#LIKE TELL ME how this wasn't supposed to shape my brain into what it is today??!!!

[woodenela]

This absolutely obscure 90s movie really said "I'm going to define your taste in meow meows/babygirls, set in stone that you're bi by making you fall in love with both the female & male lead so hard, vanish from your memory for he next 16 years and then violently slap you in the face with the memory of all of this", huh....

[theminecraftbee]

"So, and I can't believe I have to be the guy to point this out," Doc starts hesitantly.

"Terrible start! Go on," Cleo says.

"But you seem to be one of the only sane people left right now," Doc continues.

"Even more terrible, although I appreciate your delusion," Cleo says.

"And I have to--you know, if you're going to make fun of me for bringing you a problem maybe I just won't. I can solve it myself. I basically solved the moon thing myself," Doc says. "I am trying to be responsible before this turns into a whole thing."

"Doc, you came to me. Did you want anything that wasn't me making fun of you? Because you know, if so, I really feel bad for you. I already feel bad enough for you that you think you actually managed to do anything at all about the moon thing."

Doc throws his hands up. "I am trying to warn you the ocean is evil! It's important! This is important!"

"The deep sea being evil isn't new," Cleo starts, "I was building Atlantis last season--"

"It sent, sent, salmon people to kill me!"

Cleo stops. They look Doc in the eyes. They search for any signs of deception at all. It's a little hard to tell, on account of Doc only having one eye even capable of expressiveness, and his face being the opposite of human, but...

"What?" Cleo says dumbly.

"It was like, like, Beef and Skizz, they were crazy! They were talking about a giant fish and how I shouldn't defy it. And I was like, what is a Big Salmon? I don't know, man, but they're ocean mobsters. And then I started looking. It's not just them. It's not just them Cleo, it's everyone. The ocean, man, it's evil, it's getting everyone. I've, I've made a list. Grian. Have you looked at Grian lately?"

"I think if we were worried about every time Grian got possessed then we wouldn't have any free time," Cleo says hesitantly.

"Right, right, but it was supposed to be Demise. The killing each other, all of the killing each other. I thought, oh, that'll get it out of their systems. But it's not just him Cleo! It's--have you seen Gem? She's all, oh, I will build a boat. Oh, I'll provoke the creatures of the deep. And then. Do you know what I saw all of Team ZITS doing? Fishing!"

"Doc," Cleo says, increasingly concerned for him. He looks... disheveled.

"And not just fishing, oh no. They were standing in the water fishing! And Pearl! Have I mentioned that Pearl is dressing up as a salmon? I mentioned that, yes? The salmon Pearl?"

"You hadn't, unless that was the big fish thing," Cleo says.

"No, that was something different, I think Pearl is maybe a different salmon."

"Sure, okay, more than one salmon, that makes sense," Cleo says dryly.

"And everyone, they are fishing each other around the ocean, yes? Etho is in the ocean! XB is in the ocean! I think I saw Joe crawl out of the ocean earlier, he was all wet and haunted! Surely that is a sign the ocean is evil."

"No, he's just like that," Cleo says. "Also, I did the fishing rod thing too. I think it's just... normal fun."

"They're getting you too. My assessment that you're the sane one. I've said too much."

"I think you need sleep," Cleo says. "Doc, there isn't an ocean-based conspiracy. It's the start of the season. You know we're just like this."

"That's the thing, I can't sleep," Doc says. "I can't. I sleep and I see it. I see it, lurking beneath the waves. It's calling for me Cleo. It's calling. And when it calls, it seems so--kind. But then. But then! I wake up, and I remember the shape of it, and..."

Doc shudders and stops talking. Cleo looks at him a moment longer and then, like comforting a nervous animal, takes his shoulder.

"You should take a nap. It's the start of the season. You're over-stressing yourself. Too much too fast?" they say, as soothingly as possible.

"It's coming for us," Doc says. "It's coming. I don't want to ignore it this time, yes? What's coming for us. We should--we should--"

"Even if it is, Doc, I don't think we can fight the ocean. Come on. Maybe sleeping in my base will help reset your brain."

Doc shudders, but lets Cleo guide him inside. They watch until at last he falls asleep fitfully before shaking their head and sighing.

"A giant fish that was trying to kill him. Honestly. I don't know where he gets these things from. Always a conspiracy with him..."

They decide to go to Ren. Ren knows how to humor Doc. Surely they can get in their ridiculous games again, and Doc will forget all about this. Doc would enjoy the Ministry of Ministries. Maybe he can be an anarchist or something. That would be good for him.

Doc cries out in his sleep. Cleo turns to him.

Then again, they have this strange sinking feeling in their stomach. Doc's... awfully worked up.

But it's Doc.

Surely it's nothing.

[ghostaholics]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐒

➸ PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x fem!reader (established relationship) ➸ WARNING(S): [ 18+ ] body shots; oral (receiving); ruined orgasm; basically PWP with slight BDSM (disciplinary action) ➸ SUMMARY: Simon teaches you a very important lesson about holding still – extended version of this. ➸ A/N: Thank you to @mvtthewmurdvck who lets me bitch about anything and everything including this and offered kind words when I certainly lost faith in the whole thing. ➸ WORD COUNT: 2.2k

𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐘 𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐁𝐎𝐍, 𝐒𝐈𝐌𝐎𝐍’𝐒 𝐋𝐈𝐐𝐔𝐎𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐈𝐂𝐄. Pilfered from his not-so-secret stash and running low with about a quarter left; the contents slosh around in their bottle-shaped confinement as he stalks into the room with a heavy hand swallowing around the widest circumference of the glass.

Good memories, usually. Like the first time he’d brandished his titanium pocket flask for you to take a sip. You’d scrunched your nose, feigning disapproval of the drink. And he'd said – cheeky as always – with a low-timbered response:

"Don't worry. The taste of your cunt's still my favourite."

But now, there’s no trace of that Simon anywhere to be seen. His face is entirely devoid of the amusement he already so rarely expressed. Stone-rigid. Unimpressed. Disappointed – seems like – and certainly not in the mood for any games.

❝ 𝐂𝐀𝐍'𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐀 𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓, 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐇? ❞

It's a red-hot brand searing the edges of your memory (charred, ash-coated, lined by the cinders of a poor attempt on your part that had gone up into flickering embers).

See, the brain remembers it well.

Your cunt, too: the walls hugging his cock, full of his cum – excessively so, nearly bursting with it after he'd buried himself to the hilt and stayed inside just to plug your snug little hole, ensuring that none of it would dribble out after he’d fucked you senseless. He’d given you plenty, more than enough. And it’d been generous of Simon. A gift, really, considering the enormity of the initial request.

Make me yours?

He’d only had one thing to say, just a simple favour in return for doing this, for indulging you. His voice had been hoarse, sandpaper-rough from overuse – your fault entirely – eroded away after being subjected to a whole night's worth of groaning against the shell of your ear and telling you just how fucking good you felt before you'd milked him for everything he was worth with your greedy, pulsing self.

Keep it all in then.

You’d done your best not to clench, but stretched taut around the girth of his cock like that, you'd just wanted to readjust. Not a lot. But the position you'd been in wasn't the most conducive one for this. And you’d shifted – barely, practically inconsequential (or so you’d thought) – to where you wouldn’t have even thought it’d matter except—

It had.

Pushed some of it out, that is. A stream of cum trickling down onto an area of the duvet, staining it – the unfortunate aftermath of your decision to move.

Thas’ a shame. Thought you wanted it. Guess I was wrong.

Simon comes to a stop at the foot of the bed where you're sitting; he towers over you – an intimidating, subduing presence without even having to try. "Had to wash the sheets because you couldn't keep it all in.”

You blink in surprise as your mouth parts slightly in what you're sure must be a dumbfounded expression. Of course, this is nothing new. You were there. Responsible for the incident, apparently. And though it wasn't necessarily your fault, you still feel the need to explain that it was due to factors beyond your control. “There was so much—” (As if it'll help your case.)

But he's never cared much for excuses.

“How ‘m I supposed to finish inside you knowing that you’re just going to waste it?” he asks. It's a rhetorical question, not one that actually requires an answer.

Your chin tips down in a silent apology. There's something heavy sitting in your chest; remorse, you think.

He grips your jaw in his hand, forces you to look at him. “Yeah, love. We’ll fix that. Gonna teach you how to be grateful, how to understand the value in the things I give to you."

𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐀 𝐒𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒.

He makes you tell him your colors.

You do.

He asks if you know what you’re supposed to get out of this.

You answer that he’s probably going to have to wash the sheets again before you can learn whatever lesson he’s trying to impose on you.

Yeah, that earns you a sharp pinch to the hip.

That massive body of his sinks to the floor, one leg bending down before the other joins it, rough carpet cutting into his knees, undoubtedly. Then, his fingers curl around your legs, blunt digits sinking in – ten identical divots pressed into the flesh. He leaves light indentations with his palms spanning along the sides of your thighs to spread you open while his elbows anchor into the mattress.

Heat blooms across your skin, every surface that he touches and even in the places that he doesn't – white-hot, intentional (and he never does anything without purpose); it sparks a fever that fans out, unfurls. There's no part of you left unaffected. You're growing warmer by a few degrees. Doesn't sound like much, but it's enough to make a noticeable difference if the beads of sweat gathering at the back of your neck are any indication.

And Simon lets out a soft scoff. Cocky. Like he knew what was waiting for him—

You're soaked, absolutely drenched. Cotton panties, sticky –saturated beyond belief. If you looked there yourself, you wouldn't be surprised to find a damp patch on the fabric steadily growing in size.

He's such a sight, too: the contour of his muscles shifting and rippling, all brawn and power – his presence speaking volumes about just who holds the cards right now, undeniably the one in control here; the visual of his stature and build emphasize that. And authority bleeding from the width of his shoulders if not spelled out by his words alone.

"Haven't even touched you, and you're already dripping," he murmurs. "Why?"

Your mouth trips and stutters over your own words the same way your heart trips and stutters over his. "Because you—y-you're..."

His thumbs hook into your panties, slowly peels them away – not an easy feat, damn things are clinging to your cunt – before dragging them down your legs. "Say it, sweetheart. What do you think I'm gonna do to you?"

And your mind is racing, jumping too many steps ahead. "You're going to eat me out?"

