#Garbage written by yours truly

[eoieopda]

insomniac | ljh (m)

there are certainly worse ways to tire yourself out.

summary: it’s 2:00 am, and you can’t turn your brain off. thankfully, your boyfriend knows just how to scramble it. pairing: lee jihoon x reader au: established relationship type: one-shot (smut) word count: 5.2k rating: 18+ cw: reader is afab but no pronouns are used; reader has insomnia (unspecified re: prof. diagnosed or self-diagnosed); there’s a sentence about reader taking “an inadvisable amount of melatonin gummies” — don’t do this! — but they’re not impaired in any way; reader’s internal monologue is kind of angsty/self-deprecating at times; blonde!woozi has his hair in a bun, which is a warning in and of itself; completely unedited because my perfectionism has killed every wip i’ve attempted for months. ✰ minors do not have my consent to interact with me and/or my work. smut warnings: big dick lee jihoon™️, nipple stim, v fingering, unprotected p in v penetration, wee bit of aftercare. there are a total of six (6) orgasms in here because i believe in going big from home, incl. nipple stim & a-spot orgasms. a/n: i haven’t written anything in forever, due in large part to the fact that i’m exhausted but can never fucking sleep. i truly hope this isn’t incoherent garbage. 😵‍💫 dedicated to my fellow woozi-simping insomniac, @sailorrhansol. may we eventually rest in peace. multi permanent taglist. seventeen permanent taglist.

You should be asleep.

With the day you’ve had, you should’ve drifted off the second your body hit the sheets; and you should’ve stayed that way — unmoving, unconscious — for several hours, at minimum.

If the week’s worth of sleep debt wasn’t exhausting enough in and of itself, every single circumstance surrounding you begs you to give into the weight of your eyelids. To let yourself be lulled, just this once. Soothed.

From the vent in the corner, the gentle hum of the aircon goads you. It does its very best to convince you to curl up under the softness of your comforter, and to some extent, you’ve listened. You’re burrowed beneath your blankets with only the upper half of your face exposed, which should be more than enough to sway you. 

It’s not, though.

With no ability to keep your eyes closed, you stare dejectedly at the wall in front of you. Laying on your side, gazing straight ahead, you watch the faint echoes of the city lights as they wash over white paint. Not much bleeds through the blinds, leaving only hints of cobalt and red to blend into some sleepy shade of lilac. Whether or not you want to be awake to perceive it in the first place, you have to admit it: it’s beautiful.

But it’s not enough.

You squeeze your eyes shut, swallowing down the groan building in your chest. With how closely he’s got you nestled against his body, Jihoon would feel it if you let that frustration manifest. You already ache from the sheer amount of time you’ve been policing your own posture; making any amount of noise now would interrupt the slow, delicate breaths he’s aiming into the back of your neck. Frankly, you’d rather die.

Taking his silence as a sign that you’ve remained off his radar, you let out a measured sigh, too worried that the full rise and fall of your chest will disturb him. 

Nothing.

But then, the arm draped over your waist shifts. 

“Fuck,” you mouth to no one.

It wouldn’t be out-of-character for Jihoon to feel the restless energy pouring out of you in waves, even in the depths of a sleep cycle. He senses every tiny change in your ecosystem long before you do. As unlikely as he is to ever admit it, it has to be exhausting to be attuned to someone so neurotic. He deserves every second of sleep he can manage to get.

You grit your teeth and demand yourself to calm down, all while refusing to acknowledge how completely your actions and commands conflict.  

Maybe, you attempt to bamboozle yourself, you can sleep vicariously through him. 

He’ll wake up rested, and when you look in the mirror later, the first thing you see won’t be the cartoonish bags under your eyes.

It’ll be fine. 

It’ll be fine.

If you go to sleep right now, you’ll get five hours and thirty —

“You haven’t unclenched a single muscle since you climbed into bed,” notes the world’s groggiest voice from over your shoulder.

Jihoon’s lips brush against the sensitive skin of your neck when he speaks. Without that tickling sensation, you might’ve deluded yourself into thinking that you were simply hearing things just now. That it was merely a hallucination brought on by sleep deprivation and the inadvisable number of melatonin gummies you ate before brushing your teeth.

He shifts again. This time, there’s no mistaking his movements. The arm slung over your side pulls you closer. So close, in fact, that you can feel the contented sigh leave his body, like his isn’t separate from yours at all.

With the distance erased, his face — the cold tip of his nose and the sheet-creased warmth of his cheeks — can nuzzle properly into the crook of your neck. You swear you feel the hint of a smile there somewhere, too. If you had to guess, it matches the upward curve on your lips.

“What are we spinning our wheels over tonight?” He asks without a hint of judgment, as if your burdens are automatically his, too.

The fact that he can’t see your face doesn’t stop you from frowning. Yet again, you’ve managed to drag him into your insomnia. Jihoon may never fault you for it, but you don’t need him to. You’ll hold it against yourself — grudge by proxy. 

“I don’t even know,” you admit with a frustrated huff. “There’s nothing coherent going on up there.” You lift your hand and gesture vaguely in the dark. “Nothing articulable, just… blender brain.”

“Mmm.”

Jihoon sounds so fucking sleepy, so at peace next to you, that it makes your stomach hurt. You wish you could be like him. For as calm as his presence makes you, you’ve learned that you’re incapable of feeling fully relaxed. At least, not in the way he is when he’s got his arms around you. He deserves to have that effect on you.

A beat passes in silence, save for his soft breathing. For a minute, you’re convinced that he’s fallen back asleep; and you pray to whoever that he has. He deserves that, too.

“How do we unplug the blender?”

You have to bite back a smile for two reasons: the way his words sound slurred when delivered directly to your skin, and the distinctly Jihoon drive he has to fix a problem that isn’t his.

When the love sickness leaves you down bad, and you forget to respond with words, Jihoon prompts you softly. “Hmm?” 

He punctuates this reminder with a kiss to your shoulder, then lets his lips linger against your skin, musing, “I can think of two things that usually do the trick: getting you hotteok from that cart down the block, which is currently closed, and —”

The rest of that thought fades out. Leaving you on the edge of your seat, Jihoon continues to kiss a languid line along the perimeter of your shoulder, as if he’s conducting some meticulous, geographical survey. Like missing a single spot will have grave consequences. A perfectionist through and through, even half-asleep.

You feel yourself melting, bit by bit, into his torso; the warmth of his bare chest against your back only expedites the process. Nevertheless, you peep, “What’s the second thing?”

His answer comes with a slip of his hand, down down down along the slope of your waist to your hip, long before he verbalizes it. It’s simple, delivered in that rough, early-morning voice you love so much. It’s more than enough to make you shiver:

“Making you cum.”

But as crazy as that statement makes you, you can’t make yourself act on it.

At any other time, you’d jump on that opportunity — jump on him — in a heartbeat. All you’re able to do now is jump to the worst conclusion in a single bound. 

Somewhere, deep down, you know he wouldn’t have brought it up if he didn’t truly want it, want you; but that goddamned, sleep-deprived goblin taking up space in the far reaches of your mind is far louder than the voice of reason.

He’s only offering so you’ll stop keeping him awake.

He’s as exhausted as you are, if not more so for having to deal with your disorder again.

Burden.

Placing your hand on top of his, you slip your fingers into the spaces you find and squeeze once for emphasis. “I love you,” you start. He stills. “But, Jihoon, you’re so tired. I can hear it in your voice. Please, go back to sleep. It’s okay — I’m okay.”

Jihoon doesn’t push back. He stays within bounds, honors your shitty decision because, after all, it’s yours to make. With another kiss to your shoulder and a squeeze to your hand, he murmurs, “Love you,” before relaxing back against the pillows.

Minutes pass.

Maybe hours, for all you know. 

As the window of opportunity creaks shut, regret seeps through the gap. You know you’re wrong; you know he meant it; and you know that someone would have to be out of their fucking gourd to politely decline what he’s offering.

The unbearable heat licking up your neck is either embarrassment or the ghost of orgasms lost coming to haunt you.

Maybe you’d be better equipped to tell the difference if you could just — fucking — sleep.

Driven half mad, you try to keep from squirming.

You fail.

Maybe, since you can’t sleep, you and your wilted little brain should’ve let your perfect, empathetic boyfriend fu —

“That’s enough,” Jihoon grunts.

The hand underneath yours is suddenly above it, overtaking it and tugging carefully until your whole body moves. In the time it takes for you to roll from your side, Jihoon sits up and clears space for your frame to settle. You barely have time to blink dumbly up at him from your back before he cages you in with one hand on either side of your head, knees now on either side of your thighs.

Your breath seems to have gotten lost in the fray, but it’s not the sudden moves that shook it loose; it’s the sight of him looming over you, damn near scowling despite his lead-lidded eyes. It’s the disheveled bun of platinum hair at the crown of his head, which must’ve shifted in his sleep and spilled out the tendrils that now frame his set jaw.

The very best you can come up with is, “You’re awake.”

“So are you,” he retorts without missing a beat.

That face — god, that face — doesn’t budge. On the contrary, your stomach flips. This the most stern you’ve ever seen him. Confusingly, his tone isn’t even remotely harsh when he continues, “If those gears in your head grind any louder, the whole neighborhood will be, too.”

Grimacing, you open your mouth to apologize, but Jihoon’s eyes are searching your face with a distinct flicker of concern. You know that look. You also know that nothing you can think to say will make it disappear.

He speaks when you don’t, hard edges softening slightly. “I can fix it,” he insists, though you know him well enough to hear the plea hidden in there. 

Let me take care of you.

That little spark of desperation burns you up in a flash. You wonder if he can feel the fire spread when he lifts his right hand off the mattress just to swipe his thumb slowly over the edge of your cheekbone. Without thinking, you let go of the tension in your neck. Your head tilts automatically, seeking comfort you’ve only ever found in him, and rests against his palm.

“I have to admit it, though,” Jihoon confesses. “Yours isn’t the only mind that’s restless.”

He moves his hand away from your face but keeps his eyes trained on you. The incessant need you feel to apologize bubbles up yet again, uninvited. You swallow it. As you do, his fingertips trail down the length of your neck at a snail’s pace, effectively turning your thoughts to static.

“I’ve been holding you for hours now, and all that time —” 

He pauses just long enough to glance down at his hand, which hasn’t.

“— I’ve been wondering if I should have you channel that energy and tire yourself out on top of me —”

His touch whispers over your collarbone. It’s the only proof that you have any bones at all. Until now, you were sure that the rest of you had melted entirely, puddling uselessly on the sheets below. This time, when you bite your lips and swallow weakly, it’s not an apology that you’re keeping to yourself but a whimper.

“— or lay you back against the pillows —”

You don’t mean to directly contradict his statement the moment he makes it, but you can’t help it. The thin, cotton fabric of your top does nothing to dull the sensation of his hand on your left breast; leaves you with the unmitigated brush of his thumb tracing delicate swirls over your nipple. The breath you’ve been holding comes out shuddered, back arching off the mattress to chase his touch.

Emboldened by your reaction, Jihoon pulls his gaze off his own ministrations and directs it through his lashes back up at you. One eyebrow momentarily flexes in challenge. “— Take my time, and —”

Whatever desperate look you give him earns you some amount of mercy. He picks up where he left off in that dizzyingly deep voice of his, words molten, and drags the hem of your shirt up your torso. “Fuck you deep, until the only thing you can do is relax.”

Gobsmacked is too weak a word for the impact that suggestion has on you. The idea alone sparks a kind of relief so foreign and so sorely needed that it almost makes you cry. 

You don’t, thankfully. 

Instead, you stagger along the borderline of babbling. 

“I want that,” you announce on a shaky exhale. Then, with a shake of your head, you correct yourself, “No, it’s not even want. It’s —” Frustration over your inability to form a coherent thought drives you to scrub your hands over your face. “— need. I need you.”

You accompany that declaration by slapping your hands down at your sides, finishing off with a muted thump when your palms hit the mattress with enough force to bounce them upwards again. 

Even with your eyes screwed shut, you know Jihoon is sitting back on his knees, watching you with equal parts surprise and amusement. There’s no need to open them to confirm it, but you do anyway. His pupils have dilated widely enough to rival the moon floating over the skyline.

Though he’d be well within bounds to tell you to chill the fuck out, he doesn’t. He never has, as far as you can recall. In fact, Jihoon doesn’t say a thing. His hands speak for him, reaching for the shirt he so nearly got off your body before you lost whatever was left of your mind.

Keeping his word, as always, Jihoon takes his time. He takes care in sliding that tank top up and over your head without snagging your earrings, then he wordlessly drops it off the side of the bed to be forgotten about.

With your chest bare, it’s obvious how rapid your breathing is. Noting the quick rise and fall, he traces the curve of your waist with the side of his right index finger and softly says the quiet part out loud: “Let me take care of you.”

And you do.

You let him maneuver your body so he can settle with one knee between your thighs, rather than straddle them. You let go of your death grip on the sheets and thread your fingers through his hair when he leans back down to kiss you; and when he licks into your mouth, you let him swallow the moan that builds under the delicious weight of his body on yours.

Already, you feel every shitty, stupid thought begin to dissolve. You should’ve known this would be the case. 

He said he’d fix it, didn't he? 

And here he is, proving to you that his touch is magic. All it takes to coax the tension out of your muscles is the tender pass of his hand.

Whatever effect Jihoon has on you seems to be mutual. When he pulls back, he’s equally as breathless, likely just as starry-eyed. Awash in that lilac glow peeking in from the outside, he’s downright celestial — almost too divine to look at directly without watering eyes.

Undeterred, you stare right back at him and sigh, “You’re beautiful.”

His nose scrunches for a split second, just like it always does when you make him suffer through a compliment. Your exposure therapy is working, though. For once, Jihoon doesn’t groan or tell you to keep your praise to yourself. The corner of his mouth curves upward — just barely — and he shakes his head.

“I mean it,” you quietly insist.

Smirking slightly, he extends the index finger on his right hand and holds it to his lips. “You’re relaxing, remember?”

Though you could double-down, any fight you might’ve had in you fizzles out the second he bows his head and connects his lips to the underside of your jaw. Your head tilts further back with every centimeter he trails down the length of your neck, granting him increased access to wreck you even further. You have to keep your hands on whatever you can grip of his biceps — which ultimately isn’t much at all — to keep from floating away.

“Bold of you to call me beautiful,” he murmurs against your body, “When you just exist like this.”

You don’t argue. You can’t argue with a man who sounds so fucking reverent. Not in good faith, anyway. He says it with the kind of sincerity that underlines an undisputed fact; and you know better than to debate an expert.

With nothing to say, all you have left is to keen and melt even further into the mattress.

Like everything else he does, the way Jihoon kisses you is rhythmic. Steady and thoughtful, each feather-light graze of his lips on your skin causes your eyelids to flutter until you eventually decide to keep them shut. To cut out the visual and hone in on the physical sensation; to be truly present in the body he can’t get enough of.

As it turns out, being present earns the gift of his tongue circling one of your nipples. Soon after, you get the plush heat of his mouth enveloping the sensitive bud; the slow, deep pull of the suction he creates.

Eloquent as always, you moan, “Fuuuuck.”

The hand not holding up his weight massages your other breast, too considerate to leave half of you lonely. Whatever gentle pressure he maintains there builds inside you, further down.

It’s incredible.

No, it’s fucking perfect.

Jihoon switches sides, grazes your other nipple carefully with his teeth, and it’s over for you. You shudder beneath his body, back arching and a breathy sigh floating out of your chest.

Apparently, he’s just as surprised by this turn of events as you are. Your eyes blink open and find him hovering over you with his jaw partially dropped, still smiling somehow.

Your questions overlap.

“Did you just —”

“— make me cum from this?”

His bemusement switches in an instant to something you can only describe as bewitched. Voice gravel-lined, Jihoon groans, “Oh, shit.” Adding immediately and twice as earnestly, “Goddamn.”

A flash of conflict makes him freeze. You know he’s facing the same internal debate that you are: he needs to be inside of you in the worst way, right now, but that’s not a conclusion the pair of you can just — leap to. 

There’s simply too much of him to take if he doesn’t fuck you open with his fingers first.

Jihoon shakes his head, as if he’s telling himself no. Like he’s reminding himself of what he promised — or threatened, more like — earlier, that he’s taking his time.

As much as you want to beg otherwise, you know you shouldn’t. So, you don’t. You reach out, encircle his wrist in your hand, and bring him back within reach. 

With undivided attention and darkening eyes, Jihoon watches you take his index and middle finger into your mouth, cheeks hollowing and tongue circling. He fights to keep his eyes from rolling back in his head, all the while professing, “You’re perfect.”

Not generally, no.

