#Maybe this is just what happens when your coping mechanism is to just not think about something

[sticky-sugar]

try it. (matsukawa issei x reader)

tags/cw: roommates to lovers, somnophilia, fingering, mattsun sends porn as a coping mechanism, size kink if you really squint

word count: 3.1k

“i’ve always wanted to try that.” 

issei chokes on his beer when you speak. you point at the tv in explanation, as though he needs one. the scene playing has just started out with a couple in bed, spooning while they fuck. everything’s covered, but it’s easy to tell through the blanket that the woman’s leg is lifted, her back arching against the man’s chest while she cries out lewdly. 

“never been fucked in the morning?” he jokes, keeping his eyes trained on the screen so he doesn’t have to look at you. his laugh sounds awkward even to him. 

“mm-mm.” you shake your head, draining your wine glass, and he can’t tell if that’s a confirmation or a rejection of his guess. but he can tell that that wine bottle on the coffee table is empty, because you would never say these things to him sober. 

“not that part,” you explain. frowning when you realize there’s no wine left, you rise from the couch, disappearing from the room and padding down the hall. issei sighs in relief at the moment alone, running his fingers through his hair and tugging hard.

“she’s drunk,” he whispers to himself, a reminder. “she’s drunk, and she’s your friend. and you can’t afford rent anywhere else, you stupid fuck.” that’ll do it. he’s broke as shit, and you’re a good friend. he can steel his nerves with those facts. 

“she was asleep when he started,” you call from the kitchen. 

fuck. 

issei drops his head back, hitting it on the wall a few times with purpose. fuck, fuck, fuck. 

you come back in, and he straightens, yanking the throw blanket over his lap. you’re too drunk to notice. 

you’re too drunk to notice much of anything, really — including your own running mouth. 

“she was asleep,” you say again. “and he fucked her anyway—“ you rush to explain yourself, holding a hand out when his eyes find yours, wide and uncertain. “consensually, obviously.” 

that doesn’t help. he’d been assuming that, but you confirming it makes it worse.

somnophilia, his mind whispers, the word latching itself to you. 

“i dunno,” you shrug, your refilled wine glass brought to your lips. “i think it’s hot, i guess. i’d try it.” 

he really can’t afford rent anywhere else. 

—

you’re scouring roommate ads in a hungover daze the next morning. 

what is your problem?, you think, rolling over to groan into your pillow. you open your bank app, staring at the number in your checking account and wondering uselessly if it’s enough to afford a place on your own. one where you’ll never have to look mattsun in the face again. 

why did you tell him that?

your brain flashes through two bottles of wine and drunk admissions, and you switch over to uber eats, deciding that cooking is simply not an option today. standing in that kitchen for more then four seconds and risking running into him is not an option. 

you know why you told him that. you know exactly why you told him.

you told him because, despite every coping mechanism you’ve tried over the years of living with him, matsukawa issei persists in being the most attractive man you’ve ever met. 

you told him because you wanted to test the waters. why you would ever test the waters with somnophilia, of all things, and not something standard and vanilla like ‘making out with a friend just happens sometimes’ or ‘drunk hookups aren’t so bad’, you will never know. 

but you’d told him because you think about it. you think about him, doing things like that. things that aren’t standard or vanilla or easily explained or plausibly deniable. 

you think about matsukawa issei fucking you while you sleep. and maybe it’s happened one too many times. maybe now it’s all you think about, enough that it comes up in your stupid, drunk admissions. 

maybe — just maybe — you hope he might take you up on it, now that it’s out there in the open like that. 

but that’s just a maybe. so you’re looking for another apartment, on the very real chance that he’s going to call you a freak and never speak to you again. 

your phone buzzes in your hand. 

it’s a text from him.

[10:17 AM]

mattsun: [link attached]

your face crumples into a frown. “what?” you murmur, jabbing a thumb on the link and hoping it’s not a virus. 

your phone starts moaning at max volume.

you scream, slamming down on the side button to lower the volume as the video intro plays through. your eyes fly to the title.

milf fucked by son’s friend while she’s sleeping

there’s no fucking way he just did that. 

[10:19 AM]

mattsun: smth like that? 

“matsukawa!” you scream, rolling out of bed and storming out into the hall. he’s laughing loudly from his room, and you all but kick his door down. “what the fuck is your problem?!” 

he’s in bed, cackling gleefully and covering his face with his blanket — but his eyes are anything but shy when he looks at you. 

“just trying to ease the tension-“

“by sending me porn?!”

he shrugs and gestures to his phone. “im just saying, you’re not alone! at least—“ he glances down at the screen “—3.8 million other people are into it, too-“ 

you scream in frustration, turning and stomping back to your room. his laughter follows, echoing through your door even when you slam it. 

he does it for two weeks straight. every few days, you wake up to a new link, each video titled something more obnoxious than the last. 

guy takes step-sister while she takes a nap

mom wakes step-son up with a special surprise on his birthday

repairman finds sleeping beauty home alone

each one draws an irritated screech of his name and the echoing giggles of satisfaction from his room. 

you could stop it. in fact, he’s asked you more than once if you want him to. 

‘if you really want me to stop, i’ll stop, he’d said in your kitchen last week.

‘just say the word,’ he’d reminded you on his way out one morning.

‘i think you and i both know how important consent is,’ he’d murmured just two nights ago, leaning on your doorframe, his eyes hot on yours. 

you’d shivered under his gaze and pretended to be engrossed in something on your phone. you’d hoped he couldn’t see the way you’d pressed your thighs together, but when you looked up, he was already staring down at them. 

he’d met your eyes again and just hummed, flicking his dark eyebrows up at you before turning away. your phone had buzzed with a new link only seconds after his bedroom door had clicked shut.

you’re certain he knows why you haven’t told him to stop. that the truth is that you don’t want him to stop. you’re certain he’s testing the waters now, too.

because each video he sends you gets closer and closer to being about roommates. 

your phone buzzes in your hands. you wonder if he knows that you watch each one, waiting for him to pull the trigger on the one that sits unspoken in the space between you. 

he does, a week later.

— 

you’ve caught him, issei realizes belatedly. 

maybe he should have noticed after you started sitting closer to him on the couch. or maybe after you’d refused to tell him to stop sending you porn. or maybe even after he’d sent you something titled ‘roommate can’t help himself while she sleeps’ at 4 in the morning and you hadn’t called the cops on him. 

maybe he should have realized you’d caught him after any one of those. but he doesn’t. he doesn’t realize it, not until this very moment, as you’re standing from the couch and bending over to clean the table of empty beer bottles before bed. 

he doesn’t realize it until he realizes you’re not wearing any underwear. 

he glances at you shamefully when you bend at the waist, hoping you don’t look back and catch him. and then he coughs violently, choking on his own spit and drawing your attention. 

he waves you off, blushing furiously and not even bothering to stop his eyes from flying to your ass when you just shrug and bend over again. your pajama shorts have ridden up, but there’s no lacy edge on pink panties where there should be. 

yes, he’d noticed years ago that these shorts tend to ride up and not mentioned it. yes, he knows what kind of panties you wear. yes, he has a favorite pair. 

what are you gonna do if you find out, call him a pervert? he’d sent you roommate somnophilia porn and you’d made him coffee in the morning.

“‘kay, goodnight,” you mumble, and issei wonders if you’re shy about it or if he’s just hoping you are.

“g’night,” he breathes, eyes finding yours. you keep eye contact all the way out of the living room. your eyes drop to his lap at the last second, and he watches a grin stretch across your face just before you disappear from the room. 

he looks down at his lap, and then he swears under his breath. he’s visibly hard in his sweatpants. 

—

he feels like a pervert. he really feels like a pervert. 

he stands in the hall outside your bedroom, one hand on the knob, feeling like a pervert. it’s 2 in the morning, and he feels like a pervert.

he sighs to himself and turns the knob slowly — ever so slowly, because he knows how it creaks, and he doesn’t want to wake you. he pushes the door open carefully, and then he finds you in the dark, moonlight spilling over your body. 

you’re completely naked. 

you’re on your stomach, blankets draped over your lower half and one knee bent out toward the wall. issei can see the expanse of your bare skin and the swell of your breast, but you’ve got your back slightly to him, so he can’t see everything. 

but it’s enough. 

he breathes hard, stepping into the room and shutting the door silently behind him. he runs his fingers through his hair, tugging hard and giving a soft sigh as he pads over to you. 

when he lowers his knees to your mattress, it’s with his heart in his throat and his cock straining against his pants. you look so innocent, so sweet like this, even while he’s sliding the blankets off of your skin and exposing you in the moonlight. 

is he really allowed to want this as badly as he does? 

your breath is steady, only changing slightly when he braces himself behind you, propped up on one elbow. he scoots toward you, breath caught in his throat, and then slides his hand under the back of your knee. you shiver, probably because his fingers are ice cold, and he keeps his eyes locked on the side of your face. 

when you don’t give any other sign of waking, he lifts your leg and hooks it backward over his knee, opening your body up for him. 

he swears under his breath, staring down at you in the moonlight. 

you shift, adjusting to the new angle of your body with a sigh. your back presses to his chest, and issei has to press his lips together so he doesn’t moan at the sight of you. 

he keeps his eyes on your face when he slides his fingers along your inner thigh, watching you intensely as his icy fingertips dance close to the spot between your thighs that’s radiating heat. 

when he cups your bare cunt, your skin breaks out in goosebumps, but you don’t move otherwise. issei moans now, because your body knows what he’s doing, but you don’t. 

he’d had a feeling before — in the weeks between that moment on the couch and this moment right here — that he’d unlocked a new, previously untouched fantasy. that his reaction to your drunken admission might have been about more than just being attracted to you. 

he sees it now. now, as he’s sliding two fingers between your folds and watching as you remain completely unaware, he realizes that you’ve done something to him. that you’ve made him want to do this to you, tonight and every night after. 

it takes every ounce of his self-control not to shudder and moan in your ear when your pussy twitches under his fingers, reacting to him even when you don’t. 

he drops his head to your chest, eyes locked on your face as he takes one of your nipples in his mouth. your lips part, and he freezes, but the sigh that falls out is nowhere near conscious, so he keeps going, sucking and licking and grazing his teeth over the bud while he massages your cunt with his now-warm fingers. 

the first sign that you’re reacting is the growing ease with which he’s able to push his fingers against you. your entrance becomes slick, and he can’t help that he pushes his hips against your ass in response, seeking relief. he drops his touch lower and swipes the pads of his fingers through the mess there, spreading it all over your cunt. 

when he circles your clit, slippery and warm now, your breathing changes, harder and rougher. the rise and fall of your chest pushes at his mouth, and he latches on with fresh fervor, watching your brows furrow and your lips twitch at the onslaught of sensations. 

it shouldn’t be as easy as it is for him to push his middle finger past your entrance. 

“fuck”, he whispers despite himself, mouth slipping off of you with a gentle pop and eyes rolling back in his head. your walls pulse around his finger, warm and velvety and wet beyond belief. his cock twitches hard in his pants as he slides his finger in and out of you, searching for that spongy spot that’ll wake you up. 

he knows you might have wanted him to fuck you like this, but he can’t help himself anymore. he doesn’t have it in him to be careful anymore. 

when his ring finger joins his middle, it’s with intent. the push is rough, bullying your cunt open with the size of his fingers, no doubt longer and fuller than you can get on your own. 

you shift under him, a quiet noise of question leaving you, and he lifts his head, attaching his lips to the crook of your neck. 

“y/n,” he whispers, more a moan than anything else. “need you.” 

he sucks on the column of your throat while you come to, his fingers curling and spreading inside of you — his sloppy attempt to prepare you for him. 

“h-huh-“ your head lifts slightly, and then you’re slamming it back against the pillow, your back arching. “oh, my god, mattsun-“ 

he almost comes in his pants when you say his name like that. 

“couldn’t help myself,“ he starts, shaking his head and pushing his body against yours almost desperately. “you were so pretty.“ your cunt tightens around his fingers in response, and he files that away for later. keeps it in mind, the things that make you react like this. “need you so bad, y/n-“ 

“yes, god yes,” you breathe, a whine trapped in your throat. you turn your head, back still pressed against his chest, and drop your still-sleepy eyes to his lips.

the coil under issei’s navel tugs hard when he realizes how well he can read you. 

he pushes his mouth against yours eagerly, moan unrestrained when your tongue slides against his. he wonders if you know how often he’s thought of this moment, years of wanting you and craving the feeling of you coming undone under his fingers. 

“please,” you whisper against his lips, back arching when he pushes the pads of his fingers against that spongy spot that makes you whine. “more, mattsun.” 

he groans, shivering when you pull his bottom lip between your teeth. “not yet — it’ll hurt,” he murmurs, leaning on every molecule of self-control.

“i can take it,” you just say, pushing your ass back against his aching cock. “promise.” 

he never had that much self-control to begin with.

his moan comes out in a shuddered breath, overpowered by the sound of you whining when he slips his fingers out of you. he shoves his sweats down to his knees, meeting your eyes and seeing the urgency he feels reflected in your eyes. 

when he slides his cock between your folds, it’s with a choked groan and a heaving pant in your ear. 

“can i- are you sure-“ he stutters, already lining himself up at your entrance.

