#(forgot the title though)

[reasonsforhope]

"A Ghanaian-English entrepreneur has designed an electric bike from the ground up that’s transforming short-range transportation in her home country, proving that problem-solving in Africa can be done in Africa, by Africans.

[Valerie Labi's] company, Wahu!, assembles each bike by hand, and they can travel up to 80 miles [128 kilometers] on a single charge. This means that a delivery rider for Glovo or Bolt can comfortably cover a whole day’s work without refueling.

Anyone who’s visited Accra, Ghana, in the dry season will remember the incredibly poor air quality. Poor roads mean that cars are stuck in second and third gears, and old cars traveling in second and third gears mean plenty of extra car exhaust.

Poor roads also mean exposed dirt, and exposed dirt means fine-grained dust. Combined with a lack of rain, the smog, dust, and car exhaust make the air in parts of the capital unfit for human health.

Wahu! bikes help alleviate all three of these problems, and despite her English nativity [Note: Super weird and unclear way to phrase it?] and education, the bikes were designed and manufactured in Spintex, Accra.

“By introducing electric bikes into Ghana’s transportation ecosystem, we’re not only providing a greener alternative but also offering speed and convenience,” Labi told The Mirror. “Our bikes are a testament to how service delivery can be seamlessly merged with environmental conservation.”

Valerie Labi is a true inspiration, and besides her transportation company, she got her start in the Ghanaian economy in sanitation. She holds a chieftaincy title as Gundugu Sabtanaa, given to her by the previous Chief of the Dagbon traditional area in the Northern Region of Ghana. She has three children, holds a double major in Economics and Sustainability from two separate universities, and has visited 59 countries.

Getting her start in Northern Ghana, she founded the social enterprise Sama Sama, a mobile toilet and sanitation company that now boasts 300,000 clients.

During her travels around the small, densely populated country, she also recognized that transportation was not only a problem, but offered real potential for eco-friendly solutions.

“It took us two years to effectively design a bike that we thought was fit for the African road, then we connected with Jumia and other delivery companies to get started,” she told The Mirror. “Currently, I have over 100 bikes in circulation and we give the bikes on a ‘work and pay’ basis directly to delivery riders.”

According to Labi, each driver pays about 300 Ghana cedis, or about $24.00, per week to use the bike, which can travel 24 miles per hour, and hold over 300 pounds of weight. The fat tires are supported by double-crown front/double-spring rear suspension.

The bikes are also guaranteed by the company’s proprietary anti-theft system of trackers. Only a single bike has been stolen, and it was quickly located and returned to the owner."

-via Good News Network, January 24, 2024

[robotclownindulgence]

Truly amazing quotes from the transformers halloween special

[vesper-the-great]

Crossbones and his genius inventor!

(TS!Underswap v 2.0 is out! WOOOO)

[moethh]

Victor why is your miserable book making me miserable

[alangdorf]

Ok so I know I’ve taken a few liberties here with gijinka-fying the Rampaging Doomers, of all characters, but hear me out: self-recognition through the other (derogatory). Not just a reminder of the part of himself he doesn’t like to acknowledge but also a near-perfect replication of him at his worst (Magolor EX, specifically). They know enough about Doomer and Ancient societies and his situation with the Crown to get right to the heart of his insecurities, which makes them really effective at bullying him. Also like. Extended family judging you for your life choices lol

Anyway, included the lines this time cause I’m really proud of the composition but a bit disappointed with how the coloring turned out. It did however help me pinpoint what I’d like to improve on, which is my coloring/shading. I think I get into details too quickly to the detriment of the piece as a whole and I also think the way I shade doesn’t have enough contrast and doesn’t take light sources into account very well. I just need to do some painting studies sometime and that will fix me, I swear

[therizino-ao3]

Hermit Horror Week 2023

Day four: Taken Over

Summary: Tango knows being possessed by a bloodthirsty dungeon isn’t an ideal experience, but there’s not much he can do about it now.

Read on ao3

Contains: possession, controlling relationship, sapient Decked Out, murderous thoughts, cannibalistic thoughts, bad life decisions (tell your friends about your problems Tango!!!), temporary character death

Etho is talking to Tango about… something. Probably the new changes to treasure drops on floor one. Tango should be paying attention. He isn’t.

