#''i like you so much i am willing to be hurt by you''

[illbegottenfaith]

kiss me better, love

as the two of you stumble into bed after a Valentine's dinner date, theo realises it's not fair how much he loves you (theo nott x reader)

a/n - valentines fic #2 !!!! thought of this idea in a class literally 5 hours ago and idk if its the sleep deprivation but this is sooo self-indulgent writing this had me giggling and kicking my feet frfr 😭 all I have to say is if this isnt me and my future partner I dont want him I send him BACK

tropes/warnings - physical touch as a love language, angry theo but also soft theo 🥰🥰 no (read: minimal) proof reading we die like men etc etc

word count - 1.5k

taglist - @hzdhrtss @justaproudperson @ebriton @thaliashifts @friedfreyfries @allie-sturns

The door shuts behind you both, plunging the room into near-darkness. You barely take a step before bumping into Theo, your knee knocking against his thigh, your hands flying to his shoulders as you stumble.

"Merlin,” he mutters, steadying you with a grip at your waist. “Can you - ”

“You're the one barging into me,” you shoot back, tucking a lock behind your ear as you tighten your grip on Theo’s shoulder, making him wince.

“Anyway, like I was saying, it hasn’t even been a week since Missy - ”

Theo exhales sharply, blindly reaching for the zipper at your back. “Is this something I really need to be hearing right now?” he asks somewhat waspishly.

“Yes.” You barely register his tone, still preoccupied. “So I walk into Charms in Tuesday, expecting to find Josh understandably distraught and/or in mourning. But who do I see him chatting up instead?"

"Hair."

You gather your hair up in one hand to hold it up and go right on talking. You barely notice Theo's largely ineffective attempts at pushing your sleeves off your shoulders.

"Pansy Parkinson! Pansy flipping Parkinson. What, does he think he's a free man now or something? Melissa's halfway across the world, she's not dead."

"Mhm."

You sigh exaggeratedly at his lackluster responses.

“Well? Don't you have to anything to add?"

“Yeah - hold still.” You This is just ridiculous, Theo was thinking. What kind of dress needed buttons and a zip?

You huff, switching your hair to your other hand. “Honestly, Theo, have you listened to a single thing I’ve been saying the past hour?”

Theo groans, still fumbling at your lower back. He had figured out the buttons were decorative, bless him, but your dress was on the more delicate side, and if he ripped it, he'd never hear the end of it. “Uh, yeah, that Abernathy guy...he’s two-timing Melissa?"

“He is not,” you say, peering over your shoulder to see what was taking Theo so long. Seriously, what was going on back there? It doesn't help, though, not when you can barely make him out in the dark. “not yet at least. He might. And if he's going to, well, isn't it better she finds out now rather than ten years down the road? Or am I an awful friend for thinking that?"

"Thinking what?" Theo asks distractedly.

"Willing my best friend's boyfriend into cheating on her."

Before he can formulate a response, your stubborn zipper finally decides to cooperate and moves down an inch - snagging at his finger. A sharp hiss cuts through the dark, followed by some emphatic, muttered swearing.

You pause.

“…what was that?”

Theo slips his injured finger out of his mouth briefly, his voice strained as he struggles to keep the pain out of his tone. “Nothing.”

You shift slightly, trying to catch his expression in the dark, but he’s suspiciously still now, his hands nowhere on you anymore.

“Theo.”

“I’m fine.”

Your brow furrows. Then, his suddenly subdued demeanour and oddly neutral tone clicks in your head.

"Did you hurt yourself?"

There’s an immediate rustle, followed by Theo’s very delayed attempt at nonchalance.

“…no.”

Oh, you could throttle him. “Was it the zip again?”

“You keep saying that like I do it intentionally - I never mean to-”

“And now you're trying to suck the pain away like a child?”

“Would you rather I bleed all over your dress?”

“I’d rather you watch what you’re doing so you don’t get maimed by a bloody zip in the first place!”

Theo exhales sharply, his frustration palpable. “I keep telling you - I don't-”

“You never mean to, but here we are.” You cross your arms. “Third time in two weeks, Theo. This is getting ridiculous. Should I hire a nurse for our dates? A medic? Do you need to start taking my clothes off under medical supervision? Is that what we've come to?"

Theo glares at you (or the shadowy figure he was mostly sure was you), trying to pull his attention away from the stinging pain. “Oh, don’t start - ”

“You don’t think before you do things.”

Theo groans. “I think plenty.”

“No, you rush plenty. Really, it’s a miracle you still have all your limbs -”

He rolls his eyes. “Oh, here we go.”

“First, you burn yourself on my curling iron -”

“Okay, one, you shouldn't be leaving your things out like that.”

“Then you cut yourself opening a tin of biscuits -”

Theo tips his head back in exasperation. “You sh - you literally shoved it at me!”

“ - and now my zipper is out to get you?” You throw your hands up. “What are you telling me, Teddy? That every item I own has a personal vendetta against you?”

"Mattheo agrees with me, you know," you continue smugly, in a so-there kind of tone. "He told me about that time you nearly broke your neck falling down that flight of stairs on the way to Transfiguration, which wouldn't have happened if you weren't - "

"Rushing, I know." Theo steps back as if to escape. “Merlin, you are insufferable - ”

“And you are reckless.”

“I don't need you to lecture me.”

“You’d be fine if you just listened to m - show me your finger.”

A brief struggle ensues.

You lunge; he sidesteps. You fumble blindly for his hand; he twists out of reach.

“For fuck’s sake -”

“Stop being so difficult.”

“I’m not being difficult, you’re being a menace.”

“At least I don't get mauled by zippers.”

“I'm telling you, that zipper has it out for me."

“Well, maybe if you weren’t always in such a bloody rus - ”

“Enough with the rushing!”

“I can't help it if you never learn - ”

“I do learn,” he snaps, stepping back further - only for you to grab onto his wrist and pull.

There’s a shuffle, a scuffle as Theo stumbles back into the dresser with a thud.

“Oi - ”

“Oh, stop squirming, you big baby.”

“You stop grabbing- ”

“Theodore, you are injured. Act like it.”

“I am n- ”

“Then give me your hand.”

A long, heavy pause. Then -

“No.”

You groan, exasperated. “Merlin, you are the most - ”

“And you are relentless - ”

But at last, in an impressive show of determination, you manage to latch onto his wrist, wrenching his hand towards you before he can twist away again. Theo groans in frustration, but you’ve already found the wound—his fingertip, warm and damp against yours.

“Oh, for - ” You tighten your grip as he tries to pull away. “You are bleeding!”

Theo tenses, his entire body bristling. “It’s nothing.”

“On my zipper,” you say incredulously. “Again.”

He exhales sharply as if this is somehow your fault. “You don’t need to make a whole production of it - ”

“I told you to be careful - ”

“And I was - ”

“Clearly not enough!”

Theo groans, tipping his head back against the dresser. “I’m buying you a tear-away dress next Valentine’s.”

You bite back a smirk. “I’d like to see you figure that one out.”

He mutters something under his breath that you don’t quite catch, but you’re already bringing his hand up, brushing your lips over the wound.

He stills.

The fight, the irritation, the tension - all of it dissolves instantly under your touch.

You press another kiss there, softer this time. Through a sliver of moonlight cutting through the curtains, he sees your face - your impish expression, your eyes, alight with amusement and plain adoration. You watch his face too - his furrowed brows relaxing, the slight part of his lips, his sharp features softened by something indiscernible.

His eyes flick to yours.

