pacificpomegranate

[hashcakes]

Soulmate AUS

I thought of this and literally cannot stop

We all know the soulmate AU where you share scars/ injuries right? Imagine the 2 are separated, with no way to tell if the other is alive. (Think tony stark in deep space, not like you haven't seen them this week.)

And there's panic, and desperation.

But then one of them feels and sees scars slowly appearing on their arm or smth.

AND ITS THE OTHER CUTTING THEMSELF, AND IT HAPPENS EVERY DAY. ONE FOR EACH FREAKING DAY AND ITS JUST A PUREE OF ANGST AND FLUFF.

*Chefs Kiss*

[eddiemunsonappreciationsociety]

SPENCER REID BODYGUARD AU FANFIC

As I step into my house I’m aware that someone is here immediately. My heart picks up pace as I take the can of mace from in my bag, I try to get my hands to stop shaking as I peer around the doorframe into my kitchen. My heart briefly drops when I see a tall man sitting at my breakfast bar drinking tea. His floppy brown hair falls into his face.

“Who the fuck are you and what are you doing in my house?” I yell at him, waving the can of mace in front of me.

I bark at the stranger, tall and handsome and not meant to be sat in my fucking kitchen like he owns the place.

“So you haven’t spoken to Mr Smith yet,” he sighs.

“My dad sent you?”

“Yes, I’m Mr Reid, your new security detail”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am, Miss Smith”

“I am not a child I don’t need to be looked after,”

“Well, I’m afraid your dad doesn’t agree” he shrugs.

I start to rifle through my bag, trying to find my phone. I’m too mad and my bags too full of crap. I start to get frustrated when the tall stranger shoves his phone at me.

“It’s your father,”

I grab his phone off of him

“Dad, what the fuck?”

“I didn’t tell you earlier because I knew you’d flee,” my dads raspy voice travels through the phone “You’re going to go with my friend Mr Reid and he’s going to take you on a nice holiday,”

“He’s what?”

“My plane is going to take you and your new shadow to a nice little island and you’re going to take some time away where it’s safe,”

“This is fucking kidnap,”

“No darling, I’m trying to prevent exactly that happening,” his voice is soft

“Again,” I mutter sharply

“Yes, again” he sounds defeated “please, just go for a few weeks, see it as a holiday, it’s a beautiful villa by the sea, whatever you want I’ll get sent to you”

I don’t respond, my heart is racing and I feel sick.

“Darling, please”

It’s not often Tony Smith begs for anything.

“For how long?”

“A few weeks, maybe longer,”

I manage to stop the scream that wants to ring out of me. The audacity. He’s the reason I’m in danger anyway. Sure, when you’re one of the worlds biggest drug dealers it seems great and the moneys good but people hate you and want to hurt you and have what you have. They take daughters of drug dealers. I find my mind slipping back a little and I shake my head clear of the thoughts. I glance at the bodyguard, he’s dressed in smart trousers, shirt and tie.

“I’m not happy about this, and this guy you’ve hired: have you met him? He looks like a geography teacher. He’s wearing a bloody cardigan,”

Mr Reid finds this amusing, I see him smirk but he tries to hide it by walking away.

“I’ve met him and I know his reputation, you be nice to him,”

“Whatever, how long have I got?”

“Pack now, it’s hot, you leave in an hour. And you leave your phone there”

“I’m not leaving my phone”

“Mr Reid will give you a new one, but it’s restricted. You can’t let anyone know where you are.

“You’re the fucking worst, I’m not going,”

“Yes, you are. This isn’t optional, you will go nicely or you will be taken forcefully. Either way you’re getting on that plane. Go and pack, don’t think you’d like what the geography teacher would bring you.”

I hang up on my dad and hand the phone back to the bodyguard. He takes it and holds his hand out.

“What?”

“Your phone too,”

“We’re not going yet,”

“Give me your phone,” he says if slowly, demanding.

I slam it into his hand and turn on my heel, heading to my room.

I try to clear the rage from me and think about what I actually need to pack. I throw a bunch of clothes, some books and my Switch into a suitcase. My makeup, skincare and other toiletries go in another.

After trying to streamline what I thought of as a full, big life, it feels depressingly small. I pack a total of three suitcases and am still have time to sit in the edge if my bed and have a slight panic attack.

My new bodyguard comes half way through my freak out.

“Cars here, are you okay?”

“I'm kind of freaking out,”

“Yeah, no doubt. Let’s both panic on the plane though,”

I watch him take a seat opposite me on the plane and he smiles, looking around with an almost nostalgic look on his face.

“What?” I ask as I catch his eye

“Been a while since I’ve been on one of these,” he shrugs.

“You had a jet?” I try not to sound bitchy but that’s clearly impossible.

“No, we had one for my old job” he seems unphased.

“What did you do?”

“Oh, we’ve got a while together Miss Smith, let’s not use up all the small talk at once,” he grins at me.

“That’s fine by me,” I shrug and put my headphones in

[apuckishwit]

For your prompts: Steddie, and "Want. Take. Have." *tiny voice* maybe make it a little dark? As a treat?

Not SUPER dark, but anyone who has read my AO3 works knows I have absolutely nothing against a little Dark!Eddie now and then, lol. Hope this pleases!

CW: dubious (at best) consent via magic (nothing explicit, though the ending certainly implies more)

Eddie absolutely loathes Starcourt.

It’s loud, overly bright, and always crawling with other Fae, creatures, and—most annoyingly—human magic users. In general, he avoids the place like the plague unless he’s in need of a particularly rare spell component, or his uncle asks him to help out at the shop he’s been running here for the last few centuries.

Today, it’s the latter.

Eddie is lounging behind the counter, idly flicking bolts of his magic at the flowering vines that twine around the entrance to his uncle’s shop and watching the pretty little pink and white blooms (shaped like stars, because of fucking course they are) wither and shrivel before the power inherent in the site brings them back to life. He’s got probably another hour before one of the garden fairies comes to yell at him for straining their preservation spells. He’ll probably stop before then…he doesn’t want to get his uncle fined, after all. It’s been a slow day, fortunately, and his uncle—Eddie can’t quite remember what name he’s using for business these days…something that starts with a W, something depressingly human, as he makes most of his sales to witches and warlocks and using a human name makes them more comfortable or some shit—is due back from his business in their home realm sometime tonight. He’s almost daring to hope that he’ll be able to close up the shop without dealing with any other customers when there’s a soft pop of air and magic right outside the entrance and a group of humans appear in Starcourt’s receiving area.

Bored and feeling a little mischievous, Eddie straightens and leans forward, taking a look at the group. They’re almost all children. Well, all right, mid-teens, probably, but Eddie’s started counting his age in millennia—all humans are children to him, even the most elderly. A decently-powerful witch with curly brown hair is looking around Starcourt with wide, dark eyes, clutching the hand of another witch with two long, flame-red braids. A warlock wearing an eye-searingly bright colored shirt and possibly the stupidest cap Eddie’s ever seen looks far too excited to be here and behind them, bent over with his hands braced on his knees and clearly breathing through the nausea that some humans experience when they step through the portal to Starcourt…

Eddie straightens even further. Well now.

Eddie doesn’t care for humans, in general. They’re noisy, clumsy things in his experience, always thinking they’re wiser and more powerful than they are and making it everyone else’s problem. They do occasionally, however, produce absolutely lovely specimens.

The young man with the teenagers is fucking beautiful. Not a drop of magic in his veins, which surprises Eddie…magicless humans aren’t forbidden from entering Starcourt or anything, but it’s pretty unusual. The man finally straightens, running a hand through his hair. The sleeve of his shirt—he’s wearing a dark blue polo shirt and lightwash jeans, it should look stupid, how is he making it work?—bunches just so over his bicep and Eddie kind of wants to sink his teeth into the muscle.

There are rules for interacting with humans. Customs, traditions, and no few laws that have been written over the centuries. His uncle has adapted well enough, seems content to go through the intricate motions that let him build business and personal relationships with the humans that come to his shop. Gaining things you want from humans has become quite complicated. Eddie’s personal beliefs on the matter are a bit simpler.

Want.

Take.

Have.

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. Never mind getting fined, if Eddie’s caught fucking around with a human under the protections of Starcourt’s guest rights, his uncle could get his shop license revoked for the next hundred years. The magicless human listens to something the warlock is saying, before throwing his head back and laughing. A few shafts of sunlight filter down from the roof onto the receiving area, kissing his skin golden.

He just won’t get caught, then.

Eddie raises his forearm to his mouth and blows a gentle breath across the bats tattooed on his pale skin. They flutter their wings briefly before lifting right off his arm, tiny wisps of shadow and darkness. Eddie nods towards the little group with a smirk and the bats dart away, flapping through the air and becoming nearly invisible as soon as they cross the threshold of the shop. Eddie sits back on the little stool behind the counter, closing his eyes as the bats land unobtrusively on the beautiful young man’s back. He feels the little shiver that wracks through the human as his familiars slip down the collar of his shirt, cling to the back of his neck and shoulders.

There’s protection magic woven around him, spells constructed with more strength than skill and pressed into his skin. The magic feels like the warlock currently examining the map of Starcourt set up in the receiving area, like the red-haired witch and the other, dark-haired girl. There’s other magic in the spell, but it’s all young, not fully trained, not fully developed. Eddie tilts his head curiously—why would the only protections placed on this pretty thing have originated from a bunch of half-grown witches and warlocks? It’s quite unsafe for magicless humans to go about this world with no protections. Just about anything could happen to them.

Eddie feels along the threads of magic connecting him to his little familiars, prods just lightly at the protection charms woven around the enthralling human. Strong. He opens his eyes and flicks his gaze to the dark-haired girl. She’s going to be a force to be reckoned with when she comes into her full power. She’s obviously the one who wove most of the spells, though the feel of the warlock’s magic is also very present. How sweet…they must love the young man very much.

