#and it's so superficial there are no WORDS to describe anything on this earth that any of us can USE

[elytrafemme]

what do i have to do for it to matter. people get medication and people get treatments and people get sympathy and people get explanations and people get diagnoses and people get to check all the boxes. it feels like my brain is physically forcing itself not to be too close to an explanation because at the last moment all symptoms will suddenly go away (i’m going to fucking kill Dahlia actually, because I think she’s the reason this keeps happening to me and even if she isn’t I’m just going to keep going until i find the bastard who is responsible). i go to therapy for five fucking years and nothing ever changes. it took whoever i was before this to fucking die before i could be split into this system and that was the most change we ever went through positively was someone fucking disappearing. 

oh mare you could have bipolar ... if your hypomanic periods were more rhythmic :/ or if the manias were worse lol :/ you could have psychosis but its not that bad :/ schizophrenia but you’re too “functional” you talk too “articulately” you’re never getting “anywhere” :/ you could have BPD but your life would be sooooo much more miserable mare and aren’t you happy :/ you could have CPTSD but you can’t even remember what happened to you can you? :/ 

I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong. I’ve done EVERYTHING right I have been so much BETTER about recovery than anybody I have met in my entire fucking life and I get nothing for it. I go to every therapy session I do all the positive self talk I try not to be toxic to people I try EVERYTHING more than ANYBODY. and all I get? Nothing. I never get ANYTHING. 

[asoulwithadream]

Shoscombe Old Place / Part 2 - Sherlock & Co From the diary of ASoulWithADream…

I'm so excited that we're getting a three-parter after three-parter. They're brilliant and as the production quality increases exponentially, these drawn out adventures holding more content are so important to me.

Live Soul Reaction (my little on-the-spot commentary):

The episode sub-title just makes me think of Fast Car by Tracy Chapman. "🎵 You've got a fast car, I want a ticket to anywhere,"

John explaining the stupid social hierarchy, state-till-8's, the little 'I dunno's' of doubt, as if he still feels a bit confused or insecure about the whole situation with Carrie and him. The way he phrases it makes me think of superficiality.

"Like some big slobbery traitor!" I like how the roles have switched to Sherlock defending Archie from John.

Again with the card references!

Gary Lineker's mate. That's the second time HE's been mention. There's been an awful lot of emphasis on repeating motifs. Makes me wonder what else from last week's episode will feature today.

"You're invaluable, Watson!" "Awh." "Cheers!" <33333333

"Ah! Goodness! Hello Bob- UH, Robert Knob- Robert Norbertson! Ugh, spit it out, John."

"Just what she needs. Just… what she needs." Bobby you are not making yourself look more innocent you smoldering drama queen.

Sherlock swallowing a fly 😭

Lineker again!

Jump in the river. Jumping into a body of water. This is the third time. For fuck's sake.

"World's colliding. New friends, meeting old friends."

Who's calling John a twat on the internet???

Ash. Ash on the leaves, on the nettles, on the bark of the trees. Didn't Sherlock mention smoke? From the house, Shoscombe? Last week, he said it very explicitly. Smoke.

"It's a house for the dead." "A mausoleum." "Yes, a very tired one."

I SEE DEAD PEOPLE.

"Sherlock." "Yes, Watson." "Quick question." "Fire away!" "Are we… trapped? In a… four-hundred year old mausoleum?" "Trapped is a rather subjective term. We did CHOOSE to enter." "Sherlock." "Yes actually, I think we are."

Pick a tomb, mate! COS' I AM GOING TO KILL YOU >:(

"Brings a certain perspective, doesn't it? Being in here, with the long dead."

The way John realises that he's snapped just immediately forgives and dismisses Sherlock as the cause of their predicament really goes to show the bond they share, how they're able to adapt and just remain sane in their situation.

"What… feels like home?" "Baker Street." <3333333333333

"Rivers are just as doubtful, Watson. Just as unsure. They take the course they find easy, through the soft earth. That's why their paths are winding and splintered. They look for the easy way. Only the most determined bore through the hardest rock. Overtime, much, much time." More water, which could mean nothing. But seriously speaking, I love Sherlock's perspective on things, and how he reassures Watson with these beautiful metaphors, connecting their surroundings and the information he has consumed to describe his dear friend. <3

"Even the torrents that seem so wondrous to us will reach their end in a sea, a lake… a waterfall." HE SAID IT. Before I thought I was being delusional! Anything could be water, but the hesitation, the torrent he speaks of being a metaphor for both himself through John's perspective and the adventure that Moriarty will pose for them both, but especially for Sherlock Holmes!! I'm freaking out!!

"Shout out to Pro- ooh, Professor!" I AM DEAD. I HAVE TO PAUSE. IT CAN'T BE. WHAT I WAS JUST JOKING BEFORE. I'M BEING DELUSIONAL.

PROFESSOR JAMES MORIARTY.

JAMES MORIARTY.

MORIARTY.

WHO IS LISTENING INTENTLY, TO EVER WORD.

WHOEVER THAT ONE TUMBLR POSTER WAS WHO SAID "haha what if he got a shoutout" YOU WERE RIGHT. I'VE TRIED TO TAG YOU BUT I CAN'T FIND THE POST, BUT YOU WERE RIGHT. FUUUUUUUUUU-

"I can hear the corpses from the seventeenth century crying into the mic! I've lost my mind!" I doubt you're as much in shock as I am right now.

I was trying to appreciate their little pre-crypt banter and pep-talk, but I can not stop thinking about the ballistic missile which was the waterfall-shoutout section. Absolutely bonkers, and balls to the fucking walls. The balls are everywhere.

I better not see "42 - The Final Problem - Part One" on my Spotify on the 16th of July in the Year of our Lord 2024.

[666writingcafe]

An Interview With Belphie

Part One of A New Series

Question One: If you were the last person on Earth, how would you spend your time?

After catching up on sleep, I'd probably just walk around and see what I could find.

Question Two: If there was one day you could repeatedly re-experience, which day would you choose?

The day that MC kissed me for the first time.

Question Three: Can you describe yourself in three words?

Tired, angsty emo.

Question Four: If you wake up tomorrow and forgot your name and/or identity, what would you do?

Go back to sleep, honestly.

Question Five: Who are you, really?

Ask Beel and MC.

Question Six: If you could live in a different time period or era in the human world, which one would you choose and why?

None, because they all suck. Unless I could take MC with me, which in that case, I'd go wherever they'd want to.

Question Seven: Which is better: having superficial knowledge about a wide range of things or thorough knowledge about a few things?

The latter, but make sure it's about things no one would expect you of knowing so that you have the element of surprise.

Question Eight: If you were able to download your memories into a searchable spreadsheet, would you do it?

There are some things that are best left buried deep in the recesses of the mind, so no.

Question Nine: Would you rather float alone in space or at sea?

Whichever ensures the quickest death.

Question Ten: Would you swap places with an alternate version of yourself from another timeline?

No, because chances are, that alternate version of me is more active and hence has more responsibilities, and I am a lazy individual.

Question Eleven: If you could communicate with animals, which one would you talk to first?

Spiders.

Question Twelve: If you had the power to grant a wish to someone, who would you choose and why?

Honestly, I'd choose Simeon. He makes me look mentally stable, and I just want him to be able to relax for a little bit.

Question Thirteen: If you were lost and had just enough battery on your D.D.D. to make a single phone call, who would you call?

MC. They're the most level-headed out of everyone.

Question Fourteen: Does your life need more love, romance, friendship, or intimacy?

Intimacy.

Question Fifteen: If you could do anything you desire with MC for a day, what would it entail?

A hotel room with a charmed door and soundproof walls.

Question Sixteen: If you were on a dating game, what question(s) would you ask?

Honestly, the first question in this interview.

Question Seventeen: Would you rather spend a fancy night on a mountain or camp on the seashore?

Seashore all the way. The view's better there.

Question Eighteen: Is your life a drama, tragedy, or comedy?

It's a fucking soap opera that's gone on for far too many seasons, and I don't mean that in a depressed way, but in the way that the drama in my life is becoming more and more absurd as I get older.

Question Nineteen: Would you date an alien if you thought they were hot?

Depends.

Question Twenty: If you were a vegetable, what would you be and how would you avoid getting eaten?

I'd be horseradish, because it's one of the few foods Beel will not eat, and thus I'd ensure my survival.

Question Twenty-One: Would you rather have looks, brains, or riches?

Brains. Looks fade, and money disappears.

Question Twenty-Two: If you had to wear your emotions on your clothing, how would your outfit look today?

Like I'd rather be in bed.

[popawritter12]

Could I request headcanons for

Yandere blood moon pyke with a male reader who is a singer.

Author's notes: These days were… somewhat complex for me, sorry if I left everything for a few days, I'm trying to come back <3.

Yandere! Bloodmoon! Pyke Headcanons x Male! Singer! Reader

-

Chances of your loved ones being killed

I mean, you would have a better chance of killing them-

Don't get me wrong, this demon is a great danger to the world itself. However, my dear anon, I don't see that he is interested in the death of those close to you.

Will he lead you to murder them? Possibly.

Now, would he kill them? Nah.

First impressions

You were a singer belonging to a cult that was basically the complete opposite of the Blood Moon in general. What do I mean by this?

The cult was not centered on the Blood Moon, but on a human being called “Angel of the Andes.”

That angel was no one but you, reader; The cult tried to show itself as a perfect being, from the finest fabrics to your skin or the best skin care were provided to you only for each appearance on stage; your voice honed with inhuman hours of training and a love in every word that could only be described as pure.

An angel on earth that was extracted from a remote town far from civilization, one called “The Andes”

Of course the whole story could have been a lie but oh well.

To give you an idea; an image that bordered on the divine due to excess perfection, all your appearances were so calculated and perfected that they bordered on the inhuman, the seams in each costume, the affection expressed in each lyric of all the songs; You were called “the angel on earth,” and rightly so, you were loved in many nations.

You were so superficially loved, so resoundingly acclaimed as a deity, so… horribly idealized, everything was so superficial that in your mind you were… empty. You felt like that shell that looks so perfect on the outside, but inside has so little happiness that it feels empty, tremendously empty.

And so, you tried to look for something to fill that void, and you found that in books. Soon, in your long travels across Runeterra, you found the darkest part in the books.

The Blood Moon summoning rituals were very new, and in fact it was incredibly difficult to get a copy of information about the demons or cultists attacking Runeterra. However, even with everything you had done, it took you a long time to get a copy, and even longer to hide it from your parents and friends.

So, Pyke met you when you summoned him.

It was a funny night, actually.

Fall in love

He was beyond confused, I mean, anyone would be if a singer who is revered as perfect out of nowhere SUMMONS A DEMON.

He asked you what you wanted, and when your response was a measly “I was curious” he was three times as confused, I mean, anyone would be-

You insisted that you were interested in talking to him; You didn't want to make sacrifices or anything, you just needed a friend.

And in part, he felt that you were screwing him, mostly because he was obviously not used to talking to humans but his job was simply to take demons to their next bodies to occupy.

But just as he was about to leave, he noticed the great amount of sacrifices you had made; They were more than necessary.

“Will you summon me again?” he asked.

“As many times as necessary,” you responded.

And he snorted, angry.

And, as the days passed, you invoked him, again and again and again…

And when you invoked him, you only talked about everyday things, you showed that side of yourself that no one had seen.

This is not going to end well…

Beginning of Yanderism

They had a very strange friendship, and obviously it didn't take long until it became routine for him to see you, even going so far as to greet you on several of the occasions when you called on him.

But suddenly, you stopped doing it.

