#that typically just opens the floodgates right

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Miguel Having A Crush On You Would Include…

Warnings: Implications of Smut, Obsessive Miguel, Possessive Miguel, Implied Yandere Miguel, Miguel in Love, Vampire Marking, Marking (Kind Of), Fluff, Typical Crush Behaviour, Petnames/Nicknames, No Pronouns used for Reader Except ‘You’.

Him being absolutely OBSESSED with you.

Literally completely feral, down bad, infatuated, etc.

Initially, when he realised he’d started liking you in a romantic sense, he tried pushing you away; tried drowning his feelings in work, missions, Hell – even resolving petty spats between the Spiderpeople at the base. Anything to exorcise this rising feeling of butterflies in his chest whenever you were around. Vulnerability.

However, you were persistent.

You’d bring him lunch whenever you knew it would be a long day in the office for him, telling him that “Even the best superhero needs a sandwich every now and then!”

And by God were your sandwiches phenomenal.

Though he’d never admit it, his heart would skip a beat whenever the door to his office opened, knowing that it could be you paying him a visit with your delectable lunchables, or even just to check in on him. Make him feel special in ways nobody else had or could in years.

Eventually, this turned into a daily affair; one Miguel would watch the clock for, wait for. Long for.

Miguel also tried hiding his feelings when you brought him hand-crafted, love-filled desserts that he just couldn’t bring himself to ignore or throw away. Or, when Miles offered to take them off his hands, let anyone else have.

Eventually, there isn’t a day that goes by where you aren’t with him in some capacity. And it shows.

Whenever you’re late, even only by a few minutes, Miguel can feel his heart spike, asking Lyla where you are, if she can track you, etc.

“Sounds like you liiiike (Y/N)~” Lyla gives Miguel a knowing smile.

Miguel just grunts, ignores her. Though, he can feel the corners of his lips turning up, and hides them behind a well-placed hand, rubbing his temples.

Soft glances whenever you’re in the room, all his attention turning to you and you alone.

He just loves to stare at you. You’re so beautiful that he can’t understand why nobody else passing you has to stitch their dropped jaw back onto their face.

Then again, he is grateful. The fury that bubbles inside him whenever he catches someone glancing at you, gaze lustful, is all-consuming, enough to make his teeth grind, his eyes bleed a light rouge hue, piercing. He makes sure they’ll never cross paths with you again.

Gradually, your warmth and kindness thaws his walls, and, once the floodgates are open, neither you nor he can predict the dark ocean that is to flood your lives.

He doesn’t mean to throw himself full-force into his feelings, but after being so guarded for so long, he just can’t help it.

Becomes overly-concerned with every facet of your life. More so than he already was.

Constantly trying to find out information about you, though being stumped as to how to do so without arousing your suspicion.

Asks Lyla to track you, see what you’re doing, who you’re with, their relation to you.

However, she begins to deny Miguel such luxuries, telling him to “Grow a pair and ask (Y/N) yourself!”

When he realises Lyla is steadfast in her resolve, he does so. Reluctantly.

Though, once he starts, he finds it difficult to stop.

“Where are you going after work?”, “Are you going out tonight with anyone?”, “Who?”

Eventually, you just look up at him, seemingly oblivious to his growing desperation, and say: “Gosh, Miguel, you’re starting to sound like you’re my boyfriend or something!”

His heart stops. His throat dries and he just looks at you, eyes wide.

One second passes. Then two. Then–

“Oh– uh– yeah... I mean, not that that’s weird, right? Unless you think it is weird, then–”

Lyla has to step in and save him from himself, telling him he has ‘urgent business’ in one of the other wings of the facility.

His suit suddenly feels too tight and too hot beneath the collar whenever he has to speak with you alone.

And tight in…other places when his mind wanders to the more intimate aspects of your hypothetical relationship.

Miguel likes to rationalise this as him preparing how best to please you when the time, inevitably, comes for him to claim you, make you his. At least, this staves off the post-nut clarity (guilt) just a little longer when he’s pursuing a release, blasphemous images of you running through his mind.

A good example of this occurs almost nightly, with Miguel thoroughly loving a pillow clad in a shirt he’d lent you once, your scent still woven, though faded, into the fabric.

Many nights, his face is pressed to the cotton of that shirt, muffling his lips and his moans as his teeth sink into your temporary body, extending, marking, hand moving fervently beneath the bed sheets, your name the chant of many a spell of ardour.

You might mistake that red glow on his cheeks for the illumination of the console screens, but anyone who looks close enough knows better.

He loves showing you around the facility. Especially when your eyes light up and you remark how intelligent he is for “Doing this all on your own,”

Any compliment from you makes his heart thrum and his cheeks burn with the urge to smile. And, if it’s only you in his company, he does so.

Maybe even give you a nervous laugh.

You’re the only one he feels comfortable with showing emotion to.

He hopes that his displays aren’t lost on you; that you know him well enough to know that every smile, every laugh, is for you and you only.

And he is determined to, one day, make that smile of yours for him. And only him.

But, for now, he will content himself with daydreams and night ventures into territory not yet known, all the while possessing a seat beside you, being a shoulder for you to cry on, an ear into which you may pour your worries, a hero on whom you can always depend in ways you can’t even begin to imagine.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterpost

Yandere Masterlist Juicy Original Content <3

[writers-potion]

I'm writing a story where a major character is slowly spiraling into madness where small details kinda hint into the downfall right before the bigger details appear and then it the floodgates open. Is there anything I should avoid? Anything that I should keep in mind? Anything that I should research?

1st vs. 3rd POV For Mad Characters

This may sound irresponsible for someone who gives out writing tips, but the best method to figure out the best POV character is to test 2-3 out (just try writing the first chapter) to see if it works the way you expected it to. 

Here are some factors to consider when you’re writing an MC who is mad: 

The extent to which you want to capture their internal world

The extent to which you can afford to “warp” descriptions of the external world (while not getting your readers lost)

How much you want your readers to sympathize with the character 

What you feel comfortable with. How much you actually know about the mental condition they’re going through will be REALLY important and easy to tell in 1st person POV. For 3rd person POVs, there’s more wiggle room.

First Person MC POV

The POV that takes the most research and careful balancing between actual description and the “insane” descriptions. 

Since the reader cannot see beyond a mad character’s head, it can be difficult to tell what’s “actually happening” at times.Many writers have used this as a major plot twist, given that it comes with careful structuring so that enough evidences are left for the readers which all come together at the end. 

Be ready to make use of side characters who are more capable of telling readers the truth

If the focus is more on the process of going mad, this is the best POV to fully explore how a character can live in their own bubble. 

Third Person Omniscient

Even when writing in third person omniscient, you’ll typically follow a main character from whose perspective you follow the story. 

It’s more convenient to jump into side characters to let the readers know what’s reality from the madness-induced beliefs of the MC. 

If the MC’s madness is one that is hard to justify(criminal mindset), it’s easier to use 3rd Person to distance yourself a little 

First Person Observer POV

Whether you can have an effective 3rd person observer at all will depend on the kind of madness your MC is falling into. For sociopathic insane characters, it doesn’t make sense to have someone who can follow them closely enough to provide description.

Think about why and how this narrative character will follow the MC around

I think 3rd person observers work best when you explore how mad characters are judged/helped by those around them throughout their journey. 

This may come more naturally to us since we are technically observers who will watch this character go mad. 

My final rec: start with 3rd person observer POV, then try out one other POV for the first chapter to decide.

[grimesgirll]

nights where both of your boys were home were the best.

if rick wasn’t picking up an extra patrol shift, then daryl was going on a night hunt or a herd of walkers needed to be taken care of and both of them were required to leave the comforts of your shared bedroom, on it before you could even say goodbye.

that’s why they loved taking their time with you when they could. there was nothing better than both of them coming through the door and immediately sitting to unwind with you, having a nice dinner with carl and judith, and then your boys taking you upstairs for the night. upstairs to your bedroom where it was a tossup between them bending you over the mattress or having you on your knees on the carpeted floor.

that was when they weren’t twisting thick fingers into you until you were on the verge of tears on rick’s lap. it took a lot of control for them to resist diving cockfirst into you, but when they could, they would be rewarded by the sweet sounds of your long awaited coming undone. and it was even sweeter knowing you were losing your mind on their fingers. just their digits had you bucking your hips and asking rick to lower you onto his dick already since you were already in his lap.

that typically opened the floodgates but your leader held out. “you’ll get it, darlin’,” he’d promise before repositioning you between daryl and himself to have his cock suddenly at your face’s level.

“you look so pretty like this, honey,” the sheriff crooned at you, giving you a moment to take as much of his cock into your mouth as you could before he was fucking that pretty little mouth.

daryl was there for you though; so you could enjoy the feeling of a mouth on you too.

“dare’, baby,” you were whining already.

he didn’t respond, just kept taking his time licking long, laborious stripes up and down you. even against your aching clit as you struggled to stay still. it had you gagging and moaning all over rick’s spit covered cock as daryl teased your tight hole.

rick’s hands found your hair right on schedule. the man loved your hair. the way it felt in his hands, the way it looked on you, the way you always kept it long - your preferred length. nothing felt better than digging his hands in your hair after a long day.

your pussy grew wetter with rick’s length in your mouth and daryl’s mouth treating you like an all you can eat buffet. you barely notice when daryl’s tongue and three fingers are replaced with his cock. not until you’re suddenly letting out muffled screams that have rick plunging his way too large cock down your throat.

the pattern resumes of them taking turns and pulling out of your gripping, squelching cunt because they wanna cum in your perfect mouth. alternating between holding your legs open overloading your pussy with pleasure, torturing your clit, and running their tongues over every inch of your tits.

that’s until they give you what you’d been suspecting was coming all night.

the way rick is lowering down with his back to the sheets, pulling you down flush against him. it’s obvious when daryl wedges a finger between the two of you what they’ve been carving out time and your pussy to do to you.

as he carries on, you do your best to be their good girl and not rock against daryl’s fingers too hard.

“such a pretty pussy all stuffed. you want another one?”

he didn’t ask you word by word if you wanted to be stuffed with another cock but it only took your high pitched moan and movement against rick and the redneck’s fingers to signal that it was time to get you fucked open.

“i think she needs another cock, daryl.” rick states laboredly from beneath you.

“what, you don’t wanna be crammed up inside her either?”

the sheriff laughed into your neck. “fuck her already, dare’.”

he didn’t have to ask twice you both learn as the archer nearly knocks you two up the bed. his grip on your ass has you whimpering into rick’s neck, perfect for you to hear his rapid breath while daryl drags against him.

“naughty girl, needin’ two cocks.” rick teases.

you don’t have the energy to banter. “you guys just feel so good.” you mewl when daryl slams into you. “i know you love how tight it is. i feel so full with you two.”

“do you, honey?”

“mhmm.”

“so fucking tight,” rick whispers in your ear through gritted teeth.

“you feel all nice and filled up?” daryl asks, muscles tending before driving his hips into yours.

you nod with enthusiasm. “wanna feel your cum in me next, dare.’”

“can do, baby.”

“fuck!” you and rick mutter in unison as daryl begins a new, vigorous pace.

his girthy dick continues to bully in and out of your crammed cunt. every movement he manages in and out of you has you and rick trying to keep up.

deep purple bruises litter rick’s shoulder, and you leave some more as you try to cope with daryl jamming in and out of you. rick’s fingers find your breasts and squeeze roughly. he buries his head on your own shoulder when you feel his cock pulse.

“fill me up, fill me up,” you’re begging with hips shoveling back towards daryl.

“fuck, honey!”

and rick is huffing under you.

daryl kisses you from behind through your orgasm, attacking your neck without abandon as you start to pulse around him - around the both of them.

“fuck, you’re so warm baby. so tight with two dicks in ya’.”

rick is saying something too but you’re too busy drifting off when your orgasm hits you for the umpteenth time that night. you know you have that look on your face, all fucked out with tears in your eyes. they love you like this. the goal most nights was to get you on the verge of tears from how well they were fucking you on their cocks. you couldn’t complain when they delivered.

you convulse around daryl again and feel him warm your insides, collapsing on top of you only to fuck his cum into you slowly. you mewl and writhe at the sensation fading in and out post-climax.

panting on the sheets, you can feel their cum dripping out of you. the mixture is sticky on your thighs and you’re wondering when it’ll be time to move to the shower tonight.

fucking you until you’re dazed and crying only gets them hard again. then one of them ends up back in your mouth.

you know you won’t be sleeping even after you shower with rick and daryl not being on watch tonight. can’t pass up an opportunity for them to take their time with you.

