#I must do things I have the ability to do things do all the things but my body is so physically tired that my limbs feel like lead weights

[like-a-gutted-fish]

i am a child.

i am forced into a dress. makeup is smeared onto my face. i kick and cry and beg, but they will not stop.

i am forced to pose in front of the camera with my thighs together and hope that the makeup hides my tearstains. i must be the perfect picture of femininity; innocent, untouched.

i already have a thousand hand prints on me.

'all men are evil rapists', i am told.

i think about my friends, who are men. the men who called me every day while i was in a psychiatric hospital. the men who walked me home when i was afraid. the men who protected and cared for me, without ever expecting my body in return.

it can't be the body that makes someone evil. it can't be the presence of a penis that makes someone evil. but it can't be the identity of 'man' that makes you evil, either.

i ponder the difference between the men who raped me and the men who protected me. i decide that it depends on who the person is inside, and not on their identity.

'sit down and shut up,' they spit at me. 'the men are talking. learn your place. don't speak over us.'

'you throw like a girl.'

'you run like a girl.'

'girls can't do this. they're not smart enough.'

'girls aren't strong enough to do this.'

over and over, such sentiments are tossed at me. i bite down my anger, because women aren't supposed to yell or get angry. if i get angry, that makes me a hysterical bitch.

'women are meant to be mothers,' i am told. they beat it into me that my worth lies not in my personhood, but in the womb between my hips. it makes me feel sick and violated, just like every sexual assault has.

i am groped. i am raped. i am assaulted.

it's my fault, i'm told. i'm a temptress. my body is a vile weapon, a weapon created to tempt men into sin, a weapon that makes me a subhuman toy.

i am treated like a toy. as i am molested during my childhood, i learn that i am a toy. the anatomy between my hips has marked me as public property. i am less than human.

they keep forcing me into dresses. they keep forcing me into makeup. no amount of protesting makes it end. i grow to loathe femininity and the violation that always seems to come with it.

i come out as a trans man at fifteen.

'can't you just be nonbinary?'

'can't you just be a tomboy?'

'i don't want you to regret this.'

'i don't want you to ruin your perfect body.'

'men are disgusting. why do you want to be one of them?'

'are you sure you don't just want to be a man because you were sexually assaulted?'

i continue to be a man. my parents intentionally delay my ability to go on testosterone. by the time i am able to go on testosterone, i have already finished puberty. my body is irreversibly feminine.

people throw food at me. they call me a faggot, a tranny, a dyke. they kick me and shove me to the ground. they cyberstalk me. they post pictures of me online so that they can mock me.

a girl says to me, 'you need to learn your place,' as she calls me a faggot over the internet. she kicks me when she sees me the next day.

my boyfriend when i am fifteen is a cis man who says he is pansexual. he dismisses me when i talk about being trans, because he uses he/they pronouns and 'understands it'.

he sexually assaults me repeatedly. i am in constant distress. my distress is used as proof that i am a snowflake hysterical tranny. i am a hysterical woman who only THINKS she's a man, and i need to be put in my place. trans 'men' are all hysterical and overreactive, and my behaviour is used as proof.

my boyfriend exclusively refers to me with they/them pronouns. i tell him to use he/him. he waves his hand, dismissing my words, and says, 'they're basically the same thing'.

he tells me that he wants children. i try to ignore the sick feeling in my gut.

he only uses he/him pronouns for me after we have broken up, when he is trying to paint me as abusive. i lose my entire friend group because of it.

people keep talking down to me. when i go on testosterone, cis men try to explain that it's toxic for me, using cis man bodybuilders as an example. i try to explain how that isn't the case. they insist that 'female bodies aren't built to handle testosterone'. i try to explain to them how hormones work, and they laugh and roll their eyes.

silly girl. stupid girl. she doesn't know what she's talking about.

people continue to make fun of trans men online. our music, our art, our interests, our fashion sense, our names. i cannot help but feel dejected. all i want is to be a man, and to fit in among everyone else, but even in doing so, i stand out as a target for mockery. misogyny is inescapable, even for men.

i am seventeen years old. my worst fear comes true. i am raped and forcibly impregnated, with the intention of forcing me to detransition.

that sense of violation is impossible to truly describe.

my reproductive system was designed to become pregnant. my body will do its best to become pregnant, no matter what i want. pregnancy is an inescapable function of my body, and it makes me feel trapped and sick.

the man who raped me has turned my own body into a weapon against me. even in my body, my own flesh and sinew, i am not safe.

i miscarry. i am in agony. my womb cramps and i try not to pass out.

i enter feminist spaces. i try to talk about my experiences with misogyny.

'sit down and shut up,' they spit at me. 'the women are talking. learn your place. don't speak over us.'

all trans men have male privilege, you see, without exception. by the mere act of wanting to become a man, i have become a traitor, and i am thrown to the cis men.

the cis men, who see me as a woman that they're finally allowed to abuse. finally, they can hurt and rape and impregnate a woman, because she's one of those snowflake trannies and she needs to be put in her place.

i bite down my anger, because trans men aren't supposed to yell or get angry. if i get angry, it's proof that i'm not a man, that i'm a hysterical bitch, and that i'm a dangerous snowflake tranny seeking to mutilate children.

the sentiment is bitterly familiar.

[comradetoad]

He's a doctor not a damsel, dammit! (A Leonard "Bones" McCoy in a Situation fic rec list)

A non-comprehensive list of fics I love where Bones gets kidnapped, left behind, stranded, held hostage, or trapped, sometimes on purpose. Mind the tags for some of them with violence and torture, but all have relatively happy endings.

Gen

Equilibrium, PSW (TOS, T, 152k): The GOAT McCoy in a Situation fic. Reads like a good TOS novel, with a compelling story and strong characterizations that emphasize how important the triumvirate are to each other.

Safe, SidSky (AOS, T, 290k): Khan escapes and kidnaps a beloved enterprise crew member (guess who!), testing both the captive and those trying to rescue him. A long but really excellent post-into darkness fic that really brings out Khan's characterization from Space Seed and Wrath of Khan, diving into the Eugenics wars, section 31, and the differences (and similarities) between the prime and kelvin universes. Gen with a focus on Kirk and McCoy's friendship.

the one with the dog, kurgaya (AOS, T, 9k): a much more chill situation for our doctor! Just involves some time and maybe universe travel to see our friends on Enterprise NX-01.

Mudd in Your Eye, Avirra (TOS, T, 61k): Harvey Mudd finds the Botany Bay instead of the enterprise, but they are still in need of a doctor. McCoy is both a badass and a damsel in this, the best combination.

McKirk

for I would throw myself into the flames that you need not burn, thesecretdetectivecollection (AOS, M, 10k): With Jim unconscious, Bones pretends to be the captain in order to protect the away team, and suffers the consequences. There's also a part 2 focused on physical and psychological recovery from the Situation, plus more sex.

Chiraptophilia, Joules Mer (AOS, T, 15k): Post-rescue, but a difficult recovery is still a situation. A McKirk get-together/feelings realization fic.

Hold Me Tight (I'll Hold My Breath), laughter_now (AOS, T, 30k): Jim and Bones are in a shuttle crash, trapped in a dangerous, high stress situation while awaiting rescue. Very gripping as a reader!

To the best of my ability and judgment, Time_that_is_given_to_you (AOS, G, 98k): post into-darkness, former section 31 agents kidnap McCoy, wanting his cure for death. The search, rescue, and aftermath are full of complicated emotions for bones and Jim.

Fortunate Son, mardia (AOS, E, 51k): an excellent and unique take on Tarsus in the Kelvin universe, with Bones in a Situation in the present and in the past via flashbacks. Also some cool andorian culture world building! Recently established McKirk.

without retention or restraint, periphery87 (AOS, T, 19k): another entry in the 'Jim has to rescue a brave McCoy and they both realize some things' genre, with some cool mind meld stuff and Spock being very supportive.

Spones

For What They Are, stealthestars (TOS, E, 9k): a must-read Spones fic, it's tagged with both TOS and AOS, but the character dynamics and physical descriptions are very much TOS. McCoy finds himself at the mercy of a local warlord and Spock is Not Happy about it. Bonus mind meld sex at the end, too.

sing for the damage we've done (and the worse things that we'll do) and i speak in smoke signals (and you answer in code), flibbertygigget (TOS, T, 2k and 6k): Technically gen but the Spock and McCoy vibes are strong and in my heart they are in love. McCoy faces an ethical dilemma, and Spock helps when he has to deal with the consequences of his choice.

Left Behind, sleepymccoy (TOS, T, 37k): Bones is trapped on a primitive planet with the Enterprise in orbit, unsure if they are able to hear his transmissions as he tries to survive. Recently established Spones, plus some lovely original art!

McSpirk

do you love your neighbor (is it in your nature), Muir_Wolf (TOS, T, 20k): McCoy really suffers on a temporary assignment gone sideways, but also is not a helpless damsel. Lots of comfort to make up for the hurt, too. An all time favorite I've re-read many times.

Approximation, liadan14 (AOS, E, 15k): Bones is prevented from returning to the ship by a genocidal colony leader, and Jim and Spock do not handle it well. Lots of interesting world building, some academy era McKirk, a bit of angst, and a smutty ending. A great dynamic for the AOS triumvirate!

[bomber-grl]

The Distraction I Needed

Pairing(s): Damian Wayne x Gn!Reader

Word count: 2,581

-

Damian Wayne stared across the classroom, eyes narrowed, arms crossed, and a faint scowl on his face. He was not happy. Not with the assignment, not with the teacher, and certainly not with the person sitting just two desks away from him.

You.

For months now, you and Damian had been engaged in a bitter academic rivalry. Whether it was the most difficult calculus problem or a history essay on ancient civilizations, you two were constantly battling for the top spot in every class. There were no alliances on the battlefield of academia. No mercy. Just pure, unadulterated competition.

Damian had, of course, figured out your secret identity. It didn’t take a detective to put two and two together. You were his enemy in every way. You were a villain– and that’s not just what he called you in his head. You had an uncanny ability to throw him off his game, whether it was with your sarcastic remarks or... well, that thing you did with your smile. You were his biggest grievance and biggest distraction.

It was infuriating.

“Damian,” you said, tilting your head with a teasing grin. “Struggling with the homework, or just busy being edgy again?”

Damian glared at you from across the room. He could practically hear your thoughts: teasing him, messing with him—like always. You weren’t a truly evil villain, not like the others. You had your own quirky way of causing chaos, and it often involved messing with him. But that didn’t mean he had to like it.

“I’m not pretending,” Damian muttered under his breath. “I’m just not wasting my time on a distraction that doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, so you admit I’m a distraction?” you shot back, your grin widening. “That’s cute.”

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "You're insufferable."

You laughed, not deterred by his less-than-thorny comments, “Well, you say insufferable, I say irresistible. But hey, we can agree to disagree.”

He rolled his eyes and sighed, “This is ridiculous.”

“Oh, it’s ridiculous, huh?” You smirked, leaning across your desk to get closer. “Well, if it’s so ridiculous, why do you keep coming back for more?”

His face flushed and his collar suddenly seemed tighter, uncomfortably so. He huffed as he heard you distant laugh, knowing when you had won all too well.

You were a constant thorn in his side, but it wasn’t just the rivalry. You had a way of getting under his skin—flirting, teasing, and constantly making everything more complicated.

Again, Of course, he knew your secret identity. It wasn’t like you were subtle about it, after all. As V/N, you were someone he was supposed to stop. Someone he was supposed to defeat. Someone who, despite your occasional teasing, was still technically his enemy.

But that didn’t make you any less... intriguing.

After class, you sidled up to Damian by his locker, grinning as if you owned the entire hallway.

“You owe me,” you said with a cocky tone, hands on your hips. “You’re always so stiff in class. Must suck having been born with a stick up your ass, so how about I treat you to lunch?”

Damian, fully prepared to shut you down, found himself momentarily distracted by how you were standing there, your expression somehow a perfect mix of playful and dangerous. You were ridiculous, but he couldn’t deny that a part of him wanted to see where this absurd interaction would lead.

“I’m not paying for your food,” he said flatly, though he didn’t move to walk away.

“A little frugal don't you think? But, I know,” you said, giving him that sly smile. “You’re coming with me, though. It’ll be fun.”

Damian glanced around—he couldn’t just walk away now. Besides, it was... lunch. What harm could it do?

-

The two of you ended up at a small café in town, the kind that you would have never guessed a high-profile heir to Wayne Enterprises would ever be seen in. But there he was, sitting across from you, pretending not to be completely distracted by your presence.

“I’ll have the usual,” you told the waiter, then turned to Damian, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You should try something new. A little adventure in your otherwise dull life for once.”

Damian didn’t want to admit it, but... you had a point. He always played everything safe. He might’ve been strict through and through, but his interactions with you were anything but predictable.

“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered, trying to hide the way he was genuinely curious about what you’d pick. “This is stupid.”

“Sure, keep telling yourself that,” you teased, leaning back in your chair, completely unbothered. “But we both know you can’t get me out of your head. Not with that look on your face.”

Damian’s eyebrow twitched as he looked away. “I’m not—” He cut himself off, realizing how stupid that sounded. “I’m not thinking about you, In fact, you’re the last thing on my mind.”

“Really?” You raised an eyebrow, giving him that look that said you knew exactly what was going on inside his head. “Because it looks to me like you are. I’ve seen the way you look at me, Damian.”

Damian’s grip on his drink tightened. “Stop making everything... complicated.”

“Well, someone has to,” you said, tapping your fingers on the table, seemingly too pleased with the effect you had on him. “It’s too easy to mess with you, Damian. It’s fun. Deny how you feel about me but you can't deny that.”

He didn’t know how to respond. He couldn’t very well admit that he was starting to wonder if you were right. Maybe he did think about you more than he wanted to. Maybe you were starting to get under his skin in ways he wasn’t used to. And maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t as indifferent as he liked to think.

