#you cannot remember a time without them you really cant

[akeedia]

li tianchen & the death of a sister

Rabbi Joseph Telushkin, Jewish Literacy / Steven Berkoff, The Fall of the House of Usher / Michael Dickman, Killing Flies / Dustin Pearson, The World at its Beginning / Anne Carson, Antigonick

[cascadianights]

Absolutely baffling that when I talk about my partner (who is clocked as a cis male by the general public 90% of the time) the second some people realize he's trans they start using they/them?? Despite clear usage of he/him and their grasp of it before?

Then they struggle ENDLESSLY with using they/them for me bc even though I cut off 3/4 of the hair on my head and have more chest & body hair than the cis men I've dated, my hips and chest still clock me as female no matter what

[angelickks]

I. damnation 

                          REVENANT, au!remmick x reincarnated wife!reader

synopsis Vampirism is a curse of memory. Reincarnation is the curse of almost remembering. And so they dance, century after century: She returns with dreams she cannot explain. And he waits, starved and reverent and wrong. Never able to touch her without bleeding. Never able to stop following the scent of her soul. Because love—when cursed—does not fade. It rots slow. It burns gentle. It waits. And Remmick has nothing but time.

warning(s) nsfw. mdni 18+. prolific dreams. religious undertones. oral implied (f and m recieving). choking (implied). alcohol mentioned - reader is a bar owner. whole lots of sea imagery cuz well duh. yelling at annoying tourists. swearing. reader feeling lowk crazy. insomnia. slowburn asf. no use of y/n.

angel talks omgomgomg thank u guys for all the love u showed just my TEASER. holy fuck. ive been so fucking excited to share my first series w u guys, like truly. i have so much in store for u guys so i cant thank yall enough for all the love and support. i kindly ask u guys to read my authors note before starting, that will be greatly appreciated to give some clarifications about the story going forward. comment on either the teaser or my mlist post to be added on to my taglist if u guys enjoyed this first part n wanna stick around for the rest of it, ageless or untitled blogs will not be added.

#NAV.ᐟ revenant mlist, au!remmick x reincarnated wife!reader ⋆.˚ next - II. hunger

"i know you, i've walked with you,

once upon a dream..."

DAMNATION. Total. Inescapable. The kind that seeps, not strikes.

The nights were always the worst. Not for the work, or the faces that blurred together behind the bar, or even the endless crash of waves chewing at the black rocks beyond your window.

No—that sound had become something else. A lullaby. Crooked and ancient. The kind of tune that clings to your bones like smoke. It didn’t soothe, not really. It hovered. Whispered.

Like a hymn sung just behind your ear, in a voice too old to be trusted.

No, what unsettled you came after the lights went out. Sleep had never come easy. It arrived fractured, vivid, like slipping into another version of wakefulness where your body remained behind but something else wandered freely. The doctors once called it “sleep paralysis,” scribbled it down like a footnote in your medical chart and moved on. But in the darker and bone-chillingly quiet cracks of your mind, you figured it to be a twisted sense of familiarity

It wasn’t paralysis—it was memory. Or something close enough to rot.

You saw him there, always. A figure stitched together from shadow and something too devout to be holy—reverence soaked into every movement, every word he spoke like it might sanctify or damn you in the same breath. Dreams of knives kissing skin in acts too gentle to be violence and too brutal to be love. Hands that held you like an offering. Eyes that glowed wrong, just enough to keep you from calling them human. They burned with a light that didn’t belong to this world, red and undeniably angry, but when they were on you, it was an entirely different story. Just wrong. Too steady. Too knowing.

And God, the teeth paired with those eyes, so sharp. Sharp enough to split bone from breath, sometimes white, sometimes not, but always too many.  One word had always lingered on the edge of your thoughts, even before you knew how to spell it—before you understood what it meant. Damnation.

Not just a curse. Not the flaming, shaking-fist-at-heaven kind they talked about in church pews and hymnals. This was something quieter. Older. Something that didn’t beg for repentance because it never offered redemption in the first place.

Damnation was not a place—it was a condition. A blood-deep certainty that you had been marked, chosen not for salvation, but for ruin. That your soul had been spoken for in a tongue older than any holy text. Signed and sealed in dreams that left your sheets tangled and your heart pounding like something had been chasing you through sleep and nearly caught you.

It wasn’t punishment for sin. It wasn’t justice. It was possession.

A slow, creeping inheritance of something unspeakable. It smelled like salt and coppery blood, like storm-drenched wood and old stone. It moved through you like instinct. You’d feel it in the pit of your stomach when the world went too quiet, in the corners of your eyes when shadows moved against the grain of the light. And in those dreams—those vivid, breathless, too-close dreams—you felt it fully. His touch like worship. His voice like rot dressed in silk. A liturgy of ruin sung only for you. He didn’t bring damnation. He was it. And somehow, impossibly, part of you was too.

You didn’t fear him. Not exactly. Despite the way his form shifted—familiar one night, monstrous the next—he was never made to be purely feared, or even truly frightening. There was something reverent in him, something patient. No, the fear didn’t lie in him.

It lived in the part of you that reached back. Or maybe not you, exactly—not the version you see brushing your teeth in the mirror, not the one who pays bills and walks the shoreline with salt-stung eyes. That version felt like a decoy, a performance of normalcy. The one in the dreams… she was older. Wiser. Willing. And somehow, terrifyingly, more true.

There were days when the boundary between the two began to blur, when waking up didn’t feel like waking, just moving from one version of consciousness to another. Days when your reflection seemed slightly off—as if your body remembered things your waking mind tried to forget. The dreams had lasted so long they no longer felt like dreams at all. More like bleed-through. A haunting with no clear source. And on the darker days, the ones where the sky felt too still and the silence too loud, a part of you couldn’t help but wonder: what if your dream-self isn’t separate? What if she’s always been you?

And what if he’s not just following you into your dreams— but waiting for you to remember what you really are?

That, in itself, was your damnation.

Not the holy kind. You weren’t raised on pews and psalms, didn’t bear the weight of stained glass judgment or whisper penance through trembling lips. You didn’t kneel beneath crucifixes with bruised knees and bloodied prayers like the wives in town—those women with salt-bitten hope clinging to their throats, who beg for husbands the sea refuses to return when it storms just right, cruel and alive. Though even that grief, in some crooked way, felt familiar to you too. Like you’d once known what it meant to wait on a shoreline for something that would never come back.

But no—this wasn’t religion. This wasn’t the devil in red or the wrath of any god written in someone else’s book. This was personal. This was knowing. A damnation etched into the marrow of your bones, whispered to you in dreams that smelled like brine and blood. It didn’t ask for belief—it didn’t need it. It knew you. This wasn’t a punishment handed down. 

It was a homecoming. 

But tonight, while the dreams always feel as real and vivid as your heart beating. This stirred differently, closer and too near on the horizon to be deep in the far depths of your mind. 

You dream of that same man with rough hands. They move over your skin with the certainty of someone who’s done it a thousand times—someone who’s bled for the right. His palms are wide and calloused, like he’s spent whole lifetimes carving out places for you in the dark. He doesn’t touch you like a stranger. He touches you like a man who built you up, broke you, buried you—and never stopped coming back.

You don't know his name. Never really have.

But in the dream, he says yours like it’s sacred. Like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to whatever soul he still has left. He kneels between your legs, jaw tight, eyes darker than sin. His mouth is hot against the inside of your knee—soft, reverent.  Your stomach pulls tight, breath catching in your throat.

“Mine,” he whispers into your skin. “Always been. Always will be.”

There’s a scar on his collarbone. Fresh, jagged. You don’t know how you know, but you gave it to him. A mark left in another life. One where you wore knives the way other women wore perfume.

You don’t know this man, no matter how familiar he is. But in the dream, you know how he sounds when he’s falling apart.

He mouths down your thigh, murmuring filth like prayer, eyes half-lidded like this is the end of the world and he’s choosing to spend it between your legs. You should be afraid, you think you were, once—but all you feel now is heat and grief.

His hands tighten on your hips. His tongue moves like he remembers every time you've ever broke, just like this.

“Still taste like sin,” he growls, mouth full of you. “Still so fuckin’ mean.”

You writhe beneath him. You don’t know why you're crying. You don’t know why it hurts.

There’s a weight to it. A mourning. This isn’t the first time.

This is never the first time.

“Don’t leave me again,” he says.

And it’s that line—that broken, gutted plea—that shatters the dream.

You wake gasping. Sheets twisted around you like chains. The room is cold but your body is slick with sweat, skin flushed and humming like a fever’s still clinging to you. Your heart hammers in your throat. Thighs aching.

You stare at the ceiling, blank-eyed, trembling. Hands no longer feeling like your own.

You've had dreams before, always had.  Vivid ones. Strange ones. But this—this was different. This felt real. Like a life lost. Like a man you buried. You don’t know him.

And still, you're sure, after years spent tangled in sheets that no longer bring comfort—he’s looking for you.

╭━━━━━ ━━━━━╮

You slipped into what looked, at first glance, like your own little slice of heaven on earth. A quiet coastal town buried deep along the East Coast, the kind people send postcards from and never truly leave behind. You arrived like the fog that drapes the shore most mornings. Quiet at first, uninvited, but somehow meant to stay. Even if just passing through, you’ll still be here when the tides roll back in. The kind of town where the buildings don’t sag from age alone, but from the weight of stories pressed deep into the earth. Stone walls cracked with salt and time, quaint to the untrained eye, but if you looked closely—really looked—you’d see the carvings. Etchings. Traces of lives that never quite left, lives the sea took without asking.

The wind doesn’t just whistle, it claws. Scratches at your windows, as if it knows your name, as if it’s been waiting for you all along. The sea that surrounds the town speaks in a language older than words. Not in waves or spray, but in something older. Older than maybe blood itself—ancient, low murmurs that awaken something buried deep within your bones.

The place is silent not because it’s empty, but because it holds too much memory. If you stand still enough—listen beyond the hush and the roar—you’ll catch its whispers. Names of forgotten places, footsteps that vanished long ago, shadows of lives once lived and never fully laid to rest. The soil here is heavy with blood and claim, a patchwork of hands that took without asking, resting over bones denied peace. The salted mist clings to you like a second skin, a quiet mourning that seeps into your very being. No matter how raw you arrive or how much you try to wash it away, it remains—wrapping around you, pulling at your soul, like the land itself recognizes you as one of its own.

Your Home. 

Though today, beneath a deceiving sky and promising clouds, the sun shines bright and the tides bring ships of men and women finally coming home. The town hums with a restless energy today—the docks alive with the sounds of creaking wood, shouted greetings, and laughter tangled with the sharp tang of salt and smoke. Mariners, returned after months of chasing horizons far beyond the map, pour off their ships with rough hands and tired smiles, clutching letters, gifts, and stories that shimmer with hope and heartbreak alike. The air buzzes with the weight of reunions, farewells, and the quiet promise of another voyage yet to come. Amidst the scuffle of footsteps and the town’s rising hum, your bar remains still—quiet as breath held underwater. It waits, as it always does, behind its stone walls, patient and expectant, listening for the voices that will soon fill it again. Your shoulders rest the way they always do after a night like the last—tense, worn down by a treacherous sort of familiarity. Not quite pain, but close. Not quite peace, either.

A tiredness that settles deep in the bones, edged with something stupidly hopeful. You wait for the only kind of relief you know how to ask for—not rest, not escape, but that strange, addictive calm that money can’t buy but often pretends to: the clink of glass, the scrape of boots on old floors, the same familiar faces with the same half-truths on their tongues. A little penance, a little pleasure. That masochistic ritual you’ve built your life around. 

Your bar. Your haven. Your crown.

“Busy night tonight. Y’ready to see everyone?” 

You didn’t turn right away. Just stood for a moment, eyes on the sea, its silver surface breaking like cracked glass in the late sun. Your voice came easy, even if your mouth pulled a little crooked with it. “You know, I see enough of everyone when they owe me money.”

A low chuckle answered you. Boots scuffed wood behind you, the weight of someone used to slipping in and out of places unnoticed.

“You know, most people might say that with a smile.”

You finally looked over your shoulder, slow and deliberate. “I’m not most people.”

There was a pause—just long enough for the breeze to lift the edges of your coat, to let your perfume coil into the salted air like something sweet laced with danger.

“That’s what they say, anyway. This godforsaken place. Whole damn town talks like it’s yours and you’re just lettin’ the rest of us drink here outta pity.” Carmen teases, light and playful as he is.

He's young—too young for the weight he carried behind the bar—but bright in that firecracker kind of way. All sharp teeth and quicker wit, brash enough to mouth off to sailors twice his size and charming enough to get away with it. He moved like he’d been raised in places with neon signs and trouble on tap, but something about the Crown suited him. He was exactly the kind of respectable you liked to keep on payroll: knew how to pour a drink, shut down a fight, and make a broken man laugh—all without ever letting on how carefully he was watching the room. He said things with a grin, but his eyes were always checking exits.

Just smart enough to survive. Just loyal enough to stay.

You turned then, fully, one brow raised, lips curled in that almost-smirk you were infamous for.

“It’s not pity. It’s taxes.”

The Widow’s Crown was the heart of the town—its pulse, its compass, its crown jewel. A bar tucked into the craggy cliffside like it was carved straight from the bones of the sea. Stone walls, stained glass in storm hues, a fireplace that crackled year-round like it knew secrets, and a back room only the brave or the stupid asked about.

Locals whispered that the land it sat on had been cursed or blessed depending who you asked. That your name was etched into the foundation somewhere, beneath the floorboards or deeper still, down in the cellar where no one but you ever went. The truth was simpler: you’d earned it. Fought for it. Outlasted men who tried to own it and townsfolk who thought you too sharp to hold anything soft.

