#sort of a father's day starter call

[marzipanandminutiae]

articles about the “wild new trend” of piercing from the late ‘50s and early ‘60s are fascinating to read. a selection of excerpts:

- one doctor cautioned that girls with pierced ears would be “required to constantly wear earrings to hide the holes in their heads” (or you could just not be weird about a tiny dot on someone else’s earlobe?)

- Genevieve Dariaux, then director of the Nina Ricci couture house, said in 1965 that “Pierced ears are unthinkable for an elegant woman, and even more dreadful for a young girl.” bear in mind that, as I’ve said, earrings that made your ears LOOK pierced were still common. what the difference was, nobody has yet made plain

- lots of evidence that going to a doctor was the preferred “safe” method for piercing at the time. but many doctors refused to do it, or said they would but that they strongly discouraged patients from having the procedure done. this checks out with my mother’s experience in 1965- her schoolmate’s anesthesiologist father did free piercing for all his daughter’s friends

- some teenagers around 1965 called clip and screwback earrings “chicken earrings” (implying that the wearers were too scared of pain to get their ears pierced, I think)

- one advice column, also from 1965, implied that pierced ears were just a passing fad. the previous several centuries of western history would like a word, Mx. Columnist...

- A GIRL WITH RESTRICTIVE PARENTS BRINGING UP THE ARGUMENT THAT HER GRANDMOTHER HAD PIERCED EARS. YES. FINALLY SOMEONE REALIZED THE LOGICAL FALLACIES HERE. the argument against that is, indeed, a sort of “that was the Bad Old Days and we know better now” deal as some other commenters have hypothesized

- one article mentions that the trend could be part of the Victorian revival that was just becoming popular in the mid-60s, which is a fascinating thought I’ve never considered before

- many doctors complaining that they were suddenly being called upon to pierce ears despite not really knowing how. this is interesting, because before the Great Ear-Piercing Taboo, jewelers offering piercing services were more like modern piercers than Claire’s employees (and doctors weren’t involved at all unless an infection set in). descriptions I’ve read of Victorian piercer-jewelers mention a lot of things we’re familiar with today- needles designed with a hollow for inserting the starter jewelry, for example, and even “freezing” solutions to numb the earlobe. so in those early resurgence days, going to a long-established jewelry store for your piercing might actually have been a better option than a doctor’s office

- two young women in a 1964 Canadian article (from Calgary) mention that they think screwback earrings look cheap and gaudy, and the pierced version is more conservative and tasteful, in an interesting reversal of mainstream thought

- a newspaper columnist saying pierced ears give him “the wim-wams,” so they are to be avoided. whatever the hell that means

- a LOT of people seem to think that ear piercing was popular in the Victorian era because wealthy women didn’t want to lose their expensive jewelry. sorry folks- my collection of Victorian costume earrings (all pierced) says otherwise

- much confusion as to why modern girls want to do something so old-fashioned

- one woman marvels at how comfortable it is to wear earrings in pierced ears, as opposed to clips and screwbacks. I feel infinitely blessed, as an earring-lover, to have been born when I could escape the scourge of ear-vises altogether

- apparently an eccentric elderly man on Salt Spring Island, British Columbia, literally bribed all the women of the community to pierce their ears because he liked the way it looked. one of them mentioned that she held out for $25- $244 CAD or $188 USD in today’s money. all because some rich Victwardian codger had a very specific fetish

- this absolutely incredible response of an Indian diplomat’s wife when asked, in New York, why she wore a diamond nose stud: “Because I feel [diamonds] become me more than rubies or emeralds.” QUEEN

- “when the fad changes, as it indubitably will-” are you certain of that, ma’am

#long post #ear piercing #fashion history #retro #vintage #dress history

[astaroth1357]

Oh God, What Have We Done??: Father!Solomon Headcanons

You know what? I'm a Solomon love-hater but I'll go to bat for him too. You could pick worse.

Contents: Unhinged Ms. Frizzle-style parenting, the horrors of human biology, possible pregnancy implications, fluff

~♡♡♡~

So. I can see this happening intentionally. Solomon craves a happy family, so I absolutely see the thought of rasing a kid with MC coming up once or twice.

That said, I think zero planning actually went into making it happen. This is a spur-of-the-moment decision made by two lovesick dolts. Not a damn thought was spared for the consequences, and it shows.

For starters, MC and Solomon both agreed to raise a child together while they were in the human world and told NOBODY ELSE. So from the outside looking in, they just left the Devildom for “training purposes” and returned with a random infant!

No call ahead. No fanfare. They both stepped out of the portal with a flying stroller and bottomless diaper bag, grinning from ear to ear like it all was just souvenirs from Disney World!

Naturally, all hell broke loose. The brothers were collectively hyperventilating, Simeon almost fainted, and Diavolo noticed that Barbatos wasn't moving or blinking, so the Little Ds had to carry him away like a malfunctioning android...

Does Solomon having a kid make him a grandfather…? He is not ready to ponder that thought. No one is.

Despite Mammon and Belphegor’s insistence they had to “Put it back!” after MC made it clear that raising a baby was what they wanted and that Solomon was there to stay, the brothers made peace with it… to varying degrees.

Asmo was the only one thrilled that his favorite humans now have an even cuter mini-human to take around because he'd get to try his hand at baby fashion design! The least happy was probably Belphegor because a baby means that MC is going to be way too busy to nap now. Plus, he had to deal with a lot more Solomon in his life, which very few people ever ask for...

The crew's reaction to the baby's development is actually pretty funny to see. Humans age much, much faster than their supernatural counterparts so, from their perspective, the new baby is growing at lightning speed!

Mammon was with them when they were teaching the baby to crawl and he started freaking out because, “How’re they movin' already!?” The first day their child came running, physically running, into the HoL without any help actually made Levi scream in fright.

The House had a complete meltdown when Beel was watching the child one day and they lost a tooth while eating some hard candy. They all thought that MC and Solomon were going to burn the place down, so imagine their surprise when the overjoyed parents kept congratulating their kid for losing a baby tooth...

And don't get any of them started on the growth spurts...

The one to take to the kid the most as they grew was, funnily enough, Lucifer. Most likely because their various milestones reminded him of when his brothers were doing the same things.

The child is more than happy to tell “Uncle Luci” anything, which he acts like he only tolerates, but in reality he loves being their favorite brother.

Barbatos is EXTREMELY protective of them. Nearly as protective as he is with Diavolo.

Their kid, of course, has no clue. He's just nice Uncle Barbie (he refused to be called Grandpa) who makes them sweets and watches over them in the Castle. But anyone who get too close while they're playing gets a stare down worse than all of Cerberus’ heads combined...

Mammon swore in front of them once and Barbatos strung him up so tightly that even Lucifer thought it was overkill.

Luke seems to enjoy having a baby sibling of sorts to look after, but he is going to be so upset when they get taller than him in the blink of an eye. He’s going to be their guardian angel for sure, btw.

As a father, Solomon is… spirited. Anyone can see that he’s ecstatic to be a parent, it’s just…

Well, years of isolation on top of being a once-in-a-lifetime prodigy may not have made him the most “in touch” with children these days, you know? MC has absolutely come home to find Solomon has propped up their 6-month-old with a stack of books to start teach them how to play chess.

Daddy-Baby adventure always end in spectacular fashion. Solomon is a very “hands-on science teacher” kind of guy with unwavering confidence in his abilities to keep his child safe. This, to be fair, isn’t unwarranted, however...

Does that mean you should make a plans to take your child to forbidden places for some sightseeing? Or let your child touch, paw at, and gnaw on any magic item that suits their fancy in the name of a making a new teaching experience...? Probably not, but it’s also how he learned so…

It must be assumed that whatever kid these two have, biological or not, will be a magic powerhouse of destructive proportions. All that training from Solomon himself since infancy? They'll have a wand in their hand before they can even work a fork!

I like to imagine that Solomon's kid would have a very, very hard time controlling their magic and it would get uncontrollable at times. Like, a sneeze could knock over a bookshelf or getting angry makes things go flying. But Solomon would never ever scold them for it like it’s they're fault.

He'd never make them feel the same isolation and shame that he did at their age.

It would be very, very sweet. But it also means that MC could come home to a flooded house and, instead of cleaning out the water, Solomon would teaching their child how to snorkel in the living room.

Pure chaos, but MC could never find a prouder father. Solomon would devote his entire being to giving their child all of the love and happiness they deserve. Their kid almost never sees him without a grin on his face, just ready to just wrap them a bear hug for no reason.

On quiet nights, he'd cradle them or rock them to sleep while holding back tears. MC has found him over their crib like he’s still trying to convince himself that they're real, that he's gotten this lucky.

He's not a conventional father. Hell, he's not a conventional human either. But he’s grateful for day he gets to be a parent... Every. Single. One.

#tales from the drafts #obey me #obey me shall we date #shall-we-date-obey-me #obey me solomon #obey me nightbringer #omnb #obey me headcanons #obey me scenarios #solomon x mc #solomon x reader #tw pregnancy #tw: pregnancy

[wildemaven]

My sweet Heidi! Congrats again on your 1K bby!! You deserve it and even more!! I was wondering if I could put in a blind drabble request with my love Frankie and numbers 22 and 301. I’m so proud of everything you’re doing and am so glad to call you one of my best buds. 💜💜💜

Meet Cute in the Garden Section

Wildemaven 1k Celebration / 1k Masterlist Pairing: Frankie Morales x Reader

Warnings: 18+ Blog; No warnings, just fluff!

Prompts: "This doesn't smell like roses." / "It was nice meeting you."

You don’t mean to stare. Actually you do, because it’s the cutest thing you’ve seen in a while. 

Between reading the tiny plant labels and filling your cart with an array of plants you had been looking forward to purchasing for your growing garden, you can’t help but notice a Dad and his daughter an aisle over doing some planting shopping of their own. 

He seems a little lost, removing his tattered ball cap every once in a while to comb through his chestnut locks, as he examines each plant his daughter holds up to him. His furrowed brow gives you the impression he doesn’t shop for plants often. 

As you continue your browsing, you find yourself in the same section as the cute shopping duo. In closer proximity you decide the Dad is quite cute with how his eyes crinkle when he smiles at something his daughter is saying and you think you see a hint of a dimple through his patchy beard. 

“This one is cute too Papa! Look at it.” The sweet little girl, who looks to be around 5 or 6 years old, says to her Dad holding up the tiny potted plant. “Can we get this one too?”

He takes the plant from her tiny hands, squinting as if he either forgot his glasses at home or thinks he doesn’t need them and continues struggling through reading small print. 

“I don’t know baby, I can’t really tell what the little symbol is, if this one is saying full sun or partial— maybe no sun?? This one might be a little more difficult to take care of.” He tells her as he goes to place it back in its designated spot. 

“Actually, those are pretty easy to take care of— perfect starter plants too.” You say, giving him a reassuring smile so as to not come off as some creepy stranger in the garden department. “Sorry, didn’t mean to bother you, just thought you should know.”

“Thanks— thank you. As you might have guessed, I know nothing about plants, or gardening for that matter.” He says, laughing at confessing his lack of knowledge about plants to a complete stranger. There’s definitely a dimple, way more prominent when he laughs. 

“That’s okay, we all start somewhere. So far, all of your choices are great ones, you shouldn’t have too much trouble getting things going.” You tell him as you glance over their selections. 

“So there’s hope for us then?”

“Definitely!”

“Papa! This doesn't smell like roses!” The sweet little girl, who looks like a copy and paste version of her father, declares while shoving another plant into their nearly filled cart. 

