#I just wrote it on a whim

[permian-tropos]

metropolis, an essay

today in the new york metropolitan area, the sky is getting chalky overhead again, due to wildfire smoke spreading from canada. while the west coast has been pummeled by wildfire smoke year after year, the east coast finally gets its fair share of the most aesthetically consonant part of the climate crisis—where the sky turns scary apocalyptic colors and the air tastes like ash. two things are on my mind: that the wealth hoarders who used their power to delay critical action against climate change deserve rage, and that the rising ride of global fascism is poised to co-opt that rage and then drive us all into hell. 

I’m gonna write a little essay about it, most of the facts off the top of my head, I hope my memory is correct about everything. it’s about the most impactful movie of my life, that is also my ideological nemesis.

one of the first films I ever watched (first time I was like, two years old) that stuck in my mind was fritz lang’s metropolis, and I’ve revisited it over and over throughout the years and I have a tendency to shove it and my analysis of it down people’s throats every chance I get. because it is gorgeous and striking and very worth watching—if you have the extremely important context that the co-writer of the film, fritz lang’s wife thea von harbou, joined the nazi party, while fritz lang divorced her and fled germany, evading the nazis’ attempts to recruit him into their propaganda machine.

metropolis is very dear to my heart because visually it was extremely inspired by new york city, and I cannot help but think of the german expressionist haze over the skyscrapers when I see pictures of downtown manhattan consumed by wildfire smoke. 

it is a nazi film that was directed by a man seemingly who did not realize he was making a nazi film, because it didn’t aggressively scapegoat anyone or promote german nationalism or call for militarism and conquest. that is why I perversely love this film; it so aptly demonstrates fascism sneakily corrupting a socialistic message long before people have been tricked into racial hatred. it shows you the seed of bad ideology.

metropolis tells the story of a deeply unequal society of upper and lower classes, where the proletariat labors in a hellscape under the city while those on the surface enjoy high culture and luxury while managing those below. 

I’m not going to discuss the main character of the film much but he is a rich ass boy whose call to adventure is that he goes down and sees how badly the workers are treated and compares their toil to victims being sacrificed to a barbaric god (european capitalists be like: what are we a bunch of indigenous people? but okay sure, mechanistic rather than religiously-motivated human sacrifice is normalized in capitalist society, is a point I’ll gladly make) 

blaaaaaaarghh look at that guy. it’s moloch!! the devil himself. eating the shit out of the working class. 

there are two characters who propose solutions to the workers, and fittingly one is the doppelganger of the other. the saintly maria promises the workers that a savior will come to resolve the class contradictions between the “head” (upper class, management) and the “hands” (laborers). he will be the “heart” and this sounds nice but you have to remember this is nazi shit so what I see is that this abstract idea of a city/state/nation’s “heart” is the seed of fascism

not to mention, that people have been sorted into “head” and “hands” is treated as a fact of nature. the proletariat will always be the dumb brutish power and those who manage them will always be the brains behind society. the only way to resolve the contradiction is to... <3 bring them together in love and peace and harmony <3 

and QUITE INTERESTINGLY TO ME, there is a total omission of any sort of enforcement of class inequality by a police force. there is like, one character who is a bit of a henchman/secret police hired by the protagonist’s father, the city ruler, but other than that, no cops are putting the working class in their place. state brutality is not needed to convince the proles to stay in their place. just their intrinsic understanding of their place in the world

fascist propaganda pretends that the world runs the way it does on natural inherent distinctions between human beings, and that no enforcement is needed, while it actually is the most cop ass ideology of all time. 

so what is the “heart” that unites the national bourgeois ruling class and the proletariat without eliminating the class distinctions between them and simply causing them to be equal human beings...? if you remember this is a nazi film you may guess the real answer (hating scapegoated minorities), but the film skillfully avoids specificity because it was co-written by a nazi and a possibly unsuspecting non-nazi. there are no villainous subhuman groups in the film. just... well... a nonhuman villain and the single bad guy who creates her. 

presenting the alternative to maria’s pacifism is the glorious ~robot maria~ who is famous for inspiring george lucas in his design of c-3po and doctor who in its design of the cybermen. 

don’t worry, those beams of light give her a pretty face so she can pass as an adult human female and trick those gullible workers and bougies alike into wanting to have fuck with her  

she is essentially a golem, created by a rather jewish-coded villain (I recall the doors in his lair have stars on them, albeit five pointed, not six), who wants to undermine society by inciting it into violent revolution. but he’s not literally jewish, so that could fly under the radar. he’s just a mean and nasty magician-scientist with a grudge against the city’s ruler and lust for his dead wife. but instead of recreating the dead wife, the city’s ruler commands him to make the robot into maria so she can be discredited to the workers because even her liberal ass bullshit is too much for him.

the inventor lets his robot loose on the underworld and she riles the workers into a frenzy and calls upon them to smash their machines, rise up to the surface, and destroy the city. in the meantime she also puts on a hot sexy dress and dazzles the bourgeois with cabaret or whatever basically it’s decadence the movie is portraying decadent degenerate lust as distracting the bougies from what’s going on below

this is the cultural marxist agenda: sexy ladee. but of course the movie itself IS this very spectacle embodied, you get to look at this sexy robot while shaking your head and going I don’t agree with that

anyway the workers, because they are very stupid, make a critical mistake in their revolution: they forget about their children and leave them behind in the underground as it is being flooded because they’ve destroyed the critical infrastructure keeping it un-flooded. 

because the working class would never rise up for the sake of their children’s future! no they don’t care about that they’re just yknow selfishly trying to escape a horrific life of toil in a literal hell, because an evil robot tricked them into being angry and also noticing there are no fucking cops in this city so who’s stopping them from revolting 

anyway thanks to the brave actions of rich boy and pacifist liberal maria, the future of white working class children is secured. rich boy is declared to be that savior and “heart” of metropolis (oh yeah and that big machine they smashed earlier was called the heart machine).  

I feel like I’ve made my point clear enough throughout this essay, but in conclusion: metropolis promises to resolve class contradictions by simply granting an idea of a nation or of some nebulous “heart” to the bourgeois and proletariat alike. it does not ask society to be restructured, it does not question the unequal state of things, it simply says: we need a savior to make people feel unified. 

and so it presents the nazi vision without once promoting genocide or imperialism. once you’ve been coaxed into ignoring the role that state oppression plays in maintaining class, once you’ve been convinced through lies of omission that the working class is made of humans who are inherently workers and the owner/ruler/manager class is full of inherent brainlords who were born to manage and dictate, you will start to be pulled down the road to fascism. 

and it’s still a beautiful movie. I never forget that, I never try to pretend it is ugly or does not move me. I’m just aware of the games it’s playing and how its message eventually leads into the genocide of my ancestors. 

finally: we stan robot maria, who is mother af, and is trans jewish golem coded to me, and also right

[jqnehr]

𓂃₊ ⊹ 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 & 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 : 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩

⟡ ꒰ 𝐳𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞 ꒱ ⨾ with every passing day, you begin to compare this man more and more to a grumpy black cat who really likes dozing in the sun. zayne is not a morning person, that’s for sure—but he has to force himself to be when he gets up to head for his shift at the hospital. however, on the rare occasions that he has actual days off (that you force him to take), he likes to sit in a sunny place and nod off, softly snoring. or, in the mornings, he doesn’t move from his bed until well into the afternoon, catching up on the sleep he’s been missing out on and really needs.