[bonny-kookoo]

hii!!

since you mentioned oc's period in someone older,can we have drabble related to this topic pls🙏🏽 just want to see how caring jk is

You've never really thought you'd be in a situation like this- but then again, Jungkook is surprising you constantly, so you should expect it by now.

You're sitting on Jungkook's lap right now, fully letting his front body support yours as you lean your head against his shoulder, basically clinging to him like a koala- just that you're not on his back. He's working while you rest, constant clicking of the keys from his laptop's keyboard almost like soothing background noise, helping both your headache and your nausea as you fight both simultaneously.

Sometimes, like right now when he's just browsing through Mails and Documents, one of his hands will rest on your back, occasionally even traveling beneath your soft sweater just to feel your skin.

You've told him to just leave you be on the couch, or even in the bedroom- feeling too uncomfortable to really do anything today. But he'd insisted that if you'd like, he'd want you close- just in case you want or need anything. And also, he likes your company, even if you're a little out-of-order at the moment.

You're moving around a little, giving him a little notice that you're awake again, and at that, he leans back in his chair a little to look at you. "A little better?" He asks, but you just shrug.

"I'm still nauseous." You mumble. "But I'm also hungry." Is what you complain about, making him play with the piercings on his lower lip.

"Maybe you can try something light? Just some fruit or anything you might feel like from the fridge?" He asks, unsure how to exactly help you. You've already taken some meds for it, but you've also told him that you're always a bit miserable during your period. But right now you nod, before you yawn and get up from his thighs.

"Am I really not bothering you?" You ask him, and he shakes his head as he walks to the kitchen with you, downstairs in his house. It's then that you suddenly rush into the guest bathroom downstairs, feeling the floodgates open for just a second as you slam the door shut behind you.

A knock is heard. You get ready to tell him you're alright, when his voice is heard instead. "There's some stuff underneath the sink, if you need anything." He tells you, and you reach for it, opening the tiny cabinet door- finding both panty liners, pads and tampons there.

This is so typical for him. Always prepared for anything.

Later, while he's making you tea and warms up some of the leftovers from yesterday, you realize just how.. good you feel. Emotionally at least.

"Do you like.. bigger, or smaller dogs?" Jungkook wonders as he puts down your mug of tea in front of your hands, before he sits down, oven still running as it heats up the food.

"Hm. I think, both are nice." You say, putting your hands on the cup to warm them. "I mean, your house is big, and you have an even bigger backyard. So a big dog would be fitting, right?" You tell him.

"Hm, maybe. Would you feel comfortable with a big dog?" He asks, and you squint your eyes at him.

"Are you asking me if I want to get a dog with you, mister?" You question him, and he laughs.

"Caught me. I actually have been thinking of it. A dog would be nice, right? So you're not so lonely when I have to travel again for business." He explains himself, and you shrug.

"You think we can take care of a dog together?" You ask, and he shrugs.

"I mean, we're not gonna get one like.. tomorrow. But maybe in a few months?" He proposes, and you nod.

"It'll be like having a baby." You giggle, and he laughs, watching you fondly.

"Well, right now I already have a baby to take care of."

[a-dumb-sarcastic-bisexual]

I’m gonna keep writing Nimona headcanons til someone stops me cause they’ve taken over my life

Ambrosius was forced to suppress his emotions basically his whole life 

He used to be one of those guys who would say shit like “I haven’t cried in 15 years”

But not as like a weird subtle brag just as stating a fact which made it more depressing 

Once the wall came down it’s like the floodgates opened this man will cry when he’s happy sad angry stressed 

You name it he’s crying 

And he’s not a pretty crier either which is funny cause there is a whole compilation of “Ambrosius being unreasonably photogenic” 

Bal was the typical crybaby growing up 

He was constantly bullied for it and it only got worse when he was at the institute 

A lot of his classmates and teachers would try and be “helpful” and give him tips to stop crying  

Ambrosius was the only one who encouraged him to cry and deal with all his emotions 

It’s pretty rare to see Bal cry now but it happens occasionally when he’s sad or stressed or really happy  

Seeing Nimona cry is a rare phenomenon 

Bal and Ambrosius have only ever seen her cry four times 

The first was when they were on Gloreth’s statue at the end of the movie, the second Gloreth’s statue was fully taken down, the third was when the adoption paperwork was finalized and the fourth was their wedding 

But she denies it literally every single time 

Pinky promises are sacred for the trio

Back when the boys were training they would only make pinky promises about big things 

And if they broke those promises there would be big consequences like giving up your dessert for two months 

It was a habit that Bal subconsciously passed onto Nimona 

The trio never really talked about it but there was a silent mutual understanding that they held weight

The first pink promise Ambrosius ever made was right after Nimona started trusting him and had enough respect for him to hold a conversation without hissing 

And he swore that he would never consciously hurt Bal or Nimona again 

Nimona made a joke about that being a big promise to make 

And Ambrosius said “That’s why it’s a pinky promise”

I feel like Bal and Ambrosius never tried to hide their relationship the kingdom is just stupid 

They were highly encouraged by the staff and family to keep it under wraps but they said fuck that noise I wanna hold my boyfriend's hand in public 

The fellow knights in training knew something was up but they didn’t figure it out until the wall fell

Todd was the most outspoken when they first started dating he used to go around and tell people “No one looks at their bro like that”

After a while they stopped giving a fuck and they didn’t really have enough time or energy to ask because they were too busy getting their asses handed to them by the boys 

A lot of citizens had this weird misconception that they had this heated and bitter rivalry 

There were entire articles written about how they were “The rivals of the century” 

And the boys would get together and dramatically read every single one of them

Whenever the boys were in a bad mood they would reference the articles like this 

“Hey sunshine did you know I joined the institute specifically to dethrone you?” “You know what moonbeam I didn’t but thanks for telling me” 

“Bal I just want you to know that I am utterly seething at the cruel defeat by your hand” “Oh I’m so sorry love I’ll make sure to kick your ass nicer next time”

[apomaro-mellow]

Eddie and his bats part 1

Steve didn’t always know what to make of the demobats that followed Eddie around. At first, he was certain they were just waiting for the right moment to strike and take them all out. But when it was proven that Eddie had complete control, he stopped worrying about that.

And yet, still, there were moments when it looked like the bats wanted to eat him up. There were times when it felt like they couldn’t get close enough to him. They’d rub at his sides or nestle into his hair or just peer up at him like a puppy or a baby that wanted up.

It was weird. These were supposed to be flesh eating monster bats. Not cute little pets.

Eddie had assured them that in a similar way to the Upside Down, he and the bats were connected. So whenever he got the blood to fuel him, the bats were sated as well. And after the first time he fed on Steve in lieu of blood bags, they just kept doing that. Steve was typically more readily available and could obviously replenish his own stores.

“Don’t make me sound so cheap.”

Eddie had laughed at that. “Now you’re the Slim Jim.”

Steve had rolled his eyes but noticed one of the bats rubbing against his ankle again. The world really was turning quote unquote upside down if he was finding it cute. Cute enough to swipe a drop of blood left on his neck and hold it out to the bat, who licked it up gratefully.

“You okay givin’ ‘em another taste?”, Eddie asked.

“It’s a consent thing”, Steve said.

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

When Steve finally figured out how Eddie felt about him (courtesy of Erica of all people) it was like the floodgates had opened. It was like you finally found that puzzle piece that made the picture make sense.

“I really can’t believe I didn’t see it before”, Steve said as he crumbled up some ground beef into dog bowls. 

“I think I was playin’ it pretty cool”, Eddie grinned before seeing what Steve was doing. “Are you mixing in wet dog food? For the bats?”

Currently three bats were all over Steve. One clung to his leg, slowly climbing, another attached to the back of his shirt while one was perched on his shoulder, all trying to get closer to the food.

“I just saw this premium brand and thought they might like it. I know they get energy from you but it’s probably like an IV drip vs an actual meal, you know?”

“Getting the nutrients but none of the pleasure, sure. But dog food?”

Steve placed the bowls on the floor. “There’s raw meat in there.”

The bats ate ravenously, as they did with most things and Steve shot his boyfriend a smug grin. 

“You know, if this gives us alone time so I can suck you off with no audience, I’m team dog food.”

“You mean my blood, right?”

Eddie just waggled his brows and started towards Steve’s room.

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

Eddie had always craved some sort of power. To have authority over others. He liked having members of Hellfire under his orders or freshman that hung on his every word. Eddie liked feeling powerful.

So right now, sitting in his DM chair, making out with a lapful of Steve Harrington, he felt on top of the world. He let his fangs graze against those soft lips and the little whimper Steve let out made him fly higher.

And if he had a bat or two standing by to keep anyone from bothering them, that was his business.

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

Steve was dead tired. He had to wake up early to open the store, then during his lunch break some demodogs got into the arcade and had to be dealt with, a woman spent an hour trying to convince him they had a movie in stock that didn’t exist in their inventory, and then after work he had to go to the grocery store and nearly got into it with that bitch Sheila on behalf of Claudia.

Needless to say, he was ready to lay down once he got home. When he opened the door, he wasn’t surprised to see a small horde of bats waiting for him. Eddie practically lived in his house now. 

“Sounds like Daddy’s home~”, Eddie called out from somewhere in the house. The bats were vibrating from where they sat. At one point they had swarmed Steve and tackled him when he got home, but he had spiraled into a panic attack and they (Eddie) learned to keep themselves at bay until he said it was okay.

Eddie got the welcome kisses first and then Steve knelt down to acknowledge the demobats. Once he rose, some attached to his clothes and hung on like little koalas.

“Rough day?”

“The roughest.”

The moment he said that, Steve felt the bats lift him off his feet and carry him off to his room.

“Comfy?”, Eddie asked once the bats laid him onto his bed.

“I feel like a messed up Disney princess”, Steve said through a laugh.

Eddie began to remove Steve’s shoes. “Then allow this humble servant to serve his royal highness.”

He swore he could feel Vecna rumbling in displeasure on the other side. But he was a lump of flesh, trying to build himself back up while having sent Eddie here to stir up chaos in his absence. It was why he’d been brought from the brink and given these abilities.

But as he listened to Steve sigh in relief while he gave him a foot massage, Eddie couldn’t see a better use for himself than being right here.

Tag Team

@cherixxx69 @ajamlessbaby 

For more vampire Eddie, check out Welcome to Hawkins or my Supernatural Steddie series

[humanitys-strongest-bamf]

ok so @sixpennydame posted a fic update that broke my heart so i'm channeling that sadness into more sadness :)

Don't Leave Me | Canonverse Angst Oneshot

✧ word count ➼ 1.7k ✧ notes ➼ canonverse, angst, post-liberio raid, graphic depictions of injury, blood, all hurt no comfort, i'm not sorry ✧ warnings: blood, death, canonverse-typical violence, prepare for sadness :)

“We need to talk.”

You knew from the look in his eyes that it wasn’t good. Did you do something wrong? Was there something flawed about the plan you had discussed when raiding Liberio in a few weeks? There were a million possibilities in your head over what Levi could’ve wanted to discuss, and you weren’t sure which one to believe.

“I think we should take a step back for a little bit.”

Out of everything you thought he was going to say, it wasn’t that.

You blinked at him in disbelief.

“’Take a step back’?”

You knew what he was trying to say, but your heart wouldn’t let you accept it. You and Levi had been together for years at this point. The two of you had chatted about your plans after the war—whether you wanted to stay on Paradis, within the walls, on the outskirts of the island, or move away to the mainland and take a break from the tragedy that led to the freedom you’d finally have. It didn’t make sense to you why he’d suddenly throw it all away.

“With this war,” he began speaking, looking you directly in the eye, “with capturing the Marley soldiers and now even having to go into Liberio to get that little shit back—I just think it’s best for us to take a step back on ‘us’ so we can both focus.”

He had a point and you knew it. You were both squad leaders. You couldn’t afford to be distracted, especially with the technological advantage that Marley had over you.