Simon stuffs his panties in his back pocket for safekeeping. A souvenir, since there won't be much use for them now. "I'm gonna eat you out," he affirms.

"Mhm, yeah. Want your mouth on me."

"Whether or not you come depends entirely on if I feel like letting you."

"Oh—"

"Spill a single drop, and you don't come tonight," he says, never one to draw out the details. His instructions are concise, uncomplicated. Then, further inquiry. "We clear?"

"Yeah..." you say with a shaky breath before trying to regain some semblance of composure. "Yes."

"Good girl," he purrs low, almost a growl – though you're not quite certain that you deserve the praise yet.

He’s answering to a shrine, beckoned forward by the invitation of a wet cunt and the promise of a taste of your slick. He pauses, takes a brief moment to admire it in his own way, almost reverent as he takes in how your arousal’s smeared everywhere from your folds to your inner thighs (all for him, because of him – isn’t that right?).

But make no mistake, there’s absolutely nothing respectful about the act that comes next. Simon leans, forces his shoulders to hold you open, before he bows his head and he licks; it’s a hungry tongue lapping at the slit, everything terribly hot and wet – the sensation makes you jolt upon first contact because it's too much. So, so much.

And at the same time, not enough.

The feeling spikes along the circuit running from your head to your toes – empty thoughts save for the white static that buzzes in the hollow of your skull, a tingling, prickling paresthesia-sort-of-thing that usually accompanies the high of an orgasm. Except, the irony’s not lost on you in this instance; he’s hardly even begun to wreak havoc on your cunt yet.

Currents zip down your spine, down, further down, everything else collateral damage. No part of you is spared by the overwhelming fervor responsible for it – the initial onslaught of his mouth laying waste at the spread of your entrance.

Every single nerve-ending is on-edge, trigger-sensitive as he sucks, and kisses, and fuck are his groans heavy, bone-deep, the rumble of a thunderstorm gathering in his chest. They radiate from the point of origin where your core’s suffering, reverberating tremors that diffuse out to the rest of you. It makes your skin thrum like a live wire. There’s no hope of staying in a fixed position if he keeps this up. How could you? The odds are zero to none. It isn’t feasible.

You forget your place, can't help but squirm within his iron grip.

Then, Simon; a severe reprimand— "Watch it," he rasps. It’s a lull amidst the incursion, an unplanned interlude. Temporary reprieve (barely) so he can scold you for your inability to follow his instructions.

A low whimper leaves your throat. That's completely out of the question, beyond what you're currently capable of. Easier said than done. "I'm trying—"

"Then try harder."

Despite how weighed down your eyelids feel, you manage to guide your laden gaze south, let it roam over your stomach. The dark, amber liquid in your navel sways; it rocks, sloshes with the tide, a consequence born from the pull and heave of your jarring movements. Exercise caution. This is delicate work – a balancing act. Those thoughts are cloudy.

Your mind is fuzzy, thick, a drunken haze. Buzzed, lightheaded. And everything's off-kilter. But you haven't had a single drop of alcohol. None at all. Couldn’t, because everything's still sitting in your navel right there like it’s supposed to.

Simon dips his head back between your legs, continues to seal his mouth over you, flattening his tongue to lick thick stripes from your entrance to your clit. He doesn't let up, only bringing his face closer, following that same path again and again and again – agonizing – until you're trembling. The noises he’s making, something debauched and bottomless – one wet groan after the other. This isn't for you. It's for him, that much is clear.

You plead anyways, hoping he'll grant you an amnesty that you haven't earned in the least bit, "Need you inside. Anything, just—"

"Sure you can handle it?"

Breathless when you say, "Ah, yeah..."

"We'll see about that," Simon murmurs.

He doesn't believe you.

To be fair, you’re not so sure you do either.

But he's courteous, slips one finger in and lets you clamp around him. And your cunt flutters, welcomes the feeling.

You release a soft moan. “Want more, Si. Feels good."

His face turns to the side, wet nose and chin grazing along your thigh to spread the slick in more places that haven't been drenched yet. Then he bites. Gentle. An admonishment. Nothing serious about it though: scraping, the light pressure of teeth sinking into the skin as he pulls with his mouth.

You jerk suddenly before catching yourself.

"Don't be fuckin' greedy. You'll take what I give you, and you'll thank me for it." He's curt, perfunctory. No delay as he offers up his two fingers to your mouth. The expectation is clear. “Suck.” And he's waiting.

You wrap your lips around them, swallowing him down, not one to squander an opportunity sitting in front of you, right? You understand that now.

“So tell me how good you taste.”

"I-um, taste good—"

"Yeah, you fuckin' do."

"Thank you."

“Mhm.”

You can't see it, but you can hear it: the low clinking of a belt being unbuckled, the sound of a zipper being undone. Clinking metal and rustling denim being tampered with somewhere below your line of sight as he reaches down, almost like he— is he… oh.

Most of his body's obscured by the edge of the bed, but everything from the chest up is still visible. Simon's shoulder is bobbing slightly, arm pumping back and forth in a rhythmic motion and fuck, he's getting himself off to this.

That sends another spark of arousal to your core, makes you gush. It adds to the mess coating his jaw, his chin, his lips. You whimper out something – broken syllables – his name, maybe. You’re not entirely sure.

God, you’re almost there. So close. Wound up tight, hips rolling against his mouth, chasing his tongue—

Until he stops entirely. No contact. Simon pulls away in such a rush that you gasp, startled.

"Look at that." Accusatory.

It's a trail of liquor dribbling over the curve of your stomach, down your side in small rivulets. There are streaks pooling onto the sheets underneath you. Tragic.

(Couldn't help yourself, huh?)

Guilty as charged.

Shit.

"What'd I say – told you to hold still, yeah?"

And even though you had a feeling it would happen, you still have the nerve to act surprised at the result. "Fuck," you whine pathetically. "Was so close—"

"We're starting over. Don't care if it takes us all night, we're gonna keep at this 'til you get it right or you use up the rest of the whiskey," he says, readying himself to deposit another pour of alcohol into your navel. Simon lifts his shoulder in a light shrug like he can't be bothered about the final outcome. "Better pray that it works out before the bottle’s empty. Won't let you finish otherwise, sweetheart. Understand?"

[queerweewoo]

100% in the Buddie Team Switch tent over here btw bc these bastards are honestly just far too complex to ever be anything else imo. like Buck with his praise kink, all somebody please tell me i did good as i wasn't told this growing up by the people who were supposed to say it to me and it changed my brain chemistry by denying me of positive affirmations and molded me into a pliable thing that cannot help but take any shape others want me to so i just need need need you to please please tell me that i did good and that i am good and please will you help me to believe that i am as good as you're telling me i am by holding me down and forcing me to take all of you into all of me until I'm fucking convulsing with just how good it feels and how good i am at it, and bc i now know for sure how much you love it too as you're saying it out loud to me, over and over and over again... and Eddie, with absolutely everything in his life (outside of work) feeling so very out of his control and needing to gain some of it back by crushing Buck with his body weight and telling Buck exactly what it is he should be doing and precisely how to do it and have Buck whining and keening with how desperate he is to comply bc Buck has complete trust in Eddie, in Eddie's ability to make the right decision for whatever it is Buck needs, for what they both need, and having that allows Eddie to have the courage in his convictions that he often struggles to have outside of the(ir) bedroom when it comes to his emotions and that just feels so good to Eddie, to be doing it right, to be the one making Buck feel good, so good, and to actually be taking—for once in his life—what it is that he wants and allowing himself to have the things he desires, to have Buck, all for himself, because that is what feels good to him... but then there are those other times in Eddie's life that he has had to and has to be a sure and steady hand, a reliable go-to, be totally unshakeable and unbreakable and in charge of making decisions that affect countless people's lives—victims of war, those he tries his best to serve and save on calls, colleagues, friends, the people he cares for and those he loves the most in his life—and it's, well. it's A Lot. so much, actually, that Eddie sometimes needs to turn it off and just let it all go and allow somebody else take over and tell him what to do and when to do it bc he just needs to not think about it anymore, to not think at all, needs to just be a vessel for somebody else's decisions and desires and put his trust wholly in somebody else, in Buck, bc he doesn't always trust himself but Buck knows Eddie so well and so completely and understands what Eddie needs to get out of his own head and just have somebody tell him (outside of his job) that he did good for once, that he can get matters of the heart right instead of always wrong wrong wrong and have Buck tell him that yes, of course he's good for something, good for this, good for splaying himself wide open and taking everything he is given by Buck... and then there's the whole Buck (outside of work) having zero fucking clue of what he's doing and even tho he is trying his very best all of the time he's getting it wrong A Lot of the time, bc his best isn't always good enough so he has to try harder but then he's trying too hard, too much, which means he still isn't getting it right. and so to be able to be the one in charge of things and have his will and instruction be absolutely the right thing? the very thing that Eddie needs? that's such a heady experience, such a rush, and when he makes Eddie beg and cry with it and Eddie loves loves loves Buck for it—loves Buck for telling him how it should be and for Buck insisting on what he's giving being what Eddie deserves—that is Buck living and thriving and loving loving loving Eddie right back, with all the plundering depth that he has in him and can give and is... and that, all of that, is just. how it is. every facet of it; every logistic; every angle; every way and any way you look at it; every (s)which way.

[madschiavelique]

hii my love! would u mind doing a little blurb on miguel finding out the woman he has been seeing is a stripper? she just feels so embarrassed to admit that and scared It would drive him away but instead he’s pretty much more open about it and become far too protective too. thank you:))

OMG ANON YOU DON'T KNOW HOW OUR BRAINS CONNECTED because listen : i have an au in mind where my spiderpersona is a succub in a strip club, and basically when Miguel is brought there by his friends, they meet

SO YEA i'm living for stripper!reader x miguel (also this was supposed to be a blurb but i got carried away fdkzefrgd - the club scene from Closer really inspired me for this)... now i want to make a multiple chapter fic on stripper!reader x miguel hELP

summary : miguel discovers you're a stripper

content warnings : NSFW, stripper!reader, reader gives a little private show to miguel (just removes the top though, doesn't reveal the cunt), fem!reader, no use of Y/N word count : 2k song mentionned : world outside - the devlins

tag list : @fandom-ash

Up until now, you had decided to keep your professional occupation to Miguel, for one simple reason: fear.

