#does not make for a fruitful writing environment

[badass-sunshine]

almost halfway through nano

progress is. slow.

[neteyamkink]

cold neteyam meeting the clan’s sweetheart and having a soft spot for her but tries not to be obvi with it (everyone can lowkey tell though through the little gestures he does) that ends in smut when theyre alone and he wants to corrupt her innocence and reputation👀👀

OMG I LOVE THIS IDEA SO MUCHHHH THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING!! sorry this took me so long i’m so slow 😭

paring: aged up!neteyam x metkayina reader

warnings: mean neteyam :( (he’s in love though), my first time writing smut in veryyyy long >.<, degrading, use of “slut”, “princess”, “sweetheart, lil corruption kink?, swearing ofc, disgusting smut idfk

At first, you thought it was the new environment making him so distant and rude. Eventually, you started to think it might've been just you, he had no problem talking with anyone else in the clan. Just you. Little did you know the reasoning behind that was that he was in deep denial about his feelings towards you. He hated the way you made him feel so vulnerable and helpless. So he had to hate you, right?

You'd try to reach out to him and try to start a conversation, but he would always turn you down with a, "I'm busy," or, "leave me alone." You couldn't lie it kind of hurt your feelings. everyone loved you, how could he not?

One afternoon most of the young adults and teenagers were hanging around a fire, the sullys and all of your friends included. You sat there crushing up herbs to make spices and listening in on the conversation everyone was having.

"Y/n stop being so quiet," Kumi spoke, you didn't like Kumi very much only because he was a part of ao'nung’s little bully crew.

"I'm busy, I'm listening though," You smiled still trying to be nice to him even though you really just wanted to tell him to fuck off. What can you say though? You were minding your business obviously focused on something else.

"Oh come on since when were you anti-social," Kumi laughs, now he has interrupted the group's conversation and everyone's attention was on you two.

"I'm not, sorry I'll chime in," you quickly said realizing this whole thing was interrupting the group. You hated yourself for apologizing for being busy, but you didn't want to disturb the group and make a big deal out of the whole situation.

"Why are you making her apologize? She's obviously busy dumb ass," Neteyam suddenly chimed in. Your eyes shot up to him, but he was already looking at you. He scrunched up his face and looked away crossing his arms.

"oh no it's okay, neteyam," you scrambled to find the correct words and suddenly your heart was running miles a minute.

"Whatever," he scoffed not bothering to look in your direction. Suddenly your heart felt like it was dropping into your stomach and the frown that was on your face was inescapable.

Later in the day after the fire, you decided you would figure this out. No one is allowed to not like you. Neteyam usually would go into the trees to practice archery late after dinner. Even though he had to learn the ways of these new people he was determined to not forget the ways of his own. How did you know this? Kiri is your new best friend.

Determined to befriend the forest boy you set out into the forest to find him, and of course, he was exactly where Kiri said he would be. You decided to sit back and watch before going up to him. He set up a practice station with a bunch of fruits hanging from trees. You watched him draw back his bow and arrow, His back and arm muscles flexed and his blue skin looked so glossy and smooth under the moonlight. fuck y/n, focus. He released his arrow and it went straight through the fruit and into the tree behind it.

"Impressive," you spoke up slowly walking out of the tree and bushes you were behind. His head snapped in your direction and once he saw who it was he rolled his eyes and took a breath.

"I didn't mean to scare you," you smiled sweetly, attempting to use the charm that had worked on others on him.

"You didn't," he scoffs grabbing an arrow from the group and pulling it through his bow. You thought archery was so cool... and he looked so hot doing it. focus, y/n.

"what are you doing here? how did you find me?" he asks releasing his arrow and landing it perfectly in the middle of the fruit. damn, he's good.

"I came to talk to you about something. Kiri told me where you might be," You spoke stepping a little closer towards him. He didn't look away from his targets.

"I hope you know earlier today was not me defending you. I just don't like kumi," though his tone was even and calm his words were harsh and hurtful. Does he really not like you that much?

"Why are you so mean to me?" You randomly blurted out with a pout formed on your face. Your mouth moved before you could think about what was coming out of it and as soon as the words came out you wanted to shove them right back in. You usually were never this straightforward or harsh with anyone. He turned to you and quirked his brow like he was shocked.

shit was he being too harsh? he thought. He just couldn't stand the way you made him feel. The way the innocent look in your eyes made his insides all tingly. The way that one look made him want to get on top of you and ruin those innocent eyes. fuck those eyes that you're giving him right now. Why do you have to torture him like this?

"Am I really?" he said dropping his bow and taking steps closer and closer toward you. Suddenly your throat was dry and you swallowed the lump in your throat. You took steps back as he got closer, too scared of what you might do if he got any closer. Too scared of what those yellow eyes burning through you might do to you.

"mhm," you hummed, heart racing as if you had just run to the moon and back.

"I can show you mean," he smirked. a gasp left your mouth when your back suddenly bumped into the bark of a tree, he had you cornered. And fuck you don't know what he meant by that but whatever he did you wanted it so badly. He looked as if he was going to eat you alive and my eywa you were begging he would.

"teyam..." you stuttered, putting your hands up to rest on his chest. "Teyam, please," you wrapped your arms around his neck. You were practically begging him to ruin you. your eyes looked up at him through your eyelashes, bottom lip slightly jutted out in a pout. Fuck you drove him crazy.

"Say it," the smirk plastered on his lips makes your knees grow weak and you almost buckle over.

You can speak so you just push his neck down and smash your lips onto his. He wastes no time responding and kissing back. His sweet lips were rough against yours and the only thing you both could think about is why you didn't do this sooner. Everyone saw the tension between you two except for you. In the back of your mind, you knew you had been waiting for this moment.

"jump," he mumbles against your lips. You're quick to follow his instructions and jump, his strong arms catch you his hands have a firm grip cupping your ass. The tree you are pushed up against rubs against your porcelain skin.

"All you do is act so sweet and innocent around the others. I know what you really are," he speaks in between sloppy kisses. His words go straight to your brain and suddenly your head is all fuzzy and wonky. He moves from Your lips down to your neck, and your neck down to your collar bone, and your collar bone down to a little above your breast. then he repeats kissing, sucking, licking.

Your hands tangled in the back of his hair, and his braids felt rough in your hands. Your lips parted slightly to make way for the small hums and moans falling from them.

"need you right now, mk?" neteyam backs away from your neck to speak. you nod without hesitation, fuck you are so ready. The pool between your legs had been forming ever since he backed you into the tree.

"use your words, princess," The nickname darted straight to your pussy.

"yes, I need you," you spoke trying to pull him closer to you. He let out a low groan and reached one hand down to your loincloth, His big hand dragging across your wet slit.

"fuck," you gasped and bit your lip.

"All this for me?" he questions his lips curving into the stupidest grin. You simply nodded and tugged his hair tighter. He circled his finger around your clit a couple of times, making sure to get you nice and wet. small moans escaped from your mouth as you pawed at his loin cloth ready for more. You could feel him painfully hard against your palm.

“need you teyam,” you choked out, practically begging him to fuck you. He stopped his movements around your clit and looked you in the eyes. He was ready too. You looked up at him and batted your eyes, your eyes begged him for something- no… anything more.

“fuck, okay,” he quickly gave in undoing the knot of his loincloth with his free hand and letting it drop to his feet. He grabs his cock and lines it up with your entrance rubbing it up and down your slit. His hands practically shook with excitement.

“you sure?” he asks pausing before he goes any further. Without hesitation, you aggressively nod your head.

“words, ma ‘evenge (my girl),” the nickname drove you crazy causing the pool between your legs to get bigger and bigger.

“yes, teyam please,” you pleaded hands gripping the hair on his neck tighter. Immediately he was bullying his cock through your walls. When he entered you, you both gasped out of pleasure. The feeling of you being filled up makes your head go spinning, and the feeling of your warm walls around Neteyam makes him dizzy.

“oh, my eywa,” you whimper as he slowly pulls out and quickly snaps his hips back into yours. Your head swings back into the tree behind you and he uses both of his hands to cup for ass to support you. Back aching from being forced onto the rough bark behind you.

“Fuck baby,” he groans increasing his pace with every thrust. His nails dug into the plush of your ass and he couldn’t help but bury his head in the crook of your neck. Kissing, sucking, licking, and sometimes sinking his sharp fangs into your collarbone.

“You feel so good,” you whine bucking your hips up at him to meet him halfway, your body was begging for more.

“I need more,” you pleaded pushing his neck closer to you and shoving his body against yours, leaving sloppy kisses all over his shoulder. You needed to be closer to him, you needed to feel every movement he made, hear every breath he took, and kiss every inch you could.

“I know you want it so bad, huh baby?” his voice sounds sympathetic but he’s just being a meanie. His thrusts grow faster and faster, harder and harder. Your eyes roll into the back of your head due to the amount of pure bliss you were in.

“Fuck I been waiting to fuck you for so long. Ruin that pretty little innocent act you put on,” he practically growls into your neck. Your nails dig into his back.

“Please ruin me,” You begged, he scoffed at how needy and pathetic you were for him. He knew you weren’t as innocent as everyone made you out to be, so he was gonna fuck you like you weren’t.

“You’re all mine now,” he smirks against your collarbone as he sucked and bit marking you up so everyone would know he was yours and you were his.

“Say it ma ‘evenge,” he demanded.

“‘m all yours teytey,” you choked out through your moans. The knot in your stomach was growing tighter by the second and any second now you would cum.

“Please can I cum tey?” you begged, scratching up his back and marking him in your own way.

“Admit it, admit you’re a fucking slut,” His stern voice pulsated throughout your whole body sending shivers down your spine.

“I’m a slut,” you manage to choke out through your pants. His thrusts are becoming sloppy but his pace is still quick. You know he’s close.

“who’s slut are you?” He questions biting into your neck, his fangs so deep they feel like they’re going to draw blood.

“yours, teyam. All yours,” you breathe, his breaths quicken with yours and he throws his head back unable to take the pleasure anymore. You have to cum before him.

“cum, princess,” As soon as the word leaves his mouth, your a mess crumbling underneath him. Pleasure takes over your body and causes your head to throw back and your back to arch off the tree. The way your walls tighten around him sent him over. His thrusts became sloppy as his white ropes shot into you.

“I know, baby. I know,” He shushed you as you both came down from your high caressing your face with one of his hands and holding you up with the other.

“everyone’s gonna know you’re mine,” he smirked admiring the attacks he left on your neck.

[carnal-lnstinct]

Pairing: Work Husband!Nanami x Sorcerer!Reader Content: Post- Yuji's resurrection. coworkers / work friends, flirting, mutual attraction, subtle pining!Nanami struggling to keep your professional relationship intact, mommy and daddy talking about their new son. written in a single sitting so not proofread A/N: This is for you bacon! ( @actuallysaiyan ) Still can't wait to see what you do with it! ♥♥ This is my first time writing Nanami so he's sorta stiff here but he would definitely pass the orange peel test

The empty common area was illuminated by the sunset coming in, the glow reflected in your eyes while you watched the scenery outside the windows. You were trying to let your thoughts settle from what was going through your mind at the moment, unsure whether to feel concerned about the situation at hand or simply play along. It’s not like you would question Nanami’s judgment as he was always careful (and often right) about his decisions. The man was sitting in the chair with his back against the windows, slightly hunched over with his fingers rotating a small orange.

“I don’t know how to feel about this one.” You admitted, then paused lowering your eye from the windows.  “Not saying I don’t feel safe or anything, but that was a pretty impulsive move on Gojo’s part. Is he trying to piss the higher-ups off more? What is he really banking on here?” A genuine question directed towards Nanami whose eyes didn’t leave the orange. There’s a focus while his thumbnail penetrates the surface of the peel and spirals the fruit's skin.

His head does lift slightly at the notes of concern in your tone. “I don’t pretend to understand the way his mind works. You think it’s the right thing to just have him executed?” 

“I...really don't know. It's better than being possessed by the worst curse there is, isn't it?" You frown, lifting your head with a heavy sigh. "In a twisted way, they got what they wanted. Sukuna’s vessel was killed in action so there’s nothing much to say on that. Another unfortunate soul caught up in this brutal world…”

“...Yuji Itadori.” Nanami’s tone was soft, but firm. Correcting you, a brief pause in peeling the orange before he continued. The weight in his voice makes you turn your head toward him before walking up behind the couch, leaning your arms against the back of it as you looked down at his orange peeling. 

“I know.” You're silent for a moment. The fate of Ryomen Sukuna was in the hands of some kid who was barely out of the basics of wielding cursed energy, there was no denying the horror show that is or what someone could live with dealing with being thrust into this environment. But Nanami is right to humanize the vessel. He was his own person outside of the Jujutsu world before he merged with the King of Curses. Then a smile grew in your features as you moved to lighten up the conversation. 

“You met him, haven’t you? What’s Itadori like, being back from the dead and all?”

“He took it well, more resilient than what’s expected of a kid his age-” Nanami’s voice was caught in his throat when your hands came down his shoulders and the weight of your chin pushed against the back of his head. There’s an added warmth against his nape, your breasts brushing against him. He can feel it's your skin too, spilling from the low collar of your top. No doubt they were flushed and propped against the top of the chair where any movement of his head would touch them. He cleared his throat, attempting to hold his composure. “He can also be rash, boisterous-” 

“You say that about everyone.” You interrupt with a roll of your eyes.

The perfect spiral of the orange's skin is held up, masterfully removed from the orange with no bits of it left behind. “And…noble. He wants to save as many people as he can, even if it kills him again.” Nanami continues as he wraps the peel in a napkin to be thrown away, your eyes following his hands as you listen and his returned soft tone signals your intuition, widening your smile. You lean further and lift your head to look over his shoulder toward his face, your fingers playfully flapping his suit lapels.

“You like him. When do I get to meet our new son?” Your playful tone was immediately rejected by Nanami.

“No-”

“'No', I can’t meet him or…?” Your teasing persists.

“As far as you know, Yuji Itadori is dead. So there is no one for you to meet. Take it up with Gojo.”

"But you're the one he trusted with him." You whined. His head tilts toward you with a blank stare. There was a twitch in his eyebrow that spoke volumes to you in your tenure of being his friend and self-declared work wifey. You nod your head, honoring the trust of keeping Yuji's fate a secret but you simply had to know the person able to get on Nanami's soft side. You're practically kindred spirits at that point! “I know, I know. I just wanna know if he has your eyes and my good looks.” You finally got a heavy sigh out of him as he adjusted his tie and peeled one of your arms from his chest. That warmed your smile.

“Behave yourself for once. This is still considered office hours.” Nanami insisted more firmly, to which you shrugged and pulled your arms back as you stood up. You come around the chair.

“Yes, husband. Whatever daddy wants.” You snicker as you plop down beside him and he does well to not react to your more blatant flirting. He can't help but internally grieve that the area around his neck is much cooler now, however. "Thank you for peeling that for me, by the way. I love how you get it done in one go."

Nanami hums with a gentle grin and hands it to you, and you notice the orange is already split in half allowing you to easily pull each slice apart to eat. He wipes his hands with the napkin and further relaxes his back against the chair, crossing one of his legs over the other.

You lean closer briefly to put one half of the orange into his lap, offering it to share, then without thinking patted the top of his thigh as another gesture of thanks. The warmth of your hand where it should not be was brief but powerful. It felt like he watched your fingers slip from his leg in slow motion, feeding your touch up his leg when he realized what you had innocently done. You were one bite into one of your slices and busy removing a seed from your mouth when Nanami swiftly stood up and paced toward the door.

"E-Excuse me for a moment." He uttered hastily and tensely before stepping out of the area, leaving you mildly confused at his hurry.

[thelittlestoflives]

Thank You

soooo i sort of have a whole backstory to the Unravelling the Mystery fic and i just thought welllll i might as well post that too lol!! (i actually have lots of parts and stories)

again, very new to fic writing and i've thrown in some y/n lore in there too!! it's so vulnerable and scary to post stuff you've written (again i suck at proofreading so forgive pls)

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

sanji x strawhat!reader, or the story of how y/n became a strawhat and gravitated towards the chef

use of YN, afab reader

cw: stuff to do with horrible exes, forced eating of a devil fruit, being severely injured, slight angst to fluff but mostly fluff i think

wc: 2.7k

It was like a ritual. The breathing in the room evening out, slipping out from under the covers and creeping through the halls towards him. His arms were your salvation, every gentle kiss burning your skin with love, each touch so heavenly you could almost believe in a higher power.

