#I refuse to not let myself be entertained by things that are designed to look Cool™️ and I enjoy the ride the whole way

[age-of-moonknight]

“Reese,” Vengeance of the Moon Knight (Vol. 2/2024), #1.

Writer: Jed MacKay; Penciler and Inker: Alessandro Cappuccio; Colorist: Rachelle Rosenberg; Letterer: Cory Petit

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Inkjump Linkdump

For the rest of May, my bestselling solarpunk utopian novel THE LOST CAUSE (2023) is available as a $2.99, DRM-free ebook!

It's the start of a long weekend and I've found myself with a backlog of links, so it's time for another linkdump – the eighteenth in the (occasional) series. Here's the previous installments:

https://pluralistic.net/tag/linkdump/

Kicking off this week's backlog is a piece of epic lawyer-snark, which is something I always love, but what makes this snark total catnip for me is that it's snark about copyfraud: false copyright claims made to censor online speech. Yes please and a second portion, thank you very much!

This starts with the Cola Corporation, a radical LA-based design store that makes lefty t-shirts, stickers and the like. Cola made a t-shirt that remixed the LA Lakers logo to read "Fuck the LAPD." In response, the LAPD's private foundation sent a nonsense copyright takedown letter. Cola's lawyer, Mike Dunford, sent them a chef's-kiss-perfect reply, just two words long: "LOL, no":

https://www.techdirt.com/2024/04/19/apparel-company-gives-perfect-response-to-lapds-nonsense-ip-threat-letter-over-fuck-the-lapd-shirt/

But that's not the lawyer snark I'm writing about today. Dunford also sent a letter to IMG Worldwide, whose lawyers sent the initial threat, demanding an explanation for this outrageous threat, which was – as the physicists say – "not even wrong":

https://www.loweringthebar.net/2024/05/lol-no-explained.html

Every part of the legal threat is dissected here, with lavish, caustic footnotes, mercilessly picking apart the legal defects, including legally actionable copyfraud under DMCA 512(f), which provides for penalties for wrongful copyright threats. To my delight, Dunford cited Lenz here, which is the infamous "Dancing Baby" case that EFF successfully litigated on behalf of Stephanie Lenz, whose video of her adorable (then-)toddler dancing to a few seconds of Prince's "Let's Go Crazy" was censored by Universal Music Group:

https://www.eff.org/cases/lenz-v-universal

Dunford's towering rage is leavened with incredulous demands for explanations: how on Earth could a lawyer knowingly send such a defective, illegal threat? Why shouldn't Dunford seek recovery of his costs from IMG and its client, the LA Police Foundation, for such lawless bullying? It is a sparkling – incandescent, even! – piece of lawyerly writing. If only all legal correspondence was this entertaining! Every 1L should study this.

Meanwhile, Cola has sold out of everything, thanks to that viral "LOL, no." initial response letter. They're taking orders for their next resupply, shipping on June 1. Gotta love that Streisand Effect!

https://www.thecolacorporation.com/

I'm generally skeptical of political activism that takes the form of buying things or refusing to do so. "Voting with your wallet" is a pretty difficult trick to pull off. After all, the people with the thickest wallets get the most votes, and generally, the monopoly party wins. But as the Cola Company's example shows, there's times when shopping can be a political act.

But that's because it's a collective act. Lots of us went and bought stuff from Cola, to send a message to the LAPD about legal bullying. That kind of collective action is hard to pull off, especially when it comes to purchase-decisions. Often, this kind of thing descends into a kind of parody of political action, where you substitute shopping for ideology. This is where Matt Bors's Mr Gotcha comes in: "ooh, you want to make things better, but you bought a product from a tainted company, I guess you're not really sincere, gotcha!"

https://thenib.com/mister-gotcha/

There's a great example of this in Zephyr Teachout's brilliant 2020 book Break 'Em Up: if you miss the pro-union demonstration at the Amazon warehouse because you spent two hours driving around looking for an indie stationer to buy the cardboard to make your protest sign rather than buying it from Amazon, Amazon wins:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/07/29/break-em-up/#break-em-up

So yeah, I'm pretty skeptical of consumerism as a framework for political activism. It's very hard to pull off an effective boycott, especially of a monopolist. But if you can pull it off, well…

Canada is one of the most monopoly-friendly countries in the world. Hell, the Competition Act doesn't even have an "abuse of dominance" standard! That's like a criminal code that doesn't have a section prohibiting "murder." (The Trudeau government has promised to fix this.)

https://www.theglobeandmail.com/opinion/editorials/article-an-overhauled-competition-act-will-light-a-fire-in-the-stolid-world-of/

There's stiff competition for Most Guillotineable Canadian Billionaire. There's the entire Irving family, who basically own the province of New Bruinswick:

https://www.canadaland.com/podcast/dynasties-2-the-irvings/

There's Ted Rogers, the trumpy billionaire telecoms monopolist, whose serial acquire-and-loot approach to media has devastated Canadian TV and publishing:

https://www.canadaland.com/podcast/canadaland-725-the-rogers-family-compact/

But then there's Galen Fucking Weston, the nepobaby who inherited the family grocery business (including Loblaw), bought out all his competitors (including Shopper's Drug Mart), and then engaged in a criminal price-fixing conspiracy to rig the price of bread, the most Les-Miz-ass crime imaginable:

https://www.blogto.com/eat_drink/2023/06/what-should-happened-galen-weston-price-fixing/

Weston has made himself the face of the family business, appearing in TV ads in a cardigan to deliver dead-eyed avuncular paeans to his sprawling empire, even as he colludes with competitors to rig the price of his workers' wages:

https://www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/2020-06-12/a-supermarket-billionaire-steps-into-trouble-over-pandemic-wages

For Canadians, Weston is the face of greedflation, the man whose nickle-and-diming knows no shame. This is the man who decided that the discount on nearly-spoiled produce would be slashed from 50% to 30%, who racked up record profits even as his prices skyrocketed.

It's impossible to overstate how loathed Galen Weston is at this moment. There's a very good episode of the excellent new podcast Lately, hosted by Canadian competition expert Vass Bednar and Katrina Onstad that gives you a sense of the national outrage:

https://www.theglobeandmail.com/podcasts/lately/article-boycotting-the-loblawpoly/

All of this has led to a national boycott of Loblaw, kicked off by members of the r/loblawsisoutofcontrol, and it's working. Writing for Jacobin, Jeremy Appel gives us a snapshot of a nation in revolt:

https://jacobin.com/2024/05/loblaw-grocery-price-gouge-boycott/

Appel points out the boycott's problems – there's lots of places, particularly in the north, where Loblaw's is the only game in town, or where the sole competitor is the equally odious Walmart. But he also talks about the beneficial effect the boycott is having for independent grocers and co-ops who deal more fairly with their suppliers and their customers.

He also platforms the boycott's call for a national system of price controls on certain staples. This is something that neoliberal economists despise, and it's always fun to watch them lose their minds when the subject is raised. Meanwhile, economists like Isabella M Weber continue to publish careful research explaining how and why price controls can work, and represent our best weapon against "seller's inflation":

https://scholarworks.umass.edu/econ_workingpaper/343/

Antimonopoly sentiment is having a minute, obviously, and the news comes at you fast. This week, the DoJ filed a lawsuit to break up Ticketmaster/Live Nation, one of the country's most notorious monopolists, who have aroused the ire of every kind of fan, but especially the Swifties (don't fuck with Swifties). In announcing the suit, DoJ Antitrust Division boss Jonathan Kanter coined the term "Ticketmaster tax" to describe the junk fees that Ticketmaster uses to pick all our pockets.

In response, Ticketmaster has mobilized its own Loblaw-like shill army, who insist that all the anti-monopoly activism is misguided populism, and "anti-business." In his BIG newsletter, Matt Stoller tears these claims apart, and provides one of the clearest explanations of how Ticketmaster rips us all off that I've ever seen, leaning heavily on Ticketmaster's own statements to their investors and the business-press:

https://www.thebignewsletter.com/p/antitrust-enforcers-to-break-up-ticketmaster

Ticketmaster has a complicated "flywheel" that it uses to corner the market on live events, mixing low-margin businesses that are deliberately kept unprofitable (to prevent competitors from gaining a foothold) in order to capture the high-margin businesses that are its real prize. All this complexity can make your eyes glaze over, and that's to Ticketmaster's benefit, keeping normies from looking too closely at how this bizarre self-licking ice-cream cone really works.

But for industry insiders, those workings are all too clear. When Rebecca Giblin and I were working on our book Chokepoint Capitalism, we talked to insiders from every corner of the entertainment-industrial complex, and there was always at least one expert who'd go on record about the scams inside everything from news monopolies to streaming video to publishing and the record industry:

https://chokepointcapitalism.com/

The sole exception was Ticketmaster/Live Nation. When we talked to club owners, promoters and other victims of TM's scam, they universally refused to go on the record. They were palpably terrified of retaliation from Ticketmaster's enforcers. They acted like mafia informants seeking witness protection. Not without reason, mind you: back when the TM monopoly was just getting started, Pearl Jam – then one of the most powerful acts in American music – took a stand against them. Ticketmaster destroyed them. That was when TM was a mere hatchling, with a bare fraction of the terrifying power it wields today.

TM is a great example of the problem with boycotts. If a club or an act refuses to work with TM/LN, they're destroyed. If a fan refuses to buy tickets from TM or see a Live Nation show, they basically can't go to any shows. The TM monopoly isn't a problem of bad individual choices – it's a systemic problem that needs a systemic response.

That's what makes antitrust responses so timely. Federal enforcers have wide-ranging powers, and can seek remedies that consumerism can never attain – there's no way a boycott could result in a breakup of Ticketmaster/Live Nation, but a DoJ lawsuit can absolutely get there.

Every federal agency has wide-ranging antimonopoly powers at its disposal. These are laid out very well in Tim Wu's 2020 White House Executive Order on competition, which identifies 72 ways the agencies can act against monopoly without having to wait for Congress:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/08/13/post-bork-era/#manne-down

But of course, the majority of antimonopoly power is vested in the FTC, the agency created to police corporate power. Section 5 of the FTC Act grants the agency the power to act to prevent "unfair and deceptive methods of competition":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/10/the-courage-to-govern/#whos-in-charge

This clause has lain largely dormant since the Reagan era, but FTC chair Lina Khan has revived it, using it to create muscular privacy rights for Americans, and to ban noncompete agreements that bind American workers to dead-end jobs:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/25/capri-v-tapestry/#aiming-at-dollars-not-men

The FTC's power to ban activity because it's "unfair and deceptive" is exciting, because it promises American internet users a way to solve their problems beyond copyright law. Copyright law is basically the only law that survived the digital transition, even as privacy, labor and consumer protection rights went into hibernation. The last time Congress gave us a federal consumer privacy law was 1988, and it's a law that bans video store clerks from telling the newspapers which VHS cassettes you rented:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Video_Privacy_Protection_Act

That's left internet users desperately trying to contort copyright to solve every problem they have – like someone trying to build a house using nothing but chainsaw. For example, I once found someone impersonating me on a dating site, luring strangers into private spaces. Alarmed, I contacted the dating site, who told me that their only fix for this was for me to file a copyright claim against the impersonator to make them remove the profile photo. Now, that photo was Creative Commons licensed, so any takedown notice would have been a "LOL, no." grade act of copyfraud:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/21/the-internets-original-sin/

The unsuitability of copyright for solving complex labor and privacy problems hasn't stopped people who experience these problems from trying to use copyright to solve them. They've got nothing else, after all.

That's why everyone who's worried about the absolutely legitimate and urgent concerns over AI and labor and privacy has latched onto copyright as the best tool for resolving these questions, despite copyright's total unsuitability for this purpose, and the strong likelihood that this will make these problems worse:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/13/spooky-action-at-a-close-up/#invisible-hand

Enter FTC Chair Lina Khan, who has just announced that her agency will be reviewing AI model training as an "unfair and deceptive method of competition":

https://thehill.com/policy/technology/4682461-ftc-chair-ai-models-could-violate-antitrust-laws/

If the agency can establish this fact, they will have sweeping powers to craft rules prohibiting the destructive and unfair uses of AI, without endangering beneficial activities like scraping, mathematical analysis, and the creation of automated systems that help with everything from adding archival metadata to exonerating wrongly convicted people rotting in prison:

https://hrdag.org/tech-notes/large-language-models-IPNO.html

I love this so much. Khan's announcement accomplishes the seemingly impossible: affirming that there are real problems and insisting that we employ tactics that can actually fix those problems, rather than just doing something because inaction is so frustrating.

That's something we could use a lot more of, especially in platform regulation. The other big tech news about Big Tech last week was the progress of a bill that would repeal Section 230 of the Communications Decency Act at the end of 2025, without any plans to replace it with something else.

Section 230 is the most maligned, least understood internet law, and that's saying something:

https://www.techdirt.com/2020/06/23/hello-youve-been-referred-here-because-youre-wrong-about-section-230-communications-decency-act/

Its critics wrongly accuse the law – which makes internet users liable for bad speech acts, not the platforms that carry that speech – of being a gift to Big Tech. That's totally wrong. Without Section 230, platforms could be named to lawsuits arising from their users' actions. We know how that would play out.

Back in 2018, Congress took a big chunk out of 230 when they passed SESTA/FOSTA, a law that makes platforms liable for any sex trafficking that is facilitated by their platforms. Now, this may sound like a narrowly targeted, beneficial law that aims at a deplorable, unconscionable crime. But here's how it played out: the platforms decided that it was too much trouble to distinguish sex trafficking from any sex-work, including consensual sex work and adjacent activities. The result? Consensual sex-work became infinitely more dangerous and precarious, while trafficking was largely unaffected:

https://www.gao.gov/assets/gao-21-385.pdf

Eliminating 230 would be incredibly reckless under any circumstances, but after the SESTA/FOSTA experience, it's unforgivable. The Big Tech platforms will greet this development by indiscriminately wiping out any kind of controversial speech from marginalized groups (think #MeToo or Black Lives Matter). Meanwhile, the rich and powerful will get a new tool – far more powerful than copyfraud – to make inconvenient speech disappear. The war-criminals, rapists, murderers and rip-off artists who currently make do with bogus copyright claims to "manage their reputations" will be able to use pretextual legal threats to make their critics just disappear:

https://www.qurium.org/forensics/dark-ops-undercovered-episode-i-eliminalia/

In a post-230 world, Cola Corporation's lawyers wouldn't get a chance to reply to the LAPD's bullying lawyers – those lawyers would send their letter to Cola's hosting provider, who would weigh the possibility of being named in a lawsuit against the small-dollar monthly payment they get from Cola, and poof, no more Cola. The legal bullies could do the same for Cola's email provider, their payment processor, their anti-DoS provider.

This week on EFF's Deeplinks blog, I published a piece making the connection between abolishing Section 230 and reinforcing Big Tech monopolies:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2024/05/wanna-make-big-tech-monopolies-even-worse-kill-section-230

The Big Tech platforms really do suck, and the solution to their systemic, persistent moderation failures won't come from making them liable for users' speech. The platforms have correctly assessed that they alone have the legal and moderation staff to do the kinds of mass-deletions of controversial speech that could survive a post-230 world. That's why tech billionaires like Mark Zuckerberg love the idea of getting rid of 230:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2021/03/facebooks-pitch-congress-section-230-me-not-thee

But for small tech providers – individuals, co-ops, nonprofits and startups that host fediverse servers, standalone group chats and BBSes – a post-230 world is a mass-extinction event. Ever had a friend demand that you take sides in an interpersonal dispute ("if you invite her to the party, I'm not coming!").

Imagine if your refusal to take sides in a dispute among your friends – and their friends, and their friends – could result in you being named to a suit that could cost hundreds of thousands of dollars to settle:

https://www.engine.is/news/primer/section230costs

It's one thing to hope for a more humane internet run by people who want to make hospitable forums for online communities to form. It's another to ask them to take on an uninsurable risk that could result in the loss of their home, their retirement account, and their life's savings.

A post-230 world is one in which Big Tech must delete first and ask questions later. Yes, Big Tech platforms have many sins to answer for, but making them jointly liable for their users' speech will flush out treasure-hunters seeking a quick settlement and a quick buck.

Again, this isn't speculative – it's inevitable. Consider FTX: yes, the disgraced cryptocurrency exchange was a festering hive of fraud – but there's no way that fraud added up to the 23.6 quintillion dollars in claims that have been laid against it:

https://cdn.arstechnica.net/wp-content/uploads/2024/03/US-v-SBF-Alameda-Research-Victim-Impact-Statement-3-20-2024.pdf

Without 230, Big Tech will shut down anything controversial – and small tech will disappear. It's the worst of all possible worlds, a gift to tech monopolists and the bullies and crooks who have turned our online communities into shooting galleries.

One of the reasons I love working for EFF is our ability to propose technologically informed, sound policy solutions to the very real problems that tech creates, such as our work on interoperability as a way to make it easier for users to escape Big Tech:

https://www.eff.org/interoperablefacebook

Every year, EFF recognizes the best, bravest and brightest contributors to a better internet and a better technological future, with our annual EFF Awards. Nominations just opened for this year's awards – if you know someone who fits the bill, here's the form:

https://www.eff.org/nominations-open-2024-eff-awards

It's nearly time for me to sign off on this weekend's linkdump. For one thing, I have to vacate my backyard hammock, because we've got contractors who need to access the side of the house to install our brand new heat-pump (one of two things I'm purchasing with my last lump-sum book advance – the other is corrective cataract surgery that will give me lifelong, perfect vision).

I've been lusting after a heat-pump for years, and they just keep getting better – though you might not know it, thanks to the fossil-fuel industry disinfo campaign that insists that these unbelievably cool gadgets don't work. This week in Wired, Matt Simon offers a comprehensive debunking of this nonsense, and on the way, explains the nearly magical technology that allows a heat pump to heat a midwestern home in the dead of winter:

https://www.wired.com/story/myth-heat-pumps-cold-weather-freezing-subzero/

As heat pumps become more common, their applications will continue to proliferate. On Bloomberg, Feargus O'Sullivan describes one such application: the Japanese yokushitsu kansouki – a sealed bathroom with its own heat-pump that can perfectly dry all your clothes while you're out at work:

https://www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/2024-05-22/laundry-lessons-from-japanese-bathroom-technology

This is amazing stuff – it uses less energy than a clothes-dryer, leaves your clothes wrinkle-free, prevents the rapid deterioration caused by high heat and mechanical agitation, and prevents the microfiber pollution that lowers our air-quality.

This is the most solarpunk thing I've read all week, and it makes me insanely jealous of Japanese people. The second-most solarpunk thing I've read this week came from The New Republic, where Aaron Regunberg and Donald Braman discuss the possibility of using civil asset forfeiture laws – lately expanded to farcical levels by the Supreme Court in Culley – to force the fossil fuel industry to pay for the energy transition:

https://newrepublic.com/article/181721/fossil-fuels-civil-forefeiture-pipeline-climate

They point out that the fossil fuel industry has committed a string of undisputed crimes, including fraud, and that the Supremes' new standard for asset forfeiture could comfortably accommodate state AGs and other enforcers who seek billions from Big Oil on this basis. Of course, Big Oil has more resources to fight civil asset forfeiture than the median disputant in these cases ("a low- or moderate-income person of color [with] a suspected connection to drugs"). But it's an exciting idea!

All right, the heat-pump guys really need me to vacate the hammock, so here's one last quickie for you: Barath Raghavan and Bruce Schneier's new paper, "Seeing Like a Data Structure":

https://www.belfercenter.org/publication/seeing-data-structure

This is a masterful riff on James C Scott's classic Seeing Like a State, and it describes how digitalization forces us into computable categories, and counts the real costs of doing so. It's a gnarly and thoughtful piece, and it's been on my mind continuously since Schneier sent it to me yesterday. Something suitably chewy for you to masticate over the long weekend!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/25/anthology/#lol-no

[my-own-walker]

Someone You've Never Seen Before

A Kyle Spencer Fan Fiction

frat!kyle AU, fem!main character, sexual themes, mature language, use of drugs and alcohol, frat boy antics

9.

I'd never thought of myself as pretty. In fact, I'd never really thought of myself at all. Sure, I took pride in what I wore, but that was just about where the vanity stopped. My looks were the least of my worries.

But I seemed to care so much more about them suddenly. It felt like my skin didn't sit right over my bones. I found myself staring in the mirror, scrutinizing every detail on my face. The pores, the size of my lips, the bags that seemed to crop up overnight under my eyes. It was new to me to feel this way. To feel, I guess, not pretty.

In the week after the party (and my overnight stay), I kept mostly to myself. Despite not wanting to show up to Calculus class, I knew I had to. I sat quietly next to Kyle and took notes diligently, not saying a word to him.

I couldn't shake this disgusting feeling of both guilt and anxiety when I was near him. It was, in short, a rough few days. I would wake up, scrutinize my appearance, try in vain to dress myself, go to class, feel awful, then go back home and lay in agonizing silence, trying to quiet my thoughts.

That was, until Wednesday night. My phone lit up and buzzed on my nightstand. I sat across the room at my desk, reading a book for one of my other classes when the noise distracted me. Determined to finish the chapter I was on before checking it, I put my head back down and re-focused. Until another text alert came through. And another.

"Damn, chill," I spoke, thinking aloud. I strode across the room and stooped down to look at the screen, my stomach dropping when I saw who was multi-texting me.

Kyle: Hey Hannah.

Kyle: Just reminding you. Meeting tomorrow at mine.

Kyle: See you soon!

"Aw fuck," I groaned. I flopped, face-first onto my bed, which was thankfully right next to where my phone lay. "Motherfucker," I mumbled into the fabric of my duvet. For one, I didn't want to see Kyle in an intimate setting, such as his room, ever again. I also did not want to return to the KLG house, fearing that someone had seen me fleeing on Saturday morning.

