked like he was stretching.

Sara thought hard, because she wasn’t sure if it was Moonstrech or Moonjump. “Is it Moonjumper?” she guessed.

Moonjumper’s eyes sparkled with stars as he smiled and nodded. He flew and hugged Sara tight as she guessed his name.

“Okay! You're a friendly ghost,” she said as Moonjumper nuzzled her. “Not gonna treat me like a puppet, or make deals with me?”

Moonjumper’s eyes widen in horror as he let go of her. He shook his head, denying he’d do anything to harm her. He then pointed at her, as if asking if that happened to her.

Sara nodded. “It’s a long story. If I tell you, you’ll hate me,” she stated. 

Moonjumper frowned and put a hand on her shoulder. 

She looked at him and sighed. “I know you want me to bring it up, but I’m just not ready yet.”

Moonjumper nodded and hugged her, understanding that he wouldn’t force it out of her.

“Thank you,” She said.

Moonjumper gave a wide smile to say, “You're welcome.”

“Now,” Sara sighed as she tried to find a way down, “I’d like to go home, please.”

Moonjumper smiled and pointed at his hand, wanting to use his strings to take her home.

Sara’s eyes widened as she felt nervous. She hated the feeling of having the strings around her hands again. 

Before she could react, Moonjumper put his strings around her torso and lifted her off the roof, setting her down gently on the ground below. Once safely on the ground, he removed the strings from her.

“Oh! T-Thank you,” Sara said, slightly blushing. 

She then started walking-but Moonjumper was right behind her. 

“Making sure I’m okay, huh?” Sara asked.

Moonjumper nodded, giving a snicker. He waited a bit before surprising her by lifting her with his strings and putting her down again.

She turned and saw him chuckling, which made her smirk. 

“Really funny, huh?” she asked.

He smirked back as he rolled his eyes. When he looked back, he saw Sara was gone, and got worried as he flew off looking for her. When he turned a corner and didn’t see Sara, and it scared him. 

Moonjumper then felt a tap on his shoulder, which caused him to jump. He turned and saw it was Sara. 

She chuckled at her little joke, which caused the ghost to smile and blush at the girl.

“Gotcha,” Sara said.

Moonjumper smirked and sighed; he couldn’t top a prank like that. 

The two kept on walking back to Sara’s apartment. On the way there, he picked up a red carnation from a closed flower shop and held it close so Sara couldn’t see.

“Well, here we are,” Sara said. “Thank you for keeping an eye on me.”

He smiled as if saying, “No problem.” 

He then handed her the carnation-which surprised her.

“O-Oh thank you,” Sara said, taking the flower. “Wow, it's beautiful.” She smiled.

Like you, He thought.

Without thinking, Moonjumper leaned in and kissed her on the cheek.

Her cheeks flushed, eyes wide as she turned toward the ghost.

The ghost got embarrassed, and quickly flew away in the blink of an eye.