Alas, the fairy tales are not entirely accurate, and even reinforced by true love, spells made by half-trained children are still spells made by half-trained children. It is the work of seconds to slip past the protective magic, one of his bats sinking right into the skin at the pretty thing’s nape and going still as the others dissolve into mist and shadow. Eddie watches him sway slightly on his feet, blinking rapidly, before he shakes his head and tunes back in to whatever the kids are saying. Eddie slips from behind the counter and saunters over to the shop entrance, positioning himself to hear the conversation under the guise of coming out of the shop to smoke.

“Steve, c’mon! We’re old enough to go shopping by ourselves,” the warlock wheedles. “I just want some new alchemy tools and El wants to look at the crystals in that dryad’s shop we saw last time. You don’t even like alchemy!”

The pretty human crosses his arms over his chest, levelling the boy with an unimpressed look. “Correct. Hell, I can’t even see half the shit in this place. However, I promised your parents I’d keep an eye on you.”

“Which you can totally do! Just, you know, with, like hourly check-ins or something,” the red-haired witch says, rocking back and forth on her heels. “Steve come on…we’re not going to do anything stupid, and we’ve all got guest rights while we’re here.”

“Max,” the human, Steve apparently says warningly…how funny, most human names (the one he himself often uses notwithstanding) sound stupid to his ears, but he kind of likes this one. ‘Max’ elbows the dark-haired witch in the side and she unleashes a truly lethal set of puppy eyes.

“Please, Steve? Hop never lets me go anywhere by myself. Dustin, Max, and I promise to stay together, and we will check back here every hour.”

Steve narrows his eyes, and Eddie takes the opportunity to brush his fingers over another of his tattoos. The puppeteer’s hand twitches, the strings glowing silver briefly as Eddie whispers, “Let them go, lovely. You’re not worried about it.”

His pretty new toy shivers again, frowning slightly before his face clears and he sighs heavily. “Fine. You have three hours. You check back here every hour on the hour. Don’t make me regret it.”

The warlock and the redhead rear back. “Wait, seriously?” the warlock says. “Dude! Thank you!”

The witches jump up and down in excitement as Steve fishes his wallet out of his pocket and hands them each a few bills of human money (Eddie personally prefers gold, but a lot of Fae and lesser creatures have been switching over to the human monetary system for convenience’s sake). The dark-haired witch hugs him briefly, and then all three children scamper off, leaving his pretty standing in the Starcourt receiving area.

Eddie’s smirk edges into dangerous. Predatory. It’s a bit foolish of the children to leave a completely magicless human by himself in a place where so many magical beings and creatures congregate, even with guest rights. Eddie has no intentions of hurting this beautiful thing, after all. The guest rights aren’t really going to help him. He passes a hand over the puppeteer tattoo again, setting the fingers twitching, the strings glowing.

“Come over here, sweet thing. Let me have a better look at you.”

Across the way, Steve turns towards the store his movements growing slow and a little dreamy as Eddie pulls on the threads of magic connecting them. Eddie stubs his cigarette out in the flowering vines, licking his lips in anticipation as the human draws closer. “Hello,” he purrs when his pretty is standing in front of him, a dazed little smile on his face. Eddie takes his chin in his hand, tilting his head this way and that, stroking that temptingly plush lower lip with his thumb as he does. “Oh, we are going to have some fun,” he whispers. He flicks a bolt of magic at the clock behind the counter, setting it to chime when they have ten minutes before the children are due to check in. Then he shuts the shop door, flips the sign to Closed, and curls his arm around Steve’s trim waist. “Step into my office, pretty.”

[sparklyslug]

crystal bitch next chapter baybee! whatever you want to share about it.

This chapter features: Steve’s truly depressingly empty and utilitarian bachelor pad, Eddie tapdancing around the question of moving in together, and the origin of some new rings.

….

When he turns back around, Steve is looking at Eddie intently, like he’s trying to figure something out. For a minute, Eddie is sure that he’s hurt him. That this day– this week, fuck, this year– is about to take a disastrous turn. But instead of his face falling, disappointed, heartbroken– Steve smiles. Saunters a little closer. “I think the sage is doing something to me, you know.”

Oh, okay. This? This is something Eddie can do. He places a hand on Steve’s hip, because he can now, he can draw him in just from that force alone. He presses himself along the line of Steve’s body just to feel that welcome warmth against him. “Oh no, what’s going on?”

Steve leans in. Real close, drops his voice low and suggestive, the tone that’s gotten countless beautiful people into bed with him. “Not sure. I’m feeling… hot all over. A little light-headed. Can’t seem to think straight. Maybe they sold you a special kind of sage. Maybe,” he pauses for dramatic effect. “It’s an aphrodisiac.”

Eddie tips his head back to groan. He’ll play up the theatrics, pretend he hates Steve’s lines and charm because it’s fun, but God, he’s never had someone try this hard before. He’s never had someone be so brazen about how much he wants Eddie. Steve’s great with a turn of phrase, sure, but he’s even better at action, with the way he’s taken the opening to get that hot, clever mouth on Eddie’s neck.

They have a rule about no visible marks – they’re not kids anymore, for fuck’s sake, real grown ups with jobs and responsibilities – but Eddie knows that once Steve drifts down, gets the buttons of Eddie’s green flannel button down opened to expose his collarbone and chest, he’ll be leaving something behind. Sometimes, when Eddie’s alone in the shower, or getting changed, he presses his fingers into the hickies and bruises on his chest, his stomach, the inside of his thighs. The territoriality of it all thrills Eddie in a way he couldn’t have anticipated. Someone wanting to be remembered. Someone wanting to claim Eddie like that.

“Or maybe it’s affecting you,” Eddie says, trying and failing to keep his voice from sinking into a low murmur, “because you’re a demon or something. Just as I always suspected.”

(Honestly at this point im not sure what’s me and what’s @greenlikethesea so ENJOY THIS GREENIE FREEBIE)

[thequeenofsastiel]

I'm enjoying GAP just as much as I hoped I would, and WAY more than I expected to. I thought I'd be grading on a curve because yay lesbians, but I don't have to do that at all. The characters are all interesting and being well fleshed out(except cardboard villain grandmother, but I'm starting to trust this show and think she'll eventually get at least a somewhat sympathetic backstory). The dialogue is genuinely clever and the humor effective; I spend a lot of time smiling and laughing and not because of cringe. Sam and Mon's relationship makes sense. I love that Sam isn't who Mon hoped she would be, but, with Mon's influence, Sam could become that person. I know it's a tad cliché, the whole idea that the love of a good woman can make you better, but idk, it feels different because they're both women. Sam has been trampled upon by the patriarchy(ironically and depressingly coming from her grandmother, who likely was also trampled upon and is just doing what she's been conditioned to do). Her flaws are completely understandable, and don't feel like they come from who she fundamentally is. I think she has a good heart but has just been put in an extremely difficult position and is handling it as best she can. I would normally be annoyed by one person being kind of an asshole when it comes to flirting, but it's obvious that that's just because she doesn't even fully understand her feelings, and is likely suppressing any understanding of them because she knows she'd never be able to act upon them.

Mon is a very sweet and intelligent person who might seem like a bit of a Mary Sue, except that she has this weird obsession with Sam that's motivated her for the last twelve years, an obsession that inherently makes her a little awkward and silly, which I think was quite the wise move. It doesn't feel like the creators are trying to make her perfect, which is good, because that's the downfall of many main characters.

Both of them are flawed, but both of them are trying their best. And they feel like they would work together. Mon's sweetness and devotion could be SO healing for Sam's trauma induced thorniness. And the love Sam will eventually feel for Mon will give her the bravery she needs to stand up to her grandmother. To fight to live the life she truly wants to live. And I think that's beautiful.

[sitronsangthoughts]

I have so many hard-to-formulate thoughts on the concept of cottagecore.

It seems to be mainly this... aesthetic obsession for people who do not live in rural areas. Often I see it discussed as if nobody actually lives in rural areas. Or  as if the act of living in a rural area inherently comes with compulsively cishet, racist and conservative values. Like that “it should be called confederatecore” post.

I’ve lived way out in the Norwegian countryside almost all my life, I do like to wear dresses and pick flowers (always have), I did grow up with chickens roaming the garden freely, and those summer days when all the flowers are blooming and the deer are grazing nearby really are jaw-droppingly idyllic. That’s my real life and it is beautiful. In pictures too.

I’m also a fat queer leftist who spends her free time working to organize local Pride events, who has no desire to live in the 1800s. My flowers and dresses come with equal rights and electric toothbrushes. I’m not a fucking tradwife. I don’t want wildflowers and straw hats to be universally associated with reactionary WASP bullshit any more than I want norse mythology to be associated with neo-nazis.

And there are plenty of unromantic aspects to living here. Doctor’s offices and hospitals are far away. Everywhere smells of manure a lot of the time. Cold, ruthless winters. Muddy dirt roads. A depressingly strong culture of underage drinking. People around here drive like absolute lunatics. The majority of the population is pretty politically conservative; people like me are working hard to change that but we’re so few. Small town gossip, cliquing and prejudice. Not cute. Also, we couldn’t afford to live closer to the city even if we wanted to. I keep seeing the “cottagecore lifestyle” described as this exclusive, unattainable life of privilege, and in some places maybe it is, but here it’s very much a place in or near the city that’s the luxury. This is where homes are cheap. Some people are just stuck here. I don’t know what my point is here or if I even have one. I just... it’s weird. It’s weird, to see a rosy approximation of my real life become a Tiktok trend. It’s weird to see it problematized by leftists on Tumblr. It’s weird, feeling like my literal reality is understood as a kind of toxic fiction.

