#its unhealthy its codependent its everything I want for them

[bochedogmeat]

Hi F451 tumblr. Can i go on an insane ramble. Montag is kind of just like the hound. Montag hound allegory 100…. Both because All We Put Into It is Hunting Fighting and Killing What a Shame If Thats All It Will Ever Know but ALSO i just know Beatty loves that damn hound. I can see him kneeling before it in my mind’s eye, lovingly adjusting chemical balance and making sure its joints are oiled and move comfortably, shining its exterior, cleaning its led eyes, taking it with him on jobs, slip lead held loosely around its great accordion rubber neck, giving it rats and mice to kill by hand, stroking that great chrome head with tenderness and adoration unbecoming of a man of Beatty’s status, and is Montag not his own hound? His best man? Does he not lovingly feed him books to destroy? Lies to believe? Did he not train him, build him in his own image? What love beatty feels is like how a god feels love, it’s retribution, punishment, ownership, in a way. Montag is his Hound, and does Beatty not take excellent care of his hound?

[spikedfearn]

All That's Left Is Yours

Part I

Walter "Lion" Kaminski x fem!reader

summary: Walter Kaminski doesn't know how to be loved without bracing for impact. A washed-up fighter living out of motel rooms and underground leagues, he's spent years surviving hits—in the ring, from his brother, from the world. But when you, a runaway with a sharp mouth and a sharper gaze enters his orbit, everything starts to tilt. The closer you get, the more Walter fears what his hands—trained to hurt, never to hold—might do.

wc: 8k

a/n: I’ve been working through Jack O’Connell’s filmography and the Remmick Discord recently did a group watch of Jungleland—and wow. I knew I was going to love it, but I didn’t expect Walter to tug at my heartstrings the way he did 😭 Dedicated to Liz @fuckoffbard for both beta reading and crafting the banner, you dropped something queen 👑

Disclaimer: You DO NOT need to watch Jungleland to read this fic but I highly recommend giving it a watch, Jack absolutely crushes it!!

warnings: emotional trauma, abusive family dynamics, sibling codependency, past drug use (mentioned), PTSD, fighting/violence, sub!Walter, praise kink, past physical abuse (mentioned), hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, angst with smut, unprotected sex, fingering, creampie, unsafe living conditions, unhealthy coping mechanisms, toxic sibling relationship, trauma bonding as a form of intimacy

likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated, please enjoy!!

Fic Masterlist/Masterlist

Part I: Roadside Attraction

The soda machine clicked, rattled, then swallowed your crumpled dollar like it was nothing. No fizz, no reward. You stared at the red-lit buttons like they owed you something, like they might start speaking and tell you what the hell to do next. But they stayed quiet. Just like you.

It was cold for a desert night. Not cold enough to shiver, but enough that the concrete seeped into your spine as you curled up beneath the flickering fleabag motel sign, your back pressed to the blocky warmth of the vending machine. Your toes were bare and caked with dry blood and gravel. You’d ditched the shoes miles ago, traded them for a gas station sandwich and a bottle of vodka that had long since burned its way through your gut.

You didn’t look up when the footsteps stopped. Not until the low voice cut through the hum of the highway:

"You planning to stay there all night?"

His voice was worn down and gritty, like it had been soaked in whiskey and rung out. The kind of voice that came from a man who’d been punched more times than he could count and still stood tall about it, vowels rough around the edges courtesy of a northeastern accent.

You didn’t answer.

A shadow blocked the light overhead. Broad shoulders. Lean build. Knuckles taped. Face half-hidden under a hoodie, but even in the neon sputter you could see the bruises painting his cheekbone. Left eye a little puffy. A fighter. And not the shiny kind with sponsors and cameras. This one was all backroom and blood.

"I’m not gonna call anyone," he said, voice low. "But you’ll freeze out here."

You looked up. He looked back. It wasn’t pity in his eyes. You would’ve spat on him if it was. No, it was something worse. Recognition. Like he knew the way it felt to run until your legs gave out. To keep your back to the past until the ache in your spine turned permanent.

He fished into his pocket, pulled out a motel key. Room 8.

"I’m not gonna ask," he added. "You want a shower and a bed, it’s yours. I sleep on the floor anyway."

Still, you didn’t move. Not until he dropped the key on the concrete beside you. He didn’t wait. Just turned and walked away, boots scraping the pavement, the bruised side of his face catching the light before he vanished around the corner.

The key dug into your palm when you pushed open the warped motel door.

Room 8 smelled like stale cigarette smoke and borrowed time. The air conditioner rattled like it was dying. There was one bed, neatly made. The sink dripped.

You didn’t see him inside.

The bathroom light buzzed weakly as you flipped the switch. You caught your reflection in the mirror and winced—blood dried at your temple, mascara smeared down your cheeks like you’d been crying even when you hadn’t. The hoodie you wore (not yours, never yours) hung off your shoulders like it didn’t belong.

The water was lukewarm, the pressure shit. But you stepped in anyway.

You peeled off the hoodie and your ragged shirt. The water hit your skin and stung where you were scraped up, but it felt like something real. Something cleansing. You let your forehead press to the motel tile, inhaled mildew and rust, and exhaled the memory of someone screaming your name from a porchlight you never wanted to return to.

Outside, you heard the soft thud of boots on concrete again. Then a lighter flick. The faint, sharp tang of smoke drifting through the thin walls.

You didn’t need to look to know he was right outside the door, leaning against the rail, smoking something cheap, flexing bruised hands with every drag. Trying not to think about you.

You were trying not to think about him.

You stepped out wrapped in one of the motel’s threadbare towels, the water still dripping down your thighs. The bathroom door creaked open. He didn’t turn to look. But he didn’t leave either.

You stood there a minute too long. Listening to his breath.

Both of you pretending like you weren’t listening for each other’s sounds. Like you hadn’t already started building something unnamed in the silence.

And still—he said nothing. Just one long drag of his cigarette, one slow exhale.

Like he was waiting to see if you'd come out again. Like maybe he didn’t want to sleep on the floor tonight after all.

You cleared your throat. Quiet, but just enough to cut through the buzz.

"I’m not staying long," you said. Your voice sounded raw.

He flicked ash into the night air. Still didn’t look at you. "Didn’t figure you would."

Another beat. You hated the silence more than you thought you would.

"You got a name?"

He turned his head then. Just slightly. His eyes met yours under the orange glow of the walkway light. They were tired. Bloodshot. But something flickered there.

"Lion," he said simply. "What about you?"

You hesitated. Names had power. Names meant someone could find you. But you told him anyway.

You watched his mouth twitch. Not quite a smile. Not yet.

He nodded once. "Alright then, sweetheart. Get some sleep."

And then he walked back inside. Left the door cracked. Just wide enough for you to follow.

You stood at the threshold, towel clutched like armor, bare feet planted on the motel carpet that smelled like mildew and cigarette ash. The door was cracked open just enough to catch the whisper of his presence—Lion’s shape slouched in the dark, the thin light from the bathroom stretching shadows across his back.

He didn’t look when you stepped inside. Didn’t say a word. But you felt the shift in the air. Like the way he dragged on that cigarette changed once he knew you were behind him. The silence filled in with something else—tension, heat, the thrum of two damaged people orbiting the same wreck.

You closed the door behind you with a soft click.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, cigarette smoldering between his fingers. The TV was off. The only light came from the slatted bathroom door behind you and the red eye of his smoke.

“I can take the floor,” you said, voice hushed, unsure why. Maybe because the quiet felt sacred. Maybe because you were still dripping, and every breath between you felt too loud.

His laugh was short and dry. “Already told you—I sleep like shit anywhere. Might as well let the floor take the fall for it.”

You didn’t move. Just stood there in your towel, skin goose-pricked from the AC groaning in the wall unit. Your gaze fell to his hands. Thick-knuckled, calloused, bandaged in places. Hands that didn’t know how to be gentle but maybe wanted to try.

“I’ll dry off. Then I’ll go.” You said it, but you didn’t mean it. Not really.

Lion finally turned his head. Looked at you. Really looked.

His eyes dragged over you slowly, not greedy—just tired and curious, like a man taking in something rare he didn’t know how to name.

“You bled through your bandage,” he murmured.

You glanced down. A dark blot of red soaked through the towel near your knee, the scrape reopened. You hadn’t noticed. Didn’t feel it over the slow pulse building in your core, the way his voice kept getting lower, rougher, the longer you stood there.

He reached for the ice bucket lid on the side table, turned it over, pulled a first-aid kit from beneath it. You hadn’t seen it earlier. He unscrewed the cap of a bottle of rubbing alcohol, then held it out without standing.

You stepped forward. Took the bottle. His fingers brushed yours. Just a flicker. But it lit something.

You knelt down in front of him—slow, deliberate. Not sexy. Not flirty. Just there. Between his knees, towel still clinging to your body, water still trailing from your hair onto your bare shoulders. You pulled the hem back enough to clean the scrape. His eyes never left your hands.

Neither of you said a word.

He flicked the cigarette out into the metal ashtray beside him. His hand dropped to his thigh. Rested there. Twitching just slightly.

“You do this a lot?” you asked after a beat, voice barely above a whisper. “Pick up strays?”

He exhaled slow. “Only the ones with a mean left hook.”

That made your mouth twitch. You shook your head, but you didn’t move away.

“You gonna ask what happened?”

“Nope.”

“You wanna know?”

“Yep.”

You looked up at him then. Close enough now that your knees brushed his boots. He smelled like soap from a gas station bathroom and sweat soaked into cotton. Tobacco. Musk. Blood. He looked down at you with something almost tender beneath all that fight-hardened bone.

“I can’t sleep either,” you said.

“I know.”

Another breath passed between you. It felt like a line in the sand. Like if you moved now, everything would change.

So you didn’t move. You stayed right there, with his knees bracketing you and the towel slipping lower down your back, and the heat of his stare holding you still.

And finally—finally—he said:

“You should get in the bed.”

Not a demand. Not a command. Just something raw and honest.

You hesitated.

And then you stood. Dropped the towel. Turned your back to him as you pulled the scratchy motel sheet up over your body, slipping between covers that still held his heat.

He didn’t follow.

But when the lights finally cut out, and the room went dark enough that you couldn’t see the ceiling for the silence, you felt it—his hand brushing your ankle. Just a graze.

Like he was checking you were real.

Like he needed to.

And something about it made your chest ache. Something about it made you wonder.

How often had he done that—reached out, quietly, carefully—just to see if something he cared about was still there? How many times had things disappeared on him without warning? How many hands had he held just long enough to feel them slip away?

You wondered if that was why he touched like that—soft, fleeting, like anything more would scare it off. Like permanence was a luxury he didn’t believe in.

The air conditioner sputtered its last breath sometime just before dawn.

You woke to stillness. Not the kind that soothed. The kind that pressed against your ears and made you too aware of your own heartbeat. The cheap motel sheets clung to your skin, itchy with dried sweat and the weight of someone else’s silence.

The light bleeding in through the blinds was soft—desert dawn pink and melted gold. Your eyes dragged across the ceiling, then to the empty space beside you. The bed was cold now.

Lion hadn’t slept in it.

Your gaze shifted to the floor.

He was stretched out on the thin motel carpet, one arm flung over his eyes to block the sun. His hoodie had been peeled off sometime in the night, wadded up beneath his head like a makeshift pillow. The rest of him—bare from the waist up—was bathed in the kind of early morning shine that made it hard to look away, fractals of light dancing off the gold pendant hanging down and resting against his sternum.

Lean. But cut with that kind of wiry strength earned from fists and failure. There was nothing polished about him. Nothing effortless. His body was a map of fights he didn’t win, of nights that left marks.

But what you noticed first wasn’t the bruises.

It was the ink.

A tattoo bloomed on his left side, stark black against the pale skin of his ribs. A budded cross—elegant, almost holy, but done in thick lines that stretched down to his hip bone. It followed the curve of his body with a precision that made your throat tighten.

It was the kind of tattoo that looked like it meant something.

