#I DESIRE TO BREAK HIM!!!!

[oh-katsuki]

OOOOOH OKAY OKAY OKAY

How about Tsukki + enemies or rivals to lovers + there’s only one bed?

only one bed trope...... smirks. side note but i think tsukishima is MAAADEEE for enemies/rivals to lovers. like seriously he just... it WORKS with him. i need him.

cw: it's an almost HATE FUCK (they don't fuck), heavy makeout, mentions of painful biting, tsukishima says some shitty things abt reader's past sexual endeavors, idk they grind a little

"you know, if you'd just fucking move over, we'd have more room," you spit at him, kicking his leg beneath the covers.

"you mean you'd have more room," he corrects, rolling his eyes and turning to face away from you.

poor planning is an unfortunate thing, even more so when it directly inconveniences you. that's what led to this situation, poor planning.

you and tsukishima are both involved in your university's respective sports division. kei plays on the volleyball team and you are on the cheer team. it's not often that your team gets sent on their away games to cheer, but this is the semi-finals and the university saw fit to send you all to stand and cheer court side.

if you had your way, you'd be miles away right now, probably fucking around with someone on the baseball team. but no. instead, you're sat next to the one person on this earth who genuinely makes you hateful, and you wouldn't call yourself a hateful person by any means.

arrogant, self-involved, and snarky beyond belief, tsukishima kei is the worst person you've ever met. you're certain that he'd say the same thing about you and for once, you don't mind that he thinks you're probably a slutty, selfish, bitch. funniest thing about it is that he also happens to be in your major and the two of you constantly remain tied for top of the class.

you'd like to say that it was the school that fucked up. you'd like to say that they happened to accidentally put you and tsukishima in a room with just one bed, but that's not true. the truth of it is that the two of you just happened to be stupid enough to miss the bus and, after spending a day catching the odd bus to get closer to sendai, have ended up stranded in a middle of bum fuck nowhere inn with one single room and a western style full sized bed.

"why don't you sleep on the floor?" you snap.

you hear tsukishima sigh behind you, feeling the press of his back against yours as it expands, "because then i'd be uncomfortable?"

"ya know, shouldn't protecting my decency come before comfort?" you retort, speaking over your shoulder.

you feel him sit up, rolling so that he's propped up on his elbow and facing you. when you turn, it places you face to face with his chest. you can smell his deodorant on him and he's so close that you're certain he can feel your breath on him.

"i think it might be a little late to protect your decency," he snaps, wrinkling his nose and twisting his face into a nasty expression. "shouldn't you have some left to do that?"

you scowl at him, rolling your eyes. "asshole."

"so you've mentioned."

you both lay down facing the ceiling. your shoulders are pressed deeply into each other and his warmth bleeds into the points of contact like water. every time he inhales, you feel it and it spurs you to do the same until your breathing is synced up.

"why'd you have to miss the bus too," he sighs, putting his hand over his face.

"i could say the same thing," you huff.

"yeah, i bet you can't fuckin' stand being here right now, right?" he sits up again, sneering. "too fuckin' pretty and popular to be sharing a bed, yeah?"

"shut up," you warn.

"bet you'd rather be with those baseball dickheads you fuck so often."

"shut up, kei," his tongue has always been sharp, but he's seriously pissing you off. not that you regret anything you've done.

"you fucked your way through all of them yet?"

you sit up, indignant at what he's saying.

"you paying that much attention to my sex life, tsukishima?" you sneer back, narrowing your eyes. "you like thinking about who i fuck like a pervert?"

you tilt your head as he presses his lips into a line.

"come on, tell me," you press venomously, chest to chest with him. "you think about how i spread my legs for them? touch yourself wishing it was you? get fucking real, kei. you only hate me because you want to fuck me that badly."

you're face to face with him now and you can feel his breath across your face. his chest heaves with anger, as does yours and the obscene words you've just said. then, you kiss him.

he immediately starts kissing you back, hands coming up to rest on against your hips. he bites at you first, dragging his teeth across your bottom lip and you laugh at the display, tugging at his shirt to get him to take it off.

there's a desperate hunger inside of you, clawing to feel his skin, to feel the warmth of it pressed against you. you hate him so badly that touching him almost hurts. it makes you want to scream in the best possible way. you want to make him cry, to see him crumble under your fingertips. there's this terrible desire to consume him entirely.

when his chest is exposed, you quickly pull yourself over his hips to straddle him, letting him sit up to meet you halfway. the expanse of his chest presses against yours and you groan under it's warmth, rolling your hips to sate the desperation rising in you. kei grows hard underneath you, pressing against your inner thigh as he drags his tongue down your neck and bites hard on your shoulder. you yelp, laughing to yourself. who'd have thought kei had it in him.

