#I am rotting from the inside out in real time and I can do nothing but watch the decay and pretend to find beauty in it

[the-muppet-joker]

How are you?

I am doing the best I can given the circumstances! (Horse dead, scammed thousands, got bald)

[killerpancakeburger]

Breaking point (2/2)

SUMMARY: Civilian!Reader, who works as Price's assistant, has a breakdown at work. Soap+Ghost help the best they can. Hurt/comfort. Can be read as platonic or romantic. Gender Neutral Reader.

PAIRINGS: Soap x GN!Reader

Ghost's version (1/2) Soap's part 2. Soap's part 3.

TAGS: Hurt/comfort. Military inaccuracies (I make shit up for the sake of the plot). Soap is tooth-rotting sweet.

WARNINGS: Mention of relative in the hospital, suicide ideation, depressive thoughts, swearing.

WORD COUNT: 4.3k

A/N: Very self-indulgent, Reader is going through it and so am I. 🙃Soap is Prince Fucking Charming (very cliché romance tropes). Yours truly suggest to listen to "Strong For Somebody Else" by Citizen Soldier to set the mood. (Song includes suicide ideation and depressive thoughts too, so listen at your own risk).

This bad good boy gave me a harder time than expected lol.

After ending the call, you put down your phone on your desk in a daze, hand shaking.

The news you’ve just been told cannot be real. Life could not possibly be that cruel. What did I do to deserve this? you wonder helplessly. It’s like every time you get back up, life knocks you down again, sending you tumbling on the cold, hard ground.

Clenching your fists, you stare into space, a thousand thoughts disorderly swirling inside your brain, all bursting with anguish, until a burning tear running down your cheek brings you back to the present. You’re at work, your boss is in the next room; a breakdown is a luxury you cannot afford right now. Better bite your tongue hard enough to draw blood than be caught sobbing. 

Inhaling a shaky breath, you take your head between your hands, shoving your fingers into your hair, trying to convince yourself to postpone your nervous collapse. Only one hour left, and you’ll be free to cry your eyes out at your flat. Or on the way home, even. It’s not like the other passengers ever paid you attention the other times you’ve cried on the bus.

But somehow your attempts have the opposite effect, and more tears roll down your face, staining the papers beneath it. As you furiously wipe your face with your sleeve, with a blend of frustration and despair, pissed at yourself, and wanting to get rid of the evidence of your fragile state as fast as possible, the unmistakable sound of your office’s door opening makes you look up.

Of freaking course of all bloody people that could have walked in on you, it had to be Soap fucking Mactavish. Only the most gorgeous man on base - according to you, that is.

You weren't proud of it, but you had a crush on him since you arrived, six months ago. His piercing cerulean eyes, rugged good looks and outgoing personality wouldn’t let you know peace. The mere sight of him was enough to bring a goofy smile to your face, and every conversation between the two of you left you blushing and elated.

You initially thought that this silly, juvenile infatuation would fade away soon enough. Ok, he was beautiful, and he had eyes to damn yourself for, so what? Surely with enough time and exposure, he'd feel mundane. But things didn’t go that way at all.

On top of looking stunning, he just had to be friendly. He made you feel welcome when you arrived. He made efforts to include you in conversations, asking questions to get to know you. He relieved you of the burden of small talk, appeasing your social anxiety, by happily keeping the conversation going on his own, never taking offense when you had nothing to say. He chose to spend some of his free time with you, escorting you back from the archives or dropping by your office.

He was even flirty at times. Flirty. With you.

You could have still disregarded all this; tell yourself he was like this with everyone, that it was just his personality; imagining things would only end up with you hurt in the end.

But then, during a meeting, you witnessed his sincere concern for civilian lives. His righteous anger against unjust orders, when you had fully expected a soldier to obey mindlessly.

This had been your undoing; the moment you knew you were a goner. A severe fondness for him had sunk its claws deep inside your chest and had no intent to let go. It didn’t mean you had any intention to declare your feelings though; you never entertained the thought that he could return them, therefore there was no need for any confession.

For him to be the one to have caught you in this state, it was downright humiliating. Especially since his good heart would make him feel obligated to care.

He was still wearing his leather, fingerless gloves, and some dirt lingered on the contour of his face, like he tossed his weapons and his flak jacket to the side right out of the heli bringing him back to base, and rushed here.

“Hiya hen, brought you the- Shite, what happened?”

His booming voice and cheerful tone fade away as his eyes widen with concern. He briefly freezes at the door in shock before closing the distance to your desk with great strides. You lower your eyes in shame, avoiding his gaze.

“Nothing. Nothing happened. Everything's fine.”

“No offense, bonnie, but yer not very good at lying.”

You bit your lip, forcing yourself to look at him. Staring at your own lap is only going to make you seem more suspicious.

You grit your teeth and lie some more, trying to sound carefree.

“It's nothing, really. I'm just being a crybaby.”

Crybaby.

Soap turns the word over in his mind, unconvinced.

He still remembers that one time when you showed up thirty minutes late to a meeting with the Task Force, panting, leaning on the threshold, the front of your clothes soaked in blood.

 “Sorry I’m late,” you started.

“‘Sorry’ isn’t going to cut it,” Price interrupted before laying eyes on you. “Bloody hell, what happened to you?”

You explained how Private what's-his-name bled out in the break room after carelessly reopening his stitches and you had to stop the hemorrhage with your bare hands and a bunch of paper towels while shouting yourself hoarse for help. Yet when Price ordered you to take the rest of the day off, you insisted on going on as usual, forcing their captain to make it clear that it wasn’t a mere suggestion.

You and him had a different definition of “crybaby”.

Clinging to what's familiar, you focus on the stack of papers under his arm.

“You have the latest reports? Give it here.”

You hold out your hand expectantly. Instead of giving them to you, he sets them down on the opposite side of your desk, out of your reach.

“Paperwork can wait.”

You blink in astonishment at him.

“No it cannot…?”

You roll your eyes at his behavior and get up to seize the reports, but he snatches them from you. You can feel your composure snap like a twig.

“Johnny, what the hell?!” you yell, throwing your hands in the air.

You could remember exactly the first time you called him Johnny, only because it had been such an embarrassment. You couldn’t get used to his alias; sure you had been warned beforehand that some of them were… original, but somehow "Soap" was the one that stood out as the most ridiculous. You briefly entertained the idea of using his first name, except that for you “John” already referred to Captain Price. Only once you tried to call him Mr Mactavish, and as a result Gaz and him guffawed so hard they almost fell off their chairs. Even Ghost let out a cough that was most definitely a concealed laugh. You were running out of options until you heard the lieutenant call him Johnny; you instantly liked it. It just… fitted him. 

From that moment on you used the nickname, but only in your mind. You didn’t have any of the liberties Ghost had and you wouldn’t take them, out of respect, and shyness. Or at least this had been the plan until you fumbled and called him that to his face. The ensuing silence felt deafening as you were realizing what you’ve just done, and you apologized immediately, mortified. 

He just laughed it off; said you could keep calling him that. True, he had appeared more surprised than irritated, but you didn’t want to take the risk of him simply being polite. This too, had been your plan, until he ruined it merily. 

Somehow he must have noticed your efforts to not slip up again because he teased you about it. 

“Not Johnny today? Did ah dae something wrong?”

You went back to “Johnny” quickly - anything to put an end to the mischievous glint in his eye and the rascally smirk on his lips aimed at you. Being the target of his undivided attention sent a pang in your chest and knots in your stomach. Those sensations weren't exactly unpleasant, but it led to an ominous feeling that this was too good to be true, and that at any second this vision would shatter to reveal the cruel reality; so you'd just grant him a timid smile to confirm he did amuse you, but then proceed to look away.

It's the first time you’re pronouncing “Johnny” with anger; real, raw annoyance, as well as animosity, instead of the fond frustration you usually display when he messes around.

To your utter disbelief, he smiles in response to your outburst. 

“There we go, talk tae me. Even if it’s just tae scream at me.”

The remark pacifies you instantly; you lower your arms, defeated.

“I'm not gonna… I don't want to scream at you.”

You sigh and sit back, setting down your elbows on your desk to take your head between your hands, overburdened.

“The hell you want me to tell you? That my mom's on the brink of death out of nowhere? That when she's gone I'll be all alone in this world?”

You swear, aggravated, as tears sting your eyes again, and this time you ignore if you'll be capable of holding back the flood.

Nevertheless you can still hear Soap curse under his breath, Scottish accent growing thicker, before moving to get on your side of the desk, to reach you, dispensing soft-spoken, soothing words along the way. You pivot to face him, your burning eyes and the sensation of dried tears on your face making you painfully aware that you must look as pathetic as you feel.

Your eyes widen in surprise when you see him kneeling at your feet. His hands reach for your face, slowly enough to give you time to back away if you wanted to.

“A'm sorry, ah didnae mean tae mak' ye cry, a'm a bloody eejit. …Can I?”

His fingers stopped a breath away from your tear-stained cheeks. 

At that exact moment you can’t quite believe what he's about to do, yet you nod your head in agreement - not trusting your voice to not break - all the same, the gaping void in your chest aching for any kind of contact he'd be willing to provide.

His warm fingers cup your cheeks as the pad of his thumbs gently, almost reverently, wipe the underside of your eyes.

“There we go,” he cajoles, meticulously drying any wet spot on your skin.

“A'm ‘ere whether ye want tae talk or not, aye? A'm not going anywhere.”

You stare at him in silence, thunderstruck by the scene unfolding in front of you. Never in your wildest dreams you would have expected to have this man at your feet. He sets his hands down on your knees, squeezing them softly, and is looking right at you, encouraging smile and tender gaze, reassurance radiating from his expression. The position allows you to greedily take in every little detail: the white line of the scar on his chin, the breathtaking shades of blue in his eyes, the gap in his left eyebrow.

As you lose yourself into the work of art that are his features, he keeps conversing.

“We should take yer mind aff things. We could play board games in tha rec room. Or ye could let aff some steam wi’ tha punching bag in tha training room! Ah could teach ye how tae shoot on tha shooting range-”

You open your eyes wide as his suggestions turn progressively more violent.

“I have a bus to catch, and that's overlooking the fact that I haven't done anything in my last hour of work today…”

“If anyone gives you trouble, just say ah forced you.”

You chuckle at the idea.

“You'd never compel me to do anything.”

You can’t repress a loving smile. Johnny just feels that safe to you.

He smirks mischievously at that.

“Na, but they'll believe ah dragged ye intae mah evil schemes.”

He punctuates his statement by a roguish wink that wrests a laughter from you.

“You should take my bed,” he declares suddenly, serious again.

As the silence between you two stretches and your smile is replaced by a mix of shock, confusion, and worry, he realizes how this may sound. Flustered, he starts rambling to defuse the situation.

“Wait, no- steamin’ jesus - Ah didnae mean it like that! I’d take the couch in the rec room, ‘f course. Ye shouldn't go through tonight alone.” 

“Oh my god, Johnny, I could never take your bed from you. You must already sleep on the floor so often for missions…” 

“Exactly, hen. This is nothing for me. The couch is a hotel compared to that.”

You open your mouth to argue more, but then he makes an expression that can only be described as sad puppy eyes, even going as far as slightly tilting his head to the side to perfect the impression. You gulp in response, stricken straight through the heart, and knowing pertinently that you could already hardly refuse him anything, so if he begins to gaze at you like that… 

“Pretty please?” 

Oh no. Not that line.

He's now excessively batting his eyelashes at you, which, while not exactly alluring, is both comical and endearing. Hell, who are you even kidding? You’re so smitten with this blue-eyed creature, is there any act from him you wouldn’t find endearing?

“Are you… pouting?” 

“Depends. Is it working?”

You sigh, aware it's a losing battle, and look away, a futile attempt to hide the ridiculously potent effect he has on you, or to at least shield yourself from his influence, if only momentarily.

“I think you know the answer to that.”

“Maybe ah just wantae hear ye say aye tae me.”

Your cheeks catch fire at the suggestiveness of the words. As if the regular rasp of his voice, that felt like an exquisite caress along your spine, wasn’t already making it incredibly difficult to keep your face at a reasonnable temperature.

“You're gonna get me fired, Johnny.”

“Over my dead body,” he retorted with surprising determination, solemnly pressing a hand over his heart.

You scoff indulgently. Coming from anyone else, the hastily taken oath would be preposterous, but Soap has always proved himself trustworthy.

“Let's go. Your knees must be sore,” you mumble, trying to sound casual.

“Wanna make a joke aboot mah stamina when kneeling but ah will keep it fur next time,” he slips as he stands up, way too smugly for your own good, so you pretend you didn’t hear anything. As if you needed any more incitement into picturing him on his knees in a different context. 

You get up quickly after, but he does not get out of your way. You rise a quizzical eyebrow, his close proximity triggering alarm bells inside your head. If he remains near enough for you to feel his body heat, you’re going to get dizzy.

He simply grins.

“Want a hug?”

You blink at the unexpected question. Yes, implores your touchstarved mind. YES, cries out your sensitive, enamored heart. 

No way, rebuffs your cautious brain. It will only hurt more knowing what you  can’t have.

He opens his muscled arms, smile genuine, almost blinding, like a tacit invitation, and all your reluctance seems to evaporate with that simple gesture. Before you can linger any more on the harmful consequences this lack of restraint will eventually cause, you throw yourself into his embrace. It feels like falling and flying all at once.

Your hands close on the back of his shirt, near his shoulder blades, and, pressing your face into his shoulder to make the world disappear for a moment, you cling to him like he could rescue you from the sinking ship that was your sick mind. One of his arms close around your waist while his free hand rubs your back, leaving trails of fire in its wake, but bringing you much-appreciated comfort nonetheless.

“You're too nice to me. I feel like I'm taking advantage of your kindness.”

He remains silent a drawn-out second, and you're terrified you just screwed everything up.

“Yer givin me too much credit, lass “ he finally says. “Ah don't go ‘round base comforting every person I find.”

His tone isn’t angry, per se, but it lacks its previous joviality.

Soap tilts his head back, biting his lips, thanking the universe that with your face laying against his chest, you can’t perceive his embarrassment.

He can’t tell you. Not yet. Not now.

He can’t tell you that he used to consider writing reports as the worst part of the job until you came along; until you awarded him a heartfelt, radiant smile when he gave you his; that he noticed how little you smiled outside of artificial ones you fabricate for work purposes; that when he manages to make you smile or laugh genuinely, it feels like a prize, that only he is privy to.

Months ago, he took the resolve to make you smile more; for a while now he started doing his reports more seriously, or even did the ones of Gaz and Ghost, just to have an excuse to see you, to behold the way your face lightens up when he brings you necessary paperwork before you even demand it.

And he certainly can’t tell you about that one time where he handed over his reports in advance, but you weren't there, so he left, heart heavy with disappointment, dragging his feet, until he heard your voice coming from the room he just left.

