#I'm so sorry you have to go through this because no one deserves to be harrassed

[genderqueerdykes]

Thank you for your “cishet looking men” post. I’m a trans lesbian who was hyper femme for many years but now feel at home being butch. I also had to go back in the closet for grad school. My wife is a lesbian, and I’m constantly grieving no longer being seen as a lesbian couple. Everyone thinks I’m a straight man. It’s especially painful in queer spaces. I fear that people look at me with suspicion and disgust, and I know it affects my wife as well (the whole “don’t bring your bf to Chappell Roan” thing). Worse still, for many reasons I don’t know when I’ll ever be able to be fully out again… my wife supports and reassures me wholeheartedly, but it hurts so much sometimes. Anyway, your post (and entire blog) has been really healing for me. I cant thank you enough.

hey im really glad to hear i could've helped you- you are literally the exact type of person im thinking about first and foremost when it comes to talking about why people should NOT assume a "cishet looking man" IS a cishet man.

i'm so sorry that people view you as a straight man just because you've had to return to the closet in the past, and now feel more comfortable identifying as butch. no one should force the idea that you're in a straight relationship on to you- you're not. it doesn't matter if someone has been out for 1 second or 10 years- a trans woman who "looks like a cishet man" is still a trans woman. why are people so willing to throw trans women who don't pass under the bus?

people just don't care about pre- and never transition trans women. people don't take the time to realize some trans women just do not want to transition. people don't take the time to care about trans women who already see their bodies as women's bodies and don't want to change anything about them. people don't give a shit about the fact that trans women have to boymode or go back into the closet for safety reasons. and people especially don't care about trans lesbians who are being assumed to be cishet men. this is what terfs do, can we stop doing this to our own?

like... this is all transmisogyny. does nobody on this planet care anymore that this behavior is transmisogynstic? like i'm happy to break it to everyone, but assuming every person you meet who looks a certain way is 100% without a doubt a cishet man is transmisogynistic. this is straight up erasing transfeminine experiences. policing people by their bodies and what queer spaces they can exist in is fascist behavior

i'm so sorry that you can't be out right now. you should NOT be facing this type of treatment from within your own community. i really can't stand people who assume every person they meet who looks a certain way is definitely 100% a cishet man. you literally just don't know by looking at a stranger. and especially with how dangerous it is to be out as a trans woman, why are we putting trans women through this? you shouldn't have to jump through hoops in the queer community in order to be seen as queer. plus, this behavior completely leaves out questioning transfems and women, like. transfems and women get to question, too. many trans women were men at one point and they shouldn't have to feel alienated for it.

i hope things improve for you soon- thanks for taking the time to send this message. if you need any more help feel free to come back any time, you deserve to feel like who you really are, and not who other people are assuming you are.

[susicheng]

✮⋆˙ .exposure. njm smau.

ch. 11: i'm sorry

📷 count: 3 word count: 1053

. . .

it felt mildly inappropriate. walking into jaemin's place of work, wearing jaemin's hoodie, reeking of jaemin, jaemin, jaemin: on the way to talk to your childhood best friend turned band mate turned ex friend with benefits. 

there was a reason you had chosen this specific cafe to talk to hyuck at. if anything went wrong, jaemin was on shift (no, he wasn't scheduled for today. how he managed to convince his boss to let him clock in because "he felt like working" was beyond you) and was ready to run to your rescue at the drop of a hat. 

you refused to let your nerves get the better of you, squeezing jaemin's hand one last time before slipping away from the counter, beelining towards the messy head of dark hair you knew so well. had you not had this fight, maybe you would have reached out and messed it up even more, if just to see the annoyed glint in his eyes.

there was no trace of that glint now, instead there was an intense exhaustion consuming his expression.

he looked up.

"i'm sorry."

you sat down.

"i know you are."

"you do?" his eyes widened. the slightest bit of hope entered his gaze. like he had expected to be shut down the instant he tried to apologize, surprised at your willingness to listen.

