#I get scaffolding is good and everything. Like I understand that

[creating-by-starlight]

I swear the rest of my work for this semester of education is going to be done purely out of spite. I am going to write sentences like I'm writing my novel just to get up to word count goals. This class was feeling pointless and directed mainly at multi-subject majors before I decided to drop the edu load and now that feeling has doubled. None of this will be useful. But. My gpa

[emmg]

Only, Only, Only

Oh look, it's the Emmrich-crying-after-a-handjob one shot that has haunted me for two weeks.

Read below or on AO3

Some things fade, some things harden. Emmrich had learned this early. His family was buried under a collapsed roof before he was even old enough to understand the shape of loss. Fine. Well—not fine, but irreversible. The world yawned forward. 

There are two ways to have a family: by birth or by acquisition. The first had failed him. The second required effort, but effort could be elegant. And Emmrich was elegant. In youth, prettiness had been his scaffold, a fragile, lacquered thing—white teeth, kohl at the eyes, wrists perfumed just so. He had known, instinctively, that beauty was a door left ajar, and slipping through it was only a matter of timing. But beauty alone was flimsy, ephemeral. The real trick was what came after. 

He had been good at what came after. He had learned how to be a mirror, how to reflect back desire, how to build not just love but the idea of love, to construct it from suggestion and possibility. Later, when youth’s shimmer had dimmed into something more polished, he acquired. With acquisition came leverage, and with leverage, a different kind of beauty. One did not need to glow when one could glint. He could extend a hand, let the gold catch the light, let the rings speak in the hushed, implicit way that wealth always did. Stability, security. The prettiest promise of all. 

So he did not get married. It never happened. What of it? Girls, those spun-glass things, dreamed of marriage before they understood the weight of it, the slow suffocation of arrangements made with a blind eye to happiness. The nobler the girl, the bleaker the dream. The lesser ones, at least, had necessity to excuse them, and necessity, he had found, was sometimes kinder. His mother had married outside of it and yet she had smiled more, laughed more, despite the rawness of her hands, than any aristocrat pacing gloomily through town, swallowed by velvet and regret. 

And boys? Boys dreamed too, though not like him. He was of a different order, a creature with too many wants, too many hungers. He did not reach; he engulfed. His hands, splayed wide, could take anything, everything, fold it inward, knead it into something resembling love. The question was never whether he would one day say marry me?—only how quickly the words would leave his mouth.

“How did you lose your virginity?” Rook asks, peering over the rim of a glass filled with something that is, in principle, wine but in practice more of a solvent, stolen from Lucanis’ pantry-bedroom. 

“Oh,” he says, caught slightly off guard. “The usual way.” 

“Which is?” 

“With love, darling.” 

A beat. Then, again: “Which is?” 

He sighs, tipping his glass, watching the sluggish swirl of liquid. How was it? So long ago now. A tangle of hot hands, warm breath, the enthusiastic fumbling of inexperience. That singular astonishment—the body no longer enclosed, no longer entirely one’s own. Mouths parted not only for kisses. The more he prods at the memory, the more it softens at the edges, dissolving into something distant, something already half-forgotten. And what had come of it? A few repetitions, hurried and half-lit, until the whole thing ended so politely they might as well have signed papers and shaken hands. A miscalculated venture, yielding little but two rather undistinguished little climaxes. 

“I believe,” he says at last, “I was briefly incapacitated.” 

“Ah. Came too quickly?” 

He exhales, faintly amused. A flicker of a smile, nothing more. “Rook,” he says, shaking his head. “One really ought to maintain a certain discretion.” 

“You know how it was for me,” she insists. 

“I do.” 

“Because you were there.” 

“Indeed.” 

“And you did not marry them?” she presses. “Emmrich, you bought me gold earrings after I sucked your—” 

“No,” he says, neatly severing the sentence. Then, after a pause, “I did not.” 

There is a reason one does not make decisions in the steep descent of pleasure. Thought falters, limbs slacken, everything becomes terribly possible. The haze lingers for a moment, then lifts—for most. But for him, it never quite lifted. It remained, a kind of giddy fever, a half-conscious certainty. I think I might love you before. I certainly do love you after. Shall we pick out rings in the morning?

And yet, every time he might have said it, the words were swallowed—by lips pressed to his, by a hand at his throat, by laughter, the kind that smooths over awkwardness. Year after year, decade after decade, something always arrived just in time to silence him. A coincidence, surely. Or perhaps not. Perhaps they had all, in their own quiet way, agreed: Not from you, Emmrich. Not quite like that.

A moment ago, he had been young—precisely as young as Rook, or so it had seemed. But now, quite suddenly, the illusion dissolves. Age settles in, not in any particular ache or stiffness, but in the quiet awareness of time itself, of a widening distance between himself and the careless way she moves. 

He watches as she stands and discards her glass. She stretches, arms lifting, spine lengthening, her ribs briefly visible beneath the fabric of her blouse. A shift of weight, heel to toe, as she hums something airy and formless, a tune he does not know. 

Then, as if completing some personal choreography, she takes his glass as well, drains what remains, taps his knee—twice, quick, impatient. He hesitates just a moment before uncrossing his legs. And with that, she drapes herself into his lap, as if he were nothing more than a conveniently placed chair. Long hair spilling over his shoulder, long limbs finding their arrangement, long years ahead of her—years she does not yet know to count. 

“So it wasn’t love,” she concludes. 

“Pardon?” He blinks, as if waking. 

“Your first time,” she clarifies. “Or you would have married them. You do everything with love, Emmrich. And everyone. Heh. Get it?” 

His gaze drifts past her shoulder, settling on a thin crack in the wall, the kind that appears slowly, until one day it is simply there, fully formed, waiting to be noticed. 

“Oh,” he says finally. “Yes, yes, the love was there.” From him, yes. Always from him. 

Rook hums, softly, absently, the sound barely shaped into melody, more like breath passing through parted lips. It settles around him, light as dust in a shaft of sunlight. He could fall asleep like this, her mouth moving somewhere above his ear, forming notes without thought, without meaning, as his mind drifts elsewhere. 

To the after. The quiet, improbable after. When the gods are dead, when she no longer carries whatever nameless burden she believes is hers to bear. When there is no cause left to champion, no duty pressing at her heels. Then, perhaps, he could be selfish; lean in, tilt his head just so, and say, Shall we go to Nevarra, darling? Leave all this behind? Forget about obligations, about debts that are not our own?

If she will come, of course. And he very much hopes she will. 

The moment turns, shifts on some invisible hinge. There is an elegance to it, but not the kind one learns; rather, the thoughtless grace of a cat that sometimes lands well and sometimes does not. She touches his chin, frowns slightly, as though adjusting something misaligned, and then, quite abruptly, rests her palm against him through his trousers. 

“Oh,” he says again. 

It is embarrassing, really, the immediacy of it. More from the thought of her, the mere fact of her. An erection for possibilities—ridiculous. A climax, potentially, at the idea of picking out matching pillowcases. To be undone not by her mouth, not by the warm embrace of her body—well, yes, by those too, inevitably—but also, absurdly, by the way she looks at him, by the way she smiles, wide and guileless, for him, just for him. 

At this rate, he might not even need her hand next time. Perhaps he’ll just dissolve entirely when she asks if he’d like another cup of tea. Would you like sugar, darling? Oh, wonderful, an orgasm of domesticity.

"Does this feel nice?" she asks, freeing his cock. 

“Yes,” he murmurs, though it hardly matters, the answer already evident. 

She releases him just long enough to blow a breath of warm air against her palm, but it dissipates too quickly. Dissatisfied, she presses it to his cheek instead, leeching the heat directly from his skin. He laughs, turning his head just enough to graze her wrist with a slow kiss.

He closes his eyes, tilts his head back slightly, surrendering to the moment as she touches him again, fingers curling around him, now warm, now sure. A few slow strokes, languid and sweet, before she pulls away.

Then, a sound: the wet parting of lips, a flicker of tongue, the thin, elastic stretch of saliva snapping. He does not have to look to know what she is doing. When her hand returns, slick and soft, it glides over him so easily, so perfectly, that he shudders at the sensation.

"What if I told you I'm jealous of them?"

“Of who, darling?”

“Those people you loved,” Rook says.

She twists her wrist, tightens her grip, snaps at the air between them like a dog biting at a bone just out of reach. The motion alone is enough to make his hips jolt forward, his cock pushing blindly into the tight heat of her hand. It shudders against her palm, slick with sweat, with saliva, with its own leaking want. She spreads it, works it in, fingers tightening, releasing, tap-tap-tapping against the sensitive ridge just to watch him flinch.

“Oh.”

He wants to say something better than that. Something articulate, something lovely and precise, about how those old loves are nothing now, how their outlines have blurred, their names lost to time, how nothing before her seems to have truly happened. But all he manages is, “Oh,” again and again, a broken refrain.

Because he is watching her lips now. Pink and parted, a flicker of tongue just visible between them, poised as if about to speak, or taste, or ruin him completely. And he remembers—oh, how he remembers—the way they feel around him, the warm, obscene pressure, the way she sucks, licks, hollows her cheeks just so. The way she always pauses first, takes him in hand, lets the flat of her tongue drag slow over the head, tasting him before swallowing him down. He remembers, and he whimpers, wrecked by the thought alone.

He is, after all, like any other man. It is a humiliating realization, though not a new one. A mouth, an opening of thighs, a flash of tongue, the yielding softness of a cunt, the stiff insistence of a cock—these things could undo anyone. But for him, for him especially, it is worse. It is words that ruin him completely. Sweet ones, meaningless ones, even badly chosen ones, so long as they are offered up with the illusion of sincerity. Because he is sentimental, embarrassingly so, because he sees the world in pale, translucent pinks, because he imagines fingers intertwined over matching wedding bands, because he is the sort of man who believes that being loved—even briefly, even falsely—might be enough to justify everything.

He has spent years preparing for that. Decades of practice. He knows the gestures, the arrangement of words, the precise architecture of romance. He knows how to select flowers with the right meaning: tulips for declarations, lilies for purity, lavender for quiet, enduring devotion. He knows how to make himself desirable. He has built his whole life around it.

And yet, the moment she touches him, all of it dissolves. Whatever carefully curated refinement he has spent years cultivating—wasted. His spine bends into a crude, instinctual arch, his breath stumbles, his thoughts blur into static. The moment her hand curls around him, the moment she strokes, slow and assured, all that is left of him is want, absurdly simple and absurdly predictable.

He can only hope that when the moment passes—when the blood leaves his cock and returns to his brain—there is something else in him she will still find worth keeping.

Eventually, somehow, he finds words.

“There is only you—oh—only you.”

“I know,” Rook says. Nods. Smiles. Tightens her grip. Strokes him harder. “I want you to only fuck me, only kiss me, only come in my mouth, only bend me over your desk, only, only, only—” She bites her lip, almost thoughtful, then breathes out a small laugh. “Only me to sit on your cock, to rub myself off on you until I’m soaked, only me to squeeze you so tight you can’t even think, only me to ride you until you’re shaking, until you’re begging, until you hurt or I do.”

His fingers twitch at his sides.

She is breathless now, though not from effort; her hand does not falter. If anything, her rhythm steadies, as though she is determined to wring something from him, something more than this.

“I want,” she says, then again, rasping with urgency. “I want to be hoarse in the morning because you fucked my throat so hard it left a bruise. And I want it to be something you’ve done only to me.”

He watches sweat gather at the base of her throat, the damp fabric of her shirt clinging, pressing to her breasts in translucent patches. He could tear it. He could pull it away with one sharp motion.

“I want—” she starts again, her voice slipping, stuttering, as if she is losing the thread of thought even as she speaks it. “I want to go to your Grand Necropolis and let it be only me. I want them to look and think—and think—and want you—” she swallows, blinking, chasing her own logic, “—and know you are only mine.”

Rook wants the way a dragon does: completely, devastatingly, without dignity or proportion. And so does he, though it has taken him longer to admit it. He has spent years dressing the thing up, polishing it until it gleamed, presenting it as something dainty, something civilized. He has hidden it in bouquets, in well-chosen words, in gifts wrapped so finely they might be mistaken for gestures instead of claims.

It is a thing with weight, with hunger, with an awful, clinging need. It does not sit lightly in the chest. It does not allow for division. He has never wanted affection portioned out, balanced, tempered with reason. He has wanted to be swallowed whole, wanted the ones he loved to love him back with the same singular, unthinking devotion—to make a shrine of him, to strip themselves of anything that was not his. He realizes this now, with startling clarity, as she works him closer to orgasm. It is not right, he knows. It is not sane.

But he wants it anyway. Wants it exactly as she does. Wants it the way poets want their muses, the way men kill their gods in fits of heresy. Wants it as much as he wants to lay offerings at her feet, to press flowers into her hands, to lace jewels through her hair.

Only, only, only.

He has his own onlys. Only her to stroll with through the quiet, gold-lit streets, to turn her head toward shop windows. Only her to introduce to Nevarran customs, watching as she absorbs them, twists them to suit her own purposes. Only her to drape in gold, in rings, in bracelets, in necklaces delicate enough to snap between his fingers if he ever pulled too hard. Only her to choose something as absurdly domestic as a new rug with, standing in a marketplace, pretending she cares about the weave pattern. Only her to take to bed, to press down into the mattress at night, to split open, to fill, to adore. Only her to stretch beneath him, body pliant, flushed, her breath coming fast as he spills deep inside her, slow and heavy, until it leaks out of her, down her thighs, maybe—if fate is feeling particularly indulgent—settling into something permanent.

As she said: only, only, only.

He barely feels it coming, barely registers the inevitable cresting of it, the creeping heat, until suddenly it breaks over him, shattering whatever thin thread of restraint he had left. A sharp gasp leaves him as his body tenses, as he presses in close, buries his face in the curve of her shoulder, breath wheezing, breaking, whistling.

And then he is spilling over her fingers in thick, pulsing bursts—again, and again, and again. His cock twitches helplessly in her grip, and she does not let go, does not stop, only slows, lets her fist tighten, strokes him through the aftershocks, dragging out every last tremor. His hips jerk upward, lazy and unthinking, chasing the sensation even as pleasure fades into something unbearably sensitive.

