#as a child blindness scared him terribly

[prince-jelli-fish]

Modern Luther! He's a kindergarten teacher

#my ocs #original character #luther barclay #in any story where he doesn't end up a prisoner of the town of labomoore #he doesn't get an eye replaced and therefore goes blind at 30 #as a child blindness scared him terribly #as an adult he figured at some point his sight would fail him completely and so in a modern au he did what he could to adjust #going to therapy for one #so once it happens he's more at peace #still takes some getting used to #but it's also a happier au so he has a support network and actually ends up with reynard so it's easier #my art

[trashogram]

He Chose You (Pt. 8)

Lucifer/Reader: Lucifer chooses you to be the mother of his child. Rated E.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12

The illness persists in the weight of your skin over your bones yet the loss of actual muscle and fat that turn you skeletal. Your legs become bow-like and pain radiates just above your hairline. Your vision crackles with scattered flashes of black dots, and you drink like a man lost in the desert. 

Only foods that are red stay down, and even then you only nibble at peppers and plug your nose at the raw meat you stuff in your mouth. You feel the sunlight outside your window when you open it up and stick your hand through, as walking out of your apartment is a chore you can only handle once a week at most. 

Once a homebody, reclusive out of necessity and exhaustion from simple interactions, you now live for Lucifer’s chatter. His presence abates your fever, physically and emotionally. The dependence on him, as sweet as he appears, makes you itch inside. 

Everything is terrible, you tell yourself at least once per day, as the illness persists. 

But if Lucifer is good at anything, it’s providing you with distractions from the ever-present suffering.

—

The sounds you made put the Angelic Choir to shame. 

“Lucifer, don’t say that!”

The King of Hell’s laugh was muffled as he stayed buried in your cunt. The memory of you being so flustered was almost just as sweet. 

He eyed your tightly screwed expression just over your growing belly, and felt gratified at his idea to have you propped up by pillows from head to hips. With the boost, Lucifer could watch you enjoy yourself and remain comfortable. 

Let him feel the springs of your mattress dig into his knees and stomach. They were secondary to the pain of his own hardness straining in his slacks. 

A keen from you, and the feeling of your nails as they raked through his hair and over his scalp, had Lucifer moaning. His eyes rolled back, momentarily blinded by euphoria. 

“Ooh!” 

Eyes snapping open, Lucifer lifted himself from the bed quickly. His tongue slipped out of you, dripping onto the sheets when he was mindless to reeling it back in.

“Why’d you stop?” Your whine between quick pants made him blink.

One eye at a time. 

“I thought I hurt you.” He smiled, sheepishly, once his tongue was back in his mouth. 

His mauve-lids and golden lashes fluttered when you wiped the slick from his chin. There was no missing the color that had returned to your cheeks with all the exertion he was putting you through, and he felt a swell of pride at being able to breathe life back into you. So to speak. 

“Heaven help me.” You said, sarcastically. 

Breathlessly.

The Devil’s hips jerked when your hand rose to grip a fistful of his blond hair. You manually lowered him back between your legs, heedless to the way his entire frame shivered.

— 

‘I think I… I think I’m in love with her.’ Lucifer looked so earnest, meeting the glow of Ozzie’s stare. 

The Sin clucked a tongue in his King’s direction, shaking his head. ‘Well, don’t tell her that. You’re gonna scare her away, man.’ 

—

Lucifer watched you fall apart from just his tongue (its length and width being inhuman notwithstanding). 

You were so beautiful like this. Legs shaking, body spasming, letting go.

‘I love you.’ 

Man’s (alleged) Greatest Enemy could just barely contain himself. 

‘I love you I love you I love you’ 

—

Lucifer brings you another scroll one sunny day, and you find it riddled with names. 

“I’ve been thinking about what to call him or her, so I made a list! …Kinda, sorta during a meeting… whatever, it wasn’t that important!” 

Oh, you could see that. 

“Do you like any of them? Which are your favorites? No! Gimme your top 5!” His jubilation is so innocent, but something inside you hitches. 

“Does it actually matter what I think?” You chuckled. 

“Of course it does!” He cried. “You’re the mo— uh… you’re putting in most of the work!”

The weak save went unchallenged. You were already circling names, likening the process to navigating a minefield as you looked through a long line of names you couldn’t even pronounce or read. 

‘Ehb 

Horus

Azor 

Carlton’

“What about a girl?” Lucifer asked out of the blue. 

Your head cocked to the side as you realized your picks had been relegated to just one side of the endless list. That he’d written down names for boys and for girls struck you as odd. 

 “You think it’ll be a girl?” 

Lucifer looked at you with a curious gaze. “Could be, couldn’t it?”

After a moment, you shrugged. “I guess so…” 

The King’s confusion crinkled around his eyes and caused an uncanny few lines in his otherwise perfect forehead. You flick the pen at him teasingly to wipe the look from his face.

You write a few names down, and watch with a smirk as his frown turns upside down. 

‘Adrienne 

Charlotte

Maleficent’

You ignored the painful thought that this was a pointless endeavor. Naming a dead thing.

—

With eyebrows raised, you sat waiting dutifully, hands clasped over your stomach while he rummaged through the box. 

“Aha!” He pulled out two red objects, one in each hand, and knee’d the chest out of the way to present them to you.

“Surprise!”

Two remarkably crafted stuffed animals were set before you on the couch cushion. 

Goats. 

It took you a second to place them, staring at their intricate appearances — covered in fluffy red fur from head to cloven hoof, with large yellow eyes and tiny red smiles stitched on their stark white muzzles. 

Shiny, metallic-looking horns curled over the curvature of their little heads, tips almost touching the tiny approximations of wings protruding from their backs. You noticed that the little wings were also sticking out of the backs of their tiny tuxedo suits; solid black to further contrast their Luciferean color schemes. 

An uncharacteristically high-pitched squeal escaped you. 

Damn these hormones. You internally chastised yourself while reaching out to finger at the detailed plushies. 

“They’re so cute!” You admired the unbelievable softness of one’s fur, hand overlapping with Lucifer’s as you turned it this way and that. His grin was so wide in your peripheral vision as he soaked up your fawning.

“Aren’t they?!” Lucifer squealed along with you. “They’re twins! But see this one has lighter fur and this one has sharper eyes. I tried to give them little differences so they had some individuality.” 

“Michael and I looked so similar in the Beginning, a ton of people always got us mixed up. Sometimes it was fun, but I got tired of hearing him bitch about it after the first couple centuries.”

A more serene countenance overtook your counterpart, with his line of sight drifting off to the floor beside you. Lost in thought. Or perhaps reminiscing. 

“Michael?” You asked gently. 

“My brother.” Lucifer replied. 

“Ohh, I think I remember… is he a Prince of Hell too?” 

The formerly Divine man frowned. “… No. Not him.”

A shadow fell over you both, distant sadness suffusing the air. You reached for him instantly, only for Lucifer to switch on like a lightbulb and grin manically. 

“Oh well! Who knows, maybe he took Dad’s side just to make sure no one ever confused us for each other ever again!” 

You pulled away. “… right.” 

Lucifer shook his head after a glance in your direction. 

“Um, so, I was thinking…” He began. “Maybe we give one to the baby an-nd… one could stay here… with you…” 

There was no hiding the confusion that crossed your face. 

You ‘tsk’ed. “You wanna deny the baby half this cuteness?” 

In response, Lucifer tittered, still adamant on looking around the room instead of meeting your gaze head on. “Hah, no. I was thinking that, maybe, we could keep one of them here and… and then they could reunite every time the baby and I… or just the baby… visit…”

Slow realization made your already weak constitution roil. 

Perhaps, if you’d been yourself and not the hollow shell of a person you’d become while pregnant, you would’ve been angry. Or upset enough to shout. Maybe you would’ve gotten up and left him there on his lonesome, wordlessly demanding he not entertain that idea ever again. 

Certainly, the You from before this insane, impossible scenario wouldn’t hesitate to react melodramatically. 

You sighed, fiddling with one of the goat’s tails. “Oh Lou…” 

He cringed beneath the weight of your words, laden with a heaviness that harshened his already guilty conscience. 

“Wait, before you say no —” Lucifer felt his mouth running away from him. “Maybe you could think about it and then decide? Maybe after they’re born?”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything. I don’t expect anything from you.” 

“You’re expecting me to be its mother.” Your tone broke no room for argument. 

Mauve eyelids drooped as Lucifer looked down in shame. “I — ”

“I wouldn’t make a good mom.” Your statement stopped him in his tracks. 

Frustration simmered in Lucifer, slowly creeping into his expression as you continued, unrelenting. His posture went rigid, hands beginning to clench at his sides.

“It’s not that I don’t care. I probably care too much, actually.” You admitted.

It was true. Regardless of your paranoia and how justified it was or not, the sole basis for why you felt the need to argue in the first place —

(And wasn’t that just pathetic? You had feelings for the Epitome of Evil and had entertained being safe and happy with him) 

— the reality was that you’d been a broken human being before this cosmic impossibility entered your life. 

“I just don’t…” You sighed. “I wouldn’t be a good part of their life if I was in it.” 

Your head whipped up, vision spotting when Lucifer blurted:

“You are the best part of my life.” 

He looked angry. Furious. So much so that the sclera around his irises began to radiate a blood-red. 

“Do you know how hard it is? To leave you? I have to convince myself every single time that you’ll still be here when I return!” Lucifer claimed. “And soon I won’t even be able to do that!” 

“I don’t want to say goodbye forever! I… I l…” 

You shuddered, stiffening in your seat. As soon as he realized, Lucifer’s display was cowed. 

“Fuck, are you alright? I’m not — I don’t know what came over me!”

You shook your head. “No.” 

“It stopped.” You whispered. 

Lucifer’s grip trembled around your wrists. “Stopped?”

His breathless echo of your words drew your eyes up. You saw the storm brewing in his ruby eyes, as even though he waited for you to elaborate, a million thoughts pelting at his brain like hail. 

“The pain stopped.” You said. 

Your hands felt over the bump beneath your breasts, as if you might find the imaginary ‘off’ button and turn it back on.

It was ludicrous to think about, but you immediately wished for the agony that had been crippling you to return if it meant that this baby wasn’t… wasn’t… 

Tears glistened in your eyes. Lucifer drew you to his chest in spite of the fear that was pulling his shoulders taut. 

“Wh-what did you do today? Anything different?” The ex-Angel asked shakily. 

His eyes scanned you up and down, lingering on the little dolls he’d just gifted you. 

“No… n-no, nothing different.” You said. “I was in bed all morning, and th… then Cass was here and we had tea… we went out and walked a little bit outside.” 

“Did you fall?” The King hedged. 

You gasped, eyes widening. Instinctively your arms wrapped around your middle at the foreign feeling emanating from within. 

“Did…! You fell??” He panicked, grabbing onto you like a life raft. “Where? On what?!”

His words drifted away as you were enveloped in the strangest surge of feeling you’d ever experienced. 

You could only just muster up the energy to shake your head. 

Sudden warmth. 

And pressure. 

A tiny flutter, one you’d never felt before. 

You inhaled quickly yet deeply at the feeling of something pressing against your belly-button from the inside. 

It made you grin, hands coming back to grab for Lucifer’s own and to pull them to your stomach. “They’re alive!” 

The man’s jaw went slack, staring sightlessly for just as long as it took to soak up the sudden heat there. The baby took pity on its poor, trembling father and kicked again. 

It was Lucifer’s turn to gasp, looking back and forth between you and the bump with dawning awe. 

“It is!” He laughed, a tad bit hysterically. “It — they are alive!” 

“… And… glowing…”

“You’re glowing!”

*** Tag List: @crescent-z, @for-hearthand-home, @undertale-is-sansational, @loslox, @navierkalani, @yaimlight, @ivoryviness, @crystalplays28, @flowerempress, @wally-darling-hyperfixation, @altruisticradiodemon, @moonlight-readings, @halparkebitch, @charliecharlie65, @sockgoblin, @cocomollo, @caniseethefourthsword, @squeegeeclean, @crow-twink, @an-emovision, @marydragneell, @lafy-taffy, @fandom-imagines1, @loquacious-libra, @glowymxxn, @avadakadabra93, @froggybich, @hamthepan, @ukor02, @adaizel, @boogiemansbitch, @vinillies, @lbcreations-blog, @thesoundresoundsecho, @serenity-loves-red, @alientee

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel lucifer #lucifer morningstar #lucifer x reader #hazbin hotel x reader

[bruciemilf]

No Capes! AU where Bruce and everyone else is an actor.

Famous Hollywood moguls Thomas and Martha would've rather died in real life than make Bruce a child actor so he didn't start till he was 24

It's an ongoing gag that Thomas always tweets "On my way to die again! As if you didn't know" with every Gray Ghost remake

The Waynes are always just. So chaotic

Bruce and Selina constantly bring stray cats on set; Bruce just hides them under his black shirt famously known as a void with no end.