Our weekly meeting for our Calculus project snuck up on me. While I would have much preferred for us to meet at my place, I knew that wouldn't do.

The inside of my shared apartment with Lily was pretty strangely decorated. Lily and I were lovers of all things fun and odd, and our interior design choices reflected it. Our couch was royal purple, and decorated with several random throw pillows and stuffed animals. We placed billiard balls in a decorative bowl on the cowboy-themed coffee table we found at an estate sale.

I refused to use overhead lighting, which drove Lily crazy. She yielded to me, though, a person who commonly got migraines, so everything was lit a warm yellow and striking pink, thanks to the miscellaneous strings of light I hung everywhere.

It was a small place, but it did the trick for the two of us. It wasn't great for entertaining, and the way we decorated it didn't help. It overwhelmed the space. We understood that. 

Because of how small the place was, there would be no way to avoid Lily, who simply couldn't help but either flirt or mess with any frat guy in her sight. She also couldn't help but bust my balls, so if her flirting went nowhere, she would accuse Kyle of being my boyfriend and insist upon making him super uncomfortable. With Lily set on bugging us, we'd never get anything done. 

My room was not exactly an option either. It sat right across from Lily's bedroom. It was small, dark, and plastered with posters. I had no issue keeping it clean enough, but it wasn't suited for people to hang out in there, let alone a frat boy. I assumed he probably wouldn't enjoy members of The Smiths or The Rolling Stones staring at him from the walls.

I digress, Kyle's place was the only option. And at that moment, it felt like an impossible mountain to climb, an incredible obstacle to overcome. 

+

The time came, much before I would have liked for it to, to head over to meet Kyle. Except, I stood in my room, surrounded by discarded outfits on the floor, staring at myself in the mirror, frustrated. Why was it that I couldn't seem to piece together the right articles of clothing? No matter what I put on, I managed to see something I didn't like about myself.

With little-to-no time left to pick, I settled on a tee with a black skirt and knee-high socks. I felt like shit, but I needed to jet if I was going to make it on time. 

The walk there was quick and painless. I arrived at exactly 7 pm, our agreed time. Kyle stood waiting for me on the stoop again, knowing I'd need ushering through the house.

"Hey Hannah," he called to me as I walked up the drive.

"Hi," I said, simply. I met him on the porch, waiting for him to lead the way. He opened the door and led me through the house, heading straight for the stairs and to his room. In the upstairs hallway, this time, though, stood Archie Brenner, the other KLG guy in mine and Kyle's Calc class. He paused and looked at me with an unreadable expression. I cast my eyes down and continued on.

"Hey," Archie called after us. We both spun to face him, surprised. "Are you seriously meeting for the project now? And this often?"

"Yes," Kyle replied lowly. "Strictly business."

"You two fuckin' try-hards," he laughed, shaking his head as he walked away. I sighed inwardly, having expected way worse.

We made it the rest of the way unscathed and settled in his room, I on the couch and he on the ground. The center of the room was a mess, the small area on the floor covered with books and papers. He sat in the center of it all, a spot he'd likely carved out for himself in the chaos.

"Sorry," he chuckled bashfully. "Lot of makeup work and current work."

"Did you miss a lot of school?" I asked, pulling my Calculus materials out of my bag. Kyle sighed and ran a hand through his curly blonde hair.

"I missed Friday and a couple of classes on Monday," he answered. "It all just piled up so fast." He laughed, scratching the back of his head while looking down at his mess.

"Do you need time to work on all of it? We can be quick so I can leave-"

"No, no," Kyle interrupted. "It's nice to have a break and actually speak with another human."

"Can I help?" I offered.

"I wish. I'll be okay," he smiled, setting a few books aside to make room for his Calculus materials. "I think we should decide what differentiation scenario we want to take on." He stuck his pen in his mouth and bit down, holding it in his teeth while flipping to the correct page in his notebook. My stomach twisted while watching him, almost as if I were homesick.

"Yeah, that makes sense."

+

"No, no, it is," Kyle argued, standing to join me on the couch. He flopped down next to me, scrolling through his phone frantically to prove his point.

"A number cannot possibly be lucky or unlucky," I protested, crossing my arms. "The stigma around the number 13 is ludicrous. And 7 isn't lucky either."

"Hannah," he spoke sternly, cocking his head to the side as he looked at me, lips tight. "You can't possibly be a non-believer. You look the part of a believer."

"I look the part?"

"Yeah with your, I guess, like weirdo style," he tried to clarify, looking back down at his phone.

"Weirdo?! Are you serious right now?" I cackled. 

"I meant, like, artsy, I don't know," he muttered, dismissing my feigned shock. "Here!" He held his phone out and showed me the door of a home, donning the number 66.

"Yes?"

"Like I said, 66 is my unlucky number," he explained, turning the phone back to himself. He stared at the image for a moment, lost in thought. I waited before interrupting his thought.

"Are you going to explain, or?" I tried, sarcastically.

"Uh, yeah," Kyle murmured, locking his phone. "That was my old house."

"Oh," I managed, sensing the shift in his tone. He put his phone down on the couch cushion next to him and looked back over at me, a strange look on his face.

"We lost it during Katrina. My dad had just cut out," he continued. "Nothing but bad things happened there."

"Gosh, I'm sorry Kyle," I whispered, not sure how to proceed.

"No, I brought it up, it's fine," he sniffed, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. "Brought it upon myself, I guess." He laughed sardonically.

"Doesn't make it any less shitty," I replied.

"Yeah, the situation was just, bad," he uttered, staring off over my left shoulder. "My mom isn't exactly all there, either. She's not right. Hard to live with." He shifted to face me better, resting his elbow on the back of the sofa.

I wasn't sure what to say, so I just nodded.

"After we lost our house, things got bad between my mom and me," Kyle went on, further spelling out a detail I didn't know about him. "I never had it good with my parents, but that year was the worst. Since then it's gotten even more bad. So I'm here."

"What do you mean?"

"I live pretty close to school but I live here because I can't live with her," he relayed. "It's okay because it's all on my dime. I'll be an engineer and make my money and be able to avoid her forever."

"Well, you have a plan at least," I returned."That's something."

"I got involved here so I don't have to go back there," he said. Kyle inhaled sharply as if he had broken out of a trance and smiled. "I'm sorry, I should stop."

I sat forward, putting a hand on his knee. "No, I'm sorry," I laughed. "I'm not good at finding things to say."

"It was nice that you listened," he hummed, looking down at my hand on his leg. I removed it quickly and crossed my arms, looking at him, almost pleading for him to change the subject with my eyes. "Do you want to get coffee or something this weekend?"

It was not the subject change I expected. In fact, words wouldn't even claw their way up my throat or fight through my lips. They sat in stunned silence in my head, frozen in shock. I mustered a nod, agreeing.

"Sunday?"

"Yeah, that works," I blurted, silently kicking myself that only those three words could muster the courage to leave the safety of my mouth.

Previous Part | Next Part

[blue-bower]

Just a bunch of Silly Little Guys

So some of yall have probably noticed I've had a tiiiiny bit of a hyperfixation on clowns and jesters for a while now. 

It really started becoming apparent to me when I latched onto Jevil in 2018, but I've honestly loved clown characters for many years. I think the earliest I may have realized I might have a thing for them was that scene from The Brave Little Toaster, and the Toon monsters from Yu-Gi-Oh. I think I was just, in denial or hadn’t fully realized it. And I’ve thought a lot about all the reasons they appeal to me.

1.) Laughter: Laughter and comedy is fucking amazing. I love to laugh, I love hearing and making other people laugh. Everyone deserves something that can brighten their day, and I love that there’s a bunch of gremlins out there whose entire job is to bring laughter. And I enjoy all the methods they use to loosen people up: Pranks, tickling, general goofiness, appealing to one’s inner child, tickling (x2), making someone absolutely loopy and laughter-drunk with bouts of lunacy and ridiculousness, giving playful scares.

2.) Design: I think clown & jester designs are so much fun and so freaking cute. I love elaborate, colorful outfits, I have mad respect for people who can tolerate wearing facepaint all day, I love seeing people who can absolutely own a mismatched, extravagant, goofy outfit.

3.) Fear factor: I enjoy how much they creep people out. I'm a little shit that loves scaring people, and I myself am an adrenaline junkie that enjoys spooky & unsettling things. It fascinates me how so many people have a phobia for silly little guys in facepaint.

4.) Personality: I've always taken a liking to characters that are unhinged and chaotic with way too much energy. I don't necessarily like blatant Evil/Killer Clown stereotypes (I could honestly care less about Pennywise, and the Joker leaves a bad taste in my mouth due to my ex and an abusive POS ex-friend) But I enjoy characters that don't give a fuck what society thinks about their oddities. Characters who just enjoy being pranking little shits, who just want to be seen and enjoyed for the manic goofballs they are. Characters who are on the verge of finally fucking snapping after being misunderstood for so long, because heaven knows I can relate to that.

5.) Commentary on society: Jesters especially are meant to tear down societal conventions, to mock and point out the shortcomings of the upper class. And I eat that shit up, as someone who absolutely hates societal expectations, corporations, biased dictation over how people should behave, how they should view people who exist outside of heteronormativity, gender norms, race & neurotypical behavior. Clowns are often seen as the butt of the joke, and in that sense, they show a sadder side of how society acts towards people who don’t fit their mold, showing the effect that emotional abuse can have on the psyche of someone who just wants to bring joy.

6.) Relatability to myself: For a long time I’ve loved to entertain people, I love making people laugh, I enjoy being in the limelight when in costume and acting as a character, I love impacting peoples' moods in a positive way. That being said, for a good majority of my life, I felt like I was the clown that everybody mocked and laughed at. I was constantly bullied, humiliated, blown off, looked down on. I was the clumsy, ditzy, undiagnosed neurodivergent that everyone in middle & early high school unanimously agreed was a prime target for projecting their need to feel superior. I've always had the worst luck, and to this day I feel like I jinx everything I say or do. Life tried to make a clown out of me. If the song “Circus Hop” existed in my teen years, I would feel it to my core.

But, now that I'm finally more confident in myself, I choose to embrace the klutzy, silly, manic inner gremlin that craves to see the downfall of massive corporations and bigoted, entitled, joyless prickheads. The side of myself that refuses to let harsh realities and cynicism stifle my childlike imagination & creativity and my passion for fictional worlds in "childish" animated media. And I won't let people look down on me for it. I won't let people see me as a laughingstock anymore - not unless it's on my own terms. I'll choose to let people laugh at me, and laugh with me, for reasons that highlight my good traits, not because they think they can throw pies at my face whenever they want.

[severus-snape-apreciation-blog]

Apparently telling someone that the issue isn’t the Harry Potter game and wishing death on every player isn’t okay. And that the real issue is the governments especially the US one and asking why they aren’t getting angry at them. Commenting to the governors instead of getting mad at strangers online who don’t want to crucify their 50+y dads. Could result in them proving they are worse then the game players.

(There is a poll at the bottom)

Telling someone you will watch as they get raped and killed doesn’t make you a good person. I believe people mad about the game are good people. Y’all have reason to be. I just look at the situation differently that the government is a hugely different problem. And it’s proving so. If someone disagrees with me I’m okay with that. But to tell me to die. Or kill myself or that you will watch as I get raped by Nazis. Tells me. You are not as good a person as you think you are. You are just as bad as the Nazis. Cause that is beyond messed up to say to someone.

Even said to me that I’m a traitor to my gender and the community doesn’t accept me. That’s also fucked up to say. Not as much. But still not good. You pretend you have the moral high ground. But ignored everything I said in these comments. Which tells me I’m right. It’s not that you have the moral high ground. You want to feel as you do. Because people that actually care. Would care about how Florida wants to kill parents who let their kids be trans. Or one state banned all reaffirming care for everyone under 18. And if above are not allowed to have any mental illness. Or that trans people are not allowed in the correct bathrooms. And have to put their lives in danger just to go to the bathroom. Cause a dad might not understand why a buff man is using the woman’s bathroom. Or what’s happening to Zooey Zepher. Or the fact that all “pro trans” business have been really quiet and proving they aren’t really. Except funny enough. BudLight

@penisgoblin

Anyone who wants to read the full Exchange it’s under one of my posts explaining where Sirona comes from (also before anyone sparks that again. It’s not a transphobic name. But was a horrible choice for them to do)

For everyone wanting to learn more about real issues going on that are really anti trans here’s a link of all anti trans laws they are doing

I would post more articles but the apps not letting me paste atm so feel free to google it

To address some of the other stuff expressed to me in the comments.

Someone told me the whole gaming and media industry isn’t needed and that they would be okay if the whole thing collapsed. I will explain why it is needed. People watch/play for many reasons. It builds serotonin. Entertainment and joy are vital in helping lowering suicide and depression.

And the media industry is one of the biggest in the US and it is hugely vital for the economy. The writers strike will help cause another depression (not blaming the writers but the asses that refuse to pay them) and people don’t even realize that outside the writers that are striking. Thousands of others are losing their jobs. Editors. Animators. Costume design. Set design. My sister. (No seriously she lost her job editing frames for shows)

If the entire industry collapsed so would the US. and even other country’s. The sad part is when I explained that. They didn’t even care. They don’t care that people will go homeless and starve with their families. It was messed up.

Or one person said they hoped everyone who played the game or worked on it dies.

Saying stuff like this shows me you are on a false moral high ground. That you are just as bad or worse then the people you are upset at.

Disclaimer: I do not support jk assface. She is a cunt and a bitch. I understand why people are upset about the game. I am not disagreeing or mad at you. I personally have never played the game. Will I someday? Idk. Probably not. I am Non Binary and Pan. I am more upset at the US government then my elderly father.

[stephenjaymorrisblog]

Jason Aldean’s Publicity Stunt

(Is This a Manufactured Agitprop?)

7/22/2023

Stephen Jay Morris

©Scientific Morality

            If I seem mordacious, it’s because I like being a dick to an asshole. Like other critics, I refuse to write epigrams to up and coming artists so to get some free coke from an A&R guy. Sorry! Let us get to the subject at hand.

            It’s no secret that, politically speaking, I am way to the left of Bernie Sanders—I am on the extreme Left. How extreme am I? I would call the FBI and have myself arrested!

At any rate, when I judge a song, I objectively critique it by its music. Believe it or not, the lyrics are meaningless to me. If you, the songwriter, are reliant on lyrics and the music is mediocre at best, then you have a major problem. Maybe you should consider being a slam poet instead of a musician.

            Meet Jason Aldean. He sings country songs about the usual subjects:  heartbreak, hard work, and family. The usual, shit-kicking music, subjects. Country music used to be about struggling in a capitalist society, such as featured in Johnny Paycheck’s song, “Take This Job and Shove It.” In this song, he tells his boss to piss off. It would take over 200 pages to list all of those songs.

Jason has done pretty well in the country gendre. Also, he has a cool name. It sounds a lot like James Dean. No, he is not Hollywood handsome, nor does he look like some rugged character from a Spaghetti Western. He looks like a guy who does people’s taxes. He wears cowboy costumes from the stereotypical closet of central casting. Well, this is entertainment and I suppose you’ve got to dress the part.

                        What I’ve always hated about modern country music is its fake populism. You know—the “common folk!” The “salt of the earth” white people with two blue eyes, crying in the rain. One problem with that designation is that not all families are pure of heart. Some have racist views, others are dysfunctional. People label them with all sorts of epitaphs. “Trailer Trash” is my favorite. Many cannot afford to pay rent, so they become homeless and go dumpster diving to find food. Whenever some outlaw, country, bad boy writes about white pride, he, she, or they don’t speak for the White working class. (I love using pronouns, it drives CHUDS insane!)

            One remarkable thing I can say concerns Aaron Lewis—the tattooed, heavy metal, Jewish guy that recorded a country/blues song called, “I Am the Only One.” He presented it in such a way that it sounded like it came from the heart. That is the essence of agitprop songs. They sound personal, but they are merely cheap talking points from Right wing groups. Aaron’s songs had all the rhetoric of the political Right at the height of the Trump administration, in 2021. One thing I admire about him, though, is that he owned up to his song and couldn’t care less about what people thought of it. Even though he suffered from misology, he was honest.

            There are many types of racism. There is blunt racism. There is passive/aggressive racism. The latter has been utilized over ten decades. In 1988, Bush senior ran for president. There was a campaign poster with a photo of an African-American criminal. The text read, “AL GORE furloughed dangerous criminals! Make Bush president and he will lock these criminals up and throw away the keys!”  That criminal was Willie Horton. The defender of this poster said it was not about racism, it was about crime. Well, No. The poster depicted racism through visual association. You could get accused of racism because you thought that what you saw was racist. It was just a coincidence that the featured subject happened to be Black. Visual racism is a loophole in latent racism.

That is what Jason Aldean did in his video for his song, “Try That in a Small Town.” It contains news reels of Black Lives Matter protests and coincidental images. At best, this video is advocating vigilantism, or at worst, a race war.

            The song? Yeah, what about the song? The music is lackluster, country rock music, the likes of which we all heard in the early 70’s. Like from the Almond Brothers. It is just repetitive chorus/verse shit, where a bridge is way too far. The music is pedestrian and bland, so you fall asleep and do not even hear the words. Perhaps, that is intentional.

            Now, let’s talk about the message. There isn’t any. if I really push the issue, I guess the message is: (Drum roll please! Tat a tat tat!) “Don’t come to our town and express your free speech here, cause me and my buddies will beat the shit out of you! Or if crime is your bag, get out those AR 15s and shoot to kill!” Here’s is a suggestion: Start a neighborhood watch!  May you should do what Jesus suggested and turn the other cheek! And I am not talking about butt cheeks. Is the NRA financing your recording sessions?

            Ever since Merle Haggard released that conservative pile of shit song, “Okie From Muskogee,” back in 1969, he regretted it. It turned out that the song was a satire about Rednecks. Modern Country music has become the gendre of reactionary messages. Remember Toby Keith’s song, “Courtesy of the Red, White, and Blue”? Yeah, kick those Arabs asses! Every time you release a jingoistic song, you regret it.

So, what happened to all these guys? Luckily, Merle Haggard overcome that novelty song and released personal songs that made him legendary. Toby Keith has cancer and has tried very hard to make a comeback. How about Aaron Lewis? He might be in rehab.

            So, Jason, what about you? If you are lucky, you might be a one hit wonder and, like Ted Nugent, play at Klan rallies. That tweet you put out; did you write it yourself? Are you trying to sound like a Boy Scout? You say you wrote the song for small town communities. Why, in your video, were there only white guys holding guns in front of a Tennessee courthouse? The courthouse where the heinous lynching of a Black teenager took place in 1927?

Come on, dude! You are full of shit! If you think you are going to disambiguate the whole conservative movement, you are wrong!!! Are you doing incurvations for Trump? Be a real American and stop it! Our grandfathers fought foreign enemies in the 40’s. What have you done to fight America’s domestic enemies? Nothing! That video has given you 15 minutes of fame. That was the whole idea, right? When it’s all over, your label will dump you and, this time next year, no one will remember your name! My advice to you is invest your money and watch it grow. Try buying stocks in fossil fuel!

Later, dude!

[stirdrawsandreblaws]

alright i was originally a lot nicer but now that i've actually looked at your blog and decided i don't have much time to entertain conspiracy theorists today, here are a few points i refuse to let go unaddressed:

By manmade poisons i mean synthetics and things designed to poison people, undermining their health and lowering their quality of life, shorting their lives and killing many, synthetics are basically incompatible with life and inherently a poison.

things designed to poison organisms are definitely poison, sure. synthetics, however, are anything manmade. this category includes clothing and cooked food, neither of which are "inherently poison".

By immune i mean when exposed your body is capable of mitigating what you are exposed to and preventing a severe or otherwise common negative response.

immunity in the context of the poll means It Does Not Affect You At All Whatsoever. i figured that would be clear since there is no immune system response for, say, chain letter curses.

When exposed to viruses, bacteria, allergens, poisons, etc in my experience i have an extremely minimal response that is resolved very quickly if it is even noticeable at all.

allergens won't usually do anything unless you're already sensitive to them. if you have a natural immunity to rabies or poison dart frogs though, please consider getting examined for the benefit of humanity.

Fear or worry of the opinions of others isn’t something i find myself concerned with either.

i am inclined to disbelieve this based on the rest of your response

[...]most people don’t even like themselves why do you care if they like you.

i'm sorry you don't like yourself but consider that might actually not be an issue "most people" share, and may in fact be key to how easily you fall into conspiracy thought.

i could go on about the fact that plant growth has exploded due to rising co2 and how any (unlikely) die-offs would merely be a return to prior baselines since animals and volcanoes produce enough co2 on their own to maintain all plant life currently on earth, or what GMOs actually constitute, or the discrete line between active and passive, but i suspect it would be a massive waste of time.

instead, i will simply encourage you to learn more, stop listening to alex jones, and challenge your biases, because holy shit "judaism is part of the cult of saturn" and "transgender people existing is a jewish conspiracy" are statements which are completely divorced from reality, and show just how sad and narrow your worldview currently is

i wish you good luck in becoming less of a human cesspit. o/

[hotpinkhoshi]

kiss it better | five

pairing: mark tuan x reader

genre: angst, eventual smut, brother’s best friend au (sort of)

warnings: tw for death, death of a parent, reference to drug addiction

word count: 4.5k

summary: you were off limits for more reasons than mark could count. but everything changed for him the day you walked into his tattoo shop with those big innocent eyes and a laugh like his favorite song. he couldn’t. he wouldn’t. and yet…

a/n: hi babies thank you for your patience, i know it’s been many many months since i’ve updated! the last time i posted for kib was all the way back in may, which is crazy, i know. but life has been weird and it’s been difficult for me to find the motivation to write. it’s slowly coming back for me and i’m so glad you guys have stuck around with me even if i haven’t been consistent. i’m more grateful than you know!