The thing is, it’s easy to forget when he’s on his own. The dungeon is merciful that way. It needs his human mind to maintain the dungeon and gives him free reign as long as he does as he’s told, sometimes he even gets rest. But here? Around others?

Etho’s heart is beating and his blood is rushing through his body and he’s breathing and Tango can feel all of it. Etho is right there and Hypno is to his left sitting on the leaderboard, swinging his legs and Gem is up above hiding in an alcove. And they’re all so relaxed and happy and his prey are so defenceless around him. Tango wants to tear his teeth into them and feel them die.

It’s maddening. The only times Tango can stand to be around others is if they’re actually running Decked Out, getting the same rush he imagines a wolf gets when it chases a rabbit. The rage and begrudging respect when Etho exploits parkour spots where there shouldn’t be or when Hypno escapes alive where anyone else would’ve died, and the sadistic satisfaction when Gem can’t find keys or when the vex descend on greedy players. And, the best part is, no matter how good they do, they’ll always fall victim to the dungeon, massacred in the survivor’s room. Tango gets to taste blood every time.

And, look, he knows this isn’t healthy. He should have clued into it when Zed started playtesting and he began to crave something he had never known before. But, it’s fine. Tango can manage. He nods along to what Etho is saying and does everything but look at his eyes. The alternative is telling his friends, which would be so awkward and uncomfortable and, worst scenario, they stop playing. And Tango can’t have that. Even just the week of vacation he took (mandated by Zed) was enough to leave him starving, shaking, barely able to think, an inch away from death. If Decked Out doesn’t get more sacrifices, Tango will- Well, he doesn’t know what will happen, but it won’t be good for him or his friends. So, he has no choice.

And as he watches, simultaneously, the dungeon that is an extension of himself, and sees Cub die to Willie’s trident. He feels warm and fed and satisfied. He wants more. He thinks - one of those thoughts he knows normal Tango would hate - maybe if it were a choice, he’d still choose this.

[jinxofthecipher]

As someone who hasn't considered the ship of ichigo and byakuya in more than a "oh that'd be an interesting ship", getting to the whole fullbringer arc really made me interested.

Like Tsukishima is able to place himself in memories and shit, which he does with the important people Ichigo has in his life. And all these people, Ichigo's family, his close friends, and the girl who loves him, instantly turn on him when Ichigo attacks Tsukishima.

The people who care the most about Ichigo and trust him with their lives are unable to break out of the ability or even question it. Orihime and Chad do try and fight it near the end but even they don't manage it before being removed from the situation entirely.

Tsukishima does this too with Byakuya and yet, out of all Ichigo's friends and family, it's Byakuya who actually goes against the enemies ability and cuts him down because anyone who dares to hurt Ichigo, even if they're a friend, must be cut down. And he does this almost instantaneously, without mulling it over unlike Chad and Orihime who only started to question things later.

That's just. . . Very interesting that out of everyone, it was Byakuya who would do such a thing, especially since, up to this point, we've not seen a lot between him and Ichigo.

Anyway I can see why my friend was a bit obsessed with these two when she was reading the manga. I can certainly see the potential even more now than I did and I certainly did earlier.

[moeblob]

(inhales) I'm so sorry I love Schwarz von Lichtenstein Loengram. He's my son now and I'm terribly sorry but I love him so, so much.

[lonelysucker7]

Enjoying reading some mullet haired Ben.

[skrunksthatwunk]

sometimes you need to go back and listen to the music you liked when you were 13 because it's good for you. and no im not talking about like emo nostalgia in this case we have enough posts about that. im talking about dad rock. actually im just talking about barenaked ladies

[hollow-indigo]

decided I should practice drawing Cyn

[lonely-dog-song]

is it just me or are there a lot of gay pedophile movies

[pencilofawesomeness]

My Friends Enjoy Reminding Me of My Many WIPs: The Tag Game

Another tag game lads~ @kiliinstinct and @thehylianidiot both tagged me, so here we go. I'm just going to do my uhh... current-current wips, which is to say, the ones I am actively looking at, more or less. Otherwise we will be here forever.

And before anybody wonders, yes, Runaways is on the table but I don't actually have any WIP of it to share because I took my break immediately after the last chapter so there's nothing to share atm

- rules: share the first line (or two or more!) of every current wip you have (that you feel comfortable sharing) and tag some writer friends! feel free to add the titles of your documents if you see fit

-

Whumptober 2023: Day 12 (Genshin Impact)

There was much work to be done.

