#some patterns are better than the rest and some are ugly

[dreamyprinx]

here’s my like best attempt at finding a way to like show off the patterns I made without having to actually draw anything new, I’ll probs try and actually make something later but for now this is the best we are getting.

✧ reblogs are appreciated ✧ | ♡ buy me a kofi ♡ | ☾ commission info ☽

[inknopewetrust]

𝔉𝔬𝔬𝔱𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔭𝔰 𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔖𝔱𝔞𝔦𝔯𝔰

summary: in the blistering summer evening heat, you and felix play a little game. [felix x fem reader. WC: 2.6k]

warnings: smut. minors dni (18+ only). p in v, fingering (fem receiving), saltburn bathtub, slight voyeurism, dirty, dirty talk, some degrading language, not the dirtiest thing but still like… kinda hot?

Though the sun had set long before, the lingering scorch of the sun sat like a film on your skin. Its thin veil dry and aching to shrivel against the boiling water of the tub. You felt the sticky nature disappear under the trails of steam that painted the surface of the water.

A bead of sweat pebbled from your temple to cheek to chin to neck.

But you lit a cigarette anyway. And if you listened close enough, you could hear the crackle.

A blistering bud sizzles; the porcelain was drawing cool waves against the skin of your arms and for once, in the vast nothingness of the bathroom, the heat that rose from its surface made the ghosts vanish.

It made them disappear in house once home to Kings.

Now, as it boiled under the night sky, it was home to something other. It had bled itself into the walls and the ghosts wished to witness not the haggard scrounging of wealth that festered within.

But you imagined Henry the Eighth liked to stare as you bathed. They all did. Felix had told you that once a few summers ago.

How they all wanted to touch you in the ways that he did. How they wanted to whisper in your ear that they were better than him. No one truly was and it kept you crawling back with the poor souls who got sucked into a heated whirlpool of pity each and every summer.

Nevertheless, you envisioned Henry in the corner itching to touch.

They all trembled to flutter their hands onto your skin, onto your breasts, squeezing pieces of you dipped below the waterline.

If his ghost could smile, Henry’s ghastly teeth gleamed.

‘Fuck off, Henry,’ you saw the paunchy apparition lounging in the chair in the corner with a bead of sweat dribbling from his own temple.

Oh, envy, King Henry.

A bit of ash fell onto the tiles below.

“You’re making a mess of it.”

You tapped the cig on the side of the tub as another bit of ash wilted to the cold floor.

Felix hummed.

Stocky Henry vanished. If you gazed toward him, Felix’s eyes bore deep. Heavy and brooding, downcast at a peak of what existed beyond the bubbled suds.

Dinner had long passed. Everyone was supposed to be in bed.

He could feel you in inches. The soft skin of your back, the plush thighs that laid between his own. A hand of his traced over the skin of your collarbone gently as the ash continued to drift.

You were nearly on fire. In the swelter of the stone walls and the patterns of the paper before him, you glowed in a red sweat.

“You’re letting it die.”

“I was thinking,” you murmured.

“About what?”

“King Henry.”

“King Henry?” Felix’s voice peaked. His head leaned to rest on your shoulder, his smile leaving a trail as it grew. His nose drew a delicate line on your dampened skin.

You liked Felix in this way. So quiet and removed. But Saltburn always kept pace in the background.

“Yes, King Henry,” his hand glided along your own, gently taking hold of the cigarette and placing it between his lips.

The smoke of the puff rose high into the air beside you. It’s curls twisted like your insides aching for a touch too far but never too close.

“I like to imagine them sitting… staring at us now.”

“Now?” Felix questioned. “So erotic in an ugly tub. I can see him now,” he pointed to the corner of the room, “he just popped one. Can’t you see it? In his trousers there.”

You grinned. Your laugh filled his chest with a shuddering life. So fulfilled and free yet trapped in this same world as he.

And he was never far away. Here, in Saltburn, always waiting in the same shadows for the opportunity to strike while the others weren’t around. No sister or friends or parents or mewling poor fighting for his attention. They were retired for the evening; all snuggled in beds with curtains drawn and fantasy dancing in their heads.

“He isn’t the only one.”

You tipped your head to the side. The profile of your face meeting his forehead as he dipped his own downwards. The cigarette still burning from his fingertips. It was a mere bud now.

You could feel what waited for you on your lower back.

“I can feel that, you know?” You feigned an innocence he liked. Keen and blatant, but cunning with sin.

“Is it Henry that makes you feel that why?” You whispered, lips ghosting his chin.

Felix breathed in deeply. The same chest that shuddered with joy in anticipation.

Every summer.

The excitement would stir within his bones as the gates would open wide and beside his family would be the one steady thing he had everything to give.

“I hope,” Felix hushed, “for your own sake that’s not the fucking case.”

“So it’s me?”

Felix groaned as you pushed against him. The gentle pressure of your body arching into him without a touch, he begged to put his hands on you.

The cigarette fell to the floor in its end.

Felix took his hand and turned your head back to face him with a firm grip on your jaw. The water around you sloshed. It cleared the bubbles from your chest.

“I want to play a game,” he suggested in a dusty, breathless tone. “Want to play, darling?”

“Can I win?” You suggested. His hand loosened, letting the fingers dance along the column of your neck before beckoning up toward your mouth once more.

His index finger traced the outline of your lips. In a slow glide, Felix pulled your lower lip out slightly, gathering the wetness with his finger before inching it back to the space where your lips had parted.

You kissed his finger with your tongue as it found purchase in the suction of your mouth. The plushness of your tongue, the slight drag of your teeth as it emerged from between your lips.

“I don’t want to play if I can’t win, Felix,” you whispered.

His eyes now hooded with a thick want. He watched his finger redraw the lines of your lips again as you begged with doe eyes to win. A near child’s play of a woman’s ability to seduce.

“You can win,” Felix huffed as his other hand snaked itself from the edge of the tub to your torso under the water. “But I’ll need you to be quiet. We have guests and as much as I do love our dear, sweat guests, I can’t have them imagining the way I fuck you, can I?”

“No,” you relished in the way his hand returned to the base of your throat and squeezed with the slightest amusement. “I’ll be quiet.”

“Good,” Felix smiled at you. Your heart squeezed in the same way your cunt ached for his fingers to gather the strength to follow through.

“What do I win?”

“Whatever the fuck you want. You just have to be quiet.”

You smiled deviously that the thought.

“I can’t see how we’d be able to look a boy like Ollie in the eyes if he heard the sounds that come out of your mouth.”

His hand swooped past your center and to your leg, drawing one over his own which sat you straighter in his hold. You felt his cock jump at the pressure of you pushing on him. Felix flitted his finger tips from your knee to waist, switching hands to bring his wet palm to your breast while the other perched your opposite leg over his other.

The pebbled nipple was taut as he kneaded the skin in circles. He pressed down hard, pulling up on your nipple to elicit the sounds he wanted so badly to hear but knew you’d repress.

You were like him in many ways. He too wanted to win a game of control.

With you in his hands like a play of putty, he felt in control but with one hand on the wheel.

As he palmed your breast, his hand gripped your thigh. His mouth traced a pattern of hot breath along your neck as his tongue relished the salty sweat that had gathered at its leisure. The goosebumps that rose from your skin welcomed his breath kindly.

“I want this house to ourselves,” Felix moaned. “So we don’t have to be quiet.”

“Tell me what you’d do,” you asked him, placing your hand over his own and bringing his fingers to you. He cupped your heat as you groaned, guiding him back and forth to gather the wetness he could feel different from the water of the tub.

“Tell me what you’d do to me.” You spoke faintly. “Tell me and I’ll be quiet.”

You guided one of Felix’s fingers in you as he shushed the sounds that threatened to speak themselves into existence.

He put his lips on your ear as he began to pump his fingers in and out of you with a slow glide. So plush and tight, he thought to himself. It sucked him in and dared not to spit him out.

“I would fuck you on the floor,” he breathed out against your cheek. “I’d spread you wide and taste your sweet pussy as the sun bathes the floor. And when I’m done, we go to the pool-“

Felix pulled out his finger, tracking it along your folds before going in with two. You arched against his back, drawing up as he pulled you back down and rested his hand on your waist.

You curled the toes of your right foot down the edge of the tub.

“-we’d go to the pool and sit out in the sun. You’d give me head in one of the chairs and I’d paint your fucking face with my cum.”

You clenched around his fingers. His thumb pressed into your clit, another jolt aching to send you squirming but he held you down as he patterned circles on the gentle flesh.

“You like that, don’t you?” He breathed in the smell of you. “And maybe we’d go for a walk through the maze after dinner. I’d fuck you in the center and you could scream as loud as you fucking want. No one could get to us. No one would hear us.”

“F-F-“

“No, no, no, shh,” Felix shushed. “Good girls only win by being quiet, yeah?”

You nodded, clenching onto his fingers again as a strangled ‘fuck’ tumbled out of his lips. He could imagine the coil building. Felix wasn’t going to let you finish alone.

Felix pulled his fingers from you and felt the disappointment in the wither of your body.

“But I don’t want to imagine what’d I’d do if we were alone,” Felix blanked. “Turn around.”

As the water sloshed around you, you turned to wrap your arms around his neck. Like you, Felix had sweat beading from his jaw that glimmered in the red light of the bathroom. He looked intoxicated, entranced but in control of what he could.

“I want to see you ride me like the fucking whore you are.”

You weren’t a whore. But for Felix, you could be anything.

At the nape of his neck, you gripped the back of his hair and drew his head back as your other hand gripped him under the water.

Hard and lengthy, his cock was a welcome intrusion every time. You pumped him in your hand slowly. The sounds of water creating currents was soothing against the sounds of your battered breaths kissing his own. You lifted yourself on your knees, leaning against Felix as he squeezed your ass tightly, watching as you lowered yourself onto him under the water. Slender and veined, your cunt molded to him like art. You both would never tire of the feeling so profound.

It would never be like this with anyone else.

Loose pants left his lips as you sat completely full of him. A fit for a King in his own home, he supposed. Once you had settled with him inside, you moved above him.

The water moved languidly too. Meeting the fiery skin of two intoxicated minds too oblivious to see the peering eyes between the crack of a door.

“Right there, baby, right there,” Felix mumbled as you rose again and again, drawing him in and out as he stretched you with every swell and spur he could muster on his own.

“You’re such a good girl, darling. So good for me.”

You could peer down at him from above. Your breath fanning his face and lips but never seeking to truly kiss him as your hand tangled in his hair.

Bits of water spilled over the tub and splashed onto the floor. It soaked the ash tray and the speckles of ash and bud that littered the floor.

“Don’t stop baby. Don’t fucking stop,” Felix crooned in the room’s empty sounds. Only the pleasured sighs and gasping breaths filled the air.

You bounced on his cock with a measured pace. Each stroke of his manhood against your velvet walls lured him deeper into you, entangled with the missing links of a year gone by.

“Felix,” you broke the rules to whisper in his ear. He was taken away by the insatiable need of his rapture. He listened. He beckoned to your call.

“Tell me that you love me.”

From the shadows, Oliver Quick felt his blood run as hot as the sun. He loved Felix.

“I love you.”

Whom did not love him back.

“Tell me you need me.”

He was enamored by the idea of Felix.

“I need you.”

Who was enamored with the idea of Oliver.

“And what do you want from me?”

He was taken by the sight before him.

“I need you to cum, baby. I need you to fucking cum for me.”

Oliver was taken by the gleam of your skin. The way Felix’s throat bobbed as a strangled groan escaped his lips and the way your own melted onto his forehead in a silent struggle to come down from a high.

You placed both hands on his slender chest, careening like winged victory in a heated satisfaction.

Your fingers shook.

He had never seen a woman shake so elegantly before. The tremble of your lips as you breathed in shaking respite, the jolt of your shoulder blade as Felix ran a hand up your back.

Oliver licked his lips at the sight.

Felix lifted his head from its position against the tub. His eyes fluttered open as you pulled away in the slightest.

And Felix smiled.

You returned the grin with one of your own as his still sat erect inside of you. The bubbles of the tub had long ceased to exist and the water that was left was filled with the combined spent of you both.

“I don’t think I won that one,” you chuckled quietly, pushing hair out of Felix’s face before cupping his cheek in your hand.

“I’ll take pity on you, I guess.”

“The water’s gone cold.”

Felix kissed the inside of the palm of your hand. He cherished the high that lingered.

“The water’s gone cold,” he repeated. “But we could stay here forever.”

“Pruned and sweaty? Not a chance in fucking hell, Felix.” You laughed a bit too loudly. Oliver disappeared at the groan Felix let out as you pulled off of him.

You stood before him as the water dripped from every piece of you. Marbled and finite of the most precious carvings he only wished to hold forever.

As you exited the tub and the throb of him began to settle, you grabbed his linen shirt from the floor, draping it over you as it stuck to the wetness of your skin.

“The bed is just the slightest bit more comfortable.”

And you disappeared behind his doorway with call for more as the walls of Saltburn added another sordid story to add to it woven trims.

But it was never just the walls of Saltburn watching.

A/N: as always, the best gift of reading is likes AND reblogs and why not, we love comments too. Thank you for reading and feel free to check out my other works on my masterlist here. xo

[sturnioz]

‘AFTER A FIGHT’ — CHRIS & MATT REACTION.

⟶ reaction idea. their reaction to sleeping on the couch after a fight. requested? yes / no(✔)

genre. fluff & angst

☆ . . . chris !

you let out a frustrated huff, plumping the cushion behind your head as you try to get comfortable on the couch you've decided to spend the rest of the night on — anything to avoid being near chris and his attitude.

truthfully, you both share the blame. you and chris stubbornly refused to back down, letting a petty argument spiral until you could barely remember what started it all. but your pride won't let you accept that you're in the wrong too, not when giving in would mean admitting defeat.

so, you've exiled yourself to the living room, your jaw clenched as you fight the urge to march back to the bedroom and demanded the last word so you could sleep comfortably in a warm bed.

you grumble at your own foolishness, flinging an arm over your face as you sigh heavily, hoping to get some sleep. but you struggle to do so when you hear slow, deliberate footsteps approach, your heart pounding rapidly.

chris appears in your peripheral, face unreadable as he stands over you, a knitted blanket clutched tight in his hands.

for a long, agonising moment, you expect him to turn and leave. but then he's lowering himself down, the cushions dipping as he wedges his body next to yours, his arms encircling you with a gentleness that makes your throat tighten.

he buried his face in the curve of your neck, his breath warm against your skin as he exhales deeply.

"much better," he murmurs, and you can hear the unspoken apology laced between the words. "goodnight."

☆ . . . matt !

"i'm fuckin' tired. i'm done with this." matt's words still echo in your mind, scorching like a brand. the image of him grabbing his pillow and blanket to sleep on the couch instead of beside you is seared into your memory. in your head even after half an hour of the argument you had, the image of him collecting his pillow and spare blanket to go sleep in the living-room instead of sleeping beside you scorches your mind.

you and matt have been at each others throats for weeks, the smallest of things spiralling into bitter arguments. tonight's fight was no different — you coming over a little later than planned, matt's immediate interrogation the moment you walked through the bedroom door. the familiar pattern, the ugly cycle of accusations and hurt feelings, until matt finally threw up his hands and retreated.

you hate sleeping alone. even after your worst fights, matt would always climb back into bed with you, his warmth and the comfort of his embrace always making the situation simmer. but tonight, the comfort is absent, and the void it leaves behind is a physical ache.

restless, you decide to venture out to the living room, your steps tentative. an uncomfortable pang hits when you see matt curled up on the couch, one hand tucked behind his head with the other rests limply on his chest, rising and falling with each slow, even breath.

he looks so exhausted, and the unbearable guilt twists in your gut.

softly, you call his name, watching as his eyes peel open and he sits up. the sadness etched into the lines of his face makes your heart clench.

"do you.. do you think we argue too much?" the question you ask hangs heavy between you, your pulse pounding in your ears when he gives you a slow, reluctant nod, and you feel the ground shift beneath your feet. "maybe.. maybe we should—"

"i know," matt cuts in, his voice filled with defeat. his hand reaches out, fingers lacing with your as you step closer. "lets just.. forget for tonight, okay? lets just be together for one last night."

© sturnioz

[rainrot4me]

Better Than Him

Summary: Nina wanted nothing more than to impress Jeff. So, as her best friend, she sought your help on how to get his attention. But when a quick lesson on how to kiss turns intense quickly, you feel it's only right to prove to her she's worth more than him.

Characters: Nina the Killer x Female Reader

SMUT WARNING MINORS DNI

TW: Friends with benefits, humiliation, Jeff is a douchebag, inexperienced, teaching, vaginal grinding, tribbing, eating out, overstimulation, first time, revenge, mention of broken bones

Words: 4.3k

As a creep, you knew all too well the weird tendencies that the other members of the mansion had. 

Especially Nina. But she was your best friend, so of course you let her habits slide more than others. But as she lay in your lap, sobbing about how Jeff brushed her off again, you couldn’t help but roll your eyes. It was exhausting, truly. Her every waking thought and action seemed to revolve around the pale killer, but you could never understand why.

Jeff was ugly as shit, face all mangled and gnarly. His personality was a drainer to be around, always cussing you out or telling you how shit you were at something. But the worst thing about him was the constant stench of rot that came off of him, the aftermath of him murdering some helpless guy and never showering after. He wasn’t pleasant to you, but no guy in the mansion was. The only one you could stand was Jack, his quiet demeanor was his only saving quality.

You rubbed Nina’s back, cooing some bullshit about how he would come around eventually and how he didn’t deserve her. You honestly couldn’t care less about him, but it was anything to get Nina to hush. She finally sat up, holding your hands as her highlighted hair sat dishevelled on her forehead. “You have to help me.” She gasped out, eyes frantic as she gripped your hands tight, her neon press on nails digging into your skin. You stared at her, confused. “Help you how?” She smiled, her gapped teeth shining bright. 

“Jeff doesn’t pay any attention to me.” You knew that, obviously. “So, I have to impress him somehow. Like, with something he likes.” She grinned, waiting for you expectantly. You tried to wrack your brain of all the crap Jeff has mentioned liking before, but all you could think of was the porn magazines he hid not so well under his bed. You had found them by accident after Jeff stole your guns over some petty argument, that being the first place you thought to look but ending with an even bigger argument than before. It ended with you locked out of his room and his reputation amongst the other guys little to none. But at least you found an answer.

