#...when the world feels like a hammer you're going to think you're a nail. and that's such a scary thing to be stuck in

[uncanny-tranny]

The whole "humans are inherently awful and bad!" spiel is so tiring to me as a survivor of abuse because it comes off as abuse apologia. If humans are inherently awful, then why should it matter if you're abused - that's what humans do best! Like, genuinely, I think this mindset can harm abuse victims/survivors because they're being inundated with this idea that, well, how bad can their abuser be? All humans are horrific, why complain, why escape, and why try to resist it?

I really wish people would critically analyze where these ideas come from and where these lines of thinking can lead. Maybe it's a matter that I'm looking too deep into, but this very bleak ideology is not going to help in the long run, I think, and some of the first people who are going to be crushed by it are the people who are vulnerable or who are put in vulnerable positions in society.

[itneverendshere]

pogue reader getting sick but she can’t call out, but rafes fr mad at you about it

changed it a bit just bc i want to show reader's progress regarding her hyper-independence, they're already dating and past the "i love you" phase, i felt like some progress had to be made by this point, especially bc this is after their big fight in this. hope you enjoy <3

don't want less, don't want more - r.c

pairing: rafe x pogue!reader (bartender!reader universe)

The floor beneath you feels like it's tilting, moving under your feet like a boat rocking on rough water. You blink a couple of times, hoping that’ll shake the haze taking over your vision, but it doesn’t do much. 

The bar lights over your head are too bright, and the music thumping from the speakers makes your head feel like it’s trapped in a vice. The clink of glass, every laugh, every order shouted at you feels like a hammer driving nails straight into your skull.

You swallow hard, trying not to gag. Your throat’s raw, and your chest feels tight, but you’re powering through it because you don’t have much of a choice. Not a choice at all.

"Whiskey sour, extra sour!" some country club douchebag yells from the other side of the bar.

His voice is like nails on a chalkboard. You force a smile and nod, reaching for the bottle, but your hands are shaky. You catch yourself on the edge of the bar before you can drop it.

This morning, you could barely get out of bed. Fever burning through you like you were standing too close to a bonfire, throat too sore to talk, and your head pounding so hard you thought you were going to pass out just brushing your teeth. 

You tried calling in. Tried. Told your manager, Greg, that you were sick as hell, couldn’t make it, but the guy just grunted like he always does. "Can’t afford anyone calling out today," he said. Like the world was going to end if you didn’t show up to sling drinks for a bunch of rich assholes.

So here you are.

You rub the back of your neck, trying to loosen up some of the tension building there, but it doesn’t help. Nothing really does at this point.

"Hey!" The guy who ordered the whiskey sour snaps his fingers in your face. "You deaf or something? Whiskey. Sour."

"Got it," You mutter, trying not to let your voice crack as you finally pour his drink. 

Your vision swims a little as you set it down in front of him, and for a second, you think you might actually faint right here at the bar.

That’d be something. Faceplant into a bunch of overpriced cocktails in front of half of the Kooks on this island. Greg would probably just step over you and ask you to get back to work.

You lean against the bar for a second. Your stomach rolls, threatening to revolt, but you choke it back. You can’t afford to be sick here. Not when you’re already in trouble with your manager for barely making it on time. You think back to the half-assed breakfast you tried to eat—if you can call a slice of toast breakfast—and how your stomach rejected it like poison.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spot Rafe coming in. And suddenly, you’re even more aware of how wrecked you are.

You know he still struggles with how independent you are sometimes. You’ve always been the kind of girl who handles things on her own, and Rafe has this tendency to think that means you don’t need him.

Today, though? You need him more than ever, but you couldn’t bring yourself to call for help.

You immediately know it’s gonna be a thing.

His eyes lock onto you from across the bar, and even through the fog in your head, you can see that look on his face. He’s pissed. Of course, he’s pissed. His jaw’s clenched like he’s biting back whatever rant he’s about to drop on you, and you can already feel the tension creeping up your neck.

Great, as if you didn’t feel bad enough already.

You try to stand a little straighter, look a little less like you're one second from collapsing, but your legs are jelly, and the room’s still spinning like you’re on some messed-up carnival ride.

You don’t want him to see how bad you’re hurting right now. But today? You’re too out of it to even try and explain.

He strides up to the bar, looking sharp, as usual. Meanwhile, you probably look like death warmed over. His eyes are scanning you, taking in the pale face, the way you’re gripping the edge of the bar like you’re about to keel over. You see his lips tighten, and yeah, he’s definitely about to lay into you.

“You didn’t call,” he says, voice low but definitely annoyed. He leans in, trying to keep this between just the two of you, but with how loud the bar is, it still feels like a confrontation.

“I’m fine,” you lie, forcing a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. 

Rafe’s eyes narrow. He’s not buying it. “You look like you’re about to pass out. Why didn’t you call me?”

You hate that you feel guilty.

“Because I’m handling it,” you say, voice softer now. But even you can hear how weak you sound.

It’s not convincing. Hell, you’re not even convinced.

He crosses his arms, looking down at you like you’re a puzzle he can’t figure out. “Handling it? Baby, you can barely stand.”

You let out a sigh, trying not to let it turn into a cough.

"I’m fine," you repeat, but even you know it sounds pathetic at this point. Your head feels like it's full of cotton, you’re not sure if you’ll make it through the next few minutes, let alone your entire shift.

But pride’s a bitch.

Rafe just stands there, arms crossed, staring at you like he’s waiting for you to come clean. You can feel his frustration, but there’s something else, too. Worry. It’s in the way his eyes keep flicking over your face, how his fingers are tapping against his arm like he’s holding himself back from just scooping you up and carrying you out of here.

"I heard from Topper," he finally says, like he’s been holding that card in his back pocket. You blink, trying to keep up. "He saw you at the club earlier, said you didn’t look right."

Great. Freaking Topper. Of course, idiot couldn’t mind his own business. You can almost picture him, all dressed up in some preppy golf outfit, spotting you from across the course and making a note to text Rafe the second he saw something off.

Rafe’s still watching you, waiting for a reaction.

You open your mouth, trying to come up with some excuse, some way to brush it off, but your brain’s too foggy, and all you manage is a weak, "I was fine then."

He raises an eyebrow. "Yeah? 'Cause Top said you looked like you were about to hurl on the 9th hole." He’s trying to keep his voice low, but you can tell he’s annoyed. Not at Topper, not even really at you—just at the whole situation.

You want to snap back, tell him you’re fine, that you’ve got it under control. But instead, all that comes out is another tired sigh. “Greg wouldn’t let me call out. Said they needed me.”

“You serious?”

“Dead-serious.”

Rafe’s jaw clenches so tight you think you hear his teeth grind. His hands come out of his pockets, flexing like he’s about to hit something—or someone. He runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to calm himself down before he says something he’ll regret.

But you know him—he’s never been great at holding back when he’s pissed. And right now? He’s definitely pissed.

“Greg said that?” His voice is low, but there’s this dangerous edge to it, like he’s two seconds away from losing it, “You should’ve called me. I would’ve come down here, I would’ve—”

“I know.” You cut him off because you do know.

He would’ve dropped everything and come running. That’s exactly why you didn’t call. You didn’t want to be the a burden again. Like you said, you’re still working on yourself.

Rafe leans against the bar, his whole body radiating this intensity that makes you feel both comforted and nervous.

“So, let me get this straight,” he says, voice louder now, not even bothering to keep it low-key anymore. “You’re sick as hell, and that asshole wouldn’t let you stay home?”

You wince. He’s drawing attention now, people at the bar starting to glance over. You hate seeing him like this, but you don’t have the energy to smooth things over.

“Rafe, please—” you start, but he cuts you off.

“No, seriously. What kind of fucking manager forces someone to come in when they’re this sick?” His voice carries, and a couple of the other bartenders are giving you looks, like they can’t decide if they’re more surprised or impressed by Rafe’s audacity, "You’re killing yourself for this job, and he doesn’t give a fuck.”

You glance toward the back, hoping Greg’s still in the office and not witnessing this meltdown. The last thing you need right now is more heat from him. But of course, your luck sucks, because just as Rafe’s ramping up, Greg strides out from the back, clipboard in hand, that same stupid scowl on his face like he’s already annoyed at everything.

Rafe spots him instantly, and if you thought he was mad before, now he’s on a whole other level.

"Greg!" Rafe calls out, loud enough that half the bar turns to look. Your stomach sinks. This is about to get ugly.

Greg stops dead in his tracks, his eyes flicking to Rafe and then back to you. He knows. He knows exactly what’s about to happen, and he’s already losing the upper hand.

“Yeah, Rafe?” Greg’s voice is weak, almost shaky. Like he’s trying to keep it together, but he knows he’s got no chance. Rafe’s family literally owns half the island—Greg’s just some middle manager with too much attitude.

Your boyfriend steps forward, slow and deliberate, closing the space between them like he’s already won this thing.

“You made her come in today?” His voice is calm, but it’s that scary kind of calm that’s worse than yelling. The kind that makes your stomach drop because you know the person holding it together is barely holding back.

Greg opens his mouth to respond, but all that comes out is this pathetic mumble. “We… we were short-staffed.”

Rafe raises an eyebrow, his lips pulling into this cold, humorless smile. “Short-staffed?” He glances at you, and you feel the heat rising in your cheeks. You really didn’t want this to turn into a scene, but here you are. “You see how she looks right now? You made her come in like this?”

Greg’s eyes flick back and forth between you and Rafe, and you can see the panic starting to set in. He’s sweating now, probably realizing that this little power trip he’s on is about to bite him in the ass. “She didn’t… uh… say she couldn’t work…”

“She told you she was sick,” Rafe cuts him off, voice like steel. “You’re the manager, right? Thought that meant taking care of your staff. Guess I was wrong.”

Greg’s mouth opens and closes like he’s trying to think of something to say, but nothing’s coming. He looks like a deer caught in headlights, knowing any move he makes right now could get him fired. Hell, maybe even blacklisted from every job on the island. The Cameron’s have that kind of pull.

“I-I didn’t realize how bad it was,” Greg finally stammers, but even he doesn’t sound convinced by his own excuse.

Rafe takes another step forward, practically towering over Greg now. “You didn’t realize?” He laughs, but there’s no warmth in it. “Look at her, man. How could you not realize?”

You wince as the room seems to get quieter, everyone watching this power struggle unfold. You’d rather be anywhere but here right now, but you also know that Rafe’s not letting this slide.

Greg takes a step back, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. 

“I-I was just trying to keep things running. We… we were slammed.”

Rafe’s smile drops, and now it’s just pure ice. “You think that’s a good enough reason to put my girlfriend’s health at risk?”

Greg looks like he’s about to pass out himself at this point, but he manages to mutter, “No… no, I—I didn’t mean…”

“Here’s the deal, Greg,” Rafe says, voice low but dangerous. “You’re gonna back off. Let her finish this shift if she wants. If she doesn’t? She’s out, no questions asked. And next time, when she says she’s sick, you listen.”

Greg nods so fast it’s like his head’s on a swivel. “Of course, of course, Rafe. I didn’t mean any disrespect. I just—”

“Good,” Rafe interrupts, already turning away like he’s done with this conversation. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

Greg just stands there, wide-eyed and frozen, clearly too scared to even argue. He stammers some half-hearted apology, but Rafe’s already turning back to you, brushing the whole thing off like it was nothing.

You look up at him, still in shock at how quickly Greg folded. “You really didn’t need to do that.”

He shrugs, leaning back against the bar with that easy confidence he always has. “Yeah, I did,” he says, his tone softening now that it’s just the two of you. “I’m not gonna let some nobody push you around like that.”

You sigh, feeling both relieved and slightly embarrassed. “You know he’s probably gonna hate me even more now.”

Rafe smirks, like that’s the least of his concerns. “Who cares? He won’t say a fuckin’ thing. Trust me.”

“Everyone’s going to say a thing, baby. They’re gonna think I have some kind of privilege because I’m dating you.”

Rafe’s smirk softens. He steps a little closer, lowering his voice so only you can hear him over the dull roar of the bar.

“Let them think whatever they want,” he says, his hand brushing against yours. “You’ve been busting your ass here long before I ever stepped in. Nobody can take that from you.”

