#she doesn’t understand for a thing in the world. leaving out of “business purposes” and being on thin ice with everyone there and it’s her

[nazumichi]

if no one’s gonna make up messed up things about characters no one cares about then well. time for me to step up.

#raii talks a lot #*taps microphone* do you think marie ever thinks about leaving the city out of “that one good deed” that everyone keeps talking about that #she doesn’t understand for a thing in the world. leaving out of “business purposes” and being on thin ice with everyone there and it’s her #home but it never lets her rest and step out this role for even a second and she’s tired man she’s tired #no well that’s what I’m here for

[ladybirdswritings]

Silken Webs & Pirouettes - Miguel O’Hara x Reader

TW - PTSD, mentions of abuse.

Summary - You realize that maybe working with a man as intimidating as Miguel O’Hara just isn’t for you… Ballerina!Reader & CEO!Miguel. Alternate Universe with most of the characters included as seen in "Across the Spiderverse." Many cameos ahead. Miguel is a successful business owner but personality is canon. This is a steamy reader insert, Miguel x You! Enjoy and pls leave me lots of love and comments as it keeps me motivated <333

next chapter

six

You feel out of place. Stuffy, anxious, like a walking corpse with heavy eyes and an empty stomach. You’ve convinced yourself that once you waltz up those stairs, everyone is going to turn to you. Point and laugh as Mr. O’Hara rips you to tiny, pretty pieces with those awfully sharp teeth of his.

You took the stairs today because the glass elevator seems too dreadful. Each floor rising just getting you closer and closer to your demise, out in the open for the world to see.

You only have one flight left before you know it, though. The bittersweet stamina your body remembers from the times you used to twirl upon a silvered stage. You frown, maybe definitely purposely going slower up the final steps.

Your morning has been hectic. Your curls were in a battle with your hands and the straightener, reflecting the heat away like they were made of ice. Your hair is frizzy, and your ribbon has a tear in it. The sole of your boot is mere threads away from ripping apart and you’re terribly hungry. You had no time to eat, though.

The air constricts you as you reach the tip of the castle where the fanged creature with dark, unforgiving eyes dwells. Your body is overtaken with soft trembles yet you do your best to keep composed. Through the glass door and onto the shiny tiles.

The ambush doesn’t come… you ease.

Your eyes scan through the cold air that greets you. To your complete surprise, your Christmas tree still stands, covered in its pink bows and golden lights. You doubt you’ll ever be as confused as you are right now again at any other moment in your life.

Your eyes wander to the front desk where Cindy is seated, she smiles and nods and you swiftly make your way to her. Mary Jane wears glasses far too big for her petite face, clicking and clacking on her ivory keyboard.

“Hey!” She greets, handing you your bag of ribbons immediately.

It hasn’t been lit up to ash, it shocks you.

“Hey… is um…” thankfully she understands and you don’t have to say much more.

Christ, you’re treating him like he’s a monster tucked underneath your bed.

“Nope, he’s been out all morning… super weird between you and I, he’s never late!”

You believe her, but that doesn’t matter… all the tension in your body floats away like a cloud returning itself to the sky. The breath you’ve been holding since you conquered each step leaves you, and you finally feel as though you can breathe again.

“Uh oh, what’d you do?” Mary Jane inquires as she takes a sip of her peppermint tea.

You can only manage to shake your head, mumbling your gratitude softly and dragging the bag to the tree. The ladder still stands tall, taunting you with rusty screws.

“Hi pretty.” You whisper to the giant thing, hand burying itself in the tote to pluck out yet another pink ribbon. Knowing he’s gone, you work with ease. Gentle on the ladder, the ballerina in your heart still dances even though you cannot. Your balance is impeccable as you blanket the back of the tree now. It doesn’t take long.

Without him here, the office is alive. It’s happy. The women chat as they would while getting manicures at a salon. They giggle and swoon over Mr. O’Hara which is to be nothing more than expected. It makes you giggle. He must feel so high and mighty being surrounded by people bowing at the beck of his hand. Yet when his thumb doesn’t suffocate them, they blossom like roses.

They’re lovely, fun to listen to while you tinker with the tree. This is nice.

This is nice and the laughter and joy and “Santa, Baby” purring on the radio lasts all but an hour before dead silence and gasps soon flood your ears.

You chill, freezing up with your hand in the bag of bows. Your body is kneeling before the tree, the gold shining like starlight on your pretty features. Someone lowers the music quickly, and the man who simultaneously suffocates all the fun with just his presence alone walks through his elevator door.

You hear it ring, you hear the heavy clicks of his shoes and the adjust of his tie. Everyone is dead silent, now. Tense. Back to the normal that is known here.

You? You’re frozen, your head still bowed. You’re afraid of him, maybe. It is rare for you, you’re afraid of no one. Not anymore. Not after… well, it’s a promise you made to yourself.

Closer…

Closer..

Closer his boots near, until?

They stop.

They stop right beside you and god, it is right then in that moment that you’d rather run out and lay in the snow as you’re certain it would keep you warmer than you are in this moment, beneath him.

“You, come with me.” Is all he offers before marching forward on his path.

You gulp, maybe you misheard? A cautious glance at Cindy’s wide, sympathetic eyes and you know all you need to. This cruel, cruel man. He let you blanket his stupid, limp tree in ribbons, he let you get comfortable like a mouse under a warm lamp— not knowing there’s a serpent hiding away… ready to strike. Ready to tell you he’s letting you go.

Cindy raises her brows, as if rushing you to do something. To unfreeze. You dig your nails into your palm, hard enough to snap you back and you’re soon up on your feet. Each step you take, you look at nothing but your worn shoes.

The oak door is held open by him. They’re all staring, eyes like daggers stuck in your back.

“Time to actually do your work, ladies.” He commands, they comply immediately. Does he have a spy? Perhaps a meter that starts ringing when there’s too much fun…

The oak door slams, trapping you— the little mouse into his warm den. The sound startles you, making your eyes fall shut.

Keep it together…

He walks past you swiftly, scent of rich firewood and coffee intoxicating your body so much so that if you weren’t so horrified right now, your mouth would water.

“Sit.” He commands as he takes his place upon his leather throne.

You let out a shaky breath, making your way forward with all the force you have left within you. Maybe you should just blurt out an apology and book it straight for the highest hills you can find…

The zombie you are, dressed in clothes you used to wear for rehearsal as it’s all you have. Ivory tights and pom pom boots, a pink skirt and wrapped shirt. You rehearse the moves of walking and sitting like a dance you’ve danced before. The leather is cold when it engulfs you, unpleasant.

You clasp your hands in your lap, picking at the remnants of the French manicure Rio gave you last week. Waiting for it, expecting, remembering. Your head is hung in shame, in submission.

“You look nervous.” He observes.

You stay silent, reluctant to admit how true that really is.

You feel him, you feel him like fire on your skin. His eyes demanding your attention, but you can’t. You won’t. It isn’t good enough for him. He leans forward,

“You’re new here, but if you cared to ask my girls what my first rule is? You’d know that you look at me when I talk to you, do you understand?” He commands, and like a ballerina does, you mend and comply. Heated as your face as becomes, rapid as your heart flutters, and nervous as your being is… your eyes follow the order and shoot up to face his own.

They are dark, scorching into you like hellfire, an incomparable inferno. You want to shrink, but you won’t. You can’t give him the satisfaction.

“Rule two. Answer me.” He commands.

“Yes…” you whisper.

He’s satisfied, at least you hope. It certainly seems that way. He leans back in his leather chair and keeps his eyes locked on you. It is then you’re certain he’s a sadist. It’s obvious, obvious by the way you press your knees together and pick at your polish that you’re uncomfortable. He doesn’t care.

The silence is dreadful, heavy and suffocating. You try your best to hold it, stare into his eyes and ignore the fire burning your skin from the bone but god— it’s too much.

“I didn’t know!” You blurt out, half hoping he is deaf yet also half hoping he understands what you mean.

His eyes narrow and you’re certain you’ve made a fool of yourself again. You let your gaze fall and the subtle sound you hear under his breath makes you snap them right back up.

“I know. Keep it that way.” He forces through clenched, sharp teeth.

If he wasn’t so horrifying, so cruel, you’d feel sorry for him. His words, the subject, it’s painful for him to utter— to think of. You can tell.

The silence blankets the room again, and your eyes beg him to let you glance anywhere but at him. You’re desperate though, the bigger part of you. Desperate to suffer here, instead of home. Maybe he knows just how desperate you are, maybe he’s using it. Maybe he’s delaying the inevitable, maybe there’s nothing you can do to avoid it.

It seems like forever, but he eventually speaks.

“I want you to do something for me.”

Pack your shit and leave…

You finish his words within the confines of your mind, prepared for them. They never come, no… what follows only shocks you.

“I want a tree. A small one for my office. Red and blue ribbons, and soccer ornaments.”

What?

This man, this enigma of a man seems to be the most capable creature alive and able to make your head spin like a record. You shake your head, confused…

“What?” It’s a soft whisper, weak.

“Rule three, I don’t repeat myself. You heard me.”

You did. You did and you still don’t slightly believe it. You’re dreaming, that must be it. You fell on the stairs on the way up and you’ve been tucked away in a coma.

No. It can’t be true. Sure, if anyone on this earth would be intimidating enough to make you truly feel their gaze in a coma, it would be him… but it’s far too real, too intense to simply exist within your imagination.

“I— can do that, sir.”

He only nods, once. Voice louder now, commanding the room, commanding you.

“I want it done by tonight, on my desk before you leave.”

You nod, mind still jogging to keep up with this conversation, to understand it. Your brows are furrowed, eyes searching for an invisible answer around the room. They land back on him and it’s as if he was waiting for them to do just that. A raise of his brow and he gives you an expression you can’t quite understand.

“You’re dismissed.”

Oh.

He talks to you like you’re just a dull-brained creature, incapable of understanding a word he says, an idiot. You stand on your feet and then swiftly turn your back on him, which is somehow more frightening than looking him in the eyes.

That must be it, you suppose. You’re grateful. Baffled but, grateful. You won’t test your luck, you won’t question it. Perhaps Cindy was onto something with her analysis of him. He’s just not— soft.

No, he’s in control and commanding and intimidating and far far easier to deal with than the cavalry at home. Okay… okay, you can manage this.

Even so? You can’t walk quicker to the door, it seems— hurrying out like the inferno from his eyes is just behind you. It is. The oak creaks softly behind you, and you huff as you make it out to the other side, surviving to tell the story of how you evaded the beast. Mary Jane and Cindy’s eyes are wide and waiting.

You only offer a thumbs up and nod, then get straight to work.

You’re happy for the excuse to waltz the city during this lovely time of year. Especially when you’re not paying for the things you buy. The streets are lined with snowfall surrounding cobble pavement, brick roads and sparkling trees that reach the sky. There are smiling St. Nick’s on every street corner and employees dressed as elves in every small shop. It smells of coffee and chocolate chips.

You’re not at all dressed for December. Your check hasn’t come in just yet, you’ll buy warm clothes when it does. Jack Frost is a bite on your shoulder, cheeks and nose pink and chilled from the snow. You’re trembling.

That doesn’t matter though because you’re also dancing, right now. Dancing like you did as a ballerina; that equates to simply following orders. It isn’t until the warmth of the small gift shop nearby embraces you that you ease. Warmth crawls up your spine and burns Jack off of it. You can think, now. You can stop following orders, stop dancing.

Your trembling fingertips are numb, grazing over the snow globes, ribbons and ornaments. Hmm…

Soccer…

Perhaps he’s a fan…

Blue and red ribbon…

Your teeth chatter as you grab a wicker basket and collect each color. You find lights to compliment them and a dark, lonely little tree by the windowsill. Fitting. Ornaments, then. Soccer balls and goals, flags and tennis shoes. It becomes more apparent as you fill your basket that this is not for him.

Cautiously, you grab your cracked phone and find your watch history. The thumbnail, the picture from last night. Where the grinning ghost sits on his shoulders, she’s adorned in a socccer jersey. No, the tree is not for him at all…

It’s for her.

Sadness swells at the base of your throat but you force it down with a gulp. Gentle thing you are, always so empathetic with the world around you. Even the cruelest parts.

Yet, his words from earlier only echo in your mind.

Keep it that way.

Maybe you’re stupid or maybe you’ve just never been good at following orders when there’s not a wire hanger involved… but you just can’t.

Your eyes glaze over the wooden ornaments stand and land upon a dark oak frame with a vacant place for a picture. You know just what you’ll do…

Time passes quickly and you are back at the office soon. The tree is small, but you handle it with care and adoration. You tie the ribbons by hand and place them snugly upon the blossomed branches. The lights are a mixture of red, gold and blue. The star is gold too and it compliments the rest nicely. The ornaments are small, hanging like icicles from the tips of each branch. Overall? It’s perfect. Missing one, final touch though.

Everyone has left, the office lights dim. It’s just you and the grinch who’s steadily growing a heart. Maybe not three sizes bigger just yet, but you’ll take even a quarter. It’s big enough for him to keep you at least… for now.

You hurry over to the front desk where you print the picture, ink staining the colors vivid and bright.

Her smile was so pretty…

You cut the excess paper and grab the photo frame ornament, adorning it with the heart warming picture of him and his little girl. After you clean your mess, you place the final touch upon his tiny tree and revel in your masterpiece. Perfection, all you ever strive for.

But now? Back into the devil’s den.

You would be lying if you said your heart isn’t pounding as you approach the oak door, but as soon as you make it there— you steady yourself.

You remember who you are, what you have survived.

One cold man who you won’t know in a few months can’t take that. Your fire.

The tree is stable in your hands, but it needs both of them to balance upright. With your foot, you knock.

No answer.

You knock again…

And, no answer.

With a huff, you risk the possibility of angering the beast more than he usually is and use your bum to push the large thing open. You’re very much annoyed to find him alert and well, glasses resting on his face as he types away at a document on his laptop. The square thing looks like a toy compared to his hands.

Christ.

He doesn’t regard you, he doesn’t need to. He already gave his orders. You’re careful to maintain balance as you gently bring the tree to his desk and place it to the corner of him. A switch of a button and it glows. You catch him then, glancing just once at it before continuing his work. The lights reflect in his glasses.

You tidy up a few spots and ribbons that shifted from transfer and then step back to admire. You’re satisfied. You don’t bother saying goodbye, he’s immersed enough as is and you’d rather refrain from unnecessary interaction with the heatmiser.

You smooth your skirt as you make your way out, ribbons bouncing on your locks. The door shuts behind you, you’re safe again.

The tiles squeak as your boots kiss them, gathering your bag and phone— you get ready to leave. Near the stairs and then— oh, right. You forgot to unplug the tree.

You know well how much of a disaster it would be if you set the floor on fire. With a huff, you make your way back and check the moisture with two fingers. All is well. You bend over and unplug the golden shimmer to make the top floor even darker, hearing the oak door shut swiftly as you do. It makes you jump.

Just when you almost missed him.

His steps are heavy… heavier than usual. Quicker too.

He must be tired, anxious for his bed. He’s filthy rich. He probably has the biggest bed with dozens of pillows and the softest of sheets. You wish your bed was like that…

You turn.

Maybe one day you’ll have a bed just as— oh!

Two hands case you up against the wall beside your ribbon tree, and all you see in front of you is that look.

That. Look.

It’s back.

Monstrous, horrifying, furious with you.

The darkness, the redness in his eyes is clearer now. The veins in his neck and the tension in his shoulders and jaw.

He raises his hand, you flinch by habit. Grasped tightly in it is the picture, except now— the glass has been shattered and it’s cutting into his palms. Your eyes widen, hands reaching out to help him. He pulls his palm back before you can, moving his head so that his eyes are staring directly into yours.

That look.

You chill.

“¿Qué carajo es esto!? Huh!? Tell me!” He growls, voice guttural, loud, horrifying— and it is then that you realize now more than ever that you truly are the mouse. And he? He’s the serpent.

With a grunt, he throws the glass ornament with his smiling, pretty girl across the room. It shatters even more once the wall finds it. He cases you in again, and you know now just how trapped you truly are. Just you and him on this lonely floor. He’s angry. You’re shaking.

You’ve seen this anger before. In her… in Katerina.

A gulp, maybe you’re a fish because your mouth bobs open far too many times to explain and yet you can’t. speak. The words catch themselves on the tip of your tongue. Your eyes can’t take it, they fall shut as you slow your breathing. There’s panic on the horizon. Memories so familiar to this flood back like an ocean of poison in your mind.

His index and thumb move to grip your chin, so angry and yet his grip is only firm, not painful. He tugs your face enough so that your eyes shoot open again.

“Did I tell you to do this?” His voice, perhaps it’s scarier now. It’s dark, low, composed like a cap on shaken pop.

“You knew better, girl! You knew better!” Her voice now… Katerina’s. Echoing in your head.

You’re suffocating, the air around you is too thin. You can’t breathe, you can’t look at those eyes.

No, no no. You’re panicking. His features blur as tears pool in your sight. He tugs your chin again, they fall onto his fingertips.

“You already forgot my rules, huh? You stupid, stupid girl…” he spits.

“You ungrateful, stupid girl.” She screams against your skull.

“I told you to keep it that way, didn’t I? Díos mio! What’s the matter with you?” He’s exasperated. He’s asking, eyes commanding an answer from you. You don’t know.

What is the matter with you?

Like the mythology of Rogue, it’s like everything you touch withers by your hand.

After everything Katerina gave you… after he took a chance letting you work here.

Your throat constricts as you gaze into the serpent’s eyes. Your heart is a hummingbird’s then, fighting so hard to fill that clouded brain with oxygen. You’re dizzy. You’re remembering.

You can’t. You need to move you need—

You can’t stop yourself, hand shooting up to dig your nails into the skin of his wrist. His eyes shoot toward the spot and he hisses, pulling it back. You take the chance to escape.

Under his arm and you stumble forward, hugging your midsection with a gasp, desperate for a lick of oxygen to bless your burning lungs.

A sob takes over you, but a close of your eyes and a quick inhale of the firewood and coffee that intoxicates you and you remember just where you are. You’re in his office. You’re not with her. You’re here. You’re here and you don’t want to be, anymore.

No, no not with him. Not after this. All of it, all of him. It’s too much, it’s too far. You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve home either but at least there you can save up and flee…

You’re so panicked, all your mind can do is run over the many ways you’re going to call home through the flashing images of her. Images of Katerina bloom like ivy in your mind as you plan out your next steps. You feel glued in place yet so desperate to leave.

You glance at the broken glass and jagged smile of the ghost girl, jumping when the warmth of his palm greets your shoulder.

“Mirame, look at me.” He commands, but softly. Rather, softer than usual.

You feel pathetic yet still, your hand shoots up to push his own away from behind you.

You’ve had enough.

You buried the devil in your past. Your life is far too valuable to dance with another one.

You’d rather be cased up at home forever, working a job around family that think of you as nothing more than scum than be around him for a day longer.

You know, now…

“I quit.” You force out through another sob, not daring to turn and face him. You’re hunched over, shaky and weak. On the verge of suffocating completely. You wipe at your eyes and don’t hear another sound from him before you snatch your bag and phone and practically run to the stairwell.

Two steps at a time, maybe three before December’s chill kisses you in icy greeting. You don’t need to whistle for a cab to brake. In you go, familiar as you’ve done this twice now because of him.

