#you throw the dice because you want *that* side(s). because you want something (to happen/to exist/to love)

[haunted-xander]

Shadowbringers is about learning how to live.

Your enemy is stasis- everything and everyone is stagnant, they wait and wait for something to happen, but don't do anything to make it so (because the ones who tried before failed, because they don't know what to do/how to do it). People don't change, they don't try, not really. The crystarium is doing well, it's independent and sustainable, but it doesn't have the reach or power to do much outside of Lakeland. The Exarch is more-or-less confined to the city (because of the tower, because he's waiting for you), so even if he had power elsewhere, he'd be limited with how much he, personally, can do.

Eulemore is filled with mindless indulgence, there's no hardships or labour or anything but luxury for the free citizens, and the bonded only have to worry about fulfilling the task(s) they were brought for. The outside world doesn't matter, hard work doesn't matter, personal fulfillment beyond indulgence doesn't matter, everything exist solely in the moment. The people out in Kholusia have pretty much given up, they stay close to the city in the hopes that this time they will be picked, this time they will be saved. They wait and wait and do nothing but wait. The ones who try to live on are dying out or eventually give up and join the rest in waiting.

Ahm Areang, Rak'tika, even Il Mheg are all just waiting for something, anything to happen. They go day to day, surviving simply because it's all they can. Nothing changes.

Until, of course, you should up. You, who causes a ripple of change simply by existing, who can move the immovable by sheer will. You showed them that things can change, that things can, and will happen, if they just try. You show them that they can make things better, that there is an option besides waiting for a slow death, if they'd just grab fate by the neck and tell it "No. We are doing this my way".

And they do. They rally up together and do what they thought impossible. Not all their efforts succeed(not immediately), but they tried. They tried, they failed, and they got up and tried again and again until it did work. They take the chances, not knowing how it'll turn out (because it's not about whether it fails or succeeds, it's about having tried).

They learn how to try, little by little, and every step they learn what it means to really live.

Endwalker is about learning how to love life.

Your enemy is nihilism- the idea that nothing matters, that there is no real joy to be found that isn't snuffed out by misery. A concept that denounces greys in favor of a black-and-white view where black is all encompassing. Everywhere you go, people are doing what they can to survive, but refuses (or maybe are afraid to, or maybe never knew they could) try to actually save themselves. The Forum plans for escape, to leave their homeworld behind and take whatever they can afford. They will live on, but they won't be saved, no one is saved(and even with escape they aren't safe, Despair is everywhere and She will not stop until all has become Nothing).

The Loporrits love Etheirys, but in the way Winter loves Spring. They know about it, they are so close to it, but they are distant. They're strangers, they've never met. It's love, and it's pure and true, but it's also just love. It's surface-level(because the surface is all they had). Their love is pure but it's instinctual. Programmed. They love because they don't know how to not love. They want to save it's people, save us, but they don't know what it really means to save, so they create refuge instead(because that's what She told them to, because this is how love works for them).

The people of Garlemald are terrified, they are victims of extreme indoctrination, the (deserved) push-back their army got proved them "right"(that we are savage beasts to fear, that they are but prey in the maws of rabid dogs). They want to be build-up again, but what's left for them now? The world hates them(and it's all their fault, the ones who see past the propaganda know this, but who will listen to them?) and they are dying. It's so cold and the fuel is running out. They won't accept help, because they've been filled with the idea that there is no such thing as pure kindness from "savages"(and they are too prideful to question it, to break apart from the illusion that they are surperior, because they're terrified to face the truth).

The sky screams, the earth wheeps and the foundation of existence is overtaken by Despair, misery is around every corner and who knows what will happen now? Where do we go? What do we do? We live and live but for what?

What's the point of it all?

That's the question, and the answer is everything. We live because there is joy to be found. Because there is beauty in the world. Because there are stars in the sky. Because flowers bloom in spring. Because cats purr. Because waves crash against the shore. Because of every single little thing we can see, hear or feel. Because we love and are loved. Because there are things to do and discover. Because why not?

And you tell them this, by letting them see that there is more to life than the little they have seen. The Forum has closed it's eyes to anything but it's own kith and kin, everything outside of Old Sharlayan is irrelevant(non-intervention, always non-intervention) and it takes the entire world coming and telling them "We are here. We are alive, and we will make tomorrow happen." for them to realize they have slowly been killing themselves and what they stand for(you pride yourself on knowledge, but where is your wisdom? What do you truly know of things outside your own bubble? You do not know that which is lived because you refuse to aknowledge anything but the written word).

The Loporrits see Etheirys itself, they experience it's corners and valleys and learn what love can really be. They want to save it, truly save it, because they love and this time it's informed, it's personal(I love you, I love you, and I want you to know I love your loves too).

In Garlemald everything is slow, unsteady and complicated, but it's changing. They're changing. With every person who accepts help the illusion of supremacy and "purity" melts away just a bit, and the wall standing between them and us breaks a little(it will never vanish completely, years upon years of oppression and subjugation and conquest don't disappear like that, but it's a start).

Shadobringers is about learning how to live, but Endwalker is about learning how to love life.

#FINALLY I FOUND A WAY TO PUT IT TO WORDS #its like. shb is about trying and trying again and again regardless of how it turns out- #because life is a game of dice were any and all sides are possible #but you have to throw it. because if you dont you wont get anything- be it good or bad #and thats not living #and ew is like. doing things not because you have to but because you *want* to #you throw the dice because you want *that* side(s). because you want something (to happen/to exist/to love) #living is trying and loving is wanting. you cant love without life and you cant live without love. not really #i think moreso than any other expacs that shb & ew enhance each other when viewed together (in a broad sense- in a collective) #this turned halfway into poetry at the end but its the only way i could put it that made like. sense to me. its about Feeling and loving and #living and everything all at once #tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow #final fantasy #final fantasy 14 #final fantasy xiv #ff14 #ffxiv #shadowbringers #endwalker #xander rambles #going insane. my brain is melting and being build up again and again and again

[thydungeongal]

Alright very brief dice post today because I need to refresh my memory on where I left off last time but before I do I want to share the coolest tool known to RPG enjoyers.

I've also tagged all previous posts in this series as #maths and #diceposting if you're only just tuning in.

I have alluded to the fact that once da maths get too complex it's time to start using more elegant tools than graph paper and tables. The tables are good when you're looking at two dice but beyond that you'd have to start constructing some 3D models or some shit and my computer sucks.

So instead I use a program called AnyDice. It's online, it's free (although it runs on donations: the servers that run this thing aren't free, and since it's such a beautiful tool I heartily recommend throwing at least a one-time donation its way), and it runs in the browser. It has its own quirks and there's a bit of a learning curve, but once you go through the articles and documentation and library of functions you will pick it up pretty quickly. It also supports making your own functions which is what I want to use today.

Assume a type of game where on an "attack" you roll "to hit" and if you succeed at the roll you then get to roll "damage" with different types of dice depending on your weapon. One could be faced with the possibility of comparing the damage done on a 2d6 to the damage done on a 1d12. Like so. (Also AnyDice supports exporting whatever you've done with it as links so others can see exactly what you were doing.)

This is the simplest example of what you can do with AnyDice and it supports everything I've said thus far: 1d12 results in a distribution where every result is equally likely. 2d6 results in a distribution where results in the middle are more likely. 2d6 does also have a higher average than 1d12 for very simple reasons: the lowest you can roll on 2d6 is 2 as opposed to the 1d12's 1.

But we can go deeper. What if you had an ability where on rolls of 1 or 2 you got to reroll the damage die (not getting to reroll 1 and 2 anymore after that) and you wanted to compare how it affected 2d6 and 1d12? Well that's pretty straightforward, we just need to make a function.

Here's a function that we can use for this purpose. It's basically a modified version of AnyDice's existing "explode" function (used for when a maximum result on a die "explodes," triggering another roll that is added to the value of the exploding roll) where the recursion of the explosion is cut off so that it doesn't keep rerolling 1 and 2 forever but simply rerolls them once but further results of 1 and 2 apply. I have also made an output statement to test that it works and with a single d6 it's actually easy to test that it works as intended: the probability of getting a 1 or a 2 is 1/3 and the probability of getting a 1 on the second roll is 1/6 (as it is for a second 2) and ⅓*⅙=1/18, which expressed in percentage ≈ 5.56. So the program works.

Now we can use this to compare 2d6 to 2d6 but rerolling 1s and 2s and 1d12 rerolling 1s and 2s. Like so.

So 2d6 was already better at a glance than a 1d12 but also getting to reroll 1s and 2s is substantially more effective on a weapon that uses 2d6. This is for a simple reason: not only are you rolling two dice so there are two chances to trigger the reroll, but also because you are rolling six-sided dice you are more likely to get those results of 1 and 2.

And that's just scratching the surface of what you can do with AnyDice. It supports conditional statements and functions within functions and a whole lot of other stuff. You could theoretically make a function where you first roll a d20 "to hit" and numbers that are high enough result in "damage" but rolls of 20 result in a "critical hit" and you could theoretically compare a guy who does 2d6 damage on a hit but gets to reroll 1s and 2s on the damage die against a guy who does 1d12 damage on a hit but does one extra die of damage on a critical hit.

So yeah, AnyDice rules. It's something I recommend to people who want to qualify their statements about RPG mechanics with actual numbers but also I think it's an invaluable tool for analyzing your own homebrews. With a bit of practice you can make it do all kinds of weird shit.

#long post #maths #diceposting

[applesontheground]

bubba sawyer, brahms heelshire and stu macher with s/o who loves to play tabletop rpg

ok, first of all cute?? second of all, i've played D&D with my high school friends since 2017, so let me see what i can do for you! :3 (that being said, this is the RPG that will be talked about lol! it’s the one i know the most about!)

headcanons - Bubba Sawyer, Brahms Heelshire, & Stu Macher with an S/O who enjoys tabletop RPGs (GN reader)

Bubba Sawyer 🐖

☆ He’s so down! He’s already the kind of partner that gets all giddy about doing mundane things with you so long as it means he gets to be attached to you at the hip, but after you bring up that you like to play these elaborate games that require a bit of imagination, he’d be intrigued. Like most new players, he’ll need you to go over rules a couple times, but once he has it down you have a very engaged and rather creative person to play with. Assuming you’re DM/head of the table, you’d find yourself rather surprised by what he brings to the games you play. “Hey, that mini figure isn’t in my set. … What do you mean you ‘made’ it, Bubba? Out of what? … Huh. You made a Mimic? Oh shit, let me see-”

☆ POV: You guys playing on a night where chaos is anticipated and have to be ready for an interruption at any moment. The idea of Bubba having to play with his saw right under his chair because he’s got to be ready at a moment’s notice to get the fuck out there and do what he does best. ...Idk, this was just a cute side thought I immediately pictured when I was writing this.

☆ If you want to keep this between you and him, something the two of you can use to take a breather from everything else, then God forbid his brothers get wind of it. Chop and Nubbins would want anything and everything to do with it, inserting themselves into your session or yelling out commentary while the two of you try to play. They’re definitely the types that would propose crazy plot diversions in the campaign or talk over everyone else without meaning to (they’re just excited lol). Drayton would be watching with a frown and raised eyebrows, promptly walking away to mutter about how pointless the whole thing is and how you can’t even see what’s going on half the time, but you’ve caught him in the other room pausing in his own chores as you’re making a Stealth check during a tense moment, or making a face at something you decided to add.

☆ Grandpa would be a fairly docile spectator, though. He gets the honor to roll the d100 when needed. c:

Brahms Heelshire 🎭

☆ Unless you have another hobby that’s able to take up your free time, you most likely play a lot of games with Brahms already. At first, you had to as part of what was asked by the Heelshires, and now that you know about the man it’s even more so. At least he can move his own pieces this time...

☆ He likes games that require structure, and in turn might be a little lost with the imaginative side at first. Once you get him going, though, he takes like a duck to water. He’s good at creating dramatic moments in plots that you otherwise wouldn’t have planned! His inquisitions will also throw you in a loop, because half of the time the details he’s picked up on wouldn’t have even been something you gave an extra moment of thought to...

☆ Like Bubba, he’s also a very polite player. Well, that is when the dice rolling works in his favor 😬😬😬 Otherwise he’s highkey a poor sport. Basically, at his best he’s a rich storyteller and a resourceful eye to play with. At his worst, he’s scrapping the whole game because he got a strike of bad luck or the story didn’t pan the way he wanted it to.

☆ He’d also be a great DM when he has a full understanding of the game. Actually, maybe letting him call the shots would be better suited for him in general. Fuckin’ brat (affectionate).

Stu Macher 📞

☆ This man can’t sit still to save his life, so good luck haha! He’d be the guy stacking his dice set into a little tower in the corner, distracting other players by talking, forgetting it’s his turn and not knowing what the hell is going on while he decides what to do, etc. He’d be a dream at getting extra handbooks/drinks from the other room, though!

☆ He might give you a little bit of a hard time without meaning to, as well. His voice taking on that pestering high pitch as he stoops over your shoulder to look at the unopened box in your hands, “Oooooh, what kind of nerd shit is this, babe?” He’s sort of familiar with the premise, having been dragged to stores that have places to play these sorts of games before, but other than that he’s got nothing.

☆ There are moments where he actually plays, though. You knew he had it in him, recognizing that gleam in his eye when he tells you or another person to roll a Perception check for their character out of the blue... Definitely best suited for a Rogue class imo uwu

☆ When he realizes it’s a social thing that’s better with more than just you and him, it all starts to make more sense. You’re gonna end up playing it with a group that he scrapes together (and whether you know about that or not is up for debate). It’s his way of showing that he wants you to have fun, especially if you’re a DM-ing type. :3 Be forewarned, though: Randy will eventually come, and depending on how you feel about him it’s gonna be super fun/he’s going to give you a lot of good advice, or you two will be fighting to talk over each other the entire time while Stu just sits there knowing what he’s done.

#bubba sawyer x reader #brahms heelshire x reader #stu macher x reader #slasher x reader #slasher requests #requests #headcanons #✏️ #🐖 #🎭 #📞

[iisuya-simps]

Hi there! Could I request Ichiro, Samatoki and Ramudas s/o wearing their outfits? Thank yoouu :)

Yessss, because these are short I’ll do 4 characters and throw in Jiro too just cuz I want to :p

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ichiro Yamada

"Hey babe have you seen my-" Ichiro walks into the living room to see you in his hoodie trying to beatbox and make weird signs with your hands. He grins and shakes his head.

"I'm a rapper, not a beatboxer yknow." You smirk and turn your head to the side.

"What's the difference?"

"Oh, I'll show you the difference, come here!"

"Eep!" He tackles you to the ground.

"Think you can take me in a rap battle, cutie?"

"Anyday!"

"Heh." He pats your head giving your hair a little ruffle.

"I'd like to see you try"

Samatoki Aohitsugi

You're changing your clothes in the bedroom when you decide it would be fun to throw on one of Samatoki's button-up shirts. Grabbing one of his cigarettes off the nightstand you walk to the kitchen where Samatoki is making dinner and start mumbling with a cigarette in your mouth.

"Food is almost ready, I'm just waiting for-" he catches a glimpse of you from the corner of his eye.

"Give me that." He snatches the cigarette from your mouth and stuffs it in his jeans.

"I don't need you mimicking my bad habits."

"Hehehe." He looks you up and down.

"But I do like the way you in my clothes." He smirks. "Are you trying to distract me?"

Ramuda Amemura

"Ramudaaa~" You say in a sing-songy voice and hop over to the counter at the shop. He looks over to see you in his oversized turquoise hoodie with a lollipop hanging out of your mouth.

"Waah! You look so cute y/n-chan! Let me take a picture! I just have to show Gentaro and Dice! Ramuda bounces out of his chair and grabs his phone.

You pose while he takes a few pictures with some filters on, then some selfies of the both of you together.

"Haha, now you're almost as cute as me. He winks. We could be twins or something!

"I'll be taking this." He plucks the lollipop from your hand and sticks it in his mouth.

"Hey! Ramuda!"

"Hehe."

Jiro Yamada

"Y/n I can't find my-"

"Hat?"

Jiro looks up to see you in front of him posing with your arms crossed in his hat and jacket.

"Ay yo, you wanna fight dawg?" You playfully push on Jiro's chest. "You can't mess with me!"

"Haha very funny, now give me my hat." He reaches around trying to take it from you.

"Nah man, you're gonna have to fight me for it."

Jiro easily backs you into the wall, kissing your cheek he subdues you and takes his hat back.

"You can keep my jacket but I need my hat."

"Awww. But now the look is ruined..."

Thank you for reading!

#hypnosis mic #hypmic #ichiro yamada #samatoki aohitsugi #ramuda amemura #jiro yamada #buster bros #mad trigger crew #fling posse #ichiro x reader #samatoki x reader #ramuda x reader #jiro x reader

[kashimos-hajime]

the shakes | p.d.

summary: “It’s the Shakes, darling. Makes everything excruciating.” Or, you’re experiencing the terrible side effects of being horny and Poe Dameron knows just how to fix it.

WARNINGS: SMUT (18+), oral (fem!receiving) and just a whole lot of banter, bruh poe is just feastin TONIGHT, sprinkle of plot pairing: poe dameron x fem!reader word count: 5.1k

a/n: uhhh so,,, heh,,, enjoy. bc smut. 

“Ow, fuck.”

“You’re stepping on my foot.”

“My bad. It’s not like we’re stuck in a fucking closet.”

“Who’s fault is that?”

“Yours.”

You breathe out through your nose, struggling to contain your annoyance as you try to back up away from man but no dice. Instead, your back jams awkwardly against the busted control panel.

Said control panel is one of the reasons why you’re stuck in a closet with a man you met only twenty minutes before. Other reasons may or may not include you, the man mentioned, and a certain droid both of you are supposedly waiting on.

“You said that droid is coming?” you grunt as he lets out a heavy sigh against your collarbone. You’ve been squished in a four by four foot supply closet for the past twenty minutes at least and there’s barely enough room as he reaches around to jam the button again. “That’s not going to work,” you say pointedly and he scowls at you, pressing the button again.

“BB-8’s coming,” he growls. “He’ll know I’m missing.”

“Oh, thank the Maker for that!”

“Do you have a problem?”

“Uh, yeah. You’re breathing in my air, in my general vicinity.” A pause, and then: “Can you breathe in any other direction?”

In response, he sucks in a huge breath and lets it out in one big exhale towards the vent above them before glancing down again and arching a brow as if to say, Happy now?

You are most certainly not.

“At least this gives us a moment to breathe. It’s better than being arrested,” he says as if offering a ceasefire. The man leans away from you and you sigh, readjusting the strap of your short dress. His eyes are determinedly staying on yours but even you know they’ve dipped the few times your back was turned. “We can get to know each other.”

Not that you haven’t been thinking about his ass all day either. You spotted him earlier in the markets today, even if he hadn’t noticed you, with that orange and white droid rolling around behind him. Cute and memorable.

What can you say? A good looking guy tends to stick out in a crowd.

“I think I’d rather be arrested,” you say as you lean against your own wall and tug at your dress where you think it doesn’t fit too well. “Who the fuck are you, anyway?”

“You mean, you don’t lock lips with any random handsome stranger?” he fires back. “I’m hurt.”

“Right. You know what I meant.” You nod to the chip in his pocket. “What do you wanna do with that?”

“Top secret, Snatch.”

