#if you want to learn more. ask box >:]

[kirby-the-gorb]

[xxplastic-cubexx]

Mr. Cube I have a question of utmost importance for you as literally the only Magneto main I know of. HOW... DO YOU PLAY HIM. Do you have any tips. I want to look at him.

So You Want To Be Pretty OK As Magneto In Marvel Rivals

(3 March, 2025) a beginner's guide written by your resident magneto main snapperoni because now i get an excuse to talk about marvel rivals magneto extensively and in gross detail

*this guide will be treating you as though you have never used magneto in your life and will go into extreme depths at explaining his abilities as well as what it means to be a tank player. if you feel confident in understanding his abilities, feel free to skip the abilities section and head straight to the bottom for talk on strategy and tips

TABLE OF CONTENTS:

TLDR ROLE INTRODUCTION ABILITIES Melee/Greatsword Primary Fire/Iron Volley Secondary Fire/Mag Cannon Metallic Curtain Metal + Iron Bulwark [TEAM-UP ABILITY] Metallic Fusion [ULTIMATE] Meteor M [PASSIVE] Magnetic Descent TIPS AND STRATEGIES Iron Volley + Mag Cannon Combo Bubble and Shield Usage Two Tanks Are Better Than One Metallic Fusion How to Use Meteor M CLOSING THOUGHTS

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Too Long, Didn't Read:

Magneto is a poke tank meant to be played at medium-to-close range whose priorities should lie in acting as a living wall for his teammates. preserving his abilities mostly for himself yet sharing them when the situation calls for it.

While his priorities should be defense-based, when it comes to going on the offensive you want him to target strategists and duelists and only engage in tanks if the rest of the team is with you. As far as aiming goes, he's very friendly and isn't hitscan reliant, and you should find yourself picking up his aim style easily with time.

He's not a super flashy character like the rest of the cast, but he's far from useless and, at this moment in time, stands as one of Rival's best tank options alongside Doctor Strange and Hulk, whether you're running two tanks or running solo.

Overall, the two-star difficulty he is awarded is very fitting: available to newcomers to pick up and start playing, however offers a little something extra to those with a better understanding of him; he's generally straight forward as far as tanks go, but picking up a few extra tips and tidbits never hurt anyone. Except your enemies, of course.

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Role Introduction: Vanguard/Tank

As a vanguard unit, Magneto's top priority should be taking the brunt of the team's damage on the front line and should give the team either opportunities to push forward, or shoot behind the cover you provide.

With 650HP (without shields), while he has average health for a vanguard, his defensive kit allows him to be a formidable wall when his abilities are used tactfully and you work in tandem with your support/s. Unlike dive tanks like Venom and Captain America, Magneto is much more stationary, and his kit rewards playing defensively and close to the team.

A common misconception with FPS games is that your top priority is to get the most eliminations as possible and to exclusively hunt for the next kill (unless that is the objective of the specific map you're playing on, then kill away). There are several errors with this philosophy: for starters, you begin to neglect the objective, which can lead to a game loss.

The amount of kills you have won't matter if you stay off point and the other team takes the objective. No matter what anyone says, don't stress about your eliminations so long as you know you're protecting your team, securing the point, and overall providing value to the game (though it is important to be able to land a shot....).

Moreover, playing under this philosophy is a sure-fire way to not only get you killed and remove your time away from the field (which should truly be your game philosophy: die as little as possible), but specifically as a tank you'll bring your teammates down with you as they lose what should be a reliable line of defense. As a tank, you should be opening up opportunities for your teammates to get the eliminations and protecting your strategist/support units.

All of that said, tank is not for the passive player: as tank, you need to be firm about the playing field being yours and making sure the enemy team knows they're going to have a hard time taking it from you. Fitting for Magneto, really.

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Ability Review

Before dissecting Magneto's abilities, I will preface and say I calculated his damage using Doctor Strange (600HP) and Scarlet Witch (250HP) as damage dummies. The numbers I have here may not be accurate, so to circumvent this potential error I'll describe how many shots it takes to use a specific skill in order to eliminate certain enemies.

Melee/Greatsword

Attack speed: ~1 second

Damage Output: 40 (About seven swings to KO a 250HP enemy)

Utilizing Doom Bot remains, Magneto swings with a grandiose blade. The problem with this sword is it's not only one of- if not the- slowest melees in the game as of right now, but it has very little to compensate for its poor speed. Should very rarely be used in place of a well-aimed primary fire.

Primary Fire/Iron Volley

Reload time: ~1 Second

Damage Output:

Direct Damage: 80 (About four shots to KO a 250HP enemy)

Edge Damage: 40 (About seven shots to KO a 250HP enemy)

Fall-Off Damage: 40 (About seven shots to KO a 250HP enemy)

Magneto's Iron Volley asks that you lead/predict your shots. Moreover, his Iron Volley will explode automatically once reaching 25M(eters), whether it hits a target or not. At 25M, your shot will no longer do 80 damage, but will do half instead. As noted before, Magneto's primary fire will explode when it comes into contact with a wall, floor, or enemy. As such, the explosion has a small hitbox- doing just about half of a regular, direct shot. Because of this, you shouldn't be too stressed if you're not the greatest at aiming: Magneto's primary fire makes up for any minor imperfections and is rather generous so long as you're in the general area of your target.

Secondary Fire/Mag-Cannon

Reload Time (Without Bulwark Aid):

One Ring: ~4 Seconds

Two Rings: ~8 Seconds

Full Power: ~12 Seconds

Damage Output:

One Ring: 40 (About seven shots to KO a 250HP enemy)

Two Rings: 80 (About four shots to KO a 250HP enemy)

Three Rings/Full Power: 100 (About three shots to KO a 250HP enemy)

Edge Damage: N/A

Similar to Iron Volley, you will need to lead your shot when firing off a Mag-Cannon. Unlike his primary fire however, Magneto's secondary fire will keep going until it hits a wall or enemy. Moreover, it doesn't suffer any damage fall-off, nor does it offer any edge damage. How many rings you possess show both on Magneto physically, but they can also be tracked by the purple arrows below your crosshair. As a bonus, the Mag-Cannon momentarily stuns and pushes back any targets it hits which can either cancel an enemy's advancement, or open the floor for a follow-up attack.

Metallic Curtain

Recharge Time: 3 Seconds

Replenish-to-Full Time: 10 Seconds

Duration: 1.5 Seconds

Shield HP: N/A

Putting up an impenetrable wall just shy of two seconds allows Magneto and his allies to pull back safely from oncoming damage or provide just enough cover to make an adequate push forward. Not to mention, this indestructible wall scoffs in the face of any ult coming your way. Once the shield has been spent, a white bar will appear on the right side of your crosshair. This bar indicates how long you can hold your shield up the next time you use it before it's fully charged, where then the bar will fade. Finally, you can put your shield down early. While this means you'll have to wait the full three seconds for it to be available again, this means your shield will have more durability the next time you use it.

Metal Bulwark + Iron Bulwark

Recharge Time: 12 seconds

Duration: ~3 Seconds

Shield HP: To be calculated, but it does exist: be cautious of the damage you and your teammates take.

Magneto can spring a magnetic bubble over either himself or an ally. The bubble not only negates any incoming damage and protects allies from Scarlet Witch's Reality Erasure, but once the bubble has popped or faded Magneto will regain some Mag Cannon rings relative to the damage absorbed.

[TEAM-UP ABILITY] Metallic Fusion/Chaos

Recharge Time: 30 seconds

Duration: 10 seconds

Damage Output:

Direct Damage: 100 (About six shots to KO a 600HP enemy)

Edge Damage: N/A

Being his only team-up ability as of writing this post, this father-daughter duo ability allows Magneto to fire at an impressive 100 damage per second as he finally finds use in his otherwise-inadequate greatsword, adding a truly dangerous ability to his typically defensive kit. It's as though every shot taken was a Mag Cannon with a wider hitbox- however this hitbox varies from being vertical or horizontal and thus can be a little unpredictable if you aren't aiming carefully. Is used best at medium-close range, but don't neglect its potential to snipe enemies from across the map.

[ULTIMATE] Meteor M

Duration: 4 Seconds

Magnetic Range:

Lowest to the ground: 30M

Nearest to the skybox: 5M

Damage Output (No Charge):

Edge: 150 (About over half of a 250HP enemy's health bar)

Direct: 300 (About half of a 600HP enemy's health bar)

Damage Threshold Before Explosion: To be calculated, however can be tracked by the counter below the crosshair

Automatically floating into the air, Magneto stays true to his name and acts as a magnet for all incoming projectiles; extracting enemy projectiles to build the power of his metal meteor and granting Magneto the ability to float freely, Magneto's ultimate doubles both as an offensive and defensive ability. You're able to see your magnetic field + blast radius by observing the purple ring on the ground. Remember: you can rise and descend freely so long as your ultimate is up, use this wisely. I affectionately refer to the meteor as "rock", however this ultimate has garnered a reputation for not doing as much as some believe it should. Hopefully this guide helps you in ensuring your meteors make the impact they deserve.

[PASSIVE] Magnetic Descent

Manipulating the magnetic field around him, Magneto decreases his fall speed by 50% when holding the jump button. Nuff said. People have a hard time aiming up in FPS's so if you find yourself with the opportunity to float around a bit (especially using Rocket's jump pack) then by all means terrorize from above as you descend.

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Tips and Strategy

Iron Volley + Mag Cannon Combo

A basic tip, but a valuable one nonetheless. To eliminate an enemy with 250HP- assuming you land all your shots directly- it takes about 3 seconds, four shots. Again, this is assuming you hit all your shots and if the enemy doesn't regenerate any health. Alternatively, utilizing the PRIMARY-SECONDARY-PRIMARY combo allows you to not only stun an opponent with your secondary fire, but it should take nearly half of the time spent then if you only used primary fires, so make sure to use your secondary shots responsibly. Remember that your primary fire has, at max, 25M of utility: afterwards, it won't be able to do much. Fine for picking off low-health enemies while they're fleeing, but don't expect to hit any enemies close to the skybox or far away from you without moving in a little bit first- that's what your secondary fire's for. As Magneto, your targets should be squishy characters like support and DPS. Because of his relatively-slow DPS, Magneto doesn't fair well against other tanks and shouldn't engage in 1v1's if possible (they're not unwinnable, but they could be a great distraction and leave your team vulnerable).

While I'm here, I'm just going to stress to not use your melee. Like. At all. You're much better just using your primary fire. At most you can set it up as Hulk's turning into Bruce if you'd like but that should really be it: your primary fire is much more effective than your sword.

Bubble and Shield Usage

As a tank, you want to act as a wall for your teammates, and this can be done effectively by being more conservative and selfish with your shields: you are the wall. Remember. Draw the enemy's fire towards you by being an irritant. While Magneto is healthy in shields, remember you have natural cover from stage obstacles and structures as well. Magneto can be regarded as a 'poke' tank: a tank who is meant to attack sporadically and in short bursts. He is best played at a medium distance from the enemy front line and to not to be wholly damage focused when he is much more defense focused. 'Poking' the enemy from behind structures is not only a great way to conserve your abilities, but it utilizes Magneto's primary and secondary fires well due to their moderately-slow start up and overall DPS, letting him take cover when need be.

While attacking on the front line, once you notice your health start to dip below half or you feel as though the crowd is about to overwhelm you, raise your Metallic Curtain and step back to give yourself some air. Bubble yourself as a last resort if you still need to back up- be sure to fire your Mag Cannon beforehand so you'll immediately have it replenished if your bubble pops during your escape. It's important to remember Magneto has zero movement abilities and it takes 5 seconds for him to traverse 30M: it doesn't sound too bad, but when there's a large crowd in front of you, you'll wish he could move faster. Don't push too far ahead, and be aware of exits around you.

That being said, be conscious of your teammates. This is a TEAM game after all. We've covered Magneto and Scarlet Witch's team-up ability before and how valuable it is. As a result, you'll need to learn to play well with any Scarlet Witches on your team, and this means having your bubble ready to protect her when she decides to ult (this also means making sure to check the scoreboard occasionally for your teammate's ult charge as well as, again, being ability-conscious of those around you). Only when she's in immediate danger do you bubble her, not before: this ensures the bubble lasts long enough for her to get her ult off (or there's a better chance it'll be executed, anyhow). If you feel as though you won't be able to react fast enough, then you can try to bubble her beforehand; don't stress out about timing the bubble perfectly, just make sure she's protected. In general, bubble your duelists when they're deep in a crowd to give them a chance to escape (but don't stress out about protecting them. After all, there's only so much you can do before you put yourself in danger or use a bubble inappropriately when someone else could have better benefited from it). Besides Wanda, it's naturally best to look after your support units and to make sure they're not being overwhelmed. Don't helicopter them and neglect the rest of the team, but just make sure to check on them every now and then. Ultimately, your bubble priority should be Supports -> Yourself -> Others. After all, your support/s can't help you or the team if they're dead.