The kind of tattoo someone might get when they had something to prove. Or something to grieve.

You sat up slowly, careful not to make the bed creak. But his voice cut through the quiet anyway—low, raspy from sleep.

“Didn’t mean to wake you.”

You looked down. He hadn’t moved his arm. But you could see the faint smirk at the corner of his mouth.

“You didn’t,” you lied.

“Liar.”

Your lips parted. You wanted to ask about the tattoo. You wanted to ask about a lot of things. But the morning air felt too fragile, like words might break it.

He finally pulled his arm away. Blinked up at you with those same tired, blue eyes. The bruising had darkened overnight—sick purple above his cheekbone now.

“You get any sleep?” you asked.

He rolled onto his side, elbow propped beneath his head. “Some.”

You nodded. Your fingers twisted on the edge of the motel sheet. He noticed.

“Don’t look so nervous,” he said, voice still rough. “I’m not gonna touch you.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“Not unless you ask.”

That made your breath catch.

“I wasn’t—” you started.

“You were,” he interrupted, not cruelly. Just honest. “It’s fine. You’re allowed to be nervous. I’m not exactly a picture of comfort.”

You let the silence sit for a moment.

“I saw your tattoo,” you said eventually.

That brought a real smile. Just a flicker.

“Yeah?” he asked, tone unreadable.

“It’s…unexpected.”

“People usually expect barbed wire or brass knuckles.”

“I expected nothing.”

That made his eyes narrow slightly. Not suspicious—just focused. Curious.

“Well,” he murmured, “you’re the first person to see it sober in a while. So congrats.”

You didn’t laugh. But you didn’t look away either.

The room was quiet again. Tense, but not sharp. Just stretched thin between two people who knew how to pretend nothing mattered. Who didn’t know what to do with the moments when something actually might.

He sat up slowly, every muscle moving like it remembered pain. His back cracked as he stretched.

“Want coffee?” he asked.

You blinked. “Here?”

He smirked. “There’s a machine in the lobby. Shit tastes like burnt tires, but it’s hot.”

You thought about it.

Thought about saying no.

But you didn’t.

“Yeah,” you said. “Okay.”

He grabbed his hoodie from the floor, dragged it on without looking at you again. But before he stepped outside, he paused. Hand on the doorknob.

“You can stay,” he said, quietly. “If you want.”

Then he left. The door creaked shut behind him.

You were alone again.

But it didn’t feel the same.

The crowd wasn’t loud—it was vicious.

Packed into a basement so humid the walls sweat blood, every shout felt like it came from somewhere deep in the throat. Somewhere animal. They didn’t cheer for skill. They didn’t want grace or footwork or strategy.

They wanted carnage. Blood.

Lion knew that before his fist ever hit the canvas.

His jaw ached from the first right hook, a bone-deep throb that crackled up to his temple. His opponent was a wall of meat and rage, a prison-yard brute with fists like cinder blocks. There was no technique. Just power. And Lion didn’t need his brother shouting from the side to know that power would win this crowd over long before heart ever did.

“Stop dancing and hit him!” Stanley barked from the corner, voice thick with panic disguised as anger. “You want him to walk all over you? Huh? Lion—get up!”

Lion spat blood. His vision shimmered. The world tilted just enough to make everything feel slightly wrong—too fast, too loud, too hot.

He got up anyway.

Because Stanley needed the money.

Because Stanley had smiled that fucking smile earlier that day and said, “This one’s easy, bro. Guy’s all show, no stamina. You just gotta take a few rounds, make it ugly, then put him down. Easy payday.”

Easy payday.

Lion barely registered the fourth hit that cracked his eyebrow open. He just felt the warm trickle down his temple, thick and wet, slipping into his eye. The crowd roared. The brute cracked his knuckles. Stanley screamed something else, but Lion couldn’t hear it.

He was already gone.

Gone into that space in his mind where it was just fists and fire. Where everything else fell away except the weight of his body and the will to keep standing. To not break.

Because he didn’t have the luxury of breaking.

Not when Stanley had already bet half of it.

Not when you were waiting, maybe still asleep in the motel bed, not knowing what the hell he’d gotten roped into.

You heard the door before you saw him.

He didn’t knock.

He just opened it like it was still his room—even though he’d let you keep the bed, even though he’d left hours ago with nothing but a promise of shit coffee and that quiet, bruised voice telling you you could stay if you wanted.

You were still in bed, half-dozing with the curtains cracked to let in the morning sun when he stumbled in.

Stumbled.

That was the only word for it.

His steps weren’t steady. They were uneven, like the world tilted just slightly under his boots and he hadn’t figured out how to stand on it yet.

You sat up fast. “Lion?”

He shut the door behind him and leaned against it like it was the only thing holding him upright.

His face was a mess.

Split brow. Eye swollen nearly shut. Blood crusted from his lip to his chin. His knuckles looked worse—skin torn open, bones shifting wrong under the stretch of bruised flesh. The same hands you’d cleaned less than twelve hours ago.

“What the hell happened to you?” you asked, heart dropping.

He didn’t answer. Just blinked slow, eyes locking onto you like he was making sure you were still there. Still real. Like the only thing that mattered was that you saw him like this—wrecked, standing, and silent.

“Sit down.” You were already sliding out of bed, grabbing the shitty motel towels and the first aid kit he’d used on you.

“I’m fine,” he rasped.

“You’re bleeding.”

“Been worse.”

You knelt in front of him anyway. He didn’t stop you.

You peeled his hoodie back, the fabric stiff with sweat and blood. His body flinched when you touched his ribs, and that’s when you saw it—another set of bruises blooming over his tattoo, new and angry. The budded cross twisted just slightly with every breath.

“Jesus, Lion…”

“I took a fight.”

“No shit you took a fight.”

You pressed a cold washcloth to his brow. He winced, but didn’t pull away.

“I didn’t think you were still fighting,” you said, softer this time.

He didn’t meet your eyes. “I wasn’t.”

You waited. The silence stretched.

“Then why?”

That’s when you heard it—a knock at the door. Two quick raps. Familiar. Confident.

Before you could move, Lion stood. Winced. Opened the door.

Stanley stood there. Sunglasses, too-white smile, a wad of cash folded in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

“Atta boy,” he said, like Lion had just passed a test.

Then he saw you.

And smirked wider.

“Well shit,” Stanley drawled, eyes dragging over you in nothing but one of Lion’s shirts. “Guess we’re celebrating, huh?”

Lion didn’t say a word.

But his jaw tightened.

Hard.

Stanley didn’t even pretend to stay long.

He made himself at home fast—lit a cigarette without asking, sat on the edge of the motel dresser like it was his throne, and slapped the wad of cash down beside the TV remote with a grin that made your skin crawl.

“Got another lined up for Friday,” he said, like he was talking about weekend drinks. “Same guy running the pit. Big payout this time.”

Lion stood with his hands braced on the bathroom door frame, head bowed slightly like he was willing himself to disappear into the wood. His knuckles were still bleeding. You hadn’t even finished bandaging him.

Stanley didn’t notice. Or he did and didn’t care.

“He’s a bruiser, but nothin’ you can’t handle,” Stanley went on, flicking ash on the floor. “And hey—if you go down in round three, we double. Bookies already think you're soft.”

Lion didn’t say anything. Not even a grunt.

You stepped forward, barely keeping the venom out of your voice. “He can’t even see out of one eye.”

Stanley looked at you like you were an amusing commercial break. “He’ll be fine. Lion always bounces back. Don’t you, bro?”

Still nothing.

Not a word.

Stanley stood up then, snagging the cash again. “I’ll hold this for now. Just so you don’t blow it on painkillers and whores.” A wink in your direction. “No offense.”

You didn’t flinch. But your fists clenched hard enough to pop your knuckles.

When the door shut behind him, it was like the air collapsed. Like all the tension that had been floating in the corners of the room finally snapped loose.

Lion didn’t move. Just stood there, staring at the place Stanley had been.

You crossed the room, slow and quiet, until you were right in front of him.

“Lion,” you said softly.

Still, he didn’t look at you.

“I don’t get it,” you whispered. “Why do you let him do this to you?”

His breath hitched.

And then he laughed.

But it was a dead thing. A broken thing. Like it had rotted in his throat and came out anyway.

“Let him?” he echoed, voice raw. “You think I let him?”

He finally looked at you then.

And something in his face had cracked wide open.

“This is all I have,” he said. “This is it. Motel rooms, blood money, and fights that don’t mean shit. I’ve been fighting since I could walk. And he’s the only one who ever put food in front of me after.”

“That’s not food,” you snapped. “That’s scraps. That’s chains dressed up like favors.”

He didn’t respond. Just ran a hand through his hair, pacing now.

“You think I don’t know that?” he muttered. “You think I don’t wake up every goddamn morning and wish I’d walked away ten years ago? That I hadn’t spent my whole life being dragged around by someone who just wants to be the brains behind my broken body?”

You didn’t know what to say.

So you stepped toward him.

And touched his face.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t even gentle. It was desperate. Anchoring. Real.

He leaned into it, just barely.

And for the first time, he looked like he might shatter.

“I’m tired,” he whispered.

You nodded.

“I know.”

The room was quieter after his outburst. Not peaceful—never peaceful—but quiet like the lull after a storm. You’d seen men blow up before, punch walls, throw chairs. Lion didn’t need any of that. His voice had done all the breaking.

Now he sat on the edge of the bed with his fists in his lap, head down, body humming with everything he hadn’t said. The anger. The guilt. The shame that clung to him like the blood drying on his skin.

You came back with the first-aid kit. Didn’t ask permission this time. You just dropped to your knees in front of him like you had the night before.

This time, he didn’t flinch when you touched him.

You worked slowly. Hands steady. The scrape above his eyebrow had crusted, but it split open again as soon as you wiped it. He didn’t hiss. Just stared at your face like the pain kept him grounded.

“Sorry,” you whispered when you dabbed too hard.

He shook his head. “Don’t be.”

You moved to his hands—those knuckles, those battered fingers. They were worse up close. One was likely fractured, swollen so bad the skin looked ready to burst.

“Jesus, Lion…”

He gave a tired half-smile. “I’ve had worse.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

That shut him up.

You wrapped his right hand carefully, fingers brushing the rough skin of his palm. He stared down at the top of your head as you worked, lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. You finished the left hand, taping it just tight enough.

When you looked up, he was already looking at you.

For a second, it was just that.

The light buzzed overhead.

The air conditioner kicked on, rattled, died again.

His thigh brushed yours.

And something shifted.

You don’t know who moved first. Maybe it was you, maybe it was him. Maybe it was always going to happen.

But his mouth was on yours and it was nothing like you expected.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t rough.

It was desperate.

Like he was trying to memorize the shape of your lips just in case the world took you away.

His hands—bandaged, trembling—cradled your jaw like you were something fragile. His kiss tasted like blood and salt and something quieter underneath. Something scared.

You kissed him back with both hands tangled in his hoodie, pulled him down to you like you needed him to feel how fast your heart was racing. How real it was.

When he finally pulled away, he didn’t go far. Just pressed his forehead to yours. Breathing heavy. Quiet. Real.

“I don’t go by it anymore,” he said, voice barely audible. “Haven’t in a long time.”

Your fingers curled against his thigh.

“But if you’re gonna stay—” he paused. Swallowed. “You should know.”

You didn’t say anything. Just waited.

His breath tickled your lips when he said it.

“Walter.”

You blinked.

“That’s my name. Walter Kaminski.”

You didn’t smile.

Didn’t tease.

Didn’t make it smaller than it was.

Instead, you whispered, “Hi, Walter.”

And for the first time since you met him, he looked like he didn’t want to run.

The warmth of his name still lingered on your tongue by the time night fell.

Walter.

You didn’t say it out loud again. Not yet. Not while he was already pulling back into himself, curling up in the corner of the room with a bag of ice on his side and a far-off look in his eyes like he was already bracing for what came next.

You’d made the bed for him.

He didn’t use it.