And Merlin, it’s not fair, he thinks. It’s not fair how you can drive him to the brink of insanity one second and then look at him like that the next, like you could never get your fill. It's enough to make him think you're worth all the trouble you put him through. It's enough to make him want to slow down. Merlin knows the last thing he wants is to rush through his days with you.

“…better?” you murmur against his skin after a moment.

Theo exhales, rolling his eyes as though he isn’t already relenting. "It's a start," he says grudgingly.

Your smile widens as you bring his hand up again, pressing another kiss there, then another, then another.

Theo groans, tipping his head back again, his frustration dwindling with every sympathetic brush of your lips.

“You like this,” you tease.

“Shut up,” he mumbles, but his voice has softened, his body relaxing into yours.

You grin, pressing a kiss to his wrist. Then his palm.

Theo groans again, for reasons unrelated to his earlier irritation, his fingers curling at your waist.

You laugh softly. “Want me to kiss you better everywhere?”

Theo smiles weakly, pulling you closer. “That's the best idea you've had all night."

[pleasantspark]

Hazbin Hotel Hate is NOT THE SAME AS Steven Universe Hate

Okay we need to get this straight, Stans always use the same "Steven UNIVERSE HATE IS JUST LIKE HELLUVAHAZBIN Hate!"

This is completely and utterly false, because the main reason why Steven Universe was hated so much was because 4Chan raided Tumblr and one person made edits whitewashing/straightwashing some of the gems (and one of the crewuniverse told them they were giving into trolls.) the hate only spread mainly because it was not only LGBTQ+ but trolls and people found the show incredibly annoying and it only went worse when Lily Orchard made her video.

Now, when you hear Rebecca Sugar, do you hear ANGRY WOMANCHILD NOISES AND EAGERLY DEFENDING!??!?!?!!? No? That's because Sugar doesn't give a rats ass about what people think about her work. She ignores and only intervenes when her fans hurt someone. Which she did. Sugar is detached from most in the Cartoon Network scene. But she's willing to help others whenever she needs, she's a respectable woman (despite drawing weird fucking shit.) but was the main woman behind actually getting LGBTQ+ Rep in Cartoon Network.

Then there's Medrano, who throws a cow (literally and metaphorically) over any criticism. She's going to be remembered as that Lolcow who threw a fit because she didn't win the Annie/Grammy Awards and defended her co-workers disgusting behaviors.

She would have saved face long ago if she admitted she was a degenerate rape fetishist but no she has to constantly pull out of her ass ON WHY this, that and the third is representation.

You lose any creativity points when you have to explain your jokes and or design aspects. I am tired of people equating SU Hate to fucking HB Hate. It's not the same.

[heart-of-the-morningstar]

This isn't gonna be in line with my regular posts, but I wanted to rant/have a discussion about dating/romance as someone who falls under the asexual umbrella (demi).

To my fellow aspecs, is dating really supposed to be this hard? Is it suppose to feel this hopeless? I haven't been involved with anyone in over 2 years now, and we weren't even dating, it was a FWB situation. Looking back at it, I shouldn't have let get that far. I am still friends with this person because I do care about him and I understand that he never meant to hurt me. We're not as close as we used to be, but we still talk occasionally. But it took me a while to realize what happened between me and him just kind of broke me in a way.

I thought that if I gave him just enough, he would care for me like I did for him. When I reached my limit of what I was willing to give him, nothing changed. The pain I felt was torturous. I'm doing better now but sometimes when I think about how it all went down, I want to cry and yell at myself for letting it go as far as it did. Now I just can't find the strength to put myself back out there again.

On the very few dates I've been on (all prior to the situation between me and my friend), all they wanted was a sexual relationship. I don't want that, I've never wanted that. And I don't know what I have to do to find someone who feels the same way as me. I want to get to know someone, become close friends, fall in love...I want that fairytale ending but it seems impossible for someone like me to have. All I've ever wanted was to be loved for who I am and for my boundaries to be respected.

I don't want to give out my whole life story, but I have not gone all the way with anyone yet. (I'm not going to go into what I have done, that's TMI.) And for me personally, waiting till marriage is extremely important to me. I know for a lot of people, that's super out of date and old fashioned. I am in no way passing judgement on what anyone else does, that's your life to live and as long as your happy, that's all that matters and I'm happy for you! I just want my real first time to be with the person I love most, the person who has shown that they love me just as much as I love them, making a commitment to me and to us. I hope this all makes sense.

But going back to my original point, dating right now just seems...impossible if you're aspec. How am I supposed to find the right one when I can't find someone who holds that same values as me. I've honestly felt like I'm just a piece of meat to these people, just someone to use for their own gratification. Especially since I'm a bigger girl (more so in the past, but my point remains.) But it feels like they think I will accept any kind of attention because they think I'm desperate enough to forego my values. I almost let that happen with my friend, and I don't want it to come to that point again. I shouldn't have to give up who I am for the chance of experiencing love.

I know romantic love is not the end all, be all to relationships. I have a lot of platonic friends, new and old, that I love and care about deeply. I really hope this rant does not come off as me being bitter or envious, that was not my intention. I just wanted to know if there are others who feel this same way...I know myself, I know I am a very fragile person. I am a people pleaser, I feel as though I have to hide my true self around most people because I want them to like me. I overcompensate, I become meek because I am not confident in the way I look. In my mind, I think "if I make them laugh, if I'm compliant, if I'm soft spoken, maybe they'll overlook the parts of me I hate the most." It's not healthy to think this way, I know. But it's been a habit for 29 years and I'm not sure how to break it.

So, as another Valentine's day approaches where I am single once again, I'm left with this reoccurring thought that true love will never find me...and my biggest fear is that I'll have to learn to be okay with that.

[kittenfangirl20]

CEO x Homeless

⚠️Contains Drug Use ⚠️

Lucifer grumbled as he parked his range rover on the other side of the street from the soup kitchen. Charlie said that he should give back to the community and get in touch with his roots. He wasn't going to do it, he had a company to run for fuck sakes he doesn't have time to serve soup to bums.

But Charlie, his sweet Charlie, reminded him that he wasn't always a billionaire and that if nothing else he could make this good for the PR.

So here he was, getting ready to serve soup. Lord have mercy on his soul.

-

Adam breathed as he let his high kick in. Sure he had to suck Steve's dick to get a bump but when you have no money that's practically giving it away.

He should probably go and get something to eat and try to get into the shelter tonight. Even if they are always full up it never hurts to try.

Getting up from his spot in the cardboard box that he has under the bridge Adam makes his way to the soup kitchen.

He sees a lot of familiar faces, both the volunteers and the scum that come here. Not everyone is so bad but there are a few people Adam tries to stay away from. Waiting in line that's when he noticed this new guy, short, blonde, he looks well put together even in that ugly ass apron they give you.

This guy was very good looking but Adam had to stop himself from scoffing. He could tell that his clothes were expensive and the guy was wearing a Rolex watch. So he was some pompous rich asshole.

Great.

Adam didn't speak to him as he was given his food. Lucifer looked at him and aside from the ratty tattered clothes, looking like he needs a shower and maybe even a smile he found the brunette very attractive.

Lucifer watched this guy go sit off alone, no one joining him.

Lucifer looked over to the brunette man with interest. Even with the ratty clothes, long hair that needed to be washed and cut, and the five o’clock shadow he looked very attractive. He didn’t know why, but he walked over to him.

Lucifer: My name is Lucifer Morgenstern, what’s your name?

Adam looked up in shock to see the handsome rich man. No one really took an interest in him.

Adam: Adam, my name is Adam.

Lucifer: Is there anyone you want to sit with?

Adam: No.