"was i right?" you tease angrily, pushing him backward hard enough that he bounces. "you think about me fucking all those other guys and wish it was you, kei?"

you tongue down his stomach, feeling the ridges of his abdomen, which heaves harder the lower you get. under your chest, you feel his cock stir.

"i fucking hate you," he grits his teeth, color painting his cheeks.

"yeah?" you say, pressing your mouth to his bulge. "well, i can't fuckin' stand you either."

[myrkulitescourge]

can i just say, it still makes me feel a little crazy how astarion, come act 3, still can’t quite put a name to his relationship with his partner, but he WILL tell them he wants to keep them both safe.

he won’t say i love you just yet but he will say forever, for good.

[roomba-mangga]

Curry pt. i // Curry pt. ii

yeah alright okay. fine. cool. alright. yeah

[kanjichris]

"why don't you want him to know how much you love him?" "that's a little personal. he knows." "uh-huh."

[iguessitsjustme]

The fact that Yuan was in Lili's room when Qian found the ultrasound meant that Lili asked for help from her brother to protect her boyfriend from...her brother.

And the fact that she knew that their best chance to convince Qian and make sure that he doesn't kill San Pang is to get Yuan involved. To tell Qian on their terms before he can find out for himself. Since it didn't go to well when Qian found out about their relationship and Yuan just sat there and did nothing (god bless him that's still my favorite scene). Qian was mad for a looooong time after finding out about their relationship.

Getting Yuan involved and also setting it up so Qian finds out while they're all in a relatively safe space but together while still telling him and not keeping things from him meant that Qian didn't stay angry for long. It also helped because as much as Yuan loves Qian romantically, he loves Lili as his sister. He is also protective of her but he's much more reasonable about it because he doesn't have the same family trauma that Qian has. Yuan can help smooth things over not just because Qian loves him and listens to him but because Yuan loves Lili and sees what makes her happy and wants the best for her.

This show is so good and I love the romance of it all but I just had to say something about how much I loved the siblingship between Yuan and Lili. Lili let Yuan into that home and in doing so gave herself something more than just a brother. She gave herself a friend that would help when she needed help and would love and support both her and Qian unconditionally.

[leajoyrambles]

sorry to get angsty on main but I really wanna see a crossover fic where Five Hargreeves meets Bruce Wayne and the topic of, y’know, what would you do for your family, the morality of killing in a given context, etcetera comes up. And a bit of dialogue just going like

Bruce: But once you cross that line, where does it stop?

Five: It doesn’t have to stop — they just have to live.

[miniagula]

sorry ghouls but the latest chapter of suitor armor is kinda making my neurons fizzle out

like. do you Get It

[the-woman-upstairs]

It’s just…so painful to watch Armand readily submit in order to obtain the love he so desperately craves. And while it’s most assuredly a manipulative tactic, it’s still one borne out of fear and desperation. He cannot lose this person he’s come to love and so will become whatever they want, do whatever they want just so they’ll stay with him. But it won’t be enough. No matter how much he acquiesces or seeks to control (himself, others, the environment), he won’t be able to make Louis stay with him in the perfect life, perfect self he built in the hopes of finally being loved. It will all crumble with Armand left alone in the rubble of what he created, the author of his own abandonment.

[greenerteacups]

thoughts on Ginny and Harry as a couple?

There are a lot of people who find their romance in HBP forced. I don't think it's forced so much as underwritten, and the books don't get the chemistry quite right (though the movies certainly don't, either). There's potential, but they just don't get enough actual scenes of substance (besides Harry thinking she's pretty or feeling jealous of Dean) for a lot of readers to buy that they're not only in love, but deeply enough in love to break up, get back together, and wind up married.

