#(because that went hilariously and badly wrong)

[greyias]

As a follow-up on Ari's never-ending musical tour, it appears Steam just decided to stop counting my progress at 17/100, and refuses to update it past that, because the morning after the romance scene, I decided to go ahead and try to hit up the Underdark (and the Blighted Village) that I had forgotten to serenade while in Act 1, and got so many gold pieces from people who she had not played for previously.

Unlike those plebs in Moonrise Towers, mushroom people are really into the lute.

As is this doomed wannabe kidnapper from the Society of Brilliance:

(don't worry why Astarion was hiding. I was trying to save her and her asshole friends' future asses by stealing back the owlbear egg I'd swindled her into taking, but even when Astarion succeeded and started to sneak away she was like "BITCH GIMME THAT BACK" so have fun dying jerk! But... at least she tips better than the Harpers)

Then headed back to the Blighted Village, which I somehow had missed completely while dragging my feet in Act 1, and performed for all the goblins. They enjoyed our traveling show, and had some, erm. Interesting suggestions.

I, uh, am sure it makes an interesting xylaphone-like sound. But I think I'll pass.

Confirmed: Ari's lute playing is more entertaining than watching ogre porn

Thanks I guess? Also we might be forever banned from the Emerald Grove for reasons, but don't worry about that. It's not important.

[dduane]

Do you have any recommendations on what to do when you can’t write?

I’ve been struggling to write for years, but telling stories is all I want to do. I have ideas and plots and characters all figured out! But actually getting the words onto paper? I just can’t do it. There’s a mental block or something getting in the way.

I want to write, I so badly do. I want to tell my stories! But no matter how hard I try, no matter how much I love the story, the words never work properly. I can day dream scenes up perfectly, but as soon as I’m near paper the words all vanish.

I guess what I’m actually asking is: how did you defeat the blank page?

Well, first of all, I can confidently tell you that your storytelling per se is working just fine. You just told me a perfectly cogent story right there, in writing. So that's good to know.

Now let me put your mind a little at rest by telling you something reassuring about the Writer's Brain:

It's not the sharpest knife in the block, if you take my meaning. It can be tricked. It can be fooled. It can be bamboozled into working when it doesn't want to... sometimes with embarrassing ease. (And this approach is, by and large, far preferable to sitting around over-analyzing one's interior life to figure out what went wrong with your developmental process somewhere in the dim lost past. Just hornswoggle the silly thing into working and then do the analysis later, if you can be bothered.)

Sometimes just changing something basic in the process the Writer's Brain is expecting is enough to make it lose the plot (so to speak...) and let you get on with work. And in your case I'd say, more or less immediately: Have you tried telling the story to yourself out loud, recording it, and then transcribing the recording?

Because this problem is a commonplace among storytellers. Sit them down in the pub and give them tea or a drink and start them going, and you'll get half an effortless hour of hilarious prose about What The Cat Did In The Middle Of The Night or When The Neighbors Were Fighting In The Street Again Yesterday. But show them blank paper, or an empty screen, and (now that the pressure to perform is suddenly in place) they freeze.

So try doing an end run around your writing brain. Borrow or otherwise procure a little recorder of some kind. (Or if you've got a smartphone, add a voice recording app to it.) Go get comfortable somewhere and get yourself into that daydream state, and then—making sure the recorder's on—start talking.

It doesn't have to be perfect unblemished prose. The pursuit of that comes later, after draft zero-minus-one. Just tell the story... or some of it. Or a fragment of it. Even a few paragraphs is a triumph, in a situation like this. You may, during the recording, have to talk yourself into the story stage by starting out talking about something else first. Let that happen.

Then when you're done recording, listen to it and transcribe it (typed or handwritten, as you please).

And maybe a day later, do this again. And a day or two later, once more. And so forth.

You're going to have to keep at this, because your Writer's Brain may start suspecting what you're up to, and try throwing spanners into the works. (Its favorite being "Oh, this isn't working, I may as well give up..." Pay no attention to that nagging little voice behind the curtain. Just keep doing what you're doing. Persistence is a superpower.)

The thing to keep reminding yourself, as you settle into this process, is that sooner or later the WB's resistance is going to flag, because you really do want to tell stories. It does too. What you have to teach it is that—to coin a phrase—resistance is useless. :)

Anyway: give this a try. You'll need to be doing this daily for at least a couple of months to find out whether it works or not. So let me know how it goes.

(BTW: once you've broken through the barrier, you may well find that dictation is a good routine way for you to generate your first draft. At that point—should you feel inclined to go a little higher-tech than recording and hand transcription—let me recommend Dragon Anywhere. This is a month-to-month subscription version of Dragon's flagship text to speech program—the one @petermorwood and I got Terry Pratchett to use when he started having difficulty typing. I use Anywhere a lot, on days when it's easier to write stretched out or lying down than it is sitting up. It transcribes what you say, and then you can just email it to yourself and cut-and-paste it into your writing document. Very handy.)

Hope this helps!

[cy-cyborg]

Tips for wring amputees: its ok if your amputee can't repair their own prosthetics

There's a trope in fiction for amputees to always be these mechanical geniuses who can make and repair their own prosthetics, endlessly tinkering away and improving them. This isn't a particularly trope, and i dont think its harmful or anything, but in reality, prosthetics are REALLY, REALLY complicated, and a lot of amputees cant do their own repairs. And thats ok. Like, prosthetic creation and repair is way, way harder than I think people expect. Well outside the skillset of your standard mechanic, handy man or craftsperson.

People who make and repair prosthetics are called prosthetists. To become a prosthetist, most countries around the world today require you to have completed a bachelor's degree in specifically in prosthetics and orthotics, which covers not only how to make a prosthetics (and orthodics) but a great deal of medical knowledge, physics, how different forces impact "non-standard" bodies, the additional biological wear-and-tear that comes with being an amputee and so much more. This will qualify you to do the job of fitting/making the prosthetic socket (the part that attaches to your body) and putting premade components together to make a functioning device. On top of this, many prosthetists are also expected to have artistic skills, sewing skills, good physical strength and dexterity, IT skills, and more recently, knowledge of 3D modelling and printing.

You want to make all the high-tech components the prosthetists put together to make the full prosthetic? The requirements for that vary country to country, but most will require at least some level study in the field of engineering and/or medicine, on top of what was already required for the prosthetics course.

The reason for all this is because even "basic" prosthetics are extremely finicky, and messing up one thing will have a domino effect on the rest of the body, especially in more complicated prosthetics. It can also result in people getting severally injured if anything is even slightly off. many leg amputees for example end up with spinal issues due to extremely minor issues with their prosthetic that weren't caught until years later, and by then the damage had been done.

Some amputees do learn to do basic repairs. This is most common in places like the US, where a visit to the prosthetist can cost hundred to thousands of dollars (depending on your insurance), but it's also quite common in rural parts of countries like Australia, where cost isn't an issue but access is due to vast distances between major cities. I was personally in this category; as a kid, my nearest prosthetist was 6 hours away. My prosthetist was able to teach my dad, who later taught me, how to do some of the simple repairs, but we still needed to go in every few weeks for the more complex stuff (Kids prosthetic need more adjusting than adults because they're still growing. Also I was rough on my prosthetics and broke them a lot lol).

But even after being taught how to do repairs and having my prosthetics for 20+ years, I only ever did these sorts of repairs to my below-knee prosthetic. I will not do any repairs of any kind to my above knee leg, which is much more technologically complex. Every time I tried, I made it worse to the point where the leg was unusable. I just leave those repairs to the guy who went to university to learn how to do it, and sometimes even he needs to send it off to someone with even more specialist knowledge when it's really badly messed up lol. Last time that happened Australia post lost the package. Not really relevant to this post, I just find the idea of it being sent to the wrong place by accident hilarious, it was one of my more realistic legs too so someone probably had a heart attack when they opened that package lmao.

Anyway, back on track lol.

This isn't even touching on the fact that on some more advanced prosthetics, many features are actually locked behind a security barrier only prosthetists can access. My prosthetic knee has an app on my phone I can pair it to, that allows me to change certain settings and swap between certain modes for different activities that tell the leg to change its behaviour depending on what I'm doing (e.g. a mode for running, a mode for cycling etc). but most of the more in-depth settings I can't access, only my prosthetist can, and he can only gain access to those settings with a security key given to him by the manufacturing company that requires him to provide proof of his credentials to receive it. I don't really agree with this btw, something about being locked out of my own leg's settings makes me feel a bit of an ick, but it's set up like this because people used to be able to access these settings and they would mess with things to the point their leg was virtually unusable. Because altering one setting had a domino effect on all the others, and a lot of folks weren't really paying attention to what they were messing with, all their prosthetists could do was factory reset the whole leg, which causes some issues too. Prosthetic arms are often similarly complex, as I understand it and have similar security barriers in place for more advanced arms. I don't know for sure though, so take that with a grain of salt.

All this to say these are incredibly delicate, finicky and complex pieces of equipment. There's nothing wrong with having a techy amputee character who can do their own repairs, but in reality, that is pretty rare, and its ok to have your character need to see a prosthetist or someone more knowledgeable than them. It's a part of the amputee experience I don't see reflected very often in media. In fact, the only examples I can think of in fiction (meaning not stories based on real people) where this is reflected are Full metal alchemist.

technically I think Subnautica Below Zero also mentions prosthetists are a thing in that world, but its a very "blink and you'll miss it" kind of thing...in fact I did miss it until my last playthrough lol.

[pastafossa]

Haunted (Matt Murdock x TRT!Reader, Fic, SFW)🌧️

Right, so close to 3 years ago, I had an ask in my box: 'what would happen if TRT!Reader/Jane Hind lost her memory just before returning to Matt after her three months away', aka: just before point where they both confessed their love and got together in mainline TRT. So I wrote up a fairly angsty, no happy ending sort of fic about it, which you can find here. But there just felt like there was more to the story, and the idea of a sequel wouldn't leave me alone, so I've worked on it in little bits and pieces over the past few years and I'm finally ready to unleash that into the world now that it's been edited to my satisfaction.

This will have a happy ending and hurt/comfort, once we swim through a lot of Matt Suffering. <3 Ship: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Chapter Summary:

Leaving him like that shouldn’t have bothered you as much as it did. You didn’t know him. This man should have been nothing more than a stranger on the street, one you wouldn’t glance twice at, much less feel some ridiculous sense of attachment or obligation to. Yet the memory of walking out of his apartment still left you shaken whenever you allowed yourself to think too long on it.  He… shouldn’t have been alone. That was wrong, somehow.  There was no memory attached to the thought, no blinking sign you could point to that would justify your growing unease. You just knew it. You knew it in the way you knew how to breathe, how to blink, knowledge etched into your very bones over and over by an unfamiliar hand. And no matter what you did, no matter where you went, you were unable to escape the feeling that… that you’d made a terrible mistake, broken something good, tilted the world on its axis until the whole of the city, the earth, the very sky hung just a little crooked like an off-center painting.  Matt was alone.  You’d left him alone.  It was the right choice, one you’d made dozens if not hundreds of times before. Hell, it should have been even easier this time since there were no memories to hold you back. So… why did you feel so very sick?

Wordcount: 11, 805 words so, hilariously, about 3 times the length of Part 1

Warnings for this chapter: angst, alcohol, matt spiraling fairly badly, he throws some things, LOTS of TRT references and spoilers so I wouldn't do this one unless you've finished the Miami arc in TRT.

Sad Matt gif as a reminder that the angst is pretty heavy here because I'm really going to emotionally beat on this poor man for a bit.

At Ciro’s insistence, you gave yourself one month in Hell’s Kitchen. 

A month wasn’t much time, granted, but it would hopefully be enough to see if there was a chance of bringing back the memories you’d lost: memories of friends, of your life here, and of… of whatever it was that you’d had with Matt Murdock. Based on his grief over the loss of Jane Hind—not you, but her surely, the role, the mask you’d worn while here—his attachment to her had been deep and fervent, and those feelings appeared to have been at least partly reciprocated. The dangerously intimate photo you’d found in your memory box was all the proof you needed of that. 

Your past self had already been accustomed to his touch when the photo was taken, based on the way she’d allowed him to press his head tenderly to her temple, his dark eyes warm and fond as he'd smiled in her direction even if he couldn't see her, his arm draped over her shoulders. She should have been put off by the proximity, by such a blatant show of physical intimacy, but instead of looking distressed, she’d been relaxed and comfortable where she’d confidently tucked herself up against his side. Try as you might, you hadn’t been able to find any hint of discomfort, any clue that signaled the obvious affection she’d felt was an act, her shoulder angled in a way that made you think she’d wrapped her arm comfortably around his waist, her grin bright and so very real.

This couldn’t be you.

When was the last time you'd looked that happy?

When was the last time you’d let someone hold you close? 

And when was the last time someone had looked at you like… like they might… 

“Did I… love him, Ciro?”

“I believe that… you might have, yes. Him, and this city. That is why I encourage you to stay, for a time at least. See if the memories return to you. Even should you leave, it would be wise to know of the life you led here.”

Ciro had sent a check to your office, booking you for the month and clearing your schedule. Just like that, you were free to focus on looking for something that might trigger the return of your memories. Though what that something might be, you weren’t really sure. A more thorough examination of the apartment had been your first step. Unfortunately, there’d been nothing there that seemed familiar beyond the same cheap decor and calculated set pieces you’d always used. You’d quickly ruled those out. They were meaningless distractions meant to reinforce the lie of whatever pre-planned identity you’d taken on. In this case, that identity was Jane Hind—practical, professional, detached, likes sailboat paintings and the color grey. Based on the fine layer of dust you'd found coating everything but the kitchen counter and a neat stack of mail, no one else had spent much time here during your months away. That, at least, fit your pattern. You weren’t in the habit of making friends or putting down roots. There was no point in doing so when you’d just wind up cutting them loose and running again. 

What had unsettled you far more were the hints of connection you’d found quietly tucked away:

A fleecy stuffed bear holding a plush crystal ball, the threads connecting the two uneven as if hand-stitched. That kind of time and effort wouldn’t have been spent on anyone but a friend, and the bear’s prominent position on the counter lent it far more importance than any of the other decorations.

A tacky ‘Handsome Devil’ coffee mug, the curling red script and clichéd devil horns design bizarrely out of place amongst the rest of the plain white mugs in the cupboard. An identity like Jane Hind wouldn’t have been caught dead drinking from it, which meant someone else was here with enough regularity to have a mug of their own. Further digging revealed a second decorated mug, this one adorned with the name of the law firm co-run by Matt. You could have written off one mug, but two? Two was a pattern.

An entire drawer in the dresser devoted solely to a pile of dangerously soft shirts that clearly didn’t belong to Jane Hind, the fabric threadbare and worn. They looked about the right size to be Matt’s, though, the faint traces of scent a match for him. The fact that they took up an entire drawer indicated he’d visited often enough to need a space for his clothes. 

You’d… made space for him in your false life. That wasn’t something you did.

Or had you been the one wearing them? 

Maybe…?

You’d spent a long moment holding one of the shirts in your hand, rubbing at the fabric in hopes of stirring something. When that hadn’t worked, you’d even brought it up to your nose to inhale slowly, just in case the traces of scent brought some memory back. 

Clean soap. Salt. Copper. Faint cinnamon. 

All it had done was remind you of holding a grieving Matt in his kitchen after he’d realized your memories weren’t coming back. It was a gloomy enough memory, but ultimately unhelpful.

You'd tossed the old shirt on top of the dresser and moved on. 

While you didn’t know who exactly you’d been here in New York, the longer you searched, the more it became clear what had happened. You’d started to slip, your years of isolation forming a crack in your layers of armor. That fracture had allowed an attachment to form, an insidious connection worming its way in through the open gap like poisonous roots through crumbling pavement. You’d grown weak, and careless. There was no other explanation for why you’d broken so many of your rules, dominoes tipping one by one until it cascaded into a waterfall of mistakes. You’d slipped before, of course—loneliness was natural and expected, which was why you had so many contingencies—but you’d never let yourself get in this deep. Not until now. 