Lucifer: Aren’t you lonely?

Adam just looked down, why did he take so much of an interest in him.

Adam: Yes, but no one really cares about me. If I died no one would care. I would just be some nameless John Doe whose body is donated to science because no one would claim me.

Lucifer didn’t know why, but hearing that broke his heart.

Lucifer: Let me help you.

Adam looked up confused.

Adam: How?

Lucifer: Let me take you to my home so you can get cleaned up and have a hair cut. Maybe I can even help you find a job.

Adam: Ok.

At this point Adam was willing to do anything to get off the street. Lucifer escorted Adam to his Range Rover and they got in. Adam was impressed with the fancy manor Lucifer. Once in Lucifer’s room, Lucifer sat on the edge of his bed. He was quite shocked when Adam knelt in front of him and spread Lucifer’s legs apart while starting to pull down Lucifer’s pants.

Lucifer: What are you doing?

Adam: I am going to suck your dick to thank you. Unless you want to fuck me.

The defeated way Adam sounded was very sad.

Lucifer: You don’t need to do that. Go and take a bath, when you are done I am going to give you a haircut.

Adam just nodded and went to the bathroom so confused about everything.

@things-arent-what-they-seem66

[aquarius-cookie-jar]

// CRK SPOILERS

My thoughts on BY ep 8. What I think about Pure Vanilla and Shadow Milk.

Spoilers: I don't ship them, and I kinda doubt I will after witnessing their story. So uh yeah, shippers you've been warned ig. 😶

⚠️ TW / CW // There will be discussions of abusive dynamics in relation to the story (Beast Yeast Episode 7-8). ⚠️

God I LOVE Shadow Milk and Pure Vanilla's dynamic. But it's honestly why I'll never ship them together. Their stories are so heavily intertwined and woven together quite well. But it's a story where Shadow Milk attempts to break and destroy whatever agency Pure Vanilla has.

I loved episode 8 so much because it's a story about breaking the cycle of pain and misery and finding the strength to move on and be happier.

Shadow Milk's so broken, so desperate to find someone, ANYONE, who could understand. So much so he's willing to force, breakdown, manipulate and hurt the only person who can truly understand just so that they'll never leave him. He's been alone for so long, having no one who knows the true extent of what he's experienced. Of what he's gone through.

He's desperate for a connection. A shoulder to lean on. A friend.

And yet, he can't show any form of compassion or empathy to the one who can understand him. So much so that he's willing to kill innocent children if it means that Pure Vanilla would finally give up and break, ensuring that he stays by his side for eternity.

But he can't accept the truth of the situation at hand. He can't accept that the soul jam will never align with him again. That it rejects him.

Pure Vanilla, even though he completely understands where Shadow Milk comes from, rejects his ideals and philosophy, choosing instead to embrace all of who he (PV) is. All his flaws and imperfections. All the mistakes and hardships he's ever come across. Pure Vanilla chose kindness and compassion overall, wanting to help Shadow Milk understand everything as well.

But Shadow Milk, even though he's so desperate for someone to stay by him, is enraged that Pure Vanilla dare defy him. He refuses to accept the truth laid before him. He rejects his offer of friendship because maybe, just maybe, his own circle of friends have drifted far apart it's a wonder if they even still consider themselves as friends.

(I know the producers said that the beasts are friends in a way, but I mean it in a sense that there's something disingenuine that lingers with them. They're no longer the same as they once were).

This isn't love, it's an obsession of being unable to let go of something because of how hurt you are, you begin to hurt others around you that only want to help.

Pure Vanilla was able to overcome his pain (or is on the journey of healing), and Shadow Milk wasn't (rejecting the offer of help because he must've been afraid. The fact he despises the thought of kindness- being kind to others or when it's offered to him- is highly telling).

Their story is beautiful, and I genuinely love these characters.

Maybe it's because I'm on the aroace spectrum, but I genuinely could not see the whole "I'm yours" scene as romantic. Not after witnessing Gingerbrave, Strawberry and Wizard almost die.

And yes, I am aware Pure Vanilla was saying stuff like that to trick Shadow Milk into lowering his guard, but honestly, when I saw that scene I interpreted it as the appease/fawn response.

Fawn refers to the body’s stress response to try to please someone to avoid conflict, where one actively attempts to descalate a situation by playing into what the person in power wants.

Honesty, my heart broke when I heard Pure Vanilla say those words, and this was where my first thoughts ran to. I genuinely felt like crying when I heard Pure Vanilla's screams of agony and Shadow Milk laughing at his face (their korean voice actor is AMAZING btw).

But then again, like I said, maybe I'm interpreting the situation differently because I struggle to pick up on romantic cues. I could be wrong about this part though.

Anyway, those are my thoughts about what I think of them. I'm so happy that Pure Vanilla is getting the spotlight he deserves.

But I'm also pissed because the heck you mean he kicked Dark Cacao out of the arena meta?!? 😭😭😭😭😭😭

[utilitycaster]

So, I am trying to figure out a way to ask this without it coming across like I am bashing Laura, but I am really curious to get the opinion of somebody (or a group of somebodies, because I know you have a lot of mutuals who this applies to as well) who is just frankly better at watching things from a critical/analytical perspective than I am: Do you think CR3 wouldve been better served by having one of the bolder, more decisive players as the functional Main Character (often especially in the early game the party, particularly Liam and Tal would say they were a party of NPCs apart from Imogen)?

Not that I dont love Laura, Vex in particular is one of my favorite characters in Exandria and I thought her turn as The Raven Queen in Downfall was fantastic. I just find that, generally, her playstyle is often one of Whatever The Party Thinks Is Best and one that is often conflict avoidant, both in terms of inter-party conflict and external conflict and that the narrative wouldve been better served by somebody more willing to take decisive action (along the lines of Marisha as a character like Beau or Liam as either Vax or Caleb).

Yes. I pretty much said as much here. To put it bluntly, and this is based on what she said in her Fireside Chat last month, it sounds like she's asked Matt before if she was making the "right" decision and the thing is, in D&D, the only "wrong" decisions are either something that hurts a real person, or making no decisions at all. I think she is comfortable making decisions for her own character (though I suppose she did ask about Saundor) but yes, it sounds like she's really uncomfortable making decisions for the party, and while that's fine, some players are like that, at that point you need to have an above table conversation and abdicate/delegate.

[thetepes]

I'm going to skip over the cute egg moments of childhood and say I've always felt wrong and I've always been masculine. I just am. When I was adopted my mom specifically stated she wanted a "little china doll" to dress up and do mommy daughter things with. What she got was a big, hairy, mentally ill Eastern European who sobbed when she tried to dress me in her handsewn pastel dresses and who's pretty blonde ringlets turned brown around 9. I've had to take estrogen since I was a kid. I've never fit physically what a girl is by what everyone told me they are. Especially my mom.

She fought and fought and physically wrestled me at a few points to make me wear skirts and makeup and do my hair. It didn't feel right. It felt bad, but over time I learned to just fucking do it because it made my mom happy and my life easier. Waxing stops hurting. The hair dye stops burning. The leg cramps can be massaged out, but you can't be muscular. Just thin. Dainty. Pretty. Hairless. Don't tan, you're already too dark. Pale. Use this lotion to be softer, paler, smell pretty. Use this body spray. Use this glorified cheese grater on your feet so they're not rough.

My mental health went to hell around 14 and I ran away after graduating early due to bullying and how bad my home life was getting. I got lucky and found a group of people who took me in, loved me, took care of me. They convinced me to go to college and I did. At college I fell into the hands of some very bad people.