You can barely remember how it began. It's like it's just always been this way.

But it wasn't.

Not when you were stuffed in that barrel, just you and the darkness and the splashing of the waves against the wood, the drip drip drip onto your already soaking clothes. You can't remember how you survived it, how you endured the minutes and the hours and the days you remained in there, physical wounds nowhere near the pain of the scarring on your soul.

And like words out of the holy texts, there was light. A piercing, bright light. But unlike the holy texts, soft mutters echoed in your ears.

"Shit. It's a girl."

"Dammit. So, it's not treasure?"

"She's injured."

"How long has she been in there?"

"Why does this always happen to us?"

“Get her out of there, for fuck’s sake! Why are you all just standing around?!”

Just like that, the light vanished and darkness returned.

When you came to you were in some sort of medical infirmary, the light streaming through the windows so intense that you could barely open your eyes. An assortment of smells hit your nose; disinfectant, bleach, salty sea air, and a bowl of rich chicken noodle soup that steamed as it sat on your bedside table.

Maybe that's when it started. The soup. You stared at it for god knows how long, tears streaming down your face at the act of kindness. The trauma of what you'd just been through vanished staring at that bowl, feeling the love of whoever made it poured into it. Your body had been wrapped in bandages and cleaned, and you wore soft pyjamas that weren't your own, your hair had been brushed, and someone had made you fucking chicken noodle soup.

A couple of days went by as your body slowly healed. The only interaction you had was with the ship's doctor as he tried to make you feel comfortable and safe. You didn't see any of the other crew, but each time you woke from a restless, haunted sleep, there was a steaming dish beside you. Before long, you were strong enough to walk around. Chopper held your hand as he led you above deck to meet the crew who sat around the kitchen table.

You felt shy and nervous. Sure, you'd spoken to pirates before, but always in a controlled environment, never on their turf.

But they were vastly different from the pirates you'd encountered, offering easy smiles and gentle words, coaxing you to tell them what had happened to you. You caught eyes with a man with a cigarette hanging casually out his mouth a couple of times, quickly looking away. Was this where it started?

You explained that you're a journalist on your home island. Or rather, were a journalist. Now? You were dust in the wind, not taking any sort of discernable shape, floating with no direction, no intention, nothing. You thought you had it all; a home, a job you loved, family, friends, and someone who you thought was the love of your life. In less than a week, it was gone.

You had been investigating a cult on your island and stumbled across a giant conspiracy involving the World Government. You had written a tell-all piece, ready to blow the whole damn thing wide open. But you made a mistake, you told your then-boyfriend about it. Turns out he wasn't who he said he was, he was one of them. Sent to keep an eye on the local journalists, he’d pretended to fall for you to keep you close. The cult that terrorised truth seekers from the shadowy underworld was an unstoppable and dangerous force and he was one of them.

They'd captured you, and when the darkness was lifted there was no heavenly bright light. Just a dank basement dimly lighting up your boyfriend's face, grinning from ear to ear as he told you in laborious detail what was about to happen to you. You would eat a Devil Fruit, they would drug you, and you would be forced to do their bidding. No choice, no control, this was it. They’d already done this to every other person who had been investigating them. They had a small army now, he informed you. An army of ‘nosey bastards who didn’t know what they were getting themselves into’. Despite your pleading, he laughed and said that you better get ready for what’s about to happen.

And so they did it. They had it all figured out. They forced you to eat the Devil Fruit, and as its powers flowed through your veins you realised that perhaps they didn’t have it all figured out after all. They didn’t account for the fact that you would be damned rather than be bested by a man.

Your powers erupted out of you, flowing with such a force that all you could do was let out a silent scream, as the shadows wrapped themselves around the foundations of the building they held you in and it collapsed into rubble. 

An arm roughly grabbed you, pulling you out of the wreckage. It had stuffed you in a barrel, and an unfamiliar voice hissed the words: “It’s better if they think you’re dead. If you survive, never return.” 

As soon as the last word of your tale left your mouth, a straw hat was placed on your head, and that’s how Luffy obtained another stray to add to his collection. You became the Strawhats’ Chronicler, your job was to forever immortalise the crew’s journey towards the One Piece and to document how Luffy became the King of the Pirates. Although it was a difficult adjustment at first, you became fast friends with the crew. Robin in particular was a huge help for you, as it was she who understood your plight the best.

Sanji kept his distance at first. You were so beautiful that he knew he wouldn’t be able to help himself from flirting, and that was probably the last thing you needed right now, so he resigned himself to being helpful in the background, finding out information about you from Robin and Nami and incorporating it into his cooking. But the two of you were like magnets, unexplainably drawn to one another and soon neither of you would be able to stay away.

You were ripped from your nightmare with such force that you shot upright, sweat dripping down your back. It was the same as always, but tonight you didn’t want to wake up Robin with your tears.

And that’s how you found yourself in the kitchen, face-to-face with a certain chef. He tried not to make a fuss as he saw your hunched, small frame in the doorway, tear-stained cheeks and sleepy eyes. Really, he did. But he’s only a man, after all. He gave you a warm hug and sat you down, making his own special sleepy tea (“I promise you, you will be knocked out after this. No bad dreams for our sweet Chronicler!”).

“I meant to say thank you,” you said quietly as you sipped your tea.

He arched an eyebrow, a gentle blush on his cheeks. “For?”

“The food. When I was in the infirmary, your food made me feel…” you trail off, suddenly embarrassed. 

“Made you feel what?”

You look up at him, an amused expression on his face. 

“Your chicken noodle soup made me cry,” you admit softly. “It was the first thing I saw when I woke up, and it’s my comfort food. And I cried. I was so touched that I forgot everything else. I can’t thank you enough for that. I could’ve lost my mind, but that small act grounded me.”

The blush was no longer gentle but furious as his eyes diverted from your face. “Ah. Well, it’s an honour to cook for a pretty girl like you, and even more so that it makes you feel something. So really, I should thank you for your high praises.” 

Your mouth twitched into a smile. “No, thank you!”

His mouth echoed yours. “No, no, thank you!”

And you continued like that, thanking each other more and more dramatically through laughs. The silliness wore off, and Sanji’s face turned slightly more serious.

“Look, I wanted to say something to you too,” he began. “I’m sorry that your ex betrayed you like that. No beautiful lady should ever have to suffer at the hands of a man, much less a man who should love her.”

You blink, suddenly remembering why it was you were here in the first place.

“It’s okay,” you say with a small shrug. “Well, no, it’s not okay but… I dunno. What else can I say? ‘My ex gave me up to an evil cult and altered my life forever and because of him my family think I’m dead and I didn’t even get the t-shirt’? I appreciate that though. I appreciate all of you.”

He blew air out of his nose softly as you tried to make light of what was clearly a horrific situation. 

“Well, if you ever need to talk, I’m here for you.” “Thank you, Sanji, same goes for you,” you smile.

He grins back. “No, no, no. Thank you!” 

You laugh and lightly hit his arm. “Cut it out or we’ll be here all night!”

His grin widens. “Maybe that’s what I’m trying to do.”

And maybe that’s where it starts. Those late nights in the kitchen when you both couldn’t sleep, sharing easy conversations and trying to make the other laugh. Warm mugs of tea and knees touching each other under the table. A bubble you created with just the two of you, a sacred space, with none the wiser as to these secret meetings of yours.

It would become routine for a couple of weeks. The nightmares jolt you awake, so you pad through to the kitchen for tea, smiles, and chats. 

“You know, I reckon you’re the beating heart of this crew,” you say as you blow on your tea to cool it down.

Sanji scoffs in derision. 

“No, I’m serious! If Luffy is the soul, then you’re the heart. I see everything you do for the crew, Sanj. You’ve got a kind soul.”

You wished you could frame the look on his face to cherish forever. A mix of gratitude, embarrassment, confusion, denial, and something else. Something you couldn’t quite place. 

“In saying that,” you continue, sipping on the now-cool beverage. “You look tired. If you’re looking after everyone else, who’s looking after you?”

He froze.

Your eyes are trained on his. “Look, there’s a reason we’re both here in the dead of night. You can’t sleep either, can you?” 

He looks down.

“Let me in, Sanj. Let me look after you.”

And he does. He tells you everything, and now the bond runs so deep you’re afraid. After all, the last person you fell in love with lied about it and broke your heart. You couldn’t take much more. But this was different, somehow.

Maybe it started the first night you slept in his arms. 

It was just a normal night. As usual, a nightmare ripped you from sleep. It was a particularly bad one this time, your cheeks wet with tears as you made your way to the kitchen. But when you got there, the lights were off. Panic clawed up through your chest. You’d come to rely upon the chef in the dead of night, and now that he wasn’t here, you were scared to face your demons alone. So, fuck it, you thought. I’ll just go to him.

The men’s quarters were loud. Zoro’s snores cracked through the room, and general grunts and smells and sleepy noises were prevalent, but it didn’t matter. He was there, and he would make you feel okay again.

And once you’d crawled in beside him, and his arms automatically wrapped around you, you knew that there was no going back. You woke up in your own bed, having slept soundly for the first time in weeks.

That night when you met in the kitchen, there was a slight awkwardness that hadn’t been there before.

He cleared his throat. “Did you, uh, did you sleep okay last night?”

“I did. Best I have in a while, really. I’m so sorry if I overstepped or-”

“No! No, I’m sorry for not being here at our usual time-”

“Don’t be stupid!”

“Thank you for-”

“Thank you for-”

You both stopped and he cleared his throat again, cheeks bright red.

“Well, honestly? That’s the best I’ve slept in a while too. So, thanks. And I…” He paused as if building up some courage. “I wondered if you would maybe want to… Do it again sometime. But, you don’t have to and I don’t want you to feel like I’m coming on to you because I know you don’t want, like, romance or anything because of the situation with your ex and-” He began to ramble anxiously, bringing a small smile to your lips.

“Sanji, Sanji, stop! It’s okay! I… I would like that a lot. And so thank you.”

He stopped blabbering and clasped his hands together. “Really?” There was a sparkle in his eyes.

“Really,” you nodded. 

You both built a little routine together. If Sanji wasn’t already in the kitchen, then you’d go to him. Otherwise, you’d meet in the kitchen for your cup of tea, before retiring to his hammock in the men’s quarters. The noises of the sleeping crew around you didn’t bother you at all as you lay entwined in Sanji’s long arms.

One night, you made your way into the kitchen and stopped quietly in the doorway. Sanji had fallen asleep at the table waiting for you. You took in his sleeping figure, the way his sleep shirt clung to his arms and revealed some of his chest. His face was relaxed and peaceful, and god, was it beautiful. Shit, you thought. I’m in way too deep now.

You gently woke him up, and the look in his eyes when he saw your face sent your stomach dropping and mind shortcircuiting. 

“It’s you,” he whispered.

You nodded. “It’s me, Sanj. Let’s go to bed, hmm?”

He had that look on his face again, the one from before when you couldn’t figure it out. But now? Now you knew what it was. It was love. It was adoration. It was ‘you’re my comfort, my safety, you feel like home and I’m at peace’. He stood up and pulled you to his chest, groaning softly as he rested his chin on top of your head. You looked up at him, fondness in your eyes.

“Sanj?” You whispered.

“Yes, my darling YN?” His sleepy voice and eyes were too much. You stood up on your tiptoes and pressed a soft, swift kiss to his lips.

He stiffened, eyes wide. 

“Are you sure?” He whispered. 

You nodded.

His face brightened and burst into a lovesick grin, one hand settling at your waist, the other snaking up to hold the back of your head. He nudged his nose against yours as your lips met, the world melting around you both. He pulled back and rested his forehead against yours.

“I want to promise something to you right now,” he murmured. “I promise to protect you, to keep you safe, I promise I will never do anything that could possibly hurt you, and I will hunt down anyone who does. Thank you, YN, for showing me what love could be.”

“No, Sanj… Thank you for showing me.”

His eyes were brimming with tears too, but he laughed softly, unable to resist the urge to say:

“No, no. Thank you.” 

And with that, you went to the safety of Sanji’s hammock, entangled with one another as you pressed burning kisses to each others’ skin, his heavenly touch making you forget what life was like without him. You don’t know exactly when it started, but you know this will never end.

[gaybananabread]

AHHH, ok ok. This is my first time like ordering anything so I’m nervous asf. But I’d like oranges, grapes and cherries with Ler!Jax and Lee!Pomni. Obv everything platonic, and like, go nuts with the plot. (Idk if this is worth mentioning pero I have this silly little headcannon that Pomni squeaks like a squeaky toy when squeezed so like, IF YOU WANT, you can add that.)

IF YOU DONT DO THIS ONE ITS OKK, I rly enjoy your writing and hope you have a great day/ night, tyy <33

Fruit(s): Oranges, Grapes, Cherries

Aww thank you Anon! You’re all good, and love that Pomni would absolutely become a dog toy (¬‿¬). Jax is definitely interesting to write for, and I like playing around with his asshole-ness. Thank you for requesting, and I hope you Enjoy!

Lee: Pomni

Ler: Jax

Summary: Pomni is still getting used to the circus, anxious and uneasy in the new environment. Jax tries to help out, though he does it in his own annoying way.

Warnings: none! This is a tickle fic, so if you don’t like that, scroll away!!

In the circus tent, small NPCs ran wild, knocking things over and babbling nonsense. They were like the Gloinks, but so much worse. Caine had dipped on them once again, leaving the characters to fend for themselves. Zooble peaced out, but the others were stuck with them.

It took nearly the whole day, but they had managed to contain the little monsters until Caine came back to woosh them away. For most of the characters, it was weirdly routine. For the newest arrival, however, it was more than off-putting. Pomni just felt…out of place in the digital world. She wandered around the tent, trying to calm herself down.

-

Jax was walking around, trying to find something to do. He would have messed with Ragatha, but her and Gangle were having some kind of “girl’s day.” Ugh…he wanted no part of it. 

Just as he was considering going to explore the forbidden rooms, he heard the faint jingling of bells. Pomni must’ve been “exploring” the grounds again. While she wasn’t his usual target, the jester would probably keep him entertained until something else happened.

The smug and confident smirk he always wore shrank as he approached her. Pomni looked so…so tired. Tired and way too wound up. Still, he sauntered over, trying to gauge just how upset she was. “Hey, newbie. You sane after that horror show?”

Pomni flinched at his voice, taking a second to register what he said; she’d been spacing out for most of the day. “U-uhm…yes? Why?”

He rolled his eyes, trying to act as aloof as possible. “Really? ‘S just that ya look like you’re about to fall apart. Hey, you think that’s possible here?” Jax cared about how she was doing, but he had an image and a rep in the circus. No way he was jeopardizing that.

“Shut up, Jax…” She turned away from him, rubbing her arm and looking down. The girl felt crummy enough; she didn’t have the energy to deal with his junk. 

He chuckled, leaning down and getting eye-level with her. Jax was bored, yes, but he didn’t want to see Pomni so down. Might as well try and cheer her up. “Aww, c’mon Pom-Pom! Try a smile; it won’t kill ya!” He reached out, trying to poke her side in an attempt to get her to smile. Before he could even get close to her blue side, she gasped softly and jerked away from his hand. Oh…that’ll work.

The look on his face was a dead giveaway to his plan. “Jax, no! I swear, don’t you even think abo-KYAH!” Pomni was cut off by a sharp poke to her stomach, whatever she was trying to say lost in a squeal.

“Oh, I’m doin’ more than think about it~” Jax’s voice was smug as ever, his gloved hands wrapping around her middle and wiggling them into her sides. The bunny crouched down, just so he could whisper in her ear. “Tickle tickle, Pomni~”

Squeaky and bright giggles bubbled out of her, only making Jax’s smirk grow. Pomni was much less amused, kicking and wriggling around in his grip. “Y-youhuhu prihick! Gehet ohoff mehehe!”

