#YES HE HAS HEELYS | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fatesundress · 7 months

Text

⭑ life of the party. tom riddle x reader

summary. when one game is ruined, another begins.

tags. explicitly fem afab reader, smut with as minimal plot as i can physically allow myself, minors SCRAMMM, loosely implied hogwarts university au as always, flirting via mutually assured jealousy, impeccable communication skills, established relationship, the guy the reader is talking to gets annoyed she doesn’t want him but he doesn’t do anything, religious undertones that might have accidentally become overtones, party setting (background drinking & general degeneracy), probably the meanest tom i’ll ever write and i still tried making him nice because lots of heavy jealousy tropes are misogynistic icks fo me, fingering, piv, a little degradation but that's life, fawwwk the weeknd but the song this is based on is so sexy, etc

note. Me writing this: nightguard: ON, religious themes: RIFE, shame: ABOUNDING. i am so embarrassed by this. have i mentioned smut doesn’t come naturally to me? i don’t even know how i got here. i’m on heelys at the proverbial skatepark and everyone else apprenticed under tony hawk. Do you understand? ok.

word count. 4.5k

request. yes!

He is what he is. Stoic, sacred, silent and then verbose. You knew he had his fixations before you knew him at all — no one made top of every class without a shadow of obsession to contrast the glint of their excellence — but you could not anticipate how that obsession might translate when applied to a person. You’re not sure he had either.

He is what he is. The muggle world taught him religion and in it he learned only the tenor of devotion. When his fingers take your jaw, trace slow at the stripes of your thighs, steady your hips from under you and hold tight, there’s reverence in it. His kisses don’t wane with the months gone by; they soften with purpose. They rouse with hunger. His eyes don’t waver. Should a good man gaze upon his altar? Should he smile like sin when he gets on his knees?

He does.

Tom Riddle is what he is and you solemnise in equal part.

You don’t come to these things often, taken aback by the sight of the Slytherin common room in ribbons and banners tattered within the first hour of the night. Bottles glow green in the lake-light on every available surface, scattered about the place and spilled in sticky puddles.

You’re a wallflower tonight, though not for lack of options. You observe from a comfortable distance the drunken antics of new adults, free to carry their liquor in hand rather than hidden away in pockets and pillowcases. There’s something vaguely entertaining about it, intoxicating where someone else might mind their business and actually get intoxicated, but you see no harm done. Whispers fall on your ears before the rumours make their rounds, couples slink away in the darkness where someone in the crowd might not notice, and the night’s first instance of someone hurrying up the stairs in tears comes barrelling right past you. You invent a story for why to keep yourself busy.

It’s all just buzz.

Now, if you don’t come often, he certainly doesn’t.

Tonight, he has, and for reasons explicable but few, you’ve found yourselves on opposite sides of the room.

It began on the green couch by the window with a chess set spilled across the velvet — a bet you made with him upon arrival; you find wizard’s chess trite, Tom finds it feckless, but it makes for a good challenge.

What else could convince a man so perpetually controlled to pour himself a drink? And you imagine, from his perspective: what else could convince a woman so determined to outwit him?

It’s for no nefarious reason — to slight him or see him stumble — but because you love the fractions of relief that colour him, soften him, temper him. It’s because he loves you in every shade, in every pliancy, in each and every fervour. But mostly it’s because you love kindly to best him, and he loves mirthfully to best you.

So you play. The game is slow and teasing, hard to see in the ripples of the lake, and toppled over in the final moves (which you’ll insist you were winning) by the same swaying body that spills its drink down the front of your dress. And so you’re up, brushing your index finger over the corner of Tom’s sudden scowl. You whisper like a joke not to kill anyone but he’s so quick to look like he might that you consider repeating yourself with more conviction.

You poke at the spot where his jaw is tense. “I’ll be right back.”

Drying liquor from lace is a matter of precision even with magic, and this is half-gelatinous like someone raided the kitchen’s supply of jelly and steeped it in something offensively alcoholic. You utilise the clearer light of the Slytherin girl’s lavatory, wetting your dress before evaporating the water from it. There’s the matter then of transforming the stained fabric back to its original colour, and you huff in the mirror at having a game you thought you didn’t care much for ruined so close to its end.

You care about Tom, though. The omphalos of your issue resides there.

(It is fair to say most of your issues reside there.)

With only minutes gone by, the common room crowd looks doubled when you return, and though you wade through you’re pushed back like debris caught in a tide, the bodies more stubborn rubble than you. So you retreat, stand flush at the wall with your arms crossed, and wait for Tom’s eyes to land on yours. To, perhaps, open your mind and let him in, tell him exhaustedly from afar that the game is at rest and you’re ready to leave.

But even he’s hard to find in the bodies unified in breath, flux like a big set of lungs — and nothing about Tom blurs into the background.

So you wait. You wallflower. You pour yourself a drink.

The moment stretches on longer than anticipated, and after many detached observations of the room, someone else finds you instead. He’s tall, blond to Tom's inkwell black, kissed by summer sun even as autumn soothes its blister. Your gaze wavers back to him a few times though his own is uncertain for all its focus. He seems to be waiting for you to stop, perhaps for the silhouette of someone else to slip by and prove you were looking at them instead. When no one else comes, he traverses the crowd with a straightened inch of pride, stepping through new colours until he’s close enough to you that the light settles emerald-black and you can see the great chasm of his beauty up close.

His freckles are carefully dusted, his structure strong, all squarish, rugged lines and shades of August.

The chasm is not a lack of allure, per se, it’s just a lack of him. One man’s August to your adherent’s December, the intention of his warmth, a thing that does not come to him like everything else but that he makes and makes and mends when it lapses because he does not want to see you cold. The singular reward of a rarity like that.

“Hi," you say, glancing over a broad shoulder.

“Evening," he responds. He takes you in with a look of (unappreciated) appreciation. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“No, we haven’t.”

He extends a hand. “Oliver Belby.”

“Pleasure.”

You don't offer much in the way of conversation. He’ll vie for your attention regardless of how much of it you offer. So you lean against the wall where the buzz of sound prickles your hair, let him talk, let his hand come up to rest beside your head, and you find Tom.

He’s right where you left him, a new clearing in the crowd making space for your eyes to meet.

His are ice even at a distance. As if you proselytise — as if you could — kneel for another man or let one kneel before you, all of your trysts together faithless.

They aren’t. He must know they aren’t.

But you put yourself here and standing at the target of his gaze has never been marred by the severity of it.

You decide then; when one game is ruined, another begins.

In truth, you can’t deny the element of theatrics in the way Tom denies everyone but you: his soft, penitent smile, the apologetic cant of his head, how his eyes can find you in any crowd and whoever is clinging onto his every word that night will follow his gaze and deflate when they discover you at the end of it. Sometimes it’s harsh. Final. He lacks the patience of pretence.

Sometimes, the week is dull. Sometimes, the whoever is undeterred. Sometimes you’ve pushed him here.

No — You’ve never done that before. This is new.

So it’s one of those weeks, and one of those whoevers, on an anomaly you may as well have directed the encounter yourself, and Tom is half-indulgent as he forces his eyes away and you force yours to stay.

You watch him from across the room as the woman drapes herself across the arm of his chair. There's a furious blush on her cheeks even in the dark, a pretty disarray to her shoulder-length hair, skirts pleated over knees she faces toward him. She smiles and offers him a glass of something, and you know for certain Tom understands this game because he accepts it, eyes flicking back to you as he swirls the glass in contest.

To that you take an inappreciable sip of your own.

“ — Which is why no one has even attempted to kill one in decades. And capturing one is another thing entirely. My mother works with the Greeks on occasion, and the nearest she came to a den was in the twenties. If she had gone any nearer I wouldn’t be here.”

“Hm?” You look back at the man in front of you. His lips glisten with having licked them between every phrase.

“The manticores,” he says, undeterred.

“Right. Five-X beasts, aren’t they?”

“That’s what I said. I heard from one of my mother’s colleagues that — ”

The woman is whispering something in Tom’s ear, her hair on his cheek. He’s looking at you as if you had said the words. You don't shy away when Oliver leans in to whisper too. It's a strange, fractured language. Too intimate while too detached. Whispers from across the room, desire from another in the place of desire for each other. But the strangeness should not surprise you anymore. This is Tom: beautiful and wicked and the one you chose.

“ — And Nundus are worse. Deadliest creature there is — ”

She’s laughing about something, the woman. Half-reserved, she’s angled toward the party despite her leaning on his shoulder and the dissipating inches of distance.

“ — They stalk in silence. Think of the size of one, right? They’re apex predators… so commanding and still they could be in front of you one instant and gone the next.”

You engage with detached interest. “Really?”

And now Oliver barricades your view, his other hand coming to rest on your other shoulder.

“Do we have any classes together?”

You blink up at him. “No.”

“No, right,” he says, eyes darting to your lips. “I’d remember you.”

His hand comes up to cup your cheek, and you wonder if for some men one-sided discussions of class five beasts qualify as foreplay.

You place a hand on his chest, eyebrows raised and half a startled smile curled.

“You’re not going to kiss me," you inform him.

His face falls, but with it, at least, does his hand.

“Did you hear me?"

“It’s loud,” he decides suddenly. “Can we go somewhere else?”

You’re not sure you believe that.

You duck under an arm and search the crowd again. The woman is on the arm of the chair looking thoroughly dismayed, and for good reason —

Tom is gone.

