#not letting things fester is something they need to learn for that

[lavenoon]

Thought about

Maybe they just tolerate him, because they feel responsible - but would they choose him, if they ever had the option? Between his existence and non-existence, which one would they opt for? He's scared to ask.

this bit from this post a bit too long, have a little ramble:

Eclipse, one day, offhandedly, just making a joke about how they wish they'd have known what their Eclipse mode would cause, so they could have stopped using it in time

Sun and Moon just freeze - whoever's out immediately wakes the other, too, realizing this is a conversation between all three of them. What does he mean, "in time?"

"Well, before I popped up, obviously"

The terror of that realization. That their little brother would think they wish he wouldn't exist. That he thinks if they had the choice, they'd prevent him from ever being "born"

"Eclipse... We wouldn't trade you in, ever." (They swallow the "you know that" - because he doesn't. Just another instance of how they failed him)

"Oh yeah? So you're saying you're happy with how things went?"

"No." They need to be closer for that - put a hand on his shoulder, make him look at them. "We messed up so badly on so many accounts - you deserved so much better than what we offered you. That we would change. We wouldn't change you"

And Eclipse really struggles here - hope is so tantalizing when you're not used to it. Manages a crackly

"You mean that?"

"We do."

And that's all he needs - just wraps all four arms around them, trembling like a leaf as he squeezes them close, and they do their best to reciprocate while just whispering "We're sorry, we should have been clearer, we should have told you ages ago, we love you, we would never just give you up"

They stay like that for a long, long while - good thing they're animatronics built with better knees <3

[todayisafridaynight]

mine WOULD be the justice arcana. if you even care or anything.

[lovebugism]

shy reader you say???

i’m obsessed with eddie and shy reader 🥹🥹maybe like her being afraid to present during class and him pumping her up and mouthing words of encouragement during a presentation at school😭😭sounds stupid but i’d love this

this is a wee bit different but i hope you like it anon :D — eddie helps calm your nerves before a presentation (shy!reader, hurt/comfort, tw for mentions of panic attacks, 1.2k)

fictober (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

Study hall turns into an impromptu panicking session.

You break down on the rotted park bench outside the football field, surrounded by textbooks and falling leaves. The only thing keeping you halfway tethered to reality is the crisp autumn air filling your burning lungs. Everything smells like rain and very distinctly of Eddie.

He’d been a good enough sport to help you prepare for your history presentation, but he certainly hadn’t signed up to coax you through a nervous breakdown because of it. 

Your boy’s a good enough sport even now, though, sitting beside you at the creaking wooden table — chin on the crown of your head, ringed hand over your heart. 

You tend to dig at your chest whenever your anxiety attacks get real bad. You’re not sure why. Maybe to soothe your palpitating heart or to pull it out entirely.

“What were you trying to do, babe?” Eddie laughed into your hair as you came down from your panic, lightening the grey mood and smoothing a warm palm over your tight chest. “Pull your damn heart out?”

You can breathe halfway normally now. The hurt in your chest has lessened to a very distant one. Now you’re just left with the post-panic shame. You feel like a little kid again, making monsters out of the clothes on your desk chair.

“I don’t know why I got so scared,” you confess, as quiet as the autumn breeze, rubbing your cheek against the soft lapel of Eddie’s leather jacket. “It’s not even that big a deal.”

The boy shrugs, jostling you accidentally. “Well, your brain thinks it’s a big deal. And your brain’s just telling your body that it needs to protect you.”

You don’t know much about your own anxiety and maybe that’s a fault in itself. It’s not the sort of thing you wanna poke with a stick, lest you wake something up that should’ve stayed sleeping. You just ignore it as best you can — let it fester until it explodes into moments like these. 

Normally, Eddie isn’t around for them but you’re grateful he is now. ‘Cause he loves you and because he cares enough to learn all the things about you that you don’t even want to know about yourself.

He didn’t know much about anxiety before you. He just knew that his mom had it when he was real little, and that social anxiety is scared of him and not the other way around. But then he fell in love with you and learned everything he could if it meant he could treat you better.

Now, it’s practically in his nature to be as gentle with the rest of the world as he is with you — which is totally not one brand for him.

“But you don’t need protecting, right? ‘Cause you’re safe.” 

You nod wordlessly. 

Your throat tightens again like you might cry, but it’s not because you’re scared. It’s because you love him so damn much you think you could explode. He fills your chest with sunshine, banishing the swirling shadows completely.

You could probably light up a whole galaxy with how happy he makes you feel. 

How adored. 

How safe.

“And it’s okay to be scared about this stuff, you know?” Eddie continues when you stay silent. His chin grazes your hair when he pulls back to look at you. “Everyone’s scared of something. Like Steve— I’m pretty sure he’s, like, deathly afraid of quicksand.”

He keeps his arm around your back when you lean away from him, keeping you warm when the crisp breeze brushes between you. You sniffle and blink at him with wide, wet eyes. A hint of a smile quirks the edge of your bitten mouth.

“Quicksand?” you repeat incredulously.

Eddie grins back at you, happy to see you smiling again. It’s pink and lopsided and terribly unkissed. “Yeah,” he affirms through a sputtered laugh. “And I’m pretty sure quicksand isn’t even real, so— at least you’re afraid of something that actually exists.”

Your own giggle tumbles suddenly from your mouth. Both because quicksand is obviously real and because Steve is one of the bravest guys you know.

As usual, Eddie’s totally oblivious to how much of a dumbass he is, but he beams anyway. He’s just happy to be a distraction for you when the rest of the world gets too much — a life vest when you’re drowning. 

Your smile ebbs into a quieter one. Your glassy gaze flits to the clammy hands you wring feverishly in your lap. “I just… I know it’s dumb and everything, but— speaking in front of everyone like that— it makes me feel… I don’t know. It makes me feel way more scared than a person should ever be, like… ever.”

“I mean, yeah, it’s scary. But you can handle it,” Eddie shrugs with all his practiced nonchalance. The absentminded confidence he has — that he has in you — makes you feel all warm. “You’re the smartest person I know, and you know this shit like the back of your hand.”

He waves a pale hand to the cluttered picnic table you sit in front of. Flashcards, clumsily written notes, and open textbooks scatter the top of it.

You know all of it forwards and backwards now — so well you could probably do the presentation in your sleep. If only you weren’t so dreadfully frightened of opening your mouth in front of people you don’t know.

Eddie gives you a warm, reassuring squeeze on your arm with one hand. He smoothes a rouge wisp of hair from your forehead with the other. He could see you getting distant again. It’s important to keep you grounded when you get like that — he read that in a magazine once.

“And by the end of the day, it’ll just be you and me and an empty trailer, and you will have much better things to worry about than this,” he continues. A mischievous smirk blossoms on his rosy lips. His chocolate eyes sparkle with it, too. “I’ll have you so damn distracted, you won’t even think about this stupid presentation again.”

You meet his boyish grin with a challenging squint. Smiling despite yourself, you knock your shoulder into his side at his teasing. 

The sentiment is still there, though. Presentations are stupid and fleeting. Eddie’s here and forever.

“Yeah,” you murmur under your breath. “I guess you’re right.”

He scoffs. “Of course I am.”

You shoot him a half-hearted glare that he meets with a more sincere beam. 

“You’re gonna be the bravest scared person the world’s ever seen,” Eddie tells you, more serious now. 

He isn’t telling you not to be scared or distracting you from the fact that you are. He’s affirming your fear, reminding you that you can be brave in the face of it. 

“And you’re gonna show every single one of those losers what a super genius looks like.”

You roll your eyes at that last bit, pretending you’re not as comforted by his presence or the words he says partly in jest as you really are. 

Because he’s right. It’s not about forcing yourself not to be scared. It’s about being scared and doing the shit anyway — being brave and giving a stupid presentation even if your voice trembles and your hands shake.

And god, nothing makes you feel braver than Eddie.

[fidogo]

And the truth of the matter is (I'll never let you go) - J.S

Synopsis: Jake Seresin hates you. Or is given no choice but to hate you after you decide to hate him first. Which sucks, because he dreams of dating you, marrying you, fucking you, the whole nine yards.

Tags: NSFT, miscommunication, enemies to lovers (kinda), F!Reader, mentions of gender and sexism, infactual Naval Control Room (sorry babes I have no clue what goes on in there and did not fact check), alcohol, sappy emotions, unprotected sex (Don’t do this!), penetrative sex, sub!reader, Dom!Jake, squirting, creampie, overstimulation, spanking, brief cockwarming

Word Count: 4.3K

AN: pretty silly in concept as in I know nothing about Naval control rooms and instead of learning or changing things just barreled on ahead because I felt compelled lmao I also tend to not like miscommunication tropes but once again…something compelled me

Jake Seresin fucking hates you.

Well not really. To be quite honest, he thinks you may be the prettiest thing he’s seen in years. He has dreams where he wakes up next to you, fantasies of taking you to Texas, making sure you never had to lift another finger unless you wanted to.

So no.

He doesn’t hate you. But dear God he seems to be doing everything wrong. 

And he never does anything wrong. 

But anytime he flirts with you, dropping the ole’ Seresin charm, your lips curl up at him, unimpressed. (He wants to bite them. Or kiss them). You always roll your eyes, pat his arm and leave him hanging.

He hates it.

So he ups the ante, deviating from your carefully calculated flight instructions. He easily sails through the air, gliding between clouds and aces through the training and exercises. 

By the time Jake lands his plane, he’s elated, adrenaline pumping, muscles tense, and craving something hot, something more. 

Except it’s worse when he sees you that night. He practically turns red when you completely ignore him. Turning on your pretty little heels, not even giving him the time of day. 

He grabs your forearm on your way out, brows pinched in frustration at your lack of attention. At least before, when you talked to him, you were friends of some sort. 

But now you rip your arm out of his grasp, anger evident. 

“You’re a fucking asshole, Hangman,” you mutter before disappearing into the night. You never call him Hangman outside of work.

So yes, Jake Seresin hates you now. 

Any conversation between the two of you changed after that day. It’s always tinged in anger, some sort of bitterness. He can’t figure out what he did wrong, and you won’t tell him, and it just further cements the fact that he has to put those dreams of you to rest. He continues to defy you when he’s up in the air, but he’s no longer trying to impress you, no, it’s petty and cruel now.

He lets the wound fester, lets it grow and spread, turn vile enough that the others eventually take notice. 

Phoenix hangs by you when you’re all together, a loyal shadow, talons out whenever he gets too close. Rooster's loud and annoying as ever, picking up on the tension and doubling down on his clown routine to dissipate the heaviness. 

Jake finds himself embarrassed when Bob looks at him with sympathetic eyes. If you didn’t want to talk to him fine. He doesn’t need you or your goodwill (God he wants you so bad though). 

Coyote finds him at a barbecue one night. He hands him a beer wordlessly and just stays with him. It’s quiet and nice, making the ache he’s been feeling recently disappear a little. 

“You should talk to her.” Coyote's usually calming voice sounds abrasive to Jake; his hackles go up. 

“Jake.” Javy’s tone stops him from pouncing. “I’m serious. Just talk to her. You’ll both feel better.” He slaps his back, wandering over to Fanboy and Payback as the sun dips into the sea, the sky painted in orange and pinks. 

You’re sitting by yourself on top of a picnic table, a little away from the group, gaze glued to the sunset. 

You look like a fucking angel right now. Something straight out of his dreams. 

Fuck it. 

Shock finds its way onto your face as you see him walking towards you, his muscled body moving with purpose. Wide eyes watch him before they narrow turning towards the sand. 

“Go away, Hangman,” you spit. “Do I need to get Natasha over-“

“What did I do wrong? Tell me what I did.” He cuts you off abruptly, and there’s a twinge of guilt and desperation that colors his words. It’s different than any of your previous conversations. No cocky charm, no anger, just a solemness that leaves your jaw hanging as you gape at him.

He barrels through your silence, sitting on the table next to you. “I can’t fix this,” gesturing between the two of you, “unless you tell me what I did to make you hate me so much.”

Jake briefly notes the way you look at him like a deer in headlights, it’s a look he hasn’t seen on your face before. He wonders what other faces you could make for him. 

“You really don’t know?” Your voice softly cuts through the air, anxiety underlining your words. He shakes his head, watching the way you chew on the inside of your cheek as you stare at the darkening sky. 

A silence settles between the two of you, nothing to listen to but the laughter of your friends, and the repetitive crash of the waves.

“You embarrassed me.”

It’s so quiet, Jake almost doesn’t hear it. 

“What?”

“You embarrassed me in front of everyone. You didn’t listen to me at work. And I fought so hard to get into that control room.” You pause, tugging your jacket tighter around you. It sounds stupid now. Certainly nothing to cry over, and yet here you are, furiously rubbing your eyes. 

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry but I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about,” Jake carefully pushes, unsure of how to make this better. 

You make a pained sound, before nodding, a humorless smile on your face. Of course, he has no clue. You press a palm to your chest, looking straight through his eyes into his soul.

“I do the calculations for your exercises and training.” You pat your chest, voice cracking. “I do it.” He tilts his head at you, silently urging you on. “And when you don’t listen to me and are still so successful, everyone looks at me.” 

“But I do that all time…” he trails off, hand hovering over your shoulder before pulling it away. 

“When you train with Mav or the other pilots, that’s different. But just- certain exercises, where it’s mainly for the plane and just you. That’s on me.” 

He takes a sip of his beer, nodding slowly.

