#He's such an ugly little thing I love him so much

[zaynesdesimc]

Endure.

It had taken all of six hours and eighteen minutes for you to stop trying to get the stubborn spots on your forehead and cheeks to disappear through sheer will and bloodied fingertips- and resign yourself to your hormonally induced fate. 

An acne breakout.

Tw: Self-deprecating thoughts, calling oneself ugly due to an acne breakout, avoidant tendencies, angst. Hurt/comfort, this is essentially me venting,

a/n: you are loved and you're beautiful, just as you are :) tell me how you like this

It had taken all of six hours and eighteen minutes for you to stop trying to get the stubborn spots on your forehead and cheeks to disappear through sheer will and bloodied fingertips- and resign yourself to your hormonally induced fate. 

An acne breakout.

In hindsight, it might’ve been stupid to care so much, but when you’re bonded to the most annoyingly perfect creature in existence and have to have close personal contact with him on a day-to-day basis, it was hard not to care.

And thus, that thought process led you to avoid your darling, lovely Sylus for the entire day. Dodging his calls, leaving him on delivered, not opening Moments so he couldn't see your status, and worst of all, not allowing Mephisto to see you, which probably hurt the mechanical crow more than it did Sylus.

It was relieving at first, not dealing with the pressure of him seeing you like this, with the marks and the ugly, ugly aftermath of picking your face. Your face looked like a failed henna experiment because the wounds scabbed to a dark brown, and it made them so much more obvious, so of course, there was no way Sylus would miss them. 

But even if they weren’t so obvious, he’d notice. He always noticed every little thing about you. And on a normal day, it was one of the things you loved most about him, because he knew every part of you. But you didn't want to be known, or even seen now. As sad and self-critical as it seemed, it was just the truth. Or rather, the truth you were made to believe.

You smiled sadly as you stirred sugar into your tea, thinking about him.

“Shit, I miss him.” 

It hurt to shut him out. When every part of you screamed for him to be near, for his warmth, for his words, for his stupid, beautiful smile that could quell every mean thought in your head. 

But no, you couldn’t let him see you like this.

As you made your way to your bedroom to wallow in self-pity, the sound of the doorbell reached your ears, causing a chill to run down your spine. 

Who else, but him, would arrive now? I mean, what else did you expect? 

You debated tiptoeing to the room and pretending to be asleep- stupid, of course, but panic and shame clouded your judgment- before your phone started to vibrate.

His nickname- Sysy- flashed on your screen, and with a sigh of defeat, you picked up with a meek, “Hello?”

“I can hear you through the door, sweetie, please open it.”

“Yes, my darling, I’m fine, how are you?” you replied, voice saccharine-sweet.

“Miserable, a certain kitten has shut herself out from daylight, and my love has nowhere to go. I’m certain I shall burst any moment now.” his rumble was soothing.

“Sylus-” you hesitated, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to avoid you.”

“I only want to know if you’re okay, sweetie. Shielding yourself to the point where Mephisto can’t see you isn’t you, is it? Mephisto was distraught.”

“Stop projecting your feelings onto him,” you chuckled sadly.

“Then put me out of my misery and let me see you,” his voice softened, “Please.”

You sighed, “Sy, I-I don’t look nice right now.” Your face burned with embarrassment, heat in your cheeks and neck, “I’m breaking out real bad.”

The line goes silent, “What?”

“I look ugly right now, okay?” you groan, “This is embarrassing, gosh. Look, I picked at my face, and like they started bleeding, and now they're scabbed over, and I looked like a giraffe or something, I don’t know. I don’t want you to see me like this.”

After a beat of quiet, he speaks up, “You know I will never make you do something you don't want to do, Kitten. But you avoided me all day, because of acne?”

“That’s the thing, it’s just acne to you, it isn’t just acne to me. It’s the difference between a good day and a bad day, whether I want to be seen or not. Thankfully, today I didn’t have to go to Headquarters, or I would have crashed out. Or called in sick. I don’t particularly enjoy not seeing you, I’m not gaining anything from shutting you out, am I?”

“Then, why are you?”

“You’ll take one look at me, be startled, and treat me like I’m some weird creature. I don’t need you to tiptoe around me.”

“Sweetie, when have I ever tiptoed around anyone? I’m not exactly the picture of subtlety.”

“Yeah, but that's also the issue, I don't want my face to be treated like it’s a problem. I’ve had enough people do that.”

“It’s acne, Kitten.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve never had to go through with it, your face is like a porcelain doll.”

Another beat of silence, “You’re right. I apologise. But my love-” he sighs, “You know there is absolutely nothing in this world that will stop me from being devoted to your very being, right?”

“Don’t spout poetry, you’ll cloud my judgment.” 

“I’m glad you think my words are like poetry, sweetheart. They’re the truth.”

“Promise me, you won’t be weirded out?” Your voice is soft.

“On my soul, I promise,” he breathes out. 

“The door is open, come in.”

It’s terrifying, those five seconds. The twist of the doorknob and his sigh of relief, his shoes have been left outside in the shoe rack. There’s a bouquet of sunflowers in his hand.

He looks at you, and you want to disappear. He smiles, “It’s cold outside.” he makes his way to you, gesturing to the flowers, “Figured you’d like these. Your favorite.”

You look away, “You didn’t have to.”

He chuckles, finally in front of you, “Ah, but I wanted to.” The flowers are put aside, and his hands slowly snake around your back, pulling you to him.

You bury your face in his chest, not daring to look up and give him a VIP view of the mess on your face. You miss the slight furrow in his brow as his arms tighten around you.

“You know I think you’re stunning, right?” he whispers.

“Shut up,” you say against his chest, “Don’t look at my face.”

“But Kitten, that's my favorite thing to do.” he caresses your back.

“You’ll start hating it.”

“You wound me.” 

“..I mean it.” You sniffle.

He kisses the top of your head, “So do I, my love. It pains me to hear you talk about the love of my life like that.”

You scoff, “Smooth, you should write songs.”