You felt your world spinning around you as he spoke. Your heart dropped, your muscles twitched as you tensed, and your eyes began to hurt from the tears that were threatening to gather. You felt your breath get caught in your throat as your heart shattered to pieces.

His eyebrows scrunched together as he saw the hurt look appear in your eyes. He immediately wanted to retract his words. It broke his heart to hurt you like this. If he could take you and run away with you, he would—but he knew that would be selfish. The fate of Paradis Island was dependent on the success of this war against Marley and the rest of the world that had condemned Eldians and labeled them as evil entities.

“At least for now.”

You scoffed as you took a few steps back from him, clenching your jaw as you desperately tried to hold back tears of rage and grief. You couldn’t tell which one was stronger. You were angry at him for making this decision without you. You were mortified because everything you built with him had been flushed down the drain within the span of minutes.

“You can’t do this, Levi,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“Do what?”

The fact that he even asked that question made you clench your fists.

“Break it off and then follow-up by offering me hope,” you hissed through clenched teeth. “You can’t string me along like this!”

“I’m not-“

“It’s fine,” you spoke calmly, averting your gaze.

Your voice was still and calm, in complete contrast to what it had been just a second ago.

“I get it,” you said coldly. “You’re a Captain first and Levi second. I was a fool to forget that.”

You began to turn and walk away. If you looked at him for a second longer, you’d fall apart. You didn’t want to fall into his embrace for emotional comfort as he was trying to break up with you. It’d only make it hurt more once he left.

“_____, wait-“

You walked out and shut the door behind you, leaning against it on the other side.

You covered your mouth with your hand as the grief you were holding in finally escaped as if floodgates had been opened. Your breath got caught in your throat and you slowly slid down to the ground against the door as you quietly sobbed.

