digitalmarketingin

[soapywankenopy]

You know it's actually sick and twisted that Rick ended the trials of apollo series

Clearly he wasn't thinking of the needs of others (me)

[vvelegrin]

they should invent a type of being at a parent's house that isn't like eating your own liver

[screampied]

ੈ✩‧₊˚ TWENTY THREE MISSED CALLS — G. SATORU

☆ sum. you had always nagged to your boyfriend satoru to answer his damn phone. it’d always go straight to voicemail—you told him in your own words, ‘toru, what if something ever happened to you?’ but this time, it was far too late.

wc. 1.7k tags. gn!reader, angst, nickname(s) 'baby, angel.'

an. idk how to write angst much but i was sad so came up w this. merry christmas :)

“hey heyy, it’s satoru. uh, you’ve reached the—eheh what does that lady say again…? you’ve reached the voicemail box of.. gojo satoru. leave a message after the beep, beeeeep. heh, bye.”

such a dork.

you lost count of how many times you listened to that automatic message over and over again. the playful cheekiness in his voice, you could just see his smile. the dumb dimples that poke out against both of his cheeks whenever he grinned.

a cute dork. your dork.

besides that though, it’s been at least twenty three times of you ringing him, but to no avail. each time it went straight to voicemail—sucking your teeth in confusion, you started pacing around your bedroom. it was christmas morning, and gojo promised he’d be here before you wake up.

he couldn’t be…

no, he’s gojo satoru. he always wins, right?

right..?

the more you waited, the more impatient you became. the room grew colder and colder, despite the heat being turned on. you sat on gojo’s side of the bed, inhaling his scent, as if he was here right now.

he’d always fill up the room with his loud cologne scents—you’re always telling him how it’s too strong and he always kisses your cheek, muttering, “eh really? i don’t smell it that much, baby..”

the scent was always sweet, a mixture of cinnamon and multiple other spices—you glanced at the roségold alarm clock that rested against your nightstand, the time reading six thirty am.

he still wasn’t here.

it was hard to not overthink, think the worst, gojo was always so good at calming your nerves. you’d be one to constantly overthink. his trick to stop that was to simply hold you in his arms, stroke your hair and tell you in a soft cheery voice, “hey angel, everything’s gonna be okay. i’m okay, we’re okay.”

but again, he still wasn’t here.

gojo mentioned to you before he left last night around midnight he had to ‘take care of something’ — his code word of he’s about to go into battle or fight, but he didn’t want you to worry about him.

that’s the very last thing he wanted. and if anything, he always assured you he’d be okay. even if he was beaten to a pulp by his enemies, he’d always return back home to you with that stupid lovable grin on his face.

so what made christmas day any different?

you swallowed the thick, nonexistent lump in your throat, trying to snap out of your deep melancholy thoughts. dragging your feet,

you rubbed your eyes from the sun just barely shinning through the curtains scattered throughout the house.

with a soft sigh, you made your way towards the christmas tree — the pretty lengthy tree the both of you decorated together last minute, a tiny smile went on your face at remembering how gojo kept accidentally breaking all of the ornaments, so he had to constantly keep buying new ones.

lights, glimmery multicolored lights, a plethora of ornaments and a pretty sheeny star sits at the very top. you sat on your knees, before glancing down at the various presents — one caught your eye, it was a tiny box. a velvet heart shaped box, and gojo told you it was the biggest surprise yet.

you paused, glancing down at your phone that was about it to die soon, wondering why gojo still hasn’t returned any of your calls.

he’s been gone for hours, and the knot in your stomach continued to tighten—it felt like something inside of you was squeezing, tugging you from the inside.

was this what a gut feeling feels like? something was telling you, screaming at you that something wasn’t right.

with shaky hands, you went to his contact for what seems like the millionth time, staring at the image that was his picture, him and you.

the both of you were being goofy, it was a old polaroid picture a few years ago of the both of you during your birthday.

he spoiled you so much that day, but as always he never forgot to repeat how much he loved you.

the phone rang three times and your mind pretty much knew mentally he wasn’t gonna answer, it was a bit foolish for you to continuously keep trying. but something in you told yourself, it’s satoru. he’s gonna answer. anything to reassure yourself, this happens a lot — gojo’s the type of person who always has his phone on silent, or he says he’ll call you back but ends up forgetting.

after a few rings, the same automatic voicemail plays, and just hearing his voice again, no matter how many times — it never fails to make your heart swoon.

“hey heyy, it’s satoru. uh, you’ve reached the—eheh what does that lady say again…? you’ve reached the voicemail box of.. gojo satoru. leave a message after the beep, beeeeep. heh, bye.”

you intake a sharp breath, closing your eyes before bringing the warm phone up to your ear, pressing it against your cheek before speaking in a voice.

a voice you hardly recognized, “…toru?” and you were on the brink of tears, it was easy to hear and you tried not to let your emotions get the best of you but at this point..

was it really worth holding on to?

fifteen long seconds passed and you forgot the phone was still in your hand.

you sniffled, gathering yourself briefly before continuing in a soft drowsy voice, “h-hey, um. i don’t mean to blow your phone up but, you aren’t responding and i’m getting kind of scared. are you okay?”

you pause again, feeling the sting of tears nearly escape through your eyelids before you squeeze your eyes shut, lightly squeezing your left thigh to prevent any more emotions from revealing themselves.

“i um, just wanna say i love you, and i hope you’re okay. i didn’t wanna open my gifts until you got here but you’re taking forever..”

and you manage to crack a tiny smile that purses against your lips—yet after a while, it fades and your heart feels like it’s just walking on egg shells. “but anyway, yeah. i love you satoru, text or call me back so i know you’re alright, please? and just get home safe okay? bye.”

you hung up the phone and a single tear ran down your cheek.

so much time had passed, and he still wasn’t here. it was nearly seven in the morning now, and your dumb curiosity got the best of you—you wondered what gojo’s big surprise gift was.

he wanted you to wait to see your reaction, but you were just so curious, so enthused.

you started to peel the pretty striped velvet wrapping paper off, one at a time, it was neatly wrapped with a perfect red and blank bow tied on the top.

once you opened it, it had a tiny black box, and your eyebrows raised, a note sticking out the side. grabbing it, you revealed it and it read in neat handwriting:

“hi baby!! merry merry christmas, i’m kinda tearing up while writing this, and i know i know you probably just wanna see the gift but first read this ‘kay? just wanna say i love love you so much, and i’m so glad we’ve been together for almost four years now. you mean everything to me, you’re so sweet and kind, always there whenever i need to talk my feelings out, or even if i just need to lay on you and fall asleep. but anywho, you know who loves you? this guy! hopefully i made you smile as you read this, im probably not at home yet but ill be back soon. don’t worry your pretty little head, alright? i love you baby, merry christmas from your honored one, xoxo.”

tears were in your eyes—and it was like you could hear him, he was right, you did manage to smile. sniffling, you placed the note aside before opening the small black box.

once you pulled the top back, your eyes widened, seeing a small coruscating ring. your heart sang, blinking twice to make sure your eyes weren’t playing tricks on you.

gojo was planning to propose..?

the ring was so pretty.

various scattered crushed up like pearls around the top, and once the tears started, they kept streaming down your face. you quickly pulled it out, sliding it on your ring finger and it was a perfect fit — in a frail sob, you mumble, “y-yes, i’ll marry you satoru.”

yet — that’s when you wake up, finally snapping back to reality. confused with tears still streaming down your face, burning.

“satoru?”

no answer.

you get up from the bed, your eyes widen before you look at your right hand — and the engagement ring was still there. a sigh of relief exits your mouth, and that’s when you make your way towards the kitchen.

nothing to worry about, maybe you just fell asleep while opening the gift. yeah, that had to be it.

although, the atmosphere of your house felt different. taking a quick glance in the living room, the christmas tree wasn’t there anymore, it wasn’t snowing, and it was almost as if you lived by yourself.

“satoru?” you called out again, before pulling out your phone — scrolling towards your messages and your heart suddenly sank. the last message you sent him was two years ago, a subtle ‘satoru, it’s christmas and you’re still not here? are you okay?’

christmas…?

you pulled a tab down on your phone — and the date read march 17th. approximately two years later from when you last sent that message, and you were so confused.

but the further you scrolled down, you saw messages from others, sending you their regards and condolences for your loss….loss?

the recent message was from geto — and your last reply was, ‘thank you, i’m doing okay. i just still can’t believe he’s gone.”

. . .

you felt sick — tear after tear racing down both sides of your face before coming to the sudden unfathomable realization.

gojo never came back home for one reason and one reason only. he died a painful death those long two years ago, even though he swore he’d come back to you on christmas.

perhaps everything was all a lie.

sometimes people don’t win all the time, not even the honored one, the love of your life, gojo satoru.

[tender-rosiey]

a star — gojo satoru x f!reader

a/n: lovesick gojo does smth to me

it’s not often that you don’t find your husband on the jujutsu grounds terrorizing some students, save for today that is. however, it doesn’t pose that much of a problem to you. in the end, he is your husband and you should know him more than anyone else.

so you pride yourself in the fact that you quickly spot his figure on top of one of the buildings. you swiftly make your way up. your shoes click on the roof as you walk towards your husband, “hey ‘toru.”

“hey,” he smiles while you sit beside him and get yourself comfortable. his face turns towards you with a little tilt of his head, “why’re you here, wifey?”

“why’re you here?”

“fair point,” he sighs blissfully, “reminiscing.”

you hum quietly and your hand moves slowly to hold his own. your thumb slowly rub his hands. he chuckles at your concern before pulling your hand to his lips, pressing a firm kiss, “don’t worry; I am not sad.”

he takes a deep breath, “it’s just nice to remember these fun moments every once in a while.”

you nod quietly before looking in front of you, the view captivating you even if you have seen it a million times. tokyo was always a sight to behold from such heights, especially in the night. you close your eyes for a moment, taking it all in.

“yuuji is getting stronger.”

you perk up at your husband’s comment then you murmur, “yeah.”

“so is megumi, but he just has to adjust his way of thinking.”

you smile, “good thing he has you to do that then.”

he throws his head back in laughter, “I am his teacher, after all.”

“everyone tends to forget that,” you tease and he rolls his eyes, “all mighty silly teacher.”

with a tsk, he raises his index finger, sporting a smug grin, “didn’t you know that women like their men dumb?”

“I don’t know if all women do that,” you hum before resting your head on his shoulder, “I sure do, though.”

his hand slips around your waist, and he gasps, “are you flirting with me? I will have you know that I have the prettiest woman ever as my wife.”

“she’s a lucky one.”

he frowns then pouts, lips jutting out and everything, “she sure doesn’t think so.” poking your side, he huffs, “she’s always so mean to me, the epitome of bullying even.”

you giggle swatting his hand away, “you probably deserve it.”

“you’re just like her,” he whines. you giggle and he slowly rubs your side after he lets out a grumble. you let out a soft breath and your hand moves to hold his own. his hand squeezes yours and you squeeze it in return.

the atmosphere is filled with the sound of the soft breeze and crickets’ noises. you’re both left to relish in the silence and the comfort it gives. you’re both looking up at the sky. your gaze trails to the trees on the ground that sway with the wind.

you see the tree where shoko was healing haibara that one time. you see the vending machine that satoru and suguru always hit. you see the bench that nanami always used to sit on. you see the cabin that you and satoru used to hide in to escape from yaga.

you finally understand why your husband chooses this place.

he gets to truly see it all because despite his six eyes’ powers and capabilities, it doesn’t let him see what he truly cares about: friends and memories. from here, he is able to be the spectator that relishes in memories that passed, but will always live in the minds of those who experienced it.

even if, sometimes, only one of the two remains.

feeling your throat tighten at the melancholy thoughts, you take a breath. you take a moment then you inquire, breaking the silence in hopes of distracting yourself, “sooo, what are you watching?”

“a star,” he answers simply.

you furrow your eyebrows, focusing on the dark blue canvas above you, “‘toru, there are no stars tonight.”

he breathes out a chuckle, “I know. I said a star not stars.”

you narrow your eyes, “what do you mean?—“

and then your eyes lock with his own. he is staring intently at you, almost memorizing your features with a lovesick smile on his face. 

you don’t know when did he take his blindfold off, but you’re met with his azure eyes that have love and adoration swimming in them, shades of blue mixing in with the invisible shades of love.

you see your reflection in his eyes and others could swear they see hearts surrounding your figure. his eyes are now a canvas for what he wholeheartedly believes to be the love of his life.

the small soft quirk of his lips is noticeable. the light crinkle of his eyes as he gazes at you gives away how he feels. his entire face is glowing as it faces your own. his hand reaches to hold your face and he grins.