At the time I was so sure they were my friends. This group of women who just wanted to help me. They were lgbt+ and they were progressive leftists who said all the right things. I was 16 and I didn't know I was being groomed. I didn't know that what those women were doing to me was the same fucking thing my dad had been doing and what I ran away from because they had me so convinced that it was good. It was different.

They were helping me come to terms with what he'd done to me. Showing me porn. Touching me and worse. Telling me shit that wakes me up out of a dead sleep still. Coaxing me into this soft meek gentle thing that they kept like a lap dog. Exposure therapy they called it. Men were evil. I wasn't a boy, I was a girl. I was a good girl. I wore pink and lace and my collar was so cute and my nails were perfectly done and I had all these fucking adults doing things to me no adult should be doing to a child. I was addicted to it. I'd have done anything they told me to just to not lose the attention and love.

It wasn't until they lied about one of their boyfriends sexually assaulting them that I realized something wasn't right. They outed him as bi and lied about so much shit he'd never done and I knew because I'd been there. I realized they were liars and they really enjoyed lying and causing this guy pain. Then I realized it wasn't just him, it was all men. Then I realized I'm men and I felt like a fucking clown. I felt so stupid and gross in that dress with the makeup and everything else. How could I have let them do this to me? I was some terfs blow up doll.

I went to the school faculty, told them the girls were lying, gave my first hand account and all the chatroom receipts of them talking about what they were doing, and transferred out to another school in another state that was willing to pick up my credits.

I had so much damage to undo. I worked so fucking hard in therapy. I still blame myself. I'm never going to get over what they did to me. At the time it was just surviving the shame of it and I did. I stuffed down all my emotions about it and my gender until the last five years. Life slowed down and it felt safe to think about beyond just hating myself and my body.

It was hard to parse through what was that old misery about the body I had and what was the new because of the accident. Sometimes I still can't tell if I hate something because I'm disabled or because of the dysphoria or even because I'm fat. It feels like who I should have been is hidden under layers of wax and I'm peeling at them with a spoon and just not making a dent. I'm stuck with who I am. I can kind of see them under there. Just enough to be mad about it.

I called myself nonbinary at first and kept it to myself then finally I came out as a trans man socially and really sank my fingers back into being LGBT+

I have never felt more fucking policed by people who had no damn business in my life. All that shit that didn't matter when I was enby was suddenly a big fucking issue. What you shaved your face? What you can't bind? What you aren't doing your voice training? What you aren't on testosterone? What you aren't doing this or that or whatever the fuck. It suddenly became this nightmarish passing game where if you weren't putting your whole pussy in that blender then you weren't a real trans man.

And I did it. I reached a point where you couldn't fucking tell I was a woman once when I spoke. Crushed my tits until they were blue. Cut my precious hair. Even planned on going through with surgeries that scared the living shit out of me and results of weren't at all what I wanted just so I could pass that much more and maybe feel just a little bit better in my skin. I took medication that was dangerous because of my hormone disorder to try to be a good trans person who did it right.

I was still struggling with my grooming though and undoing all that evil and no one gave a fuck because I triggered them by just existing. God forbid I speak about it even in spaces where they dumped oceans of trauma because mine was triggering and bad.

And the culture? Repelled me. Those same fucking women that abused me were suddenly all around me in all shapes and sizes and getting praised for everything they did to me. The same art that had been used to get me comfortable wearing lolita pink bullshit and collars was being mainstreamed. The uwu baby speak I'd been trained to speak in to be cute for my abusers was mainstreamed. I was surrounded on all sides by orientalism, bio essentialism, and this tits deep hatred of men. Of masculinity.

You can't be a man and be safe to these people. "You're going to turn out just like your dad" "Why would you want to be a man after what they did to you" "All men are abusers" "All men are oppressors" "So when are you going to start raping" Treating me like I was some kind of threat when they found out I'm not fucking white then doubling down when they found out I was a man. Suddenly I was aggressive and harsh and scary when I had not even slightly changed my personality from when I was enby and they loved me.

Worse than all of that though was the pity. They pitied me for being a man, wanting to be a man, trying to be a man and it made me sick. I didn't want their fucking pity. They sowed these seeds of doubt in the post petty passive aggressive ways. Telling you it's ok if you dont pass then praising others when they do right in front of you and talking about gender euphoria and how good it all feels when you do while you're left sitting there feeling like some kind of disgusting freak of nature.

I watched people glorify this objectified take on gender and sexuality until I just couldn't anymore and I left all those rancid fucking spaces and said "I'm not a man. I'm done." and just started laughing. That's all you can do. I hit 30 and realized this is all fucking bullshit. Why am I obsessively checking myself for someone else's standard of a man? I don't need to be a man to exist.

And saying that unleashed a very special hell. Did someone hurt you? Did someone talk you into doing this? Did someone talk you out of doing this? You can tell us. You know you can just be a girl if you want to! I'm sorry that society is preventing you from realizing who you are. It gets better, I promise. Just keep trying.

Or you were never really trans.

Noooo, never mind I've never felt like a girl. Never mind all that hate I have for myself physically. Never mind my medical issues. I'm not doing enough so I was never trans. It can't be the entire community is full of toxicity, ablism, racism, sex pests, and tribalism. You would all gleefully accept a pedophile as long as they came with some kind of label then praise Kendrick at the Superbowl for calling Drake one in front of thousands. Let someone bang on a keyboard for a minute and you'll become a debate rapist when it comes out they jacked off in calls with unknowing minors or god forbid ones they damn well knew as long as they have a deadname.

So, yeah. Sure. I'm a failure. I failed to be a girl. I failed to be a woman. I failed to be a man. I failed to be trans. I failed to be cis. Detransitioning fixed as much as transitioning did. Not a damn thing. What actually helped was not obsessively checking myself and being in a space where gender is treated like an eating disorder. I'm worlds less dysphoric outside of the community because I'm not being inundated with what is and isn't trans. What's helped is therapy. What's helped is genuine friendship that isn't built on what I am, but who I am. What's helped is having a job I'm damn fucking good at and hobbies I enjoy. What's helped is turning 30 and realizing I'm done living for other people and by their standards. It's my time now.

I'm a happy failure.

[clarisse0o]

The Mayor - Chapter 51

Lucy Bronze x Ona Batlle

Alternate Universe: Mayor and Architect

Words: 600

Masterlist

———————————————————————

  11:30 PM. Another glance at my phone.   Still no reply. I'd sent her a message over thirty minutes ago, expressing how much I wanted to see her, and soon. No response. She must be furious after our earlier spat. Was she waiting for an apology?  

“This day was perfect, Lucy. Impeccable organization!” The Minister’s voice jolted me out of my dark thoughts. We were at the restaurant now, seated around a large table with both of our teams. I had barely touched my food.  

I tried to maintain a composed facade, but my mind was fixated on Ona and how our earlier encounter had gone completely awry. I had been anticipating that moment for weeks, and to say the result fell short of my expectations was an understatement.  

“Thank you, Minister. It was a great honor to welcome you to our city!” I replied with a polite, yet superficial smile.  

“Lucy, your name comes up often in Paris! You've been managing this city brilliantly for years. You’re influential… You deserve a ministry post!”  

“Thank you, but I’m very happy here. Besides, not just any position would interest me—I’m not willing to do anything just to become a minister!”  

I knew my name was making the rounds in Parisian political circles. While it was flattering, I paid it little attention, choosing instead to focus entirely on my municipal work.  

“You’re ambitious, Lucy! You want the tools to match your ambition—I understand that! Here’s to us, and to our political futures!” he said, raising his glass toward me.  