“Stop deflecting,” he smirks, “I mean it. I want to see you, my darling.”

You shake your head, and finally, after hours of keeping your feelings in, you let a few tears slip out: “I hate it. I hate that I can’t fix this. That even if my face is normal for a while, it’ll become like this. Ugly.”

He hears you out, and after you’ve finished, he speaks, “Let me say this, you are not ugly. There is nothing that will ever make you ugly in my eyes. But what matters more is that you stop seeing yourself as something horrible every time something as normal as pimples form on your face. My telling you you’re the most beautiful person in the world won’t make a difference if you don’t believe it yourself. And I want to help you believe that, I’d do anything for you to see yourself the way I see you.”

“You haven’t seen me with acne yet,” you grumble.

“Then let me, you think my view of you will change?”

You nod, and a part of him wants to break, because it hurts to know that you’d think he’d ever stop loving you.

“Let me prove you wrong,” he nuzzles against you, “Let me look at every part of you, and show you that I love you the same.”

You’re terrified, you want to push him away and run inside because no part of you believes he’ll stay, and it feels stupid because it’s just acne. 

But this is Sylus. He’s seen you in almost every form. When you’ve eaten the messiest meal of your life with sauce on your face, and when you’ve woken up with eyecrust and morning breath, and when you’ve eaten dirt on the battlefield, and still he’s loved you. When everyone has told you to look a certain way, to act a certain way way, Sylus only loves you as you are, and damns the rest to hell.

You take a deep breath and lift your head, ripping the dread away like a Band-Aid. You don’t look at him, your lips twitching nervously. 

A moment later and he softly kisses your forehead, right on the bumps. And you flinch, making him freeze.

More tears run down your face and after a beat of silence he kisses them away, follow their trail down your face, quite literally not giving a damn about any bumps or ridges. 

“You’re stunning,” he says against your skin, nose pressed to your cheek, “My love.” he resumes his sweet attack and pulls you as close to him as possible. Nuzzling into your neck like a purring cat that has missed their companion. 

You wrap your arms around his hulking figure, and he hugs you tighter, “I love you.” you whisper, and he shudders, mouthing at your neck.

“Mmm- I love you, I’m in love with you,” he murmurs and kisses your forehead again, harder, to make a point.

He pulls away, smiling down at you, his eyes soft and full of devotion, “I missed you.”

“Me too.” You agree, finally smiling at him, and he wants to tuck you in his pocket and nuzzle into you again.

Cuteness Aggression, you’d called it.

“Let’s eat something,” you say, and pull him towards the dining area.

He follows your lead; it’s second nature at this point, he’d follow you anywhere.

Hours later, he watches from the bed as you apply your cream to your face, making sure to keep your forehead and cheeks coated with the gel. 

“You can’t kiss my forehead or cheeks now, Sylus.” You twist the cap on the tube and make your way to him, “You’ll get gel over your lips.”

He smirks, the dim candlelight falls on your face, and once again he thinks of how he’s managed to find you, how you’re in his arms again, and how you’re so beautiful it makes his heart skip a beat. 

He’d tell you in great detail how he loves every inch of you, if it didn’t embarrass you. So he settles for pulling you closer to him, and smiling, “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll just kiss your lips instead, over and over again.”

As your giggles fill his ears, he knows with every being that he’d endure the world, the universe, everything, if it meant you’d smile at him, eyes carefree and happy. 

[paintedonmyteeth]

Sukuna w/ an Insecure!reader

Another Sukuna x reader post >:))) I don’t have a lot to say abt this but here you go anyways. Asks are open for requests and rbs are heavily appreciated!

Art by @11101AM on twt

⭑.ᐟ — Sukuna loves you sooooooooo much, he doesn’t show it much but he really does. The man would do literally anything for you — and that goes to a concerning length like killing somebody if you asked him to (he knows you’d never would, you’d rather avoid him doing that), or maybe setting the whole world on fire just to see you smile.

⭑.ᐟ — He’s not having problems in expressing that through physical affection or words, he just doesn’t want to come off as "pathetic" or be seen as a "lovesick fool" as he says.

⭑.ᐟ — But the bottom line is he really does truly love you.

⭑.ᐟ — What he doesn’t understand is why this can’t be said the same for you, how do you not see how perfect you are???? Who the hell put these negative thoughts in your head? (You did ofc, and maybe some assholes from childhood. He’ll find them and kill them/hj). Another thing he finds baffling and confusing is why you’re always berating yourself with self-deprecating jokes.

⭑.ᐟ — It's unacceptable, the audacity even, to think of yourself as ugly or worthless like the rest of these weaklings. You're everything perfect in his eyes and not a single flaw exists.

⭑.ᐟ — With Sukuna’s close attentiveness with your behaviour he decided this obviously needed a change and he has his ways of doing so— even if they come off a little weird or threatening. (💀💀) He doesn’t know how to cheer somebody up, but he’s trying and that’s all that matters to him. He hates seeing you with that pathetic half-hearted look in your eyes and he’d much rather see you genuinely smiling or laughing.

⭑.ᐟ — Now whenever you’re feeling insecure again, Sukuna’s actively trying to flip that mind set; giving you praise (in his weird little way), physical affection, and what-not.

⭑.ᐟ — Compliments that sorta sound threatening, 'ominous positivity' type shit, “if you don’t learn to love yourself I will smother you with my affection”. It’s both confusing and kind of funny at times, (even though Sukuna’s taking this seriously), it does the job in making you feel less shitty about yourself and cracks a smile on your face.

⭑.ᐟ — As long as you’re his, Sukuna’s NEVER letting your insecurities get the best of you. And that mindset has to be non-existent completely when you’re with him. Otherwise he’s throwing hands/j.

[thepinkpanther83]

Person A is Eddie and Person B is Reader

Eddie has been struggling with his mental health and thinks he is going to loose reader so reader reassure him.

Please and thank you!