✩ index here ✩

“She did what?” Dahyun asked, her bite of gimbap nearly falling right out of her mouth. 

Youngjae threw his head back and broke into laughter entirely at Mark’s expense. 

Mark ran his tongue over his teeth and refused to look up at his friends, focusing awfully hard on the sketch he’d been working on in between appointments. He quickly realized that they had absolutely no sympathy for him. 

“Yeah.” 

It had been two weeks already since that night, and Mark was just now feeling comfortable enough to spill what had happened after he took you home. He liked to take his own time to process his thoughts before he revealed them to others, and quite frankly, he hadn’t even wanted to tell anyone. But he was starting to think maybe he needed an outside perspective. 

“She has guts,” Youngjae said, after finally pulling himself upright in his chair. “Was it good?” 

“Dude,” Mark warned, far from amused. 

Dahyun cut in. “It’s a good enough question. From what I’ve seen, you guys have some intense sexual tension. If the kiss was hot, maybe it’s worth exploring.” 

“We don’t have sexual tension,” Mark defended. 

Youngjae snorted. 

“Sure. But, let’s say if you did, and the kiss was good…” Dahyun trailed off, wiggling her eyebrows. 

Groaning, Mark tapped the end of his pencil against the desk. He glanced up at the wall, his eyes naturally drawn to the photo of your shoulder, of the tattoo he’d designed and permanently inked onto your skin. It wasn’t the only photo he had pinned up of his previous work, but it was the one he looked at the most. 

“She’s a kid,” he said, little to no conviction in his voice. 

But you weren’t a kid. Mark knew in every way, you were an adult. Even mentally, emotionally, you seemed more mature than he felt most days. Packing up your belongings because you refused to live a life you weren’t satisfied with? He couldn’t imagine anything more grown up than that.

“Mark,” Youngjae’s tone was firm, serious this time. “It’s not the worst thing in the world if you have chemistry with someone. I know it may not be the most convenient girl for you, but… you’ve been by yourself for a long time. You can’t tell me you aren’t lonely.” 

He hadn’t thought he was lonely until you came into his life. He had been fine, so fine, living on his own. Waking up alone, eating dinner alone, focusing on his work and living one day to the next. 

But now, he looked forward to the sound of your keys in the door when you got home from your evening shift. He bought your favorite brand of orange juice instead of his. He didn’t mind watching outlandish and obviously fake reality shows if it meant that he got to hear your commentary along with it. More than anything, he’d gotten used to the way you made him feel. In the simplest of terms, he was happy. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Mark said. “I already fucked it up.”

Dahyun narrowed her eyes. “What did you do?” 

He rubbed some of the tension out of his forehead, relaying the conversation he’d had with Taehyung that night to his friends. The exchange wasn’t longer than a few minutes, but it was long enough for Mark to potentially ruin everything you’d built for yourself in the last couple of months. 

“I didn’t tell him everything - I couldn’t do that. But I told him I’d seen her in the city, that I thought maybe she worked in one of the restaurants near the shop…” A knot of guilt coiled in his stomach. “Fuck.” 

He’d just wanted to do the right thing. You were young, you couldn’t see that your parents cared about you. Taehyung cared about you. They deserved to know where you were, especially after everything they had done for him. He could at least point them in the right direction. 

“Well, shit,” Youngjae offered, a sympathetic frown on his face. 

“I fucked her over, and I haven’t been able to look her in the eye since. We’ve just avoided each other for the last two weeks and I-” Mark heaved a breath, leaning back in his chair. “I hate it.” 

He missed you. Even if he couldn’t say it out loud.

“I have an idea,” Dahyun said, her whole body perking up. “Don’t look at me like that, sometimes I have good ideas. Why don’t you invite her along for Yugyeom’s camping trip?”

“You mean the couple thing?” 

Dahyun sighed. “It’s not a couple thing. It’s just… everyone there is part of a couple. Anyway, it might be a good way to make things less awkward.” 

Mark blinked a few times, waiting for Dahyun to say ‘just kidding’ because it was an absolutely ridiculous idea. “What? How would that make things any less awkward?” 

She shrugged. “I mean, it’s a great opportunity to break the tension. If you know what I mean.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Mark scowled. 

You spent your entire shift thinking about Mark. Thinking about how you had completely messed up your relationship, and trying to figure out how to fix it all. It had been a stupid, drunken mistake, and you would take it back in a heartbeat if you could. 

The past two weeks had been torture, tiptoeing around and trying your hardest to avoid him. You’d picked up extra shifts almost every day, figuring that if you were working, at least you didn’t have to pretend like everything was normal. 

All you wanted was to come home, curl up on the couch with Milo and watch your favorite ridiculous TV shows while Mark snickered next to you, entertained by the disgustingly wealthy families on the screen no matter how much he pretended to hate it. You wanted to be able to lean into him, feel the body heat radiating off of him when his shoulder brushed yours. 

You missed Mark. Even if you couldn’t say it out loud. 

After much debating, you decided that the best way to apologize started with food. And you owed him, anyway, after he opened his home to you and let you stay there free of charge. A dinner was the least you could do. 

You could tell once you walked into Paradise Tattoo just before closing time that Mark hadn’t been expecting you in the slightest. He was at the desk, going over papers with Dahyun, when the bell dinged to signal your entrance. 

In his ripped jeans and muscle tee, all of his tattoos were on display for you, even the large quote he had inked onto his ribcage. You gulped and shoved your feelings down. That would only make things worse. 

“Hi,” you said, greeting both Mark and Dahyun. 

“Hey.” Mark scratched his head and straightened his posture. “What are you doing here?” 

“Well,” you started, wringing your hands in front of you. “I wanted to see if you wanted to get dinner? On me. I owe you, anyway.” 

Dahyun piped up, a mischievous smirk on her lips, “That’s a great idea. Mark was just talking about how hungry he was.

Mark cleared his throat and shot his co-worker what looked suspiciously like a glare. “No, I’m fine. You really don’t have to-” 

“Come on,” you said, hiding a smile. “How about burgers? There’s a good place around the corner. It won’t kill you to let me pay, will it?” 

You could see Mark weigh his options as he chewed his lip. Either end up hungry, settling for some quick frozen food later on, or bite the bullet and let you pay for his dinner. You knew it would hurt his pride to do so, but you wouldn’t back down. It was more than just the free room and board that you wanted to make up for. 

“Alright,” he finally agreed. “Let me grab my stuff.” 

It only took less than ten minutes for you to walk down to the burger place, but it felt like an hour as awkward silence hung around the two of you. It wasn’t until you were both seated at a corner booth inside the restaurant that you finally spoke up. 

“Listen, Mark,” you said, looking up from the packet of ketchup you’d been nervously squishing between your fingers. “About that night…” 

“No, you don’t-” Mark was quick to interrupt, but you held your hand up. 

“Just let me, okay?” You sighed. 

You’d rehearsed these words countless times in the bathroom mirror, and right now it felt like they were slipping right out of your fingers. Where were you supposed to start? With the kiss, straight away? Or getting so drunk that you’d needed to be taken care of in the first place?

“I’m just… really sorry. I was stupid to drink that much and it’s not your job to watch after me. I should be able to take care of myself.”

Mark stopped you again. “I didn’t mind taking care of you.” 

“But it’s not your job, Mark. I’m an adult, and you’re letting me stay with you and asking for nothing in return. The least I could do is make it easy on you.”

“Y/N, if you could have seen me at your age, you wouldn’t feel so bad. We all get drunk and stupid sometimes,” Mark said with a shrug. It almost relieved some of your guilt until you remembered the kiss in the bathroom. 

“Well...” You shook your head and looked back down at your hands. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him for this one. “I really shouldn’t have ki-” 

“Hi! My name’s Lana, I’ll be your server tonight. Can I get you two something to drink while you look over the menus?”

A cheerful brunette appeared in front of you, a pen behind her ear and a wide grin plastered on her face. You glanced at Mark, then up at your waitress, not sure if you were grateful for the interruption or not. 

“Um, can I just have a water?” you asked, voice small and uncomfortable in your throat. 

“Same for me,” Mark agreed. 

“Perfect! Let me know if you have any questions about the menu!” 

You let out a long breath before you were able to look at Mark again. He was biting his cheek, his lips all twisted and holding back a laugh. 

“What?” you asked. 

“Her timing,” Mark got out, just as he let go of his laughter, throwing his head back. 

To your own surprise, you found yourself shaking with laughter as well. Either from Mark’s contagious laugh giggle or the simple ridiculousness of the situation. Here you were, in a burger restaurant, apologizing to your older brother’s best friend for kissing him while you were heavily intoxicated.

You covered your face with your hands to suppress your own laughter, letting your back slump against the cushions of the booth. It all came to you then, just how silly you’d been the last two weeks. 

“I am sorry, though,” you said, after you both settled down. 

Mark’s eyes glinted as he watched you from across the table, the ghost of a smile still on his lips. “It’s alright. I mean it. Last time I was that drunk, I’m pretty sure I ran around the block in my underwear singing the Canadian national anthem.”

You giggled again at the mental image. “What? How did you even-”

“No idea. It’s like I was possessed by a drunk Canadian mischief demon.” 

It was strange to imagine Mark and Taehyung in their teen years, since you’d been so young at the time, you could barely remember anything from that time of your life. You remembered Taehyung wearing the same pair of purple skinny jeans for three months because a girl at school had told him she liked them. 

You remembered Taehyung letting you sit in the basement in your favorite cushioned chair while he and Mark played video games on the big screen. It had been your favorite place to read then, tuning out the rambunctious cries of defeat while you got lost in other worlds. 

“So we’re okay, then?” you asked, after Lana had come back to take your order and left once more. 

Mark nodded, a genuine smile on his lips. “We’re okay.” 

“Maybe it’s weird, but…” you began, staring down at the wrapped silverware on the table instead of looking Mark in the eye. “Even though I grew up seeing you as Taehyung’s friend, that feels like a lifetime ago. And now I just kind of see you as… my friend. Like somebody I can trust.” 

When you finally looked up at Mark, his expression was unreadable. His bottom lip was between his teeth, but his eyes looked somewhat uncomfortable. You worried for a second that you’d crossed a line. 

“I owe a lot to your family,” Mark said after another long moment passed. 

Even though you didn’t remember much about Mark from your childhood years, you knew his upbringing had been rough. His parents had been addicts, the kind that never should’ve been together, let alone bring a child into the world. 

You’d never met his mom, but your own mother had made enough snide comments about her after Mark had gone home for you to understand just what kind of person she was. 

“One of those low life, worthless drug addicts. Sleeping around with anyone that can help her out, if you know what I mean. Never should’ve been a mother.”

She had a funny way of showing her compassion sometimes. 

Taehyung brought him over once after school and your mother had gotten one look at his threadbare clothes and hollow cheeks and taken him in as her new project. At first, he ate dinner with your family almost every night, and then she started making Taehyung pass over his any extra clothes he’d gotten that didn’t fit properly or that he simply didn’t like.

Mark did owe a lot to your family. 

You didn’t know what to say. You’d been so young there was no way you could take credit for anything your parents had done for Mark, but still, you itched to comfort him. Even now, with the unsaid words lingering in the air, you sensed that he had never been able to fully open up to anybody. Though you didn’t deserve it, you wanted to be the first. 

“Your mom,” you found yourself saying. “Is she…?” 

Mark shook his head. “She’s gone. Passed away a couple years ago.” 

Your face fell. If anything, you had expected her to have taken off for good or maybe gotten into some trouble she couldn’t get herself out of, but you hadn’t expected her to be gone. 

“Oh, god, Mark. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

To your surprise, he only lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I hadn’t seen her in a long time before that. Maybe two, three years. Then my aunt showed up on my doorstep with a box of her things and told me she OD’d in a gas station parking lot a week before.” 

His voice wavered only slightly, but enough to tell you he cared more than he let on. You could only imagine how painful it would be to hear of your own mother’s passing a week after the fact. 

“I’m sorry,” you said again. 

Mark shook his head. “Don’t be. It’s weird,” he said, tongue running over his lower lip as he paused. “I’d stopped seeing her as my mother so long ago that… I felt like I’d already mourned her death. Fuck, that sounds bad, doesn’t it?”

“No,” you answered as you reached across the table, fingers laying across the back of Mark’s hand. “It doesn’t. At all.”

A moment passed between the two of you. You caught Mark’s eyes glancing down at your hand resting on his skin, but he made no move to avoid your touch. 

“I never even went through her things. The box is just sitting at the back of my bedroom closet collecting dust.” 

“Do you want to go through her things?” you asked. 

Mark paused, chewing at the inside of his lip before he answered. “I don’t know.”

You nodded, somehow understanding exactly what he meant. Though you hadn’t gone through the same thing, you were familiar with avoiding a potentially painful and uncomfortable situation by simply pretending it didn’t exist. Hence why you had four unopened voicemails from your brother and parents. 

You found yourself stroking the back of Mark’s hand with your thumb. It didn’t feel wrong to touch him like this, even though maybe it should have. All you wanted was to bring him a shred of the comfort he had deserved to have for much longer than you’d known him. 

“Alrighty, and here we’ve got the bacon cheeseburger and sweet potato fries for the lady,” Lana exclaimed, immediately bursting your bubble as she returned to your table with your food balanced on a tray. You were quick to snatch your hand from Mark’s. “And a BBQ cheddar burger with curly fries for the handsome man.”

You didn’t miss the way Lana winked as she placed Mark’s food in front of him. This girl was not getting a generous tip from you, that was for sure. 

“I told you, after that depressing dinner conversation, we need to do something fun,” you told Mark as you carried your skincare basket out from the bathroom into the living room.

“And this is fun for who?” 

You threw him a playful glance and plopped down onto the floor in front of the couch on your knees, setting your basket on the cushion and sifting through it. 

“Both of us. Just trust me.” 

Catching the skeptic look on Mark’s face, you could only grin to yourself as you pulled out a tube of your favorite clay mask. He didn’t know just how relaxing a good face mask could be, but you were willing to show him. 

“I’ll even go first,” you told him. 

Mark lifted his feet to prop them up on the coffee table as Milo curled up like a tiny ball of cotton on his lap. You’d both changed out of your work clothes into comfy clothes, and you couldn’t help noticing how warm Mark looked in his white joggers and oversized black hoodie. You wouldn’t mind snuggling up into that space between his side and the couch cushion… 

You sighed and shook your head, attempting to clear the less-than-platonic thoughts from your mind. If you were going to make this friendship work, you would need to stop thinking about him like that. Immediately.

“Can I ask you something?” Mark said after a beat of silence as you popped open the cap to your mask. 

“Hm?” you asked, propping your personal sized makeup mirror on the couch so that you could see yourself while you applied your mask. 

“Yugyeom’s family has a yearly pass to this campground, and every year he does this weekend camping trip…” he trailed off for a moment and you forced yourself not to react, instead focusing on applying your charcoal mask to your cheeks. “This year, it somehow ended up as a couple thing, so Dahyun suggested I invited a friend along. So…” 

Lifting your eyes from your own reflection, you watched as Mark struggled to finish his thought. 

“So…” you said, helping him along. “Are you asking me to come with you?” 

Immediately, a neon flashing red alarm screeched in your mind. ‘This is a terrible idea! You must say no!’ it screamed.

“Only if you want to. I mean, it’s a cool place. Their lot is right by this swimming hole and there’s a fire pit, so we normally bring a ton of booze and cook our own food over the fire…” 

Mark ran his fingers through his deep red locks of hair, his nerves displayed clearly on his face. You weren’t sure why he was so nervous to ask you, but it came off as incredibly endearing. Despite the warnings blaring in your mind, you found yourself nodding. 

“Okay.” 

Mark looked at you then, his eyes finally locking on yours, and the corner of his lips lifted in a hopeful smile. “Really?”

You couldn’t help grinning as well. “Yeah. I mean, on one condition…”

“Oh?” 

“Mhm,” you replied, holding up the mask tube and popping the cap back open. “You let me put this mask on you.”

“Aish,” Mark said and shook his head. “No way. Not worth it.”

“Oh, come on, you big baby!” 

You stood from the floor and climbed onto the couch, crawling to his side and squeezing some of the mask onto your index and middle fingers. “It’s not that bad!”

“Get away from me!” Mark exclaimed with a laugh, dodging your fingers. Milo hopped up onto the arm of the couch, stomping his cute little paws a few times. 

“Just let me pamper you, Mark!” 

He let out another laugh, louder this time, trying to reach for the mask to steal from your grasp, but he wasn’t fast enough. You giggled, ducking to miss his hands as he grabbed for your wrists. 

Somehow, you found yourself straddling him, thighs resting on either side of Mark’s waist. 

“Real men wear face masks!” you exclaimed with a shout of victory as you finally managed to smear a good amount of the clay mask across Mark’s left cheek. 

“Oh, you little-” he replied, hands reaching for your sides underneath the long sleeved shirt you were wearing. He tickled your sides, a joyful laugh falling from his lips when you started squealing. 

Milo yapped a few times from the arm of the chair, presumably because he thought that you were hurting Mark or vice versa, but his protective barks only made you laugh harder. 

“Mark! Stop it!” 

You gasped for breath, wriggling on top of him and dropping the mask tube, fighting between giggling and trying to swat his hands away. 

“It’s what you deserve, you sneak,” he said, his hands still squeezing and tickling your sides, unknowingly drifting further up your shirt to your ribs. 

Twisting and turning, you finally managed to grab his wrists and yanked them from under your shirt. You held them firmly in between your bodies, even though he could have easily overpowered you. 

Your chest heaved up and down with the last of your giggles. Mark stared up at you, still smiling and out of breath. The air suddenly became thick as you held eye contact, your hands falling from his wrists to his chest. 

“Y/N,” Mark whispered. 

‘Danger! Danger!’ your mind yelled. 

Mark’s hands, now free from your hold, landed on your hips. You felt his thumbs slip under the hem of your shirt, stroking the bare skin of your stomach. Your heart pounded beneath your rib cage at his gentle touch. 

“Mark,” you said, intending on telling him to stop, but it quickly died in your throat. 

His chin tipped up, making you realize just how close you were to him now. You weren’t sure who had leaned in first, but only a few mere inches separated your lips from his now. If you only bent forward a bit, you could… 

It reminded you, all of the sudden, of the kiss in the bathroom. It had been quick, but long enough for you to slide your tongue past his lips. You remembered the shock to your system the moment you had felt the cold metal of a tongue piercing. 

“Y/N,” Mark said again. “Tell me to stop.”

His voice was quiet but you felt like you could read between the lines. He didn’t want to stop, and the only way he was going to stop was if you made it clear that you didn’t want this. 

But you did. You’d wanted it from the moment he ran his fingers over the tattoo he’d inked onto your skin one of those first nights, a soft ghost of a touch that made goosebumps form on every inch of your skin. 

You weren’t stupid, you knew that this was all wrong for a variety of reasons, the least of which being that he was your roommate. But that meant nothing to you compared to the way his hands felt on your skin.

Before you could open your mouth, tell him that you didn’t want him to stop, an 8-bit version of the Mario Kart theme blasted from somewhere behind you. You jumped, your heart skipping several beats from the surprise. 

Mark took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, blinking a few times before he gently guided your hips to climb off of him. “Sorry, I should…”

The ringtone felt familiar but you couldn’t figure out why. Even as you watched Mark grab for his phone off the coffee table and immediately silence it, you wracked your brain to try and remember where you had heard that ringtone before. 

It was as if Taehyung had known, the moment that Mark quieted the little voice in his head telling him not to be so close to you and that this was wrong in so many ways, and finally accepted his feelings for you.  

Maybe he had a sixth sense. 

The moment that had passed between you then had been effectively ruined as soon as he was reminded of two things: you were his childhood best friend’s little sister, and he had already ruined your life even if you didn’t know it yet. 

But he’d been so close to giving in. You’d been on top of him, smiling in that innocently beautiful way that you did, your thighs caging in his hips. He hadn’t missed the fact that he could feel you with every inch of him, considering how he’d begged his body not to react, not to harden beneath you. Between the thin layers of his sweats and your sleep shorts, there was no way you wouldn’t notice. 

Later, after you’d grabbed a washcloth so you could both wipe the face mask off your faces and awkwardly watch TV for an hour before enough time could pass for you to realistically head off to bed, Mark listened to the voicemail Taehyung had left. 

“Hey man. I just wanted to let you know that uh, I’m going to try and head to the city and look for Y/N in a few weeks. If you see her again or have any idea where she might be, let me know. I really appreciate it, my mom’s been going crazy… anyway, maybe we can grab a drink or something once I’m in town. I’ll hit you up. Thanks again, Mark.”

Mark was glad he was in the privacy of his own bedroom when he listened to the message so you didn’t see the way he threw his phone down on the bed, muttering curse words to himself and trying to forget how heavenly you had felt on top of him. 

It was impossible. All he could think about was your skin under his fingertips, how your lips had been so soft and smooth and close to his, and how the weight of you on top of him had been enough to make him hard. 

His only option was to shut himself in the bathroom and crank the shower all the way to the coldest temperature that he could stand and pray that it would be enough to keep him from sneaking into your bedroom that night. 

[speechlessxx]

Naïveté (Ransom Drysdale x Reader)

Summary: Ransom loves control and his sweet, innocent plaything doesn’t know better. 

Warnings: DARKish Ransom with hints of soft Ransom but not really, this fic is lowkey a mess, a little uncomfortable situations, unprotected sex, implied AGE GAP, angst, mutual obsession, choking, Ransom is a little off (but what’s new), Sugar Daddy/Baby relationship, innocent reader, implied Dom/Sub dynamic, loss of virginity, poorly written attempt at SMUT

Word Count: 4.7k

Please do not read if anything makes you uncomfortable. 

READ WARNINGS

This is my first time writing smut. Please don’t hate me. 

Something a little different from what I usually write (?)