-

Later that night, after a very complicated altercation involving the two of you fighting side-by-side against a group of criminals (which neither of you had really expected to happen), Damian found himself alone in his room, staring at the ceiling. Sure, you were technically a villain, stealing candy from babies and all, but you actually teamed up with him for this.

It had been a mess, but a fun one. He had to admit, for a villain, you were... not bad. He thought about how, after taking down the bad guys, you’d playfully ruffled his hair, called him a "stubborn little knight," and teased him for “being too serious.”

It was honestly... kind of endearing.

But that was impossible, right?

He wasn’t supposed to like you. You were a villain. A villain. His father had warned him time and time again about those kinds of entanglements. And yet...

“He still fell for Catwoman,” Damian muttered to himself, staring at the ceiling. Was he really becoming like his father? The thought made him groan in frustration. How could someone like him—someone who was so focused, so serious—even think about you like that?

“Absurd,” he muttered again, slamming his pillow down onto his bed. “I’m just being distracted. That’s all.”

-

The next day, you found him in the hallway again, as if you were always waiting around to throw him off balance.

“Ready for class?” you asked innocently, though the playful smirk tugging at your lips suggested otherwise.

Damian sighed, looking at you with the same exasperated expression as always. But this time, there was something different about the way he stared at you.

He couldn’t explain it. But for once, the rivalry—academic or otherwise—didn’t seem as important as the fact that, maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as annoyed by you as he liked to pretend.

“Stop doing that,” he grumbled, feeling his face heat up slightly. “You’re distracting.”

You grinned wider, eyes sparkling with that mischievous glint. “I know. But you like it, don’t you?”

Damian froze, his mind spiraling into chaos. He didn’t want to admit it, but... he didn’t have to, did he? The more you teased him, the more he realized just how impossible it all was.

“Ridiculous,” he muttered, turning away before you could see the faintest flicker of a smile on his lips.

And in the back of his mind, despite every bit of logic telling him to keep away, Damian couldn't stop the thought from creeping in:

Maybe, just maybe, this ridiculous rivalry—this ridiculous teasing—wasn’t as bad as he thought.

-

It had been a week since you’d been absent from school. A whole week.

At first, Damian didn’t think much of it. Sure, he had gotten used to your teasing, your constant attempts to throw him off course, and your infuriatingly distracting presence. But no big deal, right? He could handle it. The quiet, the lack of you trying to “distract” him in class... it wasn’t like he needed you there. Not at all.

But as the days went on, something started to feel... off.

Damian found himself staring at his empty desk next to him in class. The seat that usually held you, with your smug little smile and obnoxious comments, was eerily vacant. The whole dynamic of the room felt empty. The lessons, the homework, the constant battle for first place—it was all so boring without you there. He didn’t have to think about your teasing or try to keep his cool around you anymore. And that, strangely enough, was the problem. He missed it.

He missed you. And it bugged the hell out of him.

It wasn’t like he was waiting for you to show up so you could mess with him, but... okay, maybe a little. There was something about your antics, something about how unpredictable and ridiculous you were, that had wormed its way into his heart. He never admitted it, of course, but he was more aware of it than he liked to admit. And now? Now, with you gone, there was a noticeable hole in his routine.

On the seventh day of your absence, as Damian sat at his desk, trying—unsuccessfully—to focus on an assignment, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He glanced at the screen. Unknown number.

“Hello?” Damian answered, frowning. He didn’t trust random calls, especially when they were so cryptic.

The voice on the other end was distorted, obviously masked. “Damian Wayne. We have someone you care about. You know who they are.” There was a pause, a deep, unsettling breath before the voice continued. “If you want them back, come alone. They’re close, but not for long.”

Damian’s heart skipped. His mind immediately went to you. You were his rival, his annoyance, but—damn it—he cared about you. As much as he hated to admit it, he didn’t want anything bad to happen to you.

He clenched his jaw. “Where are they?”

“Come find out,” the voice mocked, before hanging up.

Damian’s eyes blazed with fury. He didn’t even hesitate. Grabbing his suit and mask from the nearby closet, he donned the Robin persona, immediately gearing up for what would inevitably be a chaotic rescue mission. He wasn’t going to wait for his father, or Nightwing, or anyone. This was his fight. His responsibility. His problem.

Within minutes, he was in the Batcave, and he went straight for the Batmobile. “Damian, where are you going?” Alfred's Voice rang out, calm and collected as always.

“I’m going alone. I don’t need backup,” Damian shot back, his voice hard and unwavering.

“Master Damian—”

“I said, I don’t need backup, don’t tell anyone else where I’m headed.”

Alfred sighed, but he knew better than to argue. Damian was already out the door before he could stop him.

-

Damian arrived at the location—a decrepit warehouse on the outskirts of Gotham. As he stalked in, his senses went on high alert. There were too many men. Too many voices. Too much noise. But there was no sign of you yet.

“Where are they?” he demanded, voice low, as he threw one of the thugs across the room. The other men scattered, yelling in confusion. He had no patience for this.

One thug tried to come at him with a crowbar. Damian knocked him out with a swift punch to the face. He couldn’t afford to waste time with these idiots. All he cared about was getting to you.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of beating up bad guys and tossing them out of the warehouse toward the police, he spotted you, tied to a chair in the far corner of the room.

You looked beat up—bruises covering your face, your clothes torn. But you were still conscious, still... you.

“Damian…” You smiled weakly, your voice still laced with that same mischievous tone. “Well, well. If it isn’t my knight in shining armor.”

Damian’s chest tightened. “Can you stand?” he asked, trying to hide how worried he was.

You chuckled softly, even though it sounded strained. “Well, it’s not every day I get rescued by a charming vigilante. This is definitely a new look for you, Robin.” You smirked, clearly trying to make light of the situation.

Damian was fuming, both angry at the situation and relieved you were still alive. “Don’t make jokes,” he muttered, quickly cutting the ropes that bound you. “You look like you’ve been through hell, don’t torture me now as payback.”

“I’m fine,” you said, rolling your eyes, but there was a flicker of gratitude in your voice. “I’ve had worse. I had to stitch a cut across my entire stomach once–”

“Stop being so difficult,” Damian snapped, not even trying to hide the concern in his tone as he helped you to your feet. “You’re lucky I even came for you.”

“Oh, don’t sound so upset, my little knight,” you teased, winking at him despite your battered state. “It’s not like I didn’t enjoy the attention.”

Damian scowled. “You’re insufferable.”

“Only for you,” you replied with a playful grin, ignoring how wobbly your legs were. “Come on, admit it. You’ve missed me.”

Damian’s face flushed, and he quickly averted his eyes. “No, I haven’t.”

“Sure, sure,” you teased, clearly enjoying making him squirm. “You’ve probably been lonely without me. Bet the whole school feels empty without my sparkling presence.”

He shot you a look that could kill. “I’m not answering that.”

You laughed, clearly amused by the whole situation. But it wasn’t lost on you that Damian’s icy exterior was starting to crack, just a little.

As the two of you walked out of the warehouse together, Damian’s mind was whirling. His usual irritation toward you was clouded by something else—something much more complicated that he wasn’t willing to acknowledge.

Once you were safely away from the scene, in a more neutral space to talk, you couldn’t resist one last jab.

“So, how’s the whole ‘I don’t need anyone’ thing working out for you, Mr. ‘I’m so edgy, and oh did I mention that I’m a lone wolf’?” you asked with a smirk.

Damian shook his head, his voice low and tinged with frustration. “You’re impossible.”

But, deep down, he couldn’t help but feel... relieved that you were safe.

“Yeah, I know. You’ve told me that like a million times” You grinned up at him, your usual playful attitude as strong as ever. “But you wouldn’t have it any other way, would you?”

Damian just muttered something under his breath, refusing to admit anything, but the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

You were insufferable. And yet, somehow, you’d wormed your way into his heart.

[asooffa]

how did you come up with your designs for the ninja? they're some of the coolest ive seen in this fandom!

LONG POST INCOMING‼️‼️‼️

thanks for liking my designs!! honestly it took me a solid bit to make them look like the vision in my head and are NOT professional by any means,, but such is life

im putting more individual notes and explanations under the cut because i like yapping 👇

GENERALLY SPEAKING i wanted my ninja designs to feel slightly more traditional than they tend to lean in canon (s11 gis were my main point of reference). so most of my inspo draws from different culturally historical garmets and patterns. obviously i break a few rules and mash some things together.. but i wanted all of their silhouettes to be consistent as a team with room for individuality. the sashes, symbols and uniform shape were the most important for me to have across all ninja. i also wanted half the ninja to use gold and half to use silver as their accent metal. it feels less repetitive that way but is subtle enough to not make it the main focus? (if that makes sense) jay and lloyd also use more browns/leather than their respective metals for that added variation.

ok now i can talk about each ninja on their own

kai - POINTY. he has to be pointy but in a charismatic way and not a scary way. lots of gold accents to make it flashy without having to introduce a whole other color. short sleeves because he probably needs the breathability, same for his pants being a different material. i hc him and nya as thai so that's where i drew the siamese warrior influences from. also it incorporates more metal and he's a blacksmith

nya - her design reflects more in her samurai x days with SOME of the same influences as kai, and is a lot more symmetrical compared to the others because of that. so she gets samurai styled armor and surcoat. i absolutely MISS when they used red as an accent color for her so i kept that. her shape is more hourglass only because of how broad her clothes make her shoulders. kept her sleeves loose because i feel like that reflects flowing water better??? idk it looked good lmao

lloyd - he's THE mascot ninja so obv he has to have the most traditional shinobi silhouette. but i wanted to reflect on his half dragon and half oni situation by giving him a ton of asymmetry? so his shirt is color blocked to be a light and dark green, one sleeve is longer than the other, and i like the hc of him having a messed up arm 💀. idk what specifically but something about him gives the smallest bit of high fantasy too because that fits together in my head.

cole - im very biased when it comes to him so oops.. he's also got a lot of asymmetry going on but i tried to balance it out by placing the details on different levels, mostly using a mix of traditional seasian patterns. the beads are a must. i love the beads they've stayed on him since 2021. no sleeves and open chest because we need to be able to see his earth punch/spinjitzu burst ability and i do NOT wanna try and draw that on fabric. even with the *lack* of fabric, i still kept the fit of his clothes baggy so he can move around comfortably. big guy needs big clothes

jay - ok i hate this guy (im kidding). but because of his upbringing in a junkyard I wanted to kind of give off that same mismatched energy in his clothes. pure loser core. that's where you get details like the pins, the bandana, the stupid shorts over his pants, etc. he's clashing modernity with tradition in a way that still keeps his design harmonized with the whole team. he has to look a bit all over the place or else he doesn't look like himself imo.

zane - inspo came from tang dynasty armor mixed with traditional japanese shapes.. idk it seemed to have the same sort of power in elegance i associate with him and how he fights. his clothes are the longest and most modest out of all of the team, mostly to accentuate his height. still, its practical enough to protect him and hes still able to move with little restrictions because of the loose fit. he also gets purple as an accent color!! because cool tones.

in conclusion it was mostly **very shallow** research and trying to get in the mindset of what they would put out of preference and function,,, maybe i blacked out during the whole thing,, who knows,,,,

[darlingdaisyfarm]

｡°✩ for academic purposes only .ᐟ.ᐟ

Every month Ford experiences the same cycle: scientific curiosity, self-restraint and complete obliteration. He should’ve known better

tags: nsfw, Ford Pines aka uterus researcher, established relationship, nerdy Ford, periods, cycle, journaling, mentions of sex, period sex, breeding kink if u squint, Ford's notes

i would like to personally thank the female reproductive system bc this is the only reason this fic exists

JOURNAL ENTRY — CYCLE ANALYSIS BY DR. STANFORD F. PINES, PH.D. (MULTIPLE FIELDS), AUTHOR OF JOURNALS 1, 2 AND 3, MAN OF SCIENCE, CURRENTLY IN AN INCREDIBLY GRATIFYING AND SCIENTIFICALLY ENLIGHTENING RELATIONSHIP.

SUBJECT: (your name), hereafter referred to as my darling, my sweetheart, my love, my starlight (edit later, leave for now), follows a standard 28-day cycle, but their body’s response to each stage is something i cannot help but study with rapt fascination

STUDY FOCUS: menstrual cycle behavioural & physiological analysis (personal, HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL!!!)

OBSERVATIONAL PERIOD: (start date - present)

FOR SCIENCE & DEFINITELY NOT BECAUSE I’M OBSESSED

INTRODUCTION:

oh, my starlight, if you ever find this... i am a dead man. but in the interest of science (and, let’s be honest, my own hopeless fascination with you), i must document this properly. perhaps i should hide it somewhere impenetrable, but then again, i do enjoy re-reading my notes and recalling particularly... captivating instances. must deliberate further.

the goal of this entry? to analyse, in the most thorough and detailed manner possible, the profound effects of your cycle, particularly your most intimate needs and behaviours!

(personal note: this is entirely scientific. definitely. well. mostly. fine, i just want to remember every last detail of you and the way you change through each phase, but can you blame me? you are the most enthralling subject i have ever studied.)

It is a truth universally acknowledged that i, Stanford Filbrick Pines, have been fortunate enough to conduct one of the most fascinating, perplexing and occasionally overwhelming studies of my entire academic career. This, of course, refers to the ongoing, deeply personal and intensively hands-on analysis of my partner's menstrual cycle and its profound effects on both their physiology and our shared... extracurricular activities.

(hands-on research is, naturally, a critical aspect of any thorough investigation. i am, above all, a diligent scientist.)

HYPOTHESIS: her cycle influences not only her physiological state but our shared activities in ways that, if charted correctly, could allow for optimal... performance calibration.

(note: i should really not phrase it like that. sounds terribly perverse. i am a scientist, not a deranged old man. though, considering my reaction to certain phases of this cycle i fear i may be both)

PHASE ONE: FOLLICULAR (DAYS 1-14, PRE-OVULATION)

The luteinizing hormone (lh) surge initiates ovulation and its effects on behaviour are undeniable.

PHYSIOLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS INCLUDE:

• Estrogen levels increase, this means brighter eyes and faster speech. Energy levels rise noticeably, leading to an increase in spontaneous affectionate behavior as hand-holding, lap-sitting, casual nudity. I am holding myself together. barely

• Playful disposition increases, resulting in (very welcome) teasing remarks, touches, and moments of flirtation.

• My sweetheart is adorable, she moves so much. Paces while talking, gestures wildly, kisses me mid-sentence before running off to do something else.

(PERSONAL NOTE: My partner's thighs. have i ever properly documented my fascination with them? i should dedicate a separate entry. but her thighs during this phase are soft and firm, strong but yielding. When she wraps them around my waist, i momentarily lose my ability to process coherent thought.)

Arousal is present but manageable. My love enjoys teasing, initiating long, drawn-out foreplay, but not rushing into things. A preference for languid, exploratory touches, lazy morning sex where she can take her time riding me while still half-asleep.

PREFERRED POSITIONS & BEHAVIORAL NOTES:

• Tends to straddle me while talking, seemingly unaware of its effects. (This is a problem, i cannot concentrate.)

• Kisses are more playful than desperate.

• Lower cervix position = deeper penetration is easier, but subject’s own preference leans toward grinding rather than thrusting.

Overall: delightful Somewhat distracting, but so attractive.

PHASE TWO: OVULATORY PHASE (DAYS 14–17, PEAK FERTILITY)

PERSONAL NOTE: Oh. Oh no. Oh yes.

I am a mere man, defenseless against these biochemical weapons of seduction.

PHYSIOLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS INCLUDE:

• touch frequency escalates, subject initiates physical contact at a staggering (and frankly overwhelming) rate, often in seemingly innocuous ways that, due to my unfortunate hypersensitivity to her presence, result in considerable mental derailment.

• spontaneous arousal occurrences, seemingly triggered by voice depth, prolonged eye contact or even minor dominance cues

• her behaviour changes entirely. she becomes insatiable. restless. demanding.

• physical responsiveness is heightened, tactile stimulation along the spine, lower abdomen or inner thighs elicits a near-instantaneous shivering reaction.

• specific positional preferences emerge:

deep, cervix-targeting angles become more desirable, despite previous sensitivities.

• my darling climbs onto my lap, straddles me, kisses me until i can no longer form coherent thoughts. (note: i have, on three separate occasions, nearly dropped whatever i was holding due to this. once, it was coffee. another time, a priceless extraterrestrial artefact. the third time, my own dignity.)

PERSONAL NOTE: i find myself gravitating toward her like a man under some primitive compulsion.

PERSONAL NOTE: she told me, quite bluntly, that she “needs to feel me ruin her“ and then proceeded to climb into my lap and grind against me until i blacked out momentarily. truly, i have never been more in love.

OBSERVABLE SIGNS OF OVULATION:

• skin luminescence enhancement (note: skin is glowing. literally. did i hallucinate that? no. confirmed under direct lighting. biologically unfair!)

• heightened blood circulation leads to noticeably rosier cheeks, increased nipple sensitivity and a subtle but consistent warmth in the lower abdominal region.

• cervix sits higher, softens significantly; vaginal walls remain in a persistent state of involuntary contraction. arousal response time is astoundingly low, mere seconds of stimulation elicit immediate lubrication. (note: nearly passed out the first time i confirmed this.)

• body appears primed for contact; she leans into touch more, presses against me absentmindedly, makes these little “ah” whimpering noises if i pull away. (note: this is devastatingly effective at reducing my cognitive function to near-zero.)

MORE BEHAVIOURAL OBSERVATIONS:

• heightened assertiveness (dear god.)

• sustained eye contact (i am sweating.)

• subconscious body language cues, what means increased proximity-seeking, enhanced hip sway while walking (i am so normal about this. so incredibly normal.)

• direct verbal cues. e.g. "Ford, come here. sit down. let me straddle you." (???????)

• tactile seeking: my darling cannot stop touching me. fingers constantly curled into my clothes, tracing my chest, sliding under my coat. at one point, she pressed her face against my neck, inhaled deeply and whined. (note: i lost the ability to speak for a full minute.)

• vocabulary exhibits a marked increase in expletives and breathier, higher-pitched intonations. (example: during an encounter last night, she gripped my wrist, dragged my hand between her legs, and in a very insistent tone, said: “Ford, please, please, i need you, i need your mouth, your fingers, fuck, do something“ )

MORE DIRECT QUOTES FROM SUBJECT:

"Ford, if you don’t fuck me right now, i am going to lose my goddamn mind."

"I need you inside me. Now. No, i said now, why are you taking notes, oh my god—“

Unintelligible noises followed by what i can only describe as a feral growl.

PERSONAL NOTE TO SELF:

• do not attempt to maintain professional detachment. it is already lost.

• i swear, my starlight could ask me to hand over my life's work in exchange for kissing her ankle and i would do it without hesitation.

Most devastatingly, she becomes particularly receptive to deeper penetration and—

(note: pause. breathe. do not combust while writing this.)

The increased cervical softening allows for an absolutely devastating depth. She can take every inch of me, every grind against her cervix without discomfort. In fact, she moans for it! Begs for it, pulls me closer, gasping into my mouth, her nails biting into my back, telling m—

(note: take a cold shower.)

Scientifically speaking, her body is in peak condition for conception... and im fully aware of this fact, because every time she tightens around me, i—

(note: for god’s sake, Stanford, edit this later.)

EXPERIMENTAL OBSERVATION: INTERCOURSE DURING OVULATION

PERSONAL NOTE: i am not a young man but good lord.

SECONDARY PERSONAL NOTE: i need to start doing cardiovascular training if this is going to continue.

By compellingly, sexual appetite during this phase escalates significantly. Vocalisations become more uninhibited, involuntary muscle contractions increase, lubrication levels heighten and orgasmic response is intensified.

additional note: psychological implications are equally profound. subject’s confidence peaks, decision-making speed increases, and overall emotional resilience is heightened.

my sweetheart looked in the mirror today and said she looks beautiful. so proud of my love!:)

TEST ENVIRONMENT: my bedroom

SUBJECT STATE: ovulatory phase, heightened sensory sensitivitу

FORD PINES STATE: near-critical (hypothesis: excessive arousal may cause cognitive collapse. further testing required.)

POSING & ANGLES ANALYSIS: 

BACK-ARCHED, HIPS LIFTED (MISSIONARY VARIANT)

• her legs wrap around my waist immediately, locking me in place. (potential psychological factor: subconscious desire for security??? note: must investigate further. once i regain coherent thought post-orgasm)

• verbal responses increase by 63%. (examples: "oh my god, oh my god, Ford—“ , “please, please, deeper—“,  ”you feel so fucking good—“ etc.)

• cervical pressure is heightened (noted increase in breathy whimpers + desperate fingernail digging into my back)

• direct quote: “Ford, oh my god, deeper, i can feel you in my stomach—” (instant system failure on my end.)

• notable reaction when wrists are pinned above her head triggers rapid pulse, dilated pupils, small, breathy "oh—oh, god—" sounds. (note: physically difficult to maintain composure. potential solution: don’t maintain composure at all.)

• deep penetration, cervix stimulation. position: legs over shoulders. mating press, I think it’s called? anyways. EFFECT: immediate physiological surrender. my darling trembles, clutches at my arms, lets out a breathless, high-pitched little whines and, frankly, i nearly black out from how tight she gets. (note: jesus Ford.)

FACESITTING (I am a ruined man.)

• her hands in my hair, breathy little moans every time my tongue moves. (note: muscle control significantly reduced. fascinating!!)

• grip on my hair tightens when i lap at her clit. (involuntary response: bucking forward. possibly subconscious attempt at deeper pressure?)

• when i grab her waist and press her down harder, she makes this high and loud moan. (note: if i were a weaker man, i would be dead now)

STRADDLING, HIPS ROLLED FORWARD (COWGIRL VARIANT)

• optimal clitoral stimulation (highly enjoyable for both parties)

• direct quote: “Just—just let me use you, okay?”

ON HER SIDE, LEG HOOKED OVER MY SHOULDER 

• deep angle, excessive wetness and overwhelming intimacy

• one of our favourite 

• direct quote: “mmh, feels so good like this—so full.” (i nearly perished.)

BACKSHOT POSITION (EXTENDED DEEP-PENETRATION STUDY):

• initial hypothesis: deeper angle = greater cervical stimulation = heightened pleasure response

• confirmed within seconds. (note: DEAR GOD)

• subject reaction was immediate, sharp gasp upon first thrust. “f—fuck, Ford—ahh, god, right there—” (approx. 5 seconds in.)

“harder—please, please, deeper—“ (approx. 10 seconds in.)

loss of verbal coherence entirely (approx. 20 seconds in.)

• secondary observation: gripping her hips tighter makes her whimper. lifting her slightly higher makes her sob. both are important scientific findings!!

CERVICAL & WOMB-BASED RESPONSES:

• during ovulation, cervix sits higher and softens.

hypothesis: so subject can take deeper penetration with heightened pleasure rather than discomfort!

• confirmed within minutes. (note: will require many, many additional tests.)

• increased suction effect!! vaginal walls clench rhythmically, pulling me deeper. (note: brain ceased function entirely.)

• post-orgasm aftershocks. body remains hypersensitive, resulting in continued involuntary clenching even after climax

ADDITIONAL PHENOMENA:

• reduced patience for direct verbal requests for “breeding,” “filling,” “stuffing,” and other absolutely ruinous terminology.

• noteworthy psychological change. my darling displays an urgent need for full mating contact, requesting (or rather, insisting) that i “stay inside her” for extended periods following climax.

• direct cervical stimulation leads to involuntary whimpering, eye rolling, toe-curling and full-body tremors.

• personal weakness: gasping "right there, right there, right there" when i find the precise angle.

• frequent biting. of me. everywhere. lip marks on my neck, my lips, collarbone. teeth sinking into my shoulder while she’s clenching around me. (i am barely holding myself together.)

• if whispered praise is added (e.g., "you’re so good for me, sweetheart. taking me so perfectly."), subject exhibits full-body shudder and involuntary clenching.

DAY 15. ovulatory window confirmed. direct quote: “Ford, darling, put a baby in me.”........

oh. oh no. at that moment, i momentarily lost all ability to form rational thought. my cognitive processes flatlined. my only active function was a reaction i cannot, in good conscience, document further.

DIRECT RESPONSE (APPROXIMATE, AS MEMORY WAS COMPROMISED): incoherent groan and desperate, feral sort of growl.

PSYCHOLOGICAL IMPACT AFTER INTIMATE INTERCOURSE

• my sweetheart exhibits increased need for physical closeness, wrapping arms around me, nuzzling against my chest, making small, satisfied sounds

• ..... notably, i appear to be suffering the same symptoms

CLIMAX ANALYSIS (Stanford its 4 am, go to slee-)

• observable full-body tremors. internal muscular spasms. impossible to quantify pleasure levels. scale is inadequate.

• immediate cognitive dysfunction:

post-ejaculation speech delay (~12 seconds).

• loss of motor function (i collapse.)

• mild dissociation... ("did that happen in real life or was that an interdimensional hallucination?")

my partner's response: laughter and lots of kisses to my jaw and cheeks

PHASE THREE: LUTEAL PHASE (DAYS 17–28, PRE MENSTRUAL)

my darling gets so sensitive, becomes more prone to snuggling, less prone to teasing. libido fluctuates, but when it spikes, it is sudden and intense.

PERSONAL NOTE: there is nothing more arousing than her needy little whines when she pulls my hands to her chest and begs me to touch her...

NOTABLE BEHAVIOURAL PATTERNS:

• my love's body craves touch, warmth and closeness. she nuzzles into me, sighs when i wrap my arms around her. she likes to lay against my chest, my hand on her stomach, whispering soft praises

• partner exhibits heightened emotional sensitivity, cravings for both physical closeness and specific foods (namely chocolate, pickles, and, perplexingly, peanut butter straight from the jar.)

PERSONAL NOTE: she wrapped herself around me like a koala for two hours yesterday. i had work to do. i did none of it! none!

• sexual behaviour, as mentioned earlier, changes too. desire remains, but preference for gentler stimulation, extended foreplay, full-body contact. intimacy rather than urgency

• preference for slow, deep sex love making. (lengthy sessions. multiple orgasms. excessive praise.) strong desire for full-body contact. (chest to chest, fingers tangled, whispered affirmations.)

• occasional bursts of frustration where she demands to be "fucked properly" (????)

PROGESTERONE RISES, INCLUDING:

• metabolic increase when subject’s caloric intake rises; a preference for carbohydrate-dense, sodium-rich foods emerges, possibly due to fluctuating serotonin levels! (personal note: adorable little thing)

PET NAMES INTRODUCED DURING THIS PERIOD:

“sweetheart” (first observed: day 19, after she clung to my arm for 45 minutes and refused to let go while I was attempting to type.)

“honey” (first observed: day 22, when she started nesting in my sweater like a small irritated woodland creature)

“my love” (first observed: day 25, whispered against her hair while she buried herself under the covers and only emerged when I bribed her with hot chocolate)

"my poor, sweet, overdramatic thing" (day 26, when she claimed she was “literally dying” because I made her get out of bed for two minutes)

MORE OBSERVATIONS:

• subject requires constant touch, if no direct contact is made, pouting will occur.

• breasts become unbearably sensitive. (this has led to certain.... incidents. in which i was scolded for touching when i was explicitly given permission. this is unfair!)

PREFERRED POSITIONS & BEHAVIOURAL NOTES:

• will climb onto me at any given opportunity. (even while i am working.)

• slow, deep wnd intimate contact. heavy emphasis on cervical stimulation, warmth, closeness.

• soft praise required. frequent affirmations, reassurances. (she is particularly receptive to hearing how “beautiful” she is. which is, frankly, an objective truth.)

PERSONAL NOTE: her emotional state during this time, I ADORE IT. my darling needs comfort, touch and reassurance, and, well, i am only human. if she asks me to hold her, i will. if she asks me to lay on top of her and just be warm, i will. if she tells me she wants to feel full, wants to feel every inch of me keeping her safe wants me to tell her how much she is loved... well.