Your breath is caught.

“This isn’t… You’re not going to…?”

You flash Oliver with a glare. “So you did hear me.”

He makes a pathetically sad face, and you think: it’s a wonder he made it this far when his courtship evidently hinges on the subject of his affection not listening to a word out of his mouth.

“Goodnight, Oliver,” you say tersely.

“What was that for, then?” he asks, and it comes out practically whined.

“That was talking.”

“But you’re —”

“Belby.”

He is what he is. It shouldn’t surprise you when he appears beside you all fatal rage on a quiet lead, narrowly fixed to you.

Tom’s cold is his median temperature, yes, but in moments like this it’s as much for you as his handmade warmth. He’d pluck the fingers off a boy like Oliver. The digits would string eaves like icicles.

Oliver is looking between you and Tom like something terrible has dawned on him, hands urged to his pockets to soothe the flames your unveiled ties to a man seemingly singed him with.

“Riddle — Mate, I didn’t… I didn’t know she was…”

Tom’s voice is flat, edged with something that makes his monotony sound merciful. “Pity. If only you knew as much as you talked.”

Oliver’s mouth opens and closes and opens again, but wisely he settles on silence instead of excuses, and wastes no time fleeing slowly into the crowd.

The instant he's stolen by the wave Tom's eyes are on yours and they’re molten. You move to say something but his patience was for show — he’s dragging you by the arm out of the common room and into one of the dungeon's empty classrooms without giving you the chance.

“Tom —" You start to protest, mouth twisted in a scowl. “Tom, you're being —"

He shuts the door behind you and locks it with such delicacy your breath catches at the question of how badly he's holding himself back right now.

“I'm being what?"

“You're…" It's hard to formulate an answer when he's like this. “It was a game. Don’t pretend you weren’t playing too."

Tom inches in, chest rising with angry breaths. “A game, was it? Did he know that?"

“Did she?” you hiss.

“It certainly became apparent when she was discarded so that I might retrieve you.”

“It was as apparent to Belby, judging by the way he was left gawking.”

“And with great restraint I let him. A mercy I didn’t take his eyes so he was left without the ability.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, now I understand; the problem wasn’t the game, it’s that I played it better than you.”

He looks at you for a long time before casting a silencing charm on the room.

Oh.

Oh — your heart barrels off somewhere. You’re without it for a moment, breathless in the wake of the implication of a spell like that.

“Tom," you say politically, “It was hardly a matter of rescuing.”

He nods imperceptibly. “No, it wasn’t.”

“So we’re in agreement.”

He hums a non-answer.

Each step he takes forward, you take back. It's a peculiar way to have a conversation, but part of the game, you suppose.

Interesting he’s still playing.

You still gasp when you inevitably hit the wall, hands going to the carved edge of a windowsill.

“You’re terrible when you win,” he whispers. His lips brush your ear.

You shudder, mouth dry as you press against his shoulder. “You’re worse when you lose.”

His mouth drags down your jaw but he refuses to kiss you, still withholding something, still holding back in some terrible, electrifying way. Instead one of his hands starts to dip down your side. You shiver as he grazes the skin of your breast, exposed by the cut of your dress, and continues down your waist. His mouth traces your bare shoulder as his tongue makes a slow pass, skin beneath leaping at his careful ministrations.

With long, slender fingers he's pulling your dress off button by button, torturously slow, and you feel mocked to have cleaned it earlier. You feel foolish to have left knowing the night would have ended like this regardless.

“Tom,” you say. His name is followed by staggered breaths. Your fingers are clutching the windowsill.

The air is thick as he watches you, flesh exposed by each undone catch. And still he will not kiss you, even as his lips trail along your collarbone and you start to tug instinctively at his belt. He makes the barest sound of disapproval and spins you to face the window, your hands urged on instinct to press against the glass.

“Tom...”

He hikes your dress up your thighs. It clings to your hips, a meagre two buttons left attached to keep it from falling.

Your wand clatters as his fingers work the clasp of your bra and his teeth skim your shoulder, leaving little bites he laves at softly with his tongue. You shudder, arching into him, searching for friction. His touch traverses the shape of you and stops feather-light between your legs.

“Tom —”

“Quiet," he admonishes, a little tut.

Your skin jumps at the caress of his fingers tracing deceptively timid up your thighs, like he hasn’t done this before, like it’s care and not punishment. His favourite oxymoron: the gentlest torture, the cruelest succour.

His index draws upon the lace of your underwear and tugs it aside with a tenderness that makes you gasp. Is there a way to press harder to the glass without breaking it? Is there ever enough to grab onto when he gets like this — so singularly focused on ruining you?

One of your hands latches onto the arm half-disappeared in your skirts instead, clinging steadfast to the white of its sleeve, your body swaying as if at sea. He keeps you steady, but this is his crown achievement: that he is all there is that can do it when you’re so singularly focused on being ruined by him.

The sinews of his forearm work imperceptibly under your fingers as he appreciates the newly unfettered flesh, two digits sliding between your legs, and he makes a satisfied sound against your shoulder at the wetness he finds there.

You’re swallowing air with a moan stuck in your throat; too dry, you realise, and feel like you’re choking when he starts to move, gripping his arm somehow tighter.

As a rule, you know how much he loves this, but it’s tenfold under his jealousy and you think deliriously, probably wrongly, that for how much he enjoys pushing you you enjoy pushing him to get here. You’re his and he’s yours, there’s no doubt in it — but what he can reduce you to — this desperate creature, writhing and panting, trying in vain to satiate herself with a simple finger — this is the translation; the fruition of his fixations put to a person rather than a subject. This is what it is to be his.

Tom’s mouth opens in a smile at your throat, and there it feels more like bared teeth, a smile that is as animal as it is pretty.

And still he whispers with all the affection of a lover, your name peppered between kisses.

His fingers inch inside you and curl. You’re wedged in the perfect balance of his discrepancy; your disciple and your devil. He worships you in white. He ruins you in it too.

Now his name comes out in a babble, wet, half-drooled. A nip pinches the little space beneath your ear and you clutch impossibly harder to his wrist, your free hand squeaking down the window pane as you grind on his palm. He crooks his fingers against a spot that has you seeing stars, thumb pressed to your clit in a subtle motion, and you feel yourself tip off into an unknown he aquaints you with often. In a blurry, flickering moment, the light gleams somewhere beyond the stained hues of the window. And that should be it. The edge is at your heels and you should be falling. But the sinful press of him at your back commands you to lurch against him, and when you moan for more he pulls his fingers free.

You stumble weakly into his chest, startled.

“What… What?”

“Ask me for it,” he says, his voice hoarse, markedly wanton in spite of himself. But there is hunger and there is greed. There’s a sacrificial lamb and there’s a hunted one— there’s religion and there’s Tom. He invents something that demands greater devotion.

And the sound of leather rasping serge and metal clinking metal reels your conscience in. There are no stars. There’s just him. His belt is coming undone.

“Tom.” You swallow. “I told you —”

“And I want you to ask.” He cups your jaw in his hand, thumb tracing your lower lip. “Nicely.”

Your mouth opens for him and you shiver, pressing further back for contact he doesn’t allow. Instead another small tut is whispered at your neck, relinquished to a kiss.

His finger brushes your teeth when you speak. “I want you.”

You feel him shake his head and you all but whine.

“I want you inside, Tom — need you — please.”

“Please?” he echoes mockingly.

“Please,” you say in an uneven voice, and when your tongue grazes his thumb he eases it further into your mouth with an appeased hum.

And so his zipper comes down and you hold your breath with the weight of your dress at your hips.

He pushes inside you with minimal pause, slow still, to relish the way your little pants hitch, stop, and shudder out in a broken moan; the way your breath is guided by his rhythm, how you’re shaped by him, fitted around him. You careen forward and your palms flatten on the window, trembling at the first thrust. Your fingers quiver down the glass.

Tom pulls you into him on the second, patience abandoned. His lips chase your pulse. His grip on your jaw tightens as his thumb pops free with a string of spit. He nudges deeper at a new angle, your body forced as far as it can lean back, gasping heavenward when your head falls helplessly onto his shoulder.

It’s profane. Your ears almost dull to the sound of his hips snapping against yours, the obscenity of your skin on what he offers of his, but you waver between earth and something else, brought back to him by the torturous sight of the edge he stole you from. Always brought back to him.

He’s gripping your jaw in one hand as he pushes deeper, and your fingers are lost for purchase on his forearms, trembling to hold onto something.

When he pulls out of you at your brink again, you practically cry out. But you understand when he spins you around again, hiking you up against the windowsill, your shoulders hitting the cool glass with a gasp you barely register in the fog of your desperation. His eyes are dilated to midnight rings. The weight of his desire is frightening. The insistence to claim you better yet.

He wastes no time before slamming into you again, pausing at the hilt to watch your eyebrows wrench together before resuming his pace. When your mouth falls open, he swallows the noise that tries to come out of it.

It doesn’t feel like a kiss. It feels like the prolusion to a bite.

His fervour is all the reminder of how you got here in the first place; the teeth, the force, the grip on your waist. There’s a rough sound he makes in your mouth that you taste more than you hear. The vibration of him is everywhere. You’re too hot and it only occurs to you because your fingers are clawing at fabric instead of skin that he’s fully dressed and your last button has finally snapped, lace pooled on the classroom floor as he fucks you. The thought is consigned to oblivion as quickly as it came. It doesn't matter.