“You’re not going to see him again, are you?” your friend, Joey, asked you. Worried, judgmental lines sprinkled across his young face as he stared at you. You frowned and shook your head as you brought the straw of your iced coffee to your lips. “Good.” He muttered. “That guy was a creep.”

“He's not that bad,” you argued. 

“(Y/N), he was the worst thing that could’ve ever happened to you,” Joey scoffed as he drank his drink. “I’m just glad you kicked him to the curb before things got too intense.” 

You stayed silent and nodded, taking another sip from the straw. Joey began to talk about your friend group’s evening plans to hit up this bar, but your mind was taking you somewhere else.

You couldn’t tell Joey the truth. It’d disappoint him. It would anger him and jeopardize your friendship. 

But you couldn’t admit that Ransom Drysdale had a hold on you, and you didn’t want him to let go.

As an aspiring writer, you were interning at Blood Like Wine Publishing under Ransom’s uncle, Walt Thrombey. In a twisted turn of events, Walt took a liking to you.

Your doe-eyes and bright optimism intrigued him. He always fluttered around you like a moth to a flame and always had off-putting conversations with you.

It started with his hands on your shoulders, rubbing them in a way that made you uneasy. Then, it was pushing your hair to the side to expose the back of your neck, or his hands that would slither down to the small of your back. Everything about the man made you uncomfortable, but you’d never spoke out against it in fear of losing your internship. 

One day, Walt invited you over to his grandfather’s manor. “A family party,” he explained. And though you were afraid of accepting – calling it an intrusion – Walt insisted. “A chance to meet a world-renowned author,” he said. How could you refuse?

You met Ransom at that party. From the moment you walked through the doors, he knew he had to have you. He was a brat that way.

Walt was too preoccupied with arguing with his father to introduce you to the family. So, you kept to yourself, finding sanctuary in Harlan’s nurse, Marta, who looked just as out of place as you did. 

Unbeknownst to either of you, Ransom was listening in on your conversation – stalking you as if you were his prey.

Marta had explained to you that she was very fortunate to work with Harlan and that he was a kind man. Ransom couldn’t help but rolled his eyes when Marta had brought up how she and his grandfather were great friends. Blah, blah, blah, he thought as she droned on.

Then, he heard you open up about yourself. 

About how your scholarship was barely covering your tuition and how you were too late to apply to housing, so you had to live off campus in a ratty apartment whose rent was too much to handle on a monthly basis. You told Marta about how your part-time job at the local coffee shop next to campus was barely paying you enough for groceries, let alone the rest of your expenses.

The gears inside Ransom’s devious mind began to turn as a plan started to form in his head.

When Marta had been whisked away into a conversation about immigration with his father, Ransom found the perfect opportunity to meet you.

“I’m Ransom,” he introduced.

“(Y/N),” you greeted, offering your hand. He took it and brought it to his lips. Your cheeks flushed. Where all the Thrombey men this welcoming - this comfortable?Ransom smirked at your reaction.

Similar to his uncle, his hand found its way to the small of your back as he maneuvered you to the back door. Perhaps, it was simply a Thrombey gesture?

It was easy to navigate through a conversation with you. You were a good listener, Ransom was a great talker. The conversation went by smoothly as Ransom droned on and on about himself (something he was really good at). 

“I have too much money. I don’t know what to do with myself,” Ransom had joked, steering the conversation in his favor.

You chuckled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I wish I had that problem.” Ransom responded with a hum, encouraging you to open up about your financial troubles (though he knew it all from eavesdropping earlier).

“I think I have the perfect solution to both our troubles,” Ransom proposed. 

And the rest was history. 

-=+=-

No one close to you knew the exact extent of the relationship. You tried to create the narrative that you met Ransom through Walt and the relationship just blossomed.

You were embarrassed to admit that Ransom was paying your rent, tuition, and giving you a weekly allowance that helped you get by.

Joey had even joked that working for the Thrombeys was changing you when he noticed your sudden change in labels. You had forgone the Forever 21 sales section and wore the luxury brands that Ransom deemed worthy to be draped over his angel.

When your friends met Ransom - the man keeping you afloat by sharing his own riches – they knew something was up. Though they didn’t have a clue about the financial aspect of the relationship, they knew that Ransom was bad news.

They’d tell you he stared at you like a piece of meat. He’d watch your every move as if he were engraving your very image in his mind. Joey would tell you he didn’t like the way Ransom had a grip on you every time you were together. 

“He’s possessive and not in a cute way,” Joey warned you, but you shrugged him – and all your friends – off.

You’d tell them that Ransom loved you... But were you trying to convince them or yourself?

Your friends saw through Ransom. They saw how he was taking advantage of your innocence and your naivete.

When you told Ransom of your friends’ opinions, he told you to ignore it, so you did. But as time went on, it was clear that their reluctance to be accepting of the relationship bothered you. You blamed it on the age difference. (You were still in college and Ransom was in his mid-thirties). But it was more than that and your friends didn’t quite know how to explain it to you. You were just so in love with the guy - who were they to dictate your love life? They just cared about your well being. 

So, Ransom commanded that you lie to everyone. “Tell them we broke up,” Ransom told you. “Just a fib to get them off your back.” When you showed reluctance, Ransom said with pleading eyes, “do it because I love you.”

You were always too trusting for your own good.

But you couldn’t see that. You saw Ransom as your white knight – your savior. He made sure whatever balance your scholarship left was paid for. He even got you out of that ratty apartment and into a better one that was worth the expensive rent. It was closer to campus, too, so you didn’t have to ride the bus. He kept you fed and clothed. Ransom kept you afloat. 

You were afraid to let him go – afraid that his interest would fade, and another girl would be the apple of his eye. What would happen to you then? So, you tried to become everything Ransom wanted. You depended on him after all...

Just like he planned it.

-=+=-

The ride was silent. The text on your phone read Harlan’s manor. Need you here. NOW.

The driver asked you if you wanted him to turn on the radio. He was just as eager to ease the tension, so you gladly obliged. When he arrived at the family manor, he even told you, “good luck, miss.”

You gave him a nervous smile. What were you stepping into? (And were you prepared for the aftermath?).

You didn’t bother to knock on the door. He was already waiting outside for you. A cigarette in his hand. You frowned as he extinguished it against the brick wall.

“Ransom, hey,” you offered him a smile.

He didn’t return it. He had a scowl on his face and something on his mind. His face scrunched up in aggravation. He only gave you a hard stare. His blue eyes staring at you in the dark night.

He eyed you up and down. You wore a white lace dress from whatever designer (he didn’t care). He liked white on you and you knew that. It made you look like an angel – his angel. A symbol of purity – something you naturally were.

“You’re late,” he said. His voice was hard, matching the expression etched on his face. Hard and disapproving.

“I… I was with Joey,” you explained. “He was getting suspicious, so we went on a coffee date – “

“Did I ask?” Ransom snapped. “It’s part of the agreement. You make yourself available to me 24/7. That’s why I pay you so much.” You gulped as you adverted your eyes, unable to hold his angry glare for too long. He let out a sigh and held out his hand. You glanced at him, uncertainty written all over your face. “I’m not going to wait forever, (Y/N).”

“Sorry,” you muttered and took his hand. Ransom pulled you to him. His lips smashed against yours and you cringed at the faint smell of smoke.

You put your hands on his shoulders, trying to push him away – trying to catch your breath. But his grip tightened. “Kiss back,” he muttered into the kiss, growing impatience at your insubordination. Reluctantly, you did as you were told. After long minutes of the uncomfortable session, he pulled away and eyed you again. “You look gorgeous.”

“Thank you,” you said, your voice hushed. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. “Why’d you asked me to come?”

“I was bored,” he shrugged. What he didn’t say was, there’s a situation I can’t handle, so I need something I can control around me or else I’ll lose my mind.

“So, I’m entertainment?” you joked, nervously. He laughed a bit. You looked into the house through the windows. You could hear faint chatter and cheers of happy birthday. “It’s someone’s birthday?” you asked.

“Harlan’s,” Ransom nodded.

“Oh, I should probably pop in and – “you began walking towards the door.

“Don’t,” Ransom ordered through clenched teeth, and you froze in your tracks. Your hand was grazing the cool metal of the doorknob. You pulled your hand away and walked back to stand in front of Ransom. “Good girl,” he muttered, an arm slinging itself around your waist. “We should get out of here.” He whispered, stealing another kiss from your sweet lips.

“My friends are at this bar tonight,” you offered. “We could stop by.”

“And let them know we’re seeing each other again?” Ransom laughed, dryly. “I’d rather not let them turn you against me.”

“No one could ever do that,” you assured him.

“Let’s go to my place,” Ransom muttered. “Something I want to show you.” He said as he nipped at the exposed skin of your neck. You yelped in surprise as a strange feeling shot through you.

Ransom has invited you over once or twice before. Most of your outings usually ended with him dropping you off at your apartment. He didn’t normally offer to take you to his place or swing by. The offer was spontaneous – different.

You smiled and nodded, not wanting to piss him off more than he already was.

He led you to his Beamer. The ride was silent, and Ransom didn’t bother to try to ease the tension. No music. No conversation. Just a hand that rubbed the inside of your thigh in a manner that unsettled you.

Sure, Ransom was handsy at times, but he kept his distance from your most intimate areas. He’d always had to have a hand on your waist or your hand gripped in his. The most he’s ever done to make you uncomfortable was when he wrapped his hand around your neck to keep you from turning away when he kissed you. That was it.

In truth, Ransom saw you like a delicate doll. Such purity and innocence should be maintained. But tonight, Ransom was losing control – his chat with Harlan left him spiraling. 

The only thing he still had control over was sitting in the passenger seat of his car.

-=+=-

His home was just as you remembered it. Large windows, large spaces, large rooms. It was clean, for the most part. A few clothing items discarded on the floor, some hung on chairs. He shrugged off his dark grey cardigan and hung it on one of the chairs, joining the other clothes.

Ransom led you straight into his kitchen. He fetched a beer and a bottle of water. You were never much of a drinker. Ransom knew that. He stared at you as you wrapped your lips around the bottle’s opening and drank it carefully. He was still deciding – trying to make up his mind.

Should he ruin his little plaything now? Or shall he wait?

“You said you wanted to show me something?” You asked.

He nodded. “It can wait.” He walked over to you. You were leaning against his kitchen island. He plucked the bottle from your hand, placing it to the side along with his beer, and brought his hands to your hips.

“Rans – umph!” You yelped as he effortlessly lifted you up onto the counter. “What are you doing?” You asked him with a small, nervous laugh. Your face heated up as each of his hands settled to both of your knees and spread them. When you tried to fight against his grips, Ransom just slotted his waist between your legs. “Ransom?” You asked as he placed one hand on your waist and the other at the back of your neck. He hummed quietly. His eyes didn’t meet yours. They simply stared are your lips. “What cha doin’ there?”

He didn’t respond. He captured your lips with his and you were too stunned to react, so you simply mirrored his actions.

Sometimes Ransom got like this. Sometimes he wouldn’t talk and he’d just assume you’d read his mind. But tonight, your minds weren’t in unison.

You were under the impression he just needed physical contact (which was true). You thought he just needed comfort and you were more than willing to give it to him.

But tonight, Ransom wanted something much more than simple kisses and a few touches.

You tried to pull away to catch your breath, but Ransom pulled you back. He licked at your bottom lip, wanting entrance, but you refused him. So, in retaliation, Ransom yanked your hair which made you yelp. He took the opportunity to shove his tongue into your mouth. He didn’t need to fight for dominance. You just sat there with your mouth open, unsure of what to do – unsure of how to react. He had never been physical with you – he had never tried to hurt you.

The kiss was heated. You wished it were passionate or loving, but it wasn’t that. It was something else entirely.

Desperate to catch your breath, you bit on his tongue. It was a mistake. One that you’d pay for. But you were desperate.

He pulled away suddenly. “What the fuck!” He snapped.

“I’m – I’m sorry, Ransom – I just,” you stammered, unable to explain yourself. “I – I couldn’t breathe. I’m sorry, Ransom.”

Your eyes finally met. His bright blue eyes were dark like the night sky. And it was then you understood what Joey and all your friends told you. He stared at you like he was starved and you were the only thing on the menu.

“You little, ungrateful bitch,” Ransom spat. One of his hands wrapped firmly around your throat, tightening slightly and cutting off your oxygen. “You breathe when I let you. You live because I let you. The clothes you wear, the food you eat, the fucking apartment you live in – it’s all because I gave it to you. You could at least show some appreciation.” 

His grip tightened until you could see tiny black dots peppering your vision. And then suddenly, Ransom let go.

You fell forward into Ransom. Your head in the crook of his neck and hands on his shoulder. You were coughing and sputtering out apologizes, unsure of what else to tell him.

“You’re gonna show me some appreciation, baby,” he cooed but his voice was nowhere near comforting. It was taunting. “Alright?” You nodded. “Okay, c’mon,” he hoisted you up. Panicked, you wrapped your arms around him and your legs around his torso, afraid he would drop you. “I got you, sweet angel… I got you.”

You weren’t sure where he was taking you until you were laid on soft, satin sheets. You opened your eyes and saw Ransom standing at the foot of the bed. He pulled his sweater from his body and you felt your jaw drop. Why would he hide his toned physique beneath sweaters? It was a mystery to you.

He smirked when he caught you ogling him. He was always so cocky.

“How?” you murmured. He cocked an eyebrow up at you. “How am I going to show you?”

Ransom’s smirk widened as he reached down for you. His fingers lightly traced the neckline of the dress. “I think you know,” he muttered. 

Your heart thudded against your chest in realization. You tried to scoot away from him, but Ransom leaned his body forward, encaging you.

“You don’t want to make me mad, baby, do you?” He whispered, his tone still taunting. His hot breath against your ear. You closed your eyes and shook your head. “Good. Because I don’t think you want me to take away all the nice things I’ve given you, right?” You nodded. “Take off the dress for me.” He ordered, releasing you.

You did as you were told, not wanting to make him angry. His breath hitched when you revealed yourself to him. He always knew you were beautiful. The idea of you being untouched – unclaimed – made blood flow straight to his member.

His expert fingers made quick work of your bra clasp. He discarded your brassiere along with his sweater and tutted at you when your hands instinctively went to cover yourself up. He pried your hands away from your chest. 

“Don’t cover yourself up, angel,” he told you, leaning forward and leaving a trail of sloppy, wet kisses down your neck. He kissed the bruises that were forming from his grip moments ago. He scolded himself for damaging the delicate skin of his angel.

He kissed down your collarbones and found his way to your breasts. He took his time worshiping your body. There was no rush (the night was still young). 

As his lips worked on one of your mounds, his fingertips toyed with the other. You couldn’t hold back the moans that were escaping you and the heat that presented itself in between your legs. 

Everything was so foreign to you. All you could do was toy with the hair on the back of Ransom’s head and moan his name.

He moved one of his hands to cup your clothed sex. He felt the increasingly dampening spot through the delicate material and moaned against your nipple. He stared up at you as he continued his assault. Your eyes were closed tightly and your mouth formed an ‘o’ shape as you continued to let out soft moans. The sound going straight to his crotch.

In one swift motion, Ransom was able to pull your underwear down your legs. The material fell to the floor and he kicked it to join the rest of the discarded clothing. He pulled away from you to admire your body, splayed out on his bed like an offering. Your cunt glistening in the pale moonlight, calling his name. He fumbled with his belt as he shoved his slacks along with his boxer briefs down.

Your eyes finally opened and were met with the intimidating appendage. Long and thick. Fear suddenly flooded through you. It wouldn’t fit. Was this worth it? Was surrendering your virginity to Ransom – your white knight, your savior – worth the luxury? Worth the money?

“Don’t be scared, angel,” Ransom muttered as he leaned over you. You were shaking. He shushed you as you thrashed around. “I give you so many things, baby girl,” he said lowly, his voice turning into a growl. “At least give me this in return.”

You sniffled before nodding. You were afraid though you weren’t sure what frightened you more. The menacing crazed look on Ransom’s beautiful face or the fear that you were about to lose your virginity.

Ransom’s hands traced the curves of your body, leaving goosebumps all over your skin. And then one of his hands carefully rubbed against your folds, finding your clit expertly. You felt your muscles clench. He rubbed it in tight circles, causing electricity to run through you. 

As much as Ransom was eager to be inside of you, he didn’t want to hurt his angel. He had to prep his sweet, innocent angel. He wanted his angel to enjoy this.

Your breathing was shaky as you slowly gave into the feeling. He shifted in his position and carefully thrusted two fingers into your cunt. You gasped at the sudden intrusion. You threw your head back as he stroked your inner walls, exploring your untried canal.

“You’re wet, angel, and we barely begun,” Ransom said ever so cockily. You moaned in response. No words could form. You tried to bite onto your bottom lip, trying to silence yourself. But Ransom tutted at you. He slapped your clit and you yelped in surprise. “I want to hear every sound.” He ordered before scissoring your opening, attempting to stretch you open. The wet, slick sounds accompanied by your moans were all too addicting to the man that hovered over you.

You felt helpless and pathetic. You were putty in his hands. He felt you clench around his fingers when he curled them, brushing against a certain spot. He smirked as he continued to play with that spot and thrusted a third finger into you. You mewled against him as your hands fisted the satin sheets.

“Ran – Ransom,” you panted, eyes watery. “Something’s – something’s happening…” you moaned as you felt a coil within your stomach snap. You screamed as your orgasm crashed through you. Ransom smirked watched you drip around his hand. He pulled away from your pussy and your eyes widened as he slowly brought his fingers to his lips and sucked away your juices.

“Want a taste?” he asked you. You didn’t respond as he brought one of his fingers and brushed it against your lips. He then leaned down and stole another hungry kiss, sharing your taste.

While you were distracted from your previous orgasm and from the kiss, Ransom pumped his member and lined it up with you.

Catching you off guard, he pushed in. You shuddered in pain, pulling your lips away from him as your eyes widened in pain. The stretch itself was unbearable.

He pushed his tip in and you nearly shrieked. “Ransom – “you whimpered. “It hurts – It hurts!”

Ransom simply shushed you and kissed your lips. “Relax, angel… just relax for me.” You tried to do as you were told but found it quite difficult. He continued to push in inch by inch and you were afraid he was never-ending. “You’re so tight,” he murmured against your lips. You bit your lip as tears started to prick in your eyes.

And finally, he bottomed out. You had never felt so full. You swore you could feel him in your stomach. 

Ransom looked down to where you were both connected and groaned. He loomed over your body as you willed your muscles to relax around him. “Hey, hey,” he said, softly, using one of his hands to turn you to face him. “You’re doing so good for me, baby,” he praised and began to pull out.

His strokes were gentle. Pulling out only a few inches before thrusting back in. Only when the pain begun to dull and your whimpers turned into moans again, did Ransom pick up the pace. The slapping of skin and his groans. Everything started to feel cloudy. You felt as if he were tearing you apart, but your body welcomed the pain that was turning into pleasure.

Your arms wrapped around his neck as you hung onto him as he ravaged you. You continued to mewl and moan into his neck as you felt the same coil in your stomach tighten. Your walls clenched around Ransom and he knew you were close again. He reached back down to your clit and rubbed it again.

“C’mon, baby, come for me,” Ransom urged you as he thrusted. He thrusted all the way in and grinded against your sex. You moaned as you tensed, the coil bursting once again. Ransom groaned as you tightened around him like a vice, milking him and throwing him off the edge with you. He filled you up with his thick cum, but he continued to pump into you, painting your walls – marking you as his.

You were a breathless, sweaty mess as he pushed you into another orgasm with his thrusts. You were convulsing and twitching underneath him, fighting to stay conscious. You felt Ransom pull out completely and felt your mixed juices drip from your pussy. Your vision was hazy as your head turned to the side, eyes fluttering close.

Ransom winced when he looked down. Your blood covered his length and was splattered all over your lower body. He sighed and looked at the clock. It was late, but he knew that there would still be guests over at the house. It was the perfect time, especially with you falling asleep.

“You did so good for me, angel,” he whispered to your sleeping body as he wiped your blood away with his sweater. He decided that he’d deal with the bloodstained sheets when he returned. You were most likely still going to be knocked out. 

He pressed a kiss to your lips and smiled. Even in sleep – even after being fucked – you still looked like an angel.

When you awoke, the sheets had been changed but you were still stark naked. Daylight was trickling through the windows. Ransom emerged from the bathroom door. “You’re awake,” he smiled wickedly at you. You returned a shy smile when you realized he was only in a towel with water droplets painting his Adonis-like body. You looked away as he dressed himself. He smirked. You were still bashful as if the night before he wasn’t buried deep inside of you.

“Did you leave?” you ask. Your heart dropped at the thought.

He shook his head and relief washed over you as he sat next to you on the bed. His finger gently traced your jaw before leaning in to give you a kiss. “I was here all night, all morning, too,” Ransom lied. “You’ll attest to that right?”

“What?”

“I cleaned you up after we had sex,” Ransom told you. “Changed the sheets and then held you throughout the night. I told you I loved you and I thanked you for allowing me to be the first - and only - man inside of you .”

“Right.” You nodded, blushing at his words.

“I didn’t leave you, angel.” Ransom promised. “I was with you all night, all morning.”

-=+=-

“Where was Mr. Drysdale the night of his grandfather’s death?” the prosecutor asked you.

You looked around the courtroom and met Ransom’s blue eyes. He gave you a small nod, knowing you won’t let him down. He did this all for you – so that he can continue taking care of you – after all.

“Uh,” you muttered into the microphone, “he was with me… at his house.”

“Mr. Drysdale’s statement says that he asked you to join him at the manor the night of Harlan Thrombey’s birthday party, yet no one in the family saw you?”

You nodded. “Ransom – Hugh – was already outside when I arrived. I wanted to go inside, but he told me not to and he asked if I’d accompany him to his house.”

“So, you can account to Mr. Drysdale’s whereabouts the whole night?” The prosecutor prompted. “There were no times that he stepped out? Even when you were asleep?”