You bite your lip, feeling everyone’s eyes on you, judgment and curiosity. He’s right in a way—you’ve been working extra hard. But still, it’s hard to ignore the feeling that now, everyone’s going to assume you’ve got some special treatment just because of Rafe’s name.

“It’s not about that,” you murmur, “I just—don’t want people thinking I can’t stand on my own. I don’t want to be the girl who hides behind her boyfriend’s power.”

Rafe tilts his head, studying you with that look he always gives when he knows you're holding back.

“You think that’s what this is?” His voice is steady, his tone a little softer now. “This wasn’t about power, baby. This was about someone treating you like you didn’t matter. And I’m not letting anyone—anyone—do that to you.”

He’s not wrong.

Greg didn’t give a damn about how sick you were, only about keeping the bar running, like you were replaceable. And you hate how right Rafe is, how much you needed someone to step in, even if it makes you feel a little helpless. You swallow hard, the tightness in your chest easing slightly, though your body still feels like it’s been run over by a truck.

“And you’re not working anymore today, or the next week for that matter. You’re gonna get your ass in my car and we’re going to the doctor.”

You nod, knowing there’s no arguing with Rafe when he’s like this, but part of you still feels guilty.

Not for needing help exactly, but for not being able to handle it all on your own. You've always been the girl who grits her teeth and gets through it, but today? Your body is screaming at you that you just can’t. Not anymore.

Rafe’s watching you closely, like he’s waiting for you to argue, but you don’t. You’re too drained. The adrenaline from the confrontation with Greg is wearing off, and now all you feel is this bone-deep exhaustion.

“I’m not going to a doctor,” you say, even though you know you probably should. “Just home. I just need to sleep.”

He narrows his eyes like he’s trying to read between the lines of what you’re saying, but then he just nods. “Fine. But if you’re not better by tomorrow, I’m dragging you to urgent care. No arguments.”

You give him a weak smile, trying to show you appreciate it even though you feel like crap.

“Deal.”

Without another word, he moves around the bar, ignoring Greg’s gawking and the way everyone’s still sneaking glances at you two. He gently takes the towel out of your hand, sets it on the counter, and slips an arm around your waist.

It’s the first time you’ve felt stable all day, leaning into him like you might actually make it to the car without collapsing.

“I don’t think I can afford an appointment.”

He looks at you like you’ve just said the most ridiculous thing in the world. His arm tightens around your waist, steadying you as you start to sway a little on your feet.

"Not worried about the money.”

You try to shake your head, but the movement makes you dizzy, and you stop, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

"I just don’t want to be that person, you know? Relying on you for everything."

He gives you a side glance, eyebrows raised.

"Baby, you’re not relying on me for everything. You’re literally sick, and I’m not about to let you tough it out just because you’re too stubborn to ask for help. We’ve talked about this a million times.”

"I guess," you mumble, letting your head rest against his shoulder as you walk towards the door.

"No guessing about it," he says, softer now, his fingers brushing your arm in a way that makes you feel more grounded. "You’ve been holding down the fort for too long. Let me take care of you for once."

The air outside hits you like a slap, but Rafe keeps you close, leading you toward his car. Your legs are weak, the fever still simmering under your skin, but his body warmth keeps you upright.

"Thanks," you whisper, even though it feels weird to say. You’re not used to thanking people for basic care, but with Rafe, it feels different.

He pauses, opening the passenger door for you.

"You don’t gotta thank me, okay? I’m just doing what anyone who loves you would do."

Your heart skips at that. You’re still not used to how easily he says stuff like that, like it’s no big deal. But he’s rubbing off on you, because you can say it just as easily now.

“I love you too, sorry for being a pain in your ass.”

Rafe chuckles as he helps you into the car, leaning down to make sure you’re settled before he shuts the door. He bends down and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.

"You're always a pain in my ass," he murmurs against your skin, grinning as he pulls back just enough to look at you. "But you’re my pain in the ass, and that’s what matters."

You can’t help but roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips despite how wrecked you feel. The fever, the headache, the exhaustion—it all takes a backseat, at least for a moment. 

Knowing Rafe’s always got your back? That makes it a little easier to breathe.

[ajokeformur-ray]

If this is triggering pls skip I don't wanna make you uncomfortable in anyway 🩷, but how would J feel if he found out his S/O has an abusive boss? Ik he would be angry and stuff but what would he do?

Hey nonnie🫂I totally get it, I work in an abusive workplace myself so I understand. I hope this offers you & anyone else who can relate some comfort. We deserve better.💖

J would definitely be angry.

However, and this is the bit you might not like - he'd be angry at your boss and at you.

Angry at your boss for abusing their staff rather than adhering to the duty of care which employers legally have towards their employees, and angry at you for staying there for as long as you do once the red flags starts to stack up.

He wonders what the straw will be which breaks the camel's back - what will it take for you to leave?

J's highly intelligent, he understands the dynamics of any kind of abusive relationship. He knows it's hard to spot the signs, more so if the abuse is happening at work. He knows that once you're in an abusive relationship, it's even harder to leave. He knows the logistics; you need the money, the economy doesn't have many jobs going right now so you need to stay where you are... on and on the reasons go as to why you can't - won't - leave your workplace.

But that doesn't mean he has to like it. J doesn't have to like it, not one bit.

He's watched you come home in tears on multiple occasions, and he's heard from some of his men that you've cried on your way home in the streets, too, though that's subtler than how you cry in the shower when you think he isn't home. He's home more than you think he is. J takes good care of what's his and how can he take care of you if he isn't home?

J is angry at you for not leaving, but he understands that it's easier said than done, he's seen it time and again in the people who walk the streets with their shoulders curled inwards and their heads down, like the weight of the world is slowly settling on their shoulders, hammering them closer to the ground as they get stomped on each and every day.

Your boss is the hammer, and you're the nail.

One more good swing, J reckons, and you're done for.

Except it doesn't seem to be, as you take swing after swing after swing, and still you go to work, still you try your best, still you kill yourself to live. And J's frustration grows and grows; you don't have to live like this, but you want to work, you don't want to live solely off of J's lucrative crimes. It's tempting sometimes, and you'd be a liar if you said it wasn't.

But you're too proud for that, and so you take the hits without leaving your abusive boss.

Realising after some months that you're not going to do anything about your situation of your own accord - it's been years - J starts to intervene in his own ways. Making sure there's an accident on the road your boss takes to work so that they are delayed for some time, making sure that they can't get the coffee they want first thing in the morning due to some kind of supplying issue even though they had it in abundance yesterday morning... on and on the inconveniences go, and their severity depends on how much you were abused the last time you were at work.

J holds you when you cry, he listens to you rant, he gives you sage advice only when you ask for it, and he only listens when you don't. He supports you, in his own ways, but he's very angry, make no mistake. His tone is especially biting when you make threats to quit, and he thinks finally, and then you don't. You stay. That same nail in the same wall with that same hammer.

How much more can you take, J wonders? He's proud of you, he's angry at you, he cares and he is curious about what you're going to do. All of these things at once, his thoughts like trains with no final destinations, but he knows that one day you will leave, and he will celebrate with you when you do.

[seiya-starsniper]

There were so many good ones to choose from! But here we go!

'A puts a blade by B's throat, be it seriously or as a joke/teasing. B's reaction is…enthusiastic.'

(Maybe Corintheus? I love how your mind works so anything you're inspired to write will be amazing!! Though as a potential premise I was struck by the idea of Dream holding a knife to the Corinthian's throat. Maybe even one of the Corinthian's own knives.)

I AM IN LOVE WITH THIS IMAGE IT'S HAPPENING APSODAODKADOPAKDKOAD

I have written so much porn these last few days, what a way to celebrate my birthday, thanks so much for the prompts ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

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

“You,” Dream of the Endless growls as he pins the Corinthian down to the silken sheets, the nightmare’s own dagger pressed at the edge of his throat, “are not supposed to be here, little dream.” 

The Corinthian barks a laugh as thin black ropes appear from the bedposts, wrapping themselves around his wrists and tying him down.

“Then maybe you should’ve hidden this place better,” he says, darting his eyes around the room to take in his surroundings. It had taken him a long time to find Dream’s private quarters in the Dreaming, and they looked pretty much as he’d imagined them. The walls were barren of color or any sort of personal touch, and other than the bed, the only piece of furniture decorating the room was a single, black, slatback chair. There wasn’t even a rug on the floor. Even the bed, soft as it was beneath the Corinthian’s back, was plain and dull. 

“All the imagination in the world, and you dream up the world’s most boring bedroom for yourself,” the Corinthian complains, grinning when he feels the knife on his throat press closer, cutting into his skin. He doesn’t bleed, not here, not in this nothingness where Dream thinks he can escape and hide from the messiness of the universe. But the Corinthian doesn’t need to bleed in order to feel pain.

“This place,” Dream says, narrowing his eyes, “is meant to be a reprieve from my duties. It is meant to be a peaceful space, so it is sparse on purpose. You, my little nightmare, are not peaceful, nor are you a reprieve, so you must leave. Now.”

“I could be,” the Corinthian replies, prompting a noise of confusion from his creator. “A reprieve that is,” he adds, trailing his eyes along the opening in Dream’s star-lined robe. It had fallen open in their scuffle, exposing the moonlight pale expanse of Dream’s neck and chest. His skin is immaculate and unmarked, and the Corinthian wants to put his teeth all over it. 

When the Corinthian has had his fill and meets his creator’s eyes again, Dream's eyes are no longer pale and blue, but darkened to that pitch black shade the Corinthian both loves and fears. There's no pupil there in those depthless eyes, only stars that hold the weight of the entire universe within them.

The Corinthian is so hard, he’s certain he could hammer nails. He knows that Dream knows it too.

After a few moments of charged silence between them, the knife is removed from his neck in favor of cutting away at the Corinthian's clothes. They both know that Dream could wave them away in an instant, but Dream seems to find some enjoyment in destroying something of the Corinthian’s with his own tools.

“Be still,” Dream commands when the nightmare squirms, pushing against his bonds. The Corinthian cannot help it. He wants to feel more than just the light kiss of a blade, and Dream seems intent on teasing him to death. He stills his body anyways, and waits as the seconds pass agonizingly by. It feels like an eternity passes before he is entirely naked, for Dream also focused on popping off every button from each garment with the Corinthian’s dagger. The Corinthian has a mad thought during it all to switch all of his future clothing to t-shirts and sweatpants.   

The last thing to be removed are the Corinthian's glasses, and Dream places them gingerly along a newly appeared side table. It is a surprisingly soft gesture, considering everything that would soon come after. 

Dream discards his robe, and it disappears into the ether of the room, leaving the Endless completely naked. Though he is hard, Dream’s cock isn’t leaking with need like the Corinthian’s is, and it make the nightmare want to put his mouth on it, to make a mess of it, to make a mess of Dream.

Dream smirks down at the Corinthian, as if reading his mind. He probably did. 

“Show me, then, little nightmare,” Dream murmurs, as he crawls up the Corinthian’s body, placing his knees on either side of the blond’s head. He positions the tip of his cock right at the Corinthian’s lips. “Show me how much of a reprieve your mouth can be.”

The Corinthian grins, before he parts his lips to take the tip of Dream’s cock inside. He sucks lightly at first, with small kitten licks, and shallow movements, trying to see how much teasing he can get away with. Then, in one abrupt motion, Dream thrusts his cock all the way to the back of the Corinthian’s throat.

It's brutal and unyielding the way Dream uses him, uncaring of whether the Corinthian can take it or not. He can, of course. The Corinthian knows how to swallow cock without gagging but he has a feeling that Dream wants him to gag, so that's precisely what he does. He swallows just a little too tightly, letting Dream hit all of the sensitive spots he’d normally try to avoid. Soon the Corinthian’s face is a drooling, crying mess, a mix of bloodied tears and saliva and the slick from Dream’s cock. 

The Corinthian can feel his own cock bouncing uselessly against his stomach, untouched and completely ignored in favor of his lord's pleasure. The thought makes the nightmare moan around the cock in his mouth which in turn elicits a growl and an especially deep thrust from Dream. 

Then Dream braves his hands against the wall and changes the angle of his thrusts. The Corinthian is practically choking now with each thrust and he cannot do anything about it. It feels so good to be used like this, to be nothing more than an instrument for his lord's pleasure, a reprieve from his duties as Lord of the Dreaming. It is yet another thing that makes him better than the other dreams and nightmares, another thing that makes him the favorite. 