“my star.”

.

.

.

“satoru, that was so cheesy!”

“you love it.”

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do not copy or plagiarize or you will be reported

[ohnoitstbskyen]

100 songs to get to know me

I posted this image over on the bluesky, and it got like 100 likes, so now here we are. I was going to write them all up here, but Tumblr imposes a 10 video limit on embeds per post which I find infuriating.

So! You can read the first ten entries here, but you can read the entire list here: https://tbskyen.bearblog.dev/100-songs-to-get-to-know-me/

1. ABBA - Lay All Your Love On Me

I genuinely don't quite know if my enjoyment of ABBA is something I came by honestly, or something which is simply genetically engineered into my Scandinavian soul. I remember hearing my mom blasting their songs on the home stereo in my childhood, and the association has put permanent nostalgia blinders on me for all of ABBA's greatest hits. Still, I think the beat is undeniable and the mournful tone of the chorus adds some real melancholy to the dramatic plea at the core of the song.

2. Afenginn - Oestrogenmanipuleret Basilisk

Afenginn describe themselves as "bastard etno-punk" which is probably as good a description as you're going to get. There's a lot of klezmer and eastern European folk influences here, but what is more important about Afenginn's best songs is that they go hard as f*ck and it's an absolute blast to dance to them at a show. They played this the first time I saw them live, and the rhythm comes back every time I hear it again. Good times!

3. Afenginn - Ralli in D Minor

With 100 slots to fill, I am giving myself permission to allocate two slots to Afenginn, and for the same reason. Ralli in D Minor is less of a dance tune to me, and more of a headbanger, but with a sufficiently loud subwoofer and a game crowd, you could f*ing mosh to this.

4. Anamanaguchi - Prom Night

I discovered Anamanaguchi as the composers of the title track to the Nerdist podcast back in the day, and being unfamiliar with the concept of chiptunes, I was drawn in initially by the sheer novelty of hearing the squeaks and bloops of my gaming childhood employed towards rock tunes and combined with "real" instruments.

Beyond the gimmick, though, Anamanaguchi won me over fully with the Scott Pilgrim game soundtrack, and then 2013's Endless Fantasy, where the gimmick of chiptune nostalgia noise (at least for me) finally coalesced into something that felt entirely like its own thing. Plus I'm a sucker for exactly this kind of bright dance pop, and Bianca Raquel's vocals here are a perfect match for the tone of the music.

5. Jennifer Hudson - Memory

2019s Cats is a fascinating fucking disaster. Tom Hooper is the worst director of musicals in my living memory, the abuse of the VFX staff extended beyond brutal crunch and absurd challenge imposed by a director who had no idea what the hell he was asking them to do all the way into an astonishingly arrogant and condescending joke from Rebel Wilson and James Corden at the expense of workers who were the last people at fault for the disaster that the movie became (look in the fucking mirror, Wilson and Corden, your performances were rancid).

Still, the silver lining of Cats is we got to hear Jennifer Hudson shake the world on its foundations with her rendition of Memory. I don't give a shit what anyone says, this performance is transcendent and no amount of institutional failure can dim its quality.

6. Annette Bjergfeldt - Min Bærende Bjælke

Annette is one of my mother's oldest friends, and a prolific singer-songwriter now turned author. I've been going to her concerts since I was a little child, and while I am absolutely not the target audience for any of it, it has stuck with me as part of my musical vocabulary deep into adulthood.

She has experimented with brass band accompaniment a few times, but for my money, nothing quite comes close to the floating, optimistic vibe of Min Bærende Bjælke. It sounds like a very particular kind of lasting romance, which of course is also what the lyrics are about.

7. Hozier - Blood Upon the Snow

We'll get more than one Hozier song on this list, but Blood Upon the Snow stands out to me as a song which easily transcends the videogame soundtrack promotional tie-in nature of its conception. Bear McCreary's hurdy gurdy and lyrics about surviving through adversity by holding on to existence with your teeth and nails... yeah, it hits with me. There's something real in that.

"The trees deny themselves nothing that makes them grow, no rainfall, no sunshine, no blood upon the snow." Something about that feels real.

8. The Beatles - Something

idk if I really need to write anything about George Harrison's most famous love song that hasn't been written more extensively by a million dad-rock enthusiasts before me.

I will say, this is one of the few songs I listen to regularly that justify the expensive audiophile headphones I invest in. There's a LOT to hear on a good, lossless, original mix of this song, if you're the kind of pervert who gets off to listening to a song a hundred times to focus on different parts of the soundscape. (it's me, I am the pervert)

9. Blink-182 - Adam's Song

I discovered a lot of my music taste as a young man from extremely low-resolution AMVs that my friend used to download off sketchy file-sharing sites. Blink-182 entered my musical lexicon through the one above, specifically, piggybacking off of my teenage love of Dragon Ball.

I never really grokked what the lyrics were actually about, until relistening to the song years later, but something about the minor-key wail of the thing really sat with my angsty teenage soul and has stuck with me ever since. I cannot listen to this song without that music video playing in my head, the song will forever belong to Vegeta.

There's remastered versions of this AMV out there, apparently, but if it's not 144p with tinny audio, it's just not right. That's not what the song is supposed to sound like, not to me.

10. Blink-182 - Miss You

Blink-182 is one of those bands I discovered via anime AMVs and listened to obsessively for a period as a teenager (The Offspring will show up later on this list), and then fell entirely out of touch with for years until discovering much later in life that they did, in fact, keep releasing music. I Miss You from their self-titled 2003 album felt, when I discovered it sometime in the early 2010s, like a much more mature and interesting sound from a band which had gotten stuck associated with my adolescent superpower kung-fu fantasies which I was, at the time, feeling a bit embarrassed about.

The song had a resurgence on TikTok a little while ago as a meme template, which made me listen to the albums again, and rediscover yet again that Blink-182 is, in fact, still putting out albums.

---

The rest of the list is here: https://tbskyen.bearblog.dev/100-songs-to-get-to-know-me/

[coff33andb00ks]

Burning - LN

Hopeless, Part 4

{1 - Hopeless} {2 - Luxury} {3 - Poison} {4 - Burning} {Epilogue}

Lando Norris x fem!reader summary: my kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder, all my riches for her smiles, all my blood for the sweetness of her laughter songs: lover, you should have come over by jeff buckley word count: 5872 warnings: angst, smut <mdni> a.n.: the finale <3

The overlook is quite lovely. Prettier than the photos he'd seen. The sea air is crisp, filling his lungs as he stares at a young family strolling along the beach. Pushing his hands into his pockets he watches them, homesick for something he's never had as the toddler picks up something to show their parents. A wholesome, beautiful moment, unmarred, and he swallows the lump in his throat as it occurs to him that he'll never experience it himself.

Turning his back to the sea, he breathes deep, eyes slowly scanning the area. Trying to match it to the description he'd been given. Gaze landing on the weathered bench he finds he's already walking towards it, one hand slipping from his pocket and reaching to trail along the arm, feeling the wood that's been carved with words and initials. And there, just as he'd been told, the two letters he would know anywhere.

Yours.

He drops onto the bench, leaning forward and trying to keep his breathing normal. It's the closest he's been to you in about a year – one year, two months, one week, five days, thirteen hours.

No, there was that day over winter break. When, melancholy and yearning, he'd spent more than he should have to fly out the week before Christmas, ignoring Oscar's suggestions that he stay away. He'd rented a car, following the roads you'd told him about to the seaside town that you'd described in such detail he could have drawn a map before seeing it. He'd driven the streets, stopped a few houses down from your parents' home. Had sat, watching the house, then cursed himself a million times over for being a fool and driven off.

Oscar hadn't said told you so. He'd merely sighed and nodded, listened to his sad story again.

You'd be so happy that Oscar's become his best mate. He wants to tell you, because he knows that only you would understand why it was such a big deal.

"Mate?"

He looks up, sighing at the sight of Oscar. "Nice, yeah?"

Oscar sighs sadly, sitting next to him on the bench. "You're torturing yourself."

"You said I could have one day," Lando reminds him.

"She's not gonna show up here on a Thursday morning," Oscar says after a moment.

"I know." It would be too movielike if you did. And the only genre of movies that reflects his life is tragedy. Standing, he walks over to stare at the beach again. The family has gone, their footprints already erased by the waves. When he heads back, Oscar stands, and there's a long look before they walk together to the gravel lot where they parked.

"Just call her." It's probably the billionth time Oscar has said the words since Lando's trip to Melbourne over summer break last year.

He exhales, about to lie and say he's deleted your number. But Oscar doesn't deserve lies. "I've tried."

"Did she block you?"

"Dunno." He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, stopped at the end of the lane coming down from the overlook. There's not much traffic, nowhere near enough to warrant him sitting idle for so long. He can't bring himself to hit the call button after punching in your number. Which he still knows by heart. The only number aside from his mum's that he has memorized.

"Lan?" Oscar ventures softly.

"Am I stupid?" he blurts.

Oscar sighs. "No."

"This—" He gestures angrily at their surroundings. "This isn't fucking stupid?"

"I wouldn't say stupid. Ill-advised, maybe?" Oscar follows a passing car with his eyes. "It's been a year."

He knows.

"I think if you were able to get over it, you wouldn't be here right now."

"I don't even know if she's here." His voice is wavering and he can feel the sadness and frustration and anger stinging, piercing what's left of his heart over and over, clawing up his throat and up into his brain, burning his eyes.

"You know her better than anyone." Oscar's voice is still gentle and soft. Careful, and Lando knows he's truly only there to support him. "Where else would she go?"

"Nowhere." This tiny corner of the world is your home.

"Call her."

Lando throws the car into park and bangs his forehead against the steering wheel. "This is stupid. It's been a year. A fucking year. I can't even bring myself to text her or call her, what the fuck do I think I'm gonna do if I bump into her on the fucking street?"

Oscar doesn't speak, merely waits.

"What would I say to her?" he whispers, scared to raise his voice because he knows he'll either scream or cry.

"Mate…"                                                                         

"It's stupid. I'm stupid. I should never have—" He cuts off, swallowing hard, squeezing his eyes shut. It shouldn't still hurt this bad. "I shouldn't have come."

"But you did."

"Yeah," he gasps.

Oscar's silent for a long moment, looking out the window while Lando struggles to compose himself, knowing that if he reaches out to offer comfort it won't be appreciated. "It's a small town, yeah?"

"Yeah." He scrubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms, wishing his heartbreak had been the type that was easily numbed. He's tried everything. Alcohol, exercise, random women, even random men when he was drunk enough. Therapy, antidepressants, meditation. Nothing's worked. He can get so drunk he almost forgets, he almost loses himself, but just when he's thinking this is it, it all comes rushing back and he snatches his body away from whoever he's with. Never much further than getting his belt unbuckled before he's rushing away with a shit apology and an empty ache in his chest.

It's been over for a year and it's still fucking him up. He can't do what the therapist suggested – seek forgiveness for your part in a wrongdoing – because Charles laughed in his face.

"You? Slept with her? Impossible. She has standards."

Fucking bastard.

"Switch, I'll drive."

Lando doesn't argue even though Oscar hates driving in America. Nothing rattles his unbothered friend. But six lanes of Americans driving like – Oscar's words – fucking cunts? His friend is ready to commit crimes. Once in the passenger seat he sighs, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. It isn't long before he feels the car stop and he sits up, not looking to see where they are. "I'll call the charter for a flight out."

"Not yet," Oscar tells him. "Wait here a minute."

Confused, he rubs at his eyes, trying to keep more tears from forming. He just wants to go. Best to resign himself to being lonely. Alone. Maybe he'll be lucky and time will eventually heal the pain, even just a little, and he can— Grunting as he looks out the windshield, he watches Oscar walk into a small brick building.

"Really, Osco, not the time to be a fucking nerd," he sighs, leaning back and throwing an arm over his face. Why the fuck are they at a library?