“That’s because it’s a succulent, no real scent to them.” You say, and guessing by her confused expression, she doesn’t know what one is. “It’s like a cactus, but none of those pokey needles on them. They’re fun to take care of because they don’t need a lot of water to grow and love the sun, very low maintenance.”

“That’s just what our garden needs, low maintenance.”

He doesn’t have a ring, but you're aware not everyone wears one these days, so you use your sleuth skills to ask about his marital status so you don’t over step any sort of boundaries. 

“Well, I’m sure your wife will be happy with everything you two have picked out.”

“Oh, we’re not married— I have her on the weekends and she’s been begging to plant a garden since she has one at her mom’s place. And I have no clue what I’m doing so I’m just guessing as we go.” 

Cute, and single. 

“I’m Frankie and this is Isabella.”

You give him your name and you continue to talk him through his gardening hesitations, really soaking up everything little detail you’re sharing with him— wishing he had something to take notes knowing he’ll probably forget most of it by the time they get home. 

“It was nice meeting you. I hope you both have fun and I wish you the best of luck in your gardening ventures.” Realizing you had definitely overstayed your welcome, but wishing you could chat more with Frankie— and not just about plants and their needs. 

You give them both a friendly wave goodbye, turning back to your cart to make your way to pay for your own plants, looking forward to an afternoon of planting and deciding what to make for dinner. 

You had finished loading your car with your collection of flowers and a few bags of potting soil, when you hear your name being called, and turn to see Frankie and Isabella walking in your direction. 

“Hey! More gardening questions?” 

“Yeah, I mean— not really. I was wondering, umm if I could maybe get your number. In case I were to have any questions about garden stuff, I could text you or call if you prefer— or I could turn back around and head to my car and we can pretend this lame attempt at me asking to see you again didn’t happen.” He sounds nervous, his one hand firmly tucked into the pocket of his jeans and the other securely around Isabella’s tiny hand— his irresistible smile and charming personality has really won you over. 

“I’d love to give you my number— for gardening and stuff.” 

#wildemaven 1k celebration #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales #francisco catfish morales #francisco morales x reader #francisco morales x you #pedro pascal #wildemaven writes #wildemaven blind drabbles

[sleeplessdreamer123]

Fanfic Idea! (Lucemond, Part 2 of, Where Lucerys is dead, until he isn't)

Part 1:

Lucerys was an odd boy. Ever since he escaped the hands of the Stranger, he became...different, and not just from the new addition of white hairs mixed with brown on his head, or the strange coloring of his left eye, brown, but it had turned purple in the near center.

For starters, he was colder. Not in personality, but in body temperature. It got worse when he slept, he was so cold his older brother called for the Maesters, thinking he had passed, and if it weren't for his beating heart and his breathing, they would have prepared for yet another Velaryon funeral.

He avoids empty spaces, even making way for things that aren't even there. They heard him having a one-sided conversation with dead air.

When his father, Laenor, died, instead of crying like his brothers, he simply told them that Laenor wasn't dead. This greatly confused Rhaenys. Does this boy mean Laenor would be like him, returning from the grave, escaping the Stranger?

When asked, he simply looked at her, confused, and repeated his statement. His father Laenor isn't dead.

He then asked her to lower herself, and once she did, he whispered something in her ear. Her face was calm, but her eyes began to burn the more Lucerys talked.

It was not known what he said, but Rhaenys was said to have requested a private audience with her gooddaughter Rhaenyra. It was also said that at that time, she had gotten closer to little Lucerys, even answering the strangest questions, because according to Lucerys, "They asked."

He was even able to do certain things. Like learning secrets, for instance. From something as small as the servants gossiping, to something as large as the plot to feed his mother moon tea mixed in her food while she was pregnant with Aegon III.

Yes, Lucerys was a strange boy.

And soon, that odd boy grew to be lovely young man, with a larger man in black dutifully following him everywhere.

------

It all started when he died. He was dead for a few minutes, and for a moment, he was one of the very beings he hears only tales of. He watched his mother screaming, but he couldn't understand. He tried reaching up to her, but he couldn't touch her at all. He tried to scream, to shout, but he couldn't make a sound.

Then he saw it. His body. Bleeding on the floor, pooling, painting it red. He could feel pain in his chest, but how? His heart stopped beating already. He wished to cry, scream. But he couldn't. And it was worse, suffering in silence.

He was cold. It wasn't uncomfortable, but it was strange. He didn't like it. He never felt this sort of cold. He always had fire in his blood to warm him.

Then he felt something cool, much cooler than himself, on his shoulder. Turning around, he saw a large man cloaked in darkness.

"Too young. Much too young."

The man's voice was strange, warbly and echoing. It sounded familiar, but at the same time, it sounded completely foreign.

"Return to your body, child. It is not your time, yet."

He subconsciously nodded, but he could feel himself fading. He felt something strange, and he jumped when he felt it. A heart beat.

And when he opened his eyes and gasped. He was in the center of Maesters.

His memory was a blur those days, but he remembered thinking how strange it was, for the usual empty hallways to be crowded with strange looking people, in different, strange clothing, wearing symbols he did not recognize. Soon, he understood.

He can see them. Spirits. Entities. Specters. When he was younger, he would have talked to them for hours, but then they began to ask him to do things, so they may let go of their resentment and finally embrace the Stranger, and at first it was little things, like giving a certain servant girl roses, or giving hidden money to so and so's mother, but then it got worse. One even asked him to poison a cook, and he got scared, and they got angry when they found out he refuses to do it. He finds it easier to ignore such requests now, at least. Although he does certain favors for them (favors he was willing to do), and in exchange, they give him news and lessons and stories. It was interesting, how much the ghosts gossip, how much accumulated knowledge and secrets they have. It became easier to learn of a person's plots when the ghosts have heard it coming straight from their lips, though some do exaggerate at times. Soon, Lucerys learned which spirit to trust for reports, and which ones he needed to be wary of.

They didn't have a sense of personal space, after all, no one could see them. They have gone so far as to put their face mere centimeters away from someone to "assess" them, hells, he saw some of them try entering his mother's room when it was time for her to bathe.

Strangely, when he ordered them to never enter there, they followed. They didn't understand, he didn't understand, but he tries not to upset them by using his "capabilities" too much. It was better for them to continue to like him, after all.

When he was 10, his uncle was given to him as a sworn knight, his shield and protector. He was trained by none other than Lucerys' step-father, Daemon. It was strange, having his uncle following him around (it used to be the opposite).

He can't say he doesn't enjoy his company, though it was hard conversing with the spirits with his presence. Once, he tried talking to them in his bath, and Aemond quickly opened the doors to a very naked, very much alone Lucerys.

He quickly left, red-faced, and only interrogated him once he was sure he was decent.

-------

So I decided to write a part 2!

Any thoughts? Violent reactions?

#aemond targaryen #aemond x lucerys #lucemond #lucerys velaryon #lucerys x aemond #aemond one eye #sworn sword Aemond

[calliesmemes]

WICKED: THE BROADWAY MUSICAL

IN HONOR OF THE UPCOMING FILM ADAPTATION, SENTENCE STARTERS PULLED FROM THE SCRIPT AND LYRICS OF THE BROADWAY MUSICAL WICKED.

CHANGE gendered words and in-universe phrases as needed.

SPECIFY muse for multimuses.

FROM THE SONGS

“   It's good to see me, isn't it? ”

“   Isn’t it nice to know that good will conquer evil? ”

“   Are people born wicked, or do they have wickedness thrust upon them? ”

“  Many years I have waited for a gift like yours to appear. ”

“   Did that really just happen? ”

“   This weird quirk that I've tried to suppress or hide is a talent? ”

“   My whole life will change. ”

“   No one thinks you're strange. ”

“   I’ve just had a vision almost like a prophecy. ”

“   I will be loathing you my whole life long! ”

“   We’re all on your side! ”

“   The things one hears these days! Dreadful things! ”

“   The trouble with schools is that they always try to teach the wrong lesson. ”

“   Those who don’t try never look foolish. ”

“   So — what does one do for fun around here? ”

“   We’ll meet there later tonight. ”

“   I’ve got something to confess. ”

“   Now that we're friends, I've decided to make you my new project. ”

“   It’s the toughest case I’ve yet to face. ”

“   I’m determined to succeed. ”

“   There’s nothing that can stop you. ”

“   I am a sentimental man. ”

“   I think everyone deserves the chance to fly. ”

“   Why couldn't you have stayed calm for once, instead of flying off the handle?! ”

“   I hope you think you're clever! ”

“   I hope you're proud of how you would grovel in submission to feed your own ambition! ”

“   Listen to me — just say you're sorry. ”

“   You can have all you ever wanted. ”

“   Something has changed within me. ”

“   I'm through with playing by the rules of someone else’s game. ”

“   You're having delusions of grandeur! ”

“   Some things I cannot change, but till I try, I'll never know! ”

“   Come with me. Think of what we could do — together ”

“   If we work in tandem, there’s no fight we cannot win. ”

“   Well? Are you coming? ”

“   Let us put aside our panic for this one day, and celebrate! ”

“   Oh what a celebration we’ll have today! ”

“   People are so empty-headed that they'll believe anything! ”

“   I am a sentimental man, who always longed to be a father. ”

“   I think everyone deserves the chance to fly. ”

“   Why couldn't you have stayed calm for once, instead of flying off the handle?! ”

“   I hope you think you're clever! ”

“   I hope you're proud how you would grovel in submission to feed your own ambition! ”

“   Listen to me — just say you're sorry. ”

“   You can have all you ever wanted. ”

“   Something has changed within me. ”

“   I'm through with playing by the rules of someone else’s game. ”

“   You're having delusions of grandeur! ”

“   Some things I cannot change, but till I try, I'll never know! ”

“   Come with me. Think of what we could do — together ”

“   If we work in tandem, there’s no fight we cannot win. ”

“   Well? Are you coming? ”

“   Let us put aside our panic for this one day, and celebrate! ”

“   Oh what a celebration we’ll have today! ”

“   People are so empty-headed that they'll believe anything! ”

“   I never asked for this, or planned it in advance. ”

“   Believe me, it's hard to resist. ”

“   See, I never had a family of my own. ”

“   So you lied to them. ”

“   We believe all sorts of things that aren't true. We call it "history” ”

“   It's all in which label is able to persist. ”

“   With my help, you can be the same. ”

“   I need help believing you're with me tonight. ”

“   I've lost all resistance. ”

“   You've got me seeing through different eyes. ”

“   Somehow I've fallen under your spell. ”

“   I don't even know what I'm reading! ”

“   I don't even know what trick I ought to try. ”

“   No good deed goes unpunished. ”

“   One question haunts and hurts. ”

“   Was I really seeking good or just seeking attention? ”

“   You can do all I couldn't do. ”

“   I've heard it said that people come into our lives for a reason. ”

“   Well, I don't know if I believe that's true. ”

“   I know I'm who I am today because I knew you. ”

“   You'll be with me, like a handprint on my heart. ”

“   Now whatever way our stories end, I know you have rewritten mine by being my friend. ”

“   I ask forgiveness for the things I've done that you blame me for. ”

FROM THE SCRIPT

“   It was a long time ago; we were both very young. ”

“   You can all come visit me whenever you want! ”

“   Would you like to share my lunch? ”

“   I seem to have lost my appetite. ”

“   How I wish that you could have known this place as it once was. ”

“   I won't last longer at this school than I did at any of the others. ”

“   I hope you'll save at least one dance for me. ”

“   Don’t you dare say another word against her! ”

“   Now, just pretend you didn't see that. ”

“   I hope you’ll prove me wrong. ”