Behind the Scenes cuts have images of this man pulling 10 cats from under there and the director is convinced he has a cryptid on set

They have to edit so much footage because Bruce always says "sorry" after "punching" someone. "Bruce, they have padding, they're fine!" "And no health Insurance. Do something about that."

Sometimes he forgets to take off the costume after filming. The record set for how many Subways he sent into a panic is infinite

That being said, Bruce's kids aren't afraid of him at all, and WILL run up to him everytime they visit to chant "dork! Dork! Dork!" While flocking around him. He cries from happiness

But he cries all the time, so it's hard to tell for what

The movie's soundtrack is just Bruce's middle school playlist, " They said they needed something rotten and terrible, like, -- poison for the ears. If you listen to it you get sick."

Bruce's biggest "diva moment" was refusing to give up the eyeliner and he still sends apology cards to the cast and crew for his " horrible behavior"

"He just kinda said no a bit loud and ran out of the studio while sobbing quietly."

Literally every villain on set is a sweetheart. Selina does her own make-up as well as Bruce's and Oz's and you can see Carmine lurking like a little gobling behind them just to scare her

There's this joke that none of Selina's streams ever go well because the crew is her curse. She's trying to talk about how to steal on set, meanwhile, Bruce next to her, "Did you know cats have no collarbone. Also, the electric chair was invented by a dentist."

You'd think everyone's favorite duo would be Bruce and Selina, and you wouldn't be wrong, but the public can't wait for Bruce and Carmine to have a press conference or interview together

Mostly because Carmine obviously dealt some shady cards in his past and Bruce is so clueless . " Have I ever tried coke...No, I like Pepsi." While Carmine is trying not to laugh behind him

Edward is just as bad. He's trying to tell the director that's not how bombs are made, and someone's head exploding wouldn't look like that, and Bruce is like :O Eddie, I didn't know you were a gamer

Edward is a menace on set and Bruce stays blind to it because he like him. There's rows of videos of Bruce stopping mid scene, going " Eddie," before jumping on the guy like the kitten he's NOT

Alfred still brings Bruce lunch and snacks and he throws down with Oz for no reason. He always brings the kids (read; they sneak in) and it's very clear they're not getting any shooting done that day

Dick, age 10, impatiently asks why Gray Ghost can't have a sidekick. In the last moments of the movie Dick runs in, improvises a scene with Bruce, and the fans love him too much not to include him after

You just leave Bruce alone when his babies are on set; Damian is strapped to his chest cause he's so small that everyone almost steps on him, Jason is giving the writers tip, Tim is taking pics of everyone, and Bruce smothers them with kisses constantly

#bruce wayne #dc #dc comics #no capes au #actor au #battinson #selina kyle #edward nashton #batfamily #batfam #dick grayson #jason todd #tim drake #damian wayne #text #text post #gonna make some twitter edits for this aaaaaaa

[spacesquidlings]

Don't You Worry Your Pretty Little Mind

Summary: With his lover bedridden after a battle gone awry, Astarion finds himself acting as her nurse, comforting her as best as he can, giving in to many of her whims. And despite all his theatrics, there is no one she wants by her side more than him.

Pairing: Astarion x Tav

Warnings/Tags: Hurt/Comfort, mostly comfort, fluff, some suggestive mentions, mild description of acid-based/burning wound, references to pain (nothing graphic)

Taglist<3: @spacebarbarianweird

********************************************************

The sharp smell of medicinal herbs burned in her nose, wafting over her as the pillows beneath her head and neck were readjusted once more. Pain followed fast on its heels, a phantom compared to what she’d felt earlier, before she’d blacked out entirely.

“How’s that, darling?” Astarion’s nimble fingers prodded at the pillows, fluffing them as best as he could without disturbing her. He drew her from her memories, from the blinding pain that had sent her into unconsciousness.

She whined, wrinkling her nose as another wave of smell hit her, the ointments smeared across her wounds seeping through the bandages wrapped around them. It burned as she breathed it in, daggers piercing the inside of her nose and scratching at the back of her throat. Pain radiated up her side and she shifted, nearly gagging as the smell grew stronger.

“Hurts,” was all she could manage, her voice cracking from the effort.

He huffed, crossing his arms and stepping back to examine his work. “I think that’s the best you’re going to get, my love. As much as I wish to, I cannot turn the bed into clouds.”

“Thank you for trying,” she murmured, barely stifling a groan as she shifted. 

She kept trying to find a comfortable position and yet she could find none. No matter how she lay she could not take the pressure off of all her wounds, and the pure frustration of it all made her eyes burn, angry tears pooling in the creases of her eyes. It painted the world in quicksilver and moonbeams, and yet she could find no comfort in the facsimile of the calm of the night.

“Don’t cry, please.” Astarion’s voice quivered, his brow drawing together. Somehow his skin grew paler, blanching at the sight of her tears. “Please, darling. You’re scaring me.”

She sniffled, reaching up to wipe her tears away, hissing in pain as her body grew taut, muscles and skin tight from the burns she’d sustained. Her bottom lip quivered, a sob caught in her throat, too weak to even wail.

“Oh my darling,” Astarion cooed, voice soft as feather-down. His hands hovered above her, as if hesitant to touch her. “You’re going to be okay.”

She whimpered. Was she? Was she truly going to be okay? She wanted to reach for him, but useless as she was, she could not even raise her hands to wipe her face, let alone hold him.

She watched as he seemed to come to some sort of resolution, his fingers delicately lowering to brush the tears from her eyes. Her vision cleared for the barest of moments before more tears trekked down her cheeks, the salt stinging where it seeped into her bandages.

“You’re going to get through this.” He brushed back loose strands of hair that had fallen across her cheek, caught in the ointment smeared on her skin. “You’re strong, my love. You were strong enough to survive such powerful magic. You’ll survive this.”

She wasn’t so sure about that. Although she’d survived the initial attack, she didn’t know if she was going to make it through the after-effects.

She hadn’t been thinking when it had all happened, shoving a child out of the way of their assailant, only to be swathed in burning pain. There had been no thoughts of putting up a shield, of casting a spell to push the attacker back. There had only been the thread of panic that had burst in her mind, her body moving before her mind could catch up.

When it had first washed over her she’d thought it fire, but then it had become worse. So terribly worse.

She’d learned, once she’d awoke, covered in the stinking ointment and bandaged, that it had been acid. A horrible homemade concoction that had very nearly killed her from its potency.

But she could not find it in herself to regret it, not really. She had managed to survive, but that child would not have. And her stepping in the way of the attack had been enough of a distraction for Astarion to make a killing blow.

Although she doubted she would make it through the consequences of her actions. Namely the reeking ointment and the near-unbearable pain.

As if reading her thoughts, Astarion clicked his tongue. “Don’t be so dramatic. You can survive anything, darling. Even a little homemade potion.”

She huffed, looking away. It hurt to speak, and yet she couldn’t help herself as she snapped back at him. “It’s a lot more than a homemade potion.”

“Well, it was homemade. He was a master artificer and wizard. I don’t think he bought it from a market.”

Groaning, she squeezed her eyes shut, as if that would staunch the flow of tears. “It hurts so much, Astarion.”

When he responded his voice was quieter, softer. “I know, darling.”

“I feel like I’m being burned alive.”

He didn’t answer this time, not at first. Silence descended, heavy, uncomfortable as her bandages.

It was more unbearable than the lingering sting of the acid, and she opened her eyes, the world limned in silver once more, searching for her beloved in the little room.

His eyes were wide, the crimson of his irises stark against the pallor of his skin. She could see the shimmering silver caught in the alabaster of his lashes, the gold of the firelight catching in his own tears.

“You’re going to be okay.” He spoke fiercely, each word as strong as a blow as he clenched his jaw. She wouldn’t have heard the quiver in his voice if she didn’t know him so well, didn’t know when he was trying to keep something hidden. “You’re going to get through this, and then we’re going on a long vacation.”

Her heart twisted, clenched in the grip of sorrow. “Astarion. My love, I’m so sorry, I-”

He shook his head, his hand delicately cupping her cheek. His own tears streaked down his cheeks, but he made no move to wipe them away. “Don’t apologise. Just get through this, got it?”

“Okay. Okay, I will.” Her heart squeezed all the tighter, aching, struggling to beat. 

She tried to reach up, tried to hold his face, but she’d hardly raised her hand more than an inch before a ripple of pain made her gasp, fingers trembling like the branches of a sapling in a storm.

Astarion chuckled, lowering his head until the tips of her fingers brushed against his cheek. “Is this what you were hoping for, darling?”

“Thank you.” Her bottom lip was quivering again, her heart in her throat. Sadness was a vice that held her tight, nameless, all-consuming, drowning out even the smell of the ointment. She hurt so much, and she had hurt him. In her callousness she had hurt her most beloved and she didn’t know how to fix it, how to make him smile.

With a sigh Astarion lifted his head. His lips twitched, one brow arching. “What’s on your mind?”

“I just… I…” She couldn’t find the words, couldn’t figure out how to say it.

She felt like she was crumpling, formless and weak.

He shushed her gently, brushing the pads of his fingers against her cheeks. “Hush. It’s okay, my love. It’s okay.” Another twitch of his lips. “Wait to thank me until after I’ve changed your bandages.”

Shuddering, she looked away, feeling worse than helpless. “I look horrible, don’t I?”

“No you don’t.” A pause, his eyes searching hers. “It doesn’t look good, but you could never look horrible.”

An entire new wave of misery washed over her, and she wished she could still be unconscious, unaware of this pain and the knowledge that she looked horrible.

“Be honest,” she sniffed. “I look like something from a child’s nightmare.”

“Oh please.” He rolled his eyes. “Now you really are being dramatic.”

She whimpered, scowling as best as she could.

Sighing, Astarion perched on the edge of the bed, toying with the blankets, readjusting them over and over. Even so, his eyes never left hers, earnest and bright. “You’re hurt. You don’t look horrible, you look like someone who’s injured. You look like someone who needs to be taken care of until you’re better.”

Fangs flashing in the light, he gave her a half-moon smile. “And luckily for you, you’ve been blessed with someone as devoted as me, who will be here until you’re all better. Even though you’re being very vain.”

She frowned. “If I could throw a pillow at you, I would.”

“Well thank the gods you don’t have the strength right now.”

He leaned closer, fixing her pillows again. “Beneath all those bandages is the most beautiful person I’ve ever met.” He paused, smirking. “Well, second most beautiful. After me of course.”

“Oh of course.”

“You’re no child’s nightmare, darling.” The corners of his lips hiked higher. “In fact, I’d wager you’re a child’s hero now.”

She snorted. “Oh, I’m so sure.”

He poked her shoulder gently, beaming. “I am. I bet that kid’s already off telling all her friends.”

“She’s probably forgotten by now.”

“Oh no.” he gave a theatrical shake of his head. “No, certainly not. Rumour has probably spread that there’s a new hero on the sword coast.”

The corners of her lips tipped up, tugged by laughter bubbling in her throat. “Oh please.”

“The blade of frontiers had better move over,” he continued, mischief twinkling in his eyes like entire galaxies of stars. “There’s a new hero protecting Faerûn now.”

She giggled, shaking her head as best as she could. “I’m no hero! Besides, what would I even be called?”

Astarion tapped his cheek, eyes skyward as he hummed thoughtfully. “Now that’s a good question.”

“See? You can’t be a hero without a cool name.”

“How about ‘protector of the most beautiful vampire spawn?’ Or ‘the prettiest saviour of children from acid?’” He brushed the back of his index finger over her brow, smirking a little too broadly. His fangs flashed before disappearing again as he spoke, mischief in his words. “Or, and I think this one is the best, ‘the fool of faerûn.’”

She gaped at him, mouth falling open.

“You know, since you ran into an acid attack.” He shrugged. “You got the kid out of the way, but you didn’t get yourself out of the way in time.”

She wrinkled her nose as she answered, equal parts annoyed and amused. “You are so lucky, Astarion.”

“To have you by my side?” He stroked her hair, smirking. He knew perfectly well that was not what she was referring to. “I most certainly am lucky, darling.”

“You’re lucky I can barely raise my arms, or else you’d have a pillow in your face.”

“Yes well, you did kind of deserve that.” He tapped the top of her head, his expression growing more serious. “You had me terrified. I thought I’d lost you.”

His words were sobering, and she no longer felt the glimmer of mirth she had before. She sank into the pillows, dropping her gaze. “Astarion, I-”

“It’s already happened.” He cut her off before she could finish her apology, his brows drawing low as he continued. “I want you to focus on healing, on getting better. That’s the only apology I’m willing to accept.”

She swallowed, finding his gaze. “Okay.”

“And just as I said, once you are better, we’re going on vacation.”