It's not long before Oscar's back, getting behind the wheel and humming softly to himself. He doesn't speak, still humming while he buckles his seatbelt and drops a folded sheet of paper in Lando's lap.

"What?" Lando sighs, dropping his arm and looking at the paper. Even more confused, he picks it up. "What is it?"

"Mate."

Sniffling, he rubs at his nose then unfolds the paper. At first he's still confused, reading the address written in Oscar's handwriting. "Is… Is that hers?"

"Yeah."

"H…" He sucks in a breath. "How."

"She said she wanted to go back to school and work in a library, right? They've got a display board up of recent things that have happened, and there was a picture of her with a bunch of kids. A paragraph about how she's working here as a research assistant while pursuing her master's in library science."

Lando rubs at his temples, knowing his friend wants to tell the whole story but longing to tell him to get to the fucking point. And also a little touched that Oscar remembered the detail about you wanting to work with books.

"Asked the lady at the desk about her, said I was an old friend driving through. She's off today, won't be back until Monday. When she went to help someone I nicked the notebook by the computer and it has everyone's address." Oscar smiles, obviously proud of his ability to spy without being caught. "Nice lady. Said y/n's an asset."

Lando nods, typing the address into the search bar of the map on his phone. "It's…"

"Close." Oscar reaches for the in-dash screen, pausing just before his fingers touch it.

He could tell him not to. Could shake his head. And Oscar would nod, they would call the charter, and be on a flight back to Monaco by dinnertime.

And he would spend the rest of his life trying to forget.

He swallows, barely nodding his head.

"…we'll shift our focus to the surge of trade throughout the Mediterranean, but first—"

You look away from your laptop screen when there's a knock on the door. The professor drones on and you mute him, standing from the couch and setting the laptop aside to go see who it is. You're not expecting anyone, and the neighborhood isn't the type where neighbors drop in uninvited. Peeking through the window, you furrow your brow at the unfamiliar car parked on the street. Leaving the chain attached you open the front door just a bit.

And nearly hit your knees in shock.

He's looking down at the stoop, at his impossibly white sneakers, and his hood's pulled up over his head but you know it's him.

"Lando," you breathe.

His head lifts and his eyes take your breath away. They're just as you remember them, the jade hue that could see straight through to your soul.

He looks sad. Worried.

Scared.

"H-hey," he says, his voice cracking slightly.

You can only stare at him, unable to really believe he's on your front stoop. The light breeze picks up and you're slammed by the aroma of his cologne. It's so faint you know you shouldn't be able to smell it but you do and a wave of memories rush through you with it.

"Hey, nice to meet you." He smiled, an easygoing aura radiating from him as he stepped over and held out his hand. "I'm Lando."

"Hi, I'm y/n."

You press your lips together and swallow hard. "Hey," you murmur.

You, walking along pit lane with Charles and on the phone with your best friend. "So I finally got the game installed. I need to upgrade, the lag is so bad I die before I can get a shot in."

"Really? What are the specs?" Lando asked suddenly, appearing at your side.

"Call you back," you laughed into the phone, putting it away and smiling at him. He was always popping up to talk to you, had quickly become one of your favorite people on the grid. He never seemed too busy to at least stop and speak to you, that easy smile putting you at ease.

Lando exhales, his shoulders rounding. His eyes are almost mournful, the light of memory flashing and you wonder if he's reminiscing, too.

"Sorry 'bout the mess," he muttered, picking up a helmet and looking around, finally placing it two inches from where it had been.

"It's fine," you promised with a laugh. "You live here, it shouldn't look like a magazine spread."

"Yeah? I guess. Anyway, here you go, have a seat."

You swallow again, the sound of his hand slapping his computer chair echoing in your mind. Easing the door to a little, you reach up to unlatch the chain and take a step back as you pull the door open further. "What are… How did you know where to find me?"

"I love it here, really, but I miss the space. I miss having a little patch of grass where I can plant flowers and not have people squeezing in around me," you said, sliding the tarts from the baking sheet to the cooling rack.

"I get it. But I mean, you could talk to Charles, right? See about getting a place with a garden?" Lando looked at the tarts with a longing sigh.

"At least let it cool," you teased. Leaning against the counter, you shook your head. "No, this is his home. He'll never want to move out of Monaco."

"I like it here, but it's not home." He shrugged, pinching off a piece of the pastry shell for a taste, grinning when you slapped at his hand. "There's a villa up the coast a ways – it has space and nice gardens. I've thought about getting it, but seems a waste just for me."

"You could get a dog."

He's standing in your tiny living room. He looks so out of place and yet he fits and you think you're just in shock. Pushing back his hood, he fiddles with his hair, the nervous gesture you remember him doing. "Osco… He's with me – I mean, in the car," he says, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb. "Man's a fucking spy I think."

"No, no, you put your hand here." His face is serious as he guides your hand to his shoulder. "Okay?"

You nodded, grateful he was willing to teach you. You knew Charles would happily pay for dancing lessons but it's embarrassing, not knowing how to waltz. And when you'd mentioned it to Lando he'd said to come by, he could show you the basics, and he'd practice with you so you wouldn't make a fool of yourself at the prince's gala. His hand moved to rest at your waist, warm and strong, and you felt a glimmer of heat as his other hand took yours, holding it up.

"We'll take it slow, yeah?" he asked softly.

He's still standing there, looking lost and scared, and all you can do is stare at him. You've seen him – on tv, online, on your phone because you hadn't been able to delete the pictures of him and every once in a while your phone likes to play a sick joke and throw you a memory that somehow always includes him. But you're struck by the slight differences since you've seen him in person. His hair is a little longer, that one curl he used to complain about dancing against his forehead. The scar from Amsterdam last year is faded, barely a line across the bridge of his nose.

He's still the most handsome man you'll ever see. He still takes your breath away. It's taking everything in you to not beg him to forgive you.

"Love it. This. Us."

You suck in a breath and hold it. "How are you?" you ask, because really what else can you say?

I'm so sorry I never should have let us end like we did, even if we were hopeless from the start. I still love you, I'll never stop loving you. I'll never stop needing you. I'm miserable.

"I'm fucking miserable, y/n." His voice is strained. "I-I came months ago. At Christmas."

You feel your eyes widen at the same time you watch his do the same. Suddenly recalling a strange car parked just down the street from your parents' home that had sped off. At the time your first thought had been that it was someone up to no good. "You did?" you whisper.

"I remembered where your mum and dad live, and I… I hoped I'd see you."

He would have, if he'd waited five minutes. But you remember the texts you'd sent that had gone unanswered. The one phone call you'd attempted two months after moving away from Monaco, at four in the morning when your dreams had been him.

They still are.

Lando takes a step forward. "Y/n…"

"Why are you here?"

"I miss you," he says, his voice still strained. Like he's just finished crying. Or is about to. And you don't want to see him cry. It'll break your unhealed heart. "Are… Are you okay?"

You jump slightly when there's a soft tap at the front door. It's still hanging open – way to go, just invite burglars and murders in – and both you and Lando spin to look.

Oscar holds both hands up. "Sorry to interrupt. Um… Hi."

"Hey," you squeak. God, you can't do this. You can't have this awkward, painful conversation in front of Oscar. "C-come on in," you say, dragging a hand through your hair.

"I, um, just…" His cheeks darken as he closes the door and he clears his throat. "Could I use the restroom?"

Blinking at him, you feel Lando step closer to you. With a small nod you point in the direction of the bathroom, backing away from Lando as soon as Oscar's back is turned.

"Y/n… Please—"

"What?" you ask. It's as though seeing Oscar threw some common sense into you. "I'm in the middle of a class."

"For the library thing, yeah?" One corner of his mouth lifts.

"How did you—" You glance towards the bathroom. "Maybe he is a fucking spy."

"He was trying to help me."

"He always has," you whisper.

"He's kept me from going completely insane this past year. I… I owe him a lot," he murmurs, and he's picking at his own fingers.

You're reaching to stop him and jerk your hand back. He's not yours to comfort. He never was. "He flew all the way here with you when he could be home with his girlfriend. I think you owe him at least a new car."

"She's pregnant."

You gasp. "Really? I should—" But you can't. You haven't been able to call her, either. You text sometimes, but your friendship with the other girlfriends will never be the same. She hasn't mentioned being pregnant and you know it's because you're not in the 'club' anymore. It's a wildly different life you lead now. And you're happy. You're miserable and lonely but you fake the happiness for the sake of your family and coworkers. "I'm happy for them."

"God, I hate this," he whispers, and he rubs his hands over his face.

Then he's reaching for you. Almost catches you, but you jerk away.

"Y/n—"

"You have no right, Lando. What, did you think I'd just fall right back into your arms?" you ask, voice trembling because you want to. You want to be hugged as only Lando's ever been able to do. But you can't let yourself, remembering all too well how your life had been destroyed because you wanted a hug once.

"I didn't – I miss you," he whispers. "It's been a year and I still can't wash the coffee cup you left on the counter because it's… It's still got your lipstick."

Your heart twists, thinking of the hoodie tucked in the very back of your closet. The one you were going to throw out two weeks ago but couldn't after you opened the bag and could still smell him. Then you firm your resolve. You can't. "I'm not stupid. I've seen how not lonely you've been—"

"I was trying to forget you!"

"Then try harder. Doomed, remember?" You'll never forget him saying that, or how your heart had fractured.

"I couldn't even do it, because I felt like I was cheating on you!" The words ring out and he looks shocked, face twisting. "That's how fucked up you got me."

That rankles you, and you don't know if it's because he tried or because he's blaming the failure on you. "It's not my fault you can't get off," you snap.

"I can only get off if I'm thinking about you," he snaps back.

Your cheeks flame, your broken mind immediately conjuring up the image of him in the shower or on his bed. And you would swear you can hear his breathy moans. You bite your tongue hard to keep from confessing that when you try to make yourself cum you have to think about him, too. "Lando—"

"Tell me you're happy," he whispers. "Say it and I'll go."

"Happiness is subjective," you say, because despite everything you can't lie to him.

There's a creak or a sigh. Both your heads swivel and though you've only ever respected and admired Oscar, you aren't happy to see him. He doesn't speak, turning and studying the notes and photos on the refrigerator door.

Your heart lurches, knowing he'll see the snapshot of Lando.

"Y/n."

You snap your eyes back to him, forgetting all about his friend when you look into his eyes.

"Can we just… Talk. Please."

"I would have talked a year ago. When you left me on read. I would have talked a few months later, when I called you and you didn't answer." The worst part had been that his voicemail greeting was the automated voice.

"I was hurting! I was trying to get over you! I wanted to hurt you—"

You gasp, the admission a knife in your chest. You deserve it, you know that, and so much worse, but it stings.

"Like you hurt me."

"What was I supposed to do, Lando? We were doomed. You said so yourself."

"I'd rather be doomed with you than broken without you."

You must leave. Despite how long it's been you're not strong enough. You doubt you'll ever be strong enough to resist him. About to step away, you remember it's your house. Small and cramped and yeah the neighbors are too close for your liking. But it's yours. "Go, Lando. Live. Be happy without me."

"Like you're happy here?" he asks, throwing his hands out. "Rotting away in a fucking library?"

"I was happy until you decided to show up." Your voice cracks and you try to hold it back but a sob escapes as you back away, shoulder banging the doorway of your bedroom.

"Don't lie to me, y/n," he pleads, taking a step closer and reaching out.

"Don't touch me." You shrug his hand away, trying to get out of his reach, lift a hand to slap his arm. He catches your wrist before you can and your breath sticks in your throat when he moves forward. "Lando, please, let me go—"

His lips crash against yours and you whimper. It's harsh and demanding and you struggle weakly against him, spinning as soon as his hand grabs your waist. His near feral moan vibrates through your body and in a heartbeat you're clutching at his hoodie, whining as your back meets the closing door.

"Lan," you whimper, shaking your head as you break the kiss. "Please, we—"

"One more," he gasps. He lets go of your wrist, his hand trembling as it cups your cheek. "God, please… I just need you one more time. Everything's wrong without you." His lips brush over yours, and you feel your own inconsolable longing reflected back at you. "Y-you were everything, let me feel everything again."

His kiss tastes like tears and stifled rage. It grows harsher, his body crowding yours tighter against the door. It's everything you've wanted for over a year and yet not enough and you whisper his name into the breaths you share, knowing you'll feel the worst pain imaginable when it's over and you're alone all over again. The pull of him is too strong though and you want to feel everything again too, want just one morsel of what you once had.