He stayed in the chair near the window, legs sprawled out, hoodie zipped halfway up like armor. The bandages on his hands were fresh, but you could already see the bruising underneath turning darker by the hour.

You sat on the edge of the bed, chewing your thumbnail, watching him in the reflection of the black screen of the TV. Neither of you had turned it on.

“Are you gonna take the fight?”

The question floated between you, suspended in the dusty air. It sounded smaller than you’d meant it to.

Walter didn’t answer right away.

You hated that you already expected that.

“Stanley’s not gonna let it go,” he muttered eventually. “If I don’t show, he loses money. If he loses money, he gets mean. And if he gets mean—he finds ways to make me pay anyway.”

You frowned. “He’s not your boss.”

“He is if I keep letting him be.”

You turned then, facing him fully. “Then stop.”

His jaw flexed.

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is.”

“No, it’s not,” he snapped, standing suddenly, the chair scraping loud against the laminate floor. “You think I don’t want to be done? You think I don’t want to walk away and disappear and never take another hit again?”

His voice cracked.

You didn’t flinch. You stood too. Right in front of him now.

“Then do it,” you said, voice low. “Stop letting him bleed you dry.”

“I owe him.”

“You don’t.”

He stared at you like he didn’t recognize you. Like you were something that shouldn’t have stepped into his world but did anyway, and now he didn’t know what the hell to do with you.

He turned away. Punched the dresser with his bandaged hand. Didn’t even curse. Just breathed heavy through his nose like he was holding back more than blood.

“I don’t know how to be anything but this,” he said finally. “I don’t know how to be someone you stay with if I’m not fighting.”

You crossed to him. Placed a hand on his back. Felt him flinch and stay all at once.

“You don’t have to know yet,” you whispered. “You just have to try.”

Silence.

Then: “Stanley booked the motel through the weekend.”

You exhaled slowly. “So we’ve got a few days.”

He turned, looked at you again.

Soft. Wrecked. Open.

“Yeah,” he said. “A few days.”

The motel lobby was quiet.

Desert quiet—heat pressed against the glass, flies buzzing near the snack rack, an old box fan rattling against the check-in desk. You stood there, fingers curled around a styrofoam coffee cup, waiting for the guy behind the counter to stop pretending he wasn’t watching you.

“Can I help you?” you asked finally.

The clerk—mid-forties, bored eyes, receding hairline—shrugged. “Nah. Just didn’t expect to see you come outta Room 8 this morning.”

You blinked. “Okay…”

He smirked. “You his girl or something?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

“Didn’t mean anything by it,” he said quickly, hands raised. “Just—he’s usually alone. Or with the other one. The loud guy in sunglasses. You’re new.”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t owe him one.

Just grabbed a second cup of that awful burnt coffee and walked out.

But the words followed you.

You his girl or something?

Walter was sitting on the hood of a rusted-out car behind the motel, shirtless in the sun, knees pulled up and cigarette dangling from his mouth. The bruises on his ribs had ripened into something nasty. The bandage on his hand was already fraying.

You handed him the coffee. He took it without a word.

“You alright?” you asked.

He nodded.

Then squinted. “Why?”

You shrugged, sitting beside him. “Motel guy asked if I was your girl.”

He paused.

You didn’t look at him, but you could feel the way his whole body stilled. Like you’d reached under his skin and pressed on something he hadn’t let anyone near in a long time.

“What’d you say?” he asked.

“Didn’t.”

He flicked ash off the hood. “Good.”

“Why? That hard to believe someone might care about you?”

Silence.

Then: “It’s not that.”

You turned to look at him.

He finally looked back.

“It’s that people who care about me don’t stay,” he said. “And when they try, they get hurt.”

Your throat tightened.

“I’m still here,” you whispered.

“Yeah.” He stared at you for a long second. “That’s what scares me.”

Stanley showed up like he always did—loud, smug, and uninvited.

You were sitting on the edge of the bed folding the same two clean shirts Walter owned when the knock came. He barely glanced at the door before dragging it open.

“Look at you,” Stanley crowed, stepping into the room like it belonged to him. “Didn’t think you’d be up. You take a nap or a beating?”

Walter didn’t laugh.

You stayed quiet.

Stanley’s eyes slid to you. “Ah. She’s still here.”

You didn’t like the way he said that—like you were a stray dog who hadn’t wandered off yet.

“She got a name?” Stanley asked, looking at Walter now.

“Yeah,” Walter said flatly. “She does.”

Stanley waited, eyebrow raised. No answer.

You could see it coming. The moment when curiosity soured into suspicion. When Stanley tilted his head just slightly and looked at you like you were a piece of something valuable. Something vulnerable.

“You gonna tell me who she is, or should I guess?” he said with a crooked smile.

And before you could open your mouth—before you could laugh it off or lie or do anything to defuse the moment—Walter stepped forward.

Not fast. Not dramatic.

But purposeful.

His hand came to your waist.

Fingers warm, firm, curling just enough to make the gesture unmistakable. Possessive. Protective. Territorial.

Yours.

You felt it like a punch to the gut.

And so did Stanley.

The look in his eyes shifted—something calculating, something darker. Like he’d just found another way to get at Walter if he ever needed it.

But Walter didn’t let go.

He just looked at his brother, jaw set, mouth a tight line.

Stanley grinned. “Well, shit.”

And then he left.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the spell broke.

Walter let go.

You turned slowly.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said.

He met your eyes. “Yeah, I did.”

You wanted to ask why.

But you already knew.

Because you were becoming something Stanley could use.

And Walter? He was already starting to care too much to let that happen.

The motel room creaked with the kind of stillness that wasn’t peace.

Just a low hum of things unsaid, hanging between the chipped walls and the uneven floorboards. The TV was off. The coffee was cold. And Walter hadn’t moved in over an hour.

He was sitting in the same chair near the window, elbows on his knees, knuckles pressed against his mouth like he could hold himself in with just that much pressure. His bruises had darkened. The side of his face was turning a sick kind of gold under the pale light.

You watched him from the bed.

He hadn’t spoken since Stanley left.

Not even when you offered him food. Not when you handed him water. Not when you pressed your palm against the small of your back like it hurt to watch him sit so still.

He didn’t even blink when the ice bucket finally gave up its last sigh of melt.

You stood, bare feet ghosting over the worn motel carpet. Crossed the room without saying anything. And this time, when you knelt in front of him, it wasn’t to tend wounds or wipe blood off his skin.

You just wanted him to see you.

To feel you.

“Walter,” you said, quiet but certain.

His eyes flicked up. Hollow. Distant.

Until they met yours.

And everything in him shifted.

You climbed into his lap without asking.

Straddled his thighs, hands curling around the sides of his jaw. You didn’t kiss him—not yet. You just pressed your forehead to his and breathed him in.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you whispered.

He exhaled, shaky and sharp. Like he’d been holding it in since the door closed.

“I’m still figuring this out,” he said.

“I know.”

“I don’t want to fuck this up.”

“You won’t.”

A beat passed.

Then you felt it—his hands coming to your hips, tentative at first, like he still wasn’t sure he was allowed to hold something that hadn’t already slipped through his fingers.

Your hands slid up into his hair. His mouth brushed yours.

The kiss came slow.

Not like last time.

Not like need.

Like relief.

Like a man who’d been starving for a touch that didn’t come with strings. Like someone who finally understood what it meant to be wanted without it costing anything.

You broke it first. Just long enough to whisper, “Come to bed.”

He hesitated.

“I don’t sleep well,” he murmured. “I—I move. I twitch. Sometimes I talk.”

“I don’t care.”

“I don’t want to scare you.”

“You won’t.”

That’s when he let go.

Of the guilt.

Of the fear.

Of whatever ghosts he’d been keeping curled in his chest like fists.

He let you take his hand. Let you lead him to the bed. Let you pull back the sheets and lie beside him in the dark.

He didn’t touch you at first.

But when you curled into his side, he pulled you in with one arm and held you tight. Like he was afraid someone might come through the door and take you away.

And when he finally spoke, voice hoarse and half-asleep, it was just three words:

“Just stay, alright?”

You didn’t answer.

You just stayed.

The room was dark except for the amber lamp on the nightstand, humming soft against the silence.

Walter lay on his back, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting across his stomach where the bruises looked like spilled ink under his skin. You were curled beside him, the motel blanket tangled somewhere around your calves. Neither of you had slept. Not really. Not since that night.

Not since you crawled into bed with him and didn’t leave.

You could feel him vibrating beneath the stillness—like his body never fully powered down, even when he was quiet. Like he was always waiting for something to blow.

“Can’t sleep?” you asked, voice low in the hush.

He didn’t open his eyes. “Didn’t expect to.”

You turned on your side, propping yourself on your elbow, watching the way his throat moved when he swallowed.

“Tell me something,” you whispered.

He smirked faintly, one eye cracking open. “That broad of a request might get you in trouble.”

“I mean it. Anything. Anything you’ve never told anyone.”

He stared at the ceiling again. The air shifted.

A long, thin silence stretched between you.

Then—

“When I was thirteen,” he said slowly, “I found a dog behind a liquor store. Just a mutt. I named her Ash. She used to sleep under the trailer with me when things got bad. Only thing that made it feel like something might actually care if I didn’t wake up one day.”

You said nothing. Just listened. Let him bleed.

“I kept her for years. Stanley knew. He knew how much she meant to me. Last year, when things got tight, he sold her.”

You blinked. The way he said it—casual, empty—was worse than if he’d cried.

“He didn’t even tell me first. I came back from a fight and she was gone. Asked where she was. He said he traded her for rent and a bag of pills.”

A breath.

You reached over and traced the edge of his ribs—gentle, featherlight. He didn’t stop you.

“I didn’t talk to him for a month,” he said. “Slept outside. Ate canned corn out of a goddamn dumpster. He didn’t say sorry. Not once. Just told me next time not to get attached to things I couldn’t afford to keep.”

Your hand stilled against him.

“You don’t flinch,” he said, quietly.

You met his eyes. “Why would I?”

He looked at you like you were something rare. Something delicate he didn’t know how to hold.

“You gonna ask me why I ran?” you whispered.

He nodded, but didn’t push.

“My stepdad hit my mom. Cops came. Left. I told her to leave him. She didn’t. He hit me next.”

Walter sat up a little, jaw flexing.

“I packed a backpack and didn’t look back.”

“Jesus,” he breathed.

“I lived in my car for three months before I found you.”

He looked at you like he was trying to figure out what that meant. What you meant.

You reached over and slid your fingers under his bandaged hand.

“You’re allowed to be rough with me, Walter,” you said. “I won’t break.”

He looked down at where your fingers laced with his.

And for once—he didn’t pull away.

You didn’t let go of his hand.

Even as the silence settled heavy again, even as Walter leaned back against the motel headboard like he didn’t trust his body to do what he wanted it to. Your fingers stayed threaded with his—warm and sure, firm enough to say you’re safe without ever speaking the words.

He kept looking at you like he didn’t know what the hell to do with that.

“You ever touch someone just to see if they’d flinch?” he asked quietly.

You shook your head. “You?”

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Used to. When I was a kid. Just light. Shoulder, hand, whatever. Like—like if they didn’t flinch, maybe they didn’t think I was bad yet.”

Your stomach twisted.

You reached out, and this time, you brought his hand to your mouth.

Kissed the inside of his wrist. The rough plane of his knuckles. The pad of each finger, slow and deliberate. He watched you the whole time, breathing shallow and tight, like your lips were unraveling him one soft kiss at a time.

When you took his index and middle finger into your mouth, he choked on a sound. One you’d never heard from him before.

It wasn’t a moan.

It was a whimper.

You sucked slow—just the tips—warm and wet and careful, lips gliding down to your knuckles, your tongue dragging just enough to make him twitch. His thighs shifted. His breath hitched. His eyes slammed shut.

“Fuck,” he whispered, like he wasn’t supposed to feel this good.

You pulled off with a pop and kissed the fingertips again, then brought them down between your legs.

Guided him over your panties, soaked through now.