“please, please, please,” you babble, arching your back to make the angle easier on him. 

you come around his cock before he’s even halfway in. 

there are stars in his eyes by the time you’re done. 

you cry out for him, shaking and clenching down hard, and he can’t do anything except bury his face in your hair and keep your leg lifted high with a trembling hand. 

“fuck,” he breathes, voice tight. “fuck, y/n-“ 

“more, mattsun,” you sob. he thinks you might be the girl of his dreams. 

pushing the rest of the way in, he shoves down his own orgasm, fighting and kicking and forcing it away so he can last more than thirty seconds inside of you. 

he only manages a minute before he’s spilling into you with a stuttered moan of your name, face buried in your neck and head full of static.

you’re just slumped against him by the time he comes to his senses, breathing hard and synced with his.

“sorry,” he mumbles into your hair, ears burning with embarrassment. “i swear i usually last longer than that-“

you laugh, tired and still weak but bright all the same. “yeah — so do i.” 

he snorts, pulling out slowly and letting your leg drop closed, trying his best not to moan at the feeling. 

“are you sure that was okay?” he asks, a tiny inkling of doubt still seeded in his veins. you just giggle, whispering his name in fond exasperation.

“sorry, which part of me sleeping naked was a warning sign?” 

“shut up,” he mutters, curling himself around you and feeling the beginnings of exhaustion start to drain his energy. “i’m staying here tonight. i don’t do one-night stands.” 

you just turn in his arms and wrap your arms around his neck. “was i that good, mattsun? i was asleep for half of it.” 

you’re gonna be the thing that kills him, he just knows it. 

[golden--flowers]

Weird bad experience :(

[kisses4reid]

missed it | ·˚ ༘ spencer reid ,,

summary - you celebrate your birthday alone in tears, until someone knocks on your door.

genre - colleague!reid x fem!reader, angst, fluff

warnings - angst, crying, memories of neglect and favouritism

a/n - a little self indulgent. thank you for 450 followers!!!! taglist is open as always, sorry for the cliff hanger.

Crisscross applesauce on a wooden barstool in front of leftovers from the night before. Exactly how every Wednesday night is. It’s raining, you can smell petichor, and you had just finished a book your colleague had lended you two days prior.

There is nothing special about today.

Your day was full of paper work and coffee breaks. Exactly how every Wednesday is. It was overcast, you could smell petichor, and you had just handed in some classified paperwork to your boss.

There was nothing special about today.

You night will be sleepless, full of tears and terrible memories. Not like every Wednesday night. It will storm, you’ll smell dirt and mud, and you’ll show up the next day to pretend you’re as bubbly and smiley as every one thinks you are.

There is nothing ever special about today.

You gripped your fork and stuffed the last of the leftover rice into your cheeks, chewing as a coping mechanism for the ball gathering at the back of your throat.

Glancing at your phone every two minutes didn’t help the gathering tears either, especially when it was a black screen every time. It happens every year.

Maybe your little cousin will send some emojis and a love heart, but it’s been years since that last happened. Your brothers and sister would get posts on your mothers Facebook, and you got a happy birthday from a distant aunty you met once when you were 3.

Maybe this is why when you dry yourself and start your nighttime routine, you light the candle you bought yourself, and get changed into pyjamas you bought yourself, and you light a skinny colourful candle you bought yourself.

You don’t get the chance to blow it out before a tear extinguishes it.

A sob rakes through you. Even in these warm pyjamas surrounded by your favourite vanilla and citrus scent, you can’t seem to be happy with what you’ve got. That’s what your father would tell you every birthday until you were 11 - when the presents stopped rolling in.

Be grateful for the clothes you’ve already got, for the books you’ve already read, for the food you’ve already eaten.

Be grateful that your little sister can breathe to blow out your candles, that your brothers have hands to open your presents.

Be grateful.

You are grateful you got that part time job to move out so young, that you were accepted in the BAU and welcomed with open arms, that it gave you the financial stability to own your own apartment with windows to get rained on and bookshelves to fill.

The covers on your bed were darkening with every tear that dropped from your cheek. It was ruining your skincare.

A laugh escapes you, barely audible through your closing throat, before you hear a firm knock on your front door.

Slippers on, hair loose and messy, you opened the door with a frown. It was not the day nor time for any soliciting or girl scout cookies. But you stopped for a second and glanced at the time displayed on your oven. It was 11pm.

“Y/n? Are you awake?”

Your eyes widened at Spencer Reid’s voice, eyebrows furrowing and hand quick to twist the door knob.

“Spencer what are you-“

“Happy birthday?” A full teeth smile was plastered on his place, but you didn’t notice as his face was hidden by a vanilla cake and small bag with plastic casing over it.

Any other time Spencer would be welcome in, it would make sense today wouldn’t be any different. For gods sakes, he has a key to your front door - but when his smile fades and you feel the last tear drop catch on your socks, you rethink opening the door all together.

“Y/n… are you okay?”

You felt a pit of coal and ash stir in the bottom of your uneasy stomach. Your eyes flashed between his eyes and the cake, one last single tear dropping down your cheek.

Spencer caught it with his thumb, wiping it with a deep frown.

“I’m fine,” you stepped back to let him in, plastering an awkward smile on your face (something you hoped would say caught me!), “Sad movie, that’s all.”

“A sad movie on your birthday?” He set down the bag and cake on your kitchen countertop, concerned expression not lifting after your lie. You bit your lip as his eyes wandered the apartment.

He had been there a million times, but now he seemed to be profiling it.

There was an orange stained plate in the sink - probably your left overs, no indent on the couch nor movie playing on the TV. He peered into your bedroom to find a wrecked bed and slouched pillows, tissues splayed amongst the duvet.

You swallowed, feeling caught and trapped. There was no escaping this, Spencer was too good of a profiler.

“I’m sorry, Y/n.” His eyes were a deep brown, glossy against his matte chocolate hair. He wore those glasses you liked, even when he insisted he hated how he looked in them. What a beautiful sight in such a sad situation.

You brought your left hand to your right elbow and shook your head, “It’s okay-“

“No it’s not.”

“Spencer, I’ve dealt with this for over 12 years. You get used to it.”

Spencer stood a metre away from you, eyes scanning you like he was trying to scrap the skin off your bones, see what was really going on.

And at that point, in your den of lies and self-pity, you felt no more rotten truths could hurt you more than you had hurt yourself. Spencer wasn’t much taller than you, but looking at him for this long at an angle was beginning to hurt more than your heart.

You grabbed the cake off of your counter top and smiled as if nothing wrong was happening, “Cake! You brought me cake.”

Spencer followed you into your living room awkwardly, “Yeah. It’s vanilla- I brought it because we didn’t eat at work today, nobody…”

Said Happy Birthday.

You nodded to yourself, patting the space beside you for Spencer to sit. “I know, it’s okay. It was a very busy day, I don’t blame them.” You undid the lid of the cake - obviously store bought - and took in your hand a wine glass that had stood empty for around half an hour. “Thank you, my favourite flavour is vanilla.”

“I know.” The tall boy let out a small smile then, but it quickly disappeared. He hated how you shrugged off such a devastating situation, how it meant nothing to you, how you claimed it had been like this for 12 years and not broken down.

“Y/n-“ Your loud sigh cut him off, stabbing the wine glass into the cake and lifting it, taking a bite of cake that slide out of the cup. The couch softened under your sudden slouch, Spencer faced you with his legs spread like a man.

Your eyes felt tight, chest collapsed. Nothing could be worse than this.

“My birthday is a week after my older brothers, so even when we did celebrate my birthday, it was small. And then one of my uncles passed away a few days after, and celebrating my birthday was seen as inappropriate.” You took another bite and talked through the frosting, “Instead at Christmas they let me choose which presents were for my birthday, many months late. I was grateful, that was all that mattered.”

Spencer moved closer and whispered, “Being grateful for neglect isn’t healthy, Y/n.”

“But it helped me, as a kid. As a girl who wanted to be loved so badly. When your siblings blow out your candles, and your cake is your sisters favourite flavour, all you can be is spiteful. And when I was, I was reprimanded. Be grateful, Y/n. At least you have siblings who can breathe and eat.”

You laughed after some time, Spencer’s mind racing at a hundred miles per minute.

“So I never told anyone my birthday. That’s why I showed up at the door looking like this,” you point to yourself and giggle, “I didn’t think anyone knew.”

“You look gorgeous.” He whispered, thigh touching yours on the plush couch. His hand lifted and skimmed your face, thumb moving to wipe a dot of frosting off of your lips. His hand fell.

“What’s in the bag?” You ask.

“Open it and see.” He replies.

What’s inside surprises you more than his initial arrival. It a medium sized glass bottle of perfume, with simple rinestones and gorgeous patterns engraved in it, a baby pink ribbon around its neck. The words were in french, the only words in english reading vanilla & citrus, in cursive writing.

A breath escaped you, your fingers tracing each detail like you were to memorise it. Spencer gulped as your eyes were glued to the writing and the shiny glass, how the liquid inside sloshed only slightly at every move.

“It is… do you like it?” He asks, turning his body towards yours trying to scope out your expression.

“I love it.” You mumble in awe.

“What?”

“I love it, thank you. Spencer, this is…” A wide smile escaped you, an incredulous giggle accompanying it. He let out a held breath and wove his shaking fingers through his hair. He was still at a loss for words at your previous confessions, but at least he made you happy, laugh.

Your eyes held each other for a moment, the room getting so suddenly small and hot.

“I…” you try to finish your sentence before you notice his gaze flickering to your lips, causing a small smile to appear.

“Happy birthday, Y/n. I’m sorry your birthdays were overlooked, I promise they won’t be anymore.” Spencer whispered, leaning in.

taglist (open!!) : @jeffswh0re @reap3erslov3 @candyd1es

[preciouslittle-bhaalbabe]

I might get some hate for this but I think people give the rite of profane ascension a little too much credit. All it did was amplify that which was already there. All the possessiveness, the theatric demeanor, the strange coping mechanisms, that's all Astarion. He had those traits already. The rite didn't have a personality baked in that possessed Astarion once it was completed. If you had finished the rite instead, it would act differently.

Astarion, after getting unfathomable power is going to do the one thing he knows he can. Be the biggest prick on the sword coast lol. He thinks himself untouchable now so he's going to rub it in the face of anyone in the vicinity.

Something else I find really interesting. When not romancing Astarion it is MUCH easier to talk him down from going through with it. Alot of his desire to complete the ritual comes from fear of losing the one person he cares for. So the ritual corrupts that too and turns it into possessiveness. It was already there. He's so afraid of losing you that he does the vampiric equivalent of a marriage and now you both have a mind link along with the one from the tadpole. (Lots of interesting stuff about vampiric spouses in DnD lore that explains alot of what happens and what Astarion views the relationship as) The vampiric spouses happiness becomes everything. He dotes on them.

"Ask me anything, and it will be yours".

But he also establishes a clear dom/sub type dynamic. I think because it's what he has known the most and is also maybe a liiiiiitle drunk off the power still. Which isn't everyone's cup of tea. So post ritual Astarion can quickly become very uncomfortable for people. But it's not necessarily "new" or Cazadors personality baked into the ritual. He has always had the potential to be like this. Even without killing over 7000 people. That's what makes his character analysis so fascinating. A!A and spawn Astarion are so detailed and well written and analysing them both just makes me realise how much work was put into these companions.

One more thing I'd like to mention. Aside from the occasional difference in wording or his greetings, most of his voice lines are exactly the same. It's still Astarion. And of course this is due to resource management but I also think it works as being intentional as well. He's still in there. He's just really lost in the power sauce at the moment.

Do I think ascended Astarion is the "better" ending? Objectively, no. From an RP standpoint, maybe! I think almost every companion has an arc where lust for power or blind devotion becomes their downfall. Even Durge! It's what makes them such compelling characters.

[doublism]

“Traditionally in the horror genre, I think that the monster, the dread, the danger, the horror is something external, right? It’s like we’re running from the monster. The monster has been unleashed, and it’s coming for us, and we need to get away,” Schoenbrun said. “Whereas in my films, if there is a horror element to it, it’s very internal and it’s very subliminal, and in ‘World’s Fair,’ it’s this force inside Casey that might not even be real. In ‘I Saw the TV Glow,’ it’s this thing that Owen is hiding from that’s essentially killing him slowly from the inside. And I think this feels like an accurate way to talk about my own experience of dysphoria, which is very ambient and very subliminal until you break and scream at the top of your lungs at a child’s birthday party in an arcade.” Which is exactly what happens in “I Saw the TV Glow,” and it was through making “We’re All Going to the World’s Fair” that Schoenbrun began to understand their own trans identity more clearly. In that sense, the new film is their most autobiographical, as the dread-filled experience of gender dysphoria becomes the movie’s horror aesthetic.   “I think that we’re so used to expressions of transness in film that are fully externalized, right? It’s all about the external image. It’s all about looking in a mirror, and the mirror is cracked maybe, and you don’t feel like yourself, and you’ve always just wanted to be a beautiful woman, but you’re in a man’s body. This is just so far from my own pre-transition experience. I avoided mirrors, in fact, because I was hiding from myself, and the way that I hid from myself manifested in all of these unconscious ways and in all of these coping mechanisms that had so much more to do with this subtle, almost tonal sense that something was unreal or wrong or passing me by, this ghostly quality of life,” Schoenbrun said. The filmmaker continued, “So when I am making a movie about that, or in the future when I make a movie about healing from that, it only makes sense for it to be sort of imbued in the language of the film as a whole, tone, rhythm, the way time works in the movies, the aesthetics of liminality and of this sort of fuzziness of whatever it might be, static, analog, low-quality internet video. All of these feel to me like more truthful expressions of that feeling of unreality that we call dysphoria than a more direct and externalized expression of it.”

