#even strangers always rather choose someone else over me

[bunnihearted]

i feel like many ppl dont understand just how unwanted i am and how deeply it affects me... my presence isnt wanted anywhere, and wherever i go i feel like im not allowed to exist. im never anyone's first choice. never the first favorite friend. never this never that. like im never the first choice for anyone, just now i almost got hit by a car bc the driver chose to not hit another person close by. they would've rather hit me than that person. and that's just how it goes for me wherever i go. im lucky when and if im even tolerated. but im not wanted or the first choice or the favorite. that just makes me feel so profoundly alone, like i dont belong anywhere or is even allowed to breathe the same air as everyone else.

[barbieaemond]

The order of things

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader

Warnings: mild angst, masturbation, oral sex (m receiving), grinding

Word count: 3k

Taglist: @zae5 @multyfangirl @arcielee @credulouskhaleesi @bunbunbl0gs @alphard-hydraes-blog

MASTERLIST

There is a raven that flies towards the rookery as soon as the sun is high enough to bathe the Keep in orange. It always comes at the same split minute, Aemond sees it every day, because it is the same split minute in which his training ends. Sometimes he even manages to get the better of the bird, then looks up as he sheathes his sword and awaits him. As soon as it crosses the sky he leaves the courtyard.

His day is like a prayer, devoutly tenacious and unchanging. A bath, breakfast, a flight on dragonback, a book. A visit to Helaena and the twins if the reading bores him.

Someone might say that even his walk is always the same. Rigour and order, to be everything Aegon is not.

This time, he disarms Ser Criston well in advance, so much that the raven has yet to show itself, and when it does, Aemond will be blind to his passing.

"Mother," he says curtly as the Queen passes by. She goes to pray as she does every morning, always at the same time. She too is a creature devoted to rigour, and duty; she has seized her days and clutched them in her fist to prevent them from floating through her.

She pauses to greet him, her voice as mellifluous as ever and her eyes just as warm, and then suddenly, he turns to look at her as if he is looking at a stranger, as if she is speaking a language he does not know. "I wanted to tell you that I'm going to see some girls today, to choose your new maid."

"What's wrong with my maid?"

"Well, I figured she might ask for a leave as the wedding approaches."

He blinks, he stalls, he bogs, unnaturally, the sand stops in the hourglass. The raven glides over the towers, unnoticed.

"Yes, of course." he says, sheathing his sword, and the sand flows again, grain by grain; the funnel shrunk.

Everything in his life is part of that rigour, even people, even her.

She has been in his service long enough to know without asking when the scar pulls to the point of requiring medication. She has been in his service long enough to know that a slight frown in his eyebrows is enough to make her close the curtains and prevent the light from worsening the pain in his head, to know that he likes his venison rather raw, that he hates that doublet because the sleeves are puffed and he feels like a court jester. And she tacitly made it disappear.

She does everything without uttering a word. She doesn't need to ask, she moves when he moves, she has adapted to him like a second skin, and she doesn't seem harmed by the edges.

Yet he is harmed by something, as she pulls off his boots in front of the fireplace. He sees a flat sea where he would like to see a storm. He sees grains flowing and wishes to crash the glass.

"Do you need anything else my Prince?" she has a seraphic expression on her face, and he sees deception. She speaks in a firm, devoted voice, and he hears betrayal.

He stares at her with the eye that looks like a needle, feels like it, then shifts his gaze to the fire and says "I will be in need of your assistance tomorrow, for the whole day."

"The whole day?"

"Yes. Why? Do you have something better to do than the duties you are paid for?"

She is no novice to his bitter tongue; somehow, stupidly, naively and recklessly, she is able to imbue it with treacle when it enters her head. It doesn't matter anyway, her foolishness will end as soon as she takes her vows.

"No. Of course not. I'll be at your service, my Prince."

"Hmm, until?"

"Until?"

"You should be the one to tell me. When is the wedding due?"

Her eyes widen like two large moons and she seems to crumple in on herself, on the floor she is kneeling on, under the Prince's unwavering, iron eye. She feels her throat tighten and yet his hands are steady along the armrests. She feels her lungs crackle against her ribcage. "I—"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Why didn't she?

"My prince, I thought your Grace should not be bothered with such trivial matters."

"I decide what to be bothered about." He says in an imperative tone. "When would you have bothered to inform me? Is this how you show loyalty to your prince? Keeping things from me?"

She glues her eyes to the floor, she cannot hold the Prince's gaze, not when he is like this, even though he has never been like this. He looks angry, he looks outraged? As if he has been wronged. That look makes her blood run cold, and then it melts in red down her cheeks and neck. It would be too easy to blame the chimney behind her back, easy but necessary, to keep things in order. Prince and servant, nothing more. What else is there?

There are heavy sighs falling in the dark, stranded between the sheets as his bones boil and tense at the climax, desire spilled, wasted. But that's fine. To not be all that Aegon is. This too has become rigour, part of the order of things.

It is the order of things to watch her kneel at his feet and wish to spill his desire into her mouth. As is seeing her nails always neat and tidy scratching the floor as her back arches against him, as is seeing the blood reddening her cheeks and neck, and wanting to lick it as far as it goes. 

Someone else will do it. An ordinary man of no consequence in the order of things, the real one.

"You may go." he says coldly, hoping the frost of his tongue will cool the feverish blood under his skin.

She rises from the floor with a bowed, desolate head. "I bid you good night, my Prince."

The next morning he asks her to change the sheets, and he turns his back on her, ashamed, as if she knows she is in those sheets.

He takes a bath while she does her chores, finishing exactly when he does, because she moves when he moves. She helps him put on a dark green robe, unperturbed by his nudity, because that is her duty and it no longer makes her blush.

There's never been clumsiness in her hands, but there is today. Aemond feels her hands heavy as boulders when she prepares the ointment for his eye, when she leans over him to remove his eyepatch. She doesn't speak to him as she always does, oozing that glimmer of amusement when she brings up the servants' petty feuds and wars.

"You're rather quiet today." He asserts later, as she buttons his doublet "Has the armistice been reached in the kitchens?"

She opens in a brief smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "I don't know, Your Grace. I find myself spending a lot more time outside the Keep these days."

"Is that so?” He retorts, narrowing his eye “Hmm, is that why my books are still on the desk?"

She finishes her buttoning and ties her hands on her modest skirt. "I am sorry, Your Grace. I will see to it that they are put in order at once."

"I have no use for your apology. Why didn't you do it when I told you to?"

"Your mother gave me a leave for a few hours yesterday."

"And why did you ask my mother and not me? You are in my service, not hers."

She keeps looking down like a suspect on trial and swallows. "I went to Flea Bottom to buy some fabric for my wedding dress. I was ashamed to ask you for a leave for something so frivolous. As a woman, I thought your mother would understand."

"You will do no such thing in the future. Hide things from me and leave the Keep without my permission, or I'll have you punished. Am I being clear?"

"Your Grace, I…” she pauses, she looks down, she swallows, but it’s now or never. “You should know that I will no longer be here after the wedding. I am going to formally resign my position. Your Mother has already-"

His eye goes wide, and wild, and he breathes loudly until he is snarling. "Are you deaf or dense? Did you not hear me? You will not leave my service."

The moons in her eyes are full now. She looks at him, begging him to let her go, because that is the natural course of things. She will marry a common man, give him a couple of children and live a quiet life in the country, where her groom has a smallholding of land, their only source of wealth if they do not want a life of misery in Flea Bottom. And she is fine with that. She has accepted it. She is like any other common girl, she cannot dream, her blood is only red, there's no castle nor crown waiting for her.

She has accepted her fate with the calmness of a stream that lets itself be carried along by its current. She is happy like this, because as far as she could, in that silly way in which all ordinary girls dream, she dreamed, even though her dream is made of flesh and blood.

She had shivered when he had leaned over her when he taught her to read. She had breathed in deeply to know what he smelled like. She had felt ice in her stomach under his gaze when she read a few pages to him. And that is more than dreaming.

She cannot remain in his service, because she is an ordinary girl and more than dream, she cannot want.

"Your Grace..." she begs, going down to the floor "I beg you. Let me go my way. I believe I have always served you to the best of my ability and if I’ve ever failed you in something, name it. I will do anything to make it right."

Aemond bogs again, but in something far more paralysing and at the same time overwhelming than all his rigour. Perhaps it is the sight of her on her knees again, her head bowed and devoted, and the fact that he wants to touch that devotion, wants to taste it and swallow it.

Slowly, he lifts her chin with two fingers, eye blind to everything else; his thumb moves over her lower lip as if to know its edges, as if he has wanted to do this all his life.

"Anything?" he asks in the voice of another, the one stranded in the sheets.

She nods slowly, and the movement rubs his thumb against her teeth for a moment, forcing him to swallow, to give himself control, not to push his finger in. He is not Aegon, He is not Aegon, he is not Aegon.

"Would you be willing to please me?" he asks, and his question reaches some remote place in her, that place where a girl can dream and want freely. In that place, if he had asked once, twice, a hundred times, she would have bent to his will, not to the duty of the servant who must please her lord. Sure, that too. But first of all to her will. It is a question that need not be asked, for there is but one answer.

"Yes..."

Blood flows into her cheeks, breathing out fire from her lips. "How...? How do you want me to please you, my Prince?"

"With this..." he replies, pushing his thumb over her lip.

Her hands move fluidly over the belt and buttons of his breechers as if she had done this countless times before. She helps him dress, she knows his body even though she has never touched him. She has never touched a man in her life, not like this. Aemond reads the embarrassment on her cheeks and he basks in it with a glimmer of pride, because he will be the first.

Gently, he places a hand behind her head, tilting it a little, and looks at her with his heavy, clouded eye, enthralled. "Open your mouth..."

He knows she's never done this before, but the hot alcove of her mouth is enough to make him open his mouth and let out air in a broken cadence. She raises her eyes as if to ask if she is doing something wrong, and the sight, real and not the outcome of some delusion hidden in the dark, smothers his breath. He begins to thrust into her mouth slowly, hardening quickly as she continues to look at him and welcome him into her mouth with the devotion with which one kneels to the Seven.

"Gevie..." he pants hoarsely, brushing his fingers through her hair "You look more beautiful than I thought like this..."

His hand in her hair never tightens, though his hips move faster and the wet sound is the only one that keeps his panting company.

"Your cheeks..." he instructs her "Hollow your cheeks..."

And just as when he was teaching her to read, she listens , sucking agonisingly slowly. “Fuck—” he curses, threading his long fingers through her hair and pulling at the roots; he thrusts faster so that she has to grip his waist with her hands but when he senses she can’t breathe, he lets of her head and slips out of her scorching lips, hissing at feeling the cold air of the room.

She’s panting hard, with her mouth open and slick with him. But she has little time to catch a puff of air. He thrashes her on the carpet, with a rough kiss full of teeth and growls, and his hands move like talons, pulling her modest skirts up to her waist.

“No—My Prince—” she muffles on his mouth, pleading but desperate all together “We can’t—”

“I won’t ruin you, I promise.” he says rummaging through her garments “Just let me feel you this once—”

He finds her core with his large hand, hot and slick, and she whimpers loudly in his open mouth. “Do you get this wet for your groom, hmm? Or just for your Prince?” 

She unconsciously bucks her hips against his hand and he smiles, delightfully, against her neck, licking a stripe down her throat. “I’m in need of an answer, my sweet girl…” he says raising his head, the leather piece is about to fall behind his disheveled hair. “Have you touched yourself thinking of me?”

Shame washes over her as well as pride does him. “You did, didn’t you?”

His retrieves his hand and licks her off his fingers as if he was waiting for nothing else, staring at her with his eye pitch black.

“Do it.”

“M-my Prince?”

“Touch yourself. Now.”

She looks away, reddening even more, but he grasps her chin and forces her to look at him. “Do you want that permission to leave my service?”

It takes her a minute to swallow her shame, and then her hands is slipping between them. He pulls himself up on one arm to give her space to spread her legs some more, to watch closely as she starts to move her little hand on her bundle of nerves. “Look at me.” He commands, and she flutters her eyes with a bit of prudery before obliging.

Her breathing becomes heavy, just as his, slowly touching himself to mimic her, as he has done countless of times before but this is different. This is like the first time. He can watch her chasing her pleasure because of him, with him. He can watch the sweat beading her neck, her lip trembling. He can hear the sweet lewd sounds she makes for him.

She grows more desperate by the moment, swaying her hips on the carpet, grabbing his shoulder and neck until he falls on her. He groans upon feeling her cunt against his cock and by now they’re both too close to need hands anymore. He starts to grind against her, his hard flesh slicking ever so easily on her wetness, swallowing her whimpers and moans as he pants and rasps on her lips “Go on, sweet one. Come for me, hm?”

She does so, gripping his shoulders until digging her nails on the fabric, moaning with her mouth slack open.

He keeps grinding against her, frantic, panting, the eyepatch is somewhere on the ground and she watches him in the stupor of pleasure, like she’s experiencing a vivid dream, but the weight of the prince on her is real, his cock rubbing against her core making it twitch for more, his coarse voice as he rasps “Gods—‘M so close…” and then the jolt of warm seed on her belly.

He falls on her breathing hard, making her wince, but she can't find the strength to slip away, to pull down her skirt or move the long silvery lock that has gone into her mouth. She must leave everything as it is, and then leave it to be the ordinary girl without dreams.

For two days, her presence around the Keep is rather scarce, barely traceable in the Prince’s chambers. But his breakfast is always ready on his desk, his clothes always clean and well folded on the chair.

Aemond does not send for her nor does he seem to care where she is. He returns to his rigour, to his books, to his training as soon as dawn breaks.

One of the Kingsguard shows up in the courtyard and stands there to watch, waiting for the Prince to finish his duel.

"My Prince, I've done some research after our last conversation."

"Well?"

"Just as you said, your Grace. A modest cottage and a piece of land near Duskendale."

"Good." He says, sheathing his sword and glancing up upon hearing a distant caw. "I want you to send two city guards there, and burn it all down."

The guard blinks, widening his eyes. "My Prince?"

"You heard me."

The guard leaves and Aemond hears cawing again, closer this time. He glances up and the raven greets him, flapping his wings in the newborn sun.

Everything is in order.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Hii! Could you do a mizu w reader where one is injured (doesn't really matter which one haha) and it's like a hurt/ comfort?

Take your time and get some rest!!

Write this when I was on the verge of falling asleep, so if any of it sounds like it was coming out of my ass, it was. 🦦

‘Why did you do it?’ Mizu asked, choosing not to look at you but instead focus on your injuried chest with a hard glare.