He feels warm, feverish, his body strangely weightless, as if he might slip right out of himself if he let go. Then the opposite—a sudden awareness of his grip on her, of the way his fingers have pressed too hard, have left their shape in her skin. He loosens them, exhales. Watches as she lets go of his cock, now softening in her hand, lifts her fingers, tilts her wrist to observe the slow, glistening trail of him running down her palm.

She hums, thoughtful, then licks it away, unhurried, making sure he is watching. Her tongue follows the path all the way down, tracing it to her wrist, collecting every last drop with the kind of idle efficiency one might use to clean sugar from their fingertips. When she is satisfied, she smiles and leans in to kiss him. He dodges, turns his head at the last second, hides his face against her neck instead. His lips press there, soft, aimless, as he feels his eyes mist over.

It isn’t the first time. It won’t be the last. He would stop it if he could, would hold himself together, make himself presentable, but the tears arrive without permission, without reason, a slow gathering before the inevitable spill. The sobs are quiet, barely shaped into sound, but undeniable. He wishes he could explain it—offer some neat, comprehensible reason—but he cannot even explain it to himself.

It is happiness, yes, but happiness at such a magnitude it ceases to be light. It is weight, warmth, excess. It is the unbearable pleasure of existing in this moment, of being seen, of being wanted. It is the way she looks—so flushed, so content, as if she has won something. The way she smells, her skin carrying traces of salt and sweat and something almost floral, though he knows that is just her. The way everything seems suddenly, painfully clear in the soft blur of the after.

So he kisses her throat, presses his face against the delicate heat of her skin so she does not have to see him—again.Her pulse thrums beneath his lips, steady, indifferent to his unraveling.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks.

“You,” he confesses, and the word stumbles out on a wretched little hiccup. "Oh, I love you, Rook, I love you."

Into her shoulder, her collarbone, the sharp little ridge of her chin. It is always like this when they take their time. He is overcome, disassembled into words, and she lets him speak, lets him spill his fevered little future into the space between them, lets him press love into her skin as if he might leave it there, like a bruise, like something that cannot be washed away.

I love you tangled with you will like Nevarra, you simply do not know it well enough.

I love you and what is your favorite gemstone, my darling, tell me, so I may drape you in it, so I may weigh you down in it.

I love you and yes, of course, white is a real color, you are right to prefer it, you are always right, I would argue the sky is green if it pleased you.

I love you and oh, let us get you a grave dowry of your own, gold, gold, the only metal fit for permanence, the eternal one…

On and on, breathless and half-senseless.

He feels her lips press against the top of his head, a fleeting warmth, her breath stirring through his hair before she pushes him back, gently, just enough to see him properly. Her hands find his face, cradle it between them, and he feels it—the faint, tacky imprint of her palm, the one that had worked him to pleasure, now pressed against his cheek. The scent of himself lingers there, musk and salt and his favored soap. He breathes it in, caught between embarrassment and satisfaction, as she watches him with that slow, considering gaze.

“You sweet man,” Rook murmurs. 

He shuts his eyes a little tighter, as if that might stave off whatever comes next. It does not. 

“Do you know,” she inquires, fingers sifting through his hair, “how to remove something from the surface of the eye when it refuses to be dislodged by any other means?” 

“You could attempt to flush it out,” he supplies. 

“No.” 

She waits until he looks at her, properly yet reluctantly, before placing a kiss high on his cheekbone, then another. Over his eye, his closed lid, the damp fringe of his lashes. A sigh, a small thing. She parts her lips and pushes the tip of her tongue past the crease of the palpebral fissure, past the soft resistance of his lashes, until the wet muscle makes contact with the convex surface of the sclera. A slow, dragging stroke over the waterline. Warm and slick, collecting the saline residue, the mineral tang of dried tears, the body’s quiet mechanisms of defense. Her breath, close and humid; her smile, somehow wide.  

She pulls back, just barely. Just enough to make him want her to do it again.

“I want you to fuck my thighs,” she says, kissing his forehead. “And I want you to come on my breasts. Paint my face with it. Make it filthy. Make it disgraceful. And—” She hesitates. “Fuck, I don’t know.” Another kiss, heavier this time, lips catching on his skin. “I want to do everything you’ve done with all those others until they don’t exist.” She kisses the tip of his nose. “Anything. Everything. All of it, Emmrich. You made me bleed once. You can make me bleed again, if you want.”

He remembers. Of course, he remembers. The red bloom on the sheets, the sharp flare of it against pale fabric. How she should have cried, how it was he who had hidden his face in his hands. The clumsy, amused way she had reassured him, her I’ve never wanted anyone before you, anyway, let's go eat now.

How, days later, he had lowered himself between her thighs, pressing his face into the flushed heat of her, not as apology, not even as atonement, but as something far more base. How the scent of her filled his lungs, how the first press of his tongue against her was slow, searching, before he found his rhythm, before he found what made her gasp, what made her fingers twist hard in his hair. How she lifted her hips, seeking more, how her legs tensed, flexed, her thighs threatening to close around his head.

How she had asked, does it taste nice? and how he had answered, of course, of course it does, so very frantic and earnest. Then, because words were not enough, because words could be questioned, he kissed her, so she would know, so she would never doubt.

And afterward, unspooled, too loose-limbed for silence, he had spoken, ever verbose. How her hair was neither one color nor another, something between, something shifting, just like her eyes—not quite gray, not quite blue. How long it was, how it could be woven into three perfect braids, how he could do it, he was good at it, very good at it, would she like him to? Would she sit between his knees, would she let him gather the strands, twist them carefully, neatly, the way he had once learned, the way his fingers still remembered? Would she let him braid her hair in the morning and unbraid it at night?

She had only hummed, smiling absently, eyes half-lidded. Suddenly how about I suck your cock now? He had nearly wept, had wanted to say no, no—yes, yes—please, yes, of course, yes, but only if you want to, Rook, dear, only if you truly want to, though I want it, how can I not, but I also want to sit with you in the morning and pour you tea, or coffee, and talk about the weather, about books you cannot read, about nothing at all, I want—

And then oh, she had done it, and his brain cracked apart like an egg against the edge of something sharp, and everything spilled out in a gasping, mindless chorus of thank you, thank you, thank you.

Rook’s mouth finds his closed eye again.

He forces himself to think clinically, to name each part in anatomical terms, as if reciting from a textbook. Cornea, aqueous humor, sclera. The smooth convexity of the eye, the way the thin membrane of the conjunctiva seals over it like a second skin. If he does not—if he lets himself think in any other way—he will cry harder. His face will flush in blotches, his breath will stutter, his nose will run, and worst of all, he will whisper Rook, Rook, Rook until she tells him to shut up and leaves. Because no one has ever told him I love you like this, without the words. No one has kissed away the tears left in the wake of an embarrassingly quick orgasm. No one has smiled as he silently arranged their life together in his mind, measuring out their future like fabric meant to be cut.

He ought to laugh—ought to flinch, ought to fold back into himself—but instead, another tear escapes, slipping down his cheek, chased by a sharp, ugly sob. She catches it with her lips, her breath hitching slightly as she presses closer. 

Lick, lick, lick. Kiss, kiss, kiss. 

Perhaps she could take more. Sink her teeth deep, rupture it, let the viscous ruin run hot down her tongue. Perhaps she could swallow him piece by piece, until something of him remains there, behind her teeth, held fast. That would be lovely. 

“Did I get it?” she asks, drawing back 

“Yes, darling,” he breathes, faint and deliriously happy. "You did." 

[itskattkm]

Day & Night | Part II

Mabel (finestkind) x G!P reader

Warnings: violence, bruises, mentions of blood, junkies, bad translation :)

A/N: I think it’s even going to be more parts now :) hope you guys enjoy as always

Part 1, Part 3

I sighed and looked beside me to see that the space was empty "sure" I said disappointed and took a deep breath before I exhaled. My hands found their places on my face when I tried to cover it.

It was to good to be true. I should have know better... or maybe if I'm being honest with myself... I knew the truth. Why should Mabel even choose my place for "help" it was so obvious but i was totally blind.

I rubbed slight my eyes and looked to my open bedroom door. I felt suddenly so lost again. Somehow like I was at a wrong place at the wrong time. But mostly I felt unwanted.

So why did Mabel do what she did? Why out of sudden? And why did she leave? Well I could have a good answer to the last question but why did she even sleep with me then? I didn't understand.

I pulled the blanket over my shoulders and tried to get a clear head.

At some point around 11:00 in the morning I woke up again. This time I left my bed and took a long shower. After the shower, I turned on the TV so that I didn't have to drown in this silence in my apartment.

I ate some cereal and went to the bar around 1:00 p.m. to work. The day felt slow. Outside it was cold and slightly foggy. My shift was over in the evening. I decided to go to the pier like almost every day.

Now I entered the middle of the bridge and ran up the scaffolding "hi Maria" I said kindly to the slightly older lady who had her shift today.

"Hi y/n" come in... Today it's very fresh.

So I went into the cabin and sat down at the other end of the room. Like that I could observe the sea and was able do watch it through the window, stay dry and warmed up.

I took out my laptop and watched one of the online videos of my studies. In between, my gaze fell on my cell phone. I hoped to get a message from Mabel, but in vain. I sighed loudly as I turned my phone over slightly pissed.

Maria turned around in her wheelchair and looked at y/n worried "is everything okay y/n? Today it seems to be one of the less good days again?"

I nodded silently without looking at her. But since it was getting dark very slowly outside, I could see her reflection in the window. And then I suddenly saw it. A light in the distance. It flashed twice. I had to smile and took one of the larger flashlights when I left the cabin and ran out to the site.

I tried to show the boys that I was here. After not even three flashlight signals, the horn of the finestkind echoed back.

"The boys are back..." a part of me was happy because this meant that there would be fun evenings again, but another part in me was worried. What about Charlie?

After twenty minutes I went down and greeted the boys. Laughing, they called me

"Y/N Lighthouse!" I shook my head and said "you are so stupid guys" after they had all solid land under their feet, I greeted everyone with a hug.

"This time you've been away for a really long time, why?" I asked curiously.

Charlie began to explain "we have found a new route that allows us to make stops at other yards... that's why we will be on the road longer than usual in the future" I nodded "that sounds hard".

Tom chuckled "it's business"

I left the harbor with the boys. Following Tom and Costa a little further back with Charlie.

"Have you seen Mabel?" He asked me calmly. My heart began to race when I tried to answer him "yes... last time yesterday" Charlie nodded and seemed to be deep in his thoughts "was she okay?" He asked.

In my steps, I stopped and looked crookedly at him "what's wrong Charlie?" He turned around and scratched the back of his head "we sort of broke up"

I looked at him with wide eyes and almost a open mouth. On the one hand I was shocked, on the other hand I already thought about it and accordingly did not feel so bad after sleeping with her.

"What do you mean by sort of?" I asked seriously. Charlie smiled nervously "well... we now have this new strategy while fishing and that means that we will be even less at home... and I didn't want to do that to Mabel"

I shook my head

"Charlie... I understand your thoughts behind it but that's Mabel... she... she is-" I began, almost starting praise Mabel and Charlie interrupted me smiling "I know..."

I sighed "how did she handle it?" I asked worried.

Charlie raised his shoulders "I'm not sure... she was a little angry... but understood the reason" I nodded.

A thousand questions went through my head. Did she love him? Was she sad? Was she angry? What went through her head? How did she feel?

"Maybe I should have a look at her," said Charlie. My stomach turned around. But I doubted that Mabel would say anything about us, because as it seemed to me, she didn't seem to be interested in what happened between us.

"Maybe" I repeated quietly and looked at him and the other boys.

Days passed and everyday life quickly became my usual old routine. Online lectures whenever I could.

Later shifts in the bar and hanging out at the harbor. I still haven't had a message from Mabel. I had also given up to be honest. Charlie seemed to have visited her. He doesn't told me anything and honestly I didn't ask either.

I didn't want to know what was between them because I wouldn't have a chance anyway.

"Y/N! Another round of beer for us please!" Called the boys at the other end of the bar.

I wiped the bar and grabbed three bottles of beer. I ran over to them and put them at the table "please slow down today for once," I said laughing. "I don't feel like cleaning behind you guys" I shouted to them as I ran back to the counter "boss I'll get new beer in the back" I said and went to the storage room.

I didn't know what was happening while I was gone, within a few minutes I heard the rattling of glass, falling furniture and something that sounded like a brawl.

I immediately reached for the baseball bat I had near my locker and ran back to the bar.

Within seconds I saw what and who the problem was "you fucking asshole!" I shouted angrily and jumped over the counter. Skeemo was back with his junkie friends and had beaten Tom, Charlie and Costa up. Skeemo was just choking Charlie. I ran towards him from behind and hit him on the back of the head "fuck you!" I shouted angrily.

Skeemo let go of Charlie, who was now coughing on the floor. He cleverly looked at me when he scanned the back of his head and saw blood on his fingers "you fucking bitch" Skeemo hissed and then I saw red.

I didn't remember what happened afterwards. I only knew that I was questioned by the police after a team of paramedics checked my wounds.

If there was a secret about me, it was my uncontrollable anger and aggression. It was hard to get me to this point... but if you succeeded, it was hard to stop me. After I saw Skeemo, it came over me. Not only was he the reason for Mabel's injuries at the back then, but he had also whistled the boys....

After all the interrogation and a small visit to the hospital, I wanted nothing more than to go home.

My face hurted. My fists were beaten bloody and my ribs were slightly broken. I held back the pain. Something I knew too well. Something that made me feel alive in dark times.

"Thank you Y/N... what you did today... you should not be underestimated," Tom said when he took me off at home.

I looked at him with hidden pain "Charlie... Costa?"

Tom smiled slightly "they will recover" I nodded and slowly opened the door of his car. In the end, I had tried to mess with each of the junkies. They beat me... but they had it much... much worse then me. The ambulance was not called for me or the boys. It was called for Skeemo and his new gang.

I hoped they would die. But the possibility that they would survive and later die of drugs was higher.