You rebuilt it with salt and spite—stone by stone, drink by drink, until the walls held your shape better than your own skin ever did. Now they come to you. Always.

For drinks. For comfort. For penance.

The very things you chase yourself, just dressed different— burning in their throats as liquid courage, slipping through your veins as sleepless nights and hollow comfort. Familiar devils, all of them. And somehow, still so welcoming. Still so easy to mistake for home.

And tonight, the sea brings them back in droves—sunburned sailors, ghosts wrapped in skin, wanderers who remember your name even when they shouldn’t. “You pourin’ tonight, or is that honor left to your poor trembling staff?” 

“Depends. You planning to behave, Carm?”

“Not in the slightest.”

You just rolled your eyes and turned toward the Crown’s doors—painted black, scuffed by boots and years, still shining like a secret—throwing over your shoulder:

“Good. I hate a slow night.”

And it wasn’t.

The evening bloomed loud and warm, thick with the scent of brine, sweat, cheap perfume, and something cooking slow in the back—probably stew, possibly regret. The Widow’s Crown filled like a throat: laughter wedged between throaty shouts, bodies packed shoulder to shoulder, boots thudding against floors worn down by too many storms and too much living. The jukebox flickered alive like it needed to be summoned first. The first song it spat out was older than half the sailors inside—gritty guitar and a voice that sounded like it smoked three packs a day and made love with a knife tucked in its boot.

Glasses clinked like windchimes in a storm. Someone passed around a story that wasn’t true—about a siren, or a curse, or a woman who walked into the sea and never walked out—and no one cared enough to correct it. Not here. Not tonight. 

You moved through it all like a current—barefoot in your boots, sharp-eyed, that rag always slung over your shoulder like a flag no one dared question. The crooked half-smile you wore wasn't an invitation, and everyone knew better than to mistake it for softness. You poured drinks. You counted cash. You made someone cry in the hallway without saying much at all, and someone else fall in love by the jukebox just by listening a little too long. You reminded the room—without raising your voice, without even really trying—that this was your place. You didn’t run the Crown. You were the Crown.

"You're late," you said flatly when Carmen finally slid behind the bar, shirt wrinkled and smelling faintly of oranges and gunpowder. "You're early," he shot back, ducking beneath the swinging shelf with all the grace of someone used to being chased.

“You work here, dumbass.”

“Debatable,” he muttered, already flipping a bottle upside down with one hand and wiping the sweat off his brow with the other. “I prefer the term essential presence.”

“Keep talking like that and I’ll make you essentially unemployed.”

He grinned, all teeth. “That’s the spirit, boss.” 

Across the room, Old Lemmy—the drunk with a glass eye and a tattoo of a flamingo he swore was a phoenix—slapped the table and yelled, “Where’s my goddamn drink, woman! I’m dyin’ over here!”

You didn’t even look up. “Lemmy, you’ve been dying since Nixon resigned. If it’s taking this long, I’m not rushing it.” The bar howled with laughter, and Lemmy wheezed so hard he nearly fell off his stool.

“You’re cruel,” Carmen muttered, pouring him a whiskey anyway.

“You’re soft,” you replied, lips twitching. “That’s why I keep you around.”

Near the jukebox, Birdie—sweet-faced, sharp-tongued, and back from her third divorce—was already telling someone half her age to stop breathing near her unless he had a boat or better cheekbones. She winked at you across the bar like you were in on a secret. You were.

You always were. Everyone inside had their place, their rhythm, their role to play. You just happened to be the one who remembered how the script went when they forgot their lines. Someone leaned too far over the bar and you stepped forward, not saying a word. He backed off with an apology before your hand even reached the rag on your hip. Respect came easy here. Not out of fear—but because they knew you’d earned it.

Carmen slid you a glass of water you didn’t ask for. “Hydrate or die, boss,” he said. You took it, downed it, rolled your eyes. “I swear, if I ever go missing, they’ll find you at the bottom of the harbor with my boot in your ribs.”

Carmen just smirked. “At least I’ll die hydrated.”

The night spun on, full of sharp turns and too-loud laughter, sweat-slicked forearms, sloshed drinks, and the kind of camaraderie that stung a little the next morning but never quite disappeared. And through it all, you stood at the center. Like a lighthouse. Or maybe—like the storm that breaks against it.

But time, like the tide, always rolls back. And when the last round poured, when the stories grew slurred and the ghosts of the sea called their children home, the night changed.

The laughter faded. The sailors filtered out with the last of their pay tucked in calloused palms. Music dimmed into memory. And the salt in the air thickened—not bright and bracing like a summer breeze—no, this was heavier. Older. Like the tide had dragged up something it shouldn’t have, and now the town was bracing for its scent. You kicked the door closed behind the last straggler and twisted the lock. The sound echoed, too loud.

The bar swelled with the sea’s return. Outside, the fog began to gather. Not the soft kind that kissed your cheeks and vanished with the wind—but a thick, bone-deep kind. The kind that didn’t move so much as settle. Stubborn. Intentional. Like it had been called here. 

You stood in the threshold of the Crown, arms crossed, gaze locked on the docks below. From this cliffside view, the town looked like it was sinking beneath pale ghosts of clouds. Streetlights flickered down the narrow streets, amber pinpricks in a wash of gray. Footsteps grew quieter. Doors clicked shut. 

Even the gulls had gone silent. All that remained was the sharp-teethed wind and the crash of waves gnawing at black rocks—daring anyone still standing to feel it, to bear witness to the sea’s temper without flinching.

The days that followed moved like the storm circling slow, waiting for the right time to strike. There was no rain yet, no thunder—just that hush that comes before something breaks. Despite the new faces that rolled in with the tides—sunburned tourists and wandering souls looking for something nameless—there were still those who had lived here long enough to know better. Men and women weathered by salt and time, whose skin remembered storms even when their mouths refused to speak of them. They’d seen the sea show its teeth. They’d lost half the town to it, years before the wind ever began whispering your name too.

The town loves cruel, in its own way. A deep, briny kind of love. Gentle only in its consistency. It seduces the naive with postcard charm, then leaves them cracked and hollow, forgotten in doorframes and stonework. You’ve seen it happen more times than you can count—tourists who stumble in under starlight and salt, only to leave pieces of themselves behind. Not always by choice. It’s a funny thing to witness. But so unmistakably human.

Over time, you’ve learned the rhythm of it all. The faces that return. The ones that never leave. The patterns—of footsteps, of stories, of half-truths rinsed and repeated. Calloused hands gripping scuffed glass, promises passed across the bar like currency. It’s all part of the tide. They come bearing sea-dreams and sunburned hearts. Eyes strung with salted hope, voices worn thin from chasing the horizon. But with them—always—come stories.

Tales whispered late, when the lights are low and the whiskey’s burned clean through the throat. Of creatures with eyes too sharp to be human. Of voices that echo too closely to the ones you hear in dreams. Of things that look like people, but aren’t. As unforgiving and brackish as the waters that birthed them.

Hungry things. Waiting things. And lately—you’ve begun to think they might not be stories at all.

First, like it always have started with, came your damnation. Like it always had for as long as you could remember. Tonight, a new image surfaces, one that always follows, always clings: arms around you. Strong ones. Holding you like you’re already gone.

They’re warm, yes, but not comforting. Not safe. It’s the kind of warmth that comes from fire licking too close to skin. Desperate arms. Pleading hands. A grip that trembles, not from fear, but from refusal. They love you, you think—whoever they belong to. But it’s a love that feels misplaced, off-kilter. It doesn’t fall soft like morning light or stretch out slow like trust. It crashes. It clings. Reverent and forceful. Obsessive. A love that wants not just to keep you, but to claim you. Like an oath. A curse.

You don’t know why you’ve chalked that haunted embrace up to love. Maybe because you’ve never really known what love was supposed to feel like. Or maybe because whatever this is—this endless, hungry thing that holds you in dreams and memories and waking shadows—wants you so deeply it feels holy.

But even holiness can rot—can calcify into something brittle and cruel. It doesn’t strike with the hand after it’s fed you, but as it does—a sanctified cruelty, masked in comfort, bleeding you slow with grace still on its tongue.

Another night, another dream that leaves you wrecked. You wake the way you always do—panting, pulse slamming against your throat, sweat slicking your skin like a second, fevered layer. There’s a familiar ache—deep in your chest, sharp between your legs—and it’s so goddamn specific, so precise, it almost feels like punishment.

Twisted. That’s what it is. Downright fucking twisted.

You lie there staring at the ceiling, trying to catch your breath and think—not for the first time—that maybe you’re the fucked up one in all of this. Maybe you hit your head as a kid. Maybe you buried something so traumatic your brain decided to toss you scraps of it in cinematic, semi-erotic nightmares. Maybe this is just how madness blooms—Soft at first. Slow. Sensual, even. And then, all at once, it lives in you.

These dreams don’t just haunt you. They know you. Have been haunting you for longer than you care to admit—long enough that whole years have blurred, and you’re not sure if they’re memories or reruns. Moments you feel in your bones but can’t pin to a place, to a date, to a version of yourself that ever really existed. Time doesn’t run straight in your world. It bends. It folds. And it leaves you chasing after ghosts you’re starting to think might’ve once been you.

Is this that imposter syndrome bullshit Carmen’s always rambling about when he’s three shots deep and pretending he’s a therapist?

Because if so—great. Spectacular. Guess you’re officially losing your mind at your grown-ass age. Perfect timing. Really.

Then came the eeriness. Not the kind you feel as a kid, tucked in a blanket fort whispering ghost stories with wide eyes and sticky fingers. Not even the kind that creeps in on a lonely walk through town when everything’s gone too still, too quiet—when the streetlights flicker and you swear the shadows breathe.

No, this was something else. Something older. Hungrier.

This was the kind of eeriness that drained a person—not just their nerves or their sense of safety, but their essence. Their warmth. Their blood.

The morning sun broke sluggish through the fog, bleeding gold across the wet stones and half-drowned streets. The sea had not receded so much as curled back to watch. You showed up to the Crown early, as always. Keys biting your palm, shoulders tight beneath your jacket, throat sore from the dream you couldn’t shake. You hadn’t slept—not really. You just laid there for hours, haunted and raw, your body still echoing with phantom touches and that voice, his voice, whispering ruin like a promise against your skin.

Still, you moved. Still, you worked. That’s how it always was.

The windows were fogged and beaded with sea spray when you unlocked the front. The jukebox flickered like it had seen a ghost. You cleaned. You stocked. You counted out registers with a precision that had nothing to do with money and everything to do with control. You’d nearly convinced yourself it was a normal evening by the time the regulars started trickling in.

“Storm's rollin' in slow,” one of the dockhands muttered, shaking off rain from his coat. “Don't they always?” you replied, not looking up.

But there was one new-old face at the bar today. Captain Eli. A relic of the docks. A man with sea-glass eyes and fingers like driftwood—bent and brittle, stained by pipe smoke and salt. He’d been around since the town’s teeth first showed. Sometimes you forgot he was still alive. Sometimes you wondered if he was. He sipped his drink like he didn’t have teeth and started talking like he didn’t need an audience.

“Saw fog like this once before,” he rasped, voice dragging like an anchor chain across the floor. “Back in ‘77. Cold as death. Fog so thick it swallowed a man whole. Sea gave ‘im back a week later. Hollowed out. Eyes still blinkin’. Mouth full of someone else’s name.”

You didn’t flinch, but your jaw went tight. Someone near the bar chuckled. “Just a drunk sailor’s tale.” Eli didn’t laugh. His stare locked onto you.

“Nah. Some places remember. Some faces too. They come back wrong, though. Same skin, new time. But they carry things. Like scars. Debts.” You stopped wiping the glass in your hand.

“My grandpa had seen it. Woman just like you once, long time ago. Mean as a cut lash and sharper than God’s own sword. Married a man who didn’t stay dead. Or maybe he just refused to stay gone.” A silence fell so deep you could hear the gulls scream outside.

You met his gaze and spoke low. “You see a lotta things that ain't there, Cap.”

He smiled with only half his mouth. “Maybe. But some of it sees me back.”

And then, just like that, he turned to sip again. As if he hadn’t cracked the spine of a nightmare and left it open on the bar between you. You walked away slow, each step deliberate. But the hairs on the back of your neck stayed raised. Because his story felt more like a memory than a lie. And somehow—you knew he wasn’t talking about anyone else but you. The night carried on. At least, it tried to.

Voices rose, laughter echoed, and the Crown did what it always did: held the town’s secrets between its stone ribs and didn’t spill a drop. Men came in with weather-worn hands and salt still in their boots, nodding greetings, passing flasks, scraping chairs loud across the floor. You poured drinks like always. Cashed out the machine. Fixed the jukebox when it spat static instead of song. But it all felt… off.

Like a memory you didn’t know you had. Like déjà vu with blood under its nails. Every word the old sailor had rasped was still rattling around in your head like storm wind in a boarded-up attic.

“Married a man who didn’t stay dead.” “Same skin, new time.” “Carried things. Like scars. Debts.”

You didn’t believe in curses. Not exactly. But you knew the feel of something following you. You’d felt it your whole life—lurking just behind your reflection, moving beneath the skin of your dreams, speaking in a voice you swore you never learned but knew in your bones. Tonight, it whispered louder.

You moved through the bar like a ghost in your own body. Wiped tables, nodded politely, smiled when you had to—but your hands kept twitching. Like they wanted to grip something. Like they remembered holding a blade, perhaps even a rifle. And then came the words. Not out loud. Just there. In your mind. Words that didn’t belong to you. Not really.