"yes, hyuck. i know you." after spending years with him by your side, you knew his mouth moved faster than his mind. you were well aware of his habits, good and bad. "i know you didn't actually mean any of that. it still hurt, but i knew you didn't mean it."

"i don't deserve you." there were tears in his eyes. a sight you had seen infrequently enough throughout the decade you had known each other to be able to count them on your fingers (plus 3 toes).

a sigh. another bad habit he had picked up: self deprecation. "you're wonderful, you deserve everything."

"i'm still sorry."

"that's good. i'm still mad."

"i know." 

"see, we both know each other." you saw the beginnings of a smile grace his face at your words. 

"we do."

"are you going to tell me why you said it?" as lovely as it was to have a civil conversation with him for the first time in days, you knew neither of you would truly be settled until you really talked about it.

"my parents are getting divorced."

and suddenly, it felt like everything froze around you. you had spent enough time with his family throughout your teenage years to be an honorary member. at times, it had even felt like his parents were your own. peering out into the crowd at your talent shows (performing alongside hyuck, obviously) and grinning at the sight of his parents in the crowd, but never your own. 

"i'm sorry." it was as much for him as it was for yourself. an apology, carrying over to comfort donghyuck, as well as your own inner child. 

"don't be, it's better for them than fighting all the time." he was right, of course. he was right a lot of the time, but you would never let him know that.

"i'm still sorry."

"it sounds like you're parroting my words back at me." a smile finally cracked through his face. you felt a weight lift off of your shoulders.

"i know."

"i shouldn't have taken it out on you. i don't think you're a slut. i don't think you're easy."

"i know." 

"i was just mad. i was upset at my parents and i wanted to let off steam with you but you didn't want to, which is completely okay." he added the last part hurriedly, not wanting you to get the wrong idea about his thought process. his panic prompted a small laugh to fall from your lips. "but i immediately came to the conclusion that you didn't have time for me at all anymore just because you didn't want to have sex, and that made me even more angry. it scared me to think one of my best friends was brushing me off to the side."

"i'll always have time for you. i love you." you knew he knew that. but you knew he got in his head too much and often convinced himself you didn't. 

"i love you too. i still treated you like shit though." 

"you did." you weren't one to lie. if someone fucked up, you had no problem letting them know as much. you knew hyuck knew that too.

"for the record, i really do want everything to go well with you and jaemin. he makes you happy, and that makes me happy." you could see the sincerity in his eyes. 

"everything is going well. i talked to him. we're taking labels slowly." the first time mentioning it to someone else. it made it feel more real. the same giddiness that arose from your talk with jaemin this morning bubbled up in your chest.

"you're getting really good at communication." 

"i am. you need to get better. you know we'll always listen to you." yet another bad habit of his you had become familiar with. his overthinking convinced him that talking with people about what was troubling him would burden them. 

"i do. i know. thank you."

"thank you too. i'm not going to forgive you, but it feels better to have an explanation. and i missed you."

"i missed you too." you might have been imagining it, but his posture seemed slightly peppier. he looked less tired, even by just a little bit. "rina wants to talk to you too."

you sighed. "if jimin wants to talk to me she can arrange something herself. i'm not reaching out first when she's in the wrong."

"i told her you would say that."

"you know me too well." you were both grinning at this point. you hadn't realized just how much you had missed him.

with the brunt of the nasty stuff having been discussed, you decided there was no better time than now to actually indulge in a meal, ordering pastries and drinks. you flashed jaemin a thumbs up before settling down with hyuck again, a mischievous shine in your eyes as you stared donghyuck down.

"...what?"

"so. what's going on with you and jisung?"

. . .

.. next | .. masterlist

© susicheng : please do not copy, reupload, or translate my work

#: @kpopwh0r3 @alethea-moon @t-102 @jae-n0 @yukisroom97 @kukkurookkoo @urlocalbeaner5

[demonvampire180writes]

A spice prompt, you say? Gimme Tommy going over to the loft to grovel but the second "I'm sorry" leaves his lips, he can't get much else out after that because they're too busy devouring each other.