Sara stood there in shock, feeling the spot Moonjumper kissed her.

~~~~~~~~~

“I’m telling you, Wiatt, it was weird! You have to have something about what I was with tonight!” Sara exclaimed. 

Once she went inside her apartment, she decided to call Wiatt, as he was the expert on mysterious creatures.

“Sara,” Wiatt groaned on the other line, “I don’t know why you couldn’t wait until tomorrow morning. I’m exhausted from today.”

“I-I just need to know if this ghost was something you knew of,” She explained.

“Look, I'll bring in my books about weird ghosts and creatures to work tomorrow. Right now I need to sleep,” Wiatt reassured.

Before Sara could reply she heard the phone hang up, causing her to get frustrated. She collapsed on her bed and tried to go through her contacts to find someone else she could talk to-but soon saw Artemis was calling her.

Quickly she answered. “H-Hello!” she exclaimed.

“Hey Sara, you made it home okay?” Artemis asked.

“Y-Yeah. I walked with a friend,” She answered. 

It was a lie; she walked with a mysterious ghost-but she wasn’t going to tell Artemis about that.

“Oh, that’s good,” Artemis replied

Now, it was Sara’s turn to ask questions.

“Is everything okay?” Sara asked.

“Y-Yeah!” Artemis answered though it sounded a bit nervous. 

“You sure, you sound a bit nervous?”

“I am. Positive!”

Sara frowned. She knew Artemis was keeping something from her. She could relate. 

“Well, alright. If anything is wrong let me know, okay?” Sara reminded him.

“Okay,” Artemis replied. “Sleep well.”

“You too. Night.” 

They both hung up for the night. 

With a sigh, Sara collapsed on her bed and looked up at her ceiling. She was too tired to call anyone else, and decided to wait until morning and see if Wiatt or anyone could give her info on Moonjumper.

#a hat in time #ahit #covetmoon #welcome to dreamworld #wtdw #crossover crack ship #crackship #wtdw sara #ahit moonjumper

[cherryblossomlion]

Toxic Yuri Drabble, part 2

This is my version of a meet cute...

First part here:

https://www.tumblr.com/cherryblossomlion/746586440721399809/toxic-yuri-drabble?source=share

🥃🥃🥃

It’s almost morning when Akemi sees the murder.

She’d left everyone behind at the club hours ago and ignored all the texts and calls that come after. Too much time in a crowd and something starts to build in her, something that needs to get out. The same thing that builds in her when she's been in the same place too long, the reason this is her third university in as many years.

Ise hates when Akemi does this, says one of these days she's going to get herself killed, but she does it anyway. Besides, she likes it at night. Likes being by herself in a crowd, or when it thins out, in the darkest part of it. If she does get herself killed, maybe that would be interesting. 

She took some pills from the guy Ise's been pushing on her, her boyfriend's friend Taigen. It just turns out to be Adderall, so she just gets kind of overly clear and grinds her teeth as she walks and walks and walks– Akemi never really wears heels. They might keep her from going.

Someone follows her for a little while, but loses interest when Akemi stops and turns to face him. He’s just a middle aged white man. She pulls a switchblade from the pocket of her hoodie and flips it open. She thinks about it a lot, how someone small like her could kill someone bigger. Hasn’t had any practice. 

Ise’s probably right. But maybe one of these days Akemi will kill someone.

The man turns away after considering her for a bit. Akemi knows it's not because she's a threat, just too much trouble.

She doesn't see anyone for an hour after that. Birds start to sing, even though the sky hasn't started to brighten yet. It's the only time you can hear them in the city.

Her shadow slides into sharper relief as it spills from ambient light into the brightness of a streetlamp, which flickers off as she passes through it. A moment later it flickers back on, picking out an overturned garbage can, spilling its contents into the street. She has an urge to kick it, empty it completely, but it seems wrong to violate the silence. Instead, she steps around it, until a movement in her periphery draws her attention.

There are people in the alley.

They look like they're dancing, the two figures, a strange dance in which they both face the same direction. Everything else about them is reversed. The taller one, the one whose face was hooked into the other’s shoulder, is a woman, the man small relative to her. She holds him like a puppet, elbows held out akimbo– then it comes together. She’s strangling him.

There's no sound at all. Even the birds have paused their song. The man who’s being strangled can't even get out enough air to choke. His limbs stutter, he struggles to make contact with the figure behind him, and the woman circles him around. All of the sudden Akemi is facing them both. 

Her eyes are blue. Akemi can tell that even from here, the color is so bright. 

When she manages to drag her eyes away from them she notices the man looks like the one that had followed her.

Akemi's not hiding, and she doesn't try to. Even though everything is bright and clear and slow, she's not afraid. Akemi watches the killer watch her as she finishes killing her victim. Watches the color in the victim's face fade. He reaches out to her, once. The killer is still watching when the body slides to the ground.

The killer steps whole, tall and long-boned, into the spill of streetlight. Her hair is gathered in a low bun, and she's wearing loose, dark clothing. Not black, Akemi realizes, when the killer gets closer. Indigo.

There's still no sound as the killer approaches Akemi, her movements muscular, intent written into them. She's going to kill me, Akemi thinks with fascination. It’s only now that she spots the knife in the killer’s hand.

It gets slower, and clearer. Akemi takes her switchblade out of her pocket again, but all the tension breaks when she pushes the button and it flourishes open, the tinny sound echoing down the alley. 

Akemi laughs. It's so stupid. There’s no way she could take this person.

The killer stops a foot away from her, inclines her head. Akemi has to look up. She must be six feet tall. 

“Twins,” says Akemi, gesturing with her knife, towards the killer’s, because it's already stupid.

All of the sudden the woman is standing over her, and Akemi’s face is in her grip– her hand is hot, almost fevered. She’s closer than ever to her face, diamond-shaped and clear and young. Not quite androgynous. Those eyes, that unnatural blue.

She feels the killer's blade against her neck.

“Beautiful,” Akemi whispers, even though the killer is as close to handsome as she is to beautiful, her dark brows like crow's wings, her mouth more carved than soft.

Akemi feels more alive than she maybe ever has before, every nerve and cell in her lit up. More in the spirit of reciprocity than anything, She takes her silly little switchblade and presses it to the killer's own neck, which is long and golden and swan-like.

She leans into her grip, into the thin kiss of steel. This is what she'd been looking for, all this time. This is a good ending. Turns out Ise was right.

It doesn’t end, though.

The killer just studies her face for a long, long moment, and releases it, and lets her go. Leaves her alone in the alley, hidden from the morning’s creeping light, with the afterglow of blue floating in her eyes.

#blue eye samurai #mizukemi #akemizu #akemi x mizu #mizu x akemi #fanfic #wlw #akemi blue eye samurai #toxic yuri

[brendathedoodler]

I'm gonna ask about AS Four, but more specifically, please tell me about Shadow? I'm so curious how he plays a role in Four's adventure here

I’m happy to elaborate!

Shadow takes the place of several others. He takes on Impa’s role of giving Four help and direction, but acts as a closer companion by traveling with him most of the time. He also acts like the next gen champions in that he helps Four get to the divine beasts.

Shadow first spawned into existence when Four fell to the guardians, springing up as the calamity’s soldier. He exists to torment and mock an already devastated land, and for the first few years that’s exactly what he did. He’s done horrible things, burned towns to the ground, stalked lone travelers who dared walk alone at night, destroying the crops that people needed to live off of.

The thing is, Shadow wasn’t really a person then. He was merely a puppet on strings, following his task as it was assigned. Dot took it upon herself to try and sever those strings, wanting to stop her people from suffering as much as she could.

Slowly Shadow went from a simple tool to someone who could think, feel, and respond to the world around him. His reign of terror shifted to something more mischievous. Instead of trying to hunt lone travelers at night, he simply tries to scare them.

As his connection to the calamity grew weaker, he became more independent, until there was just a small thread connecting him to his original source. This was something Dot couldn’t sever on her own, so she decided to try and talk with him.

He disliked her at first, furious that she’d dare imply he’d betray his creator, but time passed and he began to see her as a friend. She talked about the beauty of the land and its people, and he spent time traveling and exploring. He fell in love with the world, and fell in love with the idea of being alive, of being a person. He severed that last tie himself, and agreed to help her stop the calamity when the hero woke up.

If he woke up. 100 years was a long time to wait.

When Four did wake up, the first thing Shadow set about doing was finding something to help him get down from the plateau. By the time he found the glider and arrived to say hi to Four, Four had made decent progress and all of them were currently arguing over what color the tower should be. He showed up to see it glowing green, then blue, then red, then green again, then red, then violet, then green (again), then blue, red, blue, red, blue, GREEN, blue, violet-

Shadow gets to the top of the tower to see them all smacking their slates together on the middle pedestal like it’s some sort of angry bumper cars game. There’s lots of hair pulling and shoving involved. All of them are arguing. The only person wearing anything more than underpants is red, who got the warm doublet. Shadow has to process the fact that there’s four of him and also what they’re all currently arguing. He’s half tempted to just float away.

Anyway they eventually notice him and draw their weapons (which consist of two boko bats (Red and Green), a hammer (Blue), and a boko bow (Vio)). The tower was left on blue.

He does manage to explain, and Dot uses some energy to inform them that yes, she trusts him, and he’s there to help. They reluctantly agree, and Shadow joins the party.

After terrorizing the people for a decade, stories have been passed about him, so whenever they go into a town, he hides in their shadow (usually Vio’s, but sometimes someone else’s). He helps them with where to go, and assists in getting them onto the divine beast. He also tries to help them practice when they’re combined, usually by settling little disputes or helping with decisions that could end with him splitting. He can’t help in shrines, though, which is another reason why Four avoids them at first (the other reason being that he’s forced to be combined, which is difficult at first).

Another big thing Shadow does occurs later in the journey. They’ve defeated the first divine beast, but it was a close battle. They freed the spirit of the champion (somebody they hadn’t known well to begin with) and Blue gets the power from Vah Ruta, though it’s something they all have access to as Four.

Anyway, they decide they need more practice being combined, but after that near defeat they’re all stressed and prone to arguing. Shadow suggests they explore a little to relax before they work on teamwork. A break could really do them some good.

Anyway, they end up at Gerudo town.

Being too far apart from one another causes them a lot of emotional distress, but so long as they stay in the same map zone they should be fine, so they agree to stay at the desert for awhile.

Green goes off and kills some moldugas (for fun and for profit). Red and Blue get Gerudo vai clothes (and don’t tell the others how they’re getting into the town). Red does some quests for people in town and impulsively spends all their money on arrows, then sells all their molduga guts and buys more arrows (much to Green’s frustration). Blue meanwhile scams some random guy out of several pairs of boots and immediately gets them dyed blue so nobody else will use them.