Jane Schoenbrun on How the Dread and Deterioration of ‘Twin Peaks: The Return’ Influenced ‘I Saw the TV Glow’

[deathbxnny]

Heyy! May i request gallagher, sunday and boothill with a reader who is like furina?

(hiding her problems and fears while acting happy and quirky)

~🎀

I absolutely love this idea, especially because it's about Furina, who I also love, hehe!! I also made this into a teen reader, which I hope you don't mind, anon!! I'm just craving some platonic stuff lately. So thank you for this request, Anon, and I hope you like my post!!<33

Content: Platonic relationships, teen reader, angst, hurt/comfort, manipulation/brainwashing for Sundays part, father figures hsr men, sfw

Reader has no set pronouns!!

((Not proofread))

》GALLAGHER

Gallagher saw through your facade with ease yet didn't dare push you to reveal your true self to him for a multitude of reasons. He mainly, however, didn't want to overwhelm you, figuring that you hiding your true self was just a coping mechanism for a darker past you were desperately trying to keep away.

And so he let you prance around the bar in your fake grandiose personality, whilst he kept his eyes on you at all times just in case. He knew you'd break eventually, and not because he necessarily wanted that to happen. He just knew that a young kid like you couldn't hold out forever.

Whether you do finally let the facade drop one day or not is up to you in the end, however. He makes it clear indirectly that he's there for you no matter what. And even if you never reveal your darkest fears to him, he'll always watch over you anyway as well.

》SUNDAY

Sunday also immideatly notices that your rather loud and proud personality was all a facade to hide a dark past even he had yet to discover. And unfortunately for you, he doesn't shy away from confronting you for your own good. Some may say that it was a little harsh or maybe even reckless, but Sunday always believed to know better.

This most likely leads to you having to drop your mask and tell him the reasoning behind your fake smiles and quirky behaviors. Whether through your own will or his own is up to you to decide, although he also sees no shame in either. If it helps you, then he'll stop at nothing to make you feel better.

You can get angry at him, you can cry to him, you can also bury your face into his shoulder and let yourself get comforted by his sweet, soothing voice as well. He doesn't mind it. Even if some of it is influenced by his tuning ability. But you can't blame him for using his power on you, right? You understand that it is for your own good, yes? He just wants to help you.

》BOOTHILL

It takes a bit for Boothill to realise that your personality is fake, mainly because he sometimes finds himself doing the same thing at times. He only notices that something is amiss when you suddenly burst into tears, overwhelmed by your hidden emotions at last. And it all suddenly clicks in his head, that he couldn't help but knock on it in self-disappointment.

He's not good with emotions, but he likes to think that he was once good with kids. He'll pull an arm around you, pat your head, tell you that it's all good and to just let it alllll out to your old man Boothill. He doesn't mind your tears staining his steel, an old memory of him soothing a young toddler coming to mind when he allowed you to cry into him.

He knows that as galaxy rangers, you should be independent from him, fully able to be on your own and deal with your emotions as they come. But he finds himself simply making you promise to be yourself from then on as you continue on your journey together. He may be breaking some rules... but it's all good in his book, If you're happy with it, too.

Alrightttt... I hope this was okay Anon!! And thank you again for the request, I loved it!!<33

[netherfeildren]

Pink : Part I : Humanist Seeking Person in Love

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Humanism: an outlook or system of thought attaching prime importance to human rather than divine or supernatural matters. Humanist beliefs stress the potential value and goodness of human beings, emphasize common human needs, and seek solely rational ways of solving human problems.

The story of a son who won’t love you, and his father, who will.

-OR-

the father-in-law AU

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: No outbreak AU; Fix-it-fic but the thing that needs fixing is a person; Daddy issues; Daddy kink; Divorce; Welcome to the father-in-law suck and fuck extravaganza; Possessive behavior; Jealousy; Slow burn but like not really; DD/lg dynamics; Older man/Younger woman; Self esteem issues; Discussions of emotional and mental abuse; Unhealthy coping mechanisms

A/N: Check the tags on the masterlist, as well!

Word Count: 7.4K

Read on AO3

Ko-fi

1. Humanist Seeking Person in Love

The video you’d watched had said that the differences between a jamb nut and a coupling nut should have been obvious. A jamb nut, which was what you were currently looking for, was typically half as tall as a standard nut, or a coupling nut, and would be of a small, stouter shape compared to the other options. As you stare at the wall of overwhelming stock, the incomprehensible mess of steel, PVC, aluminum and plastic hardware you feel, a little bit, like you’d like to start screaming as loud as you possibly can, for as long as you possibly can. Just a rip roaring and rageful, top of your lungs, screech. Maybe it’d scare the leering men around you. Maybe they’d desist from the ogling of your ass in the tight confines of your ratty leggings, or the mildly pitying glances as your frustration and confusion becomes more and more obvious.

You try and take a deep breath, glancing down at your phone again and the screenshots you’d taken of the parts you need to fix your leaky kitchen sink. Zooming in, you hold the picture up next to the pipeware currently gripped in your sweaty hand and wonder again if what you’ve chosen is the right piece. You don’t understand why the hardware store, a local business, isn’t as neatly and efficiently organized as the larger chains, and why they make it so damn hard for someone without experience to come in and shop. You don’t want to buy the wrong thing and waste the money you already don’t have, you don’t want to have to make the trek back to this God awful fucking place. You hate the hardware store, you hate the way it smells, dusty and wooden, the cavernous hollow echo of it, the leering gazes of the men shopping, looking at you as if you’re some helpless child, something soft and easy to snap up and eat. You hate the memory of following your father around on many a Sunday morning after he’d forced you to come with him in some false attempt at bonding, at spending time together when really all it was, was another instance of you cowering behind him, trying to make yourself as silent and small as possible so as to avoid his anger and irritation. 

You look back down at the piece of PVC in your clutch, at the picture of what you’re supposed to be buying again, back at the other option, a copper bolt you think might look right but can’t really tell the difference, and you feel the backs of your eyes pinch and go hot and achy. A sharp, throbbing pain starting up behind your left eye and spiraling out like a stain to cover your forehead. You want to go home. You want your kitchen sink to stop leaking. You want the past year to never have happened. For your marriage to not have so irrevocably unraveled that the husband you’d so desperately fought to keep had left you out in the cold, divorced, very nearly penniless in a new apartment that you couldn’t make feel like home no matter how many fall scented candles and throw pillows you stuffed into every nook and cranny. You want to not have to make decisions like these and take care of things like this. You want very, very badly for someone else to come and take care of you, help you, make the choices that seem very hard in the moment but that, in the grand scheme of things, aren’t really so difficult, but that still sometimes call for a second opinion, wiser, more experienced hands. 

And in that next blink, in a soft, deep voice that should not be as easily recognizable in your mind as it is given the handful of times you’ve actually heard it, your name, being murmured from behind you. The lilt of a question, the gruff of shock coating the syllables as it pushes against your bare nape. Soft as a sledgehammer, like ice water down your naked back, your shoulders hitch up to your ears, going tense and frightened, a hot flush of shame spilling through you, the keenest desire to run away from that soft voice as fast as your stupidly October flip flopped feet’ll take you. You hiccup the half sound of his name, not turning around, lashes fluttering quickly to prevent the dry heat of your eyes from spilling over, nerveless fingers going listless around the plastic nut. You don’t want to turn around. This is a cursed place, this hardware store, and you should never have come, and you really do hate it here. Deep breath, deep breath. Be polite, be succinct. You don’t need to talk to him. You don’t need to think about the past. Fuck the sink, fuck the pipes. You’ll just move apartments. You let a long stream of air out of your mouth, and then turn on the ball of your foot to face him. 

“Mr. Miller,” you breathe with a limp smile you know isn’t going to fool anyone. 

He frowns, the line of his mouth wavering as he tries to contain his displeasure. “We really back to that?” You shake your head, looking away from him as the last shopper in the aisle you’re inhabiting walks away, leaving the two of you alone. The store suddenly seems to exist in a vacuum echo, all other patrons seeming to disappear, all sound going out. You even feel the imitation of a hollow pop in your ear drums. When you look back at him, he’s really scowling now. His strong brow pulled down over those too pretty, thickly lashed hazel eyes that you know so well on another man, a younger version of him. 

It was the first thing you’d noticed about him, the first time Sam had introduced you to his father, they have the same eyes. The same but different. There was a coldness to Sam’s gaze that you hadn’t recognized until it was too late for you, but you recognized it now, with a painful sort of awareness, recognized the lack thereof in his father’s eyes, how different they were even in their similarity. 

He raises his brows at you, a pressing gesture, “Joel.” His name feels like salt on an open sore in your mouth. “What are you doing here?” And he looks at you, just a little bit, like you’re an idiot, or maybe that’s only you, for his voice is gentle when he says, “Pickin’ up supplies with some of the boys on my crew. What’re you doin’ here, sweetheart? Sam with you?” Your heart beats like that of a small and hunted creature, pounding painfully against the confines of your ribs while a hot, humiliated flush washes through your entire body, heat suffusing your face so intensely there’s probably steam rising off the surface of your skin. You shake your head quickly, a barely there jerk. You’re suddenly trembling so hard your throat aches as if it’s been pierced by a lancet straight through. Another sharp jerk, and he steps forward a concerned look marring his face. 

“You haven’t spoken to him.” It isn’t a question. 

“He’s been feildin’ my calls for months. Assumed I’d done something– something else, last time to piss him off again. What’s wrong? Everything okay?” He pauses, head tilting, and you can’t look him in the face as you say it, gaze falling to your fingers twisted around the nut. 

“We’re not together anymore. He– he left me. We got divorced six months ago.”

Shocked into silence he takes another step towards you, the toe of his heavy boot coming into your eye line. The ends are thick and rounded, and you wonder if there’s a casing of steel within, how much a kick in the ribs would hurt delivered by a boot like that, and the violent thought startles you, your eyes going wide, shooting up to his face as if worried he could read your thoughts. Ashamed that something like that in reference to him would even cross your mind, for looking at him, the gentleness in his gaze, the utter concern, a man like this would never hurt a creature softer than him, you know that. 

It’s funny, or strange, or a phenomena not easily understandable or explainable unless you’d had a certain type of experience with a certain type of man, but there was a sort of sixth sense instilled in a person who’d dealt with cruel men that made it easy to recognize when one had the capacity to hurt you and when he didn’t. There were, of course, those who were good at masking it, but there was always something, a way they held themselves or moved around others, the cadence of their voices, clues that spoke of the sort of man he was. And from the first moment you’d met him, you’d thought Joel had something that spoke only of gentleness. Despite his size and seemingly rough aspect, there was something about his voice, and the way he carried himself, the way he moved around those who were smaller or weaker or less, less alive, less potent than him, that was always careful and always aware. 

“What?” He moves as if he’s going to reach for you, and you flinch back, the curve of your spine bumping into the framing of the shelves behind you, face turning away quickly. He goes tense, forcing himself into stillness, the white of his teeth flashing in a grimace, but he puts his palms up in a staying gesture, it’s alright, easy, he murmurs, I won’t touch you, hands lowering to fist in the pockets of his jeans into tight balls of false restraint. As if he’s afraid of what they might do of their own volition otherwise. “What do you mean he left you? What happened? He–”

“I don’t want to discuss this with you. Call him again or– or I don’t know. It’s not my business anymore. He was never happy with me,” you stupidly add, finally braving a look back at his eyes again, a bitter laugh scratching up your throat, “You know this. Call your son, Joel.”

You move to leave, to get away from him, but he shifts, blocking your escape, sending your heart up into your throat. “Honey, wait–” but you’re spinning on your heel the other way, stumbling in your flip flops, and you think he says something about the wrong way, but you’re rushing, blindly trying to get away from him down the aisle as fast as you can. You’re going to cry, you can feel it, any second now. You weren’t expecting to see him, the reminder of everything that had happened, your marriage and its failure and the part Joel had played in it. A painful and jarring shock to your nervous system that you’d not been prepared to receive. You blindly scramble through the aisles of the hardware store, losing yourself to the gloom of the dimly lit back rows where plywood and carpeting are stocked, that detested dusty hollow smell intensifying. You take another blind turn, another, until the sounds of the store have gone faint and then a frightening pressurized silence. Bracing your palms against one of the eye level shelves you let your head fall between your shoulders, your bag sliding down your arm to hang and sway at the bend of your elbow. You watch the slow back and forth pendulous movement, eyes wide and blurred. If you don’t blink, you won’t cry, and you’re so fucking tired of crying over this. 

“If you were tryn’a get away from me, exit was in the opposite direction,” comes his voice again. Your eyes flutter shut, a single tear drips from the line of your lashes onto the dusty concrete floor. 

“Please, go away,” you croak.

“Tell me what happened.”

“What do you think happened? Don’t ask stupid questions.”