You're clutching at his shoulders, the nape of his neck — trying to kiss him back, but you feel torn in two by the intensity of his ministrations, a low, immolating pressure building in your abdomen. He’s proving something with you, and his is a relentless, unending appetite. You don't really stand a chance. You think you've known that from the start.

Tom is all-consuming. Tom is a force of nature, a whirlwind that sweeps over you. He leaves you breathless and somehow needing more as he wraps his hand around the small of your back and seizes you in place.

Still you find yourself wanting to be held tighter.

“T-Tom —" you sob through the kiss but he doesn't give you enough air to do it. He pushes harder, a rasp at the back of his throat, some carnal thing. He’s not withholding your release now; he’s spurring you towards it.

When he withdraws his lips from yours, his brows are furrowed in concentration. There’s a fine lustre of sweat on his forehead, stray curls pulled across dark, wicked eyes. The sight of him alone is condemnable, but it isn’t for you.

He likes to watch you like this. When your moans dissolve to the torn syllable of his name, again and again. The veneration. Your choked litanies.

You give them to him.

Sleeves drawn up by your body’s baser instinct for skin, you’ve carved a canvas of praise into his arms, marked up to his elbows where your fingers had jerked upward to rake at his back. This time, when you find the cliffside, nothing stops you from teetering off its edge. Flames dance across your skin in an explosion, your collar damp and bitten, your waist in Tom’s vice-like grip. One hard thrust and you’re falling.

The stars are blinding. You decide then they were made by him.

Your head lulls back as shocks of pleasure course through your body, the coil snapped, the hard shape of him inside you demanding impossibly for more. You stumble through the light, vision blurred, praying and praying and praying. His grip comes to find your jaw again.

You keen, addled through the ecstasy, barely conscious of the way his panted breaths hitch at the sight of you in his hands, soft-eyed and puddy.

He always comes apart soon after you, but it happens rarely that your body is so taut on the wire of rapture that his twitching inside you takes you with him.

This time it does.

You sink against him, thighs numb and wet, one hand slipping dumbly from his figure and swiping across condensation-foggy glass. The second orgasm is an aftershock of the first. It’s slow. It feels like being caught from the last fall. You land in Tom’s arms and they’re holding you through whitened knuckles. His eyelashes flutter, ink-dipped twines of quills, and he steals the shaky sigh from your mouth by pressing it to his.

You kiss lazily and softly. The room feels sheeted in static. The electricity lingers on both of you.

It’s hard not to fall against the window when he slides out of you. You slump on quivering legs into his chest instead, heaving, spend trickling down your legs.

Tom holds you close, adjusting his trousers before sinking down to settle you on his lap. He wipes the sweat from your face and presses his lips to the feverish skin it plastered. Forehead, cheeks, nose, chin, whispers of your name down your jaw like a prayer answered. Your eyelids flutter shut and he kisses you there, too. His lashes tickle.

You love him more than you worship him. You think he likes that more.

He grabs your forsaken dress from the floor and slips it over your bare shoulders, summoning the snapped button back in place before he begins to meticulously clasp the rest together again. His mouth leaves a path at the skin under each one before it closes, and you hum in dizzy gratitude.

“That was,” you say in a very worn voice, “a terrible way to reinforce not making you jealous.”

He glares at you from one of the lowermost buttons and you giggle sleepily, curling a hand into his hair. “Don’t look at me like that. You liked it too.”

He leans back up at that, tipping your chin with his fingers, gaze darting over the wrecked state of you with a pleased gleam in his eyes. “You liked it? What a modest interpretation.”

Now it’s your turn to glare.

He is what he is — pursuit of buttons forgotten as you’re laid down on the moonlit floor to be reminded just how much you liked it.

taglist. @lyis @indimoss @poddzi @esolean @d1anna @maripositanoctruna @mentally-in-northern-italy @ronniemaximoff1234 @moobell55 @jaerang @ramayantika @saltwaterbythesea @acube07 @togenabi @adazito @kitcat334 @blaurghhh @shutupfinn @jaymeeshayden @lilu842 @leaosee @garfunkelworld @definitely-not-captain-america @multiplefandomstan @mangoesareorange [ note: inexplicably, a bunch of my tags aren't working. i tried to fix it but if you didn’t get a notif i’m sorry! ]

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

655 notes · View notes

galaxygirl8880 · 2 years

Text

Inspired by the reblogs from my 'Cale but he ice skates' post :>

---------

Cale *skating into Alberu's office with his recently made heelys*: just blew up three arm bases, heres the paperwork

Alberu *done with life*: Of course you did

Alberu: do I even wanna ask about the wheels on your feet?

Cale *skating backwards out of his office while maintaining eye contact*: No

------

On *in human form learning how to use the ice skates with Cale*: how did you even come up with this?

Hong *Cat form on Cale's shoulder*: I thought they were weapons at first

Cale *Can't think of a good lie*: Uh-

----

Choi han *learning duo moves with Cale on the ice*: uh- like this..?

Cale *holding both of his hands*: yes, just spin me around

Choi Han *spinning like a pinwheel*:

Cale *now panicking*: WAIT WAIT SLOW DOW-

Choi han *just yeeted Cale into the sky*: OH CRAP-

Ron *three seconds from throwing several knifes at Choi han*:

----

A/N: Cale barely managed to save himself using his shield and sound of wind-

Bonus: Cale: I'm never doing duo's with you again

Choi han: I'm sorryyyy... :(

----

Random servant *carrying laundry while staring at Alberu and Cale both wearing heelys and skating through the halls while having a normal conversation*: Uh-

----

Bud *Watching everyone on the ice, ron is helping the kids stay standing, (and Beacrox but shh-) Alberu isn't letting go of Choi han, Hannah is helping Mary, The whale tribe has gotten the hang of it (mostly), everyone else is struggling and Eruhaben and Cale are in their own corner pulling off moves together flawlessly while Raon is cheering them on*: Two Kinds of people

----

Alberu *still hasn't let go of Choi han*: I'm gonna take your place as Cale's skating partner

Choi han *hasn't gotten the chance to try again with Cale and salty*: Let go of me then *moves away*

Alberu *literally can't stay standing*: Fin- FUCK- *just fell over*

Alberu *Rubbing his butt cause it hurts*: asshole...

Choi han *smug face™*:

----

*Alberu and Cale just finished doing the same Move Choi han yeeted Cale with*

Cale: That was much better than last time

Choi han *sad face*: I'm sorry :((

Alberu *behind Cale's back makes a smug face at Choi han*:

Choi han *complete 180 and now glaring at Alberu*:

Cale *Hasn't noticed anything and is just drinking water*:

----

Okay I'm done-

I have no self control, I was going to post this in a few days but decided to do it rn

#cale henituse #tcf #trash of the count's family #choi han #alberu crossman #albechoicale #kind of #bud illis #tcf ron #ron molan #tcf on #tcf hong #heelys #cale ice skating #everyone ice skating

535 notes · View notes

mspaintbrush · 4 days

Text

Lucio thoughts

Sleeps in a hammock (he needs this weight of sinking into the cloth and the whole thing still moving slightly)

Topless with baggy comfy pants, hair cap to protect braids

Morning routine: wake up, clean face, moisturize skin and hair, trim beard, put hair up, go into kitchen, brew coffee (black, pure, raw energy - Overwatch coffee isnt as strong as the brazilian coffee he is used to, so as a treat he gets some imported), lil bit of breadrolls/toast with butter

Dog person, spoiling Murphy

Still gets along fine with cats though, Mitzi likes to chill in his room (Mitzi lives at the base in my head because yes)

Owns several pairs of heelies

If he doesnt wear skates he wears heelies

Would put rolls on patent shoes to wear with a suit

Skates in the halls and gets flamed by Phara for it (continues to do it, nothing will stop the rio drift)

Would be great at skateboarding but never actually tried it even though its on his bucket list (Genji was a skateboard kid for sure, he would definitely love to teach him)

Can play guitar and ukulele

Strumming a little tune helps him calm down and keep his fingers and head occupied

Regularily carries both his instruments around the base and forgets where they are (lore behind the guitar in helicarrier spawn)

Baggy comfy clothes for the win, comfort over style

Used to casually wear a lot of sports team shirts and still does

Gets cold quickly (brazil curse) so often wearing more layers than others (bro is already complaining at around 25°C/77°F)

Saw snow for the first time in his life just one year ago and still gets all bubbly and excited when Mei tells him its going to be snowing during a mission/at the base

Desperately needs social contact and feels anxiously lonely very quickly

Charges up by being around people and just enjoying their company, even if everyone is kinda doing their own thing

Often hangs around DVa, Bap or Brig since they are very cheerful and fun to be around

They play videogames together (Im sure DVa owns a retro game collection so they play wii sports or guitar hero or smth)

Eats burger with knife and fork and gets laughed at for it

Good cook! Likes veggies :)

Dont look at the state of the kitchen after he is done though

Not the most organized or tidiest person, proud owner of a clothing pile in the corner of his room

That clothing pile is Mitzi's favourite spot

Honestly I see him having his hammock hung up over his normal bed. And he uses the bed as a couch or storage room even when Winston offered him multiple times to take it out of the room.