“Nah, don’t think I will.” One fun thing the purple rabbit noticed; Pomni was blushing. Really blushing, so brightly that it put the circles already on her cheeks to shame. So, of course, he called her out on it.

“Wow, I didn’t know you could blush like that, newbie!” He cooed, making sure to poke up and down her ribs as he spoke. “Thought bright red was crybaby’s thing, but you go girl~” 

“Sh-shuhut uhuhuhup!” The bells on Pomni’s hat jingled with every sharp jolt and tug, only making the scene funnier. Jax was thoroughly enjoying himself; he had maintained his vibe while also making Pomni smile. True, he was being a bitch about it, but it was working.

Wanting to try something else, Jax clamped both hands firmly on her sides, giving them a nice squeeze. Nothing could’ve readied him for what happened next. “Jahahax! Wouhuld you- *squeak*” 

Suddenly, his hands stopped moving, giving her a quick breather as the shock and amusement set in. After a few seconds, a loud bark of laughter escaped him, his voice more playful than it had been the whole time. “No *sproing*-ing way… You squeak?!” 

Without any further warning, he dug into her sides, rapidly squeezing them in the hopes of more squeaks. “J- *squeak* COHOHohome ohon! Quihihit- *squeak* JAHAX!” The sound was almost like a dog toy’s squeaker; it endlessly amused Jax, leaving the rabbit wanting more and more of the adorable sound.

“This has gotta be my favorite quirk of yours, squeaky-toy!” He squeezed and poked along her sides, sneaking a quick rib scribble in every few seconds. Best day ever…

“P-PLEHEHE- *squeak* NOHO! JAHAX!” While he was more than enjoying the squeaks and laughter, he could tell Pomni was wearing out. Not wanting to potentially get on Ragatha’s very-bad side, he stopped squeezing the jester. “Alright, alright, no more squeezes. That was fun, though~”

Pomni went almost limp in his arms, trying to catch her breath. She looked up at him expectantly, expecting to be released. Jax only laughed at her expression. “Oh, newbie, no. I never said I was done~” The ever-growing blush on her cheeks made him smile wider, his almost haughty confidence growing.

He tested out her neck, smirking at the surprised giggles he received. “You’re just a walking tickle-spot, aren’t ya? There anywhere you ain’t ticklish?” Deciding to be a bit merciful, he kept the tickling to light scratches, exploring the area. 

Much to his surprise, Pomni’s giggles softened, her body going almost slack against his. Jax wondered if he’d managed to kill her for a second, but he soon realized that she was just…enjoying it. Pomni wasn’t trying to push at his hands anymore; she just grabbed his wrists and loosely hung on.

“Aww, Pomni! You like this, don’t ya~?” He continued lightly tickling underneath her chin and the front of her neck, basking in the lazy giggles and lax squeals he got. Jax had no idea how someone could practically melt from getting tickled, but he wasn’t gonna question it. 

“Ihihihi- shuhuhut ihit…” Pomni could’ve had a better response, but she was too comfy to try. While he was still tickling her, it felt much more relaxing and nice in that spot. She could’ve stayed there all day…

Quickly realizing the jester was about to fall asleep on him, Jax stopped and patted her back. Pomni took a few shaky breaths, residual giggles still squeaking out in her daze. The bunny boy just chuckled, trying to help her wake up, in a sense. “You’re good, I’m done, wakey-wakey.”

Pomni was tired, though, and feeling like mild revenge. She just leaned into the purple boy, closing her eyes and letting the sleepy relaxation take over; girl was out in seconds. 

“...Pomni?” Jax’s smirk slowly fell, his brow-area bunching. She hadn’t moved in a few seconds, though he could see her breathing. Did she… That little-

Seeing her asleep on him felt strangely similar to a kitten napping there. It felt wrong to move… “*boing* it…”

Hopefully Ragatha and Gangle will be done soon…

[waywardangel-wilds]

Another HC because I’m in the midst of brainstorming for fic writing purposes:

[once again, this is just my hc, no one who doesn’t want to has to accept it!]

Hobbies.

Peeta and Katniss both have their individual activities - Painting, baking, hunting, writing, music, etc. they’ve, of course, shared each of those with the other but none of those are something they could consistently do together because it’s just not the others jam. But thing is, they want to have a shared activity! That’s where the garden comes in.

Peeta started the garden (unwittingly) when he planted the primroses. They both take care of those flowers with so much love and patience, it was only natural to plant something else eventually.

Now, their house doesn’t have an aesthetic garden - neither of them knows the first thing about landscaping - their garden is all about life and learning and utility.

I’ve always pictured their Victor Village house as a large ornate house on a big plot of land. So, there’s a lot of space in the front and the back. I think their actual garden is in the back of the house, just because I’ve always pictured their kitchen in the back of the house with a door leading right to it, but I might be wrong about that layout. When it comes to houses in books I tend to create an entire layout in my head based on vibes and not the text at all haha. Like I literally have a stronger mental image of their house than of either of their faces lol.

Anyway, the garden is in the back. There’s a homemade scarecrow there, made up entirely of Peeta’s old shirts which have been stitched together and stuffed with hay and leaves.

They grow all kinds of food - they’re those neighbours that always ask if you’d like some tomatoes in the summer ‘cause they’ve got lots! There’s also all kinds of medicinal plants - think of the garden as a natural next step from the plant book.

Sometimes, Katniss teaches her music/daycare class/group of kids about plants via the garden. She does this before taking them into the woods to get them familiar with the shapes and colours they’re going to be looking for. She then tests them in the woods, “who can find me a katniss root?”

I see their garden as natural / not like a farm or a typical garden - like the plants might be in rows (?), sure, but no one is controlling in which direction they grow, nor are they necessarily divided by type. Like when you’re growing rubber, they would plant it in the way that makes most sense for that plant - big distances between each plant (for rubber not for like every plant lol), plus keeping it side-by-side (root wise) with another plant that does well with it, in the case of rubber I cannot remember if that’s corn or sugarcane? It doesn’t matter, you get my point, plus they’re not planting rubber in twelve lol. It’s more like those forest gardens you can sometimes find - the ones indigenous people used to plant back in the day? Along their migration routes? Something like that. I don’t see Katniss valuing some sort of Capitol-imposition looking garden that doesn’t jive with the surrounding environment. She wants something that feels like the woods and looks like it belongs. So it’s all native plants and vegetables, and they’re planted in a way that makes sense for the ecosystem.

My point is that their garden is their shared hobby. They spend a lot of time back there, so much time in fact that Haymitch sometimes drags a chair there to hang out with them too. Peeta set up a hammock between 2 fruit trees (I wanna say plum trees but idk what ppl in Appalachia would grow so ignore me) and is known to fall asleep in it all the time. The first summer they started spending time there Peeta got horribly sunburned so he has a designated hat for being out in the sun (“the Peeta hat” to Katniss and “The Hick Hat” to Haymitch). Katniss teaches Peeta all her food preservation secrets -- Peeta already knew some stuff, it’s not like the bakery didn’t also have to keep a store of food, it’s just that Katniss knows even more things you can do with food — their cellar is filled with everything you can think of, pickled, fermented, even dried. Everything.

When the kids are born it’s a family activity for as long as they’re interested — they grow out of it eventually, choosing to spend their afternoons playing in the street or at a friends house instead — they get a real kick out of planting seeds, picking fruits, yanking out roots, and weeding and checking for bugs. The girl did a whole science project on it once, it was all about the water cycle and the role of plants. Katniss proudly keeps a picture of her and the project on the fridge. It hangs there for the rest of her life.

When they’re elderly they still take care of the garden. The kids hem and haw about their knees, heat stroke, water intake, sinkholes, and the possibility of a sudden and unexpected earthquake. Their worries are soundly ignored. The plants keep growing, the food keeps coming. By this point there’s a number of pet graves (buttercup descendants, a few fish, and an ill-fated bunny that was not killed by the children it was an accident!) When Katniss and Peeta are no longer around, one of their kids keeps the garden going, they keep the house in the family and teach the next generation about what plants are good for eating and which ones are good for healing. Can you believe it?They even have a book!

[herprincess]

V&V HEADCANONS AGAIN!

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

-V&V would write/sing Everyone Knows That (the lost one or whatever)

-Velvet would write/sing that Zepotha opening song idk the name but it sounds very her

-Velvet wears acrylics because she picks at her nails and skin around them out of anxiety/nervous tic

-Veneer fights with his family at Thanksgiving over politics. Ever. Year. 

-When Velvet was around the middle school age, she wanted to be a ER nurse 

-Veneer wanted to do it with her just so they could still be together

-Sometimes they will say the same thing at the same time + finish each others sentences 

-Velvet used to get mad at Veneer when they were younger because she would watch videos where twin sisters would pretend to be each other at school, and she couldn’t do that with him because their hair obviously and some facial differences

-The differences they have obviously besides gender is Velvet having a more upturned nose, farther set eyes, lighter eyes, (you can see in the GIF if you don’t believe me lol she rlly does have lighter eyes than him) and a bit thinner, while Veneer having a rounded top lip, closer set eyes, darker eyes, and a more boxy figure

-Velvet has undiagnosed borderline personality disorder because her parents were convinced she was just a growing girl so she just started masking it to try and seem pretty and proper like the girls she’d see on TV shows, but masking it eventually built up so much that it exploded and that didn’t end very well

-Velvet is the one who picks the pickles off everything and gives them to Veneer

-Velvets hair is very heat damaged 

-It used to be wavy✊

-She would try and revive them after regretting all her years of straightening it but the pattern is destroyed

-Veneer was a roblox ipad kid and he used to steal their moms card for robux

-Velvet likes watching crime shows

-Which always creeped Veneer out

-Velvet choked on a piece of steak once and now she won’t eat it

-V&V used to make up dances to perform to their parents to try and convince them to take them somewhere 

-Velvet is allergic to peanuts 

-Veneer is allergic to penicillin

-Velvet was a allstar cheerleader but left because the toxic environment of her gym

-V&V were preemies

-I promise you Veneer isn’t as shy uwu innocent as some people make him out to be like did we watch the same movie?

-Vels favorite snack is pink frosted animal crackers

-Vens is zebra cakes

-From what i’ve seen in pictures, V&V are the around the same exact height, Velvet being maybe a bit taller

-Velvet is a hypoglycemic, so she did use the troll gem thing for fruits a few times on off screen performances if her sugar was low (if they even had off screen performances)

-Velvet was more shy when her and Ven were toddlers but as she started preschool, her extrovertism started to show

-As I stated in a previous post, I think it would be funny if V&V could both sing but acted like they sucked to make the other feel better 

-I can just see them looking at each other like 

Vel:😐

Ven:😟

-Veneer is lefthanded 

-He still grips his spoon/fork like he did in the table flip scene

-Velvet had a tooth gap growing up 

-They would both get in trouble because they would sneak watching Jersey Shore

-Veneer has insomnia

-If the twins had socials they’d be cancelled within a week because of Vel

-They both ran track at some point

-They both spend HOURS in Sephora 

-When they would chase each other, Veneer was the one who jumped on the bed and kick his legs so Velvet can’t get him

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

[sorrel-leaf-vespers]

I return with more Sitcom AU writing. I've been studying up, so I'm much more familiar with the AU now! That being said, looks like Alex is a wanted criminal now-

Alex was tired. They’d been staying up late at night lately to monitor and study Clyde when it was most active. Exhausting work, sure, but fascinating and incredibly fruitful. They’d learned so much about it. What they had learned basically boiled down to Clyde being a larger, spikier, more dangerous cat that could talk. Alex wondered if they could teach it to meow like one.

At the moment, Clyde was sleeping on the foot of Alex’s bed. It was nice and dark in Alex’s room with the new blackout curtains they had installed, which made it an ideal sleeping environment for the Veldigun. It was late in the afternoon, so it was bound to wake soon. Alex was in the kitchen making it a sandwich. They’d been trying to sleep for most of the day, too, but keeping Clyde away from the townsfolk of Eastridge County meant sacrificing catching up on sleep to keep it well-fed.

The thing was, Alex was starting to trust Clyde to a degree. Even on days where Alex was away from home for over 12 hours, Clyde would always stay in the house. Ever since that first incident, that first encounter, no one had died. The Smiling Snatcher was, as far as anyone knew, no longer snatching. That wasn’t to say Alex expected it to be perfectly tame. Clyde was still the equivalent of a wild beast. It still had its own thoughts and compulsions. It was still a killer. Heck, it could very well kill Alex at any moment if it wanted to. Alex fully understood that. Still, they couldn’t help but feel like they were starting to bond with the creature. There was still just one rule. Never touch it. That was how you got sick.

Alex heard something hit the floor in their bedroom. A few moments later, Clyde stalked into the room. “Good evening,” said Alex.

Clyde just rubbed its eye. It was still waking up.

“Friendly reminder that the repairman is coming to look at the lock on my back door in a few days. I’ll be home, but you’ll need to hide and keep quiet if you want to hang around.”

“Mhm…”

“Made you a sandwich, if you want one.”

That got its attention. Alex slid the plate across the counter, and only a few moments later, the sandwich was completely gone. “How’d you sleep?” Alex asked.

“Good enough,” said Clyde. “Do you HAVE to work tomorrow?”

“Yeah. It’s the only way I’ll be able to get to the bottom of whatever is going on. Besides, the better I know the asylum, the better we’ll be able to plan getting Winfrey out.”

Clyde nodded, stretching its long limbs. “Alright…”

There was a sudden knock at the door. Alex and Clyde both jumped. What in the world would someone be doing at the house on a Wednesday afternoon? “Get in the closet,” they whispered to Clyde, who quickly complied. They took a step toward the door, but before they could get any closer, they heard whoever it was speak.

“Mx. Alex Williams? This is the Eastridge County Police. We’ve gotten a tip-off that you may have information on the Eastridge Demon. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Alex froze in their tracks. How did they know that they were harboring Clyde?

“The man who tipped us said that you would recognize his name. Does ‘Herbert Lankmann’ sound familiar at all? Said he’s your boss.”

A second officer began talking. “That must mean you work at the asylum. If anyone’s got information on the Eastridge Demon, it’s you.”

Alex felt their heart begin to race.

“Mx. Williams, Mr. Lankmann informed us that we are under full authority to arrest you for treason if you refuse to comply.”

Oh no.

Alex sprinted to their room and began packing a backpack. Clyde poked its head out of the closet, watching concernedly. “What are you doing?” it whispered.

“Getting out of here. They know you’re here. Help me out.”

The packing frenzy began. Extra clothes, hairbrush, hat.

“Mx. Williams, if you don’t answer the door, we will use force.”

Research notebook, spare notebook, pencils.

“Mx. Williams, this is your last warning.”

Some extra food, first aid kit, as much money as they could grab.

Something slammed into the door, shaking the whole house. Alex quickly zipped up the backpack. “Let’s go.”

They ran for the back door and tried the lock. The lock jammed. Something slammed into the door again. Alex heard cracking wood. Oh, that stupid back door. Stupid broken back door! “We’re stuck,” they said in a shaky voice.

A growl welled up in Clyde’s throat. “Not on my watch.”

Alex yelped in surprise as they felt Clyde grab their wrist and pull them into what could only be described as the most violent hug they’d ever experienced. It smashed through the back window, covering Alex’s head to shelter them from the shattering glass, cleared the fence with one leap, and took off running to the tree line. If Alex wasn’t in panic mode, they definitely would have tried to calculate how fast Clyde was moving. It was nothing short of inhuman.

Within seconds, Clyde was carrying Alex up a tree. Alex looked back at the house. They could see officers in the backyard, investigating the broken window and forcing the back door open. Multiple police cars were out front. It looked like some officers were inside, too. Their heart pounded. Their home…

“We need to go farther away,” said Alex. They didn’t want to look at the scene anymore.

“In case they decide to search the forest? Good plan.”

Clyde began hopping from tree to tree, holding Alex in one arm. Alex held back tears. They were terrified. They were a wanted traitor now. Lankmann would stop at nothing to recover them and Clyde.

Clyde finally hopped down to the ground. “We should be far enough away now,” it said. “Want me to let you go?”

That was when it fully clicked for Alex. Clyde had grabbed them. Clyde was… TOUCHING them. Alex began to panic again as they registered a pain in their hand. “Clyde… please say you’re just touching my clothes and not my skin.”