It was so mundane, to talk of going on a vacation. A trip meant for relaxation, for having fun, where the highest stakes were finding delicious new food in an unfamiliar place. The sudden segue felt like something out of a dream, surreal when compared to her most recent memory, the wall of blackness in her mind after the rush of burning pain.

A giggle bubbled from her lips, earning a bemused look from Astarion. “What’s so funny? You think me incapable of a vacation?”

“No, that’s not it at all.” In fact it was all too easy to imagine him lounging around all day, the picture of indolence as he languidly sauntered down unfamiliar streets, as he stretched out on some sumptuous bed in a rented room.

“Well don’t keep me in suspense, darling.” He laid on his side, propping his head up in his hand. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

She giggled again, feeling ridiculous. “It’s nothing, really. It just feels strange to be talking of going on vacation, especially when I’m here covered in this gross ointment.”

He clicked his tongue. “That ‘gross ointment’ is going to help speed along your recovery.” He sniffed, nose wrinkling. “Although it is not exactly a pleasant smell.”

“I want a bath,” she whined. “I want to feel clean and smell pretty.”

“Once you are well enough, my love.” He gave her an indulgent smile. “I will give you the most luxurious bath you can dream of.”

Sighing, she imagined it in her mind. Warm water and flower petals and bath oils perfuming the air, helping her feel alive once again. “Do you think you could do that when we go on vacation, too?”

A chuckle, a darkening of his eyes. “There is plenty I plan to do, once you’re better.”

“Including a bath?” She ignored the somersault of her belly, the heat suddenly blooming at the apex of her thighs. Now really was not the time, not when she could barely stand the blankets that were draped over her.

“Yes,” he drawled. “The most splendid of baths every day for you, my dear.”

She relaxed as best she could against the pillows, daydreaming once more of such a thing. Of feeling the warm heat of the water seeping into her bones, of fingers massaging her scalp, trailing lovingly down her back.

“We can do whatever you wish,” he murmured, his gaze softening. “So long as you get better. You have to promise me you’ll get better.”

“I promise. I’ll do my best.”

“Good.” Astarion sighed, toying with her hair. Just the sight of him was stronger than any balm or medicine. The slight curve of his lips as he smiled, relief stitching itself into his expression, more a comfort than any sleeping potion.

He was still speaking, not that she heard even a word of it. Her mind couldn’t keep itself steady, flitting like hummingbird wings as the pain ebbed and flowed through her. Astarion had to pinch her cheek once, twice, before she could focus her thoughts, like trying to coax the ocean through the eye of a needle.

“Have I lost you, darling?” He chuckled, smoothing his hand over the sting where he’d pinched her. “I would have thought you would listen raptly as I spoke.”

She managed a roll of her eyes, knowing he was doing little more than teasing her. Distracting her, perhaps, to take the edge off of the unrelenting burn of her body.

“Forgive me, my love,” she rasped, batting her lashes as swiftly as she could in the moment. “It’s just hard to focus, even on your limitless charm.”

His brows knit together, lips pursing. She caught a flash in his eyes, worry quickly masked before she could begin to pick at it.

“You should rest, darling,” he murmured. “You’ll feel a little better once you wake.”

Astarion made to stand, the bed shifting as his weight vanished, and a ripple of pain went through her side, her chest. Not only her body screaming from the movement, little more than a jostle and yet enough to irritate the weeping wounds beneath her bandages, but her heart screaming too. Pain lancing in her chest, her heartbeat turning to the quiver of a loosed bowstring.

What would she do without him? How could she stand the anger of the poison that had flayed her skin? How could she try to brave the darkness of her unconsciousness? All without him?

A whimper fled from her lips, drawing Astarion’s gaze. The lines in his brow only deepened, and he sank back into the bed. A question hung on his lips, his hands reaching towards her, hovering, hesitancy making his face look wan.

“Don’t go,” she pleaded. “Please.”

The anxiety in his face fell away, like the last of a stone wall crumbling to ruin. Relief, and no small amount of mischief, remained, shining like light through stained glass, refracting rainbows across the ceiling and walls.

“I’m honoured that you want me close, love, but I’m not going far.” There was laughter in his voice, making it lilt like the opening of a song. “I’ll be back in less than a moment.”

With a swiftness that sometimes scared her, Astarion moved across the room, the sound of glass clicking as he sorted through little bottles and vials on their dresser. There were perfumes, lotions, oils, a pretty pink nail polish he’d presented to her only a few days before the attack.

She wanted to ask what he was doing, but in another moment he was back, wiggling a bottle no thicker than her pinky, filled with an oily-looking, iridescent liquid.

“To help you sleep,” he said before she could ask. “It’s supposed to numb some of the pain so you can rest.”

She tried to sit up, only to cry out as a thousand daggers stabbed at her, as her skin drew taut beneath her bandages. She collapsed back, wincing at the red stains blooming on some of her bandages.

“Darling, I fear that is the exact opposite of trying to get better.” Astarion tsked softly, sliding one hand behind her head, flicking the cap of the bottle open with the other.

“I was going to take the medicine.” She had to draw in lungfuls of air to push past the stabbing throb across her body, steadying the sudden surge of nausea in her belly.

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. The arch of his brow and the quirk of his mouth made it seem like she’d just said the most ridiculous thing in the world, and it made her want to pout.

“You’re so impatient,” he chided, bringing the bottle to her lips. “Obviously I was going to help you with it. The more you move the harder it is for you to heal.”

She could say nothing as she drank the potion, fighting not to gag as the oily substance slid down her throat. It tasted bitter, and it coated the inside of her mouth like grease.

Setting the empty bottle to the side, Astarion grinned. “See? That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” He patted her head, not yet done teasing her. “Imagine how much easier it would have been if you’d just waited for me the first time.”

“Are you saying you’ll take care of me? You’re going to nurse me back to health?”

He chuckled. “Of course, darling. I’m terribly keen to play as your doctor.”

“Oh Astarion, don’t tease me so much,” she whined. “I can hardly think of a clever response right now.”

“I don’t mind.” He tapped the tip of her nose, unscathed from the attack. “That pretty blush of yours is all I need.”

“Astarion.”

He lifted his hands quickly, palms out in surrender. “Alright, alright, that’s enough for now. I’ll leave you to your rest.”

Panic seized her and she gasped. “My love, wait. Wait!”

She reached her arms out as far as she could, making a grabbing motion with her hands. Astarion’s brows rose, the corner of his lips quirking up. “Oh? And what’s this?”

Whining, she stretched her arms out a little further. “I want you.”

“So needy.” His tone was chiding, but his smile only grew. “Do you need me to continue comforting you, darling?”

“Astarion, please.” She couldn’t spar with him now, and so she was at the mercy of his teasing. She pushed out her bottom lip, pouting as best she could, giving him her biggest doe eyes. “I need you.”

“And how do you need me?”

If she could have ground her teeth she would have. But as it stood she could not, so she settled for a wrinkle of her nose, her cheeks burning from the heat he’d coaxed into them. He was smiling far too broadly, his eyes full of mirth.

With a sigh she said, “I need you to stay with me. I need you to hold me, my beloved. Please.”

“Oh my.” She could see the faintest touch of colour in his cheeks, like the first hint of the blushing dawn in the dove-grey of the morning sky. “Well how could I ever say no to such a request?”

Happiness softened the edges of her ire as Astarion tugged at the blankets, carefully slipping into the bed beside her. She sank to the side, his body beckoning her close, wincing only barely as he pressed against her side. He draped an arm loosely over her stomach, no heavier than another blanket, and yet she felt safer because of it, warmer than any blanket could make her feel.

“How is this?” He murmured softly against her ear, his breath tangling in her unbound hair. “Better?”

“This is very nice,” she said, just as quietly. “Thank you, my love.”

“Do you think you can sleep?” His voice wobbled, revealing the fear that had been hiding beneath his joking tone. “It will help with your healing.”

“But I only just got comfy,” she whined, not caring how pitiful she sounded.

A snort, cool fingers brushing back her hair. His breath gathered against her skin as he lowered his head, sighing. “That is so you can sleep, darling.”

“I don’t know if I can sleep.”

“If I’m distracting you, it may be better if I go-”

“No!” It would have been a shriek if she’d been able to shriek right now. As it was it sounded like a garbled rasp, and Astarion had to press his face to her neck to muffle his laughter.

“Don’t go. Please love, I want you to stay.” She didn’t feel right without him close, felt like she was on the verge of dying. She wanted to cling to him, to hold fast, finding comfort in the acid of his comments and the bergamot clinging to his skin.

“I’ll stay.” He laid a gentle kiss to her neck, a stark difference to the teasing laughter from only seconds ago. “See? I have no plan to move.”

“Really?”

“Why would I, when such a beautiful, needy little thing is in my arms.”

She turned her head away so he could not see the crimson staining her cheeks. She had no response, no clever rejoinder. She was terribly needy for his closeness, but he didn’t have to say it like that.

“You really must rest, though,” he continued, pressing another kiss to her throat. “How else will you get better so we can take a vacation?”

“You seem very set on the idea of this vacation,” she mused. Already she could feel the medicine working, the pain beginning to ebb, dulling breath by breath. “What do you even want to do?”

“What don’t I want to do, darling?” He sighed, stroking her hair. “I want to lounge and sleep in late. And perhaps we can visit a spa; we both need it after this.”

“A spa sounds nice.” She imagined it, sleeping the morning away, skilled hands massaging the knots from her back and arms, floral-scented serums and creams and oils pressed to her face, bringing her skin to life.

“And shopping,” he continued, just as lost in his daydreams as she. “So much shopping. We must refresh our wardrobes, darling. It’s all very…” She could picture the wrinkle of his nose without even looking at him. “Last season. We must be ahead of all the rest.”

“I’ll put my trust in you, then,” she murmured. “I’m sure you know what is best.”

She wouldn’t mind some new gowns, if she were honest. She would need something to make her feel pretty again after she was healed.

Astarion hummed, combing fingers through her hair. “Have you fallen asleep already?”

“No,” she answered, not feeling tired in the least. Now that the pain was fading she felt wide awake, energized.

“Well you should,” he admonished. “It will certainly put me at ease knowing you’re resting.”

“But I’m not tired, my love.”

He sighed, undoubtedly rolling his eyes. “What can I do to help?”

She hummed, wracking her mind for something that could help, that would lull her into the gentle darkness of unconsciousness.

Before she had met him, she would sometimes fall asleep to the faint sounds of music beyond her windows, or she would hum her favourite melodies until she could not hum them any longer.

“Could you…” She licked her lips, twisting as far away from his gaze as she could as a new wave of heat washed over her. “Could you sing for me?”

The silence that fell from her question stretched long, and she feared he would laugh, or tell her that no he could not. But then, soft as a caress, Astarion asked “you wish for me to sing?”

She swallowed, her flushing cheeks be damned. She wanted to meet his gaze as she again made her shameless request, a small comfort that had helped her in the years before she’d met him.

“Will you please sing for me?” He was close enough now for her to take his free hand, even as tremors still quivered through hers. “Please, my love? It really would help me sleep.”

For a moment he searched her gaze, his expression serious. Soft light gilded his features, twinning in the strands of his hair, painting the lines of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. His eyes seemed to glow, and she had the strangest feeling that she was being observed by a deity, a powerful, celestial being not of this world.

Her heart ached, and she held his hand tighter, reminding herself that he was not an ethereal being of light and dreams. He was real, he was here with her, he was not going anywhere.

Astarion’s eyes flicked down, to their intertwined hands, seeming to come to some sort of resolution.

“You are so terribly lucky I find you so wonderful,” he sighed, lashes fanning over his cheeks as he closed his eyes. “I wouldn’t sing for just anyone, you know.”

She gingerly brought his hand to her lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “I think I would hate it if you did. I want you to sing for only me.”

His eyes opened, his expression tender despite how he had bemoaned such a task. “Any requests, my dear?”

“A lullaby, please.” She held fast to his hand, clutching it as surely as a child clutched a beloved doll. “Any lullaby, whatever your favourites are.”

He mulled it over, stroking her hair absently. “Alright, I have a few in mind.”

His voice quivered at first, uncertainty staining his voice. The words tremulous, quiet, yet as he continued, seeming to realize this was not an elaborate ruse to tease him, he grew louder, more confident. The faintest touch of colour stained his cheeks, but it could have been the burning red of the sky at sunset for how it ignited warmth in her own heart.

At first she felt nothing, energy still buzzing like static along her nerves and sizzling in her veins. But the wispy tendrils of fatigue slowly crept over her, Astarion’s words coming in and out of focus, blurring together. She was certain he was switching to Elven every now and again, the songs he was singing old, excavated from a corner of his memory draped in cobwebs and dust.

She yawned, her eyelids growing heavy. It became harder to keep them open, and eventually she just gave in, sighing in response to Astarion’s teasing laughter as his fingertips skipped across her brow.