“What are those?” you questionned your coworker.

“Soap just dropped them.”

“But… I didn't even ask him to yet?”

Perplexity combines with glee in your voice.

“He's a good boy, isn’t he?” prompted your colleague.

You let out a fond, wistful sigh, before responding, half-joking.

“I know! Such a good boy for me.”

Getting to hear you beaming over his benevolent action was already a treat, but witnessing that compromising exchange? To be called a “good boy” by you short-circuited him. He swore - “Steamin jesus” -, ears burning, face on fire, covering it with one hand. He needed to leave badly. Seek refuge in his room, where he could be free to replay that tantalizing line on loop in his mind. “Such a good boy for me.”

Your heart beats a bit faster than usual as you obediently follow Soap through corridors you’ve never been in before. You trust him with all your heart, but that doesn't change the fact that what you’re doing is against the rules; and those rules aren't high school's, but the ones of a military base.

You flinch hard as a familiar voice screams in your direction.

“SERGEANT MACTAVISH!”

Oops, you think. That's Captain Price, your supervisor, and he sounds pissed. You never witnessed him calling Soap by his last name before, but that being said, you never saw him deal with a kidnapped assistant either.

You've been caught red-handed. 

Your mind begins to come up with plans to lessen the punishments that are without doubt about to descend upon you two, but Johnny grabbing your hand brings you back to reality. 

You lift your gaze to him. He doesn't seem worried at all, if anything… is that a spark of delight in his eye?

He only pronounces one word.

“Run.”

So you run, carried away half by adrenaline, and half by the sergeant dragging you. Thankfully Soap is aware that there's no way you can keep up with him and his training, so he comes to a halt a minute later.

Panting hard, you double over, hands clenching your knees for support, heart thumping in your chest, blood throbbing in your ears.

“Why… are we… running…!?” you manage to exhale. “It's only… gonna make… things worse…”

By your side, he's standing fresh as a daisy, barely ruffled by your flight. The sight would be infuriating if his eyes weren't glinting with amusement and he wasn’t offering you a dazzling smile.

“Because it's fun,” he affirms like it's evident.

Little by little, you catch your breath, throwing Johnny a look that's half in earnest, half in jest.

“More fun for you than for me.”

He doesn't get flustered by your moderate reprimand.

“Is it selfish o' me tae wantae spend more time wi' ye? Didnae want us tae git interrupted yet.”

The line feels like a punch to the chest, stealing the breath you just recovered and leaving you agape.

He takes your hand again with the natural of a well earned habit.

“C'm'on, ah have more than one trick up mah sleeve.”

You're unsure which of the views unfurling under your eyes is the most magnificent; the sunset in front of you that's painting the sky in shades of pink and orange, or the striking man by your side whose eyes could rival the most astounding sights.

Nibbling on the dinner Soap smuggled out of the cafeteria with too much ease for it to be his first time, you regularly sneak glances at him as he fills the silence with tales of his adventures - the parts that aren't top secret, at least. You two totally did not break onto the roof moments ago, no sir.

Goosebumps travel along your arms and any exposed skin as the night falls and the sun takes away the warmth with him. You furiously brush the outside of your arms for heat, and you're about to suggest finishing this inside, when a jacket lands on your shoulders.

It is still warm with his owner's bodyheat, deliciously so. You curl up and drag it closer, your face on fire. Realizing that Soap gave you his jacket without you even having to ask or complain about the cold… you’re conflicted between obsessing over this like a giggling schoolgirl, and feeling apologetic.

Once you more or less got your blushing under control, you turn to him, displaying a contrite expression.

“I don't want to take your jacket on top of your bed, Johnny.” you pout.

“A'm a bloody furnace. Wanna check?”

He asks, cheekily, even adding a wink for good measure. As if there was any more artifice needed to make you putty in his hands.

He presents you his bare arm for the taking, all golden skin, bulging muscles and a constellation of white scars.

You indulge him and lay a hand on his bicep, knowing he won't relent otherwise; that is definitly the only reason; it has absolutely nothing to do with your own desires.

Indeed, he's burning. As you envy and bask in the heat provided by his body, forgetting that your touch is lingering too long for someone who is just a coworker, he chooses that moment to flex shamelessly, showing off the impressive circumference of his muscle. You feel obligated to squeeze it in response, a way to finally meet him head-on instead of passively enduring his quips, and it feels like reinforced concrete under your fingers.

You fail to hold back your laughter at his facetious demeanor. 

“You're ridiculous.”

The comment holds no bite, a smile brimming with tenderness stretching your lips.

“I'll be the most ridiculous man on the planet if it makes you laugh.”

He's leaning back, hands propped on the ground behind him, head slightly tilted to gaze at you, and the earnestness on his face could almost make you believe his words.

Almost.

But instead a sharp pang pierces your chest, right between your lungs, at heart's level. The smile you return him in spite of yourself oscillates between content and heartbroken, before opting for the latter. 

Tomorrow you will ask him, maybe even plead; tomorrow you'll ask him to put an end to the flirting. You cannot bear it. 

But just tonight, you'll indulge it. You'll pretend to be normal, a well-adjusted human being, instead of a broken shell; you'll act like an adult for who flirting is a regular event and not the mental equivalent of a nuclear bomb.

You abruptly stand up, dusting yourself off, purposely ignoring the newfound lack of understanding on Soap's face and how his mouth opened for a question.

“It's getting late,” you state, not nearly as casually as you'd like. “I'm beat!”

You're running away and you know it; but you never claimed to be brave. Really, it is the best solution for everyone involved, or at least it's how it has always seemed to be your whole life.

He escorts you to his room - of course he does. Even if he already picked up his things earlier to crash on the couch, already showed the place to you.

As you awkwardly face him on the doorstep after saying your goodbyes and your thanks, unable to look away yet incapable of making eye contact, pain flares in your torso thinking of him, somehow intertwined with joy and gratefulness for his existence. Maybe your inner struggle shows on your face because next thing you know, he cups your cheek, forcing you to look up, but as the deranged idea that he's about to kiss you manifests in a remote corner of your mind, your brain swiftly shuts off as his lips make contact with your forehead.

The touch is light yet your entire being seems gathered on that point of contact.

“G'night, bonnie,” he half-whispers, as if to make sure his words exist only for you.

He grants you one last smile, small but so sweet you feel your heart tightens.

“Good night, Johnny,” you manage to articulate before sheltering in his bedroom. The room smells like him.

The moment the door shuts behind you, you rest against it, tilting your head back, letting out a deep sigh. Morbid curiosity pushes you to glance in the adjacent bathroom's mirror, if only to see what you look after this evening. A flustered mess? A sorrowful wreck?

Catching your reflection's eye makes you grimace as you realize an incriminating detail.

You forgot to give Soap his jacket back.

[eldritch-spouse]

Someone who gets locked up by Stitches and is delighted… until they realise what a sop Patches is and bully him when they realise he’s not like his other side

[Going from Headless Horseman to Premature E-Jack-O'-Lantern. 😔]

TW: Ball busting; Mild humiliation

He was convinced it was something Stitches did.

It must be, right?

You seemed... Vaguely excited when Patches scurried over to tend to you. After all, it was your first day in his care, he knows Stitches wasn't caring enough to put the blankets in your cage before he shoved you inside. You must be sore! Hungry! Thirsty! All those things he hardly feels anymore.

And yet, the more he tried to interact with you, tend to you with all the love you deserve, the more your frown deepened. You looked at him like he was some sort of gross abomination.

Which... Fair, he supposes. He's far from pretty.

What in the Hell did you do to her?!

He inwardly asked, receiving the mental equivalent of a disinterested shrug from his faraway other.

Patches shakes slightly, deciding he should prod now that he's ordered something for you to eat.

It's not even that you look particularly afraid. That's not what's causing you to reject him. You seem confused and disappointed by something. By him, possibly. And that's eating a hole into his rotted heart.

The dullahan sits in front of your cage, plate on one hand, while the other unlocks the door with a key that he pulls out of his own socket. You make no real movements, only continuing to gaze at him quizzically.

The plate, containing a sandwich, natural juice, and some variety of cracker, is slid towards you almost fearfully. It's as if he's the one terrorized, undead heart jumpstarting in a green chest only to return to its atrophied slouch.

" ... What happened to you? "

Probably the longest thing you've said to the monster thus far, he perks up, even with the sneer wrinkling your face.

" W- What do you mean? " He's been scratching his arm for a while. The skin would have rashed if he was alive.

You squint, leaning in. " Last night you swooped me onto a horse by the ass, brought me to this shithole to torment and- and... " He notes the way you gulp. " Fuck with me, toss me in this ratty cage! But today you can barely look me in the eyes?! "

" I- That... That wasn't exactly me. "

Patches nearly wrings his fingers apart from the way you drop your head into your hands and mutter some type of obscenity. This isn't easy to explain, but deep down, it's not you knowing about it that he's truly afraid of.

" Shut the f- "

" I'm being serious. " Patches attempts to get your attention with your name. " Ever since I died, I have shared this body with him. The moon beckons him out, and I have no control over what happens until daylight breaks. We're different people, I'm sure you've noticed that. "

A moment of silence unfurls where he assumes you're processing the information, taking a bite out of the rather generous sandwich. Surely, you must believe him. Him and Stitches are fundamentally different in the way they act, let alone their physical mannerisms. His head shifts, Stitches has no eye-lights, let alone the ability to speak normally!

The silence is suffocating.

" I didn't plan our first meeting like this. He got impatient. But you don't have to be scared, I'm here now and things will be better- "

" So, I'm stuck with you now? "

Patches can't read your face anymore. It instills a dread in him that might have stolen a living person's breath.

" Am I not better than him? "

Nothing could convince him you actually want Stitches around you for more than five minutes.

You swallow another mouthful of bread, cheese and ham. " You're pathetic. "

Maybe another monster in his place would have lost their cool. They might have snapped at you, rattled you out of your cage and ripped away the food you've just been offered. If nothing else, they'd feel offended and hurt.

Patches has heard those words one too many times to feel anything but a mild sense of shame. It figures you'd say them too. The undead still hates the part of himself that makes magic settle on his cheeks, pooling there in a buzz of disgusting approval. He is pathetic.

" Don't... Say that. " The smallest whisper there ever was.

Something like a huff of irritation leaves you. The monster watches you slide away the plate, coming closer to the cage's entrance.

" Let me out. "

Alarm bells chime through the undead's timidity, causing him to further crowd you in. " I can't do that yet, firefly, you're not in the right mind. "

" I don't care, move. "

He never expected you to be this confrontational. Patches had seen much of your behavior when he stalked around the places you frequently visit, even your home. He'd catalog you and your attitudes, drawing patterns between them and assembling what he thought was a mostly accurate portrait of your person, the faces you put on throughout life. None of it made him infer that you'd be this brave in such a situation, but then again, you never truly know until you corner someone.

Some part of his higher thought process shuts off when your arms land on his chest. He registers you pushing, trying to get him out of your way. A pointless effort. Not because you can't force him back, but rather because you're trapped in a bigger trap- The entirety of The Clergy's Eye. Patches can't seem to care in the moment however, suddenly taken by the smell of you this close, the way your hair looks so soft. He relishes the warmth of such simple contact and pretends, for just a second, that you're reaching out, instead of shoving.

" You- You really should finish your meal, you're disoriented- "

" Fucking move! "

There's a harsher shove, he's now holding onto the cage's bars, panic written all over that gourd face.

" Please just eat- "

" No! "

" Please... "

Finally, with a harsh pound of fists against his chest, you manage to make the dullahan tumble onto his back. The impact does not cause Patches any pain, he simply offers a wide-eyed gawk when you loom. Disheveled, you're a sight of wonders for the monster, irritation and something mischievous brewing on that pretty pretty face.

" Or what? " You mock. " Will you just cry 'please' like a baby? Please don't, please eat- How annoying. "

The undead sputters, newfound sparks of arousal not allowing him to keep up.

" Man, this is just sad. At least the other guy had a spine. "

That does get him slightly agitated. " ... Stitches will hurt you. "

" Stitches? " There's a pause. " What is that, like a clown name? "

The undead blinks, stupefied when you merely move to stand atop him, feet to either side of his midsection. Although you're clothed in the same pants and shirt with which you were taken last night, the fabrics themselves have sustained all manner of scrapes and tears, revealing strips of bare skin that Patches studies with far too much attention. He longs for nothing more than your contact right now. You're so close too, between a hug and a kick, does it truly differ?

The door is right there, to a dark hall which would take you to an elevator. Sure, it's warded shut, but you'd never know that. The fact that you haven't made a break for it yet is fascinating to Patches. In this moment, you are as much the love of his undeath as you a most interesting specimen.

" Matter of fact, what even is your name?! "

" Patches. " He murmurs, more focused on the swell of your thighs, how they slope and climb to the mounds on your chest, before reaching your complexion.

" Are you fucking serious right now? " Barely contained hysteria settles on your features, to which he really has no response.

Patches knows he had a name at some point, a real name. A name not uncommon in the country he hails from, with a meaning that he understood. The years blend together however, decades upon decades of his tired brain ruminating, neither him nor the other remember his name. Stitches never had a name to begin with. He doesn't even remember why he called himself Patches, why he called Stitches Stitches. Not that he ever felt his identity matters that much. If he spent his living years ridiculed and unrecognized, why should he care for that same recognition now that he's well past death? He could have called himself Peaches, for all he cares.

" N-No. "

A bark of laughter erupts from you. He'd call it jolly, if not for the fact that you're clearly caving to the stresses of your current predicament. Nevertheless, it's a melodic, entrancing sound that has him nearly melting further into the floor. Even your cruelty is so beautiful.

" I love you. " He babbles.

The words must have been hard to capture over your little episode, but you hear them well enough, freezing. The look of suspicion you cast down at him is as mildly offending as it is justified, really. He finds your demeaning smirk wobbling into something a little more genuine and bashful, for the shortest of moments, before you force it back on.

" Alright, get me out. This is ridiculous. "

" I can't, firefly. " He repeats, starting to get a bit comfortable under you. Enough to swoon. " You'll be by my side now. "

Silence.

" I- I promise it's not so bad in here. I'll give you everything you want, I just need you to know how much I love you. Th- "

He couldn't possibly have expected your next quip.

" Let me out or I'll grind your balls into a fine dust. "

From the intense challenge in your eyes to the sudden lift of a scuffed boot between his legs, there's no indication that you're bluffing. Nor is there any reflexive move from Patches to so much as shield his genitals, let alone scoot away.

In fact, the only thing the dullahan does is flush furiously, silently, expectantly almost, regarding you.

The meaning isn't lost on you, eyes widening. " Are- Oh my God, you fucking pervert, you actually want that?! "

" N- No no, I don't... " Even he recognizes that sounded pathetically weak.