Between dismantling the Akasha Terminal, uprooting the corrupt sages, and salvaging the organizational structure of all of Sumeru, there was not a moment to lose. There was also the added factor that the people needed to be assured during this tumultuous time. Unfortunately, Nahida was a practical stranger to them, and assurances from strangers never seemed to have the same effect. The fact that she was their archon only helped a little.

-

The light turned red, and I ran it (Jujutsu Kaisen)

He was Gojo Satoru. The strongest sorcerer, the only special-grade to call. He was the heir to the Gojo Clan. He was the pinnacle of everything jujutsu could hope to achieve.

He didn’t know how to make pancakes.

-

Memento Vivere: Chapter 2 (Fairy Tail FMA AU)

“I’m going to kill you!”

“Oh yeah? Then come over here and—ACK!”

Gray was not a child. He didn’t find senseless violence amusing. He did, however, laugh when Natsu fell on his ass on the ice-slicked hallway, because Gray was a bit petty. And Natsu deserved it.

-

Whumptober 2023: Day 19 (Genshin Impact)

It had been five days since Lisa had been abducted inside her own home. Four days since Albedo tugged Kaeya to the side and shared his hushed concerns about the scorched marks on Lisa’s kitchen tile being a result of Khaenri’ahn sorcery. Three days since, after determining that she could be anywhere in all of Teyvat, they sent word to the Milleleth first in hope for some confidential international support, and then to the Traveler, in hope for a miracle. Two days since Ningguang herself sent a falcon back, with word that they were aware of the mysterious scorched rune and that Captain Beidou was similarly missing. One day since Albedo received word from Forest Watcher Tighnari and they learned that General Mahamatra Cyno was missing as well. 

Kaeya was at a loss of what to do. It was a position he was seldom in and he hated it with every fiber of his being. 

-

Whumptober 2023: Day 12/26 (Jujutsu Kaisen)

“Oi! Sensei!”

Maki did not make it a habit of making a commotion to get Gojo-sensei’s attention, because he was a diva and he didn’t need his head to be even more inflated, but she had been waiting for that bastard to show up for days now, and she wasn’t going to let him poof away. Again. 

-

Kintsugi: Chapter 5 (Fairy Tail)

Erza’s closet was huge.

Lucy’s jaw audibly clicked shut when she realized that she was gaping. It was larger than Lucy’s had been, back at home, and she had been nobility for crying out loud! And Erza was… Well. Lucy absolutely was not judging, but Erza and her brother kinda lived as hermits in the woods. How Erza managed to collect such an assortment was beyond her.

-

Current BTHB: Hives (Twisted Wonderland)

The worst part about taking showers was all of the stuff they entailed. At least in Pomefiore. It was way, way too much. 

Epel used to be able to take simple, hot relaxing showers, with a single shampoo that would clean his entire body. It was fine. But noooo, things were different in Pomefiore. There were only a gazillion products for a ton of different things. Epel could hardly keep it all straight. Sure, they made his skin smoother and his hair softer, and it wasn’t a terrible feeling, but it wasn’t worth it. He couldn’t skip any of it though, because Vil would notice, and the housewarden’s lectures were worse.

-

Within Infinity (Jujutsu Kaisen)

Ieri Shoko was informed that when she would be attending Tokyo Tech, or whatever it’s official or unofficial name was, she would have two classmates. The small class size was to be expected when sorcerers weren’t a plentiful group, but she was dreading it all the same. That few people in such a small proximity promised interaction, and sorcerers were infamously a weird bunch. Her dad had been proof of that, for certain, as much as she hadn’t minded when it came to him. 

The thought of being forced to get along with two random kids until they graduated or someone died was enough to make Shoko reconsider her dad’s wish for her to attend regular medical school. However, Shoko didn’t like her prospects among regular people either, so she figured she would stick it out with the weirdos. Besides, if her old man’s passing was anything to learn by, sorcerers needed doctors too. (And a few miracles, but Shoko didn’t have any delusions about that one.)

-

Unmade (Fairy Tail)

Natsu couldn’t remember how he got here.

That by itself wasn’t a big deal. Natsu was used to not having the best memory. He was also used to getting knocked out. It happened from time to time. Hell, half the time it was inflicted by Erza. But that was fine, because his friends would make sure he was okay.

