#'I feel like everyone's trying to get shards from you. How about we give you shards. Get you playing.'

[laddertek]

Etho to Tango: "I'll sacrifice one of [my shards] if it'll get you running."

Bruh. Etho just spent 8 crowns to get another shard. He has five left. And he voluntarily wanted to give one to Tango so Tango can run. (Tango who has stacks of these in his inventory.)

[lost-in-fandoms]

"Tell me again."

Max hums, moving his hand in slow circles along Daniel's back, feeling his chest move against his side, his face hidden in the folds of Max's t-shirt.

He bows his head, pressing a kiss against Daniel's hair, shifting against the hotel's pillows until he's comfortable again.

"It's going to be sunny," he says, voice low, letting Daniel's curls tickle his lips and nose. "It's going to be sunset, orange, the trees all golden in the way you like."

Daniel's back shifts under his hand, his fingers twisting in Max's shirt.

"We'll be sitting in chairs, because you have old man knees, and would complain about sitting on the floor."

He twists away from the halfhearted poke in his side, then settles back.

"They will be those garden ones, the ones with the straw?"

"Wicker," Daniel corrects him softly, voice scratchy.

"Yes, wicker." He tugs Daniel even closer, not knowing how it is even possible. "With pillows, so you can curl in them like a little cat."

He smooths his hand down Daniel's back, like he does with Sassy, when she stretches out beside him on the bed, similar to how Daniel is now. Does it again when he feels Daniel's shoulders uncurl slightly.

"We will be drinking your weird beers, the expensive ones that taste worse than all the others."

"Craft beer isn't weird," Daniel argues, just like Max was expecting him to. He sounds like there's something stuck in the back of his throat, and Max kisses his hair again.

"It is weird, Daniel. Beer does not need to be that expensive."

He gives him space to reply once more, but Daniel doesn't.

"We will drink your weird beer, and we will talk about that time we ate pasta in your hotel room."

It wasn't just one time, but Max knows he doesn't need to specify. They're both thinking about the same one, illegal spaghetti ordered from room service, hidden from their trainers, sauce on the corner of Max's mouth, cleaned by Daniel's thumb first, Daniel's mouth later. And even if they aren't thinking about the same, it doesn't matter. Every plate of pasta shared, in every hotel room, would matter just as much, stepping stones in their story, just as important as that first kiss.

"And it will be rainy," Max continues, voice even lower. His t-shirt is damp, stretched by Daniel's tense fingers. Daniel's back is shuddering, even when he holds him closer and closer and closer.

"It will rain, and you will have a blanket, because you always get cold, even more when it is humid."

The thing that was in Daniel's throat is in his too now.

"We will talk about how stupid everyone was. We will say it was all unfair. But we will not be angry anymore, because it will not matter anymore."

Daniel's hair smell like Max's shampoo, even if he usually doesn't use it, because he hates how dry it makes it feel. Max can taste salt on the back of his throat as he shifts his head slightly, trying to at least keep his ears dry, now that his cheeks are a lost cause.

Daniel's breathing is a stuttered rhythm against his ribs.

"We will cook eggs," Max pushes on, pressing every word against Daniel's skin, hoping every one feels like the i love you that it is. "Because we will have chickens on your farm, like a real farm, so we will be good at cooking eggs. And you will drink your wine, and sing your songs."

His voice breaks, sudden betrayal, just as Daniel trembles in a sob, but Max pushes through. They've both always known how to push through.

"And I will ask are you happy and you will say yes," he says, making it sound like a promise, because it is a promise. "And we will not regret any of it."

He knows they won't. Not the angry moments, not the painful moments, not the annoying little moments they will never even remember. They will take all of them and throw them into the jar of their lives, little pebbles, and colorful marbles, and shards of glass smoothed out with time and love and distance, all mixed together.

"We will sit on your chairs, and they will have nothing, and we will have us."

He holds Daniel closecloseclose, because he's never learned how to let go of the things he cares about, has always clung to things with his teeth and desire bared, and he has no intention of starting now. He has no intention of starting ever.

Even if this is not the way he wanted things to happen, he doesn't believe in letting go, especially when it comes to Daniel.

He swallows, clears his throat to try and dislodge the tight knot of feelings there, raises a hand to swipe his thumb along Daniel's wet jaw.

"We will have chickens, and a garage full of dirt bikes, and I will ask Grace to teach me how to make the pasta sauce you spilled all over the carpet when you were five."

Daniel nods against his chest, fingers relaxing. His breathing is still uneven, Max's t-shirt is still damp, but he can feel him going lax against him, relaxing bit by bit.

"We will," Daniel murmurs, voice shaky enough it sounds closer to a question.

"We will," Max tells him, firm. Would be happy to tell him again and again, until Daniel's voice doesn't shake on it anymore. "We will eat so much food, and we will become fat, and we will be happy. We will."

Daniel nods again, then shifts, wiggling in Max's hold until he can properly climb on top of him, pointy elbows planted on the bed, above Max's shoulders, trembling fingers tracing the wet lines on his cheeks, red-rimmed eyes soft.

When Daniel kisses him, they both taste like salt, exhaustion and the future.

[fraugwinska]

Could you do a backstory to Hard Day? Like, how Al decided to give up control, and the first time it happened 🥺🙏

Ummm... well, I may have gotten myself a bit lost in this one :D Idk, It's gotten quite out of hand, 2,5 k words... but...um yeah :D Praying you like it :> Attention - we cook with Chili, not salt today! (MDNI)

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

The hardest Day

„That's so unrealistic! I mean, in what world would a lion eat bugs instead of the fucking fat juicy PIG?!“

„It's a kids movie, asshole, shut up!“

The gang was sprawled out in front of the TV, blankets and popcorn everywhere. Charlie got her hands on a rare copy of 'The Lion King', and invited everyone to a 'nice, unproblematic, quiet' movie night. She didn't account for Angel's constant commentary, Husk's annoyed retorts to him or Niffty's gleeful giggling at the most unfitting scenes. Vaggie, frustrated by them, started adding to the chaos, sending scolding remarks in intervals at either of them, while Charlie tried to mediate in between songs – which she always sang along with.

You, however, were highly entertained – even though you didn't catch anything from the movie, just watching them was amusing enough. The only one missing was Alastor, who had 'business to attend' and was gone since breakfast ended.

He would've hated it anyway, you knew he had no interest in movies, let alone modern ones, and group activities like these were often straining on his patience. Although getting in the hotel last, you were the one who grew the closest to him. Why? You couldn't say definitively. Maybe it was because you never took his veiled jabs by heart. Maybe because you didn't treat him the way the others wanted you to – with care, with ignorance, with suspicion; but instead with respect, an open mind and without judgment. Maybe it was because you could challenge him – discussions about books you both read could last hours, with points given to either side equally – no winner, no loser, both richer.

You liked Alastor. Really liked him. You also had a silly, little crush on him, for a while now, but you kept that to yourself, nothing going further than a few flirtatious moments 'in good fun', calling each other 'doe' and 'buck' with a laugh. A joke between friends. Friendship, you decided, was enough for you, if it was for him.

The entrance doors slammed suddenly, making you all jump in your seats. Alastor stood at the door, looking... different. Stressed? You cocked a brow when you saw his eye twitch, while he sauntered over to the group.

„Al, do you want to join us? We're watching a movie!“, Charlie said absent-mindedly, her eyes glued to the scene of 'Can you feel the love tonight'.

Alastor gave the TV set a judgmental smile and waved his hand. „Tempting, but it has been a rather hard day, I'll just take a drink and retreat to my room, dear.“ He left the group and went to the bar, your pair of eyes the only one following him. Something was NOT right. His smile was tight, his eyes wider than usual, his movements almost jagged instead of fluid. Niffty had jumped to the bar too, insisting on helping Alastor by retrieving a glass for his whiskey from one the higher shelves. In her eagerness to climb and get it, she didn't watch her steps careful enough, resulting in a few delicate wine glasses sliding from the shelfves and breaking into a hundred tiny pieces. Alastor's reaction was as unexpected as it was worrying – he always had a soft spot for Niffty, laughing over her antics and chaotic energy, often encouraging her even to produce more mayhem. This time, however, he started to scold the maid, who blinked at him with a big, guilty eye and trembling lips.

„Such indignation, really Niffty. Clean the shards at once, and try not to remain to be such a clumsy clot.“, he almost hissed, grabbing the bottle and a simple crystal glass before striding away hastily. Your eyes followed his figure until he turned the corner to the staircase, then you got up and comforted the little demon, helping her sweeping up the glass pieces while she sniffeled tears away.

You let your gaze swipe over the group, completely ignorant about what happened with Niffty, and Alastor. Ignorant of the blatantly obvious bad mood of the deer demon.

Turning to Charlie, you whispered to her that you had a headache and would be going to bed, to which she just nodded. No one acknowledged your leave, all eyes on the screen and still bickering noisily. A bunch of friends, you are, you thought annoyed with a shaking head.

Three flights of stairs later, you reached Alastor's room. You pressed your ear to the door, and heard dull bangs, like something was thrown, and a muffled voice. You knocked, and the room instantly stilled.

„Alastor, it's me.“, you said loudly, brows furrowed. „Are you okay?“

A few seconds of silence. „I'm just fine and dandy my dear.“

You put one hand on the door. He normally would open it, to speak with you directly, face uncomfortably close to face, just the way he liked it. But it stayed close.

„You didn't look fine.“, you stated. You were ever so stubborn.

„Well, I am fine. Now shoo, darling, good night.“

You stood in front of the wooden divider, contemplating. You could just go. Leave him be, wait until tomorrow. See if he would talk to you then. But then, there was your gut. And it told you Alastor wasn't well. And that just didn't sit right with you.

„Alastor. Please, let me in.“

No response, just hint of the prickling feeling of static electricity on your skin.

„I know something is bothering you, and I'm worried.“

No response. You breathe in and out.

„I'm not going anywhere until you open the...“

The door flew open, a hand wrapped around your arm and pulled you into the room, violently. You stumbled and fell against a bookshelf, catching the fall with your hands to keep you upright. You heard a slam and a click – door closed, door locked. The static was everywhere now, flushing in waves over your body. You turned around -

Alastor was pacing like a wounded animal, he seemed fluffed up, as if every hair on his body had decided to stand up. His scleras were dark pits, blackest black, and in it his irises burned angrily in crimson flames, now focusing solely on you. The prey.

„So you came to test my patience too, dear?“, he snarled, his voice so distorted it ached in your ears. „It's not enough that that waste of cables destroyed two of my radio towers. Not enough that dozens of my most profitable souls have been rendered useless by an angelic bomb. Not enough that I not only had to put the disgraceful flat screened wretch back in his place, but also his vulgar boy toy and their brazen, attention-seeking brat.“

He grew in size as he ranted, you watched him reaching the ceiling, antlers scraping along the walls. „I manage my weakening territories, manage these imbeciles who think they can play overlords, I manage this sad excuse of a hotel, I manage the princess's unattainable ideas, and now, I also need to manage you, too, of all people? What a disappointm...“

„Stop.“

You held up a hand. Alastor growled, fluffing up even more, limbs cracking and static popping. „How dare y...“

„Stop.“, you said again. Your tone was calm, void of anger, or fear, neutral and steady. He stared at you, and you held his gaze. „Breathe, Alastor.“

You saw him fighting with himself. He fought against his instinct to oppose, to command, to put you into your place, to rip you apart. His elongated claws scraped over the floor, ripping deep ridges in the wood.

„Breathe.“, you repeated, firmer this time.

Slowly, gradually, Alastor shrunk. Breathed. Crumbled. Until he was back to his usual size and form, only with an exhausted expression.

You studied him – you've never seen him like that. He never allowed anyone to see him as something other than 'the radio demon': Powerful, unshakeable, quick on his feet and always one step ahead. How exhausting it must be. To always have the control also meant to always carry responsibility, to always fear impending failure.

Your heart whispered to you, and you followed it's advice. It could be the most stupid thing you could do, but you decided to do it anyway.

„Come here, Alastor.“

He looked at you, unsure, suspicious. You sounded commanding, but not harsh. Inviting. Like a hand, reached out to someone trapped. For a moment, you almost thought you ruined everything – his eyes left yours, they fell to the ground as he shifted on his feet.

But then – steps. Coming closer. Stopping right in front of you. And suddenly..

His head on your shoulder. His breath on your neck. His voice in your ear.

„Sometimes I'm so sick of it all. Sick of maneuvering, sick of ruling, governing, planning...“

You touched his neck, he let you, caressing the soft skin, heated from his outburst, trembling slightly at the contact. It was intimate, baring this vulnerable part to you. You heart broke for him.

He pulled himself away from you, searching for your eyes. Finding them again, he took your hand, bringing it up to his face, guiding your fingers over his lips. He just said one word.

„Please.“

So much was said with this please. You heard every message. Giving up control, just for a bit, just with something he didn't care enough about to insist on ruling, could be a small bit of freedom. Letting himself be guided instead of leading.

“Kneel down, Alastor.”

His ears pressed flat against his head, but he did as he was told. He couldn't look you in the eyes. For once, you were the one towering over him. You took his face in your hands, pulling it so he looked up to you, seeing your warm smile before your lips met his.

His breath hitched, stuck somewhere in his throat.

You slid one hand to the back of his neck, pulling him closer, the other caressing his cheek as you tilted your head and deepened the kiss. Slowly, the rigidity melted away, he started to shift, lips no longer stiff but soft and molding against your own.

He tried to stand up, but you pushed him down, gently, definitively.

“Trust me to guide you, buck.”

He breathed, one, two, three times, eyes closed, grin tight.

“Yes, doe.”

Your own excitement took a back seat. You were filled with pure energy at the thought of crossing the line with him, having Alastor in a way you only dreamed about, convinced your relationship would never come this far. But. But this was not about you, for now. Maybe, another time. If another time ever came.

You lowered yourself on him, straddling him, so you were still 'taller', and rejoined your lips. You took his hands and set them on your hips, let them rest there while you buried yours in his hair, tugging lightly to bend his head back. His initial resistance lessened, and he gave in, exposing his throat, gray skin peeking out of his high collar. You let your mouth travel to his jawline, down to the small patch of delicate, thin skin, right next to his jugular. You felt him tense, felt his rising urge to protect himself from your potential strike. You let out a soft hum as you started to lick it, sucking gently, just a bit, just to make him shiver at the sensation. And how he did.

A moan, low and sweet like the strumming of a cello, escaped him, his hands crushing your hips by the force of his grip. It hurt, but you decided to ignore it. Little steps.

“Can you take more, good boy?”