(I'm actually V88SY, it's a side blog 😂)

Oooooo. Okay. Let's see if I can keep this somewhat short.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Tommy's palms are sweating as he walks the familiar hall of the condo complex. The lights seem brighter, the shadows deeper, and it feels like there's eyes coming from every peephole he passes. <i>Get it together, Kinard.</i> He tells himself. He licks his suddenly very dry lips.

It takes him five minutes to work up the courage to knock. He paces back and forth until he feels like he can see the carpet wearing thinner and thinner with each stride. They're grown adults. Tommy is more than ready to admit that he fucked up, and that he hasn't stopped thinking of Evan once. He needs him more than a fish needs water to survive.

Giving his hands one last good swipe down his thighs, he takes a shuddering breath and raises his fist to knock. There's an elongated moment of silence before he hears the familiar crash of someone dropping something to rush to the door before whoever is behind it, leaves. Then the door swings open and Evan stands there in a disaster of an apron, covered in who knows what. Sugar permeates the air, choking Tommy's senses.

Or maybe that's just the lump in his throat that he can't swallow, choking convulsively as he tries to find the words. Find what he came here to say. Evan just stands in the doorway with his brow furrowed and Tommy can no longer tell if it's anger or hurt behind the expression and that's a crushing blow. "Evan." He wheezes, lifting a hand to... What. Touch him? Caress him? He doesn't have that right; not anymore. But the instinct is still there, even if he doesn't deserve it.

Evan stares him down, looking colder and colder the more they do their awkward dance around each other. "Tommy." His words feel like silk against his ears. "What are you doing here?"

"Um. I..." He stuffs his hands deep into his pockets, trying to hide the way they're clenched into fists so tight his fingers are turning white. He scuffs the toe of his boot against the ground, dropping his eyes to watch the way threads pull loose just so he doesn't have to look into that piercing stare anymore.

Evan huffs and Tommy see's him cross his arms from under his lashes, that broad chest expanding so much his t-shirt is close to splitting at the seams. His pecs continue to be impeccable. "Listen, I'd love to stand here all day wondering why you've shown up after four months of radio silence, without any warning at all, but I've got bread in the oven, and Maddie is stopping by in an hour or so. If you're just going to stand there then I'm closing the door."

Tommy's chest squeezes so hard he can't breathe and his hand shoots out unbidden, slamming against the partially closed aforementioned door. Biting his bottom lip, he fumbles for a moment before squeaking, "Look, Evan, I'm so sorry I-" He doesn't get another word out because Evan's lips are on his and he's stealing every atom of air he's gathered. Whimpering, his hands flail until finding purchase on Evan's hips. Evan's hands are on his face, pulling Tommy in hard against him.

Blunt teeth nip at Tommy's bottom lip until he tastes copper. Evan is relentless as he devours the older man's mouth. Tommy is guided through the loft just far enough for Evan to slam him against one of the few flat walls in the place. The air whooses from his lungs and Evan gives him a second to recover, choosing to go after his neck instead. Tommy keens as his knees go weak. His head is filled with pillow fuzz; this isn't how this is supposed to go but he can't remember the right way. His brain is filled with Evan and only Evan.

That's when the man pulls away and plants a head on Tommy's head and begins pushing until all he can do is sink to his knees, gazing up with glazed glacial blues at the man who changed his whole world. He's still got his hands around that trim waist and he flexes his fingers like a cat making biscuits, uncertain what's happening.

"I grieved you, Tommy. I grieved us. I spent weeks, no months, wondering what I did wrong. Why I wasn't enough, or why you never told me I was too much. I..." He takes a deep inhale through his nose. "I got so depressed because I thought you were the one who would never leave me, and then I just got pissed. So pissed that I baked LA out of flour because I didn't know where else to release that energy. But through it all, through all those emotions, all I could think about was having you back. Because you're it for me, Tommy. No one else will ever be able to make me feel what you did. And now you come here with an apology on your lips." He exhales. "I want to forgive you, too. So fucking much."