“Snatch?” you repeat, frowning. “Never mind. I’m sure it’s a secret you can share with me.” At this, you push off the wall and, by the limitations of the closet, stand in his space. Dameron straightens up, an unimpressed smirk printed on his face. “So?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“It could be.”

“It really couldn’t.” His nose brushes against yours and his soft breath tickling at your lips makes a hot spear shoot into your gut. You can taste the sunfruit on his breath, the sweet swipe of his tongue across his lips and your eyes narrow as his chest presses against yours. You don’t budge from your spot as a curl of his dark hair falls into his eyes. Almost automatically and before you can register what you’re doing, you reach up to brush it back and he catches your wrist before you can, grin growing. “I knew I recognized you.”

“I’m so happy for you,” you reply dryly. You shake his hand free from your wrist and back up against the wall, crossing your arms. “I’ve seen you in the markets a few times. The only eye-candy way out here,” you admit grudgingly, thinking of the weird fantasies you had about the guy you dubbed ‘The Man from the Market.’

Not your most graceful or catchy nickname, or your most dignified moment, waking up to soaked panties and a flustered sensation glossing over your skin, but you also didn’t expect to see him again. At this party, no less, of some merc bastard and his friends.

“Likewise,” he says, eyes dropping from yours to your lips and then darting up again. He chews on his lip, as if fighting back that cocky smile before he adds, “You’re the only thing that’s caught my eye in the past two days.”

“Charming.”

“Hm. Poe Dameron.”

You glance at the unopened door, sighing out a, “Good for you,” as you cross your legs at your ankles. Dameron only frowns, turning to the door and you observe the darkness around you. You can’t really make out anything but the solid shape of your fellow closet companion. You can’t even make out his features too well unless he’s extremely close to you, and even then, it’s a guesstimate.

You’re going to kill Yvonna. If she wants the intel, she’s going to have to pay you double the credits.

The darkness seems to crowd in on you and you take a deep breath, the heat of the room getting to you. You feel sweat gather underneath your arms, in the creases of your thighs, and maybe it’s the alcohol getting to you, but you swear your feet aren’t attached anymore. They’ve been strapped to some stupidly high heels to accentuate your legs and it's gathered in a trembling pain in your calves now that you’ve a moment to stop moving. You want to keep moving. It’s the dancing in your stomach, the strange flutter in your lungs, the involuntary clenching between your legs.

Normally, you’d be fine but right now…

God, it might’ve been something you ate. You don’t know, but right now, you feel like you’re a hollowed out piece of scrap.

“C’mon, BB-8,” Dameron murmurs as you let your head drop back against the wall. Your eyes slip shut and it’s not too different from the darkness surrounding.

Maybe it’s cause you haven’t seen Krieg in a moment which is part of the reason you’re here. Hasn’t given you a chance to take the edge off and you’re so full of this energy that needs to be spent or you’re going to die in this closet, in that ship…

You needed to do something.

Your eyes open and see the shape of Dameron’s head.

Or, someone.

Yes, you had kissed him first, pushed him into this closet, let his hands wander, but that was because a guard was coming and you weren’t about to get caught red-handed.

This fucking sucks.

“My friends call me Y/N,” you say glumly, your fingers gingerly tugging at the hem of your skirt. An uncomfortable slickening is occurring down there just thinking about that kiss that occurred in a time when you weren’t stuck in a closet, and you can’t help but think that Dameron was a good kisser.

Give credit where credit is due, all that bullshit.

“Y/N, huh?”

“I said my friends,” you reply pointedly. “Associates and otherwise know me by my callsign.”

“Which is?”

“Bandit.”

“How original,” he mutters almost under his breath and you roll your eyes. The burning in your gut spreads like a fan of fire, following where your knuckles press against your thighs as you try to adjust your dress to fit comfortably, but it’s too damn hot and you shift again, catching his attention. “You okay? Not afraid of the dark, are you?”

“No. It’s just… it’s just hot in here,” you mumble with a scowl directed at your own body betraying the way his arm bracketing you on one side of your head is radiating a heat you want to choke on. “When did it get so hot?”

“When they started serving spiced whiskey?” he tries and, this time, your scowl is directed at him with another poison to kill a small snake. “Maybe you’re having the Shakes.”

“The…” You blink, and you’re not sure if your eyes are adjusting to the blinding darkness or if you can actually see him clear as day when he bends his arm and leans against the wall by his elbow. You don’t move away and his breath, searing, tingles at your sweating neck. The drawling exhales only serve to send more thigh-clenching spasms into your stomach and you shoot him a weak glare. “The what now?”

“The Shakes,” he repeats as if he’s totally unaware of what he’s doing to your body. Maker, he must be able to smell it. There’s no way he can’t because you can feel just the effect of him being so close to you has done and— “You know.”

“I, uh, I really don’t.” If he knew a fraction of what his voice did to your panties, he would not be talking right now. Or he’d be talking more. You don’t know which one you want more.

“Oh, you know, when you haven’t had sex in a long time. I call it the Shakes. Every little thing sets you off, you get cranky and flustered, you’re all wired up and your gut feels like the first time you go into hyperspace.” He sighs, and you hear the quiet thump of his head resting against the wall. Y’know, darling?”

“Hm?” you hum, distracted by the index knuckle running over your cheek.

“It makes you distracted.” You can hear his smirk and you roll your eyes with a scoff. “It’s why I call ‘em the Shakes. Throws everything off, doesn’t it?”

“Stars, you love hearing yourself talk, don’t you?”

“You know, I see the it often enough that I can recognize any poor soul suffering from a mile away,” he says, ignoring you. “And you’re sick with it, Snatch.” Casually as if he isn’t lazily tracing the shell of your ear with his hand now, he chuckles. You close your eyes as if you’re not critically aware of every desire to pull him into another hard kiss, every little movement of his body from the way he leans to the way his fingers flutter around the curve of your jaw.

You’re a fucking fighter, though. You’re not about to hook up with some random motherfucker in a closet.

Even if the random motherfucker is the hottest thing you’ve seen in who knows how long.

Holy shit, you think your gut might explode with how hard you’re trying to keep it together so you say the first thing you can think of related.

“I didn’t get sick the first time I flew into hyperspace. I didn’t get sick the first time I did an aileron. I, uh, I really don’t get sick when I fly at all,” you say, eyebrows rising skeptically. “Do you?” Confused: “No. I’m a pilot.”

“Oh. And you get the Shakes often, then? Wedged in the seat for hours on end,” you ask conversationally, managing to keep your tone in check. Dameron chuckles at your question, but he pulls back. Your thighs press together and something lurches at his withdrawal, wanting him near again but you silently push those urges down. “If you’re so wise to depart your knowledge with me, that is.”

“You’re a funny girl. Nah, you just get used to it when you’re busy doing other things.”

“Other things?”

“Hm, well, let’s say I have a busy job, and that’s pretty much my whole twenty-four-seven schedule.” He comes close again, close enough that his lips brush against the delicate skin before your ear and shivers shoot down your spine like waves of electricity and you stiffen. You know he hears you suck in your breath, the tiny hitch of your chest and he chuckles again, almost amused.  

“I think… it’s…” Maker, please forgive me for my utterly hedonistic will that has the strength of melted bantha cheese. “Fuck, I think it’s physically impossible to ignore that you’re horny.”

“I didn’t say that,” he corrects, lips whispering over your skin. He tilts his head. “I said you get used to it.”

“Well… n-normally, I’m pretty fucking good at that.” You bite your lip and lift your head to the ceiling, thighs pressing together and straightening up but the sound of your dress dragging against the wall gives you away. “When... people aren’t around.”

“People?” he echoes. “You alright, Snatch?” Fuck him. He is definitely enjoying this.

Well, fuck. Might as well, right?

“The Shakes,” you say in a very steady tone that is betrayed by the absolute ocean swimming between your thighs, “may have found residence here.”

“Hm.”

“That funny to you?” you ask, feeling his smug fucking smirk against your cheek and turning to look at him. His dark eyes glint somehow in the non-existent light. You just know it’s there. A cocky spark.

“Explains why you kiss like I’d melt away between your fingers. It was a good kiss, by the way. You’re a good kisser,” he adds, “but more passionate than I thought you’d go for, considering all we were trying to do was evade the guards and that fact that up until that point, you were trying to pickpocket me.”

“I was trying to get the chip. And I think the pushing into the closet was a good touch,” you defend as he rotates around and cages you against the wall. You stare defiantly back. “He went away, didn’t he?”

“But that just implies something.” His elbows are on either side of your head and he leans in, low enough that you can feel the sound of his voice, his sweet breath against your aching mouth. It’s one thing to admit it but another thing to act on it. Maker, are you really about to—

You know what?

Fuck it. Your panties are ruined, you need this fucking annoying heat out of your system and he’s fucking right about one thing: you’re hornier than a Lucrusian fengrill in heat.

What do you have to lose?

“Why just imply something?” you ask innocently as his lips brush against the corner of your mouth. You sigh in relief when the heat seems to sink, spreads through your body instead, and his shadow brushes against your skin as he moves lower, lips finding your chin, the curve of your jawbone. “Oh, fuck…” you choke out, your hands finding his hair automatically, threading through the dry locks and his name slips out in a breathless moan. “Fuck, Dameron.”

His body jerks at the sound of his name coming from you and your eyes widen when his hips press flush against your thigh. His bulge is hot and hard, the fabric of his pants silky against your bare skin and you let out a soft sound when he nudges your head up. His hands run over the walls, find your shoulders, your waist, tugging at fabric that sticks to your skin before continuing elsewhere, and you’re not even breathing as he licks at the pulse point, the sweat, the alcohol glazing your skin.

“Shit,” he breathes against your neck, teeth running along the vein as his hand sneaks underneath the hem of your dress, skirts around the edge of your panties and it’s the brush across the absolutely soaked spot that does him in, does you in because you know he felt you clench around nothing. “Fuck, I can feel it—”

“Shut up,” you groan, wrenching his head up and smashing your lips against his. He sighs into your mouth, hips grinding against yours as you take a handful of his curls. You yank him back, your lungs seizing for air. Everything tastes like sugar and starfruit as you push him down to his knees, your calves burning. “My feet. Ow. Fuck these heels, honestly.”

“I got ‘em.” His hands immediately find your ankles, running smooth circles into your skin but before you can tell him the strap is on the outer side of your leg, he lifts your foot up. A protest stammers in your throat as he reaches up and presses you against the wall with a large hand flat against your tummy, but he merely smirks against your thigh, letting your knee hang off his broad shoulder. “It’s the Shakes, darling. Makes everything excruciating.”

“Dameron—”

“Relax,” he drawls as your back meets the wall flush and cold. You grab onto the handle of one of the mechanical drawers, wincing when his hand digs into the sore muscle on its way up to stabilize your thigh just as the other on your stomach travels down. “Got a nice view, don’t you?”

“Would be better,” you grit out, “if I could see.”

“Need me to pull out my glow-in-the-dark condoms for you?”

“Dameron.”

“Kidding. Well, only half. I do have some back on the ship.”

“Dameron.”

“Alright, alright. Next time.”

You can’t even see the silhouette of his face anymore, gone underneath the hem of your dress, but you shake your head anyway, lip caught between your teeth as you feel his hand slide up and down the one calf still planted firmly on the ground.

You take a breath and let your head fall back, your ravaged neck pulsing, your entire world spinning.

It happens all at once. When his grip on the thigh resting on his shoulder tightens, when he lifts your other leg over his shoulder, when he surges forward, his lips finding your soaked panties immediately, teeth nipping lightly at the fabric.

Your entire system shuts down.

He noses up higher and your thighs wrap around his head, ankles hooking. His fingers dig into the flesh of your thighs, clutches at your ass really, and your fingers in his hair tighten when the dress begins to ride up higher, revealing more of the gorgeous man between your legs.

Oh, how you wish there was some sort of light in here so you can just—

There’s one shaky breath, then another, and there’s no movement which you’re only painfully aware of and your eyes open—when did you even close them?—as you look down. “What’s wrong?”

“I just wish I could see you, darling,” he breathes, kissing the top of your slit and sending a warm shiver through your gut. “Fuck. The way you’d look when I finally chase the Shakes out of you—I’d ruin you. Ruin you and then some. Eat for days.” And then his teeth return, barely skimming the soft flesh of your navel as they hook on the waistband of your panties and tug, his breath following down your thigh as he works on pulling it down, slowly, luxuriously, his lips soft as they press teasing kisses in the crease of your thighs, land tiny nips to the juncture of your hips. You spasm at every turn, wiggle and squeeze until you’re sure you’re cutting off the circulation in his neck, but he doesn’t give any indication that he cares.

No, he just holds you against the wall, your legs tossed over his shoulders, and grins.

You don’t know how you know.

You just do so you don’t know why you stutter out, “You g-good?” anyway.

“Fucking perfect.”

Maybe it’s so you can hear that voice, low and deep in his chest, between your legs.

He leans forward and his nose bumps into your clit, and, as if on reflex, a warm, strong tongue darts out and licks a solid stripe through your heat. “Fuck, darlin’.”

Definitely so you can hear that voice between your legs.

“You’re heaven, y’know that?” he mumbles but you can’t quite focus, your hands gripping at anything you can—one in his hair, the other on that handle and your back arches when he just goes for it, mouth to clit contact, tongue probing and licking and stroking all at once. “Think ‘m gonna die if you don’t drown me first.”

“W-way to i-inflate a girl’s—fuck…” Your voice goes hoarse midway, as if he sucks it out of you, and you can feel the air in your lungs going with it as your back arches off the steel wall. You can feel his jaw, sharp and strong and warm, flexing against your thighs as he works, tongue velvet, lips teasing and he inhales deeply as your legs tighten around his head.

His fingers dig deeper into your ass and you choke back a pathetic moan when his teeth raze your swollen bud lightly, just enough to tease you and keep you on edge. Everything is cotton. The shadows, his hair, his rough hands that are full of calluses you don’t know the meanings of.

Your nails scratch his scalp, tug him impossibly closer and you’re biting through your lip right now, your moans bundling in your chest as he pushes deeper, pushes you closer against the wall as if he wants more of you but can’t quite reach and you want to just let him continue, let him have his fun because you’re sure he can go down on you for hours but—

You’re only human, and the tide comes so quickly you fucking know for sure two things: Dameron knows what he’s doing and Dameron knows what the fuck the Shakes are.

A slight brush of his tongue at your clit and you’re gone. You’re on that downhill slope that sends a spiral of chain events through your body. Your thighs lock around his head and your fingers tighten as lightning shivers and lances through your limbs, sending your heart up into your throat and pulsing between your legs. Your gut clenches, so desperate to hold on that you can’t even breathe, that the only thing you can stutter out is some bare semblance to his name followed by ramblings of “fuck” slewn with more “close… close… so, so close…”

Your eyes are screwed shut, your mind scrambling to concoct an image—an image that would be reality if the lights were on and you can almost see it. Poe Dameron, with his dark eyes, raven hair, plush lips and a beard that scratches against your skin, on his knees with your legs thrown over his shoulders, his hands, huge and veined and strong, grabbing at what flesh he can, head gone underneath the hem of your dress and you can only feel what he’s doing—

You don’t even recognize him chuckling until you can feel the vibration of it through your knees, against your leg.

“Darlin’,” he pants, drawing back just enough to breathe and he tilts his chin just enough to press a sloppy, slick kiss against the soft flesh of your inner thigh and he laughs again, entertained at the desperate little whine that comes outta your throat because the image would’ve been just enough if he kept going for a second more, “gotta let me fuckin’ breathe if you want me to stay down here.”

“That’s…” You struggle for words because you’re heaving so hard, so out of breath because you didn’t even know you weren’t breathing for several seconds. “That’s—it’s, oh, shit.” Your thought process is disturbed by another teasing lick at your swollen folds. “Dameron, if you don’t let me just fucking—”

He nips at the juncture between your thigh and your soaking, swollen cunt.

“Watch it.” You retaliate with a sharp tug of his hair and he only laughs again, soothing the bite mark with a few gentle kisses.

“Just keeping you on edge, darling,” he whispers, peeking up from underneath your dress for the first time in what feels like hours. You run your hand blindly down his face and feel the slickness on his chin, swiping it off but his teeth catch your thumb, and then it’s his tongue wrapping around your fingers, too, sending fluttering shivers through your stomach. He licks them dry before he lets go and your hand finds his hair again as he sighs, disappearing between your legs again, and you barely hear it, a nearly indecipherable mumble that sounds more like it’s coming from inside your head that his own mouth, “Anyone ever told you… you taste like heaven?”

“And how would you know?” you gasp, feeling a little giggly yourself as the crest begins to rise, your chin tilted up as his tongue flattens against your slit. He hums to himself, the curve of his jaw brushing against your tender thigh as he pulls back just enough to speak.

“‘Cause I just tasted it, darling. And I know I could just feast on you for days.” Your entire body tenses as he laughs into your cunt, the ripples of it against your sensitive skin shooting through your spine and you’re on that downward spiral again as his smiling mouth attaches to your bud and his tongue dips into you again.

You’re dripping. The sounds are obscene, filthy to the nth degree, and you’re so close that it aches. You want to thrust but you can’t risk toppling the man you’re resting on the shoulders of, but at the same time, you know he’s teasing the ever loving shit out of you with his shallow passes, his fluttering kisses.

Taking his sweet time, indulging in it. You’re pretty sure if he could make do on his promise to eat you out for however long you’d let him, he would, but you’re half-aware of where you are, that the droid is supposedly coming, and having half-a-brain is half-a-brain too much to lose all common sense.

“Dameron,” you whisper, and he pauses, looking up and you wish you could see his face, the face of a man who stopped at the mere utterance of his name that it sends a thrill through your overstimulated system. “Please.”

There are no further words needed.

He works you up to it slowly, until your fingers are clamped so hard and you’re seeing stars despite there being nothing but shadows around you. The only sound is the wet slop of his mouth working against your drenched pussy, your moans and his heavy breathing that fans out across your navel.

It’s when his tongue pushes so much deeper, and curls, that your thighs clamp down around his head and your fingers are gripping so hard you’re not sure you’re going to make it without a few nail cuts in your palms that you know the Shakes are gone.

Your entire world flips as your vision goes black. Your fingers curl tighter, your thighs begin to quiver, and everything snaps inside you. Your back arches off the wall and you feel like you scream but it’s because your voice is so utterly broken that it seems so as he continues to drink through the floods, drawing out the aftershocks for as long as possible and the euphoria that shoots through you like a blaster is both molten and cool as spring water.

Your vocabulary is nothing but his name, soft breathes of “fuck” and “shit”, and the unrelenting “thank you”.

Your heart rattles against your ribs, beating so quickly you think it might burst from your chest and you feel another quivering sigh escape your lips as Dameron gives you a few more gentle sucks to your messy centre before he’s slowly running his hands up your thighs, to your knees, and gently sliding your legs off back to the floor.

Your body is trembling so hard that your knees nearly give in immediately, but, luckily, Dameron’s hands find your waist and ease you to the ground just as you let go of the handle of the drawer.

“Fuck,” you croak ungracefully once your ass is on solid ground and you gulp down nothing but air as you try to open your eyes. It’s not that different from your closed vision and there are a few white stars blinding you in the dark, but you can still make out the shape of your partner, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand before he’s leaning over your leg to check the control panel. It’s then that you can feel it, pressed against your shin. He’s hard as a fucking rock. “Y-you need—” But your voice is a garbled mess, exhausted from the alcohol and the Shakes, and he turns to you, fingers dancing up your calves before slowly pulling your ruined panties back up your thighs.