Vio? Well, he goes exploring and ends up at the Yiga’s camp. He stays hidden, but Shadow gets caught. The thing is, since he’s a fragment of the calamity, the Yiga are 100% on board with following him. They believe that his words are the words of their master, and Shadow absolutely plays along. He ends up ‘capturing’ Vio, and then claims that he’s “convinced this fragment of the hero to join the side of darkness!” and the two end up ‘ruling’ the Yiga clan together (but in reality are working to take it down from the inside).

Anyway, when the other three go looking for Vio they end up uncovering this, and the whole scheme is blown. They do manage to take down the leader of the Yiga though, and end up blowing the entire place up. It’ll be awhile before the Yiga are able to retaliate, which is good for them! With that all done, they proceed to the next divine beast (Vah Naboris).

At the end of the quest the four split up, teleporting to the divine beasts. They fire upon the calamity, and then teleport to the castle to regroup, combine, and fight it once and for all. Shadow tries to help, but is near useless in the fight. It’s up to Four and Dot now.

In the end, they win. Exhausted and battered, but victorious. Shadow knew that the end of the calamity would mean his source of power dwindled, but he expected to vanish completely. Shadow made sure to say goodbye as the calamity fell.

But he didn’t vanish, not completely. His energy was drained, but he did not die.

Nowadays he spends most of his time resting in Four’s shadow, only partially conscious but able to use his powers to speak with him mentally (much like the colors do when they’re combined as Four). Exiting Four’s shadow and using his physical form is exhausting, but he does it when he has the energy. Blood moons still occur despite the calamity’s defeat, and Shadow gets a burst of power from it. He always utilizes it to spend time with Four, and it’s become something they both look forward to.

Shadow tags along during Four’s next adventure with the chain, but Four hasn’t mentioned him to the others yet.

#I haven’t yet decided how Shadow’s reveal will go #thanks for the ask!! #linked universe #lu adventure swap au #lu au #lu four #lu shadow #lu green #lu red #lu blue #lu vio #also I will say that Shadow and Four are a canon couple but I’ll probably elaborate on that separately #that way people who aren’t a fan of the ship don’t have to have it #another thing I haven’t decided on yet is what abilities Four will gain from the divine beasts #not sure if they should be the same things Wild gets in botw or not #also unsure of whether to incorporate the champion abilities into AS Wild’s skillset or not #so many choices

[sergeantsporks]

Writing Request:

(Raeda) Can you do when Eda first finds out that Raine is a puppet?

The change from beast back to witch was a gradual process. Lilith’s elixirs weren’t QUITE as potent as Morton’s, but Eda still felt herself falling into her body slowly with every new brew. How Lilith and King had gotten the first one down the owl beast’s throat was a mystery to her; maybe King had managed another ‘squeal of rage’ miracle. Or maybe the owl beast was sick of being in this place and was more than happy to switch back.

It had started with a vague awareness of what was going on around her, instead of being locked in that dark in-between space. The owl beast still had control of the body, but at least Eda somewhat knew what was happening, albeit in a dreamlike state.

Her awareness had gotten sharper and sharper until she was a passenger in her own body, and now… now she could move again. She gripped the bars of her cage in her front talons. “Ready?”

Lilith gave her a thumbs-up from her hiding place behind a rock. “Go for it!”

Eda yanked her arms apart, and with a grinding screech, the metal tore, creating a hole big enough for her to squeeze through.

“Alright, let’s get King and get—”

Eda stepped over a line, and a row of figures dropped from the ceiling, drawing circles. Eda barely had time to register Darius’ face before a massive abomination swept her up, pushing her back into the cage. A row of people stood at attention, watching her.

Eda blinked. “Darius,” she snapped, “What’s wrong with you? We’re on the same side now, remember?”

Lilith climbed out of the cage, putting one hand on Eda’s upper arm “Look.”

The owl beast’s eyes were much more sensitive than Eda’s eyes were normally, picking up tiny details as if she were going over the area with a magnifying glass. Darius’s hair was still, and cracks showed in his joints, which she KNEW were not from poor moisturization.

“What’s… wrong with him?”

“It’s not just him,” Lilith whispered, “It’s all of them. Everyone from the head.”

Eda had focused her sights on Darius—after all, he was the one whose powers had pushed her back into the cage—but she saw now that Eber crouched next to him, fangs bared, and next to Eber…

Raine’s eyes stared lifelessly at her, glowing gold and orange.

“No.”

A steely, unsettling calm spread over Eda, numbing her senses. “No,” she repeated, “This is… I’m just still in the dreamscape. Lilith? Lilith, can you hear me out there? Owl Beast, I want to turn back. Whatever deal you want to make, whatever the condition is, let me wake up!”

“Edalyn,” Lilith said in a tone that was too gentle, too understanding, “You’re not dreaming.”

Eda whirled around, forcing Lilith to duck under her wing. “No,” she snarled. The calm was starting to give way to panic, horror bubbling up in her several stomachs. “NO!”

“Edalyn, the curse, your emotions—”

“I don’t care!” Eda howled, “I don’t care! I left them to save King, and I couldn’t even do that! If I’d picked them up, if we’d gone together, if—if—”

“It’s not your fault,” Lilith said gently, “Eda, you couldn’t have stopped this.”

Eda barely heard her. “Or even if I’d just done a better job impersonating them—”

“Eda.” Lilith took her face, pressing her forehead to Eda’s. “There was nothing you could do. Do you hear me?”

“But—”

“Raine wouldn’t blame you.”

The fight whooshed out of Eda at her words, and her wings drooped, feathers settling from their agitated, puffed-out state. “I…”

“They wouldn’t,” Lilith insisted, “So don’t blame yourself.”

“We’re really neck-deep in something crazy, huh?”

Lilith chuckled dryly. “I think we’re past neck-deep. I’m pretty sure we’re in over our heads.”

Eda sighed. She’d been somewhat equipped to deal with Belos. At least they’d had a plan, if a slapdash one. At least she’d had allies. The Collector? A completely different story. She didn’t know his tricks, and she was down to one available friend. She’d barely gotten Raine back from the coven, again, and now they were LITERALLY a puppet. It was all so overwhelming—all she wanted to do was curl into a ball, put her wings over her head, and block it all out.

But if she did that, she might never come back out.

“What do we do next?”

Lilith brushed her skirt off. “First, I perfect that elixir, and we get you back to your regular self.”

“And then what? We can’t leave with those puppets guarding us—even if we can overpower them, we don’t know what kind of alert that might send to the Collector.”

Lilith paused at that, regarding the puppets. “Well,” she said finally, “They wouldn’t be the first enemies you managed to get on your side, now would they?”

Eda snorted. “Yeah, sure. Which enemies, my own family, or the people who were already on my side, just in secret?”

“Fair enough. Come on. Let’s get back in your… room… before these puppets decide staying behind the line isn’t good enough.”

She climbed back into the cage, but Eda didn’t follow. She reached out, brushing Raine’s face with one claw. It was so big in comparison to them—trying to put her hand on their cheek would have probably thrown them into the wall. She was huge, she was feathery, she was monstrous.

But Raine hadn’t cared. In the brief second she’d glanced at them in her harpy form, there hadn’t been a trace of disgust on their face.

After so long hiding this side of her from them, they hadn’t cared.

“Hang on for me, Rainestorm,” she whispered. Her voice cracked, and she turned tail, clambering back through the hole she’d made in the bars.

We’ll find a way to get them back.

Somehow.

#toh #the owl house #toh fanfiction #my writing #raeda #eda clawthorne #lilith clawthorne #raine whispers #writing requests

[hihopelessromantics]

Hiya!!! Here's the WIPs I'm interested to hear more about, feel free to not answer if you don't wanna talk about these ones, or feel free to choose which ones you talk about ^^

Demon Essay (I'm very curious about this one)

Half blind meli

Gelda and Zeldris Angst

💜💜💜💜💜

The "Demon Essay" is something I started writing before the Demon Realm Arc in 4kota came out, before I started reading it in fact, and it's inspired by one of zorria's posts and kind of an exploration and 'defense' anaylsis of what we've seen from the demon clan. Big focus on Zeldris and antics from cursed by light. I'd love to send it to you and hear your thoughts, if you want!

2. I am very intrigued by my mutuals' angst aus especially the ones where Meliodas has more siblings. Half-blind Meliodas au is Balin's, and I thought the exteme gore and themes of it all might make for something really fun to work on during the spooky season.

https://www.tumblr.com/gh0stofyesterday/733211682615296000/littol-drawing-of-the-beginning-of-my-half-blind?source=share

https://www.tumblr.com/gh0stofyesterday/726865869113835520/hehehe-a-lil-pencil-sketch-of-my?source=share

ohhh LMAO should tag balin when I'm talking about its au: @gh0stofyesterday

Unfortunately a shitton happened since I first thought of my senario for this (ow) but it's is still in the works. My spinoff premise, basically, is about how his older sister's restless soul has - unbeknowst to the current her - kept cycling through a sort of 'unfair cosmic punishment' (as she'd call it) of reincarnations. She's lonely, she's angry, and she just can't seem to escape the repetition of loneliness and unfullfilment- 'cause she has no catalyst to help her get the help she needs to make a change for herself. And no therapist. Until, a couple loops through, she meets Meliodas again. Doesn't recognize him of course. Will she be able to connect with her brother? Will she even try? Can she? Tune in on: balin please help me make sure I didn't kidnap your character and play puppet with her incorrectly to find out!

And here's, uh, an excerpt:

The first time she ever looked at his sullen face, the burning rage in his eyes could level a mountain. Yes. Both of them. The exposed medical disaster that was his right eye barely moved as he tracked her movements, her wide lopsided smile, the tilt of her head, and the way she clasped her hands together as she told him “Welcome!” and motioned for him to sit beside her in the tent. 

“I don’t know how to work with any of this shit,” he told her matter-of-factly, indicating her display of medical equipment. She’d only set it out arranged like this so it looked like someone was living and doing something worthwhile in here, but that was too pathetic to explain, so she just did the usual act of nodding like yes, she meant to do this, and “offering encouragement” instead of “retaliating to every little change in the atmosphere.” That curse rolled off his tongue as if he was mocking a dumb word in another language he was being forced to use and she didn’t appreciate it, not when the only thing they gave her to represent her expertise and profession was a flimsy banner saying ‘me-decal recruitment’ and they sent in this man with a sword slung across his back as a candidate. 

“Not everyone has the skillset right off the bat-” oh, he didn’t seem encouraged by that at all. Toned-down confrontation it was. “Woah. Could you stop . . . radiating, hostile energy? Could we talk about that, by any chance?” “What do you know about me?”

“Excuse me, I asked you a question.”

3. The Geldris is inspired by what I feel is a severe lack of vampire Gelda antics and nicknamed affectionally as the "blood-drinking fic." The first is from Zeldris's perspective and involves one of his 'secret' shenanigans / errand master antics from the Holy War Era and is supposed to include a second "aftermath" part with some demon bros bonding. The second, is, uh . . . idk what to write for that yet! ideas welcome. I'm thinking a domestic scene.

Wrote a little metaphor - poem for when Gelda drinks his blood:

He tasted like wild berries and trampled leaves 

quick snacks between sprints

one old seasoned bird snatched on a flight 