“Listen, Nina, I don’t thi-” She brushed her bangs from her face, eyes wide and pleading. “Oh please, I don’t care. Whatever Jeff likes I’ll be sure to like too.” You groaned, letting go of Nina’s hands and laying back on her bed, her dark room comforting you. Nina wasn’t at all the porn star type, especially not what Jeff was after. He was still mentally stumped as a horny teenager, so any girl wasn’t good enough unless her ass and tits stuck out farther than the rest of her two-inch waist. It was sick, but you knew Nina wasn’t at all what he was going for. The crazy don’t go for even crazier. Nina was just out of cards. You grumbled.

“Jeff is a pervert, alright? Like… only goes after girls that look like supermodels type shit.” You groaned, refusing to look her in the face. The silence was awkward, you only glanced up to see her lost in thought, that same look she got every time she was contemplating something. “Nina-” But she was already up, already pulling her closet open and shuffling through her clothes. You sat up, trying to get a look at what she was searching for before she pulled it out.

It was a tiny pleated skirt, black and leather that was way too tiny for your liking. She tugged down her patterned skirt, your eyes flicking towards the ceiling quickly to not stare as she stripped. When she stumbled over to her full-length mirror in the corner of her room, you glanced back down, cheeks flushing red. She turned in the mirror, getting good luck with the short shirt that barely even covered anything. Her ass was practically out, the miniskirt just centimeters away from showing her clothed cunt as well. Her panties were purple and pink striped, but you didn’t even have to guess. “Oh, this has to work.” She giggled, shaking her tiny ass teasingly as you shook your head, standing up to meet her. 

“Listen, Nina-” But she was already rushing towards the door, swinging it open as the skirt swayed against her pale skin. “I’m gonna go look for Jeff. Wish me luck!” Before you could say anything else she was out in the hallway, skipping down the stairs and out of view. Jeff was going to kill her if you didn’t first.

-

You heard the crying before you even saw her. It hadn’t even been an hour, but you groaned as you sat up on Nina’s bed, already knowing exactly what was coming. You stayed in her room, opting for the comforting space in case something like this did happen. 

Bursting through the door, Nina’s mascara-streaked cheeks were flushed from crying. She fell on top of your lap, you were quick to scoop her up and sit her comfortably against you as she cried into your shoulder. You knew it wasn’t going to work, but you were going to kill Jeff anyway. You rubbed her back, shushing her as she sobbed loudly, her tears soaking into your shirt and making you cringe. It was routine at this point. Nina would storm in crying, come up with some new hope as to how to impress Jeff, and then disappear before starting the whole cycle over. But this time, there were no questions of what she should do or pleas for compliments. She only lay there, face tucked into the crook of your neck and crying softly. You continued to rub her back, wondering what in the world had happened to make Nina, the most talkative girl you knew, stay silent. 

“Nina?” You cooed, pushing her shoulders back to get a look at her face. Her cheeks were flushed, mascara smudged against her eyes and running, her jagged smile anything but happy. “Wanna tell me what happened?” She wiped her eyes, unzipped her jacket and tossed it onto the floor before laying down on the bed, dragging you down to lay next to her. You held her close, the dark room giving a nice blanket of comfort around the two of you.

“Well,” She started, sniffling. “He liked it, I guess.” You were stunned honestly, turning to look at her face as she continued. “He was in the living room with the other guys, so I walked through, hoping I would catch his attention. It did, and he followed me down the hall, pushing me into the bathroom. I kind of panicked, so I asked him to stop. I pushed him off of me, but he kept grabbing me, trying to pull my panties down.” Your blood was boiling, hands already pressed against the couch and ready to storm downstairs and give Jeff a piece of your mind, but Nina held you close, keeping you down. “Eventually, I guess he got tired of me fighting and shoved me off. He told me I was an ugly… an ugly bitch and that I was lucky he didn’t embarrass me in front of everyone.” 

Nina went quiet, holding your waist close as she silently cried. You held her close, staring at the ceiling as anger raged inside of you. You knew Jeff was a prick, but to do this to her was uncalled for. You sat up, brushing Nina off as you stormed to the door, but Nina’s arms quickly wrapped around you, pulling you back to her bed. You groaned, glancing at her as she quietly begged you not to say anything. She didn’t want him more upset than he already was. You wanted to tell her off, but you guessed that was her fangirl talking. But against your better instinct, you sat back down, Nina quick to hold you close again. 

Her crying had subsided, small pitiful whines replacing them as she wiped her mascara. It was breaking your heart. “Nina. You have to understand that Jeff is a sick fuck. If you’re not willing to do whatever he says, you’re no good, alright?” You grumbled, rubbing her smeared eyeshadow off of her eyelid. “But you’re beautiful, gorgeous even. You can’t let a man who’s set in his dumbass ways dictate your feelings.” She nodded quietly, staring anywhere but into your worried eyes. You hoped your words had reached her, but as she sat up, determination in her face, you knew your hopes were already useless. 

“You’re right. Jeff isn’t going to like me if I don’t like what he likes.” You rolled your eyes hard, groaning into your hands. “I have to show him I can do it!” She was hopeless. But at least the girl had determination like nothing you ever saw. Nina turned to you, wrapping her hands around your shoulders, excitement in her eyes. “You have to teach me how to kiss.” 

You were taken back a second, eyes scanning her flushed face for any signs of some joke. But she was dead serious, smile wide and goofy and she held you stiff. “Nina, I-” But she was already pressing closer to you, crisscrossed knees pressed flush against yours. “Listen! You’re my best friend, [Y/N]. I need you to teach me how.” She was pleading, bright eyes begging you. This was becoming awkward, your weight shifting uncomfortably in her hands. But if you knew Nina, she wouldn’t stop, no matter how badly she needed to. 

“Fine.” You gritted, her smile lighting up. “But this is it. I’m done with your dumb Jeff fantasies.” You were stern, but it was the only way you knew she would listen. Nina nodded quickly, her body pressing close eagerly. In truth, you had fucked around with some relationships before becoming a full-fledged creep, but you were no expert in the sport. Nina, on the other hand, was completely clueless. As far as you knew, she was a stone-cold virgin, her obsession with Jeff giving her some fucked up chastity belt for the killer. You figured you would rather her go in somewhat familiar with the whole deal than get laughed out. 

You brushed your hair off your shoulders, focusing in on her as you spoke delicately. “Firstly, just follow me, or, Jeff, I guess. Don’t try to force anything, just let your lips glide with his. He’s probably going to be pretty rough, but I want you to just learn how to go slow first.” It was like teaching someone how to drive, except you were all nervous and hot. Nina didn’t seem fazed as she mentally jotted down what you were telling her, excitement running through her small frame. You smiled nervously, unsure how to initiate the whole thing. “So, I guess just… uhm…” You sat forward, eyes glancing nervously between Nina’s big eyes and her lip-glossed lips, wrapping your hands around her forearms. From this angle, it was almost impossible not to get a full shot of her panties from the tiny skirt she still wore. You blushed, focusing on her before leaning forward, her eyes flicking excitingly at your lips. “Just do what I do…” You mumbled, your lips inches from hers. 

When Nina pressed forward quickly, finally closing the distance, it shocked you. Your heart was pounding in your ears, fingers gripping her arms nervously as you began to slide your lips against her smooth ones. Her lipgloss tasted sweet, both of your eyes fluttering shut as you tried to slowly make out with her. Nina was pressing close, her lips moving just a little too eagerly for your pace, so you had to slow her down. Letting her arms go, you slid your hands on either side of her head, tangling your fingers in her dark hair and angling her head, guiding her lips to move against yours easily. She happily complied, her hands reaching up to cup yours as her lips followed yours nicely. You were making out eagerly, every brush of your lips more electric than you thought it was supposed to be. But you had little time to contemplate your confusion as Nina slid her arms around your neck and swung her leg over your thighs, straddling you as she refused to let off your lips. 

This was quickly spiralling out of control, but when Nina’s little breathy whines broke through every gap in your kissing, your resolve was beginning to melt. Your hands slid to her waist, her thin body pressed close onto yours. You were both breathing heavily, chests pressed against each other as you practically swallowed the other in heavy kisses. This was becoming too much for her, Nina’s whines growing louder as you peeked your eyes open, seeing her brows knitted roughly. You slid your hand against her cheek, pushing her back as you both caught your breath, lips swollen and cheeks red. “Uh-” You panted, quickly becoming aware of the position the two of you were in and growing anxious. Nina only smiled, scanning your face as she caught her breath, wiping her lips off her sweet lipgloss. “I think… I think I need one more example.” She giggled, eyes heavy as she leaned back in slowly. You nodded, unsure of what you were even thinking as you slipped your hand into the back of her hair, fisting it softly. Nina smiled back into the kiss, her lips dancing with yours comfortably. You were just helping her learn. So of course you needed to show her every possible scenario that Jeff was going to throw her way.

At least that’s what you told yourself as you gripped your hands under the thighs, flipping the two of you over and pressing her back into the bed. Nina giggled, her arms gripping your shoulders tight as you pressed against her lips hard, roughly tugging her bottom lip with your teeth. “Jeff’s… probably- ah, probably going to be rough. So you gotta… gotta be ready.” You panted against her lips, placing your arms on either side of her head as you nestled between her legs. She nodded, moving away from your lips to press her swollen lips against the corner of your mouth, pecking slowly down to your neck. You gasped, her sweet chaste kisses sending goosebumps against your skin. “Ah- Nina-”

“It’s okay,” She purred, placing her wet kiss under your chin. “I’m just trying to, ah, see what I should try on Jeff.” You couldn’t protest any logical answer as she slid her hands under your shirt, her cold fingers scratching gently and making you groan. “Yeah… yeah that makes sense…” You whined, Nina’s hands pulling your shirt over your head and tossing it to the side. She pushed your shoulders back, rolling you over so she was straddling your lap again, your back pressed against her bed. “Like, I wonder…” Nina’s face was red as she slid down, her lips pressing sweetly against your chest and down in between your tits. “Would Jeff like this?” You glanced down nervously as she palmed your bra, kneading your tits in her delicate hands. Your face exploded with heat, a small gasp falling from your lips as she pushed your bra up off your tits, letting the mounds fall exposed. You glanced at her nervously, unsure if you should draw a line. This wasn’t a learning experience anymore, this was a horny virgin finally getting to release herself. And who were you, as her best friend, to deny her that feeling?

You let yourself relax, reaching behind your back to unclip your bra and sliding it off your chest, Nina’s eager eyes watching closely. “I don’t know. Maybe try and see if he would…” You purred, Nina leaning down quickly to grip your tit, licking your nipple and sighing at the feeling of the nub on her tongue. “I think Jeff would be sensitive… I would like that…” She cooed, rolling your perky nipples between her cool fingers and purring as you squirmed. She watched you closely, her hips slowly beginning to grind down against your crotch as she took your right tit in her mouth, sucking lazily. You tangled your fingers in her smooth hair, tugging lightly as she sucked and nibbled on your already sensitive flesh. She groaned, brows furrowing as she fought to stay sucking on your tit like a kitten. It was overwhelming, your skin hot and flushed as you squirmed under her. 

When she finally popped off for air, you took your chance and pushed her up, smashing your lips back against her as you tugged on her hoodie, tugging the purple fabric over her head and smiling when she whined. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath, her bare skin and small tits exposed against her pale skin. You leaned forward, her hands pushing on your shoulders as you kissed her chest, pushing her back onto the sheets. Her dark room made her flushed skin look so pretty and supple under your kisses, her skin coming to life with goosebumps as you kissed down further. That stupid miniskirt was riding up, basically covering nothing as you tugged it down her thighs, tossing it to the floor as you spread her knees, her small whines making you blush. The purple and pink panties she wore matched nicely with her thigh-highs, her pale thighs shaking slightly as you smiled at her already evident arousal. “I think,” You cooed, unbuttoning your pants and sliding them down your legs, your dark panties contrasting nicely with hers. “Jeff would enjoy eating you out… Getting you ready before he fucked you…” You grinned, running your thumb along the wet spot on her panties and making her whine behind her hands. She nodded slowly though, letting your hands press her knees apart as you tugged her panties down, careful to keep her thigh-highs rolled up. Your heart was thumping as you nestled between her thighs, Nina’s already dripping cunt pink and cute, just like her. Your own arousal was pounding between your legs, but as a good friend, you had to put her first.

Rubbing your fingers against her clit, you leaned in, teasing her entrance with your tongue. She was already a squirming mess, back arching and knees clasping together as you licked against her folds, tasting her sweet arousal. You rubbed her clit slowly as you dipped your tongue past her entrance, chasing that addicting taste of her. Nina moaned out, her hands tangling in your hair and tugging as you curled against her walls. Her arousal gushed against your tongue, your own pants mixing with her moans as you ate her out eagerly. You couldn’t think straight, Nina’s breathy pleas to go faster making your head spin. It wasn’t long before you were gripping her thighs, nails digging into her pale skin as you tongue-fucked Nina quickly. You moved quickly between flicking your tongue against her sweet clit and dipping past her tight folds back into her warm walls. Her taste was heavenly, your eyes squeezed shut as you begged your tongue to press further, doing anything to hear her sweet moans ring in your head. 

Her hips were bucking, your tongue curling sharply against her tight walls until you felt her cry out, warm arousal rushing against your tongue. You chased her orgasm, lapping up every sweet flavor that danced on your tongue until she was gripping her thighs tightly around your head. You refused to let up, even when her walls clamped so tight you had to move to her clit, you still licked long stripes, relishing in the way her hips bucked against the sensitivity. “[Y/N]! God- please-” She begged, pulling against your hair desperately. But only when you felt like you had tasted every inch of her did you let up, panting heavily as she whined. You slid up her body, wrapping your arm around her waist as you pressed your lips against hers, shoving your tongue into her warm mouth and begging her to taste how sweet she was. “Taste… so good, Nina…” You whined, grinding your clothed cunt down against hers. 

Nina sucked on your tongue, swirling hers into your mouth and swapping spit. You were both groaning, hands rubbing against each other’s bodies until your cunt desperately begged against your panties. You raised up, Nina whining as you let off her mouth but smiling when she saw you sliding your panties off your thighs and onto the floor. “I think…” She panted, tugging you closer to her. “That Jeff would want, uh, a blowjob, right? I think it’s time he got a little rough…” She smiled nervously, tugging you to straddle her face. You smiled eagerly, nodding your approval as you positioned your knees on either side of her head, spreading your throbbing cunt with your fingers and watching as Nina blushed wildly. She was quick to wrap her arms around your thighs and pull you down, shoving her warm tongue against your cunt. You groaned, her tongue sliding against your clit and flicking gently. She tried desperately to mimic your actions, sliding her tongue against your folds before pressing into your entrance, moaning at your taste. Sighing, you sat down further, letting Nina’s tongue lap at your sensitive walls until you were grinding down lowly, hands resting against your thighs to keep yourself steady. Nina was kneading your ass, her nails scratching against your skin as she delved deeper, curling her tongue the best she could. It was heaven, your clit throbbing hard as she moaned against you. 

As much as you would have liked to let her eat you out some more, you needed to feel her, bad. All sense of what Jeff would’ve wanted to be damned, you needed to feel her yourself. Pulling off of her tongue, she whined, chasing your thighs before you laid back against the bed, gripping her arms to straddle your waist. “Need you, Nina… I mean, Jeff- Ah, whatever. I need to feel you.” You groaned, Nina’s heavy eyes watching you carefully as you spread your legs, pushing her hips back until your folds slid against each other. When your clits bumped, Nina moaned, her hands reaching down to grip your tits, rolling the mounds in her hands. You gripped her hips tightly, tugging her hips to rub her sensitive cunt against yours. “Fu- Fuck me… [Y/N], please…” She ground her hips down, riding your cunt easily. You leaned your head back, watching through hooded eyes as Nina pulsed her hips, your clits rubbing against each other roughly until you were both squirming. 

If you had a cock, you’d pound the poor girl, leaving her breathless. But as she stuttered her hips against your soaked cunt, you couldn’t help but push your legs apart further, pressing your hips up against hers. You tugged her hips up off of you, nails gripping her pale skin until you pushed them back down quickly, repeating until you were bounding her hips against yours. Your clits slammed together quickly, both of you crying out at the sensitive impact. You felt her arousal dripping from her cunt, her soaked folds pressing against yours. “Gonna fuck your cute little cunt with mine- Gonna, ah, make you cum way harder than Jeff’s dumb cock could.” You gritted out, every time you pulled her hips down you quickly ground up against her clit, making her cry out. Nina’s fingers fiddled with your nipples, her jaw hanging open as sweet moans spilt from her lips. “Oh, yes- fuck! Make me cum!” She whined, clit bouncing on yours roughly. She was panting hard, her small tits bouncing cutely as she rode your cunt, chasing her orgasm. “Yeah? Go on, Nina. Come on me, let me feel it. Let Jeff know how good it feels.” You coaxed her, teeth gritted as you held her hips down, sensitive nubs rubbing roughly against one another. 

Nina’s eyes rolled hard, her back arching sharply until she was crying out. You felt her warm arousal spill down onto your cunt, her loud moans and whines enough to push you over yourself. Stuttering your hips against hers, you held her tight, arousal crashing into you roughly. You both whined loudly, your grip guiding her hips to slowly grind down against your clit, chasing your orgasm. 

When Nina finally collapsed on top of you, you both breathed heavily, chests heaving as sweat dripped down your cheeks. Nina’s face was flushed and hot, her heavy eyes laying next to yours as you stared at her, admiring her fucked-out expression. You wrapped your arms around her waist, sliding her off of you and to your side, hugging her tightly against your waist. Finally catching your breath, you pressed small kisses against her cheeks, her skin hot under your lips. She smiled softly, heavy eyes evident of her tiredness. You brushed her bangs from her face, tucking her messy hair behind her ear as she snuggled in close to your side, breathing deeply. 

“Get some sleep.” You whispered, pulling the messy sheets over the two of you as your sweaty bodies pressed close. You rubbed her back, sighing as you watched her bright eyes close. Maybe Nina was a hopeless romantic. But as her friend, her best friend, you were always willing to put her first. No matter what. 

-

Nina wouldn’t realize that you had slipped out of bed hours later, her soft snores making you smile as you redressed yourself. She also wouldn’t realize until she woke that Jeff was screaming in agony a couple of yards from the mansion, arguing with you to let him go. 

But when he returned to the mansion with a couple of broken fingers and a black eye, she wouldn’t have to guess who did it.

This was an anonymous request!