“What a fool you were, to love him past the grave.”

“Don’t ask a promise from a man you have to bury.”

You didn’t know where they came from, but they sounded older than the floorboards beneath you. The captain looked at you once across the bar, like he heard them too. He raised his glass halfway, eyes shining with something just this side of recognition.

“Y’know,” he said, voice low, dragging like low tide, “we used to say it different, back then. Before the war. Before the sea took half the town.”

You raised a brow. “Say what?” 

He swirled the amber in his glass. “Love. Damnation. Fate. We didn’t call it that. Called it binding. Called it reckoning. Said some women were born with blood that called monsters to their door.” You swallowed, throat dry.

“And what’d they do with women like that?”

He smiled, all teeth. “Married ‘em. Then buried ‘em. Never stopped loving ‘em.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The words were in you now. Like a second pulse.

Mine. Always been. Always will be.

You stared out the bar window then. Toward the black mouth of the ocean. Toward the fog that hadn’t lifted since last night. Something inside you ached—not fear, not grief—something more like homesickness. But not for a place. For a moment. A face. A name you couldn’t say without bleeding. You were forgetting something. Or maybe—remembering it. And still, the bar kept humming.

The sailors told stories they barely believed themselves. The drinks kept flowing. The jukebox played a song older than it should’ve been allowed to remember. And Eli, half asleep in the corner, muttered something into his glass that sounded like a prayer.

“Let the sea take him this time.”

You didn’t ask who. But for a second, you wished you knew. Deep down, maybe you did.

And just like that—like the slow, unexpected drip of a cracked fountain—everything stopped.

Abrupt. Jarring. Like a needle screeching off a record mid-song, leaving behind a silence that felt too sudden, too knowing. The storm, still coiled somewhere out beyond the horizon, still clinging to your skin and leaving your bartop slick with condensation, simply… stilled. Not gone, not over. Just paused. Like the whole damn world had exhaled—one long, tired breath held too long.

It reminded you of those rare moments behind the bar—you, Carmen, and the poor souls that got roped into the shift—sinking onto overturned crates, backs pressed to liquor boxes, a stolen cigarette making slow rounds between burned-out hands. Not rest, exactly. Just a break from the chaos. The kind that doesn't last long, but hits like grace when it comes. Time, it seemed, had taken one of its own. And for a second, everything felt too quiet.

And yet, your irritation? Very much alive.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ!” you snapped, slamming a towel down hard enough to rattle the bottles behind you. “Get this son of a bitch outta my bar before I personally handle it. Where the hell is Jaime?!”

Carmen popped up from the back with a half-eaten orange slice in his mouth. “He’s bouncing some frat guy who thought the jukebox was voice-activated.”

“Ain't that a damn miracle,” you muttered. “Then someone else can bounce this one—preferably out the front door and into oncoming traffic.” The offender in question—a sunburnt, tank-top-wearing caricature of bad decisions—was currently arguing with one of your servers about why he shouldn’t have to pay for the drink he spilled on himself.

“Babe,” the tourist slurred, gesturing with a lime wedge like it was a threat. “I’m just saying—where I’m from, the customer is always right.” You were already halfway around the bar.

“Where you’re from, do customers get their teeth knocked in for being dickheads, or is that just a charming local tradition I can introduce you to?”

The guy blinked at you like you’d just spoken Latin. “Whoa, no need to be hostile—”

“I’m not hostile,” you said, sweet as cyanide. “I’m fucking working.”

Before the conversation could evolve into something more physical, and oh, it was close, Jaime appeared—broad, silent, and cracking his neck like punctuation.

“Please escort this pile of Axe body spray out of my building,” you said, already turning back toward the bar. “And if he resists, consider it cardio.”

“Yes ma’am,” Jaime rumbled, hand already on the guy’s shoulder. “Hey—hey!” the tourist protested as he was hauled toward the door. “This is, like, discrimination or something!”

“Yeah,” Carmen muttered, passing by with a tray of dirty glasses. “We discriminate against assholes. Tough break, man.”

The bar laughed—your people. Your locals. The townies. Regulars who knew to duck when glass flew and when not to test your temper. You swept behind the bar again, mood dark as thunderclouds, lips pressed into that dangerous little smirk that made grown men shut the hell up.

Carmen handed you a fresh towel. “Feel better?” he asked.

You shot him a glare sharp enough to cut rope. “You wanna join him?”

He held up his hands. “I’m just the talent, boss.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth twitched. Outside, thunder groaned low and slow—like it approved. Despite the growing irritation thrumming just beneath your skin from the frat boys, the condensation, the low hum of thunder that hadn’t cracked yet—you were, admittedly, beaming on the inside. Quietly. Secretly. Like someone hoarding the last piece of chocolate or the best corner booth in a diner.

Because for once, you weren’t running on fumes and stubbornness alone. The stillness tonight? It wasn’t empty—it was earned. With the storm’s pause came something better: ease. A rare, elusive creature in your world. You hadn’t opened the bar this morning, hadn’t dragged yourself in at dawn on pure caffeine and curses. Instead, you’d woken hours later to a room still dark with fog, sheets wrapped loose around your limbs, your body heavy with the kind of sleep that didn’t ask questions or pull you under screaming. Inky silence. No dreams. No whispers through the cracks in your memory.

Just...nothing. And it had felt like a blessing.

Nine hours. Maybe ten if you counted the blurry half-conscious phone call to Carmen where you’d slurred something about prepping ice and not setting anything on fire. He’d grunted something in reply that vaguely sounded like “yes, boss,” and you’d hung up before your brain caught up.

You’d slept, by your very loose and slightly cursed definition of the word, like a goddamn baby. No ache in your chest. No tremor in your thighs. No sweat-soaked sheets or phantoms pressed too close. Just warmth. Stillness. Peace.

You’d even stretched when you woke up—stretched, like some self-care influencer and not a woman who usually started her mornings with a shot of whiskey and a half-forgotten scream into a cracked mirror. And now, even as you wiped condensation off the bar with more aggression than necessary, even as you threatened to personally exorcise the next tourist who mispronounced the town’s name—you felt the echo of that rest clinging to your bones. It wasn’t much. But it was enough.

Enough to make the thunder seem poetic instead of ominous. Enough to let your smirk linger a little longer. Enough to make you think—maybe just tonight—you’d make it through without a dream dragging you back under.

But even that peace, small and stolen, carried a warning. Because the calm always came first, before the sea took something back. And your body, whether it remembered it or not, had always known how to brace for the storm.

Sweat clung to the base of your spine, a thin sheen catching on the small of your back and soaking deeper into the black tank top stretched across your shoulder blades. It stuck tighter with every shift and lean, every dip between tables and worn barstools, the humid air turning skin to velvet and breath to fog. The kind of heat that softened the bones and sharpened the edge of every sound. Heat that made even the ghosts restless.

The Crown boomed with unmistakable pulse despite it all—rowdy, salt-laced, a little mean like all good places should be. Boots dragged across warped floorboards slick with sea-damp. A woman's laugh broke too loud and too fast, slurring into something just shy of a yell. Carmen was yelling back, of course, but it was the charming kind—him snapping a bar rag at someone with that shit-eating grin, bright eyes catching yours across the room.

You gave him a nod. Wiped the back of your neck. Told yourself you weren’t imagining the way the condensation on the windows seemed to crawl upward instead of down. The regulars were in rare form. Ricky, with his chipped tooth and lifelong tan, was in his usual corner nursing the same whiskey he’d been pretending to sip for twenty years. He was mid-story, as always, and by now you could mouth along with it like a song. “And I told the bastard, you ever touch my boat again, I’ll gut you with a spoon!”

Laughter followed—boisterous, a little too easy. “Bet you tripped over your own feet trying to get to that spoon,” someone heckled. “Hell, he probably drank the boat dry!” another shouted.

You smiled without thinking. Tossed a lime slice across the bar at Ricky’s head. It missed. Barely. He flipped you off with the kind of affection only earned by pouring a man drinks for a decade and dragging him off the floor at least twice a month. “Love you too, sweetheart.”

But then the jukebox hiccupped. Not skipped. Not glitched. Just… stopped. A single note held a little too long, like something got caught in its throat. You looked up. Carmen paused mid-pour. It started again a beat later—different track, older one. One that hadn’t been in rotation for months. You frowned. Made a note to check it later. Or maybe not. These kinds of things happened in the Crown. Electrical, magnetic, or just plain weird. It wasn’t new. Still, something about it crawled up the back of your throat and sat there. You shook it off.

Someone slammed a shot glass onto the bar. “Another round, boss lady!” You poured. Wiped your hands. Turned just in time to see the ceiling fan slow, its blades groaning like they’d aged fifty years in the last minute.

And then you heard it—faint. A scrape. Like nails dragged gently across the underside of a table. Like someone whispering their name just barely out of earshot. Your head snapped toward the hallway. Empty. Just the shadows stretching long and crooked in the corner, bending a little wrong in the flickering light. You blinked. They straightened. Carmen was talking again, someone was singing along with the jukebox, a glass shattered somewhere near the bathrooms and two patrons laughed like they’d seen it coming. But underneath all that—beneath the sweat and salt and noise—something pulled. Tugged low in your stomach like a muscle memory. Like recognition. And then it bled through.

Not a vision, not quite. Just a feeling. A warmth that wasn’t from the bar’s heat. A pressure at your throat, gentle and possessive. Hands that weren’t there, but once had been—holding your hips, lifting you, laying you down on something not a bed but not the floor either. Stone maybe. Wet. Cold. Sacred.

You sucked in a breath so fast it burned. The bar kept moving. You didn’t.

For a moment, your eyes didn’t belong to you now. They belonged to another room, another life. Dim candlelight. A mouth full of devotion and ruin against your skin. A voice rasping your name like it was a prayer and a threat all at once.

“Mine,” he’d said. You hadn’t heard it in this life.

But your body remembered it. A gust of wind swept through the Crown. It rattled the windows like a tantrum. Every flame flickered. Glasses wobbled on shelves. Then the door creaked. You turned slow. Then—A gust of wind.

It swept through the Crown with no warning, no cause. Just… entered, like it owned the place. The windows rattled with a fury that didn’t match the calm on the street outside. Flames in their low glass homes danced frantically. One blew out entirely. Glasses trembled against shelves. A napkin lifted off a table, floated, then dropped in silence. You turned slow. And there was nothing.

No figure in the doorway. No tall silhouette carved in lightning. Just the door cracked open an inch too far, letting in a mist that curled around your ankles like it had fingers. The storm, settled now, breathed soft against the threshold. A cold that sank deep but didn’t bite. You exhaled. Long. Slow. Practiced. The kind of breath you’d taught yourself to take when the dreams got too loud.

The ache in your ribs eased, just slightly. Then came Jaime’s voice. Firm, but not urgent. Just that steady, dependable calm he carried when things started to fray around the edges.

“Bar’s almost at full capacity… got a guy outside askin’ if he can come in.” You blinked—like waking up.

Your fingers found the towel at your waist, gripping it hard enough to feel the fabric bite. “Yeah,” you said, voice still a little hoarse from whatever that was. “Let him in. Just… keep an eye out, alright? Tourists are one thing, I don’t need this place flooding or fists flying in the middle of all this.”

Jaime nodded. You didn’t need to say more. He was good like that. And just like that—Normal resumed.

But something had shifted. Not the kind you could see. Just a thread in the weave gone tight. The seal had broken. You could feel it. Like a draft you hadn’t noticed until it sank into your skin. Minutes that dragged like hours passed, and then the tide came in. You were mid-pour when the Crown tipped sideways into chaos.

Not the violent kind—no, just the usual barroom mess: someone on Carmen’s end of the counter didn’t show, a table of locals were halfway through a bottle and demanding fries like it was their divine right, and the cocktail shaker was jammed again, refusing to come loose unless you used the heel of your palm like a weapon.

You didn’t flinch. You moved. Like tidewater—brisk, automatic, and always knowing where to go before anyone else did. It was muscle memory. Breathe. Step. Smile.

Carmen shot you a panicked look from the far end. You already knew. Section three was slipping. Someone no-showed, and now you were the net. You pivoted off your heel and wove your way into it—your rag slung over your shoulder, boots scuffing the floor, voice low and cutting as you flagged two college kids who were trying to steal shot glasses again.

You didn’t notice the door open with Jaime’s invitation. You didn’t hear it either—not over the hum of the jukebox, the clang of the kitchen, the bark of laughter from a group of off-duty dockworkers. It wasn’t until you turned, trying to steady a tray with two whiskey sodas and a plate of wings, that the air changed.

Like sea mist, an odd man was just—there. No thunder. No drama. Just presence.

You didn’t even look at him first, your mind too full of orders and numbers and that familiar throb behind your eyes that always came on busy nights.

“Give me a sec,” you said out of habit, turning toward the bar with the tray still in your hands, the words barely formed.

Then—He spoke. Only a jumble of three muttered words.

“‘Scuse me, ma'am.”

Simple. Low. Soft like silk dragged across old wounds. You turned without meaning to. And the tray in your hands nearly tipped.

It wasn’t that he looked familiar. It wasn’t recognition. It was the gut-punch of déjà vu without memory—the sense that your body had already knelt for this voice in a life that wasn’t yours. The rest of the bar seemed to hum around him, but nothing touched him. Not the heat. Not the sound. Not even the mist that clung to his coat like it had followed him in from the sea itself.

He wasn’t wet. But the scent of rain came with him. And like it had been waiting for his permission, the storm broke. A crack of thunder. Then the slow, deliberate tap of rain on the roof. First soft. Then steady. Then relentless.

And you—you just stared. The tray slid from your fingers and thunked softly onto the bar. Not broken. Just forgotten.