“Up,” he orders quietly, and you lift your hips up enough for him to slip them firmly back onto your hips. “And it’s fine. I told you. I’m good with the Shakes.”

“Yeah, but, y’know…” you mumble, “could be good.” You can feel him smiling as he leans over to kiss your neck blindly, still finding that tender juncture of your shoulder. You grin, your hands finding his shoulders and roaming his back, feeling the curved muscle of a military man. You know his type.

Continuing downward, down his sides…

“You do owe me,” he murmurs and you nod as he pulls back just as the sound of beeping on the other end of the door.

“Mhm, don’t wanna stay in debt,” you say just as the sound of whirring fills the heated silence and your grin grows as you expectedly raise one of your hands to shield the light about to fill their little closet. You pull your other hand away and you begin pulling the loops out on your heels, sliding your aching feet out of those torture shoes. “Maybe we’ll run into each other again in the future, huh? Pay you back then.”

The door slides open and you stand as he scrambles to his feet as well. At least, you can see his features clearly, and you grin because he’s just as handsome as the first time you saw him.

Absolute score.

With your fingers hooked on your shoes, you wipe the bit of slick he missed on the corner of his mouth. He grabs your hand before it drops, pressing a cheeky kiss to the center of your palm and you roll your eyes.

“That’s fine with me,” he replies, squinting against the light and you tap his cheek. “See you around, Flyboy.” You flash him one last smile before leaving the closet first and walking down the hall. Your knees are still trembling and you feel like you’re a complete mess as you stagger through the metal hallway. Exhaustion is telling you to just go the fuck to sleep right then and there, but you can’t. Not until you get back to your ship and get into hyperspace.

As soon as you’ve rounded a corner, you run with everything you have.

It’s only a matter of time before Poe Dameron realizes that the chip that was in his pocket is making its way to another buyer.

Yvonna totally owes you.

#fic: the shakes #poe dameron #poe dameron x reader #poe dameron x you #poe dameron fic #poe dameron fanfiction #poe dameron imagine #poe x reader #poe x you #sw #star wars #star wars x you #star wars x reader #star wars fanfiction #star wars fic #poe dameron smut #poe x reader smut #star wars imagine #star wars smut #my writing

[dreaminpetals]

can i request a fic where naib thinks his fem s/o is cheating on him when she isn't, and it leads to... smut perhaps 👉👈

🔪 mister loverman // naib subedar

art credit

it was a usual occurrence for everyone in the manor to become a bag of nerves weeks before the annual ball. hunters and survivors alike were expected to pick a date and a lavish outfit in a short period of time, all while balancing brutal ranked matches and competitive tournaments.

naib wanted to ask you ー he was going to ask you, his one and only love, but he wasn't sure how. if it was up to him he'd casually ask over dinner, but his friends had chided him for his bluntness. eli's advice repeatedly swam through his ears. 'give her the invitation she deserves, not what's easiest for you, naib.' he'd have to think of something romantic, something that would amaze you and leave all the girls jealous.

until then, naib fiddled with his elbow pads at the dining table, eager to get matched up already so he could release all his pent up anger on the battlefield. he was seated between his girlfriend and her new best friend, luca. the two were always up to something and naib would be lying if he said he didn't feel the thorns of jealousy every time he saw the prisoner by your side. luca was an alright guy on his own, but he had no sense of boundaries and got a little too close to you for naib's comfort. platonically holding hands with luca always leaves your boyfriend a disgruntled mess. that should be him with his fingers wrapped around yours.

"hey naib, pass this to y/n for me," luca sneered and a twitching hand passed him a folded up note. he did just that. you passed him a note back, so on and so forth. naib wondered just what they were talking about that couldn't be spoken aloud, were they discussing him?

were they flirting?

no, you wouldn't betray his trust like that. you promised you would stay with naib through thick and thin, there was no chance of you leaving him for luca. he pushed his darker thoughts to the back of his mind when the fourth survivor and hunter joined.

naib was the first survivor to be blasted back to the manor, all because luca kept distracting everyone. making funny faces, trying to convince the hunter to go friendly, all the things naib hated during matches. sure, it was only a quick match, but it wasn't often he got to be matched up with his girlfriend. the urge to protect you always took over his body and made him fight better, this was his chance to shine and luca snuffed it out.

before naib could storm out of the room, two notes crumpled on the floor by the dining table caught his attention. would it be so bad if he read them for himself? seeing an innocent conversation between you and luca would quell all the suspicions that plagued his heart, he thought. naib smoothed out the notes and what he saw shook him to his very core.

'y/n, would you like to be my date for the ball?'

'of course, luca!"

naib's hands began to shake uncontrollably and it took all of his self restraint to not rip the notes into shreds. he fucking loved you. and you did this.

the notes were stuffed into his pockets. he was going to confront you for this and it wasn't going to look pretty. it would hurt to lash out at his girlfriend, who he thought was the love of his life, but if you were so willing to throw everything away for a random newcomer in the manor ... so be it, he would make you regret hurting him. the closer he stomped to your shared dorm, the heavier the weight in his pockets felt. two slips of paper. that was all it took to shatter naib subedar's heart and douse the shards in gasoline.

he couldn't bear to look at the couple photos hung up on the walls. the dishes you made together during a pottery class. the presents you bought each other. your belongings still on the nightstand. he would have to throw all of it out. naib took a seat on the edge of the bed, releasing a ragged breath he didn't know he was holding. his whole face was red and he was shaking with a silent rage. if it wasn't for the damage in his elbows he would have punched a hole through the wall. his girlfriend, his future wife, the love of his life had cheated on him. it still hasn't sunk in yet.

when he heard two pairs of footsteps approach the door, your graceful steps and luca's hobbled footing, naib winced. his nails dug into his thighs as the doorknob turned, and a single tear trickled down his cheek when you bid luca goodbye.

"hi babe! sorry if this is sudden but have you seen my dice? i can't seem to find them anywhere..." your innocent, sweet tone normally made naib's heart swell, but now it was more comparable to his heart being torn in half with rusty pliers. he wanted to lash out at you, to scream and show you just how much pain he was in, but the moment he heard your voice and felt your presence in the room all of his rage subsided. he still loved you.

"why don't you ask luca." his voice had an unrecognizable emotion in it.

"luca? why's that?" he could hear you drop your bags to the floor and approach him. "hey, is everything alright?" you went to place a concerned hand on his shoulder but his quick reflexes allowed him to roughly grip your hand and twist it midair, holding you in place. "huh?! naib stop it, you're hurting me!" he let go when he heard those words fall from your mouth.

"i said. why don't you ask luca." he hissed, venom oozing from every word. it was strange, when the hooded mercenary turned to face you, fear and confusion were apparent in your eyes.. you didn't look like someone who was caught in the act, moreso like someone caught in a misunderstanding. "i found these in the dining room," he fished the notes out of his pockets and placed them in your palm, grabbing your other wrist so the notes would be cupped in your hands. he didn't want to look at them. "care to explain?"

"naib, let me go," your hollow voice flickered above a whisper. you tried to move your hands but they were trapped by his larger ones. the eyes staring daggers into you were so damp, like he was moments away from bursting into tears. he wouldn't budge. "naib... i can explain this if you let me go. i know what you're thinking and i didn't cheat on you,"

his gaze softened and he slowly freed you from his grip. in a heartbeat, you fetched two extra notes from your pockets. laying them out on the bed, they formed a conversation:

'can i ask you something?'

'of course, luca!'

'y/n, would you like to be my date for the ball?'

'i'm sorry, i'm waiting for naib to ask me'

naib reread the notes so many times he may as well have burned holes in them. the tears that fell from his troubled eyes stained the papers and made them even harder to read... he was so furious with his love and she hasn't done anything.

"naib sweetie, it's okay... i would have thought the same thing if i were you," a pang of guilt hit your heart to see the usually strong and fearless naib subedar look so crestfallen, so stripped down and vulnerable. you were all he had and for a moment he thought he lost everything. you crawled into his lap and draped your arms around his shoulders, craning your neck to give him a reassuring kiss. it took a few seconds for naib to react, pecking your lips then pulling away again. he hesitated for a moment before his arms rested on either sides of your waist, it was clear he was afraid to touch you. naib didn't want to hurt you again.

his adam's apple bobbed as he thought of what to say. the words trapped in his throat were begging to spill out but he couldn't think of an adequate way to apologize to you. "i shouldn't have assumed," was all he could sombrely squeeze out, gingerly tugging you close so your rosy face could press against his tearful one. when you kissed again, a thin string of saliva connected your aching lips as he pulled away to speak once more, "i don't want to lose you... m'sorry if i hurt you baby," before you could respond, the hand resting on your waist took hold of your wrist and he kissed it better, making eye contact with you the whole time. his soft kisses trailed all the way to your neck where his hot breath fanned under your jaw. "there's nothin' i could do to make it up for you, is there?"

his words went straight to between your legs. "there is one thing," your teeth met your bottom lip and naib suddenly flipped you onto your back, pinning you down and looming dangerously close to your lips again.

"mm? and what would that be?" he curled his lips to give you a sharklike grin. naib was hungry for you. he clapped his hands onto the sides of your knees and rode them up your thighs until he reached the hem of your skirt. in one swift movement, he hiked the fabric up to your belly to expose your panties. "somethin' like this?" all you could do was nod, your words were caught in your throat. naib hooked his fingers into your undergarments and pulled them straight down, lifting your legs to toss them across the room. your bottom half laid bare in front of him, the man you loved and nearly lost. naib outstretched an arm to place some soft pillows under your hips.

you were on the verge of breaking while he took his sweet time to spread your thighs apart. you squirmed and felt your pussy pulsate for every second that naib wasn't devouring you whole. "naib, please," you mewled, lust pumping through your veins.

your words fell to deaf ears, naib was only focused on the perfect dessert laid out just for him. he was a very primal man ー once something was in his sights, he wasn't letting it go. naib brought his tongue to swipe a stripe up your sopping wet pussy, delving straight in. your body convulsed at the sudden pressure, his hands coming to grip your hips and hold you still. you rutted against his face and he seemed to enjoy the friction from the low drawls of 'good girl' that escaped his lips between flicks of your clit. you weren't sure how long you could last with his head going berserk between your thighs. naib lapped up every drop of juice that spilled from you and licked every inch of your pussy clean, it was as if his life depended on it. to him, it did. he had to go through the agony of thinking you slipped from his grasp. he would never tell you this, but he was working extra hard to bring you to euphoria because he wanted to outdo anything luca could do.

naib knew you were close the moment your thighs squeezed around him and your hands smacked over your eyes to cover them, fingers twitching and wrists tremoring. one final tongue over your sensitive bundle of nerves and you were seeing stars, your body giving out in his arms.

"did i do good y/n? please... tell me baby," a whine fell from his lips as he used your slick to lube himself up, the tip of his dick growing red from need.

you were still experiencing the aftershock of your orgasm, heaving and dragging your hands down your face while you quivered. it was hard to form a coherent thought, let alone speak. "yes... i'll never leave you naib, i love you so much," he growled in response, and that was when you knew he was entering a frenzy that nothing could pull him from.

he positioned the head of his cock in front of your entrance and deliciously rubbed himself over your folds for a few good seconds, seizing the opportunity to coil his arms under your back and lift you up so your forehead rubbed against his. he was flush on top of you, getting sweat and drool all over your shirt. "need you so fucking bad," was all he could muster before sheathing himself inside of you, sloppy thrusts following suit. there was no rhythm or rhyme to how he fucked you into oblivion, he was desperate. naib was beautiful above you, his glistening eyes searching yours for any sort of malice to which he found nothing. nothing but adoration. holding you steady with one hand, he reached down to thumb your clit. the sensations had you crying out underneath him and bringing a jagged smile to his lips. he grew more frantic with each thrust, eventually spilling his seed deep within you. the two of you moaned in unison and he laid you down on his chest, still rubbing circles on your clit. he wasn't finished with you just yet, he couldn't pry himself away from you until he stopped being ashamed about his incorrect assumptions of you. he still had no clue how he read his girl so poorly. while he relentlessly fingered you, a lightbulb appeared above his hooded head.

"by the way, how'd you like to go to the ball with me?"

#gonna use fanart when i cant find official art i like fjdnsk #naib subedar #idv x reader #naib subedar smut #naib subedar imagine #identity v

[myfanfictiongarden]

The Sea Witch´s Daughter- Descendants fanfic

If someone had asked Uma what she would wish to do in life, she would have probably answered with something like:”Kidnap a spoiled princess and wait for the ransom.” or “Eat a real chocolate cake that doesn’t taste like fish guts.” or simply “Sail the seas!”.

The thing being though that apparently there wasn’t anyone around to ask such things, no caring mother (more like “scaring” mother), no father or grandparent (like if) to share her dreams and sorrows or require into her well-being, it was clear that all Uma could do was throw her fantasies over board into the drink and roll up her sleeves to battle things as they came. And they came sure as the tide.

The apartment she shared with her mum wasn’t nearly the worst thing the Isle had to offer, her room did have a view at the sea and living above a restaurant meant there was always at least some kind of food around- but owning the restaurant was something completely different. That meant her mother could sit in her armchair and watch Auerdon soaps all day long with only occasional visits to check on the kitchens, while Cook and her could sweat by the stove, clean fish and serve customers as rugged as the Isle could make them. Life, sweet life.

Life wasn’t fair, at least not here.

Yet, to say there weren’t occasional moments of glee would be wrong to assume, and one of those were Thursday nights. Every second Tuesday night to be exact. Because then, and only then would Ursula´s Fish & Chips Shop see some action. It would be the nights when Uma would come to some fun. And money.

For years she and Harry would play dice for fun, always eager to trick the other and have the wining hand. Well, playing it had been a great way to beat down rainy days when you couldn’t roam the streets or peer, yet wished to avoid your commanding villainous parents. Very soon though they both realised that you could trick those around with a less fortunate hand into betting their last piece of silver on a game. A game they couldn’t win, for Uma and Harry made sure to get some profit out of it. The reason the house always wins. No cheating, no beating.

On this late August night though her spirits were slightly muffed. For the past week the heat had been unbearable, a summer rarely seen so hot here. And while the days were hot the nights had offered no relief either, it all culminating in a storm that had been raging now for two days. Her head was aching like mad for she had had the night shift all week, her legs were slowly giving in and to make things worse she had failed a lousy exam at Madam Mim´s lectures. To accompany her depressed spirits the storm had decided to get stronger, rain beating against the walls outside, wind howling through every single crack to be found. The reason why none of the customers intended to leave as yet, meaning she had to serve them as long as they stayed.

The plus side though didn’t slip her notice. The place, while not crowded, did have a fair amount of people in it, all of them buying drinks while they wait for the rain to end, and many of them beating down time gambling at the right table. From time to time she slips to the table, makes sure everything goes right for them (and bad for the others), sometimes she yells at a smart-head who wants to use his own dice, but all in all there is not too much for her to do there, Harry has everything more than under control. He carefully collects the win, his hook always flashing towards anyone who dares to complain, all while cleverly tricking everyone into thinking they have a realistic chance to get rich. Everybody seems to have a good time, so even though the day isn't perfect, its not too bad either.

-

It is late, very late. Probably long past midnight, but Harry wouldn’t be able to tell, none of the watches he carries with him working. It had been a long night, a good night as far as earning go, but he is glad the storm had eased and the patrons started to leave. Not that he was tiered, he felt nothing of that sort, but he had noticed Uma rubbing her templates more than often. Even with everyone gone there would have been enough work with the dishes to keep anybody on their feet at least for some time longer, so throwing a rather rough ruffian out of the tavern he wished to have this place cleaned out as soon as possible. Finally, the last of the Stabbington cousins stumbled out of doors and the last of the pale witch sisters left, everything was clear. Except for Ginny. She hadn’t been among the crowd at first, having come only in later, but she hadn’t been there to play either. Yet, he had noticed her keeping annoyingly close to him, always taking care that he had to notice her. Not that it didn’t flatter him, he flirted for sport often enough himself. But he was never that persistent to others like she had been all evening. And the worst thing: she was boring. Her giggles and smiles were annoying and he really wished she had left among the first. Ignoring her he starts to collect empty plates and mugs, using a rough towel to clean the tables, in the kitchen water flowing while Uma already washes the first turn. He can feel Ginny´s eyes following him around the tavern as he works. Only when he comes to her table does she finally speak.

“Do you have some time to spare later on?” She asks sweetly. Alright, he’ll play along.

“And on what would I be using that time?” He leans closer on the table with his elbow, a mischievous glimmer in his eyes, or so Ginny thinks.

“Some fun.” She stretches her arms in front of her along the table, nearly purring temptingly, her red lips forming a seductive little smile. He meanwhile moves his right hand to his pocket taking out a pocket watch, making it swing slowly between their faces before replying, his voice pleasant and steady.

“It seems like my time is already taken.”

Surprise is written all over Ginny’s face before it turns into obvious anger. That on the other hand makes him happy.

“Taken, with what? You mean washing dirty dishes with Shrimpy?” The mockery in her voice is sharp and cold, and he turns his head again towards her from where he had just started to collect some dishes. He continues for a moment to place plate upon plate before slowly walking closer to her, leaning with his right hand in the table again and giving her appearance an inspecting look, his grin getting wider as he leans closer to her.

“Seems like more fun than anything I could do with ye lass.” The anger is now clearly visible under her dark curls and she pushes the chair loudly as she rises, trying to make a dramatic leave, but is held back when he takes hold of her wrist and forces her to turn to him.

“And ya don’t call her like that. Ever.” 

Ginny is just about to spit the word Shrimpy right into his face, yet decides against it and simply wrestles her arm free.

“Psycho.” She lastly states and leaves.

Taking her last remark as a compliment, Harry laughs and goes to carry the dishes to the kitchen.

-

The door swings open and from the corner of her eye she can see Harry entering the kitchen. By the clutter on the counter behind her he must have brought the rest of the dirty dishes, but she doesn’t turn around to check, her hands deep in dish water. She wants to finish this as soon as possible, and cursing under her breath dives her hands deeper into the already murky water. Quietly, Harry moves around the kitchen until she notices him close to herself, placing his precious hook aside and taking a rugged towel to dry the dishes she already finished, not an arm length separating them, both silent in their task. That was the nice thing about Harry, you could spend hours in silence, without any pretence, without any unease. She had never asked him to help her in the tavern, not even when she was dead-tired on her feet and on the brink of crying, but that never stoped him from helping her clean up in the middle of the night when there were surely more fun things he could have been doing instead. 

For a while they continue like that in silence, the only sound that of splashing water, the dimly light from the only lamp casting deep shadows everywhere. Suddenly he throws the towel away taking a table knife in his hand while with the other holding another one out to her, offering her a mock-duel with cutlery.

“Harry, I’m tired.” she attempts, but seeing the mischievous glimmer in his eyes makes it hard for her to decline. Taking the knife offered to her she gives in. It is a fun short game, both of them moving faster and faster turns about the kitchen, years of practice making them equally matched. By now she is smiling, until lack of sleep catches up with her and the knife in her hand clutters to the floor when hit with a hearty swing from her opponent. Defeated, she drops her hands and he as well stops mid-step. And then, out of nowhere, he turns around and clearly offers her a piggy-ride. Dumbstuck she doesn’t respond for a while, surely he doesn’t mean to carry her to bed? While he must know where her room is as she had him hiding there a few times when they were little kids, it’s been years since she had taken him there. Her confusion lasts long making him turn around and repeat his offer.