SECONDARY PERSONAL NOTE: she really, really likes when i call her “smart girl”

PERSONAL NOTE: i have no complaints. zero. none. absolutely none :)

MENSTRUAL PHASE (DAYS 1–5, ACTIVE BLEEDING)

initially, i had hypothesized that sexual activity during this phase would be uncomfortable or at the very least, unappealing to the subject. i was incorrect.

shedding of the endometrial lining initiates vascular dilation, heightened temperature and uterine contractions.

PRIMARY OBSERVATIONS INCLUDE:

• temperature regulation is disrupted, subject experiences fluctuations between feverish warmth and sudden chills. skin remains notably softer during this phase

• muscular fatigue, increased joint tension, my darling often seeks massage therapy, sustained compression (weighted blankets, my own body weight), and slow movement assistance.

• experiences waves of pain and discomfort, interspersed with unexpected surges of desire.

• blood viscosity is fascinating!!!!! color shifts from bright red (early days) to a deeper hue with occasional clotting (mid-phase). i have documented firsthand how the consistency changes during... se- various activities.

My sweetheart currently suffering the full physiological impact of uterine lining detachment, fluctuating between lethargy, irritability and an insatiable craving for attention, pressure, and snacks.

SCIENTIST’S DUTIES DURING THIS TIME:

• food preparation (nutrient-rich, iron-replenishing meals)

• pressure application (via full-body weight or strategic abdominal massages)

• endless patience (tested frequently)

EXPERIMENTAL CULINARY TRIALS

Partners nutritional intake fluctuates wildly during this phase. one moment, she craves salt; the next, sugar. she has, at times, demanded both simultaneously (a truly confounding biological mystery).

DAY 2 OF MENSTRUATION. my partner appeared lethargic, burrowed into blankets, making small, distressed noises whenever she moved

direct quote: “Ford, if i don’t get mac & cheese in the next ten minutes, i will die.”

counterargument: “you literally just ate an entire chocolate bar, honey”

Partner’s rebuttal: long, drawn-out groan followed by burrowing deeper and a tragic little sigh of suffering.

conclusion: i made the mac & cheese. i am weak

PERSONAL NOTE: my darling told me, quite shamelessly, that orgasms help her cramps. i told her, quite honestly, that i would be happy to conduct further research in this area ;)

DIRECT QUOTES FROM SUBJECT:

“Ford, it helps the cramps, please, this is literally medical.”

“Mmm, you’re so warm. No! don’t move, just stay inside me like that.”

SECONDARY PERSONAL NOTE: the psychological aspect of this is fascinating! the hormonal interplay of pain relief, emotional vulnerability, and deep, physical intimacy is something i should, theoretically, analyse further.

QUATERNARY PERSONAL NOTE: if i am not careful, i am going to end up proposing to this person during a study session.

of course reblogs/comments are always highly appreciated, but no pressure

[nicoleshifting]

your failures do not define you

I tried to shift but couldn't focus enough and didn't shift at all. this has been going on for weeks. therefore, I can't shift. it's too hard for me. my brain can't do it.

WRONG!! I have had a string of days where my focus was just not there at all. whether it was stressors from the day weighing on me, being too tired, or some other reason, it just wasn't easy for me to be disciplined with my focus and actually focus on shifting.

does that mean I will never be able to shift again? well, no! that just means I need to lock in and have a better frame of mind to get what I want! maybe finding a new meditation to do, making sure I'm getting enough sleep at night so I can focus more easily, etc.

"whether or not you are disciplined enough to sustain the required state of consciousness in specific instances has no bearing on the truth of the law itself- that an assumption, if persisted in, will harden into fact."

"the certainty of the truth of this law must remain despite great disappointment and tragedy."

just because you are "failing" to shift to your dr doesn't mean it will never happen. it MUST happen. and it will! keep persisting and ignore any past shifts that you deem as failures. they do not define you in the long run.

everyone has bad days with literally any and everything they do. artists have days where everything they draw looks like shit, singers have days where every note comes out flat, and i'm sure you have days at work or at school where you are just not on your game. does this mean you have suddenly lost the ability to do things successfully? no, it doesn't.

keep your focus on your goal and you WILL succeed. it is quite literally inevitable.

[grayskies2525]

Inevitable (male sneezing, contagion) | Part 4/4

Here's the conclusion to Evan's story! I'm glad to see so many people enjoying my gross fantasies!

Part one Part two Part three

Word count: 2,700

CW: mess, contagion

* * *

Evan walks to and from work every day. He doesn’t live far and everyone in this city walks most places. It’s that or take a bus, or the subway — neither of which are options for him in his current state even if he wants nothing more than to just sit down. He simply can’t endure any more potential opportunities for nose-related disasters.

No, what Evan needs is to walk home as quickly as he can while trying to mitigate — to the best of his ability —  the effects from the disaster that is his nose.

He’s doing a great job, if he does say so himself. Yes, he’s sneezing. Yes, he’s a snotty mess. But, he’s also equipped with an entire box of tissues that he stole from the store’s break room — considering his paychecks versus the amount of money the corporation takes in, Evan feels they owe him a box of tissues at the very least — and has captured each drip and sneeze deftly into the little white squares.

The sneezes are hard, fast, and relentless. As he walks, to distract himself, he begins a kind of game. If he were to title the game, Evan imagines it being something akin to “How many seconds can Evan go without a sneeze before he makes it home?”

So far, his record is twenty-eight seconds. He recognizes the absurdity of this. He doubts anyone else in any universe has ever sneezed this much in just half a day. He almost feels a sense of pride at the knowledge that he must be setting some kind of record, but then he also recognizes how absurd that is, so he brushes it away. 

“HEH eh’TshUUHHH!”

Another sneeze perfectly captured into a tissue. 

He smiles — literally smiles — at the accomplishment. This is what his life has become. He can not wait to finally get his degree so he can feel proud of something that holds a little more weight than “managed not to sneeze on everyone in sight.”

He mentally resets the timer in his head. As odd as the game is, it certainly does help pass the time. He only has a few more minutes until he reaches the sanctuary of his nice, warm bed.

Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three….

Evan wonders if he can make it a whole minute. He doubts it. He already feels another budding tickle. But he’s going to try. 

“HEH!”

No, no, no! He WILL make it a minute without a sneeze. He doesn’t care how arbitrary of a goal it is. It’s still a goal — something he has alarmingly few of these days — and he’s going to meet it.

“HEH HHH HEHhhhHHHH!”

Forty-three, forty-four, forty-five….

“Heehh Ehhh Eh HHhhH!”

Forty-nine, fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two….

“Excuse me sir, I hate to bother you, but could you tell me where —”

“EDT’SHHuuuuHHHH!”

And just like that, the pretty stranger’s pale skin is covered in a plethora of droplets, glistening in the sunlight. 

“Uhb, I’b sor— heh— sorry,” Evan says, rubbing his nose with a tissue.

The stranger gives a tight smile before brushing off her face in a futile attempt to clear away the droplets. He’s sure all she does is smear them around. They’re undoubtedly laden with viruses, anyway, so he knows she’s doomed. Just like all the other people who have been unfortunate to come into contact with him today. Just like he, himself, was three days ago in that elevator.

“It’s um… It’s fine,” the stranger says.

“Uhb, you were aski’g about directiods? I bay be able to hehhh —”

The woman is walking so briskly, she’s practically running from Evan. “That’s okay! I remember where it is now. Thanks!” she calls out before somehow walking away even more quickly.

It’s a good thing she does because Evan snaps forward, hands on his thighs, and lets out what must be the most violent sneeze he’s had in his entire life.

“HEH-RRrrreeeEHHHSHuuuHHHHHH!”

It sounds more like a scream than a sneeze, though the resulting heavy spray, thick smell, and the strand of snot dangling precariously from his left nostril are all clear indicators that it was, indeed, a sneeze — a massive one. 

It’s like his body is desperately fighting with all it has in it to get this cold out of him. He’d be more than happy to let it, if it weren’t such a violent — and contagious — action. His head is throbbing and his throat is wrecked.  

He goes to wipe off the strand from his nose with a tissue, but he’s too late and he watches in resignation as the drop hits the concrete. 

At this point, people are giving him a wide berth. He tries not to pay attention to anyone’s expression, but he still can’t miss the scowls and noses scrunched up in disgust. It’s not like he can even blame them.

He hangs his head, clutches his tissue box tightly against himself, and tries to make himself take up the least amount of space possible. He needs to get home without causing any more scenes.

* * *

How could he forget his keys?

Evan’s been an adult for over a decade now, and he’s never done something as senseless as locking himself outside his apartment. He supposes having a cold from the deepest depths of Hell could be to blame for his forgetfulness.

He’s currently slumped against his apartment door, tissue box in his lap. There’s probably a better choice he can make besides this one, but he’s already here and moving his body any more sounds like the worst idea in the entire world. He feebly zips up jacket to ward off the chill, and even that small action wipes out the remaining energy he had.

His phone buzzes and he quickly unlocks it to read the message.

Marcus: 😂 Usually it's me forgetting the keys. i’m on a date w mia but we’re almost finished eating. she’s gotta go to work soon anyway. hang tight. be there in abt 20

Evan breathes out a sigh of relief, then begins typing.

Evan: THANK you. Could you also possibly pick up some cold meds on your way? If you have the money? I’ll pay you back Friday.

A minute or two goes by while Evan waits for the response. He closes his eyes and leans more heavily against the door. He opens his eyes halfway when he hears footsteps. The person is someone he doesn’t recognize — so probably just someone visiting someone on the floor. The stranger gives Evan a quick look before quickening their pace as they walk down the hall.

The phone’s buzz jerks Evan out of the doze he’d slipped into. He groggily takes his phone and glances down at it.

Marcus: stuff’s like ten dollars, man. i mean, if you really need it tho, i can charge it to my credit card.

Evan sighs. He gets it. Money’s incredibly tight for both of them. Between the two of them, they can just barely manage to make rent each month. 

Evan: Nvm. I’ll just tough it out.

After hitting “send” on the message, Evan allows his eyes to close, resting his head against the door frame.

* * *

“Evan?”

The way the man says his name, Evan suspects it’s not the first time he’s said it.

Evan groans before beginning the exhausting process of opening his eyes. 

“Ahh, so you are alive. I was beginning to wonder,” Marcus says with a smirk. 

Evan groans again.

“Are you drunk or something?” Marcus asks, his eyebrows shooting up.

Evan tries to glare. “Ndo,” he says indignantly, though he likely diminishes the effect with his subsequent thick snort. “Imb just sigck. A’d cold a’d tired. Just wadda lie dowd,” he says, weakly, before he starts coughing — the sounds heavy and wet. 

Marcus scans Evan up and down, likely taking in Evan’s slumped posture, his lap covered in an innumerable amount of used tissues, and however his face looks — something Evan doesn’t even want to think about.

Marcus sighs. “Leave it to you to nearly die from the common cold. Let’s get you inside, then.”

* * *

As much as Evan had wanted to crawl into bed, upon entering the apartment it was as if he’d lost all control of his legs. They’d immediately taken him to the couch where he’d instantly curled up on his side.

He lies on his back, now, clasping a tissue to his nose as he blows and blows. He’s read that you’re not actually supposed to blow your nose — that the pressure causes the germs to blow back into the sinus cavity, which can lead to sinus infections. But he has no doubt that without blowing, he’d literally choke to death on his own snot.

“EDT’shhUUH! ECK’SHUUH!” 

The sneezes are hard, sharp, and wet. He feels the moisture sliding down his chin despite the fact he’d had a tissue over his nose. He sighs, then wipes off the mess.

“Okay, Nurse Marcus is here with your first dose of medicine,” Marcus says as he comes toward Evan. He takes a seat on the coffee table across from Evan. Evan notices the small cup of liquid in his hand.

Evan’s brows knit. “But I thought you wered’t goi’ig to buy the medicide.” Evan has given up on being able to pronounce m’s and n’s any time soon. 

“In the three years we’ve been roommates, you’ve never asked me to buy you anything, so I figured it must be bad. So yeah, I went ahead and bought it. But, damn, I still wasn’t expecting this,” Marcus says, gesturing to Evan with his free hand. “I didn’t know it was possible for someone’s nose to be that red. I thought that was, like, a cartoon thing. But, no, here you are totally Rodolphing it. It’s almost impressive.”

“Yeah, I kdow, I mbust loogk like shit. Cad I please have the bedicide dow? I bead, thagck you for buyi’g it of course, a’d all that, but really, I thidk I deed it, like dow,” Evan says before  proceeding to cough horrendously.

Marcus grimaces, but hands the liquid over to Evan. Evan manages to swallow the substance before he sneezes into the air three times in a row.

“You kdow, it’s probably a good thi’g you bought this because dow we’ll have sombe for when you combe dowd with this,” Evan says.

Marcus snorts in amusement. “Don’t worry about that. I haven’t been sick in years. Just one of the many benefits of a healthy diet and regular exercise,” he says, looking so smug Evan wishes he could throw something at his face. 

Instead, Evan glares. “You are so addoyigck for that.”

Marcus leans in closer from his spot on the table. “I’m sorry. I’m so what? It’s hard to understand you because you’re so full of snot.”

Evan glares again, then snorts thickly. “Addoyi’g. You are HH EDTChUUUuuuhhh!”

If Evan hadn’t turned on his side to face Marcus, Marcus may have had a chance. But Evan did turn on his side, so Marcus’s face receives quite the generous amount of spray. 

“Sorry,” Evan mumbles. At this rate, he’s apologizing almost as much as he’s sneezing.

Marcus blinks, then wipes off his face with his arm. “It’s fine. Don’t worry. My immune system can handle it.”

Evan doesn’t think anyone’s immune system is equipped for this thing, but he sure hopes Marcus’s is. This feeling only increases as the evening goes on. 