And somewhere deep beneath the Widow’s Crown, the sea shifted.

“Can I get you anything?” Your voice came out soft as a daydream, but as certain as the thunder that now boomed proud and bashful right outside your doors.

His eyes flicked up at the sound of you—cerulean, deep, and sharp around the edges like the sea right before it swallows a boat. He barely reacted. A single twitch, maybe, just a hair widened—but you caught it. You always caught things like that. Reading faces came second nature. Especially the ones that wanted to be unread.

He sat too still. Back straight, elbows resting stiff on the bartop like they didn’t belong there. His clothes were wrong, too—off in a way that set something low in your stomach turning. Black work pants, sure, the kind dockhands wore, but too clean, too pressed. Like he wanted to pass. Gray shirt clinging to a chest that told you he wasn’t new to violence, no matter how carefully he stood. You could’ve sworn—just for a breath—his eyes took on that same deep gray when they shifted under the crackling firelight, dripping down from blue like wet ink. And then that chain. Gold, delicate-looking, stretched tired across the pale column of his throat. Like it had been worn too long and he'd exhausted it. Like it had belonged to someone else first.

The leather jacket was the final nail. Too many pockets. Too many places to hide something sharp. Closed up tight like a confession not meant to be spoken, like a damn secret. Like he was trying to look like he was playing nice. He looked like a secret pretending to be a man.

In all honesty, it fucking irked you. 

The silence that followed your question went on too long—long enough to feel pointed. The heat in your chest twisted, coiling like a storm all its own, the ember of your earlier mood flaring hotter behind your eyes.

You leaned in just slightly, arms crossed, smile long gone.

“You gonna keep staring, or can I help you, sir?” Your words bit, soft and polite only in form. 

The way he swallowed at it—sharp and slow—should’ve been a sign that he was nervous, his throat bobbed. But maybe, if you really were as delusional or insane as your dream-soaked mind liked to suggest, he was satisfied with being bitten and chewed up. Even if it played as being soft, if it was you. And that—more than anything—was what really set your teeth on edge.

And then, only then, after soaking in what was barely more than a nip, he smiled. Crooked and slow, like he was in on something you hadn’t been told.

“Just lookin’ for a respectable place to ride out the storm, ma’am. Nasty one, isn’t it?”

His voice dripped like warm honey, coating each word in a tone that sank beneath your skin—soft, slow, and deliberate. It prickled as it landed, made the hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention. That alone was the first red flag: he wasn’t from here. No one local spoke like that.

His accent was strange, but not off-putting—Irish, unmistakably. But laced with something else, something Southern and smooth at the edges, like bourbon poured over old songs and Sunday confessions. The kind of voice that didn’t belong in this town full of hoarse laughter and salt-split vowels.

Just like him—he didn’t belong.

And in this sea of familiar faces, of regulars you’d poured drinks for a thousand times and traded insults with like they were currency, he stood out like a ghost in rainsoaked moonlight. Strange. Unsettling. And yet… undeniably familiar. 

That caused the flames riding high and mighty behind your eyes in that steady and blinding pulse, to move to lick at your throat. You weren’t sure why you were so goddamn irritated at this peculiar stranger, it almost left you speechless, almost.

You blinked, your mind catching up with your body too slow, too dream-drunk for your liking. Still, your voice came out smooth. Steady. A practiced thing, even as the air around you thickened like it was listening.

“Respectable’s a stretch,” you said, cocking your head as your eyes dragged over him, shameless and sharp. “But if you’re lookin’ to keep dry and outta trouble, you picked the wrong night and the right place.”

His smile twitched wider, and you hated the way it made your chest tighten—hated it so much you wished your words had been meaner, sharper, cruel enough to split skin on contact. It was a strange thing to hold against a stranger, really. Irrational. Petty. But that didn’t make it any less true.

Because despite all that he was—strange, unsettling, far too composed for a storm night—he was still just a man. And yet, you felt the need to bare your teeth like he was something else entirely.

You turned then, forcing your attention back to the bottle of whiskey itching with cold sweat and anticipation next to your elbow, shoulders tense with the weight of something unnamed. Something old. 

“What’s your poison?” you asked, voice clipped. Because suddenly, the storm wasn’t just outside anymore.

It had walked in, slow and smiling, and asked for shelter.

taglist ; @lunaleah @idiotsatan @arquiiva @bleedingsunlight @kaelizl @nefertiti2003 @damnzelsoul @latebean

[chrolloluvr]

Hi, happy to see you back❤. I remember in one of your previous works, you mentioned Mammon possibly would babytrap reader. May you please write something on this topic?

♡ Toxic!Mammon: Babytrapping Hcs ♡

Note: Ty! Also she is referring to this post. THANK YOU FOR ALL THE REQUESTS!!! KEEP THEM COMING POOKIES! ALSO IK I HAVENT MADE AN ACTUAL POST IN A WHILE SO HERE YALL GO

Female!reader, AFAB

Warnings: NSFW, toxic themes, creampie, future child, exploiting

He will babytrap you, 100%

As I have said before, Mammon likes the idea of having complete control over you, your life, and everything you do. And what better of a way to do that than making you bear his child?

He gets this magical, invasive idea when talking to one of his work buddies. He was talking about how annoying you were, even though he cannot live without you, when his co-worker mentions how much responsibility and care a woman has for her children. And the idea hits him. If you are just going to sit around lazily all day like a spoiled brat, why not add a child into the mix?

So he will have you prowled up against his chest, his cock basically stuffing you full, as he pistons in and out of your already sore pussy. Seemingly out of nowhere, telling you

"You'd be such a good mother, wouldn't you babe."

"'Wanna see you swoll with my kids, wouldn't that be somethin'-"

Which makes you feel physically ill. Raising a child with Mamm would be basically impossible. You would never raise a child with this man. Would he support you? Would he genuinley care for your baby? Oh Satan, would he even care-

Your thoughts are abrupted as Mammon stuffs you with his seed, finishing inside yours walls and painting them with a loud groan. He gives your ass a harsh slap, as he watches his cum spilling out of you. He looks you in the eyes, and gives you a daunty chuckle. He forces you to look up at him with your tired, exhausted eyes, as he tells you ohoho babe, we aren't finished until i'm done, alright?.

And he keeps that promise, with the goal of getting you pregnant. He knows the public would go feral. The King of Greed? With a child? It gives him a publicity boost, which in turn, is good for his business, and his image.

Once you find out you are pregnant, you have to eventually tell Mammon, to your dismay. Every day, he makes you take an on brand pregnancy test as he watches. He will hold the test while you pee. Yes you heard me right. So when the test says positive one day, he is over the moon. Not at the fact that he is going to be a father, but at the fact that he is now in complete control over you, and that he can use another part of you as a pawn in his twisted fantasy.

The paparazzi have a field day over this news, because he ends up almost immediately making an announcement. There are headlines, candid photos of you going forcefully outside by mammon, etc. Its like a never ending nightmare. And dont be mistaken, he would never let you out of his sights, or get an abortion. He thinks this is too good of an opportunity.

Behind closed doors, he will actually treat you very well. Feeding you, paying attention to your every need, and not letting you lift a finger. He may even go out of his way to find some stuff by himself at the store. He'll will make you go outside with him. But at times he has to do a meeting, or host an event, he will have his goons escort you places, making sure you go public routes, to get a really good look at your swollen belly.

Brings you to meetings during this time, and picking your outfits carefully. He cant have his darling wearing any disgusting maternity clothes. So he will have you perches on his lap while he sits in his seat, embarrassment eating you whole as you see the sins/overlords snickering and bickering presumably at you. He has one hand rubbing your round belly, and one hand rubbing your shoulders as Mammon discusses his newest buisness plan.

He would create a Mammon Baby Care line. He knows he will profit off your pregnancy

"Alright fellas, so i was thinking for the ladys, a Mammon breast pump, hm? Its great right? Oh! And Mammon themed bibs, ha! Sure to make me a bunch, right babes?"

People think, how could you let Mammon knock you up? Of course, millions of girls idolize Mammon, and would want to be with him. But sometimes it feels like you are the only one who is infatuated with him. So you will try to look past the fact that he got you pregnant. You'll just try to be hopeful. But it is literally impossible with the way he keeps sweet talking you, as you snap back into the sad reality that you will be having Mammons child, and raising it. No questions to be asked.

He will lead you to subconsciously feel insecure about you and your body. He will squeeze your newly chubby cheeks, glaze his fingers over your stretch marks newly littering your body, etc. And he definitely does that on purpose.

As you reach up to the half full Nutella jar in the high cabinet in the kitchen, you hear a pair of loud footsteps coming behind you. Its Mammon. You try your best to ignore him, but you cant help but feel uneasy when you feel a pair of familiar eyes on you. It is currently 1:30 AM, and he is in a really tired mood.

"You need help sweets?"

He said with a suckle voice, knowing its affects on you are vast. He looks you up and down, admiring your perfect body in his mind. Your curves, belly, and the look your giving him. It makes him want to just bend you over and fuck your brains out likes theres no tomorrow. But he cant, he just has to be extra agile with you.

"Mamm..."

"Yeah?"

"Do I look fat?"

Ohhh boy. The question you always ask when you feel like he's eyeing you up. he hates when you ask that, because then he has to make up some half assed excuse to why he's looking at you a certain way. When your pregnant, he basically has to walk on eggshells around you.

"You... look like your carrying my child, and I like the sight of that."

"Okay, do you love me?"

He pauses. One wrong answer, and you'll refuse to talk to him for weeks. You two, as of your relationship, are in a really good spot right now. You will basically do anything for him. But you are really sensitive emotionally and physically, due to your hormones.

As he walks up behind you, he lifts you up by your waist, and hold you up to the cabinet, letting you reach.

"Y/N."

He says in a low, gruff voice.

"Yeah Mamm?"

"What the hell kind of question is that. Of course I love you."

He says as you look at him, face to face. You watch his eyes never leave yours, which makes you break off eye contact in a flustered state. You then realize that he is holding you, which makes you feel insecure.

"Okay, I love you too Mamm"

"Alright, now get your sweet treat, and get the fuck to bed, and hurry up. We've got a busy day tomorrow sweets."

He sets you down, and leaves the kitchen, leaving you with yourself, your Nutella and a spoon in hand. You look down at yourself, and your huge stomach. You wonder how you got yourself into this twisted predicament. You mostly worry about your baby's future as Mammons child. Because you are aware that Mammon will only use them for his own monetary gain. You cannot escape this man, even if you try. But you can always pretend you have your own free will, and you could always just eat your silly thoughts away, as Mammon always told you.

[virginiaisforvampires]

If Louis is so early in the story, does it mean we wont have the TVL Reunion scene? It is my absolute favorite scene in the entire chronicle, its just so beautiful. It would be a pity if we cant see it on the show.

I mean, they could make a nice reunion scene in the beginning as well, its just really not the same. In the books Louis understands everything and read all of Lestats background. It wont be the same if they meet without all this knowledge.

On the other hand we can have Louis reaction in real time, which we didn’t in the books. It will be amazing, but its at the cost of the most beautiful scene in the world…

Here's the thing with this.

For one, since the show is working differently than the book, namely with Lestat having an entire tour instead of just one show, Louis cannot be absent until the very end like in the book.

I.....think a lot of folks expected this. They really believed Louis wouldn't appear until the end and if he had a storyline prior to his reunion with Lestat, they thought it would be a separate thing, but that was never going to happen.

The show is centering everything upon the relationship between Lestat and Louis.

For another, in the show, Louis already knows a lot more than he did in the books at this point. He knows Lestat loves him and has always loved him. He knows pieces about Magnus. He knows pieces about Nicki. He must know certain pieces about Marius due to the painting in the Dubai penthouse. There are hints he knows pieces about Akasha. The circumstances are just.....different.

Therefore, it no longer holds for Louis to need Lestat's entire history before wishing to be with him again. In the show, all Louis needed was the proof that Lestat didn't come to Paris to kill them, and he got that with the reveal that Lestat saved his life. You must remember — Louis was already looking for an excuse to go back to Lestat with the first interview in 1973. He was baiting Lestat and hoping Lestat would "chase" him, which would absolve Louis of "willingly" being with him again. But he's always wanted Lestat and now? There's nothing holding him back unlike in the books.

Of course, Louis will learn about Lestat's history, and it will serve to further cement them. He'll get the full context, and I think it will be a very profound thing for both of them. I mean, just imagine the scenes we're going to get. The dialog they're going to be speaking. Holy moly!

But in the show, I speculate their reunion scene will actually be a very moving moment between them in which Louis almost confesses to Lestat that he loves him (or maybe we get lucky and he says the words already!), and they go to sleep in each other's arms. And then? Akasha takes Lestat from Louis' arms.