“Why do they look at you?” You let out a small groan, brows pinched in annoyance. 

“Because when what I calculate doesn’t happen, they think I should be doing better. Well, everyone but Hondo. And in case you haven’t noticed, there aren’t a lot of women here.” Jake’s stomach drops a little as you continue. Shit. 

“If I had been a man, I don’t think they would’ve raised an eyebrow. Hell, no one says anything when Johnson fucks up on Rooster’s calculations. And it is on me. I should’ve considered the fact that you’re the perfect pilot who will always beat the odds, but you had never pulled this shit with me before.” He snorts at that, before finally letting his palm rest on your thigh. 

In a comforting, apologetic manner. 

Nothing else.

“And it certainly didn’t help that after the first time, I did everything in my power to do the opposite of what you said.” You laugh at that, a twinkle returning to your eyes that he hasn’t seen in a while.

“No that didn’t help at all. One day my favorite pilot stopped listening to me, the next day I was a joke in the control room.” Your fingers curl into your jacket, and you keep still as Jake slides closer to you. He puts his beer down, gently caressing your jaw so you look at him.

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry that happened to you. I wish you had told me,” he whispers, watching as your eyes dart around, unused to this type of closeness from him.

“I’m sorry. I just was-“ you meet his eyes again, tears beginning to well. “I was embarrassed. I thought I was going to get demoted or transferred. Which didn’t happen. But I thought you didn’t need me and….” your voice fades off, embarrassment all over your face, as you try to squirm out of his grasp. 

Jake drops his hand from your jaw, giving you space, but he squeezes the flesh of your thigh.

“I’m sorry I made you feel like that. That’s the last thing I ever wanted, believe me.” He swipes at a stray tear with his free thumb, watching you blink in surprise. He steals himself, deciding the truth may be the best route.

“When I didn’t listen to you the first time, I was trying to impress you.” Your eyes widen and your upper body pulls away from him.

“What?” You sound like you can’t believe him, and your eyes narrow at him. “This isn’t funny Seresin.” There’s an edge in your voice again, one that he’s come to respect and hate over the past weeks. 

“I’m not being funny,” he throws back, matching your glare. “I was trying to get you to notice me. Hell, nothing else was working.”

“Now what the fuck do you mean?” He looks at you like your stupid, and he almost feels guilty about it except for the fact that he had been flirting with you for so long, it’s a miracle he didn’t give up. And when he tells you that, you look at him mouth gaping. 

“You were serious?” Jake almost rolls his fucking eyes, but he’s watching you relive months of memories, as your shoulders sag. “Oh my god. I thought you were making fun of me.” 

His heart aches a little at the thought of you thinking he was being cruel to you when he wanted to do nothing more but give you the moon and every star in the sky. 

“Sweetheart. Not only do I want you more than anything, I need you. Always.”

“Oh.” He feels you squeeze your thighs together, feels the heat radiating from you. 

Oh. Oh indeed. 

———

Jake’s careful with you. More careful than he wants to be right now, but everything’s so fragile right now, so tender, he doesn’t want to do anything that’ll scare you off. 

His hands are gentle when he peels your shirt and bra off of you; he’s hesitant as he kisses down your neck. His thumb swipes over the, now swollen, lips that have haunted his dreams. They open ever so slightly, letting him push in. He groans into your neck, pushing his free hand into your shorts, sliding over your damp panties. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, eyes glazed over as he trails his fingers up and down your clothed slit. Your hips buck slightly at his ministrations, lips curling around his thumb as you suck gently at it. 

Jake’s cock throbs painfully in his boxers as he watches your body react to him so beautifully, and he hasn’t even really done anything yet. You’re so wound up, so tense in multiple ways, and it’s his fault. He owes it to you to make you cum before he gets his dick wet. It’s what you deserve. 

He pulls his thumb from your mouth, caressing your face ever so slightly before trailing it down your breasts to tweak at your nipples.

“Such perfect tits,” he mutters, watching you bloom so beautifully under his attention. “Now let's get you out of these shorts.” You lift your hips as he situates himself between your thighs, pulling your shorts and underwear off in one go. And then he just fucking stares. 

You squirm under his eyes, thighs beginning to close as anxiety plucks at your nerves. But he’s faster than you.

“Don’t you go hiding from me now, sweet thing.” He licks his lips before looking at you with blown-out eyes. “I think you doubt how long I’ve been dreaming about you and this perfect pussy. Let me enjoy this.” Your heartbeat picks up at his words, cunt involuntarily clenching around nothing. And he fucking watches it happen. 

He smirks up at you in a way that makes you want to pull your hair out, presses a kiss to your thigh, and remains silent. As if not wanting to push your annoyance too far. 

Jake settles on his stomach between your thighs, continuing to leave a trail of soft kisses up your thighs until he’s right at the apex, thumbs pulling your lower lips apart. He sighs appreciatively as your thighs tense.

“You’re just staring,” you complain, beginning to squirm again. He tsks at you, dragging his thumb up the cleft of your cunt.

“Hold your horses. I’m just getting started.” He swaps his thumb for his index, circling around the bud of your clit, delighting in the way you shiver, and he continues to trace your pussy as it leaks for him. “So pretty…” he murmurs mostly to himself.

Jake’s mainly teasing you at this point. A bit cruel considering how battered you both are emotionally, but he wants the first time you cum for him to be big. Memorable. Nothing less from Hangman. And for you. Of course. 

And so he continues to tease, to drag his digits around your clit, your entrance, teasing the opening but not quite entering. He’s enchanted by the little noises you make, the gossamer strands he pulls from your body. They just look so…sweet. 

With his eyes fixed on yours, he leans his mouth forward. 

When his tongue swipes along you, your groan of relief goes straight to his dick. Fuck. He could listen to you all day. 

Jake laps away at your cunt, chasing after your nectar and the sounds you make, relishing in the way your thighs tense around his head. He draws his tongue up, passing over your clit, and you buck into his mouth. Your fingers are in his hair in a flash, tugging as he repeats the motion. His eyes roll into the back of his head at the feeling, and he grinds his dick into the bed.

“Fuck,” you whimper, eyes sealed shut as you continue to hump against his face. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

He expertly flicks at your clit, fingers digging almost painfully into your thighs. It feels so good, the pleasure radiating from your pussy making your brain foggy. Much like he can’t think of being anywhere but between your thighs, you can’t think of anything but Jake and his perfect mouth.

The two of you stay in this, wet, messy rhythm of tugging and licking and teasing until your wound so tight, muscles so tense you can’t help but beg. Jake, Jake, baby, please. I need to cum so bad.

He groans against you, vibrations making you shiver. One of your thighs is released, fingers gently trailing over the shallow nail marks left on your skin. You shiver again. Those same fingers find their way to your sopping, twitching cunt, and they trail in-between the lips of your pussy while his tongue remains focused on your clit. 

You pant tugging hard at his hair again, you can feel it coming, feel the wave begin to crash- and then he pushes 2 fingers inside you, stretching, searching, begging you to cum around them. And obedient as ever, you do.

You jolt forward, fingers still tangled in his hair as your thighs snap shut around his head, cunt pulsing around his fingers and into his awaiting mouth. Your blood feels white hot, pleasure overwhelming as your hips continue to twitch and buck. 

Jake continues to thrust his fingers into you, helping you ride your high as his own hips grind into the bed, reluctantly chasing the same. 

When your body starts to relax, fingers no longer clinging to his hair almost painfully, he pulls his mouth and fingers away slowly, watching you carefully, gauging where you are. 

You blink at him blearily, licking your lips before noticing how wet the lower half of his face looks. Wet because of you. 

You let out a small moan. “Fuck, Jake.” 

You look so fucked out, so lovesick- Something snaps in him and he doesn’t know why but he needs you to cum again as fast as possible. 

And so he dives back in. 

Fingers thrusting, tongue skillfully teasing. And you wail, hips rocking. To escape or seek more, you don’t know. 

“Jake,” you cry out, pulling his hair, trying to get his tortuous mouth off of you. “Jake it’s too much!” But a single arm keeps you glued to his mouth. His eyes meet yours, blown out and desperate, and your fucking shaking. 

And then his lips form a seal around your clit. 

And he sucks. 

Your eyes roll to the back of your head, hips writhing against him as you’re taken under by another massive wave of pleasure. Your thighs squeeze and squeeze and squeeze, feet flailing against the bed. You repeat nothing but his name, as if it’s the only word you remember how to say, voice tense and whiny. 

He moans into you, fingers pulling more of your cum into his mouth, and he grinds his boxer-covered cock into the mattress watching your body crest and crash until you begin to still. 

Carefully, as if you might break, Jake pulls away again. The deep ache in his gut was finally satisfied at seeing you fucked out and exhausted. 

But you prop yourself up to look at him, chewing your lip thoughtfully. “Dontcha wanna fuck me?” You whisper, something desperate and needy kicking to life inside of you again. 

Jake inhales deeply, something twinging in his abs, and he grimaces. 

And you flail in panic at his face, turning over to your hands and knees, cunt rising above him, as you turn back to look at him, begging again. Jake please, please I need you in me. I want you so bad. 

And he groans, reaching a hand up to squeeze your ass. 

“Sweetheart, there’s nothing more I want than to fuck this cunt until you pass out. But I need to wait. I’m a little spent…” 

You freeze at that, turning more to watch as he peels off his boxers, noticing the shine of the fabric. Holy shit. 

Your eyes widen, and you collapse in front of the pillow in front of you. 

“That’s so hot, Jake. Fuck.” Your hips wiggle as if to sell your point, and he chuckles. 

“Bad timing though, huh?” 

You peak out from the pillow, turning back again. “I don’t mind waiting.” 

“I know.” And he smirks at you again, and it’s so annoying and cocky in the ways you hate but you’re too horny to care. 

Especially when he starts massaging the globes of your ass. You settle down, eyelids drooping as his fingers dig into the flesh there. It feels so nice, relaxing while still keeping you turned on. 

Jakes's fingers drift lower towards the entrance of your cunt, fingers gliding over the wetness that lingers around the entrance, pushing it back into you. 

A shudder runs through your body as you clench tightly around his fingers. He coos at you, beginning to thrust them in and out, other hand still squeezing away. You gently rock back against him, mind glazed over from all the sensations and the fact that it was Jake Seresin who was doing it to you. 

He pushes another finger in, smiling to himself at how you flutter around him, wanting more. Your darlin’ cunt was really a gift, wasn’t it?

He thrusts in and out, glued to the way you drip around his hand. 

“Jake?” you sound so quiet, so soft. He could eat you live right now. You’re pouting now, lip jutting out at him. 

“What is it darlin’?” 

“Can you fuck me now?”

There’s a mean edge to your voice again, one that almost has him rolling his eyes. You’re a fucking piece of work sometimes. But he just pulls his fingers from you, stroking his cock with the wetness of you. 

“You know what? I think I can take care of that for you.” You grin back at him, propping yourself up and shaking your ass again, and he slaps the jiggling flesh, making you laugh. 

He fists himself mindlessly, guiding himself forward, closer to where he wants to be more than anything. 

You inhale, fingers digging into the sheets at how he barely nudges toward, stretching you ever so slightly. 

Jake lets out a hiss as he pushes forward. You’re fluttering and tensing like crazy around him, and his nails dig into your ass harshly. 

“You gotta relax for me. Let me in.” You shiver and nod taking deep breaths as finally slides deep into your slick cunt.

“Oh shit Jake,” you say, already moving back against him, lost in the way he feels spectacular inside of you. Whatever daze you’re in is reciprocated, as he shallowly thrusts into you ever so slightly as you both adjust. You’re just so hot and wet already. It makes the small of his back tingle; lights something up deep inside of him. 

Jake pulls out slowly, watching the way your walls cling to him, listening to the way you mewl. Fuck.

“Yea you like this dick?” He pumps back into you, watching the way you react, feeling you. 

“You’re so- fuck- annoying,” you moan, glaring at him from over your shoulder, but your pussy squeezes him anyways.

“You were the one begging for it.” His palm slaps the fat of your ass, and you bounce back against him. 

“And what’s wrong with that?” He glares at you, at the twinge of fight and mischief in your eyes. 

“Nothing you little brat.”

And then he fucks you. Hard. Hips slamming into your ass, skin against skin. It’s loud, filling the air with wet, lewd noises that makes your toes curl and eyes roll back. You can feel the ridges of his dick as he stretches your cunt.

He fucks you steady, hypnotized by every little thing about you. You just feel so fucking good, surrounding his cock as you drip into the sheets. Jake briefly wonders if you’d let him do this again, let him see you like this, tease you apart until you’re just as gooey and babbley. 

He splays his hand out on your upper back, pushing you in the bed. Your breathing’s shaky, fingers curled into the sheets. There’s a deep ache inside you. You need him so much it hurts. 

“Jake,” you manage to pant out, cunt squeezing him deliciously. He hisses before stroking the length of your back. 

“I know. You’re being so good for me. Such a good girl,” he coos, hands landing on your waist. You nod in agreement, the praise going straight to your overworked cunt. 

“Used to be so mouthy with me. Just needed my cock in ya, huh?” His question is punctuated by a particularly well-aimed thrust that makes your knees feel wobbly. It’s degrading, but the way he’s making you see stars right now has you whimpering in agreement. You need it. You need him.

“Jake,” you whine hoarsely. “I’m close.” He coos at you again, squeezing the flesh of your waist before sliding his hands to grip your ass, pulling you further against him, letting him take you more and more and more.