That's not to say I don't see the appeal. There's a very cool scene in Book 5 where Harry's doing a woe-is-me-Chosen-One act, and Ginny effortlessly puts him in his place about it by reminding him that she was possessed by Voldemort at eleven, which is a rare glimpse into her character and also a great synecdoche for their relationship — Ginny is a grounding presence who, like Ron and Hermione, isn't going to be awed by his past adventures because she knew him before they happened. In that respect, Ginny's probably one of the few women Harry could feasibly wind up with, because he only ever seems comfortable around people (let alone girls) who can see past the Chosen-One schtick and treat him like a normo (see: Ron, Hermione, the Weasleys, Luna, Hagrid). True to type, he doesn't get interested in Ginny at all until she's ditched her celebrity crush and ceased to view him as an idol, because in his heart of hearts, Harry wants to be a normal boy, and it's stressed over and over that part of what he likes about his relationship with Ginny is how normal it feels. He kind of has a horribly supercharged version the celebrity dating problem: after the Battle of Hogwarts, anyone he meets is going to know him first as Harry Potter, Chosen One, Boy Who Lived, and Actually Fucking Resurrected Messiah of the Wizarding World, which is... I mean, it's possible that there are witches out there who could get over that, but Harry's not an extroverted guy, and I'm not sure how he'd go about finding them. Ginny's the one who's been there since the beginning, doesn't need anything about him or his past explained to her, and actually likes him for who he is.

When you look at it that way, it's not surprising he married his high school girlfriend. She's one of the few people still alive who doesn't see him as a demigod.

[angrybatart]

Some veteran Sky Kid is screaming like a banshee while frantically searching for their moth.

[dxxtruction]

Not to psychoanalyze (Yes, to do that), but given Armand's history, his only preconception of what love is, is to view it through pure desire. Love - and more broadly accurate, his life purpose for like half a millenia - as only he's ever known it, has only been experienced through transactional wish-fulfillment fantasies, of which he was the one typically sought after to complete such an exchange. And so naturally, in his own seeking, he replicates it. Though to some degree he also replicates the fantastical existence of fictional romances to compensate.

This lack of true experience of love without desire or fantasy, making his always unfilled 'objet petit a' - his object of desire - (a partner he desires a particular love from but does not receive to his fulfillment) - the catalyst for believing there is no other form of love to be had. That he can simply love the person, and be altruistic to their personhood, without them filling a role or desire for him, just would never occur. He's egotistical and overly pragmatic towards others by the fault of formative experiences denying him his own personhood. In being groomed into the object of desire, he no longer sees anyone else but as such. It's equal parts lack of self-awareness, meaning he simply has no way to counter-reflect upon himself the way one should behave, and developed coping mechanism, either consciously or unconsciously, taking on the role of those who inflicted upon him their desires to gain a sense of control over it.

In never escaping this cycle of love as desire, he always denies himself his full person, and simultaneously denies the personhood of others.

[lanternlightss]

(thank you to @arson-n-quwubilder for the request <3 ! )

There is not a sight more fascinating to Venti than the image of his dear friend with his eyes sparkling, awed etched into every detail of his features, his mouth opened in a small “o,” as he takes in what lies before him—the food of the one, the only, Good Hunter!

Cecil’s fingers dig into the cuffs of his top. Points, to where Sara sets a Mint Jelly plate and an Apple Roly Poly onto the counter, turning to face Venti. He had done the same to the last few foods that have been taken away to those who had ordered them (a Satisfying Salad, Venison Steak, Moon Pie, and Crab, Ham & Veggie Bake, thus far.) He seems to be particularly intrigued about the Apple Roly Poly, now, though, asking Venti, “What is that?”

His eyes pull up, delighted to share—the food his children think of and create are extraordinary! “An Apple Roly Poly! It is made with apples, of course, and eggs, butter, flour, all coiled into one. A delicacy, for sure.”

“And—the green?”

“Mint Jelly,” and how, briefly, he wishes that those in Old Mondstadt could have eaten jelly, he thinks that Amos would have liked it. “it is made with those mints you keep seeing, and sugar. A very squishy, sweet food!”

“Squishy ….”

Cecil falls into a contemplative silence. Frets with Venti’s ruffles, and the buttons on his sleeve, his expression becoming something akin to a stilted wariness, determination the longer he thinks on his words. Venti, deliberately, pretends not to notice, casually humming a short tune to himself in the wait, and lightly tapping his foot against the legs of the wooden chair he sits on.

“Are there any other foods made of apples?”

Venti grins. “My friend, there are many. Northern Apple Stew, Apple Fritters, ehe, it is not a food, but Apple Ciders, and Candy Apples, Apple Cake, Apple Pie—”

“Apple Pie!?”

“Apple Pie!!!!!!”

“How is it made?”