It will be maximum emotional carnage, and I honestly think it will flay us even more than their book reunion did, and I say that as someone who considers that book reunion one of my most favorite Loustat moments. :)

[dreamsy990]

heres my designs for all the important gods (I FORGOT HEPHAESTUS SORRY) in epic

thoughts/explanations behind the designs + sketches under the cut

general notes: my biggest headcanon for the gods designs is that they can be just about anything because they (within some limits) choose how they appear. so a god can look like just about anything, but its almost always mostly human. the only real rules to that i think are that 1) their design should usually try to incorporate their main symbols/domain in some way (in some way allows for a lot of range though, so athena for example is very much a bird creature since shes very associated with owls, but aphrodite has just some roses and shells in her hair, and 2) things like scars and such cant be hidden. this rule mostly only matters for athena. i realize i incorporated gold into almost all of their designs but that wasnt intentional lol. anyways let meee talk about the specific gods now. also for fun, no god has normal eyes. theyre either shadowed out entirely, weird shapes, or have no pupils. or all three! i think weird eyes is what distinguishes a god in my designs. i havent done this in my circe or calypso designs but since theyre not quite gods but adjacent i might give them similarly weird eye shapes but also pupils. idk we'll see!

aeolus: so my aeolus design is originally from a sketch i did in class. i was trying to draw telemachus with long hair based on a friends fic and then i was like "oh this looks like how i imagine aeolus would" and the next thing i drew is pretty much Just this final design. i drew aeolus very loosely, he has a clear shape but he should never be fully defined if that makes sense? so when coloring it i decided fuck it he looks like a weird mass of clouds now. its fun! i might change that but idk. also its subtly trans colors because i believe in transmasc aeolus supremacy. i imagine him moving around very freely and seeming to appear and disappear out of nowhere

apollo: so i think apollo is actually the oldest design here? which is to say that i drew apollo ONCE in my sketchbook at the start of my epic hyperfixation and got really into this specific design. i sort of wanted to color him similarly to uh, if you know ginjaninja their design for their oc kynthia? but i ended up going with more just white and gold to keep it simple. i LOVE tiny color palettes lol. the original outfit i believeee was inspired by gigi's hermes actually? but i havent looked at that design in a while so its probably changed. he has a halo that originally looked more like the sun but ive simplified it a bit. why? its cool. also i mightve stolen that from somebody else but i literally CANNOT remember. anyways one fact about this design is that the first time i drew it i labelled it WHORE. you can see i did that in the sketch here too. in his honor.

hermes: little freak guy!! theres honestly not THAT much to say here about hermes. i drew him with a little messenger bag once and i cant NOT draw him with it now i think its cute. i draw odysseus, ctimene, and telemachus all with a gaptooth, and i've never drawn anticlea but i've had the conscious thought that id give it to her too, so fuck it! hermes gets it. it comes from him. the family gaptooth is from him i hope youre happy hermes erfgfrefgfr. color scheme wise i wanted to keep it mostly simple again, i always pictured hermes with silver/white hair for some reason idk why but thats here! and he has rainbow. because is it even hermes without rainbow. i might darken this palette a bit but i am pretty happy with him.

athena: so my athena design ive drawn a ton and shes changed a lot over time. i didnt originally want her to look tooooo birdlike? and then i committed to owlthena because its just FUN man. anyways her silhouette is meant to look very closed off, her "cloak" covers most of her body, just generally shes supposed to seem sort of unapproachable. (note: hes not here but i do this with odysseus too! both because i wanted a similar kind of closed off look for him, and that i wanted him and athena to have visual parallels). her cloak is actually just her wings though! i doodled them unfolded so you can see her without them, as well as without her helmet. her helmet covers one of her eyes with a shadow (again to make her look like shes sort of hiding something), which was a design choice i made BEFORE we found out she lost an eye to zeus, so! coincidentally its good for hiding that scar :]. i doodled her with long black hair ONE WHOLE TIME and its stuck in my mind since so i have to keep that design element forever now. sorry official brunette athena youre not real to me. her color scheme was a STRUGGLE for me though. i knew i wanted to fit blue in there somewhere, but i wasnt really sure how? i eventually caved and made her mostly black and silver with a bit of blue in there. the blue and black gives more magpie energy to her than owl, but i dont know, i like it. i might mess with it more, but yeah! athena! shes really fun to draw lol. i imagine shed be animated in a very constrained sort of way most of the time like her design sort of implies. she doesnt really make big gestures or unnecessary movements she would be sort of uncanny in how still she is most of the time i think.

aries: ive had an aries design for a while so i was basically just finalizing it here. he was supposed to look both very similar to athena and very opposite of her. so they have nearly identical outfits, they both have a helmet shadowing their eyes (but it shadows both of aries' here), theyve both got a lot of animal features (although aries is less visible here, he's a bit dog inspired. you can see his tail eheh), etc. the main difference is that aries is meant to look a lot less, for lack of a better word restrained? his scarf (because its really more of a scarf than a cloak like athena has) only covers part of his face and absolutely none of his body, so it think it gives him a look more like hes ready to fight at any second than athena. i also wanted him to look very scarred/like his armor is scratched up. he and athena are both war gods, but aries is much more likely to throw himself into things and get hurt, while athena plans things in such a way where shes almost never actually hit. brute force vs strategy and whatnot. i sort of wish id made his scars golden too, to look a bit more like athena though. originally the black was red, but it looked really bad, which SUCKS because i wanted the red to contrast with athenas blue. but he just has red eyes here.

aphrodite: very little thought behind this one because my first sketch of her was like two days ago and very inspired by gigis. i sort of wanted her to look doll-like and have a cupids bow lip, but otherwise i got NOTHING girl. shes got pearls and shells in her hair to allude to her connection with the sea though. also roses because i wanted to put in one more symbol and that was a nice way to get a bit more red in there.

hera: im the least happy with this design, almost entirely because of the coloring. i sketched it being more purple, but then i realized that 1) peacocks are a lot more green and 2) IM STEALING FROM JUNE AGAIN!!! THATS HOW JUNE DREW THEIR OC IN A MIRACULOUS AU GODDAMNIT. so the colors are traditional peacock and im NOT happy with them at all. the design is also still basically stolen from june once again i am SO sorry their work is just so integrated into my mind that its a part of me now i do it without thinking. very little notes here otherwise unfortunately,,,,

zeus: weirdly enough i think this is my favorite design? which is WILD because i basically thought of it on the spot like two or three days ago for a shitpost based on a silly manwhore au-adjacent fic i read. the design over all is inspired by neal's? but honestly i think ive done my own thing with it a bit. i didnt really want to do clouds in his hair because id associated that with aeolus in my head, but then i thought of it fading into a dark grey like stormclouds, and having his scarf like lightning? and then he appeared fully formed in front of me. bro is BARELY dressed dude put a shirt on. also his eyebrows are cloud shaped like ursaluna. i fucking hate this dude but im happy with this design

poseidon: OKAY SO POSEIDON IS THE MOST OUT THERE DESIGN HERE I THINK. hes definitely the most inhuman looking one despite us having literally a bird right there, but that was somewhat intentional? and also somewhat because i had a very clear vision of him and needed to make it real exactly as i first thought sorry. anyways, for some characterization, i think with my idea of the gods choosing their appearances and poseidon being a lot more monstrous, you could say he CHOOSES to look unnerving. side note, this is very personal to me but i really like the idea of athena looking more like poseidon than any of her other family. i dont know WHY i just got really attached to that idea. so they have the same hair and somewhat similar faces i think. the resemblance isnt major but it is THERE for sure.

and thaaaats all the gods! i hope you like them :] im going to go review for a test i have tomorrow now

[antiendovents]

saw a post from an endo that was like ""youre just roleplaying!1!1!" of course i am! how else are headmates created?"

of course, this isnt the only post that drove me to vent but its definitely one of them.

we havent been living with this stupid disorder, forgetting the majority of our life, being heavily questioned and fakeclaimed, going through ptsd without much of a clear reason, and waking up most days not knowing who we are just for this weird large group of people to turn it into some quirky fun little thing- IT'S NOT FUN!

i get the majority of these people are kids and teenagers, but we bodily are too, we are not an adult and that makes it even harder for us to get help as an actual DID system because nobody takes us seriously because people think we're just like the people faking the disorder to try to be quirky.

If you like to roleplay, then roleplay! make ocs! who cares! literally 0 shame in that! we like roleplaying as a hobby too! but it isn't how "headmates are created" or whatever they want to say.

even though i am anti-endo/anti-other origins I try to be civil with them because I want to be a nice person and I really do think alot of them do have trauma and don't remember, I just cant help but want to bash my head into the wall every time i see some stupid post making DID/OSDD/etc out to be some quirky little disorder.

yeah, we know about that post, someone sent us a screenshot of that post... Am literally gonna murder someone (I won't, I'm lying. I don't like crimes nor do I support murder, I am being hyperbolic because I'm angry. Don't complain at me). It is incredibly fucking annoying that endos think they can just, pretend to have this disorder, admit they're pretending, then continue to force their way into this community. Honestly even if they are kids it's no excuse for the ableism. All of them are disgusting to me, all of them. I respect those who have been able to get out of that shitty belief but all of them who still cling onto it and cry that "no, plurality is just a game!! Stop telling me it's a disorder!!" Are horrible. I hate them, I hate them so much. I cannot stand them. The whole reason this account was made was because of how frustrated and upset they made us, and I don't think it should be surprising that ableists will infact upset and trigger people. And I agree with you. They should just fucking roleplay instead of faking a disorder. You have a right to be angry and upset at them for the bullshit they post

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

we want prompts where stuff happens to ford? okay. consider.

ford somehow becomes trapped in his journals. it happens sometime while he's waiting for stan to arrive, idk how exactly, but ford decides he's okay with this because now bill can't use him to get to the portal. stan arrives to an empty house that's in shambles and is now determined to figure out what happened to ford. finds journal 1 while investigating.

- ford can communicate by flipping pages, or if someone writes in the journal he can write out a response

- maybe they need to get all three journals together and destroy them to release ford from them or something? ford is trying to avoid freeing himself though bc of the bill situation

- i think it'd be fun if all three journals have a little splinter of him in them and they aren't connected mentally or anything so you have three versions of ford around. if it takes 30 years and dipper finds journal 3, the ford in there has been dormant for that time and is still mentally 28 or so (journal 1 ford is the age he should be). doesn't realize how much time has passed. doesn't realize the "grunkle stan" dipper and mabel write about is his brother. DOES have conversations with dipper and mabel though since they actually write in the journal (i don't think stan would have tried writing in journal 1 without good reason to so if ford's communicating with him it's just through page flips). i think it would be funny if the journals start trying to argue with each other

idk that's all i got. enjoy?

Oh this is fun. Lemme think.

Hmmmmmmm

So Fords hidden his other 2 journals, there's only one left, and he's waiting on Stan to come retrieve it. Pacing around his house, trips on something, slams into an artifact of some kind. Because he'd been focused on his journals, it split him into them. Each of them only having the memories of what happened to him in that journal and their childhood.

So Stan rolls up, has a mini heart attack thinking his brother is missing for at least a few days, before finally flipping through journal 1 and making contact with Ford. This one has very vivid memories of his first few years, knows about the portal in the basement, knows it's bad.

Has no clear memories of Bill, since those were mostly recorded in 2 and 3, no clear memories of the last few weeks, just blurs. He knows being like this is a good thing, but it's fairly easy on Stans end to convince him that no, being a book forever is not the answer.

Problem is he cannot remember where he hid the other journals.

Stan spends 30 years looking for them while his book bro does his best to help instruct Stan on how to get the portal to a point it cant be used. Still makes the mystery shack, but since Ford is right there he gets a say in the exhibits. Eventually agrees that yes, real anomalies are too dangerous, and that he's very mad at Stan for stealing his identity. Stan has him on his person at all times, hidden in plain sight with a little question mark cover he uses as a prop. Goes more Dr. Mystery route, playing up the scientific angle and flipping through his 'notes' so that Ford is sort of part of the act. Ford communities by flipping to specific pages and pointing at letters with the corner, since there isn't any empty space left to write.

Then the twins show up, and the Stan bros agree to maybe not tell them about their book uncle. Sort of weird, they've been hiding it for thirty years, maybe later in the summer.

Then Dipper finds the journal, and wakes up the Ford inside by opening it up. This Ford remembers Bill vividly, specifically the last year of his time researching Gravity Falls, the portal, the betrayal, and is a paraniod wreck, barely understanding what happened to him but knowing Bill can't get to him like this. Didn't really want to have Mabel know about the book, but Dipper had already shown her before Ford was really aware of what was going on. Becomes their sort of mentor, warning them of threats, helping with their mysteries, and also blurting out paraniod rants about being watched, having weapons on them, trusting no one. Doesn't know who this Grunkle Stan guy is because he's in a book, and never gets a good look at Stan to realize thats Stanley. Thinks its either his original body? Or some guy who bought his house.

Then Gideon happens, and Stan finally has all three books. He's giddy, he's happy, him and Ford 1 are super excited to get this show on the road, finally get him out of the pages.

Problem.

None of them get along, and until they can they can't remerge into the same person. Ford 3 is a 28ish paranoid hermit, Ford 1 is a more laid back 60ish old man, and Ford 2 is right down in the middle, 30somthing.

And only remembers when Bill was his friend.

This Ford is him at his most arrogant. Ford 1 was still mostly his whimsical self that grew up into an old man with his brother, Ford 3 woke up after being in a nightmare torture fest, Ford 2 woke up after a kid dug him out of a hole. Knows about the portal, knows something went wrong, but not the specifics, and not about Bill. Gideon was his sort of apprentice! That kid was always so eager to learn about all the fascinating artifacts and research!

Ford 3 refuses to talk to any of them without his apprentices, Dipper and Mabel, the only two he can really trust since Stan turned his house into a mockery of his work and the other Fords are condescending old men. Instead of Dipper getting his book back Stan gets a long suffering look and finally drags the kids into the basement, which he uses instead of the portal basement, to show off the three books who have been flipping pages angrily at each other and somehow understanding all the insults the others are writing at them. Ford 1 wants to be a whole person, and his younger selves need to get with the program, Ford 2 thinks his younger self needs help and his older self is a hack, Ford 3 wants to stay a book forever and the other two are know-it-all jerks.

Instead of a portal its them trying to get all the Fords to get along so they can finally go back to being the same human person.