Two Tanks Are Better Than One

Magneto has the fortitude to be able to tank by himself comfortably, however the rare days you find yourself partnered up with a second tank, know these are the days you can be more generous with your bubbles and shields to your teammates. Your second tank will help cover with you and should make it easier for you to escape the crowd when need be, so bubble-hogging is less of a necessity. Make sure to help your tank too if they're in a bind and they're out of defenses/movement abilities (but again, not at the detriment of yourself or your supports: once more, Magneto can tank by himself if need be so long as you use your abilities carefully).

Metallic Fusion

It's tempting to want to use Magneto and Scarlet Witch's team-up ability the second you have it, however it's best to save it for crowd control. That being said, once it is active, make the absolute most of it: there's no consequence to holding down the primary fire, so just let loose and go crazy (with reason, of course: don't run in and get yourself killed and don't forget your teammates).

How to Use Meteor M

Someone asked me this midmatch once and I scrambled to come up with an answer. Both because the round was about to start in five seconds but also because I truly didn't know the answer at the time. The longer I've played though, I think I finally have the answer- or a better one besides "spray and pray" at least. As noted before, Meteor M is a fickle ultimate and how you use it is dependent on the situation (many such cases about anything, honestly). At times, you'll want to play higher to the skybox to ensure your meteor doesn't explode immediately. Alternatively, a quick throw of the meteor might do the trick in some situations where it's both safe to build meteor charge close to the ground, and the faster you remove a target/s, the better. This is also dependent on how many projectiles are being thrown out onto the field: if you're in a situation with predominantly melee opponents, it's best to use your meteors to single-out troublesome duelists and supports- there's little chance your meteor's going to exceed 30+ charge in those kinds of matches. Generally, you'll want to use it to counter support ults like Cloak + Dagger and Luna Snow (NOTE: a raw meteor will NOT KO an ulting Luna. You need at least 30+ charge before a direct hit can KO her. Cloak + Dagger can be KO'd from the get-go with a direct hit). Don't be afraid to throw out a meteor if you see a cluster of low health/squishy enemies without any defenses, however. Just remember it's ok to hold onto an ult if it means it gets greater value later on, and that you shouldn't hunt exclusively for team wipes. If you find yourself popping ult and the crowd's dispersed, support units should be your default priority (unless there's a duelist/DPS unit using their ultimate: take them out instead if you can). Initiating Meteor against Punisher's Final Judgement can be tricky if you aren't fast enough, as Frank's ammunition will quickly push your meteor to its limit. If you don't throw your meteor fast enough, you could potentially risk your teammates their lives and waste an ultimate in the process. Use your meteor against Punisher with caution. Similar notes to be said about Star-Lord's Galactic Legend, only now your problem is also throwing at a flying enemy. If he's close enough to your 25M range, I personally would shoot him down with a regular primary/secondary as his DPS isn't nearly as grand as Punisher's and a meteor could be superfluous. Otherwise, focus on getting to cover and protecting your vulnerable teammates. You'll especially want to be wary of enemy tanks and their shields as they'll without a doubt cancel out your ult with ease, more specifically enemy Magneto's and Doctor Stranges. Be cautious that Captain America can deflect your ultimate, though I personally have had minimal trouble with Captains. In general, you should track enemy ability usage, but especially the prior two if you hope to pop your rock soon.

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Closing Thoughts

Ultimately, improving at Marvel Rivals in general comes with time and willingness to acknowledge you're bad at the game sometimes but to not let that stop you from playing who you wanna play, whether you're playing as Magneto or not. While you can do your best to improve your aim in Rivals' practice area, things like game sense are something that can only really be accumulated through experience and playing the game.

Sometimes I watch back old games/moments of mine to figure out where I could've gone wrong to improve next time, but you don't HAVE to do that: just play the game, have fun, and love Magneto.

And throw a rock at every support you see for me okbyethankyouforreading

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Bonus: My Credentials so you can determine if i'm reliable or not. or something.

[PS: every hero Not Mags/Wanda/Adam is purely my brother i swear im loyal]

[twosides--samecoin]

💌 Post 4 pictures from Pinterest that describe your OC. Send this to 3 other blogs to keep the chain going!

"Well, I'm from West Virginia, may I remind you," said Nora, indignant. "When the Garrahans and Hornwrights brought the robots in, they stole so much more from us than just jobs. The only time in my life I saw my dad cry was when they turned on the Rockhound and drilled into Mount Blair..."

"...I caught all kinds of hell when I got out and went to Baltimore instead of stayin' and.. Some people I grew up with have to put on gas masks to go outside just so they can go get high in a shack somewhere in the mountains, you know that?"

"...Anyway, I know we already picked up Shaun's Halloween costume, but when we were headed back to the office, I saw this, and.."

She paused and smiled at the contents of her briefcase. "I just started thinking."

Jack tilted his head. "What about?"

"You know.."

Nora's eyes sparkled as she pulled a baby-sized white sherpa rabbit onesie from her briefcase. She held it against her body and smoothed out the fluffy ears so Jack could see their pink sateen details.

"Her."

excerpts from long time running, chapter 17: in circles

[creature-feature-creature]

Are people allowed to request more than one creature?

If so please consider sham hatwitch from the dragon quest series ^^

Yes absolutely!!!That is 1000% okay as long as it doesnt become spam (my definition is like ~5 requests for 2 or more of the same guy in the span of 1-2 days)

Ok review time

--‐---------------------‐-----‐---------------------‐-----‐---------------------‐-

SHAM HATWITCH FROM DRAGON QUEST!

From @spoofsies

Design; 9/10 - stub legs!! he's doing a little dance!!! He reminds me of lechonk from pokemon but that might just be me idk. One of my favorite character design tropes is "little guy hides under disguise"!! Also I love the hats scary face!

Purpose/Effectiveness; 8/10 okay i still dont know anything about dragonquest but i did a lot more research this time!! The wiki said that it was a monster with a low-level attack, making me think that it's probably one of the first you encounter in the game. Honestly this is really good low-level enemy design! It isnt that scary or imposing, but still enough to let the player know it is gonna attack you. Also wizard hat + using magic! We stan magic boars here!! From what the wiki also said it looks like it has other varients?? So as you go into more dangerous places you encounter more dangerous hatwitches?? That is actually really cool if it's true

Overall; 9/10 - this little piggy cursed your entire bloodline

[altschmerzes]

🌹🌹🌹 Can we see a little snippet of one of those cuddles Jamie gets in wriggle up please please please? :D

one THOUSAND percent. this is more than a 'little' lmao but. we know how i work around here.

this is from the fallout of the 2x08 debacle in wriggle up on dry land, after they've taken jamie home from the hospital.

cw for direct references to injuries caused by abuse.

Despite the late hour and despite the exhaustion making him feel like he’s been coated in lead, Ted doesn’t go to sleep right away. He changes into his pyjamas and then sits up on top of his still-made bed, leaning against the headboard and reading a book. Well. ‘Reading a book,’ insofar as ‘staring at the same page and not remotely processing any of the words on it for minutes at a time, occasionally flipping a page out of pure instinct’ can be considered reading. At this point, Ted doesn’t even remember what the book is, just that it had been sitting next to his lamp and it was better than grabbing his phone, what with all the anxiety-inducing crap that thing tended to contain at any given moment. It’s because of this avoidance of actual sleep that Ted notices immediately when the door down the hall opens.

Closing his book and setting it off to the side, Ted watches with a light frown as Jamie exits the spare room - his room, and starts down the hall. His posture is reluctant and closed-off, moving like he’s coated in the same lead that Ted is, and he makes the trip slowly. It’s hard to tell if the lethargic pace is due to pain or something else, and the thought makes Ted’s heart skip a beat.

When he reaches the doorway to Ted’s room, Jamie hesitates outside of it. The pause only lasts for a moment and then the boy is walking across the threshold and directly over to the side of the bed. Jamie is silent as he crawls up onto the mattress to Ted’s right, laying down facing the wall with his arms folded over his chest and going very, very still.

Book now entirely forgotten, Ted looks at Jamie and waits for him to say something, to reveal what it is he came here for, what he needs or wants. Nothing of the sort happens. Jamie doesn’t do anything at all. He doesn’t get up and leave but he doesn’t move any closer to Ted either. He doesn’t ask for anything, doesn’t make a sound. Jamie just lays there, facing the wall, curled in on himself and motionless - and putting all the pressure squarely on his bad shoulder, too. It has to ache something fierce, even with the painkillers the doctors sent him home with.

Ted’s heart hurts in his chest looking at him - literally. It literally, physically hurts. He watches the boy for a while, unsure what to do, his sternum throbbing and worry heavy and thick in his lungs. Jamie still doesn’t do anything, doesn’t say anything or move at all, though he’s too rigid to have fallen asleep. His arms are tucked tight against his chest, giving the impression of someone who is holding himself in a mimicry of someone else doing so.

That’s the thought that finally prompts Ted to take some kind of action. He can’t bear it any longer, watching the boy there and knowing that he needs something but not knowing what, and so he reaches out. The hand that he settles on the stiff crest of Jamie’s shoulder is slow and cautious, not wanting to do the wrong thing and spook or hurt the kid. All Ted gets in response is a muted, suffocated flinch - one he knows by now is far from an actual indication on its own that Jamie doesn’t want to be touched. There’s a subtle pressure against Ted’s palm that confirms the suspicion, even as Jamie’s body shudders with a laboured, tremulous breath - Jamie is leaning back against the hand on his shoulder.

Doing his best not to jostle either of them, Ted slides down the headboard a bit, pillow bunching behind him to create a support for the new, no longer upright angle. With gentle pressure and an abundance of care, Ted slips his hand from Jamie’s upper shoulder down to the other one, the one jammed into the mattress. He pulls at Jamie gingerly, guiding the kid around to face him and cross the gap between them, ever mindful of the pain he must be in, even still. Ted can’t stop seeing it in his mind: the permanent mental image of Jamie’s whipped back, the wounds now hidden by his shirt. The inescapable and acute awareness of the welts, the broken skin, leaves Ted as cautious as if he is handling spun glass as he curls an arm around Jamie, settling the boy in against his chest.

Jamie goes readily and without a hint of a fight. He leans himself fully into Ted’s side, his forehead pressed against Ted’s collarbone, though his hands stay tucked up in fists between them, not reaching out or holding on. Ted can feel the fabric of his shirt warm with Jamie’s heavy, ragged breaths. He isn’t crying but he is shaking, trembling all over and breathing like he’s just run a marathon as he lays, boneless and almost desperate, against Ted.

Normally, it’s a struggle for Ted to keep quiet. He doesn’t handle silences well and he never has, but this is an exception. It’s not that he enjoys the silence, really, he finds it just as disconcerting as he always does, but his brain is empty of things to say. So, because he can’t think of anything and because Jamie isn’t talking either, he doesn’t say anything at all. Ted just cradles him, holding the kid as tight as he dares to when the increase in pressure only prompts Jamie to press closer in turn, and thinks about how still he’d been when he first laid down - still and silent, facing the wall.

Jamie had not asked for this. He hadn’t reached out to be hugged, or asked to cuddle, or anything of the sort - and of course he didn’t. He had just laid there on the bedspread next to Ted, getting as close and taking as much as he dared.

It’s devastating to think about. He’s a kid. He’s just a kid, just sixteen years old, and Ted remembers being that age with a sharp and vivid clarity. Sometimes he wishes that he didn’t, but he remembers, and when you’re sixteen and something terrible happens to you, something annihilating happens to you, sometimes you need your mom or dad to hold you. And isn’t that something that Jamie probably has all but no experience with, huh. Not when his mom’s been gone for years and his dad- Well. Suffice to say it’s no shock he hadn’t been able to ask for what he needed, ask to be held.

[im-still-a-robot]

This is why god hates him. No other reason.