‘Do what? Protect you from that smiley coward who was about to use unethical means to completely blindside you?’ You replied as though the answer wasn’t already glaringly obvious, you honestly didn’t understand why you had to explain your reasonings as for protecting Mizu and putting your life at risk, but if it meant showing them that someone did give a shit about whether they’d live or die; then you’d happily be that person for Mizu.

‘You had no need to protect me, I could’ve-‘

‘Easily defend yourself, I know Mizu.’ You interrupted them before grabbing ahold of their hand, memorising the feeling of callousness to memory, as you rubbed your thumb against the back of their hand reassuringly. ‘I know how strong and powerful and amazing you are. I’ve witnessed your fighting spirit first hand and it took my breath away. Literally because when we first met you knocked the wind out of my lungs with the butt of your sword, all because you thought I was some stranger about to attack you.’ You finished recounting the tale of how you first encountered Mizu with a small smile. Why? Maybe it was your way to direct their mind to a more happier and healthier memory, rather then have it stuck heavily focusing on the one where they had their back exposed to the enemy; the reason you now had a massive gash running across your chest. A gash that would surly become a permanent part of your body but also a painful reminder to Mizu.

A reminder that you could’ve been easily taken away from them.

A reminder that you’d always selflessly put them before yourself, even if that meant getting hurt, maimed, loosing a limb or worse yet; your life.

A reminder that they’ll have to get stronger if they wish to prevent you from doing so in the nearby future. Mizu knew that their revenge took presidency over everything else, even their own health, but they don’t want you to ruin yourself beyond recognition for them; It just didn’t feel right to Mizu to have you be the barrier between them and the ill intentions of other people. They were strong enough to deal with it but as it’s been made clear countless times before, you didn’t give two shits about that, and instead focused all your time and effort into showing them that they matter so much to you; Which is an admirable and respectable trait to have in Mizu’s eyes.

However that did little to quell the unease they felt upon witnessing your body drop at their feet in what felt like slow motion, just as the first sighting of blood that began to pool beneath you in such quick succession, that at one point Mizu genuinely thought they were too late to save you, this was proven especially more true when you didn’t awaken within the first couple of days after Mizu had stitched and then later covered your wound; all in due to the amount of blood you had already lost. So the feeling of being able to properly breathe again upon seeing you wake up made the uneasy feeling that little bit more bearable for Mizu.

‘While it’s appreciated to know that I can fully count on you to have my back in the heat of battle, it is not a necessity.’ Mizu states, bring the conversation back to where it was needed most, causing you to frown. ‘I should’ve known better than to think that he would honour me with a fair fight. I should’ve known that he’d play dirty the moment he realised the odds were stacked against him.’ Mizu adds, clenching their fists into the seams of their clothing, jaw clenched and their eyes become an unforgiving steel blue; all signs of their underlying rage toward themself and the cowardly man.

‘You didn’t know and that’s perfectly fine.’ You grunt as you slowly sat yourself up with Mizu’s hands supporting your endeavour whilst being mindful as to not reopen your wound. ‘It’s normal to not foresee things before they happen, otherwise it wouldn’t be considered an authentic human experience.’ You let out a little chuckle, all the while Mizu was left to sit there and narrow their brows at what you could’ve possibly thought was so humorous. ‘And to live an authentic human experience is to accept that you have limitations, especially during the moments where you wished you didn’t have any at all.’ You said as you looked into Mizu’s eyes hoping that your words were somewhat getting through to them.

‘We always question ourselves on how we didn’t see it coming, or how we didn’t see the signs but what we’re not taking into account is that we’re human. Not super powered beings of mythical origins nor gods but just plain old humans. We don’t get the luxuries that they do, however if there’s one thing we can pride ourselves in having, it’s how we take these moments to heart and learn from them going forwards.’ You smiled softly, seeing the sea of emotions within Mizu’s eyes. ‘Another thing we can pride ourselves on is our resilience and our willpower to continue paving the way forward. We get hurt but we always get back up because that’s the indomitable human spirit. That’s what we do.’

‘Where are you getting with this and what does it have to do with me allowing you in getting hurt?’ Mizu asked, curious and a little restless as to what this was all meant to mean. ‘The moral of this for you to not beat yourself up over being human for being human is all we’ll ever know how to be until our final breath.’ You explained, lifting their clenched hand within yours to press a kiss to the back of it, before placing it back onto their lap. ‘Instead of focusing on what has already come to pas, how about bringing your attention to the fact that I’m still here and I’m still breathing. Yeah?’ Mizu stayed quiet for a while, allowing for your words to sit with them as Mizu thought long and hard before finally reaching to a conclusion.

‘Only on the pretences that I get to teach you in the basics of defence.’ Mizu said. ‘As a precaution.’ They add.

‘As long as you don’t go hard on me.’ You chuckled, already visualising it.

Mizu gave you an almost missable smirk. ‘No promises.’

[a-doubleh-x]

Why I like Charlastor

The other day I noticed there was some negativity in the Charlastor tag, including antis and people feeling the need to defend against antis, so I thought I might as well take a step back and just write candidly about why I like the ship.

I only got into Hazbin in October of last year, but already it has inspired me a lot to write and fantazise about it. Like most people, I started with the classic "they look cute together", but as I kept looking I couldn't help but think there was something else to these two than first met the eye.

For starters, I love Pollyanas! I think they get a bad rep for being naive, but I just appreciate an optimist like Charlie who just wants to make people around her happy because it makes her happy. I also like bad boys 😳 I'm a pretty heteronormative guy, so I haven't had a big chance to explore that part of myself yet, but I do like the danger and excitement someone like Alastor brings to the table.

I will admit when I started writing Charlastor I felt like I was handling dynomite. It's a lil scary to ship a boundless altruist with a manipulative sociopath, but bear with me.

I think each of them has something the other needs. I think Charlie needs someone to challenge her, someone to steer her in the right direction while she's mostly isolated. At the start of the series, practically nobody but Vaggie takes her seriously, and Alastor is no exception. He mocks her, teases her, but she still listens and I think it's because somewhere deep down she understands there's something he's trting to communicate in his annoying, but curious way.

Of course, I also love the fanon Charlie who's down bad for Alastor, and even if that Charlie is a little naive, I think it's also sweet and she can use some indulgence while most people treat her like a child.

On the other hand, when it comes to Alastor, this is a bit of a theory on my part, but I think he's secretely lonely. He has friends, certainly, like Rosie and Mimzy, but they're not good enough friends to live together with him. They don't seem to be able to save him from "pure, absolute boredom". But Charlie, for some reason can, even though she's a stranger at the beginning when Alastor chooses to move into the Hotel.

Alastor is not as much of a cynic as someone who chooses to see things in a perspective that benefits him. He doesn't think redeeming sinner is "hopeless", but "hilarious" instead, which has interesting implications to me. That's why he chooses to hover around Charlie, not because he thinks she's lame, rather because he thinks she's silly. She makes him laugh. Which I think is kind of how Alastor sees "love".

And then you have fanon Alastor who, depending on the writer, is either a horny animal, a wisecrack edgelord or a soft boy who's mean to everyone but Charlie XD I like several of those interpretations, but I kinda prefer mine just out of personal taste. I think the best part about Alastor is that he doesn't *care* what anyone thinks of him and always does what he wants, even at the expense of other people, which I find pretty enviable.

They're kinda both outcasts in their own ways. Charlie by being unable to fit in and Alastor being unwilling to compromise. But they don't judge each other. He supports her in his own weird way and she houses him and is delighted of him in general, which is tasty food for his ego. I do wonder why Alastor is interested in Charlie, both in canon and in a fandom vacuum.

There's some cool potential for drama there, but also growth and healing, in my opinion. Personally, I think Alastor doesn't want to actually *hurt* Charlie, but he may hurt those around her, which will be a moment to start settling compromises if Charlie puts her foot down.

That haz bin my review so far! I'm honestly pretty grateful for Vivziepop for all of the work she's done so far, I know directing, animating and writing two shows over the course of 5 year or so ain't easy. I'm also grateful to the fandom who shares their thoughts and vision, which calms the terrible voices I started hearing in my head since I bought this weird old radio.

I'm in the middle of a break, but if you're interested in my fanfics I'll get back to writing very soon. Cheers! 🌈❤🦌

[daechwitatamic]

Vice;Grip || chapter 2 || chs

(banner by @itaeewon)

Vice;Grip (masterpost) NSFW - minors DNI Genre: angst smut fluff, fuckbuddies!au Summary: Make it not hurt, you could have asked him. Or, at least, make it hurt in a way I choose.  A/N: infinite thank you's to @sailoryooons and @eoieopda for beta-ing!! //

Warnings: Frequent depictions of depression, depressive episodes, panic attacks, and substance abuse (alcohol, weed, and pills referenced). PLEASE know that these characters’ relationships with drugs and alcohol are not healthy and should not be emulated. If these topics are triggering to you, please consider sitting this one out.

Section Specific Warnings: depiction of a depressive episode, recreational drinking and bar scenes, allusion to oral (f. receiving), kissing, rough sex/man-handling, explicit penetrative sex, dirty talk, aftercare, didn't venture fully into writing dom!vernon but i have been informed i wrote something that might be in the realm of a dom drop, language obviously, reader is called a gendered slur by a stranger, law-breaking :), actual fluff for a second, allusions to drug use, car sex

wc: 6900

Playlist: you can call me in the middle of the night / you can leave before i wake up in the morning / and it could feel so wrong / but i'll still hold on

1 yr, 5 months ago

The onset of spring brought a lack of color. Grey clouds hung full and heavy, low over the city skyline. Grey crept into the corners of your apartment, darkening rooms during daytime so that you needed to keep lamps on even in midafternoon. Grey crept over your body, into your limbs. Days stretched and nights inched; you only got out of bed because you had to feed the damn cat.

That's part of why you'd gotten the cat in the first place, after a particularly long episode a few years ago, when Chan had presented you with a list of things he thought you should do to combat the blues, as he'd put it.

He meant well. But he always came at your depression like a problem solver, like just doing the right things could make it go away.

And sure, his suggestions were things that would help - get outside, call someone, don't isolate, shower even if you aren't leaving the house, drink some damn water - they weren't a cure. They were better reminders for when you were okay - good at keeping you okay for longer stretches. But when it was already too late, when the grey came, they all sounded fucking pointless. 

Anyway. The cat had been a good idea. 

is it bad?? 

Chan did his best. He was a good best friend. He just didn't understand it.

The answer to his question, you thought, as you flipped your phone over so you wouldn't see the notification if he followed up, was yes. Yes, this time was particularly bad. But you didn't have the energy to type those three words. 

Terrible friend, your brain accused, and it was right. 

You managed to drag yourself to work, to at least show up so you could continue to pay for your apartment and your damn cat, but not much else. You existed on cans of diet coke and microwave meals. You doom-scrolled until sunrise, then slept an hour or two at most before getting dressed for work. You left texts unanswered, the mail piled up. So did the dishes. 

Chan came by, once, did your dishes for you. It made you feel worse - useless and pitiable. You'd rather he just go away, but you held it in; you knew that would only hurt his feelings.

You learned from your mistakes, one thing that could be said in your favor. 

“Have you called your doctor?” he wanted to know.

What was the point? There wasn't a stop hating your life pill. 

“What if you tried painting?” he asked.

“What if you just let me be?” you countered, finally tripping over the line from embarrassed apathy to defensiveness. 

That pout again. “It might help,” he said. “Don't most famous artists do their best shit when they're down?”

“Get out,” you deadpanned. He dropped it, knowing this was a bigger issue, a bigger argument, than this current episode, a complex situation that went beyond the boundaries of your brain chemistry.

He put the last of your now-clean plates away. “Let's go somewhere,” he suggested.

“Chan,” you groaned. “I’m tired. I can't go gallivanting -”

“You're not tired, you're depressed,” he argued. “And going outside will help you.”

“I might have to kill you,” you said seriously, and he rolled his eyes. 

In the end, he let you win. He'd been around long enough to know that eventually you'd venture outside again, hit the bars with him again, text first again, laugh at his stupid memes again. It was just a waiting game. 

Still, when he left, you sat on the edge of your couch with your chin in your hands. On the living room rug, the cat rolled and showed you its belly. 

“Not you, too,” you groused. 

The cat did a few alligator rolls and then scampered into your bedroom and under the bed, as if chased. 

You sighed. You made your way to the spare room, which had been shut - to keep the cat out. To keep your ghosts in. 

Your easel was still set up in the corner. You were kind of surprised it wasn't covered in cobwebs. You'd been sketching just on paper last time you'd worked, trying to make decisions that way so you wouldn't waste a canvas, and it still sat there. 

You inched closer, ran your hands over your brushes. Took a step back, eyed the paper and your sketches. 

It was bad. Thank god you hadn't put it to canvas. 

You pulled the paper down, crumpled it in your hands. You chased the cat out with a gentle nudge of your foot, and closed the door again, keeping both cats and ghosts on their respective sides of the door.

There was no rhyme or reason to your brain, no map or calendar to follow for the starts or stops. But eventually, the clouds broke. The grey gave way to baby buds of green, yellows pushed through soil, determined to meet the sun.

You texted Chan - drinks??

He responded - about time!!!

You texted Vernon - hello, its me

When he didn't answer, you tried again - sorry for the radio silence. 

Still nothing. 

You checked his socials, saw that he'd been doing his thing - a smattering of selfies, some group shots with the guys he played music with sometimes, a few nature shots: the moon, once, and what looked like the river at night. 

The silence stretched. You gave up, considered it over. Grieved a little, because it had been good. 

You went out on a night that teased summer even though it was months away, sank into the familiar blur of too many shots - not enough to be a problem, but maybe enough to make problems. 

Under the club's ever-moving lights, you took a selfie, your drink and cleavage both showcased in the shot. 

Send it to Vernon, the urge to make trouble suggested, and you listened without hesitation.

And - finally - an answer.

come here after?? 

You smiled a tiny, victorious smile and knocked back the rest of your drink. 

omw.

Later, he gave you a rare and devastating pout as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smoothed fingers down the still-shaking inside of your thigh.

“What'd you make me wait so long for?” he complained, those sharp eyes sparkling with mirth. When you shrugged, still a little mindless from your high, he gave the same spot on your thigh a playful slap. “Don't do it again.”

1 yr, 4 months ago

busy tonight?

not busy but.

???

not in the best mood.

bet i could fix that.

yeah. idk.

why don't you let me try? 

“What's wrong?” you cooed, teasing, when Vernon let you into the apartment. 

He didn't smile, didn't play along, and it sobered you quickly. 

“Don't want to talk about it,” he muttered, crowding into your space. “Wasn't that big of a deal anyway.”

