#lmao anyway i am going to try and go into this book with an open mind | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

empty-movement · 6 months

Note

May I ask what scanners / equipment / software you're using in the utena art book project? I'm an artist and half the reason I rarely do traditional art is because I'm never happy with the artwork after it's scanned in. But the level of detail even in the blacks of Utena's uniform were all captured so beautifully! And even the very light colors are showing up so well! I'd love to know how you manage!

You know what's really fun? This used to be something you put in your site information section, the software and tools used! Not something that's as normal anymore, but let's give it a go, sorry it's long because I don't know what's new information and what's not! Herein: VANNA'S 'THIS IS AS SPECIFIC AS MY BREAK IS LONG' GUIDE/AIMLESS UNEDITED RAMBLE ABOUT SCANNING IMAGES

Scanning: Modern scanners, by and large, are shit for this. The audience for scanning has narrowed to business and work from home applications that favor text OCR, speed, and efficiency over archiving and scanning of photos and other such visual media. It makes sense--there was a time when scanning your family photographs and such was a popular expected use of a scanner, but these days, the presumption is anything like that is already digital--what would you need the scanner to do that for? The scanner I used for this project is the same one I have been using for *checks notes* a decade now. I use an Epson Perfection V500. Because it is explicitly intended to be a photo scanner, it does threebthings that at this point, you will pay a niche user premium for in a scanner: extremely high DPI (dots per inch), extremely wide color range, and true lossless raws (BMP/TIFF.) I scan low quality print media at 600dpi, high quality print media at 1200 dpi, and this artbook I scanned at 2400 dpi. This is obscene and results in files that are entire GB in size, but for my purposes and my approach, the largest, clearest, rawest copy of whatever I'm scanning is my goal. I don't rely on the scanner to do any post-processing. (At these sizes, the post-processing capacity of the scanner is rendered moot, anyway.) I will replace this scanner when it breaks by buying another identical one if I can find it. I have dropped, disassembled to clean, and abused this thing for a decade and I can't believe it still tolerates my shit. The trade off? Only a couple of my computers will run the ancient capture software right. LMAO. I spent a good week investigating scanners because of the insane Newtype project on my backburner, and the quality available to me now in a scanner is so depleted without spending over a thousand on one, that I'd probably just spin up a computer with Windows 7 on it just to use this one. That's how much of a difference the decade has made in what scanners do and why. (Enshittification attacks! Yes, there are multiple consumer computer products that have actually declined in quality over the last decade.)

Post-processing: Photoshop. Sorry. I have been using Photoshop for literally decades now, it's the demon I know. While CSP is absolutely probably the better piece of software for most uses (art,) Photoshop is...well it's in the name. In all likelihood though, CSP can do all these things, and is a better product to give money to. I just don't know how. NOTENOTENOTE: Anywhere I discuss descreening and print moire I am specifically talking about how to clean up *printed media.* If you are scanning your own painting, this will not be a problem, but everything else about this advice will stand! The first thing you do with a 2400 dpi scan of Utena and Anthy hugging? Well, you open it in Photoshop, which you may or may not have paid for. Then you use a third party developer's plug-in to Descreen the image. I use Sattva. Now this may or may not be what you want in archiving!!! If fidelity to the original scan is the point, you may pass on this part--you are trying to preserve the print screen, moire, half-tones, and other ways print media tricks the eye. If you're me, this tool helps translate the raw scan of the printed dots on the page into the smooth color image you see in person. From there, the vast majority of your efforts will boil down to the following Photoshop tools: Levels/Curves, Color Balance, and Selective Color. Dust and Scratches, Median, Blur, and Remove Noise will also be close friends of the printed page to digital format archiver. Once you're happy with the broad strokes, you can start cropping and sizing it down to something reasonable. If you are dealing with lots of images with the same needs, like when I've scanned doujinshi pages, you can often streamline a lot of this using Photoshop Actions.

My blacks and whites are coming out so vivid this time because I do all color post-processing in Photoshop after the fact, after a descreen tool has been used to translate the dot matrix colors to solids they're intended to portray--in my experience trying to color correct for dark and light colors is a hot mess until that process is done, because Photoshop sees the full range of the dots on the image and the colors they comprise, instead of actually blending them into their intended shades. I don't correct the levels until I've descreened to some extent.

As you can see, the print pattern contains the information of the original painting, but if you try to correct the blacks and whites, you'll get a janky mess. *Then* you change the Levels:

If you've ever edited audio, then dealing with photo Levels and Curves will be familiar to you! A well cut and cleaned piece of audio will not cut off the highs and lows, but also will make sure it uses the full range available to it. Modern scanners are trying to do this all for you, so they blow out the colors and increase the brightness and contrast significantly, because solid blacks and solid whites are often the entire thing you're aiming for--document scanning, basically. This is like when audio is made so loud details at the high and low get cut off. Boo.

What I get instead is as much detail as possible, but also at a volume that needs correcting:

Cutting off the unused color ranges (in this case it's all dark), you get the best chance of capturing the original black and white range:

In some cases, I edit beyond this--for doujinshi scans, I aim for solid blacks and whites, because I need the file sizes to be normal and can't spend gigs of space on dust. For accuracy though, this is where I'd generally stop.

For scanning artwork, the major factor here that may be fucking up your game? Yep. The scanner. Modern scanners are like cheap microphones that blow out the audio, when what you want is the ancient microphone that captures your cat farting in the next room over. While you can compensate A LOT in Photoshop and bring out blacks and whites that scanners fuck up, at the end of the day, what's probably stopping you up is that you want to use your scanner for something scanners are no longer designed to do well. If you aren't crazy like me and likely to get a vintage scanner for this purpose, keep in mind that what you are looking for is specifically *a photo scanner.* These are the ones designed to capture the most range, and at the highest DPI. It will be a flatbed. Don't waste your time with anything else.

Hot tip: if you aren't scanning often, look into your local library or photo processing store. They will have access to modern scanners that specialize in the same priorities I've listed here, and many will scan to your specifications (high dpi, lossless.)

Ahem. I hope that helps, and or was interesting to someone!!!

#utena #image archiving #scanning #archiving #revolutionary girl utena #digitizing #photo scanner #art scanning

236 notes · View notes

soraviie · 11 months

Text

coming home tired.txt

━ type: bts x gn! reader ━ navigation

━ about: fluff! (maybe some angst you all know how it is)

━ pictures taken from Pinterest

━ lmao I don't like this. Anyway, Ice Age 1 and 2 absolutely peak entertainment

NAMJOON | The second the slippers are on your feet, you trudge to the bed and toss yourself face first into the mattress. With a bit of luck, you could suffocate yourself like this. A low whistle rises from up behind you and squinting with one eye open, you spot a sympathetic looking Namjoon standing in the doorway.

“That bad, huh?” he drawls and you groan at the mere mention of it.

“Don’t even remind me,” you plop your face back into a pillow where your voice can only barely be heard as a muffled whisper. “I’m seriously thinking of quitting.”

“You say that all the time,” he rolls his eyes to which you take some offence. With narrowed stare, you glare back at him, cringing at how palpable the sweat on your back is.

“You’re supposed to be my boyfriend-”

“Supposed to be,” Namjoon scoffs just as if not more offended. “I am your boyfriend.”

“And boyfriends are supposed to be comforting when their partners are feeling down,” you scorned. “Not be snide. I swear you treat me as bad as Monie. We should both leave.”

“I treat you both well!” the volume of Namjoon's voice suddenly rises and you cannot help but wince as it hits against the pounding baseline of an oncoming migraine. Immediately, he forces his voice to a much quieter tone, a sound no more than a vague whisper whilst an indisputable shade of concern appearing in his eyes.

“Is it that bad? Do you need to go on a sick leave?”

“No, no,” you wave him off, crawling off the bed with no meagre amount of difficulty. It wouldn’t exactly be the first time when “after a bit” has grown to be you drooling in deep sleep on the pillow, still fully dressed only to then wake up at 2 am incredibly hungry. “I’m just a bit tired, that's all.”

“You be careful, alright?”

Namjoon’s face still has a sort of worried film to it as though he’s caught between two possible options of how to make everything better and knowing him, he probably was.

“Do you want me to read to you?”

“You hate it.”

“But I like you so…”

You try not to, however, a small smile still stubbornly worms its place onto your lips and it’s soon echoed on Namjoon's own expression. He outstretches his hand and it isn't long before you grasp it.

“Come on,” he throws his head towards that god awful hellscape of a seat that you detest so much but had no heart to tell as Namjoon had grown fond of it. “Let’s get your mind off things.”

Though there is a wolf-like whistle as you change out of the work clothes for which he gets a shirt thrown into his face, largely the evening is spent in civil spirits.

“How about we eat before?”

Instantly, your blood curdles and from where you’re perched on the end of the grey sofa, you throw Namjoon a deeply, deeply anxious glance. He doesn’t miss it and after once again rolling his eyes because damned if Kim Namjoon wasn’t a passive aggressive bastard, he wraps a precarious hand over your shoulders and grumbles —

“I didn’t cook anything myself. Don’t worry.”

“Thank god,” you sigh and get pinched in the side.

Some would say it’s simple, almost boring but time with Namjoon, wanted or not, fair or unfair, was limited. Moments like these — with your back pressed against his side as you curl up onto the sofa, a leftover pizza laying in front was a luxury. He was rarely if ever at home and it seems that even he gathers as much as his lips seek out his beloved spot on the side of your temple and press a feathery kiss. Simple — yes but precious all the same and you couldn’t thank him enough for just being here.

“Now where were we…” you mutter to yourself, haphazardly sorting through the pile of books laid like a fallout rubble on every surface nearby. Taking advantage of the bared skin of your back, the tips of his fingers softly graze along your spine, mutely inviting you to return into his hold.

"Why do you check out so many books if you never read them?" he grumbles.

"Why would I read them if I can have you do that for me?"

"Tyrant."

"I know you are but what am I?"

The sheer volume of his exasperated sigh is almost enough to wipe your tired state clean off.

"Behave," Namjoon warns lowly, letting his head fall back on the headrest. "Otherwise, I'll just put you to bed."

You give him an angelic smile but comply, offering the book of choice only to frown when he is too eager to grasp it. There's even a twinkle to his eye.

“A cliche of story,” you grouse underneath your breath, mocking the same words Namjoon had said after forcefully reading or as he insisted “surviving” the first chapter. “My ass.”

Nonetheless, save for a few laughs, there is not much that you talk about. There’s no need to share a conversation, just the feeling of his warm skin is enough to sate the void his absence left behind. And with it, the stress slowly abates, unclenching its grip from you, sentence by sentence as Namjoon's voice cruises through the evening.

YOONGI | You don’t quite know how your jaw has not yet unhinged off your face, stretched to its absolute limits by the snake-like yawns but you’re thankful for it anyhow. Another one breaks out the second you’re over the threshold and that is what greets Yoongi instead of a smile or a single, coherent greeting.

“You’re home early,” you point out, withering out quickly. So much so for reading a book or watching a movie, or tackling any amount of apparently never-ending chores.

“Yeah,” he shrugs off, seemingly unconcerned but those slanted, all too observant eyes track the slope of your tired back — the way you collapse into yourself, unable to fully stand neither still nor straight — and with it his lips purse into a thin, displeased line.

“I’m fine Yoon, don’t worry about it,” you call out with a shake of the hand. You don’t think he buys it.

“I’m sure,” he replies simply, tone aggravatingly pleasant, not a hitch, not a crumble for you to catch onto his motives. “Let’s get you into something cozier.”

Peeling off the layers of those impersonal, pretentious clothes makes you cringe. The sweat that had been subtly building under the material is sticky and for a second you almost wish Yoongi would be at the studio like usual. Not much of a looker — sweaty and as appealing as worm splattered underneath the car’s wheel.

“Cute,” you hear a mutter behind you and turning around, you find Yoongi standing before you, chin in hands, almost appraising you the way an art critic would a rare painting.

“I’m not cute right now,” you grouse. Yoongi was never one to sugar coat things, so why begin now?

“You’ll always be cute.”

There is an audible offence in his tone and something in it makes you wanna tease him and almost begrudgingly you have to admit that yet again his master plans proved to be fruitful — the accumulated tension was slowly dissolving in the air around you.

“Even if I’m 90 and all my teeth are gone?”

“Well then I’ll be just as old and we can expire together.”

You shake your head with a barely suppressed smile and suddenly the home feels that much warmer. Not just four walls with a buzzing fridge, droning of the vapid TV and somewhat unsettling emptiness but an actual home.

“Always the romantic Yoon.”

“I drew you a bath,” he throws his head towards the closed bathroom doors. “Get in.”

There’s not a space left in that statement for you to argue and thinking about it, you didn’t want to. The water is in perfect temperature, betraying the amount of time you’ve been together and seeing the purple foam sitting atop of the scented waterline as candles laid around hobbled on the nearby surfaces, tears rush to your eyes.

Sometimes it was good to cry, be it out of joy, sadness or just as a way to release things and while for some it might seem bizarre to hear your cries in the bath, even somewhat disconcerting but Yoongi knew better and he knew when to simply give you space.

By the time you get out of the bath, pruned almost to the bone, your head feels hazy — emptier but soft at the edges. The second you see Yoongi setting up the table, you nuzzle into him, practically melting against his frame. For a second he freezes, out of the corner of the eye you glimpse how his features widen in a shock-stricken expression but once the moment inevitably passes, he plays it cool, pretending that there isn’t a pink blush nestling prettily on top of his cheekbones.

“My, my, you really are tired,” he calls out, gingerly prying your hands away, largely to sit you in the nearby chair. Yet another sign of the sheer exposure you've had with each other over the years — when you clung, you clung, more than once lazing atop of Yoongi as though he was your own personal body pillow. He put up with it like he did with most of you — possessing endless kindness and patience.

"Some soup, nothing fancy," he explains, sliding a spoon your way. "It'll fill you up but won't give indigestion."

"Thank you. You're the best."

He doesn't respond to the compliment with anything credible, just something whined softly through a pout. The dinner passes by in a blur as you try to listen to Yoongi's day. The guilt gnaws with sharpened teeth - at your own inability to focus on what he's saying -but the haze spindles its spidery web too tight around your body and quickly enough, you sink into the mattresses absolutely boneless.

"This just needs one thing," you hear Yoongi muttering overhead and after a beat during which you might as well have fallen into some form of micro sleep, he returns back, paddling quietly across the plush carpet carrying none other than an extremely sleepy and confused Min Holly. The poodle sniffs slightly, veering as he suddenly finds himself put on the bed but then simply decides to snuggle up the pillow next to you — an arrangement that often resulted in Yoongi putting up a fuss over being exiled from his own bed. Though tonight there is no tantrum and quietly you dream of soft hands caressing your head before inviting dark embraces you whole.

JIN | "So you don't want to come out?"

The blanket shakes in a definitive no, pulling from him a deep, deep sigh. "Alright but just text if you need me."

For a second, more so out of instinct than anything, he thinks of leaning down, brushing away this ridiculous blanket you've cocooned yourself in and planting a kiss on your forehead - like he always does- but something in the way you're so obstinately clinging to it stops him and instead he lays his lips atop of it, allowing you to hide away from the world. When the ends of your ears perk at the sound of the closing doors, you slowly push the blanket onto the floor, gulping down large breaths of fresh air.

Jin was nice, you liked Jin, obviously as you lived together, but sometimes…sometimes a person just needed to be on their own. The way you move throughout the house is largely mindless. Something is playing in the background, what - you don't know. You don't put much focus on what passes between your hands - the vacuum, the window cleaner — it's just a motion. A motion required so that the tension doesn't flay you whole. It's not like you particularly want to do so — the lower back pain surely is a sign you don't want to but it is needed. The nagging thoughts of something being not done in the house will just nag you on and coupled with the stress from work, you didn't put it past your body to become the first person on the planet whose head popped from their shoulders and become airborne.