“Com´on. Ya need some rest.” He says finally and that is all that needs for her to throw her arms around his neck while he takes hold of her legs.

-

She must have been too tired to register anything clearly that happened around her, but somehow they made it out of the kitchen and past the living room and the snoring Ursula, up the cracking stairs and to her tiny room. There is a faint memory of him placing her gently on her bed in the dark, of her somehow managing to take off her boots and him covering her with a blanket as she lies down. 

Somehow, she seems to remember while falling asleep, she is sure she hears him whisper Happy birthday, Uma as he leaves the room and closes the door.

#love writing these two #and because I already wrote harrys birthday #it was time to write umas 16th too #disney descendants #uma x harry #huma #things i like #my writing #my fanfiction

[hypmic-writings]

hello!!!!!! id like to request fluff headcanons of jiro, dice, and jyushis s/o (separately) playing and styling with their hair!! thank you for your hard work and i hope youre staying well and healthy!!

━━ ∘◦ ☆ ◦∘ ━━

Pairing: Jiro Yamada x Reader; Dice Arisugawa x Reader; Jyushi Aimono x Reader

Genre: Fluff

Warnings: None

A/N: Wait this is so cute? I wanna play with someone’s hair! Thank you for allowing me to gather these fluffly thoughts and thank you for the well-wishes! Hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them~

⋘ ──── ∗ ⋅◈⋅ ∗ ──── ⋙

Jiro Yamada 

you’re just hanging out at his house, laying on the couch while he’s sitting on the floor right in front of you

you get a little curious about what his hair feels like right now so you take off his cap and toss it aside to run your hands through it

at first he’s surprised and is asking why you’re touching his hair

but you just tell him to hush and stay still

his hair is probably a little greasy, but still fairly soft

he definitely has hat hair though because he wears his cap all the time

he sits like that for a little while as you play with his hair and although you can tell that he’s tense at first, once you start massaging his scalp, he relaxes under your touch

you ask if his hair has always been styled like this and he just sort of hums, saying that he’s never bothered to do anything differently with it

you make it a note to fantasize about what Jiro would look like with either shorter or longer hair 

eventually you decide to do something with his hair stylistically, so you pull out your extra rubber band and get to work

when you’re done putting it up in a ponytail you tell him to go look in the mirror and he’s already on his feet running to the bathroom

you can hear him ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ from your place on the couch and you just smile as he comes back out to you with a grin on his face

“Y/N, this looks so good! I should leave it like this for a while, right?”

“Yea, I mean, I like it!” 

he’s definitely excited by the prospect of being able to change hair styles, especially if you’re the one who does it for him

he keeps it like that for the rest of the day

and even for a while after that whenever the two of you are together he’ll ask if you can style his hair for him again

his friends at school always ask where he’s getting his hair done, but he just grins and boasts that he has the best stylist

you can never say no because he just looks so happy when he asks you 

Dice Arisugawa

Dice gets really excited when the two of you are cuddling on the couch together and you lean over to play with his hair

he’ll practically be like a puppy, leaning into your touch and asking for more of what basically turn out to be headpats

you won’t deny him though and you’ll keep running your hands softly through his hair 

he doesn’t really mind if you mess up his hair because he’s just happy for the skinship

his hair is a little bit on the longer side, so you keep twirling pieces of it on your finger and letting it spiral out

Dice tells you that he’s always had longer hair ever since he ran away from home because he was only allowed short hair when he was young

you ask him about the tassle with the little dice on it but he just brushes you off and says that’s a long story, but that it’s a good luck charm so he can never take it off of his hair

this leads you to think of other styles his hair could have 

eventually the two of you are sitting in the bathroom with lots of rubberbands all around the floor

when you finally let Dice look in the mirror he’s astonished to see that you managed to get his long hair half down and half into a bun

the both of you just kind of stare at it for a while because you know how pretty he looks but you’re waiting for him to say something

eventually he breaks into a grin and immediately goes off about how amazing he looks

“It looks so traditional and classic! I should show it off to Gentaro, I bet he’ll get jealous with how cool it is!”

“Oooh, yea, maybe I can do his hair too!”

Dice promptly shuts down that idea though, because he’s the only one that’s allowed to have his hair styled by you

you laugh and tug on one of the strands still resting on his shoulder, pulling him into you to kiss his cheek

and reassuring him that you won’t play with anyone else’s hair but his

Jyushi Aimono

Jyushi’s just laying his head on your lap, facing the tv as the two of you are relaxing when you reach down to play with his hair

as soon as your fingers even touch his head, he’s bolting upright into a sitting position and glaring at you with wide eyes

he whines and asks what you’re doing and proceeds to tell you that he spends hours every morning perfecting his hair

and that if you try to touch it, it’ll get messed up 

so you just shrug and cross your arms, saying that you guess he doesn’t want any head rubs from you

there’s a moment of silence before Jyushi is clearing his throat 

“Well, I suppose we could style it...together...”

your hands immediately latch onto his long locks and you’re not surprised to find out that his hair is incredibly soft and well-cared for

he lets you play with it for a little while and secretly really likes it before standing up and telling you to follow him into the bathroom

he proudly shows off his massive array of hair products and when you ask if you can style it for him, he’s frozen in place

you promise you won’t do anything permanent and that you’ll even help him wash his hair afterwards

he eventually agrees and you have a field day going through all of his products and basically playing with his hair as much as possible

you decide to do a rather intricate braid that’s tight, but still allows his hair to flow down over his shoulder to the front

when he starts crying that he wants to see what you’re doing and that you better not be ruining his beautiful hair, you just hush him and tell him to wait until you’re done

once you finish, he’s running to the mirror - you watch his eyes widen and for a moment you’re worried that he hates it

but then he’s crying and saying that his hair looks so pretty and that he’s sorry he ever doubted you

you simply chuckle and throw an arm around him, pulling him into a hug 

he demands that you show his stylist how you made his hair like this and even mentions that he wants to wear it like this to a show

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

#hypmic #hypnosis mic #hypnosis microphone #jiro #jiro yamada #dice #dice arisugawa #jyushi #jyushi aimono #jiro x reader #jiro yamada x reader #dice x reader #dice arisugawa x reader #jyushi x reader #jyushi aimono x reader #headcanons #imagines #hypmic imagines #hypmic headcanons #hypnosis microphone imagines #hypnosis microphone headcanons

[m-y-fandoms]

[Kokichi Ouma, Rantarou Amami, Izuru Kamakura] - taking their S/O on Winter dates - head-canons

Request: Headcanons where Kokichi, Rantaro and Izuru take their s/o on dates during the winter? Love you guys.

There’s only one person running/writing for this blog but I love you too lmao. 

- Admin Kokichi

SFW ONLY BELOW, SO NO WARNINGS THIS TIME. FLUFF.

Kokichi Ouma

Definitely doesn’t mind the cold.

Kokichi is very likely to not wear proper snow attire unless you force him.

He’s so excited to go on the date with you that he doesn’t wear gloves, forgets to layer.

Snowball fights. Tons of them.

Manic laughing, taking it far too seriously. Keeping score.

And don’t expect him to go easy on you just because you’re his lover.

Same thing with sled racing: expect to get absolutely destroyed.

I just know this kid has mastered the trajectory, makes himself aerodynamic, bought the fastest sled he could find after hours of research just to make you eat his dust.

He might even get the members of DICE involved, with them sabotaging you (gently and playfully of course) by throwing extra snowballs from the shadows or putting obstacles in front of your sled.

Kokichi would never actually let you get hurt, though.

No one was allowed to hurt you, not even him. He made sure of that.

Kokichi will want to buy hot chocolate, warm treats, anything sweet from local vendors or diners and split it with you.

He wants to cover all costs of the date. His pride makes him want to show off in front of you.

Most likely of all of the V3 boys to come home with a cold, but deny it with every fiber of his being.

Loves it when you take care of him when he’s sick. He’s a big baby.

But definitely pretends he hates you fussing over him. He’s not even sick, after all!

Rantarou Amami

Rantarou really is the Boy Next Door when it comes to relationships and dates.

He comes off as a player who is incredibly sexy, has this deep voice, a mysterious vibe, has been around the world, and is super duper rich,

But truly, he gets flustered, he goes on normal dates to the movies, he isn’t just the millionaire playboy that most peg him for.

Rantarou doesn’t flaunt his wealth. He just uses it to make you happy and fulfill his dreams.

He takes dates seriously and is anxious when planning them. He has a million ideas, but worries about if you’ll enjoy them or not.

Will ask his sisters for advice and shows them his outfits before every date for approval, even though his own fashion sense is amazing.

Also, you’re not stepping outside unless you’re bundled up. He’s not letting you get sick on his watch.

He will most likely want to take you with him traveling, to the best slopes and ski resorts in Europe,

But also enjoys going sledding on the hills by your house, going ice skating at the local rink.

He sits behind you on the sled and wraps his legs around you.

He holds your waist and won’t let you fall out on the ice.

He follows your lead. When you wanna go home, he’s ready to go too. If you wanna try something new, he’s in.

He covers the entire date’s cost, of course. Don’t even try to open your wallet. Nonsense.

He then takes you back to his house to cuddle and warm up.

You’ll bake warm treats together and drink piping hot tea and hot chocolate.

His sisters love you. And since he often is left alone to babysit them/be the “adult” of the house along with the nannies and maids, you’re always welcome to stay the night.

Izuru Kamakura

Forget snowball fights and cheap treats

Forget freezing your ass off playing like children.

You’re going to the ballet downtown.

Izuru buys you a new swanky outfit and it of course matches his suit and tie. He expects you to wear it.

“You’ll look perfect in it. I know. I know all of your measurements and considered your proportions to achieve the most flattering effect.”

He definitely hires a limousine for the night... or scares a driver into picking you two up for free.

The ballet is in the best theater in town. It’s packed tight with people who look much older than you two, dripping in diamonds and expensive fabrics.

The walls and ceilings are gilded and painted with original Baroque pieces.

Priceless chandeliers cascade from the ceiling of every room.

The bathrooms are the only thing renovated to be sleek and modern. The rest of the theater is in its original state, simply well taken care of.

You assured him that you didn’t need all of this: the outfit, the limo, the ballet performance. You feel a bit nervous that like you’re sticking out like a sore thumb.

You tell him that cuddling up on your couch or going skiing would’ve been fine.

He insists that you deserve only the best, and so does he.

Your brows furrow… arrogant bastard.

After your date (which he paid for in full don’t even insult him by asking to pay or split the costs) he takes you home.

You ask him to stay the night. He’s hesitant as always.

Certain dates and activities were one thing: the theatre was stimulating and life-enriching, worth his time.

Cuddling, physical intimacy, the implications of staying the night were a whole different sphere entirely.

He would never admit it, but he was uncomfortable with true romance.

Just because he could be the Ultimate Boyfriend, didn’t mean he wanted to.

Emotion didn’t come easy to him. He was often bored with life. You didn’t bore him, which was a miracle, but he often saw romance as unfulfilling and pointless.

Slowly but surely, you were changing that.

He stays the night, and you beg him to just go ice skating with you next time.

He yields, and takes you skating the following week.

He’s a master at it, of course, gliding gracefully and never once bumping into someone or slipping.

He can perform leaps, spins, turns, skate backwards, the whole package.

You shake your head at him. He wasn’t even trying to show off, this was just how he is…

Of course, if you even waver an inch, he is at your side in a flash to steady you.

You’ll never be injured in his care.

#headcanons #fluff #izuru kamukura #rantarou amami #kokichi ouma #s/o #Trigger happy havoc #gender neutral reader #female reader #male reader #danganronpa v3 #danganronpa killing harmony #super danganronpa 2 #sdr2 goodbye despair #winter #date #y/n #x reader #reader insert #imagine #scenarios #fanfiction #cute #rantaro x reader #kokichi x reader #izuru x reader #danganronpa #hajime hinata #sfw #danganronpa imagines

[rovelae]

Why Saiouma isn’t toxic

(CW: in-depth discussion of abuse, discussion of rape/noncon)

           Disclaimer(s): This is an intellectual discussion, not a screaming match. If you’re here to argue with facts and evidence, I don’t mind debating with you. If you just want to throw a tantrum because I like something you don’t, I’m going to tell you to take a Xanax and go to bed.

           I’m combining the terms “toxic” and “abusive”; though they aren’t technically the exact same, they’re similar enough for the purposes of this essay.

           This essay isn’t meant to convince you to ship Saiou. If you don’t like it, you don’t like it. But it’s not right to scream ‘abuse’ where none exists; it hurts fans and content creators, and it “diminishes the importance of that word and it reduces [it] to something volatile and stupid.”

           To begin with, we have to identify what makes a relationship abusive. The way I define it, an abusive relationship involves manipulation, an inherent power imbalance, and/or physical or sexual abuse. Most of the hate-posts I’ve seen paint Kokichi as the abuser and Shuichi as the hapless victim, so that will be the focus of this essay.

1. Would Kokichi manipulate Shuichi for personal gain?

           There’s no denying that Kokichi is a manipulative person. He’s a liar and he did some awful things in the game. No one’s saying he’s a morally white character. But it would be wrong to say he’s entirely evil, either.

           I’ve already covered in this post why Kokichi can’t be said to lie for personal gain, but I’ll quote a bit of it here.

           “The motivation [behind Kokichi’s lies] isn’t self-serving—he’s motivated by a desire to end a death game and stop anyone from having to go through what he and his friends have ever again. The smaller lies, though, like lying about his favorite foods? It would be annoying to be tricked like that, but it’s way too much of a stretch to label it psychological abuse.”

           We know that Kokichi’s DICE organization has a moral taboo against murder. We know he hated the killing game, to the point where he orchestrated his own suicide in order to ruin it. And almost every time Kokichi lies in the class trials, it’s either for comedic relief or to push the cast toward finding the culprit.

           “But Chapter 4!” you protest. “Kokichi manipulated Gonta into killing Miu!”

           My response is threefold:

-        Miu started it. Kokichi wouldn’t have done anything at all if his life wasn’t in danger and he wasn’t desperate.

-        It’s wrong to think that Gonta is incapable of making his own decisions. Kokichi may have influenced him in that direction, but Gonta actively made the choice to kill Miu—his own avatar confirms it at the end of the trial. (See also: Impytricky’s “Gonta Gokuhara Character Analysis: When a Genius is Treated like a Child”)

-        Kokichi felt terrible about what happened in Trial 4, to the point where he begged Monokuma to execute him along with Gonta. He didn’t need to do that, and it throws off his whole “I’m the mastermind” act just a few lines later, so we must assume he was being honest about that. It’s clear that he doesn’t enjoy hurting others.

           If that’s still not enough for you, consider: desperation, and, by extension, the killing game, brings out the worst in people. We can’t accurately judge a person’s character if all we have to go off of is the worst parts of them. Would Leon have killed Sayaka outside of the killing game? Would Hifumi have agreed to help Celestia kill Taka? Would Gundham have killed Nekomaru?

           So, would Kokichi manipulate Shuichi for personal gain? No. His whole character is motivated by a desire to help the others, and his lies are either manifestations of that motivation or harmless pranks meant to entertain.

2. Does the Saiouma ship have an inherent power imbalance?

           Shuichi is, by his own admission, weak. Kokichi has a strong personality and likes to be in charge. That doesn’t mean that Kokichi doesn’t respect Shuichi and his opinions. In fact, each class trial is packed with evidence of Kokichi listening to Shuichi’s point of view and respecting his intelligence. For instance:

-        Kokichi sided with Shuichi during scrum debates 2, 3, and 4

-        Kokichi pointed out most of Shuichi’s lies during the trials (and back routes), but in most cases, didn’t fight him on it

-        Shuichi is the only character identified as “trustworthy” by the white board in Kokichi’s room—i.e., Kokichi trusted him to at least be on the right track in the trials.

           Kokichi is also shown to care about Shuichi’s feelings in the game, like when he told him he’d rather bring Kaede back to life in Chapter 3, because it would make Shuichi happy. To reiterate: he wants Shuichi to be happy even if it means they don’t end up together. That says a lot.

           Additionally, I already mentioned that Shuichi is weak, but it’s important to realize that he isn’t so much of a pushover that he’s entirely incapable of standing up for himself. Look at his interactions with Miu, for example: he sharply told her that “I can wear a hat if I want” when she made fun of him for it, and in her FTEs, he refuses to eat the hygienically questionable food she made for him.

           Shuichi’s kind of a simp and tends to get roped into things, yes. But he’s able to stand up for himself—especially after Chapter 6—to the point where he wouldn’t enter into a relationship unless he wanted to. If you think Kokichi would somehow be able to force Shuichi to be his boyfriend, you have no faith in Shuichi—and Chapter 6 proves you wrong.

           So, is Saiouma inherently imbalanced? No. Kokichi respects Shuichi’s feelngs, intelligence, and opinions, and Shuichi’s a stronger character than he’s given credit for.

3. Would Kokichi physically or sexually abuse Shuichi?

           One needs only to look at Kokichi’s Love Hotel event for the answer. While the Love Hotel isn’t canon to the game’s timeline, the characters are still in character— that is, Kokichi and Shuichi are acting as they normally act.

           It’s important to note that Kokichi is the only character who backed off of Shuichi after Shuichi either appeared visibly uncomfortable or told them to stop. Kaede asked for Shuichi’s consent and was given it; Angie, Himiko, Kiyo, Miu, and Tsumugi all took advantage of Shuichi in some way or another; and the rest just didn’t have sexual connotations. Kokichi made advances on Shuichi, noticed that Shuichi was uncomfortable, and immediately backed off.

           “But wait!” you cry. “Just because one character didn’t rape the other doesn’t mean they have a good relationship!”

           Of course, and that’s important to realize, too. But recall that the purpose of this essay isn’t to convince you to ship Saiouma—it’s to prove that it isn’t abusive.

           Keep in mind that this was Kokichi’s fantasy— he would have been able to do whatever he wanted to Shuichi with zero repercussions, and Shuichi probably wouldn’t even remember much when he woke up. And still, Kokichi chose to stop the moment he realized Shuichi wasn’t on board with what was happening. That says a lot.

           And what about outside the game? We know from the Salmon Mode ending that Kokichi is desperate for someone to “figure him out.” He’d be very careful not to jeopardize his relationship with someone who genuinely wants to understand him.

           And Shuichi does genuinely want to understand him:

           So, would Kokichi physically or sexually abuse Shuichi? No. It’s just not in his character.

“But what if Kokichi was lying about EVERYTHING IN THE WHOLE GAME?” you yell. “There’s no way we can trust anything he’s ever said ever!”

           If every Danganronpa character was polite, kind, open, and honest, 100% of the time without fail, the game would be incredibly boring. If that’s the kind of media you’re into, I’d recommend something like Reader Rabbit or Winnie the Pooh. Danganronpa is a murder mystery, where characters hurt and betray and lie and actually kill each other. You can’t trust anyone; that’s the whole point.

           So I advise you to go back through the game with an open mind and try, actually try, to use reading comprehension skills to understand the characters. Examine their motives, think about what they might be feeling when they make the decisions they do.

           Danganronpa is not the kind of game to spoon-feed you easy-to-swallow characters. You have to pick them apart yourself.