On the other side, Levi stood right behind the door, his hand hovering over the doorknob. His heart screamed at him to open it, follow you out, hold you in his arms, and apologize for being a selfish idiot. He felt himself shaking as he heard your barely audible sobs from the other side of the door.

~~~~~

“Captain Levi!” someone shouted out.

Levi broke off his glaring towards Eren and looked over to see one of the Scouts on his squad running towards him. Upon looking in that direction, he knew what had happened.

A few meters behind the Scout, there were two others that were dragging a limp body onto the airship.

His face paled upon setting his eyes on the scene.

It was you.

He didn’t give the Scout a chance to speak, immediately sprinting over, desperately hoping that you had just passed out and that you were actually fine.

The two Scouts were holding you up by the arms. There was blood staining your uniform that was rapidly oozing out from your stomach area. Blood was dripping down your forehead and he could tell from the dazed look in your eyes that you were barely conscious.

He helped the Scouts set you onto the bed, trying his best not to panic. You were rapidly bleeding out, your face was pale, your breathing was shallow, and your hair was sticking onto your forehead—either from the sweat coating your skin or the blood drying onto your face. He couldn’t tell which.

Levi clenched his jaw, trying his best to remain calm as he turned to the Scout.

“Go get a medic,” he spoke quietly but sternly. “Now.”

When the Scout finally walked out, his breath shuddered once he turned back to you.

“_____, can you hear me?” he asked quietly.

He felt his breath hitch once he saw you stir. You had heard him. That was good news at least.

“...L-Levi,” you choked out as you looked at him weakly through half-lidded eyes. He saw your lips part as you spoke, but he could barely hear you, although he wasn’t sure if it was due to the sound of his own hastened heartbeat flooding his ears or if it was because you were too weak to talk. He hoped it was the former.

“I’m here,” he whispered as he grabbed onto your hand. “You’ll be okay. Stay with me, okay?”

Although you were looking in his direction, he could tell that you couldn’t actually see him from the unfocused look in your eyes. You had lost too much blood.

Every second was agonizing as he waited restlessly for the medic to arrive. They were taking too long and he could tell that your body temperature was rapidly dropping. Your breathing was getting less noticeable with every passing second.

He squeezed at your hand as guilt began to eat him alive.

He did it to protect you. He left you because some part of him thought that you’d be less likely to reckless follow him into a dangerous battle if you weren’t attached to him, but that only resulted in the two of you fighting separate battles, which translated to him not being there to be able to protect you when things went wrong—and it went so, so wrong.

Levi had held onto the hope that once this war was over, the two of you could start over properly and build a proper relationship and life. It was too late now.

“God dammit,” he cursed at himself quietly.

“...Levi,” you whispered his name quietly again, squeezing at his hand.

“I’m such a fucking idiot,” he hissed, his body trembling. “I left because some part of me thought I’d be protecting you this way. I threw it away because I didn’t want to lose you.”

His own breathing destabilized. His resolve to keep himself together was failing him.

“I love you,” he whispered. “And I failed you.”

Your breathing was shallow. Every inhale barely drew in any oxygen. You were too weak.

“...love you too,” you muttered, despite how much of a toll every draw of breath took on your body. “...’m sorry I wasn’t-“

Your words got caught in your throat as you coughed, with blood spilling out of your lips.

“-good enough to stay for you.”

His heart ached upon hearing that from you.

“What?” he asked, rapidly shaking his head. “No, no, that’s not true.”

You didn’t respond. He noticed that your breathing had slowed further.

“Hang on for me, okay?” he said sternly as he said your name and squeezed your hand again. “You’ll be okay.”

He wasn’t sure if he was reassuring you or himself.

“Don’t go-,” he whispered, his own voice getting caught in his throat. “Don’t leave me.”

Horror entered his body as he felt your hand fall limp and saw the empty look in your eyes.

You couldn’t be dead. It couldn’t be over like this. He had so much hope when he left you that it would all be worth it in the end when he could be with you properly. He refused to believe that it had all been ripped away from him within a moment’s notice.

Levi couldn’t let go. He firmly held onto your hand, as if he could will you back to life.

He remembered the betrayed and pained look in your eyes when he had left and how much he wanted to take it all back. He remembered how much he had missed you during your time apart, making every minute feel like fresh hell.

Everything was a blur around him. He couldn’t take his eyes off you, even after the medics began rushing into the room. They didn’t approach after seeing you—you were already gone.

He heard someone screaming. It was much too loud.

It wasn’t until some time after that he realized it was coming from himself.

:)

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[ratsandfashion]

@SHOFARSOGOOD SORRY TUMBLR WOULDN'T LET ME REBLOG???

BUT

OH MY GOD YOU HAVE OPENED THE FLOODGATES HNNNGH

Okay, so you're in France in the 1760s. Specifically, you're a peasant in the Gevaudan province.

AND SOMETHING IS KILLING THE SHIT OUT OF EVERYBODY

It's described as being "like a wolf, yet not a wolf" and these people, they're shepherds, they see wolves ALL THE TIME, so if they say this thing WASN'T a wolf, I trust them. But the problem is, we don't know WHAT it was. Descriptions vary a LOT, probably owing to the people who saw it being terrified and trying to get away, combined with a typical "game of telephone" deal where the thing got changed each time someone told someone else about it, combined with people just lying and SAYING they'd said it, combined with the fact that if it was an exotic animal (more on that later) people just had no idea what they were looking at. But some fairly consistent traits are that it's BIG, it's got a long tail with a tuft, and it's a reddish color with a black-striped back and white underbelly.

Sounds like a tiger, right? That's a common theory. A lot of nobles kept zoos of exotic animals that peasants would never have seen before and have no reference for, so the fact it's a big furry predator on four legs was probably enough to make it "like a wolf but not a wolf" if it wasn't a bear (and we don't think it was a bear because people also knew what bears looked like) Some good candidates are a tiger for the aforementioned reasons, a lion (tufted tail, some drawings have a mane), and a hyena (wolf-like, has the bite force necessary for decapitation, as many of the corpses had the head removed from their bodies, another unusual feature)

So this thing just fucking runs around the countryside savaging peasants. And they can't do much about it because it's illegal for peasants to have guns. If you ever have to make an argument for the right to bear arms, bring up the Beast of Gevaudan, gurantee no one will see that coming!

Some peasants made do with what they had though. A group of boys managed to save their friend with, iirc, sharpened sticks, though they did not escape unscathed. One had his cheek basically TORN OFF, and as a result the king funded his education for the rest of his life, which was a big deal for a peasant boy who wouldn't ordinarily receive it. And a girl, Marie-Jeanne Valet, successfully fended it off with a homemade spear (she described the beast as a large dog) A statue still stands in her honor today.

Speaking of the King, the news about all this was reaching him. So he started sending out hunters and dragoons (a type of cavalry that would dismount to fight) to get the wolf. But, to no avail! They couldn't seem to kill it. And when they DID finally get a great big wolf, as well as a female wolf with unusually large pups that had traits not normally seen in wolves (ex: double dew claws, which some large dog breeds have, indicating wolfdog hybrids) the killings stopped for awhile. . .and then started again.

This became one of the first international news stories; other countries thought it was HILARIOUS that the King of France and all his men couldn't handle one little WOLF!

Eventually, it was brought down for good by a local hunter named Jean Chastel. Legend sprang up that the beast, which was said to be immune to ordinary bullets, had been felled by a bullet which had been made by melting down a medallion of the Virgin Mary. At the time, the fact it was killed by a holy icon was what was significant, as some people thought it was a werewolf and those were seen as creatures of the Devil at that time (rather than innocent people afflicted by a disease/curse as in modern media) but the fact the medallion was silver may be the source of the modern "silver bullet" myth which isn't from any real werewolf folklore and seems to be an invention of Hollywood.

The royal notary examined the animal after death and recorded in what is known as "The Marin Report" that "This animal which seemed to us to be a wolf; But extraordinary and very different by its figure and its proportions from the wolves that one sees in this country." and details a "monstrous head", unusual body proportions, aberrant morphological characteristics, and unusual fur colors. The report also includes the dental formula (number of molars, number of canines, etc) of the animal, which does seem to indicate a canid of some type. The report is preserved in The French National Archives.

So, this wasn't an unsubstantiated cryptid. It was pretty darn meticulously documented.

Unfortunately, photos didn't exist then, and by the time the corpse was taken to Versailles, it was so rotten and badly decayed that no one wanted anything to do with it, and it was in all likelihood dumped somewhere like garbage. I reckon everyone was just happy to be done with it.

While the beast was dead (or at the least, the attacks ceased) the speculation never has. Some people think it was just a big wolf or wolves, but like I said, I think these people knew what a wolf looked like. Other people think it was a wolfdog hybrid or family of such, which would account for the large size, unusual features, and lack of fear of humans. This, I think, is the most likely option. The escaped exotic animal is the next most likely imo; I remember that there's no records of. . .it was either of any such zoos themselves at the time or of no escapees, but like, if I was a noble and my tiger got out and it was eating people, I don't think I'd say anything.

Then there's more fringe theories. The werewolf thing, of course, but also the idea it was a conspiracy against the king, or some big political plot, often involving Chastel (the hunter who shot it) or his son, or that it was a serial killer dressed in animal skins, or a serial killer that had trained a dog to hunt with him as his method of killing. I...kind that pretty unlikely, just because I've never heard of a serial killer doing anything like that, like using an animal is just not 'intimate' in the way serial killers seem to like to be? But I'm no expert.

My PERSONAL favorite Unlikely Fringe Theory is that it was a mesonychid. See, some descriptions of the Beast claimed it had hooves. And while no modern carnivore has hooves, there is a prehistoric class of carnivores called mesonychids who are often described as "wolves with hooves" and whose appearance---monstrous head, longer tail---do match up pretty well with a lot of accounts.

Now, is it likely that a breeding population of huge prehistoric predators just...survived THAT long into the present and just NEVER got noticed by humans except this ONE time, and no other remains to indicate their survival have ever turned up? Yeah, no. But I really like the idea! That and the werewolf are my FAVORITE options, but in all likelihood it was a wolfdog(s) or escaped exotic.

[spiders-hth-is-an-outlier]

Okay, this may come off sounding overly Buffypilled, but I think the fatal flaw that keeps preventing the pieces from coming together in SyFy's The Magicians (a show that is often good in its elements but Does Not Cohere) is that it can't figure out the nature of its core metaphor around magic.

But Milo, you say, maybe not everything has to be like, a metaphor? Maybe it can just be a fantasy show where people cast spells and bop around between dimensions because it's fun and entertaining? And to that I say, yeah, theoretically it can be that, but stuff that wants to be emotionally resonant is usually not that.

So there's typically an operative metaphor to these things, an idea that gives structure to the supernatural elements and helps us understand what's going on thematically. So like in Buffy and Supernatural, the structuring metaphor is The Pleasant-Seeming World Vs The Monsters Below Us. You understand the story by locating various characters in terms of their role in the conflict -- predators, protectors, prey -- and there's an ongoing tension around whether or not it's okay for protectors to dabble too much in Monstrosity, if the powers and tactics of the Monstrous can ever be repurposed for good.

That's not the structure of all stories, even in that genre! Teen Wolf and Harry Potter both have "secret occult world parallel to the familiar one" premises, as does The Magicians, but none of those stories impose the predator/prey metaphor onto their worlds. Teen Wolf structures its metaphors around the opposite assumption: that the supernatural element (The Wolf) is inherently neutral, and that accessing it makes characters simultaneously more dangerous and more capable of good. Hunters are bad guys in that universe, but good guys in Buffy and SPN, because the audience understands that "magic" is carrying a different set of meanings in the different stories, right?

The novels that The Magicians is based on has an extremely clear and pointed perspective on the meaning that magic carries metaphorically, and it's a positive meaning. Magic stands in for the power to make sense and meaning out of your own life, which is why the books follow Quentin's process from being a frustrated child using escapist child-stories to distract himself to playing an active role within those stories to assuming authority as a Magician King to ultimately killing the god of his childhood fantasy stories and creating his own Magician's Land to explore. Gaining more magic is always good in the books; it makes Quentin more sure of himself and the world, and it makes him more able to change it. It's an obvious metaphor for evolving over his 20s from a child who consumes stories to an adult who tells his own story.

But that's not the case in the show. A significant percentage of the show is an argument with itself about what magic even is -- does it solve problems or create them? If it's the reason lives across the multiverse are constantly at risk, is that bad? It sounds bad! But it's also power, and the show is highly sympathetic to the desire to Have More Power -- often completely divorced from the purpose or use of power. Gods seem mostly terrible, except Persephone, who's right to give Julia divine power, which we want Julia to be able to keep? But why do we want Julia to be a god? They're terrible! It's not clear. The nature of the power isn't clear, but the show has a general bias toward more power being a good thing -- except that the Library clearly has too much power, and so probably does Brakebills, both of which withhold magic for purposes that are protective or elitist or both? The show advocates for fewer restrictions on magic, but it also shows total carnage resulting from minor fuckups with magic, so -- does it really want the Library to just throw open to the floodgates? Doesn't it pretty strongly imply that a bloodbath would ensue if people had unfettered access to magic?

I realize it kind of sounds like I'm saying complicated stories with conflicting perspectives are bad, but I'm not. I just think it's difficult to know how to feel about anything that happens in the show because of this extremely loose approach to its use of themes. Alice is presented as wrong and bad when she tries to stifle magic, because the other characters like magic, but is she wrong? Why is she wrong? Why do the other characters like magic so much? It's presented as something that provides -- meaning or joy or some quasi-spiritual sense of identity ("the secret heart of who you always were"), but the show doesn't actually make that case, it doesn't demonstrate that the characters are better or happier because they're Magicians -- not in the same clear way that Scott McCall or book!Quentin are demonstrably more confident and comfortable and wiser at the end of their stories than they were at the beginning. As many times as I've watched The Magicians, I have to say I get less convinced every time that any of them benefit much from being Magicians -- and yet the story itself seems sure that they do, that magic has inherent value of some kind.