It is when you're in the middle of battling one very annoying corner of the front entrance when Jin comes home. All too soon you hear the code pressed on the outside and you greet him as such, standing and staring like a deer in headlights with vacuum in one hand and a wet wipe in another. For a passing moment, Jin simply takes you in, a wrinkle of thorough confusion marking his face. Then as if to come to a foregone conclusion, he sighs, places the many, many takeaway boxes that tower dangerously all together in a green plastic bag on the console nearby and struts forward. You almost go in to defend yourself be it verbally or with a vacuum cleaner but he simply disregards it and places a palm right over your forehead.

“As I thought,” he mumbles solemnly. “You’re running a fever.”

Immediately you check yourself, in the hurry almost letting the vacuum hit the ground had Jin not caught it at the last second.

“No, I’m not,” you protest but deep down you've grasped that your hand is sweaty and that your head feels…heated, somehow. “I don’t want to take a sick leave!”

Jin was often an easy-going man, never a joke missing when he was around, never a moment weighing too heavily but he was still an adult and sometimes…sometimes he put his foot down.

“But you are,” he insists with a deadpan tone. Both of your hands are forcibly freed from the items in them as you’re spun around and pushed towards the bed, your socks providing no grip to fight the movement. “Better one sick day today than a whole month later. Remember November?”

“I remember November,” you huff begrudgingly. “But it’s not that bad.”

“_________,” the sound of your name falling from his mouth with not a lick of usual laughter or any form of fond exasperation rings like a cannon shot through your ears, making you shrink smaller. “You’re tired. Just rest. Everything else will fall into place.”

You grow limp under his touch and let yourself be carded back into bed, no huff, no puff. Vaguely it’s reminiscent of Jin’s own temper tantrums as he battled a cold two months ago. You’d chided him then for acting like a spoiled child with a silver spoon both in his mouth and up his ass and you know now that it was merely an act of the infamous pot calling the egregious kettle black. There is a twinkle of vindication in Jin’s eyes even if he does not say it out loud. The session of being made fun of was simply postponed due to the pitifulness of your state alas not entirely avoided.

“Now, let your boyfriend take care of you,” bright is Jin’s smile as he beams down upon you from one ear to the next but the pat on your head dours the cheesy sentiment if he even had any to begin with.

“I’m not a dog,” you gruff, wrenching his hand away but as Jin saunters away, dignified as ever, “could have fooled me” is tossed casually over his shoulder.

HOSEOK | “You don’t have any plans later in the evening?”

Because it was 6:30 of a quiet Monday morning and you had assumed that Hoseok hadn’t come home at all, given how you’d gone to sleep alone and woke up as such, the question poised from a poked-in head, partially hidden by a steam of running shower, it came as a no surprise you were scared shitless. Nursing the elbow that was so rudely slammed against the tiled wall, you replied that no, you did not have any plans.

“Great! Love you!”

The only thing you heard after were quick, running footsteps and then — silence.

“Love you too,” you muttered to the empty air. “Whatever that was.”

But Hoseok did sometimes do odd things and so as the work day reared its vicious Hydra head you forgot all about it, too submerged in the rising pile of problems.

By the time you shuffle out of the work doors, there is a deadpan expression upon your face and even more upon your soul. You’re tired and the outlook of coming back — yet again! — tomorrow makes it all the more draining. As you drudge your way down the main street there is only one dream floating almost palpable before your eyes and that is your bed. The very thought of immediately propelling yourself underneath the fluffy duvet and dozing off to a good music is a piece of private heaven you’re salivating after and all that was needed was to go home.

If only it would be that easy.

A sleek, black car rolls in front of you, so crudely that only by the last pinch of your nerves you do not curse the driver out then and there. It’s a blessing you do not as the window rolls down and you find none other than your boyfriend sitting joyfully on the other side.

“Are you abducting me, good sir?” you call out and Hoseok opens the doors from the inside, invitingly patting the seat next to him.

“Yes, now get in. This is not legal parking.”

At first, you hum happily along to the song playing on the radio. Sure, Hoseok makes a weird turn — it definitely does not belong to the usual route but maybe that was him trying to evade the congested traffic. A second one? Your hum falters but still you persist. You were still going in the correct general direction and if anything you should be grateful about being rescued from the overcrowded hell that is public transport in a rush hour. But once the third turn is taken and you no longer recognize the area, the soft happiness blossoming in your body freezes and for a fact refuses to thaw.

“Uhh…Hoseok?”

“Hmm?”

“Where are we going?”

“To the mall.”

If feasible, your brain would make a sound similar to a record being pulled under the needle of the player. And then smashed against the fucking wall.

“The mall?” you echo slowly, however Hoseok remains blissfully oblivious and smiles as your dream of bed and rotting rest shatters into unmendable pieces.

“Yeah! You’ve been working so hard! You definitely need some new gifts. Name whatever you want, I’ll get!”

Get me home, is what flashes through your mind but even thinking about it feels ungrateful of sorts. Thus, you bite your teeth into a pained smile.

“Yay,” though you try to sound enthusiastic it comes out more like a squeaking cry of a dying animal.

Having three bodyguards flickering in and out of your periphery as blinding mall lights blare overhead was not your idea of fun in the best of days but even less so after the dogshit that was work on this particular Monday.

Suddenly Hoseok shoves a string of pearls underneath your noise, with an overeager “try this!”. You oblige but something in the look does not please him and quickly the pearls are swapped for another, a tad more delicate piece.

The longer you trail after him, the more your eyes droop downward. It becomes too difficult to even properly focus on walking let alone on what Hoseok is saying. Covertly, you try to slump against him while on the escalator and once more Hoseok misinterprets this as an expression of affection, cooing at it.

You do not have the heart to tell him you were seconds away from crawling into the bathroom and sleeping there.

“Which shoes do you like better? These ones or these ones?”

Strategically, you position yourself on the plush albeit hard chair of the shoe shop.

“They’re both good,” you mutter and the next time you open your eyes, a muted darkness stands before you. For a second, your heart leaps, dry spit curls up at the back of your throat but as the second passes, so does the fear. The dark slowly abates and the familiar feeling and smell of your comforter drags you back into the peace.

You’re home.

There is a vague clattering coming from the closed bedroom doors and as you drop back onto the pillows with a sigh of deep relief, it stops only for someone to move closer.

As Hoseok opens the doors, he stands in them for a while wearing a gentle but knowing smile.

“If you didn’t want to go, you could have just said so.”

You screw your eyes shut, feeling the end of a headache coming back up from behind the eye sockets.

“Did you drag me back?” you groan, sinking deeper into the mattress as though it could possibly save you in any way.

“With some help,” Hoseok nods, throwing a towel to rest over his shoulder. “You were out of it.”

“I’m sorry,” you glance at him from the covers, turning your voice much more earnest. The feelings of ungratefulness cling to your chest, creating a heavy, pressing sensation. How much time really did you have with Hoseok? Hours, minutes? Versus the days that he was entrenched deep into work or worse on tour. You ought to spend every moment with him, radiating nothing but happiness but it was just…

You were just too tired.

“I really am.”

“Don’t stress about it. But really just tell me next time that you don’t want to go and would rather sleep instead. Trust me, I would understand.”

You nod along to his words, giving a mute promise though it's one he accepts.

“Besides there’s always online shopping,” he supplies lightly before his smile warps to cut a bit too deep into cheek and too devious in its hue. “And I can always spoil you in other ways.”

JIMIN | The second your aching feet drag over the warm threshold, you don’t even let Jimin finish his greeting, instead propelling yourself tiredly into his chest, self-indulgently wrapping your arms around his waist.

“What’s this?” he chuckles softly, placing one cheek upon the top of your head — you could feel the weight of his motion. It rests on you like a heavy blanket, relaxing yet not caging. “Since when are you so nice to me?”

“Oh, shut it,” you hiss meagerly, cheek still ruffling against the thin material of his grey t-shirt. “I’ve always been nice to you.”

“Debatable,” he laughs but it quickly sizzles into a low hum. “Long day?”

“Felt like it would never end.”

Dinner is eaten quickly, with you mostly scarfing down whatever is put down before you and Jimin occasionally throwing a worried glance though he chooses not to give these concerns a voice. You’re grateful for the silence — too exhausted in your own right to dwell on what should soon turn into a hazy, near non-existent memory.

The sofa underneath your back is pliant enough and slinking onto the too small decorative pillows, the same ones Jimin had sworn would be perfect as you had stood in IKEA checkout line, you feel your eyes fall downward — not slow and steady, but definitive and pointed like a crash of a rock.

Jimin’s voice floats above the cotton-candy haze that circles the ends of your eyes and maybe vaguely you catch the tail of a sentence.

“...movie?” is all you hear and deeply not caring, you nod along, still partially clinging to his arm.

“Something you like…” Jimin mutters under his breath. “The Notebook is always great.”

“I literally have never liked that movie.”

He lets his mouth open in truly horrendous offence, placing a palm over his chest as though you’ve just stabbed him with a kitchen knife.

“Blasphemy! And in my own home too!”

Imperiously, you make a grab at him, settling yourself to lay partially on his torso.

“It’s our home, you menace.”

“Ah, and there they are! So I thought you being nice earlier was suspicious.”

But even as he’s saying it, there’s a lingering presence of suppressed smile etched across his lips.

“Just play something,” you mutter, not even bothering to maintain the appearance of wakefulness.

“What about “cold eyes”?” he suggests, switching contemplatively between the select options, each one playing an annoying loud

“That’s still your favourite movie. I like “The Lighthouse”.”

As expected an immediate wrinkle of distaste curls up his nose as he regards your suggestion. Apparently taking in a noir coloured fever dream seeped in oceanic nightmares had not been his favourite way to spend an evening and though he endured it once, more thanks to his apparently endless love for you than patience, you doubted the chances of him laying his eyes on the production ever again.

“A compromise,” he suggests, by now only barely able to move as you melt into him, your tired bones demanding a rest. How could even one’s inner thigh muscles hurt you did not know but such was the reality.

“Ice age.”

“Deal.”

It’s not even five minutes into the movie that the warm colours flashing on the screen, not to mention the rub of Jimin’s fingers tenderly grazing against your scrap, lulls you into deep, exhausted sleep. Jimin doesn't wake you.

TAEHYUNG | Though the headphones squeeze on your ears in a manner that manages to somehow be both painful and itching, you pour all of your focus into the pot of soup boiling on the counter. The sensory hell that is extractor hood whirrs overhead and while you hate both the steam making everything just a touch too hot and the noise being a touch too grading, it does the trick. It completely overwhelms your mind and with it the piled up anxiety. The sudden light touch, light yes but unmistakably belonging to a human hand, forces some form of primal scream out from your throat and you’re met face to face with equally wide-eyed, equally frightened Kim Taehyung. Who is in your house.

You almost ready the ladle as a weapon of sorts but the fleeting voice of reason reminds you, he is in your home because this is the home you share.

Because you’re dating, it goes to supply and you’re thankful that it does otherwise you would have just slammed your boyfriend into the kitchen ground with the aforementioned ladle.

He attempts to speak or at least so you assume from the way his mouth moves.

“Just give me a sec!” you point at your earphones in the still lingering confusion momentarily forgetting to how to turn off the blasting music that just a second ago was mind numbing in a pleasant way but now has grown to be an auditory guillotine.

At last you manage the Bluetooth connected mess and pushing back the hair from your face, you huff, trying to sound light and miserably failing in one fell swoop.

“Why-why are you home so early?”

Taehyung quirks his head to the side and those soulful, terribly wary eyes glide over your face in suspicion.

“Was I not supposed to?”

You almost don’t stammer when answering “no”. Taehyung hums but it doesn’t feel either like a response or the final sentence in the otherwise lackluster conversation. If anything it’s a wordless noise of suspicion and you begin to sweat under its weight.

“You look like you haven’t slept a week,” he points out, not overtly trying to be accusing outright but similarly failing as well. At first your mind leaps and bounds to white lies, some smaller some bigger but as his gaze grows more expressive, more analytic you wither and simply confess like a child would after eating too much candy from a jar that was specifically left for guests.

“That’s because I haven’t.”

Taehyung nods, clearly having suspected as much.

“And I assume the reason why you were unpleasantly surprised by my arrival is that like any other night, you wanted to make something quick, then sit yourself in front of three devices all playing different things and then letting yourself rot in an unmade bed?”

You twiddle with your thumbs.

“Yes. Are you mad?”

He looks mad, however because this was Taehyung the next second his face blooms with pity and you find yourself surrounded by two arms and what feels like a cashmere sweater.

“Oh my baby.”

The beginnings of what feels like straying tears rush forward but still for now you force them down. Disconnecting, for the first time you look Taehyung properly over. What initially seemed like nothing but put-together pillars of stability when compared to your crumbling statue ebbs away and in the muted light of the kitchen you see. The downturned corners of his mouth, the eye bags obstinately clinging to his face, the hair that hangs over said eyes, clearly unkempt, obviously trying to hide something he deemed too personal to share with the rest of the world.

Other than you that is.

Once again it rips out of you without much consent or thorough planning of the brain:

“You’re tired.”

He laughs but the sound, alike the atmosphere, falls strained.

“Yeah I am. Can’t sleep much without you.”

The soft ends of his voice, clipping into an exhausted drawl, makes your heart bleed both in pink and red.

“I’ve been worried about you,” he adds with a deep sigh. “And it seems not entirely without reason.”

“It’ll be alright,” you try to brush off but without knowing whom you tried to convince more — Taehyung or indeed yourself. He doesn’t much say of anything, merely gives one truly solemn nod and clutches your hand in his grip — ladle and all.

JUNGKOOK | The second you feel the familiar walls of your home swallow you whole, the full effect of a thoroughly draining day kicks you in the chest. You feel its weight knead at your muscles, turning every strain of it into an over-taut strings of deepened ache. You breathe a weary, albeit content sigh as one sweaty article of clothing is shed after the next. It’s a quiet retaliation — to toss them into the hamper for laundry tomorrow. Thank god for your laundry fairy.

You hear someone at the door and momentarily the ache disappears in the surge of sheer adrenaline but as the familiar sounds of dog’s nails scraping against the floor reach your ears, you relax once more.

“Babe?” comes an inquiring voice just seconds before Bam rounds the corner, gleefully wagging his tail at your presence.

“You’re wet,” you complain but since much like Jungkook, it was impossible to be mad at him, all the dog hears is the pleased sound of your voice so without any inhibitions whatsoever, he noses at your shin, leaking rainwater onto the beige bedroom carpet. Jungkook pokes one head in and you’re not surprised to see that he’s much in the same state.

“And you’re wet as well,” you point out, monotonous, as he shrugs in response.

“Forgot to take my umbrella.”

You don’t chide him, having honestly no strength to do so. Instead, you plop down onto the bed, stifling another monstrous yawn, not entirely missing the faint wrinkle of concern carving its way in the space between Jungkook’s eyebrows but choosing to not remark upon it. He was already too worried these last few weeks. Still Jungkook remains Jungkook and not a second after, from his spot in the doorway comes gentle but somewhat of a sternly voiced question.

“Are you okay? You look…I’m sorry tired is not the word. Drained of your very soul.”

You offer him a mirthless laugh, running a palm over your face.

“Is it that obvious?” you try to joke but the hint of frailty betrays you. Its note might be faint but for Jungkook with his musical pitch, its laid out bare on a desolate cliff. He doesn’t speak but there’s no need to. His face says it all.

“It’s just I’ve never not…known things,” you admit, a sense of frustration immediately clutching at your chest. “I’ve always been quick to adapt. A month, two months tops and I’d be like a fish in water but…” the end of the sentence trails off into a frustrated sigh.

“It’s not your fault they’re not training you properly,” he objects but even so remembers to be quiet. There was no use in shouting and that was the rule you both agreed upon.

“I know it’s not my fault,” you mumble underneath your nose but even you yourself can hear the disheartened nature of that statement. For long dragging stretches of time, you simply stare at Bam, reaching out to pat him ever so slightly.