[nagashima-shou-fanclub]

the mashita one 4 the ask game? :0

Yay, I'm so glad you asked! I think it's my second favourite besides HiH. <3

Here's the Ao3 summary I wrote up:

The door creaks ominously as he opens it, and after he steps inside, it shuts with a loud click behind him. Immediately he squints his eyes into the darkness, the only light source being that of the moon pouring in through the windows. From what he can make out, it's apparently a very large entrance room with a set of stairs going up to the second floor. "Hello? Is anybody here?" Despite his yelling, only a heavy silence greets him. His shoes are a muted tapping against the wooden floor as he makes his way over to the stairs. But just as he is about to take a step up— A sharp squeak stops him in his tracks. Or: A man finds himself standing before a mysterious manor with a business card in hand and a bizarre mark on his wrist… But it is not the man it is supposed to be.

[graciousdragon]

*walks in, covered in ash and emanating smoke, like a Looney Tunes character after surviving an explosion* hey guys i'm back

[casuallyanidiot]

Yandere who breaks into your home and just won't leave.

Tw. Stalking, Yandere, nsfw themes, blackmail

You came back one day from work, tired as hell, only to find some strange man sitting on your couch with some boxes scattered around him. You threatened to call the cops, to scream and get him out, but he remained strangely calm if not a little boyishly eager.

"H-heh, I knew you'd be kind of upset. Don't worry, I already paid your rent for the next few months. T-took a bit of time to scrape together, but you're worth it babe."

When you then persisted on throwing him out, he simply took out a folder with shaking hands and showed you a mile wide stack of compromising photos that he'd somehow taken while you were completely unaware.

"Don't worry. I won't release them unless you make me."

So now you lived with your stalker now turned roommate.

It was strange. You couldn't kick him out, so you were forced to tolerate him. At first, you thought you could just wait until he left so you could hastily change the locks, but he just never left. He worked on his computer saying he had a remote job, and all of the groceries were delivered to the door. You didn't even have a chance to try and stop him.

He would creep his way into your bed at night, cook you breakfast, and act like nothing was wrong.

Yandere who likes to take photos of you openly now.

He snaps his camera at you while you brush your teeth or put on shoes. Every angle of you has been painstakingly catalogued and printed out in the albums now scattered on every table. He especially liked having pictures of the two of you together.

"Hehe, I used to have to edit myself in..."

You really didn't like mulling over what that could've possibly meant, so you just chose to gloss over it.

Yandere who likes to bathe and pamper you. It's so domestic that it's almost sickening. He makes homemade soaps to lather your skin in, and he's not half bad at making scrubs either. He learns how to do your hair in every style you like, and if you like getting your nails done, he learns that too. You asked him if it was to help save you money, but his reply was... less than ideal.

"I just don't want anyone else to touch you," He said sheepishly as he stashed the strands of your hair to use for god knows what.

Yandere who doesn't stop you from going out and living your life, but the second you get home, he's all over you. he's like your second skin, and even though you try to push him off, he just keeps nuzzling into your neck and practically humping your leg.

"C'mon! I was so good today... I cleaned and everything! At least kiss me!"

He becomes more and more comfortable in your apartment, and you slowly start to live with it as well. After all, a clean home, good food, rent paid and he pampers you like crazy: It's not exactly the worst deal in the world. Plus, he hasn't actually made any moves on you yet. No, most days he sits there smiling at you with a dopey grin and an obvious, untouched bulge in his sweatpants. He never touches himself around you, so at least he had the decency to not do that.

All in all, he's not the worst thing that could've broken into your home. Sure, it's not what you'd ever have wanted, but your starting to grow fond of this strange intruder. After all, it's hard to not be just a little bit endeared when he's snuggling up close and seeking your warmth like it was the only thing on the planet that mattered.

[undyingdecay]

pairings: the void x reader, robert reynolds x reader cw: pwp, smut, afab reader, light cnc, no use of condoms, breeding, vaginal fingering, talks and mentions of mental health issues. 

bob sees you twice a week.

mondays and fridays, sharp. three times every other week when the team’s schedule loosens, and he slips in on wednesdays—quiet and early, like he doesn’t want anyone noticing he’s here. you pretend not to, but you always clock the way his shadow crosses the frosted glass on your door before he knocks. there’s a peculiar reverence to it. like he’s stepping into church.

once in a while, you run into each other outside the four wide walls of your therapy room. the space is neutral by design: soft taupe couches, warm light, two large plants you’ve kept alive with a stubborn devotion—like it’ll mean something if they make it through the year. but the grocery store has none of that softness. no boundary. no title. no safe distance. just fluorescent lights, silence, and aisles that feel too narrow when he’s in them.

you had been scanning the back of a cereal box—reading ingredients out of habit more than necessity—when you felt it. that dense, unmistakable pull. not quite like being watched. more like being studied.

you follow the weight of it with your body first, spine stiffening under the quiet pressure. you turn. and there he is.

to your far left, past two rows of dry goods, bob. or rather—robert. his eyes, usually so tightly sealed behind politeness and wariness in your sessions, are blown wide with something he hides too late. you catch the exact second he sees you seeing him. the sharp pivot of his gaze, the twitch in his jaw. guilt.

you almost laugh. not out of mockery, but out of the strange tenderness of it. that a man like that—cosmically powerful, thickly built like the sculpted edge of a greek myth—could look so much like a boy caught staring at his crush from behind a locker door.

you press forward with your cart. as you pass him, close enough to catch the faint ozone-and-laundry scent that always clings to him, you murmur, soft but amused, “i’ll see you later, bob.”

you don’t look back—but you don’t need to. you can feel the electricity shift behind you, sharp and rattled.

the beginning had been difficult.

tense isn’t quite the word. the tension in those first five sessions had been less like discomfort and more like entering a room where a sleeping animal lay coiled in the corner—you couldn’t see it, not really, but you felt it. you knew it was there.

for the first three sessions, he hadn’t come alone.

she came with him. yelena. at first glance, you thought she hated you—her eyes hard, her accent sharp, her whole body language defensive like she was guarding something delicate inside a glass box. turns out it was just her face. that, and a thin layer of hypervigilance that seemed bone-deep. she watched bob closely. sat across from him in the chair like an anchor in human form. said almost nothing unless she felt you were pushing too far. then she’d step in—not harsh, but firm, like she’d had to learn how to drag people back from edges they didn’t know they were standing on.

your second “session” wasn’t much of a session at all.

an hour and thirty minutes of awkward silence padded with small talk so stiff it could’ve been stitched together from a textbook. you had tried—god, had you tried.

“how are you feeling today, bob?”

“i’m okay. and you?”

“i’m good. thank you for asking. did you do anything this weekend?”

“it was fine. how was yours?”

a mirror. he was a mirror. every question you sent across to him came back reflected. no cracks. no entry point. the only emotion he’d shown—if you could call it that—was when he first stepped into your office and complimented your plant. a small, unexpected kindness. you remembered it clearly. the way he’d looked at the pothos on the windowsill like it was more alive than he felt.

but he wouldn’t meet your eyes for long. not really. he kept glancing at the small analog clock that hung above your shelves. you’d caught him counting seconds more than once, his jaw flexing, fists resting tight on his knees. you had started to wonder if you were doing something wrong.

were you pushing too hard? too soft? was it you?

at the end of that session, it was yelena who stayed behind.

she stepped close enough that her voice was low, but not threatening. “he doesn’t trust this yet,” she said. “one of our teammates—he had a bad experience with therapy. put a bad taste in bob’s mouth before he even walked in.”

she’d almost said “friend.” you could feel it in the pause. but she changed the word at the last second to “coworker,” like putting emotional distance would make it safer. you didn’t ask questions. just nodded.

you were starting to understand that bob came with wounds you wouldn’t see right away. that maybe he didn’t want to be saved. maybe he was only here because someone else thought he should be.

and still—he came back.

infact, bob comes back the following friday. alone.

no yelena. no buffer. just him—broad shoulders hunched like a man who’s spent the whole morning clenching something invisible between his teeth, jaw stiff like it’s locked around something unspeakable. the kind of tension you feel in men who have seen too much and had nowhere to put any of it.

he doesn’t say hello. just steps into the quiet space of your office like a man walking into weather—unprepared, but moving forward anyway.

he sits without a word, his long legs folding awkwardly into the same corner of the couch he always chooses, like routine is the only lifeline he trusts. the leather creaks beneath him, and for a moment the only sound is that, and the ticking of the small wall clock behind your desk.

there’s a smell that trails faintly behind him. not unpleasant, but strange—metallic, electric. burned ozone, scorched copper wiring. the scent of power that has nowhere to go. power that doesn’t belong in a body still pretending to be human.

and he’s in a brown knit sweater.

that’s what you notice first, and you’re not even sure why. he wears sweaters often—neutral tones, soft materials that stretch just slightly over his chest and arms, as if he’s always one breath away from tearing through them. but you’ve never seen this one before. the texture of it is heavier, coarser, like it was meant for colder places. you recognize the color before the cut. a warm, earthy tone that lives folded in the back of your own closet. you think—absurdly—you might have the same one. you wonder if he’d noticed. if this is coincidence or something closer to longing.

before you can stop yourself, you speak.

“i like your sweater.”

bob’s head lifts slightly. not all the way, just enough for you to see a flicker of something unfamiliar in his eyes. not surprise. not confusion. something quieter. hesitation.

his mouth opens, then closes. a second too long. then finally, he responds.

“thanks. i… thought maybe it looked comfortable.”

he doesn’t say on you. he doesn’t say like yours. but something in the way his eyes move—a tiny drag of his gaze over your arms, to your collarbone—tells you everything you need to know.

and suddenly you’re both sitting in a room that feels too small for what isn’t being said.

you nod, gently, like you’re not about to fall into whatever soft place just opened between you.

“it does,” you murmur. “it suits you.”

bob exhales through his nose. a shaky thing. almost a laugh. his hands rest on his thighs, fingers splayed. not clenched. not balled into fists. just there. palms down. like he wants to ground himself. like he’s trying not to touch anything too hard for fear it’ll break.

you let the silence stretch again. safe. waiting.

eventually, he speaks.

“i didn’t want to come today,” he admits, voice low, almost lost in the quiet. “i didn’t want to sit here and say nothing again. i thought if i just stayed home… if i skipped it…”

he trails off. you wait.

“but then i kept thinking about that plant,” he finishes softly. “the one in the corner. and your chair. and the sound of the pen you use when you write things down.”

he swallows, eyes flicking down to the floor.

“i think i missed it.”

you don’t rush in. you don’t wrap his words in praise or comfort. you just breathe through the gentle ache blooming in your chest and respond, softly, truthfully:

“i missed you, too.”

and just like that—just barely—his shoulders drop. not completely, but enough. a fraction of a man letting himself be held by a room.

you can feel it in the air now, like something shifting under old floorboards: the intimacy, the beginning of a quiet, tangled dependency. and somewhere else, unseen—something in him watches this unfold. not entirely him. not entirely separate.

the air chills for half a second. the light in the room dims not visibly, but emotionally. like a presence turning its head.

and then it’s gone. or maybe it never really left.

what the fuck were you thinking?

the words slice through the steamy hush of your bathroom, your own voice muted by the toothbrush in your mouth and the soft gurgle of water running faintly in the background. you lean forward into the mirror, one hand braced against the counter, your reflection fogged slightly but not enough to hide the haunted irritation carved into your expression.

suds gather at the corners of your mouth like guilt trying to froth its way out. you spit, rinse, and stare at yourself for a long, accusing moment. you look… normal. too normal. like someone who hadn’t said something wildly inappropriate to a patient just two days ago.