[staraste]

You know how languages that have literally nothing to do with each other still may have overlapping words? The strongest example to me is latvian to frech ko=quoi. French and russian also have a bunch of overlapping words (kauchemar=кошмар even though i dont remember many rn theres soooo much). These languages do share a common root (proto-indo-european) but its very interesting how many words russian has in common with french, even if theyre further apart linguistically. Haven't studied history, i know its geographical and political as well, but i digress.

So i imagine vaugardian could have like One word that siffrin hears and suddenly theres neuron activation and he zeroes in on this one word and goes. Say that again. And for the life of him he cant remember what this word means, just that its familiar and known and maybe he has a breakdown. Or maybe mirabelle sits with him and explains what this word means in vaugardian instead, slowly patting his shoulder and talking over siffrins thoughts until he can relax again.

And of course siffrin gets curious about it. So the party gets some unreadable books from the library and start very slowly. Theres book club and theres reading bonnie to sleep and theres odile asking questions and with siffrins help making a dictionary (even though she cant read the words siffrin wrote and it gives her a headache. She stops trying to after a while, but it still makes her frustrated)

Saying the words is hard, since reading is very different from speaking. Siffrin doubts they can even remember how to speak, but the accent is there, and if they focus on the mouth shapes enough, eventually saying the word in vaugardian morphs into something else that Probably sounds like the word hes reading.

Loop is doing this too, of course. Its kind of uncomfortably intimate between siffrin and loop, especially when they try speaking in this language without reading from a book. It gives them a headache quickly and they "dont want to be doing this in the first place", so they stop early.

But overtime it gets easier, if not the "getting a headache" part, then at least talking to each other part. Siffrin laying on their belly, listening to loop talk and when loop canr remember the word they want, siffrin helps with this dictionary theyve made. And they switch and do it again.

Once theyre pretty sure what the pronounciation is, odile is very eager to have them teach her it. Tirns out it's hard to even hear the forgotten language and after she tries to speak the first single word, she comes down with a horrible migraine for the whole day. That doesn't stop her though.

Isabeau loves listening to loop and siffrin speak, and he really tries to tough it out as much as possible, and it always ends at the two lovingly making fun of his miserable state and giving his tense neck a massage.

Siffin and loop tried to remember any fairytales or children's stories, but of course it caused two breakdowns and a half, so they settled for making up new ones, talking bonnie to sleep. At least bonnie was honest about when they need to stop talking.

Mirabelle, of course, curiously listens in to siffrin and loops efforts during book club reading time, and gladly takes over the conversation during sharing time if the two are too spent to talk. Lately she does more listening than talking and she's SO excited she doesn't even notice the headaches until the talk is over.

Turns out headaches cannot be helped with any amount of healing craft, so the local pharmacy sees an increase of sales on painkillers for the forseeable future.

[bamsara]

A03 Questions Tag Game

I got tagged by: @kagedbird I tag: @onethirdofimpossible, @coffincrows, (first two that come to mind) and anyone else who wants to do the game

1 – How many works do you have on AO3?

At the time of writing this post, currently 30 fics. (Not including any fics or written works that are not posted to AO3)

2 – What's your total AO3 word count?

1,066,633

3 – What fandoms do you write for?

Formerly: Don't Starve, FNAF, Dragons Dogma, Invader Zim

Currently: Cult of the Lamb

4 – What are your top five fics by kudos?

Solar Lunacy, Celestial Omens, Bytes of Lunacy, The Rehabilitation of Death, Saturday Insomnia

5 – Do you respond to comments?

I try to but I also get very nervous responding because I often don't know what to say back and I feel like it's almost rude or disrespectful to respond to a comment, esp the very nice ones that are long and in-deph with just a keysmash or a bunch of emojis, but I do read every single one since I have email notifications on for them

I'd like to sit down and respond to many but I really don't want to make it awkward so pls dear god readers forgive me

6 – What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I don't like unhappy endings. I enjoy angsty stories but I like when it's at least ending happy to me

7 – What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Not posted? Solar Lunacy

Ongoing? TROD

8 – Do you get hate on fics?

Not really? Most adults (in my experience) know the 'don't like don't read' rule and know basic online etiquette. I've gotten some for discontinuing a fic or switching fandoms though

9 – Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I don't write or draw NSFW! I like to make some suggestive themes sometimes, but I'm a very ace person, it's not something I do often. (I do have a current running goal that if my friend reaches their donation goal for their medical bills that I would give NSFW a shot, but again its not really my cup of tea)

10 – Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

Nah I haven't written any cross overs, but I do draw them sometimes. Recently I've been spinning a Alice in Wonderland x COTL crossover in my head.

11 – Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Yep. I've had people copy and paste my work, go in with a thesaurus to change a few words (like changing 'angry' to mad, 'upset' to 'sad', and so forth) to try and avoid detection and re-posted my written work under a different title name. AO3 staff took them down for violating their policy against plagiarism though

12 – Have you ever had a fic translated?

No. I wouldn't mind it so as long as I'm asked before hand, though not on anon so I can actually work with the person to prevent any mistranslations or mishandling, and that I don't want my work posted to other websites

13 – Have you ever co-written a fic?

I think I did when I was a teen but I cannot remember now

14 – What's your all-time favorite ship?

Eh I don't have any favorites, just ones I really focus on for a long while

15 – What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Pass.

16 – What are your writing strengths?

I can sit down for hours or several days and work on a writing wip completely in the zone. I cant do it on command but its at least something I can do

17 – What are your writing weaknesses?

Spelling and grammar, and sometimes long running sentences. I just kinda write, theres not really a goal for it to be perfect though so as long as the story gist and vibe is right, im fine with it

18 – Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I've done it before but only minor, had a friend help me with it (one or two lines of dialogue) Aside from that, I'm not comfortably fluent enough in anything to do it again without assistance

19 – First fandom you wrote for?

Soul Eater, when I was wayyy too young to be posting anything on the internet. My fanfics I wrote are still on fanfic.net to this day

20 – Favorite fic you've written?

It's inbetween TROD and EE&E right now

[hmhas-00]

Ch. 45

Hit Me Hard & Soft

A/N- I’m sensing trouble…. 🥴

Billie’s POV

It’d been a week since the talk, but it was still all I could think about. She’d given me an out, a perfect opportunity, and still I lied. Another promise between us that would go broken, because she’s right, I can never just confront anything. 

Can you blame me? Can you honestly say that you would be able to look your deity in the eye and confess all your sinful thoughts and wishes? That you could tarnish every pure moment you’d ever spent in her presence, and not crumble beneath the way She looked at you?

There were times when I felt myself coping, wondering if it was even really a lie or just a withheld truth, and then I remember, that’s the exact train of thought I'd used to defend keeping her on tour. I can’t help my mouth… the things that will come out of it just to keep her nearby…

And now, of course, it feels too late. Now I’d have to admit to her that she was right, she can't believe a single thing I say. I cannot be trusted when it comes to her. 

If I'm honest, I’d been avoiding her. It's been a little less than a week, but there’s something a lack of her does to my body. I feel like a zombie walking the streets, a dull ache in my muscle protruding from the skin, falling from the bone, and limbs hanging off me. I can feel it rotting me from the inside, this black and unforgiving fear. I’m worried that if I see her, she’ll notice it. That if I let her see me, she’ll see it written all over my face.

I spent some of this week making music, just to distract myself, in hopes of feeling better, but there was nothing poetic or beautiful about how selfish I'd been. Once again, I put our friendship on the line, because I’m worried if I tell her the truth, she might not want to be around me anymore. Once again I’m not allowing her autonomy. 

Maybe part of the reason I’m avoiding her this week is to prove to myself I can be without her. But, like an addict, I return every time, so certain that I can handle being around her without being completely enthralled. Obsessed. Addicted.

Stepping out of the car, I’m met with the familiar view of Finneas’ place. My keys jingle obnoxiously as I sort through them. The key to my car, my place, remy’s place, and finally, the key to Finneas’ front door. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to hear the new and inventive ways i’ve managed to fuck up with Remy since last time we spoke.

“Big brudddeerrrr.” I call out into the empty expanse, not bothering to look for him.

“Sup.” He answers plainly, his voice coming from the kitchen. When I enter I’m greeted with the fragrant smell of onion and garlic baking in the oven, and him leaning against the counter, staring at something on his phone. I throw my arms around his torso and let my head rest on his chest.

He wraps one arm around me in return, his focus still on the screen, a screen I would be able to see if my eyes weren’t welling up with tears. I didn’t come over here with the intention of sobbing into his arms, I just wanted to update him on everything and try to gain some perspective, but it always seemed to end this way. 

Finneas doesn’t notice anything is wrong until he hears the quiver in the way I speak

“I fucked up.”

When he does realize, his phone is abandoned on the counter and both his hands hold my face, shifting my attention to him.

“Oh my god. You’re pregnant.” He says, trying to make me laugh.

“Shut up.” I grumble, pushing his hands away from me and taking a step back. 

“What happened?” he asks, focusing entirely on me now.

I explain myself as best I can, trying not to get overwhelmed as I recount it all. When I’m done, all Finneas can do is shrug.

“You told her you wouldn’t keep anything from her. Seems like you know what you should do.”

“God. I should be put down.” I huff.

Laughter bursts from Finneas when the words leave my mouth, and I cant help but smile a little too. “Like a dog?”

I nod, “Precisely.”

“God, thats awful. Shouldn’t we at least give you one last day? C’mon, what do you want? Leaf? Apple? Lentil burger?” He jokes.

The timer goes off, raising the hairs on my arms as Finneas takes mom’s special veggie quiche out of the oven. “You want some?”

I nod, my stomach rumbling at the realization that I haven’t eaten much all day. I hadn’t eaten much all week, even. I’d been preoccupied in my own thoughts.

I'm just so tired of feeling guilty and worrying that I might slip up. And still, there is always the question of why I slipped away to have conversations she couldn’t hear. Once again, she was right. This secret has drawn a line between us during tour. I had her and I didn’t.

Remy’s right. She’s almost always right. I had said that so often recently, it was beginning to feel like a mantra. I worry that she’s already caught on and she’s just waiting for me to confront her with my confession. I worry that she knows me so well, she doesn’t need me to say it.

But why? To torture me? To see what creative ways I might bend myself over and backward? Does she love to watch how faithful I am to nothing but her presence? Would it even matter? 

I would humiliate myself in front of her time and time again, if it meant sharing another bed, watching another movie, having another conversation… After all, nothing could ever surmount the jaw clenching, heart pounding, breathless anxiety of being without her. Of just simply knowing we aren’t on speaking terms. It is wholly and irrevocably pathetic.

My yearning… all pointless. 

She’s the entire ocean, and I, a lone observer. I could admire how the sunset reflects off her, and scream until my lungs burn how perfect I believe she is, but she would remain unaffected by something so small, so insignificant, so irrelevant to her great beauty. The only time I would have the pleasure of being close to her is when she reaches forth and allows it, gracing the tiniest parts of me with her refreshing touch, before withdrawing once more. 

“Billie…” Finneas breaks the spell.

I look down and I’m sitting at his kitchen table, with a fork in one hand, and a tight grip on my jeans in the other.

“You keep zoning out.” He takes a bite of quiche as it steams off the ceramic baking pan in front of us.

I take my first bite and I’m taken back to our old family home, where we grew up, and suddenly we’re in the old kitchen. Finneas and I are ten and fourteen years old, and we’re trying to sneak in a few bites of mom’s quiche, before she realizes it’s done baking. We squirm as the hot food touches our tongues, avoiding the long wait before it cools. Suddenly we’re kids again, sharing whispers behind mom’s back, stealing bites right out of the pan.

“Hey. Where’d you go?” Finneas asks.

I smile, “Nowhere bad.” I shovel another bite of veggie quiche into my mouth, not minding my manners at all. I know this is a safe space. I don’t have to hide or act here.

After our day together, I head for my home, prepping myself for yet, another sleepless night of overthought. The only difference about tonight, is tomorrow will be my big end of tour party. I run my skincare routine on autopilot, convinced that as long as I don’t neglect my face, I can neglect my mental health all I want. Girl math.

The doorbell rings to my surprise. I pull out my phone to check my cameras. It’s Remy. My stomach flutters up to my throat and I vigorously rinse off my face, patting it dry with a towel.

I rush off to the door to welcome her in. Avoiding her never works. She always runs straight through my mind, and back into my proximity.

“Hey, Rem, you okay?” I shut the door behind her.

“Yeah, I’m just checking on you.” She looks at me confused, “You’ve been so bland and dry in our texts and you keep blowing me off.”

I groan, acting casual and stretching my back nonchalantly, “Oh, sorry. I’ve just been real busy with writing.” I lie, again.

Predictable, I know.

I look down at the tote bag under her arm, full of clothes. She packed an overnight bag. This would normally fill me with joy, causing me to practically bounce off the walls and ceiling, but tonight, I’m at war with myself, inner turmoil boiling over in my mind.

“Is it okay? If I stay the night?” She smiles, twirling slightly in place. “I figured we can get ready together for your end of tour party tomorrow?”

“Yeah! I’d love that.” I grab the tote bag from her, throwing it over my shoulder, and lugging it upstairs, as she follows closely behind.

Upstairs, I finish out my skin care routine, moisturizing my face with a hairband holding back my hair.

“So? …Have you missed me?” Her silky smooth voice calls out from my bed, matching her velvety smooth skin in my sheets. That’s precisely where I’ve missed her. Wrapped up in my covers, swallowed up by my pillows, tangled up in my embrace…

I swallow before answering, “It’s only been, like, a week, you dodo.”

She lets out a small, breathy laugh, “I know, dummy. But, we’ve been together every single day for the last few months. I missed you…” She crosses her arms, all the way from her throne, in the sexiest way possible.

God, stop teasing me!