"Take care of yourself Y/N" Tom called after me before I disappeared into my apartment.

I slightly held my left side where my ribs were damaged and moved towards my couch in slow painful steps. I wouldn't make it to bed. I bit firmly on my teeth when I tried to sit down and suppressed screams of pain. I held my breath and leaned back carefully. I closed my eyes and a tear escaped me.

The bruises on my face hurted. Probably everything had already turned purple. My hands were shaking. They were full of bruises and dried blood.

When it knocked on my door, I cursed the person behind it. I breathed heavily with pain when I supported myself with a trembling arm and walked so slowly to the door that the person began to knock again more and more impatiently.

I leaned against the wall exhausted and held my side as I opened the door only one gap to be careful.

"Y/N... hey- oh my God what happened?!" The next moment Mabel stood in front of me and held my face very carefully in her hands with a worried look. I squeezed my eyes in pain and breathed heavily as the pressure of my ribs pressed on my lungs.

"I'll help you..." she said calmly and gave me the feeling of security. Carefully she put my right arm around her shoulder and took me to my bedroom.

She held my hand tightly as I slowly sat down, I could only weakly suppress a painful moan. Mabel's dark eyes scanned my face and every other injury on my body. It seemed like she was falling from the clouds.

"I heard about a brawl in the bar but..." she began and stopped when I closed my eyes exhausted and lowered my head.

She went to her knees in front of me while resting her hands on my knees when she looked up to me worried.

She carefully touched my chin and lifted it. I opened my eyes and was now forced to look at her pitch black ones.

"What happened?" She whispered so quietly that I got goose bumps. I swallowed hard "can you... help me?" I whispered and looked slightly to the side. I was too weak to say more, but Mabel seemed to understand what I needed.

She helped me to lie down.

As soon as I lay on my back, Mabel covered me a little with my blanket, turned off the lights in my apartment and only turned on the small night light on my bedside table.

She disappeared from my room and came back with a glass of water and a pill. She put both on my bedside table and took off her jacket before she sat down with me on the bed "drink that... it helps against the pain" she said gently.

I breathed heavily and took the pill from her hand, I swallowed it down with water and tried to find some recovery.

Next I heard the sound of a plastic bag "fuck..." I hissed when I felt the burning pain on my ankles. Mabel had previously moistened a swab with alcohol to disinfect my bruised and blood-dried ankles.

"I'm sorry..." she whispered worriedly and continued cautiously.

Why was she here? And why was she so caring? Was Mabel interested in something for me?

My heart began to beat faster again at this thought.

"Skeet was suddenly in the bar with his junkies... and it escalated" I explained weakly. Mabel nodded silently, the way she looked at me... she hadn't looked at me since the day we met like that. This time I knew... that she really looked at me and perceived me.

"As I know you... I assume that Skeet and the others look worse..." said Mabel with a grin that brought out her dimples.

A smile escaped me. Even if it hurt, it still felt good.

I put my head aside and watched Mabel carefully take care of my hands. Her touches felt so gentle and good... I almost felt safe.

"Feels like it was yesterday when you beat up the junkie because he wanted more drugs from me" Mabel began with a smile.

I had to laugh a little and closed my eyes when it hurt. "... yes I remember... that day I was looking for trouble... and this guy was just in the wrong place at the wrong time" Mabel grinned wider when she remembered.

At that time, as always, Mabel had to make the deals for her mother. It was New Years Eve and most people went crazy anyway. But when Mabel had just made a handover, the junkie wanted more from her and started going crazy. He grabbed her by the arms and yelled at her, high from the drugs he had taken before. Before the guy could get closer to her y/n came around and had boxed the guy so hard that he was immediately unconscious. That evening she was slightly drunk and was looking for a reason to hit someone. Luckily for her, she found Mabel and the junkie.

"You okay? Looked like you were in trouble" y/n had said at the time. Mabel looked impressed at the unconscious junkie.

Y/n grinned wide and held out her hand "I am y/n" Mabel was fascinated by her at the time. How could anyone be so harmless and at the same time too unpredictable. She laughed and shook her hand "Mabel... you always walk around and punch people like that?"

Y/n had a sparkle in her eyes that caught Mabel's attention right away "nope... but i was looking for some trouble today so..."

Mabel smirked seductive and said "then it's your luck... I'm always surrounded by trouble"

That's how they met. In the chaos of violence. A miracle.

"Where you ghosting me?" asked Mabel with a dirty grin as she held my hand in hers.

I looked at her seriously "you're joking, aren't you? I would rather say that you ghosted me..." I said seriously.

Even if she was here now and we shared a moment of the past... I was still disappointed and even a little angry.

Mabel continued to smile.

"Sorry..." she whispered and lay down next to me on the bed the next moment.

She watched my reactions and when I didn't show any, she supported herself against her arm and carefully stroked the bruises on my left cheek.

"You should rest now..." she whispered and gently stroked with her fingertips my jaw as she lay down closer to me.

I began to feel calmer, relaxed and more secure. The pain was not as strong as a few minutes before, probably the painkillers from Mabel had helped. Slowly she put her hand around my neck and began to scratch me.

I felt goose bumps all over my body and my eyelids slowly felt heavy. My head was lying to the right side and I slowly fell into an exhausted sleep.

After Y/N fell asleep, Mabel watched her calm face. The bruises had turned purple. What did you see in me? Mabel asked herself as she continued to caress her neck. She never thought to see y/n in such a state. It hurt... it really did badly and showed her what a bad friend she was. Y/n had always cared. She didn't cared what people said about others... she always made an impression on herself. She was never reproachful... she was always friendly, showed interest in others and was always there. But who was there for her? Who listened to her thoughts and worries? Who was interested in her? Who cared for her?

"Im right by your side" I whispered as I continued to stroke her neck and carefully gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek. Y/n had fallen asleep deeply and Mabel didn’t had planned to leave y/n side. She wouldn’t wake up alone this time.

[intermundia]

I'm a different anon, but your answer to that person, about how we all have our own perspectives and such, got me curious if you wanted to talk about your favorite things about Anakin? I really like how he has this earnest passion in everything he says and does, no matter what the consequences are. He lets his instincts and heart influence what actions he takes. I think you could say the same about Obi-Wan too to a degree, but I think Obi-Wan errs to keeping his emotions/intentions concealed until he has the best advantage he can get. And I think that this sort of "two sides of the same coin" contrast between them is part of what makes the ship appealing. Anyway, yeah, I wanted to know what you enjoy about Anakin ^^ And that other anon too, if they want to send another ask about their feelings/thoughts

Oh man, what a question. You've activated my trap card. Anakin Skywalker is possibly my favorite character of all time. It's endlessly fascinating to read stories about him, and writing him allows me to articulate the messy, painful, thwarted parts of myself. He's half my brain, and Obi-Wan is the other half, and resolving their differences brings me deep catharsis.

Everything you said about him is so true, his earnest passion is so deeply appealing. Obi-Wan called him passionate, fearless, forthright, and he is the embodiment of those traits, but he's flawed too, and flawed in ways I feel in my bones, and regrets the same things that I regret. He's so beautiful and so damned, a fallen and risen angel, you know?

Stover wrote that the brightest light casts the darkest shadow. He ends up at just the nadir of cruelty and violence, but he begins from a place of pure generosity and light. His intentions were so good, and he was so impossibly brave. It seems like arrogance, that cocky assurance of what he was capable of, but the universe bends around him to fit his will.

He's more than human, he's half-divine, a mirror and barometer of the entire galaxy's mood. His life is coextensive with the rise and fall of an empire, his personal tragedy from greed is both archetypal and relatable, and he is the scaffolding the narrative rests inside. Luke is the hero of the story but Anakin is the embodiment of the world he strives against.

He is painfully earnest and a liar, a villain and a victim, naive and jaded, brilliant but foolish, perfect and deeply flawed. It's so easy for me to understand why he was so beloved. He's absolutely the other side of Obi-Wan's coin, the heart to Obi-Wan's head, the passion to his reason, the instinct to his experience. The Team together is one complete and fully realized being, separation means incompleteness and disaster.

Vader is just one of the most iconic villains of all time, and Lucas defied all expectations in the prequels. He used his character to tell a cautionary tale about greed rather than give excuses for why he became such a monster. He is intentionally shown to be so generous and kind as a boy, handsome and daring as a man, with infinite wasted potential for good, it's incredible.

Idk man, I like him and I love him, I hate him and I want him; he's one of the best characters of the modern age.

[hunter-the-gae]

Can i ask why you hate Mel? Cause Caitlyn and Maddie I can understand possible reasons. Also do you prefer caitvi s1?

Ok, so I genuinely hate Mel for the fact that she was so severely manipulative to Jayce and she did Viktor so dirty. And those two are my legitimate babies.

On one hand I can see Mel thinking that she's doing the right thing and I can also understand her probably genuinely caring for Jayce on some level. However her actions are so eugh to me that I can't seem to care what her reasonings are. In the beginning I did like her though, did it piss me off that she was getting in the middle of jayvik? Yes, but that's why I have fanfiction.

The way she only focused on Jayce because he was easily manipulated is actually atrocious. There are 2 scenes I remember her interacting with Viktor, the first being in Arc 1 S1 and that was when they were breaking into Heimerdinger's lab. And the second being sometime in Arc 2 (possibly, it was either 2 or 3 in s1). And actually she didn't interact with him, she was trying to convince Jayce to do something with Hextech and Viktor stepped in and said hell no because that's not why they created it, and she straight up ignores him and still tries to convince Jayce.

She also makes Jayce councillor to make it easier to get to him. It takes him out of the lab, meaning Viktor is in there more and not around Jayce, and now Jayce in plunged into a world of Politics he has no idea about. This then made Jayce lean on Mel and she used that to get him to do so much. And it's for me it wasn't very obvious int he beginning, you start to see her manipulations a bit when she gets Jayce elected as councillor, but I personally gave her the benefit of the doubt.

What really made it click for me was when I noticed that Viktor's name is no where on the blueprints for hexgates and or anythign for Hextech. And for damn sure Jayce wouldn't do that, he wouldn't take sole credit for work that was equally Viktor's. It was Mel's doing, and it really ticked me off because one of Viktor's biggest fear was being forgotten. And she just erased him from the history of Piltover and probably even Zaun.

Also in terms of caitvi s1, I don't have many feelings about it necessarily. They definitely had some good potential there, but Caitlyn's insistence on taking Jinx and not even trusting Vi to get through to Jinx really soured my feelings for sure. Most of my hate for caitvi stems from the fact that Caitlyn has a shit personality and genuinely needs therapy. But also her inability to empathize and understand Vi tied with the fact Vi is genuinely doing her best to deal with everything and be there for Caitlyn (That's based off s2 though). Vi needs therapy too, but yeah. And especially in s1, I think there was a good amount of time for Caitlyn and Vi to TALK and for Caitlyn to realize that things aren't cut and dry in Zaun and not even in Piltover. There was enough scaffolding in s1 that if Caitlyn had a modicum of critical thinking, her character growth would've been phenomenal. In a lot of cases s1 caitvi is better, but that's only because we didn't see the full extent of how toxic they were for each other.

[the-winter-spider]

The View Between Villages | Part Seven

Word count: 3.2k

Pairings: Bucky x reader, TASM!Peter x reader

A/N: promise ill put this fic on my masterlist eventually lol

Masterlist

—-

“Bucky told me he came by,” Sam said, his voice hesitant, waiting for any sign of acknowledgement. When none came, he sighed, feeling a bit foolish talking to a door. He closed his eyes, pretending you were right there in front of him. “Y/N, I know you’re hurting. I can’t help you, or even try to understand what you’re feeling, unless you let me in. We’ve dealt with loss, and it hurts. I get that—I really do. But we need to carry on for them, to pave the path for the future.”

You lay on the couch, your eyes fixed on the ceiling fan as it spun endlessly. It had been six weeks since Bucky stopped by. He hadn’t called, he hadn’t texted. You were almost certain this was Sam’s last attempt to coax you out, but the truth was, he wasn’t Natasha, he wasn’t Steve, he wasn’t Tony. And you weren’t even yourself anymore.

You wanted to try for Sam. He was good, so full of light and warmth, and he made talking seem easy. Maybe that’s why you couldn’t bring yourself to talk to him—because if you did, everything would spill out, and you had no idea what would happen after that. Maybe Sally, the news anchor, was right. You were unpredictable, unsteady, and not safe to be around. You didn’t even want to be around yourself.

“I’m not sure how much news you’ve been keeping up with, but a lot has happened,” Sam continued, his voice softening. “Bucky and I are going to be working together again. Who knows? We might even become friends. He’s going to help me with our family boat—we could use your help, too. Not just with the boat, but to keep us from killing each other,” he added with a small laugh, trying to lighten the mood. “I’ll text you where we’ll be. Call me anytime, Y/N. Take care of yourself.”

You heard the floor creak as he turned to leave. In your mind, you tried to picture Sam standing there, but the image was fuzzy. You couldn’t quite remember what he looked like anymore, just like you couldn’t clearly remember any of them. Their faces, their voices—all of it was fading away, burning memories fraying at the edges. You knew you’d forget the sound of his voice soon, just as you had forgotten the others.

Sam paused at the door, almost as if he was debating whether to say something else. Finally, he added, “Oh, I almost forgot… we got the shield back.”

The words hung in the air, a bittersweet reminder of the weight they all carried. But it wasn’t enough to lift you from the darkness that had taken root inside. You heard the door click shut, and then you were alone again, the silence pressing down like a suffocating blanket.

You turned your head slightly, staring at the phone lying on the coffee table. Sam’s text would come through eventually, and maybe you’d read it. Maybe you’d even respond. But not today. Today, the fan kept spinning, and so did the endless loop of memories that you wished you could forget.

—-

Statue of Liberty

“Are you guys almost done?” you shouted over the wind, your voice barely carrying over the clanging of metal and the distant sounds of the city below.

“Yeah, just placing the last one,” Peter 1 called back.