Fear filled your stomach at the thought of telling him you were a stripper. You and Miguel had been dating for some time, and had quickly become close. The bond was shaping up to be strong, and you were worried that the information about your job would ruin everything.

He'd already asked you a few times what you were doing, but you'd always managed to deflect the subject elegantly. Yet there's no stopping Miguel's determination and curiosity, least of all when the topic of conversation turns out to be you.

So he did something he wasn't particularly proud of, but couldn't resist: while you were out working, he asked Lyla where you were.

She'd given him an address, and some information about it...

"A club?" he'd asked, looking at the street information for the address. "A strip club," Lyla had corrected. "There's no mistake? Are you sure?" he'd questioned, taking a closer look at the establishment's hours and information. "Have you ever seen me calculate a lot of errors?" sighed the artificial intelligence.

Never. Hardly ever had he seen her fail in this area. Maybe you weren't really a dancer there, maybe you were a bartender, or a waitress, who knows. Only, the idea of seeing you wearing a fine outfit and swaying on a stage was strangely appealing to him.

Without missing a beat, he made his way to the address. It wasn't far, which surprised him as much as it reassured him. The very idea that your place of work wasn't far from home appealed to him, as it ensured that if you ever needed to be picked up for any reason, he'd be there.

He arrived at the entrance, breathing in, passed the bouncers who joked that with his build he could get into the business, and entered.

Blue light from two corner spotlights illuminated red velvet-covered staircases leading downwards. He moved forward, the mirrored walls reflecting him. The room's bass could already be heard from outside, but now he could hear the music more clearly.

You light up my dreams, light up my skin. You're so far away, you're holding it in.

The place was quite crowded, and Miguel noticed a fair number of men in suits and ties. He wouldn't have cared in any other context about the consumption habits of these men here, but suddenly the very idea that there were potentially regulars coming to see you displeased him enormously.

As for the place, it smelled of violets and lemongrass. The ceiling was high, revealing a second floor from which hung three chandeliers surrounded by red cubes.

Spotlights were placed here and there, illuminating the important places: the round tables, like the one next to Miguel on which two women on their knees were swaying, undressing each other under the watchful eyes of all the men around the table; the U-shaped bar, from either end of which women were dancing in wisps of sinuous white smoke; and pole-dancing pedestals on their red-lit floor that emphasized the curves of the dancers placed on them.

And he recognized one of the dancers: it was you.

It was an evening like any other, your garter belt was already generously stuffed with bills of various colors against your thigh and you'd already put on a private show. You were on the pole bar, dancing and undulating your body against it under the round, adoring eyes of your little audience.

You'd been in the business for a while now, and you'd managed to make more friends than enemies in the club, enough so that your colleagues became your buddies.

In fact, your friend right next to you softly called your name, and you turned to her as you danced.

"Did you see the one that just came in? He's huge," she pointed out, smiling at the customers around you. "And pretty good looking too."

As you continued your endless choreography, you glanced surreptitiously at the said customer. But your heart dropped into your stomach for a moment as you met Miguel's gaze.

You hesitated between freezing on the spot and running away, but instead tried to keep your cool and your professionalism and continue your dance until he arrived near the pedestal.

"This one," you pointed out to your friend, "is for me."

She gave a little laugh as you motioned for another dancer to take your place and gracefully stepped off your pedestal, advancing towards Miguel as you would a normal customer

"So this was where you were hiding?" asked Miguel a little above the music, tilting his head to the side as he looked you up and down.

"What are you doing here?" you asked, as inquisitive as you were nervous.

"Curiosity got the better of me, and I was right to give in to temptation."

He was watching your outfit, which emphasized your body, your curves highlighted by the glitter and rhinestones mixed with the laces. You were close to him, almost to the point where a simple movement on Miguel's part would allow your two bodies to meet.

"But I'd prefer to discuss this somewhere else...?" he says.

"I'm in the middle of working hours, but... how about a private show?" you offered, drawing even closer to him as your eyes seemed to him irresistible through your lashes.

He shuddered.

"I'd like that."

You smiled softly, taking his hand to guide him towards one of the Paradise Suites. You guided him a little further until you came to a door you knew well and opened it to let him in.

A round sofa circled a round table at its center, the latter illuminated in pink. A strip of light circled the sofa, another path laid out to encourage strippers to be creative and use the room as they saw fit. You weren't expecting to give Miguel a private show tonight, but fate had played a nice trick on you.

You guided him to the sofa, letting him settle there as you climbed up on the table, looking at him with eyes that were usually calculated to convey desire, but this time really felt it.

And he looked at you with, his were dark, pools of ink attentive to your every move.

"How long have you been doing this?" he'd ask, his attention unwavering.

"Five months," you toyed lightly with one of your shoulder straps as you let your other hand roam your body.

He was going to be able to ask you all the questions that came to mind, only if he didn't get too distracted by your beauty.

"Are you allowed to flirt?" he asked.

"Yes, I am." you replied, letting your hand slide down your chest.

"Do you have any regulars?" he leaned forward, his head tilted back to watch you dance.

"Yes, I do. Private clients as well." you turned, your back to him to loosen your corset behind your waist, undulating your body.

The idea that you had regular clients here wasn't disturbing, but the fact that you had private ones displeased him a little more, for the fact that your security was much less framed than it was here.

"I want names."

You let out a small laugh as you turned to face him again.

"You want to make me lose my job?" you knelt on the round table to get to his level.

"No, I want to replace them." he said, his eyes moving from yours to your fingers removing the first strap.

"I'm not allowed to have relationships outside of the club with clients," you countered, tracing the skin of your bare thigh sensually.

"And what do you usually do?" his chest puffed out as he inhaled, feeling a little hotter little by little.

"I dance, I talk, I laugh, I strip, and that is all." you confirmed as you removed the second strap, and with a simple movement unhooked the little clip between your breasts to reveal them.

His eyes were eager, watching your perfect breasts as he parted his lips, mouth agape.

"No touching?" he questioned, eyes still on your body.

"No touching, you can just slide the tips in the garter belt" you advised, your hand sliding against the latter where a few bills were lodged.

"What would happen if I touched you now?" he asked, moving a little closer to the edge of the sofa.

"I would like it," you said, shifting your legs over the front to stand up again on the table gently, "but the security cameras would notice, and probably get you out of here."

Miguel looked up, just above the table, on the ceiling, was a small half globe with a small point of red light.

"Pays well?

"Very well." you smiled, your hands playing dangerously with the string of your thong.

"How much will it cost me to be here with you?"

Miguel wasn't afraid of going broke here, especially for you, he was plenty rich enough for that.

"Depends on what you want." thinking that maybe Miguel didn't want to make you work right now, you got off the table and climbed onto the sofa and then its edge instead, sitting there.

"How high are the prices? I haven't seen the menu of services."

"Our VIP options can go up to 1500 dollars." you say wearily, pretending to walk your index and middle fingers in his direction on the strip of light.

"1500?" he almost exclaimed, raising his eyebrows.

"Mhm," you hummed, "two hours with two dancers and a bottle of Don Perignon."

He turned towards you, coming closer, his head level with your thigh as his eyes inevitably fell on the bills you'd been given.

"And what's the price if I only want you and nothing else with me?" he questioned as his gaze returned to yours.

"Here, from 80 dollars I can give you a 10-minute air dance." you said as you leaned towards him, your faces close but not yet touching. "Outside, nothing."

A small, proud smile appeared on his lips. However, you being far too hot and gorgeous, he was beginning to feel tight in his clothes, especially his pants.

"What time do you get off?" he asked, sitting up differently, your eyes falling on his crotch and smiling as you bit your lip.

"Five o'clock. Will you last until then?"

He sighed, his eyes falling on your lips, eager.

"I just don't know if I'll be able to keep my hands to myself."

You smiled, then straightened up, reaching for your top. But Miguel took his wallet out of his pocket and slipped a bill under your garter belt. To be deprived of a view like this? Never. You smile a little more, and sit back down on the table, kneeling upright to let him get a good look at you.

He leaned towards you again, intertwining his fingers as his gaze softened slightly.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

You sighed, biting your cheek as you looked down at your hands carefully placed in your lap.

"I was scared," you admitted with a sigh. "Scared that this would end what we have."

You knew that not all men or simply partners were comfortable with their halves being strippers, and the idea that Miguel shared that opinion terrified you.

"Nena," he called your nickname.

Your head was still down, and you felt the soft sensation of money paper under your chin. Miguel straightened your jaw with a bill, bringing his eyes to yours.

"This isn't a problem to me." he smiled, lowering his hand to place the bill under the elastic of your belt. "This is actually really good."

Confusion seized you along with relief, causing you to frown while sporting a grin.

"Why?"

He tilted his head to one side, smiling proudly.

"I get the satisfaction for everyone to see how gorgeous you are, while being the only one who has the right to touch you."

You let out a small burst of voice somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, the relief of his answer washing over you like a wave of comfort.

After that, he'd deserved more than just a show.

[natlovesls2]

Project Valentine

Logan Sargeant x Fem!Reader

*ੈ✩‧₊˚warnings: no use of y/n, swearing, feels a little rushed

*ੈ✩‧₊˚word count: 1.1k

*ੈ✩‧₊˚summary: You're lonely and Logan wants to be a good friend

‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚

"I'm tired of being lonely every year for Valentine's Day," you groan into one of the heart-shaped throw pillows on your couch. You hated Valentine's Day– absolutely despised it. You always sat alone, watching the intoxicatingly cute couples on dates. This would be the fourth year in which you would have no date for Valentine's Day, and if it were up to you, it would be your last (you would destroy the holiday, obviously). It wasn't a choice you had willingly made, but no matter how hard you tried, you always managed to be single during Valentine's Day. 

Logan laughed at your distress, finding your overreaction to being single hilarious, "I'll help you find a date if that will make you happy."

"Oh fuck off, stop laughing at me," you threw the throw pillow at him, laughing as it smacked him in the face. 

"Rude, and I'm not laughing at you. I'm being very serious right now."

"You'd help me find a date?" you asked, sitting up and turning to face him, waiting and expecting him to burst out laughing. Sure, Logan was a great friend, but he never turned down the opportunity to tease or make fun of you. You had expected him to poke fun at the fact that you had once again managed to find yourself without a partner to spend the day with. 

He nodded silently, seemingly lost in his own thoughts, head slightly tilted to the side. His smile widens the more he stares at you, "So, what do you say, can I start Project Valentine?" 