That's a weird combination, and it leaves me with the uncomfortable sense that the addiction metaphor is the one the show is fleshing out most fully. Fogg offers Quentin magic in exchange for his pills. Julia can't access magic legally and immediately behaves exactly like a junkie. If you do too much you'll be consumed, leaving an angry ghost. Kady's literal substance abuse, like Fogg's, is entwined at every step with the struggle to cope with the traumas of magic. Eliot is possessed by a creature of enormous magical power who is enthralled by the sensation of being high and has no perception of limits or consequence. They go back and back again to this entangling of magic and intoxication and addiction and self-destruction, but they never seem either aware of or willing to admit that they've created a world where magic itself is an addictive intoxicant, unable to provide real solutions to anyone's problems, but just pleasurable enough compared to the pain of sobriety to keep people chasing the sensation right over the cliff.

It's not intentional enough to be a metaphor that carries through consistently and explains everything, but it returns so frequently as a subtext that it ends up seeping into all the gaps where they've refused to show up with any other clear thematic agenda.

[slutforstabbings-archive]

Clean Again

Chapter 12: THORNS read on AO3 | previous chapter | tumblr chapter index make sure to check AO3 for this fic's playlist and other extras! Corey comes down... general warnings for this fic - angst, fluff, eventual smut (MDNI), canon-typical violence, canon-typical gore contents/warnings for this chapter - oops! all angst 3,397 words @rebel-blue @heartrot666 @wolvesandvampires @cordelium @toxicanonymity @multifandom--mess @hersweetrevenge @futurewife @yllcm @ethanhoewke dm me or reply to this post to be added to the tag list 💕

Your car will never be a show car. While it's in impressively good shape for its age, and people often express surprise about its condition, there has been no blobject renaissance. Cute cars from the era of soft shapes are firmly out. Nobody is desperately searching for a PT Cruiser. But you love your little jelly bean to death, and for years it’s been a thorn in your side that the first thing you did at 16 upon being given full control is switch the radio out. 

You just had to have a CD player and an aux port for your iPod, the cassette converter thingy wasn’t good enough for you. The aftermarket radio wound up looking dumb, the design severely clashing with the rest of the car’s knobs and gauges, and the CD player skipped at every tiny pothole and rock you drove over. It’s exceedingly low priority – you’ve been dealing with it so long that most days you don’t even notice, and in the grand scheme of things it doesn’t matter much at all – but for a while you've been set on reinstalling the factory radio someday.

You told Corey this early on, just in passing. You had no reason to think that he had internalized it. You didn’t realize at the time how Corey held onto things, good, bad, and neutral, with white knuckles in his heart. So, unbeknownst to you, he’s been looking for the right radio ever since. Now you sit in the backseat watching him disconnect the aftermarket radio’s wiring harness, half of your dashboard piled up in the driver's seat. You still haven't talked to him about the birthday thing. 

The drive home Wednesday night was quiet, just the road noise and the local college radio station turned low. Corey slumped against the passenger window with glazed eyes. When you glanced over at him, it seemed like he was barely there. You cursed yourself for thinking he could handle the hotbox, feeling bad because you knew it probably made his anxiety worse instead of better, and annoyed because you needed to talk to him about this birthday bullshit, but he was already going to be bummed out from the comedown. How hard would it have been for you to suggest snuffing out the joint as soon as you started to notice Corey getting wobbly? Of course not passing it to him wasn’t enough when the entire car was one swirling cloud. 

When you got home he was even clingier than normal, stalking you through your apartment with hunched shoulders until you sat on the couch and patted your thighs, beckoning him to come lay his head in your lap. 

That was when the floodgates opened. He must've been even worse off than you had thought, he didn't seem to have come down much at all yet. He was confused about why it was so different from last time, and reassurances that it was normal did nothing to quell his building panic. Despite your best effort to get him to resist, he followed the paranoia all the way down the rabbit hole, worrying that the joint was spiked, that Veronica had mixed something else with the weed, that she hated him, that he’d feel weird for the rest of his life. 

“Will you still love me if I feel this weird forever?” He asked, like he’d already been devastated by the answer.

“You’re not going to feel weird forever, Corey.” 

“But would you love me if I did?”

“I’d love you no matter what.” 

“No, you wouldn’t,” he insisted with tears in his eyes.

Like the night you watched The Lobster, you suddenly felt like you weren't really talking about him being stoned forever. Self-inflicted, you thought, and your annoyance settled into guilt.  

You swept your hand over his forehead, brushing his curls back. “I would.”  

You finally convinced him that he'd feel better if he took a shower. When he got out, you were lying in bed on your back, staring up at the ceiling. How had you let yourself make it this far without knowing his birthday? How could you miss such a big gap in your basic knowledge of him? And the date had come and gone since you met him! Did he say something and you just forgot? Are you a terrible girlfriend? 

Corey came into the room in his boxers, his skin still hot and pink, his hair towel dried. He curled up next to you with his head on your chest, and before you could say anything to him at all, he was asleep.

It feels like a rain cloud following you around. It's only been a couple days, but the window is closing, the problem edging closer and closer to being something you have to just let go. And you've considered letting it go. You're not mad at him, he doesn't seem to even realize you didn't know, and now you do know. The weak, sad version of you that stayed with Orin so long, that took forever to break things off with Hurley, certainly would have left it alone. But that feels like a regression. There just hasn't been a good time to bring it up yet. 

And now isn't a good time either. You've established a precedent, beginning all those weeks ago when he came to fix your sewing machine – you let him work in silence. If either of you speaks, it's always him who initiates, explaining what he’s doing, asking you to reposition the flashlight, giving you instructions for a task that requires more delicate fingers than his. It must be more than 100 degrees in the car, but the sweat that beads your forehead isn’t from the heat.

In front of you, Corey’s already securing the radio cage back into the dash, wordlessly reaching between the seats for you to hand him the screws one by one. The humidity turns his hair into a frizzy halo all around his head. You know he’s no angel, but his presence in your life feels like such a blessing, and while you might not be angry, the conversation will still be a confrontation. You’re terrified of pushing him away, scaring him off, like taking a step too quickly towards a backyard deer you want to eat out of your hand. If you’re not careful he’ll startle, bolting back into the woods, and you’ll be left standing there alone with a handful of wasted oats. He snaps the last piece of your dashboard into place, then rotates to look at you.

“Moment of truth,” he says. “Keys?”

You hand him your keys and he cranks the engine. Blue-green digits appear on the display. He clicks the radio’s power button and the speakers hum lowly with static. He spins the knob back and forth and the volume rises and falls. He presses a few of the other buttons, making sure the functions of all the rainbow wires he twisted together are present and accounted for, then he sets your clock and station presets for you.

"All good," he announces. 

"Yay!" You exclaim. "It's so nice to have her back to her original glory. I can't wait to start buying tapes from work. Thank you so much, Corey." You lean forward over the center console to give him a gentle, lingering kiss.

"No problem." He clears his throat.

"How did you find it anyway?" 

"I had some alerts set on parts websites. I almost had it a couple times but I kept losing it. Auction ending while I was at work, shit like that. I had to fight for this one. Like, I got in a bidding fight for it." 

You sense an opening. It’s not a good one, but you take it before you can change your mind. “I guess Madame Veronica was right,” you say. 

“What do you mean?” Corey asks.

“The shit she said about Aries. They like a challenge and fight for their loved ones or whatever.” 

He just looks at you and shakes his head no.

“Do you remember that conversation at all?” You ask. “You were pretty far gone.”

“It’s all fuzzy. She complimented Dad’s ring. I got a sandwich. The bathroom was really clean.” He shrugs.

Fuck, you think, somehow both disappointed and relieved. If he doesn’t remember then maybe… Maybe it actually would be okay to just let it go. Maybe it isn’t regression. The old you avoided conflict for your own sake, because you didn’t want to make yourself feel bad. But this isn’t that. This is a conflict you want to avoid for Corey’s sake. Do you really need to ask him why he didn’t tell you his birthday? The only people who don’t get excited about their birthday are people who were never celebrated enough, and people who wish they were never born in the first place. The implication makes your heart ache. What could you gain from the conversation that you don’t already know? Why hurt him needlessly? 

“Yeah. I’m so sorry about that. When you have a higher tolerance you don’t realize how much it can fuck somebody else up if they don’t have a tolerance at all. You don’t remember what happened when we got home either?” 

He shakes his head again. That settles it. If he doesn’t know how badly he spiraled, his overall impression of the night is probably pretty good, right? Why soil what little he remembers with a question that will feel like an accusation, no matter how much you insist it’s not? 

“Well, what happened?” 

“I got you to take a shower to sober up, but you didn’t sober up at all, you just rolled straight out of the shower and into bed. Out like a light.” 

Corey chuckles and it makes you giggle. Your giggle makes him laugh harder. His wide, dimpled smile floods you with affection. You crane over the center console to kiss him again, turning his laughter into a buzzing sound inside his face. The commercial block on the radio ends and the station identifies itself over the sparkling acoustic guitar of a late 90’s bubblegum pop hit. The song is cheesy, but the sentiment resonates. Would you love him, no matter what? I would.

You kiss him until the song ends. His face is damp and shiny when you pull away. 

“Let’s go inside,” you say. “It’s way too fucking hot out here.” 

Not long after you go inside, the sky turns a menacing gray, any trace of the sun blotted out. You hear distant thunder like a giant’s stomach rumbling, just as fat raindrops start to splash against the windows. You turn off all the lights in favor of a hoard of candles and the glow of the TV. Corey lays on the couch and you tangle yourself in his legs, settling in to play Smash Bros until your thumbs go numb. You’re extremely impressed with how good he’s gotten, and how quickly, but you’re far too competitive to allow the student to surpass the master, his every skill increase prompting one for you too. Almost every match goes into sudden death. When you can’t take another tie, you blow out all the candles and drag him off to bed.

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

Corey wasn’t completely honest with you about what he remembers from Wednesday night. He didn’t quite lie, but he left something out, more of an impression than a memory. The impression that Veronica is a severe threat, well beyond the level of any other person in his life. 

The impression that she’s more dangerous than Phil and Joanna, who don’t understand the internet and have helped him enough to be implicated should anything happen, more dangerous than his boss Will, who only pays half of his employees the way the government requires him to and would have to answer for all the taxes he and Corey haven’t paid. The impression that she’s more dangerous than even you, the person most sure of the good inside him, but with the most information to damn him, and the best chance of convincing a DA that he manipulated you into protecting him, blinding you with gifts and acts of service. The impression that Veronica could, would, and will destroy everything he's worked so hard for. It's only a matter of when. 

That timer has been ticking since the first fateful day at the library, but the countdown has accelerated now, and will only keep getting faster, without the gravity of a looming first meeting weighing it down. He felt pressured to say yes to Veronica's joint without the reasonable protest of pot being illegal, and he senses he'll feel pressured to say yes to more and more social outings without the reasonable protest of not liking new people. But she's not new anymore, you'll say, batting your pretty puppy eyes. And Corey will have no choice but to follow you to his own undoing. 

In the dark he pulls you closer, wishing desperately that there was a way to have you all to himself. 

Corey’s intuition that meeting Veronica had broken the barrier between your time with him and the rest of your social calendar proves true two weeks later. He’s in the kitchen, cleaning up the dinner dishes when he hears you answer a phone call. He freezes in place, fork resting against the half-scraped plate he holds over the trash can.

“No, I’m not busy… Right now? Yeah I can… Yeah, he’s here… Okay, I’ll offer those suggestions, haha… Alright, see you in 15. Love you!” 

He’s still standing hunched over the garbage, paused mid-scrape when you come into the kitchen. 

“Are you okay?” You ask, noticing his unnatural posture.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he says, resuming his task and trying not to panic. “Who were you talking to?”

“Rose. She needs some pants hemmed and she wanted to know if she could bring them by tonight. I told her it was okay, she said she understands if you just wanna stay in a different room while she’s here. I have to mark where the hem should be while she’s wearing the pants, but that should only take like 10 minutes.” 

Corey puts the dishes in the sink, very careful not to set them down with too much force, despite the fact that he wants to shatter them on the ground. “That’s fine,” he says.

“Are you sure? I can call her back and tell her to come a different time, or I can run over to her house instead and you can stay here, or sit in the car?”

He weighs his options. There was something you said once. Veronica is a pill, but Rose’s name suits her well. Which means that the consequences of refusing to meet or engage with her are probably minimal, that he can put off the inevitable for a day when he’s more prepared. That is, unless it gets back to Veronica that he avoided Rose. She would certainly think that reflected badly on him. And Rose allegedly being a sweetheart also means she could be an asset, a second sympathetic voice in chorus with yours. Veronica hearing that he agreed to meet her, having her vouch for him… This could be the one time meeting a new person is a good idea. If he never has to be in a position like this again, it would be too fucking soon. 

“It’s fine,” he affirms.

You come around the island to wrap your arms around him, smooching him all over his face. “Thank you, baby,” you murmur in his ear between kisses. 

Baby. The word dissolves his bones, turning him into a puddle at your feet. It’s only the second time you’ve ever called him that, and this time it isn’t mocking like it was when he struggled to hit the bong. This time you mean it. God, he is so fucked. No matter what happens from now on, he’s doomed, he’s damned, he’s absolutely, completely, irreparably fucked. But being torn apart by police dogs, giving the existing bullet hole in his window 1000 new friends in a shootout that he’s destined to lose, even life without parole would be worth it to hear you call him baby.  Stupid, lovesick bastard. 

When Rose arrives, Corey is sitting at the dining room table. 

“Hi, Corey! How are you tonight?” She asks like they're old friends. Her arms are loaded with fabric.

“Uh…Okay, and you?” He responds, caught off guard by just how different she already seems from Veronica. 

“I’m great! I’m so stoked for these pants to finally be the right length. Our girl over here is like a wizard, my clothes always come out so good when she fixes them.”