“I’m just…tired, Koo,” at last you state, the final walls breaking down in one, finite statement.

“I get it,” he echoes somberly, the shared faraway glint in both of your eyes reminding you both of the many, many tired late evening, early mornings and the middle of the nights. Jungkook rouses himself out the soured memory lane first. He shakes his head and paddles over, sitting on the bed beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight.

“You want a shoulder massage?” he offers and as his touch settles upon your skin, you wince, prompting a hissing curse from his lips.

“It’s like a rock, baby,” Jungkook whines in your ear. You try to shrug the sentence away however the flare of unexpected pain puts a firm stop to it.

“And I don’t think you’ll make it better,” you sigh, trying, in a last ditch attempt, to sound a tad playful. You think it somewhat works as Jungkook pressed a preemptively apologetic kiss to the back of your head.

tagging: @pinkcherrybombs; @sukunabitch; @btsiguess-kpop; @belladaises; @halesandy; @seok-jinnies; @themochiverse; @cuteipat; @ratherbefangirling; @manchuria; @dreamamubarak; @anti-social-mochi267; @back2bluesidex; @silverliningsandstorms; @ahewlett

658 notes · View notes

muneca-lemon-steppa · 4 months

Note

can i just say that i am OBSESSED with your Alfie series. literally cannot get enough of it. Also!! Was wondering if you could write a fluff piece were reader gets injured and alfie comes to her rescuee? Your writing is so good <3

Hi my love! This ask was so so sweet! I am so glad you like the series, it was so much fun to share it with you guys, I know I tell y'all all the time but it's true! My heart is just so full I can't help it! And of course I can write some fluff! You know I love it hehe. I'm sorry this took a while but I hope you like it! This was actually inspired by my Thanksgiving fiasco this past year lmao. I was in charge of the turkey, mac and cheese, dessert, and potatoes. My little brother was my sous chef and I completely cut my thumb open and my brother almost passed out lmao. Anyway, sending all my love to you! - Mo

Ouch

Alfie Solomons x F!Reader, fluff, Warnings: injury, mentions of blood

There is something so soothing about the kitchen. When the world is so chaotic and cold and uncertain, the kitchen is a haven. Here it’s safe and warm and systematic. The chops and bubbling of the stove are so rhythmic, any harshness of the day just falling off your shoulders in waves. Because here you could understand and set the temperature. Here you could control the outcome and be free. Even if you were trying something new, you could be confident in the knowledge that it would always have a good outcome. It was your favorite part of the day, just cooking with Alfie. You on one side with Alfie on the opposite, working separately to jointly create beautiful.

The only problem that came with cooking, was that it was a little too peaceful. You became too relaxed. And as Alfie was apt to remind you, it wasn’t good to be too relaxed around knives and hot stoves. But it was too easy. The steady hum of the fire and boiling. The pattern you’ve gone through many a time. Your body would take over like a dance from your childhood. Your hands knew what they were doing. Your mind could take a break. And she would wander. Things to be completed in the office tomorrow. That new quilt you were making for your mother. Alfie needing a haircut.

Stir.

I need to make time for that book this weekend

Pour.

Alfie looked so handsome today if it weren’t for that awful stain on his shirt

Stir

Mama and Papa asked us to come for Shabbat this week. I need to tell Alfie.

Chop

We should go to the park this week

Chop

I wonder if we can visit Rabbi Reuben as well

Chop

Alfie’s birthday is also coming up

Chop

I’m so excited for his birthday surprise

Slice

“AH!!! Oh God ah!!”

A long and deep line blossoms on your palm. Far too entrenched in your mind, you were completely missing how the knife was getting closer and closer to your hand. You quickly grab a nearby dish towel, tightly wrapping your hand to catch the trickle dripping to the wood on the floor. Alfie is quick to you though, loudly dropping the cutlery and bowl he was holding. "Shit! Sweet heart you alright? What d'ya do to yourself?"

"Nothing nothing Alfie darling! Just a little scrape I'm sorry!"

Alfie peered at the slowly soaking dishtowel and raised his thick blonde brows at you. Mustache quirking, indicating that once again, you are a terrible liar. Gently but without holding room for argument he unraveled your makeshift bandage as you winced. His mouth furrowed and grumbled, "Ah shit treacle. This is why I always tell you right? You can't be all day dreaming when you're working in here! You insist on not letting me help ya, and then there you go fucking filleting yourself!"

Cool tears start trickling down. It burned with the introduction of the air and the embarrasment of getting a nasty cut. Alfie sighed, wiping your tears with one hand has he cradled your injury in the other. If there was one thing he hated most in the world, it was seeing you cry. "Aw my dove, no tears yeah? Not too bad ain't it? Why I don't even think it'll need a stitch I wager. Just a little alcohol on it and a bandage and you'll be right as rain. C'mon my angel, let's get you better aye? Dinner can wait a few minutes."

Despite having a terrible temper and being completely and utterly impatient... Alfie Solomons was an incredibly gentle and tender nurse. Stern. Always stern. And teasing. And scolding. But gentle above all else. You winced and shed a small tear when Alfie poured the clear and horrendous smelling alcohol on your wound. He tutted and kissed your temple all the while telling you, "Maybe this'll teach you eh? Nothing like a war would to make you more smart about your surroundings."

You thanked your lucky stars you didn't need a stitch at all. Despite the blood it was really a shallow cut. Alfie wrapped your hand skillfully. Pressing a kiss right over the bandage as the final salve. As you whispered a chaste thank you, Alfie pulled you into his chest saying, "Now listen my dove. I don't like to baby you. You are a grown woman and I'm not one to tell woman how to conduct herself or her affairs. But I get worried about you. Always drifting off somewhere in that pretty head. Not watching yourself. Not wanting help. You have got to let me help you my darling. Yeah?"

You nod, kissing him to assure him that you are ok. He chuckles kissing you back. Pushing you to the dining room chair he teases you further, "Now my dear patient, it is imperative that you sit there and keep that hand elevated. Lots of rest of relaxation yeah?"

"Alfie! I have to finish dinner!"

"No I'm sorry treacle but it is the doctor's orders! Can't have you losing a finger next can we?"

You laugh and argue with him, eventually get him to compromise to allowing you to fill a pitcher with water and set the kettle on. No matter what the others of Camden said, they could never say that he wasn't a good man.

#alfie solomons #alfie solomons x reader #alfie solomons x you #alfie solomons fanfic #alfie solomons x y/n #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinders #tom hardy

150 notes · View notes

dulcewrites · 1 year

Text

Unnerved

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x reader (kind of lol), implied aegon targaryen x reader (wc: 3.1k)

Summary: Being at court is a game, and your favorite opponent is a certain long haired Prince.

A/N: I sort of adapted this from my fool me once series. I got an idea of the reader being slightly more ambitious. But then realized that would change the story so this kind of a new one lmao. Some elements are from like Aemond being married (this time to Floris Baratheon) and possibly cheating 👀. But anyway just wanted to explore Aemond and reader being haters but also having crazy sexual tension. *insert something smart about Aemond hating someone that is a mirror of him*

The heavy fabric of your dress seems to drag more than usual.

The extra care given to your appearance hopefully will not go unnoticed. The gown is your most expensive. A deep blue Lyseni cut dress with beaded bodice, and silk sleeves that slip open and ripple like water.

Walking the halls of the Red Keep is at night is not something you frequent. Working up the courage was always something that made you falter. But the result would make it worth it.

You bite back a smile when you see Ser Arryk not near his post. For a moment you consider knocking, worried that Aegon may be in the room with someone. The thought never bothered you till recently. A surge of confidence overtakes when you just open the door instead.

The fireplace in his is uncharacteristically blazing at this point. You stop in your tracks when you notice long legs extending from chair near the fire. Long silvery blonde hair catches your eye, and your heart sinks. Before you can turn around to make a beeline towards the door, an eye flick towards you.

“My Prince,” you bow your head softly. “You are back from the trip.”

You try to keep you voice bright, and unassuming but you are sure disappointment colors your tone. Aemond gives you sly smile.

“Come to look in on my brother, I assume,” condescension laced through his voice. He gestures to the book in your hand. There were days Aegon did enjoy hearing you read, but most of the time the conversation dissolved into other things. He would start at the seats in his room, you at his desk… till the you ended up on his bed. Faces close, and whispers soft.

“Yes, Prince Aegon always enjoys hearing about the histories.”

Aemond’s polite disposition drops, and he lets out a short laugh. “Right, I am sure he enjoys hearing about the histories from you.”

You feel yourself falter. An unnerved and unprepared feeling burst in your stomach.

But a lady is never those things. Not ever. Your mother’s voice rings in your head. A true lady never worries. The best of them can turn negatives into a positive.

You put on the sweetest smile you can and nod.

“This week we read about all about Maegor the Cruel.”

Something flashes behind his eye that you can’t quite put your finger on. He hums softly, giving you a once over. Inspecting your dress, your hair, your face. The hair jewelry holding back your hair starts to feel like it is digging into your scalp. Not feeling comfortable standing and letting him dissect you, your feet lead you to sitting in the chair opposite him.

“I do hope Prince Aegon is well.”

“What you mean to ask is where is he,” Aemond corrects. “He was not here when I arrived. He may be out on a late-night joyride with Sunfyre. Perhaps wandering the Street of Silk for another type of joy.”

You say nothing, laying the book flat on your lap. It should not shock you. Aegon is not getting that from you. You know Aemond does not believe that by the false innocuous way he mentions his brother’s indecisions. Every bit of attention Aegon puts elsewhere is a win for him. He decides to twist the knife more.

“I bet the discussions you two have are ravishing,” Aemond replies sarcastically, leaning back further in his chair. It only makes you more aware of your posture. More of mother’s words - Back straight, chest out, and head up my dear girl. “Aegon has always been known for his ability to hold a riveting conversation.”

“I think you underestimate your brother. He retains information quite well, and loves to debate,” your hands trace delicately over the large book.

Aemond’s eye doesn’t leave yours. The enjoyment wiped from his face. He just stares soberly.

“You know the sad part is that I genuinely think you believe that. You think you will be able to carry on like this. Pretending this all for companionship and light reading.”

Your eyes drift to the fire. A part of you wonders what it would be like to just stick your hand in it. Would there be excruciating pain or would the numbness that you force into you mind spread through your body? The old wives’ tales Aegon tells of Targaryens being fireproof pop into your head. Maybe that is where Aemond’s gall comes from; the inability to burn the way others would. You wish you could test the theory. What a sight it would be to see him engulfed in flames.

Aemond lip curls a bit. “But at least you can pretend with the best of them. First born sons deserve the best, even the best whores.”

The harsh words are strangely tinged with pity.

“Tis a shame, the way court changes a girl.”

Your eyes snap back to him. “I am not a girl, my Prince. The same way you are not a boy.”

The two of you are the same age. The superiority in his voice is not needed nor appreciated. You must bite your tongue not the bring up the stories of youth Aegon has told you about. His life has been court fodder many times over. It would be too easy to bring up the strife a young Aemond had to go through. Too unladylike to bring up the little boy you know is still tucked under the bravado.

He would revel in taking you out of yourself.

“You could get out of it, before it is too late,” he pushes the subject more. “Marry some lord and be swept away from here.”

The possibility sounds nice. Away from court, away from your family. Maybe a different version of you would agree with Aemond. Acknowledge that being at court, that striving for more has stolen something from you. A life of simple monotony away from the Red Keep sounds lovely. But you are not a different you. You were made and pushed into the world in your parent’s image. Simple is not enough, monotony is not enough.

“I appreciate the advice,” you smile calmly. “But I would miss everyone too much to do that just yet. I would miss Prince Aegon, along with Princess and the children. As well as you and sweet Floris.”

Aemond stands abruptly at the mention of his sister and wife. The light from the fire reflects on the side of his face. He looks like something out of a fairy tale. You are sure he wants to look intimidating but looks more ethereal if anything. He shares that trait with his siblings.

He goes to leave without another, but a sudden urge washes over you.

“Wait, my Prince,” you set the book in the chair and go to where he is near the door.

You wet your thumb slightly, watching his eye linger on your mouth.

“You have a little rogue there.”

Your thumb traces over the vein on his neck, and you feel him stiffen under your light touch. You flinch a little when his hand grabs your wrist firmly. For a moment, you don’t trust your instinct fearing your boldness has taken you to a point you cannot tip toe back from. You become acutely aware of blade resting snugly against his hip. He could slit your throat easily. But you have seen him training; he would go for a more gruesome approach if given the chance. Slow and painful.

Instead, he gently placed your hand at your side. His hand making a route from your wrist to the delicate tips of your fingertips. There is a coldness left when he lets go.

He leaves without another word.

“I will tell Prince Aegon you stopped by,” you lie as you call after him.

Aegon does eventually show up. Riding gloves on, and cheeks splotched, pink from the cold. He goes on and on about something Sunfyre did. You sit, pleasant and accommodating, the way men like him want. Hanging of every word as if you would die not hearing the next one spill from his lips.

Despite the dragon drivel, your mind does not drift often, liking the easiness that comes with speaking with an agreeable Aegon. But when it does, it only fixates on one thing.

First sons deserve the best… even the best whores

“She is not pregnant, Your Grace.”

The maester seemed nervous to tell the Queen. Aemond bites back a breath of relief when the words come out, eye fighting to go back to outside the window next to the wall where he leans. Floris’ face scutches into a frown.

Alicent chews on her cheek in clear aggravation, a tell Aemond can pick up from years of noticing his mother’s ticks. But like any good diplomat, she quickly replaces the disappointment with smile towards Floris.

“Well, it can take time,” she tries to give a good-natured shrug. “No reason to worry.”

Alicent had gotten good at giving her kids the same empty placating statements sprouted to her by her own father. Everything is going how it should. No need to worry. You will be fine.

They do not believe her the way she does not believe Otto. She can at least say she knows her children well enough to see they do not believe it. Alicent is sure her father still deludes himself into thinking his halfhearted attempts at warmness work.

Even the smartest man in the Seven Kingdoms can be mind-numbingly daft at times.

The maester and Alicent jump into words of encouragement and ideas to help a seemingly upset Floris. Aemond assumes he should join in, comfort his wife but his legs don’t catch up with what his brain tells him is best. Instead, he stares out of the tower window, a flash of deep red and black catching his eye.

He sees you walking through the castle with such sure steps, in perfect tow with his sister. A creep of bitterness works its way up Aemond’s throat. The way you have encroached into the inner fabric of his family leaves him feeling uncomfortable. As if you were always meant to be here. A harmless addition, but he knows better. There is nothing harmless about the way Aegon looks at you.

The only vindication he gets is his mother’s shared hesitance. But in the end, he knows Alicent is too tired to say anything unless true harm is being done. Even she can appreciate Aegon having a singular focus for once, even if it not his wife. And she is undoubtedly fond of your strait-laced yet kind nature. You knowing your place makes all the difference. But Aemond sees hints of boldness and rashness.

It feels odd watching a woman not of his family so garishly wear the color that matches the walls of the castle. But too terribly fascinating to look away from. The black dress with Ruby red trimming sits off the shoulders elegantly. Your hair pulled up showing off a swan like neck that he has only seen on his mother.

Poised, well-read, quick witted, and all wrapped up in a pretty package. You are the ideal vessel for a royal bastard; he knows you see it too, you are too bright not to. A perfectly placed temptation.

He knows his brother is foolish enough to try it.

Mindlessly, his hand goes to his throat. The touch is not the same as yours. His sword withered hands nothing like the dainty soft one that danced across his nights ago. He swallows thickly.

“Aemond, are you listening,” his mother voice breaks through his thoughts.

He nods. As he pushes himself from the wall, he swears he can feel eyes looking up at him.

— — —

Aemond starts to wonder if all his thoughts will be tinged with violence and paranoia.