“I want you to touch me,” you said. “But I want it to be your idea.”

He looked at you like he was about to fall apart.

Like he was already halfway there.

“I’m scared I’ll fuck it up,” he admitted, voice barely there.

“You won’t.”

“You’re not—” he swallowed. “You’re not just a distraction.”

“I know.”

“You’re not just some girl who wants a broken boy story to tell later?”

It was a question disguised as a statement, like he was afraid to know the answer.

You took his wrist again, placed his hand just where you needed it.

And rocked your hips once—slow, deliberate—against the heat of his fingers.

“I’m yours,” you whispered.

That broke something open in him.

He pushed your panties aside, tentative at first—like he didn’t quite believe he had permission. But when he slid one slick finger through your folds and felt how wet you were for him, how ready, the sound that tore from his throat was pure disbelief.

“Christ,” he muttered, eyes locked to your face now. “You feel—God, baby.”

You whimpered, grinding down against his hand, your fingers clutching the edge of the mattress for balance.

He was gentle. So gentle. Too gentle.

You pressed your mouth to his ear. “Deeper.”

He obeyed.

You gasped.

He moaned with you.

Like your pleasure belonged to him.

Like the more you came apart, the more whole he felt.

He was panting by the time you pulled your panties down your legs and tossed them to the floor. His fingers were still wet from you, resting on his thigh like he didn’t know what to do next—like he was trying not to come just from the sight of you crawling into his lap.

You straddled him slow.

Bare thighs bracketing his hips.

His back hit the motel headboard with a dull thud, and he looked up at you like you were something holy. Something terrifying. His bandaged hands hovered in the air like he didn’t trust himself to touch without ruining it.

But you didn’t look away.

Not once.

Your eyes locked to his and stayed there—steady, warm, full of something he didn’t know how to name.

You reached between you, wrapped your hand around him. He was already hard, twitching against your palm, flushed deep red at the tip like he’d been aching for you since the second you kissed him.

Walter gasped when you stroked him. His hips bucked.

“Jesus,” he whispered, jaw clenched tight. “You’re so—fuck, you’re gorgeous.”

You lined him up with your entrance and sank down slow. Inch by inch. Taking your time. Letting him feel every slick, tight second of it.

His eyes never left yours.

He moaned through gritted teeth, fists clenched at his sides like he was holding onto control by a thread.

“Look at me,” you said, even though he already was.

“I am,” he breathed. “Fuck, I am. I can’t stop.”

You rocked your hips once, slow and deep, and watched his mouth drop open. His head tipped back for just a moment—overwhelmed—but you cupped his jaw and brought him back.

“Keep looking.”

His hands rose like instinct—found your waist, your hips, then froze.

“Can I…?” he rasped.

You nodded.

He gripped you then. Soft, trembling, reverent.

You started to ride him slow.

Long, deliberate rolls of your hips, grinding down until his breath came in short, desperate bursts. You tightened around him with every movement, dragging him deeper, drowning him in you.

The sound he made was barely human.

You leaned in, your forehead against his, lips brushing but never fully kissing.

“Good?” you whispered.

His grip tightened.

“So good,” he choked. “Fuck, baby—ride me—ride me just like that. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

You held his gaze the whole time. Watched it flicker and soften. Watched it fill with everything he didn’t know how to say.

Then you started to bounce properly—your thighs working, your body rising and falling in rhythm, slick and full and relentless.

His mouth dropped open again, breath catching.

You whispered right into his ear.

“You’re doing so good for me, Walter. Such a good boy. Taking me so deep.”

He whimpered.

“You feel so good inside me. Perfect. Just like this.”

“Jesus Christ,” he gasped, head falling back. “Say it again—please—”

You gave it to him.

“You’re so good. My sweet boy. Just like that. Don’t stop. You’re making me feel so good, baby.”

He was trembling under you. Entire body tense, fingers digging into your hips like he was afraid to come without permission.

“I’m gonna—” he started, voice breaking. “Fuck, I’m gonna—should I pull out?”

You grabbed his face.

Shook your head slow.

“No. I want it. I want you.”

His eyes went wide—wild with it.

“You sure?” he rasped.

You ground down once more and whispered:

“Cum in me, Walter.”

He shattered.

Moaned your name, low and ragged, as he came inside you—deep, hot, shuddering through the kind of release that felt like surrender. His mouth was against your collarbone, panting, praising you through every wave.

“Atta girl…” he groaned, arms wrapping around you like he couldn’t bear to let you go. “Atta girl… took me so good…my girl…my fucking girl.”

You stayed right there, hearts pounding against each other, skin warm and damp.

And when he kissed you—soft, grateful, still breathless—it felt like something permanent.

You didn’t move.

Not at first.

The world had gone still in the soft aftershock, the motel room hazy with heat and breath and the smell of sweat and skin. Your thighs were still wrapped around him, his hands spread wide over your back like he didn’t trust gravity to keep you from slipping away.

He was still inside you. Still pulsing. Still trembling.

Walter exhaled into your shoulder. A sound more like relief than release.

You buried your fingers in the sweat-damp hair at the nape of his neck and kept your face tucked in close. Not to hide. Just to be near. Closer than close. You could feel his heart hammering against yours like he hadn’t come down yet. Like he didn’t want to.

His voice came low, cracked open.

“Never done that before.”

You blinked. “What?”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, but his arms didn’t loosen.

“Let someone stay.”

You studied him. His lashes were wet at the tips. His mouth was pink and kiss-bruised. The flush on his cheeks hadn’t faded.

“Does it feel wrong?” you asked softly.

“No.” His voice caught. “Feels like I’m gonna wake up and find you gone.”

You shook your head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He nodded, but you could see how much it cost him to believe you.

His hand came up to your face then—rough, bandaged, trembling at the edges—and he touched you like he wasn’t sure you were real. Thumb ghosting over your cheekbone. Fingertips tracing the line of your jaw.

“Why me?” he asked. Not self-pitying. Just raw.

“Because I see you,” you said.

He closed his eyes.

You kissed him. Gentle this time. Deep and unhurried, like you were sealing something in place.

When you finally eased off of him, he pulled you close again, curling around your body like instinct. Your head tucked into the hollow of his throat, his hand flat over your spine.

You felt safe there. And you knew, in the way his arms didn’t loosen, that he felt it too.

“Stay with me,” he whispered into your hair. “Even if I don’t know how to be good at this. Even if I fuck it up.”

You didn’t hesitate.

“I already am.”

[onehellofajellyfish]

the thing with shipping or not shipping ciel and sebastian is that adding in romance to it just makes the subtext text.

like it doesn't actually change much which for me is a point of like yeah, it's just an expansion of what's here in all its tragic toxic codependent mess.

it isn't "better" or more intellectual to not ship it. or to ship it. it's the same picture.

and furthermore, if the idea of shipping them is that unpalatable to you, then idk how the canon dynamic which is doomed/predatory/strikingly intimate regardless of how you see it is like. something you're cool with because it has all the same issues.

except that you add in the concept of ciel- within this power fantasy about revenge (and dealing with trauma), having someone he can physically trust in every absolute way due to their contract- being able to have whatever he potentially wants in a romantic emotional and/or physical context. with a being we have stated in text abides by his every wish and has no morals. that which will save and destroy him all in one (big tragic romance trope there). hello?

like i get the discomfort about shipping it but why that same discomfort doesn't flag for what's already there

or what doesn't click about the idea of this sort of power fantasy if it was romantic adds/why someone would look at this and go "oh i get why ciel would want this" like why do you think, yanno? ciel's killed so many people and you're hung up on the idea of him kissing a being which is the manifestation of his wishes? having control in an intimate situation after he previously had none?

people also age up ciel All the time and it's like do whatever man it doesn't change the underlying dynamic at all. this is still about power and fantasy and engaging with a taboo just by the nature of it. whether it's a ship or not. it doesn't matter how you imagine it. who cares.

it's not even about the dynamic being unhealthy it's just moral panic about sex while ignoring everything else which is frankly less moral

and also it isn't real. im yet to see people who ship it ever claim it's a real healthy ideal that should exist irl like please lmao

[hikaaa-bi]

i think people pick sides too much rather than realizing that all of the characters in Gravity Falls were equally flawed. i've noticed it with Mabel and Dipper, and more recently, i've noticed it with Stan and Ford.

it's okay if you sympathize with Stan but some people act like he never did anything wrong and Ford was just being an asshole to him for no reason.

Stan broke Ford's science exhibit. he didn't mean to do it, but he did. and he didn't attempt to fix it nor did he come clean about it until Ford already lost his chance with uni and confronted Stan about it. then Stan spouted some "silver lining, now you can travel the world with me" BS.

i'm sorry to say it but this was a shitty thing to do. it's completely understandable why Ford was upset with Stan, and i'm tired of people acting like it isn't. of course, Stan didn't deserve to get kicked out of his home for this, but he deserved to face some consequences.

Ford had no obligation to forgive Stan and i honestly don't blame him for keeping a grudge. he lost a HUGE opportunity because of Stan. and furthermore, he also gets sucked into the portal because of Stan. again, yes, an accident. but an accident that left him stranded in a dangerous terrain for YEARS.

and don't get me wrong, i'm not saying that Stan is some irredeemable monster or anything. he worked hard to undo his wrongs and bring back Ford, and he deserves to be commended for that. but this only works if you acknowledge that he was a flawed character in the first place.

the whole point of Stan's and Ford's conflict was that BOTH of them were in the wrong. especially during the finale.

it's fine for Stan to want Ford to be grateful for what he did. BUT. he did NOT have to start bitching about it right when they were about to defeat Bill. it could have waited until after everyone was safe.

and Ford certainly did not have to start the whole "grammar Stanley" thing and act like he was above saying a simple thank you.

also, you have to understand that while it's sweet that Stan wanted to sail the world with Ford, it was also an example of their relationship being codependent. Stan was made to believe that he wasn't as worthy as Ford and he saw himself as useless and dumb, so he clings onto Ford for a sense of identity.

in Stan's mind, he was just part of a whole, and this was an extremely unhealthy mindset to have. of course it was because of their father's emotional abuse, but it was something Stan needed to change.

Ford had his own dreams, and Stan's dependence on him started to feel suffocating. i would say they both needed time away from each other, especially Stan.

at the end of the day, this conflict was mutual and y'all are erasing its complexity by acting like Stan was completely innocent and played no part in their falling out, and like Ford was some terrible monster who deserved everything that happened to him.

[ddarker-dreams]

Epilogue.

Yandere Blade x F Reader.

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, codependency, Blade's love language is committing murder for you. Word count: 1.5k.

Nexus index.

“You went overboard.”

Blade doesn’t respond.

You know he heard you. He’s lucid enough to comprehend your words, but that doesn’t mean he’ll acknowledge them. Not when he’s standing there, parsing through his frenetic thoughts, which must feel more like a distant dream than reality. This is how you’ve come to understand his mara. It’s a capricious affliction, despite how adept you’ve become at soothing it.

This burden isn’t yours alone to bear. Blade has his part to play. He has to at least, on some level, want to ward off the beckoning madness. Your psionic abilities lay in amplifying base desires, not writing over them. Usually, this isn’t a problem. Usually, you both prefer he retains control instead of leaving a trail of contorted corpses in his wake.

Today, however, was decidedly unusual.

The nature of your new ‘work’ invites risk. Danger has never been a stranger to you — there was a reason why leaving the LOTUS-EATER’s premises was discouraged. This daunting acquaintance loves seeking you out. The feeling isn’t mutual, regardless of how successful the attempts are. It’s the aftershocks that you dread most. In the moment, everything happens so fast, there’s no time to be afraid until you reflect on it later.

Nona would tell you that what’s done is done, no point in dwelling on it further.

Lear would suggest you exercise more caution in the future, whilst barely being able to hold back tears of relief that it wasn't worse.

They aren’t here, though, you think. I only have him.