“Oh, apples, sugar, flour, cinnamon, mmm.. butter too, and—” and they … they have everything they need to make it … right here, oh goodness, Venti from three days past thank you for not spending a drop of your mora! He stands from his chair (Cecil jumping, hand darting from his sleeve), it scraping across the stones, tittering just that slightest bit at the end. “One moment, beloved!”

“What—” He, too, stands, one knee placed onto the seat, his head swiveling to follow after Venti bursting into a run to the general goods shop, “What are you—??”

“One moment, cherished, one moment!!”

He is certain there are teal feathers and puffs of Anemo trailing after him in his sprint, hoping those are overlooked by the Vision hung at his belt, too caught in his excitement to get the ingredients needed to tweak that little quirk. It is normal to have feathers. Glowing feathers. Very normal, everyday thing that people have and do. Pay no mind to the fact that his Vision is not also glowing as brightly as the feathers are, it happens, you see.

Sliding up to the counter, bracing his hands on it, he pants: “Miss Blanche! Miss Blanche, good lady, do you happen to have flour, milk, eggs and cinnamon?”

Blanche, the lovely shopkeeper she is, is holding a hand to her mouth, attempting to hide a laugh. Venti considers this a success.

“Of—snrk—Of course.” She pivots on her heel, rummaging through the shelves positioned around her, meticulously and gingerly adding each item grabbed to the crook of her elbow. She sets them down just as gently. “That’ll be two hundred and forty mora!”

Venti has already brought out and dug through his pouch of the currency. Pokes at the pile, as he counts it in his head, and puts the needed amount into her outstretched palm, scooping the ingredients into his arms with his other hand (and, for fun, tips his hat very gentlemanly at her in a swish of Anemo—fun party trick, he should add, being able to concentrate it to a single point as so.)

“Thank you, Miss Blanche! Good day!”

“Good day to you, too!”

He waves to her, walking backwards, as he hurries to where an awfully confused Cecil continues to half-stand, half-sit. That confusion is merely amplified by Venti arranging the flour, milk, eggs and cinnamon on the table, tapping at the cork of the cinnamon when it is to his liking. Skips over to Good Hunter immediately after, his dearest spluttering, looking between the objects and him, scrutinizing both in a manner similar to that of when he is solving a problem.

“Miss Sara—”

“Let me guess: butter and sugar?”

“Heehee, caught! Yes, ma’am, if I could have those, pretty please!!”

She smiles at him, eyes softening. Ducks down to the cabinets, opening them, the hinges creaking softly. He thumps his fingers on the counter (in a pattern he remembers from the “drumming contest” that Bennett and Amber had him supervise), listening to the clink of the bottles.

“Here you are,” she sets them beside his hand. “Six-hundred-forty five mora!”

“Ooohhhh..” He tries his best not to visibly show his surprise, the pouch being rifled through again. “Six-hundred-forty five… ?”

“Six-hundred-forty five!”

That certainly is an amount for this all…

He hands over what is needed, snatching the butter and sugar, and shoving the marginally lighter feeling pouch into the hole of his shorts, for the meanwhile. He waves bye to Sara, as well, skipping over to Cecil—who is looming above the previous ingredients, hands to the sides of them, his face drawn into a slanted frown—and proudly presenting what he has. Cecil blinks at him, his expression transforming to a wide-eyed one, then scrunches his brows into a furrow, his lips thinning.

“Venti,” flops onto the seat, “my little song, my darling, my angel. Why did you gather this? Are we, by chance...?”

He shakes the sugar, the tiny specks bobbing in the bottle, swaying back and forth while he does. “Mhm! We can make Apple Pie!!”

That has Cecil shift to bewilderment, rising from the chair, swinging his gaze back to the table. “And everything is this… leisurely, to gather? All of it, in the market—“ he falters, going over each item once more, finding one, strangely, missing, “—all… well, almost everything.”

An eyebrow is cocked at Venti, Cecil placing his hands on his (also cocked to the side) hips, trying for a “disappointed” stance. A stance that is betrayed by the mirth in his eyes, simply bemused wondering behind it. “Are we to make Apple Pie without the Apples?”

Venti giggles.

“Do not fret, they are taken care of!!” His cape makes a satisfying swoosh sound, as he bounds toward his precious, clutching his butter and sugar close (it will not be spilling on his watch!) “And I know a spot where we will be able to put everything together, just the two of us”—he winks, braids and eyes flickering in their glowing—“if you could, the other..?”

Cecil moves a hand closer to the ingredients. “On it.”