“Cool, cool,” you muttered, leaning over the scaffolding as Peter 1 jumped down, perching effortlessly beside you. Peter 2 and Peter 3 landed gracefully on either side of you, their expressions a mix of curiosity and concern.

You turned to face Peter 1, your universe’s Peter. “Y’know, I don’t think Steve would’ve liked this,” you said, gesturing to the construction of the shield on the Statue of Liberty.

Peter 1 smiled, a bit sheepishly. “It really is a big honour.”

Peter 2 chimed in, “This guy must have really been something for them to do all this.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of your grief pressing against your chest. You missed Steve more than you allowed yourself to admit. It still hurt—the way you never said goodbye, the way you couldn’t bring yourself to face him after he returned—an old man, having lived a life you could only dream of. The jealousy that bubbled inside you felt like poison, and you hated yourself for feeling it. Steve had been your hero, your friend, and it hurt to think that you weren’t there for him when he needed you most.

“He really was,” you whispered, your voice thick with unshed tears.

Peter 3 placed a hand on your shoulder, his touch gentle and reassuring. “You all are, honestly,” he said with a small smile. “Ever since I got here, all I keep seeing and hearing about are these amazing heroes. I just wish my universe had more of them.”

You managed a soft smile, looking up at him. “They have you, Parker. That’s all they need, and you are pretty amazing.”

“Yeah,” Peter 2 agreed, beaming at Peter 3. “Why are you so hard on yourself? You’re the amazing Spider-Man!”

Peter 3 shrugged, trying to play it off, but you could see the doubt lingering in his eyes. “It’s just… you guys all fight such cool villains, and I just have a lizard. I wonder if my universe has aliens.”

“Probably does,” Peter 1 said, laughing a little. “They all have to, right? But maybe they just haven’t been provoked yet.”

“What do you mean?” Peter 3 asked, his curiosity piqued.

“Like… there are so many superheroes here,” Peter 1 explained, pulling out his phone. “Mr. Stark once told me it shows life outside of Earth that we’re ready for a fight, so maybe that’s why we get all the crazy stuff.” He paused, frowning at his phone. “It’s an unknown number.” He hesitated for a moment before bringing it to his ear. “Um, hello?”

Peter 3 raised an eyebrow at you, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Think one of the villains got a phone?”

You chuckled softly, shaking your head. “It’s a necessity nowadays; I wouldn’t doubt it.”

Peter 1’s expression shifted, his eyes locking onto yours. “Yeah, she’s here,” he said, clearing his throat. “It’s for you.”

Your heart skipped a beat, a cold chill running down your spine. “Who is it?” you asked, even though deep down, you already knew.

Peter 1 gave you a sympathetic look, holding out the phone. “Sergeant Barnes.”

All the colour drained from your face, your hands trembling slightly as you took the phone from him. “Oh,” was all you could manage.

“I can tell him you’re busy,” Peter 1 offered, reaching for the phone, but you shook your head.

“No, I… I’ll take it.” You stepped back, bumping into Peter 3, who steadied you with a gentle grip on your shoulders.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice soft, his brown eyes filled with concern.

You nodded, though you weren’t sure if you were convincing either of you. Turning away from the group, you moved further down the catwalk, trying to put some distance between yourself and the others so they wouldn’t overhear your conversation. But their voices still echoed faintly in the background, Peter 2’s curious question reaching your ears: “Who’s Sergeant Barnes?”

You took a deep breath, pacing back and forth as you held the phone to your ear. Your thoughts raced, your emotions teetering on the edge of control. You remembered Tony’s breathing techniques, forcing yourself to inhale slowly, exhale just as slowly, trying to keep everything from spiralling out of control. You pinched the bridge of your nose, fighting the urge to scream, cry, or just… disappear.

“Hello?”

“Y/N.” Relief washed over Bucky’s voice, but there was an edge to it. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me, we saw you on TV with the Spider kid… Now I’m hearing about bad guys showing up. Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine, Bucky. We have everything under control.”

He scoffed. “What, you and that kid? And you’re bringing the fight to the Statue of Liberty? Are you serious?”

“It’s not just me and Peter, we have other help.” You were trying to stay calm, saving your energy for the real fight.

He sighed, frustration evident. “I know, Y/N.”

“Know what?”

“About the night of Steve’s funeral.”

Your mouth went dry. It felt like you were swallowing cotton. “Which funeral?”

“Doll,” he pleaded softly, not wanting to say it out loud.

“Don’t.” You shook your head, voice trembling.

“Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve—”

“You would have what, Bucky? Stayed with me out of pity? Afraid I’d do it again? You said it yourself, we’re not the same people anymore.”

“I still love you. I’ll always love you, Y/N. I just needed time to figure out who I was, but—”

“What about what I needed?” you yelled, cutting him off. “What about me? I lost Steve too, I lost time too, I—I lost everything… I needed you, Bucky!”

“I’m right here, doll. I’ve always been here. You could’ve called me whenever, and you know I would have come running.”

“But you weren’t there. You were supposed to be there.”

You could hear his heavy breathing through the phone, and you were sure his brow was furrowed. “I’m right here, please, sweetheart, just talk to me, I-i miss you.

“You’ve been doing fine for the last six months.”

“How do you know that? You aren't here!”

“You left me, Buck. Remember? And you were right to.”

“I was right?”

You felt the air around you hum with electricity; they were close. “We’re just not who we were anymore… You made that pretty clear because my Steve and my Bucky would have never hurt me the way you two did. Never.” You wiped away a tear, the pain in your chest intensifying as you said the words you’d been avoiding for so long.

There was a long pause on the other end, and when Bucky finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. “I never meant to hurt you, I thought I was protecting you.”

“By leaving me alone? By making me feel like I was the only one who couldn’t move on?”

“I couldn’t move on either,” he confessed, the rawness in his voice cutting through your defences. “But I didn’t know how to stay and not drag you down with me.”

You swallowed hard, fighting back the tears. “You didn’t have to do it alone, Bucky. You didn’t have to shut me out.”

“I know that now,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “But back then… I didn’t. And I’m sorry, Y/N. I’m so sorry.”

For a moment, you couldn’t respond. The words hung between you, heavy with all the things left unsaid. But there was no time to dwell on it—not now, not with the fight looming ahead.

“I have to go,” you said finally, your voice tight with emotion. “They’re here.”

“Be careful,” Bucky pleaded, the desperation in his voice evident. “Please, just… come back to me, please don't do anything stupid, Sam and me, were on our way there, I'm gonna be there this time… please doll, i love you”

You closed your eyes, feeling the weight of everything you were carrying, focusing on your breathing and turning back towards the group. You took a minute to yourself, just taking the moment to observe them, the calm before the storm. Your Peter was perched up top, while the eldest stood by, and the Peter you were willing to risk it all for leaned against the railing, his mask in hand. He was smiling from ear to ear, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

Almost as if he could feel you staring, he turned to you, giving you the kindest smile before offering a small wave, which you returned.. “I love you.” You tore your gaze away from the Spider-Men, looking out over the edge. “I’m not sure I can ever love anyone the way I love you... But I can’t do that here, not when every corner I turn reminds me of everything, everyone I’ve lost.”

“What do you mean, here? Y/N, what are you going to do?” Panic laced his voice. He knew you had powerful abilities, but he didn’t fully understand them. You were still learning about them when he was in the safe house before Wakanda, but he knew enough to be scared of what you might do.

“James, I’m going to be okay…everything’s going to be okay.”

“Y/N, answer me.”

“I love you Bucky, god i love you so much” You clicked the phone shut.

You walked back over to the boys. “Thanks, Pete,” you smiled, tossing his phone back to him.

“You okay?” Peter 3 asked, concern in his voice.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You mustered the best smile you could, but the way Peter 3’s eyes searched yours told you he could see right through it. That stung—someone you just met could see you weren’t okay, but Steve and Bucky couldn’t? Or maybe they could and just didn’t care. You quickly pushed those thoughts away, refocusing on the task at hand. “Are we ready to kick some ass?”

A series of nods followed. “Good, because they’re here.”

“How do you—” Peter 1 perched up. “You guys feel that?”

“Yeah,” Peter 2 nodded. “How did you know before us?”

“I’m one with everything, and all that hippie stuff.” You shrugged it off, activating your suit. The nanobots covered you from head to toe, transforming from an inky black to a colorless white, your eyes glowing with a cold intensity. The sky began to crackle, lightning flashing throughout.

“Y/N?” Your Peter questioned.

“Not me.”

All three men put their masks on, everyone fully alert. A man appeared, his arms crackling with electricity. “Sup, Pete? You like the new look?”

“Oh well, that’s pretty cool,” you said to no one in particular.

“Who’s this?” Electro turned his attention to you. “Look, I don’t wanna hurt a lady. Just give me the box, and everything will be fine.”

“I wouldn’t be too worried about hurting Y/N,” Peter 1 said. “She’s pretty badass.”

“Is that a challenge?” Electro smirked.

“Nope, no, no, Max, it’s definitely not a challenge,” Peter 3 said, trying to step in front of you. But it was too late—Electro sent a massive bolt of electricity surging toward you.

Without flinching, you caught the energy mid-air, the force of it pushing you back slightly. You held the electricity in your hand, feeling the raw power surging through you. A glowing line formed between you and Electro, the air around you crackling with tension. Your eyes glowed brighter as you lifted off the ground, hovering a few feet above the scaffolding.

“Oh shit,” Electro muttered, eyes wide.

“You know,” you began, your voice echoing with power, “that thing on your chest was designed by a very dear friend of mine. He wouldn’t like this—being on the wrong side of the fight and all. So I’m gonna have to do something about it.”

With a flick of your wrist, you sent the energy back toward Electro, forcing him to his knees. The arc reactor on his chest pulsed wildly as it tried to compensate for the overwhelming power you were feeding it.

“Any day now, Parker!” you shouted through gritted teeth, struggling to keep the feedback loop stable.

Peter 3 snapped out of his stupor and rushed forward, yanking the arc reactor off Electro’s chest and slapping the cure onto him. Electro collapsed, the energy dissipating in a burst of sparks. You slowly lowered him onto the scaffolding as Peter 3 knelt beside him, checking for any lingering signs of danger.

You dropped to the ground, adrenaline still coursing through your veins. “We need to find Peter!” you said, already moving. You passed Peter 2 as he successfully cured Sandman, the grains of sand swirling around him before settling into a calm pile.

As you rounded a corner, you collided with something—or someone—solid. Stumbling back, you looked up to see Doctor Strange standing before you.

“Y/N?”

“Strange.”

“You’re alive.”

“You thought I wasn’t?”

“I stopped hearing from you. Logically, I assumed the worst.” His eyes narrowed as he studied you. “Please tell me you’re not helping the kid.”

“We’re curing them. It’s working if that’s what you’re asking.”

He ignored your comment. “Your eyes are glowing.”

“It’s a new thing. Just started happening, I guess.” You shrugged.

He nodded, a calculating look in his eyes. “You’re unlocking it.”

“Unlocking what?”

“Everything. Your full potential.” He stared at you for a moment, almost as if he were reading your every thought. “Tread lightly, Y/N,” he warned before opening another portal.

You followed him, knowing exactly who he was going to. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means—”

“Pete, watch out!” you screamed as you saw the Lizard tackle Peter, your Peter, sinking his claws deep into his abdomen.

Strange quickly whipped out an Eldritch Whip to restrain the Lizard as the other two Spider-Men rushed in to cure Doctor Connors. You shakily knelt beside your Peter, who was gasping for breath, his suit torn and blood seeping out.

“Oh, Pete.” Tears welled in your eyes, guilt clawing at you as you applied pressure to the wound. “I’m so sorry.”

His hand weakly covered yours, his eyes filled with pain but also a reassuring warmth. “Don’t… apologize, Y/N. It’s not… your fault.” His breath hitched, and he tried to smile. “I know… what you’re—”

You shook your head, determined. “I’m going to fix this.”

“This is too much, Y/N. It’ll—” His voice faltered as he coughed, blood staining his lips. “It’ll take you out… if not worse.”

Your vision tunneled, focusing solely on Peter as you ignored the chaos around you. You weren’t aware of the hand on your shoulder or the shouts of the other Spider-Men. You placed both hands over Peter’s wound, your eyes glowing brighter as you began to pour every ounce of energy you had left into healing him.

“Get her off of me! This could kill her!” Peter 1 shouted, his voice desperate.

Peter 3 tried to pull you back, but you thrust out your left hand, mumbling a weak “Sorry” before blasting him away, a forcefield-like bubble forming around you and Peter. The bubble hummed with power, blocking out all outside interference. You vaguely saw Strange on the other side, using everything he had to break through.

“Y/N, please stop,” Peter begged, his voice breaking.

But you pushed on, one wound down, two more to go. The energy around you flickered, your vision pulsating between reality and darkness. You were fading fast, but you couldn’t stop, not when Peter needed you. You continued to channel everything into him until his vitals stabilized, the wound fully closed.

Just as you began to collapse, a bone-chilling voice echoed through the sky.

“Can the Spider-Man come out to play?!”

Peter shoved you out of the way just as the Goblin hurled a barrage of pumpkin bombs at the scaffolding. The force of the explosion sent you tumbling off the edge, the world spinning around you as darkness closed in. The last thing you saw was Strange struggling to keep the Goblin at bay, and the last thing you heard was someone screaming your name as you plummeted into the void.

[storiesbyjes2g]

3.198 Money, money, money

I don't stay in my feelings long because my life is great. Sometimes we think we know what we want, but the grass isn't always greener on the other side. I have everything I need. I love my lone child and my wife more than anything in this world. My sister and her children are the cherries on top of my life's parfait. I have friends whom I love, three beautiful homes, multiple streams of income, good health, and, of course, the fur babies. I don't need much more.

The rain stopped, so I jump at the chance to get started on the treehouse. I get as far as building a quick scaffold before Sophia comes out with an amazing proposal: we should invite Dub, Maia, and Tami over for a cookout. That is the best idea. We had such an awesome time together back in El Ciudad Enamorada, and we all insisted we needed to get together more often. But, of course, life does life things, and we still haven't scheduled anything. Sophia and Maia became good friends on that trip, and I'm glad she's taking the lead on this because, left up to me, we'd probably never do it. I'm always go, go, go, moving onto the next thing. I'm so glad my friends love me because I still suck at keeping in touch.