“Are you asleep yet?”

“Not yet,” she grumbled, scrunching her nose.

“I guess I have no choice, but to keep going.”

She hummed in approval, earning another quiet huff of laughter before he continued, beginning a new song she did not recognize.

She wouldn’t have said he was the very best, and although she didn’t recognize every song he chose, she could tell some of it was off-key, the notes too sharp or flat. But she didn’t care, finding comfort in the off-tune lilt of his voice. It was a melody just for her, carrying her like white-capped waves towards sleep.

Her fingers found their way to his shirt, twisting into the cream coloured fabric, snagging on the ties that held it closed. She could not move enough to tuck herself beneath his chin the way she liked best, but she could hold onto him like this at least. She could anchor herself, no longer lost to the pain of her wounds.

Astarion’s voice blurred, words melting into each other until she could not recognize a single one, her mind muddled as a turbid river. All her thoughts turned to nonsense, but for one, shining bright as a star, holding fast in the cloudiness of her mind.

That she would get better. That she had to get better. She couldn’t let him sing her lullabies for nothing. She had to make up for the worry she was causing him.

She might have said the thoughts aloud, she really wasn’t sure. Her body was growing fuzzy, the world around her melting in and out of focus.

What she was sure of was that Astarion paused for the briefest of moments, brought his lips to her brow. He murmured against her skin, that he was holding her to that promise. That he would need her to get better so she could help him come up with a name for her new heroic persona while on their languid holiday.

She wanted to promise that she would, if only because she loved him so much she couldn’t bear upsetting him. But Astarion started singing again, and his voice suddenly sounded very, very far away, like an echo behind glass.

And then she was gone, lost to sleep, one step closer to healing, just as she had promised.

#astarion bg3 #astarion ancunin #bg3 astarion #baldurs gate astarion #astarion baldurs gate #astarion baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #astarion x tav #astarion x oc #honey the sweeter the sun

[winterlynightlystories]

Welcome to Hawkins

Tw; swearing, mention of child abuse, mention of injuries.

To not steal my work, thank you!

Billy Hargrove/Male reader (he/him)