You swivel around on the kitchen island’s barstool to examine Blade like he’s examining you. He’s wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist as his clothes were dirtied beyond saving. Water trickles down the contours of his scarred, lithe body. The scent of orange and vanilla wafts in the air beside him, courtesy of the safehouse’s shower, no doubt. You prefer that over the metallic miasma which clung to him previously.

His crimson eyes pierce through the dimly lit room. You can’t decipher his expression, nor do you care to. What matters is that he gives some reassurance there won’t be a repeat of today’s incident. Knowing him, however, that’s too much to ask, but you’re starting to wonder if sweet lies are kinder than the truth.

Blade’s predatory gaze pauses at the fresh bruise on your forearm. What he doesn’t reveal outwardly is more than made up for by the sickening wrath his mind emanates. You wince beneath its intensity, a reaction he ignores, surprisingly, as he’s too focused on the hand-shaped indent. It isn’t until you inhale sharply that he snaps out of his reverie and the pressure in the room lessens.

While you rub your aching temples, he approaches, slinking forward like a stray cat. Though he viciously defends you as a guard dog would, you think he shares more similarities with the feline species. He bristles at anyone’s touch but yours, silently stares until you give him attention, and would gladly lay a pile of his kills at your feet, seeking approval for the macabre offering.

There was a time you’d voice this musing to observe his displeasure.

That time has long since passed.

Blade’s calloused fingertips run over the bruise, light enough to spare you any pain.

“Are there more?” he asks.

“I haven’t checked,” you shift back to rid yourself of his touch. His eyebrows pinch together, forming creases. “Is that really all you have to say?”

He’s glowering now. You don’t know what displeases him more — your avoidance of his touch, irate tone, or the condemnation hitherto left unsaid.

“You would’ve had me show mercy to your attackers?”

Blade enunciates the word mercy with every ounce of contempt one would regard their mortal enemy with. Now you’re beginning to better understand why getting him under control was such an ordeal. You encountered every possible resistance when attempting a link with him, a phenomenon you hadn’t experienced since that fateful day in The Lounge’s private room. He was always so receptive to, well, you, oddly pliant to your whims so long as you framed them right.

“You didn’t need to—” your throat goes dry, as the sights, sounds, and smells from earlier resurface, “—Need to…”

Fucking terrify me.

Sometimes, you forget on purpose.

You forget so you can drunkenly ramble anecdotes about your strangest clients over drinks, let him teach you the steps of weapon forging, and not struggle when he pulls you into his chest at night.

You forget so that your resentment can stay suspended in time, never growing past a point that’d suffocate you.

You forget so you can remember how to live.

Streams of sunlight sneak past the room’s blinds. You reach out, as if to catch it, allowing the beam to settle on your hand. The closest star to this planet — Varsig — is named the Spectator. The planet’s earliest inhabitants once thought the giant orb to be a god’s eye. Following their every movement, scrutinizing their every decision.

In the current year of 2157 AE, few still believe this superstition.

You understand where those ancient civilizations were coming from.

Eris’ eternal night hid wrongdoings behind a silvery veil. Stars, however, ensure you witness everything. Every misstep, shame, and regret is crystal clear. There’s no questioning the integrity of what you see. It burrows into your memory where it intends to remain forevermore. You’re reminded again and again that you’re no longer an Exalted Arbiter, but a means to an end for the universe’s most notorious criminal faction.

Either way, it’s a glorified transfer of ownership.

Still. At least then you had Loopy, Nona, Lear—

“You’re thinking about him.”

You freeze upon hearing his gruff accusation. Swiftly, perhaps suspiciously so, you turn the faucet of your thoughts off. Too much slipped through in your carelessness. Blade might not have your level of experience when it comes to decrypting the minds of others, but he’s spent enough time around you to pick up on a few things. The low-level link you share with him goes both ways, as per that miscreant Kafka’s suggestion.

For the most part, it’s an unobtrusive function that’s no more noticeable than one’s breathing. This prevents the continuous uptime from placing heavy strain on you. Identifying fluctuations in Blade’s mara is its main function. However, if you’re not being vigilant, a few segments from your psyche can pass through to him.

“Sorry,” you murmur.

It’s an unconvincing apology.

His mara, previously satiated from its earlier gorging, rouses. It seeks to form a tribunal with you as the defendant. This disease hates you, worships you, and longs to break you so that it might stitch you up and do it all over again.

Blade shakes his head and sighs.

The mara’s deliberation over your sentencing fades, leaving nothing but uncomfortable silence.

He turns around and starts walking away. Your eyes, ever keen in the dark, trace over the scars that cover his back. The off-color testimonies to his many battles have welcomed a newcomer, inducted into the ranks hours prior. The skin is red and angry. His long hair partially covers it — a slash made from the right side of his back to the lower left.

There’s little you know about combat, but from what you can tell, his opponents were skilled. They moved too fast for you to get an accurate count. In the aftermath, the remains were either butchered beyond recognition, or the few intact limbs so spread out, you couldn’t arrive at a number then either. Blade intercepted every shot and stab intended for you. He parried most, yet some slipped through the cracks. Without a second’s hesitation, he’d shield you from the onslaught, unfazed by what must’ve been excruciating pain.

That undying devotion is yours.

He belongs to you, really. Possibly more than you belong to him. This husk of a man who flayed the flesh of your foes and hung them by their entrails. Only the Aeons above know what other desecrations he committed when your consciousness gave out.

Sometimes, you calm the chaos simmering in his veins.

Other times, you raise it to a rapid boil.

“Yingxing.”

His retreating figure stills. Before, holding the memories of who he once was guaranteed he’d succumb to the mara’s influence. It’s less definitive now. There’s an undeniable intimacy to it — speaking a name scratched from history. He isn’t Yingxing anymore, nor can he ever be again. Somewhere, wedged deep into a forgotten crevice of his psyche, a tiny fragment of that splintered identity slumbers.

You rouse it when you think he needs to remember the anguish of losing everything.

“Do you want to be loved by me?”

You’re plenty capable of feeling love.

You love your student, who wrestled with life to reclaim the joy it previously stole. You love your first friend, who didn’t cower away from the unruly girl who decided to change his name on a whim. On some days, you could even love your mother, if your memories deceived you enough.

What about him, whom you might spend centuries beside?

Can loneliness outweigh resentment?

After what feels like multiple lifetimes, he responds.

“Anything’s enough.”

When he leaves, he takes a part of you with him.

…

You rise from your seat.

[astropookie]

synastry that tells me you want sex and they want a relationship😍 or viceversa

yes, proyecting my life into my posts is my fav thing. sorry for being late 😭 I was living so I could analyze and post😏for fun don’t take it seriously

Yubisaki to renren

yuki and itsuomi have nothing to do with the topic. I liked the picture and I WANT TO KNOW WHEN’S GONNA BE CHAPTER 39 POSTED

*SQUARE EDITION

Sun square Moon

MISUNDERSTANDING. the end 🥰 jk. but it’s really common for this synastry for the sun to want something casual and have sexual needs and for the moon to want a relationship and being delulu, idealizing little things. -I’m the sun- First of all, the situationship could have started accompanied by a misunderstanding. One part says one thing and the other understand another. Idk one could invite you to eat, for them it’s like nothing, like a way of being alone 😏 and for the other is a date that would take it to the next level: relationship, to being intimate with you but in a non sexual way. Even though you’ve tried to be more clear. at this point YOU HAVE TO BE TRANSPARENT.

Jupiter square Moon

it’s giving sag and cancer, imagine the most known features of each sign in a relationship: freedom and comfort. 🚫NO 🚫🙅‍♀️🙅‍♀️ if the two of them enter into something, there’s gonna be a REALLY unhealthy relationship. Push over and codependent. the moon’s gonna be unsatisfied when’s about Jupiter’s behavior and they’re gonna be possessive over them. Jupiter wants to run but they’re too happy and they have a “everything’s gonna be okay”/“vibing” attitude, so they’ll stay. Jupiter’s attitude can make Moon insecure.

Mars square Neptune

LACK OF COMMUNICATION. Mars do something and Neptune doesn’t understand it. Mars is in charge in the relationship and Neptune suppresses themselves to be okay with Mars guidance but they don’t get it. They don’t get what Mars wants to do, they don’t get where’s the situationship going. Mars is at their own rhythm and Neptune doesn’t know what to do, so both of them look what’s happening. Neptune could be in their fantasy world were they let Mars do whatever they want bc at the end they always justify it. Mars is there to do the things they want, they can be seen as too cold or impulsive, and that feeds Neptune fantasies, bc what Mars do is not clear for them 😭

Pluto square Mercury

Pluto has trust issues and avoidant attachment and mercury wants to help and is really emphatic, they want to know them and understand their depth truth but Pluto doesn’t want to. Pluto doesn’t get what Mercury tries to communicate. It’s a confusion and struggle, still there’s tension. Sounds like a novel🖋️wattpad or ao3 hitting

(square doesn’t mean it’s not gonna work at all, this is based on my experience. obviously signifies more work and complexity)

*again, sorry. yes, I’m reading my synastry chart bc it’s my way of copying.

2H mars overlays and 5H mars overlays

5H mars overlays

if their mars is on your 5H, you are physically attracted to them, you want to have fun, sex. Mars could see you as childish and cute for no reason. they want to be excited.

2H mars overlays

2H wants to feel comfortable, they don’t feel the need to rush, they take their time. They want intimacy, to feel like mars is taking care of them in sex. But first, they need to have a connection that grew with time, they need to feel safe. Mars is seen as someone that can protect 2H, they have a more masculine role.

I think obviously this is too generalized but basing on my experience, 2H is like a turtle and 5H is a rabbit. -excellent example 🤪-. adding the other aspects.

extras

Part of Fortunes square Vertex synastry: luck square fate 😍 its not gonna work. and if you’ll try, you’re ending hurting them and yourself.

Vertex 12H synastry: vertex can feel constantly anxious and worried about the connection. it means they will have character development 🤩 or a spiritual awakening bc of the other person. Everything that has to do with 12H synastry signifies character development 🧍‍♀️

sag and pisces venus: WORST COMBINATION.

chiron opposite moon synastry: moon is hypersensitive about whatever chiron does. chiron’s actions open moon past wounds inevitably. chiron is pretty specific of what they want and later moon is gonna explode bc of what they’ve suppressed.

—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•

❀ Based on my personal experience and what I’ve analyzed in my surroundings.

❀ English is not my first language

❀ I’m not a profesional astrologer

Thank youu. baibaiii🫣🫶🏼💋

Do not copy. Please give me credits.

[fireflysummers]

Good Omens S2

Okay so.

Excellent Job, Gaiman

Ouch???

I don't like to publicly talk about my personal life. My academic life is my professional life is my artist life. But my personal life? Not so much, outside of vignettes.

But for the past several months, I've been deconstructing a lot of personal baggage and trauma surrounding both family and religion, after leaving the cult I was raised in (mormonism).

It's terrifying to realize that the framework you built your entire self on is false. It's exhausting and painful to deconstruct that framework, to disentangle your identity in the way that won't destroy you.

And it's slow.

Nobody ever tells you how slow it is to heal. You can't control the rate you heal either. You just have to be patient with yourself, and give yourself an environment where that healing can occur safely and naturally.

Anyways.

Good Omens, and its weird tendency to be exactly what I need when I need it.

I first read Good Omens in high school. And honestly, I didn't quite get it, at the time. I only knew it was different from every other book I've ever read, one that didn't treat religion as stupid or trivial, but also one that called out the blatant hypocrisy and control tactics involved. It helped me safely challenge a status quo I hadn't even realized existed.

I first watched Good Omens partway into my Master's Degree. It was everything that I could've hoped for. I understood the book a lot better, but the TV adaptation captured my struggles with mental dissonance, trying to understand and accept the parts of my identity that I was taught God didn't want.

I watch S2 a year into my doctoral program. I'm out of the cult, and it's exhilarating and painful and scary and fun, but I can still feel the scars its hooks left when they were torn out.