You nodded. “He was with me all night, all morning, too.”

Ransom smiled at you when you met his eyes. Good girl. He thought. His sweet little angel still under his control.

[neocatharsis]

Ten on his new Represent capsule, grappling with creativity, and evading genre lines.

As Ten Lee - a vocalist and dancer in K-pop groups NCT (with whom he debuted in 2016) and Super M, and Chinese group WayV - is musing over his proclivity for partnering music or visual styles in a way that others deem strange, he veers off on a tangent. “Anything can be matched… except juice and coffee,” he says, suddenly. “Those two should never be.” Ten is infamously anti-fruit. It stems from a mistaken process of association in childhood where “I had the image of a spider and the image of fruit mixed up,” he laughs awkwardly, “so now whenever I put fruit in my mouth, I think there’s spiders in my mouth.”

Random abstractions such as this pepper his rapid-fire conversation, like small fireworks fizzing through the dark. Excitable, enthused and sharply alert, if Ten’s energy was visible it would be a shimmering mantle of gold and silver dust. As a dancer, he moves with a sinuous, controlled power that can shift from elegant to explosive on a single beat. As a visual artist, the Bangkok-born, multilingual 25-year-old recently added the title of designer to his growing list of achievements, launching an already sold out collaboration with the bespoke merch platform Represent.

Aptly, he named his collaboration “What is ??? THE ANSWERS”, for although being a chameleonic artist is one of Ten’s greatest strengths, the personality traits that enable this created within him question marks around how he saw himself fitting into the world. “People ask me, ‘What kind of music do you like?’ And I say, ‘I like R&B but hope it sounds rock’. And they’re like, ‘That doesn’t make sense’.” It was troubling to Ten that people began telling him who he was and how he should be, instead of accepting him as is.

In a recent Instagram Live, the myriad of Ten’s contrasts tumble forthwith. He’s the doting cat-dad. His inner emo, who loves rock music, shows off dried roses, with the stern, black, geometric lines of the large tattoo on his inner right arm sometimes visible. But he’s also delicate in a way, with his butterfly tattoo and hair lightly permed, who names daisies as his other favourite flower, and plays Fousheé’s breathy TikTok hit, 'Deep End'.

“Have you seen the image where I have my name in a cross in lots of different languages?” He pulls the image up on his phone. The design sits on his Represent long sleeve tee. “I was thinking [about this], like, what you’re saying... Ten has this luvvie flower side and a very ‘rawwrr!’ side. I’m always like, ‘Ten, what kind of person are you?’ I do ask myself that, too, because everything I like is so different [to the other].” He could have conceded, and reined himself in. He’s pushed back instead. “I thought, ‘I can be anything I want, I can be this in the morning and this at night. I can be any person I want to be’. And that’s what makes me comfortable and happy.”

On his Instagram, Polaroids feature scrawled messages, like “Don’t tell me what to do!” and “Whatever! I’ll do it my way”. The designs of his collaboration seek to challenge being boxed in by other people’s standards, thus limiting ourselves. The recurring symbol of a cross tipped with arrows is a nod to the Chinese letter for 10, but doubles as a plus sign. He’s added it to his Instagram, writing “TEN_+•10” in his bio. “A plus sign can mean that you’re adding on and growing.” He points to another version of the arrow-cross, one with short diagonal dashes between its points that symbolise light. It means, he says, “that I’m radiating. I’m burning, I’m active, I’m doubling myself.” He touches his forearm, where crowning his geometric tattoo is a blazing sun. “I have this, like, if you want to be the light, you have to burn. I relate to that.”

This isn’t to say Ten’s self-exploration is complete. While celebrating his strengths, the artwork also portrays parts of himself not yet conquered. He admits to being a chronic overthinker: “Even very small things that happen to me, I rethink a thousand times, and I get stressed out because of the things I do. Like, the main theme [here] is me overthinking but trying to find an answer even though it doesn’t have any answer.” Fittingly, spiral shapes dominate his designs, looming large amongst bright, bold shapes that evoke 80s Pop Art and graffiti, though Ten shies away from defining himself as “fully an artist, I’m not in the position to say things like that yet.”

“I’m still learning and trying new things. You learn by getting different elements from different people and I’m in that stage now.” He enjoys wandering the infinite halls of Instagram and Pinterest where he screenshots art that he likes, lost in the images, often for hours. He explains that he’s mostly influenced by whatever his current visual obsession is. “I’m interested in tattoos lately so my paintings look like tattoo designs. I’m that person who, when they see stuff, it goes into my brain and instantly comes out from my hands,” he laughs.

Ten’s introduction to art and design was through his mother, who believed music, art and sport were more important in a child’s development than traditional academia. “She didn’t care if I got an A* or not, just don’t get an F or a D,” he grins. Like any kid forced to do something, Ten railed against spending his weekends at art school. He attended but he didn’t draw. He befriended his teacher and other pupils and, as they worked, he chatted. “I was a very talkative kid! When I came to SM Entertainment (in 2013), I had a lot of my own time because my parents were in Thailand and I was alone. I had to absorb all the new culture and adapt to a new environment.’” When he felt surrounded by “negative energy”, he began drawing, enamoured with the space and freedom it offered because in art, as he often says, “there’s no right answer.”

There is, however, sometimes a middle ground. His goal was to make the Represent collection accessible to his diverse fanbase. “I wanted to make things that people can easily wear because it was my first project to make something with clothes and it’s a collab. If you go too far out, no one will get it. If you go too far back, people won’t reach for it. So finding the middle ground is important but that’s the hardest thing to do. If it’s my own project, I’ll be like, ‘I’m the president of this brand, I’m gonna make all the weird clothes that I can imagine!’”

He sought second opinions to ensure his designs landed the way he hoped. “I have a lot of good friends around me - my choreographer, (SHINee and Super M member) Taemin hyung, my manager. I randomly ask people I’m comfortable with and have known for a long time, like Mark (Lee, of NCT and Super M). Mark has the same kind of perspective as me, but I’m a person who is arrghhh!” He waves his hands in the air. “And he’s very calm. I need a person who is opposite of me because when I’m in a mood, I talk nonsense - ‘I wanna do this, I wanna do that, I wanna make this!’ - and Mark’s like,’Bro, calm down’,” he says in a rather uncanny impression of the Canadian-Korean.

Ten works fast when he’s drawing. He has to. He describes his personality as someone who can't wait until the next day to do something. “I’m very impatient,” he smiles. “If I’m going to paint or draw, I’m going to finish it in, like, two hours. I can’t sit down for three hours.” When inspiration hits him, it’s off the back of deep contemplation, sometimes about the mundane - “Like, why do the cats come to me when they’re hungry only? Is it selfish or instinct? - at other times, something affecting him emotionally.

But whereas his job as a singer and dancer sees him project his energy outwards, art offers the opposite. He’s often alone in his room when he works. As is for many artists, the right mood is fundamental. “When I’m in a good mood, I can’t draw,” he half-sighs. It’s also a multi-sensory process. “Smell or the temperature of the room, that really helps me draw. I light three or four candles. And when I draw, it’s kind of heavy, the feeling,” he explains. “It feels like you’re sinking into something, into yourself, and everything seems so small. Everything narrows down into me, my pencil, the paper.”

The more work he does in different creative mediums, the less Ten’s desire is to keep them separate. His art, dance and music influence each other, whether it’s customising his own collaboration pieces, a choreography video in an art gallery or dancing underwater with a film crew. When someone tells him that something won’t work or match up well, he refuses to let the idea go until he’s attempted it.

“I’ve had that since I was young. I think everything is possible. If you don’t try, you don’t know. When people say it’s impossible, like dancing in water for three minutes, I’m like, then let’s make it possible. You don’t need to walk a straight line [in life], you can walk this way,” Ten says, pointing along an invisible line before switching sharply in direction. “Then go back on track, go that way, come back. No one should tell you to walk in a line, I don’t see the point of that.”

© Clash Magazine

[janellion]

KAYLAAAAA i am Back ! HSHXH i would like to request hcs of the reader taking care of their drunk boyfriend(s) 👉👈 may i ask for tsukki, bokuto, kuroo, and akaashi? Hdhxbb i hope it's not too much !!! if it is, tsukki and bokuto would do omg aaaAAA i love you so much bb 💞💗💗💗 and idk if i've told you this before already but i LOVE LOVE LOVE your writing like it's one of the best i've ever read !!!! pls stay healthy and safe, i love you!!!!!

RON BB U MAKING A BITCH SOFT OMG 😭😭💗💗✨✨ thank you SO SO MUCH!!’ it means the world to me that you enjoy my writing!!! i’d love to write these for you!!! (i’m sorry they took so long bb 🥺😭 ILY!!)

taking care of your drunk!boyfriend hcs

ft. tsukki, bokuto, kuroo, akaashi

tsukki

tsukki doesn’t drink that much but when he does, he gets SOFT

i don’t mean like he’s crying and all over you

but those things that he only usually thinks? like “wow they’re the most beautiful person i’ve ever seen”

he SAYS THEM

and he doesn’t realize that he does, he’s really just thinking out loud and so when you’re all flustered at hearing him being so sweet and honest, words that he usually reserves for tender and special moments, he just quirks an eyebrow like “what? did i say something?”

and you pretend like he didn’t, bc you love hearing the things he has to say

taking care of him involves a lot of,,, tough love

he is stubborn and wants to take care of himself

he only lets you take care of him when you’re firm but sweet with him

speaking of, you’re the ONLY ONE that he let’s take care of him

even though it does take some extra coaxing on your part, anyone else would be outright refused except for you

when you go to pick him up or the boys drop him off, they always seem a little extra tired because they’ve been dealing w drunk tsukki without you and he is DIFFICULT

like “we need to bribe him to get into the car” kind of difficult

but they’re really just bribing him with getting to see you

tsukki isn’t a super cuddly or physically affectionate person, but as soon as he sees you he melts

will draw you in for a hug with those long arms of his and just hold you until he starts swaying and you both fall on the ground

the nights end with him passed out in bed and you gently removing his glasses

he never brings it up the next day bc he’s embarrassed, but he thanks you in his own little ways, whether that’s a tender kiss to your temple as you make him something for his hangover, or your favorite flowers the next time he goes out for errands

a knock on the door pulls you from your current task, piquing your interest and making you wonder — isn’t it a little late for them to be back? i figured kei would just stay with kuroo. as you head to the front door, you peek your head through the window to see none other than your tall slightly red faced boyfriend batting away the presumably helpful hand that kuroo is offering him.

as soon as you open the door and tsukki’s eyes land on you, the annoyed and frustrated look on his face melts into one of calm adoration. he takes a step through the threshold, placing a large slender hand on your shoulder, drawing you into his chest and inhaling the scent of your hair.

you look at kuroo over tsukki’s shoulder, suppressing a grin as you see kuroo’s growing. “you should have heard him on the way here, he was so excited to see you,” he comments to you under his breath as he moves to head back to the boys leaning against his car in varying levels of intoxication.

you shoot him a “good luck!” as he walks away before the door slams, blocking kuroo’s retreating back. you try and pull away from tsukki, only to feel him pull you in closer in response.

“those guys were pissing me off,” you hear tsukki’s voice muffled into into your hair. you can’t help but smile at the softness in his voice despite the harshness of his words.

“let’s get you to bed,” you laugh softly, prying his arms ground around your waist and holding his hands in yours between you.

as you go to walk down the hall, tsukki’s grip on your hands tightens as he pulls you back to him, bringing one hand to your check and the other to the small of your back.

he looks at you intensely through his glasses, face slightly flushed, but eyes soft and mouth slipping into a small smile.

“you’re the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen”

+++

bokuto

i’ve written a bit abt drunk!bo here BUT yk i can always go off abt my hubby

OK SO bokuto is one of those “i’m myself but x100” kind of drunks

he is so excited and enthusiastic about things when he’s in a good mood

but he’s so down in the dumps and sad if he’s in a bad mood

fortunately!! you are always there to manage his moods, whether that’s extreme elation or intense sadness

a smile from you or a squeeze of your hand is all it takes to bring him back to his normal cheerful and exuberant self

BUT i hope that you don’t mind shirtless!bokuto (who could???) bc this man is CONSTANTLY TAKING HIS SHIRT OFF WHEN HE DRINKS

on the rare occasions where he goes out with tanaka, these two get kicked out of places SO FAST for public indecency

taking care of drunk!bokuto is a pretty involved affair

as soon as he sees you or the guys drop him back off to you, he is running full speed toward you, often forgetting his size and underestimating his speed

you’ve learned after the first few times that you need to brace yourself for impact bc he has crashed into you more times than you can count

this often results in you either on your back on the floor, or bo sweeping you up in a giant hug as he squeezes you tightly

the man REFUSES to take care of himself, does not want to eat or drink water until you offer it to him

if you bribe him w a kiss? man will do anything

the reason why he refuses to take care of himself? he just wants to spend time w you and shower you with love and affection!!

you’re trying to brush your teeth? good thing you only need one hand bc bo is holding the other!

trying to fix the bed? good luck bc bo has his arms around your waist and is nuzzling his face into your neck

fortunately, drunk!bo is also very sleepy, so after a lot of hand holding and hugging and wildly affectionate and inappropriate compliments, he is ready to pass out

unfortunately, he’s only able to fall asleep with you in his arms, so i hope your phone is charged!!

also, get ready to take a shower in the morning bc drunk!bokuto DROOLS

it’s ok tho bc he’s so cute abt it in the morning & will DEFINITELY insist on showering w you to help you,,, clean off 👀

a loud cry rings through the neighborhood prompting loud “shhhh” noises from the boys around your boyfriend. you smile in amusement as you look out the front window at the scene before you.

bokuto just dropped his phone as he was getting out of the car and proceeded to drop onto his knees, face buried in his hands as he cries out, “NOO WHAT DID I DO THEYRE GONE KUROO GONEEE,” as he gingerly picks up his phone and looks at the lock screen.

even from your vantage point in the house you can see the barely concealed snicker fhat escapes kuroo’s lips as he gestures to tsukki to help heft the large crying man to his feet.

“bro, i promise [Name] is fine, that’s just your lock screen, they’re in the house.” at this point kuroo pauses and looks up, seeing your face in lit up in the window.

“bo, look! they’re right there! why don’t you go give the door your secret knock and see them?” kuroo says, pointing to you at the window.

of course, you can’t hear this, but you do see the way that bokuto’s eyes light up as he brings his gaze to meet yours, and the wide smile that’s already across his previously tear-stained face.

with that, he is running full speed to the front door, and you barely have time to process the change in mood before you hear your signature shared secret knock on the front door.

laughing in anticipation, you throw the door open at the finish of the knock, only to be wrapped up in two sturdy arms, bo feet your lifting off the ground in his excitement.

finally setting you down, he looks at you with shining eyes, the grin on his face spreading with every passing second.

“i missed you”

+++

kuroo

so poor kuroo is usually stuck as the designated driver (he switches off with akaashi)

when he does get to drink though? his nerdy and flirty sides come out in the BEST possible way

he loves to use chemistry pick up lines on you, whether you’re out on the town together or you’re cuddled up in your bed after he gets dropped off for the night

you’ll be playing with his hair or he’ll be playing with yours and all of a sudden he’ll pull away and all the warning you’ll get is a slight glint in his eye and the traces of a mischievous smile as he says:

Do you have 11 protons? Cause your sodium fine

or

You must be a compound of beryllium and barium...because your a total BaBe

as soon as the lines are out of his mouth you can feel heat rushing up your neck and cheeks as your eyes widen slightly

kuroo always laughs gently, a light blush coloring his cheeks as he pulls away

he loves to do this bc it always yields his favorite sight: you flustered and embarassed at his sudden flirtatiousness

kuroo is pretty responsible so you don’t really,,, need to take care of him?

but you DO get to listen to a lot of really entertaining stories about things that have happened throughout the night he spent out with the boys

he likes to lay his head in your lap with his eyes closed as you run your fingers through his hair and gently massage his scalp, humming gently and laughing as he recounts the tales of his night

you WILL have to convince him to go to bed tho bc drunk!kuroo wants to stay up ALL NIGHT and spend time with you, cuddling and watching tv or some movies (he WILL try and convince you to watch a fun documentary)

but you’ll have to resist his charms and pickup lines

he does NOT make it easy on you though

will even go as far as to lay on the ground and make you drag him to your bedroom, barely concealing his laughter

he’ll eventually take pity on you and walk with you to the bedroom, but not before swinging his arm over your shoulder and leaning a bunch of his weight on you (he can’t make it too easy!)

the night always ends with the two of you facing each other, his arm slung over your waist as he traces every inch of your face with his eyes

you hear the loud honk of a horn as you receive a “here” text from your boyfriend. you open the door, not sure what to expect since it’s been quite some time since kuroo actually let loose.

you definitely weren’t expecting a grinning bokuto with his hand around kuroo’s waist as your dark haired boyfriend grinned at you with a mischievous look in his eye.

“[Name]!” bokuto exclaims in his signature booming and excited voice. “Your boyfriend here was practicing lines on me all night to get ready to see you,” he says, laughter in his voice.

“bro, you weren’t supposed to tell them!” kuroo turns to bokuto, eyebrows slightly furrowed, “it was supposed to be a surprise!”

bokuto simply laughs and shakes his head, removing his arm from around kuroo’s waist and going to clap you on the shoulder. “good luck,” he says with a wink before walking back to the car, yelling at a slightly flushed akaashi that “he’s next!”

with bokuto gone, all of kuroo’s attention is on you. the mischievous look on his eye has been replaced by one that’s softer, full of love and adoration. his smile, however, still slightly betrays the rest of his face as he leans in close to you, arm resting on one side of your face as the other goes to his hip.

“You must be related to Alfred Nobel, because baby you are dynamite!” slips past his lips and you can’t help but laugh, heat rushing to your face as you take in his words.

his suaveness, however, falters as he loses his balance and crashes into you through the threshold.

he pulls back from you, face lingering inches from yours as he grins again.

“Even if there wasn't gravity on earth, I'd still fall for you”

+++

akaashi

similar to kuroo, akaashi is often the designated driver or signature “responsible friend”

when he DOES go more wild it’s because someone bokuto convinces him to do something crazy for some reason his bachelor party

on those nights where he does participate more in shenanigans, he gets SOFT

not in the same way that tsukki or bokuto get soft, but in a very special way that is Signature Akaashi

the guys will drop him off and they will all be waving and smiling at you, faces soft

akaash’s softness is infectious and inspiring, and all of them are going to go home to their own partners and be extra soft and sweet bc of him and his love for you

akaashi’s love language is quality time, and this is never more obvious than on the nights when you’re taking care of him after a fun night out with the boys

he just wants to be with you, whether that be on the couch as you finish up your book or show, talking to you as you shower for the night, or at the kitchen table as you have a midnight snack

his eyes soften and drink in the sight of you under the bright kitchen lights, or the soft glow of the tv, or through the foggy mirror of the bathroom

anything you ask of him is yours, so taking care of him is very easy

you’re both in bed as soon as you’d like to be, whether that’s one hour or five hours after he gets done with the boys

this is bc all akaashi wants to do is hold you in his arms and look at you, whispering into the quiet space between you how much he loves you and how much you mean to him

he’s not usually big on being very affectionate with his words, so when he says them, you KNOW he means them more than anything

even though he was the one that went out, he’s always the last one to fall asleep bc he wants to memorize the way you look in this exact moment, and tuck it away into his collection of favorite memories

your phone buzzes on the couch next to you, drawing your attention from the show you put on as you wait for your boyfriend to get dropped off.

accepting the phone and bringing it to your ear, you hear the calm and deep voice of the man you know and love.

“hi love, we’re almost to the house,” rings through the speaker. a chorus of “AWWWHS” and “OOOOHS” echo in the background as you hear the unmistakable voices of the boys in the car. a smile tugs at your lips at the shenanigans, and widens at akaashi’s soft chuckle. “see you soon,” you say as you hear the sound of a car pull up.

making your way to the door, you open it to reveal the slightly flushed face of your boyfriend as he gets out of the car, accepting the hand that bokuto offers in assistance.

the softness in akaashi’s eyes is unmistakable as he makes his way toward you, his gaze never straying from your face.

bokuto chuckles behind him, waving briefly at akaashi’s back before walking around to the front of the car.

as akaashi reaches the front step, he wraps an arm around your waist and brings you in for a soft but firm kiss, pulling away with a gentle smile and shining eyes.

the “OOOHS” and “AHHHS” ring out from the car again, but there’s a softness to them.

regardless, you pay them no mind as you look into akaashi’s eyes, a small smile playing on your lips.

“it’s nice to see you too,” you say through a grin.

“i’ve been wanting to do that all night”

☽

a/n: tysm for reading!! ty @strawbirb for the bokuto idea!! my requests are OPEN. i’m slow but i will get to them! 🥰✨

general taglist (also my faves 🥰) : @oyakags @cosmictooru @over5feettall @kaidasen @achoohq @kuronekomama @anianimol @strawbirb @spriteandnicotine

writing taglist: @softkatsuki

(pls lmk if you’d like to be on a taglist!)

[petri808]

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 fin

Inukag Royalty Au

A month had gone by since the Naraku incident and for the two royal families, life had seemingly returned to normal. Princess Rin found in Prince Souta a new friend closer to her age, Miroku had started following Sango around— much to her chagrin, and the Queens were already teasing their kids over future grandchildren. The formal wedding celebration had begun with guests from all their ally territories in attendance. It was truly a large and joyous occasion. The Higurashi’s ballroom was filled with the finest food and drink, beautiful decor, and music to entertain the masses. Both kingdoms were ready to put all the misunderstandings aside, ready for a bright new future. But not everyone was in a celebratory mood.

The party was already in mid-swing with Prince Inuyasha and Princess Kagome mingling with the guests and giving off on an air of contentment. Plastered smiled and staged conversations. But once the revelers seemed fully preoccupied by drink and merriment, Inuyasha pulled Kagome to the side.

