#me when when it's cold i'd like to die plays

[fanatics4l]

i hate how good the stranger things soundtrack is. they used such beautiful songs

[sunnymoonxx]

❝paint me a heaven of love with your bloodied mouth❞ | qimir x reader, ch1

pairing: qimir x fem!reader!yord's sister

summary: You were never confident about the retreat mission on Khofar, always fearing for your safety and that of your friends. Your worst nightmare comes true when a mysterious masked man kills your brother. Driven by grief and rage, you launch a desperate attack, which leaves you unconscious. You wake up, surprisingly unharmed, on the stranger's home island. Consumed by anger and a thirst for revenge, you set out to avenge your brother, only to uncover secrets you never imagined.

warnings: MDNI!, english is not my native language, violence, major character death, mentions of blood, mental illness, smut in upcoming chapters, enemies to lovers, vulgar language, angst n comfort

a/n: planning for this to be a mini-series, around five chapters, and for the idea I have to thank @ladysw01 . Hope y'all like this one too, and also stay tuned for he turns me scarlet pt2, it's in the works!

now playing, when it's cold i'd like to die by, moby

Shadows loomed, their rough forms twisting in the dim moonlight, filtering through the dense canopy above. The forest floor was a maze of roots and underbrush, but you navigated it with the agility of a creature born to the wild. Sweat poured down your face, stinging your eyes, blending with the fear that clawed at your heart.

You felt it—the tug in your heart, tearing at its edges. You experienced it once before and hoped you’d never have to again. But now, it was back, and far worse than ever. You dared to imagine what might happen but quickly dismissed the thought. He was your only family. You couldn’t let it happen.

Your breath came in ragged gasps as you sprinted through the oppressive darkness, the hum of your ignited lightsaber a solitary beacon in the gloom. Branches whipped your cheeks and tangled in your hair, but you pushed on, driven by the urgent sense of danger thrumming through the Force. You had felt it, a disturbance sharp and sudden, a vision of your Yord in mortal danger.

"Yord!" you screamed; your voice swallowed by the infinite, uncaring wilderness. Your steps faltered as the sense of dread intensified, leading you closer, ever closer, to the source of your terror.

Bursting into a clearing, you slid to a halt, your heart crashing at the sight before you. Yord was hanging mid-air, his feet dangling uselessly, held above by a dark force. The stranger you heard so much about, stood before him, one bloody hand outstretched, the other resting at their side with an eerie calmness.

Your eyes were only glued on the man and your brother, dangling in the air. You failed to see Master Sol and Mae standing close by, both standing there in shock, not daring to breathe.

Before you managed to move or cry out, in a fluid, almost nonchalant motion, the stranger twisted their wrist. Your heart stopped. A sickening snap echoed through the forest, and Yord's body went limp, his lifeless form flung aside with a casual flick, landing in a crumpled heap against the base of a tree.

Numbly, you stared at the lifeless body, discarded like a ragdoll, as if he meant nothing. No tears left your eyes, but you swore you couldn't feel your heart beating, as if it had stopped when your Yord’s did. You didn't know how long you stood there, staring at the person who once made you laugh and helped you become a better person. His soft laugh, his insistence on following the rules, and his desire to please others—all gone. He had taught you how to read. Now, everything was gone. His laughter faded into the darkness along with his heartbeat.

You felt like you heard faint voices in the background, but all your focus was on Yord's empty eyes.

It was Sol, shouting your name, desperately warning you to move. But no matter how hard you tried; you were frozen in place. The shock and grief had paralyzed you. Then, out of the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of the creature in the mask. The small flicker of its movement shattered your paralysis, and a surge of anger erupted within you, erasing all other thoughts. The need for vengeance overtook your grief, fueling your every breath and heartbeat.

It all happened like a fever dream—foggy, with only a few clear fragments. You heard a scream, unable to tell if it was yours or someone else's. But you didn't care. Your legs moved on their own toward the stranger, your eyes fixed on his dark, long waves of hair.

Your lightsaber slipped through your fingers, the weight of it suddenly too heavy to hold. Your arms seemed to move of their own accord, rising toward the sky as if reaching for something beyond grasp. The air crackled with a threating storm, ear-shattering roar that drowned out all other sounds. In that moment, you locked eyes with the stranger, fear etched deeply into their features, mirroring your own uncertainty.

Time slowed to a crawl as lightning split the sky, casting an eerie glow over the scene. The thunderous boom echoed through your bones, shaking you to your core. The stranger's expression twisted in horror, as if they knew something you didn't, something that would change everything.

Then, as swiftly as the storm had gathered, darkness enveloped your senses. Your consciousness faded into the cool embrace of the moss beneath you, leaving behind unanswered questions and a lingering sense of dread.

*· . ✶

As you woke up, cold air embraced you, raising goosebumps across your body. Your head pounded with such intensity that you considered it might explode, while your arms trembled in lingering unease. You slowly lifted yourself up on your elbows, trying to figure out where you were and recall anything that had happened.

Your head throbbed painfully, your legs were covered in bruises, and your hands were wrapped in bandages. Confused, you tore them off, only to reveal deep burns etched like tree branches from your palms down to your forearms, resembling thunder silhouettes in the sky.

You had no memory of what had happened, until you spotted your lightsaber next to the mouth of the cave you found yourself trapped in. Yord.

Yord.

Yord was dead. Your brother was dead. My brother's dead. Dead.

Your heart sank into your stomach, and suddenly, you found yourself lying on your side, vomiting beside your makeshift bed. Your hair fell like curtains around your head, your eyes fluttering shut. The reality of your Yord’s death was almost too much to bear. Thoughts swirled chaotically; you wanted to scream, cry, and even trade places with him. Emotions blurred together in your mind, but one stood out starkly: anger. It surged within you, painting your vision red. You yearned for revenge, for the murderer to suffer, to experience the agony you felt in that moment.

You didn't dare count how long you bent over, vomiting on the cold cave surface. The bitter taste of vomit mixed with your salty tears woke you up, pushing you to pull yourself together and look around. You struggled to breathe and see through your watery eyes, so you reached out through the Force. Finding yourself in a small cave on an unfamiliar island, surrounded by a wild ocean, you caught sight of a shadowy figure. A dark force enveloping their silhouette.

Your heart skipped a beat as your eyes flew open. There he was—the one who had taken Yord’s life. And now he has brought you here. Was it to end your life as well? To make you suffer? But you were already in agony. Doubt lingered whether he could intensify the pain any further.

You reached out through the Force again, seeking a clear vision of the target's location. You saw him taking slow, deliberate steps, carefully navigating around sharp rocks until he reached a shore where water brushed around his ankles. Following his trail from your current position, you discovered a path that would lead you to him.

It took you minutes to find the strength to get out of bed, ignoring the messy curls in front of your eyes and the dirty clothes from the previous night. Grabbing your lightsaber, you made your way out of the cave. Trusting your intuition, you followed the stranger's path, mentally preparing to face him. Fear wasn't in your heart—only fury and grief. You wanted to see his head separate from his body.

The trail was longer than expected, but you didn't stop once you reached your target. He swam peacefully in the calm water, his back facing you. His long, wet hair draped over strong shoulders marked with scars. You watched as he ran his hand through his hair—the same hand that had killed Yord and torn your family apart. Anger surged within you; your fury fueled by the simple sight of him.

He sensed you; you could feel it. Your anger was loud enough for the entire galaxy to hear, and you wanted him to hear it the loudest. Without thinking, you began walking towards the water, lightsaber ignited, ready to strike.

You focused solely on him—his strong back and raven hair. He didn’t even turn to face you, though you knew he could feel all your emotions. He remained motionless, confident that you wouldn’t attack. Or at least, he thought so.

Lifting your lightsaber as you closed the distance, the water now up to your hips, you struck his back. The stranger was slow to react, barely managing to block your attack. Your lightsaber grazed his shoulder, leaving a scorching scar. Realizing he was wrong about your intentions, he moved quickly in the water, turning and twisting your arm until you dropped your lightsaber, just as he had done with your brother. He pressed you against his chest, his hands gripping your arms, but before he could strangle you, you drove your elbow into his ribs, pushing hard until you heard a crack.

He released his grip to catch his breath, giving you a few precious seconds to summon your lightsaber from the depths of the water. As it returned to your hand, poised to strike, you felt the stranger's hands clamp down on your shoulders, his fingers digging in fiercely. The pain seared through you, his nails tearing at your flesh. Taking advantage of your vulnerable position, he seized your lightsaber and snapped it in half effortlessly, as if it was a mere stick. You watched in disbelief as he threw the broken parts into the deep ocean behind you, leaving you stunned. Before you could react, he swiftly wrapped one arm around your neck while the other pinned your hands behind your back, pressing his body close against yours.

"Not the morning greeting I was hoping for," he purred against your ear, his arm tightening around your windpipe, robbing you of breath. You felt a strange sensation in your stomach as he pressed closer, the warmth of his body making you shiver involuntarily. It was unsettling, making you feel nauseous.

You fought back, struggling to break free from his grasp, but with each attempt, his hold on you tightened, leaving marks on your neck and wrists. You fought against the tears threatening to fall, overwhelmed by feelings of helplessness and humiliation. You yearned to threaten him, to make him scream for what he had done to Yord and to you.

But you couldn't move an inch, forced to endure his deadly grip on you. You felt his breath tickling the hair on your neck, his damp, bare body pressed against your back, his hand crushing your wrists together.

“Do you remember me?” he asked, his voice low against your ear, his nose pressing against your cheek. You felt his smile as you struggled to breathe and move, fighting against his overpowering grip. The fury surged through you even more intensely, his mocking tone fueling a desire to scream out in defiance. How could you not? You saw him twist your brother’s neck and you were certain he was about to do the same thing to you.

As if he could read your mind, which he likely could, he chuckled softly to himself.

"Not from yesterday," he murmured into your ear, his arm around your neck loosening slightly to allow you to breathe, yet he did not release you. "We met a few days ago, in my shop. You were there too." he continued.

You resisted the urge to struggle against his grip, realizing you had no other choice but to listen. Attempting to calm your anger, you unwillingly focused on his words. You recalled visiting the suspect's shop a few days earlier—a place with a man with long, greasy black hair and an odd voice. Uncertain of where he was leading with this revelation, you listened intently.

"So lost in your own selfishness that you didn't even recognize me?" he mocked, twisting your wrists to inflict more pain, as though hurt you didn’t recognize him. Then, the realization struck. He had been there all along, pulling the strings and mocking everyone. Mae's master. The stranger beneath the mask. Yord's killer.

"You—" you choked on your words, barely able to speak. You recalled visiting the apothecary in the days before, noticing him as the new face in the city. He had pretended to be new, and you had enjoyed his company, visiting him several times. A wave of humiliation washed over you, and you sensed that he felt it too.

“That’s right,” he whispered into your ear, his hands briefly leaving your body before firmly gripping your waist and pressing you against the nearest rock. Finally, you got a clear look at his face. In the darkness of the previous night, you hadn't seen him clearly, and moments ago, you hadn't cared. Now, his gaze met yours directly as he pushed you against the rough surface, leaving your hands free, hanging by your side. You had the freedom to strike him, to fight your way out, but you remained still.

He allowed your eyes to roam over him. You scanned his high cheekbones and sharp features, framed by dark waves, curtains to his deep dark eyes. Pink, full lips, and set above a clean mustache. Your gaze then fell to his visible collarbones, adorned with salty droplets.

He was undeniably beautiful, and you felt sick you didn’t even try to deny it. He looked like a fallen angel, someone straight out of religious legends you would read about.

He savored your shocked gaze, but what intrigued him more were your thundering thoughts. Inside your mind, thoughts clashed and screamed over one another, leaving no room for silence or clarity. You instantly recognized his intent from his intense stare and tried to block him out of your mind. But it was too late. He effortlessly stripped you bare, reading you like a mythical book.

"You're scared," he uttered with total seriousness. You struggled to comprehend how he could read you so easily and attempted to use your powers to cloud his thoughts. Yet, after years of suppressing them, you failed once more. “Not of me. Of the Order.” He tilted his head, a gesture that suggested surprise at what he had uncovered.

"Get out of my head," you hissed at him, delivering a punch to his chest, but he didn't even flinch. The water was cold, and the chill in the air only worsened it. The only warmth came from his body—and from another place you tried to ignore.

