#to listen to mitski and write

[leonard-cohen-the-second]

Me when I already have a long running fic up and running and just got to the juicy bits:

Yeah... let's do a character study of an ending I don't have the heart to go through in game

Also me: but I can still WRITE ABOUT IT

[k9wa]

⟁ TOUCH. ft BOOTHILL.

⠀ — yearning for sensations long forgotten behind cool steel and blue blood.

⠀ OR

⠀ — you two can get along every once in a while.

⚠︎ mechanic!reader, rev comfort, boothill is a bit of a yearner, can you guys just fucking kiss already. gn reader wc 1.5k.

“you’re less obnoxious than usual,”

your voice snaps boothill out of his daze, eyes blinking quickly as he re-registers your hands in his torso messing with a few wires.

“you sick or something?”

the cyborg keeps his gaze down, watching the careful and precise movements of your hands, actions long practiced and refined. 

it's a little surprising when a flirt or some quick quip doesn't follow your comment— only a small huff of air through his nose as boothill leans further back onto his palms.

“nah. i'm fit as a fiddle.”

you spare a glance up, right eyebrow raising just a tad. you don’t believe him, and boothill’s too clocked out to notice your distrust.

though you don’t comment– not until the cavity in his stomach is closed up and all his pieces are back in place.

“that should be better,” you wipe the oil off your hands with an old rag hung from one of your belt loops. “how's that scratch healing up?”

boothill again is pulled from his thoughts by your voice, cybernetic hand subconsciously moving to the mostly scabbed and healed over cut on his jaw— the one you patched and gave him an earful for getting in the first place.

“‘s fine,” he runs his fingers over it as if he could feel the roughened skin. they linger over it just a little too long. “barely there anymore. we all done here?”

it's another comment that leaves you with a weird feeling in your gut— he always hung around, dragged out his repairs longer than they needed to take just to spend more time with you. to mess with you, ruffle your feathers while you pretend you don’t know exactly what he’s doing. it's almost disappointing when he expresses his eagerness to leave. not to mention the lack of his usual vibrato or high energy is a tad unsettling.

he tries to sit up from your work bench, but your palm against his chest pushes him carefully back down and keeps him seated. unbeknownst to you, boothill actively chokes down the simultaneous urges to swat your hand away and clutch onto it. did you know how insane your touch that he couldn’t even feel was driving him? did you know that he’d had his teeth grit since stepping one boot into your shop— the shop that he was only able to enter after giving himself a firm slap to his own forehead?

“what's with you?”

you folded your arms over your chest, eyes focussed calculatingly on the cowboy sitting in front of you. though the brim of his hat covers a good portion of his face, and his head doesn’t seem too keen on lifting. 

“what’s that s’posed t’mean?'' boothill doesn’t bother looking up, as expected.

“you look like a kicked dog.” 

boothill scoffs. “ain’t no sugar coatin’ it with you, is there?” 

“cmon,” you sigh, unfolding your arms to place them down on your table, caging either side of the cyborg’s hips. you give a slight lean forward as you put your weight down on them, and once more boothill’s caught between pushing you away or grabbing your shirt and pulling you closer. 

“talk to me, it’s weird seeing you all quiet.”

“ain’t you the one always tellin’ me to shut up?”

“boothill.”

he tilted his head back with a quiet groan, steel thumb rubbing at one of his temples. it's embarrassing, really, what he’s so hung up about. 

his thoughts drift to your hands on either side of him, that although calloused and stained with oil you’ll never be able to quite fully get out from under your fingernails, are still soft. human. not exactly delicate but not…clunky. or heavy.

he’s never really been one for vulnerability. where would he even begin? he’d hardened his interior to match the abrupt loss of his fleshy exterior. he didn’t feel he had a choice to do otherwise. now he’s left with the hyper awareness of just how bulky and inelegant he is— it’s not who he was before, not what he had. it never will be. 

“…just missin’ the way i used to be, i s’pose. i dunno.”

his eyes still dodge yours, pulling the brim of his hat down to block out your face from his peripherals. 

“just…forgettin’ things. how things feel against my fingers ‘n whatnot.” his words are half murmured, hesitant behind his lips.

if boothill had a stomach, it would have tightened and churned at your lack of a response. now he just feels silly, like you’re about to laugh in his face for the little bit of himself he’d just bared to you.

“not that i’m moppin’ about it or nothin’,” he quickly tries to save with a clear of his throat. “i mean, this ol’ hunk’a metal come in handy now and again, don’t it?” boothill straightens up a little bit, voice evening out. 

he’s still waiting for you to say something. literally anything— to give a half assed acknowledgement and let him go or call him an idiot. he eagerly awaits for you to just get either over with.

but rather than option a, or b, or even c to z, what he receives is your hand on his cheek, guiding his head to look back forward at you. 

…huh?

he feels frozen. your hand is so warm, it’s making his head feel fuzzy. it’s different than the occasional touch to his face from you, one to tilt his head up so you can see his neck or a lift of his eyelid to check on his eye.

it stays in place, long enough to make the area of his face you’re touching begin to warm as well. his eyes are locked with yours now, slightly wide and filled with uncertainty. he silently prays his cheeks aren’t blue.

“you can still feel here, right?” your question is so…innocent. it’s as if it’s the most simple thing in the world. your thumb slowly smoothing over his cheekbone is enough to make him feel utterly weak.

“…yeah. yeah, i can.”

he’s daring enough to put his hand overtop yours, keeping it in place. you smile slightly at that— not a teasing grin like usual, but a genuine one.

“you know,” your other hand brushes his bangs out of his eyes. boothill’s never been touched like this before, like he’s fragile.

“you don’t have to hide stuff from me.” right now, your voice is the most comforting thing he’s ever heard. he's blanking– you’re the only thing filling his senses. the smell of oil mixed with your body wash, the way you look at him as you speak, every part of it is so…grounding. it’s almost foreign, a sensation long forgotten behind layers of metal and code.

“i ain’t hiding things from ya, sugar plum.”

“quit it with that, okay?” 

your brows furrow lightly as you lean dangerously close. boothill can feel your slow, calm breaths fanning his upper lip. he resists the urge to gulp.

“i know you. probably more than you think.” you tilt the brim of his hat up gently, keeping it out of the way. it’s true, no one’s ever seen him in the ways that you have. comfortable, a little smitten, on and off malfunctioning.