What you didn’t know was… 

Why?

Why here? 

Why these people? 

And why the fuck hadn’t you followed your rules and run? 

If there was an answer to be found in Jane Hind’s apartment, you couldn’t seem to find it, no matter how hard you look, no matter how many of her belongings you dug through. Even your memory box had failed you, the photo of you and Matt at the back of your stack of pictures an outlier you couldn’t explain, this fruit of an as-yet unidentified poisonous tree. You had no real leads, no faint ringing of memory to guide you beyond a vague sense that, somehow, this started with Matt. You didn’t even know where to begin. 

At least, not until some shaggy-haired guy named Foggy—what the fuck kind of nickname was that?—showed up entirely and rudely unannounced at your front door, dressed in a cheap suit and wearing a bizarrely determined look. Despite your doubts, you reluctantly allowed him in. He made it pretty clear he knew you, and if you were lucky he could tell you more about your life here.

“So I know you usually skedaddle when things get uncomfortable, which I imagine they are at the moment. How long are you trying to stay?” 

“One month.” You shrugged casually, a cover for just how warily you were watching him as he paced in your—in Jane Hind’s living area. He knew far more about you than you knew about him, a reversal you were uncomfortably aware of. That vulnerability was almost enough to trigger a retreat beneath that cold, brittle shell you’d used long ago, though you quickly caught hold of that instinct and buried it back down deep where it belonged. Still, you couldn’t quite hide the cool clip to your voice, your walls firmly in place. “Leaving after that. Don’t see the point in staying if the memories are gone. Truthfully I’m not sure why I stayed in the first place, especially once it was clear I was getting attached. No offense.” 

“None taken, my hopefully-still-friend-when-your-memories-come-back.” He abruptly swiveled on his feet to face you, squinting at you thoughtfully. “How badly do you want your memories back?” 

You thought of out-of-place mugs and hand-stitched psychic teddy bears; of faint cinnamon and a worn photo frame; of the way you’d held a broken Matt in his kitchen until he’d carefully pushed you away and asked you to leave, his face closed off and distant despite the tears on his cheeks and yours. 

You’d… been someone here. Someone cared for. Someone whose loss was mourned.  

Even if you left, you needed to know just who that someone had been, if only so you could make sure this never happened again. Not until you reached your island in the sun. 

“Badly enough to stay for the month,” you said quietly. 

“Then put some shoes on. We’re going on a memory hunt.”

Over the next few weeks, Foggy took you all over Hell’s Kitchen. 

You visited Jane Hind’s office, abandoned warehouses, and empty rooftops covered in thick blankets of snow. He reintroduced you to Karen, to your upstairs neighbors, and to a bartender who didn’t seem all that inclined to be introduced to anyone. You drank crappy beer and slightly less crappy vodka, played pool, and went to the zoo to stare for far too long at penguins, which Foggy refused to explain no matter how much you pressed. He had you focus on sights, on smells, on sounds that might trigger a memory. He joked with you in between, and he was just funny enough, friendly and clever enough, that for the first week or so, you were consistently cracking a smile. Hell, you even laughed now and then, much to your surprise. He really did know you, enough so that you gradually began to relax around him, just a little. He was likely hoping the addition of a friend’s voice would bring back what you’d lost, especially when paired with all the other sensations. 

But no matter how much you both tried, your memories remained lost. 

God, you hadn’t thought this would… would hurt as much as it did. Yet with every day that you failed to find your way back to who you’d been, the more that fierce ache, that old longing inside you grew. Your smiles became brittle, your laughter fading, until both finally dried up like withered, crumbling leaves beneath a bitter frost. You couldn't help pulling away really, not when your soul curling up in the dark might protect you from the agony of knowing that maybe, just maybe, you’d finally found what you'd always wanted. How fitting that it had been ripped away from your bloodied, desperate hands like so many times before, one more square for the filthy patchwork quilt of shredded lives and possibilities you’d been forced to leave behind. What was worse: even your memories of that seeming joy had been stolen, too, leaving you with nothing left to carry but the tattered scraps of a ghost and the photograph of a stranger wearing your skin.

It shouldn’t have been possible to miss what you couldn’t remember. Yet here you were missing it all the same. 

It didn’t help that Matt was avoiding you in every way that mattered. You’d thought about calling him if only to ask him questions about your life here, but you could never quite work up the courage to do it. He must have felt the same since he hadn’t reached out to you, either. And why would he? He knew as well as you did that your memories likely weren’t coming back. It made sense to cut that connection, tear it away like a weed before the roots could do more damage—something you should have done sooner, for both your sakes. What you hadn’t expected was just how good he was at dodging you, somehow absent no matter how many places Foggy took you to, places he swore Matt frequented with you when you’d lived here, as if Matt’s mere presence might be enough to trigger some memory in you. Had he been that important? Either way, it didn’t matter. You hadn’t seen Matt once since you’d walked out, doing your best to ignore his hitched breath as you’d opened the door. You’d forced yourself to ignore, too, the broken, agonized sound of grief that he’d let out as you quietly shut the door behind you, leaving him alone. 

Leaving him like that shouldn’t have bothered you as much as it did. You didn’t know him. This man should have been nothing more than a stranger on the street, one you wouldn’t glance twice at, much less feel some ridiculous sense of attachment or obligation to. Yet the memory of walking out of his apartment still left you shaken whenever you allowed yourself to think too long on it. 

He… shouldn’t have been alone. That was wrong, somehow. 

There was no memory attached to the thought, no blinking sign you could point to that would justify your growing unease. You just knew it. You knew it in the way you knew how to breathe, how to blink, knowledge etched into your very bones over and over by an unfamiliar hand. And no matter what you did, no matter where you went, you were unable to escape the feeling that… that you’d made a terrible mistake, broken something good, tilted the world on its axis until the whole of the city, the earth, the very sky hung just a little crooked like an off-center painting. 

Matt was alone. 

You’d left him alone. 

It was the right choice, one you’d made dozens if not hundreds of times before. Hell, it should have been even easier this time since there were no memories to hold you back.

So… why did you feel so very sick? 

Sympathy. 

That was all you were feeling. Matt was grieving a woman he’d cared about, one who’d died and left a cold stranger in her place. It was normal to feel for someone in that much pain, and no one should be alone while grieving. Maybe this was for the best. The sooner you were fully out of his life, the sooner all his friends and family could step in, and the sooner he could move on. He wouldn’t be alone, then. And even if he was, his loneliness wasn’t your goddamn problem. You had more than enough troubles of your own.

Protect yourself. 

Protect what you might one day have. 

All else was irrelevant.

You just… hoped he was doing alright. 

He did his best to avoid you, but that only grew more difficult once your ghost began to haunt his every step.

Even Josie’s quickly became off-limits—something he discovered one night when he stepped through the front door where he was promptly met with the familiar, comforting scent of you floating like a haze beneath the smell of cheap beer and sour sweat. His body went rigid the moment he recognized it, your presence across the room a sharpened knife that only widened the wound carved into him by your death. And if the scent of you was a knife, then your bark of laughter was a cruel twist of the blade, one that left him gutted and shaking there in the doorway. He drank in his apartment after that, waiting for that blessed moment when he would feel nothing, waiting for the very second the glorious shroud of night fell. Only then could he finally escape to the streets and drown himself in a far better kind of pain, taking his rage and his grief out on whatever piece of shit had the misfortune of falling into the Devil’s path. 

But Foggy seemed determined to shove the specter of you directly into his face. 

“You need to talk to her!” Foggy snapped, his voice only just shy of a shout. Matt ignored him as he headed for his office, desperate to retreat from your scent lingering on Foggy’s clothes. Foggy had taken you to a coffee shop that morning, one you’d frequented when you’d lived here, and now each inhalation was a vicious torment. It felt like breathing in shards of glass, the sharp pain of it throbbing with every stuttered, choked breath he drew in. If Foggy noticed, he didn’t seem to care. “Christ, Matt! You love her and we both know it. If you talk to her, it might trigger something—”

“Stop,” Matt grit out, reaching up to scrub his hand angrily over his face. He stalked his way over to his desk, still desperate to escape somehow, even if it was into his work. “Just stop, Foggy. I did talk to her, and you know what happened? Nothing. She didn’t remember anything at all. She’s gone, and you dragging this out is just making everything worse for all of us.” 

“So what, you’re just gonna roll over?” Foggy scoffed, crossing his arms as he planted his feet in Matt’s doorway. “Are you sure you actually loved her? Because I’m pretty sure she loved y—”

Matt slammed his fist down on his desk, the furious crack of it echoing through the office like a gunshot as he shouted, “Don’t you fucking dare!” 

Tension hung thick in the air as Matt’s chest heaved, his teeth bared, blood and adrenaline running hot in his veins as if Foggy were some sort of-of threat. Everything in him shook with rage, or maybe unshed grief, the burden of them both impossibly twisted and tangled beneath the sea of his guilt and his self-loathing until he couldn’t tell which was which. He just couldn’t—how was he supposed to force it all down when Foggy had just come so close, so dangerously close to shattering what few pieces remained of Matt’s crumbling armor?

It was bad enough loving you the way he did only for you to slip through his bloodied, desperate grasp like whispering grains of sand. What was worse, this entire disaster was one of his own making, a series of mistakes whose snarled, winding paths led inevitably back to him just like they had so many times before in his life. This loss of someone who’d truly understood him, accepted him, cared for him had already broken something inside him he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to repair. But that fracturing inside him would surely rise up to consume him if Foggy were right, if you’d truly cared for him that deeply before your memories were taken, so deeply that you might even have…

I miss you, sweetheart.

…loved him the way he loved you. 

Abruptly Matt’s surge of rage drained away and his head fell, leaving him feeling all the more empty and broken. He braced his arms weakly against his desk, drawing in a shaky breath as he forced himself to confess, his voice gone hoarse and ragged with grief. “I loved her, Foggy.” He lifted one shaking hand to his face. “God, I loved her so, so much. I can’t… I don’t know what to do without her now that she’s gone.” “I know, Matt,” Foggy said gently. “I know.” “I loved how she always smelled a little like coffee, and the way she always managed to wind up climbing into the oddest places for a case. She had one of the foulest mouths I’ve ever heard, but I swear she could use it to talk her way out of almost anything or to bring someone up out of whatever dark hole they were trapped in. She was… far kinder than she’d ever admit.” His lips quirked, but there was no humor in it, the expression miserable and gutted. You’d have likely argued with him about how kind you were if you’d been here. But there was no chance of that now, no matter how much the scent of you on the air told him otherwise. “Some days it felt like she was the only thing holding me together, like the only time I could breathe was when she held me in her arms. She was always there when I fell apart, or when it all… when it all started to hurt too much. And I tried to give her whatever pieces of me the Kitchen hadn’t already taken, to be there for her like she was for me, to keep her safe. We were finally going to make our relationship official when she came back, her and me, even if there’d… already been something there for a while now if I’m honest.” 

And it had, it had been there, this soft, tender thing that had developed slowly but surely between the two of you, a tangling that came by degrees rather than all at once. It had sprouted, grown, and blossomed so gradually that even now he struggled to point to any one moment where it had truly begun—the night he found you in the warehouse, maybe, or that first game of Devil Hunt, or when you’d both almost taken the leap before he’d realized you were drunk. But the question of where it began didn’t matter. All that mattered was that it was there, something nameless yet still so good and warm and perfect, a connection nurtured in the low light and the blood-soaked soil of the Kitchen. You’d felt it just like he had, and you’d been willing to take that chance with him despite the baggage he carried behind him like an anchor destined to drag him down. You never would have agreed to kiss him when you came back otherwise. Now that chance was gone. 

“How much did she know before she left?” Foggy asked quietly, leaning against the doorframe. 

”She knew that I-that I wanted to be with her, but I never told her that I loved her.” Matt blew out a slow, heavy breath. “I was too scared of chasing her away, I guess. I thought maybe when she came back, if she still wanted me, I would… I decided that I would tell her. But I waited too long. Now she’s gone and I’ll never be able to tell her. All because of me.” 

He finally lifted his head, tipping it at Foggy. Neither of them dared mention the wetness on Matt’s cheeks. Even speaking about this—about how much he’d loved you only for him to ruin it—was almost more than he could bear, the edges of the wound still fresh and raw. Then again, maybe he deserved that pain after how miserably he’d failed you, just like everyone else in his life. “I miss her. And what’s worse is even when she’s right there in front of me, she’s not. She’s not, Foggy. Because I-I fucked up. I’m the reason the woman I knew, the woman I loved, died. I’m the reason she’ll never remember what we had, why I’ll never hold her again, and why she’ll leave New York at the end of the month like she does whenever she’s afraid of forming a connection.” He let out a bitter laugh, waving towards the windows, towards the place you’d once held dear. “I couldn’t even keep her here before. She almost ran last summer and the only thing that stopped her was being kidnapped. That was what slowed her down long enough for our thread to turn red, not me. She won’t let that happen a second time, not now that she’s seen what happens to people I care about. Do you understand?” 

The door to Nelson and Murdock creaked open, Karen’s voice making its way in first. Her voice was followed only a moment later by another’s, one still so familiar. 

“—I mean, winding up in a pool while chasing a kid sounds about right for me, so even if I don’t remember, I won’t argue—”

“I had to keep you here somehow.” Foggy’s voice remained quiet, but there was no disguising the ferocity in it now, the fervent belief. “Get out of your own head and talk to her, Matt. Fight for her. She would want you to.” 

No. 

No, no, no.

Your body may have been here, whole and real, but the woman who’d known him wasn’t. The song of your voice, your sweet scent, the flames of heat and stirred air currents around you flaring into a familiar shape: all of it was nothing but a lie, a snare for his senses, a ghost of his own making, and he wasn’t about to be caught by it again. 

He darted back around his desk, shoving his way past Foggy on the way toward the front door, his heart racing. If he was quick, if he just put up enough of a front, he could get out before they trapped you here with him like they’d planned. He wouldn’t relive this grief again, he couldn’t, not without falling apart. The moment he’d had with you in his apartment had been enough agony for one lifetime. 

“Hey, Matt.” You cleared your throat, shifting awkwardly on your feet where you’d stopped by the front door. Your stance was cautious and guarded, almost wary of him. It was just one more reminder of how uncomfortable he made you now. “Are you—”

“Heading out,” he said stiffly, only belatedly remembering to trace one hand along the wall as if his heightened senses hadn’t given him a clear map of the room the moment his adrenaline spiked. That spike was a curse all its own. It made the scent of you so much stronger, the lie of it fresh and present as it twined around him. His chest hitched just once before he forced himself to breathe his mouth. But that route of escape had been cut off, too. All it did was shift his focus to the taste of you on the air, and the taste of familiar fabric once so tenderly given. 

You were wearing one of his shirts. 

He fumbled for his cane, his hands starting to shake before he finally found it where he’d left it against the wall. He couldn’t let you see him like this. It wasn’t your fault that you didn’t remember him, nor was it your fault that he’d lost you. He’d done enough damage without adding a layer of guilt to what you were dealing with, too. But despite his attempts to hide what he was feeling, his face a hard mask, your fingers still brushed gently against his arm a moment later. It was an offer of help, or maybe an attempt to reach out, to slow him down, to connect. It was a kindness, a sympathy he didn’t deserve. Even now, you read him far too well, this touch the same as it had been that first night he’d met you when you’d gently brushed your hand against his arm. “Hey, do you need… I could walk you home.”

He shied away from your touch, finally managing to roughly unsnap his cane before going for the door. “I’m fine. I just—I have things to take care of. Excuse me.”  

He went straight home and showered, but no matter how many times he scrubbed, he couldn’t seem to wash the ghost of your scent away.

You slowly wandered around Matt’s office, taking it in. This was another place you’d supposedly frequented, a place that should have been familiar, and one you'd avoided until now.