⭒ ꒰ 𝐱𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐫 ꒱ ⨾ he’s not exactly a golden retriever boy, but he sure is close. he’s more like a smiley corgi that enjoys his special spot on the bed, just out of the sun. xavier has moderate energy, and he really likes his naps. especially when he gets to lay his head comfortably on your lap and snooze. whenever it’s his turn to cook dinner, though, he always happens to be sleeping so very soundly when you come to tell it’s five in the evening and time to get the meal going. you don’t really have the heart to disturb him.

⊹ ꒰ 𝐫𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐥 ꒱ ⨾ yeah. it’s pretty self explanatory about what kinda guy this one is. he likes to sleep in the bath. you worry he’ll drown sometimes, and then you remember who he truly is. occasionally, when you both bathe together, he’ll become unresponsive and yes, he’s dozed off. doesn’t care about pruned toes or fingers, rafayel’ll stay in there all night. and then he catches a cold that makes him whinier than usual. such is the life of babysitting a twenty-four-year-old toddler on a daily basis.

erm. call this the side effects of sleep deprivation, school torment, procrastination from an english assignment that’s due tomorrow and brainrotting. and I have a headache. so here u guys go 💛

AND! for those who sent me requests for l&ds, I SEE YOU AND NO I HAVENT FORGOTTEN!! your requests are in the works, don’t worry. I just need to find the time, energy and motivation to get them done. so! yes, everyone is still free to send in requests as they will remain open for the foreseeable future <3

[christronomy]

he flips you over roughly, without warning, stuffing one pillow under your hips and another under your head, then lifts your hips up slightly, propping you up for him. you can't even move on your own at this point, your mind is hazy with him. everything is just him. he presses his free hand into your lower back to hold you in place, tapping his cock against your entrance a few times before slipping back in and continuing his harsh ministrations, no buildup. he knows you're already too numb on the pleasure to complain, but you love the pain either way.

you squeal in surprise, practically drooling onto the pillow already as he bullies into your aching hole with his cock. how he hits that spot inside you that makes you melt and get all dizzy with pleasure every single time, you don't know. but what you do know is that he was right. he's nowhere near done with you and you're learning your lesson. you're all his. he's not gonna stop until you understand that.

"you're all fucking mine, hear that?" he starts, as he flips you over yet again, this time putting your legs up all the way, as far as they can go, practically folding you in half. you look up at him with wide, teary eyes, body quivering from the impending orgasm he's been making you hold off for a while now. "channie's. all channie's. all yours," you mumble, your words slurring, and he chuckles softly, his chest swelling at how cute you look when you're dumb on his cock like this.

"'s right. and trust me, baby. once i'm done with you, you won’t have any space left in that pretty little mind of yours for anyone else but me."

[wreckedandpolemic]

helloo can you write something on actress readerxmatty? 👉👈

sorry u sent this 103747294 million years ago i Hope ur still around to see this

(minors dni) but i’ve had a problematic age gap celebrity reader idea bouncing around my mind palace for soo long like i'm picturing you're in your early twenties and on top of the world <3 just starred in your breakout role, it girl of the summer type stuff. and you're close friends with another younger artist matty's been working with, so you hear all these stories about him and 'i think you'd really like him, babe, honestly!' with a look. and, look, you're not not interested, but you just got out of a shitty relationship, and your career is really taking off, and– good god, he's hot.

he's visibly older than you, greying a little, all sharp lines and tattoos and vintage leather, a sly smile pulling at his lip when he catches you staring. he raises his glass to you, tilting his head in invitation. as if by some magnetic pull, your feet carry you into the seat beside him.

"hi," you say, waving down the bartender and ordering yourself a cocktail. "i'm a friend of thea's," you tell him, before he thinks you're some kind of stalker.

his mouth drops in an 'o' of recognition. "oh, shit," matty chuckles. "you're the girl from the... the film!" his face splits in a stupidly gorgeous grin, and you're sold, like you're a teenager with a crush all over again.

you raise an eyebrow, fighting to maintain your composure. "you saw it?"

"yeah," he says, eyes flickering down to your lips and sending a thrill skittering up your spine. "you were really good." from the way he's undressing you with his eyes, he's thinking about the shot of your tits. "i'm matty, by the way," he adds.

"i know," you grin. matty watches you curiously and you lean closer, turning your best bedroom eyes on him. he takes the bait, pink tongue flickering out to wet his lips unconsciously.

you expect him to be gone the next morning, expect the lingering memory of his hands on your skin to fade to a story you'll dramatise to your friends. and when his side of the bed is cold, you resolve to move on with your day, not to dither on your conversation, on his laugh, on his head between your thighs. then, he sticks his head around your door, hair mussed and dressed in nothing but boxers. you break into a smile, warmth flooding your chest. god, you really are like a teenager with a crush.

"morning, love," he grins, his voice low and thick with sleep. "where d'you keep your coffee?"

you blink in disbelief, the mundane, domestic question an impossibility rattling through your cynical mind. "it's, uh..." you sit up, raking a hand through your tangled hair. "i'll show you."

you spend the summer falling wildly, dramatically in love, like something out of one of your early, low-budget indie films. but, leaves change, summers end, real life comes creeping back in. you're shooting on location through september, thousands of miles away on a packed schedule, practically tearing your hair out trying to find time for him between filming and interviews and reshoots and whatever the fuck else is grappling for your attention.

the sky is overcast when you land. fitting. your co-star is a tall, blond, all-american type. the kind of man your fans, your agent, and even your parents are falling over themselves to see you date. so, naturally, you hate him. he's brash, abrasive in a way that's supposed to be charming but just comes off self-aggrandising. you grit your teeth and smile through it – you love your job, and you're having fun with the movie, but every second you spend playing at falling in love in soft, sunny los angeles makes you ache for sharp, rainy england and the man waiting there for you.

it's october by the time you get a few days to yourself, driven to distraction by tinny phone calls and grainy facetimes and nothing but your hand between your legs. you've been shooting the same kiss scene from a dozen angles for hours, desperately aggravated by your co-star's grin every time you pull apart, like he's just waiting for you to fall for him, and by knowing that matty is somewhere over the atlantic right now, inching closer by the second.

you're unfocused, and you can tell you're throwing the shoot, wasting daylight. ultimately, you're only prolonging your suffering (bit dramatic, but, hey, that's what you're paid for), but you've never been more grateful to have a director glare directly at you while wrapping. you nod dutifully as he gives his notes, the words going in one ear and straight back out the other, chased out by the singular thought circling your brain: in a few hours, none of this is going to matter because you'll have matty back.

you book it to the hotel, practically diving into the shower to to scrub yourself clean of your co-star's spidery hands. matty texts you that he's landed, and your body hums with anticipation as you get dressed. well, 'dressed' might be a stretch. a scrap of white lace clings to your waist, the matching babydoll dress doing nothing to protect your dignity. smirking to yourself, you snap a photo of your garter belt and the stockings clipped on, and send it to him. hurry please xx, you add. his reply is immediate. fuck. you're killing me.

the minutes tick by agonisingly slowly, every second weighing on you like a physical pain. finally, after what feels like hours, there's a soft tap at your door. you fluff your hair in the mirror, wiping at a smudge in your lipgloss with a thumb. taking your time while knowing matty's only feet away from you is excruciating, but there's still something delicious about making him sweat. he knows it too, playing your game and waiting instead of using his own key.

the moment you open the door, his mouth is on yours, hungry, open-mouthed kisses stealing the breath from your lungs. you luxuriate in the taste of him, familiar and intoxicating. "thank god," you mutter against his lips as he pulls away. "i was starting to forget what being kissed is supposed to feel like." something dark glitters in his eyes, spurring you on. "spent all day with that prick trying to chew my face off."