[generalbritcomconfessions]

Sam Campbell making a joke in the Taskmaster series 16 podcast episode basically saying you can become famous in the UK even if you're ugly, made me feel completely different about him. Sorry, but there's no other way of interpreting the candle joke, and 'Everyone in Australia is really beautiful that's why I had to come here' , and hearing Ed literally howling with laughter like it was just SO clever and so true, was really butt kissing of him (but sadly typical for so many of us).

I thought he was too smart and his comedic mind too broad and unique for that kind of basic, ten-a-penny comedian's comment. I hear those comments almost everywhere, in pretty much any form of media and social media, to the point that it's depressingly common and pretty much accepted (and to the point I struggle to get into anything new because I don't know when it's going to suddenly crop up...though it usually does) and it seems we aren't allowed or even expected to get bothered or upset by it. But how can someone of us not when we hear it so often? And why is it almost only us who has to hear it (no one ever makes such negative jokes about Australians for example, so I guess that's why he doesn't get it). I should know better by now to not listen to any new artists I like in any context outside of where I found them (especially not on podcasts) because that always happens. But I never learn I guess. It just seems even worse when it's someone all evidence suggested was better and more absurdist than that.

Putting this in anon because the response that talking about this problem usually gets, is just way too nasty for me to be bothered with (because everyone hates us, apparently that means we aren't allowed to be bothered by anything and can't be hurt).

.

[vantaeskookies]

The Famous Rooftop Scene™ or what. what the fuck.

Well…………………………… after the masterpiece that was that episode I feel like I have to say something before I begin but I just can’t find the words to express how much I loved everything about the episode. I /might/ write something about the entire episode (or Pat’s feelings realization journey) in another moment because it definitely deserves a post of its own. But of course, the scene I have the most to say about from the episode is the famous, oh-so-teased-by-ohmnon rooftop scene. There’s no doubt they went off with this one, so I would like to dive a little bit into it. This will be nothing but praise for the actors and the writing, I don’t think I’ll be making any predictions because, really, nothing else matters right now.

Okay, let’s begin right at minute 7:15 of the fourth part of the episode, the moment Pat goes to the rooftop and sees Pran’s there.

From the get-go, you can see he hesitates, wonders if maybe it isn’t better to just walk away and maybe talk in another moment. Yet, as expected from the Pat we’ve known for 5 episodes now, he seems to just say fuck it and go for it, to talk to Pran, confess the truth. And Pran, he wants to leave when he sees him, but he’s on the way. Why did you play that song?

Once he realized his feelings for Pran, there was no turning back. Now Pat understands how important that song is, upon thinking back to them writing it together, and the way Pran turned around to look at him while singing it back then, and even now. And this confuses Pran so much because he probably never thought Pat would think anything of it, he’d probably forgotten about it like he did with the watch. The song had to be one of those things Pat did for him out of good heart, nothing else, like keeping his guitar all those years and helping him get the sponsorship. Why did Pat suddenly care like it meant something?

Pat, being the straight-to-the-point king he is, says it: I don’t like it. I hate to see you play it with someone else.

This breaks Pran. Pran, who has done nothing but build and rebuild walls around himself. He’s let himself out in the open too many times, let himself have hope one too many times, which was crashed just days ago when the boy he’s been in love with for years confessed to liking someone else. But Pat acts so carelessly, so carefree. He flirts with Pran and praises his dimples and that one time he said he liked to see his face, all that to break him again (unintentionally, of course) and cause Pran to have to put the walls up again. And even though a bit of that hope still shines through every time they’re together, last time was too much. Last time Pran cried himself to sleep, and it’s not fair. It’s not fair to be played like that.

Pran’s so angry, he exposes himself, crashes the wall himself without even having to directly admit that he likes him. Pat, you’ve got to stop doing this to me. We are not a thing. We are not even friends.

That’s pretty much the last resort Pran has to make all this go back to normal. We are not friends. It’s better to keep Pat away, as far away as possible, especially if he’s not going to return the feelings and just keep getting Pran’s hopes up for nothing.

But Pat knows what he wants, he understands what he feels now, why he felt so depressingly lonely when Pran was away. It was a kind of ache so strong that he probably kept it so buried within, confused as to why it even was happening. And the speech is so devastatingly beautiful… well, I don’t really know if that’s the word I’m meant to use, but I know that it conveyed the character’s feeling perfectly. The way he finally admits how hard it was for him to be alone like that, because Pran’s that person, the one he can truly be himself with and it’s so frustrating because no one wants them to be together, they’ve been destined to hate each other and compete against one another since before they were born, and now? Now Pat wonders had this not been real, do you think we can be friends?

The look on Pran’s face, I really don’t know how to explain it. Pat’s crying right in front of him, the boy he loves, while describing the unfair reality they got to live in. He’s so in love and he so knows no matter what happens, the ending’s not good. And there Pat is, implying that he wants more than rivalry, maybe even more.

Why? Do you want us to be friends? But both of them know, with tears streaming down their faces, that this isn’t friendship. (Pran hopes. He’s having hope again and we can see it in his face). And Pat, bless him, says it as it is.

No.

No, of course not. He knows he wants more, and Pran understands immediately what he means with just that single word. And is this really happening? Are they really going to kiss?

What makes a good kiss scene? I think everything subjective, really. Personally speaking, I think this one hit every single spot it had to hit.

There’s hesitation at first, both leaning in, until Pat goes for it. Their lips touch and the music, oh god the music hits like riding on the clouds right at the moment it happens. And it’s in this moment that I lose all my shit and forget how to form sentences because it leaves me thatempty minded and frozen.

My heart beats fast because I can feel everything they feel. Pat pulls back letting out a breath he had been holding since his ohmoment in the music shop, searching for something in the other’s eyes. And Pran will not settle with that. Pran has been through tough years and so many tears thinking this would never happen. So he takes the upper hand and kisses Pat the way he’s always meant to, hungry and with the weight of years of pining and unrequited love on his back, and those same tears in his face.

(pause to scream)

And they make out. The one last thing I thought would happen in the universe. I have to publicly apologize to Ohm and Nanon –especially Nanon – because I completely underestimated their professionalism by thinking they wouldn’t want to film a scene like that. I’m a fool.

But anyways, going back to the absolutely breathtaking, heart-fluttering kiss, everything about it screams years of being forced to stay away from each other, fear of letting go. The way their hands reach out and touch like they’re going lose each other right at that moment, but at the same time like this is not enough, it will never be enough, not knowing everything they have to lose.

You can see in Pran’s face that he’s still tasting the kiss when it ends, there’s no way this is happening. For Pat it’s like a breath of fresh air, because he doesn’t care what others think, not right now at least. He’s happy he figured out what he felt, and he’s happy because it feels so good to finally understand yourself and jumping into that pool. After so many years of tension within himself, of not quite getting what was missing, this kiss with Pran just gave him everything he needed and more to feel relieved.

Pran’s crying. Pran knows there’s way too much to lose if they go on. Pran sees too many possibilities, and the outcome is him getting hurt. He stays for a minute, letting it sink in, letting himself live in that moment for at least one more second because he knows this might be the last.

I have to say that it’s probably also hard for him because after all these years of resignation and pining, for Pat to break in so easily. It’s a lot to take in. I can’t quite put in words the vibe I’m getting from Pran in that moment. Like, yes, our families are rivals and we can’t be together, but opening up after locking yourself in for so long? I don’t recommend it.

Then realization hits Pat. Pran just left him there after kissing and suddenly this won’t be as easy as confessing your feelings and becoming something. There’s so many rocks in the way, starting with Pran that will probably close off again.

But hey! At least this time Pat knows what he wants, and he won’t let Pran go just like that again.

[softlilacmoonlight]

How Does a Thing Like that Get Started? Riddle Rosehearts x Reader

One might ask, how does a thing like that get started? How does this grow and grow into the all-consuming mess that it is? The answer is depressingly simple in the end. For love knows no bounds, no limitations, or any drawbacks. Love is consuming like a fire. It absorbs everything in its heat, and in the end, it either rages on like a forest fire with an endless supply of fuel or it turns to ash and crumbles like the dreams someone once held dear. What many people don't realize is for every lover there's a heartbroken dreamer, a hopeless dreamer, and a melancholy dreamer; in which, they remain silent and out of sight, unloved or simply unwanted. 

        To many of the diverse students, it was obvious that the Prefect was one of these dreamers. Beautiful, intelligent, and funny - many people desired to be with her. Princes, stars, the most stubborn, and the highest fallen trailed behind her so that they may simply be by her. The world seemed to surround her with a haunting aura of surrealness, one craved to be held by all; however, there was one exception to this everyday normalcy surrounding the Prefect. 

        The Housewarden of Heartslabyul detested the girl, despite her best efforts to be close to him. The intelligence he often admired in others made him feel like prey cornered with nowhere to run. Her beauty, so natural and healthy, made him detest the behaviors of those surrounding her, and in turn, he grew to hate her more and more with every passing day. Sadly, this time her natural humor won't be enough to sway the housewarden. Riddle hated her laugh, the way her eyes crinkled, and the way she had no mannerisms to her behavior. The Housewarden of Heartslabyul was nothing if not a strict believer in rules, and that does not disclude the rules of proper etiquette. 

        While many would either be thrilled or thoroughly upset to be followed by so many men, the Prefect was indifferent to the behavior of her many companions. Men had always fallen around her for as long as she could remember, but despite this, she was adored for her neverending kindness. Even after so many years, she never let the behavior of the people around her affect her kindness and generosity. Despite all those years, she had never encountered someone who she truly loved in return; however, when her eyes met those of Riddle Roseheart's her own heart skipped a beat. His fierce yet delicate beauty was like a magnet to her. The way he composes himself with such intellect and dignity made her swoon and dream over him day and night. His unique humor and mannerisms only entwined her deeper and deeper into the sense of longing she felt in her chest. As many of the students had guessed, the Prefect was indeed a dreamer, a hopeless dreamer wading through the neverending current of this harsh and straining school hoping and praying that the boat will turn around and save her. Hoping that Riddle will turn around and save her heart that is sinking slowly deeper into hopeless love and despair every day. 

