Hey everyone and welcome to my multifandom blog! I mostly reblog or like posts of my interests but I decided to take part in the writing community.
Please be patient, I want the character/s and story to be close as possible in canon while maintaining its realistic and fanon aspect.
I'll be doing commissions too!
Commission Guidelines Here!!
Fandoms
♡ Obey Me!
♡ Stardew Valley
♡ Creepypasta
♡ Demon Slayer
♡ Wind Breaker
♡ My Hero Academia
♡ Twisted Wonderland
♡ Lord of The Rings and The Hobbit
♡ adding more soon...
You are a curse in the town. But as long as you stay within your purpose, there is no need to delve deeper into his forest.
i do writing commissions! Here's the Commision Guideline if you're interested.
Importance Before Reading:
Most character ages are over eighteen. The reader will age in the future chapters. Sally and BEN are written as minors.
English is not the author's first language.
2nd POV, uses [Y/N]
Contains violence and profanities!
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Chapter 1: Senior Year.
You grimly stare at whatever concoction those idiotic people had made. There's a foul stench coming from locker when you came near it along with constant drips, and after inserting the combination to unlock the metal door a disgusting rot spills on to the floor. It didn't stain your shoes, but the snicker from a few rows away feels like it did. The mysterious substance is in a plastic bottle, the cap lodged useless one of the corners of your locker that left a trail of wetness, a clear loss from trying its best to contain the explosion.
You are aware this will happen. You and the other unfortunate souls in the school are always the main target of being mocked and humiliated—all because you don't 'fit' in the stereotypical standard of high school life. Hot and rich, charm over intelligence. Delusions instead of reality. You have seen and experienced it all since middle school. Just one more year and you'll be gone in this place.
But it seems the world favors them. Information spreads like wildfire in the town. And when they heard about divorce papers signing, the man of the house out of the picture then your mother passing away—you became something to sympathize and victimized further.
"Guess the apple doesn't fall far." Someone mutters, follow by quiet laughter.
You sigh, not from defeat but from annoyance. You reach inside of the locker to pull the oozing bottle from the neck, the liquid quickly damping your fingers. You didn't care at the moment; you won't be the only one who will be covered in this stuff. The smell grows stronger in the halls, now exposed that it makes someone's throat crawl out.
You turn to the snickering group and with a smile and throw the bottle.
The satisfying yelps echo, many heads whipping from where you stand. Their clothes—awfully bought with a high price—are now stained with the said solution, the stench clinging on to them like a lifeline. A shout rings out from the nearest teacher, followed by hurried stomps. And soon after you find yourself in an all-too-familiar office.
"[Y/N]." Mr. Hale starts, facing you with a stern yet tired expression across his desk. A finger taps against the polished hardwood while you sit comfortably as you wipe your hands with a tissue that he offered when you entered. You can tell Mr. Hale is doing his best to defy his patience. "Do you know how many time you were sent in here?"
You made no sound as the principal continues. "It's early October—and within this past two month all I received from is nothing but reports!" Mr. Hale opens the folder on his desk to skim through the fastened papers. "You weren't like this back then. You disrupted the hallway, damaged a property. This could've been handled maturely."
He pauses for a moment to gather his thoughts and control his voice. He lowers his tone. "You've been through a lot, I understand. But harming other students is not an excuse for your grief."
The clock on the wall ticks. Every second the ends of Mr. Hale's lips contort to a frown as he waits for an answer. You lean further on the chair, making it creak under your weight. "I'm just returning the favor and proving them right."
"This is serious [Y/N]." His voice raises. "I could suspend—expel you. Permanent marks on your record."
"It's my last year, Mr. Hale." You retort, not in defense but rather factual. "I'm only making things even."
Mr. Hale presses his lips now in a thin line. He tries again, this time adding control. "You think that makes you safe?"