The Corinthian can tell when Dream is getting close to orgasm. His movements become less sharp and unfocused, even as the brutality of the thrusts into his throat remain. He hollows out his cheeks and swallows down Dream’s cock, expecting the Endless to come down his throat.

He doesn't.

Instead, Dream pulls his cock out just as abruptly as he'd pushed it in earlier, and then he is spilling his release in thick, warm ropes all over the Corinthian’s face. The Corinthian can taste Dream’s spend in all three of his mouths, his ocular ones seeming particularly keen at licking it up. Dream watches as the Corinthian licks up the come closest to his mouth, then drags a finger through the mess of fluids pooling at the Corinthian’s cheek.

“My precious nightmare,” Dream coos, leaning in to lick up the rest of the mess of the nightmare’s face. The Corinthian purrs underneath the attention, nuzzling unashamedly into Dream’s face. 

“Was that a sufficient reprieve for you, my lord?” the nightmare asks cheekily, chuckling when Dream rolls his eyes in response.

“For now,” Dream says, flopped down next to the nightmare. “You may stay,” he adds, as if the Corinthian can even leave. He’s still bound to the bedposts, and at some point during their activities, Dream had bound his feet as well. He still hasn’t come either. 

It’s still a win as far as the Corinthian is concerned.

[sailing-through-hawkins]

had this in my head and then saw this post by @babyboyargyle so i took it as a sign to write it out! it's not perfect but it was fun (*^▽^*)

Say what you want to about monsters and killers and the apocalypse but at least this time they've got all-day access to pizza. Steve doesn't really know where this guy came from but damn, he makes a great margherita.

"Guys, this is Argyle," Jonathan introduces, waving towards a man with very, very long hair, holy shit.

Steve takes a second from hammering nails into the fifth bat that he's been tossed to give the guy a nod. He nods back, eyes flitting between the bat in Steve's hands to the bandages wrapped around his waist. But Steve's used to everyone keeping an eye on his wounds, from his stomach to his back to his arms to his head. He's a magnet for damage, that's just how it is.

"Hey man," Steve greets with a wave and gets back to hammering. "Welcome to the shitshow."

"Y-yeah," Argyle swallows with another nod. "Glad to be here."

At first, he seemed like a great addition. Argyle's funny, chill in a way that Steve hasn't experienced since '83, maybe even before that. Despite all the monsters lurking and the crackling in the air, dude kept his cool and got to work on food supplies and even teaching everyone how to do tracking shit like something out of a nature show.

But then, on their way back to the base (also known as Steve's fucking house), Jonathan's team is almost swarmed by demodogs and Steve and Robin have to run out to give 'em hell.

Ha, giving hell to the hellbeasts. Is that irony? Dustin would call it irony, Steve thinks.

After a little carnage and some (very therapeutic, according to Robin) violence, they manage to annihilate the 'dogs and get Will to throw their tracks off so they have their safe zone for a bit longer at least, but Argyle is quiet and frantic-eyed the entire walk home. It unsettles Steve, all that antsy energy building up under the surface.

Once safely inside, Jonathan and Nancy start on organizing the new supplies. It's when Jonathan manages to drop a water bottle that all that tension finally bursts.

"Shit, oh man, shit, shit, oh my god!" Argyle's pacing back and forth, hands scrunching up into his scalp which, yikes, not a good look for that mane. "This is so messed up, this is crazy, this is so messed up!"

Jonathan steps forward with a, "Argyle, Argyle, listen -"

"No, no, no, last time I listened to you, there was an open grave in front of me and now there's like fifty thousand demons out there! The world is fucking crazy right now, man, I am freaking out! I am -"

Okay, damage control time.

"Hey, hey, hey -" Steve shifts himself into Argyle's line of sight, holding his hands up and letting out a low whistle. "Dude, take a breath, alright?"

Which is apparently all the guy needs to latch his hands onto Steve's shoulders very, very tightly, holy shit, this guy's grip. "How am I supposed to breathe when -"

"Look at me, in-and-out, alright?" Steve exaggerates his own breathing, letting Argyle take his time in copying the motions. "In, out, in, out, you're doing good. It's pretty scary out here, huh?"

Argyle's grip on his shoulders tenses but Steve quickly grabs onto his wrists, gives them a short squeeze, and suddenly all that tension deflates. Which means physical contact is a go for reassurance, nice. "Yeah."

"I get it, man, I do. First time I got into this shit? I was ready to hightail it outta there and never look back, y'know?" He looks up from under his lashes, giving the guy what he hopes is a comforting smile. Judging by the hitch in his breath, it's not as comforting as Steve hopes. "But I get the feeling you're a ride-or-die type, right?"

Argyle shrugs, eyes fixated on Steve like he's the last hope he's got. No pressure.

"Look, I can't like - I can't guarantee much, wouldn't wanna jinx anything, but we're going to handle this, alright?" Damn, his hands are really warm. Is it because he's stressed? Even Steve doesn't run this warm when he's stressed, dude must be keeping a lot of anxiety under all that...weed? California weed? Whatever, focus, Steve. "It's not our first or second, not even third rodeo with this shit, we can absolutely handle it."

"You can handle it," Argyle says in what Steve thinks might be...petulant? Oh, that's fun, this guy is totally going to be fun to have around for the long haul. "Man, I don't even know what the hell is going on anywhere anymore."

Steve laughs, rubbing circles into Argyle's skin with his thumb. He's definitely wired up but that tight spark of panic in his eye is getting dimmer, so the contact might actually be working here. "If it makes you feel any better, I don't think any of us know what's happening."

"How -"

"That's the thing, we don't need all the answers right now," Steve pats his wrist and tries a different kind of smile this time which, judging by the way Argyle's gulping and kind of just staring at him, might be working? Okay, fifty-fifty on that. "Just need to figure it out one step at a time."

"I don't - I'm kinda freaking out here, dude," Argyle confesses, like it wasn't kinda obvious for everyone in the room, as he lets go of Steve's shoulders (fuck, his grip is killer, there's definitely gonna be marks tomorrow) and lets his hands hang by his waist in a really sad way. Steve nods, patting his shoulder and gently leading him to the closest chair he can find (of course it's the sofa Mike left his socks on, god damn it Wheeler). "I'm not cut out for this freaky stuff, man, what if - what if we don't make it -"

"Hey," Steve says sharply, immediately regretting it when Argyle flinches at his tone. Take a breath, relax, the guy's worried, that's all. Steve softens his voice, and rubs a hand down his back when he buries his face in his hands. Huh, that's a quality shirt. "Hey, I get it. Believe me, I know how overwhelming this all is when you've got like, zero clue how it all happened. But I got your back here, dude, I'll watch your six."

And woah. Argyle snaps his face back to Steve, eyes wide and mouth just slightly agape. "You what?"

"'S kinda my job," Steve shrugs, continuing to rub his back so he can figure out why this material feels so familiar, what the hell.  "I'm the babysitter," - ignore Mike's affronted scoff, stay focused - "I keep track with the whole newbie thing most of the time. I mean like, we all got your back but y'know - like -  I'll personally make sure nothing happens to you, if that helps?"

Argyle stares at him for a few seconds, making it really hard not to squirm in the silence. Steve settles for scratching at his nose, finally taking his hand off that damned shirt, the fuck kind of brand is it?! Not important, focus, focus.

"Uh, sorry if that - I didn't mean to come on too strong or anything -"

"Holy shit, dude," Argyle breathes out, one of his (very warm) hands coming down to grip Steve's knee. "You're like, a godsend."

"Oh, uh, thank you?" Steve blinks when Argyle beams at him and pats his knee. Huh, maybe he's getting better at this comforting stuff. "Are - you good now?"

"Hell yes, my friend, I have a killer beast 'watching my six', don't I?" Argyle winks and shit, Steve's wounds must be inflaming again, his skin feels hot. "Now who's ready for some pie!"

Steve watches as he swoops up, practically glowing with such a positive energy it's kind of giving him whiplash. He stares as Argyle makes his way to the kitchen, snatching another glance back at Steve and giving him a wide grin, another wink and a salute before he disappears.

"What just happened?" Steve blinks again.

Jonathan pats his shoulder in sympathy which, uh, why? "You've just been Argyle'd."

"What does that even mean?" Steve splutters because what the hell is even happening. "And what did he mean by an open grave?"

"It's a long story," Jonathan sighs and gives him another pat. "Tell you once you help me sort out the water supply."

"The supply that you were supposed to figure out before you left, that water supply?"

"Fuck you," Jonathan grins and Steve shakes off the buzzing heat under his skin.

Everything's fine, all is cool. Just gotta keep an extra eye on Argyle.

Easy-peasy. Fuck, please be easy-peasy.

[gffa]

These two pages from Dark Victory have stayed with me ever since I first read it because they're visually hella interesting, I enjoy Tim Sale's art for how stylish it is, but also because every time I see it, I hear the click of a spotlight being turned on, almost like this is a play being acted out. It highlights the connection between the characters, but that it also is shutting everything else out. That makes sense in the moment, Dick just watched his parents die, there's nothing else in the world for him. Bruce is reliving his own trauma of having watched his parents die, as well as watching another child go through the same thing--but, in a way I can't shake, it almost feels like Bruce is intruding on this moment, too. That Dick's loss gets interpreted as a mirror of Bruce's loss--Dark Victory goes to great lengths to hammer home that parallel, it is not at all subtle about it:

But what strikes me about the moment of the Graysons' deaths is that it feels almost like a play being acted out, that Bruce becomes part of it because they mirror each other so strongly, that for all they grow as individuals and come to love each other as uniquely different people, they will always be rooted in this mirroring of each other. Bruce isn't just a bystander to Dick's loss and grief, it fundamentally connects them and defines them--that in many ways Dick understands Bruce the best because, as Dick says about himself, when he was Robin, he was smaller than everyone else, so he had to learn to read people better, to know what they were going to do, because Dick was with Bruce the longest, because Dick and Bruce often are the most similar. But it's also that Dick understands Bruce best because Bruce allowed him in because of this mirror, that sometimes it feels like Bruce only understands people through the lens of his own grief, that's why Dick's the closest to him, because Dick shares that same loss. This isn't to undercut that Dick was a bright, lively child who brought laughter and joy because that is also absolutely true and I will fight tooth and nail anyone who says otherwise. Bruce loves that kid because Dick refused to not be loved, because he's not the same as Bruce, he's brighter, he's better, he's more in so many ways. Bruce and Dick's relationship isn't just one thing or another, there are times when it borders on almost being kind of healthy and then there are times when it's toxic as hell, yet it's always underscored by how much they genuinely love each other, how Bruce keeps thoughts of Dick in his mind to turn to for solace just like he turns to thoughts of his own father, how Dick demands to be worth just as much to Bruce's parents even when they've traveled into the future to be directly in front of him, and Dick gets that worth from Bruce. But sometimes I think about that panel, I hear a spotlight clicking on in my head, I think about Bruce unintentionally inserting himself into this moment of Dick's loss and how Bruce sometimes holds him closer to his heart because Dick's hurt mirrors his own so much. How sometimes Bruce sees the world through that lens of trauma and only how much people can understand it, that the rest of the world drops away and is nothing but black, empty space, except him and the person who understands his hurt.

That I can look at that panel and see it as its meant to be--a moment of pure connection, "I understand what you're going through, I can't take it away, but I can be here with you." and how that saved Dick Grayson's life, how it allowed him to heal and grow and thrive. I can see Bruce's heart breaking because he would have done anything to save this kid from that pain. And sometimes I can look at it and see Bruce watching a horrific play unfold before him and relating to it through his own issues, rather than true empathy. Ultimately, it's really more that they're kindred spirits, that's what the follow-up pages show, that Dick goes through the same process that Bruce went through, he does the same things Bruce did, all while Bruce isn't there to influence him into that at all. Dick is his own person, Bruce couldn't make him be a copy of Bruce if he'd wanted to, he couldn't even win an argument with a nine-year-old about putting on a costume and fighting crime with him and absolutely not staying out of the line of fire. Dick Grayson did what he was going to do, Bruce had nothing to do with making him into that person. But part of the reason they're such an interesting dynamic is because they're not just purely one thing or another, that for all that at the end of the day, Dick and Bruce are naturally like each other in a lot of core ways, it's also possible to read them as unhealthy co-dependent on each other, that them being everything to each other comes with some sharper edges, especially when Bruce sometimes resents Dick for growing beyond him and leaving him, even while desperately proud of him at the same time.