I give Sophia enthusiastic approval of her plan, so she goes back inside. I get back to building the treehouse, but within minutes I feel cool drops of rain rolling down my face. If this cat-and-mouse situation continues for the rest of the season, I'm never gonna finish this thing. Desiree and the kids will be teenagers and too big for it by the time I'm done. I stow my tools reluctantly and go inside. While it's on my mind, I text Dub to give him a heads up so we can start planning our next family shindig.

I find Sophia breaking in our new sitting area in the kitchen, so I join her. Shortly after, Desi finds us and enters the chat. It's in that moment I feel that release I needed about her going to school. I have no idea how or where that feeling came from, but when school starts back up again, I can let her go without being a worried mess. She loves hanging out with us, but I can tell she's eager to build her own social circle. I'll miss her, but I want her to thrive, and she can't do that hanging around us all the time.

"What do you think about giving Des an allowance?" Sophia asks.

"What's an allowance?" Desiree asks.

I don't say it out loud, but I want to know too. I mean, of course I've heard of it. Kids at school used to talk about how much money they made all the time, but I never understood its purpose. If I needed money, I just asked my mom, and she gave it to me. Most of the time, she gave more than I asked for.

"It's a set dollar amount parents give their children every week for doing chores and things," Sophia says.

I feel my face shriveling in confusion.

"But...shouldn't she do chores anyway because she lives here and should help us take care of the house?" I ask.

"Well, yeah, of course she should. It's not really about paying her to do the chores. It's more about teaching fiscal responsibility. My parents gave me an allowance, and it made me feel like I had more freedom."

I understand what she's saying, but I think we could accomplish the same things without the salary. My mom didn't just hand out money when we were kids. She started that in our adulthood when we could appreciate the extra funds. She always questioned our money requests, wanting to know our plan for it and all. We'd talk about it, and sometimes she would say no because it wasn't a good idea. I think those kinds of conversations are more valuable than letting a child have their own money to buy insane amounts of candy or whatever. But what do I know? I'm just a first-time parent with limited life experience.

"If you think it's a good idea, fine," I say. "I don't think it's necessary, but I'm sure she'd enjoy it."

I look over at Desi, and she's beaming, already spending the money in her head. I really hope this is a good idea.

[strangescaffold]

Creepy Redneck Dinosaur Mansion 3 Is OUT NOW! + FAQ

Firstly, our match-3 survival horror comedy RPG metroidvania you didn't know you needed is OUT NOW! Here's the launch trailer!

Now, the 3 in the title may need a little explanation so we put together this handy FAQ. FAQ: WHAT IS CREEPY REDNECK DINOSAUR MANSION 3?

WHAT IS CREEPY REDNECK DINOSAUR MANSION 3?

It’s a video game!

Also, we’re calling it the match-3 survival horror comedy RPG metroidvania you didn't know you needed. A “matchroidvania”, if you will. And you should, because that’s what we’re calling it.

DO I NEED TO PLAY CREEPY REDNECK DINOSAUR MANSION OR CREEPY REDNECK DINOSAUR MANSION 2 TO UNDERSTAND?

So, there is no Creepy Redneck Dinosaur Mansion 1 or 2. This game was originally intended as a sequel to two games that didn’t exist, because we thought it would be funny.

Then the game industry took a nosedive, and this game got cancelled, un-cancelled, and cancelled again.

When we started on CRDM3 for the third and final time, we saw an opportunity to use this sequel to a series that doesn’t exist to actually say something about the game industry, and the process of making a game in 2025. You’ll probably appreciate a lot of the jokes if you’re a game developer, but if you aren’t, we hope the game is both understandable and a good introduction to that secret world of knowledge and context you usually only get from being prematurely aged by this hellfire of an industry first.

DID THE TEAM CHANGE DURING ALL THOSE CANCELLATIONS? HOW DOES THAT IMPACT DEVELOPMENT?

Our team composition naturally changed over time as we ran into lulls or developers moved on to other projects. The result is a game that doesn't just have a false history--but a real one. Everyone who has ever worked on CRDM3 is somewhere in the project, with a joke, a piece of art, or just an idea crafted with genuine care. We hope the game finally getting the chance to launch honors their contributions.

THIS LOOKS LIKE A MOBILE GAME! WHY DOES IT USE MATCH-3 MECHANICS?

We were inspired by Puzzle Quest and Puzzle & Dragons, games that use these mechanics in a similar way, but mostly focus on combat. It seemed to us that there was wiggle room to explore conflict and characters through these mechanics, so we built a really robust Match-3 system with things like character traits, consumable items, stress meters, and more!

It means that using the same grid of simple symbols, everything from crafting a cursed hunting rifle, to hacking a mainframe, to trying to out-cowboy a plesiosaur, can be done with the same core mechanics--massively expanding the range of things you can do in the typical RPG.

WILL WE EVER GET A CREEPY REDNECK DINOSAUR MANSION 1 OR 2?

If there’s interest in more, we’ll be listening! For now, we hope you enjoy what we’ve made and the place that it comes from.

WILL WE EVER GET A CREEPY REDNECK DINOSAUR MANSION 4?

No.

----------- We hope you enjoy our weird-ass game with Dinosaurs and match-3 and a not subtle commentary on the games industry. Also, fun fact, on the steam page right now you can watch me playing the game! I do voices and everything! See you on the internet, - Chris @ Strange Scaffold.

[popatochisssp]

OMG all the new boys are fascinating but ummm Swapfell Fruition especially?? Sounds so good?? I would love a full lore dump on this concept, I love the idea of Vi playing the long con to get rid of Gaster and it all sounds so good. Incidentally I need to read Dirty Laundry again lol, everything you make with regards to any version of Swapfell is just *chef's kiss*

( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Swapfell Fruition

A young Sans’ attempt to kill his creator, the Royal Scientist is a failure.

Gaster survives the scuffle that would’ve toppled him off of the CORE’s scaffolding and gains the upper hand, subduing his traitorous creation and forcing him—and the younger one he’d been trying to escape with—back to his labs.

Sans was reckless, tipped his hand too soon and without the luck to have succeeded on the first attempt, Gaster learns that he is a sneaky little backstabber, capable of appearing obedient but hiding ruthless intentions.

He's almost proud… but of course he can't have that.

It becomes clear to the Royal Scientist that obviously, he needs his creations to have some kind of failsafe. The little one hasn't shown any signs of disobedience yet, but his primary caretaker is a crafty little snake, no telling what he could influence him to do, if given the time or the chance—so it’s back to the drawing board, to the operating table with them both.

Papyrus, at his age, doesn't really know what happens to him, only that whatever was done to him hurt, a lot. He wakes up after in the room he’d shared with his brother, scared and hurting and alone, and when Sans finally reappears, he goes to him for a hug.

Except…

Sans doesn’t hug him back.

He doesn’t hug back, and he doesn’t say anything, no matter how much Papyrus begs him to…

And the next time Gaster summons them to the lab, it’s Sans who picks him up and keeps him from squirming away, holding his arm out for Gaster’s needles.

Papyrus doesn’t understand the betrayal, at the time or in the years that follow.

His hurt turns to bitterness and resentment as his once gentle and protective big brother starts to actively help their creator change him, gradually shaping him into a stronger, more efficient killer.

But even with all the modification and training he’s subjected to, Papyrus isn’t quite the solider or war machine Gaster had planned he would be—he spooks when caught by surprise, he’s easily distracted by irrelevant things, his loyalties twist and sway far too easily for Gaster’s liking…

Well, the Royal Scientist is nothing if not resourceful, certainly able to work with…limited materials and still produce something of use.

With the right mental conditioning, and the right handler to make use of it, Papyrus will still be a valuable asset for the Empress.

After all, there’s always political enemies to the crown that her highness would surely prefer to have…removed, discreetly, and other such dirty work best done in the shadows.

Fast and stealthy, like an assassin, seems more suited to Papyrus’ abilities anyway.

And as for a handler, who better than Sans to fill the role?

Gaster’s prototype was largely a failure, but certainly intelligent and organized, presumably capable of researching and observing targets, briefing the asset on situations and targets and memorizing the trigger words and phrases necessary to keep him operating at peak efficiency.

Sans doesn’t protest.

He doesn’t protest much of anything anymore, not since…

………

Well, it’s not like he’s ever spoken about what happened when everything changed, not even to Papyrus, so when he goes along with this too, neither Gaster nor Papyrus expects otherwise.

So, that’s how it is.

Papyrus becomes the perfect assassin and Sans doles out his marching orders, occasionally following behind on missions to jerk his leash and keep him on track.

Between them, it’s…complicated.

Sans is still Papyrus’ brother, the closest thing to an ally that Papyrus has, both of them stuck in service to a power-hungry, unethical prick.

There are moments where they’re okay, times where a joke will slip out and one of them will laugh, injuries tended to, backs watched under fire, and dozens more little things that just wouldn’t happen if they were nothing to each other.

But the moments never last long.

Reality always comes back in sooner or later—usually in the form of Gaster, demanding an update or issuing new orders or calling them back from the field, to which Sans always, always complies.

Papyrus takes it as a reminder of where Sans’ real loyalties must lie.

He’s some kind of brother, not always awful, and maybe he does care about Papyrus, a little bit, but he answers to Gaster above anything or anyone else, apparently by choice.

He can’t be trusted, not really.

And Sans…

Sans stays quiet and does his job.

Quickly, efficiently, and to the letter—exemplary service, always.

Irreproachable.

He’s almost completely beneath suspicion by the time the last human falls into the Underground.

Gaster couldn’t be more thrilled.

This is a golden opportunity, the perfect chance to prove his worth to the Empress and earn clout and accolades innumerable—to be the one responsible for capturing the seventh soul and freeing all of monsterkind from their centuries of imprisonment and allowing the war against humanity to finally begin!

Well, technically, it would be his creations doing it, but it’s his name that history will remember, him who would rise into legend as the most brilliant and ruthless monster to ever live, the catalyst in humanity’s downfall.

He doesn’t waste so much as a minute before summoning Sans and ordering him to handle it, immediately.

Meet with the Empress, alert her that there’s a human loose in the Underground, and offer her the services of the asset in ending their free roam.

Sans agrees, as he always has, and goes to fetch his brother for the job.

Papyrus is admittedly a little blindsided when not two seconds out of the labs, Sans pulls him aside, out of range of known cameras and recording devices and hisses at him to listen.

He doesn’t know what to make of what Sans says after, either—that he hasn’t earned it and he knows that, but he needs Papyrus to trust him right now, because he is going to lie and everything depends on Papyrus going along with it.

In spite of their messy history and every uncharitable thing Papyrus has ever thought about Sans…right here and now, something in his gut tells him this is no trick.

He agrees to ‘go along with it’…whatever ‘it’ is.

Sans waits until a certain amount of time has elapsed, and then he makes a call to Gaster with Papyrus present to listen.

Gaster is informed that there’s a problem with the latest target. The asset’s programming isn’t taking and he’s refusing to track down the human.

This is, of course, news to Papyrus, who hasn’t been assigned his target yet.

But…Sans said ‘trust me’ and ‘play along,’ so that’s what he does, complaining that he doesn’t want to kill a child, just put him back in his cage and do your own dirty work, old man…

Helpfully—always helpful, always intelligent, always reliable—Sans postulates a conflict of orders might be causing the programming to bug like this. Gaster’s overarching orders are for the asset to kill targets assigned to him, but the Empress has unfortunately countermanded that the human must be brought to her alive.

And again, Papyrus knows differently because the Empress hasn’t given him any orders, they never made it to her for orders to be given and Toriel likely doesn’t even know yet that a human has fallen.

But he said he’d go along with the lie so he keeps his mouth shut, even as he hears Gaster curse on the other end of the line.

Gaster finds Sans’ assessment of the situation as reasonable as it is frustrating, but minds are complicated machines and often behave strangely when conflicts arise. Just look at the Empress, who knows that humans must be killed to free her people, but feels she must perform the act herself instead of the far more convenient option being presented to her!

The asset’s orders being in conflict is a far more annoying stopping block, though, yet another barrier in the way of all the glory that Gaster has so painstakingly earned.

Time is short, stakes are high, he refuses to recall his creation just to debug it and resolve the glitch, not now.

Instead he makes his fatal mistake.

He overrides the asset’s failsafes.

All of them.

Impatiently rattling off a code that nearly makes Papyrus stagger from a feeling like weight being lifted, Gaster disconnects the call with a sharp command to Sans to ‘handle it,’ now that there were no restrictions on his targets or what he could be ordered to do.

Sans is only quiet for a moment before handing a picture to Papyrus, locking him on and beginning the usual debrief.

Papyrus can’t fully grasp what he’s looking at, not at first.

“………confirm target?”

“WINDINGS GASTER, THE CURRENT ROYAL SCIENTIST TO THE CROWN.”

As with any briefing, Papyrus must be informed of his target’s connections, abilities and assets.

Gaster has strong ties with the crown, and between that and his own paranoia, security around him will be tight. He’s intelligent, strong, and merciless, and he won’t hesitate to make use of anything at his disposal in a life-or-death situation.

As an example, he had implanted a condition into his private assassin’s mental programming that would prevent him from acting against or outright attacking him—so it’s fortunate they’ve already cleared that concern.

Now, the top priorities are to ensure that Sans is physically far away from Gaster when the mission is executed, and that Papyrus is at no point seen by Gaster before he’s dead. The entire operation could be sunk if both of these conditions aren’t met.

“why?”

“THERE’S AN ADDITIONAL FAILSAFE, IMPLANTED IN YOUR SOUL. IF GASTER REALIZES YOU’VE BEEN TURNED ON HIM BEFORE YOU’VE SUCCEEDED, HE CAN INSTANTLY DROP YOUR HP TO 1.”

“………and why am i doing this without my handler?”