Only this time? You’ll never come back again…

🏷️ ‘s @reirain @needybitez @migueloharastruelove @laysmt @maomaimao @daisy-artfield | chap 6 song 🎧:

#miguel o’hara smut #miguel o’hara imagine #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel smut #miguel 2099 #miguel ohara #miguel spiderverse #miguel x reader #miguel spiderman #miguel o'hara #atsv miguel #miguel x you #miguel x y/n #miguel o’hara across the spider verse #miguel o’hara x y/n #miguel o’hara fic #miguel o’hara x you #miguel o’hara fanfiction #miguel o’hara fluff #spider man 2099 #au!miguel o’hara #ap #Spotify

[thesummerestsolstice]

Headcanon Crafts for Everyone I Missed Last Time:

Idril: a sculptor. She worked with every kind of stone imaginable, and often went looking for new material in Gondolin’s mines with Maeglin. (Look my Maeglin head canons are complicated but they should get to be friends the narrative has hurt them too much already) She actually preferred not to make elvish figures, instead focusing on strangely beautiful stone landscapes and various animal-like figures. She was actually responsible for Middle-Earth’s version of the gargoyle, having carved several to stand guard over Gondolin. Several elves swore that the statues moved, but she never addressed those rumors. She also liked to paint her work with bright colors, which would’ve been seen as odd back in Valinor, but fit right in in First Age Middle-Earth.

Maeglin: a smith, but his craft was more in-line with Avarin practice than Noldor practice; with much less focus on the idea of making gems and heavier focus on understanding natural geology and the properties of various gems and metals. He knew the mines of Gondolin better than anyone, and wrote plenty about the the earth under the earth. His work also had fairly significant Dwarfish influences. He liked to make mechanically complex pieces, with moving parts or even some internal gear work.

Finduilas: a hunter. Her and her father were both nature people, just in very different ways. She was silent, with all the grace of a dancer, and quick enough to outrun most of what she hunted. She preferred to go after more aggressive animals– wild boar, wolves, bears, even wargs– and leave the deer and rabbits be. She was born in Beleriand, and had never met the Valar, but sometimes, privately, offered up prayers to Orome. She liked to imagine she could’ve been in his hunt, if things had turned out a bit differently.

Celebrimbor: a smith, in the very traditional Noldor sense. Gemworker, specialized in jewelry, made various famously beautiful pieces, etc. Was never quite happy sticking to hairpins and necklaces. Longed to try his hand at imbuing his work with real power, but always talked himself out of it. A whole binder of concepts for works of power sat locked away in a chest in his workshop for centuries. He never talked to anyone about it. He was as ashamed of his feelings for his craft as he was of his feelings for his family. By the end of his life, he’d made peace with only one of those things.

Earendil: a mariner? Alright, he was definitely a mariner, and he loved the ship life– he even built a few boats of his own, in a similar fantastic style to Turgon’s architecture– but he also had a longstanding fascination with the natural world, and filled volumes and volumes of journals with information on various plants, animals, and minerals. But natural lore isn’t a recognized Noldor craft, since it involves learning but doesn’t really produce tangible results. Still, it was a passion he got from afternoons spent learning about geology with “Uncle Mole,” and one he shared with Elrond. Researching the beauty and wonder of nature gave Earendil something to do with his immortal life, and was a big part of the reason Elrond chose to be immortal at all.

Gil-Galad: a king. No, really, he’d been the high-king of the Noldor since he was a child, and hadn’t really had time for trivialities like “finding a life purpose” or “having fun.” He was too busy learning how to stay alive in late stage Beleriand (read: hell) and learning to rule the least cooperative group of elves imaginable. He wanted to be a painter, and while he found enough practice time to get good at his chosen craft; because of how long detailed paintings can take, he almost never had time to actually make anything. He tried not to let it bother him too much. He didn’t always succeed at that.

Elrond: in a bit of a weird spot. Elrond is most associated with lore and healing; but, as discussed, “lore” isn’t considered a craft. And, well. Healing had to be Elrond’s craft, right? He’d been doing it since he was seven, and just about the only person in Amon Ereb who could still use healing powers. And it was good work, and it was rewarding, even if it often left him feeling so burned out and worried that he forgot to eat or sleep. It took him a long time to admit to himself that healing for him was what fighting was to many other elves: a necessity. Truth be told, he’d rather be gardener, working with the earth to create a place of peace and beauty. Also, Elrond is basically a nature spirit. So. It was something he began to explore in the peace of the early Second Age. He found that his Ainuric powers had all sorts of interesting effects on plant life. He also learned how to breed new varieties of fruits, vegetables, and flowers. Still, he never really considered that it could be a proper craft for him. At least, not until he first saw the valley that would one day become Rivendell.

Headcanon Crafts for Finwe and his Children, the House of Feanor, the House of Fingolfin, and the House of Finarfin.

#silmarillion #silm headcanons #house of finwe #noldor #noldor crafts #idril #maeglin #finduilas #celebrimbor #earendil #gil galad #elrond #elrond peredhel #eldritch peredhel #I have feelings about elrond and gil galad #they had to grow up so fast #they deserve peace

[nikathingz]

HEY HEY LOVELY <3

Do you mind doing a Morpheus x reader angst where they get into an argument and he snaps at her with something rly rude and harsh and regrets it later when she cries and doesn’t talk to him for days? /happy end maybe :)

YES OMGG I LIVE FOR ANGST, might've went a lil overboard with it, I just spent the past 4 hours writing this lmao

Masterlist

A Century of Regret

Morpheus x Wife!Reader word count: 2565

You were no stranger to fights with the Dream king, being his wife for many centuries you often disagreed on things, mostly those were about the Dreaming. This one however was different, he had been extra on edge as of late because of a rouge nightmare that had been feeding off humans' fear in the waking world.

He had kept to himself the past few days, and had only spoken to Lucienne because he often found himself in the library trying to find a solution to his problem, but even that was curt.

You couldn't take it anymore, you felt more neglected than ever. Morpheus wasn't a perfect lover, he often found himself caught up in making dreams and nightmares but he always made you feel loved, in his own way. It's no secret that he wasn't much for outward affection, but it was subtle things he did that made you fall for him, reading to you in moments of solitude, light touches, soft smiles, and chaste kisses.

But this wasn't that, it was a whole new level, he had completely shut everyone out, including you. So you marched through the ivory hallways of the palace to the library and entered to find Lucienne organizing a bookshelf.

She turned and gave you a weary look "My lady, I believe the lord is not in a good mood at the moment-" you raised a hand to cut her off, lifting your chin authoritatively, you didn't like being this way with Lucienne, but you were determined to get the satisfaction you came for.

She fell silent and nodded her head, gesturing deeper into the library before turning and going back to her work and leaving you to venture through the library to find your husband.

He sat at a table flipping through a book and taking down mental notes. He didn't even look up at you as you stood across the table and placed your hands on it, leaning onto them. Jessamy had taken immediate notice of you and hopped across the table to rub her beak into your arm.

Your nostrils flared as he continued to flip through his book, you genuinely couldn't tell if he was doing it on purpose or was so caught up in his work that he had yet to notice your presence, the voice in the back of your head doubted the latter, especially because of Jessamy's actions, but you cleared your throat anyway.

He didn't look up but stopped flipping through the pages "I'm busy." he said simply, his tone was already annoyed but you held your ground.

"You've been busy for almost a week Morpheus-"

"Because I have been doing my duties to the dreaming!" His patience was easily gone as he rose from his chair and slammed his hands on the table startling both you and his raven. He had a fixed look on his face, a look you had seen but a few times before. "Do you not understand that I have a job to do? Or that this rouge nightmare is making that job monumentally harder?" He was cold, and your body went ridged in fear.

Your brow pinched and your lip quivered as pressure built in the back of your throat. You didn't know what you expected to come of this, maybe your naivety gave you hope that you could drag your husband away from his endless duties. You swallowed hard and lifted your chin as bitter tears spilled onto your cheeks.

"And what of your duties to me? You are my husband yes? Then why have I not seen an inkling of you for days?" You asked rhetorically and watched his jaw clench as he remained firm in his statement.

"As I thought," You said and turned on your heel, whisking yourself out of the library, ignoring Lucienne's pitiful look as you exited.

You found yourself spending the following days with residents of the dreaming rather than staying in the palace and waiting for your husband to finally cool off. You weren't childish enough to think he would come and apologize, he would likely brush it under the rug and expect you to drop it as you always had.

You couldn't though, as days passed a sinking feeling grew in your gut. You remained firm in your choice to reside outside of the palace, for now. He would send Jessamy after you when he finally decided enough was enough.

•••

Lucienne stood in the throne room with Morpheus as made sure he had all his tools. Her brow was creased in concern as they stood in silence, she cleared her throat and rocked forward on her heels.

"If I may lord, have you spoken to her ladyship?" She asked hesitantly and Morpheus looked at her over his shoulder.

"No, but I intend to once I return... once I can place my full attention to my wife" he mumbled as he looked past Lucienne to the throne room doors, the image of your flushed face that was streaked with tears had not left his mind since, and regret plagued him.

She inhaled a deep breath and pressed further "My lord, you are coming back aren't you?"

Confusion crossed the Endless's face, "Why would I not return, Lucienne?" He asked as he picked up his helm and slid it over his head. 

She shrugged and pursed her lips "I don't know, a presentiment." She paused as he pulled his pouch out of his pocket "As powerful as you are here in your realm, Dreams rarely survive in the waking world." She fidgeted with her hands as sand swirled on the ground and around the king of the dreaming. "Nightmares, on the other hand, seem to thrive there." She watched the typhoon of sand flurry around the throne room as Morpheus's voice rang out once more.

"I shall return Lucienne" and then he was gone, and she was left alone in the throne room.

•••

You felt the heavy weight on your shoulders and your brain fogged with fatigue. You placed a hand on your head and let out a slight gasp as you hunched over the cup of tea that Abel was so nice to give you. You briefly recognized the feeling of the whole responsibility of the Dreaming being placed on your shoulders, signaling you that your husband had departed from his realm.

"My lady are you alright?" You felt Abel place a worried hand on your shoulder and you looked up at him with a gracious smile.

"Yes, I'm wonderful Abel, thank you" You assured him and continued your friendly brunch, Gregory and Cain occasionally popping in to say hi. 

•••

You often found yourself visiting the house of mystery as the years passed and more residents of the dreaming abandoned their kingdom.

You have received the brunt of Morpheus's disappearance, the first decade was the hardest. You grieved the disappearance of your husband every moment, it was heartbreaking to watch all of his creations lose faith in their king and blame you for it.

You slept most of the time as it took everything you had to try and upkeep the state of the Dreaming, but you were not an Endless, and this was not your realm. You were forced to watch the state of the Dreaming decay. Each day that passed constantly drained you of more energy both emotionally and physically.

Jessamy was the only reason you did not lose faith in your lover, and when she did not return you could not even find it in yourself to leave your room for a week. Lucienne had spent most of her time at your bedside trying to make sure you were okay, as much as you could be.

Every day after that was the same, you never left the palace anymore. You would simply drift around the crumbling hallways like a ghost for what seemed like an eternity, have some tea with Lucienne, then returning to your chambers to sleep for the remainder of what could be considered a day.

Eventually, the amount of time you rested, greatly outweighed the time you weren't lying in bed. You avoided reflective surfaces as they would kill you. The last time you looked at yourself, bags were sunk deep beneath your eyes, and your aura just radiated exhaustion. 

You opened your eyes, unsurprised with where you found yourself, in an old study, the rickety chair you sat in had been pulled over to sit just inside of the spire in front of the balcony so you could view the entirety of the Dreaming. You could see the huge ivory gates that would lead to the entrance of the dreaming and your heart panged in your chest.

They were just about the only thing that wasn't in shambles anymore, you sighed and sipped at the tea Lucienne had left for you, it was strange as she usually woke you and stayed with you for a while. This time she just disappeared. There was something different about today, your shoulders didn't feel as stiff and the fatigue behind your eyes didn't feel as immense.

•••

Morpheus and Lucienne stood at the entrance of the dreaming and she fidgeted with her thumbs as he opened the large gates. "Forgive me, sir, but... the realm, the palace... they are not as you left them" she spoke guiltily, as if she could've helped what became of the Dreaming after Morpheus left.

Morpheus felt his heart drop in his chest as he looked upon the basic rubble that had become of his beloved realm "What happened here? Who did this?" He turned to his librarian who seemed to shrink beneath his gaze.

Lucienne nibbled her lip as she tried to explain it to the best of her abilities "My Lord, you are The Dreaming, The Dreaming is you. With you gone as long as you were, the realm began to... decay and crumble." She said and let her gaze travel to the crumbling palace.

"And the residents? The palace staff?" Morpheus's breath caught in his throat as he imagined you leaving the dreaming many decades ago, especially with how he left you.

Lucienne folded her hands behind her back "I'm afraid most have gone." She said sorrowfully.

"Gone?" Morpheus gave her an incredulous look, unbelieving of the words she spoke.

"Some went looking for you.” She reasoned

“And the others?” He turned and looked at her through narrowed eyes

“They thought, perhaps, you'd grown weary of your duties and-" She tried to explain but he cut her off.

"What? Abandoned them? Had they so little faith in me? Do my own subjects not know me?" He asked as if she had all the answers.

"If I may, sir. It wouldn't be the first time one of The Endless had just-" She was going to bring up the prodigal brother of the endless but Morpheus had better things on his mind.

"Enough. I will not have Dreams and Nightmares preying on the waking world. I will bring them all back. I made this realm once, Lucienne. I will make it again." He said matter a factly and looked over his shoulder to his trusted advisor. 

She gave him a smile and started to walk with him through the gates of the dreaming.

Lucienne felt a looming question hang in the air as they walked toward the palace. What of the beloved queen of the Dreaming? She said nothing but motioned for the dream king to follow her.

•••

They stood in front of a double door, Lucienne motioned inside and Morpheus understood what she meant, he lifted a hand to rap on the door but hesitated as he heard Lucienne's quiet footsteps retreat.

So you had stayed in the Dreaming, but what had become of you? You were the queen of his realm and shared in carrying the weight of keeping the realm, surely over a century of shouldering both your responsibilities had taken a toll. One question made him sick with worry though, were you still angry with him? Did you resent him for the horrible terms he had left you on over a century ago? 

He realized he was standing there for much longer than intended and finally rapped on the mahogany door, "Come in Lucienne..." he softly nudged the door open when he heard your small voice inside the crumbling room. His breath caught in his throat as he saw your slumped form facing away from him, your hair and clothes in disarray.

He walked a few steps into the room before speaking "My dear..." He said wearily and watched your form whip around with energy that had long such left you. He swore his heart cracked as he gazed upon your face, deep eye bags and face drained of all life until you laid eyes on him.

Tears had started pouring down your face as you timidly crossed the room to stand across from your lover, all thoughts leaving your head except for the one screaming at you to collapse into his arms and stay there for the rest of time. When you came within arms reach you stood timidly infront of him, and his frowned deepened. He lifted his hand and let his fingers grace over your cheeks to swipe away some of your tears.

His expression hardened as you choked out a sob, unbelieving that he was real after all this time.  "Y-your here, I-its been so long..." You sniffled as he enveloped you in his arms and you both sank to your knees, collapsing into each other.

He mumbled a string of apologies into your hair and inhaled your sweet scent, one he had missed for a century. Tears slipped down his pale cheeks as you shook your head, your face pressed into his chest as your arms were wrapped tightly around his torso.

"I'm so sorry my darling, I've spent a century regretting the terms we parted on and thinking about how you were left here to tend to the dreaming alone" He pulled you away from him to examine your ghostly state but you shook your head and tried to wipe away at some of his steady tears as he did for you.

"No Morpheus please, none of that matters. I don't care, because I have you here with me now," You assured him as he pulled you impossibly close to him, relishing your presence.

But the image of what he had done to you, the toll his absence, his realm, had taken on you and he would never forgive himself.

He had so many regrets but none of them mattered now because he finally had his beautiful wife in his arms again and he swore right then and there as you cried into each other's arms that he would do better, and he would never take you for granted again.

You made a similar promise to yourself as well, you couldn't begin to imagine what he had been through over the past century, one that was littered with regrets for the both of you.

 You would speak of it eventually, but for now, you would sit here together for as long as you both needed, the Dreaming could wait another day or so, you were Morpheus's first priority, and nothing would come before you again.

•••

I put my heart and soul into this. thank you. goodnight, its 1 am and i have school lmao.

#the sandman fanfic #the sandman netflix #dream of the endless #dreams and nightmares #morpheus #the dream king #the dreaming #dream of the endless x reader #morpheus x reader #dark!morpheus #angst

[muffinsin]

hey!! if you're okay with it, maybe general fluff headcanons about the daughters and their mama? 🥺 just general stuff-- who's the clingiest with her, how they get her attention, how they strive for her pride and look up to her, etc, and just general lovins :)

Hell yeah! This is adorable!🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️

Let’s get into it🫶

Masterlists

Bela

She’s an utter Mama’s Girl, through and through, and has always been

What Alcina says, goes, and there’s no debate about this

Her mother is her entire world. She wants to impress her at all times

In return, Alcina takes her time to reassure her eldest many times how proud she is of her. The words still make Bela feel happy no matter how often said to her

Bela doesn’t have all that many role models, but her mama is one of them, and has always been

She’s just so…perfect, to Bela

So powerful and regal, elegant, loving and caring, intelligent, beautiful, intimidating to those she wants to scare off. She’s all Bela hopes to become one day, all she thrives to be

She tries to be just like Alcina, and copies her in many ways. Some subtle, some- less subtle. Out of all sisters, Bela is the most similar to their mother

She copies Alcina’s perfumes and used to love dressing up as her. Especially as a young, re-born “child” she loved to be mama while she played dress up with her sisters

Alcina thought this was adorable. Especially when she found Bela trying one of her dresses as a child, the garment practically swallowing her

Occasionally, she leaves her perfume out for her eldest to find

Having Alcina’s scent around her helps Bela focus, and relax. She used to have severe separation anxiety as it comes to Alcina, and while she improved in time, the perfume is a must to feel as though mama is with her at all times

Additionally, Bela copies her walk and the way she carries herself. Her position is straight, and she doesn’t allow herself to slouch. She sits ladylike and tries to look just as regal as her mother. She walks fast, with proper strides

She’s a mini Alcina at times, really, and the mother of three thinks it’s absolutely adorable

She often sees to having less blood stuck to her face to appear as elegant as Alcina. Even if this often doesn’t work out

At other times, Bela leaves her face dirty on purpose just to have her mama clean it for her in secret. Alcina makes sure her younger two never catch this. She knows it would embarrass Bela endlessly if they found out how she relaxes and purrs loudly the moment mama holds her face gently and dabs it clean with a cloth

She even likes to use words she hears her mother use. A little bit like a parrot, this one

Funnily enough, Bela inspired the word “man-thing”. When Alcina was enraged, yelling something along the lines of “What a useless man!”, while Bela, her voice quiet and unsure as she was still so young, and with quite a small vocabulary back then, repeated: “What a useless man-thing!”