I feel like S2 Aziraphale is in about the same place. He's exploring his freedom, but also trying to reorient himself. He's trying to let himself be. He's healing, but his boundaries got overridden due to circumstances out of his control (naked Gabriel). He's been pulled back into the gravity of the abusive system he tried to escape, given a carrot on a stick, and isn't yet healed or strong enough to resist.

On top of that, Aziraphale is still holding onto the hope that the problem was bad individuals, not a corrupted system. He thinks if the leadership is different, things can change. He thinks if he had more authority in the system, he could make things change. And... that's not how it works.

And Crowley. Dear Crowley.

He wants Aziraphale to be farther along in his healing than he is. Honestly, Aziraphale wants it too. But again, you cannot force this kind of healing, even when it results in a loved one making some truly stupid decisions.

Crowley sees the system for what it is. He's already deconstructed that part. But he hasn't really started addressing his own trauma. He's hinged his entire existence on Aziraphale, on being what Aziraphale needs, that he hasn't allowed himself to heal either. And Aziraphale, who is vulnerable and healing, is not able to provide the support that Crowley would need to recover safely.

Which is why them separating is probably the best thing for both of them.

It won't be permanent.

But they don't communicate, and their relationship while delightful and beautiful risks unhealthy codependency that prevents either from really growing or healing.

Anyways, what I really hope to see next season is Aziraphale's realization that the system never had his back. That the system is what's wrong, and that he can't win by playing at respectability politics or gaining a higher status within it.

I want Aziraphale to get angry.

He deserves it. He's tried so hard. He thinks he's lost Crowley over it.

I want him to feel the gut-wrenching despair of realizing how conditional and fleeting the system's version of love is, and I want it to turn into a rage.

But not a destructive rage--the sort of anger that Pratchett ascribes to himself and many of his works. The sort of anger that fueled Discworld and Good Omens. The sort that can be finessed into a weapon and a shield, that can be used to protect the people who truly love you.

For millennia we see Crowley fighting for Aziraphale.

For Season 3, I want to see Aziraphale fighting for his demon.

For him to apologize, without the expectation that Crowley will come back, but because he was wrong and Crowley needs to know it. To not expect forgiveness, not even think he deserves it.

And then for Crowley--who is trying to hide his heart eyes at seeing his avenging angel coming to save him for once, who he can tell immediately has changed, and is finally going Crowley's speed)--for Crowley to give that forgiveness, without strings attached.

[ngage2003]

I would be absolutely thrilled to hear your highschool Jaylex headcanons

SMILES. Ok.

⟦content warning: unhealthy relationships, abusive childhoods, generally two traumatized people behaving badly and like real people, headcanons and some analysis.⟧

As mentioned in this post, I think Alex and Jay are to some extent codependent, with bad habits developed between the both of them due to growing up in the south and being not typical/"weirdos".

I think this based off of just how easily they fell into an unhealthy dynamic in Season 2 of Marble Hornets where I believe Alex plays to what he knows about Jay to manipulate him. (Using his curiosity against him and leading him in circles.)

Jay isn't innocent either though! Really, both these characters are defined by their selfishness, which get exacerbated by the Operator. Alex has a need for control and power, and Jay has a deadly curiosity and passivity/apathy to others in the face of it.

I think Alex's need for control and power comes from his toxic relationship to masculinity, (talked about a bit here,) and a desire to fit in despite being unable to, exacerbated by his home life. I think its very likely his father instilled these beliefs in him by himself being someone who upheld toxic masculinity and make fun of perceived femininity in his son, a sort of abusive "tough love" approach that left Alex hurt and angry and hating himself and his dad.

I think strangely the reason Alex and Jay first connected is because Jay's closed off nature, apathy and his autistic tendencies left him appearing to just not care about masculinity and fitting in, despite being male, a fact which pissed Alex off to no end because it sort of broke his brain. ("Men are naturally good at being masculine and in control and powerful, and I'm not so I am a failure" is a belief instilled in him by his dad, but here is Jay, this apathy filled fly on the wall.)

I think they originally became friends because Alex wanted someone to punch at metaphorically and push around, and Jay easily complied to that, fascinated by Alex's attention on him and his general bristly demeanor which was so opposite to his gilded cage life. (For more on that check out my nepo baby jay post)

I think as time progressed, Alex's anger towards Jay gradually faded a bit, but he always held some sort of residual resentment for how unbothered he seemed with fully conforming to masculinity. Jay to him is as much of a symbol as he is a person, a tick that stubbornly persists in the flesh and ruins Alex's attempts to make sense of things.

That is not to say Jay is feminine necessarily or actively avoiding masculinity, but he is just apathetic and not too preoccupied with being masculine. Along with this, I think he is caring to Alex, especially in highschool, a fact which upsets and confuses the other because "men don't act like that to each other."

I can so clearly see Alex in highschool getting in fights, and then Jay helping patch him up, or buying him something in an attempt to make him feel better because that is just the behavior he has been taught, and Alex briefly thinks about driving his knuckles into Jay's stupid face as he applies an antibiotic to his split knuckles.

I think Jay understands that the grass is not greener for Alex to some extent, but Alex envies him so hard sometimes.

The furniture in Jay's house gets replaced every few months, there is nothing concrete to hold onto and savor there besides this toxic pristine smell of freshness. Meanwhile everything in Alex's house is the same as when he was a young kid, with all the residue of bad memories that come with that, molding under seat cushions and catching in the dusty corners of rooms.

Alex's home is painfully lived in, and Jay's is painfully empty.

I don't think they're ever together romantically, but I think Jay has a brief crush on Alex in highschool because Alex is kind of the only concrete thing in his life. Alex has a crush on him (that he denies) in turn because Jay is the only good thing in his.

They make out on Alex's couch when his parents aren't home, desecrating over a decade of memories with a needy, unsure passion only really held by teenagers and infidels.

Alex is so shocked with himself afterward that he stays in bed all weekend and refuses to ever sit on the couch again, like the memory of what happened there will somehow rub off on him. (Like it will tempt him.)

I don't think Jay ever mentions it again, seeing as Alex ignored him all that weekend, (despite him trying to call because he really wanted to ask Alex about all that, and maybe invite him over to make out again.) But if Alex doesn't want to talk about it, they won't. If he wants Jay to pretend it never happened, he will. Alex leads them after all, and Jay will always follow in his footsteps, always eager to be at his side, no matter how much or little Alex Kralie is left.

I think it is worth noting that, despite coming from different backgrounds, Jay and Alex both go down at the hands of the Operator. Tim and Alex practically come from the same story but they come out the other side as two opposites, while Jay and Alex they both die in the same building.

I think there is some meaning there, with how Alex and Jay are so entangled.

Alex can't kill him for so long, and Jay keeps looking for him always.

I don't know, I think about them a lot.

[artisticgargoyle]

Zmnt ship headcanons below bc im having a day, also all the people who have left comments on stuff i see it and I appreciate you and I'll respond when I have the energy + new chapter up today link in pinned post

( Apritello, Leosagi, Rasey, and Mondomikey )

Donnie is the most doting boyfriend ever when he gets over himself and communicates what's wrong, he likes to have everything planned and be in control of stuff so he finds purpose in taking care of everything whenever April is home. He invents little things for every little problem she has and let's her talk him into 8 hours of unstructured time pretty often. He retwists her dreads for her and loves to soak and wash her hair even though it takes a while to hand dry. She allows the doting and spoiling since he left her alone so long and he fixes up generators and appliances in the town during the day when she's busy. Leo gets worried that he's being obsessive and going to freak out at some point but he seems genuinely comforted to not have to be the smart one. He does much better dealing with simpler problems like trying to figure out where to find stuff to make waffles for her instead of having to cure zombie viruses and save the world.

Leo worries that having a loved one means he's unable to be self sufficient and that it will take away from what he believes his purpose to be. (And God i need to name my usagi variant before the story progresses much further)

He has trouble committing to dates at first and Usagi gets worried he's avoiding him but can see he's more concerned with what Dino will think since he's their main parental figure so he starts to get closer with Dino instead and then Leo calms down a little and let's himself go on dates and have fun. They aren't super clingy together and like to do things separately so Donnie sets up a radio system for them to communicate since they just like to talk while doing their own thing and take turns sleeping in each other's beds at night but they aren't too codependent compares to others. Usagi and Dino end up pretty close.

Raph and Casey are both pretty fucked up mentally after everything, and once they've fully reconnected it still takes a while for Raph to feel comfortable with the fact that he's gay so he gets a bit evasive and struggles to be around him for too long alone until he finally snaps and kisses him.

They start behaving like those animal pairs you see in animal rescues that can't be separated or they get a bit nuerotic and paranoid. They do almost everything together and will even stand guard for each other at the bathroom. They both act like they're protecting the other but they're so scared of being alone again. Casey's the only person Raph has ever loved but Raph is the only person who's ever loved Casey like that. Almost every fight they have they get too close together and end up kissing, then fight again after. It seems almost unhealthy but they're the happiest they've been in years so no one messes with it.

Mondo won't let Mikey help him on his farm even though Mikey says it's too much work for one person. He hires strangers to help instead, the last thing he wants to do is overwork his boyfriend. Food is the best commodity to have in the apocalypse and Mondo is rich with it. They spend half the week together and half apart so that Mikey can go on his crazy side quests. Mondo is obsessed with him and would lick him clean every if Mikey would let him. Usually he licks him one or twice and it ends up like this

Mike: what are you doing

Mondo: cleaning you

Mikey: that's not how geckos groom things man that's cats

Mondo: its what I feel like i should do man how do you know

Mikey: dude you were a human for longer than you've been a gecko did you still lick everything?

Mondo: maybe I did man so what? You a cop?

Mikey: ...will you stop covering me in spit if we just make out dude?

Mondo: maybe 🥰🥰🥰

Mikey also loves to cook for Mondo especially when he's high, mondo starts making happy noises he didn't even know he could make and his tail becomes essentially a hazard from wagging so fast, which Mikey insists is just him stimming and not actually a gecko behavior either. Mondo agrees but just likes to argue over gecko things since he technically has more authority on the subject.

[sammygender]

is there any point in the series that sam could have made an escape and actually successfully gotten away from dean and hunting, or do you think that his lack of support system made it impossible

FANTASTIC QUESTION. sorry im gonna ramble for 7374893594 words now

tldr, past like s3 (and certainly past s5) i think its kinda impossible.

early seasons, like 1-2, sure and totally, he almost does, he plans on it. but then the demon deal for his life happens and theyre trapped in cycles forever and ever and everything becomes a lot harder and, also, sam and dean just naturally become more and more codependent, decreasing the chances of them ever being able to have a 'normal relationship', which i think is necessary (dean loosening grip on sam, them having connections outside of each other) for sam to ever 'get away' from dean/hunting (cause otherwise its just an all-or-nothing choice, more on this in a sec).

i think its less so much about sam successfully getting away in terms of getting dean off his back/to leave him alone (which, dont get me wrong, WOULD be hard, especially as the seasons go on, considering dean cant stand to be alone and has extremely controlling and occasionally stalkerish tendencies <3..... but could still certainly be possible), but about him actually choosing to leave dean/hunting (which for the purposes of this question we r equating).

bc its sort of like..... he takes a lot of Breaks especially during mid seasons (s5 after lucifer's set free (tho iirc this one is dean's doing), s7 after dean kills amy, s8 with amelia tho he thinks deans dead, s9 after gadreel possession is revealed....) but he always always comes back. of course s8 is dean Literally Dragging sam back into it (<3) and also just shaking everything up by being generally Alive, but s7 and 9, its cause dean has done something awful thats genuinely shook sam up, and in the end he just... gets over it. cuz what is the alternative? dean doesnt change and rarely apologises!

like its the fact that of course he wants a relationship with dean because deans the closest person in his life and everything to him, but having a relationship with dean equals their intense codependent unhealthy bond, equals dealing with dean's disregard of his autonomy and ignoring it (read: letting it wear him down). dean's all or nothing. they cant just be 'normal brothers'. and i find it extremely hard to see sam ever actually longterm choosing 'no dean' over 'dean who loves him more than anything and will always do anything for him but systematically wears down his personhood and punishes him for percieved disobedience and thinks he's the one who gets to make choices about sam's life'. like he would have to have a bunch of connections outside of dean, they probably both would, and that would never really happen partially because of dean. they can never let anyone else get on their level. like u said. lack of support system!