"Wish I could hate you," he groans, voice as rough as his fingers in your hair, so tight your scalp stings. You whimper with both delight and pain and he answers with a moan, snatching back, breathing uneven as his hand slides from your hair and there's a frantic, familiar scrambling to remove his hoodie and your shirt. His moan as his fingers brush your bare skin ends in a whine, tracing patterns over your chest. "Wanted to hate you. Wanted to forget you but you—" His mouth is on yours again, his hands clutching at your breasts. Your nipples are stiff before his thumbs brush them and he groans deep in his chest, pressing his thigh between yours.

He pinches and squeezes, lips almost cruel on yours, and you can feel the rage he feels. Know you deserve every bit of it for everything you'd done, and more than he's capable of showing. Tears sting your eyes. It's beautiful, crushingly so, because you know this will be the last time. You want to rush ahead, to feel the incandescence only his lovemaking had created inside you and you also want to slow down, to memorize every breath, every touch, so you can cling to the memories for the rest of your lonely existence.

"Y/n…" It's a low, drawn-out moan, lips parted over yours.

"Please," you gasp. You're practically squirming with need, and the hate for you that he can't muster is there, coming from yourself. "Need it, Lan…"

You feel his pained grimace, taste the ache and the agony on his tongue. "Need you," he whimpers.

"Us," you whisper, squeezing your eyes shut as your tears fall.

"Us," he barely sighs. One hand slips down, the rage still there as it pushes between your bodies and into your panties, cupping you and squeezing. His ragged groan echoes in your ears and it shreds the last sliver of your sanity.

You tip your head forward, initiating the next kiss, loosening your grip on his biceps and letting your hands smooth over his warm skin. Breathing in and holding it so you can taste and smell and feel him all at once. Your fingers trace the necklace at his neck and more tears fall – it's the one you gave him two years ago. Rough, his fingers rub along your slit, his other hand thudding against the door then cupping your throat. His lips still on yours, whining when you brush the tears from his cheeks.

He leans into you, fingers rubbing steadily, teeth catching your bottom lip as they grow slick. "Did you…" He moans when one finger dips, your hips tilt forward, pushing yourself against his hand. "You miss me, baby?"

"Yes." You're gripping his wrist, clutching his hair.

"This?" His fingers move in slow circles over your clit. "…Or me?"

"You, Lando, you," you whimper, head falling back, the curling heat so sudden you fear you'll cum already.

"Have you let anyone fuck you?" he asks, still rubbing your clit agonizingly slowly.

"N-no." Your cheeks burn, hating yourself for feeling a spike of desire at his crude question. Pulse racing, you can hear the blood rushing in your ears, and his low hum as he leans closer, lips at your ear now. Your pussy clenches, gushing and you let out a shaky moan, able to hear the slick sounds of his fingers working your clit. Your hand wraps around his wrist and he chuckles.

"You need to cum? Hm?" He moans right in your ear and your pulse thunders beneath his fingertips at your throat. "You're gonna cum that quick?"

"I—" You whine, clutching tighter at his wrist. "It feels good, Lando, I can't…"

"It's gonna feel better when I'm fucking you," he whispers.

"Yes," you hiss, head falling back with a thump. "Please!"

"You want it, baby?" There's a slant to his cooed words and you wonder if he does hate you after all. "Want me to fuck you?" His lips tug at your earlobe, smirking while you whine. Slipping his fingers down, he dips them inside you, echoing your moan as you immediately squeeze around them. "Oh I missed your pussy so much… That's why I couldn't fuck 'em, you know?"

"Lando, please." God, you're gonna cum. It's sick and it's twisted now, but he knows exactly how to play your body.

"Cuz I know how good this feels…" He sucks on your earlobe, fingers curling tightly, exhaling harshly as they brush your spot and your hips jerk. "Gonna feel so good when you cum on my dick."

"Yes, baby, I need that," you whimper, digging your nails into his wrist. You need it more now than you did a year ago, your body buzzing. "God, please… Let me cum for you, Lan – Fuck!"

"Cum on my fingers, baby," he hisses, stroking your spot so hard it hurt. But his words and the reminder that he knew exactly what to say and do to you send you spiraling, pussy squeezing tightly around his fingers as a ragged cry ripped from your chest. "That's my girl, fuckin' cum…"

His fingers slip out and you gasp at the gush, tugging at his hair while he rubs your slit rapidly as your body tenses and trembles, panting harsh in your ear when you squirt over his fingers. When you slump back he coos, fingers strumming your clit and causing your back to arch.

He snatches his fingers from your clit with a low growl, and your lips meet in a fierce kiss, hands meeting at his belt. You wriggle between him and the door, frantic and scrambling to remove your panties, gasping against his tongue as he kicks his jeans away and then he's jerking your hips towards him, pressing his face to the side of your neck and your breath catches in the back of your throat, hooking your legs over his hips. His cock, hard and straining, glides along your slit and his teeth sink into your skin as his hips surge forward.

"Lando," you cry out, eyes rolling back.

"Make me hate you. Please, fuck, I need to hate you."

"How?" It's a broken sob.

"You can't." He presses his forehead to yours, hands so tight on your hips you know you'll feel the bruises forever. "You can't, y/n…"

"I'm sorry," you whisper, lifting trembling hands to cup his face. "I'm so sorry, Lando."

He exhales slow, releasing your hips and sliding his hands up, keeping the rest of his body still. It feels as though he's re-memorizing your body, closing his eyes while his palms sweep over your shoulders and up to your wrists. There's a prolonged moment as his shaky breaths fan over your lips, then his eyes open.

They're luminous. Shining with emotion. You can't breathe, can't even blink, can only just barely feel him shift, reminding you he's buried deep.

"I miss you so much." His hands are gentle, smoothing your hair back and cradling your cheeks. There's the reverence you remember.

"I'm right here." Your vision blurs and his lips are on yours, tender where they'd been rough before. "I'm right here, baby."

"Can't lose you," he mumbles, shifting again, his arm winding around your waist and holding you close. "Can't lose you again, baby, okay?"

You whisper his name, unsure of what to say. You're not sure you understand. "Lan?"

He kisses you again, turning and you're floating even after he lays you down on the bed. Each touch is gentle, like he's afraid of hurting you.

As though you're a dream he doesn't want to wake up from.

"I love you," he says. And for the first time since he stepped into the house it's the voice you remember. Clear and bright, warm and your favorite sound. It's him, the real Lando that you know and love.

Your lips part to say the words back – of course you love him, you've loved him since the beginning, before he was yours to really love. Before he was your forbidden secret.

"I bought the villa." Even he looks surprise as the words pass his lips and there's a small smile on his face and you want to laugh at the absurdity of the moment. He's talking as though he isn't inside you, as though he didn't just make you cum against your bedroom door.

"You did?" you ask softly, fingers following the freckles splattered over his cheek and neck. "When?"

Lando shifts, gently guiding your legs around his waist. The friction causes your toes to curl and he pauses, stuttering out a whimper. "F-first of the – god – year."

"Do you like it?" You're asking about the villa, remembering the photos he'd showed you on the realty website.

"Fuck I love it so much," he moans. His hands squeeze your thighs and he lifts himself up slightly, licking his lips slow. Eyes still luminous, he looks down at you and you can feel he's holding his breath.

"I love you," you whisper. "I love you so much."

And it's like that's all he needed. He leans down, kissing you deeply, his hands finding yours and holding on, fingers tangled as he rolls his hips slow. His thrusts are slow and deep, echoing moans and gasps the soundtrack to the passion. There's no subdued rage or cruelty anymore, and you whisper apologies between kisses, needing him to know how sorry you are for hurting him.

"I'm so sorry… I love you… Love us." You whisper the words over and over, tasting the salt of his fresh tears and yours.

Clasped hands tighten, knuckles turning white. "Be mine," he murmurs, his tremble rippling through you. When you arch, crying out yes, he dips his head, pressing sweet kisses over your heart.

"I always was," you promise, eyes locked with his as the passion crests and you cum with a scream of his name. It's blinding, deafening, and all you know that is real is the tight grip of his hands.

"Get your degree," he murmurs an eternity later. You nod, heart racing, the ache that has been in your chest for so long begins to fade. "Move in the villa with me."

"What if it's doomed?" you whisper, fear slicing through the elation. "What if we fail?"

"W-what if we win?" His breath stutters harshly, hands squeezing yours even tighter. "What if it's sacred?"

He kisses you, both of you trembling as his thrusts quicken and you feel his muscles grow tight. Your name is a soft, pleading cry and you feel the heat of him filling you, hips straining and pushing you deeper into the mattress.

Another lifetime passes with delicate kisses. Tender whispers. Praise and love are murmured between you, and you feel the eternal hope springing back when he offers forgiveness.

If it's all a dream you never want to wake. You'll gladly sleep until your final breath or even hasten your end so you never have to know cold reality again. But it's not a dream when you wake up, it's real and he's real, and the love in his eyes is still there.

The peace, the dreamy bubble formed around you, is burst by a gentle tapping at the bedroom door.

"Um… You good, mate?" Oscar calls out, his voice amused and embarrassed.

Lando giggles against your shoulder, kissing your skin before lifting his head. "Are we good, love?"

"Can we get a dog?" you ask suddenly.

"Just one?"

You nod. "To keep me company while I'm studying."

Lando grins, dipping to kiss you quickly. "All good, Osco!"

"Thank fucking christ," Oscar groans..

a.n.: originally this was close to 9k, but I cut a full scene from the end, because these two idiots deserve a happy, hopeful ending. I hope you enjoyed. housekeeping: if you'd like to be added to my taglist(s), please fill out this form.

taglist: @driverlando | @leodette | @trisharee | @manicpixiemom | @littlegrapejuice | @mochimommy2002 |

[ghostgirl-22]

Spinning while falling down

18+ !NSFW!

Kinktober Day 2: Blow job

———————————————————-

If Art is honest with himself (and who needs that?) he’s more into this than he’s ever gonna let Patrick know. It’s 2 am Saturday night. They just finished watching some B rated horror film on the sci fi channel; they're both high, maybe Art’s a little more high than Patrick is, and he’s lying in Patricks bed (again). In between his thighs (again), kissing, licking, sucking, rubbing. Listening to the sound of Patrick moaning. Rubbing himself off simultaneously against the mattress as Patrick says nonsense words. Like “good boy”, “you’re so fucking good”, “I dont think I ever wanna let you go.”

Art barely hears it over the sound of his own heart pounding in his ears… in his dick. He’ll probably come first. Come from blowing Patrick, like he always does. Patrick loves it. It makes all of Arts defenses sound weak, like whenever Art says he’s not really in the mood. Or when he acts like he doesn’t really like it as much as Patrick does. Patrick just smirks and says “okay, then let's just watch a movie for real this time.” And Patrick digs into his illegal (to Mark Reballato anyway) stash and they take turns smoking a joint or they finish a six pack. Patrick knows, he knows if Art gets drunk enough, or high enough they usually end up making out (practice kissing…you know… for girls) and the feeling of it makes Art’s mouth water. And next thing you know they're doing something like this.

Patrick pulls his hair and Art hums, his mouth is so full, so fucking full. His body is betraying him. He’s grinding harder against the bed. Filling his mouth as much as he can and it’s not easy… there’s so much of Patrick and Art loves it… if he’s being honest... which, of course, he’s not going to do.

Patrick’s playing in his hair, calling him baby, moaning his name. Art’s panting around it now and Patrick starts thrusting in and out, Art has to grab hold to keep from choking on it and suddenly he’s shivering, his orgasm spreading slowly at first… and then all at once he’s breathlessly coming in his boxers, against Patrick’s mattress.

He barely gets the chance to breathe before his mouth is filling up with spurts of warm sticky liquid. He coughs but only a little bit spills from his mouth onto Patrick’s thighs and he licks his lips as Patrick sits back against the headboard. Art is breathless, shivering and Patrick’s looking at him all soft while trying to steady his own breathing.

Art bites his lip and gets to his knees, suddenly feeling hot all over. “I’m a mess, I’m gonna…” he gestures vaguely

Patrick shrugs, grinning, always grinning like he knows so much that Art doesn’t know. “Sure but for the record I think you look so fucking pretty just like that.”