Alcina loved it, and decided to stick with it

Alcina knows her daughter struggles with asking for her attention sometimes. Not wanting to embarrass her, she subtly gives Bela the attention she knows she craves at times

And really? Bela feels so happy whenever she is requested to help Mother with work. This usually means getting to sit on her lap and hand her pencils and documents while she gets head scratches, then being praised for all this

She doesn’t see how she’s helping her mama work, but is too busy purring and rubbing her cheek against Alcina affectionately every few seconds to truly care

At other times, she feels so much pride bloom in her chest when Alcina asks her to help her understand book passages

Of course, Alcina understands them perfectly well. But Bela doesn’t have to know that

Still, the mother of three often acts like she doesn’t quite grasp the meaning of a paragraph just to see Bela’s large smile while she explains it for minutes

And then, of course, there is the loud purring when she is praised for being so smart

She loves her mother’s praise. She thrives off it, and she receives a lot of it

In bed, she loves to recollect all she has been praised for before she sleeps. It really helps her self worth, too

Bela additionally loves to get Alcina’s attention during dinner, when her mother can pay her undivided attention to her. She’s also the sister to sit the closest to their mother, when possible

She rambles of all she can. She infodumps about books she’s read and facts she’s picked up, points out things she’s noticed and things she has come up with

And when she receives head scratches and a kiss to her forehead, Bela purrs for at least thirty minutes even when Alcina has long removed her hand again

Her sisters tease her for this endlessly, but Alcina’s praise of being so intelligent and educated makes up for this

Her favourite time way of spending time with Alcina is to stay with her as she works, as she has since she was a mere child

She’s sat on her mother’s big lap, holding onto the table edge as she watches the pencil scribble against paper

Occasionally, she gets head pats or gentle scratches of her scalp

At other times, when the work is a little more challenging, she feels gentle kisses pressed to the top of her head every once in a while

It makes her so happy, and the best thing? It’s just Bela-Alcina time

Her sisters tend not to bother their mother while she works, giving her sweet, uninterrupted hours with her mama

It’s rare and special to her

She is so incredibly proud to call herself Alcina’s heiress

Bonus: Alcina’s nicknames for Bela include: my little fly, my smart girl, good girl, my darling, my Bela

Cassandra

As the middle child, she doesn’t always have it easy

She struggles with trying to impress Alcina a lot, and finds herself confused when mama just randomly showers her in attention too, for no reason at all other than for the fact that she loves her so

Cassandra is her fierce little huntress, and she loves being praised for this

She has brought mama countless gifts over time

From small deers to humans, to wolves and bears, to lycans and huge monstrosities such as varcolacs

Always, Alcina praises her for these. The best ones are beheaded and put on the walls

Cassandra is endlessly proud when she walks past one of her trophies that mama put up for her

Though, she thinks it’s a little silly that Alcina keeps the trophy of her first catch- a mere possum- on the walls. It’s tiny!

Her favourite way of getting Alcina’s attention is through her kills. Often she will drag prey inside, quite obviously to a spot Alcina can see

She won’t ask for her mother’s attention- verbally- but practically melts into her touch and purrs quietly when a hand is set on her head and the spot behind her ear is scratched lovingly

She could lose herself in that, really, and often only realises she’s purring with her eyes closed when she hears one of her sisters chuckle at her

Cassandra isn’t fond of appearing clingy at all. She’s also the least clingy sister as it comes to Alcina

Still, when being cuddled in a pile with her sisters, she gets quite moody when mama stops patting her and turns her attention to one of her sisters

Alcina is a role model to Cassandra as it comes to hunting

She knows, mama is very capable of taking all prey down within seconds! She’s strong and quick in her attacks, powerful and intimidating

Cassandra loves when Mother joins her hunts

Often, this is their quality time together

A hunt, just for them. Only Cassandra and mama. Not her sisters. Nor some maid. Just her, her mother, and their prey

Due to the demanding work for the wine business, Alcina doesn’t get out to hunt with her daughters all that often. Still, she makes sure it happens regularly

And especially with her middle child, she ensures she always finds time to hunt with her

During those times Cassandra pounces on anything she can. Wolves, birds, bears, lycans, humans. She makes fast work of it all and looks back with a bloody grin, golden eyes searching for Alcina

Cassandra would never admit how badly she was wants her mama to see how well she’s doing

She doesn’t need to ask, however. Mama’s eyes are always on her, as they should be

When she turns, golden eyes already look at her, and red painted lips are curled in a proud smile already

While she would normally fight her mother’s affection off in the castle, she savours it during their private hunts. No maidens forcing her to hold up her tough reputation. No annoying sisters teasing her for liking the affection and attention she receives

So, when she turns around after a kill and feels large hands cup her bloodied cheek, and red lips press to her forehead, Cassandra smiles widely

Usually, Alcina allows her daughter to hunt when they’re out. Occasionally though, it’s Cassandra’s turn to stare and giggle in delight when her mother makes quick work of a prey

She admires her, and the look in her dark golden eyes openly shows it. It’s a way of Cassandra letting her mother know, she is her role model

Cassandra, while not openly so, is at times very similar to her mother. Perhaps even more so than Bela- though she knows, if she ever mentioned this in front of her sister, it would rub her the wrong way

Cassandra is headstrong, powerful, intimidating and loyal. She cares deeply about those she loves, and this love is not earned so easily. She likes to be in charge, and is annoyed easily when something doesn’t go her way

However, she shares more than just these traits with Alcina

While being very loving and caring, Cassandra is quick to get angry, too. When she feels bad about this- which is quite rarely, really- she thinks of how mama is the same. It makes her feel less bad

Aside from this, Cassandra loves to hoard. Not just anything, though

She loves to steal things from her favourite people and hoard them in a small box hidden away in her room

In this box is her old blanket, Bela’s pillow, one of Daniela’s stuffed animals- which Cassandra insisted a maid must’ve taken- and a pair of Alcina’s gloves

She can’t explain why she loves to hoard such things, but it makes her feel comfortable and happy

During moments that scare her (even if she would never admit to being scared), she occasionally brings forth the box. She likes to put on her mother’s gloves, even when they are by far too big on her, lay her head on Bela’s pillow and cuddle Daniela’s stuffed animal tightly

It helps her think of her family being right by her side in those moments, even when she is too embarrassed to seek them out

Bonus: Alcina’s nicknames for Cassandra include: little fly, my fierce little fly/bug, my drakeling (little dragon), my brave little warrior

Daniela

She’s a mama’s girl, but in a different way than Bela

She is convinced she’s mama’s favourite, and loves to bask in her attention

She’s incredibly clingy, and loves to seek Alcina out multiple times a day just to spend time together

Often, Daniela is reading in the library, humming along and smiling when she thinks; she must go find mama!

With her book in her hand, she swarms to Alcina’s office, uncaring of the staff members that rush to get out of her way to spare their lives

Once she arrives at her destination, Daniela eagerly stars rambling

Sometimes, she falls down on Alcina’s desk. This- isn’t ideal, per se- when the woman is trying to work

Daniela only ever giggles happily when she is lifted, assuming mama is ready to cuddle her

Her face shows her disappointment when she is just sat on the older woman’s lap, but Mama goes back to her work instead of paying attention to her

Often enough this won’t bother her for long. While whining for a little while, it only takes a kiss and a “Daniela…” for her to stop dwelling on her disappointment

Whether her mama is busy or not, Daniela loves to tell her about her day and the book she’s reading

She smiles widely while she rambles of her book

Sometimes, she looks up and shoots Alcina a glare. Then, she giggles when her mama asks her something regarding what she’s just told her

She does listen! And it makes Daniela so happy!

She continues rambling until she either tires herself out and falls asleep on Alcina’s warm lap, gets distracted, or becomes bored of her monologue

She likes to stay with Alcina, still, and sometimes simply cuddles up on the window next to her desk

At other times, she simply swarms off again after kissing her mama on the cheek as a goodbye

Like her sisters, Daniela views her mother as a role model. Out of the three sisters, though, she has the most role models. Not only Alcina, but her sisters too

Still, her mother is perfect in her eyes. And beautiful!

Daniela wants to become as beautiful as her

From a young age on, Daniela has always been in awe of her mother’s beauty

She often tries different hairstyles, and while she usually asks one of her sisters to do her hair, she always goes to her mother for her approval

Only when mama tells her how pretty she looks, is she truly happy

She loves to style her hair so it looks similar to Alcina’s, and likes to wear her white dress at times to look more like her mama

Aside from this, Alcina has spotted her youngest raising her closet for dresses multiple times already

Upon being caught sitting in a dress by far too large and heavy for her, Daniela only stares. She can’t help but blush, as though a child caught doing something they’re not supposed to

Ah, but Alcina is never angry at her little Daniela

She merely lifts her and smiles when her daughter’s eyes practically sparkle. At last, the dress doesn’t look ridiculously big on her

She can’t swarm with such a heavy dress weighing her down, and is all too happy to be lifted so it looks like she’s wearing the long, white dress. It makes her feel like a queen. The most beautiful of all- except for Mother, of course

To copy her mama, Daniela sometimes also likes to use red lipstick, rather than black one, and apply her makeup carefully, rather than smeared or dark looking

Daniela’s favourite way to capture her mother’s attention is through relentless whining for attention

She can go on with no end in sight, whining and tugging on Alcina’s dress at her hip until the mother of three turns her head and pays attention to her, at last

As it comes to her favourite activity with Alcina, reading and cuddling takes the top

She loves nothing more than to cuddle up in her mama’s warm lap and have her head and neck scratched lovingly while her mother reads to her

Often, Daniela asks her to read a fairytale to her during the day

She’s a little too embarrassed to ask her mama to read her bedtime stories when she is centuries old already- aside from that: her sisters would never let that go!

Alas, Daniela gets her story time and cuddle sessions during the day

She takes many naps, and loves to retreat to Alcina when she begins to feel tired, then plop down and sleep either on her bed, her table, her couch edge, her window sill, or her lap

On an entirely other note: Daniela possesses a weapon her sisters do not have: her puppy eyes

Well trained and used at every opportunity without any hesitation at all, she knows of their power

She knows, all it takes is for mama to look into her big, golden eyes and watch the pout form on her lips for her to grant Daniela nearly every wish

Of course, she abuses this to no end

New toys and play-maids, a snack, time spent together when Alcina technically needs to finish up on some documents

She grins triumphantly whenever she manages to succeed at getting what she wants. Daniela knows, she has her entire family wrapped around her finger. And she loves it

She’s the “baby of the family”, after all

Bonus: Alcina’s nicknames for Daniela: little fly, little princess, my dove, good girl, my beautiful little girl

#cassandra dimitrescu #daniela dimitrescu #bela dimitrescu #resident evil village

[scarredwoods]

I know I'm pretty late to the trend of making your own Rise version of this and that character, but if I may, I would like to introduce you to my Mona Lisa and Miyamoto Usagi.

At first, it was going to be Yuichi, but I'm too addicted to the comics and Usagi's silly behavior. He's not as much of a serious badass as most people think, trust me. As for Mona Lisa, well... I'm not sure how to not make it sound like a self insert, because it's not, but overall I really wanted to make her Hispanic for the sole purpose of her cussing people out in our native language. I know my language, I know my culture, and I like putting in references of what I see and hear in my day to day life with my family. Overall, the story I had planned I mostly centered around them.

After Usagi's master died, he was told to deliver an artifact and scrolls to a member of a "dead clan" out of respect because as it turned out, Mifune's clan was once allies with this other clan. The last place anyone remembers last seeing this last clan member moved to Hollywood, California. To fulfill his Lord Mifune's last wish, he leaves his country in Japan to go find this dead clan. The problem is that Usagi has only ever known about being a Samurai and nothing else, considering this is what he was raised to be. He doesn’t know how to function in a busy city or with other strangers. And he especially doesn't know about scammers.

This is when he first meets Mona Lisa. Usagi has just arrived in California, and the Yokais there immediately sniffed out the foreigner. Trying to get him to spend all his money at their store or over price his food, saying it's "authentic" only to be saved by the Salamander who puts the others in their place. After hearing that Usagi has never left his village before and that he needed to find a human with what minimal information he had, Mona saw that this guy was gonna be in serious trouble and become flat out broke in the next two days if she didn't help him.

That's all she was planning on doing, help him find the human and teach him how to survive properly in this new place. One thing led to another, and they find out that the human they're looking for is an action star actor who was last seen at the Battle nexus over a decade ago.

After both realizing that Usagi had to travel to the other side of the world in order to find him, Mona begrudgingly tells him that she's a bounty hunter for the Yokai police and that she travels everywhere to find who she needs to find and offered let him travel with her for a while up until there's a moment where they need to part ways.

But that didn't happen.

After sticking by eachothers side and going through all these adventures/near death experiences, they've basically adopted each other as siblings and Mona has promised him that she will get him to New York no matter what.

Unfortunately, through their travels, someone has been following them and has even placed a price on Usagi's head. With Mona being a Bounty Hunter, this person offered her a large sum of money in exchange for her travel partner. She refused and tried to get away as far as possible, not telling Usagi about her interactions with this strange Yokai.

The relationship that Mona and Usagi have is heavily based off of my own protective relationship with my little brothers. Including all the jokes and teasing and buying them ice-cream as a treat for being good.

I've seen a lot of duos and team ups of Usagi and Mona Lisa with other tmnt characters, but I've never seen anyone do one with them together (Understandable considering they've never met in anywhere, I think)

Please let me clarify that THIS IS NOT A SHIP. They have a sibling relationship in my AU, and I do hope you respect that.

I also want to clarify that this is NOT Yuichi Usagi, this is Miyamoto Usagi

Thank you for listening to my rant

#miyamoto usagi #tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #usagi yojimbo #fan art #rottmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #mona lisa #tmnt mona lisa #tmnt au

[rubywrites-4]

plot: chris and you were forced to marry because of the business deal since both of your family are mafia leaders. Chris’s father asked Chris to marry you so he could get the power of mafia position since he will be the in-law of one of the world famous mobster.

Chris didn’t even want to be married since he enjoyed the playboy lifestyle. Since it was a forced marriage, Chris didn’t stop his playboy lifestyle. It was all fun and game for him until he started to get to know you. He was having this feelings and love he never felt for anyone and you’re the reason why he’s feeling this way. You and him was getting to know and started to bond well until that one day came.

your father and and mother came to your house along with the bodyguards.

“Chris, I know you married my daughter so you can have the power of the Mafia family. Since that’s the purpose, I have decided to make you as one the mafia leader but you must do one thing.

“What’s that ?” Chris asked with no interest on it since he’s already falling in love with you and he doesn’t care about this mafia power anymore but he might do it due to his father’s wish.

“Divorce my daughter” your dad told him with a slight hope that Chris will divorce you.

“You see, I know you and my daughter were forced to marry but then again, both of you don’t deserve a marriage without an ounce of love. I decided to make this decision is because I realized and regret all my wrongdoings and I know my daughter suffered a lot because of me… I think it’s time to set her free and let her live the life she wants! I hope you understand what I’m trying to say Chris and I know you don’t and won’t love her so make it easy for her ” your father said while smiling sadly.

Chris wanted to say something before you interrupted by saying “i… I’ll divorce him dad” you said while nodding sadly because you know Chris won’t love you for once even though he was nice to you for the past few months.

You might love him more than anything else but he won’t love you back, not even once! You always know that.

you asked a day at you dad, for you to pack up your things and sign the divorce papers.

While that night, you were packing up your things. Chris came into the room and gave you a box of gift. “Y/n… this is… is for you” he gave it while not looking at you but you know that he cried before coming to see you because of his puffy red eyes. You thanked him for the gift and before you stepped away, Chris pulled you back into him and hugged you tightly while whispering “don’t leave me sweetheart… please… please don’t leave me ”

You chuckled sadly and told him “you got what you wanted Chris. you… you don’t even love me. Not even once you have felt what I felt for you! I’ve always loved you even when I know you go to night clubs and have fun with the girls over there while ill be here thinking that you’re busy with works… I still and always love you but… i have to let you go Chris. You don’t and won’t love me and it hurts to know that the person I love with my whole life doesn’t even have an ounce of love for me” you cried while hugging him.

“What if I said that I love you too?” This time Chris asked while his voice breaking. This time it was him crying because he realized how bad you loved him even during the time when he didn’t feel anything for you.

“That would be the biggest lie you will ever tell me Chris. You don’t love me, I’ve always known that!”

You cupped his cheeks “take care okay.. find someone you love and live happily with her! At least love her truly” you said while smiling at him and walked out of the room and his life forever.

#chrisevans #chris evans x reader

[inkykeiji]

i’m about to show you the beginning is the end

anonymous said: touya-nii reader def had to reason with him as to why he cant mark her neck (school, friends) and hes all wtf? he spirals for a good hour as to why u dont want him to leave those pretty love bites u cry for + adore for the world to see? awww how funny and cute would touya-nii be overthinking this.. he just cant understand & u have bring natsuo in to help u

character: todoroki touya | dabi

genre: angst with the teeniest, tiniest sprinkle of fluff

notes: aaah okay!!! this is set in my touya-nii AU, approximately a few weeks after part three of the main series. you don’t have to read the main series before reading this to get the gist of it, but it would help to have a little knowledge about what happened & why their relationship is in such a volatile state! | title credit: this is love by air traffic controller

warnings: no smut but still 18+ minors do not interact, stepcest/pseudocest, verbal fighting, extremely toxic relationship, marking/bruising/hickeys, drug use

words: 4.8k

synopsis:

“I love you!” he nearly chokes, the proclamation a mangled mess in his mouth.

It’s clear you aren’t used to hearing those three little words, chest deflating with the softest little whimper, your own brilliant love shining through your glistening eyes, so bright it blisters his skin.

It’s clear he isn’t used to saying them, either, the wooden sentiment feeling foreign on his tongue—uncomfortable, unfamiliar, but correct nonetheless.

“Don’t you love me?” His voice tapers off into a whisper, that solitary tear finally, finally breaking free of his lashes, rolling down his cheek and leaving a gleaming stream in its wake. A thumb swipes through it viciously, smearing salt water across his cheekbone, his jaw clenching twice as he swallows thickly. “I thought you did.”

Wisps of smoke curl through the air, effused from a slow-burning cigarette held with artful carelessness between Touya’s lithe fingers. Twisted on his side and propped up with an elbow digging into his mattress, he idly scrolls through his phone, irrelevant news articles and celebrity gossip blurring past his eyes while you stand in front of his full-length mirror, getting ready for your class.

Rei hates it when he smokes in the house, says it irritates her eyes and nose, says the scent triggers headaches.

But what his mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

There’s a lot of things she doesn’t know, after all, isn’t there? A lot of things she willfully ignores about her son, pretends she doesn’t see or smell—the small smattering of crimson on the sleeve of his jacket, the stinging stench of metallic copper than sews itself into the fabric of his t-shirt and twines itself through the strands of his hair—so, really, what’s one more?

Nothing she won’t learn to tolerate.

He can feel your gaze on him, bouncing off the reflective mirror and gliding over the bare skin and lean muscle of his chest, journeying down to the still unbuttoned jeans sitting low on his jutting hipbones, waistband loose and exposing the elastic of his briefs.

“You’re so beautiful, niichan,”

The compliment is murmured out, nothing more than a mesmerized huff of breath, words infused with a sort of whimsical appreciation that sends one of those unfamiliar rushes of warmth surging through his chest.

He’s never felt this way about anyone before. 

His stare lifts to meet yours, lazy and half-lidded, clear sapphire slow and purposeful as he traces the contours of your face—the curve of your cheek (sticky with dried salt from your sobbing), the slope of your nose (still twitching with residual sniffles), the shape of your lips (raw and swollen from his tongue and teeth)—then drifts down to the busy fingers fussing around your neck, delicately pressing a powder puff against your marred flesh.

It takes him a moment to fully comprehend your intention, brows knitting together as his eyes narrow, squinting in concentration then widening as the realization hits.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

He’s nearly choking on the question as he shoots up from the bed, half-smoked cigarette stubbed out in an instant, feet slapping against the hardwood and long legs crossing the room with a few quick strides. Slender fingers cuff your wrist, squeezing firmly and halting your ministrations, a cry of pained surprise catching in your throat.