        That day never came. Tea parties came and went. The season colors bled and melted into different seasons until finally, it was Christmas break. While eventful, the Prefect longed for Riddle to return, only if it meant she could say hi. While eventful, the break was quickly over and students began to trickle back to the campus one by one, till eventually, they were all back safe and sound. The Prefect, in anticipation, had made a huge tart for the Heartslabyul boys upon their return, and the tart may or may not have been strawberry flavored. She'd never worked so hard on any other sweet before in her life. 

        After telling Grim her plans, she slowly and carefully made her way to the now bustling Heartslabyul. Friends reuniting and preparing for the near semester were scattered all throughout the garden. Their jackets zipped up and mittens pulled over their cold hands. Walking into the dorm that had been so quiet until recently, the Prefect let out a small sigh of contentment and a smile slipped onto her face. Navigating through the huge spiraling building, she eventually comes to the entry to the kitchen where she could hear five distinct voices. 

        "I can't wait to tell Prefect about my break! It was crazy!" exclaims Ace, the thrill of being home for a period of time evident in his voice. 

        A chuckle broke out and the voice suddenly added to the conversation, "Well, I brought the Prefect a present. I hope she'll like it. I tried really hard to pick the perfect gift. My mom even helped me!" exclaimed Deuce excitedly and a little nervously. 

        The sound of the oven door closing could be heard, "Well," began Trey, his brotherly voice warm and comforting, "I'm sure she'll love whatever you got for her Deuce knowing how much work you put into the selection."

        "Ditto!" exclaimed Cater's animated voice, cutting through the homey atmosphere yet seemingly belonging perfectly. 

        A very dainty cough suddenly sounds through the room, the Housewarden demanding the floor, "I don't understand what you all see in her. Past her beauty what is there? Her intellect feels cunning, ready to pounce and swipe at any moment. Her beauty makes men fall at her feet like they have no will, making everything a disaster wherever she goes. Not to mention, she really isn't that funny. I don't see what any of you see in her. In fact, I quite loathe her and her very existence."

        Ah yes, love is such a beautiful thing and such a wicked curse. It makes you blind to all their faults and even makes you put them before your own mental and emotional well-being. How does a thing like that get started? A dreamer falls in love with a lighter. The one who starts the fire and either keeps it going or turns it into a destructive and brutal force. 

        Does the Prefect remember dropping the tart? No. Does she remember the silence that fell throughout the kitchen when the glass shattered and slid under the kitchen door, red covering the edges? No. Does she remember the glass cutting her hand and mixing with the tart as she sprinted down the twisting and turning hallways in the huge dormitory? No. Neither does she remember the shouts of her friends as they chased her through the halls. The garden is only but a blur in her memory, unimportant when compared to her emotions. Her skirt flies behind her as her hair falls out of its updo, trailing wisps of silky hair behind her. Nor does she remember running into the forest to escape her friends. No, all the Prefect can remember from the horrendous and earth-shattering catastrophe was the feeling that her heart was going to beat out of her chest and the feeling of tears as they blurred her vision and streaked her simple mascara down her cheeks and onto her dress. 

       She never saw Riddle's face, frozen in shock and horror. She never saw her friends' abject terror at being unable to find the poor girl in the forest. She will never know that everyone began to search for her, through the dark, the cold, and the wetness, they braved their way for her. No, all she remembers is that horrible feeling of the world collapsing in on her, and in her confusion, she failed to see the small yet steep drop-off in front of her. Falling head first, she falls and dreams of never having met Riddle Rosehearts as her head hits the hard stone and blackness consumes her limp body. 

Shall I do part 2? WRITER'S BLOCK GOT DESTROYED DUE TO AN AWESOME PLAYLIST!!!!!!!! Thanks! -The Author

[nincompoopydoo]

LOVE IS STRANGE

PAIRING: Poe Dameron x reader WORD COUNT: 1.9k SUMMARY: The union of Ireca and Mohash may seem a typical cliche of love in comparison to your depressingly lonely state, but when a certain poster boy pilot emerges during the celebration, you wonder if love works in other underlying ways. A/N: I found this in my google docs, first written about a year ago. so, wohoo i present to you my first ever poe dameron content, i think? he's so charming and carelessly beautiful. please leave a comment and tell me what you think or what else you'll like to see from me 💖 gif by @john-seed from this gifst WARNINGS: mentions of alcohol and getting drunk, space swearing. support my writing through ko-fi💖 MASTERLIST

Love is strange. Delicate yet fierce. So forceful that it manages to seep through the cracks created by bombs and gunfire of war. Unexpected at times, appearing out of nowhere. Yet, it’s beautiful because it brings those with beautiful hearts and minds together, entangled in the constant dance of intimacy and devotion.

It’s what Ireca and Mohash have.

Ireca was from the Logistic division, a mechanic herself and your colleague. She was to be married to her long-time lover, Mohash, a flight engineer for the Cobalt Squadron. As far as cliches go, wartime love falls along the lines of a romance cliche. Yet, war was all you’ve known. It’s what everyone has ever known. It’s common to develop some kind of a feeling other than the constant emotions during battle—fondness, the feeling of falling in love with someone. It’s truly what we stay alive for.

Maybe that’s why you hate it so much. The absence of the feeling that everyone describes as so fucking amazing that it completes you. You feel empty most of the time. It’s definitely the reason why you put all your effort into fixing things you can rather than complicated problems and issues that continue to reside in your mind, especially in the wake of midnight.

You find yourself sitting by the makeshift bar, tucked away from the crowd of friends and colleagues. There’s music playing, the sound of drums, and the seven-string hallikset reminds you of your brief visit to Naboo three cycles ago. You’re nursing a warm cup of something that tastes closer to acid water than alcohol.

Ireca emerges from the crowd with flowers in her braided hair. She approaches you with a bright smile and calls out your name wistfully. You shoot a strained smile her way, feeling the bags under your eyes weigh a little more. “What are you doing here all by yourself, huh?” she asks, leaning against the bar with a gentle pat on your shoulder.

“I’m just really tired. Last night was rough. Plus, I’m behind schedule.” you sighed heavily, running your fingers through your hair. She flashed you a smile of sympathy as you continued, “I’m sorry, Ireca. Don’t let me ruin your night. Go, have fun.”

She raises an eyebrow as you take another sip from your cup.

"Go. I'm sure you don't want to miss Mohash's special performance." You gesture to a drunk Mohash, who seemed to be searching for the woman. Ireca merely laughed. "Oh, it sure is going to be special." With a gentle touch to your back and wave, you watch her make her way into the swarm of bodies. You're left alone once again.

You’re still trying to figure out how Mohash even got hold of any sort of alcohol and managed to smuggle it into the base. Someone must have nicked it during one of the previous missions in the Mid Rim.

You rub your eyes, half-awake at this point; your cup is placed beside you as you rest your head against your folded arms on the table. Your mind is in a daze and incapable of irrational thought, deciding it would be best to just camp out here, by the makeshift bar, for the night. You were too tired to drag yourself all the way to your quarters, which felt like miles away, in the first place.

As sleep began to weigh heavy upon your eyelids, you suddenly felt a sharp tap on your shoulder. A soft groan escaped your lips as you shifted your head, still resting on your arms, just enough to peek at your sleep intruder.

It’s Poe Dameron. Commander and Black Leader. Incredibly talented, confident, and effortlessly handsome.

Ugh, you hate this guy.

Yet, you don’t feel so tired anymore.

“Are you drunk?” There’s amusement in his voice with a tinge of mockery. It made you realize the stun you were pulling. Classic Dameron. It was supposed to be a happy ceremony, but it was truly Ireca’s fault for manipulating you into coming tonight. Parties, events, and social gatherings were never right up your alley. You prefer spending time with machinery and your greasy hands.

Poe’s eyes are gleaming under the fluorescent lights, filled with concern, but you spot the smugness in his emerging smile. A flash of a thought, you kind of want to feel his lips on yours. The image immediately stings. You want to gag.

Poe is irritating, arrogant, and careless. Not charming. Nope, definitely not charming.

You straighten yourself, trying to shake off the burning image, shoving it to the back of your head. You lift your head, propping your elbow on the table and resting your chin on the heel of your hand. “You actually think I’ll even touch that bantha shit?”

Tearing your eyes away from Poe, you reach for your cup only to realize it was empty. He casts you a look. Your eyes shoot daggers with an extended pointer finger his way, “Don’t you dare say anything, flyboy.”

Poe raises his palms in defense, lips pursing. “Wasn’t going to.”

You catch a glimmer of mischief in his eyes, one hand discreetly reaching under his tawny leather jacket. Then, a bottle of Corellian whiskey emerges, shining under the lights of the Resistance hangar. Your face lights up at the recognition of the bottle, memories of your rare trips to Corellia, sharing whiskey drinks with your colleagues. It was the only planet you’d been to ever since you joined the Resistance.

You’ve only tasted Corellian whiskey once because of how expensive it is. You’ll happily get drunk to that in a heartbeat. Drink the worry and sorrow away with the lingering taste of frankly exorbitant whiskey.

Like a child with grabby hands, you reach for the bottle, but as your fingers brush his, Poe quickly lifts it to the air and away from you. He smacks your hand away. You whine, feeling a little lightheaded. The contents of the mysterious drink are starting to kick in.