Just want the fix you promised, he thought. 

You moaned like liquid gold when his first kiss was a bite. Encouraged, Vernon gripped you by the shoulders, pushing you back against the wall hard enough that he heard your breath escape in a single huff. He hesitated, eyes searching your face; a question.

You lifted your chin, eyes shining with something hard. When he kissed you again, you threaded your fingers through his hair and pulled, hard enough to make him hiss; an answer.

His pace was frenzied from the start, your legs around his waist and the wall holding you up. His hand curled around your throat, not squeezing, but sliding up to grip at your jaw instead, keeping you from tilting your head back, closing your eyes, losing yourself in how he felt slamming his hips flush against yours with dizzying smacks.

When you whined that you were close, he pulled you away from the wall and lowered you both to the ground, the wooden floor of his entryway cold and hard beneath your spine. It didn’t matter, didn’t do anything to stop the vortex tightening below your stomach. You slapped a hand over your face as it distorted in pleasure, Vernon kneeling between the legs you still had gripping his waist, one of his hands braced on the floor next to your head, holding his body over you.

“That’s right,” he breathed, gritted teeth flashing over you, forehead wrinkling as his own release closed in on the chase. “Just fucking take it when I fuck you into the floor.”

Then he was pulling out, breaths hissing through his teeth as he straightened up, one hand pumping himself furiously until strings of white decorated your stomach, cooling immediately in the apartment’s chilly air.

His breathing was ragged as he sagged back onto his heels, and you pushed yourself up onto your elbows, watching him warily.

Then he stood and slipped into the hallway bathroom, the light clicking on and illuminating the unlit entryway where you’d just fucked. You heard the sink run, then shut back off, and Vernon returned. He knelt gingerly - you could see his knees were red from kneeling on the wooden floor - and cleaned your stomach first, then gently between your legs.

You sat the rest of the way up then, watching him carefully as he sat back on his heels again, avoiding your gaze. Something about the moment felt like a thing alive, unfurling between you like a casablanca lily under the refracted light of the moon.

You spoke at the same time.

“Vernon?”

“You okay?”

You swallowed, rubbed absently at your elbow where you’d smacked it on the floor during the position change.

“I’m fine,” you said tentatively. “Are you?”

He sighed, rubbing his hands over his face, and then peering through his fingers at you for a second before dropping them again. “Thought I hurt you.”

You shook your head. “I’m okay. I would have said something.”

He nodded, relief starting to bring feeling back to his hands again. He stood and reached a hand down for you. When you took it, he closed his fingers around yours and pulled you to your feet.

“I know we don’t usually do this,” you said, rubbing at the parts of you that had been on the floor - the backs of your legs, your ass, “but could I take a super fast shower before I go?”

“Yeah,” he said, so quickly that the word almost trips on itself. “Of course.”

He led you into the bathroom, rummaged in the disorganized linen closet for a clean towel, pressed it into your hands.

“If you need one, too,” you said easily, as he reached around you to turn the water on so it could heat up, “I don’t mind if you join me.”

He paused. “You sure?”

You shrugged, then leaned over to put your hand under the spray, testing to see if it was still cold. “It’s your shower.”

Under the stream of warm water, you turned to face him, front to front, looking up at him with clear eyes. Something in your expression was so open, Vernon couldn’t help but feel both the desire to step into the space you seemed to be offering him as well as the desire to get far, far away from it.

He’d been so angry before you’d texted, furious enough that he’d bruised his knuckles punching the doorframe; now, as the chemicals in his body settled down, he felt those knuckles throbbing. He was disgusted that he’d lost his temper, guilty that he’d taken any of that anger out on you, who had nothing to do with it.

He was scared of the desire he felt to be closer to you, just for tonight. Scared that fucking you hadn’t been enough to soothe whatever it was that roiled inside him, like it usually was. Scared that he felt like he needed more than sex to heal this particular burn.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and part of him thought he was apologizing in advance, like he knew already he’d run scared at some point. “For being so...”

He didn’t know what word fit best. 

“I told you,” you said, pressing a little closer, “I would have said if I had a problem.”

“Okay,” he said, frowning a little. “If you’re sure.”

Then he reached over and brushed a thumb along your cheekbone, chasing away a rivulet of shower-water. You closed your eyes for a second, and he swore he could feel you lean into the touch, just slightly.

He didn’t know how to explain how he felt. Kind of like he’d done a hot-coal-walk; the exhaustion that came with an adrenaline crash, the vulnerability that came after facing down something big, that need - the burn inside him needing cool water before it could quiet down.

With the shower off, the silence in the bathroom was loud.

“Do you…” Vernon started, then stopped. His heart hammered, the adrenaline returning. He covered the moment by toweling his hair roughly and pulling his hands through the strands so they’d lay right. “Do you want to stay for a little bit? I was gonna order delivery, maybe watch something before I finish my assignment.”

He’d expected you to think about it, to turn it over in your mind the way you turn his things over in your careful hands, the way you turn him ass over head with just a smirk. Instead, you nodded right away.

“Yeah,” you said, like it was no big deal. Like you did this all the time. Maybe you did, just not with him. “I was starving, actually. I could stay for an hour or two.”

On his couch, the leftovers of the food scattered on his coffee table, you reached for his hand, ran a thumb imperceptibly along his purpled knuckles. You didn’t ask what happened, just brought them to your lips and pressed the lightest kiss before putting them down again and reaching for your noodles, as if it hadn’t happened at all.

That was when Vernon saw the potential of it, an entire picture, framed and labeled: you could hurt him so badly if he let you, if he let it get that far. For whatever it was that burned inside him, you were the cool water… but you could absolutely be gasoline, instead.

1 yr, 3 months ago

If you closed your eyes, you could pretend the light that passed over your closed lids in a repetitive pattern was the sweep of a lighthouse beam. You could pretend that the rumbling bass of the music was the roar of the ocean. You could pretend that you weren’t here, in a shitty bar, but at the seaside. You could pretend that you weren’t alone. You could pretend that you weren’t you.

You drained your drink and caught the bartender’s eye, gesturing for another, sliding the sweating glass away from you once you knew a new one was coming.

“What are you drinking?”

The voice came from your right, and you lifted tired, disinterested eyes to find the source of it.

“G and T,” you answered, because it was one fewer syllable than saying gin and tonic and maybe that one syllable would do the dirty work for you and tell this guy that you didn’t want to talk to him.

“Nice,” he said, like you’d said something interesting, and you fought the urge to roll your eyes. You didn’t return the question, just slid your phone screen on and opened your messages.

wyd

drinks at my hyungs place. wbu

damn. guess i have to settle for one of these very mid prospects at the willow

damn thats a sad story. if only you had a better option

if only my better option werent busy at his hyung’s

no one said i had to stay here. ur at the willow?

yep

The guy to your right tried again. “The DJ tonight kind of sucks, huh?”

You looked back at your phone.

don’t leave

You smiled into your drink, a thrill dancing through your bloodstream. The lights and music didn’t seem as garish as they had ten minutes ago.

“My boyfriend’s on his way to pick me up,” you said flatly to the guy who kept trying to talk to you, “so you might want to find someone else to complain about the DJ to.”

The word tasted like lemonade on your tongue - acidic and sour, sweet and refreshing, taste buds blooming and shriveling in tandem. Even the knowledge that it was a flat-out lie didn’t stop your heart from beating faster.

You expected the guy to get up and leave, maybe throw you a dirty look on his way. Instead, he seemed to call your bluff, narrowing his eyes like he was trying to read you.

“I don’t think I’d let my girlfriend go out alone looking like this,” he said evenly, and you let out a derisive laugh.

“The fact that you just said the words let my girlfriend probably has a lot to do with why you’re here alone,” you countered, a flash of victory slicing up your spine when you saw his face flush.

Before he could retort, you hopped down from your barstool, pushing your way into the crowded dance floor. You didn’t even want to dance, you just wanted to get away. If Vernon wanted to find you, he could come find you. He’d told you not to leave, he hadn’t said make it easy for me.

He found you anyway; he made it look easy. He stepped around a group of guys talking in a circle and into your space, like he was following a path, like he knew there’d be room for him.

You were happy to see him. You were happy he came. You were happy to breathe him in, to feel the warmth of his body and smell his cologne and hear your name tumble from his mouth like a statement. You were too drunk to tuck these truths away into pockets and folds where they would be harder to find.

You stepped to him and wrapped your arms around his neck. If he was surprised, his body hid it well. His hands came to rest on your lower back, pressing you closer to him as you leaned up to find his mouth.

You kissed him slowly, at odds with the frantic bassline vibrating under your feet. You let him tip your head back, changing the angle, sweeping your mouth with his tongue until you both tasted lemonade.

“Happy to see me?” he asked, a hint of a smirk on his face, one eyebrow arched in question and one half of his mouth twitching into a smile.

You didn’t have it in you to lie, so instead you said, “Your place?”

He led you outside.

As luck would have it, the idiot from the bar stood beside the front door, a cigarette between two fingers. His expression darkened when he recognized you, then further when he saw your fingers linked with Vernon’s as you stepped into the quiet night.

“Your girlfriend’s a fucking bitch,” the guy bit out, dropping the cigarette butt and stepping on it.

Vernon’s eyebrows shot up.

Evenly, he said, “She’s not -”

She’s not my girlfriend. You felt your stomach swoop, and you felt yourself flinch.

“- a bitch. She’s just smarter than you.”

Vernon tugged on your hand, leading you across the street to his parked, waiting car.

You tried to bite back a smile, and he looked sideways at you, his own lips twitching.

“What?” he demanded.

“What?” you parroted.

He scowled at you, but his lips were just smiling. “What?” he asked again.

You laughed. “Let’s go,” you said. “The bitch wants to kiss you more.”

You expected his smile to sharpen. Instead, something in it seems to soften, changing from teasing to actual affection.

“Alright,” he said, turning to start the engine. “Can’t really say no to that, can I?”

“You could,” you mused, as he pulled away from the curb and the bar slid into nothingness behind you, “but I just don’t think you should.”

1 yr, 2 months ago

wyd

melting

srsly

no, seriously. i am laying on my living room floor like a starfish trying not to turn into liquid

come to hyungs

its too hot to move

i have an idea, come meet me at hyungs

You frowned at your phone. Of course your aircon died during the only heatwave you could remember in your entire adult life. Your whole body felt sticky; you were pretty sure you were stuck to your floor.

It was too hot to move.

what’s the idea??

you’ll see. i’ll order u a car. can you bring a couple towels?

“Vernon, no,” you laughed, your voice echoing.

He shushed you through laughter, both of you leaning on each other as you stood at the edge of the yard, the grass tickling the bottoms of your bare feet. Upstairs, at his friend’s place, you’d thrown back a few shots for courage before following Vernon out here, and you were feeling them, your head swimming like your body might soon be.

“It’s a circuit, see?” he tried to explain, pointing through the night, as if you could see through all the fences and over all the hedges. “Five yards, five pools, and then we end up right back here and we get in the car and go. Just follow me, don’t stop for anything.”

“Someone’s gonna call the cops,” you complained. “And these neighborhoods all have cameras.”

“That’s why we keep moving,” he said, his grin so excited and so un-Vernon that you almost couldn’t bear to say no to him. “No one’s gonna call the cops if we’re already gone - it’s not worth it. You ready?”

You hesitated. “You’re good to drive us out of here?” you checked.

He held up his hands as if to show innocence. “Only had a beer,” he promised. “But I’ve got something fun in the car for after, if you want.”

You felt your grin turn wolfish. “Okay. I’m right behind you.”

“Try and be quiet,” he warned, then took off running across the yard, cannonballing into the pool with a splash.

You tore off after him, leaping into the water and suppressing a shriek when the cold water hit you. You felt instantly sober, jittery with adrenaline, alive with laughter. You spluttered your way to the surface and pushed water away from your eyes, trying to find him through the shadows.

He was already climbing out the other side, water running down his back, the muscle shifting in the half-light as he hoisted himself back onto the pool’s deck. You hurried across the pool, climbing up beside him, giggling wildly.

“Shhh,” he warned, but he was giggling too as he led you carefully over the fence to the next yard.

As soon as you crept close enough to the pool to jump, a motion-activated light came on, flooding the yard white and causing you to cover your eyes.

“Quick!” Vernon told you, grabbing your arm and pulling you in with him as he jumped.

You let out a stream of bubbles and water rushed into your mouth. You felt your feet hit the bottom and you pushed off hard, surfacing quickly.

Again, you followed him across the pool, both of you laughing and whispering, “Hurry! Quick!” as you climbed out and headed around the house to the front yard.

“Okay, this is the hard part,” he told you, both of you shivering as the night air caught up to you. “We have to cross the street, hop the fence, and then the pool is around back.”

“I’m ready,” you promised, with a particularly hard shiver.

You sprinted across the street, both leaving wet footprints on the pavement. His hand felt warm in yours when he helped you over the fence, warm on your body when he held your waist as you climbed down.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” you muttered, but giggles still spilled out of you.

“More fun than melting, right?” he asked, and you thought that you’d seen him smile more tonight than in whole months of coming together at night.

You thought you might move mountains to see him smile like this again, gums showing, open and honest, happy.

Then you were underwater again, swimming hard to keep up, following Vernon through the night as he pushed his way through some hedges and held them apart for you.

You made it to the last house before someone caught you, slamming the back door open and shouting, “Hey!”

“Go, go, go!” Vernon cried, laughing with such abandon that it sounded like goose honks, pulling on your hand as you both stumbled, dripping, towards the car.

You’d set towels on the seats before starting, so you tumbled into the car and he peeled away, both of you laughing wildly as you left the neighborhood behind.

It was miles before you calmed down, gasping in breaths and trying to hold them before exploding into laughter again.

“I’d better not end up on the news,” you scolded. “I’m in my underwear.

He gave you a searing sideways look. “I noticed.”

You felt yourself warm again, despite being in soaking wet clothes.

“Where next?” you asked. “Home?”

He let out a breath that was almost a sigh. “I don’t really want to go home,” he admitted. Then, “I was having fun with you.”

You considered this. “Not to be a cliche, but… I know a place.”

The quarry was quiet, surrounded by only trees; without posted lights, everything seemed to be just varying shades of black - the black of the water just darker than the black of the stone ledges just darker than the walls of trees just darker than the sky sprinkled with stars above you.

“We have to be careful,” you warned him seriously. “If you slip and get hurt, it could be bad.”

He turned the flashlight on his phone on and set it next to the metal rungs that jutted out of the stone, a makeshift ladder for the swimmers who came here during the day, when swimming was allowed.

“It’s going to be way colder than the pools,” you added.

“You’re not selling this very well,” he pointed out.