"You lie to yourself," he added, ignoring the punches to his chest and the barrage of curses you hurled at him. "The Jedi were never your family. You live in delusion." He looked down at you, a hint of pity in his expression.

“You killed Yord,” you cried out, feeling his grip on your waist loosen.

“He was never your brother. Not really.” His words struck you like a blow, and in a surge of rage, you punched him in the chest with all your strength. He stumbled back, the warmth of his grip vanishing from your waist, leaving you both separated and gasping in the cold air.

You stared at him, eyes wide with uncertainty, unsure of your next move. You watched his chest rise and fall, strands of hair falling over his forehead. Fear gripped you, worried that he had seen through you, revealing memories you wished to forget.

"You lied about who you were. You murdered Jedi like they were cockroaches. My brother!" you screamed at him, tears threatening to spill as you fought to hold them back. You slowly made your way back to the shore, ignoring his presence following in your footsteps. The wet pants clung to your body, making each step more difficult than the last.

As you reached the shore, small rocks stabbing at your feet, you heard him speak.

“Then why did he never consider you as his sister.” His voice was cold and low, monotone with no emotions on the surface. Your movements stopped, listening as he made his way to the shore as well, standing just a few centimeters away from you. Your chest hurt like someone was pinching the flesh of your heart.

You forced yourself to turn around, facing him and his ethereal beauty. There he stood, bare before you, vulnerable and exposed. You tried to focus on his words, your heart sinking into your stomach.

"You heard me." He tilted his head, taking a small step toward you. His eyes locked onto yours, unwavering. "You know I'm right. Ever since you became Padawans, he kept you apart. No matter what you tried, even resorting to tricks just to see him, he always pushed you away. Following rules that made it harder for you to be together, like the Order meant more to him than you did. You were just a little girl, and he chose duty over your bond." He continued, every word a fuel to your anger. But now you weren’t sure who the anger was meant for.

“Shut the fuck up!” You raised your voice, stepping down to him. “You don’t know anything. You’re a Sith! A murderer! You don’t know anything about me or my life.’”

"Except I do." He allowed you to approach, keeping you within arm's reach. "You think things changed after you both passed the trials and had more freedom. They didn't. He feared you. He feared your power. An empath, right? The most dangerous ability one can possess. Even the Order feared it. With one emotion, you could overthrow everything overnight. They couldn't trust you. Not even your own brother could."

You lunged at him, aiming a punch at his jaw, which connected solidly. He stumbled back, a red mark blooming on his cheek. However, all you received in return was a smirk on his lips and the sight of him licking a drop of blood from his lip.

"That's not true," you replied, your voice stinging with anger. "They knew about my abilities, but no one feared me.”

You heard a laugh coming from him, lifting up his head, staring you down.

“Why do you keep lying to yourself?” He stepped closer, his breath almost brushing your face. “You knew they wanted to be rid of you from the moment you began showing signs. Master Sol? He distrusted you the most. Yord feared you. Jecki was too naive to form her own opinion and just listened to the elders.”

“Stop,” you failed to form a normal sentence, not knowing what to do or how to act. You were scared he was right. You didn’t want to admit it to yourself.

"Last night, when you attacked me, I took you before they could wake up," he confessed, gently brushing his hand over yours. You stared at his chest, too ashamed to meet his gaze. "What do you think will happen when they discover you used forbidden power? Do you believe they'll spare you when you're already hanging by a thread?”

He is right.

No.

He’s a liar. A murderer.

But he’s right.

"Kill me, and return to your naive trust in them," he urged, leaning closer with a mix of pity and understanding in his gaze. "Or stay here and let me help you."

You failed to notice that your hand was in his, unsure of how long he had been holding it. Your gaze remained fixed on his chest, searching for any hint of deceit or manipulation, but you found none. The weight of uncertainty bore down on you, and you wished to crumble, to disappear and never resurface again. Lost, confused, dizzy, you were paralyzed, uncertain of your next move.

“They’re my family.” You whispered, mostly to yourself.

"A real family wouldn’t betray you," he whispered back, his thumb tracing small circles on your palm. You felt the anger within you slowly melt away, replaced by an unfamiliar, strange sensation.

Raising your head slowly, you met his gaze, surprised by the softness you found in his eyes. Before you could gather your thoughts or resist, a waterfall of tears began pouring from your eyes, and the only arms there to catch you were the same ones that had stopped your heart just a few hours ago.

[luveline]

I don’t really have a request I just love anything you write💗 maybe something with girly!reader?

thanks lovely💗

Spencer wrings his hands behind his back, shifting from one foot to the other unhappily. He hasn't felt this nervous since he was young —his PhDs have acted as a shield for years now. Even if he doesn't know what to do, he physically cannot be stupid. 

He feels pretty stupid. Less when you look up, smile blinding and sticky with gloss. He's thought about how it would feel to kiss you before and he tries desperately to push the thought away now, his hands shaking where they're hidden. 

"Hey, Spencer Reid," you say, lightly teasing as you wave him toward you. "How are you?" 

"I'm good." 

"Yeah?" You gesture at the empty seat in front of you. "Are you having lunch?" 

The bureau cafeteria is less of a cafeteria in the kitchen sense and more of a staff room, though hot food is served at the very back. There are couches toward the patio of an outdoor area to the left. You sit at one of the tables near the doors. The air is cold around his ankles as he sits with you. 

"No, I– I came down for coffee, but the jug is empty." It's a bad lie. Luckily you have no idea that there's a kitchen in the BAU offices. "You're not?" 

You turn your laptop screen to him. "I ate my lunch at my desk. I'm just catching up with my show." Your laptop has stickers around the screen, silver shiny stars and tiny pink hearts that look like they're made of jelly. There's a closed bottle of nail polish resting near the keyboard. "And I'm gonna touch up my nails, too. They're always chipping." 

"They look perfect to me," Spencer says. 

You beam at him, beatific, so, so pretty, he could die. He might. "Thanks, honey. You'd look cute with painted nails, have you ever thought about it?" 

Spencer honestly forgets about his nails. He should take better care of them. He thinks about hiding them under the desk. "I don't think I could do it." 

"No one's good at it, at first. I'd paint them for you, if you wanted. I have a couple of things in my bag." 

Spencer's relieved to present freshly trimmed nails to you for painting. Your polish is a light blue colour, milky, and he assumes it'll be the one you use on him, but you decide to ruin his life, taking his hand into one of yours. You hold his fingers in a way that presents the nail as you brush cuticle oil around the edges of his nails with a small pen brush. You chatter as you do in your way, all sweet and gentle in mirror of your touch. 

He's proud of himself for keeping his cool. To have you touching him for so long, so kindly, to have your attention, it has him squirming with a mixture of pleasure and horror. He wants to be seen by you but he doesn't know if he likes what you're looking at. 

"You have really lovely hands," you say, using the tip of one of your nails to scrape stray wet polish off of his skin, "do you play piano?" 

"You can tell?" he asks. 

"Pianist's fingers," you say. "That's a thing, isn't it?" 

"I haven't played much since I was younger. I got distracted by other stuff." 

"Maths," you surmise. "And criminology?" 

Everything. He pushed away a want for human connection with books and education until it got too much. Even the wisest of honeybees will brave heavy rain for a beautiful flower, and that's sort of how he feels about you. He knows it's stupid, knows it's doomed, but he couldn't not try to speak to you. You're the prettiest girl he's ever seen, all your lip colours and shimmery eyeshadows, the chirpy way you talk, the earnestness of your please and thank yous. 

Your hands. The silver ring on your index finger dotted with tiny pink stones. Your bracelets. The smell of your perfume and your soft sweaters. 

"Done," you announce, an uncharacteristic hesitance to your tone. "Are they okay?" 

You've done a perfect job. "They're so neat. Thank you. I– I love it." 

Your eyes linger on his hands. "I love when guys wear nail polish. You're even handsomer now, it's crazy. I didn't know it was possible." 

Spencer should have more style for sure, but he asks you to dinner right then and there. 

You smile until the lashes kiss in the corners of your eyes and say yes. This new place opened just around the corner from your apartment, and you've been trying to drum up the courage to ask him all week. When Spencer hears that he almost passes out. 

[pinkeoni]

Will is Going to Die by Sacrificing Himself

...and come back to life. To me, it seems pretty obvious, but I'll explain why.

Will has been characterized as someone who puts others before himself since season one, even if it means costing him his life. The entire series starts off with Will casting fireball instead of protection during their Dungeons & Dragons game, putting his character in danger for the sake of the rest of the party.

This self-sacrificial nature is echoed in season two, but two a much more extreme end, when Will instructs everyone to close the gate to stop the Mind Flayer, despite knowing that doing so will kill him.

While we don't see this same self-sacrifice from Will in seasons three and four, we do see two related characters make their own sacrifices, possibly hinting at Will's future fate.

First we have the other character named William, Billy, sacrifice himself at the end of season three in order to stop the meat flayer.

Then in season four, we have Eddie sacrifice himself while the same song that played for Will after he came back to life in season one plays in the background— "When It's Cold I'd Like to Die" by Moby.

There are also little ways that we are told/shown of Will's selfless nature, such as giving a girl his tonka truck because she was sad, or giving Mike his painting under El's name. While this trait could be seen as admirable, I think it will ultimately be his undoing.

But why would Will need to sacrifice himself?

Well, we know that despite all of this time, Will still holds a connection to Vecna, and likely to the Mind Flayer and the Upside Down himself. Putting a stop to all of these things is going to be intrinsic to Will's arc next season.

I don't know how many people know about Noah's letterboxd, but he has been rewatching the Harry Potter movies.

Perhaps for personal enjoyment, or perhaps to study for his character?

The comparisons between Will/Vecna and Harry/Voldemort have been made before, and the Duffers are derivative of other sources if anything.

I think that this could be likened to a horcrux situation. At the end of season four, we saw Vecna be totally flambéd by the older teens, and yet, he's still kicking, and Will is the one to tell us this.

If the brain dies the body dies, but also, could the brain latch on to another body in order to keep it alive? Similar to how Harry had to die so that Voldemort could be defeated, I believe Will might have to die (at least temporarily) in order to take down Vecna/MF/UD.

We know that the show is bringing back "Should I Stay or Should I Go," which is going to prompt an important question that Will needs to find the answer to, should he stay or should he go? While this could also relate to his romantic endeavors for the season, I think that the song could be alluding to Will's choice to sacrifice himself in order to save everyone else.

What I think will probably happen is this: At some point in the season, Will is going to learn what has to happen, and he is going to go off to sacrifice himself without telling anyone so no one can stop him. (I'm guessing that Will can't just off himself, there's probably a specific way that it needs to be done).

Something I realized while making this post is that Mike is always the one who figures out what needs to be done, or brings up Will's sacrifice to others. My guess is that Mike is going to find out what Will is up to, and try to stop him. Emphasis on try, because I think this death is inevitable. However, bringing the show back full circle to season one (and because ST can never keep a main character dead), he will come back to life.

[devilyn]

stay by my side | tsukishima kei

— now playing: die with a smile by bruno mars & lady gaga

If the world was ending I'd wanna be next to you If the party was over And our time on Earth was through I'd wanna hold you just for a while And die with a smile

— synopsis: getting tsukishima kei to say 'I love you' more often is harder than you'd think

— genre: only a tinge of hurt, more comfort, needy tsukki

— word count: 1k

The first thing he sees every morning is you. The last thing he sees before he closes his eyes for the night is always you.

No matter what may be happening between the two of you, the reassurance of knowing you'd be there in the morning and at the end of the day always calmed his tumultuous heart. 

So when he opens his eyes in the middle of the night and you're not there, he jolts up in a panic.

His hand quickly skims across your side of the bed, briefly wondering if he may be delirious in his half-asleep state. When he notices the sheets are still warm, he grabs his glasses and slips out of bed in a hurry.

The kitchen, the bathroom, and the living room are empty. When he finally stops to catch his breath, he notices your keys aren't hanging by the front door, an indication that you've left the apartment.

The realization makes his heart stop.

He should've apologized earlier. He should've known you'd get sick of him. You were always so patient with him, letting him keep you at arm's length for the first year of your relationship while he got used to skinship and physical affection. You even dealt with his mood swings, and communicated openly with him as much as possible so he could understand your perspective when the two of you fought.