---

  1 AM.   Back at my office, I couldn’t bring myself to go home. I needed solitude, the calm of this balcony overlooking the central square. A last glance at my phone: still nothing. I had sent a second message, apologizing, less than an hour ago. What more did she want?  

Yes, I had overreacted. I thought we’d fall into each other’s arms and everything would be resolved. Seeing her again, touching her earlier in that office—it had been amazing. But what came after had been complicated, to say the least.  

I had been hurt to learn she’d been back for three weeks without telling me. It felt like rejection. Then her request to talk, her hesitations… I’d cut her off, not giving her a chance to explain.  

Why did I always act so impulsively? I’d resorted to the sharp, cutting tone I knew so well how to use. My ego had taken a hit, and as always, I used that tone as a defense mechanism. Ona brought out feelings in me I hadn’t experienced in ages—jealousy, among them.  

Yes, she had been honest with me. It wasn’t much, really. And she didn’t owe me anything. But the thought of someone else kissing her… It made my chest tighten painfully.  

---

  1:30 AM.   I picked up my phone and dialed her number, my hands trembling. The phone rang once, twice, three times, four. Then her voice came through—it was her voicemail. I hung up, feeling even more disheartened. Clearly, she was avoiding me.  

Her last words echoed in my head:  You really have a knack for ruining everything.   

Maybe this time, I truly had ruined it all.  

Despite the exhaustion from a grueling day and a sleepless night preparing for it, I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight. I had to see her— now.   

Taking a deep breath, I stepped onto the balcony, letting the cool air fill my lungs and steady my resolve. Grabbing my coat and keys, I made a decision.  

I was going to Ona’s apartment.  

[silence-ofthe-llamas]

Mecha Au-Au continues with OnOff and some more backstory to make the present Extra Hurt. <3

The desert was strange. The day was so hot heat had physical form. You could see it in waves in the air, shimmering and dancing. The nights, in contrast, were inhospitable and cold. All the heat suddenly dissipated, lost to the air. The wind had a chill to it that cut through you.

Tonight was one of the warmer nights. Balmy, Blast Off thinks he’d heard it before. The nights where you could get away with shorts and a short-sleeved shirt.

He couldn’t sleep.

He was tossing and turning so much he was sure that he had fucked his memory foam mattress topper. With a long, deep and weary sigh, Blast Off accepted that he wouldn’t be sleeping, so he pulled on some clothes that were more appropriate than his pyjamas and stuffed his lighter and a pack of cigarettes into his pocket before marching off to the courtyard. He slipped past the curtain and slid the panelled door open, running his fingers through his hair.

Someone was already there. Broad shoulders, wide back, big strong hands and arms with veins that popped-

“Jean?”

Onslaught.

He caught himself on the doorway, weighing up if he should join him or climb back into bed and be miserable.

He slipped on his sandals and took a seat beside him, doing his best to not make a racket as he pulled the chair out.

“Oscar.”

“What are you doing? It’s two in the morning.” Onslaught asked.

“Couldn’t sleep, so figured I’d go for a smoke.” Blast Off said. “Cigarette?”

“Thanks.”

They held them between their lips, pressing the tips together. Blast Off opened his lighter and struck the flint, lighting them both in one go. He leaned back and took a deep drag, slowly releasing it.

“So, your turn. What brings you out here at this time?”

“… Couldn’t sleep either. Lots to think about.”

“Oh yeah? Such as?”

Onslaught shook his head. “Complicated.”

“I am your second, you know. You’re supposed to talk to me about these things.”

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s not-“ he shook his head again. “Swindle’s… striking us a new deal. I need to figure out how we’re going to keep our end of the bargain.“

And he didn’t want to talk to me about this? He tried to not let how much it stung show on his face.

“I see.” He icily replied. “Well, good luck with that.”

“Jean-“

“No, no, it’s fine, you don’t want my opinion or expertise. That’s your prerogative.” He went to stub out his cigarette, but Onslaught caught his hand. “What? I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

“No, you’re not, you’re pissed. Finish it with me.”

He tutted. Onslaught let go of his hand, and he took a long drag of his cigarette instead, tapping the ashes to the floor in a petty display of disobedience. “I don’t think there’s much for us to talk about.”

“It’s highly sensitive.”

“So sensitive you can’t trust me, but you can trust Swindle?”

“Lockdown’s his contact. Won’t speak with me. But he’s willing to work with us.”

“Lockdown?” Blast Off hissed. “Isn’t he doing some real sketchy work with those guys who fuck around with the quintessons now?��

Onslaught nodded. “I don’t like it, but work is work.”

“We’ve never had to worry about money before. Is something going on?”

His face was strangely guarded and it had him on edge. He jumped when Onslaught replied.

“Nothing you need to worry about, Jean-Luc.”

His proper name. He frowned. It wasn’t often Onslaught used it, reserved for scolding and punctuation, for when he really needed to pay attention.

Nothing for him to worry about. The thing that was keeping him up at night was none of his, his second-in-command’s, his right hand, his confidant and dare he say it, his friends, business.

As he’d said. It was his prerogative. It just hurt a bit.

He looked away and nodded. The message was clear. Shut up. Don’t press it.

Suddenly, he felt tired. He yawned and rubbed his eye. Fuck. This would be the worst kind of sleep - the one tortured by wondering just where he went fucking wrong. It made it worse that it felt like a snub - that he simply wasn’t good enough, that he was losing to someone else. The thought of anyone else being better than him was despicable. Fuck. Why did he have to like him so much. Why did so much have to hinge on how one single man saw him?

“It’s a shame you can’t see the stars here.” Oscar muttered.

Despite being in the desert, civilisation had bled too closely. They couldn’t see the Milky Way, the North Star was the only thing bright enough to pierce through the light that polluted the sky. The worst light came from behind them - tens of miles away was a factory that built the parts for the mecha suits humanity used to fight quintessons. As a high profile target, it was perfect for any attack, so they kept it well lit.

A boon for them, but pretty shit for everyone else. People used to come to this town for its pristine view of the sky. Now it had slowly slipped off the map.

“I bet you get a better view by the creek a few miles west.” He gestured vaguely in the direction he assumed was correct. “Further away from that eyesore of a facility.”

In a past life he spent a lot of time staring up at the sky. All of his education had pointed him squarely to a life studying the stars, envisioning distant worlds and exploring the galaxy through probes and rovers and mathematics. It seemed so far away now - his world had been reduced down to what he could see through the scope of his rifle.

Staring up at the sky reminded them both of old times, too - for a while it was just the two of them, them against the world. Then Swindle came along, Brawl and Vortex in tow, and the rest was history.

Blast Off could feel Onslaughts gaze. He delicately plucked his cigarette from his mouth and exhaled, the cloud of smoke wispy and delicate like the smoke from a stick of incense, and looked back at him.

He tapped the ashes to the floor. Onslaught held his eyes, not saying anything.

It was like he was trying to say something to him. Blast Off couldn’t figure it out, and the thought frustrated him to no end. He should know. He used to know.

He broke eye contact to stub out what was left of his cigarette.

“I’ll see you in the morning then. Goodnight, Onslaught.”

It was childish. It was petty. He was throwing a tantrum. Onslaught would never see him as anything other than a perpetulant child if he kept pulling shit like this.

“… Goodnight.”

The door clicked shut behind him. Vortex whistled from the kitchen island.

“Coooold. Thought you were on first-name basis. You fighting? He smell of another woman’s perfume?”

Blast Off growled at him as he stalked past.

“Hey, just asking. Coffee?”