What the blinkin' mradhe muck was in that drink?

“What do you want from me? It’s not like I have a drinking problem.”

He’s giving you that look like he’s judging you, but with a hint of amusement at the slight tug of the corner of his mouth. “You definitely have a drinking problem, but... i'll let you drink this on one condition.”

“For kriff’s sake,” you mutter, rolling your eyes, glancing away. “I’m not doing any weird wacky favors for you, Dameron.”

He scoffs, expression bewildered. “Hey, I don’t ask for weird wacky favors,” He articulates his words with a defensive tone, index finger stretched to your face. You simply smack it away as Poe clicks his tongue and continues to clarify his proposition. “All I’m asking is for you to fix my ship.”

Your wide-eyed gaze flies to him, shaking your head furiously. “Oh, no, no. No. Never in a million cycles. Never in a million millennials. Nuh-uh—”

“Hey, quit being dramatic. It’s a simple job.”

Your eyes grow even wider, voice raising. “A simple job? You fly that ship of yours like we have hundreds of spare ones. I’m not putting all my time and effort into fixing a lost cause.”

“But you haven’t even—”

“No. I’m not fixing your ship, and that’s final.”

Poe blinks and you’re back to fussing over your empty cup. The chatter of the crowd grows louder as a group of pilots of the Cobalt Squadron began rendering verses of an unknown traditional drinking song to your ears. You steal a look to only find Ireca and Mohash amidst a dance, tangled in each other's arms.

He eyes closely, noticing the turn of your lips, trained eyes deem melancholy. He knows the face of a loner very well—usually recruits with lost family and homes. They enlist in a mass community of freedom fighters for the restoration of good in the universe, and to finally feel a sense of familiarity and belonging. He doesn’t know much about you but he knows you don’t truly have anyone to depend on but yourself. It’s the reason why you’re constantly fierce.

Poe clears his throat, shifting closer to you as he watches the way you carry your gradual gaze to hold his. They then flit to the space between the two of you, raised eyebrows acknowledging the weird close proximity of his presence to yours.

“Look, you’re the best mechanic there ever was and probably ever will be. So, fix my ship, and you get to have this Corellian beauty. All of it.” He sways the bottle in the air, but you don’t look at it.

“You know, that’s bribery.”

“Yes, and it’s working.”

You scoff. “No, it isn’t.”

Poe laughs. “Yes, it is. I can see it in your eyes.”

Another scoff, you look fully aggravated. “How dense do you think I am?”

“Oh, very, but let’s not get into that.”

Bickering was the only language the two of you spoke fluently when you found yourselves tangled in a conversation with one another. Thrown insults were spoken lies—saying you hate each other when you know that isn’t true. Well, at least you don’t mean it and you hoped Poe didn’t either.

You’re exhausted, physically and mentally. For once, kindness and acceptance seem to be the easiest route.

A sigh passes your lips as you blink up to the ceiling, sending a silent prayer for blessings from the Maker above. “You’re right. I am dense. Truly dense. So, yeah. Okay. I’ll fix that stupid X-Wing of yours.”

Poe blinks, dumbfounded. “Wait, really?”

With a roll of your eyes, they meet his very own wide ones. “Yes, really. Only because you complimented me. Now, hand me that Corellian whiskey before I change my mind.”

He then makes a sound that resonates between a cough and a pleasantly surprised laugh, eyes crinkling with delight. Poe happily and absentmindedly passes the whiskey to you, still reacting like your agreement is some sort of object of ridicule in the best way possible.

“Wow—Maker, you have no idea what kind of trouble you’re saving me from. If the General ever found out—man, pfft. Thank you. Thank you so much—”

A swift and unexpected motion, he is reaching you, palms clasp and either side of your face, and plants a quick peck on the side of your left temple.

Poe isn’t thinking straight.

There you are, mid-swig, lips so close to the rim of the bottle with eyes so wide. You steal a steady glance at the pilot whose expression seems to reflect yours. His hands are still on your cheeks. He’s unbelievably close to you and he’s staring with that stupid look of his.

‘Maker, preserve me.’

A cheer erupts from the crowd from across the space and just like that, the moment is gone. Whatever the moment even was. His touch is no longer on yours and his gaze shifting away.

The tension, however, is still very present.

You finally take a swig of the whiskey, wanting to ease the sudden tightness in your chest. You hum at the stinging sensation on your tongue. You catch a glimpse of Poe from the corner of your eye who busies himself with tapping his fingers nervously against the surface of the bar.

Then, in an awkward motion, you stretch your arm to him, offering the drink.

A beat. His gaze shifts between you and your hand. When he finally gives in, a smile curves upon his lips, fingers brushing against yours. They’re delicate and you smile at him. It's small, but it makes his heart skip a beat and you wonder to yourself about the strangeness of love.

[lamelinam]

The maid and the Cat, Ren and Akira: some musings

What gloomy love brightened the half-lives of the Sohmas’ most Cursed ones?

I often wonder what the relationship between the former Cat and his attendant would have looked like, twisted and sad as it must have been. Precious little is shown about those two, and only through Kazuma’s pov. We know she took care of and pitied the Cat, to the point that she even slept with him and bore his child. This is not unlike Kureno’s relationship with Akito. She might have treated him with the same kindness and devotion, distant, perhaps harmful, yet selfless.

Selfless? I think another way to extrapolate on the story of Kazuma’s grandparents is with Ren and Akira’s relationship.

Many great meta writers have already pointed out that those who fill in the positions at the extremes of the Sohma hierarchy, the Cat and God, or in this case the Cat and the idolized, deified family head, are foils to each other and are the ones that are dehumanized and isolated the most.

But now I think that you can also compare the way the previous Cat and Akira both chose ("chose" being a relative term in the case of the Cat) a romantic partner.

(Akira wasn’t God, but as the family head, he was worshipped just like Akito. His sickness also contributed to making him stand apart. Not only was he kept inside the compound because of his frailty, the hold that death had on him blessed him with this ephemeral, divine aura. “Was it the sorrow that befell him at such a young age that gave him that otherworldly beauty?»)

Both Kazuma’s grandfather and Akito’s father were doomed, Akira to die an early death, Kazuma’s grandfather to live the life of a living dead. Both were buried alive in the Sohma estate, either at the outskirts or at the center of it.

Both reached out to their progeny. (But Kazuma rejected the offered cake, and will endeavour to atone and honour his grandfather’s memory. Akito clung to every memento she had of her father and will need to learn to let go of him.)

And both the previous Cat and Akira found some measure of comfort in the affections and arms of their female caretakers, Sohma servants who saw their loneliness and expressed their compassion, though not in a particularly healthy way: Kazuma’s grandmother acting out of pity, Ren out of obsessive love.

It’s interesting to me how their respective position was reflected in their partners’ feelings : the imprisoned, despised Cat, Kazuma’s grandmother looked down on. The respected, otherworldly beautiful Akira was adored by Ren.

Kazuma sums up his grandparents’ relationship thusly:

Those correspond to the main "duties" that a wife is traditionally supposed to provide her husband.

The day-to-day caring.

Childbearing.

Attending their husband’s deathbed.

Obviously Ren wished she could have skipped the second one and be there for the last one. (I headcanon that she had prepared her last words years in advance, finding small pleasures and comfort, on the back of the wave of despair anticipating Akira’s death, in rehearsing the declarations of passionate love she would address to the dying man.)

The Cat’s companion attended her partner’s deathbed, seemingly very composed, even cold, as seen in Kazuma’s memories, while Ren, deprived of her husband’s last moments, that she felt were “stolen” from her by Akito (in reality by the maids :@), was mad with grief.

"The only one who can save him"

Those parallels make me wonder whether or not the Cat’s companion might not have developed a saviour complex, like Ren, both believing that they were the only one able to save this lonely, condemned person they were taking care of, and relishing it.

“I love you” vs "I pity you"

On Ren’s side though, it seems that she believes she truly saw Akira, as the person hiding behind that otherworldly aura, filled with sadness and fearful of death. Seeing that Akira agrees with her ("Ren noticed I was lonely"), fought against the Sohma leaders and regretted on his deathbed that he and Ren couldn’t reconcile, I believe this is not a delusion of hers. Her love was genuine and passionate, and she and Akira were happy. Unfortunately, that happiness didn’t survive her pregnancy, for she was also jealous and obsessed.

Kazuma supposes that his grandmother believed that she was doing something good. I wonder at her expression. It is shadowed, enigmatic. Is it a smirk or not, is she sad or not? i wonder whether she was selfless in her pity, like Kureno, or selfish like Kagura, perhaps feeling better by «sacrificing» herself in associating with the Cat for the sake of a miserable soul.

(Whatever you can say or imagine about her, Kazuma doesn’t seem to suffer from the stigma of being the Cat’s grandson, nor does he bear any trace of an abusive upbringing - in fact, he was among those doing the abusing - or even the echoes of the previous generation’s, so my guess is that she was an okay mother and grandmother... which would have made Kazuma’s disappointment and hurt at her words all the sharper... Like Tohru thinking of the zodiacs members she finds so kind and adorable secretly looking down on someone else she realizes she cares about more than she thought.)

There is no way to know how the Cat reacted to a pity-love. But considering Kureno and Akito’s relationship, this might also have been but a superficial balm, and potentially just as hurtful. Then it depends on the interpretation. Kureno’s pity cocooned Akito and kept her from moving forward, but the Cat was condemned anyway to an eternity of imprisonment. Moving forward was forbidden to him. And if his self-worth was already completely destroyed as his role and his treatment are meant to do, he might have just felt grateful towards the attendant. There’s no way to say for sure whether he would have been hurt or not by the truth, and I don’t know which option is the saddest!