  That kind of quickly devoured game which took weeks of stalking

And a piece of the juiciest fruit handed down with love.

 Like someone who cared for others before he cared for himself. He tasted like her.

#nanatsu no taizai #seven deadly sins #nnt #sds #zeldris #meliodas #other peoples ocs my beloved #writing #wip #current wip #my wips #work in progress #wip stuff #ask #ambersky

[colliholly]

I just want to say that I love reading your headcanon stuff. I would love to see more of that and Colandra x Spamton too. They're just so cute together. 😭 Also, I was curious if you think about any drama/angsty scenarios? Like, does Spamton get jealous easily? What a first couple's argument is like? Something along those lines (if you want to, no pressure lol)

Oh yeah, definitely! Even though I like drawing cuter stuff with Col and Spam since it makes me happy, he still is a villain, and I don’t want to completely erase that side of him.

For one, I feel like he might initially be iffy towards being doted on or even helped (even if deep down he wants it) - he’s so afraid of being in a position of losing his control again, he might initially push Colandra and her good intentions away, at least before he learns to trust her.

There’s also that whole thing of Spamton being insecure and getting jealous easily. He’s been abandoned so many times his fear of being abandoned again after getting attached to someone can come out in unhealthy ways.

I've also thought about what would happen if Spamton gave into his more selfish desires and used Colandra to help him sneak into the mansion. We know he can be manipulative, and she’s a Lightner so she’d absolutely get the attention of Queen - which Spamton would take advantage of. Maybe in his head he’d think he’s killing two birds with one stone - he gets to keep his friend while finally getting what he needs to become “free”, but I don't think Colandra would appreciate being used like that.

Alternatively if I were to go with a REALLY snowgrave-y timeline where Spam fully gives into his selfish side, he'd straight up give her the thorn ring and convince her to use it to become “stronger”. Colandra may be overly-trusting of creepy alleyway puppets but even she’d catch on that she’s being used, and she’d be pretty angry at him as a result. Especially after she had treated him with kindness.

Anyway... here's Colandra with the thorn ring! :^)

#ask #colandra #spamton #deltarune #deltarune chapter 2 #deltarune oc #snowgrave #art tag

[louisfriend-ironsulfide]

How about something a bit angsty? Maybe hannibal getting some ptsd flashbacks and clarice comforting him or even the other way around?

Or if you're in the mood for something fluffier, them getting a dog for the first time? I feel like clarice would be a huge dog person lol

Cute as hell, thank u! Originally I went with the angst but then halfway through I realised I was basically rewriting this fic that already exists. Go read it if you haven’t, it’s one of my favs and deals with his ptsd well.

I’m incapable of writing short one-shots btw, so apologies.

(Word count: 2508)

She sits before the fire and she stares- or some version of her stares, rather.

And though it is not Clarice Starling, as he is familiar with her, who stares at the fire on these low days, that isn’t to say he doesn’t know exactly what she thinks and feels.

Hannibal Lecter himself admittedly used to seek physical warmth when visions of his past became overbearing. He supposed their histories were similar in that way- both tinged with frost. Him, then, wailing in the cold snow as Mischa was dragged from him and Clarice, then, tiptoeing across icy grass as she fled desperately from the cries of the pleading lambs.

But, although he understood on a fundamental level why she chose to sit before the fire in still silence when she struggled with what he could only consider ptsd, he still found himself unable to help her and that hurt beyond all else.

He’d done his part in easing her struggle months ago- back whilst they’d still been staying on the Chesapeake; her trauma had been an unresolved, gaping wound back then and he’d stitched her right up, yet old wounds itched sometimes and no amount of tender attention could ease that itch when it came. One simply had to wait it out; like a causeless fever.

Hannibal Lecter hated waiting it out. Sometimes Clarice’s emotional slumps could last days- or even weeks. And during those times she could be as cold and withdrawn as the dark memories that ensnared her; she wouldn’t shy from his touch per se but she wouldn't welcome it either, and she’d turn from him in the night, leaving him feeling remarkably alone on his side of their vast bed.

He observed her closely, that evening. More closely than usual.

He was reclined on the far end of the couch in the drawing room, nursing a cold snifter of whiskey, as she sat on the rug at his feet and watched the flames dance lower and lower in tandem with the setting sun. Her eyes seemed to be glazed over. It was as if her very soul had retreated within her, leaving her body to act as a crude puppet in the meantime. And, though he had access to most of her own personal memory palace, he could not reach her when she wandered into the recesses of her mind during these times.

He had a theory, however.

It’d been forming for the last few days and the more he ruminated over it, the more plausible a cure it seemed. He was unable to help her during these periods of depression because she’d become desensitized to him. They lived a fairly solitary life, the two of them, and that was fine for the most part but it was variety that Hannibal Lecter realized Starling needed occasionally, and he was cursing himself for not realizing it sooner.

Before he’d found his way into her life, she’d kept her dark thoughts at bay by occupying herself with playing the role of the righteous hero. She helped people. She saved her lambs; lambs like Catherine Martin and Evalda Drumgo’s infant. As much as she occasionally enjoyed helping him, he was not a lamb and he did not suffice in calming those scarred parts of her psyche. And, although her wound had long healed and the urge to help people wasn’t as insistent within her, it was during times such as these that he realized she needed this release more than ever.

So he decided he’d do just that. He’d give her something to care for. Something smaller than herself; something that she didn’t feel was constantly analyzing her, as he often found himself subconsciously doing.

He stood up from the couch, suddenly, and his frown deepened when she didn’t so much as turn her head.

“Clarice.”

She blinked, but no more.

“I’m going out, mi amor. There’s something I need to collect. I’ll be back shortly.”

Short simple sentences. He feared anything longer wouldn’t reach her. She merely nodded once and he left her.

Hannibal Lecter chose their practical truck instead of the sleek mustang as he pulled out of the driveway, favoring its convenience in transporting cargo and also registering that the cargo he was planning on picking up would likely ruin their beautiful sportscar.

He wasn’t an animal man, particularly, but that wasn’t to say he disliked them. In fact, with the exception of Clarice, he would always favor the company of an animal over that of a human being.

He’d put off the idea of pets for some time, for the notion of cleaning up animal waste didn’t quite appeal to him and it seemed jarring in contrast to the fairly lavish lifestyle they were living, but Clarice needed somebody other than him to keep her company when her mental health took a dive.

And what better company than a dog?

It would be something new to occupy her. Some smaller being to care for to ease the frown lines between her brows when he was unable to. A dog wouldn’t be able to speak back or overcomplicate things in any way. It would be something for her to simply hold when she wished for comfort without the sticky complications of human emotion and communication.

Because, to his dismay, he couldn’t pretend to be able to fix any and all hardships she stumbled across. Something he’d learned quite recently and something he was realizing even more so as he shared his life with her was that people were, at times, utterly unreachable and unpredictable and trying to help Clarice when she was in these dark moods could occasionally be akin to digging around in a splinter and pushing it deeper. Even he, with his pure precision and infinite knowledge, could occasionally needle perhaps just a touch too much. So he’d get her something that could reach her. Something that wouldn’t burden her with complicated concepts such as language and complex emotions.

And she liked dogs a lot, apparently. She’d mentioned her brief time with Pilcher to him, before, and had spoken more about dogs than she had about the poor bug doctor himself. She’d never been able to have one herself because work took her away from home too much. Times had changed, of course.

Hannibal Lecter preferred cats, admittedly, but he’d make the sacrifice. Cats seemed far less work and he fondly recalled the barn cat he'd had as a child who had chased the mice out of the stable often. Cats appeared to enjoy wandering off and looking after themselves which he appreciated, but he’d endure the overzealous loyalty of a dog for her and her only.

He’d spotted one at the kennel some few weeks ago when the idea of buying Clarice a canine companion had first crossed his mind. If it was up to him, of course, he’d purchase from a reputable breeder but the entire purpose of taking this animal home was to nourish Clarice’s need to save something and she’d much prefer a kennel dog with some baggage attached to it, he was sure.

He parked outside and entered, exchanging a brief word with the woman at the front desk who instantly recognised him, for so few upper-class men entered the little kennel that resided on the outskirts of Buenos Aires.

He followed the kindly woman through to the back and was pleased to see the dog he’d had his eye on was yet unclaimed. It was a shiny golden lab, at least one years of age, and full of spirited energy despite its unfairly docked tail and the fact that it was notably underweight. Apparently the creature had been found wandering the streets, abandoned. It’d been checked for diseases; that he’d made sure of. All that was left was for him to take it home and feed the poor mutt enough to keep it happy and healthy. He was sure Clarice would be thrilled.

He paid the small fee, including a generous tip, and was then on his way.

There was a cage and a small assortment of necessary items such as food and bedding already stored in the back of the truck but the excitable creature simply would not stop yapping at his legs and so Hannibal eventually gave in and allowed it to settle on the passenger seat beside him.

He sat there for a moment, staring ruefully at the dog, breathing so heavily that its shiny chest heaved as its tongue lolled from between its chops and dripped saliva on his nice leather.

“Sit,” he said simply, testing it. The dog continued to bounce from paw to paw and beat at the door with its heavy tail. He frowned and tried again.

“Siéntate,” he tried.

The dog instantly planted its wagging behind down immediately and panted expectantly. Hannibal Lecter pursed his lips in satisfaction and then remembered the bag of treats he’d picked up, opening it and throwing one to the mutt. It caught it excitedly and then lay down on the seat to gnaw at the morsel of beef.

And with that, he started the truck and made his way home, wondering at which point he’d become the sort of person to buy a dog for his lover purely because she was feeling a little under the weather.

…

Clarice heard the familiar chug of their truck pulling up and winced, having felt remarkably guilty when Hannibal had up and left so suddenly just an hour ago. His tone had seemed clipped. She figured he was upset with her. It wasn’t the first time she’d found herself struggling with her own frustratingly damaged mind and he was often good at knowing what to do - namely, letting her be alone to work it out of her system - but she’d been out of sorts for longer this time and she couldn’t blame him for getting fed up with her.

She hadn’t moved from her nest on the carpet. She was a little tipsy, too. He’d left his glass of whisky unfinished and she’d saved him the trouble. She realized how pathetic she must’ve looked then and, with a small shudder like the final breath of a dying bird, she sat up and attempted to straighten herself out.

She stood, preparing to meet him when he came in the room so she could apologize for her poor disposition, but frowned when she heard something strange.