“i don’t like seeing you upset,” boothill’s circuits stutter once your forehead rested against his. “so just talk to me next time.”

it’s not a request, but it’s not a demand either. perhaps “invitation” is a more fitting term.

“can we…” boothill clears his throat softly again, fingers lightly tightening around your hand. “do you reckon we can stay like this for a lil’ while then?” 

you nod.

“okay.”

you pull him a little closer, enough to place your cheek against his and give it a gentle nuzzle.

you’re warm. you’re soft. you smell good, feel good. he doesn’t want to let go.

one of boothill's arms snakes carefully around your waist, and slowly your chest is pulled flush against his while you’re stood between his legs. his face finds itself comfortably hidden in the crook of your neck, all while your thumb gently tracing the shell of his ear is enough to have him purring like a cat.

“you feel nice,” boothill says quietly, voice a bit rough. the rasp is endearing as always. “real nice, sugar.”

neither of you are sure how long you stay there, nor does boothill know when his hand began clutching your shirt as if he was afraid you would pull away. but the gentle whirl and hum of his internals are oddly soothing– like a built in white noise machine that puts your mind at ease.

boothill could have sat there forever, really. nudging his nose against the smooth skin of your neck and gripping tightly at what little physical feeling he had left.

you silently ponder kissing his temple, boothill silently ponders kissing your cheek. neither of you act.

“thank ya.” boothill's voice is nothing above a whisper. “been a while since…y’know.” 

you nod slowly, fingers idly twirling a piece of hair that hangs over his ear.

“you’re sweet when you wanna be.” you can’t help but tease him just a little.

“cmon now, i’m always sweet for you, ain’t i?” and he can’t help but throw a flirt back.

⠀ MASTERLIST / GOT A REQUEST ?

[bread-that-draws]

Flowey’s so funny and has me so fucked up like he’s a talking flower. He tries to kill you upon your first interaction. He is ten years old. He is damaged beyond repair. He’s a flower named Flowey. He’s become friends with every single character. He’s killed all of them countless times. He knows everything about everyone. He doesn’t care anymore. He takes care of his mom when she can’t take care of herself. He’s killed her before. He doesn’t care if you kill her. He thinks she’s trying to replace him. He just wants to be himself again. He wants to destroy everything. He hates you. You’re the only one who understands him. He wants his best friend back. He’s terrified of them. He believes in kill or be killed because he died by giving mercy to the wrong person. He believes himself to be the wrong person. He doesn’t understand when you show him that kindness he showed others, even when you know he could kill you for it. He’s tried every route. He asks you if you have anything better to do when you try to do the same. He’s a direct reflection of the player. He’s a fucking talking flower named flowey and his only voice line is by Ronald McDonald and his officially licensed plush does a little dance for you

[super-nova5045]

sylvia plath, todd anderson and virginia woolf (aka ACTUAL tortured poets) watching taylor “im breaking up with my boyfriend for his intense depression and blaming it on him, im dating a racist who enjoys watching woc being brutalized and harasses young woc artists, i sent my fans out on a hate train to attack a young woc actress for a line she had to say as part of her job to show how mentally ill her character was, im dating a maga supporter, i refuse to say anything about a current genocide despite being the most influential person in the world right now, i am a billionaire, i fly 13 minute flights and have the highest carbon emission of any celebrity, i am a known white feminist who only speaks about issues when it affects me and has constantly let my fans get away with extreme racism and even encouraged it by associating myself with known racists” swift call herself a tortured poet (her writing sounds like a bunch of thesaurus words slapped over gabba hanna and rupi kaur-esque poetry that was created purely as a trinket for an edgy pinterest board)

[rodolfoparras]

Cw: 18+, blowjobs, anal play, old man price, mythological world, ritual sacrifice, virgin! Price, bottom!price, centaur!male reader

For @lieutnt 🫶🏻

Thinking about old man Price who lives in a little town terrorized by what’s known as an evil creature. In order to keep the creature at bay the towns people sacrifice a virgin every year.

However throughout the years the population has decreased so there’s just one virgin left and it’s Price, but he’s a man, and an old one at that.

But he willingly agrees to the ordeal because he doesn’t have anyone left - no friends no family so might as well end his misery.

The towns people prepare him in the best way they can; they groom him and feed him whatever he wishes to eat, all while he pretends that they aren’t setting him up for his death sentence.

The day finally comes when he is to be sacrificed and he is absolutely terrified. What if the creature thinks they’re mocking it by bringing an old man?

But Price tries to tell himself that this - death- is what he wanted in the first place so he shouldn’t have a reason to be scared.

But he can feel himself shake as he approaches the place where he is to be sacrificed. It is a dense wooded area with a small lake laying nearby, along with that it’s eerily quiet but Price sits down on his designated spot and waits for the creature to come.

He waits and waits, hears his heart beating in his chest, fingers nervously fiddling with the grass under him

All of a sudden he hears steps, that sound something akin to galloping and he freezes in place, doesn’t even dare breathe as he hears the creature approach him.

The steps come to a halt and he feels someone’s hot breath washing over his skin, can smell an earthy scent surrounding him, can even see a shadowy figure reflected onto the grassy field.

His eyes squeeze shut, fingers clutching onto tufts of grass while he silently wishes goodbye to whoever might hear or see him now.

But instead of meeting his demise he’s being flipped around and met with the sight of a man, no half man half horse. This must be the creature that’s been terrorizing his town but you don’t look anything like what he’d imagined and you certainly don’t act anything like it, when you gently cupping his cheek, eyes trailing over him as if taking him in before a contented hum escapes your lips.

Slowly but surely you’re stripping the clothes off of him, before laying him on a tree stub- the stub used for sacrifice, all while keeping a gentle hoof beneath him, essentially cushioning him from the rough surface.

He feels exposed like this, cold air caressing his bare skin and raising goosebumps all over his body.

But he doesn’t feel scared, not when you’re gentle as ever as you drag your hands over his rib cage, down to his hips before stopping at his thighs, big strong hands firmly pinning him to the stub.

You don’t say anything, maybe you don’t even know how to speak but Price likes to think that maybe you’re admiring him, that you aren’t as disgusted as he thought you’d be at having an old splayed out in front of you.

He doesn’t get to dwell on it any longer before he feels your long wet tongue languidly dragging along his shaft, and Price cries out, so loud he scares the birds that had been resting in the trees nearby. The small animals swiftly fly away as you drag your tongue across his slit, before suckling on his tip.