"Evan I-"

Evan grabs him by the hair and pulls his head back, expression murderous. "DId I tell you to speak?" Evan shakes Tommy's head lightly until he whimpers and manages a nearly indiscernible head shake. "Then shut up and listen." He lets go but his hands drop to the button on his jeans which he pops open, the zipper sounding like a thunderclap as it slides open revealing boxers the color of the tshirt Evan had been wearing the day Tommy had torn both their hearts in two. Tommy's pupils dilate.

"I'm a nice guy, I even kind of sort of forgave the parents who only birthed me to use me for spare parts, but I can only be burned so many times before there's no more layers of skin protecting me. I'm sick to death of cleaning up my own wounds. So I want to forgive you, but how can I trust that you won't just bust through the charred pieces of me that remain and go straight for the soft bits that have nothing left?" He slowly pulls his jeans down until the tops of his hairy thighs are exposed just below the line of his boxer briefs. The bulge of his cock makes Tommy's mouth dry and even as Evan continues to speak he can't draw his eyes away. He watches the wet patch grow, little by little. "See what you're still doing to me, Tommy? See the way my body won't let me forget what you gave to me?" Tommy nods.

Evan's voice is curt as he pulls his cock out, grabbing it with one hand and wrenching Tommy's face forward with the other until the tip of Evan's cock bounces against his cheek. "This is your fault, Tommy. All of it. Everything that I've gone through in the last year is because I met you." He's choking up but he hides it well, not even a frustrated sniffle to be had. "So you're going to fix it. Here and now." He guides his cock to Tommy's mouth and his jaw drops open without any prompting at all.

A whine escapes him as Evan's thick member pushes past his lips, the weight and texture as familiar as his own. The skin is soft, pliant, and ever so slightly salty. Evan likely hasn't showered yet today. The taste is heady and Tommy feels dizzy for only a moment because he's not given any time at all to take it in. The moment Evan's in as far as he can go without Tommy opening up his throat, Evan slams his hips forward, large hands digging into Tommy's curls, keeping him in place.

Grunting in surprise, Tommy would have fallen backwards if not for the death grip in his hair. His hands shoot out, reaching for anything to hold onto. He finds Evan's waist but it's not enough. They snake around until each hand holds one globe of an ass that takes work. He squeezes it as hard as he's squeezing his eyes shut.

Evan's mouth hasn't quit spewing insults since he's taken Tommy's mouth by force. He's plowing into him with fast, hard, snaps of his hips. Drool leaks like a faucet from the corner of Tommy's lips and tears streak down his cheeks like rivers. "Open your throat, Tommy. I know you can take it." Tommy grunts. He's out of practice but with Evan in his arms, he wants to do anything he can to win him back. So he does his best to open even further, feeling the way Evan scrapes against his esophagus.

The amount of precum spilling from the tip makes it nearly impossible to not choke. Evan's tirade continues, only taking long enough breaks for him to catch his breath, withdrawing his cock only so Tommy can gasp in two or three quick breaths of air. His scalp burns from the way Evan is holding onto him but no way does he even consider complaining.

What could have been minutes, or possibly hours, later Evan's hips stutter and his thrusts become aborted little jerks. Tommy recognizes the signs of Evan getting close so he focuses on tounging the slit, finally being given enough control to suck his cock with technique and not just forced enthusiasm while squeezing Evan's ass so hard he's certain there will be hand shaped bruises.

Finally Evan stills, whimpering a quiet, breathy, "I'm coming," before he's spilling down Tommy's throat, buried balls deep with Tommy's nose buried in his pubic curls. And Tommy swallows it all down, every last drop even if he feels like he's suffocating.

Eventually, Evan stumbles back, a hand coming up to cover his eyes. All the emotions he seems to have been holding back break free and he lets out a sob. Standing slowly, like an animal photographer trying not to spook the wild cat, Tommy wipes his mouth and approaches his ex, hands shaking and uncertain as he reaches out to cup Evan's shoulders a moment before pulling him into a hug. There's no resistance. No punching, or kicking, or hitting.