‘i missed you, too.’

you groan, dragging a towel over your face, as if you could scrub the memory clean.

jesus. what the hell was that?

he’d been vulnerable. tired. exhausted from holding back something bigger than even he could name—and you? you’d gone and injected the moment with intimacy. loaded the air with suggestion. he didn’t say he missed you. he said he missed your fucking plant. your chair. the sound of your pen scratching on your notepad, as if that alone could tether him to reality.

and yet.

yet you couldn’t stop thinking about the way he looked when he said it. not just the words. but how he said them. soft, low, eyes not quite meeting yours like it hurt to be seen too clearly.

you rub at your jaw with the towel, then toss it aside. the feeling has settled into your bones now, heavy and warm and unwelcome. unprofessional.

maybe it’s the way his lips part just slightly when he’s concentrating. or the fact that when he smiles—even if it’s a small, awkward thing—you can tell it’s real. that’s what gets you. the distinction. the knowledge that you’re one of the few people who’s learned to tell the difference.

and his eyes. jesus. those eyes. wide and dark and painfully soft when he’s not shutting the world out. he looks at you sometimes like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered. like you’re something safe. like he wants to curl into your palm and just breathe.

but it’s monday now. the weekend’s over. whatever inappropriate fantasies or intrusive thoughts you wrestled with in bed at night, or sitting alone with your tea while re-reading your notes—those had to go.

you’re a professional.

which is exactly why you’re currently sitting in your office wearing the exact same sweater he had on friday.

you hadn’t even realized it at first—just pulled something warm from your closet, an old favorite, worn soft at the cuffs. but now, seated in your chair, notebook on your lap, you can feel it like a confession clinging to your skin.

same warm brown. same slightly oversized sleeves. it smells faintly of lavender and detergent and your skin, and suddenly you’re wondering—what if he notices?

you tell yourself it’s harmless. coincidental. a shared preference in clothing. nothing more.

but then you remember the way his eyes had lingered—not on your face, not on your words, but on the texture of your sleeves, on the shape of you wrapped in softness. like maybe, for a second, he wasn’t thinking about loss or pain or the terrible weight of what he is.

maybe, for a second, he was thinking about you.

and that’s what scares you most. not his power. not the rumors—how walker and ross speak of him like he’s a nuke that hasn’t gone off yet. not even the void itself, the shadow that lingers just beneath his skin like a second pulse.

no. what scares you is the feeling that if he looked at you just once—really looked—you’d let him in.

even if it meant letting something else in, too.

because there’s something in him. you’ve felt it. just at the edge of the room, just behind his shoulders when he’s quiet. it watches you. it knows your name, even though you’ve never spoken it aloud in sessions. the void. you don’t say it, even in your notes. but it knows.

and some terrible part of you wants to know it back.

your clock ticks gently toward the hour. you glance toward the door just as the handle moves—quiet, deliberate.

bob is early.

of course he is.

the door opens with that soft metallic click, and bob steps in like he’s afraid to take up too much space. his shoulders are drawn in, a silent fortress of muscle and tension. he’s early—twenty minutes early—and he doesn’t make eye contact at first. he rarely does when something’s eating at him, when he’s walking around with thoughts that feel too big for his skull.

he closes the door behind him with quiet precision, the kind of gentleness that feels practiced, not natural. like he’s afraid of making noise that might echo wrong. then he just stands there for a second, hovering just past the threshold, eyes scanning the room—like he’s waiting for something. permission, maybe. a sign that he’s welcome.

you look up from your notes and offer him a smile. it’s soft. undemanding.

“hey, bob.”

he lifts his gaze just slightly, and in that flicker of eye contact there’s something tentative—like a man brushing his fingers against the surface of warm water, unsure if it’ll burn or soothe. then he looks away again, jaw tight, eyes flicking across your space like he’s grounding himself in the details.

then he sees the sweater.

and pauses.

“that’s… new?” he says, his voice low and a little hoarse, like it hasn’t been used much today. it’s not a question. not really. 

you glance down at yourself, feigning casualness you don’t quite feel. “you wore something like this on friday. i guess i have the same taste and forgot.”

his lips twitch at that—just a ghost of a smile, quick and uncertain, like it surprised him by rising at all. “looks better on you,” he murmurs, and then drops his gaze again so fast you almost wonder if he regrets it.

you don’t let yourself react. not outwardly. but there’s a warmth under your skin now, spreading slow like heat from a cup of tea cradled too long in your hands. it lingers in your chest, unfamiliar and dangerous.

you gesture gently toward the couch. “sit?”

he does, and there’s something different about how he moves today. less rigid. less performative. he sinks into the cushions with a breath that sounds closer to relief than restraint, his hands settling on his thighs with fingers open—not clenched into fists, not folded into his sleeves. just there. present. like he’s trying.

“so,” you say quietly, “you’re early.”

he nods. “didn’t sleep. thought i’d just come.”

you study him. he looks tired, but not destroyed. there’s a kind of emotional fatigue around his eyes that tells you he hasn’t been resting—though he hasn’t been spiraling either.

“still having nightmares?”

“not really,” he says. “i keep thinking… if i close my eyes too long, i’ll hear it again.”

“what do you hear?”

he breathes in through his nose, chest rising beneath the worn black fabric of his t-shirt under the cardigan. he shifts slightly on the couch. “it’s not a voice. not exactly. it’s more like… pressure. like a thought that isn’t mine, but it knows where mine live.”

there’s a gravity in that sentence that makes your stomach tighten. you nod slowly. “does it speak to you?”

“no,” he says, but there’s a strange uncertainty in the way he says it. “but it waits. it wants to. i feel it sometimes when i’m walking down the street. at stoplights. it waits for me to be alone. it waits for me to be tired.”

you keep your voice even, your gaze soft. “and what does it want?”

his eyes finally meet yours. fully this time. and there’s something so raw in them—something that sits at the jagged intersection of pain and need. you feel it in your chest, like a tide pulling forward.

“i think it wants to be known,” he says. “like it’s… jealous.”

the air shifts in the room. a low, invisible shiver moves across your arms, like static brushing skin.

“jealous?” you echo.

he nods again. “friday… when you said you missed me… i haven’t heard that in a long time. not like that. not like it mattered.”

“i meant it,” you say. gently. without hesitation.

he exhales, shaky and almost laugh-soft. “i know. that’s the part that scared me.”

you tilt your head. “scared you why?”

he looks down at his hands, those big, open hands resting on his knees like he doesn’t trust them anymore. then, quietly: “because i don’t know what part of me heard it first.”

you inhale, slow and controlled.

there’s silence between you now, but it’s different. it’s not avoidance. it’s mutual stillness, like two people listening for something just outside the window.

bob leans forward slightly. his voice, when it returns, is small and unguarded.

“i think… it likes your voice.”

that lands deep in you, low and soft. not just the content of what he said, but how he said it—carefully, like a secret being handed over instead of confessed.

you stare at him, and for a moment you’re not sure which of you is more vulnerable.

then, carefully, you close your notebook and meet his eyes. “you’re not alone in this. not in here.”

he blinks, and something in him slips just a little—like a crack along old stone letting light bleed through.

“can i stay a little longer?”

you smile softly. “you can stay as long as you need.”

and for the first time, he doesn’t check the clock. doesn’t glance at the door. just sits back into the couch, letting the quiet settle, as if he’s not afraid of it anymore.

he glances at the corner shelf, then back to you. “you read a lot?”

you nod. “when i can. i don’t sleep much either, so it helps fill the space.”

bob leans back slightly, and for the first time, the lines around his eyes seem to ease. “what do you read?”

“neuroscience, mostly. some poetry. case studies. sometimes trashy fiction with bad romance and worse science.”

he actually smiles at that. not forced, not brief—just soft and real. “i used to read a lot. college stuff. research. i liked the weird cases. the ones people couldn’t explain.”

“oliver sacks?” you ask, half-teasing.

he points at you. “yes. that guy. i never finished the book. felt too close.”

you lean forward slightly. “want to borrow it?”

his expression shifts again—something uncertain, something boyish. “you’d let me take one?”

“just bring it back.”

bob nods, and something in his face flickers—like an old memory brushing against the edge of the present.

“i will.”

you both sit in the quiet that follows, but it’s no longer awkward. the clock ticks gently, the soft hum of the heater filling in the blanks. there’s no sign of the void in that moment. no second skin. just two people sitting in a room built for listening.

peace doesn’t last long. 

you’ve long accepted that. you’ve studied the brain’s circuitry enough to know we aren’t built to live in it. we chase peace like a high, yet once it settles into our skin too long, we start picking at it—doubting it, mourning it before it’s even gone. it’s a brief visitor, peace. kind, but impermanent. you only ever really notice its presence when it leaves.

it’s the thought playing through your head as you sit curled into your office chair, gaze unfocused on the small news stream rolling across your tablet. you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t keep watching this channel—it’s too much, always too much—but you let it play anyway. background noise, you tell yourself. just static to fill the room.

“the new avengers put a swift and permanent end to this morning’s armed robbery attempt. one confirmed fatality—officials calling it a clean takedown by the enhanced member of the team, sentry.”

you don’t react right away. the words feel like they land through molasses. permanent end. fatality. clean takedown. sanitized language for violence, for another body left cooling on concrete. you shut the tablet off and look down at your lap, heart tightening.

you know who they mean.

and you know who’s about to walk through your door—it’s wednesday after all.

the knock comes late—nearly ten minutes past the hour. you rise and answer it quickly, afraid he might bolt again like that first week. but bob stands there, rain-soaked, sweater clinging to his chest like it forgot how to fit him. his hands hang useless at his sides. he doesn’t meet your eyes.

he says nothing as you let him in. he walks past you like he’s underwater and takes his usual place on the couch—only this time, he doesn’t fold himself into the corner like he usually does. he sits stiffly, forward, elbows on his knees, shoulders tight like cables strung to snapping. you don’t go to your chair. you sit down quietly in the middle cushion beside him.

you wait.

the silence feels like it breathes, alive with something fragile and dark. you glance over, but his face is bowed. all you see is a fist clenched against his mouth, the tremor running along his jaw.

you shift slightly, giving him your full attention, careful not to crowd him. “do you want to tell me what happened?”

bob swallows.

the words crack on his tongue before he can even let them out, brittle and uneven. you see the tremble at his knuckles, the way his knees bounce like he’s trying to keep himself from bolting.

“he had a gun on someone. she was… she looked like a kid. and i—” his throat cinches. “i thought i could stop him without… i didn’t think. i didn’t mean to crush his chest in.”

then it all unspools.

the sob that breaks from his chest isn’t quiet. it’s the kind that fractures. that echoes. his body hunches, fists pressed into his eye sockets like he’s trying to force the tears back inside where they came from. but it’s too late.

bob cries like he hasn’t been allowed to cry in years.

your breath catches—not because he’s weeping, but because of how he weeps. it’s not heroic. it’s not stoic. it’s raw. terrified. embarrassed. human.

you slide from your chair before thinking, moving to the couch, your movements slow and purposeful. you sit beside him—not touching at first, not imposing—and wait.

but then your hand reaches out. gently. you cradle his face, thumb brushing along the high crest of his cheekbone, wiping away the warm, salt-heavy tears trailing toward his jaw.

bob flinches.

only slightly. but enough. a twitch like an animal unsure of whether touch means comfort or pain.

and then—slowly, achingly—he leans into it.

his weight tips forward, and he folds into your body with a kind of desperation you’ve only ever seen in those teetering on the edge. he slides forward and sideways, arms clutching at your waist, and then he’s pressing his face into the soft cotton of your shirt, right between your breasts. not with any intent—there’s nothing lewd about it. he folds into you like something hunted, like a child who’s run out of ways to hold himself together. his arms wrap tight around your back. you feel the hot press of his cheek, the way his breathing shakes against your ribs, shallow and uneven.

you hold him, firm but gentle. your fingers card through his hair, wet from the rain and sweat, and you murmur soft things—words you don’t plan, things like:

“you didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

“you were scared.”

“you’re not a monster.”

“you’re still here.”

each word lands like balm on an invisible wound.

his cries taper eventually, but his grip doesn’t loosen. you keep your hand stroking through his golden hair, down the broad stretch of his back, like grounding wire. he stays pressed to your chest, breathing unevenly, and for a long moment neither of you speak.

then, finally, his voice returns—smaller than you’ve ever heard it.

“i’m so tired.”

you press your chin to the crown of his head.

“i know,” you whisper. “i know you are.”

“i don’t want to be him,” he mutters. “i don’t want to be that man on the news.”

“you’re not,” you say softly. “you’re still trying. that’s what makes you different.”

the room settles into quiet again, not peaceful, but real. human.

eventually, his sobs soften. the shaking subsides. his breath grows heavy, slowed by exhaustion. he doesn’t pull away from you. you don’t ask him to.

and then—something shifts.

you feel it before you see it. a pressure. a disturbance.

you glance toward the far wall, drawn to the faint gleam of the rain-slicked window. your eyes catch the reflection.

and your heart stops.

there, behind your own shoulder—not behind you in the room, but in the glass—stands a figure that is not bob. it is not a man.

the shape is human only barely. towering, made of endless shadow. shoulders stretched like smoke, chest heaving like it feels something too large for flesh. where its face should be is only depth—void, endless and swallowing. 

the eyes glow like the dying blinding white of a star. brighter than flame. not neutral. not blind.

they are feeling.

you can’t name what they express. but it’s more than rage.

there is sorrow in that stare. wound-deep. ancient.

and worse—there is a possessiveness that coils in your gut like cold water down your spine. not jealousy, not quite. something older. hungrier. like the monster has seen you—has seen what you are to him, to bob—and it has already decided you belong in its story too.

you blink.

it’s gone.

just the window. just the rain.

just bob, soft against your chest, quiet now. fragile. alive.

and still holding you like the only real thing in the world.

you stare into the blinding white light of your phone screen, thumb frozen over yelena’s name.

the two of you weren’t close. not in a way that gave you room to say what you really wanted to say now. your exchanges had always been brief—punctual, neutral, like coworkers passing paperwork across a desk.