Except this time, he woke up alone and chained to a low-hanging stone ceiling, so Natsu was beginning to feel nervous. Just a bit.

-

Okay I might accidentally re-tag somebody but let's seeeee (and no obligation to do this, of course), ummm @genavere @jinn-mori @breezy-cheezy and @phoenix-before-the-flame for the heck of it :3

(and as always if this looks fun and you want to do, pretend I tagged you and we roll with it)

[englass]

Cry For Us

Pairing(s): Yandere? Seed Bros x Reader

Warning(s): Low mood, Depressing thoughts, Manipulative behaviour, Yandere/Possessive behaviour, Non-consensual touching (nothing explicit), The Seed Bros being themselves, terrible dialogue. 

Word Count: 4,195

A/N(S): Gonna start this off by apologising to @derelictheretic , @fadedjacket and anyone else that I’ve not responded to a WIP Day tag for over the last couple of weeks; I’m so sorry! 😭 Please take this finished piece as part of my apology and belated WIP Day contribution, even if it Is no longer an actual WIP anymore ❤️

- - -

It’s another one of those nights.

The house is cold and empty and so, so dark. So reminiscent of the home which houses your poor, fragile soul. Lights off with hardly an echo of feeling, thoughts non-existent as you just sit there, curled up tight in the corner of your couch and swamped by your jumper. Too large for your short frame, but comforting. Your only comfort. The closest thing to a hug you can get.

There’s a terrible headache that won’t ease. No tears to accompany it, except a bone deep weariness. Your limbs heavy and your mind painfully void of thought. And every time you try to think of something there’s another pulse behind your eyes, another ache within your head that makes your eyes sting with the threat of tears.

They don’t fall though. They never do. They’ll just make the headache worse.

It’s not like you have anything to cry about anyway. It’s just...

It’s just another one of those nights. Another one of those days. Another one of those weeks.

You should have known, really. Should have known that after months of feeling fine that you’d eventually crash. That your mood would slowly liquidate between your fingers and you’d be left empty handed, lost and made hollow save for a persistent headache and a draining fatigue. Stuck to bone and muscle and soul.

Melancholy.

Pure, soul crushing melancholy.

And as always you’re not sure what's caused it. Too many things maybe; nothing at all perhaps. It’s a gradual descent. A small misstep and then you’re stuck. Like quicksand. And like quicksand the only thing you know to do is to stop moving. To let it run its course and hope that it won’t pull you any deeper. That you’ll get out of it, eventually.

That knowledge offers little comfort though.

Body aching you shift, feel the cold touch the places you’ve kept warm and feel the cold places your warmth hasn’t touched. A small sound of discomfort whining lowly in your throat, briefly stretching out your legs before pulling them close again. Hands staying safely protected within the arms of your comfort jumper, fingers kept warm in the crook of your elbow.

Settling, you place your head gently on the arm of your couch, rubbing your cheek into the hood of your jumper. Thrown over your head not long after deciding on your current resting place.

That must have been hours ago now. It was the early evening when you first sat down, and now the sky is dark and the moon is out.

With a deep sigh you pull your hood further over your head, the cold quick to chill your fingers before they retreat back inside your jumper. The thick fabric obscuring your view save for part of the coffee table in front of you, a half empty cup that has long gone cold.

It’s a waste. You should probably drink it, even if it won't taste great. Or dump it down the sink. But you don’t. You just stare. Blink slow and breathe deep and just stare.

You aren't particularly religious. Don’t know if there is some sort of higher power out there, not convinced you’d be able to comprehend it if there was. But times like this you wondered. Times like this you wondered if that higher power was out there, if it knew of you. Knew of the questions you had: of why you were like this, why it felt like you were losing yourself, why you were slowly spilling out onto the floor and unable to soak up the pieces; why you became like a cracked and empty glass, unable to hold even a millilitre of happiness.

You know no one will hear you, that no one would answer you if you were to ask, let alone some divine entity, but still... you still wanted someone to hear you. Still wanted someone to answer you no matter how unlikely. You just wanted someone to tell you what to do, to give you the answers and teach you how to fix this broken part of yourself. You just wanted someone to be there for you, to acknowledge and accept this broken husk that you become.

You just wanted someone to hold you, to keep you close and safe and to not let go.