(❤️🦇we love Eddie Munson here 🦇❤️)

All The Things That Break Me

One-Shot Request: “All The Things That Break Me”

Eddie Munson x Reader

💌 Author’s Note: This story was born from a prompt by the ever-wonderful @meankenna. Thank you, babe, for trusting me with your idea and for always delivering the kind of inspiration that sticks to the ribs. You asked for something a little soft, a little messy, and heavy with feeling... and I couldn’t resist diving deep into Eddie’s heart for this one. I hope it gave you everything (hurt/comfort) you were craving and then some. 💋

~Pinkie 🍒

Masterlist

Find me on AO3.

Read this story on AO3.

Summary: Eddie Munson isn’t used to being someone worth keeping. But when a bad night leaves him teetering on the edge, you’re there to steady him, offering quiet comfort, a fierce kind of patience, and a reason to stay grounded.

A moment of unraveling. A promise made in the dark. This is what it means to hold someone and help them heal.

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

“All The Things That Break Me”

The rain had been going for hours.

Not the kind that thunders and screams, just a steady whisper, like the world outside was trying to apologize for something it couldn't take back.

The trailer was dark, save for the faint blue pulse of the old clock across the room. You’d kicked off the covers hours ago, too warm from the tension in the air. Eddie hadn’t spoken in a while. Not really. Not more than mumbles and nods. And when he had, it had that edge to it- sharp and misplaced, like he was trying to cut something loose from inside himself.

You watched his silhouette shift again in the bed beside you. Still not sleeping. Just lying there, tense and wired beneath the weight of whatever storm was brewing in his chest.

He hadn't cried out this time- not like the last nightmare, when he'd woken with a gasp and a wet choke of a scream, clutching your arm like you’d vanish if he let go. No, tonight he just... unraveled quietly. Slow and silent. The kind of pain that settled deep in the bones.

You rolled toward him, voice gentle in the hush.

“Hey,” you murmured. “You’ve been… somewhere else lately.”

Eddie didn’t move. Just stared at the ceiling like it had answers he couldn’t find.

“You wanna let me in, baby?”

His jaw ticked. He blinked slowly.

You waited. You always waited, didn’t push too hard. Because loving someone like Eddie meant knowing when to lean in and when to just be there- patient, grounded, open. The rain filled the space between breaths.

When he finally spoke, his voice was sandpaper-soft and cracking at the edges.

“I think I broke something in me. And I don’t know how to fix it this time.”

The silence stretched, taut and awful. You could feel it coming, like the moment before a string snaps under too much pressure. Eddie hadn't moved in minutes, but something was happening beneath the surface. His breath stuttered. His fingers curled into the sheets like he needed to anchor himself to something- anything.

You sat up slowly, reaching over, brushing your hand against his arm. He flinched.

Not from you.

From himself.

From the storm rising inside him.

And then-

He sat up too quickly, chest heaving, eyes wide. Pacing. One pass around the room. Then another. Barefoot on cold linoleum, one hand in his hair, tugging at the roots.

And he snapped.

“I can’t- I can’t do this again,” he rasped, voice too loud in the quiet trailer. “Not with you. Not you.”

You didn’t move. Just watched. Heartbreaking but steady, like a lighthouse in the dark.

“They always leave,” Eddie spat, whirling to face you. His eyes were wild. Haunted. “Or they die. Or I fuck it up so bad they can’t stand to be around me anymore.”

He laughed then. A bitter, ugly thing.

“You know how many people I’ve lost, sweetheart? You even know what the math looks like in my head some nights? Because it’s not ‘if’ with me… it’s ‘when.’”

Then the memories began…

The garage is empty now. Dust-covered amps. Gareth’s old drumsticks still sitting on the snare like he might come back tomorrow. But he won’t. Jeff’s at Purdue. Grant got a girl pregnant in Kentucky. No one texts back anymore.

"You’ll figure it out, Ed," Gareth had said, right before he left. “You always do.”

He hasn’t picked up his guitar since.

. ━━━━⊱~⊰━━━━ .

Eddie moved like something was crawling under his skin, back turned to you, voice low now.

“They left. They all fucking left. And I get it- I get it. Who wants to stick around for the guy who never grows up, right? The freak. The curse. That’s what I am.”

. ━━━━⊱~⊰━━━━ .

The air outside the trailer smelled like ash and gasoline.

Sirens in the distance, a cruiser down, a good man bleeding out. Eddie’s still kneeling on the ground, hands coated in the cop’s blood, trying to keep pressure on the wound. His brain is reeling from too much… too much fire, too much betrayal, too much truth.

His father stands a few feet away, fidgeting, glancing over his shoulder like the woods might lunge for him next.

“Come on, kid,” Alan mutters, hoarse. “We can still go. I’ve got the van- hell, your girl is probably already waitin’.”

Eddie looks up from the officer, face hollowed out and smeared with soot. “You wouldn't leave me again,” he says, barely audible over the ringing in his ears. “Not after everything we planned. Not after everything you said.”

Alan flinches. Just for a second. That old flash of guilt flickers in his eyes- then dies.

“I didn’t sign up for this,” he says, voice thinner now. “I didn’t sign up for... for all this.”

He turns. Just walks. Like it’s not the dozenth time he’s done it. Like the trailer behind them isn’t still burning to the ground, devouring what little of Eddie’s life hadn’t already gone up in smoke.

No goodbye. No look back.

Just the taillights of Eddie’s own van disappearing into the dark.

Wayne was the one who showed up- again, quiet and steady like he always was, picking up the pieces his brother left behind without asking for thanks, without making Eddie feel like one more thing broken.

. ━━━━⊱~⊰━━━━ .

Eddie clutched the edge of the counter now, white-knuckled.

“I know what I am,” he muttered, teeth gritted. “Broken. Rotten. Cursed. Just waiting for the next goodbye.”

You stood then. Slowly. Didn’t speak. Just closed the space between you and laid a hand on his back.

He froze under your touch.

. ━━━━⊱~⊰━━━━ .

Hospice room. Overhead lights that buzz too loudly. He was six years old, sitting beside his mother’s bed, fingers curled around her cooling hand. She used to sing to him when he had nightmares. No one sings to him anymore.