Even though Foggy had assured you it was alright, it felt… almost wrong to explore a stranger’s space like this without them present. But you couldn’t help but brush your fingers across the battered desk and the small labels in braille you couldn’t read, run your hands along the chair for clients that you might have sat in once, and trace curiously the small seashell next to Matt’s laptop. The base scents of Matt were stronger here where he spent so much time, only partly erased by the smell of coffee and paper. The room was clean, cared for, and well-organized despite how rundown the office was. Important to him. You could tell that much, even if the scents and sights had failed to spark any memories.

Maybe… knowing his space wasn’t enough. 

This was about more than just figuring out who you were, now. For some reason, you needed to know who Matt was, too: this man Jane Hind had cared so much about and who’d cared so much about her. You told yourself it was practical. Matt was your best bet when it came to remembering who you’d been. But some part of you deep down recognized the lie. No, there was something in you inescapably drawn to him, a pull you couldn’t quite explain. Maybe that strange, unnatural gravity was what had started this whole mess in the first place. What was it about him that was so different, that had driven you to break every last rule you’d lived your life by for over a decade? 

And why… did you spend so long wondering if he’d ever climbed out his office window?

It had been twenty-nine days, and not a single memory had returned. 

Oh, there were beats now and then when you thought that maybe, just maybe something was coming back, but those moments were painfully few and far between. Even in those moments, you couldn’t say remembered anything, exactly. It was more a frustrating sense of deja vu, a fleeting little itch at the back of your mind like you’d forgotten something important, flashing road markers to warn you of the dark, empty gaps in your memory. That sense was probably driven at least in part by Foggy’s growing desperation as he frantically hunted for something that might trigger a return of your memories. 

But the rest of that feeling… the rest was all you. 

There was no denying a traitorous part of you wanted to remember no matter how ill-advised it might be. You wanted to remember this bizarre little family you’d stumbled into and then lost, just like in Los Angeles. You wanted to remember the love you’d had for this place, this city, this taste of mutual affection that had grown up around you after going so long without. After endless ages and ages of drought, of starvation, you hungered for even these bare crumbs of connection, something to tide you over until you found safe haven on the distant horizon. What a tempting thought it was to slither back into the life of this woman who’d been so cruelly murdered and replaced by a stranger wearing her skin.

Was this what a demon felt like when it took over a body? To walk around with someone else’s face, to speak with the unnatural voice of the dead, tormenting the loved ones that remained? 

That, ultimately, was why it didn’t matter what you wanted. Your presence in this city only spread rot and suffering. It would be better for everyone involved if you left like you should have long before now. Then they could all grieve without you tainting the very soil around them. 

Especially Matt. 

You’d seen him once or twice in passing as your time in New York wound down. Even at a distance, you’d marked the growing circles under his eyes, dark enough to be visible despite the glasses he always wore. The rest of him wasn’t doing much better. It seemed like every time he crossed your path, there was another bruise, another cut across his face or knuckles, a shifting canvas of pain painted across skin grown pale and drawn. He didn’t just look tired—that wasn’t what this was. This was something far worse, a haggard exhaustion, a weariness that couldn’t be solved with sleep, if he slept at all. This was someone being haunted. 

Probably because the ghost of Jane Hind kept crossing his path. But that would be solved soon enough. 

You’d already packed up your things, not that you had much to take. Just your bag and your memory box. You’d be leaving the next day. Foggy was still convinced he had a few more days, but you had other plans. You couldn’t give Matt back the woman he’d lost, nor could you give him a body to bury, a grave to lay flowers across, but you could give him what Jane Hind had carried with her until her dying breath. 

“I thought you might… want these before I left tomorrow,” you said quietly. “I… sorry, it’s… it’s a bag with my—with her things.” 

Matt took it carefully from you, the motion mechanical and stiff. He hadn’t really invited you the rest of the way into his apartment, the two of you now stalled out in the hallway just beyond the closed front door. He hadn’t taken his glasses off, either. It made it harder to read him, his face closed off and impassive, a wall of red glass placed firmly between you. Come to think of it, you hadn’t seen his eyes even once since that day you’d first come back, and you didn’t blame him. You didn’t like feeling vulnerable, either, though that was just a guess when it came to what he might be feeling. 

“It’s the shirts from her apartment, which I think are yours. And the stuffed bear.” You bit your lip and released it slowly, shifting uncomfortably on your feet. “And the… the mug, which Nelson said was yours, too. The one you used at her place. I also put the hoodie in there, the one she had with her while she was traveling. And…” You reached into your pocket, fumbling for a moment. God, you were bad at this, unsure of just how to do this without hurting him any more than was absolutely necessary. It wasn’t a concern you usually dealt with since your goal was almost always the exact opposite, a precaution meant to destroy any threads of connection they held with you. Unfortunately, he wasn’t giving you much to work with, though you didn’t miss his subtle flinch when you drew the key from your pocket. “I thought you might want this, too.”

You cautiously edged forward, daring to breach the ring of radiant heat that surrounded him, the closest you’d come to him in almost a month. He went stiff as you approached, his jaw growing tight as the gap between you both closed. Another step, and his head cocked as if he were listening to your footsteps, or maybe… maybe he was just waiting to find out what you had to give him. But he wasn’t telling you to fuck off or just set your gift aside, which was a good sign. So you hesitantly reached out and brushed your fingers lightly against his bicep, a signal so he knew you were about to pass him something. 

A breath.

He remained absolutely still amidst the sudden, crackling tension in the air as your fingertips skated gently down and around his forearm, stirring all the little hairs, his skin shockingly warm. All you’d intended to do to take his arm and guide it up so you could place the key in his hand, but you quickly found yourself distracted by a ragged scar along the back of his forearm, one your fingers seemingly made their way to on instinct. It was a deep scar, the original cut likely made by some sort of blade, the edges of it rough and uneven from messy stitching. Your curiosity got the better of you, so much so that you missed the way Matt had begun to hold his breath.

“Who fucked up the sutures on that?” You furrowed your brow, your thumb smoothly marking out the jagged line of it. “They did a terrible job. No offense.” 

Matt’s face fell and you only realized too late just who it was that must have patched him up. 

Before you could blink, he’d yanked his arm out of your grip as if your touch had burned him. “Don’t,” he grit out, his chest heaving as he put a few steps distance between you both. “You can—just put your key on the bench.” 

“How did you know—” “Because there’s only one thing left it could be.” 

You nodded weakly, taking a few steps back towards the little bench beside the door. That unfamiliar ache, that sense of wrongness was back, the weight of it settling uneasily in your chest like a stone until you almost wanted to retch. It didn’t help that Matt was just barely holding himself together while you were here. 

Best to say what you’d come to say and leave him be. 

You gently set the key down, and the quiet click of the brass against the wood seemed to echo in the hallway, a graveyard bell tolling with a looming sense of finality. What you were about to tell him would hurt, you knew it would, but maybe one day he’d find comfort in it. This—a sign of what she’d felt—was the real gift you’d truly come to give, the only true token of her you could offer. Your words, when you spoke, were almost as hoarse as his. “I thought you should know I… she wore it. The key. I asked them. She wore your key and she never took it off. Not once. Whatever you both had, she treasured it, and all she wanted was to get back to you. She didn’t leave you by choice, Matt. I hope that… that helps.” 

Of all the things you’d said and done, it was this that finally seemed to break him. His face twisted in a sudden wave of grief, and regret hit you all at once. You quickly took a step towards him, one hand out, though you weren’t sure what you’d do if he reached back—it wasn’t like you knew how to comfort him, and you sure as hell didn’t know if he’d tolerate you holding him again, nor whether he was someone that needed some sort of touch when he was hurting. But before you could take another step he’d flinched away from you, retreating quickly back into the darkness of his apartment, his voice ragged. “Just go. Get out.” 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, backing away towards the door. “I’m… I’m so sorry.”  

It shouldn’t have hurt as you closed that door one last time. But you cried all the same. 

Somewhere within the apartment came the sound of splintering furniture and a hoarse scream wracked with grief.

“Look, Nelson.” You tiredly adjusted the strap of your duffle bag over your shoulder, reaching up to pinch at the bridge of your nose as if it would stem your growing headache. “I know it’s a day early. But another twenty-four hours isn’t going to make a fucking difference.” 

“I don’t need another day!” he pleaded, his arms spread wide where he’d blocked your front door, ensuring you couldn’t leave your apartment until you’d heard him out. You’d had no idea he even had a key until today and, not for the first time, you cursed Jane Hind’s apparent lack of common sense. You did not give out keys, or at least, you hadn’t before coming here to this ridiculous fucking city. “Just five minutes. That’s all. I’ve got one last thing to try.”

“Maybe I don’t want to try one more thing!” you snapped bitterly, dropping your hand. That anger was a good cover for the way something sharp and prickly had begun to catch in your throat, the incident with Matt still fresh in your mind. “I’ve tried for a month, and it’s gotten me nothing. Fucking-fucking bars and random rooftops and a shitty little duck, goddamn penguins and keys, and none of it did shit! Jane’s gone, ok? She’s dead. And I’m sorry, I know you all cared about her, but I’m done—”

“Have you climbed inside a thread?” 

“...What?” you asked in sudden bewilderment, your rage abruptly faltering in the face of pure confusion. “What the fuck does that even me—”

He let out a whoop, practically dancing on his feet. “Yes! I knew it! I can’t believe no one told you!” 

“Told me what?!” You chucked your bag back onto your couch in sudden exasperation. If this was thread-related, at the very least you could stay long enough to listen. “There’s nothing to climb!”

“Ok, so stick with me.” He rubbed his palms together eagerly, a bright light in his eyes. “Because I’m about to get really metaphysical.”

It took you what felt like hours to climb inside the shimmering honey-colored thread that lay between you and Matt—a thread that sang with his sorrow and your reluctant sympathy. 

It wasn’t right having your soul constricted like this, all of who you were narrowing down into something so small as you squirmed through a barrier that tasted and felt like dirt and earth, chasing after the sound of trickling water. There wasn’t supposed to be anything on the other side. It was an emotional connection, nothing more.

And yet here you were, standing in a place that had no reason to exist.

“Holy shit,” you whispered in amazement, spinning on your heels to examine your surroundings. “Holy shit, he was right.”

Despite the late hour, the air was full of a muted light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once, tinting the world a hazy, eerie green. High up above you roiled thick, sullen black storm clouds, silent flashes of red lightning carving their way between swirls of charred smoke. It wasn’t much light, but it was enough to see by.

And what you saw was heartbreaking. 

You stood in a dry, stony riverbed. The ground beneath you was cracked and brittle where the water had receded, leaving behind nothing but dust and broken branches. The river itself remained though just barely, the thin trickle of flowing water down the center of the riverbed a far cry from whatever immense force had carved its way through the landscape until the banks were a good ten paces from one side to the other. The terrain beyond the river didn’t look much better, wilted, drooping cattails dotted up the bank before giving way to endless forest that stretched farther than your eye could see. Like the cattails and scrub, the pine and fir trees stood withered and brown, casting their empty branches up toward the sky. 

If it had been beautiful here once, whatever had happened to you had destroyed that beauty. 

“Jesus,” you whispered. 

“Can you hear me?” Foggy’s voice sounded distant and far away, tinny like he was talking through a long tunnel. 

“Yeah. Can you hear me?”

“...Ok, if you’re trying to respond, I can’t hear you. But according to Matt, whenever you were here, it felt like memories. So poke around, see what you can find.”

You sighed and started down the riverbed. “Not super helpful, but ok. Let’s give it a shot.” 

The water was the most obvious place to start, and you made your way over to the thin stream that ran raggedly across the parched soil. Much to your fascination, you quickly discovered that what you’d thought was one current was actually two, one layered over the top of the other, each flowing in the opposite direction. The first of those currents hiding on the bottom was fairly calm, steady if a little restless, swirls of pale color that almost felt like curiosity, though how you understood that translation was a mystery. The second current seemed far rougher where it roiled atop the first, its section of the stream cloudy and thick with swirls of black and the red of an open wound. You hovered over the second current for a long moment, working up your courage, before you finally knelt and hesitantly brushed against it with one finger. It was just water. How bad could it be? 

The moment your skin made contact, your chest seized on a sudden swell of agony. Your mouth filled with the taste of grief, with the sound of an empty home, the lack of some familiar scent that meant affection and warmth and softness and safety, the ache of an old wound reopened just when it had started to heal. Alone, always alone, I deserve it, so many gone, he was right, when will I learn? There was no hope for comfort from that pain, no escape from the darkness into tender arms that could hold you just right when it all hurt. All you had to look forward to was more— 

You threw yourself backward, scrambling away from that terrible current as if what you’d felt might rise up and chase after you, snapping its teeth the whole way. You didn’t stop retreating until your back slammed against the dry soil of the riverbank. Only then did you stop, panting, your eyes wide in shock as you cradled your hand against your heaving chest. 

Emotion. It’s emotion.

That was what the water was. Matt’s emotion. Which meant the other current—one now shifting back to yellow despite a momentary surge of twisting, roiling black—was… yours. 

Right. So you could rule the water out. But if that was emotion, where was memory? 

Examining the rest of the river was the most obvious next step now that you’d ruled out the water. Based on what you could see, the original riverbed had been a mix of silt and stones of varying sizes, a firm foundation beneath a once-powerful river. Now, though, the grey, dried-out silt was covered in a strange sea of divots and dips, as if something—a lot of somethings—had been plucked up and removed. You traced one of the indents in the soil curiously, lifting your hand back up to consider the grit as you rubbed it between your fingers. Another glance around revealed the answer. 

The stones. 

There were still plenty of stones remaining in the riverbed, but the divots in the dry silt told you there’d once been far more. If that was what you’d lost, then maybe…  

You rocked up eagerly to your feet, pacing around breathlessly as you searched for a promising stone to start with. Eventually you made your pick, plucking up a stone just small enough to fit in your palm, flat and smooth save for a little groove in it as if someone had run their fingers over it endlessly. Strangely, it smelled like honey and herbs, the surface oddly warm against your hand like the brush of a thumb against your mouth. You waited for a long, impatient moment, and when nothing else happened, you tapped it a few times. 

Still nothing. 

And something inside you… cracked. 

“Fuck!” you screamed, hurling the stone back down the river in a sudden rage. The pain and the loneliness you’d been suppressing for the last month, the last year, the horrible, endless eternity since leaving your family in Los Angeles began to claw its way up your throat, the clouds churning wildly above you in response. A wild rain came next, each droplet sharp and cold and edged like the blade of a knife, bitter and biting as it beat against your skin. You grabbed another stone, one that tasted like shitty beer—Josie’s beer. You threw that rock, too, then another and another, throwing stones that smelled and tasted and felt like your shriek of laughter as he grinned and caught you against his chest, like torn flesh and a needle held by tender hands, like your face nuzzling fearlessly against Matt’s throat as he whispered comfort into your hair and held you close, like synced breathing and hearts and dances between binary stars as you both fell into sleep, fell into safety, fell into one another, phantom sensations that only made the fierce ache in you grow stronger because with every stone you snatched up it became clear that… 

You’d been loved. 

Not your identity.

Not the image you showed to the world. 

Not the walls you’d put up in front of him before he’d found some way past them. 

You. 

And he’d loved you with every part of him. 

You weren’t sure when you started crying, a violent, vicious stream of tears that was just as much a product of rage as grief. Here was someone who’d loved you fully, loved you despite every asterisk and bit of baggage and sharpened edge that came with being a broken hound, with being a former experiment still on the run. But you barely noticed your tears, spitting up at the unforgiving clouds and the howling wind, because you could howl, too, just as violent, just as much a threat as any storm in this place. “I want my fucking life back! I want him back!” 

You hadn’t wanted it before, or maybe you had and you’d just been too afraid to ask for it. But now? Oh, oh, now you were furious, furious and hurting and screaming, because you’d denied yourself connection all these years only to find it in the last place you’d expected. That was what this had been—home, family, love. That had to be why you’d stayed in New York, why you’d risked everything for these people, for Matt. You weren’t an idiot. You’d have run the numbers and the math, made your calculations.