and its like... what could dean Actually do that would make sam 'cut him off'/distance himself permanently. i literally and truly cannot think of anything. sam canonically has an INCREDIBLE capacity for forgiveness, just in general - where's that jared quote about how sam forgives everyone cause he sees himself as someone so in need of forgiveness - and this even more so applies to dean. dean locks sam up and leaves him to die, kills his friend, tricks sam into letting an angel possess him, and tries to kill him, and none of that makes sam leave dean permanently, not just because dean makes it physically difficult for him to (tho he does - insisting they work together in s7 on the case, going off to get mark of cain in s9) but also cause sam just eventually forgives him and moves on. is it 'capacity for forgiveness' or is it that he doesnt really view bad things that happen to him as a big deal, that (thru s5-esque emotional abuse techniques <3) deans subconsciously gotten him questioning his own reality and opinions so deeply that it just takes time before sam's agreeing with dean again. makes you think!

but tbf (and this is a digression but i just find it interesting) this probably goes both ways too - what could sam actually do to make dean leave him permanently? even when deans incredibly angry at sam he usually wants him around to berate about it <3. exceptions being start of s10 when hes a demon but even demon dean soon switches to sam-obsession.... and s5. which i know according to endverse Wouldve been a permanent split up? which is kind of wild? and canonises that that Couldve Happened i guess. samgirls should do more with endverse, id kill to see an actually good samcentric fic of like. the events leading to endverse. if anyones read any pls pls recs. ANYWAY. theres also ofc s2 meg possession, where dean just fully thinks sam killed people and is like <3 okay baby brothers lets pretend this never happened we got this do u need me to bury a body <3. truly a ride or die. unless ur actively going against Him specifically. things to think about. tell me ur takes.

and anyway then s11 onwards he is NOT getting out. not unless someone really managed to get it into his head Hey So Pro Tip This Is Fucked. sam acquiesces to dean-as-dictator, having literally Let Dean (be about to) Kill him, dean (newly cured from moc) is consequently much more pleased with sam and with their relationship, they fight much less and theres therefore much less prominent emotional abuse etc since dean is at his worst when hes upset. (iirc. late seasons are a blur except for jack stuff.). and by s13 he has a son and maybe if this happened seasons ago dean's treatment of jack would've been enough to prompt at least a temporary split up but it doesnt, it just sparks a few vague arguments between samndean and sam telling jack that dean is trying <3 and that its very difficult for him <3 which is why he told you hed kill you <3 thats just what dean is like you have to get over it at some point <3 (I LOVE S13). so then yeah. too late.

TLDR... he is too indocrinated <3. sad!

[centrally-unplanned]

Just finished The Coffin of Andy and Leyley - at least the two episodes we have so far! A very fun game, I definitely recommend it. The thoughts, spoilers everything:

-- The tone of the game is extremely on point, Andrew & Ashley have such a great trauma-criminal dynamic that never strays too far from being cute first, awful second. Look at these babies! Of course that is the blood of their parents they just murdered for a satanic ritual and/or petty cash, what else would it be?

-- The game nails a pretty niche fetish of mine - no, not the incest part, no judgement but I could do without that just fine. Instead its the weaponization of sex (and other forms of intimacy) to manipulate and break down someone's resistance to your demands:

But, while no shade thrown at the classic controlling doms out there, Ashley wins by being a complete mess and possessing minimal intentionality around her emotional blackmail. Her toxic codependency on Andrew controls her and, as inevitable as the tide, forces her to periodically hurt & degrade him, then compensate via affection bombs & demands. She thrives on his weaknesses such as trauma-nightmares & anxiety as they are places she can slot herself into his pysche as load-bearing support, and sex is set up as another part of that web. Its that lack of control that makes her so attractive - the vast emotional void she is hoping her manipulations will fill is a funhouse mirror version of the physical need intimacy can fulfill.

I will note she is a slightly different from the "Mamimi" (from FLCL) archetype - for the Mamimi, sex is deontological, it is what she needs to cope with her damage. For Ashley it's instrumental, and could be swapped out for another tactic as quick as an outfit change if doing so got her what she really wanted.

Probably also worth mentioning that this isn't an eroge; this dynamic is primarily implication and subtext, becoming text only rarely. Don't want to mislead anyone there.

-- Another standout point is that Andrew himself is *not* the typical wishy-washy boytoy target of his bae's emotional machinations, but instead exactly as toxically codependent as Ashley is, just expressed differently. He thrives on her sense of need and the comfortability of the dyad role her vision for their lives creates for him. What makes him a fun contrast is that he has a "normal" half of his brain that recognizes all of this as fucked up and wants to quit, which often pretends he is being blackmailed by duty or circumstances, but that isn't really true. Where the game excels is that it has multiple routes - neither of which have notably different plot events, but where the different factions of Andrew's brain win out or fade away. Is very tight marriage of narrative and themes.

-- Its also good to add that the incest concept is somewhat foundational. I am not an incest person but I have been on the internet, I am familiar enough with its semiotics, and the "mutual, similar-age, unhealthy codependency" subgenre of relationships when its not incest always struggles with a bit of a believability issue.

So narratives are generally about arcs, sex is about build-up, and that combination means you want to portray the moment a relationship forms, tips into romance, right? And your subjects of choice are two people who constantly cling to each other, destroy outsiders who could challenge their attention monopoly, and psychologically scar each other in order to foster emotional addiction. And they are ~20 yeas old.

Why aren't they fucking already?? They obviously should be fucking. If these were childhood friends, they would be fucking, for years now, easy. You can say they just haven't gotten there yet but that changes the characters, makes them naïve and innocent, that is a narrative constraint you might not want. But if they are siblings...well then there ya go. That is a socially-ironclad excuse for how they got so emotionally close without romantic intimacy, and a reason for them not to cross the threshold (until your plot events make them ofc). Its a fetish that makes your storytelling efficient, not just something that works on the fetish level directly.

(Btw Andrew is not a doormat; that is a lie he tells himself)

-- The Coffin of Andy and Leyley is a classic RPG Maker indie project, and it used its gameplay conventions well. Its essentially a visual novel with RPG exploration elements that offered small puzzles as you traverse from plot point to plot point. They create immersion while rarely being too difficult and dragging down the pacing - it knows they aren't here to intellectually challenge you, but to make the world feel lived. And sometimes - most often in Ashley & Andrew's dreams - the light puzzle elements are very deeply woven into the plot & themes, used for making narrative choices & reinforcing emotional beats. They rarely overstay their welcome, which is refreshing. Its not uncommon for a game to get into trying to "gamify" what should just be a visual novel, and while not perfect Coffin doesn't fall into that trap.

Additionally the creator definitely likes Undertale, and the dream sequences remind me of Flesh, Blood, & Concrete in their colors & abstraction. Good times!

-- It is extremely amusing to google this game for like ending guides or w/e and to be bombarded with the "controversy" of its incest plotline. A: The main duo murder their parents and nonchalantly make a meal of their bodies out of sheer habit, way to not have your eye on the prize. And B: my brother in Christ you clicked on the Incest Game. Why are you on Pornhub complaining about porn??

[melkyt]

CW Blood, Dubcon, emotional abuse, everything that could go along with DoffyLaw, Lawlu endgame

Vampire au where they have an unhealthy spawn and creator relationship, where Law can't quite get away because Doffy has power over him.

The Originals vibes, Klaus And Elijah, but its Cora and Doffy,

Doffy blaming Law for the fact that he 'had' to dagger his brother, and using that guilt to twist Law's perceptions, and put him under control. Also the fact that Law preatty much begged Doffy to become a vampire, they have a complicated relationship as most Vampires do when it comes to their spawn and vice versa

Luffy in his 'i dont what i want corner' freshly turned Hybrid, not a vampire or a werewolf but something else. He got cursed with vamperism for pissing a witch of, and then awakened as a wolf on first kill, so nobody controls him and he continues to get into peoples business but now with ten times more success lolol

Ofc he gets into Doffy's business, crosses Law who handles things Doffy considers below him. Law sees an opportunity to take down his sire with this feral wolf.

He cant stands wolves but he is willing to look past it so he can take down Doflamingo and free Cora.

Drama, blood, magic, toxic codependent relationships, throw in some prophecy about hybrids and how Luffy will bring a new age for all species.

Law who first wanted to just use Luffy, getting attached and starting to believe the prophecy.

Doffy taking control of Law as a thrall, forcing him to do shit against his will.

Some grand scene where Luffy breaks through to Law, and Law trying to say its useless and giving up that Doflamingo will always control him, there is no point, whats going to stop him from doing worse next time? What if he kills someone, what if he killls Luffy? Law set on them parting ways and determined to make a deal with Doflamingo so Luffy is never hurt again, and left alone.

Luffy calls him an idiot, and they probably fight in a dramatic adrenaline fueled skirmish that is just *charged*. Perfect time for them to kiss covered in blood xd.

They eventually tell Doffy to fuck off, and leave them alone, maybe stab him with a dagger and leave him in Cora's place in an eternal slumber

Luffy biting Law and then sharing his blood, so Law is a hybrid from that point on. That causes other problems, as Luffy is his sire now, but thats another story for another time xd.

[grossdyke]

bartylus

when i started shipping them

god i dont know. but at some point last year.. i just remember that i hated them with a passion and then a switch was flipped (thanks to sude) and i became deeply obsessed with them and wouldnt shut up about them ever

what makes me happy about them

cunt4cunt realness… there are no walls or filters between them, and they simply can’t hide from each other even if they wanted to. everything is on display. their ugliness, greed, depravity, everything. they’re doomed to always see each other .. 🤍

what makes me sad about them

well. canon. barty losing regulus and everyone and nearly going mad because of it, his carefully curated revenge plot that wont change anything. wont bring anyone back. regulus will still always be a dead 17 year old kid no matter what barty does

things done in fanfic that bothers me

good guy regulus & good guy barty. miss me with that shit………

things i look for in fanfics

infidelity !!!! where they cheat on others with each other !! mostly regulus cheating on james <3 & unhealthy codependancy

who i’d be comfortable with them ending up with if not with each other

honestly. they don’t ever end up together to me :( it’s more that i desperately want them to, and think they’d both be happier if they did. but regulus hates himself and is actively trying to date people who are better than him to make up for all his ugliness, trying for dear life to redeem himself (<- jegulus). he can’t stand that barty sees him, as much as he’s forever grateful that he does. its complicated. barty is idly standing by, loyal dog waiting for scraps and happily takes what reg offers

my happily ever after for them

they keep falling into bed together forever & ever no matter who they’re seeing / who they end up with ….

big spoon/little spoon

it varies !!

favorite non-sexual activity

literally doing nothing together. being alone together, for hours & hours. music in the background, or getting high, or doing their separate things. just being in close proximity :/

[seeyouonsaturn]

I wanna hear more about the NHG but you KNOW I wanna hear about Trip and Trick please tell me everything you have for them I love them they are everything to me I'm so glad nothing bad ever happens to them 💖

HEEHEE. Ah yes, my gunshots to keep the rent down <3

Tripwire and Trickshot are split-spark twins, and as such they were together from the very moment they first came online. Rather than grow into their own individuals and forge their own paths, they formed a rather... unhealthy codependency on each other. Neither of them has ever spent a day without the other, they are practically attached at the hip. No bot has ever met only one of them without also meeting the other half.

Given that their personalities are, let's say, eccentric at best - and that's the polite way to put it - they often clash with other bots. They decided pretty early on that they don't need other bots though, not when they've got each other. They were brought into this world with their perfect match already included - why would they ever want to settle for some other, clearly subpar option?