Simple ideas can be quickly shifted into something morbid. He does not when it started. After he lost his eye? After watching Aegon and Helaena get married? After learning about get married himself. It is easy to have this to turn into dust and ashes in this family.

Though Floris is a welcomed difference. The right amount of different yet bland enough that his thoughts on her dissolve into nothing. Sweet, and palatable; things could be far worse he guesses. He could be stuck with far worse. She lets him do as he pleases. Finds ways to occupy herself that has nothing to do with him, a comfort.

When he hears laughter coming from their chambers, he assumes she must be with one of her ladies in waiting. He internally groans at the small talk he must make with them. Pretending to care about whatever court gossip they dither on about. But when he walks in he sees a table full of tea and treats.

“My love,” Floris hops up from her seat, a bright smile on her face. A warmer disposition than the one she had been sporting since the news of not being with child.

Before he can reply, the person in the seat turned away from he springs up with equal vigor.

“Prince Aemond,” you curtesy, polite smile on your face.

For today, the cold, silk targaryen-esque garb had replaced with a lace emerald green and gold gown. Coils falling in way that create a halo around you. He should add chameleon to the list of attributes. The transformation is remarkable. The typical icy demeanor being washed away with a young, sheepish, and girly smile.

Aemond bites back a sneer. His body feels like it vibrates whenever you are near. He has not figured out if it is anger or something entirely different.

“We were just having tea,” Floris looks at you then at the wine on the table, and you two share a knowing giggle. “Chatting away.”

He waits for the moment you finally excuse yourself, but it never comes. The two of you continue to whisper and giggle as if there is an inside joke no one else will be in on. He tries not to focus on it as he takes off his riding gloves, and cloak.

A guard comes into the room asking for Floris. He sends a prayer to the Gods that his wife will take you with him. But all she does is tell you that she will be back soon.

“Did you have a nice ride,” your voice rings through the room. Aemond lets out a deep sigh, turning from the clothing cabinet. He turns to find you lounging in the chair, goblet in hand.

He doesn’t answer, just stares at her leaning against the wardrobe.

“I have always thought about it,” your lips are stained red from the wine. “Taming a dragon, riding a dragon. Your wife is very lucky.”

Aemond blanches at the image that passes through his head. The vibrating feels like it is starting to radiate inside to outside. You down the rest of the wine.

“I am assuming she had ridden on Vhagar with you.”

She had…. once. Aemond had assumed it would romantic or a deep connection would be had. His at the time future wife meeting his first friend. She threw up afterwards, politely saying that she would never want to do that again.

Dragons are not for everyone.

“Maybe my brother will finally put you out of your misery, and let you ride his.”

Your lips curl into a cruel smile. “I would like that. I hear one good ride always clears the head. I am sure you have needed that lately.”

Aemond frowns not understanding what you mean.

“Floris was telling me about your problems. Do not fret Aemond, impotence is very natural while under pressure,” your eyes travel down his body, and you give him a fake pout in pity.

Aemond is sure he is about to lunge at you. His vision goes red for a second. “I am not impotent,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “Nothing of what my wife and I do is any of your business.”

He shouldn’t feel the need to explain himself to you. Insolent girl with too much time on her hands, and too many ideas in her head. Aemond slightly curses his brother for being the reason you even come around. You hold your hands up innocently.

“Your wife invited me to tea, and she brought up the conversation. I am only now trying to extend my support.”

Aemond always thinks the people around him are too trusting, too open. Helaena is painstakingly warm to whoever shows her an ounce of kindness. Aegon is easily swayed with pretty faces or a sense of camaraderie. His mother’s whole being shuts down at the sound of compliments. Floris is alone at court, in need a friend. You meet all of their needs in ways he cannot begin to. You know it as much as he does.

He should feel upset at his wife, but he doesn’t even have the passion to do that.

So, all he can do is focus on how you bring on a nagging tug in the pit of stomach. How he trusts absolutely nothing you do. How embarrassed he feels about you knowing any intimate details about him.

“But if I could give some advice,” you get up from your seat, walking towards him. “If your wife is not doing the trick, perhaps thinking about other things may help. Something that makes the blood pump a little faster.”

Aemond’s throat bobs. He glares, trying to think of cruel insult to dismiss the notion, but he finds his mouth dry and his tongue heavy.

The moment is interrupted by Floris coming in with a smile. “What did I miss?”

The transformation happens again, Aemond thinks. The low voice you had put on, and the hazy look in your eyes instantly go away. You turn to her with a chipper smile.

“I was just telling Prince Aemond about how I am looking forward to going to the orphanage with you, Princess Helaena, and the Queen on the morrow.”

You lock arms with her, and all Aemond can do is watch.

Wretched girl.

—— —

Later that night, when he feels Floris’s lips on his neck, and her hand working down his chest. He tries to think about how lucky he is. Floris is pretty, and kind. He has bolstered his family through the marriage. It should make him happy.

Despite himself, he finds himself thinking about other things. About berry red wine-stained lips, and a perceptive mind. A wet thumb tracing where his wife’s lips are. Heat pulls in the pit of his stomach at the thought of you wanting to ride a dragon. That night he cums harder than expected.

Maybe second sons deserve the best too.

#this weirdly being one of the fav things Ive written and I did it in like a couple of hours wimfksnf #like once an idea stick… it is STUCK I fear #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen angst #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x fem!reader #aemond targaryen imagine #prince aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond x oc #aemond fic #hotd aemond #aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii x reader #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen x fem!oc

777 notes · View notes

linddzz · 3 months

Text

Here an assortment of Facts About Morpheus in the Red Flags AU. Where I'm starting to lean more towards the version where they meet and are already into each other before the ""Fake Date"" Incident:

-Jessamy is the raven he took care of when he found her injured outside of his townhome. He now has a room with a window he often keeps open for her to fly into whenever she feels like it. I don't know how legal any of this is in London but tbh it doesn't matter because he also does not know what the laws are and doesn't care.

- His townhome is very dark maximalist in decor, which tends to surprise people at first. There are houseplants and little statues all over, and the walls are hidden behind millions of bookshelves. There is an art studio room and books scattered everywhere. Very recently, hypothetical visitors would notice a lot of child locks and child proofed areas that have a bit of a panicked "I bought every safety thing in the store bc I have no idea wtf I'm doing" energy to them.

- He has a therapist. Yes, the Morpheus that Hob meets is the upgraded version who is actually working on himself already. This is what the improved personal growth version of Morpheus is like.

Anyway, said therapist is Gilbert F. Greene. Because Morpheus going head to head with an unstoppable force of old timey adorable optimism who will also not take his shit is delightful. Dr. Greene insists on going by first names and Morpheus always makes "Gilbert" sound like a slur in retaliation. Some conversations I imagine include:

"Good morning Gilbert, you will never guess who had what you might call a """relapse into self destructive behaviors"""" last night."

"I am very sorry to hear that my dear boy. Let me say though, that I am so very proud of you for calling me! That is a phenomenal step for you and it's wonderful that you are being proactive in your recovery."

"Don't patronize me Gilbert. I will hang up."

(this ended up being super long so I'm just gonna spare y'all's dash. Warning for some lightly touched on mentions of drug use and self destructive behavior.)

- Him getting a therapist was part of the requirements for gaining visitation rights and then weekend custody once a month with Orpheus. The therapy is actually helping, and he's bitter about that.

- His given name is actually Dream, he goes by his middle name. All the Endless siblings have awful names. Desire goes by Adonai because who calls a fucking child Desire???

When Hob meets the rest of the family, Destiny goes "it's good to see you again, Dream" and Hob begins turning to Morpheus like "lmao who tf is named Dream" only to find Morpheus glaring daggers at his brother.

- The Endless parents are rarely around. Some of the siblings still live in the manor and they all use it for family dinners, but it's common for their parents to be off travelling for years at a time.

- Morpheus is an author and a painter who has a bajillion pen names to go with each genre he writes in, so it's hard to figure out exactly how much he's written. Even before becoming a father though, his face and full name is mostly associated with children's fantasy stories that he illustrates himself, and his Art vs Artist vibe is very Miyazaki.

Him and Calliope collaborated on a series of illustrated poetic translations of ancient epics. Their divorce was exactly as messy as one might imagine the divorce between two passionate artist types might be.

- His downward spiral of self destruction started before the divorce but oh boy did it nosedive during and after.

- When she got pregnant after divorce proceedings had started, there was a moment where they were both meeting with lawyers and one asked something along the lines of if this meant they would try for reconciliation and staying together. Calliope said "no" immediately.

It's not like Morpheus exactly thought they would get back together, but the speed and firmness of that hard "no" had his head screaming with white noise and some badly thought out self medication for months, which ended up being why Calliope got full custody and he is just now able to get more involved with the now two year old Orpheus.

- His rebound with Thessaly was also messy. She was just in it for a fun fling and he was... Morpheus. He found out he got dumped when she informed him she was already in the process of moving back to Greece, and Johanna said he needed to be banned from any more beautiful Greek expats from that day forth.

- No one can figure out what the deal is with him and Lucienne. The simple explanation is they're queerplatonic soul mates. Lucienne's wife Gault thinks they're a bit codependent (not an inaccurate assessment), but is more civil with him since the day she yelled at him to go get an actual therapist instead of constantly putting his shit on Lucienne, and he actually did. (It is unclear if this or Calliope demanding therapy for him to get visitation with Orpheus was his wake up call catalyst, but probably a bit of both.)

- Lucienne was originally a personal assistant. She now works as his editor since she seems to be the only person who can keep track of all the shit he's written. She is also the only person who can get away with critiquing his works in progress without sending him into a fit where he might burn all his manuscripts.

- When Morpheus started mentioning this Gadling guy a lot, Lucienne paid a visit to the pub. Not to do anything so crude as to threaten a man's life if he breaks her sensitive friend's heart. What could she do anyway? No no. She's just here to smile with zero trace of humor and ask some questions while looking him up and down through her spectacles. Hob will later describe this as one of the most pants shitting moments of his life, and he felt like he got transformed back into a primary school kid who talked slightly too loudly in the library.

- Morpheus went through a slutty phase during and shortly after University that was less of a healthy and fun exploration of his sexuality and libido, and a bit more "I will take anyone who will have me in any way they will want me and I know that if nothing else, I'm pretty."

- Him and Johanna used to have a game seeing who could get more free drinks in one night. This had to be put to an end when it turned into the catalyst for at least three screaming fights between them.

Fight subjects were

Quality vs Quantity. Morpheus insists his ability to get people to buy him a single glass of wine that costs £50 beats Johanna's cheap beers. Johanna disagreed. loudly.

Is it cheating when Morpheus ran to the bathroom to smudge on some eyeliner and then stole Johanna's lip gloss? Is it further cheating when Johanna realized that his main method of getting drinks was "act like Adonai"? Accusations that he would ever act like his horrid annoying younger sibling sent Morpheus into an absolute tantrum.

Competitiveness DID overcome sibling rivalry enough for Morpheus to go to Adonai for makeover assistance. This backfired because it made Morpheus hot to the point of intimidating, and Johanna won that night.

- After Hob starts flirting with him, Morpheus goes suspiciously into a Romantic, Pre-Raphaelite inspired art era featuring lots of noble knights with dark sunlit hair. A lot of them seem to be lured in by dark haired fae entities all La Belle Sans Merci style. It's disgustingly obvious.

-Therapy has made him juuuuust self aware enough to know that he MAYBE tends to go a bit hard and fast with romance. This makes him a little more cautious with Hob than he usually would be, and he's doing a bit of "Hob is so nice and sweet and interested but I'm gonna mess it up :(((" pining. Everyone around him is fucking sick of it. He is not self aware enough to realize he's still going super hard and fast, but this time he's doing it while sighing sadly and drawing Hob in his sketchbook all the fucking time.

#red flags au #human au #Dreamling #gonna make my pinned masterpost to organize shit later today djdjdksk

114 notes · View notes

changbinsboiledegg · 6 months

Note

The reader being quiet during sex was so sweet and cute and I liked it because some ppl are just not talkative during sex and that's okay.

However!

Can I please request how the members of Stray Kids be like when the reader is loud, whiney and loves dirty talk?

Thank you!

Hi hi! Thank you for the compliments! I honestly get why some people are loud and some are quiet. Both perfectly normal! Also thank you for your request & this meme. I will be committing theft of this bc San is bias wrecking me lately. :) 🫶 onwards to your request lmao.

AFAB! Reader X SKZ.

MDNI!!!! (bc one warning will suffice, I hope.)

Warnings: Oh boy. SMUT, obvi. Dirty talk, obvi pt 2. Swearing, usage of the word 'dick', 'cock' (bc I got over myself but only once.) and 'p*ssy', protected or unprotected fucc (not specified), fingering, idk why I keep making Minho a dom in these, oral (fem receiving), riding, wet dream mention, shower fucc, groping, blowjob, what's it called when you both m*sturbate each other? bc there's that too, rough seggs? kinda?

Note: Lmaooo I'm not good at dirty talk but I tried!!! so in advance, I'm sorry if some of the dialogue is cringe :'((( I also tried to keep it different scenarios, idk why reader is getting fingered so much, my fault. Anyways, if no one told you today, ilyyyyy and I hope you enjoy! Also, :)))) MDNI.

♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎

Chan

“I really need you inside of you.”

That was all you had to say to set him off. His night was booked the moment those words were whispered in his ear.

“Fuck! Right there! Ah!” You whined, pinned against the wall with Chan’s fingertips digging into your hips as he took you rather roughly.

“You like that? Like when I fuck you?” Chan huskily spoke close to your ear, thrusting deeper.

“Fuck yes! Fuck me! Harder!” You vocalized in loud whimpers, feeling your legs tighten around his waist as he relentlessly thrusted harder as per your request.

“So good. So fucking tight.” He muttered through grit teeth, feeling and enjoying the way your body shook from the pleasure coursing through you.

“I can feel you stretching me out.” You trembled, your mouth hanging open. Chan pressed his lips hungrily against your neck, sucking on the skin between his teeth.

“Ah, you’re so tight that it’s gripping my cock.” Chan mumbled, listening to your desperate and needy whines as he pounded into you.

Lee Know

“I can’t stop thinking about how wet you get for me.” Minho whispered, spreading your legs as he tugged your dampened panties off and leaving you exposed.

“Stop thinking and feel how wet I am for you.” You expected him to unbutton his jeans and stick his hard dick inside of you.

But he didn’t. Instead, he pressed his hand over your wet pussy and felt around, collecting some of your wetness on his fingertips.

He rubbed and lightly tapped your clit before slipping his fingers inside of you.

“Hmm, I’ve always wanted to feel your fingers fucking me.” You moaned, using one hand to grip one of your legs while the other lay idly on your breast.

Minho smirked at your words, how you reacted, and thrusted his fingers in and out of your wet hole, making a beckoning motion as you whined and rocked your hips.

“Fuck! I’m going to cum!” You were loud and honest, feeling your stomach tighten. Minho pulled his fingers out before you could find release and unzipped his pants.

“You will cum on my dick. Understand?”

Changbin

“How fast do you think I can make you cum?” Changbin asked, pulling your hips towards his face.

You looked at him and admired how eager he looked at he prepared to eat you out.

“Knowing you, I’d say a minute.” You released a shaky breath, feeling the sexual tension building up inside of you as he licked his lips, staring directly at your glistening pussy.

He started off with licks and soft sucking, earning whining from you.

“You don’t know how badly I needed your tongue on my pussy.” You shuddered, trying to keep your legs spread for him but the urge to squeeze his head with your thighs was overwhelming. He was eating you out so good that you couldn’t help yourself.

“You taste so good.” Changbin mumbled against your pussy, sucking on your sensitive clit and slipping two of his fingers inside of you.

“Fuck, fuck, don’t stop. I’m going to cum on your tongue!” You whined loudly, writhing a bit before he held you down with his free hand and continued to eat you out and finger you.