It's a thing Bruce struggles with a lot when it comes to Dick and I think of this tangled web of emotions every time I see that second splash page above. That Bruce came to love this kid as a son, but also as someone who understood what it was like to live with that kind of devastating loss, and how hard Bruce connected with that--and then how hard it was to let him go, when Bruce can't let go of his parents. That it's hard for Bruce to see Dick grow beyond being the son who understood him best, who mirrored his tragedy best, and he'll do it, he loves his kid enough to keep climbing back up out of that desire to hold onto him as his reflection even if he falls back into it sometimes, that some part of him will always see Dick as the one who had that connection that blocked the rest of the world out and understood him in a way no one else could.

[trillscienceofficer]

I really think B'Elanna not being able to understand holograms as people is a case of 'to a hammer, everything looks like a nail'. She is extremely skilled as a programmer and familiar with holographic technology, and in many ways she's the only one in the crew who can understand it enough to help the Doctor when he's having an emergency (starting from "The Swarm"). This I think holds true even after Seven comes aboard. And because she understands the technology, and can manipulate it pretty much at will, she has trouble seeing when what she can do to the Doctor or to any other hologram crosses a line. I try to imagine it this way: if you know so well how to manipulate people, if you've spent a long time learning how and you do it every day, it's probably difficult to never resort to manipulation, not even a little bit, to get the desired outcome from a situation even if you honestly care about the people involved. You probably wouldn't even notice you're doing it, because it's just so embedded in the way you interact with people every day. I think B'Elanna is in a similar situation with holograms. She has to do maintenance both on the Doctor and on the holodeck, and so she can't help seeing the Doctor as something that needs maintenance like any other piece of equipment. Given her surprised reaction to Janeway pointing out that the Doctor is a person in "Latent Image", I don't think B'Elanna realizes that she's thinking in those terms in the first place.

I've been thinking a lot lately about how the relationship between the Doctor and B'Elanna is SO fucked up, both ways. He doesn't truly see her as a person because she's 1. a patient, a particularly troublesome one with specific needs to boot because her physiology is "strange" 2. a woman (hysterical every time she expresses her point of view) 3. not entirely human (see point 1 about her body being "not in the norm"). And she doesn't truly see him as a person because he is 1. part of her maintenance duties (not unlike her being his patient) and 2. something emerging from a collection of algorithms (the way he inhabits the world is definitely "not in the norm"). They're so clearly mirrors of each other and yet they're both so locked into the roles they have in relation to each other that they never really escape this paradigm of mutual dehumanization!

The following paragraph will turn all this into a bad post, you're forewarned so don't @ me. But I keep thinking about the Doctor proudly saying in "Message in a Bottle" that he gave himself genitals because he wanted to (and has had) intercourse. Then in "Bride of Chaotica", the Doctor has to call B'Elanna to program his alternate appearance as the greyscale President of Earth. He did all the designs, but he still needs her in order to really implement them. And... what I infer is that it's not a stretch to imagine that he had to ask B'Elanna to play a similar role in his quest to get the genitals he wanted. I'm not saying that I want to know how that went down in the specifics but just the fact that he might've had to ask B'Elanna, with the kind of thing they have going on where they are each other's patients and they don't always respect each other's autonomy... It's a lot to consider, and not because of the 'prurience' of the topic, more because of the kind of vulnerabilty that a request like that entails. I'm sure if he could the Doctor would not ask her, but I don't think he could avoid it. And I have to wonder whether B'Elanna accepted to help more because no one else could have, rather than because of any real willingness to be involved that much in the Doctor's choices about his own appearance.

B'Elanna is definitely not a medical practitioner either and yet she's the one who is the most aware of the Doctor's equivalent of a medical history to pretty fine degree of detail, which I think gives her a lot of mixed feelings. The Doctor is but he's still the only one in the universe who has such a big picture of how B'Elanna's physiology works and can play the authority on that. A sort of intimacy and vulnerability neither of them wants to have with the other but they're forced to, again, by their respective roles. ngl if I think about this too long I start saying 'fucked up' out loud at increasingly higher volumes, and yet it's weirdly compelling because of the fucked-upness, in a 'the impossibility of living in a society' kind of way.

[nekropsii]

do u have any links to resources about the beta and alpha kids' characterizations and personalities if you have any? i am interested in writing for them and i just wanna know what makes them them iykwim

The Beta + Alpha Kids are... By no means my specialty, as everyone knows, and I personally have zero interest in writing them. That said, I'm pretty sure that most "guides" like that are written by and for writers of lighthearted, canon non-compliant roleplaying, and all the ones that I've seen... Aren't good, and are typically incredibly biased. They definitely tend to want the reader to portray the character in whatever light they see the character in, rather than... How they are in canon. For example, some lean heavily into making Dave a soft, perfect victim, Rose into a tea-drinking lesbian, Jake into a lowkey villain, et cetera.

This is about to get pretty long. It's been a while since I've had to put something under a Read-More... But here we are. Let's get going.

Content Warning: Long, Whole Lot of Rambling about the Technical Aspects of Writing.

There tends to be interjection of headcanons, unnecessary opinions, and ham-fisted attempts to make characters look better or worse than they actually are. Context is missing, sources are missing, so on. Oftentimes when looking at guides to writing characters, I wind up just questioning what comic the writer read, because it doesn't feel as if we read the same one. Their writing and critical thinking skills are often called into question as well, given the way these guides tend to approach characters as a concept.

There's often a distinct failure in being actually analytical or observant, and they tend to view characters more as People than they do... Well, Characters. Which may sound like an odd distinction to make, until you realize that when you're writing a character, you need to understand what role they're fulfilling in a narrative before you focus on who they are as a person and judging their morals. Characters aren't anything more than narrative devices. They're strictly there to drive the plot forward. Yes, since characters tend to be people, of which are often in situations, you tend to judge their morality, ethics, the way they handle their circumstances and other people with average human judgment... But at the end of the day, moral arguments and personhood matter less than what they are meant to do, what they're supposed to represent, and how they're supposed to drive the plot forward. To focus on who and how they are as People- how righteous they are, how much their morals align with yours or those of the real world- is to focus on Form over Function.

Characters are Tools. A tool can be painful to use, or painful to watch in action, but it's still a tool. Sometimes pliers are for pulling teeth, and sometimes they're for twisting wire. You can't effectively pull teeth with a wrench, and you can't effectively hammer a nail with a screwdriver. You could, theoretically, and I'd love to watch someone try, but it's not recommended. It's ineffective. You need to know what a tool is for, how you could use it, and maybe even how you could make your usage of them surprising. A hammer is typically used for driving nails into place. Usually with the head. This doesn't mean you can't drive the nail in with its side, and it doesn't mean you can't use it to break fingers.

What this "Form over Function of a Tool" means in practice is... A lot of "guides" to writing Dave will go over the fact that he is the Ironic Cool Kid who has suffered a lot of Abuse at the hands of Bro Strider, and interject that headcanon of his character arc "being about overcoming Internalized Homophobia and/or Toxic Masculinity" (neither of these are true), but fail to mention that he is essentially a Tutorial Agent, and how his whole character hinges on how he absolutely does not want to be a Main Character. Everything he does is grounded in the fact that he's a Tutorial Agent, and therefore an NPC. He's a regular kid with a rough home life, and wants nothing more than to keep playing his role as just a random NPC. He doesn't want to be a Main Character. He doesn't want to fight, he doesn't want to be in an epic, he just wants to be Some Guy. He wants to be normal, and he wants to be able to be forgotten to the sands of time.

They focus so much on Who he is as a Person that they tend to fail to recognize What he is as a Character. It's not effective. You don't really need to worry about who they are as people. You don't need to focus on the paint job on a tool. You need to know what that tool is, and what it's being used for.

It's best to not consult guides written by other fans. It'd be best if you read through their dialogue yourself, and really dissected them and how they function... Find out what makes them tick.

Luckily, there's a blog out there that does have just about every line of dialogue in Homestuck sorted by character, so that's pretty good for ease of access. Good for you and good for me. I use it all of the time. Here you go.

[blackjackkent]

Another visit from the dream guardian.

In the past, when she has called him into the Astral Plane in his dreams, it has felt like a peaceful interlude, a moment of respite from the chaos of the waking world.

Something has changed, though. The pocket dimension is no longer placid. There is an impressive, almost inaudible thumping hum at the bottom of his hearing range. His skin tingles. There is an uncomfortable feeling of anticipation, like a nail waiting for the hammer-blow.

The guardian is standing nearby, watching as he wakes. She is not in her usual armor, but instead a short, pale lavender dress. She looks inexpressibly tired; her eyes sunken into her head, jutting jaw twisting her lips into a harsh frown.

"The voice of the Absolute is stronger here," she says quietly without preamble. "I don't know how much longer I can resist it."

A pause; then she lifts her head and musters a weary smile. "But it's good to see you're making progress."

With visible effort, she takes a few steps to turn and sit beside him on the ground, looking out at the endless sea of stars surrounding them.

"You took an unexpected route here," she goes on, a bit more conversationally. "You did a brave thing, saving those people in the grove."

Hector lifts one shoulder and lowers it again. "It wasn't even a choice," he mutters. "They needed my help."

Again she smiles slightly. "Not everyone would have helped."

She flinches, inhales sharply with sudden pain, then hisses the breath out like an unspoken curse.

"It just doesn't stop," she groans. "We are being bombarded by waves of telepathic energy. Wave after wave with hardly a breath between them. I almost dare not rest..." The pain seems to ease slightly, and she goes on with less effort, "Each wave...a new set of orders to the infected." A pause, and then she adds grimly, "The order for *your* transformation has been given many times already."

Hector feels a chill shiver down his spine. So it is not only a threat, but a certainty, held only at bay by this woman, whoever she truly is. "My transformation?" he asks hollowly.

She nods. "Yes. But the orders are oddly...erratic, as if the Absolute cannot make up its mind. I don't fully understand."

Well, if you don't, I certainly don't, Hector thinks sardonically.

"In any case," she goes on. "the Absolute knows you carry me with you now. It wants to retrieve me."

"Why does the Absolute want you?" Hector asks. At this point, he doesn't expect a clear answer - but he still hopes against hope that she will give him something concrete to explain the field of safety she is still able to weave around him and his companions.

She hesitates, then shakes her head and pushes herself to her feet with a grunt of effort.

"I am the only one who can resist the Absolute's influence. Hence its fear of me, its desperation. Unfortunately, that also means it is dedicating more and more resources to my retrieval."

She looks down at him with sudden intensity. "The task ahead is monumental. But we're all that stands between victory for the Absolute and freedom for all. This is not just about you and I anymore. It has become far bigger than us."

Hector swallows. It is difficult enough to think about his own little problems, the threat of abduction, transformation, death...but to know that their actions affect the safety of so many others as well...

Selune help me...what if I can't do it? What if I fail?

"You must infiltrate Moonrise Towers," the guardian says. She recites it like a litany, their only creed, as if either of them could have forgotten the destination that lies ahead. "Discover the secrets of the Absolute and put an end to it, so we can finally be free."

Her shoulders sag, and her eyes drift half-shut. Hector feels reality going grey at the edges as the dream begins to fade back into the emptiness of sleep. "Now I must rest," she says, her voice following him back into the dark. "And you must carry on. Do not let my efforts be in vain."

[criticallyacclaimedstranger]

Stuffed [a Jay and Frankie ficlet]

Lil Jay and Frankie thing I came up with while driving. Banter and nudity and they definitely fucked, you know the drill with these two.

Ao3

Frankie x Lady masterlist

"Ah fuck," Jay sighs deeply, rubbing her forehead. "Jeez."

"What's the matter?" Frankie asks, glancing at her in the passenger seat before redirecting his attention to the highway in front of him. He's driving them home from the next town over, with halfway to go in afternoon traffic.