She’d heard the door close just down the hallway but it wasn’t one set of footsteps she could hear as she listened to him set down his bags and tuck the keys away. There was something else, too- a padding sound followed by strange clicks like something tapping on the wood of their flooring.

“Hannibal?” She called out; the first fully-formed word she’d spoken in days. Her throat was a little sore from disuse.

He didn’t reply but she did hear him approach, followed by that strange clicking.

Fear of the unknown gripped Clarice for a moment, then, and she braced herself as she watched the door to the drawing room open, unsure as to what he had with him and whether or not his patience with her had finally reached its end after so many happy months together.

And then her sudden trepidation left her as swiftly as it had come, as she was immediately accosted by a blur of calf-high golden fluff. She fell back onto the couch, still a little unstable in her poor state, and the ball of energy wasted no time in jumping up and lathering her face with its tongue, its short tail beating a frantic pattern against her legs as it climbed atop her in a frenzy of excitement.

“Oh my God.” Another few well-placed licks to the face. She managed to get her hands under herself and sat up with some effort, pushing the bounding animal off of her enough so that she could catch her breath and run her hands properly through the tangle of golden floss.

And then she looked up at Hannibal, who had entered the room and seemed immensely pleased with himself, watching the pair of them bond.

The little beast positively collapsed when she began to scratch under its ears and she hit a spot of satisfaction. It rolled onto its back, pale belly up and tongue lolling out like something from a cartoon. Starling felt tears spring in her eyes, unable to handle the wave of emotion that had befallen her.

“I thought you hated dogs,” was all she said- no thanks needed- for Hannibal could see all too clearly the glee that had seized her. Quite frankly, he was just glad she was talking to him at all. He’d missed the twang in her voice.

He smiled and came to rest carefully beside her, reaching out and joining her in petting the excitable puppy, although a little less enthusiastically. “I‘ve said no such thing,” he hummed. “Merely that I’m not overly keen on them. Hate is a strong word.”

Starling bit her lip, fending off tears as she looked back down and continued to scratch away. Now on its back, Clarice could see the puppy was male. “Does he have a name?”

“Not yet. I thought I’d leave that liberty up to you. He’s yours, after all.”

“You mean ours.”

A shake of the head. “No. Yours. I thought you could use a friend, Clarice. Somebody other than myself, that is.” A small smile, then. “I realize there are times that you need your own company, but I can’t have you aimlessly staring at the fire, hardly eating, for days on end.”

“Hannibal…”

“Of course, him being yours does mean you’ll have to clean up after him…”

She smiled ruefully, then- some of her usual light finding its way back into her face. “I expected no less.”

“He’s a kennel mutt. A little underweight, I’m sure you’ve noticed.” A slight tilt of the head. “He needs some love, Clarice. And what better person, hmm?”

His intention for the unexpected gift became clear, suddenly, and Starling felt her chest throb with a strong emotion for which she had no name. The panting dog was forgotten for a moment as she quickly closed the space on the couch and hugged him for the first time in days, which he received gladly- even as he felt a muffled sob wrack her body.

He held her tight, until their moment of peace was interrupted by the pup worming his cold, wet nose in between them; clearly the puppy felt left out. Hannibal Lecter resigned himself to the fact that their solitary life would now be shared by a third companion, although the bright grin on Clarice’s face as the beast clambered onto his lap to lick at her nose eased his crotchetiness.

“He’s gorgeous.” She fussed at him, still smiling. “So he has no name?”

“No, though I suggest you pick one soon so I have some sort of title by which to scold him.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Clarice shot him a look as she babied the pup, and then hummed thoughtfully. “What was that old horse you told me about? The one you had as a kid.”

Hannibal raised a brow, surprised at the niche memory. “Caesar?”

“Yeah, that was it.” She grinned down at the noble, wagging little ball of energy and seemed to preen as she addressed him. “Caesar.”

#clannibal #silence of the lambs #thomas harris #cheesy corny self indulgent bullshit #thanks for the req and the excuse to brainrot-post #I am a dog person to the grave

[ladyfenring]

the price

rated t

post-finale

Helaena finds Aemond when he returns to the Red Keep.

read it on ao3 if you wish

She finds him in the nursery, standing over Jaehaerys’s crib. A quick sweep of the room tells Helaena that her brother has probably sent the nurses scattering.

“Aemond?” she asks softly.

He doesn’t take his eyes from Jaehaerys’s sleeping form. “He’s so small.” His throat constricts. “I always forget, but when I see him like this…”

She stands beside her brother, peering into Jaehaerys’s crib, too. Her son is clutching a stuffed dragon she made for him after his dragon egg hatched and the hatchling was taken to the dragonpit. Jaehaerys had wept for days, until she’d made a stuffed toy that looked just like Shrykos. Everyone had laughed and said he was destined to be a great dragonrider like his uncle, but when Helaena looks at her son, she does not see dragons in his future. She does not see much of anything in his future.

She and Aemond look up at the same time, their gazes meeting, and it hits her like a thunderclap.

She sees Vhagar and Arrax dancing in the skies, feels the fear in her brother the moment it all goes wrong. She sees the storm break over the Seven Kingdoms, raining fire and blood until there is nothing left but ash and bone. 

But worst of all, she hears Daemon’s voice, that uncle she hardly knows, growling, “A son for a son.”

She sinks to her knees, her breath rattling in her chest. Aemond has no sons. There is only one son to be taken from her family’s house.

Hers.

“Helaena?” Aemond kneels before her, looking so, so wretched, and he doesn’t even know the half of it.

But maybe he does. Her brother wasn’t gifted (or cursed, as it sometimes seems to her) with her sight, but perhaps it doesn’t take a gift from the gods to know what Lucerys’s death will mean. 

Aemond reaches for her, and she raises a hand to push him away, but she sees something else with her gods-gift; she sees him kneeling before their mother, explaining, apologizing, and her mother raising a hand to him for the first time in years. She cannot raise a hand to Aegon, not anymore, not now that he’s king, but Aemond…Aemond is not king. Aemond has let her down. Aemond has started a war with Rhaenyra. Aemond, her darling boy, has become her new Aegon.

Helaena softens the hand that was raised in protest, curling it around his neck and drawing him against her. His hair is damp with rain, and when he buries his face in her shoulder, she thinks the rainwater is seeping into her gown until she feels him shuddering and realizes that it isn’t rainwater she feels; it’s tears.

In her gods-gift, she sees him weeping tears of blood, his one eye blinded by Valyrian steel. She knows that this is how he will meet his end before the eye of a god swallows him up whole. 

The right words fail her, as they often do. Everything comes with a price, and just as Helaena was gifted with her sight, she was cursed with a tongue that never says quite what she wants it to. Already, she can feel her mind plucking up the threads of her visions and weaving them into a puppet’s strings to tie around her tongue.

So she keeps her lips sealed and pulls Aemond closer. 

#tagging as #helaemond #even though it's not super shippy #it is if you squint #helaena x aemond #hotd #fic by me

[sirjuggles]

Worm Reading - Arcs 10 and 11

So, I’m gonna be honest here: I have read way ahead of where my notes are. I’ve had a bunch of time to read recently but not much time to sit down and write up notes, and so I’m at Arc 10 in my notes but Arc 18 in my reading. Honestly I don’t think I’m going to have time to sit down and give every Arc a full post it deserves. With that in mind, I’m going to do a couple of combined posts to do a short catch-up to where I’m currently at. 

I will say, I really enjoy answering questions and discussing storylines and characters and predictions/theories, so if there’s something I skim over that you’d like me to talk more about or if there’s a particular part you’d like to draw my attention to, please feel free to shoot me an ask! (no spoilers please)

Arc 10

This started out with the capture of Shadow Stalker, and the related reveal of Regent’s true power. At first I was confused on how he could operate both his body and his puppet at the same time, but over time it clicked that he can do that the same way that Skitter can control massive hordes of bugs with fine detail; it’s a side-bonus of his power that expands his mental capacity.

The Alec/Shadow Stalker interlude was so heavy and so good. Felt really nice to see Sophia actually get rocked finally, even if it required Alec going WAY over the line to do. I do note that Sophia could technically come back at some point, even if it seems as though she’d likely avoid that at any cost.

Honestly reading Alec’s Interlude the first time through was absolutely riveting and horrifying. That dude is so much more screwed up than he lets on. That said, I find it fascinating that despite how much of a sociopath he knows he is, he does consciously decide to keep hanging out with the Undersiders and going along with Taylor’s generally-altruistic plans. All of his interactions with his sister and the Slaughterhouse 9 hammered this home: he doesn’t really have any compunctions about being a selfish sociopathic asshole and hurting other people for his casual entertainment, but it feels to me like he’s realized on some level that he can use Taylor as a substitute moral compass, and that’ll keep him from going down the path of his father or sister or the Nine. It also feels to me like he’s intentionally not thinking about the fact that he’s doing this, because it doesn’t jive with the part of him that is a sociopathic monster.

The reunion of Taylor with the Undersiders so soon after the betrayal reveal felt a little forced. I kinda expected her to strike off on her own for longer, but they seemed to reunite almost immediately. Rachel’s anger and lashing out was tough to read, but that’s mostly just because I like Rachel.

We also see Imp in action for the first time! I will say when she first showed up during the Shadow Stalker capture, I was like “Who the heck is this??” I can honestly say I figured out who Imp was about 3 sentences before her identity was revealed, which isn’t much of an achievement. I find it super interesting how Imp and Grue’s powers achieve the same effect in different ways. Both of them focus on concealing themselves and hiding from the world around them, but Grue’s power does this actively and aggressively while Imp makes it so those around her forget she even exists. We’ve established that powers are in some way related the headspace a person is in when they have their trigger event, but in a lot of cases it’s a very tenuous connection. Imp, however, is one of the most direct-lines I can think of between the experience she lived and the power she obtained (even if it’s not what she would have wanted).

We get introduced to the idea of the Slaughterhouse 9 here, AND to the end-of-the-world problem!

We truly meet Dragon for the first time. I do still like her. She’s got a lot going on.

Arc 11

Oh we got to see the Skitter Lair for the first time! I really like Skitter’s new home, the mini-supervillain lair that Coil provides for her. Her theatrics with the terrarium lighting setup and the beetle-controlled switches speak to a little bit of a flair for the dramatic that she doesn’t acknowledge. In a different, more cartoon-y world I think it would have been awesome to see a fully-developed Skitter as a morally grey villain, her lair filled with creepy-crawlies and loyal minions by her side.