Your mouth is hot and ever so eager as you suck on his dick, a mess of slick and spit collecting on his skin, eagerly devorouing him like he’d devoured his last meal and Price looses himself in the feeling.

He thought that he’d be here to please but instead you’re the one buried between his thighs, taking care of this old man and he could almost cry- from pleasure - from relief and he does, fat tears rolling down his flushed cheeks as he claws at the stub beneath him.

“Please, please-“ he pleads, hands desperately reaching out as he feels you pull away from his cock.

But within seconds he’s being flipped around on the stub, ass in the air, head buried in the ground as he feels cold wet fingers caress his spine.

“Please, take me please,” he’s not even aware what he’s saying anymore mind hazy and lost in please and eager oh so eager for more “please,” he cries out into the sky, looking up at what appears to be blurry stars in his teary eyes .

You grant him his wish, working one- two- three fingers inside of him, but it’s not enough, even with the pleasant burn and strech that comes with it. He needs more, starts clawing at your hooves in desperation while muttering the words “please take me please take me,”

But you ignore his please, continuing to scissor your fingers inside of him, stretching him til he starts feeling empty even with four thick digits fucking into him,

For a second Price thinks you won’t accept him as your offering, maybe you’d gone this far and decided he wasn’t worth it and he almost breaks down right then and there, mind distraught while also hazy with pleasure, desperately fucking himself back on your fingers, and chasing whatever crumbs of pleasure you’re willing to give him.

But just as he’s about to tip over the edge you pull away but only to line up your cockhead with his entrance, before you push inside of him.

You had accepted his offering.

You had accepted him.

[mikareo]

⌗ TWO SLOW DANCERS ₊ ˖ ་. gojo satoru x fem reader (1.2k)

⊹ ⠀⠀why doesn’t he love you?

contains; angst, rejection, reader just wants to be loved, gojo's kinda a dick, mitski did this to me, not proofread author's note; i'm thinking abt the guy who didn't want me rn sorry

“Can I ask you something?” you murmur, your voice nothing above a faint whisper. Fear of judgment is laced within it, something you can’t help but wish you could get rid of. “It’s going to sound ridiculous, and if you think so you can just ignore me.” He’s going to ignore you.

However, Gojo sits up straighter. His eyes are intending to focus on you. “Nothing you say is ridiculous. I’m always here to listen.” You want to believe him so badly. There’s nothing else in the world that you wish for. All you need is a confession, him reciprocating the depth of your feelings, but you know that’s impossible. If he felt the same, he wouldn’t have started seeing that girl; no matter the fact that she’s wonderful for him, amazing, and kind. If she’s so amazing, what are you doing wrong? What is it about her that you can’t compare to? You know you’d be perfect for Gojo. He’s your best friend. He’s the person who knows you better than anyone, so why is it that he doesn’t love you the same way you love him? It doesn’t make sense. 

What are you doing wrong?

“...am I difficult to love?” You feel like you already know the answer. It’s a pointless question that’s been eating you up inside for years, ever since you first met and he instantly treated you as a friend when you wanted to be loved by him. “I know it’s silly, but I feel so helpless.”

Without realizing it, your words flow from your lips like a river streaming downhill. Not even the largest dam could hold in your insecurities. “I try so hard, everyday to be kind and patient and perfect; but no one seems to notice. Is there something that everyone else has that I don’t? What am I missing that makes me invisible? Why do I feel so stuck while the world keeps moving and progressing and making changes that I can’t keep up with? Why don’t you love me?”

There it is. 

There’s the question that you’ve swallowed down for the past ten years of knowing Gojo Satoru…and somehow…

…it seems that he already knows the answer. 

“I do love you.”

In half a second, your heart beats faster. It swells with an overwhelming pink feeling that practically causes it to burst. You almost see stars. In your imagination you’re flying through the night sky, weaving constellations together as you hold Gojo’s hand and ask him what he’s wishing on that shooting star, oh so close to you. So close, yet so far. So far, that it never reaches you; because nothing is ever as it seems. It isn’t a wish racing your way, it’s a meteorite. A meteor thats target is the home in your heart that you’ve made so lovingly for your best friend. The flaming rock finds your weakest point and begins to wither it away into nothing but hopeless shreds of dreams. In a half a second, you’re on the top of the world. In a half a second, your world is destroyed. 

“I just don’t love you in the way you want me to.”

You’re a fool. You knew this was coming.

“I can’t imagine my life without you.” Shut up. Why can’t he just shut up? You don’t need these filler words, these empty statements that he’s only saying to make you feel better about your worthless self. “You’re such an important part of my everyday.” Shut up!

It’s so hard to hold in the tears. Your dam already burst— but instead of a river, it seems that you’ve got an ocean of feelings. This ocean is polluted, though. It’s littered in trash and oil, after years of wanting something that was never yours. Other men have thrown their waste in your waters and Gojo’s always been the one to clean it up. He’s always made you laugh…made you smile…made you believe that everything is going to be okay as long as you trust him. Now, you’ve made the mistake of trusting him with your heart; when he’s never cared if it shatters. 

“Please don’t say those things to me.” It’s pathetic, the whimper shaking from the tip of your tongue. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Gojo isn’t even replying to you. He’s simply staring with the most pitiful look in his eyes, as if you’re a dying animal that he’s just shot with a rifle. How do you make him stop looking at you like that? You’re better than this! Just suck it up and smile!

Somehow, you find yourself laughing. “Don’t worry about it, Satoru. I’ll be fine, it’s just a silly little crush.” You’re lying. 

It’s so obvious you’re lying. 

He’s never been a crush. If he was a fleeting crush, then you wouldn’t spend your nights thinking of how you made him smile earlier in the day. You wouldn’t know his favorite place, song, and movie at the top of your head. You wouldn’t imagine his face whenever you picture your wedding day— at the end of the aisle, smiling at you with tears in his eyes. If he was just a little crush, it wouldn’t feel like your entire world is ending. 

“I know you’ve liked me, it’s a little obvious.” He shrugs. “I just assumed you’d get over it?” 

He knew? He’s known all this time?

There’s a war raging between your heart and your mind. It’s a battlefield with logic on one side and love on the other. The rational part of you knows that he can’t help his feelings. He can’t force himself to reciprocate something that he’s never felt before. That’s unfair to him, and you can’t make him love you…

…but the other half of you can’t accept that. 