However, Jihoon has a habit of ending up correct, even if you disagree. This isn’t a battle worth picking. In this moment, you’re willing to entertain the possibility that you’re perfect for him.

A soft pop underscores your choice to release him. His mouth must’ve gotten jealous; it swiftly replaces his fingers, tongue reclaiming any territory he wrongfully assumes he’s lost.

You’d be content to stay this way forever — and likely could, if it came down to it — but Jihoon has an agenda. He sticks to it, to the letter, and in dropping his hand down your body, he lets his knuckles drag softly over the trail he blazes. The little sleep shorts you wear are moved aside, and your thighs part for him, too, offering unrestricted access.

Two fingers slip inside of you easily, no doubt aided by the orgasm that snuck up on you — the one you’re still thinking about; the one he’ll secretly hang his hat on forever, having brought it on without touching you here at all.

“Listen to you,” he smirks against your lips with a curl of his fingers. 

As if you weren’t already acutely aware of the way you’ve drenched him to the base knuckles, he rolls his wrist, stroking your g-spot while the heel of his hand nudges your clit. Even the dulcet hum of the aircon isn’t enough to mute the obscenity; you hear the slick rush with every slow thrust of his fingers.

You respond with some sort of whimper. The sound barely registers without any breath behind it. If Jihoon hears it, he doesn’t let it affect his pace — just the stretch. He scissors his middle and index on the way out, then returns with his ring finger, unearthing a proper moan from the very bottom of your lungs.

His head tilts to the side. Warm breath hits the shell of your ear, prompting a contradictory shiver. “I think you’ve got another one for me, don’t you?”

Buried in you, he taps his fingers against that same, spongy spot. Every neuron you have begins to buzz.

“In fact, I think you want to cum all over my fingers,” he whispers, goading you with his rough voice dropped low. “Think you wanna soak my fucking hand, so I can fill you properly.”

You think you’ll have to apologize later for the crescent-shaped indents your nails leave on his shoulders.

When your second orgasm overtakes you, you feel it tingling all the way up at the crown of your head. Just like the first, it’s not a clap of thunder but a roll — patient. The intensity only builds, the longer it lasts. Jihoon makes sure it does — makes no adjustment to the slow, steady tempo, as it pulls you fully apart.

Every muscle you tensed as you came goes limp. It’s anyone’s guess whether you have any bones left. You’re sure that the only thing keeping you from seeping like honey through the mattress, or pooling on the floor below, is Jihoon’s body caging you in.

“Don’t ask me what my name is.” Your head droops to the side, and you mumble, “I do not remember, and I do not care.”

He kisses the temple that isn’t smushed against his left forearm, which, coupled with his elbow, now holds both of your weight. “If you’re spent, I can sto—”

“Don’t you dare.”

The emphatic look you muster lacks energy, you’re sure, but the point still stands, even if your stamina doesn’t. Half-lidded, you stare at him with all the force you can find.

“I’ll stay awake for the rest of my life if you stop now. I swear to you, Lee Jihoon, I will die on this hill.”

“Easy, tiger,” he purrs. Out of the corner of your narrowed eyes, you clock the fond smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “The whole point of this was for you to relax.”

To prove that you haven’t lost the plot entirely, you close your eyes, rather than roll them. Then, you cave completely. 

You whisper, leaving no question as to how badly you need him, “Jihoon… Please.”

“I’ve got you.” He nudges your temple with the tip of his nose. “But I can’t fuck you unless you give my arm back.”

Begrudgingly, you scoot your head several centimeters across the pillow, heaving a put-upon sigh as if he’s asked you to move a mountain instead. You give yourself a moment to mourn the loss of your headrest, then you open your eyes. As you do, any thought of pouting flies out the window.

Having crawled back to the end of your bed, Jihoon gets to his feet. Once there, he drops his hands and eyes to the loose knot cinching the waistband of his sweatpants. It’s a sight you’ve seen a thousand times — his naked chest so pale in contrast with his usual, all-black attire — yet it’s one you’ll never truly get over. Even harder to cope with is the fact that he’s never been in a hurry; not once in his goddamn life.

If you’re being honest, that’s one of the things you’ve always loved most about him. Envied, even. You fret endlessly about the process, whatever that may be; he trusts it. You scale the walls in anticipation; he’s never been caught sweating.

The best example of this comes the second he finishes addressing that knot. His sweatpants pool at his ankles; he kicks them aside; and you immediately set to wondering how in the motherfuck he managed to be so patient with you when he’s this incomprehensibly hard.

Really, you don’t deserve him.

Nevertheless, you get him anyway. 

Him pushing his flyways out of his face; him reaching out slowly to hook his fingers under the elastic band of your shorts; him cursing under his breath when he tosses those shorts over his shoulder and finds you wet and wanting.

In return, Jihoon gets you right where he wants you — trembling underneath him, with pliant legs opening wider at the request of his hands on your thighs. When his body fills the space between them, those same legs wrap around his back to keep him close, just like the arms you slink around his neck.

“Deep breath,” he reminds you as he lines himself up, only half-jokingly.

It’s good advice — something Jihoon probably should’ve heeded. 

He doesn’t. 

You keep your eyes on his when he slides inside of you, and you swear you see his mind blow in real time. Not that you have room to judge, however. In fact, that’s precisely what’s causing you to short-circuit: the perfect pressure of his length within your heat, sinking in slowly so as to not shock the system.

When he eventually bottoms out, low moan splintering from the depths of his chest, you have to blink quickly to keep tears within your waterline.

To check in, Jihoon runs his hand along the side of your thigh then back again. “Alright?”

Whatever you say in response comes out through a dreamy sigh, framed in quotation marks by fluttering lashes. Nonsense, most likely, or never better. In either case, he’ll understand; he always does.

Placing your hand on his, you slip your fingers over the top and pull him forward. He lets you, comes down carefully until the comfort of his weight against your frame makes you feel anchored. With every inch that’s erased between you, he fills you further, pushing out whatever air remains in your lungs through some needy little whine.

Among the million sensations you have to grapple with, the most hard-hitting, ironically, is comfort. Pure and unadulterated. You enveloping him, enveloping you.

To prove it to yourself that you’re not dreaming, you slip your fingers into his hair, nails scratching delicately over his scalp. In return, he rolls his hips forward, just like he promised — slow, steady, deep. You clench around him involuntarily, a reflex your body must’ve learned to keep him close.

“Love the way you grip me, but...” Jihoon exhales a sigh against your neck, head tilted to keep your face in his periphery. Pulling out further just to thrust in deeper, he warns, “You keep that up, and I’ll cum too soon.”

He’s one to talk.

Every time he grinds his hips languidly towards yours, you have to talk yourself off the ledge. 

If you let him wear you down again, you fear that there won’t be enough left of you to savor this; and you never want this moment to end. You want to live in it — to feel the delicious drag of his cock along your walls — to hear that obscene tide ebb and flow whenever he fucks himself further in you — to feel so fucking full —  for as long as he gives you. 

It was a valiant effort on your part, if you do say so yourself. Futile, though, because Jihoon pulls out all the stops. The next time he pulls himself from you just to roll back in, he swivels his hips as he thrusts, ensuring that you feel him everywhere.

“Oh.”

One syllable on a gasping breath, then you forget every single word in your vocabulary. Like warm molasses, bliss washes over you at half-speed, seeping in and sticking until the blender motor in your brain is fucked beyond repair.

At least you’re not the only one.

“Fuck, fuck —” 

Holding him as closely as you are, you feel each muscle in Jihoon’s body tense one-by-one, rippling as your third orgasm steals his first, going lax when his release floods. “— Fuck,” he groans, all the while twitching inside you.

Though he slows, he doesn’t stop. It’s not until he pants, “Kiss me,” that you realize it: Jihoon doesn’t intend to stop.

Neither, it seems, do you.

Maybe you’re greedy. Maybe you’re too obsessed with the brush of his tip against your cervix with every gentle, shallow thrust. Maybe, above all, it’s the way his cock doesn’t soften inside of you but his face does when he catches you looking at him from under a heavy curtain of lashes.

You catch him by the mouth, just like he asked. It’s indulgent — messy, echoing the other point where the two of you connect. Licking into him while he fucks himself into you, ragged breaths barely loud enough to overpower the explicit, sodden sound below.

“Can you still speak in sentences?” He pants in a rare moment when his lips break from yours.

Can feel you in my stomach, you want to say. 

“I’m — you’re gonna make me —”

You can’t choke out the words, though you suspect Jihoon gets the point. This far in, his touch reaches a detonator you didn’t even know existed; there’s no way he misses the explosion of pleasure throughout your entire goddamn body.

He’s caught in your blast radius, your walls pulsing and spasming to such an insane degree that he can barely move. Mind blown to fucking smithereens, your ears ring too loudly to hear whatever he says to you when he cums again — hard — and the arms bearing his weight buckle.

Jihoon’s flushed cheek winds up pressed to your shoulder. He stays there while your joint trembling subsides, then any muscle that could make him move is too spent to do so.

“What just happened?” He sounds as delirious as you feel. “That was… shit. What did your body just do?”

You have no idea. 

You have no capacity to form any.

All you have is the weight of his frame on yours and that of your eyelids, which flutter as you try and fail to keep them open. The best you can give is a non-responsive, utterly fucked-out sound — not enough shape to be a word, not enough breath to be a sigh.

Eventually, although you can’t imagine how, Jihoon finds enough strength to shift himself off of you. You don’t see anything that happens next, but you feel it all — the kiss to your temple; the hollowness when he pulls out and the sticky rush that chases him when he leaves.

“I’m coming back to clean you up,” he promises in a hushed tone from a million miles away. Chuckling despite his own sleepiness, he adds, “Don’t move.”

I won’t, you think but don’t say.

And you don’t move.

At least, not until the smell of hotteok reaches you eight hours later.

svt taglist: @ashonheavenscloud @variety-is-the-joy-of-life @rasparagus @bouclesdefeu @ourkivee @sourkimchi @gyuguys

multi taglist: @bahng-chrizz @jihopesjoint @notevenheretbh1 @borabitsch @bubbly-moon

also paging the cap gang: @daechwitatamic @yoongukie-ff

[atanx]

James Somerton's "A Measured Response": A Measured Response

so I watched a reupload of the video because idk i like to torture myself. and i took a bunch of notes:

“I tried to be a voice for every member of the queer community, but that was a failed endeavour before it even started.”

what a strange way to say ‘I tried making it seem like I’m the only queer creator and stole from and actively harmed people in the queer community. knowingly. purposefully. and when I was called out in the past I tried to hide it.'

“I'm a cis, white, gay man. No matter how much I try to be a good spokesperson, I can never really, truly, understand the life experiences of other, far more put upon,  members of the queer community.”

so of course I stole and hid work from the people I can't understand, gutting it of their personal experiences and refused to redirect my audience to those people so that they can enrich themselves and hear about issues pertaining them from someone who actually does understand.

“...one of the reasons I used their own words. But I should have made it clear that that was what I was doing.”

BITCH YOU STOLE. YOU GUTTED THEIR STORIES OF MEANINGFUL PERSONAL EXPERIENCES. YOU WEREN'T USING THEIR WORDS TO BE ABLE TO TALK ABOUT THINGS YOU CAN'T ENTIRELY UNDERSTAND YOU WERE MILKING THEM FOR CONTENT AND DEPRIVING PEOPLE OF ACTUAL, SOULFUL, MEANINGFUL ARTICLES AND BOOKS AND DOCUMENTARIES AND VIDEOS THEY COULD HAVE BEEN WATCHING INSTEAD.

“Being a cis white man I thought I might win over some people who otherwise wouldn't listen.”

Yeah sure. Because racist transphobes are going to be watching your badly plagiarised gay film analysis.

“I would also like to apologise to Jessie Gender, who is one of the kindest people I ever met. Through my hot-headedness, I drew her into this anger spiral.”

‘through my hotheadedness.’. shirking responsibility onto an ‘ingrained personality trait of yours’ I see.

if you are so honestly sorry for being an asshole to Jessie why don't you fucking apologise to her directly? privately? not as a way to boost your own fucking image??

he's trying to earn good will by complimenting Jessie Gender “oh he knows to compliment an awesome person we have that in common I guess he can't be so bad after all” fuck you I recognise your strategies and it's gross to drag Jessie into this like that, she spoke out against you and you are trying to imply some sort of friendship or something between you. okay I cannot UNDERSTATE the way he tries to make it seem like they are close in some way and sort of drag her onto his side that's so fucking despicable. as far as I know Jessie Gender does not have a relationship with him of any kind?

once again bringing up death threats I see. obviously death threats are shite and anyone who threatens the dude in seriousness or harasses him will not see the light of heaven as Hbomberguy said but IN AN APOLOGY YOU DO NOT MAKE IT ABOUT YOU THAT'S MANIPULATION

also blaming the police for not clarifying a situation in a timely manner - the police are a flaming pile of garbage and I hope the institution explodes but NOT SAYING ANYTHING WAS YOUR CHOICE. THE POLICE DIDN'T MAKE YOU DO SHIT THERE

the problem isn't that you tried to “create a channel where all queer people could be safe”, the problem is that 1) you are a misogynist 2) you yourself engaged in transphobic behaviour and 3) you also actively supressed queer people's voices. The problem isn't that you supposedly wanted a space for all queer people, the problem is that you tried to MONOPOLISE queer literature analysis. fuck, queer doesn't look like a word anymore I've written it too many times now

(paraphrased) “I should have been helping with making queer people's voices discoverable” this makes it seem like he just didn't do anything and not like the reality that he was actively trying to rewrite history and bury LQBTQIA+ voices under his steaming pile of garbage

also BLAMING YOUTUBE AND THE ALGORITHM FOR ‘PUSHING HIM’ because he's cis and white, like maybe they did, I certainly wouldn't be surprised, but that is not why other creators suffered, a large part of that can be attributed to James Somerton stealing their work without any acknowledgement whatsoever apart maybe if they are lucky, a “based on” in the credits or their name flashing on screen for half a second.

“I should have done more to share the voices of other queer people” THAT IMPLIES YOU DID SOMETHING. YOU WERE ACTIVELY WORKING AGAINST THAT YOU STUPID PIECE OF SHIT-

“it was just my dweam to be a youtubew and when my videos gained twaction i felt pwessuwed to make mowe vewy quickly and that's why they wewe so shit uwu” fuck off you weren't pressured into shit you just wanted to make money and that's why you were a content mill

“early on I thought that crediting authors in the opening credits alone was enough” what about the times YOU DIDN'T EVEN DO THAT??? YOU'RE MAKING THIS SEEM LIKE THE DRAMA IS ABOUT YOU CREDITING PEOPLE WRONG WHEN ITS ABOUT YOUR SYSTEMATIC THEFT AND OPPRESSION OF THOSE YOU CLAIM TO MAKE VIDEOS FOR AND ABOUT AND THOSE YOU CLAIM TO MAKE A SAFE SPACE FOR. WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK WATCHES YOUR VIDEOS?? WE KNOW WHAT YOU DID YOU CAN'T JUST PLAY IT DOWN

not him using Hbomberguy's example of the DEEP CUTS: SOCIETY AND QUEER HORROR video and claiming he credited all people in the opening scene when Hbomberguy highlighted he DIDNT EVEN CREDIT MOST OF THEM FUCK OFF ARE YOU DELUSIONAL HOW DO YOU THINK YOU CAN GET AWAY WITH THIS

I think I'm going insane this all seems so blatantly fake. he brings up the evil queens video and how he asked Sean Griffin, retroactively, permission to include his work in the video. and he shows a ‘screenshot’ of an email Griffin allegedly wrote to thank him for putting him in the title-card and that he thinks it is ‘a very thoughtful video’. only the text of the email header, such as Griffin's name, the RE:, and the To: is a lot smaller than the ‘text’ in the email, which leads me to believe that the below text is edited in some way. And with how hard James is trying to rewrite history, it wouldn't surprise me if he literally rewrote the email or cut things out to present himself in a more positive light. obviously I can't prove that the email is fake but I'll just say that I think the likelihood is very high that it is.

the way he says this also implies that he asked for permission after he made the video but hadn't published it yet. which is also blatantly false.

again trying to waltz off responsibility on nick, saying he was much more interested in production and implying that nick did all the writing .

“nick and I had both grown up poor so when I lost my job in 2021 (approx.) we of course were desperate and turned to producing videos even quicker and plagiarising the fuck out of all of them! but we can't help it we were both poor as kids!” fuck off, you weren't poor when plagiarising every-fucking-thing, this was in “the second year of COVID”. obviously if they really did grow up poor that sucks, and that's why we should eat the rich and redistribute their money. not plagiarise people who partly are poor or not financially cushy and manipulate thousands of people into believing you are the only queer creator.

also milking his mom's cancer. if you were really that worried about your financial situation, one would think that you would get an actual job for security and not put everything into your youtube career that is unstable, especially considering you've already done a lot of plagiarism and have no intention of stopping. “oh I plagiarised because my mom had cancer QAQ” that is so digusting to use a person's medical condition like that.