You pretend to think, even tilting your head a little for a dramatic display. "Well...considering those idiots are nothing but parasites and finally got what they deserved in a public space...Plus, if the student body finds out I was the one who got—let's say expelled—rather than them—not to mention using my parents to add more pity—"
"Then yes." A daring smile stretches across your features. You find it amusing that Mr. Hale is confused; here he thought all of this was caused by losing your parents and not the constant torment of others where he did nothing, to engross in the school's image and so-called charity from the rich families than dealing with the conditions of the helpless.
"Clean up the mess." Order Mr. Hale with a sharp glare as he stands from his seat to straighten his tie. "And you will stay out of trouble."
The chair legs scrape against the floor and interrupts the quiet room when you stand, no bid of goodbye or thanks as you reach for the door and turn the knob. The bell already rung when you were escorted to the office, so there's not a single student in sight in the hall that you're standing on.
You relish the silence. it's clear you won't be attending your morning class, taking the janitor's job momentarily to clean the spills before going on your day. But you don't mind—you can catch up to your lessons by simply resolving your excuse to your teachers. You use this opportunity as well to be alone for a moment. You make your way to the nearest janitorial closet to retrieve the mop bucket, luckily the closet has a wash sink. The cool water mixes with the detergent that you poured slowly fills the tub, once it's full you grab a couple of towels for your locker.
The divorce and funeral were expected to be fair—to you at least. In both of you parents' family line, there's been a tradition where a certain age of their child the members will leave, and if any sibling is present, they need to live with whichever parent remains. In short—the first born is destined to be alone.
It's the main reason why your school years are rough. Now that the tradition had happened, it added more oil to the fires, hoping to gnaw the blame on you. Long before the paperwork and black clothing, your parents were kind and patient enough to make you understand. Of course, you were frightened at first, a natural emotion during childhood. Then you grew to accept and endure it. You admit you yourself when you exchanged the last hugs and smiles to your father and sibling, the melancholic feeling will forever be shared.
The floors and your locker smells faintly of detergent now as you finish wringing the last towel out. You return the cleaning equipment back to the closet before rinsing your hands. The bell already rung twice by the time you reach the classroom. Through the narrow window in the door everyone is seated, either doing schoolwork or finding something to keep them entertain while waiting for break. You knock in rhythm before entering.
"[Y/N]? Where have you been?" The teacher—Ms. Davis—questions in raised eyebrows despite knowing the reason. Her gaze lingers more than a second when she sees the cuffs of your flannel damped.
"Office." You answer anyway, making a beeline to your desk. Ms. Davis watches in concern—she was the first one to send condolences to you, always been the one who tries in her power to protect the helpless students in the school. You and the others like her, never belittle your "place" in the hierarchy.
She resumes in her lecture after summarizing what you've missed during your absence. You ignore the hidden glances at your way—some weary, some feigning amusement, and those whose brimming you down like prey. A chair screeches somewhere near the back; someone utters their disgust under their breath—either about you or the faint smell that is still clinging on your sleeves despite the citrus detergent, sour and rotten. You never complain, never let them have the last laugh.
You tap your pen on the pages of your notebook, half of your attention drifts to the window. Across the football field, through the road leading out of the town, and over the chain fences lies the forest. The mayor turned some parts of it into a forest park years ago, now consider as the town's main attraction for both locals and tourists. Trails, campgrounds, guided tours all over the safe sections—always crowded when the right seasons came.
You lifted your gaze to the skies, just against the treeline. Among the greens stands one of the watchtowers, barely visible to the naked eye. It acts as an angel for the hikers, not wanting them to be lost in the woods—and yet their bulletin board is still overflowing with missing posters. The warning signs nailed beside the trails often gets ignored, wanting to explore the wilderness beyond the security. You've heard complaints, but the park never closes. And each news always reports an animal devouring the poor person.
Everybody stopped believing in that repetitive information. You likely suspect some of those missing people had the urge to become a self-proclaimed detective, to capture what or who is responsible for the disappearances.
Or they're just reckless in general.