You couldn’t bear to lose this. Not… not again. 

You threw stone after stone, hunting frantically as your fingers bled dry, desperate fury into the air, reddened drops disappearing before they ever hit the ground. The trickle of water in the center of the riverbed had churned itself into a frenzy, but you ignored it. There had to be something here that would trigger a memory, something that would let you remember being loved again, something big enough, important enough, so you grabbed and you grabbed and grabbed and grabbed and grabbed until at last, you found a stone the size of your fist. You snatched it up with a ragged sob, cradling it greedily against your chest as if doing so might let you carry it out of here, because you wanted it, you wanted him, wanted to remember more than anything in the world. 

“Let me have it!” you snarled, snapping your teeth at the howling winds of the storm as if you might catch this place between your jaws and tear it open until you at last found what belonged to you. “Give it back!” 

And with a blink—

He tore one of his bloodied gloves off, his hand shaking as he reached out to you.

You stilled the moment his fingertips brushed tenderly against your cheek, so very gentle, affection layered over blood and earth and hurt. And god, your skin was so terribly dry and cold, the beat of your heart uneven as it struggled to pump blood through your body, but he could feel you react to him, the barest parting of your lips as you dragged in a startled breath. He didn’t want to startle you further or risk you fighting him, so he let his voice drop into a whisper, soft as the brush of a feather.

“It’s me. I’m here.”

‘I heard you,’ he tried to say. ‘I heard you. I’m here.’

And your weakened heart… skipped.

He wasn’t sure if he reached for you or if you reached for him. All he knew was it was the sign he’d been looking for. In a heartbeat, he scooped you up off the floor, stealing you back from that dry, filthy cement and crusted blood that had tried to take you from him. He cradled your cold body against his chest, then, held you there where it was warm and where you were safe. You made the softest little noise, the sound choked and dry, but there was no disguising the heartbreaking relief in it. He pulled you in further, pulled you up until you were curled up in his lap, not an ounce of air left between your bodies, your head laying against his shoulder.

He would never let you touch the floor of this place again.

“D…” you mumbled, not one hint of fear in you despite what he’d just done, the blood on his hands and the burning heat of violence that still lingered in his bones. You wearily slid your head over, inch by inch, until you’d buried your face against the sweat-slick line of his throat, nuzzling in against him with a hoarse sigh that only made him hold you tighter. You inhaled slowly then, heedless of the blood and dirt and sweat that coated his skin, your fingers coming up to hook weakly in the collar of his shirt. “You came.”

And you… smiled.

He buried his face against your hair and let out a shaky breath. As he did, he dug down past blood and dust and dirt, dug and dug until he found the sweet, familiar scent of you, a scent he never wanted to leave him again.

The stone fell from your limp hands, a ringing in your ears you could barely hear beneath the sound of the water nearby, frothing and wild. 

The increased sensory feedback had been bizarre, and there was… there was no reason he should have been covered in so much blood, his body burning as if he’d been fighting before coming to you. But…  

“Hey, you in there?” Foggy called. 

“D.” The letter felt strange, and yet… natural, as you cradled it on your tongue. “D?”

And you knew what came after that letter, shaping the word again in your mind. 

You knew. 

You… remembered. 

“Always,” he’d said. 

“Always,” you whispered, casting your eyes up the riverbed towards another large stone. “Always, D.”

He didn’t know what you were doing or why you’d climbed inside the thread. 

“Always, D.”

All he knew was that it hurt. 

“You’re stuck with me, unfortunately for you.”

He’d thought catching your scent, hearing your laugh, being forced to take back the key he’d given to you had been the worst of it. But no. It was far, far worse having to relive these memories of your time with him over and over and over without pause, his senses filled with you: with your touch, with your scent, with the taste of you on the air. He heard you whisper, laugh, and sigh; felt the brush of your fingers in his hair and your body shaking with laughter when he snatched you up during a game of Devil Hunt and the safety of you as you’d held him so tenderly after his fight with Foggy. All of it was a reminder of what he’d lost, what he’d never get back. 

“Don’t you give up on me, Matt. Ok?”

He was in agony. There was no blocking you out like this, no escaping your memory no matter how much he tried to push back or retreat, until he wound up trapped and spiraling in his kitchen. 

“Kiss me when you come back.”

On and on it went, memories snapping at his heels until all he had left to hide behind was rage. He swept his arm across the counter, glass shattering as he screamed himself hoarse. Eventually he found himself backed up against the wall, sinking down as he hitched out something like an agonized groan, his hands over his ears, his eyes shut tight. “Don’t do this to me, sweetheart, please—”

“Adoringly yours, because I do adore you, you ridiculous man...”

“Leave me alone,” he whispered. “Just leave me alone.”

“...Remember that. if nothing else.” 

In hindsight, it was a really bad idea to give back your key.

“Matt!” you shouted, pounding frantically on his front door. “Matt, let me in! It’s me, I swear, I can-I can—”

Silence. 

And you weren’t willing to wait any longer. This wasn’t something you could explain through the door, out here in the hall where the neighbors could hear. You needed to get inside. You knew he was in there somewhere. 

Red threads never lied.  

You wiped the blood away from your nose and took off for the stairs. It was only one flight up to the roof, and sometimes he left the rooftop door unlocked. Even if it wasn’t unlocked, you’d use the key under the mat. You didn’t remember everything. But you remembered that. And if the key wasn’t there? You’d break that fucking door down.

He sat unmoving in his meditation pose on the floor, the sound of your attempts to get into the apartment distant and far away. Meditation had been the only thing left he could think of that would allow him to escape the pain and the memories of you that had flooded his thoughts. Like this, with his mind and his focus withdrawn until it lay deep within himself, he’d hoped he’d be far enough away from the world that the ghost of you couldn’t reach. 

Yet even deep in meditation, his instincts were set off by the crack! of his rooftop door slamming open.

He was on his feet in a heartbeat, his heart racing as he bared his teeth, his body prepared to face whatever threat had just broken in. The sensations of you, at the very least, had quieted during his meditation, which should have left him enough space for some small margin of peace as he threw himself into a fight. But that peace was nowhere to be found, because you were here again. 

He recoiled from that thought the second it crossed his mind. This wasn’t you, that much had become painfully clear. You’d passed away somewhere far beyond his reach, away from the home, the life you’d lived here. The woman that stood on his landing now was nothing but a ghost, a fading memory and a terrible reminder of what he’d had and lost, what he’d earned by daring to reach for something good. There was no undoing it, no washing away the blood on his hands. If anything, how he felt for you had doomed any hopes of you staying long enough for him to reform that connection with you. He knew how you operated—hell, you’d tried to run on that hot summer night so many months ago after seeing just how much he’d cared, even if you’d ultimately changed your mind. At the time, he’d thought it was Destiny, the hand of God ensuring you remained in the Kitchen where Matt could keep you safe from the Man in the White Coat, here in this place where you both might… might shape something good out of all the broken pieces you’d both been left with. He knew better, now. Even the hand of God couldn’t break the curse Matt placed on those he loved. You would leave, leave like all the others, and he deserved it. 

The only question that remained was why you seemed so, so fucking determined to make him suffer. 

“Matt.” Your voice cracked as you stumbled down the stairs. “Matt, I—”

“Why can’t you just leave me alone, sweetheart?” he grit out, reaching up to fist his hands tightly in his hair. He’d never known you to be unnecessarily cruel, but there was no other explanation. “God, I-I can’t—you can’t keep doing this to me.”

“Matt, just let me—”

“Do you even care how much you’re hurting me?” He hitched out a broken laugh, something bitter and tormented, the sound absent all humor as you made it down the stairs. “All those months, all I wanted was for you to come back. I begged. I prayed to God, over and over again, that he would bring you back to me. And now that you’re gone, you just won’t leave. I can’t get away from you no matter what I do. Do you know what that’s like? To lose someone you love only for their ghost to haunt you every time you turn around?”

A soft intake of breath. 

There it was. Now that he’d said it, you’d leave. There would be nothing more frightening to the You he’d first known than a word like love. 

“I just…” His breath hitched again, something thick building in his throat. It was just another sign of his weakness, the same weakness that had gotten you killed. 

‘I warned you, kid,’ came Stick’s voice, so smug that Matt bared his teeth. ‘I fuckin’ warned you the night I opened up her eye. But you didn’t listen.’

He started to pace wildly, ignoring your voice as he hunted for some opening through which he could escape, flee from Stick’s voice hiding in the corners of his thoughts, from your ghost. With every step his movements grew more frantic, more furious as his rage built like a rising wave: rage at himself, at God, at the monster who’d taken your memories and the possibility of a life for you here with Matt, and at you, too, because you just didn’t get it. “I just want to grieve, and God can’t even give me that much, can he? Is that what this is? Punishment? Revenge? Congratulations. Job well done. You can go.” 

You tilted your head as you watched him pace, the same cock of your head you got when considering your potential routes forward. As far as he was concerned, the only route he’d give was a route out the door.  

“I don’t know why you came back, and at this point, I don’t fucking care,” he told you hotly, nothing but burning smoke and thick venom in each word. “We don’t have a red thread anymore. There’s nothing to keep you here. Leave. Now. I’m not asking.”

Your soft response was a single letter, one that struck directly at the open wound inside his chest. 

“...D.” 

He snatched up an empty beer bottle from the kitchen counter in a sudden rage, turned, and hurled it past you. 

You didn’t so much as flinch as the bottle came within inches of your head. Nor did you react to the distant shattering of glass, the sound of it barely audible over his anguished roar. 

“Leave me alone!”  

And then he froze in sudden horror at what he’d done, his heartbeat almost drowning out the soft sound of your steps. All he’d wanted to do was scare you away, frighten you away so he could break where you couldn’t see, because it had hurt, it had hurt to hear you call him—

Wait. 

You’d… you’d called him…

“My Devil Man, my Saint Matthew,” you whispered, the touch of your hands cool and endlessly gentle as you cupped his face. His skin was wet, damp beneath your thumbs as you swiped them across his cheeks, when had he started crying? You brought his head down until you could lay your forehead against his, the taste of salt hanging in the air. Your voice grew achingly tender, so longed for that he swayed helplessly on his feet, wanting nothing more than to be held like you’d held him so often before when he was hurting. “I’m so sorry, D. I’m so sorry I left you alone, sweetheart.” 

He closed his eyes tight, his breath growing shaky. You couldn’t know that he was two steps away from crumbling in your arms, fractures widening with every breath. He had no energy left to fight your touch, your misplaced mercy, but giving into the lie was another thing entirely. He couldn’t bear to hope again, not when it would crush him if he were wrong. “Foggy told you to… he told you to call me that, didn’t he? To see if you’d remember. But I can’t—you’re going to leave me, you’ll—” “Do you remember what I said before I left? Because I do.” You swiped your thumb gently against his cheek, your uneven breathing skipping and falling into rhythm with his as his hands shakily rose. They hovered hesitantly a few inches away from your face, terrified that you might vanish beneath his hands like a ghost. “I don’t leave my box behind, and I won’t leave you behind, either. I told you that you were stuck with me after Nobu. I meant it. It’s really me. I know you’re tired and hurting, sweetheart, but listen to my heart. What does it say? Truth or lie?”

…Steady. 

Truth.

Could it really be you?  

He held his breath as he dared at last to touch your cheek, stirring the fine hairs as he stroked his way along the familiar shape of your face, one he’d traced so often in his dreams. Your skin was damp with tears just like his, another sliding down to bump against his thumb as your lips quirked up into a brilliant smile. And the moment his trembling fingers passed your lips, you kissed the tip of each with a warm fondness, a mirror of that night you’d held his broken, torn body and he’d kissed your fingers and palm. 

“How much do you… do you remember?” There was a ringing in his ears as the world beneath him seemed to roll beneath him. “Everything?” “Not everything. Some pieces are still missing, with Foggy and Karen and my job, but I-I remember enough. I remember you, and what I had with you.” Your voice grew fierce and fervent then as you drew in a sharp breath, preparing yourself. “I remember you, D. And I remember that I love you. I love you, Matt Murdock, all of you, so, so much. And I will never leave you alone again.” You loved him. 

You loved him. 

The weight of it—being forced to let you leave the city, the ensuing months alone, the agony of the past few weeks thinking he’d lost you entirely, and now this, this, knowing you loved him like he loved you—hit him all at once, and with a sudden groan he started to drop. You caught him in your arms, the two of you sinking to your knees as you held him tight and he wound desperately around you in return. Only then did he start to fall apart in your arms, shaking in your hold, his grief, his hurt, his relief spilling out in choked gasps where you’d tucked his head down against your neck. He fisted his hands in your shirt as you both rocked, and a ragged moan tore free from him, spilling against your skin when you lifted your hands to trail your fingers lovingly through his hair. You knew, you remembered just how to hold him when he was hurting, a balm across every last wound. His shivering, touch-starved body remembered your touch, too, drowning beneath the sudden surge of good, warm, safe, soft after months of nothing but pain, so much so he couldn’t help but gasp out your name. 

“I’ve got you now, D,” you whispered, burying your face against his shoulder until he could feel the heat of your tears against his shirt, too. “I’m here, now. You’re not alone. I’ve got you, Matt.” 

“I thought you were gone.” There was no way for him to truly sync his breathing with yours, not with the way you were both crying, but still his body tried on instinct, tried and failed over and over again. He closed his eyes tighter, burying his face deeper against your throat as he pulled you in even closer, until there wasn’t an inch of space between your body and his, where he could feel every beat of your heart against his skin, as if to make up for the way he’d almost… almost chased you away. “I thought you’d left me and I was alone. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t try harder, and that I didn’t-I didn’t go with you, but I couldn’t—I’m so, so—” 

“Hey, hey, it’s ok.” You kissed shakily at his hair, his shoulder, and whatever other parts of him you could reach, your breath, your tears, your absolution washing over him like rain. “It’s not your fault, D. It’s not your fault sweetheart. None of this was your fault.” 

“But—” “Hey. Listen to me, before you get any further down in that hole.” You lifted his head from your shoulder, cupping his tear-stained face in your hands again. For a moment you both simply breathed with one another, your forehead to his, soaking in the contact, the affection that you’d both dearly missed and needed. “What happened to me outside New York, my memory loss… all of that is not your fault. It never was, D. There are-there are a lot of things we’ll have to deal with in the future, things I need to tell you. Consequences of what we’ve done, and—but this isn’t one of them. Never this. You’re what helped bring me back.” “How? I didn’t…” He let out a breathless, watery little laugh. “I didn’t do anything but try to chase you away.” “Some part of me couldn’t help but be drawn to you. I remembered, deep down, I think.” You gave an amused little huff. “And once Foggy showed me how to get into our thread, all your memories are what brought me back, helped me remember, because I could feel it, how you loved me. That was the key. Speaking of which…” You leaned in to nuzzle up against his cheek, your voice lowering to a whisper. “I think I made you a promise, you ridiculous man. And it’s one I intend to keep.” 

And with one small tip of your head, and a single slow breath… 

“Kiss me when you come back.” 

…your lips brushed against his for the very first time, tender and achingly soft, and so full of love that it would have stolen his breath away if he’d had any left at all. 

It wasn’t the first kiss he’d envisioned months ago just before you left, something triumphant and wild. Nor was it anything like the first kisses he’d imagined before that, the first kiss he’d thought this journey with you might lead to. And God only knew he’d considered kissing you for the first time more than was healthy.

Your first kiss with him was, instead, shaky and gentle, tasting of salt and tears and the fading shades of grief retreating like streamers of night before a welcome sunrise. Slowly, and then more surely, his lips began to move against yours, finally allowing himself to truly taste you for the first time, his eyes slowly falling closed as your fingers ran fondly through his hair, you, it was really you, you remembered. With a quiet moan, he breathed you in deep, calling your grace, your love deep into him until it settled there against his heart, knowing that, no matter what else might come, he would never lose it again, one of his hands rising to tenderly wind around your throat, his other hand finding yours so he could lace his battered fingers tightly with yours.