... but I know what could be sadder. Because is the maid entirely to blame? We know that in Fruits Basket, love requires a measure of selfishness. The one cursed with the Cat has no self, no existence, no wants and no future, and they accept this fate. They believe they deserve it. (Which is why the Cat's Room doesn't need bars in the manga, nor locks. Rin was under lock and keys because either Akito didn't completely trust her to keep her word or she didn't want someone to discover her.)

It would be very difficult for someone to fall in love with a person who has renounced to everything, perhaps including love. Because who's to say that the Cat loved the maid too?

Recognition vs indifference

How depressingly fitting that we don't even learn the Cat's name, while Akira’s is remembered by all and echoes back and forth in the later part of the story.

Ren marrying the Sohma family head was such a big political deal it provoked a family schism. The Cat’s story with the maid gets completely ignored. It is probably known, just not "officially recognized", says Kazuma. Like everything related to the Cat, it was relegated to the back of the minds, in the dusty closet of the things that are uncomfortable to think about but that you tolerate if it doesn’t upend your little world-view. Ugh, some maid is being inappropriate with that monster! Well, as long as she doesn’t free the loathsome creature, who cares. (And she wouldn’t, because she’s no Tohru.)

In contrast, the maids of the main family thought that Ren was stealing Akira from their grasp. Ren didn’t seem to care for the family, and in a way, her love allowed Akira to also escape from them, "snatched away" by "that woman”, for the old attendant. Unlike the Cat’s attendant, Ren felt like a threat to the Sohma strict hierarchical system. (Fortunately, God will be born to bring back the right order of things, phew! Certainly she he will accomplish what Akira-san was momentarily too misguided to do and rid us of that woman!)

Inheritance.

Both women's profession of their true feelings deeply marked their progeny and the way they view relationship, whether personal or not, romantic or filial.

While her mother affirmed that "a woman only needs one man", Akito leaned on the love of the zodiacs ; Kazuma viewed and loved Kyo as a human and dreaded that his son would find himself in the same situation as his grandfather but also with the same kind of companionship. (His reaction to Kagura speaks of a long-held anxiety). But Ren's hatred for Akito coloured the way Akito interpreted her words, while Kazuma’s grandmother’s declaration shook Kazuma, his personal relationship with his grandmother notwithstanding.

This comparison isn't about good or evil, neither to judge those characters. Furuba isn’t about that. Obviously, they are not blameless. But it is very difficult to say whether or not Kazuma’s grandmother was wrong to act out of pity if it provided a bit of comfort to a prisoner. And is it surprising that Ren developed this saviour’s complex when it seems she was the only one willing to breach Akira’s isolation bubble?

Anyway, Takaya-sensei is really good at making foils. Either because she does it on purpose or because her characters are so deeply intertwined with the themes of the series the parallels appear on their own. But in this case, I don’t think it’s for nothing that the chapters recounting Ren and the Cat’s attendant stories follow each other (chapters 114 and 115).

Of course, this meta is less an analysis and more suppositions and conjectures (frankly, I wonder if I might not as well have written a fanfic). From the little we see, the Cat’s companion and Ren work as distorted yin-yang mirrors, their differences highlighting the similarities of their situations, from the ugly effects of the inner workings of the Sohma cult to the messed up inner workings of the heart. Genuine but obsessed, jealous love... Pity, perhaps self-serving, in the guise of martyred love.... One thing I can say for sure is that these two both gave me chills in their own way.

[wherethehellismysupersuit]

EP- 16 review

i’m gonna write this review as unbiased as possible. But i honestly don’t think i can squeeze comedy in here.

It seems like my prophetic words from the review in EP-14 came true. TVN has a spectacular record in fucking up the endings on shows.

It’s not even about the fact that Yijin and Heedo didn’t end up together. Their growing apart, while heartbreaking was shown in a mature and beautiful way. Yijin lost sight of who he was in the grief. hearing Heedo’s words of support were more of a burden since she was so far removed from the tragedy. And Heedo realised this, and broke things off.

I won’t lie, it hurts. To see two people stick with each other through thick and thin only to find out that the real world is not the world they’ve seen through their rose tinted glasses. My favourite line was “When things are good, we’re lovers. Else, we’re just a burden to each other.”

The main thing that pissed me off was how the group did’nt really matter in the end. I feel like TVN tried to make this such a memorable, life lesson teaching, kind of drama that they forgot why the drama was as popular as it was. Because of the friends.

Yurim and Jiwoong stay together. They get engaged in a cute fencing match that i wished was Heedo’s and Yijin’s. Yurim opens a fencing school, Jiwoong runs a business. They got the ending we had been hoping Yijin and Heedo would receive.

Even Seungwan’s life disappointed me. Where did that ambitious, righteous girl go? She was stuck working at MBS as a backstage worker (i’m not sure) and also lost someone dear to her (Can someone tell me whose funeral it was? I don’t want to rewatch the episode tbh)

I fully expected her to be in a position of great respect. But then again, life’s a bitch.

Heedo retires at 28, marries some nameless guy, still longingly looks at Yijin and then probably has Minchae.

Some reasonable points that were never mentioned again were;

1) who was minchae’s dad? the drama writers knew that was the main question, and yet they never answered it?

2) what happened to Yijin? You don’t go and make a show just so the ml’s story is the least detailed. We know that he was the head anchor, but did he ever get better? was he still stuck in his destructive ways?

3) Really? A freaking goblin and his reincarnated lover can end up together, doom and a human with terminal illness can be together and live happily, but a fucking reporter and fencer can’t? What bullshit is this?

4) a random soundbite of appa in the studio that we all theorised on for weeks? yep also meaningless. Fuck you.

The main reason this drama disappointed me was that in the end, the premise didn’t really matter. In this covid infested world, we all craved human contact and empathy. Twenty Five Twenty One marketed itself as a drama that was young, fun, filled with friendships that was like a boon to us touch starved people. We loved, laughed and cried along with them , only to find out that they’re not really in contact with each other. It’s depressingly realistic, but not the thought the viewers needed in this time. i’m not sure if there’s a season 2 announced, but i don’t think it could fix this.

All we know is Heedo’s future is that she works at the woodworking shop named 2521. She has a daughter named Minchae, who does ballet. She’s a retired fencer. Are we sure that she even is the fl? and it’s not Yurim?

It sucks that the main leads future is not detailed at all, whereas the side characters get their happy ending.

Once again, i’m thankful to 2521 for making my weekends happy. But this weekend was a bitch, and i’m trying hard to erase my memory. I feel like they tried too hard to be ~not like other dramas~ and it backfired spectacularly. Not because of Heedo and Yijin, because of the really ambiguous ending.  All my love to the actors and i hope to see them in more dramas again.

signed,

Your resident analyser.

[mst3kproject]

The Monster Maker

I could have sworn J. Carroll Naish was on MST3K at some point but the only thing I can find from his filmography that has appeared on this blog is Dracula vs Frankenstein, in which he played Dr. D'Ray.  Not that it matters.  The Monster Maker's producer, Sigmund Neufeld, also brought us MST3K feature The Mad Monster, and writer Sam Newfield penned both that film and I Accuse my Parents (not to mention the world's only all-midget cowboy musical, Terror of Tiny Town), but mostly I'm watching this movie because... well, you know, it sucks.

I know what you're thinking, and as far as I can tell, no, Sigmund Neufeld and Sam Newfield are not the same guy who's just bad at pseudonyms.

Anthony Lawrence is one of the world's greatest pianists, but with a concert tour finished he's looking forward to relaxing and spending some time with his daughter Patricia and her fiance Bob.  Sadly, this is not to be, as Patricia has come to the attention of Dr. Igor Markov, who believes her to be the reincarnation of his dead wife Leonora.  He spends weeks harassing poor Pat, until her father storms over to Markov's office to tell him where he can shove his attentions. Little does Lawrence know he's walking into a trap.  Markov has been experimenting on animals in his basement, and if Lawrence doesn't hand over Patricia, the next syringe is for him!

I have mixed feelings about this movie.  It surprisingly subverts several tropes of the mad scientist movie, including some it deliberately sets up only to pull the rug out from under them, resulting in a surprisingly happy ending.  On the other hand, it does this in ways that aren't always very satisfying, and its treatment of the disabled is frightful.

For an illustrative example, let's take Dr. Markov's caged gorilla.  The movie never tells us why he has a caged gorilla.  He says it's vital to his work but we never see him do anything much with it... I assume it's there because the caged gorilla was a standard part of the mad scientist lab equipment in the 1940s and 50s.  The only time we see him interact with it is when he sets it loose in the middle of the night to murder his traitorous assistant, Maxine, who had threatened to go to the police.  We cut to the gorilla back in its cage the next morning, and we assume Maxine is dead – only to have her walk in and tell us that her protective dog drove the gorilla back to the lab.

This is kind of a fun moment, not only because it's a surprise but because everything in it was set up, not just the gorilla but the animosity between it and the dog.  It also enables the eventual happy ending – after Markov is killed, Patricia worries that nobody else will be able to help her father. However, Maxine is familiar with Markov's work, and assures her that Lawrence will be just fine with a few weeks of treatment.  That's all quite nice for a mad scientist movie of this vintage!  It's also interesting in that it tells us these tropes were around to be subverted – that audiences in 1944 had already seen enough stupid mad scientist movies to know that the gorilla is supposed to kill the traitorous assistant and that the ending is supposed to be a tragedy.

The problem is that this leaves the gorilla with no reason to be in the movie at all besides to fake us out.  It ultimately has no effect on the plot whatsoever other than to establish Markov as a bastard, which by now we already knew.  You cannot put Chekov's Gorilla in a cage in act one, wave it around in act two before putting it back with a 'psych!', and then not have it break somebody's neck in act three.  It still has to do something, or you're just being a tease.