"I just really wanna get stuffed," Jay informs him, slightly exasperated.

"We had lunch barely two hours ago?"

"I mean dicked down," Jay specifies, holding up her closed fist and slowly beating it downward, as if she were hitting a nail with a hammer. "Suddenly I just want your cock, babe."

"You're horny?" Frankie frowns, glancing at her again to see if she's joking. "Here?"

"I didn't know specific places were a requirement for wanting sex."

"I can pull over," Frankie suggests, cock twitching at the thought of a roadside quickie. Jay, however, shakes her head.

"We'd have to drive for at least thirty minutes to find a spot secluded enough. And I don't just want hurried load."

"No?" Frankie wets his lips.

"No, I want it properly. I want you to rail me until we're both dumb." She sounds like she's describing something completely arbitrary, like taking apart an engine.

Frankie swallows. "You're just going to have to be patient."

Jay sneers at that, hand now rubbing at the top of her thigh. Frankie's fingers start to tap against the steering wheel. One glance at the speedometer tells him he's doing just over the speed limit, and the traffic conditions are crowded to say the least, so he can't go much faster. He sighs deeply.

"You okay?" Jay asks innocently, and Frankie throws her a glare.

"Don't play that game with me."

"Didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"Like hell you didn't," he mutters darkly, but there's a little smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. Jay chuckles and pats his thigh.

"Focus on the road, soldier, and get us home. Don't think about how hard you're going to fuck me, how it feels when you hit just the right spot to make me clench so tightly around your big cock - "

"Fucking stop," he groans, "if you want to get home at all."

"You can fly a helicopter through an active warzone, but you can't drive a car while thinking about pussy?" she teases him.

"Not your pussy," he admits, throwing her a heated glance. "Best pussy in the world. Worth crashing a car for."

"Let's not?" The pull in Jay's groin is ever more intense now, thanks to the dark smoothness in Frankie's eyes when he looked at her. She knows that look all too well.

"Agreed."

"Well, fuck."

"Uh-huh."

Gingerly, Jay rolls over onto her stomach, grimacing at the twinge in her inner thighs and hips, not to mention the sweet soreness between her legs.

"That was good." Frankie stretches his arms above his head before hiding his hands at the back of his neck. "Fuckin' good."

Jay hums and props herself up on one arm. She regards Frankie, who's shining with sweat, with a little smile on her face, and he smiles back.

"You look so damn smug," he tells her.

"As do you," she retorts. "I guess that's what a good fuck does to people."

He hums, and puckers up his lips when she crawls closer to kiss him. Unlike the frenzied, hungry kisses exchanged when they finally got home, this one is sweet and slow, ending with a little extra peck in the corner of his mouth, where his mustache scrapes at her dry lips.

"I love you," she tells him with serenity, and Frankie releases one hand from the back of his neck to cup her cheek.

"I love you too."

She kisses him again before fitting herself to him, head on his shoulder.

"You're sweaty," she comments indifferently, arm over his clammy chest. Frankie yawns.

"Fucking you is like going twelve rounds against Tyson."

Jay snorts, amused at the comparison.

"I'm sure he's a better snuggler than I am," she quips, her hand on Frankie's chest moving when he laughs quietly.

"You know what, I think he might be," he teases her, just as his stomach growls loudly.

"You hungry?" she asks.

"Famished."

"What do you want for dinner?"

"We've got that chicken in the fridge..."

"Sounds good." Jay pats his chest. "It's not gonna cook itself, so up you get."

With a deep sigh, Frankie disentangles from her and sits up, groaning a little at a pulled muscle.

"You're so bossy..." he mutters as he glances back at her with a disapproving frown, discovers her ass, and smacks it hard enough for her to yelp.

"Ouch!"

"I'd say sorry, but I hate lying to you," he winks at her before disappearing to the bathroom for a shower. Jay chuckles, rolls over again, and settles to wait for her turn in the shower.

[haveyouseenthisskeleton]

S/O is hanging a shelf to a wall with skeleton, and they both made quite a good job. That is until S/O puts books on it. The shelf breaks and all the books fall on skeleton's head. What's his reaction?

Undertale Sans - He lays on the floor like a dying sea star and just let go a low painful "uuuuuuurgh" as the room is kinda turning around him. He's going to need a moment to see clear again. And maybe some healing for the big crack in his head. After that, he's always careful to not get close from the shelf, even if you say it's fixed. Never again.

Undertale Papyrus - He tried to catch the books mid air and got surprised by the shelf. He got hit right behind the skull and blacked out. When he wakes up, there's only chaos. You're screaming, Sans is shaking him like a coconut, Undyne is screaming at you and threatens you if he's not waking up, Alphys is holding her back and Toriel is healing his head. When the hell did all of these people came? Papyrus gasps. He's being a terrible host right now! Like nothing happens, he suddenly jumps back on his feet and runs to the kitchen. Everyone is concerned.

Underswap Sans - He manages to run out of the impact zone and drags you with him. You both chuckle nervously when you realise all your hard work is destroyed, but hey, at least you're both fine! He's acting like a mighty super-hero for the rest of the day.

Underswap Papyrus - He screams of the top of his lungs but doesn't think to move. Honey gets crushed under the books and the shelf. He has a bad crack in the skull, lost a teeth and sees a lot of stars right now. He keeps telling you he's alright but he is clearly not so you call the rescue services. Head trauma. Woops.

Underfell Sans - Red starts insulting the entire world, kicking the shelf at his feet and the books angrily. He's mad because he just lost two hours for nothing. He needs to calm down before trying again.

Underfell Papyrus - He goes full Karen mode and rushes inside the store where he bought the shelf and starts yelling at the employees that the shelf tried to kill him and S/O and that it is unacceptable and that he will sue them to death if they refuse to refund him. You're behind him, apologizing to the employees and saying that he's not serious.

Horrortale Sans - He has a book stuck deep in his skull. He is sitting on the floor, eye sockets black, screaming internally. You're apologizing again and again and offering him a hand to help but he is just... not reacting? You call Willow, he comes and goes fish the book inside of Oak's head, who is really not happy about this and struggle like an enraged animal the whole time. After that, he goes to hide from you two in the forest. He's mad.

Horrortale Papyrus - He falls harshly on his back and instantly regret it as he can't get up again. S/O forgets all about the shelf and goes to help him. Willow is too much in pain so they call an ambulance. S/O feels guilty but Willow keeps saying that it's just an accident and that it's alright. Next time, you will call someone else to build furniture.

Swapfell Sans - Nox takes a deep breath. Then his face becomes entirely purple and in a violent scream, he starts to kick the shelf until it's broken in a hundred pieces on the floor. Fuck this! He hated it in the first place! It's ugly as hell, they don't need it! "WHO THE HELL BOUGHT THAT SHIT ANYWAY?!" You whisper a "You. Actually." Nox is even more mad now.

Swapfell Papyrus - He screams in pain like he is dying, squirming on the floor. You roll your eyes as the shelf didn't even touch him. Rus opens an eye and looks at you. "kiss the booboo? :(" You sigh loudly and kiss his head. Rus smiles happily like a child, miraculously healed.

Fellswap Gold Sans - "This is FINE. I am perfectly CALM. I will not get ANGRY at a STUPID shelf!" He doesn't look fine or calm, face entirely red. He grabs the hammer and a nail, and hits the wall so hard it cracks. Wine screams in RAGE and just repeatidly hits the wall with the hammer until there's a hole in it. You facepalm. Why did you think it was a good idea again?

Fellswap Gold Papyrus - You ask him to not look his arm, who is... Well... Backwards. Coffee doesn't listen to you and looks anyway, then starts to scream in panic, and eventually faint, as you're trying to make him shut up. You sweat hard when the door of Wine's office opens. You gulp. You are so dead.

[dropintomanga]

Given - Wanting to be Heard Loud and Clear

"If one day you woke up, and the person you love was suddenly gone from this world, how would that make you feel? How would you describe it?"

While we usually get along with the people we care about, there's always bound to be arguments. They more often than not revolve around subtle things, but sometimes, they do get deadly serious in a hurry. And when they don't get resolved, well, let's just say that boundaries have been crossed for the worst.

I just started reading Natsuki Kizu's Given and the first arc (which was the entire 1st season of the anime) explores the tension of wanting to express yourself while being overwhelmed with grief that you can't easily explain.

Given is about a rock band made up of 4 young men whose troubled pasts and their shared love of music brought them together. The first arc is about two members, Ritsuka Uenoyama and Mafuyu Sato. The story starts off with Uenoyama wanting to take a break at a staircase in his high school. He catches a very timid Mafuyu sitting there as well and notices that the latter is carrying a guitar. When Uenoyama notices that a string on the guitar is broken, he offers to fix it. The two would connect and Uenoyama introduces Mafuyu to his other bandmates, Akihiko Kaji and Haruki Nakayama. Mafuyu is offered to join the band and is even asked to sing for them.

When the 4 of them are getting ready for a performance at a concert, Mafuyu's past is slowly revealed. Uenoyama and Mafuyu run into each other after Mafuyu's job interview. They would bump into an old friend of Mafuyu's, who reveals that the guitar Mafuyu has in his possession is from someone he loved in the past. Mafuyu panics and Uenoyama tries to comfort him. However, Mafuyu can't bring to words about his past while Uenoyama starts to realize that he's having a strong feeling towards Mafuyu. Tension between the two starts to happen and threatens to tear the band apart.

We later learn that the guitar is from a childhood friend turned lover of Mafuyu's, Yuki Yoshida. Yoshida would later die and it was suspected to be a suicide. Mafuyu is unsure about the role of Yuki's guitar in his life as he just took it for Yuki's mom's sake. Is he moving forward or running away?

It's difficult to talk about suicide and especially if it was your partner. Mafuyu comments how he's not really good at expressing himself outside having a great singing voice. I sometimes think about how hard it is talk about the dead. You think things will be fine as long as you're together. Sadly, it's not always that simple. The past is strong. Your memories of someone you lost just don't go away easily. Sometimes, you still see the person wherever you go.

When I look at Mafuyu, it felt like Yoshida's death hasn't fully sunk in yet. He carries the guitar and his mind in a in-between phase between holding on to his old reality and his new reality. Things that were once neat and organized are now scattered. Mafuyu is struggling to catch up or is in the process of doing so.

What complicated Mafuyu's thought process were the events leading up to Yoshida's death. The two would have an argument about Yuki's growing love for music, which was slowly drifting them apart. Yuki said he would quit and that he couldn't live without Mafuyu. Mafuyu then said that Yuki should die for him if that's the case. Those words became the hammer that drove the nail in as Yuki drank himself to death.

There's a part I enjoyed before the concert in Volume 2 where Mafuyu finally realizes what he has to do. During one rehearsal a week before the concert, Akihiko tells the band to stop practicing because of the constant tension between Mafuyu and Uenoyama. He would later talk to Mafuyu about lyrics for a song they want to do. Akihiko acknowledges Mafuyu's pain and tells him,

"If you don't come to terms with your past, you won't be able to write those lyrics. You need to make a decision. Do you want to express those feelings? Or do you want to run away from putting them into words?"

The magic would start to happen at the concert when Uenoyama becomes able to communicate how he feels about Mafuyu's impact on his life. Mafuyu would finally express his loneliness in dramatic fashion in front of a crowd. He says something that made me tear up,

"The truth is...the truth is, I've always just wanted someone to hear me scream out this pain and misery that's stuck inside. Even if it's just a little...I wanted someone to understand."

Many of us carry something emotionally heavy inside of us. While it's considered not okay by most of the public to talk about it, we have to talk about it. At the same time, there's definitely people out there who don't want to understand the pain we're in. They don't want to see the weight we carry.

It's funny because while we talk about preventing the stigma about talking things mental health-related, the stigma still exists. I wonder if that's because there's definitely topics that hit too close to home for some people and we can't take on that kind of pain. There's also a cultural aspect that makes awareness movements just lip service. I see this in Mafuyu because he didn't know who to turn to about processing Yuki's death.

What saved everything was direct communication with people who were willing to listen and not be freaked out by the trauma. Uenoyama was a bit bothered at first, but he realized how much Mafuyu was trying to be a good performer and wanted to love him for it. Akihiko and Hikari were the senpais offering their ears and voices as needed without being too preachy.