The sole of your footwear applies the slightest amount of pressure to his pants, where he'd already began stiffening to attention. He whimpers, but much to your shock, only hastens his breath.

" What is actually wrong with you? "

Don't ask him questions you don't want the answer to.

" You know I'll still do it right? I'll make sure they never work again if you don't get me out of here right now. "

He allows the chuckle that had been tickling his throat to escape, giving you nothing short of a lovelorn lunatic's gaze.

You couldn't, even if you wanted, realistically damage him permanently. Patches has been mutilated and torn apart so often and so diversely, yet he'll always somehow end up back together. Never in your wildest dreams would you be able to conceive of genital trauma that would achieve such.

" Oh firefly, the things I've already gone through, you can try- "

Must have hit a nerve there, because you stomp his nuts hard enough to rip a throatful of a scream from the monster.

" -HHRRNG- "

He has to gasp, something typically useless to an undead, to help the pain pass through his body. The dullahan's legs tremble as he curls on himself like a dying bug, feeling his balls writhe in agony even as his cock swells to a full mast.

You're actually a tad stronger than he predicted, honestly.

" I'm sorry, you were saying? "

" Nothing- N-Nothing! "

A lazy foot nudges Patches onto his back again, and there's truly no concealing the pool of precum staining his pants. He's not just hard, he's pulsing. Then again, the way these encounters are so uncommon for Patches, he's surprised he hasn't come yet.

" Ew, really? Huh. "

You seem to be appraising what he has to offer, which makes the undead sweat magic down his forehead. Is he good enough for you?

" Pull it out. " The monster blinks. " Go on, I want to see how much you can take. "

He's not sure if it's the promise of further 'experimenting' from your part, or the half-amused look on your face, but he feels sick sort of happiness to be holding your attention thus far. You're not thinking about Stitches or leaving when you're hurting him, and that's good enough.

Patches does as told, pulling his clothes down to his knees. While his undead skin takes a lot longer to bruise, there's certainly an irritated tint to the area you just mercilessly smashed. His own somewhat veined cock twitches uselessly on his belly.

" P- Please go easy- "

" No. "

The next crash downward is so intense that he feels shudders of hot and cold race through his form, limbs spasming and head conking against the stone floor when you deliberately grind his balls to what he presumes must be a paste by now. In the throes of pain surge crests of pleasure he can't hope to contain, pulling an agonized moan from deep in the dullahan's chest. His vision falters and he rolls his hips into the oppressing force of your foot, a tremulous inhale following.

" Ssstop- Stop, I'll... "

" Come? " You snort. " Figures you're a little quickshot. I wonder if he's also into this. "

Stitches? No, Patches wouldn't bet on it.

He's not sure what compelled you, probably morbid curiosity, but you don't heed his warning. When the undead expected another stomp, he surprisingly feels a kick, the force of which having him spit dryly.

He twists on the floor, body tensing and contracting with a mixture of horribly intense stimulus that, embarrassingly, sends him over the edge. Patches orgasms hard, this cry somewhere between desperate sobbing and choked whimpering ringing across the walls while his poor cock pulses uselessly, making a mess of his own skin and clothes. He knows he was pent up, but he doesn't register that some of his release coated your boot.

In fact, Patches is too busy deflating on the floor to focus on much of anything, all but nearly purring when you casually wipe the shoe on his pants.

The dullahan melts into a one-sided afterglow, and although mortifying shame is slowly creeping up to him, he can't help but think this is an okay start. In spite of your rather vicious actions, he swears he spotted just the faintest hints of fond amusement in you. And if things continue this way, the undead is sure he can inspire love for him within you. He just needs to be persistent.

" Hey. "

You start, already a decent distance away from him. The dullahan shakes his head, and the fog of post-orgasmic painful bliss, finding you crouched in front of a large tube containing a half-formed bobble submerged by its growth solution.

You poke the glass.

" What's this weird thing? Come on, get up, show me around this dump. "

He may be lying on the cold floor, stained with his own cumshot and with sore balls, but he can't help the little smile on his face.

" Hhhn, in a minute. "

Yes, things might just end up fine.

[the-witty-pen-name]

Love is Blind Part 2

Eddie Munson x PlusSize!F!Reader

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, smut in later parts, reader has low self-esteem and struggles with self love/acceptance, anxiety/trauma related to bullying, tooth rot worthy fluff, Eddie being a major flirt, cursing, mentions of substance use

Summary: In a last ditch effort to evade the normal disappointments of dating, a group of misfits desperate to have someone see who they are on the inside volunteer for the most recent brain chemistry study at Hawkins Lab. 

Read Part One!

A/N: Thank you so much for reading, please let me know if you enjoyed! If ! forgot anything to include as a warning please let me know. Also, if you would like to be added to the taglist for this fic, just let me know!

Day Three:

Eddie is sitting on the couch upside down, his legs hanging over the backrest and his head dangling over the seat. He stares up at the makeshift ceiling above as he pretends to play the drums on his stomach. The overhead light is starting to make his eyes slightly water but he’s too comfortable to move.

You’ve told him your name and he’s been almost obnoxious with how much he’s using it in your conversation. He’s using any excuse to work it into the front or back of a lot of his sentences. It doesn’t bother you like you thought it would, and you actually love hearing him call you by your name. It helps create a sense of intimacy where you both obviously can’t have it. It makes you feel more real to him, makes you feel closer to him, reminding him that if he sticks this out he could actually see you, maybe even touch you…

“Do you worry about what’s going to happen when this thing ends?” you ask.

“I’m looking forward to it,” he replies, moving so he is sitting upright. You sound concerned, your voice sounding smaller. “I don’t want to talk through a wall anymore, I want to talk like actually in person- not like some lab rats.”

“Do you think about what I look like?” you ask cautiously, and Eddie shakes his head as he stands up to walk directly up against the wall. 

“Of course, I’d love to see you,” Eddie explains, “I haven’t actually thought so much about what you look like, I just want to see you. You know? We’ve talked for what- uh, 7 or 8 hours at this point? Which honestly- insanely small amount of time to get to know someone. But like think about it- average date is what? 2 hours, sometimes less. We’ve been on like 4 “normal length” dates in 3 days. And usually you know you like someone by then at least. And I know I like you, and I love talking to you- without seeing me you have made me feel seen. God, that was so fucking cheesy.” 

You feel the corners of your ears well with tears- a little overwhelmed from the affirmations and attention you are not used to receiving. You realize that you never once doubted you’d not like how Eddie looks, nor do you even care either. You don’t understand why your brain won’t let you accept the same could be true for the way Eddie thinks about you. 

“I feel the same way about you,” you respond, and Eddie pumps his fist in victory. “I’ve had so much I’ve needed to work through. I mean, still working through. I have a lot of trouble accepting the fact that someone could actually like me as I am right now. I’ve always had the thoughts of well, I need to change myself and once I’m more like this, then I’ll be attractive or whatever. But, when I’m here, talking with you, I’m not worried about it anymore. But I’m still worried about what it's going to look like when this whole ordeal is over and you actually see me, and I can’t hide behind the wall anymore. But here, when we’re talking, I feel like I can be completely myself with you and I’m scared of losing that. Cause I also really like you.” 

“I can promise you there is nothing about you that would make me not interested,” he reaffirms. “I mean, I already know that you’re pretty- inside and out so it isn’t going to change anything. Except… I’m hoping you’d let me kiss you if you aren’t completely repulsed by me that is. Ugh, I’m sorry. I sound like a pathetic 14 year old boy. But, you know what I mean. Fuck, this is torturous.”

Eddie beams when he hears your little laugh from the other side of the wall again. He wants to know if there’s anyway he can get out of the experiment early. He needs to touch you, pull you into him. He wants to hug you, and have you here sitting next to him- flush up against his side. He’s craving the small pieces of physical intimacy that would just satisfy this restlessness he’s feeling throughout his whole body. It’s like he’s experiencing withdrawals but for something he’s never even been allowed to taste. He wants to shower you with affection the second you let him. 

“So, what are you hoping for at the end of this?” You ask, snapping yourself out of your daze. In the little notebook they provided to everyone, you’ve caught yourself writing Eddie in different styles with little hearts. You snap the book closed, like you're worried he’s gonna see it or something. You roll your eyes at yourself, leaning back on the couch and putting one of the pillows up to your face, embarrassed. You’re so past the point of no return. 

He takes a deep breath, contemplating his answer. Wanting to be honest, but not so honest that he scares you away by moving too fast. Case closed: he just wants to get your number and ask you on real dates. There’s also wildly inappropriate things swirling around in his head, as he reminds himself of what he did last night. But, he’s not ready to admit that fantasy to you just yet. 

“It depends on how you’ll feel most comfortable,” he settled on. “But I’d love to take you on an actual date. Like a real one, not this weird shit anymore. We can sit and talk face to face, so I can stare at you and you can yell at me to cut it out. I want to make you feel special and attractive because you are and you deserve to be entirely spoiled and pampered. However that looks for you, I’m down. I just want to be near you. I’ll go at your pace.”

You were never the type to make the first move, ever. Which is also why you’re here in the first place. You have never had the courage to vocalize any sort of desire to a man like you have with Eddie. It’s been really thrilling, the way he’s been able to help you open up. You feel like you can share your thoughts on what you want physically and he won’t judge you or shame you. You decide to be blunt. 

“If it’s actually true, that you’re physically attracted to me when you see me for the first time,” you say, unable to control the way your whole body gets covered in goosebumps at the thought. “I don’t want you to hold back. Just whatever feels right to you in that moment, do it. Kiss me, touch me, I’m down for everything.”

“Everything?” 

“I want everything.” 

“Shit, sweetheart, you can’t just say that,” Eddie responds, sounding almost pained. He chuckles, “you’re a tease, you know that?” 

“I’m just being honest,” you respond, and Eddie can hear how you’re being coy. He loves it, he’s happy to hear you coming out of your shell. He’s excited to finally hear about this side of you. You’re slowly but surely peeling back your layers for him. 

“I want you to be more honest,” he flirts. “But Christ, it’s going to be a long week.” 

There were four more days to go before the big reveal. If any of the participants felt they had a connection to another- or fell in love, they’d submit their picks to the technicians and then the technicians would set-up the next phase of the experiment. Unfortunately, if this does happen, the first time you actually get to see Eddie, it’ll still be under surveillance, most likely monitoring heart rate and whatever else they’re looking for. It will feel clinical, which is so not ideal, but once it’s over- you and Eddie could walk out together and do whatever, go wherever. If he still is interested.

“So, um, what type of girls do you usually go for?” you ask, a slight twinge of insecurity working its way back to the front of your mind. 

“Um,” Eddie replies, letting out an exhale, “Alive.” He smiles when he hears a laugh from the other side of the wall. 

“No seriously,” you urge. “I’m curious.”

“I mean- I really don’t have a type,” he states honestly. “I’d like it if she's nice to me, but that’s not even a deal breaker,” he jokes. 

“You like girls being a little mean to you?” You flirt, raising an eyebrow playfully.

“I don’t think I’d hate it,” he grins. “Um, but seriously? I guess I want someone who likes some of the same stuff as me- or at least will put up with me talking about it. I want someone who I feel comfortable around and I’m not afraid to be myself.”

“What about like- appearance wise?” you ask tentatively.

“This feels like a question we shouldn’t be asking,” he taunts. You feel your face get hot. “I feel like if I tell you the truth you won’t believe me,” he answers. 

“Why’s that?” you ask, confused. 

“It feels like you're expecting me to say skinny, blonde and leggy or something, and if I say anything else you’re going to just think I’m lying,” he muses. Your eyes widen at how well he’s able to read you, and it’s mildly infuriating. 

“I think someone or maybe the world or whatever,” he continues, “has convinced you that you aren’t attractive and I really, truly think that isn’t the case at all. And baiting me to try to confirm that isn’t going to work because I can tell it’s a defense mechanism cause you’re afraid.” 

“Well darling,” he smirks, stepping as close as possible to the wall so you hear him clearly, “I’m not gonna let you get away with it. Because, talking to you is convincing me with each passing hour that I’m cooped up in this damn box that this experiment might actually work. I have not been able to think about anything else but getting back to talk to you when I’m not here. You’re desirable, I want you and you’re just gonna have to wrap your pretty little head around that.” 

Buzz

PART THREE

Taglist:

@woahnotmecryingoverafanfiction @ali-r3n @cherrycolas-things @hellfirebabe666 @trixyvixx @stardancerluv @i--wont-run-this-time

[autocat5876]

again, no real title other than more sebpainter! another surface au (owned by the lovely @feligayzed) fanfiction!

wordcount of 2.8k (whoops), more of a hurt/comfort thing this time around. please enjoy! i had a lovely time writing this

The first few weeks back on the surface were the toughest for Sebastian. Everything was new, despite how much he wished it wouldn’t. His body, despite being close to what it used to be, wasn’t all perfect, and the world had changed fast in the years he was gone. 

So- once he was finally released from the medical hell that proceeded leaving… there- Sebastian found himself locking up in his bedroom for days on end. It was small enough that he didn’t have to move around much to get from place to place, a welcome relief to his now-aching body (would it always be like that? He hoped not).

He knew it was unhealthy, but he didn’t really care. He didn’t want to be outside, and the outside probably didn’t want him either. After all, he wasn’t fit to be part of the public anymore. He’d missed so many years of humanity to know what was relevant and what wasn’t anymore, not to mention he barely looked “human” anymore. The patches of scales itched and constantly caught his hair (which, itself, was a mess he never had the energy to fix), and the missing finger on each hand weren’t doing any favours either.

But, that was all he could really do with the shitty hand life chose to give him. And he’d much rather rot away alone than deal with returning to the world anyways.

-

Sebastian had been holed up in his room for a while now, p.AI.nter noted. It was the same thing every day. He wouldn’t even come out to get food or water, leading to the bot needing to bring it to him itself. As much as it knew Sebastian needed time to adjust, this seemed a bit… much.

Steeling its nerves, it walked up to the door Sebastian had been hiding behind. With a huff of its fans, it knocked, soft as to not startle him.

“Sebastian? It’s… well, you know who I am… Um- can I come in?”

The air was silent for a long while, to the point p.AI.nter almost thought he had fallen asleep, which wasn’t uncommon these days. He never got rest back at Urbanshade, and it was almost like his body was trying to catch up on the sleep he missed.

Right before the bot could turn to leave, it heard shuffling coming from inside. Cusses mixed with ruffling fabric and clicks against the wood floor as Sebastian made his way to the door. It opened a crack, bright blue eyes peering out at p.AI.nter. Nothing moved, before the door creaked open enough for it to enter.