Comments and reblogs are appreciated! 𐚁₊⊹

[punksocks]

Birthday Observations (Capricorn Placements)

*Just based on my observations, only take what resonates

(Today’s my birthday -woo- so I thought I’d put together some observations I’ve noticed about Capricorn placements)

-Capricorn in the big 6 (especially moon) are forced to grow up so fast. Usually, because they’re born to a family with some sort of immaturity in the adults. Because of this these placements usually have to reparent themselves at some point, and this can be why Capricorn placements tend to have more fun in their lives after 25-30

-Sometimes I feel like we forget that in old astrology Aquarius and Capricorn have the same ruler, Saturn. I believe this is why Capricorns can find themselves innovating or even find themselves being stand out loners

-Speaking of Saturn, Capricorn heavy people tend to have to break generational curses or they’ll end up victim to the same circumstances (but they can fall into the same patterns easily)

-Capricorns tend to have such a dry sense of humor because humor is how we cope with all the stress and madness. When things get more lighthearted (and when developed) Capricorns can be much less serious and heavy individuals

-Capricorn mercuries may struggle with expressing themselves in their youth, and even as they get older they may have a hard time opening up and sharing details about their thoughts.

-I think the constant theme with Capricorn placements is taking time and being very deliberate in their processes. Capricorn Asc tend to be a bit slow paced in how they act and react (not in a lacking way, just very deliberate). Capricorn suns grow into their identity and how to express it often after their early 20s, Capricorn moons need time an space to understand and process the emotions they’re feeling, Capricorn mercuries need time to respond and often carefully consider what they’ll say next, Capricorn venuses often don’t fully embrace their beauty until after their mid 20s and they tend to have better luck in love and relationships after this point as well, Capricorn marses tend to need time to achieve their goals, even when they move toward them with consistency, etc

-Underdeveloped Capricorn placements can be super competitive and try to out pace you in everything that you do better than them. (Capricorn suns will try to undermine your achievements and attention, Capricorn venus will try to make you feel ugly and try to throw shade on your style/friendships/romantic options, etc)

-Capricorns don’t enjoy inefficient behavior, they may complain about a process that doesn’t seem to be logical in all steps and may streamline the process if they can.

-The biggest lesson I’m trying to learn as a Capricorn is when to rest. There’s always more work that can be done and it’s hard to mentally step away without feeling guilty or unproductive.

-I always felt some kinda way about The Devil tarot card being for Capricorns— but I will say it is a sign that is commonly tempted to chase after means (like Capricorn venus dating someone for money). Capricorns love respect and security so they can sell out their soul for this if they’re not self aware.

-I just barely started reading Alice Sparkly Kat’s Post Colonial Astrology book, but there and on her blog she makes a great point that “Capricorns have never been corporate”. I have a theory that conformity can be a great detriment to Capricorn placements (even if just on a spiritual level). But Saturn repeated his father’s ruthless attitude around power and was cut down by his sons. Capricorns can find themselves succeeding down these conventional paths and then they end up suffering personally. Or, as was my experience, these conventional paths never quite open up to you and you face more and more challenges in this route and can never quite match their progress to their ambitions. Capricorns tend to benefit much more when they create their own path (I’ve found that this true for business as well as other areas of life).

[biblio-smia]

hello! congrats!

list 2, prompt 6, Steve Harrington 🫶🥰

maybe Steve’s a little self conscious about his scars from the demobats and reader tries to make him feel better ❤️‍🩹

list two, prompt six: kissing their scars

"could you turn around?"

steve's voice, uncharacteristically soft, pulls for your attention. "hmm?"

to be honest, you hadn't been paying much attention to him. it had taken a lot of convincing for you to worm your way here, into steve's room - much more than it ever had before. but steve's sheets were as comfortable as you remembered, silk or satin or one of those fancy fabrics you didn't know much about other than how nice they felt under your skin.

it would've embarrassed you, how comforting steve's presence in the room was, if you hadn't been so exhausted. between the paranoia and nightmares, you couldn't recall the last good night's sleep you had and you were sure steve's sleeping patterns weren't much different.

steve asks again, less confident the second time around.

the question startles you this time, out of your spot on the bed and onto your feet. worry brews, spreading onto your face and into your eyes. the way your eyebrows pinch together give you away opposed to steve's blank stare, his eyes refusing to look at you.

hawkins has always been too quiet. it's the same type of quiet that almost mocks you at night when you're huddled up with your back pressed into a corner of your room, wishing there was the noise of people or traffic to keep everything else at bay. the silence let your thoughts run wild, has let images you never wanted to see again reappear.

you sniffle to fill the silence. you must fill in the blanks.

you tug the hem of steve's shirt gently, eyes gauging his reaction. none, still. slowly, you pull up, exposing marks that had scarred.

they were still fresh but they were permanent. perhaps they'd fade with time but they'd still hold memories.

steve's arms lift as you pull the rest of his shirt off, the most you could ask of him currently. your hands moved to rest on the scars on his sides, each touch gentle as if the wounds were still open.

steve watches in quiet wonder, too afraid to speak in such a vulnerable state. he avoids mirrors, pulls something before the fog on the bathroom mirror can disappear. he can still feel teeth sinking into his skin, can still see the red sky he was sure he'd die under.

steve just about jumps when he feels your lips under his ribs. your kisses have historically soothed him but now they send him into a panic. how could you love those disgusting, ugly things? how could you still love him for being so weak, so powerless?

but you don't stop. your hands find steve's, pulling them along with yours, resting them just beside the marks. your lips trace each one carefully, as if they were something sacred, as if they weren't evidence of steve's shortcomings.

so you kiss steve. you kiss his knuckles and to his neck where some marks of his fight lingered, to his jaw and to his face. because, to you, steve harrington could never be weak. he could've turned his back and ran years ago, could've saved himself from so much pain - but he didn't. he was still here, standing.

steve's lips find yours this time, hands caressing your face carefully.

"thank you," he whispers, voice soft and just a little bit broken.

it's okay. it will take time, but it will heal.

part of v's 1000 follower celebration | main masterlist

[hotxcheeto]

I remember you having a Rachel Amber strap-on prompt in your brainrot list. I've come requesting it >:) How about a shy female reader with a hidden love for adult toys using them on Rachel? I love your work btw :)))

━ 𝐀𝐂𝐂𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐋 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘

𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜(𝙨) - Rachel Amber x Fem!Reader

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 - Smut, mentions of kissing, strap on use + v penetration ( rachel receiving ), best friends to something?, cursing

𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙤𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 ? - Yeah/Nope

𝙖𝙪𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙧'𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚 - thank you!!

There were garments riddled along the ground, Rachel standing half in your closet while tossing things that she deemed 'deplorable' to fashion behind her.

She was purging your closet and there was no way you were stopping her.

She'd gained a look in her hazel eyes that told you she was determined to get to the bottom of each pile of clothing you had. Taking things and tossing them into different piles that she had labeled in her mind all while you sat and watched her.

Laying on your stomach while resting your hand in your palm. All the while she was battling it out with ugly patterned shirts and the many pairs of sweatpants you owned.

"God, you have no clue about any trends these days. It's truly a pity."

It was Rachel, you had to expect the dramatics.

"A pity? Who do you think I am?" You joked, rolling onto your back and putting your arm over your eyes. "Someone with the worst fashion taste I've ever seen."

You snorted, listening to her continue to rummage and mutter to herself. The sounds of shirts and jeans being thrown are the only other sound besides your breaths. You were beginning to wonder what you'd be wearing for the rest of the week judging by how much she planned on donating and selling.

The rustling slowed and it seemed she'd found a target, a few grunts coming from her before she rattled the door and stepped back.

"What's this?" You tilted your head up at that, watching her shake a black shoebox that instantly made your stomach drop and your heart fall to your ass.

Fuck.

You had about three seconds to decide if you were going to absolutely snatch it away and throw it out your window for the squirrels to find and spend the rest of your life denying what was in it.

Or...

let her open it and see the horrors that awaited her on the other side of the cardboard lid that had looked like it'd seen better days.

Times up.

You got up faster than she'd ever seen you move, she wasn't even sure you'd ever walked that fast in your life. The box in your hands before another breath had come in or out of her lungs and it was slammed onto your desk and behind your back in an instant.

"It's personal." Your cheeks burned, blush invisible, but hot. Yours ears as well while you avoided looking her in the eyes and instead looked at the ground. "Personal?" "Yeah."

It was like a showdown, and you weren't letting her pass.

"C'mon, can't I get a peek? I'm your best friend after all."

"Nope. Can't guilt trip me into this one Rach."

Again, there was a tense silence that made you feel like you were doomed.

"What kind of freaky shit you got in there?" Her voice peaked with curiosity as she got closer, giggling while you backed up impossibly closer to the desk. "Seriously, it can't be that bad."

Oh it was.

"Just drop it Rachel." For a moment the girl hesitated, noticing how serious you actually were. Your voice quiet, even a bit timid. "Please?"

Her head tilted, arms crossing.

"Is it torture devices? Drugs? Sex toys? Whatever it is, I promise I won't make fun of you. I promise Y/n/n." You didn't move, you didn't even fucking blink and she began to get slightly worried that you had some ones chopped head in that thing.

"No." For a moment Rachel wondered if she should give it up and let you take this one. But she was never one to back down from a challenge, licking her bottom lip.

"Can you at least tell me what's inside? I won't see it, but can I at least know?" Your mind wasn't sure how bad it'd be if you actually told her about the shit you had hiding in the hole of your closet.

"It's just... bed stuff." Her eyebrow raised. "Bed stuff?" "Yeah."

She was very unimpressed, and even a bit more curious than where she'd begun when you'd first snatched the box in the first place.

"Is it your vibrator? I'm pretty sure everyone has one."

You looked away from her, giving away at least one of the items in the container that she was now even more curious to open. Stepping a bit closer as your guard fell in just the slightest at the mention.

Rachel then made her move, smacking the box to the side before you got the chance to stop her or the box from taking a slight tumble. The lid flew at you in hopes of distracting you and out came everything you'd been trying to hide, a slight yelp escaping your throat at the flying lid.

"Whoa." Was all you heard her say, the sudden need to hide and scream crashing over you like a ton of bricks.

Out came a vibrator which she'd been guessing had been in there the entire time. But there was a lot more that she hadn't guessed. Like the giant dick she pulled out that had a harness attached, the girl looking at you for answers while you'd practically collapsed against your wall in horror.

"No fucking way someone has used this on you."

"They haven't." You said, unable to choke the syllables back into your mouth. "No fucking way." She repeated, turning around and raising her eyebrows. "No fucking way, Y/n." You couldn't look at her, staring at the ground with wide eyes.

"You used this on someone!"

"Tell the neighbors, why don't ya."

Rachel continued looking through the box before it fell to the floor and your glittery strap-on was the only thing left in her hand.

"Is it clean?" You looked at her with an emotion that was nearly indescribable. "Yes it's fucking clean." Rachel nodded, looking it over.

"It's cute."

You wanted to implode, covering your face with your hands before moving to collapse on your bed. Not even caring what she did with the thing anymore, you were beginning to believe that breathing was overrated.

The bed dipped not a few seconds after, Rachel's head appearing right beside where yours was pressed into the mattress. Her finger lightly tapping your cheek.

"I didn't know you were into such... things." She giggled, rolling onto her stomach while still trying to peak at your face. "Is it popular with the ladies?"

"Rachel." You moved onto your back, still covering your face with your hands. "Just go home." There was no other choice, you were going to have to move to another country in order to avoid her for the rest of her life.

"But what if I wanted to see what all the fuss was about?" Your hands slammed onto the bed, your face showing clear shock. "I mean, it's huge... you must be popular with the ladies."

You wanted to be popular with the grim reaper.

"Rach?" She grinned at the sound of her nickname, sitting up to lean down towards your face. "You've used it before haven't you?" You paused, almost questioning if what she'd asked was rhetorical. But nothing else came from her lips,

Rachel wanted an answer.

"Yeah..." You responded. Her nail traced your cheekbone. "Like who?" You felt like you were on fire, swallowing hard and watching her focus on her hand. Finally giving you a break from her stare.

She actually wanted you to say it.

"I dunno... my ex?" You said, almost as a question while raising your eyebrow. "Hm.. what about that girl you liked from that art seminar we went to?" You felt your gut swallow up at the mention of her. "Or, that other one from that psych class we took together?"

She paid a lot more attention to your fun times then you realized.

"How good were they?" Rachel's nail continued to trace down your neck, then towards your ear while moving up and around, all while speaking. You were practically hyper focused on the touch, unaware of your lost in headlights appearance.

"Hm?" Then your attention was back on her.

"Okay.. I guess." Your mouth finally parted to answer, tongue then moving over your lips in a nervous reaction to her receiving that news. "Did you like it?" "I mean... at the time."

Rachel moved to sit up once more, pushing her hair off her shoulders and kneeling in front of your pillows. All the while feeling you get up and turn to look at her.

"What-"

"I want you to fuck me with it."

You almost dropped dead and you swore you felt the presence of something supernatural in the room that was coming to take your soul. Your tongue suddenly blocking your throat from making more than a gargled gurgle for speech. This was your best friend.

"Why-"

"Because I wanna know if I'm your best. That and... I wanna see how good you are with that. Y'know, like I've heard from your exes."

You wondered how much else they'd told her, and if she could see you nervously shifting your weight from foot to foot. Or the fact that your throat was so dry you could cough up a cactus.

"You're a little too dressed for that." You were surprised at your own response, standing at the end of the bed with a keen eye resting on her. You wanted to look away though, but it was nearly impossible to not stare right at Rachel Amber.

"Look at you." She slowly smiled, pulling her top up from the bottom, quickly revealing her black bra to you while throwing the item in her hand. "All bossy now." Her hands moved down to her jeans, unbuttoning and unzipping them all the while you only respected the art.

"Feeling slightly lonely here, Y/n/n." She sang, squirming from her bottoms as you began to undress down into your underwear. Hand wrapping around the harness of the strap-on while she finally moved to unclip her garment, moving it aside.

And God did she look amazing, her golden skin tone reached down past her neck. Her breasts on display for you, and you only to see as you move on your bed towards her. Her nipples slowly rising as the cooler air circled her, her body leaning backwards as you crept closer.

"You're really pretty." You whispered, sounding a bit like a love-sick fool, though Rachel didn't really seem to mind. "I could say that about both of us." She agreed, deciding she liked both herself and you with less clothes on.

"Are you sure about this?" You interrupted her thoughts, looking down at the bare space between her thighs, you didn't know when she'd stripped from her undergarments, but they were in fact gone.

"I've never been more sure about anything." Was her reply, spreading her legs, opening her glistening cunt to you while you tried not to choke on your own saliva and make it less obvious you couldn't tear away your gaze from her entire existence.

"But won't it be weird after?" She rolled her eyes. "Doesn't every girl have sex with her best friend at least once?" You adjusted yourself as the question poured from her lips, the tip of the fake dick accidentally brushing and pushing against her clit making her let out a warm noise.

"Besides," She continued, reaching down to align yourself with her. "you feel really good and I really want you." Ignoring your burning face and body, you nodded your head and took a deep breath while allowing her to lubricate the cock with herself. Her pupils never tore away from yours while she did so.

"Now just please fuck me, Y/n/n." The sound of your nickname in her sweet voice made you comply so quick it was slightly embarrassing.

The strap slipped in, your eyes locked to the way it disappeared inside of her, moving your hips back and forth in awe. All the while she was trying not to claw at your body, admiring your face and almost wishing she could take a photo of your pussy whipped face.

"More, fuck, more." Your confidence was gaining at your pace, your hands moving down to grip at her hips and thighs while spreading her further. Soft moans slipping out one after another while she reached towards you to grab any part of you that she could.

Settling on your forearms, Rachel watched the way you disappeared inside her again and again, slipping a bit deeper each time. Her juices lathering the silicone and making it easier and easier to fuck her into your pile of pillows.

"Oh shit-" No girl sounded like Rachel, or looked like her for that matter. At least not to you. Rachel Amber was one of a kind, your best friend in the entire world, and now she was the pretty girl getting dicked down in your bedroom by you.

"I k-know w-what you're thin-thinki-ing-" She whimpered, whining when you pulled her closer. "I'm sure you do, Rach." You giggled, acting as if this was just another sleepover with you both.

She wiggled and squirmed in her spot, head falling back as you continued to slam your hips into hers. Skin on skin echoing against your walls and surely tumbling out the window at the same time.

Her nails dug into you, much different from her earlier light, feather touches. Not that you minded, looking at her painted fingertips create little half moons on your flesh.

"Fuck, Rach." She nearly came at the sound of your voice, focusing on your face with everything she could. She wanted to memorize how pretty you looked while deep inside her.

"Any of your exes as good as your best friend?" She asked out of breath as you wiped your forehead, her hand moving down to play with herself. "Huh?"

When she met your eyes they were darker, more focused and a much amount of boldness had infected them.

"Fuck no." You said swiftly, pushing her legs back and pressing them against her causing her to cry out. "Never."

"Don't stop- fuck- m'gonna-" You nodded down to her, allowing Rachel to pull you down and press her forehead against yours. And you began wondering, as she did this, if you were still going to be best friends after you got done making her come on your fake cock.

"Go ahead Rachel... I wanna see you." She herself blushed at your comment, but nothing but blabbered noises followed in response.

Then came her moans that suddenly got much louder, turning into high-pitched noises that sounded pornographic as you listened to her. Smiling to yourself, lips ghosting over hers but you didn't actually kiss her.

That might be too far.

And as you thrusted back and forth, slowing your pace to calm her and yourself down, you thought she was so gorgeous with her half lidded eyes and messy hair.

"Was it what you thought it'd be?" You asked her, backing up and resting your hand against her knee. The other moving to massage her lower belly while she tried to calm her pounding heart.

"You have hella hip game." You tried not to laugh while pulling out of her, rubbing her thigh to make the exit easier on her. Though, she still made a noise at the sensitive emptiness.

"I try." The overbearing suddenness of the empty room mixed with the bareness of you both was nearly breathtaking.

"You just had sex with me and you're still being awkward?" She said, teasing more as you groaned, unclipping the toy and dropping it aside to clean later.

"Well what if you don't wanna be friends with me cause my dick game sucks then I have a reason to be awkward." She playfully slapped your arm as you said this, pushing her golden hair backwards.

"I think your dick game is pretty good, but I need to make sure you don't kiss like a fish." The impending doom feeling suddenly came back at full force, after all of this, you still wanted to faint.