His eyes snapped open, burning furiously. You met them with calmness, with a soft matter-of-fact-ness. Not smug, not mocking. A question. Proceed or Stop?

Alastor swallowed hot saliva. You could see he was getting overwhelmed, overstimulated, and yet, he had such a longing in his eyes, such desperation.

“Yes.”

One simple word. One spark, setting your body on fire. You tried to force your trembling fingers to steady, lifting yourself slightly off him to open his trousers. With every button, his breaths grew heavier, his grip on your legs grew tighter, claws already digging in your skin and drawing blood.

“Careful, buck. I'll need these in a moment.”, you said, placing both hands on his chest, pushing him flat on his back on the ground. He let you go, arms falling useless next to him.

You leaned forward, thanking any deity that would listen you decided to wear a skirt today, and placed a hand on his growing bulge. He hissed at the touch, cracking the floor as his fingers clawed into the wood of the floor instead your fleshy legs.

Freed from it's cage, Alastor's dick was already dripping with beads of precum, a sight to behold. You wrapped your fingers around it, feeling the warmth and bloodflow, it twitched in your hand. You stroke him, eliciting the most sinful noises from the demon under you.

You took a deep breath. One more, one question more, to make sure that he wanted it.

“Look at me, Alastor.”

He sat up on his elbows, looking more helpless than you've ever imagined he could. Even his smile wavered, threatening to break. You were looking for any signs of hesitation, disgust, resistance, regret. You only found desire. A want, a need, almost pleading eyes.

Your free hand pushed your panty away, enough to expose your lips, and you lowered yourself onto him, his length slowly entering you. He was big, you were tight. A bittersweet combination. Sparks flew before your eyes as he stretched you, but you were hypnotized by his eyes.

They were blown wide, returned to black, but the irises now flickering into dials, turning, left to right as he groaned. You moved, guiding your hips up and down, feeling yourself molding to his shape in the most delectable way, and getting drunk off the look on his face.

You increased the pace on which you pushed yourself on him, adding a little tilt of your hips to take him even deeper. His voice was reduced to a static-y mess, hums and groans and moans bleeding into each other. You placed both of your hands on his chest for more support, inevitably pinning him down. His hands flew to yours, threatening to push them off him, but instead, he entwined his fingers with yours, panting heavily.

It didn't take long for him to feel the pressure, unbearable and urgent, his release approaching at godspeed.

“Doe, I can't...”

Panic in his tone. He tried to put his hands on your waist to pull you off. You understood immediately – an upbringing in conservative times, decades of living by the rules of a gentleman, he was resisting against the thought of cumming inside you. You pushed his hands away.

“Yes, you can.”, you stated, smiling at him, a hint of wickedness in your eyes. “And you will.”

Your skilled movements and dedicated demeanor sent him over the edge immediately. Protests were futile as he came in you forcefully, you felt his cock pumping his seed deep into you, hot and thick as you rocked him through his orgasm. Your own high wasn't worth chasing, too far away to matter. You didn't even think about it – nothing could feel better than this.

Alastor ran his hands over his forehead, sweeping away beads of sweat as his breath calmed down.

His hand shot out to grab you, and, still impaled by him, he pulled you into his chest, invading your mouth with his tongue to kiss you possessively. As if to transfer the command, the control he had given up, back to him. Taking it from you.

For a moment you were scared. The positions had reset to their default. Would that mean he'd push you off? Say goodnight and never talk about this night again? Returning to the Status Quo. Friends, the end.

Alastor pulled your chin up to look at you. His thumb ran over your cheek, tenderly and full of care. His eyes answered every question in your mind. You weren't scared anymore.

[moonstruckme]

hi! i hope you're having a good day<3 i was wondering if you could write a remus x fem!reader where they aren't really dating but everyone knows they like each other (them included) where r has kinda mean friends? like, they leave her out of everything and she constantly feels bad about it. and ever time she tells remus he's like "you should drop them, you deserve better" and he's just trying to get her to see that she deserves better?

Thank you <3

modern au

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 736 words

Remus can feel a heaviness building where you sit on the couch next to him. 

He lets his eyes slide subtly in your direction, and you’re frowning at your phone. Not an upset frown, no pursed lips or drawn brows, just a slight downturn of the corners of your mouth. You look defeated, and Remus can’t abide it. 

“Everything alright, love?”

Predictably, you soften like butter at the endearment, and your expression as you turn to him is kind if not happy. “Yeah, I’m good,” you say, and Remus pretends not to know it’s a lie. He waits. Your eyes drop to his shoulder, one thumbnail picking at the other distractedly. “I just wish…I wish that if my friends were going to hang out without me, they’d at least not post so much about it.” 

A familiar ache starts up in his chest. “Oh no. What’ve they done?” 

You shrug like it’s little to you, but he sees the way you press your lips together, the faint redness creeping up from your neck. He hopes you don’t cry, if only to spare his delicate heart. 

“They’re all at Hannah’s place, I guess. Going to go see the new movie premiere.” You laugh. It sounds raw. “I actually asked them if they wanted to go do that tonight, and they all said they were busy.” 

The frailty of your voice works like glass shards, cleaving Remus clean open. “Darling,” he says, and he doesn’t care that you’re not official enough to acknowledge the endearment in its full capacity. You both know he means it well enough. His hand slides atop yours the way one tempers one ingredient by adding a tiny bit of another before the rest. You soften at his touch, and Remus goes all the way, curling his arms under yours to give your back a firm squeeze. “I know you’re sick of hearing it from me, but they really don’t deserve you.” 

A tiny drop of warm wetness slides from your face to his shirt. His own fault, really, but if a good cry is what you need he’s ready to indulge you. “I just want to know what it is about me that makes me so terrible to be around,” you weep, and Remus crushes you to his front unthinkingly, a protective ire swelling within him. He wishes he could go to your friend’s house and give these girls a talking-to right now, but you probably wouldn’t thank him for it. He settles for dragging his palm up and down your back, hip to shoulder and back again. 

“Don’t say that,” he pleads with you. 

“I know, I’m sorry.” Your sigh is a stilted, shuddering thing. “I’m putting you in an awful position. I don’t mean to fish for compliments.” 

“I know,” he promises, his hand stopping where Remus can feel your heart beating through the material of your shirt. “And I’m not saying it out of any sense of obligation, but you really are lovely to be around. I mean” —he pulls back so you can see his face, hoping the sincerity in it will make some headway against your self-doubt— “would I be here if you weren’t?”

You give him a small smile, thin-lipped. “You’re very nice.” 

Remus laughs, wrapping his fingers around your upper arms and barely restraining himself from trying to shake some sense into you. “I’m not that nice. But okay, Sirius would never hang around anyone he didn’t actually like, can we agree there?” He takes your silence for acquiescence, and, with a gentle smile, goes on. “Every one of our friends sees how kind, and smart, and lovely you are. They” —he shoots a pointed look at your phone— “are the only ones who don’t. That’s how I know you’re not the problem, sweetheart,” he says, softer now. “They are.” 

You look him in the eyes as you take a deep breath. This one goes in and out steadier than the last, and some of the tension in his own chest eases. “Thank you,” you tell him. 

Remus can’t help himself; he pulls you in for another hug, selfish to his core. “No thanks necessary,” he says firmly.

“I guess the only thing to do,” you say, voice muffled against his shoulder, “is to stop trying to make plans with them and hang out exclusively with you.” 

Remus laughs. He doesn’t hate the sound of that.

[nocturne-pisces]

Hurricane

Jason Todd x Reader

Mostly like PG-13.

Allusions to heavy abuse.

You think you must have been starved as a child.

It’s the only way that he could leave you this hungry, this hollow. You tell yourself that it isn’t normal to want someone like this. You tell yourself that it isn’t healthy to want someone so much that it twists your ribs around themselves, makes you fold in on yourself because if you don’t the wind will catch and carry you off. 

You’re so empty you hear the breeze whistle in your throat, half drunk with a beer bottle in your fist blowing across the opening like a whistle and your whole body is warm. You don’t know if that’s the alcohol or the fact that he’s sitting across from you. 

“What’s up with you?” 

Jason levels you with a stare, clacks his beer bottle against yours in some mockery of playfulness even though you’ve barely said a word to him all night. 

You try to shove it off now, try to swallow down your feelings as the sensation of the bile crawling up the back of your throat burns at your resolve. 

“Huh? I’m fine–”

“You’re a shit liar, kid.” 

You hate that he calls you that. Kids are innocent, pure; the first time Jason met you he’d had to pry you off of some man while you were trying to cut his fingers off for feeling you up. Jason told that man if he ever caught him doing some shit like that again he’d take a whole hand. Fucking greaseball nodded because Jason was more than a full head taller than him and held him off the ground by his stupid fucking stained shirt. 

You’ve always hated that you didn’t scare people like that, you think maybe if you did you could have avoided some hurt. 

You roll your eyes, because you are a shit liar and Jason knows better than anyone when you’re keeping things from him. Because he’s the only person you’ve let this close in longer than you probably have the functional front lobe to remember. Concussions are a bitch like that.

“I think I’m just gonna go home,” you offer, knocking back the rest of your beer before your ribcage gets so brittle that it collapses and he sneezes on the dust. 

“Alright then, magic man, keep your secrets.” 

“You’re obnoxious.”

“And you’re keeping shit from me. I thought we agreed not to do that with this whole sidekick thing–”

“I’m not a fucking sidekick.” Venom drips from your teeth, a snake backed into a corner with nowhere to go but forward viciously.

“And this is what I’m talking about! Any other day you’d just punch me and tell me to get my shit in check but today you look like you’re ready to slit my throat.” 

“It’s not off the table,” you murmur, more to the ceiling than to him, right before the last of your beer slides down into your echoing gullet. 

“What is going on with you?” 

“Just some personal shit, Jason. Don’t worry about it.” You try to give it finality, but Jason can’t even die on someone else’s terms so he doesn’t let this go either. 

“What, like your period?” 

You don’t even try to stop your hand when your fingers close around the beer bottle and throw it at his head. He ducks and it shatters on the wall behind him, shards of glass raining down around his chair. You know how that feels. 

The bartender’s voice is booming from the other end of the bar. 

“You two. Out.” 

He’s bigger than both of you combined and you don’t feel like arguing anymore so you wave your hand as you dismiss yourself, leaving Jason to pay for the abhorrently cheap beer. 

It’s humid in Gotham, suffocating your every breath with smog and uncertainty. Maybe you should just find a place in Metropolis, start over again, but you’re so fucking tired of running. Everyone you have ever met, everyone that has ever left you has taken their pound of flesh. You feel like nothing but bones, knocking together like chutes on a bamboo wind chime before a hurricane. 

Jason is your hurricane. Your natural disaster of righteous salvation and you didn’t bring your arm floaties. 

You want to drown in him, want to inhale him and choke—

Even if it kills you. He’s never even had a girlfriend that you know of and how fucking idiotic would it be to ask Alfred if Jason’s available, how stupid to ask Dick if Jason’s interested in you.

You peel yourself out of your jeans, your bra, shove your arms through the most comfortable oversized t-shirt you can find and flop onto your back in the middle of your living room. 

The ceiling in your apartment holds no more answers than the ceiling at the bar and again you have to swallow back that hollowed out feeling. At some point your eyes slid closed and you slumbered listening to the breeze in the auditorium of your chest. 

—-

Everything is warm when you wake up, heat radiates from behind you and from the arm slung over your middle. 

But that can’t be right, this isn’t where you fell asleep. 

You don’t wait to ask questions, pivoting your body and swinging at whatever is behind you. Someone yelps in pain, your fist connecting with something face adjacent before it’s caught and held fast. Your knees come up to join the struggle and one heavy leg drapes across your hips to still you. 

“Goddamnit, will you fucking chill out?”

“Jason?” 

Just as you say it your eyes adjust to the light, make out the red bat on his chest, make out the shock of silver that grows in the front. 

“Yeah, me, shithead.” 

“Why are you in my bed?!” You struggle against his hold, it only gets tighter. 

“I came to check on you after patrol and you were like sad girl passed out in the floor.” 

“So you decided I needed a cuddle?!” 

“I mean, that’s probably not such a bad idea given your fucking attitude—“

“Jason!” 

“No! I mean, I didn’t mean to. I tucked you in and just wanted to stay long enough to make sure you were okay and then I fell asleep.” 

He lets go of you, lets you get as far away from him as you can without falling off of the bed. He looks like you shot him with his own gun. 

“I’m sorry. I uh- I crossed a line coming here-“ 

“No, wait,” you stop him, reach for him as he moves to get up. 

“I don’t understand where I lost you-“ 

You don’t let him finish. You rush him,  connect your mouth to his because you don’t know how else to explain it. He doesn’t react immediately, and you wish that the floor would open up and swallow you whole but it doesn’t. 

You pull back, sit up and on your haunches and stare at his dumbfounded face. There’s only a second of silence between you before a hand strikes out lightning fast, thunder clapping against your sternum as you’re jerked forward. 

One hand cradles your head, allowing you no room to escape from the kiss suffocating you like the most beautiful Gotham smog. Wisp of smoke soft, signal of something lit aflame. The other presses into your back, calloused and unforgiving, like he’ll float away if he doesn’t hold on. You want to pull him closer but you can’t, your electrons are already crashing together. 

You tug at the buckles on his chest kevlar, fingers pinch and twist until they come loose and fall into a heap on the floor. His shirt goes too, the silver of sinew in his autopsy scar catching the moonlight. You’re struck dumb like staring into the eye of his hurricane and seeing the beauty in the pattern of his destruction. Like pitching yourself into a volcano for the warmth. 

Because he is beautiful; 

and he is broken. 

And those two things are intertwined and that is something you understand in your marrow. 

You press your lips to the point where the three lines meet right over his heart. His breath catches the same way it does when he’s on the unfortunate end of a knife, but you know there aren’t words you can tell him that will soothe that ache. 

So you show him your own. 

Bodies roll and he lets out a huffed breath when his back hits the mattress. 

A handful of raised tally marks, gnarled and stretched over time, one for every reason your father decided that he hated you that night. You didn’t plan on living after that, you’ve kind of been wingin’ it ever since. Jason’s thumb brushes over the cluster of violence on your stomach, looks from it to your face and understands the exchange. 

Your scars and his, all the things that have happened to you. 

He happened to you too. 

And you can spew adjectives about every natural disaster that has a name and still never aptly describe how much you love his chaos. 

And that's okay too.

[slashmagpie]

Shhhh.

It’s silliness, really, that makes Tango creep through the hollows in Decked Out’s walls to his mess of shulkers full of in-game items. He keeps his footsteps light, his breathing shallow, picturing himself a ghost as he slinks through the shadows and stone. It’s silly, but he can’t help but think that maybe, if he’s quiet enough, he might be able to—

Steal from the dungeon.