After all these years of waiting for him. Years and years of watching your closest friends find love, be loved, and experience all of the firsts that you’ve always wanted to experience with him by your side. He doesn’t love you. You’ve known Gojo Satoru since you were ten years old. You’re twenty now and still so delusional that you believe he can feel the same way. Why can’t he, though? Gojo knows you from front to back. If there’s anyone in the world who could write an encyclopedia titled with your name, it’s him; and he still doesn’t love you. You’re the person who’s been there for him through countless breakups and temper tantrums. You’re the one who he trusts most in this world, yet he will never…ever…want you back. 

Someone is writing the story of the world. Someone is tying the strings of fate, the line of destiny, or whatever you want to call it; and that someone isn’t on your side. They never have been and they never will be…

…at least not in the case of Gojo Satoru. 

“I’ll try my best.” A phony smile graces your face and you’re now realizing that he’s never once called you beautiful. Yet, you still want him. Perhaps it’s human nature to wish for the things that are terrible for you. “You don’t have to worry about me, Satoru. I’ll be fine.”

Yeah, maybe in ten years. 

“I’ll be able to forget about this.”

You don’t think you will.

“I didn’t mean to inconvenience you.”

Your feelings are an inconvenience.

“It’s nothing.”

It was love.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⊹₊｡ reblogs are greatly appreciated! ˚₊⊹

[kaixserzz]

eons adrift ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ wanderer x gn!reader

˗ˏˋ꒰ 🎐 ꒱ "i'll come and find you in every life celestia will give me." "that's not possible, you and i both know that." "watch me!"

 ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ cw: character analysis-ish, mildly proofread, drabble but it's kinda messy, its more like an idea than a fic LOLLL im sorry, hurt/comfort

scaramouche took you for a naive fool, just as he was when oh so stupidly believed those words as kunikuzushi.

you are but a human. a mere breath of his everlasting eternity. a few hundreds of years and he would forget everything about you.

insignificant, you humans were.

frail.

vulnerable.

so so easy to break.

as he walked into the path of darkness; consuming him and turning him into someone he doesn't recognize in the mirror no longer—kabukimono, kunikuzushi, the love of your life, was long gone. memories like the leaves that turn yellow and crumble to ashes as winter approaches.

yet the winter will remain in his empty chest for as long as he walks teyvat. churning into a blizzard of ice cold pain, destroying everything around him as it grows. he continues to walk this wretched path he chose.

but then he met someone, rekindling the spark that was once there beneath his porcelain skin. trying to light up a burn out wick, to bring an end to his winter and bring forth the beautiful spring he was once.

scaramouche never thought he'd love again.

even after all through the pain he went from the doctor's experiments, after roaming the great expanse of the abyss, after becoming the balladeer, the 6th of the fatui harbingers, he still felt.

love.

happiness.

pain.

sorrow.

and regret.

he hates it, but he loves them, just as much as he loved you.

though he allowed someone new worm their way into his heart, he kept them in arm's reach. he cannot bear to be vulnerable to someone else. they were human, they were to die; he is a puppet, he is meant to live on forever.

but then he heard them say things only you would say. giving him lavender melons you bought off the market, accidentally calling him names only you would know.

he remember that promise you made him before you died.

"i'll come and find you in every life celestia will give me."

scaramouche did not understand what he felt when he realized that his new lover, was in fact, just a reincarnation of you. and just like that, your name burns back itself into his mind—a name he thought he had erased into obscurity, along with his past.

he was a fool, scaramouche thought. he laughed at himself, a laugh void of humor, nor joy.

it was your name, your first incarnation, just in a different language.

it appears that scaramouche didn't like this feeling. of bitter butterflies in his stomach, the familiarity when you try to get close to him, the same smile you had, the light full of love in your eyes—it was all too much for him.

so he left you in the snow of his ever growing blizzard. buried under the thick layers of freezing ice.

and again, to your next reincarnation. a fatui, a vendor, an adventurer, a knight, a scholar—male, female, neither, or all of them; tall, short, plump, slim, dark or light skinned,

he cannot bear to lose you just as he first did.

slipping by his fingers, to the one thing he is not affected by.

death.

he doesn't accept the fact that your love has led you back to him, again and again.

why do you even keep coming back? don't you know he's part of the fatui? don't you know what he has done? don't you know what he has become?

and yet you'd knock on his door, calling his name with your voice full of warmth, arms wide for him to take and allow himself to be called yours again—all he had to do was open the door.

he has kept a lock on it ever since he met you again.

worn down and rotten; chains all rusted, handle jammed and barely working. he approaches the door once again. this time, as wanderer. a better version of himself,

one that's finally willing to open the door to you.

but you weren't there anymore, waiting for him on the other side.

how could you? you were never there in the first place.

not with this version of himself.

not as the wanderer.

and maybe that was for the best. even though he cries himself to sleep at night for all the things he has done to you. weeping, as he curls onto the sheets, praying to the stars above in hopes you'd hear his heartbroken apologies, yearning for your love, your touch, your smiles—

this was his punishment for hurting you, for being a fool. he was underserving of your love, after all.

"hey, wanderer, was it?"

a new voice, someone unfamiliar. he refrained from sighing, for buer's sake, and instead took a deep, refreshing breath. he turns, and the stranger smiles brightly at him.

immediately, as if the winds of spring has hit him all so suddenly in the face. the fragrance of blooming flowers that was once buried under the snow, the sun shining brightly in the skies, and birds chirping symphonies.

like the mornings brimming with new found hope, the smell of dew sticking onto his clothes as he trace his fingers all over the a tree's trunk. like the the juices of a fruit he sank his teeth into, dribbling down the corners of his lips and down his arms.

warmth tingled on his skin, and his heart leaps.

"nice to meet you!" you say your name, a name he has heard hundreds of versions before, all so different and yet they all felt and tasted like honey dripping down his tongue. "i hope we get along."

"yeah," he says, almost breathless, as the tears begins to well in his eyes. his fingers tremble, and his smile grew wobbly. tipping his hat down to avoid your gaze, his voice cracks. "i hope so too."

his door was wide open, waiting for you come in.

you grin, and take a step inside.

 ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

author's note: "i thought this was a dottore only blog? SHUT UP!!!!! SHUT UP!!! 🥹🥹🥹🥹 IM MAD AT MYSELF TOO BUT THIS IS FOR @fatuismooches also new format because im too lazy to open my files :/ not back yet, i just wanna write this for the pookie 💗💗 ty for listening to me ramble like a madman ur single handedly gettin me thru it ong LMAOOO /lh

[womp-womp-waa]

It was over. Ashlyn was out of the phantom dimension. It was all over now. She was free.

"Are you happy now?"

Logan's voice interrupted the tranquility of her room. It was silent no music, no voices, no sound, just her breathing. His haunting voice echoed off of the walls, of course something had to break the peace. Turning away from him she tried to find a book to read. She never liked reading, but it's never too late to pick up a hobby, right?

"Awww, come on Ash don't ignore us."

Aiden and Ben were both standing next to eachother. She could not escape them, could she? They were always around her house, they never give her the peace and quiet she needed. Blindly, she grabbed a book. She didn't care what book just give her something to distract herselt with.

"We came here to check up on you. You've just been so distant recently."

"Go away." Was all she muttered in response to Taylor. She opened the book chapter one. Okay, reading is meant to be good for you, right? And it's meant to be relaxing, so if she read she would be relaxed, right? Then she would be left alone, right?

"Don't be rude, carrot"

"Go away" She said it louder this time. She wanted them gone. She needed them gone.

Ashlyn heard them move closer to her. Stop it. Leave. None of you are welcomed here. She wanted to speak, she wanted to yell, but her voice wasn't working.

Their voices started to overlap one another.

"What're you reading?"

"Please don't ignore us."

"Why won't you let us help?"

"You know being inside this much won't help"

"Maybe if you spent more time with us then we wouldn't be-"

"SHUT UP"

She screamed, seemed like her voice finally seemed to work. "AND LEAVE" She needed them gone. Why couldn't they leave?

Suddenly, their worry was replaced with laughter. Cruel. Malicious. Evil. Laughter.

"Awwww you scared, Ash?

"Why are you so surprised?"

"After all it is all your fault."

"Your the reason why we were in that place anyways."

"And your the reason why we're dead."

SHUT UP. SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.SHUT UP.

When she looked up again, they were silent. Standing over her she saw their white, haunted, dead eyes. It was her fault they were gone. She couldn't protect anyone.

Ashlyn could see all of their ugly scars and injuries. Scratches, claw marks, holes. They all started to poor out the crimson blood that she had become all too familiar with over the past year.

It's all your fault

Every single one of them were unique and special in their own way. None of them were similar, that's what made this unlikely group so special to her.

Aiden could always make her smile or laugh. Although, at times he could be unbearably loud for her sensitive ears, he learnt and made an effort. She she learnt as well.

Ben was the first person who she became friends with in their group. He was peaceful, quiet and she knows that it's not his choice but it still meant everything to her.

Logan, who used to be bullied. They let themselves be pushed around by people who didn't understand their worth. And so the group taught them how to fight back, how to stand up for themselves. And seeing that change and witnessing Logan become more confident and comfortable with themselves was magical.

Taylor, one of the sweetest people Ashlyn's ever had the pleasure of meeting (even though she hasn't met that many). Always thinking of others, always buying stuff for people, always being there. She learnt how to dance just for Ashlyn and so she practiced routines with her.

Tyler was the one who people always saw as angry and aggressive. But he was so much more than that. Sure he may have hid behind the aggression, but the amount he cares about people is endless. Tyler cared about his family the most and eventually they all became a part of his family, not that would ever admit it.

They were all so wonderful to be around. They all knew how to make her laugh. They all became eachothers family.

But it was all gone and she will never feel that love again.

[gotta-big-ego]

Dark was born from hatefulness and betrayal.

It's etched into his being. He was made to be evil and he put fear into anyone he came into contact with. He was made to be cold and heartless.

Often, people would walk to the other side of the road as they tried to avoid his gaze, if he was nearby. His voice is deep and intimidating. Echoing and harsh when he spoke with passion. He was able to put anyone on edge just by speaking to them. He was made to be the perfect villain.

A villain in a story that he knew nothing about.

So why did he have such a strong pull to protect? Such a strong need to love and to be loved? What few people he had, he fought for with every fiber of his being. Every day, he would make sure his loved ones were safe and protected. Even from himself.

The thought of hurting anyone repulsed him. He hated making people fear him despite being created for it. He could feel the guilt eat him up inside every time he did. He never showed it.

But.. his loved ones didn't seem to care about his voice. The way the edges of him would split into red and blue when he felt strongly about something. The way his voice would echo and distort when he was excited. They didn't care the way his laughs would be loud and off-putting, despite how much Dark hated it.

Wilford would only see Dark. His eyes crinkled at the ends, and he showed all of his teeth in an uncontrollable bout of laughter as the edges of him split, and his unpleasant voice would inhumanly echo around them.

Every day, Wilford would make it his mission to make Dark laugh or smile. He didn't care how vile Dark was made. How much of a monster he was created to be.

All Wilford could see was Dark.

And maybe that was enough for now.. maybe Dark wasn't purely a villain he was made to be.

Maybe he was just Dark.

---

@wispy-fox

[nudibranchz]

Happy Nudibranch Nursday!! =D

Today's nudibranch is the frosted nudibranch! They kinda look like they're glowing, which is super fantastical. These guys are beautiful, they remind me of angels. Biblically accurate angels? Nono, nudibranch angels.

[jaimeslanisters]

dominoes cascading in a line — the library

Aemond Targaryen x Lannister!Reader

You beam, bright and happy, and he wonders if the real treasure in the Rock wasn’t in its gold or its wealth but rather in the daughters it produced. or moments in aemond's life with a lady of house lannister

crossposted on ao3 masterlist word count: 2.5k notes: surprise bitch. i bet you thought you'd seen the last of me i promised you guys a dominoes before pawn, didn't i? (: pawn will be coming up and i will be hitting 100k with the next chapter lol sos

Aemond had been six when he first realized his father didn’t love him. It hadn’t been a momentous occasion or anything like that. There hadn’t been an offhand comment or a particular action that had prompted this realization, no big dramatic scene that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

He had just looked up one day and looked at his father, at the rotting king in all of his glory, and known that Viserys Targaryen would never care for any of his children with Alicent Hightower, that he would be a stranger to all but one of his children.

He had been six and it had been his birthday.