When you visit his room you just hear "oh wait I'll make some space" and the noise of a bunch of stuff being "moved" to the floor before he offers you to sit on the bed

One of the people you'd hear roaming through the base at 2am looking for food or his guitar he left somewhere

At the same time very concerned about other people's sleep schedule (DVa will not know peace)

Responsible for the music playing during helicarrier flights, master of the aux cord

Custom mixtapes based on destination (he takes it very serious)

Has playlists set up for each Overwatch Agent and carefully builds them up as he tries to figure out everyone's music taste

this started because Reinhardt asked him about David Hasselhoff

not everyone knows about their playlists yet, Lucio himself decides when the time is right to solemny present it

#paints thoughts #overwatch #lucio correia dos santos #lucio overwatch #i love my little frog man he is so silly

9 notes · View notes

rararazaquato · 9 months

Text

chapter 2 is coming. here's makoto and kurumi.

a lot of design notes under the cut, both about these guys and the nda detectives

yuma was specifically given a little facial hair because, in the canon of the fic, he's been too busy to actually shave. however, the out-of-canon reason is that my art style is so chibi cutesit that it makes everyone look a bajillion years younger than they actually are. yuma's design is already a little young-looking despite most evidence in-canon pointing to him being an adult, so i wanted to give him that extra signifier of being a grown ass man.

the longer hair is also there for the same reasons - he hasn't gotten it cut for a while, and the bowl cut made him look childish.

because i have chronic same-face-syndrome, i put yuma and makoto in the same pose to emphasize that they are, genetically, the same person.

honestly, makoto's design versus yuma's in-game really makes it clear just how much a haircut and outfit change can make a character look older. with makoto wearing a suit and having hair that isn't in the perfect shape of a bowling ball, he looks a lot more like a young adult with a babyface. because i feel like he doesn't need the extra age signifiers (and because i feel like he'd want to differentiate himself from yuma more), i didn't give him the facial hair.

the "looking less like yuma" angle is also why he still bleaches and grows out his hair.

i like to think makoto starts taking better care of himself postgame, so i made his hair a bit fluffier and softer-looking to show he's actually been brushing and washing it. i mean, come on. canon makoto ily but you look like a greased-up yorkshire terrier.

i also gave makoto curtain bangs because girl... you have a forehead the size of the moon. i'm also a member of large forehead gang so i understand you pain but still.

makoto's outfit is actually loosely based on an outfit i own irl! i have a hawaiian shirt with similar colors (albeit a different pattern) and blue swim trunks with red lobsters on them.

makoto probably sunburns really easily, both as a result of being pale as fuck (yuma also has this issue) and being a homunculus (he won't die in the sun, but it does result in a mild allergy). so just imagine he's always lathered in sunscreen.\

mentally, makoto is the same age as yuma (so 20 when this fic takes place) and kurumi is 19 (i headcanon she's only a year younger than yuma). chronologically, they are both about four years old. #justhomunculusthings

i changed kurumi's hairstyle because her canon one is stupid. like why does she have two skinny ass braids hidden in her coat. give her those long luscious locks.

she's wearing disposable gloves to protect her hands, and almost all of her clothing is specifically designed to reflect uv rays.

you'll notice the inside of kurumi's mouth is actually a different color than any of the master detectives. that's the homunculus baby!!!

i gave her an ahoge because i hope she gets the protag treatment for the next game. also i hope she and shinigami become girlbesties and also that shinigami gets the fuck over herself. um ok now time for design notes abt the other people. artwork here if u didn't see the og one.

desuhiko actually does turn 20 in the timeframe of the fic. his birthday party is a future chapter.

he gets knockoff heelys in the upcoming chapter bcuz i think he'd enjoy them. but he got them flippy floppys in the meantime.

fubuki got a new hairstyle because i think she would be a bit more loose and silly as she starts going on more adventures.

her and vivia actually have two birthdays between the time i headcanon raincode to take place (march 2XXX) and the fic (july 2XXX+1). so while yuma is 19 in mdarc and 20 in usf, fubuki is 21 in mdarc and 23 in usf (and vivia is 25-27)

yes, that is ibuki mioda on her shirt.

i'm actually scared of needles so halara's earrings get a redesign. they get new ones in the upcoming chapter as well.

their outfit might be mostly long sleeves, but the jacket is lightweight and breezy and the jeans have wide legs, so it's actually nice and cool.

just realized this outfit is primarily yellow with some red and blue acccents. i can't believe i reinvented sollux homestuck. i'm sorry halara baby i didn't mean to compare you to an ugly bitch like that (this is a joke i actually like sollux)

vivia's outfit is inspired by the stupid shit i would make in the sims before i discovered custom content. i feel like he'd be a sims girly.

your guess for why yuma got facial hair due to never shaving while vivia, who is infamously too executive-dysfunction-riddled to leave the fireplace much less shave, has the skin of a newborn baby is up to you to interpret. possible options include (un)fortunate genetics on either/both of them, he is trans and hasn't started/doesn't intend to start t, or he just pays halara to do it for him.

actually i do think he pays halara to help him out with things when the chronic fatigue/executive dysfunction gets too much to deal with. fubuki will do it for free but also she is kind of bad at being helpful as a result of being fubuki.

aaand time for the general headcanons section

every single one of these characters is some flavor of neurodivergent. halara and kurumi are autistic, desuhiko has adhd, and yuma, makoto, fubuki, and vivia have both. i'm sure some of them also have other neurodivergencies but those are the two i'm most familiar with so those are the two that worm their way into my headcanons.

not a single one of these characters doesn't have ptsd. like i'm sorry but you cannot live through chapters 4 and 5 of rain code and not be mentally ill afterwards. most of em also have a few other mental illnesses because i love projecting on fictional characters <3

vivia's also got some sort of chronic physical illness (my personal headcanon is pots), and makoto sometimes uses a cane. yuma should sometimes use a cane but he has the bodily awareness of a fucking peanut and thinks it hurts everyone to walk.

yuma's gonna realize he's any pronouns nonbinary someday, but that won't be for a hot minute. makoto is the same, but he's a lot closer to that realization than yuma is. both are also bi, as is kurumi.

desuhiko is the resident kodakaverse problematic bicon. there's always one of em!

fubuki is a lesbian. "oh but she confesses to yuma in her final gumshoe gab!" well as i said before yuma isn't a man. it's a bit confusing to her because she doesn't know that yet but turns out she's just got that Sense where she can tell that yuma isn't exactly cis.

halara is nonbinary (obviously, that's basically canon) and pan

vivia is somewhere on the aroace spectrum (both out of general lack of interest and because sex and romance are physically/mentally straining) but he's generally gay-aligned.

#rain code spoilers #mdarc #rain code #mdarc unrestrained summer fun #(thats gonna be my tag for that)#makoto kagutsuchi #kurumi wendy #long post #i mean LONG post #ive been writing this for like an hour #yuma kokohead

26 notes · View notes

sunnydayaoe · 1 year

Note

hello it's bird behavior asker again

What's unique about bird fresh and does his parasite self have wings idk like downy (think that's name) feathers or no wings?

Ahh ! yes yes I have been turning this one around in my brain thank you for asking again dear bird behavior anon :)!! Fresh hits me as a Cuculus canorus, or the comman cuckoo; he's a wonderful grey brown bird with some barred black stripes. These birds are verry fun! The aspects of this lovely bird I'm taking are mostly the parasitic aspects, you've heard me right, parasitic! These birds are known as something called "brood parasites" and will lay their eggs in other species nests, having their chicks be raised by unsuspecting adopted parents. Now, Fresh's whole persona is that he verry much does Not want to be seen as a horrible little parasite thing, so he dyes his wings a whole plethora of rainbow colors. Can't have everyone linking him to that horrid brood parasite, now can he? Another aspect I'm taking, though a more subtle nod to the avian inspiration, is in the way he holds his wings. A cuckoo, while singing or in the presence of a prospective mate, will hold their wings dropped down to their sides. Now I won't ever have Fresh interacting romantically with anyone [Ew!], I do have him consistently hold his wings farther down than any other bird; he holds his wings down to look less threatening. Another aspect, not Cuckoo related but more just Fresh himself, is the way he lands and takes off. I'm rather enamored with him having heelies/roller-skates [I just think they are the Cutest!] and I almost always draw him wearing them. I have him like long stretches of flat ground to take off or land, rolling forward to get more momentum or landing on his wheels like a plane. He doesn't need to, I just think it would be verry silly goofy [it looks nontheatening, nothing less Scary Threat Pay Attention than big goofy water bird failing to take off for a second.] [think large water bird [needing a large runway/streach of water to effectively get into the air] and [unrelated to the cuckoo aspects of his characterization [they are passerine birds and thus Extremely Good at fast take offs]]

Now, that's just Fresh when he has a host, Without one he's a bit more pathetic sad Thing. I haven't really gotten the clearest idea of what he'd look like at the moment aha. I don't think he'd have Real wings, as I'm having them be a representation of your soul/magic [Fresh, with little to no natural either of those, doesn't really have fully formed wings, ya' know? [and I also have it as, monsters may have wings, but Fresh isn't really a monster, so he might not naturally have them.]], though maybe he'd have a little fuzz. [the drawings I have presented are all, Iffy and just ideas. I don't really have a clear image of what he looks like bahaha]

#Undertale au #utmv #fresh sans #fresh!sans #true fresh #that's the little naked worm thing under it all aint it?#wing au #jbird's art #jbird's asks #sketchbook art #there is More I just can't say it all bahaha. can't make this post anylonger this is Already way to much ghghg

71 notes · View notes

daedalusdavinci · 1 year

Text

My Riddlebat Recs

ive read most of the stuff in the riddlebat tag. most of it. i dont really read any batman 22 stuff, but ive read just about everything else. that said, heres a list of some of my favorites ive read!

first of all, jovialJuggernaut and fromjannah write my absolute favorite riddlebat fics of all time, so theyre gonna be on this list a LOT. i dont think i put all of their fics on here, tho, so im just telling you right now that you should 100% check out everything both of those authors have. i will link some of my favorites below tho along w some of my other recs

baby lose the costume

by @fromjannah

"Hey," Eddie says, impossibly soft. The lights are so bright. "C'mon, Crusader. You're here. Listen to my voice." Bruce can only oblige. Easy as breathing.