Eddie whispered now, the storm inside reaching a breaking point.

“My mom. My dad. The band. Chrissy. The upside-down… fuck, sweetheart, I should’ve died down there. I almost did.”

. ━━━━⊱~⊰━━━━ .

His body is broken. Blood pooling beneath him. The demobats gone, but their damage done. It’s cold. He thinks he hears Dustin screaming. He thinks he sees stars. Maybe it's just the blood loss. Maybe this is it…

And then, your voice. Your voice calling him back.

Back in the dim, rain-hushed present, Eddie turned. He looked wrecked. Wet eyes, red-rimmed. Shoulders trembling.

You waited.

And then, broken and blazing with fear, he said to you, like it was torn straight from his soul:

“Because I can’t lose you. For God’s sake, not you. I lost so many people. But you? No. I don’t care what I have to do… I will keep you safe.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t reach for him just yet. Not because you didn’t want to- but because you knew how delicate the space between you had become. Taut like a fraying string. One wrong move and he might snap shut again, curl back into that unreachable part of himself where the light couldn’t touch.

So you gave him one moment. Then another. Let the storm echo out in the quiet.

And only then- only then… did you lean in, slow and sure. Your hand found his cheek, thumb brushing over the damp skin there, and your forehead tipped to rest gently against his.

“Eddie?”

He blinked like he hadn’t heard you at first. Like the name didn’t quite belong to him anymore. But then- soft, hoarse:

“…Yeah?”

You swallowed, voice smaller than you meant it to be. Honest. Frayed at the edges.

“Promise me I won’t lose you in the process.”

His face twisted- eyebrows knitting, jaw tightening like it physically hurt to be seen this clearly. His fingers ghosted toward your knee, where they trembled mid-air before resting there, unsure.

“I…” He trailed off, eyes flicking away, then back again- moisture clinging to his lashes. “I’ll do my best.”

It landed like truth. Fragile and imperfect. And so, so real.

Not I promise.

Not You won’t.

Just: I’ll do my best.

And in that moment, you loved him all the more for it.

You cupped his face, both hands now, gently guiding his eyes back to yours when they tried to dart away again. “That’s enough, baby,” you whispered. “That’s more than enough.”

He closed his eyes like it physically hurt to hear. Then his breath caught, and when it came back out, it shuddered through him.

Your knees bumped together on the edge of the bed, and you took his shaking hands in yours. Guided them to your chest. Let him feel your heartbeat, steady and strong beneath his fingers.

“Right here, okay? Can you feel that?”

A nod.

“That means I’m still with you. Still breathing. Still choosing you.”

His lip wobbled. One of his hands clenched into your shirt like he was terrified you might float away anyway.

“I’m scared too,” you admitted, voice shaking. “Watching you shut down… pull away… it makes me feel like I’m losing you inch by inch. And I don’t want to pretend that’s not happening. I just-” Your throat went tight. “I just want to be let in. Let me carry some of it, Eds. Please.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move.

And then- he folded. Right there into you, like gravity had given up holding him alone. His arms wrapped around your waist like a lifeline, and he buried his face into your shoulder, clutching you like he could press himself into your bones and live there.

His breath came ragged, but he tried. He mirrored yours when you slowed it down. Matched the rise and fall. Let your quiet words anchor him:

“You’re not alone. You’re not broken. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

You stayed like that, the two of you curled in the half-light, rain whispering against the windows, and the storm- finally… began to pass.

He didn’t speak for a while- not with words, anyway.

But you could feel the shift. The way his weight slumped into yours, the last of his resistance bleeding out with every breath he took against your skin. He wasn’t trying to outrun the ache anymore. He wasn’t gripping the fear with white knuckles. He was here… letting you hold the parts he didn’t know how to carry alone.

“C’mon,” you murmured after a while, your lips brushing against his hair. “Let’s get you into bed, rockstar.”

A quiet huff against your collarbone- halfhearted protest, half surrender. He let you lead him, limbs heavy with exhaustion, back to the sheets still rumpled from the rough night. You crawled in first and opened your arms, and he followed without hesitation. Like muscle memory. Like he was always meant to end up here.

He tucked in against you, face pressed to the crook of your neck, the curve of his spine melting. You held him, arm folded around his middle, chin resting in his curls, and just breathed with him. Slow. Steady. Real.

Your fingers of one hand threaded through his hair, gentle and slow. His breath puffed warm against your clavicle. One of his hands found yours beneath the covers and held it tight.

“I love you,” you whispered into the hush.

“Love you too,” he slurred back, voice thick with the kind of exhaustion that only comes after a storm. He pressed a lazy kiss to your shoulder, a little crooked and half-asleep. “Even if you’re too good for me.”

You smiled into the dark, tightening your hold on his head just a little.

“You’re stuck with me, Eddie Munson. Even on your worst days.”

A low groan, muffled into your skin. “God help you.”

You kissed the top of his head. “Yeah, well. I’m scrappy.”

He didn’t answer- not really. Just let out a tired, grateful sigh, his body curled around the comfort he never thought he’d get to keep.

You stayed like that, the two of you cocooned in warmth and quiet, the hallway light still glowing softly through the open door. Not perfect. Not fixed.

But safe. Together.

And when sleep finally came, it came with his heartbeat against yours, your fingers laced with his, and the soft hum of a promise held gently in the dark.

Who loves Eddie Munson, show of hands! 😂 Let me know if you want to be added to my tag list! @justalotoffanfiction, @yorshie, @jackalope-in-a-storm, @v1per1ne, @daveythorntonslocker, @cokepowder55, @kelsiegrin, @ash-stardust, @meankenna, @kellsck, @chronicles-of-koystee, @micheledawn1975, @fckyeahlames, @cantstandya2000

Masterlist

[alicelillianshaw]

'Alice…'

Jack's brows knit together, and there's a strange swooping sensation in Alice's stomach. Not fear. Not apprehension. Nothing like that, but Alice still found herself searching his face intently, attempting to read whatever letters and words might be woven within his expression.