I see myself in Mafuyu quite a bit as I know someone I loved will die one day of a terminal illness. There's definitely words that I regret saying and not saying. I carry parts of them in my life and I pretend they're still talking to me. Mafuyu said "I'm so lonely" and I still feel that way at times. But lately, I'm starting to have a different outlook and know that my life isn't over when they're gone. I've replaced them with newer people I care about gradually.

I hope that people who need someone who's compassionate enough to listen to them are given that someone like Mafuyu has.

[bullet-prooflove]

Donna’s Wednesday Radio Show Prompt List #16

It's that time again! The Wednesday Radio prompt list!

There are some really good ones on there this week!

Please check the updated character list on my pinned post to see who I am writing for before submitting a prompt!

Also do not forget to put the entire prompt into your ask!

I know the sound, of your heart

Your lipstick stain is a work of art

On the doorstep like we've never been apart

I'm in the phone booth, it's the one across the hall

We don't communicate Can you not say what's on your mind

It's not about reciprocation

I got your name tattooed in an arrow heart

Is it all in my head Or was it something I said?

I know he's there, but I just had to call

I said, are you gonna be my girl?

I've got your ripped skinny jeans lying on the floor

It's good to hear your voice, you know it's been so long

You ignite all the colors inside my heart

But if you close your eyes Does it almost feel like nothing changed at all?

 a shiny diamond ring with your name on it

I been up against the wall so long, And the bonds that hold me here are strong, Yeah it hurts 

Talk to me Can't you see? I'm on your side

I'd like to talk when I can show you my affection Oh, I can't control myself

Would you wanna run away too? 'Cause all I really want is you

I still remember the day we met, I was hanging on your every word, I didn't think I would ever let, Somebody see into my world

Because I'm trying to forgive And now I'm trying to forget

I see it everyday You hide the truth behind your eyes

So you're with her, and not with me,

You look so perfect standing there In my American Apparel underwear

Say what it is you're trying to say But if you lie to me again I'll be the one that walks away

Oh if you lost your way And it drove you crazy, You would still have me, We work together you'll see, Blood sweat and tears

I can't believe I forgot your name

I was just a tumble went a little too far

I made a mix-tape straight out of '94

But it's enough to make a grown man cry

Everybody told me you were leaving Funny I should be the last to know

But baby in my head I'm nailing you instead

Oh with an aching feeling inside Cutting me up, deeper and deeper Fills me with a sadness that I can't hide

I could see the danger made it more intriguing

When she lays in your warm arms, Don't think of me

She's so sweet With her get back stare

My tell-tale heart's a hammer in my chest

And there's so much skin to see

Looking back over my shoulder I can see that look in your eye

I was bound for trouble when I let myself go

And if you close your eyes Does it almost feel like you've been here before?

I wish that we were starting over

I never dreamed it could be over I never wanted to say goodbye

Hope you know that I'm happy to see you

I know sometimes it will hurt And you wanna hate me

Oh baby won't you come again?

You're so conceited

With an aching deep in my heart

And I'm on the rooftop with curious strangers

You think that you're my shadow But you're glittering like gold

On my mind I can't wait anymore

Could it be that we belong together

I heard he spent last night with her

Every day it's a losing battle

Well I could see You home with me, But you were with another man

And I'm sipping bourbon The future's uncertain

It takes two imperfect people To dance a sweet ballet

We got no games to play So we got no rules

Hallucinations only mean that your brain is on fire

Does it bother you now when I'm not there

Torture - my hads are tied it's, Torture - I'll survive but, It hurts so bad

What does it matter if I lie to you?

Don't think you're perfect either But I love you anyway

The world doesn't matter no when I'm with you

I said that I love you

And when I take my mask off It's you I want to hold

I don't regret it but I'm glad that we're through

Them girls put on a show But they will never know What makes you beautiful I watch them come and go

We'll bicker and battle and drown in our own sorrow

And we left things to protect my mental health

Can't hear what I'm dancing to Just wanna be with you

What kind of fool would keep hangin' around While you treat me this way

But you call me when you're bored

I'll hold you up when you fall down Even if you say I'm rude

Them boys got all the talk But they don't know a lot, You know my every thought That's why I make them walk

you're playing with yourself

chest tight, and I'm ready to go

And the walls kept tumbling down In the city that we love

[primatechnosynthpop]

If You Push Them Too Hard, They're Going To Break

Part 1

It all started with Mel.

She ran up to them on the street one day grinning like they'd never seen before, wearing a multicoloured poofy dress that looked like it belonged to a princess in a fantasy story. The whole outfit was bedazzled with dozens of shiny pink hearts. The most prominent of these hearts was a gemstone on her breast, with little wings on it and frilly white ribbon surrounding it like a valentine. In one hand she carried a giant hammer like it weighed nothing. She showed up looking like that and had the audacity to ask with a coy giggle,

"So... do you notice anything different about me?"

"...Yeah," Bret said, confused and a bit unnerved as he looked her up and down. Her getup was a lot to take in. "You've got new clothes and a big hammer."

"Sure, there's that, but anything else?" She set the hammer down and fluffed up her hair, which was decorated with a cutesy ornament, all without taking her glimmering eyes and wolfish grin off of them for a second. "Do I seem more beautiful or anything? Like maybe you're suddenly seeing me in a whole new light, having feelings you never would have anticipated...?"

"No, not really," Bret said honestly.

"I see you in the new light of having a giant hammer," Jemaine put in. "I'm not sure how I feel about that. It's a bit odd."

The look of shock that flashed across Mel's face was actually jarring. She froze in place with her hands still playing with her hair, and after a second that seemed to stretch on for at least five, her breath audibly quickened and her eyes began flicking back and forth between them as if searching for something that wasn't there.

"B-but you've gotta feel something towards me now, right, guys?" she asked, an edge of desperation creeping into her tone. "Something you never felt before like, say, uncontrollable maddening love?"

Without thinking better of it, Bret and Jemaine made faces of disgust and shook their heads at that.

"No, not at all."

"And the rule about us not dating married fans still stands, by the way, so..."

"...Oh..."

Mel's whole body had visibly deflated, and her voice along with it, as her sigh was quiet and resigned. The fairy tale dress dissolved off her in a dull shimmer, leaving her in her usual street clothes. She muttered a reluctant goodbye to them, turned around, and trudged back to the car where Doug was waiting for her. Bret and Jemaine just watched, not sure whether to be more dumbfounded by the magically disappearing clothes and hammer or by Mel voluntarily ending an interaction with them so quickly. They weren't going to look a gift horse in the mouth, though, so when she gave up and left them alone they only stood there pondering the strangeness of it all for a few seconds before shrugging and carrying on their way.

That meant they didn't hear the conversation Mel had upon climbing into the car and slamming the door. Doug turned to her to offer a sympathetic comment, but it was one of many moments where her husband may as well not have existed-- no, her attention was on the furry white alien blinking innocently at her from the backseat.

"You tricked me," she snarled through the tears that were pressing against her eyes. "You said my wish would come true, and I wished for Jemaine and Bret to fall madly in love with me, and they haven't!"

She punctuated the accusation by giving the seatbelt a sharp tug down to fasten it. Kyubey just licked its paw, unbothered.

<You didn't specify full names when making your wish,> it said. <To make Jemaine Clemaine and Bret McClegnie fall in love with you would require more magical potential than you have. However, your wish was technically granted. Somewhere in the world, a man named Jemaine and a man named Bret have developed a sudden attraction towards you.>

"But that's not what I wanted!" Mel's voice broke into a choked sob as she dug her nails into the upholstery. "It should have been obvious that I was talking about my favourite band ever, not some random guys I don't even know."

"If she wanted someone else to substitute for Bret and Jemaine, she's already got me for that," Doug put in wryly, in a poorly timed attempt to lighten the mood a little. He couldn't even see Kyubey, and would have thought his wife had finally had a complete mental break having these one-sided conversations if it wasn't for the fact that she had magic powers now.

Pointedly ignoring her husband's remark, Mel slumped back in her seat and said in a quiet voice thick with tears, "And what do you mean I don't have enough potential to make them fall in love with me? They could love me... they probably already do deep down and just-- just can't admit it..."

She trailed off, feeble words giving into a sad little hiccup. She didn't even believe what she was saying. If she really thought her idols already felt that way about her, she wouldn't have needed to make a wish. But to think she had a chance, a real chance to get everything she wanted, only to have it ripped away from her... it made her want to curse Kyubey for tricking her, curse Bret and Jemaine for not loving her, curse Doug for not being them. She wanted to curse everyone.

"Ugh, I feel terrible," she sniffed. Her hands clenched at her sides, one of them around her soul gem. "Doug, can you drive me downtown? I sensed a witch there earlier. I need to fight to blow off some steam."

Kyubey watched idly from the backseat. It said nothing about the dark blotches dancing across Mel's soul gem until they blotted out the pink. After all, she hadn't asked.

*

The next time Flight of the Conchords had a gig, Mel wasn't in attendance, which meant nobody was in attendance. The gig after that was an unwilling charity stint (Murray made it sound like they were going to get paid) at a hospital cafeteria. Mel wasn't there either. Partway through that one, a teenager with bandaged hands got up, threw a music player at them with an enraged shout, and stormed out. The sharp corner of the music player happened to hit Bret right in the eye, and he was temporarily without depth perception for the rest of the performance.

Later that evening, while Bret pressed an icepack to his eye and Jemaine turned up the volume on the tv to drown out his whining about how much it hurt, their door rattled and Eugene came in holding a squirming white catlike creature under one arm.

"I'm just doing a little animal control," the landlord said. He held the cat-ish thing up by its scruff and waved it around in their direction. "I found this roaming around the halls. Is it either of yours? You know you're not supposed to have pets here."

"No, it's not ours," Jemaine told him. "We couldn't afford to look after a pet, Bret--" He said that rather pointedly, and Bret pouted because the goldfish thing was one time. "Besides, I'm allergic to cats."

"It's really cute, though," Bret said. He straightened up from his anguished lounging position and lowered the ice pack from his eye so he could get a better look at it. "I'm not sure it is a cat, even. It looks odd. I wonder what breed it is."

Eugene shrugged, not seeming like he cared much. "Well, I've asked around, and you're the first ones who've been able to see that I'm holding anything. So, even if you say it's not yours, I think it might be yours now." He swung him arm back like he was bowling and tossed the little animal toward them. It let him do so without resistance. "Be sure to have it out of your apartment by next week, or I'm gonna have to charge you for it. Oh, and don't forget, your rent's due on Thursday."

Jemaine flinched when their landlord threw the cat. He scrambled backward across the couch to its far corner, knocking the remote to the floor and rudely jostling Bret in the process. Bret glared at him. But Jemaine's reaction was (mostly) justified-- it was a severe allergy. If cat fur got within five feet of him, his face would start to swell up and his throat would constrict. At least that's what he always said would happen. He'd made sure not to go within five feet of a cat for as long as he could remember.

Lucky for him, the creature landed neatly on all fours a good distance from the couch. It stared up at them with a pair of gleaming red eyes that sent a shiver down Jemaine's spine. Cat allergy or not-- and looking at it up close, he had the inclination that Bret was right and this wasn't a cat at all-- this thing was just creepy. It felt like it was staring right at his soul.

Bret, meanwhile, practically radiated excitement and delight. He hopped off the couch, all eye pain forgotten, and held out his hands, making little kissy noises to lure the creature over. It complied, trotting daintily to his feet and rubbing up against his ankles. Jemaine hoisted himself precariously onto the back of the couch to keep as much space between himself and the animal as possible while Bret cooed at it and scratched it behind the ears.

"We're not keeping it, Bret." Jemaine's voice held a warning tone. "It probably belongs to someone else in the building anyway. Wouldn't be right to steal a creepy mutant cat from someone."

"Aw, I know, I know," Bret said in a voice that didn't sound like he knew at all. Jemaine wasn't convinced that Bret had considered a single ramification in his life. "I wonder who you belong to," he addressed the animal, which had now rolled over onto its back for belly rubs.

To his surprise and Jemaine's abject terror, the animal responded, not out loud but with telepathy. <Your landlord was mistaken. I'm known as Kyubey, and despite my appearance, I am not a domesticated animal.>

"Woah, you talk?" Bret asked. "That's amazing. I've never met a real animal that talked before. I've only seen them in cartoons. And there's parrots, but I've never met one in real life."