There's only the silent shaking of a broken man.

"Why did you do it, Tommy? Just. Why? I thought you loved me." His voice breaks and he buries his head into Tommy's chest, ignoring the way his soft cock hangs limply in the free air.

Tommy wraps him up even tighter and dares to bury his nose into that soft brown hair he's missed so much. "Because I was scared, Evan. I was scared because I had never loved anyone as much as I loved... love... you. I don't think I would've survived if somewhere down the line you realized that I was no longer for you; you're still young, you could always find someone new. So I left, hurting us both, before you could hurt me. And I've never been more sorry in my life."

"You should be you stupid son of a bitch." The words were biting, but they were deserved, so Tommy just holds him tighter. Another few minutes past. "I want to try again. But I don't want to have to worry about you running away again."

Pulling away, Tommy cups Evan's face and forces their eyes to meet. "I swear to you, Evan Buckley, that if you give me another chance, I will never leave you, not even after they've buried me in the cold hard ground. I'll haunt you like Billy Boils."

Evan snorts but as he goes in for another kiss, there's a shrill beeping sound and Evan pulls away yelling, "My bread!" He dashes back into the kitchen.

Concerned, Tommy follows after him chiding, "Put your willy away, first, Evan!" For the first time since arriving Tommy takes a full breath, appreciating the scent of poppyseed loaf in the air.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

So... Is this a win?

I would give this a solid

🌶🌶/ 🌶🌶🌶🌶🌶

Send me more spicy asks.

[penumbra-mayhem]

Big Brother - Tank & David fic

"When he died...I lost myself. Lost myself to my new role as alpha. Lost myself to my grief...lost myself to trying to bury that grief...."

(I hc that Tank has a stutter; there's more on that here if you'd like. This fic takes place sometime after the Inversion and before Quinn gets caught. I hope you enjoy <3)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Mind if I join you?"

Tank turned to peer up at David before nodding and looking back out into the moonwashed night. The porch steps creaked as David made his way down and sat next to Tank. They silently offered him their lit cigarette.

For a while the two smoked in silence, listening to the crickets' song and the pack's muffled chatter inside the house. Eventually, David used the brief nicotine hit to spur him into bravery:

"I uh...I want to talk..."

Tank's eyes flitted over to David, then down at the dying cigarette between their fingers. They took one final, steadying drag before putting it out. David swallowed. His voice was gentle—an uncommon tone for him to take with Tank,

"...I want to talk about Gabe."

Tank tensed. They could feel their walls already coming up. They could feel the urge to run. To do anything to avoid this conversation. They hadn't talked about Gabe with anyone, let alone David, since that night.

David could feel the shift in their aura. A moment passed—one long moment, enough so that Tank could leave if they really wanted. When they didn't move, David continued,

"When he died...I lost myself. Lost myself to my new role as alpha. Lost myself to my grief...lost myself to trying to bury that grief. I didn't want to acknowledge what had happened. How...how hurt I was...how lost. I became hard. Cold. Sometimes...sometimes even cruel—"

"—D-D-David—"

"—Please," David pleaded, his voice devoid of any edge or force.

Tank held David's gaze for as long as they could before looking away, blinking rapidly in frustration. They could never win against him, not even in this.

David took a few breaths before speaking again, "That night...that night I was cruel. That night, I was selfish. I was scared. I didn't want to acknowledge how much you were hurting...because that would've meant I had to accept how much I was hurting too...You came to me because you felt like I was the only other person in the world who knew what you were going through. And you weren't wrong. But I was."

David's words from years ago growled in Tank's mind: Why the fuck are you crying? He wasn't your dad, he was mine! Fucking hell, not everything is about you!

They bit their lip to keep it from quivering and stared up at the stars, willing their eyes to not water, unsuccessfully.

"I shouldn't have said what I said," David admitted, his heart sinking at the sight of Tank trying to hold themself together. "Gabe took you in. He was a father to you. Which means I was...am...your brother. You came to me grieving, and I dismissed your grief and shut you out...and I'm s-sorry."