“i have memory issues because of a head injury i suffered as a child and that's why I plagiarise badly. see, I copy pasted the text with the intention to rephrase it later but forgot.” that would still be fucking plagiarism if he'd done that, also, if he's so aware of his memory issues and how they lead to him plagiarising, why didn't he try to work around that? leave himself notes? or tell nick to remind him to integrate actual proper credit and citations before uploading a video? mark the plagiarised stuff in the document with like highlighter or so when you're pasting it in?? oh but he didn't do all of that because he has ADHD. now, ADHD can be debilitating, but he says it's recently diagnosed so it must not have caused a lot of problems for him so far, so it's probably not severe and even if it is, it doesn't excuse him not crediting people properly. stop fucking hiding behind things ‘you can’t change' because if you truly can't you probably shouldn't be doing this in the first place.

“my mom really wanted me to make a movie with her life insurance but that wasn't paid out so I decided to crowdfund it. i planned to underpay the actors so hard it was under union wages. we got more money than we were expecting and upgraded to wanting to film a feature (final girl) but i didn't want to start working on it until the campaign was over for some reason that totally isn't me just wanting to exploit people for money!”

I'm not gonna go into the Telos stuff but he tries to explain it by claiming it was very unorganised and that's why they constantly ran into issues and that's why nothing ever got done and they were JUST about to start doing stuff when the Hbomberguy video released. You know what, I can believe it, although I am very doubtful considering all James ever does is lie. Idk. 

once again trying to excuse his plagiarism with needing to pay two rents and thus needing to make more videos for more sponsors and not having the time to not plagiarise like please. i don't believe that they were in that dire need of money and if they were - just get a fucking stable job and put youtube on the backburner. 

also once again trying to make it all about him by once again talking about his suicide attempt and death threats. like. no one should suffer through that kind of mental anguish but honestly I cannot bring myself to feel sympathy for this man. and i see this as an attempt to gather pity points.

“nick worked very hard on these videos other three years and it's unfair to [them] (james says that they're non-binary but doesn't indicate their pronouns anywhere? and in the beginning he uses they/them but later only he/him so idk what their pronouns are but it seems like they/them is at least part of their pronouns so i'm just going to use that) that they all got taken down” well y'all shouldn't have fucking plagiarised then. let this be a lesson maybe and don't fucking show your face on youtube again!

he is fucking relaunching his channel. like james. this isn't something you come back from. no one will ever be able to trust you ever again and you don't deserve an audience. he claims all the revenue will go to Hbomberguy's fund but we have no way to verify this. we have no way to know just how much he makes and how much of that is actually going to the fund. i don't trust him with any money. which is why i watched a reupload rather than the original. he's also releasing a new video he claims is entirely by him. like?????? don't???????

he also might not relaunch his existing patreon but he's still making a new one.

he claims he will “work his ass off” to make non-plagiarised videos. like that isn't “working your ass off” that's the bare fucking minimum. I really want to trust him. and I want to believe he'll actually try to do better. and maybe he will. and i believe in second chances, even for someone as despicable as him. but throughout this video he has continuously tried to play down what he did. tried to make excuses for everything. and that's why i am not going to give him a second chance. if he can't even admit what he did i don't trust him to not do it again. and i also just plainly don't want to endorse a person making such arguments.

also, he plugs his fucking new patreon right after this.

“this video is not about me promoting myself. it's about me apologising.” the only fucking person you actually ‘apologised’ to is Jessie Gender. 

James Somerton: makes a billion fucking excuses. Also James Somerton: “These are not excuses. There is no excuse for what I did.”

this entire video was just a publicity stunt. he tries to humanise himself and repair his image. this is just a tool to be able to continue on and continue making money.

he also still claims the disney video was based on the Celluloid Closet and he credited the author and ignores that this wasn't the only author he fucking plagiarised in that video. he is trying to reduce his plagiarsm to incorrect crediting and mistakes and that is disgusting.

the least he could have done was mention by name out loud every author he plagiarised and what work he plagiarised. not just say “uuuh i'm sorry to everyone I plagiarised QAQ”

[into-the-lokiverse]

Who You Really Are (Loki, God of Stories x Reader)

Summary: When all appears lost to an aspiring novelist, the God of Stories sends a message of hope.

(credit to @lokitvsource for the gif)

You weren't sure how much further you could go on, or if you could go on.

For years, one of the biggest things you desperately wanted in life was to be a novelist. To entertain with stories of magic, power, action, romance, and a little nonsense.

But lately, as you sat before your desk, exhausted from the day job you relied on to pay the bills, you just couldn't bring yourself to move forward with your debut story. The plot felt too twisted to the point even you could barely comprehend it at times. The characters once vivid, were fading into shadows and dust of their former selves. And the scenes you envisioned in detail started to feel...unreachable.

And yet, you couldn not stop scribbling notes at every random moment of inspiration. You clung to the memory of your characters.

Like a parasite or an infection, the idea of your story plagued your mind for weeks, months to the point where it never seemed to leave you. You could barely think straight about anything else, even cleaning.

Half-drank cups of coffee at every corner of the desk, loose napkins with random thoughts written on them, a garbage can full of tissues, candy wrappers, and tea bags, a folder filled with printed images of your dark-haired, blue-eyed muse, and a stack of books that you checked out for "inspiration" but hardly touched.

The floor surrounding your desk had a thin layer of dust, wherever there weren't fallen pens you hadn't the heart to pick up, or papers you abandoned.

Am I meant to be a writer, or am I simply possessed?, you contemplated over a cup of stale coffee. Am I truly, clinically insane with obssssion? Am I doing the right thing, or have I finally lost my mind? Maybe I'm just crazy...maybe I'm wasting my time, doing the wrong thing that was never meant for me.

Or maybe I'm just not worthy of being the person who...does things. The person who flourishes in doing something they love.

But just as you were about to put your head down on the one free space on your cluttered desk, you spotted a mysterious note in parchment.

It read,

I believe in you.

I believe in every part of you, even in that couple of paragraphs you've stuffed in your desk (which honestly should be cleaned, but you won't do it.).

I believe in you because I know who you could become.

Because I know who you really are. You're a talented, blessed individual burdened with a glorious compulsivity to write and far too much fear for your own good.

But who you really are, it does not matter. It is all about the stories. The adventures.

There is a last refuge for the unloved and the desperate, and the persecuted.

When life gets too impossible, when life gets too terrifying, find hope in this, my talented scribe. That when all else fails, remember that you are a branch on the tree of life.

And in the center of that tree, there is someone watching over you, protecting you like he's always done before, and will continue to do so.

Your branch is just beginning. So marvel me, and marvel yourself with all you do. My blessing is with you.

For all time always.

Loki

[obsessive-clown]

DO ANYTHING FOR YOU (TAP, TAP)!

a/n: this randomly came to me after I read a drabble someone said was yan!nanami coded. plus, i blasted in my room by icp for a solid hour today sooo.. also i’m just super bored and this randomly came to mind. i’m likely not going to do this again lol.

PAIRING: Yan!Kento Nanami x gn!reader

cw: mentions of death, mentions of manipulation, kidnapping, attempted brainwashing… that’s all i can think of. sorry if this is garbage, i haven’t written anything serious in god knows how long.

ఌ𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹ఌ

Kento had always loved you. Some would argue that he loved you perfectly. However, you would argue that he either loved you too much, or didn’t actually love you at all. Loved you too much in the sense that he’d taken you home with him, wouldn’t let you leave, made you — luckily only temporarily — lose your spark… And try to convince you only he was good for you.

What was the greatest achievement in your adult years was convincing him and getting him to trust you enough to go out. At first, with his company. He couldn’t have his darling running off. But over time, Kento thought you were well behaved enough to go out. On your own. You could go anywhere, just as long as it wasn’t out of town, someone else’s home and you were back either by the time he got home or before then.

As much as Kento said he loved you, you couldn’t help but combat his self-proclaimed ‘love’ with resentment. You behaved, but you swore you would never truly love him back. You tolerated him. He may have been good to you, never forced you into anything and treated you respectfully — but he had stripped you of your wings. Of your freedom, for far too long.

So, when you had gotten a call on the house phone — you couldn’t help but feel shocked.

Kento was dead and you were free.

He was dead. And you were no longer under his control.

You finally had free rein, without any form of restriction, without the man that called himself your boyfriend, breathing down your neck.

At least, that’s what you had thought. It was sad. Kento loved you, he truly loved you. In fact, he had loved you so very much, that he made you wear a promise ring. A sign of his love and your, “wonderful future together”, as he would say. And it was the fact that he loved you so much, that he wouldn’t even let death do you two part.

As you lay in the bed you and your now deceased kidnapper once shared, you stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep. 2:45 in the morning and here you were, kept up for no reason.

Tap, tap.

“…Darling? Are you gonna’ let me in? Hello?”

Unmistakably, it was Kento’s voice. You were certain it was just your brain playing tricks. Since, after all, Kento Nanami was dead. Killed by the hands of the patchwork curse. Though, he didn’t sound how you remembered. His voice was faint, almost weak — and slightly garbled in a sense. It made you sick to your stomach.

Tap, tap.

“Hello?”

There it was again. You wanted to squeeze your eyes shut, hope and pray to whoever you could that you were simply hallucinating from exhaustion. Curiosity always killed the cat, so why did you have to look at the window the tapping came from?

It was Kento, though, something was off. Something was very off about him. Although the man you once resented was heavily resembled, he had turned into the one thing he’d fought constantly. A cursed spirit. And one attached to you, nonetheless. You had remembered hearing your fellow sorcerers speaking before Kento had taken you hostage — about a boy with a cursed spirit attached to him. His childhood best friend and young love, killed and cursed him.

Kento must have done the same, but in regards to you.

Tap, tap.

A cold weight settled on your chest and against your side, a hand settling on your hip and its nails carefully sinking into your delicate flesh. It stung harshly. But the pressure felt all too familiar, much like how Kento would hold you at night as you two tried to sleep.

“…Do anything for you, baby…”

As you were frozen in place, both by the unnaturally cold temperature — and the curse laying on you. Whether you or Kento died first, you would have been stuck with him. And if it involved cursing you so you would be stuck with him, or cursing himself in a sense to be stuck with you, then so be it. Taking advantage of your paralyzed state, he slowly buried his mangled and almost eerily familiar face into your neck, letting out what sounded like a content growl. Clearly, he didn’t want to talk much, just lay there and have you hold each other — or him hold you, as it always used to be.

“…You don’t need others. Just me.”

Some would say Kento Nanami loved you perfectly. But you knew that he loved you too much. Far too much for his and your own good.

ఌ𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹ఌ

[chaotic-beautiful]

Build up where ??? HOTD

Those who are defending HOTD writing , fighting tooth and nail like obsessed fangirls , are they even watching the same show ??? This show is literally garbage writing , zero characterisation and full of illogical plot holes looking like pot holes on a muddy village road .

Where to even begin ? Atp, a whole 200 page book can be written on the lack of writing and cringe fanfiction OC inserts of showmakers that are not even subtle anymore.

Where's the smartly written dialogs and interesting scenes between small fry characters and MCs ?? Interestingly composed scenes of diverse cultures , grounding scenes of daily lives that are somehow intricately connected to who they are about one or more characters.

Truly , true art can not be replicated or replaced . I'd watch old clips of GOT where it's just two random characters talking to each other and nothing else happening over this entire dump on fire season . Such memorable quotes n conclusions that kept us all on our toes came out of such conversations.

Let me not even start on our female characters. Whichever gave the showmakers this idea that a person who doesn't even identify with that particular gender will be ideal candidate to play a feminist icon in the show ? They do not understand the power that comes from embracing the fragility, gentleness, allure and softer sides of being a woman . And the show makers ?? They've zero idea about Women , their bodies , their hearts , pregnancy, motherhood , marital bond , importance of husband wife bonding and rearing children . They've zero idea what makes a woman strong . I've seldom seen such poorly written female characters, each weak , pathetic , cut board cut outs ( Rhaena , Baela , Haelena ) and unrelatable. They're denied of agency ( Alicent ) , femininity ( Rhaenyra ) , ambition, ruthless strive. Catherine, Sansa , Dany , Cersei , Arya even small female characters that appeared for a season are of fuller blood and flesh , feel like real life and they each embrace different sides of what being a woman actually means.

Show makers have zero respect or true regard for LGBTQA characters. They literally deleted a bunch of canonically established book characters belonging from that group . They treat Ser Laenor like garbage . No body cared about him when he was in the show , he literally proposed to be there for their children and for a fresh start with his wife but was then kicked out from her life because atp, she felt she needed a new husband to secure her position and safety of her children and decided to seduce and manipulate an emotionally vulnerable Daemon mere days after his wife's death.

And now in the show every one has moved on. Where is Laenor?? Is he alive ? Why is Seasmoke so restless and ready for a new rider ?? Can he sense that his rider is gone? Does your favorite girl boss cares ?? No ! Neither does the show.

But nor does the viewers , because hey we've got a hot toxic lesbian kiss that pretty much ruins the essence of both the characters and deviates them so far away from their book selves that they're no more the same characters. They might as well just change their names and introduce them as OCs . Yay for representation. We won ! Not.

The show stinks so badly of racism that it makes me feel sick. The Valeryons are played by a bunch of Bl actors without that having any effect on the story . AND yet those same characters are treated like disposable and insignificant within the story , existing as props to enhance the story of White characters. How typical. 🤔 They erased Nettles whose story reverberated through the heart of Westeros for eons to come and was truly inspiring , because that could not endanger what they're trying to do with their OC Rhaenyra, not comfortable making her human by showing her jealous and possessive of her OWN husband whom she loved crazily and was prepared to cross all limits of morality for him . No , that'd make her a human being and a wife . Can't have that here. Doesn't fit with our narrative. Can't show her to be dismissive and vindictive as she was of Nettles because of who she was and where she came from. Can't have the simp Daemon of the show look outside of his cheater wife, when Nettles was without a doubt the most important person for him near the end of his life.

They ruined another book , ruined great characters and those who have no idea about the book and the essence of these characters are praising and defending this garbage by attacking the books fans . It's indeed an interesting psychological study how like minded people are attracted to like minded stuff.

Mike drop.

[soulfulazrael]

Why me not likey Stolitz and how I decide to write it

In light of recent news that the Full Moon episode will come in this lifetime and will be most definitely HEAVILY Stolitz centric I decided to make a post about what I do not like about this ship (I know, revolutionary) and how I prefer to write it and how I would prefer for it to be written in the show itself... Okay. I am not 100% honest here. Part of the reason why decided to write cringey post about a ship in a disappointing cartoon is this:

THE REASON KIDS ARE TOLD TO NOT TO TALK TO STRANGERS IS BECAUSE OF PEOPLE LIKE YOU! (Yes, Filthy Frank reference. I am not in fact saying they are some predator, I just think they are cringey enough to warrant a reference to good old days when you pointed and laughed at this shit. Do not harass them. Fuck you if you do.).

Okay. Let's get to the ship. Careful... This is going to be long. Filled with annoyance and frustartion boiling over due to collective brain damage I get whenever I see Stolitz shippers talk like teenagers in heat. Enjoy this cancer.

Stolitz has LOTS of issues. Mainly, the writing. Which is atrocious on it. And the worst part about the writing? It didn't have to be this way. Because to me all of the issues with it are amplified by how much of a missed opportunity it is. But let's not lose track. Basically the writing on it is pretty much a standard Disney fare of first sight love which already puts us in a very VERY bad position. This Ars Goetia, one of the most powerful immortal demons is all over this one Imp because they saw them once as a child as they tried to make balloon animals and saw them smile on a line. Riveting. The whole childhood thing already kills A LOT of my interest here. It's so transparent what they are doing that this is just embarrassing. It's manipulative as all Hell (yes, yes, I said Hell, get it out of your system) and adds fuck all to this relationship besides the amount of cheese to make everyone in the world lactose intolerant. And you use this kind of plot for an ARS GOETIA from HELL. WHY!? Why do this? I know it is subversive, but it is so goddamn stupid.

And the stupidest part about it is what this garbage takes away. Because, due to this DAMN ship Ars Goetia are not different in ANY way to normal Hellborn. At all. They just have magic and look like furry avian Habsburgs. All of them are almost indistinguishable from normal Hellborn aside from us being told they are royalty and them having magic. They age the same way as Imps, Hounds and Humans do and if you want to give the "HELL YEARS" excuse, let me remind it would mean in a year time in this show we would have to go to sci-fi and there would be constant wall of bodies falling from the sky every day.