And yet, he reversed all that progress last night when he ignored your feelings.

How can he expect you to read between the lines all the time? He had previously promised you he wouldn't treat you like that again, and yet he took advantage of your endless patience and did it again.

“Kei?”

His head turns quickly, wide eyes meeting your surprised gaze. You're standing against the front of your apartment building in your pajamas. He's certain he looks even more disheveled, having just rolled out of bed in a panic.

“What're you doing out of bed?” He asks quickly, stepping over to stand in front of you.

Your gaze softens, and his uneasy heart finally finds a moment to relax at the sight of you right in front of him.

“Just needed some fresh air, couldn't sleep,” you say softly. There's a moment of silence between the two of you before you reach up and gently brush your fingers over his jaw.

He can't help but close his eyes and relax into your touch. He let's himself indulge in the moment further, his own hand resting on top of your own to keep your palm against his cheek. 

“I don't want to.”

“Kei, please,” you pleaded, “I just want an ‘I love you' every once in a while. I'm not asking you to profess your love to me everyday.”

“I don't think it's needed. You know I do, why do I need to say it too?” He grumbled, setting his glasses down on the bedside table. 

“Hearing you say it and convincing myself that your actions mean something are two different things,” you retorted, and you frowned at the way he rolled his eyes.

The two of you have been arguing over the same thing ever since you brought it up at the dinner table just a couple of hours ago.

“Don't be stupid,” he finally snapped, and he ignored the hurt that flashed through your eyes. “Just go to bed. I'm sick of having this talk with you.”

He turned his back towards you, but he still heard your shaky ‘okay, goodnight’.

“What're you doing out here?” you repeat his question, tilting your head curiously. 

He hesitates to answer, eyes still closed as if doing so could buy him more time.

He's sure you saw the panic in his eyes when he heard you call his name. In truth, he wasn't entirely sure why he panicked so much. The thought of you not next to him sent a coldness down his spine that he just couldn't live with. 

“...came to find you,” he finally answers, amber eyes opening to meet your gaze.

The hand on his cheek slides up to gently run through his tousled blonde bed head.

“I'm not going anywhere,” you whisper softly.

His heart skips a beat, and he can't help it anymore. His arms reach out to wrap around your waist, tugging you close so he can bury his face in the crook of your neck.

You saw right through him, reading him like a book.

“I thought you left me,” he admits, voice shaking. One of your hands rests gently on the back of his head, the other lightly running up and down his broad back.

“Where would I go?” you try to joke, “my home is right here with you, Kei.” 

You squashed his insecurities almost instantly with just a couple of words. Your ability to ease all his worries so seemingly easily always amazed him. 

“I love you,” he confesses suddenly, and he feels the way your frame shakes as you laugh quietly. 

He wants to provide that same comfort and sense of stability you give him. If saying ‘I love you’ more often was what you needed to feel that, then he'd do it.

“I'm sorry,” he whispers quietly after his confession. When he pulls back slightly to scan your expression, you're staring up at him with that look in your eyes. That look that tells him--’I love you more than I can even express’. 

Your fingers reach up to cup both his cheeks, tugging him down so you can kiss him gently.

“I love you too,” you decide to settle with those four words, and he rests his forehead against yours.

“Don't leave me,” he murmurs.

“I'm not leaving you,” you promise.

“Stay with me,” he quietly requests.

“I will, I'm not leaving you,” you reassure him again, and there's a hint of a smile on your lips. “Though, I sort of like seeing you this vulnerable.”

He rolls his eyes and makes a move to pull away from you. You catch him with a laugh, arms wrapping around his waist.

“...I'll tell you I love you more often,” he admits defeat almost begrudgingly, and you smile up at him.

“Okay,” you whisper, “Thank you.”

“Can we go back to bed now?” 

He slips his hand into yours, and the way your fingers instinctively lace with his own melts his heart.

“Yeah, let's go home.”

[morepeachyogurt]

i love you, i do, but i cannot fucking stomach you

1. richard siken | 2. david foster wallace | 3. slavoj žižek | 4. x? | 5. succession, jesse armstrong. gif by @lesbiankendall | 6. orla gartland | 7. trista mateer | 8. ilya repin | 9. iain thomas | 10. thoroughbreds, cory finley | 11. yrsa daley-ward |

text id below

1. sometimes you get so close to someone you end up on the other side of them

2. [in red highlight] everything i’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it.

3. [white text on a background of a field] A FRIEND HAS TO BE OUTSIDE MY REACH, BEYOND MY GRASP. AND THERE CAN BE NO FRIENDSHIP WITH SOMEONE WHOM I AM NOT READY TO BETRAY: A FRIEND IS SOMEONE I CAN BETRAY WITH LOVE.

4. Long before Caesar and Brutus were lessons, they were friends. // They played with stick swords in their kingdom of trees // and dressed up in crowns of flowers // and painted mud on each other's faces. // The pair was often found walking down dirt roads, // Caesar stomping proud and tall, // and Brutus- step by step- placing his feet into the footprints left behind. // Caesar grew into a strong Roman man. // Brutus grew into Caesar's shoes. // They walked to a wishing well and they threw in their weapons // and Caesar whispered a prophecy: // "We live and die together." // The day before the slaughter, Brutus took pause. // He turned to Caesar and thought // "I'll love you twice as hard today to make up // for tomorrow," // and they stayed up and played cards on the kitchen floor. // It wasn't until the next morning that Brutus realized how cold the tile was. // Life and death are not mutually exclusive. // When Caesar died, so did Brutus, in the sense that he never really lived again. // In the present, when someone mentions one of them, // they seldom exclude mention of the other.

5. a scene from succession. the characters kendall and stewy are in a dimly lit alley, one walks away from the other while saying “you’re my third oldest friend. you fucked me like a tied goat. we’re great.”

6. I'm not happy if you're not happy // And swear that you're always sad // You're pathetic, I resent it // When you're down, it hurts so bad

7. I've gotten so good about not flinching at the sound of your name that people don't know I'd still throw myself mouth-open into the ocean for the chance to drown somewhere you might see it.

8. the painting ‘Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivana’. it depicts a man holding another man who is bleeding profusely from his head.

9. there are a million ways to bleed, but you are by far my favorite.

10. scene from the movie thoroughbreds. a character lays crying wrapped around her friend, she is covered in blood, her friend is unconscious.

11. [in pink highlight] and be wary of friends, yeah? they are the ones who kill you, in the end.

[sameschmidtdiffname]

Wool Over My Eyes

Mike Schmidt x Gender Neutral! Reader

Summery: Mike always says you have such trouble getting up in the morning. You don't intend to take so long to wake, but Mike is quite confident the solution lays just at his fingertips- and lips.

Tags: No use of Y/N, no use of gendered pronouns, no genitalia specification, light bondage, pet names, dirty talk, fingering, oral (reader recieving), cum swallowing, morning sex, light breeding kink, recording sex, dacryphillia, light choking, switch! Mike, switch! Reader, facial, age-gap, interrupted sex, barely proofread and over the course of three days after my shifts right before I went to bed (cuz we die like men)

Notes: I love you gullible fucks.

"C'mere here, sweet thing."

I groan as Mike rolls me onto my side, his lips finding my cheek that has been textured from the blanket that imprinted itself upon my skin as I slept restlessly through the night. It had only been a couple hours ago that I'd finally found sleep, and it doesn't even feel like five minutes since I'd actually sunk into it.

"Five more minutes," I groan, my words slurred with sleep as I press my back further against Mike's intoxicatingly warm and inviting front, hardly even noticing anything else about my surroundings as I begin to drift back into sleep once more.

"You said five minutes an hour ago," Mike gently chides into my ear, his voice almost a full octave lower and rough with his own sleep, probably. My hand automatically raises to swipe lazily at his lips which graze so lightly against the shell of my ear, his breath tickling my skin enough to irritate my tired mind. "It's time to wake up."

"Mm," I moan in a somewhat childlike manner. He chuckles at this, his lips once more finding my cheek as his hands begin to peel the blanket away from me, slowly exposing my chest mostly.

"Don't," I groan in a soft, high voice, the cold air of the room beginning to stiffen certian parts of my body. Such as my back, shoulders.

"Be nice," Mike chuckles as his lips trail lazily closer to my own, his hand satisfied with how exposed my body is now and beginning to reverse its trail, now grazing his fingertips gently along the soft cotton of my shirt that still keeps my chest covered.

"Make me," I try to snap, too drugged with sleep to carry any venom in my voice.

Mike's lips find mine in an instant, his tongue diving into my mouth as he suddenly moves his hand to my hair, tugging at it almost harshly as a small whine escapes me from the sudden aggression. He moans into the kiss, his other hand wrapping around my throat ever so gently as our lips slide together, slick with his spit, making me pant against his kiss.

"Don't make me be the bad guy," Mike says against my lips when he pulls away for a moment. His head ducks down to tease at my neck, biting into it softly before he returns to my mouth, slipping his tongue inside of it once more and moaning loudly as he does.

Our kisses are not graceful, I'll admit. They're messy, hard, wet with thick desire as his hand trails to and from my neck, spreading across my chest until his calloused hand eventually dives under my shirt, searching for a stiff nipple to play with as he pulls away from me once more, his eyes glazed with want and desperation as he watches me closely, a lazy smile upon his lips.

"Make those pretty sounds for me," Mike pleads breathily as he pinches particularly hard on my nipple. A short gasp escapes me, my cheeks turning red as my eyes flutter shut once more.

"Hey," Mike says in a firmer voice, lips quickly sealing onto mine once more as his tongue slips against mine needingly before he quickly pulls away. "Stay awake."

"I am awake," I pout softly. He tugs on my nipple again, forcing a small cry from me as he bites my bottom lip.

"Don't lie," Mike warns in a low, rough, almost growling voice. "You know I hate it when you lie."

It's not a lie!... Though admittedly I could see how it would be easy to slip into such bliss as Mike uses me. It's a somewhat arousing thought, the idea of him fucking me to sleep.

"I'm recording, you know," Mike teases as his other hand slips from my hair to the other side of my chest, both of my nipples now being abused by the older man as I pant openly, my hips finding his thick thigh between my legs. "Figured I could use the proof that you just don't like waking up in the morning to see if you'll finally listen to me."

"I listen to you," I protest. His nails scratch my nipples, making me loudly cry out at the touch.

"I said. Don't. Lie," Mike reminds me. "God, its like you want to be punished."

The idea makes my legs pull together in want, my hips dragging deliciously against Mike's thigh as I moan openly, wanting for nothing more than what he'd just suggested.

"You like that, pretty toy?" Mike asks softly against my ear, his teeth nipping at my lobe while one of his hands roughly grabs my chest, the other hand swirling his thumb in quick circles around my aching nipple. Fuck, Jesus. I could cum like this and I wouldn't protest.

"Maybe I just won't touch you," Mike says low in my ear, his voice predatory as I quicken my hips against his thigh which presses harder against me. "You seem to be eager to cum just like this. So easy, so fun to play with."

Mike shoves his tongue into my mouth once more, his hands shifting. One to my throat, one to my hip. He guides my body to quicken its pace against him, his hand occasionally smacking hard against my ass and even playing with the muscle as his eyes drift open to watch me.

"You like being my favorite toy, don't you?" Mike asks in a tired, low and aroused voice as he smirks. I nod slowly, stupid and sleepy against him. Mike smacks my ass again, grabbing and jiggling it roughly after. "Open your eyes when I'm talking to you," he commands. Stupidly I obey, eager to please him as I begin to feel my stomach constrict in pleasure at his touch.

"There you go. Good plaything. You're just so eager to please, aren't you?" Mike asks in a patronizing tone, leaning forward to graze his lips against mine. I move to press harder against them, but he pulls away, still leaving them close enough to tease me, waiting for me to try to swoop in again, then pulling away far enough I whine as I realize his evil game.

"You like older men playing with you, admit it," Mike says in a cocky tone, his hand dipping under my sweatpants to play with my bare ass. I moan in response to his words and his touch, but it doesn't seem to be enough.

"Say it," Mike orders softly, smiling at the sight of me. I blush, shaking my head slightly as I glance away. Mike grabs my ass roughly again, pressing his thigh harder against me as the look in his eye shifts to something slightly darker. "Say it."