Hearing the break in his voice, Tank finally looked back over at David. They watched a tear slide down his cheek. Then another. And another.

"I've been a shitty big brother. I haven't been there for you. But I want to be here for you, now, if you'll let me."

Tank stared at David silently. He tried to glean something, anything, from their intense gaze to no avail. Dread began to pool in his stomach. It was too late. He couldn't fix this. He didn't deserve to fix this. He squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head away in defeat. He heard Tank sniffle. He heard the wooden step creak as they began to move. They were leaving, he knew it. He was right, he was too late.

Then he felt them lean into his side. Opening his eyes, David found Tank curled up against him, their head resting on his shoulder. He watched a tear slide down their cheek. Then another. And another.

He raised his arms, wrapping them tightly around Tank. He could still feel them holding back, knew that this was only one wall down, with many more to go. But this was more than he expected, and he was grateful.

"I m-m-m-m-miss him," Tank whispered.

David's chest ached at the admission. He pet their head and whispered back, "Me too."

And tears fell. Then another. And another.

[townofcadence]

"Ah...." Artair rubbed at his neck. "That's.... fair. To be complicated." And she was likely right. There really wasn't much he could do to make a situation like that any better. It wasn't one that got better. And if her family chose to leave her behind........

He feels a prickling along his spine. He swallows and tries to keep himself from the heat there at the notion. Rachael deserved to explain what she wanted, and if he got angry on her behalf, he might become a source of stress she had to calm down. Simmer but don't boil over. Easier said than done, but the silence gave him time to do so, as they made their way into the place. Leaves crunched underfoot now, interspersing the browned pine-straw.

"I'm sorry. I mean--- I know it's an empty word, kinda. A hundred 'sorry's don't....fix it. But.... I get it. That's what I mean. I know what it's like to just ... lose something. From dying or just... losing something or someone you always thought was going to be a part of your life. That feeling when it's gone and you just have to someone keep going, because there's no choice. And.... I wish you didn't have to go through that."

His assistance is accepted to get out the rest of the way. Thick mud caked up the sides of her boots and would gather more material as they walked through the pines. "I don't.... I dunno if it'll help." She kept her eyes to the ground, still feeling shameful.

"I don't talk about my folks a lot as it is. It's harder now that they're gone." That was a good start for a small confession. Having Artair to bounce some of this off of didn't make it easier to talk about, but it did open up a flow so she could start to. She didn't like how it felt like talking to a priest through a confessional booth.

"Yew remember at Honeys party when I asked yew if yer parents were still alive? I shoulda asked if they were still around instead. We both would be answerin' No fer that now."

[late-night-vocaloid]

VVV Music Live live reaction that I'm calling a recap | Day 1

I took these down in a note during the show. Screenshots included but screenshot-only post also coming after this.

Ohhhh okay, I didn’t like the outfits at first but if they’re all part of a (massive) space crew it’s cute (shown in later 2D art screenshot)

Is this the same song as last time? Frimomen and Rei’s voices stand out so much lol

They’re all so cute…….

Yuki….. baby… standing with Maki

Guitar’s fun. Where do they put the other singers while one is performing? Do they go in the ship?

Oh they should give them applause. The vacuum of space white noise and reverb………

It’s nice to see her having fun lol. A little acting. I don’t remember her name right now but I like her. The blue one. (Minato)

Deep sea girl???? Maki sounds different. SynthV versatility I suppose. Cool arrange.

Oh my god I also can’t remember her name but she came out so funny, she was frowning. She doesn’t want to be here. Awesome voice. Moca.

Moca and Maki you are so cute. Barbie movie moment. I’d trust Maki with my life btw.

Is this because Saki and Tsudumi aren’t here. (Are they? I don't remember)

Baby walks out onstage!!!!!!

I mean they soooort of had her do the pose but not really

It’s okay you can let her speak in a talkloid voice. She’s shy I guess

Now that’s the dance!