”Shut up,” Art mumbles, climbing out of the bed.

Patrick doesn’t have to say anything else his smirk says it all.

Art cleans up, in the bathroom, and when he’s had a chance to recover from whatever this is… he comes back to find Patrick as nonchalant as ever… smoking another joint, the window cracked and the tv back on with the volume low.

Art gets in his own bed and Patrick looks at him. “Really?”

“What?”

”Isn’t that the game supposed to be if you can blame it on a substance you sleep in my bed?” Patrick says.

Art feels himself heating up again, Patrick just says whatever he’s thinking (whatever’s true) like it doesn’t matter. “That’s not… I have a game tomorrow and I only got high to calm my nerves.”

“Okay Donaldson, whatever you say.”

“Okay,” Art says, he takes a deep breath to relax. “Besides,” he smiles at Patrick, “if I play well, maybe Dana will notice me.”

Patrick raises his eyebrows, his expression flitting momentarily to something melancholy that Art might have missed if he blinked— but as quickly as it appears it’s gone and he’s back to just smirking at Art with his trademarked amused boredom. “Oh sure, you get her attention and I’ll actually have to start playing the lottery.” He says jokingly as he puts the joint out. “Good night,” He turns off the light.

“Good night,” Art says and he presses his lips together as Patrick turns off the television.

If he’s being honest with himself he’d probably do this all differently but it’s just Patrick, and whatever this is he can fix it tomorrow.

[sunflowersinthedirt]

NOW AND THEN | GEORGE HARRISON 🌻

You love sunflowers and George miss you.

Angst (i’m a sad person), mentions of grief, angry issues. May have some sensitive topics to some readers.

English is not my first language and gifs are not mine.

1995: Summer.

Ringo and Paul were playing their ukuleles and conversing in the company of their respective wives. They were almost oblivious to George's presence in that vast garden. Today was a delicate day; they were finalizing the recordings for the Anthology documentary, and talking so much about John left Geo with a bittersweet (or rather, sour) taste in his mouth.

George was one of the few who didn't get to make amends with John before he passed away, and today, despite the sunny atmosphere, George was gloomy and quieter than usual. He was feeling nostalgic. He had remembered things that made him happy but at the same time, saddened him.

It was when he thought of you, looking at the sunflower garden he had planted, that the memories came flooding back. George walked over there, struggling against the feeling of sadness that seemed to take over and fill his chest. He had no idea he was being watched by Olivia and Dhani, who knew about his devotion to those flowers more than anyone. What they didn't know was the reason Geo loved sunflowers so much.

1967:

— Look, me nails and clothes are full of dirt! — Said the girl, laughing and showing her hands. — Only you'd be able to see me all dirty like this.

George laughed.

— I'm worse than you. — He said, getting up from the flowerbed and helping her up. He clapped his legs to get the excess dirt off his hands and clothes, making himself even dirtier. — And you're the prettiest girl covered in dirt I've ever seen. — He confessed, with a cheeky smile.

The girl shook her head.

— Please, love... — She laughed. — You're bein' too nice to me.

He took her in his arms. Neither of them caring that they were dirty with soil in the middle of that garden.

— You know you're gorgeous no matter what. — he said, kissin' her lips. — Thank you for helpin' me take care of this garden. And thank you for lookin' after it when I'm not around.

She smiled and felt her face warm with all the adoration and courtship from the dark-haired man.

— You know I love this garden. Takin' care of it is a way for me to ease the missin' I feel for you when you're gone. — She confessed, George's eyes staring into yours like he wanted to capture every detail of you at all once. You were, without a shadow of a doubt, the most beautiful woman George had ever seen.

You were beautiful because you were you. In your simplicity, in your little mannerisms, in the way you walked... George loved everything about you and wished he could keep you like a porcelain doll so nothin' would ever harm you.

— And I took the liberty of plantin' some sunflowers here. Don't get me wrong, I love orchids, but sunflowers will always be my favorites. — She commented. The warm wind blowing through her long hair made George pull a few strands away from her face.

— They're lovely, darling. I loved them. They made the garden more colorful. — He said. The girl smiled.

— Sunflowers are happy flowers to me. I love them. — She confessed, looking at the flowerbed. She was proud of her work. — And if I ever die, I want you to bring me sunflowers every year. Wherever I am, I'll be happy...

George's smile faded at his beloved's request. It was sudden, a happy moment turned into a melancholy mess in an instant. She was like that: very honest. Not that George wasn't aware that people could die, after all, he had already lost someone that year: his manager, Brian. He and the rest of the band were still stunned by the untimely death of someone as passionate about life as Brian.

— Y/N... — He took a deep breath, stepping away from her touch. He was tough enough not to want to cry in front of her. He didn't like thinking about the possibility of losing her one day. He'd rather go first than see the woman he loved leave forever. — I-I... I think that's a rather morbid wish, don't you think?

The girl shook her head.

— I think it's the sentence we all carry — She concluded. — I'm sorry if I touched on a sensitive subject for you.

— It's alright. — It wasn't. — We need to take a bath and get all this dirt off us.

He changed the subject and took her by the hands so quickly into the house that she didn't have time to breathe and tell him what had been bothering her. Not that she wanted to tell him, knowing that George would do everything he could to take that away from her and that would cost him a lot.

Four months later:

She was sick and no one knew except John, her best friend. When George received that phone call at the studio, something inside him knew it wasn't good news. Although the news hit him like a speeding car, he couldn't feel anything about the fact that you had told John and not him that you were in the terminal phase. The electric guitar fell from his hands, making a loud noise that pierced the acoustic walls of the studio. He wanted it all to be just a nightmare.

He blamed himself a lot. It was obvious that her thinness wasn't normal, but he was so busy with the recordings of the White album that he was living on autopilot. He fought with John. He wanted to punch John.

He wanted to hold back his tears, he didn't want to yell at one of his best friends... But John knew George had been holding back his tears since Brian's death. It was George who held down the fort with the media when Brian died because John couldn't speak.

And losing you was unbearable... And when he remembered that you had asked him to bring you sunflowers, he wanted to tear out every single flower from that garden and set it on fire.

For the first time, gardening had become a distaste for him. Geo was immensely devastated. He swallowed his pride, made peace with John, and asked his friend to accompany him on your wake. George wanted to fulfill your last request despite all the anger and sadness bottled up in his chest about those "damned flowers."

And so, every year... He brought you sunflowers. He would plant a flowerbed on your grave if it would bring you back.

Present: 1995, Summer.

George sighed. His chest seemed full of that anguish from the past, and to remember you and John now with a bitter taste in his mouth was devastating. He put on a brave face. Mentally, he made a small prayer that your spirits could find the peace you so sought in life. George had married someone he liked, had a beautiful family, but you never left Geo's heart and Friar Park. There was a part of you there, and it was those vibrant yellow flowers.

— Sunflowers are happy flowers to me. I love them.— He remembered what you had said. He no longer hated them because they were a sweet reminder of you. It was the color that was missing from his life, and in a way, it was there, almost spiritually cheering him up.

George wiped away the tears with the sleeve of his jacket, which by this point had already flooded his eyes, making his vision blurry.

— I will always love you. — He said to himself, hoping that you, Brian, and John could hear him wherever you were.

[shuaraes]

we shouldn’t have ended like this | x.mh

- leave your message after the beep

oneshot | 1.3k | exes! au | angst

it’s three am and xu minghao has never felt more lonely in life. drunk on melancholy and emptiness, he ruminates on your relationship and regrets the way you both had ended. even though it’s late at night, minghao tries to rewrite his wrongdoings because deep down he knows a part of you still loves him.

~ paring . xu minghao x gender-neutral!reader

~ content . exes (to lovers???)! au, non idol! au, miscommunication- no even lack of communication,

~ tw . mentions of alcohol, vague mentions of sex

~ song rec . only ones we know - arctic monkeys

~ author’s note . the idea for this was adapted from some of my poetry. my prose is still a bit rusty but i hope this is decent enough! happy christmas to those who celebrate, and to those who don’t hope you have a great day, happy reading! 🫶

MINGHAO’S BED IS EMPTY.

It has been for the past year, yet he can’t wrap his head around it. He lies down on the navy sheets of his queen-sized bed and reaches out to the other side. For some reason he expects it to be warm to the touch: he is met with only coolness. Not cool in the way a sip of water after a mint is or the rush of the winter wind not blocked by fabric. The coolness is like a ghost: the phantom of you that haunts every part of his dwelling.

The walls mourn for your presence, whispering your name, muted pleas into Minghao’s ear. Your name creeps up on him when he least expects it, after the two month-mark, he gave up trying to push you out. ‘It shouldn’t have ended like this,’ the walls call out to him. ‘We shouldn’t have ended like this,’ your last words to him. It shouldn’t have ended like this.

If Minghao squints hard enough, he can still see the imprint of your body, the permanent dent in the mattress where you used to lie. Minghao tries to pretend that just minutes ago, you were engulfed in his sheets, him engulfed in you. He waits for you to fill the dent in the mattress, to mend the hole in his heart.

But you don’t come. And he is alone.

Minghao turns over to face the celling, his jet-black hair falling on his pillow around his head like a halo. His fan spins like a vinyl on a record player from the 60’s. In his head, it’s playing your favourite song. He hums along to the lyrics, you always said he had a good singing voice. This thought almost breaks him.

You broke up with Minghao because you thought you could not love him enough, not knowing your mere presence was more than enough for him. If you were a baby flame, he was a pyromaniac, hand outstretched ready to be burnt. But when it got hard you pushed him away to protect his own feelings, so he became distant and pushed you out. It came to a point where Minghao felt it was like living with a stranger.

When you proposed a breakup, Minghao wasn’t surprised, and he didn’t act like he was either. He stayed deathly silent as you spoke, staring into his mug of tea that had long gone cold. “Fine.” He said as he looked into brown void of his cup (if he looked you in the eye, he would have broke). But with your closing words he knew it was a mistake, you still loved him (he will forever love you). It shouldn’t have ended like this, yet Minghao did nothing to prevent it.

Even after a year, Minghao wonders why he didn’t fight harder. Maybe it’s because, subconsciously, he knew you were too good for him. You deserved someone less cowardly, someone who would never let you go like a children’s balloon, would never let you go so easily. Yet nothing can stop the green-eyed monster of jealousy, waltzing around in her emerald ball gown whenever he hears about you with someone else. Your shared friends give him updates on how you’re doing, but when someone else is mentioned romantically, he shuts out. Trying to piece together why it wasn’t him instead.

Selfishness is a sin - he knows that - but he can’t help from wanting you all to himself. So, he tries to have you in any way he can. He sleeps with your favourite blanket, he washes his clothes with your favourite brand of detergent and in the winter, by the heater, he warms a pair of your house slippers that you never remembered to collect. He searches for you in the bodies of others, the dips in their collarbones and curves of their spines, but of course they cannot compare to you. No one does. If these hook ups amounted to even 1% of what Minghao feels for you, then he wouldn’t complain. But they don’t.

Minghao misses you.

In life, Minghao believes that people only get one chance at true love. He’s scared that he’s used all his luck up on you.

The loss of you gnaws away at him. It wains away at his resolve and destroys any hope for a life away from you. A slow dull pain, it was always in the back of his mind: inescapable though manageable. Minghao didn’t know what was different about tonight, but all he knows is that he has never felt the same about anyone else.

The past kills him. It strangles him, leaving him paralysed with no choice but to face his mistakes. His love for you kills him inside out. It eats away at his psyche until all that is left of him are his feelings for you. It’s three am and all that remains of him is you.

It has always been you.

Fuck it, he picks up his phone off his nightstand and dials your number. Minghao knows he’s not thinking straight, but if he doesn’t at least try to reach you, he will resent himself until the day he dies. The line starts to ring and Minghao holds the phone to his ear with bated breath and clammy hands. He could feel his heartbeat in his ears pounding like a wooden mallet while he waited.

After what felt like eons, the line goes to voicemail. Of course, it did, it’s three am. Minghao feels stupid for thinking you’d pick up. The automated voice reads out the predetermined script to tell him that you can’t answer the phone the right now. It then asks to leave a message if desired. Minghao knows he shouldn’t, he doesn’t care, he loves you.