"I mean..." She leaned upwards, her breath warming your mouth. "I don't think I kiss like a fish." You finished in a whisper.

"I'll be the judge of that."

Rachel Amber would be the death of you.

[mostlydeadallday]

Lost Kin | Chapter XXXVII | Fear and Resolve

Fandom: Hollow Knight Rating: Mature Characters: Hornet, Pure Vessel | Hollow Knight, Quirrel Category: Gen Content Warnings: panic attacks, discussion of self-harm, intrusive thoughts, abuse, discussion of suicide AO3: Lost Kin | Chapter XXXVI | Fear and Resolve First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Chronological Notes: Quirrel smooths things over. Hornet dreads the inevitable.

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There was nothing Quirrel could do but wait.

Hornet had placed herself between him and her sibling, spreading out her cloak to block him from their sight, and he could not dispute the wisdom of this choice. The possibility that the sight of him would make anything better was so distant as to be absent altogether.

They were terrified. Terrified of him.

This was so far outside of what he had expected that he was momentarily paralyzed by the feeling welling up within him. It was not a pleasant one, shock and hurt and heart-twisting pity all melted into one, and it was a long, turbulent moment before it drained away. This would not help—not him, or Hollow, or anyone.

Terror might not be the whole of it, but it must be contributing. Their very first reaction to him had been fear, fear that had only grown stronger when Hornet introduced him as a scholar, and they’d objected vehemently to his approach while in a vulnerable position. There was a pattern there, and an ugly one.

In hindsight, perhaps observing their pulse being taken was a little intimate for a second meeting—although they had endured his scrutiny of their wounds from a much closer distance. Hornet seemed as stunned as he was by their reaction. By her account, she had handled them much more harshly before he arrived, with very little indication that they might wish otherwise.

They had seemed so willing, stretched out across her lap, tilting their horns back and baring their soft throat, but he’d barely had time to step closer before they snatched their head out of reach.

There might be hope in the fact that they had chosen to shrink back, rather than strike out. Hope that he would be safe enough around them to attempt to convey that he was no threat. That, given enough time, they might learn that he wished only to help.

Hornet had not asked him to leave, even when Hollow spiraled into panic—although, granted, she had good reason to be distracted—so he settled in to wait.

He had nothing to go by but the sound of their breath, harsh and irregular at first but smoothing out gradually now, and the tone of Hornet’s voice as she spoke to them, stringing together more words than he had heard from her yet. She assured them they had done no wrong, that they did not need to be afraid, that no one had cause to hurt them. And when she reached the end of this list of promises, she began again, repeating them over in the same tight, level voice, until her sibling started to finally, visibly relax, the awful rattle in their throat dwindling to a breezy hiss and then dying out altogether.

It took long enough that his shell began to ache, that he unfolded and rearranged his limbs more times than he cared to recall. The fire waned and went out. Hornet’s voice grew rough, cracked and ashen. But all the while Hollow’s shaking diminished, their desperate grip on her hand loosening inch by inch.

Until, finally, Hornet went quiet and reached forward, tentative. Then—having come to some decision with what she found—she leaned down and rested her head between their horns, the taut slope of her shoulders falling slack.

Quirrel looked away, overcome by an odd sort of embarrassment. He thought Hornet might regret, later, being so unguarded in front of him—doubly so if he interrupted her now, when she almost seemed to have forgotten that he was there.

What he wanted was not important, not in the least, but he wished that he could apologize. A vague nausea settled in his stomach at the thought of causing so much distress, unavoidable though it seemed. Perhaps if he had been more careful, not so caught up in his own curiosity, more attentive to their mood, perhaps—

Ah, but that was pointless, mere wishful thinking. He knew better than most that grief, guilt, and fear were unpredictable, that memory came in shattered shards more often than a colorful pane.

This same guilt was something he had recognized in Hornet. She would sheathe her claws for her sibling, but turn them upon her own shell at a moment’s notice, tearing into herself for failing to anticipate the impossible.

“I should have known,” she had said. “I should have seen it.”

He wondered if there was anything he could say that would help. Anything that she would not reject, for implying that she deserved forgiveness.

For now, he was quiet, watching as unobtrusively as he knew how, as Hornet stroked her sibling’s face, humming low and tuneless, occasionally whispering something he could not make out. From what he could see, Hollow was all but leaning into the contact, every line of their body achingly drawn toward the point at which Hornet’s forehead rested on their own.

It hurt to see, hurt to know even the little that he did. That this was possibly one of the first times in their life they had shown their need for this, desperate as it was.

It was perhaps five minutes before Hornet raised her head, still hunched close over her sibling, still holding their face between her hands. Stiffly, she turned to glance at him. “Would you bring me some water, please?”

“Of course.”

He was careful to move slowly, to make as little noise as possible. When he returned from the kitchen, he strayed close to the Hollow Knight for only as long as it took to hand Hornet the cup, without looking down at them or paying them any attention whatsoever. He remembered too well the wretched grating of their sobs, sounds of agony forced through a throat that had never been intended to make any sound whatsoever.

Task finished, he returned to the still-warm hearth, affording the pale siblings some semblance of privacy.

Hornet nursed the cup for a long time, staring into the empty shadows in the corners of the room. One hand still lay between Hollow’s horns, idly tracing the deep crack where their mask split unevenly in two. The rain filled the silence, a silence gone so long that it had ceased to be awkward and become merely unavoidable.

Quirrel stared down at his own handwriting. Those words and shapes really ought to make sense. Too many thoughts crowded in between, too much fog on the lens. He had plenty to pass the time, but instead he found himself picking up a sheet of smudged paper and writing out a single sentence across the top.

Is it always this bad?

He passed the paper and pencil to Hornet, who stared at him for longer than she really needed to, looking for something he could not fathom, before glancing down to read what he had written.

She stared at him again when she finished. He met her gaze levelly. She could refuse to reply, but he had a feeling that she would not. With the way she had poured out the entire story the night before, albeit not without prompting, he suspected that she needed to speak of this, however much she might wish otherwise.

Sure enough, she set down the empty cup and scratched out one short sentence before she slid the paper back to him.

Her handwriting was a scrawl. Perhaps it should surprise him that his own was still so neat, after having gone so long neglecting it. But those revelations were distant, out of focus behind the sharp, cutting lines of Hornet’s script.

Sometimes it’s worse.

Worse. Worse than cowering before their own sister, worse than near-silent sobbing that shook their whole body? Worse than mutely crying out in pain greater than they had ever been built to express?

He would be hard-pressed to imagine a terror more complete than what he had already witnessed. But he recalled the fraught conversation in lantern-light the night before, remembered Hornet’s claws clamping down on her own arms, her voice catching as she told him that Hollow was inclined to harm themselves if she was not quick enough to stop them.

Had anyone tried to stop them when they carved their own chest open?

Hornet did not look at him as he lowered the paper, but the hand on her sibling’s face fell still for a moment before she returned to petting them, shakily, her breathing gone harsh and tight in the meantime.

Quirrel unclenched his jaws, deliberately. Her insistent grip on their hand made a dreadful sort of sense, now.

As did her exhaustion, and her ragged appearance. If she had been fighting this battle for a week, alone, uncertain each night if her sibling would even be alive come morning, waiting for every action to be the one that sprung a hidden tripline… well. It was no wonder she had come to him looking like she’d been caught in one of her own traps.

 He knew reassurance would not likely be taken well, but he could not help offering.

You’re doing well with them, he wrote. They trust you.

As much as they could, he thought. For a sapient creature used as a tool, for a living being denied even the dignity of a name. Hollow, she still said, having nothing else to call them by.

Some missteps are inevitable, he began, and then stopped. The attempt seemed weak already, against the opposition he expected.

All he could do was try. As with Hollow, she deserved that much, at least.

Their mind is likely as scarred as their body. You cannot hope to heal either without causing further pain.

Hornet was already staring balefully at the paper before he even handed it over, which did not help his attempt at eloquence in the slightest. He tried not to fidget with his pencil while she read, or after she finished, when she laid the paper on the floor and did not move to reply. The silence was almost worse than the argument that he’d expected, especially when the back of her collar began to prickle.

Stymied, he went back to the assorted sheets in front of him, deciding to copy Hornet’s sketched signs rather than sort out his notes. His mind was full of further attempts to reach her, encouragement that she would not accept and one-sided debates that they would never have. He knew better than to try to think through all that noise.

It was the better part of an hour before—

“Would you pass me those vengeflies?”

He muffled a surprised grunt, dropping his pencil and then scrambling to snatch it up before it rolled into the hot ashes.

Her voice dragged him out of the reverie he had sunk into—which, when he stared at the page, came into focus as a list of vocabulary for further communication of intangible concepts, alongside a new set of hand-signs to match.

Hornet did not comment on his obvious lapse in attention, nor did she say anything besides a mumbled thanks as he handed her what she’d asked for, as well as a fresh cup of water.

She reached up to touch his wrist as he turned away, and, startled again, he couldn’t quite swallow the noise in his throat. It was perhaps forgivable to be on edge, given earlier events, but he still expected a biting comment, a stern glance—something.

Instead, she stiffly lowered her hand, as if she couldn’t quite believe she had reached out. Her fangs worked, chewing over a concept that evidently vexed her.

In the end, she said nothing, only grasped one of the vengeflies between her fists and wrenched it in two, then held out a cracked abdomen that sluggishly dripped hemolymph from its severed segments.

Quirrel blanked. He’d eaten that morning: stunted fruit from the greenhouse he’d found, belfly eggs scooped out of a nest he’d baited the parent from. Freshly dismembered vengefly would not be his first choice of meal, even if he was hungry. He had caught them for Hornet.

And that was what gave him pause, what stopped him from politely, but immediately, refusing. She must know he had foraged for himself earlier; it had been one of the principal reasons to send him out into the City. There was another reason behind this, and an important one.

Deepnest tradition? Reciprocating his gesture of goodwill in bringing her prey the day before? Offer dinner to the hunter, he had heard, but nothing in his piecemeal memory suggested what he should do if the hunter offered it back.

Or this could be something simpler. An invitation. An apology. An attempt at bridging the gap they both sensed between them. And—he realized, as he reached to accept it—a visible gesture of friendship. Not merely for his benefit, but for the vessel who lay, exhausted and silent, but watchful, ever watchful, beside them.

“Thank you,” he said, quietly.

Hornet was already eating the other half of the vengefly, thin shell and all. She tapped the stone with one claw, sending a meaningful glance at the floor beneath his feet, so with a slow nod, he sat, keeping a decent distance from Hollow, but angling himself so that he faced both siblings.

Hollow did not move, eyes half-lidded, the restless void beneath their mask partly sheathed by an opaque scale of opalescent black.

Should he speak to them? Attempt to reassure them in his own words? He could hardly improve on what Hornet had accomplished, yet he felt it might be helpful if they heard it from him, too.

He met their gaze, flicking his antennae downward in a pacifying gesture that likely meant nothing to them. “I do apologize for having startled you, my friend. It was not my intent.”

Nothing in their aspect changed, not a single claw stirring, except that the scale across their eye slid back, retracting beneath the mask and widening their gaze to survey him fully.

Unsettling, but intriguing nonetheless. Eyelids of any sort were rare enough in Hallownest’s species; for both siblings to share them, the trait had likely been present in their sire. Practical knowledge of wyrms was so scant as to be useless, though legends of their might ran through the kingdom’s history like a gleaming vein of ore. Some were likely fabricated, as a tool to garner worship and obedience, but the common themes were easy enough to trace, if one had the experience to chip away the excess.

None of them, however, lingered on the details, the small discrepancies of form and habit that he might begin to piece together now. A thrill of discovery raced through him, interrupted only by Hornet coughing sharply.

His gaze snapped to her face. She shook her head, once, before she laid her hand atop her sibling’s mask and returned to her meal.

“These are well cleaned,” she said, and he was briefly baffled at the compliment before he realized it was an attempt to redirect not only his attention, but Hollow’s. “You must have… hunted many strange things in your travels.”

 Ah, she already knew him too well. “I have indeed,” he said, rocking back a little and staring upward in recollection, willing to let her lead him astray. “I remember one particular creature—a delicious one, mind you, or I would not have taken the trouble—that was in the habit of arranging canes of briars to defend its burrow…”

○

As Quirrel launched into a hunting tale, Hornet listened with half her attention, devoting the remainder to her meal—and to her sibling, who had not so much as stirred since she invited Quirrel to join them. She was not fool enough to assume this was disinterest. They were watching him, as intently as they had when he first arrived. Whether for signs that he would turn upon her, or clues as to his true motives, or merely out of self-preservation, she could not say.

She couldn’t deny that she wished she knew his motives, too, but staring would not wring them out of him. Unfortunately.

The guilt of having frightened them so badly gnawed at her. She knew it was pointless to regret it, that she was only tearing her own shell by struggling, but instincts were unforgiving things.

She could no more forgive herself than she could change her black shell to white or stifle her hunger at the taste of fresh meat. She was not built for it.

Hollow, at least, did not panic again at his presence. That had been a risk, and she knew it, but it was one she couldn’t afford not to take. She needed to know if they would refuse to let Quirrel help her, preferably before something bad happened.

Something in her had felt relief when Hollow finally panicked. Something in her had known this was too good to be true.

The thought of trusting in this coincidence, of coming to rely on someone she had nearly never met, sent a pang of fear through her gut. The world was not kind enough to send her blessings unlooked for. Life did not give without taking, and taking, and taking.

But hadn’t she had her share already? After everything, could she not steal a moment to breathe? Did she not deserve it?

Deserved or undeserved had never changed her circumstances before.

Perhaps that was why this moment, this uncanny peace after the storm, felt so much like a dream.

Quirrel’s hunting tale had devolved into an academic lecture by the time she returned to herself. She hadn’t stopped stroking Hollow’s mask, even far away as she’d been: skirting round the crack above their eye, brushing down over their brow and back up again, circling her fingertips in the shallow well between their horns. They were calm, or at least too tired to panic, and the motion in their gaze had taken on the slow, languid quality she associated with drowsiness. Despite that, their eyes refused to close, their wide stare fixed on the cricket as if he might suddenly disappear.

Something eased inside her, unexpectedly soft. The thought of her sibling staring blankly out at the room like a tired grub too stubborn to sleep roused an uncanny fondness, an aching warmth she had never thought to feel again.

And another thought, just as quickly, smothered it.

The heft of that scalpel in her hand. Gleaming point and silver edges, small and sharp and bright, too bright, set against black velvet, against her sibling’s skin, against the already-tattered ruin of their shell.

Tomorrow, she had said, and she had rarely wished so hard for a day to never dawn.

They were in so much pain, had endured more than she could imagine, and to be the one to perpetuate it, to make them suffer more, even for the sake of healing them—

Quirrel could not do it, though she knew that he would have volunteered. It seemed there was very little he would not do if she asked, but they would never let him; if they had objected to him merely being nearby while she took their pulse, she shuddered to think what they would do if he tried to take a knife to their shell. It had to be her, they trusted her, and the very notion made her sick.

It had to be her.

And it had to be done.

When had she ever shied away from her duty, ugly as it was? How could she be squeamish now, when she was only adding yet another entry to the list of things she could never atone for?

She needed a plan.

Fragile as it was, this tired, wary submission was likely the best that she would get from Hollow. So far, they did not object to Quirrel’s presence alone, only the particular action of approaching them with their throat bared.

This was just another way that she had failed them, another way she had stripped their agency away: assuming that their compliance was consent, that their willingness to go where she led was borne of anything but fear.

But—

They trust you, Quirrel had written.

They spoke when she asked them to. They were still when she ordered it. They crawled to her side to protect her from the rain. They pushed against her hands, begged for her touch like they would for nothing else, melted into her arms when she held them…

No. That was something more than trust. That was devotion, devotion she had done nothing to earn.

Their loyalty to the Pale King had been absolute. She had never seen them so much as hesitate when acting upon his orders. He had loved them, she thought. But that love had been a cold and barren thing, without a single kind touch or tender word, at least as far as she had seen.

Had they shifted that allegiance to her? Had she somehow earned the same pure, unquestioning fealty they’d given their father, simply by the act of saving their life?

She did not want it. She wanted nothing to do with it. That they would regard her with the same reverence that they regarded the god who’d bound their shade to their shell, who’d failed to see that they were anything but a well-forged tool—

She wanted to believe better of herself. She wanted to believe better of them.

How could they find it in themselves to trust her? To surrender to her so utterly, when she had been nothing more than the latest weapon used to hurt them?

She could not ask. She could only continue to use it, ruthless as it was to leverage something they seemed so desperate for.

Quirrel had fallen silent, somewhere in the space between her thoughts, and was now picking at the vengefly she’d offered him, neatly removing the shell bands from the exterior until he could tip his mask back and consume it in several neat, precise bites.

Hornet watched him blankly, shuffling possibilities like playing cards. The surgical tools would need to be tested, sharpened, heated in the hearth, and she had to brief Quirrel on what to do if Hollow began to panic—she might not always be in time to push him out of the way.

Having a mortal under her protection changed things. She could not expect Hollow not to react to the pain, and she had no way to diminish it, no numbing herbs or tinctures, and no assurances that they would even be effective on a vessel. Likewise, she could not count on Hollow to tell her if it became too much to bear—they had told her plainly that they did not know if they could.

She would have to tie them down.

Though she had not intended to visibly flinch at the thought, she was not entirely successful in stifling it. Quirrel shot her a questioning look.

“Nothing,” she muttered, ignoring the fact that she knew she could not fool him. Hopefully, he would take it as a warning not to pry.

Whether Hollow made use of it or not, she would offer them a way to signal to her, even after she had secured them. A way to communicate without compromising her safety, or Quirrel’s. If that was the only difference from the pain they had endured until now—the ability to ask for it to stop—then so be it. She would be as cruel as she needed to be, and not a bit more.

Whatever must be done to save them. Whatever she must do to earn them this chance at a life.

She owed it to all of the siblings who, thanks to her, would never have one.

○

Hornet sat in silence for long enough that Quirrel began to worry.

He took scant comfort in the restless motion of her hand, caressing Hollow’s mask with the same distant distraction that she might pick at her cloak seams or chew her own claws. Still, it had its intended effect, as Hollow drifted further and further from their tense vigil, like a leaf atop a lake, floating away so slowly that they never seemed to notice it at all.