Hyunjin

“I missed having you between my legs.” You commented, sinking down on his dick and feeling him fill you up.

“I missed watching you ride me like this.” Hyunjin breathed out, groping and rubbing your body as you started off slow, adjusting to his dick after so long of not having him inside of you.

“I missed riding you.” You chuckled, biting your lip as you sank down deeper before raising your hips up.

“Fuck, you’re making me miss you already.” Hyunjin groaned. You let out a shuddering whine as you picked up speed, bouncing on his dick and throwing your head back.

“Holy shit! You feel so fucking good!” You gripped his shoulders, making eye contact.

“You’re so going to miss how good I’m fucking you right now.” You moaned out, not caring how loud you were being. Hyunjin groaned, gripping your hips tightly.

“I’m going to miss it so bad while I’m away.” Hyunjin guided you up and down his length rhythmically, bringing you closer to the edge.

Han

“I had a dream about you and now I really need to fuck you.” Jisung wrapped his arms around you from behind as he said this.

“Oh yeah?” You teased, pressing your ass against his erection. “How bad do you need to fuck me?”

“So bad.” Jisung kissed your neck, slowly grinding against you. You checked the time and shrugged.

“Then fuck me.” You challenged. Within a minute, he had you bent over the bathroom sink, your face pressed against the mirror as your moans, loud whining fogged the mirror.

“This is better than my dream.” Jisung slammed his hips against yours. “So tight and wet and needy, just like that baby.”

You whimpered as your walls throbbed and clenched around his pounding dick. “I know you’ll always fuck me so good. Leaves me wanting more.”

You gripped the edges of the sink, your legs shaking but you were feeling too good to allow yourself to collapse. Jisung sped up, slamming into you repeatedly.

“Shit, you’re going to make me cum all over this sink!” Your whimpers echoed through the bathroom. Jisung grunted, his dick twitching inside of you.

“Fuck, baby… so tight…”

Felix

“I get so hard when I’m around you.” Felix felt up and down your wet body as the shower ran over both of you.

You slightly swayed your ass, feeling his hard dick against you. “Is that why you joined me in the shower, you naughty boy?”

Felix grinded against you, fondling your body. “Maybe… I also think you’re beautiful when wet.”

His hand snaked down to your clit, rubbing circles. You moaned out, tilting your head back as water poured down your body.

“No. Not today.” You grabbed his hand and turned to face him. He cocked an eyebrows, confused.

You lowered yourself to your knees on the wet floor of the shower and took his dick in your hand.

“I really want to taste you.” You licked a stripe on his shaft, slowly jerking him off as you did. Felix let out a throaty groan, gripping the door of the shower. “Darling… Your lips look so pretty wrapped around my dick.”

You smirked, taking him into your mouth, bobbing your head up and down his length as he turned into a whimpering mess. You pulled him out of your mouth and looked up at him with a gleam in your eye.

“It makes me so wet when you fall apart for me.”

Seungmin

“Are you always this wet?” Seungmin asked, thrusting his fingers inside of you, his eyes dark as he watched your facial expressions.

“Are you always this hard?” You whined, softly gasping at the finger of his fingers working inside of you while your hand was jerking him off at the same speed.

“Only when I see you.” He used his other hand to wrap around your waist and pull you closer, his fingers going deeper.

“Fuck… and you wonder why I’m so wet…” you trembled, a whine escaping your lips as you quickened your hands pace when he quickened his.

“So needy too. I bet if I stopped, you’d cry.” Seungmin teased. You whined loudly, starting to rock your hips against his fingers.

“No! Don’t stop. I need you to make me cum.” You gasped when he went faster, staring directly into your eyes.

“Oh yeah? I need you to cum too.” He spoke lowly, curving and caressing your walls while thrusting. You screamed involuntarily, shaking as you jerked him off just as fast as his movements were.

“Fuck!”

I.N

“I only want one thing and that’s for you to make me scream.” You challenged, crossing your arms.

This entire night, you didn’t expect Jeongin to take your challenge literally. It wasn’t when he reacted to your dirty talking.

But you two were alone and he needed you just as badly as you lead him to believe you needed him.

He pushed your now naked body on the bed and ripped off his clothes before being hovered over you.

“What was it about making you scream?” Jeongin asked, spreading your legs apart. You quivered at the thought of him fulfilling your wish.

“I want you to fuck me until I scream.” You smirked, reaching down to stroke his hard erection. He breathed out, feeling your hand on his dick.

“You’ll be screaming until your throat hurts.” He muttered, guiding himself inside of you. You let out a soft gasp when he first entered, stuffing himself inside of your tight hole.

“I should’ve fucked you sooner today.” You moaned out, earning a smirk from Jeongin, who began moving his hips rhythmically.

“You think?” He gripped your thighs, picking up speed. You gripped the sheets, whimpering. “Oh fuck! Just like that!”

#stray kids smut #skz smut #stray kids x reader #skz x reader #skz imagines #stray kids imagines #stray kids scenarios #stray kids reactions #skz reactions #skz scenarios #stray kids imagine #stray kids hard hours #skz hard hours

148 notes · View notes

shiftylinguini · 8 months

Text

Fuck I Can't Write Crisis Pack:

@phoebe-delia asked in response to this fun lil ask game:

Do you have any advice for getting out of a slump/getting writing confidence back? . (for the ask anything) Do you have any advice for getting out of a slump/getting writing confidence back?

Now THIS. This is a good question, and something that is very much on my mind and has been for a while, as I am currently absolutely in the midst of this and trying to army crawl my way out. I don't have any magic bullets (is that the saying? idk) but I have been here before and i do have a small arsenal of tips or methods that I find can help me.

Here is my Fuck I Can't Write Crisis Pack (In no particular order):

Write anything

This is hardly groundbreaking advice, and it's also the hardest thing to actually do (imo) so do not beat yourself up if it takes a while to get to this. Basically, write ANYTHING―it can be aimless, it can be pointless, it can be crap (crap is subjective!! don't let the brain gremlins win!!).

Don't think about posting it, don't worry about anyone else ever reading it, just fling a few words onto a page and feel the rusty faucet turn on, proving to yourself that it still works.

Try and sus out what it is that's blocking you

Again this one is hard and annoying but functional. Once you can put your finger on the particular reason you're staring at a flashing black line on a blank page it can help you kick that reason off your lawn and into the bin.

And then, take it out of the bin and be kind to yourself about whatever that reason is. Maybe you feel shit because you're comparing yourself to others, your last fic felt like a lead balloon, you can't muster enthusiasm for what you once loved doing and fear that it's gone forever, you're projecting in a Tumblr post―whatever it is, it's something all the writers you admire and aspire to be like have felt, and been annoyed with themselves for, and so you can wrap it up in a blanket and put it on a shelf and be kind to it so it, (respectfully) shuts the fuck up.

(and remember, everyone feels insecure about their stuff. Like literally everyone, at some stage, feels like their stuff is rubbish)

Cheat on your OTP

Okay this one might not work for everyone, but it really does for me lol. Ruts (not the sexy kind) can often come with not wanting to engage in my usual ships, being annoyed by my lack of ability to fucking write them/anything/all my ideas taste like cardboard/bleh, and stepping out on them and reading something new can snap me out of it. Just, an injection of new ideas or scenarios or words or even just a little reprieve from being fed up with myself, which ideally, is why we're all here anyway.

(And then I come crawling back, and am welcomed with open arms haha)

In a similar vein:

Engage in media

This subtitle is genuinely terrible, i am sorry, LMAO, but essentially: find a piece of media that makes you go "oh, helLO sailor", unhinge your jaw like a snake, and consume it whole.

Let it nourish you, inspire you, excite you, making you feel SOMETHING, and then take that and think "fuck, what if i wrote bleepbloopblarp" and even if you write nary a single word, you've thought about it and that fucking counts.

It might be an album, a book, a song, a show, gifs of a hot person, the wikipedia summary of a movie, literally anything counts here if it makes you feel a twinge of creativity.

Ask yourself, what would Astolat do?

No for real. @candybarrnerd and I genuinely use this haha.

Worried your idea is stupid? Astolat would say write it.

Worried it's too weird? Nah, just write it.

It's dumb and no one will read it? Just write it for you *waggles eyebrows* (and then find out that yeah, nah, someone else will absolutely read this and be real fucking happy about it haha.)

Worried you're a one trick pony and have already written this fic before, like, and not even once before, and also you're projecting again in Tumblr post? WRITE IT AGAIN! As Astolat once said, "it's a fic so nice, I wrote it thrice".

It's good advice.

Make a friend or lean hard on the ones you have here

Misery loves company because it knows they'll come out of this together :). I know, I know, that's fucking NAFF, but fandom is all about finding like-minded freaks and blowing up their DMs because you saw a gif and now feel a kind of ways about it.

And lastly:

FUCK STATS!

I mean I love stats (yay validation!), but god can they make you feel like a worthless shit (hey where did my validation go :((( ). It can be really insidious, so piss that right off when it starts to fuck with your confidence or outlook on your own writing.

Hopefully there is something useful here, even if it's just looking at this advice and thinking "no that's shit, it's writing POISON" cos then you can maybe do the version you think is NOT shit, and that might work.

Good luck, fellow travelers!!

#thank you for this ask #this turned into projected cathrsis but i hope this helps if you are possibly feeling in a slump!!#on fic #writing #writing advice #our lord and saviour astolat #shifty turns an innocent ask into a therapy session #also is there a fucking name for the flashing space bar line on a word doc LMFAO there has to be right?? i do not know what it is

216 notes · View notes

formereldestdaughter · 1 month

Note

ok wait i need to hear more of your thoughts on peeta owning a bakery....

This is one of those rare times where I’m pretty sure this anon isn’t someone I know personally bc I’ve subjected anyone who will listen to my rant about the Peeta Bakery Headcanon. Anyway, you’re gonna regret asking this anon bc there are fucking Layers here.

I know this is probably a controversial take based on the number of fics where I’ve seen it, but I simply do not think that Peeta would open a commercial bakery after Mockingjay!! Like on a metatextual level, I don’t think it really fits with the point of the ending of the series. It actually sort of fascinates me that it’s just such a common headcanon because the ending of Mockingjay is exceedingly vague. I think that vagueness invites us, as readers, to imagine a better world post-revolution. A world where Katniss would feel confident that her children would be safe from injustice, where she’d feel confident that her children would never know want the way she did as a child. A just world. A kinder world. Can a capitalist society ever be just? Is a capitalist society where a disabled teenager has no other means to subsist himself (or feels like there’s no other way he can be a contributing member of his community) really the post-revolution world we dream of? Is that really the best we can imagine?

(This got so insanely long I’m adding a read more lmao)

I get that showing a better world is not always the point of post-mockingjay headcanons/fics. Like there are plenty of really great post-mockingjay fics I’ve seen where, yeah, part of the fic is that society like ISN’T all that different or all that much better. I’ve seen that really well done! Hell, I’ve written them myself! It’s easy to imagine how a lot of aspects of society would not get an overhaul, a lot of the same structural inequalities would continue to exist. One headcanon that really stuck with me (I can’t remember which fic it was from) was that Peeta sells basically mail order baked goods to people on the Capitol, sending them iced cakes and pastries by train, because there are still people who were “fans” of theirs during the Games. And idk this doesn’t actually have much to do with my point lol but I liked it because it’s kind of fucked up and like! Yeah! It makes sense! If he needed money that would be a good way to make it! War often makes people rich, often for horrible reasons, and often it’s people who already have capital in the first place.

Anyway, more about the hypothetical bakery because alright. I bring up the fact that “yeah society not being all that different post-revolution and still being an unjust capitalist hellscape” could be a reason why Peeta re-opens a bakery because that’s actually never the types of fics where I see the bakery headcanon. Fics where Peeta opens a bakery are usually trying to make the exact opposite point. Like. Things are getting better, now he can open a bakery! Look at how much better the world is now, plus he’s got a bakery! Peeta is healing, that’s why he can open a bakery now! And I am so, so sorry to inform everyone who’s never had the grave misfortune of owning a family business, but there is truly nothing further from the truth lmao. Like just putting aside the immense amount of emotional baggage that Peeta has about his family, running a small business is an insane amount of work in any context and being a baker especially is physically grueling and involves early hours (and long hours) that aren’t really the best fit with the multiple ways that Peeta is disabled now. (I could go into this more because I have a lot of thoughts. But I will spare you.). I also think it’s seen throughout the books that Peeta is someone who needs time to pursue creative outlets to process his feelings and someone who values leisure and values quality time with his loved ones. And having grown up in his family’s bakery, I think he’d understand the reality that running a bakery wouldn’t leave much space of those pursuits and wouldn’t leave much space for him to have the things that keep him healthy and stable. I think he’d know that the way he is now— after two Games and the war and unspeakable torture at the hands of a dictator—isn’t compatible with the lifestyle necessary for running a commercial bakery.

And tbh with that in mind, I don’t think he’d push himself to re-open a business (one that would be a constant reminder of his dead family and his complicated relationships with them that got no closure) that would require him to sacrifice his physical and emotional well-being. Like I think he might look into the possibility, I think he might even start trying to open a bakery out of a sense of obligation/duty, maybe harboring some idea that this is who he was supposed to be, who he would've been without the Games, or that it’s this last piece of his family that can live on, or that it’s this last connection to his family so he can’t let it die too. But ultimately, I think any attempt to open a bakery wouldn’t get very far. Maybe he'd start wading into the logistical nightmare that is small business ownership and realize it's not for him (because it's probably also true that as much as him and his brothers were involved in the business, there's almost certainly parts they weren't involved with and didn't see, i.e., filing taxes). Or maybe looking into opening a bakery— how triggering it is, the stress of it— causes a downward spiral. Maybe he hates how much he's worrying everyone by unraveling. Maybe having a breakdown from the stress of just trying to open a bakery makes him realize, yeah, maybe in another life he would have ran his family’s bakery but the way he is now just doesn’t work with running a bakery, not without great sacrifices he's not willing to make. I just can’t see a bakery coming to fruition.

I know a lot of fics include Peeta deciding to reopen a bakery as a big step in his healing or include him rebuilding a bakery as part of his healing process but honestly, I think the opposite would be more true: I think Peeta either trying/failing to open a bakery or ultimately deciding not to open a bakery would be hugely healing for him. I think it would be a huge part of him accepting the way he is now as a person, his new limitations but also his strengths. I think it would be a huge part of him accepting the way his life his now and accepting that he likes his life the way it is, that he’s satisfied with his life without needing to own a bakery. I think it would be an important part of him coming to terms with the loss of his family. I think he knows he can never have things back as they were and I don’t think he would try to recreate them, especially because his family’s legacy isn’t a business. I think he’s emotionally intelligent enough and self reflective enough to realize that what mattered to him about the bakery— taking care of others by feeding them, being integrated into his community and being actively involved in it, brightening people’s days with delightful things whether that’s beautiful cakes or hearty food or delicious treats— and the things he learned from his family through the bakery, are things that he can carry on in other meaningful ways.

(Do you regret sending this ask yet, anon? Because if not, you will soon. I’m not done yet. There’s more.)

I wasn’t really sure where to put this next part in what is rapidly becoming an essay because it sort of combines the points about like “what do we imagine a post-mockingjay society to look like” with the practical difficulties of starting this bakery but here’s another thing: do people really think that the Mellarks owned the land the bakery was on?? Like, sure, the merchants are the petit bourgeois of Twelve but I still don’t imagine they really own anything. In a society where houses are assigned to people upon marriage, where property ownership and capital are so closely interconnected with citizenship (as shown by the Plinths who, by having immense capital, are able to leave their District and become citizens of the Capitol) do people really think the Mellarks would be allowed to own the land their bakery is on?? I always imagined it sort of like a tenant farming situation: the Capitol gives them the raw materials for the bakery and in return the bakery give them some absurdly high portion of their profits, or the Capitol sells them a year’s supply of raw materials at a premium on credit and at the end of the year the Mellarks have to use the money they made with those materials to pay it back, except it’s never enough to turn a profit so they always have to buy next year’s materials on credit and the cycle continues.