“   What? Never apologize for talent. Talent is a gift! ”

“   I shall tutor you privately. ”

“   Something’s wrong — I didn’t get my way! ”

“   I think I need to lie down. ”

“   I really don’t see what the problem is. ”

“   That may be your secret, but that does not make it true. ”

“   This is never going to work! ”

“   Well, are you just going to sit here in silence? ”

“   They are not telling you the whole story! ”

“   You mean … this has happened before? ”

“   Who is responsible for this? ”

“   I do hope that I haven’t misplaced my trust in you. ”

“   Young lady, do you realize who this is? ”

“   I hope you’ll save at least one dance for me. ”

“   I would do anything for you. ”

“   Well, it’s not like it’s your fault. ”

“   You don’t need to do that, you know. ”

“   I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do. ”

“   Well, somebody has to do something! ”

“   We’ve got to find someplace safe! ”

“   You think I’m really stupid, don’t you? ”

“   I don’t cause commotions — I am one! ”

“   You could have walked away back there, but you didn’t. ”

“   Fine. Look, if you don’t want my help— ”

“   I didn’t mean to frighten him. ”

“   I don’t know what to say! How can I ever thank you? ”

“   Will you be alright without me? ”

“   Maybe he just isn’t the right one for you. ”

“  Let her go. She’ll have to manage without you. ”

“   I think about that day a lot. ”

“   It doesn’t matter what your name is, everyone loves you. ”

“   I want to remember this moment. ”

“   For the first time, I’m somewhere where I belong. ”

“   Who are you and why do you seek me?! ”

“   People expect this sort of thing and you have to give people what they want. ”

“   I’m so happy to meet you. ”

“   What would you like me to do? ”

“   It’s a lost language—the lost language of spells. ”

“   Don’t be discouraged if you cannot decipher it. ”

“   What an experience you’re about to have! ”

“   What is it? Is something wrong? ”

“   You did it! You actually did it! ”

“   So it’s you. You’re behind it all. ”

“   The best way to bring folks together is to give them a really good enemy. ”

“   You have no real power! ”

“   You have so many opportunities ahead of you! ”

“   Believe nothing she says, she is evil! ”

“   It’s not her! She has nothing to do with it! I’m the one you want! It’s me! ”

“   I can't just stand here grinning and pretending to go along with all of this! ”

“   We can't leave now, not when people are looking to us to raise their spirits. ”

“   You can't leave, because you can't resist this. ”

“   I'm sorry. Did I scare you? I seem to have that effect on people. ”

“   Nobody can know I’m here! ”

“   It’s just me. I’m not going to hurt you! ”

“   You're lying! That's all you ever do! ”

“   Hear me out. I never meant to harm you. ”

“   The truth is I'm glad to see you again. It gets pretty lonely around here. ”

“   You don't know the first thing about me. ”

“   You've been so strong through all of this, aren't you tired of being the strong one? ”

“   I am nothing like you and I never will be and I will fight you until the day I die! ”

“   I thought — I though you might have changed. ”

“   You don’t need to lie to me. ”

“   Shh! Listen... Do you hear that? ”

“   We will see each other again, won't we? ”

“   We are going to be together always. ”

“   I don't think we have anything further to say to one another. ”

“   You mustn't blame yourself. ”

“   He never belonged to you, he doesn't love you, and he never did! He loves me! ”

“   I can't believe you would sink this low! ”

“   Wait, what?! What are you doing? Stop it! ”

“   You've wanted this since the beginning... and now you're getting what you wanted. ”

“   Promise me, promise me, you won't try to clear my name... promise. ”

“   You’re the only friend I’ve ever had. ”

“   My professional opinion is that you do not have what it takes. ”

#askbox meme #askbox prompt #rp ask meme #ask box #roleplay sentence meme #sentence starters #roleplay prompts #roleplay sentence starters #* sentence meme #fantasy rp #broadway rp #historical rp #titanic rp #musical rp

[vicsy]

maxiel wrestling au ✨ 2.7k words that boinked me in the head cause i miss the good old days.

The new guy is way too green to be fit into a match right before the main event and Daniel voices his genuine concern with zero hesitation. It's his reputation at risk. Christian claps him on the shoulder assuredly, paints the guy — his name is Max and he goes by Super Max until creative will have something to do with that, fuck's sake — in the brightest colors. Tries to make a sell, a corporate rat in and out of the ring.  

And the thing is, the new guy is sort of gloomy, doesn't smile much even when Daniel offers his signature greeting. He's not a fucking asshole, he won't tell a rookie to go to hell for that. They've all been there, first day jitters and all. But, man, this new guy. Something is off about him. 

His ring gear, for starters, and Daniel shouldn't be the judge since his mom made him his first ill-fitting set back in Australia when Daniel was seventeen and scrawny, fresh-faced with crooked teeth and the energy of three hundred power plants. So, yeah, it's bad wrestling etiquette or whatever but the outline of a lion in the middle of the rookies' — sorry, Max's — ass is… something. The blue and gold shorty shorts fit alright, though, Daniel does give them an appreciative look. He prefers pants and shin guards, that's all.  

And, shit, looks like this Super Max, for crying out loud, designs his gear himself, judging by this very self-indulgent print. People are gonna tear him to shreds, like vultures; crush his spirit, knowing how this biz works when you're twenty-five and still wide-eyed, full of dreams of making it big, becoming the next Shawn Michaels or The Great Senna. 

Max is surely no wrestling royalty, no Rosberg or Flair or Schumaher. His dad was some midcarder in the late eighties back when FWF was at the cusp of breaking viewership records. And, surely, Max is a texbook continuation of his father's unfulfilled hopes. Daniel can read it in the way Max held himself, in the way his arms fidget when he talks and beside him Christian nods, proud, like it was his son making his big screen debut.

Daniel wonders, why him. Putting Max against younger guys would have been more plausible. Putting a company rookie against an established champion definitely seemed like a choice. 

"Don't forget that I make the calls, Daniel," Christian says, the finality in his voice clear as day when Max steps away to put his signature on a contract for the night. Then the suit-and-tie fucker gives him a cunning little smile and Daniel swallows a witty response stuck on the tip of his tongue. "Besides, he asked very, uh, insistently to pair you two up. How could I have been in the right mind to say no to the future of wrestling wanting to take on one of the crowd favorites?"

Well. Fuck. Daniel would know how, being an absolute gem on the mic but nobody's asking, so he's shit out of luck in that department. And currently booked in match with a guy who apparently admires him. Same height and, what? Eight years younger? Daniel tries not to read it as a sign for retirement. 

They settle on a cage match and, surely, it means essentially throwing Max into the deep end from day one but his eyes shine eagerly and he goes on a tangent, dissects the match step by step as if he's been running with the FWF for as long as Daniel did. Ten fucking years, thank you very much, and he knows damn well how to put on a show without some jobber — alright, sure, Daniel isn't supposed to squash him but still — running his mouth with a wrestling for dummies kind of talk. But Max didn't look like the same person who glowered at Daniel minutes before. He seems like someone who loved wrestling with all his being, lived and breathed the craft, came alive with the sound of the bell, the boos and cheers; the bruises and tore muscles, broken bones and bittersweet victories. 

"We doing the spot?" Daniel interrupts but in good nature, stretching his shoulders one by one, wearing a lazy smile to hide his annoyance. He half expects Max to refuse, back out of it. Wouldn't blame him, really. "Top of the cage, before the bell."

"Of course," Max answers too quickly, voice croaky, his chin lifted high as if Daniel offended him. Doubted him on the spot; doubted his hunger to make a name in the biggest wrestling federation known in the world. "It's a cage match after all. We have to make a good show."

We, huh? Perhaps the kid knows a thing or two. 

"Yeah, cool," Daniel tugs his Beats on, cues a special playlist in a pre-match ritual. "See ya in the ring, Super Maxy-Max."

He walks off to warm up as the show begins but not before noticing a sudden blush on Max's pale cheeks, his chest puffing with a response that he breathes out in a language Daniel can't place. He bounces around backstage, high-fives miserable-looking Charles on his way from the ring. His chest is streaked with red lines. Poor guy took the brunt of Fernando's chops. Daniel could still hear his music playing as he celebrated a win accompanied by heartfelt boos of the crowd. Eh, fucking marks. 

Daniel makes a point of not acknowledging Max at gorilla position, adjusting his shockingly colourful ring gear instead, slinging the FWF championship belt over his shoulder. It's childish to use it as a shield and Daniel is the nicest guy to his core, cross his heart, but the wrestling biz is cutthroat. And even Max's music is not on par with the standarts when it plays after Daniel finished making his way to the ring, greeted the crowd and sent the shirt he wore flying towards the grabby hands of his faithful fans. They are, truly so, booing loudly along with the generic entrance song, letting Max feel their disdain from the start, not letting him mistake it as a warm welcome. Not against their favorite Badger. 

And yet, Max's face remains blank. The way he slowly removes his own t-shirt and neatly leaves it on the side of the ring pulls a chuckle out of Daniel. God, he's so spectacularly green. 

Simply on the grounds of Daniel being a fucking face, he reaches his hand out after the bell dings and the metal cage above them descends agonizingly slow, inviting Max to lock up; a class act. Max knocks his hand away, expression scrunched in a mask of disgust. Daniel takes every assumption he made back; they're about to have a grand ol' time. 

Max's style is a bit choppy but he doesn't strike Daniel as a high-flying type. Mostly old school moves, orchestrated to a precision not every rookie has. They exchange a couple of blows and Daniel takes initiative for the time being. He ducks away from a spear and Max hits the turnbuckle shoulder first, turning with a grimace of pain. He doesn't oversell, a great fucking sign for them both, and Daniel bounces off the ropes to deliver a flying knee to the side of Max's jaw. He takes it magnificently, falling to his knees completely unbalanced. 

Maybe, just maybe, he owes Christian the benefit of the doubt. At very least, their styles are a match, perfect opposites to elevate each other's strengths. Max's brawler against Daniel's technician; a study of contrasts between the brawn and the showmanship. 

He ends up putting Max in a figure-four smack dab in the middle of the ring so he can’t reach for the ropes to save himself and, shit, he sells so wonderfully that Daniel's mind wanders. There is something in the bend of Max's neck, in the strength of his entire figure — built but limber, writhing under Daniel's scrutiny, completely at his mercy. The give Max's body begs to be molded in his hands and, suddenly, a startlingly clear image surfaces at the back of Daniel's mind. Tag matches turning into tag titles, titles turning into a betrayal to feed the storyline; and then the redemption arc.

Then, a reunion. Full circle. Squared circle.

It's breathtaking, in truth. The easy push and pull, the synergy buzzing in the air between them, Max struggling out of the submission hold to pin Daniel's shoulders against the mat. A brash fucking attempt for a pin; he kicks out at one and rolls some distance away, eyeing Max to add to the dramatic of their unlikely clash. 

The crowd goes wild. Daniel stretches his lips in a smile, sharp like the jagged edges of the glass they pour out for hardcore matches. He catches himself thinking that he'd go for one with Max. Maybe just to see those lips bloodied, returning his smile tenfold. 

Time's almost out, the referee lets them know discreetly. Daniel lets Max turn the tide, drive him head first into the wall of the cage, hitting through the ropes with a clang. Daniel's head gets beaten against the turnbuckle, his back slammed against the mat with a perfectly executed chokeslam and the crowd gasps with sympathy. Max busies himself with prying the gate of the cage open, acting the heel part eerily well as Daniel catches his breath, sells Max's beating appropriately, without an overkill. 