Obviously— she'd just shared a lot. They'd known each other for less than a week, and here Alice was, wanting to publish a piece in the fucking New Yorker about her feelings for him! That was a massive step even for a one year relationship. And for someone who had met four days ago? It almost sounded like lunacy.

But Jack.

Well.

What was convention? What were standards and rules and customary steps between two people flung at each other

Jack was Jack! Jack didn't hesitate. Jack matched her, and then set the pace. He was bold, and he was affectionate, and he was beautiful, and he didn't make Alice feel silly or delusional for anything that she said. The connection was there— they both were happy to acknowledge it. When Alice had spilled the ugly parts of herself, cried across from him, Jack had caught each tear. He'd assured Alice that every version of her— even that twisted, ugly part of her in college— was someone he wanted to be around.

But the way he was looking at Alice— she couldn't quite parse it. Curiosity burned within her, and she found herself pressing against him more, a gentle lean seeking the heat and solidity of him.

And then–

'Can you get out?'

Hu— oh. Oh. That wasn't even directed at her. Alice, confused, watches as the driver's eyes flick back up in Jack's direction.

'Sorry. Can we have some space?'

Oh. Space? Space! Alice blinks, hard, smiling a little in what she hopes is encouragement, because, well. What could Jack have to say to her after all that? After that proverbial gush of words, pledge of affections, voicing her desire to let the whole fucking world what she felt for him.

Maybe— that was too much? Maybe he wanted to reel it back a bit, except, well, no. No. No, Alice had seen the look on Jack's face, and she knew Jack and his personality and she didn't think this would startle him. He was an all-in sort of man. Whatever Jack had to say ... Alice would be alright with. They were alright. Her and Jack's hearts had brushed, melded, in a singular way, and she knew what flickered between them was intense. His eyes— cast into an exquisite Prussian shade of blue in the dark light of the car— finally raise to meet hers.

Oh. Oh. And there was something there that made her want to sink into him.

'Alice... I love you very much.'

An explosion of thunder— a summer cell that shook windows. A wave slapping against black sheets of rock in Oahu. Snow whispering through the trees where Alice had camped near Alberta. The trill of a Canyon Wren at her old house; the gentle whistle that woke her every summer. A million, billion different sensations and sounds flood through her brain, the glories of life and nature, big and small, and yet somehow none of these things sound even remotely as remarkable as the words that spill from Jack's mouth.

Not even close.

She even blinks, to process it, to make sure she's heard right.

He loves her.

Jack— the man across from her— loves Alice very much.

What a big miracle, in such a very short amount of time.

Alice grabs his other free hand.

"I love you."

"I think I love you more than I ever loved anything."

A breath, because Alice may pass out with how wonderful and mystified she feels, that Jack, remarkable Jack who can get thousands of people to adore him— sees Alice, and after four days decides he loves her.

Her smile is wobbly and wild.

"—Fucking thank you, by the way, because I was trying to work out when to get that in there, I know I just dropped a lot on you at once so I didn't want to overwhelm you, but—"

Alice squeezes his hands.

"Do you know how happy I am you love me?"

Relief washed over Jack like the first drop of rain after a six month long drought. Hearing Alice admit that she didn't want to go either. Couldn't she just stay? Forever? Yes, Jack was saying forever after four days. It didn't matter. Nothing did. Because it occurred to Jack that rules didn't exist for these types of things.

His relationship to Sophia had lasted nearly two years, including the one year of marriage, and that hadn't worked out for him. Jack had never been so happy to get divorced now. Because here was Alice, a stranger (but not really, not at all), telling Jack that she just couldn't stop writing about him. A dozen paragraphs about the waterfall.

Alice assured Jack that she didn't want to make anything worse — his public image, and she leaned in to kiss him in between her words, before continuing: she was excited about the way she felt for him, and she wanted the world to know.

Jack exhaled, and a strange wave of emotion passed over his eyes. He swallowed, stared down at her knuckles. She wanted the world to know how she felt about Jack. It was a public declaration of love, and Jack couldn't wrap his head around that. Jack had criminal charges pending. She'd walked in on him snorting an obscene amount of cocaine earlier that evening. She didn't know about the pills in his luggage, or the other skeletons in his closet.

Did he deserve it? It felt like he didn't, but he was working very hard to earn it.

"I think it's easy because of the person you are." 

The person that he was. Is.

Jack would've walked over a thousand miles of broken glass if it meant that Alice was waiting for him at the end.

Jack would've walked over a thousand miles of broken glass if it meant he got to read just a single line of poetry from Alice.

Despite what she'd seen earlier that day, Alice wanted to share her feelings for Jack to the world.

"Alice…"

His brows were furrowed, and he realized that maybe he was gripping her fingers a little too hard. He relaxed, soothing whatever discomfort he'd caused with a brush of his thumb, again and again.

They weren't far from the airport now. Just a few turns away. And he felt the faint vibration of his phone. Notifications, maybe, that the plane was ready to go, or that there was a delay. He didn't care. He didn't care whenever Alice was telling him all of these things that he didn't deserve. Things that made him feel dizzy.

Words that charmed him. Words that made Jack feel like the most important man in the world. Words that made Jack feel so loved.

Purpose. Alice gave Jack purpose, and he felt like it was to love her for the rest of his days. Little by little, Alice was picking up all of the broken, damaged bits of Jack. She was smoothing them out, gluing them back together until he felt brand new again. She was doing the impossible. Alice and her hands — did she know she performed miracles with them?

The car came to an abrupt stop. He looked up, and there was the plane. He wasn't sure how long he'd been staring at her hands for. Maybe a few seconds. Minutes. He wasn't sure. Jack swallowed, before finally looking at Craig. His driver of many, many years.

Craig who kept a secret better than anyone else on his staff. Craig, who'd heard some pretty cruel and damaging arguments with his ex-wife, and there were never any leaks. Jack trusted the man, but it didn't stop Jack from blurting something out.

"Can you get out?"