Bruce, Eddie, and a late night visit to Arkham that goes a little sideways.

read all of fromjannahs unburied fics. do it. immediately. rn. they are all devastatingly good and frankly some of the best riddlebat fics out there. this one in particular is so melancholy and aching and it wrecks me every time yes i reread it all the time i reread ALL of their unburied fics

once more to see you

by @fromjannah

The Riddler has been missing for over a year -- that is, until tonight. Bruce Wayne has very normal feelings about this.

shortened version of the summary bc im just reccing everything from fromjannah and you need to just start accepting that theyre all good. the way they write eddie is so perfect

ghar aaja pardesi

by saheeli (@sa-heelies on tumblr i think?)

Bruce gets the news on a Tuesday. The letters start coming on Wednesday. Or; Eddie escapes from Arkham again. He leaves a trail of clues behind him so that Bruce and Barbara can follow.

ohh this one is so good. i think its the longest of the unburied ones and i think it was the first one i read?? the set up and eventual payoff is so good and sweet and barbara and eddies relationship OFC is iconic. this was the fic that made me realize i desperately needed to listen to unburied

a dreaded sunny day

by @lesbiantriphosphate

“Who do you think I am, Bruce Wayne?” He smirks. “Or should I be asking: do you know who you are?” Bruce takes his time to decide whether to continue the banter or answer truthfully. He can’t tell whether Eddie wants to continue their comfortable Riddler-versus-Batman game of talking around in circles, or if he’s just searching for an entrance into a more geniune conversation. “I think…” he starts and stops again. “Far too much, in my humble opinion,” Eddie quips as he makes his way over and sets two steaming mugs on the table.

more unburied bc the unburied dynamic is the best dynamic. this one is really fucking sweet ;;;;;;; i love it so much its very short but its such a good read

Unasked

by penguistificial

Edward had thought the only flaw in his perfectly planned crime was that nobody would ever be able to appreciate it - apart from himself. And yet, Batman had deftly deciphered all his clues, seen the solution Edward hadn't thought anyone would ever find. Doesn’t a correct answer deserve a reward? But, what to offer? What would be both acceptable and accepted?

this ones good! its a different take on their dynamic than the fics i usually read but its a very good take

Kings, Knights, Pawns

by jovialJuggernaut (@jovialjuggernaut-draws on tumblr)

riddle man gets to smooch the batman but its a slowburn so thatll be checks watch in a while updated summary when i can think of a good one update: it took 12 chapters but we made it, they smooched

the summary doesnt do it justice, honestly. as far as comics riddlebat goes this is THE riddlebat fic of all time as far as im concerned. this is the blueprint. this is It(TM). liam has such a way of writing eddie hes so irritating and whiny and fidgety as hell you just HAVE to love him. this fic is peak adhd4autism and the way they write bruces autism in this honestly totally influences the way i write bruce all the time. gamechanger of a fic, youve GOT to read it

Hurricane

by jovialJuggernaut

A hurricane hits Gotham and something (someone) washes up in the Batcave.

eddie w eds!!!! yes!!!!! one of my favorites of liams fics. that said, you should read ALL of liams riddlebat fics. they all go hard as fuck and honestly if i looked any further into my bookmarks itd all just be liam all the way down

#riddlebat #my recs

45 notes · View notes

scover-va · 7 months

Text

Oh yeah since ive realized i cant do one big masterpost abt my security breach rewrite like i wanted due to image limit stuff (i did all the art on my phone and trying to get it on desktop is a painful process), im just making lil snippet posts to slowly feed you guys information. As per usual, it’s a long post so all the info will be under the cut

Starting off! Protagonist role is shifted over to Vanessa (Gregory still plays a decently important role story-wise, but he loses his protag rights), the ‘gameplay’ (said like that bc its hypothetical. Im not making a game) being split into two sections: the Dayshift Phase, and the Nightshift Phase.

Dayshift Phase (which is the focus of this post) is very simple in nature, but also the part that I have less specific details for at the moment due to it being less impactful on the overall story.

Essentially, Vanessa spends this phase running a variety of errands and tasks within the Pizzaplex, spread across over the span of a 5 day work week. For obvious reasons. While the majority of tasks come from whoever her higher ups are (the newest ceo of fazent will be revealed in a later post), there are a few oddballs mixed in thanks to the 80’s serial killer that lives inside her head. Because we’re ignoring Mimic in this au. At least for now. William has no physical presence in the rewrite though, he’s moreso haunting the narrative just as much as he’s haunting Vanessa. It’s complicated and I’ll get into the changes in a different posts where I’ll discuss the changes that have been made to the Glitchtrap situation, as well as discuss the other employees mentioned in Help Wanted.

The map itself doesn’t change too much. Glamrock Bonnie gets to live in this au (i needed him alive and present for. Reasons I’ll discuss when I get to the Nightshift Phase) and Glamrock Chica gets an actual, proper attraction, which is a rollerskating rink. Yes this means her feet/talons/whatever-the-term-is double as heelys.

But, to start off, here’s the main gal herself!

Vanessa, obviously, gets the rainbow hair back. Because it was the most iconic part of Vanny before SB came out imo. She’s a bit more of an anxious mess, but I would be too if I was under the psychological influence of a serial killer. Her job pretty much stays the same, now working both dayshift and nightshift at the Pizzaplex. Because in true FazEnt fashion, the employees are not treated fantastically.

She doesn’t like talking about either of the founders for wildly different reasons. William because she’s forced to co-exist with him and he has caused great internal suffering over the past five years (Help Wanted takes place in 2033, whereas Security Breach takes place in 2038, so it’s been a long five years for her), and Henry for reasons I’ve touched up on in the past and will further discuss in a later post.

And without further ado, here is her collection of coworkers! Minus her boss

And essentially all information you see here is all the information I have on them, besides a few minor facts. I won’t state them here partially because it’s an uneven amount of facts between them all and partially because tumblr is now running incredibly slow, however if anyone asks things I can and will answer to the best of my ability. Will I ever figure out the specifics for the dayshift phase’s tasks? Maybe! We’ll see

Anyways that’s all for now, I just wanted to show off the girl of the hour as well as her coworkers before I resumed today’s fnaftober piece because it relates to vanny in the ruin part of the rewrite and giving details for the ruin part before the base game part feels wrong. Alright thats all ty

6 notes · View notes

nutria--oscura · 10 months

Text

THE EPISODE TITLE- (me when i get a confidence boost at like 3am)(main character by will wood starts playing)

~spoilers for s2 e38~

THE OPENING YALL-

we're starting of strong bois-

i aspire to be normal oak (says the person who has never owned a heelys and has always wanted)

the roll that determines all *drum roll* NAT 20 LEZZZZ GOOOOOO LOVE WINS

we stan sparrow-

#fuck willy

shittatude is my new favourite word

taylor? taylor no-

cas and willy having good chemistry scares me. cas, girl, save yourself

normal: 'everyone gets to bully their dad' scary:

commune with the riddler? hermie can help with that (i need hermie content please anthony-)

oh yeah- scary didn't know they were married-

normal: THE gothcleats shipper

HERMIEEEEEEEE & NICKKKKK

ITS ARSON TIME BABEY- not yet? ok not yet but please-

taylor and nick content <3

normal and scary interactions <3

SCARYYYYYYYYY <3

CATBUS YAYYYYY!!!

YES SCARY! SCAM THAT FUCKER #FUCK WILLY

who- thE MAYOR???

thank you beth for that i'm gonna be reference <3

mayor margret mcsnarkles? we love alliteration

link really went from 'we cannot kill ANYONE' and not wanting mae to talk about torturing captives, to 'we could test this, by like, just shooting a few people, from here'- ik he counters it once sparrow says they don't know if they if its reversable or not but like-

HUMAN GUN HUMAN GUN HUMAN GUN

link: 'we can cast that sphere of darkness' taylor enthusiastic: yeah! normal half-hearted, sad: yea...

normal my boy, noooo-

TAYLOR-

stain glass window??? of the dads??? 'like the sort of thing we'd put on a shirt'??? you better put that on a shirt??? please???

every time they use the human gun i remember that the people they shoot are naked- and-

'there's a big tasty rat on the on the other side'

'i'm so sorry i lied to you catbus, i don't think there's a rat on the other side' YES THERE IS- FUCKING WILLY-

#fuck willy

just taylor??? oh no-

zone of truth on his balls-

... scary's the only one who can survive it? oh no-

it would kill willy, but not scary??? what-

LORE TIME LORE TIME

it's purple cause it's a combination of blue and red- ohhhhhhhh-

YES. KILL HIM.