Basically this robs Ars Goetia of being truly unique. They have no unique culture, they have barely any different personalities, they are just bird people. And it's a shame because woes of immortality could be explored here in VERY interesting ways and much of that could have been applied to Stolas as well which I will delve into later. All you need to know for now is that this already puts a SOLID hit to worldbuilding of this setting and makes all the more boring.

Which is what this relationship is at this point. BORING. It's boring now because now it is very clear what direction it will all go in as both Blitzo and Stolas are just pushed as this perfect for each other pair where most amount of conflict is simply "Will they? Or Wont they?" Oh Gee! I wonder what the answer is about this relationship with a character you admitted to change because you found the pairing cute. Golly Gee. I am so anxious to find out. It is simply a waste. There is NO meaningful conflict left here besides them just finding out they are perfect for one another and then beating all those meanies that are in their way and the most meaningful conflict will probably be about forcing Octavia to see how GOOD Blitzo is and how it is okay for Stolas to do what he does... I may or may not have some prior knowledges btw, but I wont say anything. All you need to know is that I want to die.

Which brings us to the most insulting in my opinion issue with both Stolas and Blitzo (O is not silent you gremlin). NOTHING is allowed to be their fault. NOTHING. Every time something seems like they fucked up is immediately forgiven, revealed to NOT be their fault or is swept conveniently under the rug under the guise of "it's just a comic relief bit" or "it's just filler". I genuinely hate that. Both Stolas and Blitzo are awful and flawed people and it would be NICE if this show LEANED INTO THAT. Because that is interesting, but instead this show wants you to root for them by making you forget they are flawed, awful people. Where everyone against them is the evil one or a friend that needs to forgive them and see how hurt THEY are. That is infuriating because it makes both of them a goddamn chore to watch as they are facing no consequences or accountability for any action they did. There is no nuance there. They are just nice people who at most have issues with communication and like to swear, have sex and cry (which doesn't make them deep). I must say Blitzo has SOME interesting conflict to him, but it's beaten down by how much this show tries to make him into some ultra cool badass who is never really in the wrong despite him acting like a complete twat. Which makes me feel like the writing team genuinely thinks like Daffy here at the end:

And I know this is set in Hell, but it means Jack when you try to make people believe your "asshole" characters are not them. You do not embrace it. You just try to have a cake and eat it too and Viv, you need to go on a diet with how much it happens in both of your shows.

In this topic I think user named crooked-wasteland made a better case than I ever could about the way this show tries to absolve Blitzo at least. Linke here: https://www.tumblr.com/crooked-wasteland/735943916971524096/the-anti-bojack-anti-intellectualism-and-the?source=share

It's a good read that delves nicely into why Blitzo's conflicts end up being so shallow. Also adding to that post. Think about it. Barbie is made up to be the child killer, drug dealer and someone who *gasp* doesn't forgive little pure Blitzy who just wants to reconcile. It's clear who's side this show wants you to be on. Again. NO nuance. Just telling you what to think.

And then there is the side characters in this "conflict" where most characters are basically just props. Loona? Prop to make Blitzo look better. Octavia? Stolas needs some conflict, let's throw her dumb ass in (HOW DO YOU NOT KNOW STARS APPEAR AT NIGHT!? Your family's entire shtick is astrology!!). Stella? Oh she is just evil and stupid. Andrealphus? He is just evil, but actually smart! (actually no, he is also as dumb as a stump, but he speaks like he is not so I guess he is not supposed to be, but something did not pan out too well). Paimon. Boring shithead we saw a million times already and yet another shitty dad, because relationship issues and daddy issues are two things Viv apparently knows. A good video about it I have below:

TL;DR this ship brings down SO MANY characters down the drain just to make these two look as good as possible. Where nothing is their fault and the most amount of conflict is them realizing how perfect they are for one another and convincing others of that fact I guess. And the worst part is that there has been hints of good writing for it in Season 1 at least in Ozzie's before this series decided to just quickly throw that into the garbage can.

Your best episode and you try to minimize impact it had as much as possible... I am so confused about this direction. Just... WHY!? Now for what I would prefer...

First what I think should have been done. I think this show should have leaned in more into Stolas being an Ars Goetia. An immortal, few hundred years old Ars Goetia. Because that already provides this story with a lot of possibly interesting conflict. Because this one fact would make Stolas all the more complicated as he would already be out of reach in terms of judging him by our own mortal standards. A creature that is few hundred years old that felt empty and bored over so much time of pure stagnancy that finds some semblance of joy and pleasure in the arms of an imp it would not even look at in any other way. A creature that because of it's immortality revels in such new experiences to feel a semblance of anything at all. Where it's purpose is lost to it and instead this demon takes joy in every bit of pleasurable experience that it can latch onto, but in doing so he hurts A LOT of people around him, like his own daughter and while he likes to say he cares for her he still inheritly still wants to feel alive as he is never allowed to.

That already gives Stolas on his own a lot of interesting conflict. He is still understandable in his pursuit of joy and happiness and excitement, but also showing the hedonism and pure selfishness in this pursuit. Where he throws all he has on the wind all for the sake of seeking something good for himself. Is it wrong? Is it correct? No idea. What do you think? That is the thing this series should do. ASK questions. Not answer them! Treat your audience like adults who can make up their own mind which is something this show simply doesn't do which infuriates me on a deep level.

And Blitzo. Lean in, into him being a greedy piece of garbage that gets his just comeuppance when he decides to latch himself onto this noble due to his own greed. Make it his faults that get him into this position and make him stay in it. And maybe if he does start to feel something for this demon as this other one may as well, maybe delve into WHY both of them are attracted to one another. As Blitzo could be attracted to power his position gives him and Stolas to the freedom he receives by being with Blitzo. Both of them loving more the ideas each one allows them to know instead of the people they really are and maybe have the conflict be about first them discovering those growing feelings, but then discovering what they are really pointed towards.

And there is no need to make Stella innocent either as she could be also another extreme adding to the misery, but not because of any inherited evil nature that wants her to hurt Stolas for LOLS, but instead is another victim of the immortality and status all Goetias have. Where it is almost impossible to not be on some level broken in mind.

And in this conflict it could be Octavia who is the anchor for both. A piece of normalcy as she did not live for so long and so is the most human piece in that place.

Some ideas here. And here is how I write it. Because me personally I choose to write it as Blitzo and Stolas both being attracted not to each other, but to what the other gives them. Stolas being forever frustrated about the position he never asked for giving him no freedom where he finds this one Imp that allows him to revel in his deepest and darkest desires and Blitzo being someone who deeply regrets his own decisions, but is too deep to pull out without losing all that he has gained and so pushes Stolas to be worse so he can keep profiting off of him.

Stella in this scenario is not a innocent soul either as in my version she is far more cold, distant and is obsessed with order and subjugation of others in order to elevate the status of her family which she actually cares about, but in a way that feels cruel and demanding. A contrast to Stolas who is a pure hedonist who while seeks joy and happiness where he doesn't have to be afraid is still a monster who's idea of happiness is indulging in most depraved acts without having to care for anyone.

And anchor there being Octavia who both of them care about, but is still hurt by both as both of them find it hard to look at the world in the way that is different from what they were taught and accepted through hundreds of years of their lives. Where many terrible events shaped their lives into those two extremes that have way of existing with one another without the risk of them both destroying one another as Stella wants Stolas gone for tarnishing their reputation and putting their family at risk while Stolas hates Stella for always pulling him with his leash he had to live with all his life. And Octavia through all of this has to find her own way to become someone better. Where she needs to find a path where she can possibly not lose either one and come out of this as someone better.

This is what I would prefer. A conflict where no side is really good, all of them are deeply flawed, complicated and very hard to pin as to which one is good or not. Where it is up to those in the audience as to what to think of this conflict. In another post here I made (like first one and this is second) I linked that fic so I will just say the name.

Song for the Quiet Bird. Stella/Moxxie ship fic. Yeah, I know. If you find it interesting check it out. And no. I do not say Stolitz should be written as I would want it to be. I just say this ship needs more nuance, more interesting characterization, more chemistry and interesting ideas. It needs to be less... cartoony than it is right now because so far it just feels like a dumb telenovela.

Okay... That was... a lot. I definitely did not cover everything I think of Stolitz. I have too much chaos in my head and I feel dizzy after typing all of this shait. Agree with me or not. It doesn't matter. If you read this that means you got very far into my incoherent rambling and I thank you for it no matter what you take from it.

I am just a human disaster with weird goddamn obsessions. Sorry for this being so chaotic. It's a reactionary piece of dumbassery from me. Maybe I will some day post something more coherent. If anyone cares. For now... Take care. Canon Stolitz is shit. At least for me. Disagree? Feel free to! Agreed? Sweet... Leave a comment if you have something to add to this... thing. I always enjoy that. If anyone gets this far.

[kremlin]

How DOES the C preprocessor create two generations of completely asinine programmers??

oh man hahah oh maaan. ok, this won't be very approachable.

i don't recall what point i was trying to make with the whole "two generations" part but ill take this opportunity to justifiably hate on the preprocessor, holy fuck the amount of damage it has caused on software is immeasurable, if you ever thought computer programmers were smart people on principle...

the cpp:

there are like forty preprocessor directives, and they all inject a truly mind-boggling amount of vicious design problems and have done so for longer than ive been alive. there really only ever needed to be one: #include , if only to save you the trouble of manually having to copy header files in full & paste them at the top of your code. and christ almighty, we couldn't even get that right. C (c89) has way, waaaay fewer keywords than any other language. theres like 30, and half of those aren't ever used, have no meaning or impact in the 21st century (shit like "register" and "auto"). and C programmers still fail to understand all of them properly, specifically "static" (used in a global context) which marks some symbol as inelligible to be touched externally (e.g. you can't use "extern" to access it). the whole fucking point of static is to make #include'd headers rational, to have a clear seperation between external, intended-to-be-accessed API symbols, and internal, opaque shit. nobody bothers. it's all there, out in the open, if you #include something, you get all of it, and brother, this is only the beginning, you also get all of its preprocessor garbage.

this is where the hell begins:

#if #else

hey, do these look familiar? we already fucking have if/else. do you know what is hard to understand? perfectly minimally written if/else logic, in long functions. do you know what is nearly impossible to understand? poorly written if/else rats nests (which is what you find 99% of the time). do you know what is completely impossible to understand? that same poorly-written procedural if/else rat's nest code that itself is is subject to another higher-order if/else logic.

it's important to remember that the cpp is a glorified search/replace. in all it's terrifying glory it fucking looks to be turing complete, hell, im sure the C++ preprocessor is turing complete, the irony of this shouldn't be lost on you. if you have some long if/else logic you're trying to understand, that itself is is subject to cpp #if/#else, the logical step would be to run the cpp and get the output pure C and work from there, do you know how to do that? you open the gcc or llvm/clang man page, and your tty session's mem usage quadruples. great job idiot. trying figuring out how to do that in the following eight thousand pages. and even if you do, you're going to be running the #includes, and your output "pure C" file (bereft of cpp logic) is going to be like 40k lines. lol.

the worst is yet to come:

#define #ifdef #ifndef (<- WTF) #undef you can define shit. you can define "anything". you can pick a name, whatever, and you can "define it". full stop. "#define foo". or, you can give it a value: "#define foo 1". and of course, you can define it as a function: "#define foo(x) return x". wow. xzibit would be proud. you dog, we heard you wanted to kill yourself, so we put a programming language in your programming language.

the function-defines are pretty lol purely in concept. when you find them in the wild, they will always look something like this:

#define foo(x,y) \ (((x << y)) * (x))

i've seen up to seven parens in a row. why? because since cpp is, again, just a fucking find&replace, you never think about operator precedence and that leads to hilarious antipaterns like the classic

#define min(x,y) a < b ? a : b

which will just stick "a < b ? a: b" ternary statement wherever min(.. is used. just raw text replacement. it never works. you always get bitten by operator precedence.

the absolute worst is just the bare defines:

#define NO_ASN1 #define POSIX_SUPPORTED #define NO_POSIX

etc. etc. how could this be worse? first of all, what the fuck are any of these things. did they exist before? they do now. what are they defined as? probably just "1" internally, but that isn't the point, the philosophy here is the problem. back in reality, in C, you can't just do something like "x = 0;" out of nowhere, because you've never declared x. you've never given it a type. similar, you can't read its value, you'll get a similar compiler error. but cpp macros just suddenly exist, until they suddenly don't. ifdef? ifndef? (if not defined). no matter what, every permutation of these will have a "valid answer" and will run without problem. let me demonstrate how this fucks things up.

do you remember "heartbleed" ? the "big" openssl vulnerability ? probably about a decade ago now. i'm choosing this one specifically, since, for some reason, it was the first in an annoying trend for vulns to be given catchy nicknames, slick websites, logos, cable news coverage, etc. even though it was only a moderate vulnerability in the grand scheme of things...

(holy shit, libssl has had huge numbers of remote root vulns in the past, which is way fucking worse, heartbleed only gave you a random sampling of a tiny bit of internal memory, only after heavy ticking -- and nowadays, god, some of the chinese bluetooth shit would make your eyeballs explode if you saw it; a popular bt RF PHY chip can be hijacked and somehow made to rewrite some uefi ROMs and even, i think, the microcode on some intel chips)

anyways, heartbleed, yeah, so it's a great example since you could blame it two-fold on the cpp. it involved a generic bounds-checking failure, buf underflow, standard shit, but that wasn't due to carelessness (don't get me wrong, libssl is some of the worst code in existence) but because the flawed cpp logic resulted in code that:

A.) was de-facto worthless in definition B.) a combination of code supporting ancient crap. i'm older than most of you, and heartbleed happened early in my undergrad. the related legacy support code in question hadn't been relevant since clinton was in office.

to summarize, it had to do with DTLS heartbeats. DTLS involves handling TLS (or SSLv3, as it was then, in the 90s) only over UDP. that is how old we're talking. and this code was compiled into libssl in the early 2010s -- when TLS had been the standard for a while. TLS (unlike SSLv3 & predecessors) runs over TCP only. having "DTLS heartbeat support in TLS does not make sense by definition. it is like drawing a triangle on a piece of paper whose angles don't add up to 180.

how the fuck did that happen? the preprocessor.

why the fuck was code from last century ending up compiled in? who else but!! the fucking preprocessor. some shit like:

#ifndef TCP_SUPPORT <some crap related to UDP heartbeats> #endif ... #ifndef NO_UDP_ONLY <some TCP specific crap> #endif

the header responsible for defining these macros wasn't included, so the answer to BOTH of these "if not defined" blocks is true! because they were never defined!! do you see?

you don't have to trust my worldview on this. have you ever tried to compile some code that uses autoconf/automake as a build system? do you know what every single person i've spoken to refers to these as? autohell, for automatic hell. autohell lives and dies on cpp macros, and you can see firsthand how well that works. almost all my C code has the following compile process:

"$ make". done. Makefile length: 20 lines.

the worst i've ever deviated was having a configure script (probably 40 lines) that had to be rune before make. what about autohell? jesus, these days most autohell-cursed code does all their shit in a huge meta-wrapper bash script (autogen.sh), but short of that, if you decode the forty fucking page INSTALL doc, you end up with:

$ automake (fails, some shit like "AUTOMAKE_1.13 or higher is required) $ autoconf (fails, some shit like "AUTOMCONF_1.12 or lower is required) $ aclocal (fails, ???) $ libtoolize (doesn't fail, but screws up the tree in a way that not even a `make clean` fixes $ ???????? (pull hair out, google) $ autoreconf -i (the magic word) $ ./configure (takes eighty minutes and generates GBs of intermediaries) $ make (runs in 2 seconds)

in conclusion: roflcopter

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ disclaimer | private policy | unsubscribe

[ms3ox]

w i f & e

In which, Alastor has his ego beaten into the ground, and still can't find a good reason to hate you.

Part I/???

Tags: Slow Burn, Really Petty Enemies to Lovers, Unintentional Marriage (soon)

Notes: I have a good ~40 pages of this already written. Lmk if you guys want more.

______________________________________________________________

At one point in time, Alastor could definitively say that he didn’t care what happened to his wife. 

You were… auxiliary at best and a nuisance at worst. A mess of naivety, youth, and a bumbling sense of goodness. Its truly a marvel how someone so seemingly innocent made her way down to the Pride Ring. But perhaps that was it. Pride. At least, that was his working hypothesis. He couldn’t say for certain what landed you eternal damnation, and perhaps it was none of his business anyway what with the way you kept it strictly under wraps. In another life, perhaps, Alastor would be curious, but time is wasted on flights of folly such as deducing the nature of his benefactor’s death. You had spiraling horns etched into your skull, so you were, in one way or another, just like the rest of them. 