I shake my head jokingly, trying not to get my thoughts get in the way, “Ugh, darling, just admit it. You’re obsessed with me.”

“You wish.” She scoffs, waiting for me to join her. I take off my sweatpants, staying in only boy-short briefs, and my giant shirt.

I climb into bed with her, getting used to the idea of sleeping with her again. The same idea I’d been trying so hard to get off my mind.

“Now, what have you really been up to?” She lays beside me, not buying my previous excuse to going MIA.

“I told you. I’ve been in the basement writing new music, so the entire fandom doesn’t rip me to shreds for not dropping this second part of the album they think I wrote.”

(LMAO 😉)

“Ah. Any luck?” She props her head up on her arm.

“Not really. Writer’s block.” I wince, “Luckily I don’t have any due dates yet.”

She sits up, “You need to relax. You’ve been working hard, you just got back from tour a week ago, Bills.” She turns me on my stomach and lifts up my shirt.

I hold my breath as her soft, honey-like hands behind to rub all over my bare back. I groan, releasing the air in my lungs, “That feels good…”

“I’ll get lotion. Take your shirt off, I don’t wanna get it oily.” She hops over me to fetch the bottle of lotion in my bathroom.

I do as I’m told and remove my shirt, laying back down on my belly, burying my head in my arms. I allow my body to relax, just as she comes back over to me.

She climbs on top of me and sits on my butt, squirting my back with lotion. I tense back up, arching my back a bit, but not from how cold the lotion is.

She laughs, as she begins kneading out the knots in my back, “Relax!”

I do my best to relax, but how could I, when I’m shirtless and she’s on top of me, rubbing all over my naked body?

My back becomes her canvas, pale but ridden with goosebumps, as she swirls her oily fingertips all around my aching muscles.

“Try to close your eyes and forget about everything.” Her breath hits my glistening back, giving me chills.

After about hour of massages, my body gives into her magic touch. I don’t even realize that at one point, I’ve dozed off, and she’s covered me up in sheets and a comforter. The lights are off, and I am next to her, still half bare, as she sleeps.

[xanderisbraindead]

I see people that are tryna get into emo and scene fashion make posts ab like needing help finding clothes or like styling their hair n the liek so I’m here to help. Who am I? Nobody but im like scenemo and very happy to help. Im gonna make a resource masterlist, starting with this post

It’s important to note that if you have the hair, anything you wear will look emo. Emo teens would really just wear just some normal clothing and it fucked! Keep that in mind

How do I find emo/scene clothes?

🇺🇸🇬🇧Check resale sites like depop, ebay, mercari, poshmark (mercari is not available in the uk). You CANNOT build a wardrobe overnight. You just cant. Be patient and just keep checking, I promise you will find something. Heres some things I’ve personally bought or found on these sites and the price usd just for reference (without shipping)// Beetlejuice striped ht skinnies $16.49// We the kings shirt $5.50// All time low shirt $5.50//Red plaid ht skinnies $10.50// Famous star and stripe shirt $5-10// Secondhand serenade shirt $10// A lot of fellow scene and emo ppl resell on these sites!! (Trashmob has a depop for example, so does oliver sykes???)

2-Thrifting. Ik you’re probably tired of hearing it bc duh but… =) Try some local thrifts, big companies either suck, are expensive or both. I’d buy my skinnies from here. Reminder that they don’t have to be black!! You can style black, white, blue, any color of jean. Even styles like flair or bootcut jeans.

🇺🇸HT REPLAY. NOBODY TALKS AB THIS. Hot topic has a thredup, they sell preloved clothing and its constantly updated. Its very discounted. For example a shirt that was initially $25 usd would be sold for $11-9 usd. This is as far as ik only in the us??

Diy, obv. Look at those. Aren’t they cool looking? Not being able to afford band merch doesn’t make you any less of a fan than ppl with huge collections, remember that.

🇺🇸🇬🇧Dont be afraid to check normal stores like target, tk maxx, and walmart, you’ll be surprised. Target has cute character jackets if you can fit kids sizes and walmart made that skeleton sweater vest they gotta have more up their sleeves.

🇺🇸Merchnow.com. They have HEAVENLY old band merch and posters. Like ptv, chiodos, sws, tdwp, coheed and cambria, before today, texas in july, even like icp. this might be a us only thing? If someone could check for me ilys

(Added on Nov 8 23)

🇬🇧Grindstore.com they’re like merchnow kinda, heavenly band merch

(Added April 29 24)

🇺🇸🇬🇧 Childrens clothes if you can fit into them a lot of childrens clothing are very good for a scene look

This is all I have for now, but if i come up with anything else I’ll definitely update this!!

[sharksandjays]

Wow i got a lot more support about it than I thought i would so…NINJAGO OC TIME!!!

A little information first: These OCS are part of a plot me and my friend have come up with that takes place after the Merge, after DR pt2.

Lars was created by my friend @the-chaotic-anon !!! Theyre the one who did all this with me :)

Now here they are!

And now, some info:

- Fynn used to be a student of sensei Yang, and was actually with him when the whole fiasco with Nadakhan happened (He was really young) He ended up wishing for his humanity and for his fellow students be safe. Little did he know that that would mean that theyd be safer without him…and so they were cursed to forget him. Something even his elemental power of memory cant fix. So he has a hatred for a certain djinn, but also for a certain elemental master of lightning that failed to save him and his family.

- Due to his power, Fynn remembers all of Skybound

- Fynn joined a gang and immediatley regretted it but could not escape safely. He ended up basically using his power to manipulate the ninja (before the merge) and then make them forget him, and then use their memories to lead them to the gang so they could take them down and he could be free. They dont know this, and only remember him as a villain that would manipulate them. They HATE him.

- Lars cannot remember their past…how strange?

- Lars is the new elemental master of form, inherited from the old one who died under…mysterious circumstances. They feel like they had a part in it but dont remember why.

- Lars’ elemental powers cause them to melt…a lot. They become stretchy but also liquid like. Its tied to their emotions and its really stressing them out.

- Lars’ best friend is Fynn. He has been there since their memories mysteriously dissapeared. They are suspicious of him. Hes hiding things

- Lars left to join the ninja after the merge, specifically Zane, who was the only one home, seeking training of their newfound powers

- Fynn only joins when (SPOILER OF DR PT2) Jay is brought back by Cole, remembering nothing. Lars tells them they know someone, and seek out Fynn to bring his memories back.

- Fynn tells them he has to fight Jay to bring his memories back. The quick touches help Jay remember and keep Fynn from feeling the full brunt of it. Its a brutal fight. They are pulled apart. Jay remembers

-They get news that the gang Fynn used to be apart of is back. Fynn cant leave the ninja for fear of his life.

- Jay hates that kid, but hes tasked with training him

- Lars runs into a former member of the gang, but instead of killing them, the gang member just smirks. Tells them theyre looking for a certain teapot. And that Fynn isnt telling them the whole truth

I think thats enough for now. Lmk if you want more or have questions! And have some doodles and funny things as thanks for reading this far

[tempting-andromeda]

Humbly requesting for more Javier hcs🙏🙏

Javier Escuella headcanons

Cannot stand whenever he tracks mud places

He knows that being an outlaw living outside does it a lot but he was raised to wipe his feet and such

Likes to sleep on his stomach

Gets offended if you think he can’t do things

No he cant click his heels but because you said he can’t he’s gonna do it

It’s so easy to rile him up

Likes to tell you all about his good memories in Mexico

About how once he carried his little sister to a nearby town because she wanted a candy bar only to find out she already had one hidden away in her bedroom

Was the best big brother

Took on a super protective role over her when he was younger and was kinda overbearing but to him he had to be

Talks about his family a lot when he’s drunk

Misses his mothers cooking but he doesn’t think he could eat it again without feeling bad

Says things like “when we get married I’m going to sneak us back into Mexico for a week so you can try my mamas pozole verde de pollo recipe”

Thinks you and his sister would get along

It’s just fun for him to think about

Really what’s to get married but always says it’s not the right time 

Cannot remember the recipe for anything

He can follow them but he can never do it by himself

Always tries to skip instructions to make things easier no matter what he’s doing

Sometimes he gets annoyed super easily when you try to fix his hair but truthfully he enjoys it

Just doesn’t want to seem incompetent

Will help you buckle or lace your shoes without asking

His love language is acts of service

[sleepyhouse2art]

when i see cute little reminders on social media to "take your meds" i feel so hateful. the commodification of mental illness and its growing popularity as a sort of astrological shorthand for an actual personality by mostly healthy people is mad depressing and annoying

dont tell me to take my meds, you creepy weird motherfuckers! the only people allowed to say that shit to me are my doctor & my husband & my friends. do you think i want to be treated like a baby because i have mental illness? why do YOU seem to want to be treated like a baby? youre on paxil sharon

like my mental illness makes people watch me and check on me and not trust my perception of reality or my memory of things. sometimes i do get straight up treated like a kid by people. if i remember an event differently, i am always wrong. its really frustrating

so no, i don't find it very nice when people infantalize me and i don't like watching people needlessly infantalize themselves. it is mad creepy. it feels like observing a diaper fetishist or something. the whole thing gives me the heebie jeebies

i wonder if it is life being so hard and mean that motivates people to adopt the "sick role"? i understand wanting care but i genuinely think people are hamstringing themselves by pathologizing normal feelings and behaviors because it's making them think they're sick when they really aren't that sick. often people aren't even sick at all and instead just going through the human experience, which is fraught and difficult all on its own without any augmentation by a brain on the fritz, no mental illness needed.

nobody should want to be a patient. its nothing to aspire to. there's no joy in it. it is uncomfortable and the medicine is not safe. i have to take it but it's not like i want to and i feel sour when somebody reminds me. please don't remind me of my shit when it already dominates like my whole life

no, sharon, i do not need a bedazzled pill basket. no, sharon, i do not want "peer support", you are creepy. i hate to inform you that you are not a tubercular 18th beauty languishing in a gorgeous sickbed. you are in a fandom that prizes sickness and this is shameful to me.

your sickness makes you binge watch tv and eat bonbons and passively ideate about scratching your thigh up with a pin. i know pain is relative but like, i used to store my own blood in ziploc bags to protect my home and every painting in my house has told me to kill myself. i have not left my house in over a year. i am on three antipsychotics right now and i am still having frequent hallucinations and they scare me so bad i can't help but react sometimes and that scares my husband and makes him want me to go somewhere just like everybody else wants me to. im trying to stay OUT of the fucking hospital, not WANTING TO GO. im terrified of being raped and killed and i know it will happen to me next time i go. everyone says no, but they don't have my knowledge.

what im saying is this stuff fucks my life up. i cannot live normally. i cant even really take care of myself on my own if im telling the truth. i know im sick. i get reminded all the time. i don't need validation. i wouldn't touch a psych or a therapist or a pharmacy with a fucking ten foot pole if i had the choice. i know im kind of going off rn but who the fuck would want to be a consumer of this boring, tedious, control-abdicating, bad for your body bullshit? i do not understand people like this. i want to be free. be free, sharon!! and stop telling me to take my fucking meds!!!!

[wangxianficfinder]

Fic Finder

March 5th

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1. I’m pretty sure the fic im looking for is a one shot, but it’s been so long I can’t remember: LXC brings WWX (who he’s been teaching musical cultivation) to LQR and is like “he’s never learned this song, watch” and plays something. Then gestures to WWX who plays it perfectly from memory. LXC gestures to him while looking at LQR like “see?” and LQR is impressed

FOUND! multitude Chapter 13: good teacher lan qiren by bunny093 (bamf/genius wwx, the lans are better are sect-ing here, lightly based on a lilo&stitch scene, not yunmeng jiang friendly)

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2. Hello! Looking for a specific fic, at some point wwx transmigrates or reincarnates into the modern world where he is a ceo (?) and was trained by a teacher his whole life about sword fighting etc, and then he eventually gets his memories back and invents a way (i believe it was a device) to dimension/time travel to get back home. @vulpeculatee

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3. Hi, I'm looking for a Wangxian fanfic, where Wei Wuxian is in the Lan sect and he grows mushrooms. I just know that mushrooms were an important part of the fanfic, there was a scene where the other sects followed the Lan disciples to see where they bought the mushrooms. Thanks.

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4. hello! i just finished rereading "switched" (wwx switched with xz) but its ending was wwx finding out that he's pregnant. i remember that there's a part two of that where he gave birth in modern world, and they even cut their own hair but i cant find it. does anybody know where can i find it? or maybe im talking about two different story? im not really sure. thankyouuuuuu!

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5. good day! for the enxt fic finder, do u guys know tha time travel fic where wwx came back during the lectures then he let himself fall from the cliff where lwj was there and told him to let go? thank u in advance!

FOUND!🔒 Without end by barisan (M, 69k, WIP, WangXian, Time Travel, Suicide Attempt, Hurt/Comfort, Depressed WWX, Good Uncle LQR, Bad Parent YZY, Bad Parent JFM, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm,   PTSD, Panic Attacks, Yunmeng Jiang bashing, Sentient Resentful energy, Medical inaccuracies)

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6. Making a deep dive into my AO3 history is an Exhausting prospect right now, so I must turn to the hive mind. Three fics I'm looking for rn.

A) Meng Yao is running an errand and finds his car beset by a swarm of bees! 🐝🐝🐝 Cue LXC to the rescue.