YES TEENS SLAY (carefully)

CAS NO-

OH SHIT WILLY WHAT THE FUCK ARE Y-

W-WIFE

FUCK WILLY

i do not believe she would marry willy without consulting taylor no way in hell- engaged? fuck, mabye- but not married

WAIT THEY CANNOT KILL WILLY CAUSE THAT WOULD MEAN CAS WOULD DIE

woah woah woah lark-

WILLY. YOU MOTHERFUCKER-

normal with the heelys and scary with the doc martens <3

why are willy's fears just my fears?

noooooooo- no more love wolf sparrow-

HERMIE AND NICK <3

nick gets banished #2

LET HIM COOK

'he's playing the long game like he always taught me! wait a minute- he didn't teach me shit' taylorrrrr-

3 pissbois

terri??

CASSANDRA-

FUCK YEAH NORMAL

FUCK NO WILLY

SCARY-

THE ROLL THAT DETERMINES ALL- FUCK YEA

we love the doodler

so farrr:

SPARROW IS DRUID CONFIRMED

GRANT IS A RANGER CONFIRMED

c'mon anthony! give em to us!

in conclusion:

Therapy for all! but they've started to work through it slightly!

#fuck willy stampler #dndads #dungeons and daddies #dndads spoilers #holy shiiiiiiit #whispers of the raine

14 notes · View notes

theletterwsartflap · 1 year

Note

i was late to the stardroids ask during mmvweek thing my bad ANYWAYS talk to me more about mars and pluto!!

I've been a little busy the past couple days, apologies if it seemed like I was ignoring this.

So... Mars and Pluto... interesting combination. As far as Stardroids go I don't know if you can get more opposite than More Gun vs. Kitty Cat.

That being said, I don't think they scrap or anything either. Pluto and Mercury, yes absolutely, but not Pluto and Mars. Then again, probably anyone gets along better than Pluto and Mercury.

I wouldn't be surprised if Pluto has a habit of climbing all over Mars, especially as I personally see Pluto as quite a bit smaller. With that much weaponry, Mars probably generates quite a bit of heat -a trait he shares with Sunstar- and I imagine Pluto's quite a fan of that. You know how it is with cats and warm spots. I don't think Mars minds either. I can see him and Pluto reading a book together, though Pluto has to be the one to turn the pages.

Combatwise, they're probably actually quite an interesting duo to go up against. While Mars isn't particularly slow thanks to his built in heelies, he's not going to be as agile as Pluto. So, that likely puts their opponent in an interesting predicament; do you focus on the smaller target that's probably going to dodge most if not all your shots while you get hit by a barrage of missiles from the other, or do you go for danger pumpkin since he's easier to hit but harder to take down, leaving you open to catscratch fever? Ah...! What a choice to have to make... whichever you go with, better do it quick!

#obligatory ask tag #stardroids #au stuff

8 notes · View notes

scribbling-dragon · 2 years

Note

Some Fae!Scott headcanons I have and wanna share. And just some empires Scott headcanons I have in general. I have shared them in a discord server incase they seem familiar

Since fae can take names, why not have Scott just… take pronouns? Fae, as far as I know, do not really have genders the way humans do? Also, Scott is playing a collector. Why not collect gender and pronouns? Like Ranboo being a genderman, but I’m trying to get away from that side of mcyt

Inhumane beauty and grace and something just not human but you can’t tell what is off, you just know and don’t know why.

Scott has rollerblades, roller skates, and heelies. Yes he can skate on grass and sand and other things logic and physics says he shouldn’t, but he doesn’t care. Do the others know he wears them? Whooooo knows

Maybe Shelby is able to tell vaguely that Scott has something magickal around/about him? She’s not too sure what, but she knows more than the others. Maybe she can try and figure stuff out from his mannerisms.

Fae are very in tune with nature. Scott is seen using lots of woods in his builds this far. Mostly stripped logs. Bark is often used in magick. Maybe he is saving the bark for something?

There can be a lot of angst with fae Scott. With him gifting his true name to someone else only to be betrayed or something and locked away. Maybe why he doesn’t like poppies???? (Flower husbands lovers forgive me. I too love flower husbands and I so desperately don’t wanna let go, I’m even turning to lots of angst)

instead of asking for your name scott asks for your pronouns and then goes 'thank you' with a little grin on his face. out of all the pronouns he's collected he/him and they/them are his favourites. some people seek him out so he can steal pronouns they no longer use

the other emperors see him sometimes, gliding along sand as though his feet aren't even touching the ground. they just watch and wonder how on earth he is doing it. someone asks him one day and he just replies 'heelies'. which answers nothing.

and shelby definitely knows! i think pixl would know too, as he needs to know things about the past, which would most likely include the fae. he meets scott and sees him. when he asks for his name he does not give it, preferring to gift him another. scott then asks for his pronouns.

there are many angst potentials for fae scott (or just scott in general lmao). and it might just be me being dumb but i dont know the significance of poppies her (is it just that they're a fh flower? or is it something to do with fae that i dont know dhdjkd)

#asks #creatorofstars #empires smp #empires scott #empires s2

33 notes · View notes

artistoons-blog-thing · 1 year

Photo

He has Heelys

Yes that is a Miku on his hoodie

#kiibo #Danganronpa 3: Tokyo Drift #gif

10 notes · View notes

ikesenhell · 1 year

Text

A Sun Long Gone, Chapter Five

You can find all masterlists at the top of my page (AO3, Genshin Impact, Ikemen Sengoku, and Ikemen Vampire). NOTES: This work is 18+. Highly suggestive content (naked person, no explicit sex, just vague making out). A fade to black lmao. Uhhh unwarranted angst, arriving on heelies to sucker punch you?

I SWEAR YALL ARE GETTING YOUR NSFW CHAPTER AFTER THIS ONE. DON'T WORRY.

---

The next few nights brought a change in routine for Dainsleif. It had been too long since any of the Khaenri’ahn guard were properly trained; being so far away from their usual grounds had ensured that. While every morning was spent running the usual drills, Lord Alberich suddenly took a keen interest in observing additional sparring three nights in a row.

Out loud, Dainsleif said nothing. This was his job. He was used to having abrupt changes in schedule; adding new meetings about the latest military technology, new tactics, intelligence reports at odd hours. It wouldn’t even be the first time a higher up had decided on an inspection.

But Dainsleif understood what was actually happening. Lord Alberich was clearly uncomfortable with Rukkhadevata’s proximity. That much made sense. After all, Dainsleif had once believed she had an ulterior motive for taking an interest in him (Khaenri’ah’s secrets were widely and expensively sought). So, yes , Dainsleif didn’t question why his nights were no longer free.

(Admittedly, he was still very annoyed.)

The Eremites and Forest Rangers supplied training grounds. Rukkhadevata also stopped by on the second night, inquiring if they needed any other supplies (they didn’t). Dainsleif tried not to draw any more attention to the two of them. He kept his eyes straight ahead, inspecting the sparring soldiers. He could feel Lord Alberich’s gaze burning into the back of his skull the whole time.

Every night when he went to bed, Dainsleif would try and resign himself to sleep. He didn’t dream much in Sumeru. No. Instead, he would envision the last time he got to kiss Rukkhadevata. Damn Alberich. Damn responsibilities. The sweet aroma of oud and Jasmine was all but faded from his memory and mouth. Would he ever get another opportunity?

The day after the third night of this, Rukkhadevata rose from a meeting in the Akademiya and stretched. Her hair was hung with tiny gold threads and peppered with embroidered Sumeru roses. Yes, Dainsleif was used to his job. Yes, he was accustomed to the abrupt change in shifts. He’d still laid eyes on her this morning (in all her pretty, sun-kissed glory) and wanted to smack Lord Alberich up the head for keeping him from her.

“Lord Alberich?” She said.

“Rukkhadevata,” the man replied. It was lunchtime. His face showed it. Today’s meeting was especially irritating in the details.

“I presume you’ll be dining with the sages again? I don’t suppose you’re willing to lend me your Twilight Sword, would you? I had plans to meet with Forest Ranger Takama and I may need an extra pair of hands should she pass along some medicinal herbs for your men.”

What was this about? He hadn’t requested any such thing. True, his men always needed things for various scrapes and ailments, but he’d never passed along a request for it. Dainsleif watched the other man’s mouth twitch. Lord Alberich seemed to think the same thing.

“I could lend you another soldier.”

That was bait. Rukkhadevata didn’t take it. She just smiled, tucking a pen behind her ear. “I’m happy to accept whoever you send me. I just need someone who has a full understanding of all the needs you might have at this time.”

That could only be him. No one else knew or anticipated his soldier’s needs. Clearly Lord Alberich realized this. He cast a leery gaze at Dainsleif.

“Would you be free, Sir Dainsleif?”

Dainsleif pretended to pause, replying, “I would be able to answer any questions the forest rangers might have.”

“Then go. Obviously, attend to Lord Rukkhadevata as you would me.”

Dainsleif ground down the urge to reply, ‘ I promise I attend to you two much differently’ . Instead, he opted to nod, provide a salute, rise, and follow Rukkhadevata out into the hallway.