It wasn’t the first kiss he’d expected, but it felt perfect all the same. 

Because all that was left was him… 

And you. 

[lilliths-httyd-blog]

i bought this from my local library for a dollar. literally went in there and it was the first thing i saw. instant impulse purchase and i'm so glad i did because.

first of all how the fuck did ryker get into this book and viggo didn't

second of all a) why does toothless have a tattoo and b) why is that baby nadder right next to dragon root like y'all know what dragon root does right??

oh wow thats actually creepy

oh wow thats actually not (is it... dead???)

hi dagur what are you doing

there... is so much wrong here. why have thye got badly photoshopped helmets on. why does hiccup have that shield. what is toothless doing.

CEASE DRAGON

mildew with no fucking shoes on

overall this is not as bad as the novel adaptation i found for the first movie but oh my god this is hilarious to look at

[sugar-petals]

𝖘𝖚𝖇!NCT ; { 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚐𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚍 | 18+}

[ # 𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚜. ] domme/sub. oral sex. kinks. toys. breath play. semi-public sex.

⟨ AUTHOR’S NOTE. ❌ here’s to a 9-part hc, this time it’s the neos! 5k words total — at this point, i might just name my blog oral fixation central instead of pretty boy central. i picked members who i thought would suit the scenario best, from power bottoms to innocent subs: pick your preference from the little ‘feat’ list below ⬇︎ and if you like what i do: interact and/or reblog ♥︎ enjoy! x

[ + PAIRINGS.] crop top!mark, shy!taeyong, poly soft sub!shotaro, hard sub!yuta, experienced!jungwoo, tease!yangyang, trophy bf!xiaojun, service sub!johnny, pro!ten x femdom!reader respectively

| masterlist | 

| read it on ao3 | 

⇢ MARK 마크 - All about the eye contact while hugging your thighs. You’re comfortably reclined, playing with his soft flowy bangs. His shampoo smells so. Fricking. Good. He’s kneeling there, ass up, one hell of a sight. Why have one nice thing when you could have two at once? Mark eating your cake, you can check out his cake — and spank it later — it’s a win-win. Mark is the kind of guy who blurts out a thousand thoughts per minute, but when he eats you out, the laser focus he’s known for when rapping returns to its full glory. As if he could read your wants and wishes out of your gaze. If you want clit kisses, you get them. Still, Mark often confuses himself in typical style („Hold on, hold on! The towel goes here below, wait, I got it wrong!“), but! He is not confused by you. It’s more about figuring out his technique. Was more cautious at the beginning already, however not because he thought you were unapproachable or mysterious. Mark loves you very much and thinks you’re beyond hilarious. Which is why eating you out is constantly interrupted by mutual laughing fits, no surprise there. His tunnel vision can only last for so long! You make your boyfriend cry tears by making funny faces. He’s caught off guard. It’s good to lighten the mood. Being funnier than Mark is hard to pull off, which makes it even more rewarding to make his face glow from heat, thigh squeezing, and grinning. One hand on his cheek if you can reach, the other at the back of his neck. Mark has the softest peach fuzz on his nape, so satisfying to stroke. What starts out hasty or confused turns into comfy relaxation and trust, Mark knows how much it soothes you.

One scenario became his and your definite favorite. Mark got his driving license, parked in front of your home, honked, and had the audacity to sit there behind the steering wheel with a purple crop top on such a fine evening. Horny and intrigued immediately, all you did was stare during your drive to the take-out spot you like so very much. His hair had gotten pretty long, it was so cute. But Mark’s body was just as inviting, you wanted to touch and ravage and wreck him so damn badly. Mark barely made it halfway through the city that you asked him to drive off the main street. Innocent mind he is, your baby assumed you knew a shortcut through the traffic. Mark winds up stopping the car incredulously somewhere close to an empty laundromat store, this area of the city was fast asleep and abandoned. When you whispered you wanted to fuck him, Mark’s jaw simply dropped. A perfect exercise for what was about to— come. Perfectly sat on his face, you were deepthroating a whiny Mark laying on the backseat seven minutes later, sucking him off in a proper rhythm, seamless, with Mark nipping and dipping his way into your heart from behind. Mark was ready to die fulfilled by getting crushed. He came down your throat so fast, you had to wait until you could ride him hard: A perfect opportunity to enjoy some more chaotic rapper tongue action before, and moaning out loud when you came on his face. Since you were only getting started but Mark was dizzy with love, you took matters into your own hands and went for the ride of your lives.

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⇢ TAEYONG 태용 - Insecure and shifty-eyed at first, both hands trembling in the pockets of his grey hoodie. Leader Taeyong mode: Disengage. Listening well is his guideline here, he relies on bits of praise and your instructions („More to the left — yes… feels good“) to know what works. Sub training is the word. Since he’s more of an intuitive lover who prefers not to jump right into it, Taeyong will build the scenario rather carefully with your orders in mind. Morning, noon, or night, doesn’t matter. The time spent gearing up, arranging his room with the right lights and a movie to watch first, the mood at the moment, that’s time well-spent. Impressionable Taeyong is a perfectionist of staging something in every sense of the word. His tendency for theatrics and hot as fuck eyebrow expressions extends to licking you up when his new mixtape plays. Even when he’s fucked-out from the day, he still reserves this energy for his one and only. Getting better and to the point as he progresses is always the bar. The hoodie stays on. The inhibitions come off. Once he gets going and the playlist switches to Baekhyun, Taeyong sucks your clit like it’s your birthday. You reach the point of no return in one minute flat no matter how slow or fast he goes. Your sweet sloppy sub is well aware where the most sensitive nerve endings are and caters to your every throbbing, pulsing, and twitching of the legs. And if you’re insatiable, horny at 7 in the morning again, Taeyong will drop everything he does and climbs back into your bed to play with your wetness at the tips of his fingers, sucking them rigorously like the true cumslut he is. The scent of his crisp aftershave will make you cum in no time, he smells so fucking good and masculine. This handsome man’s all yours.

Recently figured out how mommy cums as soon as he moans her name. So, he has to use it diligently, not too early, not excessively. You help him place his hands on the outer point of your hips, use his bubbling spit as lube, and show your boo how to angle his glorious jaw. Sooner or later, he almost looks like he’s posing in an expensive photoshoot, that’s how physical he is. Subspace is always just around the corner, so you make a habit of reassuring him that he sucks you off right, that you love this way of pleasure, that he’s good at it. Which is no lie. His tongue is flexible and versatile, to say the very least. And his room isn’t the only place where your little encounter goes down. Taeyong once drove you out to see his old school — you both just wanted to revisit the empty building for some memories. Taeyong got nostalgic, plus he loves to show you forgotten aspects of his life that few other people know. The sports facilities in particular. But eventually, you pressed Taeyong against a locker, heavily made out, and within a blink of his pretty doe eyes, his head was between your legs on an old bench. Your dirty talk was off the fucking charts. The pet names you were peppering him with, too. Three minutes after you hit the peak, Taeyong gladly heard the janitor’s keys click in a close-by room, so you just wound up hiding behind some trees of the school’s baseball field. Out of breath, the two of you. Jeez, did he dress you in record time, and jumped up, and showed you the door out. Those reflexes. While you wait for the janitor to leave, a very amused Taeyong shows you pictures of himself when he was enrolled on his phone… as if he didn’t swallow your every drop just minutes earlier. Yeah, he’s fascinating.

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⇢ SHOTARO 쇼타로 - Kissy lips, kissy face. Squeals with absolute joy when you offer him to have a go — don’t underestimate how much he worships your body. And how much he loves sex, long as it’s not too rough. Shotaro doesn’t like hard subbing, gentle femdom sounds more like it. He won’t risk anything… yet. Wait one or two years and he might as well be super freaky. Until then, no experiments, Yuta’s kinky influence has not corrupted him, but he won’t stop to take a breather either. The perfect mix of commitment and flirt, batting his puppy eyes at you constantly with a very careful mouth at work. Shotaro’s friendly impression is not going to be blown away all of a sudden, that’s not even reserved for moaning his soul out when you peg him. The only time the sweet smile wanes is when your baby feels like you’re not into it — before you even voice it to him. Shotaro is concerned concerned. „Wait! Should I do it differently?“ is the panicked response, and you cool him down for a solid minute with head pats. Making mistakes is what he fears most: Looking pathetic, degraded, embarrassed and unskilled. Needless to say, he’s not the type of submissive who likes humiliation, more points to soft subbing. You say, you’re Shotaro. How could you go wrong. You couldn’t look awful if you tried. Although `going with the flow´ is a washed-out phrase that’s far too simple as a motto, a little bit of calm and laissez-faire really works for him. Not interrupting himself, not checking if absolutely everything is done right, but going ahead and just working his tongue to get some feedback later.

Where he clearly excels is a polyamorous dynamic, romantic and/or sexual: Hear me out. Naturally, he needs no experience with it. He fits right into the mix, acting as a mediator and mood-maker between three parties. Three is good, although four or five is too much for Shotaro to handle, even if the pairs kind of split into couple units within one room. Like two here, three there, or something like that. It’s better to focus and galvanize all the attention on you without distractions or further chaos that would just make the situation uncomfortable. So, three it is. Not a gangbang, just a triad, and if it’s two girls he’ll pleasure at once, he’s right at home. Shotaro is so amicable, his winning smile could put anyone at ease. As I said, despite his lack of experience, he’s a natural. One girl gets to relish his gentle fingers circling and rubbing, the other girl will see his mouth do wonders at the same time. Actually, Shotaro is more confident with a third party around, it’s puzzling. Until you remember he’s part of frickin’ NCT: Their collective buzzing hive mind has likely programmed every member to be good at poly should they choose to try it — don’t ask why, just enjoy. Being around so many people made Shotaro a little awkward in a one-on-one setting, which doesn’t diminish his affection for his main partner, mind you. But you can definitely tell he thrives on poly dynamics, it feels like protection to him. Shotaro’s number one prowess of being able to please will come through immediately, and he’ll do anything to set up the room as romantically as possible. Scented candles, warm blankets, music. Everyone feels secure, and it’s a night you’ll ask to repeat soon. He’s the absolute sweetest, I know.

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⇢ YUTA 유타 - Enjoys you spitting on him beforehand. Properly. Degradingly, with no hesitation, anywhere across his face. Wastes no time submitting to your sadistic, tormenting deeds. Any viable spot in your living space will serve as a theatre for a great scene. Even the cold basement: You, facing any wall standing, Yuta chained and squatted between your legs to eat his meal from behind-below, begging to be crushed, suffocated. Rest assured you’ll feel warmed up in just two minutes. Nastiest groans between loud slurping noises ever. Moves his head side to side a whole lot. Other people around? „Don’t care“ — Yuta wants everyone to know he pleasures your clit superbly well. Likes, wants, craves the aid of ultra-fancy battery toys. Where’s the excitement, the literal buzz? He’s not happy if you don’t get one hell of a show, whipped cream included (yes, his secret weapon). And, you know… him wearing a red rope harness, even thin heels, hard to balance on as the extra challenge. Dressed for the occasion. Always knows, observes, notices when you love it and when you don’t, or if you think some technique is just eh, mediocre, maybe „time for an upgrade“. The upgrade is more tongue-flicking, by the way. Mister Quick & Sloppy knows what’s good. Yuta shows up carrying a little vibrator collection 70% of the time, some very handy electrical friends that he’s gonna use one after the other while you can just relax. Why just one toy when you could have even more sensations? Alternating with his energetic tongue, it’s an interesting method mix, freaky and experimental. So much more intense, and new. They didn’t lie when they said Yuta had vibes. The things he’s smuggled through crowded hotel lobbies with a stone-cold face just to get you off. And: The toys he ordered online, where Taeyong picked up the package, so Yuta lied it was just another boring game he bought to pass the time.

Looks at you very intensely with his head between your legs, and you wink back by habit. It actually flusters him profusely. Don’t underestimate Yuta’s ability to become extremely shy, this man has such a soft spot for his domme. Especially after she destroyed him totally… he loves it, going past his limits all the time. A cane is all you need to break him, only to get all the head you want with Yuta crying. Hard and mischievous shell, soft and whimpery core. One of the best pleasers, knows you inside out. Yuta has his intricately detailed knowledge about the ladies down. Plus his power bottom tendencies equal the amounts of sheer masochism he possesses: Mercilessly smack him across the face between streaks of sucking, right after he catches a breath, and he will be yours. Yuta will plead you to do it again and again. Never cared about shallow orgasms, wants to make you cum for real, it’s the same with him wanting to scream. Wishes there was a way for you to choke him out while he’s doing down on you, but your hands would reach him awkwardly, preferring to pull on his hair anyway: So he just clamps down on his own neck with one hand, circling your nipples with his spit-covered fingers using the other hand, that fucking perv. That Yuta is crazy you already know, but that he likes to pile on several sex techniques at once is a revelation. That he has the skills to do it is not. Sex god. Your nasty boy deserves to be ruined.

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⇢ JUNGWOO 정우 - Prince of chapstick, he feels super smooth. The face, the same. So soft. The prettiest. Prettiest boy to ever pretty. Long as it’s a chill environment and it’s mostly vanilla, he’s down for anything, your goofy sweetheart. Don’t laugh, you could even put on a random Sunday soccer match on his laptop. If there’s no intense penalty shootout and it’s a little monotonous, both teams equally strong so nothing really happens, that’s perfect as a relaxing backdrop with all the occasional commentary and fan chants, volume turned down by 80%. It would sound weird with any other guy, but Jungwoo makes it work. It could be any sports event, in fact. Ice hockey, billiards, whatever. Or music. Or him wearing a silky jersey himself while he goes down on you, his sporty side is such a turn-on. But no stress, no edge, just being sweet together and flirting a lot. He’s cute and hot and kind at once — the amount of facial expressions you’ll see is astounding. Likes the occasional deeper dive if you know what I mean, though not as in, ambushing you with crazy tongue twisters and whatnot. Deliberate is the word. Is not content staying all too superficial or messy, it has to be rhythmical and make sense, making you comfortable. You thought he would be chaotic, but Jungwoo knows exactly what to do, how to dip, so you don’t worry. Except that you’re an immensely possessive domme behind a generous exterior — with eagle eyes, for that matter.

Since your lil’ pup acts like he has done it before a couple times, and Jungwoo confirms he has experience, you feel a bit jealous and even go on bantering. „Enjoyed it?“ Yes, even if you wish you weren’t, you’re jelly. Jungwoo reacts with a sheepish and embarrassed face, he doesn’t want to spill the beans. What’s done is done, he protects the privacy of his exes, evades questions. You eventually calm yourself to take it easy, it’s none of your biz, although saying his past is his past doesn’t really work as a catchphrase for you: You have to make it crystal clear, have him close in, make him say „I am“ when you ask „are you mine, then?“ Despite his seductive come-hither gaze being a masterclass and his humor being outrageous, Jungwoo is a surprisingly patient lover, hating to just rush it or be inaccurate with his plush tongue. You can feel his adoration. And he’s upbeat. A reassuring smile makes your day, it helps you rid yourself off the stress. Every word you say is appreciated. He hates when someone walks all over their partner, it just isn’t right to him. Listening is more important. Jungwoo hates you being pent up, hates you worried or preoccupied. At work, he can deal with himself. At home, he will vent quickly when there’s a bigger problem, but he’d rather tune into you first. He’d do anything to make you feel like you got rid of your problems, he’s your escapist fantasy turned real. Jungwoo has no problem being considered just that. In fact, he wants it, knowing you can take it out on him in gentle ways: Hands in his soft blonde hair, swaying your hips, cumming when he kisses you.