It took Craig an awkward silence to register that Jack was talking to him. Jack realized the bluntness of his request, and added:

"Sorry. Can we have some space?"

Craig dismissed himself pretty quickly. The driver's side door shut, and Jack remained silent because he didn't know what to say to Alice. Well, he knew what to say, but it had only been four days. But Jack reminded himself: there were no rules for this. He went back to staring at her hands, and more time passed, but Jack wasn't sure how long.

It was the good kind of silence. Comfortable and soothing. He hoped that he hadn't worried Alice with his rash behavior, and the quiet that followed. He was just … cherishing the moment because everything was about to change.

There weren't any rules. Jack wanted to tell Alice that he was grateful to have met her, that she'd changed his life. He wanted to tell Alice that he wouldn't have changed anything that happened in the last six months. It led them to this very moment. But the words fell short. He wasn't a poet.

Jack was always a fan of keeping things simple — in the moment. No thought, just action. He finally looked into Alice's eyes.

"Alice... I love you very much."

[thesoftboiledegg]

"The Rick, the Mort and the Ugly" is getting a lot of rave reviews, but for me, this episode was a mixed bag. We got decent pacing, funny gags, great character designs (and, in true Rick and Morty fashion, all those cool-looking Ricks die a second later) and a shred of character development for C-137 Rick, even though he was barely in it.

The writers managed to get me to care about Homesteader Rick by showing his quiet, reserved life. As a character, he's not anything mindblowing, but he was strong enough to carry the episode. Boss Hogg Rick was a hilarious villain who was also convincingly evil.

Still, my main issue is that this episode just...doesn't have much of a reason to exist. Like other episodes from season six onward, the story rehashes an earlier plot with a new setting and cast of characters.

Like its previous installment, "The Ricklantis Mixup," this episode gives us a break from the C-137s and focuses on zany antics at the citadel. However, the former is one of Rick and Morty's most famous episodes because it balances several genres, explores one of the show's most fascinating concepts and throws in some surprisingly sharp social commentary.

"The Rick, the Mort and the Ugly" tries but doesn't quite get there. We're already rehashing an earlier concept, which isn't necessarily bad if the writers have something new to say, but this episode isn't as creative as the previous installment. Instead, it's just a straight Western with no subtext.

The leads are a rehash of previous Ricks and Mortys, too. Arcade Morty is a tamer Evil Morty, and Homesteader Rick is a meaner Cop Rick. Sidelining Arcade Morty halfway through was probably a smart decision on the writers' part because he wasn't revealing anything new about Mortys as a whole.

And after this episode reveals that Ricks are rebuilding the citadel, Homesteader Rick destroys the whole thing again. Maybe it's best for the writers to move on instead of going back to earlier ideas, but it's still a bit of a letdown. I wish the writers would stop tossing great concepts in the trash just to give their plots an "epic" conclusion.

I will say that the female/trans Ricks in the parlor were a delightful surprise. Combined with Rick and Mr. Nimbus getting intimate in the title sequence, the crew is finally going further than I ever thought they would. I hope we get more explicit queer moments in the future, especially when so many other companies are bending the knee to Trump and his goons.

Ian Cardoni was clearly having a blast, too. Voicing Rick is difficult enough, but he gave Rick a variety of accents and mannerisms without losing his essence. Boss Hogg Rick's voice is bursting with personality, yet still undeniably "Rick."

The Mortys' resolution also somewhat salvaged this episode for me. If the story ended with the citadel's destruction, it would've been pointless, but seeing Mortys take control of their lives gave this episode a little poignancy.

Also, I had no idea that Ricks were cloning themselves. That adds another layer to the citadel's endless horrors.

But overall, does this episode live up to the hype? Not quite. When I saw the previews, I thought the bandits would end up kidnapping C-137 Morty, leading to more character development for Rick. I won't say that going in a different direction was a mistake--it's just a personal preference--but I also can't bring myself to care THAT much about a bunch of new characters who basically reheat earlier storylines with a few tweaks.

At least C-137 Rick had a couple of decent moments. When he admits to his Morty that he's changing, I wonder if Arcade Morty felt jealous. He never had a Rick who loved him enough to bring him back to a planet to look for his lost fidget spinner. All he has is an empty farm--and the memories of a Rick who cared briefly before he died and brought the citadel down with him.

[batsu4eva]

Alright so next thing for the Seattle thingy I’m slowly building up teehee :3 have my girl I’ve been ranting about to a friend in DMs, Elsa Ringwold, yayyyyyy

I was gonna add more trinkets around her to indicate her personality but then I couldn’t think of anything 😭 but I suppose that’s what the description is for! Anyways bullet points time yayyyy

Toreador primogen bc I’m filling out the court teehee :3 As a rule, I decided that everyone here is kind of a nepo baby, meaning everyone knows and is connected with each other somehow so that'll be a theme in the court I think

Born to a German immigrant family, she been a very young ballet performer at the Paris Opera House pre-embrace due to the fact that her father was now put out of work due to a work injury that permanently disabled him, leaving her to make money in Paris to send back to her family.

Being a perfectionist, she often pushed herself to work even past burnout- a standard she still holds for herself and others to this day. Back then, it was because if you start skipping practices, it shows up in your performances and everybody notices. Nowadays, it's because if that weakness shows, that is ample opportunity for your enemies to screw you and all that.

Unfortunately, if you know anything at all about ballet history, you'll know that often in these times ballet dancers would have to... "cater" to the rich patrons post-shows. One artist back in these days by the name of Edgar Degas (who often painted these ballerinas) would call them "le petit rats" or little rodents, a derogatory nickname due to the fact that these girls were often sucked into a vicious cycle of poverty, prostitution and exploitation at such a young age. And for Elsa, she was no exception and she hated this fact.

Related to this, she had been embraced at about 19 years old by one of her "admirers", and yes- it was partially because she was beautiful. You're not going to find an "ugly" ballet dancer, especially not in those days. But it was also because of her grit and dedication to her career- dedication that could certainly be applied to kindred society. And so it happened, with the reasoning that he "saved" her from a life of selling her body until she aged out of relevance and died in poverty- like many in her situation did back then.