Let’s be so real Yuki is the star

Mirai!! :) Now This is a Vocaloid. It’s a cute song for her. I like the song

Wait since when can she talk

I don’t know what you’re saying…. I think it’s cute when they have them interact

I love Vocaloid. Mirai Komachi resident Vocaloid.

Rei!!! Iyowa!! Rei looks like her real robot. I love you robot. I’m reeeally into her robot choreo. It almost doesn’t look like motion capture. Her sudden drops are cool. Her wandering around the stage + expressions, this is a robot

Talking??? The mouth looks good. Her spaced out looking expression…..

Resident utau

I’m looking up this song later (song isn't in the screenshot. It's NIKOTTE)

Girl you are so funny. Her star power

She’s literally just looking around! Her quick head tilt for a pose. I love her

Realizing she has Teto’s charm

Like actually she’s so cute?? I’m really seeing the appeal

Every time they show the next silhouette… every girl here has a bob lol

Yaaay the Kotonohas

Rikka I don’t know what you’re saying

Two songs per Tokyo 6 girl is kinda wild, good for them

Chifuyu sidestepping just into frame so funny

Oh I guess because no song with the three of them ?

Yeah Chifuyu Moca combo makes sense. And now: the quietest performance you’ve ever heard. The cuts between them are cool

Day one over!

(Reading of the names cute) (Yuki got to talk!) (Love hearing Rei read them off)

Next post will be Day 2 where I absolutely lose it. Somehow, I'm only the tiniest fraction into my screenshots, the scrollbar is still at the very top of the folder, which makes me feel physical fear.

[zukkaoru]

this is my villain origin story. btw.

[nocentis]

Black Arum ┆ Siegrain

Content warning: main character death, cannibalism, gore, toxic/unreliable narrator, highly canon divergent character portrayal. Read at your own risk. You will probably take psychic damage from this.

╳┆A lure was stuck in the soot between his lungs. Many times he'd felt the tug — enough that the wire fray had worn a rut where his ribs met — and many times he'd found her on the other end, reeling for remnants of him that no longer existed. She would aim to break him open, sift around in the cinders for those specks of him she wanted to confiscate, keep for herself, so that she could finally be rid of him. Once those flecks were washed and panned, the remains would reek like plough mud closure. For that reason he would come to her whole, every whit of ash accounted for.

A cherry little game they'd play. Her with flint and steel, eager to reignite that paltry spark of "good" that flickered freely for a lapse before he remembered himself. Him with tinder and kindling, letting it light only to call on the rain again. Her with just enough hope. Him with just enough time.

That resolve was so very compelling. More than her beauty, her candor, and even that glow he so loved to bask in — that luster he wanted to hold between his teeth and bury under his nails — more than that, her tenacity was a toothsome temptation, and he wasn't keen to deny himself anything.

So when he felt the pull, he caved to the beck and spooled the lisle. That day, the line seemed lighter, thinner, than it ever had. It should've been strong. Tensile. Instead it felt gossamer fine and just as frail, poised to tear at an ill touch, and he wasn’t exactly renowned for his gentle hands. Still, he gathered it with both palms and wrapped it proudly around himself like a ceremonial sash, grin scrawled across his face something devilish.

╳┆He found her lying in the shade beneath a long-lived magnolia, still and silent as she never was, with the color of her namesake spread around her head in halo streaks. Battle-torn, as she so often was, and yet uncannily... passive.

Anything he'd planned to say went out the airlock. Instead, he stood there with an anchor in his stomach, reaping the benefit of doubt.

Not a frown nor a sigh when he darkened her sanctum, only heavenward eyes tearless and unblinking and a resigned breath just short of peaceful. That worn tether waned phantom thin, light as helium, and the tension in his chest went slack.

There was no definite snap. No dramatic severing or ear-popping moment of clarity. Only the vague sense of loss so fresh a wound that denial was a numbing salve.

“Get up,” his voice a command, sandgrit against whetstone, thickened by an unnamed antigen.