He pulls Daniel outside of the cage, outside the ring, dragging his face against the barricade towards the commentator table. Max makes sure to interact with the crows, give them an opportunity to hate him, call him names. Something akin to adoration swells in Daniel's chest; he doesn't understand where it's coming from and then Max clotheslines him hard and he crumbles onto the floor lined with thin mats.

Good move, that. Suits the set up right.

Max almost throws a middle finger to the crowd and starts climbing the side of the cage with a single intent, much to the horror of the arena. Yeah, real fucking marks but Daniel wouldn't have it any other way. He counts to thirty in his head, sprawled flat on his back near the commentator table, having one of their tiny screens jammed in his midsection before by Max's enthusiastic efforts. He counts and follows the lines of Max's body, the broadness of his shoulders and the paleness of his skin. It makes Daniel's mind wander anew, in a direction it shouldn't, not in the middle of a high-risk match. 

The crowd gets antsy, urging Daniel to get the hell up, and so he does, Max halfway up on the cage, unknowing, with a sinister plan of his own. His muscles protest but it's hardly anything new. Daniel manages to catch up to Max in a flurry of adrenaline-addled motion, reaching up to hook his hand in Max's ridiculous shorts. Max looks down at him, expression purely shocked to satisfy the crowd and Daniel counts again as he tugs. Once, twice.

It's never pleasant, plummeting down and straight onto the commentator table. It breaks with a horrible sound under Max's back and he lies there, unmoving, the commentators standing not far away, still doing their job. Daniel hangs onto the slippery metal of the cage, listening to the crowd yelling and frothing at the mouth for him to do the thing they all came here for. He raises one hand and pumps his fists in the air twice, eliciting a reaction that makes his mind go into an overdrive. 

He takes a breath, bending his elbow for his signature move and jumps.

The Ricciardo Special lands beautifully on Max's midsection, making him yelp and seize from the pain. Daniel is so used to hitting the ground this way but the calmness that comes hand in hand with the fall is forever unsettling. Max breathes raggedly underneath him, limbs akimbo and his eyes half-shut, eyelashes fanning his splotched cheeks. From Daniel's point of view he looks like someone gave him a fuck of a lifetime. The sight makes Daniel's heart skip.

In the wreckage at the ringside, the perpetual hunger Daniel left unsated stirs impatiently, awakening from a famished slumber.  

Max's body under his own feels like it belongs; feels like a missing piece finally fitting. It hits Daniel like a freight train, the all-encompassing normalcy in the midst of controlled chaos.

He squeezes Max's wrist twice in a silent question, their limbs tangled together on the broken bits of the table. Max's fingers twitch against his hold — yes, I'm okay. 

And the show goes on towards the long-awaited climax. 

It takes Daniel thirty seconds to peel Max off the floor by the back of his neck, squeezing tight and roughly hauling him back inside the cage, rolling them both into the ring. It's a whole ordeal, his body exhausted and Max matches him there, too, playing the beaten to the pulp heel as if he's been doing it since he learned how to walk. Daniel drags him to the middle of the mat again, admiring the pliancy with which Max follows. There's a persistent ringing in his ears and an electric shock wracks through him when he gets his hand's on parts of Max's body he managed not yet to touch, no resistance as he bends him in half, Daniel's palm sliding against the sweaty skin under Max's knees. The referee appears next to them, slamming his palm against the mat.

One. Two. 

And when Max eats the pin like he's supposed to, like they've settled in the pre-match booking with Christian, Max's prominent mouth pressed into a thin line making Daniel think who the fuck does this jobber think he is, all the sounds of the packed arena rush into his ears as the bell rings and the cage finally lifts, freeing them. The crowd erupts and Daniel rolls over onto his back, gulping air, Max's arm pinned under him, sweaty skin sticking together. His music hits like a fucking tornado; another win sequred under his belt but all Daniel can muster at that moment is to turn his head against the stiffness in his neck, catching Max's gaze already trained on him. Mouth open, chest rising up and falling so rapidly Daniel seems to lose his breath again. 

Or perhaps it's the shine in Max's eyes, their color clear-blue like the spotlights above. Daniel finds it hard to look away and he desperately needs to drag himself to his feet, clutch the championship belt to his chest, an assurance of his stature; something solid to hang on to.

Max asked to wrestle him first. Daniel grasps at the foreign feeling blooming behind his ribcage.

His win doesn't feel like one. Not with Max suddenly so close to claiming a space for himself, claiming what's his and he's so damned good it scares Daniel momentarily. But the fear dissipates as quickly as the pain does when someone lands a chair shot just the right way. A satisfying kind of pain. With a slight twitch of his mouth, Max is the first to move away, further to the ropes. The skin of his back is angry red, the mess of moles speckled with blood where the impact from the commentator table scratched and tore into his flesh. 

Max rolls off the ring and limps up the ramp, holding his ribs gingerly. He turns when the referee raises Daniel's hand and he manages to straighten the other one with belt in it, showing it off as you still got it echoes in a thousand voices. For the first time he doesn't revel in the outpour of love and adoration, the crowd clapping and chanting his name. He doesn't look them over with a smile and his chest still feels caged, much like he and Max were moments ago, locked in what wasn't just a match. 

Something snaps; something ends. Daniel feels the shift clear, like the Earth tilting on its axis taking him with it and leaving Max standing still, his scuffed, golden boots rooted firmly to the ground. The weight of the championship belt turns laden, drags Daniel deep into the uncharted waters as he stares Max down, challenging and unabashed, blood thrumming with adrenaline. The bundled tightness in his chest lingers and lingers and lingers.

A corner of Max's mouth quirks up, eyes crinkling; no real malice behind them, just an answer to a soundless call, a promise for more. 

Daniel feels like he's the one plummeting down from the cage, from the top of a tower he built in his own name, not with stone but with blood, sweat and tears. Max follows suit, crashing into him without reservation, raw talent and blunt force, the soft edges of him breaking through skin and bone going straight for the heart; straight for the pin. 

The count follows, inescapably.

In his mind, Daniel doesn't kick out. 

#vicsy writes #maxiel #waves hands vaguelly #this is very poorly put together and i haven't written so deliriously in months #serves me right to remember that wrestling is my first love #daniel/max #maxiel fic #daniel ricciardo #max verstappen #f1 rpf #333 #apologies for all the fucking mistakes I surely missed #i just need to get it all out #wrestling au

[baratiddyappreciator]

I’d love to see some kureha headcanons from you!! (And maybe even some that involve Jack??) I’ve been really enjoying seeing ur headcanons in my feed!

I don't really know if you meant this as in a ship/friendship way, but I just decided to go overboard and put effort in to explore their weird ass (gay) dynamic lmao

Kureha HCs:

Kureha speed-reads. It's a habit he developed in elementary school so he could spend more time protecting his brother, and it was a fantastic help during his studies to become a doctor.

This man has a flawless memory. You mentioned something to him three years ago about something you liked but it was out of stock? Guess what, he bought it at it's lowest price point and is now giving it to you on your birthday. Surprise!

His handwriting is the WORST for non-professional things. You got a prescription from him? Yeah, you can read that just fine! Patient charts? The most flawless writing you have ever seen. He left you a note on your computer? You think that says coffee, but it could also say chicken, so now you're confused.

Claims to be against workplace gossip and against participating until he gets home, because then he's telling you all about how Ayumi from the front desk is fucking the neurologist and his wife just hired a PI, but apparently she's been messing around with the janitor at her job.

He has favourite patients. Jack is simultaneously his favourite and least favourite patient, the man will just sit and let him do whatever he wants as long as it's in the name of improvement, but he's TERRIBLE at recovery. Kureha says "bedrest for three weeks with mild exercise", and Jack hears "Don't push yourself until the point of passing out for three days".

Speaking of patients, he absolutely takes meticulous notes. Is the patient being difficult and rude? Oh it's going on their chart in meticulous detail. They called him a name and refused to take their meds? It's on the chart in the most professional but still passive-aggressive way.

Jack HCs:

Uncannily good at math. If you ask him, offhandedly and as casually as possible for an answer to a math question, he'll almost instantly get you an answer, and most of the time it's either spot on or really close. Baki has tried to get Jack to answer the questions for his math homework before, and it took a while before Jack realised what was up.

He learned about Baki a while before he actually met him, but he still hasn't processed that he's an older brother, so occasionally Baki will call him brother super casually and Jack will just [dialup noises] for a solid minute until he remembers "oh right yeah, that's actually my little brother."

Forever tired and hungry, but determined enough to get away with a chronic lack of sleep for months on end until he finally crashes. Healthy? No. He knows it too, but he's got things to do, and sleep can wait until he's kicked his father's ass. If he keeps being such a strong favourite too, a nice comfortable mattress is in store for him.

He knows he can beat bears in a fight (as with most wild animals that he grew up knowing) but the problem is that he doesn't like bears, he grew up knowing that you don't mess with bears, because they'll ruin your day. He'll deal with them no problem, but he won't like it.

He doesn't wake up very fast at all, most of the time he just gains conscience like two hours after waking up and he's doing something. He's "woken" up before after having an hour long conversation with Tokugawa about his hometown after Father Samuel called him.

He sometimes (when he's very tired or just waking up) will forget just how big he is. He has slammed his head against doorframes many times. He will continue to do so most likely.

Jack and Kureha HCs:

Jack and Kureha as friends are two weird mfs. For starters, Jack is quiet and stoic, so most people that see him assume that he's either some sort of bodyguard for Kureha, or that he's annoyed by him. In reality, Jack's just a quiet person, and Kureha takes every chance to talk his ears off because he won't interrupt unless it's important.

Sometimes it's painfully aware just how much more experienced and educated Kureha is in everyday matters. Jack didn't even go to high school, and Kureha managed to become a practicing doctor. Jack isn't stupid by any means, but sometimes Kureha absolutely loses him because he's talking about something Jack hasn't ever learned about before.

While Kureha can go off about medical jargon to Jack and lose him after just about five minutes, Jack can just start talking about the, quite frankly weird shit that happens out in the Canadian wilderness near his home, and Kureha just doesn't have any idea how to process the fact that at least some of what Jack tells him is true and has happened within Jack's direct line of sight.

Jack and Kureha dating, however, is very different. They're such bitches to each-other because they're so in love that they're at the "I fucking hate you" stage of their relationship, but only when they're out in public. It's a lot of Jack cleaning up the absolute mess that is Kureha's apartment, and Kureha making a mess out of the apartment the second Jack steps out.

Kureha absolutely tries to pull a whole dominant/submissive thing, with Jack being submissive, but mans was legitimately too chill to really care and it ruined the whole thing for Kureha, who legitimately pouted for a whole week. Jack had no idea what he did wrong either, he thought that Kureha wanted to be dominant, so he submitted. He's not really one to fight for dominance, if he wants it he'll just take it.

Neither of them being able to cook for shit, other than Jack being uncannily good at breakfast foods, so they either eat pancakes at 6pm or they go out to eat. It means less dishes (usually) so Jack doesn't complain, since Kureha could never do those.

A lot of Kureha saying that Kosho is being annoying and Jack being like "That's nice, Baki's chill, an angel really. Anyways, do your parents want me to come over?" Just so he can flex on Kureha that his little brother is the better one.

#baki son of ogre #baki the grappler #baki headcanons #baki dou #grappler baki #jack hanma #kureha shinogi #jack x kureha #kurejack

[sasster]

The Soldier and the Priest

You know how Ailzea is going through some things right now? WELL, he still has people that depend on him. Didn’t ya know?

Right so! Happy belated birthday to both Wren AND Seifer. <3 Those are some good guys right there.