His fingers touch the shulker he needs, and the stone around him groans, deep and resonating through his bones. Tango grits his teeth, freezing. Busted. He’d known, really, but it’s still—

“It’s fine,” he says to the air, tail lashing, not quite opening the box just yet. “It’s a starter deck. If I was a normal player, I’d have had a Moment of Clarity in my deck from the get-go.”

Another grumble of discontent. Tango shivers. He can feel the disapproval crawling beneath his skin, and it takes all his willpower not to drop the shulker like a hot coal. 

“I know,” he says. “I thought I explained this! It’s an experiment, right? I’m seeing—seeing how dungeon knowledge makes up for a, uh, relative lack of skill.” The dungeon’s unhappiness remains where it is, but does not increase, and Tango lets out a shaking breath as he cracks open the lid of the shulker and peers inside just enough to spot and snag one of the cards he needs. He turns it between his fingers, glittering cardboard, the golden foil glittering in the torchlight. 

“I know I’m not a regular player,” Tango reassures the dungeon once again. “We talked about this, didn’t we? I’m not gonna submit Victory Tomes. And I’m starting behind everyone else. I won’t even run as much! I’m just—gonna try it. Think of it like the test runs again, yeah?” 

The discontent surges—then wanes, like a wave rushing back out to sea, and Tango feels like he can breathe again, the pressure on his lungs lessening. He hadn’t realised just how uncomfortable the weight had been until it was gone. Feeling ten tons lighter, Tango grins at the air.

“See? And, hey, if I run the dungeon, you’ll probably get to eat me loads more. You like that, don’t you?” A wry smirk. “I’m basically your favourite meal.”

The dungeon—doesn’t quite laugh, but the groan is quieter, softer, and tickles more than it prickles or aches. It’s not quite approval, and it’s not happy, but—it’s letting him. It’s letting him run, Moment of Clarity and all.

Tango tucks the additional card away inside his inventory and makes to leave the small, cramped storage room that isn’t a storage room and that Pearl would definitely murder him for. He hurries through his actual storage room and up to the water elevator. He should get his runs done before the dungeon changes its mind again. Honestly, sometimes Decked Out is more of a pain than the Ravagers are. 

…He is glad that it had fallen for his excuses, for the experiment and beta testing explanations, because he’s not sure the dungeon would appreciate his actual reasons for running quite as much. It’s quite particular about the place of its Dungeon Master, and what is and isn’t appropriate for Tango to do. It's why Tango spends hours and hours of his day watching people run the dungeon instead of working on all those repairs he’s got mounting on a list in the back of his mind. And why he has to give a mountain of excuses to play the game he’d helped make. Because really, in actuality—

Tango just wants to have a little fun.

Is that too much to ask?

He places a shard in the barrel and watches the doors open. He can feel the dungeon’s eyes on him already, and it’s weird to not be looking through them himself as he takes off his armour and stores his stuff in the chest. He takes a deep breath, tucks the stolen Moment of Clarity into his deck, and makes his way through the iron door.

Decked Out curls beneath his skin, curious and hungry, and as Tango places his deck into the slot, he feels the dungeon purr. 

[kaziee2]

The Favorite

Summary: Liho has your attention and your girlfriend doesn’t seem to like it 

Warning: None that I can think of

Pairs: [Natasha x Gn!reader]

[Words: 700+]

[Masterlist] [A/n: Just enjoy :)]

Pets were something foreign in your childhood, your parents never allowed you to keep one since they thought it held no value to bring to the family. They valued productivity and having a pet felt as a liability and nuisance. “Fierce warriors do not need sentimental things” your mother would always tell you.

So after you left to find yourself and soon after Nick Fury found you, you joined the rag-tag team of misfits called the Avengers, and to say you call them your family would be an understatement. You loved each and everyone and even became a mother figure to all the kids that Nick suddenly kept on recruiting.

And after years meeting Nick, meeting the Avengers, then officially becoming one, you still fell in love between it all.

You were so in love that even though she broke your favorite mug, you didn’t even bother scolding her. So now after cleaning up the broken shards of glass, you opted to lay on the couch with her on your chest, occasionally giving her treats. 

“You know you're spoiling her too much, she practically has you under her scrawny paws,” 

Natasha tells you as she comes into your view. She’s still wearing her mission gear and suit, just coming back from one, you guess. 

“Oh I know, but how can you say no to a cute face like hers,” you softly cupped the feline's cheeks and cooed at her. 

Natasha rolled her eyes but smiled nonetheless, she walked to the bedroom to clean herself up so she could lay down with you and just relax all together. 

Few minutes later Natasha came back, and when she was about to sit down on the couch with you, she stopped “Uhm… Honey, can you please move Liho from my spot,” she asked and pointed at the black cat that didn’t even bother acknowledging her. 

You smiled at her sheepishly “Sorry love, but that’s her spot,” Natasha looked at you dumbfounded, “Oh! But you can still sit on the other side,” but she didn’t accept that arrangement and tried moving Liho herself, resulting in the cat to nuzzle herself more closely to you, to which you prompted to fall right in back in her spell and held her closer. Liho was definitely just taunting her now.

Natasha slowly gave in and sat on the other end of the couch, slightly annoyed that you chose the cat over her! Liho and her looked at each other and she swears she saw the cat give her a smug smile! It angered her, and she threatened her pet, “You know I’m the one who picked you up in the street and I could put you back out,” she whispered. Liho just meows at her as if telling her ‘she could try’ and went back to snuggling beside you. To which you gladly accepted. 

“Don’t worry Natty, I promise you, that later we can snuggle all night however long you want,” 

But that wasn’t enough for her, she wanted to cuddle now! She whined mentally like a petulant child. She pouted at you and not having the patience to wait, she acted. 

Natasha picked up Liho from your grasp, causing the black cat to continuously meow and wriggle in the red-head hands trying to get into your hold. You also tried to grab Liho back from her hands but was swatted away by her free hand. You let out a soft ‘hey’ in regard but was ignored, so you just sat there pouting. 

Natasha went to the cat room (built by you) and placed her cat inside before closing the door and making sure the small cat door was locked so she wouldn't get out. 

Natasha walked back to you and saw you pouting at her, “Sorry love but you know I had to,” she proclaims and took her spot where the damn cat resided a while ago. You opened your arms for her and she instinctively embraced you, feeling happy to finally be able to cuddle with you.

Silence surrounded both of you, until you spoke up to her, giving her a cheeky grin, “You know, you can’t just keep Liho in there forever,” you laugh at how guilty she looks at the thought of doing it. 

“I’ll let her out after I’m satisfied with the cuddles you give,” she huffs, jabbing you playfully. 

“Don’t worry I’ll make sure to give you the best cuddles, so Liho can join us,” Natasha hums in acknowledgement and you wrap your hands around her tighter. Sigh of content released from the both of you.

[bloogers-boogers]

The battle field was messy, you could see splattered blood everywhere you turn, broken shards and buildings demolished, the bodies of angels, hellborns and sinners laying around, countless of them.

More explosions could be heard from afar and even more angels flew down to hell some to help the injured others to cause the injuries.

It was absolute chaos. And Charlie Morningstar couldn’t help but feel like she was to blame, from hell’s perspective she was the cause of this but like a mirror of their own Emily the seraphim’s reflection mirrored Charlie and so did heaven see Emily at fault of this.

Both most powerful angels were plucked to the ground, captive, as an evil force layed upon them, wrapping them tightly on to their bodies; back, wrists and legs. Michael tried reaching for his sword but it was useless; he never gave up for his people, he couldn’t give up now, he wanted, needed to protect them. Lucifer growled as he tried pulling roughly at the chains on him; worried for Charlie, trying to reach out to protect her as much as he can. He had to. He can’t give up. He can’t lose her. He must protect her.

Neither could move however, they looked like worms wiggling around with a missing head. Like a snake having its head chopped off but its tail still moving. It was devastating to hear their people scream in both panic and rage. They couldn’t accept their fate this easily, Lucifer couldn’t. There was so much to lose than to win if they did.

But in a blink of eye, as a miracle had happened Lucifer heard a faint scream, a familiar voice. He looked up and saw Adam standing not too far from both archangels. Actually, to be specific, on the other side of the edge of the huge cliff that broke apart from pentagram city and kept the archangels apart from the chaos. Keeping them far from reach of anyone. It was cruel, because the view was fantastic, they could see everything, oh god they could see fucking everything.

“Adam!? Holy fuck! Adam!” Lucifer for once, was genuinely happy to see the first man. He was alive, that was good.

But being alive doesn’t take away that Adam was limping his way even further to the edge of the cliff to get a better look at them. It didn’t take away that a wing was missing and the other was only half of it. He held his side as blood poured from what seemed like another injury of many more.

“You’re alive!” Adam shouted as he stopped his walking once he hit a high dangerous level of risk, “I know how to get you guys out! All you need to do is save heaven and hell if I do it!”

Both archangels looked at him in a ‘what?’ Manner.

“Typical Adam thing to do to try negotiating with us while everyone is agonizing pain, suffering, and most likely about to be all wiped out from existence. Now let’s hear what you have to offer!” Michael hissed sarcastic as he felt horns popping out from his head, being in hell for this long has been turning him slowly.

“I’m more surprised he hasn’t just left us to die to be honest,” Lucifer admitted, his eyes still on Adam trying to analyze him.

“He won’t, because we have to save his ass too in the process.”

“We can still leave him to the side.”

“You know I’m right fucking here!” Adam said with frustration, “it’s not that type of deal.”

Both archangels blinked, doubtful.

“How do we even know you actually know how to get us ‘out’ for all we know you may think that but it won’t?” Michael interrogated further.

“Fuck! I just know, okay!?? Just trust me on this. I know what I’m doing. In all the thousands of years of just existing, I finally know what I’m doing and meant to do,” Adam exclaimed before slowly lowering his voice the more serious he got into his speech.

They looked at him expectantly.

“And thats to save humanity. Lucifer may had doomed it but I can save it! This is where my deal starts. The moment I do this, you both are gonna shove your differences aside, work together to get this evil out of the way and finally shake hands to one of Charlie’s little activities. Because I suppose redemption isn’t so bad and second chances are always welcome. Got it?”

Both archangels winced at the idea of working together but at the same time, looked at Adam as if he had grown another head.

Lucifer winced his eyes, the words echoing in his head warning him of something that’s about to come, that he’s not ready to face just yet. That he never considered to ever happen. He just couldn’t tell what that was until the words sank in.

“Fine.” Michael and Lucifer said at the same time.

Adam smiled. Like actually smile for the first time since his fall he fucking smile and that was before Lucifer could realized it’s gonna be his last.

Before Lucifer realized what was going on, what Adam was about to do.

“Wait…” he looks up in panic as he saw Adam dash his way back down to the chaos, “ADAM, WAIT!!” his blurry figure could be seen disappearing into the dust particles of the explosions, far away from view.

Lucifer cried out in a panic as he kept pulling forward with even more force trying to get loose from the chains.

“What’s happening?” Michael asked alarmed as Lucifer demeanor changed more frantic and desperate.

“Adam is gonna sacrifice himself!”

Before he could do more a green explosion was heard, one too powerful and loud in comparison of the rest. One extremely different and unsettling. One that made all the grounds of hell shake tremendously.

Maybe he was being a little bit dramatic, maybe he was being genuinely honest about Adam being a small misfortune to deal with in his life since the angel fell to hell, but fuck, Lucifer didn’t want him to die nonetheless to take it himself!

From the sudden explosion and the release of his wrists, Lucifer right there knew…

Adam was gone. Like actually gone this time. Like he’ll never see those golden devilish eyes on him thinking he’s slick after planting a prank on him mid-day time.