Sometimes Evan forgets how nice Marcus can be. They’ve lived together for a few years now, and Evan definitely considers him a friend, but they’re both busy and despite being roommates, their paths don’t always often cross. But Marcus does nice little things for him throughout the rest of the day  — covering up his poor pathetic body with blankets, bringing him more medicine, and even cooking ramen for him (since it turns out they didn’t actually have any Campbells). He also makes sure Evan has a hefty supply of toilet paper roll — after he ran out of tissues —  and a wastebasket conveniently placed next to him.

Most importantly, he doesn’t complain when Evan launches sneeze after sneeze into the air. Marcus assured him any damage has already been done, and when Evan thinks back to the droplets coating his face from that full on sneeze he’d directed at him — well, Evan figures he’s probably right.

Evan spends the rest of the day nestled in blankets on the couch, dozing in and out of sleep, while Marcus plays movies on the TV and keeps him company. 

After the morning he had, he considers the evening to be perfect. Or, relatively perfect, at least. He’s sicker than he’s ever been, but he’s warm and comfortable. Or, mostly comfortable — his congestion, sneezing, and the painfully raw skin around the edges of his nostrils beg for his almost constant attention. But most importantly, he’s no longer drenching people in his germs. 

And Evan couldn’t really ask for more.

* * *

Marcus does come down with the cold, of course. Trevor, too. And seemingly everyone Evan knows. 

When Evan returns to work five days later — still sniffling and coughing, but mostly functioning — he gives a feeble attempt at defending himself. He mentions it could have been Courtney who got almost their entire team sick. She did, after all, go home sick the same day as Evan. But that argument quickly unravels when someone points out Courtney had a stomach bug. And everyone who’s called off has been hacking up their lungs and sneezing non-stop. 

So, Evan reluctantly admits that perhaps there’s a slight possibility he may be responsible for starting a minor cold outbreak in the store. 

To make an already embarrassing situation worse, his boss shows him an online survey that makes him blush. In the survey, a customer mentions how the store lets “unhygienic” employees interact with customers and relays how she “came down with the worst cold of her life” after a rude manager “purposefully sneezed all over her just because he didn’t want to do his job.”

After he leaves the store feeling stressed — having only three people to work the registers and the sales floor does not make for a good shift — he heads to school for his evening class.

* * *

As he stands in the elevator, his eyes widen when he sees who steps inside. 

It’s him.

The instructor who’s single-handedly responsible for the most humiliating day of Evan’s life.

The man gives Evan a quick, friendly smile before clear recognition settles over his face. Evan tries not to glare as he uses a tissue to quickly wipe at his nose. 

It’s awkward for a few seconds until the man speaks. “Listen, um…. Gosh, I don’t even know what to say,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just…. Did I get you sick? Be honest.”

Evan blows his nose — perhaps more dramatically than necessary — and this time does glare at the man. “Yeah. You got me sick,” he states, simply. “I’m just now getting over it.”

The man winces. “I am so sorry.”

There is so much genuine sympathy and regret etched into the man’s expression that Evan finds himself softening. “It’s fine. You couldn’t help it,” he finally says. 

The elevator dings and the two get off on the same floor, but they both stay stopped outside the doors. “Listen,” the instructor begins. “Was it, like, the most sick you’ve ever been? I’ve never had anything like that in my life.”

Evan gives a wry laugh. “Hands-down the sneeziest and snottiest I’ve ever been.”

“Right?” the man says, emphatically.  “Again, I am so sorry. I can’t apologize enough.”

Evan offers a small smile. “It’s okay, really. I don’t think anyone stands a chance at not getting that cold. It really wants to spread. I was doomed the moment I got on that elevator,” he says giving an exaggerated, forlorn look. 

The instructor smiles. “For sure. Thank you for being so understanding.”

The two exchange more pleasantries before they walk off to their respective classes.

The guy’s nice and Evan doesn’t have it in him to resent him any longer. 

After all, Evan knows now from personal experience that with a cold like that — sneezing all over everyone you come across is simply inevitable. 

[myanmardoesnotexist]

Some MotoGP Riders and Their Godly Parent

Valentino Rossi, Son of Dionysus

Valentino is chaos incarnate, madness and revelry contained in one person. He is the life of the party, the center of every room he is in and he full well knows it. Dionysus is a rule breaker and the god of not just wine, but insanity and theater, and what is Valentino if not the star of his own crazy little show?

2. Marc Marquez, Son of Ares

Fearless, aggressive, and at his best in the midst of battle. His all-or-nothing attitude while racing makes every single one feel like war. Victory is Marc's goal no matter what he does, and Ares represents nothing if not war-crazed pursuit of a win. Beyond that, there is this magnetism that Marc has when in the fight that makes you just stare, a beauty even in the midst of bloodshed.

3. Francesco Bagnaia, Son of Athena

Methodical, strategic, and highly intelligent, Pecco is know best for always thinking critically. A child of Athena must have the speed of mind, so Pecco's ability to calculate even going 200km per hour displays that brilliantly. More than that, he has a calm approach to life as well, preferring to stay above any petty drama and let cool head prevail.

4. Andrea Dovizioso, Son of Demeter

Okay, hear me out for this one. Now as far as I am aware, Dovi has no proclivity for plants,. But what he does have is patience, a propensity for hard work, and a steadiness that children of Demeter often display. He is down to earth and understanding, and that shows not just in how he handles the stress of racing, but how he rides.

5. Jorge Lorenzo, Son of Hephaestus

Much like Dovi, this connection comes not from a skill but from a way of being. Children of Hephaestus are often perfectionists and they take a very hands on approach to things. This is Jorge, with his technical approach to racing and the precise way he handles the bike. Efficiency is key to him, just as it is to the god Hephaestus.

6. Casey Stoner, Son of Poseidon

Now this one is a little on the nose, what with Casey's love of fishing, but it is deeper than that. Children of Poseidon are temperamental and thrive in changing conditions, much like Casey does. There is also a theme of brutal honesty with them, and as everyone knows there is no one quite so honest as Casey Stoner.

7. Dani Pedrosa, Son of Hermes

Fast and agile, Dani matches Hermes perfectly. He is a nimble rider, helped by his small size, and also has a thread of wicked intelligence while he rides. Dani also had to constantly change his riding style due to injuries, and children of Hermes are very adaptable.

8. Enea Bastianini, Son of Aphrodite

Well Enea is terribly good looking, there is more than that in this choice. He has a grace while riding, one that is almost jarring when he makes some rather unpredictable moves. Children of Aphrodite are often underestimated, but can be the most aggressive when going after what they want, even if they are lovely as they do it.

9. Franco Morbidelli, Son of Hestia

Grounded, loyal, calm, and collected. Franky is a stabilizing figure for many people around him, and tends to avoid the spotlight more than others. This reflects Hestia very nicely, as she is the quiet glue of the Olympic family just as Franky can be seen as the glue of the VR46 Academy. He was the first one, after all.

10. Marco Bezzechi, Son of Apollo

Bezz has a natural flair for performance, and rather than being wild like a child of Dionysus, it is often tempered by a relaxed and careless feeling. His riding style also reflects that, confident and smooth. Even deeper, he has a caring and gentle nature that is very natural to children of Apollo.

Let me know what you think, and what other gods you think rider might fit! These were just the ones that popped into my head haha

[lavenderchqn]

✧・┆drunk on love — lyney

— it's the evening of lyney's birthday when you receive a call to retrieve your drunk partner from the lovely hands of his friend group's.

this piece is set after the story of red lines, although it works as a standalone read~

content warning: lyney is drunk. he's silly, but he's drunk.

Your eyes are barely open when your phone rings. You’ve been trying to finish correcting your master thesis for the entire evening, after sending your boyfriend out to spend his birthday with his friends. Taking a glance at the caller, as well as the time, you notice it’s Wriothesley. 

You answer the phone, worry already seeping into your mind. “Hello?”. There are so many things that could’ve gone wrong… given Lyney’s ability to handle alcohol. 

“Hi,” Wriothesley says breathlessly, sounding more than exhausted. “Sorry to be calling you so late.” 

“It’s alright, what’s up?” You interrupt, drumming your other hand on your keyboard. “You sound miserable, man.” 

“Tell me about it…” He says voice muffled as if he’s covered his mouth with his hand. “I hate being the designated driver on nights like these.” 

“They made you the designated driver?!” Shock fills your voice. “You didn’t drink, did you?” 

“I didn’t, don’t worry—“ Wriothesley laughs. “Quite amusing to see this lot completely drunk. I mean, Neuvillette has been crying about Furina breaking one of her nails for the entire time.” 

“Ahh, gotcha.” You nod to yourself, hoping that the man will get back on track soon. “Do you need my help with something?” You ask. Wriothesley calling you is not something that happens regularly. At most, he'd only send you embarrassing pictures of your boyfriend. 

“Lyney’s been calling out for you since he took a shot of whiskey. I don’t think I can take him, Furina and Neuvillette home without a drink myself in between…” 

As if on cue, Lyney — the man in question — seems to notice he’s being talked about that. You can hear a sudden movement followed by a cheerful laugh. 

“Hi, baby!~” Lyney’s voice seems more joyous than ever. Yeah, that man is as drunk as a kite. “I miss you so so so much!!” 

“Having fun?” You ask, a small smile gracing your face. Given how stressful the winter season was for everyone involved, with the ever-nearing period of defending their scientific titles approaching, you felt nothing but happiness that Lyney went out to celebrate his birthday with his friends. 

“Not the same without youu…” With how he's speaking, there must be a small pout on his face — his eyebrows knit. “No, no no… Wrio, let me talk man…” Ah. Wriothesley must be making a deal with your boyfriend to retrieve his phone. 

“As I was saying,” The sole sober person speaks. “You’d do me a huge favour by coming to pick your prince.” 

“I’ll go put on my shoes and be on the way.” You say. “Just send me the address. Oh, and don’t allow Lyney to drink more, alright?” 

“Will do. Thanks, and sorry, again” 

The message containing the group’s location comes the moment you end the call. Dressing yourself in anything comfortable, you’re ready to head out and take Lyney’s car. Ever since getting your driver’s license, he swore the only car you’d ever need is his. 

Luckily the road is not too crowded, nor glistened from the rain despite all the inside jokes of Neuvillette’s tears causing it. You arrive without much issue, already spotting the group as you pull up to the parking lot. 

Wriothesley is busy balancing an asleep Furina and Neuvillette who keeps on sobbing, head supported on his shoulder. Lyney’s standing on his two feet, zipping up his jacket. Lovely. Perhaps getting him back to the house will be easier than expected. He seems to spot you, approaching as you park the vehicle. 

His eyes curve into straight lines as he breaks into a smile. Swaying from side to side, he throws himself into your embrace, burying his face into your shoulder. “Missed youuu”

“One child less to care for?” You ask Wriothesley while patting Lyney’s head.

“Unless you turn the car around…” He chuckles, readjusting Neuvillette’s position. “Thanks for the help, really.” 

“Happy to help, Wrio.” With that, you split — each of you heading to their car. With the way you’re both basically dragging other people, it does take a while. “Message me when you’re home!” You shout as he’s settling his friends into the backseat. 

“You too!”   

“You’re going need to let go of me, Love.” You say, still patting Lyney’s head. It’s been almost five minutes of you standing out in the cold, your partner too clingy to allow you to drive the two of you back. “I promise you, once we’re home you’ll get all the cuddles.” 

The blonde turns his head, looking directly at you. It’s unfair, you think, that even underneath this lighting, he still looks like a statue. His hair is unusually curly, and a pair of glasses is balancing on his nose. Not to mention the pure delight in his violet eyes, matching the warm, albeit drunk smile. 

“Pinky?” He extends his finger, looking determined. Of course, he’d make you promise something as silly as this. You quickly interlock with one of your own, moving afterwards to open his door. 

“Get in,” You smile, holding the door for him. “You’re the passenger prince today.” 

All you can hear back is the tiny gibberish thoughts of a drunken man. You help him with the safety belt, and only when you confirm he’s actually buckled in, do you take your designated driver’s seat. 

For the first time during your ride, it’s completely quiet. You’re unsure if Lyney’s fallen asleep, but checking the overhead mirror tells you his eyes are very much awake. His head sways slightly as if he was listening to music. 

“What’s on the playlist?” You ask, leaning your head towards him, as to signal you’re talking to him. 

“Marry you.” 

You blink, momentarily distracted by his response. “Marry you? That’s what's in your head right now?" You tease, stealing a quick glance in his direction. 

Lyney nods enthusiastically, though the movement is a bit too exaggerated in his tipsy state. “Yep! As Bruno says… It’s a beautiful night,” he slurs with a dreamy smile. “I wanna marry youuuuu.” His voice, although off-key, is filled with unmistakable affection, and it takes everything in you not to laugh.

“You’re so drunk, baby.” You say with a chuckle, shaking your head at him missing some of the words.

“But I’m honest!” He protests, his pout returning. “I think we should… should get married. Like, tomorrow. Or maybe today? We’re both free today!” 

“Lyney,” You sigh, though you can’t hide the grin tugging at your lips. “You’re not even going to remember this conversation in the morning.” 

“Will too!” He insists, crossing his arms in a huff, though his coordination betrays him and he almost smacks himself in the face. “I’ll remember everything. Like how much I love you, and how I wanna spend all my birthdays with you. And how…” His voice trails off, softer now. “How you’re the best thing in my whole world.” 

Your heart squeezes at his words, even if they’re fuelled by alcohol. “Alright, my sweet drunk prince,” You say gently. “Let’s get you home first, and then we can talk about this… grand proposal of yours.” 

“Promise?” He mumbles, already starting to doze off. 

“I promise,” You reply softly, glancing at him through the mirror again. His eyelids are drooping, his lips curled into a content smile as sleep claims him. 

date of posting — february 2nd 2025

[valenteal]

Ok so I know we all wish there was more reaction in canon to the revelation of Dazai’s past. But I think there’s more of a reaction than people realize. It’s like the entire dynamic shifts after the meeting with the mafia. And it’s easy to attribute this to things getting more serious, more dangerous, because no one mentions Dazai being the reason for it. But I think it’s important to understand about these characters that the not saying anything is extremely indicative of their feelings on the matter. I think the tension is mostly glossed over because at the end of the day this is still Atsushi’s story and he’s kinda oblivious to it. But Dazai and Kunikida aren’t really partners after that, their interactions go way down, their banter is no longer a staple of the series. And Dazai wasn’t really close enough with anyone else to see major changes in his relationships with them, but we can guess based on what we do know.