Not wasting a single moment, p.AI.nter stepped into the room and shut the door. As to be expected, the interior was… well, it was a mess. Dishes and silverware piled up on top of an old dresser, clothes strewn about on the floor to the point that the wooden boards were barely visible. Leaning against the nearby wall was Sebastian’s walker, which he seemed to have a sort of vendetta against with how much he hated to use it. His bed took up the majority of the room, the sheets ruffled up presumably from him dragging himself out of it. The curtains were drawn closed, bathing the room in a dull orange light from the thin fabric.

Turning to face the man himself, p.AI.nter could see Sebastian was in no better condition than his bedroom. Messy and knotted hair framed his face, but the rats-nest couldn’t cover the heavy bags under his eyes. His clothes were all too loose for him, the faded band tee looking more like a dress than anything else, and his shorts were baggy and barely held up by the drawstring. One hand grasped his cane for dear life, the other gripping the nearest dresser edge to hold him up.

“Well? What do you want?” Sebastian’s voice was rough and low- from disuse, p.AI.nter presumed (did he really talk that little anymore? p.AI.nter didn’t want to believe it).

p.AI.nter shook itself out of its thoughts. “Right! You’ve been pent up here for… a while-” A scoff slipped from the other, it chose to ignore it.  “-so I was thinking you… came out and got some air? Just out on the porch.”

“No.” His answer was immediate. The mattress squeaked as he sat back down on its edge, hissing at the soreness of bending his knees again.

Another huff of p.AI.nter’s fans. “Come on, how long’s it been since you had any fresh air?”

“I open the window from time to time.” Sebastian looked away, mumbling. A quick glance at the windowsill showed it was covered in dust from disuse.

“Sebastian, please?”

“I said I’m not doing it.”

The room fell into silence for a long time. p.AI.nter didn’t want to give up this easily, but it couldn’t think of anything that would work. That is, unless…

“If you do it, I’ll do whatever you ask. One request of any kind..?” It was a bad offer, it knew that much, but maybe it was enough to convince Sebastian.

Again, silence. p.AI.nter fidgeted nervously in place, looking anywhere but Sebastian.

“Paint my nails.”

The reply jolted p.AI.nter out of its thoughts. It turned back to Sebastian, meeting his gaze.

“That’s… That’s it?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know that ‘anything’ didn’t include everything.”

The bot quickly jumped into motion, waving its hands in front of itself. “No, no! If that’s what you want then that’s what I’ll do.”

Sebastian just hummed, the sound resonating in p.AI.nter’s system. Gosh, his voice was so nice to listen to sometimes… it shook its head. It couldn’t be thinking like that right now.

“Stay right here. I’ll be right back!”

-

Sebastian was going to regret this, he felt it in his bones (alongside that constant dull pain, the hope that it wasn’t permanent was beginning to fade). Outside meant people could see him, and people seeing him meant… he didn’t want to think about it.

He didn’t get up from the mattress, waiting for p.AI.nter to return. It had run out of the room nearly as soon as he agreed. He looked around as he sat, his gaze hardening as his eyes landed on the walker leaning against the wall. 

It wasn’t that he hated the object itself, but the thing it represents instead. How he couldn’t even function properly like how he did before. Before they came and took him for no good reason, ripped him apart and put him back together, and-

The door creaking open pulled Sebastian from his thoughts. In the doorway was p.AI.nter, with a hairbrush and towel in hand.

“I know we aren’t going to be outside much, but I thought you’d maybe like to clean up a bit before we did?”

Sebastian didn’t move, letting p.AI.nter do what it wanted. Despite how he acted, he was glad his companion still cared for him.

The bot took a seat behind him, crossing its legs as it reached out for his hair. Sebastian jolted as soon as he felt fingers brush up against his hair, tensing up in fear. He couldn’t let anything touch him, if he did then he’d be brought back, stuck in that too-small cell-

Again, p.AI.nter pulled him out of his thoughts (how does it keep doing that, he wonders?) with a soft, “Sorry!”

“It’s… It’s fine. Just don’t do that again.”

p.AI.nter slowly made its way off the bed, leaving what it brought in next to Sebastian.

“Here… if you want to clean up. I’ll wait outside.”

-

p.AI.nter groaned, holding its screen in its hands as it sat down in the hallway outside. Of course it had to mess this up. It was trying to make Sebastian more comfortable, and all it did was make him more upset.

It sat alone for a while, its self-pity party broken only by the door opening. Peeking through its fingers, it could see Sebastian carefully shuffling out of his bedroom. His hair was carefully combed (although still messy, that would never change) and his face was washed off. Still in his faded shirt and shorts, he was careful with one hand on his cane and the other on the doorframe.

“Hey…” p.AI.nter stood, but it didn’t approach Sebastian again. 

“Hi. Let’s get this over with.”

The bot nodded, walking alongside him, still not touching. Their pace was agonizingly slow down the hallway to the front door, but p.AI.nter didn’t mind the time. 

Sebastian on the other hand, very much minded. Under his breath he mumbled curses and words of anger at his situation. p.AI.nter couldn’t help but feel bad, but it still didn’t act on it. It didn’t want to upset him again.

After what felt like nothing to p.AI.nter and everything to Sebastian, they made it to the door outside. p.AI.nter turned to the other, its eyes looking everywhere but him.

“Ready?”

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s go.”

The door opened with a small squeak, and the front room was bathed in the afternoon sunlight. A gentle breeze ghosted through the grass and leaves, filling the air with a quiet white noise.

p.AI.nter was the first to step outside, a smile quick to be drawn on its screen. It had been so long since it had really seen the outside world. It never got the chance to just sit outside and enjoy it, something was always filling that time instead.

It took a seat on the first step of the stone stairs leading up to the entry, patiently waiting for Sebastian to join it. He did, after a moment. A quiet groan escaped his lips as he lowered down to sit. p.AI.nter said nothing, just returned to looking around.

Thanks to the calm conditions of the day, the other people in the neighbourhood were also out and about, either in their own yards or walking the sidewalks. The sight softened the bot’s expression. They were all so peaceful, it thought. Nothing threatening their safety, nothing dull in colour, no one trying to rip them from their family and trap them in a lone cell, force them to do mindless tasks for god knows how long… p.AI.nter shook its head. It shouldn’t be thinking like that anymore. It was safe, they both were.

p.AI.nter didn’t even realize how much time they spent outside until its gaze again landed on the man next to it. He was shaking, his grip on the handle of his cane tight enough to turn his knuckles a sickly white.

“Sebastian?” It said nervously. “You’re shaking…”

He didn’t turn to look at p.AI.nter, still staring straight ahead. “Can we go?” He managed to croak out, the last words dying off into wisps of air.

Something was seriously wrong. p.AI.nter stood, nodding. “Yeah- Yeah, of course we can. Let’s… let’s get you inside now.”

It stood, Sebastian slowly following its actions. His return inside was much faster than p.AI.nter expected, its heart lurching at the sight. He was forcing himself to speed up to go inside, probably hurting himself in the process. All because of some dumb idea it had…

The walk back to Sebastian’s room was silent, save for the clink of metal on the wood-panelled floors. p.AI.nter opened the bedroom door, letting him in as it followed behind. Sebastian made a straight beeline to his bed, burrowing under the blankets and hiding his whole body under them.

p.AI.nter said nothing, instead it just took a seat on the edge of the bed to watch over the lump under the covers.

- 

Sebastian hid. Hid from the sunlight (it was too bright), the breeze (the chill it sent down his spine was very unwelcome), the people (they were so loud and they kept staring oh god they wouldn’t stop-). So he stayed under the blankets of his bed, where he knew it was safe.

It was darker out when he finally peeked his head out, his gaze landing on the bot sitting nearby. It had left the edge of the bed hours ago, now sitting against the wall opposite of the bed. It was clearly lost in drawing, the screen displaying a bright landscape instead of the usually messy eyes and grin.

“What are you drawing?” He asked, his voice filling the room with something more than just cooling fans.

The sudden sound caused p.AI.nter to jump in place, a large, accidental brushstroke covering its artwork. It quickly undid the mistake and saved the file, returning to its face. 

“Ah- nothing. Just the usual…”

The room again fell into an awkward silence, neither of the two wanting to look at each other. Sebastian looked down at his hands clutching the edge of the blankets, the promise from earlier in the day resurfacing in his mind.

“You know, you still owe me that promise. Nail painting, remember?” He didn’t look up as he spoke.

The only sound that came from the bot was the near-silent movement of its joints as it stood. 

“What colour?”

“Black.”

It only nodded, leaving yet again to find where it kept its real paints.

-

p.AI.nter found itself sitting back on the mattress of the bed within minutes of leaving, right across from Sebastian. Next to it was a small palette, a small dollop of black paint on it (though the orange light from the sunset and old curtains made it look strangely different). In its hand was the thinnest brush it could find. 

Truthfully, it didn’t really know what it was doing. It had never painted nails before, but it assumed it couldn’t have been much different than actual painting- much to its joy, it was right.

In order to try and make Sebastian a bit more comfortable, it began to play a local radio station from its speakers. It kept the music quiet to focus, but it was loud enough to be audible. 

Sebastian didn’t say anything, but before long he was softly humming along to the tune of a song p.AI.nter didn’t recognize. Both looked down at his nails as they were all carefully covered in a thin coat of black paint.

They stayed like that for a long while, even after p.AI.nter was done with the nails. The paint needed to dry, after all.

The music was cut off with an exhale of p.AI.nter’s fans. It took a moment to collect its words. “Sebastian, listen,” It began. “I’m so sorry for today. I didn’t mean to make you feel so upset.”

p.AI.nter waited nervously for a reply. It wasn’t expecting for Sebastian to magically forgive it of everything it did, but it hoped he wouldn’t be pissed at it either.

“...It’s fine. I know you didn’t mean to. I probably shouldn't have freaked out on you like that either.”

It looked up at Sebastian, eyes widening. “No- you shouldn’t be apologizing here!” Its volume raised slightly. “You had said you didn’t want and I basically forced you out and I even made you upset before everything and-”

“p.AI.nter.” His voice cut through its nervous ramblings. He sounded annoyed, but it knew better than to assume that’s how he really felt. “You said you’re sorry, I said it’s fine. That’s all, alright?” 

“...Yeah, alright.”

Sebastian hesitated, before looking up and meeting p.AI.nter’s gaze. “Besides, I got a free manicure out of it, didn’t I?” 

p.AI.nter couldn’t help the laugh it let out, quiet and glitchy. “I guess that’s a pretty good plus side to this whole thing.”

The room fell into another silence, but this one was much more comfortable than before. Dusk turned to night, the only light in the room the dimmed screen of p.AI.nter’s face. It stuck around as Sebastian slipped back under the blankets, sitting comfortably at the foot of the bed to continue its scene from before. It tentatively hit redo on the accidental brush stroke from before. Maybe it could find a way to work that mistake into the landscape…

-

Sleep came quickly for Sebastian as he curled up beneath soft blankets. He kept his hands above the covers, careful to not nick them. Taking another glance at the black paint, a dumb grin grew on his face. By no means were they perfect, but to him they were everything. He shut his eyes, listening carefully to the soft droning of p.AI.nter’s fans. And if that night was the best sleep he had in years, he never admitted it.

[beybaldes]

I love to love to love to love you

summer sleepover masterlist

roy kent x gn!reader

summary : "i think i might be falling for you" *laugh* “good one” requested by anon

content warning : allusions to smut but non written

an : fake dating brain rot is real and I am it’s number 1 sufferer

“I think I might be falling for you.”

Roy Kent had promised you nothing about this was real. He’d promised you it so often, in fact, that you sometimes found yourself saying it under your breath like a mantra.

This isn’t real. He doesn’t really love you. All of this is for show.

And now here he was, in your kitchen at 3 am, the two of you back from yet another charity event where you’d spent the whole evening all over each other, claiming that he had genuine feelings for you.

He was breaking your heart and he didn’t even know it.

The press loved the two of you together; absolutely ate it up. Which, unfortunately for your poor heart, meant every public interaction the two of you shared was filled with handholding and kisses, him holding you almost too close and too tightly. You couldn’t escape him; even behind closed doors when it was just the two of you, it seemed.

Maybe he did really like you like that.

This isn’t real. He doesn’t really love you. All of this is for show.

The only reason the two of you were together was because it was convenient. Roy had reminded you so plenty of times. The press focused more on your relationship then they did on your individual careers nowadays; meaning Roy’s knee and soon-to-end career was glossed over and no one bothered you with stupid ‘why didn’t you book this role in x,y or z’ in every interview.

You couldn’t stop the laugh that slipped past your lips. “Good one, Roy.” You took another sip of the tea you’d made the both of you, knowing that Roy would need time to calm down before he’d be able to sleep after a night out. “But we both know that’s not true.”

“How can it not be true if I’m outright telling you?”

This isn’t real. He doesn’t really love you. All of this is for show.

“Because you’ve made it very clear that non of this is real and that fake dating me is convenient.”

Roy reached for your hand across the counter top, keeping the other wrapped around the mug of tea you’d made up for him. Since the two of you had started fake dating, the orange shark mug had essentially become Roy’s - it being the only one he’d use when he found himself in your kitchen, which was more often then not. “That was then. Now, though, it, this, it’s different.”

“How?”

“I don’t know, it just fucking is.” Roy placed his mug back down with a thud, ignoring the way the tea inside spilled over the lip and onto the counter top. “You just- I don’t- you’ve got me all fucked inside and I can’t even think straight around you anymore.” Roy scoffed, harshly pulling at his tie so it hung loose around his neck as he walked around the counter, straight towards you until you were trapped between his chest and the edge of the counter. “It’s fucking stupid.”

“You’re fucking stupid.” You countered, not giving him the opportunity to respond as you grabbed his tie, yanking his lips to yours in the most passionate, messy kiss the two of you had shared so far. The kisses you’d so far shared with Roy had never escalated past a quick peck, enough to appease the press and keep up your appearance as a couple in love, but now, his tongue had pushed past your lips, his hands had moved to under your thighs and prompted you to jump, aiding him in getting you onto the counter top. “You really like me? Like, for real?”

“Of course I fucking do.” Roy pressed another kiss to your lips, not pulling away until you were practically clawing at his shirt, trying your hardest to pry the buttons open for your own sake of sanity. “How can I prove it to you?”

“I can think of a few ways.”

[chouxsardine]

Permission to Fall -- Jake Kiszka x reader

Summary: "Don't be afraid of falling, because he will catch you everytime" --Where things became too much at your company's Christmas party and Jake comes to the rescue as the most thoughtful boyfriend that he is.

Pairing: Jake Kiszka x reader

Word Count: 3211

Warnings: descriptions of a panic attack, feet (nothing gross or super detailed), a drop of superstition (let me know if I've missed any)

Genre: Fluff, hurt/comfort

Author's note: This is originally an idea inspired by @jakesguitarsolo and written for her. I hope you feel better now, dear. One idea spins into me pulling an all nighter...And here it is. This also goes to whoever feels stressed around this time of the year. Yes, things are tough, but you are stronger. I am so proud of you. If you want to talk, feel free to send me an ask or message. This is my first gvf fic and my first time writing anything for threes years. I really enjoyed writing it. I hope you enjoy reading it too.