“he hasn’t been sleeping again.”

“he says the meds taste like chalk.”

“they switched him to something stronger.”

never real. never personal.

never once about the void.

you tap the message field. pause. backspace. then stop entirely.

what would you even say?

hey, did you ever see something standing behind him, watching with white eyes full of terror and doom?

hey, have you ever felt like he’s not alone in the room even when he is?

a low groan escapes your throat as you toss the phone face-down on the nightstand. the charger clicks into place. the soft glow vanishes.

you’re alone now. the kind of alone that hums. that presses into your thoughts the moment the noise dies out.

except—it doesn’t feel like alone.

not really.

your body is tense. restless. bob’s face flickers across your mind again: pressed to your chest, hair matted with sweat, breath rattling like it hurt to breathe. he’d clung to you like something drowning. your fingers had curled at his nape, feeling the tremor in his spine. his voice had broken on your collarbone like a child’s.

i didn’t mean to.

you shouldn’t feel the way you do.

but you do.

the guilt makes it hotter. shame spreads like syrup in your chest. you shift beneath the covers, legs tangled, thighs clenched tight. your skin prickles with that first slick wave of arousal, thick and deep-rooted.

your hand slips low.

you tell yourself it’s just to relieve the pressure. to get to sleep. to forget. but when your fingers skim the damp patch between your legs, something sparks and you know—you’re not stopping.

you bite your lip. your other hand fists the sheets as your fingers drag slowly over the soaked fabric. your clit pulses beneath the damp cotton, sensitive to the lightest pressure. you rub it in slow, tight circles—just once. just again. then again.

a moan slips out before you can stop it, and suddenly it’s not slow at all. your hips buck into your hand as you grind harder, faster. you picture his hands, broad and trembling. his voice, cracking apart as he cried. you feel sick. you feel alive. you press two fingers beneath the waistband, slide them into the wet heat gathering between your folds, and groan into your pillow.

you’re so wet it’s obscene. your fingers slide easily, curling inside as you start to fuck yourself in rhythm—fast, shallow thrusts that never quite satisfy. your clit throbs, desperate for more friction, but you can’t bring yourself to stop fucking your fingers.

he’d feel different. you can’t stop the thought. bigger. rougher. he’d ruin you just by holding on too tight.

“filthy,” a voice murmurs. you ignore it.

it’s just your imagination. just stress. your subconscious chewing through the detritus of trauma and lust.

but then—

your hand falters.

because the fingers inside you shift—deeper than you can reach. a pressure you didn’t create. your eyes fly open. your palm hasn’t moved. but the fingers—longer, thicker, calloused—are still moving inside you.

the thrusts become punishing. the stretch too much. it hurts. it burns. but it’s good—so good you choke on the sob clawing up your throat.

you want to stop. you should stop.

but your hips rock helplessly into the touch, chasing the burn. your clit is throbbing now, begging for friction. and then it’s there—a pad, rough, not your thumb, not your skin, circling it with maddening precision.

“such a mess,” the voice croons again. and suddenly, there are hands—hands you didn’t summon, didn’t imagine—pawing at your chest, yanking your sleep shirt up, fingers twisting your nipples until pain blooms through the pleasure like light through stained glass.

“fucking slut.” rough hands close around your breasts, fingers digging in as they cruelly twist your nipples. you bite back a startled cry, muffling soft ‘ow’s and slurred ‘stop’s, but beneath the sharp sting, a trembling moan escapes you—if it hurt so much, why didn’t you pull away?

“feels good, doesn’t it?” the voice murmurs, low and taunting.

against all reason, your lips part, and a shaky, breathy “uh-huh” slips free, betraying the mix of pain and desperate pleasure flooding your body.

you’re crying now. tears streaking hot down your temples as you moan, gasping please, and more, and don’t stop like a prayer.

you’re beyond language. just friction. just heat. the fingers fuck into you brutally, hitting something deep and soft that makes your whole body seize. the palm circles your clit faster now, harder, rougher, like it knows what you need better than you do.

it climbs. higher. higher. you’re going to break apart. it’s too much.

and then you come—shuddering, curling, a sob breaking through your lips as your cunt clenches around the phantom fingers, pulsing, gushing, trembling like a violin string drawn too tight.

“good girl.”

the voice exhales in your ear, close enough to feel.

and this time—you feel it. the whisper. the breath.

your hand flies to your ear.

dry.

your fingers are bone dry.

you’re gasping, body spent, heart pounding like it’s going to give out. sweat slicks your spine, and your thighs ache from the tension. you feel the wetness between your legs—thick, hot, real.

you push yourself upright, blinking blearily. the shadows in your room seem darker now, richer. your gaze drifts toward the window. the reflection meets you there.

not yours.

not bob’s.

it stands behind your own ghostly silhouette, just slightly offset. like a smudge on the mirror of reality. a tall figure, draped in black that shimmers like liquid night. shoulders hulking, body indistinct—except for the eyes.

red.

deep.

not empty.

not hungry.

but yearning.

possessive.

wounded.

you stare. you don’t scream. you don’t move. you’re not sure you can.

some part of you understands now—without words, without certainty—that it had always been watching. 

waiting.

friday comes around far too quickly. 

you’re no stranger to patients flaking on sessions—ghosting with half-hearted apologies, or none at all, when the weight of unpacking their own mind became too heavy. some would rather vanish into the dark than face the shape of their feelings under sterile office lights. you’d grown used to that. what you weren’t used to was the shift in yourself. a quiet dread, thick and strange, coiling in your chest as the hour approached. you’d had days before when you didn’t want to go in—when the weight of holding everyone else’s pain felt too much—but this was different. this wasn’t burnout. this wasn’t exhaustion. this was hesitation, sharp and personal. it was knowing you’d see him again.

and not being entirely sure which version of him you’d be seeing.

but when the hour and a half mark comes and goes, when the clock’s minute hand stretches past his session time and he still hasn’t walked through the door, you feel something strange twist in your stomach.

not disappointment—no, something closer to shame.

you sit in silence for a while longer, pretending to read over notes from earlier in the day. but your pen hasn’t moved in ten minutes, and the air feels heavier by the second. you begin to wonder if you’d crossed a line on wednesday. if that embrace—the warmth of his body melting against yours, the way you let your hand cradle his jaw like something precious—had been too much. too familiar. too not clinical.

because in those few moments, he hadn’t felt like your patient. he hadn’t even felt like bob. he’d felt like something else. like someone you shouldn’t be touching the way you did. and yet you had.

maybe he felt it too. maybe that’s why he hadn’t come.

or maybe this was punishment. karma, manifest. some cosmic weight crashing back onto your shoulders for what you’d let happen in the dark, what you’d let touch you when you were alone in your room, mind flooded with guilt and heat and a whisper that wasn’t yours. the thought of him sobbing into your chest should’ve haunted you. but instead it had stained your sheets.

and something had known. had seen. had felt it too.

it’s friday again now.

bob had missed two sessions. you hadn’t texted yelena — perhaps that was your first mistake. your first being even taking him when you’d been requested for this high risk case. you wanted to do good though, be good, god it was pathetic. some part of you still believed you could reach inside a broken mind and coax the light back out. but you weren’t sure what you’d been reaching for when it came to him. or what had been reaching back.

you’re pulled out of your thoughts as you hear a gentle knock on your door.

expecting dr. lavish to come in and ask if she could borrow one of your pillows for the child patient she had — or maybe even the janitor giving you your fill of lysol wipes again — you look up, words already forming on your tongue.

but it isn’t them.

the figure standing in your doorway is taller than you expect. shoulders slightly hunched like he’s trying to take up less space, hair somewhat damp, clinging to his temples like he’d come in out of the rain — though the forecast had been clear all day. his eyes flicker up to meet yours, and the room seems to contract. the air thickens. the shadows in the corners deepen.

it’s bob.

or — at least, it looks like him.

there’s something too still about him. something stretched too thin across the bones of his face, like a mask left out in the sun too long, warped and brittle at the edges. his shoulders hang wrong, his skin damp and pale under the dull overhead light. and though the shape of him is the same, you sense immediately that you aren’t alone with him.

not really.

you shift in your seat, the stiff leather sighing beneath you, and force a small, brittle smile onto your face. you are glad to see him. you tell yourself that. but the memory of that last session clings to you like wet cloth — the way he’d clung to you, sobbing into the hollow of your chest, face pressed against the curve of your breast like some half-drowned thing desperate for air. the way your hand had cradled his jaw without thinking. the heat of his skin. the sound of your heartbeat in your own ears, too loud, too fast.

and then… the other thing.

the thing that found you alone later that night. that climbed into your skin with a whisper you pretended not to hear.

he moves to sit down, and you watch as he bypasses the end of the couch — his usual spot, where he could angle himself half away, where there was distance — and instead settles into the middle. dead center. like an animal too exhausted to keep running.

and neither of you speak.

the clock ticks too loud.

a minute. two. long enough for the air to thicken, for your chest to ache with it.

“you missed your sessions,” you say at last, voice quieter than you intended. you don’t ask why. you’re afraid of the answer.

bob drags a hand through his hair, damp strands clinging to his skin. his other hand grips the side of his neck, thumb pressing into his pulse point like he’s trying to steady himself.

“i know,” he murmurs. his voice sounds different. thinner. like it’s traveling from too far away. “i… i couldn’t. not after… not after what happened.”

you feel it then. the ghost of his weight against you. his face against your chest. the way you hadn’t pushed him away. the way you’d held him.

the way it hadn’t felt clinical.

the way it hadn’t felt like bob, or like a patient at all.

“i crossed a line,” you say, a faint tremor at the edges. “i shouldn’t have—”

“it wasn’t you,” he cuts in, sharp and sudden. his head snaps up, and for the first time, he looks at you.

and god.

there’s something else behind his eyes.

something ancient. hungry.

something that knew you long before bob ever stepped into your office.

“i mean… it was,” he stammers, softer now, shaking his head. “but it was me too. and… him.”

your stomach turns to ice. you don’t have to ask who he means.

you try to swallow, but your throat’s too tight. the room feels too warm, the overhead light too bright, painting sharp hollows beneath his cheekbones. his jaw flexes, and you catch the subtle tremor of it — the tension working beneath his skin like something barely restrained.

then he parts the pretty pink of his lips, sucking in a slow, ragged breath through his teeth, and it’s only then — when your gaze flickers downward, like some cowardly thing seeking escape — that you see it.

obvious. heavy against the fabric of his pants.

your breath stutters.

his face colors instantly, a flush blooming high on his cheekbones, and for the first time in what feels like days, bob moves with something almost like instinct. embarrassed, he reaches for the pillow beside him, his movements sharp and jerky, and drags it into his lap like some flimsy barrier. like it could hide what both of you have already seen.

a sick, guilty thing twists in your stomach — and deeper than that, something warmer. a cruel little spark that shouldn’t be there.

neither of you speak.

the clock on the wall ticks so loud it’s unbearable.

“i’m sorry,” he says at last, and his voice is wrecked. frayed. like the apology costs him something. “i… he’s — it’s hard to—” bob stops, squeezing his eyes shut, as though he could wring the thought out of his head by force.

and you feel it again. that pressure. that presence. a cold, unseen palm at the nape of your neck, trailing down your spine like a lover’s touch. a voice — no, a thought, or the suggestion of one — breathing against your ear.

look at him.

and you do.

the pillow’s doing nothing now. the poor thing crushed between trembling fingers, knuckles white, the fabric tented and betraying every inch of his arousal. and his eyes — god, his eyes — glassy and feverish and desperate, flicking between your face and your mouth like he’s seconds from breaking apart.

“i can’t stop thinking about you,” bob whispers, his voice barely there. “about… what it felt like. that night. the way you held me. the way you… the way you smelled, the way you—” his breath shudders out, and he grips the pillow tighter, as though afraid of what his hands might do. “he shows me things. tells me to do things to you. things i don’t even wanna admit i—”

do it.

the command slithers through the room like smoke.

and you don’t know if it’s him or you that moves first — can he even hear the voice? surely, right? the way his breath catches, the way his eyes dart to the empty corner of the room like something’s watching. or maybe that’s just you. maybe it’s always been just you.

but a second later you’re on the couch beside him, so close the heat of him bleeds into your skin, your lips brushing the crook of his neck. his skin tastes like salt, like sweat and the faintest trace of something metallic beneath — like ozone before a storm.

your hands slide down, finding the rough fabric of his jeans, and he whines. the sound punched from his throat, raw and helpless. mumbles spill past the pretty pink of his lips, words half-slurred and broken: “feels… s’good… oh fuck… you—ah… you…”

your name, somewhere in there, buried beneath need.

his hips twitch up into your palm without meaning to, a desperate, unconscious thing, and you feel the thick, aching heat of him through denim. 

you reach a hand behind him, diving your fingers into those golden locks — soft, sweat-damp at the nape — and you tug, sharp enough to make his breath catch. this time he lets out a helpless little mewl, the sound raw and sweet in a way it shouldn’t be.