           As for everything Kokichi has ever said possibly being a lie? Maybe. Maybe every character is lying to you. But if you hate Kokichi just because he’s dishonest, then it follows that you have to hate Rantaro, Kaede, Shuichi, Kaito, Maki, Himiko, Kiyo, Miu, Tsumugi, Kirumi, and Kiibo—which, at that point, why are you even a fan of the game?

           And if you deny everything Kokichi said just because you think it’s a lie…

 In conclusion

           You can dislike Saiouma because it’s not your thing, but it’s wrong to spread hate over abuse that doesn’t exist. Hating and attacking people for having a different opinion than you won't magically sway them to your side. If you can't articulate your points in a way that doesn't antagonize, you probably shouldn't be talking. People like what they like for a reason, and spitting on what they like won't make you any friends.

           And throwing around weighted terms like “toxic” when you just don’t like something? That makes YOU the toxic one.

#Rov talks #a lot #Saiouma #abuse mention #rape mention #character analysis #I doubt that the people who *should* read this *will* read it #so this might be more of a vent I guess #Feel free to reblog/quote/repost with credit #References: users oumakokichi; impytricky; and chibigaia-art #The first two do great meta pieces #and the last spits more fax than an office

[livesincerely]

Keepsakes from Jack’s POV? (That fic broke my heart and fixed it all at once. Absolutely beautiful!!)

trinkets

Also on Ao3. Davey’s pov here.

00000

Even after all the trouble he went to getting the address, Jack almost decides not to go. Les’ text message stares up at him accusingly when he double checks his phone, Davey’s new apartment number listed with the blunt instruction, ‘Don’t fuck this up.’

Easy for him to say. Jack’s still not sure how things fell apart in the first place.

He rings the doorbell, his stomach rolling with nerves, and for one terrible second he thinks that maybe no one’s home, or even worse, that maybe that Davey just won’t answer for him.

But the door creaks open.

“Jack,” Davey says, more of a statement than a question, his eyes wide with shock.

Jack’s heart swirls and swoops in his chest at the sight of him. Davey looks just the same as he did when they last saw each other, just the way he always looks in Jack’s dreams and his nightmares—long and lean, with big blue eyes made even brighter by the lush lashes that frame them.

“Hi, Davey,” Jack says, shoving his hands into his pockets so he doesn’t drag Davey into a desperate embrace.

“You...” Davey pauses, visibly uncertain, his fingers clenched in a death grip around his doorframe. “What are you doing here?”

“I got the address from Les,” Jack explains, and it sounds like such a flimsy excuse now that he’s saying it aloud. “I’m in town for the week visiting Ma and Charlie, thought I could swing by and see you for a sec.”

“Oh,” Davey says.

“So, uh, can I come in?” Jack asks, nervous.

“Oh, right,” Davey mutters, holding the door open wider and beckoning him forward. “Yeah, sure. Please, come in.”

It’s a nice apartment. Jack recognizes a lot of the furniture in the entryway and living room from when they were living together, and he spies a few picture frames hanging in the hallway that he’s pretty sure he picked out himself—the scattered reminders help something settle in his chest even as something else fizzes and buzzes behind his eyes.

“You moved out of the old place,” Jack can’t help but point out as he takes it all in; he’s been wondering about the change ever since he found out Davey moved.

“It was a bit too much for just one person,” Davey says quietly. “A smaller apartment is easier to keep up with.”

There’s a brief pause where that statement hangs in the air between them, heavy and awkward. Jack feels like an absolute heel—of course Davey wouldn’t be able to make rent on their old place by himself, and it’s not like there’d been space for a housemate. Of course he’d had to move.

Davey continues, “Can I get you anything? Soda or coffee or...?”

“Coffee would be great, actually,” Jack says, not really all that interested in a drink, but happy for an excuse to linger for a while. “But, uh, only if it won’t put ya out.”

“It’s no trouble,” Davey says, and Jack can’t tell if he’s being honest or just being polite. “Here, go ahead and sit down and I’ll fix you a cup.”

Jack settles down onto one of the stools at the island while Davey putters around the kitchen, taking a moment while Davey’s back is turned to just look at him.

He needs a haircut, Jack thinks, noting the way Davey’s fringe falls into his eyes as he fiddles with the coffee maker—just long enough now that it’s starting to curl up at the ends, making him look even softer then he usually does—then sort of hating that he’s noticed.

He shouldn’t care. He knows he shouldn’t.

But he does.

“So, how have you been?” Davey asks, head ducked down to watch the coffee brew. “How’s Santa Fe been treating you?”

“‘S good,” Jack says, talking out his ass, too focused on the motion of Davey’s fingers as he drums them against the countertops, on the delicate line of his wrists peeking out from under his shirt sleeves, to pay attention to what he’s saying. “It’s great, it’s got everything: clear skies, gorgeous sunsets. If you go out to the desert at the right time of day the views are unreal. So, uh, life’s pretty good.”

Davey still doesn’t turn toward him, still won’t lift his head. It’s making something go uncomfortably tight in Jack’s chest, his pulse beating a few ticks faster in his ears.

“And work’s going well?”

“Real well,” Jack tells the back of Davey’s head, and as he watches, Davey’s shoulders stiffen. “Now that I’ve been there a while they’re startin’ to give me my own projects to work on, which is great. Nerve racking, and I’m constantly terrified that I’m gonna fuck it all up, but great. Honestly, the studio space and the stipend I get for supplies on its own is pretty incredible, let alone all the experience and connections I’m getting too. So, yeah, things are goin’ well.”

“That’s great, Jack,” Davey says, and he actually sounds like he means it, but he still won’t meet Jack’s eyes. It’s kinda starting to piss him off. “I’m glad things are working out for you.”

“Couldn’t ask for much more,” Jack says, but he’s not quite able to mask the hint of bitterness that creeps into his tone—the one thing he’d ask for is standing right in front of him, but he might as well be on Mars for how vast the distance between them feels.

It’s just Jack’s luck that this is the moment when Davey finally, finally looks at him. It’s only a brief glance in his direction before his gaze falls away again, but even just that almost feels like too much: those eyes are as gorgeous as ever, and vividly, brilliantly blue.

Jack’s breath hitches in his throat—if he wasn’t still hopelessly, haplessly in love with Davey, he’s pretty sure that would’ve caused him to fall all over again. But he isn’t so distracted that he doesn’t notice the wealth of emotion swirling in that gaze: something vulnerable and pained tucked beneath Davey’s calm facade.

“How’re you doin’, Davey?” he asks carefully.

“Good,” Davey says to the coffee maker. “I’ve been good.”

“Yeah?” Jack presses, watching him closely. “Anythin’ interestin’ goin’ on?”

“Just the same old, same old,” Davey says, which doesn’t sound like a lie, but isn’t really an answer. “Nothing new to tell, honestly.”

“Nothing at all?” Jack says, relieved and annoyed all at once at this response, but trying to sound like he doesn’t care as much as he does. This is the best answer he could’ve hoped for, probably—he’s honestly not sure what he would’ve done if Davey started talking about how wonderful his life has been without Jack in it. He tries, “Did you ever end up gettin’ that transfer you wanted?”

Davey crosses his arms across his chest. “I, uh, rescinded the request after you— after everything,” he explains softly. “There wasn’t really a need, and it was easier to just stay at my old branch.”

“Oh,” Jack says.

The silence is punctuated by the drip drip drip of the coffee finishing up. Davey pulls a couple of mugs out of one of the cabinets and fixes them both a cup.

“Here you go,” Davey says, passing him a mug.

Jack goes to take a sip, the freezes midway through the motion, heart seizing in his chest as he realizes what he’s holding.

The pottery place had been his attempt at a unique, memorable first date, figuring that he might as well weigh the dice in his favor by going with something artsy. He’d been so fucking nervous the entire week leading up to it, had wanted so badly to impress the beautiful, brilliant boy that had just transferred in, because he’s been in love with Davey almost since the moment they met and it’s not looking like that’s gonna stop any time soon.

So the fact that Davey’s throwing that back in his face, taunting him with the reminder of how something so wonderful has since shattered to pieces... Jack’s whole body tenses up, fury sparking hot in his stomach.

“What the fuck, Davey?” he spits out. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

Davey has the fucking gall to look startled, maybe even a little hurt.

“Why do you still have this?” Jack demands, slamming the mug down so hard that some of the contents spill out, coffee pooling on the counter. “Why would you keep—?”

“Why wouldn’t I keep it?” Davey asks, like he honestly doesn’t see what the big deal is. “It’s mine, isn’t it?”

And that is just... Jack almost wants to laugh, except he thinks he’s never heard anything less funny in his life.

“Oh, so that’s where you draw the line, huh?” Jack says, voice tight with anger. “That’s how it is? Knick knacks, keepsakes, sure, those you’ll keep around, but the stuff that’s actually worth having? That’s actually worth fighting for? You can just let all that go without ever sayin’ a fuckin’ word otherwise because who gives a shit—”

Davey’s expression twists.

“Right, because you were so fucking eager to stay?” he asks with a derisive scoff. “Give me a break, Jack, you couldn’t wait to leave. Just fucked off to the other side of the country and left me here to pick up the pieces—”

“You were all but pushing me out the fucking door!” Jack accuses, throwing his hands up. “‘It’s a wonderful opportunity, Jackie,’ ‘You’d be an idiot not to take it, Jackie,’ ‘It’s what you’ve always dreamed of, Jackie!’ What a load of horseshit—”

“Oh, so it’s my fault for being supportive?’ Davey asks, incredulous—as if Jack’s the one that’s in the wrong here. “Are you serious?”

“I’m just sayin’, you weren’t exactly bent outta shape at the thought of me leavin’,” Jack says, frigid, because if he lets himself think about it too much, if he lets himself remember the gaping hole that had formed in his chest when he’d realized that loves Davey more than Davey loved him, he thinks he might shatter completely. “Didn’t seem to bother you one fuckin’ bit. Probably relieved to finally have an excuse to get rid of me—”

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Davey hisses, and he strides forward until they’re standing nearly chest to chest—the closest they’ve been in almost a year. “I’ve missed you like you wouldn’t believe, missed you every single goddamn second of the last eight months, don’t think for a moment that I didn’t, you fucking asshole.”

“Oh, yeah?” Jack bites out, not believing this for a second. “If you missed me so fucking much, then why’d we break up?”

“Because you were moving to Santa Fe!” Davey yells back. “You were leaving, Jackie! What else was I supposed to do, except let you go and try my best to be happy for you?”

Jackie. It sounds different coming out of Davey’s mouth. Something prickles at Jack’s eyes, and the threat of tears almost makes him angrier.

“If you really wanted me to be happy,” Jack growls, “you would’ve come with me.”

“You didn’t ask me to come with you!” Davey shouts.

“And you didn’t ask me to stay!”

“Ask you to stay? Ask you to stay?” Davey says, and his eyes are wild, burning and blazing as he stares Jack down. “Of course I didn’t fucking ask you to stay, I was never going to ask you to stay! It was Santa Fe, it was all you ever fucking talked about, it was your dream, Jack! It was everything that you wanted! I would never even suggest that you give that up, God, what kind of shit-ass person do you think I am, that you thought I would ever, ever try to stand between you and Santa Fe when I know how important it is to you—?”

“I’m not fucking hearing this,” Jack says, shaking his head, because he isn’t. He can’t be. Because it sounds like Davey is saying... Like he’s telling him that... “I am not fucking hearing this. I— You—“

Jack turns on his heel and storms out of Davey’s apartment, slamming the door behind him as he goes. He only gets a few steps down the hallway before his knees give out from underneath him, leaving him staggering into the nearest wall, his breaths coming in ragged pants.

Davey.

It’s like it’s seared into the space behind his eyes, woven right between his heartstrings—the look on Davey’s face, the sound of Davey’s voice, the shape and color of Davey’s eyes.

Davey. Always, always Davey

Jack loves him. It’s not like it’s a surprise, but then, Jack’s always known that.

Maybe Davey hadn’t known. Maybe Davey hadn’t known that there’s nothing on this earth that Jack loves more than him, maybe he hadn’t realized how utterly, impossibly, eternally in love with him Jack is.

Maybe Jack needs to tell him.

When he enters the apartment again he finds Davey right where he left him, and Jack can’t help but be reminded of the last time they parted, when Jack left for Santa Fe all those months ago. But this is the part he hadn’t seen back then, the part that Davey had hidden from him: he’d never been privy to the way Davey’s whole body can wilt in on itself when he’s heartbroken, had never witnessed the way Davey’s usually steady hands tremble when he’s holding back a sob.

Davey’s head jerks up as Jack steps back inside and his lips quiver when he shuts the door behind him.

His eyes are wet.

Jack steps forward, bunches his hands in the fabric of Davey shirt, and pulls him into a desperate, scorching kiss.

“I love you,” Jack says fiercely. “I love you. I loved you before I got the job offer, I loved you while I was searching for apartments and planning the move, I loved you every time I talked up Santa Fe to you, tryin’ to convince you to come with me any way I could think of. I loved you when we broke up, I loved you when I left, I loved you when I landed, and it’s been eight fucking months and I’m still so fucking in love with you—”

Davey kisses him this time, and the press of his mouth against his own, the tangle of his fingers in Jack’s hair as he tugs him closer, the taste and heat and feel of him—it’s like coming home.

“I love you too, Jackie,” Davey promises, and hearing the words finally soothes something deep down in Jack’s very being. He hadn’t thought he’d ever hear them again. “I love you and I’ve missed you so much—”

“I missed you,” Jack says, punctuating the declaration with another kiss. “You’re it for me Davey. There’s just you. And I… I can’t give this up again. Santa Fe ain’t worth nothin’ if you’re not there with me.”

“I thought that was what you wanted,” Davey murmurs, holding him tight. “I thought I had to let you go.”

Jack shakes his head.

“I wanted you to keep me,” he confesses—he’s never been brave enough to say it aloud before. “And I wanted to keep you too.”

“Then keep me,” Davey says, and it rings like a promise. “Keep me.”

00000

Tags! @yahfancyclamwiththepurlinside @corbinthecowboy @stroopwafeldetective @lyydiiaak

#newsies #javid #jack kelly #davey jacobs #*editor's note #*the writing desk #*final cut #*ask #*ask game #different perspectives #this ended up being very long #and I stayed up wayyyy to long finishing it #but I’m really happy with it #😊

[jaggedlittleteacup]

Reverse, esreveR

Tw: S*ic*de Attempt, Dr*g Abuse

Sherlock Holmes was an arsehole. He knew that he was, he felt it- deep inside, a sort of gut emotion that clenched and twisted and made him feel all the more wretched. He really couldn’t control it at this point. It was a habit that had formed from years of keeping every awful thing that had happened to him pent up in his mind. So many years of abuse, so many bruises and scars, and so, so much hurt that left no marks on anywhere but the mind. He knew it was wrong to take it out on those he loved- and even those he didn’t- but it kept resurfacing in the forms of snide comments and manic volatility.

It started one quiet night at Baker Street. It was nothing much, a snappish comment too far, perhaps? Whatever it was, it was the last straw for a livid John Watson, who stood up and kicked over the coffee table in fury. Words bounced off of Sherlock, who heard without listening. Eyes closed, chest feeling empty, Sherlock felt John’s innate rage. Until he didn’t.

When Sherlock opened a single eye, he saw John holding a small box that had been concealed under the table. Sherlock heard a roar in his ears, he could hardly breathe, he was crushed by an overwhelming feeling of guilt- it all just hurt.

John’s steady fingers brushed over the syringe that the box contained. The flat was silent, except for the pounding of Sherlock’s heart- or was he the only one who could hear that?

Glass shattered at his feet. John was yelling, now. Sherlock was pretending to listen.

Sociopath. Liar. Machine.

John was saying those words as if they held no value to Sherlock. Of course, that had been the impression Sherlock had made, so why wouldn’t he say those things?

Sherlock was used to feeling hopeless, but this? This was it. This was all he could take and more. And worst of all? It was cowardly, and Sherlock couldn’t even have the decency to properly listen to John.

Possibly in the middle of John’s sentence, he stood up and mumbled some sort of excuse- that he had to use the loo, maybe? He wasn’t sure.

Dazed, Sherlock walked to the loo and left John alone in the living room. Thoughts were rushing through his head. He couldn’t take this. Not anymore.

He clicked the lock and slid down the door onto the cold, hard tile floor. His hands were shaking, his vision blurry with held-back tears. He didn’t want to do this. Yes, he did. No, he didn’t. Of course he did. Why wouldn’t he?

Trembling fingers pulled open the medicine cabinet. They pulled out a bottle of painkillers. They opened the cap. They poured precisely ten in Sherlock’s other hand.

Ten, because Sherlock had measured the dosage during a particularly bad night. He knew that each pill had 500mg of acetaminophen in them. Over 5000 in one go would certainly kill a man. It had to.

Shaking, crying- although he didn’t realise it, and he never would have admitted it otherwise- Sherlock popped a pill into his mouth one at a time. It was hard to swallow. His throat was rejecting it, so each pill took longer to take. He was shaking his head, not wanting to finish, but knowing he had already taken at least six.

After number ten, Sherlock broke. The tears came freely, now. He mumbled a shattered apology to his mum and dad, to Mycroft, even, and most definitely to John, whom he didn’t want to leave.

With each whispered name, Sherlock popped another pill between his lips. Now he had taken…what, fourteen? Fifteen? He didn’t really care, even though he did. A small part of him was screaming for someone to care, to stop him, to save him- but to no avail.

After a few choked-out sobs, Sherlock regained some of his composure. He wiped his eyes, which were shamefully red, and stood up. He was going to go about this bravely. The toxic shock wouldn’t kick in for at least a few hours, and by then, he would be asleep. A peaceful death. An easy one.

Sherlock unlocked the door and walked back out to the living room, where John was pacing furiously. He looked pale and frightened.

John must have asked something along the lines of “what did you take?” in a worried tone of voice, but Sherlock shook his head. He probably told him that he took nothing. John still looked concerned. He asked him again. Still, Sherlock shook his head. He felt guilty for lying to John.

John relaxed. He nodded, he sat down. He offered Sherlock dinner, but Sherlock politely refused.

Sherlock lied about something or other and said he had a stomachache, that he wanted to go to bed. John reluctantly allowed him to.

At approximately nine o’clock, Sherlock laid down in bed and wrote a short note in his pocketbook. It told whom he wanted his things left to, even though he knew it wasn’t entirely legal. He trusted Mycroft to sort all that out.

His stomach was already starting to ache. He needed to fall asleep.

And so he did, praying that he would never wake up.

Unfortunately, life was decidedly quite cruel.

By the time the clock read midnight, Sherlock realised he had made a terrible mistake. He woke up gasping for breath as his stomach burned. His face felt hot, and his head was pounding. It was as though his insides were tearing themselves apart.

Dazed, he tried to move, but instead fell out of his bed and hit the floor with a groan. Sherlock was so weak that he could not find the strength to move. He threw up, even though he didn’t want to. It meant that the drugs might not work. Mind racing, chest heaving in mild panic, Sherlock wondered if this was how he would die- suffocating on his own vomit and in horrible agony.

Spirits broken, Sherlock whispered John’s name. It hurt too much. He needed John to save him, or else he was going to die.

Sherlock kept whispering it- his lungs wouldn’t allow him to speak up. But John was already upstairs. He couldn’t hear him. Maybe Sherlock didn’t want him to.

He choked out something along the lines of “I don’t want to die”, but slowly, agonisingly, his eyes closed and he faded into unconsciousness.