You just want someone to love you--

Vision slightly blurred and a wet whimper catching, dying in your throat, your body freezes up as you hear the distinct click of your front door, followed by the creaking of your floorboards. Can just about hear a subtle thunk beneath the measured groaning of your crappy apartment. Heart rate picking up, cold digging deeper, headache throbbing with every continued noise that shouldn’t be. That doesn’t belong.

After all, you live alone.

With a sniffle you slowly turn your head, cautiously eyeing the doorway, burying further into yourself as some distant part of you absently wonders if the ghost you sometimes swear you live with (or maybe that’s your lonely mind playing tricks on you) is about to walk into the room.

You wait with bated breath. Release it with a whine that sounds so terribly loud to your pulsing head as a shape fills the doorway.

No, you realise with widening eyes and a shaky echo trapped in your throat, it’s so much worse than any ghost.

Even with the room bathed in darkness, only split apart by the cracks of moonlight cutting sharp incisions into the shadows, you can’t mistake the man in your home. His tall and bulky frame completely takes up the space of your doorway. Always so intimidating, but even more so now, with you at your most vulnerable, frail and weak, and with the shadows and pale moonlight striking harsh and menacing lines across his scarred features.

Jacob Seed is not a man you ever wanted in your home.

For an agonising moment nothing happens, the both of you just existing in the same room. Staring at him with a different breed of cold settling over you as he carefully takes in your surroundings, too-blue eyes that almost seem to glow with the light of the moon reflected in them, unhurriedly scanning over everything before landing on you.

His sudden sigh startles you, makes you flinch and creates a pitiable sound within your throat. Head hanging for a second before he shakes it gently, looking back up at you with a look you don’t quite have the mental wherewithal to understand.

“‘Seems they were right, after all,” he observes thoughtfully, the deep timbre of his voice rumbling within your head. “You’re close to breakin’,” he takes a meaningful step towards you, “aren’t ya, pup?”

Distantly, buried somewhere beneath the blanket that has smothered all that you truly are, muting everything inside to a far off echo, you feel you should be offended; so boldly being laid bare like that. Flesh torn back to reveal how soft and squishy you are. How fragile; how weak. But you can’t quite reach it. Can’t grasp the shame that should come with being called out like that, feeling like it’s just a hairbreadth away but yet still so far.

Even your fear feels distant; sedated and so unattainable.

The way the imposing man practically prowls towards you, head high as he looks down at you, should scare you. Make you get up and run, attempt to try and put distance between you, but you barely feel a whisper; drowning in complete apathy.

What would be the point anyway? That’s all it will be: an attempt. You know you’d barely make it to your front door before he’d grab you. And you already feel so tired. So drained and just… empty. No energy to really think about it, let alone take your chances.

Nothing has really happened yet you already feel so defeated. So done. So ready to go to sleep and pray that tomorrow will be better. So ready to just lie back and accept whatever fate has in store for you. So ready to just give up… that you already have.

Jacob stops beside you. Watches you as you watch him before you close your eyes, turn your head away to hide within your hood. A hand venturing into the cold to grab and hold it down over you, another wounded sound slipping through closed lips.

Listening, you focus on the sound of your shaky breaths. Can make out the sound of Jacob’s calm breathing and the shifting swish of fabric. Can hear and even feel the slow dip of the space next to you, tensing at the unexpectedly weary sigh from the man now sitting at your side.

“I’m not here to hurt ya,” he smoothly rumbles, “if that’s what you’re worried about. We’re just concerned, is all.”

You huff a breath through your nose before you can stop yourself, but thankfully Jacob doesn’t seem to take any offence. Merely replies with a hum.

“They’ll be here soon. Johnny’s been pitching a fit ‘last few days. Been driving me and Joe crazy with how much he’s been fretting over ya,” he says with a breath of a laugh.

Another sound slips from you, weak and exhausted, as the hand holding your hood down slips beneath it. Warms itself against your forehead and eases the ache within your skull, if only for a second.

Something moves behind you, lays itself across the back of the couch, but you pay it little to no mind. Too busy focusing on the numbness in your toes, the hidden shivers over your body at how cold you feel. Trying to search for some sort of word or emotion to throw out there. Nothing comes though, and instead it just creates another ache in your skull.

“Then again,” he continues, oddly conversational, “me and Joe have hardly been any better. We just have a different way of showing it.”