“I could use some fresh air,” he suggested quietly.

“Mmhmm,” she agreed with a nod.

Inuyasha took Kagome by entwined fingers and led her out to a side garden where they would have some privacy. No one noticed them take their leave, save for their ever-dutiful attendants who simply nodded their approval. Don’t get him wrong, Inuyasha wasn’t having second doubts about marrying Kagome. He loved her, there was no question about it. But that didn’t mean there weren’t a few things still left unanswered. He could sense in her that she felt the same way, so with the start of their new lives truly about to begin, it was time to get things straightened out.

“Is this, okay?” Inuyasha questioned once they reached a small gazebo. “The night air isn’t too cold, is it?”

“No, it’s alright.” Kagome sat down with Inuyasha following her lead. “I suppose this was inevitable.”

The last couple of months had been such a whirlwind. From her identity being found out, to Naraku, the threat on the kingdom, the wedding— she and Inuyasha didn’t have any time to talk. Or rather, Kagome had also been nervous to do so.

“I think so too.” Inuyasha took her hands. “Please do not think I brought you out here because I am unhappy with you or that this marriage was simply to save you from Naraku.” He brought her hands to his chest and held them tightly. “I married you because I love you. But I just wanted to make certain there isn’t anything else you’d kept from me. All those months you were with us under false pretenses, I wish to know what was fact, and what was fiction?”

Kagome dropped her gaze to the ground. “I’m sure it’s obvious that all the stories about my family were fiction since they are very much alive. But there were truths woven in. In her youth, my mother’s parents really did not provide her a tutor because they didn’t believe a noble woman needed anything more than how to satisfy and cater to a husband. So, she took it upon herself to listen in during her brother’s lessons, then steal away to their library to educate herself further. With me, she made sure I got as much education as they could provide. Sango taught me a lot about how to protect myself and to use a bow. My parents weren’t thrilled about it but didn’t stop us either.” She looked back up at Inuyasha. “And Tanaka was the name of an old attendant of mine. As for what else is true, falling in love. I tried so hard to resist you because I didn’t want either of us to get hurt.” Kagome looked down again. “I should have thought things out more clearly before I ran… it caused so many problems for everyone. Yet even so, I feel guilty because it had led me to you and the happiest time of my life. You, Rin, your family, I love you all so much for what you’ve done for me. I wouldn’t know where to begin in repaying such a debt.”

“Is there anything else I should know?”

“Who you saw in me, my personality, and behaviors, that was all still me. I didn’t change that part— don’t think I could have lied to that degree and made it believable.”

Inuyasha tipped Kagome’s chin back up. “I believe you; I can sense that much in you.” He smiled before leaning in with a soft kiss. “Now, is there anything you’d like to ask me?”

“No,” she shook her head and smiled. “I feel you’ve always shown me the real you.”

He kissed her again, deeper, letting it linger as he kept their foreheads touching. “There is no debt to be repaid my love. For you’ve already given me what I’ve been searching for my whole life.”

“What… do you mean?”

“Acceptance— true acceptance.”

“I-I don’t understand…”

Inuyasha pulled back but kept his palm cradling Kagome’s cheek. “All my life I’ve felt split between two worlds because I’m a hanyo. Yokai and human alike would sometimes look at me differently. Of course, they wouldn’t dare say anything to my face, but I could feel the awkwardness. That’s why I was very angry for a long time. Rin forced me to lighten up, but I still felt inside like I’d never be truly accepted and yet you loved me despite my nature. Now, I don’t care if anyone else judges me differently, as long as I have you by my side.”

Kagome’s eyes crinkled at the corners as a few happy tears pooled in them. “Oh, Inu, I’m just as lucky to have you too.” She chuckled and smiled. “My mother worried no one would want a woman who’s feisty.”

He laughed, “that’s exactly what drew me to you.”

She leaned her head onto his shoulder with a contented sigh. “Fate was never something I really believed in before, but it’s hard not to think there is truth on such tales.”

“It is quite ironic how things worked out in the end, but I’m really happy they did.”

“Me too.”

This was a future neither had allowed themselves to believe possible. For Kagome, the fairytales of finding a Prince Charming were once a dream now come true, and Inuyasha the weight of lonely years melted away. They sat there for a few minutes in a comfortable silence, simply enjoying the night air and absorbing this whole new life about to begin. What will it be like? Will they always be happy now? Have all their worries ended? As a second son, they won’t have the stress of ruling to deal with, so that just left creating a normal family life— well, as normal of a life a royal could design. Children… how many should they have? These are the kinds of questions the couple will need to ponder at some point.

Speaking of children, Kagome flushed at the idea. While they have had a few intimate moments, mostly kissing and a little bit of touching, but the couple had not gone all the way yet and frankly Kagome was a little nervous about it.

“Inu?” Her voice was soft, hesitant in breaking the silence. She wasn’t sure how she’ll take his answer, but Kagome wanted to know.

“Yeah?”

“Have you, been with anyone before… like, i-in bed?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“I’ve heard stories about how princes can be loose like that…”

“Well, not me. I won’t lie and say I’d never been tempted, but most of the women I’ve been around never interested me much. Nobles are usually so… boring or just looking to increase their status and I wasn’t about that.”

“Are you nervous about it?”

“A little.”

“Me too.”

Inuyasha turned to face Kagome. “I won’t force you, if you’re not ready.” He lifted her chin. “I’ll wait as long as you need.”

Kagome blushed harder. “It’s not… that… I want to… with you.”

“Oh,” his brow raised with a chuckle. “Have you been fantasizing about me?”

“Maybe… Have you?”

“Oh— yeah.” He grinned. “How could I not? Every time I’d see your beautiful face, and this,” his hands moved down to her waist, “body, just dreaming of learning every inch of it. Plus, have you any idea how much your scent drives me wild?” She shook her head no. Inuyasha leaned down, his lips so close to her neck, his breath sent chills down her body. “Well, it does, and now you know,” he answered in a husky tone.

“Oh… Inu…” Kagome breathed out when his lips grazed her skin. Her hands clutched to his vest, pulling, begging he stay right where he was as her head tilted to give a great span of access.

Inuyasha chuckled, whispering a tease. “Princess we’re too out in the open to be getting so hot and heavy. Or is this a naughtier side you’ve been hiding from me?”

“S-Sorry,” Kagome blushed. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“No need to apologize love.” He kissed her forehead. “I’m excited too.”

Now that the air had been cleared, the couple decided to go back to the party before someone came looking for them. It was winding down already, and guests were starting to leave. They assisted their parents in giving their thanks and wishing safe journeys to those traveling a distance. Then once they were assured, they were no longer required to stay, Inuyasha and Kagome retreated to their private room.

“Need any pointers?” Miroku whispered to the prince as he escorted them through the castle.

“Pfft, not from you,” Inuyasha sneered back.

Miroku chuckled as they reached the room. “Have fun you two,” he winked before walking away.

“Damn pervert.”

“Leave him be,” Kagome giggled as she pulled Inuyasha into the room and locked the door. “He means well. Will you help me with this dress?”

“I know…” Inuyasha sighed. “And of course. What do you need me to do?”

Kagome’s face heated up, but she stayed with her convictions. I’m a firm, yet tentative tone. “Take it off me.”

Inuyasha’s eyes widened as a grin formed. “With pleasure…”

Their time at the Higurashi castle had come to an end, and the Inu royals said their goodbyes. Kagome’s parents were sad to see her go but were happy with the outcome knowing their son-in-law will take good care of their daughter. Promises were made to visit as often as possible, and they looked forward to the grandchildren yet to come. Sango would stay on and become a member of the Inu kingdom for Kagome, much to the delight of Miroku. The Princess had teased her friend about the budding infatuation, but Sango still refused to admit there was something brewing. That left more addition to the entourage, Sango’s younger brother since he became her ward after the death of their parents. Princess Rin was delighted by the decision because now she’ll have a friend to play with at the palace. Even her father Sesshomaru had taken a surprising interest in the boy’s prospects as a future soldier.

The newlyweds were given their own comfortable carriage to travel in. Which was great because it gave them privacy during the four-day trip. Inuyasha pulled Kagome close and kissed her forehead. “Ready to start our new future Princess?”