“BECAUSE I’M COMPROMISED TOO. IF HE SEES ME OUT OF PLACE OR SUSPECTS I’VE BETRAYED HIM AGAIN, HE’LL USE THE FAILSAFE IN MY SOUL TO REMOTELY CONTROL MY BODY AND MOBILIZE ME AGAINST YOU—AND OF COURSE, AT THAT POINT, HE WOULD KNOW THAT YOU’RE TARGETING HIM AS WELL AND BE PREPARED TO KILL YOU.”

And that…

Well.

That sure is a hell of a lot of new information that Papyrus will have to process later, when there’s not a strong compulsion in the back of his skull that there is someone he needs to kill.

He’s a professional, when he’s working.

He will focus on the mission.

To keep up appearances, Sans departs to find the fallen human and trail them on their journey through the Underground. He very much wants to ensure they reach the Empress safely, but there’s an added bonus of being exactly where he’s supposed to be and doing exactly what he’s supposed to do should Gaster check in on him—no need to arouse any suspicion, not before it’s far too late.

In the end, when Chara has befriended monsterkind against all odds, winning over the Empress herself and freeing them all to a life of peace with humankind on the surface, the death of the Royal Scientist is an incidental discovery.

Sans takes responsibility for it, pleading for the Empress’s mercy.

Gaster had wanted the human—kind young Chara, to whom Toriel has taken such a liking—killed immediately as soon as they emerged from the Ruins, and he hadn’t thought that the Empress would condone such an order in light of what she’s always held to regarding fallen humans.

Gaster had been adamant, though, and Sans… Well, he only wanted to serve the will of her highness and to do so, he turned the asset against their master. He hopes only for some leniency for what he’s done, Gaster may have been their father but—

Strangely enough, it seems Toriel had no idea that the asset and his handler were the Royal Scientist’s children. He’d always told her they were employees, volunteers for the things that were done to them and the missions they were told to undertake.

Learning that they had actually been created, intentionally molded and pressed into these roles without a choice in the matter…

Toriel, an Empress first but a mother a very close second, can certainly afford leniency.

The brothers are let loose in spite of their crime, with a bit of funding from the Empress to get on their feet after everything. The money is partially back-pay for their joint service as the crown’s black ops division (for which they were never actually compensated before), and partially amends for how long their…circumstance…went unnoticed.

Sans offers to split the money and part ways with Papyrus, if he’d prefer.

But Papyrus has learned a lot in the past few days to…completely and utterly recontextualize everything he ever thought was true about his handl—…his brother, and…maybe he should stick around a bit. See what’s what.

Vi (Swapfell Fruition Sans)

Extremely restrained and closed off from so many years of being unable to talk to or trust anyone, not even his brother. An accomplished liar but socially unpracticed, tending to read as cold and unfriendly to those who approach him. He’s more awkward than genuinely hostile, though

Issues with being watched, spent most of his life simultaneously going unnoticed and being intensely over-monitored so his feelings about being observed—regardless of context—are complicated, runs hot and cold on it

Complicated feelings for his brother, too: he loves him, of course, and he failed him in many ways, but he was also stuck between him and Gaster for a long time and caught his fair share of hell from both sides and there’s some resentment there for that. He wants to fix things, but he’s not really sure how and just…awkwardly trying his best

Well-organized and skilled at research and thinking analytically, tends to approach most things with a problem-solving attitude and an eye-socket for detail. Extremely talented at finding loopholes and ways around or through the rules—though his respect for said rules is very low to begin with

Likes high and secluded places, mostly rooftops but anywhere it could be difficult for other people to get to. Whether or not those places are restricted by fencing or padlocks or lack of ladders is immaterial, if he finds a high spot he would like to be, he will get to it one way or another and perch as long as he pleases

Hunter (Swapfell Fruition Papyrus)

Impulsive and driven by self-interest, the years of mental conditioning have broken down his fears and inhibitions to nearly nothing. He does what he wants, when he wants, with little concern for anything else—a dog off its leash who’ll only heel when it’s good and ready to. Unfortunately charming enough to mostly get away with it

Problems with authority, for obvious reasons. Likely to try to bend or break any rule presented to him, just to see if he can, and a severe lack of respect for anyone trying to enforce those rules upon him (especially the arbitrary ones)

Conflicting and highly jumbled feelings for his brother, making them a matched set: he disliked him, maybe even hated him a little for a long time, for helping Gaster turn him into what he is and for being the one to yank his leash and pull his strings…but that was before he knew that he had a kill-switch in his soul and that his brother was up on strings on his own, being pulled by the jackass they both apparently hated… It doesn’t erase everything that happened, knowing that, but it does…change things. (He wants to fix things too, but he’s not sure how either, so they’re both just awkwardly trying)

Needs ‘tune-ups’ every so often to reinforce his mental conditioning and make sure all his programming is intact, even now that Gaster’s gone and he’s retired as an assassin. Going too long without re-upping it causes deterioration, compulsions ‘leaking’ without being triggered and causing headaches and erratic, sometimes violent behavior so…best for everyone to keep his head maintained regularly

Absolutely loves nature and wilderness, hiking, camping, and climbing trees is his idea of an excellent time. Could absolutely go off on a run and disappear into the trees and not be seen or heard from for a week, likely to get some forest-cryptid lore started about him—possibly on purpose

[fictionalfantasist]

Wanda x reader fan fiction

Summary: Y/N is not a hero—just a stunt double, living in the shadows of others' spotlight. But when her path crosses with Wanda Maximoff’s, their worlds begin to collide in unexpected ways. Drawn together by fate, their bond deepens as they face forces neither of them fully understands. In the fight to protect what matters most, they’ll discover that when two worlds collide, the aftermath leaves nothing untouched—and everything at risk.

Chapter 4

The atmosphere on set was thick with tension. The smell of smoke still lingered in the air, the charred remains of the collapsed scaffold a grim reminder of how quickly things could go wrong. The crew was quieter than usual, their banter muted, the undercurrent of nervous energy replaced with caution and unease.

Y/N moved through it all, feeling the weight of everyone’s eyes on them. They weren’t new to dangerous situations—being a stunt double meant that risk was part of the job description—but this was different. The sense of control, the careful calculations that went into every stunt, had been upended. What happened wasn’t just an accident, and that knowledge buzzed under Y/N’s skin like static.

After being pulled back to set, Y/N had gone through the motions—resetting for another scene, running through the next stunt choreography, making sure all the safety checks were in place. But their mind kept drifting back to Wanda’s words, to the way she had looked at them with a mixture of concern and suspicion.

Magic. The idea gnawed at Y/N. They had always prided themselves on being grounded, practical—relying on their skill, their reflexes, their experience. Magic, on the other hand, felt unpredictable, uncontrollable. And now it was creeping into their world, complicating things in a way they weren’t prepared for.

They finished the next stunt—a relatively simple car jump—without incident, but even as they landed smoothly and the crew applauded, Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling of unease.

Once the cameras cut, the director called a short break, giving the crew some time to regroup before they moved on to the next sequence. Y/N made their way over to the craft services table, grabbing a bottle of water and trying to let the familiar routine of set life calm their racing mind.

But the second they sat down, they felt someone’s presence beside them.

“Hey,” came a familiar voice. Wanda again. This time, she didn’t sound accusatory or intense—just concerned.

Y/N glanced up, giving her a crooked smile. “Couldn’t resist the snacks, huh?”

Wanda ignored the joke, sitting down beside them with a serious expression. “Are you okay?”

Y/N took a swig of water, trying to play it off. “I’m fine. You know me, I bounce back.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.” Her eyes were searching again, like she was peeling back layers they didn’t want exposed. “You’re shaken. I can feel it.”

Y/N sighed, leaning back in their chair. “You’re not wrong,” they admitted. “It’s… weird, you know? I’ve done hundreds of stunts, pushed my limits more times than I can count. But today—today felt off. I’m not used to things going wrong like that. And now you’re telling me there’s magic involved? It’s like I can’t trust what’s happening around me.”

Wanda nodded, her expression softening. “I get it. Believe me, I do. Magic is unpredictable, and it messes with the way you see the world. But that doesn’t mean you’re powerless.”

Y/N looked at her, eyebrow raised. “Kinda feels like I am, though. I’m good with stunts because I know what’s coming—I can calculate the risks, control my movements. But if there’s magic at play… how am I supposed to work with that?”

Wanda leaned forward, her gaze intense but not unkind. “You’ve got instincts, Y/N. You don’t need magic to sense when something’s off—you’ve already been doing that. What happened today, you knew it wasn’t right before it even went down. That’s not nothing.”

Y/N considered that for a moment. She had a point. The tension in the air before the rig exploded hadn’t just been nerves; it had been something else. Something they had picked up on, even if they didn’t understand it.

“Okay,” Y/N said slowly. “But if this isn’t just bad luck, what do I do? I’m not exactly equipped to deal with spells and hexes.”

“That’s where I come in,” Wanda replied, her tone firm. “You don’t have to deal with it alone. I’ve got a handle on the magic side of things, but I’ll need your help to figure out who’s behind this and why. You keep doing what you’re doing, and I’ll make sure nothing else goes wrong.”

Y/N couldn’t help but smirk at that. “So now we’re partners in magical crime-solving? Great, just what I needed on top of my day job.”

Wanda laughed softly, the sound cutting through the tension like a balm. “Think of it as an adventure. And besides, I have a feeling you thrive on chaos.”

Y/N chuckled, the weight on their shoulders lifting just a little. “You’re not wrong there.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, the noise of the set humming around them but feeling distant. There was a strange comfort in sitting next to Wanda, a sort of unspoken understanding between them. For the first time since the explosion, Y/N felt like maybe—just maybe—they could handle this.

But of course, the universe wasn’t done with them yet.

One of the assistant directors rushed over, looking flustered. “Hey, Y/N! Sorry to interrupt, but we’ve got a situation.”

Y/N groaned inwardly, already bracing for more bad news. “What now?”

“It’s the next scene,” the AD explained, shifting nervously. “There’s a… complication with the wires. The team is saying the equipment is acting up. They’ve done all the checks, but nothing’s working right. It’s like the harnesses are… fighting them.”

Y/N exchanged a glance with Wanda, who raised an eyebrow.

“Fighting them?” Y/N repeated.

The AD nodded, looking increasingly anxious. “Yeah, like they’re moving on their own. It’s… weird.”

Wanda stood up, her expression darkening. “It’s not just equipment failure. Someone’s messing with this set.”

Y/N got to their feet as well, the tension that had briefly faded now roaring back. “Great. Just what we needed—more magical sabotage.”

Wanda looked at them, determination in her eyes. “We need to figure this out before someone gets seriously hurt.”

Y/N nodded, feeling the weight of the situation settle back onto their shoulders. “Alright. Let’s get to the bottom of this.”

As they headed toward the scene of the latest disturbance, Y/N couldn’t help but feel the shift in their role. They weren’t just the cool, sarcastic stunt double anymore—they were now part of something bigger, something more dangerous.

[mrsfrederickchilton]

FREDERICK. Chapter 50

If you haven't seen 1958 movie Elevator to the Gallows (Frantic / Lift to the Scaffold / Ascenseur pour l'échafaud), I recommend it, I like it!

Even watch the movie at home Dr. Chilton was going worn a shirt and pants. You shook your head when you saw him. Thanks for not wearing a suit.

“Do you have any other clothes at all?” you asked.

“What's wrong with this one?”

“People usually don't wear this at home.”

“I do,” he replied.

Dr. Chilton didn't say that he usually wore a robe. Or no robe at all, if it was hot. He also didn't say that he had other clothes, he just thought it was inappropriate to wear jeans in your presence. He seemed too careless in them. You weren't supposed to see him like this.

“Okay, what can I do with you...”

You yourself were in a soft turtleneck and half-sports, half-home pants, which many people had adopted both at home and on the street. This suited you, in principle. You ate the recently delivered pizza, then you threw a bag of popcorn in the microwave and began to look for a bowl for it. At this time, Dr. Chilton was in the living room, plugging in a player to the TV and adjusting the sofa cushions. He would never admit to you that he would gladly sink down on these cushions and take a couple of hours of nap. Preferably with you by his side. He returned to the kitchen, looked at you and almost forgot about his fatigue. Despite the fact that Dr. Chilton had slept very little in the last few days, your presence was incredibly invigorating to him. He even had some plans after watching the movie; he hoped that they coincided with yours. Or at least that you would support them. There was a pop, and Dr. Chilton flinched.

“What is it?” he asked when you chuckled.

“Popcorn. I told you so.”

“You did, but…”

He looked incredulously from you to the microwave, which made a few more pops, and back to you.

“Have you never made popcorn?”

“No.”

In Dr. Chilton's understanding, popcorn was something that was sold in cinemas before the film. And not something that was popping horribly right there in his kitchen. The intervals between pops began to lengthen, and soon you were pulling the bulging bag out of the microwave, shaking it, and carefully opening it. The intoxicating aroma of freshly popped popcorn filled the kitchen.

“Is everything ready?” you asked.

The movie was plugged in and waiting for you, the pillows were laid out, the blanket was spread out, even glasses of water were on the coffee table. So Dr. Chilton nodded, and you tipped the hot popcorn into a large bowl, then carried it solemnly into the living room. There were four of you: you, Dr. Chilton, the grand piano, and a little awkwardness. This was perhaps the most casual of your meetings; you didn't count the game park, the few dinners at Dr. Chilton's apartment had felt more like restaurant dinners, and the intimacy that often followed them had been completely erased from your memory. The dim lighting, the soft pillows, and the cute beige throw blanket gave the appearance of coziness; you weren't sure if it would become real for you both. At least, not for you. But you had a good movie and still-hot popcorn, which made the evening bearable enough, no matter how it will end. Dr. Chilton seemed more uncomfortable than you. You and your criminal often watched something, curled up on the couch in each other's arms; Dr. Chilton clearly didn't know what to do with the throw blanket or what to do with his hands. Should he hug you? Or might it seem like he's already hinting at something else? You placed the bowl of popcorn on the couch, dividing the space between you and Dr. Chilton. Not to keep him from getting physical, but simply because it was easier for you to grab the popcorn. You've taken the blanket for yourself so far, and you've finally turned on the movie.