Apparently whatever has placed itself behind you is not intent on letting you ignore it. Feeling it move and then a small jolt of a tug that has your hood being carefully pulled away from you. “Not this time though,” eyes opening to look at the man next to you, his bright eyes easily catching your dull ones. “For once we’re all in agreement about what we need to do. Question is, ‘you gonna let us?” He asks, eyebrow raising at your blank stare.

With a flutter your eyes close again, unable and unwilling to keep the contact. Maybe he’ll go away if you ignore him. Maybe he’ll put you out of your misery. He has done for many others, if the rumours are to be believed.

A sharp click of a tongue and a mumbled “guess not” is all the warning you get before your hood is unceremoniously dropped back over you. A gasp and startled protest tripping over your lips as a hand suddenly wraps itself around your shoulders, tugs you sideways as another hand hooks itself under your knees and quickly drags you over into your assailant's lap. A clear fizzle of panic getting your stiff body to struggle pathetically against his hold.

“Goddamn-- calm down will ya, pup? Already told you I’m not gonna hurt ya. You don’t have to be so fucking stubborn...” He grouches, hand kept firm around your shoulder to pin you to his chest, his other hand slipping out from under your knees to instead steal beneath your skewed hood and hold your head against him; fingers carding through your hair as he does so.

Your breath stutters at the contact, a mistiness entering your vision. Body tensing, pulling your legs closer, curling up into yourself as well as unintentionally into the man holding you. Faltering as you feel just how warm he is.

“There ya go. See? Nothin’ to worry about. You’re okay, pup. It’s alright. You’re alright…”

You can’t remember the last time someone held you like this; comforted you. Just let you be without asking too many questions, without needing some sort of explanation, without making some sort of comment about how you feel. You can’t control it. You don’t know how to stop it. It’s not your fault that you’re fragile. It’s not your fault something is missing. It’s not your fault that part of you is broken. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault…

Lip trembling you take a shuddery gasp of a breath, squeaking as your throat tightens. Head pounding as you fight to keep the tears at bay. Hands slipping from the arms of your jumper to disappear into your middle pocket, one hand finding its way back into your opposite sleeve as the other bypasses it. Stays hidden within your pocket to sneakily clutch at Jacob’s shirt. Soaking in the warmth of his skin beneath the material as your hood cushions your cheek against his chest.

“Don’t hold back, honey. It’s okay, I’ve got you. I’ve got you. You’re so strong, d’you know that?” he hushes, “So brave to keep on fighting, even when you want nothing more than to stop. You’re so exhausted, aren’t ya pup? Well, you don’t have to carry that burden alone anymore. It’s okay to rely on others. It’s okay to let go. It’s okay to cry every once in a while…”

You shake your head, breaths getting deeper and quicker as Jacob continues to stroke your hair, words of praise and comfort murmured above you, vibrating from him into you as you try to focus on the pain in your head instead of him. Focusing on all the reasons why he’s wrong, why you can’t trust him, all while desperately trying not to cry. You don’t want to cry. You don’t want to. You can’t, you shouldn’t.

The opening of the front door startles you slightly, makes you try and hide yourself deeper in Jacob’s bulk, pulling your hood over your face and trapping his hand against your head as you hear the quick footfalls of your latest intruders.

“Well, you two took your time,” is Jacob’s gruff greeting.

There’s an answering scoff, quickly overshadowed by a patient, “We had a few urgent matters come up that needed our attention. How are they?”

Joseph, you realise anxiously, fingers tightening in your hold over your hood and Jacob’s shirt.

The oldest brother grunts with a noncommittal shrug, “Could be better. They barely put up a fight when I grabbed ‘em. Haven't moved since.”

“Jacob,” is Joseph’s gentle admonishment.

“What? You expect me to see ‘em all curled up like this and not do something? Don’t be a fool, Joe.”

“You shouldn’t have forced them though, brother. We all know how skittish they are about being touched.”

“Funny, I don’t remember you havin’ a problem with that when you suggested this little intervention. What was it you said again? Something about exposure…”

There’s a strained sigh, exasperated.

The conversation between the brothers fades into the background as an echo of suspicion takes up your periphery; unsure why Joseph is trying to take some sort of high ground when you know that he’s the touchiest of them all. The fact that he -- they are aware of your dislike of being touched and would still do it anyway doesn't help your currently subdued distrust towards the men, either.