The children of Viserys Targaryen had had differing responses to that disquieting truth. Aegon lashed out, drinking and whoring and failing at being anything resembling a leal son. Helaena turned inwards, closing herself off from everyone except her brothers, focusing her attention on caring for her insects in a way their father would never do for her. Daeron was inarguably delusional about the whole thing. Father loves us! He’d used to cry, face bright and red, fists clenched at his side. It’s just really hard for him to show it! He loves us! He loves us! He loves us!

At least, he had been delusional. Across the continent in Oldtown, perhaps he had come to terms with it. Father hadn’t gone along to accompany him and say goodbye even if Lord Hand Lyonel Strong had tried to insist on it, had wanted to frame it like an act of goodwill and diplomacy.

Father had said no. He hadn’t given a reason or tried to excuse his behavior. He simply hadn’t wanted to.

Even Daeron couldn’t be foolish enough to try and twist that truth.

Aegon strayed. Helaena hid. Daeron lied.

Aemond couldn’t afford to do the same.

If his siblings couldn’t confront the truth, couldn’t face it, he would. He would be their shield, their sword.

That involved training with the knights in the yard, focusing rather than goofing off like Aegon and their Velaryon nephews. It involved learning all the warrior arts and practicing until he felt like he was about to collapse and then continuing to train past that point until he actually did.

But mostly it involved studying.

Otto Hightower no longer lived in King’s Landing - he hadn’t since even before Aemond had been born - but that did not mean he had relinquished his tight control on his family that still remained in the capitol. His grandfather must have exhausted the ravens and the couriers with the long journey from Oldtown to King’s Landing, sending a couple of letters every month. Sometimes there would be one for Helaena and those were usually accompanied by an ivory statue of a bug or a book that he bought her as a present. Rarely there would be one for Aegon and his brother would always read it as soon as it was handed to him and tear it to shreds as soon as he was done. Once, Aemond had managed to snatch it from him before he could and, in the seconds before Aegon had tackled him to the ground in an uncharacteristic fit of violence, he had managed to catch onto one line.

The greatest curse onto this family is that you were born before Aemond.

It had been easy to let Aegon snatch the letter away after that. He hadn’t tried to get a hold of another letter since.

His grandfather had plenty to say to Aemond directly as it was.

There was always a letter for Aemond from Grandfather. Otto Hightower was not an affectionate man and the letters were always dry and straight to the point, outlining lessons and books that Aemond needed to read if he was to be a good and faithful son of House Targaryen. Rarely did he ever express any emotions in his words and, if he did, it was always shadowed by a sharp reminder of his duty to his family and to the realm.

Still, reading his letters always made Aemond desperately wish that his grandfather was still the Lord Hand, that he was still in the capitol to personally supervise his studying, to give him critiques and the rare praise.

Otto Hightower was a cold father. A poor father if his mother’s neurosis was anything to go off of.

But a poor father was better than no father at all.

It didn’t matter at the end of the day. He didn’t need anyone to hold his hand through the process, certainly didn’t want anyone to. Years of being on his own with only books for company had trained him well. He was used to holing up in the library, hidden away in the back by stacks and stacks of books with only an old, half-deaf septon for company. People didn’t usually come looking for him but people never came looking for him in the library.

Which is why it was especially a surprise when you stumble onto his hiding spot, eyes wide like a doe.

Since the week of your arrival, admittedly, Aemond has been avoiding you. If he thinks back to it, about how his cheeks had flamed red with embarrassment, how you had smiled and he had thought there was never anything as beautiful in the world, he wants to throw himself off the highest tower in the Red Keep out of pure and utter shame.

As sweet as you are and as kind as you can be, you’re a Lannister.

People always said that there was no limit to Lannister pride or ambition and that certainly had to be true for even a little lioness like yourself.

You might be kinder and sweeter than Aemond had thought you would initially be but that didn’t change the fact that there was only one reason that a daughter of House Lannister would stray so far from the Rock.

You were looking for a husband and, if there really was no limit to Lannister ambition, you could only have one goal set in mind.

Aegon.

With the image of you turning your pretty smiles onto Aegon playing before his eyes, he straightens up in his seat as you slow to a stop in front of him.

“My apologies, my prince. I did not expect to find anyone else here.” You say, stumbling slightly over your words in your rush to explain yourself. In your arms, you clutch a book tightly to your chest and it’s only the fact that he’s read that specific book more than a dozen times over that he can recognize it without seeing the name.

His throat is dry and there’s nothing he wants more badly than to just nod and turn back to taking extensive notes on the history of the Andals landing in the Fingers and stubbornly ignoring your existence.

Instead, he rises to his feet, bowing his head, wishing desperately he didn’t feel that slight warmth inside of his chest. “It’s no problem.” He looks down at the book in your arms and, before he can stop himself, he blurts out. “Are you reading Watchers on the Wall?”

You nod, smiling, and Aemond wonders if this is how animals feel when they first stumble into a trap, when their feet land into the snare and they’re yanked upwards to dangle defenselessly.

It can’t be. He doubts they enjoy it as much.

He starts pushing you on the book, carefully and cautiously. You may have just convinced someone else to give you a summary of it, after all, in order to endear yourself to the royal family.

But just as you had when you had first met him, you catch him off guard again.

You’re sharp and quick-witted and, if the fact that you had asked Maester Rodrik to give you further insight on Brandon the Breaker meant anything, you were just as voracious with learning as he was.

He wants to resent you.

He wants to resent you so bad.

But he can’t, not with the way your eyes light up as you talk about the Wall, about the Night’s King and his corpse queen. You lean in close to him, closer than anyone who wasn’t a member of his family has ever done. It’s not inappropriate, nothing that someone would scold or deride you for, but it’s closer than anyone has ever wanted to be to him.

It’s intoxicating and, for once, Aemond understands why Aegon is constantly imbibing, why he drinks more wine than he does water.

If it feels as nice as this does, some of his brother’s behavior finally makes sense.

When you finish your conversation, and you rise to your feet to leave, Aemond feels an unfamiliar panic rise up in him and, before he can think it through, he speaks. “If you’re not busy, you can stay and read some more. There are other stories in the book that I’d be interested in hearing your thoughts on.”

You smile as bright and lovely as ever.

You settle back in your seat and Aemond turns back to his notes except now, he can’t think about the crossing of the Andals, can’t make his mind focus on all of the petty kings that had fought in vain against the invaders. All he can think is about how the two of you are sitting close enough that, when you flip a page in your book, the sleeve of your dress catches on his tunic.