Oh Adam! You stupid airhead bitch!

~~~~

After thinking the impossible would be, well, basically impossible. It became possible. Lucifer and Michael had a lot to work on when it came to their issues, but they sure made a good team. Defeating evil with another entity as strong as you made things much more easier to handle, and with the addition of Charlie, Emily and the many other seraphim and hellborns it was absolutely a breeze in comparison of the suffocating heat of it all, they finally defeated evil.

And it was all thanks to Adam. The first man. The so called ‘dickmaster’. The first fucking dumbass of humanity. Not having managed to release them in time could’ve doomed both heaven and hell (double doom for hell).

Lucifer sighed mournful after being released of a soul crushing group hug with Charlie, her friends and that dickhead of Michael and Gabriel. Walking away, the devil reached towards a huge hole on the ground that lead to the real depths of hell. He looked down seeing nothing but darkness and screams echoing the inside.

Charlie stepped closer, trying to reach out but keeping herself at a comfortable distance from her father.

“Adam.. he-“

“I know, sweetie,” Lucifer kept looking away from the rest just looking at the darkness of the hole as if he could feel the last remaining of Adam’s aura in there. But there was nothing more there to find if he looked, “we thought we were the heroes but in the end, it was the villain who saved us all.”

“Does Adam even count as a villain? He was more of a bitter asshole than something to feel threatened about,” Angel dust added as everyone else approached the scene. Husk giving him a hard nudge on the side of his elbow; to keep quiet.

Lucifer tightly clutch his chest, suddenly feeling an overwhelming sadness hit him in ways it had never before, tears fell like waterfalls as he falls on his knees, hands touching the ground trying to feel Adam.

“Dad..?”

“I think… I just lost something I love.”

[pocketgalaxies]

what did you mean about laudna and ashton driving you nuts?

mmmmm. dangerous territory! for me, i mean. to indulge the side of me that don't give a fu about–

it's pretty interesting how this ep turned out to be a direct comparison between laudna and ashton and how they discover and come to terms with the idea that there is an option for them to ostensibly destroy themselves in the name of protecting/helping/saving the rest of the party

a few ppl have already discussed this with far more thought and nuance than i'm willing to put into words right now but something something both of them taking this as an opportunity to Be Useful and Contribute to the cause, blind or perhaps willingly ignorant to the fact that these people love them for who they are and that they don't need to Do Something in order to be loved - in fact, losing them is actually a far less acceptable outcome to the party than whatever reward they perceive to be gained from their self-sacrifice. which is all very sad and tragic and juicy and pulls at the heartstrings which i always love. but this is kind of where the similarities end?

laudna follows this with a conversation in which she tells imogen what she would want to happen in rather explicit terms. and when imogen responds by saying she'll do everything in her power to stop it from getting to that point, laudna says "i can accept that." the next morning, they tell the whole group what happened. on the other hand, ashton pulls fearne aside and has their own grave conversation but in more vague terms, at least in the sense that i don't think fearne picked up what they were putting down or at the very least wasn't given the opportunity to really process and respond to what was asked. and then ashton isolated the two of them from the rest of the group to undergo this transformation without their knowledge. all of which drives me nuts! to see the direct comparison in which one is so much more communicative than the other

and i don't think it's fair to say that this is a consequence of the party being poor communicators overall. it's somewhat reminiscent of vax's initial response to scanlan leaving in c1 - we don't know your mother's name because you never talked about it. aka there's a difference between ashton bringing up this desire or plan to hold both shards and everyone brushing it off/not sufficiently exploring it vs. ashton choosing not to ask for their opinions, ideas, or feelings about it because he thinks they won't let him do it. he unilaterally made the decision for everyone, which is the most frustrating part for me. they presume to know what is best for everyone, and they presume to know that this is the only option, despite being surrounded by not only some of the most powerful people on the planet but also the people who care for them the most. which he said himself: nobody will miss me when i die, given that we all die - implicitly saying that if i am the only one who dies, i know you all will miss me. so to me it feels disrespectful to them, because even having acknowledged that they care, he doesn't trust that they might have ideas for a better solution or that they might recognize what this means to him and try to help him survive it. or that they might not want to be "saved" if it means losing him. or that they might like to say goodbye.

i know many people are saying that this is in line for ashton's character, frustrating or not, which i think is true. but it feels stagnant to me. ashton has come a long way in terms of learning to care for these people but they have learned little about being cared for. and while laudna is trying to believe what others say to her (that they love her, that she's important, that she deserves life) with varying degrees of success, to me ashton feels like they have made minimal progress and/or aren't trying to make progress. they refuse to see bells hells for what they so loudly and clearly are - people who love and care for each other, ashton included. and unfortunately, 77 episodes in and coming up on a vastly important mission (the first in a while), this brand of hypocrisy (taliesin's words not mine!) and lack of awareness for the group's feelings in the name of High Risk High Reward is something i have a rather low tolerance for ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

and for the record i've been thinking about this a loooot because i know most of it is colored by my general apathy toward this character. and i understand that a lot of people who love this character are so so fascinated by and invested in what happened. but my apathy toward ashton is something that i've tried to circumvent or logic my way out of a LOT in the past few years and at this point it's kind of an immovable object. and doing mental gymnastics to try and enjoy someone that i simply don't makes everything so much worse! so i don't mean to rain on anyone's parade but these are my thoughts whether i like it or not

tl;dr the end of this ep didn't make me excited, it just kinda made me feel annoyed and crazy. sorry

[songwings]

Deaf AU, or: Why Miriam Is Deaf and How This Changes Very Little

(Shard) Ok so! We've only posted art of this AU thus far but i feel compelled to ramble about it, so here we go. Also disclaimer that while this could be any sign language, we're more familiar with American Sign Language and the deaf culture in the United States, so that's what I'll say for this post.

The basic premise is that Miriam is deaf (born that way) - and not much else changes, besides a few things:

The mode of communication between her and Kiwi, and later Audrey (sign language.)

Kiwi already knows some ASL, there be deaf and hard of hearing residents in Langtree!

Audrey loses her hearing and becomes deaf over the course of the game's story, thanks to her very loud sword.

This AU manifested as a result of us seeing Miriam's loneliness and the isolation that seems to be inherent to being a Scary Witch - that's the same for deafness! You might not believe it, but many people see deafness as something horrifying and look away and ignore it. Witches seem to have this exclusive, closed-off culture in Chaandesh - particularly Mohabumi, where Miriam barely feels at home despite being around what should be her own people. That's a very familiar feeling to us and we felt like it'd be nice to explore in her character.

Act 1:

The AU centers around Miriam being deaf and Kiwi is annoying by singing to her until she notices them and tells them she's deaf. Funny doodles from Rostrum.

Here's how Rostrum thought it'd go in Acts 2-5.

Act 2:

The introduction goes just the same, with everyone fingerspelling their names first, then Miriam and Saphy giving their sign names. Kiwi doesn't have one yet - they know enough ASL to communicate well with the witches but they weren't given a sign name back in Langtree. Art and sign names by Kyka.

In the caves, Miriam will warn Kiwi about the trolls, but doesn't hear the troll when he jumps up right behind her and roars. Kiwi is bowled over, but I thought it'd be funny if Miriam just stayed right there, completely immune to the troll's auditory screaming.

"i can explode him right here"

"NO MIRIAM!!! let me try singing!"

"i have magical powers and i'm not the one getting bowled over by some screeching kiwi."

She just narrowly misses the troll's attack with a visual warning from Kiwi and lets the bard sing to him.

Later into Act 2, Miriam does everything just the same - yes, even getting a ride with the Coffee Pirates. Just because she's deaf doesn't mean she can't communicate with like, a pen and paper, or basic gestures recognizable to the Delphi locals.

Act 3:

Not much changes, either. (Miriam in regular Wandersong is always annoyed with singing in this act, anyways.) Though for ease's sake, the mermaids would know sign language, so they could teach Miriam the Overseer song in order for her to reach Kiwi in the collapsed Chaoscape. We haven't exactly decided yet what the songs would look like if they aren't exclusively spoken songs, but the mermaids would teach Miriam a different version that doesn't involve singing.

Also she'd shake Kiwi by the shoulders instead of yelling at them to wake up. This is just how deaf people wake up :)

Act 4:

Essentially the same. If we go with characterizing Peter as a nice guy, he'd know some ASL already and would sign to her on that date as opposed to playing music. Ooooor depending on how a balalaika works, he might show her how the instrument feels to play, and that might be Miriam's first introduction (in-game) to instrumental music.

(The deafness doesn't really make her feel any worse than she already does in-game. I imagine Ira, Kiwi's mother, would be very curious about her deafness and ask her to teach the old lady a few signs.)

She would definitely enjoy playing the drums in the factory strike.

Meanwhile, Queen Order's castle. We meet Audrey. She's losing a little of her hearing at this point and is angry at the two for blocking her way. I haven't decided yet if she already has prior knowledge of ASL or not (leaning towards "no" but learns after she sees Miriam). She fights Miriam and actually can't speak to her, if she doesn't know ASL, but at least recognizes that she is deaf. After they finish fighting she yells and storms off - Kiwi would interpret for her after, I think.

Act 5:

Part One - Rulle

Night Sky

(Shard) I realized from this point onwards (after watching a playthrough) there's dialogue on the broom. I'm pretty sure you need at least one hand to steer a broom, but you can also sign with one hand, so let me just draw how I think that conversation would go.

...yeah, this wouldn't work with ASL. For so many reasons. It's akin to being in the driver's seat and turning your head around to see the other person signing in the backseat. While balancing precariously on a broom that you yourself are steering. While the other person has to practically lean sideways so you can see them. While you are less than a foot apart. In the dark moonlit night or while the sun is glaring at you.

Talking on the broom is a no-go.

...but I really don't want these conversations to be missed out on, so I'll say Kiwi convinces Miriam to land a little sooner so they can talk while walking to their destinations. Also, maybe a flame or light spell so they can actually see each other. Though it'd still be hard to talk.

Frontier Inn

(Shard) My wingmate skipped over the border towns part in hir earlier notes! I'll fill in this part.

The deaf witch would gesture for a pen and paper, but the innkeeper would be confused and speak to Kiwi first. They would interpret for Miriam and redirect the talking to her and it should go on the same from there, albeit with that bit of inaccessibility in mind.

Also, she has to be shaken awake after sleeping on the floor.

Lumber Town

In the forest just before, Miriam wouldn't notice the quietness - but she would notice the absence of the animals. Just pointing out how this is kind of a trope in horror, that something is going to be silent before it's scary, but it would not be scary to Miriam. Until she sees the ghosts.

Xiatian

(Rostrum) Lightning strikes are LOUD.

At this point, Audrey's hearing loss becomes noticeable to her and she finds that she struggles to understand people. She remembers the silly bard and witch using those weird flappy hands during her fight. Out of sheer spite she tries to learn the local sign language, but has to ask Eyala to basically give her the knowledge the same way the Dream King did for Kiwi, so she's ready and actually excited to sign with Kiwi and Miriam when they arrive in Xiatian.

and next time they see her in Rulle Miriam is like "wait YOU know how to sign??? HOW MUCH TIME DID WE SPEND IN CHISMEST"

Audrey's like heheh it's no biggie i want to be accessible to everyone <3

But in truth she's losing her hearing - and is half freaking out about it - and that is possibly why she trusts them to get the Potion of Power then and there. She sympathizes with Miriam. she's still arrogant though lol At the King's palace, the King might be a little suspicious of Kiwi interpreting for Miriam, but not as suspicious as he is of the witch herself. Interpreters can't be at all that uncommon in royal settings as they do need to negotiate with other countries. But Miriam would feel a little left out by the ghost singing through Kiwi - it depends on how the Spirit Language manifests and whether or not that's visible to deaf people. (I like to think it might be. But if Kiwi is the medium for the ghosts to speak through...)

... For a long time, we struggled to write this part where both Audrey and Miriam would learn the song. In the end, Vesta said this is how it would go:

(Vesta) Audrey is losing her hearing and tells the King to sing louder. He does. She says there has to be another way. The King sends her away and she's like RAAAUGHHH! Miriam follows her still, evading the palace guards.

Audrey stomps and Eyala appears. "Bestie, there IS another way!" She teaches her a different version of the song, with sign language, maybe, or a dance, but I like sign language better. It should be ASL poetry.

(Rostrum) And Miriam is able to memorize this after following her! Again, and unfortunately, the sunset sky scene doesn't happen. Though there might be a different scene where Miriam flew up to that "???" place Mask was at, with all of the butterflies, and is found tending to Kiwi when Kiwi wakes up and Miriam explains to her what's going on.

It's two days now.

Sky Temple (Sun Overseer's Song)

Instead of using a piccolo at all, Miriam has to sign the song that was given to Audrey. And instead of telling Kiwi to not listen too closely, she'd ask Kiwi to turn away so they can't see her awkward signing. Whether or not Kiwi actually does this is up to your imagination.

Part Two - Chaandesh

Before I go on ahead, a reminder. Chaandesh - and especially Mohabumi, and Miriam's reactions to feeling left out as a witch - that's the part that made us relate so strongly to her. And that is what inspired this AU.

One major difference in Chaandesh in this AU - though I don't think it changes the game very much - is that many witches do know ASL there, so some of the NPCs would sign to Kiwi! There would be a sizeable Deaf community in the city of witches especially. This isn't to say that all witches are deaf, but I wanted to point that aspect out as large Deaf communities do exist in most cities in reality.

And it'd also contribute to how left out Miriam feels, out of both the witch and deaf communities. It's difficult to get information about either if you just aren't part of them.

Mystery Forest

I'll say Vivian and Sandra know sign language, and would recognize that Miriam is deaf and sign normally to her. Everyone fights the monster and things go on as usual.

In the following sky ride scene where the Spell Squad flies them to the ferry... this IS the one scene where they could sign because someone else is flying the broom! Unfortunately there's very little dialogue in this scene.

The Ferry

I just want to point out this huge nugget of dialogue:

"This whole kingdom… feels like a big club, that I was never invited to."

The inspiration for this whole AU. This one line sparked all this. I'll explain more because I'm actually watching a playthrough just so I can get this AU as accurate as possible, so...

When Audrey appears, she'd probably talk in simcom, which is essentially a variant of ASL where you both sign and speak at the same time. Some might consider it offputting, but she'd be skilled enough at it - and she'd sign SO dramatically!

Mohabumi

Only going to speak on scenes where I think Miriam's dialogue OR actions would change.

In the academy, when Kiwi sees her struggling on the broom... I mean, there's no way she can both sign AND re-learn how to fly on the broom. For hilarity, I say she falls the first time Kiwi gets her attention, and more sensibly, hops off the broom every other time Kiwi talks to her there. I don't think the conversation about music would change at all.

The Crater...