Speaking of loyal minions, we meet Sierra and Charlotte in this arc. They are fascinating characters, each getting pulled into helping Skitter run her territory without really intending to. I didn’t like Charlotte at first, but it is implied that she’s been shaped by some of what she’s gone to since things fell apart. I do find it interesting that she seems to be more ok with working under a nominal “villain.” Sierra on the other hand seems like a more competent administrator, and really does do a good job of running things and taking care of people when Skitter’s not around. But Sierra does get hung up on the Villain label, and it’s a shame.

Taylor really is good at taking care of her territory, better than any of the other local villains. Some of my favorite parts of this story are seeing her throw herself into taking care of the people in her territory.

This gets touched on a little bit later, but the whole fact that Taylor can administer her territory better than everyone else is a double-edged sword, because it relies on her being powerful enough to fight off encroachment: the rise of capes really does push humanity back to a might-makes-right system of rule. Have we ever truly escaped that? Maybe, maybe not, but we certainly have more veneer over it these days. The fact that Skitter has the power to rule her territory effectively is nice, but it relies on the people with the power being as caring as she is. Just like someone else says, what happens when someone like Hookwolf conquers territory? 

Cool to see Tattletale’s different approach to operating her territory based on her powers.

Ugh. The Merchants. Basically the whole sequence with invading the Merchant jamboree is super skeevy, glad when that’s over. We never really get the chance to see much of Trainwreck as a character, but it is interesting to wonder what his experience was like as a mole for Coil within the Merchants. Was he the kind of person who was comfortable in that environment? Or was it a struggle for him to live like that, putting up with it for some personal motivation?

We see that Skidmark has gotten his hands on a Cauldron case. We’ve seen these vials pop up a few times, but they seem to be very tightly-controlled. I wonder where this case of vials came from?

As awful as Skidmark’s little meth-head wonderland setup is, it frankly is a pretty effective way to basically manufacture a small army of parahumans. In the hands of a better leader with a ruthless streak, it seems like this strategy could work so long as you can keep control of a growing band of people with powers (Jack Slash seems able to do this, but I doubt many others could). 

This reminds me of my curiosity about what’s going on in the rest of the world. It’s been mentioned that third world countries have a higher incidence of trigger events. What is happening with this new tide of parahumans from conflict areas around the globe? Sadly many of them are probably meeting violent ends, but surely some of them choose to use their powers to escape, or in the case of the more villainous/deranged to spread the chaos that created them. It seems like this situation should be bubbling over and creating a pressing concern worldwide. I think this ties into some of the Cauldron talking points, but it’s only been mentioned peripherally. 

We do start getting glimpses of the eldritch creatures again from being around others’ trigger events. Every time we see these it reinforces my conception of them as higher beings, strange and unknowable. What their intentions or grand effects are going to be on this world... still unknown. For people like Skidmark or Bonesaw, who have been around multiple trigger events, I wonder how close they are to putting together some sort of understanding?

Cool seeing Faultline’s crew in action. They honestly seem capable and like a pretty good bunch from what we saw from Gregor’s interlude.

#Worm #Wormblr #Wildbow #Worm Readalong #Mine #Worm Spoilers

[butter--peanut]

ahhh it felt so nice to write some fic again today! finally back to the Last Act. Here’s a little wip snip from the start of ch7 for anyone curious :D

They were making good time, Konan thought, as they approached the hideout that Nagato would be placed in before the siege of Konoha began.

She was sitting in a large carriage with Nagato, watching him closely, making sure that he wasn’t overly injured by the shifts and bumps in the road. This cart needed to be custom-designed to support his large size — it wasn’t just Nagato who they needed to transport, but the many chakra rods impaled in his back, and the throne-like structure that supported him. Nagato was planning to control all six Paths of Pein simultaneously, which would draw heavily on his chakra sources. He’d thus been reserving his energy by dozing in the cart, wincing occasionally when a bump in the road jarred the rods in an uncomfortable position. She’d tried her best not to wake him, keeping the blinds drawn across the cart and resting a blanket across his lap, keeping in the heat.

She went to see Nagato in person as often as she could, but this was rarely possible with her extensive duties in the Akatsuki. Now, despite the difficult time they would find ahead of them, fighting against a large, rich, hidden village, she was grateful for the chance to see her friend as himself, rather than shrouded by the image of the man they’d both once loved. His red hair hung lank over his Rinnegan eyes and his mouth twisted in a constant source of pain from the shifting rods in his back, but she could tell he was anticipating their progress as much as she was.

The carriage slowed, and then stopped, as they reached the clearing where Nagato would be deposited. Here he would be close enough to Konoha to employ the Rinnegan’s abilities.

She nudged him gently, and he returned to consciousness, tilting his head to let his long hair fall away from his eyes, looking at her blearily.

“It’s time,” she said.

Nagato couldn’t walk, so she carried him in her paper jutsu, spinning the parchment to kept him secure as they travelled out of the carriage and into the clearing. Then, again, she drew deep into her chakra, forming a mammoth, cavernous imitation tree from paper, growing from the ground up around them. She reinforced the paper carefully, making the tree’s walls stronger than that of a building. She would leave with Pein’s Paths, and Nagato would be distracted by seeing through the eyes of his puppets, so it was vital that this hideout was as secure as possible.

Inside the paper tree was dark, only a tiny amount of light filtering through the paper walls. Konan set the throne for Nagato at one wall, his Paths standing to attention behind her, and placed some small artificial lights near his feet so that they could see each-other.

“How is this?” she asked Nagato.

He nodded, fatigued from the journey even with the time he’d spent resting. She was tired too, after so many years and so much loss. It would be good to finally end this. Konan was living to make Nagato’s dream a reality, and today, they would make large strides toward their eventual goal.

“Good,” Nagato said, through Yahiko’s body. “This is sufficient.”

“A bit too dark for me, personally,” said a foreign voice.

Konan twirled to face the origin of the sound, alarm bells sounding in her head.

“It feels like a cave,” the voice continued. “Hasn’t this organisation had enough of caves to last a lifetime?”

Someone was here. Someone had entered their hideout without her noticing.

That was concerning. But whoever it was, they would have no chance against her and the entire contingent of Nagato’s Paths.

The voice came from far back in the tree, outside the small light source under Nagato. It was too dark to see anything at that distance.

“Mah, there’s something to be said for the effectiveness of a well-trod path,” a different voice said, circumspect. Konan’s eyes narrowed, peering through the darkness to try and make out these figures. Two rather than one was still no challenge to defeat. But how had their hideout been discovered? “Though happily, a paper cave-in is unlikely to lead to any injury.”

“When Konan is the one building it? Her paper’s deadly. I wouldn’t take that bet.”

And they knew her, and her abilities.

She stepped in front of Nagato. Nagato’s Paths were now starting to stalk out around the edge of the cave, their many Rinnegan gleaming purple through the darkness.

“Well. I admit I’d be much happier if we could keep you out of any unstable structures, paper or no.”

“Agreed. Then let’s get on with this.”

The figures began to walk forward, coming closer into the light. It was their eyes that she could pick out first, two red pinpricks amongst the darkness.  

They didn’t have much time, and Konan knew the value of a quick attack. Without any warning, she drew out a row of paper bombs and cast them into the space ahead of her, letting off an immediate explosion. In tandem, Pein wearing Yahiko’s body stepped forward and held out his hands, warping gravity enough to keep the explosion from coming their way, instead pushing it back to the intruders. The bombs combined with Pein’s gravity-defying jutsu destroyed some of the paper wall of the tree, letting the bright glare of sunlight filter through the gap. The sunlight plus the mist and dust of explosion cast hazy outlines of the two intruders, revealing both of them to be wearing cloaks.

And revealing that they were still standing, and did not appear to be injured by the blast, nor by Pein’s Shinra Tensei attack.

And that they were — holding hands?

One of them waved their free arm wildly through the slowly-clearing dust. “Waah, Konan-san, Leader-san, too mean! We haven’t even had time to say hello, and I do not wanna give my teammate a panic attack with this paper tree thing falling down on me.”

And that voice she knew very well. It was the same voice that made her grit her teeth in irritation; that made her skin crawl, because a monster wearing a coat of ridiculous silliness was still a monster.

Tobi.

And, therefore…

“Madara?” Nagato rasped, using his own voice, not one of his Paths. With his eyes, he peered into the darkness. The Rinnegan could see much better than Konan’s own two eyes, and he was likely able to make out the chakra of the figures.

“Hah. Well, yes and no.” Back to that register that was unfamiliar to Konan; but now with the context of Tobi’s voice, she could locate it. This was Madara using not his ridiculous high voice and not the low register that he used when he wasn’t putting on his character, but a secret third tone.

“’Madara?’” enquired the other voice.

“Er, yeah. He’s like the Shadow Mizukage but even more of a bastard, if you can believe. Don’t ask me to be him around you. I won’t do it.”

They stepped closer, and the mist from the explosion drifted further away, and with the light filtering in from outside, it was now possible to see them both. And…

This was unexpected.

Madara wasn’t wearing his mask. He looked around her own age, the right side of his face mangled with scars, the left side eye closed.

He looked nothing like the Madara that she had seen in pages of the history books.

Though sometimes history misled. Of course, she knew that well, with the way the major villagers had all-but eliminated history of antagonism against the smaller villages from their curriculum. And he had that red eye. A Sharingan. He was most certainly an Uchiha.

Beside him was the S-rank Konoha Shinobi Hatake Kakashi. Like Madara, there wasn’t a single scratch on him from the blast. It wasn’t surprising that Madara’s ability had let the explosion and effect of Nagato’s Rinnegan pass through him, but if Hatake was in the same unhurt state, then Madara must have deliberately protected him.

Ah, that’s why they had been holding hands.

But then, why were they, still. Holding hands.

#bp shortfic #tobisuke #kkob #new recruit #I missed these ridiculous idiots

[ennaku-sirri-da]

Not One, but Two Baby Bitches

[ ID: Traditional art showing a crossover between the games Faith and Smile For Me.

The first four are of Michael Davies and Pabit(puppet Habit). They are uncolored and drawn on lined paper.

The first shows Pabit pissed off and barfing teeth with the text in allcaps,’Epic Teeth Barf’ while Michael laughs and mocks him with the text in allcaps,’’You know nothing pendejo!’’

The second is Michael puppeteering Pabit and making him say things. Pabit says, ‘’bla bla Frick jesus bla bla’’. MIchael amusedly says, ‘’ Say Fuck’’ and Pabit replies with a pointed,’’no’’.

The third is Michael smiling, crawling on all fours, while Pabit sits atop him and throws his hands up enjoying himself. He says, ‘’corn-age’’ while Michael says, text in allcaps, ‘’Carnage’’.