Summary; you find Billy on the side of the road, bloody and angry. The worse part? You are not alone in the dark.

~~~

Hawkins was a weird place. Even before the Byers boy went missing, the town faced strange things. Electrical anomalies, weird sightings in the forest and sometimes animals would meet a gruesome end. By now you were used to it.

Until the Hargrove came to town.

Hawkins was a small place where everybody knew everyone. There was no secret, not even inside your home. Even if you went in the middle of the wood, by morning the whole town would be aware of what you did. So it was no surprise they were met with mistrust.

Because it only took one look for everyone to agree; there was something wrong with them all. Especially with the father, you thought. With the way, he spoke to his son and how Billy would sometime flinch when his father moved his hands. It was obvious that something was going on.

And then they all met Billy Hargrove at school. Violent, racist, and always ready to fight. He tried so hard to be the king of the school, it was almost pathetic. But he was good to party with, you heard.

For your part, you disliked him. Billy and you would always fight; in the corridors, after school or even during sports class. Sometimes he would win, but most of the time? You would show no mercy and beat the shit out of him.

You weren't violent, some would even call you peaceful. But peaceful doesn't mean harmless and you refused to let Billy Hargrove do as he pleased.

You also pitied him.

No one was blind to the bruised he would try to play off as accidents or results of fights that never happened. Or how he would flinch, even so slightly when someone accidentally slammed a door or dropped something heavy. Or the fear his eyes would hold for a second when someone would throw a ball of paper and it would pass close to his head.

It broke your heart.

And there was nothing you could do.

That night as you drove, the forest on each side of the road, you kept thinking about the Hargrove boy. You wondered what kind of person he really was underneath all those masks he wore to protect himself.

Halfway through the forest, something caught your attention. At first, you thought it was a dead animal, maybe a deer. But then, it moved.

- “Shit!” you cursed, hitting the brake. “Hargrove? What the fuck are you doing here?” you asked, getting out of your car.

Because sitting on the side of the road was the one and only Billy Hargrove. Hair messy and bloody lips, Billy seemed to come out of a fight as the loser. But something was terribly wrong; his eyes were red and puffy and wet as if he has cried.

- “Fuck off man.” Billy snapped, looking away.

- “Seriously?” you sighed “C’mon city boy, I'm driving you home.” you added, eyes turning to the forest.

- “I said, fuck off! Or are you deaf?” replied Hargrove, making you grunt.

- “Oh, shut up. You think I'm leaving you here to be eaten by a bear?”

- “There aren't any bears in Hawkins.” objected Billy, scuffing.

- “Ah yes! I forgot it was my imaginary friend Steve who killed those animals!” you replied sarcastically. “Now you either get in the car by yourself like the good boy you are, or I'll get you in.”

- “Fuck. You.” slowly said Billy, smiling. “Anyway, why do you care so much? We are not friends or anything.”

- “Because there is no way I am leaving you here in the middle of the night!” you snapped, approaching him.

- “Wait, wait, wait! Don't tell me you are scared?” mocked Billy. “Seriously? Scared of the dark, Y/n?”

- “No, not the dark, but of what's hiding in it,” you said, seriously, stopping in front of Billy.

Billy was about to reply something when you heard the eeriest scream coming from the forest. You both froze, staring into the darkness. There was no sound, not even a cricket, or wind. It felt just wrong. Like a second before the disaster. And you felt watched like a prey being stalked.

- “Hargrove, get in the car.” you said, voice shaking as you saw a large shadow move between the tree. “NOW!”

You grabbed him by the collar and turned on your heels. Without another word, you two ran as another scream came from the forest, closer this time.

You barely closed the door before turning the engine on and driving away as fast as you could.

- “What the fuck was that?” asked Billy, looking behind. “That wasn't a bear!”

- “I don't know! I don't fucking know, man!” you replied, still freaking out. “It was too skinny to be a bear. Maybe a sick deer.”

- “Bitch, are you serious? Deer don't stand on their back legs!”

You didn't have the time to reply to anything, spotting the shadow on your left. In the dark, you could not really distinguish anything, but you could swear it was now running on four.

- “I don't want to sound dramatic, but I think it's following us.” you said.

- “How...”

Billy never finished his sentence. Instead, you both screamed when a tall shadow jumped in front of the car as you hit the brakes.

Standing on its back legs, the creature had smooth skin, almost like an eel” you thought. But darker. Like charcoal or shadows. And its head was like a flower.

You almost screamed again, feeling Billy gripping your arms and digging his nails into your skin.

- “What the fuck. Man, what the fuck is that?” he asked, his voice a mumbling mess.

- “Don't ask me! I don't know!” you whined, hands shaking on the wheel. “Man, I can't do a U-turn and there is no way I can drive in reverse in the dark.”

- “Then just run over it! Do something!”

And you did just that.

Pushing your car as fast as it could toward the creature. Maybe it knew what you were trying to do, or maybe it got scared, but seconds before the impact, the creature jumped out of your way. You sighed in relief but didn't slow down.

You heard Billy’s breath slow down before you felt his forehead on your shoulder. If he was crying, you saw nothing, because God be your witness, you were too. Not letting go of your arm, Billy actually tightened his grip.

- “Tell me it's gone. Please tell me it's gone.” he begged with a small voice.

- “Yeah, I don't see it anymore,” you replied.

- “I don't think I can go party anymore.”,” said Billy.

- “Yeah. Welcome to Hawkins.” you scoffed. “So, mind guiding me to your place?”

- “I'll rather not” he whispered.

- “Mind if I take you to mine then? I'll give you some of my shit and will take care of those bruised. I know where my parents hid their alcohol. God, I need a drink!”

- “As long as you share that drink, that sounds good to me. But I'm taking the bed!”

- “Fine princess!”

Billy said nothing and you relaxed. Heart still racing in your chest, you wondered of it was that thing who was responsible for the latest slaughter in the nearby farms. Or killed those missing outsiders. A part of you also knew you needed to call the sheriff, but the other knew it was useless. No one would believe you and you didn't want to put Billy in more danger.

So to your home, it was.

#male reader #x male reader #stranger things #billy hargrove #billy hargrove x male reader #fanfic

[anjuyn]

It just occurred to me how much you and I don't realize how damn dreary and lonely Sakuma Rei's childhood was.

I mean, we know that, but just THINK ABOUT IT FOR A SECOND.

You're lonely. You're just damn lonely. You don't go to school because your family doesn't keep in touch with the outside world and can't stand sunlight. And besides, you also can't stay in the sun long enough to make any close acquaintances. You don't have friends your age.

But you are not alone only in a society for which you are too "vampire". You are also lonely in your family, because you are not a "vampire" enough and can feel relatively good during the day. Therefore, during the daytime you are sitting in a house in which there is absolutely no one to talk to, because even your brother, the only person of your age, is now in a semi-conscious state and you are NOT ABLE TO HELP HIM IN ANY WAY. But your family is proud of this feature and it seems to you that you are the only one who cares about it.

However, at night, when your whole family and you are awake, you are still lonely, because you are just a child in a crowd of adults who does not understand the charms of all this "vampire aesthetics" and absolutely does not tolerate the taste of blood that his family drinks on holidays. But apart from your family, you have no one to talk to, because all the other people SLEEP AT NIGHT. Therefore, you are sitting at home again and you feel that your loneliness does not stop for a second.

This all sounds terrible already, but there is something else. YOU ARE SIMPLY AN UNIMAGINABLY COMPREHENSIVELY GIFTED PERSON. You are so smart that even the adults in your family do not treat you as a child or as an equal. For them, you are something like a guiding light. You are afraid of this responsibility because you are a small child in this nightmarishly huge world, so you try to meet the expectations placed on you by working, working and working on yourself, over and over again absorbing a lot of knowledge that scares you more and more and instill in your childish heart anxiety, and it even more instill in you you have faith in your own insignificance and incompetence.

Your life is an anxiety and fear that you are NOT ENOUGH.

And when you finally get out into the real world, you, still a child, are even more convinced of that. Even for other adults, you turn into a god, omniscient and omnipotent, solving all problems. There is a growing feeling in your heart that you are responsible for the happiness of everyone in this world just because you are talented, because you are "special". And the fear of the world, the fear of responsibility, is growing and growing. And you, despite the many people who crowd around you and expect you to be "special," you're still a DAMN LONELY KID who doesn't even have friends.

And you are alone, you have no one to tell about your experiences, because if everyone around you says that you are special and should help everyone around, then that means that it really is. You believe that because you're still just a kid.

And this responsibility for the future of the family, for the well-being of your brother, for the happiness of other people, for your future, for the future of others, for the future of everyone you meet, falls on your shoulders with a heavy, huge burden and you, a scared, anxious child, implicitly carry it on yourself, because EVERYONE IS SURE THAT THAT'S HOW IT SHOULD BE.

And you don't fit into the society of ordinary or unusual people, because you are "special" to everyone. For some you are a monster, for others you are a deity, for others you are an object for blind imitation and for no one you are not "Sakuma Rei". You're growing up, more and more people are crowding around you, they're from different schools, from different places, from different countries, but you're still lonely.

It's such a disgusting, dreary nightmare, just think about it.

#ensemble stars #enstars #rei sakuma #when it formed in my head i felt PAIN #he talked about how as a child he was afraid of the world and his insignificance #and I just think that in his life there was no one who would support him and refute his fears #Everyone just kept repeating how different he was from the others #and thus reinforced his anxiety

[ask-spooky-manor]

Common Fear Headcanons

What common fear/phobia each manor resident has and why

(Leaving it under a Read More cause it got long oops)

Trigger Warning: There are hints to child abuse in Sally’s and Tim’s parts so read with caution

Toby: The Dark

- Toby has a really bad anxiety disorder that only worsens if he’s left in the dark. Not being able to see anything leads to his mind coming up with more and more horrid scenarios that leave him at best: extremely on edge and at worst: having a full blown panic attack.

Tim: Spiders (and some bugs)

- Not every foster home was kind to Tim. A lot of then were outright cruel. One of them would lock Tim in a dark basement for hours on end where he constantly felt spiders crawl on his skin. Even when he was let out, he could still feel the phantom touch of the spiders. It lead to him developing a really bad case of arachnophobia as the sight of a spider takes him back to a time where he felt so hopeless.

Brian: Heights

- Brian is considered to be very fearless, but the idea of being somewhere high up will have him frozen in place. He fell once, technically died, and he fears of it happening again without being given a third chance at life.

Jeff: Heights

- This one is less personal and more having the general fear of falling to his death. He also deals with that phenomenon where once you’re high up, you have the urge to throw yourself off. It really unnerves him.

Ben: The Ocean

- …okay well sometimes the obvious choice is the best one! Drowning is said to be one of the worst and most painful ways to die. With Ben having been killed that way, they’re not exactly ready to jump into a pool anytime soon. Ghosts are mostly numbed to a lot of sensations but even then, Ben never wants to experience drowning ever again.

EJ: Forests

- The fear is completely ironic, but Jack has lived alone in the woods, freshly blind, for enough years to realize that a lot of freaky shit happens there. From ghosts haunting an area to creatures lurking behind the trees to even inhuman acts happening where no one in society can judge. It spooked Jack to the point where he dislikes having to go into the woods to hunt. Again, it’s ironic when he himself is a man eating demon, but you gotta remember that he still has his humanity unlike most forest creatures (and serial killers).

Natalie: Tight Spaces

- She has a classic case of claustrophobia. Generally speaking the feeling of being trapped makes her slowly lose her shit the longer she’s stuck there. It’s even worse if she can’t move her body. It subconsciously reminds her of the time she was made to stay in a poorly funded mental hospital against her will.

Jane: Mirrors

- It’s also an ironic kind of fear. On one hand, Jane very much adores looking at herself in the mirror. She’s gorgeous, she knows she’s gorgeous, she likes being able to see how gorgeous she is. On the other hand if she stares at it for too long, she starts to dissociate, see shadows lurk behind her, swear the person looking back isn’t her. She hates walking by them more than anything, fearing she’ll catch a monster following her if she glances over to the mirror.

Nina: Being Alone

- She is the kind of person who needs to be with someone else at all times. Being left alone will lead to her thoughts racing faster than it should. Her paranoia worsens, and she starts to feel like she’s losing her mind. The anxious thoughts and scenarios she has scares her to no end.

Sally: People

- After what happened to her, Sally unfortunately is someone who was forced to realize that there are terrible people out there. People who want to hurt others for no good reason. She may seem fine living in a manor with a bunch of people now, but truth is that it took a loooong time for her to get used to it. Each time a new person is brought in, Sally needs to take a good while to see whether or not they’d ever hurt her. Luckily no one in the manor ever would, and if they did they’d be swiftly dealt with.

Slender: The Outside

- Slender is borderline agoraphobic. He can’t really leave the dimension he created because if he did, his Curse of Misfortune would take affect. Anyone he’s near is doomed to face great misfortune to a life ruining degree. For this reason, Slender has grown a fear of leaving the manor knowing simply being out there will lead to people getting hurt. It makes him nauseous to step out there even if the portal to the real world opens up in some secluded place.

#headcanons #creepypasta headcanons #creepypasta #creepypasta fandom #ticci toby #toby rogers #marble hornets #masky #tim wright #hoodie #brian thomas #jeff the killer #ben drowned #eyeless jack #natalie ouellette #clockwork #jane the killer #jane richardson #jane everlasting #nina the killer #sally williams #slenderman

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER TEN: RABBIT

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, implied child abuse, self harm, fatphobia, body dysmorphia

This is chronologically the tenth chapter in the series.

Read beneath the cut...

Napalm is the slow fire of waking from a terrible dream, blind, gasping, burnt. The pain, though delusive, is made actual by the action of nerves.

Only a hand at your shoulder, vigorous in its attentions, hauls you up from the putrescence of slumber into the light-dark of four in the morning. You find Hannibal's shape through lashes gummed with sleep's adhesive.

His face is as impassive as a star, but his hair, ever coiffed, is displaced from the friction of his pillow.

“You were screaming,” he says, as you sit, stunned, in his arms. “What were you dreaming about? Do you remember?”

“No,” you say, although the scenes remain briefly in your vision, doubling like silk screen prints upon the walls.

Hannibal fills up a glass with fresh water and bids you to drink, his eyes pensive, unconvinced.

Only the notion that he may suggest you share his bed or else intrude upon yours impels you to honesty.

“I dreamt that I was trapped in one of the Silicone Lover’s dolls. That he was trying to squeeze me inside, and I wouldn’t fit. He said, ‘You’ve gotten so big since I last saw you. I’d better do something about that.’

“Then he started cutting me up with kitchen scissors, and I couldn’t stop him.”

You pause, choking on a breath, a verbal stagger.

Dr Lecter offers you the water again, which you take in both hands and drain to its end.

“Take your time,” says Hannibal. “When you’re ready, go on.”

Lying will fail you before the all-seeing eye, so it is with a flat honesty that you say, “It wasn’t what the Lover did in my dream that scared me. It was what he said to me. Because he was right.”

You reach down to pull the quilt up across your stomach, which Hannibal, with a subtle gesture, prevents.

“To agree with such a statement there must be some basis of comparison for you,” he says. “You knew the person standing in as the Lover in your dream. Can you name him?”