You could imagine his surprise when he woke up the next morning, every inch of his body aching. His chest burned, and he kept needing to throw up every few minutes, but he was unmistakably alive.

And in some of the worst pain of his life.

He staggered to his feet and made his way to the loo. He threw up again.

For a brief moment, he felt better. He dreaded another racking dry heave that would take hold of his body.

No dice.

After typing a few things onto his laptop- perhaps updating his website with a few unintelligible entries about the side effects of acetaminophen overdose- he went back to the loo and threw up. He hadn’t eaten anything, so it was just stomach acid that burned his oesophagus and made him nauseous. The pain was growing steadily worse, and John wasn’t even awake yet.

For the next hour, Sherlock allowed the poison to simmer in his body, silently attacking his liver and slowly killing him.

John eventually woke up. Of course he did.

When he saw Sherlock’s pale face, he said nothing. When Sherlock nearly tripped down the steps in delirium, John was concerned, but said nothing.

When Sherlock’s knees buckled beneath him, he said something.

What did you take?

Sherlock slurred a half-hearted response, his head aching and his stomach twisting itself inside out. He felt like he was dying. It was probably because his organs were failing.

He clung onto the banister of the staircase as John desperately shook his shoulders. He couldn’t breathe. His brain was shutting down but his eyes and ears still worked. Everything hurt.

Sherlock saw John pull out his mobile and dial Mrs. Hudson’s number before swearing and pulling him outside.

Sherlock faded in and out of consciousness.

He was in a car.

Then a waiting room.

Then an urgent care.

Disappointed, disapproving, and endlessly pitying. Nobody would stop staring.

A nurse said he would be out of their care the same day.

His liver began to fail.

And then he was in an ambulance. He made a hazily rude comment to the EMT.

They stuck a needle in his arm. They did it wrong. It hurt like hell.

I’m clean, he wanted to tell them. Saying he didn’t do drugs anymore would be a flat-out lie.

They put him in a hospital.

His liver reached critical condition. The levels of acetaminophen in his bloodstream were lethal, yet he was somehow still alive. (It would be a case study for months and months to come.)

Sherlock was in the worst pain of his life.

They gave him morphine.

John sat by his bed during the entire ordeal.

He didn’t say a thing.

He didn’t know what to say.

Sherlock almost died.

John looked like he’d aged many years.

Sherlock felt regret.

John held his hand.

Sherlock wished he could turn back time.

John did, too.

༺═──────────────═༻

(Author’s Note: Based on a true story, sad enough to say. It’s sort of my way of giving past experiences a bit of closure. Imbuing writing with pain and anguish is rather cathartic. To tell you the truth, the fact that I’m alive now puzzles doctors and professionals alike. A case study was written on me. I am one of only eleven cases to have ever survived several doses of acetaminophen- enough to kill multiple grown men- at the age of twelve. I’m an anomaly and the fact that I’m here today writing this only proves how strange I am. I can’t say I’m better now. But I’ve learned my lesson. I’m sorry if it was so intense. If you or a loved one are having suicidal thoughts, please tell someone. Don’t make my mistake. And please, for the love of God, if you’re considering it, don’t kill yourself. It would be the biggest and final mistake of your life. People care about you so much. Much love, - AE.)

#sherlock #bbc #sherlock holmes #john watson #johnlock #benedict cumberbatch #post reichenbach #angst #sad ending #ambiguous ending #angsty #based on a true story #jalexandria #writing #fics #fanfiction #tw suicide i guess? #drug addiction #writing angst to make people suffer

[wingsofkpop]

Hiraeth - I.IX: Bloodborne

pairing(s): Hybrid!Im Jaebeom x Reader, Witch!Mark Tuan x Reader, Werewolf!Jackson Wang x Reader, Vampire!Park Jinyoung x Reader, Supernatural!Got7 x Reader

genre: Supernatural!AU, Dark Magic!AU, heavy Angst, eventual Smut

warnings: Mature language, mentions of death and murder, violence, explicit descriptions of fighting, blood and gore, some satanic themes, mentions of trauma, etc. 

word count: 6,5k

synopsis: How far are you willing to go to find out the truth about Moon Dye Bay?…

chapter directory

“—so once Youngjae channels enough power from the blood moon tonight, he’ll be able to lower the veil between the Other Side and the physical plane long enough to resurrect your spirit into a mortal body.” You explain, glancing over your notes at the unusually quiet figure sitting on your bed. Something about his expression seems distant—almost sorrowful. 

After your return from the hospital, and after the long chat with your roommate convincing her that your absence all night was due to a last minute work emergency, a certain ghost phased into your bedroom. You wouldn’t allow yourself to be this concerned, but during his visits, Jackson usually never shuts up. If you were all alone with no one to talk to, you probably wouldn’t either. 

You lower your notebook and shake your head, “You haven’t said one word since you showed up. What’s wrong?”

Jackson purses his lips, as if nervous to relay the thoughts swirling through his mind. Another brief moment of silence passes before he finally murmurs, “It’s the witches. They’re starting to get suspicious again… I don’t know how long I have before they figure out I’ve been crossing over to this plane.”  

“Then we’ll just have to bring you back before they find out.” You grab your phone from your desk, checking through your notifications to see if a certain siphoner has yet responded to your dozens of texts and calls. No dice. 

You haven’t been able to reach Youngjae since yesterday morning, which is odd considering the guy is the type to respond within three seconds of receiving a message. It would be one thing if he let you know that he’s busy, but it’s complete radio silence. It’s not like Youngjae at all. 

“You’re worried about something.” 

Your eyes dartup at Jackson’s observation, discovering his concerned gaze focused on you. 

“It’s Youngjae.” You sigh, “I haven’t heard from him, but I’m sure he’s just busy brewing potions or something.” You expect to earn at least a chuckle from the ghost, but his silence remains along with the blank expression along his face. His same distant demeanor also lingers, and this time, your concern grows to panic. “What is it, Jackson? What’s going on?” 

“I didn’t want to say anything cause I was sure it was all in my head, but I feel that something is… weird.” 

“Weird?” 

“It’s hard to explain.” He continues, “But as a ghost, I can feel things around me… like right now, the universe just seems off—” His voice cuts out as he frantically shakes his head, “Anyway, I just want you to be careful. Mark used to tell me that disrupting the balance of nature is like opening Pandora’s box.” 

“Yeah. We will be doing none of that.” You set your phone down before crossing the room to kneel in front of Jackson. A grin lifts to your lips as you hum to the ghost, “So what do you feel when you’re around me?...” 

Jackson raises an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?” 

“You said you feel things around you… Do you feel anything special when you’re with me?” 

You’re surprised at the eagerness that swells in your chest as he takes his time to think over your question. The inquiry was supposed to be a joke to lighten the mood, but you’re actually curious about your companion’s ghastly perceptions. After maybe a minute or two, Jackson sends you a small smile: 

“I feel… light.” 

“Light? What is that supposed to mean?” 

“You have this aura around you.” Jackson affirms, mindlessly reaching forward thumb at your cheek. You obviously can’t feel his touch, but something in your gut tells you that if you could, you would feel nothing but warmth. “I feel powerful when I’m with you…” 

“Is that a good thing?”  

He grins, “I think so.” 

You continue to stare at one another for a moment, almost attempting to read the depths in each other’s eyes. It’s not until a harsh knock resonates from the front door do you finally break the gaze, offering Jackson a final hum, “I’ll bring you back as soon as I can. I promise.” 

Jackson nods, “I know you will. But like I said, please be careful.” 

“I will. See you soon.” You wait for Jackson to disappear completely before exiting your bedroom, cursing Sana for leaving you to deal with whoever is incessantly banging on your door. It’s probably the old lady from across the hall wanting to borrow another cup of sugar. You roll your eyes at the thought and open the door, ready to politely decline your neighbor’s request.

Your words die on your tongue—definitely not the old lady from across the hall.  

“Mark? What are you—?” 

“What? Not expecting to see me?” Mark’s hostile growl takes you by surprise, as does the furious expression etched along his features. “That’s not surprising since you’ve been ignoring me.” 

“I’ve been busy.” 

“Oh. I’m sure.” 

You cross your arms over your chest. “What the hell is your problem?” 

“You wanna know what my problem is?” Mark takes a step closer to you before pointing a finger in your direction, “The fact that you not only lie to me, but you go behind my back and then deliberately avoid me for days on end.” 

“What are you even talking about, Mark?” 

“I’m talking about you and Youngjae playing God and resurrecting Jackson.” 

Your muscles instantly freeze, as if Mark had taken a tub of ice water and thrown it over your head. The annoyance inside your chest shifts to guilt, and your once cold features cannot help but soften. 

You shake your head, “Mark, I—” 

“Do you know how dangerous it is to bring someone back from the dead, (Y/N)?” Mark lowers his voice, but his tone remains as frigid as his gaze. “Do you know the consequences that happen when you fuck with the balance of nature?” 

“I get that, but—it’s complicated, Mark… There’s things you don’t understand—” 

“I don’t understand!?” He scoffs, “Last I checked, I’m the goddamn witch here, (Y/N)! You know nothing about magic and its sacrifice!” 

“Maybe not, but I do know that there is a chance I could bring Jackson back!” You shake your head again, “Please, just give me a chance to explain—” 

“No. Because it’s not fucking happening.” Mark interrupts, furiously shaking his own head. “I forbid you to do this.” 

It’s like a switch goes off in your mind. Your guilt immediately transforms, but this time, it configures into rage: 

“You forbid me!? Who the flying fuck do you think you are!?”

“I won’t sit back and allow you to get yourself killed—!” 

“And last I checked, you don’t have the right to control what I do and the decisions I make!” You seethe, stepping further back into your apartment. “This is my choice. I’m resurrecting Jackson whether you like it or not.” 

“Fine! Get yourself fucking killed for all I care!” The witch raises his hands in mock surrender. “At least then I won’t have to deal with your reckless, moronic ass!”

“Fuck you, Mark.” You don’t allow the witch to say anything further and slam the door in his face. Your chest remains unbearably heavy, both physically and mentally, but you ignore the sweltering emotions and begin to traverse around the apartment, gathering your bag and other assorted belongings. 

A confused and rather concerned Sana emerges from her bedroom a few seconds later. “Are you okay? What was with all that yelling?” 

“Don’t worry about it,” You huff, shoving your arms through the sleeves of your jacket. “Just Mark being a douchebag, as per usual.” 

“Where are you going?” 

“To find Youngjae.”

“Isn’t it kind of late?” 

“I’m an adult, Sana.” You snap before throwing your bag over your shoulder. “Don’t wait up for me.” 

Similar to Mark, you don’t allow Sana the chance to question you further and sprint out the front door, praying that Youngjae will be up to bringing Jackson back in the next few hours. 

☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

Mark has never exercised the greatest control over his emotions. It first began when he was twelve, after his dad walked out on his mom. He found himself sobbing his eyes out some days, and beating the shit out of other kids on others. His mood ranged from intense rage to extreme depression. There was no in between. 

In an effort to help, his mom enrolled him in a program designed to teach teens how to handle their emotions. But to no one’s surprise, the therapy didn’t do shit and Mark continued to initiate fights and cry himself to sleep most nights. He never understood why he felt this way—he still doesn’t, to be honest. His dad and him were never close, nor did he ever really care about his sudden departure. Maybe he was just an angry kid with depression. Maybe it was something else. 

It wasn’t until his mom was killed did Mark begin to pull his life together, which also happened to be around the same time he met the too-friendly, homeschooled kid with an ego the size of Jupiter, Jackson Wang. Sure, the two of them butted heads every so often, but with Jackson being a werewolf, Mark learned the importance of managing the chaos within. ‘Emotion is like a loaded gun,’ he remembers Jackson once said, ‘If you let yourself pull the trigger without first aiming down sights, then you risk sinking a bullet into someone you love.’ Those words remain with him—remind him what means to stay in control. 

But when it involves the people he loves, Mark can’t always regulate the ticking bomb counting down in his soul. 

An ache settles in his chest as he recalls the passionate fire in your gaze. There’s always been some parts of you that reminds Mark of his past friend, specifically your stubbornness and inability to think before you act. He’s never found himself hating those parts of you until now—and he shouldn’t, Mark knows that, but he’s so fucking angry and so fucking scared of losing yet another one of the most important people in his life.

He’s experienced his fair share of loss, but losing you… It would break him. Completely. 

Mark tries to push the intrusive thoughts from the forefront of his mind and focus on navigating his way through the dark maze of headstones and crumbling tombs. Right after you slammed your front door in his face, he received a text from Youngjae summoning him, Jisung and Lia to an emergency meeting at the edge of the cemetery. He’s still mad at the siphoner for assisting with your reckless scheme, but he won’t allow his pettiness to interfere with the safety of the coven. 

A sigh falls from his lips—he does regret ever saying those ending words to you though… because what if they’re the last ones you hear from him. 

‘I’m so sorry, Jackson…’ 

Mark’s misery is forgotten when he notices a group of people up ahead. He recognizes Lia, Jisung and Youngjae flocked together inside a chalk-white circle surrounded by lit torches. For a moment, Mark wonders if they’re in the middle of performing some type of seance, but his curiosity dwindles into confusion when he grows aware of the panic present in each set of their features. 

He breaks into a sprint to cover more distance, approaching the strangely placed trio in no time. At the sight of him, Lia immediately bursts into tears, furthering the anxiety bubbling at the back of his throat. 

“What the hell is going on!?” 

“Hyung! You have to get out of here right now!” Mark notices the swollen, angry flesh of Youngjae’s bottom lip as he speaks, along with the ugly bruise underneath his left eye. 

“What happened?” He ignores the siphoner’s warnings, attempting to reach inside the circle and grab Lia’s arm. However, his hand is met with resistance—a boundary spell. “Who did this to you?” 

Lia sobs, “Just go, Mark! Before he hurts you!” 

“Before who hurts me!? What are you—” His demands die in his throat as another figure appears from behind a large, marble gravestone. He immediately recognizes the newcomer, which sends even more confusion through his veins. “Seo Changbin? What the hell is this?” 

“It’s an emergency meeting, hyung.” Mark feels his entire body freeze when the familiar, conniving voice enters his ears. “You had me a little worried… I almost thought you wouldn’t show up.” 

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.” Mark whirls around to face a smirking Minho cockily leaning against the wall of an empty tomb. “What kind of game do you think you’re playing, Minho?”

The younger witch shrugs before pushing off the wall to pace around the area. As he draws closer and closer, Mark can spy an ancient, navy blue ring sitting heavily on his forefinger. He’s never seen any piece of jewelry like it before, but something in his gut told him it wasn’t just a simple ring—and that he’s definitely in some kind of trouble. 

“Mind explaining to me what we’re doing here? Or are you just going to continue pacing around the place like a cocky bastard?” 

“Tonight is a special night, hyung… You wanna know why?” He watches Minho point to the night sky, “In just a few minutes, the moon will drift into the Earth’s shadow and the light of the sun will reflect across the moon’s surface, thus causing a blood moon… It’s actually pretty cool—” 

“For Christsake, Minho—get to the goddamn point.”

“You know, for years I had to deal with all your bullshit excuses and justifications of putting our coven in danger—it was only a matter of time until one of us ended up dead, don’t you think?” 

A bitter memory of Nayeon’s corpse resurfaces, but Mark remains silent. 

“Everyone was too fucking blind, but I saw right through you.” Mark doesn’t move a muscle when Minho suddenly approaches, crowding his space until his nose is mere inches from brushing his own. The younger witch’s harsh glare bleeds into his soul as he continues, “You’re a poor fucking excuse for a leader, hyung—a leader who can’t even protect his own people.” 

“And you think you can do better, huh?” Mark growls, glaring his own daggers into Minho’s gaze. “You have no fucking clue what it takes to run this coven… Admit it, you’re just pissed they chose me over you.” 

“And look where that got them.” 

“You need to cut out whatever petty bullshit this is and let Youngjae, Jisung and Lia go.” Mark murmurs, “Whatever problems you have are with me, so let’s just talk it out, okay?” 

“Oh, Mark-hyung…” Minho’s gaze is unwavering from his own as he lifts a hand to rest on Mark’s shoulder. It’s a second too late that Mark realizes it is the same hand in which holds the mysterious ring: 

“I’m over talking it out.” 

Youngjae’s screams and Lia’s sobs echo in his ears along with the words that spill from Minho’s lips—they’re foreign, but Mark recognizes the spell right away. He tries to squirm and fight against the perpetrator’s grip, but another pair of hands keep his body in place—Changbin. 

Bit by bit, Mark feels the buzz of his magic lift from his veins like a flock of doves. His limbs grow weak and his head fuzzy. Soon enough, his own knees no longer bear the strength to hold his weight. Once both Minho and Changbin release him, Mark collapses to the ground—empty and unable to rise. 

“What did you do to him!?” Mark hears Jisung’s voice for the first time, although his brain is not fully able to comprehend the inquiry. 

“I took his magic. He won’t be needing it anymore.” 

Mark manages to find enough strength to reposition his body in a way that allows him to watch both Minho and Changbin approach a makeshift altar composed of an old, concrete coffin. Through the blur of his vision, he catches the witch stirring some kind of crimson mixture—likely blood. Minho looks to the moon, which is slowly brightening to a shade of maroon, before resting his gaze on his companion: 

“It’s time.” He offers the mixture to Changbin, “Once you drink this, I can begin the transformation.” 

“And you’re sure this spell will give me everything I need to take down the Primes?” 

“One hundred percent.” 

Take down the Primes?… Fucking hell. 

“Minho! Don’t do this!” Mark can’t make out his own voice between the ringing of his ears and the beating of his heart, but he can only hope they’re audible enough for his audience. “The transformation—it won’t work!” 

Youngjae shakes his head. “I don’t understand… What are you talking about, hyung?” 

“He’s going to try to recreate the spell I used on Jackson on Changbin.” With a huff and a puff, Mark pushes himself to his hands and knees. He attempts to crawl forward, but the spinning of his head sends his body sprawling along the ground once again. He abandons any more thoughts of movement and speaks to Minho directly, “It will kill him—do you understand me!? You can’t—” 

“You failed because you couldn’t draw enough power to complete the transformation.” Minho doesn’t even bother to look in his direction, “It will work—I know it will.”

Understanding there’s no possible way to convince the witch, Mark looks to the werewolf instead, “I’m warning you, Changbin! If you go through with this, you will die!” 

“Don’t listen to him. Just drink the blood.” 

“No! For fucksake, this is suicide!” 

“Think of Jackson.” Minho murmurs to a torn Changbin, reaching across the altar to place a supportive hand on his shoulder. “Do it for him.” 

“Changbin, don’t—!” 

Mark watches in horror as Changbin throws back the mixture and downs its entirety in two gulps. His heart shatters like the glass vial the werewolf launches to the ground. He peers to his left, discovering the same shocked expressions across Youngjae, Jisung and Lia’s faces, and shakes his head in defeat as Lia begins to sob again. 

“Filia maximo… Filia maximo… Morsus, morsus—” The wind begins to screech as Minho chants, tearing at Mark’s hair and nudging at his clothes, as if pleading for him to stop the spell. But there’s nothing he can do. For once, Mark is powerless. “—morsus… Advenio donec duo est revertus mors…” With a loud scream, Changbin collapses to the earth. He squirms and writhes in pain underneath the flaming light of the moon—and Mark can’t help but attempt to block out the snaps of his cracking bones. 