The fact that Maxine is able to cure Lawrence speaks to the fact that The Monster Maker is surprisingly respectful of its women.  Maxine is quite intelligent and knows her love for Markov is self-destructive, but feels she has devoted too much of her life to him to leave him now.  Patricia is a less substantial character, but her father treats her with great respect – when Markov demands Patricia in exchange for a cure, Lawrence continues to refuse even after the mad doctor has robbed him of his friends, his passion, and his career.  Pat's fiance Bob has fewer principles, as he repeatedly lies to her in the belief that he is protecting her from the truth, but this too is presented as the wrong thing to do and I hope we're meant to believe Bob learns from it. The screenwriters' general attitude seems to be that women should be allowed to make up their own minds about things.

Markov, as the villain, is also the movie's misogynist, and this is in no way subtle.  He wants to marry Patricia because she resembles Leonora – and that's it.  Her personality, her background, and her wishes mean nothing to him.  All he cares about is her face.  What she represents to him is an attempt to undo the wrong he did to Leonora herself.  We eventually learn that Leonora left him for another man, and in revenge he injected her with his monster juice.  He had hoped that her new love would leave her because she was no longer beautiful, but in fact Leonora committed suicide because she couldn't stand to look at herself in the mirror.

This tends to make one wonder what would have happened if Leonora had tried to crawl back to Markov.  At the time this happened, he didn't yet have a cure for his creations.  Would he have gone on to find one sooner in order to help her?  Or would he, too, have rejected her now that she was ugly?  I kind of suspect the latter.  He's only sorry about any of this because she died.  He wanted her back less than he wanted her to live in misery, knowing that without her looks she would have no value.

Interestingly, this also applies somewhat to Lawrence.  As his condition progresses, he locks himself in his room and puts records on so that nobody will realize he is now unable to play the piano... but he also keeps the lights off and refuses to admit anybody, too ashamed to show his face.  Ugliness apparently makes both sexes unfit company for the rest of us.

Markov himself speaks with a German accent despite having a Russian name. He manages to be slightly less creepy than the Great Vorelli or Dr. Carlo Lombardi, but only because he never resorts to rape via hypnosis.  Upon realizing he has found a cure for a terrible disease, his first reaction is to triumphantly declare that he can charge whatever he wants for it... eighty years later, that's still depressingly relevant.

So all this is okay and at times fairly progressive for the 1940s, but now we have to get into The Monster Maker's attitude towards the disabled.  I've been a little cagey about exactly what it is Dr. Markov is doing to his victims, and you've probably been picturing some sort of mutagen that makes them go all lumpy and melty like that guy in Robocop. Unfortunately, no.  Remember acromegaly, the hormonal disorder that Richard Kiel and Rondo Hatton suffered from?  Yeah.  Markov has a bottle of it in his cupboard.

I don't know how you bottle acromegaly, but at least they did better than the people who made Tarantula and fucking spelled it right.

Acromegaly is not a cheerful diagnosis.  Lawrence's doctor tells him it's not fatal, but that isn't always true – a lot of sufferers, including Hatton, die from the complications.  It disfigures the head, hands, and feet, and would definitely be a devastating disease for a pianist... all of which makes it that much worse that this stupid movie keeps using the word 'monster'.  Lawrence even describes himself as such, comparing his situation to that of Frankenstein's Monster and declaring that he will similarly kill Markov for what he has done to him.  In the end he does exactly that, and the movie never addresses it on any level besides 'boy, good thing the bad guy is dead!'

This is probably because, clearly, the real monster Markov has made is himself... but that's subtext.  In the text, his monsters are his overgrown pigs and Anthony Lawrence.  I just blasted Tarantula for spelling the name of the condition incorrectly, but that movie at least did not even imply that its human acromegaliacs were 'monsters'.  They were in every way victims, even when their sufferings were as a result of experimenting on themselves.  Lawrence is also a victim, but the movie plays up the 'monster' idea in more than just the title: Lawrence's condition also makes him restless and prone to violence, as he repeatedly attacks Markov and at one point must be tied to a bed to prevent him doing so.  Markov suggests that this is a side effect of the hormonal problems, but Lawrence's own belief that he's becoming a 'monster' also appears to have something to do with it.

In the end, this movie is way too much like The Brute Man, in telling us that the ugly and disabled can never be an accepted part of society.  Hal Moffat was forced into the shadows, while Anthony Lawrence takes to them voluntarily, but for the same reason: ugliness is made for gawking at, not for normal relationships such as that between partners, or parents and children.  Fuck that.

[serinemolecule]

Not to harp on the obvious, but the discussion feels hollow without it: the only reason some people - not all, maybe not most, but definitely some - push for "equality" and "inclusiveness" and etc. in tech is because it's seen as a desirable and powerful position. No one's been belly-aching about it back when it was fashionable to tell nerds to stop being fat and ugly and what a bunch of losers they are. It's only up for discussion now that there's something to be gained from it. It's hypocrisy.

(context: a lot of women-in-tech discourse)

I mean, I was belly-aching about it.

I like to say I was a feminist until I met other feminists. I definitely saw plenty of things nerds could be doing better for equality. But then the first time I met other feminists, they were harassing nerds and writing long essays about how nerds were even worse than average men (which still seems to me like an absolutely insane position).

That was... a really big crisis of faith there. I spent years reading feminist literature, trying to understand their point. And the crazy thing was, a lot of the principles and concepts do appeal to me. But then the way they’d apply it, talking about how privileged nerds were, or just using it as an excuse to be assholes to people, that’s always seemed wrong to me.

My approach at the time was just to try to understand it better in private, and never talk about it in public. This lasted until I read the SSC essays on social justice which I entirely agreed on, then I joined Tumblr to hit on Scott, and since then I started getting more comfortable with writing out my thoughts, but also the really bad SJ of the early 2010s just mostly faded away from the spaces I’m in. I still hear insane stories from other places (like the New York Times! wtf!) but it no longer feels like a crisis afflicting my own community, so I never wrote anything out.

Part of it’s that my community is the rats, now. SJWs may still exist here, but they don’t have a social power to turn us against each other. Whatever effect Topher’s tweet had on the rest of the world, it means he’s no longer welcome among rats anymore. We dismiss them with equanimity using the ancient proverb, “Haters gonna hate”.

Anyway, I suppose now’s as good a time as any for me to talk about what I think about feminist theory.

I get the impression that Scott is embarrassed by his old posts on gender politics, but I still endorse every word. Even the words people like to criticize the most, I endorse as an angry expression of “Why don’t you care about how many people your ideology is hurting?” That said:

Privilege theory – I remember encountering privilege theory and thinking “yes, this totally fits the model that normies are privileged and nerds are marginalized”, until I got to the part where they started talking about how privileged nerds were. I think the theory is still pretty good, and of course the practice about writing privilege checklists and using it to silence people is incredibly fucked up.

Patriarchy theory – Fortunately, no one talks about patriarchy theory anymore. It came from the radfems and it always seemed horrible to me. It's uncontroversially true that ruling class is mostly male, but patriarchy theory seems to just equivocate between that and insane conspiracy theories.

For example, “culture is built for the benefit of men at the expense of women” requires you to just dismiss everything that hurts men and helps women, to excuse that fashion policing is nearly solely perpetuated by other women, and even if it’s true, the fact that it is perpetuated by everyone means pointing the finger at a specific group will not help fix the problem. Did Kamala Harris exercise “girl power” when she kept black prisoners in jail past their release date? 

Cultural appropriation – The usual steelman I hear for this is “it sucks when white people take your culture for themselves, and yet still call it cringe when you practice your own culture” – but the only objectionable part is the latter! Stop objecting to the former part! There’s nothing wrong with culture mixing and it is in fact one of the most beautiful things in the world!

Part of it’s that I’m a first-gen immigrant, and cultural appropriation attitudes often come from insecurities second-gen immigrants have. Cultural appropriation just means I’m now an expert on your new culture and you’re not allowed to stop me from infodumping on it.

The other steelman is “misusing religious artifacts is bad” and I think to the extent that it’s bad, it’s bad whether you’re doing it to your own culture or to other cultures.

In general I think Halloween was, among other things, a great celebration of diversity that did not need to be cancelled, and I don’t think any costume was offensive to the majority of any culture.

Intersectionality – This word confused me for so long. People kept explaining it as “black women often have problems specific to their group that neither women’s groups nor black groups themselves are equipped to fight” which just seemed obviously true and didn’t seem like we needed a word for it.

Over the years, I’ve seen it be used as a reminder of “don’t forget how your activism affects other marginalized groups”, so it’s probably a useful concept to keep around.

Microaggressions – I think being oblivious to microaggressions is an autism thing, but I still think it’s insane to make them a political issue. Sure, you can vent about them, but acting like they’re on par with actual aggressions just seems like a losing cause.

On second thought, I don’t think I have a problem with making them a political issue in general. I think the whole tactic of SJWs being a hateful harassment mob makes the microaggressions thing just come off as especially petty.

I also think there’s a lot of competing access needs here. I actually really like infodumping about what kind of Asian I am to anyone willing to listen, and I think acting like the question is the root of all evil is really unfair, especially since literally everyone who’s ever asked has been happy to learn about the finer points about Chinese ethnic groups.

Isms as prejudice + power – People have mostly stopped discoursing about this, which is good. Language policing always seemed bad to me.

Objectification – SSC says everything I feel on the topic: https://slatestarcodex.com/2013/03/17/my-objections-to-objectification/

The last time this came up in Discord, people said that objectification is more than the straw-man being criticized in this article, that it’s about people being entitled to your body or whatever. But I think the article does address that: “This is obviously a legitimate complaint. It’s just not a complaint about objectification.”

I got exposed to objectification as a criticism of hot girls in video games. And I just can’t see hot girls in video games as a bad thing.