For one thing, anyone thinking Fukuzawa already knew, sorry to burst your bubble but Taneda didn’t tell him jack. In fact Dazai made up a story about randomly meeting him at a bar and Taneda offering to find him a job if he won a bet or something. Dazai lied to Fukuzawa just as much as anyone else, he had elaborate cover stories. Fukuzawa told Kunikida to shoot him if he showed a hint of malicious intent but Dazai managed to worm his way out of that disguising it as his solution to the case/a suicide attempt. He pretended to be the bad guy to put on a show for the people listening in, and create an excuse for the listening device to be destroyed and gave Kunikida enough hints that he’d think twice about actually shooting him and pretended he wanted him to do it. It’s a very masterfully done scheme really, because Kunikida was so wrapped up in how it affected the case that he miss took Dazai’s innocence in the case for a lack of hidden evil. Kunikida definitely saw a side of Dazai that would make the President say “shoot him” but he didn’t even realize it because it was connected to solving the case. And when he lists off all the things he has problems with about Dazai it’s all about his unprofessional behavior and laziness and he doesn’t even mention that Dazai was so incredibly good at playing the bad guy that it didn’t feel fake. He didn’t mention the chilling aura. Dazai distracted him with all his other bad behavior.

But Ranpo must have known right? Well he certainly knew something was off about Dazai immediately after meeting him even without putting his glasses on. But I don’t think even he could have deduced Dazai’s past with the information he had. Because you have to remember that Dazai’s crimes were erased by Mushitaro’s ability and that Ranpo specializes in understanding crime scenes, not psychological profiling. Ranpo uses physical evidence for the most part and he needs knowledge of the crime to find the perpetrator. I don’t think it works the other way around. Not to mention that Fukuzawa trusts Kunikida and Kunikida said Dazai passed his entrance exam so Ranpo probably didn’t choose to look too closely at Dazai.

Anyway, the point is no one at the agency knew Dazai was in the mafia until the Guild arc. And Dazai’s interactions with the rest of the agency changed after that revelation. I think only Atsushi, Kyouka, and Kenji don’t change how they see him, because Atsushi is Atsushi, Kyouka probably already knew from when she captured him and his pep talk made her more comfortable with the idea, and Kenji is Kenji. Everyone else though? It’s a shock. And a lot of them probably just don’t know how to handle it. It helps that they got Kyouka around the same time it was revealed but Dazai had been lying to all their faces for two years at that point and he showed absolutely no remorse for that. Dazai doesn’t make a big deal of it, doesn’t try to make excuses for himself, doesn’t try to justify anything. Without him starting the conversation none of them have a way to comfortably bring up the subject. And because none of them (except Kenji) knows how to communicate in a healthy way, they just end up stewing with the information without fully processing it or acknowledging it. They’re stuck in this limbo of doubt and discomfort. It’s actually incredibly nuanced and I bet it’s all going to come to a head at some point in the near future and it’s going to be that much more satisfying for the wait.

[noneatnonedotcom]

i'm sick and bored!

so here's another celestial dojo jaune build but this time I gave myself 1000 character points to work with and one free random roll. there will be no further rolls on the celestial dojo all improvements will come from in universe abilities. AU the grimm do not exist, instead it is the darkness in the hearts of men that hunters must strive against, the world of remnant is a post great war world where the color revolution and faunas wars happened at the same time leading to the utter collapse of civilization. five kingdoms remain,

Vale: the last monarchy, a place where knighthood and chivalry still finds a home. the king is elected from one of the noble families every ten years, knights are trained warriors who preside over a single settlement, while new colonies are popping up banditry and harsh weather or bad harvests can and will wipe them out leading to only a few knightly houses remaining. still any who wish may take on huntsmen training and take up the noble calling of a knight after graduation.

Atlas: the industrial powerhouse of the world, it is a city state with mandatory military service for all people, it is in a constant guerrilla war with menagery. it's tech is quite literally a century ahead of everwhere else though. minstral: the land of mercenaries. the entire state is essentially made up of mercenary companies who fight against or for cartels sometimes at the same time. minstral itself is a neutral territory where discussions of business can happen without risk of death for the negotiators. as a result the city effectively controls the continent but has very little power. vaccuo: vale's southern neighbor is in an interregnum lacking a royal to sit on the throne constant wars between the nomadic tribes of the desert and the Shieks over water keep them from uniting as no one has the spare men to expand their influence. menagerie: recognized as a kingdom in it's own right the island nation does have to deal with terrible PR as pirates and the White fang a faunas supremacy group are pretty much all they're known for now. making international trade and alliance all but impossible. now the royal belladonas seek to remove the white fang and pirates seeing them as a relic of the past. this of course is not going down well. you'd think in a world with no grimm things would be safer but no, with aura still a thing all it takes is some random jerk with a strong semblance and everyone's trying to take over the world. bandits are common outside the city walls and only other aura users can stop them. in this world of bloody evolution can the flower of chivalry bloom? or has the world fallen too far?

jaune's traits:

Breathing Style (400 CP) "The bread and butter of a demon slayer, the breathing techniques. You may choose any breathing style you like for any level or you can create your own on the same level as described, they don’t need to be for swords either, and note that all the higher levels can be reached by training. Post-jump you don’t need to breathe in order to use them if you do not require air to survive.

Hashira: The highest position of a demon slayer, usually gained by killing at least 50 demons or killing one of the 12 moons as a kinoe(the highest normal rank of demon slayers). You have reached the pinnacle of what a normal human is capable of with your breathing style, able to easily cut through scores of demons easily and take out the lower ranked moons without much effort. Your body is much stronger than the previous option, so much so you could be faster than the eye could see, and you may have even developed techniques of your own that no one else knows, but the most notable change is in your stamina, being able to go through extremely harsh training for weeks or even months straight. " Hanma (300 cp) "A lineage genetically predisposed to excel in all matters of violence, growing stronger with each battle. The quintessential Hanma bears the title of “World’s Strongest Lifeform”. Monstrous beasts, modern armies, and even natural disasters kneel before his physical might.

Those of the Hanma blood tend to develop demonic imagery throughout their body, such as the skull, back muscles, and even the brain.

For 300cp, you are a true heir to the Hanma name. So long as you continue to challenge yourself, you may catch up to masters with decades of experience in a few years, and the Ogre’s power may very well be within reach."

Steel Trap Clarity (300 cp) "It's a sad fact, but traitors and spies are lurking everywhere. Their hands forced by blackmail, willingly becoming a double agent from bribery or falling to good old fashioned brain washing. Not you though, absolutely not. Upon purchase, you become excessively resistant to traditional forms of corruption, mystical forms of brainwashing and everything in between. Something with mind-boggling power may still be able to put you under its control. Most of the threats to your morals or sanity in this world are just out of luck. Additionally, you will always be able to keep a clear idea of your personal principles, meaning you won't stray off of your path on accident."

(Free roll) Blessed by the Sun God (600cp) You did not awaken with the Demon Slayer Mark, you were born with it. Ever since you were young you have been stronger than most, and you only grew stronger over time. Because the mark is so deeply engraved into your body, it has undergone a change from the normal version, making you even stronger than it would make others along with a great increase in talent. Your Transparent World has gotten to the point where you can see individual blood vessels and sickness in people while also slowing the world down even more along with your thought processing being even faster. Most importantly, your Red Blade is much more potent, not only causing wounds to heal at a snail's pace for those with extremely fast regeneration and taking even more energy, but the wounds will continue to burn long after they have been healed, which will always leave nasty scars. Finally, those you train with will slowly be able to awaken their own marks, though only the first version.

how would you write this version of jaune? here's my idea down below

jaune's family in this universe have an instinctive grasp of violence, one they bury under the laws of chivalry to be able to function in this world. while most simply use aura the arcs developed this bodies first only unlocking the aura of their children after they've mastered the breathing forms. the increase in strength and speed is about what you would get from unlocking your aura and their natural physicality makes them stronger than most low level huntsmen anyways. jaune was unique born with the sign of the rainbow on his back he's always gotten combat and an instinctive grasp of how the human body works. but as a result has been isolated from the common sense of this world, lacking any idea of what aura is or how it works. not knowing what a huntsman is in relation to a knight. (knights are assigned a territory to watch over huntsmen travel around) and not knowing about modern tech and who the players are in the world. (doesn't know about weiss or pyrrha) people tend to view him as a blunt instrument. in reality his mind is far sharper than any would give him credit for. he's just a purpose built item, a sword among axes and hammers. he asked to be sent to beacon not to learn to fight but to actually learn to be human outside the shadow of his family. but can he hold back the instinctive call for violence that runs through his veins?

how would you write this world? how would you write this version of jaune ignoring my idea for it just above. also any thoughts on how things like the silver eyes would adapt to having to handle human enemies? my thought was it visualizes aura helping the silver eyed warriors not only empathetically predict their enemies abilities and next attacks but also what their semblance is. as well as giving a strong boost to their aura when feeling strong positive emotions.

@howlingday @weatherman667 @heliosthegriffin just something i'm doing while i'm too sick to actually do anything. lemme know what you would do

[witchyliterature]

(2.5) THE TIME HE STAYED IN; OLIVER AIKU

0.7k words

2 OF “EASY” - M.LIST - 3 OF “EASY”

the morning glow seeped in through the peaks of the curtains, the soft breeze flowing in through the window aired out the smell of sweat and sex that coated the air thickly from last night.

soft snores escaped from your lips, harmonising with the chirps from the birds outside.

the sharp rings from his phone rung, he had woken before his alarm - per usual.

he groggily turned his phone alarm off, turning back to face your squished cute face against the pillow, a smile slowly grew on his face.

sadly, he needed to go to practice, at least, that was what his brain was telling him.

but it was like his heart and soul was stuck to the bed, his eyes glued onto your face and his fingers buzzed with excitement as he remembered that you were his, his to hold, touch, explore and have.

soon, you began to awaken yourself. you were used to waking up early due to your workouts being early in the morning.

you opened your eyes and rubbed them while your stretched, your eyes roaming around until they found him right next to you, just like he always would be.

“morning baby.” you smiled, your raspy morning voice sounding like a symphony to him.

“morning baby.” oliver repeated, smiling along with you as his arms started to pull you closer to his chest.

you giggled in response, letting him drag into his hold because that was where you felt safest, with his arms around you and his voice, balming and sweet and dipped in honey whispering sweet nothings into your ear.

“need to get up soon, i’ve got practice.” oliver had told you, knowing you hated when he left.

“no you don’t.” you groaned into his chest, causing oliver to chuckle softly.

“sadly, i do.” oliver laughed.

“come on, stay in today. i’ll make your favourite, we can put on that horrible movie we started yesterday night and we can hang out together all day.” you persuaded, pulling yourself out of his hold momentarily to looking into his eyes.

his eyes were enchanting, two different colours that pulled you into a trip. you felt high on happiness and drunk on love, the cross fade allowing you to feel like you were in an eternal heaven.

“you always tell me to stay in.” oliver argued back.

“and you never listen!” you huffed childishly.

“because i need to be the best, you know how that lost to blue lock was for us.” he sighed.

you looked at him as his face dropped and his smile faltered slightly. that loss had truly impacted his confidence, which he had a lot of.

“honey, just because they beat you, doesn’t take away from your own abilities. anyone knows that you’re a great player, things happen and sometimes they suck. doesn’t mean that you’re suddenly the bottom of the barrel.” you spoke out softly, your hand found a place in his hair as you gently scratched his scalp - his eyes fluttered and he started humming, he loved when you did that.

“you’re right.” he muttered. you had always said that he was an amazing player, he wanted to believe you so bad but everytime he remembers how they lost to a team of 16 to 18 year olds, it starts to feel embarrassed he even assumed he was even a average player.

however, you were always there to care for him. to brush his hair back, look into his eyes and tell him that you were his number one fan, that he was still one of the best and things happen.

oliver sometimes thought he must be annoying you with his insecure rants, he hated girls who would do that to him. but you never argued back, never got angry and never invalidated his feelings.

it’s felt so nice to be loved, too nice.

how was he supposed to let you go?

“maybe i’ll stay in today.” oliver sighed as your head scratches started to form into a head massage.

you cheered in response, pulling his face in and peppering his face with kisses. squealing ‘thank you’s in between, making his smile widen.

but his smile quickly faltered as he remembered, no matter how good the fantasy was, no matter how loved he felt, he had to let you go.

and it scared him how that thought had made him feel sick.

[goldsbitch]

Twelve Grapes

-chapter 7, part 2 - A bit of a bad boy

It's no coincidence Cruel Summer came out that year...

or - ✨ Austria 2019.✨

word count: reasonable warning: hard racing

Two entire races go by before he gets so much as a glance from Charles. In both of those, Charles ends up ahead of Max. It feels like getting personally kicked in the balls. Max plays the PR game the best to his abilities and self-control, but behind the scenes, it's a total mayhem. Anyone who questions him about anything receives a snapshot answer. He hands out sarcastic comments like Halloween candy. The only time he laughs is when he beats Daniel in their little video game nights.

The first week, Max loses all remaining inhibitions and keeps blasting Charles' phone up with calls and texts. Unhinged amount of advances, jokes and random questions. No reaction.

The second week, he goes radio silent and tries to get hold of Charles around the paddock. He never goes looking for other drivers after the race, especially when they get to stand on the podium and he doesn't. As always, restraint regarding Charles never comes as easily. However, the Monegasque is always two steps ahead of him.

Alas, finally, they end up next to each other in a post-qualifying media pen in Spielberg. Max is not subtle about trying to catch Charles' eye. For a brief moment, he does. It turns his stomach over immediately. Max searches Charles’ face like it holds an answer, some kind of hidden message buried beneath the surface, but there’s nothing. Not a flicker of hesitation, no softness, no ghost of the Charles he used to know. They used to share a look that would say it all. No trace of that now.