Clyde sucked in a gasp. “Oh…”

Alex looked down at the back of their hand. One of Clyde’s spikes was digging into it.

The shock and terror set in immediately as Alex wrestled free of Clyde’s grip. They’d touched Clyde. They had TOUCHED it. They knew the symptoms of Veldigun sickness well by now. The thought of having to go through that…

“I’m… sorry…” said Clyde, backing up slowly. “I just wanted to help…”

Alex stared at it for a few seconds before sitting down on the ground. “I know. I can’t be mad at you for trying to help me.”

They sat there for another while with their face in their hands. Their whole life had just been turned upside down. No home, hardly any belongings, an enemy of the state, and doomed to catch Veldigun sickness. There was no hope. Or, at least, there wouldn’t have been, if Clyde hadn’t draped an arm over Alex’s shoulder and said, “I have an idea.”

[beanghostprincess]

Sometimes I feel like Shuggy is a sort of Lusopp gone wrong, especially with the w7 fight hilighting Usopp's insecurities and how Buggy may have felt some insecurities as well towards Shanks..

I am not gonna write a long text about this because I am busy however, I have so many thoughts about this. I've been having this exact same thought for a long time, because I was like "wow Luffy doesn't usually explain what happened to people. In general. He doesn't stay in the past. But if Shanks asked about their journey and his rough times, maybe he'd end up telling him about Usopp and Water 7. And Shanks would relate to it to a personal level so damn hard- At least he'd be proud Luffy was able to deal with it". And after this thought, I just can't unsee it.

Buggy and Usopp are really similar. They both have those "fake it til you make it" type of "coward" personalities and they wish to be more than what they're seen as, because they feel like everyone shines brighter than them. I think the main difference here is that Usopp has a crew that supports him and his environment is wayyy healthier than Buggy's. He can grow as a person with them and learn to be braver and stronger and not compare himself to others. Be his own person and grow to the point of accepting himself. The whole thing about Usopp's journey is a personal thing, because his crew already knows what he's capable of, he just wants to prove it to himself. Buggy, on the other hand, doesn't have the luck to be surrounded by people that genuinely believe in him. Like, okay, he has followers and subordinates that always keep treating him like a king, but they don't make him feel like one because he just keeps on pretending instead of trying to grow as a pirate accept himself. Which is understandable because why the hell would he do that if there's no point to do it? He gave up on his dream and now he's just doing the "fake it til you make it" to survive. With chapter 1082 (Y'all really should tell me to shut up about that chapter. It's just... I just miss Buggy and Cross Guild I really need another chapter about them) I think we could have a lot of character development for Buggy because he now has decided to follow his dream after all these years. It's basically the same story as Usopp's, except that it has taken him years to do this because his insecurities are tied to a relationship that doesn't have any closure.

Shuggy really is a Lusopp gone wrong, and it makes me so sad but it's just another great way of showing parallelisms between Shanks and Luffy and how the new generation is doing things differently (and better).

Usopp left the crew using the death of Merry as an excuse to cover the real reason (feeling completely insecure as he's surrounded by people stronger than him and he doesn't feel like he belongs with them) and Buggy left Shanks using the excuse of having been tricked into eating a Devil Fruit and losing the map to cover the fact that he did it because... Not exactly because he felt insecure being in Shanks' shadow. See? This is the main difference between the two. Buggy didn't leave Shanks because of feeling insecure (although, yes, it's a really important point of the story and it's pretty much crucial to their relationship and his decision to leave Shanks), he left because he trusted him to follow Roger's steps but he didn't. He gave up on his dream to trust Shanks instead and that's what Shanks does? Throw their dream away?

Lusopp's thing is more about Usopp's personal growth, but the whole deal with Shuggy's relationship is a bit more messed up because it's full of miscommunication, mourning and insecurities and it's a thing they have to deal with together.

But yeah, what I'm trying to say is that their relationships are pretty similar and I really, really want Shuggy to have closure because otherwise I will forever be sad.

[over-particular]

productive days, a very personal morning checklist

ʀᴇᴍɪɴᴅᴇʀ → It takes an average of 66 days to create or change a habit. Don’t give up now!

☐ Wake up at a predetermined time. Set your alarm clock early if you're the type of person who might feel the need to linger in bed for a while before getting up. If possible, get an alarm clock that is not your phone.

☐ Open the curtains and, if possible, air the room for a while, without making the bed yet. According to a study published in 2006 in the journal Experimental and Applied Acarology, making your bed actually creates a comfortable refuge for mites. Researchers at Kingston University's Centre for Immunology in England concluded that putting back the sheets or comforter as soon as you wake up creates an ideal environment for mites to grow. Air the room for a while.

☐ Stay hydrated. Drink water.

☐ If possible, avoid screen time until the end of the list. My mornings allow me to escape social media, messages and demands from work, friends and family. It's a privileged moment in which I avoid any unnecessary anxiety or negative thoughts.

☐ Exercise your mind, your faith, your creativity for a few minutes. For some, it is a combination of meditation and affirmations. As for me, I pray for a moment or two. I also sometimes write a few lines in my journal, although I much prefer to reserve this moment for my evenings. This is the time to get inspired: listen to your favorite podcast, read a little. (Don't start reading new books until you've finished the current one, even if the book is pretty boring.)

☐ Prepare your bag for the day. This is the time to pack your lunch box, your notebooks, your computer for work and all the necessary chargers... I never do it the night before.

☐ Be physically active for at least 30 minutes. If possible, an hour or two. Run, go for a quick walk, stretch, do yoga, use the equipment in your apartment or go to the gym. 

☐ Wash yourself. Everyone has a different approach to it, depending on their resources and organization. Wash up or take a shower or a bath, brush your teeth and floss and if you have one, do your skin care routine.

☐ Get ready for the day. Get dressed and comb your hair even if you don't plan on going out for the day. As someone who has suffered from mental health issues that have kept me in bed for days, getting ready in the morning subconsciously pushes me to offer myself a picture of me ready to face the day. Often, it also encourages me to go out... 

☐ Have a cup of coffee, a cup of tea, a glass of warm water. Try to eat before ingesting any form of caffeine. If possible, eat a full breakfast or a fruit, but never go out on an empty stomach. Again, try to stay hydrated and drink water.

☐ Finish by making your bed. While the study referenced above does not advocate doing this, I find that the discipline and rigor involved in recreating a physically "neutral" environment allows my mind to unburden itself. For the sake of productivity, I suppose. For the same reasons, if possible, never leave your stuff lying around in your room (like letting it pile up on a chair or desk).

☐ Start your day, outside the walls of your precious home. 

I have a sort of unhealthy obsession with checklists and their elaboration. They help me develop my sense of order and allow me to envision a kind of stability in their recurrence. I kind of get to appreciate my sense of discipline. I would also like to add that this list is intended to be personal. I made it for myself in the hope that sharing it might inspire others. I am therefore fully aware that it cannot necessarily be applied to a profile different from mine. Feel free to rewrite it, make it your own!

[moon-alight]

I don't know if you know the game but i feel like you can easily tell someons personality from their animal crossing island.

What would playing acnh be like with &T?

I love Animal Crossing and I must admit, I'm a bit addicted.🤣

Masterlist

&Team reaction to playing Animal Crossing with you.

Warnings: none

Word Count: 952

-K

-Chaotic island #1

-Has a bunch of random stuff all around because he does not know what to do with most of it

-Funnily enough hates it whenever you move something because even though its chaotic and all over the place, he loves it a lot.

-Tries to speedrun through the game but forgets it exists and gives up a couple days in

-Only to love it a week later and then forget about it again

-Has the most random villagers and has no clue how to get rid of them.

-Marshal is his pride and joy <3

-Never plays acnh ever again once Marshal decides to move lol

-Fuma

-The cleanest and most gorgeous island you have ever seen.

-Seriously, everything is so aesthetically pleasing.

-This man has a bedroom with a queen-sized bed for the both of you

-Loves playing together and giving you sweet little gifts

-Has the cutest and most adorable villagers that fit his island

-Made an entire beach, playground and refuses to use vehicles because "it is bad for the environment"

-Dom is his favorite and he loves spoiling the damn sheep

-Knows what he is doing and does it amazingly

-Nicholas

-This guy is a bit lost

-Swears he won't like the game because it is "boring" but you catch him playing at the most unholy hours just to catch fish

-Has no clue what he is doing but somehow his island turns out ok.

-Like, he has weird and random stuff but you can tell he put a lot of work into his paths and scenery

-Will melt when you two play together like watching the stars or visiting the museum

-Date night is usually you two grinding on Animal Crossing.

-His favorite villager is Eugene because -- and I quote -- "He looks like me"

-EJ

-His first villager was Fauna and he immediately fell in love lol

-Tries his hardest but it never turns out the way he wants it to

-Gets a lot of inspiration from Fuma and sometimes even asks for help.

-Would love it if you visited and complimented his house (because he worked hard for it to look like that)

-The biggest grin whenever he catches a bug but cannot fish to save his life

-He has missed a lot of sharks because of his terrible skill

-His mission is to have every single different type of fruit without help so you can often find him on Nook-Mile islands

-Cries when Fauna tells him she wants to leave

-Yuma

-Chaotic Island #2

-This guy leaves trash around everywhere and then complains about the damn ants on his island

-Collected the ugliest villagers on purpose because he knows you hate them.

-His only decent looking villager is Marlo and he's only there because it was his very first villager so he is proud of him.

-Despite his island looking like a dangerous toxic environment, his house is really cute and pretty.

-According to him it's because he doesn't want you to feel uncomfortable whenever you visit <3

-Plants random flowers around your house whenever he visits

-Jo

-The calmest boy ever.

-Plays everyday and does his tasks like he is supposed to but at the same time makes sure all his villagers love him.

-This man once received a gift in his mailbox from Mint and almost teared up because he didn't know they could do that

-Has made it his mission to write his villagers every few days to keep the good vibes

-Funnily enough, his house is pretty empty

-It's because he places everything that's useful outside so his villagers can enjoy it more than him

-Enjoys fishing with you or decorating his island together.

-Sends you letters and cute gifts almost everyday.

-He's determined lol

-Harua

-Chaotic island #3

-Not because everything is everywhere like the other two but because it is indeed very chaotic.

-He has placed his buildings all around the damn island

-Has a random basketbal field in front of his Nook's Cranny

-Accidentally put his device in English so he has no clue whatever Tom Nook asks him to do

-Always comes to you to translate everything because he is clueless

-Has trouble understanding why his villagers want to leave but he also never speaks to them

-Except for Moe that is

-Harua loves Moe and always has long conversations with him

-Has many different pictures with just Moe and random fish in his hands

-Taki

-This man had one mission and one mission only

-An island filled with horses and it is almost exactly like that

-The only non-horse villager is Shep and he cannot physically get it over his heart to bully this dog away

-It was his first villager together with Savannah so he decided to love Shep because he was really cute

-His island is pretty normal by the way

-Just does his tasks as normal and donates things to the museum

-Always laughs whenever Blathers shows a disliking into bugs

-Likes to go to other people's islands just to annoy them

-Maki

-He is a pro at ACNH

-Makes his island look pretty and does his tasks until KK Slider has visited

-After that all hell breaks lose

-His members ask him where he gets all the cool stuff from but Maki knows about Treasure Islands.

-Sneaks the most amazing things from there and makes sure you get a copy of things he knows you'd like

-Does not tell anyone about how he gets these things and remains focused on his own island.

-All his villagers are different types of animals

-His favorite villager is Vic

-Simply enjoys his island and does not let anyone on it lmao

[marximoff]

take me, one more wave | w. maximoff

summary: you start to take your first steps towards healing, but that doesn't mean the path will be easy. luckily for you, Wanda happens to be a great listener.

warnings: heavy make out, smut, strap-on sex (Wanda receiving), fingering (r receiving), hair pulling (Wanda receiving), dirty talk, dry humping, maybe a cumfilled strap hint, mentions of smoking, mentions of drinking, canon typical violence, heavily detailed panic attack, angst.

pairing: Wanda x fem!reader

word count: 11k

A/N: ok, things are finally getting better in a certain way (and horny, these people are horny), but the question is… how long will it stay like this, eh? kidding, i want the happiness of these two as much as anyone - but it's just so ironic to enjoy writing angst when you have a heart as gay as mine, i know

((wanda and r totally listened to deftones together btw

well, well, well, enjoy!

|series masterlist|

|part one| |part two| |part three| |part four| |part six|

《《《《《《《ᱬ》》》》》》》

Wanda's unwary green eyes glance toward the face of the brown-strap watch, screwed on solemnly by the length of her slender right wrist, in a necessary acknowledgment of the time marked by the small gray hands on its monotone interior—seven forty-two in the morning, still there is plenty of time to have breakfast peacefully and subtly.

And then she hears, in an avid gulp, Tommy drink the entire contents of his glass of warm milk at an astonishing speed, almost as if to quench a naughty thirst in the back of his throat that has lingered for more than days. And then Wanda takes a deep breath. It would be nice if he understood a little more of what peacefully and subtlety really mean.

Then she just blinks slowly because soon after she turns, with a spatula, the face of a homogeneous, round mass of blueberry and oatmeal, which is fried before the extension of a metal frying pan which she holds by the handle with her right hand, the pancake shivering in the air as she does.

Y/N used to be a natural breakfast pancake connoisseur, Wanda remembers well, which is why she suspects her boys have a specific taste for their morning meal too – blueberry pancakes, sugary cereal, toast with butter and orange juice, just as their mother was so fond of too.

Behind Wanda, then, on the counter stretched out to the left side of the sink, a juicy orange sliced in half floats and squeezes against a juicer made of yellow plastic, the spherical fruit with a porous rind shrouded in a thin layer of scarlet mist all around itself (the fruit which is enchanted to press itself against the object), turning and squashing, until all its fresh juice is extracted into a thick glass jar.

Nearby, in a pale plastic bowl, a wooden spoon turns clockwise as it mixes more pancake batter on its own.

At the dark dining table, which is set not that far from the stove where Wanda is standing on its edge, Billy, intently, finishes verifying a question answered the night before in his math notebook, eyes diligently digging into each of the numbers written there on the sheet of paper in airy strokes of pencil lead by his refined grammar, while Tommy, still with his cheeks cluttered with long swigs of warm milk, nibbles a green apple with a slurping hollow sound of “fronc”, even though his absorbed gaze does not fail to capture any movement made by the cartoon character that is highlighted by the television screen placed some distance away from the table, next to the dark linen sofa.

The sweet melic essence from the pancakes intoxicates the interior of the house, like an irrepressible deluge of intense domestic flavors worthy of a family environment, with its den centralized in the kitchen – a room which is being covered by a serene sheet of external solar beams, shy golden streaks, thin as small threads of gold, that enter the room through the long panes placed in their thin windows raised in front of the sink.

The mild climate that hangs over the city during the early afterglow of the morning, despite the sunny day that stretches across the celestial field, is prone to somewhat heavier clothing than the usual spring shots require, but this is something that in no way bothers the excellent brown-haired witch, who, in turn, wears, buttoned to her chest, only a simple silk shirt, and nothing superimposed on this banal piece of clothing.

As for her children, on the other hand, Wanda has that maternal need to wrap them up and keep them healthy and warm, which is why both twin boys wear long, thick fabrics on their small bodies – to shelter from the subtle chill that plagues that phlegmatic morning regurgitated through the so prosaic Westview.

“Boys” she calls over her shoulder in a motherly tone, “Have you packed your bags yet?”

“Yes, mama” is the immediate response from Billy, still sitting at the table.

"I was going to do that right now" and then Tommy gets to his feet, leaving the half-bitten apple on the table, "Be right back"

The boy turns his back and then heads towards the stairs - although his speed is not exceeding that of a normal child, there is still, on Tommy's part, a useful lightness in his actions as he steps fast, one foot right behind the other, down the wooden steps, inferring a warning from Wanda's reprimanding side.

"Tommy, please don't run up the stairs, I already told you that"

But there is no answer to be heard – just the tiny sounds of fast footsteps to be perceived stepping away, towards the upper floor. Wanda blows out a helpless sigh, shaking her head in denial as she mutters silently under her breath.