“Don’t be a chicken,” you teased.

He eyed the water. “I’m having second thoughts.”

You nudged him in the ribs, which caused him to squirm away, hands batting at yours, a noise emitting from him that made you laugh out loud.

“Are you ticklish?” you demanded. “How did I not know?”

“Come on, are we jumping or what?” he asked, laughing, still trying to keep your sneaky hands away from his ribs.

“Yeah, that’s probably the only way to actually get in,” you admitted, still laughing a little. Your abs felt a little sore from how much you’d laughed tonight.

You stood on the edge of the stone, toes curling over the ledge, Vernon’s hand tight in yours. You stood on the edge, the ink-like water beneath you rippling slightly, marring the reflection of the constellations high above you. You stood on the edge of something, knowing full well you were afraid to swim.

He counted you down, and together, you jumped.

The water was freezing - it hurt, it stung, and you shrieked and laughed as you surfaced. A foot from you, Vernon was shouting.

“The towels!” you told him, already swimming towards the little dot of light that marked the ladder.

Shaking and shivering, you reached your towel, wrapping it around yourself. Behind you, Vernon jogged up, making noises like a disgruntled horse as he found his own towel.

“Oh my god,” he groused, grabbing for you. “I’m freezing, come here.”

He opened his arms, the towel behind him like a wingspan, and you stepped into the space, letting him wrap his arms and his towel around you. You stood shivering together, trying to let your body heat chase the cold away.

You wrapped your own arms around his middle, pressing yourself closer as your legs shook, shivers rolling up your spine in waves as your body fought the chill. 

“C’mere,” he murmured above you, holding you a little more tightly, his own teeth chattering. 

It was the first time, you realized as you turned your head to rest your cheek on his chest, that you’d held each other. It was the first time you’d been between his arms when you weren’t fucking, the first time he’d tightened his grip around you for a reason other than gratification. 

You didn’t want it - didn’t want to know that it felt nice in his embrace, didn’t want to know that it fit right and felt safe. You didn’t want to know that you liked it, didn’t want to have to fight against the humiliation of wanting more.

As soon as the full-body tremors died away in the warm, sticky night, you stepped away, eager to put distance between you again. 

Later, he looked over at you from the driver’s seat of the car, red-eyed, his smile stretching slow and thick like putty. When you straddled his lap, his hands searching out the bare skin of your back, you rocked against him and pressed open-mouthed kisses to the column of his pretty throat until you were pulling groans from him with each pass of your hips. 

Forget, you thought, as you pulled your underwear to the side for him. Forget every single thing but this.

When you slipped an arm behind his neck and pressed your foreheads together as you lifted and dropped, you weren’t sure whose memory you were hoping to erase with this most recent pleasure-chase: yours, or his.

1 yr, 1 month ago

There was no map or calendar to this thing your brain did. It was summer, the sun shone, and yet the days bled together again, sunsets swirling down the shower drain.

The last time you’d gone radio silent, the last time your world had gone grey without warning, Vernon had answered in kind. His own silence had shouted for him until you’d tempted him back.

This time, he didn’t resort to silence in retaliation to yours. Instead, he kept trying, relentless. If you’d had more presence of mind, you might have wondered why.

wyd

[ ]

yo. whats the deal

[ ]

i will have you know that this is very insulting

[ ]

don’t get mad but im coming over

“What the fuck, Vernon.”

“I said don’t get mad.”

“It doesn’t work like that. What are you doing here?”

He leveled you with a look. “You gonna let me in?”

“Literally, no.”

You hadn’t showered in days; your apartment was probably grosser than you were. The cat milled around your ankles, trying to weasel its way outside, and you hopped from foot to foot trying to nudge it back inside.

“Why not?” he asked.

You huffed, annoyed. But the annoyance was the first thing you’d felt all day, and something inside you clung to it, desperate for more of anything but the crawling nothing that’s kept you company for days.

“Because,” you grumbled. Because there’s nothing for you here. Because I have nothing I can give you. “I’m… just not in the mood.”

He stepped back from the door so you could see more of him. “I’m not asking you to be.”

“Then why are you here?” The words fell between you, heavy. If you hadn’t been so low, if you hadn’t gone all day without eating, if you hadn’t been on your thirtieth hour without sleeping, you would have known better. You would have realized that you were asking, if you aren’t here for sex, then what are you here for? 

You wouldn’t have asked a question that you didn’t want the answer to.

He met your eyes. He seemed to teeter on the edge of telling you the truth, giving you the real answer. Then, he muttered, “Got bored.”

You knew it wasn’t the whole truth, and he knew you knew it, and yet neither of you were willing to look at it directly.

“I fail to see how that’s my problem,” you mumbled, avoiding his gaze.

He watched you for what felt like a long time, face serious, eyes glittering and attentive. Then, instead of answering, he repeated, “Are you gonna let me in?”

You frowned at him, but there was a little more pout to it than anger. “I’m all gross,” you said, instead of answering.

Something in him softened - it was visible on his face, in his shoulders, like he knew this was your way of saying yes. “So let’s shower,” he suggested quietly.

You felt trepidation, like part of you expected him to stay soft, to try to take care of you. To your relief, Vernon acted like everything was normal, scrunching his face at you when the water was too cold as he stepped in, washing his own body in silence and letting you do your thing.

He didn’t try to hold you, didn’t ask you when you’d eaten last, didn’t try to talk about it - didn’t try to fix it. He was just… there, and this - along with your first shower in days - was somehow revitalizing in itself.

You pulled on clean sweats, which was better than the day-four sweats he’d found you in. “The apartment’s kind of… sorry,” you mumbled, looking around the living room, feeling a bit of that familiar shame crawl up your neck as you noticed the evidence that you hadn’t been picking up, or running a vacuum.

Vernon flopped backwards on your sofa, unphased, one arm bent behind his head. “We’ve been doing this for almost a year,” he pointed out. “I know how it usually is.”

It isn’t usually like this. And neither are you.

You wondered when it happened - your ability to finish his half-thoughts, your ability to know what he meant when he only said a fraction of it.

You stood awkwardly beside the couch where he was lounging, and he looked up at you with a tiny, amused smile.

“What do you wanna do?”

What you really wanted to do was cocoon yourself in blankets again and put on repeats of a show you’d already seen. But now you had to look functional. You might be mad at him for showing up like this, now that you thought about it.

“I dunno,” you said, which was close to the truth.

“You wanna eat?”

“Honestly?” you asked, pursing your lips a little. “No.”

“Okay,” he said easily, and it struck you again how different this was than how Chan treated you when you were low. Chan would have already had the food delivered, and would be chasing you around the table with loaded chopsticks, demanding you take a bite.

“Can we just… watch something?” you asked, unsure.

Vernon wordlessly reached for your remote and held it up to you, nonplussed.

You wondered if it was an act, how easy this was, how unbothered he was, how he seemed to just understand what wouldn’t help.

You knew it wasn’t; you’d been around long enough to know that Vernon’s demons weren’t all that different from yours.

You settled somewhere between his body and the back of the couch, one leg bent over his legs, one of your arms over his stomach and his arm curled around your shoulders.

“This is weird,” you muttered into his chest, and his laugh rumbled under you.

“Why?” he asked, his smile big, like he thought you were particularly funny. “Not used to being big spoon?”

Not used to cuddling - with you.

“Yeah,” you said, because that was easier.

On your TV, a show ran through several episodes, the changing scenes splashing you and Vernon with changing colors, casting his face blue and then white and then black and then red and then blue again. Sometimes he’d watch, sometimes he’d scroll on his phone. You mostly felt his heart beating under your hand and let your mind whir.

At some point he started mindlessly (or not mindlessly, who could know) stroking your back, gentle touches brushing up and down, slow, slow, the way he always was. At some point you shivered, goosebumps rising along your arms, and snuggled closer to him. At some point he shifted you from slightly beside him to on top of him, a second hand slipping under your loose tshirt and joining the first in tracing stripes up and down your upper back.

You shifted against him, something coming to life with a shudder like the furnace in your parent’s basement on cold autumn nights. Heat worked its way slowly from your core to your stomach, down your legs.

He kept his eyes on the tv, innocent, but you could hear his heartbeat. It couldn’t lie and pretend.

You shifted again, squirming until you’d worked his t-shirt up just enough that you could touch skin, too. You trailed your own fingers over the inch of exposed stomach you’d found, and delighted in the way you could feel him start to harden beneath you.

Then, you delighted in your delight. It was the first good thing you’d been able to feel in almost a week.

You said his name, and he finally looked down at you, eyes nearly black in the unlit room.

“What is it?” he asked, and his voice was suddenly so low it sent shivers tumbling down each vertebrae and tripping over to your limbs. “Want me to make you feel good?”

No, you wanted to say as you answered his question by pulling the hem of his t-shirt higher, encouraging him to lift up so you could pull it off. No, just want you to make me feel.

1 year ago

Everywhere Vernon looked, all he saw was circles. Circle of red in his bowl when he inhaled. Circle of condensation on the table when he lifted his beer. Circle of light reflecting from his phone case, laying in the setting sunlight, to the ceiling. Above him, the ceiling fan circled lazily, nowhere to be.

And you - you and him. That was a circle, too. A cycle, at least, which was close enough in his opinion. Text, hook up, skitter back to your respective places, wait out the next weekend. It was as rhythmic and routine as waves breaking and then getting pulled back out only to come shatter on sand again. It was out of his control, up to forces far greater than he was.

Vernon’s friends had texted to hang out and he’d declined. He told them he was seeing his parents, but really, he just wanted to be alone. He wanted to watch the ceiling fan circle, he wanted to let his brain go staticky quiet, he wanted to burrow deep into things that made him feel less.

But he still, somehow, wanted to see you. He wanted to be alone, and being with you didn’t feel like not getting that.

It was a little scary, he thought, that you were the exception. That he could be with you without feeling the uncomfortable pressure of being with others, of having to be on, of having to fake cheerfulness and keep up with chatter that only exhausted him.

Vernon wasn’t a kid. He knew what it meant.

whats up

honestly not a lot. want me to come over?

Yeah, he did. He did, even if you weren’t going to hook up. He did, even if you were just going to lay on opposite sides of the couch and scroll on your phones. He did, and he hoped he’d end up with his arms around you, and he hoped he’d make you laugh at least once, and he hoped you’d stay and just be there with him after.

When you came over, he asked you how you felt about it - about him, about you and him. He asked by laying you on your back in his bed, by brushing fingertips along your face. He asked you by sliding your leggings away gently, pressing his mouth to each inch of your inseam as it became exposed to his dimly lit room. He asked you by kissing you through the lace you wore for him, then kissing the same spot once that lace was on his floor.

He asked you when he crawled up your body until his tip teased at your entrance and you whined, shifting to try to take him. And - when he took it slow this time, teeth scraping at your neck and then tongue hurrying to soothe the sting, his arms bracketing your body like he was sheltering you from an incoming storm.

(Maybe, he considered, he was.)

(Maybe, he considered, he was worthless in the face of this storm’s wrath.)

(Maybe, he considered, he was the fucking storm in the first place.)

And you heard his question loud and clear. You pulled on your leggings as soon as you were cleaned up, popping your hood up over your head as you searched for your phone. You kept your eyes on your screen as you waited for a car to come, murmured, “Later,” on your way out the door.

Vernon’s apartment rang with quiet. He was alone, he’d gotten what he’d wanted.

He’d also, it seemed, gotten his answer.

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thank you so much for reading!!! i'm always happy to hear what you think!

[heterophobicdyke]

How do you deal with all the homophobia in radical feminism? I can't stand radblr anymore because of the constant lesbian hatred, all the "classic" radfem writers were polilezzes, and even when I try to meet up with feminists irl they are all bihet homophobes. I want to help other lesbians, but every radfem space I check out is just FULL of homophobia. Is there anywhere else for real lesbians to go?

I hate it too. Like I am a radical feminist because I believe in re-ordering society to eliminate male supremacy. That’s why I care less about microanalysing small behaviours like nail polish and dildos, and care more about brainstorming how to overthrow men - I find the navel gazing self-analysis/consciousness among radical feminists a product of our socialisation. It’s not “feminine” to want to rip society down and start again, so we’re expected to internalise - microanalyse how we, personally, are contributing to patriarchy, rather than taking an active role in warring with men who are the root of the issue.

I’m also a radical homosexual rights activist because I believe in re-ordering society to eliminate heterosexual supremacy. So it’s tough being in radical feminist spaces because they aren’t as radical about ending other forms of oppression - and it conflicts sometimes! For example, we should all be anti-gender because it not only affects women but homosexuals. Gender is misogynistic but it’s also homophobic. However, many radical feminists see gender as a solely misogynistic thing, they see homosexual people with a gender identity as the enemy when they’re equally as victim to gender as women with eating disorders are to beauty standards. Heterosexual women are given the most empathy under radical feminism and it’s almost gendery in how it evolved - lesbians are seen as more predatory all because they’re attracted to women… therefore we’re “like men.” To be a perfect female victim to patriarchy you must desire men and have them betray that desire by abusing you once you’re in love. And don’t you dare suggest these women not enter relationships with men at all! Because then you’re victim-blaming as a stranger to the cause, someone who just Doesn’t Understand. While there’s an argument for lack of agency in specific dire situations, like a woman resorting to prostitution to pay off debt or a drug habit, or a woman in a severely abusive relationship to a man not being able to leave, I think radical feminism must get to a stage where we admit we will never overthrow patriarchy while OSA women choose their male partners over the feminist revolution. They’re not compatible. That’s why many turn to liberal feminism and believe they can self-empower while in these close ties to men. As if these men aren’t oppressors living in your home and influencing your daily lives.

Meanwhile, the radical feminist sex wars (ongoing) involved “political lesbians”—some not even attracted to women at all—telling Actual Lesbians that in fact THEY are part of the problem because sexual desire towards women is a Man Thing that can only ever be objectifying unless you’re having sex in “equal ways,” laying side by side and microanalysing any sexual act for “manliness.” I’m kink-critical, don’t get me wrong, I don’t think people should be emulating rape or kidnapping or racism or pedophilia in the bedroom. But they went as far as to say strap on or sexy talk or whatever was all off limits if you considered yourself a feminist. But women who are not in an abusive situation marrying whole men? Poor babies.