First, the milk is placed under his right arm. Then, the eggs are gathered next to it, followed by balancing the flour and cinnamon on them. He continues to maneuver them, walking up to Venti, his arms crossed tightly, a part of his cloak draping over his left bicep.

Hooking a hand on that bicep, Venti urges Cecil to one of the alleyways. And, once it seems that no one is giving them attention, allows the swirling of Anemo to swathe them; looping strings of teal round and round, pressing into the skin and leaving them with fleeting prickles of buzzing. His braids lift into the air, the wind zipping past, accelerating, and he clings to Cecil as it all brings itself into, well, itself. Raising them and streaming them through the many, many winds of Mondstadt.

They whip by buildings and fields, fields and buildings. Ending pushed inside a door to a nice, little area in between, the enticing smell of the latest batch of pastries wafting throughout the room.

Cecil stumbles, slightly, knocking one foot into the other, when the Anemo dissipates. Venti keeps his grip on his bicep, stepping back the moment his friend is steady, and spins to walk by, carrying his items at an arm’s length while he proceeds towards the kitchen island, located dab in the middle of the room.

Footsteps edge closer to the archway of the kitchen, where it splits into two hallways—ones that Venti merely glances towards, noting Cecil with his hand braced on that archway, as he leans out to look down the corridors. He directs his attention to the items, then the drawers of the countertops, and the cabinets. The pie plate and bowls should be in the bottom ones, the measuring spoons should be in the far left drawer, and the measuring cups should be above them… hm…..

With a snap of his fingers, the cabinets and drawers are pulled open in a tug of Anemo. Meticulously, he grabs each one needed (medium sized bowl, colored blue, same with the measuring spoons, and the glass plate and cups—and, for extra, a rolling pin.) He sets these next to the butter and sugar, hands on his hips as he inspects everything.

A soft, frilly fabric is pressed to his cheek. He turns to see Cecil offering him a green, pinstripe cooking apron (a white bow wrapped at the middle), oh!! In a swift whoosh, both his corset and cape vanish, as he takes the apron into his hands and sets to tying it around his waist, exclaiming: “You found them!”—Cecil snorting at his eagerness, placing the ingredients he had held in his arm next to Venti’s, and undoing his belt, then vest, and snapping open the clasp of his cloak, to put on his matching blue, pinstripe apron as well.

“Alright!” Venti says, clapping his hands, “Let us get to work, yes?”

Cecil, eyeing the bowl, hums. “The Apples?”

“Of course, of course,” Giggling, he reaches to his beret, and, with a flutter of his hand, taps at the very top of it (the Cecilia and leaves bouncing.) His fingers dig under it, and flings it to the side; falling into a bow to catch it, thus revealing the six red apples that laid underneath it.

There is a pause. The Apples are plucked from his hair, being replaced by a hand, of which ruffles there til it is a disheveled jumble of strands—Venti leaning into each pat that passes with a grin.

“I should have known,” Cecil huffs, amusement laced in his voice. Venti is sure that when his beloved steps around him to get to the sink, his expression can best be summarized as “cat that caught the canary,” just about as pleased as punch at this outcome. Another “party trick” of his, one that never gets old in seeing everyone’s reaction to it!

A bit aways from him, water rushes from the faucet, spilling over the apples held under it.

Busying himself whilst Cecil does that, he arranges each ingredient from largest to smallest, and once that is done, picks up the bottle of sugar to regard how much is inside. From what he recalls of the recipe for this, it should be.. half cup sugar, two tablespoons flour, one teaspoon cinnamon, one egg, and all of the apples are accounted for already…. hm, hm, hm!

The apples are gently rolled into the flour bag, Cecil stopping them from going further with a gentle touch to their stems. Bumps his hip againsts Venti’s, passing by, to settle beside the right of him.

One hand going behind his back, the other gesturing towards what sits in front of them both, Cecil clears his throat, lowering his voice to a comical degree, “Shall we?”

Barking a laugh into his fist, Venti stands straight, rolling his shoulders back, clasping his hands at the waist. Lowering his voice, too, and nodding hard enough that it has his braids flailing into the air, “We shall.” (He will say, though, that they lasted a solid minute without breaking their characters—only breaking when Cecil had looked to Venti, whom was deepening his frown, and burst into cackles.)