Elevator to the Gallows. You entered yours when you met your criminal. Or when you couldn't call the police. Or when you decided to stay with him against your better judgment? Either way, you knew what you were getting into. You just hoped that the elevator would go slowly enough to make it worth it. And you still hope.

I love you. I won't leave you, Julien.

You glanced sideways at Dr. Chilton, who was staring intently at the screen. Would he draw any parallels? Maybe there would be some kind of therapeutic conversation — about the film, the parallels, or your life? Or maybe Dr. Chilton would just want to go to bed. Although, someone like him can combine both...

We will be free, Julien.

You reached for the popcorn. Will you?

The popcorn was stretched out for a whole fifteen minutes. A record, considering how quickly you usually ate it. Dr. Chilton didn't seem to like it much — you doubted he'd ever eaten it properly — but he did like the way your hands sometimes bumped into each other in the bowl.

His phone, which was always with him, in his jacket pocket, on the table or in his briefcase, was now lying on the sofa table. Dr. Chilton had apologized in advance, saying that he was expecting some important work message, although with you he usually put the phone away and forgot about it, completely focused on you. Unfortunately. And judging by the vibration, the message came, distracting Dr. Chilton from the TV screen. You could have paused the movie, but you were too lazy. And it was the right decision, because you were able to pretend to be engrossed in what was happening on the screen, although what was happening right next to you was much more interesting. Dr. Chilton reached for his phone. His fingers were slightly oily from the popcorn, and although he wiped his hands with a napkin, the sensor completely refused to recognize the owner by fingerprint. After three unsuccessful attempts, the phone asked Dr. Chilton to enter a graphic key. The psychiatrist glanced at you — you were looking at the TV screen with your heart beating so hard you were sure he could hear it — thought about it (the fingerprint almost always worked, so he almost forgot the key), drew an intricate figure... Fortunately, it was correct: the phone unlocked. Dr. Chilton poked at the phone, either answering a letter or confirming some data, then looked at you again:

“Sorry,” he said, reaching for his briefcase and putting his phone in it. “It won’t distract you anymore.”

“It’s okay,” you smiled, showing with all your appearance that you were thinking only about the movie.

Dr. Chilton calmed down and continued watching, unaware that a minute ago you believed in God.

Thank you, Lord. Really, thank you. Mysterious ways. Thank you and the makers of buttery popcorn. THANK YOU, GOD.

Your heart was still beating faster than usual, because you had something urgent to do.

“I need a minute,” you said.

“Sure,” he pressed pause.

You went to the restroom, taking your phone with you. You drew Dr. Chilton’s graphic key in your notes. Five times to remember it. You flushed the toilet. You set the same key instead of a PIN code for your phone and successfully unlocked it several times. Memorized. Turned on the water in the sink and checked everything again.

Hallowed be thy name.

Honestly, you didn't count on such luck.

You came back, took the empty bowl off the couch, and turned on the movie. It worked. You stared at the TV screen, but you couldn’t quite catch what was happening. Oh well, you’d already watched it anyway. It worked! But there's something else you didn't catch. You were still under the blanket, and Dr. Chilton wasn’t, even though the bowl was no longer separating you. But you didn’t want to pull the blanket over yourself with him. You didn’t want to do it so much that your eyes rolled back in your head at the thought. It was too… cute. It wasn’t what either of you needed. Although, looking at Dr. Chilton’s slightly saddened expression, you figured you could only speak for yourself. Well, he deserved it for the phone. You sighed and draped part of the blanket over him. Of course, he immediately decided he needed to move closer to you. You glanced at the briefcase where his phone was hidden and forced yourself to relax. Five minutes later, he pulled the blanket over you better and laid his head on your shoulder. How touching.

How fucking touching.

“Don't fall asleep,” you said, placing your hand under the blanket on his thigh.

“It's hard to fall asleep here,” Dr. Chilton muttered, either because of that or because of the gunshots on the screen, and you continued watching, each thinking about your own things.

Florence was beautiful after all. Even at the very end.

I'll wake up alone.

You woke up like that once. And you’ve woken up like that every time since. At least they had photographs. But here we are together. Together again, at least somewhere. You don’t even have that. Now you are together only in your memories and the disapproving glances of others who know. If you were Florence, you would take each of them with you. Anywhere — to a new life, to prison, or to the grave. By the way, the photographs were really wonderful. You wish you had similar. You see, they won’t be able to separate us. You didn’t even notice how deeply you were touched. Was this a normal reaction? You thought it was more than normal, but you should check with Dr. Chilton. You opened your mouth to ask him what he thought — about the film and the ending, but you realized in time that you would not get an answer. Only now did you feel how calmly and measuredly he was breathing.

Dr. Chilton was sleeping on your shoulder in a deep, serene sleep.

Next chapter (Chapter 51)

Masterlist

[green-again]

hi hey i'm talking to you about bbc merlin. or else

re: guinevere and her relationship with arthur. okay. this is sooo much for me because, like, honestly? i love them together. i love the way they were written, i love their respective flaws, i love the pining and the crushing and how much they adore one another when they do get together!

however.

first of all. arthur. i wish he'd had character development that stuck around longer than the next chance he got to bully merlin...honestly...in the first four seasons he's SO bad with this . he shows all this genuine consideration for the fsct that maybe, maybe servants are actually human beings—and then merlin comes along and he's like. oh haha no that could never be true. look at my useless pet dunce. he single handedly disproves that!

there are definitely times when merlin deserves it. there are definitely times when i would have said the exact same thing to him. but it's constant from arthur, and it serves almost as an attempt at a reminder that arthur is better, arthur is royal, men are just mean to their buddies, merlin is a servant and servants are property, etc.

i think that there is absolutely a way to have done this that serves more to show that arthur himself was born into biases that he clings strongly to, just because he was raised with them! i truly think that that's what they were aiming for—and succeeded at surprisingly often! and i think that they could have done way, way better.

for all his obvious love for gwen, and for all i adore their relationship, his sort of 'gwen i love you i don't care that you're a servant' is so selfish and insubstantial when you look at...almost any interaction he has with merlin. this is more of a watsonian complaint, honestly, but there are doylist elements to it and i think the writers could have done so much better actually keeping arthur's development consistent.

and secondly, guinevere! oh, my beloved. i adore her. i have very few watsonian complaints about her, if any at all. however. she is a woman. she is a black woman. and that means that she is going to be written with very little regard for her everything.

again, i love her relationship with arthur! i love her tenacity and strength and vulnerability. i don't love how she's written at times. once she becomes queen, it feels like A Role She's Playing rather than her actually being queen guinevere pendragon. she is a major load bearing wall in all of arthur's development, and she's cast aside as a character in favour of giving the white men more screen time! she very rarely gets moments to herself, instead being used as scaffolding for arthur's story.

and, like, to a certain extent? i get it. this show is about merlin, and his relationship with arthur. but even fucking gaius is more of an independant character than guinevere. gauis holds his own story, while guinevere gets hers squashed down in favour of supporting arthur.

also!!! i'm so mad that the writers just sort of decided to...end merlin and gwen's friendship. they hardly talk at all in s5! like fucking come on! they were best friends and it was so fun and they schemed together 😭 ughghh.

anyways yeah those are my thoughts on arthur and guinevere. i might talk.more later but this is already an entire essay so good luck have fun and thank you graciously for reading this, if you do. haha!

a lot of this is actually the reason why I don't like Arthur and Gwen im so sorry. I totally understand where you're coming from, and I love seeing different takes on this. I completely agree with Arthur's character development though !

I think a lot of it does come from the way Arthur was raised. Uther is shown to have clear disregard for servants (ex: s01e04 the poisoned chalice) so showing that he cares about merlin is so difficult for him that he tries to play it off like "yeah this is my servant merlin he's an idiot. we're NOT friends cause I don't like him." its not even until later seasons he can admit that he does care about merlin and what happens to him but plays it off as a joke after. so that's why it doesn't make sense to me how it was with Gwen. like yea she got mad at him like two times about how he can be terrible to people of lower class and that's it. but he never had that development of like "yea!! it doesn't matter that Gwen is a servant!!" and that's what bothered me. so here's where I think we differ: to me it was as if they took Arthur x merlin but made it straight and just pushed Arthur and Gwen into a relationship fast, therefore skipping any development that should have been made. (im not getting into this in this post, but I could elaborate. I also could talk forever about what having Uther Pendragon as a father does to a child, which is sort of irrelevant here.)

I do love Guinevere! she's honestly one of my favorites and I admire her greatly. I just think her characterization was ruined in season 4 specifically. a scene that always bothered me is from s04e06 a servant of two masters. Arthur is worried about merlin and tries going off alone to find him. Gwen is trying to stop him before saying that Gwaine will go with him. I just think that early seasons Gwen would never do that. she would go with Arthur actually. it just felt like her character was reduced to just someone Arthur can talk to while his relationship with merlin was explored and added to. and a huge part of that comes from the fact that Arthur x Gwen wasn't really explored outside of them not able to be together in s03 and whenever the cheating thing happened and when Gwen was evil for a few episodes. and I think that was mainly to show how the impact it has on Arthur.

I also think Guinevere was a great queen! but it also feels like she kind of just really changed after she made that change. this is evident through her relationship with merlin. it didn't really feel there in seasons four and five, especially after she became queen. a lot of this comes from he was still a servant and she was like the highest rank she could achieve. (this also plays into merlin watching all of his friends become nobles and of high ranks and he's just a servant. I could really expand on this.) so while yes they would still love to be friends, there was always going to be that "im your boss now" that haunted their interactions. hated that tbh

thank you for sending me that I loved it !! if you disagree with any of this just lmk. also if there was something you wanted a response to just tell me!

idk if it's clear or not but I do believe in merthur, but not in the kind of way you might think. not really explainable in this little space I gave myself here but if you would like to know I can make a separate post!!

[not-poignant]

How do you 'find the plot' as it were in a story? You've mentioned a few times hat you tend to start out with stories that are only a few chapters long, but then spiral outwards from there. I feel like I have the opposite problem - I come up with character concepts, worlds, etc. but everything fizzles out after a few chapters. It's not that I'm not passionate about the worlds or the characters I build, I just... feel like they have nowhere to go. Any tips/tricks/advice for when this happens?

Hi anon!

So everyone does these things a bit differently. What I do might not work for you! So keep that in mind if I describe something that makes you feel demotivated or uninspired, it probably means it just isn't the right technique for you!

Now to break things down:

Even if I'm only starting out with a few chapters, I usually know where I'm heading. Which is almost always - when it's not straight up PWP - a romance.

Romances by default need to have a HEA (Happily Ever After) or HFN (Happy For Now / Hopeful For Now). That HEA/HFN must feature the two main romantic leads (unless you're writing OT3 or whatever). It's not 'happy but one of them died.' It's 'happy but both of them are end-game.' No matter how long my story is, that is always the end-game, and that never changes.

So you already know where you're going. No matter what. The story is internalised, the rules are firm. You break that rule, it's not a romance anymore. It's something else with a romantic storyline in it.

Generally speaking anon, if you target certain genres or character arcs, you will always know exactly where you're headed - it's your Polestar, your True North - even if you don't know exactly what it looks like yet because you haven't been there before, you know that everything in that story either has to work to get your characters closer to that end-point, or it works against that end-point in a way that will have to be overcome.

And then from there, that is where all my stories gain their shape, even if I don't plot anything. Because even though I write a lot of different genres, the romance is always at the heart of it for me. Or more accurately, it's always the compass point. Even when the romance isn't that important. Eran and Mosk's romance absolutely took a back seat in The Ice Plague, but their happiness was still the end point. I always knew where I was heading.

In amongst your worldbuilding and character building anon, I would say you need to do more concrete work on understanding the genres, and then applying one or more to your own work. I feel like you've put everything in your backpack except for the compass, and then get surprised when you lose your way.

It doesn't matter how good your map is, if you don't have a compass to read it with.

Think of the map as your worldbuilding and character building, then think of the genres and the tropes as your compass.

Go hunting for the compass alongside the map, otherwise you just end up with a map that's unworkable no matter what direction you turn it in. It looks like it has all the information you need, but it actually doesn't, because a map on its own isn't enough. (Even Google Maps uses a compass salkjfads).

When you lose your way, it can help to think of your favourite examples of the genre/s you're writing, and how motivating those endings or conflict points were in the story. It can help to revisit the genre/s themselves. For example if you're writing upbeat action/adventure, you want relatively fast pacing and some explosive moments. If you're writing grimdark, you're going to have to kill off some of your (and everyone else's) faves.

Learn about genre/s, about trope/s, the deeper you go, the more of a story scaffold you'll have as the skeleton beneath all the flesh you put on the story. Without that backbone, without that compass, it will all fall apart.

I am fortunate in the sense that I've been studying story structures what feels like all my life. From the very basic story structures of Grimm's and HCA's fairy tales, to literally studying it at university in scriptwriting and film and creative writing. So my compass is within me, and I don't have to research it in the same way anymore.

But I loved every moment of building my compass, and I hope you enjoy building yours too, anon. Since you already enjoy the worldbuilding and the characterisation, it's the last thing you need in your backpack to keep a story going and know where you're headed. Because your genre is always pretty clear, for the most part, and when the genre isn't, the tropes will be.

[bluegekk0]

what kinda minecraft players would the fam be? :3

I answered similar questions before but I love talking about them and Minecraft so I don't mind answering it again.

Vyrm - he's redstone builder, 100%. He's admittedly not the best at survival, he gets overwhelmed easily and he struggles with the controls. But as soon as he discovered redstone that's what he would dedicate himself to. He'd watch guide videos to get the basics and then experiment, coming up with contraptions you wouldn't even imagine. Traps, secret doors, intricate farms and actual working computers, you name it, he can make it if you give him some time.

Grimm - he's the builder of the family. He has all the skill needed for survival or even hardcore playthroughs, he's very good at the game, but he finds the most enjoyment in building beautiful houses. He dedicates his time to decorate Vyrm's shoddy cobblestone base, turning it into a breathtaking house. Though they usually end up sharing the same Minecraft house (yes, of course they would put their beds next to each other), so FPK just leaves that to Grimm as he plans his next redstone build.