At first he thought you were looking for more sacrifices, and it was normal that he even felt relieved not to have a human calling him every damn week.

But, as the weeks went by, he became intrigued to know what was going on with you. And he decides to go by his will to see you.

He encounters a scenario… very strange.

Chained to a bed, a look of penury on your face… It was obvious that something had happened.

And it didn't take long for him to enter your room, ask, and see that your eyes were practically almost bursting into tears when you saw him.

He, out of curiosity, asked you what happened, why was there a chain? Or why were you so broken that your dark circles were noticeable? And why weren't you smiling anymore?

He got no response, as you just sobbed, the emotions that you had held so tightly to your soul had consumed you to the point that… you weren't the same person.

When he dared to ask what had happened, he only got the most obvious answer; His parents, and the rest of the cult found the book of invocations, and the sacrifices you had used.

You had sacrificed people, their people, you had used people's corpses, their corpses, and you used them as sacrifice, their sacrifices. What kind of monster had you become?

No, they could not allow the representative figure of so many people to be shown as corrupt, committing such heresies. And that's why they locked you up, separated you from the entire world, and tried not to let you out.

And believe me, a person who has had the privilege of interacting with someone like Pyke only means that… those who make him suffer will pay in blood.

And there you have it.

First murder or Yandere act

Eye by eye, tooth by tooth.

He murders those primarily responsible for your confinement, and it is worse if something on the level of physical abuse or worse, sexual level occurs.

Weeks passed until the service returned to normal; new people, new ideas, they even let you choose which places to go and sing!

You don't think there was anyone else involved, do you?

TRUE?

Relationship or kidnapping

The relationship between the two of you became beyond strange; Now you didn't invoke him, it was he who was chasing you. He would show up in your room at unexpected hours, temporarily abandon his “job,” and dedicate himself to making sure that no one, absolutely NO ONE dared to do anything else.

However, you weren't complaining; not because you knew he had done it for your good or your safety, or even if it was because you meant more than just a friend to him. It was because you were afraid of him, very afraid.

You were as touchy as possible, and even on stage, it took a lot of getting used to knowing he was there; observing, always attentive to any movement of yours.

Sooner or later, the bomb is going to explode.

Coexistence

It's horrendously terrifying for you.

Not only in the sense that you were terrified that he would react badly to any of your friends (which it should be noted happens on several occasions), and even if you try to explain it to him, he won't understand it; + He does not understand limits, and he is the focus of fights on this point of coexistence between the two.

Marriage and family

Not to either of them.

In the first because we are literally talking about a DEMON.

And in the second because he simply does not care what your family thinks of him.

In this case, would he adopt?

Nah, I don't think so.

More than the fact that he barely understands what a “friendship” relationship between humans is (and “friendship” take it with a pinch of salt)

Bad ending

Well here comes my favorite part

There comes a point when you can no longer resist what you think; They end up in a very strong fight; You screamed and even sobbed in the middle, you were very terrified and damaged by the “friendship” you had with him. It was painful to know that he had done so many horrendous things for a simple friendship.

Or at least, what you thought was a friendship.

Pyke ends up… walking away from you. You thought that was the end, and that he wasn't going to come back, and that everything was going to go back to “normal.” But, a couple of days later you realized that it was completely the opposite.

He returned to the “temple” that had your cult, but he had gone for a very specific reason;

A demon behind him, looking for a new body to invade, accompanied him.

And when he let the demon go to invade you, the terrifying demon ends up invading your body, corrupting your mind and forcing you to be like him, to be a part of him, to now be someone like him.

That night, the blood flowed, it disappeared as so many people died that your memories are blurred of those you murdered or those you decided to harm until they never came back to life again.

When you came to, you tried to kill Pyke, he had hurt you so much and ruined your life in such a horrendous way that it caused you to be changed forever. And you thought you could make him pay.

However, someone like him couldn't die, and he refused to fight you; He had fulfilled his purpose, and also, he had made sure that you were part of that purpose, so that you would live with him too.

Reasons to be a Yandere:

-Let's agree that he has no other purpose in life other than bringing demons into his body, so many things can happen if he is given something like a friendship.

-Demons have no scruples, they are quite sadistic and cruel, so they do not know that moral line of what is right or wrong.

Extra data

-Deep down, he likes to listen to you sing.

-After the bad ending, he resorts to following you everywhere; Not to make sure he's okay, but to take care of you. He knows how hard it is to be a demon for a newly arrived human!

-You are like his “weak point”, he cannot get angry or fight with you, you are his human, he cannot get angry with the only one who accepted him as a friendship.

-He probably spent DAYS researching which demon to bring to invade your body; either they were too stupid or too gross for you.

[hiddentum]

TL;DR: I think kokobot is okay, if you’re venting about superficial problems, and you’re okay with superficial replies. If you’re looking for anything deeper, more intimate—this is as risky as anything else.

kokobot educating review (as opposed to barking an unempathetic "dOn'T uSe ThiS" with no other context)

context: kokobot is a free, peer support service where you can vent ➡ ️the bot sends your message out anonymously ➡ ️people can reply with kind words, anonymously.

It can also go the other way around, where you send kind words after receiving a stranger's vent. The venting person can choose to send back a thank you note; the person comforting them can choose to check back on them one more time…

The bot tries to detect abusive language so nothing inappropriate gets sent out, but I don't know what it looks for.

First and foremost, I am not going to touch upon privacy concerns, I’m focusing on just emotional concerns.

kokobot is safe if you're okay with everything being superficial. Being a free, peer support service with no trained people guaranteed, it is high risk. I know we really crave to have the deep, dark, unseen parts of us be understood and appreciated—you’re not going to get that on kokobot. I’m really sorry. Most people just aren’t in the right state of mind, don’t have enough life experience, etc. to freely think about that for others.

I’ve busted my ass on that thing, hearing and validating people like they’ve always been my entire world and I’ve always loved them.

But then when I try to vent, I can get incomprehensible replies. Invalidating fantasies, toxic positivity. Bigoted nonsense (e.g. amatonormative expectations).

kokobot is safe if you’re okay with a 99.9% chance of getting superficial replies.

Maybe you will find that the replies are not as bad as how I describe them to be.

Maybe it’s because you haven’t had the experience of being rubbed raw by life; you haven’t been (de)sensitized to toxic positivity's mantras and catchphrases; you’re not there yet, in a state of realizing that your existence is so much more and deserves more.

No hate to people unknowingly sending out replies that can be considered as what I’ve stated above. You still learning and not knowing any better, is beside my point.

Actual therapists/etc. being capable of causing equally damaging experiences, is also beside my point.

Nobody can transform this world into a utopia, and I don’t feel entitled to anything happening. This is simply a warning; please. be. safe. Do not romanticize this service.

You deserve great things, no matter how far away you actually are from getting them in this world. No matter how dark your thoughts are, or how painful it is to feel, or what kind of agony your body is in. I feel you, and it is hard. I’m so sorry. Just know I appreciate your very being. If I were infinitely strong, and I were with you—believe that I would whole-heartedly fight for respecting the ““ugly”” human things you didn’t ask to experience. Anxiety, desperation, loneliness… I wish for nothing but good things for you, the things that matter: self-love, rest, space, open-mindedness, respect, authenticity, objectivity.

Stay safe. 💙

Personal suggestions if kokobot is allowed to continue and whatnot:

People giving help should be vetted and at the very least check these boxes:

Unconditionally in love with humanity

Down to earth (NOT fantasists)

Do NOT let a person ‘help’ if they can’t do the bare minimum of explicitly validating someone’s problem (DON’T deflect, avoid, distract…)

Is this too idealistic? Of course. But the actual point is always to try our best.

Good day/night.

[murmuur-vanilja]

Fictober 2022.16 — Damn, Rachida

Prompt number 16: "You're looking, but you don't see" Original fiction: My Servant, the Devil Rating: M Warnings: implications of disordered eating and related issues, ableism

Running her hands through her massive walk-in closets, Rachida was searching for the best outfit for the day. The collection of clothes she had gathered in her place was absurd, to the point where quantifying it would lead to incomprehensible numbers. Yet, a look out the window should be enough to notice the insurmountable gap between the budget spent on herself and the crumbs she gave to her kingdom. Measures had been taken, time and time again, to prevent any revolution, and that mainly included the relocation of most people had they turned old enough to go work and be hosted in other parts of the world. In other words, despite the selfish attitude of their Queen, the countries she had command over were hopeful. Would a dress do? What kind? She was bored of her long, blue kaftan, and her headpiece had grown out of fashion. Therefore, she had once again become her own priority, although it would be wrong to assume she had ever not been on her own mind. The golden patterns on her royal clothes weren’t shiny enough — she wanted to glow more, she wanted to show off what sort of perfect body she thought she had, with the curves, the ribs, the collarbone and the hips. Would it be hypocritical of me to call her vain for exhibiting such ill thoughts? Still, our similarities were quite superficial — we didn’t share a motive in that regard.

As her eyes landed on an abaya featuring glitter and lace. At least, she referred to it as an abaya, and I’m going by her words, because the clothe was completely unrecognisable, having changed so much from its original form. She tried it on and looked at the shape of her thighs, satisfied by the gap between her legs. A smile illuminated her face. “Mh, I’ve always been the prettiest, but I’d like people to see me as the hottest, too. Just look at these stupid polls, and they tare Taneilla looks fancier? I’ll beat her to that, bitch-ass.” Her intentions were in the wrong place; the very polls she had been referring to didn’t have anything to do with physique in the first place. It was but a survey that had circulated around the forum DataData, a network that was only accessible to specific people having been granted the right to less restriction on the internet. Taneilla, one of the other Queens, hadn’t “won” anything — instead, she had been described as more composed than Rachida. However, ever since she had come to hear about that piece of information, Rachida had grown jealous. Selecting new clothes was her vengeance over the Queen that was always bullying her at the meetings. To be quite honest, it was nothing out of the ordinary for her — she was basically the modern version of Narcissus, and may that fucking idiot drown in her reflection too. Therefore, she was simply being her usual self, unable to accept anything but first place. “Yeah, that dress is perfect. People will see. They better understand. No more of these Eclipso, Ramdam, Lukas or Amă. I’m the only true God on Earth.” The sight of her was pitiful, and frankly quite annoying. For most higher-ups, the way she had come to be in power, and to maintain it, was a mystery. Her people might be hopeful for a better future, but the officials who spent time with her knew the people was misguided in that sentiment. The most deceived, however, were her suitors. Rachida wasn’t married, even though a lot of people had tried to put a ring on her hand. She would always tell them off and kick them out, claiming they were unable to impress her. As the narrator, I had been putting up with her stories, but she was getting on my nerve more and more each day. Although I knew how to mask most of my emotions, or rather how to entirely supress them and feel nothing but apathy, I could become impulsive if you tried really hard. As she posed in front of her mirrors, she spat out even more ambitious words. “And who’s that other guy they’ve been talking about lately? Ren? Guren? Ugh, whatever, I bet they’re just some kind of loser too. Probably worse than the ‘gods’ all those idiots are fawning over already.” It just so happened that I could stand any and all accusations from anyone, but that I wouldn’t take it from her. That night, I suddenly stood on her windowsill. A black coat covering my figure, and the right amount of serious in my expression, I stared when she screamed as the lightning hit in an unpredictable storm. “The only true God? Damn, girl, aren’t you exaggerating things when you’re in front of the mirrors all alone? You’re looking, but you don’t see. Your stupid kind is even afraid of the weather.” She noticed me, and her pupils immediately reduced as her heartbeat sped up. That physiological reaction was betraying pure terror. Usually, such strange appearance wouldn’t have fazed her, and she would have called for the Red Forces to take care of the intruder. Naturally, my cue had nothing to do with being usual, and had it been, I would still have been unsettling. After all, she had never met anyone wearing horns or a tail. “Congrats, you’ve got yourself a crown. Now what? I don’t care much about if you think you can be compared to Eclipso, Ramdam or Lukas. They’re no fun anyway, lol.” I could see her body shaking. I could have let it at that, but I wasn’t satisfied just yet. I had gone out of my way to come in person, so I should make an impression. Yet, I was already holding back, doing her a favour: I could’ve skipped the talking and gone straight to the stabbing. She wasn’t worth that much trouble, though. “Do you really wish to defile me? Bow the fuck down.” For the first time ever since I had started observing her, she obeyed someone without a pout. She bowed, and her trembling made it so that she even kneeled, hanging her head low. I must admit, every once in a while, there was something good that could come out of my supernatural status. The expression on her face at that moment was priceless. I smiled before disappearing. “Not that stupid, are we?”