Swallowing thickly you carefully readjust yourself, legs stretching out a few inches before yanking them back as something brushes against them. A choppy whine becoming lodged in your throat as you feel something -- a hand? -- place itself on your knee, taking a steady hold of it.

“Ah ah, easy there! My, you really are jumpy, aren’t you? It’s okay though. You don’t have to be so scared anymore, my dear. We’re here now,” John, you tremble. “Can I see you? Will you let me? I just want to see your pretty face…” The couch dips at the added weight, thumb rubbing indiscernible patterns into your knee as soft fingers ghost over the back of your hand. Easing around and into your palm, applying a coaxing pressure as he pries your hand and hood away from your face.

With a low noise you hesitantly open your eyes, blinking against the honeyed glow of the lamp John must have turned on behind him. Defiantly keeping your eyes down as you notice and feel him start to invade your space, leaning in until he’s almost over your lap as he desperately tries to meet your eyes.

The barest hint of betrayal colours you as Jacob stops stroking your hair, grazing over your cheek with a soothing touch before loosely slotting his fingers around your neck, thumb and pointer finger resting uncomfortably on the angle of your jaw. Raising your head to look at his brother as you whimper plaintively, unable to break away the moment John’s ocean deep eyes catch your own.

A boyish smile lights up his face. Eyes twinkling with an adoration you’ve never seen before as they drink in your weary expression. Softening and turning sympathetic the longer he looks at you, the more he takes in. Colours layered with a gleam of understanding that makes your chest tighten.

“Oh, sweetheart,” lip wobbling you sniffle, trying to ignore his tone as he releases your knee. Hand cradling your cheek as the other manages to wiggle your hood free from your grip, pushing it away from your face and then taking your hand in his, drawing it close until he can press his own cheek into your palm. Beard scratching at the sensitive skin.

“Look at you,” he coos sweetly, “You’re so perfect for us. Why don't you cry? I can see that you want to. I bet you look even prettier when you cry too. You know there’s no shame in it, right? We won’t judge you for it, we’ll never judge you for anything. We just want to help you, darling. To look after you. Don’t you want that? Won’t you let us? Won’t you let us love you?”

Your lips twist, eyes stinging as your vision starts to blur again. Only just seeing the sudden feverish hunger that flickers to life in his eyes at your reaction, a predatory shade churning their colour darker as he slinks closer. A whimper shared in the space between.

“Oh. Oh. Yes, yes that’s it darling! Just like that. You’re being so good for me, so good. It’s okay to cry, sweetheart. It’s okay. You know we’ll look after you, right? We’ll protect you, I promise we will. We always will. You’ll never have to pretend again. We’ll keep you safe. We’ll take you home and you can have whatever you want, whatever your heart desires. I’m more than happy to spoil you, just tell me what you want. Anything you want and it’s yours, you just need to tell me. You just need to rely on me, only me. I’ll take such good care of you if you let me love--”

“John. That’s enough.”

He freezes. Takes a shuddery breath as he realises how close he has gotten to you, his mania driving him deeper into your (and Jacob’s) space until his nose is almost bumping yours. Shades of colour shifting like tempestuous waves as he turns to his brother with wide and glossy eyes, his rapturous tone switching to a high and petulant whine.

“But Joseph--”

Joseph shakes his head, lamp light casting a glare across his glasses as he takes a step forward. “I know you want to help them, John. We all do. But you must have patience. You shouldn’t pressure them so.”

John furrows his brow, mouth opening with a retort before he’s beaten to it. A harsh scoff sounding out above you.

“Yeah, you only say that cos you wanna be the one to say the words to ‘em,” finally letting go of your jaw Jacob’s arm drops to your lap, fingertips brushing absently over your hip. Throwing a challenging look, “ain’t that right, Joe?”

Joseph levels his brother with a flat stare.

“All I am saying, Jacob,” he enunciates purposefully, smoothly navigating around the coffee table until he stands before you all, eyes shielded by yellow lenses as he gazes neutrally down at his older brother, “is that we don’t want to cause them unnecessary stress by being impatient and rushing into things. They’re dealing with enough as it is. We do not want to add to that.” Blue eyes made green shift to you. That unnerving calm of his, so self assured and righteous, mellows; his scrutinising gaze turning deceptively gentle as he smiles serenely at you. Hand placed atop your head, “Not more than we already have.”