“He– he’s a fuckin’ idiot, sweetheart–”

Your stomach lurches, “Don’t call me that.”

But he doesn’t listen, continues on unheeded. “There’s gotta be something we can do. I’ll– I’ll talk to him. I’ll make him see that–” You let your head fall back the opposite way now, looking up at the high, cavernous ceiling of the store, another bitter laugh. It’s the only kind left to you now. 

“I don’t want him back, Joel. Be serious.”

“He needs you–” And oh, that makes you angry. 

“Fuck you.” You spin around to spit the words at him, rushing forward to shove at his rock solid chest. He doesn’t budge even half an inch. You shove again, again, a humiliating sob making its way up your chest. You blink then, you can’t help it, the tears fall unrestrained. It’s a specific type of humiliating, facing the estranged father of the man who you’d been married to, who’d been unable to love you, who’d abandoned you. 

Sam and Joel had been unaware of each other’s existence for almost twenty eight years, but two years ago, Sam’s mother had finally told him about his father, his name, where he lived, how they’d gotten together when they were too young, and how she’d split, scared and vulnerable, without telling him a thing. The two of you’d gone looking for the man, and you’d both been varying degrees of shocked at what you’d found. Sam, faced with a man so unlike himself he’d immediately resented him more than he already had for the fact of his absence his entire life. You, as well, faced with a man so unlike your husband that it had made you resent your marriage even more. Immediately welcoming, loving, patient, gracious and generous and forgiving of the fact that a son had been kept from him for almost three decades. Despite the severity of his character, his serious reservedness, he’d done everything in his power to open himself to this long lost son. Not once had the news been met with cruel anger or outrage. Joel had accepted his son immediately and without question, listening to his mother’s reasoning, accepting the fact that a mistake had been made, forgiving, willing to move on and embrace Sam in all the ways he’d been denied for so long. Sam hadn’t been able to fathom it. He’d been mistrustful, hostile, angry, all the things he always was but compounded and heightened to a terrible degree he eventually started taking out on you. 

And it was funny because the fraught, or lack thereof, relationships with your fathers had been the thing that had initially bonded the two of you. Too young and alone and without direction, you’d met him in your last year of college. The relationship had immediately developed without boundaries or reason, you’d been obsessed, a little desperate, unquestioning, and then married a few short months later. Two too young, too lost people, burdened with daddy issues. A terribly sad cliche. You’d never had a chance. You never should have been. And there’s a part of you now, looking up at this man, your ex-husband’s father, that wants to feel angry at him, that wants to spit in his face and say this is all your fault, everything that happened to me, everything that was done to me was in your name, and I blame you for all of it, but you know it’s without reason or countenance. And worst of all, anger, blame, resentment, it’s not anything near to the things you feel when you look at him. The memory of a small, dark restroom flashes in your mind’s eye, his eyes gleaming above your face, the thick slope of his shoulder, the patterned wallpaper behind him, sickening comfort. 

You go still and frozen, fingers twisting in the front of his shirt, jerking with a painful shiver from the top of your head, down the length of your vertebrae, to the tips of your toes that cramp and spasm. Looking up at his face, you can feel a pulse throbbing in the muscle beneath your right eye, and the way he looks down at you, as if he’s never felt as sorry for any other creature in his entire life as he does for you in this moment, so embarrassing. You let your head fall forward again, landing with a soft thump against his chest, an uncontrollable tremble moving like fire through your frame. “Fuck you,” you say again, whispered, soft and weak and without any sort of force behind it. “How dare you say that to me,” another tear. “He’s always needed you. It was never me he wanted, never me he needed. It was always you.” You watch as one hand withdraws from its pocket cage, lifting to push a soft tendril of hair back behind your ear. And there’s fire left in the wake of the brush of his skin at the hollow there. Another shiver of a worse kind, one of desire, one of lust, moves through you. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it – I’m sorry, honey.” Stupid southern charm and their stupid pet names. You clutch at his shirtfront more tightly, press your forehead harder into his sternum, and he brings his hand to your shoulder, tucking you into himself more securely. He’s huge and warm and smells faintly of salt and sweat and laundry detergent. Something clean and fresh and masculine. He smells alive. His other hand comes up to the back of your head, moving through your hair. Fucking, Sam, he murmurs above you, and you’re sure he’s shaking his head in that disappointed fatherly way. “Tell me what you were looking for. What had you lookin’ so confused and irritated in the plumbing aisle?” You’d laugh if you could, a non bitter sort, but you don’t have the ability anymore, and that makes you so angry. Angry and irrational.

“My sink’s leaking, and I can’t afford a plumber because your son divorced me and left me with no money and no house and nothing for myself, and I hate this stupid place. I hate the way it smells, and I hate that nothing’s labeled clearly, and I hate the way you men,” you shove at his chest a little bit again, “look at me like I’m some dumb little girl who doesn’t know left from right.” Even if that’s what you kind of feel like, a dumb little girl who doesn’t know left from right anymore. Slightly out of breath, you go limp and exhausted against him. His palm flattens at the center of your spine, supporting you, and it’s so fucking inappropriate. You should move away. You don’t know him well enough for this, he’s your ex-father-in-law, you shouldn't let him touch you, but should and should not and right and wrong and inappropriate or not has never really mattered to you where Joel Miller is concerned. “This is the worst place in the whole world,” you mumble, voice muffled from where your face is squished against the annoyingly hard and delicious muscles of his chest. You feel, keenly, like you’re being a little bit ridiculous, a little bit embarrassing, but his big hand is slowly moving up and down the length of your spine, soothing and comforting, and you can’t bring yourself to care. He’d been kind from the first second you’d met him, and then, at the worst moment, he’d been understanding, and you’d never really stood a chance against him either. 

You’d never had a chance with the son, you’d never stood a chance against the father, there had never really been much choice or possibility for you as a whole where either of them were concerned.

I was such a little person. Tiny in my insignificance, naivety, hope. Desperate to be as good as I could be, and pathetic in my failure to make myself into what I thought the world wanted of me. 

“You can’t afford–” He breathes out roughly through his nose, stopping himself from continuing. “Do y’know what it is you’re looking for? What part?” And you nod your head, still buried against him, unable or unwilling to pull away. “Let me help you,” and he says it so, so gently that it makes you want to stomp your foot and cry and throw a fit at the unfairness of it all. 

“Don’t want your help,” you can’t help the muffled whine it comes out as. All you want is for someone to help you. 

“Of course you don’t, sweetheart,” he soothes. “But let me anyway. S’the least I can do for talkin’ out of my ass.” You finally pull back, looking up at him, and he brings his thumb up to catch the wetness at the fine skin beneath your eye. “Please, don’t cry,” he whispers like it hurts him. 

And even though he’s currently catching the salt of your eyes with his fingers, you lie obstinately, “I’m not,” whispered back just as quiet. 

After he helps you find the correct piece for your sink, finally, which ends up being neither of the options you’d been previously weighing, a fact that almost sends you over the deep end again, and paying for it at his aggravating and overbearing insistence, he walks you to your car. 

“Is he still in Austin?” He asks as he holds your door open for you, your shopping bag still clutched in his hand. One of the guys on his crew had come to find him while you were checking out, but he’d sent him away with a shake of his head, said he had something to take care of. 

“I don’t know, but he sold our house.”

“Fuck– Where’re you living?” The sound of his spit curse has a wet flutter moving through you, shame following bitterly in its wake. 

“I got an apartment in the East Side.”

“And he just left you to fend for yourself? Took your fucking house?” He’s getting angry, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him get angry. Something foreign like excitement jumps within you. 

“Well, that’s the point of divorce, Joel. You separate and are left to your own devices.” You reach for the little plastic bag, but he jerks it out of your reach. 

“He has a responsibility to you. He–”

“Again… the point of divorce.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, that boy,” he mutters, shaking his head. And that’s the thing of it, you think, that’s always been the crux of the issue. Sam was always a boy, has always been just a boy… there had never been any chance. “Let me come help you with the sink. Let me fix it for you.” Something to take care of, that’s what he’d said, that’s what he’d called you, what he sees you as. 

You’re shaking your head before he can even finish getting the words out, full of regret, and a wish that it could have all been different from the very start. “You know that isn’t a good idea,” and he goes silent because he does, he does know, he’d known since the first time probably. It had been obvious in the way that a secret thing can only be between the two people involved in the unsaid. “I can do it myself. Don’t worry. I’ll find a way.”

“You still got the same number?” He asks.

“Please, don’t call me. Call Sam. He’s the one that needs you. He’s the one that–”

“And who’s taking care of you? Who’s gonna take care of you, sweetheart? You need someone too, we all do.”

A flash of that earlier anger again, and you reach forward to rip the bag out of his clutch now, angry because he’s right. Because he’d always seemed to have a grossly misplaced ability to read you exactly as you are. He’d read you for what you were from the first second he’d laid eyes on you, naive and hopeful and falsely in love with a son who’d never loved either of you in return. “Maybe,” you tell him, “But that can’t be you.” He looks away from you, gruff sound of irritation passing through his clenched teeth, and he drags a heavy palm down his bearded mouth. Fuck, again that provoking spit curse. The wallpaper in that dark restroom had been covered in little blue motifs, butter yellow details sparsed throughout. It had surprised you, the pretty and delicate design in the home of a, for all intents and purposes, bachelor. It spoke of intention and attention to detail, to his space, to care of his home. That dim moment was, strangely, sickly, the brightest memory of the entire two years of your marriage. 

“You still got my number?” He presses anyways. Unheeded or uncaring of you trying to push him away, and there’s something about that, that’s pleasurable, his inability to let a thing go where you’re concerned, his unwillingness to allow you to hold him at arms length. Like he doesnt care to be kept away from you, and so he won’t. You nod your head once, face burning, molars grinding to keep yourself still and in place. You’d felt, for two years, trapped, running in place, and now left limp and exhausted and colorless, and you hope that he can’t read that exhaustion in you. For some reason, that would be more embarrassing than everything else, for him to see just how defeated you’d been left. He gives you one of those looks, those direct, piercing, aggravating looks that you’ve seen from him before, aggravating in a way that is inciting, like a relentless tongue against a slick swollen cunt, God. Your hands are shaking, and he bends his head down to your level to look at your directly, “You promise me that if you need anything, anything at all, doesn’t matter what it is – that you’ll call me. No matter the hour, no matter what it is. Promise me.” Another sharp jerk of your chin, if you talk you’ll scream or make a sound not wholly belonging to the body of a girl, woman, whatever you are. Another nod, the mute shape of an okay passing through your lips. And his face is so concerned, his hand almost lifted in the imitation of what you have to tell yourself, as a form of self preservation, is an ill intentioned caress or hug, but that you know he’d mean as nothing more than genuine comfort. You deflate in relief when he doesn’t touch you, right here, out in the open for the whole world to bear witness to. Things like that, after all, are only meant for dark, wallpapered bathrooms. He’d already taught you this. 

-

The relationship had not been what either of them had expected, Sam and Joel, from the get go. There was a smallness to his son, a pettiness and a cruelty and a spoiled rotten vein through the core of him that was incongruous with who Joel was as a man, something that was glaringly obvious to all involved. And try as he might, in those early days, they could not overcome the disparity in their personalities. The attempts from Joel at closeness had been fraught with tension and unsaid resentments, and eventually Sam had given up, stopped answering his father’s calls, evading his attempts to connect. Your marriage had spiraled into dissolution shortly after that. As if the failure to find whatever it was he’d for so long hoped for in a relationship with his father had highlighted all of the things you yourself lacked, all the ways in which you were so specifically dissatisfying to him and always would be. 

The marriage had not ended up being what either of you had hoped for, the honeymoon phase quashed and dead early on, no brightly lit halcyon. Reality had set in quickly when confronted with the disjointedness of your pairing, a bone out of place, your specific inability to please him in the ways he’d thought you would when he’d first met you. There was something about you that had always been a little bit lacking, something ascetic and cold natured about your personality at times. Since you were a child, trying to appease an unappeasable father, to emulate a singular mother. Always impossible, always falling just short of utter failure. Not so terrible that you were outwardly obvious in your mediocrity, but never everything you could be. Painfully, succinctly average. Sam had come to realize this quickly. Perhaps, unaware prior to tying himself to you because the only thing you’d ever been not average at, was being a little bit of a liar, of being placatingly complacent when the moment necessitated, manipulative in a way that you found protecting. But you see, that’s what happened when you had a cruel father who always needed appeasing, something Sam, in his abject fatherlessness, couldn't understand. Funny, you’d said that to him once, near the end, called him abjectly fatherless, his weakness a consequence of his lack of a paternal role model, and oh, how he’d hated that. Endings could bring out such cruelty in people, you’d found. 

But the manipulation of a moment had become, in some ways, your only talent. The art of superficial gratification at a moment's notice as a way to keep the people around you falsely happy and calm. Like all small and frightened creatures, you’d learned your strengths well, but as all truths do, yours had eventually surfaced. The fact that you weren’t really so appeasing in the ways he desired, not so nice, not so perfect, not so subservient. That the persona was all just a way to keep him happy as a means of getting someone to love you, to stay because you didn’t know how else to be. 

Your mother always said you could’ve been nicer to him. She was a kind, soft, patient thing. Quiet and easy and always, always, above everything else, understanding. It was the worst thing about her. A detriment, a weakness, and she resented you for your resentment, for seeing her as such, but you could never help it. Always asking you why you couldn’t just be a nice girl, a good girl. 