<I am not any animal native to planet earth.>

"What, you're from space?" Jemaine asked warily.

<That is correct.>

"Have you met David Bowie?" Bret asked.

<I have met many notable figures in human history. In fact, many of them owe their achievements to making contracts with me.> Now that the conversation was getting serious, Kyubey stopped rolling around and sat up to face Bret. Jemaine didn't move from the top of the couch and remained tense. <Although the two of you are not the demographic I normally approach, I have been branching out more lately, and you two seem like your lives could benefit from my assistance.>

"What's a mutant space cat going to help us out with?" Jemaine muttered. "I don't suppose you're going to offer us a record deal."

<It would be well within my power to grant you such a thing. However, it would be your decision to make the wish.>

"Wait, really?" Bret asked, incredulous. His head was already spinning from the fact that this adorable ball of fur was from space and had met Bowie, and now it was saying they could actually become famous? That sounded way too good to be true.

<Yes, really. Of course, the wish comes as part of a contract. You would be granted magical power in exchange for being tasked with fighting witches.>

At this point, Jemaine slid slowly off the back of the couch and to the floor, if only because staying up there was getting uncomfortable. He edged toward Kyubey, still tense, and cringing in anticipation of an allergic reaction that never came. At this point it was obvious they weren't dealing with a cat here. But what exactly they were dealing with, he was still unsure.

"Aren't witches the ones with magical powers?" he asked, curiosity getting the better of him. "I think you're mixing it up. If we get magical powers, then we'd become witches. Why would witches fight other witches?"

The long tendrils hanging down from Kyubey's ears pricked with what might have been alarm, only to relax again as it gave an uncannily humanlike shake of its head. <You misunderstand. Witches are not magical humans, but rather monsters born from curses and despair. They feed on humans, and only those who've made contracts with me can defeat them.>

"Ah, is that so?" Jemaine muttered. He had a hard time wrapping his head around that. "I don't know that I want to be tasked with fighting witches. We're already quite busy with our band."

"We're not really," Bret interjected. Most of what Kyubey had just said had gone in one ear and out the other for him, because he was still caught up in the novelty of having a cute talking animal offering them a wish. "We've got loads of free time."

"Yes, but we like to spend that free time doing what we like," Jemaine shot back. "Like sitting down and watching tv and sleeping. And band practice."

"What kind of wishes did you say you could grant again?" Bret asked, pointedly ignoring his bandmate.

<Anything your heart desires.>

"Wow, did you hear that? Anything our heart desires, Jemaine."

"Yes, Bret, I heard. In my head and not my ears, which is where I like to hear things."

"So you could make us rich and famous, then."

<Of course.>

"Or get us girlfriends."

<That too.>

"Or a new cup so we don't have to keep using Jemaine's roster."

While Bret carried on animatedly chatting with Kyubey, Jemaine crossed his arms with a huff and turned away. Obviously Bret wasn't going to listen to reason here. If Bret wanted to sign away his free time to hunting witches in exchange for a wish, fine. (Not fine at all, actually, but it didn't look like he'd be able to stop him at this rate.) But Jemaine refused to be dragged into it.

*

"Okay, item one... Bret, stop fiddling with that and pay attention."

"Mm?" Blinking, Bret glanced up from the egg-shaped gem he was turning over in his hands. It was a warm reddish-brown hue, and had the emblem of an ambiguous animal head at the top. "Oh, sorry, Murray."

Murray sighed in exasperation. He opened his mouth looking like he was going to chide Bret only to break off into a gasp, eyes lighting up with recognition. "Oh! Bret, is that a soul gem?"

"Yeah, it is," he said with a smile, pleasantly surprised that their manager knew what a soul gem was. He held it up so Murray could get a better look at it. "'S pretty cool, huh?"

"How do you know what a soul gem is?" Jemaine asked, leaning back in his seat warily with his arms crossed and one eyebrow arched. "Have you met Kyubey before?"

Murray's eyes darted around the office as if to check if anyone was listening in, tongue flicking anxiously around his mouth. "Well, I haven't told you this before-- we're supposed to keep it a secret from ordinary humans, so I'm told--" He leaned in towards Bret, dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. Jemaine leaned forward so he could hear too. "But I've been a magical girl for a while now."

"You have?"

"Yes, for over a month!" Murray grinned, looking quite pleased with himself. Sure enough, now that they looked, there was a ring on his finger with a dull yellow-orange gem set into it. "It's been tricky balancing that on top of my other jobs, but it's important work."

"Is that why we've had even fewer gigs than usual?" Jemaine asked. "Because you've been too busy running around hunting witches to manage us properly?"

"I just said it's important work, Jemaine!" Murray told him sternly. "Stopping innocent people from being lured into labyrinths and devoured takes priority over managing a band."

"What did you wish for?" Bret asked, leaning forward with interest.

Murray leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "Well, I can't tell you that, can I? You know what they say, if you tell someone your wish it won't come true."

Just then, Kyubey trotted in from seemingly nowhere and jumped up onto Murray's desk. Bret brightened at its unexpected presence. Jemaine shuddered and pushed his chair as far from the desk as he could get until his back was pressed against the wall.

<That superstition does not apply to the wishes I grant,> it said. <And in any case, your wish was already granted, so it wouldn't make any difference.>

"Oh. Well, then, I'll tell you," Murray said. "I wished to cure Toby's hip dysplasia. He's good as new now."

Neither Bret nor Jemaine had remembered Murray somberly telling them about his dog's medical condition a couple months ago. Bret nodded like he knew what he was talking about anyway, though the vacant look in his eyes gave away that he didn't. Jemaine didn't bother with the pretense and just sulked.

"You could've wished for us to get more gigs."

Murray frowned. "Not everything is about you, Jemaine. You know how important Toby is to me, and I couldn't afford to pay for his medical bills since Shelly cut me off from the joint account again."

"You could have wished to fix your marriage, maybe," Bret suggested helpfully.

"Yes, well, what's done is done," Murray said in the brisk clipped tone of someone who realized just that morning that he could have made a wish like that and was trying very hard not to let it haunt him. "How about you, Bret?" he asked to change the subject. "What did old Kyubey do for you, eh?"

As soon as he asked, Jemaine tilted his head back and buried his face in his hands to muffle a groan of pained exasperation. Every time he remembered what Bret had wished for a few days prior, he wanted to beat either his bandmate's head or his own into a wall.

"I wished that I could breathe in outer space," Bret said proudly, like it was a really clever thing he'd come up with.

Murray's brow crinkled. "Breathe in space? What for?"

"Well, you know, Kyubey mentioned how he'd met Bowie--" Bret angled his head toward the alien in question-- "And it got me thinking, if I ever want to go out there and meet him too, I'd better take precautions in case my helmet comes off."

"I told you David Bowie doesn't actually live in outer space," Jemaine grumbled through his hands. "And even if he did, how would we get up there? We're not astronauts. We haven't got a spaceship."

"Well, maybe that could be your wish," Bret suggested. "For us to have a spaceship."

"Absolutely not. I'm not going to make a contract, for one--"

"Aw, but you should."

"I'm not, and even if I did, it wouldn't be to help you out of a problem you created."

While the band bickered, Murray took a moment to look over his schedule. He'd started putting his magical girl notes on the same pages as his band notes to conserve paper, and while he didn't have any gigs or other good news lined up for the guys, he had sensed a few witches and familiars in the area lately. Maybe he could distract them from the lack of band-related prospects by turning this band meeting into more of a magical girl meeting.

"How about this, guys?" he piped up, tapping a pen against his schedule where he'd written some info on a familiar he'd spotted roaming about recently. "We go on a witch hunt together. That would be exciting, mm?"

"I don't--" Jemaine started to say, but Murray carried on without letting him get a word in.

"Tonight, then. It's settled. Bret, we can see how powerful you are, see if maybe I can give you some veteran tips from one magical girl to another--" Bret's brow furrowed at that, because a little over a month didn't sound like much of a veteran to him, and he didn't care for being called a magical girl anyway-- "And Jemaine, maybe you'll be inspired to make a contract too. Imagine that-- a novelty band made up entirely of magical girls! That would draw in a crowd, eh, guys?"

Bret screwed his lips to the side and contemplated the idea, doubtful. Jemaine didn't bother pointing out that most people didn't know magical girls existed. Or that the term "magical girls" usually applied to girls and not adult men. Sometimes when Murray got onto something you just had to go along with it.

*

The park was cold and empty at night. The steel frames of a children's slide and swingset gave off an eerie silver glow in the moonlight. A motion-activated streetlight flickered on as the three figures making their way down the cobblestone path stepped beneath its halo. There was a missing poster taped to the streetlight, but the light it cast was too dim to make out the face, and they weren't paying attention to it anyway. No, they were paying attention to the strange entity buzzing in circles high above their heads.

"I don't think this is a witch."

Murray paused with his soul gem raised halfway up in the air, about to transform. He cast a glare over his shoulder at Jemaine, who hung several paces back with his hands in his pockets. "Honestly, Jemaine, I've about had it with you and your negative attitude today."

"He's right, though," Bret pointed out. He was standing closer to Murray, also ready to transform-- or at least he had been, but now he was having second thoughts. "It's a familiar. They feel different when you sense them compared to witches."

"You said you were going to hunt a witch," Jemaine said. "This isn't a witch. It's not going to drop a grief seed."

"Right, well... I don't suppose you realize this, but there are plenty of other magical girls in this city, and they can be very territorial," Murray told them. He didn't say as much, but he'd found that out the hard way by being repeatedly attacked by some extremely aggressive teenage girls over the last month. "They're all after the same witches. But if we hunt familiars we can still save lives without getting wrapped up in any nasty competition."

"But I won't be able to purify my soul gem," Bret said, regarding the gem in question with a pout. Its glow was only ever-so-slightly diluted since all he'd done with his magic so far was transform and detransform a few times and, much to Jemaine's chagrin, fire off some practice shots with his weapon. "We need grief seeds for that. Kyubey explained it all the other day."

"Well, Bret, if you don't want to take part in this hunt then you can go stand and watch with Jemaine over there," Murray told him with a curt wave of his head. Then, dropping into a somewhat wobbly defensive stance: "Ah, here comes the familiar now!"

Sure enough, a dull buzzing in the air grew louder and a scribbly-looking black mass swooped towards them. It was about half the size of a person, with knives and forks protruding from within it with all the pointy bits sticking out and yet dripping an inky ichor as though it had been stabbed. It gave off an odour halfway between tobacco and an ambiguous alcohol.

Jemaine took a few extra steps back at its approach, eyes widening and eyebrows raising, with a flat but emphatic "woah." Bret, who had sensed the presence of witches and familiars throughout the city since contracting but hadn't felt like getting into fights with them, had a more subdued reaction but similarly ducked out of the way. He didn't want to waste his magic on a fight that he wouldn't get anything out of.

Murray tossed his soul gem in the air, and in a shower of sparkles and ribbons his magical girl outfit took shape around him. And yes, despite none of them being girls by any measure, anyone who saw the getup had to admit that magical girl was the only term for it. The top was mottled green and looked like an army uniform aside from the cute little ribbons in place of buttons, and he had a matching cap with some feathery decals sticking out of it. On his chest, his soul gem gleamed like a medal of honour. His skirt was black and businesslike without much frill, but it was still a skirt, which was a little startling to see their manager in. Finally, a pair of knee-high army boots tied off with ribbons wound themselves around his legs, and a pirate's cutlass manifested in his hand.

With the transformation complete, he wasted no time leaping forward and jabbing his blade at the attacking familiar. Steel ground against steel as his weapon slotted neatly between two tines of one of the forks. From the sidelines, Bret frowned in concern and Jemaine shook his head in disapproval. This already wasn't looking good. But Murray, who had refused to give up on the band he was managing despite never finding much success and rarely receiving any gratitude for his efforts, certainly wasn't going to give up now. He pulled his sword back and lunged again, this time aiming for the roiling shadows that lay between the cutlery.

To his elation, he just managed to nick the familiar. It screeched and flew into the air. He tried to follow its trajectory from there, but it moved too fast.