His expression is cool, unbothered, a perfect mask of professionalism. The same way he looks at a journalist asking a pointless question, or a sponsor he doesn’t particularly care about. Detached. Uninterested.

Max wants to do anything else than be swamped by useless questions now. Not when he's eating crumbs in the form of overhearing Charles' voice. He has to force himself to even look at the journalist standing in front of him, let alone take in what she has to say. Charles, on the other, does not seem to share this problem. His voice is passionate, excited and his words land like a punch in the face. Max can't see it, but since he'd studied Charles from every angle possible, to be able to picture his smile clearly, just based on the tone. It's the nonchalant, I'm-the-world's-sweetheart smile that always works on everyone. Max is secretly present on social media, he has seen the fan edits of his - well, not boyfriend apparently.

"Charles, you seem to be on a great run of form lately, have you and the team at Ferrari found good rhythm after the unfortunate Monaco Grand Prix?"

Max has heard many things on that topic from the restless Reb Bull strategists. All of them flaunting ideas and theories around, none of them realizing what Max knew. That the magic fuel Charles is running on is spite. He asks the journalist in front of him to repeat the question, while he focuses on Charles' answer.

"Ah, you know how it is...The start of the season has been challenging. Changing teams, new environment...All of this takes time to process. But, I am stronger than ever. I've cut away all unnecessary distractions keeping me from being locked in on the target and pulling me to the wrong direction. With the amazing team I have - I am finally recognizing myself in the mirror after few strange months."

Charles must know that he can hear every word coming out of his mouth. Max's blood boils and freezes at the same time. He doesn’t react. Giving away anything more seems like a direct pathway to hell.

He stands there, nodding absently to whatever the journalist in front of him is saying, his mind busy with reading in between the lines, Charles' words echoing through the media pen like a fucking death sentence.

Distraction. That’s all he's reduced him to. His heart beats like it's about to go to a fight. The realization settles in his stomach, cold and heavy. He tilts his head slightly, just enough to catch Charles in his peripheral vision.

He’s still talking, crafting the perfect story. His posture is easy, he's leaning closer to the reporter than one probably should, his voice is smooth and warm. It has the word likable written all over it.

It's hardly a surprise that the reporters eat up every single sentence he says, playing up to be the golden boy everyone wants him to be.

And maybe he is. Charles keeps getting better and better at this - playing the part, giving people what they want. He’s charming and sharp, smart enough to be a goddamn PR dream but ruthless enough to keep them all at arm’s length. Except he wasn’t like that with Max.

No. With Max, he was real. Unfiltered. Messy. The kind of Charles who picked fights just to feel something, who grabbed Max’s face like he couldn’t breathe without kissing him, who pressed his forehead against his in the middle of the night and whispered things he could never say in the daylight. The kind of person who acted on what his heart desired, instead of what reason demanded. That's not the Charles standing next to him.

Something inside Max cracks. It doesn’t come in a rush - it settles, careful and slow, a icy coldness spreading through his chest.

Fine.

If Charles wants to erase him, to pretend he was just a mistake, Max will make him remember. Not with words. Not with apologies or late-night texts, stupid fucking phone calls or dangerous public driving.

Tomorrow, on track - where it’s just the two of them, where he can't pretend or avoid him endlessly. Charles will feel exactly what happens when you try to push Max Verstappen away. If he wants to pretend Max was just a distraction, Max will remind him that distractions don’t just disappear into thin air.

"It's great to be on pole, but points are tomorrow. But of course, the idea of a first win is something you can't not get exited about," he hears the last part of yet another one of Charles' speeches and this time he smiles. Time to prove everyone wrong. Make the damn strategists happy for once again.

//

It's hell. Pure, unfiltered hell. Charles arrives in Maranello in a state of a complete breakdown. He was running on some sort of manic fuel the whole Monaco drive. All was somehow bearable - until Max stopped chasing behind him. The absence of his headlights in rear-view mirror worked like a bomb detonator. He is a crying, miserable mess the whole drive. One time he has to stop over, because his breath gets stuck in the lungs and it sets his head into a dizzy spin. He collapses onto his bed in the small Maranello safe house and spends the night fighting terrifying nightmares.

After losing the next day by being glued to his phone, waiting for Max to call for one more time, he decides he can't take that anymore. He missed his chances. Ran away, fucked up everything and tired Max out. He knows him - if he stopped calling, he stopped caring. Charles can't bare himself to get to be the one to make the desperate move, especially after he let so blatantly known that he's totally under Max's spell. He cried in front of him. Nearly begged - but who knows, the whole conversation is becoming a blur, like an old tape wearing thin from being rewound too many times, the sound glitching, words distorting until they barely make sense anymore. So, the first evening after the fight, he blocks Max's phone number. This way, he can still hope that he is trying to reach him and he does not have to stare the unbearable truth in the face. That Max does not, in fact, call anymore.

He completely drowns himself in work. His trainer has to remind him to eat, even though the thought of food makes him sick. He's floating around, allows the team to handle him about and keeps his focus on racing exclusively. Because, that is the only means of communication with Max he's got left. On track, nothing changed. They still cruise around each other, expertly read each other's moves and for once, it all works out in Charles' favor.

The irony of him finally getting a grip on racing when he feels like he'd rather jump under the car instead is not lost on him.

The first step into the paddock after their fight feels heavier than it should. No matter how much he tries to shake it, there’s still a glimmer of hope that he and Max can fix this. But hope, in all its twisted absurdity, only makes him avoid Max more. Because, if this is suppose to be the end, he wants prolong this uncertain period as much as he can. His own misery is becoming the only thing he has left from Max and if that is the truth, he will cling on it. It's him and Max. Any reminder of that is better than nothing.

Red Bull ring. Half of the grandstand is covered in eye-searing orange, the other in signature deep blue that keeps haunting him. They are all waiting for him to fail. He can't. If he has to suffer, because of his feeling towards the Dutch driver, so should everyone else. No matter how mellowed down their devotion to Max might be compared to his own.

It's scorching hot. As is should be in hell anyway. Charles is sitting in his car, front row providing a clear view to the task ahead. Beat Max on track. It's like he can't see any other of the remaining eighteen cars. Lights out and away we go. The all familiar noise of roaring engines makes his ears hurt. His reaction is perfect, almost divine. He launches forward, sliding through the first turn like a man possessed, and when he glances at his mirrors, Max is gone. Buried in the chaos behind him, swallowed by his own mistakes. A chuckle bubbles up in Charles’ throat, raw and breathless, nearly manic again. This is what he wants. Him being able to prove that he is sharper, better and faster when giving as similar chance as Max. Not only that. To himself, and in extension Max too, he needs to prove that he can exist without Max fucking Verstappen.

He flies away, leaving the rest of pack behind. It's only in lap two where he figures out that Max fell five places down. There is a momentary wave of sorrow, one intrusive idea about Charles wanting to be the only to beat him, regretting that other drivers are doing so too. But they're both on their own. Max would never share this sentiment towards him. Whatever Charles is doing must be working, because it looks like he got into Verstappen's head. He's slowly extending the lead, keeping Bottas in a safe distance, far enough no DRS.

Ten and few more laps later, he notices Max working way up the field quite effectively. He keeps calm, because with every car Max passes, Charles makes up a second on Bottas.

Max's got the fastest lap now. Charles is managing tires, bracing for the future. Pit stop - the one thing he truly fears - gone right. He's in a completely calm and periodic rhythm, none of the cars providing a real challenge. He prays to the gods of racing for no mechanical failure this time. Destiny owes his at least that. Give him the right tools, he won't ask for help when all it lies on is his own abilities. He's making his way through the traffic, lapping cars and occasionally looking behind his back at Verstappen fighting Bottas. And after few more laps of this routine - Max is the first car on his tail. Charles expected nothing less. He digs into everything he has - not only in him, but in the car as well. The whole race was just a prep for this moment. Barely four seconds. Max is faster, a fact his dearest fucking engineer feels the need to point out, as if he couldn’t see it himself. But quick math tells Charles he should survive this. 3,8. 3,6. For Charles, there really is no other car on the track than Max's. The others are just annoying little gravel stones, hitting his visor and robbing Charles of clean air. A half of a second is lost only by having to cruise between them. He tries his best to stay cool. One final wish goes towards his tires.

He gives it all. Five final laps and the gap is dangerously close to one second. He spends what feels like two years stuck between Pierre, who's suppose to let him through and Max who is closing in on him. Two Red Bulls. Please, Pierre. This is the first time Charles regrets not telling his friend about the love affair. He knows Pierre is instructed to make it as hard as possible for Charles to get through while keeping it all legal.

"Verstappen behind, one second."

"Leave me alone."

And then - it's on.

It's like he can feel Max breathing down his neck. The DRS is inevitable. Max is inevitable. Charles defends for his life. He forces him to have to go around the outside, off the racing line. Turn 4 is the Achilles heel and Charles survives the first time they pass it through.

But he knows Max. Understands the way he moves, instinct in perfect symphony with logic, calculating every weakness...No stone left untouched. Why should Charles be the exception. He remembers the way he looked at Charles the first time they kissed - half a dare, half a warning. It's the way he uses his touch - firm, yet gentle - to bend Charles into whatever shape he wants. 

On the next lap, Charles watches his mirrors, waits for the lunge. This time Max doesn’t go for the outside. No, this time, he comes from inside, slicing through the turn with an aggression Charles thought he was ready for. It’s all so quick, just like their fallout. 

The wheels are millimeters apart. Charles tries to force him wide, but Max refuses to back off. Of course he does. Max has never learned when to let go. Never knows when to stop taking.

And then, it comes again.

Max is right there, alongside him, closer this time, pushing, forcing. Charles grips the wheel tighter, body locked in, blood roaring in his ears. He doesn’t lift. He doesn’t yield. Max doesn’t either.

A nudge. A shove. Space shrinking into nothing. Everything slows.

He’s back at the Monaco apartment, late at night, Max’s voice low against his neck. “If I have to take a win from you, will you ever kiss me again?” Charles had laughed, breathless. “You already take everything from me.”

Charles barely registers the moment his tires leave the track, but he feels it. The smudge of gravel beneath him, the split-second loss of control, the sheer force of what Max has done.

Max’s fingers curled around his wrist in a hotel hallway, yanking him back to the room before they could be seen, grinning like it was a game. "You can’t get enough of me," Charles had scoffed. "Give me all you have, Charlie," Max hummed in between kisses.

The back of Max’s neck in the early morning, hair still damp from post sex shower, heartbeat steady under Charles’ hand. "Would you ever crash into me?" Max had asked once, drowsy, barely awake. Charles had said no. Max had never answered.

The car snaps back into control just before he spins. Charles feels it all in his arms, his whole body resisting the centrifugal pull. No. It takes him half a second to realize what just happened. The next half is spent knowing, with absolute certainty, that it wasn’t fucking legal. Max robbed him. They have to make him give the place back.  Charles grips the wheel so hard it might break, breath coming short and sharp. His visor feels suffocating, the heat pressing in from all sides. He should have known. Should have known Max would take everything.

He genuinely can't remember the rest of the race.

Just like that, it's over, he's getting out of the car and his own disbelief is preventing from believing any of this is real. His mind stayed back somewhere around Turn 4 and he's having something he thinks others describe as out of body experience. He understands there are words coming out of his mouth, but no one is in control of them. They roll of automatically and he's only aware that most of them are about the stewards having to have a look at the move.

He is painfully aware of the cameras in the cooldown room. That is the only thing grounding him and not flying into a shout festival with Max. The words he has reserved for this man are intended for him and his ears only. Survival mode kicks in and he tries to ignore him as much as he can.

He'd prefer getting punched instead of having to stand on this podium. Any attempt from people trying to congratulate is met with a face one does not forget. Max's smile is impossible to ignore, bright and shamelessly arrogant, the kind of grin that demands to be seen. Mercilessly cuts through like a knife.

Charles sees the way Max points at the Honda logo on his race suit, exaggerating the motion, playing up the moment. A distant memory flickers in. Charles remembers when Max came home one day, irritated after yet another Red Bull PR lecture about mentioning Honda at every possible opportunity. Max had rolled his eyes, complaining about contractual obligations, flapped himself on the couch and refused to talk. So, Charles came up with a game, with hopes of turning the mood around. Say it so much they beg you to stop. He still remembers Max’s mischievous smirk, the way they looked at each other every time he did that. Now? It feels like Max deliberately twisting the knife he shoved into Charles' guts. As if Charles isn't standing right there, watching it all, bleeding out behind a forced expression. Max took it all. No one would be mad or surprised if he hadn't won today. It means he did all of this on purpose. Inflict as much as he possibly can. Something he appears to be very good at.

Someone puts the dreaded Dutch anthem on and every note drags on and on.  Charles stares to the deep hills, avoiding the crowd below. His nails pressing so hard his racing suit he’s surprised there isn’t blood between his fingers. This is the sound he will die to. The tune that will crawl inside his skull, rot there, and play on an endless loop. If there’s a god waiting for him at the end of it all, this is what they'll hum as the gates get shut in his face.

Max is right there, right fucking there, barely an arm’s length away, standing taller, chest out, sweat still clinging to his skin like it’s something to be proud of. Charles doesn’t dare look at him. Doesn’t trust himself not to flinch, not to break. The heat between them is unbearable, suffocating, a reminder that not long ago, Max had pressed against him in a different way. The hand he now had to avoid from accidentally brushing against is the same one that used to grip Charles like he was something for Max to own.

He knows Max doesn’t even think about that. Not now. Not while he stands here, grinning like he was made for this moment, swimming in the praise from crowd that loves him, while Charles stands frozen beside him, barely holding himself together.