"well," he begins, jealousy scraping in his tone. "i guess we'll have to find a way to help you forget, then."

"mmm, is that so?" you whisper, taking a calculated step back. "how are you gonna do that, healy?"

the words die in his throat at the sight of you, his gaze burning as it roams over every inch of your skin, arousal pooling in your core and dripping between your legs. "you look..." he fumbles for words as you grin.

"i know."

[virtue-and-beneviolence]

Matching tattoos with the tokrev cast

Ft. Draken, Hanma, Mitsuya, Baji

Matching rings - Draken

Draken is nothing if not practical and loyal. Being pragmatic, and realizing he works with his hands in a messy, oily profession, he hardly wears even his wedding band. It bothers him more than it bothers you, but one day he decides enough is enough and opts to just tattoo a permanent band on his finger, with your initials on the palm side of his hand. He insists you don't have to follow suit but little does he know, you love the idea of his dragon tattoo on the scale of jewelery for your matching tattoo.

Bite marks - Hamna

He is cringe but he is free; never a slave to the fear of a goofy trend aging poorly. He takes you to the studio for moral support that you're well aware he doesn't need. He hasn't told you his idea. When his usual artist cuts to the chase and asks his chaotic friend what the plan is, Shuji only rolls up his sleeve and tells you to bite him as hard as you can. Of course. You laugh. You bite him and it's inked into permeance in his skin.

On the last few passes before he wipes shuji clean and wraps him up you catch the artist off guard and ask if he has time for another. So what if the world saw that some pair of idiots' love language was biting?

Each other's handwriting - Mitsuya

Mitsuya isn't shy about it. You're his favorite model and muse, the figure he sketches when he designs. To you, nothing feels more apropos than the thought of him signing your body the way he signs his sketches. For his, your habit of leaving him sneaky encouraging notes during stressful buyer weeks or fashion shows leave him awestruck by his luck to have nabbed you. He asks your permission to get your little letter sign-off tattooed near his wrist on his forearm. You agree on the condition that he agree to sign your skin.

Coordinating images - Baji

A dumpster, and a fire. A match box and a lighter. A possom and raccoon. A fork and a spoon. Bread and butter. If it's goofy and nonsensical, he's proposed it. Baji is the certified kind of silly bullshit tattoos and you won't convince me otherwise. Baji too, is cringe but free when it comes to his ink. I hope you are too bc one day he will wear you down and you will end up with some funny coordinating tattoo(s).

There may well be more parts

[psychopomparia]

Imagining Sunday when he got his wings pierced:

CW: Mature, erogenous zone, NEEDLE, suggestive. I...had thoughts and I wanted to write them; no proof read btw; wrote this on a whim. I hope this is not too OOC, we only know so much on Sunday so...

What if Sunday's wings were sensitive? A light touch to them causes him to flinch; those calm eyes widen for a split second at the interaction. Yet, Sunday wears those studs on his wings. Two spiky studs to be exact. If a mere graze of a hand caused his shoulders to stiffen slightly, how did those piercings make him react?

The sight of Sunday going to Halovian piercing studio in his youthful days. As a member of the Family, he ought to look presentable. Perhaps, an added accessory to his wings would increase his aesthetics?

Yet, a Halovian's wings are a bit..sensitive to say the least. They are one's pride and joy, but also one's weak point if messed around. If anything, it might seem like a form of masochism for a Halovian to even get piercing on their wings. As the representative of the Family, he is willing to endure all types of pain - even for the sake of the Harmony.

So, there he was, in a private lounge with his hands folded on his lap. He reclines back on the leather chair, and the smell of rubbing alcohol lingers around him. His gloved thumb fiddles with the satin handkerchief to calm his nerves. The man tending to him reassured Sunday that he was a professional. Any unsightly behavior from the Halovian would remain in this room; no one would hear of what happens in this room. This is a private matter.

As soon as the man started cleaning his wing, Sunday's shoulders tensed up. Cold liquid pouring on his wing meant to disinfect it, but all it did was send shivers down his spine. He bit the inside of his cheek to remain composed and his eyes remained shut. While the piercer searched his drawer for the needle, Sunday squirmed around in in chair. One hand rests on the armrest while the other rests under his chin -the handkerchief grazing his lips.

He knew the next step. He's had his ears pierced before with his sister. That needle would mark him and stab into his flesh. But, that was their ear. It lasted a few minutes and only felt a dull, sharp pain. No, this time it's his wings. A more erogenous area for him.

The area for his piercing is marked. He asked for two piercings, so double the penetration. Double the consequences. The hairs on the back of Sunday's neck rose yet his outward appearance seemed placid. Despite the lingering cold sensation on his wings giving him goosebumps, that signature calm smile bore on his face.

Would it change once the needle went it?

Yes.

The needle's penetration into his wing causes the carefully crafted facade of Sunday to slip out. Now, his hand gripped forcefully on the armrest while the other clenches the handkerchief; the one he's currently biting into. It's difficult to suppress the whimpers, but muffling them is the least he can do. His eyes rolled back slightly while tears crept in. An overwhelming sensation of pain and arousal bubbled inside him. It hurt, but Aeons, it felt so good. The needle struck again for the second hole causing him to whine softly. His body squirms around like those origami birds stuck in cramped spaces.

"Too much," Sunday babbles to himself. It's too incoherent and soft for the piercer to notice. Dazed, Sunday didn't realize the piercer had already inserted the studs into the new holes. Soon, he began cleaning the area again. Sunday's jaw slacks as the liquid coats his wings for the second time. Any thoughts he had faded and only heat consumed him. Everything felt numb to him. He was unaware that the piercer completed his job and begun explaining the aftercare.

Sunday took the handkerchief loosely hanging from his mouth quickly and dabbed the corners of his mouth. He blinked quickly to regain his composure, even if his cheeks were flushed. The piercer jotted down a few remainders on a notepad to reinforce his explanation. He could sense Sunday's disoriented state. The man patted Sunday on his back and made his way to the exit. All Sunday could understand was that the man needed to attend to other clients, but he could feel free and calm himself down in the room. The room is a private longue after all. Equipped with soundproof padding and a lock. As soon as the man left, the words finally hit him.

His gaze peered at the hand mirror on the work table, and now he understood what the man meant by "calm himself down." Sunday looked absolutely debauched. His eyes were cloudy and watery from the impending tears. Mouth agape and lips glossy with saliva. His face was flushed, and small beads of sweat dripped past his cheek. He could clearly see and feel how horny he was. The blood flowing down south made itself present through twitching thighs. A gloved hand snakes down to palm his erection. A soft groan escapes him, and he closes his eyes to enjoy the sensation. A libidinous thought occurs to him. Perhaps, he could indulge in "calming methods."

After all, aftercare is essential in any piercing.