“i’m sorry — please,” he whimpers, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows the desperate plea.

the sound hits you low in your belly. some awful, electric pulse of satisfaction.

and bob groans like it hurts, his free hand fumbling at the waistband of his jeans, so frantic now it’s almost pathetic. he gets them halfway open — the button popping loose, the zipper dragging down — but the fabric snags on his thighs. too tight, too rushed.

your hand is there before he can even ask. diving beneath the band of his boxers, the heat of him heavy against your palm. when your fingers wrap around his cock — flushed, flushed and pretty, the tip wet and slick with need — he gasps, a sharp, broken sound. his head falls back against the couch with a dull thunk, pupils blown so wide they swallow the blue of his irises whole.

you press your mouth to his pulse point, feeling it hammer under your lips.

“bob,” you murmur, the name thick on your tongue, tasting unfamiliar now. sacred. defiled. both.

and he shudders, hips arching into your palm, chasing every slick stroke.

“please,” he rasps, voice cracking clean in half around the word. “i… i need—i can’t—”

and there it is again — that impossible pressure. the cold touch at the edge of your perception. a phantom hand curling around bob’s throat, tilting his head just so. the void’s attention thick in the air, a purr like silk against your ear.

yes. more.

your hand works him slow at first — teasing, cruel — watching the way his thighs tremble, his lips parting in little wrecked gasps. and when his breathing stutters, when his fingers clutch the couch like he’ll fall through it, you tighten your grip, pace quickening.

“you’re doing so good for me,” you whisper, because you have to. because you need something to anchor yourself to. something to make you human in the middle of this.

and he shakes his head, whole body trembling, fists clenched so tight his knuckles go bloodless.

his voice is wrecked when he manages, “h-he wants me to do bad things to you.” you can feel him get impossibly harder under the weight of his own words, leaky pearly pre spilling out of his tip.

it spills out like a confession, shame and hunger and terror twisting the words.

your thumb brushes over the leaking head of his cock and he keens, teeth catching his bottom lip so hard it goes white.

“what kind of things, bob?” you murmur, dragging your lips along his jaw, your own pulse a thunderclap in your ears.

he chokes on a sound halfway between a sob and a moan. “h-he… he wants me to—fuck—hurt you,” bob whimpers, the words broken, sticky with fear and want. “says… says you’d like it. says you’re already his.”

the air thickens. you can feel it, heavy and cold and waiting.

let him. you’ll thank me.

and before you can answer, bob’s hands are on you — clumsy, desperate — hauling you fully onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his hips. his cock throbs against you, slick and flushed, leaving wet heat wherever it drags against the thin cotton barrier of your panties. the act is out of pure, feral need, his strong arms locking around your waist like if he let go, you might slip away, vanish into the ether.

he bucks up into you with a broken sound, rutting against the damp heat of you, though you’re still fully clothed. the friction’s maddening, a tease and a promise both. his hands shake where they grip you, fingernails digging into flesh.

you coo softly at him, an almost pitying sound as you try to still his desperate movements.

“slower, baby,” you murmur, fingers brushing through sweat-damp locks, watching the way his pupils blow impossibly wide at the word. “let me—”

you fumble with your clothes, shoving your pants down your legs, panties dragged aside, blouse hiked carelessly up your chest. your bra’s plain — nothing made for this kind of thing — but bob doesn’t care. his gaze devours every new inch of skin, lips parted, breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts.

you tug his sweater over his head and he’s beautiful in that reckless, ruined way, hair mussed, skin flushed, a thin sheen of sweat glinting along his collarbone. you let yourself fall back against the couch, your body a pliant offering.

his mouth is on yours a second later, rough, uncoordinated, all teeth and tongue. his cock drags against your bare slit, slick and searing hot, the head catching against your clit in a way that makes your hips jerk.

he pulls back just enough to pant, “do you have a—condo—”

the words barely form before it cuts through the air like a blade.

fuck her.

a voice not his. not yours. low and cold and hungry.

you feel yourself clench, empty and aching, around nothing.

your head lolls against the couch cushions, eyes fluttering shut, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow bursts. the void presses against the room’s edges, thick and suffocating, coiling tight around both of you. the weight of inevitability.

bob groans like he felt it too. his hand cups the back of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw as if to steady you — as if to apologize — but his other hand’s already guiding himself to your entrance, cock nudging against your entrance, the tip sliding through your slick folds, catching against your clit just long enough to make your hips stutter up into him. his breath hitches, a soft, shattered sound against your throat.

“wanna make you feel good,” he breathes, the words half-spoken, half-prayer, clinging to you like something holy in a place meant for sin. “‘s good… so good,” he mumbles again, lips dragging against your neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin. his voice is ruined, thick with everything he can’t say.

and then he’s pushing inside — thick, flushed, leaking — the stretch sudden, greedy, obscene. it burns in a way that makes your head tip back, a sharp gasp ripped from your throat as your nails bite into the curve of his shoulders. there’s no caution, no tentative easing. he sinks in to the hilt with a desperate, jerking thrust that has both of you crying out.

the void purrs its approval, the sound vibrating through the room like a pulse, thick as fog.

bob’s face buries into your throat, his hips snapping against yours, sloppy, relentless, the wet sound of him moving inside you lewd in the suffocating quiet. you’d forgotten about his strength — the way his body dwarfs yours, how easily he cages you beneath him, how every thrust makes the couch shudder beneath you both.

“too tight,” he whines, voice breaking on the words. “god—so tight—i c-can’t—”

but he doesn’t stop. can’t stop.

and it isn’t dominance. no, it’s desperation. raw, pitiful, a boy unraveling by the second, chasing the feeling like it might save him.

you hadn’t realized your eyes had fallen shut until you feel it — that heavy, unmistakable knowing of being watched. your lashes flutter open and there he is.

the figure. the presence. the void.

standing just behind bob, a shadow clothed in the suggestion of a man, towering and lean, one pale, long-fingered hand splayed across the back of bob’s neck. guiding him. possessing him. and worse — looking directly at you. not bob, not the trembling wreck he was making of himself, but you.

its head tilts, like it’s curious. or amused.

keep going, it croons, voice a cold whisper against your ear though its mouth never moves. she’s feeling so good, isn’t she?

you don’t answer. can’t. your lips part, but all that escapes is a choked moan when the void’s grip tightens on bob’s neck and his hips slam harder into you, the couch groaning under the force.

bob sobs out a breath, tears hot against your skin. “wanna be with you forever,” he pants, the words tumbling from him like they’d been waiting in his throat for years. “d-don’t wanna go… wanna be yours, wanna be inside you, wanna—”

breed her.

the command is silk-draped violence.

fill her up. make her carry you inside her. tie yourself to her in every way that matters.

bob sobs like the words struck something primal in him, his thrusts growing frantic, uncoordinated, as though possessed by it. his body no longer his own. a vessel for want, for worship, for something older and crueler than love.

his cock drags against every aching, oversensitive nerve inside you, and you can feel how close he is — his breathing ragged, hips jerking, muscles tensing as the heat builds.

“i—i wanna… fuck, i’m gonna—” bob chokes out, teeth sinking into your shoulder as if he can hold the moment in his mouth. his voice breaks completely. “let me… let me c-cum in you… p-please.”

you’re not sure if it’s him asking. or if it matters anymore.

the void’s hand slides from his neck to his jaw, tilting his face up, forcing his tear-streaked, blissed-out gaze to yours.

his hips jerk, needy, helpless, cock twitching inside you as he rocks deeper still, as if the sheer act of possession could anchor him to something real. something solid.

but nothing is solid anymore.

not the room, not your sense of self, not the man trembling above you.

there’s a part of you — some tiny, flickering ember of rational thought — that should scream. should shove him off, should demand your space back, your body back.

but it’s smothered, buried under the heady crush of heat and breath and the delicious, terrible pull of being wanted this badly.

you feel the void’s presence lean in close — not touching, but still there, its hand a phantom weight at your throat, fingers brushing the pulse hammering just beneath your skin.

bob whimpers as your walls flutter around him, his eyes rolling back, his grip on your hips bruising now. “i—i can’t… fuck, i’m gonna—”

do it, the voice hisses. take it.

and bob shatters.

his body tenses, cock throbbing as he spills inside you in thick, searing pulses, a raw, broken sob tearing from his throat as he clutches you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to this world. his face is wet against your skin, tears mingling with sweat, with spit, with everything filthy and sacred between you.

you feel it flood you — hot and thick and endless — and the sensation is overwhelming, tipping you into your own release with a gasp you barely recognize as your own. your body arches, every nerve alight, and you swear you can feel it: something more than physical, something ancient and cruel and impossibly tender claiming you both.

bob’s voice is a hoarse, frantic whisper against your throat, words slurred and frantic. “i love you… i love you, i—please don’t leave, please—”

your hand moves in slow, aimless circles against the damp, feverish skin of his back. his breathing’s slowed, chest rising and falling in unsteady swells, face buried in the hollow of your neck like a child hiding from the dark. you wonder if he’s drifted to sleep — or if sleep for him is something else entirely now, a place the void follows him into.

the room is thick with it still. not just sweat and sex, but something heavier, cloying. the unseen weight of a presence unwilling to leave.

you feel it then — not imagined this time, not a trick of nerves frayed thin by loneliness and guilt. cool, incorporeal fingers brush against your lips, two of them, familiar now in a way that makes your stomach knot. the same touch you’d felt deep inside you nights ago, when the world had gone still and your room had filled with the scent of earth and dying stars.

he doesn’t have to speak.

doesn’t have to coax.

your lips part for him on instinct. a quiet, shivering surrender.

and something pushes past them. not flesh, not air. a taste like dark water, like the hour before dawn. it’s cold, at first, but it warms as it settles on your tongue, curling against your teeth, and you realize with a terrible, aching certainty — he could take anything he wanted from you in this moment.

but he doesn’t.

instead, the presence cradles your face — not physically, not in a way the waking world would see, but you feel it. an unbearable tenderness, like the hush before a storm, like the first touch of rain on parched earth.

“mine,” it murmurs, not in command, not in triumph.

but in something closer to awe.

and for a moment — just a moment — you understand. loneliness isn’t just a human thing. even the dark wants company.

even the old, endless things.

and so you let him stay. let him settle in the hollow parts of you, curl around your heart like a second pulse. because you don’t have it in you to be alone anymore. and neither, it seems, does he.

somewhere beside you, bob stirs in his sleep, mumbling your name like a promise.

and above it all, the void hums.

content.

satisfied.

yours.

and in its own impossible, monstrous way;

loving you.

[teaboot]

Once I spoke with a girl who told me a friend had invited her to a pool party, but she didn't want to go because the friend's mom had HIV.

I told her that this was a common concern, but HIV can't be transmitted by sharing a pool, and in fact HIV is such a weak virus that it can't even survive on a table for more than a few hours, and it can be killed entirely by bleach.

She asked me, "if you can kill HIV with bleach, why haven't we cured it yet?"

I told her, "because we can't put Bleach into people without killing them".

She said that this was interesting, but she still wasn't going to go.

(We did not become friends.)

The other day, I saw a group of teenage boys climbing all over an electrical box in town.

I walked over and asked if they were aware this was an electrocution risk.

One of them asked what I meant. I pointed to the large yellow image of a stick man with a lightning bolt through its chest and repeated, "it has an electrocution warning on it. Don't get blown up."

The kid laughed and said, "hey, play at your own risk, right?" And went back to his buddies.

I went back to what I was doing, but kept an eye out, and did notice that within the next five minutes, the whole group had removed themselves from the box and were now gathered several feet away from it.

I can't make people do things. I can inform, and support, but I cannot make their choices.

This is something that is hard to learn.

[pibsboots]

I've always had chronic fatigue. I remember being twelve, and an adult mentioned how I couldn't possibly know how tired they felt because adulthood brought levels of exhaustion I couldn't imagine. I thought about that for days in fear, because I couldn't remember the last time I didn't feel tired.