It isn’t until he feels that tug that he realizes what he feels is nothing short of care. The phantom tugs at his chest, at his heart, a pitiful plea for help, but one that smells so familiarly sweet that he knows who it is and where its coming from.

And despite the way this growing humanity makes his fingers strain and curl, he dissolves into shadow and slithers toward your pull. 

---

Boredom is the worst part of Hell. 

Killing and eating can only be so much fun. After disposing of his… hmm, how many now? After disposing of his thousandth body, he finds that the appetite following the kill is nigh on nonexistent. He’s just… restless and bored. There are no turf wars around, no drama within the collective of Overlords, Hell, even Vox has been a doldrum of content lately- a stream of useless garbage that seems even more mind-numbing than the demon’s usual flare for juicy gossip and electric presentation. 

Deal-making is the same as it always has been, too. Alastor finds himself putting in all the work, all the fanciful and dandyish flare to impress his prey before ripping their autonomy right out of them with a handshake. And they’re all the same. Scared, hopeless, down on their luck. Reluctantly trustful of a smile before regretting it for eternity. When one owns thousands of souls… none of it feels… fulfilling anymore. The blood-red skies of Hell seem to fade to a miserable, dried brown- the same sky he’s been staring up at for the past century. 

God, he is so bored. 

This is the real torture. The real damnation. 

Rosie must see the apathy in his eyes and dullness in his smile because her face quickly contorts into something concerned the moment he enters her emporium.

“Alastor?” She would whisper with that soft concern the ladies in his life harbor for him. Even that has become dull to him. “You look all outta sorts, mister. What’s goin’ on, hah?”

And just like many of the concerned ladies in his life, Rosie is quick to offer a solution. He sits with his fingers steepled and his gaze far, far away as Rosie explains another deal opportunity to him. For once, Alastor doesn’t feel like being theatrical. Boredom has sucked the life out of this radio broadcast. Newcomer… Naive… Struggling in Hell, yada yada. 

“...I’ll consider it.” Is Alastor’s simple and placating reply. 

—

The first thing Alastor notices is that you know your way around a knife. Not necessarily how to fight, but you seem to have a keen eye for all the mortal points on a demon’s body- and when executed correctly…

“Impressive, my dear!”

The dandyish facade and wide smile return again like muscle memory- perhaps that’s what it is after decades of tricking demons into eternal bondage. Your eyes narrow suspiciously as the tall, creepy man in the red coat takes measured, clacking steps toward you. Soon enough, Alastor finds himself on the sharper end of your bloodied little pocket knife. Come to think of it, Rosie had said something about the demon being somewhat adept with a weapon… He’s sure there’s more information that his boredom has glossed over and tucked into his memory, never to be found.

“Alastor,” He says without so much as a flinch, taking the other end of the knife and shaking it as if it were your hand. “Pleasure to be meeting you, quite a pleasure.”

He pays no mind to the way his blood seeps around it. He’ll visit the tailor for new gloves later. And… perhaps a dry cleaning, what with the violent spray of demon blood that the little demoness incurred with your paltry knife skills and scarily surgical precision. But you seem to pick up on the fact that no amount of ferality and intent to kill can bridge the sloping gap in power between you. Your eyes narrow.

“Do you want something?”

Alastor hums, tapping a finger to his chin. His polished shoes clack with every circling step he takes around you, you and your tattered rags you call clothes.

“Want is a strong word, my dear.” He taps your head with his microphone, then points to the disgustingly garish Embassy as another day drops from its count. “Our annual cull is coming soon. You won’t want to be a street urchin when God’s little pests arrive.”

The mention of God seems to set you off in some way. Your shoulders square, your eyes widen, and there’s some kind of hunger in your black irises that catches him off-guard for a moment.

Interesting…

“I believe it would be in your best interests to seek protection… Shelter…” He circles you once more before arriving at your front. Alastor extends his hand, bending down to meet the sprightly thing eye to eye. Your scleras are pure, white… untainted. Something he hopes to rectify.

“Let’s make a deal.”

A blade narrowly misses the underside of his rib, and he only realizes that when he sees one of his blackened, eldtrich tendrils squeezing at your wrist, keeping it firmly steady while it hovers just before his coat. Alastor clicks his tongue, straightening his posture. He could kill you…  but that feels like a waste of resources.

“Calm yourself, dear, I haven’t even outlined the terms!”

The girl’s eyes narrow even more, if possible, your thin brows furrowing in a way that casts angry shadows over your features. This was going to be a hard sell. But… Alastor’s been known to play with words. His hand finds your straining wrist, replacing the hardness of his power with a gentle touch.

“Pledge yourself to me and I-.”

“No.”

Alastor can’t help the sharp feedback his microphone makes at your sudden dismissal. You will just not let him get a word in edgewise, hm? His jaw hangs open in shock before he quickly rectifies himself, smoothing down his suit. Okay. He can work with no. He’s walked this path many times before. They always come crawling back, one way or another. 

“Hm. I hope you keep this conversation in mind then.”

He hums a jaunty tune as he leaves the stubborn girl to the shadows.

---

[kyriefae]

Being a Whovian is sincerely so much fun.

This show is so many different things to so many people but what I think truly makes it special is not just the change it forces on us as an audience but the way it pushes us subconsciously to give up on purism.

"Your Doctor" was <insert amiable character traits> but the current one doesn't represent that same persona? Pity. Almost like we can be different people all throughout our lives...

You ever hear someone say like..."it's fine it's just not for me"?

I wonder how many people who say that about the newest Doccy Who seasons genuinely think in their heart of hearts "actually this is garbage and you should agree with me that it is garbage" because those two are not the same thing at all! 🤭 Ugh, I can't help my incredulity sometimes. Maybe the internet adds to the expectation of toxicity. ...or I just spent a lot of time growing up around cynical assholes that hated fun. *shrug*

More to the point! 😅

Pick an era of this show; pick a doctor and you'll be transported to a world more or less unique to them. That's pretty cool if you ask me. They still have that silly multidimensional blue box; they still have two hearts (even if it didn't become canon until their 3rd incarnation)...and yes they still pick up stray humans (...usually young, petite British women from whatever decade said Doctor conveniently and sequentially visits).

But maybe to really hit home on what I mean about this show tackling purism in its audience's mind...it's always been a silly sci-fi show meant to elicit joy and wonder out of children. Additionally so, to help adults retain that same joy and wonder in their own lives by reflecting on the excitement that comes from infinite possibilities only possible when traveling with a genderfluid space alien that wears extraordinary clothes and hands out candy like it's already gone out of style. Oh and you become the universe's only hope the moment you step into another time or location lol.

Sometimes when we love something, we take it very seriously no matter how absurd it truly is at its core. We may not even notice we're doing it but any criticism of Doctor Who really ought to be taken with a grain of salt (and spread out at the very edge of creation...just for good measure). No need to get all salty over a television show. 🧂

So yeah. Being a Whovian, for me, is having the freedom to dive head first into an ocean of lore whenever I desire and really explore storytelling from several perspectives. Albeit many of the early years were written and directed and produced from the perspectives of white, straight men in the U.K. and stories with misogynist stances that heavily limited the functional roles of women in the context of said stories and were also affirmed by narratives and protagonists that failed to question any of it. *clearing throat* Oof, there was a frog back there!

All the same, our heroes of yesterday battled styrofoam monsters breaking through plywood walls built on cardboard sets represented by painted miniatures dangling on strings over a starlit portrait meant to look like space. Even when they couldn't help but be a bit cringe, they were still a silly lil sci-fi show playing at games of the imagination. Like children at play.

Now, we have this beautiful and talented man standing at center stage:

He is all the play; all the heart(s); all the joy we have known in this character but decorated in his own unique way.

My love for this show has evolved and I intend to allow it to continue doing just that. Hopefully we can continue to see the Whoniverse do just the same...instead of getting too caught up in the past. 🫣

Anywho, that's all for now.

Kisses 😘

[timetravellingkitty]

Mulan 2020 sucks lol

Written and edited by yours truly

So, Mulan 2020 happened. And I am disappointed. Seriously disappointed. It is utter garbage. I would genuinely prefer it if I watched Mulan II 5 times in a row, and that's saying something.

There is so much to talk about because this has so many issues. I don't think my brain can handle a movie as bad as this for some time. It is a disgrace to the original animated movie.

(Who cares about spoilers?)

And yes, I can and I will compare it to the original movie because it is a remake. It is totally valid to see where this fell flat and where the original succeeded. I'm not saying it has to be like the original cartoon, that is stupid. As I mentioned, it's to highlight the failures of this movie.

Besides, even if we forget the fact that it is a remake, this movie is still horrible.

INTRODUCTION

Mulan 1998 is a classic. It has great visuals, an awesome soundtrack, wonderful and compelling characters, a great message and a cool plot. It's just a great movie in general. It is an adaptation of The Ballad of Mulan, a Chinese legend. Both the legend and the animated movie are about a young girl named Mulan who disguises herself as a man to take her father's place in the army to fight back against an invasion.

As big of a success Mulan was, Chinese audiences thought some things were weird. For instance, having a dragon be a comic relief character, given that dragons are highly respected in Chinese culture. So of course, Disney decided to try another shot, claiming that they wanted to be more culturally sensitive, accurate and closer to the original ballad.

Mulan 2020 is a remake of the original animated movie, and was marketed to be more "accurate to Chinese culture and the Ballad". This claim is, of course, false, because they failed in that aspect. Say what you will about the cultural inaccuracies in Mulan 1998, but at least it was a great movie. Besides, Mulan 1998 didn't pride or market itself on being culturally accurate, the way Mulan 2020 did, so there's that.

CHANGES

I don't mind some changes. And honestly, if there's one thing I appreciate, it's that it isn't a carbon copy of the original (looking at you The Lion King 2019).

Li Shang's character is divided into two characters: Commander Tung and Mulan's love interest Honghui, apparently in light of the Me-Too movement. This is a dumb reason. Disney wasn't comfortable with a superior having a relationship with a subordinate? The hell? The romance between Shang and Mulan was only insinuated at the end, when Mulan wasn't even a part of the army anymore, so there's that. Also, Mulan gave her consent, so I don't know what they’re talking about.

Mushu isn't present in the movie. I can see why though. He contributed quite a bit to the soul of the animated version but a CGI dragon would be very distracting. Also, the director said that removed him to achieve a more realistic tone.

Grandma? No grandma. Mulan has a sister though, who only exists to mess stuff up.

The Huns are replaced with the Rourans and Shan Yu is replaced with Bori Khan.

Mushu is replaced with a phoenix, who acts as an emissary for the ancestors

There are no songs, except in the end credits, which isn't a bad thing. The instrumentals of the songs in the animated one play during some scenes (I'll talk about the music, don’t worry)

CHARACTERS

The characters in this movie are so boring. Our lead character Mulan lacks the charisma her animated counterpart had. She's utterly bland, uninteresting and poorly written. In the original, she knew she wasn't physically strong and that she couldn't solve her problems with her strength, so she used her intelligence and wit. She excelled by working hard and being strong willed and determined. This Mulan is a well rounded character.

Mulan in the live action is given Chi powers (Chi is a big part of Chinese medicine, in case you didn't know). Honestly, I wouldn't be as mad at Mulan being given superpowers, had they actually done this properly! Chi isn't like midichlorians, it's something that flows through everyone. Mulan is naturally born with dumb superpowers and has to hide them because as her dad says, " Chi is for warriors, not for daughters”. There is a problem:

It has been mentioned many times that Mulan needs to hide her superpowers otherwise she will be shunned and ostracised. Then why doesn't she get more repercussions everytime she uses her powers? The worst thing that happens is little Mulan getting looks of disgust when she uses them. On other occasions, when she is now a part of the army, she uses her powers in training and she doesn't get any backlash? What the hell?? Then why even bother in the first place?

The only way for this narrative to work is if Mulan got more repercussions for using her powers.

If I were to make the line "Chi is for warriors, not daughters," work, I would make it go something like this:

*At the end of the movie when Mulan comes home*

Dad: Didn't I tell you that Chi is for warriors, not daughters?

Mulan: "I am a daughter, but I'm a warrior too."

(Yes, I know this is similar to a scene in Avatar: The Last Airbender, but this would be better, tbh. Also, watch Avatar: The Last Airbender)

Let me compare the training montages from both movies.

In the animated one, there is an absolutely AWESOME montage of Mulan training side by side with her companions, slowly gaining their trust. She climbs the pillar with both medallions by using her wit, not by brute force. This Mulan worked hard. Besides, the fact that "I'll Make A Man Out Of You" plays over this is the only thing that makes it better (banger song, thank you Donny Osmond)

In the live-action, Mulan is supposed to lift up buckets and climb on top of a mountain. There are also other training scenes, but those aren't very important. In these scenes, she succeeds with the power of CHI. WHY? Mulan here just achieves her goal because she is oh so special. She didn't work to achieve her goal at all, because she is perfect. No struggling or development here at all.

Mulan in the animated version was more concerned about saving her father. Mulan in the 2020 version is a dumb patriot who can't even do patriotism right ("I know my place. It is my duty to fight for the kingdom and protect the Emperor") How very empowering.

In short, live-action Mulan can do no wrong. She has no flaws, no personality and no charm. Everything comes to her pretty easily, because MAGIC.

Li Shang's role in the live-action is divided between Commander Tung and Mulan's love interest Honghui, as mentioned before. Both of these characters are flat, dumb and boring. Tung exists to tell Mulan to cultivate her Chi and to train these idiots (and to offer his daughter’s hand in marriage to her, unaware that Mulan isn’t actually a guy, but eh). Honghui is there to be a stupid love interest, who gives us an “I am Spartacus” moment.

The witch is by far the most interesting character. She actually has more than one side to her, has SOME kind of depth and you can even feel sorry for her. She is supposed to serve as a foil to Mulan, given that both have similar powers. In case you've forgotten (which is something I wouldn't blame you for), she's an outcast who's now working with Bori Khan. Why is she an outcast? Because of her Chi. The witch has said many times that she could kill Bori Khan in a snap, then why doesn't she kill him? Because she needs acceptance? What the hell? She decides to pull out the whole "We're the same, you and I," stupidity to Mulan, and I can see that. It's just that the writers just didn't put much thought into it. “It’s too late for me” because you saw a woman leading an army of men? Also, why does she warn Mulan that Bori Khan is coming? Unless she's playing both sides, except her motivations aren't made clear enough for this to make sense. Finally, she dies for the dumbest reason. God, it just makes me so mad. She had so much potential, but no. They just had to mess her up.

Bori Khan? MORE LIKE BORING KHAN. Not much is there. His animated counterpart Shan Yu was scary and contributed to some of the darkest moments in the movie. This guy over here is just...nothing. That's all I have to say.

Mulan's sister is only there to mess up the meeting with the Matchmaker. What a stupid change. First off in the animated version, it's Mulan who messed up, because she isn't perfect. She fails at being stereotypically feminine AND masculine, but in the live-action, she literally pulls off a Spiderman cafeteria scene, and the blame is put on the sister. In the animated movie, this scene is groundwork for Mulan wanting to prove herself and going on a hero's journey, providing depth to her character, but in the live-action, she's perfect. What is the point? (I know this section was supposed to be about the sister, but eh). The sister doesn't provide anything else to the movie, so thanks! I hate it. Moral of the story: Girls can do anything boys can, as long as they have superpowers. If you are born special like Mulan, you can be respected, whereas if you are like the sister, you have no significance and in the end, you can just fit in and be irrelevant. Congratulations!

The live action group of guys Mulan met and befriended in the army lack the charm and comedic timing of their animated counterparts. That’s it. Seriously. I have nothing more to say about them, because they don't really have anything going on. I don't even know why they are included, because their contribution is nil, save for them blandly speaking lines from the animated version’s songs ("I don't care what she looks like, I care what she cooks like"), which is seriously cringe.

The dad is there to tell Mulan that Chi is for warriors. A shame, because I really liked the dad in the movie. He was a source of wisdom for Mulan, whose greatest honour was having her for a daughter. In the live-action, he just takes the sword that Mulan is given at the end of the movie. The mom is meh.

The emperor is also meh. At least he was wise and cool in the animated version, but here he just does bed sheet kung-fu.

Did I mention that the dynamics between the characters are unnatural, forced, awkward in a bad way and in no way indicates any chemistry between them? Oh yeah, I didn’t, until now. They don’t establish much when it comes to emotion.

Simply put, Khan (Mulan’s horse in the animated version) had more personality than all of these characters combined

PERFORMANCES

Liu Yifei as Mulan was a pretty terrible choice. She is just a block of wood, who has absolutely no range, and this isn't because of the writing. She is genuinely bad, and is regarded as one of China’s worst actors (I kid you not). She just can’t emote.