Rape culture – [cw rape] This is an incredibly sensitive subject so I’m going to give you some time to stop reading here.

Our culture has a serious problem with rape. I think it’s important to understand that it’s usually committed by friends and family, that it’s depressingly common and has nearly definitely happened to people you know, that it’s usually committed by people who don’t think of what they’re doing as rape, and that all the discourse on it is really fucked up.

I also think that calling this “rape culture” entirely misses the point. I’m sympathetic that SSC doesn’t understand it: https://slatestarcodex.com/2013/04/19/i-do-not-understand-rape-culture/

Our problem isn’t that we glorify rape. Our problem is that we consider it a special kind of evil so bad that of course no normal person would ever do it, and this makes it easy to rationalize that whatever this normal person did couldn’t have been rape, which causes huge harms.

I don’t have answers, but I think it’s incredibly clear that calling it “rape culture” doesn’t help.

In general, I don’t think feminist activism on the topic of rape goes in the right direction. The smug “consent is like tea” video has the exact same problem. People don’t need to hear more “normal people would never rape” messaging.

[deviantdocent]

Remember, folks, it costs $0 to say amazing and wonderful things about yourself. Is it bragging? Sure! But who gives a fuck? I get that it's helpful to share our insecurities and self-doubts in a setting such as this, among friends, but the really cool thing about saying things to friends is how what we say can either be actualized or deactualized.

For example, it's very true that if you say something about yourself wherein you doubt your greatness or beauty or worth, the act of saying it out loud can make it seem less valid or even silly. But, if you say something amazing about yourself, even if you're not quite convinced, the act of saying it out loud can help manifest that belief. I don't know why that works, but it does. It's like a thermos: How does it keep hot things hot and cold things cold? It is one of the universe's eternal mysteries.

Think of your brain as the married couple in "Field of Dreams." Amy Madigan never heard the voices, but she loved Kevin Costner and trusted him, so she let him go on his journey. And even when things started to go south, and she was tempted to doubt and shut it all down, she trusted him.*

And that trust was validated when a young Ray Liotta walked out of the cornfield and wanted to play catch.**

Most of us are Amy Madigan, willing to sort-of trust, but we don't really believe it. Try being more like Kevin Costner.*** Start out by bragging about the things that people tell you are wonderful about yourself. Then, move on to the things you either want to be amazing or that you really do suspect are amazing. Do it once a day. Post something or tell a random stranger, "Look at my tits! Aren't they amazing?" or "I'm pure Art, and inspirational Art at that." We have been taught that that is conceited. And who taught us that? People who, depressingly, never took the time to see the amazing in themselves.

Reject that fucking legacy. It's a defective gene that somehow got through. Evolve to correct for that. Allow yourself to be as amazed as Robert Preston when, suddenly, everyone in River City had a band uniform on!****

Thank you for coming to my JULI Talk.

----------------------------------------

*Much like the idiots who let him make "Waterworld", but that is not germane to this discussion.

**Sweet acne-scarred Jesus, I have spent hours next to cornfields waiting for a young Ray Liotta to walk out and ask me to catch for him.

***Just don't ever pick up Frank Whaley if you see him hitching a ride on the side of the road. He's fucking creepy, the kind of creepy that y'all think James Spader is, but he really isn't. Spader is actually really fucking hot for a white guy and always has been. Have you ever seen "2 Days in the Valley?" WOOF. I never wanted to be Charlize Theron more! Well, I mean, right up until he whacked her. Men are complicated.

****I hope the sudden shift in cinematic references didn't give you whiplash. But we're still in Iowa, which honestly is as uninspiring as it gets. You're welcome for today's lesson both in Metaphor AND Irony.

[niphredil-14]

BEN Drowned X Reader -- Aquaphobia

Hey, y’all! I know that for the most part I write for otome games, but I’m also a huge fan of Creepypasta, and just so happen to hate getting into any and all water because it hurts, so at 2:38am, inspiration struck for the first time in a long time, and I had to take advantage of that. It’s been a little while since I’ve written anything, so sorry if I’m a bit rusty! Also, I write Mansion AU, so if you don’t like that, then please don’t read; or at least don’t send hate because we enjoy different AUs.

BEN Drowned X Reader -- Aquaphobia

How could a day at the beach with your friends go wrong, you ask? Well, it’s pretty simple; when your friends are assholes.  It was a beautiful sunny, summer day. The sky was a gorgeous celestial blue, and fluffy, white clouds dotted the sky, with the sun shining as golden as ever down on the warm sand and glittering waters of the ocean. We had all set up our towels, bags, blankets, and belongings on the seaside of the private shore of the beach house. It belonged to Toby’s mother, but we didn’t think that she would be making an appearance, as our sources had told us that she had become a recluse after her husband had been murdered and her son fled the scene. Toby, Jeff, Zero, Liu, Clockwork, Glitchy Red, and Kate were all splashing around in the waves, while Sally was running around collecting shells and searching tidepools for sea life. Tim, Brian, and E.J. were all inside the cottage, and Jane and Lulu were lounging in the sun, chatting and tanning, while Helen was sat on the porch sketching, leaving BEN an I sitting under one of the umbrellas that scattered the coastline. He had a small console in hand and was tapping away, with his device making small beeps and playing victorious jingles every now and again. I was sat near him with a book in hand, and an earbud in one ear with some music playing quietly in the background, adding the serene ambience. My calm and pleasant atmosphere was soon shaken as the shrieks and screams of my chaotic, water-loving friends drew closer and closer to me. Irked, and ready to protest the volume, I looked up from the pages of my novel and pulled out my earbud, only to be surprised by being thrown over Jeff’s shoulder as the began to turn and run.  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” I shouted, going from irked to completely pissed. Jeff only provided a cackle in response.  “We need another player for water volleyball. There’s seven of us, and we need eight to make an even number for teams.” Liu explained, smiling kindly at me, his stiches stretching slightly with his grin. Despite his friendly eyes, and reassuring smile, I could feel my face pale and my heartbeat quicken at the work “water,” and the promise that it was my destination.  “No! Absolutely not! I want nothing to do with this!” I wailed, beginning to wriggle and squirm in Jeff’s grip. “Put me down, put me down right now, Jeffery Woods, or so help me!” At my despair, the scarred man only laughed louder and began to sprint towards the tides. I glanced back towards the red and white towel I had been sitting on, and noticed the green one next to it, which just so happened to be occupied by someone who was within screaming distance. “BEN!” I screeched, “Help me! Please! Please for the love Hylia, help me! Don’t let them do this!” I pleaded, even referencing the deity from his favorite video game franchise, hoping that the nod to one of his interests might lead him to actually get off of his ass and save me. I noticed his heap of blonde hair move upward, and soon I met his black eyes, with their crimson red irises filled with curiosity, and I was sure that he could read the terror in mine as clear as day, because even he, as lazy as he is, immediately stood up, and ran forward with his hand outstretched. Before I knew it, I felt a warmth encompass me, and soon, I was falling to the sand as I heard Jeff’s agonized cry. I turned to look at him from my spot laying on the ground, only to see he had been lifted a few feet above the ground and part of him was aflame. I, as well as everyone around him could only stand and stare as he went flying into the ocean. I felt a gentle hand on my upper arm, that carefully pulled me to my feet, and laet go. I was noat left un-held for long, as the moment I was not supported, my legs gave out and I went plummeting back to the sand. Pale arms were wrapped around me before I could hit the ground, and I was gingerly pulled into an embrace. “What the fuck were you thinking?” The man before me growled, ,glaring past me, at the group of our roommates and co-workers, while his arms tightened around me. They were all frozen in place, staring at the demon questioning them, except for Liu, who had ran to his brother, to ensure his safety. All they seemed capable of was muttering out a string of apologies, startled by seeing BEN look so frightening, compared to his usual joking attitude. With only a ‘tch’ from BEN, they all scampered off back to the ocean, knowing that BEN was no fan of water, either, and most likely wouldn’t follow after them. Only after a few moments, which I assume were him watching their bodies grow smaller as the put distance between us, did I feel BEN move at all. He pulled back slightly, only enough to gaze into my eyes, which he raised a hand to, wiping away tears that I had only just realized were there. “Are you okay?” He asked. I wasn’t entirely sure, I felt like I was on the verge of a panic attack, even though I was no longer in danger, and I gave no answer at first, just looking into his eyes and considering his question, trying to formulate an adequate response. “Y/n?” He asked again, eyebrows furrowing as he tilted his face ever so slightly closer to my own.  “I- I don’t know yet, I’m sorry.” I mumbled weakly, still very shaken up. He sighed, and gave me a soft smile.  “You don’t have anything to be sorry for. Do you wanna go inside?” The blonde proposed. I gave a curt nod, and he let me go, instead taking my hand and guiding me to the cabin. He picked up his towel on the way in, and lead me to his room before sitting me down on the bed and handing me a Mountain Dew. As I took a few sips, he sat down beside me and wrapped the towel around my shoulders. “You know, I thought I was the only one around here who’s scared of water.” He said quietly, offering me a small, comforting chuckle. “Did someone try to drown you before, too?” I shook my head. “No, this might sound weird, and kind of backwards, but water burns me. Even if it’s cold, no matter if it’s just a drop or if I jump into a pool, whenever it touches my skin I feel like acid is burning through it. It really hurts, and to be perfectly honest with you, I am terrified of pain.” I chuckled depressingly before adding one more comment, “Childish, huh?” “Not at all. I think everyone’s a little scared of pain.” He placed a hand over mine, and gave me a bright smile. I took another swig of Mountain Dew as BEN spoke again. “Do you want to play some video games to get your mind off of it? I’ve got Smash Bros.” I looked up at him, and smiled softly. “I’d like that.”