Eventually I came to terms with the fact that I was just tired, and I couldn't do as many things as everyone else. People called me lazy, and I knew that wasn't true, but there's only so many times you can say "I'm tired" before people think it's an excuse. I don't blame them. When a teenager does 20 hours of extracurriculars every week and only says "I'm too tired" when you ask them to do the dishes, it's natural to think it's an excuse. At some point, I started to think the same thing.

It didn't matter that I could barely sit up. It was probably all in my head, and if I really wanted to, I could do it.

When I learned the name for it, chronic fatigue, I thought wow, people that have that must be miserable, because I am always tired and I cannot imagine what it would feel like if it were worse.

Spoiler alert, if you've been tired for a decade, it's probably chronic fatigue.

Once I figured that out though, I thought of my energy as the same as everyone else's, just smaller in quantity. And that might be true for some people, but I've figured out recently that it absolutely isn't true for me.

I used to be like wow I have so much energy today I can do this whole list for sure! And then I'd do the dishes and have to lay down for 2 hours. Then I'd think I must gave misjudged that, I didn't have as much energy as I thought.

But the thing is - I did have enough energy for more tasks, I just didn't go about them properly.

With chronic fatigue, your maximum energy is obviously much smaller than the average person's. Doing the dishes for you might use up the same percentage of energy that it takes to do all the daily chores for someone else.

If someone without chronic fatigue was to do all the daily chores, they would take breaks. Because otherwise, they're sprinting a marathon for no reason and it would take way more energy than necessary. We have to do the same.

Put the cups in the dishwasher, take a break. Put the bowls in, take a break. So on and so forth. This may mean taking breaks every 2-5 minutes but afterwards, you get to not feel like you've run a marathon while carrying 4 people on your back.

Today, I had a moderate amount of energy. Under my old system of go till you drop, I probably could have done most of the dishes and wiped off the counter and then been dead to the world for the rest of the day.

Under the new system, I scooped litter boxes, cleaned out the fridge, took the trash out, cleaned the stove, and wiped off the counter and did all the dishes. And after all that, I still had it in me to make a simple dinner, unload the dishwasher, and tidy the kitchen.

It was complete and utter insanity. Just because I sat down whenever I felt myself getting more tired than I already was.

All this to say, take fucking breaks. It's time to unlearn the ceaseless productivity bullshit that capitalism has shoved down our throats. Its actively counterproductive. Just sit down. Drink some water. Rest your body when it needs to rest.

There will still be days where there is nothing to do but rest, and days where half a load of dishes is absolutely the most I can do. But this method has really helped me minimize those, which is so incredibly relieving.

[iknityounot]

(Long post, sorry y'all)

A little more than two years ago now, my grandmother passed away. She and my grandpa had moved down to my home town a few years before so we could take care of them. I brought them groceries once a week, helped them write checks, fixed tvs, and found lost things. I was really close with my grandma.

In addition to her hilarious personality and dry wit, one of my favorite things about her was that she was a painter and a crafter like me! She used to crochet, and I took her to the craft store a couple of times so she could get more yarn and books on crochet. But her arthritis and the shaking in her hands kept getting worse, so she eventually had to stop.

She kept her most recent project, a granny square blanket, safely packed away in a plastic bin. She told all of us she was going to finish it one day.

Her hands never got better, and when she got sick, and we found out it was cancer, she rapidly deteriorated.

After she passed, I went to work helping my mom clean out my grandparents apartment so we could move my grandpa in with her. In our frantic cleaning, I found that bin again:

DOZENS of granny squares, dozens of half used skeins. I asked my mom what she wanted me to do with it, and she said she didn't care. I set it aside and later took it home.

Maybe a month later, that tumblr post about the Loose Ends Project was going around. It felt like a sign--I was never going to learn to crochet in order to finish my grandmother's blanket. But they might be able to help!

So I filled out the interest form. They got back to me SUPER quick. And maybe 2 weeks later, I was paired with volunteer in my state (only 2 hours away!) and the box of yarn, granny squares, and my grandmother's crochet hook were in the mail. That was at the end of January this year.

Over the next couple of months, my "finisher" emailed me regular updates on her progress, and asked me questions on my preferences for how she constructed the final blanket.

At the end of August, the blanket was done!

I had always intended the blanket to be a gift for my mother. So I cleaned it up, put it in the only bag I had big enough to fit it, and drove to my mom's. I gave the blanket to her and she was gobsmacked. I explained to her all about Loose Ends, and how someone volunteered to finish the piece for us. She was speechless. (I was quite pleased with this, because I am not the best at giving gifts, so this was a pretty exciting reaction!)

She said that it was the most thoughtful gift she had ever been given. She said "your grandma would love this". To which I replied, "yeah, I know she really wanted to finish it a couple of years ago". But that was when my mom dropped the bomb of a century on me--she told me that my grandma had started making those granny squares OVER 30 YEARS AGO. She had started the blanket when my grandpa was staying in the hospital, but that was back when my mom was younger than I am now! My grandma had packed them all away, planning on finishing it, when my grandpa was sent home from the hospital. Then it went from house to house, from condo in Chicago to their apartment in my hometown. All that time and my grandma had wanted to finish it, but couldn't. First because she was busy, then because she forgot how to do it, then because of her arthritis, and then because of the cancer. My mom said she had given up on expecting my grandma to finish it. 

She said I brought a piece of her childhood with her mom out of the past.

And really, all of this is to say, if you have seen or heard about the Loose Ends Project and have an uncompleted project or piece from a loved one who has passed away--these are your people. They were so kind and treated my project with such care. That box probably would have been found by my own grandkids one day if I hadn't heard about Loose Ends.

Five stars, absolutely worth it!

(From what I understand, you can sign up to volunteer too! If you have time to share, it might be worth checking out!)

[rotapathetic]

: ̗̀┊͙TWITCH STREAMER!RAFE taking reader shopping ⠀꒰ 🎧 ꒱ !⠀⠀୨୧

❝she won ❜ : bold text is stream chat! 💬

STREAMER who comes up with random excuses to do things for you irl stream

“alright,” rafe pulled you into his lap, placing his headset on top of your head. it titled to the side, the mic hitting your chin instead of your lips. “have something planned for today’s stream.”

user: geez she needs her own headset user: hi guys user: a duo game??

“what is it?” you perked up, the headset jostling. rafe chucked, moving it down around your neck. “i take you shopping and say yes to whatever you want,” rafe answered, sliding you closer on his lap.

“really!” your head tilted, smiling down at him. “are you sure?” rafe tilted a brow at you, “yes, really. need to spoil you, it’s been an urge.”

user: wee!! we get to tag along user: can we get food on the way user: need to see more of her wardrobe taste

ᵋ @ barnes and noble ᵌ

“if you want a guy who can play hockey, i could learn in two days,” rafe frowned at the book you held.

user: no you couldn’t

you giggled, placing it in the basket with your other picks. “i don’t. i don’t want this guy, i want him to end up with the main character,” you explained.

rafe nodded with hesitance, glancing at the other books on the shelf, letting the viewers also see. “i’m just saying. . if you were into that fantasy, wizard crap, i could make something work.”

user: what are you talking about user: he’s about to end the challenge user: what did she pick out

rafe pointed the camera at your basket, “they want to see.” “oh!” you rifled through the books, naming them off, “some were being hyped on social media and i’m easily influenced, and others i just like the description,” you explained to them.

“is that all?” rafe didn’t like the little amount you grabbed. “yeah. . should i grab more?” you frowned at your basket.

rafe thought for a second, “i actually don’t need you discovering you have a new type, we can check out.”

ᵋ @ coach ᵌ

“i really don’t need it. that’s not even the challenge, you said anything i want.”

rafe finished paying, grabbing the bag from the cashier. “you pick it up, you want it. i buy it.” he added the bag to the others on his arm.

you frowned at the expensive coach bag, “but i put it down. .” rafe smiled at you, “and i picked it back up. now where else do you want to go?”

user: she won

ᵋ @ popmart ᵌ

the girl gasped, looking between you two, “wait. .” rafe kept the camera pointed to himself just in case the supporter didn’t want to be on video. “. .oh my gosh, it’s you!” she said to you, ignoring rafe.

you put the box you were holding into the basket rafe held. “hi. .” you nervously giggled out. rafe kept an eye on the girl as she stepped closer. he didn’t mind anyone meeting you, he just had to make sure the girl respected you and didn’t try to sneak a picture.

“you are so pretty. . hi rafe,” she tossed a glance at him, looking back to you. rafe smiled at you, not minding at all the attention not being on him.

user: that’s humbling user: no fair she got to see her before us user: she better not be weird. .

“you are too! wait, what are you getting?” you asked the girl, looking at the boxes she had. she stepped next to you so you could see.

“okay, so. on the stream where you guys met, you said you like skull pandas. i’m not really a skull panda girl, but when you said you like them, i was like i have to get them.”

you widened your eyes at her, “no you did not,” you cooed. “that is so sweet. we were just about to check out, i’m so glad we ran into you. .”

“oh! i can leave you guys alone, then. i just wanted to say hi. and i literally won’t say anything about you by the way, i am not like that.” she promised you and rafe.

you frowned at her, “you don’t seem like it. okay, wait. .” you walked back to rafe, peering up at him. “mm. . would you say yes if i asked you to buy her boxes for her?”

you didn’t need to put on those eyes. “anything you want, baby.”

ᵋ @ the thrift ᵌ

“you see the vision, right?” you held the top up to your chest, turning for rafe to see.

he stared intensely, “that’s cute, i can see it. it can go with the hat you picked up,” he reached into the cart, pulling out the hat and holding it up to your head.

you gasped, “you’re so right, okay.” you placed the top in the cart.

rafe read the chat. “wow, they really doubted my fashion skills. that’s rude guys.”

you peeked over to read, some of your face showing in the camera. “no, guys, he helps with my outfits sometimes. he’s really good.” you walked over to another rack, rafe pushing the cart behind you.

rafe read more chats. “now they’re switching up. you guys always go with anything she says.”

you giggled, peering over your shoulder, then going back to rifling through the clothes.

“as they should though,” rafe said.

ᵋ @ rafe’s place ᵌ

rafe placed the bags on the desk, some on the floor that couldn’t fit.

user: this was so fun user: haul time

rafe turned to you sitting in his chair, legs crossed. “they’re asking for a haul, but you don’t have to give one.”

your eyes widened, “they still want to see me?”

user: duh this is your stream

[4-the-l0ve-0f-art]

“The Captain’s beloved…wait, what?!”

Capitano x Gender Neutral Reader one shot

Work count: 2.2k

Genre: Fluff, Comedy, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship

Rating: General Audiences

Trigger Warnings: none

Summary: The fatui discover that their Captain does, in fact, have a life outside of work and gossip between the ranks ensues. (Cue silly fatui shenanigans)

Ao3 Link

Capitano, the Fatui’s first lord and harbinger, contrary to popular belief, was respected and admired by his platoons rather than feared. There was a widespread misunderstanding both in and outside the organization that the Captain was a harsh and dangerous leader due to his mysterious nature. However, the people who worked under him knew better as they had grown to admire him the more they interacted with him.

He held himself with pride and treated his soldiers the same way he wanted to be treated: with respect and dignity. And in return, they learned the depths of this man’s strategic genius and strength. His strength was unmatched in combat and led his people well with good decision making and training. They could only hope to be as good as him in his various fields of expertise.

He was strict, and quick to discipline unruly fatuus, yes, but that did not stop others under his command from admiring him. And to emphasize this even more, it was clear that his fellow harbingers and even the Tsarista respected him, whether their goals and morals aligned with his or not. However, this made the people around him curious about aspects related to him outside of his work and title. He was a revered public figure and people were naturally curious about his personal life.

This is where you came in. You, his one and only beloved, the only person who held his whole heart in your hands. Not many people knew of this, but the Captain was a gentle man at his core, and you had somehow managed to uncover all of his being and see him fully as himself, without his title, without his strength. You knew this man inside and out, just as he had come to know you. It was a mutual love, one which even he did not know he was capable of feeling, and that made him all the more enamored with you.

This, however, people did not know. So you can imagine the surprise on their faces when you, an ordinary civilian, came to the Zapalyarny Palace and asked for directions to the Captain’s office. The clerk at the desk looked at you blankly, as if she were staring at an anomaly. This prompted you to try and explain yourself.

“..I’m here to drop off his lunch. So, if you don’t mind..?” You asked.

No response. The blank stare continued.

You already knew that you looked out of place in this grand palace with no Fatui uniform or mask on. But you were determined to make sure your beloved got his lunch, which you had specifically decided to make for him that day as a special treat for how hard he had been working while preparing for a business trip to Natlan.