“Mmm,” she smiled. “I can’t wait.”

~~~~~

Sorry this final chapter is a bit lackluster, but the last couple of weeks I kinda lost motivation to write. I hope it was still at least okay, and thank you to everyone who's been following along :)

[an-yeppeoso]

Reverie: Ebon Light Walkthrough

This guide is still under construction.

Edit about the title: I was around in the very beginning when it was called Reverie: Ebon Light. I can change it if you guys find it confusing. Lemme know.

This is a guide for Ebon Light by @underbliss. You can download the game at https://underbliss.itch.io/ebon-light

 I’ve been following this game since 2018 and some of my friends began to show an interest in it, so I figured I’d do the world a favor and make a guide.

The order of this guide will be stats, a review of the sort of prologue, Vadyen’s route, Laceaga’s route, Haron’s route, Ernol’s route, and finally Duliae’s route. I will briefly cover the what happens if you don’t want to date anyone as well.

First let’s talk about your character stats. The stats are important because they unlock certain options for you in the future. You can get through any of the routes with each of the dispositions, but I’ve found there are dispositions I prefer more for each route. Alternatively, you don’t have to romance any of the characters. That’s one of the nice things about this game. 

Character Stats

You characters has 4 core stats: cunning, curiosity, charm, tenacity. 

Cunning: a stat that goes up if you play smart, have a smooth way with words, and manipulate others.

Curiosity: a stat that goes up if you ask questions every chance you get. 

Charm: this stat was hard to figure out since options that seem like they might get your charm up, get your amity up instead. To get this stat up you need to play nice, be pleasant with others, and be okay with entertaining them

Tenacity: I’d say this is the easiest stat to understand. To get it up you have to never give up. Be sure of yourself, of your success. Be a fighter. 

These stats can only improve. They do not change if there are under a certain amount. The stats that do change are:

Amity: Amity is basically how peaceful you are. Make enough choices that aren’t peaceful and this stat will change and become discord. From what I’ve experienced, it doesn’t matter that much if you have it in discord. Sometimes, certain romanceable characters will have choices that you need amity for.

Desire: Desire is your desire for change. Do you take initiative to change things? This is helpful when you are trying to take advantage of the fracture, or trying to charm Lorne, but again, it’s okay if you don’t have high desire. If you choose enough choices that are nonchalant, this stat will change and become inertia. I try to have this stat up when doing Haron and Ernol’s routes.

Virtue: Virtue is what it sounds like; how morally upstanding you are. If you act with loose morals, this stat will become vice. Again, I’m not quite sure if it really matters, but I try to have this stat up when I’m doing Vadeyn’s route.

Daring: Again, it’s what it sounds like. How willing to face danger are you? How brave are you? This turns into timid if you act as such.

Faith: This is how trusting you are. I’m always trusting when I’m doing Vadeyn’s route. In general, it’s good to have a little faith. This will turn to doubt if you act suspicious of everyone. 

Charity: This is basically how kind you are, how selfless. This turns into malice when you are mean spirited. 

Might: Might is how weak you are both physically and mentally. If you stumble when physically attacked, rely on other too much and act helpless, this stat will turn into frailty. 

Grip: This is a very important one. At the beginning it is called rest. This changes after you come to the island. Grip is basically how much grip you have over the Cuthintal. Also how sane you are. Act in manners that display no grip over your power, and this changes to madness. The only time this really comes into play is during battles. If you get a lot of grip, this stat will change to haunt.

Prologue

The game is designed so you can get a good ending with the disposition of your choosing. That being said, For Duliae’s route I highly recommend choosing cunning as your disposition. Choices that don’t affect your stats will be left out of the guide.

“And what was I to take from this miserable little tale, [name]?”

Never trust anyone: this will lower your faith and will make it turn into doubt.

Fools make foolish oaths: from what I could see, it doesn’t affect any of your stats significantly. 

Darkness cannot be sealed away: this will lower your desire and make it turn into inertia.

Nothing: from what I could see, this doesn’t affect any of your stats significantly.

Just passing the time: again, I don’t think this one does anything.

“Well... I’m not sure.”

You’re not sure where you stole it?: this will decrease your faith and amity.

“Besides, do you really care where I got it?”

Yes!: this will increase your virtue.

Well... no.: this will decrease your virtue.

“And there’s Rylen to consider, of course”

Try to haggle: this option is only significant if you chose the cunning disposition. It won’t affect your stats. If you haggle with him you gain 5 trin. Trin actually doesn’t matter and I will explain why later.

Decline: does nothing but opens up another option for you to reconsider or decline again.

“Rylen turned to leave.”

I was happy to let him leave as quickly as he wanted: does nothing but opens up other options which do affect your stats: 

He was was irritating me: lowers your amity

He was making me nervous: lowers your daring

I wanted to ask for stories of the sea: does nothing but opens up other options which do affect your stats:

The places you’ve seen?: raises your curiosity

The might of the sea?: raises your might

Something rare and beautiful?: raises your charm

“It had been threatening to give way for weeks;...”

Kick it: lowers your amity

“What are you doing?”

Hello, Aunt Vanya: increases your charity

You startled me!: decreases you might and daring

None of your business: decreases you amity

“Fair? Save your breathe.”

Then I’ll go: increases your charity

You’re lying: decreases your faith

What business do you have in the village?: increases your curiosity

I don’t care!: decreases you charity by a lot

“I knew the Burned Forest well...”

Keep foraging: increases your tenacity

Explore: increases your curiosity

“No longer alone, I began to feel a bit calmer”

Though I was still plenty terrified: decreases your might and daring

I was actually very curious: increases your curiosity

I was ready to defend myself: increases your might

“Everything’s certainly been strange lately”

I’ve not forgiven you: decreases your amity

I think I’ll as Rylen about that man in the forest: increases your tenacity

I wonder what I was dreaming...: increases your curiosity

“No, he definitely wasn’t human.”

Run!: does nothing but opens more options after Laceaga catches you:

I was terrified: decreases your daring

I was enraged: increases your daring

I was going to destroy him: increases your daring and might

Attack: increases your daring and might and opens new options:

I’m not done!: increases your tenacity

Is there any point?: decreases your desire

Speak: increases your amity and opens new options:

Be diplomatic: increases your desire

Be aggressive: increases your daring and might

“Do you know what I am?”

You’re the stranger that’s been following me: decreases your faith

You’re a dead man!: increases your daring, might, and tenacity. To unlock this option you need to have acted in an aggressive manner towards him

You’re an elf?: increases your curiosity

If you traded with Rylen:

“The spice I got from Rylen was in a pouch..”

The pouch of spice, from the pirate?: increases your amity

(Lie) I don’t know what you’re talking about: as far as I could see this does nothing

If you traded with Rylen:

“The Cuthintal belongs to me...”

It is mine actually: increases your daring

And what makes it yours?: increases your curiosity

Fine!: decreases your might

Do you want to fight me for it?: increases your might and decreases your amity. This option unlocks if you were aggressive towards him

“Was he serious?”

Start walking: increases your amity

Shake your head: increases your daring

“There was a pounding in my ear”

Attempt to trap the elf in the hut: opens these options:

Look inside first: increases your curiosity

Go for it!: As far as I can see this does nothing. Let me know if I’m wrong

Put the slide down and abandon this foolishness: decreases your desire

“I could tell Vanya wasn’t...”

It’s alright Vanya: increases your desire and charity

(Beg her to do something): decreases your might and virtue and opens up these options:

Agree to come willingly: I don’t think this does anything

Refuse to come: I don’t think this does anything. Laceaga catches you either way and you have to come with him

I won’t come: Increases your daring and opens up these options:

Scared of me?: increases your might

Leave her alone: increases your charity

“I could tell we...”

Where is Gha’alia?: increases your curiosity

Ugly scars: this does nothing but I like to tease my boy Lacey. Plus MC gets roasted so it’s funny

Is my aunt okay?(unlocks if you resist going straight away): increases your charity and opens these options:

What does that mean?: increases your tenacity and opens the same options below 

Did you kill her?: increases your tenacity and opens these options:

If you let me think she’s dead, I might snap: To unlock this you need to have been aggressive. None of the options affect your stats but this one let’s you know what happened to Vanya

(Drop it): decreases your tenacity

“You will be on that ship.”

I will not: increases your daring and might 

You could have just asked: increases your charm

You have to give me more information!: increases your curiosity

This dialogue changes a bit depending on your past choices but the options are the same

We definitely will not be friends: doesn’t do anything but open 3 more options which also don’t do anything

(Please for the love of God call him Lacey, his reactions and everyone else’s reactions are so funny and you can change it later if you’re doing his route. Irl I actually call him Lasagna :3)

“I felt a surge of optimism”

Then fix this!: increases your might

Then you can let me go!: increases your tenacity

Are you all like him?: increases your curiosity

He’s a talented stalker: increases your charm

“Wasn’t that obvious?”

Thank you: increases your charity

“If you don’t mind... how did you end up...?”

Tell him: increases your faith and opens up these options:

Yes, he made me: I don’t think this does anything

I was ready to leave Edric anyway: increases your curiosity

Ask him why he wants to know: decreases your faith a lot

Don’t tell him anything: decreases your faith

“He thinks that if someone is defenseless,...”

 He’s right: decreases your virtue by an insane amount and decreases your charity

He’s wrong: increases your virtue and charity

I can defend myself!: increases your might by a lot and opens these options:

Then give me a few years to catch up, and we’ll see: increases your might

Then I should learn to defend myself: increases your might and tenacity and opens 2 options that don’t really do anything as far as I can tell

[everygame]

Bloodborne (PlayStation 4)

Developed/Published by: From Software / Sony Computer Entertainment Released: 24/03/2015 Completed: 05/05/2022 Completion: Finished all three endings and all of the optional content outside of chalice dungeons. Trophies / Achievements: 62%

I’ve done it. I’ve finally beaten a From Software game. I’m finally… le gamer.

It’s kind of funny, actually, how much I psyched myself out of playing a Soulsborne up to this point. I actually played the original Demon’s Souls all the way back when it came out, but I found the experience totally miserable. It felt like a game where I had to rely on exploits to progress, and it was at a point where I was plinking a boss to death with arrow damage from a doorway where they couldn’t reach me I thought “why am I playing this?” and stopped.

Of course, I no longer just “stop” and I feared going into Dark Souls or anything else, getting frustrated and bored, and still slugging through (or worse, just getting stymied completely.) With Elden Ring all the rage and my system of “don’t play the thing people are playing, play the thing you’ve got” I decided it was time to Bloodborne, and I’m seriously not joking that it took me a quick pep-talk to even boot it up. I literally considered making a new PS4 account to play it on so I wouldn’t have it shame me if I ever gave it up.

And you know what?

I hit the first “boss” and ragequit. Yeah, I literally ragequit at Cleric Beast. I yelled “fuck this”, exited the game and deleted it. I’m not joking! But after I cooled down I decided I wouldn’t let it beat me, waited for it to reinstall, and went again.

Now, I think a lot of people would think this is a good example of why Soulsborne games are cool; that they take you to the limit and you still come back for more. I’m going to respectfully disagree, because I actually think this is just symbolic of why the start of Bloodborne is crap. I think the in-game community-led hint system is good (often hilarious) but–to be honest–I think it’s a weakness just how much guidance I think you need to actually settle in to and enjoy Bloodborne. Here, after hitting my head against Cleric Beast fruitlessly and refusing to give up (and therefore likely lose my hard-won souls/blood echoes) I looked it up, realised I could simply avoid him, go into the sewers, find a specific item that would “unlock” levelling up, and then just go from there.

I’m sure Hidetaka Miyazaki has this incredible reason why you can’t level up until you’ve either seen a boss or collected an item, but… uh, I’m not seeing it, especially considering there's already an unavoidable death to introduce you to the systems anyway. Once I was able to start levelling up my character I lost my feeling of total helplessness and was actually able to progress. So if I was to give a bit of advice to anyone playing Bloodborne, it’d be to get into the sewers asap, grab the madmans knowledge and the armor you find there. Once you’ve done that you’re golden (you'll never even need to change armor, to be honest.)

Anyway. Here’s something I’ll completely praise: I think the level design at the macro level is tip-top. The world loops absolutely intelligently, with you constantly opening new shortcuts that make you always feel like you’re progressing well and not too far from safety (or from getting your blood echoes back). It made my decision to progress into the sewers rather than going back to cleric beast make a ton of sense, and to be honest I can’t even remember when it was I went back to beat him–it was at some point in the Cathedral Ward, I guess, when I walked back and face-tanked him. I was almost surprised.

I recently(-ish) saw someone call the Soulsborne games “paper tigers” and I have to admit that at least with Bloodborne the description is true. They have such a reputation, and Bloodborne has such a pointlessly uninviting opening, that they freak you out, but then when you play them you realise that (at least in the first playthrough) if you just keep pace with leveling up nothing is really that hard as long as you’re willing to accept dying once, twice or thrice. You can actually heal so quickly (with 20 heal potions on hand) that if you can play carefully enough and have enough vitality to not get one-shot or stun-locked by anyone, it’s almost like having a huge health pool. I suppose there’s also the level design on the micro-level that you have to keep in mind. I’m not a huge fan of it, but basically every single encounter is a variation of “there’s an enemy behind you that will hit you.” Walk into a room where there’s a treasure? They’re behind you to the right or the left, hope you guess right or move quickly enough. Walk into a room with an enemy? There’s another one behind you to your right or left. Too bad!

This happens so much it becomes seriously boring, to be honest. Even for a game like Bloodborne, where the emphasis is on attacking, not defense, you play the game at a crawl, checking every hint that's been left in front off doorways, etc.

I suppose the thing is, or what it really comes down to, is really how much you enjoy the peril of “what if I lose what I’ve won so far?” be that the blood echoes you’ve built up or the time you’ve spent to get that far. I have to be honest, that even if there were battles and moments where that fear led to pure adrenaline, it’s simply not a kind of adrenaline that I enjoy. I’d actually consider it kind of negative; I’m not sure if I can phrase it correctly, but there’s a difference for me from the adrenaline of “I can win!” versus that of “I might lose!”. In Bloodborne, huge health pool or not, there’s still enough situations where you just sort of auto-lose that it can be quite a turn off (getting stun-locked against a wall can fuck off, for example.)

To be honest, the “back to get your blood echoes” trek, as much as it is made more convenient here, just isn’t something I find interesting. I noticed I’d enjoy the game more, if anything, if after every death I just woke up at a lamp still with all my echoes, because being able to take the journey back potentially levelled up a bit more actually seems more rewarding. But what do I know? Maybe these are games for masochists.

(I’m actually really interested, though, how much the Soulsborne games are tuned to players losing some percentage of echoes. 30%, perhaps? Or maybe they don’t tune to that at all. Because I lost only a handful of blood echoes across the game and was pretty overleveled by the end, I’d say, so I wonder.)

Anyway, that all said, I did actually enjoy Bloodborne. That level design and sense of progress it engenders–along with a leveling up system that’s simple, but rewarding–had me rolling through the game, and the fact that very few bosses actually present much of a challenge made a lot of it smooth like butter (and yet every time I went in expecting another Cleric Beast situation..) I did all the optional content (gotta get those levels!) but it did, in the end, make the game start to outstay its welcome, and I definitely can’t imagine doing all the extra dungeons and definitely not any of the DLC. 

I think ultimately I’m… glad I played it?

Will I ever play it again? That said though, I’m interested in the fact that I don’t actually feel any particular urge to play any other From Software game. I’m just not much of a dark fantasy guy.

Final Thought: I suppose I’m intrigued by Seikro, because it sounds like that one is designed so you simply can’t out-level enemies and tank them, and must instead engage with the game systems, but if that one is a real tiger I’ve got no interest in being bitten.

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[katnissmellarkkk]

Angst #9

Hahahaha, so uh... you wanted angst? You got it. It may not be exactly what you wanted but it’s what came to mind when you sent this prompt. 

This turned out wayyyyy longer than I intended but 🤷🏼‍♀️. I always overwrite 😂💁🏼‍♀️🤦🏼‍♀️.

Context I think necessary to know for this prompt is that it’s set four years Post-Mockingjay, three years post “so after”, and I think that’s all you need to know? 

Oh yeah, and I should also mention that I definitely took creative liberties here. And also, trigger warning for choking.

Prompt: Angst “Did it mean anything to you? Did I mean anything to you?”

"Peeta," I yelp as he playfully splashes me. "Stop."

"Get in here," he demands, pointing to the water his whole body is immersed in.

"No," I refuse, laying on my back, maybe a little teasingly. "I just dried off."

Today was a particularly sunny day, with the bright light from outside our windows rousing us from bed even before our usual wake up time. I know the people of Twelve will be disappointed they can't get their bread and pastries today--especially seeing that Sunday is the most popular day at the Mellark Bakery--but I just couldn't pass up a lazy day at the lake with Peeta.

Still though, I didn't get as much sleep as I've grown accustomed to and after hours of swimming in the lake—and, jokingly, teaching Peeta to find katniss roots—I'm lethargic. My exhausted body is perfectly happy to lay in the grass with the sun beating down on me, either darkening or burning my skin.

But Peeta, it would seem, has other plans.

"Don't you dare," I hiss as his cacophonous footsteps approach. Even without the noise he still makes when he moves, the sound of dripping water would have given him away.

Not listening to me and definitely not heeding my warning—either he's grown fearless in the four years since the war or I've lost my bite and grown soft on him—Peeta reaches down and grabs me up by the waist, easily hoisting me up into his arms.

"Did you say you dared me?"

"Peeta," I try to command, as a last ditch effort, before bracing myself for what I know is coming.

Like clockwork, just as I have my eyes shut and sucked in a breath, Peeta tosses me in the deepest part of the lake before jumping back in himself.

I easily push my head above the surface just as he creates a massive splash of water with his impact.

"You're going to drain the lake," I complain as his hands find themselves on my hips, pulling me in closer. I go without resistance, but remain annoyed he just tossed me back in the water.

His lips find residence on my cheek, trailing lower and lower, underneath my jaw and down my neck, a non-verbal apology.

"Is all this water really good for your prosthetic?" I murmur after a long moment, some of the irritation fading from my body as he kisses down my shoulder softly.

"My leg is waterproof, Katniss," he reminds, chuckling a little.

"Oh yeah," I try to respond but his lips trail down to my chest, pushing me up higher against him, and speaking becomes difficult. "Generous of them," is all I can manage.

He lets out a real laugh this time. "Can always depend on the generosity of the Capitol, can’t we?" He quips just as I capture his lips with my own.

I don't know if in the last three years that we’ve been together I've become a better kisser—I've definitely become more experienced—and I can't say for certain if our kisses feel any different now to him, but I do know for a fact that Peeta has grown leaps and bounds with time. His lips, which were always soft and warm, now move with expertise, now hold a confidence I didn't realize was missing all that time we were putting on a show. Kissing Peeta now is another kind of experience and one I never knew I needed, one I never thought to ask for, before I had it.

Of course, I get some credit here. I am the one who's lips have given him the practice, who's tongue has freely wrestled with his, the one who he's gained all his expertise from.

As we pull apart for air, my face lolling down into his shoulder, burrowing there, I hear a peculiar sound. One I don't cognitively recognize at first but my sense memory captures instantly. It's a sound that makes my stomach twist and lurch before I can comprehend exactly why.

Peeta tenses too, rather abruptly. I feel his hands grip my thighs tighter to him, almost wrapping me around him, as if to keep me protected from whatever is buzzing above us.

The buzzing only gets stronger—so much stronger, in only a matter of seconds—and I have to consciously force myself to breathe as it hits me where that sound is coming from.

Tracker jackers. A whole lot of them.

Someone, somewhere, must have knocked over a nest. Someone must have been both unlucky and careless and somehow expelled an entire hive by mistake.

That's what I tell myself, at least. That this was purely a mistake. That this isn't an attack, set out to hurt us, to endanger us for deadly entertainment labeled a game.

Because unleashing a whole hive of tracker jackers on us, while we're out alone, secluded, in the middle of the woods, is the exact kind of thing the Gamemakers would do.

"Katniss," Peeta whispers, his voice close to my ear now. I can tell instantly that he's petrified.

Of course he's petrified. Tracker jacker venom is exactly what he was injected with, over and over again, in an attempt to destroy his memory, his mind, the very essence of his being.

"Katniss?" He says again, a little louder and a little rougher. But I'm still too shocked to move. I'm useless, completely frozen in place while the horrible creatures, that are deadly in large quantities—just ask Glimmer—finally come into view, circulating above us.

"We need to run," he urges, and I don't have to look at him to know his blue eyes are desperate.

Nodding blankly, I don't take my eyes off of the venomous creatures flying over our heads. Somehow, a very sore, exhausted part of my brain wakes back up and I feel myself go into survival mode.

A mode in which I had wished to never transition into again.

My legs unwrap from Peeta's waist and I interlock our fingers, squeezing his hand as tightly as I can. I swim to the edge of the lake, towing him behind me, and climb onto the grass just as I hear the buzzing grow closer.

Peeta is only inches, if even that, behind me, and we both grab our shirts and pants from the blanket we set out and dress ourselves while moving through the trees. Our soaked skin makes this more challenging but not altogether impossible, and soon I feel Peeta's hand yanking on mine, propelling me forward.

I know he's even more afraid than I am when I realize he's running ahead of me, dragging me behind him. Peeta is by far a slower runner than I am. The idea that there's enough fear in him to compensate for a naturally slower gait and a fake leg makes my heart ache.

I hear the tracker jackers still getting closer though, no matter how fast we move. It's not a surprising, really, as when these creatures were designed, they were made to lock in on a target and chase it down until it died. After all, they were made to be a weapon in the first war.

And they were used as one in both.

I feel myself let out a loud sigh of relief as the sound of the wasps begins to fade away, as we come closer and closer to the edge of the woods.

Still, it isn't enough. It's never enough.

Peeta's prosthetic does better than I cynically imagined but in the end, it gives out just as I knew it would and he goes tumbling face-first down into the dirt and branches. I didn’t see it but I can tell by the way his leg, his only real leg, is scraped up, that it must have gotten caught on the fallen branches strewed across the ground.

"Peeta!" I scream, louder than I intend to. Louder than I know I should.

I kneel down beside him, adrenaline still pumping through my veins like red, hot blood, and I yank and tug at his arm, trying to force him to stand and run again, as my wail evidently alerted a few stray wasps that hadn't entirely disappeared yet.

"Peeta," I cry out now, desperation taking over my entire being. "We have to move." I try to push him to stand, to move forward, but he's shaking his head with a sad, defeated expression.

"Katniss, just run," he orders firmly, his voice surprisingly strong. "Leave me here, I'll be okay."

I give him an incredulous look, so shocked by his statement that I completely ignore the small growing buzz flying closer and closer by the second. "Peeta, I'm not leaving you!" I exclaim, as if the thought is outright offensive. Because to me, it is. "You can't honestly think I'm going to abandon you-"

"Katniss, please!" He snaps now, his eyes getting desolate. "Please, just go! I'll be home as soon as I can-"

"No! You're coming with me!" I demand furiously. Just as I am preparing to quickly stand and drag him by force out of these woods, his baby blue eyes widen fiercely and he envelopes me into his arms, shoving my body underneath his.

It all happens in a matter of seconds. Peeta holds me down the way he used to hold his opponents down in a wrestling match, paralyzing me into place, and I can't move to escape, to try and run and drag him with me.

I don't understand what he's doing though, what his true intent may be, until I feel through him, through his body that is sheltering mine, the vibrations of the tracker jackers' stingers.

I don't know how many times he gets stung but it's not enough to kill him—especially not him, who has such a high tolerance after the abuse he was subjected to—but enough to hurt him. Enough to have an effect.

Enough that only seconds after the creatures fly away, he flings himself upwards, attempting to get as far away from me as humanly possible. Attempting to put as much distance between us as his distorting mind will allow.

"Peeta!" I cry out again, plainly reaching for him. It doesn't click in my head what could be happening. It doesn't seem even real anymore, after four years home without a single episode, after three years of bliss together, that he could ever again become that dark, twisted shell of a person he was in Thirteen.

"Stay away from me!" He hisses and I recoil instinctively into a tree trunk behind me. His stumbles backward and snaps a branch with his prosthetic leg. The sound is enough to set him off and he practically snarls down towards the ground.

I don't know what he's seeing, what terrifying hallucination is taking over his psyche. I can't even imagine where his mind is right now, but I know that’s horrifying.

"Peeta, it's okay," I try again, but my voice is breaking and I must have started crying at some point and my eyes are wide and displaying just how blatantly unnerved I feel and I know I'm of no comfort right now. Still, I can't stop myself from saying, "it's just a tree branch, Peeta. Nothing is going to hurt you out here, I swear."

"Except you," he states, so blankly, so matter-of-fact, that I visibly flinch as he turns the gaze of his cold, dark eyes on me.

The sweet blue sky that live inside his irises are long gone and in their place is a blackened night and I haven't seen it in so long, I actually forgot what it looked like.

"Peeta," I whisper now, knowing it's fruitless to say anything, to try and get through. But I just can't leave him here, alone, when he's been hurt, when he's still suffering from what Snow did to him to destroy me.

His hands shake and he clutches the roots of the tree beside him to the point of pain. As if the wood can keep him in place. As if the wood can stop him from reacting to the venom like his every impulse is surely screaming to.

"Go away," he spats at me, his teeth clenching together so tight I'm afraid he'll chip them. "Would you just go!"

"No!" I yell stubbornly. My legs suddenly find a way to work and the shock must be wearing off because I find myself manically crawling through the dirt and leaves towards Peeta, where he's practically locked himself against a tree.

"You're a stupid mutt," he snarls as I come closer—closer enough to touch. "A mutt created by the Capitol to trick me. Don't touch me!"

I ignore his words and lay my hand on his forearm. "Peeta, please-stop!" I order desperately as he swings his arm in my direction. "Listen to me, please! This isn't real! I swear, this is just a bunch of lies the Capitol told you!"

"The only lies that I've been told were from you, sweetheart," he practically spits at me. "And I'm tired of your lies. In fact, I think I'm tired of you altogether-" He cuts himself off, one of his hands flying up from the branch and smacking him in the face. "Run!" He abruptly exclaims in a different voice. A voice that gives me hope. Hope that he can mentally fight this off. "Katniss, go!"

"No!" I refuse still, my jaw clenching and my eyes locking in on his furiously. "I won't leave you here!"

He squeezes his eyes shut at my words, and when he reopens them, my every hope he would be able to pull himself out of this evaporates. "I hate you! I absolutely hate you! Why won't you ever leave?"

"Because I love you," I hoarsely shout, not caring that he's in no position to listen to me. "I love you, Peeta. I love you and I'm not going to leave you."

I never say these things, even now. Even after the years since the war, I rarely offer sentiments. In words at least. Peeta knows I love him. I know I love him. But there's little need for me to proclaim it every single day and night.

Until now, until right now in these woods, with Peeta and all that he is nearly evaporated, do I wish I had showered him in verbal sentiments over and over again. No matter how unnatural words as opposed to actions are to me, I should have forced myself to speak up more, to say how I feel, to overdose him in it until he's tired of hearing my voice.

Maybe if I had been more vocal, he wouldn't still be so fast to believe the worst. Maybe then he wouldn’t be susceptible to these dark thoughts when the venom enters his system.

I shake that idea off as soon as it comes. This isn't my fault and it definitely isn't his. The tracker jacker venom isn't something we could have seen coming and it isn't permanent, I force myself to remember. This will wear off.

I just have to make sure Peeta doesn't hurt himself before that happens.

"Peeta," I whisper now, seeing his eyes squeezing shut again. I don't dare to let myself hope again he's fighting the hallucinations off. Cautiously, like I'm about to pet a tiger, I lean my hand in to touch his cheek.

He doesn't relax into it but he doesn't snap at me either and I take it as progress.

At least, I do until he opens his eyes.

They're still black as coal and my heart sinks at the realization. But before I can think to do anything else, his mouth opens again, his voice now slow and quiet and pleading. "You're the worst thing that ever happened to me. I loved you so much and you cost me everything."

I feel myself let out an involuntary sob at that, my chest heaving before I can swallow it down. Because it's true. If it weren't for me, if I'd just eaten those stupid berries myself, he wouldn't have been tortured and hijacked. Millions of people wouldn't be dead from the war. Finnick would be playing with his son right now, probably teaching him to swim or fish or tie a knot.

Prim would still be alive.

As if reading my mind, his next sentiment matches my line of thinking. "You destroyed me, just like you destroy everyone. My family is dead because of you. You killed them. You killed millions of people and laughed about it. You even killed your little sister."

And I know he's not in his right mind, but his words still ring true to me and all I can say, while trying to suppress the overflow of tears gathering behind my lids is, "I know."

"But it never meant anything to you, did it? No matter who you hurt or how much pain you inflicted, it never mattered to you."