Jet Li as the emperor is meh. But hey, he doesn’t have much to do, so eh.

Jason Scott Lee as Bori Khan is fine. He doesn’t suck, but he lacks the command and authority of a character who is supposed to be intimidating, but I guess it has something to do with the writing of his character.

Donnie Yen is a martial art legend, but unfortunately, he doesn't have much range as an actor.

The best performance of this movie is that of Gong Li, who played the witch. Honestly, she is charismatic, charming and has an idea of what she is doing.

To save everyone’s time, simply put: most of the performances are bland and mediocre. Partly due to bad writing and partly due to most of the actors not being, well, good at acting.

CULTURAL AND HISTORICAL ACCURACY

So Disney went all “we like cultural and historical accuracy”, which is nice. For example, the Huns are replaced by the Rourans, a real tribe in China around the time Mulan was supposed to be alive. They also removed the hair cutting scene, because as iconic and awesome as it is, it doesn’t make sense. Chinese men wore their hair long too. You know what? I like these kinds of changes. I appreciate accuracy. If only Disney didn’t pride themselves on their accuracy when they got almost everything else wrong (They somehow got Mulan's house wrong lol). I don't know jackshit about Chinese culture so just go watch that Xiran Jay Zhao video it's very swag

THE BALLAD OF MULAN

In a surprising turn of events, this isn't accurate to the Ballad, like they had marketed it to be (I know, I’m shocked too). In a reference to the Ballad, Mulan is riding a horse and she sees two rabbits running side by side. She goes home and tells her family that she saw 2 rabbits, and she thinks that one was male and the other female, but she wasn't sure. This just misses the entire point of the Ballad.

Long story short, Mulan in the Ballad is actually a seamstress. She joined the army in her father's place. She defeats the barbarians and goes on a ten year long campaign with her friends, after which they meet the Son of Heaven (a sacred imperial title of a Chinese emperor). He offers her a high ranking position, which she refuses, because she just wants to go home. She returns home and her family welcomes her. Sometime later, her friends come to visit her, and they find out that she is actually a woman. The friends are shocked because she has been in the army for 12 years and in those 12 years, they didn't even realise that she was a woman.

Mulan then replies:

The male hare's feet hop and skip

The female hare's are muddled and fuddled

But when two hares are running side by side

How can you tell the male from the female?

Which is where the poem ends.

So, Mulan just going on, judging those rabbits like that makes absolutely no sense. The Ballad is about how no matter how different men and women look, when they live and fight amongst each other, who gives a damn about the differences? You know what would have made sense though? If Mulan got off her horse, went close to the rabbits, examined them, and then made the conclusion that one is male and the other is female. This would actually be sticking to the message of the Ballad. Also, why do they make it ambiguous as to whether she accepts the high ranking position? I assume for a sequel (yes, God save my soul). Here we can see another example of its impeccable accuracy to the Ballad.

THIS ISN'T EMOTIONAL AT ALL

Everything that made the original film good has been stripped away. Every moment that is meant to be emotional is very dull. For example, the scene where Mulan makes the decision to take her father's place in the army is supposed to be a very powerful scene. Mulan is risking it all just so her dad can be safe. She might be killed if discovered, and her family would be dishonoured.

When Mulan comes back from the Matchmaker, she has a moment of reflection while singing "Reflection". This is the beginning of her personal journey, discovering who she is. In this, after Mulan comes back from the Matchmaker, she doesn't have a moment of reflection. The army immediately shows up. Am I really supposed to believe that Mulan feels bad about this? That Mulan is really struggling?

When Mulan’s friends are singing, it suddenly shifts to the striking scene of the burnt village. This, in my opinion, is the best use of tonal whiplash. From this point on, things are getting serious, and the emotional weight of this tragedy is felt. In this, they just randomly show up at the village.​​ There is no seriousness (stop trying to tell me this movie is adult, mature and serious, it just looks like that on the surface).

Their attempts at being emotional are poor and unconvincing, and ultimately, the end product is an emotionless, soulless, depthless entity.

THE MUSIC

The director mentioned in an interview that she didn’t add songs into the movie because it is “unrealistic to break into song when you're in war”, and I don't think I’ve heard anything more false (apart from the concept of a flat Earth). Even I, who isn't going into war anytime soon, know this is false. They instead inserted instrumentals from the original film. Except, it's very weirdly placed. The instrumental for Reflection is placed when Mulan is fighting the Rourans after she reveals herself to be a woman. Like, there isn't any context. In the end credits, they had the original song "Loyal, Brave and True" sung by Christina Aguilera, which was nice. I don't really have much to say in regards to the music. The music is overall forgettable.

THE ACTION

The action may seem weird, but this kind of martial arts is a part of the Wuxia genre, which is what they were going for. Well, they failed. The choreography is bad, the CGI is bad, EVERYTHING is bad. Honestly, if you want a good Wuxia movie, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon exists. The action is here stupid and stiff.

OTHER DUMB STUFF

Why does Mulan take her armour off before going into battle? That is just stupid. Can't you just take the bindings off? Also, WHY OPEN YOUR HAIR-

Mulan really likes kicking spears (and pointy stuff in general). Seriously. It’s weird.

The CGI is okay I guess, I don't know. The phoenix in some scenes looks pink to me. There are some pretty visuals though.

It is very obvious that there is a green screen used in the scene where Mulan and her friends find the burnt village. And it looks bad. Pretty ugly. It looks bad. The green screen looks bad.

The war strategy is just weird. I can't really say anything about it in text form because how am i supposed to describe it, help- (she literally teleported behind the bad guys in the avalanche scene-).

I like how the animated film, which had a dragon as a comic relief and other silly stuff, is more mature than this.

For what joy does Mulan get another sword from the army? Also, shame the dad is all “oh look at the values written on the sword, they are honourable” even though in the original the greatest honour was having her for a daughter.

How was Mulan even able to tell the gender of the rabbits?

Why not just try to send a warning to the Emperor that the Rourans are coming to get him?

Why does Commander Tung let Mulan lead them-

I AM SO DONE

Well, I think I have said everything I wanted to about this movie. I know I havent talked about its controversies but honestly, I am done. I am so done with this. This document took 5-6 months of my life. I am kind of proud of this, and there isn't much I have done to be proud of. I did procrastinate on this a bit, and I had stuff going on, but finally, I am done. In the future, if I remember something, I'll add it here, but I think that is unlikely. I never want to watch or even go near Mulan 2020 again. It's horrible, and there is barely anything redeemable. I hate it here. It’s been reported that a sequel is in development. If it’s true, of course I’ll watch it, how else am I supposed to validate my self hate? I am also, of course, the resident “friend who suffers for everyone else’s entertainment”. If you want a live action remake of Mulan, Mulan: Rise of a Warrior exists. Go watch it, it’s free on YouTube with subtitles. I really liked it.

If you’ve somehow made it this far, thanks for reading. I congratulate you for putting up with whatever this is. I would also like to take a moment to congratulate myself for actually committing to this. It was painful yet fun to complain about this to the best of my ability. If anyone wants to add anything to this, feel free to do so. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m out. I have lost my faith in humanity, and I have other things to complain about.

[treysimp]

Would you ever do the staff for the bath headcannon ? I love the third years one btw 🥰

It's time babe! I hope you enjoy!

Taking A Bath With Them - GN!Adult Reader/NRC Staff (Crowley, Crewel, Vargas, Trein, Sam)

Rating: T (Lightly suggestive themes)

Tags: Reader's body not described nor are pronouns used, non-sexual domestic intimacy and fluff, elements of body worship, implied body insecurity from reader, established relationship, how do I make myself fall in love with each character I write for guys please explain to me.

Words: 3k

Silly author's notes: Not that I’ve been seeking it out but it feels like I never see anyone trying to put the moves Vargas (like I’m sure you exist, Vargas-fuckers where you at?) so since all of you are so fucking complicated I’m gonna do it! Fluffy domestic garbage for all!

Want more TWST? Here's my masterlist!

Dire Crowley:

‘Never judge a book by its cover, but tattered books don’t get picked off the shelf,’ is probably a quote Crowley heard in passing one time and then immediately tried to contribute to himself. Being the headmaster of a famous and prestigious school involves a lot of hard work, but you can never forget about appearances. Clothes make the man, and if the said man in those clothes doesn’t pull them off, what is even the point of wearing them? It feels like a lecture every time that you and Crowley bathe together, but you can’t say that you necessarily say that you disagree either. If anything, it was a trademark of NRC to be the flashy talented bad boy counterpart to the pure princes of Royal Sword Academy. Public perception seemed to ebb and flow as far as which one was the superior institution, but you would never tire of Crowley’s antics to show up Ambrose and improve NRC’s reputation. You may wonder, does Crowley remove his mask when bathing? And the answer is yes, but it is replaced with a gel pearl mask to ‘get rid of his horrendous eye-bags’ Crowley would say. You would wonder who would even see said eye bags, but you felt like you weren’t going to get a better explanation even if you asked.

Since Crowley loves to travel so much, one of the best parts of any vacation is being dragged to a beautiful outdoor hot spring when the ever-busy Headmaster is relaxed for once. He asks over and over ‘isn’t it beautiful here,' or, ‘are you happy with this,’ or even ‘this was nice of me right’? It’s the smallest hint of insecurity and worries that he will readily give. Crowley wants you to enjoy your time together, but a small part of his heart gnaws at him that maybe he missed something crucial and you were just too kind to say something. That you weren’t having a good time, that you didn’t truly think that he was kind, talented, and magnanimous and was just staying with him out of pity. 

He hated himself for those thoughts, he truly didn’t believe that you would think of him so, but the stream of questions ran across the back of his closed eyes like an unending scroll of his deepest fears shaped into written reality. Crowley would then hear you tell him how happy you were, gushing about the bath, the clarity of the night sky, and the lovely locale and he could feel his anxiety washing away just like splashes of water on the surrounding tile floors circle down a drain. 

He would pull you to his arms and talk about what he wished for the future, any particularly astounding stories from his past, and he would feel a genuine smile whisper across his lips. Maybe he wasn’t as great as he hoped, maybe he wasn’t as kind or as thoughtful, but you were still here in the soft warmth of his arms in this soothing water… and that was more than enough. Maybe he needed to think a little more in the short term, and all that came to mind was the fluttering heartbeat in his chest as your head leaned on his shoulder and his lips met your soft cheek.

Divus Crewel

Crewel is another one for spa treatments and taking great care of your body. He loves to take you into your bath and spoil you with scrubs, oils, and potions of his own making. He is ready to smooth, perfect and tighten every insecurity you have. More than anything, his favorite pastime is stealing you away for a weekend trip to somewhere beautiful where you both can be pampered. 

As the man is also more than a bit into a gorgeous classic car, imagine the most idealized movie setting, the two of you cruising down the coast in a cherry red convertible with fashionable headwear to keep both of your hair behaved while your oversized sunglasses gleam in the sunlight. The word glamor doesn't cover even half of it, but it's a good start.

Expect these trips to be for both business and pleasure: hunting for vintage clothing pieces and fabrics in beautiful locales, scrounging through markets for rare ingredients, and then wasting the rest of the days away at spas, drinking delectable wine and enjoying only the finest foods. You worry that you are too spoiled by him at times, and if you mention this to him, he will just laugh joyfully. 

‘If I ruin all other men for you forever, I can’t say I would complain,’ he would joke, smoothing mud from the bath you shared over his shoulders sensually. He already had ruined all other men for you, but you were sure he probably knew that anyway. That was part of what was so lovely between the two of you, there was so much left unsaid, but never unheard. 

You got ready in the morning together, passing products back and forth across the double sinks in a routine. You would get your dinners and pass pieces of the best bites back and forth so that you could both enjoy each taste together. Every task felt routine but oh so comfortable. You would try the same products and give your opinions on them, swapping purchases back and forth based on who’s skin might suit it more, whose hair would behave better with each ingredient, and so on. 

Students at NRC would try to distract Crewel during class by asking him when he was going to marry you, and most of the time he would throw back some sort of ‘maybe when you get an A on an essay one of these days,' if he was feeling snappy. It was hard to miss the way his eyes would crinkle any time you were mentioned and how his mood would be notably lifted for the rest of class. This isn’t to say that he was any less harsh on his students, but they did see him smile more, so the criticism would be just a bit softer as a result. You would know these days too, as he would pull you into a bath and massage your neck while he laughed heartily at the shenanigans of his classes. 

That was another thing you so loved about these quiet bathtimes, getting to see all of the faces and responses that he kept hidden just for you. 

You were so lucky.   

Happiness.

Ashton Vargas

Your meatheaded darling did mean well, but… he was just one of those people that thought that you could muscle through everything. Unfortunately, he had built enough muscle that he has been proved right so far. While Ashton was quite self-obsessed and would flinch in fear every time he imagined that he lost even a centimeter of calf muscle, he never would give you any grief about how your body looked in the slightest. He was very encouraging and would do everything he could to get you to (healthily) build up your stamina and strength, but there was never a time that he would get frustrated with a failure you had. If you’re a person who cries when they’re frustrated, he will wipe them away. If you are someone who yells or wants to throw things when they’re frustrated, he will give you a ball and let you go ham against a wall until you’re cooled off enough for a hug. Vargas wasn��t always book smart, but he was intuitive to others’ needs in a way that few people are. 

Ashton is very enthusiastic about bathing, which is good for you because you get a great view while soaping up. Since he’s such a show-off, Vargas will wait on you hand and foot to get a chance to flex a muscle, flip his thick hair over his shoulder or sparkle his perfect white teeth your way. 

He just wants to make sure that you feel just as beautiful as he knows he is. He wouldn’t do this for just anyone, you know? You’re special, even when you might not agree with him. There was no arguing with him, if the peak physical specimen of himself thought you were worthy of bodily worship, how could you deny him? Are you saying that he isn’t gorgeous? His big blue eyes will sparkle in dramatic unshed crocodile tears at the thought. Oh? Did you say he is gorgeous? Well, then you are too. Beautiful people know how to spot beautiful things, and the only way you could argue that he was wrong was by saying that he wasn’t beautiful. 

His logic made you want to hit your head against a wall, but when a man with the body of a goddamn superhero tells you that he thinks you’re hot it’s pretty hard to disagree with him. If you still try to fight it, prepare for over-the-top compliments while he forcefully tries to make you relax and go along with his praise. We are talking scrubbing behind your ears and saying that you have ‘well-formed lobes’ kind of compliments. You like that he’s complimenting you, but you also don’t know how to respond either.  

More than anything, his hugs are to die for. During a bath, after a bath, once you are both snuggled in bed and comfortable? Heavenly, all of it. 

Vargas loves to talk you to sleep, both of your plans for the next day, going over when and where you are taking your next vacation, and giving suggestions for what muscle groups he thinks would most benefit you to build. Hell if you tell him that makes you uncomfortable or you aren’t able to follow through, he will immediately change his plans and make variations to be kinder to your back, your knees, neck, ankles, etc. Never underestimate a man who knows anatomy better than geography. This goes double when you grab a map and realize that one trip that he told you was a 'two-hour drive’ from Night Raven was actually a fifteen-hour one, even with the help of the mirrors. 

Oh well, his confidence was something you loved, no matter how correct he may or may not be.

Mozus Trein:

Trein was almost hilarious with how soft and tender he treated those he cared about versus the strict and stern History teacher exterior that he gave off. 

Something that drew you to him was seeing how tenderly he cared for his daughters. All three of them had all flown the nest at this point, but seeing him smile softly while he penned them letters as he scratches Lucius’ chin and murmured conversation to the cat was something that made your heart melt. 

You had been brushing up on your animal languages to better talk to Lucius too, and you could make out the gist of what he says now. As you suspected, he is not the most polite to others, but he is relatively quick to befriend those that bother to talk to him and offer treats that he likes. Due to these habits, you get along quite well. You try to ask for secrets about Mozus, but Lucius won’t always answer. The only consistency you can make out is that it seems like the cat will only answer you when he thinks it’s funny, but his sense of humor can be a bit difficult to work out.  

Trein is not one for much intimacy, he is more one to enjoy mutually comfortable silences. He has had a lot of time to work out every habit and isn’t overly open to doing things outside of them, but a soak with bath salts or some other kind of medicinal mixture suits him quite well. Trein humors your wants and needs and is more than willing to go along with any ‘couples’ treatments you might be interested in within reason. 

Surprisingly, he is open to doing things like acupuncture, fire cupping, and various types of experimental medicines, but if you ask him to get a facial his eyebrow will be stuck in a skeptical arch for the entirety of the experience. You were able to snap a picture of him making this face while wearing a green clay mask with cucumbers over his eyes. You treasure the photo, but you will never show it to him as you know he will be horrified at how undignified he looks. Part of his charm, you think.