I shake my head again, an unwilling smile growing more as Mike grabs harder, leaning in close enough to whisper threateningly, but ready to pull away if I dared to take advantage of the opportunity and kiss him.

"I like older men playing with me," I say in a soft, quick whisper before he can make another threat. His eyes turn gentle once again, and he drags me into another kiss, sweet and loving while he begins to shift his body to hover above mine, moving his thigh much to my displeasure.

"Look at that," Mike praises softly. "You can be so good when you want to be, can't you?"

Mike leans down to press his lips against my neck, biting roughly into it and making me cry out. He stays there for almost a minute, ensuring that there will be a dark bite mark obvious on my skin for the next week before he moves to the other side of my neck, repeating this process. I squirm underneath of him, moaning and crying out pathetically. His hard cock grazes against my leg, and once he finds it he begins to grind against it, releasing his own soft noises as he begins to lap at my blooming marks with his warm, wide tongue.

"Fuck me!" I whine against Mike's ear, nipping at his lobe and panting openly as my hand descends downwards, my fingers just brushing past the waistband of my pants when his own hand carefully but tightly grabs my wrist, moving to pin it just above my head as he uses my body to masturbate.

Mike doesn't respond to my plea. He simply moans as his hips increase in tempo, making it obvious how close he is already. Part of me wonders if this was meant to be a reenactment of his dream last night, or if maybe he'd been fucking himself beside me as I slept for who knows how long before he finally woke me in a moment of desperation. Both ideas make me faint with want.

I use my free hand to snatch a clump of dark curls on the back of his head, pulling them roughly to force him away from my neck. The pain makes him cry out in a deliciously broken voice, his hips stuttering before resuming in a slightly increased pace as his eyes shift to meet mine, a bright red coat of blush decorating his peaceful face, creating the perfect image of such a beautiful, desperate man.

"I asked you to fuck me," I seethe, tugging harshly on his hair again, making him cry out once more. His cock twitches against my leg, then suddenly he begins trying to crawl down my body, his hands grabbing at whatever flesh he can find as he bites harshly at my being, his slick tongue quick to soothe the marks as his amber eyes watch me pleadingly, begging for praise that I don't offer to him.

Mike's hands paw at my pants, dragging them down my hips without even undoing the tight drawstring that keeps the waistline fitted to me properly. The moment I feel the cold air begin to sink into my newly exposed skin, Mike's lips are quick to warm me once again, his tongue diving between my legs as he laps greedily, moaning as he teases my entrance with it. The wet muscle probs at me, tempting me to grab his hair and shove him against me while I ride his face, but I decide instead to pet his hair in non-verbal praise, driving him wild as his blush deepens. His large hands cup my ass, raising my hips off the bed slightly and spreading my legs wider, allowing him easier access to me.

"Stop being a tease," I moan lightly, digging my hand deeper into his hair and scratching lightly at his scalp. His voice cracks as he moans, slipping his tongue into me obediently as he plays with my ass. His own hips fuck the bed, slight trembling obvious as his lashes flutter shut, spit beginning to dribble down his chin as he quickly slides his tongue out and in, swirling it around inside of me and playing with my entrance every time he slips out.

I close my own eyes, pleasure making my back stiff as I hold his head between my thighs, hyperfocusing on the feeling of him tongue fucking me, the knot in my stomach tightening with every move, big or small. The noises he makes as he eats me out are improper, through and through. His voice makes insanity inducing vibrations that spread throughout me with each pathetic, high pitched moan. The bed creeks with every thrust of his hips against the old mattress. A part of me wonders if he's being so vocal for the tape currently recording us, paranoid that the cassette player on his nightstand may not be able to hear us properly. Another part of me likes to think that he's just this into it, so driven insane by my body that he just simply can't help the noises of pleasure that escape him. The idea makes me grip his hair tighter, my hips beginning to thrust harder against his face, making his voice rise in pitch as his eyes drift open, glazed and stupid while he admires me. His nails dig into my ass, his tongue hardly moving out of me now as he fucks me.

"You like it when I fuck your face like this?" I ask him, watching his blush grow as he nods against me, his hips quickening as I thrust harder into his mouth, my thighs tightening around his head. He looks so pretty like this, so utterly desperate.

"You want me to cum on your tongue?" I ask him, tugging his hair harder. He shakes his head, swirling his tongue around inside of me, making me groan lowly. "Where should I cum then?"

Mike slips his tongue out of me quickly, raising his head slightly as he speaks. "On my face," he says sweetly before diving back between my legs, lapping greedily at my entrance while I moan.

"Oh," I drawl slowly, letting him play with me while I watch. "You want me to paint that pretty face?"

Mike moans against me, sliding his tongue into me once more as he ruts against the bed, his eyes closing once more as he puts his all into the act.

"Do you like warming me up for your cock like this?" I ask him, giggling when he dives deeper inside of me in response. "Such a good way to get me ready to breed."

This seems to do the trick for Mike, his eyes snapping open to watch me as he fucks my hole desperately, moaning and panting as his tongue slides in and out, slick noises echoing throughout the room with each movement.

My breathing hitches in my throat as I fuck his face roughly, my stomach feeling tight as my orgasm edges closer, my teeth digging into my lower lip.

"I'm not gonna last much longer," I warn Mike, thrusting harder onto his rapid tongue while one of my hands begin to play with my now neglected nipple. One of Mike's hands quickly finds the other, both of us now playing with my chest to make me whine as I edge ever close, my eyes squeezing shut as I focus on my climax, my voice ragged and high as I moan for Mike to quicken his hand. He obeys immediately, his thumbnail flicking at the hard bud while his other hand squeezes my ass, nails digging into the cheek while he moans into me. I steal a look downwards at him, locking eyes with his now possessive glare while he watches me with eager satisfaction, silently begging me to come undone onto his face. And with such a beautiful, demanding man fucking me like this, who am I to say no?

"I'm coming," I stutter as the tight knot in my stomach begins to snap. "Fuck, Jesus, I'm coming!"

Mike moans in harmony with me, eyes widening in excitement as I pull him as tight against me as I can. My own eyes flutter shut, my hand clamping down over my mouth to muffle my sharp cries, my body trembling as my muscles stiffen, pleasure ripping through me to the point I clamp my thighs tight around Mike's head, pumping into his mouth with such vigor I'm almost worried he may not be able to breathe properly. But he doesn't ask me to stop, his pants soft and desperate as his own body shakes.

The force of my orgasm takes me by surprise, relaxation kicking in hard enough that when I close my eyes, it's hard to open them again. With each tremble from the waves pulsing through me I'm coaxed back into sleep, my muscles slowly relaxing one by one, my mind shutting off, and it doesn't take long before I can hear a deep voice in my ear, whining something much too loud for my tastes.

"Mm," I groan once again. "C'mere, come cuddle with m-"

"I asked you, very politely, to stay awake," Mike whispers in my ear. My eyes flutter open, blinking rapidly to adjust once more to the morning light. "What on earth am I going to do with you?"

In Mike's hand is a small washcloth, wiping away at the leftover cum I had painted his face with. Mike's hand is rubbing my thigh as he grazes his cock over my hole, teasing me as punishment.

"I'm sorry," I say softly, a blush rising to my cheeks as I try to put on my best act of innocence so maybe he'll skip the torture and go straight to fucking me.

"No," Mike drawls, his hand inching closer. "No, I don't think you are."

The tip of Mike's cock presses against my entrance, threatening to dip in, making me moan desperately.

"Shush," Mike soothes me, wrapping his hand around my throat slowly, finger by finger. "Don't wake the rest of the house."

Mike slips his middle finger inside of me, pumping quickly and hard. I whimper quietly, which seems to be too loud for his taste.

"I said be quiet," Mike whispers patiently as he carefully squeezes my throat. I try to reach for his hair only to discover my hands have been bound to the bedframe by some sort of cloth.

"You like my tie, sweet thing?" Mike asks sweetly, slamming harder into me. I can hear the increasing volume of the smacking inside me as he fucks me with his hand, sounding so delicious as he curls his fingers just right. Mike leans in closer, running his tongue over the bottom of my lip before shoving it inside of my mouth to claim me once again. I moan loudly, giving in fully to desire as he has his way with me. Mike pulls away instantly, choking me hard enough my airflow is slightly restricted. His ring finger slips inside of me right before he begins to slam inside of me with all of his strength, making me gasp pathetically while he ruins my tightening hole, my legs trembling as I arch my back, pressing against his smooth tie. I wrap the longer end around my palm, tugging at it in desperation. Mike bites down on my neck again, and I'm about to cry out when the doorbell buzzes throughout the living room, making us both jolt in surprise at the sudden interruption.

"No, no, no, no!" I whine, my eyes wide as I feel Mike thrust into me one final time as hard as he can before pulling away, leaving me empty and trembling while he stands from the bed. "Come back, come back!"

Mike looks cocky and pleased with himself while he pulls a sweater on over his head, glancing back over his shoulder at me for just a second.

"Just go back to sleep, sweetheart. I'll handle it," he coos like an asshole.

"B-but I'm not- we-"

Mike is out the door before I can protest, our unexpected guest buzzing once more in clear irritation at the slow response to their arrival. Who the fuck even is it? It's hardly even seven!

Disappointed and frustrated, I slump against the bed, clearly pouting as I hear Mike open the front door. And Abby is slipping out of her room now too, her young voice muffled through the walls as she greets Aunt Jane, apparently.

Oh my god.

Not fucking fair!

                             ¤▪︎{♧}▪︎¤

You know, I wasn't gonna write this. I just pulled a bunch of tags out of my ass when I originally posted the fake fic, but then I decided you guys took the joke so well that you all deserved a little treat. Say 'thank you, Dani.' <3

I may be an asshole, but I'm not evil. So, I expanded my regular taglist to include the horny fucks that got trolled so they could read my bullshitted glory. You're welcome 😌 (would love to have you join the taglist full time, btw!):

@cassiecasluciluce @gh0u1ishly @joshhutchersons-slut @schmidtsbimbo @sugarevans @wompwompwomp57 @jhutchissupercool @laurrrelise @orchidmothh @mystargirl-interlude @freak-accident419 @fatinhadesiners06 @mrjsbunny @futureman @sleepyhutcherson @lile6969 @heartsoremania @bowerssz51 @nick-nacker @joshhutchersonsgf @kathybernice @janitorhutcherson @sofiehutch. Thank you for your support pookies!!! <3

Happy April fools day, everyone. Thanks for following, reblogging and commenting. See you next time!

                •▪︎Masterlist▪︎•

[risuola]

HEADACHE — F. READER x SUKUNA RYOMEN ft. Yuji Itadori

Your head has been killing you all day but you tried to play it off as nothing to not worry your boyfriend, but he noticed and didwhat he could to ease your suffering.

cw: fluff, Itadori is 18 and is a vessel for Sukuna, reader is in pain (duh), things like SA and su1cide are mentioned (nothing discriptive though), there is like, one slightly suggestive joke I guess? it's fluff, let me remind you! — 1,7k words

a/n: yet another fluffed out piece of writing for the king, because I love him struggling to keep his authority, alright? there are also so many fics where Sukuna is just purely violent that I feel like him being everything but violent is very much in demand and I love him more gentle 🖤 i also often get headaches like the one described so it was my inspo, kinda.

It hurt. Your head had been killing you since this morning and slowly it was getting to the point where you couldn't even move. It felt like a storm had been raging inside your skull for hours, you couldn't think, couldn't eat, couldn't concentrate on anything all day, and three painkillers didn't help at all. Your vision was blurry, your balance was off, everything seemed too loud, too close, too bright, too intense. You wanted to scream, you cried, and even begged whatever there is in the universe to just take this pain away.

"I can't," you whispered, crying quietly into your pillow as night fell. "I can't, I can't..." You tried not to wake Yuji, you even acted like it hurt less than it really did, just so he wouldn't worry, but now you couldn't hold it anymore. Your hands were shaking, your vision went black, and you wanted to die.

You got up, quietly and carefully, and slowly padded to the bathroom, feeling your way through the walls because your vision wasn't reliable anymore, and you put your head under the ice-cold water. Unpleasant shivers ran down your spine, your breath came short, but you stayed there, begging the university to ease the agony. And it did, for a moment. It all came back when you threw a towel over your head, unable to withstand the cold anymore. There was no point, you were dying, there was no other way.