[canarydarity]

(mooooooooooore DL rancher angst. because what else am I good for </3 /j)

No matter how you looked at it, the knock was startlingly out of place; it was late, late enough that a truce-like state should have fallen over the players, late enough that no one would want to risk running into more mobs than they could handle; it was peaceful, they hadn’t accrued more than a single pair of red names so far, and he didn’t think they’d given Ren and Bigb a reason to come after them—at least, not more than anyone else had; it was also them, all season people had been coming and going from the ranch as they pleased, not an ounce of courtesy in sight. If someone really wanted to come in, they woulda just done it. 

So, all in all…a knock?

Tango was already up and halfway across the room by the time his brain had synthesized these as the reasons why. 

Behind him, Jimmy called a wobbly and worried “Tangooo?” 

“Just,” Tango threw a hand backward towards the bed in hopes of staving off Jimmy’s shadow until he figured out what was going on. “Stay there, for a second.” 

Like some cut-off had been reached, the second he was close enough to wrap his hand around the handle all haste had vanished—the feeling of urgency holding a negative association with his proximity to the door. He’d had the nerve to get up, to get himself there, but getting his hand to turn and push was an entirely different thing. 

The door not yet having been opened, the possibility of what was waiting for him on the other side yawned and stretched towards endless. In a way, not knowing but speculating was worse than just opening the damn thing and facing the one singular scenario that was, but that was why he struggled to do it. Schrodinger’s danger—this was stupid; Tango opened the door. 

No one was there. 

He blinked in the face of its emptiness for a moment. Of all the situations he had considered, absolutely zero of them included opening the door to nothing. The one definite thing a knock spoke to was the presence of someone—something. So, what, they risked the middle of the night in peace times to come to the ranch they all loved barging into anyway to ding-dong ditch? That seemed, like, a gazillion times more unlikely.  

Tango moved to shut the door, trying to shake off the adrenaline, the too-familiar feeling of someone else being a step ahead of him and bemused by it. He ducked to turn back to Jimmy, play the brave one, laugh it off in hopes Jimmy would follow, and then, he saw: just a glint in the corner of his eye, something small and shiny on the doorstep. 

A golden apple. 

Tango stared at it the way you’d stare at a car crash you hadn’t the chance to get out of the way of in time, the look a doctor had in their eye when they announced your prognosis was bad, abysmal, terminal. It was the brightest thing for yards—a glowing, unignorable fixed point; the kind of bright that in tree frogs usually indicated poisonous, the kind of glowy cartoonists made chemicals when they wanted you to know falling in would reduce you to bones. And it just sat there. 

“Tango,” behind him, the bed creaked. “What is it?” 

Urgency returned, and, with renewed purpose, Tango moved once more. Fear flooded his senses again—it hadn’t really gotten very far to begin with—but this time it was of a different breed, born from someplace else. He tried to both square himself in the doorway, block the view out, and regain nonchalance, affecting some sort of behavior that would convince Jimmy to just leave things be. “Nothing, don—”

But Jimmy was already behind him, and Tango wasn’t tall enough to obstruct his line of sight. 

“Oh.”

And it sort of felt like Tango had failed. Failed what he didn’t know but by the stone in his stomach he knew that he had. He tracked the feeling all the way down his throat and through his middle, getting hooked and snagging on his organs as it went, pulling them with it until he was completely out of alignment, rearranged all wrong; the moment where you opened a test booklet and realized you didn’t know a single answer. 

He shook his head, an aborted no becoming no more than a breath that passed his lips at just the right angle to whistle or whine. He bent down and picked up the apple, and, no sooner than he stood again, lobbed it down the hill towards the ravine in some effort to rectify even a modicum of his uselessness. The apple thunked hard into the dewy late-night grass, probably rolled somewhere out of the way; he didn’t know, he couldn't see it anymore—he’d have to grab it and dispose of it at some point, but he could do that in the morning. He had other things to attend to. 

Tango shut the door and turned to assess the damage. 

Jimmy’s arms were goosebumped where they were exposed—just his white undershirt left on to sleep in—and his head was tilted down, the top of it visible to Tango more than anything else, his hair not mused enough yet to be called bedhead though it was certainly a start. Tango took a step towards him, crowded him just a little, placed one of his hands on Jimmy’s waist, skin warmth bleeding through the thin cotton, and the other on the junction where his shoulder met his neck. Jimmy stayed looking down. 

Tango couldn’t think of a single fucking thing to say. 

After a few seconds, Jimmy sniffled, pulled up one of his hands and ran it across his nose, mushed it into his cheek. 

“Hey,” he ventured softly, in the absence of any other thought. Jimmy only glanced up slightly. “Let's…go back to bed, yeah?”

If it hadn’t already been clear that all chances of sleep had been banished by the panic of a late-night knock, it was by the way they both responded to that statement by sitting on the side of the bed rather than lying back down. A haze had fallen over the room, a trance-like state prompting them to move in the way they thought they should, in the way it seemed they were being directed; their actions pre-determined, someone else's hand on the joystick. Robotically, they maneuvered onto the bed side-by-side, silence still reigning, eye contact (from one party) still vehemently denied.  

And it just…wasn’t fair. The way there was no period of wondering between the discovery and the understanding, the way Tango didn’t see the apple and question why it was there, but rather knew, innately, what was being poked, prodded at. He hadn’t stopped to doubt, he hadn’t been confused, and maybe that’s what was the most upsetting—not the presence of the apple alone, but the way the person who left it was confident its message would be interpreted without fail. The way Tango was complicit by letting it.

It was the fact that he hadn’t opened the door to a trap or an ambush, but to a taunt; the apple not left behind as some sort of distraction, someone waiting to break in the back while they looked out the front, but as something else entirely, something completely unrelated to the game and its progression. There were no hidden motives, no ulterior plans—only the sadistic amusement that came with throwing a rock into a pond just to see the fish scatter. It didn’t put whoever did it ahead, it didn’t force them to fall any more behind. It just was, and it was cruel. 

Jimmy was still silently staring at the opposing wall, the both of them not even bothering to pretend they weren’t dwelling, and the more Tango sat in the discomfort that had fallen over the ranch, the more he thought, the angrier he got. He couldn’t just be here anymore and not do a single fucking thing about it. He leaned nearly entirely off the bed in his reach for his shoes, shoved his feet into them without precision or care about their security, and was up, diverting on his way towards the door to scrunch the fabric of his vest and pull it off the back of the chair it rested on, before turning on his heel and then he was off—

He was stopped with a hand gripping his forearm in its passing by, came to with Jimmy shouting “Tango!” for what he knew likely wasn’t the first time. 

Tango looked. Jimmy hadn’t gotten off the bed, but he’d leaned forward to latch onto Tango and stop his campaign, his eyebrows raised in misery, his lips downturned in upset. He wasn’t looking away, just around; his eyes landing on the wall behind where Tango was standing, on the door that had remained quiet since they’d shut it again, on Tango’s chest, or his hand around Tango’s arm. It was the closest Tango had gotten to eye contact in minutes. 

“What are you gonna walk around in the dark ‘til you find who put that there?”

Yes, if he had to—if that’s what it took. But before he could even begin to open his mouth, Jimmy pled, “Tango…” like he hadn’t really been asking, like he’d been hoping saying it would confirm Tango knew that idea was nonsense, not that Tango had been meaning to try regardless. It begged for common sense, it betrayed its wish to concede. 