You can't help but wonder how he could possibly help when you've struggled for so long. The uncertainty of whether or not this could negatively impact the structure of your friendship. You often spoke about your romantic relationships with Logan but never went into depth about why they all seemed to fail. You suppose it was fear, fear of commitment, or fear of getting too attached to then be abandoned. That fear also held you back in your friendship, which brings you back to that uncertainty you felt– everything was connected. 

"Stop staring at me like that; do you want my help or not?"

"I do, but– yeah, I want your help."

"Good, now tell me what your type is," he says, standing from his spot across from you to sit beside you on the loveseat. 

"I don't know. I guess I just want a nice guy." 

"A nice guy? Are your standards truly that low? I always thought you would have higher standards."

"They are not low." They truly weren't low, in your opinion. Of course, they were more complex than just a "nice" guy, but you didn't want to seem picky in front of Logan. It was a running joke that you couldn't hold boyfriends because of your high standards and maintenance.  

"Yes, they are," he teased, jokingly shoving you.

"Are not."

"Are too," he reached over– tickling you, and you desperately attempted to push him away, laughing loudly at his actions. 

"Stop it," you say, continuing to laugh– holding onto his shoulders as he finally stills. He looks into your eyes, deep in thought, making you wish you knew what went through his mind. He always seemed to be thinking about something, especially when he's around you– it's something you've noticed as your friendship grew. "What's going through that brain of yours?" you ask, running your hands through his hair. 

"I don't think I can help you..." he whispers, resting his head on your chest.

"I knew this was some sort of joke for you," you shoved him off of your chest, sitting up. 

"This isn't a joke."

"No? Then what is it? Because right now, it feels like you're going to say some bullshit about me never being content in my relationships. And honestly, Logan, I'm not in the mood for this shit. I genuinely wanted your help and was trusting you with this," you angrily rambled, refusing to look at him. It felt as if your blood was boiling; you felt like those cartoon characters with the steam coming out of their ears. You could see his lips moving as he worked up some, in your humble opinion, lame excuse– but the ringing in your ears impeded you from hearing. 

"I love you, okay," Logan said as the ringing in your ears subsided. You froze, staring blankly at him– this had escalated quickly, too quickly. The ringing returned as your heart began to beat a million miles an hour. 

Logan frowned as the silence in the room grew; he sighed looking up at the ceiling and resting his head against the backrest of the love seat. "I'm sorry– please say something; I don't want to ruin our friendship. And I know I'm stupid... god, this was so fucking stupid. I'm sorry, okay?" 

You continued to stare at him, shock evident on your face. It felt impossible to speak, though you had so much to say. From the moment you heard those words, you felt thousands of repressed memories flood your mind. Memories in which you felt things you had thought were inappropriate to feel between friends. Memories that at this moment you wished to share with him. 

He quickly turned to face you again, "Actually, I'm not sorry. I'm tired of pretending that I don't feel this way– tired of hiding my love for you."

You felt as if your body had been possessed by someone else as you grabbed his face and smashed your lips against his. It was a desperate kiss, something you had both been waiting for– rushed and messy. He gently pushed you down, resting you against the couch as he deepened the kiss. You felt your head spin as his hands tangled against your hair, somehow pulling you closer than you already were. "I love you too," you pulled away for a moment– wanting him to know that you reciprocate his feelings. 

"I thought so," he pulled you back into a kiss, seemingly not wanting the moment to end as he slid his hands down to rest on your hips. "I think Project Valentine was a success," he whispered, planting a few kisses on your neck, and smiling down at you. 

You had hated Valentine's Day– absolutely despised it. But as you lay there with Logan, tangled in each other, you couldn't help but love it. You loved everything about it, the cultural meaning of it, and even the intoxicatingly cute couples. You wanted to experience everything about the day you had hated just this morning. You couldn't wait to spend next Valentine's Day with him– and all the Valentine's Days after that.

‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚

[sailorsenshishitposter]

Jogo x Reader

Jogo:

Your favorite Disney character is Mike Wazoski, you were voted most likely to need anger management or you're secretly Squidward Tentacles

First Date:

You decided to take a break from your stroll and sit down on a park bench. You were in your eighties and nearly blind at this point but you thought that you were doing pretty well for someone that wasn't locked up in an old folks home. You then heard the sound of laughter. Ah, children. Gone were the days of your youth  "It's nice to see kids playing outside instead of being on their gizmos."

Your hearing aids then picked up something. "Hey granny, you can see me?" It was the boy you heard laughing earlier. "My eye sight isn't what it used to be but yes, I can make out various shapes. "Hmm... You've got a strong soul grandma, I can see it!" You were flattered. "Why thank you young man. Would you like some candy?" The boy pouted. "I don't think I'm supposed to take candy from strangers. Tell you what, I'll give you my name so then we'll know each other. I'm Mahito. Nice to meet you!"

You tried to give Mahito some candy but he politely refused. "I think you need it more than I do. Don't old people have lower nutrients?" He seemed to be asking himself rather than you. "Ah! Here granny! Take some of my home made candy!" He then dropped some small drops into your palms. The texture was strange and it almost felt like skin but you didn't want to be rude so you accepted the gift and placed them in your purse."

Guess she can't hear their cries due to her hearing. Too bad..." Mahito uttered to himself. "What was that son?" He stopped blowing bubbles and then came up with a plan on the spot. "I was just wondering if you wanted to meet my family! I think they would really enjoy your company. What do you say?" You smiled and gave a nod. "All right Mahito, let's go find them." The curse walked ahead of you and began to maniacally grin. "Jogo, Jogo... You shouldn't have screwed me over while we were playing monopoly... I'm going to make you regret being born!"

Mahito brought you to the play ground and walked over to the slide area. Kenjaku raised an eyebrow but made no attempt to stop him. "This is my family grandma!" You walked over to the man Mahito was closest to. "You have such a wonderful son. You must be so proud. He even gave me candy!" Mahito was trying not to burst from laughter while Kenjaku began to respond. "Unfortunately he's not my son. I'm more of a care taker. He has no patents sadly." You gasped. "How unfortunate."

"Yes, well luckily I'm a father myself so I thought it would be best to add him to the family." How sweet. "That's so kind of you. If you don't mind me asking, where are your other children?" The man's eyes narrowed at Mahito, giving him a look that said 'be grateful I haven't eaten you yet'. "My son's are currently enrolled in high school. They used to be home schooled but we thought it would be better if they were closer with their youngest half brother. Yuji is a growing boy after all and I'm sure that his nine brothers will help his potential grow."

Wow. Nine kids? You started to wonder how all of them could attend school but decided it was better not to ask. They might be more children from a previous relationship or at the very worst, some of them might be have been held back a grade or two. "Mahito, why don't you introduce them to the rest of the family?" The curse gulped and quickly got the point.

As you walked away, the thousand year old brain was happy to finally be rid of you and your irritating questions about his previous failures (children). Mahito then introduced you to his next "family member". "This is Hanami. He doesn't speak our language unfortunately but I can translate for you." The curse then started to speak it's strange language. "He says that he'll be sure to bring lots of beautiful flowers to your grave once you pass."

You chuckled nervously. You didn't think you were in that bad of a state yet. Next Mahito introduced you to Dagon. He told you that he was their beloved dog and that was why he was so large. You could hardly see as it was so of course you bought it. "And finally..." Mahito then walked up to the sleeping curse and began dumping mentos into its volcano head. Suddenly there was magma and the curse was stringing profanities at the boy. "WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING, MAHITO!?"

"Oh my. Did it suddenly got hotter? The forecast called for cooler weather today. I suppose I'll need to take my sweater off." Jogo's eye then opened wide. "Granny, this is my old man. Grandpa, say hello!" Jogo then tried to use his domain expansion but Mahito quickly cut off his head. "If you know what's good for you then behave or I'll use your head to play soccer again..." The curse relented. He didn't need to be told twice.

Jogo grit his teeth and glared at you. "H-hello..." Mahito then kept pestering him. "And what...?" Jogo sighed. "Ni-ice to m-meet y-you..." The younger curse began to laugh. "See? That wasn't so hard! Now I'm off to go get some groceries old man so you better behave! See you both later!"

Now it was just the two of you. "Huh? What's that awful racket?" You couldn't hear as well as Jogo did. "I believe it's coming from your purse... May I check it?..." You promptly handed over your bag. The curse opened it and found the source of his complaints. "That damn punk!" He took the "candy" out of your bag and quickly incinerated it. "You can have this back now."

"Your grandson is so sweet!" Jogo scoffed. "Don't trust anything that comes out of his mouth!"

"Well, he can't be that bad if he's yours."

"You don't even know me..." You laced your fingers with his palm. "Then let me get to know you..."

Over the few hours the two of you began to bond. You both loved nature, preferred to relax. You even both hated those kids that always skate on the sidewalk. "You're the first hum- I mean, person I can relate to. Maybe the human race isn't so bad..."

Suddenly two boys came running towards you. "MAHITO!""Here granny. Try some of the jerky I brought!" You went to reach for a piece but the other boy was quicker and scarfed them all down. "Mahito... How many fingers did you let him eat..." The curse whistled. "Dunno, I lost count after five. Well, I'm done. Later Jogo!" You stared at the unconious boy. "We need to call an ambulance!""... Listen carefully... You need to step back..."

You didn't understand what he was talking about and then something happened. "Hey, I think he's starting to wake!" Jogo tried his best not to shit himself (can curses shit?). "We're doomed..."

"I see you think pretty highly of yourselves..." Jogo immediately began to bow. "Hey! You better follow my lead or you're as good as dead!" You however refused to comply. You stood in front of the boy and waved your finger in his face. "Why I never! Back in my day, children respected the older generations! Youth these days are so arrogant! You need to be taught some manners my boy!"

Kenjaku stood on the sidelines with a bucket of popcorn in his hand. Internally Jogo was screaming "FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!!!" "Wench, it is you who do not know your place. If anything, I'm far older than you. If I were in my true form, I would not even eat you, your body being nothing but a rotting sack of bones at this point. For you I have something else in store. I haven't used this since the Heian era. Domain expansion, elder abuse!"