It was one more indication of their poor condition, he guessed, that they nodded off so often and so easily. An attempt to conserve and rebuild energy when there was little to be had. He’d seen it most often in those recovering from serious illness, or those who would never recover at all.

And it gave him pause to contemplate how tense they must be, that they began to doze the very moment they relaxed. They likely needed more sleep than they were getting, but were wound too tightly to allow themselves to rest.

Both he and Hornet noticed the moment their eyelids dropped. Their head sagged slightly to the side to rest against her thigh, claws going lax where their hand lay upturned in her lap. Quirrel, wrestling down a sudden lump in his throat, had not been about to move, but Hornet shot him a dagger-edged glance anyway.

He nodded, still, to reassure her. Far be it from him to interrupt what little peace they’d managed to steal. Between Hornet’s questions, his poking and prodding, and the panic both had provoked, it was no wonder they were exhausted.

Privately, he acknowledged that they had cause to be far more than that. He had tried to be hopeful about their chances of recovery, though. Judging from the scars of what they had already survived, they were nearly impossible to kill.

He doubted they would be grateful for that.

When a quarter hour had passed with no sign of the vessel stirring, Hornet sighed silently and nodded back at him. He rose, intending to go back to the hearth and continue his work, when his gaze landed on the blanket at the end of the bed, where he had pulled it down to examine the injuries to Hollow’s legs.

He caught Hornet’s eye, leaned down, and touched it. When she did not object, he pulled it up over them, hiding the splits and notches in their chitin, the cracked claws and broken spurs and stamped imprints of soul-spells. They looked almost peaceful, with their face tucked against their sister’s side, all the tension and mistrust dissolved away into slumber. With some of their scars out of sight beneath the blanket, its forgiving lines smoothing out their edges.

If, the night before, he had been enthralled by the mystery of them, that was only the half of it now. Glimpsing the truth behind that imperfect mask, the depth of both their fear and resolve, their wariness of him and the blind devotion they placed in their sister, had only snared him further.

He wanted to help. He wanted to do whatever he could, for someone who’d been wronged so badly, someone who had no reason to expect anything from the world but pain.

Although the world, it seemed, still had more pain to give.

○

He hunched over his work for another hour or two before Hornet shifted. He turned his head to watch as she slowly, carefully extricated herself, lifting Hollow’s hand and laying it beside them on the mattress, supporting their head to be sure it did not fall when she edged aside. They looked nearly doll-like, offering no response or resistance whatsoever, not even stirring when Hornet gingerly removed her weight from the bed. Whether that was their natural state or a result of pure exhaustion, Quirrel could not deny that it worked in everyone’s favor.

Hornet didn’t speak, merely grabbed the lantern and jerked her head toward the kitchen. Stuffing down a gathering dread, he picked up his work and followed her.

He'd have to reveal, soon, what he suspected.

She dropped into the same chair she had taken the night before, leaving him to occupy the other end of the table. It was passing strange to even have this much of a routine, when he had so rarely stayed more than one night in a place for most of his memory.

“Tell me,” Hornet demanded. “You’re thinking something, I can hear it.”

“I wasn’t aware my thoughts were so loud,” he said, and winced. She was not in the mood for teasing, even less so than was usual, and he moved on quickly, hoping she would overlook it. “I would prefer to have more time to observe them, but…” He paused a moment, tapping his fingers on the counter, as he collected thoughts scattered by that afternoon’s upset. “I can be fairly sure that some of their physical symptoms—the dizziness, exhaustion, shortness of breath—are due in part to a severe lack of blood volume.”

Hornet half-laughed: a brittle, ugly sound. She still had not stopped moving, even now that she no longer had Hollow’s mask to touch; one knee was bouncing, and she kept flicking the end of her clawed thumb with her forefinger, an endless tick-tick-tick that seemed to bounce like hailstones off the windows. “That’s no surprise.”

“I suspected it would not be.” Quirrel halted again, unsure if he could convey this next revelation with anything like the delicacy it deserved. He waited long enough that she turned her head to glare at him, and he gave up on the effort, reasoning that if she had lived this long in what amounted to a kingdom-wide catastrophe, she could handle a little bluntness. “You said that, after leaving the temple, you found their nail and brought it back with you?”

A curt nod.

“Can you recall its shape?”

The look she was giving him sharpened into suspicion. “It was a one-handed longnail. Sloped guard, no pommel. Diamond grind. Why?”

There was no easy way to say this. He let out a hoarse sigh, halfway to a groan of frustration, of dread. “Hornet, I… suspect…” No, it was stronger than suspicion, he knew, somehow, in a way that defied reason, a way that could only be his own experience whispering in the back of his mind.

He knew what it was to outlive one’s purpose. He knew what it was to wish for a fitting end.

So he met her eyes, steady, and let her see his certainty. “At least some of their wounds are self-inflicted.”

The information took a moment to sink in, staining her expression with a slow-spreading horror like blood seeping into bandages.

She hadn’t known, then. He hadn’t been sure. He watched her wrestle with the knowledge, her hand clenching tight on the counter’s edge.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I… could not think of another way to tell you.”

Hornet’s eyes were open wide beneath her mask. Her whole body had gone frightfully still. Quirrel felt a chill on his shell, climbing higher, like a snowbank closing over his head.

It should not matter to him what she said next. Not as much as it did. She was adrift, overwhelmed, burdened with more grief and misery than he could imagine, and he would not blame her for refusing to shoulder more.

 But something in him hoped to hear—

“What do I do?” she whispered. “What am I—” One hand lifted, then fell back to the counter. She looked away, chelicerae clenched tight enough to tremble. “What should I say to them?”

His fingers were digging into his empty palms, he realized. He let go, tried to lean back, tried to relax. “I wish there was an easy answer to that,” he said, as softly as he could. “I wish that I could tell you.”

She scoffed, but it sounded small, broken. “The answers are never easy.”

“Perhaps not.” He hesitated, scraping his mandibles together, watching her. He risked causing her to withdraw if he continued. He risked losing what little ground he’d gained, but—

He thought of Hollow’s claws, the wicked-sharp scythes of them. He thought of the terror in their eyes.

They were capable of it. Whether they could truly die made little difference if they damaged themselves badly enough that magic could not heal them.

“Be mindful of what you say to them. And what you don’t say,” he said finally. “They rely on you. Your word matters to them, likely more than you know. You may need to prepare for this to be… more difficult than you thought.”

Hornet had started to fidget again while he spoke. Pulling away again, away from the shock, away from the numbing dread of it. And there was nothing he could do but watch her go. He could not give her the bravery to confront it, even had he had an excess of it himself.

She would need to face it, but it was not his place to dictate when. Hollow did not seem to actively be a danger to themselves; he had very little else to suggest besides what she was already trying to do.

“We should plan for tomorrow,” he offered.

She nodded, once, and he watched her pull herself together, grasping at what threads she could reach. It was almost amusing—darkly so—that the concept of planning for surgery was more bearable than what they’d just been discussing.

But only just. She seemed off-balance, her voice choked back, her hands tightening back into fists on the counter as she began to speak.

“I… I will need to tie them down.”

Quirrel’s stomach turned. It was the right decision, he knew at once. But—understandably—she did not seem pleased at having come to it.

“I should have them test their strength against my silk, though I believe I can spin it thick enough. I can also place anchors wherever they are needed.”

“Will they be able to take it?” he interrupted. “You said that they were bound in the temple—”

“I don’t know.” She shook her head, hard. “I don’t see that we have a choice. I also intend to offer them a way to ask for respite, but after today I doubt they will take it.” One hand ran up her horn, too quickly, as if brushing something away. “Perhaps if I can work slower than before, or stop at regular intervals. Or perhaps they will tell me if I ask outright. I-I do not know.”

“Hornet—”

“And you should not touch them, if at all possible. They don’t—” A break in her voice, hastily smoothed over. “They might panic. I hope that they’ll allow you to be near enough to help me. But if they do not, you must step back. I do not need two injured bugs to care for.”

“I will. Of course.” He held both hands out, alarmed at her breakneck pace. “But Hornet—”

“Perhaps you should be watching for their signs, too.” She would not look him in the eye. “I may not—last time, I—it was difficult—”

Quirrel raised his voice. “I may have been mistaken.”

Hornet’s eyes snapped to him. Wide. Hunted. “Mistaken?”

He leaned forward again, holding her gaze. “You need not do this now.” Then, when she opened her mouth to protest, he reached out toward her, heading her off. “You… perhaps you should leave.”

The room fell silent.

Hornet gaped at him. Quite literally, in fact: he could see her fangs hanging open, crooked.

“Now.” Before she could decide what to say, he continued, calmly. “While your sibling sleeps.”

“I am not leaving,” she said. Flat. Blank.

“Just for a few hours.” He sat forward, laying his hands on the table. “Pardon my forwardness, but it might help if you could—”

“I will not leave,” she repeated, her fangs flashing—more out of displeasure than open threat, he thought, but his instincts still thrilled with unease. Her voice had risen enough that he glanced nervously at the doorway, though he detected no sign that Hollow had heard.

“Very well.” He sat back, putting more distance between them, for her comfort as well as his own. “Tell me you will sleep, then. You need it as much as they do.”

He knew she wouldn’t. Not when she was practically vibrating at the other end of the table, looking as if she needed to take something apart. Hopefully not him, though he was the nearest possibility.

“I apologize.” He ducked his head. “I didn’t mean to imply—”

“Don’t.” The word was a cut stone, gritty and sharp, dragged up from deep within her. He remembered, too late, the open depths of guilt that she had plumbed the night before, the fresh scratches glaring chalk-white in the marble countertop.

“I suppose I cannot convince you to discuss this in the morning.” He did not look up as he said it.

“While they are awake? While they can hear me planning their own surgery?” Her voice was as rigid, as biting, as a nail’s edge. He could hear the dismissal in it. “Test the tools that you brought. Sharpen and oil them.” She finally broke off the disturbing stare in favor of directing it at the countertop, with roughly the same intensity. “You should go find more shellwood. We have little to spare.”

“Now?”

“I don’t know. Yes.” She grasped the key at her neck, then let her fist loosen. “Do not tarry. I’ll keep watch and leave the door unlocked.”

“You’ll—ah. So I won’t wake them with my knocking?”

A terse nod. She held a hand out, with a pointed look at the papers he had pushed aside. He slid them across the table, ignoring the part of him that wanted to bristle—if not as visibly as she could, at least in spirit. He had developed these notes for her; there was no sense in not handing them over.

She glanced them over hurriedly, then pulled out an empty sheet. The stare she directed at the blank page seemed fit to burn a hole in it. Better at it than at him, at least.

It was clear he was no longer welcome, but he lingered under the pretext of slowly emptying the rest of his satchel onto the counter. By the time he left, she had not written a single word, claws clenched gracelessly around the pencil, fangs working under her mask, a faint, scraping click, click that set his shell on edge.

He had not thought it would be a relief to step back out into the rain so soon.

○

When he returned, dripping wet, exhausted, dark had fallen in the caverns. The house was as cold and lightless as ever, and even the smoldering wick of his frustration had burned out in the deluge.

He stacked the shellwood in the entryway, quietly, building a wall of broken crates and table legs. It would need to be rearranged to dry properly, but that could wait until the morning.

After locking the door, he reentered the kitchen, steps dragging despite himself. The day had caught up with him; although he had walked further and worked harder, the turmoil had drained his energy like nothing else could.

“We should have enough fuel now to last several days,” he told Hornet, laying a few extra sticks beside the stove to start a pot of tea in the morning, if there was time. “I will sharpen tools tomorrow. That work is better done in brighter light.”

Hornet, still hunched over her paper, staring at a few scratchy sentences and even more crossed-out lines, hummed distantly in acknowledgement. Not so much upset, now, as defeated. Worn down, the same as he felt.

Quirrel resisted the urge to touch her, to lay a hand on her shoulder in attempted solace. Strange that that impulse remained after spending so much time alone.

He did pause nearby, though, and she looked up, eyes flashing dully. She knew what he wanted to ask her, he could see it—and she shook her head. “I need to think of what to tell them. I need—”

Her hand clenched. Breath hissed in her throat, strangled.

He understood. It was unthinkable to go into this unprepared, and yet there was never enough that one could possibly do to prepare for it. He understood.

Much as he wished he didn’t.

“I need to think,” she finished, lamely, in a stifled growl. Stifled for his benefit, he guessed, but he was too tired to appreciate it.

He bowed his head. “I will leave you to it, then.”

The halting scratch of lead on paper followed him out of the kitchen and up the long, dark staircase.

○

Hornet knew she was dreaming.

She knew she had left herself behind, slumped over the cold countertop, a pile of paper, and a handful of useless sentences. She knew her hand should be gripping a pencil, not empty at her side.

But more than that, she knew because this place only now existed in dreams.

If she had her choice, she would never return here, not even in her sleep. If she had a choice, she would never see her face reflected in these cold white walls again, would never battle the ache in her head from their stark, chilly glow. She would nevermore walk these halls or inhale the perfume of the Root’s flowers, trailing from the fragile, lustrous blooms that were somehow even more colorless than the marble.

 She had so many dreams about this place. More than she ever had about her home, or anywhere else in Hallownest. It was as though its disappearance from the physical world had rooted it more firmly in her mind, as though her very distaste for the place was what allowed it to plague her in her sleep.

Hornet clenched her fists and stared down the halls of the White Palace.

It was empty, this time. Not always. Often the corridors were crowded with retainers and nobles, all staring, all whispering, sometimes with a golden-white gleam in every pair of eyes, sometimes with the garbled hissing of throats scorched by welling light.

But now it was empty, truly empty of everything but her. And the only things that looked on were the walls themselves, their blank white faces turned towards her in an expanse of impossible angles, glowing so brightly that she almost expected her chitin to bleach pale under the force of it.

She took a step, her tarsals falling silent, muffled, on the stone, when she knew they should have made a sound. She did not know where to go, what she was meant to accomplish, and the familiar crawling claws of tension and shame touched the back of her neck. There must be some purpose for her here—something she had to do—

At first the sound seemed foreign. Stifled in the same way her claws had been, nearly too far away to hear, whispered back and forth by the tilted planes of the walls until it reached her. And even when she did hear it, she did not immediately know it for what it was.

It went on, and on, growing louder and more strident, until it cracked the haze around her mind and spilled over her like floodwaters.

Screaming.

Not a scream she had ever heard. Not a scream that existed in the normal reaches of the world. It should not exist. It was not a sound that could be made. It was impossible.

A horrible, rasping, aching shriek, tearing through the air like a serrated blade. There were echoes within it, voices upon voices, each one breaking and shredding apart with the violence of that cry, a cry that was destroying the thing that made it and could not be stopped all the same. It rebounded from the unforgiving walls, begging, seeking, searching for relief it would never find.

And she knew, with the same impossible logic that allowed that scream to exist, where it came from.

She began to run.

It was Hollow. It was Hollow screaming like that, like they were being torn apart body, soul, and shade, and she knew by the desperate pitch of their pain that she was already too late; whatever had been done to them was something she could never undo. It was a hopeless cry, a plea not for help, but for mercy—for a killing blow to end suffering so great that, even with reserves of strength and resolve that far surpassed her own, they could no longer bear it.

Her feet pounded on the stone, arms pumping, her cloak a garish flash of red in every compound facet of the walls. The palace was a fractured prism, a maze of mirrors, and every panting breath and skidding turn meant less than nothing, but she could not stop. Not with that scream ringing through the air; not with her sibling howling, wailing, with utter abandon, in agony so complete they had not stopped to breathe.

The sound hurt to hear—her head was throbbing, her fangs clenched together, jarring with each footfall—but it must hurt even more to make. Every instant that the cry went on, she could hear it tearing farther into them, a terrible, unnatural sound forced through a throat that had been built to hold only silence.

She nearly missed the door that had appeared, as featureless as the walls, between one turn and another. Far down the corridor, almost unreachable, but that must be where they were, it must be.

Hornet stumbled, righted herself, pelted toward it.

As she did, the scream broke. Cracked apart, into sobs, into whimpering cries so lost and so desolate that an answering sob rose in her own throat, hot and aching, pain calling to pain across the emptiness.

She was close now. Close enough for them to hear her, almost, and their name was in the shadow of every heaving exhale, stamped into every beat of her heart. She could not call out to them, could barely breathe, her limbs threatening to fold beneath her like a doll’s joints, but she was coming. She was almost—almost—

Hornet flung herself at the door. Scrabbled at the knob, with unfeeling hands and claws grown heavy, clumsy. There was silence behind it now, more dreadful even than the screaming had been, and she had to—she had to get in—

The door opened, spilling light into the room.

She turned to face it.

The knife in her hand dripped black, black, black.

“Hornet?”

Something touched her. A hand. Grabbing at her wrist. At the arm that held the knife. She squeezed, felt chitin creak.

“Hornet. It’s only—it’s me. Hornet!”

She woke up.

Quirrel’s face was inches from her own. She held his arm in one fist, her knuckles burning from the pressure of her grip, and his other hand was clamped over her own, fingers wedged into every gap he could find, in an attempt to pry her free.

And—oh, she was shaking all over, as if she really had been running, her heart pumping, her breath coming in long, quivering heaves, as effortful as dragging her whole weight higher, hand over hand.

The cricket was frozen in place, antennae pinned back, tugging at her hand with an increasingly desperate grasp.

With a shudder, she let go.

Quirrel fell back, clutching his wrist. She hunched over, in an attempt to spare her burning lungs, and stared at the space between his fingers, then at her own claws, half-expecting blood, half-expecting a void-drenched scalpel.

Neither.

“I’m sorry,” Quirrel said, catching his breath before she could. “Terribly sorry. I—you wouldn’t stir, and—”

He cut off.

She turned towards him, too rattled to even glare, but dreading, dreading, with all the clinging weight of the nightmare still pressing against her.

He swallowed, spoke again more quietly.

“Your sibling is awake.”

○

Taglist: @botslayer9000 @moss-tombstone @slimeshade Send an ask or reply to this post to be added to (or removed from) the taglist!

[dysthoepiadaily]

Could you tell us some about Phil’s vedic astrology?

So, a bit of a difficult question, because I do better with specifics... By that, I mean, when it came to Dan's chart, I was looking solely at his branding, and his fame, and that was the point. With Phil, I'm not sure what exactly it is that people would like me to talk about. A specific subject would be good to analyse, perhaps.