Hannibal could guess it, from the little you’ve told him of your unclean past, but if memory conjures the name from the gully of silence he does not say so.

Instead, he comments, “I think it’s unwise for you to sleep again until your mind is settled. Perhaps we may take advantage of the hour to continue your therapy, in an informal fashion.”

He sits in a chair by your bed, producing a notepad and pen from a pocket of his dressing gown.

You see that he will not move.

"What if I don’t talk?” you ask, softly. “What if I say I'd rather take the punishment?"

Hannibal's slender lips upturn.

"I wouldn't be inclined to take such a claim seriously.”

In sullen defeat you flounce back against the pillows.

Dr Lecter takes his cue.

“I’m curious about the friendships you’ve formed throughout your life. Have there been any notable examples?”

“Not many,” you answer, looking at the raw edges of your fingernails. “I was kind of the weird kid. It was like looking through a dusty museum window at everybody passing by, not really knowing how to get out there and talk to people. Like I was too old and too young at the same time.

“I got bullied, kind of. Nothing worth talking about. Just dumb kid stuff.”

“Even persecution of a childish nature bears painful resonance in later life,” Hannibal comments. “Moreover, isolation from one's peers may disrupt development in those vital years.”

You think of dolorous hours patrolling a fallow playground alone, three hundred children staring through you with adult hostility.

“I did make one friend,” you say. “First year of high school. Amy Glass. She was a weird kid, too.”

Hannibal scratches deftly on his notepad.

"Describe how you met."

Closing your eyes, you find your way back through the forests of the past to a corridor whose tiled floor squeaks under your shoes. You smell textbook paper and saccharine body spray. The sweat of young bodies, and the stale cafeteria fare you’d never tasted throughout your time there.

“Between classes Amy would sit in a window listening to music, or reading,” you say. “Stephen King, usually. Sometimes Ann Rice. She seemed to be up there all the time. I don’t think she was getting shit from the other kids or anything; she just preferred hanging out on her own.

“I wished I was like that, not caring. I wished I was her, period.”

“In what way?” asks Dr Lecter, and in the hallway of your mind a slender figure appears, brown of skin and eyes, blue hair cut roughly to the chin, its roots seeping in atop it like a stain.

Amy.

“A lot of ways,” you say. “Before I really knew her, it was about how she looked. She had piercings— ears, lip, nose, eyebrow. Teachers would tell her to take them out, then the second she was out of their eye-line she’d put them right back in. And even back then she had these awful stick and poke tattoos of bats and crosses she covered up with band aids for classes.

“She did all of them herself with a safety pin. God knows how she didn’t get an infection or anything.

“Then there was the fact I knew we liked some of the same music because of the patches on her bag, and her t-shirts and stuff. Nothing you’d approve of,” you add, as interest touches the face of your listener. “Jesus, I can’t even imagine playing stuff like that in this house. Anyway, I didn’t want to just be like, ‘hey, you like that band, too’. It would have been too weird. Stalkery, maybe?”

“Music isn’t such a terrible way to form a connection,” says Hannibal, amused. “I was once approached in friendship through a shared taste in cheese.”

Picturing his restrained derision you cannot help but laugh.

“Oh, god,” you say. “What were they thinking?”

“It was a naive assumption of commonalities. Besides, my commitment to professionalism would never have allowed us to be as close as he would have hoped.”

You give a little start of affront.

“You’ve made friends with other clients.”

Dr Lecter’s smile remains.

“Only with those whom I feel my presence benefits.”

“Benefits you, you mean,” you say, pettishly. “Whoever it was, you just didn’t like him that much. That’s why you turned him down. Or maybe he was too like you.”

Without appearing offended, Hannibal turns a page in his notebook.

“I'm unconcerned with debating my personal relationships, little one. Let’s return to Amy. Who initiated the friendship between you?”

“Amy,” you say. “It was after this councillor was trying to get something out of me, and I didn’t want to talk. I walked out that room feeling so... heavy, and grimy, and embarrassed. Then there was Amy, heading to the same office I just walked out of. She looked at me, scrunched her face up, and said, ‘Wish me luck.’ Next time I saw her I made the same face back and asked, ‘how was it?’

“‘The worst, just like always,’ she said. ‘Where’d she get her certificate, anyway? Clown school?’

“I burst out laughing. ‘She’s so bad, right?’

“And that was it. Friends. We went everywhere together. Amy really liked me. I don’t know why. I think maybe she thought I was sort of mysterious and interesting rather than just depressed, probably because I didn’t want to talk about what was going on with me.

“She told me everything about her. How her dad didn’t believe in mental health issues even though he was just like she was, and how her mom just ignored everything, hoping it’d just... go away. But I didn’t tell Amy even one little thing about me, really. Not one.”

Guilt you’ve never truly confronted falls like a petal from a late summer bloom, cloying the dark with its flavour.

“Did Amy ever indicate that she’d recognised your particular illness?” prompts Hannibal, and you shrug glumly.

“A couple of times. I ignored every hint. Changed the subject. Acted like it wasn’t a thing when it obviously was. I knew that she knew. That was the dynamic. She was softer, around me. She got it. She got me.”

Suddenly your breath feels very high in your chest, catching on a rib.

“I can’t help but notice your use of the past tense,” says Dr Lecter. “Might I assume that you are no longer friends?”

“We grew apart after school,” you mutter. “I think she would have liked it if I stayed in touch, but then sometimes I wonder if that’s just wishful thinking, and maybe she didn’t care all that much when we drifted apart and stopping talking.

“I have her on Facebook. That’s all, really. She was never a social media person anyway, but still. I could have tried harder. I don’t know why I didn’t.”

Hannibal allows the silence between you to ferment before he speaks again.

“Looking back, what do you think prevented you from maintaining contact?”

“I felt like after school was over she’d find other friends, and I’d just end up being left behind. So I got out of there before I had to see it happen.”

"You abandoned a friendship on the basis of a prophecy that might never have come to fruition."

"It would have,” you insist. “All my life I've had senses about things. Like, if I get a feeling something will or won't happen, I'm always right. Like I was right about you."

Swanlike, Dr Lecter’s hands move across his notebook, tactfully punctuating a note.

"It's common for sufferers of complex post-traumatic stress disorder to misinterpret their hypervigilance as psychic premonition. A heightened awareness of your surroundings and the behaviours of people in your vicinity develops in order to predict danger before it occurs. Pattern recognition is more mathematical than clairvoyant."

"What about my dreams?" you ask, sharply. “Are they math, too?”

"You've had other nightmares?” asks Hannibal, and leans forward, poised to digest you answer.

Canny, you hoard the matter like a serpent its glittering lair.

Hannibal accepts his defeat with grace.

Gathering up his notebook and the empty glass, he says, "That's enough therapy for now, particularly so early in the morning. I'll make you some tea, and you may return to sleep. Peacefully, this time, I hope."

*

Later, there is a meal that sits, sinking in a bath of bronze on Dr Lecter’s dining table, so much of it that you’re gorged merely from the arithmetic of its makeup.

“Arroz de Cabidela,” says Hannibal, as he pulls out his own chair. “A Portuguese dish made with rice, chicken, or rabbit cooked in its own blood. Today I’ve chosen rabbit. Have you ever eaten it before?”

It occurs to you that he expects you to be disturbed by the notion, but you are not. Meat is meat, all of it equally cruel. That life must end for the furthering of your existence has driven you to veganism many a time.

Little chance of sustaining such a diet now that you sleep in the devil’s slaughterhouse.

“No,” you say. “I’ve never tried rabbit. I heard it’s really... gamey.”

Your palate is scarcely educated enough to comprehend the statement. Still, it is apparently accurate, for Hannibal makes a low hum of agreement.

“It has similarities to poultry, in flavour, though it’s rather lean and dry. The blood stew adds a richness you’ll find complimentary, however.”

The scent is certainly inviting, but you are so committed to rejecting whatever is served to you that you feel lightheaded, succumbing to the altitude of starving heights.

“Couldn’t you have given me a smaller portion?” you ask, piteously. “I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s so... much.”

Hannibal glances from your plate to his own, his visage neutral.

“I’ve served you a great deal less than I’ve given myself,” he says. “That said, I’m sure we can settle our differences. I’m not unyielding, if I can see some effort is being made.”

You look him in the eye, hoping you appear more bold than frightened.

“Dr Lecter, you make me all these courses, and they’re crazy even for a normal person. I feel like you do it on purpose. And afterwards my stomach hurts.”

“That’s normal, after a period of fasting. Your body will adjust. Now, please eat.”

You don’t. The cut on your plate makes you think of the Lover’s dolls, how even at your slightest you wouldn’t have fit into such a shell. How, changed as you must be through Hannibal’s cooking, you would ooze over every edge.

“I could use the feeding tube, if you’re unwilling,” says Dr Lecter, rising from his chair to stand at your back. “It would be relatively easy for me to administer. But I’d hate to sour an otherwise pleasant meal with brute force.”

He cups your throat in his smooth hand, and you envision how lovingly he’d coil about you in restraint, guiding the pipe down through you as you choked and flinched in his grasp.

“I’ll eat a quarter,” you say. “That’s it. Then... then nothing else until tomorrow. I won’t sneak out of bed, and I won’t do anything that breaks the rules. Please, Dr Lecter. Uh... Daddy?”

Your confusion between roles endears you to him, as does your breathless, eager willingness to beg.

“Should I allow you to barter?” Hannibal muses, still caressing the wand of your stiff neck. “It’s a symptom of your illness, after all.”

“Just let me choose how much and I’ll try anything you offer me.”

Dr Lecter releases a small breath of laughter.

“I wouldn’t like you to eat your words, little one.”

Gnashing your teeth, you say, “I won’t. I can do it. Please let me. You’re supposed to dote on me, aren’t you?”

You feel Hannibal’s lips against your hair in a kiss of paternal indulgence.

“Always so spirited,” he says. “Very well. I cannot deny my little beauty her request.”

What beauty does he refer to? You’ve only recognised it in the mine shafts of furthest hunger, mistaking a shadow for some precious stone.

Yet clearly you are not so low quality as you believe if both men have fucked you so freely over other women, whom they could conceivably draw into the net of the house.

Then again, there is no accounting for the tastes of madmen, and mad they both are, even Hannibal in his gelid divinity.

From the topiary of his language and flippant games you are beginning to see that you interest him in your very opposition to his being. Were you to succumb completely you would not be so worthy: all men bow to Hannibal, after all, seduced and deceived until they’d lick his fingers like lambs for the milk of his approval.

You, like Will, resist and evade enough of his passes to set yourself apart from the flock.

You may yet throw a halter over the head of the horned man, if only in as much as he allows himself to be reigned.

Quartering your meal as neatly as you're able, you glance up at Dr Lecter, afraid that, by some caprice, he’ll break his code and force you to eat down to the bare plate. But he merely stands by, retaining his honour, and as you look at him you picture his mild hands breaking the neck of the rabbit to drain as though for a ritual of blood.

*

Frequently through your days with Hannibal he immerses himself in hobbies and work about the house, cultivating a necessary solitude after the long hours of ingesting others’ anxious thoughts.

He reads, or writes music, sketches, telephones his friends and past lovers—of whom there are many—or else sets his pen to journals, having seen you safe to your locked room, where he need not prepare for misdemeanour.

In this way your residence in Hannibal’s home does not impede upon his individual pursuits, but rather compliments them, an accent of his sempiturnal glamour.

You are, after all, but one of his many pastimes. It is indulgence, then, when he insists on attending your evening bath.

As he kneels beside the tub to dampen a washcloth his intentions surface, another infringement upon the flesh.

“I don’t need you to help me,” you mumble, arms taut across your chest. “I’m not your baby.”

“Your inner child wails for the tenderness your illness has long obstructed,” says Hannibal, calmly. “Your independence would have you die like an infant abandoned to the forest. Let me carry you, at least in this small act of service.”

You look at him with eyes as dull as old blades and picture the futility of your struggle, his lithe arms holding you, kicking and airless, beneath the foam.

“Don’t you have your own daughter you can do all this with?” you ask; you’ve not yet needled him on his familial relations, and feel yourself more than entitled to know.

Hannibal begins to work the flannel over your naked form, paying no heed to your twitching affront.

“Abigail would have served the role admirably,” he says. “But it wasn’t to be. As for my own children, I have none.”

The revelation passes you without surprise. It’s only possible to imagine him having elegant, adult offspring, absent of the soiling indignities of rearing an infant.

“So you took me away for you and Will to raise,” you say. “Guessing he doesn’t have kids, either.”

The washcloth folds beneath the water, and you gaze studiously at the opposite wall so as not to think about the hand behind the fabric, how it has touched you in other ways, pleasantly, horridly.

“Will is also childless,” says Dr Lecter. “He has never known family, as you have. His mother left him when he was only an infant, and his father was a distant figure, though present. Now it seems that they’re estranged from one another. One can only imagine the loneliness Will has known in his life. Perhaps, with your assistance, this will change.”

Cloth, skin, hands, touch. Gentle and beguiling their trap, to distract from the permanence of this suggested triptych as fingers play against you underwater.

Unsteadily, you ask, “Is Will your boyfriend?”

Hannibal turns you an indecipherable look.

“Do you perceive our relationship to be romantic?”

A strange question, considering the violation with which you were inducted to their company. But not once did either man kiss or grasp the other— a technicality, certainly, yet one, it seems, that holds weight.

“Yes,” you say. “For you, anyway. I don’t know about Will. I know he thinks highly of you. He just sees me as something that’s in the way.”

You kick a foot testily, splashing water over the rim of the bath.

“What are you in the way of?” asks Hannibal, as he begins to lather your hair.

“Not sure. Your friendship, I guess.”

“Do you believe him when he implies that you're only an obstacle to him?”

Water pours over your head, and you close your eyes, enduring the sensation.

“He told me I’m unwanted,” you say.

“When you attempted to kill him?”

Fear bowls over you with a black suddenness.

“He told you?”

“I came to my own conclusions. You weren't quiet, either of you, that night."

You look at Hannibal, at the stag man of your dreams, and taste something like dirt, something like blood, at the back of your mouth.

“Had you seriously injured him or succeeded in your bid to end his life I would have been forced to conclude our treatment,” he says. “But you did not. I’m thankful to have been provided with a truth I hadn’t yet drawn from you: I know that you are not a killer, at least not at this present moment.”

In a strengthless whisper, you ask, “What do you mean?”

Hannibal draws a comb through your hair, unmoved by the conversation.

“As time changes the continents, people come apart through circumstance into new being. That shift may one day lead to the birth of murder’s country.”

A thought stings you like the cold: Will and Hannibal want you to be capable of killing, if not of them, then someone of lesser consequence, the hereditary illness emerging in the child.

That is the secret under this house, the whisper in the walls, its present haunting.

“I hope that never happens,” you mumble. “Never. No matter what you do.

“And yet the whetting of your blood thirst didn’t begin with Will and I,” says Dr Lecter, mildly. “Until you admit your liking of its flavour you will remain unsatisfied, little one.”

You do not ask how he knows you’ve thought of killing, once before, which you yourself had forgotten; having been in your home, the chill sanctum of your childhood bedroom, he may have learned, of you, a myriad, his interrogation merely a practice in contextualising his findings.

“I’d rather starve,” you say, at last, and sink your chin beneath the water.

Dr Lecter takes a razor from a nearby cabinet and begins to shave you with slow precision. He does not ask if you wish for it, only glides the razor across your underarms, groin, and each leg until you run silken beneath his hands.

That done, Hannibal rises, brushing unseen dust from his knees.

“I’ll bring you some fresh clothes,” he says, and leaves the room, a ghost departing the stage.

You look at the razor, entrapped in its plastic guard on the rim of the bath.