... we've thought about this so many times but it's only now that I actually see the conversation that I realize we don't need to rewrite this at all. It's strange, because before this game, and ESPECIALLY before this part, we just didn't like music. We didn't know what it meant. We didn't know how it could motivate people and be compelling. It felt like a big club that we weren't invited to. Sound familiar?

It's hard to describe how the game changed our feelings on music. In some ways they stayed the same - it's still a little exclusive, but it felt like it opened our eyes to how influential it really could be. The emotions behind playing an instrument, or singing, or dancing. And dancing is a physical form of music! It reacts to vibrations! So Miriam would feel right at home here no matter what her hearing status is. The drumbeats of Manny's music, and potentially the speakers amplifying the music in general, would reach Miriam if this was a loud enough space. In that moment she'd feel like she belonged, being brought back to home where music too was played with drumbeats.

Broom Ride

This necessitates its own section because it's an important conversation and it breaks my heart that, again, in this AU it can't be had on the broom. But I want to give this conversation justice because it hit close to home for us.

Miriam: "It was weird being in a city of other witches. I thought it'd be a place where i fit in. But I didn't."

Kiwi: "That just means you're special!"

Miriam: "Well. Maybe... I don't want to be so special. I've been special my whole life. Around Delphi, me and Saphy were the only witches. I never knew someone else like me. And I guess I still don't.

It doesn't feel good to be different like this. I feel like I'm just messed up. And I'll never fit in anywhere."

Exactly what being deaf or any kind of disabled feels like. It feels like a very specific part of being autistic, too... we're autistic so we know this well.

Kiwi: "We're outsiders... together!"

Sky Temple (Eclipse Duet)

Another strange part of this AU we've thought about for a while! We imagined them dancing, or signing together, or such... but if the order of events demands that Miriam learned the signed version of the Sun Overseer's song, and Kiwi learned the spoken version of the Moon's...

I think the way Kiwi sings by pointing their hand, Miriam could see it visually and perhaps her own hand movements would even mirror Kiwi's. Or the other way around. I think Kiwi would make an effort to visually convey the nature of their half of the song to Miriam, strengthening the harmony... the same way the moon reflects the sun.

The Eclipse

Miriam gets hurt. She obviously can't hear or see Kiwi, so Kiwi would shake her in a desperate attempt to wake her as Audrey walks up - and Audrey at this point has lost a lot of her hearing, but I guess if Miriam is unconscious, there would be no reason for her to sign as she's only talking to the bard. Albeit by now, her speech is inflected with numerous gestures to emphasize her points.

Kiwi is angry enough to raise their voice. It's not enough for Audrey. Either she doesn't hear them and turns around to pay attention to them, or she never does because she never picked up the habit to pay attention to the things around her. When you grow up as a deaf person, your senses overcompensate for the one you never had or lost - this AU's Audrey doesn't have that advantage just yet.

When they carry Miriam down from the Sky Temple... there's no way you can sign to someone while carrying them at the same time. So that little snippet of conversation doesn't happen.

No other changes. Also, this part breaks my heart, I want you to know this.

Act 6:

Audrey's Introspection

Miriam isn't here, and technically this AU is all about her and how her deafness affects small details in the game. So if this AU was only about that we'd stop here and skip ahead to Act 7.

However, Audrey is deaf by this point. And she has to contend with that while ALSO dealing with a singing bard.

In her first appearance in this act, I think she'd monologue with her voice. She wouldn't hear Kiwi's complaints as she drinks the false Potion of Power and collapses in that same hilarious way. When they're in the cave, she continues speaking with her voice until she falls to her knees contending with her mortality.

The bard tries speaking to her at first. Then they sign to her. Audrey looks up and signs back. "Not without my sword. And hearing."

(Brief author's note: I gave Eyala the sign name of "EYE-la." This is a very fun sign name and she would introduce herself with it when she discovered Audrey was losing her hearing and taught her sign language.)

The conversation in the cave goes roughly the same... Audrey seems like the sort of person to shrug off even losing her hearing, thinking that's what she has to do to be the hero. It matters a LOT to her, deep down inside - Eyala told her it was necessary, that she wouldn't need her hearing in the end anyways - but it stings to gain a disability in exchange for being the hero, doesn't it?

Is it a blessing or a curse that she doesn't hear the wails of the Overseers and monsters she slays? That she can't hear the Bard's songs anymore?

But then, Miriam simply being there disproves all of that. She's another person who doesn't necessarily connect with music in the traditional sense. It took her a long time to truly feel comfortable with music as a foundation of the world. Being deaf doesn't make you ignorant to the world, after all... it makes the world ignorant to you. Being deaf her whole life means Miriam's had to grow up fighting to feel like she fits into the world at all. She carved out her own path in life.

The Beast

Theoretically, the Hero and Bard could sign to each other even at that distance where Kiwi is on the cliff and Audrey is down on the platform above lava. If you have good sight, ASL goes a long way.

Act 7:

I like to think this is when Miriam gives Kiwi a sign name after they both return to Langtree. Unfortunately, I still haven't thought of a sign name for the bard, so that's on hold for a while.

Kiwi wouldn't have to interpret for the fairies, I think they can speak any language they need to communicate in. And that includes sign language.

We neglected to say what the spirit language would look like to Miriam who has been trained to understand it, but I think it'd be symbols. Literal visual symbols. Up in the air. Since it's mentioned that Kiwi speaks in strange symbols, which is a visual element, I think Miriam can see or sense the symbols and understand. Which also means she understands what the Dream King says as his last words.

The boss fight goes on as usual. Audrey signs VERY angrily to them after having her sword taken - with aggressive body language, faster signs that the bard and witch just barely pick up.

The Choir

... I'll be honest with you, we agonized over this particular scene for a long time. In the original game, the highlight is Miriam singing in front of everyone.

A singing Miriam would undermine this AU. It isn't vocal chords that deaf people most naturally turn to for communication - it's hands. I don't think a deaf Miriam has any reason to use her voice to sing here, even when she can use her voice.

So a change I'm making here in order to make myself feel more comfortable with this scene is that more of the crowd would dance - in fact, I think all of the people of the world would harmonize in their own way, be it with their voice, an instrument, dancing, or whatever other funky way they like. Thusly, Miriam dances in the end. It shouldn't be only singing that saves the world.

It's sad that the creators of this game didn't put in other means of singing, or explain how deaf people would harmonize with a worldwide auditory song, but that's okay. I know how we can harmonize in our way.

...

And that's the end of this long-winded post about how Miriam could be deaf and that'd change very little about the story. Also, I'm very tired from writing half this dang post and I hope it makes sense to people who aren't deaf.

I hope you enjoyed reading! And don't be afraid to ask questions if you're curious about this AU!

- Rostrum

[papaver-decervicatus]

Cat/Mouse/Den: Pt. 3, The Cat Returns

After the incident with Mouse in the Alps, König is put into frontline insertions instead of wilderness patrol following his noticeable change in demeanor. Life without Mouse goes on, or does it?

CW: Obsession, stalking, canon typical violence, intrusive thoughts, unsanitary wound care

Authors Note: Again, I am just beside myself with the amount of love and support this silly story of mine is receiving. I will probably update this author's note when it is not 01:00 my time after a date. This chapter is a little longer to make up for the fact that the next chapters may take longer, as we are getting to the end of my stockpiled hoard of writings. Expect shorter, drabble bursts between bigger chapters!

Small note: if you see a rapid switch between the use of Mouse and Maus, it is meant to show that König's sense of ownership and possession of Mouse. In his thoughts, she is distinctly separate from her role as a military contractor, he thinks of her as his. I am sure I messed it up a couple of times, but if you see both it is not a typo!

Cura ut Veleas❣️~ Caedis

PREV | Pt. 3, The Cat Returns | 5k words | König POV | NEXT

It’s sometime in February, and the fighting has moved into a little town somewhere in Italy. They’re gathering intel on SpecGru, trying to figure out something or other. 

König is not an intelligence officer. He is not subtle enough for that. Everyone knows this. 

He’s a battering ram as a human, thick and tall and good at making closed doors open if they don’t fly off their fucking hinges when he hits them. He’s not stupid by any means, but he’s not stealthy the way the position would require. 

He hasn’t seen her in three weeks. He hasn’t been on patrol at all, he’s been on frontline insertion. A place where his Maus is not. 

He misses her voice in his ear. He misses the little things she leaves behind, the leaves she folds into animals, the rocks she arranges into shapes like smiles. His favorite was the piece of flint she knapped into sharp edges all around, into the vague shape of a heart- he reasons that was probably not on purpose but he’s distraught the second he gets it back to base and realizes the fragile thing broke to dust in his pocket. When he cuts himself on the flint shards and doesn’t patch them up, he thinks of it as penance. 

He tries not to think too harshly about that. That she gave him her heart and he literally pulverized it. He's resolved that he won’t mention it in the comms. He doesn’t want to hurt her feelings if she did intend to give him a heart-shaped stone. It was the latest thing she’d gifted him and he was starting to think that its destruction was some sort of terrible omen. 

It’s that moment he realizes just how badly he’s had it. Having it. Wanting it. Needing her. Their silly little game is all he lives for these days. It’s pathetic but he can’t stop himself. 

Slicing and dicing and scouting and barging and battering and shooting and whatever else-ing enemies are little consolation for the gap she’s left in his life. He begs and barters and borrows around base for the books she recommended to him. He’s hoarding terrible jokes to tell her when he sees her (hears her?) again. Whenever he gets halfway decent food the first thing he thinks is “I wish I could teach Maus how to make Austrian food.” He thinks about dancing around in the kitchen with her before sharing a hot meal. He sees a particularly sturdy tree and wonders how long it would take her to climb it. When he gets cuts and bruises he thinks about her small, agile, soft hands patching him up instead of the sterile medics. He thinks about laying his head down on her plush thighs as she sighs and reads a book. He thinks about going hiking with her back in Austria, holding her hand the whole way up, then down, the mountain. He thinks about camping with her, kissing the top of her head as they sit by the fire. He fucking aches to make her mewl around his length in a lover's embrace. 

She’s all he thinks about during the day. How to make her happy. How to be closest to her. How to see her again. She’s all he thinks about at night, too. How she might want to be touched. How she’d taste. How to satisfy her so thoroughly she’d never try to find someone else. He cannot stop himself from thinking about her in these ways, and the realization that he simply does not want to either is just as disorienting.

He had been making good progress, inching his way closer and closer to her. Every time he would abandon his post while on patrol and wander around until he found her, she would allow him to get a little closer. He’s no fool, she is a sniper. If she didn’t want him any closer, she would just take him out from far away. But she doesn’t. At first, he thought he was hallucinating the slowly closing distances. It took a full 50 feet of gained ground over a month and four meetings for him to even consider that she was allowing him to get closer. As ridiculous as it is, he refuses to get any closer than first contact, except for… that morning.

He doesn’t like to think of himself as superstitious, he prefers to think of himself as logical. Perhaps too many head injuries, too many kills, and too much war has ruined his complete objectiveness. When he got the transmission about the agent running away with files in his direction, he got a feeling. An instinct? A calling? It was the auspicious nervousness of a near-death encounter, an intrinsic sort of rush that any soldier learns to obey if they want to survive in a war. But this one was different.

His stomach flipped more violently than he’s ever known it and he felt thick lightning throughout his entire body. His vision nearly blanked as he looked down at his peace offering, he knew at once the feeling was not for him. 

He didn’t hesitate to take off running for her position when he got the transmission about a rogue soldier strapped with explosives. 

“Keep moving and I shoot,”  Maus had said. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was the obsession he tried so valiantly to deny himself. Maybe it was the scratchiness of the radio feeding him pretty lies, but König couldn’t help but hear a sort of begging desperation in her voice. His heart lurches fast and heavy in his chest as he sprints, fearful energy enveloping his anxious mind. Something is very wrong here, he thinks but how the hell is he supposed to tell her that? Would she trust him? Would he even get there in time? 

“It’s right under you, Liebling,” he rasped out through frantic breaths, so high on genuine concern for her that he could not help the blandishment that he offered her. If only she knew, maybe she’d just let him help her. 

Somehow, miraculously, she listens (Good girl, Maus,) and turns her attention to the adversary gaining ground between the trees. The man is quick, but König is quicker, taking off through the snow like he did as a child. Running with reckless abandon, long legs carrying him faster and further than anyone else when he and his cousins would play capture the flag at his Oma’s house in Gauso. This prize, however, is much more important to him. 

He feels an almost sick sense of vindication when her gun jams, but whatever positive emotion he felt for it is drowned out with a tidal wave of concern and fear when he sees her struggling with her rifle and the man beneath the trees taking aim at her. 

Slicing that man clean between his ribs like a lion strikes a lamb was the second most satisfying experience of his life, greatly eclipsed by the settling of her weight against his chest when she trusted him enough to jump into his arms. 

She looks so fearful beneath his stare and he shrinks away in an attempt to placate her nervousness, equally as fearful that he must have somehow damaged her by simply holding her. He has half the mind to berate himself about touching her, still bloody from the enemy and still a monster beneath it all.

He had never intended to actually give her the birchwood effigy. He originally started carving it on a restless night camping alone after a particularly suggestive series of flirtations over the radio. 

(“Why did the bike fall over, Maus?” 

“Tell me, König.” 

“Because it was two tired.”

 “HA! That’s terrible! You’re so tall, can you even fit on a bike?” 

“Eh, sometimes, but the peddles are not so good.”

 “What does that mean?” 

“They are too small.” 

“...oh. Big feet?”

“Ja.”

“You know what they say about big feet…”

“I do not.”

“Have trouble getting into pants in the morning, too?”

“Was?”

“You big, everywhere? I mean, with hips like those…”

“...” Fuck, bad time to get a boner.

“Oh come on, big guy, don’t get shy on me now~”)

The chunk of wood was too damp for kindling so he started gouging at its sides idly while waiting for his water to sterilize from boiling. He was just whittling with no real purpose until the absent image of a mouse started to appear in the pale material. From that moment of fireside recognition onwards, he’d been chasing a little prayer in her shape. He wouldn’t have considered it ‘done’ when he gave it to her but-

Her warmth was still in his fingers, her beautiful eyes trained on him, her fantastic form somehow devoid of his blood or his filth in his rescue attempt, well. He had been praying, hadn’t he? It’s only right to pay tithing to the thing you worship. He gave her the figure, and he did so with the only real regret being that he couldn’t give her more and that he almost sullied her perfection with his violence.

And to top it all off, when he wrenched himself away from her, heart heavy and entirely certain that she would never, could never, follow- she called him back and reciprocated. Like a siren’s call, he obeyed without prejudice, without regret, without even realizing he was turning backward to meet her. When he caught it in his hands he felt the weight of the world settle onto his shoulders in the shape of a little whetstone in the palm of his hand.