"Murray," Jemaine called, frame tense with more anxiety over their manager's wellbeing than he would have admitted to feeling. "Look out, it's--"

Before he could finish that sentence, the familiar slammed into Murray from behind. At least a half-dozen knives and forks drove into Murray's back, sending blood spurting out and staining his uniform. Jemaine cringed and leaned even further away despite already being well out of the splash zone. Bret gasped. Almost unconsciously he transformed in a burst of sparkles. A wooden bow decorated with the animal emblem from his soul gem shimmered into existence in his hand.

Murray staggered, vision swimming and tinged with red. He took a gasping breath and it got stuck in his throat. Blood dribbled out of his mouth when he coughed and ran down his chin, staining his beard. No doubt Bret and Jemaine thought he'd go into a hysterical panic or completely shut down. Maybe they were even expecting him to keel over right then and there. And yes, alright, the first few times something like this had happened that may have been exactly how he responded. But he was the senior magical girl here. He had to be professional and set a good example for the guys.

While Murray swayed on his feet and tried to convince himself that this wasn't really so bad, Bret notched an arrow and drew back the string on his bow. He squeezed one eye shut and pursed his lips in concentration. Jemaine watched him from the corner of his eye, breathing fast and not quite believing what he was seeing. How was Bret so calm about this? He'd only been a magical girl for a few days. This was his first actual fight. And the familiar was still hovering right behind Murray, ready to strike again. There was a very good chance Bret's arrow would miss the target altogether and impale their manager. Especially since, from what he'd seen so far, Bret wasn't a very good shot.

Bret's heart pounded in his ears. He barely managed to keep his breathing deep and mostly even, though he couldn't stop it from coming in and out quicker than usual. His fingers trembled against the arrow as he lined up the shot. He'd practiced with this weapon a few times in their flat, and it hadn't gone particularly well. But Murray needed his help. He swallowed hard, and though steeling his nerves would only do so much for his accuracy, his hands grew steadier as he pulled the string back as far as it could go. He glanced at Jemaine over his shoulder in a silent message: Stand back. The last thing he wanted was Jemaine getting in the way, especially if things went wrong.

Luckily, Jemaine didn't have to be told. By this point he was so far away from the streetlight that Murray was battling under that he was almost at a completely different streetlight several metres down the path. Satisfied that his friend was a safe distance away, Bret released the string.

The familiar launched itself into the sky as the arrow flew toward it, but the arrow was magic, so it arced upwards like a homing missile to follow the target. When it connected, a bright flash of light burst forth. The familiar screeched, a truly grating sound, and when the light cleared it looked like a chunk of it had been scooped out or dissolved. Hissing, it zeroed in on Bret. He fired another arrow, and while the familiar dodged taking another hit head-on, it did knock loose a couple of knives which skittered to the ground and then crumbled away. Bret probably could have fired off a third shot if he stood his ground, but he didn't want to risk it. He dove to the side and rolled out of the way. Jemaine, who was left standing directly in the enraged familiar's path, barked out an indignant exclamation at Bret's abandonment.

Meanwhile, Murray had managed to pull himself together. Funny thing about being a magical girl-- injuries didn't hurt as much. In fact, if you just turned part of your brain off they didn't hurt at all. He righted himself and charged towards the familiar with a battle cry that made it pause in midair before it could reach Jemaine. Jumping as high in the air as he could manage (which was much higher than it was before he made a contract) Murray clasped the scabbard of his blade with both hands and drove it into the familiar from above.

The familiar had put up a good fight for what it was, but it was only a familiar, after all, not a full witch. And Bret had already weakened it considerably. Its unstable form surged and crackled in the wake of Murray's precision strike, dribbling its drug-scented ichor onto the ground and making the pavement sizzle where it landed. Finally, it imploded. Cutlery fell in a shower, creating a clatter that drowned out the thud of Murray's boots landing him firmly on the ground.

Jemaine, who had been about three seconds away from getting eviscerated, toppled backwards onto the ground as his knees gave out. Adrenaline kicked in too late to do anything useful, leaving his heart pounding and chest heaving to catch his breath. His eyes, blown wide from stress, flickered over to the patch of grass where Bret had landed. Upon seeing his friend sitting up and picking leaves out of his hair with a pout, Jemaine relaxed. He wasn't hurt, but he was humiliated-- good on both accounts. Served him right.

"I could've gotten killed just now," he grumbled as he got to his feet. "It's a magical girl's job to protect ordinary humans, isn't it? Not jump out of the way and leave them to be run through with cutlery."

"Sorry, man," Bret said with a shrug. At the very least he actually sounded apologetic, but it wasn't enough to dispel Jemaine's annoyance or make him want to go on any more witch hunts with him anytime soon. "It was coming right at me. I got scared."

The soft woosh of magic from a few feet away caught their ears, and they turned in unison to see Murray holding his soul gem in cupped hands with his eyes shut and his face pinched in concentration. A warm orange glow surrounded him. When it faded, the strain of pain was gone from his face and his posture seemed more natural. The blood vanished from his clothes when he detransformed, but a bit remained matting his beard.

"Are you alright, Murray?" Bret asked cautiously.

"Oh, you boys don't need to worry about me," he replied cheerfully. "Healing magic is my specialty. I can fix myself up in the blink of an eye!"

Bret and Jemaine exchanged an apprehensive glance. Murray said that, but his whole body was still trembling. He must have been in shock. And the surface of his soul gem was tinted notably darker than it was when they headed out. For their first time on a witch hunt (not actually a witch hunt), this didn't bode well.

Part 2

[kob131]

Vexed is spouting his BS again. He uploaded a video called “We Have to Talk About This Scene”, where he complains about RWBY’s vision of her past self in chapter 4. Basically, he’s complaining about Ruby getting character development even though he wanted her to get it because it “wasn’t good enough”. Hey, Vexed, have you ever heard of the old adage “beggars can’t be choosers”? Because that’s exactly what you’re doing here. People are also complaining that Ruby’s description of her pendant holding a mother’s promise “came out of nowhere.” Ignoring the lyrics to Red Like Roses: Part 2 aside, you do remember the stories that Yang told Ruby about Summer? Or how Qrow described Summer as special in Volume 4? Maybe that led to Rube developing that opinion of her/the emblem? Talk about self-serving memory.

No, that's not what he said. Go back and rewatch the video, Anon.

Vex's point is that the other three are underwritten and that the writers could have done something 'interesting' here with the other three. He has nothing really to say about Ruby.

Mind you, I don't agree with Vex whatsoever here. The guy says he understands the point behind the part with Ruby but says that what the past version says doesn't matter.

Except it does.-

Past Ruby: That’s right! It’s up to you to make things better, isn’t it? Everything all depends on you! Your sister needs you, your friends need you, the whole world needs you to keep fighting, forever and ever, against an invincible monster that took your mother!

This specific paragraph and what is said is important to understand Ruby's situation and feelings. She feels alone and isolated because, as the 'hero', she must stand alone and strong for everyone else. This is why Ruby faints when she hears about Penny and Atlas. This is why Ruby doesn't follow the group immediately after they all run off after the auction. This is why Ruby isn't shrunk down like the other three were. This is why Ruby lacks Cresent Rose- it's all in service of separating Ruby from her team, to emphasize that feeling of isolation. And it's why you can't just give the others something to angst over- it runs counter to what the Volume is doing.

I also don't think his example with Blake works. Because it relies on you not remembering the whole scene.

"Ilia: I still don't feel like I deserve the freedom you and your family granted me."

"Blake: (smiling) Well, you're going to have to get over it, Ilia. Saving Haven had a huge impact on how Faunus are seen in Mistral. Now it's up to you all to take the progress and keep running with it."

Ilia: Right. The White Fang may have been a failure, but with your father starting up a new movement, I've got more faith than ever before. (runs up to Blake and gives her a big hug.) Thank you, Blake, for everything. (choking up) I wish you didn't have to go.

The two then part from the hug.

Blake: I know, but my team needs me. We're going to track down the people responsible for the attack on Haven and the fall of Beacon.

His point is that 'Blake give up Fanaus fight, why she consider it now?!' but that wasn't the point of the scene. It just makes him look either stupid for missing a blunt point or scummy for relying on misinformation.

And honestly- his line about 'Don't have Ruby's issues be solved with a hug' is really dumb. Ruby's whole deal is that she feels isolated and alone, stressed by the heavy burden she feels she's holding all on her own. That cliche that Vex is complaining about exists for precisely this kind of arc- to show that Ruby isn't alone in all this and that she's safe and sound with them. That's the purpose of a hug. Asking for the cliche to not be used when it's supposed to is like demanding a guy to not use a hammer to force down a nail.

But still- Vex never said Ruby's development 'wasn't good enough.' That's on you.

Also I can't decide if that moment was good or bad. Bad because we never directly learned where the emblem came from...but good because it's a logical thing to assume given the surname 'Rose' and its constant inclusion in Ruby's design.

[moonlatias]

Chia, Jasmine, Nutmeg for the "get to know me" ask game!

chia ⇢ what’s an inside joke you have with someone else?

Hm, what's an inside joke that wouldn't be too difficult to explain... lol.

Sometimes when we answer the phone with each other, my husband and I answer it thusly: "Moshi moshi? KAA-BI DESU"

Inspired by this dialogue from a Kirby radio CD (this animation is the best too): https://youtu.be/jSD3vrR2HxI

Naturally this only works when we're NOT answering the phone in a populated area. Well, at least not if we don't want a lot of strange looks...

We... reference stuff a lot. xD

jasmine ⇢ do you have a movie or book you loved but will never watch/read again?

To be honest, I rarely watch movies over and over anyway... you're lucky you can get me to sit down long enough for one. My attention span is... fickle.

But! I guess I would say Avengers: Infinity War and Avengers: Endgame. Specifically because I was sooooo excited to see these movies and really loved being there in theaters experiencing it for the first time. I am, indeed, a MCU fangirl (though only for phase 1--I have no real plans to continue keeping up with it going forward), and the MCU movies genuinely are what sparked my interest and liking of superheroes. Prior to that, I was extremely lukewarm on superheroes and really didn't care for the genre at all.

And while I think the last two Avengers movies were incredibly meaningful experiences to me, and I truly enjoyed them and how they wrapped up the main story (more or less), I would never watch them again because it wouldn't have the same impact. If I were to watch them again I'd just be nitpicking all the dumb plot details, thus ruining my happy memories of them. ^^;

I can reflect on that period happily, because I did genuinely have a lot of fun memories sharing the movies with my husband and my family. I don't think the MCU can be the same for me going forward (I'm not super big on multiverse stuff, especially with THAT many characters and worlds), but it still has a fond place in my heart. :)

nutmeg ⇢ how’s your room/home decorated? do you have a specific theme or style going on?

I don't really feel like I do, but I think I try, at least? When I was growing up, my family never really... decorated the house all that much. My mom made efforts to, but because we were a military family, we never stayed in one place for more than 3-4 years at a time, and we weren't allowed to damage or alter things too drastically in our rentals/base housing, so... decorating was kind of temporary and minimal? So I never had a great sense of decorating, and the idea of even hammering a nail in a wall is shocking to me.

Ever since we bought our own house, though, we've been making efforts! Our whole downstairs is mostly modernist style, with various quirky pictures on the walls (so far we have a coffee picture, a giant framed picture of a chicken with a bowler hat signed by Alton Brown, and a portrait of a ghost painted by my brother-in-law).

The library has more darker colors in the furniture, and eventually I want to slap more stuff on the wall to make it feel closer to that scholarly, library type setting. (Not TOO stiff and formal, though... I do like to relax in there; it's the quietest room in the house!)

The computer lab is full of gamer/nerdy stuff. It's also sort of a mess. Eventually I want to put decals on the wall behind my computer to spice things up.

Our bedroom is... kinda trying to be boudoir in theme, though I'm not sure if the furniture quite matches that vibe. I guess the color helps me pretend it's more antique, and all the other decor in the room helps lend itself to that, lol. xD My altar lends itself to the decor somehow, and I do end up feeling more witchy whenever I do stuff there. Somehow.

I guess it was pretty magical, the way we crammed the bed from IKEA into my tiny hatchback and managed to get it home...

...

Haha, I guess I ended up rambling a lot, but... thank you for the ask! It was a lot of fun! ^^