You didn’t think you had not been nice, not been good. You had only been yourself.

Your father had always hated that about you, you being yourself. The man you’d chosen to marry didn’t seem to like it very much either. And she’d tried to instill her better qualities in you, your mother, so you weren’t all bad all the time. There could be a brightness and a lightness and a sweetness to you sometimes, it’s true. You weren’t always all bad. But there was – is still – also a bitterness and a resentment and an anger, a screaming that you could not quell no matter how hard you tried. And so you’d attepted to give him everything you could, your husband, everything you had at your disposal in all ways, to do and be all he could have ever asked of you during those two small years of marriage. Because truly, they had felt so very small, made you even smaller. 

Everything except for sex. You’d never been able to give him that the way he’d wanted. 

At first, it had been normal, sweet, soft missionary in the darkness, tepid insinuations of orgasms, always hushed, always exactly how he wanted it. But eventually, when the other parts of you began to fail, he got mean and callous and casually cruel. And as you pulled away physically, he called you frigid, a prude, boring, cold, bad in bed, didn't know how to make a man hard. And it had made you so agonizingly insecure, already a sensitive and anxious thing when it came to your physical form, he’d beaten you down, embarrassed you, belittled you.

With time, you’d realized the truth of it which had been nothing more than that you’d never really wanted him. He had never made you desperate, he had never made you wet. It was his character, his attitude, yes, but it was also him. He just wasn’t it for you, and it wasnt that you were a prude or frigid at all, only that you needed patience and understanding and care, gentleness. Things he possessed none of. 

You just needed a little time to warm up and someone who wanted to give you that time. 

The reality that your life had not been full of varied and foolish adventures, and that time had seemed to simply slip away like an echo in the brain from one moment to the next was duly painful. A handful of months of wan and false lust, two years of cold, bitter marriage, and now, six months of barren aloneness. Too many mistakes had been made, too many regrets, three big ones that could be held like stones scorched to burn by the sun in the palm of your hand so that even if you let them go eventually, their imprint would still be scarred into your flesh afterwards forever.

So, perhaps the divorce had been painful in the moment. Or not perhaps, there was nothing uncertain about it, you’d fought tooth and nail to make it work, to keep him with you. Prostrated and humiliated and debased yourself. But with time, it became obvious that it was a fantasy you decided you should finally cast aside, as all children do childish things at a certain age. And then, it had been the easiest thing in the world. After all, and let’s be honest now for a moment, the reckoning had come in the shape of his father. That is, at the end of it, the reason you’re really here. 

Sat now, before the open cabinet below your kitchen sink, leaky pipe drip, drip, dripping monotonously in front of your glazed over eyes, you think of him. He’s a large man, intimidating and dark and stoic. Taller and broader than his son. Lush, mahogany curls streaked with silver that speak of age and experience like the smile lines around his eyes. Deeply grooved when he laughs that beautiful laugh of his. He looks exactly like the opposite of whatever his son is, like he’d have the ability to make the opposite of you, to pull out of you whatever the antithesis is of what his son was able to. It had been immediate, the nature of your thoughts towards him. The desire, the desire, the desire, you had wanted like you’d never wanted before — like an illness, like dying. 

Your marriage had been circling the drain, and then you’d met him, and it should have been innocuous. He’d been kind and polite and welcoming, but also, aloof. Holding himself at a distance, something afraid that he carried within himself, like he didn't want to hope, like he was just a little bit scared of what it meant now to have a son, something to lose. You knew a little bit about that, the worst part of it all is never the cruelty, it’s the hopelessness. Everything had become so much worse after meeting him. An unbearable sort of awareness of something that your listless, frigid self recognized as man, man, man, something like hunger. Something slanted about the desire, wrong, sure, for he was your husband's father, and yet, you wanted him. You wanted to know what he smelled and tasted like, and what the weight of his cock on your tongue would feel like. If it was bigger than his sons, you were almost positive of that, if it would stretch the corners of your mouth to near splitting, the hinges of your jaw to aching. 

You’d met your husband's father, and had realized, painfully, with uncompromising clarity, all that your husband could be, all that he was not, all that he would never be. There was no comparison between the boy and the man, and it made you hurt. 

Your eyes flit back to the screen of your open laptop and the instructional video there, popping another fuzzy peach gummy onto the flat of your tongue, mouth full of sucking sugar. You’re going to fix this sink if it’s the last thing you do, and you’re not going to think about him again. But tomorrow, you’ll start not thinking about him tomorrow. The talent of a liar never really wanes.

The apartment is quiet, nothing but the cheerful crackling of your sweet pumpkin candle and the mocking splish splash of the drain pipe. You had, in recent weeks, come to think of your abandonment as something of an accomplishment. Perhaps, your loneliness is a good thing, you’ll tell yourself as a comfort, a sort of friend; you can’t be used against yourself again in this solitude, and oh, how you’d been used. That anemia in your character, the ascetic thread of your personality had been weaponized and wielded against you until you couldn’t tell up from down and left from right. You were certain there’d been cheating, even if you’d never had any proof to confirm it, merely grateful you’d never gotten sick as way of evidence. But you knew. And it could've been so much worse for you, of course, of course it could have. But he’d left your mind so off kilter, broken and confused and not yourself. Utterly damaged in a way that was humiliating and devastating when you thought of the way you’d been, such a little person. So often, not a woman, just a little girl. 

And then his father. Joel. Seeing him today – you had never felt the way you should have felt towards him. Like your eyes were open, awake for the first time in your entire life. A man like that – he was changing. And you wanted, needed very much to be changed. Seeing him today, being presented with that reminder of what he was, how he made you feel, how he’d always made you feel. There’s something ghoulish about you concerning him – about this desire. That ascetic or anemic or under-grown, illformed thing about you, exterminated in the thrum of how alive he is. How unlike his son. You’d never known what it specifically was, never been able to categorize it, and then there had been that moment, brought so low, six feet beneath the ground sort of debased, and he’d been there and you had been – unburdened from the weight of his own son, by him, and you’re not even sure he knew the extent of it. The power he’d wielded over you in that moment in the dark. And you can’t say it out loud, what it is you’d want from him, you can’t even say out loud what it is about him that changes you as it does – not a woman, just a little girl – but you think that if you could just see him, then you’d know, or maybe you could be brave. You don’t know what it is, but you’d know it then, with him in front of you, you’d have the answer to this question that’s plagued you for so long – how to be yourself in a way that is good.

You’re pushing yourself to your feet, fueled by the thought, fingers gripped over the ledge of the counter to pull yourself up, sink forgotten, stumbling to your front door, shoving your feet into your shoes and fumbling for your keys. How to be yourself in a way that is good. 

When you were seventeen, your father had been at his angriest. Angry in that way that all angry father’s are. Loud and brutish – an anger that is cowing, a sign of true weakness. Brute force in the shape of the man who gave you life. When you think of it now, even as a grown woman, you still feel that phantom limb of fear, and you know that it isn’t normal for a grown woman to be afraid of her father, and yet you are. And then to think that you’d gone from your parents home directly to the bed of the same sort of man, one even crueler, if possible. You’re forced to laugh your singular terrible, self deprecating laugh at the irony of it – even worse, if possible. For what’s worse than a person who constantly needs to be soothed into kindness and patience and calm? 

Once, in that terrible seventeenth year, funny and strange and unknowingly perfect, you’d been gifted the Farmer’s Almanac by your elderly neighbor. She’d said that she’d read it since she was a girl, liked the peace in knowing that the year had been predicted by experts and put down on paper. It made life seem more secure, more in control in a small way. You’d needed that during that turbulent time, locked in your teenage bedroom, lulled to sleep by the sound of your father’s anger and the year’s long-range weather predictions before your blurry eyes. It was so comforting to be able to read the future in text, catastrophe or sunshine, at least it was there. You still read it to this day. And there’s no congruity to the thought now, as you crawl into your car, a ghoul in the night, banging your knee on the hastily opened car door, sprouting gooseflesh in the cold; this desire, desire, desire that is the worst thing you’ve ever felt in your whole life, and yet, you can’t bring yourself to stop because there is something about control in this moment also. Control like knowing what the future will be like on paper, control like a man who is entirely grown into himself, who knows who he is and who he is not and is not uncertain, who will not yell, who will not hurt you. He has this – your husband’s father – you know he does. There is something about control, there is something about knowing how a thing will be, there is something about being yourself in a way that is good. 

-

You’d picked up the wrong wine on your way here. Rushing, trying to fix your makeup in the car, you’d gotten confused, chosen the one he didn’t want instead of the one he did. And it was nothing, or an accident, surely nothing to incite his ire, but he’s so fucking angry hovering in front of you. He looks at you, now sometimes, like he hates you, like you’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. He said you’d humiliated him in front of his father. That he was going to think he didn’t have good taste, couldn’t afford a decent bottle of wine. And you don’t know Joel very well, but he doesn’t seem like the type of man to care about such things. Calling you an idiot in that poisoned shrill tone he takes on when he’s delivering a set down, and you’re trying to tell him to please, please keep your voice down, Sam, your father is going to hear you. You’d heard someone say once that a truly powerful man never feels the need to raise his voice, it simply isn’t necessary for him, and you’re reminded, terribly, of your father, with the sight of your shrill and seething husband in front of you.  And then a low toned that’s enough, son from the mouth of the kitchen, and it’s so much worse, entirely catastrophic in a way, and you’re rushing away so humiliated, face on fire, tear caught over the trough of your lower lid, trying the doors in the hallway for the nearest restroom. You hear the murmur of voices, one struggling to maintain composure, the other, cool and steady, then the slam of the front door, and finally, the silent din of his house settling around the two of you as you find a restroom to hide in. Your heart beats so fast it makes you nauseous, knees strangely aching, listening to the heavy steps of Joel’s boots, as if he’s trying to warn you with those measured, weighted thuds that he’s coming, coming, coming for you. Turning to face the far corner of the restroom, you press your palm over your mouth, face slippery and burning and so stupid, the soft swoosh of the opening door, a paused breath as he takes in your form huddled into the wallpaper, and then the muted snick of the door closing behind him, shutting the two of you away together.

Part II

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog!

[avocado-writing]

Hey there, if you’re still doing requests for BG3... I'm terribly angry about something big and outside of my control at the moment. Could you let me know what you'd think the BG3 companions do if Tav started self destructing? Like Tav passing harsher judgments, snapping at neutral NPCs, or fighting more dangerously and recklessly with bad guys?

Oooo the angst possibilities! Fun! Going to write like you’re self destructing due to stress, and you’re picking unhealthy coping mechanisms. Here we go:

Astarion

at first probably thinks that it’s quite funny. We know he enjoys seeing a little bit of suffering.

but, the more it goes on, the more worried you can see him become.

this isn’t like you. He knows you by now. You’re… kinder than this, damn it.

he takes you to the side one day after he’s seen you be short with a friend.

“whats the matter?” “Nothing, Astarion.” “If you’re going to lie to me, darling, you’d better do a better job of it than that.”

you go to snap at him, fire on your tongue, and then something inside you breaks. You just start sobbing. Everything which has been weighing on your mind has finally become too much.

he isn’t good at comforting words, but he does hold you. Runs his hand up and down your back, and lets you know you he’s here for you whenever you’re ready to speak.

helps you centre yourself again, eventually. He loves you. He’ll do what he can to make things better.

Gale

Makes a couple of snide remarks about how you’re acting, suggesting maybe you be a bit kinder, but then he stops to reassess how you’re acting.

there’s something wrong. You’re pent up. Furious, but not with the people you talk to. They just happen to be the ones bearing the brunt of it.

he sees the injuries you nurse on yourself after battles too. You used to be a clever fighter. Now you are a reckless one.

takes you aside one night at camp and presents his findings very matter-of-factly, concluding that there must be something the matter. When he puts it so astutely, you know you have no chance of hiding from him.

tears slip down your face and he is there in an instant drying your eyes. Telling you there’s nothing to worry about. Reassuring you that “the great Gale of Waterdeep is on your side, we’ll find a way to work things out.”

he puffs his chest out, you chuckle and bury your face in the crook of his neck. Yes. You will find a way to work things out.

Wyll

When he first sees you acting out, as it were, he immediately intervenes.

he knows what it’s like to be under great levels of stress. He made his contact when he was a teenager, after all, and had to deal with all the fallout that happened consequently.

he takes you to the side, holds your hand tightly in his, gets you to look at him.

“i love you, you know that, yes? If there’s something the matter, you need only tell me.”

you begin to crack immediately. Damn this sweet man and his emotional intelligence. Why is he perfect.

you let him know you’ve been under a lot of stress lately. You agree you’re not coping with it very well. He says he’ll help you however he can, but you need to stop being so unkind to yourself.

“you matter, my love. You deserve sweetness.”

holds you close, and you just stand there for a while, together. From then on whenever something is wrong, he is the first one you go to.

Karlach

Sees you snapping at a friend, jumps in.

“whoa, whoa, whoa! Soldier, where is all this coming from?”

you snap to tell her it’s none of her business, she wouldn’t understand… but then you see the hurt in her eyes and immediately feel awful.

“Oh gods, Karlach, I’m sorry…” your voice is wobbly, cracking a bit, and she cups your face in her warm hands.