🎧: I am listening to I Need You Most of All by Stephen Sanchez while writing this (you can tell the title is taken from the lyrics)

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Suddenly everything is too much.

But you know damn well that it doesn’t just happen “suddenly”. In fact, shit has been building up for days, or even weeks. You don’t know if it’s the end-of-year frenzy getting into everyone’s head, Mercury is in retrograde, or the depleted Vitamin D levels due to shortened daylight, you’ve had it particularly rough recently, from small inconveniences like your favourite snack being out of stock at the local grocery store for three consecutive weeks to mishaps like you taking the blame for your impotent coworker. You are exhausted, to say the least; you couldn’t wait for the holidays. Not entirely for its cheer, but for the few precious days off. You just need a break from everything.

Now you are stuck in your company’s holiday party. The annual event that you dreaded the most. It involves too many fake smiles, false-hearted small talk, and tooth-rotting-sweet cupcakes that clearly have too much food colouring. All the mental preparing goes south as you stand in the room, the stabbing pain from your high-heels growing more and more unbearable by the second. Too many people.

“Just another thirty minutes, you can do it. Just another thirty minutes”. You hopelessly glance at the clock on the wall, flashbacking to your childhood self squirming in the seats waiting for math class to end.

But of course, something has to make matters worse. The real straw that breaks the camel’s back is your clumsy coworker accidentally bumping into you and spilling her drink on your shoes.

“Oh my god, I am so so sorry, y/n!” She hastily apologizes in a high-pitched squeal. A few people turn their heads toward your direction.

“No, no, it’s okay, don’t worry about it.” Embarrassment. Embarrassment. Panic. Trouble. You try to wave her off. The shoes aren’t even your top concerns right now; you just want her to stop talking and stop attracting more unwanted attention.

“Really? Oh I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to! It’s just—”

“Please.” You take the handful of tissues from her, look her in the eyes, almost pleading, “It’s fine. Please excuse me, I’ll just go to the washroom real quick.”

Once the washroom door is closed behind you, you feel like collapsing right there on the floor. You wobble your way to the sink, arms propped up on the cold marble surface. You don’t dare to look at yourself in the mirror. Your ears are buzzing and the twisted feeling in your lungs tightens. As if a cold hand is wringing a wet towel inside your stomach, as if someone is shoving your head into cold water, you can't breath properly. You try to draw a breath, but end up sounding like a stranded whale. Before it develops into a full-blown panic attack that you can’t handle, you managed to muster the last bit of your sanity and dial that number with trembling fingers.

Jake picks up on the second ring.

“Hi, love. What’s up? ”

Upon hearing his voice, your tears break free. You are sobbing so hard that you have to bite down on your knuckles to keep the volume down. God forbid any busybody out there overhearing sobbing coming out of the washroom. “Ja—Jake—-”You struggled to form a coherent syllable.

“What’s wrong, y/n? Are you hurt?” His voice immediately grows sterner, stripped of of the previous languidness.

To talk under this state feels like squeezing words out of your veins. “Ca—can—you..come p—pick me up? Company—p-party.” You stutter through gritted teeth.

There is some shuffled noise over the phone, a loud bang sounding like he had bumped into something, a silent “fuck” under his breath, then his voice reaches your ears again: “Coming right now, baby, take a deep breath for me.”

You hear the faint beeping of car keys. More shuffled noise. More beeping. That means he has started the car, right? That means he will be here soon, right? You mind is racing and spinning and your lungs are still acting up, only allow silvers of oxygen into your body. You feel like you are watching the world through a distorted filter. A scarier thought jumps into your brain: you whiny puny thing, continue crying and your panic will affect Jake. The roads are slippery now, and it will be all your fault if he ends up in a car accident.

As if being slapped in the face, you manage to suck in a deep breath like a scuba diver resurfacing to the water: “Drive safe please, please Jake, please—I will wait for you.”

Jake makes a sound that is somewhat between a relieved laugh and a resigned sigh. He knows instantly what’s going on in your overthinking brain; you are worried about him. The thoughtfulness must be engraved in y/n’s brain, he thought, always, always putting others in front of herself, even when she’s having a panic attack. And Jake knows you are correct. It is only upon hearing your words that he realizes how hard he was gripping the steering wheel. He recomposes himself, relaxing his shoulder, “Don’t you worry about me, love. I will stay on the phone if that makes you feel better, yeah? Ain’t nothing gonna happen to me.”

“Knock on wood!” You hiss between sobbing, frantically searching for any wooden material around you. Damn it, why is everything so shiny and glassy?

Jake is amazed that he even lets out a short laugh under the circumstances. Yes, his heart aches hearing his girl being a mess over the phone, and he wishes he could grow wings and fly to her side. But meanwhile, he can't help but find you cute like this. He knocks three times on the mini wooden tissue box that he keeps in the middle console.

“Yes, knock on wood. You hear that, doll?”

“Hmm.” You would honestly believe anything now. Hearing Jake’s voice and imagining him coming to you is like brown noise for babies. Your lungs finally decide to have mercy on you, and you can now somehow draw in shallow breaths albeit the pain in your chest.

Jake is relieved as he sees the green lights shining at the last intersection before turning left onto the side road where your company is located. “I’m here. Can you come down by yourself, love? Or do you want me to get you?”

“I can come down.” You say. The thought of him finding you in a messy pile on the bathroom floor makes you wince, even though he’d probably seen worse.

“Okay baby, see you in a second.”

You don’t remember how you collected your coat and pushed your way through the crowded room without many people noticing. The next moment, your sensations are restored, and you find yourself already in Jake’s arms. He's waiting for you in the area between the automatic glass door and the revolving door outside, a place that is warm with air conditioning but won’t attract nosy people. He wraps you in a hug with his wool jacket. His comforting scent fills your nostrils, a powerful pacifier for your naughty lungs. For the first time this evening, you can finally breathe properly like a normal human being. The rush of fresh air makes you release a loud sob like a newborn baby. The relief of seeing him safely standing in front of you and the release of finally being free from the stressful and stuffy environment ushers more tears to stream down your face.

“Shhhh…..you’re okay now, y/n, safe now. I’m here.” His hand wraps protectively around the back of your head as he plants kisses into your hair. “Poor girl, let’s get to the car and go home.”

Home. Home sounds heavenly to your right now. You couldn’t think of a better combination of these four letters in the whole of human history.

On the way back, you curl into a ball on the passenger seat like a battered puppy. Jake holds your hand whenever he gets the chance, his strong calloused fingers gently massaging yours, tracing the patterns on your palm, his thumb brushing the back of your hand, providing warmth. No longer crying, your shoulders occasionally shudder with involuntary sobs that escape you. But other than that, you are falling into a trance. Your gaze concentrated on Jake’s perfect side profile through hooded eyes, watching in awe as the passing streetlights formed patterns of shadow on his graceful nose and cheeks; your mind numb without a single thought.

It is only when Jake wakes you up that you realize you have fallen asleep. The car is already parked in the garage, the familiar and comforting damp smell seeping in.

“We are home now, sleepyhead.” Jake smiles at you, tapping on your wrist to signal you to wait as he gets out of the car and opens your side of the door. Just as you were about to step off, Jake reaches to cradle you by the shoulders and knees, carrying you bridle-style into the house. You hide your face shyly in the crook of his neck, secretly grateful because your feet are indeed sore in those heels.

Jake puts you down by the shoe rack, motioning you to put your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself as he squats down in front you, holding your ankles and taking off your shoes. If he did see the stains, he didn’t ask any questions, only cooed when he saw the blisters on your heels.

“Let’s go upstairs and get your makeup off, then we’ll cuddle and go to bed, yeah?” Jake stands up, hanging up your coat before cupping your cheeks and placing a kiss on your forehead.

You never hated makeup more than now, regretting to put it on in the first place, now that it has become the annoying barrier lying in your way to bedtime. But Jake says “let’s,” that means he’s going to do it together with you, right?

“Jake?” You whine bashfully.

“Yes, love?”

You tilt up your chin and close your eyes, “One more kissy, please?”

Jake swears he feels a part of his heart melt right there. Who is he to deny you?

“Of course, as many as my princess would like.”

Stepping into the bathroom, Jake sits you on the closed toilet seat. He opens the drawer, grabs your makeup remover and some cotton pads. He applies some liquid onto the wipes and lifts up your chin.

“Close your eyes for me, love.” The cool liquid on your eyelids makes your eyebrows twitch, causing Jake to chuckle, “I know, I know. Just a little longer.”

You sit quietly, mesmerized and hypnotized under his touch. His movements are almost rhythmic. Is this how cats feel when their owners scratches behind their ears? You fear that if you make a sound, you will actually let out a purr.

Jake continues until most of your makeup is gone. “Hold out your hands,” you hear him say and complied. Two dollops of foamy liquid landed in the centre of your palm, and you opened your eyes to recognize they are your face wash. Jake tugs on your wrist, leading you to stand in front of the sink.

“Can you wash your pretty face now, darling? Wash up, and I’ll be back in a minute.”

You nodded, feeling lighter and more relaxed now without your makeup and even more content when you turn on the tap and find out that Jake has already tuned it to a lukewarm temperature for you.

When Jake returned, he was calling you from the bedroom. You have already brushed your teeth and let down your hair.

You walked into the bedroom and are welcomed by the scent of bergamot and sandalwood from your favourite candle glowing on the night stand. Jake was pulling an old T-shirt out from the closet. It was the vintage Joan Jett and The Blackhearts shirt, the patterns half faded, and materials worn-out soft. You saw him laying out one of his boxers for you too. He knows you always prefer them to your own underwear as pyjamas.

“Come sit, angel.” He patted the bench at the foot of the bed, him sitting across from it on a small stool.

It is only when you walked close that you saw the wooden foot spa basin, with clouds of steam rising from it. As you sat down, he gently took your ankle and balanced your feet on the edge of the basin, so that the hot water is steaming your sole.

“It’s still a bit hot.” He looks up to you. “I put Epsom salt and eucalyptus oil in it.”

“Where did you get this?” You feel like the heat from the bottom of the feet is slowly being absorbed into your veins and rising up to your cheeks. You wiggle your toes nervously.

Jake lets out a giggle, “Well, mum suggested once to Josh about the foot spa thing, said it helps with stress and tense muscles. You know, with him running barefoot on stage and all.” He reaches down to sprinkle some water onto your feet, letting you adjust to the temperature. “But Josh got the fancy electric ones. I thought this is better. More authentic, don’t you think?”

“Uh-hmm.”

“Your nails are all chipped,” Jake looks down, “maybe tomorrow we can repaint them? I saw you bought a new colour the other day.”

Tender. So tender. From his tone to his caramel brown eyes. The light from the lamp illuminates the left side of his face, giving it a solemn, smooth glow like a wax statue. Your heart swells; love makes it rise like Soufflé in the oven. The soft surface rises up until it touches your ribcage, threatening to spill those tears again.

“Thank you, Jake.” You dare not raise your voice, fearing that it will break, “I just got a bit overwhelmed at the party, is all.”

Jake eases your feet slowly into the water now that it’s the perfect temperature. The slight sling of your blisters is soon overwhelmed by the all-encompassing warmth that rises all the way to your ankle.

After a few heart beats, he speaks again. “You’ll always have me, y/n. You are allowed to fall, to break. I will be here to catch you, to piece you together. Whatever you need.”

Finally you were snuggled together in bed. You, a human koala, cling to Jake with your face pressed against his chest. His arm snakes around your shoulder, fingers mindlessly tracing your collarbone, strumming some unknown patterns. His heartbeat thumping in your ear, the perfect lullaby. The steady rise and fall of his chest is like waves, rocking you into a sweet slumber. Your eyelids feel heavy like velvet drapes. There’s still a stubborn voice in your brain keeping you from falling asleep. There’s still one more thing you need to do, even though you understood each other perfectly.

“Jake?” Your voice low like a murmur. Jake almost didn’t hear you at first.

“What is it, babe?”

“I love you.” Those words come out as a slur, and like a magic spell, you fall into the deep embrace of sleep as soon as the last syllable leaves your lips. Now clear of any stress and worries in the arms of your lover, the strained string in you brain that has been holding on for dear life the whole evening finally snaps. You’re out like a light.

“I love you back, y/n, through and through.” He whispers into your dream.

You woke up to an empty bed, the sheet on his side still has the human-shaped imprint. Jake is a night owl; it is pretty common that he just gets up in the middle of the night and ends up doing some random things around the house. Most often it’s him strumming the guitar and experimenting with his ideas for new tunes in the home studio downstairs. But you have also caught him fixing chipped paint on the walls, repotting the succulents in the garage, and pouring broth into the crockpot with chicken thighs and smoked ham hock (“so we could have warm chicken chili in the morning!”; to be honest, it’s indeed delicious; you had two bowls and had to skip lunch that day). Just to name a few, so the possibilities are endless.

You get out of bed, creep cross the corridor and tiptoe your way down the stairs. The lights at the doorway are on; you thought Jake forgot to turn them off. However, as you approach, you see Jake squatting down next to the shoe rack, his back towards you, and a brush and some spray bottles laying nearby.

You move closer and see him holding the clothes steamer near your wine-stained shoes. The heels you wore have a suede tip in the front, and unfortunately, that’s where the wine was mostly spilt on. After a few moments, Jake uses the wire brush to clean the surface. He stops from time to time, holding it further to inspect the result.

You waited until he stops again to make some sounds, announcing your presence. Jake immediately turns around. His eyes softens upon seeing you.

“What are you doing up?”

You go to squat down next to him, kissing his temple before resting your head on his shoulder.

“You just bought these not so long ago, yeah? It’d be a shame to leave them stained.” Jake lets more steam soak into the fabric before brushing them again. “I’m almost done. I saw this trick online, and it looks pretty legit.” It’s only then that you noticed his phone on the side, the screen showing the replies from some Reddit post.

“Thank you, baby.” You rub your cheeks slightly on his T-shirt; the feeling of warm pastry once again fills your heart.

“No worries, doll. I think it’s good for now. Let’s leave them here and check in the morning.” Jake starts putting away his tools before pulling you up and wrapping his arm around your waist, leading you back upstairs.

On your way, something familiar catches your eye. You must’ve missed it earlier.

“Wait, where did you get that?” You stop, pointing at what happens to be a whole case of your favourite snack lying on the kitchen counter.

“Oh, I saw the stores are out of them, so I ordered them online. They just arrived today.” Jake scratches his head, his tone tainted with slight disappointment.“I thought they’d be a nice surprise as stocking stuffers, but…”

You stopped him mid-sentence with a kiss.