The scene seems to last for hours until Changbin eventually grows silent. Mark takes the time to catch his breath, unable to control his lungs over the anxiety, fear and nausea lurking through his veins. He wants to look away from the still werewolf, but his gaze is as frozen as the rest of his body. 

His eyes burn with tears of rage—Changbin is dead. Another person died because of his own fucking stupidity. Mark should have known this would happen again. He should have stopped it. He should have—

His thoughts disappear as Changbin suddenly gasps for air. For a moment, he claws at the earth as if attempting to ground himself, before he finally, albeit shakily, climbs to his feet. Minho cautiously approaches the wolf, peering down at the shorter male with a gaze full of concern. 

“How do you feel?...” 

“I feel…” Changbin flexes his fingers again, before closing them into tight fists. The moonlight illuminates the crimson glow of his irises and the sharpness of his long, black fangs as he faces the witch—a malicious smirk spreading along his lips as he chuckles, “I feel like kicking some ancient Prime ass.” 

Mark can’t find the strength to watch anymore and allows his head to lower to the earth. Just before his eyes flutter shut, he swears he spots the movement of shadows from behind a nearby headstone. But before he can confirm his suspicions, his head takes one final spin and the world grows dark. 

☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

June 13th, 1769 — As much as I enjoy the atmosphere of Paris, I believe it is time to progress onto another part of the world. Some of the townsfolk are beginning to grow suspicious, considering I appear twenty years younger than my supposed age. Nevertheless, I will not mind a new start elsewhere. Jaebeom, on the other hand, will be a terror to convince. As he claimed last time I brought the idea to light, ‘There will never be a place more beautiful than Paris.’

But I know he is not through playing with his newest toy—Tzuyu. 

I set sail for the newlands tomorrow at sunrise. Whether my brother decides to accompany me or not is solely his preference. It would be pleasant to spend some time apart—to spend some time in peace—but I know, with many complaints and reluctance, Jaebeom will board the ship tomorrow. Wherever I traverse, he follows, and vice versa. We are family, after all. 

I will miss Notre Dame the most. I have grown used to visiting the Cathedral and repenting my wrongdoings to the high priest. Of course, I am forced to erase his memory of our talks each time, but it is nice to confess. It lifts a weight off of the shoulders, takes away a small portion of the guilt. If there is a god, he would never allow a creature like me to walk amongst his heavens—but at least I can salvage the lingering hope left inside of my soul. Speaking of hope, I thought I saw a woman that resembled Irene during my daily visit to the church. I find it amusing that after all these years, my heart continues to yearn for her presence. She was truly special—I wonder if she ever thought the same of me. 

I’ve heard some of the sailors refer to a shore in the newland that has yet to be claimed. It may be the perfect location for Jaebeom and I to start anew.  I can only hope it is as beautiful as people say. Maybe I will construct a place of worship as stunning as the Cathedral. 

Isn’t that ironic?... A vampire who believes in faith. 

Jinyoung finishes the entry with a sigh, welcoming the nostalgia that spreads through his thoughts like an old friend. It seems just yesterday that he recorded his first thoughts about the land that would become Moon Dye Bay. He shakes his head, carefully setting the old journal back on the bookshelf. 

He never did build that church. 

“Reminiscing again, brother?” The moment is ruined when a certain hybrid’s snicker reaches his ears. Jinyoung rolls his eyes as Jaebeom takes residence beside him, dragging his fingers along the spines of Jinyoung’s other diaries. “We did have some great times back in the 18th century… Remember our battles during the French Revolution? I rather enjoyed King Louis and Marie Antoinette’s executions.” 

“You enjoy anything that involves bloodshed.” 

“Don’t be so resentful, Jinyoungie. It’s not my fault that the queen had you in her interests.” 

Jinyoung shakes his head before retreating to his desk to fix himself a drink. “The woman was as shallow as a poor soul’s ego. She was taken with any man who’d pay her the time of day. It was a miracle her death came as quickly as it did.” 

“Careful there. You sound like me.” 

Jinyoung deliberately chooses not to respond to Jaebeom’s comment and proceeds to pour two glasses of bourbon. He ignores his companion’s wide smirk as he hands him one of the drinks. Both the vampire and the hybrid simultaneously take a sip, peering at one another over the rims of their cups. Jaebeom is the first to break the silence with a pleased inhale and a hum: 

“You returned pretty late last night. I hope you used protection during your time with (Y/N).” 

“Mind your tongue, hyung.” Jinyoung warns, “I brought (Y/N) to the hospital after the attack—I trust you took care of Tzuyu?” 

Jaebeom smirks. “Of course. She won’t be alive long enough to target your newest Maria Antonia again.” 

About to inhale another sip of his bourbon, Jinyoung pauses to mull over the answer. He lowers his glass to his side before delivering Jaebeom a confused expression and a murmured inquiry, “What do you mean she won’t be alive?” 

“Tzuyu and I got into an argument and, well, she pissed me off.” Jinyoung watches Jaebeom down the rest of his drink. 

“Please tell me you didn’t bite her, Jaebeom-hyung.” He curses at the widening of Jaebeom’s smirk, slamming his glass back down on his desk with enough force to crack its exterior. “When I told you to deal with her, I didn’t mean condemn her to a fate of pain. If you wished to kill her, you could have at least been merciful and done it quick.” 

“Last I checked, you said it yourself not to be kind.” Jinyoung follows Jaebeom as he pours himself another drink and collapses onto a brown, leather sofa. He tips his glass toward him with a smile before continuing, “I thought the punishment fit the crime, and we wouldn’t want to put helpless, human (Y/N) in danger again, would we?” 

“You turned it off, didn’t you?” Jinyoung realizes, “Does holding onto your humanity wound you that badly, hyung? That you have no choice but to wish it away?” 

“If I remember correctly, I’m not the only one that can’t hold onto their humanity… How many people did you kill in the ‘20s alone? One thousand? Maybe two?” 

Jinyoung shakes his head, “I’m not that person anymore.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” In the blink of an eye, Jaebeom is in front of Jinyoung—his glass in pieces on the floor beside him. He leans in until Jinyoung can taste the alcohol of his breath on his tongue, then whispers darkly, “You can lie to yourself all you fucking want, Jinyoung. But deep down, you’ll always know what you are… let’s just hope (Y/N) never finds out, hm?” 

At the mention of your name, Jinyoung’s anger expands. He suppresses the urge to take the table beside him and smash it over the hybrid’s head, and instead inhales a deep breath. Jaebeom is only trying to provoke him—and he refuses to be a pawn in his foolish games. 

“You will remember what it was like to feel human again.” Jinyoung sighs, “For your sake, I hope your remembrance comes sooner rather than later.” 

Jaebeom tsks, “Being human is overrated.” 

“He said the same thing about fate.” Both Jinyoung and Jaebeom whirl around at the appearance of a third voice. Jinyoung feels his blood begin to boil at the sight of the familiar vampire in the doorway, once again, suppressing his desire to launch a piece of furniture in her direction. “Ironically, fate and humanity are a package deal.” 

Jaebeom growls, “What the fuck are you doing here, Tzuyu?” 

“I came to try and convince you to give me your blood.” Tzuyu coughs, and Jinyoung swears he can hear the rattle of her bones. “But judging by your attitude, that’s obviously going to be harder than I thought.” 

“You have courage for showing your face again.” Jinyoung crosses his arms with a dark hum, “Especially so soon after you nearly killed (Y/N).”

“It wasn’t my intention to kill her. I just wanted to send a message.” 

“Is that so?” With a malicious glare, Jinyoung steps forward and tilts his head toward the vampire, “And what kind of message was that?” 

“For (Y/N) to stay away from Jaebeom.” Another violent cough wracks through Tzuyu’s thin form, causing a light stream of blood to splatter from her lips. She wipes her mouth with a ragged breath before continuing, “Look, I did it for her own good. We all know his track record at keeping humans alive.” 

“You did it to protect her!?” Jaebeom cackles, “Wow! That’s fucking priceless!” 

“Say what you will, you both know I’m right.” Tzuyu says, propping herself up against a nearby bookshelf. “It’s either she ends up dead or is turned into a vampire—then again, there’s not much of a difference between the two, is there?” 

“I would die before I allow (Y/N) to come to any harm.” 

“The only issue with that is you can’t die, Jinyoung.” Jinyoung doesn’t take his eyes off Tzuyu as she grabs a bottle of brandy from the top shelf. It takes her literal seconds to unscrew the cap and down a good portion of the container. She licks her lips and says, “I’m sorry I attacked (Y/N), okay? I went too far. I won’t do it again.” 

“You think an apology is enough to save your life?” Jaebeom snickers before snatching the alcohol from the vampire, “Think again, sweetheart.” 

“What do you want from me, Jaebeom? Does seeing me die a slow, painful death bring you joy?” 

He shrugs, “No one mourns for the wicked.” 

“Is he always this much of an asshole?” 

Jinyoung chuckles, “Pretty much.” 

“Great.” The vampire breathes out a sigh and cards her fingers through her hair. After a brief moment of silence, she directs her attention back to Jaebeom and pleads—her voice packed with desperation and fear, “What can I do to convince you to let me live? Please, Jaebeom… I don’t want to die.” 

“You should have thought about that before you touched what I told you not to.” Jinyoung remains quiet as Jaebeom lifts a hand to grasp Tzuyu’s jaw. The dying visitor remains unphased, proceeding to glare at the hybrid with hateful, yet oddly sorrowful eyes. “I suggest you show yourself out before I end your life sooner.” 

“You’re going to lose everything one of these days, Jaebeom.” Tzuyu shakes her head sadly, wiping away a layer of cold sweat from her forehead. “You’re going to lose everyone, even your brother, and you’re going to be alone. For an eternity.” 

“Save the monologue.” Jaebeom waves dismissively, taking a sip of the brandy before returning it back to its shelf. “Petty isn’t a good look for you, baby.” 

“Fuck you, Jaebeom.” Tzuyu goes to stomp out the door, but something—someone blocks her path. The atmosphere changes when Jinyoung notices your panicked form, practically gasping for air and cross-eyed, standing in the doorway. He immediately speeds to your side without hesitation, grasping your hands in hopes to ground you. 

He stares into your eyes, “What is it, (Y/N)? What’s wrong?” 

“You and Jaebeom have to get the hell out of here! Right now!” 

Jaebeom shakes his head in confusion, “What the hell are you talking about?” 

“I don’t know what exactly happened but Minho turned Changbin into this dark werewolf creature or-or something… I do know, however, that Changbin is on his way right now to kill you both.” Jinyoung steps back at the intensity of your explanation, unable to think of a response over the roar of his thoughts. Through his peripheral vision, he can spot the same type of speechlessness across Jaebeom’s face. 

Not again… 

“That’s stupid… You realize nothing can kill them, right?” Tzuyu scoffs. 

“This is different.” You urge, “I saw Changbin—he wasn’t like anything I’ve ever seen before… The spell that Minho used, it was-was—” 

“Dark magic.” Jinyoung finishes blankly, “The spell was dark magic.” 

“Yes… which means you and Jaebeom need to leave town as fast as you possibly can before—” 

“I don’t think anyone is going anywhere, (Y/N).” Jinyoung’s entire body grows stiff as a new voice echoes throughout the study. He cautiously turns his head, discovering none other than the young werewolf in question resting among the shadows. His eye also catches the open window a few inches away, and he curses himself for ever wanting to feel the nightly draft. 

Changbin’s smirk is as dark as his eyes. 

“What?... Not going to offer me a drink?” 

☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

“(Y/N)! Get out of here! Now!” Jaebeom hears Jinyoung scream as the werewolf suddenly launches forward, knocking his brother into the bookshelf behind him. The wood completely splinters beneath the impact, raining down an array of books and planks on Jinyoung’s body. Changbin turns to Jaebeom next, but the hybrid is ready—and pissed off. 

Jaebeom speeds toward the intruder and delivers a swift kick to the gut. Changbin flies back at the force, crashing back through the window with a loud growl. Sensing the urgency in time, Jaebeom quickly throws Jinyoung’s immobile body over his shoulder and urges both you and Tzuyu out the study door. 

“Come on! We gotta go!” 

“Jaebeom! What the hell is happening!?” He ignores Tzuyu’s fearful ask and proceeds to lug Jinyoung through the maze of hallways and down the staircase, you and the female vampire hot on his heels. He doesn’t know exactly where he’s going, but he makes his way to the parlor where he props Jinyoung up against a nearby chair before turning to you: 

“You need to leave. I will deal with this.” 

“No way. I’m not going anywhere.” Jaebeom curses your stubbornness inside his head, sending a stern glare in your direction. Your expression remains fixated, and he can’t help but wish your presence in any other situation but now. 

“I can’t protect you right now—” 

“And I can’t sit back and watch you get yourselves killed!” You shake your head indignantly, “I’m staying!” 

“Fucking hell, (Y/N)! Get your ass out that door before I throw you out myself!” 

“Jaebeom, watch out!” At Tzuyu’s cue, a wooden branch comes soaring in through the window. Jaebeom immediately throws himself against you, effectively forcing your body to the ground to dodge the projectile. He can feel your fear through the trembling of your limbs and hurried breaths, but it only brings him more determination to tear apart his attacker. 

He shakes his head in surrender, “You stay on the fucking ground, understand? Don’t you fucking dare move a muscle.” He doesn’t bother to wait for a response and pushes himself back to his feet. 

Tzuyu is huddled in a corner, and Jinyoung has yet to awaken from his crash landing back in the study. Jaebeom tries to focus his senses on detecting the werewolf, but he can’t seem to hear anything past the beating of his own heart. He carefully makes his way over to the incapacitated vampire, attempting to force him back to consciousness. 

“Now is really not the time for a fucking nap, Jinyoung.” He hisses, “I swear to god, if I have to save your ass one more time—” Another wave of tree branches come crashing through the windows. Unfortunately, Jaebeom is not as quick and one catches his shoulder at just the right angle. He feels the wood sink into his flesh, painfully carving into his bones. With a low groan, Jaebeom manages to grab the makeshift stake and remove it in one hefty pull. 

He tosses it away with a yell, “You gonna hide like a little bitch!? Or are you gonna come out and fight like a man!?” 

“Be careful what you wish for, asshole!” Jaebeom turns just in time to discover the werewolf emerging from a shattered window. His blood boils when he notices the sadistic grin along the young kid’s face—he wonders how those teeth will look strewn across the parlor floor. 

Changbin comes at him fast, much faster than Jaebeom could have predicted. He manages to dodge a set of jabs, but he’s not so lucky when Changbin lands a heavy hit against the side of his face. Pain erupts through his jaw as he collapses to the floor, but Jaebeom doesn’t have the chance to dwell over it and rolls out of the way just as the werewolf attempts to stomp his nose. 

Jaebeom tries to speed away again, but like before, his counterpart is faster. Changbin manages to force him to the floor for a second time, pinning his body down with his own. Horrified, the hybrid watches as the werewolf’s eyes glow blood red and large, pitch black fangs emerge past his parted lips. Once again, he attempts to break free, but it’s no use—Changbin is too strong. 

Just when he believes the wolf’s fangs are going to sink into his neck, another form knocks Changbin away. Jaebeom hurriedly props himself on his arms in time to watch Tzuyu deliver a series of hits and kicks to the perpetrator, eventually slamming his head into a nearby armoire. Taking advantage of the moment, she turns from Changbin to Jaebeom instead: 

“Grab Jinyoung and (Y/N) and run!” She screams, “Get the hell of here!” 

Unable to move, Jaebeom remains as Tzuyu attempts to fight off the wolf. But with the combination of his ultimate strength and her weakness from Jaebeom’s venom, her defeat is inevitable. He watches in terror as Changbin sinks his teeth into the vampire’s arm before yanking her head forward and effectively snapping her neck. Jaebeom feels his insides practically soar with rage when the attacker tosses a comatose Tzuyu across the room like a useless toy. 

“I’ll kill you…” He sneers, allowing his own supernatural features to overtake his face. “I’ll fucking kill you…” 

Changbin shakes his head with a smirk, “I’d like to see you try.” 

Using the little agility he has left, Jaebeom grabs one of the branches and speeds toward the wolf. Due to Changbin’s movements, he misses his chest, but manages to stab the weapon in his stomach. Changbin releases a pained groan, allowing Jaebeom to take advantage of his surprise and land another array of uppercuts to his face. Just when he finally thinks he has the upper hand, his opponent blocks one of his hits and pins him against a wall with a hand around his throat. 

“Any last words, Prime?”

“You really think you can kill me?” Jaebeom growls, squirming against Changbin’s hold. 

“I know I can… Have fun rotting in Hell—fuck!” 

Shock spills through Jaebeom’s veins as the point of branch suddenly appears through the center of the wolf’s chest, splattering red across both of their bodies. Changbin’s grip releases, allowing the hybrid to quickly speed out of his reach. Once he’s a safe distances away, Jaebeom looks to his savior, discovering the one person he never expected to see—

You stand over Changbin’s body—chest heaving and bloodied hands trembling. Your eyes are glassy when Jaebeom meets your gaze, and for some reason, he feels the urge to go and pull your form into a tight embrace. Your voice, however, returns his mind to reality: 

“Did I… Did I kill him?” 

“I don’t think so.” Jaebeom answers, nursing his wound with his own shaky fingers. “We need to get out of here—get somewhere safe.” 

“Good idea.” You trudge over to where Jinyoung is still unconsciously laid across the chair. Jaebeom follows your lead and hurries over to a lifeless Tzuyu. “I know somewhere we can go… but I don’t think you’re going to like it.” 

“(Y/N)... There is an immortal, unkillable super wolf out to kill me and my brother currently in my living room…”  He snorts, maneuvering Tzuyu’s body into one arm and assisting you and Jinyoung with the other. 

“Trust me, anywhere is a hell of a lot better than here…”

#got7 #got7 fanfic #got7 fic #got7 imagines #got7 x reader #got7 angst #got7 smut #got7 au #im jaebeom #im jaebum x reader #im jaebeom fanfic #mark tuan #mark tuan fanfic #mark tuan x reader #jackson wang #jackson wang x reader #jackson wang fanfic #park jinyoung #park jinyoung x reader #park jinyoung fanfic #kpop fanfic #kpop au

[imaginealpha]

I saved this screenshot over three years ago.

Today, at 10:50 PM, I made a document titled "I'm gonna bang this out in an hour and submit it at 11:58pm because that's just how I am" and wrote this for my school's literary magazine. I submitted it at 1:15 AM, because that's also just how I am. It's a little long, but that's okay.

The screech of the train’s brakes cuts through the night air, startling you from your light doze. There aren’t many people in the station, and no one seems to want to get on. Except you, of course, because you want to be anywhere but here.

A man hangs out the window of the car in front of you. “First time?” he says, his eyes crinkling sympathetically.

“I’ve ridden the train before,” you snap back defensively.

“That’s not what I asked.” He gestures to the open door.

You lean against the window, making sure to keep your head off of it before the slight shaking gives you a headache. The buildings whipping by are quickly replaced by a rolling countryside. You suppose this is when you consider your place in the universe, as one does on the midnight train going anywhere, but you are content to just watch.

A voice breaks the fog in your mind. “I need your ticket, dear.”

An older woman stands by your seat, the only other person in the otherwise empty car. Wordlessly, you fish your ticket stub out of your pocket and hand it over.

She clicks her tongue as she punches a series of holes into it. “It’s a lovely view on the way, dear. Make sure to watch. I believe it’s quite a sight for the soul.”

She hands it back. When you turn back to the window, you don’t hear her leave.