Suddenly your right ankle had been slashed causing you to fall over. "My leg! Help, I've fallen and I can't get up!" The king of Curses chuckled. "What's this Karen? Didn't you say that you were going to put me in my place?" You desperately tried to use your cane and swat him with it. "That's it! C'mon, try harder!" You then moved to bash his kneecaps. Sukuna swiftly doged it. "Keep trying!"

It was ten minutes later and you were still writhing on the floor in agony. "Pathetic..." You reached your hand over to Jogo. "I'm glad to have met you. You remind me of the boy my granddaughter fell in love with. They would often play chess..." With your last ounce of strength, you opened up your locket and showed him a picture of the couple. It looked like a blind girl and a ninja turtle? It must be that ant curse that Geto was talking about.

The next thing Jogo knew and your head had been crushed underneath Sukuna's foot. "Know your place... Fool!" Jogo's heart had been crushed just like your brain. The curse began to fall over and go into cardiac arrest. "I thought you would stand proud and face me? I guess you aren't that strong after all." Sukuna was about to finish off the curse until his old brain buddy showed up. "Hey, Sukuna. Mind if I take this one?" After receiving the go ahead, Kenjaku began to vore down the weakened curse.

Sukuna smirked. "Kenjaku always does the grossest things!" Kenny then walked right on up towards Mahito. "You see that? That's what will happen to you if you pull another stunt like this again!" Mahito had won but at what cost? 

[yrrtyrrtwhenihrrthrrt]

Drabble request (feel free to say no :) )

(Comic) due to the after events of the book, Ambrosius is in the hospital and feels horrible, physically and mentally, and the treatments they are giving him are making him sick and very anxious, so he asks ballister to visit him in hospital, and plays the whole “hopeless romantic” so that he stays and Ambrosius feels better, but ballister can see right through it, and doesn’t want to admit it, but he visits him anyways.

Yippieee!!! Loved this request as I'm working on a longer Ambrosius Hospital Fic rn \(^^)/

I currently still have one req still in the works because I'm struggling to get it started, but it is on it's way! Anyway I hope you enjoy this drabble :,)

-

Ambrosius groaned softly. He had no idea how long he'd been here. The doctors said it had been four days, but he didn't really believe that. The painkillers and heavy antibiotics– and maybe also the brain injury– made time melt together. All he ever really looked forward to were visits from Ballister. Ballister had visited him often when he was still hospitalized, but he was discharged at some point. 

Not like he had any reason to visit Ambrosius. Fuck. Everything was such dogshit. The Institution, the thing he dedicated his whole life to, was gone. The King to whom he swore allegiance was dead. Not that any of that mattered, he'd already been demoted to a grunt rank in the Institution because he fucked up at doing the only thing he was supposed to be good at. 

Nobody respected him. Nobody liked him. Certainly nobody loved him. And on top of that, he felt nothing but pain and nausea and confusion all the time. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to vomit, but he did it often. The antibiotics were tearing his guts apart. The beta blockers made him even more weak and exhausted than he was already. The painkillers disoriented him and didn't even seem to do much, and also worked together with the anticonvulsants to make him sick as a dog. He couldn't help but wish that Ballister had just left him in that facility to be disintegrated instantly.

Why did Ballister save him if he wasn't even gonna be here? Was it just to punish him? What was going to happen to him after all this? With no job, unable to walk, unable to see out of one eye, no home, he'd end up back on the streets. He was terrified and woke up crying constantly. He wanted his Ballister here. He wanted Ballister to hold his hand and kiss his forehead and tell him everything would be okay. As if he had any claim to Ballister at all. 

Eventually he couldn't take it anymore, and he weakly dialed the number in his phone.

–

Ballister had been a wreck ever since he was discharged. He felt guilty about Nimona and Ambrosius and the town and everything. He wanted to be there for Ambrosius, who at this point was all he had left, but in addition to the pain and mixed feelings he suffered whenever he was around, he feared his presence didn't even help. Whenever he sat with Ambrosius, the man looked so guilty and miserable he couldn't meet his eyes. Making Ambrosius feel like shit about himself certainly wouldn't aid in his recovery. Plus, being in hospitals was more than a little triggering for him. He didn't like to see the pain from the worst day of his life reflecting off Ambrosius's face.

But standing around this empty warehouse, without Nimona's snark or laughter, barely felt like anything either.

He jumped when his phone rang with Ambrosius's number. “Hello?” 

“Hiii…” the voice on the other end was weak. “I've missed you, darling.” 

Ballister cleared his throat. “Ambrosius, you should be resting.” 

“How can I possibly rest without you here? I'm sick and in dreadful shape, and the object of my affection isn't even here to distract me with his handsome face.” 

Blushing, Ballister looked down. More guilt, fun. Obviously he was high as a kite while also being at rock bottom. It was obvious what he was doing. He was playing it like he was being cute and flirty, but he was groveling. He was prone on the floor groveling for Ballister’s attention. For him to be there, to hold his hand.

“My darling, if only I could hear your voice and see your face, I certainly would feel better. If you're not busy, that is.” 

Ballister snorted. He never could resist Ambrosius's begging. 

He arrived at the hospital an hour later, and he swore a blue light flickered behind Ambrosius's eye when he saw him. “You came!” He smiled as broadly as he could without ripping the stitches in his cheek. 

“Of course, I couldn't leave my… my beloved gentleman caller all by himself, could I?” He smiled and took his hand. Ambrosius squeezed it.

“I'm happy you're here.” His voice was exhausted. His face said so many things his mouth couldn't.

Ballister stroked his hair. “I'm not going anywhere. You don't have to be afraid.”

“If I go to sleep, will you stay? Will you hold my hand until I wake up?” 

A lump caught in Ballister's throat. “Of course I will.”

[main-serendipity-sky]

Jimin's Production Diary: Jimin is music

Music looks so good on and coming from Jimin.

It is fascinating to watch Jimin's thoughts take shape and become FACE. I got chills thinking of that because it's not often that we get to see into the actual process of making actual music.

That precise moment the idea is thought, spoken, and turned into a sound that is melodious and pleasant to the brain is a intimate moment between artist and instrument.

Music is the silence between the notes

Throughout the documentary, Jimin is walking around, humming, thinking, and singing.

At times, he's jumping and laughing and, at other times, you can see he is quiet, deep in thought.

He is a guy that walks around when he's thinking but, also someone who thinks of melodies and lyrics while laying down on a couch with his butt up in the air.

It's the silences produced during thinking that gave the best melodies.

Oh god, but hearing his raw vocals. Mmmm. That's like a drug to me. All my favorite things at once.

Jimin unplugged. That's when you really understand the emotions.

Hearing Jimin sing a freshly created melody in uncharted territory is addicting to me. I could listen to that all day.

There is something about raw unfiltered voices. It's like they show this fragility not only of the singer but also of the moment past and present.

The Reflection of Vulnerable Minds and Unexposed Wounds

It was his way of healing and telling his ordinary story.

Adding words to the music was what made things real. It went from being pretty sounds to memories that Jimin was willing to uncover. He exposed his ordinary story as a way to heal and purge the emotions from his mind.

A painful way to healing.

From what we see, Jimin was coming from a place of vulnerability. He was betrayed, angry, alone, lost.

There is a particular scene that where he sits in a corner and sings Alone and you see how he feels the song when it is played back. It's painful to watch...until he starts laughing.

"When the producer told me it's all right, I tilted my head."

I could thank PDogg, Evan, and Ghostloop a thousand times for believing in Jimin and supporting him. A team of 4 made history and helped Jimin set himself free. They celebrated his ideas and praised his work.

They helped him not "lose the truth" in his artistry.

They deserve all the cake in the world.

No one expected this from Jimin. He wasn't seen as the one who would have an album where he would have participation credits in everything. He wasn't seen as a composer. He wasn't supposed to be a self-made artist.

Many didn't expect his success and were waiting for his downfall but instead he found his way to greater heights.

Jimin was just a guy with emotions and a story to tell. FACE was his diary. Those emotions were so strong that Jimin, being as private as he is, shared them and then shared how he turned the painful memories into a process of healing.

I never thought Jimin would actually show us all that. I'm thankful I get to see this side of him and I value FACE and Jimin even more.

I didn't know this was possible.

[mirror-ralsei]

THEORY: The Ink Blot Test & Symmetry in UTDR

This isn't as much of a typical theory as it is pointing out a design element that I think really needs more discussion: the distinctive style used in certain visuals in the game.

It's actually kind of difficult for me to describe. But there seems to be a recurring style used across many enemies and their weapons. This style is typically white in color, and typically very ornate and detailed-looking. It's easy to pick out because most of the shapes in Undertale/Deltarune's sprites are more simple...and because of one fact: all of these designs look symmetrical.

Here are the places I noticed this style appearing. Hopefully as you look at these, you can understand what I mean by a particular “ornate, symmetrical look”:

Reaper Bird's overworld appearance

Reaper Bird's body

Asriel's CHAOS BUSTER

Final Froggit

POSSIBLE: Knight Knight's Good Morningstar (listed here as “hammer”)

POSSIBLE: Memoryheads (they're in 3/4 view and melting-looking so it's harder to tell, but notice the curly parts and comb-teeth-like parts)

Gaster Blasters (using the unused version since it's easier to notice the style without the eyes)

(While most of these designs are technically not symmetrical if you look closely, they all definitely give the impression of being so.)

There's some other possible references to this style, but I'm just going to focus on the more distinct ones for now. And even some of the ones I've listed are debatable. If I had to pick just a few, I'd use Reaper Bird, their overworld sprite, and CHAOS BUSTER as the definitive examples.

So it's taken me a couple years of not quite being able to place why this style felt so familiar. At first I thought they might look like fractals...

...but that wasn't quite it. Finally, all of a sudden, I put my finger on it.

This design style reminds me of Rorschach blots.

For anyone who doesn't know, the Rorschach test is a psychological test involving the subject looking at inkblots and determining what these patterns look like to them. As you can see, the inkblots are very intricate and symmetrical - just like the examples above.

How does this connect to Undertale? Not too much. But Deltarune? Possibly a lot! Maybe that's the reason most of the instances where this style appears seem connected to Deltarune in some way.

For starters, inkblots are black and white. Specifically, they're black patterns on a white background. So far, every instance of these inkblot-like designs in UT/DR have been the inverse of this: they're all white patterns on dark or black backgrounds. We know light and dark have meaning in Deltarune, so this makes sense.