“I love you.” This time you said it clear against his lips.

“Oh doll, I love you back,” he smiles, showing the cutest wrinkle on his nose. His hands brush your shoulder as you resume your steps upstairs. “Let’s get a few more hours of sleep now. And when you wake up, you will wake up to some yummy pancakes and a pair of stain-free shoes, huh? How does that sound?”

Oh Lord, that sounds heavenly. That sounds just like home.

“I’d like that, Jake. I’d like that very, very much.”

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Thank you for reading :) any comments and feedbacks are greatly welcomed and deeply appreciated

(The stain-removing tips comes from malccy72 on reddit :D

If you also feel like reading a smutty (but also fluffy?) piece🤭: Mariner's Complex || Love is a four-legged word || The Lucky Ones

or some Christmas fluff: Ticked (all my boxes)

[ravenclaws-stuff]

Hello, do you have applications open? Can I order a Shikamaru Nara x y/n uzumaki Naruto's younger sister who, along with Shikamaru, had been the only two to become chunin Y/n, unlike Naruto, hated all the adults in the village. One night she decided to desert but before leaving the village she was intercepted by Shikamaru who tried to stop her by trapping her in his shadow possession. Just before Shikamaru lost consciousness he whispered to him. It's problematic but I love you, please take care of Naruto leaving shikamaru asleep at the foot of a tree please along with a stormy reunion where this time Shikamaru beats him, yes please

The Other Uzumaki

Shikamaru Nara x Uzumaki!reader

Warning: Angst, Reader has a lot of hate inside her, Reader is a bitch to Shikamaru, redemption, swearing

A/n: I wrote this as if all the characters were older when Lady Tsunade became hokage. I know this is exactly what you asked for but I hope you like it.

A picture rests on the windowsill, the two six years olds playing in the field just east of the village. Iruka Sensei took us out for lunch. Told us it was good for us to get out of the village every once and a while,but even at the age of six, the real reason was to get us away from the rest of the village. The looks on their faces when we are just trying to buy food from the measley monthly allowance the Third Hokage gives. My jaw clenches as Iook out the window. Looking down at all the villagers walking around, laughing with each other.

I hate them. Each and every one of them. I hate Iruka Sensei for only choosing Naruto to care for. Lord Third for letting us rot in this apartment. The villagers for treating us the way they do for absolutely no reason. And our parents, whoever they were, for dying and leaving us behind.

Everyone has plans for the future. Naruto claims he will be the next Hokage and he is right. He will be make an excellent Hokage. But me, all I know is how to survive. That's it. I want to be a medic. Help and save everyone that I can save. Yet no one wants to teach me

I am alone. Always have been. Or at least I was until I found comfort in two people. Hinata Hyuga, who was always watching my brother, and Shikamaru Nara, the laziest ninja in the village.

Finally having enough, I pack my bag. This village as nothing to offer me. Being here will only drag me down. Naruto doesn’t need me anymore. He has his own team. Kakashi Sensei, Sakura, Sasuke, Iruka Sensei, and even Konohamaru. He had this whole family and yet I was alone. No team, no money, no hope. I take one final look over the apartment I have lived in for as long as I can remember. Pictures of Naruto and I fill the counters, ledges, and even his bedside table. A note from an old receipt laid next to freshly bought ramen, Naruto’s favorite, explaining why I had to leave. The door shuts softly, leaving the place I once called home. Taking a deep breath, I slip through the village as if I was a properly trained ninja.

“Where are you going?” Shikamaru asks, voice cold ashes steps out of the shadows of the forest. “Away.” His brow furrows taking a step forward. “Why? Where are you going?” I scoff, continuing down the path that leads out of the village. The shadows grow, trapping me to my spot in the forest. “Why are you leaving?” I wanted to turn to look at him, scream at him but the shadows left me trapped. “What is here for me? A village who despises every breath my brother and I take, enough money to only afford expired cup ramen,and what else? I am alone. Naruto finally has people who care for him. Me? I have no one.” Shikamaru steps forward, causing me to mirror his movements. “You have me.” He whispers, voice filled with emotions. “I’m sorry Shikamaru.” With a practiced burst of chakra, the shadows fall, releasing me from its prison. “It’s not enough to make everything else fade away.” I look up, taking note of every feature. The freckles dusted across his nose. The pale scar inches above his right eyebrow. “Goodbye Shikamaru.”

The village is vibrant. I don’t know whether its because of the spring and the blossoms are in bloom, or if its the time away that has made it so beautiful. Crowds actually cheering as we walk through the streets towards the Hokage tower. The village proudly welcoming the new fifth Hokage, Lady Tsunade.

After leaving the village, I ran into Lady Tsunade. Quite literally I was running from a shop keeper I had stolen from. Not much, just three apples. Luckily for me, she paid for everything and led me back to her hotel. Claimed I reminded her of someone she used to know. The next day, training started. Days turned into weeks, weeks tired into months, months turned into two years.

Until the two counterparts of the legendary sannin showed up, along with my brother. When we met in that bar, it was the first time since we were children I cried in his arms. It was the first night I felt complete in almost a decade.

Later that night, I sit alone in the apartment, that once was mine. It was different yet nothing has changed. My side sits as bare as the day I left. New pictures replaced the old ones. Older Naruto and even a photo of team 7. Dust filled the room from before Naruto left. Kages know that Naruto is practically impossible to clean house.

Shadows surround me, restraing me to the bed. “You’re back.” I smile, the voice that fills my dream. “Shikamaru.” His feet land on the floor with a soft thud. “You came back.” He repeated. “I did.” He hums, leaning against the counter. “Why?” My heart pounds from the bottom of my stomach to the top of my throat. “Well I’m sure you heard Lady Tsunade is becoming the Fifth Hokage.” He hums, straightening his back, small cracks following. “I heard something like that. Is that the only reason?” I smile softly, feeling the shadows start to waver. “Well Naruto practically begged me to come back on his knees. So there that.” Another hum, as he steps forward. “Anything else?” His voice deep and raspy. The shadows fall away completely, letting me stretch my joints. “Maybe. There was this guy.” Shikamaru hums, walking until he is just inches from me.”Yeah, he was pretty desperate, asking me to stay in this village just for him.” I tease, nudging his foot with mine. “Sounds pathetic.” He smirks, squatting. His hands rest on my knees. “No, not at all. I was a complete bitch to him. Told him he wasn’t enough.” His fingers tightened around thighs. “I was wrong. He would have been enough. He would have been so much more than enough. He would have made that horrible horrible village so much brighter. But I left.” My small pale hands cover his tan calloused hands. “I am so sorry.I shouldn’t… Shikamaru, I need you to know. You are more than worth it.” One hand cups his cheek. “You are my home. And if you will have me, even if it's just as a friend, I want to be with you.” Shikamaru’s onxy colored eyes search my face before sighing. “You are such a troublesome woman.” He leans in, breath mixing with mine. “Shika.” His lips are on mine, hands in my hair. It wasn’t just a quick peck either. It was a messy, teeth clashing kiss that leaves you breathless and craving more.

“Welcome home.” Shikamaru whispers, pressing a kiss to my forehead. I smile, looking up at him. My leg thrown over his waist as he listened to the tales of my lesson with Lady Tsunade. The sun rising in the world outside the window. His heart beat fills my ears, lulling me to sleep. I press a small kiss to his chest. “Home.”

[insufferable-prettyboy]

I want to talk about @mothercain 's body of work for a moment, specifically in relation to the profound affect it has had on me during the last few years. I don't really know if this is for anyone but myself, tumblr has always been a place I can just sort of throw things out into the void when I have nowhere else to say it, besides what is a tumblr blog but a place for yourself.

TW if you do read it i'm going to talk about uncomfortable and personal things so i guess don't if you don't want that. I suppose this is a review, maybe it's just a way for me to just talk about how important these pieces of art are.

I grew up in rural england, in a controlling home with an abusive christian mother and a very mentally ill atheist father, at Christmas we would go to rural wisconsin to see family. My only escapism was tumblr, porn and substances.

In 2018 my father died of an untreatable illness at the age of 47 and two days after the funeral I went into hospital for mtf gender reconstruction surgery. I was a little late to the party with the the discography and like many I didn't really know about it until Inbred. I have gone back and listened to the earlier works and they have been beautiful and touching, but the thing that makes Inbred, Preacher's Daughter and now Perverts so special to me is how they have shadowed my life as I have dragged myself through and back out of my downward spiral.

Inbred came to me at the worst part of my drug addiction. I had been using substances as a coping mechanism and was at the time still living as a woman. There was something that touched parts of me about the lyrics, the music, but most of all the way it seemed to take influences from everything I hold dear musically. Classic rock, The darker more introspective atmospheric black metal, the hymns i would sing in choir as a child in church. It reminded me of how i felt the first time I heard natural born losers. It made me feel ok to be fucked up and ok to be a mess, it made me feel like i wasn't a monster for wanting nothing more than to get fucked and be fucked up and then when I started to realise that I was in a bad place, it helped me through getting off drugs and moving out of the warehouse i lived in back into a real house. It's anthemic, there are songs that make you want to sing at the top of your lungs in the shower, or dance in the kitchen while you're cooking eggs.

I first listened to Preachers Daughter while riding home from work on my Harley, a bike which was the only thing I had gotten from my father's death, a consolation for mother refusing to let me have dad's bike in favour of it sitting and rotting in her garage. I'd gotten into a habit of listening to music while riding because the commute was boring and it stopped me riding like an idiot to make it more interesting. I had always been a very feminine boy prior to my transition and one of my major reasons for it was that I had always leant to that side of things. Post my surgery I had lost so much of myself that i had begun to dress as masculine as I possibly could in order to counteract the way my body was changing in a way that I hated, I couldn't look even look in the mirror.

When i heard western nights, and the words "He's never looked more beautiful, On his Harley in the parking lot" rattled around the inside of my helmet I pulled over to the side of the road and cried for the remainder of the album because I exactly in that moment realised that I had made a mistake with my transition, that I had listened to everyone else instead of myself and that I had tried so desperatley to push down who i was that it was easier to be a woman than it was to accept being a fem gay man. I have listened to that album regularly through my detransition period and it has been a friend to me as i've worked out how to love myself and push through this awful period of regression to find out who I really am and what my life looks like now. The landscape of the album reminds me of rural america, it reminds me of rural england, it is the essence of long open roads and sleazy dive bars and roadside diners in your own company. It's perfect to drive to, to lie in bed smoking to, to work on your motorcycle to, the tonality and instrumentation is a masterwork in minimalism and I cannot stress enough how hauntingly beautiful I find it.

I listened to Perverts for the first time today, I have been putting it off because I knew it would make me feel something. I knew it would awaken a feeling in me. It has been sat in the corner of my conciousness since it's release like the monster in the back of frame in a horror film. I don't know if I was ready to hear it but it was exactly what I needed to hear. Perverts has come into my life in a time post breaking up with my fiance of multiple years, where I am craving intimacy without love. A time where I have been trying to lift myself up and have been taken advantage of in my vunerable state and pushed back down again. Perverts it's a natural flow forwards in the body of work, it moves back and forth between being horribly uncomfortable to listen to, and being one of the most warm and comforting things I feel as though i've ever heard. There is a familiarity that has run through all of the releases as Ethel Cain, there is a warm sepia toned polaroid photo of a living room with a stained rug that sits in the background of all of these works in my head that feels very comfortable to lie on. The space that was there in the previous releases has on occasion been filled with harshness and repetition of pain, and sometimes allowed to breathe and bring comfort. I know that I will listen to perverts a lot this year, I know that it is a piece of art that will need to be heard multiple times to truly let it sit with you. On my first listen I couldn't even make it the whole way through without pausing it and taking a break, to me that is the hallmark of good art, It should make you feel deeply and loudly and aggressivley.

I don't know why i wrote this. I think more than anything, I felt a compulsion to. I needed to talk about how important and insane I feel having had these records hit me at such massive milestones in my life and be exactly what I needed.

If you haven't listen to these records, take some time, make some space and do it, I feel as though you will find something of yourself in there that maybe needs to be perceived. I guess this was more of a thank you note than anything else.

[katyspersonal]

To be honest, I don't know how to get genuinely and deeply invested in something that isn't a Soulsborne universe anymore. For me it just isn't a passing hyperfixation that can be possibly replaced with some other game, no matter how high quality or meeting my "checkmarks". The worst I do is stretch my attention span between several From's universes instead of hardlocking on just one, and I didn't even touch Sekiro with a ten yards stick yet!

But, I've found in these universes, stories and characters understanding that I've failed to find in the real world, from real people. I've always looked in art instead, I think even before any knowledge or retrospection I just always unconsciously could tell the world didn't want me. Wasted a lot of time and effort seeking comfort and understanding in other "rejects" only to be abused by them and then thrown away when they've found other people who liked them but without my glaring flaws.

But I feel "seen" with these games, like never else. I feel understood with my despair, my perspective on society and humanity, my questioning of existence, the dread, the conflict with self and world, the inevitability, the failure to come up with the decision that would solve everything forever, the wonder, the struggle, the dilemma between needing to know and better off not knowing, the cycles, the way society tries to get rid of what they fear, the distrust but hope too, the knowledge that to lose suffering is to lose happiness too but also the root of my suffering itself... it is everything. I can relate to so many characters. It understands not just me, but also humanity in general; the very humanity that never really spoke to me, but it is as if I can feel a part of it again. No wonder I sometimes fall for jealously guarding these stories and characters. It hurts when something so personal and important is grossly misunderstood and when they try to throw it into the same evil machine that has been grinding and spitting out art for over a decade now. I guess I have to hold myself back and remember that how others see it doesn't effect me personally.. except, it does when this misunderstanding of the source material leads them to be mean to me, my friends or just fans in general. And engaging and defending just will make you become this same bad thing; again, something From covered too (Abyss Watchers). I discovered hope; not because there is anything good realistically waiting for me in my life, but because From explained the concept to me coherently enough. From taught me more than any preachy posts on how to people, or my authorities, or even my parents.

I am nearing my 30s, I will soon lose even attempts to be loved and understood. I won't ever hear things like "I wish I could hug you" again, I will enter the territory of "emotionally stunted adult" everyone loathe and fear. Though what does it matter if I was condemned my whole life anyways, they will merely switch their weapon. And I will never change. What happened to me long ago was akin to being forced to grow inside of an egg long past the point of hatching, so now I hatched as a small and malformed version of an adult animal and will die fast and unaccomplished. And I at least found these games to understand me.

Only, they won't last long either. I know corporative brainrot is coming for them too, I know Miyazaki won't be able to protect their principles and quality for the rest of my feeble uneventful life. How do I know that? From's games taught me that nothing good lasts forever, it all must die and will rot horrendously if it isn't allowed to. Art as well. But I also can at least deal with it in advance, I accept deaths of concepts and things I cherish easier too. I still hope that I'll come up with my own world eventually, and that I'll also kill it before it rots.