“Oh, stop,” you say, coming into the room with the step stool from the kitchen. 

"No, she's right. You always do a good job," he agrees. 

Rose goes down the hall to the bathroom, changes into one of the pairs of pants, and comes out to stand on the step stool. The three of you chat while you orbit around her feet with a pin cushion on your wrist, then she hops down to repeat the process. Corey’s shocked to find he enjoys the conversation. Even as it drains him to have his facade of normality tested like this, Rose is a soothing presence and he finds a sort of ease. It’s been so long since he’s done it, it takes him a minute to realize — this is what making a new friend feels like. Of course, any sense of calm Corey feels can only ever be short lived.

"Are you joining us for the bonfire, Corey?" Rose looks over her shoulder to address him as you pin the final pair of pants.

“What bonfire?” he asks. 

“We haven’t talked about it yet,” you say.

“Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to spring it on you." She looks between you, apologetic frown on her face.

“No, don’t worry about it.”

“What bonfire?” Corey asks again. 

“The annual Plymouth Records Summer Solstice bonfire,” you explain. “The store is closed that day and we all have a big party at the owner Gordon’s parents’ house. Is it his parents or maybe his aunt and uncle..?”  

“I think it’s his uncle,” Rose says.

“Right, it’s Gordon’s uncle’s house and it’s a big mansion on a bunch of acres in the middle of nowhere, and like, everybody in the scene comes and we just celebrate the longest day of the year.”

“It’s always a great time. This year Drew’s renting a smoker and everyone else is bringing meat and veggies for it! Who doesn’t love barbecue?”

Corey does love barbecue, but there is no food on Earth delicious enough to make him excited for a party in a mansion with all of your coworkers and God knows who else. He can see it now, one person stumbling up to him, insisting they know each other from somewhere. Another overhearing and joining in the guessing game. He does look awfully familiar. Everyone in the whole house studying his face and whispering suggestions into each other’s ears until a blood curdling scream cuts through all the noise and 100 fingers point at him. That’s the guy that killed that kid! He didn’t just kill a kid, he killed his own mother! How convenient to have a violent mob descend on him at a bonfire. All they’ll need to do is find a stake. 

Rose leaves to change again. 

“I’m sorry, Corey,” you say. “I didn’t want to present it to you like that.”

“Can we talk about it later?” 

“Of course.”

A door down the hallway opens. Rose returns in the outfit she came in, and hands you the pants you’d pinned, folded into a neat stack. The vibe is awkward now. She doesn’t stick around.

“Well, y’all have a good night. It was nice to meet you, Corey.”  

“You too,” he says. 

And it was. It’s not her fault wanted killers and backyard parties don’t mix. He just hopes that he was right about the protection being in her good graces might afford him. Clearly, he’s going to need it. She waves as she slips out the door. You close it behind her and flip the deadbolt lock into place for the night.

[poetryinsilence]

Yeah fluff is great and all but what about blood and all?👀 I’m putting dom!Corey in a pedestal cuz the extended cut is what my entire one brain cell is filled with. sue me. the speed at which i wrote this terrifies me

🚨general warnings: blood and kill and all that stuff, uh, gaslighting.

Let’s go, me blorbos!

Isn’t it pretty? The colour of blood? How it runs down someone’s throat and bathe them in a new light?

Corey used to be scared- scared of the shade because it brings a warning sign. An alert that he had done something bad and the suffering of consequences are waiting for him.

Cuts used to make him squirm. Seeing flesh being torn open and soft, stringy tendons pulsate with each beat of the drum would have him hurled over and vomit. Even just the thought of it would make him sick.

Ever since the incident with Jeremy, he was- no, he accepted the fact that sometimes a drop of blood is necessary. Sometimes reopening a cut is necessary.

Killing the people around you is necessary.

However, you digress.

“You said that he was bothering you, and you wanted to get away from him. So, how am I in the wrong for helping you with your troubles?”

“I never said that! All I did was just complained about work. But, you! You straight up murdered a guy!”

“I helped you! You were stressing out and it hurts me to see you like this. He wasn’t a good guy anyway. All those secret texts that he tried to hide thinking no one’s gonna find out,” he laughs, dryly. “ No one’s gonna miss that sad sod anyway.”

“No, that wasn’t suppose to happen… You can’t take people’s lives away! It’s not for you to decide!”

But that’s where you’re wrong. You see, Corey thought the same at first. Killing is wrong. But the reason behind his killing were right. Those people were not good people. They had their own dirty little secrets; doing things that were only beneficial to no one but themselves. No, he was doing a world a favour. Even if they don’t agree with him.

He know the rights and the wrongs. Unlike Michael Myres that kills only for his amusement. Chasing the thrill of seeing the light flicker out from a person’s eyes. But what purpose does that entail? Nothing.

Corey kills for the right reason. There’s no thrill for him in ending someone’s life. The first time he killed someone he was so nervous that he threw up right after. But when he convinced himself that he’s simply taking a problem out of the equation, everything felt serene. The glide of the knife justifies everything. After that, each drop of blood fills him with content- that he was at peace with the colour red.

He was hoping you could see that. What he’s doing is right. Even if you can’t, he’ll teach you. Yes, by then, you’ll see what he sees.

“Corey, I can’t do this…”

“What are you talking about?”

“…I think we need to take some time-“

“No,”

“I’m sorry…”

Time? ‘We need to take some time’? The final thread in his brain snapped and fills him with the missing anger that he was supposed to feel. The floodgates open to the gushing of red. Yes, red. His love for you is as deep as blood, the corpses that have shed could not testify how much he loves you. You’re his.

His hand wraps around you wrist, and in the silent protest, you felt a pop of bones detach from its connection. To much of your horror, your back was met with bare walls and air exhumes from your lungs with a deadly force. Screams were stifled by his hand grip tightly around the base of your neck, the pressure digging in with each seeping blood flow. Your eyes red and tear brimmed as you could only gaze at him in shock, kicking to grasp onto gravity.

What draws your blood cold isn’t the malicious intent written across his face. There is, no nefarious glare deep within his eyes. And that’s what terrifies you. What he gave, was a boyish smile, and a playful giggle that you’d normally hear that surrounds your house on a typical Friday evening.

“I don’t think you heard me clearly. I’m not asking, I’m telling you. You’re not going anywhere. You’re mine.”

[olderthannetfic]

About the fandom racism thing

Didn't ao3 just implemented a usar block feature? Like, that's gotta help, right?

Also, I do think some overtly and explicitly racist fics could be tagged by the system itself with the Racism tag, since the writer itself would never do it otherwise (I feel like it's very easy to spot when a fic is dealing critically with racism or depicting it as the horrible thing it is and one in which is glorified and in-your-face)

Then the content could be more easily ignored but wouldn't have to be banned

--

That other anon was blatantly talking about content policy, not block and mute features, but yes.

It kills me how many different people have come up to me with the bright idea to open the floodgates to bullying. Before you propose a feature where we tag other people's fics for racism, take two seconds to think about how this will play out in practice.

Scenario 1: It's user tagging based, so someone with 100k followers on twitter sics their minions on fics of their NOTP.

Scenario 2: AO3 enforces this itself, so 3 white Americans who happen to have volunteered to be on the Abuse committee scratch their heads over a reported fic.

Admittedly, IDK who's on committees currently or what their backgrounds are, but with the absolutely tiny staff AO3 has always had relative to the size and popularity of the archive, scenario 2 is not only possible but likely. 2 will go less poorly than 1, but it's still a recipe for disaster.

But okay, I'll bite: which fics specifically should be tagged? Can you point to some that aren't strawmen and that also aren't widely known to suck within ten seconds of them being posted (like sad plantation owner Castiel)?

I'm sure microaggressions are legion, but those won't be solved with this warning. Muting their authors is the answer to that, and it's only a matter of time before AO3 implements the rest of the blocking and muting features.

(I feel like it's very easy to spot when a fic is dealing critically with racism or depicting it as the horrible thing it is and one in which is glorified and in-your-face)

Then you're a fool.

The level of reading comprehension displayed in the typical internet comments section should tell you all you need to know about this assumption.

People are incompetent writers. People are incompetent readers. AO3 is full of EFL fans. Fandom is full of people from all over the world who understand identity and bigotry differently.

Go look at Captive Prince Discourse and then tell me that bullshit with a straight face.

Your average internet denizen can't even understand the concept of a pan-Mediterranean identity that contrasts with an Anglo or Northwestern European identity and how that might matter to the Australian author of Captive Prince. There is no hope that people will be able to pass any kind of consistent judgment on incomprehensible first drafts on AO3.

[merakiui]

Helloooo! My first time participating in one of these ask games, I couldn’t resist!

1. Seaglass! I ADORE the tweels in there, and while I haven’t read it in a whiiile, I love how unsettling and quiet the scenes are! They’re so strange and scary, but I can’t resist reading more and more— but one scene that stuck with me the most was waking up, the way you wrote of the body and the blood and the pain, I ADORE IT!

7. Probably DRU! Before stumbling upon your blog, I’d just gotten through a little obsession with a fic called Bloodlust (on ao3, by a user named F_Smutt_Fitzgerald), and I was head over heels for contrast of calm and chaotic/“savage” (not really sure what to call it), and while Jade doesn’t exactly fit into that little box, the thought of such a calm and composed character having such a side to him blew my mind, and lord I am thankful for it.

9. MOONBROCH (seaglass 2, if my memory isn’t messin with me again)! I’m so ready for it, and jumped to the poll you posted as soon as I saw it on there. Was a bit sad to see it didn’t win, but I’ll wait as long as needed for it 🙏 anything for Moonbroch!

11. More Jamil! Me and a friend love him, and while he shares a bit of similarity to Jade (the j’s strong together hehe), I find that he’s more normal. He certainly isn’t as infamous as the more courteous fish mafia member, and since Azul’s established the livestream was really just a call to Kalim and the likes, his reputation isn’t even ruined. He’s just an outstanding babysitter to the rest of NRC, which leaves much more room for deception and shenanigans >:]

12. Many! One I didn’t expect to read as much as I did was Rollo’s letters in your Lunar Love Hotel event. I don’t really like Rollo’s design (his bowl cut is too funny for me to thirst over him), but how you wrote him was AMAZING. Reignited my love for characters who know what they’re doing is bad, but can’t resist. A tear of morality and desire, which I adore so much!

13. Yes!! I adore your writing, and often talk to some of my writing friends about your works. Originally, I found your blog surfing tumblr with a friend (I’m a born n bred Floyd lover, and you definitely supplied), and have been sharing it with a few friends since!

14. Probably Sugar Dew Sewn Anew. I typically don’t read about Rook or anyone I don’t already like, but I loved how you wrote him and the scene! Unsettling, can’t-quite-place-them characters have my heart, and I love some good ole depiction of artistry and the reader’s artistic process.

I loved filling this out though, thank you for writing and sharing it. Wishing you well, and hope you have a wonderful day today!

(Also, could I be “Lionfish anon”? The floodgates of my mind are opening & I’m hoping to linger in your asks more!)

(ask game)

Hello, Lionfish anon!!! It's so nice to meet you!!! I look forward to hearing more from you!! Please feel free to linger in my inbox to your heart's content hehe!! >w< and please allow me to happily ramble my responses!!!

Sea Glass!!!! Yes, 'quiet' is the perfect way to describe it!!! I wanted to portray this feeling of quiet unrest in the fic. There's a dreadful peacefulness to the beginning scenes, but once the reader becomes entangled in a scheme that has been in the works for years things begin to feel so suffocating!! The tweels are absolute menaces in that fic. I'm glad you could enjoy them and the way I described the murder scene! I wanted to write it in a way that was so visceral you couldn't tear your eyes away. The entire plot came to me when I had the thought: what if Reader was the one who did the killing and the yandere holds that over their head? And thank you for looking forward to Moonbroch!!!! It's definitely going to be a wild sequel. >:)

After reading your ask, I went and binged "Bloodlust" right away and oooooo it did not disappoint! It hurt me in the best ways. >_< reading about Floyd grappling with his own monstrous whims and the desire to either hurt or help Shrimpy... it was so good. The emotions and feelings were written so powerfully. Azul's cover-up scheme... and Jade!!!!! GOSH. T_T the ending left me in horrified awe. Poor Shrimpy... the eels are the worst, aren't they? ;;;; I'm glad that DRU can evoke similar emotions in you!! I also love the contrast of composed and calm with secretly sinister and brutal. Jade fits into that trope so wonderfully!! I love writing about his secret sides as a serial killer. He's terrifying. <3

Oooo yes yes!!! I definitely want to write more for Jamil. The J's are indeed stronger together hehe lol!! Along with your points, I also find that Jamil is far more outwardly trustworthy and reliable. When compared to Octavinelle, whose reputations are all quite iffy, Jamil has this safety about him that makes you more prone to trusting him. I think that makes it easier for him to deceive you. He always downplays his own capabilities. He's really just a servant, or so he says, but the truth is that there is much more to Jamil than meets the eye... There is so much room for lots of devious shenanigans!!! I hope to write it more often!

AAAAA YAAAYY!!! It is my duty to spread the Rollo agenda!!! ( `･ω･´)9 I'm so happy you enjoyed that fic!! Writing in first-person letter format was very fun!! I love it when characters struggle with moral dilemmas and even go through with their terrible actions despite being aware that it's wrong. Rollo is perfect for that sort of character type!! I loved writing him continuously reassuring himself and the reader that he's so patient and logical and righteous when he's actually none of those things and is just a depraved, perverted stalker. I'm also glad you liked 11:11!!!! Rook's character is so perfect for so many yandere tropes, and I wanted to capture just a fraction of his off-putting creepiness. He's so unsettling, especially when written in a setting as isolating as a cabin in the woods. ;;;;

Omg I'm very flattered and honored to know that you have shared my writing!!! T^T <3 thank you for discussing it with others!! I hope to provide more yummy Floyd food for your enjoyment as I am also an avid Floyd enjoyer hehe!! I know I may have written it many times, but I truly am so grateful to read your kind message!!! Thank you for sharing your thoughts on my stories and for always reading and enjoying them!!! I am sending you lots of love and good, happy vibes, lovely Lionfish anon!!!!!!! ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭ ੈ♡‧₊˚

[bloomeng]

I find the debate surrounding Alhaitham’s mischaracterization interesting because it’s not so simple as he is or isn’t the traits he’s accused of (and thus defended against). I see a cycle of him being accused of three main negative traits, arrogance, a lack of of empathy, and self centered-ness, and then a rise of backlash explaining why he’s none of these things. And while I typically agree with the sentiment, I often feel the people defending him overlook why he gets called these things in the first place. So for the sake of my own sanity I broke down these three main traits.

Arrogant:

Alhaitham lives humbly. Despite having a good job he doesn’t spend money frivolously and his main hobby, reading, seems like the only real outlet for extra spending. It’s often assumed that he covers Kaveh’s expenses, though we don’t actually have real confirmation on this (I believe), but it can be assumed that he could if need be. Point is he has money but isn’t concerned with flaunting wealth.

Alhaitham does however have a very blunt attitude and aloof nature that usually leads people to believe they’re being judged, which they are to a normal degree. He certainly has opinions on the things he witnesses, but he doesn’t really treat others differently based on his beliefs. He believes he knows better not that he is better. Arrogance requires you to believe you are fundamentally above others. So, no he’s not arrogant in that way.

Alhaitham might be considered arrogant in the sense that he does ultimately value his own opinions over others. He admits that correctness isn’t always the most important thing but he remains exceedingly confident in his own opinions. I’d say even more confident than most shown in how unshakable his beliefs tend to be. Which yes, could be a form of arrogance, but it’s more that he’s excessively definitive in his judgement. It understandable how others assume him to be arrogant because of this but according to him it’s something that he perceives as neutral and others just take it personally. It’s not that you’re wrong and you have to know that, it’s more that he’s right and you asked so now you’ve opened the floodgates. It’s important to note that he really only shares if prompted, a fact that I think is criminally overlooked due to Kaveh. (Kaveh is and will always be an exception.)

TLDR: haitham doesn’t think he’s better than you but he will assume that’s he’s right

Not empathetic:

This one I think is sorta dumb because he clearly goes out to his way to help people because he thinks it’s the right thing to do. Sure he claims to only do things that benefit him but that’s so clearly unreliable. I think he’s overly rational so if he believes he can’t help he just minds his own business, but if he can help he tends to.

I think his bluntness definitely comes off as mean regardless of his intention. Except his bluntness is a conscious choice considering that during the Archon Quest in Aaru Village he was very in tune with the villagers’ emotions. He can be polite when he wants to be, it’s just that most of the time he thinks it’s not worth it. It comes down to his own value in honesty. Doesn’t make his bluntness less mean, but he’s not not aware of other people’s feelings. He also doesn’t show emotion the same way others do, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t have them.

He’s the normal amount of empathetic (obviously normal is subjective bc really what is the normal amount of empathy), though I think he’s more driven than most to enact change.

TLDR: next to kaveh everyone looks they’re a dick

Self-Centered:

I’ve done a lot of debunking so far but this one… this one I have to partly agree with, but not for the obvious reasons. Partly is the operative word here.

Starting off, being self centered is not the same thing as vanity or selfishness. There’s overlap, but to center yourself is to center your needs over the needs of others. So to accuse someone of being self centered is to accuse them of being excessively concerned with only themselves. (sorry for the obvious break down of the definition, but the technicalities will be relevant in a second) To that extreme I don’t consider Haitham to be self centered.

However, he does share some qualities of self centered-ness, because well… he really hasn’t had to share much in life.

Haitham is an only child raised by his grandmother who was a famous scholar, who was assumedly well-off. He went to school, performed well, and now has a high paying job. Before Kaveh he lived alone, and he’s anti-social so he doesn’t really have a lot of friends at least not in the traditional sense. Basically what I’m getting at is that on a day to day basis he has never had to consider other people’s comfort. His background tells us he’s never needed to be anything but self centered in his mundane life, something we see in the way he navigates his current life in a now shared house.

A good example is Kaveh wanting to hang up art. Now of course it’s technically Haitham’s house, however if Kaveh is paying rent (which he supposedly is) it makes sense that he should be allowed to. Disregarding Kaveh’s fault for a sec, Haitham is uncompromising in his refusal to allow Kaveh to decorate their home. It’s not as if it would hurt him, in fact I think Kaveh feeling more at home in the space is debatably more important in this particular debate. But Haitham has never had to live with someone before and thus seems to not understand how to sacrifice small comforts for the sake of Kaveh’s feelings.

And that I think is the key; Alhaitham is a bit self centered because he doesn’t want to sacrifice small comforts. It’s the same reason he leaves his books all over the place, but then refuses to explain to Kaveh what his system is. It’s not that he lacks the communication skills here, he just doesn’t want to explain, which yes centers himself. It doesn’t make him, or anyone for that matter, a “bad person” it’s just a weak area.

On a greater scale I don’t think he’s selfish or even thinking of just himself. I do believe him that part of the reason he formulated “the plan”was to ensure he could have a good life, but it’s pretty obvious that it wasn’t the sole reason. I think he’s just a logical person so that’s how he justifies it to himself, because admitting it was an irrational emotional thing would complicate things.

TLDR: haitham doesn’t know how to compromise and that makes him a little self centered

This is all my own interpretation of course. There may be things I’ve missed but this is sorta my own guide on how to characterize Haitham. You’re free to disagree or even make him ooc. Do whatever I’m not the Alhaitham police.

TLDR of the whole thread: he may not be as much of an asshole as people accuse him of being but there’s still a reason he has a reputation for being one.

[overdevelopedglasses]

hey maybe i’m too late but if you still want to answer the fic writer asks, then 2, 16, and 18!

It's not too late! It's typically never too late for these, but after a while you'll have to remind me about what set of questions you're asking about :P

2. Do you read/reread your own fics?

Sometimes I do, yeah! Typically after its been a while since I had worked with it, bc I read it a whole lot while editing, but I've definitely reread some of my Tojoctober stories a couple times

16. At what point in the process do you come up with titles?

The titles just kinda.... come to me? Either right at the start, during writing, or the last thing I think of, it really doesn't matter. For reference, Specter was pretty immediate in terms of a title, and 2/5 current WIPs have titles rn

18. What’s one of your favorite lines you’ve written in a fic?

Ohhhhhhh shit that's a hard one! Ya know what, I'm feeling like a good time, so here's a line (or a segment, more so) from each fic, Post Tojoctober :)

“Ohgodwheredafuckdiditgo." Majima said, spinning around frantically. (The Simple Things)

“I'm alright. I got you, Tak. I'm sorry I scared you." He hears a muffled sob echo into the crook of his neck, and feels it vibrate up into his cheek.

“Please, I can't lose anyone else." (Open My Floodgates)

Mine stops aggressively shaking the drink mixer with his own concoction in it, and tries to smile at Nanba. He's not sure if it did anything to help his case.

I should have told you that you were important long before you were gone. (Do I Think I Can Fly, Yes, the multi-chaptered fic got 2 lines, sue me)

“For some reason, he really enjoys pats right near his tail.” Mine says, preparing the chicken for the third time today.

“Really?” Mine hears a helping of pats following the statement, which are then followed by a very loud purr.

“Oh yeah, he’s enjoying that.” (Learning To Create, also fun fact, this specific line is a reference to my roommate's cat, who also enjoys butt pats)

“What? Are you going to hate a man for liking Nickelback?”

“That wouldn't be the worst thing you've done.” (Specter)

[pedrito-friskito]

sunshine on a cloud day - chapter eight

summary: frankie tends to you, and time moves on, for a while.

warnings: lots of emotions, frankie being frankie and being his loving self, unprotected p-in-v (no glove no love people), mentions of military service/canon-typical violence

a/n: OOF this took longer than I expected!! so happy to come back to this story though…y’all have no idea what’s coming 😇

| series masterlist | main masterlist | ao3 |

“I hate you!”

The pain in your voice makes Frankie’s chest ache. Your knuckles are bloody, red smearing from your skin to his own, streaked where your nails are digging into his forearms. It’s a blind rage you’re in, thrashing in his grip, sobs wracking through you. Benny just stands there on the deck, only half visible behind Will’s outstretched arms, creating a barrier between you and his brother. There’s a spot of blood on the wood, and Frankie isn’t sure if it’s from your now busted cheek, bloody knuckles, or Ben’s dripping nose. It all happened so fast.

You’re barely coherent, and Frankie yanks you backwards, down the steps of the deck and into the warm sand. You stumble slightly when your feet hit the ground, but Frankie holds you tight, refusing to let you barrel your way back up to Benny. “Stop it, querida,” he whispers, his mouth by your ear, and, still sobbing, you relent, turning in his arms, pressing your face into his chest. He can feel wetness on his skin, the blood and tears on your face mixing with the sweat on his skin. “Stop.”

Frankie looks at Will over the top of your head, the hard expression on his friend’s face matching his own. Santi’s expression is just disbelief, and Emily looks as though she’s seen a ghost. Benny, on the other hand, has sunk back into his chair, leaned forwards with his elbows on his knees, blood still dripping from his nose. His shoulders are shaking, hand pressed to his forehead, and fuck, if Frankie isn’t torn between the two of you.

His head is a mess. Some part of him is mad at you, mad at keeping this secret from him when he’s laid himself bare to you more times than he can count. Mad at Benny for betraying you like this, coming out of left field with a detail that would rock you both to your core, shocking Frankie and turning you into someone he barely recognized.

But then another part…he understands. Understands why you kept it from him, why it was taking you so long to come clean. He believes you, that you were going to tell him, that you were waiting for the right time. Yes, he’s told you enough about his past, but there are still some stories that are too dark to tell, too buried in the recesses of his mind for him to dig up.

And Benny, it was an honest mistake. It could have been Frankie who stumbled upon the photo and the medal, could have been Santi or Will or even Emily. It could have been anyone. The fact that it was Benny just makes things that much worse.

“I hate you!”

Frankie knows you don’t mean it, knows it’s the heat and the tension and everything that’s pouring out of you all at once, floodgates you’ve been hiding behind for some time finally yanked open.

But when Benny lifts his head, his cheeks, mouth, and jaw a wet mess of blood and tears, Frankie knows that Benny doesn’t know that. He believes it, in fact, and knows he’s to blame. The guilt is there, plain on his face, and it makes Frankie’s chest ache for his friend. For your friend.

Your best friend.

“Take her inside, Fish,” Will says, ever the emotional pillar of the group, even when his own brother is involved. “Em and I will take Benny home.”

“I’ll clean up out here,” Santi offers, pushing a hand through his wet hair and gesturing to the blood and beer spilled on the deck. “Fish can give me a hand once she’s all right.”

You’re still sobbing against Frankie’s chest, fingers curled in his open shirt, blood seeping down the back of your hand. Looking at Benny’s face and your knuckles, he’s genuinely surprised you didn’t break Ben’s nose, or your own hand.

“Fish,” Will calls, and Frankie’s head jerks up. Benny’s on his feet now, head still hung, and Emily is leading him down the deck’s side steps, a soft hand on his shoulder, leading him towards Will’s truck parked out front.

Frankie nods, rubbing a slow circle on your back. Your sobs have stopped some, reduced to tiny whimpers that worm their way into his heart and set up shop. He tries to adjust you, to move your body to the side so he can scoop you up, but you won’t budge. Sighing, he reaches down, grabbing your thighs in both hands and lifting. You shake your head against his chest, but your ankles lock at his back and he adjusts your weight in his arms, murmuring to you as he steps back up the desk. “C’mon, sunshine,” he says, nodding to Santi when he steps over to open the back door. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

The house seems eerily quiet as Frankie carries you through it. As he passes the living room, sure enough, there it is, surrounded by photos that go blurry in the sunlight still streaming through the window. The box is open, the purple ribbon shining and the gold of the medal equally so. Frankie’s heart picks up in his chest, and the ache that’s taken root there only grows when your arms lift and go around his neck, face fitting into his shoulder, holding him as tight as you possibly can.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and he adjusts his grip again, planting one hand at the top of your bag, fingers spanning your neck and squeezing. He continues towards your bedroom, turning into the ensuite once he’s there. You sniffle as he sets you on the counter, still holding you close, holding the back of your neck. Slowly, he pulls back, tilting his face until his forehead rests on yours. Your face is a mess, and when Frankie looks down, both your chest and his are a mess of tears and smeared blood. But for a moment, he doesn’t care, lifting his jaw and kissing you softly.

You let out another whimper, arms still around his shoulders, and Frankie sighs into your mouth when your nails dig in just enough. It’s brief, fleeting, and then Frankie forces himself to pull away, turning to the linen closet behind him, pulling out a first aid kit and some washcloths.

“I didn’t mean it,” you mumble as he turns back. Your hands are in your lap now, eyes glued to your bloody knuckles. “What I said. I don’t hate him.”

“I know, querida,” Frankie replies, and turns on the sink, cleaning his own hands before reaching for a washcloth, wetting it and reaching for your hand. You let him hold it beneath the water for a moment, wincing as the spray hits your skin. “I know you don’t, but he doesn’t.”

You just shake your head, eyes slipping shut and your head tilting back to lean against the bathroom mirror. Frankie shuts his mouth, attention turning to your wounds. He cleans your knuckles methodically, wiping at the blood caked between them until every drop is gone. The skin is pink, and he knows it’ll bruise, but again, he’s just glad you didn’t break anything. He’ll call Benny later, make sure his nose isn’t broken. Once your hand is clean, he wraps it carefully in gauze, tying it off with a neat knot and tucking the ends against your palm.

He does your cheek next. It’s a shallow cut, a thin graze from when you hit the deck, just enough to break the skin. You wince when he cleans it, but your face leans into his grip when he holds your head still, turning to kiss the middle of his palm once he’s done. A few bandaid strips across the cut, and Frankie leans in to peck your temple. “There,” he whispers, “all better.”

He takes the washcloth then, wets it again, and rubs the mess of blood and tears from your chest. You’re watching him, your watery eyes watching his every move.

“You don’t have to apologize to me, sunshine,” he says as he continues to tend to you, body now slotted between your knees. In any other instance, he’d be all over you, pulling at the little bows keeping your bathing suit on your body. His mind is still whirring, trying to make sense of everything that just transpired, the information he has now. But he means it; he doesn’t need an apology from you, not really. “I just wish you’d told me sooner.”

“I was going to,” you tell him, gaze dropping as the washcloth moves closer to your scar, dragging down the middle of your chest. Frankie’s eyes are fixated on it, brow pulled low on his forehead. Part of him is glad to know the story, to know where it came from, but another part just wishes he’d met you sooner, that he could have helped you through that with Ben. “Please, baby, you have to believe me. I wanted to tell you so many times, right from the first day we met. But every time I tried, I just…” Your eyes squeeze shut, tears leaking from the corners, and Frankie sighs, setting the washcloth down on the edge of the sink. “I wanted to tell you myself.”

He reaches up, wipes a tear from your cheek. “Ben made a mistake. He didn’t mean to tell me; he thought I already knew.”