Defeated, you dried your hair as best you could and went back to bed, where the moment you laid down, Yuji's arm found its place over your middle. He was still asleep, thankfully, and you pushed a pillow over your face and dived into the darkness.

"Is this suicide?", a voice that you only hoped was the creation of your mind reached your ears and you ignored it for the time being. Yuji was sleeping, he didn't move his hand from over your belly, he couldn't... "It's unwise to ignore me."

"Please, I can't do this now..." you whispered and took the pillows away. It was wet with tears, and so was your face when you looked at him. It was Sukuna, but it seemed like he had very little control over Itadori's body. Or maybe he intentionally kept you close to him so that you would die of a heart attack, but the sudden rush of blood that made your heart pump much faster than usual only made you feel worse.

"You can't do what?"

"Why are you here?" you asked, wiping your face.

"I love watching people suffer, and you seem to be just the kind of show I'd enjoy."

"Of course you do..."

"What is the source of your pain?"

"My head hurts. So fucking bad."

"Poor little human," he chuckled, lifting his head and resting it on his hand for a better view. In any other situation you would have pushed him away, tried to distance yourself, but now you had no power to fight back, so you stayed where you were, in the emotionless embrace of a curse that lives inside your boyfriend.

"If you stepped out to enjoy my pain, please go fuck yourself. Not the best timing, curse."

"How rude," he chuckled, "as if you were in a position to speak to me like that. I can slice you to ribbons before that brat even thinks of taking control back. Oh, imagine how devastated he would be to wake up to the bloody mess of his little girlfriend."

"Oh, sure. How creative, threatening me with death, very original. Perhaps you should surprise me and use your little hocus pocus to ease the pain I feel instead of scaring me."

"You want me, the King of Curses, to heal a human?"

"Kindness would be a good look on you."

"Oh, you're so desperate," he laughed and you covered your eyes with your forearm, already tired of his shit. The silence hurt you, not to mention his amused tone.

"Get lost, Sukuna," you muttered. "If you're not going to help, then stay quiet."

"And who are you to order me around?" his long fingers clawed at your chin, forcing your head in his direction, and you lowered your arm to look at him. Red eyes almost glowed in the darkness of the night, but he looked calm. "Hmm? Little human, have you forgotten where your place is?"

"I know where my place is, but you're in my bed now, so the only rules that apply here are mine."

"What a mouth," he chuckled again. "I can make this headache worse, you know."

"By annoying me to death? You're doing great at that."

It really wasn't wise to push Sukuna's buttons like that, your luck was definitely going to run out sooner or later, and even if you thought you wanted to die because of the headache, that wasn't really what you wished for.

"Sukuna, please, don't be a dick, help a human out."

"Oh, but watching you in pain is so much more entertaining."

"Have you ever tried to be nice, or is the concept foreign?"

"Being nice doesn't hold any power."

"Oh, but it does. When people truly respect you, not because they're scared, that's a different kind of power. And you like power, right?"

"I'm the strongest, I don't care what maggots think of me as long as they kneel in fear."

"If those people are maggots, doesn't that make you like a maggot king or something?"

"Oh, you're pushing your luck."

"Sure, whatever," you smack his hand away from your face and put the pillow back over it. If he's not going to be helpful, what was the point of paying attention to him? Just because he wants it doesn't mean he has to get it.

"And now you plan to ignore me?"

With no answer, you just pressed the plush item harder to your face, hoping that the pressure would soothe you even a little, but no luck.

Sukuna achieved his goal of making your heart beat even faster when he suddenly climbed on top of you, pinning you under his body and throwing the pillow away. Both of your hands he pressed to the bed with only one of his own, and you looked at him with a combination of surprise, confusion, and a glimmer of fear. This was not an ideal situation in any universe.

"What now?"

"Oh, don't be so scared, you wanted me to help you, right?"

"I fail to notice where the helping part is..."

"You humans fail to notice a lot of things."

Ryomen continued to touch you, but his touch felt anything but intimate. It burned, it felt targeted when his palm brushed against your knees or your inner thigh. Wherever he pressed, you felt some pain.

"What on earth are you doin-"

"I advise you to shut up before I change my mind."

And so you did, still unsure of what was happening. Why was this man touching your skin when you could have sworn, he wasn't interested in any kind of human physical touch. He was toying with you, enjoying the way your heart was racing in your chest, how you struggled to free your hands from his relentless grasp, and how you tried so hard to stay calm when he knew your mind was racing 180 miles per hour and off the cliff.

"Such a simple human," he mocked, his fingers brushing way too close to your underwear to go unnoticed, and your hips bucked up to create just a little more distance. This had to be another kind of torture and he was having fun making you so pliable. His eyes never left your face and you struggled to maintain eye contact. "What if I opened a mouth on the palm of my hand right now?" he teased, and you didn't get the subtext at first, but once you did, the vision struck you in a way it shouldn't have.

"Christ, you're more perverted than I suspected a curse would be," you muttered, turning your head to the side, creating an opening for him to kiss the tear off your cheek.

"You don't know much about curses, sweetheart," he laughed directly into your ear, brushing it with his lips as he moved his hand higher, sliding it under your blouse to your hip. "There are some mindless curses out there that only focus on sexually abusing their victims." This wasn't happening, this couldn't be happening. But his tone didn’t change, he was amused more than anything. "But I'm not a simple, horny curse, don't be so afraid. I'm the king."

"For a king, you do kinda often need to remind people about it..." you muttered, breathing in and out, focusing on this simple thing to avoid turning into a mess.

"Remember my advice?"

"Yup."

You closed your mouth and a wave of pulsating pain washed over your whole body again, radiating from your head as if a bomb had just exploded here. You closed your eyes tightly, tears once again threatening to flow from under your squeezed eyelashes. It hurt so much that you couldn't think straight, everything was blurry and you had trouble even recognizing the man above you. You wanted to pull your hands out of his hold, to put them on your temples, to do anything to ease the throbbing ache, but he wouldn't let you.

His hand pressed against your forehead. A moment later, the grip on your wrists loosened and the man rolled off you, taking a place beside you and pulling you into his chest. When you opened your eyes, no sign of black marks met your sight.

"Did he help you?" Yuji asked, his voice soft and cooing, but with worry clearly intertwined with his words. "Does it still hurt?"

"Huh?"

"Your head, does it hurt?"

"No... You asked him for it?"

"Yeah... I noticed you were in pain today, but you tried to play it off as nothing. And you didn't sleep and cried and I saw how many pills you took and still hurt," he spoke so softly, kissing your head tenderly and caressing your back with care and affection. "I'm sorry, I guess he had to scare you a little because, you know... ego."

"Thank you, baby," you pressed your lips to his chest, nuzzling into him even more.

"Oh, don't be, you know I'd do anything for you."

Next day you noticed that every bruise you had on your body wasn’t there anymore. Every hurt you earned through your every day clumsiness and trainings disappeared.

So that’s why Sukuna was touching you.

[magicspeedwagon7]

a lot of analysis of "Saltburn" that i see on the internet focus on the text/subtext and maybe the symbolism but i'd like to focus on how messages can be conveyed by the visual elements of the film.

after your first viewing of the film, you've probably asked yourself a lot of questions, including: did Ollie genuinely like Felix (and all his plans derailed dramatically) ? or was Felix a mean to an end from the beginning (and Ollie's mistaken his obsession with Felix, more precisely what he represents (i.e. coolness, wealth, injustice etc) for genuine affection) ?

first and foremost, let's talk about the ratio used all throughout the film which is 1.33:1. so not a perfect square - that would be 1:1 - but here's a screenshot of my computer while i was playing the film on my media player so you can see the biiiig black stripes to the left and right.

such a square-ish ratio - especially compared to larger ratios, the hollywood standard being 1.85:1 - allows paying attention to the characters instead of the background in wide shots or floor shots and offers 'intimate' close-ups because little to no background is to be see as you get closer to the characters. the main drawback and that we cannot capture imposing backgrounds with it. it just doesn't fit.

the scene where Felix shows Ollie around the house illustrates perfectly the paradoxes of the film. Saltburn is central to the film and yet just a background.

the camera never moves away from Felix, not even when Ollie looks left and right. to add insult to injury, the narrow frame prevents us from looking at anything else even if we wanted to.

"some fucking hideous Rubens" said Felix. Rubens that...we will never see. same for the maze Felix will die in: we'll see it later.

of course, the previous scene depicted Ollie as insignificant compared to the castle but i think this scene is here to establish Duncan as the gatekeeper of the castle in a very literal sense. as if the gates of the castle had taken on a human form in the form of Duncan.

but the moment Felix comes in, all eyes on him.

for me, the message is clear: before the death of Felix, we don't care about the castle . there's not even a single room of that castle that you could describe extensively. do you know what Ollie's and Felix's rooms look like? and the dressing room? etc. Ollie was genuinely obsessed with Felix and he had to improvise when he died that aspect of him is not part of any scheme. in contrary i think the moments when Ollie's sexually excited by Felix (cf bathtub scene, grave scene) are Ollie's rare moments of vulnerability when his real personality slips through. he cold-bloodedly killed all the members of the Catton family except Felix he genuinely cried for.

that's why i do not subscribe to the view that every single thing Ollie does is part of a scheme from the get-go. sometimes, Ollie improvises and his obsession for Felix is not a mean to an end.

[sockatoothewafflebird]

over and over, i fuck myself over, and under and under, i do it again.

morning and evening, i felt i was grieving, until i said fuck you, and never again.

daytime or nighttime, i feel i'm on my time, but time is fickle, just like a friend.

and with my departure, from the pain i harbor, i feel i am sinking, and sailing to swim...

--

I'm worried about Ragatha.

She'd definitely be better off not looking at mirrors for a while. Even more so if she stopped reciting random depressing songs to her ceiling, for no other reason than to dig a deeper hole, to sink further down. I can hear her singing to herself every night, the same songs she plays on all her instruments. What a beautiful voice. How beautifully she plays. But, it's always so sad.

She keeps falling. Faster. Further. Her screams can't be heard anymore. And yet she never falters. How many miles - and what kind - of shit has she been through, to think this is okay? How long did it go on for, for her to think it's normal?

It's not healthy.

But she doesn't mind. Somehow. She'd break her own arms herself if it meant Zooble would stop losing their temper at her, if it meant Jax would stop terrorizing Gangle, if it meant Kinger could just remember the little things.

She's such a wonderful person. Amazing. An unstoppable ray of sunshine for anyone willing to look at her. She's the kindest person I've ever met. Even behind all that fog, she cares, maybe more than anyone. It's so sweet.

It's so easy to see she's hurting though. She hurts so much sometimes I can see her hide her tears, I can tell she deflects all the time.

If only she knew she didn't have to hide. If only she saw it. If only she knew she's more than a toy.

If only I could get through to her.

I guess I should've listened when Kaufmo said to never fall for a girl with baggage. Seeing her like this just hurts.

I hope she can figure it out. I try so hard to make sure she's doing alright, and she always insists I don't have to worry. And I can never hide how much it devastates me that she thinks I'd drop the subject so quickly, and just act like I don't care. I do care. I care so much I think i'll fucking die if she doesn't start seeing through my eyes once in a while.

God. This is the longest entry i've ever written. My hand hurts.

Goodnight, I guess. Here's to hoping.

---

my plan when i find a character i like (in no particular order):

this is how i feel about ragatha. in case you didn't notice. i love her as a character so much i just wanna put her under a damn microscope. the influence has influenced me and now i share the obsession with ragatha that mod bee from @ask-the-rag-dolly has been afflicted with.

pomni is such an observant character. and caring. and overall very smart. she can't pretend she doesn't notice all of ragatha's little lies and slip-ups.. and it eats away at her, knowing she can't do anything, knowing ragatha can't and won't accept help right now. ragatha needs to come to terms with it on her own. a therapist is what ragatha needs.

but in a video game? and in my au, in the middle of a broken world full of corporate greed and the cold, unforgiving whims of mother nature? if she found a therapist in either, it would be considered a once in a lifetime historical discovery. the school textbooks would have a chapter on it.

either way, something's up in the darkest depths of that cotton-filled brain of hers, and she's just built to think it doesn't matter. she's built to make sure everything stays nice and positive and okay. when we ALL see it's not. goddamnit ragatha i will make an oc that is a licensed therapist just so you can stop being such a sad wet dog and start practicing the art of self-partially-enjoy oh my god you sweet little door hinge

(song lyrics at the beginning are from over & over by rio romeo btw, theyre very cool pls check them out)

[covid-safer-hotties]

Also preserved on our archive

By Jessica Wildfire

Our friends and family think they understand their immune system because George Carlin explained it to them in the 90s:

"Where did this sudden fear of germs come from? What do you think you have an immune system for? It's for killing germs. But it needs practice. It needs germs to practice on. If you kill all the germs around you, and lead a completely sterile life, then when germs do come along you're not going to be prepared. What are you gonna do? I'll tell you what, you're gonna get sick and you're gonna die and you're gonna deserve it because you're f-ing weak and you've got a f-ing weak immune system."