The ink blots' meaning are what you make of it. Your brain determines what real world things this abstract ink on paper looks like to you. This seems like it could tie into the concept behind the Dark Worlds, and how they seem like “interpretations” of items in real life: For example, the Halloween Pencil becomes a SpookySword. (It's possible the ShadowCrystals may play on this “perception” idea a bit too, but we don't know yet.)

Doctor Gaster seems to be conducting tests on us (Sound Test, SURVEY_PROGRAM, etc.) to observe our feedback. This thematically fits with this whole Rorschach blot test reference. I'm not sure if “WHAT DO YOU TWO THINK?” from Entry 17 and the egg man's flavor text 'What do you think?” are necessarily connected to this at all, but it does happen to fit the theme, lol.

All right, so we've established that there seems to be a symmetrical-looking style. We theorized that maybe they were supposed to evoke a similar look to Rorschach blot tests.

Now we're going to speculate even further.

So why exactly was this Rorschach blot looking style chosen? I think this symmetrical look might be based around reflections. After all, Deltarune involves a Light World and Dark World that reflect each other. And there are actually a few important references to reflections across Undertale and Deltarune.

Kris first appeared in Undertale as the PC's reflection in a puddle if Undertale is being run in Debug mode (Video by marxvee)

Reaper Bird is encountered in a mirror

Asriel and Kris' sides of their room are almost perfectly symmetrical in terms of layout and furniture

Kris' room in Ralsei's Castle has mirrored sprites of Asriel's trophies

The File Select text before Chapter 1's completion states “CHOOSE THE TARGET FOR THE REFLECTION” when copying a file, “IT IS IMMUNE TO ITS OWN IMAGE” when trying to copy a fiile onto itself, and “IT CONFORMED TO THE REFLECTION” when overwriting a file with a copied one

Mettaton NEO's attack is incredibly high but defenses are low, Spamton NEO's defense is incredibly high but attack is low

Gaster's motif of “666” is “mirrored” by 999: 999 appears in multiple places, eg. Chara's attack, stats of Grandpa Semi were “atk: 99999, df: 99999, hp: 999” (pointed out by LeedleLel's comment on this video by Lil' Alien).

The background of Jevil's fight is a mirrored image of a carousel.

The mirrored sinks in the right hospital room read “(It's a regular sink.)” and “(It's a clone of the other sink.)” Also: “(Perhaps there was originally one tall sink that was cut in half to create both of them.)”

All leg options in the GONER_MAKER are identical except the final one, which is mirrored. (pointed out by Shayy via Semi Frequent Undertale Facts)

The background of the GONER_MAKER itself is mirrored.

The background of the Asriel Dreemurr fight is mirrored.

The strange fog graphic before Papyrus' battle appears mirrored.

"I can't get any closer to the camera, I can't even see...my...little reflection." from the Spamton Sweepstakes

POSSIBLE: Gaster's belly face (upside down, details are white on black background, where Gaster's main face are black on white background)

POSSIBLE: Hot Fridge (inverse of the function of a normal fridge. look this one's loose lol, only including it because Alphys invented it and fridges are tied to Asgore's egg fridge, Snowdrake's mother, the Sans fridge call, and maybe the unused “rustfridge” in the Trash Zone (a place rife with possible Deltarune references))

POSSIBLE: Unused rooms 123 and 321 (123 is a relatively accessible unused room with interesting dialogue and 321 is...dark, and "empty").

So notably, the places we find this reflection motif in Undertale seem mostly connected to Deltarune: Kris is the PC of Deltarune, Reaper Bird is tied to Deltarune through Everyman, Mettaton NEO is similar to Deltarune's Spamton NEO, and Gaster is...well, probably the one who gave us our SURVEY_PROGRAM in the first place. Even the more tenuous examples of reflections seem plausibly Deltarune-related, such as the fridge Fun call and the Gaster belly face in Spamton's dumpster and a reflected dark room.

I'd like to expound a little bit on the File Select and sink dialogues. Both of these seem to be playing with a concept that could explain this reflection motif.

Copying a file in the File Select seems to mean we are “reflecting” it onto another slot: “CHOOSE THE TARGET FOR THE REFLECTION.” We cannot copy a file onto itself because “IT IS IMMUNE TO ITS OWN IMAGE.” If we overwrite an existing file with a copied one, “IT CONFORMED TO THE REFLECTION.” Interestingly, though, if you copy a file into an empty slot... “THE DIVISION IS COMPLETE.”

Not multiplying the file - dividing it in two. The original file is also implied to be changed in some way by this, because if you cancel the action of copying a file into an empty slot, “IT RETAINED ITS ORIGINAL SHAPE.” Meaning it would not have retained its original shape if it were copied.

The flavor text for the “cloned” sinks reflects this (hah) exactly. “(It's a regular sink.)” and “(It's a clone of the other sink.)” are followed by “(Perhaps there was originally one tall sink that was cut in half to create both of them.)” Aside from being relevant to the only tall sink we know of, Papyrus' in Undertale, this seems to be setting up a concept of “reflections” representing “an original being divided in two.”

That's about as far as I can take this with the context we have now. We don't know what exactly this reflection/division concept will mean in the plot of Deltarune, as it hasn't showed its hand yet. We don't know if the resemblance of that one recurring style to inkblots is intentional or just coincidence. But at least we have some possible explanation for why these motifs of symmetry and reflections keep showing up.

[allelitewrites]

(This is my first story and I honestly don't even know if I'm doing this whole thing right but...)

A Subtle Warning

Word Count: 1630

Relationship: Hangman Page x Reader

----------------------------------------------------

Tonight was just like any other Wednesday night. My boyfriend and I arrived to the venue a few hours before doors opened for the weekly episode of Dynamite. I thankfully wasn't booked to do anything for the night. I was only thankful because a rest was very much needed. Adam however was in the middle of a pretty personal feud with Swerve Strickland. Their whole thing wasn't supposed to be personal at first. The initial intention for it to just be apart of the wrestling business. One person wanting another's position. However, things changed when Swerve had brought up that Hangman was walking away from his issues. Walking away from his issues like he had from the Elite and I some years ago. It was a low point that he typically didn't like to talk about and that night, Swerve really struck a nerve.

Hangman and I found our way into The Elite's locker room. The EVP's temporarily absent due to a creative meeting. We set our things down before taking a seat next to each other on the cheap couch. He and I leaned into each other. With the way his calloused fingers were tracing along my skin, I could tell he was nervous. "I hate signing contracts on TV." Adam mumbles as he lets out a large sigh.

I turn my head and plant a firm kiss on his large shoulder before leaning my head against him again. "Just go out there and do your thing." I reassure him as I twist at one of the bracelets resting on my wrist. I can feel him nod as his hand finally starts to decrease the amount of shapes it was drawing. "Try not to let him get to you."

"Well, Y/n, it's kind of hard when he's sitting right across the table from me with a disgusting smirk as he mocks me."

I didn't even have a response. I hate contract signings just as much as he does. They were a stupid excuse to get publicity and a chance to manipulate your opponent on a golden platter. To me, you shouldn't need a set up situation for you to get to your opponent. Everything you do should be in the ring. Without a table and without chairs. Contracts should be signed in the back. A response came to mind but I wasn't able to share it as Kenny, Matt, and Nick came back into the room, instantly complaining about how long and boring their meeting was. Adam sat up straight and let his large hand rest on my thigh. We weren't huge on PDA, especially not around our friends.

A few hours later...

For whatever reason Tony Khan decided to give Adam and Swerve the main event. All for a contract signing that would probably end up with tables flipping and chairs being thrown. I was sitting anxiously next to Matt as the Elite watched the segment go down. Renee Paquette table side to officiate the signing.

Strickland was chewing Adam up, not even giving the blonde headed man a chance to speak his own words. Eventually, he started to talk about how different he and Hangman were from each other. Almost as if he was offended by being compared to the cowboy. "What's a farmer to a mogul, huh?" Swerve asks, making Adam furrow his eyebrows. "What's a cowboy to an outlaw? What's a buckshot to a kill shot?"

I chewed at the inside of my cheek. I could see Adam's gears in his brain moving at a hundred miles per minute just through the television screen in the locker room. He was keeping his cool, never breaking eye contact with the man across the table from him.

Finally, Swerve put his microphone down. For the first time tonight, Adam was given the opportunity to speak his thoughts. But, he didn't start the way I expected him to. First, Adam calmly mentioned the things Swerve had said to him in the weeks prior. However, the thing that caught all of us off guard as Nick and Kenny settled in their spots around the room was that Hangman thanked Swerve. Adam thanked him for reigniting a flame in his body that was long burnt out. He explained how something was up with him. Something that a person really couldn't explain.

The crowd was so invested in every single word that either man let slip from their lips. Letting every single sentence set in, expanding their thoughts to multiple different things. Things that hadn't even realized they didn't really notice at first. A slight stir could be heard as Adam spoke of a dark cloud that he'd felt was hovering over him every single time that he showed up to work.

"And then sure... sure. The sun would shine. I beat Jon Moxley in a Texas Death Match." Adam proudly brags. I caught him taking a pause to look at Renee, who drew her lips into a line at the thought of the brutal match her husband had gone through with my boyfriend. "I reunited with my friends in the Elite. I was able to rekindle my relationship with the absolute love of my life. And it felt like I should've been the happiest man in the world. But every time I started to smile. That little black cloud came back and it started to rain."

I couldn't help but smile at the fact of him calling me the love of his life on national television. Something I could never get used to him calling me. In the good way of course. He continued to speak before addressing how the fans who supported him so dearly deserved to see more from him. And when he decided that he spoke enough of his mind to get his point across, he picked up the pen and signed his name on the dotted line.

An evil laugh was heard. A laugh that echoed through the building. Adam was caught off guard. Looking up to see Swerve looking like he was having the time of his life. Looking like he was having a good time. Looking like this whole thing was a simple joke to him. The crowd quickly canceled him out, a chant of 'Cowboy Shit' echoing through the seats of the arena.

"That was beautiful. But, quite frankly, that was the most pathetic thing I've ever seen." Swerve chuckles before insulting the crowd's home team. Earning an array of boos. He continued on to speak about how he was fueled to take Adam's position in the company before Hangman had heard enough. Tired of hearing how Swerve believed Adam was handed everything in his career which couldn't of been more untrue.