[Doc]

--

Trolls of all sorts tend to find their way to the House of Restoration, this has been a reality since the death of that ruthless Reverend. A great deal looking to find a new home and community, some simply dropping in to say that they did, and the ones that come in search of an ear or shoulder for their strife.

There is no shortage of trolls that find their way to these church doors.

Ailzea is never bothered by their sudden appearances, armed with conversations that are just as profound for him as they are for them, and they are typically easy to find; Standing awkwardly among the members of his community with demons that weigh their heads and shoulders down.

Tonight a troll that he has never seen before stands at the entrance of the church, anxious fingers dancing and gripping rhythmically along the hem of a fleet sanctioned uniform. His fins twitch along to what Ailzea assumes is the beating of an erratic heart. Even the inexperienced in such matters could tell that he regretted even making the trip, the fear of retaliation clear as day in his eyes.

This stranger does not seem like trouble.

“I assume this is only a short visit?”

Though the priest, known for his soft spoken nature, approaches calmly, the soldier winces as though he’d been struck. Eyes better suited for a caged animal dart around wildly, and he takes a step that looks like he is much more likely to use it to jump out of his skin. He was poised to dart right back out those doors. The reaction seems more like he’d been burned, not like the typical response to a conversation starter.

The silent panic overtakes him as he swings his gaze around the room, the gears in his mind turning to cook up an excuse for having ended up here.

“My child. Whatever it entails, I will keep your visit between us.”

There is a beat of silence before the newcomer says anything.

“That,” he swallows. “I would greatly appreciate that, sir.”

“You may call me Ailzea.” the priest, offering a hand, says softly. “If you must honor me, Father Roatus will suffice.”

Once again, the violet blood is silent, for a much shorter stretch this time, before he swallows and accepts the offered hand.

“Thank you, Father. My name is Seifer.”

“Seifer,” he echoes. “What a lovely name.”

Hand in hand, the newcomer almost seems to melt into the embrace as the compliment reaches his ear and causes his drooping fins to perk for just a second. This is a man that has not known kindness in far too many sweeps.

“How may I ease your burdens, Seifer?”

“I don’t know why I am here. I think that I should not have come.”

As the priest leads the soldier to a vacant pew, he takes note of the way his fins fold to sit flat against his face, potentially in a bid to make himself appear smaller or in response to some form of expected abuse. Ailzea has been doing this long enough to know that no amount of words can convey to this poor soul that such abuse will not come, never at these hands, he merely squeezes Seifer’s as they take their seats.

“Well, you are here. Perhaps we can find a conversation to have.”

Seifer takes his hand back and folds both neatly into his lap, choosing to train his gaze on his feet instead of meeting Ailzea’s.

“Or we can sit in silence.”

His fins unfold and twitch a few times as he considers this, until finally he nods in the affirmative.

“Silence it is.”

The silence settles around the pair seamlessly, Seifer’s tail worries itself around his idle hands and his fins come to droop in a veil of sadness around his face. He looks like he must feel pathetic.

True to his word, Ailzea says nothing and instead focuses on the stained glass of the windows high above them. He appreciates the way the moons, now high in the cloudless sky, bathe them in their multicolor light.

It is a good night to unburden a new friend.

More time passes and the church empties of the few patrons that were milling about at the soldier’s arrival. If Ailzea had to guess, some form of community activity drew them away from the pewed room that protected the violet from the outside world. Perhaps these walls could do more to protect him.

Finally his tail uncurls from around his hands and he begins to card listlessly through his hair, then he speaks.

“I’m sorry.”

The declaration does not take Ailzea by surprise,it is obvious on his face that he is sorry.

Sorry, pathetic thing.

He wonders who has been taking advantage of him. What can he do for him?

Ailzea says nothing, whatever he has to say may steal the courage away from the poor thing.

“I don’t know how to talk about this,” his fingers torment a lock as he searches for the words. “But they say you’re the one to talk to.”

The priest only nods.

“What if I don’t do it right?” 

He lifts his head up to fix his eyes on the purple blood, and his shoulders shake with his uncertainty. 

“There is no proper way to do any of this. The best you can do is free the worry from your heart. Speak to me, my child.”

Seifer takes a shaky breath, one that forces his shoulders to shake even more. He looks like a leaf about to blow away in a breeze. He balls a hand into a fist around his poor worn out hair.

“I can’t die and it’s a curse that I wouldn’t wish on anyone.”

His breath hitches and the words fight their way fumbling out of his mouth, protesting the small cage of his chest that they’d been buried in all this time. 

The priest understands immediately what he means to say, no stranger to the odd visitor that struggles with such an affliction.

“Rarely is the one that has such a power the one that benefits from it, I am sorry to hear of this.”

At this response Seifer untangles his hands from his hair and once again coils an anxious tail around the pair, running his finger along its length. Frustration begins to etch its way onto his features, furrowing his brow in a way that only makes him look more exhausted. Tears start to form at the corners of his eyes.

Briefly, something in his eye gives insight to a quick internal struggle. Ailzea has seen this look many times before; Should he say more or stop where he is at? He says nothing to urge him in either direction, he only waits.

Seifer flounders in the silence for a bit, grasping for the words to say around the tail he continues to terrorize. It’s a marvel that he hasn’t worried the fins and skin right off of the poor thing.

“Is someone taking advantage of your curse?” Ailzea asks softly and a miserably sound dies in the soldier’s throat, strangled. 

That is all of the confirmation that he needs. He is no stranger to the cruelty that the fleet is capable of, the terror some of the trolls that now walk his halls used to have to deal with.

He remembers the cyborg he has become acquainted with that helps trolls out of such situations, only a phone call away.

“What sort of support are you looking for, my child?”

Once again, uncertainty etches itself into the poor worn out soldier’s features, it truly makes him look even more sad and pathetic.

Hopeless. He looks downright hopeless and the priest has had quite enough of the hopeless cases plaguing his life right now.

“I just wanted someone to listen.” Seifer squawks, all but pleading with the purple blood to not do anything with the information he has been provided.

“Yes, but,” the Restorer speaks slowly, searching within for the correct words that will not set this new charge of his into a paranoia spiral. Something about him says that some part of him feels he deserves this torture. That won’t stand. “I believe that I know someone that may be able to help me get you out of this situation. Do you suppose you can trust me a little longer?”

Seifer swallows, very quickly a speck of hope shines behind his eyes before he manages to kill the thought.

Why would he be so quick to entertain such an idea, anyway? Then again, his fluttering fins betray that defeatist demeanor.

“Come, please, let us speak somewhere more private.”

The soldier takes a deep breath, nods his head, and stands when the priest stands.

#the restorer #my good friend and buddy seifer <3 kiskiskis for u seifer #coko writes sometimes #long post

[barbex]

happy friday!! From the emotionally charged sentence starters, how about: ❝ why do you stick around? what is it you think you see in me? ❞

For @dadrunkwriting, thank you for this prompt! It's only fitting that this is a continuation from your last prompt, for which I wrote the Amnesia ficlet (https://barbex.tumblr.com/post/728915573761785856/happy-friday-from-the-emotionally-charged). Someone teach me how to write short because this is 2500 unedited words. I could say I'm sorry, but I'm not 😂😂😂.

Another fenders ficlet, of course.

---

Fenris' life in Kirkwall is not busy. Unless Hawke calls on him for a job, he has an astonishing amount of free time every day, something he never experienced as a slave. When he told Varric that he practises dance routines in the mansion's hall, it was only half of a lie. It's not dance movements, but stretches and martial arts forms. As a slave, every moment of his life had a purpose, even if it just meant to watch his master for mood changes. The first few weeks in the mansion, he didn't know what to do with himself, the walls closing in, the rotten corpses staring at him. 

Training, focussing on his fighting forms, saved his sanity.

Reading is a new way of spending his time, ever since Hawke taught him how. He discovered that he can spend a lot of time in a book, not even noticing the hours passing by, except for his legs cramping and a pinch in his neck. Sometimes he catches himself looking over his shoulder, as if someone would punish him for doing this. Reading. Him, a slave. 

But he seems to have found another pastime, recently. Taking off his sword, he steps into Anders' clinic, and leans it against the armor stand next to Lirene's desk. She placed it there just for his sword.

"Hello, Fenris," Lirene says, smiling at him. It took her a while to relax around him, but by now, he seems to have become a normal sight at the clinic. He washes his hands in a basin, looking over the line of people. It's a busy day once again, people of all kinds and races waiting in line for Lirene to write them into the book. One of the assistants takes the patients into the next room, sorting them by urgency with a well trained eye. Fenris does not feel comfortable doing that, he doesn't know enough about injuries and illnesses, but he knows how to help someone onto a cot, how to hold them down, and he knows how to clean and wash. 

Currently he washes bandages, or scraps of fabric being used as bandages. His finger are cold as he rinses them out, and he sighs with relief when he can move to the heated water to scrub them with soap. It's simple work, but nothing he has ever done before, at least in what he remembers from his life. It is kind of soothing, to use ones hands like this, while his thoughts wander elsewhere.

Currently — and annoyingly — his thoughts tend to wander to the one man in the clinic he always claims to hate and distrust. And — annoyingly again — if he is honest with himself, it is not true. Not anymore. Not since he had to accept that they had been so much closer while he had forgotten his fear of magic. He still has no memory of that time and Anders doesn't talk about what happened between them, but even with his limited experience, he can guess from his behaviour. They were friends. Maybe even more than that.

Anders kneels in front of a crying elven girl, speaking gently, while his hand brushes over her sprained wrist. Soon, the girl stops crying and smiles at Anders. He smiles back, so soft and caring, his eyes twinkling as he whispers something to her. The girl giggles and runs over to Lirene, who takes a piece of candy from a glass and hands it to her. Her parent wants to follow her but Anders holds them back, all softness gone from his face, glaring at the elven father. 

"How did that happen?" he hisses out.

"I don't... I don't know what you mean," the young man stutters.

Anders grabs the elf's wrist and twists it. "Someone did this to her, only worse. That kind of injury doesn't just happen." 

The man tries to pull his arm away, looking at Fenris as if asking for help. But seeing that no help is coming, he finally turns back to Anders and crumbles. "I work as a gardener for a family in Hightown, and Pirrina came around to go home with me and she got in the way... a cup broke. The master was very angry." 

Anders looks about ready to murder someone. "The name."

"Please, Healer, I need that job."

"I understand." His gaze falls on Fenris, who only now realises that he has been staring at Anders. "Nothing will fall back on you or your family. Give me the name, please."

"The Verdalens."

Anders nods. "Take Pirrina home. Everything will be alright."

Fenris throws another bundle of soiled bandages into the pot and stirs them in the soapy water. He recognizes the expression in Anders' face, that determined crease around his mouth. Anders is ready to go into battle. 

For a few hours, everything continues on as usual, the stream of patients a constant. The later it gets, the more the stream changes from Lowtown families to foundry workers, hacking up their lungs as they come in. Injured from the various gang wars show up in between, and Anders treats everyone the same way, with the same calm patience, his hands glowing with healing or handing out potions. 

Fenris doesn't flinch anymore when Anders uses his magic. He has seen it too often by now. The mage works himself to exhaustion every night, and Fenris would be a fool if he'd still compared him to power crazy magisters. 

At last, it's quiet, Anders sits down on a chair and shakes out his hands. Tiredness wavers around him like a dark cloud. Fenris watches him, waiting for that determined crease to reappear. 

Lirene hands a plate with two sandwiches to Fenris and gestures towards Anders. "Make sure he eats his." She leaves with a wave, before Fenris can ask how feeding the mage has become his job. 

Holding the sandwich out to Anders, Fenris waits for the mage to acknowledge it. "Eat, mage."