She gave him her lucky charm. She gave him a tool after recognizing his fondness for knives. 

He simply does not have the words for the stringent emotion that thought invokes in him, the fire it ignites. When she apologizes for its quality or lack thereof (It is her charm, the thing that keeps her safe, and she gives it to me? And has to apologize for it? Just her charm? Silly little girl…) he bites back confusion and instead reassures her. The emotion in her eyes when he responds “All the more reason to treasure it,” is his favorite thing he’s ever seen. And yet, he knows he cannot take her with him. If he didn’t leave at that moment, he knows he would have starved to death on the spot waiting for her to follow him. When he turns away it is because his brain cannot comprehend a world in which she walks away with him.

He remembers walking off, dazed and in a trance with the whetstone in his hands, trudging off into some unknown heaven he had never anticipated escaping to. He walks all the way back to base and gets harsh stares and reprimands for returning a whole 5 hours earlier than he should have. He hears confused whispers and concerned words from the medics who give him the all-clear, and he has been placed on Frontline Insertion two patrols following this event as an attempt to cleanse his mind and body from whatever ‘walking sickness,’ Aksel called it, he picked up in the woods. (And in fairness, he would rather die than admit his treachery, not out of any misplaced moral but instead out of precaution for her safety.)

His days are miserably long without Maus and he kicks himself every night and day for unwittingly getting himself separated from her. Every time he gets back to base he cleans the whetstone and prays to see her again.

The KorTac base here is relatively large, he gets his own room in the barracks and he’s never been more thankful for it when on a snowy night, he dreams. 

In the dream, it’s snowing and he wakes up in a car somewhere in the wilderness. The trees are bare but there are so many of them he just tastes cold and sees gray. Then the sudden urge to run overcomes him, and so he does. He sprints, to where? He doesn’t know. Familiarity laps at the corners of his mind, and his feet move on their own, like an animal stalking its way back home. He doesn’t need to be told where to go, he just does. 

Then! He’s tracking the smallest prints in fresh powder snow, keeping up with the tracks as best he can as they get drowned out by new falling chunks of ice. 

He’s burning. He’s burning. He’s burning. He doesn’t slow down. 

Then, he follows the tracks beside a little creek cutting into limestone outcroppings until he sees some smoke in the distance, the tracks go into the creek and come out the other side towards the smoke. 

Then he wades through the creek, it barely comes to his ankles and on the other side of the stream, the tracks are combat boots, not animal tracks. But they’re still small. 

Then he starts running alongside the tracks as they disappear, the smoke gets further and further away until-

He finds a bright red, blood-toned shed. In the shed are recently discarded supplies mixed in with hay and various domestic and agricultural equipment. Something is nesting nearby, and his mouth waters at the prospect of a fresh meal. He rests his own packs there and goes to the house the shed is next to. 

He nearly has to break down the door of the house, and the single room it leads to is impossibly small on the inside from how it looked outside. He looks around for any signs of humans, hostages, or hostiles, he’s got the thrum of battle in his ears. It’s one room, with a ladder leading to a loft space. There are a few cabinets, a sink, a counter, and a wood stove that pipes out to a small chimney. There are two windows, filtering in grey-cloud-toned twilight. That’s it. 

Except- it’s not. The wood stove is burning. Someone’s home. 

The ladder to the loft takes him no time at all to climb and on it, there’s a mattress without a bed frame with blankets piled high. Clothes are leading to the pile and a lit gas lamp is. It’s colder up here than down there. 

There’s a lump on the mattress. It rises and falls, as though it breathes. 

It gets up. 

It turns. 

It’s Mouse. 

The blanket falls from her frame and he sees her in the light of a gas lamp at the foot of the blanket nest. Her neck cranes to look at him and she doesn’t seem surprised to see him. The lamp illuminates her form like a display light in a museum lights up a statue. Her soft skin pebbles into goose flesh and he smells smoke like the house is on fire. She’s naked from the column of her neck down to the exposed divet of her hip. She turns over to face him, breasts on full display, slightly falling into each other as her inviting lips part. 

“I was worried you’d never come,” she says. 

He’s on her in an instant, like a barbarian he doesn’t even bother to take off his shoes, he just kneels at the bed and lifts his hood enough to kiss her. At first, it’s only chaste lips in a fleeting embrace. Like everything, he waits until she signals for something more. When she timidly bites on his bottom lip, asking for more, he more than obliges. He complies with a fervency he chokes backward on in a futile attempt to control himself, terribly mindful that he may hurt her, or worse, scare her. The inside of her mouth is raw from chewing on it idly, she tastes like blood and rainwater and poppyseed. He wagers a guess that she’s twice as addicting as opium, though, when her fingers tangle into his hair underneath his hood and pull him closer, closer, impossibly closer…

Their breaths are hot as they mingle, he swears the line between her and him is fading by the moment and he gets an adrenaline rush to rival that of bloodlust. Her skin is soft and pliant beneath his large, steady hands. She is so small, so perfectly tailored to him, so soft to the rough bits of him that he cannot help but gasp in their embrace. The tantalizing curve of her smile melts into his lips as she giggles at his gasping. 

She is everything like Modanifil, the second she is on his tongue she hits his veins faster and harder than any post-gunshot amphetamine-mimicking pharmaceutical. He hums and huffs into her as he notices that she really is tiny compared to him. She could fit snugly on top of him and not seep to the sheets beneath, he could toss her over a shoulder with ease and carry her miles across any terrain, he could protect the whole of her body with his own and not leave any weak spots. Like dovetail joints, a great carpenter must have made them to fit together. There must be a God, and he must have made her to perfectly fit beside (and dare he hope, inside?) her. 

The only thing older than war to mankind is intimacy. You need soldiers for war, you need men for soldiers, and you need love to make those men. Battle is a cruel Rube-Goldberg machine of “if this, then that,” and it's all König has ever known. The rigid structure that bends and breaks for no one, the absolute rule of power and intellect even at a material disadvantage, the vain hope that you make a positive difference when in reality your life is worth a few millimeters of ballpoint pen ink as it scribbles out K and I and A. 

War is all König has ever known, it's the only thing he has ever taken comfort in besides alienation and purposeful seclusion.

At this moment, he understands something older than war. He feels the most primal form of empathy and community and he fucking craves it. For the first time in his life, the hum of blood in his ears is welcome and he doesn’t mind the idea of surrender. War is nothing compared to this, compared to her. He is remembering how to be human, to be a man and not a soldier, and he smiles back into her mouth.

He spends a blissful eternity licking into her mouth, mapping the soft tissue with his tongue. He drinks the occasional squeak of surprise she lets out when he does something just right. Her exploration is reciprocal, careful, and agile just like she is on the field. Her hands grasp each other behind his head and he distantly hopes she never has to move them. One of his hands cradles the back of her neck and the other strokes her cheek. He pauses only long enough to bring her slender neck to his lips for a fleeting kiss— a silent signal that he wants more if she’ll give it—  and he inhales like she is oxygen before continuing to worship her mouth with his. She smells like cinnamon and he’s desperate to get a taste. 

He breaks away when she pushes him slightly. Before he can even think about having offended her, her thumb strokes the scar between his left nostril and the corner of his mouth like a honey salve in reassurance. She glances down to his hand on her cheek and he follows her implicit orders like a good little soldier attempting to impress his commanding officer. He raises his gloved hands to her mouth and she keeps them in her teeth to pull them off. Before his hands can go anywhere, as if she knows right where they’re going, she kisses his digits and suckles on his fingers. His unoccupied hand goes back to her cheek as she works at the other one. She hums and moans when he presses them in a little more, then a little more, then a little more, then-

She gently chokes and with tears in her eyes, she pants around them. 

He could kill her. Now. He could slam her head back and choke her. Gut her with the knife in his waistband. Or worse, he could have his way with her. He could let feeble cries of God, no more! die on her tongue as he takes what he has wanted so badly. He could prove that he really is a monster.

The intrusive thought is ripped away by the overwhelming urge to do the exact opposite as her throat constricts around his fingers. 

All this time, she hasn’t refused them. She doesn’t refuse them. She doesn’t refuse him. 

She is giving him total control. Complete power and without hesitation. In her teary eyes, he sees a soldier’s trust, firm and unwavering. Ever faithful. Unquestioningly and genuinely she believes the man she’s at the mercy of will make her need no mercy. 

She’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

He’s the one that takes the fingers out of her mouth. He is hellbent on rewarding this fidelity, his own pleasure be damned. 

“König,” her eyes glaze over with worry. It’s a dangerous game they’re playing and they both know it. “Are you sure you want me?” She whispers, lips meeting the shell of his ear, he feels her fever pitch skin even through the fabric of his mask. His heart aches and he’s so angry with himself that she could even ask that. As if there were ever any questions. As if he has ever wanted anything else in his life like he wants this. As if there is anything else to want. As if there is anything else. 

“Always, Maus,” he says instead of the million things he wants to because he cannot wait. She is right there. She has asked for him. This is all he wants. He kisses her perfect lips just once more and grunts once he tears their flesh apart. He’s too impatient to prove himself any longer to be bothered with waiting. He has nothing of worth for her, except the fragile hope that if he can keep her physically satisfied in ardent service this angel may let a pitiful man worship her a little longer. 

Her desperate question and the obscene amount of her spit on his fingers are all the invitation he needs to dive between her thighs. He keeps one hand on her hip and the other at her left breast- and he sighs when his flesh meets and yields to his palm- and before he can latch onto her center and give her all the attention she so deserves-

“I knew you’d fall for it,” she says. Her thighs grab his head and twist. 

His neck snaps. 

When he wakes up in his cold barracks, decidedly alone and not in between her thighs, he pounds the bed in frustration. The bed that his Mäuschen isn’t in, the bed that’s not in the loft of some secret mountain hideaway, the bed that he sleeps in alone. The bed he considers leaving forever, leaving KorTac, running into the night, and taking her from her own quarters at SpecGru.

He’s thought about that. Long, long ago someone told him a story. In the story, spartan warriors would kidnap the women they wanted and have sex with them in the barracks. It was to claim their marriage rights because they couldn’t get married while in the military but had to be in the military. They were supposed to kidnap the women to prove they deserved them. It was just what they did. Not so dissimilar to the bride-stealing traditions his Oma had told him about as a boy.

He’s not sure if he believes that, but that night when he fucks his hand in frustration and bites his pillow to shreds, he lives in that fantasy. 

Where he finds Maus sleeping in her barracks. He steals her away in the dead of night. In his fantasy, she’s willing. She whispers “I was worried you’d never come,” when he wakes her up. She throws her arms around his neck and he lifts her out of her bed and they run. They just run. Until they find a cabin. Or a tent. Or something. She lets him do whatever he wants to her and he asks for nothing in return. He’s waited for her for so long and he’d wait longer if he could just find the proving ground of the heat between her thighs and claim his rightful spot as the winner of her- then, and only then, he’d worry about his own satisfaction. 

In the end, however, he cannot convince himself into escaping to her. The fantasy of her is potent and life-consuming, but he is also viscerally aware that it is just that. A fantasy.

It is not real and despite his choking desire to be with her, he is not entirely sure she wants him. In fact, he is quite assured of the opposite, that she would reject him without a second thought. That she does not want him, that there is nothing to want because he is just hulking gore covered in scars and a hood. He is less than human, maybe even less than animal, he enjoys war and his comrades consistently remind him that that is so far into abnormality he may as well not even be animate. His long etched scars and sins burn across his forehead, cheeks, and lips in a phantom pain when he pictures her own face. There is nothing for her in him and all the dreaming in the world isn’t going to change that innocent little mice don’t fall in love with things like him.

He wants so desperately to just be a fucking person for her. A person allowed weakness, a person allowed good-morning kisses, a person allowed terrible flirting, a person allowed to sit in the same room, a person allowed to touch and savor and make better another human. Allowed to heal, not harm. Allowed to save, not slaughter.

But he is a soldier, he’s not a person, and he’s not sure he ever really was a person in the first place.

He wants her. Wanting is an unusual sensation for him, long dormant and now suddenly hotter than hellfire. He wishes he could stop burning himself but every time he sees the flickering flame he gets a little closer, convinced this time he will walk away unscathed or better yet cleansed of original and perpetual sin. She could be his funeral pyre and most of what he’d think of that is “God, she’s pretty. I’m glad it was her.”

He could just take her, he is more than capable of it. If he really wanted to he could just reach out and sink his teeth in and have his way with her just like a Spartan King. But, then he would really and truly be a monster. He might not deserve better than ire and hate, but she certainly does. 

The only thing he wants more than to have her is for her to want him. That hope is a delusion deeper than the ravine they met at, he’s sure. Even still, he cannot run the risk of scaring her off or going against her wishes. 

So, König stays. In his cold bed, harsh snow beating against a rotting window sill, his only company the images of Maus he makes up in his mind and the perverse and shameful noise of wet-skin slapping.

He finishes twice in his hand that night, hot and pissed, and halfway to desertion when he finally falls into a dreamless sleep. He’s so exhausted and uncomfortable in his own skin and brain that he doesn’t even have the shame of being embarrassed about the ways he imagines her. His fantasy is punctuated by the all-consuming settle of her weight upon his chest somewhere warm and dry. He feels no shame when he wraps his arms around the bunched comforter on his chest, imagining it’s a slight body he faithfully cradles.

When he wakes up, however, that shame drowns him when he prepares to meet for orders in the morning. What kind of a man does that? Now he’s sure she will never want him. If she knew how obsessed he’s become that he cannot help himself from having dreams about her and cannot help himself from getting off to the idea that she killed him with her fucking thighs she would hate him and she would have every right to. He nearly claws his eyes out when he washes his face with cold water. He asks the mirror if he’s a monster, his clear and evident scarring from a lifetime of abuse and war does not need to answer in the affirmative for him to know it to be true. 

Even more so than usual, those around him give him a wide enough berth that he does not need to do so much as walk in a straight line for others to scurry out of the way. He only half hears his orders in the morning briefing, he only glances at his map when he is sent out.

He tucks the whetstone into his right pocket when he goes on his patrol, beneath the familiar weight of his beloved field knife. His right hand burns from healing flint cuts and getting bucked into for hours, the rough whetstone doesn’t help but he still caresses it in his pocket like a prayer. 

Once he’s in the woods his radio receives a message. 

“I was worried you’d never come,” it calls to him, full like fresh dirt of relief over a buried urn of anxiety. His throat catches on the tone, the static hides none of its desperation.

He finds her in her tree. 

He falls. He knows it’s fatal. He cannot recover. 

There’s nothing he can do and nowhere he can go. 

He’s in love. 

“Always, Maus.” He says back.

He’s always in her sights.

Sometimes he wishes she would just pull the trigger.

taglist!