"I swear, he's just like his mother..."

There is the squawk of a bird outside the house, along with the wheels of a car on the asphalt. Wanda flips the pancake again, and then another one after that, before feeling the tiniest touch of solemnity beside her hip and a pair of expectant little eyes looking at the contour of her jawbone, right next to her ear.

“Mama?” a tiny voice calls out to her, sounding uncertain and vulnerable at her core.

Wanda allows herself to smile with the corner of her pink lips, losing the focus placed on her blueberry pancakes as she turns to the boy.

It is Billy who catches her eye, holding the hem of her silk shirt between the tips of the small fingers of his right hand. He wears a jacket of roomy red, white, and blue stripes to his juvenile torso, and looks down at the floor beneath his sneakers when Wanda tries to make eye contact with those eyes inherited from her ex-wife's family, offering him an affectionate smile, showered with kindness.

“What is it, Billy?”

But there is a hesitation in the speech on the part of the boy, Wanda doesn't take long to verify this fact because she knows him so well, she just knows so much about him. And the little boy seems cornered, somewhat irresolute, in an internal conflict with his own efforts to say whatever it is he has to say (because he presses his lips together and doesn't sustain eye contact with his mother). Wanda just knows, at her heart, that something isn't right.

And then she squats down on her knees, lowering herself to a height where she and Billy would be eye level, and Wanda scans his childish face with her gaze in half a second – his eyes looking back at her, the hesitation in the midst of the darkness, the disinclination which he is no longer able to hide as much as his mother is interested in the cunning childish caution. She takes her lower lip in her mouth and opens and closes her eyes, expelling a gust of warm air through her nostrils.

The hard plastic spatula magically continues to flip and fry the pancakes in the pan, even when Wanda no longer does it directly.

“Baby, what is it? Did something happen?” Moving her fingers closer to her son, Wanda holds him so that she can take the contour of his small face between the palms of both hands.

"You know you can tell me anything, don't you, dear?"

“Can I” Billy limps in an ambiguous vagueness, supported by his mother's gaze, which in turn propels him an encouraging smile, “Can I stay home today, mama?”

Something in Wanda tinkles – but she knows she shouldn't show such sudden estrangement at the boy's request, even though she knows well that it's not like him to be the type who openly takes advantage of any possible loophole to be able to skip class. She just tilts her head to the side of her left shoulder, stroking the skin of her son's cheeks with both thumbs in a circle.

“Why, baby? You like going to school so much... Did something happen there? Did someone say something to you?”

“Uh, no, no one said anything… it's just that” Billy falters a bit in wavering hesitation, brow furrowed, and a flash of fur creased between his dark brows, “They think too loud, mama. And I can hear what they think... what they think of me. They think I'm different. They are afraid of me"

The distraught voice lectured her, a grim veil clouding his innocuous childish gaze, his small, dull face exhaling an air of embarrassment, melancholy weighing down on his thick lepidopteran lashes, both razor-edged eyebrows twisted in a caliginous way.

There's an excruciating moment of silence, supplanted by an aching feeling of Wanda's heart squeezing inside her chest; a troubled gaze spread across her emerald-green eyes.

She knows what it's like, hearing what they think so loud it sounds like screaming inside her head, feeling what they feel to the point of wanting to throw up. The fear. The disgust. And she only came to feel it when she was already a young woman somewhat older than her boy is, better able to deal with this avalanche of judgments that feel like mosquitoes buzzing around her brain.

But Billy is just so young, and so small.

She knows what they think, what they assume—the boys' mothers are gifted with superhuman abilities, and so will they someday. And it’s scary. Perhaps with Billy there is even more stigma; after all, he is a sweet child, quiet and careful, even a little shy – the kind of child Wanda herself once was also.

With a gulf of anguish regurgitating her stomach, the enchantress touches the scrawny left shoulder of the harried boy with the palm of her hand; a faint, complacent smile directed at her son.

“Oh baby, they just don't understand…they don't understand what you are. And sometimes some people are afraid of what they don't understand. I think it's part of human nature to be surprised by the different, and believe me, I know how it is... how difficult it is, to be different. I know"

“Mom told me that everyone is a little different” the boy carries himself in a downcast way, somewhat embarrassed, prompting a frown on the part of Wanda, who promptly gives him a curious look.

“But… but no one seems to like it when I'm different...”

And then, she presses her lips together in a line. There's a pile of forgotten pancakes by the now-off stove.

“I…I understand, Billy. I used to think about myself in a certain way too, but... I know I'm something else. And so are you, honey. But that doesn't mean that you and I aren't ourselves anymore, we just... have something different that makes us a little different from other people”

She sighs.

“Me, you, your mom and Tommy, we… we're different, but that's who we are. And I know this isn't what everyone sees, but... you're still you, Billy. You’re still my sweet, precious little boy. So it's okay to be different, because you'll always have us on your side, honey. We could never leave each other even if we tried. Do you know why?”

She questions, in soft tones of a warm, loving maternal touch.

“Because a family is forever?”

Wanda smiles, caressing the skin of Billy's cheek with the pad of her thumb.

"Yes, baby. A family is forever. You, Tommy, me and your mother will always be a family. Even if it's a family of a bunch of weirdos with superpowers” she adds in a chuckling tone, inferring, on the boy's part, in a warm little smile, “You don't have to be afraid to be different, honey. Stand your ground, be yourself, and the rest of the world can never touch you”

“Even if they are afraid of me?”

“You can't control their fear, Billy” she pats him on the cheek, “Only your own. And you should never be afraid to be who you are”

“Right” Billy smiles, and, as in an infectious spread of his childish alacrity, Wanda ends up doing it too, “I can’t be afraid of who I am”

"That's right, honey"

She then stands up and wraps her forearms around the boy's scrawny shoulders, pulling his small body close to hers, enveloping him in a loving embrace that is gladly accepted when Billy tucks his face into her chest.

Wanda had long ago retained his facial features in memory (the sharp eyebrows, the small nose, the strong cheekbones like hers), but the witch, however, still devoted herself to studying him just to see that the boy was real, and he was there, and he was hers to love and care for; just as she did also with his brother.

She therefore placed a chaste kiss on a beam of skin on his forehead, before arranging for the caresses between the strands of his short, light brown hair. He still gave off a pleasant baby smell.

“I love you, Billy. I love you and Tommy very, very much” she smiles, and so does he, “But now I need to go see why your brother is taking so long to pack his bag, because I don't trust him alone for more than ten minutes and it's been a while since he went up"

And Wanda isn't the least bit surprised to find Tommy finishing his homework five minutes later – even though it's only thirty minutes before school starts this morning.

ᗢ

The tenuous hands of the circular clock on the wall emit ticks, clicks, as they move to mark the time of little more than 2:22 on a particularly gray afternoon, with infinitesimal touches of an insistent spring chill taking care of your keen senses inside one of your many, many jackets - this particular one is made of a dark material, with fleece trimming around the collar.

You took a sip of warm coffee before you arrived, interspersed with a few puffs of smoked cigarettes, and you think about having another cup of the hot drink once this meeting finally comes to a very anticipated ending.

The wall on which the clock is located is far away, painted in bands of a pale yellow and navy blue, but even so, your eyes focus on that thin piece of red plastic turning, getting lost in seconds, marking the emptiness of your gaze in an absorbed hypnosis that turns your brain into a dysfunctional, vacant mass. Concentration dispenses with intrusive thoughts, and you don't want to think about anything right now.

Still, something inside of you wants to get up, march and go to the sign that says, in big white bold letters, “HOW TO GET BACK NOW THAT THEY ARE BACK?” and rip that damn thing off like you rip a band-aid off a well healed wound.

It sounds stupid being there. You feel stupid for being there. What’s the point of being there?

Your heel propels your right knee up and down in a continuous motion of tendons, like the fluttering wings of a stirring bee. Up. Down. Up. Down.

On the thick material of your jacket, close to your right lapel, is an inviting sticker announcing your name written in the glossy lines of a thick, red highlighter, but the ripple of feeling characterized by the features of your face is nothing short of inhospitable and even a little grumpy.

You know you don't want to be there. You want to get up and go out and smoke a cigarette until you choke on the smoke and develop asthma (or something among those lines, whatever, who cares).

Then your leg wobbles. And it wobbles. As if you were trying to soothe one of your children when they were still tiny little babies, rocking them sitting on the kneecap of your knee joint.

But in the closed circumference of aluminum chairs, with broken people all gathered in a circle like a bed of dead flowers, that's not the only tic to point out (since an older man keeps poking his restless fingers, and a short-haired woman just can't seem to get her hand off her neck).

Fucking therapy group, that's what goes through your head when your teased eyes scrutinize around, finding themselves with gazes as bewildered as yours, among the other taciturn and hollow phantoms that mark their place in the thin unfolded chairs.

Everyone here is also a fucked up, one way or another.

Your leg wobbles.

The drinking fountain placed in the corner of the room bubbles a lot, but in view of the fact that you already were there for a considerable amount of lengthy long minutes, which were very painful to expire at the meager speed of a lame turtle (causing, thus, in your resigned relinquishment of counting them inside your own head), frugally seated in an uncomfortable creaky metal chair and utterly saturated, bored to the limit in your imo, this was not the first time the bubbles had sailed with snoring noises of “blob-blob” by the iced water.

You sigh in defeat, shrugging your shoulders into the faux leather of your jacket that is a bigger size than you really are – since there's nothing else you can do about it, you just hope to be able to remain in silence until the end of the meeting. It just seems… pointless, in all your honesty.

It's not as if you have any real interest in the account of that bespectacled man, with thinning hair already giving indications of a coming baldness, who so heartily narrates, with an audible lump pressed down to his throat, of the day that some friend of his (or his boyfriend, you didn't pay close attention and honestly you don't have any disposition to do so) crumbled to dust before his eyes on a casual lunch date on the 7th Avenue.

Or about how that same boyfriend knocked on his door five years later, as if nothing had happened, only to find him married for two years to another man.

Your leg wobbles.

"It's... it's hard, to think that you've moved on, that... that it's okay, that you're okay" his nasal voice echoes through the vault of the school gymnasium.

"Only for it all to come crashing down again when you least wait. When you see someone, or smell an odor, or hear a sound and... and suddenly it's all back, right there in front of you. Like it's happening again and again and again and there’s nothing that you can do about it”

You, however, aim cowardly eyes at your own feet, at your favorite pair of threadbare white Converse sneakers with the baggy laces that Wanda scolded you now and then for failing to tie them properly.

You know all about the creeping flashbacks slinking through the cracks of your damned soul. And the nighttime torments are your most frequent roommates – the shadows of your sleepless nights echoed to your bedroom wall.

You then let out a languid yawn, weary, turning to the wall clock above the Midtown High School bulletin board (the Academic Decathlon Team had won nationals once again in Washington), reality slipping away from you, giving stage to the impertinent boredom watered by the purest monotony, devastating everything that is present in its field of reach.

Click, click, stop. Click, click, stop – makes the clock. Your leg wobbles. And wobbles. But it stops just as abruptly, once someone calls out your name.

You blink just one time.

“Y/N?” it's Dr. Raynor who catches your eye when you look airy and scattered, urging you to tilt your chin toward her.

The middle-aged, upright woman sitting parallel to you with her right knee crossed over her left thigh, exuding a kind of polished erudition that makes her look out of place in the circle of chairs, looking too sophisticated to sit there in the company of wretched souls like those half-a-dozen poor sufferers (you included), aims your way with her dismayed eyes, and there's even a shadow of cynicism in those dark irises like burnt coffee beans that squint toward you.

Something about her tough stance, however, hints at a certain militaristic past, and you kind of turn up your nose at such a notion about the therapist.

It only takes a second of staring into the vacant eyes of that tart-faced woman for you to feel the bitterness of regret take over the tightness in your aching stomach, and a kind of compunction sinks in your shoulders as you wonder why you ever even resorted to Bucky Barnes to get the war veteran to refer you to a suitable therapist in the first place.

Maybe the old bastard did it on purpose. But he's the one who's coping better after all, and not you by any means.

"Why don't you share something with the group, Y/N?" the tapered toe of her shoe points towards your left knee, “It's your first day, so we'd like to know a little more about you”

You feel eyes, a bunch of them, reorienting their route all towards you (focusing, emphasizing, gauging your own figure), and to you it's kind of like a trial where Dr. Raynor is your judge and jailer, just waiting for the moment to come for her to hit with the hammer, and then, be able to sentence you to death by hanging. To pay for your sins.

The fingers of your right hand press along the outline of your left palm. The incisors in your upper jaw chew and harm the soft flesh of your lower lip. Blood, they want your blood. May you pay for your sins.

There, in that linoleum-floored sports gymnasium, there is no caressing of a sincere reception, the good old heart-to-heart typical of suffering misfortunes that find reciprocity in the experience of similar tragedies; in fact it may even be, but it is not possible for you to feel supported and sheltered in the face of the paying victims of your fateful failure.

If they are there, conglomerated by melancholy, engaged by sadness, agonizing in regrets that seem impossible to overcome, it is because your actions have led to this inevitable unfolding of successive events.

Of course, everyone there knows your face from Twitter, from the news, Youtube videos, press conferences, magazine pages and the damn action figures who never quite got the color arrangement of your old black and white suit right (which is now battered and folded, with a hole in the abdomen, stuffed inside a cardboard box gathering dust at the bottom of your wardrobe).

J. Jonah Jameson once said live that you were just an irresponsible little girl who should be stopped and sent away. So, they know. And you know they know. It's your fault, after all.

All yours, solemnly yours, it’s your fault that their loved ones went back to dust, they know, they know that you failed, that you didn't stop it from happening, that you didn't jump into the abyss, that you didn't give your soul.

They know.

You clean the inside of your throat hard, swallowing a sip of still saliva as you do.

“I don't know if there's anything interesting that I can... that I can share, no,” you mutter thinly, noticing a dirt on the heel of your sneaker, “I've never done this before, so I'm not sure where to start, doc”

“How about why you decided to join us today? It's a good way to start, and then you can say more about your personal experience with what happened” a short pause, “If you feel comfortable doing so, of course”

She adds quickly, almost emulating some fortuitous tone of cynical kindness. There is a moment of hesitation, covered by uncertainty and even anguish.

You can lie. Maybe give them, the hungry wolves, a condensed version of the facts and then call it a day.

But there urges a sense of honesty within yourself, of not straying along the easy paths as you have been doing for so many years; not when your motivation to be there, in that chair, in that group, is your deep yearning to be the person to instill a sweet smile on Wanda's kissable lips one more time in her life. Of being a mother to Billy and Tommy again, and no longer an uncertain figure throughout their lives.

You want to give it a try. You need to give it a try. For them (your family), it's always for them.

“My… my ex-wife asked me to come over, honestly” is what comes out of your mouth after a few shots of a long silence, “I think everyone here knows who she is. Who we are... who we were. What were we doing back then”

Your leg swings again, in a spasm of restless muscle.

“I think I'm here because I want to get better for her. For our... for our children. They don't deserve the way I treated them after… after all this shit, no”

You press your lips together in a thin line.

“I know they needed me. That they needed me to be there, but… it was hard. After that everything was just so goddamn difficult. Wanda, the boys... they've been gone for far too long. And I stayed. I just... just got left behind. And it was like that too when my parents died, I know, I should have known how to deal with it by then, but… but my parents didn't die because of me. I wasn't the one driving that fucking truck that hit us at 75 miles per hour. But that day... that day I was there, and I... I…”

You shift uncomfortably against the icy chair and clear your throat to ward off the acidic tears that accumulate in small pools inside your eyes, intercrossing your forearms in front of your chest as you lean your spine against the aluminum backrest.

“Wanda went to therapy after she got back, but I just… stayed there. Still. Stagnant. Not doing a damn thing about all of this stuck in here, in me. Drinking myself to sleep and staying up late. I think I just- I just couldn't get back to normal, you know? Not like other people did. Like there's something wrong with my damn brain programming, I don't know. I could barely hear my children cry without wanting to cry along with them, I… I didn't think I was worthy of touching my wife anymore, I... I don't know. I don't know"

And the one who gets the stage to speak is taciturnity, cold and cutting like the edge of a dagger.