Hangman stood up, the anger coursing through his veins finally reaching a boiling point. "If you think you have what it takes to fill my boots... you don't."

Swerve matched his energy also standing up across from him. But he didn't speak a single word. Instead he froze to look Adam in the eye once more. And just when Adam thought it was over, Swerve rose his and and slapped the cowboy across the face. Adam turned around and leaned on the ropes behind him as Swerve picked up a microphone yet again. "Hey. Hey, hey Hangman. You seem to not think of me as a threat. You sure as hell better watch your back... or maybe you should tell your friends... actually, no. You want to make this personal? Fine, we'll make it personal. You better tell your hot girlfriend to watch her back."

Adam didn't even hesitate, raising the microphone he still had in his hand to his mouth.

"If you touch her... I'll kill you."

Swerve let out a long sigh. Finally he got the hint that Hangman wasn't joking. Threatening me... someone Adam cared about so dearly was the final nerve that Swerve could've hit. He leaned over and signed the contract.

In that split second, I saw Adam clench his fist and I knew he was going to swing. However, I didn't expect what he actually did.

Using the pen Adam formerly used to sign the match contract, he stabbed Swerve's hand. I watched as Strickland screamed in pain. He pleaded as my boyfriend refused to let go. I booked it out of the room. Rushing to get into the guerrilla position. I intended on meeting Adam there. After that... I had no plan, I was left with whatever my first option would end up being.

He forcefully pushed his way back through the curtain not seeing me at first. But when I walked up to him and put my hand on his bicep. He spun around and I could see relief wash across his face. He pulls me into his chest and holds the back of my head. I can feel his heavy breathing and I can hear his heart beat at the speed of a thousand race horses.

He pulls away to kiss the top of my head before firmly grabbing my hand. Not even whispering a single word. He rushes me through the hallways before pushing me into an empty room that he surely scouted out before the show. As soon as I shut the door he crashes his lips into mine, his hands grabbing greedily at my top. I wrap my arms around my neck before tilting my head back to get a good look at his face.

"What?" He asks.

I smile and push a golden curl out of his face. "I just wanted to make sure that I heard you right. Did you say you would kill him?"

A smirk crawls onto his face. His ocean blue eyes staring directly into mine. "With my own two bare hands, sweetheart."

[hypnoneghoul]

Hi, same anon from a few weeks ago that was asking if you could write some little sick Phantom.

I was supposed to go to the concert last night that got rescheduled, luckily I still get to go but I've been crying all morning and now am at work trying not to cry more even though it's kinda dumb because I get to go tomorrow.

Do you think I can get some more little Phantom comfort?

Thank you in advance if you do ❤️

I'm so sorry this happened darling :( and feeling like this it's not dumb at all, it's completely valid! I hope you're better now <3

this is short and rushed because I just got off work but wanted to deliver this asap, I hope it's decent

sorry for the asks that had been waiting, I'll take care of everything tommorow because today was my last day at work

First time it happened he was so scared.

He didn't know what was going on, the only thought in his fuzzy brain being "wrong". It never happened before and he was scared and didn't know what to do, where to go.

Something in his mind started to slip after his panic when he messed up again, another song. He knew it was normal, each and every one of them messed up and he never ate himself up for doing so.

But that day... he was tired. Another show in a row, not being able to get enough rest on the loud and jumping bus in between them, Phantom was exhausted. He grew to love touring, playing, but it was tiring. And he was on the verge.

Everyone was getting snappy and he was sure someone was close to actually smacking him over the head, not just playfully for the show.

He cried, under the mask, when he messed up that night. Tried to calm down, take deep breaths through the fabric muzzle and tell himself to not be dramatic. It didn't work.

Well, not exactly.

He felt his brain slowing, but not stopping at just "calm". It slowed further, until all he could think about was how scared he was of punishment for his mistake. Mistakes.

Phantom has no idea how he got through the rest of the show, but he did his best, even if he was practically shaking with held back sobs by the time the last song ended. He hoped no one noticed, he was so stupid, dramatic but he was so scared, he-

"Hey, bug," Swiss' voice cut through the haze as he squeezed Phantom's hand. When did he grab it? His eyes widened, he wasn't fast enough to hold back a whine. "You alright?"

He opened his mouth to say yes, but his words just wouldn't come out. His heart sped up impossibly, shoulders slumped as his fear only grew.

What was going on, why couldn't he think, why didn't he understand what was going on around, what was everything so loud, why his limbs felt so heavy, why-

"Calm down, kid, you're okay," he heard Swiss again.

Kid.

A kid.

That's... that's what he was.

He was just a kid who ended up in front oh thousands of people full of expectations and he failed them all. He failed his packmates, his Papa. He was just a kid but he was already a failure.

Somehow he ended up on a couch. When did he get to a couch?

The couch was... warm. And its shape was weird.

The couch was talking.

"Back with me, bug, it's alright, I've got you," it wasn't the couch, it was Swiss.

Phantom jumped, he failed Swiss too, he couldn't be comforted by him.

"Shhh, it's okay, baby," the multi ghoul cooed again, smoothing a big, warm hand over Phantom's back. It was nice. "There you go, that's the happy purr."

Baby.

Purr? He was purring?

He tried to say something, anything, but he couldn't. There was so little words in his head.

"Don't try to talk, kid, there's no need. Just relax."

Kid.

Phantom liked that, it was like Swiss... understood. Even if he himself didn't. It was nice. Swiss was nice.

He couldn't say it, but he cuddled closer, curling up more in Swiss' lap. He hoped Swiss would understand.

"There you go, yeah, just like that, kid, I've got you."

He did, Swiss did have him, Swiss was home, he was-

"Safe," Phantom mumbled, the only word he seemed to have right now.

"Yes, you're safe," Swiss chuckled.

The quintessence ghoul whined in protest, though, shook his head, "You... safe."

"I'm... safe?" Swiss asked, Phantom shook his head again.

"I... mean safe?" that got Swiss an enthusiastic nod and a happy chirp before he burrowed back into the crook of his neck. "Yes, baby, safe with me. Always safe with me."

.

.

.

When he was himself again, Swiss made him talk with Rain about what happened. How exactly did he feel, how did his head feel. Phantom was embarrassed, he told them it was just stupid panic attack or something, he was just being dramatic, he was tired.

Rain begged to differ.

He told Phantom he regressed. Something that Rain themself did sometimes, Dew and Mountain too, though slightly different. He told him it was normal, that he could learn to enjoy feeling all small.

Phantom could believe that... but only if Swiss would be there to keep him safe.

[mommypills]

Life is Strange Rewrite

HELLO CHAT. i know it's been entirely too long since i've posted anything but i feel like i need to get this out somewhere besides in my poor friends' dms. i have no idea how active the LiS tags are, but it matters not; i am ready to unleash my super autism upon whoever is willing to read this post!

you've read the title, i assume. i started rewatching a playthrough of LiS and BtS fairly recently, though i've been a fan since... well... a while. at least since 2018, perhaps earlier. i will admit, i wasn't quite in tune with the story during those years because i was a young child. simply put, i grew up with this series—thank you for introducing me to these awkward lesbians, ma—and had almost no outside opinions to consider.

enter 2024 hal with internet access and a dozen friends who don't mind discussing things with me. i have one friend who has a distaste for the game and was in the same boat with me until somewhat recently. to keep it short, they don't like chloe because of all the things she's done throughout the entire game; especially the options where you choose to go against her. i have probably given chloe the benefit of the doubt for years due to my heavy relating to her character... unfortunately.

as you would guess, i consider myself a writer. i do writer things, like stare at a google doc for 30 minutes and wonder when my brain will finally let me get words on there. and because i am many more steps above my younger self in terms of writer brain, chloe's character confuses me to a curiously dog-shaped degree. i am conflicted. yes, her father died and max left her around that time, but would that justify or even make sense how she became the chloe in LiS? on the other hand, it makes sense. i have seen what happened to her happen to someone else. that gradual change, being stuck in the past whereas everyone has moved on, not having a support group, being infinitely lonely, falling into the deepest depths of the crevice of your brain... i understand; more so than the average LiS fan.

(if you're rory, my wife, stop reading from here, please <3 until we finish that watchalong)

i have always chalked chloe up as the sensitive type. she would never admit it, but i've always seen her as someone who is highly reactive to her environment. she took the death of her dad and max's departure disastrously, she was absolutely distraught when rachel was stabbed, she took rachel's death horribly, plus at any sign of "you will die" danger she immediately becomes rigid. i could just be unreactive, but this all seems to be signs of an environmentally sensitive individual—not to mention her general behavior when talking to max about the incident in the BtS DLC! i could just be misremembering that, though, so take that with a grain of salt. one could also interpret her being dependent on max—even before her dad's death—and later rachel. also she?? basically has hallucinations of her dad???? i guess???? why does nobody talk about that wtf

apologies, i went a little bit off-topic. my point in the last two paragraphs is that i am completely on the fence about chloe as a character. she is both liked and hated, and she is supposed to be a character we would be willing to sacrifice an entire town for. for some people, the bay vs bae option was obvious, whether it was because they hated chloe or adored her. here is the horrendous segue because i don't know how to connect this thought and the next.

i began to think: what if i were to rewrite life is strange and before the storm?

i'll give you some information and talking points on what i have currently (minus some bullet points i've omitted because they're not ready for the world) and you will tell me whether i should keep cooking or stop before i burn the building down.

BEFORE THE STORM

// change rachel's situation with her parents. make her justifiably hate her dad and make her go to her biological mother to tell the truth, i don't really get rachel's whole thing about her parents. it hurts to be lied to in general, but rose is the woman that raised you lil bro. i would get it if she were mistreated, but she wasn't. no reason to have the story based around that when it doesn't make sense, so let's switch it up. the easiest way to do this would be to make them abusive. make her think that things would be better if her bio mother stayed and/or if she met up with her (this would turn out wrong when they find out that she is an addict, and does a little bit of #manipulation.) not canon in the games, but making her biological mother a bad person would be very poetic. there could be an episode dedicated to chloe trying to pull rachel away from her bio mother because shes ass tm. and this transitions into my next idea...