I think radical feminism ate itself when it became about women checking themselves for “manliness” rather than distancing from Actual Males. Lesbians will always lose that because homophobia suggests any form of sexual desire for women is a man thing. Like throughout the sex wars and beyond, women in relationships with males were seen to be permanent victims unable to possibly live a female-centred life unless they got to appropriate the term lesbian, and be Better Lesbians than Actual Lesbians. We know that not all women are inescapably and powerlessly with men, and can’t leave, especially when you consider the radfem polls showing most are middle class with a university education. Where the attention went, and goes, instead, was towards women policing their own behaviour for evidence of “maleness.” Which is gender! Butches, especially butch/femme relationships, and any lesbian with a sexual appetite, were/are critiqued more than discussing how women can distance from actual males! As if masculine/feminine relationships and penetration are heterosexual, male things, and a woman exhibiting those things are worse than women who refuse to leave men who exhibit those things (because she’s so vulnerable and victimised!). In fact, women who are deemed “manly” for such things are seen as a bigger betrayer than men themselves because they see it as coming from inside the house. They can delude themselves into thinking they’re using men for sex and romance but are still fighting some feminist fight internally, yet actual lesbians with no dependence on men whatsoever are somehow class traitors for *spins wheel* not being feminine enough in how they have or want sex? Make it make sense!

Masculinity and femininity are simply what we associate with men and women. The problem isn’t really masculinity and femininity, it’s that they’re forcefully applied and naturalised to the sexes. Harmful beauty expectations like youthfulness and thinness are a subset of femininity designed entirely to make women small and childlike. In the same way “toxic masculinity” is the sort of masculinity designed to give men more power over women through naturalising aggression among men. But there are plenty of good/neutral things associated with men, therefore “masculinity,” that women can and do possess, such as short hair, desiring to penetrate, being good with money and wanting to protect/defend their partner. And some women (and men!) exhibit what we’d consider good/neutral “femininity”: nurturing, preferring being penetrated, in touch with their emotions, animal-lovers. These two types of women, as lesbians, being in a “butch/femme” relationship is not emulating heterosexuality because there is no male involved. But “political lesbians” and other radfem homophobes believe(d) they were/are the higher form of lesbian (despite being attracted to men) because they don’t engage in feminist-neutral forms of lesbian culture and history.

This distraction from the real issue—women living lives that focus on men including their partners—goes on. I think radical feminists misuse the victim label to apply to things they don’t want to change or address. OSA women “can’t help” focusing their life on men, so do we forfeit the revolution for it?

But I’ve come to terms with being a radical feminist regardless of those who have deluded themselves into thinking they can end patriarchy holding hands with a man, and all the homophobia that comes along with protecting that CHOICE. Because I rest easy knowing the barebones foundation of radical feminism—eliminating male supremacy—is what I believe and live my life doing, along with likeminded lesbians, febfems and celibates. I’m not going to stop identifying as a radical feminist because of fakers, in the same way I’m not going to stop identifying as a radical homosexual rights activist despite the TRAs thinking they, also, can reclaim the system and simply rework it in “self-empowerment.” Both homosexual TRAs and deluded "radical feminists" belong to the oppressed classes I want to be empowered, and that's where the solidarity ends. I don't have to bite my tongue to hold their hand in the path towards overthrowing heteropatriarchy. I won't be guilted into playing nice.

That’s how I deal with it.

[sepublic]

            I feel like Philip is fundamentally someone who dislikes people and then looks for some deeper moral justification, rather than the other way around. Because as the Titan says, Philip isn’t genuine; He’s someone who only believes in his delusion to be the hero.

         Some stranger named Evelyn shows up? Philip hates her and when he finds out she’s a witch, he latches onto THAT explanation to justify why he wanted her dead; It’s because Evelyn was an evil witch! Not because she took time with his brother Caleb, whom Philip felt entitled towards, away from him.

         Philip HAS to be right, he HAS to have the moral high ground whenever he dislikes a person; He can’t accept that he’s in the wrong, or even that neither party is wrong, they just don’t gel with each other! Because he has to be the hero. The vindication that Evelyn was secretly an evil witch, because everyone who disagrees with him is secretly evil, was something Philip latched onto for the rest of his life.

         Oh, Lilith broke his nose? It’s because she’s an evil, selfish witch! Not because Philip lied to and endangered Lilith and her niece Luz or anything! This world doesn’t bend over backwards for him? It’s because they’re evil. It’s a convenient excuse that makes Philip feel good, rather than something as mundane as “I just don’t like them.” Or “They just don’t like me.” Or even “I have to put in the work to convince them to like me, and even then I can’t actually force it.” Because that isn’t noble and grand enough for Mr. Hero Complex.

         It feels like a Chicken or the Egg situation, with how people discuss whether Philip was informed first by his belief in Puritan scripture, which then informed his hatred, or the other way around. Me, I see it as the other way around, and I think it makes the most sense with what we see in canon, and who Philip is an allegory for (or rather, straight-up example of). He’s every Right-Wing Christian who selectively interprets the Bible to justify his hatred of queer people, while ignoring basically everything else about it; Because he isn’t being informed by the actual Bible, Philip isn’t making neutral observations and drawing together a conclusion!

         He’s already decided upon a conclusion from the start; That witches are evil. And he selectively looks for stuff that will support this, because he isn’t really a man of science, applying the scientific method. Philip is not a rational person. His own memory photos depict a skewed perception of Caleb as a happy older brother who was misled; Yet we see in S3 how gaunt and miserable Caleb actually was.

         But Philip doesn’t want to admit that Caleb was unhappy and made a decision for his own wellbeing; He’s stripping Caleb of any agency as the ideal older brother who was perfectly content with Gravesfield, basically a simple-minded sheep led astray by a false shepherd! Philip is the one removing nuance from Caleb and his story, suggesting Caleb was merely dazzled by a party trick, and not that he had legitimate problems with Gravesfield that would push him away from it.

         Philip can’t comprehend why Caleb wouldn’t choose him, why Caleb would choose anyone or anything else over his brother, it bugs him to no end; Or rather, Philip could easily understand, because he’s excellent at getting into people’s heads and figuring them out to manipulate them.

         He just doesn’t WANT to understand why Caleb did that, and so he’ll make copies of him, time and time again, until Philip settles upon a Caleb who provides the answer he wants to hear; That Caleb not only agrees, but will always choose Philip, even over himself. But Philip will never get what he wants, because he doesn’t want Caleb but an idea of him that never actually existed. He doesn’t want a person, just a mindless automaton, basically an Abomination.

         He is quite literally haunted by the awareness, deep down, that HE is the one who did something wrong; Hence the ghosts, because Caleb’s opinion mattered the most (even if not much at all), so it’s the one he’s most obsessed with disproving/convincing. This man needs to be told he’s right, either by the brother who supported and raised him, or by fellow human Luz. That’s why he shows Luz and Hunter the truth in his memories, because Philip needs someone to see what he did and agree with him, but they never can because of the very nature of it. He’s so insecure he wants approval from people even as he kills them.

         Philip secretly knows he’s the bad guy, so it’s not a matter of realizing it, it’s admitting and changing his actions in response to that, which he’ll never do. He feels judged by Caleb and the Grimwalkers, like a child that’s messed up and is hiding the evidence of his wrongdoing, because he secretly fears some sort of punishment. Because while I don’t consider Philip a true believer, it’s inevitable that he internalized some Puritan ideas about the world.

         He’s still a kid whose understanding of morality is informed purely by the Carrot and the Stick, whether he’ll benefit, or whether he’ll be punished; Rather than any deeper attempt to engage with people out of legitimate compassion or understand them, because it all circles around to what happens to Philip at the end of the day. This wouldn’t be so inherently wrong if observed in a child, but the problem is that Philip is a grown man well past his natural lifespan, who never bothered to learn beyond this.

         I remember seeing some people point to Philip’s long hair as proof he was an outcast who didn’t fit in, a tragic weirdo indoctrinated by society. But I wonder if it’s more along the lines of… Philip is a hypocrite, who doesn’t actually believe in his society’s norms; He’ll just cherry pick what they say to support his own beliefs. But he makes an exception for himself, like Republicans who push for homophobic legislation, yet are revealed to be homosexual themselves. 

        Philip isn’t motivated by real principles, just whatever is convenient to him at the moment, because it’s all about him and other people basically don’t really exist; They’re more dolls or NPCs than actual, breathing people with their own perspectives and dreams, just like Philip. As a result, he is every child who sees themselves as the center of the universe, and can’t comprehend why other people wouldn’t prioritize this obvious purpose. He is Luz, King, or the Collector, if they never learned to care about other people or understand their point of view; Instead, they only care about what people can do for them, rather than the people themselves.

[justalildumpling]

best friends to lovers.

i'm sick and tired of seeing all these fluffy ass best friends to lovers fics because real best friends to lovers isn't that simple.

sure it has the longing pining stretched over multiple years or decades even but it's not JUST "oh im in love with this guy/girl, i don't think they like me back tho so i won't confess" NO.

sometimes it's that but there's always this underlying feeling of "if i fuck this up, i've ruined the most important relationship in my life." so who fucking cares if i love this person so much that my heart feels like ripping into shreds, if it means that it'll be guaranteed that i'll always have them in my life, so be it.

along the way you'd think that you've moved on from each other, maybe there's the subtle (or not so subtle) flirting, pda, etc, but "that's just how we act, we're just friends. nothing more." and with that mindset, you begin to see other people, you begin to see them with other people yet something just doesn't sit right with you. the most perfect person could be sat across from you at the bar yet, it's just not them.

and when you hear that they'd gone on a date with someone else or they'd messed around with a stranger the night before, it sits uncomfortably with you, maybe it even pangs the heartstrings just a little too much than it should.

but that's weird. cause you're just friends, right?

and it begins to cloud your thoughts for the next few weeks, "did they end up seeing them again?" "did they find them more attractive than you were?" but wait, why am i so BOTHERED about this?

do i... like them? or who am i kidding, did i ever even stop liking them in the first place?

there you fall down the rabbit hole of despair, going back and forth on the thought of having a crush on your best friend, whether they still reciprocated your feelings, whether it was worth ruining your friendship.

but you'll have an epiphany. the one that asks, "would you rather leave with the regret of never trying it out and losing them to another person or see the potential?"

once you figure out that you couldn't bear living with the what if, you'd confess. whether it be the most awkward conversation ever or you end up breaking down in tears talking about your past together and apologising for being so hesitant before, it goes well.

now you lie beside your best friend, the soft morning sunlight seeping through the crack between their curtains, legs intertwining each other and the tangled sheets, their arms wrapping around your torso, and shy giggles sounding from the top of your head.

"i'm really glad you said something that day," they may whisper as their warm lips meet yours.

whether you choose to reply or just hum in response, there's a warm sensation in your chest, reminding you that life couldn't get better than this.

[roads-rise-to-meet-me]

Coral Island Farmer Questionnaire: Xena

Found this template from @coral-nerd and decided I could definitely use a moment to infodump about my girl Xena! ^^ Anyone else have this weird tendency to give their cozy game OC's backstories that...Really don't fit the genre? No? Just me? Oops.

How Does Your Farmer Feel About...

Farming In all honesty, farming might be the thing Xena finds most draining about being the newest addition to Coral Island. She didn't expect growing plants to come with so much...Expectation. A rather naive perspective, admittedly; but one that blindsided her nonetheless. And after she was caught off guard in her first year by the sheer competitiveness of the Harvest Festival, it took no time at all for imposter syndrome to start to set in. And it's endlessly frustrating for her! She spent so many of her early years on this farm that she's working now. Surely she should have picked up some kind of rough skillset, right? But for the first year or so farming is the one task that Xena seeks to get over with as quickly as possible each day, and she finds it hard to take pride in something she feels she is always lacking at. But as more people start to acknowledge her hard work, she learns to hold her head up a little higher year after year.

Mining Never expected herself to care for it much, but Scott's endless quest to restore the museum's collection is a cause Xena readily takes up herself. Thus, she finds herself blazing a mighty trail through the mines impressively fast. And with Scott's tendency to stay closer to the surface, his gratitude when Xena chooses to share her hard won bounty with him becomes rather addictive for her. Also, gold bars are worth a fortune? Seriously, why is she still bothering with crops?

Foraging Foraging is great! Especially when it's after dark and the other islanders are either asleep or cramming themselves into the tavern, leaving the trails outside town mostly devoid of anyone except for her. The islanders she does run into after dusk are usually the ones she clicks with better anyway, and the island is bountiful enough that even the most lightweight haul makes her feel like she's accomplishing something.

Catching Brings her right back to her years as a child on the island catching whatever critters she could get her hands on. It's nostalgic, and reminds her of the years before her own questionable decisions led her far from the only place she ever really was able to call home. But to outsiders looking in, she simply seems to find it fun. And as long as the museum's insect collection grows steadily, no one really minds that she seems particularly taken by this hobby.

Fishing Not as active as catching bugs and ocean critters, and she's a little too impatient for it most days. But it's slightly more engaging than watering crops. So when she's truly bored out of her skull with no time to really get wrapped up in anything else, she'll throw out a few casts. Becomes quite a bit more intrigued by it when she reels in her first big catch; a barracuda.

Ranching For someone so hyper aware of the way she acts in every social interaction, ranch animals are an unexpectedly pleasant escape. They don't expect a performance; they just want food and maybe a bit of affection. Both of which she is happy to provide in exchange for a place to vent out those frustrations she can't bring herself to talk about with anyone else.

Combat After residing in the city for so long with a job that had the possibility of landing her in the literal laps of some morally dubious people, holding her own in a scrap is something Xena isn't a stranger to. It feels a little more refined on Coral Island though, especially after she's made a member of the Band of Smiles. Learning to wield a real weapon instead of her keys threaded through her knuckles or a can of pepper spray has a positive effect on her psyche; especially when she's using her newfound skills to slay monsters, as opposed to warding off sleazy strangers seeking to overstep her boundaries.

Diving It feels like an obligation, but not one Xena is necessarily burdened by. When Xena returns to Coral Island after so many years away, she returns with lessons learned and quite a few knocks taken. The island itself looks like it can relate, and the sorry state of it is the first thing that starts chipping away at the walls of apathy Xena has put up over the past few years in order to get through every single day. It isn't farfetched to say that some part of her hopes throwing herself into healing the island might help her start to piece herself back together in the process.

Interacting With The Islanders It's stressful, for a good long while. There's so many familiar faces, and to Xena most all of them haven't changed a day. But she most definitely has, and not in a way she feels she can talk with all these quaint islanders about. So she makes up stories about college and a dead end finance position at Pufferfish that sucked the life and soul out of her, remembering just enough lingo from her former clients to keep her ruse convincing. It gets easier down the line when she finally finds her place in the community again, and the one person she finds it easiest to talk to learns everything there is to know about her. (And he still wakes up next to her the next day and asks if they can make falafel.)

Other...

What is their favorite building material? Stone. Sturdy. Gives her peace of mind that at least her structures will stand up to the test of time, and she can free her mind to worry about every single other responsibility she has instead.