George Carlin was right about a lot of things, but he was wrong on this one.

(He got plastic wrong, too.)

Unfortunately, this part of his 11th HBO standup special became permanently lodged into the American cultural memory. I only saw it once as a kid, but it stayed with me for the rest of my life.

Not even AP Biology could dislodge it.

I, too, used to think you built your immune system up by exposing yourself to harmful germs. How could the great prophet George Carlin be mistaken on something that made so much intuitive sense, especially when you dropped a few f-bombs in there? I also thought it was a good thing to exercise your way through a cold. Then I opened myself up to the possibility that I was wrong.

In the words of Carl Sagan, I'd been bamboozled.

In early 2020, this Carlin bit inspired countless reaction videos that still litter the internet. Anti-science zealots have used George Carlin's monologue on disease thousands of times over the last four years to ridicule masks, vaccines, and clean air. Everywhere you look, that piece of standup looms in the background, and it's getting revived again for bird flu. But even George Carlin got the idea from somewhere else.

You can trace this misguided notion back to hygiene theory, proposed by David Strachan in 1989. Strachan argued that a whole range of health problems in the late 20th century had roots in "a lower incidence of infection in early childhood." Basically, our immune systems weren't getting enough exposure to bacteria and viruses. He was mainly talking about the rise in childhood allergies as the result, but the media began printing loose interpretations of his studies and jumping to conclusions that less exposure to disease was a bad thing in general. So the public developed the idea that somehow getting sick was good for you. So began the myth of the "bored immune system" that needed practice in order to stay healthy. Gurus and quacks latched onto this idea. So did talkshows.

And then comedians...

It wasn't until 2003 that Graham Rook offered a more accurate description of the situation. As he explained, "microbes have evolved into an essential role in regulating our immune system... the microbes involved are not infections, but friendly microbes which make up our human microbiome. These are acquired by exposure to other humans or animals and microbiota from our natural environment."

This became known as the "old friends hypothesis."

The old friends hypothesis now serves as the dominant model for how microbes work with our immune system. According to immunologists, kids need to be playing outside more and eating fresher, healthier foods. That's what helps their immune systems.

Getting sick all the time just hurts them.

Like many debunked ideas, hygiene theory and the myth of the bored immune system have become entrenched. A couple of years ago, hygiene theory got repackaged as "immunity debt." Now Americans, Canadians, and many Europeans think they need to get sick to stay healthy. The elites have absolutely no problem with that. It saves them countless billions to let everyone continue thinking they're better off letting diseases run around in their cells.

So:

Your immune system doesn't work like a muscle. It doesn't get stronger the more it's exposed to different harmful germs.

It doesn't need practice.

Phillipp Dettmer gives a vivid, accessible breakdown of the immune system in his 2021 book, Immune. You can show it to any internet troll who brags about their knowledge of the immune system. Dettmer destroys misinformation, explaining how your adaptive immune system actually works, as well as your gut microbiome.

As many articles and books explain, your body has an innate immune system that already knows how to fight off pathogens. You can help your immune system by feeding it the nutrients it needs. (That's an entirely different article.) You can protect your immune system from pollution, cigarette smoke, and other toxins. But genetics determines a lot of your immunological makeup. You can be born with an immune system that doesn't work the way it should, and it's not your fault.

You also have an adaptive immune system that stores chemical blueprints of pathogens in memory T and B cells. According to a 2024 article in Nature, these cells respond better to specific pathogens your body has seen before. Those blueprints last only as long as your memory cells. Sometimes those cells mature and stay around for years, even decades. If they don't, then your body won't remember the pathogen.

Your body doesn't need exposure to viruses.

Your immune system responds to harmful microbes and it can develop memories from previous infections. Most of the time, those memories apply specifically to that specific strain, variant, or clade of the virus. For example, immune memory to one type of adenovirus or rhinovirus doesn't confer automatic, guaranteed protection against all of them, and there are hundreds.

Sometimes, cross-protection can happen, but it's limited and hard to predict. When it does, like with the original smallpox vaccine, it's a big deal. If that were easy, we would already have a universal coronavirus vaccine and wouldn't have to update flu shots every year. Most of the time, getting sick with one virus doesn't train your body to respond any better to other viruses, especially when those viruses aren't related.

Victoria's state department of health puts it very plainly:

"The immune keeps a record of every microbe it has ever defeated, in types of white blood cells (B-lymphocytes and T-lymphocytes) known as memory cells. This means it can recognise and destroy the microbe quickly if it enters the body again, before it can multiply and make you feel sick. Some infections, like the flu and the common cold, have to be fought many times because so many different viruses or strains of the same type of virus can cause these illnesses. Catching a cold or flu from one virus does not give you immunity against the others."

You can add Covid to that list.

Some research has suggested that because catching one virus activates your innate immune system, your body's broad layers of defense offer brief protection against other pathogens. Viruses also compete with each other, meaning that infection from one virus can ward off others. That's called viral interference. Neither option means your immune system benefits from exposure to viruses.

We can't explain all of the human immune system in a single post, but here's the point. It's way more complicated than George Carlin explained. There's a lot more going on. It's not as simple as training your immune system by giving it practice.

That's not how it works.

It just sounds good.

No credible doctor or immunologist recommends building your immune system by welcoming viral and bacterial infections into your life. The costs far outweigh the benefits. Many viruses exact a price on your body and your immune system. Getting infected over and over again makes you weaker, not stronger. Vaccines don't work because they give your immune system practice. They work because they allow your body to develop a memory of a pathogen without all the risk.

Many viruses, like the flu, often leave lasting damage even when your immune system fights them off. Your immune system actually does some of that damage itself by attacking infected cells. In the wake of flu, your entire body including your immune system needs time to recover. During that stage, you're vulnerable to opportunistic infections. Other viruses, like measles and ebola, disable your immune system and even wipe out memory cells.

That's also what Covid does, among many other things.

You can't develop full immunity to viruses that evade, attack, and disable large parts of your immune system. Sometimes you can develop partial immunity, but the virus still invades and still does damage every time. Just because you can recover from these infections, that doesn't mean you're better off afterward.

Think of it like this:

Your body already knows how to heal its skin and bones. You don't have to teach it how to do that by cutting yourself or breaking your arm.

As it happens, many westerners also think bones grow back stronger after they're broken and scar tissue is tougher than normal skin.

That's also false.

Scar tissue remains functionally deficient in many ways compared to uninjured skin. Broken bones form a temporary calcium callus that's stronger than ordinary bone, but it's eventually replaced.

These misguided ideas fit in a culture obsessed with tough love, the idea that abusing someone somehow builds their character. And while it might make you interesting, it's certainly not "good" for you.

Sometimes I wonder what George Carlin would think about having one part of a standup special used to endorse bad science and eugenics. I'd like to think he would have a problem with it.

There's a lot you can do to boost your immune system.

Getting sick isn't one of them.

[d1s1ntegrated]

currently incapable of using my nostrils, so sick shiggy hcs please! (Also I really like the stuff you write and ur headcannons)

sorry this took me a bit! i'm still suffering from sun poisoning and very bad sunburn 🥳 but i'm thinking writing this might make me feel a bit better :,)

sick!shigaraki hcs

he's an absolute baby when he's sick. super pouty, whiny, etc

not to mention stubborn. he won't take medicine because he "has suffered worse", barely moves from his spot until you force him to.

sleeps a lot, but also doesn't like to sleep unless you're there to hold him

will mostly play on his switch, doesn't have the energy to use his PC

definitely the type to shove tissues up his nose and just leave them there

you braid his hair back when he's sick, because he barely knows how to use a hair tie to put it up himself

lives under a blanket. wears it around like a cloak, stumbling and shuffling around like a zombie

doesn't like "regular soup" (what he calls chicken noodle) and only wants ramen or those fuckass buldak bowls with like a million scoville (im def exaggerating) so he can whine about how spicy it is

speaking of, he eats the spiciest food he can to clear his sinuses and gets mad when it hurts his tummy

his feet specifically get super cold

you bought him those fuzzy socks after you caught him stealing a pair of yours one day

he lives. in those socks.

he very rarely gets stomach bugs or really bad sicknesses but he gets colds a LOT because he refuses to take care of himself (kurogiri has learned to just let him deal with the colds, they won't kill him.)

regardless he acts like he's a dying man when he's sniffly

"i'm perishing, just let me die"

once he starts to feel better he's back on his usual warpath

"i wasn't even sick dude"

hope this was okay! took a lot of brain power cause i feel icky.

also i hope u feel better!!!!! shigaraki recommends spicy buldak ramen, but i'd recommend some nice tea and chicken broth.

🖤🖤🖤

[justcressida]

ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ- DEAR VİLLAİNESS

"I coped with living in that damn house for so long, then got accepted to a prestigious college, and I had gotten my own home. Even if it was cramped and dirty, I could be completely at rest in it. I had finally escaped those bastards. So why?! It's not even Normal Mode. At this rate, this is no better than before…!"

Record Of Ragnarok X Penelope Eckhart!Reader

POSEİDON

Even among all these gods, Poseidon's hatred and arrogance for humans was evident.

Yet the only reason for his interest in this human woman was her incredible will to live.

Never before had he seen a mortal act so frankly, so boldly towards a God.

It caught his attention. The woman was beautiful, more beautiful than a Goddess could ever be. She was daring. It was easy to get lost in his catlike squinting eyes and be caught in the cold but firm aura of the mortal.

"Your daring and indiscretion have limits, mortal. What do you think you are? What do you trust to utter such bold words to a god?"

The woman squinted her eyes, shining with anger. "Why should there be a limit to my audacity? What have you got to set boundaries with me? First you create a lineage and then you send them disasters and hardships. Then when you get bored, 'Let's destroy humanity!' Are you making a joke that isn't funny to yourself? Why should I obey? Why should I be good? Whose wrong is right based on? How can one expect creation to be pure when there is evil in the heart of God?"

A deep silence reigned throughout the arena, while all the immortals who had been mocking her until a few seconds ago, in silence and tension, turned their eyes to the Tyrant of the Seas and then to this noble woman.

He couldn't help but was impressed. Although what he really needed to do was slit her throat with his trident and punish her disrespect, a wild instinct whispered that he shouldn't punish her in this way. Punish in a different way.

The Tyrant of the Seas' lips curved slightly as the tense wait continued. "Will you stand by what you say, mortal? If you kneel right now and apologize and beg, I won't punish you." Although his tone was calm, his gaze made everyone shudder.

"Y/N! Apologize!" As Reynold screamed, Derrick grabbed his arms and pulled him back. As the beautiful woman's eyes turned towards that direction, her eyes narrowed like a cat.

"It's not worth it, Reynold." Derrick's cold words echoed throughout the arena. The woman smiled sarcastically, after all she got used to it. It didn't hurt anymore.

"I'd rather die." Their eyes met. It was like the gaze of the sky and the ocean.

"You asked for it, mortal."

Thus began your life in prison. It was more of a fait accompli than a mistreatment.

Every day you were dressed like a doll and did whatever Poseidon wanted.

You could have dinner with him if he wanted.

If he wanted, you would go to the meeting of the Gods with him.

Everything was his order, if he didn't want it, you couldn't even breathe.

You'd still rather get beaten.

Yet all you gave in regards to your feelings was your hatred of the open ocean.

"Don't make me angry and come here mortal."

"I don't want."

"I didn't ask if you wanted it. Come with me, if you're afraid I'll keep it."