// make chloe the "i can fix her" type, the residue of herself from before her father died. hell, make her character a bit different from the LiS 1 chloe! maybe have her be a combination of pre-william death chloe and post-william death chloe. this portion was initially "make it take place a year or two after william's death" but then i realized that it DOES take place approximately two years after. so, i'm changing this point to being "make it take place 6 months to a year after his death" so we can explore her character more. by the end of this, make chloe further traumatized. or at the very least, make all these events impact her so much that she ends up becoming the woman she is in LiS 1... of which some people in-game would describe her as "broken" or "irreversibly damaged" (i wrote this before learning that rachel's dad actually said this about her, by the way! jesus, man.) and make the thing longer than 3 damn episodes.

LIFE IS STRANGE

// make max and chloe parallel chloe and rachel, except their relationship gets less and less problematic as time goes on rachel's relationship with chloe is... certainly something. i don't have any strong opinions on amberprice, but what i DO know is that rachel is chloe's BIGGEST enabler and absolutely contributed to why she's like the way she is. she's like the devil on your shoulder saying "burn down that orphanage" except chloe doesn't have an angel on the other side. the thing that makes max different from chloe in BtS is that she is the "i can help her" type. all for therapy and shit. make them both go to therapy actually. perhaps even have a duo counseling scene where they air things out and finally forgive both themselves and each other. genuinely have no idea why therapy was never seriously included in any LiS game so far considering the kind of shit they go through.

and that is it! thank you for sitting through this hefty wall of text. i am infinitely sorry for yapping, but i'm just an autistic little lesbian who loves these dorky ass weirdos. i will not take any more of your time—this is where the post ends.

i was not eating those beans☹️

[kurisus]

Chapter 106-2 thoughts

sorry this is LATE but this chapter did horrible things to my brain so let's all yell about it under the cut.

Daikoku continues to be the best character. And the Kofuku/Daikoku reunion I feel kinda got swept under the rug with everything else that happened but I'm glad they're back together. Even if the circumstances are less than ideal.

But before I move to talking about other reunions under less than ideal circumstances,,, I'm glad the shinki have rallied. It goes along well with the manga's message that shinki are responsible for shaping the morals of their god, and I would really hate to read a manga that ends with a massacre of the human race, besides.

On to the Father section, the meat of this chapter, I wonder why Kaya is nowhere to be found. Though her death was sudden, I suppose she didn't become a shinki nor an ayakashi, so Father's dimension can only create a facsimile. So was she satisfied with her life until that point? Or was she so afraid of Father she didn't want to become like him? The latter seems more likely to me.

The parallel between Father looking for Kaya to Yato wanting his shrine hurt me deeply. The difference, though, is that Father would stop at nothing to achieve his goals, whereas Yato had people to stop him and steer him. Like I speculated last month, too, I am not convinced that Father even believes in his own mission. It's more like he got drunk on power and enjoyed causing collateral damage, to me.

In any case, Yato was happy to settle and keep improving himself once he got his shrine, giving up his dreams of being the most-worshipped god since that wasn't really what he was after. Meanwhile, no amount of reparations could fix the damage Father has done, and unlike Yato, he wouldn't stop his behaviors even if Kaya was miraculously here. More likely, he'd try to force Yato and Hiiro back into their roles as his submissive children, and kill everyone who doesn't belong in his facade of a family portrait.

But Kaya is not here, Father has discovered that his will is not all-powerful, and now he's right back to where he started. Ruling over nothing.

The reminder of how Yato sees Izanami in the year 2023 was honestly so rude. And even more rude was that apparently Father knew Hiyori was here, and made an educated guess that Yato saw Izanami as her.

HERE'S HOW THE HIYORI SAKURA CONVERSATION CAN STILL WIN--

Okay so now we're at the Yatori reunion. I think "long-awaited" hardly covers this. It's been more than 5 years for us, and over a month in-universe, and even worse, Yato basically told Hiyori the next time he saw her he would have reincarnated. And now she sees him standing before her as a child. So. That's going well.

A couple things concern me about this. First of all, Hiyori's in poor condition, so something tells me she's going to believe he died and not find out the truth for quite some time. Which would break me beyond repair, so I hope that doesn't happen and I will not elaborate on what's in my head. Second, the reason she's like that at all is because of trash dad's interference. Yato still doesn't know about him setting wolves on her. He's going to quickly put two and two together, and on top of that, Yukine is also dissolving.

So, will Yato kill Father with his own two hands at long last? Will he revert to being an adult once he does? Will Hiyori realize the truth before they part ways forever? CAN WE HAVE A GOD DAMN BITTERSWEET ENDING? I'M GOING TO BE INCONSOLABLE IF WE DON'T.

I think. we will be fine. It's quite late in the game to kill any of the main characters now, but I never look forward to seeing how Adachitoka inevitably plans to hurt me. So with that in mind, I'll see you all next month for another round of screaming.

[appleswan]

I think that what a lot of comic book writers don't understand about the conflict between Bruce and Jason is what it's primarily about, because while yes the whole killing people thing plays a part it's not nearly as large of a part as people assume it to be. If it was about the act of killing both Damian and Tim would have been facing the same kind of damnation as Jason does. But they don't.

What Jason and Bruce's conflict boils down to is the conflation of the past with the present. Both parties are guilty of this, remembering what was and equating it to what is or what should be. For Bruce (and Dick) it's conflating Jason as Robin with Jason as Red Hood and seeing a child that he let walk down the wrong path. He see's what was (a great morally good hero) with what is (a morally grey Anti-hero) and thinks that Jason should be more like what Robin was which is impossible now due to many different situations and influences that have shaped Jason as an adult and as a hero. Meanwhile for Jason it's conflating the Bruce of the past with the Batman of the present, remembering who Bruce was as a mentor and father and seeking that in a Batman who has already mourned and grieved for a dead son and partner. There's more to that, including the hurt and betrayal of realizing that his death wasn't avenged, but I digress.

They are both so drastically different from when they worked together that they're near strangers. Their antiquated sense of who the other should be has driven a wedge between them that widens through near every interaction as they don't understand who the other person is as a person anymore. They've both been shaped by drastically different influences and circumstances that now there's not much that they can agree upon. That sense of past conflating with present is also why you see Dick fighting a lot more with Jason too, because he knew Jason as Robin.

There's a reason that Jason seems to get along more with people like Steph, Duke, and Cass, people who didn't know him as Robin. It's because they don't have this idealistic childlike version of him to hold onto a pedestal. They never grieved him so they don't hold onto those memories because there were none.

Personally I also think that a lot of the conflict at least on Jason's end comes from a poor sense of identity. He doesn't exactly know who he is or who he wants to be as a hero because he never really got a chance to discover that for himself unlike both Dick and Tim. When we see him start to pull away from Batman and begin that path of self-discovery he's blown up, and when he comes back to life there's people telling him what to do and urging him in certain directions. And while he has some time with the Outcasts I still think he's operating mostly under the influence of the League of Assassins and in the Prince of Gotham arc he's operating under a sense of obligation to Gotham (which I love don't get me wrong).

Furthermore a lot of critical years of brain development were stolen from him where he was either training, comatose, or catatonic. I don't think it's irrational to assume that he's going through those vital years of development just at a later date.

It's why I like the end of Task Force Z so much, we see him going on his own to discover who he is as a person outside of all these other influences and people trying to dictate who he's supposed to be. He's going on that journey of Self-Discovery that is needed so much

I also think that a lot of their problems could have been solved if Bruce had told Jason that the only thing that kept him from killing Joker after he died was diplomatic immunity and Superman. "It would have been too easy" my ass! You wanted too, Bruce, and you were going too.

Just my two cents idk I have a lot of thoughts about this and it kinda pisses me off how there always seems to be a fight between Jason and Batman + Batfamily in every Red Hood run. And it doesn't make sense because they're good and then they're not good and then they're fighting again. I just want some consistency (Please for the love of god don't get me started on how much I wish writers would drop the fucking crowbar thing). I just think that their conflict is a lot more nuanced (on both sides) than Jason does morally reprehensible things sometimes. I could be very wrong about this too, I'm just thinking tm

[stageoutoffive]

breakdown

according to kubler ross, there are five stages of grief. i am at number one. shock (or denial)

when i first met you, i thought you talked a lot- it didn't bother me too much i suppose. i had never really met someone who could also talk about nonsense as much as me. even if we had different topics to yap about.

when i first met you, i had dreamt of you. my brain was asleep, but my conscious had made a shape of you. every night after that, i had prayed that i could see it again

when i first met you, i knew that i wanted you. i had told the moon that you were mine ! she winked at me and breezed me a

"good luck"

the moon is dissapointed in me tonight, for her back is turned and she cries with me,

"it's your fault !" she showers.

and it is my fault.

i'm so dumb

so dumb

so. dumb.

i had lost an angel like you, because i figured i was a chore to you.

and i'm sure if i told you all of this instead of mixing emotions and cheap liquor, we would have been fine ! yes, with some problems, but we would have been together ! and thats all i need.

before i had made that stupid impulsive decision of leaving you, i had gone days without eating. i was so used to getting full with your words, that i forgot what being hungry felt like. my colored hair was getting brittle because i had stopped imagining you stroking it. i was no longer myself and i figured you wouldn't want me that way.

lifeless.

i wasn't going to leave you forever, i just wanted you to focus on school and your new hobbies and new friends ! but i didn't tell you that. i just kicked everything to the side and vanished.

and i know in the beginning, we'd say we'd never do that to each other, but i figured that it was best for you to hate me then for you to wait for me (if you even wanted to) it wouldn't be fair.

and please my love,

please please please

feel me when i say,

i am so terribly sorry for putting you through this.

i know it can be hard to believe and its not my place for you to forgive me and if you did this to me-

oh lets get serious, you'd never do this to me.

you have went through so much pain and suffering, and you trusted me enough to tell me those things, and in the end i threw it all away because i was scared to talk to you.

i'd walk to your school and show up with flowers and a boombox and embarrass myself, if it meant i could be around you just once.

i'd learn how to play the guitar and rent a venue with you as the only guest and try to preform for you.

i would take off my makeup and let my hair run wild and cry to you. i would let you see the ugly side of me because i believe you'd love me either way.

"loved" i'm sorry.

i will continue to love you in present and future. even if you don't feel the same way.

it's selfish of me but

no "but" i'm just selfish.

tomorrow i will find a new way to feed off you. maybe in music or a nature documentary. i'll check my phone every 5 minutes in case you'll text me, it likely won't happen though, you're goodbye was so strong.

but my denial is much more stronger.