We (understandably) get a really skewed view of the merchant class through Katniss’s perspective so I can see why people come to the conclusion that his family owned the property and, as the last surviving member, he would’ve inherited it. I’ve seen the inheritance thing in fics a lot or a hand wavey “well Twelve was decimated to no one owns anything anymore so it can be his” or even like an almost sort of reparations type situation where he’s entitled to the land as a surviving refugee of Twelve. But I don’t know. I guess I don’t think it fits with everything else we know about Panem that the Mellarks would’ve owned that land and I think the question of whether the government would’ve let him take ownership of the land post-revolution brings up a lot of issues about the structure of society post-Mockingjay that I find more interesting to explore in other ways, especially when, from an emotional perspective, 1) I find the idea of Peeta not opening a bakery more compelling and 2) I don’t think it really fits his character arc by the end of Mockingjay to reopen a bakery, as I went on about at length above lol.

On the flip side: literally who cares!! Do whatever you want!! Headcanon whatever you want!! I get why people go for the bakery!! It’s fun, it’s wholesome, it’s a built in bakery AU that isn’t even an AU. It doesn’t matter if it’s practical or realistic!! It doesn’t need to be practical or realistic!! It’s fanfic of a dystopian YA series!! My unfortunate affliction is that I grew up in a family that owned a restaurant and that I have multiple degrees in the social sciences so I can’t see the bakery without being like “What about the overheard? What about the start up costs? Who’s spending long nights balancing the books? Is Peeta covering shifts when an employee calls in sick? Is Peeta the sole person working there until the bakery is open long enough (often a year or more) to start turning a profit? How does that sleep schedule work with his nightmares? How does that work with Katniss’s nightmares? What happens when he has an episode and suddenly needs to take the day off before he has any employees? Does the bakery just remain closed for the day? Can the profit margins withstand regular unexpected closures? Can the supplies withstand regular unexpected closures?” And if the answer is “Elliott none of those things matter he’s not doing the bakery because he needs the money but because he wants to”, then my question is why does he want to? Does he not get the same sort of satisfaction out of feeding his loved ones? Doesn’t Peeta seem like someone who would rather give away baked goods than sell them?? Doesn’t Peeta seem like someone who would prefer to make cakes for people’s special occasions upon and then when they insist on paying him for it, he only lets them “pay for the ingredients” which actually cost significantly more than he says they did??

So yeah my point is that it’s a matter of personal taste! It doesn’t fit the way I see the series but that doesn’t mean it’s like wrong, I’m not an authority on Peeta lmao.

It’s also a matter of personal taste in the sense that I find the themes that most resonate with me at the end of Mockingjay (and the end of Peeta’s arc specifically) more interesting to explore in other ways. Grief, living with loss, relearning yourself, finding hope, figuring out your place in a dramatically different world when you don’t even know who you are anymore, healing, building a new life after such complete and total destruction of your old life— those are all things I find compelling about the end of Mockingjay but for me the bakery isn’t the most compelling way to explore them.

Not to say I find the concept of the bakery totally uninteresting. I have this fic about Johanna that I’ll probably never finish where the point sort of is that, yeah, her life really isn’t all that much better after the war. It’s been years at this point and she’s still miserable and she doesn’t know how to be a person but by the end she’s trying to figure it out. And towards the end, Peeta tells her that he’s spent years sort of passively, half-heartedly trying to figure out how to inherit the land his family’s bakery was on, only to find out it was never theirs in the first place. They’d been renting it the whole time and he’d never even known as a kid. So he sort of passively, half-heartedly went on another wild goose chase to find the owner and now, finally, after years of writing to various government agencies and being sent in circles and things being barely functional, he’s managed to track down the owner. Now it’s owned by the daughter of the man who owned it when he was a kid because the original owner (who was likely up to some sketchy war crime shit) died during the war and she inherited it (the irony…). He got in contact with her and asked how much it would take for her to sell it and she told him she’s not interested in selling but in light of the situation, in light of the fact that he’d have to build a new building in order to operate a bakery, that she’d cut him a deal— she’d only require 50% of the bakery’s profits as rent instead of the 80% his family used to pay. And of course Johanna is outraged, that’s not right, the owner shouldn’t be allowed to do that, they should do something about it, they should fight back. And Peeta is like. Not interested. He was actually sort of relieved that opening wasn’t very feasible. Getting the answer was a lightbulb moment where he saw that over the years of trying to look into this, he’s built a life that he likes— one where he’s stable, where his loved ones are stable, where he’s cared for and can care for others— and he doesn’t really want to change it drastically by opening a bakery anyway. He just needed an answer, one way or another, before he could get some closure and move on. (And the point of the conversation is Johanna is having her own lightbulb moment that it’s okay to move on, it’s okay to change, it’s not a betrayal of the people and things she’s lost but that’s not my point here!!).

But anyway. That’s obviously not about running the bakery— it’s about the choice to not run one.

Anyway!! Anyway… are you satisfied anon? Is this what you wanted?

Lastly, here is my most important qualm with the bakery headcanon: must Peeta be gainfully employed? Is it not enough for him to be Katniss’s boytoy? Can’t he just paint and garden and bake and hang out with his girlfriend all day? Is that really too much to ask?

#peeta mellark #thg #the hunger games #the hunger games meta #anyway wow this got so long and I literally read it through one (1) time so uhhh sorry if this makes no sense!!#as I was doing my one read through and realized that one of my other thoughts on this is that yeah I can much more easily see the #headcanon that peeta like sells baked goods (probably at cost with no profit) out of his kitchen because that’s much more flexible #and I think that would work a lot better with what like I guess I’d call his psychiatric disability post mockingjay #and how he’d certainly want to take care of Katniss too #like that sort of flexibility makes a lot more sense for him and it’s like. if he doesn’t bake for a few days or however long then it’s fin #it’s not a formal brick and mortar business #it’s just something he’s doing because it’s a way to be involved with people and a way to do something he’s passionate about #without there being waste and while covering some of the costs #and he doesn’t have to like keep books or do payroll or any of the things I can’t see him being very passionate about #as far as like bakery management goes Lmao he can just bake!!#but then I started getting into this whole thing about how that quote-unquote ‘running a business’ like that (informally from your house)#is actually a really common practice for people living in poverty so probably something that Katniss and peeta would’ve been familiar wirh #anyway and then this whole rant about how the emphasis on the brick and mortar bakery often goes hand in hand with #this widespread fandom thing of having a fundamental misunderstanding of how rural poverty works and what it looks like #but then I was too deep into it and said you know what? never mind! and deleted it lmao

74 notes · View notes

fandxmslxt69 · 1 month

Text

CLEM'S BIRTHDAY HANG OUT!!

Hello friends!

As March comes to an end (my birth month wooo) I thought it would be a fun idea to have a little hang out during the last week! So from March 25 - 31 we are PARTYING !

Sort of!

My askbox is open to all sorts of silly dilly fun time! This is my first little hang out so PLEASE BE KIND TO ME i'm just a silly girl who wants to make friends and have some fun! I'm also hoping this might get me back into writing!

Yes, the poster is all Loki NO HE'S NOT THE CENTRE OF ATTENTION!! Here's a little info I guess (I am just winging this as we speak, it is not very thought out):

Rules & Info

The event will run from 03/25 to 03/31 - you can send in as many asks and hang out as much as you would like!!! No I will not kill you if you drop a hello in my askbox start of April - to be honest, I love friends so I won't ever turn anyone away

You can stop by my askbox to say hi, share some thoughts (or thots...) tell me anything, or play a game! (will talk about that in a bit)

Anyyyyoneeee is welcome I don't care if we aren't mutuals or we don't even talk, STOP BY AND SAY HI :D If you are rude or disrespectful in any way, I will kick your butt and break your nose.

This is a positive, fun zone. I just want to have my fun and mind my business, please don't be trying to cause problems. I'm a relatively small blog so thankfully no one really looks my way but I've had some bumps in the past.

THIS IS MY FIRST TIME DOING THIS AND IM LITERALLY GOING TO DIE FROM NERVES SO BE PATIENT WITH ME OKAY

Games:

Fuck, marry, kill - send me any three characters that you want me to decide a fate for....oh my god please don't make me kill anyone I love dearly....

Blurbs!! - send me a little prompt/kink/thought & a character and I will try SOOOOO HARD to put out a little itty bitty something of writing! Like 500 words or so!! Can be fluffy or smutty. Angst is not allowed unless its just a LITTLE sad and with lots of fluffy stuff after

Character Association - tell me about yourself and let me give you a character. This is literally my favourite game ever, and I swear I'm super good at it

Book Recs - tell me your reading vibes/popular tropes you like and I will give you FIVE (not one, not two, but FIVE!!!) book recs because I like talking about books. If you show up talking about non fiction, then sorry but I am not your gal at all.

Chat - Come talk!! Come chat!! Come say hi and giggle with me about anything!! Come be crazy with me over narratives and themes and character arcs!!! Tell me about school or your day, your OCs, latest WIPs or anything currently on your mind!

Okay that's all I could come up with but literally any and all games are free game. I am keeping this as chill and lowkey as possible.

Characters/Fandoms:

You guys already KNOW my vibes and what I'm around and what I'm not, so feel free to send anything! I float around Marvel/DC (just send in any character and if I don't vibe with it I'll just let you know or leave it unanswered), I think it's obviously I'm Oscar Isaac obsessed....um. Pretty much anything. It's free game and I'll put my foot down if I'm down okay with something or don't want to answer :D

I'm..about to tag some friends...if that's okay...

@divine-knight-hand @romanarose @sarahscribbles @lokischambermaid @lokisgoodgirl @sailorholly @in-som-niyah @fictive-sl0th @mischief2sarawr @saturn-rings-writes @superficialdomina @planetwaynez...and I can't remember anyone else now I'm sorry LMAO

KISSES EVERYONE <3

Clem

PS: If you're worried whether I'm comfy or not or familiar with a character or not, just send it in anyway and we'll figure it out from there!

#if i did not tag you its either im going to harass you on discord or i forgot or im worried you'll think im crazy #which i may be a little bit but not entirely #kisses everyone (panicking going to throw up)#clem talks <3 #Clem's Birthday Hang Out #<- NEW TAG !!!!!!!!!!!#when this finishes maybe I'll finally get to updating and revamping my masterlist!!!!!!#jason todd #loki laufeyson #moon knight #dc #dick grayson #marvel #oscar isaac #joel miller

56 notes · View notes

bonefall · 7 months

Note

Golfy is literally one of my favorite cats of all time and I adore the way you’ve characterized her!! Any fun tidbits to share? I want to know more about the woman

There's a sketch of her floating around if you want to go on a treasure hunt! I don't have time to look for it right now (I am currently in the trunk of a clown car), but I've actually drawn a beta of her design and her big mane

Also note: BB!Goldenflower is part of the Doekin line. Speckletail's perception of herself and her family is tied strongly to being Doestar's niece. This association dies out with Thornclaw in BB!OotS as he's the last one to strongly value this legacy.

Golfy's mane is so poofy, unmanageabley poofy. She keeps it braided

Lionheart just surrendered to entrophy on that one lmao. "Dirt happens."

It's my little way of trying to show the difference between the siblings.

They're both proud and honorable, but Lionheart is more calm and patient. He's a Que Sera Sera kind of guy.

Goldenflower is more fond of the expression, "Fortune favors the prepared."

Note to self: Clanmewnize these expressions. Que Sera Sera is notably quite RiverClannish... Golfy's phrase is definitely from early ThunderClan

Not to get too distracted but I recently got this FANTASTIC idea for how to close out Book 3 of BB!DOTC on a bittersweet note, involving The First Boarhunt and Clear Sky being delightfully devious as always. Maybe it would be cool to put that phrase there... anyway.

She had three siblings total, Lionheart, Mistleclaw, and Snowkit. It's really difficult being the last one; family was extremely important to her.

Mistleclaw wasn't even a year out of apprenticeship; you're really considered an ADULT adult after being on your own for a year. Losing her was like losing a sibling who's college-aged. That was to the plague, before Firestar's arrival.

Smallear was openly the father of all four of them, but Goldenflower hesitates to call him Ba. Him and Speckletail had a really toxic on-again off-again thing.

Smallear was closest to Mistleclaw, who coincidentally looked the most like him. Goldenflower is like... "yeah thats what i expected of him, that fish-eared loser"

She's biased in favor of her mother though. Lionheart was more chill with Smallear; not CLOSE but, neutral-positive.

It wasn't entirely Smallear's fault that the relationship kept falling apart though, to be clear. I use toxic in this use very much on purpose, it wasn't abuse, they really cannot get along.

So when Goldenflower eventually picked a mate, she REALLY just wanted a stable lifepartner that would not be like that.

I would describe her relationship with Tigerclaw more in the terms of an "arrangement." Fishing for romantic information from her is VERY funny because she just like. Doesn't "get" romance.

Brambleclaw: "Mom... what did you... like about dad?"

"He was large, we were both very large. And he was a responsible warrior, respected and ambitious. Well... at the time we believed that. And he spoke with great confidence. He had a way of making you feel like you were both safe and powerful by his side."

It will not even click for her that most people don't open the answer to "why did you love x" with "he was tall like me"

(VINE BOOM AROACE FLAG)

She wanted kits and a partner. She doesn't regret the relationship, she regrets what he made her believe.

On Tigerclaw's end, it was mutual. They both liked each other as trusted Clanmates. He was attracted to her and reciprocated when she proposed a mateship, but I don't think he ever really got over Spottedleaf romantically.

Plus, getting into this family was a smart political move. Having Speckletail's approval was VERY useful.

I might stick Goldenflower as Head of Hunting through TNP to early Po3, until she trains a successor, since there's no rush. I have an allegiance list floating around but I can't remember off the top of my head if she's where she should be

She's actually super disappointed in Tawnypelt for her choice. I don't think they ever reconcile this, they're both too proud

So she's kinda iffy on that alliance with ShadowClan. Not to the point of spite, but she does easily believe stereotypes about them.

"A bunch of holdouts of TigerClan and duplicitous fiends over there."

Both Golfy and Tawnp miss each other a lot, but again. Neither one is going to apologize to the other or say the other was even slightly correct.

And Golfy wouldn't accept it if Tawnp even did. She made her choice. They're in different Clans now. She chose her father, who killed Swiftpaw and Lionheart.

And for that, Golfy will not forgive her.

If they ended up in a battle, neither would hold back. They both know this.

I'm really fond of her. She really is Speckletail's daughter and the whole family has a special flavor of pain and pride.

#BB!Goldenflower

110 notes · View notes

cain-speaks · 9 months

Text

🍭 𝙎𝙒𝙀𝙀𝙏 𝙏𝙊𝙊𝙏𝙃 🍭 || Macaque x Reader Oneshot

» sweet tooth (cavetown) « 0:45 ─〇───── 4:07

╔⏤⏤⏤⏤╝❀╚⏤⏤⏤⏤╗ AUTHOR'S NOTE ╚⏤⏤⏤⏤╗❀╔⏤⏤⏤⏤╝ ➤ This is a oneshot. ➤ This is romantic. ➤ Reader uses she/her and is a cat demon, so she has cat-like features/behaviors! ➤ Described the clothes but tried to keep it simple/vague so ppl could add more details if they'd like! ➤ BRO THIS TOOK SO LONG I'M SORRY. I kinda lost the plot a few times I think,, and I got super into the shadow story,, hope this is good!! Also sorry if I switched tenses at some point, it happens rip. Also also if the kiss scene is bad I'm so sorry, I'm awkward asf LMAO. ➤ TRIGGER WARNINGS include profanity, a little bit of angst, referenced toxicity, and referenced murder. ➤ Word count: 3,494

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

❝ A sweet tooth for you, I'm wide awake .❞

Your tail vibrates excitedly as the timer goes off, alerting you that the mango pudding is done chilling. Grinning widely, you almost run to your fridge, throwing open the door and crouching to pull the cool dessert out. You take a deep whiff as you wander back to the counter, shutting the fridge door with a bump of your hip. It smells heavily, and an experimental shake of the pan leads you to believe the sweet treat has successfully set.