“hey, hey. it’s okay. Tell me what’s going on.”

you blurt out all your feelings to her in one, long, run-on sentence. She can’t help with a lot of the personal stuff, but she can listen, and she holds you to her chest and rocks you a little. Being engulfed by her embrace is very comforting.

”I’ve got you, babe, eh?” You know she does. For better or for worse.

Lae’zel

She sees the vicious way that you’ve been acting in battle. Strange, usually it’s her attempting to take the big hit, not you. She can take it, you can’t.

She finds you when you’re tending to your battle wounds. Sits down. Stares at you until you instigate conversation.

“what?” “You are not acting like yourself.” “Oh? And how would you know what that is?”

you’re just saying these things to be hurtful, but she’s stalwart. You’re deflecting.

She tells you she’s been enamoured with you long enough to see how you usually are. That you’re kinder, smarter. You’re lapsing into these feelings out of some sort of self-preservation, but you don’t need to.

”if there is something weighing on your mind, share it. I am here to help ease your burdens.”

you don’t love to cry in front of her but that is remarkably… sweet. It breaks you a bit.

You promise to stop being so foolhardy, especially in battle. She says that must be for the best, lest you get rended in half.

“Hey!” but she’s smiling. Your heart swells as you realise she’s trying to make you laugh.

Shadowheart

Lets you get quite far down the burrow of self-destruction before she does anything.

once again, she’s loyal to the lady of loss. Nothing you’re doing is exactly alarming to her.

but it does get worse and worse… she sees you snapping at friends, being harsher to passers-by, and she’s constantly having to patch you up after battle due to your wounds.

eventually one day you snap at her, and that’s her limit.

“I know something’s causing you stress but it isn’t me. I’m trying to help. So you can either pull your head out of your arse or I’m leaving this tent.”

the two of you have a little squabble, but it quickly becomes obvious your heart isn’t in it. Your anger turns to sadness. You collapse in tears and she pulls you to her without a second thought, holding you close.

despite her sharran devotion, she starts whispering how things can get better, how they will change. How the first step is letting people in.

her hand wound throbs as she comforts you. But in this moment she knows she’d pick you every time.

things are easier from then on, knowing she is with you.

[adverbally]

Stunned By the Whiplash

Written for the @steddieangstyaugust prompt “‘Where were you?’” | wc: 858 | rated: T | cw: car accident aftermath, hospital | tags: minor injuries, some discussion of death | title from “Spellbound” by AC/DC | follow up to I’m a Victim of a Bad Crash

———

When Steve wakes up in the emergency room at Hawkins Memorial, Eddie is nowhere to be found.

He blinks into awareness slowly, noting the empty chair at his bedside before he begins taking stock of how he feels. First and foremost, he is no longer upside down. Thank God. His chest still hurts, though he’s breathing easier. His neck is a little sore and his headache is almost gone. He’s in a curtained-off bed in the corner of the ER, so he must not be doing too badly.

Despite these positive signs, Eddie’s absence is glaring. He must have been successful in getting help, at least. Maybe he just hadn’t made it back to the car before emergency services, or maybe they wouldn’t let him ride in the ambulance. The part of Steve’s brain that tends to catastrophize wants to panic but it feels very far away. They must have given him some good medication.

It makes him sleepy, too, so he dozes for a few minutes before the grating noise of metal wakes him again.

Eddie looks exhausted as he pulls the curtain shut behind him with a wince at the sound of the rings scraping through the track. He has butterfly bandages over a couple of the deeper cuts on his forehead and cheek, but there are no other signs of injury. Steve is almost lightheaded with relief at the sight of him.

“Where were you?” Steve croaks.

Eddie jumps a little. When he realizes Steve is awake and talking to him, he looks instantly lighter, like the weight of worry has been lifted from him. “Payphones,” he explains. “Wayne’s shift finished a little while ago and I thought he would want to know why I wasn’t home.”

“Oh.” Just like that, it’s easy to relax back into the bed and forget what he was even worried about. Especially when Eddie comes to sit next to him and brushes his hair away from his forehead.

“How are you feeling?”

Steve shrugs. “Okay, I think? My chest still hurts when I breathe too deep.”

“If that’s your biggest complaint, I think we got off pretty easy.” Eddie leans back in his seat. The dark circles under his eyes are exaggerated by the harsh lights overhead.

Steve feels a stab of remorse for being the source of his fatigue. He reaches out, wiggling his fingers insistently until Eddie takes hold of his hand. “I’m sorry,” Steve tells him sincerely.

“It’s not like you did it on purpose,” Eddie chastises. “It was an accident, don’t apologize for that.” He presses a kiss to Steve’s knuckles.

“Still sorry I scared you.”

Eddie lets out a long sigh. “I’m just glad you’re okay. We were lucky that your lung didn’t collapse. Apparently that can happen with broken ribs? The doctor didn’t think you needed to be admitted, but she wanted to wait for you to wake up so they could make sure you don’t have brain damage.”

Steve raps his knuckles against the side of his head. “No more than usual.”

Eddie doesn’t laugh. His face is completely blank as he stares up at the ceiling tiles and fluorescent lights. “You know, I had to wait for them to get there? It felt like forever. I was trying to talk to you and you weren’t responding.” He bites his lip. “Then I stood there and watched them cut you out of your seat belt. You were, like, completely limp, no reaction at all, even when they bumped your ribs against the edge of the door.”

Understanding sinks like a stone in Steve’s stomach.

Eddie continues, “For about fifteen minutes, I was sure you were dead. I was already thinking about how to tell Robin and the kids, your parents…” He runs a hand over his face as he trails off with a shaky breath.

“Eddie, I’m so–”

“No, I’m not trying to make you feel bad, o-or, like, make it about me, I get the whole ‘dark humor as a coping mechanism’ thing. But I can’t joke about it yet.” When he looks back to Steve, his eyes are wet.

Steve squeezes his hand. “Okay, then. No jokes.” Like how Eddie doesn’t joke about the lights flickering or make fun of him for not using the pool in his backyard. It’s no sacrifice to make sure Eddie

“Thanks.” Eddie sniffs. “Now hit your call button so the doctor can check you out and we can get out of here.”

“In a sec.” Steve uses his grip on Eddie to pull them closer together until they meet in the middle and Steve can kiss him. It’s just a chaste press of lips, since they’re in public and neither of them is feeling up to anything more strenuous, but it lingers. Eddie’s other hand is on his jaw and they’re both okay. It settles something in Steve’s chest that has been uneasy since he woke up.

Steve pulls away when the strain on his ribs is too much to ignore. Eddie looks more relaxed already; he needed that moment, too. “Okay, I’m good now,” Steve announces.

“Okay.” Eddie’s smile is small but genuine.

———

Thanks to those of you who encouraged me to write this follow up to I’m a Victim of a Bad Crash!

@grtwdsmwhr @alwaysurvalentine @flustratedcas @shesnotthatserious @novacorpsrecruit

[triannel]

Unexpected Movie Night

Bill Cipher x Reader | Oneshot

Warnings: Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Bill Cipher, Unhealthy Attachment to Reader

Today just wasn't the same as the million other days he's had. Stinging feelings has suddenly started to rise inside of him and it is unbearable. However, just as always, he does what he's always done to cope when these feelings resurface, he forces himself to resume acting like nothing's happening, trying to ignore the sudden weight on his unregulated emotions and already diminishing mental state.

Frustrated he tries everything to drown out these feelings, he just can't deal with this right now. Wine, partying, loud music, activities that will either excite or overwhelm him, he's tried it all today, and not even a single one helped. Least to say he's growing quite desperate for an escape...

So as his last attempt for the day, he hesitantly teleports to a place he considers comfortable. In a drunken and dizzy state, he leaves the party.

"HellOO yOu..." Startled, you look to your side and see a drunken triangle overlord, holding the forbidden drink on his right hand as he floated unsteadily in the air.

"Bill?" Furrowing your eyebrows, you slowly approach him, the awful stench of alcohol making you slightly gag.

"Yeah, IT'S Me! BILLYYY!" He responded, swinging his arms slightly in delight.

Raising his arm, he drinks a mouth...eye..ful? amount of alcohol before losing balance once more, this time nearly falling flat to the ground.

Quickly though, you manage to catch him right before he could hit the cold hard floor.

"Okay...I think that's enough drinking for you today..." You spoke, concerned for his well being.

Slowly, you held a part of the bottle and surprisingly, you successfully take the drink from his hand and place it on a nearby table.

Right after you placed the bottle down, you then felt fuzzy hands on your cheeks. He soon forced you to look down at him for a second before pulling your head even lower so that one of your eyes can nearly meet his. "I just wanted TO see YOU todayyy yknoww..." He mutters under his breath, as he continues to hold you close.

Flustered, you chuckle nervously, "What's gotten into you today..?" You question silently.

As if on cue, he releases his hold and let's himself deflate on your arms like a balloon. You've never seen him like this before. Vulnerable and intoxicated, his body seemed to be made out of rubber at the moment, his expression looked so tired and troubled. What was he doing the whole day? Did he actually not plan to teleport here? Well, drunk people do say and do things that are true to their nature...so perhaps it wasn't a mistake.

You can tell him to go back to his place, but looking back at him now, maybe it's for the best you keep him here instead. Placing Bill down the sofa, you then hand him some water. "Here, you should probably stay here for tonight.." you comment, sitting down beside him.

"WHOA there toots! Don't cha think you're moving too fast? Take me to dinner first wIll ya?" He spoke, while drinking water.

You chuckle slightly, "Well, if you want, I can call your henc-".

"Upupup shhhhhh," he suddenly interrupts you, placing his finger to your lips.

"Can't take back your word noww." He spoke, clasping his hands together in a cute manner as he leans closer to you.

You laugh and nod your head, "Ok ok, well if you say so."

Opening your TV, you both start to watch some sort of film, all the while as you try to keep him hydrated to help lessen the hangover he might get in the morning.

When you both did start to watch, he never really kept a distance between you. Once he leaned on you, he seemed to only want to get closer than ever as his sitting position slowly transitioned to him using your thighs as his pillow.

Throughout your unplanned marathon with him, he also did gradually become less energetic, his expression taking on a much more serene look the longer he was with you. Maybe you're delusional, but you swore you could have catched him gazing at you multiple times.

As a few hours seemed to have gone by in a flash, the clock suddenly striked 12.

Hearing something beep out loud, you supposed it's time to put this triangle to bed. Well, you could just leave him here by the sofa to sleep, but deciding to be a good host, you decided to let him sleep on your bed, accepting the sofa as your bed for tonight instead.

"Well, it's getting late so we should hit the hay hm?" You spoke, pointing at your watch.

"Nooo," He responded as he closed his eye in weak defiance.

Soon though, to his dismay, you stand up, letting him fall on his side.

"Come on, get up." You spoke in a lighthearted manner.

He groans once more in dissapproval, refusing to get off the couch for a moment before gravity forces him to fall. When he did fall to his side, he then fell to his front, but most of his body did not land on the sofa, so he then slowly started to slide off the sofa. Fortunately though, you catch him once more before he hit the floor.

So, with a triangular demon between your arms, you head to your bedroom and tucked him beneath the sheets.

Pulling up the bedsheets, to his annoyance, you start bidding him goodnight, "Well, I think my work here is done," however, once you do start to leave, his mind instantly ignited. 'Please...don't leave me.'

Suddenly, you felt him grab your wrist. "Hm?" You hum in confusion. A few seconds pass and he didn't respond as all he did was gaze up at you in silence.

"Is there something you want to tell me?" You ask in a gentle tone, trying to gently pry him open for the truth to spill out.

Nothing, he didn't respond, however he did slightly tighten his grip. A few seconds pass and no one spoke. The serene look on his face now mangled to a slightly panicked state. Almost as if to convince you to stay.

Letting out a sigh, you smile back at him once more as you hoped you deciphered his body language correctly.

Stepping back to your bed, you finally broke the silence, "Alright... Scoot over there and make room for us to fit."

Pulling the bed sheets up once more, you let the warmth between both of you embrace your being. Letting him snuggle close, you watch him return to a serene state before deciding to let yourself rest as well. He'll probably regret this in the morning.

[blushweddinggowns]

Jonathan didn’t know how else to say it but…Steve Harrington was weird. Like really, really weird. And he wasn’t even talking about Steve and Eddie. He thought Harrington was plenty weird all on his own. 

Jonathan really didn’t understand why Eddie was always marked as the strange one in the duo. To him, Eddie made perfect sense. Poor background, unique interests, drug dealer, loud and obnoxious as a coping mechanism, but still managing to be a pretty good guy all around. It was normal for a guy like that to be a little out there. 

But Steve didn’t make any sense to him. Zero. Zilch. 

Because he was rich, handsome, athletic, a total jock in every sense of the word. Half the school wanted to get in his pants, while the other half desperately tried to figure out how he got so many girls. By all accounts, he should be an asshole. Someone who basked in his own popularity, not someone who literally shunned it. Steve was the only person he’d ever met who had it all, and didn’t care. 

All he seemed to care about was freaking Eddie Munson of all people. They had been attached at the hip since grade school and even with Eddie disappearing for two years, Steve was right back at his side nearly the moment he got back. 