The anthem swells, the final few notes longing out like they’re mocking him, and Charles forces himself to swallow, forces the bile back down his throat. He knows it's over. Deep down inside, he stopped hoping for stewards standing by him.  Another mistake and he looks down the crowd. Roars of people suffocating him, stealing the air directly from his lungs and among all of those, one face stands out. Everyone is looking at Max, apart from this person, who's unmistakable smirk reminds him so scarily of the smirk he used to love. Jos Vestappen is unashamedly staring down at him, even though he's several meters below him. For the first time, he sees the resemblance between Max and his father.

He calls himself stupid about fifty times. The door for Max would not have opened if he hadn’t allowed it. He got burned once. It can’t happen again. Things have to change. He has to change.  The champagne tastes like a spoilt milk, Charles does everything in his power to get out of the podium stand as quickly as possible. He will go on to the stewards with his team, even though he knows the battle is lost. If there is one thing he is grateful for, it's the crying Honda spokesman, that wiggles in between him and Max for the final photo. Charles is spared of the final blow - feeling Max's cruel hands on his back again.

//

The come down of emotions is quick. He did it. Snatched Charles' first victory right from his hands. Celebrated so loudly, encircled Charles so efficiently he was sure he must be getting claustrophobic. Killer instinct called upon him and he gave in completely. Charles can't rely on ignoring him. He won't go away without a fight, without destroying him. Max is hardly a sappy dreamer, but all of today feels like it was written long time ago and he was just following the script. Charles is sitting by his right side during the press conference - exactly where he belongs. There is an evil joy Max feels from having him so close during his first win of this season. Charles has no choice but to endure every second of it. Weeks of silence, of trying to erase Max from his life, and yet, here they are. No matter how hard he tries, he can't escape him.

The questions roll in. "How does this win compare to the ones he's had before?" Oh, he has many words he can't say out loud. The reported receives some basic technical summary, but what he really wants to say - scream, shout to the world - is that this win feels sweeter than any candy, he's reclaiming his strenght back and Charles can try as much as he can, but Max proved today that he won't back down.

"When did you start to think the win was possible today?" Easy. Once the door shut behind Charles when he ran away. When his smug smile started to haunt Max in every waking moment. When he heard the words, his former lover, calling him a mere distraction.

Next question is aimed at Charles. General, basic, nothing out of the order. He steals one glance. A thunder of a feeling he can't name properly shoots through him. His bloodshot eyes, purple lips and hands with practically no nails left on them scream the truth louder than anything else. It's the moment Charles finally speaks, his words rolling out of his tongue when Max's heart stops. It is probably unrecognizable for the crowd of journalist in front of them, but he knows this tone. It's the utterly broken one. His words make sense, it's composed and measured, but the accent creeps in and gives away all. Just like it did whenever Charles felt unsure about their love affair. His voice is soft, too soft for a post-race fatigue. Max has to put his head down, to hide behind his cap for a moment. He hears Charles gulp and surprisingly it's that what breaks Max. Numbness descends over him. Next question is aimed at Valtteri and for once, he's glad.

Max sinks in. He tries to stop the guilt from drowning him. For once, this is a battle he can't win. The darkest worry Max always had about himself is that he it too ruthless. Can't see the line until he's way past by. Cruel, calculating monster, that will destroy anything or anyone standing in his way. Suddenly, he find himself regretting it all. His move was over the top, but he can't admit that now. This wasn't racing anymore, this personal vendetta, childish anger spree, because Max can't have what he truly wants. Maybe it's sadly better this way. By forcing Charles to hating him, he will make sure he stays far away from him. Max knows he'd crumble apart, had Charles given him any inclination that he wants him back. That man could probably ask for anything and he'd give it to him. Max is not strong enough to resist Charles. He's also just proven how much of a selfish dick he can be when things don't go this way. The reality of him coming to the conclusion, that Charles hating him instead of loving him might be safer and better option for the Ferrari driver is a hard pill to swallow. Max had spent years perfecting the art of fighting for every inch, of clawing his way to the top no matter the cost. And now, sitting here, drowning in his own victory, he wonders if the cost this time was too high. Max knows his actions today bought him all the time in the world to wallow around this idea. Because, it's obvious Charles can't stand him anymore. He finally sees Max for what he is. His father's son.

Another question, particularly snarky one comes at him and Charles together and something inside Max takes over. He's saying words, explaining the nature of his specific overtake and it takes him everything he has to prevent his voice from shaking. He ends up defending himself again, but the doubts flood his consciousness. Charles finally throws in a sarcastic comment, calling the move illegal, and something ugly inside Max likes it. If Charles has to hate him, let it be like this - spiteful, angry, not distant and indifferent. At least anger means he still cares, even if it’s in the worst way possible.

He will forever admire Charles for being able to sit through this, so strong and still.

We never gave up, he hears himself saying. His only hope is that Charles won't give up too.

"Charles, do you feel like this one has been stolen from you?" Yes. Obviously. Once again, Max questions the sanity of everyone in the room. Another punchy note about the legality of the overtake and Max revels in it.

"Will you stop being the polite driver you are?" Is this the first time people watched Charles racing? A polite driver? The menace that would rather have them crash into the barrier than get overtaken? The driver Max had to pull out his dirtiest trick only to get a chance on getting in front of him?

"On track I'm a bit of a different person than in the car." Max has never disagreed with something more in his life.

------- @chezmardybum @biancathecool

[fairy-verse]

Hello! I hope your day is peaceful and also you don't mind if I ask you a few things? (I have doubts and really want to know)

First: When do firstborns have their birthdays? Do they all have their birthdays together? Or on the date when their season begins? And second: is Lumin planning to have a fearling with Mimble?Or will there be one in the future?

The first day of their respective season is the one they use to celebrate their birth, even though it is not the day of their true creation. That is a secret only they keep between themselves. They use the first day of their season because they learned their powers and how to control them on those specific days, so, naturally, they celebrate each year in their own unique ways. Nightmare will dance, Dream will sing, Ink will play, and Error will gaze out from the peak of his tallest mountain, keeping to himself as his fairies celebrate in the cavern halls down below.

Lumin’s inquisitive nature and strange abilities make him rather absent in his lover’s life, and though it saddens him to some degree he cannot quite make amends with it. Staying put in one place goes against his nature, against the call he hears and feels from beyond the veil. He loves Mimble. He deeply loves her, but whenever he travels, he leaves his soul behind with her, creating a hole within him that does not feel his lover's absence. So, he must find another way to soothe Mimble’s lonely spirit; a beloved little faerling would be just the thing.

[sonicasura]

Siren!Kafka

Another species swap for you folks. This time we're diving into the sea but with a slight twist. You can say I wanted to experiment on how a world like Kaiju No. 8 can affect certain things like mythology. Let's get started.

Kafka Hibino is a Great White Shark Siren who was born in the oceans of Japan. Despite being labeled as myths, merfolk are actually relatives to humanity that branched way early on the evolutionary line. This includes isolating themselves away from land dwellers over time until they become myths.

Merfolk come in three different size classes. Small being around 6 in to 3 ft. Regular range between 5 ft to 25 ft(this differs depending on the species). Then there are Leviathans that can go from 40 ft to over 300 ft with Kafka being 156 ft.

Merfolk have the ability to disguise themselves as humans. They merely need to dry off their bodies so their aquatic traits convert into humanoid ones. Reverting back is simple as a few droplets of water on bare skin will do the trick. Though caution is advised when around humans since one wrong move could risk capture.

Merfolk come in various different subspecies than just their animal base. It usually comes down to the abilities one could manifest. Sirens and Selkies are two such examples of mers.

Merfolk have different characteristics depending on their animal. All shark mers can conceal their teeth(like Toothless), refer to offspring as puppies, and regrow any lost fangs in minutes. There are slight differences between similar species as Great Whites like Kafka tend to nibble at things that garner their attention.

Even the kaiju had taken merfolk by surprise and the species found themselves disadvantaged. Most disappearing deeper into the sea to avoid these monstrous invaders who grew a taste for their flesh. Some mers however were born different from the others.

All of them have a dormant gene passed down throughout generations. One that allows them to adapt in highly hostile and uninhabitable environments. Kafka is such an individual as over time his body morphs into a kaiju like form.

The siren's monstrous visage resembles his canon one but with a build similar to Zilla/Zamtrios. Other changes include his original shark tail splitting into two legs until a thin pseudo stinger remained, two lower back fins becoming bioluminescent faux wings for limited flight, and his main fin now a large serrated bone blade.

Kafka began to develop his kaiju traits around five years old. Thanks to his mutation, he lost the ability to take human form and his siren song soon became broken. It's because Kafka's new kaiju side had greatly diminished his merfolk one. Some balance can be restored through a mating bond.

Mating bonds are a special which connects the souls of a merfolk with their chosen mate. The effects on the mer differ but it usually restores what they lost to an degree. Kafka can bring his siren side back to the surface with concentration.

His skull like mask shattering to reveal his humanlike face, kaiju traits diminish until it looks like he is wearing a open V cut bodysuit, and even merge his legs back into his tail with mild issue. Kafka regains not only his ability to take a human form but also his song. Although it isn't as strong like it used to be. He can enchant others for a few minutes before the influence is lost.

It affects all since his kaiju side gave him both sets of functional reproductive organs. Kafka is very self conscious about his broken song. Sirens who cannot sing are seen as worthless amongst their peers and his old pod was no different. He only sings for those in private that have earned his trust.

Every siren has to discover their own song because they are all distinctly unique. Kafka's song can be described as a mix between human, whale and Amatsu from MHGU. All three sides must harmonize to enchant those who hear it. If he sings longer than a few minutes then the 3 parts begin to quarrel with each other until the monster side becomes dominant.

Kafka's mutation got him kicked out of his pod. He was already on thin ice due to his interest in humans but this had been the last straw. Every merfolk that hasn't left for the depths view those with such rare mutations like monsters. Age nor relations doesn't matter as keeping one in the pod is considered an omen.

Despite his forced solitary status, Kafka is pretty friendly and hospitable. His loneliness caused him to develop a habit of watching people from afar like Sonic in the first live action movie. Something he has difficulty shaking off when he eventually gets a companion who isn't an animal.

Kafka craves interaction from humans or merfolk as a pet won't do. This has made him especially clingy to his human companions and he often has to resist rubbing himself against them. He isn't ashamed of giving people a tongue bath like a cat nor humming happily when content.

He's omnivorous in nature but mainly feeds on fish or kelp. The siren's absolute favorite being eel despite how difficult it is to catch them. His interests are also pretty simple as even something like a beach ball becomes a treasured plaything.

Shark merfolk have two sets of baby teeth to go through before adulthood. The first falls upon reaching the juvenile stage and the second follows before full maturity. Kafka kept both sets of fallen baby teeth.

It isn't uncommon for merfolk to craft courting gifts with their fangs or scales. These materials are often incorporated into jewelry, charms, combs and even clothing. Only time that height or weight held some importance in courting.

This is mainly because any merfolk can safely mate with someone no matter the size. Most seek a connection involving a potential partner as their life force becomes tied to them through a bond. If one bound mate is killed then their spirit remains with the living partner until their life is taken too.

Kafka's no different thus he wants to make sure his potential mate(s) are truly ready to take such a step. Mating bonds are rare amongst merfolk nowadays as ones that haven't vanished to the depths take temporary partners to keep the species alive. True love is what he desires, not this.

@mechazushi @noodlesbf-blog @kafkahibinomybeloved @iceclew @renard-dartigue @drmarune @neo0w0 @wolffrek @zrllosyn-art @sashi-ya @southside-otaku @giantgoblin @scribblermerlin @driokrine @hotrubbertar

[evolutionsvoid]

The Age of Eitr was an age of beasts, where primal life was wild and massive. Titans and megafauna walked the land, and legends speak of truly bizarre and vast creatures that could be found in the land, sea and air. The Antiquarians themselves have identified a few of the many ancient carcasses from that time, their bodies making up an entire strata of this world. From their measurements and theories, there were beasts back then that humans would have struggled to truly fathom. Such size, such strength, but yet they are gone. When Ichor and its dead gods fell upon this land, the golden fluid and its children would eventually wipe out these giants. Many were driven to extinction while some went into hiding within the farthest depths of this world. There were a few, though, that chose to adapt to this new fluid and try to carve a niche in this dawning era. To do so, however, required great sacrifice. There were no more places for giants or primordial beasts, thus they would be forced to discard much of their size and power to survive. Creatures that were once titans grew smaller, while many of their gifts and abilities had to be snuffed out. What emerged from the end of these many adaptations was a shadow of their ancient self, but they at least survived while many did not.

The trilobites are a prime example of this phenomenon, as these armored critters were once a massive thriving family during the Age of Eitr. Evidence found below showed that they were once on the level of megafauna back then, but now they are little more than scurrying things. Yet, multiple species of them were able to survive the rain of Ichor and persevere. Their varieties can be found in numerous places, like caves, cavities, fluid bodies, river beds and more. They range from carnivorous to omnivorous to detritivores, fitting into whatever niche they can find.

There are many types to be found out in the world, like the Shieldhead Trilobite, Shredder Trilobite, Axeblade Trilobite and Javelin Trilobite. Though some, like the Shredder and Javelin, can be cause harm to people, folks typically don't worry to much about them. Proper precautions and a safe distance is more than enough to be clear of any danger. In fact, some people actually hunt trilobites to obtain their meat and armored shells. Trilobite meat contains trace amounts of Eitr, which means they must be thoroughly cooked or boiled before consumption. Their sturdy shells, however, need little alteration to make fine armor or potent weapons.

Though trilobites come from the Age of Eitr, most folk do not hold any hate for them. At their size and meager strength, there is very little to be intimidated by. They tend to be neat little relics of a past time, a fun fact to be enjoyed and quickly forgotten about. In some cases, though, with the populace turned against the dragons, people have voiced that the trilobites should be the new face of Eitr. Like how all humors have sacred beasts, the belief is that the trilobites should take that honor. Such a classification means very little, especially for the trilobites. The main purpose is to snub the dragons in another way, to take their fading fluid and attribute it to a bunch of ancient bugs instead.

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Probably be doing some short entries like these for a minute, as I am trying to work on a big project and also got a bunch of old pieces that ain't much but need posting.