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⇢ YANGYANG 양양 - Eating you out as his signature move? Well, well. Yes and no. Because seemingly, he does anything but: At first. It’s 99% endless teasing everywhere else on your body. Until, completely on edge, you guide his shoulders and have him get to work. With permission, of course, knowing he enjoys it. You wouldn’t hurt this cutie at all costs, though he likes his head controlled by you like this to begin with. So don’t worry too much, he isn’t made of cotton candy, even if his hair color sometimes suggests that. Ironically, it’s the other way around. He wants to taste your cotton candy. With your hands around his temples, holding him in place. Which makes for a sexy POV from both of your positions. Yangyang is working hard, why is he still so immensely eager, how much energy does he even have? It’s admirable how he can tease your body for so long with ghosting kisses and suggestive eye contact. Yangyang being the master of stamina might come as a surprise, but you know how it goes with Libra men. Pleasers till the end of time. That’s exactly why he indulges you so much in prep. Edging is his thing, though you tend to take back control by cussing him out for licking your ankles like a maniac. „What are you, a deprived Victorian man? You sexy fucking sucker, you, God damn…“ Insults make him squeal and laugh, and soon he’s back to the main event, anyway.

Now seriously, why does the cutie trail off so much? Which, granted, makes you even hornier. Propped onto your couch, Yangyang is humming and licking your thighs with that seductive, way too infuriating grin. Even munching on them when he’s extra cocky, up until you say you’ll fucking spank his soul out if he keeps on smiling like a devil. You’ll mark him up at full capacity, slap his butt, pinch his nose, swear you’ll tickle him until he taps out. But kinky Yangyang is not stopped by any threat of punishment whatsoever. What are you gonna do, smack his ass and hope he stops nibbling on your legs for good? If anything, he gets even more riled up and ready to stimulate you even more. Shit, your body’s on fire from all the attention it gets. So, good luck with this sheer untamable brat. He kisses your belly, sucks on your chest at random. Your fingers, too. The neck. The entire palette. Even the fucking ears. Yuta would be proud of Yangyang’s utter depravity. Little did you know it’s all a tastemaker. In your world, he’s increasing the suspense. In his world, he’s courting you, paying attention to all body parts, showing off what he can do with his lips. Oral sex? Nope, kissing first! Holy fuck, he’s absolutely fucking peppering you. You thought Yangyang was too intimidated to go down on you and delayed it, turns out you misunderstood. Guy is just the king of foreplay. And out of all head squad members? Surprise! His oral fixation is the most unruly and developed.

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⇢ XIAOJUN 샤오쥔 - Okay, prepare yourselves. Xiaojun is a little extra with those kind of things, to say the least. Not kinky, just particular. In fact, he is the type to use his whole damn face. Yep. Very deliberately, slow-mo, so you can see and feel everything. Yes, chin and all. His entire technique would appear lazy, uncoordinated and weird to an outsider, but from your perspective, he’s just nasty, he’s giving it his all: Which is exactly what you like. Xiaojun knows that you’re obsessed with the beauty of his otherwordly features from outer space, and he’s always generous with it — „I’m yours, that’s why“. So why not give it a shot, his mouth can only do so much! Does Xiaojun look down on anyone who sticks to the basics? Probably not, he’s too busy in his own relationship. Being perfect, being hot, being all you need, he goes the extra mile for everything. And that happens to include cunnilingus. The cheekbones, the nose, the forehead, even… You get to feel it, too, not just the lips doing their thing. He’s brave, he’s naughty, he’s sensual all at once. Wants you all over him, after all. Slathered up in your wetness, is this Xiaojun’s new makeup routine? It sure looks like it. The man is glowing for all the right reasons. 

There is a bit of vanity in his style. He’s your designated trophy boyfriend, after all. Gotta look and act the part, doesn’t he. Swipe his hair back while he licks you, put up mirrors for sexy time, doll himself up beforehand with soft and pretty clothes, even a few necklaces. No mediocre. Xiaojun is like Narcissus between your legs, but really, he’s just conscious of how he comes across: And who can blame him. That’s not a boyfriend. That’s a masterpiece. Xiaojun doesn’t need beauty standards, they need him! Few people can handle his awesomeness. Knowing you want his body, his fucking soul, he is all the more eager to satisfy your heated desires with no regard to form: Come as you are. Your PJs, work or uni clothes, naked, near-naked, whatever. He’s the one to look at. Xiaojun puts great emphasis in slow-paced presentation that matches some tender music in the background. It could go on for hours if you wanted. Dejun could do the juiciest and unusual things while a ballad is playing in the background, but you’re into it. Because it’s not torturously done, but well aware that you think he’s stunningly handsome, so he’ll indulge you. Looks good in any position, as one would expect. Enjoys it if you sit on him lots because he likes to be below, this overpowering angle. The same idea applies here: Torturously slow is the key. You’re a strict and controlled domme, that suits him the very best.

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⇢ JOHNNY 쟈니 - Sassy, sassy boy. Talks a lot at the beginning, 100k words friends to lovers. Is this Youtube? Johnny needs to know exactly what you want and how he can achieve it. Fair enough, he wants the juicy intel, all of your boundaries and soft limits, your ideas, your sweet spots, your no-gos and best ways to make you comfortable. And hey, that’s a smart and normal thing to do: He just does it all at once, like an essay. Wow. You can tell he thought about everything and wondered about everything. A caring boyfriend, if you think of it. The whole shebang is kind of cute. Johnny has no business being ignorant; nor does he like to disappoint his girlfriend. He already caught your attention with his tight shirt, in fact, he distracted you while you were going through your phone, so now he, um, takes responsibility for his banging body being so hot. „Do you want any snacks before, something to drink? Probably some water, right. Wait a minute, I’ll get it for you. Do you want warm water or cold water? Okay, cold, right. With a slice of lemon or without? Should we turn on the TV or some music? Which blanket do you prefer today, the lighter one or the heavy-duty?“

On it goes, it’s the service sub in him. This is like fucking Hotel Johnny Seo. He wants to be like a personal butler to you, except that said butler has some impressive dancer glutes and no suit on. Johnny really does leave nothing to chance and you appreciate it: Circumspect, as ever, and it’s important to be comfy before getting down to business. Johnny knows it always makes a difference when you’re warm and hydrated, so he keeps on asking questions to make sure it’s all set. But once he is engrossed, lips on your labia… the opposite is true. Why does he stop talking out of literal nowhere, what on earth is going on. Johnny’s dead silent, focused, in a different mindset. Unrecognizable. He barely even moves his body, even if there’s a lot to move indeed. God, is he fucking tall — a bit difficult to drape and position himself on the sheets, but he’ll manage. Kind of folding himself in half will do the trick. You already blew his literal back out with your strap the day before, so his spine’s like jelly anyway: Bending, not a problem. Once he kneels properly, it’s all tunnel vision. Although to be fair, he moans every now and then — which is very stimulating, to say the very least. Puts his spectacular lips to good use and, if he’s honest, wants to be „nothing but a sex toy“ (his words, verbatim!) that you can bend around to your delights. You were kind of confused by what he meant, so Johnny explained it. The point is that you can adjust him however you like and he’s there to give you a good time.

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⇢ ten 텐 - Red alert, the final boss is here. Let's make tonight your birthday. Ten’s piping hot sexual style puts any existing man, no matter how experienced, to a literal devastating shame. Because he has what? The flavor. It’s exceedingly difficult to put his energy into fitting words. Similar to Yuta, he flaunts some seriously rapid flicking tongue movements, but knows when to slow it down for a minute: Nuance! It’s exactly what does the trick. Despite his quick and accurate manner, he won’t overstimulate or overtake you. Overtaking in a sense of, being faster than the pleasure can arrive, which is a mistake he knows is frequently committed. Ten knows that going too hard doesn’t feel good, so he refrains from going on for a second round right away especially. „Fifteen minutes rest is due,“ is what he’ll say, laying down face to face on his side with you. Presenting his cute puffy lips, and also for a chance to look him in the eyes properly. Those cat eyes. They’re magnetic. After enough tension builds and you’re impatient, Ten dives off between your thighs again. Patience (with stamina) is a virtue and he has it. Paired with the most graphic dirty talk you’ve ever heard, Ten is fully in his element, hands in the right places, hair falling the right way, lips promptly sucking you up. If you know his Instagram, you know which bedroom eyes will await you. On the majority of days, Ten is the type who will crawl up to you from the edge of the bed like a feline. You don’t know what’s first to touch. Grab his ass? Cup his face? Pinch his waist? Fuck it, just do everything at once.

Not a fan of 69, he’ll dedicate himself fully to you. Twisting himself around is his job on stage, but he’s remarkably still once chest down in bed. Or the edge of the bathtub, whatever you fancy. Few angles are too awkward for ten. Talk about bathroom sex: He’s probably the only person on earth who mastered giving head in the shower. Even without a mat or towel under his knees, which is crazy. He stays stable as if by sheer magic, the floor being painfully hard and slippery doesn’t bother him, though you insist he use at least a small towel to kneel on when it’s not spontaneous oral. Ten is only focused on his task, nothing else fazes him. He trusts you with the temperature control, and if he’s getting waterboarded from above with the shower on? Then he’s getting waterboarded. Ten won’t care. He’s the goat, he knows he can breathe somehow, and he doesn’t want you getting cold — „just turn the valve, honey“. You often take precautions and turn on the bathroom heating way before, but Ten insists on his ways and can clearly see your goosebumps. Your right leg over your shoulder, your boyfriend eats you out from below with the water stream trailing right over his face. The divine baptism! You can squeeze, grind, and fuck his face stupid in the most erratic thrusts on the bathroom carpet ten minutes later for a solid round two. He wants to be completely at your mercy, laying there on his back, dripping wet long dark hair, getting you off hands-free. This guy lets you do anything. Any-fucking-thing. Ten is a legend.

read it on ao3

// FINAL NOTE. leave some feedback if you liked it 🍒 and for more content like this, browse my rec blog’s specifically dedicated sub!nct tag. have fun! 🙌

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[elsweetheart]

can u make a little drabble about fem reader x ellie in which the reader is inexperienced and they heavily make out for the first time i need this 😩

i can … i can do tht ….. this is a prequel to this fic i wrote :)

barnyard beauty — slow burn prequel

🎀 ellie + reader freshly in relationship together, a little smutty but not too much, ellie being cocky AGAIN

you were giggling so much it was starting to feel a little pathetic. ellie just drew that kind of reaction out of you every time, even though she was finally all yours you couldn’t help but feel like you were still harbouring a demure school girl crush on her. she was always flirty with you, but now even in a relationship she would still act like she was trying to win you over. she’d open doors for you, kiss your knuckles when she’d greet you, go out of her way to hunt for gifts you’d like. you were being totally wooed, and you didn’t feel like she was going to be stopping anytime soon.

“els stop you’re making my tummy hurt.” you laughed, clutching your side as the two of you sat on the floor of the barn. it was night time, and everyone was at movie night — so the two of you had snuck in to chill and hang out away from all the noise. the two of you had been in a relationship for three weeks now, so the pair of you were even more joint at the hip than usual.

“what? no, okay — it’s a serious question. say i turned into a horse right now. right this second— okay—” she cut her hypothetical question off by joining in with your laughter, hand grabbing yours when you thoughtlessly swatted at her. “what would you do? like i just become a horse. you blink and i’m just standing there as a horse. realistically what would you do?” she chuckles, urging you to answer through your breathless chortles.

“why would you ask that? in what world is that possible?” you clutch your stomach.

“just— fuckin’— hypothetically, okay?” ellie was always asking the silliest hypothetical questions, and you always put it down to her hilariously inquisitive personality. truthfully, she asked them because she knew it always made you laugh and god she loved your laugh — she also found that your answers were strangely insightful.

“i don’t know — i guess, i’d have to tell joel i mean — he’d be wondering where you went. and then i suppose i’d tell jesse and dina, ‘cos i think jesse especially would get a kick out of it.” you chuckled, staring off pensively across the barn at the other horses lined up minding their business. she stared at your side profile, her laugh dying down into a soft smile as she watched you contemplate. “aaand, yeah. i guess i’d just have to adapt. couldn’t date you anymore, cos that would be weird but… i’d take care of you… and ride you.” you shrugged innocently, breaking ellie out of her loving gaze to snicker at the last part.

you turn your head to look at her, her face closer than you remember it being. “what?” you smile in anticipation for whatever hilarious comment ellie was about to make. she was smirking, clearly proud of whatever it was about to come out her mouth.

“oh you’re gonna ride me?” she teased, poking your waist. you wasn’t quite sure what that would entail but you knew it was sexually charged, forgetting that sometimes words have a double entendre attached. you felt your face get hot, scrunching your nose.

“whats wrong with that?” you ask innocently, hoping she’d maybe explain what it meant. you didn’t quite know why you wanted to know so badly, a warm molten feeling dripping down into your stomach at the prospect of being sexual with ellie. she stretched her arm around you with a laugh, smoothing her hand over the back of your head kindly.

“nothing. you’re cute.” her eyes were on your lips now. you smiled, setting aside your curiosity as the thought of kissing her now clouded your brain. as if she could read your thoughts, ellie leant forward, pressing a kiss to your lips, hand sliding around to cup your jaw. it was a simple act, but it was the small acts of dominance that always got you. you allowed her to deepen the kiss, beginning to explore your mouth with her tongue as you shared breath. with your limited experience, something about it just felt so erotic and you sighed against her mouth — body alight with pleasure.

you couldn’t tell if it were you or her that quickened the pace, the kiss getting more and more desperate like you couldn’t get enough of eachother. she recalls that you were so sweet in the moment, kissing her just how she liked— having taught you how to kiss after all. one hand came down to stroke your hip with her thumb, the small act making you whimper ever so quietly into her mouth.

you didn’t quite know what you wanted, but you knew you wanted more. everything about you felt dialled up to ten suddenly. the air was too hot, your nipples beneath your shirt were too sensitive everytime her hand would ‘accidentally’ brush against them, your core felt tight and achey. you were sensitive to touch everywhere, and you became aware of how itchy and uncomfortable the hay you were sat on was against the backs of your thighs and ass. why had you decided to wear a skirt again?

ellie, who’s hand was now stroking the soft supple skin of your thigh, sensed your discomfort with the hay from your shuffling. the two of you were meant to be sat on her jacket that she’d laid down to share but with your fidgeting it must have been pulled slightly from beneath you. almost frantically, to fix the problem ellie pull you by your thigh trying to move you closer to sit on her jacket, all whilst shuffling backwards herself to make space for you. at the sudden movement, and ellie not quite realising her strength she tugged you and she toppled back onto a lower hay bale, you landing directly on top of her with an ‘oof!’

the two of you looked at eachother for a moment, ellie on her back with you laying directly on top of her— one leg cocked up, your skirt totally flipped up, exposing you from the back, before you burst into a fit of giggles.

“what just happened?” you clutched her gleefully.

“i don’t even know.” she chuckled, again the laughs dying out when she pulled you back in to kiss her again. her hands were on your waist now, not making any kind of move to push you off her body. you could barely ignore the feeling of her jean clad thigh pressed between your legs and you trembled against her, wonder how it would feel if she moved it. ellie’s hand slid up the back of your bare thigh towards your ass, just encouraging you to move your hips when—

“you girls in here or— oh.” maria’s voice sounded from the barn door, probably getting a view directly up your skirt as you laid on a handsy ellie. you fumbled, rolling off her clumsily with a gasp, face feeling so hot you could cook an egg on it. ellie sat up after you, unsurprisingly very little sign of embarrassment on her face, stifling a laugh at the awkward situation. the two of you looked disheveled, straws of hay sticking out your hair.

“uh—” maria coughed awkwardly, averting her eyes and she wiped her hands on her jeans. “ellie, joels looking for you. said’e wanted to go over something regarding the supply hunt. he’s round the corner.” she recited, sending you a polite nod before heading out the barn. ellie’s smirk revisit her face once more as she turned to look at you, your hands covering your hot face.

“m’gonna die. she totally just saw that. and my skirt was practically bunched up around my waist.” you whined, taking your hands off your face to stare up at ellie as she laughed, standing up and dusting herself down.