"No way. I won't." Poseidon looked at the beautiful mortal as the woman shrugged stubbornly.

"It's pointless mortal that you hate the ocean so much." He didn't want to ask directly why.

She looked thoughtfully into the water as she shrugged.

"Tell me the reason for this hatred of the ocean, mortal."

"Water plays with you, water imprisons you, water makes you crazy, and the insane cannot live in society. The water overflows."

Poseidon wanted to deny it, but mortal was right. That's how he summed up his thousands of years of life.

"Let's go inside, mortal. Don't be cold."

The Tyrant of the Seas sighs as he walks ashore.

Perhaps he could leave the mortal a little to himself.

Of course he wasn't forgiven.

For now, at least, he wasn't sure how much longer he could hold back.

"You are so ugly."

"You're being disrespectful again, mortal.

"But are you ugly?"

"Shut up and get in, damn mortal."

[kishiar-la-orr]

personally speaking, there are 3 parts of kishiar la orr's character that makes me find him really fascinating.

first is how he is technically a troupe but a subversion of a troupe at the same time? male leads in romances, whether its het romance or a BL romance, are usually like. cold northern duke who is super strong, super smart and opens up to the main character very slowly because of the main character's kindness, blunt and at times rude. instead, we have kishiar — who is also a northern duke and super strong and super smart, but i'd argue between kishiar and yuder, the one who made the first move to further advance their connection is kishiar? as in, he extends his thoughts and feelings genuinely, expresses wanting to be close to yuder, which are all an olive branch yuder can accept, a sign of trust and (to a degree) vulnerability and real intent to form a connection.

yes, part of him plays into the common male lead troupes, but other parts of him honestly reads more like a female lead? he's the one more emotionally in touch, he's the socially savvy one, he's sunny and smiley. which is just fun, in my opinion, when compared to other BLs i've personally found over the years.

the second thing is my unending fascination with kishiar's complicated tango with mortality. being sickly from childhood, there must've been a sense of impending doom — especially when it's practically public secret among nobles that imperial family members usually die young because of vessel issues. kishiar was on super fast track to the same recorded fates those other people had. but then, in the prev. game, he survived! became healthy! only to not long after take two steps backwards as his health arguably got worse. sometimes i think being killed by yudrein in the 1st tl could be considered a mercy to 1st tl kishiar.

and in the 2nd tl, he went from sick to healthy — and that is it. i think with the blooming romance with yuder, it emphasizes the core characteristic of kishiar that is: he does everything for the people he loves, their future and happiness whether it's with or without him in the picture. ideally, of course it's with him. and in the 2nd tl, he's finally granted this. you can really tell when you see the prev. game flashbacks and go back to the present timeline that kishiar is just much more alive and not just in the physical sense — there is a drive and a sense of liveliness that wasn't there in all of their past life sections, in my opinion.

i just really get fascinated with character struggles with mortality, man. i think kishiar especially has a lot to offer in this department, there are so many things from canon that you can deconstruct or things not yet answered that you can headcanon — everything to play around and explore further about his character and its deep ties to death. even down to the way that he talks, to me, is due to his isolation because of the very vessel bursting issue that also foresaw his impending doom. like, he talks like a person who's alone a lot while growing up? the eloquence and all. it is so fun. naturally, this also includes his expertise with emotional processing and expression — i also think this can also be tied down to his intricate dance with mortality.

finally, the last layer is that kishiar, by all accounts, should be a gary stu — a male version of a mary sue character — and should maybe be boring to read about. he can do practically everything from magic, swordsmanship and aura, divine power to awakener ability. he is sociable and politically wise, able to play the 5D chess of nobles and high society and extract information from enemies and allies alike easily with his multi-layered words. he is smart, he is emotionally intelligent, he has a lot of strong allies, he is kind. but... he isn't boring to read about? not at all. his struggles may have passed, but they are struggles anyway. they contribute to the way i perceive him as a character and only cause me to be even more fascinated by him. and this very 'perfection' kuyu sets him up with — especially the being super strong and able to wield all the powers in their world like a goddamn avatar — is set up to be a major flaw: the very reason his vessel couldn't hold it for the majority of his life and in the 1st tl. everything just colors a very interesting picture of a character that i ended up beyond obsessed with.

[hijackalx]

A LITTLE DEATH +18

SUMMARY: You follow Astarion into the woods with plans to kill him, though it doesn’t play out exactly how you hoped.

WORD COUNT: 3394

UNDER THE CUT: F!reader, hatesex, vaginal fingering, finger sucking, vaginal sex, astarion tends to be more dom, d/s, biting, some sadism and masochism, overstimulation, degradation, good aligned reader

You get along with most of your traveling party. Even amongst your differences, you can find it in yourselves to make peace while chasing your common goal.

You say 'most' because there's one that you just can't bring yourself to like— the damned vampire elf. He's insufferable; always questioning your leadership and ideals, not to mention his piss-poor attitude about everything.

On top of that, some of the things that come out of his mouth are downright awful. "Just let them die," he said, bearing an irritated and inconvenienced reaction to the wellbeing of the entire grove. "We're not here to babysit those in need of culling."

You haven't spoken to him since. To be honest, you've spent the time pondering if you really need someone like that around. Who's to say he won't someday see you and the others as those "in need of culling"?

As the leader of the party, you have to make the right decisions— and you think in this situation, the right decision is to get rid of him.

It's not like you've decided this in the spur of the moment, either. This tension has been building between you two since you met, and a perpetually winding coil is bound to snap and cut someone eventually.

That someone won't be you.

It's early. The night has only just begun to lift, welcoming a gentle blue in its place. You lay in your bed, staring at the tapered ceiling with your hands folded over your stomach.

You listen for the familiar rustle of fabric just outside your tent. Your body springs up as if on cue, peeking your head out to investigate silently. There he is, you watch as the elf leaves his own tent at the same time he always does.

He follows his usual path off into the woods, and this time, you'll follow him.

Before you leave, your adrenaline-ridden hand fumbles around your bedroll, searching. Finally, it graces the sensation of a wooden object, one that you conceal in your waistband beneath your shirt.

You stumble after his footfalls, careful not to lose sight of him in the shadows.

He wanders into a small clearing of trees before stopping. You halt, kneeling in the brush. Your heart pounds heavily in your chest, a slight tremor to your limbs. You're not sure what has overcome you— fear? excitement?

It doesn't matter what you feel. You just need to get this over with.

You watch him inquisitively as he begins reaching for the hem of his shirt. He pulls the material up and over his head, tossing it to the side.

You swallow deeply, fighting the urge to avert your eyes. When you learned of his early morning walks, you didn't think it involved disrobing.

He sits in front of a ledge overlooking the valley, folding his legs together and gazing at the sky expectantly. Now would be the perfect time to reveal yourself, but you're frozen in place from observing the strange ritual before you.

It isn't until the first ray of light peeks over the horizon that you realize what madness he's up to. In all its golden glory, the sun bathes his body with a matching hue. He breathes in, letting its warmth encase his cold, dead figure.

His head turns slightly, his profile partially blocked by his shoulder. Though, you can see that his eyes fall closed while he basks.

Now...! You inhale sharply, your entire body tensing with anticipation.

"If you'd like to join me so badly, I'd prefer that you ask first."

Your heart stutters at the sound of his voice, loud and clear as if to catch the attention of another. Surely, it's not you he's talking to?

He lets out a small laugh. "Well, I won't say yes. But I'd appreciate the gesture much more than I do your... creeping." His brow lowers in a manner of disgust. Moments later, his piercing red iris is staring right back at you.

Instead of flinching, you stand impossibly still like a frightened rabbit.

"Honestly, did you think you were being clever? I could hear your every move from the minute you left your tent," there's a lilt of amusement to his tone as if your failure is humorous to him. It makes your blood boil just enough to snap you out of your daze.

Clearing your throat, you step out from behind your cover. "I apologize for my inefficiency in lurking in the shadows. It's not something we honest people often have to do."

You see the immediate frown on his face. He shoots you a glance like a dagger before quickly regaining composure. "Ever the self-deprecating one, aren't we?" he exhales.

Your shoes grow wet with morning dew as they wade through the grass. You stop directly behind him, glaring down at the back of his head.

So cocky while being so close to death. You hope you'll be half as ignorant when your time comes.

Under your newfound proximity, he seems to fall uncharacteristically quiet— as do the birds and frogs.

Though barely a hum, his voice cuts through the silence disruptively, "... Y'know," he starts slowly, "I'm not the most intuitive type, but I'm starting to feel like you're not here because you missed my company."

"Maybe you should trust your gut."

His next words seem to catch in his throat, immediately being replaced with a sigh.

Unexpectedly, he stands and faces you without caution, as if you'd hesitate to drive your stake through him at any given moment.

And, to your dismay, hesitate is exactly what you do. Your hand lingers over where you keep the stake behind your back, though never touching it.

His body blocks the day's freshly bloomed rays, leaving you in the darkness of his silhouette. You feel a twinge of intimidation, yet you do not falter. You hold his stare and refuse to give up ground.

A smirk fights its way onto his lips, carving into his previously stark expression. "Too pure-hearted to carry out the assassination attempt while you still had the upper hand?"

Your eyes flit down briefly to catch his fingers twitching at his sides. You don't know what he's thinking, but you'll assume it's a far cry from your best interests.

"This isn't something that I want to do—"

With that, something in him seems to snap— you spot the exact moment it happens as his irises are encased in a sea of white. He throws his arms in the air exasperatedly, sharply interrupting your sentence with, "Yes, it is!"

You fail to conceal the dip to your brow, startled by the suddenness of his response. You suppose his reaction is befitting of an altercation only one of you will walk away from.

Still, you pictured someone like him accepting death with a bit more grace.

"You have wanted this from the very moment we met!" his tone wavers slightly, a weary strain intertwining his words. "So what you're not going to do is sit here and tell me how righteous you are before killing me!"

Just when you think he's going to make you fight for it, he seems to collect himself back into his usual poise. "… You're going to tell me how badly you want to kill me first." His nostrils flare as he peers up at you through his dark lashes. "You will give me that much."

A heavy atmosphere lingers in the narrow space between you while you watch his face jerk with resentment. You're not sure why, but the expression makes you feel... strange.

"Say it."

Your lips move before you can create any sound, taken aback by the oddity of his command. "I... want to kill you," you say with a sense of uncertainty, hardly at a decipherable volume.

"Like you mean it.”

It’s at this moment that you realize he behaves no differently in the face of death than he does in an everyday confrontation, and you’re reminded of why you're here in the first place— of all the stress he's given you since day one, all the nose-to-nose arguing and fighting— you can kill him under the guise of protecting others from harm, but the self-centered benefits you’ll reap are almost too obvious.

"I want to fucking kill you," you spit.

So, why don't you? Why do you still stand here, waiting? Why does the stake you stayed up carving for hours, perfectly sleek and pointed, remain unconcerned?

He swallows deeply, and it seems he's wondering the same thing.

You catch the way he watches your mouth part, your exhales thick with adrenaline. Then, his gaze returns to yours, and it seems all the more obvious how his head has just barely tilted.

Something other than hatred flashes in the shadows of his furrowed brow, the separate emotions sitting side by side as if becoming one.

He grabs your arm, yanking you closer. In a single, swift motion, his other hand tangles into the hair at the back of your head, bringing your lips to his.

The sensitive skin crashes together in a burst of impulsiveness. Your hands come up to grab his face while your mouths connect painfully. It's sloppy, and you don't quite sync up. You're both trying to dominate the other, and it feels more like a battle than a kiss.

He uses his teeth to his advantage, biting your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. You lose some nerve from the metallic taste, yet it only fuels his aggression further. The red paints both of your lips, leaving a blushing stain. He harshly runs his tongue over the wound, making you wince as he agitates the sore spot.

In response, you shove him away with all your strength, anger prevalent in the action. He stumbles back, watching you intensely as he uses his forearm to wipe his mouth.

You throw off your shirt, letting the humid air embrace your breasts and torso. As you work quickly to remove your pants as well, you drop your stake in the grass, which he studies for a moment before glancing back at you.

He makes you feel like an object as his eyes graze over your skin, hungry. You approach him once more, impatiently searching for his mouth.