@kneelingshadowsalome @sprout-fics @bucca2 @dead-cipher @gallowsjoker @lostagoodcigar @berryjuicyy @haisebo

[luciluck2046-md]

Murder Drones: Glowing Future AU

7. I'm fine

TW: Bullying, Violence, Child Neglect, Depression. Reader discretion is advised

"Uzi..? Hey Uzi, is everything alright?" I hear N whispering to me in the middle of the night. He's slightly pushing me, trying to get me to wake up.

|

"Yeah, what is it?" I mumble.

|

"You were crying..." He responds worried.

|

"What? I wasn't crying-" I respond in defense, but I remember my dream.

It was a memory, if anything. Several ones actually. Back from... When I was 12...

"Uzi, are you sure you're okay?" N asks, even more worried.

|

"... Yes, sorry, I zoomed out." I mumble, pulling the blanket over me.

|

"Uzi, we talked about this, if you feel sad just tell me..." He tells me, even more worried than before.

|

"I'm fine!" I yell annoyed.

.

..

...

I am fine.

𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂

Memory 1

"HEY EVERYONE, THE GUN'S BACK!" A boy yells, pointing at me when I enter the classroom. It's my second day of school.

Everyone's laughing. I try to ignore him, going to my seat and getting prepared for the next class.

"Why are you so silent? Oh, is skyscraper Uzi trying to look brave?" He laughs at me.

I'm the tallest in my class. I have the height of a 15 year old, when I'm only 12.

I really try to not give him attention, and I keep arranging my pens in the order of their length, from shortest to longest. I don't wish to talk.

"Oh, you think you're though, don't you?" He asks me, angered this time.

I look the other way, but I feel a punch in my arm. I let out a whimper, and I turn to him to ask him to stop. Then he punches me in the screen.

It breaks. There are shards on the floor. I'm crying loudly, trying to hold on to some pieces.

I can feel warm oil on my hands and the sharp glass shards cutting my fingers.

Everyone's laughing. No one's helping.

Why would they help me?

𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂

Memory 7

"I'm so-sorry! I just w-wanted to see how-" I mumble, but I can't stop the pain. He leaves, and I'm sitting on the floor, next to the dresser.

I'm left alone in a room, with no patches or tape. Only my dear diary, and a pen. No bed, not desk, no nothing.

The pen has no ink either.

I'm always using my oil... Since usually I'm already bleeding. It's funny. I heal quite fast for a worker drone... Everyone's laughing at me because of that...

𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂

Memory ?

"HAHA, LOOK AT HER! SHE LOOKS SO STUPID LIKE THAT!" Al keeps hitting me, and I'm trying to protect myself by getting all curled next to the wall. Neither my dad or my teacher are doing anything about Alexander...

|

"P-please... S-stop!..." I'm crying, not being able to support the pain.

It's the first time I've talked since I've been at this school. I don't really like how my voicebox sounds...

"GUYS, BIG GUN RIGHT HERE CAN TALK! DID YOU KNOW THAT?" He laughs, punching me in the face.

|

"Ал, прекрати это! / 𝙰𝚕, 𝚜��𝚘𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝!" A girl that doesn't speak English tells the boy, and he runs scared from her.

I'm crying, leaning onto the wall of our school. The red eyed girl comes next to me and just sits there.

"Что ты сделал, чтобы он тебя победил? / 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞?" She asks me.

|

"... Nothing... He's been doing this for the past months..." I mumble after a while.

|

"В любом случае, как тебя зовут? я Долл! / 𝙰𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚊𝚢, 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎? 𝙸'𝚖 𝙳𝚘𝚕𝚕!" She asks me, ignoring what I told her.

|

"... I'm Uzi Doorman." I say. She smirks sarcastically. Then she mumbles something I cannot understand.

𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂

"UZI WAKE THE FUCK UP!" I hear N yelling at me. It's the first time he ever yelled at me with both anger and worries.

|

"What is it?" I mumble, pulling the pillow on my head.

|

"Look Uzi, you've been crying again and-" He starts talking.

|

"I. AM. FINE!" I yell.

|

"YOU AREN'T." He says back. "Uzi, you've been crying every night for the past two weeks, and I'm really worried about that..."

|

"Okay, and? It's not a big deal. And again, I'm fine." I mumble.

|

"Stop denying! You're not fine, I can clearly see that... I know I usually give you an option, but this time I'm not letting you do ANYTHING until you tell me what's wrong."

|

"IT'S JUST SOME BAD MEMORIES. They're archived, I'm not going through the hustle to get them back only to suffer by them coming back when I least expect..."

|

"Well those "bad memories" get back to you in your sleep and I cannot stand seeing you cry anymore!"

|

"At least I can't remember them after I wake up..."

|

"IT'S NOT HEALTHY!"

|

"N JUST LEAVE ME ALONE FOR FUCK'S SAKE, I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT THOSE TIMES! I WAS STUPID AND I MADE MISTAKES, END OF DISCUSSION."

... I started yelling at him..? What has gotten into me...

"Sorry N, I didn't want to yell at you but..." I add guilty. looking at his worried face. "But I have a principle. "Guilty feelings will only hurt me.", and I got enough of only KNOWING how much I fucked up..." I mumble, trying to hide myself under the blanket.

He lifts it up, sitting next to me on the bed.

"Uzi... I doubt that you did anything wrong... Just tell me when you're ready, okay?" He tells me, patting me on my head. "Do you want a hug?" He then asks me, with his arms open.

I nod my head, and shyly hug him.

"I'm sorry for yelling at you..." I whisper.

|

"It's alright now, don't worry about it." He whispers back.

𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂

... I'm all alone at home right now.

Dad's at work and mom's at Doll's house with Tessa and D.

I think I should unarchive those memories... Maybe N can actually help, I mean... If he knows the problem, he can solve it, and I've never seen him not solve a problem he wants to solve.

"О чем эти воспоминания? / 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝?" Doll asks me.

|

"Shit from when I was 12. I think you know what I'm talking about." I mumble. "So do not talk to me about it. I even deleted some of them."

|

"How Can You, Want To Hide, Your Memories." Cyn asks me.

|

"BECAUSE THEY'RE FROM AN OLD ME. A me that didn't have a principle in life. A me that didn't know anything..." I explain. "Guilty feelings will only hurt me." I add. That's my principle.

That's been my principle ever since something happened. I don't remember that event. I know I clearly deleted it. And I do not want to get that memory back.

I literally deleted my capability of feeling guilty or asking for forgiveness or stuff like that. So it wasn't expected to feel those things whenever I did something to hurt N...

"Why Don't, You Just Delete The, Memories You Hate." Cyn asks me.

|

"But I did that. Memories that I absolutely hate. Only those." I mumble.

I don't want to delete EVERY memory I don't like. I already can't remember two thirds of my life, I don't need to erase even more. I don't remember anything from before 12. I have been trying to find out for a long time, but I gave up on that three years ago.

I now go to my files and start unarchiving those memories...

𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂

"Oh Uzi... Why would you do it..?" N asks me, trying to console me. He just got home from school, only to see me cry in the corner of my bed.

I've been crying for the past two hours. When the memories unarchived... They were just too many, way too fast. Even I can't understand what's going on with them, and hearing every single one of them at once is slowly killing me...

"I don't kn-know... I wa-wanted to stop them..." I mumble, through some pathetic sobs. I'm so fucking pathetic...

Why am I crying...?

It's literally just a bully and... Someone else. It seems like I deleted the name and looks of that drone. It's not a big deal. I used to be weak, I am stronger now, I shouldn't cry...

He hugs me, slowly moving his hand through my hair.

"It's alright... I'm here, don't worry..." He whispers in a calming voice.

After some time, I calm down a little, and my thoughts start making a little more sense.

"I-I... I think I'm ready to talk..." I whimper.

|

"You don't have to say it all at once, just talk about anything while you're comfortable." He tells me.

𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂

I've been talking to N about Alexander and the mysterious other person for a while. I think three hours or so. I'm still sad, on the verge of tears, but I'm trying to speak clearly.

He's listening to me, only nodding or gasping quietly from time to time. When he sees that something is affecting me even more, he hugs me again.

At some point, I hear someone beating at the door.

"N, I'm going to check who it is, be right back..." I mumble, and get up from my bed. I've been sitting on it this whole time.

I go to the door, and open it, faking a smile.

"Who it is- Oh what are you two doing here?" I ask V and J like I haven't been crying for the past 5-6 hours.

|

"Girl you haven't been out of your room for the past 12 days, I'm genuinely worried about you." V tells me. I roll over my eyes. J clearly doesn't want to be here.

|

"Ugh, I just hate school, and I'm taking all the chances I got to skip it. End of discussion." I tell them, closing the door.

But V stops it.

"I wanted to ask you, do you and N want to go on a triple date with us?" V asks me kinda embarrassed.

|

"... What?" I mumble confused.

|

"Lizzy's doing her matchmaking shit on us and I DO NOT want to be alone with fucking Thad. And V clearly doesn't like Amanda." J explains annoyed.

|

"... Alright, I'll see what I can do." I respond, closing the door.

I go back to my room and cover myself with the blanket that I've been having on me for the past hour.

N looks confused and worried at me.

"V and J want us two to go on a triple date with them." I mumble.

|

"... Uzi, do you always fake your emotions?" He asks me.

I guess there's no way of hiding anymore...

"What did you expect..? The only place where I can be even a little bit of myself is in a room with you and only you..." I say, covering myself even more with the blanket. "I've told you I don't like myself that much and-"

|

"That's no excuse. You can't just go somewhere and act like everything is fine when every inch of your body is telling you that it's not." He scolds me.

I don't have a response prepared for it...

There's an awkward silence between us.

A very awkward silence.

It's so quiet, it's actually loud.

I want to say something, but I don't know what to say.

I mean, I've been venting for the past hours...

"N...? Is there something that bugs you?" I ask him. I don't really believe that he's fine all the time.

|

"Well... Except for the fact that I can't remember a lot of my life on Copper 9, there isn't much." He says nonchalantly. "It may even be because every day has been the same."

|

"... I mean something that you're scared about, making you sad? I don't really think you're all fine either..." I explain.

|

"Well, there is the fact that I don't want to lose you... And then it's... You know, Cyn dressing in Tessa's skin!? IS CYN CRAZY OR WHAT!?" He explains annoyed. I rarely see him mad.

|

"In My, Defense" Cyn says, but then she's quiet. "I Don't Have, Anything To Say." She adds.

Why did she even start talking?

Everything is back to quiet.

...

It's annoying me-

"AGHH WHAT THE FUCK-" I yell, pressing my ears. A loud ringing is playing in my ears. It's so painfully loud! I look at N.

He also hears the ringing... His expression says everything.

What does this mean!?

𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂~𖥂

Prev | Next | Masterpost

Oh, Uzi's backstory is... Interesting. But at least you now know why she had a crush on Doll!

...

Hey bro, you don't know this from me but... This is not even 20% of Uzi's backstory.

BYEEE

[gracien-system]

How to be safer when doing self harm.

We've seen a lot of posts talking about how there needs to be more resources for folks who self harm on how to do it safely, and how resources are overly focused on prevention rather than harm reduction. We realized that we have the knowledge to at least contribute to the "how to do this safer" side, and... well, this post is our attempt at that.

I will note that we are not medical professionals -- our mother was, for about 5 years, though, and so was our great grandmother. We've also done enough research to feel confident that we can give at least a general guide and pointers on how to reduce the risk of long term damage from self harm, but we're human -- if we make a mistake, and you happen to know that it's wrong, point it out in the notes. We'll reblog your version.

With all that being said, the info's under the readmore.

When it comes to self harm, there are a lot of methods that people use -- however, physical self harm generally has a few common presentations.

Cutting, scratching, and burning, are the 3 we're going to cover here. We'll go in order, top to bottom.

1: how to be safer when cutting

The first thing you want to do is pick your blade. A razor blade is much different to a knife, and both are different to a shard of glass, even though the aftercare remains similar.

The general guidance we can give is this: make sure whatever implement you use is as sharp as possible, and avoid serrated blades as much as you can. A simple kitchen or pocket knife is probably the safest option you have.

Whatever you use, make sure you sterilize it to the best of your ability beforehand. Dunk it in hydrogen peroxide or alcohol (pouring either over the entire length of the blade works, too.), or take a lighter and run it down the entire length of the cutting edge (this will fuck up the heat treat of the blade, and make it much harder to keep it sharp in the future, so I wouldn't recommend it for anything you'd like to reuse, but it is and option if necessary).

When you cut, pick your location carefully. Avoid the wrists and lower arm (there are a lot of veins and nerves you could accidentally damage or sever, which is a bad time.) a nice rule of thumb (though it may not work for everyone) is "if you can take your other hand and feel bone on both sides of the arm, it's probably too low". Make sure you don't cut lengthwise -- if you accidentally catch a vein going lengthwise, you'll almost certainly end up in the ER or worse, whereas going horizontally has a much lower chance of something catastrophic happening.

Other places to avoid cutting are: inner thigh (nearby artery), and the groin (extremely high bloodflow region).

While cutting, to avoid infection, it's important that if you set your blade on a hard and non-sterile surface, you wash it with alcohol or peroxide before using it again.

Try to avoid cutting deep -- muscle damage is hard to heal from, and nerve damage is harder still. Skin deep wounds will scar, but muscle deep ones usually require stitches.

Once you're done, wash the wounds and your hands with soap and hot water, then a disinfectant. Dry them with a towel or paper towel, then put bandages over them (or bandaids, if they're small enough.)

How to apply a bandage: get cotton pads, gauze, or something similar, as well as tape. Press the gauze against the wound, then tape it to the surrounding skin. Change once every 4-6 hours (or until you can see blood on the exposed side, whichever is sooner.) until the bleeding has stopped, then once every 6-8 hours until it has healed.

You've minimized your chance of infection, scarring, and permanent damage. Good job. We're proud of you. /gen

2: how to be safer scratching.

With scratching, you want to make sure that you wash your hands thoroughly before and after, especially under your fingernails. A good way to make sure that your fingernails are clean is to take some soap, put it in the palm of your hand, then scratch the palm for a few seconds under running water. Do this with both hands.

If you draw blood, make sure to disinfect and bandage the wound. If you don't, make sure to wash it afterwards.

Scratching carries of a lot less risk of permanent damage as opposed to a lot of other methods, but has a much higher chance of infection if you draw blood and didn't disinfect your hands. Just be careful, and you should be fine. We're proud of you. /gen

3: how to be safer burning.

We can't advise on the method as much as we would like to, here, because there are a lot of ways to burn yourself. We're going to assume lighter, but the advice we give should be applicable to most localized 1st and 2nd degree burns. If you give yourself a 3rd degree burn of any sort, no matter how localized, you need to see a doctor as fast as possible.

1st degree burns are comparable to a (mild to moderate) sunburn -- uncomfortable, potentially risks infection if not cared for properly, painful, and just generally not a great time, but not very dangerous if treated properly. Standard protocol with all burns is to wash the affected area(s) in cool water for 30 seconds to a minute immediately after the burn. With 1st degree, it's your choice whether you want to apply something like allo or lotion to it, afterwards. It might help reduce pain and/or help it heal faster, but it's your call. Just make sure to keep the area clean and cool.

2nd degree burns are more serious. Depending on how big the area burned is, you might want to see a doctor, but that's up to the individual. If you want to treat it yourself, wash for 30 seconds to a minute in cool water, then apply a lotion or allo to it. Once you've done that, apply a bandage over the area, and let it heal.

We aren't an expert in identifying what is first, second, and third degree, in terms of burns -- but there are plenty of resources our there to help you with that. If someone adds one to this post, we'll edit this to include it.

Congrats, you've minimized the risk of long term damage. We're proud. /gen

Closing notes