“can’t imagine anyone complaining about that view.” she teased, holding her hand out for you to grab. you took it and she pulled you up, stumbling into her slightly at her strength (and perhaps just your own weakness.) making her slightly raise an eyebrow. “are you… okay?” the smile was not only evident in her face but in her voice too, as if she was holding back a laugh.

“yeah! m’fine. just… a shame it got cut short.” you looked away from her. she eyed you, stepping closer to you when you stepped back to give her space. your wide eyes flickered up to hers, thinking she might kiss you again. instead, she reached up, pulling a straw of hay out of your hair, before reaching down without breaking eye contact and untucking your skirt that was tucked into your waistband, humiliatingly so without your knowledge. “there ya go. good as new.” she stepped back, holding out her hand for you to take. she knew what she was doing. “lets go.”

you took her hand dumbly, your body undergoing a million overwhelming emotions a second as you let her lead you out the barn.

[fangsandfeels]

Don't come at me, but I am confused why whenever there is a plot about one of Astarion's siblings going full villain, this sibling is almost always Petras. I agree; he is a jerk and a bully. But he is also the guy who gobbles up Cazador's bullshit about getting freedom with ZERO suspicions. Aurelia and Leon are hopeful, but it doesn't take them long to realize it is yet another way for Cazador to break them, and of course, he never intended to let them go.

Petras is oblivious to the point he is already making plans for the future and composing his menu. He is also the guy who flirts (badly) with the first person who approaches him without even considering the risk of the said person being a vampire hunter. Like, Tav can be wearing full plate armor and have a hugeass war hammer slung over their shoulder, and Petras would still go "Yes, this is the perfect naive victim to seduce. They will totally fall for my charms" with Dalyria cringing and trying to do damage control at the back.

Petras makes Astarion look like a criminal mastermind.

And no, I'm not saying that he can't be an antagonist to Astarion at all.

He can be dangerous by deciding to go his own way, gathering the group of spawn who share his views, and making a part of the Sword Coast his hunting grounds. But don't I see him plotting complicated schemes or even trying to recreate Cazador's rituals. He may try, but in my opinion, he will fail hilariously. No intervention needed.

Now, speaking of a more dangerous and tragic potential adversary, Leon is right here. He is a sorcerer. Moreover, if the nature of the spell he used to protect Victoria is anything to go by, he is experienced with Necromancy (I may be wrong; the blood thing could have belonged to the Transmutation school, though).

He is the top performer. And, he is a desperate father who did it all to keep his daughter safe. Now, I still assume that he managed to smuggle Victoria out of the palace -- which would keep him his calm and reasonable self. But if Victoria is really dead?...It would mean that everything he did, all these victims, all that suffering, all the measures he took, all the hurt he inflicted on his siblings/inmates - it all was for nothing. He was ready to die for Victoria to live. He was willing to sacrifice an orphan to save his girl. And he failed.

He failed her.

Wouldn't that push him over the edge? The desperation, the devastation, the horror? Wouldn't that create a void in his undead heart and put him into denial and resentment for his fellow spawns (he didn't know HOW she died, but he had seen enough hungry looks from Dal and Violet)?

Wouldn't he become obsessed with "fixing" it somehow because he already went so far to protect his daughter...why not go even further to bring her back, let her live the life that was so unfairly taken from her? He doesn't care about power, about sunwalking, he doesn't give a shit about anything and anyone -- he wants his child back. And he will make it happen.

At any cost.

[olderthannetfic]

Who wants some vague fandom wank? I'm here to deliver.

Man I'm absolutely in love with BNF who end up being scammers because they're just. Fucking stupid it's hilarious.

There's this girl who made art commission for certain juggernaut fandom, she imitated the media art style pretty decently, so of course people commissioned her for like. years. But then she decided to do the most stupid thing: got beef with other BNF fanartist. Wrong move scammer! She harassed this other BNF and tried to convice a part of the fandom that this BNF was a "serial tracer". Scammer would often vaguepost about the BNF with passive-aggresive remarks to get people begging to know who whas she talking about while she insisted "I'm past behind it! I don't want to give this person attention". Typical stupid mean teenager shit. Behind scenes it was insane. She would stalk her mutuals and friends for traces of BNF presence, insist them to block BNF and generally talk about BNF more than other things, even sending screenshoots of her harassing BNF.

But then! She decided a worst wrong move: scamming. She would post how badly she needed money and offer commissions to get that sweet sweet money (there was a deet where scammer literally said "beware my commissions are expensive!" fuck off looooool). And she being a BNF of her own, well, obviously got asked for comms! However, she did not deliver some comms. Would stop contacting some clients after MONTHS (she said "it takes me a month to make the art"... one moth is not half a year) of silence, with several messages of her clients asking for fucking answers... while she was posting fucking memes and harassing the other BNF. One particular case, a FRIEND (well more like ex-friend rn) commissioned her... guess what? Friend did not received the comm but instead infinite messages about how other BNF sucked and how scammer envy BNF because she's better at art, and when friend got tired of that and asked for the comm... ghosted!

One call out post was all everyone needed. One! that turned in fifteen in the past few weeks. About everything she did. With those call out posts people discovered he had a lame modus operandi (the messages for the lame excuse of not giving the comm in the accored deadline --and with this I mean she copypasted every single message) and a sock account. So of course she saw that and decided go silent on her main (and sock)... but went active on TikTok. Not because she posted videos but because she deleted comments about the scams. See what I mean? I love stupid people like this. Even stupider is that she liked, with her main account, a meme-- and everyone saw that. She just digging her grave more and more, I love it.

--

[thatbuddie]

the fact that marisol nolastname was so unimportant that she was sent off off screen is fucking hilarious to me, she was just, not there anymore (but on a more serious note, she was never really needed for like any of eddies or chris' storylines this season, not even the catholic guilt one, so why tf was she even there in the first place? esp after her transphobic/homophobic bs)

it truly is so hilarious how irrelevant she became ksksksk like she was irrelevant from the beginning but it just turned into such a crazy thing.

i actually find it interesting that they decided to take care of the break up off screen for various reasons. 1) i think the eddieana break up serves as the blueprint for queer eddie. we already have one of his relationships not working because eddie has not realized who he is entirely and he is trying to fit an image and play a role that is not him. we did not need the break up with marisol to establish that further, especially as his combo with him/shannon plays into it as well with the "i'm broken" aspect of someone who does not yet understand himself. 2) i think everyone realized the actress just could not carry a break up scene at all ksksksks. 3) eddie and buck are ONCE AGAIN paralleling each other romantically. their relationships with natalia and marisol in s6 started almost at the same time and were so obviously wrong for them both and then buck's breakup happened offscreen and now eddie's break up happens... offscreen. it's so telling to me.

i disagree through with her not being "needed" for any of eddie's and chris's storylines. like sure they could have reached catholic guilt eddie in another way, yeah, and the nun thing was... silly as hell lmao... but in the end introducing the catholic guilt through her served both to introduce it and to make their relationship start tumbling down. and also part of why eddie's and kim's thing hit so badly is because eddie is with someone. he is emotionally cheating on someone. like yeah his thing with her would have still showed that he had not moved on from shannon and could have impacted chris. but the fact that eddie, the same man who was with no one even all those years he and shannon were estranged, went and betrayed his girlfriend like that, serves as a way to show just how badly he is doing. and that is important.

[moonlightserenadeeznutz]

I can’t get over how badly written Harry Potter as a character was. Like I could go into an essay about how his upbringing should have effected him in far more complex ways than was written about, or how he experienced no proper character development because he went into the story the same way as he left the story etc etc but my main thing rn is just the fact that... this kid was literally abused and manipulated by authority figures at every turn of his life and he grew up?? Conforming to those authority figures?? He just became an auror and entered society as a perfectly well-adjusted, conformist, law-abiding citizen?? That sucks so fucking much and just doesn’t feel realistic at all. Harry could have been so much cooler had he not been written by a fucking terf conservative. He wasn’t rebellious at all, he was an average skinny white guy who would literally bully me if he got the chance.

In reality, Harry should have fucking REBELLED against the system. In my mind he’s a gnc stoner who sucks dick for money. My guy plays the drums and listens to fucking screamo music. He has tattoos on his top surgery scars. He makes out with guys at the bar. Everyone is wrong about him especially his own fucking author oh my GOD I can’t believe this bitch tried to pretend to us that she was progressive in any fucking way it’s actually so sad and hilarious. Okay ma’am I see you making Hermione Granger Minister for Magic to tick the Hollywood box of “women can be in power too!” It’s a shame your little feminist message is undermined by the fact that all your female characters are married and with children by the time they’re thirty.

Anyway I think this post got away from me. Point is. Harry is a trans man actually.

[theajaheira]

gje ask: how long do you think it takes before Ethan stops being utterly horrified by the concept that he actually genuinely likes Jenny as a person? bc i feel like that would be A While but also it would probably be very... a year in, a switch flips in his brain and she's suddenly his favorite non-Ripper person ever, but he still isn't going to SAY that so he's just. causing problems for anyone who annoys her as a weird fucked up form of affection.

so i think that initially ethan approaches his deep interest in jenny with horrified anthropological precision. like he is obsessively going out of his way to spend time with her and spying on all of her dates with giles and he is very clear to her, giles, and anyone who will listen to his loud and dramatic protestations that this is because he just Doesn’t Get what giles sees in jenny, but the reality of it is that he (like giles) got trapped in the That Woman Is Too Hot And Can’t Be Real sinkhole and (like giles) is handling it with all the maladaptive coping mechanisms that 20+ years of unaddressed emotional baggage have created. except with giles it’s all about I Don’t Deserve Jenny, but with ethan it’s I Must Undermine Jenny. he HAS to find the flaw in her code and prove that she’s not actually that hot and interesting and perfect, and OBVIOUSLY that means spending time with her because he is RESEARCHING, and eventually + inevitably he will find out the truth and bring this fakey too good to be true relationship CRASHING TO ITS KNEES. he is a genius.

meanwhile, jenny has started taking ethan to her favorite bookstores “for enrichment” and is debating him because she thinks chaos as a concept should be ambivalent to the notion of causing harm, not averting one’s eyes from it, which is what ethan does, which sure does seem like he cares!!!! so maybe he’s not that good at his job!!! and ethan starts fighting with her all the time and giles in the background is like Oh Fuck I See Where This Is Going and starts trying to frantically stop it from happening solely because he doesn’t think he can psychologically take having ethan and jenny as partners at the same time, BUT if presented the option will immediately grab it without hesitation, because something is clinically wrong with him.

in my head there is at some point an accidental kiss that absolutely fucks up both of them and both of them agonize over what giles will think. probably, because they are both so clinically stupid in the exact same way, they kissed in giles’s apartment, giles saw them, giles went “well, i really am at the whims of the universe and my two incredibly hot partners are definitely going to murder me,” and then giles went grocery shopping to give ethan and jenny some time to freak out as individuals.

i think that the switch gets flipped the instant the romantic component comes into play, but you are so right that the horror is immediate and perpetual. suddenly this is the most perfect person outside of giles and ethan would literally die for her in a way that is sorta very different from his experiences with giles??? because jenny is SO VULNERABLE in a way that means ethan’s usual brand of Emotional Violence As Romance is going to go SO BADLY and also make giles literally kill him. he knows from minute one that digging his claws into her insecurities is the very fastest way to lose her, simply because her heart is so so on her sleeve, and once she knows that you know that, if you do it deliberate and calculated damage for no other reason than Showing Her Up, you are done. i think he would be most horrified of the fact that he recognizes there are limits with jenny and feels a desire to respect those limits. (giles thinks this is fucking hilarious btw.)

there is probably this transitional period where jenny is emotionally vulnerable with ethan and he is awkwardly sweet in response and then as soon as she’s settled and it’s over he has to go outside and burn down half the front porch just to make himself feel better. giles is kinda like ok i guess i will take up gardening so you have more things to burn or something. they are developing a system.

so to answer your question ….. a year. that sounds about right. i do think that a year in someone makes jenny make a slightly hurt expression and ethan MASSIVELY overreacts and fucking stabs the guy with an actual knife. jenny is like “wow :)” and giles is like NO DO NOT ENCOURAGE THIS. NO MORE STABBING. WE DID THIS ONCE ALREADY I LITERALLY CANNOT TAKE THIS AGAIN.

[ivan-fyodorovich-k]

In the summer of 2015, back when he was still talking to traitorous reporters like me, I spent extended stretches with Donald Trump. He was in the early phase of his first campaign for president, though he had quickly made himself the inescapable figure of that race—as he would in pretty much every Republican contest since. We would hop around his various clubs, buildings, holding rooms, limos, planes, golf carts, and mob scenes, Trump disgorging his usual bluster, slander, flattery, and obvious lies. The diatribes were exhausting and disjointed. But I was struck by one theme that Trump kept pounding on over and over: that he was used to dealing with “brutal, vicious killers”—by which he meant his fellow ruthless operators in showbiz, real estate, casinos, and other big-boy industries. In contrast, he told me, politicians are saps and weaklings. “I will roll over them,” he boasted, referring to the flaccid field of Republican challengers he was about to debate at the Ronald Reagan Presidential Library that September. They were “puppets,” “not strong people.” He welcomed their contempt, he told me, because that would make his turning them into supplicants all the more humiliating. “They might speak badly about me now, but they won’t later,” Trump said. They like to say they are “public servants,” he added, his voice dripping with derision at the word servant. But they would eventually submit to him and fear him. They would “evolve,” as they say in politics. “It will be very easy; I can make them evolve,” Trump told me. “They will evolve.” Like most people who’d been around politics for a while, I was dubious. And wrong. They evolved. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Trump told me the following spring, as he was completing his romp to the 2016 nomination. We were talking on the phone, and Trump had just wrapped up a rally in Anaheim, California. Former Texas Governor Rick Perry had recently endorsed him, despite dismissing Trump earlier as a “cancer on conservatism” and “a barking carnival act.” “He made a statement saying something like I’m ‘the smartest guy ever to run for office,’ ” Trump told me (Perry didn’t say exactly that, but close). “How do you get from ‘cancer on the party’ to that? I get it, I get it; it’s how politicians are. But I couldn’t do that.” Trump accepted Perry’s support, and then promptly taunted him. “He was going [around] saying the worst things about me!” Trump said at the Anaheim rally. “I have never seen people able to pivot like politicians.” “It’s happening with all of them,” Trump said. “Lindsey Graham just called and was very nice … even though he used to say the worst things.” (Graham had called Trump, among other not-nice things, “a race-baiting, xenophobic religious bigot” and “a kook.”) Soon enough, the last holdouts would come around too. “It’s just so easy, how they do that,” Trump said. As went individual Republican politicians, so went the party. Reince Priebus, the chair of the Republican National Committee in 2016, would become frustrated with Trump over his obvious scorn for his organization. Still, Priebus would gamely try to assure me that the GOP was shaped not by one man but rather by a set of traditions, principles, and conservative ideals. “The party defines the party,” Priebus kept telling me. After Trump won the nomination in 2016, “The party defines the party” became a familiar feckless refrain among the GOP’s putative leaders. House Speaker Paul Ryan vowed to me that he would “protect conservatism from being disfigured.” Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell told the radio host Hugh Hewitt that “Trump is not going to change the institution,” referring to the GOP. “He’s not going to change the basic philosophy of the party.” In retrospect, this was hilarious.

[yuhi-san]

Hospital yuri be on my yay! Vol 4 lots going on in the few first pages already.

Floppy haired vash is so adorable omg

Them making contact all of a sudden just then felt a little abrupt but good for them! Of course knives has to ruin it. Makes you wonder just how much he notices and knows of things going on.