Overall the greatest treat of all is seeing the relaxed smile that creeps onto his features when he is truly relaxing. It felt like something special just for you, sneaking a sleepy peek at him in the evening: relaxing in a silken robe, reading a novel, glasses perched on his strong nose, sipping at chamomile tea, and wearing the softest smile. It made your chest feel so warm that you got to see these small and simple moments. Everyday moments were the most special, you thought. Perhaps this simple comfort is what happiness truly is. 

He will see you staring at him, invite you over for a chat and then wrap his arm around you and bring you to bed. He tucks you in tightly, much like one would do a child. His eyes soften when he does it, you suppose there must be a lot of pleasant memories attached to the action. Once he is satisfied with the bedding, he climbs in next to you, giving you a pleasant peck on the forehead before turning off the light. You hear the pitter-patter of little fluffy feet walking in a circle, a huff, and then a perfectly elegant flop and a warmth near your right foot. You sleep soundly, waking up every so often to feel a hand fixing the blanket that you repeatedly kept throwing off of your shoulder and another kiss on your temple as soon as it was finished. 

Happiness.

Sam

As the youngest and least academically-focused staff member, Sam seemed always eager to prove himself. This was especially funny to you, considering how his ‘friends’ gave him such a leg up in almost every situation that you wondered why he ever felt less-than. 

Sam had worked his salesman voice to near perfection, had an in with almost every vendor of note, came from a famously powerful family, was strikingly handsome, stylish, and had a killer smile… 

Okay, you were wandering off topic here, but how could you help it? 

His magenta eyes would flick to yours in passing and you found yourself not being able to think of everything but him. You wanted to joke that his signature spell was how he took your breath away, but that one was all him. You weren’t even sure if he knew how breathtaking he was, moving through each room like a tap dancer one Maxi Ford away from a full routine. 

The theatricality that he brought to everything he did made you feel similar anticipation to being in a theater, hoping and praying that the handsome lead actor would look down at you specifically during a pivotal scene. For the sake of your heart, you were glad that somehow you had succeeded in catching his gaze the same way he had yours. 

When it came to bathing, he enjoyed it. As the local ‘literally-everything’ supplier, he always had something to surprise you with if you wanted a fun gimmick in the bath, but he had his own perfect set of potions to maintain his stylishly dyed hues. You weren’t entirely sure if his particular swirl of hair colors was natural or magicked into place, and the few times you thought to ask Sam, he would just put one finger in a ‘shush’ motion over his mouth with and wink. It was hard to deny that his cheeky mysteriousness wasn’t appealing though. 

If Sam was having a particularly good time, he might try to entice you in a cute little deal or ‘give you an offer you couldn’t possibly refuse’. 

It was a relatively silly game because the cost for all of these handshake deals was always ‘a kiss’ which you would gladly give him regardless of if he gave you something in return. You liked the goofy smile he would give you after you agreed, so you indulged him regardless. He sometimes would act shy and murmur something about ‘stealing his first kiss’ (he made this joke from your second kiss onwards) but would quickly give up the ghost to cover your face in playful smooches and thread his hands at the nape of your neck so you couldn't move away from his lovesick gaze. 

You’ve seen no true gentleman before in your life if you haven’t seen Sam at a proper ballroom soiree. Letting his relaxed slouch straighten into an elegant straight back and properly dressed to the nines, it seemed like he belonged under a spotlight. Sam was an amazing dancer, singer, card player, gambler, smooth talker, and pianist. He seemed to be accomplished in yet another hobby each time an acquaintance of his would say hello and jokingly admonish him for not showing off some hereto unknown skill of his. He would take the friendly jabs well, say ‘perhaps another time’, and then introduce his ‘charming companion’ (you) to them all in turn. Saying each word as fresh and new as the first time, though the words were practically a script for him at this point. 

The ultimate renaissance man, truly. 

Once you both were exhausted and came back to your home, you would bask in each other’s company. His voice raspy from overuse of the night, he whispered his thanks to you for accompanying him. You interrupt his soon-to-be soliloquy to say, ‘how could I possibly refuse an invitation from the most beautiful man I know?’. His eyes would crinkle with laughter from your response and he would pull you close, exhaling into your hair while the exhaustion of the night hits him like a well-anticipated crescendo. 

Sam idly thought that out of the two of you, the power you held over him was far stronger than any spell he knew. 

It was this time of night that you thought he looked his youngest, chortles losing all of their rehearsed and powerful baritones, words spilling out messily, sentences punctuated with ‘ah’s and ‘um’s. 

Sleepy magenta met your eyes and you would decide to finally drag Sam off to bed, tucking him under your fluffy comforter with care. He fell asleep on a dime, and when he was sleeping you felt like you could see the angelic face he must have had as a child. 

You couldn’t wait to see what you both did together tomorrow. Maybe you’d even tell him that you loved him. 

You weren’t going to be able to stop yourself from blurting it out sooner or later anyway.

So who was your fav? Dying to know. I ran away from the bath theme a bit but it was all from a place of love, I promise. Have I convinced you to simp for someone new? Let me know!

Love you, reader! 💋

Requested tags: @stygianoir (hope you liked it!) @yandere-kou, @daeda21, @buckketboy, @aikochan4859, @kumiko-desu, @prince-zukohere, @fragmentedstarlight, @sarahyumiko2, @sappyisyourpappy, @rebel-faes-writing, @witch-waycult, @dari-kun, @riddle-simp, @naniky, @the-mermaid-of-the-stars

[igncrxntripley]

could you maybe write a rhea fic based off of matilda by harry styles?

matilda

a/n: this combines two of my favorite things i knew i needed to do it so ty to whoever suggested this

synopsis: rhea ensures y/n that it's okay to leave the bad things behind and grow (based off matilda by harry styles)

mentions: mentions of childhood trauma (no detaisl, nothing graphic), overall SFW, fem!reader, slight break of kayfabe

taglist: @auburnwrites @thesithdiaries @ripleyswhore

some people weren't lucky enough to escape a bad home life. they were stuck in the same cycles that had been repeated in their families for generations and were stuck in the same sad stories with a different retelling.

you, however, were one of the lucky ones. turning eighteen meant a new freedom for you, even if it was just as scary as what you'd endured your entire life. it meant teaching yourself how to live your life without being in fear, how to love what made you unique, and how to give love to others in ways that you'd never learned. it was incredibly difficult, but you met someone who made that process just a little bit easier.

demi came into your life at a time in which you were incredibly vulnerable. day to day life was tasking, you could barely look in the mirror without being ashamed of what you saw, and building connections with other people was almost impossible; but demi, or rhea as her fans knew her, lit a new flame inside of you. you were working as a member of the medical team during her time at NXT, and you were able to move up to the main roster together. during the course of your relationship you not only got to travel together, but you moved into a home together and you built a life with someone who truly cared about you.

what demi didn't know, was all of the baggage you'd been carrying on your shoulders. she knew bits and pieces, like that you didn't keep in contact with family or that you'd been in and out of therapy for some time, but she never knew the extent.

that all came crashing down on your birthday, though. when you went to grab the mail that day, a name and an address you hadn't expected to see was written on an envelope that clearly contained some kind of card.

you didn't even want to open it. the card sat on the coffee table for at least two hours as you stared at it with unease, and it may not have been the best idea, but you decided to open it with trembling hands. in a way you were proud of yourself for doing this, especially without demi home as she was at the gym, but the card also probably needed to just go into the garbage where you could forget it ever existed.

reading through the sickly sweet note written by your mom was stomach churning. she spoke as if nothing was wrong about your upbringing, as if she hadn't spent your entire life calling you awful names and pretending like you didn't exist. she gifted you some money - the only birthday present you'd ever received from her in your entire life - and your inner child was screaming in pain and sadness. how could your mom do this? how could she pretend like nothing was wrong about the way you were raised?

there was only one person you wanted in this moment, and it wasn't the person who wrote you this birthday card.

tears ran down your cheeks as you dialed demi's number with shaky hands. you did your best to hold back the sniffles and tears as you waited for her to answer, but the floodgates only shattered even more once you heard her beautiful voice on the other end.

"hey, birthday girl! you miss me already?" she teased softly. her accent always made you smile and she always knew how to brighten your day, but today felt so different. you didn't even have to say anything before she noticed how off you were and heard your sniffles. "honey, what's wrong?" demi asked softly. "are you...are you crying?"

you almost couldn't answer her, but somehow you found the courage to do so. "i-i need you..." your weak voice said quietly. "i just...it..." you could barely find the words to even articulate what you needed.

demi didn't need to hear another thing, though. she started packing her bag again and shot an apologetic look to her friends. "don't even worry, baby. i'm on my way." she said softly. she stayed on the phone as she rushed through the gym to get to her car. "i'll be home soon, and we're gonna talk all about it."

that thought alone made you sob harder; you'd gone this long without telling demi, and now you had to be prepared to spill everything. in a way it was your fault because you should have told her earlier, but nothing about this conversation was easy or desirable. "o-okay." you sniffled softly. "i'm sorry-"

"hey, don't apologize." demi interrupted. she never let you apologize for feeling the way you felt, as it was something you were used to always doing. "you sit tight, i'll be home in a few minutes."

demi was home in in a matter of ten minutes, and as soon as she walked through the door you were her main focus. "babygirl..." she said softly, taking in your puffy eyes and wet cheeks from where you were curled up on the couch. she dropped her things and sat next to you, pulling into one of her tight hugs that always felt like a protective shield. "it's okay, i'm here."

you hid in your girl's neck and let out soft cries, your fingers playing with her short hair. her hands rubbed your back as you got everything out of your system, and she looked down at you with her own sad eyes. "what happened?" demi whispered.

if you didn't tell demi now, it was never going to come out. so once she asked you what could make her girl cry so hard on a special day, you let everything out. you explained the birthday card, all of the hurtful things your mom had ever said, and why you distanced yourself from your family to begin with. she sat and listened patiently the entire time with her arms around your body. every so often, her thumb would come up to wipe away the tears from your cheeks and you could've sworn you saw her getting emotional as well.

eventually you finished your retelling of your life story; you'd ended up in demi's lap quite some time ago, and you looked down at your own as silent tears continued running down your cheeks. "everything about it just seemed...normal." you admitted quietly. "but i just suck it up, i guess. move on and pretend like it's not a big deal."

demi's hands came up to hold your cheeks. "look at me." she whispered softly, your eyes moving to meet hers. "you know you're allowed to move on, right?" you bit her lip and stared blankly at your girlfriend, almost to answer her question in the negative. "you don't have to be sorry for leaving and growing up."

the same sentiment had been communicated to you many times in your adulthood, but hearing it from demi was something that you couldn't describe. but you finally gave a small nod as more tears rolled down your cheeks. demi wiped those tears and gave you a gentle kiss on the forehead. "i'm your family now. you don't need them." her arms wrapped around you in a hug again, gently rocking you in her lap as she let you process her words.

from that moment on, demi promised to show you the love you'd never been shown. she was going to make you feel cherished every day she was with you, and knew in that moment that she was meant to be yours for the rest of your lives.

[how-serene]

❛ what are you doing out here by yourself? ❜ with abner please

Some Nights

Pairing - Abner Krill x Neutral!Reader

Summary - All things seemed to lead back to her.

Word Count - 690

Warnings - Angst

A/N - it's been weeks since I've written anything so I'm a lil rusty, I apologize.

He watched the cat. 

Its chubby, matted gray body weaved around the dented garbage cans lining the deserted street. Despite the empty sidewalks, the city was never a quiet beast. There was always a faint humming of people and commotion just above the surface. 

Always awake and dreaming. 

Abner sighed, leaning against the balcony railing. Just a few doors down, the vague words to a soft rock song spilled through an open window. He could hear various forms of chatter, as voices overlapped one another, creating a singular buzz of noise. 

It was nearing 2 a.m. 

He imagined a cluster of people, picking off the labels on beer bottles and talking to each other. Gossiping about their day jobs, and insolent co-workers. About the price of groceries, and overdue bills. Later in the night, when the liquid rush wore off, they would all fall into a hush as they departed one by one with slurred goodbye’s and extended hugs. Then finally, the music would begin to make sense, as the outside sound surrounding ceased. And he would be left with nothing but the vocalist to speak to him. 

Abner felt your arms curl around his waist, the edges of a thin white sheet clutched in between your fingers. Warmth emanated from your skin, as your bare chest pressed against his back. 

"What are you doing out here by yourself?"

Your breath fanned against his shoulder, lips grazing over the freckles and blemishes that adorned his body. 

“Just needed some air.” 

You nodded, faintly tracing the width of his shoulders with your lips. He shuddered, a chill rushing down his spine just from the contact you provided.

“Are you cold?”

He shook his head, securing his fingers around your wrist when he felt you retreating. 

“I’m fine,” he whispered, leaning back against you. 

Why was he out here, really? He should be in bed, dozing off with your head in the crook of his neck. You should be wrapped up in his arms, tight and warm as the still night eventually spilled into a still morning. He sighed, grasping onto the cold balcony rail. Truth is, the nights were the hardest for him to get through. All dreams, a sweet imaginary haven meant for escape, lead back to her. Her hard, piercing stares and the sounds of her heavy footfalls continued to haunt the dusty corners of his mind. Some nights, when he was hunched over the bathroom sink, head dizzy with the faint still images of a nightmare long passed, his own reflection warped into her. As if she were still buried inside of him, a reminder that his flesh was never his own. Abner was almost tempted to peel his face back during those moments, if only to see if it were true. 

If a son could truly never part from his mother. Would she be waiting there, beneath the stretched torn flesh?

Abner focused on the cat again. One of its fat paws was gently prodding at a gated front door, belonging to one of the many townhouses lining the street. Its yowls echoed off the empty paved streets, a desperate plea that slowly pulled at the threads of Abner’s heart. Whether the owners were asleep, or simply not home, its calls went unanswered. 

“Poor creature,’ he muttered, frowning at the sight. 

“Its owners will show up soon,’ you said, squeezing your arms around him. 

He hummed, watching as the cat curled up against the edge of the door. Waiting patiently, perhaps forever, to go home. 

The once blaring music, finally fell to a muffled hum as the partygoers gave their farewells. 

Your chin was nestled in between his shoulder blades, as the tip of your nose brushed against his cheek. 

Of course you were there, at the end of all the noise. Always slowly reaching out, trying to bring him back to his fuzzy version of reality. One where he could try and be happy, or at least become loose acquaintances with it. Abner entangled his fingers with yours, his grip unrelenting. 

He wondered why this couldn’t be enough, to simply fix it. 

But what would?

[hughiecampbelle]

Waves Pt. 1 (Kendall Roy Oneshot)

Character/s: Kendall, Logan

Word Count: 1,518

Inspired By: Liquid Smooth - Mitski (Audiotree Live Version)

Requested: Ok I have no idea why I was so drawn to these but if any inspiration strikes, maybe a fic or something with Shrink from the description prompts and Clawfoot Tub from Object/Thing prompts. To me it vibes with Kendall but I'd be happy seeing it written with anyone that comes to mind - @locke-writes

Tag: @locke-writes

A/N: Noah I'm sorry it's literally been a million years. I got bit by the writing bug this morning and I saw your request and I just wanted to hurt everyone's feelings lol. Please forgive me!!! I hope you're doing okay and that this isn't too late/total garbage!!! Feedback is always appreciated 💜💜💜

Succession Masterlist / REQUESTS ARE OPEN / Waves Pt. 2

He can close his eyes, he can plunge himself beneath the water, he can hold his breath until his lungs begin to burn, set fire in in his chest, exhaling smoke and ash, but, he cannot forget. It wasn’t disgust. It wasn’t hurt. It wasn’t anger. It was heartbreak. Pure, genuine heartbreak. It was visceral and agonizing and bloody. You were shattering before him, across the room for him, and he could do nothing but watch. Stare. Like a fool. An onlooker to the breakdown of a stranger, a pedestrian, instead of the love of his life. Shrinking deeper, smaller, until you were nothing but a mite atop the fabric of the cushions. Wine stem in shaking hand, a coffee table between you littered with various glasses and room-temperature alcohol. There was sweat of the outside, the ice cubes long forgotten, beading down into the coaster. Behind him, faintly, he can hear the rest of the party. A steady, low murmur of voices fills the pulsing air between you. His father, a man made of rot and stone, spoke those awful words to you, about you, right in front of you. He berated you. He spat at you. He called you a worthless nothing, an appendage growing from his son, sucking the life out of him. Sucking the blood and money from this family. Then, to him, he insists that he could find someone better, smarter, better looking. There is no rebuttal, there is no last straw, there is only a cowering of his spine, as if this lecture has been triggered by the roundness, proudness of his shoulders, his posture and chest. He braces for impact. He flinches. When his show is over, when the last lines have been spoken, he takes his bow and exits off stage. 