“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I don’t know”

There's so much you want to say.

So much stuff that swells and bubbles to be regurgitated out of you. They are words that are watched over by the martyrdom of your chest, contained in your guts, in your bones, in your bloodstream. Compunction has become part of your genetics at this point, you can even feel it moving through your cells, proliferating through your system like the ramifications of a harmful disease.

You do want to talk. But you just don't speak.

What you actually do is get to your feet, stretching your knees into the comfortable material of your pale baggy jeans, and then turn on your heels toward the half-open double doors of the gym, head down towards the floor, and the shoulders retracted as the psychologist calls out your name.

The only noise that accompanies your movements is the soles of your sneakers against the linoleum floor, making rhythmic squeaking sounds as your gait takes on a running air.

And you walk, one knee after the other, in a dreadful stomping march to the chipped pavement, even as the dimness of a firm grip leaves you blind as it swathes your corneas, and deaf as it envelops your eardrums.

The unavoidable collapse that follows, like the ends of a tasteless piece, is like a bolt of lightning that discharges from the heavens at the top of your head seconds later – electricity running through your nerves, your tendons, your spastic muscles.

It takes approximately seven seconds for hyperventilation to take over.

And you squat down, with both your feet flat on the pavement, when the joints of your legs sag and falter like soft lemon jelly, because the air becomes thick and gritty and so strenuous to swallow into your bronchial tubes, and even as the tissue in your lungs inflates and deflates like shriveled bladders being squeezed by vigorous fists, there is not enough oxygen for the blood in your head to flow, and the nausea and dizziness that wash over you like waves become too much to bear alone.

Maybe that was what it felt like to swallow a bunch of razor blades. Your pharynx constricts until it takes on a shape similar to a crumpled sheet of paper, and dark flashes crisscross your field of vision as your senses derail and fail.

Your skin bristles. You try to suck in the air, to keep it to yourself within the pathways of your sweltering aching lungs, but nothing happens. Your collapsing muscles no longer respond to your will.

Stomach acid rises up your larynx and the taste are disgraceful when it slides across the face of your tongue, an acrimonious sourness that burns between your teeth and seems to want to escape amid your parched lips. You slam your eyelids together as your heart seems to throb, swell and compress in thunderous internal hammers against the bones of your rib cage.

It looks like you're going to have a heart attack and die right there. And it’s dreadful. Petrifying, even. And then you blink once. And then twice.

The smell of scorched earth hangs in the air like a fog based on terror and despair.

There is nothing in all the vast longitudinal footage comprised of tens of miles circuited to your surroundings that is not limited to ruins, or craters, or rubble.

Vibrant whirs of spaceships rip through the slate-gray skies, metal and technology gleaming every time the sun comes out in timid beams from behind the thick clouds of smoke that billow into the sky—and then screams, several of them, and explosions, and the characteristic shiver of shimmering magic comes from the vanguard of Kamar-Taj's resident sorcerers in their quilted brown robes.

There are hundreds of devoted souls going to war against Thanos' army (again).

The undaunted battalion of Wakandan soldiers wade through the ruins and force their way through the row of gruesome alien sentries, brandishing their spears and shields where their strength is most concentrated, honoring their king in a dialect you've never heard before.

From their shoulders hung cloaks and fur, embroidered with droplets of blood and sludge of freshly splatted clay. Long streaks of yellowish-orange blistering magic pour from the battlefield.

I don't want to be here, you think as your vision clears the image of a colossal Ant-Man in the distance, as the deifies esoteric figure of a goliath, delivering a stunning punch to a winged creature wearing plates of extraterrestrial mineral armor, your own suit feeling suddenly too tight around the neck contour for you to breath appropriately.

I don't want to be here. I don't want to be here.

Archers, spearmen, mages, heroes, mounted swordsmen and a hundred more warriors to command them. The palms of your hands squeezing your own temples, crushing your skull thorough your hairline, quelling skin between your bent fingers.

I don't want to be here. Thanos killed my kids and my wife and my friends and he's here and it’s my fault that he’s here and I'm going to fail again and I'm going to die and everyone’s going to die and it’s my fault, it is all my fault.

You don't remember that it was Wanda who found you, crouching and deplorable like a wounded animal, tearing up wails of treacherous anxiety in the middle of the battleground; your face was smeared with dirt, dust, tears and blood. She didn't say, but she could hear the turmoil of your fretful thoughts from afar, all the way across the combat zone.

“Y/N! Baby!” the voice sounded so buoyant, covering the roars of the war raging round about you.

You don't remember seeing her again, all beautiful and sweaty, after five years apart from her. You don’t recall that when Wanda cried out your name, you could barely trust your ears as you lifted your head and saw her there, your gorgeous wife standing before you again.

And then you sobbed harder, and the first thing you uttered towards Wanda (after approximately 1825 days - 43.800 hours - without seeing her) was a chorus of wails, a compilation of cries, thick tears running down the contour of your scrunched nose as she involved your quivering, dirt-spattered body against herself.

She kissed the top of your head and a beam of perspiring skin of your forehead over and over again, cuddling you close to her necessitous tight embrace, because before she turned to dust, she also thought you were going to die in her arms. Her long disheveled red hair was like a curtain that captured you inside it, a barrier between the two of you and the rest of the war that raged there, around you.

“You’re alive Y/N, ty zhiv, moya lyubovʹ” she muttered against your murky hairlocks, more to herself than to you to hear, “You’re alive, baby, you’re alive, you’re alive”

“S-sorry! Sorry! I'm sorry Wanda, I'm sorry, I'm sorry Wanda, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I’m so sorry"

But this you remember, nonetheless. Of disgrace and shame. Of exhilaration and desolation.

From breaking down and wailing, crying out her name, bursting into tears, squeezing the material of the long, tattered, crimson coat that roofed your wife's warm body through your eager fingers. Of squeezing her so hard, your knuckles turning white, as if again she would go up in a cloud of dust through your firm grip if you let her go one more time.

As if you could still lose her, even when she was there, as close to you as she was. As if your grasp was the only thing holding her back to material reality.

You had so much to say to her. So much to tell, so much to ask. But after five years, your initial reaction was to grab her sturdy forearms and ask for forgiveness like a drooling, out-of-control child. Like someone with a widowed heart. Like a second chance.

"Sorry! Sorry! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, Wanda, I’m so sorry!"

And she held you close because she cried too. Because for a moment she was sure that she had lost you. That you had bled to death on the ground, your eyes empty and icy, blood seeping from your broken lips, and she wasn't there to hold you when the life had completely drained from your wounded body.

“It’s okay baby, it’s okay, you’re here, you’re safe, I’m here with you dorogoya”

It certainly wasn't the first time you've shed guilty tears on Wanda's behalf, though. And, of course, that wouldn't be the last time either.

ᗢ

Although, at the beginning of the week, a wave of scarce chill had hit the northeast region of the country, it was enough for when Friday arrived, right after the end of the week, for the sinuosities of the heat to return to the spring calendar, and a sweltering climate face again.

Over the pleasant little town of Westview, then, hangs the celestial vault, dazzled by dusk, from which all twinkle, like vivid space fireflies, the antecedent stars of a new tomorrow which contingently would come to lean over the serene little town, situated to the Mid-Atlantic region of US New Jersey.

The warm climate of seven o'clock at night prompts Wanda, in her residence, to dress her body only in a light burgundy silk shirt, and nothing superimposed on this simple piece of clothing.

She had just had dinner (both Y/N and their twin sons claimed there was something peculiar about her macaroni and cheese), and so she was ready to do the dishes - living in a house with just her and two others little boys, there's not even an ample amount of cutlery and plates in her possession to enjoy over a meal restricted to three people.

The bell rings in sudden chimes into the house, however, and Wanda, halfway through sliding the bristles of a foamy brush in a clockwise direction across the face of a china plate, somewhat guided by curiosity to discover whoever was knocking at her door on a full Friday night, tries to quickly dry both hands on a dish towel after closing the sink's faucet, in order to head with cautious strides towards the main entrance.

Her two twin sons, both snuggled up on the linen sofa and with their respective backpacks looking like guard dogs at their post tucked close to their heels, glare at their mother with their smart gazes overwhelmed in interest as Wanda crosses the living room toward the front door.

“Who is it, mama?” Billy asks, looking at her over his small, withered shoulder, his voice echoing over the sound of a random cartoon.

“No idea” is the return that comes from Wanda, who slides both of her damp palms down the sides of her hip dressed in a pair of dark leggings.

Opening the door causes the boisterous night breeze to kiss the high, sharp cheekbones of her pretty cheeks— however, it’s the figure of a woman clad in a shabby leather jacket and baggy jeans, Y/N herself standing in her front porch, what really takes Wanda by surprise.

The mindful pair of clever eyes look at the deep emerald-green shade of her own irises in firsthand, gleaming in a ruddiness that glows expectantly, but then they scan the entire length of her body until, finally, they reach her hip height.

And then, they've doubled in size, and Wanda realizes that it's been a considerable amount of time since her ex-wife has seen her dressed in such tight clothing.

“Y/N...?” she raises a single eyebrow at the other woman who is there in her doorway, her hands tucked into both pockets of the jacket that adorns her body.

It's certainly not a face Wanda expected to see there that night (although, in her core, she knows it's a more than welcome sight, because she can actually feel her heart skipping a lot, abruptly fueled with energy as she does so, and her mouth kind of salivates a little bit).

“Uh, h-hey, hey Wanda” Y/N breaths then, looking lost in her own words. This time she doesn't smell like smoked cigarettes.

There isn’t, for Wanda, a way to not to feel her gaze scorching her considerably toned thighs, which, despite being covered by the dark elastane fabric, suddenly feel so exposed, as if what she was wearing there were just one of the miniskirts she loved so much when she younger.

There's a brief moment showered with tentative silence, at which Wanda can well hear Y/N gulp and shrug. She, in turn, crosses both arms along her rib cage, just below her breasts buttoned by her red shirt, and leans on her side against the doorjamb.

There is a failed attempt not to bring back to her memory the fact that a couple days ago, Y/N had her face sheltered between those same thighs that she stares at so carefully.

“So,” Wanda chirps after a hushed pause, distant cricket sonatas adorning her speech, “Can I… can I ask what you're doing here? I mean, I don't want to sound rude, but... you know...”

She shrugs a little awkwardly.

“Oh yeah, sure” and Y/N emits a husky sound, as if clearing her throat, “Well, you told me to pick up the boys for the weekend on Friday, and… today is Friday"

Wanda opens her mouth to speak, but then connects her lips again in a fine line. Y/N seems to have stated the obvious, but she still stares at her ex-wife as if waiting for her reaction.

“Y/N” she begins, pronouncing the name in a slow-sounding voice, “I told you to pick up the boys next Friday, not this. Today they are going to sleepover at a friend's house. You know, Dottie, from school”

Y/N blinks once, and then one more time in realization of the facts. And then, she raises both of her eyebrows in a half-funny awe.

“I- wait, really?!”

“Well, yes” Wanda nods her head in confirmation, even as she cages a spark of laughter in the back of her throat, “Actually, I was about to leave to drop them there”

“I, I- well shit, I was actually going to order hamburgers this time…”

And that's when Wanda can't help but chuckle softly, feeling her shoulders light up against the silk of her shirt as they sway subtly.

“You can tag along with us” Wanda proposes in a friendly and courteous tone of voice that portrays a smile, despite not having expressed it to her lips as she said, “If you want to, of course”

She adds quickly, almost like a thin squeak of a hesitant little mouse, eyeing her ex-wife in an expectant air – the fingers of her right hand hook uneasily through the fingers of her left hand as she does so.

And she doesn't know exactly why she'd offered it to Y/N, but something adorned by a rash itch inside her sort of wanted her to accept the proposal, like a fish accepting the bait of a hook. Wanda wants to hook her. She wants to hook her and keep her for herself.

And something even more urgent thumped in a throbbing gasp within her guts when it was that Y/N willingly nodded, nodding and a complacent half-smile broken at the corner of her lips, her hands still clasped inside her jacket pockets, sort of emulating a jock pose.

And something builds up inside Wanda for a third time, when the family of four finds themselves snugly secured by the seat belts of her car (a Buick Verano dyed in a can-of-tomato-sauce-red color that, in a way, goes well with her), the twins in the back and Y/N in the passenger seat, all neatly arranged in a homely and domestic way, performing with mastery the role of a well-structured family.

When, from the backseat, Tommy asked Wanda for a song and she promptly took her relaxed right index finger to press the digit on the little button that turns on the radio, only for the rustling sound that would encompass the interior of the vehicle to be the melody of an old alt rock song (a bit corny one), Y/N couldn't help but utter a hearty, nostalgic laugh as both boys grunted in tandem with the song's lyrics, and just as fast as she had done so before, Wanda quickly turned off the radio, feeling a flushed warmth heat her cheekbones and the tips of her ears.

She doesn't want to look the other way, at her ex-wife sitting close to the elbow on her right side. Wanda just wants to disappear in mortification.

She and Y/N used to have that same music as a soothing background for their late-night conversations in the compound, when the two of them, a couple of young girlfriends who could never get tired of each other, were just two bodies hugging and sweating against the rumpled sheets of her bed, the whole room smelling of sex and the red color – Deftones was definitely a band to listen to on pillowtalk… or at the heights of the passionate moans that would come after such pillowtalk.

“Ew, mama, what is this?” Tommy twists a beam of skin from his freckled little nose, and in the rearview mirror, Wanda sees Billy do the same in an expression of pure disgust.

“Wait, wait, wait, did your mama ever tell you guys about her goth phase?!” Y/N turns her chin over her left shoulder, flashing a smile cut in taunt mockery at which her voice sounds like a jocular laugh.

Wanda, on the other hand, grunts in embarrassment, squeezing the steering wheel material between her fingers. Maybe the boys wouldn't mind if she threw their mother through the windshield, after all.

ᗢ

The path back to the house had been solemn and, at Wanda's sheer request, you joined her in a romantic tasting of tea in the living room, having barely given up after the scorching mid-night that spills over Westview.

You didn't expect her to actually ask you to stay after you dropped the boys off at their friend's house (the little girl's mother, Sarah, certainly put an ulterior motive between you and Wanda, and your ex-wife swore her mouth to call her a bitch when it was just the two of you back inside her car), and you suspect she didn't expect you to accept the invitation either, because a veil of genuine astonishment fell over Wanda when you nodded with your head and smiled towards her.

(The initial invitation was for a glass of wine, but you said you were trying to avoid alcohol and Wanda apologized, and then the wine turned into tea which became a lame excuse for you to stay until after ten o'clock of the night)

The television which flickers, on its monochrome screen, a French film in black and white, is the only thing that fills the room with any kind of light or sound, as the two women, both seated well on the cushions of the dark sofa, say nothing more to each other (although a sudden abundance of coziness has surfaced in Wanda's exhilarating core, she who has her head bent dangerously close to her ex-wife's vigorous shoulder – her silky hair emanating a sweetened scent of strawberry shampoo).

You, however, roll on your axis in search of a comfortable position, and your elbow brushes lightly against Wanda's under the silk shirt, causing the two of you to look at each other curiously – two dark glances in the middle of the lighted room, only lit by the artificial lighting of a meaningless old romcom.

Wanda craves the comforting body heat radiating from you when as close to her as you are.

As much as you wanted to touch her, however, and felt your fingers tingling to do so; you, however, held the notion of the fact that between the two of you lay an invisible dividing veil, which neither of you would dare to cross a second time in such a short period of time.

And with that thought also tucked into her mind, Wanda chose to scoop more of her tea, enjoying the boiled hibiscus acrimony flavor that slides down the face of her tongue, between her teeth and the flesh of her cheeks. But she feels a gaze scrutinizing her from her jawline and cheekbones.

And you stare at her in ethereal devotion, simulating her gesture as she sips from the tea poured into her pretty china cup.

“So,” she calls, albeit from behind her teacup, “How's therapy going?”

You wet your lips with the tip of your tongue.