- Leave your message after the beep - “Hey, it’s Minghao” his voice wavers, it’s obvious he’s nervous. “Call me when you get this.”

Minghao presses the keypad to end the voice message, yet he feels empty. This isn’t closure, this isn’t what he needs. With this alone, in the morning, you’ll probably delete the message and go on with your life.

Minghao is tired of pretending to be rational, hiding his feelings behind a masquerade of poise and nonchalance. He’s going insane because of you, and he needs to let you know, you need to know how much he loves you.

He left another voicemail.

- Leave your message after the beep - “Y/N, I know what you’re thinking, and I don’t blame you. A year of no contact and you get a call from me out of the blue, but for once I’m begging, give me a chance. Listen, I love you. I’ve loved you since the day we first met, since the day we broke up and i think i’m going to love you every day until I die. I don’t think i let it show but you were my endgame, after you i don’t want to love anyone else,”

Minghao could feel himself rambling, his words tumbling from his lips uncontrollably. His heart is a spilled glass of milk, all his soul on display for your critique. He wants to stop himself from speaking but he can’t, so he continues,

“Letting you go so easily was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I should’ve fought for you, and I know it may be too late but I’m doing it now.

Tomorrow let me take you out to dinner, we can dress up nice and get drunk off our heads. Then I’ll order us a taxi back to yours or mine I don’t mind, then we’ll slow dance to that one jazz album you like, and I’ll promise to never push you away. Things won’t be perfect, and we both have a lot to work on, but I don’t care. Everything is perfect enough for me as long as you're by my side. And before you say I’m drunk, trust me I’m not, I’m a bit sleepy but that doesn’t change a thing. I love you so much Y/N.”

Minghao cuts the phone down and the screen fades to his lock screen, a candid photo of you from a year ago that he refused to change. He places his phone on his heart (your home) and falls asleep waiting for it to ring.

[reaper-in-reverie]

—come, stay a while.

(though it's not nice to see a familiar face.)

preview.

Wrinkles settling in his forehead with his eyebrows knitted together, a deep, skeptical frown upon his lips as he scanned his reflection, a sense of dread filling him at the familiarity of it.

Oh god, he looked just like him.

synopsis. kaiser, and how his change doesn't seem to change much at all. angst. character interpretation.

warnings. derealization. typical kaiser backstory implications - abuse, neglect, etc. alcohol/alcoholism mentioned. blood but only very little. 1k words. not proofread.

notes. ooc definitely lol. i think it's a bit too melancholy but i don't plan on fixing it. I am projecting so hard. the hyperspecific details are actually references to me :3

He could physically feel himself get worse on more stressful days.

The dull bathroom light illuminated the mirror as Kaiser stared into it. He brushed his blond locks from his face, scanning his own features; the stress of the day etched into them, the natural gleam of attractiveness in his eyes.

He'd accepted a long time ago his life was but a reflection of people before him.

In the mirror, in puddles of rain, in the words of people around him — "you look just like your mother!" It used to sting, the reminder of a mother who looked exactly like him yet he never knew; never loved him as a mother should. First there was anger, spreading over his whole being like a wildfire — why compare him to such a coward, run from home and left her blood behind?

He hated it, disowned it like his mother did him; he hated his blue eyes, which seemed to naturally have a charming gleam in them; he hated his blond hair, which seemed so naturally beautiful he had to make an effort to keep it shaggy, to try to keep him as different from his mother.

The acceptance took years to settle. Eventually he'd come to live with the fact that his reflection was the only thing his mother had left for him to keep. He'd come to find comfort in this fact — somewhere in his blood he was both blessed and tainted with memories of his mom. Truly, engraved within his blood and soul, he still belonged to something. Almost comfortingly, he belonged to his mother. But he did not know his mother. She had no arms to hold him, no voice to guide him; just a face, haunting him in every reflective surface.

Kaiser would stare into the bathroom mirror and not see himself.

Now Kaiser would stare into the bathroom mirror and expect to his mother.

He brushed his blond hair falling into his blue eyes again, in search for something to belong to.

This time, there was something else.

Wrinkles settling in his forehead with his eyebrows knitted together, a deep, skeptical frown upon his lips as he scanned his reflection, a sense of dread filling him at the familiarity of it.

Oh god, he looked just like him.

For the first time, Kaiser felt the intense urge to cover his face. He winced at himself, looking into his own eyes with extreme disgust and judgment, his own expression reminding him of someone else. Why would his father make an appearance now? He'd just never thought he'd find himself looking like...

He tried looking himself in the mirror again, brushing some of his bangs out of his hair. Some pathetic part of him searched for his mother in the reflection, yearned for her care the same way he had when he was younger. And still, like before, there was no one who came to his side. He couldn't unsee it.

He took a sharp breath in, rubbing his eyes long enough until he had splotches of black in his vision. Kaiser looked himself in the mirror again—

And still, his father was there. Silently staring from the mirror in judgment.

Suddenly Kaiser was ten again. When he looked up to the low ceiling, there were splashes of milk stretching out from above his bed up to the corner of the room, painting the ceiling with stars. The pads of his tiny fingers were bleeding from trying to open a can of tuna. The familiar scent of alcohol filled his nostrils — his father was drunk in the living room — but he didn't move from his bed to ask his father for bandages. He did not move to ask his father to open the can himself.

His bedroom walls slowly rotted away, cracks in the corners, the paint peeling off. It didn't take much to notice how many things were in bad condition; entering the house itself had the doors creaking, hell, even the door to his own rotting bedroom creaked loudly when opened.

But Kaiser did not ask his father to get the walls fixed. He did not ask his father to oil his doors' hinges. He did not ask his father for anything. Excluding maybe all the times he'd beg not to be hit...

But he did not ask his father for anything.

And to think that but a child was soaking up such an environment. A polished and unassuming to-be-copy as it sat in the corner of the room. All he could do was reflect what he hungrily absorbed.

That's enough. Kaiser turned away from the mirror, hastily shutting off his bathroom lights. He didn't want to keep seeing his father in himself. He didn't want to see at all.

He walked into the connecting room, leaving the bathroom door open and grabbing a glass to fill with water. He swallowed with fervor, a dizzying feeling of misplaced yet familiar paranoia washing over him in waves.

He had to remind himself he wasn't ten anymore. There weren't any more rotting walls and no more drunk fathers in the living room.

So what was scaring him?

No, what was scaring him more: that it still felt as if his father was here, looming over his every move and judging his every mistake; or that he was the one bringing his father into his own life, in his own actions and in his very reflection.

That somewhere deep down, down to the very nature of his soul, he was bound by blood to a monster.

That somewhere deep down, he belonged to something.

Kaiser glanced towards the rest of his home now. A small apartment. He didn't even live in Germany anymore. Still, he felt he was carrying some part of himself with it. Eerily, it was like nothing had even changed.

Some of the paint on the walls were peeling. He placed the glass of water down to nervously rub the pads of his fingers together. He noticed the bathroom door was still open. Crossing the room to get his hand on the handle, he took one last glance at the mirror. It was dark in the bathroom. He couldn't see himself. He pulled the door closed.

The door creaked loudly shut.

║Ⓒ reapkusho on tumblr. 2024. all rights reserved. refrain from translating, copying, or stealing in any way, etc.

[painonthebrain]

Sunshine

Whumptober Day 1: [Alt. prompt] - Forgotten

Content: BBU, pet whump, institutionalized slavery, memory loss, dehumanization

Just as much as they’re looking for potential buyers, WRU is always looking for new applicants. They hire PR, graphic designers and skilled writers to fill pamphlets with sunny descriptions of a life spent with no more responsibilities, they bend over backwards to make the life of a pet sound enticing beyond comparison.

Their trainees and pets are happy, living in euphoria, freed by their servitude. Never do they have to think of what ails them, never do they have to remember what’s hurt them before. A life of perfect contentment lies within the WRU facilities, waiting for those who feel called to it to enter.

Yet another person has fallen for that narrative.

It takes as little as putting a pen to paper and writing his name to make it so. The cursive script comes out in two simple strokes and the deep blue ink comes out smooth. It’s the last he’ll ever see of his name from then on — a scribbly blue mess of botched cursive.

He savors it, slightly melancholy because it really is a nice name. It has a ring to it. But he supposes it was never truly meant for him.

Next to it is a number.

656492.

He hands over the contract, and the person on the other side of the desk sets it aside. They regard him carefully, giving the papers a once-over to make sure everything is signed. (Consent is extremely important to the WRU, after all.)

“Okay, looks like everything is in order.” They tell him. “We’ll have you escorted to your new living quarters soon.”

He nods in response, playing with his hands in his lap. Waiting. Expectant.

The person at the desk notices, and gently, they smile at him.

“It’ll be fine,” they assure him. “You’re in good hands.”

He nods, noticing the way their smile doesn’t reach their eyes. “I know I am.”

492 can’t remember it now.

His name.

It goes forgotten, like so many other things he’s slowly started to lose hold of. His family, his home, what his face looks like… it’s all crumbling to bits.

He reaches for the memory, the feel of the word on his lips, muscle memory from a lifetime of owning it — but he can’t decipher it. His lips form the name, just barely, and his head throbs, unhappy with the strain it takes just to reach into the depths of his head to find nothing.

What his handlers call him aren’t names.

Trainee. 492. You.

Blondie. Pet. Dumbass.

It’s a disservice to his past self, he thinks. Not only enduring the suffering of losing himself but also calling himself these stupid numbers in his head – as if he’s too empty and blank for anything more.

Though maybe his past self would agree that he deserves to be reduced to this. That this is the price to pay for an “out.”

Some escape this is – endlessly trapped inside a cell.

He yearns for the sun.

Won’t someone take him out to let the warm rays grace his face? To bask in the warmth, let him take shelter away from the icy, pallid light within his cell?

Then it comes to him in a revelation, the feeling like divine knowledge touching him – Sunshine. The name has a luminous quality to it, light and wonderful against the sheer walls of his cell and the nacreous lights above.

… That’s his name. Sunshine.

It tastes like warmth on his tongue, it feels like a prayer, something forbidden and good. It reminds him of how the old one felt. Right.

He’d asked about names once. If handlers could actually remember all those strings of numbers. It had to have been only a few days into his training – Handler Riley stared at him with a funny look, a tiny little smile that bent lopsided; strange, twisted humor dripping from his voice as he spoke. 492 – no, Sunshine – had searched his eyes, seeking an answer to his question. Handler Riley spoke smoothly, his eyes never leaving Sunshine’s as he responded.

“You will receive a name once you deserve one.”

Which is why he’ll never tell a single soul.

@whumptober-archive @whumptober

[loveisnotfinite]

I was so sure I had posted this, and yet I can’t find it on my blog. I went back watching it and now reposting. Sorry if I had already shared it and I am behaving like a boomer, but it’s such a nice interview.

It has a whole different vibe, it’s really cozy, reminiscing. Almost melancholic, but in a good way.

He recounts their first meeting, remembering their first hug and how it immediately filled him with a sense of warmness. And she says she’s so happy it was him, cause she can’t imagine doing it (this experience) with anybody else.

They talk about the first time they got the call about being the next leads, and their emotions.

I love the way Luke lights up when he talks about Colin and this experience as a whole. He looks like such a nice guy, so open, so generous, so good, deep inside, in the old-fashioned way. Like he has a pure heart. And he has such vibrant clear eyes, so full of life and curiosity, he animates so much when he talks about this season, but at the same time there’s also a tiny shade of insecurity inside them at times, and that is so sweet.

When he says that going back for pick ups was a treat? My goodness you feel like kissing him for such an admission. For such bravery in admitting one’s indulgence in one’s feelings of nostalgia. And Nic goes along saying they both felt kinda sad it was over and to have to say “goodbye”.

I love that he finds this one the steamiest season so far, cause that proves him a very uncommon observer/perceiver. So above range. So subtle in his intakes. He feels so strongly, he can tune in with romantic emotions in such un uncommon way for a man. Although being an actor can obviously help, he comes across as such a delicate soul. One of us, so to speak. And he’s so right. This season is the “steamiest” and not because it has some “visual” quality in it (season 1 was way more smutty) but it is allegedly due to the subtle sexiness of little moments like the when they are talking under the tent and he stares at Pen licking her lips or when he goes to talk to her and can’t see anything but the firmness of her lips or the longing in his eyes, when he enters in their bedroom and can’t help desiring her and he struggles to stay true to his “feelings”. And in turn, the finale, as short as their encounter in the cut, is quite steamy, very passionate: the rapture in his eyes, the way she caresses his chest, how she arches her spine during intercourse, and then reaches forward to get him closer, kissing him full mouth.