He didn’t go to parties, never bragged about his conquests unless someone asked, and even then he was always incredibly vague, and from what he’d heard from Nancy, he didn’t even sleep at his own house 90 percent of the time. If you were looking for Steve Harrington, all you really had to do was track down Eddie Munson.

Jonathan had only purchased weed a handful of times in his young life, but every single time Steve had been there. Either in the van waiting when Eddie dropped something off, or sitting right next to him on the park bench, popping gum and reading a comic book while Eddie did his business. 

And he was…intensely protective over him. Which was weird considering how Munson was scary enough in his own right, at least on the outside. Like getting into multiple fights, protective. Making girls cry who had the audacity to say anything about Eddie’s antics, protective. Like cursing out an actual teacher, protective. 

Like comforting your best friend after a near death experience instead of your literal girlfriend protective. Who did that? And maybe it hadn’t been official back then, but still. You’d think you’d spend time cuddling your crush in your lap instead of your childhood buddy. And there was also the weird hair smelling thing they kept doing. He hadn’t looked too closely at the time, but Steve had turned to bury his face in Eddie’s hair every few minutes after the 83 showdown. He hadn’t seen a repeat of that since, though. Maybe…maybe Eddie had gotten demon guts in his hair? And Steve had been trying to find the source?

He didn’t fucking know. He just…didn’t get him. And now he got him even less. The guy pulled freaking Nancy Wheeler as his girlfriend, and he didn't spend every possible waking moment with her? 

But it wasn’t just him prioritizing Eddie over Nancy. It was the fact that he didn’t care that Nancy was with him more often than her actual boyfriend. Which was fantastic for Jonathan, even if it was a bit of a double edged sword. Because Nancy was gorgeous and so fucking smart and cool and…and Jonathan liked her so much he kind of wanted to die.

And he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. Even if he’d come close, way more than once. There were probably a dozen times where he’d almost kissed her. And the last one would have happened if they hadn’t been interrupted. They had been talking next to his car during lunch, Jonathan couldn’t even remember what it had been about. He just remembered that he had said something to make her laugh. And she looked so freaking beautiful when she laughed. She looked pretty all the time, but something about seeing her happy made her jump from a 10/10 to a 15. 

The sun was in her hair, and her eyes crinkled in that cute way that he loved, and Jonathan had been leaning in before he knew it was happening. And if Steve and Eddie hadn’t walked by right in that moment, it would have happened. He had jumped nearly ten feet in the air when he spotted him out of the corner of his eye, fully expecting Steve to start tearing into him for being so close to his girlfriend. 

But he just smiled and waved when he saw them, and went right back to their conversation before walking off. 

See? Weird.

He didn’t know why it didn’t bother Nancy more, how little he cared about what the two of them were up to. Part of him was praying it was because she was falling out of love with him, and all of the romantic tension they had together wasn’t in his head. 

But he just couldn’t bring himself to make that final step. Mostly because he was busy trying to take care of Will most of the time. Even if he got his way he wasn’t exactly in a position to be a good boyfriend. His little brother came first, especially after everything he had been through. And he was struggling, Jonathan could see it. And he spent most of his spare moments trying his damndest to get Will to open up. It hadn’t worked. But he kept trying.

But there was another part to it too. He…he didn’t want to be that guy. The kind of guy to make moves on a taken girl. Especially Steve’s girl. Both him and Eddie had risked their lives last year helping them out, and what? He was going to thank them by breaking Steve’s heart? He couldn’t bring himself to do it. 

Even if Eddie wanted him to. Which was just one more thing he didn’t get, the weird encouragement Eddie would give him when it came to his best friend’s girlfriend. If Jonathan mentioned a movie he wanted to see, preferably with her, Eddie would always be sure to keep Steve busy on friday nights for her to be free. If Jonathan had his mom’s car for a week and really wanted to be the one to pick her up in the morning, Eddie would conveniently find a reason that Steve couldn’t. 

It was weird, and kind of fucked up, but Jonathan had at least a small idea on why he was doing it. It was pretty obvious, after you got a little closer to the two of them. Eddie was in love with Steve. But Steve wasn’t in love with Eddie, not when he had Nancy on his arm. It explained why he monopolized all of his time, why he hung around them on their dates, why he was so open to letting another guy swoop in on her. 

He never actually asked him about it. It felt like a fucked up thing to say, especially if he was wrong. But Jonathan couldn’t think of any other explanation. So he kind of just…went with it. At this point it felt like he was Eddie’s co-conspirator to break them up, even if it was never explicitly said.

Which was fucked up, on both their ends. Yeah Steve was weird, and kind of a bitch, but he was a good guy all in all. He was Eddie’s best friend for a reason. 

So Jonathan held back his feelings. Or at least he did for as long as he could. But then Nancy came to him for help to expose the Hawkins lab. And they ended up on this crazy fucking adventure together. And he just fell more and more in love with every wild stunt she did. 

And then they kissed at Murray’s and Jonathan didn’t have the strength to say no. How could he? It just…happened. And okay yes. He feels bad for Steve. But he doesn’t regret it. Not even slightly. And maybe that made him the biggest asshole in the world, but it was hard to care when Nancy freaking Wheeler wanted him of all people. 

It was pretty easy to shove the guilt right out of his mind. That was until they saw Steve and Eddie next, right in front of the Hawkins lab. Steve had instantly brightened at the sight of her, immediately sweeping her up into a big hug. 

And Jonathan couldn’t bring himself to watch it. He just couldn’t. Because that was probably going to be the last time they hugged like that. He was already in too deep and there was no way in hell that he was going to let last night be a one night stand. He hadn’t exactly asked Nancy to break up with him yet, but he was going to. 

Because he was a dick like that, apparently. But maybe they could find a way to do it…kindly? If that was even possible. And if there was anyone who would be able to help soften the blow for Steve, it would be Eddie Munson. 

Jonathan walked up to him as the other two started talking. He jerked his head to the side, “Hey can I talk to you for a second?”

Eddie nodded, following him over to a safe distance from the car. He didn’t really think Eddie would be mad at him for what he did. But he was still a little nervous to say it out loud. 

He avoided saying what he truly wanted, deflecting with a question, “So um, Steve and Nancy, how uh, serious are they?”

Eddie stared at him like he’d magically grown a second head, “Huh?”

“They’ve almost been together for like a year now right?” Jonathan pressed, “Is he…y’know. In love with her?”

But Eddie was still looking at him like he’d asked something insane. He narrowed his eyes at him, “Are…are you kidding me right now?”

“What?” Jonathan asked, almost as equally confused as Eddie, “Why would I be kidding?”

Eddie raised a brow at him, “You think Steve and Nancy are dating? For like, real? After all this time? After last year. That’s what you think?”

Jonathan really wished Eddie would just tell him what the hell he was talking about instead of emphasizing every other word. He crossed his arms over his chest, feeling oddly defensive when he asked, “What else am I supposed to think?”

He hadn’t expected Eddie to bark out a laugh at the question. It took a second for him to compose himself to talk again while Jonathan looked on, more confused than ever. 

Eddie eventually straightened, holding a fist in front of his mouth while he struggled for the words, “Jonathan, dude, last year you saw me in his lap. With my arms around his neck. While he kissed me to make me feel better.”

Jonathan blinked at him, “Huh?”

He hadn’t remembered the kissing part. And in his defense he had been a bit distracted with the news that his brother was alive. But the hair smelling thing…had…had Steve been kissing the top of his head that whole time? Right in front of him? 

Eddie looked way too amused at Jonathan’s shock, “So what do you think that means bud? Is that something you do with your friends?”

“But Nancy! And all the other girls-”

“Fake, fake, fake and fake,” Eddie said with a grin, “That boy’s all mine. And has been for years. Him and Nance are just friends. Really good friends but that’s it.”

Eddie put a hand on his shoulder, voice softening a little but still a little too tickled for Jonathan’s liking, “We all kind of thought you knew man. I guess I underestimated our own acting skills there.”

Jonathan slowly nodded, even though his brain was still struggling to catch up with everything he’d said. But it made sense. It actually made perfect sense. That’s why Steve didn’t care that he was all over her, that’s why Eddie had been so encouraging, that’s why Steve was so fucking weird. The guy had been basically married since he was in third grade. 

“Holy shit,” Jonathan finally breathed out, “That makes so much sense.”

But then a realization hit him, “Wait, so all of this time Nancy has been single?”

“And ready to mingle,” Eddie added with a wink, “Though if it helps, you’re the only one she’s set her sights on. That and Tom Cruise but I think you still have good odds.”

As wonderful as that revelation was, it kind of also made him want to smash his head into a wall. How could he have been so blind? 

“Don’t worry about it,” Eddie said, like he could read his mind, “We do actually try to hide it most of the time. It’s not completely your fault for not seeing the hints.”

He only had one more question, a stupid one but he still wanted to be sure, “So um, hypothetically. If I, uh, slept with his fake girlfriend, he wouldn’t be mad about it?”

Eddie laughed, “He’d be ecstatic. Half the time those two talk is about you. He’s been waiting for you to make a move as long as Nancy has. And he will definitely get a kick out of this conversation when I tell him, that’s for damn sure.”

Jonathan nodded. That was…some pretty fantastic news. Besides the sting that he could have had her weeks or even months ago, it was a good fucking feeling to know that they hadn’t done anything wrong. It was kind of weird, knowing that Steve Harrington of all people was gay. But he didn’t care. That might have been how his dad tried to raise him, but his mom had stopped all the homophobic shit the second he ditched.

He was raised better than to judge two people for being happy together. And the fact that they trusted him with something so big made him feel…kind of special. Definitely not like an asshole. The two of them wandered back to Steve and Nancy and Eddie didn’t hesitate to pull him into his arms. 

Jonathan watched as he whispered something to him before kissing his cheek, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And for them it probably was. He saddled next to Nancy. He didn’t exactly have the confidence to be that affectionate in public like those two did, but he’d like to work his way up to it. He gently took her hand in his, blushing at the way it made her smile. 

She squeezed his hand back before shuffling a little closer to lean into him. He didn’t have much time to indulge in it, not when the lights all suddenly came back on. But as they all hurried inside, he couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.

From the latest chapter of this fic

[ssa-atlas-alvez]

Hey man, I've been thinking about this idea for a while:

M Reader being claimed by a service dog of a deceased owner

Like imagine reader not being too big of a fan for odgs, but after a case where the team discovers the deceased has a dog, the dog just won't stop following reader, and when reader gets anxious over something, the dog just alerts to it?

Do you think the team would notice that what they taught were just innocent gestures/habits turn out to be coping mechanisms for dealing with silent panic attacks? And this dog, this random service dog, refuses to leave reader alone despite him not really liking dogs (but not hating them)

(Just seeing your own personal thoughts rather than a fic/story. Like do you personally think this may happen?)

Shoutout to Toby. He's great. Everyone needs a Toby.

Warnings: panic attack

You were all shocked, to say the least when you open the door to the victim's house and a dog comes barreling at you. Instinctively, you step between Morgan, figuring if it attacked Morgan and Reid first, you'd have time to run. Granted, it wasn't your proudest moment, but you were hesitant towards dogs.

But now this dog wouldn't stop following you like you were Annie or something.

"He likes you." Morgan grinned, his smile widening at your unimpressed look. "You're just gonna have to suck it up."

You roll your eyes, looking at the dog. He was pretty cute, despite being scruffy.

"What's his name?" You eyed him up cautiously.

"Toby."

You're not quite sure what sets it off, but when you're alone in the breakroom, making a third cup of coffee in the last two hours (it might have been the coffee), the familiar feeling of doom hits your chest. Your breath catches in the back of your throat as anxiety swarms. You force yourself to take a deep breath, trying not to panic. You don't see Toby tilt his head before approaching you.

He nudges your leg gently with his nose. You ignore him, he probably wants hugs or something.

'He'll probably get bored and go to Morgan.' You think to yourself.

But no, he keeps nudging you with his nose. When he realises that isn't exactly working, he lifts his front leg, pawing at you.

You move your leg, trying to catch your breath. Now really wasn't the time. It's not like you didn't like dogs, you thought they were cute. You were just... hesitant of them.

Based on the look he gives you, if he was human, he would be sighing. He gives one last look before turning and leaving. A small heavy feeling settles in your chest. God it felt tight. You ignore the shaking of your hands and try to continue to breathe normally - although that isn't going too well. You decide it's probably a good idea to take a seat, so you do.

Toby walks up to Morgan, looking at him expectantly. Morgan furrows his eyebrows.

"What's he doing?" Morgan asked, eyes flicking from Toby to Reid.

Reid watched him for a moment, "I think he's alerting."

Morgan and Reid shared a look before standing up. Toby, happy that they seemed to get the message, walks back to you.

You put your head in your hands, trying to take deep breaths. You look down when you feel a weight on your leg, locking eyes with Toby. Toby looks up, licking your hands.

Forcing yourself upright, you let Toby lick your hands. It was a slightly odd sensation, granted, but it seemed to be helping. Giving you something else to think about.

"Okay..." You said softly, "Maybe you aren't that bad."

Toby pauses, giving you a look which would roughly translate to 'are you for fucking real' before he moves, shifting so more of him was laying on you. The pressure of him had a calming effect, like a weighted blanket.

"So, does this mean we're stuck with each other then?" You asked him quietly. He gives a soft huff before shifting slightly. "I'll take that as a yes then..."