[dailydoseofdaisyrose]

GLOOMY WINTER DAY

Slow.

That is the only way to describe the day I am having today. I will admit Tumblr was not my first option when deciding which platform to create my blog but in all honesty it is the platform I am most comfortable and familiar with. However I am not too concerned with the platform I truly just want to write, and I hope anyone who comes across this do not judge me for my informalities, grammatical errors and overall awkward sentences. My goal is to improve overtime, I know my level of skill when It comes to writing and I am in no shape to even call myself a writer but hopefully with the growth of this blog I can learn and develop into a respected and talented writer.

In all honesty I feel guilty for writing, I know it is such a weird thing to feel guilty about but for some reason I do. I do not want to get into the details as to why, seeing that I do not understand where that feeling is rooted in. I will say there's a certain comfortability I have right now writing to the cyber world, a place where billions of people go and yet there's this sense of security in being invisible to all those prying eyes. I am no one on the internet and I enjoy that thought. I am not sad though, I would like to make that a very clear point. not that there's anything wrong with being sad but because I don't want to give off the wrong impression, I do enjoy my real life outside of the computer screen but It is nice to escape every once in a while. although, since we're already on this topic, experiencing life through the physical realm is more of an escape these days. I find too many people are so dependent and lost in this cyber world and in all honesty I am a victim of this too.

slow.

back to the word slow, I wanted to talk about slow days for a moment because I struggle with accepting the slow days. I will let you in on a little secret, I am 21 years old. I do not want to reveal too much of myself on here but my age does play a role in what I intend to say. I am a baby, a beginner, a grasshopper as some would say, I am new to this game of life. I do not know the rules, or strategies, I can confidently say I do not know all the players and most importantly I do not know what the objective of the game is. I can however say what I do know so far and I intent to go into detail of the wild things I learn from this game but for now I will voice my opinion on slow days.

they are necessary, we as humans need slow days and I believe that in today's society it is so easy to get wrapped up in the superficial aspects of the world. I see so many people who are constantly running, maybe not physically but mentally and emotionally. People who run away from their problems, past traumas, running to chase highs because they cannot handle the lows. I can only imagine the exhaustion the earth must feel having to harbour all the messed up energies that we as humans release into the world. However, slow days are sacred, they allow us to release and flow with life. I need slow days, my brain is always going and I too, find myself getting mentally trapped in this rat race of capitalism and draining myself of the precious life-force that is within me. It's easy to feel unproductive while having a slow day but the reality is, slow days are needed. Why spend a beautiful day of rest stressing about the fact you are resting and not truly getting any rest by the end when rather you can rest, and actually allow yourself to regain the energy that you need and feel good about being kind to yourself?

slow.

that is how I am going to spend the rest of my day. I will slowly breathe. I will slowly read my thrifted book. I will slowly eat my nutritious food. I will slowly stare at the sky and watch the clouds drift along. I will slowly live my life because even though I am 21, I am young, and I have the energy to go fast that doesn't mean you have to. I see so many people my age doing amazing things and I get this guilty urge to make something better of myself but the truth is, I just want to move slow.

Slow is not bad. Slow is not good. Slow is slow and thats all it will ever be, a word to describe the day I am having. it is not something that defines who I am as a person or the rate of my success, it is just a word that is used when fast is racing towards the finish line leaving me behind.

[not-me-simping-for-blasty]

HI HELLO I WOULD LIKE TO EXPRESS MY LOVE AND ADMIRATION FOR U AND BOW DOWN TO UR CREATIVE WRITING GENIUS AND GODLINESS IN AN EXTREMELY LONG ASK

i would also like to say, “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGJJGSLJJSKDJJJFJKSDFJSJFJSODJFDFJ”

that was live footage of me reading wrong number asshole bECAUSE THAT SERIES WAS JUST SO ❗️❗️❗️DAMN ❗️❗️❗️GOOD❗️❗️

Everything. the nervous and overthinking reader. bakugo being a major douchebag tsundere. wingman kirishima. the GOD-TIER HUMOR. THE POP ROCKS!!!!!! EVERYTHING WAS ABSOLUTELY SPECTACULAR.

I’ll be honest, when i realized it was part smau i was like ehhhh i dont rly know BUT U BLEW MY EXPECTATIONS COMPLETELY OUT OF THE WATER. you ... YOU are such a RARE tumblr gem and i say that bc there are only a few select people who have the ✨quality✨ of writing that you do. And I’m a very picky reader, so that’s saying something. I really, REALLY loved the way u portray bakugo. Because he’s more than just an angry Pomeranian, he also has his own insecurities and things that he genuinely really cares about. And i think it just goes to show how good of a writer you are because i can tell you really did a deep character analysis of him and it was anything but superficial.

i read wrong number for the first time back in may and was secretly reading it during math class AND SO many hours of sleep were lost over this but it was 100% worth it 😁😁😁

at the end of pretty much every chapter was me just screaming into my pillow in the darkness of my room at like 2 am. i also just recently reread it and OH MY GOD i forgot how funny the first few parts are. Also !!! The way i fRICKIN RELATE TO Y/N JESUS CHRIST I FELT EVERYTHING IN MY SOUL

here are some of my favorite lines from the series:

“But I also think you tend to fixate on reasons to leave instead of looking for reasons to stay.”

Yeahhhhh, when i read this for the first time I literally said oof. out loud. because that’s literally me. This line just,,, hit me yk.

It was an insecurity of yours, always believing that you had to be the one in the wrong. That the only reason someone could ever be upset was because you made them that way.

YEAH REMEMBER HOW I SAID I RELATED TO Y/N. YEAH. IT”S THIS.

Instead of him, it was just you- alone and waiting and etched with a ugly tattoo you should’ve never expected to guarantee forever.

ok so i rly like this line partly because again, i relate, but also just the WORDS. UGHHH that last part “you should’ve never expected to guarantee forever’ STOP EYE-

It’s strange- the way your heart seems to be breaking entirely and rebuilding itself completely all at the same time. It’s a wave crashing against your ribs- pushing and pulling and tumbling and pushing and pulling and turning and twisting and- calming when you look at his face. When you look at the way his hair sits and the way his jaw slopes and the way his eyes meet yours. It’s death and completetion and rebirth and red, red wildfire.

It’s your old life scorching and curling and burning up. And it’s your new, better, warmer life rising from the ashes.

AAAAAAASKDFJSDKLFJDS THE IMAGERY THE RHYTHM OH MY GOODNESS THE TALENT

Something in his eyes seems so tiny and small and unsure at your words, and it breaks your heart. There aren’t enough words in the world for all you want to say in that moment, so you just take his head in your hands, kiss him with every bit of care and concern you hold for him.

When you pull back, he won’t look at you, his cheeks gone nearly as red as his vulnerable eyes. His shoulders shake, and he takes a deep breath, turning his head to place a tiny little kiss into the palm of your hand. He doesn’t say anything, but the tiny action communicates almost everything you need to know.

PLS BC I AM VERY TOUCHSTARVED SO JUST THE IDEA OF BAKUGO KISSING MY PALM AAAAHHHHHHHH

Bakugou fights it, going rigid and stiff and resitant at first. He hardly looks at you, just barely, but you catch his gaze and nod. It’s all it takes before he’s allowing himself to sink into you, his arms pulling you closer.

It’s hesitancy, than acceptance and than desperation, and suddenly he’s holding you so tightly, clutching at you like you’re gonna fade. Like you’ll slip through his calloused fingers. It makes you ache. Sends volts of throbbing pain through your chest that have you squeezing him tighter.

It makes you want to sob- the way he seemed so resistant to softness despite being so obviously starved for it. You wondered if anyone else had stuck around this long; if anyone else had noticed just how desperate he was for someone to finally hear him.

again. THE IMAGERY. JUST SEEING HIM SLOWLY MELT INTO A HUG AND THEN SQUEEZE YOU AS TIGHT AS HUMANLY POSSIBLE AAAAAAAAA SOMEONE GIVE THIS TOUCHSTARVED BOI A KISS ON THE FOREHEAD oh wait y/n already did that ahaha

The completion you’d felt from this kiss far surpassed the charged kisses from earlier. This was kissing him just because you could, because you wanted to, and you were sure this was heaven- at least, as close to heaven as any one human should ever be allowed to get.

It felt like flying, like hurtling above the earth and surging through the clouds. Like you were Icarus and you breached the atmosphere to soar against the surface of the sun. His hands fell to the base of your spine, pressing you firmly against him, and suddenly you knew. Knew it for sure, in your bones like it’d always been carved in there-you might’ve been Icarus, but he’d never let you fall. You would get to blister and scorch and burn for as long as you’d wanted but your wax would never melt. There was no fear when falling with him. Falling for him.

You pull away, but you don’t go too far. Don’t think you could separate even if you tried. Katsuki was an addiction, a powerful, potent thing and the only salve for that itch in your skin was being close to him. As close as you could possibly manage.

NOT THE ICARUS METAPHOR PLS ARE U TRYING TO MAKE ME FALL EVEN MORE IN LOVE WITH THIS SERIES EYE- ONCE AGAIN UR WRITING TALENT BLOWS ME AWAY

“Good.” He mumbles juvenilely, looking anywhere to avoid your eyes. “Die then. Fuckin’ burn, you witch.”

I remember the first time i read this i FRICKIN DIED OMG IT WAS SO FUNNY i was crying at like 3 am

Grabbing his chin, you pulled him in, guiding until his lips met yours. You felt him smile as you kissed him, and you realized you were wrong. That first real kiss might’ve been nice; but it wasn’t heaven- itwas only the gateway to paradise. But this? This was the real Elysium.

His body moved against yours, so close and warm and pliant. He was letting you set the pace, without resistance or force or argument for the very first time. There had been a lot of past kisses, you had hardly been able to keep yourself off of him, but none of them had never felt like this before. He’d never trusted you like this before. You got to be the one taking and taking and taking where’d you spent so long giving.

It was consummation. Finality. Your perfect ending.

*SCREAMS*

AGAIN WITH THE GREEK MYTHOLOGY THIS REALLY IS THE PERFECT FIC ON GOD

i’ll have u know that this is my Official Designated Comfort Fic (insert trademark symbol).

THANK YOU. YOU ARE A WRITING GOD. I BOW DOWN TO YOUR GREATNESS. Also sorry for this extremely long ask and the overwhelming use of caps lock

have u ever,, have u ever read something that brings literal tears to ur eyes. that brings so much serotonin that its almost criminal

bc this, this ask is everything for me. u rllY SAID THAT MY FIC IS UR DESIGNATED COMFORT FIC?? THATS MY FAVORITE THING ANYONE HAS EVER SAID TO ME

YOU HAVE FAVORITE LINES?? FROM SOMETHING I WROTE??? DO U- I literally cannot even begin to describe how much this means to me.