"Ordering me around, huh?" Anders looks at the sandwich and shakes his head. "Not hungry."

"Stop being annoying," Fenris says. "You need your strength."

"If I'm so annoying, why do you stick around? Why do you care about my strength?" He takes the sandwich and takes a bite. "Fuck me, this is good." The sandwich is gone in three more bites.

Fenris holds out his own sandwich. 

"That's yours," Anders says, staring at him.

"I had lunch, you didn't. You need it more." 

After a short hesitation, Anders takes the sandwich and inhales it like the other one. He keeps glancing at Fenris as he chews. When he's done eating, he keeps looking at Fenris, a soft expression on his face. "Thank you, I didn't realise..." He licks his lips and his eyes widen as he quickly turns away. 

Fenris can't deny that he has been staring at those lips. He could touch them, with his fingertip, or with his lips. But he won't. He stands up, walking to the armor stand to pick up his sword. Not because he cannot stay this close to Anders and his gentle eyes and soft lips, and his golden hair he wants to touch... He shakes himself, willing these strange thoughts away. "What will you do now?"

"About what?"

"The Verdalens, where the little girl got hurt."

"Oh that." Anders grins like a cat. "I'm just going to spook them a bit."

"But you can't risk the father losing this job." 

"Don't worry, I won't do that." Anders puts on his coat and stuffs a small leather bag and two potion vials into the pockets. Picking up his 'walking stick' from behind a curtain, he lets Fenris step out of the clinic and locks the door behind them. "It's a bit of a walk to the Verdalens, if you want to come along."

"Yes, I'm going with you." 

"I thought so." Anders dances down the stairs, more energetic than Fenris has seen him before.

Fenris frowns as he catches up with Anders. "You knew I would come along?" 

"You've been watching over me for weeks now, frowning and growling." Anders' voice is strangely neutral. "I'm not sure what you expect to see. Maybe you're waiting for me to explode, or transform into a demon, or — oh, I know." He looks directly at Fenris, making it hard to breathe. "You're waiting for me to do bloodmagic and mindfuck someone. Of course." Anders turns back to the path and walks faster. "It's not going to happen, but I guess you can never be too careful."

The assessment is painful but correct. He used to be like that. When he learned that Anders let himself be possessed, he watched the mage, fearing and waiting for the moment when he would give in to his demon. And seeing a mage with such power at his hands, more powerful than any magister he has ever known, Fenris naturally assumed that he would hunger for more and turn to bloodmagic at any moment. 

Fenris hurries to catch up with Anders. "I know you are not a bloodmage." He stares at his feet. "And I know you're not going to explode."

Two fingers touch his chin and lift his head. He recoils from the touch, his markings glowing. 

Anders rips his hand away. "Sorry, I shouldn't, fuck. I know I shouldn't touch you." He stops and waits for Fenris to look at him. "Please, forgive me, it won't happen again." 

Fenris calms his markings, taking a step closer to Anders. "Explain."

"The way you look down when you speak..." Anders fidgets, looking anywhere but at Fenris. "I've seen that before. The elves in the alienage act like that when one of the guards asks them something. Mages speak like that to templars in the Circle." He finally looks at Fenris. "Slaves speak like that, keeping their heads down. For safety." 

It is hard to breathe. Fenris feels like he has been stripped of his armor, defenceless in front of this mage, who sees him like nobody else. 

"It's just a habit," Anders says easily. "You're not a slave anymore, you'll get over it, like with everything you set your mind to."

A storm churns in Fenris' mind, too many thoughts at once. Anders obviously knows him well and for the hundredth times he wonders what happened between them in that stretch of time he doesn't remember. The sense of loss settles over him again, the feeling that he is missing something he doesn't even remember having. 

"Here we are, this is the backyard of their mansion." 

Fenris needs a moment to come back to the present. "Are you planning of storming in and —"

"No, nothing like that. These people wouldn't care anyway, but with one thing, all these noble gits are the same. They're superstitious." Anders grins at him, mischievousness twinkling in his eyes. "They're all obsessed about dalish ghosts and such nonsense, so we're going to shake them up a bit." 

Anders creeps up to the backdoor opens one of the vials from his pocket and twitches his finger over the opening. Smoke wafts from the small bottle, disappearing through the keyhole. He gestures for Fenris to follow him and walks around the corner of the building, ducking under the windows, until he comes up to one where bright light spills out into the garden. Peeking over the edge, he nods. "There they are, master and mistress. Now let's set that ghost to work."

Somehow, with the combination of the smoke wafting into the room, a screaming grenade thrown into the room, and sparkling powder blown through a gap in the window frame, Anders' magic forms a ghostly figure floating through the room. He sings some sort of incantation with a distorted, throaty voice, sounding vaguely elven. Anders somehow projects his voice to the smoke ghost, his face contorting as he promises a terrible destiny to those who anger the dalish ghosts and Fenris has to press his hand to his mouth to not give their position away with his laughter. Anders looks at him, a boyish grin on his face as he projects a gravely laugh to the ghost.

Inside, the woman screams and the man tries to fight the ghost with a candlestick, burning himself with hot wax. Among the screams, somewhere a door claps and Anders grabs Fenris' hand and runs back the way they came, through the backyard and out into the backroads. Still giggling, he runs, pulling Fenris behind him, until a dark alley opens at their side. In the darkness, Anders lets go of his hand, leans against the wall and laughs out once more. "Oh, that was fun. Did you see their faces? They were so shocked." 

Fenris joins in his laughter, wondering when the last time was he laughed this much. "Do you think they'll treat their staff better now?" 

"I don't know, maybe." Anders wipes at his eyes and chuckles to himself. He glances at Fenris through his hair. It has fallen out of its tie, a golden curtain in front of his face. He wipes it back, pushing the strains behind his ears. "Did you have fun?"

Fenris breathes out with another giggle, rasing his head to look at Anders. He steps forward, taking Anders' hand back in his. "Yes, I had fun." He doesn't quite know what he is doing, but holding Anders' hand, stepping closer to him, close enough to feel the heat of his body — it feels right. 

"Fenris?" Anders looks from his hand to Fenris' lips and back. 

"I wondered... when I had that amnesia..." He steps closer, his breastplate touching Anders' chest. "Did we kiss?"

Anders' expression darkens. "Don't ask me that."

"That is answer enough." Fenris stretches up on his toes, feeling brave. "Can we do it again?"

"Only if..." Anders bites his lips, taking a shuddering breath. "Only if you don't hate me afterwards." 

Fenris' heart beats faster. There is a draw to Anders, a feeling of familiarity that assures him that he has done this before. A hole in his mind he needs to fill. Now, he wants to remember. "I promise." He stretches up and catches Anders' lips. 

For a moment, they just stand there, lips carefully touching, but then Anders lets out a sigh and surges forward, his arms wrapping around Fenris' shoulders. "Fen," he whispers and it sounds like a prayer.

Fenris may not remember their kisses, but he knows in his heart that this is a real one. They devour each other as if they have to sate a terrible hunger, lips smacking, tongues touching, sharing each others breath. Pleasure and desire runs down his back like electric sparks, his body pressing harder against Anders, as if he craved this closeness without realising. His hands find their way under Anders' shirt, brushing over his chest. 

"Fen, Fen, love." Anders kisses along his jaw, until he reaches the curve of his throat. Fenris shudders at the touch, his whole body reacting to the pleasure. He didn't even know. "I've missed you," Anders mumbles against his throat.

"I'm here." Fenris slides his hands into Anders' hair. "I was here the whole time."

"Not like this." Anders stops kissing him, breathing hard. "You were there, like an image but not..." 

"I am sorry," Fenris says, touching his finger to Anders' lips. "I'm sorry for hurting you so."

"It's alright. Just..." Anders takes his hand and presses it to his chest. "Just take me home, love."

"Home?" 

Anders nods. "Your place."

Home. His mansion. Fenris breathes against the sudden tightness in his chest. "Come then. This time, I want to remember."

#dadrunkwriting #fenders #Fenris #Anders #fenders fic #Fenris x Anders #dragon age #dragon age fanfiction #my writing

[phlurrii]

Speaking of shiny mews…

BABY ACQUIRED.

So after squealing and screaming like a made woman, so much my poor cat rolled off my lap, I shoved this baby in a dive ball and OFFICIALLY CAUGHT THE ONLY CATCHABLE LEGITIMATE SHINY MEW. Still available… I remember seeing this event when I younger and watching how you could chase mew, almost playing with it before encountering it. Being both memorized and devastated I missed it and would never get to experience the epitome of mew events.

Playing through all the Pokémon games, I would always fall for every fake video, online rumour, or trade to get mew. I offered any Pokémon of value I had to trade for one and finally got a Japanese mew around age 10. I loved that lil cat to death, though I’ve since lost it to the void of time and foggy childhood memory; my next mew that was all mine were two lil babies I got in an XY mystery gift event. That was birth of Meau and Mew for me, the first I always called my “original” mew or “ancient” mew like the card, while the second I considered my cannon mew. I still have both babies to this day and have since brought them to home.

Despite such, I never forgot about the catchable mew in emerald, though conceded to move on to more modern day mews! From shelling out 50$ to get mew in that bloody pokeball in lets go, to my father letting me catch the mew in Pokémon Go (I didn’t care much for the game, but my chad of a father got into it solely to bond with me, Rest In Peace you lovable bastard) and finally my level 1 mew from BDSP. Which, due to my interest in breaking/glitching Nintendo games, has now given me infinite access to level 1 mew and up via the god egg in SWSH. I can now perpetually have a starter mew in any future games that mew is in, eheheheheh childhood dream accomplished >;3c

That, so far has been my journey.. though it didn’t quite end there. With my attention being brought to the pomeg glitch in emerald, reactivating the old sea map event, and hunting/catching myself a shiny lad… there is only ONE mew to left for me to get. The original Red, Blue, Yellow, and Green glitched mew. Now the issue with them is they are not transferable out of those games, unless you do another intensely complicated glitch up, right, down, left, left, clap your hands, and do a lil jiggy lol. So with shiny mew caught, I’m on my way to dragging the TRUE ancient mew out of the first games, naming the bugger Meau, and bringing them all the damn way up to Scarlet!! My army of mews will only then, be complete.

Finally, for those fellow weirdos that read this far, due to my now infinite amount of mews, both shiny and otherwise; if anyone would like a legit, albeit cloned, mew with a specific name, feel free to reply to this post and I’ll do my best to sort it out! Shiny one’s will have to wait tho cuz transferring those bad boys through 5 generations is a biTch.

#mewwwwwwwww #this pink flying cat has been living rent free #for a decade #in my head #ancient mew #mew #pokemon #pokémon comic #the ancient mew #mewtwo #mew pokemon #mewtwo pokémon #pokémon fanart #shiny mew #emerald #Pokémon emerald #Pokémon xy

[kiigan-archive]

themed starter call 54 (a vulnerable starter) + 64 (an encouraging starter) for @storiedocs

It was strange, to see the extra bed in the room. To know that his new, unlikely friend would be staying there henceforth, sharing that home division with himself and Sasuke. Sharing the whole house, as it was, and sharing the family in a way. Not a bad kind of strange, however. It felt strange in a way that had him eager, anticipating what might come of it. What they’d be able to do together, chat about. It might well be the first time Itachi found himself interested in someone who was of an age with him.

Chitose was different from every other child he’d met, thus far. Father had looked at her through the crimson lenses of the sharingan, and Itachi wasn’t sure what he’d seen but he could tell it brought upon Fugaku an expression that he rarely wore. A mix of awe and puzzlement and perhaps even a little bit of suspicion. Itachi had known better than to inquire about it, however; for some reason, adults tended to be very secretive where certain topics were concerned. Which made no sense to him, because how were children supposed to learn if they were not taught?