The fourth is Michael sitting upright, cross-legged, tears escaping his face as he gives a small smile, saying,’’I feel like a child again’’. Another sketch shows Pabit with Michael’s tears on him, looking confounded and a little scared. He thinks, ‘’I don’t understand...this feeling..?’’

The fifth is a sketch by my friend Mika done in pencil and scribbled over with yellow marker in way of coloring. In here Pabit, Michael and Amy Martin are hanging out and wearing flower crowns. Amy hugs Michael with her regular hands and hugs Pabit, holding him up in the air, with the demonic hand from her face. end ID]

----------talk under the cut!

@askpabit​ this was inspired by your AU and a conversation with my friend Mika!! The last drawing is by her : ) (smiley emote)

We agreed Michael and Pabit could bond over being bastardous children (\affectionate) and kind of...lost? Like Pabit is being put into this whole new everyday life he’s not coping with much, and Michael had to undergo being exorcised which is a turmoil-filled experience as well. I think they both would need lots of time to adjust to peace. Possibly difficult father figures with Garcia and Habit? Also hating John Ward and Flower Kid LMFAO;

 Michael does the Big Swears which Pabit is horrified yet intrigued by because I feel like Pabit’s more a ‘’Dookie head!!’’ kind of boy when cussing FK out

I think they’d piss each other off a lot though but eventually be begrudging kind-of friends

----

Also it really gets me that they’re both just kids, in a difficult life. Did you know that if you pause Michael’s animations, you can get an easter egg where he holds his head and shakes it, looking uncomfortable? I see that as him fighting his demon. I think having a toy friend like Pabit could help him.

Here’s a jokey (that one Toy Story song but they’re a little fucked up TM) that I did:

----

And when she was lonely

I was there to comfort her

And I knew that she loved me

So the years went by

I stayed the same

But she began to drift away

I was left alone

Still I waited for the day

When she'd say, "CARNAGE!" (Plain text: Carnage!)

They try pranking each other all the time.

Michael loves to crawl out of fuck nowhere and jumpscare Pabit 

[ ID: a GIF where two small cats wave their tails and look at each other before one jumps the other down to the floor. end ID]

Pabit does the like

[ ID: a GIF where a bunch of dolls creepily walk slow on their own, passing by someone who stands up and looks in surprised fear, folding away the paper they were reading. end ID]

..towards Michael but it just makes the binch laugh a ton

They prank John and Amy together sometimes absolutely

[ ID: Official art where a muscular Michael  sneaks up behind an obliviously smiling John. The Martin house is in the BG. ]

-----

Emotions are hard for both.

They just. Hang out for some reason and keep doing it. They make each other feel something familiar but they don’t know what it is, yet they lean into it anyway.

Being cared about, etc...;w;(crying smiling emote) found family!! Pabit begrudgingly admits that he wouldn’t steal all of Michael’s teeth if he had any...maybe a bicuspid or two though- Pfff its his way of saying he cares

Amy is their joint big sister who cleans up their messes.

-----

Michael eats a guy in chapter 2 so maybe he’s gross sometimes by bringing pieces of that stuff to show affection. Like a cat bringing you a dead rat but its Human Pieces TM. I’ll say hes gotten better at not murdering them and only tears off itty bits or something 

Hes improving!! Amy’s so proud of him. Him and Pabit trade bits and teeth. Maybe Michael’s really careful one day and brings Pabit teeth from someone. 

Pabit tries to act nonchalant but hes actually super flattered(and a little confused). He eats them slowly and gives Michael a full review about it 

Offers constructive criticism on how to extract them without getting as much of the gums left over. He shares those with Michael. Dude does that uh

[ ID: GIF where a gray sprite runs like its dancing. It looks goofy. end ID]

Celebration dance.

Amy doesn’t get any😔(pensive emoji) but she watches those two playing fondly.

-----

Amy’s like...older and went through a ton of shit so I bet Michael doesn’t get whats going on with her a lot. He tries to cheer her up using Pabit. They make cool bone and tendon bracelets for her face arm and she’s grossed out but will put up with it this time. Maybe she shows them how to make flower bracelets instead next time LOL

They’re all together in the fields with flower crowns🥺(pleading emoji). Michael feels something wet on his face and he’s like, ‘’Whats this?’’ Pabits like, ‘’That’s tears stupid’’

They tell Amy she looks very pretty with all her new accessories!! She is happy to hear it! She hugs them with her regular hand and her face hand somehow.

John is like ‘’shouldnt we exorcise those three?(unsure) ‘’

and Father Garcia is like ‘’nah hijo let those bitches live’‘(Pats John on the back)

----

‘‘Don’t make them feel alone twice.’‘

#askpabit #pabit #dr habit #michael davies #amy martin #faith game #faith the unholy trinity #s4m #my art #au #s4m au #mikas art #fanart #crossover #this is mostly based on my guesses of your AU Pabits character from what we saw so far! So sorry if anythings inaccurate! #gif

[jay-is-not-alwright-at-writing]

Woah, I totally didn’t mean to disappear for six months?? Sorry! Anyways, enjoy something not Marble Hornets for once, lol. Also posted on my AO3! I’ll start posting there more at some point in time, probably.

・・・・★・・・・★ ・・・・ ★・・・・

“Gasping, but somehow still alive, this is the fierce last stand of all I am.”

Her breath is ragged in her ears, the agitating sound making a concerning wet rumble reverberate in her lungs, reminding her too closely of a death rattle. Every ache and sting of pain across her body thrums in rhythm with the thundering of her heart.

It’s quiet, it’s so quiet and the soldiers who she’d spat at had taken Steve instead of her.

Like this was her true punishment. Isolation. Forced to wait for her fear to consume her.

Then her ringing ears pick up the faintest of sounds.

A shout, a yelp. Dead silence.

Robin was certain that sound had been Steve, god knows what was happening to him or how far away he was.

And then the screaming started.

It was nothing like she had ever heard before, not from a movie, not from another person, and never from Steve.

It was so loud and visceral, it sounded less like a human and more like a caged, cornered animal being beaten.

The sound was so sharp and sudden it made Robin jump, breath catching in her throat as her eyes lock onto the steel door keeping her trapped in the cold, metal room.

That was Steve. Steve was screaming like a fearful, pleading animal. Robin couldn’t even begin to imagine what was happening to him, every fleeting thought worse than the last.

They weren’t just torturing him, they were killing him.

They were killing Steve and making her listen.

She was getting Steve killed.

Blinking away her tears, Robin sniffles, shutting her eyes so tightly that swirls of color dance across her eyelids.

She can’t block out the sounds flooding into the room so loudly it sounds like Steve could be right next to her, pleading and screaming in pain.

She should’ve known better than to play tough in the face of actual sadistic psychopaths. Because now Steve was paying the price with his life and she couldn’t even get to the door because her arms were still bound behind her back and everything felt like a one big bruise.

”ROBIN!”

Robin’s neck pops audibly with the force of her head twisting at lightning fast speeds, stunned as reality crashed into her. Had Steve just-

Steve was shouting her name, pleading for her help and she swore her heart stopped as irritating, hot tears rolled down her cheeks.

This was all her fault and Steve was screaming for her and she couldn’t save him, let alone save herself.

Robin shouted as loud as she could, whether to let Steve know she was there, or to try and draw away those monsters from Steve, she wasn’t sure, but she screamed back for what felt like hours, voice cracking and wavering as she openly begged to whatever person may be listening to stop hurting him, to take her instead, please, just stop hurting him, kill her, beat her, she’d do anything.

Just don’t take her only friend away.

She’s in the middle of pleading with unseen forces when the next terrifying sound rings out, making her shrink back.

Something heavy and blunt cracking bone and smacking against skin, Steve’s cries of pain and exhausted screams.

What the hell were they doing to him? If they wanted answers they could’ve gotten them hours ago, but Robin couldn’t think beyond the sound of snapping bone and Steve’s sharp yelps that join the symphony of migraine-inducing chaos bouncing through Robin’s skull.

“STEVE! STEVE!” She swears she can’t get any louder and her throat stings in protest, wrists and ankles burning and wet with blood from constantly yanking against the binds holding her in this stupid chair, keeping her in this stupid, horrible room.

The door unlatches with a great push of the metal and it stuns Robin into complete silence for just a moment.

But then Steve is crumpling to the ground like a puppet without his strings, right in front of her, and the fear and rage ignite within her tenfold. “What did you do to him?! What did you do!?”

The old man from before, the one who had called her a сука, doesn’t answer her, merely stares at her like he knows something she doesn’t and it makes her body go cold.

Her gaze flicks to Steve again and she wants so desperately for Steve to do something, but he’s not moving, and it doesn’t dawn on her until the guards have already stepped towards her, ignoring Steve like he doesn’t even exist.

They undo the binds and she tries her best to fight, but her limbs are heavy and numb from lack of circulation and the men carry her with bruising grips.

Steve still doesn’t move and as the men carry her out of the room, that’s when she finally notices.

Steve’s Scoops outfit and face are grotesquely drenched in blood, hair clumped and matted with clots of crimson, he’s hardly recognizable.

Steve isn’t breathing.

Robin screams.

- - -

Her welcome back into consciousness isn’t exactly quiet or peaceful, it’s jarring and disorienting, with Robin’s body jumping up from her place on the spare mattress in a flurry of movement.

It’s so dark and she can’t tell what’s going on. Where’s Steve? Where is she?

She’s dead. Steve is dead. Her chest heaves as her eyes take too long in adjusting to the darkness, she knocks into something hard that digs into her back and it bangs against the wall like a steel rebar cracking bone and she shrieks in panic.

Robin doesn’t hear the mumbled question coming from Steve’s bed over the overwhelming smell of blood flooding the room, the feel of phantom pain squeezing her body as she trips over the mattress laying on the floor, painfully slamming into the ground with a gasp.

Steve is up and moving seconds after, concern and urgency in every movement, but she doesn’t notice him, scooting as far back as she can until she’s flush against the wall, eyes blown wide with her hands clutching her head; a desperate mutter of Steve’s name between heaving breaths as she cries.

“Hey, Robin, hey, breathe. Can you look at me? It’s Steve, I’m right here, it’s okay.”

The sound of his voice is jarring. His soft, calm tone blends with the sounds of him screaming and begging for her help and Robin can’t discern what is real anymore.

She just saw Steve’s dead body, but that couldn’t have been him because Steve is right in front of her, clean and injury free and crouching in front of her.

They haven’t worked at Scoops Ahoy in well over a year because Scoops and Starcourt burned to the ground after they battled a creature straight from Hell. But she just saw him-

Does it matter anymore? If she’s dead and he’s dead, what does reality even mean?

She can’t get enough air into her lungs, her eyes water and it feels like Steve is slipping away, and she wants nothing more than to latch onto him; scream, kick and bite to ensure that nobody is going to hurt him anymore. Steve is her friend, her best friend and he will not be hurt ever again as long as she is able to fight.

But none of that happens, and she doesn’t realize that it’s her who is slipping, tilting to the side, ragged breaths becoming choking gasps as her eyes roll back into her head and her body shakes without her control.

Everything goes blank as her headache reaches a crescendo.

- - -

Feeling herself once again coming back from the black nothingness isn’t awful, but it does confuse her when she can hear Steve frantically trying to get her attention. She groans to see if that will shut him up, a horrific migraine ripping through her skull.