“Niichan!” The honorific slices through the air as your gaze flies to his, hand going limp in his grasp, puff falling to the floor. “I—I don’t—”

“Oh, don’t play fucking stupid,” he spits, grip around your wrist tightening as he yanks you closer to him. “My marks. Why are you—Why are you trying to hide them?”

The words splinter in his throat, breath exhaled through flared nostrils in short, hot puffs as he frenetically glances between your face and your neck, blood gone thorny in his veins.

“O-Oh.” Blinking heavy tears from your vision, you look back towards the mirror. “Well, I-I love them, Touya-nii, I really do—they’re so pretty, and I—”

Your voice fades softly, eyes wistful, almost dreamy with the mist filling them, as they unhurriedly scan the blooms of periwinkle and blue-black painted across your exposed throat—golf-ball sized welts of lilac and violet that climb their way to your jaw, just shy of crossing the line onto your cheek—savouring them with admiration.

“And I wish I could show them off; truly, I do. But—” your eyes dart back to his, partially obscured by your lashes, bashful even as you search for his acceptance, his approval. “But they’re too dangerous, don’t you think?”

“Too—” Too dangerous?

The word claws it’s way through the inked flesh of his cheek, shoving itself past the wound and down his throat to churn the acid in his stomach, the hand around your wrist going lax as he stumbles backwards from the impact.

Too dangerous? But how could that be? This is what you wanted; this is what you wanted, what you begged and cried for, what you committed such an atrocious act of indecency for, isn’t it?

Unless…

Azure descends from your neck to your breasts, your hips to your feet, pausing for a moment before sliding back up your body, slowly, slowly, scrutinizing.

“Were you…” he trails off, roughly clearing his throat to rid it of the incessant tremble fusing itself to his voice. “Were you lying to me when you said you wanted all of me?”

“What?” The gasp is kicked from your chest by shock, eyes widening and head shaking with vigour as you step towards him, fingers griping through the air, reaching for him. “No! No, Touya-nii, of course not,”

“No?” he laughs, and it’s harsh, strangled, broken, wet. “You sure?”

“Yes,” you answer immediately, strong in your conviction. “You don’t even need to ask, you know—”

“Do I!?” He questions, and now his tone is sharp, hard, loud, smooth, feet beginning to pace. “Do I, really? Because—Because you whined, and you bitched, and you pled for me to be yours, for you to be mine, and now that you are I can’t even claim my favourite person? Because, what? It’s too fucking dangerous? What the fuck does that even mean!”

“Niichan,” you whimper out the honorific, head beginning to shake again, crystal teardrops rolling down your cheeks. “I—I just mean—Well, you know, your mom and my dad had so many questions the last time this happened. They asked me where they came from and why I was allowing someone to do such a thing to me. How am I supposed to respond to that? What am I supposed to say? I never leave or enter the house with anyone but you!”

“Nothing!” he explodes, feet skidding to a stop as he whirls to face you, blue flames flickering behind the water shielding his eyes, any signs of weakness incinerated in an instant, burnt up in the flames with a single blink. “You aren’t supposed to say anything, because none of this is any of their business anyway!”

“My friends at school, they asked, too,” you continue, words tumbling from your mouth at such a fast pace they collide and crash against one another, desperate to explain, desperate to be understood. “Who gave you those? and we didn’t know you had a boyfriend! and why didn’t you tell us about him before? I couldn’t even respond, because I know you don’t want me lying about having a boyfriend—”

“No,” he seethes, the word blistering his throat. No, of course he fucking doesn’t. “You shouldn’t have to lie about them at all!”

“But I can’t—I can’t tell them the truth, and I can only evade these questions for so long before people begin to get nosy, before people begin digging…”

“Who cares what other people think? What does it matter?” Two large hands rake through his tousled hair, fingers knotting in ink and tugging hard, hard enough to have his own features crinkling in pain, hard enough to momentarily calm the confusion roiling in his skull, the hybrid between a laugh and a yelp hitching in his chest. “I want to show the world that I belong to you, and you belong to me, and you’re—you’re fucking covering them up!”

“Touya-nii,” you whisper entreatingly, reaching for him again, falling short once more as he gracefully slips from your grasp. “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t think it’d be this big of a deal…”

Something cracks in his chest at your words, procuring an ache so deep, so dark, so fucking devastating he’s terrified it’s going to swallow him up whole, suck him down from the inside out and drown him in its agony.

Because that fucking hurts, knowing that you truly don’t understand; don’t understand why he’s so upset, don’t understand why this is so important to him, don’t understand what those hickeys symbolize. 

These are marks of love, these are marks of ownership, marks that have been crafted and carved into your skin with utmost affection, he makes sure of it; each sink of sharp incisors engraving his passionate possession onto your flesh, each lave of his slick tongue sealing the blossoming bruises with a declaration of devotion.

It doesn’t make any sense.

Why the hell wouldn’t you want to proudly wear the little masterpieces he’s so conscientiously sucked and bitten into your supple skin, created with such care and attention to detail? Why the hell wouldn’t you want to tell the whole world, boldly and bluntly, that you are taken? Especially when you beg and plead and shout and scream to have the rest of your body sculpted with his teeth?

Honestly, how else are others supposed to know that you belong to him?

Do you not love him as much as he loves you? Do you not want the world to know you’re his? Do you feel ashamed to be so beautifully tinged with his markings? What other reason could you have to want to hide them away, to conceal them and pretend they don’t exist, except for feeling regretful and humiliated by them? 

Everything burns, stings, like each question tearing through his mind is a talon ripping through his body, shredding his organs to ribbons.

Strong arms wind themselves over his body in a pathetic attempt to keep it from unraveling, fingers curling tightly around his biceps, nails scraping against his smooth skin, leaving red, raw tracks in their wake.

Was this the wrong choice? Was it a mistake to let you into his heart? He loves you; this much he knows for certain. He’s never felt this way about anyone else before—not even close—and he’s never found an angel as perfect as you are, but—but is it worth it? Is it worth this kind of terrifying, uncontrollable anguish? Is it worth allowing you to have such control over his emotions?

“Touya-nii! Hey! Touya-nii!”

Your voice cuts through the tide of chaos, beseeching eyes searching his face. Concern has woven itself into the wrinkles of your forehead, tears still steadily streaming from your eyes, small hands working to uncurl his own from his biceps, dislodging his nails from his flesh.

“Where did you just go right now, baby? What happened?”

Baby. Baby. You’ve never called him that before.

But he can’t tell you; he doesn’t know how to. His head shakes in response, eyes shutting tightly, a singular teardrop clinging stubbornly to his bottom lashes.

“That’s—That’s okay,” you murmur softly, a half-suppressed sniffles stuttering your words. “You don’t have to tell me, that’s okay,”

God, you’re so soft, so sweet, so good to him, dainty fingers rubbing soothing little circles into his gouged muscle, each caress eradicating a little more tension, his body beginning to slump into yours, transgressions melting from his mind.

But then you speak again, and it all comes hurdling back, all of the fury and the betrayal, eroding the pleasant fog you had temporarily instilled in his brain like some sort of caustic acid.

“I just—I just wanted you to know that I don’t care about what anyone else thinks. It isn’t about that; it isn’t about that at all. It’s that I don’t want you to get into trouble—”

“Trouble?” His nose scrunches with the word, features puckering as if it’s the most sour thing he’s ever tasted. “What kind of trouble could I possibly get into, that I haven’t gotten into already?”

“But that’s exactly the point!” you cry, frantic for his cognizance. “What we’re doing might not be illegal in a technical sense, but it’s definitely heavily frowned upon, and it raises further suspicions! Red Flags!”

A growl rattles his ribs as he glowers at you. He hates how you’re trying to make this about him, as if you’re somehow doing all of this in his honour and not for yourself, for your public image, for everyone but your big brother.

“I’m so—so worried, Touya-nii, I can’t imagine—”

“Oh, save your pity, I don’t fucking need it,” sapphire rolls in his skull as he rips himself from your grasp. “Acting as if this is somehow for me—”

“It is, niichan! It is!”

“You know, after everything, after all of the crying and the chasing, I finally give you what you want—what I thought you wanted—and you have the goddamn audacity to act with such disrespect.”

Slender fingers are back in his hair again, nails scratching audibly against his scalp as they tangle in onyx tufts, yanking at the strands as his head shakes in disbelief, a terrifying smile stretched abnormally wide across his face.

“I—I finally tell the world, Hey! She’s mine!, finally leave something everyone can immediately notice so they all fucking know, and you—you—”

His voice snaps with a hiccup as he watches it dawn on you, as you realize he’s never once bothered to mark your neck—something visible, something everyone can see all of the time—before he declared that you officially belonged to each other, only a few weeks ago.

A delicate hand flits to encircle your throat, the pads of your fingers stroking the bruises in a way that’s almost tender, affectionate, a newfound appreciation for them, for what they truly mean, settling in your glassy eyes.

“Touya-nii,” you begin, voice hoarse as it grates on your throat. “I didn’t—”

“No, of course you fucking didn’t.”

His heart slams fast and uneven against his ribcage, unsteady beats forcing a razored, ragged breath up his throat, each one slicing his flesh on its exhale, each one forcing honesty from his lips.

“I love you!” he nearly chokes, the proclamation a mangled mess in his mouth.

It’s clear you aren’t used to hearing those three little words, chest deflating with the softest little whimper, your own brilliant love shining through your glistening eyes, so bright it blisters his skin.

It’s clear he isn’t used to saying them, either, the wooden sentiment feeling foreign on his tongue—uncomfortable, unfamiliar, but correct nonetheless.

“Don’t you love me?” His voice tapers off into a whisper, that solitary tear finally, finally breaking free of his lashes, rolling down his cheek and leaving a gleaming stream in its wake. A thumb swipes through it viciously, smearing salt water across his cheekbone, his jaw clenching twice as he swallows thickly. “I thought you did.”

“Absolutely, I do! Niichan, I love you so much—”

“Sure doesn’t look like it,” his words drip with vitriolic acid, his eyes glinting in the diffused afternoon sun as they dart back to the partially concealed bruises.

“Touya-nii, you’re breaking my heart!” Your lashes glitter with diamonds as you blink rapidly, a poor attempt to clear your vision, face adorned with fat glistening tears, and oh, how gorgeous you are when you cry. “Please, I’m sorry, let’s fix this, we can fix this, I just—I don’t kn—”

But he isn’t listening, the blood surging in his ears drowning out your shattered voice, tumultuous thoughts crashing against the walls of his skull, so brutal they must crack the bone and seep through the fractures, cascading down his body like wet cement and bonding to his muscles, so heavy, so stifling, and—and—

And he needs to get the fuck out of here, he needs to get the fuck out of here now, cement stuffing his airways and clogging his veins, vision swimming with distress as he stumbles towards the bathroom, quivering hands already beginning to claw through his pockets.

Then the door is slamming behind him, and the rumbling impact is echoing around you, and you’re all alone.

The hiss of water against ceramic engulfs you a moment later, but you know he’s not showering.

It’s faint, cushioned by the steady stream and muffled by the wood of the door, but if you listen close enough you can hear it, can disentangle it from the knotted sounds and pluck it from the pile, that sharp snort as he stuffs his nose full of white powder.

Stabs of guilt shoot through your stomach, their sting compounded by the molten panic that immediately follows, tar-like tears obscuring your eyes, thick and sticky and clumping your lashes with each rapid blink in an attempt to clear them.

You have to fix this. You need to fix this, now.

But how? How?  

The tingling urgency to act burns in your veins, growing spikier with each passing second as your gaze darts around the room, that toxic concoction of terror and trepidation inching up your throat, sludgy and suffocating.

The familiar sound of plastic buzzing against oak cuts through the mayhem and you rush towards Touya’s phone (he had taken away your own after the Tomura incident), cradling it between your palms.

NATSUO: how are they?

Natsuo! Natsuo can fix this. Natsuo has more credence than you, has more credence than everyone, really, and if there’s anyone who can help you fully articulate the points slaughtered during your fight, it’s him.

You can’t unlock the device—you haven’t a clue what the passcode is—but you don’t need to.

A trembling thumb slams down on the text notification, pressing until the conversation opens up, clumsy fingers hastily tapping out a response.

Call me.

Ever the obedient little brother, Natsuo complies almost instantly, the phone resuming its vibration in your hand mere seconds after the text is delivered.

“Alright, look, I know they aren’t brand name, but they’re gonna get you high just the same, I promise—”

“Natsuo,” you cut him off, his name nothing more than a huff of breath on your lips.

The line goes silent for a moment, your breath held stagnant in your lungs with anticipation.

“Oh. Uh, hey,” he finally responds, slow, tentative, unsure. “What’re you—”

“Natsuo, I need your help,”

“Help?” he questions, and you can almost see his spine straightening, authority and alarm bleeding into his voice, that pre-med school training snapping into action. “What’s wrong?”

“Touya—Touya-nii and I had a fight—” You can’t help the way the word shatters with a pathetic sob, your eyes squeezing shut against the thought, exhaling a shaky breath and pushing forward. “And not a normal fight, Natsuo; a big fight, a bad fight—”

“Okay, okay,” Natsuo’s saying, the professional calm in his tone disrupted by the underlying tremors of personal concern. “Is he alright? I mean, is he safe?”

“I don’t—He’s—I think he’s doing lines in the bathroom,”

For some reason, this seems to placate Natsuo, a faint sigh of relief slithering through the speaker. “Tell me what happened.”

Even with your broken hiccups and slurred sobs, it doesn’t take long to relay the situation to Natsuo, who vows to handle it when he arrives before ending the call. You hadn’t wanted him to hang up—there was something about having him on the phone that felt comforting, that felt safe, as if his mere voice could protect you from the wrath of your big brother—but Natsuo had insisted, assuring you that it would be much worse for Touya to emerge and find you on his phone before Natsuo had reached the house than to keep him on the line.

If Natsuo’s being honest, he thinks it’s pretty cute, the way his big brother just can’t seem to comprehend why anyone, let alone his precious little baby, wouldn’t want to proudly display the marks her niichan gifted her; the way Touya seems to think he’s invincible, untouchable, because he breaks the law habitually with leisure and practiced ease, thus somehow rendering him immune to any law enforcement at all.

Natsuo understands better than their poor baby sister does, though. Natsuo understands that heady power that clogs Touya’s brain and cloaks his thoughts, the heavy, hazy veil of authority permanently shielding his gaze.

And Natsuo understands how to deal with it.

As it turns out, Natsuo makes it to you before Touya’s left his little sanctuary, the muddled sound of his little brother’s voice more than enough to coax him from the bathroom.

“What are you doing here?” Voracious pupils rimmed with crystal search the younger man’s face, staggering towards his younger brother and clapping a hand on his broad shoulder.

“Came to see if you were okay,” Natsuo responds a little breathlessly, placing a palm over the hand clamped down on his shoulder and squeezing, his body a source of reliable stability for his niisan.

“I’m not,” Touya’s face twists, the words bitter on his tongue, casting a glare your way.

“Hey,” Natsuo says softly, using a gentle hand to guide Touya’s gaze back to his own. “She told me what happened—”

“Oh? Did she? Did she tell you how fucking disrespectful she’s been?”

“Of course,” Natsuo soothes. “Of course she did, niisan. You know she’s never anything but honest,”

“Honest,” Touya snorts, eyes rolling. “Honest. Is that what we’re calling it? Is that what she was three weeks ago, when she went and fucked—”

“I’m not here to talk about that, Touya-nii,” Natsuo says, the words somehow both firm yet gentle. “You know why she did that, and you’ve moved forward, haven’t you? It’s in the past now,”

Natsuo knows it isn’t that simple, though. Shards of Touya shoot through his mind: how his voice had been thick with tears through the staticky speaker of Natsuo’s phone; the potent panic that had imbued his confessions and explanations as they raced from his lips; the way his niisan became small, scared—smaller and more scared than Natsuo had ever seen him before—when he admitted that he was downright petrified of what was happening to him; all of those strange, unknown feelings coursing through his body, the sheer vulnerability and loss of power, the anger and hatred and terror and heartache, the inability to bear the mere thought of losing you, of you leaving him, forever.

Touya shifts, shrugs, looks away, and nods once, jaw flexing.

Shifting on the edge of Touya’s bed, your eyes look between the two of them, narrowing a little, as if trying to decipher the unspoken memory passing through their eyes, in the air between their chests.

“Maybe I should—”

“No,” Touya snaps instantly, broken from wherever Natsuo had just taken him, eyes blazing. “You stay.”

“She has a point about the hickeys, you know,” Natsuo says cautiously, eyes trained on his big brother’s expressions, ready to revise his statement at the slightest hint of recoil. “Marks such as these put your whole relationship at risk, Touya-nii.”

“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” Touya sneers. “Incest isn’t even illegal in Japan, alright? Especially between fucking step-siblings. I checked.”

Oh, Natsuo doesn’t doubt that one bit; Touya’s practically got Japan’s criminal law memorized backwards.

“It isn’t about the incest, though,” Natsuo continues in that slow, soft lilt. “It’s so much more than that, niisan. Incest might not be fully illegal here, but what if the police begin to dig more, dig further, find some dirt with your DNA all over it…”

You can both see it, that smug self-assurance plastered across Touya’s face paired with a dismissive scoff in response, arrogance shining in his eyes—yeah, right, as if they could ever catch him—but the thought still manages to sew a few thin threads of fear through him.

Touya is careful, sure. Touya works for the biggest Yakuza in the fucking country, though. Touya’s currently at war with said Yakuza’s fucking son.

If the authorities come poking around, who’s to say Tomura won’t sell him out, at least in some capacity? Who’s to say Tomura won’t frame him for something, won’t make some sort attempt to get rid of him if the opportunity presents itself? Because with Touya out of the picture, that leaves you, his poor, precious little baby, helpless and all alone…

“Besides,” Natsuo continues after a beat, drawing his big brother’s attention back to him. “You know the hickeys are there—”

“It isn’t the same,” Touya growls, eyes flashing. “I’m not the one who needs to know they’re there! They aren’t just for me!”

That’s right; they’re more than just bruises on flesh. They’re a claim, a stake to ownership, a bold statement.

“You’re right, niisan, I’m sorry,” Natsuo’s saying immediately, pacifying hands finding Touya’s wounded biceps and squeezing gently. A hum vibrates in his throat as he thinks. “What if you bought her something a little more permanent, though? Bruises fade fast and raise a whole ton of questions no one wants to answer, but something physical—something like a piece of jewellery, something she can wear every day—will not.” 

It’s easy to tell that Touya isn’t totally in love with the idea—what makes the hickeys so special is that they are made by him—but he has to admit, Natsuo makes a good point.

“Please, niichan,” you chime in, and your voice is small, hesitant, terrified of shattering what Natsuo has just precariously repaired. “I love you so much, I love you more than anything on this earth, I swear I do, and I’d love something that could help me show it off—something that isn’t as hazardous, because—because—” The words catch on a suppressed sob in your throat, but you power through, voice garbled. “Because I can’t live without you, Touya-nii, I need you to survive now, and I—I don’t want to do anything that puts us at risk; that puts me at risk of losing you, even if it’s tiny. I can’t go on without you by my side!”

Bursts of pride race through his veins, coming to collect into a concentrated ball of glittering sunlight behind his ribs, encasing his heart in its warm embrace.