@ur-local-reality-shifter , i adore u my lovely

[bailey-reaper]

Hhhhh could you write a sequel to the hades fic???? it was SOO good!!!!!!

For Dear Life (Hades & Persephone AU)

Notes: (continued from here) Hello anon, I'm very happy to hear you enjoyed the Hades/Persephone fic! As I've said before, I love mythologies!

S/O is gender neutral (they/them pronouns). Barok refers to them using petnames.

Content Warnings: abducted / hostage situation; power imbalance; intense emotions; Tia seriously screws around with Greek mythology. Like really REALLY screws around...; I'm sorry historians (again!) and mythologists

It was impossible to say whether or not the underworld met their expectations, because such things were normally so abstract and not a subject they really thought of; so, to be suddenly confronted by the literal domain of the dead, was utterly mind-boggling.

All they really remembered, as the chariot dove deep into the bowels of the earth was the feeling of the God of the Underworld holding them close and partly shielding them with his long cloak of darkness. It had surprised them to hear a heart beating in the deity's chest – surely that was something of an oxymoron?

With a firm shake of their head, they quietly wondered why they were dwelling upon that precise detail; it seemed like such a trivial thing...

They had been escorted to a garden within the deity's palace: the plants were unusual colours and shapes, no doubt thanks to the lack of sunlight they enjoyed, but it was a soothing space nonetheless and one that helped their racing thoughts to calm. As they looked around and overhead, it struck them how easy it was to forget this was a subterranean domain given how high the vaulted cavernous ceilings were.

"It is a pleasant garden, is it not?" a familiar, but terrifying, voice remarked as the tall and imposing Lord of the Dead entered the space.

Instantly the feeling of calm abandoned them and they stood with a small yelp of shock, "........" even if they'd wanted to speak, it was as if their voice was stuck in their throat.

"...." the God's expression was momentarily odd, they might have taken it as him being wounded or even disappointed, before he cleared his throat and sat on a bench fashioned from black marble, ".... I have no intentions to harm you. It may be difficult to believe that, but it is the truth... won't you come here?" he held out a hand, "I have shown you a great deal of discourtesy thus far in failing to properly introduce myself... My rashness can only be attributed to the passion you make me feel. It is... very out of my usual character."

And it was, for the Lord of the Underworld was known among his brethren as a level-headed judge who maintained utmost composure at all times. In fact, they often described him as being 'cold as a corpse' and brutal when it came to matters of logic or strategy. Impulsiveness was an unknown concept in his mind, until now...

"...I... am fine here," they replied, settling back down in grass that appeared to be more peacock blue than green.

"... Very well," once more he wore that wounded expression, but the God seemed willing to respect their reluctance, "I am the God of the Underworld, I believe your kind call me 'Hades'."

"... Hades," yes -- that was what humans called the stern God beneath the earth, but it sounded to them as if that might not be his real name, "Is... that not your name, then?"

A smile graced and lifted his features for a moment, brightening them in an unexpected way, "You are as astute as I thought... that is correct: my 'true' name is not Hades, though, mortals may call me whatever they wish."

"Then... what is your real name?" this topic of conversation made them curious: where had the names of the Gods actually come from? Were they brought to the minds of men in a dream? Or did the Gods themselves provide false identities, if so then why?

"Mmm," he looked momentarily pensive, "That is a secret, for now... a God's true name holds great power. To entrust it to another is akin to making a vow."

Their eyes widened, "Oh... I... I see."

"You will forgive me if I do not offer up something so personal at this delicate juncture, I am aware that your presence here is entirely of my doing and that you are... unhappy about it. I will not keep it a secret any longer than I must."

"...." it made sense that a God would not trust a relative stranger with something that seemed to hold a great deal of power. They wanted to ask more about it: what did it mean to know a God's true name? What kind of 'vow' did it create? But, it seemed more prudent to leave the topic for now, "... Please won't you let me go home?" they asked, eyes pleading, "I am... flattered to have caught the eye of a God, but I am a mere mortal. I cannot see what lasting intrigue I would have to a divine being such as yourself."

The Lord of the Underworld tilted his head, "Do you think me a shallow man who saw your beautiful face and thought only of that?" he shook his head, "I appreciate that we Gods have a less than glowing image among mortals, and that we have a reputation for treating humans in a superficial manner, but, that is not why I have brought you here. I do not see you as some pretty trophy to keep until I tire of you. Though you are beautiful, yes, it is not simply your appearance that has captivated me so."

"What...?" for some reason his impassioned words made their heart thud in their chest; did he really meant to say that he, a God, had fallen in love with them?

"You possess a quality of character and strength of spirit that has quite simply dazzled me... I have watched you from afar, seen how you have helped your fellows and maintained your grace and resolve even in the face of adversity. I was blinded by more than just your looks."

They blinked a few times, going over his words again and again in muted silence. How could they respond to such a heartfelt answer? It was clear that the God of the Underworld was sincere, if nothing else-- but, this was too much to take in.

"... I'm sure it must come as a surprise to hear a God's confession, but I cannot yearn from afar any longer... that is why I have brought you here. So that I might marry you and take you for my spouse."

"This... it's... this is far more than a surprise... it's shocking. I'm a simple human, surely there are other Gods and Goddesses that are better suited to wed one such as you?"

The God chuckled, "Gods and Humans aren't so different you know... We're possessed of the same diversity of thought and feelings, the same irrational sensibilities and yearnings... it is not as if for every God there is a comparable divine partner. In fact, I find a number of my divine brethren to be a noisy, irksome lot and ill-suited to my temperament. I gladly opted to rule the Underworld for it lessens the time I have to spend with them."

".... huh?" suddenly, they couldn't help but giggle, "... Are you... saying that you view the Gods as annoying relatives?"

"...." he pursed his lips, "Well... they are."

"Oh... I had no idea... So, you came here willingly?" he nodded, "That's not what our books say: apparently you drew lots with your brothers and received the underworld having drawn the shortest straw."

"...?" he looked genuinely bemused by that account, "... I've... never heard something so ridiculous in all my life... drew lots? By the Gods, no. The last thing I would want is to rule the Gods and endure the constant politics of Mount Olympus. Truth be told, I have no idea how my brother manages it..."

Once more they were laughing, for the God of the Underworld --Hades himself-- looked utterly aghast, "Oh! But what about the sea then? Wouldn't you have preferred your brother Poseidon's domain?"

"First, Poseidon is not my brother, he was a 'brother-in-arms' who assisted me and my brother... second, the sea is not much better than Olympus given its relative proximity. I find that my brethren are far slower to make the trek down into the bowels of the earth than any other place."

"I... had no idea the Lord of the Underworld was so anti-social," they mused, smiling to themself having almost entirely lost their nervousness, "But... I suppose it makes some sense, given that your domain is that of the dead. Have you... always been like this?"

"Like what?" he cocked his head.

"... Disagreeable to spending time with other Gods."

"I suppose so," he folded his arms, as if trying to recall some divine equivalent of childhood, "There are so many irksome and tedious Gods in the world, I discovered that during the wars with the Titans."

"Oh... so those wars actually happened then? Our human books are right about that much at least?" he nodded, "So... are the myths about your brother, Zeus, true?"

"What myths about Zeus?"

"That he's the most terrible womaniser who forces himself upon anything that catches his eye?"

"What?!" he stood up, clearly flustered, "Who dares to tarnish my brother's name so?! He's not some philandering hedonist! He's a man of the utmost integrity and happily married! Not to mention his wife would punish him severely were he to hold such callous disregard for the mortals..." suddenly, he stopped his ranting and looked apologetic as he sat down, "... Forgive me, that outburst was uncalled for..."

"I'm... surprised," they said, "Because our myths suggest that you and Zeus do not get along... but you seem incredibly fond of him... oh... and what did you mean that Poseidon is not your brother? Aren't all the Gods related?"

"Of course I'm fond of him," the God said, "He's my brother... and as for your other questions.... what kind of inbred bedlam do you think the Gods live in? We are not begat as generations of mortals, we all issued forth from the black waters of Chaos..."

"But how are you and Zeus related if all Gods are not born?"

"I... was a weak little God when I emerged from the primordial darkness, in fact it was questionable whether or not I would survive. Zeus took pity on me, and shared with me his ichor.... that sustained me and breathed life into me. We are brothers who share the same blood, literally."

"Oh... wow... I had no idea..."

"Why would you? It is not as if we Gods are at pains to correct the fantasies that mortals dream up to explain the world around them," he folded his arms, "I'm... glad you seem a little less nervous in my presence."

"Ah..." they blinked, "Now that you mention it, I do feel a lot calmer."

"That's good... I hope, with time, that perhaps you will... take a liking to me."

"...." funnily enough, seeing more of the God's character had endeared him to them, "I... can't make any promises," they said, while looking down and smiling.

He seemed to pick up on that coyness, "Hmmm... that's better than an outright no. Now, I should like to show you my domain. Do you feel up to a chariot ride? I won't burst up from the earth this time and grab you..."

"In that case, yes."

[jgoose13]

Chenford + “guess what Nolan just told me?”

“What did he just tell you?” Lucy asks, distracted by the case file she’d been pouring over for the better part of a half hour. 

“In not so many words... he told me you guys used to date?” 

“Yeah?” 

Tim’s face could only be described as, well, stormy. Pissed. Like he’d been cheated out of information he felt absolutely privy to. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“Wait, what?” Lucy finally looked up from the file, only to be met with a wall of Tim’s annoyance and... was that... no. Was that jealousy? 

“You and Nolan. Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” He hissed, teeth clenched so tightly Lucy could see the muscles working in his jaw. 

“Me and Nolan?” Lucy scoffed, before her face fell. It was as though she’d forgotten about that time in her life. Forgotten that she and Nolan used to be a thing back in their Academy and early rookie days. What she’d found and cultivated with Tim... well, it blew that superficial relationship right out of the water. To the point she’d pushed those memories from her mind to make room for better ones. 

“Yeah... you guys dated? Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“We dated, like, back when dinosaurs roamed the earth,” Lucy scoffed. “Tim... our relationship didn’t last that long, and it didn’t really mean anything. He had just gotten divorced and I wasn’t looking for anything serious. It was just... casual. I didn’t feel like it was necessary to tell you because there is no comparison between that and us. Okay?” 

Lucy reached out to touch Tim’s cheek, brushing reassuring fingertips along the line of his jaw. “Okay,” Tim said. “Okay. Fine. Let’s just... never speak of this again. I kinda want to throw up.”

Inbox Meme: Send me a ship + a sentence and I’ll write the next 5 [or more] Sentences.

[ichayalovesyou]

The Omega Glory is Secretly a Great Episode & Here’s Why (Meta)

This is another episode kinda like This Side of Paradise, where I think most people take at face value without reading into it enough and just slap outdated patriotism anti-communist rhetoric we associate with the era onto it.

The Omega Glory is anything but patriotic, and considering the way Gene Roddenberry set TNG in a post-consumerism socialism-adjacent future and WROTE this episode. I think it’s safe to say it’s not wholesale black & white anti-communist propaganda either.

It’s extremely, extremely anti-War and anti-colonialism.