A sudden kick hits the legs of your chair; it makes you jolt and grip your pen while the other holds the edge of your desk. The ones near your look at your way. Noticing this the perpetrator kicks the legs again that earned scattered snickers across the classroom.
You don't bother to turn around when your seat bumps forward. You can feel the dissatisfaction behind you, then a slight creak of their desk as they lean forward near your ear. The amusement in their whisper hidden poorly. "Careful, might snap and go feral again."
"If you have enough energy to cause a distraction, then perhaps you would like to participate in today's discussion." The laughter dies down fast when Ms. Davis pauses and glances your way, the students around you steer away while her eyes set to the student at your back. She stares a few seconds more before she resumes the lecture with a sigh.
We are really lucky to have her. Your grip around the pen tightens briefly to relax again. Your attention goes back to the window for a moment, beyond the the town limits of the woods.
The watchtower lights are on. And the sun is not in the horizon yet. Nobody reacts—too busy with their conversations or to the lecture and Ms. Davis writing across the board.
You stare at the distant tower, the familiar unease stirs through as you tap your pen now in haste.
The tower lights only turn on at night or during searches. And searches only happens when someone doesn't come back.
one way into Brian's heart is through his stomach. that man LOVES food. sure, he's lean, and can go multiple days without eating when the circumstances warrant it, but by whatever god is above, he can EAT.
he eats for an army when given the chance. you could have just fed him a hearty meal and he could still be stalking out in your kitchen, munching away on small snacks or left over food in the pan. he claims hes "bulking" when you mention it.
but oh gosh when you present him with a plate full of food, Brian is convinced he's fallen in love with you all over again.
you hit him with the "im making dinner tonight :D!!" text while he's doing a job and he's suddenly thinking about getting down on one knee. theres just something about the domestic feel about it that makes his heart burst.
he'd be in a good mood all evening and when Tim gives him a gruff; "what the hell you so happy for?", Brian just gives him that knowing smirk and replies with a "oh, y'know, my babe is making me dinner tonight."
Tim doesnt see the appeal to it but Brian thinks that if he had a sweet little thing like you next to his side, he'd understand in a heartbeat.
least to say- Brian loves your cooking. you think its mediocre at best, so you're slightly convinced that it's mainly just driven by his love for you. even if he has a tough time showing it :)
A commission I’ve been working on for some weeks now (as you can probably tell by the amount of detailing in this), featuring High King of the Noldor and the complete opposite of a busybody, Finarfin.
I was allowed entire creative direction here, which I of course took as an opportunity to shill my primary Finarfin headcanon, which is that he looks incredibly young. Like straight up twenty-year-old boy-king level young, even though he’s actually whatever thousand years old. To the point Celebrían, who has grown up and lived entirely around Beleriand veterans and survivors, is just like ‘???’ when she takes her first look at him after sailing. When asked why on earth her grandpa looks younger than her son and whether he blended up Silmaril-debris for his facemasks, Finarfin explains that it has nothing to do with Treelight and that the greatest skincare routine in Arda is known as ‘staying out of shit’.
I used this amazing pattern by the fantastic @peasant-player for his clothing today, overlayed over hand drawn gold embroidery because you can ignore ‘never wear gold with silver’ if you’re the High King — thank you very much and I am greatly appreciative, it worked exactly like I was hoping!
Tolkien only has two kind of elves: Enderenwen the fair, who's eyes hold centuries of pain and yet his gaze is as kind as the first sun in spring, his mother was a nightingale and his father a seabreeze, flowers grow wherever he walks;
And Finwendulenfinfedë, who has killed half of his entire family and is here to fuck shit up
trying to upload the video third time. im at my limits. SO, i do know that not all things are canon in the animation, just wanted to show maglor's loneliness, sorrow and how he misses his family and his sons. actually, instead of twins (elrond and elros) there should have been his parents. enjoy! (i just hope that this time the animation will be uploaded, my wifi is too slow)