And so they do. And so it becomes a mess halfway in (he is mildly surprised it had not when he had swirled the bowl of sugar, flour, and butter with Anemo, and had it spring out everywhere at the end—he had sighed when making the whipped cream, too, as Kaeya would have been a fantastic helper), when Venti, after rolling the dough, tucking it into the pie plate, and having wiped a quick streak of the apple juices on his hands across Cecil’s nose. Which had lead to Cecil mock gasping, running his hands through the leftovers of the ingredients and cupping Venti’s cheeks with them, which then to Venti dusting the bottoms of Cecil’s braids with sugar, which then lead to Cecil packing up flour into a shape of a ball and mushing it against him, and—

The kitchen will need … cleaning, most certainly. As will they, the two of them sat on the floor, snickering and chortling, nearly covered head to toe in contents and components.

Despite this, the pie tastes delicious, Venti thinks to himself, offering another piece of the pie pierced through a fork to Cecil, for him to bite and eat.

[chronically-ghosted]

ladyknightthebrave came out with a new video on Black Sails, which means it was time for my annual rewatch of Treasure Planet (I'm Still Here got me sobbing AGAIN if anyone wants to know) but now I gotta ask:

[pumpkinrootbeer]

All of Revenge of the Sith, summarized:

Obi-Wan: I love and trust you, Anakin.

Anakin: No <3

Mace: Obi-Wan trusts you, Anakin.

Anakin: Opinion discared because Ive classified you as against me. Please forward my previous email to Yoda and get back to me about that council seat at your earliest possible convenience.

Yoda: mmm be a master, you will never be mmmm. melt steal beams, jet fuel cannot. mmmm. ignore that second thing I said, obi-wan cares very deeply abt you and are you still available tuesday at 6 for your next therapy session?

Anakin: Read✓ at 19:01

Padme: Obi-Wan loves and trusts you, Anakin. Just like I do.

Anakin: Not very gamer of you to not inherently validate my internal belief system :/

Palpatine: Obi-Wan hates ur loser ass lol. not like me tho I'm cool and always validate your internal beliefs (normal)

Anakin: I always knew he hated me, you're the only one willing to tell me the truth. thank God I never have to reevaluate my beliefs with you and don't have take any uncomfortable looks at my wants and desires. phew almost had to do some personal growth and acknowledge some things about myself thank God i avoided that

[sukugo]

This idea is eating my brain. Sukuna being a shameless insatiable freak towards Gojo and an in-denial thirsty freak towards Itadori.

He wants Gojo. He pursues him without relent. Sukuna wants to wreck the man and paint him red all over. He wants to taste his heart and know if he is as sweet as the desserts he gorges himself full with.

Sukuna wants to pry Gojo open and eat him out clean. He wants to climb over him and crawl inside of him. Their bodies becoming one and no one can ever tell where Sukuna start and Gojo ends anymore.

Sukuna desires that more than anything.

But he cannot understand why he sees himself doing it in the body of the brat that once caged him.

Instead of imagining his own four arms bringing Gojo towards his end begging and moaning for mercy he would never receive, Sukuna fancies it to be that of the annoying mouthy fool.

Clumsy hands and eager fingers. Unable to control the strength they possess that they break Gojo in. Cracking bones. Shattering spirits.

Gojo will be quivering. The brat will whimpering. Sukuna will be feasting.

The sweetness of their despair and richness of their blood sit heavy on his tongue. Salty tears spilling from confusion and frustration just makes his mouth water for more.

But what Sukuna craves more from their joining in his fantasy, was the forbidden taste of desire for the impossible and unthinkable - desecration of something sacred and twisting of kindness so profound.

Sukuna wants Gojo through the Brat. It is driving him insane.

SCREAAAAAAAMINGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG

SHIT THAT'S SOOOOO GOOD OH MY GOD. AND SO SO SO CORRECT

it's a mix of his desire to break yuuji (derogatorily) and break satoru (affectionately) and it mixes up into this absolute mess of feelings for all of them involved and fuuuuuccckkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk

[twentyonefirstmates]

Just looked at the digital remains again and oh my god why are we not talking more about the original lyrics to backslide

If I were to backslide, tell everyone we know

Thanks for the last time they came out

...

Why did I not thank you more, saving me those other times

(Don't you dare jump in)

...

I'd rather you hurt me, than do nothing at all

I'd rather you let me down, than just gas me up

I'd rather you cuse me, than do nothing at all

...

You won't make a sound, pick someone else I won't be around

Trapped inside your smile, don't put me on trial

Don't you see you take, everything from me