That aside, even if the hospital days were fortunately over, there was still care to be had. His new companion’s body wasn’t the healthiest, from the looks of it. That, in itself, had Itachi fascinated in an almost morbid manner. How fragile humans were, how easy it was to snuff out somebody’s entire existence. Ever since Sasuke’s birth, he’d realized how important it was, to be able to protect and cherish the life of a loved one, and Chitose made him feel similarly. Alas, healing her ailments was beyond his power, but maybe he could provide other sorts of comfort. As Mikoto left the room to go focus on the evening meal, Itachi picked up the pillow from his bed and approached Chitose, offering it over.

“Would you like an extra one? It will help you resting better.”

#storiedocs #[verse] back then we dreamed of an eternity #Konoha's Supernatural Detective Agency ready to start in 3... 2... 1...

[dmwrites]

Joe was what the cool kids called an “opportunity sleeper”. Because you’re not a cool kid (get dunked, loser), you probably don’t know what that means. It’s simple: if there is a flat surface and an opportune amount of time to do so, Joe will sleep. This often results in awkward situations where other hermits stumble upon Joe fast asleep in places like the middle of spawn and in the shopping district and in various storage rooms in megabases.

But, as luck would have it, Joe had found himself near his starter haunted house one fine evening, and had collapsed into his bed in the middle of the downstairs room. This was delightful, as Joe woke up in the morning to the birds twittering, sun shining in through the open windows, and his two pet shulkers clicking away peacefully upstairs.

Joe sighed in contentment, stretching and sitting up. He hasn’t even looked around before collapsing into bed. The walls were still a pale yellow, Doc was sitting on top of a chest watching him, the wordle wall needed updating…

Wait.

“DOC?” Joe yelped, pulling the covers up to her eyes and staring at Doc. “How- what- how long have you been sitting there?”

Doc checked his watch. “Uh, only like four hours.”

“Only?” Joe put a shaking hand to her head. “But why?”

“I am here to hang out with you.” Doc replied promptly, sliding off the box and standing up, arms swinging kind of awkwardly.

“Oh my god, are you okay? Like, are you feeling feverish or something?” Joe asked in real concern, walking over to the creeper man and put a hand to his forehead.

Doc chuckled. “What, can two bros not hang out anymore without question?”

“Bros.” Joe considered this, stroking his beard. “You know what else has three letters if you take the ‘s’ off of bros? Joe and Doc. I can see why you wanted to hang out.”

Doc gave him a look and a moment of silence. “Yep. You cracked it.” He said.

Joe clapped his hands. “Fantastic. What do you want to do? I don’t usually entertain guests, I almost wish you had given me a little bit of a heads up so I could have made some breakfast… what do creepers even eat? Is it shirts? Because you never wear one. Oh my god you’re part goat that’s hilarious! Do you actually eat shirts?”

Doc now shook his head ever so slightly as if trying to clear it. “Joe, please, it’s okay. I’m just… I needed to just kind of be somewhere for a while, somewhere where I’m not the great DocM77 or the goat father or anything. I just want to listen to someone talk, and I know you’ll… you know what I need. You won’t ask…”

“I get it.” Joe said gently, putting a hand on Doc’s arm. “And that is fantastic for me specifically. How do you feel about being the human equivalent of a shulker box for me today? I have a lot of stone and materials to bring over to the pinball machine. I was going to do it all myself, but you’ll be an excellent help.”

“Sure thing man.” Doc smiled. “I’m at your disposal, or should I say Joeposal.”

Joe clapped his hands in delight. “See? You’re getting it! Well, let’s get some stuff from upstairs, come on.”

Joe lead the way upstairs. Doc looked around while Joe began grabbing things.

“I see you still got the shulker pet I gave you.” Doc said, bending down to observe one of them.

“Of course, it’s my most prized possession.” Joe replied, tossing Doc a bunch of stone to put in his inventory.

“Never knew you were a flirt, Joe. You don’t have to flatter me like that.” Doc joked, but there was sincerely in the last part.

“I’m not flirting, I’m telling the truth.” Joe, not understanding the joke, replied. “Now, come on shulkM77, we got some lugging to do.”

----

They spent the whole day, as it turned out, bringing stone and andesite and all sorts of materials back and forth. But it wasn’t miserable like Joe had thought it would be before Doc came along. Joe talked about his latest poetry and pinball architecture and had a two hour rant about some thing called Amazon. And Doc listened.

As the sun set, Doc set down the last load of stone in the chest nest Joe had created.

“Well, my hardworking friend, you are released of your duties.” Joe told Doc, smiling. “Thanks for all of this.”

Doc looked down at Joe and cracked a smile. “No, thank you my guy. You have no idea… just one of those days, you know?”

“Hey, Doc? Really. I get it. We all have those days. It just happens. I try to help when I can.”

Doc then did something quite unexpected for him, and gave Joe a hug. Joe was taken aback for a moment, and then returned the hug. It was weird and awkward and full of limbs, but, honestly, the intention was all that really mattered.

#June 9 2022 #fic #hermitcraft #s9 #joehills #docm77 #long post #idk why I’m projecting my stress onto doc sorry king lol

[thenicestthingiveseen]

Prompt- I’m the necromancer and you’re the dead guy in the museum that I accidentally brought to life

in which the Weasleys are "witches". (or, "were" witches once upon a time if you have Arthur tell it)

“In my defense,” Gideon starts. “I didn’t think it would actually work. I mean, seriously, who keeps a dead body in a museum?” It’s a weak excuse and he knows it.

The three - well, four - of them are standing in a circle, just staring at one another. 

When he’d managed to nick the keys from Filch, the night watchman, Gideon expected to horse around with his sister and their friend and run through the different archives. But suddenly, their party of three turned into a party of four (although she’s not fully human, Gideon is counting her presence fully) and it is not how Gideon expected to spend All Hallows Eve. It was meant to be a stop on their night of spooky activities – what’s a cheeky séance between friends? It wasn’t supposed to work, his father swore his powers were dormant at best and very weak at worst. Centuries of evolution and blood dilution had rendered their family’s powers somewhat useless in this day and age. Their mother considered it a blessing, people didn’t look too kindly on witches these days, especially witches who tended to harness powers on the darker end of the spectrum; like Gideon and his older sister Penelope - the two of the most likely to possess some sort of mediumship compared to the rest of their family. Turns out, Gideon’s powers are potent or potent enough, and now a beautiful young girl is standing in front of him and he’s lost all further cognitive ability.

“So,” Rowan draws out the vowels as she surveys the specter before them. “What do you suppose we do with it?”  The ghost looks a lot like the girl from the fairy tale that their mother used to tell them when they were kids. A princess held captive by her evil relatives, waiting for her parents to return, who has a mad King determined to kill her to maintain his claim to a throne that’s rightfully hers. 

“Not call them, ‘it’ for starters,” Hector mumbles under his breath.

“Do something.” Rowan hisses at Gideon and it shakes him out of his stupor. He blinks slowly - brown eyes locked on eyes that might’ve been blue or green in another life - and has to drag himself away from her to look at his sister. Confused as to what she expects him to do. This was supposed to be fun. How was he to know that ghosts lurk in places that aren’t crypts?

He pauses for a moment before turning back to the girl and he’s already asking her her name without any consideration for whether or not she can even utter a response. Because, it would be embarrassing if he was able to call a ghost back, but managed not to be able to get her to speak. His thoughts are interrupted by a barely whispered, “Hallie”.

Rowan and Gideon look at each other with matching looks of surprise and concern. Oh.

#hinny #writing #prompts #displayheartcode #fic

[carnivorousyandeere]

The DnD Yans’ starter characters thus far (strong homebrew vibes):

Noe: a Metallic Gold Draconic-Orc Paladin. A princess born (hatched?) to parents who were wed for political purposes, she felt deeply called to martial arts and insisted on training with the knights. Once she was old enough and strong enough, she abandoned the throne meant for her to embark on the holy journey she felt called to. The guilt of escaping her family and responsibilities mixes eternally with her joy at adventuring. She’s deeply idealistic, and prone to getting in over her head in her determination to help others. Noe’s characters often share her idealism and hard-headedness, usually trending towards good and lawful alignments.

Millie: a Tiefling Rogue of Dispater’s bloodline— his direct child, and raised to be his eyes and ears in the human world, regardless of their own safety or comfort. They were raised to be strong, agile, sneaky, and above all loyal to protecting their father. They come across as rather laid-back and unconcerned with the goings-on around them, but they’ve got keen ears and pay attention to every little detail you think you’ve hidden. It’s almost impossible to catch them off-guard, and even if you do, they always land on their feet like a cat. Millie’s rogue gets to do things that Millie themself is generally too tired to actually do, or would feel guilty actually doing, though some part of them might like to— like gutting anybody who gets too close to their Darling DM.

Hymn: a Satyr Bard. Channeling their real-life love for music, Hymn figured playing a Bard would be pretty fun. They love the chaotic potential Satyrs are rumored to have. None of their characters really have deep backstories, as many of the characters they come up with are joke characters of some form or another; evil televangelist warlock, a Druid version of Shaggy Rogers who wildshapes into Scooby, a Druid who wildshapes into a horrible goose on a lovely day, etc. Despite this, their characters have a habit of unintentionally spawning heartfelt backstories and making deep connections with NPCs along the way.

Scott: a High Elf Warlock. Before coming to your table, Scott always played the same character over and over again under different names (a High Elf Wizard), but at your encouragement, and with much reluctance, he decided to “try something new,” and make his character a Warlock for his first time playing DnD with you. Everything else about the character is the same— personality, appearance. His character is always a solitary sort of person, who spends all of their time pursuing esoteric knowledge that others couldn’t possibly understand or appreciate. His characters always have a powerful grasp on magic.

#please don’t come deck my ass if this is super wrong. dnd noob #constructive criticism IS welcome tho #yandere dnd #oc Noe #oc Millie #oc Hymn #oc Scott #my thoughts #yandere #yandere oc #yandere imagines #yandere scenarios #yandere x darling #yandere x you #yandere x reader #yandere cw

[aita-blorbos]

aita for betraying my wife?

so my wife (30sF) and i (30sM) have been married for almost a year now. i have a job at her father’s (82M) company and am rather close with her immediate family, mostly because i work with them. while she doesn’t have an official job in the company, her father has sort of promised that she might take over from him one day so she is somewhat involved in matters and has a significantly large stake in the company

now, our relationship has been a little bit rocky. for starters, she confessed to cheating on me and suggested an open relationship on our wedding night. her father’s company was recently involved in a scandal and she suggested me as a scapegoat, then proceeded to do little to prevent me from being sent to prison. we also disagree on the matter of children, as i very much want to have a baby while she wants to wait

while our relationship struggled, i managed to grow close to my father-in-law and get in good standing with him. in his most vulnerable moment he felt most comfortable asking me for assistance, even though i had previously stolen chicken from him. he’s always held the most amount of power in this company and this family so gaining his trust was a big deal for me

a few months ago, she called me and told me she and her brothers (who have also been rather rude and dismissive towards me) were going to pull a coup on their father. i told her i was on board, but quickly informed her father of the plan. this completely sabotaged their attempt at a coup and even got all three of them kicked out of the company

my wife is mad at me and we are likely going to get a divorce, however i feel as though she is being unreasonable. she knows as well as anyone that this family will always put business first, so i simply followed suit and made the smartest business decision as she has done countless times

#aita #am i the asshole #unreality

[masterwords]

no two ways about it

Summary: Hotch and Emily are old, grouchy and bitching over drinks while they wait for Derek. (Set in the retirement in Chicago universe.)