“I’d do anything for you, Touya-nii. Anything. You’re all I’ve ever wanted,” you stare up at him with such devotion, such sincerity, so much so that it’s spilling from your eyes and mixing with your tears, staining your cheeks and bearing your soul to him with such obedience—so willing to serve, wanting to serve.

And suddenly, he remembers. He remembers why he decided to open his heart to you, why he fell so irreversibly hard, so irreversibly fast for you, why he knowingly took that chance to be vulnerable, fully aware of the potential perils that come packaged with love.

No, it wasn’t wrong to let you in, to let you stay. Yes, it was worth it—is worth it—being honest and raw with you; giving you all of him, just like you begged him to not so many nights ago, in the dark of his bedroom with tears in your eyes and your heart in your voice; becoming wholly and completely yours—and you, wholly and completely his.

A calloused hand cups your cheek, rough fingers running across your sticky skin as he gazes down at you with so much love it aches, this love he’s never allowed himself to show you before, beautiful and vulnerable and so fucking bright it scalds your skin.

“Yeah, that’s right,” he murmurs, revelling in the way you whimper and nuzzle into his palm. “Who will guide you, who will take care of you, if niichan isn’t there? You can’t do it on your own, can you?” he clicks his tongue, like you are the most pathetically precious thing he’s ever owned. “You need him, don’t you, princess?”

Affirmatives are spilling from your lips in an instant, both hands wrapped around his strong wrist and gripping it like a lifeline, keeping his palm pressed almost painfully to your cheek.

“I know, baby, I know,” he’s saying softly, just shy of a whisper. “You need him, I know.”

And he needs you, too.

✰          ✰          ✰

Natsuo’s words ring true in his head, and it isn’t more than a day or two after the argument when he presents you with one of those pretty blue boxes, an ivory ribbon tied in an immaculate bow around it. The small package houses a Tiffany key, the base a heart-shaped locket, a scrawled ‘T’ engraved in the platinum; a cheesy symbolism that you own not only the key, but his whole heart, too—but it isn’t what he truly wanted to gift you with; not exactly, anyway.

A diamond choker—a subtle collar—that’s what you need. That’s what he wants to give you.

But the collar is something that’s special; the collar requires a significant amount of consideration and contemplation on his part, an excruciating amount of searching and studying in an effort to find one that’s just right. This isn’t something he wants to carelessly rush into.

It isn’t perfect, but the Tiffany necklace will work as a placeholder for now, enough to declare his love and ownership until he finds something flawless, something faultless, that suits you—and his proclamation—exquisitely.

#dabi x reader #dabi angst #todoroki touya x reader #todoroki touya angst #bnha angst #peep the subtle star wars reference ehehehehe #anyone who notices it gets a cookie!!! #also peep a few uhhh easter eggs or like;;; references to my touya nii christmas series!!!! :o #hehehe <3 enjoy n heed the warnings!! #tw stepcest #tw pseudocest #tw toxic relationship

[aziraphalalala]

She stepped closer, understanding in her eyes.

“So, he left you… for a job opportunity?”

“Nngggghhhyyeeaaaah, you could say that.”

“Well, good riddance. If he didn’t choose you, he doesn’t deserve you.”

“He kind of does, you know.”

This snippet comes from my first ever fic, "In the bookshop, after". I promised I'd answer any asks with 500 words from anywhere on any fic I've written here, so, here we are. Author rambling meta, served piping hot, coming up!

Why did I write this fic?

This fic, albeit a short one-shot, was written in the emotional aftershock of *points finger at the last 15 minutes of Good Omens S2E6*.

The second season finally unleashed a burst of creativity and a desire to write in me that had been lying in wait for quite some time. Suddenly, I had so many ideas, and I needed to let it all out somehow. I drew. I sang. I wrote shitty poetry. I returned to tumblr to scream about Good Omens with everyone else.

Once I wrote this fic, it was like opening a Pandora's Box. I can no longer stop, nor do I want to. Writing gives me life. I enjoy it so much I am now writing a multi-chapter human AU fic which will end up being around 30,000 words. In less than 2 months.

It's crazy, and glorious.

Anyway, back to this snippet.

The characters, the dialogue, the context

This unnamed lady, who steps in to the bookshop as Crowley is slowly but steadily consuming quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol, has an uncanny way of picking up things she shouldn't be able to.

Crowley and the lady have a conversation which happens on multiple levels, especially for Crowley. He ends up being painfully honest, secure in his knowledge that most of it goes over the head of this random person.

We, the readers, are not sure whether that's truly the case. She appears rather unusually perceptive.

I have plans for that random person, and a whole backstory for her. I might write it one day. That fic would go a long way explaining her side of this conversation.

But for now, we don't really know her, and we leave it at that.

What was I thinking as I wrote this?

This moment, these lines, draw heavily from my own life. I, too, once imagined that love is an emotion that in itself can be enough for a relationship. Experience, sometimes harshly, has taught me that in the end, our actions and choices are more important than our intentions and emotions.

Does this person choose me? Do they prioritize my needs? Do they make an effort, day in day out, to make our relationship work?

This is the lesson the lady wishes to drill into Crowley. And if it were any other person in the world, a friend of mine for example, I'd tell them to move on. Good riddance. They don't choose you, they don't deserve you.

But. Aziraphale and Crowley have been friends, enemies and co-conspirators for six millennia. How does one even begin to define the complexities of their relationship?

Have they not, consistently, worked to keep each other safe, to find short moments together that they can share in secret?

Their relationship is a relationship that thrives despite being forbidden. Despite the fear that's ever present in their lives.

Some word choice trivia.

"Job opportunity" is a very purposeful choice, because it's a slightly revolting business jargon term. It's jarring, seeing it in the context of Good Omens and our two supernatural beings. It implies, heavily, that it's a bullshit opportunity, meaning it's not what it seems to be. It implies that the lady thinks Aziraphale made the stupidest choice on the planet for something that isn't worth it.

Crowley kinda agrees, but not whole-heartedly, because I believe he knows Aziraphale had very little choice in the end.

And, let's face it. Being an angel of Heaven is basically a shitty corporate job that sucks the life and soul out of you.

"He kind of does, you know." This is where the conversation really happens on a few different levels. Since Crowley understands why Aziraphale did what he did (at least in my head), he still has hope that they can be together, in the end. That they are, in fact, fighting the same fight, on the same side.

Finally.

I'll leave it to all of you to decide whether the lady truly knows what's up when we say "She stepped closer, understanding in her eyes."

Does she understand, think she understands, or do we misinterpret her expression? Again, how is she there? How can she just pick up the conversation, and so many details without being told?

One day I hope we'll find out.

Thanks for the ask, anon! This was fun. 😊

#fic asks #author meta #author rambles #author rambles about their fic #seriously won't anyone stop me #i can just go on like this if I please? #amazing #fanfic #my fanfic writing #my fanfic #my fanfiction #my fic writing #good omens #good omens fanfiction #in the bookshop after #lifting eden #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable idiots #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley

[vacantgodling]

Trick or Treat? 🦇

thank you!! you received a treat :3c

have the first 3 chapters of NAD’s outline cuz why not 🤪

CHAPTER 1 -> (POV) NYSEAH NICOLETTI

nyseah wakes up in an unfamiliar room, her memories of the night before hazy. as she stumbles out of the bed to search for her cigarettes, she opens her left eye and is struck with a wave of pain so fierce that she can barely move. it feels like burning and stabbing and crushing all at the same time. unable to find her phone, she stumbles out into the street (a motel is where she was at) and no one around stops to help her (bc this is a norm in new mananza esp when in this part of town). she makes it to an alley when she finally collapses, and passes out right as the legs of two people appear before her.

CHAPTER 2 -> (POV) DONTE MACBRIDE

don is ready to close up his p.i. services for the evening; another day with zero business. but he’s not too bothered by it. describing the run down office and its purposeful location outside of the public eye, you can sense that there’s something not quite right about the law here. right as he’s lighting up a cigar after putting up the closed sign, there’s a knock on the door. donte tells himself to leave it alone, but curiosity gets the better of him, and he opens the door. a tall, elegant, and expensively dressed man is standing before him and while don doesn’t recognize him he recognizes that the man must be someone rich, famous or important. after being bullied to allow the man inside, it’s discovered the man is a famous actor; mononymously known as leonine. leo presents him with a case, the recently deceased rising star and close friend of his, roxanne davis, and this is when you begin to learn about the tom foolery of the new mananza justice system. leo insists that he doesn’t want to pursue the culprit or take anything to trial he just wants to understand why all of this happened. after presenting don with an offer he can’t refuse (clearing all his debts and paying for him to get out of the city for good so he can retire in peace), don shakes on it. one final case.

CHAPTER 3 -> (POV) ALONA SPRINGWELL

on her way from class, alona stops back at her cushy dorm room to drop off textbooks and change into her uniform for work; a sexy but business casual secretary uniform. she remarks to herself that she’s never seen herself so adult like and despite having the job for near a month now it still feels like a dream to her to be working at the company; the largest and most extravagant conglomerate in the city. at work, we follow alona’s day to day and get a feel of how far removed this world is from the squalor that don and nyseah deal with. when alona is packing up for the night, her supervisor approaches her and asks if she can take over the night shift for a coworker who called out sick, with triple time for short notice. alona agrees readily, and settles in for the night; though why she, a secretary, should be working overnight is unusual to her. as the night carries on you begin to notice slightly weird things happening and alona thinks about odd things and rules of the job. after another worker buzzes in, alona hears a noise coming from a separate hallway that sounds like a loud thud. it startles her, and she tries to ignore it but after an hour her curiosity gets the better of her. she closes down the desk momentarily to take a short bathroom break, but instead wanders the halls for a bit (in her allotted 15 minutes) to try and locate where the thud may have come from. coming from one of the back rooms alona was told she didn’t have authorization to enter, a trail of what appears to be blood oozes on the floor leading to the door. she hurries back to the desk.

tbh i feel like these do a good job of introducing the main conflicts of what’s happening in the story and showcasing how this is a triad pov story. every chapter is gonna always rotate from nyssie, to donte, to alona but nda sounds horrible versus nad so 💀 this isn’t even the real title anyway. unless i did straight up call it “non disclosure agreement” …. which actually i might think on that….

#s: nad #ren writing

[rainsnz]

weapon

g/enshin snzfic (sick!childe & x/iao) (4k ish words)

Childe falls asleep only slowly, laying down in a bed that’s become achingly familiar. It’s been almost a month since the incident with Osial, and he can feel the eyes of everyone in Liyue on him. Well, everyone that matters, anyway - amongst them the adepti, the Qixing, and everyone who’s important enough to know what actually happened that day when the oceans rose against an entire nation.

Zhongli, at least, seems not to take the attack personally, but Childe feels shortsighted by the former archon’s deception. He should have seen it coming, considering how obvious the signs were in retrospect. And he has to admit that he hasn’t been taking the best of care of himself lately, what with trying to endure the superficial niceties and indeed, the people trying to stop him from leaving the harbor. Of course Childe hasn’t missed the way that the Milleleth keep him busy with inane tasks, things that don’t let him even touch his blade. He would have escaped the harbor far before now, if not for his desire to keep things friendly between him and Zhongli - he truly does care about the man (even as his pride stings), and he’s a powerful ally when things come down to it. He also doesn’t want to have Zhongli - apparently master manipulator and former archon?? - as an enemy any longer. (To hell with Signora, there’s no way she holds the best in store for Childe - if he was expected to fail this mission anyway.)

When he finally drifts off, bound to be haunted by nightmares of monstrous shadows again, he feels the beginnings of illness claiming him.

He ignores it.

What does it matter, if he’s just a tool that’s been used?

His purpose has been served. There is no point to being polished.

His heart races. He awakens, groggily, head pounding (as expected), throat sore, not to the caring and impartial expression of Zhongli, but to the not-caring and impartial expression of … someone he’s not acquainted with. They have the same flashy makeup as Zhongli, though, and the same ethereal nature in their golden eyes, even as their short dark-teal hair differs. It’s quite certain that this individual is not of this world.

“Do I know you?” he asks, feeling disoriented as a croaky voice greets him. He disregards the fact that it stings his throat to get the words out. The stranger just stares at him, as if Childe is some sort of fascinating insect.

“You don’t need to.” His voice is quiet, distant. How cryptic. 

“Um, you’re the one who showed up in my house,” Childe feels inclined to point out, as consciousness slowly returns to him. Much, much slower than usual. “People don’t tend to take kindly to that.” 

“People do not tend to take kindly to those who awaken dead gods and threaten their homeland, either.” The stranger’s voice is light, somehow cordial despite the subject matter. He’s leaning against the doorway, eyes shut, arms folded. Waves of disdain and distrust radiate off the individual who seems to be severely lacking in height.

Childe clears his throat, uncomfortable with how heavy his head feels. The grit in his throat refuses to leave him. “Well, where’s Zhongli?”

That catches the other’s attention. His gaze flits to meet Childe’s evenly. “It does not concern you. Rex Lapis has asked me to watch over you.” Childe is beginning to feel blindsided yet again by that crafty god - he has a babysitter now? And this babysitter clearly dislikes him immensely - it’s clear by his stand-offish nature.

Childe tries a different approach. “Man, what kind of blackmail does Zhongli have on you that made you look after me of all people?”

Suddenly there’s a weapon pointed at his throat - Childe tries not to choke in surprise, because he’s never seen anything move quite so quickly and efficiently - “Do not attempt to understand our relationship. I shall not allow you to sully his good name.” The stranger’s eyes are hardened.

Childe wants to respond in kind, but he suspects he’s quite clearly outmatched at the moment - and suddenly he’s pitching to the side with a sneeze that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding back - “huh’gKShTchu-! huhh… huhh’PchShUu!” His desperation sprays the air. Now he’s made aware of a throbbing tickle throughout his nose, one that makes him raise his arm to his nose sheepishly. How he managed to miss this incessant sensation that now plagues him, he doesn’t know - he’s rubbing his nose harshly against his arm, leaving trails of mess on his sleeve. Vaguely, he wonders if he’s making a scene out of himself, but he has to rid himself of this itch before he can care.

A cool hand alights on his forehead, and faintly he wonders if it’s Tonia’s gentle touch, before realizing that the stranger’s piercing golden eyes are fixed on his, expression unreadable. Wordlessly, a handkerchief is pressed into Childe’s hand, which he quickly accepts. It’s a sweet relief to bury his nose in the folds of the cloth, which are quickly dampened by his noisy nose-blowing. “Bless.”

Childe’s guard is up, but he warily responds, “Thanks…?”

The stranger huffs. “Adeptus Xiao.” He picks up a soup bowl that the Harbinger hadn’t even noticed, and, with a carefully neutral expression, guides the spoon into Childe’s mouth that is hanging open from shock. It’s not particularly warm but filling - the taste is bland, although Childe has to admit that the lack of appeal might be because of his congestion. Xiao manages to shovel two spoons of soup into Childe’s system before he manages to stop him. 

“Why are you feeding me???” Why indeed, is the adeptus that famously clears the lands of corruption each night, and the same adeptus that is famously known for wanting him dead (as admitted by Zhongli) feeding him like a mother might her child? Surely he’s not so petty to stoop down to poisoning a sick man?

The scowl on Xiao’s face is a nice change. It reflects his reputation - and shows that he’s capable of emotion after all. “Zhongli asked me to watch you. I made soup since you are ill.”

Childe opens his mouth to protest and is met with another spoonful of soup. “Hey -” another mouthful of soup. “Xiao -” More soup. He gives up and decides to just allow the other to feed him, considering that this adeptus is here for his benefit, and he’s clearly too loyal to try anything devious. It’s only pure luck that he doesn’t accidentally spew soup everywhere when the mild irritation in his nose suddenly triples in intensity.

“I - gk!” He swallows hastily before turning to the side, “huH’PscHIEW! huhH’KSHIU-u!” Sniffling, groaning at how it had knocked all the air out of his lungs, leaving his abdomen sore from the sheer force of the desperate sneezes - “ugh..”

He’s not done yet, though, as he soon realizes when the flaming itch in his nose intensifies with his next uncautious breath - he gasps, a hand flying up to his nostrils, which flare synchronously, and unceremoniously those hitching breathes explode into something far more potent, spraying his poor hand with the vestiges of the war currently being fought inside his body - 

“-hh-UUH’pPSCHHiiEuUU-!! h’UHHHkSHhiiiyyUUUU-!!! h’UUUHSSHHHIEWWWW!!”

A wet sniffle follows the wet spray of sneezes, as does a weary sigh, wiping his soiled hand against the covers. He really, really doesn’t care if Xiao finds this display offending, because his head feels so stuffed up and disgusting and a disaster in general, and he can’t bring himself to drag his thoughts to the matter of reputation or cleanliness at the moment.

Dazedly, he sneaks a look at the adeptus, who surprisingly wears the veneer of pity on his neutral features. Maybe he’s familiar with the sensation? Can adepti sneeze at all? Childe’s time to wonder is brief, though, as he sucks in another frantic breath that turns to a bellowed sneeze. “h-hUH’EI’k-sCHU! huh’KchIE’-IU! snf - Archons, sorry… snuck up on me.” With a single finger under his nose he rubs vigorously, but his disobedient nose rebels with a twitch. He cracks open an eye and oh archons, he just sneezed all over the last remaining yaksha -

The yaksha in question looks a bit like a cat whose food bowl had just been upended. His affronted glare is almost enough to send Childe into fight-or-flight mode. Still, and Childe has to applaud him for his patience, Xiao wordlessly hands him a tissue. This time, the intended recipient stubbornly refuses to accept it. He doesn’t really need it, anyway; he didn’t need the help to begin with. He’s a useless weapon, after all, discarded by his master without a second thought, in this godforsaken country many miles from home. This misguided care and attention is wasted on him, and everyone seems to know it except this guy.

It’s a relief when Xiao moves away, expression guarded, when Childe’s nose wriggles with irritation. Perhaps it was a bit of theatrics to revel in the adeptus’ reaction, but his nose really does itch incessantly - “huhh-huUHh’pcSheW!” Humorous, he decides, is the best word for the situation, as he squints through a haze of fuzzy aches and pains at the yaksha’s poorly hidden disgust? sympathy? 

The yaksha in question has only a few words of advice. Or is it a command? On his pretty face is a characteristic grimace as he mutters, “If you won’t blow your nose, at least stop sneezing.” 

At that, Childe actually does bark out a laugh - which quickly turns into a series of coughs, which spirals into a harsh sneeze - “-h-hUHH-UHSSSHIIYUUU-!”

A wet sniffle, although it’s not as effective now that his nostrils feel clogged up with congestion, thanks to this wonderful illness. “Oh, Almighty Xiao, I will definitely be heeding your command, b-because s-sneezing is something you can totally c-control…”

Despite his words, he’s actually trying not to sneeze, to get the sentence out, but it’s kind of a futile effort, and both of them can see it; so when he pitches forward with another sneeze, neither are surprised.

“-hUUUhhh’UUKKSHHHIiyUUUUHHH-!!”

Actually, Childe is very surprised - his nose meets soft tissue, and as the nostrils tremble dangerously, momentarily too stunned to let out the rest of the sneezing fit, he cracks open an eye, to see Xiao’s dangerous expression as he holds the paper against the Harbinger’s nostrils. 

“-X-Xiao- I-uhh-!! UHHHUHHHKKSHIIYUUUuu---!!”