You don’t know how long it’s been since you closed your eyes. When you force them open, a dusty brown expanse stretches outside the glass, the surface pockmarked with tiny craters. The sky is pitch black but twinkling with a million points of light, steady companions in an ever-changing eternity. A blue planet covered in faint green landmasses and swirling white clouds hangs above, too big and too small at the same time. For a moment, you feel a little less lonely.

In the distance in front of you, a single building sits, quite literally in the middle of nowhere. A neon sign blazes brightly, but you can’t quite make it out. Thin tendrils of smoke rise from the front, where a small group of young adults are sitting around in folding chairs.

As you watch, one of them throws back their head and laughs, while another one stands, holding an empty bottle to their mouth like a microphone. You can almost hear them. That could be you someday.

There is a young child across the row.

“How did you get here?” you ask, a little dazedly.

They wrinkle their nose. “That’s not a fair question. I rolled the dice, of course.”

“Of course,” you repeat numbly. “Why isn’t it fair?”

“Because everyone rolls the dice, so you’re gonna get the same answer every time.” They shrug simply. “It’s the only way to get on the train, you know. You roll the dice, and if your number is low enough, you can choose to come on the train and roll again. It says so on your ticket.”

You dig out your ticket. It’s punched so full of holes that you can’t make out any of the text anymore.

“I didn’t roll the dice,” you hear yourself say.

The child just stares at you. “Of course you did.”

“Of course,” you say again, for lack of a better answer. “Where are they, then? So I can roll again?”

“That’s not how it works.” The child is rolling their eyes now, and you vaguely wonder if it is socially acceptable to use them as makeshift dice. (It isn’t, obviously.) “Ask me a more interesting question, please.”

“Who are you? Where are you from? And-” you twist around again to glimpse what is now a never-ending ocean rippling below the train, an electrical storm brewing on the horizon. “-where are we? Where are we going?”

“Everywhere. Nowhere. It’s hard to say, really.” They smile at you, something unreadable in their eyes. “I suppose a better answer would be anywhere. It’s up to you.”

“Me?”

Their smile turns sharp. “It really is your first time, isn’t it?”

The waves outside splutter in response. They go on and on and on and on, with no signs of stopping.

You can make out the thin glistening of water pouring softly down the cavern wall from the lights on the outside of the train.

“What’s it like, where you’re from?” the child asks.

“Pretty,” you say noncommittally. “Elegant, in its own way. Normal.”

They hum and swing their legs, gripping the edge of the seat. “And?”

You watch the walls of the cavern narrow in on the train, and a spark of nervousness flares inside you when you think of the train getting stuck. “Trapped. It was a nice place to grow up, but there wasn’t anywhere to go except where everyone told you to go. Sometimes, those places weren’t very special. Not to me, at least.”

“You have anywhere here.”

“I guess so,” you sigh. “The ride has to end eventually, though. I didn’t really think this through, so I have no idea what I’m going to do when we get to the last stop.”

“There’s only one stop,” the child says casually, “but think about what you want to do when you get there. It’ll be a whole new world for you, if you believe in it.”

Watching the tunnel widen again into a room full of gorgeous glowing crystals towering high above you, you think you’re starting to understand.

A lone streetlight stands outside, its harsh yellow light flickering on the ground. Silhouettes of people pass underneath like shadows, fading away into mist at the edges.

“They look like they’re searching for something. What are their lives like, I wonder?”

You square your shoulders bitterly. “They spend decades locked in a miserable cycle of work and expectations and exhaustion, with no real joy or expression left.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what society demands. That’s what people demand.”

The child surveys you curiously. “So they’re looking for emotion? All of them?”

All of them. The confirmation is on the tip of your tongue.

You remember the people outside the desert store. “Maybe not all of them,” you amend. “Some of them had higher dice rolls.”

“They all fade away in the end,” the child observes.

“But they’re brighter.” Happier.

“The dice alone don’t change that,” they remind you.

The streetlight dies.

“Can you rig the dice?”

“No,” the child replies. “But low numbers aren’t always a bad thing. If you add them right, you get a bigger number.”

The chunks of ice speeding past the window start moving backwards.

“Do you wanna play a game?”

You decide to humor the kid, for lack of anything better to do. “Sure. What game?”

“You stomp your feet like this.” They stretch their legs to the floor and pound a steady rhythm on the ground. “When I make this sound” - a series of clicks you can’t for the life of you figure out how to do with your mouth - “you knock against the window.” Another beat, their knuckles rapping gently against the glass. “And I’m gonna do my own sounds, and we’re gonna make a song. But you can’t step in the same place twice, or it’ll get boring.”

It takes you a while to get the hang of it. Before long, you are up and out of your seat, hopping across the car in an effort to avoid landing on the same spot you just stepped. The kid is singing a melody that shoots adrenaline through your veins, lights a giddy fire in your chest, and opens a haunting void in your throat all at the same time. You feel more alive than you have ever been in your entire life.

Here, dancing in the soft white light of the train, with a forest whispering outside and brushing the windows with gentle branches, believing in this seems easier than ever.

The child isn’t there when the sun’s rays spill over the horizon, tingeing the sky a pale pink. The country hills rise around the train again, tiny farms dotting the green. Roused from your deeper slumber, you lazily watch the early morning mist climb over the grass. Distantly, a mass of grey clouds hangs in the sky. If you think about it hard enough, they look like looming mountains. An impossible, majestic journey.

“We’re almost at the stop, dear.” The woman is back, speaking quietly. “I’ll take your ticket stub off your hands for you.”

You pull it out and give it to her. “You were right. The view was incredible.”

Her face softens. “It always is.”

The train finally pulls into the station with another screech. The doors slide open with a hiss, and you step back out onto the platform, breathing in the morning air. You take a moment to turn to the man hanging out the side window.

“Hope to see you again sometime,” he bids you, kind eyes now crinkled in a smile. “Next time, I’ll say ‘Second time?’”

“I look forward to it,” you agree with a small huff of laughter.

The ticketmaster gives you a weird look as you leave the station. “Were you in there all night?” he asks, perplexed. “Did your train even come by? There’s none on the schedule.”

You shrug. “No, it did. It was a round trip.”

You climb the stairs to the ground level and step outside. As you head home, you try to hold on to the feelings you found on the train. Looking for emotion, indeed.

Even when you don’t have an anywhere to go, at least you know there’s always another option. You’ll do what you do best: you don’t stop believing.

What do you think @writing-prompt-s?

#i literally did not edit this #how late can i submit things to my writing teacher before he lets me know i need to set deadlines challenge #i have a whole folder full of prompts from like four years ago that i am steadily working through #but i thought tumblr might appreciate this one more than the others #idk it's 1:34am and i am Tired™ #writing #short story #fiction #my writing

[grailfinders]

Fate and Phantasms #169

Two builds in one day? That’s right! Today’s my birthday, and that means I get to pick the servants! As a birthday gift to myself, we’re making Caster of the Nightless City! As usual, expect spoilers in the build breakdown below the cut and in their character sheet here!

Scheherazade is a Creation Bard to truly bring her stories to life, and a Genie Warlock to create her own Bedchamber of Survival.

Race and Background

Wildly, Scheherazade is a Human, giving her +1 to all abilities. She’s also a Guild Artisan with one of the most demanding patrons in the world, giving her proficiency with Insight and Persuasion. 

Ability Scores

Your Charisma better be as high as possible, you’re literally famous for your storytelling skills. After that is Wisdom. Anyone can read a story, but to tell a story you’ve got to be able to read the audience. Your Intelligence is also pretty good, because let’s be honest, remembering over 1,000 stories is pretty goddamn impressive. Your Dexterity isn’t awful, because we need to be able to go from standing to dogeza in seconds. This means your Constitution and Strength are rather low. Sadly, telling stories doesn’t make you all that battle hardened.

Class Levels

1. Bard 1: Being a bard gives you proficiency with Dexterity and Charisma saves to avoid fireballs and being banished to other dimensions. (Though I guess banishment is better than death?) You also get proficiency in three bard skills, that is to say, three of any skill. Performance for storytelling, Acrobatics for faster dogezas, and History for more story material.

You can use Bardic Inspiration to give a d6 to an ally Charisma Mod times per long rest, and these dice can be added to pretty much any d20 roll to make it a bit better. (Not yours though, heaven forbid you have to get out there and... attack things.)

Speaking of not attacking things, let’s talk Spells. You cast em with Charisma, and get stuff like Blade Ward for taking less damage and Friends for convincing people to let you live in the first place. You also get Charm Person for a similar reason, Bane to weaken their offense if they still want to try anything, Feather Fall to avoid death by heights, and Silent Image for the first of your storied illusions.

2. Bard 2: Second level bards become Jacks of All Trades, adding half their proficiency to ability checks they’re not proficient in. By becoming more useful, you’re less likely to get killed! Probably. You also get a Song of Rest to boost healing during short rests. Healing is good, healing helps people not die. Finally, your Magical Inspiration lets allies add your inspiration dice to damage or healing caused by spells. Again, healing is good, and I guess doing more damage can be nice sometimes.

Speaking of doing damage, we’re not doing that. Instead, grab Sleep for a bedtime story.

3. Bard 3: Graduating from the college of Creation will help you bring your stories to life thanks to your Performance of Creation. As an action you can create a nonmagical object once per long rest or by spending a 2nd level spell slot. The item must be medium or smaller, and can only be worth at most 20 times your bard level in GP.

You can also help your allies star in legends of their own with Stories of Potential that add extra effects to your bardic inspiration depending on how they’re used. Ability checks get advantage on rolling the inspiration, attack rolls deal thunder damage to nearby creatures if they fail a constitution save, and saving throws add temporary HP to their users.

You can also cast Calm Emotions to keep the king from beheading you in the morning.

4. Warlock 1: Now that that’s taken care of, let’s get some help from a Genie. Picking this patron gives you a Genie’s Vessel, a tiny object like, say, a scroll case, within which you can find a Bottled Respite that you can hang out in for up to 2x your proficiency bonus hours per long rest, but you can only enter once per long rest. Any items you leave behind stay in the respite until the vessel is destroyed or you take them out again. Also, I gotta remember to point out the inside is bigger than the outside, space isn’t an issue for you.

You also learn to imbue your attacks with a Genie’s Wrath, adding thunder damage equal to your proficiency bonus to one attack per turn. You don’t really attack that much, but it’s nice to make every bit count.

Speaking of attacking, you can actually do that with your new Spells! You still use Charisma, but you have Pact Magic, so these slots don’t mix with your old ones. The plus side is they recharge on short rests instead of long ones, and you can still cast bard spells with warlock slots and vice versa.

You get Minor Illusion for cheap lifelike stories, as well as Eldritch Blast for the ever-present caster balls. For first level spells, you get Detect Evil and Good and Thunderwave for free, as well as Comprehend Languages because copyright doesn’t exist in D&D, and Protection from Evil and Good. Some kings are evil, some are good, but very few are neutral. (WARNING: does not actually protect against good or evil aligned humanoids)

5. Warlock 2: Second level warlocks get Eldritch Invocations, ways to customize the selling your soul experience. Armor of Shaodws gives you free mage armor to avoid dying, and Eldritch Mind makes it easier to concentrate on your spells, which are keeping you from getting killed.

Speaking of spells, Sense Emotion lets you read the prevailing emotion of a nearby creature as an action, and you can repeat the action each turn. Good storytelling requires you know what your audience wants.

6. Warlock 3: Third level warlocks get a Pact Boon, and Pact of the Tome gives you a super cool magic scroll that gives you three cantrips from any spell list. You get Guidance and Resistance for added protection, and Mage Hand. Handling hot objects can be dangerous! Now you don’t have to do that.

Besides that, you get second level spells here, like Enthrall. Being the center of attention is dangerous, but you’re the most personable member of the party, so this might be less dangerous than letting them talk. You also get Phantasmal Force and Gust of Wind for free, letting you attack with fictional characters and just make things a bit more dramatic.

7. Warlock 4: At fourth level you finally get your first Ability Score Improvement, which will be used to round up your Dexterity and Constitution for a higher AC and higher HP. Not dying’s good, you should try it out.

You also get Prestidigitation to add minor effects to your stories, and Flock of Familiars to summon background characters.

8. Warlock 5: Fifth level warlocks get third level spells, like Major Image to make larger effects for your stories. You also get Create Food and Water and Wind Wall for free.

On top of that, the invocation One with Shadows lets you turn invisible as an action in dim light or darker, and lasts until you move or take an action. When a truly good storyteller gets going, the story takes on a life of its own, and they just sort of... fade into the background.

9. Warlock 6: Sixth level genilocks get an Elemental Gift, giving you resistance to thunder damage. Like Cursed Arm always says, you can’t travel the desert without protection from wind. As a bonus action, you can now fly for 10 minutes Proficiency times per long rest. Admittedly you don’t really do that too often, but I’m sure you can illusion up a big genie hand or something to lift you up.

You can also summon a main character now thanks to Summon Fey. You can create a small fey creature in one of three moods that can teleport around and fight for you. Fuming fey get advantage on attacks after teleporting, mirthful fey can charm creatures, and tricksy fey create magical darkness which you can use to turn invisible.

10. Warlock 7: Congrats on your fourth level spell slots! Your freebie spells are Phantasmal Killer and Greater Invisibility to put less focus on yourself and more focus on the terrifying monsters you can summon. You can also use Hallucinatory Terrain to reshape the world into the world of your story. You can also use Trickster’s Escape once per long rest to cast Freedom of Movement on yourself to get the hell out of dangerous situations.

11. Warlock 8: Use this ASI to bump up your Charisma for better spells and better stories. You also learn how to Charm Monsters to avoid even more danger by just... getting along with everything.

12. Warlock 9: Ninth level warlocks get fifth level spells, like the freebies Creation to make even more nonsense out of nothing and Seeming to again, avoid danger. On top of those, you can use Modify Memory to retcon your stories to prevent your audience from getting too upset. You also gain the Gift of the Protectors, allowing you or another creature to write its name on part of your scroll. The scroll can hold the names of Proficiency people, and once per long rest the first creature to drop to 0 hp sticks around at 1 hp instead. You can also erase names if you have a falling out, but since it’s first come first served you might just want to keep this to yourself.

13. Warlock 10: Tenth level genielocks get a Sanctuary Vessel, allowing you to take up to 5 willing creatures into your Genie’s Vessel with you. You can eject creatures as a bonus action, by leaving yourself, dying (don’t do that one), or by destroying the vessel.

On top of all of that, creatures that stay in the vessel for at least 10 minutes get all the benefits of a short rest, plus they add your proficiency to any healing they get from hit dice. That’s on top of the d6 they were already getting from your song of rest.

Oh right, you get another cantrip too. Grab Blade Ward again. You can never be too careful.

14. Bard 4: Yeah, did you think we were done with bards? Nope! This level of bard gives us another ASI that’ll max out your Charisma for the best spells possible!

You also learn Message, because miscommunication can be deadly, and Lesser Restoration. You never know what kind of status effects might doom your party, after all...

15. Bard 5: Fifth level bards get their inspiration bumped up to d8s, and they finally become a Font of Inspiration to recharge their inspiration on short rests. I wanted to get sanctuary vessel as quickly as possible for the sake of getting your bedchamber of survival, but it’s awfully tempting to put these two levels earlier, ngl.

You also learn how to Feign Death, because nobody’s going to bother killing you if you’re already dead, right? This spell makes you or the targeted creature effectively dead by the reckoning of anyone around them. They can’t take actions, are blinded, and can’t move. They get resistance to all damage except psychic, and any diseases or poisons they’re affected by are frozen until the spell ends an hour later.

16. Bard 6: Sixth level bards can use Countercharm to protect their party from effects that would charm or frighten them, giving them advantage on those saves for a round.

You can also put on an Animating Performance to turn a large or smaller object into a Dancing Item, which follows your orders, given by your bonus action. You can do this once per long rest, or by spending a third level spell slot.

Your last bard spell is Catnap, putting up to three creatures to sleep for 10 minutes. If they stay asleep the entire time, they get the benefits of a short rest. Dying of overwork... what a horrifying concept.

17. Warlock 11: At eleventh level, instead of getting your spell slots made bigger you get a Mystic Arcanum, allowing you to cast a sixth level spell once per long rest. Guards and Wards is very useful if you’re paranoid, creating wards to protect up to 2,500 square feet of space (a.k.a. 100 5′ squares). You can specify creatures that are immune to effects, or a password that does the same thing.

In corridors, fog fills the area, and forks in the road have a 50% chance of forcing creatures down the wrong way.

Doors are magically locked, and up to 10 doors in the area can be covered by illusions.

Stairs are covered in Webs that regrow when destroyed.

You can also place: Dancing Lights in four corridors, Magic Mouth in two places, Stinking Cloud in two places, Gust of Wind in one corridor or room, and Suggestion in one five foot square.

Casting Guards and Wards in the same place every day for a year makes it permanent.

18. Warlock 12: Use your last ASI to bump up your Constitution for better concentration and health. You also learn your last Invocation, Minions of Chaos! Once per long rest you can cast Conjure Elemental using a warlock spell slot. It is a little bit risky, but even you have to be willing to stick your neck out at some point. Might as well be level 18.

19. Warlock 13: Your seventh level Mystic Arcanum is Mirage Arcane, allowing you to reshape reality in a square mile, altering the entire terrain to your story and even making entire structures out of nothing. Even creatures with true sight will still feel the illusion, so feel free to recreate the tower of babel and hide out on the top of it.

20. Warlock 14: Your capstone level gives you a Limited Wish from your patron, recreating any spell of fifth level or lower once per 1d4 long rests. Sometimes your story just needs a Maelstrom, and nobody’s going to wait for you to take 9 levels of druid just to finish a story.

Pros:

If your DM rewards creativity and you’ve got the mind thoughts to power this build, this build will treat you very nicely. This whole thing is basically an excuse for the roleplayer inside of you to ham up your acting, chew the scenery, and distract everyone from the rogue rifling through their pockets.

Speaking of distractions you can make some really good ones. Show up to the BBEG’s lair, butter them up with some stories, then trick them into entering your vessel, and then they’re trapped in there for up to 12 hours. If you can trick them into allowing you to catnap them, that gives the rest of your party a full 10 minutes to ransack the place before they even know what’s happening. You can always kick them out if they’re being unwelcome guests, but there’s no way for them to leave on their own outside of killing you. And that’s easier said than done, because...

You’re really hard to fight. Between all the illusions, summoning creatures to fight on your behalf, the invisibility, and the altering reality in a mile radius, landing a blow on you is an ordeal, especially if you know they’re coming.

Cons:

If you’re actually stuck in a cage match with an enemy it’s gonna take a while, because you really aren’t built for damage. You have a negative strength stat, and your first damaging spell doesn’t show up until level four. Just bring them into the vessel, help them relax, and put them to sleep with catnap, that’s way less work than actually fighting them.

On a similar note, anything that can see through your illusions is going to cut through you like butter, because you’re pretty squishy. Only 15 AC and just shy of 150 HP means you should avoid fights like... well, you do in canon.

Another side effect of your squishiness is that your concentration saves aren’t that great, which is really bad for an illusionist/summoner. Neither your animated item nor your invisibility use concentration though, so you can actually get away with more than you’d think, it’s just a complicated juggling act. And trust me, you do not want to drop them in the middle of combat.

#fgo #fate grand order #D&D 5e #DND #Caster of the nightless city #warlock #bard