Slowly, you blink at him, eyelashes clumped together. “It’s the only secret I’ve ever asked him to keep, Frankie.”

“I get that, honey,” Frankie says, shaking his head once, “but this is—”

“Did you know that Ben almost went to jail before he joined the army?” you ask, and Frankie stops in his tracks.

“What?”

You nod slowly, swiping at your cheek with your own hand. “Showed up at my house one night with a stolen car, begged me to come out and joyride it with him. I said no; it was shortly after my brother died, and I couldn’t bring myself to leave Mama alone back then. And then I got a phone call at three in the morning. He crashed the car, cops picked him up, and he called me.”

Frankie exhales. “Don’t go telling Ben’s secrets just to get back at him, sunshine.”

You shake your head. “It’s not that. He called me, and I came. Bailed him out, took him home. Will was gone at that point, and you’ve met their parents. Ben went on for ages about how he owed me one, how he was gonna pay me back. And he did, paid back every penny of the bail money, but it was more than that, he said.

“So I told him I’d call in the favour if I ever needed one. And after I got shot, that was it. I asked him to keep it a secret, so I could feel like me again, if that was even possible. He agreed. He promised.”

“He made a mistake,” Frankie says again, shaking his head. You reach for the washcloth, lifting your hand to wipe off his chest. “He’s your best friend, sunshine.”

“Exactly,” you murmur, and Frankie can tell just by your tone that the conversation is over.

You drop the washcloth in the sink, and he just watches as you slide from the counter, dragging your hand down the middle of his chest as you do. Fresh tears slip down your cheeks and he wants to wipe them away, but you step away before he can, walking slowly towards your bed, hands reaching for the strings of your bikini. Frankie keeps watching, until it’s reduced to a pile of fabric on your floor. You cross to the closet, pulling out one of the flannels Frankie’s hung up, pulling it around your shoulders and then sinking onto the bed.

“I need to lie down,” you murmur, your voice low and thick. You do, bunching the pillow beneath your head, and Frankie steps back into the bedroom, crossing to your side of the bed and sinking onto the edge. He pulls the sheet up over you, sliding his hand up your back as he does it. Your eyes slip shut, still wet, tears slipping onto your pillow. Frankie leans over and presses a kiss to your temple, then gets up, swiping his hat off your dresser as he goes back outside to help Santi.

+

Months go by.

It’s nearly fall now, the hot weather giving way to cooler evenings. The end of the summer means you’re busier, prepping for a new school year and still splitting your time between your own place and Frankie’s. Santi heads off on another project in Brazil, Will busies himself with his lectures, and Benny apparently has a fight every other night. Frankie goes sometimes to support his friend, but you can’t bring yourself to, not yet.

It’s been months, and you know you should do something, extend some kind of peace offering or something, let Benny know that, no, you don’t hate him, you’re just upset, and you still don’t know how long it’ll be until you’re…not upset anymore. But, just like your wanted to tell Frankie your story, every time you try, something gets in your way.

Yourself.

After the day on the deck, there was a different kind of tension between you and Frankie. He was upset, you knew, and it took time and conversation — a lot of conversation — before things felt better, more stable, and truthfully, more stable than they felt before.

Slowly but surely, you told Frankie everything that had happened. Everything you were allowed to. The op went south, your informant went rogue, and you were trapped, getting picked off one by one until a backup team showed up to pull you out. You took a bullet and another member of your squad had pulled you to safety before getting taken out herself. 

They’re hard memories to drag up, remembering the faces of your squad, the funerals and folded flags, the way Mama had sobbed when you finally came back home. And Benny — strong, loving, selfless Benny — who dropped everything the second you called, who helped you through the worst parts of it all, the healing and the heartache and the slow return to normalcy. Benny, who brought you to Frankie.

He’s your best friend, but when you think about that day, the way that feeling of betrayal had settled so deeply into your stomach you thought you might be sick. He told Frankie, before you had the courage to. You knew it wasn’t intentional, but it still just cut so deep, so raw.

But he’s your best friend.

+

Benny asks about you every time Frankie goes to a fight. Never the same time, but he always remembers. Sometimes it’s before the fight even starts, when Frankie’s in the locker room with Ben and Will, trying to hype up the younger Miller and get him raring to go. “How is she?” he’ll ask, wrapping his hands or tying up his shoes. “Has she said anything?”

It gets to the point where Frankie doesn’t know what to say about any of it. Yes, you’ve talked — at length — about what happened to you; Frankie knows all the details you’re allowed to share. But if he brings up Benny, you go silent.

And now, it’s obvious that the rift between you has been eating at Benny. Frankie can see it plain as day on the kid’s face, never mind the fact that he’s lost his last five fights. “Jesus, Ben,” he says, trying to keep it light, “you look like hell.”

“Haven’t been sleeping,” Benny admits, gloved fingers rubbing at his eyes. “Just keep thinking it over in my head, how I fucked up.”

Frankie sighs. “It was a mistake, kid. Coulda been any one of us that saw the medal.” He takes a seat on the bench beside Ben. “She knows that.”

“Does she?” Ben asks, and Frankie’s heart aches at the broken tone in his friend’s voice. “Because the last thing she said to me was that she hated me.” He shakes his head. “I know it was just a mistake, and I know I shouldn’t have said anything, but it just slipped out, man. And as soon as it did, I knew I had fucked up and I just…” His head hangs between his shoulders and Frankie puts a hand in the middle of his back. “I miss her, bro. She’s my best friend and I fucked it all up.”

Frankie sighs. “I’ll talk to her, man,” he tells Ben, patting his back. “I’ll talk to her. Keep your chin up, yeah?”

Ben wins his fight that night, and Frankie, fuelled by the one too many beers Will had bought him at the arena, heads straight to your place (well, Will drops him off) with the intention of doing just that: talking to you.

What he’s not expecting is for you to completely derail that intention the moment he steps through the bedroom door.

You’re bare-ass naked in bed, lying on your side, the moonlight flooding through the curtains painting your skin pale. The blanket was hitched over you at some point, but is now resting around your waist, exposing your bare back and the top of your hips, the beginning of the generous curve of your ass.

Frankie’s tripping over his own feet, pulling his cap off his head and tossing it towards the dresser, shoving his jeans down his legs, yanking his t-shirt over his head. But, somewhere between the jeans and the shirt, coupled with the almost instant hard-on he’s got from finding you in such a state and the beer in his bloodstream, he gets twisted in the fabric and topples over with a less-than-manly yelp.

You’re up like a shot, the blanket yanked off you completely when he goes to reach for the bed for support and grabs the edge of the blanket instead. “Frankie!”

“Sorry, baby!” he whispers loudly, kicking his jeans away, staggering to his feet. “‘m sorry! Was tryna be quiet and then…” He trails off, jaw dropping. “Fuck.”

You’re on your knees on the bed, the blanket rumpled beneath your knees. Not a scrap of fabric on you, and Frankie lets his eyes roam where they please, taking extra time on the slope of your breasts, the fullness of your lips, and the silvery scar on your chest, almost shining in the moonlight. He’s speechless.

You know his weaknesses. You’ve come to know him even better than you already had; Frankie could never say this out loud, given the circumstance, but he’d say that everything that’s happened has brought you closer, made you stronger. He’s learned more about you, sure, but you’ve somehow managed to double your ammunition against him, knowing exactly what gets him before he even realizes it does.

Like coming home and finding you completely naked in his — your — bed. It’s enough to share a bed with you, to wake up with you in his arms almost every morning, but this? This is a whole other level.

He’s supposed to talk to you about Ben.

“We need to talk about Ben, querida,” he says abruptly, the words a little slurred, swaying on his feet as he watches your hands come to rest on your thighs, leaning back on your heels. “It’s…” He trails off, taking a step towards you, hand reaching out and fingers tracing your scar. He was worried, before, that it bothered you, but you’ve reassured him time and again that it doesn’t, that it feels good, in fact, and since then, he can’t keep his fingers — or his mouth — off of it.

He watches your eyes dip, and you reach out, palm dragging down his front until your fingers hook into the waistband of his boxers, tugging on the elastic and letting it snap back against his hip. He lets out a low oof, taking another step towards the bed, closing the gap between you.

“I don’t think you wanna talk right now, Frankie,” you whisper, tilting your head back, hair falling over your shoulders. Your hand moves lower, fingers tracing the hard outline of his cock beneath his boxers, and Frankie shudders out a breath. “Not really.”

Your other hand lifts to his face, knuckles dragging across the bare patch on his jaw, and you lean up until your mouth is just barely pressed to his. You’re just breathing his air, the tip of your nose poking his. He can’t find it in him to close his mouth, brain zeroed in on your hand on his cock, the way you’re watching his face.

“How do you want me,” you ask, “huh, baby?”

He doesn’t answer your question so much as show you. Both hands reach for your hips, grabbing you up and hauling you back across the bed. It’s frantic movement on both your parts, your hands and his reaching for his boxers. He groans loudly when you bring your hand to your mouth, licking a broad strip up your palm before reaching down and wrapping your hand around his cock.

Frankie pushes you back, leaning back on his heels and pushing your legs wide. You’re already wet, but he can feel your eyes on him, watching, waiting as he brings his fingers to his mouth, sucks them till their dripping with his spit, and then brings them back down, circling your clit once, twice, three times.

“Frankie.”

That sound? His name on your lips, moaned or gasped or murmured with pleasure, that’s another one of his weaknesses.

He leans over you, looking down at his fingers circling that perfect little bundle of nerves. He’s gotten to know it quite well, and his eyes dart up to your face as he lets his jaw drop slightly, spit sliding off the end of his tongue and landing right where he wants. Your eyes are glazed over, your own jaw dropped as much as his, and he takes himself in hand, notching his cock at your entrance and pushing inside.

“Fucking shit.” You’re so warm and wet and tight, it’s a miracle he doesn’t cum on the spot. He drops himself over you, bracing both arms around your head, pushing his face into the crook of your neck as he starts to thrust. It’s wild, how insatiable he is when it comes to you. You make him feel like a teenager again, unable to keep his hands off you for more than a few hours, cock jumping in his pants at the mere thought of you.

The room fills with the sound of his hips snapping against yours, and Frankie can already feel himself climbing that peak, eyes squeezing shut as he slams into you. “That feel good, baby?” you purr in his ear, and he groans, rolling his head on his neck, willing himself not to blow his load too fast. He needs more of this. He always needs more.

“Goddamn it, sunshine,” he rasps in your ear, tilting his body slightly so he can hook an arm under your leg, lifting it up and over his shoulder. You squeak at the change in position, and Frankie can feel you clamp down on his cock, growing impossibly tighter and wetter for him. “That’s it, huh? You gonna cum for me? My beautiful querida, always ready for me, always so hot and wet and so fucking good.”

He wets his fingers on his tongue once more, circles your clit twice, and that’s all it takes to have you cumming with a shout, body clenching so hard it yanks his own orgasm out of him. Frankie collapses against you, body quaking as he cums, slamming a fist into the pillow beside your head and groaning your name.

You lie there for a few minutes, chests heaving against each other, and Frankie kisses your cheek, dragging his nose along your skin. With a hiss, he pulls out of you, flopping onto his back beside you. You slide from the bed quickly, disappearing into the bathroom and reappearing a few moments later wearing one of his t-shirts. You snuggle back into his side, draping an arm across his stomach, your fingers tracing patterns on his ribs.

Frankie hums, dropping his mouth to the crown of your head and inhaling. It’s silent, for a long moment, the only sound in the room the soft noises of you both breathing, the gentle scrape of your hand along his side. 

And then finally, Frankie speaks.

“I know you’re still upset, sunshine,” he murmurs, letting one arm wrap around your shoulders, the tips of his fingers skimming the top of your arm, “but you have to talk to Benny.”

You don’t say a word, letting out a heavy breath that Frankie feels blow across his chest.

“I don’t wanna tell you what to do, baby, I don’t wanna be that guy. But Benny…” Frankie shakes his head, chin moving across your head. “I’ve never seen him like I saw him tonight, y’know? He feels awful about what happened, and he misses you, querida. I just…” He trails off, shaking his head again. “He thinks you hate him.”

With a sigh, you push yourself up, propping yourself on your elbow and reaching for your phone. The screen illuminates your face, and Frankie chews his lip, reaching up to brush a hair from your face. You type furiously for a few moments, fingers flying across the screen before you pause, eyes scanning across.  He watches the corner of your mouth quirk, a bit more typing, and then you lock your phone, putting it back on the nightstand. “There. We’re gonna have coffee tomorrow.” You curl a hand around his jaw, leaning in to brush a kiss against his mouth. “Goodnight, Francisco.”

You roll over, grabbing your pillow and lying on your side. Frankie fits himself behind you, one arm wrapping around your waist and hauling you back into him. “I love you, sunshine.”

“I love you too, Fish.”

+

Benny’s standing outside the coffee shop when you arrive the next morning. Hands stuffed in his pocket, pacing in front of the door. You park at the curb, inhaling deeply before you turn your car off and get out. It’s bright out, and you squint through your sunglasses, eyeing your friend. He looks…rough. There are bags under his eyes, a shiner that only looks worse because of them, and a split in his lip you assume is from his fight the night before. His hair is longer, flopping over his head and a mess, probably from him running his fingers through it.

“Hey, stranger.”

He looks startled, head snapping up, eyes meeting yours across the sidewalk. You quickstep towards him, coming to a stop with three feet between you two. “Hi.”

“You look rough, Ben,” you say instantly, and he just laughs, pushing a hand through his hair. “Sorry.”

“That’s my line,” he mumbles, and you sigh, guilt pooling in your gut. “I honestly wasn’t sure if you were going to show.”

“Fuck,” you whisper, feeling tears crawl up the back of your throat. “Listen, I’m the one who’s sorry, okay? I never should have…” Not knowing what else to do, you grab his arm, yanking him towards you and throwing your arms around his middle, hugging him close. He jumps, but there’s only half a moment before he’s wrapping his arms around you, cheek planted against the top of your head. “I don’t hate you, Benny. I could never hate you.”

“I’m so sorry for telling your secret, sunshine,” he mumbles, and you can hear how thick his voice is, how it wavers as he speaks. “I never would have said a thing if I didn’t—”

You pull back, cutting him off with a shh and moving your hands to grip his shoulders. “Benny. I just…” You shake your head, swipe a tear from your cheek. “You’re my best friend. And I can’t…I can’t stay mad like this, all right? What happened sucked, yes, but I’m done being mad. I told Frankie everything and now I just need my friend back. And I’m sorry…for hitting you.”

He just hugs you close again, grumbling in your ear, squeezing you tight. “S’okay, I’ve been hit harder.”

“Hey!” you exclaim, but it’s half-hearted. “You’re probably right.”

Ben kisses your cheek, hugging tighter, refusing to let go. “It’s good to have you back, sunshine. Real good.”

—————

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