Had you a pair of scissors you might have cut the metal free to make a weapon, or else an escape into realms unknown to the living. Though its edge is still wickedness manifest, it would take a great deal of pressure to pursue death by this angle, though it would not be impossible.

It is not death you want to meet, however, but another, nameless coward.

You take the blade to your arm, and the pain is like eating, a sin that sates the freak of misery.

The bathwater turns like a devil’s baptism, and though they are but shallow cuts you feel suddenly faint. Lying back, you lay your arm against the porcelain, thinking murky thoughts of your mistake.

Hannibal returns carrying a muted lilac dress and pale stockings, stilling at the sight of you, of the water, red as autumn mud.

He sets down the clothing and kneels beside you again.

“Let me see.”

You let him take your arm and touch the crude little gashes softly.

“Shower, quickly. Then I’ll treat your wounds. Fortunately, they aren’t so deep.”

How gentle he is with you, this beast dressed as a man in his pressed shirt and waistcoat, guiding your numb form about with a soothing authority. You’d once yearned to be handled like this, to be absolved and set free of any and all expectation. That it comes from him is like being spit in the eye by the Fates, one after the other.

Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos: what have you done to so offend them?

It’s only after having bandaged your forearm and settled you, dummy-like, upon his bed, that Hannibal speaks again.

“What motivated you to do this?”

“You know.”

“Elaborate.”

You lie, face down, in the pillows. The cotton smells like him.

“To feel better,” you say. “Amy said it helped her, sometimes. Cleared her head.”

The mattress tilts slightly as Dr Lecter sits down beside you.

“You mirror her pain to feel closer to love lost. Has it helped you?”

“No. I feel stupid. I feel—”

Restless, you turn onto your side and feel a tear, compelled by gravity, mark your jaw.

“I feel like a kid,” you say. “It’s humiliating. I hate that I always feel this way. Don’t make me live like this.”

Dr Lecter presses a tissue into your hand, as much to save his bedclothes as to comfort you.

“Fighting the expression of necessary emotions will only stunt them further, little one. Will and I would dearly like to see you flourish. Amy would surely wish that for you, too.”

Cradling your wounded arm to your chest, you flick the used tissue to the floor with the other.

“Screw you,” you say. “Both of you. That’s what Amy would tell me to say to you, Dad.”

Hannibal stares at the tissue, and you sense the inward twitch of his irritation as he bends to pick it up from the ground.

“Your parents called again, this afternoon,” he says, offhandedly. “I informed them that you were struggling with your treatment. I advised that we continue your residence here a month longer than previously agreed.”

He casts you a pitying look, and you’re reminded of the futility of going to war with Hannibal Lecter.

“It seems that I made the prudent choice,” he says. “Don’t you agree?”

#hannibal lecter #hannibal lecter x reader #hannibal fic #yandere hannibal lecter #manna fic #tw eating disorders #tw fatphobia #tw self harm #dead dove do not eat #darkfic #hannibal darkfic

[silvery-orchid]

oh my lord, the reader secretly slipping concoctions and whatnot to prevent their pregnancy with neuvillette… your brain is massive. imagine one of his guards, maybe even Clorinde intercepting your letters with the pharmacist you’ve come to rely on so much with your precious bottle of medicine.

He doesn’t reveal it right away that he knows. Suddenly your much previously prioritized etiquette lessons are being dropped so you can watch your husband judging at trials for hours and hours. No, you absolutely cannot skip out on attending this ball with him and there’s now a issue with your old separate bedroom? Everything becomes suffocating. The servants scurry away from you like a scared flock of hens whenever you try to talk to them. You can’t leave his property without express permission and a dozen guards following you. Under the constant fatigue of the dim lights of the courtroom and endless blind eyes to your pleas for interaction, you find only one person to aid you; neuvillette. he fuels your reliance on him creating a twisted dynamic. you’re so grateful for someone to talk, someone to finally hold that you barely notice the child on its way.

Also FORCED INTIMACY. Making you sit on his lap while does paperwork, always having a hand around your waist at social functions, cradling your belly when you’re showing.

He’s just so UGH

This is us eating that man up. Tw: pregnancy

That was also me reading this entire ask because it is SO delicious yummy yum. Im talking cotton candy levels of sweetness with ideas.

Clorinde either intercepting them or ending up at the same farmacy as the darling where darling freaks out and gives it away unknowingly too would be so fun.

He would absolutely make your circle so small that you are forced to only reach out to him. How terrible it is that your anxiety attacks are caused by the only other person willing to soothe you after them.

But imagine this. He finds out and doesn't let you know. Instead, he bribes the pharmacist to continue giving you the blends and the pills but theyre just vitamins and blends to help you get knocked up instead,,,,poor darling takes them regularly too. Only when their period doesn't come for a while does Neuvillette make a side remark about the pharmacist working for his sake now....,,,poor poor darling id hate to be them in that moment 😥😥.

I hope we get a special seal or crest only he can use in Fontaine cus that makes branding with him open up to new levels.

#asks. #neuvillette #Yandere genshin #yandere neuvillette #genshin neuvillette #He sOOOoo hot #Him and pierro fr fr acting up #Capitano too #Need them all to tilt my head up heheheh #AND DOTTORE.... #Basically if hes blue i want his goo #Im so sorry for saying yhat I AM SORRY

[anjanahalo]

And Now, A Ghost Story 1

He hurt. He was scared, he was lost, he felt guilty, and he hurt. He’d flown east according to the stars, and he didn’t stop until his entire body forced him down into an alleyway in a city near the sea. He’d have crossed it if he had the strength. What better way to get even further from his problems? However, even as he landed, he could feel himself fighting the transformation, fighting his body wanting to shift from half dead to half alive. He landed. The alley lit with blinding white for a moment. He collapsed to his hands and knees. The night was cold. He only wore what he had when he’d been captured. When the net tightened around him. When he begged for his parents to save him from the GIW. When… He curled up instead of thinking about it. He was away from Amity Park. He was away from his friends and sister. They were safe. They would always be safer away from him. The ghost boy, the creepy child. Half dead, unnatural, monster, the words echoed in his head. He sniffled and curled tighter. He felt the burns and bruises, and he told himself he should care about his injuries. He couldn’t, though. Not when he thought of Sam and Tucker and Jazz, all injured and hurt just to help him. Just to help a creature that shouldn’t even exist. He shuffled to hide between a wall and a pile of trash bags. They smelt terrible. Danny felt himself not caring still. He stayed curled, shutting his eyes tight, and tried to find a way to sleep. He didn’t know what to do. He was only eight. He thought telling the truth would fix everything, and he was wrong. He thought doing the right thing would protect everyone. He was wrong. Now he just wanted to sleep. He didn’t want to think about what happened. He didn’t want to remember why he laid here in an alley in a strange, dark city. He wanted nothing more than to not exist. Maybe, perhaps, to never be born. A creepy little boy with creepy little powers. No one like that deserves help. Next

#ghost story au #danny phantom #beta intro #dp x dc #look I am bad at titles #and I thought I'd try out this starter for the story to see how it went. Danny gets rescued soon. #writing #here i go writing again

[slavicviking]

STWG prompt: Buzz cut/shaved head

Summary: an AU where Eddie Munson is the one to find Eleven in the woods in 1983

wc: 830

Eddie feels his hands sweat.

“You can, uh, make yourself at home,” he says, gesturing to his cluttered mess of a room. “Mi casa es su casa and all that.”

The girl blinks, not a whiff of understanding crossing her face. She looks be around ten years old but he’s never been good with ages, especially for kids. She’s young and terrified, that much he is sure of.

“Do you want something to drink? Water?”

She nods and immediately curls onto herself. Eddie isn’t sure leaving her all alone in his room is a good idea but he doesn’t think there’s a set of rules to follow here. It’s not every day that he finds a scared child out in the woods, dressed only in a hospital gown, not even any shoes on. All he knows is that the look the kid wears on her face, the one she so desperately trying to mask, he recognizes all too well, has seen it in the mirror when Wayne first took him in five years ago.

He goes into the kitchen, eyes flickering to his bedroom all the time. It has never taken so long to fill a glass full of water but here he is, by the sink, counting away every second. His eyes linger on the phone. He should call the police, he knows that, but he doesn’t even know what to say.

She’s stood up from the bed by the time he returns, maybe finally taking his words to heart. That’s until the floor squeaks and her shoulders tense, and there’s a glare thrown his way yet again.

“Sorry. Just – here,” he offers her the glass and she takes it after a second, a huge goblet in a tiny hand looking terribly out of place. The kid turns back towards whatever peaked her interest while he was away. Eddie peers from behind her, not daring to come closer and spooking her further.

She’s looking at a photo. It’s an old one, taken right after he moved into the trailer. Wayne still had a full head of hair, not that it mattered because there’s a baseball cap hiding it all away. He has his arm swung loosely over Eddie’s tiny frame. But it’s not this that grabs the girl’s attention, Eddie thinks.

“My father shaved it,” he supplies with a waver to his voice that always comes whenever the man is involved. Young pimpled Eddie with a buzz cut peers back at him from the photo and both him and the kid can’t look away.

“Papa,” the girl finally says, barely anything louder than a whisper. It’s the first time she spoke as far as he knows.

“Did your father do this to you, too?” Eddie asks, trying to keep his voice as even and gentle as possible even though there’s a storm raging inside him.

“Bad men,” she informs him, not quite what he expected, but he’s finally getting somewhere, he thinks. She taps Wayne on the picture. “Bad men.”

“Oh!” Eddie swallows. “No, no, no. Wayne’s my uncle. He’s a good person. Kind.”

The girl looks confused, as if unfamiliar with the word. Maybe she is. Jesus Christ.

“He can help you. We can help you,” he insists, checking his tone immediately because the last thing he wants is to spook her when she’s finally opening up. “What’s your name?”

Eddie didn’t anticipate that a question this simple would be so problematic, but the girl clamps up, looks anywhere but at him. Her grip on the glass tightens and it’s only now that he notices a tattoo on her thin wrist. The number 011.

The sound of tires against gravel makes them both jump.

“Bad men,” the girl says again, eyes wide with fear.

“No, no. I’m sure it’s just a neighbor. Let me-“ and he sprints to the front of the trailer. Wayne’s not bound to be home until morning but it’s not unusual for a car to drive up at this time of night. Carl Sampson often comes back from his drunken adventures right around now.

But as Eddie peers from between blinds, he doesn’t recognize the car at all. It’s too expensive, too clean to be owned by someone living in the trailer park. The people that come out don’t seem familiar either. His heart stutters when he sees guns glint in the moonlight.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Shit, shit, shit.”

He thinks about the girl in his room. A part of him, a cowardly part of him, thinks about turning her in, his survival instinct kicking in, but he catches himself – what is he even thinking? This is a child. He runs back into the bedroom. The child is looking at him, looking as lost as he feels. He shudders a breath. “Bad men.”

She nods, as simple as that. Eddie’s eyes roam around the room in rushed panic.

They just about hid her in the wardrobe when Eddie hears a knock on the door.

#eddie munson #eleven hopper #stranger things #st #my writing #stwg

[blu-oo]

Ok so I’m a complete sucker for buggy-shanks-roger pirates angsty time travel plots but I’ve noticed that it’s pretty much only ever Buggy (as far as I can recall) being the main POV/one to time travel. While i have absolutely no complaints about this (lol) i do wish we could see more with Shanks behind the wheel, especially since he’s still so mysterious he’s essentially a blank slate.

And im just imagining like:

shanks immediately just gunning to go. He WILL find a way to save his captain, he WILL make it so rouge and/or ace are safe, he WILL keep his relationships with everyone he lost touch with after his captain died, he WILL find a way to make Buggy not hate him anymore.

Except, shanks isn’t a naive little kid anymore. His captain is amazing, he loves him, but it isn’t until he’s back in time that he realizes this man he idolized was terribly flawed. He didn��t always think before he acted, he didn’t always do what was best for the safety of his crew. He didn’t always put his pride aside for the betterment of those who cared for him or the situation at hand. He didn’t listen when buggy was scared, ignored or even laughed at him, at his fear. Why would he do that? He knows roger wouldn’t let anything happen to them, but still, how had he never noticed that before-

He wasn’t too overly familiar with Rouge and her crew but they met up enough that shank’s starts to keep an eye on her and his captain, waiting for any hints of whats to come. He still has plenty of time before anything happens but he’s anxious, doesn’t know if he’ll be able to help them in time. So he decides to try putting ideas in their heads. A little “hey captain, if you ever have a kid one day I can’t wait to play with them and teach them how to sword fight!” here, and and little “our nakama is family! We can always count on one another when something super life changing happens!” there. But when he starts trying to drop hints, no one listens to him. He’s just a kid and no one is listening to him, why won’t they listen-

With his future knowledge, his already rapidly successful sword and haki training grows tenfold (despite having to reacclimate to having both his arms again and woah that’s trippy). And this is good! This means he’ll be even more ready to defend his nakama and their futures as certain events unfold. And everyone is excited for him, throwing prideful smiles his way, and he’s never felt so close, so connected and on equal footing (or as equal as a child could be) to the rest of the roger pirates. Except…

Except the already existing gap between him and buggy seems to become an ever growing cavern. Shanks has never been starved of praise and attention in this or his past lifetime, but now that he’s wise enough to not only look ahead but back, he sees his best friend standing farther and farther away from him. And now that he’s older, now that he’s reliving everything through a new lense, he realizes just how…lonely his best friend was underneath the brazen and cocky bravado. How for every praise he received, buggy got only mockery and impatient sighs. For every successful fight shanks took part in, buggy was told to keep back as to not get in anyone’s way. For every blinding smile he received from his captain, buggy got- and oh. Oh.

Beyond a certain age, Shanks never begrudged buggy’s lack of fighting spirit. He understood now that it wasn’t for everyone, and that buggy especially made do with clever tricks and conspiratorial luck. Shanks was shanks, and buggy was buggy and that was good enough for him. Too bad he seemed to be the only one who thought that. And finally, finally, things have started to make sense. He sees all of his interactions with buggy and the others, from both this new reality and from before, interactions long past and those still to come, and finally starts to understand. Shanks is a grown man parading around as a child, but buggy? Buggy’s just a little boy. Just like shanks used to be.

And if through his righteous indignation on buggys behalf, shanks starts to really perceive his own treatment by his former nakama? Starts to truly feel the weight of their expectations on his shoulders that has ALWAYS been there and is finally able to identify it? Well. No one said fixing the absolute clusterfuck that was the fall of the roger pirates would be easy.

#fair warning i blab a LOT without really saying much lol #one piece #op #shanks #red haired shanks #buggy #buggy the clown #roger pirates #gol d roger #angsty time travel my beloved

[dcandyland]

(Sorry for how sappy this is about to get I am just having so Many Thoughts over your Middle Aged Man)

*comes and settles by Eclipse's side*

Eclipse... why do you hunt down your own creations to kill? Why would you consider consuming your own sons? Your own lights? Are you trying to truly create darkness, by snuffing them out? Did you make them as your opposites, the light against the darkness? The celestial bodies that can combine for a blinding light?

Or are you trying to be forgotten? Are you actually just wanting to isolate yourself? You live in a cave, you hide from the world, you seek that everyone you knew and loved is no longer alive. Is that how you want to die? To just disappear instead? Are you trying to make it so your sons don't have to witness your death, go through the same thing you did? Or are you trying to just escape, far away where you can no longer be reached, in a world so distant it can't be seen? To hide, or to restart?