[ratlesshonret]

Gonna post lyrics from each song on Alice's playlist that I think really fit her.

String Theocracy "Down, down, and down I go I tell myself I'm a tough girl Down, down, and down I go I could never, ever, ever touch the soil"

Rosetta "Lonely, lonely Come back to me Rosetta No one, nowhere, nothing Will take anything, anything, anything from me Nobody, nobody, nobody ever Nobody, nobody, nobody other than you"

Lagtrain "Wheeze through the night, as my lungs burn inside As I fake through the day that never subsides If I can't call to mind all the words or the lines I'll try to ride the train wherever it will go tonight"

"The wind will cut to bits the world below Please leave me be, don't go The words I couldn't call to mind It's fine if you just let them be If that would mean that you would stay with me Just like the train I need-"

Hero "I fall down the horseback with my crippled legs And then it starts to rain, showing me it's all fake Raindrops wash down the facade, hills are painted Birdies are robotic, roses are made of clay Excitement that I feel, excitement that I feel Return them to the shelf 'cause now I understand Heroes cannot be real, heroes cannot be real I wasn't who I am, I don't know who I am"

Sustain++ "Hear me out, it's a perfect plan If you'd just SHUT UP SHUT UP Then maybe you'll see what I've endured now Hear me out It's all just sunk cost, I know But I'm not ready to stop I don't wanna stop"

Float Play "My feet in sight that feeling flies, and it floats high And somewhere deep inside, I feel I've been confined My nervous self I cannot hide Please take it somewhere out of mind"

"I really was bored in time Connecting ties that bind There's really no need to try Explaining to anyone outside my mind This feeling that can almost be drawn any way If I don't have what it takes to make it stay Then I'm a victim from today"

Cerebrite "Take my hand Spin and spin, forget all your worries Spin and spin, forget your identity Step on my shoulders Do you see the new lovely, lonely, empty, heavenly world? Captivating, hypnotizing, fascinating utopia"

Rainy Boots The entire song lmao

Lost Umbrella "Leaving soon, pleading with you Right before the rain will soak me through They can still try to kill me while I have no view And there's nothing at all I can do Letting go never came My hands stay dripping with rain Never gained a sense of things I had to face What I'd end up dropping some day"

"I'm only passing time and numbing my hands with ice And I don't like that sweet I never tried From deep inside I turn my eyes From the sight of the mess I find outside Please just take me away, any place To a place in which a flower never fades Within my brain, never knowing what's sane Now I hear just how my heart breaks"

Grown-Up's Paradise "Do you recall? We couldn't wait to become adults We dreamed, we grew And now we are stuck In a grown-up's hellish paradise (I'm down on my knees, carrying our sins)"

Process "Remember when we're young? Even if we're as fair and fair can be Not everyone gets a cookie All along, as the time goes on The river flowing between us has widened the gap"

Holy and Darkness 1 "Maybe you're right I'm not calmed down Afternoon marble tea remedy The dreams they told that you're willing to let go I hold up behind parasitical Pride and ignorance feast upon your ego Below the earth's soil, please let me rot"

[beevean]

I'm not very sure of this one. Perhaps because this is the culmination of Hector finally becoming the Hector we all know and love, and I can only hope I made him justice :)

“He changed. Or perhaps that had always been his true nature, and he lied to me from the start. I don’t think it matters anymore. I only knew that I had trapped myself, and I couldn’t take it anymore: I had to do something.”

“And what did you do?”

“I gained power.”

When the blind beggar had his sight healed by Christ, did he rejoice, or was he overwhelmed by a harsh world previously out of his reach? Did he ever miss the comfort of the darkness?

How Hector wished he could close his eyes again and wander in the castle only led by his loyalty! But Lord Dracula had pried them open, and now everything was so scarily crisp.

His home, the only place that had welcomed him and protected him and allowed him to exist, was nothing more than a cushy cage where he had let himself rot. His Lord was a small, petty man, consumed by hatred and poison, who cloaked himself in the misery of others just so he could feel anything. Respect was no longer the reason for which Hector couldn’t look at him in the eye.

It couldn’t be him. That monster wearing his Lord’s face couldn’t be the same man who had raised him, always with a smile and a word of encouragement. But the scars that adorned his body spoke louder than his fading memories. No… Hector knew better now: the monster had always worn a mask, and his praises were nothing more than a spider web, and stupid, childish Hector got tangled in it. Part of him missed the light jolt in his chest when Lord Dracula spoke to him, when he smiled that gentle smile that even touched his eyes, but there was no turning back his head anymore.

And Isaac! Isaac, his best friend, the first one who saw something in Hector beyond his curse, what had happened to him? He was no longer a real person. He could have become a shadow of his former self, but he didn’t even allow himself that much dignity: no, he had become his Lord’s shadow, duly following him without a thought, without a sound.

Was it the real reason he had grown claws and fangs to match, and he was no longer the boy who could brighten Hector’s room with his laughter?

Or would it have happened anyway, because that was what Hector did, turn humans into monsters?

No. Hector was not the one who brought Isaac’s cruelty to the light. It was always lurking under the surface. Hector’s sight had simply been too dim to notice it, because Isaac was all he had, when the winter raged outside and the warmest place in the castle was his friend’s embrace.

What am I doing?

Lord Dracula and Isaac, all that time, had gorged themselves on him. His blood fed Lord Dracula’s bottomless grief, and his flesh fed Isaac’s ever-growing need, a need he could not nor cared to express with words, but they both knew that only Hector would suffice.

And what was left of Hector, if not his carcass stripped clean?

What am I doing? I am snapping myself into pieces to fill their void.

But that was how they had been living ever since Lady Lisa had been taken from them, wasn’t it?

They were all each other had left, and that was the only reason they sank teeth and nails into each other.

Hector knew nothing of love, but he was intimately familiar with desperation.

I owe my life to my Lord, and Isaac is a good person who has been hurt like me, his mind pleaded, or perhaps it was the voice of his old demon friends, or perhaps the tattered memories of his childhood. They have never hated me like my parents. They accepted me, they care about me, I can’t be ungrateful.

Once, such words would have roused Hector’s heart, and he would have torn his chest open to offer it as a gift. But he was left without it. No, something else thumped in its place, boiling, caustic, making way inside him; and the more Hector paced around his room, sleep a luxury he could no longer allow himself, the more the reality around him sharpened into focus, and he understood what that sentiment was, and he welcomed it.

Even the reflection in the lake where he washed up mocked him.

His face looked wan and clammy, with sunken cheeks and shadowed, bloodshot eyes. When he passed a hand through his hair, clumps got entangled between his fingers – but he felt as if he moved it through the air. His senses were numbing.

His own hands revolted him: the fingertips were purplish, his nails blackened and chewed to the flesh during Hector’s worst fits of stress.

He was Lord Dracula’s favorite, most formidable General. He was a decaying body shambling around. He held in his dead hand the power he so yearned: the only price he had to pay was his own dignity.

What am I doing?

Piece by piece, he had chipped away at his own humanity, to allow to emerge the monster that everyone had always seen in him: the humans, soaked in scorn, and the demons, shining with pride.

And by the end of it, after much time and effort, he had only managed to turn himself into shapeless stone.

If you have a good weapon, you use it, don’t you?

I took you and forged you into something beyond humanity.

… To hell with them.

Hector plunged himself in the maps that he had traced, branding behind his mind every path, every obstacle, his eyes burning and tearing up but his vision clearer than ever. Perhaps, were he so lucky, he’d be able to join the runaway Prince; but even if the two were to never meet again, his escape had ignited a little flame of determination in Hector, and for that, he’d forever be grateful.

If Isaac drew comfort in shedding his self, Hector would let him do so. If Hector’s presence made him drown in resentment, he would do him one last favor. If Isaac loved his Lord more than Hector and himself, Hector would compensate.

He was not a weapon to wield, he was not a demon spawned from Hell: lies, he had been fed nothing but lies! Hector had a mind, and a soul, and desires, and hot blood flowing in his veins, and life that flapped its wings inside him.

He had sought refuge in the darkness, blind and deaf and empty of all fear; he was healed by darkness, loved like its own creation. Not anymore. He would not allow himself to be smothered and consumed anymore.

Whether he accepted it or not, whether the world accepted it or not…

Hector had the power to remain human, and it was time he used it.

[ifitmeanslosingyouthenno]

i'll take anything you have (if you could throw me a line)

day 31 whumptober prompt: asking for help | therapy | “i’m alive, i’m just not well”

the sunrise can be pretty, neil thinks, but instead of the pinks and oranges washing him with ease, neil can’t help the panic at the thought that he’s been up here for longer than he planned to 

he wonders if anyone has even realized he left the dorms in the first place, wonders if andrew even looked when neil left the bedroom, wonders if he gave up, wonders if he finally came to his senses and realized neil was more trouble than he’s worth

wonders if the roof of the court is high enough that the fall would kill him

he shakes his head roughly

no, no, these are the thoughts he’s supposed to be ignoring, pretending they’re not there

replacing them with something better

except

the idea doesn’t leave his head now that he’s thought it, it doesn’t seem any less compelling

who would have thought, that neil (neil, neil josten, runaway, survivor, doing his best to survive no matter what) would ever be thinking about ending it himself

all that grief and pain and exhaustion all those years, for nothing

(it’s been too many years, and the grief and pain and exhaustion are still there)

he doesn’t blame andrew for giving up on him

the breeze picks up enough that neil shivers, and for a moment he almost loses his balance, almost falls freely down to the hard pavement and a too sweet promise of actual rest

his heart doesn’t pick up in fear at the idea

but his breathing does, when he realizes just how serious this is

he doesn’t even care if he lives anymore

that’s both terrifying and exhilarating at the same time

terror wins in the end

he almost drops his phone on the concrete and follows it when he gazes at the empty inbox

it’s okay, it’s understandable

his friends ought to stop being that when they realized there was no point in being friends with the corpse of a man, unreal and fictitious and inhuman

he ignores the tug in his heart, considers calling wymack

instead

it’s only 5:30 am, but betsy picks up on the first ring nonetheless

“neil?”

“betsy”

her words are preceded by a gasp and a sob and a pained little laugh, “neil, where are you? are you safe? the foxes are all worried, saying you left last night and never got back”

something like relief floods through neil’s vein, almost enough to drown out the iciness, the tension, the pain

it’s not quite enough when there’s a hole inside him the size of everything he’s lost

it’s not quite enough when he doesn’t even feel like he’s worth someone elses worry

“betsy”

it’s just one word, but it sounds pitiful, tormented… small

“what can i do for you neil?”

he curls into himself when the breeze keeps on its fast pace, arms holding each other as tight as they can

there are terrible scratches down his arms, the scars around his knuckles are swollen and red and rubbed raw 

he wants to keep going until he’s tearing his skin off, until he can personally remove the scar tissue and the rot under his skin, inside his head

“betsy i need help”

“oh neil, of course, I – what do you need right now? where are you? are you safe?”

no no no no no–

“i hurt myself on purpose and i– i want to do it again, and i can’t be certain i can stop myself from killing myself”

there’s a sharp inhale, but betsy’s voice doesn’t tremble

“okay, where are you? i can come pick you up, make sure you don’t hurt yourself any more”

“i’m scared”

the admission is soft, weak and fucking terrified

“that’s understable neil, those are some scary thoughts to be having, i’m getting in my car right now, by the way, where do you want me to pick you up?”

“the roof of the court”

betsy’s exhale is shaky, even through the phone

“okay, okay, can you make sure you’re as far away from the edge as possible”

he understand andrew then

“no, I–”

he doesn’t know how to explain it

“the edge makes me feel real… alive”

“but you are alive neil, that’s a wonderful thing, a wonderful accomplishment, you’ve made it through so much, you deserve a breath don’t you think?”

“i'm alive, i'm just not… well”

“hang on neil, i’m only a blocks away from the court”

neil lets out a sob, and it’s tearing and burning and agonizing

“i’m tired of feeling like this”

neil can hear the pain in betsy’s voice when she speaks, “oh i know honey, don’t worry, i’m going to be right there with you in a few minutes, i’m going to be there for you”

“please help me bee”

“hang on, neil, i’m going to be right there, just hang on, just a little longer”

neil just keeps on sobbing

“i’m so sorry”

“no, don’t be sorry neil, you’re okay, you’ve got nothing to be sorry for”

“i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m sorry”

“shh, it’s okay neil, there’s nothing to be sorry for here, you’re okay, just hang on, i’ll be right there”

neil just sobs, wonders if this is at all worth it, wonders if he’s not just better off jumping at once

“help me”

sunrises are meant to signify hope and new beginnings and opportunities to start over

sunrises are the death of stars too after all

yall i absolutely forgot to post this to tumblr too yesterday lmao but it was up on ao3 at 11 pm last night <3 this one was short and just a bit shitty bc i was quite literally falling asleep while sitting in front of my laptop while writing it, so please don't judge my poor cohesion asjkfjk i'm more awake but honestly equally as tired but anyway i just wanted to say thank you to those who've been here reading my silly little angsty stories throughtout the entirety of the month, i'm lowkey so proud of myself for finishing whumptober, i have never done something like this in my life, and i'm really happy i dared to try this even if i spent some sleepless nights bc i was too focused on writing these while in the busiest three weeks i've had in a while lmao but yeah just thank you so much for the company yall, i hope to see you soon with some sequels and some prequels or any other new ideas :)

[seradyn]

Royal Respite and Midnight Melody!

The two I’m most excited about 🤤🤤

I’m going to start with Midnight Melody cause I wAnT tOO

This is a short one shot I thought of when I reexamined some of Astarion’s lines post Cazador. When the player asks how he feels directly following the event, he explains he feels ‘numb’. From my own experience and what I’ve learned about surviving abuse, often people can struggle coping with a world where their abuser is out of the picture, because so much of their life was consumed by them, either physically or mentally. We see this not only in Astarion, but in Karlach too, who has similar feelings after Gortash’s death, because all the rage she built up around him has nowhere to go. It’s still there, but now it’s trapped inside without an outlet, instead of being healed when her abuser went away like they think it should have.

Astarion is the same way; without Cazador, where is he supposed to direct all his energy, his hatred, his rage over what happened to him? It’s still there, even though he’s dead, and it’s not fair. I wouldn’t be surprised if he struggled with his purpose after Cazador’s death. This happens with real survivors too; their whole world revolved around their abuser for so long, once they’re gone they just feel so empty and lost.

This fic is a take on that, where reader helps reassure Astarion that he doesn’t have to know what he wants right now, and they’re more than happy to help him figure it out. He tells them he doesn’t have a heart to guide him, but that’s not true. Is it not reader’s blood that flows through his veins? Does reader’s heart not beat for him? They remind him, hold his head gently to their chest so he can listen, can hear the heartbeat that is not only theirs, but one they give freely to him, too.