That said, if I look at Phil's chart, certain things do pop out to me, and those are interesting... So, lets discuss Phil's status as a niche icon, I think, because that is what his entire chart points to... This post is going to be even more technical than Dan's chart, because with Dan, I was only looking at Dan's branding, and the one single placement that impacted it (a lot I left out in that essay bc I could go on forever). Meanwhile, Phil's chart has more things going on, and I can't point to one single placement for one subject...

Once more, a disclaimer about how I'm uninterested in discussing whether astrology is real or not, and I'm mostly looking at the patterns and pointing out what could be coincidences.

So, Phil's first house contains Saturn and Venus, in the sign of Scorpio. These planets don't generally tend to do very well in the first house, because both of these planets are inherently related to those outside of you. As in, Saturn relates to society and community, while Venus relates to lovers and partners. These planets are friendly to each other as well, because Saturn exalts in Libra, which is ruled by Venus.

In a sense, Phil's chart is very Saturn led, with his Moon, Mercury, and Sun in the sign of Capricorn, and Jupiter in Aquarius (both signs ruled by Saturn). His Saturn is ruled by Mars in pisces, which is ruled by Jupiter, and his Saturn, Mars, and Jupiter sort of loop back to each other, making these influences strongest in his chart.

Saturn and Mars are malefic planets, both related to struggles and pain, so Phil has an extremely high tolerance for a lot of the problematic things that occur in his life. Because Jupiter, the planet of wisdom and optimism is also involved in this loop, he tends to take hardships as lessons, and tends to zoom past them.

Saturn is related to people who are marginalized, outcast, and somehow not accepted by the rest of society. A lot of times, it can indicate being part of a community that is somehow ostracized. The gay community is one of these communities. In the modern world, Saturn often presents as extremely alternative.

Saturn is often associated with ugliness in the ancient texts, but almost every beauty icon in the modern world has very strong Saturn placements. So, that is something that should be taken with a pinch of salt. What is more accurate to say is that Saturn gives people an unconventional look, which can be shocking to the eyes. They have something to offer that the rest of the world does not, something different. They tend to be trendsetters in their field, people who change the game.

Something I find very interesting that Phil has said is that he never related to the emo look, but that he had the emo look because he wanted to attract emo boys. This relates very much to his Saturn and Venus in the first house. I personally would interpret Venus in first house as him being attracted to people who he relates to, but because of Saturn (which numbs down ego and personal emotion, because it is about the other), he wasn't fully able to feel the way he felt.

Phil's first house is ruled by Mars in Pisces, in the 5th house, which is sitting with Rahu. This particular placement feels more to him like him, than other placements, because a Martian sign in first house is quite good. This makes him someone who gets attention (rahu) for his creativity (5th house). Phil's Rahu mahadasha (great rahu phase) was from 1993 to 2011. During this time is when I suspect baby Phil's habit of lying for attention really came into the picture, like when he lied about having a very cool twin brother (Rahu rules glamour and fakeness, which, in babies, can come across as lying to look more glamourous).

Rahu gives a sort of temporary fame and virality, and the fame given by Rahu doesn't usually last for too long. However, there is a way that fame can last for a longer time, and that is through Saturn, the planet of time, community, and public reputation.

I'm going to guess that 2004 to 2005 (his ketu antardasha, sub ketu phase within the greater rahu phase) was a difficult time for Phil, because he lost a lot of what he built, maybe he was exposed in a way he didn't want to be, but it was also a time when he learnt to be more true to himself, which is something that he took with him when his next phase of life (venus antardasha) started. I suspect this was the time when he was outed to his friends.

Phil's Venus antardasha was from 2005 to 2008, which is around the time where he established his aesthetic, based on what he was attracted to. To actually feel like himself, Phil always will have to figure out what he's attracted to, and become that person. When he does this, he finds that the kind of people who he wanted in his life were just flocking to him without him doing anything about it.

Phil made his youtube account during his Venus antardasha, and his Venus is sitting with Saturn, their qualities intermingling. Anything that he does in pursuit of love or relationships is likely to last for a long time for Phil. He won't be able to do casual relationships, whether with people, or with work, they'll fizzle out almost immediately unless its meant to last.

Saturn's downside, to a large extent, comes from the fact that... People with strong Saturn associated with the self, are often not treated like full people, but rather, as icons. A lot of times, because Saturn is such a stoic planet, people do not feel as attached to Saturn. Parasociality is hard to build with a planet like Saturn. Saturn tends to show up most as a planet that rules servants. It is associated with fame, because, in many ways, celebrities provide a service to society, through sharing their talent.

Saturn as a planet of service is interesting, because something that Phil would do with his fame as a young youtuber was to be a strong part of the community, collaborate a lot, and even with youtubers who weren't as big a deal as he was. Showing off his creativity with his videos is one aspect, but another, bigger aspect, was the community he was part of, and he was sort of a pillar in that community. He would encourage other youtubers, and give them exposure (like he did with Dan, LOL).

However, Saturn becomes such a part of the community that, outside of their field of interest (where they garner a LOT of respect and appreciation), they tend to become just another face in the crowd. A lot of what is special about them is taken away by the masses they serve, and there usually isn't enough personality left to keep an audience hooked. The 7 second challenge, and the toilet tag are prime examples of this, kind of. Popular concepts invented by Phil, but taken by so many people that it can't be traced back to him.

Something to think about is that with Phil, it's not JUST that he is creative. I mean, of course he is, but actually, his bigger strength is timing, and keeping up with the current trends, and the need of the hour. His Rahu in 5th house is very prominent, and is what makes him creative, however, his real strength is Ketu in the 11th house of community, which gives him a sort of intuition with what the audience will be most receptive to. 11th house is also associated with Saturn, btw.

Saturn does create icons, but it creates niche icons. Icons to people in the know, sort of. The inspiration for a lot of those people who gain much more popularity than they do. To gain mainstream popularity, what you need is not just Saturn, but strong Sun (which is being EXTREMELY good at doing something conventional) or strong Moon (very good branding, gets the audience invested in you as a person). Phil has a weaker Moon, and an okay Sun, however, Dan has a very very strong Moon. So, a lot of the mainstream flowers that Phil gets in the public are also due to Dan standing up for him in the public eye.

Right now, Phil is not in his icon era (maybe a bit. His Mars and Rahu antardasha will be going from 2024 to 2027, and that will make him go viral A LOT). He was from 1993 to 2011 (yeah, he was an iconic baby, ig. His creativity made him very popular with people who knew him), and will be again in 2027 (Saturn Mahadasha, where he will be known more for himself, and maybe for his relationship. which is lowkey the same thing to him).

Right now, he is in his Jupiter mahadasha, which is Jupiter in Aquarius, in 4th house. Jupiter gives wisdom and luck, but doesn't really relate to fame in the same way, and in the 4H, it gives a blessed home life. Unfortunately, his Jupiter and 4H is the sign of Aquarius, which relates heavily to the public, just as Saturn does. Not the best sign for a house that is about comfort, home, and emotional security. During his Jupiter Mahadasha, Phil has dealt a lot with the concept of the public, the private life, striking that balance, and creating his boundaries. The public feels entitled to his private life, and they show it. Phil cannot be away from the public life, the way Dan sometimes can, and he knows it. But, navigating his private life along with his work is something he's been dealing with, and will be dealing with until 2027.

[thispageisrendering]

Autistic Safe Spaces

If you own a business or a restaurant that serves the public, as the issue gets talked about more, you might be wondering how you can better help the neurodivergent community. Some places try to give spaces where autistic people can go to get their needs fulfilled, so if that is of interest to you, I've compiled a list of things we really enjoy.... made by an actual neurodivergent person.

NOTE: This is list is made by an adult, for adults and teens. The needs of children are slightly different, though similar, and would surely require a different list. 1. Silence - A lot of places, including malls, restaurants, and crowded stores, are overwhelmingly loud. The brains of autistic people process stimuli differently, and we can't "tune out" sounds in the same way neurotypicals can. Silence can involve the (seemingly) obvious things, like turning down music or reducing the number of people in an area, but a lot of things are loud to the point of pain that you might not think of, including metal silverware on ceramic dishware, shopping carts, doors opening and closing, and shoes on floors. A good rule of thumb is to think about how you would feel in a space if you had a migraine. This is easier in some places than others, but accommodations such as plastic dishware, softer floors, and carts left outside can make a big difference. 2. Stillness - I call the visual category stillness and not "blankness" or "simpleness" because that is simply not what I mean. A space can still be quite beautiful while not being overstimulating. We do not want ugly things, and you can still use style and color theory and design principles, but we do want walls without too much signage or distracting detail, floors and carpets without tightly repeating patterns or too much contrast (stripes and small tiles both bug me), and a visual block from the rest of the world, where things are moving like crazy.

3. Style - Because autism is often seen as a disorder than affects children, style can often be overlooked when designing materials and spaces for autistic people (although this, I would argue, is silly; many brilliant artists are / were on the spectrum, and a child, especially an autistic child, can enjoy beauty as much or more than you), and if you have the chance, I plead to you-- remedy this. Autistic people can appreciate detail and wonder in a way that is not concurrent with anything neurotypical people do, and along with having "icks", things we find particularly distressing, we also experience "glimmers", moments of unbounded joy over (possibly) seemingly ordinary things. I feel glimmers when shown any well-executed style; I feel glimmers in office buildings and abandoned neighborhoods and driving by courthouses... any style that is significantly different from my own, and significantly committed to the bit, so to speak, is a wonder to me. If you have the money and the resources, give us beauty, give us a an area that contains classy chic lounge or a medieval tavern or a vast, well-made mural of hyperfixations you polled from your own customers... pay craftsmen to give you a 20th century train station or a heist or an illusion floor in one area that looks as if dwarves are mining for gold hundreds of feet below you. You do not need to overwhelm us with detail-- this area need not be unusually large, or contain live-action roleplaying employees, or be loud or bright or over-the-top-- but you should also take the project seriously, bring people who love what they do and will truly take this opportunity with joy and a keen eye for style. 4. Solitude - I am a high-masking individual, which means that when I am being watched, I cannot "safely" relax; if you appear distressed, people sometimes talk to you, and ask if you are okay, which is a nightmare for me. I strongly prefer small, quiet spaces where I can be alone, about the size of a bathroom cubicle (which is where I do go to decompress a lot), where I can be unobserved and alone. It is a wonderful feeling-- it doesn't need to be (and shouldn't) be a perfectly soundproof room, but just somewhere I can be myself for a minute.

5. Snacking - Being autistic is exhausting. We process 42% more information than you all, and it really takes it out of us. Lots of people on all ends of the neurodiversity spectrum people have trouble waiting long hours between meals, but when a lack of snacks could mean a meltdown... please just let us eat our own food. At a sit-down restaurant, waiting for the food and not being able to eat anything until it comes is unbearable, I just get so hungry and frustrated, while being overstimulated and masking the whole time, and on top of that, because I cannot eat gluten, dairy, or much sugar / refined carbs, the appetizers are usually unappetizing or off-limits for me, and the food on the menu itself just as bad. I don't actually get much sustenance from meals provided and / or eaten in public, and a bit of acceptance around eating a couple pecans while you wait for you meal goes a long way. This is also true in stores, especially in malls, where food sold is usually not of much value to me, but there aren't great places to sit down and eat something. And, as a side note, if you want to sell food that appeals to people with autism, think Plain, Cheap, and Childish-- I mean this with absolutely no disrespect to autistic people, but I would never in a million years eat a fancy sharp cheddar (it tastes awful and gives me a headache), but I love the shredded colby jack from Costco. We like simple mac 'n' cheese, chicken nuggets, plain noodles, hot dogs... if a fancy chef would think it wasn't real food, it probably tastes amazing to us.

In conclusion: I don't know why I alliterated this list; I just started doing it, and I liked it. Many autistic people love life and everything in it, we just can't take it in all at once. Give us beauty. Give us the silence and stillness to appreciate it. And, overwhelmingly... leave us alone :). We love our solitude.

I have just been chatting in this post (I'm sure there are spelling mistakes please ignore them lol), so feel free to add if you have more ideas, fellow neurodivergents. POST SCRIPT: If you are doing anything similar to this, please talk to autistic people before embarking on a journey like this, and take in a wide bank of opinions. Don't worry, we like to answer honest questions, and we talk quite a lot if you let us. We love you guys. You got this.

[chi-the-idiot]

Full credit to @electronicdelusionstarlight 's post on what if the voices stayed with their respective princesses post the ending, as my inspiration for this came from this very idea. (this version goes more off of the idea that after the gods left the voices each were given their own reality to live with, rather than off of the more correct "we leave as mortals" ending)

(also this is probably a completely inaccurate portrayal of The Cold and The Spectre, but please just go with it for now lol. I may change it later)

OK BUT HEAR ME OUT,

The Cold, who wakes up inside the cabin, finally with a body of his own, with the Spectre sitting next to him.

The Spectre, who tries to keep her distance from him and explains what happened with the two gods, and that she can't really explain why he came back to her.

The Cold, much like her, can't explain why they're both there, but since the Narrator isn't around anymore to dictate his life, he decides that it would be too much of a hassle to kill her.

The both of them remain in the cabin together, as there is no civilization around them (does civilization even exist at this point?) and it's better to go insane in company that go insane alone (or at least that's what the Spectre says, the Cold couldn't care less).

The years pass, and they've grown into a common pattern: the Cold wakes up and fiddles around the small house he has fancied for himself in the once old cabin, while the Spectre follows him around, telling him about what she saw outside the window last night, or commenting about what ideas occurred to her for small decorations to "their house", her words, not his (or so he claims, but each time she mentions it, his eyes look softer, and his feathers seem to puff out ever so slightly). Depending on wether the Cold is going to cut some wood or go hunting, the Spectre may tag along or not by possesing his body. If it's the former, she will spend her time looking around for pinecones or pretty flowers, and collecting them inside a small basket. If it's the latter, she will stay at home and make some decorations to their little home using the items collected.

The Cold is quiet, methodical, he never does something if it is redundant to him. The Spectre, however, is (ironically) filled with life, with an appreciation for small details and the nuances of life surrounding her. He never admits it, really, but he appreciates the attempts she makes to make him happy when she can.

It isn't always sunshine and rainbows. As much as she is vivacious she also isn't clueless, and things can get ugly when in a fight. She may also sometimes get a bit mournful about the life she lost, and although she tries not to outright pin the blame on the Cold (she knows the situation was out of their hands and it did bring the gods a happy ending after all), it's difficult to forget his quiet stare as he dug the blade into her chest. She gets quiet on those days, and if confronted about it, its likely a fight will start between them.

But at the end of the day, she chose to let bygones be bygones, and every day he proves to be changing and growing into someone worth forgiving. He never quite stops his frigid ways (he never hesitates when it comes to hunting, which is exactly why she stopped going with him on those trips), but he has started smiling more, and being more reciprocal of her attentions, in his own weird way.

And one night, many years after he first woke up, as he lays on the roof of the cabin watching the stars, her conciousness next to his, he will come to understand why he appeared here after the gods left, oh so long ago now. And he will whisper, a slight tone of wonder in his voice, into the quiet night, so that only she can hear what she thought would remain unsaid for the rest of his days. And she will smile, and the Cold will feel a warmth in his chest that he thought he would never feel, and he will find that he doesn't hate it as much as he thought he would.

"I love you"

[snifflyjoonie]

Call Me What I Am

In which Jimin has to take an immediate leave from work.

Whump-centric featuring an injured Jimin and a stubborn Yoongi. (plus a little allergic!Yoongi as a treat)

Word count: 3032

FlowerShop!AU Part 5

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

a/n: Hi, all! I’m so excited but so incredibly nervous to be back with my first full-length fic in awhile. I feel so unbelievably rusty, and I’m really hoping that doesn’t reflect too much in my writing. I’m so beyond appreciative of those of you that have been so kind to me while I took a much longer than anticipated hiatus. But I’m happy to be back! The featured flower for this installment is a black dahlia. Points if you know what types of emotions they represent! This is my first ever fic on this blog that doesn’t involve illness, and is my first injury fic period. It required me to do a bit of research, so I hope I did the story justice! Please let me know if you guys end up liking this one xx thanks for reading!

-

It had only taken Jimin a few months to realize that there truly was no-one out there quite like Min Yoongi.

Granted, he had expected so from the very beginning. There was just something about the tattoo artist that continued to draw Jimin in the more they spent their time together. Each date would seem better than the last, and Jimin found himself more times than not planning out what the two could do on their next outing before the current one had even finished. But despite the unbridled amounts of joy they would experience together, there was something about Yoongi that had been on Jimin’s mind for quite some time now.

For one reason or another, the tattooer did not want to call him his ‘boyfriend’.

The pair had been exclusively seeing each other for a while now and had mutually enjoyed every single excursion they’d been on, but yet…nothing had been made official. Jimin was more than ready, but Yoongi – despite his normal air of nonchalance – seemed oddly hesitant. The florist had tried to subtly hint at his eagerness to be partners, but whenever any kind of ‘boyfriend’ or ‘lable’ conversation began to rear its ugly head, Yoongi was always quick to change the subject. Jimin had even tried asking Namjoon about it, hopeful that maybe the man’s ex-coworker could shed some light on his uncertainty, but all the other could offer was a shake of his head and an unsure-sounding ‘Yoongi is…just like that.’

Yoongi’s unwillingness, or perhaps tentativeness, to solidify their relationship had started to fill Jimin with anxiety and self-doubt. The longer this went on, the worse the feelings would get. There were many nights he’d lie awake second guessing if he was maybe too loud on their most recent date, or possibly too giddy, or too annoying…too anything that would make Yoongi not want to see him anymore. But, Yoongi would always call him the next day, ready to plan something else, or to even just talk. It would always leave Jimin feeling more confused by the end of it. It almost felt as if he was getting pulled in two different directions — the relief of Yoongi still wanting to see him on one side and the frustration of maybe not being good enough on the other.

Finally, Jimin had had enough. He was going to get an answer out of Yoongi one way or another. He owed it to himself. He wasn’t going to get strung along like all of the other times in his life.

Yoongi was going to make a decision whether he liked it or not, no matter the outcome.

*

Jimin stares out his shop’s window with his chin resting in his palm as the fingers of his free hand drum anxious melodies against the wood of his front counter. It’s raining outside, and the florist can see the fat water droplets draw indiscernible patterns as they trickle down the window pane. It has been raining for two days straight and, according to the weather forecast, would rain for at least three more. Jimin sighs. It was almost as if the weather outside could feel his own inner turmoil, the sky crying alongside him in chaotic solidarity.