Tango let out all the air he’d reserved for his returning argument as a heavy breath, almost a sigh, a huff. Its frustration was clear. He knew he wasn’t going to find them, he knew there was no conclusion to be had, he knew the joke had already hit and the moment had already ended. He knew that. But he also knew that complacency wasn’t the answer, and that Jimmy deserved to be fought for. 

He could’ve gone out anyway, walked around until the sun started coming up and all the mobs turned to ash—hell, he could’ve knocked on goddamn doors, inspired the same kind of fear in everyone else that a late night interruption in a game like this did them, and then demanded answers, no more Mr. nice guy. At least that way, he wouldn’t have had to lay back down, to have the conversation he hadn’t stopped thinking about since. 

But Jimmy said, “Can we just go back to bed? Please?” And knew it was a request that couldn’t be denied, knew the power in this interaction that being the victim afforded him, and knew how to play his cards to get Tango to fold. 

Tango took his shoes off, again, kicked them out of the way of the bed, gestured behind Jimmy with the hand that wasn’t being detained. Jimmy scooted backward on the bed, Tango’s forearm still in hand like the moment he let go Tango would dash immediately out the door, or dematerialize entirely, maybe; or even…run down the hill in search of something shimmering gold, and find himself unable to resist just one sweet bite. Tango followed him, nudged his shoulder until he complied and laid back down, allowing Tango to pull him closer as he did too. 

Jimmy still didn’t look at him. They were nearly eye to eye, only one pillow to share between them both, face to face in the dark; their foreheads leaning against one another, shifting away only to find each other again after any and all movement. 

Tango watched the sentence form on Jimmy's lips, watched his face rearrange throughout the composing of the question, the stringing of the words in a line, packaging them to be delivered. He swallowed as he awaited its transmission. 

“If it weren’t against the rules, would you…?”

And Tango said, “It is against the rules,” before that could get any further. The wrong answer. He knew immediately after he said it that it was, and he’d kick himself for it if he could any feasibly at all without getting Jimmy in the crossfire. He knew better than to give a non-answer, but he hadn’t been responding to the actual question, his first thought only stop—a futile hope he could head off Jimmy’s negative feedback loop by undermining it at its core. Another failure on his part. 

Jimmy closed his eyes, shook his head, “But if it weren’t—”

“No.” 

Tango placed one of his hands on Jimmy’s cheek, tilted his head back up towards his, but Jimmy’s eyes remained trained down. “No,” he repeated—he insisted. He didn’t need the eye contact to know Jimmy didn’t believe him. 

He leaned up and kissed Jimmy on the forehead, slid his hand from his cheek to the back of his neck and held him closer, but neither of them fell asleep for a while.

[thsc-confessions]

"this fandom is what got me into reading fanfics" submitted by @cyancatart

[lemonluvgirl]

Katniss: Then you said that they had to have their Victor, and it made me think. So many thoughts flew through my mind in those few seconds while you were talking. Im sorry to say I wasnt really listening. I was thinking. About the games, about you and me and the rule change, and everything we'd been through. How hard we fought to survive. How many others died and how horrible their deaths were. And I thought if you died and I lived, even if I went home to Prim and my mother, my mind would stay trapped in the arena forever. Everything I had tried to do after losing Rue would have been for nothing. It would have just been for myself. All I would have to show for it would have been own my miserable life. Which I realized was no prize worth keeping if it meant losing everything decent and good about me. Just like you tried to tell me the night before the Games started. I didn't realize it until that moment, I had been too busy trying to survive to digure out what surving would cost. But Somehow, right then, when you asked me to shoot you, I knew that nothing would ever be the same. Not even going home to Prim would fix it. But if we went home together then at least it was something. At least we hadn't completely succumbed. We had kept a part of ourselves, however small, that refused to hate, refused to kill. That chose to protect and save one another instead. None of these thoughts were really clear at the time. They passed by so fast. It was just the vague impression of these things in the moment, all tangled up together like a great knot. But the feeling of all of them working together inside of me, was something I couldn't ignore. I'd never have been able to really go home without you. No part of me, the old me would have survived if you had died for me to win. Which was in its own way selfish, but... anyway. So that's why I pulled out the berries.

Peeta:*looks away thoughtfully*

Peeta: *after a long moment, looks back with tears in his eyes* I...

Peeta: *reaches over and wraps his arms around Katniss, pulling her into a deep hug. Presses his face into her hair.

Peeta: *mumbling* You're not selfish. You're not. Don't say that.

Katniss: *slowly raises her arms and hugs him back* I think I am. But maybe that's OK. Because in the end it meant keeping you. I mean, not that you're mine--I mean--

Peeta: *laughing/crying* oh, Katniss. I'm yours. I've always been yours.

[alienaiver]

"that's it. i'm removing you from the roster until you've stopped by the doctor."

you look at midoriya in disbelief. unable to keep yourself poised at his final decision, your shoulders slump and the exhaustion washes over you like a wave. he's seen through you.

it's been a year since your near-death experience with an all-too-powerful villain and while shinsou took great care of you during your recovery, something's been off ever since - you haven't been able to put a finger on it, though, so you decided to do what every self-sacrificing hero does: you powered through. until there was no power left to muscle your way out of it. and now it's become visible to others too. you have a feeling shinsou might've ratted you out, but you don't blame him. you'd done the same if it were him.

you get home in a daze and fall face first onto the bed. you don't wake up until you feel the weight shift and the warmth of shinsou's lips touches your cheek. but you don't have the energy to react with more than a hum. your eyelids are so heavy. there's a ringing in your ears but it's so constant that it just feels like a persistent buzz. shinsou says something as he settles behind you, arms wrapping themselves around you. for a while, you think there's silence but he says your name sternly in a voice he only uses when he knows you're not entirely listening to him. huh. you're mostly used to hearing it on the battlefield.

"i'm worried about you."

you sigh and hum, pushing yourself weakly back onto him, "'ve got a doc's appointment..... tomorrow."

he kisses the crown of your head, "okay... okay, good."

he's drawing soft circles into your arm and you drift away again. he wakes you when there's dinner and you perk up again slightly, but not enough to make him stop worrying his lip between his teeth. you fall asleep fifteen minutes into a movie later that night.

you put on your shoes and lock the door behind you, putting the keys in your pocket as you turn for the stairs at the end of the hall. you really wish there'd been an elevator in your building right now. as you walk down the steps, your feet feels heavier but you chalk it up to be your shoes. it's the sneakers you don't wear that often, but it's too cold for sandals today. you shrug it off and just concentrate more on walking.

the doctor goes through your symptoms with you but there's hardly any, you reassure her. you're just so exhausted no matter how many hours you sleep. she warns you that you may be sleeping too much. you agree with a laugh - you don't remember ever sleeping so many hours, having been an insomniac your entire youth. she does some blood tests and sends you home, saying you'll be called in when the answers are back.

the days that pass are all a blur. without your shifts at the agency, time becomes fuzzy around the edges. you don't have to get up, so you just stay in bed, since you've been told you need to rest anyways. on the third day you wake up to several notes on the bedside table, the bathroom mirror and the kitchen counter and fridge from shinsou with various reminders about eating and drinking properly and where he's stocked some snacks and prepped some food for you to reheat easily. you chuckle and shake your head at his antics. you're just tired, is all. the headaches comes with the job, you remind yourself as you try to gently massage out the tension in your neck to relieve your pounding head. he might be right about the water intake - you grab the cold bottle he's put in the fridge for you and brings it with you to the bed.