B) Wei Ying is out on a first date and it's going poorly. Lan Zhan overhears. Tea facts are relevant. 🍵

C) Post-canon case fic, where the case is a mysterious energy that some people can see/sense and some cannot. Can't remember whether WWX just happened to bump into LWJ+ducklings or if they were already hanging out, but the two of them figure their shit out whilst investigating. I think there was a garden involved. And energy-induced kissing (possibly even sex?). @linderel

6A)

FOUND! save the bees (ride a beekeeper) by Ariaste (T, 4k, LXC/JGY, modern, Fluff and Humor, Meet-Cute, Bees, Flirting)

6B)

FOUND!🔒 Heaven, Wait by sunflowersfield (T, 2k, wangxian, Modern, Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Neurodiversity, Falling In Love, Getting Together, Happy Ending, First Dates, First Kiss, Hyperfixations, Strangers to Lovers, Meet-Cute, The bad date with the original character is brief and he never sees that guy again)

6C)

FOUND! Not What We May Be by brooklinegirl (E, 29k, WangXian, Post-Canon, Mutual Pining, Bedsharing, casefic, Hurt/Comfort, background Jingyi/Sizhui)

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7. Hi. Hope you are well.

I'm trying (and failing!) to find a WangXian fix I read years ago on Ao3.

From what I remember, Wei WuXian was a Captive of the Wen and kept in a high tower where is tortured and chained with a small window and Lan Zhan also gets captured and put in the same cell of Wei WuXian.

Lan Zhan is there when the Wen soldiers drag Wei WuXian away for torture and they bond. Later Lan Zhan finds out Wei WuXian is a Phoenix and the Wens want his tears. Wen Qing and Wen Ning are his only friends.

Wei WuXian helps Lan Zhan escape and Lan Zhan has to convince the cultivation world to save Wei WuXian but by the time they reach the Wens, they see that Wei WuXian lost control of the Phoenix and Lan Zhan calms him down amidst the fire.

I also remember the fic mentionimg that a Phoenix meant Goodluck.

Thsnk you in advance!

FOUND? a thousand hills, no birds in flight | 千山鳥飛絕 by defractum (nyargles) (E, 26k, WangXian, Mythology, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon adjacent setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort)

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8. thank u so much for all u do! i actually have two fics i’m searching for! i remember reading both in 2021 so i believe that narrows things down!

A) first one is canon divergence from qiongqi path, i remember that wwx almost dies but puts his consciousness into a paperman and his body is somewhat preserved by wen qing till they can find a way to heal him and then transfer his consciousness back but they pretend he died to the other sects (i remember they even go check his body) i remember the wen remnants go to lotus pier pretending to be related to ppl from yunmeg and jzx survives. the whole mess with mxy and the summoning array happens but it fucks it up a little since wwx isn’t actually dead and he becomes something like a spirit/ghost for a while and ends up meeting lwj by accident when he’s taming mxy back to lotus pier. they manage to heal his body and he transfers himself back in and they all live happily ever after.

B) the second one is a fic in a fic series of wangxian having more children and being very domestic that includes past lwj changing places with present lwj for a day and he basically spends the day with wwx, they go farming he helps with the kids, they see lsz for a time, unfortunately that’s all i can remember from it.

8A)

FOUND? 🔒 something like by silversshadow (T, 69k, wangxian, Major Character Death, Canon Divergence, Everyone Lives AU, Temporary Character Death)

8B)

FOUND? These Two Most Powerful by stiltonbasket (G, 4k, wangxian, LXC & LWJ, Married Life, Family Feels, Parenthood, Temporary Amnesia, Time Travel, it's amnesia but it feels like time travel to LWJ, wangxian have more babies, and they are the cutest buns, not your average amnesia fic? there's no drama here tbh, just soft husbands carrying on with fatherhood, And loving each other, Mild Angst, Happy Ending)

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9. Hello! I am looking for some help to find a fic. It's a story where Wei Wuxian becomes the ruler of afterlife essentially. All the characters who died before him are there but he has no memory of his past. The only way to get his memory was to go to earth and retrieve them(?). The last chapter I remember is MXY calling him, allowing him to return to the earthly realm.

Please and thank you 😊 @myblurryreality

Thank you for the suggestion but that is not it, unfortunately. The one I'm looking for starts out with Jiang Yanli and Jin Zixuan being in this after life city. They had to struggle for a bit because there death offerings(?) were delayed. Wen Qing was a doctor in the town and helped heal Jin Zixuan from an injury at one point. The reason everyone's offerings were delayed was because there was a new Ruler, who ended up being Wei Wuxian. He had absolutely no memory of anyone, but allowed Jiang Yanli to visit him. He would hear a song (Wangxian) played as a tribute(?) but didn't know who played it.

NOT FOUND!🔒 A Secret Never Shared by Vrishchika (T, 28k, wangxian, Canon Divergence, frankencanon, Pining, Soft LWJ, Deity WWX, BAMF WWX, Alternate Universe, LSZ is the best boy)

FOUND! A Celebration In White by Enigmatree (T, 20k, WIP, WangXian, XuanLi, Afterlife AU, Underworld, god AU, 13 years of Inquiry, Happy Ending)

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10. Help!

I lost a Twitter threadfic! I could have sworn I saved it, but either I accidentally deleted it or the author did. And they were about to update it too!

It was about WWX who, during the first Burial Mounds siege, was transformed into a rabbit, and now lives as an immortal bunny. Now it's modern times and he's been rescued by a reincarnated LWJ, who is about to leave for college (veterinary) and doesn't remember anything about his past life. WWX is wary of him at first (he thinks that LWJ was amongst those who led the siege), but he eventually warms up to him and manages to tell him the truth using a computer.

Please help me find this! @blueghost13

FOUND? Here's the link for the Twitter Thread And I just discovered that it got updated 2 days ago when I had expected no more, so thanks for making me check 🤗

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11. Hi! I've been searching this fic for so long and couldn't find it. As far as I can remember in this fic Wei Ying survives the siege and he goes away with Ayuan. He invents a silver core type of thing. some kind of mechanical/physical core. And later I think the jins capture him or something. Do you have any idea about this fic?

FOUND? 🔒❤️ kick at the darkness ‘til it bleeds daylight by AlfAlfAlfAlfAlf, tardigradeschool (T, 75k, WangXian, Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Eventual Happy Ending, Getting Together, Burial Mounds Settlement Days, Inspired by The Parent Trap (1998), Kid Fic, teen shenanigans, two a-yuans, Fluff and Angst)

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12. Hi. I love your Fic Finder and Recs and your suggestions have kept me busy reading for almost 2 years now 😍

I was hoping you could help me find a fic I've recently read the summary off. Something about WY accidentally domming LZ Z somehow and turning him into a sub without realizing? And I think WQ pointed it out to him? I believe it was a modern setting, and the summary sounded very light-hearted and entertaining.

I'm not sure if that's enough info to go on, but thanks for your help in advance 🥰 @papperlapapp1

FOUND! And They Were Roommates! or The Accidental Domming of Lan Wangji by DizziDreams (E, 21k, wangxian, Dom WWX, Sub LWJ, inexperienced BDSM practices, un-/under- negotiated kink, horny climbing, horny cohabitation, horny on main except by main I mean at a party surrounded by innocent bystanders, Praise Kink, Masturbation, Bondage, Lingerie, Orgasm Delay/Denial, omg they were roommates, Modern, BDSM, debatably a bit of dom drop, Public Masturbation, Edging, Getting Together, WQ has to come in and straighten this shit out)

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13. I was reading a great fic and then Tumblr updated and ripped out from me when I was only in chapter two! Devastated. Its world building at its finest, you are not folks directly what's happened or happening. WWX is the proprietor of Yiling Garden, a cafe that offers sanctuary. Mo Xuanyu arrives in the first chapter seeking sanctuary from the Inquisition. Lan Wangji arrives, saying he's sanctuary and there for Mo Xuanyu, but WWX assumed he was inquisition at first. They have not seen each other for years. Clearly something happened to separate WWX from everyone he loves except Wen Ning, who works for the shop too, and had been raised from the dead. For unknown reasons, Wen Qing is elsewhere and happy. Wen Yuan is mentioned, but WWX doesn't know what happened to him. There are phones so it's a modern au. And... That's it. Tumblr died right after Lan Wangji asks WWX out for dinner. Help! Thank you VERY much! @lurkdot

FOUND? transmuter by WithLoweredVoices (Not rated, 113k, wangxian, Modern with Magic, Magical Realism, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending)

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14. Hi 😃 I need help to find a fic because I only remember a tiny bit! LWJ isn't wearing his forehead ribbon and LQR/Lan elders are trying to get him to wear a new one, the bit I really remember goes like this:

LQR: gives LWJ a new forehead ribbon LWJ: it's not the same 🥺🥺🥺

FOUND? A Future Family In A Broken Past by Hauntcats (T, 121k, wangxian, WWX & Wen Remnants, Jiang Family & WWX, WQ/MM, JYL/NHS, LXC/NMJ, Not Jiāng Family Friendly, Not Cultivation World Friendly, WWX Needs a Hug, Family Dynamics, What is a good family?, Fear of emotions does not excuse abuse, Not Jiang Clan Friendly, Angst with a Happy Ending, Time Travel fix-it, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon Divergence, LXC needs a hug, Everyone Needs A Hug, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Not YZY Friendly)

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15. Hi! Hope you are well. I am desperately searching for a fic I read once but cannot find it anywhere. In this fic WWX survives the siege and leaves with A yuan. He and a yuan live in hiding. wwx also builds a golden core-more like a silver core as he invents a physical core that works the same as a golden core. I can't remember how it finishes but I think Jins capture him and A yuan seeks help of LWJ. Hopefully you can find this!!! Thank You!

FOUND? 🔒❤️ kick at the darkness ‘til it bleeds daylight by AlfAlfAlfAlfAlf, tardigradeschool (T, 75k, WangXian, Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Eventual Happy Ending, Getting Together, Burial Mounds Settlement Days, Inspired by The Parent Trap (1998), Kid Fic, teen shenanigans, two a-yuans, Fluff and Angst)

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16. Hi! This is for fic finder. Its cql post canon i think. WWX goes to some place near ocean and he resque a men who battling a ghost ship? I think he was a cultivator from a nearby sect. WWX then teach them a little bit before he continue his journey. He went to Jinlintai. In the road he met a woman who goes to the same destination as him to met her wife. They become a fast friend. Thats all i can remember. Thank you! @idontknowwhattowriteforusername

FOUND! Linger by the Door (I’ve Always Been Yours)by piecrust (T, 78k, wangxian, slow burn, canon compliant)

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17. Hi! I don't know if I'm doing this right bc I'm new to tumblr... I've seen your blog before though and it's so helpful! I have a fic finder request - I remember it was a harry potter au where wwx has been gone from lwj's life for 13 years. he came back (as an animagus?) as a black rabbit and lwj was a professor at hogwarts. lwj takes care of rabbit wwx and then jgy comes with aurors at the end of the fic to attack hogwarts and lwj fights him. When lwj is almost going to be killed, rabbit wwx turns back into a human and protects him. Thanks so much!

FOUND? an armful of warmth by Alaceron (G, 3k, wangxian, Harry Potter Setting) It has a sequel, too!

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18. I seem to have read a summary or a review of a wangxian fic and can't recall if it's from this blog so i am putting in a request for help in finding it so in that summary it was mentioned that wangxian had travelled to a village and met a lady on bank of the sea but she was actually a sea monster/creature don't exactly remember what and she consumes hearts of her victim and LWJ becomes her target but he distracts her by tell her his and WWX's story while WWX tries to save LWJ as the body of the victim comes to shore after a week or so don't remember much or more so I hope this suffices also it was most likely to be a multi chapter fic with less than 10 but more than 3 chapters and that it was probably on ao3 . Thank you so much for your work.

FOUND! The Eater of Hearts by ElDiablito_SF (T, 17k, WangXian, Post-Canon, Chinese Mythology & Folklore, LWJ is Scheherezade, WWX and LQR speak to each other agenda, Angst with a Happy Ending, WangXian are very in love and very disgusting, Case Fic, Gratuitous kissage)

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19. Hi!

For the next fic finder can you help me with this ao3 fic, Modern Au where wwx gets kicked out of the Jiang family house so he has to stay (I think) in a shed close to his school, and also he has to take extra food from the school cafeteria and that’s how (I think) LQR finds him stealing after class

There was missing food so they also checked the cameras but wwx dodged them also NMJ in this AU is a cop and close to LXC

When they find out about wwx situation he’s taken to the lan house, eventual wangxian

And I don’t remember more

Thank you a lot for the help!🙇‍♀️❤️

FOUND? Where is home? By SpicyRamen_10969 (M, 80k, WIP, WangXian Modern AU, High School, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Coming Out, Not Jiang Family Friendly, Supportive LQR, Good Sibling LXC, Fluff, Angst with a Happy Ending, JC Being an Asshole, Possible Smut?)

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20. There is this fanfic where Sizhuai(sp?) And Jingyi are night hunting with other Lan juniors. Nearly everyone dies, except him and Jingyi because out of desperation, Sizhuai uses demonic cultivation but he gets whipped a lot with the discipline whip because of it. Because of this Jingyi leaves the Lan sect. When he wakes up, Sizhuai is devastated. Cue angst, and Sizhuai eventually tracking Jingyi down and reconciliation. Unfortunately I can't remember this fanfic title and I would love to reread it. @andyousaidtruelovedidntexsist

FOUND? Give Me A Reason by useless_slytherclaw (M, 25k, ZhuiYi, LSZ & LWJ & WWX, Junior Quartet, Angst with a Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, Friends to Lovers, Post-Canon, Canon Compliant, Mutual Pining, Minor WangXian, Minor JL/OYZZ, Aged-Up Character(s), Grief/Mourning, PTSD, Dreams and Nightmares, Hurt/Comfort, Rogue Cultivator LJY, Family Feels, Demisexual LJY, Injury Recovery, Love Confessions)

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