There is an audience of two and no one is clapping. 

Siently, your eyes widen and well up in tears. He swears, though he can't say definitely, he cannot verify yes, it truly happened, you let out a single gasp of air. A wretched sound to anyone listening. The screech of tires before it crashes. The burst of porcelain across the hard wood floors, the remnants scattering, running, scraping on impact. The wet squelch of a someone rummaging around inside of someone’s open torso, trying to find and stop a bleed before the patient dies on the table. It is unfinished. It is dirty. It is obscene. It is a sound one wishes to take back, to unhear. Childishly, he wants to press his hands over his ears. He wants to beg you to stop, please, please! But just as it occurs, it is over. A single gasp. A single breath. Proof of life. You were never one for the dramatics. Your personality had always been shy. This was no different. Wounded animals did not announce their wounds. Instead, they dragged themselves off into solitude and assessed the damage. He’s not sure why he knew this was happening, why this was going to happen, only that he does. He stands, his eyes never leaving you. As if on cue, you set your drink down and take your place parallel to him, on your feet. You don’t wipe your tears away. You don’t even realize they’ve fallen. You move towards the closet by the entrance. He tries to stop you, to help you, to comfort you, but all that comes out is begging. Pleading. Please don’t go. Please, y/n. Excuses. You know dad, he wasn’t- he didn’t mean it. Please don’t go. Please. . . You find your coat on the hanger and slip your arms through. It was beautiful today, the weather, but the nights get cold and vengeful and you have already been bitten. Your skin resembles the inside of Logan’s mouth: you are covered in teeth marks and spit. You were his chew toy, for a little while, for a long time, before he decided he was bored. Before he decided he was done with you. 

He catches your arm, places his fingers around your bicep as if you are a lifevest and he a survivor of drowning. Scared. No, petrified, he cannot make full sentences. He stutters his way through something that does not resemble anything else. There are no apologies, from him or his father, so it must not be an apology. There is bargaining, but there is no deal. There is only a smattering of words that come to mind, a mess, a diaster of drastic proportions. No one else has notice the mess before you, preventing you from leaving. They have not bled out from the dining room yet. If you want this to be quick, painless, you have to do it soon. Wordlessly, you tug yourself free. You meet his eyes: hazel, warm, pooling with conflictions. You know this. You have seen this before. Torn in half: his left goes to Logan, promises that he will one day make him proud, his right throws himself into you, at you, and you must clean him up. You must clean up the crime scene. Even now, after what his father’s said, after what he’s been saying all the years you’ve been together, and still he can’t make up his mind. He can’t decide. You’ve grown tired of half. Half of him, his love, his attention. Half of the man you endured pain, and hatred, and disgust for. This family never liked you. This family never gave you a second thought. It was supposed to be worth it, being ith him, staying with him. How foolish you feel. How stupid you are, standing here, watching him go back and forth. You put your hand on his, squeeze it, before pulling away from him. You eye his form before the elevator doors shut. He wore the suit you loved, with the tie his father had chosen for him so long ago. His shoes resembled Logan’s, but his socks, the one’s you’d watched him pick out this morning, were one’s you’d gotten him this past Christmas. If he could have, if he had the ability, he would have cut himself to pieces and gifted half to you, half to Logan. He was already doing that, just without the wrapping paper and bow. Without the hacksaw. Without the gore. 

He’d call your phone, over and over, listening to the familiar of your voice as it directs him to leave a message. He doesn’t stop until the box is full. His siblings make their jokes when they notice your absence. Cruel, harsh, Roy-like. He is grateful you are not here to listen, to hurt anymore than you already are. Logan pats him on the back, inviting him into his good graces as if the past hour hadn’t happened, as if your entire marriage hadn’t happened. Stunned, shocked, Kendall goes along with it. He tries to speak up, to stand up, but it is ill timed, ill received, and Logan shuts it down before it has the potential be anything impactful. I see y/n had better plans than to be here with their family. His defense gets stuck in his throat. He nearly chokes. 

The water is cold, frozen, and he splashes in over his face. The look in your eyes. The gasp. Stop, he thinks, stop, stop, stop. You took the car and disappeared. He called and called and you never picked up. He thought, he hoped, you might be home, but when he let himself in the place was dark and uninviting. He searched for signs, clues you might have left him, but everything lay undisturbed. Tipsy and full of regret, he lets the faucet run in the tub. Had you been here. Had this whole night not happened, you might’ve joined him. He always felt the most at home here, with you, in the bath. You would have laughed at him, yelped that the water was too cold, before dipping your head under. You were so much braver than him. Now he sits, knees to chest, his back arched into a C. He is shivering and unhappy and cursing himself. If he could just say something, anything. If he had been doing it since you got together, all those years ago, instead of making you his fathers personal pin cushion. If, if, if. If he had been a better man, a better husband, a better son. Isn’t that what’s wrong, though? He was a good son, he was better than good, but he was not a worthy husband. All these years he watched you get torn down. He watched as something withered and died inside of you. But you still showed up. You braced yourself for impact. You laughed along to jokes made at you expense. And at the end of every night, every party, every event, you went home with him. Hand in loving hand. He didn’t know where you were, what you were doing, only that he was overwhelmed with the terrible feeling, while staring at the empty side of the tub, that he had made a horrific mistake that he could not take back.

[pixiecaps]

i hope you're already asleep it's so late for you but on the topic of the finale ending honestly i understand why people are so upset by it, i think it royally sucks, but imo it was created entirely because they really needed some way to wrap things up and i think almost everyone would agree that it shouldn't have and wouldn't have ended that way had things been different and had the server not needed to end so abruptly.

like idk you KNOW i'm a canon compliant guy but for this thing specifically i genuinely don't consider it canon and think it should fully be ignored, and i think basically everyone involved would be fine with that. also honestly in my mind everything purgatory and after is non-canonical in that it shouldn't have happened either and the reset is definitely not canon so that makes it easier for me to ignore it completely. i think what players and admins stated about their characters is canonical within reason and otherwise i don't think any of it matters all that much because of how the server ended. like to me i know the reality is that that is how it ended and we don't have any other ending to go off of but because of the circumstances there's just no way i could consider it canon and i already spend all my time dreaming up ways to rewrite all the shit that happened before then, nevermind a garbage hastily written ending that only wrapped up one plot thread (the eggs) and didn't even do that correctly (it completely retconned so much about the eggs and i know a lot of lore got retconned and changed over time but it's particularly agregious).

idk where i'm going with this insane rant in your inbox i really don't i just wanted to give my thoughts on that ending and how i take it as a fandom creator because i often see people treating it like it was a legitimate ending even though they hated it and i'm like this is fandom!!! we can ignore it entirely!!! in fact many characters' endings explicitly defy that ending, that was just the way to wrap up the idea of the egg event in some way that made sense. i totally get people being upset by it, i was too, but i was also upset by the previous. five months? of stuff so i kind of can't be bothered to be annoyed by this particular thing.

again this is nonsensical i'm just saying i think we should all ignore it and i've been saying that since the day of bc it was just so obviously not the kind of ending that would've been written under different circumstances. let's all make up better endings forever and ever amen.

anyway hi pix if you're reading this in the morning i hope you got beautiful sleep and dreamt of snoopy and roier all night

hiii 🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶 i was in fact asleep by the time you sent this:3

that was another point i discussed with someone els where yeah it sucked because they had to wrap it up and “tie everything together” so i agree on that. everything with the qsmp ending wouldve been different under different circumstances.

you’re incredibly real for not considering canon up to a certain point where everything got messy. i think since we’re both very canon compliant people you can understand where im coming from with that frustration and being irked by how everything played out. it was going so well and then 📉📉📉. and heres the thing you know how much i love purgatory okay cause i do but god its truly one of those events where it shouldve been explicitly uncanon i feeeeel. so much of the lore it introduced and everything clashed with everything we had already established and not informing the creators of anything was such a poor choice. but anyways you already know the whole rant.

i do appreciate the reminder of its fandom who cares. i live by that i just get Even More emotional when sleep deprived and was like wow fuck everything and this stupid fucking ending so thats why i made those posts kkkkkkkk. but ye GOOD REMINDERS ITS FANDOM ENDINGS ARE OPEN TO REWRITES AND OUR OWN INTERPRETATIONS!!!!!!!

i did get beautiful sleep ty bell<3333 i hope you got beautiful sleep as well<3333

[hockey-fics]

A Simple Yes - Quinn Hughes

Summary: You truly never believed it would happen, getting pregnant before you were ready. But sometimes the things you don’t expect to happen end up being not so bad after all. 

Word Count: ~1,300

Warnings: Pregnancy

A/N: This was supposed to be way longer. I actually had another 1,500 words written for it but I was struggling to find a logical conclusion at that point so I just shortened it, I’m very sorry if it’s a disappointing ending. 

It wasn’t how you wanted to find out. Alone in the bathroom of your quiet apartment, shaky hands clutching onto a positive pregnancy test. There’s a weight on your chest and you can’t manage to draw a full breath into your lungs. Your staring at the test but it feels like you’re no longer fully there, everything felt distant and fuzzy. With shaking hands you fumble the second test out of the three pack box, taking another test before sitting on the edge of the bathtub. This time after you set the timer on your phone you don’t head to Tik Tok to kill the time. This time you set the phone on the counter, eyes staring at the floor that you realize you should have swept days ago. You couldn’t be pregnant. You couldn’t even manage to sweep the floors in your apartment. How were you supposed to be able to take care of a baby?

Your mind is still racing when the sound of the timer on your phone going off makes you jump. Slamming your hand against your phone you manage to silence the loud ringing, not caring about anything but the lines on the tiny screen of the plastic stick sitting on your counter. Delicately you pick up the test, as if jostling it around would change the results. When your eyes see the double lines your heart starts to beat so hard you begin to worry you might be nearing full on cardiac arrest. 

It’s only a matter of seconds before you toss that test into the sink with the first, ripping the last test of the box like it was your saving grace. You had absolutely no idea how you were able to pee on the third stick in such a short amount of time, but you weren’t upset about it. You go through the now familiar steps, nearly slamming the test on the counter as you set the timer. You repeat the process of spending five minutes worrying about everything and anything that came into your brain before the trilling of your phone breaks you out of it. When you pick up the test you feel your stomach drop, the two pink lines seemed to be taunting you at this point. Normally you were a pretty composed person, but as you throw the test into the sink with the other two all composure leaves your body. 

“Oh, fuck,” you mutter, leaning into the bathroom counter, a wave of dizziness washing over you. “Fuck,” you repeat, slamming your hand onto the cool granite with a loud smack. 

It wasn’t that you hadn’t thought about this. You had been with Quinn for over a year and you had definitely thought about the future, about having a family with him. But that wasn’t supposed to happen for many, many years. You were supposed to be living together and married and have a dog and a picture perfect life together way before this was supposed to happen. You were supposed to be finding this out together and the tears in your eyes were supposed to be from joy and not fear. 

Picking the tests from the sink you carelessly toss them into the garbage, leaving the bathroom for the first time in the last half hour. But you didn’t know what to do now. You couldn’t just text him and tell him you were pregnant, that wasn’t something you casually send to someone. Truly you just wanted a glass of wine to numb the intensity of the feelings but that was off the table now. So you stand in the hallway, staring at the gallery wall of shitty paintings you had made with your friends, each and every one of them created under the influence of alcohol or drugs. You couldn’t be a parent, not with this type of decor. 

You’re standing there, completely still, till your phone vibrates in your hand. It’s a text from Quinn and you feel an immediate wave of nausea. ‘Can’t wait to see you tomorrow’ 

He had been on the road for the last three days. The same number of days that your period was late by. You don’t even know what to say to him as you stare at your phone, fingers hovering over the keyboard as you hope some sort of response would pop into your brain. ‘Me too’ is all you finally manage to think of. Looking at the time you decide that 9:30 was late enough and that it would simply be easiest to put yourself to bed at this point. 

It’s 1:47pm the next day, something you know precisely because you had been watching the clock on the cable box in Quinn’s apartment for the last half hour. You had told him cable was a waste of money since he didn’t watch it but he seemed to think it was just easier to keep paying for it than cancel it. He had given you a key to his apartment a couple months ago, around the same time you had bought a few plants for him for his apartment. You weren’t convinced he really cared enough about the plants to give you a key to be able to water them when he was away, but you weren’t going to question his excuse either. 

You hear the sound of the door open but you don’t say anything, remaining silent and still till Quinn rounds the corner, jumping when he sees you sitting on the couch. “I didn’t know you’d be here,” Quinn chuckles. 

Nodding, you pull your knees even further to your chest. “We need to talk.”

Quinn is silent for a second and you can almost see the thoughts running through his head as he leans his shoulder against the wall. “Okay,” he mutters, voice cold. You weren’t stupid, you knew what he was thinking. That you wanted to break up or you had cheated on him, those were the logical conclusions after what you had just said. 

Your eyes are filling with tears as you stare at him, not having a clue about how to start this conversation. Sure, you had gone through a million and one ways this conversation could go. Yet here you were, ready to pull out any one of those million options and coming up with none. 

“What?” Quinn snaps, arms crossed over his chest and you’re almost certain your assumption was right about what he was thinking now. 

“Quinn,” you begin, voice breaking as your fingernails dig into the denim of your jeans, arms wrapped around your legs. 

“What?” he repeats, shaking his head. “You don’t want to be with me anymore?”

“No,” you croak, a couple tears dripping from your eyes and rolling down your cheeks, letting them fall onto your t-shirt. 

“You cheated on me?” Quinn pushes. 

Shaking your head you dig your fingers in further, till they were turning white and pain was radiating from your legs. “You know I would never do that.”

“Then what’s going on?” Quinn asks and his voice is softer, dropping his arms from their defensive position over his chest to his sides. 

“I-,” you begin, taking a deep breath. “I’m pregnant.”

Quinn doesn’t say anything for long enough that you’re nearing the point where you wanted to say something for him. But eventually he does and he’s walking over to you as he does. “Pregnant?” Is all he manages to get out, but at least he’s beside you now, arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side. “Shit,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your head. “When, um, when did you find out?”

“Last night,” you whisper, your body relaxing the second he has his arms around you. “I took three tests.”

Quinn rubs his hand along your arm before sliding his arm under your legs and pulling them over his lap, desperately trying to get you as close to him as possible. “Okay,” he whispers. “What do you, you know, want to do?”

“I don’t know,” you mutter, arms wrapped around him so tight you’re worried you might be hurting him. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to be…how I pictured it.”

Quinn doesn’t comment on how hard you were holding onto him, just rubbing gentle circles into your shoulder with his thumb. “Me neither.”

Pulling back suddenly you look into his eyes with surprise. “What do you mean? You’ve pictured this?”

Quinn nods, looking into your eyes. “What do you mean? Of course I have. I’ve told you that…that I want to spend my life with you.”

“I,” you begin, shaking your head as you try to regain some sense of composure. “I thought you were just joking, or saying that to make me happy or something.”

“That’s a really shitty thing to joke about,” Quinn chuckles, receiving a spluttering, surprised laugh from you. “Come with me,” Quinn states, standing up and taking your hands in his. His apartment isn’t that big and you almost immediately realize he’s pulling you into his bedroom. 

“Quinn, I’m already pregnant,” you joke, though you’re truly not sure if you should be joking about it at this point or not. 

Quinn simply shakes his head with a quiet chuckle, pulling open the top drawer of his dresser he rifles through it till he pulls a little box out. Turning around to face you he opens it, showing you the beautiful ring inside. 

“Is that?” you whisper, eyes wide as you stare at the ring. 

“Yeah,” Quinn breathes out. “You said you liked a ring one time when were watching TikTok together and I knew one day I was going to ask you to marry me…so I found something like it...I just don’t know why you’re surprised that I’ve thought about this before.”

You’re reaching for the ring when Quinn slams the box shut, pulling it away from you. “No, I’m not asking you to marry me.”

“What?” you whisper, recoiling away from him, a sinking feeling in your chest. 

“Well I am,” Quinn clarifies. “But not now…not like this. You deserve better, you deserve something romantic, something perfect.”

Your eyes are welling with tears again and you can’t take your eyes off of him. “I love you,” you whisper. 

“I love you too,” he says, setting the ring down before placing his hands on your waist. “Do you want to do this?”

“Marry you?” you ask, tears rolling down your face. 

“Well that,” Quinn whispers, wiping away a couple tears from your cheeks. “But also us having a baby, starting a family right now.”

“Yes,” you breathe out, one simple answer to both questions.