“Excuse me..?” You said a little louder this time. That seemed to snap her back to reality.

“You cannot enter this place, only authorized personnel are allowed inside. If you’d like to meet our lord, please book your appointment accordingly.” She replied on autopilot, as if she’d rehearsed the same sentence multiple times.

“I’m sorry, I know you have your duties, but I’m here just to drop off his lunch. You can check with him yourself if you’d like..”

“He’s busy at the moment, please leave your package here and we will deliver it to him.” She replied. It seemed like you were being studied like a suspicious person who was attempting to sneak in.

Fair enough.. you thought. I was hoping I would get to spend a few minutes with him and see how he was holding up at work but that can wait till he’s home. And she’s not wrong, I did drop by without notice, so it makes sense for them to be suspicious.

Fatui soldiers passing by had also been glancing at the ongoing conversation at the front desk, eyeing the lunch box wrapped in patterned cloth in your hands with raised eyebrows. You decided to leave the food there, getting one last word in before leaving.

“If you could, please make sure it reaches him soon. It’s his favorite meal and I would prefer it didn’t go cold before he ate it.”

And then everyone watched as your ordinary self left, unaware of the number of eyes on you.

…

A pyroslinger skirmisher stationed near the entrance asked dumbfoundedly, “Did..did they just say that was the Captain’s favorite meal? Our lord harbinger?”

A cryogunner skirmisher who had also watched the whole thing go down as he clocked in asked another question right after, in the same state of confusion as the previous fatuus. “..Has anyone seen them around before? They don’t look like someone who would be seen standing next to Lord Capitano.”

And as the just as confused clerk left the scene towards his office with your goods in hand, excited chatter filled the halls.

Chaos would be the right word for it. You had left chaos in your wake with a simple visit to his workplace.

…

That night, as you and Capitano settled in to relax in your shared home after a long day of work, you asked him how his lunch was.

“It was delicious, my love.” He replied, gently caressing your face with his hands while looking down at you through his mask. “It felt like a treat to have your home cooked meal at work. You didn’t have to, but thank you. It made my day.”

You smiled and took his hands in yours as you nuzzled into his touch. “I’m glad you liked it. I was going to give it to you myself but I couldn’t enter the place.”

“You should visit more often. I’ll let the security personnel know to let you enter so you can come and go as you like.” He paused, clearing his throat. “..Seeing you in the middle of a long day would bring me relief.”

You felt slightly flushed at his straightforward choice of words. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to you being so..open with me. But I like it, of course. I would like that as long as I’m not disturbing you at work.”

Capitano chuckled. It was like the angels decided to bless you today, really. “I will always make time for you, my love. Just as you do for me.”

You beamed. “Okay, okay, let’s get some sleep now, Mr. Loverman. We still have work tomorrow in case you’re forgetting.”

A kiss on the forehead and the rustling of sheets was all you heard before you were whisked away to dreamland.

…

Unbeknownst to you and Capitano, however, word about you spread like wildfire across the next few days between the excited fatui soldiers. Some from even the different departments under the other harbingers might’ve heard. The person who looked like a civilian, dropping lunch packed in pretty cloth for their Lord did not go unnoticed.

This was the only time someone unrelated to work had been seen asking for their Captain and questions about your relation to him were on the tip of everyone’s tongue during break times.

Two fatuus gossiped as they watched the Captain spar in training with his fellow soldiers, admiration evident in their eyes.

“Someone dropped off lunch for him? I thought he would be too busy having meals with high rankers from across Teyvat.”

And after a short pause the other replied, “Dude, hold on, does he even eat? I thought he was superhuman or something.”

“I know you’re dumb, but I didn’t know you were that dumb, my guy.”

“Hey! Just saying… anyway, are we even sure the people weren’t hallucinating when they saw the person drop lunch off for him?”

“I heard it was his favorite meal, freshly cooked, apparently. Who knows, man? Maybe it was a fan or something. Our lord does have a pretty big following, y’know.” The fatuus stated proudly.

Their lively chatter continued until they were called back into training.

…

A few days later, as soon as you found the time, you decided to visit Capitano at work with yet another home cooked meal. You wanted to make most of your time with him before he traveled to Natlan and having meals together would be a good way to wind down a little.

You entered the palace yet again, determined to meet him this time. It should be fine, right? He did say he would inform them..

And as you had hoped so, he did, in fact, inform them. As soon as the same clerk from before saw you, it seemed like her eyes were bulging out of her sockets. All you had to do was reach the desk and she confirmed your name and led you to the training grounds, where he was currently working. It seemed like some sort of training session was in the works, with all kinds of combat taking place between the soldiers in the distance.

Before you could ask her if you were even allowed to enter this place, she bowed and hurried back in the direction of the front desk. The strange behavior didn’t go unnoticed by you but now you had to find your way to Capitano across the opposite side of the field. Since you were here at last, why not just see things through?

The middle of the field was the most densely occupied with various people fighting in different groups, while what you recognised as skirmishers were practicing their aim at dummy targets on the right side. The soldiers were hard at work even in the harsh everlasting winter of Snezhnaya. The left side of the field, however, seemed less crowded compared to the rest as people seemed to be setting up their gear or resting. Your Captain, opposite to you across the field, was busy conversing with a group of soldiers who seemed to be listening to him attentively.

You decided your best option was to take the left side. It would be easier to walk through the calm atmosphere over there.

As you made your way through the crowd, people started to notice you. They were pretty intimidating with their weapons and muscled bodies at display so you decided to be extra careful to not bump into anyone and quickly made your way across, and as you got closer, Capitano’s voice became clear.

“The heat in Natlan will be unbearable. You will be stationed in the wild all day, so make sure you have the appropriate supplies to get you through the day. It is of the utmost importance that...what, what is it? Why are you all staring at me like that?”

The group’s attention shifted from him to you, as you stood behind him and tapped his shoulder.

“Capitano, do you have a moment..?” You asked as he turned around, his armor clinking from the movement.

“Oh, my love!” He exclaimed in a soft voice. “What brings you here? Hold on, let's get you back inside. You’ll catch a cold here.”

The group (and everyone nearby) watched in complete awe as his demeanor from before completely switched from authoritative to somewhat… joyfull? Was Lord Capitano being affectionate?

“I brought you lunch, but I can leave it in your office if you’re busy right now.” You said hurriedly, not wanting to keep him busy.

“No, that won’t do, my love.” He took the package from you and placed his hand on your back. “Eat with me inside.”

He then turned back to the group, who jolted straight up at his sudden change. “Finish the supply preparations once you’re done training. All of you are dismissed.”

“Y-yes, my lord!” They replied in unison and bowed. And yet again, they watched in awe as he guided you back inside the palace, ever so gently, one hand on your back and the other carrying a box wrapped up in a floral patterned cloth. A stark contrast to his all black and blue outfit.

…

As soon as both of you were out of sight, chaos erupted yet again, more loudly this time, with multiple voices talking over the other.

“”My love?” Did he just call them “my love?” Did I hear that right?!”

“What was that? What did we just witness?”

“That was so romantic, holy shit! Was that the same person we take orders from everyday? What the hell?!”

“DID THE LORD HARBINGER JUST… GET VISITED BY THEIR SPOUSE?”

“I thought that ring on his finger was for fashion…”

And that is how they found out that their beloved Captain, who seemed to have no soul outside of his work, was a married man with a loving spouse.

This proceeded to be the hottest gossip in the Fatui for the rest of the month, until they discover more about you from another future visit.

…

BONUS:

Sitting in the privacy of his office, you enjoyed your meal together.

“..You seem to work with very strange people, Capitano.” You said to him.

“Do I? How so?” He asked before you fed him a bite.

“Hm.. actually, nevermind. It would be even stranger if they weren’t strange, considering they work with you.” You chuckled.

You enjoyed your time together and went back home, leaving your beloved in confusion from your conversation, and the sight of you fondly feeding him for him to think about for the rest of the day.

[avaricefics]

the winner takes it all | kimi antonelli social media au

| Kimi Antonelli x fem!reader

| Fans are starting to believe that Kimi's girlfriend, Y/n L/n, is a bad luck charm at races- he happily proves them wrong

| This is my first ever smau, so I'm still learning all the formatting and such. Please be patient!

f1updates

f1updates Kimi Antonelli's girlfriend, Y/n L/n, posted on her story about arriving to the Canadian Grand Prix. The last time she went to watch a Grand Prix live, at the Spanish Grand Prix, Antonelli DNFed. Should Mercedes fans be scared of a bad luck charm in the garage this weekend?

comments

user1 Still not over Spanish GP... maybe Y/n actually is bad luck lol

user2 the more you think about it the more it makes sense

-> user3 Her first in person GP since Kimi was in F2 and he DNFs...

user4 Always said he shouldn't have dated her

real life

You scrolled through your phone, barely blinking as all the hateful comments and mean words flashed past on the screen. You should be used to the hate, having dated Kimi since his F2 days, but it still made no sense to you. These people didn't even know you, and yet they thought they could say whatever they wanted about Kimi and your's relationship.

You tried not to let it phase you, you tried to pretend like it didn't hurt each time someone on the internet called you a 'terrible girlfriend' or a 'bad luck charm'. Formula 1 was Kimi's dream, and you hated the thought of ruining it with your own selfish insecurities.

It also bothered you how much the fans looked down on you for missing so many grand prixs at the beginning of the season. You hadn't meant to, but your older sister had given birth prematurely to triplets a couple weeks before the season started, and you had stayed at your family home in Italy to help out for those difficult first months.

Kimi supported you fully, of course. He understood the need to stick with your family, and help them when they needed it. Between races, he had even stopped by the house to help with the triplets himself.

You and Kimi had both been so excited for the Spanish Grand Prix, but clearly that didn't turn out so well. And honestly? With how much hate you were getting for attending the Canadian Grand Prix, you were half-tempted to fly back across the ocean to Italy to help change diapers.

You scrolled past another negative post, one that wondered why Kimi would date you if you were so basic looking. You shut off your phone and resisted the urge to chuck it against the wall.

"What's wrong, vita mia?" Kimi called from the other room of the hotel, noticing you despondently laying starfished across the bed. You couldn't help but smile at the Italian nickname.

"Just stupid people on the internet," you replied. Kimi walked out of the other room, holding a leftovers box with spaghetti and meatballs that he had been warming up in the hotel microwave. Even if the spaghetti wasn't as good as authentic Italian pasta, it reminded both of them of home just a bit.

"Are you looking at the bad luck posts again?" Kimi asked, upset. He hated that there were people who called themselves his fans who treated his girlfriend so cruelly. You nodded.

Seeing your face, Kimi didn't say anything, but instead set the leftovers down on the bedside table and sat down on the edge of the bed, his body angled towards you. You sat up, scooching towards Kimi so you could rest your head on his shoulder as both of you leaned back on the pillows.

"I'm sorry this is happening," Kimi said softly. "I got so caught up in my own dream, I hardly payed attention to the toll it was taking on you to be there, too."

"It's not that," you said, trying to think of a good way to describe how you felt. "I love supporting you, and getting to be a part of that dream. I just... wasn't prepared for the fans to not want me to be a part of it."

"Oh, carissima," Kimi whispered. He pulled you closer to him with his right arm, and rested his head on top of yours. You didn't even realize that tears had started to fall until he reached up to brush them away.

"I love you," you spoke quietly. "I love you, and it sucks that people don't see that."

"I love you too." Kimi reached over your side to grab the leftover pasta, handing you a fork and taking one for himself. "I'll fix this, amore. I promise."

kimi.antonelli

liked by yourusername, mercedesamgf1, user74 and 134, 092 others

kimi.antonelli Y/n and I have been together for years, and I am shocked and horrified to see with my own eyes people who call themselves my 'fans' turning against her. We love each other, in sickness and in health, in the happiness and in the hurting, and through both good fortune and bad luck.

Anyone who doesn't see that and respect our relationship, and my girlfriend, isn't a real fan by any means.

comments

yourusername <3

comments restricted on this post

yourusername

liked by kimi.antonelli, georgerussel63, user10 and 184, 309 others

yourusername Mercedes 1-3 at the 2025 Canadian Grand Prix! I'm so incredibly proud, congratulazioni a entrambi! Let's go Kimi!!! (Something something bad luck charm... yeah, right. My boy is too good for luck :))

comments

georgerussel63 I see how it is... you get P1 and not even a picture

-> yourusername Gotta support the bf

->kimi.antonelli I'm her favorite 😇

->yourusername That too