Steve, in fact, did not shut up, instead, he got louder; desperate.

Robin can’t even scowl because every action sends a stab of agony through her brain and suddenly her stomach is doing flips and everything becomes too much, gagging and fighting her own reflex as she pukes. Robin hardly registered the feeling of cold wood pressed against her cheek.

She is on the floor. She’s laying on her side, a puddle of vomit so close to her face the acidic smell was making her nauseous all over again.

What the hell was going on.

She’s not quite sure whether she was dozing off or things had finally started to go quiet, when there is a distinct, loud thud of something smacking the hardwood floor.

Her heartbeat picks up so quickly, it feels like a hummingbird is darting around her chest, and it jumpstarts her back into semi-awareness in the worst possible way.

She barely notices that she’s been lifted up from the recovery position on the floor, coddled in Steve’s arms like a little sister being consoled by her brother after a nightmare.

Which, isn’t that what this is?

Her heart pounds so hard in her chest it feels like the beats are skipping, but she’s not experiencing heart failure so she isn’t sure if she’s dying, she’s not sure of much anymore.

Slowly, feeling comes back to her in disjointed pieces, like the computer she and Steve have to boot up for ten minutes every time they clock into work.

Steve holds her, sounding just below complete panic mode, hand simply resting on her head while he gently, slowly rocks her as though she’s a fussy toddler who needed to be quieted during nap time.

Or, no. No, Steve wants to comfort her, he doesn’t mind if she’s acting like a helpless child, he’s here to help because that’s what friends do. They comfort and console and even slowly rock their friends to get them to see the danger and fear has passed.

Her thoughts are too fast for her physical body and when she tries to speak it comes out rough and slow. “D’ngus?”

The slow, rhythmic movement doesn’t stop but Robin can feel Steve’s chest expand and then fall as he sighs with relief.

“Hey Rob. You’re alright. You kind of scared me, there,“

Steve pauses, going quiet, as he looks down at her and watches her for something she can’t currently grasp. “Are you feeling better?”

How is she feeling? She’s mostly confused, so she tells him as much.

Steve gives a tight, delirious breath of laughter and he’s looking at her like she’s the most terrifying and amazing thing in the world.

“We’re at my place, you had a nightmare, you freaked and then had a seizure. It was scary. But you’re okay. I’m okay, too.”

A seizure? She doesn’t remember that. She remembered bits of the reality-bending night terror she experienced. She remembers being terrified of the darkness swallowing her whole, but now, held close to Steve, Robin can piece things together a bit more clearly.

Steve’s room isn’t so dark now, he must have flipped on his lamp light at some point without Robin’s notice. She can see that his heavy wooden dresser is slightly askew, his bed a rumpled mess of sheets and blankets like he carelessly kicked away the covers in his haste to get to her.

They’re sitting on the mattress Robin had tripped over, the energy from adrenaline and fear seeping away as Robin stays as still as possible, listening to the thump of Steve’s heart, which is strong and comforting, a reminder that Steve really is okay.

She doesn’t feel okay, though.

Robin knows Steve is willing to let her stay, silent and curled in his hold, as long as she needs. But she also knows Steve must have a good amount of questions that he’s holding back. So, as much as she enjoys the tranquil nothingness of safety and calm, Robin collects her thoughts.

“I dreamt, I thought-“ it’s hard to articulate exactly what she wants to say. How could she say that? ‘I heard you get beaten to death’? ‘I saw your body as I was dragged to my own demise’?

How could she ever admit that she’s terrified she’s never going to be able to protect him. That seemed so stupid.

Now who's the dingus, Buckley?

Steve runs a hand up and down her arm, the touch making her want to cringe away and yet cling to Steve all the tighter.

“Breathe, Robin, it’s okay, you’re safe; I’m here.” Steve gently reminds her, sounding so put together and assured in their safety it makes a pathetic sob rise from Robin’s throat as a shiver runs through her.

“It felt so real,” she breathes, like if she says it any louder their sense of safety will break and they’ll be right back in the thralls of danger. Steve just nods in understanding and waits to see if she continues.

“We were with those men. The Russians.” The old general’s face flashes in her mind the clearest and she burrows her face into the crook of Steve’s shoulder, inhaling the scent of his laundry detergent to ground herself.

Steve runs his hand through her hair for a moment before letting it fall back on the middle of her back, a reminder of his presence.

“I pissed them off, spat in one of the guys’ faces, but instead of taking me they took you, dragged you out and I was all alone.” Robin’s voice breaks as she tries to get her breathing under control, blinking back stinging tears and fingers clenching the soft fabric of Steve’s shirt.

Robin keeps her face hidden in Steve’s shoulder, voice dropping to a disbelieving, shell-shocked whisper. “They killed you. I got you killed and you were screaming and I couldn’t do anything and-“

Robin’s fragile composure collapses in a fresh wave of tears, hitching sobs racking her entire body as she wails I’m sorry through every stuttering inhale.

A soft hum has Robin quieting, shivering breath heavy and loud in the otherwise silent room. Steve rubs circles into Robin’s back that stitches her together and makes her fall apart all over again.

She never thought Steve Harrington would be a shoulder to cry on, an angel on Earth. She feels as though she doesn’t deserve this.

“It never would’ve been your fault. The situation was out of our control and there wasn’t much we could’ve done on our own. Besides, I’m still here, we’re both safe and you’re not alone, Rob. We got out, and we’re both here, alright? I’m not mad, but you scared me, Buckley. I hate seeing you scared, I hate seeing you in pain, you don’t ever deserve it.”

The doubts and fear and steadfast self-hatred scream at her and refuse to let go, but still Robin finds a weak smile upturning her lips as a sobbing laugh tumbles out, cramping fingers yanking at his shirt as she ponders just why Steve stays by her side; why he’s chosen her to have for a best friend, how they ended up clutching each other close on a spare mattress on the floor of Steve’s room, even after the screams of I killed you linger in the air like a shadow; a horrific thought verbalized.

Robin knows, as if it’s etched into her bones, that Steve could never hate her, never hurt her, never abandon her for things out of her control.

Steve could get angry; he could swear and punch and tackle, consumed by the heat of the moment, but Steve never was one to hurt, not truly. Anger always seemed awkward on him, like too small shoes that would press and rub against the Achilles tendon and make your toes cramp after awhile.

But Steve would never turn it on someone he cares about. He’d fume in frustration, maybe, but Steve swore he would do everything in his power to help and not harm.

How gently, how carefully he holds her, tells her that she’s right. She may not be deserving of his worry or his everlasting, calming presence, but Steve assures her, time and time again, that he’s not going anywhere.

He would stay right beside her as they traverse through places known intimately only to beings high above and far below.

“I have this constant nightmare about the time we T-boned Billy’s car to save Nancy, John and the kids. The swerve was… so violent, the sound of rubber screeching like the gates of Hell opening,” Steve slightly leans away from Robin, voice quiet and gaze far off, like he’s reliving an experience that never happened but still left it’s scars.

“I’d turn to you and you’d be there, sitting in the passenger seat, your tangled hair falling into your eyes, body slumped and kept up by the seat belt.”

“I’d replay the moment in my head, until I could process the sound of your screams going silent with a snap. Blood would splatter the window. Your head would flop without the muscles to hold it up.” Steve cuts himself off, slowly pulling his hand away from Robin’s back to run his fingers through his sleep-tousled hair.

Before Robin can speak, Steve continues.

Robin listens.

“When we spun, the force would make your head slam into the window and your neck would break under the whiplash. I don’t know why that is the moment that stands out clearest when having nightmares about then, but it tears me apart no matter how many times I have it.”

He relays it to her like it’s something he’d experienced so often that he's had time to mull over every detail and process it as a part of his messed up, broken psyche.

Robin pulls herself from Steve completely, eyebrows furrowed as she studies him. “Steve…”

Taking a breath, Steve looks at Robin with a sheepish smile.

“My point is, you’re not the only one facing nightmares and scary fake-memory shit about back then. We’re all messed up, some more than others, but the important thing is to know we don’t have to keep it all bottled up.”

Steve slightly shifts to take Robin by the shoulders, keeping her gaze with a soft look. “You can talk to me whenever you need someone to lean on; Joyce would welcome you with open arms, even emotionally constipated Hopper is good for advice when you get him to open up.”

Robin drops her gaze, not being able to handle looking Steve in the eye while she works out what Steve is telling her.

“You’ve… talked to them? About… all that?”

“Yeah. It’s… difficult, I’ll be honest, but it’s helped to know I don’t have to shoulder it alone. You don’t have to, either.”

Robin can’t help but give a mirthless breath of a laugh and shake off Steve’s touch. “Since when did you become an all-knowing therapist?”

“That’s not what I’m trying to say, Rob. I’m just saying what we’ve been through is really fucking terrifying and isolating, but you shouldn’t have to feel like you have to keep this from me; from any of us.”

The energy drains out of Robin with a choked sigh, as she slumps against Steve and places her forehead to his shoulder with a halfhearted shrug.

“Well, it’s not like we can ever tell anyone outside of our traumatized little band.”

Steve’s fingers quickly find their way back to her messy hair, as he gives a shrug back in return.

“No, maybe not, but I don’t think anyone else would ever really get it, anyways. Out of everyone I could’ve lived through these experiences with, I’m glad it was you. That way I know that no matter what’s going to happen, we’ll have each other, and we’ll have our friends to lean on and share this burden with.”

Robin smiles, slowly shaking her head, the texture of Steve’s shirt making her nose itch.

She takes a breath and lets it out slowly. “No, I guess not. You know what, Harrington? Maybe you’re not much of a dingus after all.”

Steve’s shoulders lightly bounce as he laughs. “Really? Wow, maybe we should have heart-to-heart conversations during the night more often.”

“Don’t push it, Dingus.”

“Okay.”

Even if they aren’t related by blood, by god does it seem as though they’re undoubtedly bound together by something untouchable by mankind, disconnected and imperceptible to everyone except for them and only them.

It’s woven securely in the milky twilight skies of the universe’s history, where they shall stay, truly and purely, soulmates.

As long as the stars burn and blaze, shining on to silently exist in the presence of others, basking them in light like unseen cosmic Gods, they will never cease to be, destined only to flick out when the universe beckons them to follow into the unknown night of nothing and witness the end of everything.

・・・・★・・・・★ ・・・・ ★・・・・

This work belongs to Jay-is-not-alwright-at-writing, if you have read or come across this outside of this Tumblr account or AO3 account that means it was stolen and reposted without my knowledge or consent. Please do not support apps or websites that repost without permission and/or illegally profit off of other people's work. ♡

・・・・★・・・・★ ・・・・ ★・・・・

#My writing #Stranger Things fanfiction #Robin Buckley #Steve Harrington #Stranger Things #Stranger Things drabble #Platonic with a capital P #If I see shipping I’m drop kicking you into another galaxy