“It’s two in the morning!”

He shrugged. “Helps you sleep!”

Blast Off stared at him in disbelief before turning and storming off to his room. “You are so weird!”

Vortex’s cackle followed him down the hall.

------------------------------------------------------- He couldn’t tell you when it started to happen, but he could tell you when the final nail of his acceptance of the new status-quo had been hammered in.

They didn’t know he was there. His footsteps had always been so quiet, perfect for sneaking around. It had let him find the best spots. The good places to go to for good, clean shots. The best places to go to when guarding something. But it also let him snoop, and right now he wished he hadn’t. He’d have been able to pretend a bit longer if he didn’t know.

Onslaught was careful with their names. Swindle was even more so with his own. Blast Off wasn’t even sure if he knew his real name - he was just Swindle. Or Sean Cook, if he wanted to use his supposed birth name, but he never responded to Sean. It was Swindle.

And Onslaught was using it. And Swindle was saying his back to him, casually and practiced.

He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood.

Before, Onslaught would drive up in the front with him. They would do things together, they were in sync. His most common cover was Onslaught. Blast Off would feed him what he was seeing, and he would update the plans and the others accordingly. Plans he was a part of, a valued contributor to. But now he sat in the back with Swindle, Brawl up front with him. Brawl and Vortex were his cover now, alternating between them. He preferred it when he had Vortex. Vortex left him alone. Brawl felt the need to talk to him. Onslaught hadn’t mentioned anything to him since that night in the courtyard. He hadn’t even brought up any other plans, any missions. He’d asked at first, demanding an update. He’d told him that there wasn’t anything for him to handle, that he’d done it all, that he was free to use his down time as he wanted. But he didn’t want to use it to catch up on the books he’d been wanting to read or the albums he’d wanted to listen to or to drive out deep into the desert to gaze at the stars. He wanted to be useful, to feel needed, for someone to want him around.

Onslaught hadn’t called him by his name since then either. It was always Blast Off, his call-sign. At first he’d thought that maybe he’d seen or heard someone nearby and was just taking a precaution, but now he was sure. Onslaught wasn’t using his name any more.

At this point, he was just a taxi. Nobody was listening on the other end as he gave his reports, he was sure of it. If he just sat in the car and waited, nobody would know any different. He could make some shit up on his half hour check ins and it would change precisely nothing.

Eventually, he did decide to go down to the creek to look at the stars. He checked the weather app religiously out of habit, tracking the air pressure and where the dew point was, the humidity, wind, cold fronts and warm fronts - it was both a source of comfort, a sense of normality, and a ritual he just couldn’t abandon. So, on an evening where the air was warm and still and the clouds were but distant thoughts on the horizon, he grabbed the keys to his car - his car, the janky one that was his pride and joy and the last remnant he had left of a normal life - and walked to the garage.

“Where you going?” Brawl asked, tipping back dangerously far on his chair as he walked past. He was surrounded by scrap metal and wires and screws, a screwdriver tucked behind his ear and another in his hand. Probably tinkering with something or other - he wondered if it was another bomb.

“Out for fresh air. Need anything from the shop?”

“Nah, I’m good.” The chair settled back down onto all four legs.

The door to the garage opened soundlessly. The lights hummed and buzzed as they came on, and he stuck his key into the handle of the car door.

She still turned on. She still purred for him, her lights coming on effortlessly. Satisfied, he opened the garage door, cringing when the metal shrieked against metal.

Why now, of all times?

“Oooh, she still turns on? I’m surprised.” Swindle had his arms folded across his chest, leaning casually against the door frame. “Real impressive, she is.”

Blast Off really wasn’t in the mood. He rolled his eyes and sighed.

“What do you want?” He was stood by his car, one hand on the top of the door and another on the roof. He drummed his fingers impatiently.

“Nothing, just passing on a message.” Swindle waved him off. “Onslaught says to not go too far.”

He felt something thin snap.

“He can tell me his-fucking-self.” Blast Off snapped. He slammed the car door behind him as Swindle’s smirk burned a hole into his chest. Once he was clear of the garage, he swore loudly and smacked his steering wheel in frustration.

The drive down to the creek happened in a blink. Pushing the thought of any fines he was sure to receive if he’d ended up speeding or blowing through red lights to the back of his mind, he sprawled out on his bumper and looked up. The night air had a chill to it, raising the hairs on his arms. He wanted to stay until he froze, to wait for the ancient heater in the car to kick in to warm him through again, anything to prolong his time out under the stars. Anything to give him an excuse to stay out longer. The base was starting to feel suffocating.

Nothing. The sky was clear, there were no clouds, but…

Nothing.

The mech factory was too bright, even this far away. The sky had been blotted out.

Quietly cursing, he closed his eyes and sighed.

How far did he have to go to see the stars again?

The drive back was much more sedate. Instead of feeling driven by spite, by anger and by the unjustness of it all, he felt… tired. Exhausted. The wind had been torn from his sails. He didn’t even have the stars now.

Onslaught was still up when he got back, flicking absently through a book Blast Off didn’t think he was actually reading.

“How were the stars?” Onslaught asked.

“You can’t see them.” Blast Off replied.

His bedroom door closed behind him with a sharp click.

------------------------------------------------------- He’s laying flat on a hillside, covered in foliage and dried grass, when the need to check the car suddenly possessed him. Something was wrong. He could sense something in the air around them. Straining his ears, he could hear a clicking sound, the hum of crackling electricity. A sour taste sat on his tongue.

Quintesson.

Vortex noticed it too. He was on his loop back to him whilst on patrol when he did, loudly swearing.

“Shit!” He hissed, vanishing in the direction of the sound.

Towards their car.

“No!” Blast Off hissed through his teeth, throwing off the foliage and ducking between the trees. The aliens had started to take notice of their vehicles - they knew they had fuel and power and engines, and had started to dismantle them for their gain. They’d already lost cars to them. Blast Off was rather attached to this one, she drove well and staved off bullets better than their old one had, and they’d put so much work into her suspension that she drove over all terrains like smooth butter. He wanted to keep her.

He was meters away when he felt a sharp pain in his thigh. Like he’d been punched by something sharp. The wind was ripped from him and he staggered, not quite understanding what he felt or what he was looking at until the echoing crack of a gunshot reached his ears.

Had he just been shot?

Stumbling behind cover, he pressed a hand to his thigh. It came back bright red.

“Fucking shit! What an awful day!” He spat, grabbing a fistful of leaves and cramming it against the wound. He grabbed his gun, smearing her with red, and took a deep breath to stop his head from spinning and to try and ignore the thudding hot pain radiating down his leg and up his side.

Two sets of footsteps. Amazing. Onslaught had always said they came in pairs.

He prepared his gun, took a deep breath, and swung around to take aim-

And woke up at the bottom of the ravine.

He thinks that’s where he is anyway - he’s not sure. He can’t see out of one eye and everything’s blurry, but he can see steep rock faces dotted with shrubbery and sharp rocks and boulders and trees clinging on for purchase. So. Probably a ravine.

He blinks and the sky has changed. Or maybe there’s something standing over him now? Groaning, he turns his head.

He sees Vortex. He knows it’s him because who else has the ridiculously shaggy ashy hair and the shiny arm? His mouth might be moving - it was really hard to tell - but he can’t understand a word he is saying.

Ugh. Fuck. This isn’t good.

Hands firmly wrap around him, and he doesn’t realise he’s screaming until his throat hurts and his chest feels concave and empty. His legs won’t respond but he can feel them, feel every movement and every bump and jolt and scrape.

He doesn’t like it. He hates it. He wants it to stop.