While he distractedly runs his palms over your body, relishing the soft, warm curves, you opt to push him into the boulder behind him. For a split second, he breaks away from the kiss and peers over his shoulder, making note of your plan.

As he puts his hands on your waist to lift you, you reluctantly allow him to place you atop the rock instead. Out of frustration, your fist hits his bare chest, to which he inattentively steadies by your wrist.

He begins kissing down your neck, and you grab at his hair while he does. You end up pulling too hard, and he bites down in retaliation. You don't bleed, but it'll leave a mark.

"Bastard," you hiss.

His hands run up and down your thighs before he traces a finger over your clothed pussy. You buck your hips as the fabric brushes against your clit, and he wastes no time in dipping beneath the garment to play with the needy bud.

He rests his weight on his opposite hand, his nose lingering closely to your neck. The erratic breaths raise goosebumps on your skin.

You lean back on your palms, giving him better access to your body. He coats his digit in your essence, toying with your clit. You twitch as you become more sensitive, which he exploits with unrelenting momentum.

He finally stops to bring his finger lower, teasing your spasming entrance. One of your hands tugs at the hairs by the base of his neck. "Astarion," you warn through gritted teeth. You hear him laugh by your ear before he shoves his finger inside you roughly.

You stifle a gasp as it fills you, the curl it harbors brushing your G-spot with every thrust. You let out small moans until you feel a deeper craving. "More," you huff, "I need more."

"Greedy whore,” he scoffs. "Just as I thought."

He leaves a quick kiss on your lips as he enters a second finger. You open your legs further to accommodate, letting out a sigh of relief as you feel your walls stretch around him.

Your slick produces squelching sounds as he thrusts in and out of you. A small groan escapes his lips, and he comments under his breath, "Gods, you're fucking tight."

You laugh pridefully, considering how many other partners he's had to compare you to. "That means a lot, coming from you."

He bears his teeth briefly in a snarl.

You glance down, noticing the hard-on in his pants. You slide your foot up his thigh mischievously, and he holds his breath as it approaches the tent in the fabric.

His fingers stutter as you push the ball of your foot against his cock, providing pressure that he needs worse than he previously thought.

His teeth rake in his bottom lip as he makes a poor attempt at containing himself. "Shit-eating little nymph, aren't you?" He addresses you with irritation prominent on his features. "Alright, then."

He pulls his fingers from you without warning, revealing the slippery substance you've left on them. With his other hand, he harshly grabs you by your jaw. "Open," he orders.

You comply, and he presses his soiled fingers to your tongue.

"Clean them."

Your mouth closes around the digits, running your tongue over and between the long, slender shapes. You taste yourself, swallowing what you gather while holding his gaze.

His eyes droop half-lidded, thick with lust. The breaths leaving his lips become heavier by the second.

The way he stares down at you— so animalistic, so needy— it makes you feel smug, but it also has you pressing your thighs together to satiate the throbbing desire in your cunt.

He pulls his fingers from your mouth, breaking a line of drool as they leave your lips.

His fingertips remain dug into your cheeks as your hearts pound in unison. It seems both of you are too proud to admit how badly you want what comes next.

You observe him; how his Adam's apple bobs in his throat, how his chest supports a thin sheen of sweat. There's a slight tremble to his figure, teeming with want that's begging to be set loose. You can't take it anymore— you'll lose this time if you have to.

"Please," your voice has never been spoken to him so gentle and pleading, "fuck me."

As if he'd been waiting to hear those words, he connects your mouths again passionately. This time, he leans you back on the cold material of the stone, the dew leaving icy pecks on your skin.

He pulls your underwear from your body, slinging them aside. Peering down, he admires how your folds and inner thighs glisten in the morning light. "You're perfect," he mutters.

As he undoes his pants, you stare between the window of your thighs at his cock being freed from his trousers. "... Yeah," you borderline whine.

Angling himself with your entrance, he tests you by pushing the tip inside. Your velvety walls immediately tighten around him, causing a groan to slip through his teeth.

He leans over you and entwines your hands with his. You wrap your legs around his waist, scooting your hips to the edge of the rock's surface, anxious for him to stretch you out.

He gets the message, slowly going deeper and deeper with each thrust. Your body envelops him so desperately, and you nearly scoff at how you cling to your enemy like your savior.

Finally, he bottoms out with a choked moan, savoring the feeling of your needy pussy before fucking you at a steady pace.

He repeatedly slams into you, his tempo getting rougher as you adjust. You writhe as he hits all the right spots, waves of electricity sparking through your veins and weakening your limbs.

One of his hands slips down to lift your thigh, resting it over his shoulder. It allows him to reach further, and you arch your back as he brushes against your cervix.

You two create a symphony of pleasure, your voices complimenting each other.

His eyes follow yours, and you almost find yourself getting lost in the bloody hue. You turn your head to look away, disliking the feeling erupting in your stomach.

He nuzzles your neck as you unknowingly expose it. You feel his open mouth graze the sensitive skin, subtly running it up and down. He gets strangely quiet, his hips occasionally stuttering. Glancing over at him questioningly, you see his eyes screw shut before his bared fangs pierce your flesh.

It all happens in a matter of seconds. You yelp at the sharp, burning sensation. Your hand pulls at his hair and claws at his shoulders, but he only groans in response.

He continues fucking you while lapping up the blood spilling from your neck. The mix of pleasure and pain confuses you, but you still feel that knot growing tighter in your core.

You begin to experience some lightheadedness, but instead of hindering your enjoyment, it enhances it; it numbs your brain, and you can't think about anything other than this— other than him spreading you open and fucking you as if you're his, as if you've always been.

Your abdomen tenses and you feel your climax approaching quickly. You leave reddened grooves in his back while holding him in place with your heel. An array of noises spills from you as you arch your body into his.

"I hate you— fuck, I hate you," your voice cries out, partially slurred.

He finally pulls away with a sharp exhale, your blood drenching his chin. "I know," he responds breathlessly, leaving a trail of bloody kisses on your collarbone.

He wraps both arms around you to fuck you harder, drawing out your orgasm. Your body jolts with overstimulation, experiencing a sensation in your cunt that you can only describe as an ache. You push against him, but he holds you so tightly that it has no effect.

You notice how he’s starting to come apart; his rhythm becomes erratic, and his moans progress into a desperate whimper. All of his muscles are so taut and his face is endearingly tense— such a contrast to his typical haughty disposition. You conclude that you wouldn't mind seeing him like this more often.

You leave sickeningly sweet kisses along his jaw, caressing his face. "I know you want to cum, you stubborn prick," you say as he repeatedly knocks the breath from you. Pressing your mouth to his skin once more, you utter a quiet, "cum for me, then.”

He seems to think for a moment before making a split-second decision to pull out of you, his frustrated growl telling of his inner conflict. Aiming for your slit and thighs, he releases hot, thick ropes of cum that slowly drip towards your ass.

He stares between your legs like he's created a masterpiece; a concoction of fluids that you brought to fruition together. His thumb smears some of his seed around your folds, a worn grin making its way onto his face as his eyes flicker up at you.

"Really?" you stare back, straight-faced. "That's going to be such a pain to clean up." You know that's the exact reason he did it— why would he ever let anything be easy for you?

He laughs, ridiculous and pompous as ever. "Isn't it?" His hand runs through his unruly hair, lifting rogue strands from the sweat of his forehead. "Take my word for it when I say it's a very, very good look for you."

As you watch him fix himself up to be presentable, a sudden harrowing feeling overcomes you. It seems the euphoria from your little romp was more short-lived than you thought it'd be, and your dynamic was not so easily escaped.

"Flattery won't save your life," you state bluntly, lacking any evidence of the intimacy you two just shared.

"It won't." He walks over to your pile of clothing after tucking his shirt back in. With a still, cold expression, he drops the garments on your naked body to cover it. "But it'll make you miss me."

[saintsenara]

On a slightly more serious note, this is an opinion that will have me eaten alive (ha!) in a blog followed by so many die-hard Snape fans... and I do also consider myself to be a die-hard Snape fan... But I do think that the whole "Lupin endangered students, Snape had no choice but to out him and his fate was justifed" kinda overplayed. The magic world is dangerous: we come across many wizards with who lost limbs to magical accidents, creatures, or duels, Luna's mum died performing experimental spells, everyone's favourite sport involves flinging boulders at people flying 20 meters above the ground. Sure, werewolves are another danger to add to the pile, but if there was no stigma, would it have been so unforgivable that in an extremely eventful and emotional night this guy just forgot to take his potion?

If werewolves were not shunned from society, it could have been just another magical accident. I know it's still a painful and irreversible condition, but people add a lot shame and guilt to Lupin's responsibility plate by perpetuating this idea that it was the most dangerous and despicable thing that could have happened, and being publicly outed was a suited punishment.

I just find it quite dishonest to act like Snape's attitude was not malicious, when he's always excelled at being the biggest bitch in the castle, and we love him for that?

Ok I'm out byeeeeee

i think several things are at play at once, tbh.

lupin forgetting to take the wolfsbane potion as a one-time slip-of-the mind which would - absolutely - be an accident, which could [and probably has!] happened to any of us who take medication regularly? relatable.

lupin forgetting to take the wolfsbane potion because he's too busy trying to murder his treacherous former friend in cold blood in front of three children...? well, sure, i'd do the same in his place, i fear.

but... i do think it's important to point out that snape's outing of lupin clearly isn't just connected to his failure to take his potion once, but to a run of behaviour by lupin which - on the basis of the information snape has in his possession - intentionally places students in danger throughout the school year - above all, lupin's failure to inform dumbledore that sirius is an animagus and that this is how he's entering hogwarts undetected.

i think this often gets forgotten, but lupin doesn't know that sirius is innocent until the same point in the story that harry does. while sirius wasn't coming to hogwarts to try and harm harry, lupin doesn't actually know this - he's not withholding information from dumbledore because he possesses the facts of sirius' innocence, he's withholding information from him because he's a coward.

this makes perfect sense from a characterisation angle - lupin being completely unable to speak ill of the friends who took him in and loved him unconditionally, even when he thinks that one of those friends annihilated two of the others is such a fundamental encapsulation of his personality - but it's unforgivable from a safeguarding one.

[and it would be grounds for a sacking in most jobs which involve working with children, let's be real, no matter the fact that lupin is accidentally vindicated.]

since the information that snape has at the end of prisoner of azkaban is that his suspicions that lupin was aiding and abetting a murderer in his quest to enter the school have been proven correct, and that - because lupin was so keen to help this murderer - he failed to take the potion which prevents him from biting someone... him backing lupin's instant dismissal doesn't seem that unreasonable...

because another thing i think it's worth pointing out is that snape clearly doesn't know that sirius is innocent until after lupin has resigned his post - indeed, you can read his behaviour towards sirius at the end of goblet of fire as evidence that he doesn't know until then [and i'm sure that he verified that pettigrew was the traitor very carefully with voldemort...].

and this is important.

because - yes - snape is petty. he clearly delights in the misfortune of others, and he's someone who tends to approach any conversation he ever has with anyone else through a win-lose lens - which means that he goes out of his way to humiliate other people so that he can "win" the interaction.

but - in the case of his involvement in lupin's dismissal - his pettiness is a red herring, which we're forced to recontextualise after the conclusion of the series...

lupin tells us that snape leaked that he's a werewolf because he's furious over losing his order of merlin.

but - just like when he tells us that snape hated james because he was jealous of his quidditch talent - lupin is wrong.

snape is furious - literally deranged with anger - at the end of prisoner of azkaban because he believes that the man who led voldemort to the potters' doorstep has escaped from justice, that lupin helped him to do so, and that dumbledore - despite admonishing lily for "putting her trust in the wrong person" [by which he means sirius! he doesn't know he's innocent before harry does either!] immediately after her death - has also decided to put his trust in the wrong person [harry's] nonsensical story, believe that sirius is innocent, and believe that lupin hasn't done anything wrong.

[we also get hints in canon that dumbledore's hiring of lupin without forcing him to disclose his condition might be... legally dodgy. the law is clearly unjust - and dumbledore is morally right to disregard it - but i think it's another thing worth bearing in mind when situating snape's decision to turn not only on lupin, but on dumbledore within context.]

snape's attitude is malicious - in that he lashes out at lupin because he's the only person he can realistically hurt in response - but it's not petty or him choosing to be a little bitch for fun. it's anguish.