It was an extra busy day in the Akademiya. Scholars and scribes raced in and out of the Grand Sage’s office, armloads of books and parcels clutched in tired fists. The sun was bright and warm. Dainsleif realized he was getting more used to it with every passing day. They wound down the wide avenues and–once well caught up to her and far enough from the doors–he brushed his mouth against her ear.

“You made that up,” he whispered.

Rukkhadevata cast her green eyes back at him, a smile glittering there. “Oh?”

“None of us asked for medical supplies. If you wanted to provide them, you could’ve sent one of your doctors from the Bimarstaan.”

She turned her head back toward the road. Even from the side, he could see the curve of a mischievous smirk. “And?”

“You knew Lord Alberich was suddenly keeping me well in his sight and would also know the same.”

The rich scent of spices caught on the wind. Children dashed past them, laughing and tossing a ball. As natural as the sky, she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, using the lurch in street traffic to cover for it. “Are you aware you’re being monitored at night?”

“I assumed as much. I didn’t know you were also monitoring us.”

“Not exactly. The Eremites handle any security concerns. That isn’t relayed to me, but to the Akademiya, and your being monitored wouldn’t make their list.”

“Then who told you?”

“The Aranara.”

He’d grown used to much of Sumeru at this point. Dainsleif hesitated at this word. “The what now?”

Rukkhadevata paused for a moment. “They’re a small creature; very childlike. They like to chatter about all sorts of things they see.” “I have follow up questions.”

“Ask them.”

“Have I met one?”

“No. Children tend to be the only ones that do.”

A thousand other questions cropped up. Dainsleif shunted them to the side. Teyvat was a wild and wonderful place indeed. “Alright. Why did they feel this was of note to you?”

Once more, she paused. This time she blushed. “I might’ve mentioned you to them at one point. Apparently, one of them took it upon themselves to try and make sure you were safe. He felt the need to tell me you were being watched.”

Despite himself, Dainsleif laughed. She blinked. “Nothing,” he chuckled. “I’m reminded of fairytales we have in Khaenri’ah. They’re about princesses who talk to animal helpers.”

How had he gone three days without that smile? She tucked her pretty hooked nose into her hair, embarrassed, and he wanted to fist fight Lord Alberich in the Grand Bazaar. “Anyway, obviously this is my fault, and for that, I’m sorry. We haven’t exactly been subtle.”

“No. That much is true. I take it you have some kind of a plan to take the heat off?”

“Yes. Have you ever seen a magic show?”

What a bizarre conversation this was. Admittedly, he couldn’t pretend that he didn’t enjoy it. Someone dropped a goblet of tea in the street beside them; before the glass shattered, he grabbed her by the waist and pivoted, liquid spattering his cape. Rukkhadevata blinked owlishly up at him from his chest.

“Watch yourself.” Dainsleif checked over her hair and shawl. No stains. Good.

“My hero,” she giggled.

Now it was his turn to be embarrassed. Clearing his throat, he said, “It has been a long, long time since I last saw a magic show. Why do you ask?”

“You’re familiar with the premise, though? No actual magic takes place, nor any elemental reactions. It’s all sleight of hand. So long as the magician can successfully redirect your attention where they want it, they are at liberty to establish any illusion they like.”

People behind him were still in an uproar. Someone–the person who'd dropped the tea, Dainsleif guessed–tapped his shoulder and said something in a dialect he didn't recognize.

"He says he's terribly sorry," Rukkhadevata explained. "He's also offering you some free tea to make up for his mistake."

"Things happen." Unclipping his cape, Dainsleif shook some liquid free. "It’s waterproof anyway. I don't need any tea."

Chuckling, she replied, "He's going to insist. That's Sumeru."

Sure enough, the vendor was already busying himself with two copper mugs. A tea kettle on a large stick went into a barrel filled with sand heated over a fire; as the vendor pushed the kettle in circles, the liquid bubbled to the surface. Dainsleif barely had a moment before they were shooed along with their new drinks. Back to the topic at hand. Draping his cloak over an arm, Dainsleif said, "Yes, I'm familiar with how magic shows work. I presume that's your strategy here, then?"

"You'd be correct. Your superior does not trust me. I can't entirely blame him. Were the truth of the matter known, it would cause different problems in suspicions' place. The delicate balance is establishing enough of the truth–that I have no interest in mining you for Khaenri’ahn secrets, that I deeply enjoy you–and then obfuscating the rest."

“Very well. How do you propose to do that?”

Puspa Cafe was on them in a blink. Rukkhadevata gathered a skirt up in her free hand and spun around to face him. What a strange series of events he was caught in! Dainsleif, Khaenri’ah’s Twilight Sword, collaborating with Sumeru’s Archon to conceal a tryst. It was the surest testament to how much he trusted her. Before he could stop himself, he reached up and cupped her jaw in his palm. Her heavy gold earrings smacked against his knuckle. Reckless? Yes. They were very much in public. But Dainsleif couldn’t ignore the way her eyes went hazy and soft at his touch, nor how she leaned into him.

“Bold,” she murmured. “You’re very bold, sir.”

What could he say? Rukkhadevata made him impulsive. After (scant) seconds, he dropped his hand away. “I suppose I am.”

She smiled. “I propose to–with your permission–bring Takama into this.”

—

The next morning bloomed bright and early, and Takama waited inside the House of Daena. Dainsleif saw her beaded headband and gold ears as soon as the Khaenri’ahn delegation headed toward the lift to the Grand Sage’s office.

“Lord Alberich? A moment. I need to go meet with the forest ranger.”

If he were more or less suspicious today, the elder man didn’t show it. He just glanced over at Takama. “We’ll continue our way. Meet us whenever you’re done.”

“Certainly.”

Stifling a yawn, Dainsleif jogged over to the woman. Last night’s training had gone on especially long. At this point, it felt like he was being pressed for a weakness. For her part, Takama glanced between his face and his countrymen continuing on.

“Have anything for me?” Dainsleif asked.

She didn’t answer. Instead she produced a paper satchel of medicinal herbs tied with a string. When Dainsleif went to take it, Takama wrapped her hand (paw? The bones felt different) around his wrist.

“One second,” she muttered. “I’m waiting for them to be up the lift before I make you regret having me involved in this.”

Damn woman. He really, really would miss her. Dainsleif released a loud, aggrieved sigh, but held still. The lift whirred to life behind him. At last, Takama’s eyes snapped over to his.

“How am I going to regret this?” He asked drily.

She grinned; a broad, wicked thing that reminded him of a cat who’d broken into an aquarium and eaten all the fish, still licking its paws at the scene of a crime. “I don’t know, Sir Dainsleif . I know I’m missing information, but if I had to guess–”

“--and you don’t have to guess, you really don’t–”

“--I think you’re enamored with my–”

He clamped a hand over her mouth. Takama squealed so loud a laugh that the nearby scholars shot them dirty looks. “Thank you for the herbs. Anything else today, Forest Ranger ?”

Swatting away his palm, she answered, “I’ll be joining you and Rukkhadevata for dinner again today.”

Again. That was a telling word. He almost asked and then thought better of it. Whatever magic trick Rukkhadevata planned on pulling off, it doubtless hinged on him accepting every word either of the women said as absolute truth. So long as this gambit got him his evenings back.

—

At the end of today’s meetings, Rukkhadevata turned to Lord Alberich. The mood was better today than yesterday. The air was fresh and carried the promise of eventual rain, wafting through the windows and into the meeting room.

“Lord Alberich. I don’t suppose you’re free for dinner tonight?”

For his part, Lord Alberich looked so thoroughly confused that he couldn’t quite recover. “I apologize, was that on the itinerary?”

“Oh, no. No. You see, some evenings I like to have a few people to my personal quarters. Of late it’s just been myself, some of my assistants like Jyoti and Abeni, and Forest Ranger Takama, but we’ve had Sir Dainsleif join us as well. I thought I’d have you two tonight, if you’d allow me the courtesy?”

Lord Alberich’s eyes swiveled to his. Dainsleif did his absolute best to look as stoic as possible.

“I do not have plans at present,” the older man finally allowed. “I suppose both myself and Sir Dainsleif will accept your invitation. Is there a time you would expect us?”

“Oh, no. Sir Dainsleif, I have no doubt, can bring you along at the expected time and place. Would you be so kind, Dainsleif?”

“If Lord Alberich has no need of me tonight with the soldiers, then I’d be happy to be a guide.”

Clearly the invitation shocked Lord Alberich. On their way back to the Khaenri’ahn quarters beforehand, the noble pivoted, shooting Dainsleif a stare.

“I wasn’t aware of you attending any dinners.”

“I’m sure you were aware that I was out in Sumeru City in the evenings,” Dainsleif replied evenly. “Most of those times were in the company of Rukkhadevata or Takama.”

“Is that so?”

“It is.”

“And yet, you’ve reported nothing back to me.”

“The contents of the dinner conversations have been terribly inane. I’m sure you’ll see.”

—

Dainsleif had been bluffing. Fortunately, it seemed like some helpful wind carried his words to Takama. Dinner conversation tonight was utterly insane.The foursome met on the back pathway of the Akademiya and followed Rukkhadevata back to her quarters from there. She prepared them all a meal personally (a delicious curry that Takama demanded the recipe for). Cards came out; Dainsleif and Takama shot such intense smack talk over a game that Rukkhadevata almost cried laughing. By the end of the night, even Lord Alberich relaxed. He poured each of them a glass of wine and discussed the finer points of Rukkhadevata’s book collection with her–until Takama yelled at a bad hand of cards and flipped her deck into Dainsleif’s face.