They’re hiding all the real messages under the pretense of patriotism and anti-communist sentiment. If you strip away what is said obnoxiously in dialogue and other propaganda crap, and the era-based micro aggressions, the story pieces are

It’s Anti-War:

The Cold War was evil and bad (Yangs & Kohns)

Vietnam war evil and bad (Captain Tracey arming Kohns with phasers for personal gain)

Biological warfare horrible evil and bad (the apocalyptic evolution of both sects on the planet)

Presumably this planet is from a parallel timeline Earth where the US lost the cold/Vietnam war but not before royally fucking the planet with nukes and bioweapons that sets mankind back a thousand or more years. But yeah it’s definitely about how the American way is better than Communism 🙄

Anti-Racism/Imperialism:

Americans (Yangs) got as good as we gave to the Native Americans when we deliberately obliterated their cultures. It’s like it’s saying “Look at this horrible fucked up thing we did, we think we’re so strong and right but it could easily be us, we are not superior and what we did was wrong. It doesn’t give anybody the right to treat anyone as savage.”

Captain Tracey deliberately exploits and aggravates the race-hatred between Kohns & Yangs in a way that benefits himself and his intentions. A white, warmongering, greedy man is the antagonist of this story.

Do not mystify or commodify cultures you don’t understand, Captain Tracey assumed some dumb racist bullshit about a Fountain of Youth in this China-proxy culture. Europeans literally did that (and still do) with real cultures alllllll the time. It’s portrayed as a bad thing in this episode, because Tracey is an asshole and what he believed wasn’t true or beneficial!

Anti-Religious/National Fanaticism:

This also kinda doubles back to the anti-racism message, still. Assuming Spock is the Devil because of a picture in a book that they don’t understand the meaning of the contents of is very much “do not use religion to justify race hatred” contextually.

There are also strong overtones of how religion and government should never mix between “freedom” and other words that get spewed by politicians all the time being holy words. The Bible and American flag iconography and how the Yangs don’t understand either of them. There’s no difference between the two things for the Yangs (aka Yankees/Americans). They are slaves to ideas that they never understood and have to try and understand if they’re gonna crawl out of the hole their ancestors made.

Kirk gets all “patriotic” at the end yes, but he says some really valid things. You can’t believe in words you don’t understand, that freedom and the messages behind that piece of paper are for everyone, not just Yangs, they shouldn’t assume they’re better than everyone. That’s what got the Yangs & Kohns where they are in the first place.

This story screams “GOD BLESS AMERICA” with its dialogue on a superficial level, but speaks in code and whispers all of these other, great messages with its plot.

It honestly reminds me a lot of the Nacirema experiment, describing Americans from an objective anthropologist POV who assumes the Nacirema/American’s tribe is inferior to their culture.

This episode aired while America was still involved in the Vietnam War.

There was no way they could’ve gotten away with what was actually said in this episode if they didn’t finagle it to look like a superficial “America good, communism bad” hokey looking episode

It would never have aired.

So, The Omega Glory is actually a great episode, it’s flawed and dated sure, but it gets some amazing messages across if you read into it as I hope Roddenberry intended.

[anannua]

Pairing prompt!

First kiss, kakaobi

First time seeing them cry, minaobi

First time waiting at their bedside, not sure if they will awaken, shikanaru

🥰

I really liked these. It got long, so I put them below the cut. 

✂️✂️✂️

First kiss, kakaobi

It happens over the weekend. 

They’re studying at their teacher’s house, shoes in the doorway, listening to the radio while they finish worksheets. Obito keeps glancing his way when he thinks Kakashi isn’t paying attention but those unblinking black eyes are impossible to ignore. He tries to make conversation, asking questions about their assignment to fill the air. The room feels small with Obito’s gaze fixed on his face.

Eventually Kakashi finds himself asking, “What? Something on my face?”

“No.”

“Then why are you staring?”

Obito’s answer is to stare some more.

A little perturbed, Kakashi puts his pencil down. “You’ve been acting weird all afternoon.”

“No I haven’t.”

When Kakashi turns to refute this blatant lie he’s looking into Obito’s eyes, because Obito has moved closer, taking up all of the space on the couch cushion beside him. When did he move? Kakashi is a little baffled as the sofa dips under his weight because Obito is never quiet and curious like this. He’s ever straightforward, direct with his desires, so obvious. Worry hiccups in his heart, a ripple in the calm of his cool exterior.

This close, Obito might be able to hear how quick his pulse is.

“You’re still staring.”

Obito’s mouth jerks into a smirk, a flash of something familiar, before a strange determination settles into his shoulders.

“Yeah. Does it bug you?”

He’s close enough to catch the way Kakashi’s breathing quickens. Black eyes flicker down to his mouth where the sunlight warms his skin, pale cheeks coloring slowly under his unblinking gaze. Obito’s eyes track all over his face as though he hasn’t spent their childhood learning it, hasn’t cracked his knuckles against the edge of Kakashi’s cheekbones or bashed foreheads during their fights as schoolboys.  

He’s really close.

“Obito?”

Finally he blinks, glancing up through heavy lashes to find mismatched eyes watching him closely.

It’s easier to beg forgiveness than ask permission. Obito can’t make himself ask, the words stuck in his throat, and he surges forward before his nerve desserts him.

Kakashi jumps as Obito’s weight crashes into him, sending them both toppling back onto the couch together. Obito doesn’t stop kissing him the whole way down and it’s all Kakashi can do to keep kissing him back, mouth finally open, lips pressed together, a single whimper escaping before Obito drinks down the rest of his sounds.

There’s no time to describe how incredible it is. It isn’t anything like electricity in his veins or an explosion. Instead there’s a steady heat that seeps into his bones, radiating from the hands on his waist, the weight of Obito’s chest crushing them into the couch, the lips murmuring his name against his mouth, hot. 

Kakashi has never felt so warm all at once. 

His eyes flutter open (when had he shut them?) to find his best friend watching with the most anxious look.

“Was that okay?”

He’s terrified. Kakashi can read him with a glance (they’ve spent their whole lives learning how to) and knows Obito is afraid he’s fucked everything up.

“No,” Kakashi says once he’s caught his breath, once he’s certain his voice won’t shake. “No, that sucked.”

Obito flinches. But Kakashi has his collar in a grip because he knew Obito would try to run, grabs him tight enough to hurt, and makes sure his best friend is watching very closely when he continues pointedly, “Obito. You’re gonna have to do better than that—try again.”

First time seeing them cry, minaobi

“Hey, I’m home!”

The call from the front of the house has Minato scrubbing his face, quickly, because he wants to give his boyfriend a smile to come home to. It’s too late because Obito sets down the groceries and materializes beside him like magic. Warm arms wrap him up and the blonde gives up a watery smile.

“Welcome home.”

“What happened?” Obito wonders, worry in his baritone as he reaches up to brush away the water hastily scrubbed from his partner’s cheeks. “Minato?”

“Nothing. Ah, the groceries! We should put up the cold things…”

His words are interrupted by a hiccup he can’t swallow. Obito’s face is set and Minato is swept off his feet. He gets tucked into strong arms as Obito moves them deeper into the house. The blonde’s quiet protests go unheard as he’s carried bridal style to the bedroom. It’s there that Obito deposits him onto the bed.

“It’s nothing,” he tries to say, for Obito’s gloved finger to press against his mouth.

Just the look in his one good eye gives Minato guilt. He should know better; Obito hates it when Minato tries to hide things from him. Instead of putting on a happy face the older man accepts his pampering, letting Obito tuck him under the plush blankets of their bed. His blue eyes are still damp and Minato stops trying to hold back his sniffles.

“It’s not nothing,” Obito’s voice guesses quietly, “but you don’t have to talk about it now. For now, just let it out. I’m here for you.”

Obito learns that he hates watching Minato cry. The helplessness that fills him up eats away at his guts, claws at his heart as he watches his most precious person sink into a mire of tears and little soft sobs. He doesn’t cry loudly, no screaming or wailing. Minato cries softly, like he has to keep it inside and bottle it.

It does give him the opportunity to cuddle the blonde close. He doesn’t care how wet his turtleneck gets. Minato tries once to not smear snot and tears against his clothes; Obito presses gently but firmly until the other man’s face goes back to the flat of his chest. Obito’s gloved hand finds Minato’s to hold while his other cards through blonde spikes, stroking soothingly.

It doesn’t matter why in this moment why Minato is sad. Obito is here for him, for the first time he’s been allowed to see Minato cry, to comfort him. He lets his lover vent quiet sobs into his chest, letting the emotion run its course.

Later, once all his tears are spent up, Minato will say thank you, with a kiss to the corner of Obito’s contented smile, and Obito will scold Minato for not relying on him sooner.

First time waiting at their bedside, not sure if they will awaken, shikanaru

“It’s going to be a while,” Sakura warned. “He breathed in so much poison…”

“I’ll wait,” Shikamaru said firmly. “I want to be here when he opens his eyes.”

Naruto on the bed breathed in slowly, ragged, through three different tubes. The sight made Shikamaru’s own breathing tight. Naruto always healed, everything, but for once it was taking…

“A long, long time,” Sakura had repeated on her way out the door, “No smoking inside. Please.”

It was the last thing he’d heard for nearly four days.

“Shikamaru? Shikamaru, earth to Shikamaru!”

“I said what,” he snapped, turning from the bed for the first time in five days. He stood up straighter at the sight of the Hokage in the doorway. “Sir.”

“At ease, soldier,” Kakashi sighed. “And drop the sir. It’s temporary. Just like this.”

His eye tracked to the figure on the bed. Shikamaru turned his gaze back as well. It wasn’t like he needed to look. By now he had the lines of Naruto’s sleeping face carved into memory. Those three scar marks on each cheek. The unnatural stretch of his mouth around breathing tubes. The slight bags under each eye.

“All his superficial wounds have healed,” the Hokage’s voice said needlessly because Sakura had said the same thing two days ago, “All that’s left is for the poison to finish circulating. Once it’s out he should be up and back to active duty.”

Shikamaru looked up sharply. Kakashi met his confrontational gaze with a cool look.

“It’s what he’d want,” Kakashi said quietly.

In Naruto’s defense. Because that’s what he would want. Shikamaru smirked.

“Of course he would. He will.”

“We need you on rotation.”

Shikamaru’s smirk fell away.

“I won’t leave his side.”

“We need you,” Kakashi repeated, his voice firm and his gaze uncompromising. “I can give you forty-eight hours but there are others who need relief.”

Shikamaru couldn’t deny the Hokage outright but it was the first time his mind was already plotting four different ways he could leave behind a clone or trade shifts to get out of duty. His shoulders squared, Shikamaru let his gaze fall to the floor, and he nodded once.

A hand landed on his shoulder.

“He’ll be here when you get back.”

It turned prophetic: Naruto was still in the hospital bed when Shikamaru returned from active duty to be at his side. He tracked down Shizune straight away, nerves driving him to put a hand in his pocket, resting against the pack of cigarettes he wasn’t allowed to smoke inside.

“How much longer until he regains consciousness?”

Shizune looked started first, then apologetic.

Shikamaru frowned.

“Oh. Haven’t they told you yet?” She said.

He made himself stay and listen (even though it couldn’t be true) and thanked her for filling him in. Stiffly, he went outside and let himself smoke for the first time in nearly two weeks. The harsh crackle of nicotine burned through him, ripped apart the walls around his heart he’d built up against the suspicion that lurked in the back of his mind.

Naruto might not wake up.

Impossible, because he’s the jinchuuriki. They wouldn’t let their not-so-secret weapon lie in a coma even if there was no other option. Konoha would find a way.

Except they couldn’t.

Even Tsunade and Orochimaru combined had been forced to admit defeat. Any further experiments were denied by the Lord Sixth Hokage due to their unethical nature and Shikamaru shook off the tremble in his hand as he lit a second cigarette.

He took the longest, deepest drag he could before crushing it on his way back inside.