What is their decor style? The most unholy hybrid of beach and disco you've ever seen.

Who's their love interest? Scott. There's a simplicity about him that Xena very quickly finds herself clinging to; even when she's still making herself walk on eggshells around the other islanders. She's not intimidated by him like she is most others, and his enthusiasm for his field is both infectious and a welcome distraction from her own thoughts and insecurities that she wrestles with daily.

What's their favorite thing to grow? Cranberries. As previously mentioned, it takes her much longer to actually enjoy farming. But she loves cranberry juice. And to be able to juice her own berries that she grew from seed does give her a small sense of pride, even in the early years.

What's their favorite animal? Outside of her and Scott's canine sons from their childless newlywed millennial dreams era? Probably quail. Their absurdly small eggs amuse her greatly when she sees them for the first time, and there is something so distinctly harmless and fragile about those itty bitty birds that makes Xena sort of obsess over them.

Bonus! What Do You Associate With Your Farmer In These Categories...

Color Burgundy. Her favorite color to wear when work still consisted of catching clients in high end lounges.

Season Winter. A little icy, like her. Little to no crops to worry about, and with everyone else mostly staying indoors she feels like isn't missing out on too much of Starlet Town's bustling social scene if she chooses to spend all day in the mines or the ocean instead. Though everyone seemed to notice her missing from the Winter Fair that first year when she was working her tail off to afford her wedding dress. Won't make that mistake twice...

Metal Silver. Makes for sturdy tools that can get her through most anything. I mean, isn't gold rather soft? Who's bright idea was it to make a solid gold pick axe anyway...

[willow-asin-winnie]

The German Dick Grayson Playlist

You guys missed me and my yapping yet? Well, good and bad news, one: I have enough stuff to procrastinate on to work on this again and two: I have so much stuff to do??? It's horrible. But! The yap-train is choo choo-ing again. Enjoy!

You can find the playlist here. If you wish to read it somewhere else, check it out on ao3!

The masterlist <3

Major Tom (…völlig losgelöst) (“Major Tom” (Coming Home)) by Peter Schilling

Some of you might actually know this song! Originally published in German and later translated into English to reach a wider audience, the lyrics have seen some slight changes to fit better into the song. I highly recommend listening to the German version and you’ll get my commentary of course :D

I think this song nicely reflects his evolution from Robin into Nightwing over the years. Batman is relying on him, but over time he recognizes flaws in Batman’s actions, choosing to separate himself from him, choosing to travel and familiarize himself with the people he wanted to save and protect. He develops his own views on his works, his own priorities – he let’s go of his earth’s orbit: Completely detached, regardless of his work as Robin. Also, drifting through space is a nice metaphor for him floating through the night skies, through the circus tent, no?

Notable lyrics (please notice I took the liberty to literally translate some of the original German lyrics, as they illustrate my point much better than the lyrics of the English version): “But what is it all for?’ Thinks Major Tom”: “Back at control, panic breaks out / The course of the space capsule is all wrong / Hello, Major Tom, can you hear me? / Do you really want to destroy the project like that? / But he can’t hear”; “Completely detached from earth/ the spaceship floats / weightless”

Egoist (“Egoist”) by JEREMIAS

Staying on the topic of him doing his own thing, I want to bring this song into the conversation. Now, I am aware not all of this fits 100%, but there’s some lines I think fit on Dick really well.

I’ve always thought of him as a freedom loving person, someone that wants to stick to what he thinks is right. And sometimes, you have to be a bit of an egoist to be that. Is that bad? Maybe, maybe not. But it is the way it is.

Notable lyrics: “It hurts to go now / but it’d be worse / to stay”; “I like the new streets and the smell / the stranger voices and the stranger air”; “One half ghost / one half child / I think my role model / has always been the wind”; “If it’s about freedom, I’m an egoist”

Echt (“Real”) by Glasperlenspiel

Nightwing’s relationships have been… rocky, to say the least. From breakups to situations with dubious consent, I can’t help but get the feeling he finally craves something perfect – something real.

Notable lyrics: “I can’t quite believe it yet / but you’re standing right here in front of my eyes / I want that everything between us isn’t just the heat of the moment / I want that everything here is real(ly) / perfect”; “And I believe that it’s better / if I can feel it / for just this moment / all my doubts are gone / because it’s real”

Lasse redn (“Let them talk”) by Die Ärzte

A song perfectly capturing not only how much people will gossip about Dick Grayson and Nightwing, but also actually reflecting how rumours spread and that it’s sometimes better to just ignore it.

I can’t imagine that being adopted by Bruce Wayne has gone down without a bit of gossip. Dealing with it is something that you have to learn and that also applies to him. Thinking back once again to his rather eventful and very imperfect relationship and sex life… The lyrics hit closer than you might think at first.

Notable lyrics: “You don’t even really know their names / while they run their mouths about you”; “Let the people talk / Most people have nothing better to do / Let the people talk, day and night / Let the people talk, that’s what they have always been doing”; “Did you hear and say, did you know? / Hear: You make your money via prostitution / You apparently stand in front of the bus station / the colleague of a brother-in-law saw you there”; “As long as people talk, they do nothing worse / you can afford a bit of pretense / stay friendly and say nothing / that’s going to piss them off most”

Ich warte auf dich (“I wait for you“) by Bosse

Dick Grayson is many things: Trapeze artist, hero, friend. But most of all, he is a (imperfect) brother. Far from perfect, but throughout the comics we see him trying, we see him giving his best. He will wait for all of them, keep a light on for them, no matter how chaotic their previous experiences with each other were.

He wishes so much for his siblings to accept that, doesn’t he?

Notable lyrics: “We loved, we hated, we made up / … / like pitch misses sulfur”; “I wait for you / I wait for you / For you the light will always burn in my hallway”; “Sometimes I hope so much, that the doorbell rings / That you stand there with your suitcases / As if you only went on vacation”; “Please come back and make peace with me / ey, come back and live with me / let’s go back to sharing everything”

Nur noch kurz die Welt retten (“Just need to quickly save the world”) by Tim Bendzko

Dick is stubborn, hard working to the point of overworking himself, he’s responsible. There is so much he wants to do, should still to. His standards for himself are high and while this song might fit on Batman too, I think it fits him better. Just see for yourself.

Notable lyrics: “I just need to quickly save the world / After I’ll fly to you / Just need to check 148 mails / who knows what’ll happen after, so much happens”; “Out there, they need me / They underestimate the situation / Maybe our life depends on it”

Luftbahn (“Air Train”) by Deichkind

Originally a song about death/suicide, I think you can also interpret this song as an appreaciation of the feeling of weightlessness. I can imagine Nightwing swinging through the nights, feeling like this song.

Notable lyrics: “We ride by air train through the night / The moon only shines for us / Shortly, we'll have made it / And all the problems  / On earth / Lie in great distance to us”

Allein in Amsterdam (“Alone in Amsterdam“) by Blackmonk

Full of fresh hope, Nightwing takes off to Blüdhaven. But is it everything he ever wished for, alone in the new city?

Notable lyrics: “Never stopping is draining one quickly / And I know you see how I leave / I drift away from time, stop walking / Look around and I realise what’s missing / But I go / And now I’m alone in Amsterdam”

Fern (“Far away”) by Streichelt

Notable lyrics: “ Maybe one day we’ll look at each other / Only to notice we are missing memories / of what was, of what pushed us”, “You’re always here / but never there / Yeah, you’re so far away, so far away, so far away, so far away”, “No talk of peace / War is everywhere”, “Do you still hold me dear?”

Bitch (do I really need to translate this?) by Von Wegen Lisbeth

Will I ever not have more songs about Richard’s fights with Bruce? Probably not. Because this is yet another one of them.

A lot of stuff happens all the time and you can always try to distract yourself with them. But in the end, you sometimes happen to think of *them* again. That’s the song, bitch. (There is actually much more subtlety to the song, but you know. The essence.)

Notable lyrics: “And what else happened? / When I went into the kitchen / Three minutes before half past seven / I didn’t think of you”, “Bitch, for you / I ran the whole way / the whole way alone”

Bruttosozialprodukt (“Gross National Income“) by Geier Sturzflug

Nightwing is a work human. He works a lot, he works well, he works. And although his nightwork might not be directly contribute to the GNI, it definitely does indirectly.

Notable lyrics: “The nurse gets a real fright / Another sick person is gone / She amputated his last leg / And now he's kneeling in again”, “Yes, then spit on your hands again / We increase the gross national product / Yes, yes, yes, now it's time to spit on your hands again” (Note: to spit in ones hand is an idiom to symbolize going to work without hesitation and with some sort of enthusiasm. Possibly translatable with “to knuckle down” or “roll up ones sleeves”.)

Du bist schön (“You are beautiful”) by Alligatoah

Here I am, once again, removing a song from it’s actual context. Oh well.

Nightwing is ruthless, let’s be real. Especially as Robin. Let’s not kid ourselves. And the cheerful tone while insulting someone as dumb? Screams Dick Grayson.

If you are interested, the song’s pretty genius and is about the clothing industry! It’s making it hard to translate too. “Dafür kannst du nichts” can mean both “You can do nothing” or “It’s not your fault”. Alligatoah does a lot of stuff like that, his songs are pretty interesting, even though he recently started pursuing a bit of a new direction with his music.

Notable lyrics: “You are beautiful / but in return know nothing / Not reading or writing or anything else / You are beautiful / but in return know nothing / and it’s not even your fault”

Honorable Mention: Atemlos durch die Nacht (“Breathless through the night”) by Helene Fischer

Now. Schlager is the German country. You either like it or you don’t or you’re a normal person and recognize there’s gems in every genre even if you don’t like it. Anyway, someone commented this on the last playlist and honestly? They’re right. Thanks @levysaurier for the suggestion haha.

Wild nights, baby.

Notable lyrics: “Breathless through the night / Feel what love does to us / Breathless, free of lies / Great show for us two / Today we're everlasting, thousands of feelings of happiness”, “We are inseparable, in some way immortal / Come take my hand and go with me / Come on, we climb the highest roof in this world / Just hold what sticks us together, oho oho”

(Have I ever mentioned my grandfather is a die hard Helene Fischer fan? He exclusively listens to SWR4 (Schlager radio station) as well.)

Conclusion

I hope you enjoyed the playlist :D

[ggebba]

I’m not the anon who originally asked in your latest post,however it’d be amazing if you did more content similar to the ask about Russian culture, specifically the dating and social normalities. I loved your advice! I’m going to spend my summer in St. Petersburgo next year with a sports program I applied to and I found your advice to be extremely helpful! It seems as though Russia has such distinct social aspects that if you are unaware can possibly give others a bad impression of you and it actually reminds me of the way things are in my culture 😁

Once again, a very interesting question. I have thought it over and decided that it is possible to highlight some "wishes" for foreigners coming to Russia. Russia is not such a harsh country that there is something very different from good manners in any other country, but there are certain "unspoken rules" and recommendations.

1. The most important and amusing item on this list is "don't smile for no reason". Russians "give" smiles to their friends and family members. Therefore, you should not accidentally smile at strangers when you are in public transportation or shopping. Russians have a saying, "smiling for no reason is a sign of stupidity." Just like we have no such thing as “small talk”. For a Russian person, it is not considered polite, rather you are invading personal space or taking up time. Be polite, but do not violate the personal boundaries of strangers.

(This is no time to smile 😁)

2. Russians themselves do not mind saying a few unflattering words about our country and the authorities in it. But this does not mean that such a thing will be forgiven to anyone else but the locals themselves.

In general, the topic of politics is very complicated and it is better not to bring it up.

3. In Russia, you should always carry an identity document. As a foreigner, you must carry a passport with a valid visa.

Random checks by the police are not uncommon, especially in Moscow. If you do not have your identification document with you when you are stopped by the police, you are in serious trouble.

4. In Russian apartments and houses it is customary to take off your shoes at the threshold and change into slippers or simply walk around in socks. In any case, do not walk inside the house in shoes.

5. This is closer to the advice. Do not buy food at train stations or nearby stalls. Because you do not know what you will get in the next station stall with pirozhki: whether the food of the gods for ridiculous money, or a severe test for the entire digestive system. Experienced travelers advise not to take risks and buy food only in chain establishments/cafes/restaurants.

6. Do not shake hands with gloves on unless you want to offend the person you are greeting. It is considered extremely impolite to leave your gloves on when greeting someone with a handshake. Also, never shake hands over the threshold, as Russians see this as bad luck.

7. You should never make jokes about mom (your own/other people's) in any context. It is considered highly offensive.

8. Do not go to a guest's house empty-handed. If you are invited to someone's home for dinner or a visit, it is considered very rude to show up empty-handed. Bring a small gift-a bottle of wine, flowers, a dessert, or a small toy for the children. Russians pride themselves on preparing exquisite meals for their guests, and showing up without a small token of appreciation is a sign that you don't care.

9. Flowers are given in odd numbers. Never give a dozen roses, for example. Even numbers are for funerals.

10. In cultural places (museums, exhibitions, galleries, theaters, etc.) try to choose more strict clothes. You simply may not be allowed into the museum if you are dressed too revealingly.

11. Do not disrespect the church/religion. Russia has a law protecting the feelings of believers. Religion is taken seriously here. Any religion.

12. In Russia, medicine is free (ambulance, doctor's appointments, etc.). But often, if you have a minor illness, such as flu, you can simply go to a pharmacy and ask for flu medicine. Many of our medicines are sold without a prescription.

When you walk around Russia, people may seem unfriendly to you. They tend to walk without a smile and look straight ahead, but if you get to know Russians, they are the friendliest and most hospitable people you will ever meet 😁 trust me)

Please, try to learn basic words in Russian "thank you", "please", hello, bye, etc. If you ask for something, always add the word "please". Without it, the sentence becomes orderly and people may not like it very much. Politeness is the key to everything! 🥰

And don't be afraid to ask passers-by for help. In big cities, a lot of people know English. If anything, they'll explain everything to you with gestures, and sometimes even walk you to your destination. In 2018, during the World Cup, I myself often helped foreigners with advice. With some of them I went as far as Luzhniki Stadium. We had fun chatting with guys from Germany. It was a fun time.

I hope I have answered your question 😊

Good luck with your studies and I hope you enjoy Russia in general and St. Petersburg in particular!

[xx-blueboy-xx]

To celebrate trickster Tuesday! I am going to ramble about Mystery Spot, the episode ever. Don't take any of this super seriously I am by no means a "meta analysis" this is just me foaming at the mouth. + the spiral of thoughts it sent me on.

Anyways. If you wanna read it! It's below the cut! Because it got (long).