He pushes himself away from the counter and heads over to the front door, locking it and flipping his sign from ‘open’ to ‘closed’. Today had dragged on, and Jimin was both relieved and nervous when the clock had finally struck five.

He had been anxious all day, playing the conversation he wanted to have with Yoongi over and over on loop in his head. He dreaded the worst case scenario. Despite what he kept telling himself, he really wasn’t ready to possibly lose the other. He couldn’t bear the thought.

Letting out a shaky breath, Jimin pulls on his coat and slips on his shoes. He knew Yoongi would be at his tattoo parlour tonight, so that was where Jimin would head next. It was now or never.

*

As he pushes open the door and tumbles in, Jimin hears the words before he fully registers that Jungkook is resting stomach down on one of Yoongi’s tattoo beds.

“Oh shit, Yoongi — your boyfriend is here.”

He sees Yoongi glance over his shoulder towards him briefly before turning his focus back onto the half finished artwork on Jungkook’s back. If he was at all taken aback by Jungkook labelling him as “boyfriend” his face doesn’t show it.

“Hey.” He greets, and Jimin is barely able to make it out over the buzzing sound of his tattoo gun.

“Hey, sorry to bug you.” Jimin huffs as his soggy hair drips cold raindrops down his cheeks. “I knew you were working late so I thought I’d drop off some food. Hey, Gguk. There’s enough for you too, if you want.”

Jungkook makes an appreciative noise as he turns to Yoongi with mock surprise plastered on his face.

“Yoongiiiii, I would die for your boyfriend.”

There it is again, that word...boyfriend. It makes Jimin go ridgid, but why would Jungkook consider them anything else?

This time he sees Yoongi scoff slightly before deciding to speak up.

“He’s not my boyfriend.” He mumbles as he turns his attention back to Jimin, his expression unreadable. “Just put the bags on that table there.” He nods towards a small coffee table that sits in the corner of the room. “I’m a little busy right now.”

Jimin can see Jungkook’s eyes dart to him like a homing beacon. He’s waiting for a reaction, waiting to see if what Yoongi said was out of line or really the truth. Jimin doesn’t give it to him. He instead simply smiles tightly, nods, and sets the food down where Yoongi had instructed.

“It’s Chinese.” He murmurs. “Hopefully it’s okay.”

Yoongi hums instead of responding. He’s too focused on what he’s doing which Jimin finds both admirable as well as frustrating. Jungkook on the other hand seems ecstatic, which Jimin guesses he appreciates.

“You guys…almost done?” He questions as he wiggles out of his soggy jacket and kicks off his muddy shoes.

“Nearly.” Yoongi deadpans as Jimin slowly makes his way over to take a peek. From what he can see, Yoongi is etching one of his beautiful signature floral pieces into the other’s skin. The artist had already finished the line work and was now working on delicately shading each individual petal.

“Like it?” Jungkook asks, his smile growing when Jimin nods back. “I just let Yoongi do whatever he wanted this time. I’m glad he had some space for me today because I—”

The host is cut off as Yoongi suddenly sniffs sharply, lifting the tattoo gun from Jungkook’s back as he pushes himself away. Jimin can see him scrunch up his nose before he aggressively begins to rub it against his shoulder.

“All good?” Jungkook asks, glancing curiously over his shoulder to try and see why the tattoo artist has stopped.

“Ugh, yeah, just…fuck.” Yoongi suddenly snaps his attention to Jimin and the florist is surprised to see that he’s glaring. “Did you come straight from the shop?”

“I? Yes?” Jimin blinks, surprised by the sudden bite in Yoongi’s voice. “I mean I grabbed the Chinese before coming here, but I—”

He’s cut off by the artist aggressively waving him away.

“Look at you, your shirt’s covered in pollen. Ugh, you smell like a goddamn garden, Jimin, back up.”

Although taken aback by the other’s hostility, Jimin obeys without question and takes a deliberate step backward. He’s aware of Jungkook’s eyes once again locking onto him, clearly searching his face for any sign that Yoongi’s behaviour is perhaps abnormal, but again Jimin remains stoic.

“Why are you even—hh—hH’ISSHhhiuew!” Yoongi interrupts himself with a sneeze that he desperately tries to aim anywhere but towards his sanitised equipment. After the first comes a second, and then a third. Finally Yoongi swears loudly and slams his tattoo gun down onto his table, swivelling fast in his chair towards Jimin. “What are you doing here, Jimin.” His voice is like venom, but he becomes considerably less intimidating upon a gurgling sniffle. “I’m busy tonight. I told you that when you texted me yesterday.”

“I just needed to talk to you, Yoongi.” Jimin murmurs, “I knew you’d be here and I don’t mind waiting. Why don’t I just go sit in the lobby so I don’t—”

“Talk about what?” Yoongi cuts him off as he presses his nose against his tattooed forearm. “What could possibly be so urgent?”

For the first time since walking into the tattoo parlour, Jimin can feel his voice start to falter. Up until this moment Yoongi had never once before spoken to him in this tone, and frankly, the florist wasn’t sure what to make of it. He had expected Yoongi to get annoyed with him, granted, but to be annoyed even before the conversation he wanted to have began was making Jimin’s initial adrenaline start to sputter and fizzle out.

“I think I’d…rather talk in private.” He almost whispers, glancing towards Jungkook with mild embarrassment as the host looks back and forth between the two. “That’s why I don’t mind waiting. I’m sorry about this, Gguk…” he offers meekly, but the host quickly shakes his head and gestures that it’s fine. Despite this, Jimin can still tell that he feels uncomfortable — who wouldn’t?

“You came all of this way without warning, you’ve now interrupted my session, and on top of everything you’ve made my allergies flare up in the middle of a tattoo.” Yoongi scoffs, emphasising his last point with another wet sniffle as he pulls off his gloves, making Jimin wince. “So you might as well just say what you need to say so that I can blow my nose and get back to work.”

“Yoongi, I really—”

“Jimin, just get on with it.”

“But I just—”

“Listen, you’ve got about five seconds before I—”

“Yoongi, I need to talk to you about us!” Jimin blurts, instantly flushing red as he watches Yoongi’s mouth fall agape, his sentence abruptly dying on his tongue. Jungkook in turn buries his face into his hands, clearly wishing he could be anywhere else but here.

“…What?” Yoongi chokes, obviously taken aback.

“Us, Yoongi.” Jimin continues on, desperately trying to ignore the unexpected third person in the room. “I just…need to talk to you about us.”

To Jimin’s surprise, a light pink blush begins to spread across Yoongi’s cheeks.

“…What about us?”

“I just…” Jimin rakes a hand through his damp hair and allows himself a moment to search for the right words. Despite all of his attempts to prepare for this conversation he still doesn’t feel ready. “…I need you to tell me what I am to you.” He finally says, locking eyes with Yoongi as he does so. “I need to hear you say it.”

“And this couldn’t wait?”

“I’ve been waiting.” Jimin retorts, but the tone of his voice is starting to noticeably pitch up in desperation. “It’s been months, Yoongi.”

“And somehow you think the right time to bring this up to me is when I’m…when I’m in the middle of— HATSH’hhiuew!” Yoongi twists to the side and catches his sudden sneeze into cupped hands before he swears loudly once again. Jimin can see he’s getting visibly agitated at himself and the situation, but the florist isn’t ready to back down.

“I tried to tell you it could wait until you were finished, but you weren’t listening!” Jimin shouts back as thunder claps somewhere off in the distance.

“Why the hell does this matter so much to you?”

Because I’m falling in love with you!

Jimin bites down hard on his tongue and fights back the tears that are starting to well up in his eyes as his inner voice screams the words he’s too afraid to say. The silence that follows is loud and horrible, only being broken by the crashing sound of raindrops as they pelt wildly against the windows.

“Jimin,” Yoongi continues after a moment when it’s clear Jimin has nothing more to say. “I like you and I want to keep seeing you. Shouldn’t that be enough? Why do you want to label this so badly?”

The florist feels his cheeks grow hotter with a mix of rage and humiliation. The conversation was going absolutely nowhere and he nearly felt ready to rip his hair out. He opens his mouth to respond again, to maybe come up with some type of response that would somehow magically show Yoongi exactly why it felt so important to him, but instead he’s cut off by a sudden interjection from Jungkook.

“Um,” the host starts, pushing himself up onto his elbows. “I know this is probably bad timing, but…are we going to eat that Chinese food, or…?”

The other two stare blankly at him in pure dumbfoundment. Sensing this, Jungkook merely nods in understanding and resumes his futile attempt to disappear. Yoongi is the first to speak back up, but thanks to Jungkook there is considerably less tension permeating the air around them.

“Jimin,” he sighs, and Jimin can see the man’s eyes visibly darken.

The same eyes that he could see oceans in, the eyes he’d get lost in, the eyes he’s grown to love…Jimin dreads what’s to come next.

“I think you’d better leave.”

The bluntness of Yoongi’s words cut into him like a hot knife through butter. He purses his lips and nods, doing everything in his power to fight the continued urge to cry. He feels stupid, regretful, and unbelievably embarrassed. He’d really thought that Yoongi was someone special, someone different, someone he could truly see himself loving for years to come. He was devastated to realize that wasn’t the case.

Without another word Jimin heads to the door. He pulls on his now chilly, damp jacket, slips into his water-logged shoes as fast as he can, and rips open the door. The violent rain wastes no time slamming against him like a thousand tiny bee stings as the hot summer storm rages with no sign of letting up.

Blinded by an indecipherable mixture of his own tears and the pouring rain, Jimin can’t help but immediately lose his footing on the steps outside of Yoongi’s shop. He tries to catch himself, reaching out dramatically for the railing to his side, but it’s too late.

The florist tumbles to the ground and lands hard onto his right wrist with a horrifically gory sounding crunch.

Hot searing pain shoots through Jimin’s joint like lightning. The agonizing tendrils reach all the way down to his elbow and up the very tips of each of his fingers. He cries out involuntarily and the sound he makes is shrill and animalistic. He barely even recognizes it as his own voice.

It feels almost as if he's been punched in the gut; he gasps for air greedily through his now gritted teeth but it never feels like enough. He sees spots and his head swims. Any attempt he makes to move his wrist is met by unimaginable amounts of sharp, protesting pain and he knows without a doubt that he’s broken it.

The florist grits his teeth harder still, whimpers, and awkwardly tries to cradle his now broken wrist. He swallows thickly at the misshapen sight of it and starts to feel woozy. He desperately tries to will away the cloudiness that starts nipping at the edges of his consciousness — he had never been good with pain and this time was clearly no different, if not worse, and now Jimin was almost certain that he was going to pass out.

Suddenly the door of the tattoo studio flies open and out rushes Yoongi with Jungkook hot on his heels.

The men rush down the stairs carefully and are on Jimin in a second, but the florist can barely register their presence. He’s able to hear Yoongi ask him if he’s okay, but it’s muffled and low. Jimin can’t respond, he can only gasp.

“Emergency services, what’s the location of your emergency?”

Jimin blinks up at Yoongi, his eyelids starting to feel heavy. He can see Yoongi barking his shop’s address into his cellphone, but everything is starting to feel much slower than normal. He vaguely registers Jungkook trying to help him sit up as rain pours down around them.

“Alright sir, and what seems to be the problem?”

Jimin realizes that Yoongi’s phone is on speaker as the blonde quickly begins assisting Jungkook.

“Hi, yeah, we need an ambulance. Fuck. His wrist is broken really badly. I think he slipped down the stairs? Fuuuuck, how long will it take?”

Jimin can hear the rising panic in Yoongi’s voice as his vision begins to blur around the edges.

“We have paramedics on route, sir. What is your relation to the injured?”

“My boyfriend.” Yoongi chokes out. “He’s my boyfriend. Shit, please just hurry, I think he’s passing out.”

“They’re on their way, sir. I need you to stay with him until they get there, okay?”

Jimin can feel Yoongi carefully pull him into his lap as he speaks, but he can’t hear what the other is saying anymore. It sounds too muffled and too far away, almost as if he were drowning thousands of feet underwater whereas Yoongi was somewhere safe on dry land.

He blinks one more time, one last in vain effort to try and stay conscious as Yoongi leans his upper body over him, shielding him from the rain and speaking more words that Jimin just can’t make out. He wishes he could stay present, hear Yoongi, assure him that he would be fine, but it was fruitless. He knew himself, and at this point there was nothing he could do to stop the darkness from enveloping him like a wet weighted blanket.

As Jimin finally lets himself succumb to blissful unconsciousness, his mind explodes into images of intricate and colourful floral patterns before everything fades away. The last thing he registers is the feeling of a gentle kiss being placed on his forehead as the wail of a far-off siren fights to slice its way through the thick summer storm.

[lucivinyl]

massage

pairing: mammon x gn! reader

summary: mammon gives his s/o a full body massage (old request)

Mammon was at his wit’s end.

After scrolling on Akuzon for hours on end, he still hadn’t a single idea what to buy you. It struck him that he might’ve already purchased every available item in his effort to show his affection, given that being vocal about his feelings wasn’t his forte. 

Maybe this bracelet? Nah, he’s already given you more than enough accessories. How about… no, that’s an ugly color. You seem to be busy nowadays. Should he hire an assistant for you? Nevermind. Akuzon doesn’t cover employment services.

Frustrated, he slammed his phone face-down onto the desk and leaned back in his seat. For once, he had the money but nowhere to put it.

“Come on world, give me a sign!”

The world heard him loud and clear. Immediately, his phone vibrated. It was a message from Asmodeus.

Asmo : Hey Mammon! What do you say we have another massage night? You worked magic last time!

The screen stared back at him as an idea slowly came to live. Perhaps there was something he could do after all.

—

“What’s this about?” You stopped in the doorway, brows twisted in confusion as you took in the changes Mammon had made to your room. There were candles placed in a random pattern, giving off the faint aroma of flowers. The smoothing tune came from the phone, the owner of which was standing proudly with his hands on his sides.

“Congratulations, lucky one! You have been chosen for a top-quality massage session by none other than the Great Mammon!” He gestured at the bed decorated with rose petals (you thought that they might be a bit over the top, but the gesture was nice).

At the mere mention of massage, you could feel your shoulders weighing down again. Your muscles had been getting so stiff from all the sitting and working that not even an iron pipe could put a dent on it.

Right. Work. The hellhole you could never escape from.

“I’m sorry, Mammon. This looks really tempting, but I’ve still got work to do.” 

“It won’t take long, I promise,” He walked over and grabbed your shoulders, steering you toward the bed. “You aren’t going to let my effort go to waste, are you?”

It’s not like you could say no to that. You supposed a little rest never hurt anybody. Flopping onto your bed willingly, you waited for his instructions.

”Um…”

You turned to look at him.

“You need to, uh, take off some layers for this. I need to use the oil.”

The sight of pinkness on his ears made you chuckle. “Oil, huh? Are you secretly a masseur?”

“Not really, but Asmo has said that I give better massages than any treatment center out there. I help Beel with his leg cramps sometimes.” He explained, avoiding your gaze as you flipped over.

After pulling your shirt over your head, you resumed your position and closed your eyes. A wave of sleepiness was already washing over you, and you fought against it.

Mammon’s weight shifted toward the end of the bed. A moment later, he dug his thumb into the sole your foot. You flinched.

“Too strong?”

“No, I’m just ticklish.”

He tried again, this time holding your foot with the other hand. Grasping the pillow didn’t make it better. You couldn’t last more than a few seconds before a giggle left your clenched teeth.

“Hey, stop wiggling around!”

Ignoring your protests, he applied pressure on the heel, only to have you thrash around even more. Finally, he let go in defeat and laughed lightly. “Jeez, okay. I give up.”

He moved to your calf muscles, and you had to admit that he really knew what he was doing. Each stroke hit just the right spots as he worked his way up. Before long, your legs were already loose.

The massage oil was cold to the touch, but Mammon’s hands were warm enough that it didn’t cause any discomfort. With both palms on the sides of your back, he worked magic with his sure kneads and just the right amount of pressure. A content hum rumbled in your chest.

“It’s nice, right?”

“Outstanding, actually. I feel bad about getting this for free.”

“If you must insist, I can accept payment in other forms.” 

You could hear the smile in his voice. “How does a kiss sound?”

“Just one?”

“Fine. Ten?”

”A hundred?” He clicked his tongue. “I guess I’ll indulge you.”

You scoffed. Not only was your body feeling more and more relaxed by the minutes, your head was also getting clearer. For the first time in days, you could lie down without feeling guilty about not getting work done. 

By the time he got to your shoulders, you were already half asleep. It was hard to tell how much time had passed, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You would stay here forever if you could.

Mammon had started humming to the music at some point. You made a mental note to thank him later, knowing that by time you woke up, all the knots tangled in your limbs would’ve been undone, and let yourself sink into sleep. 

He tilted his head to find the side of your face squashed against the mattress. Despite the sigh that escaped him, the corners of his lips lifted up in adoration. 

In any case, he now knew that gifts weren’t the only way he could make you happy.

[freyafrida]

Writing Patterns

tagged by @batrachised, ty!!! :3

Rules: list the first line of your last 10 (posted) fics and see if there's a pattern!

cheated slightly bc some of my last 10 fics were started like...over a decade ago (help) and my writing has changed a bit since then, so i included the most recent chapter too

how certain the journey (AOGG): "What does that mean?" Una asks. "'Wounded and missing.'" / The train rumbles steadily around them as they pass through Quebec, the sun beginning to set on this leg of the journey.

you said you like my stockings better on the floor (AOGG): It's snowing on the Island, Di had written last week, but not here in Toronto — instead it is only pouring freezing rain, threatening to storm.

the more that you say, the less i know (Uglies): David is on watch when he feels it.

there's another, not a sister (AOGG): The first dream comes the night after he sees a shell go off.

the clocks are black (Midnighters): Dess sighs, rubbing her eyes, trying to push sleep away.

leave me the way i was before (Uglies): David sees Shay again in the last place he thought he would, stumbling around the forest on the edge of the city.

think i could try this once again (Midnighters): For the first time in her life, Melissa is woken up by knocking on her bedroom door.

what they call hard feelings (Midnighters): Dess hates how normal everything becomes, afterward.