The night had well and truly fallen when the two men headed back to the Khaenri’ahn quarters. Clouds obscured the stars and moon. Over distant Dragonspine, lightning forked through the fog. Sprinkles of rain speckled Dainsleif’s cheeks. It was only once they got inside that Lord Alberich paused at his doorway.

“Rukkhadevata and Takama. They seem…”

“Nice,” Dainsleif supplied. “They’re quite nice.”

A beat. Lord Alberich exhaled, his fingertips drumming against the doorknob. “I won’t pretend as if I have no reservations on your conduct.”

“Of course, my Lord.”

“But it doesn’t seem as if you’re threatening Khaenri’ah with it.”

“I’m pleased to hear that, my Lord.”

“You’re not as difficult to read as you think you are, Sir Dainsleif. Stop agreeing with me so I’ll leave you alone. It’s obvious to anyone who looks that you’re taken with the Dendro Archon. Not even your show tonight can dissuade me of that.”

Silence fell between them. Dainsleif didn’t know what to do. He stood, arms at his sides, waiting for anything–a reprimand, a compliment, a dismissal. Lord Alberich sighed again, sagging in the doorway.

“Your feelings don’t override the facts of your position. You understand that, right?”

Dainsleif mulled over his words. There was no point denying it. At last, he conceded, “I’ve been blisteringly aware, my Lord. I’ve not let them.”

“You have a responsibility to Khaenri’ah that goes beyond your job. It is in your bloodline itself.”

“Once again, I’m aware.”

“LIke my teenager,” Lord Alberich muttered. “This is exactly like dealing with Chlothar.”

But the quiet that followed this time was far gentler. It was as if an unspoken accord settled between them. Dainsleif wondered how much the elder man had been through. Did he ever have an ill-advised love? Had he ever been in the same position?

At long last, Lord Alberich sighed and opened his door. “Get some sleep, Dainsleif. So long as you’re back in your position by the appropriate hours every morning, I won’t go asking.”

The gambit had worked ? Dainsleif nearly stayed where he was out of sheer disbelief. A beat later, and he knew what he was going to do. “Of course, my Lord. Good night.”

“We don’t have meetings tomorrow.”

“Correct.”

“Meaning I won’t be expecting you tomorrow. Take the day.”

“I appreciate that, My Lord. Sleep well.”

Scarcely had they parted ways before Dainsleif turned around and headed right back out. Forget their usual meeting spot. He charged up the road, around the bend, past the ponds, up to Rukkhadevata’s chambers. It was pouring when he arrived at her door. A single light flickered through the stained glass. Good . She was up. He’d had no idea what he’d do if she wasn’t. Truthfully, he wasn’t thinking that far along. Dainsleif knocked over the sound of rain and his own hammering heart.

A beat. The door cracked. Light spilled out into the rain. There she stood, haloed in green and yellow ambiance, wrapped in a brightly patterned silk robe held in her fist against her chest. Rukkhadevata’s eyes were so, so bright and concerned.

“Dainsleif? Are you okay?”

“Lord Alberich gave me the day off tomorrow,” he panted, suddenly feeling very presumptuous. “He said directly that he won’t expect me for duty. So I–I came back. I just–I wanted to see you again–”

She was smiling. She smiled , and reached for him to pull him inside, and something in his mind broke. Dainsleif forgot that he was soaking wet. He forgot that she wasn’t entirely clad, and that maybe it was presumptuous. His feet moved before he did.

Sometime later–he checked–Dainsleif discovered they had shut and locked the front door. He honestly had no idea who. His arms encircled her. Her robe slid away; her bare chest stuck against his drenched shirt, like the sun made only brighter by moonlight. He cushioned her head and waist as he shoved her up against a wall. When she gasped, Dainsleif swallowed it in his mouth. That intoxicating hair tumbled free around them. He lavished her bare neck and shoulder and palm with kisses. Thighs went around his waist; he hiked her up, pushing his hips forward to keep her propped there; her chest heaved when he groaned into a breast. Pretty . Pretty, pretty, pretty. She was disheveled and her robe was barely on and she wore nothing underneath, just those eyes that rendered him senseless.

“I just want to kiss you,” he confessed. “I’m not asking to have sex, but–”

“Stay,” Rukkhadevata whimpered. “I’m also not asking for sex. I’m asking you to stay. Please, stay.”

He’d never had to think about anything less.

—

The sky opened up overnight. Sheets of water fell so fast and thick outside that he couldn’t see even to the roof of the Akademiya below. Rukkhadevata’s room was warm and inviting, and her bed had plenty of room for both of them, so they stayed there all morning. Neither of her assistants were expected in weather like this. Together they prepared breakfast. She made them tea. Dainsleif made eggs (and almost burned them when they were so caught up kissing by the countertops). They lay on the couch, only covered by the thin fabric of her robe and each other, reading.

Or, at least, she was. He couldn’t focus on that. Dainsleif carded his fingers through her hair and watched the strands slip away. Her little hands folded gently between pages. Only out of respect for her focus did he leave her mostly alone. He wanted to run a finger down the ridge of her nose, dance it over the bow of her mouth. The folds of her waist where she curved against him were a world he wanted to live in. She was smart, and so funny, and so agonizingly beautiful that it hurt .

“Can I ask you something?” He murmured at long last.

Rukkhadevata immediately marked her page with a finger, looking up at him. “Of course.”

Infatuation wasn’t the word, was it? A painful, aching, desperate, hungry affection settled in his chest. Dainsleif trailed a fingertip over her shoulder. “How long do archons live?”

Rukkhadevata hummed. “Well, I’m not sure. None of us have died of natural causes, and many of us are elemental beings, which live longer. Morax, for instance, is over five thousand years old.”

“Oh. How long do elemental beings live?”

A pause. The rain picked up outside, hammering against the tiled roof. She outright set her book down. “Are you familiar with erosion as a concept of memory?”

“No. I can’t say I am.”

“When beings live for long enough, their memory begins to wear away. You see this commonly in more aged humans. They’ll start simply forgetting things. Well, not even beings like us Archons are immune–not even I, who cares for Irminsul. Eventually, all things are subject to it. And I say all this to say that I don’t exactly know how old my people live. All but myself and a few others died in the Archon War. I’ve lived so long that I no longer fully remember how old some of them were.”

Dainsleif brushed his thumb along her cheek and watched her lean into his touch. “I’m sorry for asking.”

“Don’t be. I dislike talking about the war, but I don’t mind answering questions that involve it. Why were you asking?”

“Forgive me if it’s rude. I was curious how old you were.”

“Oh. That? Hm…” Thoughtful, Rukkhadevata walked her fingertips up his bare chest. “Around four thousand.”

Four thousand. Four thousand . Forget that she was an archon. She’d lived (and fought) through the death of her people as a kind, through a country-shaping war that still carved them apart to this day. She’d seen countless suns rise and fall. Who had remained at her side through her worst days? All at once, Dainsleif felt terribly small in her shadow. “I see.”

“How old are you?”

A beat. Feeling silly, he conceded, “Thirty-eight.”

But Rukkhadevata just nodded, curling into his chest, fixing him with those bright eyes. An grief that was-not-yet-present pressed into his back. In a bid to toss it away, he brought a lock of her hair to his mouth and kissed it.

Maybe it was foolish to hope she wouldn’t notice. This was the Archon of Wisdom. She was Rukkhadevata, and she was four thousand years older than him, and every part of her was a Divinity that could not be assigned by something as inane as Celestia or a Gnosis. Her hand slid up to cup his cheek.

(Oh no. Dainsleif looked in those eyes and understood what bothered him. He’d known before he’d Known, but there it was–a sharp, stinging, explosive, simple truth. He loved her. He Loved her, and he was falling for her, and whatever happened past this strange diplomatic visit, she would continue to live in his heart in this moment.)

“What’s on your mind?” She asked sweetly.

And instead of admitting everything, before he could stop himself, Dainsleif asked, “Despite the erosion, do you think you’ll remember me?”

Rukkhadevata hummed. “Your kind live around eighty years, right?”

“Yes.”

“So let’s say I would live to be ten thousand. Even with Irminsul’s influence, erosion will render me incapable of recalling many things. I prefer not to give certain answers where there are none.”

Dainsleif nodded. “Of course.”

“With that being said,” she said, and pressed a kiss to his sternum. “I’m very, very confident that I’ll remember you until I die.”

Exhale.

Everything became dreamlike–too soft to be tracked, too delicious to forget. Dainsleif was over her on the couch suddenly; her robe was open again. His arm was around her waist, and their mouths were together, and he distantly realized he was crying. She wiped away his tears with her lips and no commentary. Burying his face in her neck, he breathed in the heady scent of oud and jasmine and her body against his. His cologne smelled right on her.

“Let me make love to you,” he whispered directly to her heart.

Rukkhadevata’s arms tightened around him.

“Please,” she said. “And I, to you.”

#ASLG #A Sun Long Gone #genshin fanfic #genshin impact #genshin dainsleif #genshin rukkhadevata #greater lord rukkhadevata #Dainsleif x Rukkhadevata #my writing #Dainsleif fanfic #Rukkhadevata fanfic

3 notes · View notes