“Not a word,” the Demon-slayer warns, so intimidating, yet right now holding a tissue to a sickly patient’s nose as if he were his mother…! It’s almost too good, almost enough to lift his spirits, but not quite enough to not-sneeze again -

“-uuh’KKSHHiiYYUuuhHH-!! hUHHH-USHHIYUUU--!!”

A silence, broken yet again by a wet sniffle - that’s more of a snort because of the congestion clogging Childe’s sinuses; he groans, nose still within the folds of the tissue, and this time he’s forced to concede. After all, he knows when he’s lost, and so he clears his nose, the tissue flying with the honking nose-blow. The only thing he regrets (other than being shown-up by the Vigilant Yaksha himself) is that his eyes aren’t open to watch Xiao’s expression as he is forced to hold a tissue for a sickly someone blowing their nose.

About Xiao - Childe can’t bring himself to hate him. The Adeptus hasn’t been irrationally rude to him. He’s been perfectly polite, he’s done nothing but treat him kindly (except for the weapon incident??) - all for the sake of Zhongli. He again wonders what happened between Xiao and Zhongli, but it somehow feels too private to intrude. Still, he can sympathize - there’s nothing he won’t do for his Tsaritsa, nor his dear Tonia, or his dear Teucer, or Anthon…

At least he knows his family don’t always see him as worthless. A dark, bitter emotion fills his gut as he considers his own value. Clearly he’s not chosen for his talent, he’s just another expendable pawn in the grand scheme of things…

Childe wants to break things. He wants to hone his skill, slash mindlessly and watch things fall to shreds. Banter with a sparring partner whose steps match his own. Think about something other than his failure for just a moment. 

He meets the adeptus’ dispassionate gaze. Suddenly he has an idea. 

“Legends say - snf! - that the Vigilant Yaksha is fond of vanquishing demons… And that his skill with the weapon was deadly and - snf, snf - a sight to behold. It is easy to see that the myths are true.”

Xiao flashes him an irritated glance from his position by his bedside. “Don’t believe all that you hear. And please blow your nose.”

(He ignores the adeptus. The only way he’s going to blow his nose is if Xiao personally holds it, even if it’s just because of how funny that had been.) “Well, from one friend to another - snff! - can’t you let me sharpen my blade against yours?”

“I’m not your friend,” the adeptus mutters, eyes eerily devoid of anger. “And I swore not to hurt mortals. Many years ago.” Childe can feel the finality of the words sinking in like pebbles falling through a river. 

But Childe’s not a harbinger for nothing. “There’s rumors, you know…” He slowly pulls a vial, decorated with the image of Qinxin out of his sleeve, calculating quickly, “... that the vigilant yaksha has a certain sensitivity… And I think that the people of Liyue would be all too eager to use a different method to offer thanks to the adepti, should someone suggest it -” As he draws out the bottle, Xiao’s expression darkens with recognition.

“You wouldn’t dare.” His eyes are slits, his voice is burning. But best of all, his threats mean nothing. 

“So, whaddya say? A friendly spar for my silence?” Childe smirks, his palm unconsciously massaging the bridge of his nose in an effort to stave off the itch. 

Xiao’s lost and he knows it, because he’s already approaching the bed and handing him a spear that he’s materialized out of nowhere. Everything spins - not just from the disease wreaking havoc in his head this time - they’re now in the middle of some cloud-like realm, and Childe’s momentarily distracted by how the cotton-soft material holds his weight so readily - and is that just his illness, or is he lightheaded from the altitude? 

That’s all he can manage to think before a teal blur starts towards him, and Childe is forced to block the attack. The blows are swift, merciless. No wonder they call him the Bane of All Evil. For a few moments Childe can only defend himself, before the adrenaline of a true fight! the first in ages! kicks in. The adeptus lets out a low snarl, sounding far more animal than human. Truly a worthy opponent - the excitement drowns out those dark thoughts that crept up from his recent endeavor in the harbor.

He’s finally useful, for once, doing the only thing that he can excel at. No one’s there to stop him, tell him how they were tricking him all along. There’s no hidden threat that means that he’s failed before he’s even started. 

“Ha! Not bad!” He sniffles, praying that the itch doesn’t worsen. Of course the gods never answer him (except Osial, and the Tsarita, and Zhongli (kind of)) - his nose is burning so badly that his breath hitches with every inhale - “hh-hhuhHHH… huHHHH - oh n-nuhhh-not now - snf!” ARCHONS, it tickles! The warrior finds himself using one hand to wield his polearm, the other pinching his nose as if for dear life (which he might well be doing, considering how swift Xiao’s attacks are).

“Even if you see yourself as a tool, as I do. There is no reason to fight me. You are not my match.” Xiao’s voice is but a whisper louder than the clanging of steel upon steel. “Why do you want to fight? What reason do you have?” 

It makes him feel alive. It fills that hole in that chest, that was ripped away, that had fallen swirling into the abyss. Childe doesn’t voice anything, though, instead stifling a frustrated sneeze against the back of his hand. How is he so useless, even now? When he’s supposed to be in his element?

He barely registers what happens next. Childe blames that cotton feeling in his head, the too-bright spinning of the world that always accompanies feverish delirium. Golden eyes widen, lips say something that Childe doesn’t catch, and with a soft OOF! Childe’s ass meets the floor. The clouds shake with explosions, he feels heat against his face that doesn’t originate from his fever. When he looks up he sees 2 ruin guards and a ruin hunter… oh shit - And his vial slips from his grasp, shattering from the impact against deceptively soft clouds. Well fuck. 

He’s been tempered by the abyss, pain is no stranger to him. Yet the urge to sneeze - with its fine, barely tickling sensation that fills every orifice of his nose - it’s something he can never get used to. It’s something he has to get used to, right fucking now, because there’s the sting of fire and metal at his back. Childe gasps, and his eyes squeeze shut before he has anything to say about it - and he’s roughly shoved out of the way of the ruin guard’s giant fist. He has no time to celebrate though, because his nose burns far more badly than the missile’s explosion - “a-AHH-HH’KSscH’IEUOO!-! h’uH’PCHIEH-!” His own nose explodes, a short reprieve that serves to wring his throat out raw, and relieves the itch for all of 3 milliseconds. Childe isn’t very concerned about the spray either, even when he notices that his saviour was caught in the mist. Adepti probably can’t get sick, anyway…

But apparently, they can be severely allergic to Qingxin. Xiao curses softly underneath his breath, half-lidded eyes quickly darting towards Childe’s own. He opens his mouth as if to speak but to Childe’s great surprise, the Yaksha turns his head and sneezes into his closed fist - “heh’ksht! h’hxsht-!” And this time it’s Childe yanking the other’s arm, pulling them both out of the path of a stray missile.

Ducked behind a sizable decorative rock, they have a moment to catch their breath. Well - not actually catch their breath, as Xiao is actually losing the air in his lungs to sneezes showered across the cloud-tops. The adeptus’ nose is as red as jueyan chilis; it’s clear that the vial’s contents are too overwhelming for his sensitivities. Looks like the rumours were true. His slight chest heaves with the effort of staving off the itch that licks like flames at his nostrils, his eyelashes flutter like crystal flies as he struggles to keep them open. He looks rather pitiful - a mighty god-like creature, reduced to a barely-coherent, hitching heap by the whims of his nose. “hh-hheeahh… hhhuhhh… hahh-hH’kSHu-’ksCHUU-’xksHUU-!”

If this were another situation, Childe would probably be laughing his ass off at how the great Yaksha sneezes like a kitten, squeaky sneezes escaping after a ridiculous amount of build-up, although the sheer strength of the perfume is probably diminishing the usual amount of hitching gasps in favor of expelling the fragrance as soon as possible. Well, that’s one reason to be thankful for a stuffy nose, Childe supposes, as Xiao gasps again, shut eyes streaming with tears - “-heeh’kShuu-h’kSHuu-!”

This is not the time to laugh, however, as the mechanical sound of grinding gears and motors alerts them to the danger once more. He swears, the world tilting to the side as he staggers to a standing position - and his nose burns as if the missile had found its home in his nasal passages. He barely has a moment to spare to scrunch up the irritated appendage before his face screws up, mouth opening, nostrils flaring together -

“-hhuUUUUhh’yEESSHShhhhAHHH-!! h’UHSSHCHIIYUUUUhh--!!”

The sneezes are so much louder than Xiao’s, such that the ruin guards’ whirring stops for just a moment, as they turn to locate the source of the sound - fuckkkkk.

He sniffles, internally cursing at himself, and flashes a glance to the Yaksha - still incapacitated with an unfortunate sneezing fit - before roughly swiping at his nostrils with his sleeve, ignoring the itch that was annoying and is now utterly unignorable. Childe’s guessing that Xiao’s in no condition to spirit them away from this situation, and furthermore, he’s in no condition to take out 2 ruin guards and a ruin hunter. It hurts to realize that, not only is he a useless weapon, outgrown by his master, but now he’s a weapon that’s not even sharp enough to perform his designated duty…!

He grits his teeth. No time to mope now, not when he’s about to be on the receiving end of a ruin hunter’s heat-seeking missiles. Childe pulls out his bow, hands wavering, because his vision is blurry and he’s least adept with the bow and he’s not useful unless he makes this shot -

Xiao is depending on him.

The ruin guards turn the corner, looming with a shadow over the two, the sound of missiles warming up, the sound of mechanical genius humming as they lock onto their targets -

It’s now or never --!

The string vibrates. 

An awful, crunching sound -!

The screeching of metal upon metal, upon cloud.

3 enemies fall. 

Their gears make horrible creaking noises as they fold in on themselves, an arrow piercing straight through their cores.

For a few moments, Childe can do nothing but pant, adrenaline coursing through his veins. The sound of smoke pouring out of broken engines, and the stuttering rhythm of stifled sneezes is the only thing remaining from the battlefield.

Wow. Fighting that thing… felt good. So, too, does the sensation of his palm roughly massaging his nose. 

Childe sighs with relief, interrupted predictably when his breath catches. He can barely even get out a groan of complaint, when his nose feels as if someone had dropped a flaming flower stamen - burning across his nostrils and forcing his mouth open, “Archons, n-not a-gain- h-h-uHH-hRUUUSHhiuu-!! h-UUShhYYIIIUAAAh-!!”

A tissue against his nose tells him that Xiao’s recovered at least enough to force him to blow his nose. His eyes opening, with extreme effort, as they’re leaking tears of itchy torture, tells him that Xiao is holding a tissue to his own nose, as well. “...Thank you…” Mumbled words, muffled by the tissue, and he can’t help but smile victoriously.

“No problem. Wha- hUUUHHSSHhhiyUUU-!! h’RRSHhiIIYYYYuuhhh-!..snff.. W-what kind of weapon would I be if I couldn’t save a helpless little adeptus like… li-like, hHUUUHHHSSHIIIYUUhh-!!.. Like you..! -hhUUUpTChiiyyahh-!!”

Childe sniffles, preparing for a beating - he does tend to use inflammatory tactics habitually, although now he feels like the pressure building in his aching head won’t be a fair match against the Yaksha’s polearm - but instead, Xiao is facing away from him, sniffling wetly into the palm of his hand. Ha. It’s refreshing to see such a human weakness from a ‘perfect’ creature - Childe’s chest fills with satisfaction. Makes him feel a lot better about his deductive skills, for one. Makes him feel a lot better about his seeming uselessness, too. The most skilled weapon of the adepti, reduced to such a mess… 

(Someone who’s as ‘useful’ as Xiao needed help from someone as useless as himself?

Either Childe’s not useless after all, or...

It’s probably the fever talking, but maybe it doesn’t matter how useful or useless he is.

It’s so cheesy, but he smiles despite himself - and then Xiao looks up at him, expression neutral except for the angry flush across his nostrils -)

Childe prepares to be impaled by the very person he had just saved, and he probably would’ve deserved it, after provoking the probably really old and experienced, but most of all extremely dangerous adeptus, but it’s probably worth it to see that expression on his -

Then Xiao makes an unrecognizable sound - was that a laugh? “You have a lot of courage, for a human.” The edges of his lips quirk up ever-so-slightly. 

For a moment, Childe is aghast. Did the Conqueror of Demons just smile? At him? Maybe his fever’s gotten worse. Yeah, his fever is definitely worse.

That night, even as his fever rises, Childe fears no nightmares; for his dreams are sweeter than almond tofu.

#my fic #snzfic #sneeze fic #snz #genshin snzpact #g/enshin i/mpact #c/hilde #x/iao #zhonglis plan to get his fools to love each other #written a long time ago #severely ooc (cannot write c/hilde) #more snzfic incoming

[lindasipsandspills]

#2 The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo

General Information:

Edition: I stumbled over the Simon & Schuster version of 2017 and picked it right up. It’s the paperback cover, since I decided to read it for fun. 

Author:  Taylor Jenkins Reid was born December 20th 1983, Maryland, U.S. Other well-known novels under her name include Daisy Jones & The Six as well as Malibu Rising.

Short synopsis (via goodreads): Aging and reclusive Hollywood movie icon Evelyn Hugo is finally ready to tell the truth about her glamorous and scandalous life. But when she chooses unknown magazine reporter Monique Grant for the job, no one is more astounded than Monique herself. Why her? Why now? Monique is not exactly on top of the world. Her husband has left her, and her professional life is going nowhere. Regardless of why Evelyn has selected her to write her biography, Monique is determined to use this opportunity to jumpstart her career. Summoned to Evelyn’s luxurious apartment, Monique listens in fascination as the actress tells her story. From making her way to Los Angeles in the 1950s to her decision to leave show business in the ‘80s, and, of course, the seven husbands along the way, Evelyn unspools a tale of ruthless ambition, unexpected friendship, and a great forbidden love. Monique begins to feel a very real connection to the legendary star, but as Evelyn’s story near its conclusion, it becomes clear that her life intersects with Monique’s own in tragic and irreversible ways.

Page count: 385 paper pages (excluding the acknowledgments)

Representations: LGBTQ+, historical fiction from the 50s to the 90s, Showbiz

Initial thoughts post-read:

I had high expectations. I would’ve never imagined them to be overthrown. I was completely taken aback by Reid’s extremely enchanting writing style. I had to either read 50-70 pages in one sitting or not read at all. It was so easy to loose oneself in this world of show business and heartbreak that it simply felt like no time was used while reading this masterpiece. Yes, masterpiece. Eternally grateful to have had it recommended to me by so many of my friends, and I am even more excited to delve into further depths with this review. 

A short note: I decided to pick sections that could perhaps ensue a wider introspection of what these specifically mean, in general, but also for the book itself. There were many beautiful quotes of which I picked the ones that resonated most with me, so by far not everything I highlighted. Enjoy!

Sections that picked my interest & interpretations: 

I trust myself. Take, for instance, when I snapped at you earlier, back at the apartment, when you said what you did about my confessing sins. It wasn't a nice thing to do, and I'm not sure you deserved it. But I don't regret it. Because I know I have my reasons, and I did the best I could with every thought and feeling that led up to it."/ "You take umbrage with the word sin because it implies that you feel sorry." [...]/ "You can be sorry about something and not regret it," Evelyn says. (p. 25-26)

I suppose this specific line was what had me hooked when it comes to the book itself. She took apart a fleeting comment and made sure a message, as well as an underlying morale could be drawn from it. I was fascinated from here on out. 

Evelyn looks at me with purpose. “Do you understand what I'm telling you? When you're given an opportunity to change your life, be ready to do whatever it takes to make it happen. The world doesn't give things. You take things. If you learn one thing from me, it should probably be that.” (p. 35)

I have to agree with Evelyn, as nearly all instances in which she takes a step back from her narration about the past to underline a certain teaching she had gathered from these situations. If one doesn’t get on their feet and start working for what they want to achieve - they will never be granted the opportunity to do so in the first place. A paragraph filled with what it means to live in today’s society. 

Grown men were watching me walk down the street, and some of the girls in my building didn't want to hang out with me anymore. It was a lonely business. Motherless, with an abusive father, no friends, and a sexuality in my body that my mind wasn't ready for. (p. 43)

This made me feel nostalgic. Not specifically limited to my own experiences growing up in an over sexualized society, but reminiscing the old times of the locker rooms at school. How very weird it was, when the first girls in our class started developing breasts. How obscene we all thought of it, how very shameful. Back then I questioned my response, because I did grow up in an agonizingly conservative household matter of factly. Was it perhaps a thought planted inside my head by my mother? Or was it a common thought shared by everyone? I looked around. Everybody had kept staring at the poor girl. I wish I could tell her how sorry I was. We, girls, made her, a young woman, feel uncomfortable in what she was turning. I now know that this was simply a perfect example of internalized misogyny towards our own gender. But it doesn’t excuse what had happened, and it won’t erase the memory inside the girl’s head. I was positively surprised having read this paragraph and seeing an opening for a further discussion about this specific topic. 

If you've never been smacked across the face, let me tell you something, it is humiliating. Mostly because your eyes start to tear up, whether you mean to be crying or not. The shock of it and the sheer force of it stimulate your tear ducts./ There is no way to take a smack across the face and look stoic. All you can do is remain still and stare straight ahead, allowing your face to turn red and your eyes to bloom. (p. 77)

I’ve never read anything more accurate than this. I applaud you, Reid, because this makes me feel seen. It is the sheer agony of not being in control that makes a smack across the face so humiliating for the recipient. Not being able to do anything else other than letting emotions fly over your face and concentrating on keeping in any sounds you might utter. If the other passages wouldn’t have gotten me on this train, then this would’ve done the job. 

“If you are heartbroken right now, then I feel for you deeply,” Evelyn says. “That I have the utmost respect for. That's the sort of thing that can split a person in two. But I wasn't heartbroken when Don left me. I simply felt my marriage had failed. And those are very different things.”/ When Evelyn says this, I stop my pen in place. I look up at her. And I don't know why I needed Evelyn to tell me that./ I wonder why that sort of distinction has never crossed my mind before. (p. 141)

I feel for Monique and I was so taken aback by that simple difference. Because yes, feeling heartbroken is one of the few things you can account for actually feeling so deeply about another person that you can’t see a future without them in it. Feeling as if the air to breathe has been taken from you. But a marriage failing because there are instances that cannot be dealt with, and noticing that there might be a possibility of the people involved to be happier when apart… that is truly something that should be digested properly. I’ve never thought about it the way Evelyn described it to Monique. 

Chapter 28.

I had to specifically mention this chapter. This is my favorite inside the whole book. It was so well written - it could’ve been a stand-alone short story at this point. I loved the change of narration, the way the reader was suddenly put into the figure of a man pursuing a beautiful and alluring woman. How she played her cards. How everything worked so well faded into each other. This alone made me give the book 5 stars. 

I felt myself pulling back, trying to take it all in. It shouldn't have felt so scandalous, and yet it absolutely was. Women have sex for intimacy. Men have sex for pleasure. That's what culture tells us./ The idea that I'd be shown to enjoy my body, to desire the male form just as strongly as I was desired, to show a woman putting her own physical pleasure at the forefront… it felt daring. (p. 262)

This was such an obvious realization. So obvious, yet completely overlooked. Again, I applaud Reid for emphasizing this simple, yet crucial difference between sex for a man and sex for a woman. I’ve never realized how this is still carried onto movies and real life dynamics in today’s age. It honestly makes me feel taken aback. 