Arco Iris (AOGG): It's a full moon tonight, over Ingleside. / The clock has ticked into the morning, and Walter is still awake.

but i don't know who you are (AOGG): Walter looks fondly on Alice Parker from the moment she smiles at him instead of mocking his name.

it looks like i feel like "setting the scene" usually means either jumping in right before the action starts or laying out the scene by describing the weather (lol). also generally my opening sentences are shorter than the rest of my sentences, although they're still not super short or punchy usually.

also i guess i tend to start in the POV of the same characters (walter for aogg, dess in midnighters, and david for uglies), which i didn't notice i did so consistently! i think it's bc i mostly write romance where canonically, only one half of the pairing has feelings (una for walter, shay for david) and i like to write about the other half's perspective as they grow to return those feelings. so that's the reason for that, haha.

tagging @librarylexicon @noneedtoamputate and...i think i've seen this on all my other writing mutuals' blogs already? lmao feel free to do it/not do it if i missed you though :3

[cophene]

005 | not quite resemblance.

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pairing : jojolion x gn reader summary : the heir to an limitless fortune goes on a vacation to morioh to find their true love. seems easy enough; only, if that they're unable to find their love, they'll lose not just their fortune, but their life. notes : multi-chapter fic, sfw, doesn’t follow canon plot word count : 2.8k+

★ . . . THE VIEW OUTSIDE OF THE Higashikata's living room was calming. Wall Eyes aside, watching the waves crash against the tiny coast in the distance put you at ease. It really did look like something out of a painting, meticulously arranged and maintained. Norisuke’s architect had been brilliant in choosing the mansion’s location.

You felt something prod against your socked foot. You looked down and grimaced. “That’s the ugliest dog I’ve ever seen.”

Karera guffawed, nearly choking on her gum. She leaned over to look at the dog nuzzling your foot. “Aw, come on. He’s kinda cute.”

You scrunched your nose as Karera began cooing at the dog. What breed was it even? It had a little clump of fur at the end of its tail and the darker fur along its neck almost looked like a horse mane. And where had it come from? It was like the thing had just phased up from the floor.

Karera lifted the dog from the floor, ignoring its whines. “What’s your name, cutie? Huh? What is it?” Karera asked in a gooey voice as though the dog could answer. She scratched his scruff and you couldn’t tell if the dog liked it or if he wanted to die.

“I have some gum. You want some gum?” 

“Don’t give the dog gum, Karera.”

Karera pointed the dog’s snout at you. “Why not? He wants some, right?” She moved the dog’s head up and down.

“What is wrong with you?”

“Pet him! Come on, just a boop on the nose.” Karera was squeezing the dog like it belonged to her. You and the dog shared looks of exasperation. 

“If only he could roll my dice,” you said, only half-joking. You didn’t think your Stand worked on animals but you had never had the chance to try. Getting this dog to execute a task would be hard, but it would be interesting to see if you could still use your dice to gauge its trustworthiness. You were still trying to figure out how to fit the dice into the dog's paws when a voice spoke up.

“His name is Iwasuke.”

You and Karera looked up. A kid stood at your elbow, green hair curling at her chin and her polka-dot dress fisted into her hand. She started a little when you leaned towards her.

“The dog. His name is Iwasuke.”

“It is?” Karera squealed, pulling the dog tighter. “Aw, that’s so cute!”

You smirked. “What, like Josuke and Norisuke?”

“Yeah, my grandpa doesn’t like the name much. Josuke either.”

The dog was still ugly, but for the name alone you could forgive it. The colour of its fur did remind you a little of rocks.

“Sorry for my friend manhandling your dog,” you said to the kid. “I’m Y/N. She’s Karera. Norisuke-san is letting me stay for a while for my vacation. What’s your name?”

“Tsurugi,” the kid said. She scratched her head where an origami frog rested in her hair. You couldn’t tell how old she was. Eight or nine maybe? You couldn’t say you liked children much but Tsurugi seemed alright. At least she wasn’t pelting you with obnoxious questions.

“So is Joshu your older brother or…?”

Tsurugi shook her head. “Joshu is my uncle. My dad is the oldest.”

Ah. That made a little more sense. Still, you couldn’t imagine Joshu being very nice to his niece.

“I made something for you.” Tsurugi opened her palm. It was another origami frog, this one in hexagon-patterned paper. The folds were all clean and crisp, way better than anything you thought a kid could make. 

“You can flick it like this to make it hop,” Tsurugi said, demonstrating on the arm of your chair. You smiled. 

“Thanks, Tsurugi.” You looked over to Karera but she was still talking gooey gibberish to Iwasuke. Because you couldn’t resist, you took out your bone dice.

“Wanna play a game?”

Tsurugi didn’t answer, only peering at the dice.

“If you roll over a seven, I’ll make something for you. But if you roll under, then you have to make something for me.”

“Okay.”

Tsurugi held the dice in her pudgy fist. You held out the jade plate and she dropped them down deliberately.

You frowned. A four?

“What do you want me to make for you?” Tsurugi asked.

“It can be whatever you want,” you said, quickly hiding your surprise. Four was a low number to roll, especially for just a kid. That usually meant it was someone not to deal with twice.

Tsurugi nodded. “I’ll make you a butterfly.”

You slipped your dice away. You had put out a bet because you’d thought Tsurugi would roll a six at least. That way you could’ve just made a paper crane or something. You hadn’t specified a date for the butterfly, which was good. You just hoped Tsurugi wouldn’t forget or her parents would be in for a surprise when her fingers started popping off.

“Welcome to the Higashikata household. My name is Nijimura Kei and I am the housekeeper here.” You straightened at the voice, habit like an iron rod being shoved up your back. Karera showed no such decorum. She attempted to blow a bubble with her gum into Iwasuke’s face, only to smack it loudly when it popped. Tsurugi giggled.

The woman who had drifted into the room kept her face blank. You didn’t pay much attention to hired help, but she had to be the most stunning housekeeper you’d ever met. Her dark hair was tied back from her face in a low bun, her model-smooth features giving away nothing. A chin-strap cap shadowed her eyes with an ornamented golden G and U glinting in the front. She was dressed in a collared black dress and pressed apron, like any other maid save for the star-patterned pantyhose. 

“It’s nice to meet you.” You rose from your seat slightly to offer the housekeeper a slight bow. “I’m L/N Y/N, and this is my friend, Sakunami Karera. Thank you for having us.”

Kei nodded stiffly. She placed a tray on the coffee table, the ice cubes in the tall glasses of juice clinking together.

“I have been directed by Norisuke-san to attend to any needs you may have while you’re here. Please let me know if there’s anything I can help you with. Dinner will be served shortly.” 

You nodded your thanks and Karera gave a lazy wave. As Kei left, you wondered if she had also been directed by Norisuke-san to be so emotionless, or if that was just how she was.

Karera reached for a glass of drink, finally allowing Iwasuke’s freedom. The little dog ran off, Tsurugi on his heels. Karera paused at the magazine peeking out from under the tray and slid it out to read it.

“Sheesh. This girl on the cover is a total babe,” Karera sighed. She flipped the cover around to show you. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. A perfect doll face. Hato stunning in blonde! chirped the little subtitles.

“She’s cute,” you agreed, slurping from the juice. 

“The picture’s probably been Photoshopped, though.”

“Never seen hair like that before. How did the stylists get it to end in arrowheads like that?”

“Oh, those are just accessories they put on the ends of my hair. They blend in like extensions. My manager said they would ugly but I’ve received no end of compliments about them.”

You turned in your seat to find the girl in the magazine leaning over your shoulder in the flesh. The photographers must not have had to edit much because she was just as gorgeous up close.

“That is a pretty cute picture they chose of me, isn’t it?” the girl asked, scrutinizing the magazine cover.

“No way!” Karera exclaimed. She looked from the magazine to the girl and back again. “You live here?” 

“Sure do. Wanna copy of that magazine? It’s only 680 yen.” The girl—Hato—flipped her hair over her shoulder and gave a blinding smile.

Karera turned to you. “So tell me how she’s related to the dickwad?”

“I ask myself that same question every day.” Josuke returned to the living room just then. He perched himself on the arm of your chair when Hato went to sit on your other side. It couldn’t have been comfortable, but you would be lying if you said you weren’t secretly pleased at the proximity.

“Who? Joshu?” Hato scoffed. “Your guess is as good as mine. At this point, you’re more of a Higashikata than my brother.” 

“Make sure he never knows you said that or he’ll be trying to kill me again” Josuke said faintly.

You and Karera looked at each other at the same time. Again?

Hato raised her eyebrows at Josuke. “So, they’re the guests Dad was talking about? I thought they were going to be old and crusty. We could go clubbing or something.”

 Karera wrinkled her nose. “Clubbing? There’s nothing here but boogie shops and those creepy cliffs.”

Hato waved her hand. “That’s ‘cause you’re a tourist. You don’t know where to look.”

“You have never once taken me clubbing or otherwise since I’ve been living here,” Josuke said pointedly.

“Because all of that happened,” Hato replied. “Wasn’t really the time for it.”

Josuke said nothing but still looked dubious. You were itching to ask just what all of that was. How had Josuke ended up living with the Higashikatas if he wasn’t their relative?

You barely kept from screaming when another girl popped up near your feet, resting her head on your knees. She blinked her large, dark eyes at you, black bangs sweeping to the side. She looked like an inquisitive animal doing that, with the bear ears sprouting from her pink hoodie and the large white heart patterned over her sternum.

“What do you think of Foxtrot?” she asked. She looked young, maybe in high school. She might have been Hato’s and Joshu’s sister, but at this point, no one in the family seemed to share any sort of resemblance. “Some people think it’s too experimental and doesn’t fit in with the energy of everything else, but I find the mythical and Biblical imagery fascinating.”

Hato rolled her eyes. “Enough with that, Daiya. No one knows about your obscure music preferences.”

“Prog rock, right?” you said, and Daiya’s eyes fairly shone. You couldn't help smiling at the attention. “I’ve never listened to Foxtrot, but it sounds pretty cool from how you described it. I’m mostly into King Crimson and Pink Floyd.”

Josuke let out a surprised sound. “You might be the first person who actually knows what Daiya’s talking about.”

“Ooh, I love them too!” Daiya exclaimed. “Have you listened to their latest—”

Joshu’s voice rang down the hallway. “I found Mitsuba and Tsurugi, isn’t that enough?”

“When I tell you to get everyone, that means get everyone.”

Norisuke entered the living room followed by a sullen-looking Joshu. Behind him was an older woman with side swept bangs carrying Tsurugi on her hip.

“Looks like everyone’s here,” Norisuke said, looking everyone over with grudging approval. He smiled in your direction. “And looks like you’ve met everyone.” Norisuke tilted his head in the woman’s direction. “This lovely woman over here is my eldest son’s wife, Mitsuba. And their daughter, Tsurugi.”

You waved at both of them, Tsurugi’s number four flashing in your mind. The unluckiest number, according to some.

“Where is your eldest son?” Karera drawled. “And Mrs. Higashikata?”

You pursed your lips. You didn’t remember the Higashikatas being such a big family. And though you’d forgotten about it in the midst of meeting everyone, your stomach was informing you just how hungry it was. Josuke must have heard it growl because he hid a smile.

“Hm, that’s right.” Norisuke’s eyebrows drew together. “Where is Jobin?”

“Isn’t he still on his trip?” Hato said. “He said he wouldn’t be coming back until a few weeks at least.”

Beside you, you thought Josuke stiffened.

“I don’t remember him saying that,” Norisuke muttered. He shrugged after a moment and strode over to the kitchen. “That’s too bad. You two will just have to meet him later on. Kei, how’s dinner coming along? You can have Joshu bring everything out!”

It didn’t escape your notice that Norisuke had glossed over the mention of his wife, and judging from the devious look on Karera’s face, neither had she. 

As everyone trailed into the dining room, Norisuke pulled you aside.

“I apologize we didn’t get the chance to talk before,” he said. He took a moment to chew over his words, then continued. “I’m assuming you're here because of the curse?”

Your body went cold. You instinctively made to cover your brand, even though Norisuke must have seen it by now. “How did you know?”

“An educated guess. You were never interested in coming here before with your mother and uncle. I don’t see why that would change now unless you had to.”

Of course. The Higashikatas had become close business partners with your family after the purchase of the vineyards and wineries. Your uncle often spoke with Norisuke over the phone, both patriarchs informing each other about their families.

“You know my uncle is sick then,” you said.

“I do. I noticed he wasn’t his usual self a few months ago, but he must not be getting better if you’re here.”

You pursed your lips. “How much do you know about the curse, exactly?”

Norisuke’s smile was lopsided. “Your uncle never told you that I was his wingman when he was here? I’m the reason he found your aunt.”

You blinked. This was news to you. Then again, stuff about the family curse had always been kept under wraps. Unless you were the heir or the one attempting to succeed the heir, the curse was more a far-off myth than anything. It hadn’t been until a few months ago that your uncle had released a deluge of information on you, sharing family trees and diary entries and photographs. It was a hefty responsibility, shifting the weight from the current heir to the potential one. You supposed no one but you and your uncle knew the extent of the curse.

“Your uncle and I were very close, even then. I promised him that should another heir come back to Morioh, I’d do everything I could to help them.”

“You couldn’t,” you said. “Like you said, it’s a family responsibility. You don’t need—”

“I’m happy to,” Norisuke said, putting a hand on your shoulder. “Don’t even worry about it, kid.”

You nodded. Norisuke wouldn’t listen if you argued, but you were determined to get this curse over with by yourself. Your family was counting on you, after all.

The dining room was just as elegant and spacious as the rest of the house, and so everyone had no problem gathering around the table. You took the seat one over from Norisuke at the head of the table, Daiya quickly sitting next to you and Karera to her left. Joshu went to take the seat farthest away from you, but Mitsuba placed her daughter in the seat as though she hadn’t seen him. Eventually, he found himself sitting across from you, to both of your distaste. If you weren’t so hungry, you would have wondered why he couldn’t have switched spots with Josuke. Kei hovered in the corner of the room as everyone settled themselves, darting forward a few times to straighten a plate or readjust a serving spoon.

“Thank you for the food, Kei. You’ve done a marvelous job, as usual,” Norisuke said to the housekeeper, and everyone else murmured their thanks. Kei nodded once, then drifted off. You would’ve invited her to eat with you but it didn’t seem as though she would’ve accepted anyway.

Eventually, as dinner was cleared away and dessert was served, Norisuke finally spoke up.

“Y/N, I’m sure we’re all anxious to hear about your reasons for staying in Morioh for your vacation. Why don’t you tell us a little bit about what’s happening.” He gave you a meaningful look. “At your own pace, of course.”

The bite of dessert you’d been eating went down your throat wrong. You started coughing, spluttering a thanks when Daiya hurriedly handed over your water glass.

Was he being serious? You were willing to explain your circumstances to Norisuke, but did the entire family need to know?

You got your coughing under control and took a second to collect your thoughts. Living it everyday, you’d gotten used to the curse looming over your head, like living under perpetually overcast skies. It seemed simple enough in your head, but once the words gained shape out in the open, that wouldn’t be the case anymore. 

You reached for your bone dice. This was the entire reason you were here. What good would it do to put it off?

With their familiar chill and a reassuring grin from Karera, you started talking.

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[ed-recovery-affirmations]

How do you push through the ugly beginnings of recovery? When you've hit bottom and your body doesn't work right because of your ed? When you cannot go into a recovery center so you have to do it alone? Recovery hurts. Sometimes physically. So any advice on how to push through it all?

Oh wow, this sounds really hard. I really hope you're safe, anon, changing the way your food intake works can be a major transition! From the way you phrased this, I'm guessing you're attempting to stop restricting, but let me know if I'm wrong, because a lot of this advice pertains to ceasing restriction:

Do not skip meals. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner to get your body used to taking in healthy portions again.

It's really hard to be in charge of your own caloric intake, which is something that treatment centers often take control of for clients who receive inpatient services. However, I think it's going to be unavoidable if you can't go into treatment. You're going to have to make your own calorie-increase plan, and you're going to need to stick to it. Increase gradually so that you don't hurt your stomach, and take a multivitamin (in addition to meals, not to replace them!) to help your body get everything it needs to resume proper function. While I often post about intuitive eating and not overfilling yourself, if you've heavily restricted for a long time, you are going to have to. Your stomach may have shrunk so significantly that you become full on insufficient portions, so you will need to stick to your calorie increase plan. You may eat slowly, but do finish the portion. Sip peppermint tea during and after your meal to help with bloating.

Sit and do a chill activity after your meal. Digesting will take a lot of energy after your body starts up the process once more, so relax after eating and let yourself have time to digest. Watch TV, read, or just be present with yourself. You may start to panic about being so full, but use whatever mantras or coping skills you have and remind yourself that you are not alone in going through this, that eating enough does not make you a failure, that feeling like you have to punish yourself or compensate for eating are what your ED wants you to do, that hating yourself is letting your ED win.

If you need to avoid mirrors, do it. Your body may be proportioned differently as you heal. This does not make you bad and you have to remind yourself that your health is worth getting through this process. Wear comfy clothes and do what makes your body feel better during this process.

Try to find things about you that you like. It may be hard if you're stuck in a pattern of self-loathing, so be patient with yourself, but it's important that you know yourself as more than just a body. Your body may change a lot as you recover, so it is important for you to find an identity outside of your physical appearance. Still, telling yourself that your body is your home and that it's doing its best to help you get through may help you develop a better relationship with it. Let it be soft. Let yourself nurture it.

If you have a school or work schedule that does not let you rest or take a long time to eat meals, perhaps you can work around it. Bring little snacks, equivalent in caloric content to a meal portion where you are at in your plan, and eat these slowly throughout your day. Still, make sure to finish the whole portion by the end of your work/schooldays. This isn't ideal, but I understand that some people do not have the option to just leave work/school and so you've gotta make your recovery work where you're at.

Try to catch and challenge disordered-eating thoughts when you can. For example, I've known a lot of people who restricted by stopping putting cream and sugar in their coffee, even if they didn't like it black. Eat your food the way you like it, and challenge yourself whenever you start thinking of certain foods as "bad" foods. Yes, even "junk" foods like chips and candy are healthier in moderation than a restrictive eating disorder! Try to identify your fear foods and work through what makes them scary.

I am not a doctor, so I don't feel comfortable giving you any medical advice or caloric intake numbers. I'd suggest, if you really cannot access medical support for this, doing your research on common body malfunctions in ED recovery and how to treat them. See if you can find out more information about what a typical refeeding schedule looks like.

Don't beat yourself up for slip-ups and lapses. You're trying to change your whole mindset AND your body. That's really hard! Keep being encouraging yourself and reminding yourself you're being brave and strong for choosing healing every day.