"i think you should call and ask if they've gotten the answers yet." shinsou says matter-of-factly and you nod, "yeah, it has been a few days. but it's the weekend, right? i'll call on monday." and that ends the conversation.

monday comes but you forget to call, even if you've been determined to do so. by the time you remember, the office is closed for the day. you sigh heavily and fall back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. you prepare the apology for shinsou on your tongue before you drift off.

tuesday morning your phone rings - several times. you finally reach out and pick up, thinking it's shinsou.

"i do apologize for the wait. the doctor unfortunately had to take some time off last week, but we have your results. will you be able to come in today?"

you agree, dragging yourself up. there's more energy in you today, but it should've been way more given the intense rest you've been having. you put on one of shinsou's hoodies and a pair of sweats before you drag yourself to the kitchen to grab a bite.

turns out, you suffer from anemia. an intense, prolonged form and need medication as soon as possible. shinsou's livid when he comes home and gets the news, angry that it has been missed when the agency periodically keeps an eye on their heroes' health. you sit on the chair with your hands folded like a child being scolded and try to laugh it off, "come on now, hito. i just need to take some medication and i'll be fine. the usual blood tests the past year haven't covered that - even if they should, i know," you hurry to add, "but i'll be fine, i promise."

shinsou sighs and his whole body slumps, leaning against the table you're sitting by. you take his hand, "i'm okay."

he visibly relaxes but there's something he's holding back. you've been together since high school, so you can read him like a book. you squeeze his hand, "open up."

he clicks his tongue with furrowed brows before he opens his mouth, "you've had these symptoms for months. why didn't you tell me?"

you look at the ground, guilt written on your face. mostly, because you don't have a proper answer to give him. you don't know why you didn't - the symptoms had all been sneaking up on you, snaking their way into your body quietly and suddenly it'd just become so chronic that you'd normalized it. you let out an apology and he squeeze your hand back, "it's okay to not have an answer. but please, can we be mindful of things like this in the future?"

you smile at him, "only if you continue to make the little post-it notes. they're adorable - especially your small doodles of dogs."

shinsou hides his face in his hands with a groan, "they were cats."

[suddencolds]

writing a snzfic and realizing no one has sneezed in the last 500 words and scrolling anxiously up to find a place to fit a sneeze into the dialogue

[tirednapentity]

Hunter is going to die.

He is going to perish, all the blood pumping through his body is going to make his heart explode and by god, he will die happy. His breath feels too light and too heavy at the same time in his lungs as he moves even closer.

Willow’s hands cup the sides of his face again. She’s standing tall, a bit on her tip-toes and still, he has to look down at her. She’s already so close, and the smile on her lips is like clear sunrays cast onto water. She tilts his head forward a little, and he moves with her to press his forehead against hers. The tangle of dark hair falling into her face presses against his skin. Her eyes blur together into one smear of beautiful pale green from here. She’s so beautiful it hurts – it honest to titan aches somewhere deep in his ribs as his body struggles to contain the love swelling in his chest.

“It’s okay if you’re nervous,” she says, and she almost sounds a little nervous herself, but only almost. “Do you want me to…?”

He can already feel Willow’s warm breath against his face. Hunter takes a deep, deep breath and holds it for a second before releasing it. “No,” he says, barely holding back the incoherent, messy screaming that wants to rush out of him. “I’m just…”

And then he trails off, because his brain is frying a little more with every second Willow has his face in her hands and her head against his, and finally, finally leans down.

Her lips taste faintly like the warm tea she always has in her water bottle and a bit of chapstick. They’re soft where they press against his. His heart roars in his chest as he reaches up to wrap his arms around her shoulders. One of her hands shifts to cup his neck as she leans further into him.

They stop kissing after hardly a moment. It wasn’t even anything that grand, he knows somewhere in the microscopically small corner of his mind that isn’t screaming incoherently about having just kissed Willow park on the lips, but he still feels like he’s just lifted a slitherbeast over his head with one arm. He’s still holding her.

Her cheeks are bathed in pink, and her smile is wide across her face, and somehow that is unbearable to look at. She is going to give him a heart attack. Can he even have a heart attack? If not, than she’s gorgeous enough to make him have one anyway, Hunter thinks as he buries his face in her shoulder.

“Oh,” he says, because that is the only sound he’s capable of producing at the moment. “I think I’m gonna pass out.”

A tremor shifts through her body, and it takes him a second to realize she’s laughing. Her arms wrap around his waist.

“Don’t worry,” she says, voice light as a summer breeze. “I’ll catch you if you do.”

[desperatecheesecubes]

As much as Bruce still professes to ‘work alone’ it is true that the bat cave is rarely empty, these days. His children, and the children that are not his but are his responsibility, gather in clusters throughout the cave at all hours. And yet, Bruce finds himself nearly alone this early morning, post patrol. Nearly alone, Bruce thinks over a cup of tea (Alfred has been a tremendous influence on him) because just stepping out of the showers is Jason. And his hair is dripping wet.

He never did take the time to dry it, Bruce muses. It is almost comforting to see that this habit has stuck with him.

When Dick first came to live in Wayne manor Bruce had, semi regularly, helped him towel off after washing. Not because a 9 year old child needed help but because Dick was a very tactile child and because Bruce, largely, was a very non tactile adult. And so it became a habit where Bruce would dry Dick’s hair by playfully attacking his head with a towel until Dick would inevitably and full of laughter beg him to stop. But Bruce would simply kiss his forehead and keep right on doing it because he could, and it was fun, and also because Bruce loved to hear Dick’s joyful laugh.

Jason had come to the manner at an older age than Dick had. Although there were only three years between 9 and 12, developmentally there was a canyon between the two. On top of this Jason was initially very distrustful of Bruce, and by the end their relationship had been strained. But there had been, briefly, a time in between where Bruce would dry his hair after patrol and kiss his second son’s forehead as well.

Hmmmm. Putting the tea cup down Bruce made his way down from the raised platform of the bat computer to where Jason sat taping his knuckles. Jason was using his guns less, it was true, but he seemingly could not be persuaded to stop punching criminals in the face (angrily). And also the cops (delightedly). And also his siblings (usually playfully, Bruce will admit). And also Bruce (definitely not playfully). His hands, Bruce noted, were actually dry.

Grabbing a towel from the shelf stealthily Bruce walked up to Jason. ‘You look like you missed a spot.’ He said, aiming for a conversational tone.

‘Wuh? With my knuckles?’ Jason began in confusion. He half turned towards Bruce, face scrunched up in irritation.

So Bruce threw the towel right over it and cheerfully began attacking his hair from both directions. ‘Your hair isn’t dry.’ He declared, aiming for that slightly higher pitched voice he used when the kids were younger, making sure to smoosh Jason’s face as well as his hair.

‘Bruce what the fuck! Get off of me!’ Jason barked, trying bat Bruce’s hands away. Bruce of course just twisted out of the way and rubbed harder.

‘You can’t be walking around with wet hair Jason, you’ll catch a cold!’ He practically sang. Jason finally got wise and yanked the towel from Bruce’s hands, glaring up at him angrily. Bruce just grinned, expecting this, and tilted Jason’s face up to kiss his forehead.