His touch is heavy, domineering in how you can feel the intentional press of him. The smallest application of pressure threatening to bow your head. It makes you feel all the more hopeless. That yawning absence of thought and those swaddled remnants of emotion growing all the more noticeable. The lack of despair that you know you should be feeling, being so cruelly cornered like the wounded animal you are, drives the wedge in deeper. The involuntary acceptance weighted down by your vacancy of care, the captivity of self.

Because that’s what it is, isn’t it? Thoughts and feelings, all that you are, locked away in a place that you can’t quite reach. On the other side of a door that you don’t have the key to. Lost in a building so dark and vast that you see no end in sight; a compass without directions that does nothing but spin; straining to listen to the faded grinding of gears somewhere further beyond. But the room never changes, the compass never stops, the sound never gets louder no matter how much you try. Just stuck. Just still. Just a void that shouldn’t be.

It should make you sad. There’s an echo of that sadness, trying to breach the disconnect, but once again you can’t find the source. Can’t take hold or fully embrace it. Just aware that it’s there, like background noise you don’t pay a thought to. And even if you wanted to, you wouldn’t be able to find it.

The only thing you do feel (other than a persistent headache) is tired; in every capacity.

Too physically weak to battle your way out of Jacob’s hold. Too mentally drained to analyse John’s every word and intonation. Too emotionally defeated to dread whatever intentions or warped plans Joseph has in mind for you.

This was planned, you know that much. And as Joseph steals your face away from his brother – John’s hands migrating to rest at the nape of your neck and splaying across your collarbone with his thumb to your throat, Jacob’s hands constricting in they’re hold as the one at your shoulder falls to join the other snaked around your waist – that tell-tale sting pricks your eyes again.

The world begins to blur around the edges as Joseph bends over you, angles your face heavenward to look directly up at him. Teary eyes forced to meet the blue turned green of your self-imposed saviour. His warm breath fanning over you, intently watching the fluttering of your lashes with every half blink you make; trying so hard to keep the tears at bay, so hard not to cry in front of him. In front of any of them.

You know they'll take advantage. Watch as you fall apart at the seams and the stuffing comes loose, act as if they didn’t brandish the scissors that tore your stitching out as they sew you back together. You know they will. Your vulnerability is prime meat for vultures like them.

Silently displeased by your show of restraint, Joseph’s stare sharpens. Turns razor-edged as he tilts his head with an unreadable expression. Grip constricting as he keeps you still, dissuades the need to fidget before you can act on it, observing every twitch with a critical eye. As if you’re a puzzle he’s trying to figure out how to conquer.

You can’t say you’d be surprised.

Something must show on your face because his gaze eases, takes on an edge so tender and warm that you feel as though you're being embraced by eye contact alone. It’s so raw that you feel yourself quake, fault lines threatening to come apart; stitching fraying and soft fuzz peaking out just as you feared they would.

And Joseph smiles.

He brushes your skin. Thumbs caressing your upper cheeks, further still until he’s so close to one of your eyes that you can’t help the instinctive reaction to protect it. Feeling the resistance of your lashes brushing his skin as you attempt to guard such a vulnerable part yourself from him.

But as his thumbs ease away, settling with cupping your face instead of ghosting over your eyelids, your breath stutters as you glimpse Joseph's smile grow into a grin, a gentle coo on his lips as you realise your mistake far too late; skin warm then shockingly cold as the air touches the tear line now running down your cheek.

A flash of emotion, poignant and real, lances through you:

Fear.

[lightnersdream]

i miss impressive title servers so baaaaad

[substituted-shinigami]

The Stray and The Strayer

In the past, Renji would describe his relationship with Rukia as "The Star and the Stray Dog". I think Rukia would disagree.

Based off of the painting “The Pride of Place”, by Briton Rivière (English, 1840-1920).

So this was supposed to be a quick joke, based on a cute painting. The Rukia-like little dog was going to be sitting smugly on the wall, joking about how she was finally taller than the Renji-like dog. However, the big dog looked so sad in the original that I decided to go with a more solemn idea… which then took me several hours. Yay! Anyway, now it's more about the separation they felt both physically and emotionally, especially with their habit of putting each other on pedestals. That said, I still didn’t want them to be too sad, because, despite all that, they have always cared about each other and still want to be together.