"Well, I've only been in one meeting so far... and I couldn't make it to the end" shrugging, you just know there's no need to withhold the facts, "I know I need to, and I swear that I will, but... it's hard to bring it all back. It's exhausting, exhausting as fuck. Honestly, I just want to lie down and not get up”

“I know,” she says, in a tiny, meaningful voice, “Yeah, I know how it feels”

And the air is kind of bitter, but you know toughness is needed. You know about the fact that you made mistakes with the woman sitting next to your right elbow, after all (grotesque and disproportionate mistakes), and from that you always understood very well.

But withholding awareness of your errands to those you've hurt and trying to repair what's been broken, that's kind of a fresh start that Wanda wants to see in you.

“But I'm trying, you see. For the boys, for... for you... I'm trying, Wanda. I'm trying to be better for you. Trying to take responsibility for my mistakes”

Something sparks inside Wanda, in hibiscus-tasting greed. And she looks at your face – and you just want to feel her close, all to yourself, comfortable in your needy grip. It scorched in will and greed sharpened through your veins. But all she does is just look for another sip of tea.

“I'm happy for you, Y/N. I really am. I know that it's easier to live in denial, that it feels more comfortable to stay in a melancholy state of mind, that... that acknowledging that you need help is difficult. I know it's hard, trust me" she half laughs, "I think I know better than most what self-deception looks like. And I know that someone can't live like that"

And then she looks at you, and you look at her.

“But you deserve to allow yourself to heal, Y/N. Not for me or the boys, but mostly for you. You deserve more, much more than that. You deserve to heal” and then, a vague hesitation, “Because it's when you heal that I'll forgive you”

And the silence is tiny, but it lasts for a considerable amount of needy seconds. Someone laughs greedily in the movie on television, a plastered, off-air laugh, but you didn't pay any attention to the joke – not when Wanda is next to you, when you want that woman so much that your veins throb inside your skin just for you to take her for yourself.

And when she stands up, the linen on the sofa moving next to her body to do so, your gaze follows her closely, attentive, watching her make her way to the kitchen, whereupon Wanda heads towards a new round of hibiscus tea.

Her dark hair looks silkier than usual, and you want to run your fingers through the locks just to feel, between your avid digits, the softness that oozes from Wanda's head. To make sure that touching them one more time would be like reeling in a dark puddle from the source of your greatest victory, your greatest pleasure in life.

Then you get to your feet, stretching your knees out into your baggy old light blue jeans.

And as if a red leash is constricted around the outline of your neck and Wanda is the one holding the rein, pulling and squeezing until the blood rushes to your head, towing you around like her pet, you are magnetized towards the throbbing figure of your ex-wife – as if you might choke and suffocate if you didn't breathe from the scarlet oxygen molecules that evaporate so subtly through the pores of her skin.

You need her to fill your lungs, to quench your thirst, to teach you to breathe again.

And your fingers throb in anticipation as she turns and looks at you, standing there, in the middle of her kitchen, in the middle of the night; both of her irises drenched in a sharp shade of moss-green, her pupils dilated like two abyssal puddles you want to sink into, as if you're on the edge and need just one last incentive to give yourself away once and for all; her chest heaving weighty like an animal in confrontation mode.

And it doesn't surprise you, in fact, when the proficient witch stomps toward you and takes your face between her warm palms, grabbing the bones of your jaw to pull you into a needy kiss.

When your lips clash your obsession explodes inside your chest, as if your mind bends to Wanda's will; she who invades your senses with a deluge of scarlet liquid and usurps your essence, your soul, your heart.

You know you are as devoted to this woman as a believer is devoted to their god. That she is purely your religion and your belief, that her body is the reason for your idolatry.

Gradually, you obtained urgency to overcome the slowness, and rudeness took precedence over the elegance imbued in the act. The kiss is transmuted into something visceral and animalistic, primordial, just bodies lacking the warmth of flesh or the robustness of touch; a throbbing knot at the mouth of both of you bellies just waiting to be undone.

As if in a rehearsed ceremony, you run your hands over Wanda's thighs and evenly spaced knees, and she, in return, links the folds of her elbows to the outline of your neck, placing herself on your lap, belly to belly. Soon, a sly pink tongue slips back into her mouth in search of what is hers, expert and needy.

And then, a strong, powerful touch, palms wide open and pressed to the curve of Wanda's round ass over dark leggings, which elicits an ambrosial groan from her as you sit her on the kitchen table, rising from her heels, standing through her open legs.

And you dive towards her mouth again, being welcomed like a welcome hug.

You feel a warm forehead press to your pale skin band above your eyebrows. And you and Wanda open your eyelids at the same time – pupils dilated and not at all confused. You feel like two animals mating, studying, seeing who will devour the other first.

Dark strands like charcoal strumming against the material of your jacket that feels just so hot against your smoldering body.

Shedding with the tips of her cut nails along the line of your neck, Wanda, then morosely, slides her spandex-covered thighs across the accentuated bones of your hips, placing herself tucked beneath your navel—your legs bent, her heels rubbing against the jeans you wear.

Her gaze sharp and shadowed with impetuosity as you feel the familiar flicker of a crimson nebula caressing her mound of Venus, and Wanda's half-open mouth (parted lips gasping) projects a sly little grin at which she zippers your pants drop slowly, circled by a thread of intangible red.

In the green of her irises a haze of scarlet mist is traced and, like fire in a straw, it only takes a second for there to be no more trace of emerald in her eyes; red drowns green within its wall of vivid fire, red intoxicates you, red touches you where you urge to be touched.

“Wanda”

You mumble breathlessly, your breath hot against the pulp of her lips, her hand tucked inside your pants, fingers caressing you, your hips rocking in a friction against the tense lap below you.

“Wanda, Wanda please..."

“It’s okay, baby” the speech overflows in ecstasy, pure and high.

Expectantly, Wanda threads the sides of your hips with the insides of her thighs, searching for something only you can give her, her forehead pressed to yours.

“It’s okay, baby, you deserve this”

There's a hot touch on your clit and then you whimper in labored need, a whoosh of hot breath hitting your ex-wife's lower lip, a friction of your restrained hip rubbing against her nervous pelvis, looking out for each other.

Wanda's greedy nose drifts toward the curve of your neck, below your ear, and there she sucks between her lips a shaft of skin she could bite and nibble on.

The massage is continuous against your pleasure core, and the return comes in the form of suction, and then the flick of the cheek of Wanda's tongue against your stinging skin. On your part, a hollow groan implodes.

"F-fuck, fuck me, Wanda..."

“Shit, baby, you're so wet” she chokes against your mouth, “So tight Y/N…”

Wanda's cunning fingertips settle to your needy clit and then decline at your entrance in an idolatry-soaked endeavor, a continual action that brings out the nastiest, baser, animalistic side of you, who doesn't give a damn about the trouble of suppressing the yelps in your throat.

It's so raw, hot and visceral, so human, that you even seem to be able to cry while Wanda fucks you fervently on that table. There's something in you that needs her – you need her to untie the knot, to touch you in that place only she can touch.

Your clever hands run along the contours of Wanda's body through the fine silk of her thin shirt, which you don't take long to break the fastenings, buttons exploding like projectiles in all directions, so you can clear a path and then cover the pale skin of her neck with your own lips, brushing a lot of lethargic kisses and licks over her sensitive epidermis.

And then another finger appears. And followed by this, another one. Slipping, exploring and filling your embers inside. Stretching it, enlarging it and softening it.

You want to explode in red (so little is missing). Before you can squeal (the frayed lungs sparking to do so), another hand wraps itself around your neck, a stinging palm choking the yelp back into your throat. Your brow furrows and your eyes narrow as your inner walls press Wanda's fingers inside your cunt.

“You're close, aren't you? Huh?” The fingers curled inside you, coercing a ragged response from you. You nod fervently in affirmation.

“Y-yes, God, Wanda, please-!”

Her eyes flicker a maniacal crimson as she looks into your eyes, into your soul. And then she kisses you hard.

“Come, love” is ordered, in a mixture of moans and saliva on the pulp of her lips, “Come on my fingers, Y/N”

 Like a spell, you do as she says.

As if your lover's oratory alone was enough to untie the knot of your lonely ecstasy, plaited all below your navel. Dark irises in smoldering glee dipped to the waterlines of your eyes, and a red haze, in delight, swamped your insides, pouring from your pulsing center the sweetest honey through Wanda's fist, imprisoned inside your lowered jeans.

So she kisses you where she can, as she can – in a thread at the tip of your brow, in the crimson cheekbone of your Apollonian cheek, in the corner of your sweet lips, in the curve of your tasteless chin. Your head drops to Wanda's shoulder, still drunk from the high of your climax. You can barely tell when the enchantress withdrew from your, only to bring her fingers to her lips, and taste your ether, your cum, with a shocked whisper in acknowledgment.

It took seconds for you to recover from the jolt of the powerful orgasm that washed over your pulsing core.

“You still taste the same” Wanda kisses a swath of sweaty skin above your brow, “So hot”

And then you stick your greedy nose into the curve of her pale, inviting neck, between a few strands of dark hair artificially smelling of strawberries, inhaling there the hallucinatory scent of Wanda's vegetable soap.

“Fuck, I love your smell. I fucking love your smell, Wanda”

And then, a new pressure blooms between your legs.

And it doesn't surprise you to see that there, by magic, a red phallus of considerable thickness and just the right length for Wanda to take was deposited around your pulsating clit. You know what she wants, and you feel ready to give it to her. You look at her as, without a word, you move your hips toward her, touching the tip of the silicone cock to Wanda the way you know she likes it, and you sip from the soft moan that bursts out of her.

“I want to feel you” she breathes, looking profoundly into your eyes as she does, “I want to feel your cock deep inside my pussy. I want you to tear me apart, Y/N”

Something inside you snaps. You then share a throbbing mouth moan, closed eyelids that keep dark and empty pupils, brows crumpled between the foreheads.

And then your hips begin its avid, pleasurable work, up and down, stimulating the nerve point deep within your ex-wife's thighs. Wanda is just a sweaty mess flanked by moans and rambling words; and pleasure, in its sweetest, purest, most genuine form, gnaws at your insides and demands more of you than you could ever imagine - a constriction in her womb that only you can touch.

Your ex-wife kisses you on the corner of your mouth, a flash of skin on your chin, the bone at the tip of your jaw - a lacked ecstasy compels you to collide with the pulps of her lips out of necessity, even if it is without the presence of tongues and an act much more carnal and rudimentary than it needs to be, so that the friction against her nervous lap never stops.

Her bundle of nerves is massaged, and as a result, Wanda squirms in between your legs.

“If you don't take those fucking pants off right now” you gasp against her ear, “I'm going to rip them off you”

“Y-yes” she pleads hoarsely. A haze of red is all it takes for the material of the pants to come undone, giving you access to Wanda's throbbing center.

"If you only knew... If you only knew how much I want to fuck you..."

You snake the smoldering tips of your fingers over the ruffled skin of the cool body below you, feeling the other woman's heavy breathing, drifting through the gap between her lovely breasts to her eager belly, leaving a hot trail of anticipation in its wake.

“How much I miss fucking you, and having to stifle your moans with my hand so you don't wake the boys... turn around, Wanda. Ass up”

And she does so without hesitation, her legs trembling in anticipation as her fingers pinch the edges of the table, and on the part of the experienced witch cringes a yelp as you squeeze between your palms both the pulps of her ass, massaging the soft skin, and carefully guides the toy to the entrance of the rosy, sensitive pussy, drawing from both parties a deep satisfying grunt as your fake cock comes into contact with the dark-haired woman's melancholic wetness in a burning, necessary and deliciously satisfying heat.

Still without penetrating her, however, prolonging your lover's preliminary pleasure as much as possible, you guide the length of the phallus to Wanda's swollen clit, masturbating her with the tip of your cock - and as you do, you take your skittish teeth to the curve of her pale neck with a faint scent of red, strawberry and sweat, where you began to pamper her bare skin with kisses and meticulous licks.

“Y/N please” she whimpers, quivering her ass in search of needy contact, “Please fuck me, please, ah-!”

Grinning hungrily against the bristly skin of her ivory neck, your teeth scraping the battered, reddened skin, you shove yourself against Wanda's wet, burning insides, which immediately spread a comforting sensation in her belly, complaining a small, barely audible “Fuck” out of her nose as you sink deeper and deeper into this delicious grip of delirious pleasure.

Wanda moans during penetration, throwing her head back dramatically, giving access to her throat for you, who cover it with kisses that leave her pale skin feeling feverishly warm. When you go all the way in, there's a needy squeal, and the television goes off-air—smell of sex and the color red oozing from her cunt.

“You're still so tight, damn it, Wanda,” your fingers tug at her scalp as, unceremoniously, you start a frantic rhythm against her ass, “I really missed your pussy squeezing me”

“Ah-ah-Y/N!” it was a squeaky grunt, her forehead against the wood of the table, “Glubže, malyshka, bystreye- faster- ah! Ah!”

The table rocks as you hit her cervix. The sound is of furniture creaking, and something in you roars. You love it. You love turning Wanda into a sweaty mess, filling her inside inch by inch, claiming her as your own, making her feel full of life.

As she leans on her elbows across the table and lifts her chest with heavy breaths, her hair being pulled toward you as she moans into her wet, nibbled lips, the brown locks covering her face like a dark veil, her breasts swaying at the same rate as the table legs scrape the floor and you sink deeper and deeper into it, she moans in pleasure like a needy beast.

“I bet you missed that too, huh?” you gasp, still keeping the steady rhythm of your strong hips against Wanda's, all the way inside her walls, “Someone to fuck you the way I know you like”

"Yes! Yes, yes, yes, yes...!"

She takes her right hand back and grabs your forearm that holds her waist.

When she looks at you over her shoulder, you groan; at the sight of her drawn cheek rubbing against the wood of the table, the hollow of skin against skin echoing off the kitchen walls for a good few minutes now, you swaying your hips against Wanda's, taking distance as you move in and out of the warm embrace around her wet cunt, thrusting with the true intention of destroying her from within, taking her to heaven and hell if need to be done.

You bite your bottom lip, feeling your skein of orgasm begin to be woven in the pit of your belly.

“Wanda, fuck,” you curse into her name, sticking your nose into the crook of her pale neck with a faint scent of sweat, your hips fast, sloppy, in an unstoppable beat against her skin, “Wanda, Wanda, fuck, Wanda!”

“Faster, baby! Don't- don't stop- don’t stop- ah!” you do as she says, again.

You alternate between slow and fast, deep, precise movements, causing your ex-wife's eyes contorted beneath you to roll in their sockets, her chest being unconsciously thrust forward, brushing her nipples against the silk of her open shirt on the wood under her moving torso.

Her body suddenly stiffens, and her neatly trimmed nails dig into the edges of the table; around the crimson material of your cock, a hot, viscous membrane leach up the erect length. And you feel the same trickle down between your thighs, as a yelp erupts from your ex-wife and a scarlet fever haze slams every window in the house in a harmony of hollow beats that build on Wanda's scream.

With the enchantress panting and limp as a jelly, that was the confirmation that, in a cloud of pleasure, the woman reached her apex, melting into the erotic red haze that clouded her dark eyes. You, panting, get the toy out of her insides; the shiny liquid glistens around your cock, and Wanda squeals even feeling the sudden lack of you inside her.

The living room window is cracked. The table can disassemble at any second. Wanda's neck looks like a galaxy of bruises, and her waist and buttocks are groped with red handprints that aren't going away anytime soon. The crotch of your jeans is stained with your pleasure and hers. And then she looks over her shoulder at you, the two of you still panting like two ecstatic animals.

She looks deliciously worn and messy, and you feel a new sting dulling below your belly button as you realize just how much natural juices trickle out of Wanda's abused pussy.

“So,” you gasp, brushing a strand of damp hair out of your face, “This…this is starting to become a thing, huh…?”

"Y-yeah..."

Your cum leaks out of her and drips onto the floor between your feet.

《《《《《《《ᱬ》》》》》》》

taglist: @diaryoflife, @iliketozoneout, @raqelacevedo, @wizardofstories, @wlwfanfictionss, @wandsmxmff, @whhyyynotttttt, @sayah13, @when-wolves-howl

i wrote porn lol

[let-me-iiiiiiiin]

Having thoughts about the untold lore implying design choices in cotl.... particularly about the one who waits.