‘Gah!’ Jason eloquently responded.

Taking advantage of his momentary confusion Bruce grabbed the towel back and resumed his ministrations on Jason’s hair.

‘Oh my god!’ Jason cried. ‘You’ve lost your mind. Stop that!’ He tried to yank the towel away again but Bruce brought the towel up over his face roughly, preventing him. When Jason made to grab Bruce around the hips to knock him over, Bruce whipped the towel off and kissed Jason’s forehead again.

By now Jason was laughing inspite of himself, and Bruce was grinning, feeling more comforted and relaxed than he had in a very long time. The two continued their antics for a while more before Jason finally managed to hook a leg around Bruce’s ankle, tipping him forward.

‘Oof’ Bruce grunted, as Jason’s shoulder caught him in the stomach, but Jason just twisted slightly so that he could bring his arms around Bruce’s waist and lean his head against his chest. ‘I love you, Jason.’ Bruce said, hugging him tightly back.

‘Yeah yeah, you old lug. I can dry my own hair you know!’

‘Clearly not, considering how wet it was.’

‘Oh my god, dad, it’s fine.’

‘Hmmm’

‘Was that jasmine tea you were drinking? Can I have some?’

‘There should be enough for another cup in the pot.’

[angelizs]

[Valentine's first winter - Riddle Rosehearts]

Summary: Through the haziness of his sickness, your light shines through. You stay by his side and Riddle's heart blossoms for you.

Notes: gn!reader, sickfic, fluff, could be read as a continuation of my other Riddle oneshot but it's not necessary to understand, super self indulgent, established relationship, Riddle's mother is it's own warning

Spring is the time for warmth, the time to watch the flowers bloom and appreciate the calming breeze. Winter is the contrary, it's the time for the chill, the time for the skies to open and cry onto the earth. 

Riddle usually was prepared for such times, of course. He'd check the weather cast everyday to make sure to bring an umbrella or a coat with him and text you to do the same. The thing is, he was also very busy, what with the finals weeks and winter vacation coming, as the Housewarden he had to deal with more paperwork than usual and keep an eye on the Heartslabyul's students to make sure they were keeping up with their studies. Since Trey wasn't the vice housewarden anymore, having moved on to the next grade and doing his reasearch somewhere at the Queendom of Roses, Riddle had more work than he was used to.

You made sure to check on him, reminding him to take breaks periodically. You even went to his room yourself, a tray of hand made sweets and tea in your hands. Riddle could feel the warmth of spring through his entire being as he looked at your gentle smile. He'd stop everything he was doing to spend some time with you, talking about your days in a way that brought peace for his soul for a moment, no thoughts spared for the mountains of paperwork left to do.

Still, it was due to having such a stressful schedule that he got too caught up with his work and forgot to check the weather cast one day. It was only one day, a little slip, but it cost him. On that day, Lady Luck turned her head away from him and the heavens poured onto the campus of NRC. What's worst, Riddle had been on the botanical garden when it happened, tending to his alchemy experiment. He only noticed the downpour once it was too late to run back safely, getting caught in the middle of it.

And that's how Riddle Rosehearts found himself on the nurse's office, body burning up and cursing his unattentiveness.

Riddle remembers when he got sick once, as a child. He felt terrible, hot all over, sweating and dizzy. What's worse, he couldn't concentrate on his books at all, his eyes felt heavy and kept closing on their own. He just wanted to sleep, but he still had to finish one exercise. His hands trembled as he tried to write some gibberish, he'd never felt so bad before. His eyes watered and his vision was blurry, words getting mixed with the others, although there was one thing he could see clear as day. His mother disappointed face as she came to check on him. 

She put the back of her hand against his forehead and the cold felt so good against his burning skin, he couldn't help but lean into it, closing his eyes in relief and letting out a whimper. The sensation was gone sooner than it appeared, leaving Riddle to almost topple over with the weight of his own head. She said something about him not listening when she warned him about the climate change, as winter approaching tended to bring such colds. He couldn't listen properly, his head was full of mush, he could barely keep his eyes open. She tutted and grabbed him by the arm, getting him up so fast he felt like throwing up, his vision blacking out for a second and losing his footing, only that firm brusing hand on his arm keeping him up. 

She took him to his bed and gave him some bitter medicine, telling him to stay put for the rest of the day. He obliged, as always, what else could he do? His mother was a doctor, she knew what she was talking about. He knew she had better, more important things to do than look for her disobedient son that went and got himself sick. She's a busy woman, so busy that outside of lessons he almost never saw her. He understood, she had to work hard to keep herself at the top, and that meant she didn't have much free time to spare him. Still, he felt very lonely in such a vulnerable state. Alone in his room, the aching in his chest felt worse than the cold. The red of the wall burnt his eyes, so he burried himself on the covers, still sweating, hugged his pillow on his chest and wished, desperately hoped, for it to go away soon.

The sensations from back then come to haunt him again. There's shivers breaking out on his body but his skin burns, he can't decide if he's running too cold or too hot or too much. His muscles weight a ton, holding him back on the bed, making his movements sluggish. He wants to rip out his vocal cords and weave new ones, ones that won't grant on his ears and won't rasp his throat with every syllable.

He can hear the door opening. It's not the nurse, but you. Through the haziness of his sickness, your light shines through. You stay by his side and Riddle's heart blossoms for you.

You have a worried look in your eyes as you pull a chair to sit next to his bed, eyeing him with concern. He hates that he's a bother, that he caused you distress over something so easily avoidable. Even so, your presence washes over him as if cleansing his soul. He's glad to see you, he realizes. He's glad to not be left alone.

There's a cup of water in your hands, and he gladly takes it, greedily downing it. The liquid freezes all the way down his throat, his flaring insides lapping it up, he wants to drink more and more. Your hand takes his and makes him slow down, least he chokes. It's a little thing, but this simple gesture makes his insides flutter. You take the glass from his hands once he's done, putting it on the bedside table and focusing your whole attention on him. He wants to drink up the sight of you.

The way Riddle looks at you leaves you breathless, fever ridden lidded eyes glancing through his lashes as if you were everything he could ever need. You hung up the stars on the sky, you painted every color of the sunset, you were the sun and the moon, the cosmos itself. He looked with so much adoration, as if he couldn't believe that you were still there, with him of all people. Him. You choose him and you stayed with him and he was so, so grateful for it.

You call out his name softly, oh so softly, and give him a kiss on the forehead, your lips leaving a tingling sensation. He wanted to berate you, to tell you to not that, since you could get sick too, but no word left his sore throat, he couldn't gather the strenght to protest against something that felt so good. Instead, he lets the words that run through his mind leave his tongue, unfiltered.

"You shouldn't be worrying about me, you have more important things to care about."

You smile, a bittersweet thing, eyes contemplating, as if asking youself 'doesn't he get it?' He's not in the best state to read your expression, though. You tenderly put your hand on his forehead, moving some hair sticking there and feeling his warmth. He leans into the touch, a satisfied sigh leaving his lips.

"Oh, Riddle, I'm taking care of something important. In fact, I can't think of a single thing that could be more important than you. The rest can wait, I want to make sure you're ok first and foremost."

Riddle's eyes widen and he opens his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. What could he say to that? His vision blurries, but he isn't sure if it's because of the fever or something else. Maybe it has something to do with the way your eyes gaze at him, so full of unfiltered love that Riddle could never doubt a word that falls from your lips, doesn't matter if they seem too good to be true.