Naruto would want to see him when he woke up—if he woke up—

Shikamaru shook his head. Naruto wouldn’t want him to think like that. Naruto wouldn’t want him to worry, the stubborn guy, wanting the best for everyone around him, not giving a damn about himself, reckless, a little clueless, stupid, selfish, wonderful, bright, shining and smiling and stealing Shikamaru’s senses with one look.

Despite the pounding of his heart Shikamaru managed to snort a laugh. That guy.

The nurses gave him pitying looks as he walked back into the room and took up the same seat that bore his weight for a week straight before.

It didn’t matter. He’d be there.

[stina-is-a-punk-rocker]

madeline miller’s ‘the song of achilles’

Achilles Lamenting the Death of Patroclus (1855) by Nikolai Ge

What I loved about The Song of Achilles: this and this and this. 

My interest in classics began circa 2005, with Disney’s animated series based off of their rendition of Hercules. Fast forward to several years later, to when I stumbled across one of my grandad’s books; several of my rose-tinted childhood memories would be tainted by the knowledge that the actual Heracles had very little in common with Disney’s adaptation of him. 

The historical period that I was really invested in for most of my preteen and early teenage years were the Dark Ages, and Medieval Europe in general; so my Greek mythology phase was short-lived, and my knowledge of it is… well, I know Dionysus fucked himself with a wooden dildo to fulfil a promise he made, and that he’s perhaps the only decent bloke up there on Olympus (I’d tell Zeus to go fuck himself but he’d probably go through with it), and also that Dionysus is BTS’s best song since Boy Meets Evil, and that Stray Kids did a bangin’ cover of it late last year. 

In other words: vague and superficial. 

But I know enough to tell you that Madeline Miller’s The Song of Achilles is one of the best books I’ve ever read, hands down. 

The story of Achilles and Patroclus and the Trojan War is pretty common knowledge, I’ll warrant, but just in case: SPOILERS AHEAD. 

Retelling a story almost everyone knows isn’t easy; you’ve got the plot down and how to get there, but you’ve got to write it in a way that doesn’t read like a middle school book report you scrapped together a night before the assignment was due (… not that I know what that’s like, haha). And Miller does an excellent job of it; her diction? Brilliant. Her prose? Incredible. Her characterizations? Completely not ever been done before. 

The Song of Achilles is told in Patroclus’s first-person point of view; most of it is about his early years with Achilles; Patroclus’s banishment to Phthia, meeting Achilles, befriending Achilles, and then both of them being tutored by Chiron (a far cry from Disney’s funny little goat man). The Trojan War takes up less of the book than I thought it would, at first (which, of course, I’m infinitely grateful for- since we all know how THAT ends) (#RIP). 

Which brings me to one of the biggest questions I had up to the last few chapters before the end of the book: how will the story go on after Patroclus dies, since it’s in the first person? (The first-person POV threw me off at first; it’s been a while outside of contemporary YA that I’ve read anything in that POV, and it was a bit jarring- but the further I read, I realized that it was the best option for the book; it gave the story a depth, a level of emotion you couldn’t’ve achieved in the third person.)

And call me a masochist, but Patroclus’s death and the aftermath ended up being my favorite parts of the book. I’ve read stories that have given me actual, physical pain (one of my top two Harry Potter ships is Wolfstar, go figure), but this is the first time I’ve actually read something that made me cry (despite the numerous Ao3 comments I’ve left that are variants of ‘omg I’m crying’). Like, actual, physical tears welling up in my eyes. 

There’s this particular scene, in the ninth chapter, where Chiron is telling Patroclus and Achilles about Heracles, and how he, unlike Disney’s well-intentioned, bumbling himbo, goes insane and kills his family. Achilles, my sweet summer child, is quite reasonably agitated by this; how it was unfair, how Heracles’ wife and children paid for the gods’ tiff with Heracles with their own lives. And Chiron says: 

“… Perhaps it is he greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone.” 

Go ahead, Miller; twist the goddamn knife. It’s not like I needed my heart, anyway. 

Also, unrelated, but I find it interesting how countries that are continents apart end up having quite similar legends. My roots are from an entirely different continent than Greece, but we have a folktale quite similar to the legend of Aesclepius. 

But I digress. 

Character-wise: Achilles; half-mortal, hero of the Trojan war, the greatest warrior among men. And despite his demigod status, he remains so human. And this might be controversial, but… he comes off a lot more fleshed-out than Patroclus himself. Which is perhaps my sole gripe with this book. 

Patroclus is… well, he exists. He’s the son his father never wanted. He kills a boy. Falls in love with Achilles. Spends a concerning amount of time describing Achilles’ feet. 

Honestly, up until the chapters in Troy, he doesn’t have much of a personality. And maybe it’s because Miller wanted to remain as true to the Iliad and Odyssey, and, if my memory serves me correct, neither of them give a lot to Patroclus in the way of character development; but still, he comes off a bit- bland. Of course, towards the end, his character gets a bigger role than ‘loves Achilles’; especially seen in how he defies Achilles to spare Briseis, and then dons the armor and subsequently gets himself killed (#ApolloIsOverParty), but up till then, he’s pretty meh. 

Briseis is another one of my favorite characters; it was a bit difficult for me to divorce my perception of her from Emily Hauser’s For the Most Beautiful. Her friendship with Patroclus (and, by extension, Achilles; even if he did screw her over afterwards) was perhaps the only good to come out of the war. 

And then we have the obligatory: fuck Thetis and FUCK Agamemnon (thank you, Clytemnestra).

Achilles and Patroclus’ love was wonderfully written, and I love how them being queer wasn’t the central focus of the story (admittedly, the ancient Greeks were markedly more casual about homosexuality than the bible-belt world we live in today). A lot of the (non-fanfiction) queer lit I’ve read tends to make everything revolve around, “bUt I aM bOy,,, aNd I LiKe bOy,,, bUT hOW???”, and homophobia is the biggest obstacle to their relationship. And those stories are realistic and need to be told- but we need literature with more variety. 

My final verdict: a work of art. I’m going to read Circe and Galatea.

[dragonturtle2]

My greatest apprehensions for the new My Little Pony movie & generation.

Today MLP Generation 5 has been made available on Netflix, and on Saturday I’ll be seeing it with my friends in the Milwaukee Bronies. I’ve had an uneasy feeling about it, and finally putting much of that into words was helpful. It was certainly interesting, and I’d like to share it with other people. I’ve done so with only a few, but I want to put this out there before anyone thinks my opinion is contaminated by either seeing the movie, or something getting spoiled. Tomorrow I may be relieved, let down, or just impressed that I managed to predict so much. Something I’ve definitely kept in mind is that with Generation 4’s premieres, finales, and own movie, the trailers were always cut unimpressively (IMHO). So I tended to be pleasantly surprised with pretty much everything I watch from G4, when I even bothered looking at the trailers. So I’ll be quite happy to be proven wrong this Saturday. Now…

They certainly didn’t intend to be flipping off everything Gen 4 established. No creator ever tries that when they’re brought into a franchise in the payroll of the IP owners. But for their society to regress to this point of segregation? The only thought process I can think of for this bizarre departure are A) The new show staff threw their hands up on matching anything with G4... or B) they came up with a totally fresh setting and timeline, and then some exec or analyst at Hasbro said “Heck no, you are GOING to connect this with our previous money-printing machine. Got it?” And that level of mandated storytelling doesn’t fill me with confidence.

I’ve heard at least one comparison to the Sequel Trilogy, which I expected. True, there’s some notable superficial similarities. It’s decades(?) later, the original heroes are spoken of as myths, for various reasons the world is in trouble, and our protagonist is a disciple-slash-fangirl of what the previous heroes fought for. But this is way more drastic and bizarre of a development.

The conflict in the Sequel Trilogy for the galaxy at large is that the Empire has returned, but rebranded. A new set of new jerks wanted power, teamed up with some of the old jerks, got a bunch of big guns, and held the galaxy hostage. That’s something that just happens in repeated strokes of history. It’s the re-drawing of a bunch of borders. The only moral failing there is being lax with fascists.

Having the Sequel Trilogy retread a plot also isn’t as weird as the My Little Pony franchise. The Force Awakens was made decades after the OT concluded, and the previous Prequel Trilogy took a really different direction and wasn’t received well. Then the franchise got completely new owners. So going back to its roots to start things out was a logical move. It’s only been THREE YEARS between these different shows of MLP, so the repetition doesn’t have much charm. Although repetition may not be the right word, since the setup for this show’s racial dilemma is way more extreme.

Equestria for some reason has gone through a jaw-dropping morale decay. Not only have they embraced division they were fighting against in seasons 8 & 9, they’ve regressed to the level of segregation before Equestria was FOUNDED. The Star Wars equivalent of that would be not only everyone fighting the First Order, they also suddenly don’t allow Wookies and other aliens to drink from the water fountains. Like, how the heck did that turn into a problem?

If the only progress undone from Gen 4 were the relationships with the non-ponies introduced later, that would actually make more sense. Social equality has reactionary backlash, which often occurs immediately after landmark victories. Ponies were the ones that held the most power on the world stage (some kinds more than others in Equestria).

But the WAY bigger issue isn’t internal logic and retcons. I learned long ago to set aside any expectation of a reward or pandering for my years-long commitment to a toy franchise. It’s the potential mishandling of the topic of racism, and I worry we’ve already on shaky ground. The morale of “segregation is bad” feels like bottom of the barrel, kind of copout way of tackling racism. At least, it does for settings that are extremely modern like Generation 5 clearly is. Segregation of people by ethnicity, by rule of law, has fully shifted to obsolesce in the cultural landscape of first world countries. Not even the most deranged lunatics in our government like Boebert or Greene advocate for it (not yet anyway). Stories about segregation can still be done really well of course, but it can’t just be about wiping it off the lawbooks and solving everything. It needs look at why people do this in the first place, who fights for it as the status quo, and what social structures and habits keep the thing in place despite the efforts of good people.

Of course, we still HAVE segregation in society. Not legally, but de facto thanks to economic status and civic planning. And not just physical separation, but grotesque imbalances of power and means. Look at job opportunities, home ownership, insurance evaluations, scrutiny by police, investment in local schools, etc. In G4 it was pretty clear that WAY more unicorns got to live in the lap of luxury or centers of commerce and education. Earth ponies were more spread out, rural, and based on an agrarian existence to feed the country. It’s not that G4 did much with it, but that kind of setup is way closer to modern day inequality, and would be a more fertile bed for those kind of stories. Admittedly, the Pegasi city in the trailer looked absolutely LOADED, so maybe we do have that element in store.

What the trailers and press releases are saying feels weak even as just a segregation story. The ponies separating makes segregation look like a bunch of people moving out like feuding roommates… instead of being put in place by a group of people with WAY more power and money than everyone else. Segregation is portrayed as a mutual agreement, not exploitation. My worry is that they’re going to go to Pocahontas routes, and make the root of racism a select few rich figureheads spreading lies. And undoubtedly, rich people in the private and public sector DO profit off of ignorance and violence, and divert attention from real problems. But when white people in America were treating everyone as subhuman, it wasn’t FEAR that was driving it (at least, not exclusively). For one, it was profit and sheer convenience. Manual labor and the least desirable tasks could be foisted on to ‘lesser’ peoples, and they wouldn’t even require a humane wage. Even if there hadn’t been those empirical benefits, discrimination also brought the sadistic sense of self-importance that comes from standing on someone else’s neck. The imaginary structures of racism let people feel comfortable about their place in the universe.