You set down the mango pudding and turn to the dishes, rinsing them in the sink and leaving them in the basin to be thoroughly cleaned later. As you scratch a particularly stubborn splash of dried pudding from the whisk, you look over at your oven, squinting to read the numbers displayed.

5:47.

"Oh, cow-milk," you hiss under your breath, finishing up with the whisk and nearly tossing it into the basin.

I'm going to be late! you fret as you pull off your apron, throwing it upon the counter as you rush to your bedroom to pull on your outfit: a simple white turtleneck under a soft long-sleeve and high-waisted plaid pants, complemented with long socks and short, buckled heels. Once you finish with your outfit and additional accessories, you grab a basket on your way out of your room and quickly fill it with cutlery, cubed mangoes, sugar, and of course, the pudding.

You pause for a second, ears flicking about as you try to make sure you haven't forgotten anything. Your time is cut short as another alarm sings on your phone, titled Get The Fudge to Mac's!

You squeak, shoving your phone into your pocket and spinning on your heel as you race out of your home, narrowly keeping the basket from slapping against your side.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

You're fairly certain the only reason Macaque doesn't snap at you slamming the dojo doors is because he heard you coming.

He's curled up on his couch, a hefty book in his lap—probably about something medicinal or floral if you had to guess. Your eyes flicker to his face, scowling as you see his signature smirk, golden-brown eyes scanning your hunched-over figure in amusement.

"Look what the cat dragged in," purrs the demon.

"You—hah—think you're soooo funny," you grit out, shuffling to the couch with a glare.

"When have I ever been wrong?" Macaque asks.

The monkey slaps his tail across your face before you can recite the "a" portion of your alphabetized list.

"How come you're so late today?" he teases. "Normally you're here before I am."

You roll your eyes and give a half-hearted bite to the demon's tail, barely grazing the fur, but he pulls it away with a narrowed gaze anyway. You give him a dramatically sweet face, fluttering your lashes as you set your basket on the table.

You make a lazy gesture at it. "I made something for us."

"Oh?" Macaque asks, cocking an eyebrow. "How romantic, starlight."

For a split second, you consider letting your embarrassment at the implication get to you. But then you decide if Macaque wants to be a little evil, you may as well join him.

"Only the best for you, moonflower," you coo back, revelling in the way the black-furred monkey's face heats up around his spiked mask. You immediately laugh at his blush, far more elated at your ability to fluster the stoic demon than you think is normal, adoring the way his ears wiggle as though trying to hide his face.

"Laugh it up, kitty," he grumbles, reaching out for the basket.

You lunge forward and smack his hand before his claw tips so much as brush the handles. "Nu-uh! That's for after dinner, loser."

Macaque frowns and squints at you, shaking his hand and blowing on it in classic dramatic theater kid fashion. "What are you, five?"

"Out of five~!" You sing-song, scooping up the basket as you jump to your feet. "Now get cooking, Macaroni."

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

When Macaque announces the food's almost done, you decide to raid his wardrobe for pajamas.

You zoom up the stairs before he can say a word, but to your surprise, he doesn't make so much as a sigh as your thundering footsteps fade into his room.

It's weird. Normally Macaque always whines about you snagging his clothes, complaining about the pastry stains or endless amounts of cat hair that ends up on them—which is a small price to pay when you're constantly making him yummy treats! But tonight he's oddly quiet.

Come to think of it... he's been acting off for a while.

You noticed it last month. Your time spent with the monkey had turned more physical—training, teaching you how to make certain foods, dancing, cuddling. And amongst his standard sarcasm and snark, he was complimenting you a lot more, too. You'd even started finding little trinkets around your house! So unless some other purple-coded weirdo was breaking into your house to leave you jewelry and pretty flowers, it had to be Macaque.

But on the other hand, Macaque seemed to be... distancing himself. A canceled plan here and there, an excuse to leave the room every now and then, a strange new sense of secrecy within the demon, as though he was guarding something from you. As if he was afraid of you coming too close all over again.

It was so confusing. If you allowed yourself to consider that the demon had fallen for you of all people, what were you supposed to make of his behavior? That he hated the idea of loving you so much that he was deciding between making a game of it or completely pushing you away?

The thought strikes you right in the chest, your bottom lip falling victim to your sharp teeth.

Just recently you'd come to terms with just how much you really like the monkey—how much you love the sound of his voice and the way he drags you into trouble and his devotedness to you as a friend. It'd been an earth-shattering realization, really, one that left you tossing and turning in bed and damn near ripping your fur out.

How could you be blamed? Macaque was hardened like stone in the aftermath of his past, resulting in a closed-off and apathetic creature, a lone wolf in spite of his nature. It'd taken so, so much time and patience to get to where you two were now, laughing and poking fun at each other in his dojo, his safespace.

The last thing you want is to lose everything because your silly heart loves tragedies.

"Starlight!" Macaque's sharp call comes from downstairs, making you jump. "The hell are you doing? I said dinner's done!"

"Ack—I'm coming, just a minute!"

You quickly throw on a loose shirt and shorts, struggling a bit with the hole for your tail before finally settling the limb and bounding out of the room. Immediately, an aroma of deliciousness hits your nose. You almost stumble down the stairs due to the distraction, righting yourself with an embarrassed flush (boy, are you glad Macaque didn't see that) and carefully making your way into the kitchen.

Your eyes widen at what you see. A large bowl of chǎofàn sits at the table, neighbored by a plate of tángcù lǐjǐ and another of xiǎolóngbāo. The scent is divine, and you would call the meal a gift from Buddha if it weren't for the smirking demon leaning against the counter.

"Like what you see?" he asks cockily, tail sweeping against the ground in a lazy sway.

"No way you just made all of this!" you exclaim, grinning.

"Maybe I'm just that good," replies the black-furred monkey with a wink, fetching two plates and some silverware out of various cupboards and drawers.

"Not that good," you snort, fetching your basket from the fridge. "Come on, what's the trick this time, moonflower?"

The demon falls strangely silent at your question. You raise an eyebrow at his back, waiting for a response. Finally, in an uncharacteristically small voice, Macaque says, "I've been preparing."

There's more to it. There's definitely more to it, but you won't push.

You set the basket down on the floor and take the plate held out to you, happily filling it up before moving to your seat. Macaque joins you on the opposite side, silent save for the short scraping sound of silverware against glass. The uncomfortable silence threatens to spoil your appetite, and you spend a few quiet minutes praying that the demon across from you will say something.

"Is it good?"

Thank Buddha, you think, immediately put at ease to hear his voice.

"Duh," you say, swallowing another forkful of delicious food. "Your cooking is some of the best I've ever had."

"Oh really?" Macaque leans forward on his elbows, hands laced under his chin, and you feel your face warm ever-so-slightly. "Then where do I rank, starlight?"

"Top ten at least," you tease, reaching for more chǎofàn. Macaque unlaces a hand to pick up the bowl and pass it to you.

"At least," he chuckles. "Well, eat up. I have a play to put on."

"A play?" You repeat, cheeks round with rice.

Macaque nods. "Yes." Quickly, he adds, "for you."

You very nearly make a quip about the romance of dinner and a show, but seeing his tail tense and thud against the floor makes you reconsider.

Instead, you smile. "I'll be there."

The monkey snorts. "Better be. If you stand me up for rice and chicken, I'll never make it again."

You fake an angry grumble. "Don't you have to go prepare, smart guy?"

He blinks. Once. Twice.

"Oh," he says, simply at first. Then his eyes widen. "Oh, yes! I have to—there are things I have to—I'm going now." Macaque cuts his rambling short and just barely avoids sprinting out of the kitchen like his tail is on fire.

"Don't—" you cringe at the sound of something falling, followed by a quiet yelp. "—hurt yourself on the way out..."

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

You sit amongst soft blankets and pillows, tails curled around your knees as you wait for the play to start. The light of Macaque's lantern bathes the dojo in a violet hue, shadows dancing with the sway of the lantern as Macaque gets into position. The monkey's innate shadow powers and connection to the lantern make it easy to manipulate it and the dark for his purposes, so part of you is confused that Macaque settles himself so far away from you. You reason that maybe the demon's just feeling extra dramatic for this story.

Or maybe this is it, you think.

Even if you don't know what that means.

"Welcome viewer, to a shadow play the likes of which have never been seen."

You smile at the signature opening line, a soft purr rumbling in your throat as you listen closely, ears perked in Macaque's direction.

"Here we follow another tale about the tragic Warrior." Macaque's voice reverberates around you, and you watch as a simplified silhouette of hi—ahem, "the warrior" manifests from the shadows. "Though this story is unlike the others—for instead of our Warrior bearing yet another arduous chapter of life, perhaps he has found his happy end.

"Everyone knows the tale of how the Sun came to betray the Moon. But what very few have to come to learn is that it was the moon that brought on such a tragedy. You see, many centuries ago, the Moon could only see their dark side—blemished, indecipherable, and lacking in light. So often the moon thought of their dark side and wept, believing that if it was all they saw, it was all anyone could see. And then the Moon realized something. They were the Sun's only companion, their only friend, so surely, surely, the Sun would give their light to them.

"And at first, the Sun did everything they could to show the Moon just how bright they could be. The Sun taught the Moon everything they knew, and the Moon took that knowledge and taught it to others, becoming a beloved warrior. And when the Moon became the Warrior, they changed the Sun into a Hero—a well-shaped, perfect vessel of holiness and goodness.

"The Sun allowed for this because they loved the Warrior, so they locked themselves within the Hero. And while the Warrior loved the Hero very much, they were so blinded by the love of their light that they didn't see what they were doing to their beloved Sun.

"Years passed and the Warrior had taken almost every bit of sunlight. Only their heart and a small sliver remained, which the Sun branded on to the Hero's golden cudgel and hid beneath stone so the Warrior could not find it. This angered the Warrior, who still could not see what they'd done to the Sun, for they were so hidden within the Hero. He said, "my hero! Why do you hide your light from me? Is it not mine, too? Have I not helped you shine?"

"The Hero replied, "I hide nothing from you, my Warrior, certainly not our light. I simply have no more to give you."

"The Warrior was displeased, and this displeasure, coupled with the dimming Sun, poisoned their light until nothing remained but a thin halo around the two of them.

"This terrified the Warrior—to see that they were so close to becoming the Moon again, so close to being consumed by their dark side, that they demanded the Hero give them their heart. Only this time, the Hero refused.

""You are not a hero," spat the Warrior. "And you are no longer a warrior," whispered the Hero. The Warrior was so angry, so enraged, that they attempted to swallow the Sun itself. They peeled away the Hero's stone body to reveal the blazing heart beneath, fully intent to rob them of every last bit of light they had, even if it meant they'd never shine again.

"The Sun broke free of the Hero's perfect body, and, using the light on the golden cudgel, banished the Warrior to a place of no light. No stars. No song. Only darkness.

"A place where the Warrior and the Moon would blend in perfectly."

While you've never heard the story portrayed this way, you find it heartbreakingly easy to tell he's talking about his death and descent into Diyu. You fiddle with your hands, pressing on the paw pads as you stare, watching the Warrior turn into wisps as a glowing mass of shadows (the Sun?) forms into a tendril and strikes them.

It's almost too much to watch, your brain caught up in what preceded Macaque's death. Is this why he's been so nervous? It would make sense—the version of the tale makes him vulnerable to say the least, and it's oozing with painful, regretful honesty. Macaque may not be a liar, but the truth has never been easy for him.

The scene changes, shifting in a quick montage.

"For centuries, the Warrior rotted in their anger and sorrow. So angry were they that they allowed themselves to be hung from strings like a simple puppet, used as a weapon to harm undeserving victims."

Flashes of burned and otherwise destroyed villages wrap around the dojo, all with a chained Macaque hovering above, eyes burning. The last image you recognize as the Monkie Kid and his group. A shadowy tendril wraps around the kid's limbs, attached to him in a similar way to Macaque's chains. Your stomach twists.

"Even when the Warrior finally forgoed their wrath and reconciled with the Sun, they still could not find it in them to shine. They'd ruined the Moon many years ago, and now the Warrior was ruined, too.

"...or so they thought. One day, the Warrior came across a maiden. She was gentle and wild, comforting and unapologetic, unwavering and bold. She was a river, a storm, a mountain who stood unblinking before the weight of the Warrior's darkness.

"The Warrior thought they were doomed to break her, as they so often did to strong things. But then the Maiden produced a mooncake from her robes, split it in half, and said, "Would you share this treat with me, O' weary Warrior?""

A feminine silhouette appears before the Warrior, dressed in a flowing hanfu and flowers. Most interestingly, the Maiden has tufted ears and a long, fluffy tail just like—

Your face erupts in a shocked blush as understanding dawns on you. The first time you met Macaque, you'd been out selling mooncakes. It'd been a good day, and by the end you had a single treat left, which you fully intended to scarf down while watching the sun set. But then you'd seen Macaque, leaning against a bridge and watching the reflection of the sun in the river, and he just looked so sad, you thought a mooncake would add a little brightness to his face.

A pity cake it might have been, but you think it was one of the best pity cakes you've ever had.

"The Warrior took the Maiden's gift. Together, the two ate at their cakes until they were naught but crumbs and the sun had long set. Before they parted, the Maiden smiled at the Warrior.

"And the Warrior glowed.

"The Warrior glowed so bright that moonlight shown through the cracks in their skin, that stars came down to twinkle in their fur and they could hear the sweetest dreams whispering in their ears, and all they said was "Mooncake Maiden" over and over again, for the Warrior had finally found someone to glow for, not because of."

You almost bust out laughing, a mix of adoration, shock, and amusement bubbling in your chest. "Mooncake Maiden", huh? Maybe you should start a business.

"For weeks, the Warrior and the Maiden continued to meet. The Warrior continued to glow, feeling more and more like the great warrior they once were. They even began to think of themselves as the moon again, not as an imperfect surface, but as a new vast and complicated world, one they wanted to explore by the side of the Maiden. All they had to do was ask her."

The shadows merge into a single ball, gliding towards you and settling before you. The ball reforms, revealing Macaque kneeling in front of you, your hands held gently in his. But what really catches your eye is his glamor—or lack thereof. His six ears, the reason for his namesake, unfurl from his head like flower petals, glowing shades of blue, pink, and purple that illuminate both of your faces. His fangs elongate past his bottom lip and a white halo of fur surrounds his face, shimmering in the gentle light.

His eye, blind though it may be, is milky and spotted like the bright side of the moon and you can't help but think it's the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen.

"And now to discover how this story ends," he says softly.

"Macaque—" you begin, only to fall silent when he squeezes your hands.

"I know I'm not a hero," Macaque says. "I think I might always be a little evil—a trickster, a bit of a thief, a bully every now and then; a shadow of something good. But you make me feel... real. Like I can be something more, something people can love and adore without getting hurt, and I haven't felt that in a long, long time, starlight."

You blink, feeling something wet tease the corner of your eyes. Your heart thumps in your chest, tail unfurling from your knees and reaching out. Macaque meets it halfway and they curl around each other like ribbons.

"I love you," whispers the Six-Eared Macaque. Louder, he says it again, and you shiver when he says your name. "I love you, and if you'll have me, I'll be yours for eternity."

Your mouth feels dry, your body nearly numb with—what, shock? Excitement? Happiness? Exhaustion because you're feeling all the things? Probably.

But still, your heart swells at the confession and your hands slip from his to cradle his face and you say, "I love you too, Macaque."

Macaque grins, eyes shining wetly. His hands go to your cheeks, thumbs brushing under your eyes. His ears flap against your hands for a second, and then he whispers, "can I kiss you?"