We know there's a lot out there that would like to say that recovery is an on/off switch. It isn't. The best way to recover is to minimize the harm as much as you can today, and and work towards other coping mechanisms as you can. Don't believe that you're lesser, somehow, for needing an intermediate step, or intermediate steps.

We hope you have a wonderful rest of your day/night, and we wish you good luck -- both in your recovery, and in your life.

[babblingbookends]

Prompt, as requested, even though you already unofficially agreed to it:

Conner Kent & Clark Kent

💕🌸🐰

Selkie I'm sorry it took me so long to write this but I hope you like it!

---

Dinner was peaceful. Clark and Pa talked about grain yield per acre and Ma and Clark talked about canning tomatoes and Kon and Clark didn't talk about anything, except a few sentences about the weather and how dry it was.

Which was fine with Kon. Couldn't say the wrong thing if you didn't say anything at all.

So Kon sat in comfortable silence, and ate his green beans and pulled pork sandwich and drank lemonade and listened to Ma and Pa and Clark talk. He had to admit, it was actually kind of nice, listening to the three of them, chuckling at Pa's dry jokes and Clark's stories about the paper and Ma's gossip from the neighbors.

Almost like they were a real family.

Kon stood to help when Ma declared, "Well, let me get the dishes done and then we can go out on the porch and have brownies and ice cream."

"I'll give you a hand," Clark said, standing as well. He started to reach for the same plate as Kon, and Kon yanked his hand back on instinct.

Clark gave him an odd look.

Kon ducked his head and reached for a glass, trying to act like he’d been meaning to reach for the glass anyway. God, he was such a loser. Put him in a room with Clark and it was like he’d just crawled out of the test tube, not sure which way was up.

“So, Kon,” Clark started, and Kon’s heartrate spiked and he flinched so hard the glass in his hand shattered.

Kon’s mouth dropped open in shock as he stared at the shattered glass all over the table.

“Oh dear, everyone all right?” Ma asked, hurrying for a towel. The inch or so of water in the glass was now dripping off the table onto the floor. “Nobody move, I don’t want glass in anyone’s foot.” Then she paused, and laughed. “Nevermind, I heard it as soon as I said it.”

Clark floated a few inches off the ground, reaching out to lift Ma. “Your feet are the ones I’m worried about,” he said.

“Sorry, Ma,” Kon said sheepishly, his hands feeling a little numb. “I don’t know what came over me.”

He started picking up the pieces of glass on the table. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Clark giving him an odd look as he carried Ma out of the dining room, but he ignored it, just like he ignored the pounding of blood in his ears as he picked up shards of glass.

“Here, waste basket,” Clark said at his elbow. Kon dropped his handful of glass into the basket, feeling a bit stupid. Why couldn’t he just be normal? Instead, he had to freak out every time Clark so much as looked at him. He was just so nervous.

“Look, Kon,” Clark started, speaking quietly. It was just them in the room; Ma had carried an armload of dishes into the kitchen, getting them out of Kon and Clark’s way. “I know things are a bit… tense? Between us, and I know I haven’t exactly been the most welcoming to you, but I don’t want things to stay that way.

Kon swallowed. ‘Tense’ was a nice word for how he felt around Clark. But Clark was trying to reach out and make things better, so… maybe he should try?

“Yeah, okay. Me too,” he said. He glanced up at Clark. Clark had a hopeful half-smile on his face that sent a warm feeling scurrying through Kon’s chest.

Ma broke the spell, bustling back in with a dishrag to wipe the table down with. “If you boys are done, you can go help Pa dish out the ice cream. His wrist’s hurting him again, not that he’d admit to it.”

“Alright, Ma,” Kon said, at the same time as Clark. They shot each other a look, a tentative grin spreading across Kon’s face when he heard Clark laugh.

They headed towards the kitchen, Ma muttering behind them, “Lord, but they do sound the same.”

Yeah, they kinda did, Kon thought. And maybe that was okay.

[sergeantsporks]

Dadrius Week Day 4: Free Space

“So. Hunter.” Jasmin swirled her cup around. “Do you go to Hexside?”

“I start next month.” Hunter sat ramrod straight in his chair, keeping his hands still on his own glass. Darius’ family seemed friendly enough, perhaps overly friendly in Jasmin’s case, but that didn’t mean anything. They’d raised Darius, after all, and he’d been a bubbling hot rebellion under a surface of cool disdain for the world and everyone in it. Anything could be going on underneath their polite, friendly exterior. A chef critic who might be evaluating Darius’ cake for any slight mistake, and a designer with an eye for detail—both of them professional judgers. Anything could be a test, and small talk was not a subject he was well versed in.

Darius seemed tense, too, but not the same nervous tension from before. More… upset. Had he already failed the introduction? Had Darius’ father said something when he was out of earshot? Darius didn’t seem to be talking to Marcus, despite having come over specifically for Father’s Day, and his mother’s attempts at small talk so far had all fallen flat, with short, one sentence responses from Darius.

Jasmin’s laughing eyes slid ever so slightly to Darius. Hunter had to wonder if she couldn’t sense the tension in the room, or if she was doing her best to slam into it with a blunt baseball bat and twirl it up like noodles. “Oh, you should look up the Blight kids while you’re there. If you’re interested in abominations, their youngest might be helpful to know.”

“Oh!” Finally, something he could talk about. “Amity! I know her, we’re friends.”

“Really? History does repeat itself, doesn’t it?” Her nose crinkled, as if she were in on some joke that Hunter wasn’t. “Odalia’s been fishing around for a new business partner for a new business venture, so I’m guessing Alador’s single these days.”

Darius choked on his drink, coughing. “Jasmin.”

Hunter tapped his glass, giving in to the nervous energy that spiked through him. “Yeah… We… may have had something to do with that.”

“Really? Nice. Hey, Hunter, out of nowhere question, how do you feel about stepsiblings? How good of friends are you and Amity?”

“I,” Darius wheezed between coughs, “am going to cause you physical harm.”

Hunter shifted in his seat, trying to put any sort of polite distance between himself and the ticking time bomb that was Jasmin Deamonne. “Um…”

“Jasmin, don’t tease your brother,” Ariana ordered, “Or poor Hunter. You don’t have to answer that.”

Jasmin held her hands up. “I would never.” She leaned her chin in her hand. “Although, speaking of, maybe I should pay Alador a visit. He was always fun.”

Hunter scooted out of his chair before Darius could respond. “I’m going to get some more water. Excuse me.”

“Jasmin,” he heard Ariana sigh deeply as he left the dining room, “You’ve embarrassed him.”

Well, Hunter reflected, this was going spectacularly. Except for Jasmin, Darius’ family didn’t seem to know what to do with Darius and himself any more than he or Darius knew what to do with them.

Think of how it must be in their shoes, all of them.

If I’d just ditched Uncle for years with little contact and suddenly showed up again—

Hunter’s right hand trembled uncontrollably at the thought.

He had left. He’d left, had fled, and he’d lost nearly everything. Control over himself. Flapjack. His life. He’d nearly drowned in the soil of Belos’ mindscape, and then only months later in water while he struggled to surface in his own mind.

Sometimes it felt like Belos was still crawling through his veins, and Hunter could feel him like a second heartbeat right now, pulsing against his skin.

Why would you think that?

Why would you go there?

Why would you think that, why would you think that, why would you—

His glass shattered, and the sound of it breaking against the floor snapped his thoughts back into the Deamonne kitchen, shards of broken glass all around his feet.

The quiet conversation in the other room halted.

“Hunter?” Darius called, “Are you alright?”

“Titan’s bones,” Hunter hissed under his breath. He crouched down, frantically fumbling for the pieces of the glass. “I’m fine!” he called, “I’ve got it, I’ve got it, don’t worry about—”

“Don’t move,” Darius ordered.

Hunter flinched, and the motion closed his hands, pushing the shards of glass he’d picked up into his palms. Blood dripped out of his clenched fists, and he bit his lip to hold back a yip of pain.

Abomination matter slid into the kitchen, sweeping around Hunter’s feet and collecting the broken glass. The swirling mass brushed against his boot, sluggish and—Hunter could tell, even through his heavy leather boot, he could just feel it, in his bones—slimy.

One of Hunter’s knees dropped out of the crouch and onto the ground in a half-kneeling position. His arms dropped to his sides, still curled into fists of painful cuts. He stared at the floor, struggling to control his breathing and squashing any thoughts that tried to pop up.

Throne room

Nope

Flapjack

Not thinking about it

That horrible stench and that shuddering, slimy feel

No. We’re not remembering that. Not today.

No, no, no, no, no, no, nononononononono

“He’s bleeding—hey, are you holding glass—”

“Jasmin, wait—don’t touch—”

Something closed over Hunter’s hand, and he yanked backwards, skidding in a patch of abomination goo and landing on his tailbone in a big puddle. Darius swore, and the abomination cleared up, removing all of the glass from the floor. Marcus and Ariana stood in the doorway between kitchen and dining room, watching with something in their expression that was concerned but… it wasn’t quite pity; more like they were solving some puzzle that he stood in the center of.

Jasmin stared at him, her hand still outstretched and her eyes huge puddles of concern in her face. “I’m sorry!” she cried, “I was just trying to—”

“Don’t worry about it, Jasmin.” Darius knelt next to him. “Hunter, take a deep breath. You’re in my parents’ house. You’re safe. You’re—well, you’re clutching a handful of glass, so I won’t lie and say you’re unharmed. But you will be alright. Deep breath.”

Hunter gulped for air as if he’d been drowning. “I’m sorry,” he managed to Ariana and Marcus, “I’m sorry about the glass, and—” He pulled his hands close to his chest, checking for blood on the floor.

“Don’t worry about that,” Darius said crisply. He made a motion as if to take Hunter’s elbow, but paused just before he did. “May I?”

Hunter nodded, and Darius hauled him to his feet, standing in front of him and half hiding him from his family.

“Hunter and I are going,” he announced briskly, “Thank you for dinner. Enjoy the cake. It was lovely to see you all. Happy Father’s Day, Dad. Goodbye.”

Darius steered Hunter out of the house and halfway down the street. He summoned his Penstagram scroll, typing quickly.

“What are you doing?” Hunter whispered hoarsely. Out of the house and away from staring eyes, his hand stung, and the sick dread in his stomach was starting to turn into a more active horror over what had just happened.

“I’m messaging Eberwolf for a ride. I don’t think trying to use my abomination warp is a good idea at this particular moment in time.”

“Oh.” Hunter’s stomach sank. What a failure of a father’s day. “You should just go. I can use my flashstep to get home.”

Darius shook his head. “No, I won’t leave you right now.” He dismissed the scroll and tugged his gloves off. “He’ll be here in a quarter of an hour. Let me see your hands.”

Hunter slowly uncurled his hands, holding them out. Darius hissed softly. “That looks… bad.”

“It’s just bloody,” Hunter said dismissively, “it’s not that b-AD!” his voice rose in a yelp as Darius pulled a shard of glass out of his palm.

“Warning, I’m doing it again.”

Hunter looked anywhere but at his hands, refusing to watch the glass pull out of his skin. “You didn’t have to leave early.”

“Please don’t start this.”

“Start what? You can go back, I’ll go home with E—”

“No.” Darius crushed the bloody glass shards into a harmless fine powder under his boot. “Before you go further down this road and think yourself into a hole; leaving isn’t your fault; I’m happy to go home with you, and I think you needed out of there. I promise this isn’t an insurmountable burden of terrible weight for me to bear. You’re fine. And once Eber arrives, we’re taking you to a clinic.”

Have we really had conversations like this that many times? Darius’ reassurances didn’t really make him feel better—if anything, the realization that Darius could distill a conversation down to his side because he’d needed to have this talk with Hunter so many times made him feel worse.Hunter examined the cuts in his hand to distract himself from the lingering sick feeling in his stomach that he’d irreversibly screwed up. They still stung, and they still bled, but he’d seen worse. He opened one of the pouches hanging from his belt and dug around, shoving past his father’s day card to find a roll of gauze that he wrapped around his palm. “It’s not that bad. I don’t need a clinic.”

“Are you sure? You have a day with Dell tomorrow; won’t a sliced-up hand be painful to carve with?”

It probably would be, but the last thing Hunter wanted was for Darius to spend his father’s day in a clinic, filling out paperwork for cuts that would heal on their own anyway. He’d caused enough damage today. “Darius. Please. Can we just go home?”

“Alright,” Darius said softly, turning away to watch for Eber. “If that’s really what you want.”

[omegalomania]

the thing that truly Truly unhinges me about infinity on high is that it is not simply an album about the horrible stomach-wrenching rollercoaster of fame and it is not solely an album about wrestling with your demons but it is a marriage of those two it is very much about fighting the worst parts of yourself in the most public avenues available. it's an album that all but rattles with the amount of references there are to medication. every seeming bout of narcissism is undercut with a sardonic twist and the snap of subtle self-loathing brimming beneath.

and the worst part of it is how that isn't even the worst part of it. the worst part of it for me is the fear. the fear of becoming something other than what you are. the fear of getting better. because this is how the world likes you - broken and stripped down to your ugly parts and embittered and exposed. this is how the world wants you, consumes you, because it's in your brokenness that they pick out such pretty patterns like finding rainbows in shards of glass. it's your wrecked-up brain with all its sporadic misfirings that draws everyone to you like moths to a faulty porchlight. i only keep myself this sick in the head 'cause i know how the words get you off. infinity on high. van gogh, the poster child for the ethos of creating something even at your lowest points. the poster child for the speculative, horrifying ethos of how your flaws and faults and fuck-ups are the only things worth keeping. how often have we seen that rhetoric. if van gogh wasn't depressed, we wouldn't have gotten starry night.

on september 15th 2006 at 9:08pm est pete wentz answered a fan question about what accomplishment of his he is proudest of.

I don’t really think about success or accomplishments too often. I guess just being around. Letting myself move past who I used to be- because that person was continually unhappy. Or at least trying to get to that point and not feel like im “changing for the worse” just because im letting myself feel ok. 10 years ago I didn’t listen to anything anyone said ever for the most part.

on september 18th 2006 at 2:36am est pete wentz wrote on one of his blogs how infinity on high was beginning to feel like a "nocturnal record" as it began to take shape.

somehow the things we say mean more in corners of dancefloors and we focus on love below the waist and outside of the head. "dont you want to get better"- i just dont want you to worry. "dont you want to get better" - tonight i do. the way they say "youre committing slow suicide" when someone lights up or cuts loose. but arent we all. everything we do just shortens our life, every breath is one less. but its what makes everything so treasured. in my head. it aint a funeral babe, i just want the headline to die. recovery is the new drug.

it hurts sometimes thinking about who he was in that moment. someone so fucking scared of getting better and desperate to get better, committing every flaw and insecurity he had to paper and trying to make art out of how desperately he fucking hated himself. as if his pain was the only compelling thing about him.

that's what kills me about this record. truly. it's not just about the perils and pitfalls of fame and renown. it's about how it feels, really feels, to think that your fame is reliant on you fucking hating yourself and how that is killing you.

and yet. infinity on high. a title taken from words written in 1888, from van gogh to his brother, as he talks about how his improving health has had a positive effect on his art.

Be clearly aware of the stars and infinity on high. Then life seems almost enchanted after all.

van gogh did not give us starry night because he was depressed and suicidal and falling apart. van gogh did not make incredible works of art because of how much he was suffering. van gogh created in spite of that, because he had a brother who loved him and reasons to keep going.

pete wentz did not write some of his best lyrics on infinity on high because he was depressed and suicidal and falling apart. he wrote them in spite of that, because he had people in his life who loved him and over 15 years later he is still alive, he has 3 kids, he has his band who have been together for over 20 years and still love making music together, and at least externally, he no longer feels the need to self-immolate so the onlookers can make pretty patterns from the ashes left over.