First off, Mystery Spot represents the literal cycle Sam (and also the entire Winchester family) find themselves caught in, over and over and over again: due to their inherent savior & martyr complexes. Which are not a great blend. Imagine having to save everyone you care about, but, always being willing to simply - die for them. More than willing. Happy to. Feel like you have to, in order to be worth anything to anyone or them. In order to atone.

Now, we saw in S1-S2 how much Dean is willing to give up for family, for Sam. It's the entire reason S3 is happening - he sold his own soul to a demon, something he hated John for, to save Sam. To bring him back to life. Something we learn that his own mother did all those years ago: just not at the price of her soul, but, essentially - her first born child (so Rumplstilskin of Azazel for real). The Winchester need to save each other, that toxic codependency on family, that "family is all you got at the end of the day" mentality is what started it all.

We have only seen in S1-S2 breif glimpses that Sam also shows these signs. The same codependency as Dean, and that savior complex. However - it never becomes truly and completely apparent until S3. Where he is willing to steal human livers, find anyway - anything to save Dean from his deal. It isn't until Jessica, John and everyone else he has known is gone, that Sam begins to fall completely into the codependency that Dean unfortunately, feeds into. (With all of his "You ran away from the family" talk and such)

In Mystery Spot: we see the first true depths of how far Sam is willing to go to keep Dean alive. How far he has fallen from that rebelliousness he had before John died. Starting to agree with Dean that he "tried his best". And things like that. In Mystery Spot we see that Sam rather relive the same day over and over and over again, than let Dean die. We never see him accept it. Not once. Sure, it's a time-loop, but we know Gabriel was trying to teach Sam to let go.

Teach him to break the fucking cycle. But he doesn't. He contuines to give into it, over and over. Until Gabriel reveals himself, thinking maybe he can still change it. Change Sam. Get through to him. That'd when we get those 6 months of pure obessesion.

And at the end of it? We see the Sam that suggested to Dean they use the evil-immortal doctors alchemy to keep him alive, perfectly willing to steal human livers and such for it: come out full force. He is completely willing to sacrifice a stranger to save Dean. Rather than being hellhent on killing the Trickster, on revenge, he wants him back. At any cost. Even an innocent human life.

This is the Sam we see, after years and years of Dean encouraging this behavior - seasons later, bring an entire apyclopse down on the world to get rid of the Mark of Cain. Force a man to sell his soul. Have Rowena kill the inky person she had ever allowed herself to love - someone she considered her son. To utterly get rid of another person's autonomy (keeping her locked up ect.) to get it.

Note: it is NOT Dean's fault, that Sam broke Amara out, I simply am stating that his "we die for family sammy" and "we do everything for family sammy" throughout the years helped Sam make the decision. But at the end of the day, Sam choose to get rid of the Mark. All of the death that happened because of her is pretty directly on his hands, and he knows this.

I also believe that, while Sam feels massive amounts of sympathy, I believe he struggles a (lot) with empathy (autism + protecting himself/trauma response). He can easily replicate empathy, and act as if he cares but we see his hypocritical behavior consistently come into play and make us think: huh. I don't think he actually understands how Dean, Castiel ect. feels. That is why he comes off as spoiled and ungrateful to Dean in early seasons, and in later seasons does things that are completely amoral and deranged. Simply for those he loves.

Because he struggles to wrap his head around *why* Dean can save him, kill people for him, force an angel on him - but when he releases an apyclopse, him saying "I would do it all again." Is somehow wrong. He doesn't see his own hypocrisy at times and struggles especially to see others.

Anyways.

I support Sammy war crimes.

[a-lil-bi-furious]

what’s your favourite thing about Scott McCall? 🥰

Thank you for giving me an opportunity to gush about my boy! This is honestly such a difficult question because there are so many things I love about Scott McCall. He's witty and Intelligent, devoted and kind, strong and gentle. He's inspiring. He's the funniest lil shit around. He's soft with animals and wants to be a healer. I love his little mole and the sound of his voice and the way his face scrunches up with that bright sunshine smile. I love his rare bursts of anger and the struggle with it he buries. I love the complexity of his emotions and how he bears the weight of the world and still finds a way to keep going.

If I have to choose, though, my favorite thing about Scott is the depth of his empathy and how that shapes his actions. We see time and again throughout the show that Scott already seems to have a lot of empathy for others naturally, even to the point of hints at him being an empath (see: Scott feeling Erica's seizure from another room over). But what is perhaps most impressive is his intentional practice of empathy in cases where it may be difficult/he may not immediately feel it.

It's Scott telling Allison "You could be crying for you. You lost someone." when she's struggling with missing Kate, a mass-murderer who tried to kill Scott, but was still Allison's family. It's him responding "I get that" when Chris points a gun at him and says: "I guess there's a part of me that still wants to shoot you" even though, really, Scott has done nothing to Chris. It's "No, I mean you. I don't want you to get hurt" when Isaac is still his enemy. It's Scott following Jackson to Derek's to protect him, even though he and Jackson are far from friends.

He has an extraordinary gift for putting himself in other people's shoes. Scott is kind and caring toward his friends and family, he does what he can to protect and soothe strangers, but most incredible is the way he actively practices empathizing with people who, arguably, do not deserve it from him.

It's the way he still has faith that Peter has good in him, even after Peter tried to kill him months before. The way he trusts Theo to help them with the ghost riders and then the hunters, even though he's clearly terrified and, to use his own words, wants to tear Theo apart. How when Matt--who had just shot Scott, harmed his friends, and murdered multiple people--tells Scott his story, Scott looks genuinely horrified and sympathetic when he realizes Matt drowned.

I also find Scott's struggle to empathize with himself compelling. As the show progresses, we watch Scott shoulder more and more responsibility for everyone and everything around him. In the pilot we watch as his autonomy is violated and he's changed against his will; we watch him hurt again and again, make mistakes, save the day. And still, regarding himself, Scott arrives at blame rather than understanding. Frayed/Motel California are a great example of this, with Scott blaming himself for Derek's supposed death and concluding "What if doing this (dying) is the best thing I can do for everyone else?" Compare this to what he says about Liam being dragged into the supernatural and struggling later on, that he's "just a kid". It's an interesting difference between how he views himself and his own mistakes/bad things that happen versus others in his position.

I've already rambled too long, but I suppose my point is that Scott's empathy shapes so much of who he is as a person. It motivates his goals, particularly those relating to other people and giving people chances to be their best selves. It builds strong relationships with others, even without always meaning to (see: long line of strays who become incredibly loyal to Scott). It is simultaneously a strength and, at times, a fatal flaw. And it largely motivates Scott's practice of kindness, gentility, and hope--none of which are easy, especially in his circumstances. I think he's wonderful for it.

[astorichan]

☆ , ★ and ☠ for Ghost?

☆ - happy headcanon

Ghost adores learning new things in a very expressive way. They squirm in place, they run around, they immediately attempt to get their hands onto a skill before they are told how exactly they should proceed. It's very different for them and Hollow, where the latter doesn't really show their excitement through body language but rather through how completely immersed they become. Ghost, on the other hand, simply bubbles over with excitement.

★ - sad headcanon

Oh. Oh, do I have many dfgdsfgf Okay, hear me out: Hollow has completely ruined Ghost's life. So, the obvious out of the way: they've left Ghost to die. With that said, Ghost is devoted to them - because I headcanon Hollow's actions as a desperate, ill-judged attempt to protect them from reaching the light first and because I headcanon the two as having spent some amount of time together in the Abyss before beginning the climb. Ghost loves them, and Ghost wants to save them. It's something that's a crucial part to them, something that I've once described as a brand burnt into their very core. And, even though their memories fade, that feeling stays. They might've been able to live in peace, after leaving Hallownest. They wanted to settle and stay in a kingdom more than once, coming to love the people that they met and the cultures that they'd been accepted into despite being a complete stranger. But... they didn't. There was always something greater, some invisible string that tugged them on and on and on, their life spent in a search for something that tore them in two but that they nonetheless couldn't even name. Their entire life is based on a mantra that they've repeated in an attempt to remember their goal: "I have to do it, because no one else would." They don't remember what they have to do. They don't remember why they are the only one able to. They only know that there is so much love that they harbour for an important someone that their own life and their want to stay away from that call is unimportant.

☠ - angry/violent headcanon

Ghost's anger is explosive. They do not have a long fuse at all; they burst into flames very easily, though they rarely hold grudges. They are not the type to mull their feelings over and think hard before lashing out. They also have a bit of a skewed perspective on violence, courtesy of "never allowed themself to stay with people and never allowed themself to rest". They solve problems with reaching for their nail more often than not, and there are only a few special someones that they're willing to listen to before choosing violence.

[elecilaombre]

To learn normal from abnormal : Tim is losing his grip on reality and keep letting himself talk aloud about stuff that are normal, right ? Aren’t they bonding ?

“Falling asleep is exactly like some scenes in horror movies. It’s laying down, alone, in a dark room, trying to control your breath, to not be too loud, to fall asleep before something happens. To hear your heartbeat, beating like crazy, pumping as hard as it can, to hear it in your ear, to feel it in your stomach, see it in the corner of your eyeball. It’s hoping it will be fast and trying to ignore all the adrenalin in your veins, the tension in all your muscles. Hoping it will be done quickly because it’s so terrifying.”

Everybody fell silent. Tim had said that without even looking up from his files, like if it was a trivial fact. As if it was normal.

“The fuck replacement ?”

The young man hummed in response, not even paying attention. His eyes were highlighted by dark rings. They seemed at their place on his face. They suddenly made sense. 

“Sometimes I don’t know who is talking. Usually I choose who can speak for ourselves. But someday, when we think about it, even if it’s mid-sentences, sometimes we don’t know which one is in control. It’s like in “ And then there were none”, when they all look at each other, the ten only persons on the island, but still someone else’s, an eleven seem to be somewhere, tricking them. It’s exactly that. We ask each other, ‘if it ain’t you either or the others… Who is it?’. It stresses us that sometimes we don’t always notice this other one.”

Cassandra looked weirdly at her brother. She might not know everything, but she knows for sure that those informations are unusual. There shouldn’t be a ‘us’ in her brother, just a singular person, him. 

But she doesn’t have time to process all of it, to ask anything, Tim is already onto another subject.

“ They don’t love me, god they don’t even like me. I shouldn’t be living with them. I’m just a stranger here, an odd error. I’m pretty sure I can hear them talk about me in my back all the time. I keep disappointing them, they told me so many times. And I can’t even imagine what horrible things they might say about me behind my back. How much I might disgust them. I’m still not sure if I just shouldn’t run away, disappear from their lives. It would be so much better for them… …. … … Sure Kon, I can sleep at your place if it can reassure you, I’m making my bag and telling Alfred then you can pick me up…”

Damian is in the corridor, listening to Drake, baffled by all the lies he is currently saying to his boyfriend. Since when the Waynes had been trash talking to him ? It’s very unlikely, even Damian wouldn’t do it, so the other couldn’t. They all hold so much respect for the third Robin, for their greatest detective. Maybe they should tell him more often. Because Drake shouldn’t believe those things. For a detective, he could be kind of dense sometimes.

“I feel so empty you know, like if I had been bleeding myself all over the place and there’s just not anymore me left in this body. It’s weird, like if I was just reduced to being an automat, to faking all my action, my emotion. It’s not me, it’s not someone. It’s just reminiscent of what I used to be. There are days when I can put some mask on and they will stick. I will be someone for one day, until the mask slips and there’s nobody actually behind it. And there’s days where none of the masks want to stick, so I have to walk around with everybody seeing how empty I am. Somehow, I prefer the fake facade rather than the second option. Sadly, I don’t have any control over it.  I wish so hard to be able to fill this nothing, anything could do the trick, I don’t care. But it won’t work, nothing is enough to fill this emptiness in me. So I just kept being my automatic self. You know, like everyone does…”

Nobody does that. Jason wants to tell him it’s not normal, no one feels like that. But how to turn it without sounding mean. Without triggering Tim who for once said something personal to Jason. That is so wrong, so wrong, he will need to get to the end of this subject. How sad is it to know he isn’t even 20 but already so broken ?

“ You know what is funny ? I can’t even recognize myself in a mirror. Somewhere deep inside my brain we know it’s me, Tim’s face we are seeing. But we also know we don’t remember it looking like that. It seems odd, out of character. Since when our eyes look like that. Do we really have such a tiny waist ? We’re sure we don’t have beauty marks here on our lips… But it is our lips… Like if it’s me, Tim, but in other hands, it's more like a mockery of it, wrong everywhere but kind of close to its original. And each time it’s the same thing, yesterday my eyes seemed too tiny, today too big, tomorrow the right size but wrong color. Never good enough, never alright. I’m tired of being so wrong. it’s us but it’s not us.”

Dick is trying his very best to make his tie look good, next to Tim in the mirror, looking at his younger brother worriedly. Tim looks like Tim for him, a tired version of Tim but that’s his normal with their lifestyle. Nothing seems wrong in his face, or abnormal. But those thoughts are raising so many red flags in Dick’s head. Maybe he should spend a little more time with the other boy, make sure he is alright or if there’s other things that don't sound right. 

“ I’m never truly hungry. If I wait enough, hunger goes quickly away and most of the time it turns out I was just bored. So I never know if I should eat or miss it. When was the last time I ate a real meal ? Do I deserve to eat ? Do I really need to ? I used to be fat when I was younger. My parents hated it, hated me, hated my body. They found me disgusting. Now that I’m thinner, I kept wondering if I should eat or not, if it will make me fat to eat now or if it would kill me to miss it. And each time I guess, I always guess wrong. It’s exhausting, you have no idea, I hope it doesn’t do that to you very often.”

Duke didn’t know what to answer. They were eating take-out on a rooftop. And now he was worried Tim was developing or had already developed an eating disorder. He should try to do some research about it, and watch Tim more closely. Even if he already had guessed his relation with food was messed up, it didn’t feel good to be right. So, not knowing how to answer, Duke just offered the rest of his part to Tim.

“ It’s so selfish of me to stay alive. I’m not useful. I’m easily forgettable and replaceable.”

“ Do you remember what I'd just say ? Because I don’t. Most of the time, I have no clue what I’m saying. There are words coming out of my mouth, sentences I thought of, but nothing that my brain did proceed. It sometimes feels like it’s not me who said that ? If I don’t remember things happening ? If I don’t remember being there … Having said those things ? Can I be held accountable for it ? Because, to me, it’s just like it didn’t happen. Words seem to flow from my mouth, but without being asked to, without my permission. Sometimes I even wonder if I say things that I actually think or if it’s just coming from nowhere. It’s not me who’s talking and … Excuse me, what was I saying ?”