“Can you touch yourself for me, sweetheart?” You blink dumbly at his request, before slowly inching a hand in-between your sweaty thighs. Your fingers split into a V, surrounding where he fills you, and you shake your head, dropping your hand. It’s too much, too sensitive. “That’s okay,” he drawls, making your heart skip a beat. “I’ll take care of you.”

He drops forward, sweaty chest pressing against your back, and his hips continue to pummel into yours, cock pressing into your so sweetly. Jake snakes an arm beneath you, blunt finger rubbing quick little circles into your clit. 

You cry out, squirming away as he relentlessly attacked your poor, tired nub. It’s overwhelming, face pressed into his sheets, the scent of sex filling the air, the way your cunt’s being shown more attention than it has in a while, and most importantly, Jake Seresin's lips reaching anywhere they can- your jaw, shoulder, back. He’s everywhere. And you can’t hold off the inevitable any longer. 

Your pussy clamps down on him like a vice, pulsing around him as you shake under him. You gush around him, an extra burst of wetness almost forcing Jake out of your cunt. He grunts, doing his best to keep his rhythm consistent, keep it nice to help you ride it out.

“There you go there you go. Just like that.” 

You throw an arm back, nails clawing into whatever part of him they land on. 

“Cum in me Jake, please, please.” Your voice doesn’t sound like your own, but you don’t care. 

“Fuck, sweetheart. Whatever you want.” His hand drops from your throbbing clit, granting you relief as his pace falters. When he finishes, he’s loud right in your ear, spurts of cum filling your soaking pussy. 

The stillness that follows is thick, hanging heavy in the air. You accept the weight of him inside and out, taking deep breaths as you try to calm down. 

Jake stays inside of you, and he curls around you ever so slightly, desire and need to be close to you outweighing the discomfort of his softening cock. 

It’s nice, being stuffed full like this. But eventually, you squirm, tapping his arm that rests near your head. 

“Jake.”

A chaste kiss is pressed to your sweaty shoulder. 

“I know, honey. I know.” Jake pulls out of you slowly, and you wince at the feeling. He hops off the bed, leaving you to curl up on his bed, trying to ignore the sticky cum that’s spread along you. 

The next moments pass in a blur; you vaguely feel a damp cloth clean your pussy, a sweatshirt slid over your shoulders, and a glass of water gently pressed into your hands as you sit up. 

You blink up at Jake, sipping your water as you take in his appearance. Hair messy, chest flushed, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. 

“How ya feeling?” he asks gently, sitting next to you. 

“Like I’m gonna be sore tomorrow.” Jake smirks at you, a sick sense of pride filling him before he rubs your thigh.  

“I’ll take care of ya then too.” And that makes you smile so sweetly at him, he feels the breath get knocked out of him. You stretch your arms above your head, twisting as you get comfortable in his bed. 

“And I’m feeling stupid because we could’ve been doing this for months.” Jake laughs at that, before humming in agreement. 

“We’ll we’ve got a lot of time to make up for… later of course. I need my beauty sleep.” You roll your eyes at that, and he kisses your shoulder, before curling around you, a smile on his face as he reluctantly drifts to sleep. After all, his dream was finally a reality.

[wol-fica]

-ℂ𝕠𝕟𝕗𝕖𝕤𝕤𝕚𝕠𝕟: ℙ𝕣𝕖-𝔹𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕤-

pairings - wednesdayaddams x elemental!reader

summary - in which reader has a crush on a certain goth…

warnings - angst, pining, rude Xavier (sorry), happy ending

an - i miss writing for Nessy, so i think this would be a good addition to my bliss series; this is before they got together :) shit writing btw

—————————

Shit.

That is the word you would use to describe yourself right now.

Mornings have never been your thing, you hated getting out of your warm bed just to immediately go and sit in a boring class for a ninety minutes learning about the anatomy of a mythical horse or whatever the lesson plan was. School was an agitator for you, but you still valued your education so waking up on time was a need-to-do.

Usually though, you at least get yourself ready and look decent enough for the day, but this morning was different. See, yesterday during lunch in the quad, you were writing the final draft of your confession letter to a certain raven haired goth. Your crush had been festering for a few months now, and you had decided to write a little something for her to let her know how you feel.

Everything was going perfect, you were just about done with the letter and was going to slip it under her dorm after folding it up, but a gust of wind ruined your whole plan. The letter flew across the quad and into the hands of Xavier Thorpe, who happened to despise you.

He read the whole thing in one go, snorted at it and stared at you with a little condescending smirk before walking it straight over to his friend group. Everyone, including Enid Sinclair, Yoko Tanaka, Eugene Ottinger, Ajax Petropolus, the twins Kent and Divina, and Wednesday Addams herself all read it collectively.

Xavier was laughing his head off while they did, and Kent joined in once he finished. Ajax chuckled while Enid giggled with a little blush of her face, Eugene looked confused to who wrote it, Yoko and Divina smirked and shared a look before squinting at you, and Wednesday just looked blank.

You watched in pure horror, your body shrinking into your seat while the whole thing unfolded. You felt sick to your stomach, and to top the whole thing off, Wednesday took the letter and crumpled it into a little ball, tossing it into the trashcan next to her.

Your heart shattered, mouth dropped open in shock. Xavier turned to look back at you, pointing and leaning on his knees while laughing at your expression. Tears formed into your eyes, and with one last look at the girl you so badly liked, you snatched up your things and ran.

Fast forward to now, where you just looked dead. Your hair was disheveled, there were dark bags under your eyes, and you barely made any effort to make your uniform look fit and well kept. Your tie was loose, your jacket was unbuttoned, and your shirt was wrinkled and dusted at the collar. You had no socks on, and you didn’t even bother to put a belt on your pants.

People stared in class, whispering amongst themselves while pointing at you. At one point, you thought you saw Enid shoot you a look of pity, but you shrugged it off to being your sleep-deprived brain playing tricks on you.

You looked depressed, because you were, and it did not help when you crossed Xavier in the hallway and he said loudly to Kent, “Looks like a dirtbag!”

You sighed, glancing up at the darkening sky before hurrying to get to the quad for dinner. You planned on eating, and getting back to your dorm as soon as you could so no one would have to endure looking at you any longer.

After standing in line and grabbing your tray, you trudged to an empty table and sat down, slumping in your seat. You were exhausted from lack of sleep and crying all night, and it wasn’t a surprise to you when you leaned your forehead against the table and tears started to form again. Your tray of food was left untouched while you cried to yourself, and the stare from a certain goth went unnoticed by you.

Wednesday was watching you, her black eyes burrowing into the side of your head while your body shook slightly with each painful sob you produced. She felt a weird feeling in her stomach, one of pity and remorse she didn’t understand. Her heart was telling her to go to you, to pull you into her arms and hold you close while she comforted you, but her stubbornness refused the idea.

“Wednesday.”

She turned her head away from you, choosing ti look at Enid now, “What.”

Enid sighed, glancing at you before looking back at her roommate, “You should talk to her.”

Wednesday furrowed her brow, “There is no reason for me to.”

“Yes there is.” Enid replied, bringing her fork to her mouth and chewing on a piece of steak.

“Just because she sent me a confession letter, doesn’t make me obligated to take care of her.”

“Wednesday c’mon!” Enid said, giving her friend a look, “You read that letter, she really likes you!”

Wednesday glared back, “And? I still see no reason for me to go talk to her.”

Enid sighed, glancing around before leaning in to whisper lowly, “What Xavier did was unacceptable and rude, you should at least make sure she is okay.”

Wednesday turned to look at you for a moment, the pang of guilt returning when she saw you had lifted your head. Your face was stained with tears, eyes heavy and tired from crying. You meekly picked at your food, not even bringing the utensil up to take a bite.

“I suppose I could check in to see how she is.” Wednesday murmured, her heart beating slightly faster at the thought of talking to you.

“You should.” Enid said, turning back to her steak, “It’s the right thing to-.”

“But her sadness is not my problem.” Wednesday finished, sparing you one last glance before picking up her book and continuing to read.

“Wednesday!” Enid exclaimed, “Really? You won’t even ask her how she is feeling?”

“She’s clearly sad Enid, I don’t need to ask to see that.”

“Wednesday.” Enid growled, gaining her roommate’s attention, “Go talk to her, now.”

“You cannot make me-.”

“I see how you look at her.”

Wednesday’s mouth snapped shut, her eyes locking with Enids.

“I see how you stare in class,” Enid said, “I notice how you have her schedule in your desk, and how you blush when she walks by.”

Wednesday opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

“You like her, it’s clear as day. But you can’t break her heart just because you don’t want to accept your feelings for her.”

Wednesday glared at Enid, practically foaming at the mouth in anger. She wanted to respond, a little clap back about how she barely even knows you, but nothing came forward.

“Go to her, before it’s too late.” Enid finished, nodding her head at your retreading figure as you left the quad.

Wednesday huffed, giving her roommate one last silent threat before slamming her book shut, stuffing it in her bag, and quickly following after you. Her steps were quick and quiet, not wanting you to spin around and see her before she could get to you.

She eventually followed you to your dorm, coming up the stairs right as you shut the door. Her breathing was strained, and her face was slightly flushed with color from moving so fast. She slowly approached your door, apprehensive and suddenly nervous for the first time in her life.

What should she say to you? How should she speak? Should she be defensive? Or should she just confess her own feelings and see how you react? The consequences of all the outcomes were dreadful in her mind, but she had no other option than talking to you.

So she did what she does best, lost all expression from her face, sucked in a deep, and knocked on your door. She waited an antagonizingly long moment before stepping backwards when the lock clicked.

The door swung open, revealing you in black sweatpants, a white tank top, and still looking as depressed as you were during dinner. You froze when your eyes locked with Wednesday, your lips parting and eyes widening when you realized who was in front of you.

You both stood there for a moment, the world seeming to stop while you stared at each other. Wednesday was waiting for you to move or speak, while you were thinking the same.

“Can-.” Wednesday swallowed, clearing her throat, “Can I come in?”

You closed your mouth, eyeing around behind her, and nodded. She walked past you, turning when you closed the door and locked it. Her eyes scanned all over your walls, taking in the movie posters and tapestries that you had taped up. She awkwardly placed her bag at the foot of your bed, choosing to sit on the end of it while watching you move around and clean.

“Y/N.” Wednesday said, slightly irritated with how you were trying to ignore her with doing a spontaneous house-keeping.

“Yeah?” You replied timidly, still sweeping over by your closet.

“Come here.” She requested softly, patting the spot next to her.

You gulped, your shoulders tensing before you dropped the broom and sulked over to her. You plopped down next to her, leaning back until you laid flat on the mattress while she sat next to you.

“I read your letter.” Wednesday said after a moment of silence, “It was…passionate.”

“Oh my god just say you felt uncomfortable.” You groaned, putting your hands on your face.

Wednesday paused, letting you ramble and complain about the incidents from yesterday’s lunch fiasco. She listened until she had enough, slamming her hand onto your thigh to silence you.

“I actually found your confession to be quite exceptionally written for someone like you.” She murmured, her thumb absentmindedly stroking your skin, “You should consider a writing class.”

You eyed her warily, skeptical of her words. Slowly, you sat up, trying your best to not cause her to move her hand, “You really think so?”

“Yes, and I also have some of my own things to confess…” The ravenette said, tearing her eyes away from yours to look at the floor.

You placed your hand on top of hers, a silent encouragement to speak her mind.

“I have realized that I myself have my own feelings I need to share.” Wednesday started, her hand twitching under yours, “It has come to my attention that I have gained something called a “crush” on you-.”

Her sentence was interrupted with lips crashing into her own, salty but soft and welcoming with warmth. She instantly reciprocated, her hands sliding around you neck while yours grabbed at her waist.

Her lips were plump and tasty to you, flavored like black cherries and stale burgundy lipstick from this morning. You pulled at her, guiding her into your lap so you could kiss her more properly. Her tongue slid against yours, a small whimper passing through your mouth and into hers from her hand scratching at your neck.

You soon parted for air, giggling when she chased you. She huffed, but sighed in satisfaction when you tucked your face into her neck, pressing a few kisses there that made her stomach all fluttery.

“Your heart is beating super fast.” You noted, hugging her closer when her fingers wound into your hair, “Do I make you that flustered-?”

“Be quiet.” She whispered, smirking when she heard you purring from her fingers scratching your scalp.

You complied, leaning back with her in your arms when she pushed you slightly. She murmured soft praises to you, guiding you into a deep sleep that you so desperately needed.

“Sleep Y/N.” She cooed in your ear, humming when your eyes fluttered shut, “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

You felt your brain drift off into slumber, a smile etched on your face while you held the girl of your dreams.

What wonderful bliss…

——————

taglist: @cartierdreamx  @tundra1029 @red1culous @vorsdany @andsoigotabutterfly @theafterofnevermore @yomomisgay @house-of-lovin @slvt4lanadelrey @thenextdawn @nepobaby08 @dunohilly @somekindofpoet @alexkolax @cinffy23 @pedrosprincess @amberfreemansburntface @myfturn

[romanoffsbish]

Who Are You People?!

Yelena Belova x F!R (Platonic)

Natasha Romanoff x F!R

Yelena had a tendency to bring home strays, and it had always bothered you, until one day it didn’t. WC: 1,929

Request(via dm): “could you do a imagine where Yelena keeps bringing home random animals and even people and drives the reader up the wall” | I gave it a cute little romance spin

Yelena had a tendency to miss signs. Trained as she may be, with the discipline to prove it, she just never was much for understanding the social norms. So, you had learned to adapt—after that first night as roomies, when she told you everything she’d done and been you hadn’t much of a choice. There was no such thing as a filter, she believed in open conversations, which didn’t bother you. It was her belief in the open doors that did.

——

The first time you came home to one of her eccentric guests you were startled into losing your groceries. A frown befell your face as the soy milk box spewed its contents on the floor along with the yolks of your eggs.

Fanny, as you’ve learned to know, and love her as, was there to lick up the mess. After she’d finished licking your cheek in a rushed greeting, she’d disposed of your hard earned money in the form of the wasted food.

Yelena had apologized, and for some odd reason you believed she took the hint after the entire ordeal.

Then you came home a week later to find her nowhere, but your house sure wasn’t empty. Five woman in various positions all looked up at you with fierce eyes. One of them raised her arm, and the loud whirring told you all you needed to know. These were widows, and the pain you were about to feel would be hellish.

“Oksana, put your arm down, this is just Y/N,” your roommate admonished her friend with the black hair, “Honestly cyka, you should be able to see she is of no real threat, or have you lost touch with your eyes?”

Then the blonde turned to you with a genuine smile, as if she didn’t nearly get you fried, then call you weak. “Would you like to join us for game night Y/N/N?”

You sighed harshly through your nose, tempering the anger you felt for the sake of your new friend’s heart. She was strong, but you could also tell she was soft, and breaking her spirit for her lack of social understanding, at no fault of her own, would be cruel.

“Sorry Lena, but I have to be up early,” you lied, and gave the girl a quick hug before heading upstairs to your room where you enjoyed the needed solitude.

Occurrences like that became normal, the random game nights, and the alarming amount of new animals you found yourself feeding, and faces you’d forget. Yelena trusted easily, as in, she knew that if anyone she brought home on a whim would try anything, she could handle them without even breaking a sweat.

You put up with just about everything—if she had a mission gone wrong, her stitched up field partner, a cheery girl by the name of Kate Bishop, would sleep on your couch and greet you with sudoku and breakfast.

That first meeting was terrible too, as you’d stumbled into your dark house and threw yourself on top of her. It ended quickly, with Yelena coming downstairs with a gun and you and Kate in opposite corners screaming.

Her in pain, and you in fear. You had left to bed embarrassed, and woke up to laugh about it with her.

You don’t mind the archer, but you would have liked a heads up. You always wanted it, but never received it, and slowly but surely a festering of resentment resided.

Everything honestly came to a head last night, when you finally agreed to spend the night in a shitty bar with your favorite coworkers. You’d let loose way beyond your limits, and as you were rushed into the house by a equally drunk friend all you wanted was to make yourself a mug of tea, grab a snack, and sleep.

Yet when you went to make yourself something you found that your tea was used up, the kitchen was a mess of wasted food and dishes, and Yelena’s strangers were all asleep around the place, one even in your bed.

“Yelena!” The blonde cringed from her place on the balcony, where she stood with a dying bud in her hand. She hoped you’d go home with a friend, or a stranger of your own, so that she would have been able to clean up the mess that had occurred from a party gone bad.

You never told her to stop, but she always saw in your eyes that you didn’t trust her process of friend making. The truth was the blonde just liked the freedom to choose. No one could tell her the man with the eye patch on the corner was bad news, and make her stop talking to him. He told her stories about his life as a young man, and how it ended him here, she believed that no one was undeserving of sharing their stories.

Still, she felt guilty for letting these friends inside to trash your place. Kenny was never meant to be in your room, let alone be allowed to sleep, but she was just too drunk an hour ago to care about removing him.

You waited with your arms crossed for her to join you in the kitchen, and when she entered you let loose. “Yelena, I do not care who you keep as company, but for the love of God never let them in my bed again, give me a heads up from now on, and keep the place tidy!”

The blonde blinked a few times, having expected your tirade to be more venomous, but she appreciated that it wasn’t. You were clearly mad, but you weren’t rude.

“Okay, I’m sorry you can have my room tonight, and I promise everyone will be gone by morning Y/N.”

After that conversation she seemed to understand that just letting anyone in, without at least a heads up, was poor etiquette, which wouldn’t fly. The blonde strived to be the best roommate, she once told you she would be so good that they’d have to give her the crown for it.

You didn’t have the heart to tell her it would never happen, actually, you had the big heart that led to you leaving an emerald bejeweled crown for her on the counter one morning. The childlike smile she wore was enough to keep you from regretting it when she wore it all day and made you read the congratulations they’d (you’d) left for her. It made you feel warm inside to be able to help the former assassin heal her inner child.

But now, as you stood before a stunning woman in nothing but a raggedy shirt and old white, cotton panties you were feeling that regret return and double.

When you went to sleep last night you were once again not informed to be prepared for strangers in the form of guests. In Yelena’s defense though she wasn’t exactly expecting this one, so she rushed out the door with an excited Fanny and whispered to her sister to keep it quiet so you could sleep off your night out on the town.

Unfortunately, the sound of the front door closing was enough to rouse you, your eyes opened and a groan slipped passed your lips as the bright sun beamed into your face mockingly. After a moment of calm you felt a headache burning behind your arm covered eyes, so you headed down the stairs to get to your kitchen for a cup of water so that you could take an Advil and crash.

“I, um, I’m sorry,” you managed to squeak out, and in an embarrassed rush you turned on your feet, but before you could even move up a step you were halted.

“Hey,” she rasped, and watched in amusement as your spine shivered before her very eyes. “There’s no need to apologize darling, this is your house after all. I’m sorry to have barged in, but I needed somewhere to lay low for a while. I hope you don’t mind the intrusion.”

Your stomach swirled with aroused tension, the pet name, the gritty tone of her voice, and the intense look in her eyes had you going weak in the knees. It showed as you stumbled down the last two steps and skirted to a stop just before her. “No, it’s okay. I just wasn’t expecting company is all. I’d have gotten dressed.”

Natasha was suave with the way she pushed your bodies together, using the wall to keep you trapped against her, and unable to avoid her temptations. It was only a breaths time for you to find yourself there.

“I can assure you honey,” her hand fell to your thigh and your heart raced incessantly. “I don’t mind.”

“I don’t either,” you admitted, but felt too seen so you continued on, “That you stay here, to lay low, that is.”

“Oh,” she teased, with the lightness in her voice, “I’m so glad to hear that, because we will have the chance to get to know each other better. Maybe we’ll even…”

You wanted to know what might be, but fate decided to leave that for another day as the door flew open and Yelena shrieked, “Oh my god, no, Fanny girl cover your eyes!” You looked over in confusion. “Natasha, unhand my roommate now!” The redhead rolled her eyes, and stepped back with a smirk as you whined at her loss.

You hadn’t a chance to protest—or even say goodbye, as Yelena reached for her sister’s hand and pulled her away, fighting with her in their mother tongue.

“Chto s toboy ne tak.”

(What the fuck is wrong with you?)

“Mne? chto s toboy ne tak?! ona velikolepna, i ty derzhal yeye ot menya”

(me? what's wrong with you?! she is gorgeous and you kept her from me)

“Ona zapreshchena, Natal'ya”

(she is off limits, Natalia)

“Eto ne to, chto skazali yeye glaza.”

(that's not what her eyes said)

The door slammed and you didn’t even flinch, too busy daydreaming about the moments prior. And for the first time since Yelena had become your very own (craigslist found) roommate you didn’t mind the thought of getting to see one of her guests again; Natasha had made her mark on you in record time.

——

That night, Yelena came back with her head low, and elder sister in tow. The redhead smiled triumphantly as she winked at you, your nervous gaze fell, and in her hands laid a sleeping kitten. “Y/N, meet Liho…”

You chuckled in amusement, and scooped the kitten up and settled her into your lap. “What’s so funny detka?”

“It’s just,” you stifled another rude laugh. “Yelena’s strays have never brought one of their own before.”

Natasha took a second to process your tease as she sat beside you, eventually she leaned forward, her chin resting on your tense shoulder. “I am more so a lone wolf type, no one’s stray. I plan on sticking around for a while too, so I hope you don’t make it a habit of being so bare in front of my sister, save that for me instead.”

“Also,” she scooped the sleeping kitten up and onto her shoulder, “Liho is no longer a stray, she is a house cat.”

Yelena settled beside you, frowning, “I’m sorry Y/N…”

“Don’t be,” you shrugged her off, and patted her knee before you followed the trail of her sisters upstairs.

Yelena huffed, and snuggled into her Akita’s fur. “This is why I prefer dogs to people. They are so overrated.”

——

R (for real)

[ofallthingsnasty]

tw: yandere, kidnapping/basement spousery, depression, mentions of noncon, gn reader characters: Crocodile, Sanji, Doflamingo, Law word count: 1.3k

One thing I learned recently is that I'm definitely a social creature and would get horribly, horribly depressed as someone's basement wife, even a well entertained one. All the books, the crafts, the soft music in the world couldn't prevent me from sobbing into my pillows, couldn't get me to crawl out of bed and to paint a smile on my face. Oh, but how would your captor react? For some, it's definitely a necessary evil - Crocodile comes to mind here. Annoyed by your lethargy, by your random tears and your meek, taciturn responses, he finds himself frustrated at times. This state of mind really isn’t ideal - he wanted you docile, sure, but not lifeless. Yet it's also awfully convenient when you just let him push you around, let him caress and touch you - and not out of fear of him, simply because you don't care to struggle. He discovers that he can forgive a lot when you're especially shaken and cling to him, bury your head in his chest because he's the only human you'll ever know again and the world is so bleak around you and you just need him right now. Of course, it would be nicer if you didn't do it because he's the only warm-blooded creature that you interact with, but he'll take what he can get. (And with time, it weirdly grows on him: him turning into the center of your life, the way your eyes seem to light up the tiniest bit when he comes home to you, something he thought mildly annoying at first turning out to be awfully convenient.)

To others, it's devastating. Sanji lives for your smiles, your warmth, the way your eyes crinkle and you jut your head forward when you fully, genuinely laugh - total apathy is worse than antagonism to him. If you were to scream, shout, put your fingers around his neck and squeeze with the desperation of a cornered prey animal, he'd at least get a reaction, some signs of life out of you. But you don't even do that. You just sit and try to suppress tears while he holds your hand. Sometimes he just cries with you, letting himself fall into the same hole you're being pulled into. It makes him regret taking you so utterly, bitterly, makes him feel all those memories from when he was a child bubble up in his stomach until they force themselves out and he has to vomit to be rid of them. He’s just like his father, he thinks, and it makes him sick. He’s rotten down to the very core, cursed from birth and now he has gone and soiled you, too - he’ll end up sobbing into the crook of your neck more than once, full of genuine remorse. And all you’ll be able to do is absentmindedly pat his hair, thoughts spilling like an knocked over ink well. No, you slipping into a deeply depressive state is only going to worsen the hatred he has for himself, is going to poison him slowly and steadily until he’ll be in agony. Maybe it’s his just punishment.

Then there are the ones like Doflamingo who simply don’t care. You don’t crawl out of bed until noon? You just stare into space or bury yourself in books when you finally do? You’re just lifeless by his side, just blink, shrug your shoulders when spoken to, just exist? Whatever, he has always treated you like a doll from the start. He can even weather the elusive bouts of sobbing and crying (even if he hates it when they happen), because most of the time you’re just his poseable thing and he is nothing if not generous to allow you a tantrum here and there. He doesn't feel bad about you being a more of a hollowed out shell of a person than a fully-fledged human with a rich inner life and doesn't care that most of it is his fault - his fault that you fester and rot beneath the surface, his fault that all the opulent, vibrant clothing and the scorching hot days by the pool still leave you frosty and weirdly bloodless, like a cold-blooded creature in winter. Food is ash in your mouth and only sours your stomach but you still eat when he tells you to, touches feel foreign and loveless but you still let him fuck you if he so wishes. Why should he care what circles around in your head when he gets to do anything he wants to you? That you feel like life is no luster, only desperation? The truly bothersome parts are taken care of by his myriad of servants and the family. Messes left behind get cleaned up, baths are forced on you regularly, as are grooming sessions. If you don’t get dressed on your own either someone else will see to it or he will - and he’ll have his payment for his time, trust me. The solemn mood, the non-existent smiles… he doesn't care for that. You’re not here for your entertainment, you’re here for his. And you just accepting your fate and letting him do whatever it is he wants… That’s just perfect, isn’t it?

Of course, let’s not forget about the ones who secretly love it. Law is a prime example, especially with his medical background. He isn’t surprised that your mood sways - he expected as much when he restricted your every move, declared the outside world to be too unhealthy for you. Of course you’d slip into a depressive episode. And it’s not a flaw, it’s intentional. Because now - now, when you can’t peel yourself out of bed, when everything feels too much, when you can’t feed or move or dress or take care of yourself- he gets to swoop in. He gets to do it for you, gets to tell you that he’s here and that he’ll always catch you when you fall. That his assessment of your condition was accurate - that you always needed him, right from the start. Dependency is worth more than all the love in the world to him. It simply doesn’t matter if you’d rather slit his throat than to behave for him out of your own volition - as long as you can’t leave. Even if he genuinely loves you, he’s not deluded enough to cling to daydreams of him and you living a quiet, happy life full of reciprocated affection, that ship has long sailed - sailed ever since his childhood got irrevocably destroyed. No. Love is nice and good and makes him wash you gladly, makes him care for you with delicate hands and with a patient brow - but your sickness makes you stay, renders you unable to leave him. It’s the only currency he can trade in when it comes to you. He’s your savior and tormentor rolled into one person; but above all he is the only one who cares and will forever care. You could rot yourself into a pathetic, sweat-soaked, disgusting corner, could turn into nothing but a husk and he’d always, always nurse you out of the ditch he’s found you in, just at the right time.  What he doesn’t tell you is that he could help you. At least artificially. Boost your moods with SSRIs until you bounce off the walls with nervousness and sweat thrice as much; make you giddy and shaky until you get used to the dose. Until the world seems worth living in once more, until at least some color returns to your drab eyes. He could get you the medication, even try some speech therapy, could help you like a good boyfriend should. But why? It makes no sense. Why help you only to get some fire back, maybe even for you to slip through his fingers? It’s easier to sit in twosome silence with tired eyes watching him, eyes that one day might be grateful for all the work he has put into them. Until then, it’s of utmost importance that they stay right where they are: in a cramped, dirty corner of a bed, dull and lifeless.

[fallen6253]

About the soul-swap partners:

I love that neither of them decided to stick to their given roles.  In either universe, really.

You’ll get what I mean.

Cale, who was Kim Rok Soo, does not keep up the image of trash.  He calls himself trash, he is called trash.  He does not keep his reputation.  Not the alcoholism, and he doesn’t throw bottles at gangsters.  No, he takes care of the underworld and other nobles in his own way (ie, recruitment or utter destruction).  He does not have his old reputation in this world either.  He’s not known as this cold leader who doesn’t care when someone dies, he’s known as a brilliant young man who cares way too much.  He’s known as an idiot who would rather pass out from exhaustion a week later than leave things to fester for one minute.  

And then there’s Kim Rok Soo, who was Cale Henituse once upon an apocalypse.  (First the fuq of all, nobody knew jac squat about him in the first place, and being the son of his mother probably made him something of an automatic anomaly.  I assume just being a Thames makes you kinda weird.  But anyway!) He lived as trash, an alcoholic who threw too many bottles back and then at the wall.  Then he lived through 20 years of a losing war.  And he got tired.  Tired enough to listen to a voice in his head in his last moments, to switch worlds and bodies with some stranger.  And he chose the motto that reflects the sentiments of his soul swap partner to a T: let’s live peacefullly.

And he smiles now, as Kim Rok Soo.  He sits back in his office chair, with an easygoing attitude.  He’s not the trash that would only shout; he is sly, and he knows how to use his status to properly put punks in their place.  He’s the team leader who refuses to be mistreated by anyone.  He will not be used, he would rather do his work as he needs to.  He isn’t a lowlife with no responsibilities in the wake of a war he would be just about useless in; he has a niece he has to go home to.  He drinks casually, not too much.  And he smiles in a way that’s too bright for the cold Kim Rok Soo.  He’s too happy now to be called cold-blooded. It’s like there’s a fire in his eyes that had been lost ages ago. Something that was rekindled when he had someone to go home to.

Despite changing their own lives so much, they wound up being nearly the same as one another and that drives me a little insane.

And let's not forget the best part.  One famous line they have in common in every world:

“Should I flip everything over?”

Another thing: I think Cale's gonna start resembling Kim Rok Soo. As in, he'll start relaxing a bit as the work goes on, he'll learn to rest as he goes (as in actually rest) and delegate work properly. He won't brush past comments like he used to, he will look a person in the eye and go 'I can just leave this world and leave you to your fate' which I would love to see, honestly. I feel like their individual capacity to be petty increases with age, and that's probably one of my favorite things about these characters. So them finding new ways to piss off people who don't like them could just be made into its own series and I would sell my soul for it.

[karlastarion]

I'm so curious about Kagha, because she's so different from Halsin. She and Halsin are both wood elves, and I get the sense that Kagha is probably not ~young~ but she's not nearly as old as Halsin. When you deal with the Shadow Druids, she's very quick to defer to him and treat him like a teacher she's disappointed. He probably mentored her, if he's chosen her as his second in command - though, I would bet it's in more of a general thing in the way that the First Druid is everyone's mentor, rather than the clearly more direct and specific mentorship he has with Nettie as a healer.

Canonically, Halsin isn't an exceptionally good leader. He's not bad at it, and he has good instincts. He correctly surmises that after the dust-up with Kagha and the tieflings, the Emerald Grove needs an outsider to step in and lead without being tied to any particular grudges or politics. That's savvy enough that I think Halsin was a good First Druid, he just wasn't especially good or great at it and clearly didn't like the position. At worst, I think he let some situations fester because of his focus on the Shadow Curse.

But I'm not ready to say that he didn't realize Kagha was a proverbial snake in the grass ~the whole time~, because I don't think she was. I think she was genuinely and recently radicalized by the Shadow Druids. I think she probably had something of an edge before, maybe she was a hardass or had a mean streak or something. Regardless of how I feel about the quality of the Shadow Druid subplot (which is that I think its pacing is meh and Kagha's face-turn is way too fast and kind of shitty), I think it speaks to the fact that her care for the Grove is genuine. That perhaps Halsin's failure with her wasn't in not realizing she was A Bad Person Actually, but in not tending to her insecurities or noticing that she might be feeling isolated, if she was so effectively shaken by the Shadow Druids' fearmongering.

The recent wave of IRL cults should have taught us all by now that everyone is susceptible to cult tactics if they're sufficiently scared and alone, and BG3 is a game riddled with various cults. You don't have to already be a bad person, or a stupid or weak person, to fall for them. And I think Kagha's story is way less interesting if you just think she's an evil power hungry shrew too stupid to keep herself from being radicalized.

She clearly has a nasty streak, but her apologies and regrets also sound sincere, if you manage to hear them. Even when she isn't "redeemed", she accepts her punishments, even if she does so bitterly and not believing she was wrong. And I have to wonder just how much of that mean streak is self-defensive rather than inherent in her, how much of it is that she struggles to admit failure and learn from it. Or how much is her modeling Halsin's level of single-minded commitment, picking a methodology or an action and throwing all of her weight behind it, even when it may no longer be working.

I wish characters like Kagha got nearly as much love and fandom development and benefit of the doubt as someone like Ketheric. I think she has a ton of potential for that, and way fewer crimes to her name than other fandom favorites who just happen to also be, you know. Men.

[bruciemilf]

Factually, I know Bruce is a bad cook. In my wonderland brain, however, he's a baker in some Hell's Kitchen-esque neighborhood, both flourishing and festering down the Narrow's ribs.

Curiously, The Bat seems particularly focused on protecting this joint. And whoever walks in it.

The classic myth of food is that it brings people together; That's the one thing everyone, under the greyscale rainbow in Gotham, has in common. Everyone has to eat, and everyone has to die.

And all kinds of people walk in there.

You get thieves with watchful, observant eyes nemorizing the concise, expert movement of your fingers and wonder how these machines of pain and violance can be delicate enough for sweets.

"I know what you are. I know who you are."

"I'm not exactly hiding. "

" I'm gonna rob you now."

" Take some tuna for Iris while you're at it,"

You get jesters with runny make-up and busted lips and a heartbroken hope in their eyes, crying over their fried ice cream,

" I'm stupid. I know -- I know what he's doing to me. And my mom's voice is just pounding in my ear, every fuckin' day, ' You're letting him, Harley. You're letting him and you deserve it. You should've married that fucking doctor. At least he didn't hit you, he just yelled and screamed and called you nasty names.'

Bruce drizzles some extra rainbow sprinkles on her ice cream. " And that voice is wrong." And he'll keep saying that voice is wrong till the day Harley doesn't like ice cream anymore. And that day doesn't exist.

And slowly, you learn not to be impressed. When you live with wolves, you sharpen your teeth. Dogs do what dogs do; they eat. An angry dog is a hungry dog.

And this boy, with a red scarf over his nose, waving a gun in Bruce's face, is looking plenty angry.

"Just fucking stay there, okay?" He'd probably sound more threatening without the glass tremble in his voice. "I'm just gonna take some cash, and,--"

Bruce's calm is frosty; He's got experience with guns being pointed at his face. " Your safety's on. "

Teal eyes are glossy, shining with feral, living fear, like it's Bruce who has him cornered, backed up to a wall and looming death over him. there's no kids in crime alley.

Whatever they are, they can't afford that title. But he looks exactly how boys in crime alley look; Young and scared and haunted.

"What's your name, honey?"

"...Jason."

" Are you hungry, Jason?"

The way he wolfs down three plates with tears running down his cheek answers Bruce plenty.

"You can have the cash, " I don't really need it, goes unspoken. It already feels slimy enough to take it. The charities and well- filled cups of homeless people don't ease that. "I'm guessing you need it."

"It's for my dad," 'Dad' drips from Jason's lips like liquid hatred, " He told me to rob you cause you never call the cops."

" Calling criminals to stop other criminals seems a little counter-productive, " He needs to do something with his hands; Or he'll take Jason and hug him and drag him to the manor, where Alfred can prepare the fluffiest bed, and the warmest bath. So he's packing him something extra, to take at home.

Still. Hearing Jason laugh makes it worth it.

" You can say you got dinner, too."

" I'm not giving Willis shit, " Willis. One of Harvey's guns. They need a chat about working hazards. " Gonna take this to Dickie and Timmy, thought. Dick's gonna love this..."

And Jason, Bruce comes to find out, doesn't know himself half as good as he knows his siblings.

He learns Timmy, the baby brother, loves to skate, and he's the reason they go to the ER every other Thursday. He learns Dick can never run out of energy; Learns he's running on spite alone and they can't go a day without fighting.

And when Bruce is fighting Nightwing, the newest villain in Gotham, he learns both he and Dick can land the meanest Produnova recorded.

[kitskiis]

I think the saddest part about secret life Joel is just how futile all of his actions are in that season. On a surface level i mean stuff like all of his more careful gameplay being cancelled out by a singular failed tnt trap but on a deeper level i specifically mean how that character contrasts with last life Joel. Joel is undoubtedly at his lowest point in the life series in Last Life. He goes down to red in session 2 and spends the majority of the rest of the season alone (and when he does have allies it’s only bc of a shared bloodlust). The red bloodlust completely takes over and this festers for nearly *8 sessions*. Not only that but the one time he is given a chance to restart and go back to yellow his old alliance member goes to red, leaving him alone again, and he is made boogeyman the next session. This, overall, has lasting consequences (he actually wanted to be fairly friendly at the beginning of LL, a stark contrast to how bloodthirsty he was at the beginning of DL or Lim L), and gained him a reputation that has never fully gone away. This is especially bad bc most people agree that LL was the most violent season (despite the lower kill counts in comparison to LimL) and was generally the worst and most traumatizing experience in the games for most people involved. Compare this to secret life, which everyone agrees was definitely the happiest season for Joel (or at least the most normal. His life is a tragedy no matter the season.) he has allies that (for the most part rip mumbo) stick with him until the end, he is friendlier with a larger group of people, and when he initially has to deal with the loss of some of them he has people who can ground him (bc as much as I adore the bad boys, grian was not qualified to do that). He was so hopeful that season, and was generally in a much healthier place mentally. And yet, despite how much he seemed to have grown, those 2 seasons ended so similarly for him it was almost comical. Joel engaged in a fight at the end, watched his ally get killed by scott, and is then forced into a 2v1 against Scott and another player that results in Scott taking his final life and him finishing 5th overall. I was describing both of those seasons here. After everything he did to grow, after all the improvements he had made, everything ended *exactly the same*

Making this about the bad boys for a second (because I’m me) they kinda suffer similar fates. Grian learned in the most tragic way possible that his allies were doomed to fail as long as he was with them no matter what, that this was not something that he could control by simply avoiding killing them himself. Even when he actively tries to save them (“let Tim do it he needs the time” “Joel you can kill me!”) he’ll still lose them in the end. I think this realization is also what made him stop trying to fight it, which resulted in him killing or almost killing his allies from previous seasons immediately afterwards (stabbing scar in the back and that one scene where grian kinda ominously jumps with a sword like he was about to crit and kill bigb after finding out he had 50 seconds left on his timer). It’s sorta like a way of telling the universe “fine. You win”

Similarly Jimmy. Well. I don’t think I need to explain that one. Even when he was given hope that things could be different, that he could break the curse, he died only a few minutes later. I still hold on to the narrative that the watchers only allowed that to happen to give Jimmy false hope that things can be different only to rip the rug out from under him and drive home the point that he is in a losing battle because by the time of secret life Jimmy was one of the only few people who genuinely still believed he had a chance. Obviously this is not something that can fully be a reality until he goes out first next season so if he doesn’t that’s a little awkward but just work with me here

TLDR; here is reason number 672 on why I believe the bad boys are the most doomed motherfuckers on this server and their alliance is a modern tragedy

[opossum-rights]

A Cursed Place

Cursed Spirit Gojo x Reader

You’ve always been deemed ‘weird’ by your peers. You’ve always seen things that aren’t there.

When you try to get away from it all you come face to face with something you never thought possible. The first one to seek him out in so long, he decides he doesn’t want to let you go.

<<Next Part>>

Word Count, 2.5k

Dozens of years ago, the building was used as a temporary shelter for civilians impacted by some sort of natural disaster, one of the worst in recent history. Its still halls and rotted walls were festering in negative energy from unpleasant memories.

Of course, you didn’t know that at the time. You didn’t know what things were drawn to that type of stale environment. You’d been using the place as a sort of safe haven. A place you could go to be totally alone. No one else in your town dared to trespass, the tragic history of the place gave rise to many rumors of ghosts or spirits. It was frightening the first time you stepped through the rusted doors, but with time you got used to it, having made the place your own.

You were forced there, that first day. By the time you learned to keep quiet about the world around you, the things others couldn’t seem to see, you were already ostracized by your peers.

Through the years you’ve tried repairing your reputation, but eventually something would happen: one of those things standing in the corner of your sight, or getting attached to those around you. It’d draw a reaction out of you despite your best efforts at keeping cool, convincing your classmates that there was something wrong with you.

Normally they’d stay clear of you, sure they’d sneak glances and let out a couple of chuckles behind your back, but there was never any violence directed your way. You guessed with exams coming up that they needed a stress ball.

Getting later in the year, the sun was making its way westward, dragging the light with it through it was only mid-afternoon. A couple of boys in disheveled uniforms were waiting near the gate. They were glancing at you, smirks on their faces, but being used to that type of reaction you thought nothing of it. Keeping your head down, you walked right past them.

The only warning was a single footstep. A hand harshly gripped the back of your uniform dress shirt, collar slightly choking you. You were pulled into their little semi-circle. The one who grabbed you then put his arm around your shoulders, it felt more threatening than friendly. One of them told you how this little game would work, you’d run, they’d chase after and try ‘tagging’ you. The look in their eyes told you that they would do more than simply tap you.

Not giving you much time to think, they shoved you away and started counting. You ran. A dozen yards away you could hear the dull sound of sneakers on pavement. You turn. They must be toying with you, you think, as there’s no way you could out run them for as long as you have been. They must like the sound of your panting, the frantic looking in your eyes as you glance over your shoulder to see them only feet away.

This proves to be a fatal mistake. You feel your foot connect with concrete and turn your head just in time to see that you tripped on a stair, letting you thrust your arms out to catch your fall. They slow to a walk behind you, laughing at your mishap. On shaking palms you try to push yourself up; a shoe connects with your back, doing the opposite.

They surround you,

Fucking Freak, A shoe is driven into your side, making you wheeze.

They break out in laughter as you use a hand to hold the spot you were kicked, wincing at the throbbing pain. They back up, giving you enough time to stand back up on unsteady legs. Again, you run. Again, they follow. You know you don’t have it in you to run all the way home, the pain in your side is already causing you to slow down.

On the right side of the road, you catch a minor gap in the trees. You know there’s a small path beyond, and past the overgrown grass there’s a building. You know that there’ll be a place to hide.

Quickly, you make a sharp turn. Sacrificing your speed to watch for sticks under foot and branches overhead. A structure comes into view. You believe it’s an old storage facility. It’s run down, doors rusting and a majority of the windows broken. Turning around the side, you find a window close enough to the ground that you can climb in. It aggravates your side, but you manage to hoist yourself through.

The inside isn’t much prettier. Dirt and grime cover the floors, broken pieces of furniture scattered here and there. There’s a shout coming from outside and you know you don’t have time to look around. Going through an empty doorway, you find a staircase. It’s rusted and broken in some places, but you can hear the doors being forced open, metal grinding against concrete.

You skip up, two stairs at a time. At the top, there are a series of doors. The sound of them yelling for you, more aggressive and less playful than back on the street, echoes throughout the building as you try to open and close a rotted door as quietly as you can.

There’s an old wooden cupboard, not in as bad condition as everything else you’ve seen, that you duck into. You fold your knees to your chest, trying to make yourself as small as possible. The air is heavy; it leaves a sour taste in your mouth.

On the ground floor, your pursuers spread out to look for you. You can hear only one set of footsteps make the stairs creak as they ascend. They still as he reaches the top, presumably picking a door to start with. He chooses the one right next to yours, the one that shares a wall with the cupboard you’re in.

You hold your breath.

There’s the sharp sound of the window breaking. There’s the piercing sound of the boy screaming.

The floor beneath you begins to shake, you curl up tighter into a ball. The others downstairs shout for each other, you think it’s an earthquake. Items and furniture rattle around and fall to the floor. The lights flicker on and off forcing you to tightly shut your eyes. You can hear the other windows on the top floor break and you cover your ears at the sound.

A minute passes and the shaking stops. You open your eyes and uncover your ears. You realize two things then; that the only lighting in the room comes from the window, and that there’s no sound in the building anymore.

Despite how frightened you are, you don’t leave the building until the sun has gone down. Only having a cell phone as a flashlight, you step over flung items and broken glass. The main doors are still open. Standing at the edge of the road, you take one look back down the path. You may have just been imagining it, but deep through the trees, you can see small lights blinking. Six of them, light blue.

The next day it’s almost as if nothing happened. The boys who gave you such a hard time yesterday didn’t even glance at you. No one ever tried getting physical with you again.

/

It’s a month later when you decide to go back.

You can’t stand the pity in the eyes of your parents, the disappointment when you come right home from school everyday by yourself. At dinner, your mind moves faster than your mouth. You’re going to be staying late at school tomorrow, to study with a couple of classmates. They’re ecstatic to hear about some friends in your life, or at the very least acquaintances. It leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

The next day, you take longer than usual to pack your things, trying to think of somewhere to hide for a couple of hours. You know your classmates disperse to the various parks and restaurants around town, so those aren’t an option. You rack your head for a place where you can be sure that no one who knows you would see you. Then It comes to you; the old storage facility.

Walking down the overgrown path, you start to feel nervous. You haven’t been back since that day; hadn’t even thought about the place. Now you think back to the strange events that took place. A part of you insists it was just a mix of an earthquake and panic attack, and you’re inclined to believe that explanation. What else could it have been?

Through the branches, you can make out the front of the building, doors gaping open just as you left them. It makes you pause. The sunlight almost drops off after the entryway, leaving the inside barely visible. If the sun isn’t invited inside, who’s to say you would be.

Shaking your head to get rid of those silly little thoughts, you pull out your phone and turn on the flashlight. You reach the doorway, taking a moment to shine your light around. There’s broken glass and broken furniture thrown about, just as there had been a month ago.

There are footprints on the ground. You’re surprised, knowing that there has been harsh rain and wind, but the footprints made of dirt mere inches away from the door are perfectly clear. Thinking about it, that’s another oddity of the place. There doesn’t seem to be any weather damage; no mold growing along the floors and walls, no leaves or grass blown in despite the broken windows. The filth on the floor seems to have only been tracked from the feet of people and animals.

Cautiously you move from room to room, checking for signs that someone else may have been around. Once you make your rounds, your shoulders relax. Nothing looks like it’s been disturbed recently.

In one of the backrooms the floor is clean enough that you lay an old blanket over it to make a seat against the wall. It’s not the most comfortable, but it’ll do for now.

You bring out a folder from your backpack, opting to get started on some homework. Dumping out your container of multi-colored pens you decide to use the dark blue one, grabbing it and leaving the others scattered around you.

That’s how you spend the next half hour or so, marking here and there, trying to explain your reasoning, all the usual for language arts.

Soon enough you find yourself stuck on a point, pen cap between your teeth as you think. A soft howl rings out as a gust of wind blows through the window, carrying your paper across the room.

You hurriedly make to grab it, cringing at the thought of it dirty. Glancing across it, you find something has been added to your paper. Not dirt smeared on the back like you were worried about, but six light blue dots placed in the margin.

At first you think nothing of it. Though when you try to brush it away it only smears like pen ink. You slink back to your seat, taking a moment to look outside and admire the stillness of it all. Not a single leaf seems to be moving.

That’s something you like about this place; Always still, always quiet.

Looking back down you find that multiple spelling errors had been corrected with a light blue pen. You don’t remember doing this at all. In fact, you couldn’t have done this. Not only did the handwriting look completely different to your own, when you grabbed all your pens you found that the light blue was gone.

“What? Who’s here?” Looking back, it was a pretty stupid question-the paper was always in your sight if not in your hands, but you were genuinely baffled.

Another gust of wind came blowing through the window, taking the paper from your hands to the center of the room. A chill shivered down your spine. Taking a quick glance outside the window freaked you out all the more, as the trees outside indicated it wasn’t windy at all.

You crawl towards the paper, seeing it’s blank side up. With a slightly shaky hand you turn it over. Your breath gets caught in your throat. Written right after your own name in the corner is:

Satoru Gojo

“Satoru Gojo… is that who you are?” You ask in a hesitant whisper as you twist your head trying to catch a glimpse of him. Turning back to the paper, a small :) was drawn next to his name.

You yelp and drop the paper as if it burnt you. Backing up, you jump as your back hits the wall. It hits you that either you’re completely losing it or something supernatural is messing with you.

“I-I’m sorry, I’ll leave!” In your panicked state, you can only assume that he’s some ghost that’s going to kill you now that you’ve figured it out. That’s what they do in the movies.

You hurriedly shove all of your things back into your backpack.

“AH-“ You scream as something brushes against your arm. You harshly flinch and look down to see the paper with something new scrawled on it.

You scared?

Is he mocking you? You’d hate to say he’s right, but your rushed breathing and hurried movements make it more than obvious. You almost fall multiple times as you grab your bag and race to the door. Twisting around a corner, you find something that stops you for a moment. The main doors are closed. You yank and pull on them but they won’t open.

Spinning around to look for another way out you see your paper on the wall of the hallway you just came from. Slowly, you inch closer and closer until you can read what was written on it.

Don’t forget this!

You take the paper off the wall, and as soon as your fingertips touch the edge, light spills out from behind you. The doors are open. Grasping the paper so hard it crumbles, you sprint outside and don’t stop until you’ve hit the main road.

Once you stop, it takes you a moment to catch your breath, legs already sore. You spare a glance back to the woods, but of course, nothing is there. Adrenaline wearing off, you make it back home and manage to put yourself together before your family can see you.

Later that night, you find you can’t sleep. Going over the events of the day again and again; paper in your hand all the while. You rely on it to convince yourself you’re not crazy, that something was there.

The next morning you figure you should reorganize your backpack, having left it a mess in your haste to leave the warehouse.

You can’t find your light blue pen anywhere.

Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I had this sitting around since Halloween, and only recently came back to it. I’m sorry if the writing got a little wonky halfway through.

[six-white-venus]

the worst trait of me and my family is probably this: we never learned to say the word sorry.

i) my best friend and i, we are no people. knives? maybe. liars? definitely. but people? i’m not so sure.

knives were never forged to be tender (what a shame, what a shame) and we too, fall and slay what we meant to protect. him and i, we go for the throat when we clash. we hurt and bleed and oh, i should be terrified, i should be running for my life, but all i am is tired and a bit lonely and would really like his arms around me.

( “can we please stop fighting now.”

“oh god yes please.”)

because time and time again, this man has held my heart in his hands and cleaned its festering wounds with cotton dipped in alcohol (always the healer, always the lover) and wrapped gauze around them with clinical precision. and i have walked through the maze of his head and tended to his withering garden, have dragged the sun and fresh air and all the oceans to the barren land to make it bloom (always the poet, always the lover).

him and i, we have never needed words because we are knives forged in the same fire and at the end of the day, we both know that he will be the one who wordlessly stitches my broken heart and i will be the one who sings him to sleep.

ii) let me paint you a picture:

blue that fades into red that fades into black that fades into blue that fades into red. loud, clashing and nonsensical. a pit in your stomach that was dug with desperation and blunt fingernails. how do you colour anger that is also pain, grief, hate, love, fear and truth? the smell of the paint is foul and clogs your windpipes. blunt fingernails and blue and black and madness. can you bear to look at what you created without flinching?

that’s what anger looks like on my father. a horror. a mottled bruise. a hellfire.

all his life, my father has been scorned, belittled, beaten, spat on. his mother didn’t love him right because her mother didn’t love her right. my dad loves like he hates. something is fucked in his head and heart and his words fade into black and blue and red and this shitshow always ends with me sobbing, bleeding, dying on the floor. my father watches with his hackles raised and his eyes red and wide and glowing. once wounded, an animal never sheathes its claws. it strikes the ones it loves and walks away with its head held high and hands trembling.

but here’s what happens when the curtains close: he pulls me into his arms and brings me tea. he wipes away my tears with hands that has moved mountains to make me smile. he kisses my forehead and tells me that his mom didn’t love him right. my grief is like anger and indignation and love. i wrap my arms around him and cry all the tears he never had the luxury to. who should say sorry, really? is it him or his mom or his mom’s mom or this stupid fucking world? my father has never said the word sorry. he never needed to. this is what love looks like on us. a horror. a mottled bruise. a hellfire.

iii) despite it all, i am not usually an angry person. i take after my father and my mother, after all. i rage like my mother (quick, loud, fire that burns out almost as quickly as it sparked to life) and fight like my father (aim, shoot, bullseye). my sister does something even mildly upsetting and before i know it, i’m cursing her to be miserable till she dies. not even an hour later i’m draping myself over her shoulder and bugging her till she rolls her eyes and smiles ever so slightly.

(“do you have no shame?”

“yeah no i don’t think so.”)

my family and i, we never learned to say the word sorry. because the word sorry never meant sorry, not to us. because at the end of the day, that’s all it is: a word. and it sticks to the back of my tongue and the dents of my molars and gets tangled in my mouth when i try to spit it out. so i grab it by its throat and thread it into my being. i find it so much easier to hide my pathetic inability to do one thing that doesn’t scream that there's something wrong with me with the truth of another three words:

“i love you”

and they are always echoed back to me, just a few million times more tender, in ways only we can understand.

“yeah, i know.”

“that’s great, but there’s no escaping dishes duty.”

“oh, shut up, you.”

“what’s that for?”

a pause and a hum.

“i love you too.”

[misc-obeyme]

what are your thoughts on the cheeky lil cow boy (belphie)

Ah yes, Belphegor, a bit of a polarizing character in general, I think. People seem to either really love him or really hate him.

Generally speaking, I think he's deceptively cunning, but not in a malicious way. He's pretty chill most of the time, but he'll do stuff like manipulate his brothers to get them to do his chores for him. Except for Beel, of course. And really they are a unit. Belphie is always ready to fight for Beel and vice versa. But I also really like how they just quietly support each other. Someone will say oh Belphie fell asleep in this weird place and Beel will immediately be like I'll go get him. Or Belphie will be like we need to make sure we bring food to this thing because Beel will get hungry. Like they're just always thinking about each other and I think that's really sweet.

Belphie will also call people out if he wants to. If he has no reason to keep it to himself, he'll straight up tell you if he thinks you're doing something questionable. And his issues with Diavolo indicate to me that he has a problem with authority, like he would be more defiant if he wasn't also lazy lol.

Inevitably, though, we can't really talk about Belphie without discussing the Lesson 16 Incident. At this point, I think most people are aware of those events, but just in case, I'll put the rest of this under a read more. And also it's kinda lengthy, so be forewarned lol.

First of all, I have to say that I was honestly so confused about what was happening in Lesson 16 that I didn't fully understand that Belphie had killed MC. I had to read it multiple times and then read what other people were saying about it. So I never had an intense reaction to it.

But to be fair, it wasn't like we didn't know there was something weird going on the whole time. I knew it was the youngest brother locked up there and it seemed like it was wrong, so that made Lucifer out to be the bad guy of the situation. Then it turns out that wasn't the case at all.

Belphie is manipulative. That's just part of his character. And when he has something that he's trying to do, he's going to use that skill to get it.

Some people are still mad at Lucifer for locking Belphie up at all. Some people are obviously quite upset that Belphie killed MC.

But here's what I think.

It isn't that black and white. Aside from the confusing time travel shenanigans, this event is one of the most realistic things that has ever happened in the story.

Belphie shared Lilith's love of humans. Together they wanted to learn more about the human world. It would be easy for him to blame himself for her interest and what ultimately led to her death. But even if he didn't, he saw the way that it tore his entire family apart.

It wasn't just that his dad got mad at his sister and they had an argument or something.

It was that his dad was going to end his sister's existence and in defiance, his older brother rebelled. And there was a war. This was not some squabble. This was siblings fighting siblings.

Belphie watched his brothers and sisters fight and hurt and kill each other and it all came back to Lilith falling in love with a human.

And then he fell with his brothers, cast out of his home, losing everything he's ever known. His brothers are changing and suffering just like he is.

They don't talk about it. They clearly all keep secrets regarding it still, things that don't come out until MC comes along. Which is supposedly thousands of years after the fact (at least in OG). That means Belphie has had all that time to let that trauma fester. To let it twist inside him. To let it morph into the one thought that became most dominant: that humans are bad.

Is that a fair assessment of what happened? No, of course not. But we're dealing with a war traumatized fallen angel that clearly hasn't worked through any of these feelings in thousands of years.

And then he defies Diavolo and Lucifer panics.

Yes, Lucifer should have found a better way of handling it. But remember what happened to him when he defied authority? He is trying his best to protect Belphie. He is trying not to lose another sibling. He is also still traumatized and therefore overreacting out of fear.

And so was Belphie.

Imagine being locked up like that and a human comes along. A human is free among your brothers to do whatever terrible things humans do while you're powerless to stop them. Of course he's going to try to manipulate that human into setting him free. Of course he's then going to eliminate them because humans have been historically bad for his family.

I read this situation as Belphie being both afraid and angry that a human - the thing he's convinced himself was the main cause of his sister's death - has become so close to his brothers and has the access to his family that could cause another rift among them.

You could say that it was Belphie's idea to get MC to have all the pacts, but that isn't really true, either. By the time MC meets Belphie, they already have a pact with two of his brothers. He sees them already starting to worm their way into his family. And he knows that the only way to get out of the attic is to encourage it. He doesn't really have a choice.

Maybe everyone can now call me a Belphie apologist. But I'm always coming at this from an outside fictional standpoint. I'm like listen he's a flawed character and it's actually pretty realistic of him to react this way considering the circumstances.

However, he did kill MC. And that's why my own MC, Ciaran, has issues with Belphie for a while. It's also traumatic to have someone kill you, so it isn't like I'm saying MC should just forget about it or forgive Belphie immediately. I think it probably should have taken a lot more time for MC to trust Belphie again. Certainly that part of the story was a bit rushed.

But they're dealing with lesson format constraints and also it's a silly otome game so I guess fully formed character arcs can't be expected. Especially since we aren't dealing with routes and they have to cram everybody into the same set of lessons.

In the end, I think Belphie is an interesting and complex character. I think there's a lot of space to explore more about this particular aspect of him, but due to the format of the media and the lack of routes, his more in depth character arc just doesn't exist.

I personally have no problem with Belphie as a character, but I also understand why people don't like him. I am always of the opinion that everyone is free to love or hate or have any emotions at all about fictional characters lol. This is just my personal opinion.

[bromcommie]

the beloved name, exiled free verse poem (?) for @catws-anniversary, day 8 | april 2nd theme: bucky barnes | prompts: ghost story, memories, revenge | on ao3 here

Listen: this is a ghost story. Are you listening?

Good. Let me set the scene: here we are at the beginning of our path, here we are at the mouth of the river, still cool and smelling of salt and rotten fish and not gasoline. And here we have our protagonist who is like all other protagonists, which is to say he is handsome, maybe, or he used to be and he is young, maybe, or he used to be  and he is unimportant and mundane and utterly  human, maybe, or he used to be.

What about a name? This can get confusing, so let's call him Yuri or Yevgeny or Yakub, let's call him Joe or Jack or Jimmy— overplayed, overused, there's too many of those just running around all over the place, trust me. Let's just call him the universal name of all history, meaning let's not call him anything at all. Most of the real protagonists are nameless, and all history ever does is pile them atop each other, dead faceless weight on neat numbered lists, pour them out into shallow unmarked graves, send them home as bits of hammered metal and pairs of over-mended socks, meaning: 31 GOVT=WUX WASHINGTON DC 845PM 3-8-45

THE SECRETARY OF WAR WISHES ME TO EXPRESS— Hello? Everybody home? Are you sitting  down? Sorry for your loss, ma'am. Sorry about the caked blood on his boots, about all the ugly, festering parts that nestled in the chest and grew outwards, stretching towards the sun. You should probably make it a closed-casket funeral, you should probably make it a nice picture on the mantle, a gilded frame for grief, because you won't like the thing the search party digs up from the snow.  Sorry for your loss, ma'am, truly, but know this: никто не забыт и ничто не забыто, meaning vechnaya pamyat, memory eternal, meaning we will forever honor your unnamed hero of a son on neat numbered lists and in the worn, earmarked pages of history. And don't that just beat all. Except for the ones that make it. Except for the rare ones deserving of a title, the ones left to carry history's weight, left to tell the story; left to be immortalized as the writing on the wall. They get to keep their names. You saw it, too. Not really, not the fleshy, messy parts between the syllables, not in a way that counts, and we're not here to talk about him, anyway. I'm the one calling the shots, I'm the one telling this story, so listen. If you say so. So we have our protagonist— tell me about the monster, then. Every good story needs a monster. Except I didn't say monster, did I, I said ghost: something caught in the  doorway but never fully in either room,  something that has a body which is never whole but always wants to be. The body which knows without knowing, which occupies the space between awareness and understanding; the nuclear shadow of longing.

But you don't want that, do you. You want something with clean-cut lines, something with teeth and a mean streak that adds up to more than just the disjointed sum of its parts. I don't blame you for that. So here: have your handsome young unnamed hero while he was still handsome and young and without the weight of a title for a name breaking over his back, sweating in summer heat. Have a scene drawn by a boy on a fire escape with a red-bellied bird over blue water that hasn't caught on fire yet; have a scene in which all the lights add up, in which there are no creeping shadows and the scenery makes sense.

Here is your kindhearted hero who walks tall and straight and shares his chocolate with the children sheltering in the basement of the shattered house, the thousands of children on whose bony backs the mythos of Leningrad was built— which is a thing our protagonist doesn't know then but will learn in time, with  practice and repetition beaten raw into the skin: pain, the mother and father and  inheritor of all earthly knowledge. And here is the monster which is, of course, a house with one too many locked doors, one too many broken windows and not enough light getting in to see his face clearly, to map into memory the places  where the glittering armor's cracked, where the boy's expression bleeds into the  bird on the page. The edges all crooked. The spine tilting to the side. The bird's not flying.

How can it, the boy who is not a boy but a man says, when its wing's broken? And our protagonist says: you're the artist here. Can't you make up a better story,  for a change?

I'm sorry. I tried to keep it simple. Let me start over.

There's something about the house you're keeping out of the picture. How did they get in if all the doors are locked? Where did they come from? Where did the overlap come from? The other side of the river Lethe, maybe, except that's just another myth our protagonist doesn't remember learning but knows anyway. Head stuffed full of stories, passed on in hope and bread and blood head stuffed full of cotton, gasoline-soaked waiting decades for something to  spark, except someone's cut the connecting strings, you see. Someone's hacked off the fuse. A lighter's useless if you can't even light a candle with it. A tool loses its value when it stops doing its job well, when it becomes nothing but the disjointed, disloyal sum of its parts and bites the hand wielding it, which is usually when the hand tends to get pissed. You know. I don't need to tell you this. The voltage wasn't high enough to burn out the fear of failure. If someone's cut the fuse, where's the flame coming from, then? Shut up, I'm getting there. We were talking about the scenery, about the roses next to the blown out window, pink on red on tablecloth white; we were talking about the dark-eyed girl in the basement with the one-sided dimple, the one-sided shyness, the handful of picked wildflowers when he walked back through the door, wanting to go back to a time when his body was a gentler sum of its parts.

What color were the wildflowers? Now you're getting somewhere. Pink, white, yellow; blue, maybe, the color of kindness. That is what they were fighting for, you understand, one and all: a kinder world, a world where little girls never end up hungry in basements again. That's what they were told over and over again by the same men in different suits.

I know what you're about to ask. No, the children never got out of the basement, and yes, the girl's eyes were blue back then, not brown a mirror of belonging, and in another version of events her hair was red, but that's a story for a different time. And the world? Well. Depends on who you ask. Anyway, we were talking about the boy on the fire escape and the boy in the shattered house drawing the same bird. Mythology carries weight even without proof of it ever happening, but this is different. Is it? What makes you say that? Well the birds looked alike, and the two boys didn't look alike at all except for all the ways in which they did, the lip caught between teeth and the line cutting between brows and the soft scritch-scritch-scritch of stubby pencil on cheap paper, a faint looping sound that should've driven our protagonist mad but didn't. Echo of a life repeated, of a sound as familiar as his own heart, which is the closest thing to proof of existence you can get.  I beat, therefore I exist. I am  beaten, therefore: there's still something permanent about this body that can't be taken away.

The boy's body wasn't permanent, or at least it turned out malleable despite its innate unbreakability, despite the hard-earned slouch of the shoulders and the same old broken nose and the twist to the mouth; not smiling, but close.  The eyes; not looking at, but not looking away.

Maybe it's not the boy that changed, but the looking. Maybe that's the part the protagonist made up after: the looking back. Explain the flame then, explain the devil in the details, explain the hunger cutting through the ribs, spilling the contents out into the world to be pecked at. If none of it was real, explain how all this light is getting in. Oy vey iz mir, I'll never get to the end if you keep this up. You sure ask a lot of questions, don't you? I don't like when you do that, just repeat words you heard once or twice— or a thousand times. Isn't that all storytelling is? Do you even know what they mean? Do you? They mean, enough already They mean, didn't I tell you to buzz off? They mean you've been at the wheel too long but I've been here longer, so let me talk for once, let me set some roots down in this shifting landscape you're running from and be more than just a collection of wild old hungers. I thought you said this is a ghost story. That's all ghosts ever are.

I'm not talking about me, I'm talking about our hero and I'm just trying to prove a point here, anyway. I'm trying to say maybe the birds weren't the same bird, maybe the bird wasn't even a bird and maybe the boy was something he made up, too, clinging onto hope like a thing with too many feathers, like a rope that could very well hang him. Maybe it's still enough on its own, anyway, the feeling that flutters through at the not-story, a robin's broken wing against the windowsill, the aftermath of a struggle; tender and violent and utterly unkillable. Sounds like a nice story. So why are you so angry?

Am I? Well, fear can sometimes cause an irrational reaction. Fear can make people dangerous, make them behave unpredictably. This is all empty rhetoric, of course, but you should understand. You're not people, either. Your lethality is not irrational. It's been hammered into a precise shape, like all things born out of a binary are— I know this story, too. It goes: Yes or no. Success or failure. Dot or dash. You finger's on the trigger: you pull it or you don't. What's your choice? Report. Never mind, I don't want to talk about this. 

Report status. Dot or dash? The choice of a small, bloody animal backed into a corner, which is to say no choice at all. The choice of go fuck yourself with the constant  interruptions, I was telling a story here.

That's not one of the options. Your finger is still on the trigger. The house is still on fire. What do you save?  What are you trying to pull? You know how this story goes so why rehash it why poke at  infected tissue, why— Because you won't talk to me plainly, you won't look at the thing head on, because I'm trying to be helpful, like I've always tried to be helpful, because the story goes:  We want to help you, you have to let us help you, you have to let us, so:  report.  I was getting there, why did you have to— Report. Answer the question.  You know, sometimes I think you liked it when they— Sometimes I think you like getting— Answer. Sometimes I think you— .-. . .--. --- .-. - two GSWs one to the stomach one to the thigh critical condition - .... -.-- / .-- .. .-.. .-.. / -... . / -.. --- -. . broken ribs shattered cheekbone pneumo thorax 32557038 you’ve known me your whole life exfil at 38° 46' 57.50" -77° 00' 54.22" you hear that assholes home by christmas and lying dead asleep on the couch lying dead sinking in the water lying strapped to a table when война закончена, слава героям Красной армии subject uncooperative try it again 32557038 sergeant 191 pts in most recent drill recommendation for additional training 3255 --- -. / . .- .-. - .... / I said .- ... / .. - / .. ... try it again / .. -. / .... . .- ...- . -.  he’s still talking  7038 initial report stated the body pulled from the Potomac was nonresponsive stated subject’s cardiac arrest lasted 176.83 seconds so try it again stated edelweiss, ein kleines edelweiss stated I give thanks before you for you have mercifully returned my soul within me stated 32557—

.-. . .--. --- .-. - Record skip. There's fuzz on the damn needle again. Where's it keep coming from? What was I talking about, again? You were about to tell me where the light keeps coming from. The light is irrelevant, the light casts shadows that don't make any sense, I told you, the light's just there for dramatic effect. Our protagonist is not an artist, he's not thinking about the light.

You're lying. You're leaving the important parts out again. You're ignoring what's happening in the house, you're ignoring the red string that's supposed to be leading the way, time-adherent. Of course. That's because all strings can be cut, all strings can wind up dead ends, all things can be taken away, including time. The string's not red because of the poetry of it all, bub. It's red because someone's bled all over it. We both know this, so  what's the point in reopening old wounds? That's how people hemorrhage. That's how the needle starts to skip. That's not how stories work. Why won't you tell me what he's thinking about? Fine. Fine then: he's thinking about the damn light, how it makes him look all translucent and tired and too human this man that used to be a boy that used to be a David long before they turned him into a Samson, and he tries not to think about how that story ends. He thinks about the light and he wants to say, keep your temples standing—the world's had more than its fair share of heroes and legends, and look  where that got us. Nothing good ever came from making a fallible man a myth. He wants to say: if there's someone who could knock them down blind it'd be this boy, but he'd rather look at him in this ghost light until the day he bites it than read his name in history books and over the tombstone of a hero's grave.

He wants, but that's not something fit to send back with the socks and the hammered metal, that's about as useless as crying over spilt milk, about as useless as the thoughts that lead nowhere but deeper into the pit our hero keeps crawling out of. And so he goes back to the numbers and the angles, to the sounds right outside the door, to the piece of metal in his hands because he was always so much better at that kind of thing, anyway. Things that can be taken apart and put back together, new from the old; things that can be forced into a form or a binary are so much easier to control. You know this, too. You're living, breathing proof of it.

Anyway, that's what he's thinking about at that time: speed, math, probability. Gravity, maybe. He drifted— wandered— walked purposefully so close to the edges of this man that he ended up wanting inside him, close enough to know him like his blood knows him, close enough to get warm and to shield from the draft through the broken windows snuffing the light out of them both. He'd ended up afraid of pushing too hard and ending up on the other side of him, afraid of falling off one hell of a cliff. And the boy who hasn't been  a boy in a while looked at him and said, Are you— and our man with no face said: Let's not do this again.  And they both carried on dealing with  things easier to handle, like smart numbers and smart maps and smart hands that did things they were good at but tried not to think about too hard at night.

He still ended up falling, of course. And then, well— a shot bird can't fly if its wings've been broken, a shot bird can't fly if its been fucking shot.

Someone lied to our protagonist, you see. It was a long time ago, but it still stuck.

But what about the light? 

Why the rush? Look, whichever end I tell the story from, we'll end up at the foot of the same cliff, the same river. I just don't know what more you want from me.

I want you to stop dropping the thread, I want you to stop playing dead already— that shattered house is on fire, and you keep trying to put it out with buckets full of bullet holes while I'm not looking and the water's all gone before you can even see it evaporate. The house is still on fire, the house is caught in a thunderstorm too many charged particles too close to the eye socket and the smell of crackling ozone and burning flesh and you need to get out— That's enough. Change the topic, I'm not doing this again. Please. Look, I'm  being nice about it. Fine. Do you remember who first told our unnamed hero that old Lie? No, but it starts like this: dulce et decorum est, except there's nothing decorous about flies on too-thin bodies, about the taste of fear like iron at the scraped roof of the mouth, about the things you saw your hands do; there's nothing about our hero that makes him a hero. Blood under the fingernails. White little petals high up in the pale mountains, white little petals on lapels, crushed to bits. You still remember how brown his eyes were, how young how quick the light behind them was snuffed out when all your muscles locked up, animal instinct. Mind you, it wasn't unwarranted— the motherfucker's knife was in your stomach. The pretty pale mountains were a screen for a world set on raging fire. Mind you, this was before the invention of a gun out of living flesh, before they gave you a title instead of a name. You were bleeding then, too.

I thought we were talking about the story.

We are, pay attention: Do you remember when you first realized the awful Truth? I know you don't, but it goes like this: you don't remember giving your life and you don't remember believing in something bigger than yourself, but your trigger finger does. Picturebook blue and gold over the river's surface, stretching yourself too thin towards the sun. Dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori. (Only one part of this sentence is a lie.)

You still haven’t told me where the light is coming from. And you still haven't told me why you want the answer so bad. I don't know. Is that what you've been wanting to hear? I don't know. You don't want to know. There's a difference. You're scared shitless is what you are, you sorry old thing. Falling back on old habits. I want to know how our protagonist ends up.

I’m working on it, alright. The road is long and potholed and roundabout and the story’s not much better, you see: the pictures are all there but the colors are too bright, the linework's all off, I still can't get the shadows to make any goddamn sense. Too many different mythologies, I think; too much static on the channel to pick the thread of the drama up clearly, and someone keeps cutting the transmission lines, anyway. It's downright sabotage, is what it is. Friendly fire. But our protagonist is getting weary, he needs a moment to lay his head down, so let me wrap up, will you, let me get a word in edgewise and put it in a way you will understand. Stop asking questions and let yourself sit in the house with one too many doors that you didn't notice before, one too many rooms and not enough hallways to connect them all. Make a place for yourself by the warmth of the fire in the burning house, and pay attention:

The doors are there for a reason. Did you hear what I said? Have you been listening? Someone's cut all the strings. Someone's left them to smolder in the ash, someone's bitten the hand that used to hold them raw, and now the monster's asking questions. Now the monster's off its leash, and it wants what all angry, abused abandoned things want, which is someone to be afraid of it for once, which is a way out of the maze, a clear path into the sunlight. It wants its due. I thought you said it was a ghost. Gimme a break— there's no place for semantics in this discussion, there's no place for a discussion at all. I'm telling you now: ghost, monster they're all just different words to say— something that's other, something on the outside looking in, something with no belonging. All different words to say: something that used to be something else once.

That's why our hero is no hero, you see: no Samson, no Oisín, no Theseus; at best, he's the minotaur. At worst, he's the ship. Something new from something old, over and over until it's unrecognizable. A gilded frame for grief masquerading as an honor. That's where the light is coming from, you understand. That's where all the strange old hunger is coming from: the blue of the wildflowers carved into bone; the beloved name exiled to the other side of the river Lethe. That's what the monster wants. A way back home. Monsters don't get to make demands. Only heroes do. You think? You still haven't figured it out yet, have you? You're still thinking in binaries. Who do you think I've been flapping my gums at all this time, who do you think our tired nameless protagonist with all that blood on his boots is? And who's the one out of the two of us here asking all the goddamned questions? Open your eyes. Put your ear to the ground. Listen: I lied. This isn't a story. This is a warning. Someone's cut all your red strings and that someone was you, pushed out of a century of quiet by the wrong dead body in the wrong burning river and a feeling you didn't understand in the shape of a name cutting your ribcage open to the sun; which is why you're so angry, which is why you're  scared shitless, which is why you've got more questions than answers. The needle's still skipping, so we’re flipping the whole thing over to B-side. Can you hear it? Can you mouth along to the crackling words? It seems to me you've heard that song before, so: wipe the record and start over. Maybe this time the melody'll actually stick.

And then? And then, you get your due. No gods, no mythologies, no more fucking stories, just this: you, blowing up the burning house and clawing your way out into the sunlight.

[blu-raes]

Julian caring for a partner with anxiety

(Because I currently have really bad anxiety and I need this)

(relevant screenshot lmao)

Julian gently coaxing you out of bed when you wake up paralyzed with fear. While you’re taking deep breaths in an attempt to slow your racing heart upon waking up, he places a hand on your shoulder, whispering encouraging words to you before he gets ready. He knows it’s not easy, but he has every faith in you that you’ll be able to find the courage to get out of bed. (plus, it’s better than lying around)

The first time you had a panic attack around him, it nearly gave him a heart attack until you eventually explained that it’s just one of the pesky ways your anxiety manifested. Knowing you weren’t going to drop dead from cardiac arrest was a relief, and you both soon found ways where he could aid you when things began to become overwhelming. These days, he’s better able to notice the signs of one coming on. He’s in full doctor mode, helping you control your breathing, speaking to you gently, getting you to turn your focus to something else. 

More under the cut

Continued

Somewhere along the way he noticed that letting you hold his hand helped ground you quickly as well, and he’s more than happy to offer them. When you do reach out to hold him, his grip is always warm, steadying, a little soothing even. It helps you from floating too far off the ground, so to speak.

He's more than happy to accompany you when running errands. He once offered to help run them for you, but you tell him you're actually worse off left alone with your thoughts and enjoy his company. He does have to remember to slow down when walking, though.

When you’re not as anxious and a little more functional, he keeps your mind off your worries by doing what he does best- being a chatterbox. Tall tales to keep you engaged? He’s got it. Gossip from the Rowdy Raven? Ohhh, wait till you hear what new cocktails Barth’s coming up with now! You two spend hours idly chatting back and forth, and what do you know? Hardly an anxious thought, or at least, you’re better able to keep them at bay with him around.

Anxiety is known to cause tummy troubles, and this is something our dear doctor has a little more expertise in, seeing as it’s on the physical side of things. The experience he’s gained from dealing with patients with similar issues has led him to be able to help you manage your symptoms.

Nausea? He has a little vial of peppermint oil on standby, something he learned from his own apprenticeship. Those odours from festering wounds are no joke, it’s saved his own senses from time to time while operating.

Appetite loss? He often forgets to eat himself, but he always reminds you to at least have a snack if you can. A cookie, some toast, literally anything as long as you can stomach it. At times like these he also pesters Portia and/or Mazelinka for advice. Suffice it to say they’re both happy to help too. He’s not a great cook, but if he has time in the mornings he might prepare some oatmeal. Something digestible and easy to eat. It helps that the noises from the kitchen and his humming also help settle you down in the morning.

He’s sure to keep anything caffeinated away from you. You do chide him a little for treating you like a child, and he immediately apologises for doing so, but in all fairness, maybe having the high strength coffee out of reach for a while is a good idea. No one needs a caffeine-induced spiral. Just to get back at him, you also end up hiding the coffee bean stash from his prying eye(s). 

Come night time however, and that’s when you’re simultaneously the least and most worried. Physically, you’re as calm as calm can be. Mentally, however? You dread going to bed. Because that either means nightmares, disturbed sleep, waking up in the morning all anxious again, or likely a mix of all three.

You confide in him about your worries, and while there isn’t anything he can do to prevent them, he does promise you his support. After all, you were there for him when he had troubled nights himself, weren’t you?

He’s not a very heavy sleeper himself, and he feels you tossing and turning around in bed almost immediately. Be it a nightmare, or simply your mind forcing you awake, it’s an arduous task for you to try and return to sleep. The moment you turn your back to face him in bed, he’s looking at you with concern and empathy and holds you close (with your permission, of course).

The warmth and pressure of his embrace is nearly enough for your racing heart to return to normal. You utter a muffled apology, but he soon shuts it down. It’s not your fault, and it’s not a burden on him either. He simply just wants to see you alright again. Plus, now he gets to fret over you a little, and it delights him ever so slightly that he gets to feel a little useful while taking care of you. After more whispered affirmations and him gently playing with your hair, you soon drift off to sleep again.

Bonus for the artists out there:

One of the other things that you’ve been doing to keep your anxious thoughts at bay was with art. It helps keep your mind focused on something in the moment. Recently, Julian has become your muse of choice. Seeing your beloved come to life on the page/canvas has the added effect of relaxing you further, in fact. Julian is obviously incredibly flattered upon finding out. Tears of joy well up in his eyes, he never thought that he would one day be anyone’s source of comfort, let alone yours. He hopes to continue being that guiding light in the dark for you, as you have been for him.