I wouldn’t call Zecora’s introductory episode all that nuanced, but it was definitely more accurate to real life than the (hopefully hypothetical) scenario I described above. In Bridle Gossip, it’s extremely apparent that the Pony majority of Ponyville are the ones acting like tools, and singling out Zecora for being different. They are the ones obligated to apologize to HER. (Even though it’s of course awkward that they wrote Zecora as a rhyming witch doctor, when she’s meant to represent an African person. It might not be so bad if she wasn’t the ONLY Zebra, and the only creature coded that way.)

Companies and studios will gladly tell their audiences to sympathize with victimized individuals and populations of oppression, and hate the individual acts done upon them. But then they’ll get cagey about making some members of the audience feel any kind of guilt, from distantly benefitting from that system; or maybe even subtlety being part of one. It’s not good for the bottom line to name a civilian population for taking any racist, oppressive or outright murderous actions. No, it’s a single evil dictator (or CEO, or general) and their gaggle of cronies, who just needs to be overthrown. We see this toothless crud play out over and over because corporate entities are either A) that naive, or B) scared of some losers with megaphones losing their minds over the suggestion of self-examination. Some people are SO fragile at the idea of self-examination, or guilt. Because it goes back to having an identity, an innocent and sympathetic self-image.

[cake-writes]

Fever (Part One)

Pairings: Steve x Reader, Bucky x Reader (mentioned)

Story Warnings: Cheating, Dubious Consent, Sex Pollen, Smut, Breeding Kink (if you squint), Angst, 18+

Word Count: 3.4k

Summary: Steve couldn’t. No, he wouldn’t. Not to his best friend’s girl.

Master List / Spotify Playlist

Two years today – your anniversary.

Not that it mattered, because the mission ran long. Even Steve didn’t get away from it unscathed, if the blood staining the shoulder of his uniform was any indication. You’d seen him hurt too many times over the years, but this time you felt guilty.

He’d gotten hurt keeping you safe. 

His best friend’s girl.

Bucky must have returned to the compound by now, you were sure of it. He’d been radio silent for the last three weeks on an assignment god knows where, but what you did know was that he’d be getting back today; said he wouldn’t miss your anniversary for the world, the hopeless romantic that he was. Your hopeless romantic.

You might have gone a little stir crazy as the days dragged on, missed him a little too much – so you passed the time by going on quick in-and-out missions in hopes that you’d get home and find him there waiting for you.

He wasn’t.

Each mission wound up being no more than a couple of hours, tops, except this one. You and Steve had been trapped here for the last day and a half. Too many Hydra agents to count. Too many fights for survival. Pinned down by the enemy, the two of you barricaded yourselves inside a too-large server room where the walls were thick enough to offer a modest layer of protection: two feet of metal and concrete, meant to safeguard Hydra’s most sensitive data.

The worst part wasn’t even that you were missing your anniversary. No, it was that you’d yanked an empty syringe from Steve’s back about twenty minutes ago and there was no way of knowing what mystery substance it contained. He hadn’t even noticed it, either, which made you wonder what the hell kind of pain tolerance he had. The stupid thing was just sticking out of him, needle about three inches long and yet he’d been completely fucking oblivious.

How?

Thankfully, Steve seemed to be doing okay, all things considered. His wounds would heal, of course. They always did. They always would. You tried not to worry, but you still felt guilty, so much you asked for the umpteenth time, “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, doll,” he said in exasperation, holding his cell phone and yours up toward the ceiling in hopes that one of them would pick up a signal. “I’ll let you know if anything changes, you know, like I said the last ten times you asked.”

You huffed a little as you attempted to access one of the computers, having already tried five of them with no success. “I just don’t like seeing you hurt. Especially when it’s my fault.”

He laughed at that, somehow, despite the fact that you were both trapped in here with no hope of rescue. No signal, no reception, no dice. Things looked pretty dismal, but he was ever the optimist. “I can already feel myself healing. Stop worrying, okay?”

Computer number six was also a failure.

Another twenty minutes passed, but nothing changed.

Well, at least, not that you noticed. Steve was burning up, but he didn’t say a thing – didn’t want to make you worry. He cared too much about you for that, cared more than he should have for his best friend’s girl. 

Always had. Always would.

Sweat dotted his brow as he watched you try computer after computer to no avail. He just couldn’t tear his eyes away; even in the harsh fluorescent lighting, you were illicitly gorgeous, far more attractive than you should have been to him. Hair tousled, eyeliner smudged, tight black catsuit on your body ripped in too many places to count, cuts and scrapes and bruises peeking through – all superficial. 

He didn’t like seeing you hurt, either, so when the heat creeped up his neck, he wasn’t sure if it was from concern, claustrophobia, or carnal attraction.

“Anything?”

Steve’s question was simple, but he barely even recognized the sound of his own voice. Strained. Rough. Maybe because his throat was so dry.

When you glanced up from the screen and over at him, he forgot how to breathe. Bright eyes and a beautiful smile, despite the less-than-ideal circumstances. 

All for him.

Only for him, here, and sweet as sin.

“Nope,” you said cheerfully, popping the ‘p.’ 

That drew his attention to your mouth at the worst possible moment. As you focused back on the screen in front of you, you pulled your lower lip in between your teeth in thought, almost like you were trying to tease him, like you were trying to drive him out of his fucking mind. The sight shot straight to his groin; brought attention to the fact that his pants were starting to get just a little too tight. 

Then you looked up again at the silence and caught him staring. Tilting your head to the side, you asked slowly, “Still feeling okay?”

“Yeah,” he rasped, and then he cleared his throat – tried to clear his mind, too, but it didn’t work. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Steve didn’t like to lie, but he didn’t have a choice. Not here. Not when he felt like this.

Your fingertips stilled over the keyboard as you studied his face a little more closely, and then you took a few steps toward him. “Are you sure? You look a little flushed.”

Your keen scrutiny only made him even hotter – made him want to escape before he did something he’d regret. He was already toeing the line.

But he couldn’t. No, he wouldn’t.

Not to his best friend’s girl.

With your approach came the heady scent of your perfume, and his resolve weakened even more – particularly when you pressed the underside of your wrist to his sweaty forehead. Your skin was far cooler to the touch than it should have been, and the physical contact sent a pleasurable chill through him.

“Something’s wrong,” you said with a frown, swapping your wrist for your palm, and then you brought both hands to either side of his flushed face. “You’re way too hot, Stevie.”

You spoke his name so softly, so gently – like a lover, like a balm. 

Stevie.

On your lips, it sounded sweet as honey.

Steve’s temperature already ran hotter than yours because of the serum, but you were long used to it because Bucky was the same. Ironic, really, that the only person on the face of the earth who’d be able to tell the difference without a thermometer was who stoked the fire to begin with.

Well, you, and whatever the hell it was he’d been injected with.

“I’m fine,” he repeated, but the words felt foreign on his tongue. Wrong. He wasn’t fine. The way he leaned into your touch was evidence of that.

“Here,” your hand trailed down his back to help guide him to a nearby chair, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake, “Sit down, okay? Tell me how you’re feeling.”

Ravenous. Touch-starved. Not fine at all.

Steve sank into the worn leather desk chair, but that proved even worse. Now he had to look up at you – look up at your pretty little face and try not to imagine how you’d look straddling him, taking every inch of his cock.

Yeah, like that was possible.

He’d break you. How Bucky managed not to was beyond him. You weren’t enhanced like either of them.

“I’m hot,” Steve finally admitted. “It’s hot in here.”

A flimsy excuse. Even he knew it wasn’t. Something was wrong.

“Really? I’m actually kind of cold.” With a smile, you made a show of briskly rubbing your arms, probably to make him feel better – and then you teased, “Maybe you can warm me up, huh?”

Don’t tempt me, sweetheart.

Your brows rose in surprise, but you laughed soon after.

Oh. Had he said that out loud?

He didn’t know. He didn’t care.

And it didn’t seem to bother you, either, because the concerned look in your eyes was still there and your jokes and laughter were a front. “Are you nauseous? Sick? Come on, talk to me. Please?”

Oh, he liked the sound of that. 

Steve quickly found himself wondering if that was how you sounded when you begged for more, begged for release, begged for something only Bucky was lucky enough to give you.

Imaginary pleas of please, Stevie, please echoed in his ears.

His eyes closed as your fingers threaded through his hair – an attempt to soothe the ache settling into his bones, perhaps. You quickly stopped, however, and he only realized why when he looked back up at you.

When had he taken hold of your wrist?

“What is it, Stevie?”

Shit, honey, if only I knew.

But the words didn’t come. His tongue felt like lead in his mouth.

Steve noticed, then, how easily his fingers and thumb overlapped – how small and delicate you really were, not to mention how absolutely defenseless. Your eyes were impossibly soft as you gazed down at him with such concern, such care, that he somehow wrenched his hand away.

“I… I don’t feel right,” was what he finally settled on.

“Can you describe it?”

You were worried about him, he knew, but you should have been worried about yourself for entirely different reasons. With you so close, he had no choice but to breathe in the irresistible scent of you. It drove him crazy.

You drove him crazy.

Through gritted teeth, Steve managed a rough, “Just find a way to get us out of here.”

“But you’re—”

“Now,” he barked, and you immediately jumped into action at his harsh tone.

Thirteen computers and counting.

Another ten minutes, and you were on computer number seventeen. Still no dice.

In between hurried keystrokes, you snuck glances over at Steve only to find him watching you like a predator might watch its prey. It unnerved you a little. Eyes dark and breathing laboured, he seemed much worse than before – overheating, but you didn’t dare check his temperature again. Your stomach had been in knots since he raised his voice with you, or maybe it started when he grabbed your wrist – a firm grip, one that might have left bruises beneath your shredded sleeve.

Why were you so anxious?

This was Steve. Captain America. Your boyfriend’s best friend. He’d never hurt you, at least not intentionally and you had a feeling that all of this had something to do with the mystery substance running through his veins. He’d be fine. 

That was when the computer dinged with a signal. At last. You might be able to get a message out, even if the reception was so poor. It was a short one, a quick and dirty ‘SOS’ along with your location. Command would send an extraction team for the two of you.

After you hit ‘send,’ you let out an audible sigh of relief. “Finally got a message through. Don’t worry, they’ll get us out.”

Something about that phrase snapped Steve’s resolve. He didn’t want to get out.

No, he wanted to get in.

That was when your back slammed against the wall, so hard that the impact left you gasping for air. “What—”

But you couldn’t finish that sentiment because Steve’s lips were on yours, hot and wanting and unfamiliar – not at all like how Bucky kissed you, how Bucky loved you more than anything.

For a moment, you froze up, absolutely stunned by what he’d done. You came to your senses quickly, though, and shoved him hard in the chest to get him to stop – but only after a few frenzied tries did he finally break away.

Breaths coming out in short bursts, you croaked, “What the hell?”

Steve swallowed the lump in his throat and squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself against the wall with one arm above your head. His free hand came up to massage his temple, a distraction from the tightness of his pants. He’d caged you in – trapped you against him so deliciously and when he finally spoke, he sounded just as wrecked as he looked. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

“I’m with Bucky,” you hissed, voice wavering. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Angry words laced with fear. He didn’t blame you.

But he couldn’t stop himself when his eyes dropped back to your mouth, and in an instant, he found himself wanting another taste, another touch. The fever burning hot fire through his body made it impossible to ignore, let alone resist any longer. What little self-control he had was gone.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” he choked out, and then his hand was in your hair, too-tight grip allowing him to pull you in for another kiss. This time he was much less forgiving, almost bruising your lips in his need for you – lips so soft and pliable and his. 

Steve overpowered you with such ease, especially when he swept his tongue into your mouth to sample your sweetness straight from the source. Scalp stinging painfully, you put up a fight, at least until he gathered both your wrists in one large hand and pinned them none-too-gently to the wall. Pain – not a lot of it, but enough to sting, to smart, to leave more bruises. 