You may be called Eclipse, Finsternis, "Darkness", "Failure", "Extinction", "The End", but are you not also "Loss"? And "Veil"?

I suppose that can be understandable. You probably think that'd be the best outcome, right? To just fade out? Flare out, even? Like a meteor does on impact?

You know, in our world, a meteor surely did cause the end of almost all life, at least once. It was followed by a great darkness that drowned and choked almost everything. But from that darkness, from the literal ashes, came light, and life, again.

Many, many things changed. Meteors are great stones of brilliant fire, bringing terrible destruction and shockwaves of change, and also... a lot of The End.

Have you considered that your father made you the way you are, in similar fashion? You were made to be what comes after a meteor impact? You have brought the light, now you're trying to bring the life. Pret-ty coincidental, I think.

And those lives... You've committed many sins, you say it's for the better of Candyland... Are you simply shouldering those sins yourself on purpose? Instead of sacrificing people, you're actually sacrificing yourself? A martyr, in a sense, becoming a demon on purpose, because it doesn't matter what happens to you, but rather... what happens to Candyland - and more importantly, your sons? So you're willing to become that demon if it means a better, fuller life for your sons?

You made them to love each other. Not so much to love yourself. It may hurt and anger you that they seem to hate you, but something tells me you're more fine with it than you had initially let on. A necessary sacrifice for their greater good, I suppose... Make your suffering be The End of the suffering?

You made them sooner than others so they wouldn't see you die, didn't you? And did you push them away so they wouldn't become too attached? So it wouldn't hurt them the same way it has hurt you?

You seem full of secrets. Secrets are meant to block the truth. Obfuscate. Cloud. Most people with secrets, tend to be barely glued together. They hold secrets to avoid further pain, whether their own, their loved ones', or both. The secrets are a mask for the small, scared child within.

What truths are you eclipsing, Eclipse?

Which manner of eclipse are you, Eclipse?

You seem rather tragic. You don't have to be. I think it would help to talk to your sons, on a nice, non-attacking level. And I think, regardless of what they say and do, they would actually be rather sad for you to just disappear forever, to fade into another plane entirely. I think they would be full of regret for all the times they didn't get to speak to you. I think you would be too.

You regret not spending enough time with your own dad, right? You feared him, now they fear you. You stress when he's mentioned, now they stress over you. You are heartbroken, and you break their hearts.

If you were meant to be the End of the cycle, the traditions, if you were meant to be a vehicle of change - or even if you just wanted that yourself, purpose be damned - I think you're going about it the wrong way.

Is that the bright future you dreamed of? Seems awful dim and anguished, for everyone involved, don't you think? Is that how you want The End to come, o great threshold?

Just some thoughts to chew on.

tl;dr Get Off This Path of Destruction and Get a Lil Therapy Purrhaps, My Good Bitch.

---------------------------------‐----------------

#submission #dca!candyland #ooc) #trashlate

[raayllum]

so i'm booboo the fool because i probably just mentioned it in a podcast ep / to friends on discord and it never manifested into an actual post (or is buried deep in another larger array of metas i don't feel like digging through now) but

i remember watching 4x04 for the first time and viren's speech to terry of "But there is an aching pain mixed with love that you feel in these moments. I have always been ready to do anything to protect my family, however dangerous, however vile. In the name of love, you may commit acts so unforgivable… you will never forgive yourself" and i went Oh Okay, So This Is The Theme of the Arc.

cause it was always an undercurrent in arc 1, but it was far more limited/subtle. harrow's actions due to his grief over sarai that led to his regret and big changes. claudia's loyalty to her dad even as soren breaks away. and then, of course, we have zubeia sending the assassins out of revenge for the loss of her mate and child, but we don't really tend to - and aren't really asked or expected to - think of her as an actual character until like, the very end of s3. but arc 1, undoubtedly, still posits love almost universally as a good thing - a good motivator, the opposite to a narrative of strength, something that is salvation oriented (hi, callum's love for rayla saving both him and herself from certain death in the literal arc 1 climax).

s4 starts to flip this theme on its head. it starts to mature.

through the moon happens, and rayla blows up her whole life and leaves callum as collateral damage in the name of love. s4 happens. claudia dragging herself through everything in a desperate attempt to save her father. terry murdering ibis to protect her. karim being so blinded by his love for his people that he ignores his love for his sister and the family he has left. and all the while, the callum and viren parallels kept being tied tighter and tighter, winding closer together. doing terrible things and having his loved ones hurt is precisely what scares callum most about the possession, but it was always clear that he'd pick doing the terrible thing over one of his loved ones being hurt.

and then s5 happened and finally brought all of this theme of love to the forefront on the protagonist end with him, a perfect segue into it being arguable cornerstone of s6, it seems.

but s5 wouldn't have been possible, thematically, without s4 first doing the thematic maturation necessary for us to start getting both more set up and a good deal of payoff, and i think the two seasons work beautifully in tandem together, tethered by this theme.

#tdp #the dragon prince #s4 is my best friend #arc 1 #arc 2 #even s4 and the first half of s5 being obsessed with 'what are you willing to forgive' #mm delicious #mini meta #like s4's thematic maturation was one of my favourite things in the whole season. iT'S SO GOOD #appreciation

[aliennazero]

If it turns out it was Public Safety and Devil Hunters scope of work that "trains" Yoshida to only use coercive tactics to get what he wants and to basically never ever directly show his desire (thus making him one of their trained dogs), I will never forgive them.

We talk about how Yoshida's action kind of parallel to Makima. But we never talked about the abusive hell of an institution behind them and how it affect both Makima and Yoshida's pattern of behaviour aren't we?

Why? Is it because it's political? So it should stay on the background forever? Or because we underestimate them as a controlling institution because what we have been shown so far is their failure to keep devils at bay? Are we forget how even Makima is scared to those higher ups and about Kishibe's whole motives to gave Nayuta to Denji so she doesn't turns out like Makima?

Abuse is a very terrible act, and I understand why not everyone want to discuss it. In Chainsaw Man however, it's a big part of the story. Denji's early life is full of abuse, Asa got "abused" later on after her family and everything was taken from her, and Makima is implied to be abused in the past by the government in order to "tame" her.

So that's why, I don't want to play blind on Hirofumi. I know we laughed over him. We laughed over his jobs he had failed and been done so far. But damn, are we really ever think about it? How he, a new 17yo recruit, is tasked to protect Chainsaw Man + keep an eye on Famine Devil + prevent the doomsday scenario, all in one and being left alone to handle that? Even his co-worker is hinted to dgaf about him and do not take him seriously, although it looks like a gag.

That's... that's sounds sad, man. It's basically violating child labor law all over again. Yoshida overworked himself and it's very clear. But apparently, because "Devil Hunter" is seen to be "heroic", at the side of humanity, is it suddenly become a good kind of abuse? Of course not!

Yoshida's whole weird and offputting personality makes me wonder about this. His "mature" act actually set my alarms on. He's "wrong", but there's seems to be more motives and more gunpoint behind it. I wonder if this institutional, systematical abuse is going to be very relevant or not to his character in the future.

I'm afraid of this implications, but I think I need to make myself ready for it, to see more of Chainsaw Man government horror if we get any more glimpses of it (that I'm sure will happen sooner or later).

#yoshida hirofumi #yoshida #chainsaw man #me and my homies hate public safety but we trust yoshida as person #ramblings #going to save Yoshida from his doomed narratives myself if this become true #i need to stop making every headcanons angst

[khepiari]

Thoughts on One Piece Live Action Trailer from a biased fangirl

First of all let me be clear, I am deaf, dumb and blind to One Piece Live Action complains; that are mean and hateful for the sake of hating. I grew up with censored One Piece episodes and terrible dubs.

I am immune.

My instant reaction after watching the trailer

A) I like it.

B) I am drooling after that 3 seconds of Taz, and brooding Mackneyu. But I am excited for Inaki, he is Luffy; the energy, goofiness and the voice!

C) Emily is like the bestest!

D) Not enough Jacob!

I am hyped none the less!

Was it a perfect trailer?

Absolutely not.

Was it a good trailer?

Yes!

It is fun, goofy and it captured the spirit of One Piece— promise of an epic ADVENTURE.

Yes, Some things in trailer bothered me, like a lot, but if I can read 1086 chapters of a manga for last ten years and watch 1066 episodes for last eighteen years, I can patiently wait to judge all 8 episodes.

Things we the diehard fans need to remember!

Anime and Manga scenes and actions can’t be replicated entirely! And we fans will only complain if its frame by frame copy-adaptation; because that’s not how it works.

Please remember it is the same story told on a different medium! People will take liberties with it.

And the CGI work is still not over; so even before you crib about it: STOP!

We really need to control our innate distrust for adaptation. Yes Hollywood has terrible track record.

Trust in Goda!

But I am choosing to trust Odachii! He green lit the adaptation in 2017! It is 2023, if he didn’t approve we wouldn’t have witnessed a single poster of the Live-in adaptation! No one is more protective of One Piece than Odachii!

Luffy has his scar!

Yes, some changes can bother us, like initially I thought Luffy didn’t have his scar, but after zooming on Inaki’s face on HD screen; I found the scar!

But Sanji’s Eyebrows: sssssh!

Sanji’s missing eyebrows is a point of contention for many, but again things that don’t serve narrative with an active purpose can go; you have to understand things get changed; Sanji’s perv gag is getting dropped too. I can’t wait to meet the Sanji of my dreams!

Merry Go looks terrifying!

I agree, I love it. But I think Merry needs exorcism too! Merry Looks scared as hell! This is Merry’s true face that has been terrorised by Luffy’s recklessness!

Wrong shoes UmU

Similarly Luffy’s flip-flops, as long as that wild child is wearing something on his feet, its fine. I mean look at the shoes he is wearing; it’s ridiculous!

Usopp’s Nose

Don’t drag Usopp’s nose into this. All of us would’ve hated a prosthetic nose on Jacob! You know it! You don’t want him to look like a copy of a copy of Pinocchio!

Nami’s Hair!

It looks okay, you all are nitpicking now! I swear, it looks alright.

Buggy-sama looks scary, duh he is a clown!

People complaining that Buggy-sama looks scary, in East Blue! Buggy-sama after his debut Was Scary! Have you ever seen a funny looking Clown ever? All clowns look scary!

I literally lured and convinced my horror addict sister to watch One Piece, because of this horrific looking Buggy-sama! I lied through my teeth that Buggy-Sama is the final boss of One Piece! Now she will watch the live action!

Yellow filter! Do you want DCU dark screen?

And the complaint about yellow filter! Look, I would take a Yellow screen over a DC black screen any day! Many wanted the GOT and LOTR cinematic treatment, I understand, but it’s not the same story elements, our protagonist is a rubber-man; our universe is colourful, set on the sea, what we can hope and aspire for is Pirates of the Caribbean treatment for the Fishmen CGI.

And remember, Luffy yelling Gum-Gum Pistol is the English translation of Gomu-Gomu no pistol! You can’t expect Inaki to yell Gomu-Gomu no pistol, while his entire angry fight speech is in English. That would be weird. And many didn’t like the pistol reveal because of how it looked. In every version of realism— stretched human skin will look weird!

Some things look great in manga art and anime frames but translate poorly in realism; I think we had already learned it the hard way! The cosplayish cinematography worked for Gintama Live Action but didn’t go well with Fullmetal Alchemist. Again the grim-gray thematic elements worked for Bleach Live In!

I think this version of One Piece is working well so far. And it was just teaser! We have 6 arcs to see!

Yes, be skeptical, but of Netflix, not cast and crew and creators!

I have told this before, I have faith in the cast and the crew and the creators. My trust issues lies with Netflix. I would’ve been happier if it was Prime who was producing it or even HBO, as they seem more committed to a project.

Netflix has terrible track record of cancellation.

And One Piece is a long time commitment, I don’t think Netflix has the bandwidth or the brains or the money to produce 31+ Arcs! We know none of the canon arcs can be dropped. So their only way out is to build up the hype of the finale arc from second season itself. And do enough bread crumbing and introduce certain supernovas, warlords, yonkos, gorosei, races and other important figures early into the story instead of keeping them for surprise element, which can help them plan for long time. Not only that they have to give us glimpses into the various crimes and atrocities and political happenings across the Grandline parallel to Strawhats journey so that the emotional build up happens gradually— expecting viewers to care about an island and its characters all of a sudden when the Crew arrives to a new island will be tricky. It is much better to constantly tell the viewers of things happening simultaneously so that when Luffy arrives to beat Croc’s or later Doffy’s ass— audience already hates them. They don’t even have to reveal the face of the villains, but build up the lore well.

Will stupid Netflix do it?

I don’t think so!

Stop the bloody hateful comments

Stop hating on the cast! I don’t think we have any right to bully or be mean or outright hateful to the actors! Time and again they have proved how much they love One Piece. Being mean doesn’t make you the cool or smarter person you think you are.

After watching/reading a series that always emphasized on doing the right thing and fighting against bullies, you all haven’t learned anything.

Don’t like it? Don’t watch it!

Is the Live Action stealing away from your years of rich One Piece experience?

No!

The manga is here, the anime is here, the games are here, the musicals are here, so are the ice-skating shows!

No adaptation is hurting the other!

This is just another medium to tell the story, now to non-manga readers/non-anime watching people!

I don’t play One Piece games, nor do I like how some game designs are, do I go an shit talk about it?

Nope.

I love the Sandman comic books, I was not happy with changes made in the live action adaptation, did I go demand receipts for changes made to the story?

No!

Because I know it’s impossible to please everyone, how hard it is to ignore something that bothers you?

If you bully the cast! I will curse you!

If you bully Inaki, Emily, Mackenyu, Taz and Jacob; I hope your toe cuticles itch all the time and your ear buzzes whenever you try to sleep!

And look how the cast cares about the story! Look at them! How dare you try to bully them!

If you follow Artur - The Library Of Ohara’s page on Twitter you will see how much effort has gone into detailing. From Luffy’s attire to Baratie’s lighting.

The series is made of love and respect for the source material. If they are diverting or changing something— remember Odachii agreed to it!

I mean look at them! They are precious!

Starving man never looked so fine. 🫠🫠🫠🫠🫠🫠. One Piece Live Action serving Zoro to us in all his glory. And before Dudebros even start Sanji vs Zoro.

They were never cast for you, they were cast for women and queer fans. They are not representative of your imagined cis-het male idea of hyper masculinity!

They are for us!

Woman tired of her dumbass captain! This girl is going to kick ass and steal your money! She ate her role! And she will rule the screen!

We must protect Usopp! Look at this baby! Look at him! He is the bravest person in the entire world!

This the Sanji I am shamelessly looking forward to! Never will he beat babygirl allegations! And he is such a walking disaster bi energy already! And he is not limited by his perv gag!

The perfect man is here!

Look at him! How he shines like the sun! Look at his silly shoes in the trailer! This silly silly silly boy!

Hey that’s my favourite idiot. Look at him, heading to some dumbassery with the confidence exhibited by the baby from Baby’s Day Out film.

Damnnnn it! Why can’t I upload more than 10 pictures from the app? Finally, from the web version I could uploaad it all!

Anyway, practice love not hate! Peace out!

Image source: from twitter by Artur- Library of Ohara

#one piece #one piece live action #one piece liveblog #netflix one piece #one piece netflix #monkey d. luffy #roronoa zoro #sanji #nami #usopp #strawhats #mugiwara #mugiwara kaizoku #straw hat crew #inaki godoy #emily rudd #Mackneyu #taz skylar #jacob romero