Basically more tooth rotting fluff and non sexual intimacy. Baby boy just needs to be held and I’ll be damned if I don’t smother him in affection. He deserves it.

Here is snippet:

~

“It’s nothing serious, of course…” he said quietly. Another lie, but you didn’t say anything, simply cradling his hand to your chest, a precious and fragile part of him. It gave him time to work up the courage to continue.

“It’s just that…When I was under Cazador,” he hissed the name, fangs poking out over his bottom lip, “every thought I had, everything I did was for him. He dominated us, mind, body and soul, and used that dominance to make our whole world about him.”

His eyes were wild with anger, that grimace back on his face, because it was so much worse to say it out loud, to acknowledge how much of his life belonged to his old master. You squeezed his hand to encourage him to keep going. This needed to come out, lest he push you away to protect you from the rot that did naught but burrow and consume down into his being.

“Even after the nautiloid, he inhabited so much of my thoughts,” he went on, his voice slightly rasped and shaking. “Though instead of fear or obedience, it was anger and determination to kill him. Even when he lost control of me, all I could think about was him. Even with his body rotting in the dirt, I cannot get him out of my head.”

“And now that he’s gone…I can’t help but wonder…what am I supposed to do?” His eyes filled with sorrow then, displeasure with himself. “With Cazador dead…I find myself losing all sense of direction.”

Your heart broke for him, jagged pieces of it left on the floor for you to step on. You cupped Astarion’s cheek, lifting his face to look at you. His eyes were wide, glistening in the dim candlelight as they filled with pain and worse: self loathing. You didn’t need the tadpole to hear that treacherous little voice in his head, one you knew like an old friend that whispered pathetic, worthless, weak. You knew he wanted to protect you, wanted to give you the life you deserved, yet he hadn’t the faintest idea how to do that, where to even start, and it pained him.

Gently, allowing him to pull back if he so desired, you led him into your arms, wrapping them around him so you could rub at the tension in his back. He nearly collapsed into your embrace in relief, immediately wrapping his own arms around you and crushing you to him. You massaged his shoulder blades while he pressed needy, frantic kisses into your hair, afraid you might pull away and leave should he stop.

“It’s okay not to know,” you said into his chest, kissing his sternum. “We can figure it out together. I’ll always be here with you, no matter what future you decide you want.”

He let out a tense breath, burying his face in your neck. “I know,” he mumbled. “I know whatever future awaits, I want you to be a part of it.” He leaned back, just enough that he could meet your eyes, so you could see into the dark abyss where his mind lingered. “The problem is, I don’t know what I want our future to look like. What I want it to look like.”

It was then you fully realized that what Astarion had been feeling since the confrontation with Cazador was lost. So, so lost, in a world without his master to contend with. The hopelessness you heard on his tongue was a knife piercing your tender heart, a sharp pain burning through your chest as it tried to beat around it, blood gushing from the wound and radiating out across your skin. What was freedom to one who didn’t know how to live with it, didn’t know how it felt? Though his chains had been broken, the memory of them still pulled him down and suffocated him. You wished so deeply to spare Astarion this pain, for he lived so long in the shadows of the world, you wanted to shower him in the light until he was blinded.

Abruptly, he shook his head, a growl ripping past his lips as he pulled himself away from you. It should be so easy, to move on and enjoy life now that he was allowed to. His desires could be fulfilled, instead of remaining the desperate wishes of a slave who longed for escape. The world was his for the taking, his life his own once more.

So why did he still feel so broken?

“Now that I’m free, I’m supposed to be able to do whatever I want. Follow my heart, as our companions said.” He spit the words; they tasted foul in his mouth.

“How am I supposed to know what I want without a heart to guide me?”

~

I’ll send you the full version once the first draft is done. Hope you like it 💕

Royal Respite has a similar vibe, and is also pure tooth rotting fluff/non sexual intimacy. It’s a one shot in which reader gives Ardyn a massage after he delivers the peace treaty proposal to the Lucian council. Just letting reader dote on him while he talks about his day, and letting him relax before everything goes to shit, basically. Ardyn has been working to make this plan come true for literally decades. I think he deserves some rest before it fully comes to fruition.

No snippet for this one yet, since I’ve been hyper focused on some of my Astarion fics *cough* see above *cough* but hopefully it doesn’t take too long to get on paper. You’ll be the first to know when there’s a rough draft 💕

[jinxyble]

How to Chain a Dragon

If you want a rebellious dragon to do what you tell them, you may need to apply some careful pressure.

Good thing Ga'ran has always had a knack for manipulating people.

Or: How Nahyuta started working for the false Queen.

———

“You know, the fact that you are here at all, sitting in a chair and not rotting in a cell is only due to the Queen’s mercy.” The man crossed the fingers of his large hands and watched his visitor over them, though the eyes always seemed to move around their face rather than focusing on their eyes.

“I know.” Nahyuta’s face in turn was perfectly neutral, not even a twitch betraying any reaction to the comment. “Her Eminence is most gracious. I appreciate the opportunity, despite my unsavory background.”

“Unsavory background,” Inga Karkhuul Khura’in repeated with a dark chuckle, “That is one way to put it.” He got up and turned, walking to the window behind his overly large desk overlooking the palace garden.

Nahyuta took the moment to assess the situation. Turning his back on them was a foolish maneuver, but they knew what it was meant to achieve. It was the same thing as the large desk, the weapons framed on the walls and the armed guards outside the door were supposed to achieve. Inga was demonstrating his immense power, proving that he did not feel threatened or even worried. He was a flashy man, aiming to take the room in with his presence. It wasn’t exactly the sign of a great strategist or a very intelligent schemer, which made sense. Ga’ran would not want competition like that.

It did come with one issue though, the lack of a safe exit strategy. “Knowing where to run if things go south is an absolute priority, wherever you are,” Dhurke had told them. “When in doubt, choose flight over fight and try again another day.” Well, flight would not be an option today, so keeping their head clear and focused was the only strategy they had for this.

“It will only be a matter of time before that business will be taken care of,” Inga continued now, turning to look at Nahyuta once again.

“I have no doubt about that,” Nahyuta responded, not looking away. Their eyes gave nothing away about the meaning beind their words.

There was silence for a moment, then Inga suddenly stepped closer and pushed Nahyuta’s chair about, grabbing them by the collar. “I know exactly what this is, Sahdmadhi,” he said, so close now that Nahyuta could smell the smoke permanently lingering to his clothes. “You think we’re going to buy you just decided to turn your back on your father’s ideas? You think I don’t know what this,” he grabbed Nahyuta’s right wrist tightly and pulled it up, shaking it, “Is hiding?”

Nahyuta’s eyes had narrowed ever so slightly, but they kept their composure, although part of him would like nothing more than to kick the legs out from under the man and put him in his place. “I make no secret out of my former allegiance. I am here because my views changed.”

“Here to spy, is what you are. A pretty little bug for the Dragons.”

“That will be enough, Inga.” Upon hearing the new voice, Inga let go so forcefully Nahyuta’s chair almost toppled over, but they remained upright and turned their head slightly to the side, not liking the fact that someone had moved behind them without their knowledge. She walked around the chair and came into view, and Nahyuta’s insides coiled with hatred. They had only ever seen her on pictures and screens, but knowing what they knew was enough to make their disdain hard to hide. “Leave us alone,” she told her husband, who seemed a bit hesitant, but followed the order nevertheless. The door shut heavily behind him.

Ga’ran circled Nahyuta slowly, then approached, grasped their chin and tilted it up from one side to the other, a kind smile on her face. She had her act on real good, but her long fingernails were digging into their skin. “I can see the fire in your eyes,” she said, surveying Nahyuta’s sharp, aquamarine eyes that were so familiar to her, although brighter than their origin. “I’ve seen it before. You may look more like my sister, but I can see that traitor Dhurke in your expression. To raise a child with these flawed ideals, and then send them in his stead… It is an interesting approach.”

“He didn’t send me anywhere. I came of my own volition, to help,” Nahyuta insisted stubbornly, forcing themself not to pull their head away.

“Oh, help you will,” Ga’ran said, ever so sweetly. “You will be the final nail in Dhurke’s coffin. You will bring the law down on every fool that opposes me, until there is nobody left. You will help me solidify my spot on the throne, and you will do so without scheming, without sending little messages to your traitor friends, without ever questioning me. Do you know why?”

She let go of their chin and stood straight again, beckoning them to follow. Nahyuta got up slowly and followed her to the window. The palace garden was glowing in the afternoon sun, and now that they were close enough, they could see a little girl sitting in the grass by the pond, watching the frogs.

“Attachments are weakness,” Ga’ran said, so close to their ear that it made Nahyuta shudder. “They make people vulnerable. It’s why Dhurke sent his other brat to another country. You don’t have to worry about him, do you?”

Nahyuta worried about Apollo every day, but they weren’t going to voice that. They also didn’t get the point of this. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You will.” Ga’ran reached out and opened the window. “Rayfa! Come up here for a second, will you?”

“Yes, mother!” the girl replied, quickly gathering up her things and running back to the palace. Puzzled by this, Nahyuta watched her go, then turned back, to see Ga’ran sit down by the desk Inga had been at moments prior. She looked out of place there, like she didn’t need the large desk to impose, it almost seemed in contrast to her warm act. For some reason, it gave Nahyuta a very uneasy feeling.

Soon enough, the door opened and the girl came in, looking eager but also like she was trying to appear well-behaved. “What is it, mother?”

“This is Nahyuta Sahdmadhi,” Ga’ran said, indicating them. “They will be working here as a prosecutor from now on.”

“Sahdmadhi?” Rayfa scowled. “But that’s the traitor, mom, isn’t it? Why are they here, and not in a prison cell?!”

“It looks like not all Sahdmadhis are on the wrong side of the law,” the Queen commented with a chuckle.

Nahyuta, on the other hand, was frozen in their spot, feeling like they’d been drenched in ice water. It had been such a long time, and they had mourned, spent months praying for the soul of the young life they’d not had the chance to really get to know. Her eyes were like theirs, sharp and aquamarine, and her displeased expression had so much of Dhurke in it. Had he known and just never told them? Or would this be news to him, too?

It seemed like Rayfa pondered for a while, then came to a decision. “Well then.” With all the poise of a future Queen, she approached Nahyuta and held out her hand. “I suppose you deserve a chance. Once I have mastered the Divination Séance, I suppose we will be working together a lot. So you better behave yourself! I will not tolerate any tomfoolery!”

There was a whole storm of emotions running through Nahyuta, from relief and gratitude over anger to despair. They wanted to grab her and run. Take her out of the line of fire. It made sense now. Weakness.

They shook her hand and forced a small smile. “I look forward to it, Your Benevolence.”

“That will be all, Rayfa,” Ga‘ran said, watching the princess leave before setting her eyes back on Nahyuta. “No harm will come to the princess,” she told them, her voice sickly sweet, “As long as you behave. As long as you help me solidify my reign and hunt down every dragon left out there until they are no more, you can keep her safe. Are we clear on that?”

Nahyuta had their hands curled into fists, their fingernails digging into the dragon tattoo on their palm. It had always been a source of strength to them, but now it was covered, and the future looked hopeless. No exit strategy in the world could dig them out of this hole. As much as it hurt, there was only one possible response.

“Yes.”

(ao3 version)

[clockwork-dandelions]

Wi recently have been realizing/learning that wi experience hallucinations and delusions; and it's bringing a lot of things into question. Particularly about myr identity.. and I wanna talk about that a bit.

TW talks of hallucinations and delusions; including mentions of nonhumanity, bugs, shadow people, unreality.

Additional Warning.. I lost the plot and this doesn't make much sense.. I'm sorry :(

(I'm gonna switch to I/me 1stpp for simplicity sake but this is a collective experience for the system.)

My Experiences

First, let's talk about myr alterhumanity. I've felt for years, since middle school, that I aren't human. At least, not entirely. I live in a human body but inside.. I'm something else. It took me a while to figure it out but when I did, it just clicked. I'm a fox therian. Something about it just makes it feel like that's what I'm supposed to be. I'm meant to be a fox. But I'm not. And I know I'm not. That doesn't change the fact that I am a fox. Sometimes, when I'm feeling particularly "fox-y", I can feel ears on my head or a tail wagging behind me.

Around the time of high school, I had another feeling arise. Similar to the first, I felt something shift. I wasn't just a human. I wasn't just a fox. I was something.. more. Again, I dug and all I found was rot. And something in that felt Divine. I was the embodiment of decay. I was an angel.. a god of pestilence. My being, my mere presence, would wreak havoc on those around me and I both relished and loathed it. I felt like I had a better understanding of my place in the world but I hated the implications. This particular sense of identity waxes and wanes throughout and comes with its own bits of.. phantoms. I can feel bugs beneath my skin or rot slowly covering my body.

Around that same time, I began to believe that I had some.. special ability to help people. I thought myself a healer but for whatever reason I couldn't "unlock" this ability. It had been deliberately hidden and locked away from me.

I also experience things that have nothing to do with my identity. The ground shaking (purely tactile atm), walls moving like water, shadow people in the corner of my eyes, feeling watched and observed, a clock ticking in my head, feeling like myself or the world around me wasn't real in one way or another. And I have experienced these things for ages. I would say.. possibly middle school at the latest.

The thing is.. none of it bothered me. Not truly. I knew logically these things weren't real and I could, for the most part, identify the real versus the fake. Yes, it did occasionally get distressing when one of these cropped up during a moment of traumatic flashback but for the most part? It was just a thing I was experiencing. And it's always been that way. I don't pay a lot of mind to it and I'd never been in a place where it's safe to.. indulge(?) in these delusions or hallucinations.

It wasn't even until this last year that I even started asking for verification on whether something I was experiencing was real.

Part of this is because I stopped dissociating as much or as heavily. I finally became safe enough to let myself rest and experience everything I had been pushing away for my entire life. This, unfortunately, did cause a lot of this to suddenly become "worse". When you stop dissociating away from your problems, suddenly everything comes back tenfold and you become aware of what's been happening.

Yay healing! Boo worse problems!

This does mean that a lot of these experiences have slowly become distressing or changed in their.. presentation. Like my tactile hallucination of the ground shaking has gone from a train passing by to a visual minor earthquake.

And I don't know how to deal with that.

I don't know how to deal with the fact that things are getting worse or what this means for me or where I'm meant to fall within the community. I feel like I can't talk about these things due to them only recently becoming distressing and my general awareness that it's not real. My beginner level understanding of psychosis says that a key factor is not being aware that the hallucinations/delusions aren't real or based in reality. So what does that mean for me? Where does that leave me? I don't know and I think.. that's the scariest thing to me. Is that I don't know what to classify this as or how to deal with it. I have no community to lean on for help or advice or anything because what is this?