I love the way they look in total sync when it comes to their emotions, over anything work related really. The way they seem to finish each other sentences and have a way to foresee where the other is going even before hearing what they are saying. I love how they look e-o in the eyes when answering, as if unconsciously checking to one another to see what the other thinks.

I also noticed when Nicola said she hasn’t been in love since she was 9; it made me think; gave me the feeling she’s very guarded when it comes to love and I can just imagine how’s hard that must be. She comes across as so strong, confident, straightforward and yet when it comes to let one’s barriers down, she’s just one of us.

And the way this chat ends… I mean, the feels... I am believing they are the reason this weird expression boxing with English grammar has been invented. How they acknowledge how nice and kinda liberating it felt talking about this strange kind of melancholy descending upon them when they wrapped the season.

I think it’s my favorite interview so far. IDK it feels so genuine. So not PR. So just them.

Totally madly desperately unrevocably ever so doomily in love with this “couple”.

[e-claire]

Misophonia sucks so fucking hard and no one anywhere ever wants to talk about it. Literally the only people I've ever had listen to me about my Misophonia are other people with Misophonia. So fuck it, Misophonia Awareness Post or something, I want to vent.

Allow me to describe what it is first for all the lucky people who aren't fucked over. Misophonia is likely an Audio-Processing Disorder (Potentially some form of Synesthesia) in which certain sounds trigger a fight or flight reaction. Trigger sounds can vary and sometimes after long term exposure it can create a reaction to the visuals associated with those sounds. It is possibly genetic, there is no known cause, there is no known treatment, there is only suffering and ways of generally kind of reducing that suffering. When I hear people chewing I am filled with a rage that can only be described as "Bordering on a primal desire to Kill." and there's nothing I can do about that. A family member or friend takes a bite of something crunchy and I have to sit there and exist with thoughts of pounding their fucking skull into paste with my bare god damn hands and then afterwards I have to go back to "being normal". I have to just pretend that didn't happen, I can't do anything with those emotions, I can't put them anywhere, I can't talk about them with anyone or gain any understanding or sympathy from others for having them.

When I see someone chewing food anymore it's borderline impossible for me to remain in the room with them for any more than a few seconds because the mere sight of them chewing makes me physically ill and inspires in me a sense of deep disgust and panic that I could never ever hope to describe.

I tell people about what it's like and I get one of four reactions :

"Oh I think I have that too" With a weird amount of curious excitement at the concept of having a fun new quirky thing to mention in conversations. This means that they don't have it, and they'll then proceed to list off a couple different things that literally no human being likes to hear and how much that thing "annoys them". This makes me want to kill myself.

"Wow, Yikes." Through a grimace. This means I was too open about how it makes me feel and they now think i'm a either a freak, liability, time bomb, or over-dramatic, and will do everything they can to avoid the subject in the future so that I can't make them uncomfortable. This makes me want to kill them AND myself.

Immediately eats something really loudly to set me off as a "joke". This means that they're an obnoxious piece of shit that I have to try my absolute hardest not to beat to death with my bare hands. This makes me want to kill them, if that wasn't already obvious.

"Oh. So that's what this is called." This means they have it, and we can both engage in a brief period of mutual trauma sharing that helps us know we're not alone, and that our curse is unfortunately shared with others. This makes us both somewhat melancholy, and kinda ruins the vibes until something fun happens.

And then we get into the "How do you make the pain stop", and good news! You can't. There is no way to make it stop. But you can make it hurt less with ✨Spending Unbearable Amounts of Cash✨

You can buy a billion different types of earplugs that will all do great at muting the world but always leave you incredibly unaware of the world around you and leave you fucked in-terms of listening to media.

You can buy normal headphones that will kind of work but never mute the world around you anywhere near enough and vaguely frustrate you constantly, but hey at least you're a bit more accessible! Try combining these with a combination of rain and static noise playing at all times in the background for an extra layer of silence :)

You can buy ANC headphones that cost infinitely too much money and are almost always built to break so that they can farm cash from you in repairs, but the ANC is so useful despite not working perfectly that you can't really exist without it so you're gonna spend 200+ dollars every couple years because you don't have a choice, and spend every single day 24/7 wearing hot heavy over-ear headphones! Use the Rain and Static Noise combo with this as well for the best ANC effect.

And inevitably, all of these options will give you hearing problems, potentially make you aware of new trigger sounds, and always leave you a step behind everyone else when a conversation happens. Pro-Tip : For when the sounds are really intrusive and you're on the verge of a breakdown, Combine ANC with Ear Plugs and the R&SN background audio to basically kill noise in it's entirety for a little while :)

AND NOW WE GET TO THE PART WHERE I SAY WHAT THE FUCK CAN YOU NORMIES DO TO MAKE OUR SUFFERING LESS FUCKING CONSTANT.

Listen to us. Don't ostracize us for experiencing emotions we can't control and don't mean or want to act on. If you can, try your best to do the trigger noises quietly, and try your best not to do the trigger visuals in-front of us. We know it's not something you can control entirely, but if you can make the effort to make our lives suck less, we'll really fucking appreciate it.

And if you try to get back at us during a fight by eating something really crunchy to abuse our disorder for your benefit, I swear to god I will hunt you down personally and subject you to the most violent and painful torture I can manage before killing you and hiding your body somewhere no one will ever find it so that your loved ones never have the closure of knowing if you died or if you're still somewhere out there. Thanks for reading even though I know you didn't because the length of this post is frankly unhinged and i'll probably only get like 2 likes at best.

[iced-cofi]

I kinda just wanna write game reviews here sometimes. *Ahem*

It's pretty damn rare that you find a piece of media like this throughout the course of your life.

One that elegantly, carefully, and lovingly traverses infinite despair in an infinitely more hopeful way. One that shows you that no true problem can be solved in a single day. One that teaches of the compassion in our hearts, for those around us and the world we all live in.

And, for me, one that teaches that in the face of despair, fear, and sadness, beauty can also be found, and that no matter how pointless it can seem, fighting, trying, and persistence is how we can push through the end of the world. And now matter how all encompassing it may seem, the end is never truly the end. It's just a new beginning.

I am, of course, referring to...

Before I continue, I must clarify, as I did in my ACT review, this will feature spoilers, and moreso than almost any other game I've played, you simply must play this blind if you can.

Ok, a brief, completely spoiler free review. *Ahem again*

Outer Wilds is a beautiful, relaxing yet occasionally stressful first person space exploration game, in which the only currency you collect through the game is knowledge. The solar system is your own journey through the puzzle box the devs made. The music is beautiful and touching, the visuals are distinct yet simple, and the story is like nothing else. The only genuine 10/10 I can give. It's brilliant.

Ok, I will now put a funny picture, this is your opportunity to leave spoiler free.

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Ok now time for the real gamers to chat.

This game. This fucking game. It reaches deep to the innermost part of my mind and soul and shows me a more accurate depiction of the human experience than any other game, and it don't even got humans.

It is the absolute definition of existential optimism, and I think it's refreshing, and borderline spiritual.

And this fact is helped because the way you get to the end is entirely up to you. Every single person who plays this game will play it differently. Everyone follows what they find amazing and interesting, and everyone finds what they think is, and they fly and crash and die and laugh and love every moment they spend in this dark, enrapturing galaxy.

The combination of nostalgic foresty landscapes, crumbling planets, shoddy craftsmanship, and banjo laden melancholy music make for a uniquely sentimental game, which allows you to connect with what theyve done.

I mean fuck some of the coolest ideas for planets and worlds I've ever seen.

Brittle Hollow and it's crumbling deadly surface, and infinitely heavy black hole at the center

Dark Bramble, always enshrouded in fog and mystery, endlessly repeating dangerous, vine coated voids filled with the most terrifying creatures in the known universe

The Hourglass Twins, the most clearly time based astral body of all, as two planets pirouette through the sky, trading impossible amounts of sand due to a shift in gravity

And of course, the Quantum Moon, a blend of all other planets with an ethereal, eternally shifting vibe layered thickly on top.

It's brilliant, and scary, and add layers and layers to your story.

And the characters and all so clearly defined, with interests and dreams and hopes. Reibeck hates space but is obsessed with the Nomai technology and history, so he can't help but explore. Feldspar and his sporadic attitude and wealth of courage allowing him to explore anywhere, as long as it's got beasties. And of course, the one, the only, the best o Outer Wilds character, Gabbro!

This chill as mother fucker got trapped in the same time loope as you, and is simply to chill and content to give a single fucking shit, while still helping where he can with advice and knowledge. It's awesome, and he also teaches you how to speed up your death with meditation, so that's... Cool.

And of fucking course I gotta talk about the music.

It's hypnotic. It permeates your body and makes you happy and sad and lonely and any other thing you can imagine, while still fitting the game, and any individual story moment. It's brilliant.

Like, listen to this shit.

And what about this???

And how about this, which is from the dlc, which i will write about in another review when I'm not exhausted!!

I gotta say, this isn't a review in the way I'd like it to be, cause I'm tired, but fuck me play this game it's amazing and the music and visuals and every piece is just... Oh my God.

I hope you enjoyed reading this delirious mish mash of words I wanted to say about a game I really love.

No joke, 10/10

Would crash into the sun again.

Thanks!!

[milliesfishes]

꣑ৎ౨ৎHoneymoon꣑ৎ౨ৎ

[fem reader] contains: angst (as always) pairing: billy the kid x fem reader summary: billy slips in and out of your life like the tide author’s note: heyy, I feel like I apologize for upcoming emotions every time I publish but it's for good reason (I'm sorry) Pinterest Board Spotify Playlist

He was more shadow than man.

Solid though he was, Billy only occupied the space of you in darkness, under any guise. It was only beneath your fingers that he was willed into existence.

"Are you real?" you murmured one night, skin-to-skin with him, the dancing candlelight causing clouds of darkness to flicker across his skin. He lifted his head to look at you with sleepy eyes, hair messy from your previous repeated motions through it.

"'Course I am, baby," he whispered, voice low as the valley. His hand was on the side of your face, caressing you there. "'m real 's could be."

"I'm never sure." You leaned into his hand. "Sometimes I think I've made you up."

Billy's eyes were soft, his touch gentle. You could see the melancholy overtake him as it often did at some point during your meetings. When the rush of seeing each other wore off and reality set in, dread overtook you, and you began to miss each other before either of you were gone.

It hadn't always been like this.

Once, it had been bliss, and you both, lovers which the bands of nothing could break. Your passion was unbridled, your souls intertwined. Never had two people experienced such feeling, you were convinced. No, you and Billy were written in the stars, destined for each other in ways the storybooks couldn't dream of.

Little had you known that 'written in the stars' was a broad term that could be narrowed down to 'star crossed'.

The consequences of his life had caught up to him. He became a man in hiding, one who couldn't stay solitary for fear of the law catching up to him. Billy rode against the wind, running from a fate that breathed down his neck. Spending nights in abandoned bases or flat under the darkened sky, he was alone, but safe.

Which left his sweetheart in twin condition.

His presence haunted your little home like a living ghost, just slightly out of reach. It was an ache that couldn't be soothed- to know your lover walked the earth without you. Your paths were no longer intertwined, but rather parallel; beside each other but never crossing.

He came to you when the coast was clear and the law was unwary, slinking into your bed and wrapping you in his arms, filling the chasm he always left in his absence.

Tossing his hat on your dresser, Billy fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, acknowledging you with a soft smile as he tossed the garment away and came to join you in your bed. You awaited him with sleepy eyes and eager hands, clutching at him the second you were able. He nuzzled your cheek. "Hey, sweet girl."

You immediately burrowed yourself into his body as was your habit, breathing in his scent, long and deep. It endeared you more that even though his means were considerably limited, it was clear he'd cleaned up to see you. The scent of campfire wasn't as strong, but the natural musk of him filled your senses like a delightful aphrodisiac.

Billy began his ritual, planting gentle, loving kisses to every corner and crook of you. He murmured assurances of his love in between each one, his words muffled by your skin. "'m baby...missed you so bad...couldn't take another night withoutcha...oh my love..."