No matter how hard you struggled, you couldn’t break free.

Of course you couldn’t. You weren’t strong enough. Not against him.

You attempted to knee him in the groin anyway, a last resort, but he easily deflected it by shoving one of his thighs in between yours. Thick, corded muscle pressed hard against your clothed core, wrenching a strangled gasp from your throat.

“Steve,” you whimpered against his lips, still trying to break free from his hold: an exercise in futility. “Damn it, stop, let me go—”

But he didn’t. No, instead he kissed you again, muffling any other protests, any other objections – and moans, too, he soon discovered when you mistakenly ground against his thigh in another failed attempt of escaping.

Peppering your jaw with open-mouthed kisses, he murmured, “How am I supposed to stop when you sound so pretty?”

Pretty for him. 

All for him.

A shudder wracked your body at the feeling of his breath against your ear, at the low timbre of his voice – rough and full of desire.

You stopped fighting after that.

And then you started to feel the heat, too. You felt the burn on your tongue, first, felt it prickle against your lips – uncomfortable, stifling heat, a fever that quickly made its way through your extremities, made your knees go weak, made you melt against him like butter. 

If Steve hadn’t been holding you up, you would have hit the floor.

“It’s too hot,” you whined, leaning back against the wall, revealing more of your throat for him to mark, to claim. The sharp, sudden ache between your legs was unbearable. “God, it hurts—”

“I know, baby,” he breathed against the saliva-slickened skin of your neck. “I know it does. I’ll make it better.”

Your arms were thrown carelessly around his neck, now; when had he even let you go? You didn’t know. You didn’t care. You just needed him, needed what he was going to give you like you needed air. 

An insistent tug around his collar – an unspoken plea, but the words soon followed, spilling from your mouth like a broken record. “Make it better, Steve, please make it better, Stevie, please—”

“Jesus, doll,” came his groaned reply as he all but yanked the zipper to your catsuit down, down, down between your breasts, and then the sleeves followed, fabric ripping along the seams. The moment you pulled your sports bra over your head, he palmed your breasts – left hot kisses and even hotter touches against your hypersensitive skin, and when he took a nipple into his mouth, you shivered.

“Not enough,” you gasped, fingers curling in his hair.

The taste of your skin was intoxicating – salty sweet with sweat and something he couldn’t quite place.

Longing, perhaps. Or dread.

Teeth raked against the pert bud and again your knees gave out, but Steve held you steady – a welcome reminder of his thigh between yours. This time, you ground down against him purposely, far too impatient and needy to wait for more.

You just couldn’t stop. Not that you even wanted to anymore.

With your free hand, you blindly fumbled with his belt and, somehow, it loosened. His fly was next, frantically unzipped until you had enough leeway to slide your hand into his boxers. As soon your fingers wrapped around him, Steve let out a shaky breath and met your eyes with a shared, albeit fleeting thought—

This was wrong.

But neither of you could stop.

You shoved his pants down below his ass, freeing him from the constraining fabric. His cock was hot and heavy in your palm, and you smoothed your thumb over the leaking slit.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he swore, sending a surge of heat straight to your core.

You wanted this – wanted him.

Steve stripped the rest of your catsuit off in about two seconds flat – half tore it from your body in order to reveal your soft skin and perfect curves. Not that he had a chance to really appreciate them, however, because with a flick of his wrist your panties were in shreds on the floor and you’d slung one leg around his waist.

So fucking eager. He loved it.

He hiked your thigh up higher – allowed you better access to line him up, and when the head of his cock glided through your slick folds, you breathed, “Make it better, Stevie.”

So he did.

Steve slid all the way inside of you in one fluid motion, to which your eyelids fluttered shut, head lulling back against the wall with a dull thunk. The pleasant burn of him stretching you out so beautifully had your fingernails digging into his shoulders, leaving angry red marks behind.

“That’s it,” Steve coaxed, his large hand cradling the side of your face. “There you go.”

The tight, velvety drag of your walls as he slowly withdrew drove you both absolutely insane – and then he slammed all the way back inside, punching the breath from your lungs.

“You— god, you feel so good, Steve, give it to me, I need you, fuck me, Stevie—”

You didn’t even know what you were saying anymore, so blissed out of your mind already and he’d barely even started. With the his cock so deep inside you, the tip snug against your cervix, Steve couldn’t think straight either – and hearing you beg for him like this was better than he ever could have imagined.

He kissed you, then, all teeth and tongues, swallowing every single one of your pleas. Your arms slowly came to rest around his neck, and with unsteady yet practiced flair, you jumped up the tiniest bit – jumped up into his arms, and sure enough, he caught you.

It wasn’t hard to figure out why you knew he would.

Bucky.

A train of thought quickly forgotten as both your legs wrapped around his waist. Hands palming your ass, now, Steve fucked up into you – fucked you to pieces, and then he kissed you back together.

“Fill me up,” you gasped against his lips.

Jesus.

You didn’t have to ask him twice, especially when he felt the tell-tale flutter of your walls around his cock. You were close, and your soft, breathy whimpers only confirmed it.

“Gonna come for me, baby?”

“Yeah,” you moaned. “God, I’m so fucking close—”

Steve’s thrusts started to falter, then, and his fingertips dug into your hips. He left more bruises, but the mix of sensations was too much for you to handle and with a strangled cry, you fell apart, walls clenching down around him – desperately trying to milk him dry.

Even your body wanted him to come inside.

It pushed him over the edge, the knowledge that even on the most primal level you wanted him to fill you up – a conscious decision, but an instinctive one, too. With a soft groan, he pushed in as deep as he could go and spilled hot inside of you, marking your insides like a brand.

As he came down, exhaustion hit him like a wave. He set you down gently, but then he held one of his hands to the wall to keep himself from falling.

He felt weak, and so did you.

Chest heaving, you slid to the floor in post-coital bliss, cum dripping down the insides of your thighs. Steve wasn’t nearly as winded, and of course he wasn’t. He had the serum coursing through his veins, just like Bucky.

Bucky.

Bucky.

“Oh god, Steve,” you choked out, staring up at him in horror. “What— What did we do?”

Steve’s eyes widened in shock, feverish haze finally starting to clear.

Two years today – your anniversary.

Not that it mattered.

Part Two / Cold Sweats (fan-written sequel)

(If you like my work, please consider donating to my Patreon or my Ko-Fi!)

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Lukewarm Christians

by Samuel Davies

"I know your works, that you are neither cold nor hot. I could wish you were cold or hot. So then, because you are lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will vomit you out of My mouth." - Revelation 3:15-16

Nothing can be so important to us as God's favor, and nothing so terrible as his displeasure. If he be our Maker, Benefactor, and Judge, then it must be our greatest concern to serve him with all our might. If Jesus Christ is such a Saviour as our religion represents and we profess to believe, then he demands our warmest love and most lively service. If eternity, heaven and hell, and the final judgment are awful realities, then the most weighty concerns of the present life are but trifles in comparison. If prayer is our duty, then certainly it requires vigor of soul.

Consider who and what God is. He is the original uncreated beauty, the sum total of all natural and moral perfections, the origin of all the excellencies that are scattered throughout this glorious universe. He sustains the most majestic and endearing relations to us, our Father, our Preserver and Benefactor, our Lawgiver and our Judge. And is such a Being to be put off with heartless, lukewarm service? What can be more impious than to dishonor this supreme excellency with a languid esteem; to trifle in the presence of the most venerable Majesty; to treat the best of Beings with indifference; to return such a Benefactor only insipid expressions of gratitude; to be dull and spiritless in obedience; and to be indifferent about the favor or displeasure of such a Judge! Let heaven and earth attest if this is not the most shocking conduct imaginable. It is astonishing that God should bear with such treatment so long.

Are there not some lukewarm Laodiceans here? Jesus knows your works, that you are neither cold nor hot; and it is fit that you also should know them. Are your hearts habitually indifferent toward God? You may have a theoretical esteem or a good opinion of him, but are your souls alive toward him? Do they burn with his love? Are you fervent in spirit when you are serving him? Do you consider lukewarmness a suitable return for that love which brought Christ down from his native paradise into our wretched world, kept his mind for thirty-three painful and tedious years intent upon the salvation of sinners, rendered him cheerfully patient of the shame, curse, and tortures of crucifixion? Is it a suitable return for that love which makes him the sinner’s friend still in the courts of heaven, where he is our prevailing Advocate and Intercessor?

My fellow-sinners, you who are the objects of all this love, can you put him off with languid devotions and faint services? If so, then every grateful and generous passion is extinct in your souls. Was Christ indifferent about your salvation? Was his love lukewarm toward you? No. Your salvation was the object of his most intense prayers night and day, and it lay nearest his heart in the agonies of death. His love! What language can describe its strength and ardor? Never was a father more anxious to rescue an only son from the hands of a murderer, or to pluck him out of the fire, than Jesus was to save perishing sinners. You expect everlasting happiness from him, purchased at the expense of his own blood. And can you hope for such an immense blessing without feeling yourselves most sensibly obliged to him? Can you be content to do nothing for him or hurry through his service with lukewarmness and languor? Can anything be more absurd or impious than this? If this be your habitual temper, then you may expect him to reject you with the most nauseating disgust and abhorrence.

View a lukewarm professor in prayer. He prays to an omniscient God with bended knee. Yet in addressing the Supreme Majesty of heaven and earth he hardly recollects in whose presence he is, pouring out empty words into the air. He is a needy, famishing beggar, pleading for such immense blessings as everlasting salvation and the joys of heaven, yet prays as if he did not care whether his requests were granted or not. He is an obnoxious offender confessing his sins with a heart untouched with sorrow, worshiping the living God with a dead heart, making great requests which are forgotten as soon as he rises from his knees. Can there be a more shocking, impious, and daring conduct than this? For a criminal to catch flies or play with a feather when pleading with his judge for his pardon would be but a faint shadow of such religious trifling.

Consider now the Word of God. You believe it to be divine, the standard of your religion, and the most excellent book in the world. It is God's letter to you. How impious and provoking, then, must it be to neglect it as an antiquated, useless book. How impious must it be to read it in a careless, superficial manner and hear it with an inattentive, wandering mind? How would you like it if when you spoke to your servant about his own interest he should turn away and ignore you? Would you like it if you wrote a letter to your son and he did not carefully read it or labor to understand it? But do not some of you treat the sacred oracles in this manner? One would think you would be all attention and would reverence every word, drink it in, feel its energy, and acquire the character of that happy man to whom the God of heaven condescends to look upon.

Consider how full of energy, fire, and hurry men are in other pursuits. What labor and toil, schemes and contrivances, solicitude about success and fears of disappointment! Hands, heads, hearts, all busy. And all to procure enjoyments which at best cannot be long retained, and which may be torn from them the next hour. What hardships are undergone, dangers confronted to acquire a name or obtain riches and honors! On sea and land, at home and abroad you will find men eagerly pursuing some temporal good. Here men act like themselves, showing they are alive and endowed with powers of great activity. And shall they be zealous and laborious in the pursuit of earthly vanities but quite indifferent and sluggish in the infinitely more important concerns of eternity, solicitous about a mortal body but careless about an immortal soul?

If you are possessed with this Laodicean spirit, I beseech you, indulge it no longer. It mars all your religion and will end in your eternal ruin. Let the best of us lament our lukewarmness and earnestly seek more fervor of spirit. You know where to apply. Christ is your life, so cry to him for the communication of it. “Lord Jesus! A little more life, a little more vital heat to this languishing soul, I pray.”