Don't be fooled by their unhinged antics though, these two mechs have earned their place in the NHG, which accepts only the very best of the best into its ranks. When it comes to their combined skill sets of setting traps and blowing scrap to smithereens, Trick and Trip are near unstoppable, and they'll laugh as they watch you get blown to pieces. Trust me, you don't want to be on their bad side.

You're on their good side, though? You're practically family already! They're like a pair of really odd but fun big brothers who'll make any party a hoot, and will without hesitation be your personal bodyguards if you ever need it. Hope you're not opposed to getting involved in the mother of all prank wars though!

In present day, nobody is really sure what exactly their relationship status is. If you ask, they'll give you a different answer every time. Their team members have learned not to question it (besides, do they even want to know?) All anyone's got are rumors. Many, no doubt, started by Trickshot and Tripwire personally. They collect every single tabloid article speculating about it on a wall of fame in their shared berthroom.

(And then nothing bad ever happens because there never is any war or anything like that, what are you even talking about)

[denimjacketgf]

hi its the brick wall i would like to hear about unsleeping city!! esp pete conlan

spins you around in a circle while flower petals and candy and sparkles swirl in the air around us

so keep in mind i have only Just finished s1 and not yet started s2 so if my impression of these characters comes off as Incomplete that's because. well. It Is

but

something i really appreciate about how the narrative of unsleeping city (season 1) wound up playing out is that it just. really digs into this idea that People will improve when they have support and connection and their material needs are met. it hits almost on the chidi anagonye philosophy which i adore so much i got a quote of tattooed on my real life human body, so it felt VERY catered to my interests ! i love stories where the catalyzing event is just. Human connection

like. pete started out the show as kind of a dirt bag (it's a repeated goof that he Sells Drugs To Kids), but he also started out almost entirely alone. his family didn't support or accept him, they'd been transphobic to him, he's right out of a bad breakup from a relationship that's described as codependent and unhealthy, and to top it all off he's now newly homeless after a sudden eviction

enter kingston (and the rest of the dream team, but i'm rotating pete and kingston in my brain like a rotisserie chicken so you are GOING to hear about the two of them)

kingston and pete's relationship is my Favorite in the entire season. don't get me wrong i love everyone's relationships but the voxes Really tugged on my heartstrings. kingston and pete are such perfect parallels. they are so well balanced; they are so different and yet in some ways they are Exactly the same. they both have to navigate the same responsibility: they both have so much on their shoulders with their respective vox powers. the only difference is pete has someone to guide him, where kingston had to figure it all out on his own because there usually aren't a populi and a phantasma at the same time, so it was Just Him when he came into his power.

they both, in a way, are exactly what they need in each other's lives when they meet. kingston is everything pete isn't. he's got community, he's got a career he loves and a big, loving family, and above all else he's got Stability. he's this middle aged guy who has settled into a life he feels comfortable in, with connections that span the entirety of the city because he just. puts his entire heart and soul into his relationships

and pete Really wants that. he's got a fixation on the way other men navigate their masculinity (which is something ally comments on multiple times! they talk about how pete is obsessed with how ricky and kingston present themselves to the world) but he's not sure how to get there. he's a dreamer. he's insecure. he's got his head in the clouds. he's floating through a life he barely wants to engage in. he's focused on himself first and foremost.

and yeah at first kingston sees that and thinks it's just Selfishness. they get off to a rocky start (the whole "we put the kid down" conversation and the fight before they go to nod for the first time REALLY hit me) but then they get to know each other more and he realizes. pete is just a kid trying his best. he opens his home to him. he opens his life to him. he gives pete the stability he needs to start getting his act together. he helps pete get sober. he includes him in his family's christmas celebration. he makes sure he eats enough and eats healthy. he tries to make sure pete doesn't push himself too far when he's working out with ricky because ricky can swim to staten island in 2 minutes so maybe Don't try to keep up with him right?

and in turn pete (and again, the rest of the dream team, but i'm fixating on pete and kingston so go with me here) helps kingston realize that it's ok to be a little selfish! taking time for himself, asking for what he wants, demanding a little bit of happiness and peace from the universe is not a bad thing. even alejandro comments that kingston needs to have a little fun every now and then, and pete really helps kingston navigate that (he sends gifs! to the group chat! by the end of the season!!!)

they are so special to me in the way they compliment each other. pete who's never had community and kingston who's never known how to have an identity outside of his community. pete's on the naughty list but he's hopeful that he can change that. kingston is a little disappointed when the phantasm of nod doesn't effect him, as much as he does genuinely love the space he's built for himself, he's stuck in his ways and stubborn. as strange as it might sound considering how involved he is with literal magic, pete, through his newness in the world of seeing past the umbral arcana, manages to open him up to new experiences and perspectives, which was very important to kingston. both their lives are a little more full for knowing each other!

anyway. forever and ever thinking about pete carrying around cherry tomatoes just so he has something to pop into his mouth that isn't pills. forever thinking about kingston going from "we put him down if we have to" to bent over pete's dead body and gently, softly, telling him Get up, kid. We still got work to do

[multiplicationdivision]

Procrastinator’s Delight

“I have so much shit to do bro” Robbie whined, planting himself down by his buddy, Omar. The man was as oddly comfy as ever, thick sweatshirt and oven physiology. Like a personal toasty pillow.

“Aw is the little baby crying because he hasn’t done his job all week” Omar pouted at him, no sympathy in his eyes. It was true if not a little rude. Not like the guy had any room to talk, he and Omar had been doing jack shit together all week.

“Work sucks man. It just me out there and its fucking back breaking. Screw me for not wanting to pour concrete and weld rebar in the middle of hell’s asshole”.

“There are other jobs you know. Could come work for me”

Yeah, like that was a good idea. Omar was ruthlessly bad at his “business ventures”. The man found money somehow, but the beginning and end of his schemes were always suspicious. Lucrative maybe, but a bit too risky for his take.

“Nah I’m cool my guy. Appreciate it honestly, but I just want to complain about this shit.”, Robbie buried himself in his best friend’s thick hoodie, trying to escape reality. Maybe he shouldn’t have slacked off so much this week.

“Well dread later dipshit, I actually wanted to watch my movie, not an hour-long fest on the failures of responsibility”

“Sorry, its just I literally can’t do everything I need to do”, Robbie tried complaining again, fueled by his actual anxiety and the need to fuck with his friend.

“Yeah yeah, pay attention. Important X-men shit going on in the screen right now. Are your problems bigger than wolverine’s abs? Unlikely”

“Wolverine doesn’t need to operate a four-wheeler whilst curing a foot of concrete at the same time as lying my ass off to my boss in a day. Wish I had like two of me”

That last part of his complaint shook Omar. Shook him in the way that only weird suspicious ventures Omar could be shaken.

Robbie knew he would need to full on pester the man.

“You got time in your schedule to help out good buddy?” he demanded to an Omar decidedly not looking at him. It was the face of a man he could crack, subtly twitching.

“Nah, you know I’m not fit for heavy labor like that.” Omar said again, face trained to not break. It was far too stiff, a perfect sign. Robbie could always count on his living get-out-of-jail-free card.

“Yeah, I figured not. What shit do you really have for your suffering pal, Omar”

Omar gave up immediately with a long-defeated sigh, because the two always did that. Too much codependency ran through these two for them not to give in immediately. Unhealthy probably, as all codependency was, but useful at times like this.

He turned his head to face Robbie directly in the eyes, serious brown eyes to Robbie’s own desperate pair.

“You have to promise me you won’t go crazy”

“So you just point that thing at me?” Robbie said, hesitant of Omar’s strange remote. Just looked like any normal remote, for a tv or something.

Omar nodded, switching on a power button on the side of the device. A light on the top of it flickered blue, in a way that was expected for a remote. All signs pointed to this being a prank, but Robbie trusted this man and his bullshit with his life.

“So what does it do anyways. Would be more reassuring to know if its going to drug me or hyper caffeinate me. Probably wouldn’t help with the job shit you know” he asked hesitantly, watching as Omar mimed firing the remote like a gun.

“Definitely not a gun. Trust me.”, he said, pointing with one eye closed as he aimed. The blue light flickered on and off weakly.

A part of Robbie really hoped this was a prank. He should probably stop being so reliant on his friend and his weird garbage.

“Ready?” Omar asked, finger on whatever button would start this shit. Poised to likely disintegrate him. That would be one way of getting out of work

Robbie inhaled slowly and untensed himself.

“Ready”

Some part of Robbie expected a blast or a boom of some sort. An earthshaking sound to accompany his anxiety.

Instead, he got a light thump on the ground beside him.

He turned his head.

A man stood there.

He was Hispanic, with a light stubble. A short haircut and a ball cap. A cheap shirt just like the one he’d put on earlier today. A pair of joggers that still had a stain from his morning, not as cleaned off as he’d thought he’d gotten.

An absolute mirror, but not exactly. This man seemed like he’d popped just out of thin air and appeared unbalanced from the slight drop. Robbie reached out to steady him as if it was second nature.

The mirror smiled at him and he felt himself smile in turn.

Two Robbies turned to Omar with absolute elated joy.

“HOLY SHIT OMAR”

“HOLY SHIT OMAR”

The two Robbies got dressed as Omar snored on the couch.

They’d been lucky they’d had two clean company jackets. Whatever technology was put into their make was all that kept them from baking in the sun. They would be spending ages in the sun today.

Robbie tossed a pair of sneakers to his double as the other tossed him some socks in turn. This whole morning and all of last night had felt like that. Robbie would toss a couple eggs in the pan as his better half would put on the coffee.

It was addicting existing like this.

Even last night had been spectacular. Twin Robbies gaming together whilst Omar randomly cheered either on. Stalemates all throughout the night, escalating from video games to trivia to rock paper scissors. Omar ate the ridiculousness of their synchrony up, cackling at every little shtick they did.

Man had tuckered himself out. They’d already premade his breakfast, leaving it on the table and setting an alarm. The guy needed some schedule and real food.

“You ready to go Robbie?” he asked out to his grinning double, the guy shirking on his jacket with excitement.

“All ready Robbie! You got what we need?” he said, nodding his head towards the remote lying on the table. Omar had made him promise not to go crazy.

Robbie snatched it up.

He wouldn’t go crazy.

There were five Robbies and counting at the work site today.

Five Robbies not counting the few that had disappeared in pairs to whatever private corners they could find. Robbie was nothing if not efficient in his ways of getting off.

Robbie liked to think he was Robbie Prime here in this little group, distinguished by his slightly differing sneakers part from the other group. That and the fact that he wasn’t wearing a hard hat. He didn’t need to, as he had been on lying duty.

It took some damn bodies to get together a week’s worth of work before his boss could storm into the site on his Monday check of the place, but it had been done. Rocks had been moved and concrete had been set enough for it to have looked dried.

Whenever a Robbie got slightly overwhelmed by his task, it was easy to get a spotter. Just a type of a remote and a new Robbie was up for the work, diverging straight from his maker.

Robbie “Prime” was pretty sure he wasn’t the original, as that guy seemed to be busy with another Robbie somewhere in one of their porta potties. Robbie “Prime” was happy to pick up the title though, as he was basically the same man.

Hell, he’d even handled the whole call from Omar, panicked about how he knew Robbie took the remote. As a response, they’d calmly taken a picture of their little group to send to the guy. It hadn’t calmed him down, but Robbie(s) thought it was funny.

Objectively, 10 of a guy was maybe too much but that was quitters talk.

It felt addictive popping a new him out of the air, knowing they’d share the same energy as he did. Robbie “Prime” for example had just done so again, two Robbie “Primes” wrestling each other for the original position. All in good fun of course.

Eventually they’d run out of stuff to do that was real work in this place. Fortunately, the break room was fit for a crew of at least twenty and they were barely at fifteen. They had plans in order since they’d seen what that remote could do and Robbie giving quickies to each other was only the beginning.

Omar would understand when he tried the remote out too.

Image sourced from @brawnyai_backup on Instagram. Really recommend their AI photos. Don’t think they intended on making so many cloned photos, but I can definitely appreciate that AI quirk.