You giggle at his cute dumbfounded expression, teasing him a little. "Cat got your tongue?"

He pouts, cheeks puffing up a bit and turns his head away. It's extremely endearing, you can't help but let out a laugh. Your hand run through his bangs, taking them off his sweaty skin, massaging his temples. He closes his eyes, pure relief flowing through him.

It felt nice to be taken care of like this, the simple comfort of your steady presence by his side made him feel like he was safe, like it would be alright, that he could let go and trust you'd take care of him. He wanted to grip onto this feelings and not let go, let them fill him up and chase the disease out of his system. One of his hands lifted to cover yours that was still in his forehead, a childish impulse to make sure you'd stay. You let out another soft laugh, the sound being enough to make him breath better, lifting a weight from his chest. You'd stay, he was sure of it. You always do.

Still, Riddle felt disgusting, runny nose and sticky skin, face as red as his hair. He wanted to get out of his dermis, rinse his bones until they shined and stopped feeling like that, unbearably dirty. But you didn't move away from him, your expression was always that of worry and fondness, never of disgust. "I'd never be disgusted of you, Riddle." You murmur, and he must have let his thoughts slip through his loose tongue. "It's a normal reaction, you can't control it. There's no reason to feel ashamed." It's so easy to fall for your words, so easy to let himself fully believe in them, so easy to accept the reassurance.

Riddle can take care of himself. He doesn't need to be babied and he doesn't need anyone's pity. He wants to do things his way, he doesn't want to depend on anyone, doesn't want to look weak. But your gentle voice echoes in his head, saying that's ok to ask for help. He doesn't need to do everything alone, he can count on you. And he trusts you so much, with his entire soul, so he lets you stay by his side. He knows that once he wakes up, you'll still be there. You always stay. 

"Rest up, dear." Your voice hypnotizes him, there's no way to not listen when you hold so much fondness in a single word, a single word that makes his heartbeat run faster and a his lips curl upwards.

He lets himself fall freely in the feeling of your love. Your breathing lulling him to sleep, his fingers gripping your hand and not letting go. His eyes close softly, naturally, and the tension seeps away from his body. You'll take good care of him, he's sure. You'll hold his worries in your hands, taking them out of his mind to let him rest.

There's no doubt in his mind that what he feels is love. Outside, the harsh winds of winter cut through the sky. Inside, the soft warmth of spring envelops his sleep.

Masterlist

[compacflt]

Fully support your desire to cut down on the extras as they're already so long, but as someone who was also looking forward to the sickfic section and is sad to hear it's been taken out, I will simply have to ask you about it instead! First off the discussion of home in the snippet you shared was delicious - when do you think Mav started thinking of the house as 'their' home? And Ice taking Mav to the hospital has a lot of crunch there around how they're seen and how they act in public, especially if Ice was worried and Mav was kind of out of it. Do you think Ice would have taken Mav in to the hospital if he'd really been spiking a fever and decided he needed it? How would he explain themselves? And I suppose a separate, related question: who are their official next of kin/emergency contacts?

the reason i got rid of the sickfic is cause all those questions were answered better elsewhere in the extras ❤️

i was kind of annoyed that the house inconsistently appears to be the property of whomever the plot calls for at the moment -> another reason to cut the sickfic

Yes Ice would take mav to the hospital. it happens elsewhere LOL, maverick is extremely incident-prone

obviously a fun surfing injury with friends != the sickfic’s ice taking “a friend” to the hospital in the middle of the night for dangerous levels of illness-related dehydration… implies familiarity, intimacy above everyone else… the hospital staff would probably assume they’re together, yes, & i don’t think ice would challenge that at all, especially if he had to make sure all the paperwork was filled out right. just not worth the effort. “is there anyone else we should call for mr mitchell?” / “Um no. Just me.” Yeah i took him to the hospital at 4am bc i love him and im worried about him what r u gonna do about it 🤨 violate his hipaa rights? It’s 2009 gay people exist grow up🙄 hospital staff isn’t gonna tell anyone, so who cares

(Luckily for ice in the sickfic he didn’t have to take mav to the hospital)

the point of the sickfic was to establish a precedent for one of them voluntarily taking care of the other who is unable to take care of himself, to set up the parallel of maverick taking care of Ice when he Really gets capital-s Sick. but then i still can’t bring myself to write ice actually being capital-s Sick because i have some weird neurosis where i simply dislike thinking about ice (powerful guy) being helpless or incapacitated or, um, dead. so the mav-sickfic isn’t really relevant anymore because i haven’t written (and never plan on writing, besides that one half-assed one-shot) the corollary ice-sickfic. so the sickfic became the Nixed-fic ❌

And according to this wip wednesday snippet, they are each other’s emergency contacts. don’t ask me how that works or how they figured that out, idk. some stuff you do have to talk about for logistics purposes i guess. which is kind of the point of all the house-related/money-related discussions I’ve written throughout my fics—they Have to talk about the logistics because that’s real life. But they don’t INTERPRET those logistics or assign them a normative value.

for instance debriefing presents (maverick’s) death & taxes as the only two things that ever get them to actually talk to each other lol. logistics become a vessel through which they can talk about their situation without actually talking about it. The state of being each others emergency contacts might be a death-and-taxes discussion—acknowledging permanence without acknowledging permanence

[thelyingjoke]

something i’ve always found confusing is the way some people will criticize kokichi by saying “well if he REALLY hates murder why did he cause two deaths” when like…aren’t half the culprits in dr people who would’ve otherwise considered murder bad???

i think some people blow the significance of DICE’s no murder rule way out of proportion. it wasn’t a “oh kokichi would never in a million years ever consider murder, he’d be a strict pacifist 100% of the time no matter the situation, he wouldn’t ever hurt another person. this will never fail”. it was used to show that he wasn’t a remnant of despair—that despite everything, he wasn’t a mega evil person. he wasn’t a senseless killer, he had morals. normal morals, like killing is bad.

i don’t know if i’m really explaining this right, but for example let’s compare him with kaede. kaede, outside of the killing game, would’ve never even thought about murdering another person. when they’re first told about the game, she swears that she’d never participate in something like that. and yet she’s the first one to do so, because she feels like it’s the only thing she can do. and there are tons of examples of this aside from her—gonta, sayaka, teruteru, etc. the killing game takes good people and puts them in a horrible situation where they feel like they have to sacrifice their morals and do something they’d otherwise never do. (i’d also write a whole thing about kokichi/kaede parallels but that’d be getting sidetracked…if someone wants to hear about it i will)

and it’s kinda strange to me that people expect kokichi to be a special case? i mean, for the record, he did do his absolute best not to give into monokuma, and only caused miu’s death because she was going to kill him and he didn’t have many other options. gonta also has agency in this situation and was the one who agreed to kill miu. kokichi also felt so guilty about it he made himself the next victim. but only looking at the point that i mentioned at first, somehow to those people having a specific rule for his organization that murder isn’t allowed somehow means he’s supposed to stand by that more than other people that condemn murder? it makes sense why it’d be a rule—he runs a petty crime prankster group, and it’d be good to have regulations in place so that no one gets carried away. not liking murder is normal people behavior and he’s just as prone to emotional turmoil as everyone else