It’s all appropriate. You’re both ten. You’re children sitting and reading in a library. Not even the most pious septon could find fault nor could the most insidious gossip find any fodder for their rumors.

But it doesn’t stop his heart from beating loud and hard in his chest.

No one ever wants to be this close, save his mother.

There must be something wrong with you. There must be. Perhaps you think that he’ll tell Aegon about your sweetness, about your cleverness, and your desire to learn.

He won’t care, he wants to tell you. He won’t care about anything except for what’s between your legs.

But he doesn’t say it. He doesn’t say anything. He just sits with you, listening to the sound of you turning the pages quietly and the rustle of your clothing.

Eventually, he turns back to his notes, forcing his eyes to focus on the book in front of him.

House Shell was only one of several Houses to ally with the Andals when they first arrived, believing that their only chance of survival was capitulating to the vastly stronger invading force. Their faith was ill-placed.

Eventually, he gets a fraction of his focus back but you’re still there, teasing at the periphery. Occasionally he’ll get a whiff of the fragrant oil that you must use in your hair or you’ll hum or mumble about something you read. You don’t just fade into the background. You seemingly are impossible to minimize, impossible to shove into a box.

Aemond sighs, wishing he was stronger. How could he be a loyal and brave son of House Targaryen if the first pretty girl to give him attention made his head spin like this? What would his mother say? What would Grandfather say?

He continues to read, burying his head deep into the book until the only thing he can think about is the Shells - the Shells and the complete and total destruction of their House. He focuses on the story of Dywen Shell, about how the Andal warlords roasted him inside his own longhall. He focuses until he can hear the screams and wails of the Shell family as they watched their patriarch burn, until he can almost feel the flames licking up his sleeves.

He scratches down his notes, pretending that he doesn’t notice you similarly keyed in on your book.

What part is she at?

If you had stopped at the Night’s King and his corpse queen… next up was the Rat King. After that was Symeon Star-Eyes. They were both popular stories, ones that people told to their children without ever having touched Watches on the Wall. The book went into slightly more detail, particularly with Symeon. The songs liked to say he was blind and that he had placed sapphires in his eyes to show his devotion to chivalry.

The maester who wrote the book had a starkly different opinion. Symeon Star-Eyes was, more likely than not according to Maester Lewys, a sworn Brother of the Night’s Watch, renowned for both his skill in combat and his abnormally bright blue eyes. Chivalry, the maester postulated, would not be introduced into Westeros until after the coming of the Andals, well after the death of Symeon.

You hadn’t been wrong when you had said that the truth was remarkably less interesting than what the singers liked to peddle out.

Far off in the distance, Aemond hears the belltower ring, indicating the turn of the hour. For the first time in his life, he feels a flash of relief that he has to meet up with his brother and nephews in the yards for sword training. While their words could be cruel, they at least were easier to understand than you were.

“I have to go,” he says, gathering up his books and notes as quickly as he can.

You hum, rising to your feet. “I should also probably go and meet up with Princess Helaena. Our septa can be awfully strict about punctuality.”

“It’s a virtue,” he replies, more out of instinct and a desire to fill the air with something than truly believing his words.

He regrets it immediately when you snort in laughter. “Perhaps you could teach us instead of her. You might be less inclined to rapping me on my knuckles when I slip up on a proverb.”

The words spill out of his mouth before he can stop them. “You can come to the library at this same time tomorrow if you want to avoid her. I wouldn’t mind.”

He would mind. He would mind very much if you showed up tomorrow with your easy smile and your bright eyes.

You don’t notice this internal conflict, though. You blink owlishly up at him, as if stunned by the offer. The silence drags on and Aemond feels that all-too-familiar sensation of humiliation and shame creeping up his neck and he opens his mouth to apologize, to take it back, but then you grin broadly at him. It lights you up entirely, brightening even this dark corner of the library.

“Thank you for the offer, my prince,” you quietly reply. “I think I might just take you up on it.”

You bow your head, dropping into a slight curtsey. Your manners are impeccable. Everything about you is designed to endear, to paint the picture of a perfect lady, one gracious and honest and kind.

He knows it's a lie. He knows that you’re hiding something fierce, something mean within you. He wishes he didn’t know that you were. He wishes he didn’t remember that snarl on your face when he had scared you, the way you had seemed ready to claw out his eyes.

He wishes you had never left the Rock.

Aemond doesn’t say any of it, doesn’t poke and prod until he can see that flash of rage that you had shown. He simply nods and prays that you don’t take him up on his offer.

[evignonita]

TW: SC4RS!!

Wink

More Nerv drawings, because he's my favorite boyyyy <33.

The last drawing is from a few months ago, but I like it, ah

THANK YOU FOR YOUR SUPPORT IN THE PREVIOUS POST, YOU MADE ME VERY HAPPY WITH YOUR NICE COMMENTS AND SUPPORT!! REALLY 🙁💥💕 I'M VERY SHY AND INTROVERTED, SO I'M MORE LIKELY NOT TO ANSWER EVERYTHING, BUT TY SO MUCH <3333

[roadkillracoon]

I'm fairly new to the jojo fandom, so this might be a generalization, but I've seen one too many people disregard Jotaro's ex-wife. Like those guys are completely missing the angst potential of him still being SO in love with her, but having to leave her AND his beloved daughter behind to keep them safe. He's a very stoic and scary looking guy, and the idea that she's one of the only people who looked past that and just GETS him, only for him to give it up hurrrts man. Idk I just imagine him coming home after being attacked by some loser stand user like way too close to his house, and seeing his little family, and realizing that he has a very difficult decision to make. Both decisions being some form of selfish in their own way, but one destroying him more. Him handing divorce papers to the love of his life tight lipped. Feeding her lies that he no longer has any love for her, each one paining him to say. Her demanding a proper explanation and begging to talk it out, apologizing for something that isn't her fault, and him shrugging it off as if it didn't mean anything to him. As if it wouldn't keep him up at night for YEARS after it happened.

[dewdrops-whammy-bar]

Dewther angst, hold onto your taints everyone

Note: this is kind of an au where the ghouls are treated much harsher than the general fanon. Better for angst that way.

CW for mention of blood, accidental SH, and human sacrifice.

Thinking about Aether knowing he'd be Banished before the rest of the pack did.

Sister Imperator pulls him aside one day and tells him he'll be "retiring" from the band. Aether knows what that means- it's been made clear that the ghouls are replaceable. Just a backing band for the real star of the show. It's a privilege to be Summoned to serve the Father on the surface world.