Evelyn shrugs slightly. “She always made sure the bad was outweighed by so much good. I… well, I didn't do that for her. I made it fifty-fifty. Which is about the cruelest thing you can do to someone you love. Give them just enough good to make them stick through a hell of a lot of bad. Of course, I realized all this when she left me. And I tried to fix it, but it was too late.” (p. 272)

This is important considering relationship dynamics as a whole. So very important. You shouldn’t disregard something so vital to a relationship because you are forcing your martyr stand-point onto the person that you’re supposedly having a relationship with. Having Hugo go completely beyond what is right and wrong by sleeping with a man in order to ‘save’ Celia and their relationship - it is too much. And above all, truly cruel. Again, marvelous way of demonstrating it and making sure it becomes a discussion topic. 

Or maybe Robert merely stumbled into something that worked for him, unsure what he wanted until he had it. Some people are lucky like that. Me, I've always gone after what I wanted with everything in me. Others fall into happiness. Sometimes I wish I was like them. I'm sure sometimes they wish they were like me. (p. 344)

This stands in a paradoxical relationship to the second quote I picked in this section. “Falling into happiness” and “going after what [one] wanted” pose parallels to the waiting of being given what one seeks and others going out of their way to take it. This is however a different context, and has to be considered with it being more abstract with Robert than it was with Evelyn marrying her first husband in order to get somewhere. Anyways, it was interesting to see such a parallel drawn, working the exact opposite way than she had advised Monique. 

Six quotes I wanted to share

“So do yourself a favor and learn how to grab life by the balls, dear. Don't be so tied up trying to do the right thing when the smart thing is so painfully clear.” (p. 30)

People think that intimacy is about sex./ But intimacy is about truth./ When you realize you can tell someone your truth, when you can show yourself to them, when you stand in front of them bare and their response is “You’re safe with me” - that's intimacy. (p. 112)

You wonder what it must be like to be a man, to be so confident that the final say is yours. (p. 180)

It's always been fascinating to me how things can be simultaneously true and false, how people can be good and bad all in one, how someone can love you in a way that is beautifully selfless while serving themselves ruthlessly. (p. 251)

There is a difference between sexuality and sex. I used sex to get what I wanted. Sex is just an act. Sexuality is a sincere expression of desire and pleasure. That I always kept for Celia. (p. 271)

And maybe one day I'll find someone I love the way Evelyn loved Celia. Or maybe I might just find someone I love the way my parents loved each other. Knowing to look for it, knowing there are all different types of great loves out there, is enough for me for now. (p. 380)

#book recommendations #books #reading #aesthetic #book review #bookblr #booksbooksbooks #books and reading #bookstagram #novel #books & libraries #critique #book classics #book commentary #book criticism #the seven husbands of evelyn hugo #book quotes #booktok #read in 2023

[chiefhalliday]

Rowan hated clichés, but this one had never rung so true.

He returned home late from work one night, not long after taking on his new job, to find an expensive envelope slotted in his mailbox with just his name beautifully printed on the front in red pen. He recognised the handwriting instantly and a concoction of emotions started to brew within him. Anger, resentment, regret, upset, yearning… love.

Part of him wanted to rip open the envelope and the other part wanted to throw in in the fire, but after pouring himself a glass of whisky and sitting down at the dining table, Rowan fished his glasses out of his pocket and tore open the envelope’s seal.

The one that got away might have been younger than him by a decade, but she made Rowan feel like there was still some life in him and like love truly was possible despite the hopelessness in the world. Her charm and gentleness was utterly enchanting, her bright smile captivating, and her creativity knowing no bounds. She was such a flirt at first, too; always complimenting his pristine uniform, his assertiveness, and his dazzling green eyes. Rowan knew that she had really fallen for him in the exact same way he’d fallen for her- slowly and then all at once- even if she’d been quick to deny it at the time. And her letter was simply confirmation that he had been right all along.

The letter itself read:

I heard you got the promotion of a lifetime- congratulations! I can’t think of a more deserving person to take on the role of the police chief of New York City. I’m sure your family must be very proud and I have no doubt your father is. I’m very proud of you, too.

I didn’t just write you to say that, though. It probably doesn’t mean much anymore, but I’m sorry. Deeply and truly. I didn’t think too much of my my actions when I left you, but it’s been something that’s weighed on my mind for some time now. I understand if you can’t forgive me and I certainly don’t expect you to, but the only way to make this right was to send you this letter with what I hope you don’t think is a feeble attempt at an excuse or explanation.

I was never very honest with you, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t love you. The most honest thing I ever said was that I love you. I had things with you that I didn’t have with my ex-husband, like the fact you always had time for me no matter how busy you were, you listened to me even when I was distressed over the silliest things, and you alway supported my work even when my frustrations made me snap and doubt myself. There’s no amount of gratitude in the world that I could ever repay you with and even now I owe you more than just gratitude. I could never give you what you deserve, though, I won’t ever be able to face the debt, emotional or otherwise.

I will always love you, Rowan, and nothing will ever change that. Our circumstances have put us on opposite sides of a line that neither of us can cross, but perhaps in other lifetime you and I would have been happily married and taking on the world together. I try not to think about what could have been because it only makes me realise how much I messed up; you know me, I would never admit to my flaws out loud, but that needed to be addressed. However, as much as I regret letting you go, it was the right thing to do. It meant that you could dedicate yourself to your job and to the people of New York without something bad ever happening to me, without having to worry if I’d be threatened by somebody you’d put behind bars, and without you ever being ruled by your heart instead of your head.

You’re a good man- the best I know- and I hope that you don’t change for anybody.

Purposely, she had broken his heart. And truthfully, it had never healed. If he knew then what he knew now, then Rowan wouldn’t have let Evie go so easily, but maybe her strength and determination to leave saved him the heartache and effort of having to beg her to stay. She was also such a private person and he a public one and that maybe they were just too polarising to have worked out. Evie was so wrong for him, but everything had felt so right: another stupid cliché Rowan hated, yet fit the situation perfectly.

The letter, which would later find its permanent home in his nightstand drawer, was conflicting. It didn’t make Rowan feel better, however it didn’t make him feel worse either. But he did appreciate it. It was implied that she would never intentionally see him again, although he hoped that he’d one day see Evie on the other side of the street wearing her signature red coat, the confident expression that said ‘I’m unstoppable’, and that Rowan would catch her eye and they’d exchange smiles, both of them knowing it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

#rowan ✧･ﾟ— other

[imagine-silk]

Could you consider Yandere Parvati or Yandere Nyoka (The Outer Worlds) being overprotective of the Captain of the Unreliable + Reader attempting to escape?

Also, I like your blog. 

This has been in the making for a while because I kept getting stuck and then I lost my file of it. But I really wanted to do this.

Parvati

Parvati is very cute. She works with the knowledge you accept her weird quirks and her ramblings. You make her melt in a way that feels safe and hot, like her heart will bleed out of her chest. Around you she swells clearly sick with love.

Generally harmless, more worshiping than executing. The only way it would result in a bloodbath is if you were in danger or if you told her to do it. If you told her to kill everyone in the Board she would do it swelling with pride.

She would only close you off from the world if you almost died. Her heart couldn't take it, it was a bad feeling, like it would break from her chest and run off. So she convinced ADA to seal you in the captain's quarters. No one goes in or out except her.

It makes sense, you are recovering from fatal wounds. She takes real good care of you too. Changes your bandages, feeds you before giving you medicine, gives you sponge baths, even watches serials with you.

That is when you get better you tell her it's okay and you get the first 'no' from her. Why would you leave? You're still so fragile. And as you get better and better and that reason wears off she just doesn't let you leave. Pleading doesn't work, she will give you anything but the outside.

You escape during a power surge on the Unreliable causing the door to open. Parvati is busy fixing it and doesn't notice. And you run not turning back at Felix's call. The ship is out somewhere in the Vale and you run until you find a house of people. You convince them that you need help and so they house you. A few days later Parvati shows up telling you to come back. When you refuse she asks again, hammer in hand. You are clearly not the target If the people try to save you they don't go unscathed. When you get back she quickly reprimands you before showering you with affection.

You stay in a golden cage.

Nyoka

Nyoka has always been a mysterious person with hidden wants. Her drunk mercenary at some points doesn’t seem to add up. She’ll be in the kitchen talking to Ellie having a laugh and then says something completely sober that sounds like a warning, she chuckles it off but it’s clear to take the warning. Moments like that add up. 

One day, you're walking back to the Unreliable with Nyoka stumbling and grabbing you like a raft trying to convince you through slurs to go back and drink with her. You scoff and tell her you don’t wanna be there when she starts a bar fight. This doesn’t dissuade her from her ravings. In a moment of frustration you say, “C’mon Nyoka, stop pushing we’re almost there. You’re so heavy. Stand up. You’re not even drunk.” She stops and looks at you with hooded eyes and for a moment you think she’s not faking it. Then she stands up straight and walks into the ship.

You don’t talk about it but when you're out she walks with clear purpose and her eyes rarely leave you. The stare is so blatant that you feel like she wants to throw you in one of the acid pools. But you figure it’s fine because she is always with you but a few paces behind. The second you get into a town the drunk act is on again. You think she’s become harmless even if you don’t fully understand her motives and you’re right about one thing, you don’t understand her motives.

At the bar you order a drink and before you can drink it Nyoka grabs it and pour it on the counter. Before you could protest she pushed her bottle into your hands, took out her flask, and leaned on the counter. She shoots the bartender a glance and he makes no attempt to meet her gaze or clean the murky liquid. The dots click in your head as she says, “Don’t take the drinks here.” The rest of the visit she sits relaxed with sharp eyes.

You take time to note all of the things she does and a pattern appears, she is at her most ruthless when you are threatened. One of your targets was doing the evil monologue when he made a less than tasteful threat to you. Nyoka immediately killed the lackeys and shot his arm off. As he writhed in pain she stepped on his throat and watched him choke out on the floor. When you told her that was unnecessary, that the information he had was now gone, she stepped in front of you and leaned inches away from your face, “Sorry, I got carried away.” The stone look told you she would do it all again in a heartbeat.

After months of these moments things get too out of hand. You go out with her on Monarch where you met her and split up to do your own thing is what you told her. The ship left one member down.

A month later you got a bounty to take down a marauder den out in the Vale. When you get there it looks empty. You all spread out to look for any signs of anyone being here, you go inside. While checking a bin for supplies you hear a familiar click behind you. Slowly you stand with your hands raised and a hand takes the gun from your hip. “You need a better pistol. Even if you did try to shoot me it would have missed.” Turning around she smiles casually at you, hands you the gun, walks out with you to the ship. Felix asks her where she's been and she tells him she had to take care of something.

Nothing ever harms you again.

#the outer worlds #parvati holcomb #parvati x reader #nyoka #yandere x reader #yandere x y/n #yandere #ask and you shall receive #thank you for asking!

[artificialqueens]

🏳️‍🌈 Bitch Fight Ch.18 (Multi; JeLa) - Lita

Welcome to the world of Femme Fatale Wrestling. The future is female, and we’re here to prove it.

A/N: Heyyyyy….So, I’m still alive. Sorry about the nearly-a-year posting break, I changed jobs irl, got side tracked with an original fiction project, and have been generally super busy - but both I and this fic are very much still alive. I’m aware that it’s been a minute, so if anyone needs a refresher, the fic in its entirety can be found here. 

Anyway - this is the long-awaited Jinkx Chapter™ and the point at which the story (imo) reeeaaalllyyyy starts to get good. So I hope you all enjoy, and to those of you who are still here and sat through the nine month hiatus: Thank you &lt;3

______

CHAPTER 18: YOU’VE STILL GOT IT

Dela had already left the house before Jinkx woke up. That was weird. Usually she didn’t leave to do anything without pestering her to get out of bed first. That did drive her a little insane - not that she’d ever say that out loud. Dela was trying. The fact that Jinkx hadn’t come with some kind of post-injury instruction manual made things difficult for the pair of them - she felt guilty about it. But acting on that guilt required effort that she didn’t have the capacity for. 

She’s been bizarrely cagey and quiet since the show on Saturday, honestly - reluctant to talk about work, distant, inside her own head. Jinkx wants to help, but the part of her that knows how to is miles away; trapped behind some impenetrable wall held in place by surgical screws. 

Regardless, Dela is god-knows-where, and Jinkx is alone, which she doesn’t deal well with. Being awake when she’s by herself is unpleasant - seconds drag on forever into minutes, and she feels agonizingly conscious of the time that she’s wasting. She’d set up camp in the living room, and more than likely wasn’t going to move until it was an acceptable time to go back to bed - coffee on the table, and Macho sitting on the couch a few feet away from her, stirring from his nap every few minutes to claw at the couch or glare at her like he wants her dead. The TV is on, but she isn’t exactly watching it. She scrolls through her texts, blankly waiting for Dela to respond to her and tell her what exactly she was doing, and trying her best to ignore the litany of unread messages from Bill. She’d deal with him later. 

‘Later’ was becoming an increasingly nebulous concept. She missed him, in a way - it was like he’d stopped caring when she got hurt. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him face-to-face, and the text correspondence she got from him to report back from the events of shows tended to be curt and impersonal - a couple of words, nothing more. Well, he was busy. And he was serving his purpose, she guessed. She hoped. In all honesty, she wasn’t really sure. She felt guilty about that too. 

She feels like her body is constantly heavy; doing anything is difficult, in a way that she struggles to justify. On the days where she’s physically in pain, it makes sense at least. Or when she’s depressed - when something’s happened, when she’s actually struggling. She hates feeling like this - like a shell of a person, but without an excuse. On paper, she should be okay. 

She’s spent the bulk of the last year mentally torturing herself like this. Being angry with herself when she feels like shit, and equally angry when she doesn’t and yet still can’t bring herself to function. The promotion had become a real point of shame. A few months of absence felt understandable - but a fucking year? She knew that she was letting people down, and in some way or another she’s lulled herself into thinking that maybe they’re  better off without her. She didn’t have much faith left in her abilities as a promoter, or a booker - and if she couldn’t wrestle, then what was the point in her? She’d fucked up before. 

She didn’t know how she felt about Manila being back, even if it was just for a night. Her gut said she didn’t like it. 

That night barely held a coherent shape in Jinkx’s memory - the blood pooling on the mat, Raja’s seizure in the hallway, the unblinking terror on Manila’s face. Jinkx had gotten home from the emergency room at four in the morning, after spending all night picking up the pieces as best she could. She’d sat staring at the living room wall until the sun came up - still in her ring gear, blood that wasn’t hers drying in her cuticles, feeling like the walls were closing in around her. She recalled this horrible sense of foreboding overtaking her, like she knew that this was only the shitty start of something that was about to get much, much worse. 

Her last exchange with Manila had been awful - Manila had been angry with her, and she had every right to be. She’d been on her way out the door regardless, but that didn’t change how terrible Jinkx felt about the way it ended. The situation with Magnolia was an embarrassing, shitty mess. Going off-script like she had was a problem on its own, even without the state she’d left Raja in. And yet a month down the line, she’d still been under contract. 

Moreover, Magnolia had been holding the title - a position that Manila was furious about. She had made an absolute point of refusing to listen to any excuses Jinkx tried to give. They’d been flimsy at best - maybe it was a good thing that she’d been unable to get a word in edgeways. Anything she could have said would have been far too easy to poke holes in. 

Jinkx has been put in a shitty position; being strongarmed by her talent, apparently incapable of growing a backbone and doing the right thing. She didn’t have any concrete proof that what Magnolia had done to Raja was deliberate, and Magnolia had made it crystal fucking clear that if Jinkx fired her, pulled a screwjob, or interfered in any other way, she’d go straight to every dirt-sheet that would listen to her and drag both her and the promotion’s names through the mud. That had terrified Jinkx to her core. 

About five years ago, someone had put it together that the Jinkx Monsoon who now had tits and ran an all-women’s promotion was the same one who’d appeared as an acne-ridden sixteen-year old boy in an ancient TLC documentary about pro wrestling bootcamps. Maybe using the same ring name since she was a teenager had been a bad idea after all. There’d been a minor shitstorm on R/SquaredCircle - apparently it had been a slow news week, because then Pro Wrestling Insider ran a story about her. That had sent a few assholes in her direction but equally gave the promotion some free publicity. Then WWE had fired Jim Ross two days later, and everybody moved the fuck on. 

It hadn’t been a big deal - she couldn’t exactly be outed if she’d never been in the closet in the first place. Her being trans had always been something of an open secret. For fuck’s sake - she’d used ‘Dude Looks Like a Lady’ as entrance music for years, she’d never exactly been subtle. 

And then some mid-tier ex-WCW guy had started a Twitter rumor that she was lying about her gender identity, and she’d only founded FFW to enable her to perv on women. The allegation effectively ruined three months of her life. Some of the things she’d read about herself were downright fucking vile - they’d been forced to cancel two shows; she’d had to shut down all of her social media, and even then found herself getting death threats sent to her business email. Femme Fatale had been in its infancy, up and running for a little under three years, and it had nearly killed the entire promotion. 

She’d had an awful, terrifying gut feeling that it would only have taken one bit of crappy press to reignite that level of public hatred, towards both the promotion and her personally - crappy press that Magnolia was clearly more than happy to provide. If it came straight from the mouth of someone who’d worked with her, rather than unsubstantiated crap from some bastard she’d never met with too much time on his hands, then Jinkx would have been definitively screwed. She’d learned the hard way how fragile her standing was. The threat had gotten to her, in a really fucking horrible way. She wasn’t sure if that had been Magnolia’s intention, but it had definitely worked. 

So, she’d spent weeks handling the situation with kid gloves and waiting to see if a solution jumped out. It didn’t - and in the end, she’d fired her anyway, and lived to tell the tale. 

Not that there hadn’t been consequences. Bianca, Morgan, and Detox - the three people originally tasked with trying to get the belt off of her before Courtney eventually succeeded - had all threatened to quit; her relationship with Manila had been irrevocably damaged. Raja’s career was over, and Jinkx hadn’t been able to look Courtney in the eye for weeks after that fucking massacre of a match. She couldn’t unsee the blood trickling from her nose, or the missing front tooth. It only twisted the knife in further. 

Not to mention the guilt over feeling relieved that Magnolia had been stupid enough to shoot on someone twice. Maybe on some subliminal level, that had been her intention in letting the whole mess fester for as long as she did. Jinkx had known it would only be a matter of time before she tried it again. Firing someone over a botch wasn’t the done thing; deliberately injuring an opponent was entirely different. It was an easy out; one that didn’t put her neck on the line. 

But it was her failure that had gotten them there in the first place, and her price to pay to fix it - not anyone else’s. It should have been Jinkx in that match instead of Court. It should have been her blood on Magnolia’s hands - her tooth on the ring canvas. Her pound of flesh. 

Jinkx been reckless, and stupid. She’d endangered her talent by putting them in the ring with someone who had shown their capacity to be deliberately fucking evil, and for what? 

Every stupid mistake she’d made in that couple of months had been haunting her for the last two years. It was undeniable proof - she sucked at her job. She’d put people in harm’s way to save her own skin. And if that was how she’d been before everything had happened, she didn’t even want to think about all of the ways in which she’d probably fuck it up now. Back then, she wasn’t a miserable shell of her past self. She’d still had passion; she still cared. 

She glances over at the TV, trying her level best to fucking distract herself. UFC. The fight looks pretty bizarrely matched, a dark-haired beast of a woman with a shaved head getting the shit knocked out of her by some skinny kid with bright green hair. Buzzcut is bleeding all over the place; there’s barely a mark on Green Hair. Jinkx winces.  