In dialogue Shamura tells us that they introduced Narinder to change and knowledge. Knowing that their domain is knowledge, it is likely that their followers are tasked with writing books to store this knowledge— and perhaps, after their injury, even necessary, as information may have started to slip their mind. Books must be written on something though— parchment or paper, made by either skin or cellulose pulp— but knowing the environment and life forms dwelling in Silk Cradle, it is unlikely that such material suitable for writing on was easy to come by (though grass was probably an option, but I don't think the type of grass in Silk Cradle is similar to actual grass, judging by the weird stalactite shape).

A likely option is that since the Bishops were allies, Leshy's domain could have supplied the necessary plant material for the paper. He probably doesn't even care. It's just some grass, and he can always make more if he runs out.

As for parchment though, look at this:

LAMB??

This does explain what they could have done with the fruits of the sheep genocide. The meat for sustenance, the skin for parchment, the wool for clothing, the horns for carving, and the bones for either trophies or to use in rituals.

But what I really wanted to talk about was TOWW's apparent enthusiasm for knowledge, so much so that when we receive his statue, he is depicted with a scythe in one hand and a BOOK in the other. This alone implies that books are not uncommon to the setting— or at least, they weren't, before his exile— and that he was seen reading enough books (or having them, maybe in a library) that his divine likeness is depicted with them.

Conclusion: Narinder was a nerd, pass it on.

[lupunsus]

I'm obsessed with the hybrid AU of @cinnamonest, and i couldn't help but think about the hybrids of animals that aren't, yknow, sexually desired, but still make contact with humans, like Sloths. Just a sloth living their life.

All of this is just my personal opinion and ideas, im also bad at writing, but this is just a ramble of thoughts. the original idea of the hybrid au goes out to cinnamonest

I feel like i haven't done as much research to properly get the behavior of the sloth down to a T, but let's just say domestication can change even the craziest of wolves 🫡

GN reader, sometimes referred to as "it," because i like to believe that humans in this au don't see hybrids as people unless they prove themselves to be as smart and able to live on their own. Also, I think that sloth hybrids can move a bit faster than sloths.

Sloths as animals are already rare. So, to stumble upon a sloth hybrid would definitely be even rarer than receiving God's blessing, I think.

I like to imagine the first sloth hybrid encounter would be in Sumeru, where an Akademiya student notices some weird creature eating their notes while out researching in the forest. At first, they would be horrified at all their hard-earned work and possible funding going down the drain until they noticed that this thing is a weird dirty human with moss on their back. And it moved as slow as a snail...

An undocumented hybrid??? Would presenting it as a research topic replace the fruit of labors this student wasted their entire lives on??? The answer is yes. Yes it did.

Sloths feel very stressed when carried, so getting the hybrid to the city was difficult in itself, and plus, wasn't it illegal to bring in wild animals out of their habitat? But the species could be considered to go extinct as their numbers have been dwindling, so wouldn't it be better to raise it in a controlled environment where it's safer for them? Who knows if the reason there's barely any out in the wild is because of predators or due to the Withering problem (that is now taken care of) that destroyed a good fraction of the forest.

Either way, the hybrid is now under the protection of the Akademiya, and its new habitat is in the section where they usually study hybrids and their nature towards humans (with their owner's permission and signed documents). In this case, having a one-way glass is fortunate since the poor hybrid freaked out when a lot of humans gathered around them and severely injured one with their claws. They considered releasing the hybrid back in the wild because of how indifferent it was to humans (and the fact that it actively resisted being given a bath by using its claws, again), but decided not to as the hybrid seemed ok with living in the space as long as it wasn't bothered.

But the question now is, how would researchers study the sloth hybrid? Some attempt to bribe it with delicious food, but it takes forever just for the hybrid to eat the bribe. So they opted for leaving out simple puzzles, namely shaped blocks that fit into different holes in a wooden box. Due to the time it takes to study it, I like to believe researchers are paid for their efforts if they submit a report of what the sloth does, like how long it takes for them to eat this kind of fruit, how long it takes for them to move around, etc etc.

It sounds easy, but when you take into consideration how smart sloths can be, it isn't long before the hybrid learns how to speak, nor does it take long to figure out they're being watched.

"No." Is the first word they picked up, due to how common it was to hear it whenever someone would complain around it. So when the student who brought you in started complaining about how they should've just left it out in the wild and rewritten their paper, it said its first word.

Now, in context, saying no to someone saying "I wish I left you in the woods" could be taken in many ways. Does this sloth see me as a friend because I brought it here? Does this sloth care for me more than the others because? Or does it feel bad for eating my research notes that were my entire reason to live?

To the last part, the answer would be no. Sloth hybrid feels no shame for their actions. Don't leave important things out in the open.

All the researchers that have said "no" around the sloth hybrid appeared to be uncomfortable and distressed, putting their hands on their head and shaking it, sometimes letting out some kind of liquid from their eyes. Hearing these humans talk so much and offer nothing but tasteless leaves... wouldn't any sloth feel uncomfortable and distressed? It took at least 5 minutes for liquid to also come out of their eyes and mimic the behavior of students who lost all hope in their future, shaking its head and saying "no" repeatedly but slowly. If the humans would take it away from heavenly leaves and fruits, couldn't they supply it with anything better than dry leaves?

The student panicked, thinking that maybe they should've let the sloth be, and tried to discuss moving the hybrid back to the wild as it was clearly not liking something. But it still said no, even louder when they tried to bribe it with (mid) fruits inside a crate. All researchers agree that they wish sloth hybrids could move faster, or they could learn to move faster because 15 minutes later, the hybrid was laying on it's back pointing to its food.

Killing hybrids is illegal and would most likely get someone life in prison. I think.

There are some moments when the sloth hybrid proves itself to be helpful and even intelligent enough to comprehend human emotions. Liquid coming out of eyes = sadness. So when a student comes in crying while delivering high-quality leaves and fruit, the sloth makes an attempt to reach out a hand, offering fruit. After 20 minutes of climbing down while the student who probably failed their midterms is having a breakdown in a corner.

It's a sweet gesture, but the way it sometimes just drops the fruit on the person and turns to go back to eat makes some think it does it just for the human to be quiet. But if you have the patience to sit for another 20 minutes, you'll notice that it will take a bite of its food and wait until you do the same. But once you take a bite, it'll stop caring and munch away. If you're still there and there's a piece of fruit or a leaf left, prepare to wait a very long time for it to bring the plate over and give it to you.

It's adorable until it realizes that bringing empty plates to humans makes them take it away and bring more food, so those unfortunately not having a mental breakdown have to wait for the sloth to bring over its plate. It's even worse after some students teach it to wave, as the hybrid will stop what it's doing, raise their hand, wave, lower their hand, and look around for 5-10 minutes before remembering what it was previously doing. Less if you point to the plate. Don't grab the plate, though. The sloth hybrid is smart enough to do it itself and will throw a fit and scratch at you if you attempt to rush it.

Students now secretly feed the sloth in hopes that their friends won't distract it, as it would take almost up to an hour if a group of researchers all decided to come and wave one by one. Sometimes, people think it's a curse to have some sort of intelligence because the thing is so slow, but I don't think it would prove itself to live on its own as a citizen with rights just because it's so slow, and it would probably take an hour at least to do a simple task like writing a letter.

But don't worry, the sloth hybrid gets the best care at the Akademiya Hybrid Research Facility(?), even if it's starting to smell a bit bad to the point where they're considering spraying it down with a hose from a safe distance.

[mulling-over-milgram]

Many asks for the character ask game-

Kotoko 2, 3, 6, 8, 12

Amane 1, 8, 20, 25

Muu 1, 3, 7, 8, 12

Yuno 4, 8, 14, 20, 25

You don’t have to answer all of them because there are a lot 😂

-Favourite canon thing about this character? 

Just one? Oh this is difficult. I'm not sure if I can choose an absolute favourite canon thing but I like how she has so much jewellery. Her rings and earrings are so cool!

-Least favourite canon thing about this character?

Probably the fact that she likes to give non-answers in the QnA’s like I think it makes sense for her character and is a good writing choice. It's just also kinda annoying because I want to know more about her!

-What's something you have in common with this character? A couple things but to keep my answer brief I really relate to how kotoko feels in Harrow around justice. I’ve had a very similar feelings when I started to be become more aware of social injustice even wanted to be a lawyered to try and do something about it so even though I never went anywhere near as far as kotoko did and I’ve come to view things less as bad people use the system to do bad things to weaker people and more as our current social climate/systems create an environment that creates people that then go on to maintain the toxic cycles I still relate a lot to her feelings. 

-What's something the fandom does when it comes to this character that you despise? I get the two rapist Kotoko fanfics are low hanging fruit but I despise them with every fiber of my being just knowing what the second one is and that it exists makes me die a little inside.

What's a headcanon you have for this character?

I strongly head canon her as being on the ace spectrum :>

Why do you like or dislike this character? I love how layered Amanes symbolism is. I think her MV’s are some of the best when it comes to visuals that’ll drive you insane once you start really thinking about them. I feel like I always notice something new on a rewatch but I also think the reason I’m so attached to Amane is because she’s a character that have thought about a lot due to when I joined the fandom purge march was my first mv and I was around for pretty much all of Amane’s voting so there was a lot of Amane discussion when I first joined the fandom and my friends are all fans of her so any Milgram discussion quickly turned to her so I think she’s one of the first characters I really dug into the layers of because of that.

She’s also silly

What's something the fandom does when it comes to this character that you despise? This is less of a problem in the fandom now but the whole “we need to punish her so she won’t hurt shidou” or “we need to punish her and then she’ll leave the cult” because one that's not how cults work if you punish her your just giving her more reason to cling onto her region and proving the cult right but it's also just a mindset around children I see often and it kinda disgusts me that they should be punished or that punishment is the only option and if they aren’t punished how will they learn things are bad.

Which other character is the ideal best friend for this character, the amount of screentime they share doesn't matter? 

The ideal best friend? A good night's sleep. Have you seen her eye bags?

But on a more serious note even though with the latest minigram I’ve been thinking more about Kotoko Amane and even though Fuuta’s and Amane’s relationship is certainly not going to be healthy in t3 I’m going to say them. I think their friendship is cute and I want them to be besties!

What was your first impression of this character? How about now?

I didn’t watch purge with the English sub’s on the first time so I was like oh what a cool custom design look how happy she is then as it went on-oh -OH

OH SHE’S A LITTLE FUCKED UP ACTUALLY. 

Now I think Amane is an incredibly layered character and an especially well written child character. She's great. I love her. I hope she ends up alright in the end! 

Why do you like or dislike this character? I love her design SO MUCH!  but I think what I like about her the most is her relationship with her self image. I’ve seen a few people bring this up that muu portrays herself as a bug in it’s not my fault but portrays other like Rei as a human and this really really fascinates me because it shows us that Muu on some level idealize rei and villainesses/dehumanizes herself. 

Least favorite canon thing about this character? Her Crow symbolism doesn't show up in T2 :( it wouldn’t fit but it still makes me sad.

What's something the fandom does when it comes to this character that you like? I love how people draw her bug design! It's so cool to see how different people stylise it! Pretty everyone has a unique take on it even if it's just they simplify it down.

What's something the fandom does when it comes to this character that you despise? Something I love about milgram is how an mv will show you one side of the character and then different side in another and then when you put them together it gives up a better look of the character but people forget to do this with muu and just act like its not my fault is canon and like after pain doesn’t exist or was all a lie but no your supposed to look at them together! I think this is what leads to such simplified portrayals of muu people not taking into account her prior characterisation. This is also a problem I have with how the fandom treats harrow and deep cover.

What's a headcanon you have for this character?

Les-bee-ain 

If you could put this character in any other media, be it a book, a movie, anything, what would you put them in?

Okay a big part of me wants to say Persona because I think her character would be super interesting in that world with how she views herself and other people and her mental health but a another part knows the person writers would not treat her well and they would probably just ruin her if ann and rise are anything to go off :( I’d like to think she’d be a navigator or a wild card. 

What's something the fandom does when it comes to this character that you despise?

My beef is more with the fandom in my local area than Milgramblr or the greater online fandom. Whenever I hear discussion of yuno she’s also simplified to girl boss and yes she is girl boss but also girl failure , girl hypocrite, girl self destructive coping mechanism , girl out of water , girl who needs a hug and so on I feel like people simplify her down too much because of her crime :(

Assign a fashion aesthetic to this character.

I don’t know alot about Lolita but that's the best fit I can think of. I don’t know fashion aesthetic :’)

Which other character is the ideal best friend for this character, the amount of screentime they share doesn't matter? Yuno and Muu's friendship fascinates me but mappi and yuno’s friendship is so sweet so I gotta say them. 

What was your first impression of this character? How about now?

Oh this mv is so pretty! I love her so much! I can’t wait to learn more about her- oh…abortion….

It took me a long time to come around on Yuno because I was too distracted by her crime to see her interesting character depths. I love her now but I don’t consider myself a Yuno scholar. She’s one of my fav’s to draw!

No! No! thank you for sending in alot! :>

[ystk-archive]

CAPS LOCK turns ten today! Any thoughts about it looking back? (Yes, it's your time to write that essay!) And do you think Nakata should release an album like this again? I remember you saying that CAPS LOCK should've been a Nakata album, not a CAPSULE one.

It's kind of crazy that anyone would remember something I probably said when I was nineteen, but that's a good (incorrect) opinion of mine to take me to task for since it's a great jump-off point, lol.

I most likely said that not so much because CAPS LOCK doesn't use Toshiko's voice enough -- it uses it extremely well, really, better than the more recent Metro Pulse -- but because the album seems so pensive and insular and bizarrely personal. capsule's music increasingly incorporated gloomy and oppressive overtones starting from FRUITS CLiPPER (and I'll ascribe it as a function of the genre change), but capsule was fundamentally always pop, and moreover always a "good time." The music was supposed to make you get up and dance, not sit and listen in a quiet space. CAPS LOCK was him shifting his ethos, it was an abrupt rejection of what he had been doing. It was close to what I'd always envisioned a "solo Nakata Yasutaka album" to be -- largely or entirely instrumental, completely inscrutable, and room to do more than what he could (or would) with his normal 9-to-5 cubicle musician pop production acts. And it was the first time a capsule album made me feel sad and reflective instead of immersed in a fantasy of a world that I know nothing about and cannot access. It's a sobering album instead of an intoxicating one.

If those are a lot of frou-frou words, I can also call CAPS LOCK the end result of what happens when you talk to Sakamoto Ryuichi just one time (will never stop thinking about how he met him for S&R in 2012 and a year later we got this album lmao); I'll admit there's a sense of insincerity to the album that was sharply amplified by everything that followed (WAVE RUNNER and six years of silence) and it's partially just the sci-fi film score Nakata is never going to be asked to do (wish he'd fund his own, he loves movies and it's not like he ain't got no money). It's also an album that makes the listener want to know more about what's going on there -- it suggests a story (as Toshiko pointed out in this column) though there is none that can be concretely pieced together, it tries to and I think does create vivid environments through its sound design, and some tracks are unenjoyable slogs to hear for those who come to capsule for snappy pop music. There's a fetishizing of recorded sounds here instead of synthesizers; CAPS LOCK is entirely about what every moving part of each song accomplishes in tandem.

But all of this really just functioned as a declaration of capsule's plasticity. Anyone can examine their albums between 2010-2012 and see someone endlessly repeating themselves, sometimes trying to violently elbow their way out of a pigeonhole. CAPS LOCK was so much of a properly-done reversal that I got the impression that, regardless of how fans personally felt about the music itself, it piqued curiosities and got people really invested and excited for what could be created through capsule. It achieved this visually and sonically; basically, it felt like an album that was truly considered and made instead of cobbled together with a black backdrop. It presented Toshiko's voice in an entirely new way, where she actually is an instrument and to remove or replace her with something else would alter the effect, and it evoked enough familiarity with their previous work while still transforming the scope of what a capsule album could justifiably be and how it could make listeners feel.

This has been a whole lot of incoherent rambling but to answer the other question, yes, he absolutely should do another album "'like this," though I struggle to explain what exactly "like this" is even after everything I just wrote LMAO. Another album with a specific intention behind it? Something that is music for music's sake and not a collection of advertisements and safe pop?