Nothing is responding to him. He tries to move, to stop his hands from catching the floor and to rip the detritus that has worked its way into his boots out, but it’s as if it’s not there. It’s as if he’s not there, that he’s not in control of his own body.

“Fucks sake.” He quietly manages.

Vortex swore loudly in his native tongue. “You’re awake! Fuck, I was worried - Ons is on his way.”

“Oh no. Oh, no. He’s going to scold me so badly.”

“Only once he’s done with me. I’ll soften him up for you.”

Blast Off blinked, and the next time they open the scene had completely changed again.

He was looking at the roof of the car and was leaning against something - it stank of grease, blood, and sweat, familiar in a way that made his chest ache. He scrunched his nose.

He must have said something, because suddenly his field of view was full of Onslaught. He looked distraught. Why did he look so upset? He was fine, wasn’t he? He only fell. He wanted to reach up and brush his hair out of his eyes, loose curls and gentle waves falling into them, but his arms felt like lead and he couldn’t move them.

Blast Off couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there, but he didn’t mind where he was, so he was happy to close his eyes again and enjoy the warmth.

Finally, his eyes cracked open again in a dim room full of medical equipment held together with duct tape. Swindle. He always knew where to go where they wouldn’t ask questions, where if you gave them the money they’d duck their heads down and pretend you never existed if anyone asked.

He could smell cologne. A familiar one - it was one of his favourites. His commander always wore it, it was his signature at this point.

He looked to the side, head throbbing.

“Onslaught?” His voice didn’t sound like it belonged to him. He felt a strange sense of relief at seeing him - he knew he was in trouble if his thunderous expression was anything to go by, but it was Onslaught. If he was around, it would work out in the end.

“Blast Off.” Onslaught sounded furious, and the corners of his lips swiftly downturned.

Vortex was supposed to soften you up for me.

“What time is it?” He went to stretch out his legs, but sudden twinge and a lack of feeling felt like a bucket of cold water had been tipped over him. Slowly, he turned to look down at his legs. One was entombed in plaster, the other a patchwork of gauze and bandages.

Oh.

“Are you stupid?!” Onslaught demanded. He looked him up and down, as if not quite seeing the bandages and the casts and the IV. “Well? Are you thick?!”

Blast Off couldn’t reply. He couldn’t really hear him over the loud, high pitched ringing in his ears.

His leg was broken. His right one. The one that operated the gas and the brake. His left was intact - bruised and sore, but intact. He can still use the clutch, at least, but it’s of little comfort when he can’t make the car go any more. His leg was broken, and he was rendered completely and utterly useless. He felt numb. The broken arm didn’t register until Onslaught reached out to him and touched his shoulder - the pain was blinding but he could barely muster an intake of breath.

No legs, no car. No arms, no gun.

Oh. Oh, my god.

“Careful! He’s really hurt! Be gentle with him!”

Swindle. His voice cut straight through, cleaving his thoughts in half. He looked up at him but his eyes refused to focus. Swindle was looking sternly at the blurry shape next to him. Onslaught. Probably. He couldn’t bring himself to look at him.

“Am I in a hospital?” The question felt stupid and redundant, but fitting. It was just like him.

“Yeah, buddy. How’d you end up in the ravine? Vortex had to drag you up on his own!”

“I got shot. I think.” Blast Off frowned. He couldn’t feel anything. He remembered feeling like he’d been punched in the thigh, and the wet feeling of it as his ears rung and he suddenly lost the ability to stand. “I needed to get to the car. I can’t remember why - fuck, it was something so important, I can’t remember what it was.”

“You’d best remember. Quickly.” Onslaught snapped. Blast Off instinctively shrunk away from him, hissing when it pulled awkwardly on a needle. Swindle snapped something back at him, the bells in his ears too loud for him to hear what they were saying. He groaned and rubbed his forehead.

“What’s wrong?” Onslaught suddenly sounded concerned, at complete odds to his previous tone. “Do you need more medicine?”

“He’s got enough in him to take out a horse.” Swindle chided. “Don’t offer him more, Jesus. The boy can only take so much.”

“I’m older than you.” Blast Off frowned at him.

Swindle shrugged. “We’ll leave you in peace. Get some sleep.”

The chairs noisily scraped backwards, echoing in his head. Onslaught leaned down to whisper something into Swindles ear, and the door clicked shut behind them.

And the heart monitor behind him suddenly spiked.

He quickly spiralled. What was he going to do? What was he going to do? What could he do? Injuries like this didn’t heal in a couple of weeks. He’d be fucking useless and worthless and forgotten, left to rot here in the shady hospital Swindle liked to put them up in. They were fine without him. They were totally and completely fine without him. There wasn’t anything he could do about it. The only reason he’d managed to stick around them for so long was because they’d humoured him, because he offered some form of convenience. He was their backup. He was the afterthought.

He felt sick. His stomach turned, and he gagged. There wasn’t anywhere he could go, nobody he could turn to. He had made such a name for himself with the Combaticons it was unthinkable for him to ever clear his ledger and turn to more legitimate employment. If even his own team didn’t see any point to him, why the fuck would anyone else?

He found a bucket by the bed and held it close as he gagged and dry-heaved. He may have been a complete utter waste of space, a disgrace of a human being, but he was not vomiting on himself, and especially so when he couldn’t even get himself clean after.

Why did he need to get to the car so badly?

He didn’t remember. There weren’t any mirrors in the room, but he vaguely recalled falling. Did he hit his head? His face felt numb, but he didn’t know if it was the pure fear and realisation of his complete utter redundancy that caused it, or the pain relief that must have been making up the majority of his blood volume. He vaguely felt the uncomfortable scratch of a bandage against the tender flesh of his cheek. He must have hit his head. He couldn’t remember anything.

He realised then that his vision was obstructed. He couldn’t see-

He finally vomited.

It was too much. He didn’t even know where he was.

[forestofforever]

There is a sense of guilt about having somebody else care for him. It makes him uneasy. Every bit of kindness and care he's experienced these past years has been either a transaction of sorts or a tool to manipulate him. If they've been kind to him once then that means they get to subject him to an array of cruelties after, because he owes them and he just has to grin and bear it. Even if that isn't the case here, and he hopes it isn't, he finds it hard to truly relax. The tension runs deep.

He glances at her as she speaks, remaining quiet. Seems neither of them really know what to say. Sylvester reflexively wants to apologize, though he isn't sure what for. Probably just for being there. Being an inconvenience. Requiring any kind of care at all. Existing.

"Thank you, I think I will manage as long as I am careful and move slowly." Yes, taking off his shirt and putting on a new one probably would be much easier if he asked for help, but he can do it himself, it will just take a bit longer and may hurt a bit more. He's willing to endure both of those things if it means he can avoid asking for help. She's already done far too much. "Right, then I will go do that. Thank you." He can't help but thank her again as he moves to the shower.

It takes a moment for him to remove his clothes, but he manages it and the shower does make him feel better. The warm water makes him feel human again. It's wild how something so mundane can have such an effect on how one feels. This whole situation has been great at making him feel like a person again, it's something he reflects on as he arrives back in the original room after his shower. The bed is calling his name, and he's warm and clean and dressed in fresh pajamas... He's more relaxed than he has been in months. He carefully eases himself into the bed, drifting off almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.

Taking care of others isn't necessarily something that Doomsday comes by naturally. It isn't in her instinct to wait on or be motherly to others, or to pamper them or to pity them. She can feel sympathy for them and care about them and care for them, for sure. But that stereotypical "feminine" desire to worry over a person who is unwell or who is obviously in a sorry state? That is not something she was born with.