MMA had never made a lick of sense to her; she’d been in her share of messy matches, but that damage was always superficial. Busting someone’s face open with your bare hands is a completely different ballgame, and it’s always made her feel a little bit sick to watch. Plus it just seemed boring - maybe that was the sports-entertainer in her. What’s the point of having a cage there if nobody is gonna jump off of it? Where the fuck was all of the pomp and circumstance? What she was getting here was glacially-paced punching and kicking - no flair, just blood-sport. 

Buzzcut takes a kick to the head and immediately hits the deck. Jinkx shuts the TV off. 

Legitimate knockouts scared the shit out of her. She hated watching them happen; hated thinking about what kind of state they left people’s brains in. Jinkx had suffered through two concussions in her career - one when she was a rookie; the second the night she broke her neck. Dela had had four. Every time it was terrifying, and thinking about it for too long kept her up at night. 

Watching Dela get hurt had been a kind of pain that Jinkx hadn’t been fully prepared for. Every time anything happened, she found herself wracked with a sense of sickening guilt for being the one that led her down this path in the first place. The night she’d come home after the hardcore match with Morgan - broken nose, swollen lips, tears cutting streaks through the dried blood all over her face - Jinkx had barely been able to look at her. 

Jinkx had been in the ring with Dela the night she broke her leg - she’d watched it happen, horribly aware of exactly how bad it was, but glued to the spot, unable to do anything. Everything about it - the sound of snapping bone; the twisted, terrified look on her face as Bill trying to cinch in that stupid fucking ankle-lock - had haunted her for weeks. The sound of her voice was what had cut her the deepest; the pain and the panic behind her words, thumping the mat with the palm of her hand, screaming ‘I quit, I quit’ over and over. 

Jinkx hadn’t spoken to Bill for almost a month after that. Dela had been the one to insist that they patched things up - she was okay, it had been an accident, he didn’t realize. Given that she’d been the one that had to go through three hours of surgery and six months of recovery because of his stupidity, she’d been the authority. Jinkx had been furious; after watching him treat Dela like an inconvenience at best and a personal affront to him at worst for as long as they’d been together, her patience for his shit had worn thin. 

Bill and Jinkx had turned up at the same run-down training school for the first time on the same night, and had been joined at the hip for about four years as perennially single high-schoolers. He was a little abrasive, and had a tendency to talk over her - but underneath it all, Jinkx had sensed a kind of insecurity in him, veiled by this performative, hypermasc bravado. He’d clung onto her from the moment that they met and refused to let go. She didn’t mind - he’d never cared about the fact that she was a little weird, and he didn’t make her feel like an outcast the same way that other guys did back then. 

He’d been the person responsible for the chip in her front tooth; a slightly overenthusiastic superkick during their first match in front of a crowd had taken a diagonal chunk out of it, which she’d then proceeded to accidentally swallow. She’d refused to get it fixed - in the first instance because she hadn’t had the money, then later because her response to Bill ribbing her for her fucked-up smile had always been to remind him that it was only like that because he was a shitty wrestler. It was a part of their personal history. 

Bill and Dela had never exactly gotten along. Well, Bill had never exactly gotten along with Dela, and had never tried to. He’d never really learned how to share Jinkx - he got jealous and clingy in the locker room when she tried to talk to other people for god’s sake. Dela gatecrashing their little bromance had seriously rubbed him the wrong way.

Dela hadn’t been a wrestler when they first met - a recent college graduate, she’d worked in the bar that Jinkx and the other guys frequented after shows, since the staff seldom kicked them out for being too rowdy. They’d both crushed on her for weeks, from afar - Jinkx had been the first one of the two of them to make a move, and it was like Bill resented Dela for picking the wrong guy. Not that he’d ever said that out loud; not that he’d even really tried to pursue her. She’d just been supposed to telepathically know that he’d wanted her too - he was the better man, or rather the only one that succeeded at being a man. It was like he hadn’t even viewed Jinkx as competition. 

Once he got to know her, besides thinking she was hot, he couldn’t stand her, or at least he claimed he couldn’t. Her voice was like nails on a chalkboard; she was too fake, too immature. Before she became a wrestler herself, she didn’t understand ‘their’ world - he called her a ring-rat more often than he used her actual name - but when she started, she sucked at it and wasn’t trying hard enough. She was pretty much incapable of doing anything right. For fuck’s sake, he even hated the fact that she didn’t argue back when he tried to start shit with her. It had always driven Jinkx quietly insane, but Dela insisted that she didn’t mind. 

Jinkx feels bad for Dela more than anyone through all of this shit. She tried - she fucking tried, so hard. With everything; with him, with the promotion, with her. Jinkx still felt just as consumed by that incredible, overwhelming love for her as she had back when they first got together, and that made the guilt and the pain so much worse. Dela was suffering because of her - she could see it. Knowing how much of a horrific, draining burden she’s become on everyone she cares about disgusts her. 

Five-percent survival rate. That sentence had haunted her since she got injured. Why did she get to be one of that five percent? It doesn’t feel fair. Better people have fucking died because of the same shit, and the ones that lived didn’t waste the time they’d stolen by rotting away in their own misery and self-pity. 

Jinkx’s phone starts vibrating in her hand, jolting her back into the real world. The name on the caller ID makes her stomach drop. MANILA LUZON. 

 “Manila? What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Manila’s voice on the other end of the line is clipped and guarded. Jinkx feels uneasy. “Look, I’m gonna cut to the chase - Mateo got a developmental deal with WWE, so it’s looking pretty likely that we’re gonna be moving back sometime soon. I need somewhere to work, and I-“

“That’s kind of not my area anymore. Dela said you were at the show on Saturday, did you talk to Bill?” Jinkx says. Her voice feels like an answering machine; verbally shitting out the exact same thing she has to tell Dela, or any of the girls, when they try to come to her about shit, without any kind of conscious thought. Talk to him, I can’t deal with this right now

“No, I didn’t - why the fuck would I? I’m not asking a referee about a new contract deal. It’s your promotion,” Manila’s tone spikes. 

“It is, but-“

“Jinkx, come on.” Jinkx can practically hear Manila rolling her eyes. “I didn’t see you around once the other night. What the fuck is going on?” 

“What?” Jinkx says absently, barely paying attention. She doesn’t want to deal with this right now. Manila had always been spectacularly talented at being a bitch when the situation necessitated it, even before the whole horrific mess with Raja. That had just honed her ability to focus said talent in Jinkx’s direction. 

“You were at the show, right?”

“No,” Jinkx says flatly. 

“What the- why?” Manila sounds astonished. Did she really not know? How the fuck did she not know?  

“I’m retired, Manila,” Jinkx feels like she’s stating the obvious. Manila pauses for a second. Jinkx hears her swallow. 

“As of when?”

“I…Shit happened last year,” she doesn’t feel like explaining herself right now. Manila doesn’t respond, leaving a pause in the conversation that begs for an explanation. Jinkx grits her teeth. “Botched piledriver - I broke my neck, triple fusion surgery, whole career down the toilet in five minutes.” 

“And how is that stopping you from being backstage?” Manila asks pointedly, moving straight along from what Jinkx had just said without any kind of feeling. Jinkx feels like she’s smacking her head against a brick wall. She stays silent. “I’m serious, Jinkx. It’s a mess - how did you let things get this bad?”  

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I told you that you had a goddamn laundry list of issues to work out two years ago when I left. It’s bad enough that you let Magnolia stick around after what she did to Raja - it’s bad enough that you let her keep the belt. I’d thought things would have improved by now, and somehow they’re worse.”

“You’re still mad about that?” Jinkx groans, exasperated. She wasn’t about to give away the fact that she herself wasn’t even remotely over it yet - the only person who didn’t seem to be holding onto any resentment or guilt over the whole thing was Raja. Though that was probably because she didn’t remember most of it. 

“Raja nearly died, and you let the person responsible get away with it - I care about her, of course I’m still fucking mad. You can’t do that to somebody.” 

“How the hell are you guys still not fucking?” Jinkx mutters under her breath. She really hopes Manila hadn’t heard her - that would do less than nothing to help her case. 

“You know that Courtney went off-script on Bianca, and that Adore kid, right?” Manila asks, sharp and confrontational. 

“I- what?” Jinkx sits up - pretty certain that she’d misheard something. “What the fuck did she do?” 

“Ran in during their match - she hit Bea with a chair, slapped Adore around a bit, then demanded a title match. Dela and Bianca tried to convince me it was a work, but it was super obvious.”  

“Manila, I- look, are you sure? Like, this was definitely Courtney?” 

“I’m not stupid, Jinkx.”

“I never said you were, but Courtney’s the champ. Why would she need to-”

“Uh, no she’s not,” Manila says disbelievingly. She pauses for a second. “Jinkx, do you seriously not know who your world champion is?” 

“I thought I did - there was a bit of a hiccup a few weeks ago, Adore botched the finish and accidentally won the belt, but Courtney got it back.” Jinkx pauses. Someone isn’t telling her something. “Are you serious?”

“Of course I’m fucking serious. This is ridiculous, Jinkx. You’re in charge, and you can’t let any of this crap fly. You can’t let people run around shooting on each other, you can’t not pay attention to what’s going on in your own company.” 

Jinkx nods along with her. She’s fucking right, and she’s the only person around Jinkx right now who can’t see the ‘HANDLE WITH CARE’ sticker that’s been plastered on her forehead for the last year. Slowly, quietly, she feels that heavy lead ball of depression she’s been carrying around within her chest for the last year starting to crack.  

“You need to get your information from someone who wasn’t just there for a night. All I’m saying is I’m looking to re-sign, and I’m there if you want me - but not if something doesn’t change,” Manila sighs. “I know how much all of this means to you, and I don’t wanna see it fail, but this is not the promotion I left two years ago. Half of the locker room is gone - the audience is barely there. You need to fucking do something.”

“You’re right,” Jinkx says. She chews the new information over in her mind; still reeling from the well-timed sucker punch to the jaw that Manila had just landed on her from miles away. “You’re right, and I’m sorry. I’m gonna get this shit in hand. Give me a call once you’re back home and we can talk about you re-signing. I mean, if you decide that things are up to your standards.”

There’s a little hint of the old bite in her voice. Hi, Jinkx Monsoon - nice to see you. It’s been a while. 

Manila gives a surprised little laugh. 

“Okay,” she sounds taken aback, before adopting that serious, stern mom-tone she’s been using for the rest of the conversation. “But seriously though, figure-“

“You’re laboring the point,” Jinkx says. “Thank you - clearly I needed someone to kick me up the ass.”  

Manila chuckles. 

“Look, I have to go - I’m in a fucking bathroom stall at Epcot, Mateo is with the kids, but I couldn’t stop thinking about everything, and I had to talk to you,” Manila says. “I appreciate it. And I’m sorry about everything that happened to you. It sounds like it sucks.”

“Yeah, it does.”

Manila ends the call. Jinkx stares at her phone screen, a wry smile on her face. More cracks start to form. She’s not sure what this emotion is, whether it’s good or bad - but she’s gonna ride it out and see where it goes. That sea of unopened texts from Bill catches her attention. 

BILL SCARGILL:

UNREAD (14) 

Rematch sucked. One with the red hair keeping title. Courtney can’t fucking wrestle 

D throwing bitch fit about decision. Tell her to get her shit together. 

SERIOUSLY. Get your wife in check 

Jinkx??? 

Adore feuding with Bianca. Rest of show sucked - where tf did you find those jobbers?? Trinity Fame and the other blonde one can’t wrestle. Time to downsize?? 

Had to talk to Courtney about her attitude btw. Entitled as fuck. None of these girls have any respect for authority. 

Show was fine. Good crowd. Courtney no showed btw 

Courtney no showed again. 

Don’t know what’s going on with her and don’t care. Unreliable bs. No professionalism. 

If she doesn’t turn up tonight she’s fired. If you don’t answer this I’m assuming you don’t give a fuck. 

Call me ASAP 

Jinkx 

Jinkx?????

CALL ME 

That horrible, heavy ball in her chest explodes.  

She needs to talk to Bill. Wait, shit - no, she needs to talk to Dela. Find out what’s really going on, because the picture that this is painting from texts and Manila’s account alone isn’t fucking pretty. She can feel long-unused gears within her brain slowly, stiffly grinding into action again; powered primarily by the white-hot anger that’s sitting between her lungs where the bomb just detonated.  

Now that she truly thinks about it, Jinkx can’t say with absolute certainty how Bill ended up in the position of ludicrous roided-up power he’s currently in. Only that, when she eventually awoke from the walking coma of memory loss and painkillers her injury had sent her into, that was just the way of things. And then the depression had kicked in, and so too had her lack of desire to do anything. Dela had seemed to go along with it sans protest, but she’d been going along with his shit sans protest for years - that wasn’t an indicator that he was any fucking good at what he was doing. 

She pulls out her laptop, typing out a frenzied plan of action, trying to curate some of the mess in her head into something usable. Talk to Dela. Figure out what the fuck his problem is. And for how long it’s been a fucking problem. And then…

“Everything okay?” 

Dela’s voice breaks through the silence - she’s standing in the doorway in her gym gear, bag over her shoulder and stray hairs stuck to her brow with sweat. Her phone is in her hand, and she looks shaken. Macho barrels across the couch, using Jinkx’s chest as a launch-pad to greet his favorite mom at the door, mewing with his tail in the air until Dela picks him up.  

“I- uh…what?” Jinkx stumbles over her words after she gets done choking on the lungful of air that Macho had knocked out of her. She half-closes her laptop, putting it down on the coffee table. 

“I asked if you were okay,” Dela sits down on the couch by Jinkx’s side, putting a hand on her thigh as she cradles Macho like a baby. There’s a concerned little knot in between her eyebrows. 

“Yeah,” Jinkx nods solidly. Dela pulls a face that Jinkx can only describe as alarmed. “Are you?”

“Uh - not really, it’s a long story, I won’t bother you with-”“Please bother me with it.” Jinkx claps Dela’s hand in both of hers. Dela laughs nervously. 

“Well, I just narrowly avoided getting murdered by Bianca in the parking lot of the gym for one thing - I’ve never seen her that pissed, it was fucking terrifying. I’m…” she pauses. “Courtney got fired. Supposedly on your orders, which obviously isn’t true but it’s still…” Jinkx clenches her teeth. Dela sets Macho back down on the couch, turning to face Jinkx. “What is going on with you? You seem really…” Dela searches for a word, which Jinkx can only imagine is ‘insane’. She eventually settles on: “…Energised.”

“I, uh…I just got off the phone with Manila. Between everything she told me and now this, I need to take care of some business. The next show is this Saturday, right?”  

 There’s an unfamiliar kind of certainty to Jinkx’s voice. Dela looks at her with her eyes alight; her mouth hanging just open in surprise. 

And then, Jinkx is returning to Femme Fatale. 

Pride Challenge Points: 3589

#rpdr fanfiction #jinkx monsoon #bendelacreme #manila luzon #jela #trans character #femme fatale wrestling au #glow au #lesbian au #angst #fic challenge #bitch fight #lita #tw discussion of severe injuries

[chya-nimations]

OC MasterPost - Noa Veiko

Basic Information:

Nicknames: N/A Age: Varies, but typically drawn in mid-late teens Height: 6′2″ / 188 cm Birthday: September 4 Personality Type: INFP 1w2 Build: Athletic Eye color: Violet Hair Color: Black Skin tone: Medium with neutral undertones Other features: N/A Ethnicity: Japanese, Columbian (Vanta’s side) Greek, Norwegian (Atlas’ side) Blood type: B Handedness: Right

Likes:

-Volleyball -Floral patterns -Working out

Dislikes:

-People who assume her sex/gender because of her looks -People who underachieve by choice -Being late

Love Language:

Acts of Service

Favorite Color:

Purple

IQ: 128

Traits:

Shy, goal-oriented, self-conscious

Backstory:

Noa’s a rational girl, except when it comes to rationalizing people’s perceptions of her.  Even when no words are said, every look her way feels like a “she’s too tall” or “she’s too buff” in Noa’s eyes.  This intense and constant awareness of social perception is draining for Noa and often leads to pressing social anxiety and insecurity.  Overwhelmed by a desire to feel viewed as feminine, Noa rarely strays from a full face of makeup and girly clothes.  Despite her dainty aesthetic, Noa loves athletics and frequents the gym.  She firmly believes being a Jack-of-All-Trades is the ideal way to thrive in life, and loves exploring new activities, whether it be volleyball, learning ASL, or picking up info about her loved ones' hobbies as she listens to their stories.  She has high standards she puts on herself and others, and while she can get a little passive-aggressive when people let her down, she’s much harder on herself than she is on anyone else.

Relationships:

Mom (Vanta):

Noa often feels like the shy version of her mom.  They’re both overachievers with perfectionist natures, and because of that, Vanta often cuts her slack when Noa gives others in the household a hard time.  Vanta sees the world through similar eyes to her daughter, just a foot and an inch lower.

Dad (Atlas):

Noa gets a bit easily frustrated with her dad.  Blaming his genetics for making her tall and broad and getting constantly stressed by his lack of ability to leave the house on time when the family is going places together, she often feels a disconnect of understanding of each other between her and her dad.  However, she understands that at the end of the day, her father loves her deeply, and would never want her to feel stressed or insecure on purpose.

Hana Veiko:

When Noa has a problem, whether that be in school, relationships, or even style, she goes to her big sister Hana.  The two are alike in their goal-driven attitudes and admiration of all things girly, so Noa feels understood most when around her.  Despite having the biggest age gap, Noa feels closer to Hana than she does her other siblings, and puts her oldest sister on a bit of a pedestal.

Nagi Veiko:

Out of the five siblings, Nagi and Noa are by far the shyest, and they connect on that similarity.  Being social and putting themselves out there for criticism is something that is anxiety-inducing for both of them, and Noa feels understood by her brother in that regard.  Due to Hana’s busy schedule that she enforces on herself, she sometimes doesn’t have time to sit and help Noa with her homework.  During those times, Nagi will usually step in, feeling happy that his little sister sees him as a positive academic role model. 

Niko Veiko:

Noa and Niko bicker a bit more than your average pair of siblings.  Noa often feels that by spending all his time partying and socializing, Niko is wasting the years that are crucial to obtaining a stable career and future.  She sometimes gives her big brother a bit of a hard time when it comes to his partying habits, but the two will still sometimes carpool to the gym together, and sometimes even compete with each other in regards to weightlifting and stamina.

Melody Veiko:

Despite being the closest to Noa in age, her and her sister don’t have a ton in common.  Noa often struggles to understand Melody’s lack of passion for academic success, and while they don’t hate each other, they don’t spend a ton of time hanging out with one another.

Noah/Qiu:

Noa meets Noah after she signs up for an ASL class in her sophomore year (2nd year) in high school.  Noah had recently moved from China to study abroad with the intention of leaving his family and home country for good and was taking the course to learn the differences between CSL and ASL, so he could communicate in his new community.  After teaming up on a partner project in class once they learn they have matching names, they both develop feelings for one another.  However, because of their height gap and Noah’s apprehensions about how Noa might feel about having a Deaf boyfriend, it took him a long time to build up the confidence to ask her out.  However, he eventually caved in, feeling too strongly about her to pass up the opportunity to see where their relationship may lead.  Noa happily accepted his date offer, and the two become an official couple.

Other:

Allergies:

Pollen (Hay Fever)

Food Palette:

Noa loves traditional foods from all the cultures that make up her ethnicity.  She eats a lot, but while she mostly enjoys savory dishes, she loves to indulge in sweet treats like ice cream and cupcakes.

Music taste:

Indie

Examples: Wallows, Bôa, Dodie

Style:

Body Type: