#posting things you write is terrifying

[ghost-proofbaby]

my little scaredy cat

request: [anon] i would love to see watching horror movies with best friend!eddie and reader instinctively grabs his arm and hides herself against him and it leads to feelings and confessions haha

warnings: none! except it's unedited, which would be scary if that wasn't 90% of my writing on here lmao

pairing: eddie x fem!reader

wc: 3.1k+

i had a lot of fun busting this one out. it's just so cute and certainly how i wish i was spending my halloween! also, rest assured, i am also eyeing the other request you submitting anon. <3 happy haunting, my friends.

This was such a stupid idea. Such a stupid, stupid idea. 

You’ve always been a scaredy cat. Everyone in your friend group was well aware of it – you loved the idea of Halloween, but your poor heart just couldn’t take most of the frights that came with the eccentric holiday. 

It was fine, most of the time. If anyone had the urge to plan out a day at a pumpkin patch, you were eagerly accepting the invitation. If anyone wanted to bake any sort of sweet treats laced with pumpkin spice or caramel apple flavor profiles, you were already in your car and armed with the perfect recipe to help them. Someone wanted to peruse the decoration aisles of various stores? Wait no more, the perfect shopping buddy could be found in you. You, who could handle most of the trivial and sweet aspects of the holiday. You, who divulged in the more aesthetic side of it all rather than the scary side of it. 

Your distaste of being jumpscared or unnerved by gore and ghouls alike only really caused issues when it came to your best friend, Eddie Munson. 

His taste in experience of the frightful time of year was entirely the opposite of yours. It’s not that he didn’t like decorating caramel apples with you or that he didn’t find your choice in decorations cute, because he did. But he liked the terrifying aspect of it all – he liked the adrenaline rush of fictional danger. 

And friendship, in all its glory, is about give and take, is it not? 

Compromise. That’s what he called it when he’d begged and pleaded for you to join him in a movie night. Because the moment the suggestion fell from his lips, you both knew he had no intentions of watching one of your usual festive movies that only teased about the creatures that crept through the night. PG-13 films that didn’t really do it for him. No, Eddie Munson had insisted you join him for a movie night, and you both knew exactly what kind of movie he intended to play. 

You just hadn’t anticipated the scariest fucking movie you’d ever endured for the boy beside you on the couch. 

“Shit!” 

Your squeak is muffled over by the crescendo of creepy instrumental echoing from the small TV across the room. A cycle had quickly been found during this movie night; the movie would fall eerily silent as a tense scene arrived, you’d tense every single muscle so hard that Eddie could feel you shaking from the other side of the couch, and then once the jumpscare occurred and your small squeals were let out involuntarily, his own laughter would follow. 

“Oh, come on,” he coos a little, leaning closer to the middle of the couch, still a fair distance away from your figure bundled up in blankets that were being used more as shields than anything at this point, “That one wasn’t even that bad!” 

“To you!” you snap, yanking the fabric back down from your eyes only to glare at Eddie rather than look at whatever grotesque was plaguing the screen, “I’m a scaredy cat, remember?” 

And oh, remember he does. In all your years of friendship, Eddie had called you that nickname more times than either of you could count. He never meant it with ill will, but it was easier to tease you than to admit just how adorable he found your small reactions. 

Easier to tease than to admit just how badly he wishes you would seek protection or refuge from him during the scares he put you through. 

His face falls slightly, but he doesn’t let his small grin slip up, not wanting to give himself or his twinge of guilt away, “I’m sorry, kitty cat. C’mere – I can protect you from all the big bad monsters-”

Eddie’s opened arms are only met with one of the pillows you’d stolen off his bed to make the couch more comfortable. It smacks into the center of his chest with deadly aim and ferocious power, making him let out an exaggerated oomph. 

“Fuck you,” you grumble, adjusting the blanket around your shoulders now that the scare had passed. You almost tack on a comment about how he’s lucky you like him, because you would never endure this for anyone else.

Robin had tried. Steve had tried. Nancy had tried. They’d all tried to entice you in the scarier, classic Halloween experiences to no avail. Every offer of going to a haunted house, or attending the premiere of the newest horror movies at the local theater, were shot down before they even finished their sentences. 

Only one person could break your staunch demeanor on your limits. And right now, you sort of hated his guts. 

Eddie softens a bit, watching the way you pout and curl into yourself just a little tighter.

“Sweetheart,” he finally drops the cool guy demeanor, his voice gentle as he leans over with genuine concern, “We can turn it off, if you really want. Hell, if you want me to, I’ll put on something in your taste. Little Shop of Horrors, or maybe Beetlejuice? Those don’t usually scare you.” 

The offer is enticing. But you have a point to prove. 

“No,” you sit up a little straighter, square your shoulders with a little more defiance and faux bravery, “No, you wanted to watch…” 

You pause, and Eddie smiles softly as he supplies the title of his film of choice, “Poltergeist.” 

“Right, yes, Poltergeist. You wanted to watch it, so we’re gonna watch it.” 

Your stubbornness is admirable. 

Even when it falters. Even when another jumpscare has you ever so slightly scooching towards the center of the couch, no longer pressed to the opposite arm from Eddie in defiance. Even when Eddie spreads his legs casually, and you bump your knee into his thigh, the slightest touch bringing immense comfort.  

Once you discover that, it all seems downhill from there. 

A press of a knee against the side of his thigh turns into your side brushing his. Suddenly, the blanket you’d wielded like a weapon becomes shared. Moments where you try to hold up a barrier between your eyes and the screen cause slight disturbances in Eddie’s own vision. And then, it happens.

The thing he’d been diabolically planning for years. The one scenario he’d dreamt of every Halloween season, the one intention he’d held secretly every time he’d put your through endless scares. 

The one touch that could send him into cardiac arrest. 

He almost missed it, it happens so suddenly. One moment, you’re just curling up a little bit closer to him. The next, your arms fully wiggly their way around his bicep, capturing his arm in your grasp as your face buries into his shoulder. He can no longer smell the buttery popcorn or faint chocolate on his breath as you invade his space. It’s all sweet shampoo and subtle perfume that tickles his nose, skin against skin in a quick flush as he can hear the vibrations of your predictable scream against the fabric of his shirt. 

You hardly seem to notice the sudden entanglement of your bodies in all your fear — your knees practically in his lap and your torso clinging onto his forearm for dear life. You’re acting on instinct, seeking out humane comfort without considering what you were doing.

When you do notice, you don’t let go, only slacken your grip. 

“Oh, I-“ you stutter, pulling back slightly to look up at a stunned Eddie, “I’m sorry, that’s- I just- I was scared and-“ 

“It’s fine,” he cuts you off, eyes blown wide, “It’s… it’s fine.” 

It’s more than fine.

His heart races in a way no horror movie or haunted house could incite. Every nerve ending tingles, everywhere his body connects to yours burning in delicious warmth. He wants to spend an eternity like this — you, curled up to him, clinging to him like your holy savior. 

Years, and years, and years of wait pays off. Patience is surely virtue as those big eyes of yours look into his. 

After a couple awkward beats of silence, you whisper, “I don’t think I like Poltergeist.” 

Just like that, you have him laughing again. It’s slow and steady, a gentle chuckle that stirs from his chest in disbelief as he tries to thaw from his shock and yearning.

“You think?” he breathes out, tone not nearly teasing enough to cover up the shakiness. 

He swears he can feel your heart pounding against his shoulder. 

“Don’t be mean,” you start to scowl, slowly unfurling. But he stops you — angles his arm so you can’t slip your arms away as easily as before, tilting his head in closer.

“Mean? I could never be mean to you, my little scaredy cat.” 

“You’re literally being mean as we speak-“

And so, he decides to stop speaking. 

It’s impulsive and an even dumber idea than you enduring such a scary movie to be around him. But you look so fucking cute, his heart is tearing up his throat, and suddenly his lips are on yours in his largest spurt of bravery to date. Even more brave than the time he’d made himself a human shield between you and that dude with a chainsaw at the local haunted house, despite the way chainsaws actually kind of made him shit himself.

You don’t fully reciprocate at first. His lips are pressed hard against yours, tips of noses crushed and eyes fluttered shut, and he starts to believe he’s made a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake that just washed years of friendship down the drain. 

Until your hands tighten on his bicep. Until that soft squeeze comes, and it feels like he can breathe again despite sharing the air with you. 

He breaks away for just a second, “I-“

“Don’t be mean,” you repeat your earlier words with entirely new meaning now. He opens his eyes and finds yours already pleading up at his face, glossy and desperate, movie forgotten. 

Those hands once squeezing his bicep let go and move to the collar of his t-shirt. Normally, he’d make a comment about you stretching it out, deforming the perfect fit that took him ages to wear in, but he can’t be bothered to feel anything but delight when you’re tugging him back in for another kiss. 

And the last thing he wants to be is mean. So he kisses you kindly, kisses you with all the care in the world that he had buried beneath his skin since the day he met you. Kisses you like it could scare away all the monsters that wait in the shadows. Like he’d lay down his life to protect you from the very frights he’d been subjecting you to for far too long now. 

“Hey,” he mumbles, pulling back briefly, “Hey.”

This time, his forehead doesn’t leave yours as he pauses the kisses. 

“God, Munson, I’ve waited for this God knows how long, sat through so many fucking scary movies, and you’re really going to-“ 

“Hold on, what?”

He’s grinning so hard, it aches. In his cheeks, in his chest, in the back of his head. Your words sink in and he relishes each syllable, even in your frustration.

“I- Uh,” you pull back suddenly, fingers still loosely tangled in his t-shirt, “I-“

“Enlighten me, sweetheart,” he insists, eyes finally fluttering back open to catch the embarrassment painted plainly across your face. You wear a nearly painful expression that only tightens as you know he’s watching you, “Just how many scary movies have you sat through wanting me to kiss you?” 

“Fuck off,” you sigh out, shaking your head a little, “I mean it. Fuck right off-“

“Cause I could probably give a ballpark number for how many times I’ve wanted to kiss you during them,” he continues on quickly, “Actually, I bet I could count how many times I suggested watching these fuckin’ films just for this moment only to chicken out.” 

Your eyes are open again in an instant. Sparkling with hope and realization of what he was getting at. “Excuse me?”

“Do you really think I’m that mean?” he scoffs, finally reaching up for your hands, surprisingly calm despite the delightful storm wreaking havoc in his chest. He takes your knuckles in his and lets his thumb trail right over them, “No offense, but if I didn’t like you, I wouldn’t have-“

“You like me?” 

Your voice is sweet as honey, bright and drowning out the horror movie still playing. 

He smiles, boyish glint and all, as he confirms, “I like you.” 

You put the first real amount of distance between the two of you since you’d started to cling to him out of fear, almost as if signaling that bravery beginning to bubble over in your chest, “You actually like me?”

“Yes. Is that so hard to believe?”

“No, I- Well, maybe,” you bite your lip, and he’s suddenly dizzy with the need to capture it between his own teeth, “I just… I always thought you might like someone a little braver.”

His nose wrinkles, hands still twisting yours in his, “Excuse me? I think you’re plenty brave.” 

“Eddie, you’ve said it yourself, I’m a goddamn scaredy cat.”

“So?”

“So,” you persist, shuffling so that your legs fold beneath you and you gain some leverage over him, “You’re the exact opposite. You love scary things. Not even just during Halloween, but year round. And you’re telling me you like me even though I’m a scaredy cat.” 

“I like you because you’re a scaredy cat, thank you very much,” he corrects you immediately, “I love the way you always need me to protect you. I know, I know — not very feminist of me. I’m sorry. It’s just- it’s really fuckin’ cute, y’know?” now that his floodgates have opened, he’s pouring out all the words he’s held back for so long, “And besides, you’re more than just a scaredy cat. You’re also so smart, so beautiful, so funny. Yeah, you scare easily, but you’re also the same person who is the first to put me in my place when I’m being an absolute little shit. And don’t even get me started on all the cute faces you make when you’re talking about things you actually like, or when you’ve been baking with Nance and have flour all over your cheeks-“ 

“Okay, okay,” you stop his rambling before he can embarrass you any further. Any more affection, and your face might end up buried in his shoulder again, “I get it. You like me.” 

It’s quiet for a few moments. The two of you only stare, both smiling stupid, the screams of whatever climax occurring in the movie not even reaching your ears. All you can hear is the echo of his words, of his admission. And all he can hear is the pretty way your breath catches when he gives a small squeeze to your palm. 

It’s nice. It should be more anxiety inducing, it should be more dramatic. Eddie Munson should be absolutely losing his mind right now because he just kissed his best friend he’s been in love with for ages, but he isn’t. Actually, for the first time in a while, it feels as though he’s finally found it — he’s found his mind, he’s found his peace as he’s staring at your shy expression. It just feels right. Like a sigh of relief from the Universe. 

“I like you, too,” you break the silence, unable to meet his gaze, “I mean, you probably already got that, but-“

“Say it again.”

“Huh?”

“I did gather that, but my God, please say it again.” 

Your eyes meet him, and another piece clicks into place. 

Right. It’s so fucking right.

“I like you,” you repeat yourself, a smile beginning to dance on your lips. He can’t help himself — he leans forward and pecks the corner of your upturned mouth, “I like you,” the repetition is music to his ears as he plants a second kiss on your cheek, “I like you, Munson.” 

His peppered kisses mark every inch of skin available to him, making giggles begin to escape you. You even try to hide from his onslaught, but it’s no use. He’s quick to drop your hands and wrap his arms around you, tugging you in close and trapping you against him as each kiss grows more obnoxious. Loud smacking sounds, deliberately leaving spit behind that has you squealing. It’s nothing like the squeaks from when you were watching the movie; these small noises are filled with a little more joy, a little more happiness that only fuels Eddie.

“Eddie!” you try to scold, placing two hands on his solid chest, “Oh my God, stop it. You’re gross.” 

“You love it,” he mutters with his mouth fully pressed to your temple, nose buried in your hair. That sweet, sweet shampoo intoxicating him.

You like him. He didn’t fuck it up. 

You finally go slack in his touch, succumbing and letting him place you in his lap, curled up comfortably as you sigh, “Yeah. Okay, maybe I do. Whatever.” 

“Oh, don’t act all tough now, kitty cat.” 

Your hands are curled back in the fabric against his chest and you share the wonderful ache he had been feeling in his own cheeks and bones as you look down at him with playfully squinted eyes.

When he ducks down for another kiss, you stop him easily, “Nope. First, I have a request.” 

“Anything.”

“Anything?”

“Anything. Name it, and it’s yours.” 

“Please turn off that goddamn movie.” 

He throws his head back in laughter that shoots straight for your heart. The kind of laughter that haunts a chilled autumn night as children prance the streets for candy, as teenagers get into mischief in distant bonfire parties, as elderly couples enjoy morning coffees over eerie fog. 

It kind of feels like home. It kind of feels like everything is as it should be, finally. 

“I suppose I can do that for you, my little scaredy cat,” he muses as his head tilts back forward, chest swelling with affection, “Besides, I think I know something we can do that’s a little more fun than watching the Poltergeist.” 

“Oh, yeah? And what would that be?”

His arms tighten around you as he suddenly throws the two of you to lay down on the couch, his body hovering over yours and pick necklace nipping at your chin while he reaches out to click off the TV. The weight of him between your hips feels even better than either of your wildest dreams.

Years. You couldn’t believe it had taken years for this, and neither could he. But patience is virtue, and he probably would have waited another thousand years for this feeling, truth be told. 

“This,” he says boldly once the TV buzzes in sudden silence, dipping down and continuing where the two of you left off. Two sets of lips fit together like the world’s easiest jigsaw puzzle.

It’s safe to say the rest of the night, any further squeaks and squeals you let out aren’t due to ghosts.

eddie's taglist: @capricornrisingsstuff @thisisktrying @hideoutside @vol2eddie @corrcdedcoffin @ches-86 @alovesongtheywrote @its-not-rain @feralchaospixie @cheesypuffkins87 @thebook-hobbit @babez-a-licious @eddies-acousticguitar @gagasbee @d64d-n0t-sl66p1ng @aysheashea @kellsck @cosmorant @billyhvrgrove-main @micheledawn1975 @eddiesxangel @siriuslysmoking @witchwolflea @tlclick73 @magicalchocolatecheesecake @mizzfizz @nanaminswhore @mikiepeach @ali-r3n

[demodraws0606]

People complaining about Tsukasa5 already are pissing me off, because like, it's so unbelievably obvious what this event is trying to do and the fact that people are so hung up on "urgh dur tsukasa strong why can't he do a wall climb".

Like, first of all, a lot of Tsukasa's strength has been used as comedy before and also it's never been said that Tsukasa could specifically do a wall climb before so people calling this a retcon or a stretch is really dumb to me.

Sure we can make jokes about it, but this is not like a serious writing problem or anything.

Also are we just gonna ignore the fact this event is literally just a reference to his 3rd event in a silly trenchcoat. Or the fact that this is obviously meant to be WxS's downtime and training arc to prepare them to face the loose plotpoints in the future?

His inner dialogue when chasing the ninja is very clearly a reference to the whole Pheonix thing, how he can't reach it no matter how hard he tries.

The wall climb is like an extremely fucking on the nose metaphor to him climbing over his issues as an actor.

THERE IS ALSO THE WHOLE THING THAT HINTS THAT TSUKASA CAN ONLY OVERCOME HIS PROBLEMS IF HE HAS HELP FROM OTHERS (AKA tsukasa would've literally BEEN INJURED, if it wasn't for the fact the troupe's leader was there).

In fact this literally followed an event aka Tsukasa 4 where he FAILED to do his role correctly.

It's almost like this event is meant to be a transition point between Tsukasa 4 and 6, where Tsukasa builds up the knwoledge on how to face his problems.

But no this is just mid event because it's very silly and "wow plot is stupid why can't tsukasa wall climb".

WxS fans are slowly just turning into VBS fans in terms of how whiney they're being i swear

[paperbackfable]

Erend: they don't Id me at the liquor store anymore because they see the light has left my eyes

-

Erend: We're playing Scrabble. It's a nightmare.

Alva: Scrabble? Scrabble's great.

Erend: Not when you're playing with Zo, it's not. They put words like "ephemeral" and I put "dog".

-

Varl: You're ignoring all your problems.

Aloy: I know.

Varl: You also know it's an unhealthy coping mechanism?

Aloy: I'm ignoring that fact as well.

Varl:

-

Zo: In your opinion, what's the height of stupidity?

Aloy: turning to Sylens How tall are you?

-

Aloy: You lying, cheating, piece of shit!

Sylens: Oh yeah? You're the idiot who thinks you can get away with everything you do. WELCOME TO THE REAL WORLD.

Aloy: I'm leaving you, and I'm TAKING BETA WITH ME!

Varl, picking up the strike board: I think we're gonna stop playing now.

-

Aloy: Want do you want to be for "Halloween"?

Beta: Loved.

Aloy: Don't do this.

-

Sylens: I will not stand to be disrespected like this!

Aloy: Then sit.

-

Alva: Imagine if someone handed you a box full of all the things you lost throughout your life...

Zo: It would be nice to have my sense of purpose back.

Aloy: Oh wow, my childhood innocence! Thank you for finding this.

Beta: My will to live! I haven't seen this in years.

Erend: I knew I lost that potential somewhere.

Varl: Mental stability, my old friend!

Alva: Ancestors, could you guys lighten up a little?

-

Varl: What do you think Kotallo will do for a distraction?

Aloy: Probably, like, whistle or throw a rock. That's what I would do.

Building explodes and several car alarms go off

Aloy: ...or they could do that.

-

OK THAT'S ENOUGH I SHOULD PROABLY STOP NOW BYE

[thefreakandthehair]

A Steddie fanfiction. Rated E. 84k.

----

April 1986

“How’re you feeling, Ed?” Steve asks quietly, preserving the stillness of the night that surrounds them. 

“Think I’m alright, a little tired.” Eddie watches the gentle waves that ripple out from his shins kicking softly in the water. It’s been a long day, even he has to admit that, and he’s feeling… well, that’s the end of the sentence. He’s feeling. 

It’s the first time Eddie’s been around everyone all at once since the Upside Down and the kids, they mean well and he knows that, surrounded him with so much love that it’d become overwhelming. So had sitting upright, walking around, talking. The last hour or so, he’d gone ghost— transparent without actually disappearing— and the others followed his lead. Pretend you’ve vanished hard enough and the people around will you pretend, too. Except for Steve, he discovers.

It’s an odd thing though, preferring to be still, to be quiet, and he hates that the Upside Down has stolen this piece of himself, too. Steve’s assured him that it’s okay, that he’ll be his boisterous, loud, antsy self again when his body’s healed but it’s taking too long for Eddie’s liking. Or comfort. 

“You know it's normal, right? It’s a lot, Ed. You didn’t even have to stay out here the whole time, no one would’ve minded or blamed you.” Steve sits next to him, letting his feet slide in beside Eddie’s. Everyone else is inside— kids, parents, everyone who’s made the Harrington House their base while waiting for the government pay-outs and new homes. It’s late now, but Steve and Eddie take advantage of the silence as they so often do. 

“Yeah, yeah I know. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.” 

Steve nods and lets his pinky touch the edge of Eddie’s, palm down on the cold, wet concrete. 

“You don’t, you’re right. I didn’t either. For what it’s worth though,” Steve takes a breath, thinks about how he wants to word this without making a confession he’s not yet ready for, “I like every version of you.” 

Eddie’s heart pounds in his chest and he watches the ripples from Steve’s legs blend into his. Huh, he thinks, something symbolic there. 

He doesn’t respond, just wraps his pinky around Steve’s. 

Coming soon to ao3: February 1, 6:00PM PST (3:00 PM EST)

Now Posted!

tagging people who've asked or have listened to me ramble on and on for months: @bayouteche @starrystevie @tuvens @rougenancy @ruthofrhythm @toburnup @sparklyslug @justspicysixthings @fruityfour @fruityfourgalore @fastcardotmp3 @flashyysins @stevethehairington @kkpwnall @buckleydiaz @strawberryspence @undreamingscatworld @seidenbros @legitcookie @aringofsalt @patheticgirlsteve @henrystars @sharpbutsoft @nailbatandrobin @harringtonisms @stardustonpages @corrodedcoughin @steddiebf @songbvrd @hexiewrites @courtjestermunson @wroteclassicaly @cheatghost @flowercrowngods @lesstat-de-lioncourt @withacapitalp @newton-pulsifer @quevadilla @strangersatellites @stevesbipanic @wynnyfryd @prettyboyandthemetalhead @gothbat99 @sidekick-hero @stevecarrington @aidaronan @stargyles @bmodiwrites @evergreennwilloww @steves-babysitter @pizzaqueen @ruvina-loz @lallagoupsidedown @phantypurple @counting-dollars-counting-stars @deehellcat @stardustonpages @unclewaynemunson @yournowheregirl @punkharringtxn @babyboyargyle

[leupagus]

Behind the scenes, American officials also believe there is limited time for Israel to try to accomplish its stated objective of taking out Hamas in its current operation before uproar over the humanitarian suffering and civilian casualties – and calls for a ceasefire – reaches a tipping point. In fact, there is recognition within the administration that that moment may arrive quickly: Some of the president’s close advisers believe that there are only weeks, not months, until rebuffing the pressure on the US government to publicly call for a ceasefire becomes untenable, sources told CNN.

A lot of this pressure — the majority, I would wager — that Biden and US national leaders are getting is the result of people calling their reps, attending protests, writing to their newspapers and generally making themselves heard on this issue. People make a difference, and it's always worth reaching out to your legislators and telling them what you think.

Senators' info is pretty easy to find, since you've got two for every state (even DC and other non-state people have someone they can call!) but sometimes it's a little tricky remembering who your representative is, especially now with the district lines having changed up. So check your address here and then call their office — I've found more luck getting hold of an actual person at their local offices rather than the DC one, fwiw.

[lispenardst]

gold-skinned, eager baby | Hawk/Tim | 10k | E

Tim sets out for Fire Island with a single goal: to dig Hawk out of his pit of self-destruction.

As it turns out, Hawk is after something else entirely.

A 1979 fix-it… of sorts.

[the-sparkling-diamond-satine]

if you title this you could post the first few chapters already!!! (for the wip ask game lol)

WIP Ask Game! tw: abuse implied

But Christian isn’t looking at her face. His gaze is currently fixed on Satine’s wrist where—Satine notices as if in slow motion and with a lurch of her stomach—the sleeve of her coat has ridden up and a nasty purple bruise is on full display. Unable to adjust her sleeve with her hands full of coffee cups, Satine rotates her arm but it’s too late; the damage has been done. “Are you alright?” Christian asks, reaching for her arm. His touch is as warm as Satine remembers but she flinches back from it as if it’s scalding hot. “I’m fine.” “I’m sorry, did I hurt you?” Christian asks, searching her eyes. “Not at all,” Satine hastens to reassure him, realizing too late that she probably should have taken that excuse when it was offered to her, that flinching away from something that didn't hurt is suspicious while flinching away from something that did is reasonable. “Nothing to worry about,” Satine tries next, “just one of the hazards of live theatre. The show has a lot of lifts and I bruise easily. You’ll see tonight—the dancing is incredible,” Satine says, trying to get him back on topic of opening night.

[cornerstoreclown]

His Blessing

Summary: This is a short one-shot ( 3454 words approx. ) where the reader has convinced Art to roleplay a hostage situation with them where they get to be one of his victims. Don’t worry, the reader comes out of this fic fine! I genuinely promise, I would tell y’all if otherwise. The reader is gender neutral and has a vulva. The reader is not specifically mentioned to have breasts either, so that’s up for the reader to decide what their chest looks like. 

Content and Warnings: Consensual rough sexual activities, some light BDSM, vaginal fingering, biting, marking, some slight blood, hair pulling, knife play mention, mention of guns and the standard Art paraphernalia, corruption of the reader’s mind, slight transformation (?) that’s more along the line of new abilities of the reader during their descent to whatever Art is making of them. Art’s gift, as it were. Being his ‘favorite’ comes with benefits, after all! 

Author’s notes: This was VERY hard for me to write but extremely indulgent. I struggled a lot, HAHA. I’ve written smut plenty a time, but doing it in a canon x reader fic is something I’ve done rarely. This one took so much time because of that. Anyway, I hope that those who are into this sort of thing, enjoy it! For those that are looking for more domestic stuff, stay tuned--I got you. 

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

“Safe word is red,” You tell Art, looking over your shoulder at the man who has just tied you up with metal chains to a chair. You don’t get a response, but you know he’s listening. Your hands are bound to the armrests, your ankles tied to the legs of the chair, thighs parted for him. He finishes the job with a gentle boop to your nose, and you feel butterflies in your stomach, before you feel a little bit of chills down your spine. The room was cold, and being in nothing but a tank top and shorts didn’t do you a whole lot of favors. 

However, given the circumstance, you anticipate that you’ll be warmed up in no time. 

Art barged his way into your life, and you willingly let him in. He kept you safe, and you gave him a home. You were his, and he was yours. You’re not sure at what point when you were together that you began to feel less and less like the you that you knew before the Miles County Clown, but whatever influence he’s placed upon you without your initial knowing, you like it. 

You were once shy, reserved. Now, he’s made you brave. He’s made you proud. You fear very little now. And for better or for worse, you’ve even found your mind a little twisted in the process, the thought of danger a thrill to you, and the very concept of others getting hurt a little… funny. People now notice how you look so much healthier, you seem happier, and that you’re far more charismatic than what you’d ever been. As of late, however, you’ve found yourself having a penchant for violence. The craving itches under your skin like a parasite, and hasn’t stopped since you first noticed it. It’s been driving your nuts, feeling like if you don’t act on it soon enough, you’ll go mad. 

You remember telling him about your feelings and those urges, and Art only looked surprised, but your familiarity with him allowed you to see past that response–he was pretending like he didn’t know what you were referring to. Whatever he was doing to you, he was aware of it, and you were too. And yet, you didn’t bother to slip away from it. The red string of fate that is wrapped around your soul is attached to his too, but he’s not ensnared in it like you are–no, he’s the one keeping you restrained in it and has the string between you both wrapped solely around his arm, pulling you along with him like it were a leash. 

The room is full of stained blood splatters at various locations that range anywhere from the ceiling, to the floors, and the walls. The chair you’re sitting on is also stained, and you’re not at all bothered by any of it. You’re not sure if Art had actually killed someone in here, if it was like this before he got here, or if the blood was his own–it was hard to say. He was pretty notorious for bleeding out and taking damage from time to time when wrangling someone. You’ve even tended to some of his wounds before in the past. What you do know is that the place smells a little musty, and there’s one light source, which is the single swaying lamp from the ceiling at the center of the room. Art has a workbench here full of improvised weapons behind you that you saw when you walked in. Things such as forks, glass bottles, scissors, screwdrivers, a hacksaw, an ice ax, pliers, some dental tools–it’s really a mix all out on the table and you didn’t have the slightest negative reaction when you saw it. In fact, you felt a little tickle.

So many things to torment you with if he wanted, and you’re exposing yourself to him trusting him to not kill you with any of it. He’s inflicted pain on you before because you’ve asked for it, and even then, you knew he was showing self restraint during those times, waiting to see if you’d beg for him to stop, and you never did. He’d cut you, choke you, slap you, yank you by your hair, but all of it was wanted. It was something he was even happy to oblige you on.

Something along the way of all those times, there was a change to your body. Your wounds healed fast in the way that his would, and the sensation of pain in your brain transformed to pleasure. It had to be because of him, you reasoned. There was no other way, there couldn’t be. He was changing you, not just mentally, but physically. You don’t know how, but you do know you don’t care to know anymore, because it is what it is at this point. He’s molded you into the perfect toy, built you up from the ground up in such a way that any sensation of pain only fires off reward signals in your brain. You’ve been completely rewired.

Being tied up and at his mercy is what you wanted. You told him yourself that you wanted to be in his victims shoes, that you wanted to feel the way that they felt. This wasn’t something that you ever initially wanted and even once would be horrified to humor. But people were allowed to change, you told yourself. You were allowed to change. What’s wrong with a little consensual roleplay with a killer clown? Nothing like feeling like you’re walking on a tightrope at all times.

Art runs a hand across the side of your face as he lingers behind you and the chair you sit in. You lean into his touch, feeling yourself melt a little. For someone who could kill and maim so effortlessly, those same hands were capable of much kindness, but only reserved for you. Hands that could rip your jaw clean off the hinged joints, don’t. They only caress. 

With his other hand, you feel his fingers massage your scalp before they sharply ensnare your hair and yank your head back to look up at him. It’s then that you are forced to see him looking down at you and towering over you, and you admit—he looks a little intimidating and there’s not a glimmer of kindness on his face to be found for the role he’s playing. The tug hurts a little and draws a light huff of air out of you, but you’re fine. You’re great, actually! You feel the way that your lips are beginning to turn upwards, the muscles on your face aching with just how wide your smile is. He’s smiling at you in turn, and when your eyes meet in understanding, you feel a glow erupt from your core, enveloping you like a warm blanket. He was aware of his position to play, but to see that flicker of awareness only solidifies your trust. He’s gone this far to put this much work into you, why stop now? 

Anticipation has your heart beginning to race and you sigh, desperate to get more air into your lungs to keep up with your body’s demand for oxygen.

Despite all these tools he has around him, you noticed earlier that he has none in hand. He could have used the knife on you again, he could have made you fellatiate a gun like last time. He could have pulled out a saw like that one night when he tried to frighten you. It’s during this smile of his that you realize that the choice of weapon tonight is not anything handheld, but instead part of him–his mouth. He bares his teeth behind those curled up lips like a hungry lion, and how fitting when you’re easy prey, having nowhere to run as you’re bound up like a little present for his consumption. His jaw is strong, capable of tearing through bone and sinew, and yet it only further riles you up. 

“I love you,” You tell him, and you mean it. You do. He knows you mean it, too. He enjoys the way that you adore him, and the way that your will bends so easily to him and your submission to him. You were at his mercy at all times. You’re alive because he decided to keep you alive. Every breath you took, it was because he let you. Even when the both of you were far apart, you felt him in you. His presence. His essence, implanted in the deepest depths of your being, growing and flourishing like an invasive vine feasting on the endless affection you held for him, strangling out any potential of who you could be without him. It’s gotten to the point where the thought of a life without him doesn’t even occur to you anymore. 

Art lets go of your hair and makes his way near your side now, bending down as he seizes your face by your jaw, meeting you at your level. It happens too fast, and you don’t have much time to react when he comes close. You barely have time to register that his lips are pressing to yours, but when you do, your stomach flips. You feel his tongue trying to pry its way in your mouth, and you let it happen, eyes screwing shut tightly and exhaling heavily through your nostrils as the familiar taste of his bitterness registers upon your tastebuds. It’s not terrible, surprisingly, and you’ve learned to crave it. To crave him.

His kisses are always intoxicating, and with each one, you feel as if a part of you is being sucked away. And maybe it is. He’s forceful against you during, pushing against you so hard that your head goes back a bit. You taste iron before you feel it—pain doesn’t have time to settle as pleasure takes over and you realize that the clown bit your tongue. It’s not a lot of blood, but enough that it floods the space between your kisses together and flavors the exchange. He’s sloppy when he kisses, and each time you try to pull back, he follows in such a passionate way that you think he’s almost trying to eat you. When he does finally back away, you innately know that your lips are stained red with your own blood. 

Your eyes meet his again when he pulls back, and there’s no sign of anything that indicates that he’s got much thought behind them beyond the calls of carnal desire, ravenous hunger, or brutal violence. 

You think it’s all three right now. At least, until he went for your neck.

“Art–!!” You only manage to get out his name, gasping as he drags the top row of his teeth across your throat, yanking your head back by your hair again, this time to expose your jugular to him proper. He gives a nip, then a suck and a kiss. Your hands ball into fists as you stare at the ceiling and the various blood spatters. It’s the only thing you COULD do. 

He’s marking you, and you can’t do a single damn thing about it. You can feel that where he’s doing it, that cheeky bastard is kissing and licking and sucking the spaces on your neck that’ll be hard to cover up if you don’t use something like a scarf or a turtleneck. Your eyes shut tightly again as you feel his other hand traveling down your bare shoulder, leaving a trail of fire that has your body temperature rising. You’re a whining and pathetic, whimpering mess, and you can’t do a damn thing. 

It didn’t take much to stimulate you, not when it came to Art. He had a way with you, a familiarity with your body that made you ache and yearn for him. He knew what you liked, what you didn’t, knew how to unravel you from the inside out like it was a game, because it was. This was a game, for now, until he decided it wouldn’t be. And you’d hope he’d never have a second thought otherwise. 

The way that his nails drag across your chest, where he could rip out your rapidly beating heart from your chest cavity and devour it whole, it bothers you not. It doesn’t bother you at the notion of how his hand is sliding down to your stomach, that he can rip and yank out your intestines to spill across the floor in front of you. Your eyes shoot open amid the kisses and nips at your neck when you recognize that his hand is slipping into your pants. He’s gone past your undergarments and settled that hand of his right between your thighs, with his middle finger teasingly tapping at your clit. 

You inhale sharply, face twisting as you lurch back in your seat, squirming as he keeps your head in place by your hair. His kisses are trailing down from your neck to your collarbone. Art bites there too, and it stings before it feels awash with the buzz of pleasure that endorphins provide you. He’s dragging it out, testing your patience while he’s sliding his fingers up and down between your thighs when you just want him to get straight to the point and fill you with him, whether it be his dick or his fingers. You ache, you feel empty without him, and he’s got you gritting your teeth, nails digging crescent shapes into your palm from your clenched fists.  

The clown drags his tongue back up your neck, causing you to shiver as the hair on your arms and the back of your neck stand up. Your face twists into something ugly when that hand of his between your thighs presses against you, palm against your clit and his fingers dangerously close to penetrating you. Instead of following through on that, he forces you to grind into his hand, and you do, desperately. 

The heat between your legs only grows, his touch stoking the fire. You know you’re soaking his fingers–you can feel it. When he lets go of your hair once more and you have control again, you move your neck to get a look at him. 

The moment you make eye contact is the moment that he inserts a finger in you. Your jaw drops and you gasp loudly. 

He wanted to see your face the instant that he slipped in, and he’s not disappointed, going so far as to part his lips in the way that you are now, a reflection for you to see of how your own expression appears, like a mirror. Only, he eventually gives you an amused and twisted smile.

“Art…” You get his name out a second time, but once he’s got you set, he’s back at your neck again like some sort of goddamn vampire. This time you expose your throat to him in devoted submission, offering him the opportunity to rip your trachea straight out of you between his teeth if he wanted. Instead, he bites and sucks again. Your neck is going to be so bruised up after all this, you think. He wanted people to know you were his, and his alone. He’s made that quite clear, and that’s not a fact he’s shied away from in the past with you. Hickeys are nothing compared to literal murder he’s done for you as a means of showing those feelings. 

One finger turns to two after a few thrusts, and he stretches you out so good with both fingers. He makes a scissoring motion with his index and middle, taking the time to prepare you for the third one. 

You can only moan.

He’s even taking his time with the pacing, putting his whole hand into it as his fingers move in and out in such a way that, while still satisfying, you wish he’d go faster. You’re not chasing your release–he’s bringing it to you, building you up in such a sickeningly sweet and leisurely way that’s torture, and it’s plain to see on your face. No amount of improvised weapons could make you look as agonized as you are when the eventual third finger goes in and he’s got you whimpering and shaking. The only noise that’s heard in this otherwise silent space is you, the rattling of your metal chains keeping you stuck to this chair, and the sounds of Art’s fingers sliding in and out of you. 

His easy pace begins to transition into a faster one, and you feel the shift that would otherwise have your legs shut if they weren’t forcibly chained open. 

“Fuck…” You whimper. 

The sound of his hand smacking into your thighs is loud, to the point where it’s eventually the only thing in your ears you can really register, and you’re sure it’s the same for him too. 

Your climax is close, and you feel it rising inside you like an ocean tide. Art’s kissing your shoulder again, but you're too lost in the tingling between your legs. It’s hard to think right now—he’s since gone from pulling you up the mountain to pushing you right to the ledge, and now he fully intends on shoving you off.  

You feel your muscles tighten and your toes curl, your breaths becoming sharp as your lips part, jaw slack. He can feel it coming, he can feel the way that your thighs and muscles clench and your body begins to tense up.

You feel as if your soul is about to separate from your body, until there’s a slight jolt of pain, right in the middle space between your shoulder and neck. Warmth and endorphins flood to the source as your eyes open and your head turns, where you see that Art is biting you. 

It’s too late, not even those jaws could seize your soul to put it back into your body as your orgasm wracks throughout you, the initial pain that’s since transformed into pleasure working in tandem with his fingers between your thighs. He did it on purpose, waiting for the perfect moment, and it worked.

Your eyes shut again and behind your lids are fireworks, a collage of colors all at once, and then there’s nothing. You feel light as a feather, and then the steady decline as you feel yourself weighed down by gravity again. It’s enough all at once for your head to slump. 

You need a minute or two to recover. And Art gives it to you. He’s at least that merciful.

As you regain yourself again, you feel his fingers slip out of you, leaving you empty, but satisfied, and when you finally lift your head, he’s licking his fingers, tongue curling around his digits, reveling in the taste of you. He’s looking rather shameless about it too, sucking his fingers like he’s just handled the best dessert. You even see that your blood is on his lips, smeared down his white chin. The muscle between your shoulder and neck has a distinct marking of where his teeth were, along with the unmistakable crimson smudges that you know is your drying blood. The wound is already clotted, impressively enough, your skin is well on its way to knitting itself back to pristine condition as if nothing had ever happened to begin with. In three days tops, it’ll be gone. Pretty impressive, actually.

You can tell he’s smug, even though it might not be direct. It’s there. You know it is. It makes you huff another laugh. You’re not in any pain. You’re fine, fit as a fiddle. 

You have his blessing, after all. 

“Shit,” You mumble, just above a whisper. “That was good. Can you free me?” 

When you expect that he’d oblige your request, Art has a glint in his eye, with a smile to follow through. You thought you were done, but it’s clear you’re not. Your stomach flips again in delight.

He instead heads somewhere out of view behind you, presumably to his bench, but you don’t really know. Was he finally getting the knife out? Was he going to try and scare you? You’re not sure, but you’re ready for anything. He’s trained you well. 

No need to worry about strapping yourself in for the ride, you’re pretty secure as is right now, aren’t you? 

“Remember, the safe word is red,” You remind him, glancing over your shoulder. 

His back is to you when you look behind you. He’s fiddling with something purposefully hidden from your view, but he does give you a glance, and an understanding nod. He knows. 

You look forward again, face turned away from him, and smile to yourself.

The fun was just getting started. 

[rainbowsandwhumperflies]

tw for vomit and tooth whump

Apparently your teeth are kinda easy to erode? If you've never heard of "mountain dew teeth" it's when you drink too much mountain dew and even if you brush teeth really well, your teeth just start wearing away.

Anyway, this can also happen if you have bad acid reflux, or if you vomit a lot. This is because your stomach acid is pretty acidic and will literally wear away your bones if it comes up too much. (mt dew is also pretty acidic, and more common)

So yeah. Does your whumpee get access to the right quality of food? (Different types of food can affect acid reflux a lot. Frequent vomiting is a whole other problem.) And the right quality of dental care?

[alicent-archive]

I’m beginning to write a fic that works as a character analysis and as an exploration of Targ dynamics before the dance, as of now it’s called ‘the family eats the family.’

This was inspired by a convo (?) I had with @rosewaffles a while ago when they reposted my thoughts and added their own about the lack of Aegon and Rhaenyra interactions in the series; since that happened my thoughts have not Been Normal about this crazy dragon family and rabid brainrot has ensued.

Anyway, as a taster of what I’m attempting to write, here is the intro of the fic as of now:

To be a Targaryen is to be inherently lonely. Your family is most likely to devour you; you know this, now live with it.

(The boy is killed by his uncle and eaten by his dragon, and to be a Targaryen is to be a kinslayer, and if you do not want to be devoured you must devour; fire & blood & dragons & kin and an eye for a dragon and a son for a son and around and around the cycle continues, and perhaps Targaryens are indeed Gods reborn but they have been reborn Wrong.)

So yeah…*runs*

[egginfroggin]

Wouldn't it be fun if Emmet wound up staying in Hisui for a few years longer than he did in WtST, and then went home with Akari and Rei in tow only for an angry Legendary to interfere with their space-time hop, rip them apart from each other, and have them all end up in different areas of Unova?

And Unova is frozen because the World's Best Worst Parent Figure, Ghetsis Harmonia, actually managed to take the region and went full snowblower on it with Kyurem?

And Ingo is just trying to help people get out of the region or shelter them in the tunnels -- and also not just collapse from exhaustion because he's working himself to the bone trying to keep hidden but still do things -- when this weirdly-dressed girl falls out of thin air, calls him a Zoroark, beans him in the face with a Pokeball, and falls over?

Yeah, doesn't that sound fun?

Also I want Kyurem to get body-checked by Emmet's absolute unit of a Garchomp. Just for fun.

[that-was-anticlimactic]

giving you something to lean on

“Ritsu-kun?”

Still, nothing. He was definitely worried now. As much as Ritsu may dislike him, he was still always polite and wouldn’t just blatantly ignore him like this. Maybe he was sick or something? Arataka craned his neck, scanning him for possible injuries.

And that’s when he noticed the blood.

“Holy crap! Ritsu, you’re bleeding!” he exclaimed, fumbling out of his seat and running to him. It looked even worse up close. Blood coated both his hands like a second skin, and speaking of skin, his looked pretty torn up.

No response.

Now that he was closer, Arataka could hear his very quiet, almost sporadic breathing. Shoot. Something was really wrong.

[or, ritsu is stressed & can't stop scratching, so he goes to reigen for help]

🍃7,241 words | platonic ritsu & reigen🍃

s/o to @cowgirlwizard for helping me out whenever i got stuck <3

[trans-xianxian]

in high school I would write little poems after almost every therapy appointment about what I talked about in them and I have them all in a google doc and reading through them I'm like damn. he doesn't even know that cql is going to kill him

[whirling-fangs]

[[ powerup found dead on the floor cause of death aneurysm :(

I have a job interview tomorrow and i'm a nervous wreck hahaha. hopefully after that's over I can relax a little and finally write again. thank you everyone for your patience i really hope I'll find the motivation again ♥ ]]

[hollowisthyname]

ocean o'connell rosenberg has verbal shutdowns . she doesn't like telling people- feels like it doesn't fit her whole "in charge of everything all the time" vibe , and she hates being seen as weak- but sometimes the world is just too much , even for the most ambitious girl in town .

the first person who realized was constance , of course . before even ocean knew what was happening , constance had noticed her struggling to get words out and mentioned it one time when ocean's voice just wouldn't cooperate . and after a few , painful hours of coaxing to convince a still-unable-to-speak ocean into slowly , slowly being able believe that this wasn't a weakness or a personal failure on her part , ocean finally had someone she could trust to help her when she needed it .

from that point forward , constance began to speak for ocean when she couldn't , covering for her whenever she was around people who she didn't want to notice anything strange (which was , perhaps unsurprisingly , everyone except constance) . she would memorize ocean's speeches so she could step in at a moment's notice if she had to , and take over for ocean when they were talking in a group or find her a way out of there . the choir noticed the change in the normally-quiet constance , of course , but they didn't think too much of it- those two had always been a finish-each-other's-sentences kind of pair . they thought it was kind of nice that constance was speaking up more .

they started learning sign language together so they could communicate better when ocean wasn't speaking- bff telepathy only goes so far , and games of charades took too long and just made ocean feel embarrassed . and consequentially , when ricky joined the choir , they were the only ones that he could really talk to . maybe the only ones in the entire school- saint cassian's was not known for its inclusivity . ocean responding a question he signed was how he got into the choir in the first place- she was the first person who had responded with anything other than blank stares or "stop waving your hands around , you'll hit someone" , let alone actually understood and could sign back . he desperately needed someone he could talk to , and so the choir got a new member .

the already-multilingual mischa picked up sign quickly as soon as he understood how it worked , and though noel wasn't quite as skilled at languages with the help of the choir he was learning at a steady pace . constance's not-so-subtle hints for ocean to tell the rest of the choir about her fluctuating verbality when asked how the two of them already knew so much sign were resolutely ignored , ocean blurting out something about a languages club she'd dragged constance to last year before rushing out of the room with a mumbled excuse that even constance couldn't make out .

ricky was the second to notice . being the only member of the choir who couldn't sing , he had a lot more downtime to observe the others . more time to notice the concealed signs to constance that she repeated , the subtle questions from constance to ocean if she was alright to keep going , the way ocean's voice sometimes got shaky and strained before she stopped talking altogether and constance stepped in , and he began to put the pieces together . one day after rehearsal he just .... asked , if she was sometimes like him , not able to talk ? and he comforted her the best he could when tears welled up in her eyes and she just sobbed , out of relief and fear and all the emotions that come with someone finding out the secret that you keep closest to your chest , when that someone is like you in a way that no one has ever been like you before , when you didn't even know anyone else could be like you . ocean and ricky walked home together that day , signing rapidly at first about all the shit that comes with not being able to talk that neither ricky nor ocean had even been able to talk about , and eventually about .... anything , really , as long as it was with each other .

and then there was penny . penny the enigma , the one none of them could quite figure out . she had the most beautiful , haunting voice when she sang , yet outside the songs she hardly talked at all , mostly repeating things the others had said back to them . sweet penny , unsure of what to do to make the choir members happy but trying hard with her strange facts and offers of hugs and the dolly she always carried around because that's what always comforted her . watchful penny , paying attention to everything and everyone not in a malicious way , she's just so curious . intuitive penny , able to make connections that no one else would . penny was the third .

"you're not talking today ." it was a statement of fact , not a question or an accusation . still , it froze ocean in her tracks , not least because the room had appeared to be empty just seconds before . in the few days since penny had joined the choir , ocean had gotten used to her popping up seemingly out of nowhere- disappearing was a talent of hers , it seemed . casually pointing out things that people tried very hard to hide was a new one , though if ocean stopped to think about it , not entirely surprising . ocean was not , however , thinking about the many talents of penny lamb . her thoughts were rapidly spiraling down the path of no no no she's going to tell everyone , the choir leader has to be able to speak they're going to kick me out and no one will ever respect me again , who even does this why am i like this how did she figure it out- she felt two stiff , but not unkind hands touch her own , jolting her out of her thoughts and gently removing her hands from where they were scratching grooves into her arms . she heard a sweet , melodic voice saying something- what was it saying ? "breathe . 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 ." ocean took a breath . she hadn't even realized she was hyperventilating . "hold . 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 ." she held it , feeling her heart rate begin to slow . "out . 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 ." as she exhaled , penny dropped her hands and stood back , seemingly unsure of what to do now that she had calmed ocean down . she just stared with those green , doe eyes of hers , head tilted to the side in worry and confusion , and ocean knew she couldn't leave without offering an explanation . so , slowly , unsure if penny would even be able to understand her , she began to sign . yeah . sometimes i .... can't . it's not all the time , i mean , obviously , and most people don't know , just constance and ricky and you too now and please please don't tell the others , i don't know how they'll react and i .... ocean took a shuddering breath , hands going down to her sides as she tried to work out what she wanted to say next , and i'm scared . i don't want them to treat me differently , or think i'm weak or fragile , or anything like that . i know i can't keep this from them forever , but i just .... i need to do it on my own time . i'm sorry , penny , you're the new one i'm supposed to be helping you not dragging you into my problems like this , i'll make it up to you i promise- i'll take you to the fair , it's fun there i'll show you all the best things- she shook her hands out abruptly , stopping her nervous rambling before she got too far off-track . anyway . i'm sorry . just , please don't tell them for me . promise you'll let me do it on my own . ocean lifted her eyes from her hands , looking at penny for the first time since she started explaining . she half-expected to see a blank , confused stare on the girl's face and have to write all of that down or force herself to speak it out loud . what she got instead was an expression halfway between sympathetic and amused , clear though penny's face never changed much . the softened eyes and barely quirked lip gave it away , things you would never notice unless you were looking closely . and ocean was , because she had to know what penny was thinking and feeling . for her standing with the choir , but also with this girl , this strange girl she'd only known a few days and yet knew more about her than almost anyone else in her life . this girl looking at her with such warmth in her eyes , and before ocean could start to think about what that might mean , penny lifted her hands and signed two words . i promise . and then ocean was enveloped in a warm , tight hug , and released so quickly that she was still processing it when she realized penny was nowhere to be seen .

she told them the next day , because ocean o'connell rosenberg does nothing in halves . when she glanced over at constance , ricky , and penny during her announcement , they were looking at her like they were more proud than they'd ever been and she nearly broke down crying . noel lamented his lack of proficiency in sign language and promised to double down on it , for both ricky's and her sake . mischa congratulated her on being able to be vulnerable with the group . by the time she was done , she was definitely crying .

being overwhelmed with acceptance was a new feeling for ocean , who had never felt quite like she fit either in the commune with her parents or at saint cassian's . she'd tried so hard to mold herself into what she thought people wanted her to be , and it had never worked . but now , telling the choir something about herself that she had tried to hide for so long for fear of rejection and being met with nothing but acceptance and love ..... ocean finally realized she didn't have to do that anymore . here , here were people who cared about her for who she was , not how well she could conform to their beliefs or do something for them . she finally had people she could trust . she finally had a family .

she didn't remember falling asleep after collapsing into sobs , but she woke up surrounded by the rest of the choir , everyone piled on top of each other , all fast asleep . she shook her head , fondly exasperated , and fell back asleep to the low , soft breathing of the choir .

ocean walking into a rehearsal , interrupting whatever's going on with two loud claps , and immediately launching into one of her signature speeches in sign is a normal occurrence now . so is her sitting in the back with penny , the two quietly taking in everything around them and calming down from how overwhelming the world can be . ocean's still the leader , certainly , but she has less of a need to have everything in a chokehold all the time . they're all .... really happy . things go wrong , as they always do , but they help each other through it . because they're family , and they care about each other more than anything in the world .

[bueris]

"media is open to multiple interpretations" yeah but if I don't get my specific interpretation right (in the eyes of others) in my fanfiction I will be struck down by god.....