Of course, this would mean that Elsa would have to prove her usefulness to the Camarilla over and over again, which meant that really, she moved from one kind of exploitation to another. Because of this, Elsa ended up unwillingly "retiring" from her career and distancing herself from her family, effectively taking her away from everything she cared about. She never stopped feeling angry and bitter about this. Never. This would explain why present day she has mortal students she pushes to the brink of exhaustion in order to live out her past dreams through them.

She basically got the primogen position in Seattle because she HAD been in a relationship with the man who was meant to have that position. And Elsa had been comfortable with where she was, that is until he proposed marriage to her. Elsa could understand why someone would fall in love with her, but she's disgusted by the idea of marriage because to her it means that someone wants to have some level of ownership over you. And as someone who has experience with that, her instinct is to reject that and take it as a threat. And so as a reaction, she basically ruined his reputation, made the entire court hate him and like her more. She still keeps the engagement ring on her pinky finger as a reminder of her "victory", sort of akin to when someone kills a deer and keeps it's head on a mount. Aromantic QUEEN

And again, this court is pretty much all nepo babies, so the guy that was SUPPOSED to have this position had two of his (now divorced dads lol) adoptive sires as fellow primogen who were gonna put him in this position with basically no qualifications- that is, until HIS EX-GIRLFRIEND LITERALLY MADE THEM LIKE HER MORE. Insane work

She's given favorable treatment by said divorced dads because she's one of the younger ones in the court- even though she pretty much acts like she hates everyone except for them lol.

She owns a dance academy in Seattle specifically to stake a claim in the city and all that- Bellevue School of Performing Arts. You pretty much need either rich parents or a crazy good scholarship to get in and even then you better have a VERY good sense of self-worth because being in this school will cause you to burn out so fast and gain insecurities about your body that you didn't even know you had until now. And that's not even MENTIONING if Elsa herself happens to be the one teaching you because she has literally seen the best of the best more than 100 years ago, you will NOT impress her.

I don't really have anything else to say on her (yet) but being unfortunately a film bro I kinda based her off Erika Kohut from The Piano Teacher in terms of personality because she is also a curmudgeon instructor that is a cold and bitter perfectionist due to having her life stolen away from her. Basically thought it'd be good inspo bc of stuff like this:

And that is it! Tbh I almost didn't share this because I got really shy haha ^^;; But I hope you all like my mean ballet instructor woman as much as I do :3

[morningfawns]

Kinito my beloved little freak

Bonus NUH UH gif:

[egophiliac]

GET LOVED, IDIOT

GET LOVED SO HARD YOUR KIDS HOLD HANDS AND POWER-OF-LOVE YOU BACK TO LIFE

sorry guys, this is just my brain now. this is going to be the only thing I think about for the next week at least.

oh and also this

FIVE YEARS IN AND IT'S FINALLY CANON 🎉🎉🎉

WE DID IT

[keferon]

May I ask what were the best transformers media you ever saw/read?

Well Transformers Prime, Transformers 1986 and IDW comics are having the first place that’s for sure

And then the second place is kind of shared by Fall of Cybertron, Exodus, Prime wars trilogy, Robots in disguise(2001) and Transformers One.

The third place goes to G1, Animated, Earthspark, Armada, War for Cybertron Netflix series, Aligned Robots in disguise, Bumblebee, Rise of the Beasts and Cyberverse because I only liked some little parts of them.

And then I also saw some of the Bay movies, Victory and Headmasters and didn’t like them at all.

Separate first place for J-Decker. It is not exactly Transformers but it is a show about giant robots and I loved it

[mossterunderthebed]

[buwheal]

BEACH OUTFIT 💥💥💥💥

He used to surf the web back in 98'.

[evilbitchartist]

i fucking hate him

[perhaps-mr-collins-has-a-cousin]

It has been requested (@awfullybigwardrobe44 💛) that I provide an update on How Things Are Going With The Young Man, and there’s so much I could say that it all kind of cancels itself out (I’ve been journaling like a madwoman lately), but yes, I think things are going well. I still can't believe any of this is happening, I am not the kind of person that this kind of stuff is supposed to happen to 😆 We have gone on several more dates, one of them a day-long fishing trip, and it’s been lovely and I just think he's delightful and I really like being with him. I still have a lot of shyness to overcome, but considering how intensely terrified I used to be of him I think I’ve made excellent progress 😆 I’ve seen less of him lately because he’s extremely busy with work and especially school but we text a lot and this weekend we’re planning to go to dinner and then the symphony after that (I bought the tickets and I can tell it's driving him nuts that I finally paid for something myself but ahaha it's too late there's nothing he can do about it now) 😊

[stuworbutwitheds]

This might be a hot take(?) but i do like how Eddy become more grumpy as the show went between seasons

Of course he is more mean and kinda more aggressive with his friends.

But i think it's a great way to show how trauma can affect your personality, especially when it comes to physical abuse. Not every child that suffers like that is quiet and shy, some of them can mirror the bad traits of their abuser and they're just as valid to get love and support.

[collecting--stardust]

Cele's little chuckle when the interviewer asked him if he will be the one to beat fermin tomorrow... his usual ciao at the end... HHHHH

[seiwas]

omfg i ran out of tags talking abt this tee but !!!

there’s this line: maybe he’s fine just coming home to you

and it just!! was the final blow !!! my heart clenched !!!

i love it when people talk about one another as if they aren’t talking to each other if that makes sense… or people talking abt themselves ! but in third person idk !!! there’s something so flirty snd teasing about it !! but also so shy and i love it 🥺 when u say things like that !! with the maybe’s and all, it’s so soft !! and honest !! and tender !!

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩ LUCKY — GOJO SATORU.

contents. baths + non sexual nudity, established relationships, tired toru :(, lots of kissies and praise for the babie :(, solid proof in the form of writing of how embarrassingly lovesick i am for this FOOL

it’s past midnight when satoru walks into your bathroom. he doesn’t even question why you’re in the bath so late—just gives you a lopsided grin tiredly as you smile.