He kissed you like you were a treasure, held you as if you were ethereal. Shifting so you were perched atop his hips, Billy took in the sight of you, eyes shining in the dark. His lips parted as he seemed to absorb the picture of your being.

You'd had enough of looking, and dove down to kiss him, lips moving against his slowly. He chuckled lightly into your mouth. "Impatient..."

"I missed you," you murmured, pulling back slightly. He had stars in his eyes as he gazed up at you. "I...I need you."

A bittersweet smile overtook him, and Billy took your face in his hands, gently touching his lips to your forehead. He rolled you over carefully and settled himself on top, your knees slightly bent and cradling his hips.

Moving down slightly on his elbows, Billy nudged his nose against yours, eyes roving down your body. He breathed, "Lemme take care 'f ya."

A thousand touches. Countless kisses. Dozens of sweet words and more to come still. You laid beneath him embodied in the aftermath of a frenzy of passion. His head rested on your chest, and your hand absentmindedly caressed his hair.

An abyss of emotions found you and settled in the space where Billy lay. Your lower lip wobbled as dawn approached, that awful impending event finding your residence and breaking the windows.

"I can't do this without you," you breathed, clinging to him as if you could stop what was predestined.

Billy lifted his head, eyes somber. "Oh, honey..."

"I need you..." you sniffled, tears stinging your eyes. "It's too much, being forced to live this way."

He turned on his side immediately, bringing you to rest in his arms, your face pressed to his chest. Rubbing your back and kissing your temple, he muttered, "'m sorry...y'know it has to be this way my love...y'know I'd never leave ya if it wasn't to keep you safe..."

"Let me come with you." Your words were pleading, and you looked up at him, hoping he would melt for your words and doe eyes like he was wont to do. Indeed, you could see his face allay, and hope pierced your heart.

But his words were disheartening. "Sweetheart...'m not puttin' you at risk like that."

"Please," you begged, tears dripping onto his chest. "I'm only surviving without you. It's been months since we were alive."

"Baby," Billy whispered. "I need you safe. That is my only priority. 'n you're not safe when you're with me." He kissed your lips gently. "I've gotta keep ya breathin'...I couldn't live with myself if my girl got hurt or worse cause I was careless."

Body shaking, you dissolved into tears, cursing the unfairness of the situation. You needed him like air, like water. Your soul was beginning to shrivel up and cave in on itself in the absence of its mate.

Billy rested his chin on your head, kissing your hair and stroking your arm. "'m sorry baby, 'm sorry."

You remained glued to that spot in his arms for the rest of the night, holding him tight, wishing your touch had the ability to ground him. Billy was the sun and moon, he was your purpose as far as you were concerned. You wished for relief, for some loophole that would allow you to do what you wanted.

But once the sun stretched its rosy fingers over the horizon, you had to let go.

It was a grueling process as always, and you could see the heartbreak in his eyes as he detangled himself from you. "Sweetie...angel...I've gotta go."

"You weren't even here a full day this time," you sniffled, trying to hang on.

"I know, oh I know, sweet girl, 'm so sorry," he gently pulled your hands away from his body, reaching for his shirt on the floor. "'ve gotta go."

"Don't, please stay," you whimpered, reaching out for him as he buttoned his shirt and tucked it into his trousers. Looking at you, his face fell, and he gave in, framing your face with his hands and kissing your forehead once, the scratch of his stubble brushing your smooth skin.

"Keep an eye on the horizon," he whispered, raining gentle kisses on your cheeks. "I'll be back 's soon as I can."

And so you let go. Just like you did every time.

Being with him was like sailing against the current. You fought for him every time, but it never seemed to stick. Fate's ocean steered you back in the direction it wanted you to go.

"You should just leave me," you murmured one night, sitting beside him on the mattress. The air was quiet, the tension palpable. It became more evident every time he came.

Billy turned his head fully to look at you. "I ain't doin' that."

"You're putting yourself in danger," you breathed, trying not to let the tears in your eyes show. "If you weren't chained to me, you could run far away from here, to where it's safe. You'd be free."

"Freedom ain't worth a damn if it means I can't hold you," he shook his head, turning and cupping your face in his hands. "We ain't chained. This is love. It binds us together."

"I can't stand the thought of you getting killed because you were coming home," you whispered, pulling away and standing up. "Don't come back after this."

"Baby-" Billy stood, trying to reach for you, but you wouldn't let him. "Don't say things like that. I need ya, don't ya see?" Finally, he caught hold of one of your hands, squeezing it. "Angel, you're my north star. I need you."

"What you need is to stay alive," you shook your head, pulling back. "Having me won't do you any good when there's a gun to your head." The words were biting but they had to be said.

"Why're ya pushin' me to leave?" he asked in disbelief, hands falling at his sides. Billy ran a frustrated hand through his hair, shaking his head once. "I'm ridin' days 'n my girl's the only thing that keeps me goin'-"

"It hurts!" you burst out, turning to face him. "You leaving and coming back all the time and expecting me to wait around for you. You think you're keeping me safe but it's not fair!"

"'nd what d'ya expect me to do, huh?" he snapped, the strain wearing his normally patient demeanor down. Inhaling once, his tone firm but softened slightly, he said, "'m sorry. 'm sorry I leave, 'm sorry I can't be what you want me to be. But this is what we've got."

Biting the side of your cheek, you turned away. Folding your arms around yourself, you squeezed your eyes shut as the gravity of what you'd said hit you. He worked and rode to be with you as often as he could, and here you were complaining about it. The guilt overwhelmed you. He'd never used a tone with you before, and it struck your core like a spear.

After a beat of silence, he seemed to realize what he'd done, and you felt two hands on your shoulders. "Sweet'eart...angel baby, 'm sorry. I shouldn'ta said it like that."

You were silent, eyes closed, head bowed.

There was a sigh behind you, and Billy rubbed your shoulders, nose dropping to your hair. He held it there for a moment. "Say somethin', baby, please."

When you stayed quiet, he pleaded, "Yell at me, cuss me out, hit me. Would you please just say somethin'? Anything?"

You turned after a moment, and when he saw your teary eyes, he pulled you close, rocking your body back and forth. Billy didn't say anything else- he didn't have to. He guided you to sit on the bed, holding you tightly in his arms and laying gentle kisses to your head, trying desperately to soothe you.

After forever of silence, Billy pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, laying down on the bed with you and holding your tired body tight to his chest. He murmured promises into your hair that you weren't sure were possible to keep, even though it was clear he desperately wanted to.

That was the crux of your relationship. Wanting. Wanting with no fruition. You'd been plunged into icy water, the reality of your future weighing down on your mind. Even as he held you, you felt him slipping away.

When you awoke the next morning, he was gone again.

[nanamikentoseyebags]

i'm nightcrawling to you

how come that every night he finds himself at your doorstep? why do all the ways lead him to you? how is it that in the pounding heart of this bustling metropolis, you are the only person he can come to?

pairing: satoru gojo x gn!reader

content: extremely satoru-centric, hurt/comfort, just satoru turning up at your door every night in an attempt to feel something again

a/n: i love him so much i need to get inside his head and sweep all the bad thoughts out :(

At night Tokyo is mired in the noise of cars, loud voices of people who fill its streets at this late hour and argue about their trivial, insignificant problems, irrelevant to what is now happening in the heart of this metropolis. The city is suffocating in smog and soot, writhing, riddled with road lines, silently crying out for help, flashing muffled blueberry-colored store signs that are scattered across the map like sores on the body of a sick man. People rush home, causing it to itch and make it squirm. The city waits. It waits for all the commotion to die down, for the streets to sink into darkness and emptiness, for only then can it breathe. One more hour and...

A frantic inhale.

The multicolored night lights, the countless illuminations, a myriad of car headlights fade, melt into a kind of haze, like under a misty veil, and again as if from the depths of a deep blue ocean, emerges a mass of thousands of people, who believe that this place is the root of all their misfortunes. They move swiftly toward their dwellings, cursing their jobs that leave them unsatisfied and exhausted, but which allow them to live a relatively normal life. Need to last another hour…

A frustrated exhale.

The eerie shadows cast by the houses and the feet of the passersby slowly turn into a lingering inky darkness of the night that swallows up the entire city. The last person stranded on the road crosses the threshold of their house, closing the door behind them with a rattling thud. The motley signs, once pulsating in the center of the city, darken, revealing the faint glow of stars floating in the sky. The golden iridescence of random car headlights no longer makes it squint. The tired city takes that much-needed greedy breath of air...

A sharp inhale.

The harsh chilly air burns Satoru Gojo's lungs, as he slowly strides through the now empty streets of the weary city. His hands, stuffed into the pockets of his black jacket, involuntarily clench into fists in an attempt to warm his freezing fingertips. He shivers, pressing his head into his shoulders, trying to hide from the piercing wind that so mercilessly ruffles and tangles his snow-white hair and uneasy thoughts. Left all alone, he muses with a slight melancholy about his fate, written by someone's ruthless hand in the book of life…

An exhausted exhale.

"So strange," he thinks to himself, looking with unfathomable sadness at the soft inviting light coming from the windows of the little apartments in these big anthills of the concrete jungle, "in all my life I've never had a place I could call home. Where am I going? Where are my feet leading me? Is someone waiting for me?" A sad smile appears on his face as memories, like the pages of an album, begin to turn over in his head. Moments when he lost his home in the form of his best friend. Moments when he found it again in the form of his students. The moments when you helped him rebuild it from the scratch, replacing the burned out pieces with the solid foundation of your care. Moments when, for fear of destroying everything, he left again, leaving you there, safe, because with him coming, the chances of losing everything in an instant seemed to be infinite...

A sorrowful inhale.

Light slanting rain begins to fall from the dense clouds floating in the sky, beating on the curtained windows and blanketing the shivering city like a thin cloth of invisible threads with pearls dangling on them. Satoru let the occasional drop land first on his disheveled hair, and then drip in small trickles from his glasses, covering his already frozen face with chilling moisture. He does not turn on his infinity, allowing himself that rare weakness of feeling human. Heavy droplets come down from the roofs, drumming on the iron awnings, water grumbling angrily in the rusted gutters. Wet, gloomy houses stare at the lonely and lost man with their weeping windows.

…

A new gust of wind whips another batch of memories into his face, the irrepressible longing reverberating in his heart when he thinks about them for too long. The scraps of conversation brought by the raging weather play a faint melody in his ears. Satoru chuckles bitterly, as if right now he can hear the students calling him a bizarre, annoying, lanky sensei, who used to insert his ridiculous comments here and there. He never takes offense; on the contrary, he does everything he can to be one, the odd teacher who would do anything to make his students' youth look like the spring of their lives. Even though it makes him seem like the biggest fool on the planet. Somewhere within himself, he hopes they'll never have to find out how utterly tattered his soul is. And now, convinced that all of his students were sleeping soundly, he goes outside in an effort to find the way to his own sanctuary.

…

The weeping sky brushes away the leaden clouds from its blanket as if they keep preventing it from observing the unfolding of a story that has long been written. With a sinking heart, soaked to the skin and chilled to the bone, Satoru Gojo reaches for your door, stopping for a moment, unsure whether you should be bothered at this late hour. At the last moment, allowing himself to be a little selfish, he makes a few quiet knocks on the door and awkwardly hides his hands behind his back. For a few seconds, nothing happens. He heeds, not knowing for sure what he's hoping for: that you've been asleep for a long time and won't catch him in this miserable state, or that you were waiting for him after all, feeling this strange connection between the two of you. Suddenly the door swings open, revealing your small figure. The bright light emanating from your apartment on this dark night does not dazzle him, but rather cradles him with its invisible hands, trying to give him its warmth. The smell of homemade food fills his nose, beckoning him to peak in. Satoru stands motionless, looking at you with a fluttering heart. So familiar, so homely, with a smile stepping away from the door, inviting him to go inside. And he thinks, "It's so strange, in all my life I haven't had a place I could call home, it seems... it's always been here."

A relieved exhale.

thank you so much for reading! comments and reblogs are very appreciated <3

tags: @shamelessperfectionhideout @margumis @vagabond-umlaut @4sat0ruu @a-nuisance-called-sam @strawberrystepmom @rossithepixie @suckonlimes @jazminetoad @nikokopuffs 💛

art and dividers aren't mine <3