[jasperxkuromi]

Regressors that are (bodily) older, please interact!

Later 20s, 30s, maybe even older? I would love to hear from you and maybe even your stories if you don't mind sharing!

I want to meet more people like me and also show others that age regression doesn't just suddenly "stop" at a certain age

Some of us:

Didn't discover regressing/didn't understand their involuntary regression until they were older

Wasn't in a safe space mentally and/or physically to be able to regress the way we want to

Didnt "grow out" of regressing. I think a lot of people outside the community assume we will all grow out of wanting to regress at some point. Maybe some of us will, but some of us won't. Regressing can be a safe and healthy coping mechanism, no matter your bodily age!

And probably many other reasons I can't think of at the moment lol

I would love to get to talk to older regressors, or if there are any groups/discords, I would like to know those too :3

I'm gonna talk about my story a little under the cut, but I don't exactly recommend reading it if you are little right now! I am going to be talking about s3xualization of agere and children's media unfortunately.

I started age dreamer/involuntarily regressing when I was in high school without really knowing what it was. I was really into MLP FiM during its height popularity. I watched the show, collected and played with the toys, did coloring books, took my MLP blanket to school ever day. You get the idea.

I discovered regression here in Tumblr, but this was yeeeeaaars ago, like back when nsfw was still allowed. The line between ddlg and agere wasn't as solid as it is now. Or maybe it was just because I was a kid and couldn't understand better? Either way ... i ended up getting wrong ideas of what agere had to be and ended up scaring myself off. I also had adult roleplayers leaving really inappropriate comments on my posts that made me feel icky. I thought agere had to be s3xual and scared myself off.

We also unfortunately probably know the uhhh .. types of fan art that was popular of MLP. And it just ended up making me lose interest in the series. The stuff was everywhere and it was hard to avoid even if you were vigilant.

I never got a real chance to understand what healthy, voluntary regression was. I still was an age dreamer, but most times when I involuntarily regress it is out of extreme stress and it isn't fun or pretty.

I had a lot of bad things that happened to me last year and in turn I am having more health issues. Chronic conditions I already had getting worse, and new ones popping up. My mom (the one who birthed me) has been helping me a bit, but it has still been a lot of playing adult. Making phone calls back and forth, filling out paperwork, figuring out disability leave, paying bills, etc etc. I started age dreaming more and more often to cope with the stress. Like I randomly one day bought a DVD player and sets of Winnie the Pooh and Scooby Doo DVDs lmfao.

I also never stopped collecting stuffed animals and came back to collecting dolls again last year. It helps that I have friends IRL who I don't think are regressors, but still enjoy collecting with me. (my friends don't know yet, but I think they would be accepting if I told them, or they might already assume I regress tbh)

I have kinda had age regression on the back of my mind for several months, but was scared to look back into it. I was scared of going through the same thing I did back in high school. But also denying I am a regressor and that I still need to heal my childhood wounds was getting heavier and heavier on me. I am sooooo thankful I finally felt safe to begin exploring regression again ♥️😁

Side note: while I absolutely don't care if people do ddlg and similar stuff as a kink/fetish, I am thankful that the distinction between that and agere is more distinct now. It is important we protect minors and other vulnerable people from having the same sorts of things that happened to me (or worse) from happening to them.

[hexedwritings]

hiii!! i saw u wanted requests so here it goes. idk what ur rules are for writing but i was wondering if u could maybe write a jinx x fem reader oneshot where they have sex while high!! maybe they even shotgun the smoke too cus thats so hot 👀👀 anyway please and thank u 🙏🏼🙏🏼

Jinx x reader

- I didn't really include a sex in this but there are suggestive stuff.

- Set after events of act 3 season 1. But before the season 2 if yk what I mean.

- ⚠️ : mention of drugs, cuss words (?), suggestive stuff.

Jinx likes taking risks. This was one of the reasons you fell in love with her. This was one of the reasons she was known.

It's not that she never thinks of the outcomes. She knows she's way too smart for bad outcomes to happen.

After death of Silco, she fell into some bad habits. Unhealthy coping mechanisms and you definitely tried to be for her and to help her.

Sometimes you would just give in and smoke a blunt with her. This was one of those times. So yeah, you were currently on her bed or maybe you were levitating in the air, you weren't really sure.

"Hey toots are you even listening?" Her even raspier voice from smoking brings you back a little to your senses. The truth is you weren't listening. You were watching. You were watching how she would move her fingernails against your right forearm up and down while rambling about random stuff. They didn't even make sense. You were watching how her chest would slightly move everytime she moved too fast on the bed.

"Oh — sorry I wasn't listening." You said slightly flustrated. She squinted her eyes slightly before moving her body on top of your body. Her hips resting on your hip bones. You subconsciously held her hips.

"Is there something wrong?" She asked as she slouched, brought her body closer to your body. Chest to chest, head near your neck. Her tired bloodshot eyes staring your tired bloodshot eyes. "What- no nothing is wrong why are you asking?"

"You look a little red." You don't know how she can focus on the fact that you're a little red when she is this high. Well, you did focus on her body while she was talking so maybe that's possible.

"I don't."

"You do."

"What's the point of this?" You asked in a silent voice. She brought her lips close to yours and it didn't take one second for her to close the gap. You gasped. Not expecting a kiss happen. But you immediately kissed back.

She moved her mouth aggressively against yours. It made you confuse a little but you gave in of course. She entered her tounge into your mouth and tasted every bit of your mouth. It made you whimper a little. She was so aggressive that you felt like you were going to get a nose bleed.

"Wha- jinx what's up?" You asked as you moved her head a little away from yours.

"Am I not allowed to kiss my girlfriend?"

"That's not my question!"

"Why? do you have a problem with it?" You definitely did not. You wanted to continue. You wanted every inch of her.

"Uh no I don-"

"Then shut up and take it."

Not waiting for another moment she kissed you again. You also moved your lips against hers aggressively, basically fighting for dominance.

She stopped kissing you and moved to your neck. Sucking gently on the skin and then getting harsh. Teeth nibbing at it and making you bleed.

You didn't care. You did a few seconds before on why she was being so aggressive but the Lord only knows how much turned on you are right now. So you let it all happen.

She took your shirt off and moved to suck your nipples. Biting the flesh and making you whimper in pain. sucking your left breast while playing with the right one.

A few moments ago you would zone out and get lost in your mind but now your five senses are exteremely enhanced. You don't know why. It's like everytime jinx moves on your body and does something, you feel it 10 times more.

But then she did something. Something she had never done before. She brought the blunt to her mouth. Smoked and got even more high, but the thing is.. she didn't release the smoke from her mouth until she kissed you. Yep. She released the smoke into your mouth.

You were dumbfounded. This was probably the most turning on action someone would ever do.

She was staring into yours eyes. The gap between your head and hers was probably not more than 2 cm. You released the smoke back and it hit her face. You were starting to become dizzy. Dizzy from the blunt. Dizzy from your love for jinx. Dizzy from her literally doing that. Dizzy from everything.

You kissed her and she kissed back. That was a long night of making out and becoming high from each other.

[danielcalmdown]

Here's a few thoughts i have about Disco Elysium and it's lack of philosophical approach towards Harry's experiences. (Not to mistake it with psychology. There is plenty of that in Disco and the characters and ideologies are pulled apart in many fun ways.)

Explanation below the cut, so it's not a long-ass post.

So, Harry is very much suffering. He says "I am in pain. I have no idea how to get better, I'm about to fucking give up." What he gets as response, from his own mind and other people, is things like: "Get your shit together. You have to go through this hell. It will be awful, depressing and boring. Forget her. Stay strong, don't give up, you will eventually feel better. This is how normal people live. Do it for the (...)." This is encouragement. What it does is it keeps him on his feet and helps him move forward. But it's the only type of response he ever gets. What it doesn't do is challenge how he experiences his life in the first place. There is not a single sentence, a thought, any kind of spark in the game that would begin some sort of reform within him. He's the same sad, old Harry utill the end. The rest is accessories.

Beyond that, the gameplay is screaming at you: SEIZE THE MOMENT! There is so much work put into describing things happening around Harry. And so much fondness towards that world. But it's just there, next to him and his pain. Beautiful and worth living for, but it's not used to reveal anything that would inspire him to change. Something about humanity, the meaning of his suffering, maybe a hint about that hole in the world. Yknow, philosophical stuff. Even the miracle of the story, the phasmid, answers Harry's most existential question with "I don’t know, nobody knows." It's not there to guide him away from the vicious circle he's stuck in. It's more like a pat on the back. "Look, something incredible happened today! Life can be great sometimes." Here are a few statements meant by the game to be impactful: "Something beautiful is going to happen", "The night is always darkest before the dawn", "One day, i will return to your side", "The road to healing is going to be a long one. You will make it, some day." They sound like coping mechanism. They are motivational, hopeful, but don't speak about reality. "I'm suffering RIGHT NOW. The world and my head are still fucking broken. Heelp!" Harry cries out. "Hope for a better future. Go for a run. Focus on your job, get a hobby, take your mind off the pain." Try to be happier while remaining the same. Switch alcohol and drugs for non destructive activities to help you endure through that persisting pain. Look out of the window each morning, wait for that special thing to happen. And when it happens? The core stays unmoved. You don't even know what it is about you, where lies the first mistake. You learned nothing new about yourself.

I think all of this fits with the creators' views, which are sparsely hinted at throughout the game. "God is indifferent. This is our curse", "The world is inherently meaningless", "True love is possible in the next world, for new people, it's too late for us." Maybe that's why the game didn't allow Harry to change, because it doesn't believe there is anything out there that could help him. He's a human, therefore he has no choice but to think and suffer exactly the way he does. So yeah, that's my thoughts on it. Feel free to comment, disagree and enlighten me if you think i'm wrong. I'm always open to change my mind.

[jennelikejennay]

Nobody asked for this but it's time for an essay on Spock's body temperature.

Some people say Spock would have a hot body temperature because he is from a hot planet.

Others say he would have a cold body temperature because he is from a hot planet.

It seemed to me that we could test this thesis! Do animals from hot climates have a hotter or colder body temperature than animals from cold climates?

Humans have a roughly average temperature for mammals, 98.6 F (37 C).

Penguins have a core temperature of 100-102 F. Polar bears have a temperature of 98-99 just like we do. They can maintain this temp even in 40 below zero temps!

What about hot weather animals? The camel can vary from 93-104 F—a huge range, but on average around the same as ours. The elephant also has a large range, 95-99 F.

The coldest-blooded mammal is the echidna, at 89 F. The hottest is the hummingbird, at 107. Neither of these is from an extreme environment. It's more about the metabolism: the echidna's is slow and the hummingbird's is fast.

And yet, you see the range is not very great among mammals. This is because many enzymes work efficiently at these temperatures. Above about 104 F, some start breaking down. By 131 F, there's not much enzyme activity that can happen.

Okay, so: Vulcans. We know that they will not have an especially warm or cool body temperature because of the climate. Since they're warm blooded (an assumption, I admit! But I will defend it later) they will have an ideal core temperature their body will function best at and have features to maintain that despite the heat.

Note: Vulcans can also survive more extreme cold than humans; that's why Spock has to help Bones in a blizzard in All Our Yesterdays. This makes sense to me, because desert climates like Vulcan are prone to extremes. It might get very cold there at night with little moisture to trap the heat. This is one reason I think Vulcans are warm-blooded—a cold-blooded creature would have been useless in a blizzard. The other reason is that cold blooded creatures have a slower metabolism in general, and Spock could not possibly be described as slow moving or slow thinking.

Okay, so what is the Vulcan metabolism? Is it faster or slower than humans? My guess is faster, because of their fast heart rate, strength, and quick thinking. That said, we don't have solid proof either way. It might make sense for them to have a slower metabolism so that their body produces less heat and is less likely to get into the enzyme denaturing zone on a hot Vulcan day.

Which brings us to another question: how do they beat the heat? They seem perfectly comfortable in their climate, they're not using behavioral practices to stay cool as humans from hot climates do. They must have ways to efficiently radiate heat from their core. Those ears, for instance. Remember elephants? Their huge, flappy ears are a major cooling mechanism for them. They are able to push more blood through the small capillaries of their ears in hot weather and restrict it when the temperature drops at night. This is called vasodilation—controlling blood flow to either shed or retain heat. We do it too, though not as much. When you're hot, your ears will be hotter. Out in the cold, your fingers and toes will get much colder than your core.

Like camels, elephants can maintain a larger range of body temperatures than humans can. That's another coping technique they have. Other ways to shed heat include sweat and panting.

I never really imagined Vulcans as very sweaty. In a desert climate, methods of cooling that involve water loss wouldn't be ideal.

Here's my guess: they are extremely efficient at regulating core temperature by controlling blood flow. In hot temperatures, their skin and especially their ears would be hot, but their insides would be maybe 100 degrees. When it cools down, their skin would be very cool to the touch, but they would keep a core temperature in the 90s. They might also be able to speed up and slow down their metabolism somewhat to control their temperature.

So. On the Enterprise, which is kept at a comfortable temperature for humans...I think Spock would be a little chilly to cuddle. If you want a warm cuddle with Spock, go to his quarters, where he keeps it nice and toasty.

This has been my xenobiology deep dive for today.