Hornet - pure survival type with a preference for exploring. She's the one who finds mob spawners within 30 minutes of spawning into the world, and she brings back all kinds of loot. She doesn't really do much with it aside from upgrading her gear, her base is just a simple (but pleasant looking) house, though she spends barely any time in it. She's always willing to share what she found, and she'll fill Vyrm's chests with redstone and other materials for his builds. She's a big fan of PVP, and because the others are busy with other things, Zote is the only one who's up for it, so they often attempt to troll one another.

Holly - they enjoy farming and taking care of the animals. They have a little farm next to their small house, and a big wheat field surrounding it. Very often, Grimm will offer to build a windmill as decoration for their farm, and help them with other structures like barns and chicken coops. They do enjoy building, but they're always happy to accept Grimm's help since they see that as bonding. They prefer to farm their crops manually, so as much as they find Vyrm's automatic farms impressive, they stick to their humble farm.

Zote - wannabe griefer, he keeps looking for ways to annoy Hornet, though he gets too confident and his plans often fail because of it. You'll see his name the most often in the chat, since he always dies in the most stupid ways possible, at least until he gets angry and quits. Though as much of an annoyance as he is, he only targets Hornet - he won't intentionally destroy the things Grimm, FPK or Holly built, though he'll sometimes shoot arrows at Grimm as he's building high up in the air, trying to knock him off the scaffolding (only to get instantly bodied by a Power V bow shot from Grimm lmao)

Lewk - I said before that he'd be too young to have an account, but I love the idea of Grimm getting him one just so he can play with the rest of the family. He would try a little bit of everything, though because he's so young, he doesn't fully understand what is happening. For now he seems most drawn to building, he's obviously nowhere near Grimm's level, but his builds are very adorable and Grimm proudly displays them next to his giant mansions.

Asta and Milo - they only watch, the closest they get to joining the game is when walk across Grimm's keyboard while he's playing. They enjoy watching as the others play, even if they have zero idea what's going on.

[batsplat]

I’m gonna sound like a boomer but we’re never gonna get any rivalries on par with vale’s feuds or actually any pre late 2010s feuds anymore. and I think social media is definitely one of the major reasons why. now you have to watch what you say bc it’s gonna be immediately broadcasted and some your 253655665 followers or insta or twitter are gonna overreact and go hurl abuse in another guy’s comments. and this is so lame.

right there with you anon. I've been wondering about the 'why are athletes these days so boring' question for years (not in motogp specifically) and one theory I've seen touted is just the increased professionalisation of sports, how much more all-consuming it is from childhood onwards - essentially suggesting athletes today don't have the time to develop a personality or cook up feuds lol. and I think there's probably something to that theory - the current demands of professional sports are inevitably producing some singularly single-minded athletes, far more pr-friendly and moulded into being acceptable to the average consumer... but the other part of the equation just has to be the incredible levels of scrutiny they're subjected to. social media and the rabid fanbases it helps cultivate have to be a part of that

I'm always wary of speaking too definitively about the vibes of an era I wasn't around to experience - obviously controversies back then were also, in fact, controversial, sometimes athletes had to walk back their comments, fanbases certainly were rabid... but it's all a question of degree, isn't it - and how relentless the content consumption is, the ferocity of the news cycle, how inescapable everyone's opinions on everything end up being. if you look at the general tone of the alien era, I just don't think that kind of thing would be possible nowadays. it really wasn't just valentino either, and it's always worth remembering the context of the time in which valentino rose through the ranks. his first major feud, after all, was with a notoriously abrasive rider who was hardly beloved by his non-valentino opponents - and let's not forget how he was physically threatened by two riders after his very first grand prix (to be clear, I am not endorsing threatening seventeen year olds and think it's probably quite good they don't do that anymore). god, if casey said some of the stuff he used to come out with nowadays, and not just about valentino either... the discourse, it would be bad. the jorge/dani feud too would surely have reached cataclysmic levels of toxicity

and there's a lot of people who say, 'well, why don't you think competitors can just be respectful to each other, why can't athletes just be tough in competition and friendly outside of it, why do you need everyone to hate each other' - look, I think it's fun! sports is supposed to be about extreme emotions, heightened emotions about these artificial contests that feel larger than life. in one sense, it really isn't that serious, but on the other hand it obviously couldn't be more serious. more important than life or death, as the cliché goes, or that orwell 'war minus the shooting' quote mat oxley is ever so fond of - but that's only because we ascribe it meaning. which allows it to exist in this fun zone where we can live out these bizarrely dramatic stories that are high on emotional stakes, but for all intents and purposes are rather less high on material stakes (certainly for the fan). it's a release of a kind, sometimes an escape. now, personally, I enjoy my drama with a little bit of edge, of nastiness, which I understand is a personal preference but don't think (as is sometimes suggested) means I am any less invested in the sporting side of the equation. it is the substance of the sport that provides the scaffolding for the human interest stories it generates, but fundamentally nobody would give a shit about sports without the human interest element - and to me, a feud is simply an extension of that principle

another probably controversial critique of the 'why can't everyone like each other' stance is that I just fundamentally believe it to be dishonest. or, look, maybe there are some competitors out there who can feel nothing but warmth and love in their hearts for the opponent who has just beaten them - which is very lovely for them, they're clearly far better people than I am. but I don't buy everyone feels that way and I also don't buy this is something that has changed with a generation or two. obviously, the norms within any given sport end up shaping how the athlete approaches competition, what they believe is acceptable to say or do, or even to think or feel. the emotions might be visceral, they may even resemble hate, but the question is to what extent we allow them to be expressed. if these people don't like each other, if they think uncharitable thoughts towards each other, then, y'know, let them have at it as far as I'm concerned. respect is overrated. and even when it's not just earnestly felt emotions, even when they really are just playing games, attempting to fuck with their rivals... well, that's the other question, is it. is it acceptable to deliberately attempt use 'psychological' tactics, perhaps even intimidation, to win a contest or not? to me, the answer is 'obviously yes' and 'that's how sports works', but I accept not everyone agrees lol

I have particularly little patience with this stance in motogp, I think, because the belief that 'riding in a manner that could physically hurt another human being' is an acceptable element of competition but 'not conforming to social niceties afterwards' is not feels viscerally absurd to me. now, the former just has to be countenanced to some degree or other as part of the moral calculus you are performing in even engaging with the sport, because fundamentally you cannot 'objectively' determine how much risk riders can acceptably put each other in before it crosses a moral line. as far as I'm concerned, then, you might as well have at least some patience for the latter too - we're already morally firmly in the grey here. and intimidation still happens, after all, mind games are still all the flavour... but there's this constant need for subtlety, to keep the nastier side of competing hush hush, that I find deeply tedious. sure, sometimes subtlety can be nice, but at this point it feels less like a personal preference and more an ironclad requirement. and this is the thing, right. sometimes, people are arseholes. professional athletes certainly are. sometimes, just like their fans, they feel violently extreme emotions. especially if they've just been competing. but of course, if every single controversy attracts such out-sized vitriol from fans, a moral referendum on everyone involved, a boiling pot of feverish partisanship... well, it's unsurprising if athletes try to steer clear from all that, isn't it

I also don't think we're going to get another feud that can get mentioned in the same breath as valentino's offerings any time soon, though perhaps next year we can have a good go at it. (ironically, of course, this is still an extension of one of his feuds - you have this built-in vitriol which I reckon at times allows it to worm its way past the filters all of these people have developed.) which, you know, I don't need them to artificially cook up feuds just for the sake of it. beyond broader trends between generations, obviously this is also a question of individual personalities and how they happen to interact with each other. if valentino's feuds are as good as it gets, I can live with that - I do still enjoy the sport plenty, am grateful to valentino for providing me so much good archival material to pour over and dissect, and don't want to ask for too much here. god knows, the current version of motogp is still highly dramatic by the standards of my main sport, and unfortunately I still watch that shit all the time. but it's still a bit of a shame that competitors don't seem to get a lot of choice in the matter these days. and it's a bit of a shame that fans seemingly prefer it this way, going by the vitriol they heap on athletes over any and every offence. it's also a bit of a shame that it feels like there's no real escaping the relentless partisanship of online fan spaces. personally I'm not all that into discoursing about whether things are 'good' or 'bad' and more into establishing whether something's 'interesting' and then thinking about it some more, which doesn't feel like much of an option if you for some reason ever get struck by the desire to interact with other fans online. but it is what it is, y'know. at least we'll always have that time valentino put a curse on a guy

[butts-bouncing-on-the-beltway]

I have a really hard time on Tumblr sometimes and I have this issue with a lot of people and places so it's hardly tumblr specific, but it's also really hard to describe/convey to others. Let me try to scaffold it out

I spent my entire childhood being called an anxious person, and being forced to keep my anxiety internal, and this is overall really bad for me

The one useful tool I was ever given for BOTH reducing externally visible distress AND total distress is to pair anxious/distressing and "strengths based" thoughts. Whenever I say or think something related to distress, I take a moment to reframe the thought into a pair of thoughts - one non-judgemental observation of the need speaking through my distress/how I might meet it, and one non-judgemental acknowledgement of my feelings. It's energy intensive, and it takes a while to learn how to do it in a way that is clarifying rather than erasive. But it genuinely always makes me feel like I have a better handle on things, like I'm less inclined to spiral or end up with a disrupted mood or function, and also now consistently get **the opposite** commentary about being a very positive person who's good at conveying and opening up that positivity for others (at least in my professional life)

There are some people who take my doing this as an invitation to argue with me about why, actually, the distressing stuff IS VALID AND RIGHT AS A FRAMEWORK rather than understanding why I might be shifting away from it. You'd think this would happen most when I talk to other people and "reframe" something they've said, but actually this happens the most often after I have just finished expressing my own thoughts about a thing and someone seems to decide that "framed in a functional way" is equivalent to "hasn't thought enough about the problem areas" and start going off about all the "bad" or "hard" or whatever parts of a thing.

I cannot argue BACK with these people when they do this, because arguing back is dragging me back into a headspace that directly contributes to my suicidality, however side-stepping the issue by CONTINUING to insist on framing things the way I do often leads to them REPEATING their points in different ways in an attempt to "convince" me or "correct my misunderstanding" and I kinda have to be like. Not a misunderstanding. I know what you said and am simply not sharing that space with you. Why is it so uncomfortable for you that we are on different pages about this thing that you feel the need to force me into a distressing place for me rather than move on now that we've both shared our thoughts on the matter?

I can only spend so much of my time around a person rigidly reinforcing my own protective cognitions before I just. I can't talk to them anymore. I need to leave and do other things in other spaces with people who can talk to me about things from the same strengths-based perspective for a while

A lot of people use this to accuse me of spending time in echo chambers because they LITERALLY CANNOT FATHOM a space in which one can be critical of a thing without explicitly being "negative" about it, and assume that if everyone in a space is coming from a strengths based perspective that they're all uncritical fans or at least don't criticise in that space. This is just an objectively untrue assumption and I actually vastly prefer the constructive criticism of things within those strengths-based spaces

You can't ask people to stop doing this, or make them believe (if they don't already) the impact this might be having on your mental health, and if you try, people take it VERY personally and will start being MORE "negative" about EVERYTHING they say without even realizing it (saying "positive" things about one thing directly by "pulling down" something else, using satirical praise language like "fuck you" or "i can't stand it I'm going to die" or etc to refer to things they are happy with/enjoying/liking/etc, pivoting off your "positives" with immediate "negatives", etc) which makes the dynamic more intensive to cope with for me. Even when I try to convey this stuff to someone or point out examples, it quickly worsens the issue to the point that it's literally better for me to stop doing so and go back to quietly exiting when I'm overwhelmed.

A lot of people, when all this is discussed for them, will say something to the effect of "this is how I enjoy things I love!" And I get that. I do. But why? Why is the only way you are able to enjoy a thing by putting it or something else down? If it were ONE OF THE WAYS you enjoyed things, I'd 100% get that, and have no issue with it! I do wish that it was more common for groups of people to just enjoy things "unironically" tho, because it's a space I have a much easier time existing comfortably in, and those spaces being hard to find and maintain is part of why I struggle to socialize much. It's hard for me (literally, in terms of asking more effort of me, and emotionally in terms of the impact it has on my mood) to be around people whose only access to enjoyment is to insult, belittle, or point out the problems in something. It makes me sad not to spend as much time as I'd like to with people I like because of this incompatibility, and it makes me frustrated that I have never found a way of sharing with others what is happening in this dynamic in a way that has any concrete impact on the outcome. I have sort of learned to just NOT share it with others and instead do all the heavy listing of navigating the issue on other people's behalf and taking breaks when I can no longer do that so that I can keep relationships or spaces or conversations that are important to me.

Tumblr is, to put it mildly, almost nothing but this dynamic. So despite being a system I am most suited to in terms of posting options, conversation topics, access formats, etc, Tumblr is a space I feel best taking regular breaks from.

Tumblr is far from the epitome of this in my life. But it's a space where I see the most. I want to say etiquette? Social "respect" indicators? Built around this kind of behavior/framework. Like. Tumblr is a space of differing social contexts, but a lot of the connected ones across subcultures on the platform are informed by this framework because it is non-ideological and so gets conveyed as a more universalizably etiquette system I think. So there's a lot of like. Expectations of how you interact with others here that default this framework (for very functional reasons I think lol, i just don't know that it was done on purpose rather than sort of stumbled into?) are really normalized in a way that is especially risky for me given how much work I have to put into resisting this framework on a personal level

I often feel very lonely, because I have found a degree of distance that gets built into my dynamics with people. Throughout my life, there have been people who put me up on a pedastal, and people who set me far below them in capacity and cannot fathom my functionality, and of course people who manage both at once in different areas. But it's been hard to build and maintain relationships where I trust I am seen specifically as a peer and where this anxiety/complaint oriented framework is not one of the dominant cultural forces in play socially.

There are gaps in all this still in my brain, but. I dunno, I get tired sometimes. I wish I had a space in my life where I felt fully seen and where I could just sort of sit and build something up with someone for a while.