I shake my head automatically, not even registering that I'm about as good as arguing with a wall here. "That's not true. I do care. I've always cared."

"Liar," he hisses again but it's under his breath, through clenched teeth and I can't respond to it. "You never cared about anyone besides yourself."

"Not real, Peeta!" I frantically try to get through to him. "Not real, not real, not real!"

He acts as if I hadn't spoken. "I always, always loved you. So much." He says it, not as a compliment or endearment, but as a dark fact, as a burden to bear. As if it were a heavy load he was forced to carry. "Did that mean anything you? Did I mean anything to you? Or was I just second best to him?"

"Peeta," I whimper out desperately, wiping my eyes with one hand and reaching out to grip his palm with my other. "You mean everything to me. You're my whole world."

Something flickers in his eyes and he snaps like the branches beneath our feet. "Liar!" He screams again, and shoves my hand off his. "You're a mutt! You're a liar! You’re not going to kill me like you did everyone else!"

"Not real!" I scream on the top of my lungs, giving up every other defense I have, just for the insane hope of getting through to him.

I remember how I got him to cooperate, to see reason, to fight, in the middle of the war. How I kissed him desperately, knowing I rationally should kill him, knowing there was a likely chance he'd kill me for even trying to save him, but how I did it anyway, in the face of all that.

It was different then. He wasn't freshly full of venom. He was already beginning to overcome his hijacking on his own. He was already starting to fight his way back to me.

But that doesn't mean the same methods couldn't be repurposed here. That doesn't mean they wouldn't work again, under different circumstances.

Somehow, in the seconds I considered this method, my eyes had traveled to his lips and my plan was foiled before it could be put into action.

"Don't you dare," he threatens, his voice dripping with fury. Even more deadly than I heard only a moment ago. "You're not going manipulate me like you always do, mutt."

Before I can gather my bearings or even process what he's implying, he forces both his hands to let go of the roots he's managed to maintain an iron tight grip on. His hands come flying at me, knocking me back against the forest floor, knocking the wind out of me painfully.

I feel my shoulder blade take the impact and fight back a wince, just as two large hands wrap themselves around my throat.

They squeeze tight, effectively cutting off my air supply, giving me the same horrible sensation I still remember from his rescue. The horrible day I still sometimes have nightmares about.

This whole entire thing is a nightmare come to life. Just as much as it was back in Thirteen four years ago.

I stare up at him, my vision swirling, my eyes stuck on his. And, in spite of how angry I should be—at Snow or Coin or the Capitol or just life in general—I find myself uncharacteristically hoping. Not hoping that he won't kill me. But rather hoping that when he comes back to his senses, he is able to forgive himself for this. That he is able to forgive himself for all of it.

I stare into his eyes, because if this is my end, I want the last thing I see to be the person I love, even if he isn't himself. I want him to somehow retain the memory of me right now, at this moment. So he can know that I'm not angry with him, that I don't hate him. That I love him. In spite of every reason anyone has tried to create for me not to.

I'm so focused on his eyes that I don't even notice that his grip is weakening. I don't even register his stance changing. All I see, all I register, is his eyes suddenly changing from black to blue and then black again. It's haunting to see up close, like a demon is stuck inside of him and he's having to fight it off from the inside out.

"Peeta," I whisper hoarsely, reaching my hand up to cup his cheek as his irises become a blue ocean again.

But his body language remains stiff, even as he clumsily pulls himself upwards and off of me. He trips backwards once again, and I watch in a frozen stupor as his eyes change once more to ebony.

"Go!" He shouts abruptly, his features wild and downcast and tormented. "Katniss, go!"

And I don't know if it's the fact that he's seemingly fighting off the darkness now or if the tracker jacker venom may be growing weaker inside him or if it's just the plain fact that he sounds like my Peeta again, but I listen this time. I roll over gracelessly and cough and sputter and grapple for a breath before finding my footing and blindly racing out of the trees. Blindly leaving Peeta behind, hoping he'll be able to find his way back to me.

Hoping that he'll come back to me at all.

X.

I crash onto the couch as soon as I step foot into the living room, lying down on my stomach, burrowing my face into the cushions beneath me.

I mindlessly ran from the woods, tripping and falling and unable to catch my breath, my heart racing a thousand beats per second. I didn't stop when Thom waved at me or when Haymitch barked to ask what I was up to now. I didn't even stop to lock the front door.

I wasn't worried about Peeta coming home to harm me. He was in enough control in the woods to hold himself against the tree, to stop himself from strangling me, to yell at me to run. If he was going to chase me down and hurt me, he would have done so in the woods when I refused to leave.

No, I wasn't worried about Peeta coming home to harm me. I was worried he wouldn't come home at all. I was worried that this is going to push him to the edge, that he won't trust himself, that he will insist he has to go back to the Capitol for hospitalization. I was worried that this will cost me him and our life together and everything we've worked so hard to build.

I squeeze my eyes shut to hold in my tears, terrified that the tracker jackers are going to cost me him, even after all this time. That what Snow did to take Peeta from me will finally succeed, even after his death.

Me and Peeta don't see eye to eye on this topic. This topic is one of the few things we can't agree on.

Peeta still gets flashback, on a fairly regular basis. He still grips the back of a chair or clutches a wall, hides in the back of the bakery when a customer triggers some atrocious memory by mistake. He still has insomnia some nights and still paints his nightmares.

Some of those paintings consist of things I never could stand to know. Some of his paintings, so haunting and gut-wrenching, display things that have brought me to tears more than once.

I was looking at them one morning over a year ago when I blurted out the worst possible thing I could have.

"What would happen if you ever were hijacked again? If you ever became the way you were in Thirteen again?"

I honestly expected him to say that Dr. Aurelius has warned him that there is a possibility of that happening and that he has a plan in place and he would have to go to the Capitol again and just about a million things I don't want to hear but I as much as expected.

But instead he caught me entirely off-guard and simply said, "I'd leave. Go out to the woods and probably never come back."

It's only now that I realize his wording, that I realize I left him out in the exact place he specified disappearing and I feel my blood run cold as I process this.

I don't know what I intend to do, as I stand up off the couch. I don’t know if I intend to go to Haymitch and see if he's too drunk to be of any help, to go maybe to Delly or Thom or anyone in the district who cares for Peeta, or if I even intended to just go searching for him myself in the woods, but in the end it all becomes irrelevant.

Because as soon as I stand, frantically trying to stop my shaking and figure out how I planned to find him, Peeta walks in through the front door.

His eyes are blue again and they've lost the cloudy look that have always appeared in his episodes. I don't know why I forgot that until now.

Probably because I black out the things that really hurt me. The things that hurt my heart too much to fully process.

Peeta, the sweetest boy I've ever known, being tortured and destroyed to pay for my acts of rebellion is at the top of that list.

I just stare at him, taking him in now, here, alive, relatively unharmed aside from some scratches. His eyes are clear but they're so sad and so desolate and I open my mouth to speak. To say just about anything that'll convey to him that I'm not angry with him, not in the least. That I just don't want him to leave, that I can't take losing him again.

But all that comes out are choking noises and I don't know if it's the cries I fought off or if it's because his hands were wrapped around my throat not long ago, or if it's just plainly that I don't put my feelings into words well. By any stretch of the imagination.

Either way, it doesn't seem to matter. Peeta just shakes his head slowly, the skin around his eyes already wet and swollen and pink and before I can utter another sound, he's walking forward towards me and falling down onto his knees, wrapping his arms around my waist. His face buries itself into my stomach and suddenly, the most painful, the most wretched sobs fill the room and if I wasn't right here with him, if I couldn't physically see Peeta, the cries would almost be unrecognizable as him.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

I try to resist it, I try to hold it back, I do everything I can to fight it, knowing it'll only make him feel that much worse, but in the end it's a lost effort and it's all I can do to raise my head up to the ceiling just as the tears come pouring from my own eyes. If they're out of shock or fear or pain--or a combination of all three--I don't know, but I do everything I can to hide them from Peeta.

It becomes just one more thing I fail at, as he somehow instinctively notices and squeezes me tighter to him, clutches me like Prim used to clutch her baby blanket.

"Please forgive me, Katniss. Please, please, please forgive me."

I open my mouth to say there's nothing to forgive but once again, the words won't form. All that comes out is a simple sob, quiet but strong, and I feel Peeta squeeze me again.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

X.

"Roll over for me," Peeta whispers softly, his hand as tender as his voice, stroking my hair back attentively.

I do what he asks, rolling onto my stomach, but still manage to say, "this isn't necessary."

He ignores me, his eyes no longer wet but still swollen and bloodshot from the hours he cried. Lifting up my shirt—technically his shirt originally, but we repurposed it as my sleep attire months ago—he slides a cold cloth onto my back, holding it in place for a long moment of time.

There's now a particularly large bruise already forming on my back from where he knocked me to the forest floor. I couldn't care less. I got worse bruises than that from hunting on a regular basis.

But the look in Peeta's eyes when he saw the mark, almost--but not quite--rivaled the look in his eyes when he stood upright and saw my neck. I hadn't even seen at it yet, I hadn't even given any thought to checking for red handprints, but when Peeta stood upwards, when he'd calmed down enough to look me in the eye, his gaze flew there instantly and words can't convey how awful he must have felt.

If there were a way to verbally say how wretched and sick he felt inside, Peeta would be the first one to do it.

Telling him it wasn't his fault didn’t work. Telling him he couldn't have known about the tracker jackers nearby, he couldn't have known what would happen, did absolutely nothing to convince him that he shouldn't feel responsible. Especially not when I'm speaking in a hoarse tone of voice.

Of course, I knew he'd feel this way. I would feel this way. But somehow I just can't stop trying to alleviate his remorse, no matter how useless it may be to attempt. Somehow I just can't stop trying to remove that tragically sad look from his eyes.

As soon as he lets go of the cold cloth, I spin around in the bed and snuggle myself tight into him.

He takes me into his arms willing, wrapping his every limb around mine, burying his face in my hair. His lips press repeated kisses to my forehead, his hands rubbing up and down my spine, massaging my back.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers, probably for the twentieth time.

"Peeta," I all but groan, leaning my head back slightly to peer up into his heartbroken eyes. "Stop. There's nothing you could have done."

He looks like he wishes to argue but nothing comes out of his mouth. Instead he rubs my back again and squeezes me tighter. I shut my eyes against him, breathing him in, a part of me finally relaxing for the first time in hours.

Even after he returned home, even after his breakdown, I remained cautious at first. The last thing I wanted was to let my guard down too soon and have the venom—that is surely still working it's way out of his bloodstream—cause him to snap again, to lash out at me or attack.

Just like the last thing I wanted was to make him feel worse, make him feel remorse for something that was done to him, something he didn't ask for and he'd worked so hard and made so much progress in controlling.

But when he'd noticed the tears I’d tried to hold in, down in the living room, the remorse was inevitable.

"Are you sure you're okay?" He whispers now, moving my hair aside carefully, pressing his lips gently to the red marks where his hands had left their imprint.

This isn't the first time he's asked though and despite the fact that I rather enjoy his lips on my neck typically, I can't help but respond with ire. "Peeta, I already told you my neck and back are just fine. Please stop worrying," I say tensely, my voice tired and worn thin.

He says nothing in response, instead placing more kisses against my throat and collarbone. I let out a sigh I didn't even know I was holding in and reach out to stroke the back of his head, massaging where his skull and neck met, where his blonde curls touch his skin.

"You scared me," I whisper finally, the words easier now that I can't see his eyes and he can't see mine.

"I know," is all he can say.

"Not physically," I immediately correct before he can take that and internalize it. "I don’t mean you scared me physically. You... you..." Speaking becomes a challenge all over again, the syllables not wanting to form intelligibly on my lips. But when he pulls back and looks me deep in the eye, his gaze full of love and sorrow, I force myself to just say how I feel. "I was scared I was going to lose you," I whisper, leaving whether I meant lose him physically or mentally up in the air.

Still, he doesn't seem surprised by the confession, whatever way he took it. "I know."

I have to bite my lip to keep an awful choking sob inside, as one is doing it's best to escape from the back of my throat. Almost as a distraction I bury my face into his chest again, shutting my eyes, and I allow myself to be thankful that Peeta's still here and he's my Peeta again.

When he doesn't fill the silence though, I realize I have to or else the tension in the room will continue to linger. "I was so scared," I admit, so quietly it's almost inaudible.

"I know, baby."

I scrub my face against his cotton-made shirt before rubbing my nose with the neckline of my own sleepwear, just as something hits to me. Peeta's words in the woods, even while hijacked, still sting inside my head. Not the cruel things he said, because even though I know they're true, I also know he doesn't truly believe any of them himself. He doesn't think I murdered his family or am an evil person who laughs at the misery of others, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt, he doesn't think I'm in any way responsible for Prim's death.

But originally, his hijacking was predicated upon his insecurity and uncertainty in our relationship and in my feelings for him. In the last three years I know I've made my feelings clear. At least, in my mind I have.

But a quietly violent voice whispers, and I ache deep inside as it questions, what if I haven't expressed how I feel enough to him? What if he truly still feels unsure of my love for him?

"Peeta?"

"Yeah?"

"I just... I want you to know-" His finger presses against my lips now and he's shaking his head, his eyes forlorn.

"Katniss, if this is about anything I said, just don't. Okay, I meant none of it. I hate that those words even-"

"Peeta, you mean everything to me," I blurt out then, clumsily cutting him off. "You're the only thing that really matters to me an-and," I stop myself then, having spoken too fast, rushed my words and now am stuttering. There's so many things I want to say, so many things I want him to know. So many they all become jumbled up and confused in my head, and it's all I can do to say the simplest, plainest thing that comes to my mind. No matter how unnatural it feels for me. No matter how painful it is to rip down your walls and to physically have to force away an armor you spent years of your young life building up. It's so hard and so painful and I don't even recognize my own voice when I speak again, when I force myself to spit out how I actually feel. How, until today, I told myself he knew I felt. "I love you so much," I try to say but it comes out choked and raw. "I love you and you were never second best. To anyone. You're everything to me and I don't know-I don't know how to convey this right or say the right thing-"

He cuts me off—finally—then and moves his fingers against my cheek comfortingly. "You've conveyed it perfectly," he promises, his lips moving then to press lightly against mine, in a grateful but simple and sweet gesture. "I know you love me, Katniss," he assures again as he pulls back and breaks our kiss. "I've known it for a long time."

As his finger traces the outline of my mouth, I whisper, almost to myself, "So have I."

He gives me a smile, that is full of guilt and devastation, but still somehow warm and hopeful and kind. "Oh, have you?" I know he's feeling better when he teases me.

But my reply isn't sarcastic or cunning or anything but simple and small. Just like me in general.

"Longer than I could ever admit."

[prurientpuddlejumper]

Being Fake Soulmates with Dr. Chilton (Part 6)

<- Part 5

Frederick Chilton x Reader | The Good Place crossover

Final chapter! Warning: The Good Place spoilers, and a timeline that makes perfect sense because Jeremy Bearimy, baby. 

2,800 words

“No way. It’s too dangerous!”

“I thought you said we were in this together?” Chilton quirked a brow, eliciting a petulant grumble. You crossed your arms.

“Or maybe you think I’m expendable, so you’re willing to take risks with my life. Afterlife. Whatever.”

Frederick Chilton, who was not, as originally advertised, your soulmate, nonetheless clasped your hand with gentle tenderness. I would never do anything to hurt you is what a normal person would say in that moment, and perhaps his eyes said it, somewhere deep in their searching pools of green. But Dr. Chilton had a repressed way about him, tending toward overly clinical just stating the facts (or the sarcasm). Anything but genuine, vulnerable, sentimentality.

He guided you by your hand to sit down beside him on the baroque loveseat in one of his many living rooms, studies, and salons. After you settled yourself on the velvet cushion, he leaned his shoulder against yours in that quiet way he showed affection.

“After reviewing the town records,” he said, “I believe we may be the only two humans in the neighborhood. Some of the residents are far too dull—Chidi Anagonye, the moral philosophy professor who spent his life writing a single manuscript, Jianyu the silent monk—while others are too perfect—Glen, that one who is constantly volunteering, Tahani, the philanthropist. Real people have flaws, secrets, hobbies. I can only be certain of myself and you.”

“How’d you figure out I’m real?”

“I didn’t. I simply refuse to accept the alternative,” he said with a sad smile, and you began to think Dr. Chilton was sentimental after all.

***

Their voices were muffled even with your ear pressed to the door of Michael’s office—not that it mattered much what they were talking about. You were just waiting for the signal, and at that moment, it came. Their footsteps and voices grew louder as Frederick and Michael approached, and the door handle clicked.

“—which is why cannibalism loses more good-person points than defenestration but fewer than chewing loudly on a crowded bus.”

“Fascinating. I never thought about it that way,” said Chilton, looking genuinely disturbed.

You flattened yourself against the wall next to the door, thinking thin thoughts as the pair exited the office. A tall houseplant barely disguised your presence, and if Michael had any kind of peripheral vision, he would see you standing there plain as day.

But Dr. Chilton spoke animatedly, fixing him with a challenging laser-stare as he asked a probing follow-up question. Locked in Chilton’s eyes, Michael failed to notice the movement just behind his left shoulder as you slipped through the closing door before it could latch shut.

Safe.

Michael’s office was quiet and filled you with serenity in much the same way a teddy bear is filled with stuffing: forcefully and by no will of your own. Like the welcome room with its happy green plants and happy green words on the wall assuring you everything is fine, the office peeled your defenses away. Cream-colored walls yawned out around the perimeter, punctuated with bright windows, a portrait of Doug Forcett (a stoner from the 1970s who guessed, on a mushroom trip, how the afterlife really worked), and various artifacts of humanity enshrined like museum pieces, despite seeming perfectly mundane.

At the top of the room was a large mahogany desk.

Yesterday, Chilton watched Michael put away files in the desk that he wouldn’t let him look at. Chilton was certain they were the key to unraveling the mystery, so he suggested working together—he would distract Michael while you sneaked in to find the files. It was risky, but it might have been your only chance of discovering what was going on, and if there was a way to escape.

You began poking through the desk and found stacks of papers in an unreadable alphabet. The only thing you could read were lyrics to a genuinely terrible song Michael was writing titled “Love Train to the Cosmos.”

The last drawer wouldn’t budge.

Yanking the handle didn’t work. Banging on the side with your fist failed to unstick it. It was locked. Locked drawers were suspicious. The answers had to be in there.

You eyed a mountain of paperclips lovingly displayed on a pedestal labeled “Human Things.” Snatching two off the top, you unbent and re-bent the stiff metal wire, and inserted it into the lock. Faint clicks sounded as you turned and finessed the paperclip, feeling each pin in the tumbler slide into place. Then you gently turned it, and—pop. The drawer opened.

A single manila folder stamped TOP SECRET in threatening red letters rested inside, as if waiting to be found. You picked it up and opened it, and your breath caught. They were reports on “The Good Place.” The Good Place in quotation marks. Reports about you.

A pleasant bing sounded.

Janet materialized in front of the desk. For once, she was not wearing a cheery smile.

***

Frederick Chilton had always been a selfish man. Any opportunity that could advance his career and put him in the spotlight, he would take it no matter who it hurt. “Unorthodox therapy,” he called it in his private chats with Dr. Lecter. They bonded over their shared interest in unorthodox research before he learned Dr. Lecter was a cannibal. That would have been a clue to anybody else that it was time to change his ways, but Dr. Chilton spent the rest of his years just as selfish and petty—more so, even, as his disfiguring injuries gave him more reason for spite.

He could never accept himself as he was.

By the time he died, Chilton was an intolerable asshole who paid back the world’s cruelty with his chronic foul moods and acerbic sarcasm. He kept everyone at a distance.

And yet, here, in death, he found himself worrying over someone else.

The sun was shining in the ever-blue sky, dappled by lush green foliage before reaching the two men as they strolled the neighborhood below. Michael was built like a sapling with longer legs than he knew what to do with, making Chilton nearly jog to keep pace. He had a warm smile and an outgoing demeanor—always flattering Chilton’s ego and asking for his guidance. But something malignant hid behind those smiling eyes, and Chilton’s mind kept rushing back to you, hoping you were OK.

He hoped that you were safe. Not that the plan was going smoothly. That you were safe.

There was a difference, and Dr. Chilton noticed right away that his twitchy nervousness was not wrought of self-preservation. It was a new type of panic—worse than fear for himself, which he never thought possible considering the amount of terror he had experienced on his own behalf.

To distract himself, Chilton threw himself into the role of Michael’s assistant, focusing on his task of supposedly identifying psychological issues causing problems with the neighborhood.

“Our interviews should go in alphabetical order, under the pretense of a survey—a sort of afterlife census—to avoid suspicion. It should be feasible, with only three hundred residents—”

“We know,” Michael said coolly. His voice dropped from the usual friendly, flattering demeanor, slipping off like a mask.

“You know how you are going to handle the interviews? It is imperative the subjects do not suspect they are being studied.” Chilton swallowed, knowing full well that he was talking to the real Michael for the first time.

“Don’t play dumb.” Michael smiled an entirely different type of smile, twisted and clever with no warmth in it. “We’ve been watching you, Dr. Chilton. We knew you would figure it out eventually. It was only a matter of time before you saw through a psychiatric study.”

Chilton’s interest piqued at the same time his blood went cold. He wet his lips. “Is that what all this is, then?”

The pair came to a stone bridge that arched gracefully over a reflection pool. Michael stopped midway across, leaned one of his long, pointed elbows on the railing, and cocked his head at Chilton.

“You haven’t figured it all out yet? That’s disappointing. You humans really are so dense.” His tone was so mean that Chilton took an unconscious step back. Michael only laughed and told him there was no point in running away. “But I think you’ll want to hear what I have to offer,” he promised.

Most of what you had been told about the afterlife was true, Michael explained. There was a real good place, and there was a real bad place where bad people were tortured for all eternity. But the bad place had a problem: it was boring! Humans get used to physical pain after the first few centuries, no matter how creative the punishment.

“Once you’ve flattened a thousand penises, you’ve flattened them all. I’m trying to do something new here. Innovate!” said Michael with an energetic swoop of his hand. “Emotional torture can cause the same level of discomfort, but in a more sustainable and (more importantly) entertaining way. That’s what this neighborhood is for—to study you humans and find out what makes you miserable.”

And then he offered Dr. Chilton something that grabbed his attention. The opportunity to design bad place neighborhoods.

“You are asking me to help implement psychological torture?” Chilton turned over each word cautiously.

“Oh,” Michael scoffed, “Don’t tell me you’re concerned about the ethics? Doctor, I’ve read your file.”

Chilton winced. He had done truly amoral things in the name of discovery—things it made him sick to be reminded of. Strange, though. In the past, he would have been proud to be treated as a peer by a psychopath. Not ashamed.

“Think of it, the glory, the prestige. You would be designing the afterlife for billions of souls. You will be remembered throughout eternity as the man who reformed the bad place!”

“And my soulmate?”

Chilton blurted it without thinking. It sounded so childish and naive, and sure enough, Michael shook his head and had a long chuckle at his expense.

“There’s no such thing! I thought you knew,” Michael slapped his knee. “I made it up so you would torture each other! But once again, I underestimated the human libido. You people all think with your genitals, it’s—it’s gross. Humans are gross.” He made a face. “That’s why I need your help to design a better system. With your understanding of the human mind, we can make condemned souls miserable for thousands of years.”

Chilton couldn’t muster any enthusiasm for this plan, and Michael frowned.

“If it makes you feel any better, consider this the humane option. The alternative is going back to scooping eyeballs out with melon ballers and replacing them with live bees. What do you say, doctor? Join my team.” Michael extended a hand, and Chilton eyeballed it.

“Can my soulmate—”

“Not a soulmate.”

“—come with me?”

“This offer is only open to you.”

“So they will be tortured? Alone? For eternity? In a system I help design?”

“Nothing you can do will change that. They are going to be tortured—the only person you can save is yourself, if you decide to help me.”

Frederick’s brow knit together. He thought about refusing. He really did. Abandoning you seemed unthinkable, especially after your promise to each other to stick together. But he was a selfish creature, and choosing to be punished wouldn’t protect you. If he was lucky, by teaming up with Michael, he could design a more comfortable torture for you one day.

“Maybe this will help make up your mind,” Michael said. “Hannibal Lecter.”

“Lecter?”

“He’s here. In the bad place. So far, he has been especially resistant to traditional torture. I thought you might have a personal interest in taking a crack at him?”

***

On a floating, room-sized projection screen, Frederick Chilton shook Michael’s hand. Your head fell forward, shoulders slumping. The screen flicked off and dissipated into the office air.

“This is the 764th time he has failed,” said Janet, giving a sympathetic simulation of a sigh. “We were sure he was going to make the right decision this time.”

You shook your head. “Fame and glory? Revenge? He’ll never refuse those. Trust me—he died because of them and still never learned his lesson.”

“That is what we’re afraid of. Some people never pass their tests. Fun fact!” she perked up, “Hannibal Lecter’s test is working at a Burger King where he can only cook Impossible Whoppers, and his 19-year-old manager calls him pee-paw. He gets reset every time he eats a customer. His longest record is twelve hours.”

When Janet found you snooping in Michael’s desk, you expected to be dragged away, never to see Frederick again. Instead, she explained everything to you—the truth.

A long time ago, the bad place was exactly how Michael described it—a place where souls were sent to have their orifices filled with spiders for eternity. Then he decided to try something new. Originally, he paired you with Dr. Chilton hoping you would drive each other crazy. But no matter what happened, you kept falling in love. You kept supporting each other, and taking care of each other. The same happened with his other human test subjects—they kept improving and becoming better people than they were on Earth. Eventually, Michael changed, too.

He redesigned the bad place to be a test—a chance for human souls to earn their way into the good place. At the end of each test, you either pass and go to the good place, or your memories are erased and you start over again.

“So, what happens to me now?”

“You passed. You can go to the good place now, and spend the rest of eternity in paradise. The real one.”

“And Frederick? He’ll be alone?”

Janet nodded.

“Put me back in. Reset me, and make me his soulmate again.”

“Are you sure?” Janet asked.

“I’m not going without him.”

“He would leave you behind. You just saw that.”

“That wasn’t fair. Anyone would accept that deal. I would accept that deal!”

“No. You wouldn’t,” Janet said. “You passed your test a long time ago.”

For a while, a heavy silence fell between you as you processed this. Finally, you thought of the only question worth asking. “How many times have we had this conversation?”

“762.”

“Well then,” you said. “You know what I’m going to say.”

“I do. But you retain a vague sense of your memories from previous tests. At a subconscious level, you might realize you’re tired of this.”

You smiled. A big, genuine one that balled your cheeks and creased the corners of your eyes. “That’s not how I feel at all. I think I love him more every time.”

Janet nodded, but gave one last warning before erasing your memories again. “If he never passes, you could be stuck here forever.”

“Stuck falling in love with that insecure jerk over and over again for thousands of years? Sounds like heaven to me.”

“I thought you might say that.”

***

The first day, you really wanted to punch his pretentious snobby face for thinking he was so much better than you.

The first time you laid eyes on Dr. Frederick Chilton, he was waiting behind a mahogany desk with an ancient hardcover book in his hands. Not reading it—waiting, posed deliberately to be discovered that way, and give the impression of intellectualism.

“This is your soulmate,” said Michael, introducing you.

Chilton took a step back after shaking your hand and looked you up and down critically, as if he were appraising livestock. And right away, you knew there had been a terrible mistake. Who the fork did he think he—

Fork. Fork! Why couldn’t you say fork?!

***

Bright light streamed in through the open bedroom window. The weather was always perfect here, except when some glitch made it rain caviar and jelly beans. Or that time Frederick had a vivid nightmare, and organs began falling from the sky. Every day, something horrible seemed to go wrong in the good place. Things that challenged you and pushed your soulmate to his limits.

But most mornings were like this. Quiet. A time just for the two of you.

Your fingers lightly stroked his chest, delving into the soft hairs that rose and fell with his steady breathing. You pressed a soft kiss to his skin, then another, tracing a line of them lower, over a jagged, raised line down his abdomen. His scars let you know he was waking up. This was the good place—he didn’t have to let them show. Usually, he chose to appear as a younger version of himself, before all the indelible trauma. But on peaceful mornings like this, he would let them show just so you could soothe them. He never thought he would be that comfortable with anyone. That he could trust anyone so much.

Every day, you both knew you could overcome anything, so long as you were together.