“you’re home,” you brighten.

“look at you,” he coos, staring down at you with amused eyes, “waitin’ for me?”

satoru is tired—you can tell from the way the his shoulders are slouched and his blindfold is clutched in his hand. “i was,” you hum in agreement, “c’mere.”

it’s all it takes. he’s stripped down and waiting for you to move up so he can slide behind you in seconds, hand waving to motion you forward. but you’re stubborn—you shake your head as you hold an arm out for him.

“baby,” he whines, “c’mon i was out fighting big bad curses all day. jus’ lemme hold—”

“no. just come here, toru,” you insist.

there’s something about it—something about the way your voice is so gentle, so insistent, so knowing. it’s like you can read him more than he can, sometimes. satoru is tired, you can see it, you can feel it. you can’t carry his burdens, but you can hold him while he holds the weight of the world for a night.

maybe it’ll do for now—maybe it’ll even be enough and more.

“what? feelin’ like pampering me today?” he teases, “aren’t i a lucky guy,” he hums—but he climbs into the tub anyway, settling between your legs, leaning his back against your chest as his head falls back against your shoulder.

instantly, two gentle kisses plant themselves against his head, and his eyes flutter shut. he’s starting to feel the beginnings of a headache form—the gentle thump in his skull just barely there, but persistently present.

your thumbs rubs along the sides of his head, enough pressure to soothe the pain like you know it’s coming—he thinks you must.

“you are a lucky guy,” you giggle, “look at me. such a catch.”

he grins, chuckling that boyish chuckle of his freely in your arms as he relaxes. it’s been a while since he’s relaxed, you think—it’s half past midnight and he’ll be up with the sun in a bit to head back to the school, but it’s nice to know he’s relaxed. even just for this short, rare moment.

“oh yeah,” he nods, lips curled into a grin as he cracks an eye open and peers up at you, “s no catch like my pretty ‘lil baby. i’m living it up.”

“glad you know your privileges,” you murmur contently, shaking your head in amusement as you wrap your arms around his body. one hand rubs over his abs—he wants to tease you about feeling him up, wants to make a sly comment about missing his body more than him while he was gone. but there’s something about it, about the way it’s so slow and soothing and soft—it’s so painfully soft, satoru swallows.

finally, he lets his body go slack against yours, sliding down so his head rests against your chest and the water soaks more of his body. it’s warm. the water and your arms. it’s all so, so warm and forgiving.

“aren’t you gonna tell me how lucky you are too? i’ll listen, don’t worry. no interruptions.”

“yeah?” you chuckle, threading fingers through his hair and pulling a soft sigh from him, “wanna know how lucky i am?”

“course,” he murmurs, “well, i already know you’re lucky. it’s me after all—but i’m not opposed to hearing it.”

“how humble of you, satoru,” you snort.

he grins wider—he hasn’t had a chance to smile all day. not properly, at least.

“feel free to start any second,” he says with a wink. then his eyes flutter shut again as your thumb traces his cheek, ever so gently running along the soft angles of his face.

it’s pretty—everything about him is pretty. there are no ugly parts to satoru. just the parts painted from cruel hands. they’re beautiful too, you like to think, in their own, fragile little ways.

“okay,” you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his head, “i’m very lucky,” you murmur into his hair.

he hums, mumbling a quiet, “knew it.”

“lucky i have such a handsome face to greet,” you pepper kisses along his forehead and find his cheek, giving it an affectionate little bite that makes him huff out an amused chuckle. “and he’s so tall too,” you add, resting your chin on his shoulder.

“that all he is?” he pouts, “just a pretty face? you’re breaking my heart, baby.”

“no,” you say quietly, grabbing his hand and brushing a thumb over his knuckles, “he’s also kind. too kind, sometimes,” you say quietly, “he comes home a bit later than usual every once in a while because he took his students out to eat. he loves them a bit too much, i think.”

“no such thing as too much love,” he hums, squeezing your hand.

you smile, admiring him as he lays against you, small in your hold even with the larger than life weight he carries.

“and he’s strong,” you add, “really strong. it’s not fair sometimes,” you whisper, “he’s got so much on his plate.”

“he handles it fine,” he assures, “he always does.”

“and then he still makes time for little old me,” you say fondly, kissing his shoulder, “never lets me feel lonely. he’s too good to me.”

“there’s no such thing as too good for you,” he gasps offendedly, pouting like you’ve insulted him, “he’s definitely not—”

“and sometimes, he comes home tired. and he tries to act like he’s not because he’s a bit of a prick who doesn’t let me help, but i’m smart and i know him well so i’ve figured it out. and if i’m extra lucky, i might get to hold him for a bit like this and help him relax.”

you squeeze him gently for emphasis, holding him closer as you press your nose into his neck and breathe in his smell. it’s like cologne that’s rudely expensive and that sweet smell only satoru has—it’s all you want to breathe in for the rest of your days.

you hope he’ll allow you that much. something tells you he will.

satoru swallows thickly at that, rubs a thumb over your bare thigh as he rests his free hand over it, the other still in your grasp.

and then, quietly, “maybe he’s fine just coming home to you,” he shrugs, “who can stay tired with such a sweet face waiting at home?”

“i don’t know,” you say thoughtfully, “he’s got a lot to take care of. wonder how he does it.”

“he’s probably the strongest,” he shoots with an easy grin, “sounds like the strongest to me.”

“he is,” you nod, “he’s a lot more than that too. i’m lucky he’s mine.”

“oh yeah?” he drawls—there’s something a little shaky about his voice though.

you choose not to mention it, pressing soft, delicate kisses along his jaw as you murmur, “yeah. he makes me feel really, really lucky. love him so much.”

“love you too,” satoru breathes, “guess we’re both really, really lucky.”

don’t talk to me i don’t want to be perceived. that’s enough softness for a lifetime so the next time i write him he’s getting hit by a bus