Wolfwood oh man. I think its easy to miss how much time he spends just trying to keep it together and to adjust to all the curveballs hes thrown ever since he met vash. I think that deserves his own post eventually but he is not having a great time. But his reaction to the satelit and them making contact is really telling. His “will we be saved? Us…?” speaks volumes about ww. I think it shows how little hope for the future he really has. He can’t think much further than surviving tomorrow and maybe, if he’s lucky and smart and ruthless enough, keeping the children save for a little longer. But its clear he didn’t believe that there truly could be a future, let alone a good one. he has so very little hope abiut that but at the same time he wants to hope so, so badly, if not for himself then at least for the kids. And ouch that hurts.

Vash trying to sneak off alone, thinking he has to do it all alone. Of course he does. One day you will be at the receiving end and it wont be fun.

Ohh midvalley. Still very intrigued by him. But on the same note, what an unhinged first impression you give knives. But anyway  I think midvalley is actually a lot like Wolfwood. At least in the sense that he is very, very terrified but also has a very good intuition for a situation and danger. He also clearly does not want to be involved in this insanity, less out of a sense of morality but self-preservation. He can feel in his bones how evil and dangerous knives is and he really, really rather not cross his path again but what would be worse is getting on his bad side, so. I guess in a way midvalley is in a very futile situation, not too much unlike Wolfwood. Makes me wanna see an au where midvalley switches sides, if for no other reason than thinking this is more likely to keep him alive. Him and Wolfwood would be so interestig

Well knives seems confident Wolfwood is doing exactly what he wants. Though I’m not sure if that is because knives is so certain about ‘chapels’ loyalty (to the children, that is) or if he thinks it doesn’t really matter how it plays out either way as no matter what, he IS guiding vash and also it IS going to cause him so much pain regardless on how it goes down. Also not sure he even knows ww is the wrong chapel. On one hand, knives is meticulous and damn smart on the other hand I can see him not giving enough of a fuck to realize or maybe worry about it.

Vash and Wolfwood are soo dumb. How are they not dead. Bless milly and meryl. What absolute idiots. Especially vash. you traveled the desert for over a century, you should not make mistakes like that!!

It may be short but some badass milly and meryl moments! Man does meryl look mad. It reminds you that if they are not dealing with basically superpowered people, these two girls are not ones you want to mess with

Wolfwood waving at milly and und the horrified face he makes when she starts crying is so funny. He was just saying hi!!

Goddamn vash is mad and ready to strangle zazie, I’d say with the way he jumped at him (which went great. That was some hilarious rodeo of a worm vash)

It probably wouldn’t have worked out well but man I have no doubt milly would have shot ww. Shes so determinate I love her.

Lots and lots going on. The action and dialog is sometimes a little hard to follow to me. The missle Wolfwood shot into the sky. What was that for? Or was that the same one that hit between vash and hopperd?

Knives. We get to see him some through midvalleys eyes but there is also the shot of vash with a black eye stumbling after him while knives looks… displeased and uncaring at best. And we’ll see how my opinion evolves but I do think already then, knives was rotten to the core with no sympathy and love left. I do not at all think he is a case of born evil or anything. Knives very much was a victim of the circumstances. But what I do think is the whole tesla situation and all broke his innocent mind to a point where for him, there was never a chance of healing, no matter the course his life would have taken. You know what I mean? Maybe I’ll get more into that in another post.

[darkmagyk]

Ask game: 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21

choose violence ask game (send me more pls!)

the character everyone gets wrong

Annabeth, Annabeth, Annabeth. In SO MANY ways. Right down to her name, where people decide randomly that Annabeth is a nickname for Anna Elizabeth.

But mostly it's the school thing. Annabeth is always going to be the smartest person in the room, but she would (literally) rather die then demean herself to prove it. She also has ADHD, Dyslexia, and missed grades 2-6. I don't know how you can read about her being unwilling to play the Sphinxes game and then think that she'd be a good sport about school? I don't necessarily think she'd do badly. She is 100% in the "smart enough to coast" category. But she's not going to study, she's not going to apply herself. And I suspect when she finds herself disagreeing, she's not going to be open to listening to most teachers. She'll talk back, she'll argue, she'll get detention. She reads books in greek, she probably doesn't have special affection for her school libraries full of books she can't read. Free yourself from the Hermione Industrial Complex and embrace smart girl characters who's only life goal isn't getting As on tests.

Other things, Annabeth did live in Virginia some as a child. But given that it was in Richmond, her father is from Boston, and they moved at least a little (in TLT her family lives in New York State), the idea that her upbringing would be particularly southern, or that she'd have a southern accent is silly.

Also, she thinks Percy is funny. She enjoys his company. They have a lot of similarities. And she knows he's not as smart at she is (no one is) but she doesn't think he's the dumbest person alive. She doesn't hate him. About 80% of all PJO Incorrect quotes can be summed up as Percy: says something dumb, Annabeth: You're an idiot, and I hate you. And that's just...not what's going on with them.

2. a compelling argument for why your fave would never top or bottom

It's a sexual position they don't enjoy? Let us not confuse sexual positions with gender or rolls in power dynamics.

Now, if you want to discuss power dynamics, Annabeth is a sub and Percy is a dom. Because Annabeth has a long history of feeling unloved, unwanted, and abandoned and wants to feel desired. And Percy has been dismissed and untrusted and wants to feel competent and trustworthy.

3. screenshot or description of the worst take you've seen on tumblr

Recently saw a post that said Frederick had fucked Athena. You know, Athena, the famously virgin goddess.

(The funniest part was that it was part of a very anti-Frederick post, and yet...by saying Athena, the goddess of wisdom, broke her millennia long, life defining desire to not sleep with men, to sleep with Frederick Chase, they were saying he was a giant Chad and extra extra special. And that Athena saw so much in him, loved him so much, she developed sexual feelings for him and was willing to throw away one of her defining characteristics for him. And that...that was kind of hilarious)

5. worst discord server and why

Um, the Taylor Swift one I joined to trade tips for my show is really pretty bad. Everyone is so mean and bitchy and, I say this as someone who is weird about how much I love Taylor Swift, Swifties are the worst.

Otherwise, I can't keep up with servers, or really any chat with more then like 3 people them. So I can't really tell if they are good or bad.

8. common fandom opinion that everyone is wrong about

See previous comments about Annabeth. But, also, Jesus Christ Frederick Chase. Who is super interesting, and also dealt a bad hand he then played badly. Dude is a Norse Legacy who fell in love with a Hellenic Goddess. He went out of town and his wife ran off his daughter while he was gone. He can see through the mist. He dive bombed a Titan to save said daughter. He's a Red Sox fan and has a daughter who's a Yankees fan. He managed to enchant Athena. Favorite minor character.

Also, everyone is wrong about Poseidon. He's an ass, he's a bad dad (Hades is the best big three dad. And possibly the best godly parents. And that's being graded on the scale that calculates that time he told Nico he wished he'd died and bianca hadn't. That's how bad everyone else is.) And Sally has moved on to bigger and better things.

Combining those two things: Fredthena > PoSally. Fredthena is more interesting, and during the canon of the stories, it's actually still interesting instead of Poseidon just being Sally's loser ex.

Other things: in fic, Luke is Annabeth's looser older brother, not abusive ex. Annabeth is the punk and Percy is the good boy, Jercy wants what Frankercy has.

13. worst blorboficiation

Connor Stoll. He's literally just half a character. And that's fine.

Also Octavian. Who is allowed to just be power mad.

Also...I love Nico a lot, but the way fandom acts about him is...so much.

21. part of canon you think is overhyped

Nico. I love Nico, I think he's an awesome character and have written multiple fics about him. But people are so weird about him. And there is an extent to which I get it. He's one of the first incidentally queer characters in middle grade literature (as opposed to a character who is gay in a book all about being gay). He's got the emo vibes we love. And he definitely went through it.

But everyone is kind of going through it. And yet, people will unironically make posts about how Percy promised to protect Bianca and then let her die when...When Bianca set off a monster and Percy literally was like "I have a plan to get rid of it" and then Bianca said "I'll do it" and Percy was like "No, I will" and then Bianca just did it anyway. That isn't on Percy. Similarly "Percy choked Nico, its inexcusable." You know, that time that Nico helped his father trap Percy in a room in the underworld with no ways out or windows or anything. Nico didn't know, and he felt bad and tried to make it right, but it wasn't unreasonable for Percy to be pissed and attack the dude who behaved like an enemy.

[queerprayers]

Hello there! I've recently come to the realization that I may be panromantic asexual and was wondering how you learned to accept yourself as God made you? I grew up in a time where the whole "conversion therapy is bad, God will convert you straightness instead!😃" rhetoric was a thing, and I constantly have that in the back of my head. I want to be free, to love, to know that God didn't make a mistake with me and that I'm not lying to myself. I know you don't have all the answers, but thank you for taking the time to read this. I'm praying for nothing but the best for you.

Hi, beloved! Thank you for your prayers. I'm so proud of you for learning more about yourself and being willing to start this journey! Getting that rhetoric out of the back of your head is a hard one. It's hard to free yourself from what you've been taught. Here's some of my journey, and some thoughts!

I had a similar rhetoric taught to me—"Yes, abusive tactics were wrong, and we shouldn't treat queer people badly, and it's not their fault, but they need to not act on their thoughts, they need to not identify with their emotions, and they need to pray more. And even if God doesn't take away their attractions, he'll give them the strength to suffer through heterosexual marriages, which is what we should all strive for!" The thing about realizing you're queer is it doesn't take those beliefs/instincts away. This is why there are a large number of homophobic gay people, and also why there's an even larger number of people like us, who know what we believe, but sometimes can't get rid of the stuff we used to/were taught to believe. 

I started questioning my identity around age 13. And the one thing I decided on was that I couldn't be gay. I just couldn't be. I knew what gay people were, and I didn't hate them, but I knew what my parents said about them (that they were confused/sinful/sick), and I wasn't them. And I have a very clear memory of a journal page from middle school—I'm sure it's still around somewhere. It was titled "What I Would Do If I Was Gay." Now looking back this is hilarious, and not really something one writes if they're straight. But being the organized human being I was, I had a plan. I don't remember all the bullet points, but I know one of them went something like, "Decide on a man that I wouldn't mind marrying. Be nice to him." Again, hilarious, very straight I promise. But I was following what I had been taught. The last bullet point was, if all else fails, to die, because that's the only future I could imagine for myself if I couldn't live the way my parents wanted me to. You internalize this stuff, and imagining a future in which you're free is the hardest thing in the world sometimes. 

I am here to say—and I'll say it over and over again to as many people as I can—that there is a future. We have so much beautiful time. So much of the pain I've been through involved a failure of imagination—I couldn't imagine a future for myself, so I assumed it didn't exist. There's such a lack of trust there, both in myself and in God. The first step (besides admitting to myself that yes, I was some flavor of queer) was trusting. That I couldn't see a world in which I was okay with myself, but that there was one. And I would get there someday.

The beginning was surrounding myself with people and communities that were affirming. I couldn't leave my home—partially because I was a kid, and partially because I didn't want to (I still haven't)—but I had the internet. If you dig deep enough on my personal Tumblr (please don't, I'm begging you), I was calling myself a straight ally—I've been on here a long time. Tumblr was the first place where I really saw queer people just… being normal? I didn't know any out people in my life, and so my ideas of queer people were stories and ideas and news articles. But I remember the first time I saw someone just, casually mention being gay, and it blew my mind. Because they were normal, and they weren't afraid. And if they could be, I could be. A Google search led me to Queer Theology, which is still a beloved resource of mine. And slowly, the people I followed and the friends I made and the websites I visited… they were queer. And suddenly it wasn't a bad word, it was just… how some people were. And I hated myself and my identity viciously, but I never hated them. 

That was one thing I held onto. My friends started coming out to me (yeah, we all ended up queer), and I responded with joy and love. I didn't have that for myself, not yet, but knowing I had it at all kept me going. The thing that helped me love myself the most in life is paying attention to how I treated others. Love your neighbor as yourself. (Confession: sometimes I'm thinking a bad thing. And I imagine that someone on this very blog put the bad thing in my inbox. And I know what I would do: I would validate their feelings, and maybe find some ways to feel better, or give them some things to read, and remind them they're loved, and pray for them. Why am I different? Why do I uniquely deserve to be alone? And I do those things, for me.) Sometimes you have to ask, if a friend was going through this, what would I say to them? And that's what you should say to yourself. I'm willing to bet you are free and loving and supportive of other queer people. Not that you're perfect, etc. etc., but that you are a good friend. You've been lovely to me! Maybe not now, but someday, you will be able to give that to yourself.

Another question I ask myself: When have I been a better, more loving Christian—when I was repressed and self-hating, or after I accepted my identity? And the answer, in every way, is the second. Self-hatred is just another form of self-centering. I don't say this to blame or guilt anyone, but it is a truth I had to process. I used to worry every day about every single thought I was having, and call myself the worst person alive, and sit around hating myself, and worrying about my future. Now obviously this was partially because I'm severely mentally ill, and also because of the homophobia I had been taught, and I don't blame my past self. But the reality is that I was so consumed by myself that I wasn't really… being a person. And if I had kept going like that, if I was right now forcing myself into heterosexual relationships and curbing my self-expression and despising my love and terrified of the Bible, I would be a selfish, lonely person. And I wouldn't be much of a Christian. But right now? Loving and celebrating myself, seeking fulfilling relationships, finding joy in God? I am a better person, a better Christian, for being affirming. Whenever I get a thought, an instinctual, intrusive thought from the past, telling me to go back there, to that place, I remind myself that God asks me to be loving and faithful, and this is where I am loving and faithful. And in the future, hopefully I will grow into more love and faith than I can even imagine right now. But I can't go back. Wherever you are right now, know that you could use your energy to center yourself, to repress and erase yourself, or you could use it to love. To let yourself exist, and live a life. Be a person. And no God I would worship would prefer the former.

Re: mistakes: Something I learned from exploring queer Christianity is that our religion is made so much better by queer people. The art, theology, and joy that queer people bring to Christianity is not a mistake, it is a purposeful diversifying of the human experience that God welcomes. "Love does no harm to a neighbor. Therefore love is the fulfillment of the law." There are no mistakes. There is evil to defeat, and there is suffering to overcome, and there is the fulfillment of God's law through love. We're fulfilling the law, right now, by having this conversation—we both approached it with love.

Re: lying to ourselves: Usually when we worry about this, we're worried that we're wrong. That we'll feel differently tomorrow, and this is proof that we were lying. But that's not what lying is. There aren't very many permanent senses of self. It is generally harmful to consider queerness a phase, and it's not the lens through which we should view people's identity, but the reality is that we don't know everything all at once, and there are phases of emotion/experience. There are times when I question my gender identity, and times when I feel completely comfortable as the gender I was born with. I'm not lying to myself during either of those times, and those experiences are not less real because they don't last forever. You have recently come to a realization regarding who you might be; you've found words that might describe you. Unless you are purposely sending me lies (this would be a very strange thing to lie about), you are communicating to me an honest experience and interpretation. It may be that since you sent this ask (a regrettably long time ago), you interpret your experiences differently, or feel differently about sex/attraction, or any number of things. This doesn't mean you've lied—it means you're a person. God created you with the ability to grow and change, and this is a good and holy thing. Whatever words feel right to you at this moment, whatever experiences you're having, you're here now, and that is the truth. Tomorrow is a new day, with new space for truth. Not knowing everything isn't lying, and being wrong isn't lying, and changing isn't lying, and not seeing the whole picture isn't lying. It's just existing.

I've said a lot. I think I've said what I wanted to say. In summary: it takes time, and changing your environment, and constant self-reminding re: your values; and lacking imagination isn't the same thing as lacking a future; and wanting to be free is the only way you get to freedom; and you already have love, you just have to nurture it; and you're not faking or lying or a mistake, you're a person. I learned to accept myself by accepting others, and remembering I'm just as worthy of love as they are, and by validating my truth even as it changed, and by remembering that being queer (or rather, loving and living out my queerness) has made me a better person and Christian.

What gets you to self-acceptance might be radically different, but I pray it's just as life-changing, and I know it'll be worth it. Peace be with you.

<3 Johanna