Stephanie tried to not show on her features the fear burning inside of her. That was wrong. Since when Tim had lost himself that much ? Did he even register that he confessed that to her ? Does he even mean everything he can tell them ? Are they losing him ?

“ I feel so alone. Even when I’m surrounded by all of them, even when people talk to me, I feel alone. Alone because people don’t really know me and don’t want to know me. Alone because in the end, I’m not even there and it doesn’t matter. I could not be here and nobody would notice ! I’m a ghost. Nobody listened to me, I kept getting ignored. Nobody looks my way anymore. I’m decaying in front of the whole world,, but nobody notices, nobody is truly close to me. Some part of me wants to disappear discreetly, to make my point : nobody will notice I’m not there because it doesn't matter. On the other hand, I’m so afraid to disappear without anybody noticing, nobody to mourn me, as if I never even existed. If nobody noticed me alive or dead, did I even exist ? Or was I truly just a shadow ?”

Bruce swallows dryly, hidden in the corridor, listening to Tim behind his half open door. The young man is talking sadly, while pacing back and forth in his room. His phone is on speaker, abandoned on his bed and the person on the other end of the line just hums a little “ Whatever Timothy”, proving his point. Nobody seems to listen to him truly. Bruce believes Tim's eyes start to shine in the dimly lit room, shine from unshed tears trying to free themselves. Tim is right, realize Bruce, closing soundlessly the door, incapable of facing his son, he does be alone in this world.

“Sometimes, I phase out. I’m not here, but my body is still there. It’s like I’d gone hide myself in some corner of my brain. And so, given that I’m absent, nothing happens. And no, it’s not sleeping because I’m aware of everything, I’m awake. Just not there. Just rejecting everything. And those absences are physically exhausting. It means staying in the same place and exact same position, muscles all tightly stretched. I think One day I just won't come back to front and stay to putrefy inside my own head. I hope nobody finds my very alive and decaying corpse. It’s better if I disappear in the woods without one word.” 

He whispered his thoughts silently. With a bit of sadness piercing through his voice, just a little dot. Barbara wanted to hug him tightly, to beg him to stay with her. But he was on the other side of the city on patrol and she shouldn’t have hacked on his com. Now she had the crushing guilt of knowing Tim needed help and knowing she would never acknowledge her hearing his private thoughts. Maybe it would had been easier if she hadn’t heard him at all.

“ Do you truly know Timothy ? Because I sure don't. We are all different personalities and we take charge of the exchange given who is in front of us and what they expect. I’m Tim the little brother but I’m also Tim the older brother. I’m Tim the perfect student and Tim that follow no rule? I’m Robin, no not anymore I’m Red Robin. I’m a well known vigilante. I’m Timothy Jackson Drake, the heir, the CEO of Wayne Industry. I’m Tim Drake. I’m whoever they need me to be. I’m polite to her but not to him. I’m so calculated but too impulsive. I’m cold but too much on the other side of the spectrum. Switch switch switch. I’m broken. The masks won’t stick anymore and now we have been discovered, us, the Tims. We ain’t truly one, we are just working in concordance. It’s like a ballet, one touch of anger, then passive aggressive and final on the exhausted Tim. Each one try to work hand in hand to make the best approximation of a real functional human.” 

Alfred stopped next to the young man. He had pushed Tim outside in the garden to keep him company while he was gardening. What was all that talk about switching. He knows Tim, he is the young boy who imposed himself as Robin, whom he considered as his grandson. He didn’t know this odd young man seated across from him, talking about personalities. Maybe his work, both at day and at night, might finally get to him. He must be exhausted once more. Alfred looked at him, studied him. Tim was entranced by his own hands. He seemed so lost. Alfred would forbid him to work tonight and make him go to bed early. That should fix it, right ?

“ If I only exist through pain and medications, what is the point of keeping the facade up ? No one want to be around me, I’m unsupportable. I can’t keep saying, Im’ fine, I’m ok, while yellling inside that I want to dissapear. Do they realise the sacrifice it is to stay by their side. Sure it’s easier for them, easier to have me alive, even though I don’t exist in their world, to know I existe somewhere. But I’m tired. It’s been 4 years takings pills, seeing professional… why do I still have no answer ? Why I still feel like I shouldn’t be here ? I’m quite sure I belong inside a casket, or even a box, hidden from everyone sight. I kept dropping, breaking over trivial things. My world resumed by other’s world. I’m not the main character, I just live in the background. Worst is knowing that I’m fake in every part of me. I tried so hard to be someone, that I ended up being nothing, a big pretty liar. But nobody see that, no one want to see it. I’m gonna dissapear. That is all I want. Everything had ad always been so heavy, so hard for me. I’m tired of faking it, of being ok, of being pushed away. I just want to dissapear the same way I lived, discreetly and whitout noise. To be gone is what I truly wish, what I truly aspire.”

Ra’s took a shaking breath. The Detective, His Detective, was showing signs that were alarming. Maybe he needed to step in and take Tim with him. His so-called family was clearly failing him. If not he would never have said any of this shit even less to Ra’s who is his enemy. Shouldn’t he confess to his close friends or even family ? Ra’s tried to catch his arm, and Tim stayed still. He couldn’t. He couldn’t take the young man with him like that, just kidnap him. He needed to prepare for him and for the opposition he would encounter from the vigilantes. So he left with regret filling his head. He would be back.

“ I want to matter,” cry Timothy, eyes unseeing, deversing tears, hot burning tears. “ I want to matter. I want to be noticed. I want to be loved. I want to be held. I want to be seen. I want ! I want to exist, damn” he murmurs. “ Please, don’t forget me. Don’t let me disappear in indifference. Please… I want to … I want to exist” he ended up sobbing. Nobody hears his pleas, nobody sees him drop to his knees, clutching his chest in a mock embrace, rocking himself back and forth while he cries and sobs in despair. Does he even know what he is saying ? Has he slept recently ? Has he eaten in the last two days ? Is he in control today ? 

The mask won’t stick anymore. Nobody has confronted him even though he kept talking about everything that felt wrong. He doesn’t know how to ask for help anymore ? He tried, he talked over and over. Maybe it was just normal stuff. Maybe he was making a big fuss about nothing. Maybe everybody felt that way. They must have wondered why he was whining so much then. Yeah that must have been what was happening. He was a bother once again. He kept making remarks that were obvious. He was so dumb. 

He was shaking. That was going to be it. Tim was at his point of no return. He had hit rock bottom. All those weeks talking to everybody, trying to open up, only to pass for an idiot. He was so dumb. That was gonna be it. It might be normal to feel like that. He might have bothered them with his little identity crisis, with his silly story that everybody had to live through. Except he couldn’t anymore. He couldn’t put on anymore mask, feel himself, his selves, slip through his fingers. He couldn’t be afraid of sleep, of staying awake, of eating, of starving. He couldn’t let himself be a nuisance for others, no more. He was done. He had tried his hardest but sometimes even the simpler thing could be too much for the weakest soldier. 

Maybe someone would care after it ? Maybe he might be mourn ? Maybe Batman could have better vigilante. Maybe Dick could focus on his only younger brother fully. Maybe Jason will forgive him. Maybe Alfred wouldn't have to care about him. Maybe Kon could be happy with Cass and find happiness in the arms of his old crush. Maybe Stephanie would finally be less awkward when hearing his name. Duke could easily take his place and be more integrated in the family. Maybe Ra’s will let him go. So many maybe, an absence of answer. He was hopeful they always managed to land on their feet. 

His hands were still shaking. He still managed to take all the meds. Over the last four year he managed to stock up on prescription drugs, quite a lot actually, unfinished tabs, started treatments then abruptly stopped leaving vials full or half full of meds.

For Tim it didn’t matter which one was going in. He just started taking pill after pill, emptying the vials, and going through another. He started feeling a little out of it after his third different medicine. He kept going at it, until he had to sit against the couch cause it was moving too much around him. Then he just opened the bottle and let the little pills roll on his coffee table, eating them like candy. 

He never felt himself go.

After everything, when all ended, it would haunt all and each one of them. They knew.

If you read if all, thank you. I hope you liked it. This one is dear to me because it has an odd way of narrating that I love.

All those thoughts your just read are mine, so don’t read too much about it from a canon perspective. It's therapeutical for me to put my abnormal thoughts on some type of media. If you ever had those thoughts, please seek help, or even message me. Those are not normal or insignificant. 

I wanted someone to help Tim, but I'm better at sad ending. 

Please forgive me my broken english, I’m actually french and writing in another language is challenging. Please give me your thought, I will greatly appreciate it.

[westleywithatea]

Lost a fanfic

Word Count: 1200+

There was a The Sandman fanfic on AO3 that I had read long ago. I neglected to record or even look at the title and author of the story. And now i lost it. But i want to return and reread it. Or check if it updated.  Help me find it.

I first read it in maybe february or March 2023. I don't know when it was first published or updated. I didn't checked the date. I neglected to. It’s a bad habit where i read a bunch of short fics in a single night, not care for title, and focus more on word and chapter count. Because “i wanted something short.” 

This habit carries over in my YT watching habits and is equally bad. Something to do with attention span and stuff. 

Whenever I return to the site to find it, i fail. The tags and filters fail me. Somehow, it always brings me to less than x number of fics. When I am absolutely sure that there are more than x number of fics with the tags/characters/filters I'm looking for. Maybe because some writers neglected or selectively chooses some tags. 

Idk. the filters weren't helping me. 

Lets see what I can remember about the fanfic and tags and characters. Spoilers below:

I vaguely recall a “angst with happy ending” tag. Im pretty sure the rating was E for explicit. There were some rather graphic scenes. Was it graphic? What if it was actually M for Mature?? 

Idr other tags/ warnings. WIP story. Idr word count and chapter count. 3 chapters? ??

Lucienne and Death makes appearances. Some original characters. Idr order of scenes and chapters. 

Dream arrives to the old tavern but it’s in ruins. Abandoned. He explores and finds a box. It’s a bit stuck but he finds a note. A letter. With holes and missing words. Some other things might’ve been in the box but prolly stolen? A stick inside the box to hold in place. The letter is really old and fragile. It does contain some instructions on where and how to find him. (later revealed to be really outdated) 

He walks to the The New Inn. idr if he steps inside or not. But maybe he did. Maybe he didn't but later. He orders a drink. Wine? Poor employee girl didn't know what to do with gold coins and gets sand blown into her face too many times. Too many times and so much dreamsand that she has to take a break or something and ask another employee to take over. Morpheus rereads the letter over and over.  Accidentally tears it in anger, but catches himself. Makes a mental note ot have it laminated. Dream tries to talk to the owner of the inn. There’s a picture and a plaque. Something about fake name and reall name. Drunk Hob revealed his real name and it became an “inside joke.” But nothing much else. Dream is sad. 

He walks around the neighborhood. And a school campus. He gets recognized by someone. She recognized him from somewhere. Asked if he knew Robert/Hob Gadling/ fake name. Prof Gadling talked about his stranger a lot. She was a student/ student teacher under his mentorship. Or something. She kept close contact with him for while. Even when he left the university and went traveling. Even when she got her degrees and became a professor. But some point stopped. 

Idr her name. 

She invited Dream to coffee to talk. She shared / showed things on her phone. Didn't work out. 

Sad moment where Dream finds out that she and Robert had sent each other so many emails while he only has one letter. He admits that he is someone who is hard to contact. 

She mentioned visiting his old house. There was a large framed painting of him. Thats how she recognized dream. He never sat for a picture. “You’re telling me he got it commissioned?” 

Dream tried visiting the old house. Hob had moved out. New family moved in. let him borrowed a phone. Landline? Im pretty sure theres some humor of him not knowing how to operate the phone. 

Meanwhile, Death visits  a museum of ancient Egyptian stuff. Hob is there looking at a statue of Anubis. He asked if they always looked like that. Death responds, sometimes. Startles him. He didn't see or hear her arrive. They meet and talk. She explains (and apologizes) that she is responsible for his immortality. And her brother is his stranger. He laughed. I think. He asked questions. No answers. Sad sad. 

He was about to ask another question but gets distracted by a school trip group of students. Death slips away. Hob gets frustrated. 

Hob gone traveling alot .

Some point Dream tries contacting Death. Asked if hob's well / alive. Yes. 

Btw, death arrived wearing a different outfit and holding a snake. But she later changes to typical tank top and jeans. Brings the snake back wherever it was previously. 

She takes Dream to a cliff?? Unless this from a diff fanfic. Idk. but they talked at the cliff over the ocean. Idr the conversations. 

Dream visits hob’s dreams. 

We see Hob entering his old house with arms full of wine and food. Dream is disguised as a raven. It’s raining. Robert sees the raven and tells “it” to leave to somewhere safe and dry. Get out of rain and get dry.  Hob  knocks on his front door after struggling to get his keys. Opens. Enter. We see lots of shoes and coats. Dream the Raven sneaks into the house.

We meet the (former) boyfriend who is an “older” man. They laugh, joke, kiss, and talked. Ex BF asked when will Hob ask the question. What question? Marriage. Ex explained: grandfather and father got dementia at age 50. And he’s turning 50 in a few years. They fight. Sad. 

Scene shifts. The painting is visible now. Obvious on the wall. Raven disguise disappear. Dream walked up the stairs to a door slightly ajar. He spies inside and sees a copy of himself. Sorta. Whatever Hob imagines his stranger would’ve looked like if nude. Description of Hob’s version of Dream is different from the real Dream in body shape. 

Hob is (smut scene) bottom to Dream’s top. 

Lovely description of what Morpheus would’ve done in 1000 yrs ago, 100 yrs ago, 10 yrs ago, now. (Not those exact numbers or era. Idr. ) In a few sentences. Maybe it was 3. Morpheus stays and observes. Pervert. 

Hob asked Morpheus if he will stay after he wakes up. He responds, yes. (cries) 

Real Morpheus quietly leaves. The voices in the bedroom are still very loud. 

Out of the water, Lucienne arrives with an umbrella. It’s raining hard. 

They visit the library and look thru Hob’s books. Lucienne silently screams at every accidental dog-ear and mishandle of pages. I would too. Hob has entries: wha’ts teh point of dreaming anymore. And stuff. Sad stuff. Angry stuff. 

Morpheus in frustration. Throws book at wall. Book breaks and falls apart. Lucienne is hurt. Me too. He says something to her, angry. She tells him “then you must leave my library” and snaps her fingers. Forces him out and slams the doors. She picks up the book and carefully rearranges the pages and binding. Sets aside in a book press. “You’re a good book.” Awww

And that was the ending. No more updates at that date and time. 

Story obviously WIP.