It is, however, something she somewhat learned by taking care of her mother when she was terminally ill. She can remember all the times she helped administer her medications. All the assisted trips to the bathroom, the showers, the sponge baths when the showers became too difficult, changing the adult diapers, feeding her. All of it, all the way until the end. Doomsday did all of that for her mother.

She did a lot of emotional caretaking for others too, growing up, whether it was by her choice or not. It's not something she likes to think about. In fact, if anything, it taught her to contain her own emotions while being more attuned to those of others.

In any case, all of this lends to a sense of understanding of where Sylvester might be coming from when he sits there plainly going through an emotional struggle, while he gobbles down his food, while he struggles with what to say. What do you say to someone taking the time to address your needs when they've been ignored for so long?

Doom doesn't know the answer to that either.

She shrugs and looks away, the idea of being thanked simply for helping someone who obviously needed it seeming kind of absurd for some reason even though it paradoxically makes her feel sheepish and she appreciates it at the same time but also doesn't know how to respond or accept it. She says, "You're all right, Sylvester," and leaves it at that, in the absence of knowing what else to say.

After a few seconds, once it seems like he's finished eating and he mentions showering, she says, "Okay, yeah, if that's what you want to go ahead and do, that's fine. Shower's in there." She gestures towards the bathroom. "Shampoo and soap and everything should already be in there. And you don't have to rush or anything, there's plenty of hot water or whatever. I can wait around out here in case you need help or anything, with that broken rib and all, but that's up to you. I'm not bothered by it, but I don't want to invade your privacy," she says, shrugging again.

[gudansoo]

[triglycercule]

can the mtt commit more crimes that just murder please i know theyre the MURDER time trio but ppppleasse,,,, please,,,,,,

they'd be terrible to be next to on the highway. horror's going 160 mph amd has long past gone over the speed limit. dust's out for BLOOD and by blood i mean your tires. he's somehow sniping those round rubber wheels from the high moving vehicle with the precision of a master fruit ninja player. if your car explodes or flips over in the process that's not his fault. and then to make matters worse for everyone on the highway killer's in the backseat scratching up the doors and windows of your car with a knife everytime horror gets close to another car and oops he accidentally just disfigured your face also did i mention theyre all drunk during this

ok so theyve all got the classic face WHY DONT THEY ABUSE IT!!!! horror gets to do a little paper mache to cover up his head hole and then wearing glasses. killer i dont know what the FUCK he can do to get rid of his perpetual tears but let's just pretend that theyre conveniently gone for now. and then all dust has to do is put down his hood! anyways identity theft is cool. imagine how much they could totally fuck up classic's reputation with this. set up fake tinder profiles and then scam people for their credit card info/free dates (while ordering every expensive thing) and stealing wallets. walking into various grillby's's around the multiverse and telling terrible jokes. like ACTUALLY bad jokes. and then of course just being a huge piece of shit at the bar. god theres so many things they could do pretending to be classic. which one of us is hikaru looking ahh except the only difference between the three is the color of the stains on their clothes (either gray (dust) black (killer) or red. well faded red (horror))

ROBBERY!!!! ROBBERIES PLURAL!!!??? train robbery gas station robbery bank robbery GOVERNMENT robbery (what would you rob the government for?? documents??? idk) anyways. mtt robbing a train except its just a really shitty plan and they dont know jackshit about what theyre doing. killer's taken over the conductor's cabin and now he is booking it. how fast are trains allowed to go idk but the maximum. anyways meanwhile horror's on the tracks fucking up the rails with his strength or whatever (listen i know he's weak but picking and choosing what hcs i believe in is my art) and dust is there to teleport him away before the train crashes into him and turns him into a trolley problem victim. and then of course that shit doesnt fucking work and the train just ends up flipping over and catching on fire or something (killer survives because of course he does he's killer). and then in the end dust just has to flip the entire train over and they just stroll into the part that actually HAS the money

and then they go out and get ice cream. sometimes the murderers need to take a break from murdering and just do NORMAL crime yk???

[jeremiahthefroge]

Every appearance of the red-haired menace that is early Laurence forces me to sit here and stew upon how I will fix his introduction in the rewrite. As a coping mechanism. Unfortunately since I can't remember the parts where his character isn't just harassment so I can't cook with the themes the way I'd like to. Like the way he calls Aph "my love" after she very explicitly in the text of the game tells him not to do that... bad vibes. I think I could rock with his character if he'd done the same sort of approach in hitting on Aphmau as heavily, but the moment she lays down an actual boundary, he backs way the hell off. I could even fuck with her trying to be subtle about the boundary and him not getting it and continuing to make her uncomfortable before she snaps at him and he apologizes, saying that he truly didn't mean anything by it, and he respects the boundary she lays like his life depends on it from then on out. It would create some immediate complexity in his need for explicit communication, and backs up the sort of deeper character hinting they seem to try to do when he's talking about Castor and Cadenza, this idea that he deeply cares, if being a bit pushy on accident. It would also make a good detail fueling the conflicts later on with the love triangle that can sort of prevent Laurence from looking like TOO much of a dickhead (him being unaware or misinterpreting situations, and the delicate nature of it making him uncomfortable asking questions, is a compelling reason to see somebody hurting his friends' feelings, and makes him significantly more sympathetic, opening him up for feelings of remorse and guilt).

[lemonyinks]

I didn't like Mekt much but I do hate seeing him only utilized as a villain, as if Legion Worlds didn't happen.

Where is the Mekt who admitted that he was wrong to let his loneliness and jealousy dictate how he acted? Where is the Mekt that worked to be better? Where is the Mekt who welcomed Ayla home and put himself in harms way to help her save their parents farm? Where is the Mekt that delighted at the idea of seeing Garth again and was sad to hear he wasn't really coming back?

I don't know. Maybe it's just me but Mekt works so much better as a character of redemption and reconciliation than as one who stays bitter and antagonistic. He's more interesting that way

[m0nsterteeth]

Not only is my therapist hella supportive of my weird ass goal in therapy to learn shapeshifting (in whatever ways are feesable but especially in dreams) and is cool with all the negative thoughts being a monster comes with (daydreaming about hurting and eating people as a monster doesn’t make me a bad person), but they are roping in a literal shaman to help me out. That’s only part of the reason why, I’m also plagued with sleep hallucinations that are distressing (these are unaffected by my antipsychotics directly as it isn’t psychosis so I’m not gonna request med changes). That is probably the more pressing matter for them but I will be sure to tie it back to my desperate need to be a monster. I need to figure out how to satisfy this need for my mental wellbeing. I want it so bad I have literally offered my soul to entities I perceive as real and evil, hell I do it completely unprompted at times. The fact that I believe it is real and do potentially dangerous things is alarming to me when awake and have my wits about me. It’s essentially like I am drunk and wandering up to random people with a weird request. Some have gently told me they can’t do that, some are rude and tell me horrible things about me and why I don’t deserve to be happy.

Part of this is being billed to my insurance company, which is funny to me, do have to pay the shaman but my therapist is so cool they are not charging me for their time even though it is over the hour limit. They are helping me out because they care/worry about me and it is very nice to feel supported.

[katyspersonal]

I really feel like such a helpless adult baby sometimes. Some things just take too long while to heal, and even when I think I've got no more pain left, something refuels it. Some wounds feel like putting a fireplace somewhere in innermost part of one's being; as long as it is there, there is a risk of someone throwing fuel in it and making it burn. And these fireplaces are so, SO darn hard to uninstall. Just.. how do I heal this?