Sister tells him to get his affairs in order. She doesn't tell him when he'll be Banished, just that it'll be soon.

He tries to put the thought aside and continue on as if nothing is wrong. Dew of course, being his mate, knows something is up almost immediately. But no matter how much prodding he does, Aether doesn't open up. He feels like it'll be easier if no one else knows.

Aether and Dew start having fights. Dew is hurt that Aether seems to be keeping something from him, and Aether wants to bottle up his fear and grief.

One night, after one of these fights, Dew decides to sleep in Rain's room for the night to let himself cool down. He's prone to anger as an outlet for emotion and he doesn't want to snap at his mate. Especially not with the current strain on their relationship. Weirdly enough, he has a gut feeling that he should stay with Aether that night, but he resists. He'll apologize in the morning, he's had a change of heart about a couple things and wants to try a different approach with the conversation. He goes to bed with Rain, still fighting off the sinking feeling of dread in his stomach.

Which is why he doesn't hear Aether being dragged out of bed by Imperator's personal ghouls.

He's jolted awake by a cold stab of fear, felt through his mating bond. He bolts out of Rain's room soon enough to see Aether being dragged out the door of the den. Judging by the deep claw marks in the walls, Aether had been fighting hard.

Dew yells for the rest of the pack and runs after Aether. Imperator's ghouls are fast, whisking his mate down the corridor faster than he can run.

Dew and the rest of the pack only catch up with them at the Banishing circle, deep under the cathedral. Aether is fighting his captors, but they obviously have some sort of magick bindings on him. Dew darts over to his mate and holds his face, locking eyes.

"I'm sorry," Aether says in a resigned voice. "I'm so sorry, Dew. Take care of yourself, okay love?"

"Aether- did you know?" Dew asks, tears streaming down his face. "Is that- is that what-" he can't finish the sentence, already knowing the answer.

"Yes. I thought-" Aether lets out a choked sob. "I'm sorry," he repeats before he leans forward to kiss Dew.

The kiss is desperate, their teeth knocking together. Both ghouls trying to convey their love as much as they can before they can't anymore.

The blood of the sacrifice flows into the engravings in the floor. Dew feels the portal to the Pit opening behind him and he sobs. The pair of Aether's captors push Dew aside as they guide Aether into the circle, toward the portal.

Dew is frozen in fear. Aether looks back at him, equally fearful but resigned.

"I love you."

Then Aether is gone. The portal closes. Aether's clothes drop to the floor, as lifeless as Dew now feels. He scrambles to the center of the circle, falling to his knees before the last remnants of his mate.

Dew screams, a sound of pure despair that echoes around the chamber. He claws at the ground as if he could dig his way into the Pit, back to Aether. He doesn't realize he's worn his claws bloody until Mountain's hands are on his, gently stilling his motions.

The pack surrounds him, joining his primal cries of grief. Dew barely registers them. He pulls his hands from Mountain's grip and instead sifts through the pile of Aether's clothes. He finds what he's looking for and holds it up with trembling hands.

It's a necklace. Something he'd bought from a store in the mall along with a matching one that he wore. He'd given it to Aether as a half-joking gift, but was pleasantly surprised when Aether insisted on wearing it constantly. The cheap chain had darkened from wear and had misshapen links where it had been fixed multiple times.

It was still warm from Aether's body heat.

He hadn't even gotten to tell Aether he loved him back.

[hertas-funger-blog]

Bleh my mind had been plauged by thoughts about D'arce and Samarie being parallels to each other.

Brainrot under the cut. Said rant is very mean to Samarie so sorry in advance I guess.

Like imagine D'arce meeting Samarie, sam being scared shitless by D'arce is like "I mean no harm" so they hang out together and D'arce learns about Sam's backstory and it reminds her of Le'Garde and she's like "omfg, is this what i actually am, this shivering husk of a person?".

Cause to both of them, their loves are pillars of moral virtue, and so they cling onto the as a coping mechanism (D'arce not so much, but my point still stands. To her her love of leg guard is an expression of her loyalty and holiness etc). Even though both of them are completly different they both have such similar ways to centering themselves on another person.

And D'arce evetually realises this and sees Samarie as this sort of dark reflection. That if you remove all the holiness and world uniting stuff you end up with Samarie, who is this pathetic stalker character.

Or D'arce would kill her because Samarie is fucking crazy. Pick your poison ig.

[succulent-ghoul]

More sad. This time with secondo

Secondo x gender neutral reader. Hurt comfort,, nothing specific mentioned I think. I'm to sad to be sure. no beta to sad.

A quiet drizzle covers the ministry, it's cold perfect weather for everything and yet you still can't get away from that dark cloud hanging over your head. It's one of those days where the sight of another person makes you rocket into your room crying. And Maybe that didn't go unnoticed, cause there's a slow but firm knock on your door. Half of you is screaming to open it, and the other half wants to tear apart whoever is on the other side.

So when your door opens while your still under your sheets and it's one of the grumpiest people in the ministry your maybe a little surprised. Secondo on of the retired papa's visiting a random sibling he doesn't even know. But before you can speak he's sitting on your bed and asking if your alright. You don't speak, you just look down hoping one of you would disappear.

The rain thida against the glass window as you both sit in silence. Secondo waiting and you hiding, from him or from your feelings or maybe the big bad wolf. Who knows you don't and that's what's so scary, not knowing why you feel like this. Not understanding why you took such a turn. and while your lost in thought secondo takes your hand in his and rubs his thumbs over your knuckles as he reassured you that 'everything will be fine, fratello.' and that I don't have to talk but he will listen if I want too.

After that the dam breaks. Feelings flood as you start to cry, slowly secondo pulls you into a hug as you sob. Maybe it's cause it's been years since you've felt like you could cry around someone. Or maybe it's cause you were to tired of holding it in anymore now that someone was willing to listen.

The two of you sit like that for awhile. You crying into his shoulder, him rubbing circles into your back and whispering sweet reassurances, his words a warm respite from the cold and cruel world.

Before you know it your out of tears to cry, and with that you slowly pull away from secondos warmth. But before you vanish back into your own little universe he's kisses the top of your head and tells you that 'hes so very proud' and maybe after you fall back into his arms and drift off to sleep, he'll hold you just a little longer before having one of his ghouls tend to you.