Pairing: Hotch/Morgan

Warnings: alcohol consumption, lots of swearing

Words:

Notes: I just wanted to have Hotch and Emily sit and bitch for a while after he's packed up all of his things from his office. And be salty with them, let them be mean to each other for a while with love. This pointless and plotless. Enjoy.

**

“You seriously downplayed the amount of paperwork involved in your job,” Emily groaned, sucking down the last drops of her bourbon. There was time to mix later, she figured, but for now...for starters...it was straight up. It was the first of the afternoon and she was in the mood to get shitfaced. Or...reasonably buzzed, anyway. She did have to get back to work at some point.

Hotch cocked an eyebrow at her assertion.

“In what way?” he asked quietly, just turning his glass between his thumb and forefinger. Around and around. She'd downed one in its entirety, save for what she'd spilled when she knocked into the table with her knee, and he hadn't even set his to his parched lips yet. “I think that my complete lack of a social life should have been a pretty good indicator.”

“Oh please!” She shouted, raising her glass to indicate to anyone who would listen that she was ready for another. And to keep them coming. In London she could just have asked them to leave her the bottle...damn she missed London. “You made it look so easy.”

There were two heavy boxes of books and memorabilia between them, file boxes they'd barely managed to lug inside the little speakeasy. They would make Derek carry them back out. Boxes that contained the life he'd lived within the walls of the BAU, his awards and medals, his books, Jack's handprints when he'd been small enough to happily endure fingerpaints and construction paper. She guessed that now his tastes ran more toward video games and bikini posters, though with Hotch for a father...maybe not the latter. She wasn't sure he would even know where to begin with those things...that kid needed Derek's influence in his life.

“My marriage fell apart because of the hours I worked, if you recall.”

“No, your marriage fell apart because you wouldn't leave the BAU for a job that didn't require you to travel so often. You know what? Let's be real here...your marriage fell apart because you chose Derek Morgan over your wife.”

He frowned at that cruelty, but he couldn't refute it. Wasn't it sort of the truth? Derek called, asked for his help, said they needed him and he came running. But was he running away from Haley and a job that would be mediocre at best, or was he running to Derek and a serial killing single father who was using his son as bait? Well, that was a question better left for another day, or maybe never. He would rather not think about comparing the two great loves of his life, and the way they each in their way drove the other to ruin. Derek allowed photos of Haley to hang on their walls and that had to be enough when it was all said and done.

Emily, with a fresh drink in her hand, relented at his silence. She crossed a line and didn't want to see how much further she could push him before he simply got up and left. He was known to do that, just up and leave. “How is it that you, of all people, managed to land Derek Morgan anyway? I tried. You know that? God...did I try...”

“That's not the way he tells it. You refused his advances...many advances, from what I understand. He was pretty taken with you.”

“Well,” she started, licking the bourbon from her purple stained lips. There was a rush of memory that flooded her, warmed her tired bones. Gideon once told her that everyone went through a phase when they started working at Quantico, no one was immune. Emily scoffed, said she preferred the fairer sex but Gideon only nodded that knowing grandfatherly nod and walked away, leaving her to her own devices. Some of which involved flirting with a man she didn't want to sleep with. “I won't speak ill of your lover...but he sure gave up awfully fast.”

“On you.” Hotch smirked then, finally taking a sip of his drink. Scotch and soda, the cubed ice clinked against the edges of the glass. He really was getting old. She didn't care much for the implication hanging in the air between them even if it was true.

“What are you saying, Hotchner?”

“Just that he knows when something is worth pursuing...” There was that damned twinkle in his eye that she loathed, and if they were in private, she would probably have punched him in the shoulder, knocked him over. She was sure she could do it.

“You're a catty old bitch, you know that?”

“Will you stay with the BAU? I know that you had intended to return to Interpol once Peter Lewis was apprehended, but with my...”

Oh, she wasn't ready for that abrupt change of topic. She calls him a bitch and he blindsides her with that? She narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips, interrupting him mid-thought. Before he had a chance to say something endearing...she didn't want it.

“Your betrayal.”

“Yes, of course, with my betrayal...will you go back to London, or will you stay?”

“Do I have a choice?”

Hotch, to his credit, forced a smile. The kind that read as weary, world-worn, like he understood more than she did. And he'd come by that knowledge through years of pain. His voice was quiet and forlorn. “Everyone has a choice.”

“I don't know. It does seem easier now, the idea of putting down roots. I don't mean to be rude, but without you there it feels...less like I'm intruding on something. Playing in someone else's sandbox. After I died, it was just...aw shit. It was just hard, you know? Knowing what you and JJ did for me, what the team went through on my behalf...but hell. I'm over it now. Shiny new Emily, right?”

He nodded, understanding in some way. He was sort of in the thick of that right now himself, coming to terms with his old life being out of reach and a new life stretching out before him. Uncharted territory. Her words stung, he wouldn't deny that, but he did understand it. She'd never really been able to re-establish her life after her death, and while the team moved on and forgave them all...she hadn't. She looked at him losing weight rapidly and knew what lengths he'd gone to, what he'd sacrificed on her behalf, and it would never be okay. She could never go back to where they'd been. He risked it all for her life, and he would have done the same for any of them in the same position...but the thing was, she was never supposed to come back. He grieved her like they all did, he moved on like they did. He didn't keep tabs; he didn't ask questions. She was dead and buried, for her own safety and the team's because she knew...it hadn't just been for her. It was to keep all of them safe. With her dead and buried, Doyle wouldn't target the BAU, and even then they dispersed like leaves on the wind.

And yet...here they were. Square one. Older, maybe wiser, definitely tired. And a little bitter.

“Good. They need you.”

“Oh horsehit. Finish that drink, dammit. I'm practically drinking alone here. I do not drink alone.” She was already hailing her next, frustrated that he wasn't keeping up. He never really had, but he used to at least try. He looked so old, so worn, but also somehow happier than he had in years. Maybe ever. Derek was good for him. And, in that turn, she knew he was good for Derek too. It was rare that a couple achieved the kind of balance that they came by so naturally.

She might have been a little jealous, but that would go to their heads so she wouldn't let on.

“I can't toss them back like I used to,” he answered mournfully, sipping a little more. “My stomach can't handle it. It's already complaining.”

“Soft. You've gone soft.” She paused, reclining a little in her seat and nudging him with the toe of her boot playfully. She still couldn't believe he was sitting across from her in this little speakeasy that smelled like old leather and booze. “I know what you mean though. I'll have a hangover for a week after this. One drink and I pay for it. Getting old fucking sucks.”

“I injured my back two nights ago,” he offered, finally finishing off his drink. She gave him a look of concern, glancing first at him, then the boxes he'd just stubbornly carried from her office down to the bar, and he smiled that infuriating smile of his. The one that was meant to be reassuring but only filled her with anger. “I'm fine. It's nothing, just strained I suppose.”

“What did you do?”

“I slept. I went to bed feeling fine and woke up hardly able to stand up straight.”

“Oh,” she started, staring into her third or fourth glass of bourbon with some apprehension. Hangover imminent. “I bet your honey rubbed that sore spot right out with his big strong hands...”

“He did no such thing.” Hotch paused, pursing his lips, eyes wide. It wasn't that he was scandalized, but talking like this in public did make him feel a little on edge. “I was home alone. He works much earlier than I do, and I tend to sleep in these days. I called in sick and laid in bed all day if you can believe that. I read an entire book.”

“Wait wait wait...you sleep now? You actually sleep? You sly sonofabitch. You set me up. It's been weeks since I've slept more than 3 hours a night and you're over here sleeping in? Calling in sick and laying in bed? I'm starting to feel like I've been tricked...”

“No one forced your hand, Emily. You missed them and you came back willingly.”

“Yeah, okay, I missed them but your job sucks.”

“Your job. Your job sucks.”

“Ohhhhh...you know what? You know what? You're cut off. No more drinking for you, Aaron. I don't think I like you drunk.”

“I'm not drunk.” He hadn't even ordered a second drink, poking at her was too fun to be distracted from.

“No more for you. I, however, need another. Pronto.”

Hotch did finally order a second drink, but at his request it was more soda than scotch. He wasn't lying, his stomach couldn't handle that kind of assault anymore. It never really could but he used to try harder, be more willing to deal with the consequences...he'd lately grown accustomed to a different lifestyle. His misery was not a given any longer. Not anymore than was necessary, anyway. A certain amount was owed to the damage he'd done to his body in his younger years, either at his hand or with his permission, but he wasn't in the market for new problems.

Emily, however, sucked down two more before she ceased. “I love you, you know that?”

“I know.”

“And him. I love Derek too. Even though he took you from me, from the team. I bet you would have come back if not for his pretty face...”

Hotch, smiling a little sadly, wouldn't deny her that. He had very little to live for outside of that, when you really dug down to it. He wasn't too proud to admit it. But there was Jack, and there was Derek and there was Hank, and that was three very good reasons to not only live, but thrive. At fucking last.

“This may come as a shock to you, but he didn't actually ask me to stay in Chicago,” Hotch said quietly. She stared at him, eyes wide and wild in the dim light of the bar. She'd assumed that Derek professed his love in some grand way, begged him to please stay, move in...maybe even given him a key. To hear that he'd done no such thing gave her pause. “He'd been operating under the assumption that I would go back. To Virginia, certainly, and likely to the BAU. Jack asked to stay and as it turned out, I had no actual desire to leave either. My mind had been made up about the BAU from the moment we left. Chicago took a little longer.”

"Jack likes Chicago huh?”

“He does. He's happy there, and I think I've done enough damage...he deserves to have a say in our lives.”

“So Jack said no more serial killers.”

“He did. In fewer words, perhaps, but yes.”

“Could he do that for me, too?”

Hotch smiled and glanced up in time to watch Derek's shadowy figure come through the open doorway of the bar.

“When you're ready, give me a call. I'll have him quote you a price for his services.”

Bending forward, Derek pressed a kiss to the top of Hotch's head. That was one of the few PDAs Hotch would allow, even though he could have done without Emily seeing it.

“You losers ready to hit the road? This place is lame. What is that, elevator music?"

Derek, ushering them along quickly, hefted both boxes into his arms while Emily paid the entire tab. Hotch stood slowly beside the table, rubbing absentmindedly at the small of his back...that chair hadn't done him any favors. Maybe he would ask Derek to rub his back later, that idea hadn't sounded half bad. Slowly he gazed around the bar, taking it all in. Some part of him knew he wouldn't be back to Virginia for some time, and it was possible he may never come down to this area of town again. With no real attachment to Quantico any longer, it didn't seem likely that he'd have any reason to come this way. There was a peacefulness in that realization. He'd anticipated some sadness, some remorse, and gladly found none. He had moved on.

“You wanna come back to the hotel for a few more drinks? Order some room service?” Derek asked, and Emily glanced at her watch apprehensively.

“Because of you and your siren song, I have a fuck-ton of paperwork to finish...I'll text you losers when I get done and see if you're still awake. Maybe we can have ourselves a nightcap.”

“Sure,” Hotch said, knowing that it wouldn't happen. That Emily would be at work until she couldn't concentrate anymore, until she was practically falling asleep or vibrating out of her skin and then she'd catch a cab home. Because Emily hated goodbyes and this sure as hell felt like a big one. “Text Derek. I may be asleep.”

She did punch him in the shoulder this time, scrunching her nose in disgust.

#aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #derek morgan #hotchgan #platonic hotchniss #hotch x morgan