Your heart nearly explodes. But you give nothing away as you utter a soft, "yes."

You're not quite sure what to expect when his lips meet yours. Fireworks, or maybe like a puzzle piece is shifting into place. You think you can safely say you feel neither, but you do feel both of your growing smiles, until you're pulling away to laugh and Macaque follows suit.

When your giggles die down, you pet the demon's ears again. "You wanna have dessert now?"

The black-furred monkey huffs, leaning into your touch. "In a minute," he murmurs, and then he's bringing you back to his lips.

❝ I like you—say it back .❞

#cain speaks #[ 🧨 ]#cain writes #[ 🩸 ]#lmk liu er mihou #lmk six eared macaque #six eared macaque x reader #lmk macaque #macaque x reader #lego monkie kid #lego monkie kid x reader #lego monkie kid x y/n #monkie kid #monkie kid x reader #lmk #lmk x reader #lmk x y/n

177 notes · View notes

nyoomfruits · 5 months

Note

"Falling around you" for the wip title game pls!!

Ps: I love your writing style sm✨🩷

you have chosen ✨angst✨ basically au where lando and oscar dated and broke up, which would've been fine, if it wasn't for the fact that before they broke up they rsvp'd to alex and logan's destination wedding and now have to share a room for a whole weekend because everything is fully booked and they CANNOT miss this wedding because oscar is logan's best man and lando one of alex's groomsmen anyway here's all i have for that so far lmao

“Hi, welcome to Sunnyvale Inn, how can I help you?” The receptionist asks, cheery smile on her face.

Lando, feeling decidedly less cheery after a three hour car ride that he spend mostly overthinking every decision he’s ever made in his life, smiles back tiredly. “Hi, yes, reservation for Norris?”

“Of course mister Norris, give me a moment,” she opens something on the computer. “Are you here for the Sargeant-Albon wedding?” She’s tapping away as she speaks, barely glancing up.

“Yes, yeah I am,” he says, glancing around the lobby. He wonders if there’s anyone staying in the Inn right now that’s not here for the wedding. Alex and Logan had a seriously impressive guest list, last time he saw. He’s just glad actually being in the wedding party means he can stay in the Inn the wedding is held in rather than one of the surrounding hotels.

“Wonderful! I have your reservation right here, it’s room number 204, on the second floor. Will you be needing two keys or is one enough?” She asks, reaching over to the little hooks behind her.

“Uh,” Lando says, frowning. “One? Why would I need two?”

“Oh, in case you and your partner would like your separate keys,” she says, handing Lando a singular key.

“My,” Lando pauses, scrunches up his now. “Uh. Partner?”

“Yeah!” The receptionist says cheerily, completely undeterred, gesturing at the computer screen. “A, uh, Mr. Piastri? It says here you booked a room together.”

Fuck. He forgot. Among everything, he forgot about this.

“Fuck,” Lando says. “No, that’s. Shit. Can I- Is there any way I can change that? Is there another room? Another hotel?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Norris. Everything is fully booked. Mr. Sargeant and Mr. Albon did invite a rather large amount of people. The nearest hotel with an empty room has to be at least an hour away.” If the receptionist is surprised she does an incredible job at hiding it, though she does seem a little bit apologetic about the whole thing.

An hour away. Alex would kill him if one of his groomsmen was an hour away. Plus he’d have to drive, which means no booze at the party, which. There’s no way he’s going to get through this entire weekend without at least one shot of tequila. But that leaves-

Lando turns back to her, a little frantically. “I can’t. It’s not a possibility. I can’t room with Mr. PIastri, you don’t understand we-“

Someone next to him clears their throat, and Lando’s head shoots up only to reveal-

“Oscar,” he says.

“Hi,” Oscar says, and he looks. Lando wants to say good. Because objectively he does. His shoulders have gotten a little broader, like maybe he’s been going to the gym a little more consistently. His hair is longer, the little swoosh at the side almost turning into a curl. He’s wearing a nice shirt.

But there’s a tenseness to his shoulder, a twitch in the corner of his mouth, a distant look in his eyes. Lando hasn’t seen him look like that since, well.

Since they broke up.

“Uh,” Lando says, fiddling with one of his bracelets. “How are you?”

“Fine,” Oscar says, tone clipped. “What is this about a room?”

“Oh!” The receptionist says, tone cheery, clearly not reading the room at all, or reading the room perfectly and trying very hard to pretend everything is fine. “You must be Mr. Piastri.” Oscar nods, shoulders still stiff.

“We are uh. Sharing a room,” Lando says, biting at his lip. Oscar goes to open his mouth. “Hour away,” Lando says. “Logan would kill you. And Alex would kill me, so. There’s no other option.”

“Hm,” Oscar says.

“Would you like your own key, then?” The receptionist asks, holding one out to Oscar. “Room 204.”

“Thank you,” Oscar says, and then promptly turns around and heads to the stairs.

“Well, that went fucking great,” Lando says, crossing ‘avoiding Oscar at all cost’ off his mental list of ‘things to make this wedding at least semi bearable’, and then stalks off after him, with one last wave to the still broadly smiling receptionist.

There’s only one bed.

Of course there fucking is, because when they booked this room they were in love. Lando wants to fucking cry. When he steps into the room, Oscar is staring at it, like if he might stare hard enough he can split it into two somehow.

“I’ll take the floor,” Oscar eventually concludes, chucking his suitcase in the corner with a little more force than is probably necessary.

Lando frowns. “Don’t. That’s. Fuck, no you don’t have to do that. We’re adult fucking men, Oscar. We can share a bed for a weekend without it getting weird.” He hates this. He hates that they’ve come to this.

He’s got no one to blame but himself.

“Fine,” Oscar says. “Fine, sure, we’ll share.” And then he goes to walk out of the room again, pulling his phone out of his pocket as he goes, probably to text Logan about how he got stuck in a room with his ex boyfriend.

“Oscar, fuck, wait,” Lando says. “Are you going to be like this all weekend?” It sounds a bit desperate, pleading almost, and it’s so stupid that it’s come to this.

“Maybe,” Oscar says, without even turning around. “Maybe even forever,” he says bitingly, and the shoulders open the door.

“Hey, that’s not fair-“ Lando starts, but Oscar is already gone. Lando sighs, runs a hand through his hair, goes to put his own suitcase away. As he does so, he spots Oscar’s. There’s few stickers on it, and Lando’s eyes get drawn to one of the Eiffel tower, stuck in the top right corner. It’s from their first trip aboard together. Lando remembers buying the sticker, remembers Oscar rolling his eyes as Lando insisted it was all part of making memories, of remembering.

Ironic, how now all the wants to do is forget.

He dumps his suitcase in the opposite corner and goes in search of Alex. Or a bar. Whichever he encounters first.

#landoscar #mctwinks #twinklaren #i was not in the mood for angst so i never finished this but god the Potential #this was part of the writers block fics lmao #there are. so many #snippet

77 notes · View notes

cdelphiki · 3 months

Text

Jason & Three Terrors Ch 30 excerpt

(i know its chapter 32 in the chapter count but if it was a real book it would be chapter 30. It's also called Chapter Thirty in the chapter titles lmao) Anyway, I fully intended on getting the chapter out today but it's just not done. So instead here's a snippet from my current draft. I may tweak this a little to make Jason's emotions shine through a little more, but here's what we got. Just wanted you guys to know I really am working on it. ❤️

After an agonizingly long five minute walk, Jason found himself climbing the stairs to their apartment. He didn’t hear screaming as he got to their floor and walked down the hall, so that was probably also good.

Unless the quiet was because the kids weren’t there.

But no. Because once Jason reached their door, he could hear scuffling inside. With a sigh, Jason unlocked the door and pushed it open to see Damian and Mara there in the living, sparring.

Because of course they’d just start sparring for no damn reason.

Missing from the room, however, was Athanasia. “Where is Attie,” Jason asked, as he walked inside and shut and locked the door. He dropped his bag by the door and looked over into the kitchen and then down the hall at the bathroom door. It was open, which probably meant she wasn’t in there.

Hopefully she was in the bedroom. Because if she wasn’t, Jason was about to murder two brats.

Two brats who didn’t answer him.

“Yo, brats,” Jason said, a little louder, “Where is your sister.”

“She is not my sister,” Mara said instantly, and Damian simply huffed, as he rolled away from Mara’s kick and hopped back to his feet.

“What on earth are you two doing,” Jason asked. They were being awfully loud, for them being a fifth floor apartment…

“Training,” Damian said, on his feet again as he and Mara circled around each other a few times, “You may want to forsake your training, but we do not.”

Jason stared at them for a long moment, and considered killing them both, but figured that was probably counterproductive from the whole, keeping them safe from the League thing.

The kids were probably going to be annoying for the rest of their fucking lives and Jason was going to go insane, he was sure.

Insane.

Finally, he sighed deeply and said, “No landing blows. Where is Attie?”

Damian dropped out of his stance to shoot Jason a withering look as he exclaimed, “Sparring is useless if we do not—”

Jason cut him right off as he snapped, “Damian. No landing blows. I don’t want you hurting each other and causing bruises and injuries we have to try and explain. Where is Attie?”

Honestly, no one answering that was about to set him over the edge.

Instead of answer, Damian turned back to Mara with a hard look on his face.

Mara, at least, did finally say, “Athanasia is in the bedroom.”

“Crying like a child,” Damian added.

“For how long?” Jason asked, as he finally crossed the room toward the small little hall that had the door to the bedroom, bathroom, and a small coat closet.

Again, no one answered him. He just hoped she hadn’t been crying for the past seven hours.

#jason and the three terrors #excerpt #my writing

25 notes · View notes

fanficsat12am · 2 years

Text

telling the brothers they would look pretty with a ring I Leviathan, Satan & Asmodeus

Request: Hi, may i ask for a request where mc tells the demon brothers that they would look pretty with a ring?

AN: HELLO!! Here's the second part of the request!! I'm so sorry for the late update <33 I'll try to manage my schedule better I swear!! Anyways HERE YA GO

NOTE: NONE OF THESE IMAGES ARE MINE, NOR AM I TRYING TO SELL THEM.

📜 𝙼𝙰𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙻𝙸𝚂𝚃!! 📜

Lucifer & Mammon

Beelzebub & Belphegor

Leviathan

You weren’t surprised when Levi burst through your door, holding a limited edition Ruri-chan: Invasion of the Gnomes in one hand and a controller in the other. He hadn’t slept a wink for 3 nights and had stayed up to pre-order the game before it sold out. So, of course, he was excited to play it.

It’s been around half an hour since you entered his aquatic room, and his finger had yet to leave his controller. You admired how skilled his reaction time was, pressing the buttons as if he’d been doing it from day one. You wondered what his finger would look like with a ring wrapped around it…

“You wanna play? There’s a couch co-op and I can get another controller if you want me to”

“Yeah sure! Get ready to get your ass kicked, Lord of Shadows”

The image had yet left your mind and continued to fester for the rest of the rounds. The distraction definitely did not help, finding yourself losing round after round.

"Come on, Normie! Why you trash all of a sudden? Git gud LMAO"

"Of course not! You can't exactly blame me for thinking how cute you'd look with a lil ring on your finger…"

That seemed to shut him up, so you looked back at the screen. In the next round you played, your character absolutely beat the living crap out of him. You pump your hands up in victory, turning to your boyfriend with a smile on your face.

There before you was Levi, eyes blinking and face flushed red, the hue a match with the blood dripping down his nose. He reminded you of those anime characters who'd gush fountains from a nosebleed. You ended up having to put the game on hold to grab a tissue for the demon.

A few days later you find your boyfriend a stuttering mess, his arms extending a box onto the palm of your hand. You gave him a look of confusion before opening it up. There tucked inside were two snake shaped rings, that when interlocked, wrapped around each other. You laughed to yourself, finding the situation similar to a choose-your-own-adventure game, and took one for yourself. He took the other and slipped it on with you doing the same.

He’d play around with it when he’s in the lobby of a game. He gets super flustered when someone asks about it, giving excuses about how it was a collectible from his favorite series. Sometimes you’d tease him about it, but he secretly likes that there's something that connects him with you.

Source: https://images.app.goo.gl/2rFPFaW8v2kYxPdEA

Satan

It was another day in Devildom and you and Satan decided to go to the Library to return the books he borrowed. On your way back, you stumbled upon a stray Persian kitten. Of course the blonde pleaded with you to let him bring it home, and you couldn't exactly say no to that face. So without Lucifer’s knowledge, you took it and hid it in his room. You gave it a bath and played with the feline all day long–soon being named Sir Cat II.

Satan was in the middle of petting Sir Cat’s furry head, you notice how his fingers delicately brushed the kitty. The cat purred in satisfaction, leaning closer to the demon’s touch.

“Hey Satan?” you called. His attention left the cat on his lap and was brought to you. You asked if he had any rings lying around, and he shook his head to your inquiry. “Oh that’s a shame, your finger would look great with one”. You took the cat out of his arms while he was caught off-guard.

A few seconds of silence passed and he abruptly stood up. He went to a shelf and easily located the book he was looking for, as if he knew the shelf like the back of his hand. There he was, holding a copy of one of his favorite books in front of you. In a split second, Satan opens it and rips a page off. He starts to fold the paper on itself, eventually making a ring shaped origami with a heart in the middle. He rips another and once again folds it. He takes your hand and slips one of them on.

"There you go, Kitten~~ Now both our hands look great, don't they? These are made from my favorite chapters of the book. Where the lovers meet and their happily ever after. I shan't spoil though, that would ruin our story, will it not? "

You’re in utter disbelief at the scene. It felt sacrilegious to watch a bookworm tear a book, let alone rip two pages clean off. Despite that, you ended up with matching rings—enchanted with a spell that makes it unbreakable—and a cat that sadly lasted for a day since Lucifer found out.

He'd fondle with it while reading, sometimes staring at it longing when it catches the ring from the corner of his eye. It reminds him of his future happily ever after with you and how there's still plenty of time to spare, you're not even half way through your love story.

Source: https://pin.it/1Ody1B9

Asmodeus

It’s been a hectic week and you both decided to spend some time together painting each other's nails. So here you were, coating Asmo’s perfectly shaped nails in pink and cyan varnish. He was in the middle of telling you another gossip he heard around school when he noticed you spacing out. We obviously can't have that.

"…and apparently Lucifer and Diavolo are going to implement a ban on D.D.D's during classes. I mean can you believe it? How am I gunna- Hello? Helloooo? Ugh! Are you even listening? This is a matter of life and death here and you're spacing out! What's so important that you can't even give me ALL your attention, Darlinnnn >:("

"Shit sorry! It's just that your hand would be absolutely perfect with a ring on it"

He thinks you're absolutely right. He starts going on a tangent, talking about what gems look radiant on him and how he can smell a fake one from a mile away. Through the middle of his TedTalk, his eyes brightened and a gasp left his mouth. You thought something went wrong, but he waved it off—saying he just remembered something unimportant.

It was obviously not unimportant when you're greeted by a rock-like object the next day. You picked it up and to your surprise, it opened. To be fair, you live with the 7 embodiments of sins and are currently in a place called "Devildom" so rocks opening up is pretty normal. Surrounded by what looks like amethyst was a beautiful rose gold ring with a ruby in the middle. After the lesson about Rings for Asmo 101, you immediately knew who it was from.

On the first day of getting the ring, Asmo went around the House of Lamentation to show all the brothers the little matching jewelry. After that, he always makes sure to wear it and find an outfit that compliments it.

Sources: https://pin.it/7OUqL1M

https://www.etsy.com/listing/1267937483/lab-created-ruby-engagement-ring-white?ga_order=most_relevant&ga_search_type=all&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_search_query=red+rose+ring&ref=sc_gallery-22-10&pro=1&frs=1&col=1&plkey=6b56868d9bcc21083487e78ae10ba9c5dbef7462%3A1267937483

777 notes · View notes