The silence felt like mockery. A placid scene void of chittering fauna, clouds' drum, or even the most timid breeze. It wanted him to hear the absence of her breath and the stillness of her chest. It wanted him to hear the hollow. The empty. The nothing. Wanted it to resonate; to find the furthest reaches of his mind and clean them out until all that was left was this icy, clarifying silence.

He knew the end when he saw it. This was something much worse. It was robbery.

Her life wasn’t for the world to take. It was for him to hold in his hands. 

Something wet and pathetic slicked his tongue — some whiny, pleading thing — and it was stubborn as oil. The authority slid to the back of his throat and left him choking, “You are the indomitable Titania. You’ve laced fingers with Death time and again only to rise and slay and conquer, so get up.”

Her warmth was set to a slow drip, spilling from her in tired beads and seeping soundlessly into her chosen ground. Little whispers of her lost to greedy loam, sullied, never to be returned.

A waste of precious love. The sod won’t drink of her as he will. It will take of her and give back what? New “life” so fragile and fleeting? A feeble weed will take root, bloom its days few, and curl itself inside out? Pathetic. An insult to her legacy. An insult to the diamond-split sharp of her bladesoul.

His heart boiled over — popping, sticking, simmering sicksweet saccharine. It colored him cloying, flooded his mouth, and forced him to kneel at her altar.

"Please," he keened, hollow and morose, and his own pleading sickened him, “Say something.”

The sun trickled through the leaves like ichor, lighting up her black-blown eyes and the thin ring of honey surrounding them. Dim, distant, and dead as the moon.

His hand carved a path to her face, fingers featherlight against her fading flush. He brushed her bangs from her eyes and forced an unbroken breath through his quavering mouth. He traced each scar too faint to see and the parts of her skin their star kissed. Memorized the map of her face — each curve and crease, each fine hair, and every eyelash. He would carve out a space in his mind in her shape and fill it with the thousand sweet nothings he kept in his pockets.

He gathered her hand and threaded it with his own. When he opened his mouth, a rickety twine escaped from the deepest point of his chest, so he forced his jaws shut to keep the grief corked. He uncurled her fingers and pressed his cheek into her palm, trapping her there against his own scarred skin. His eyes fell shut as he breathed in this borrowed touch — this moment fated, stolen from him by this world's insatiable avarice.

He kissed her palm directly in the center; held it against his mouth and felt his own ruined breath echo back to him from the deepest grooves of her skin. Again, he begged, “Please, Erza.”

Of the armors innumerable now haunting this hallowed ground, this one least befit her. 

He revered Death. If there was a god, surely it was Death, he thought, for Death asks for nothing but life. The dead don’t know that they’re dead. They know a split second of euphoria and then a sharp, definite end. Isn’t that the work of a gracious god? One last stroke of color whether in peace or peril, and then eternal rest. Back to the dust you sprouted from.

But now he couldn’t see any of that beauty he often waxed poetic about. All he could see was change yet to come. All he could see was her, and he wanted her back.

He wanted her back, yet he knew better than anyone that there was no such thing as resurrection. While Death might be gracious, it was not generous, and it was not to be reasoned with.

The thought of her buried deep, bathed by the dark and abandoned to rot — it washed his mouth acid sour. It ate straight through his tongue and lingered in the roots of his teeth, burning, raging redhot in his jaws’ marrow.  A grave didn't suit her anymore than a pyre.

Soon she would be cold. Stiff. A feast for flies and their insatiable young. In the days to come, she would bubble and bloat and sallow. Her skin would loosen and slough off. The sun would bleach her bones. The meat of her would melt into oil and fat and bogspit. She would mix in with the soil, the groundwater, and this thankless magnolia would thrive.

It was tall, thick, with branches spread in all directions. The lowest of its limbs showed off the varied deep greens of its large waxy leaves, their undersides a chalky brown. A few white flowers bloomed, palm-shaped petals open in praise like they'd come to witness and worship. There was no question why she'd chosen to crawl here. It must've reminded her of home.

Despite its beauty, it was hardly worthy of her. Nothing in this ravenous world was. Her grave should be carved within his chest. There, he could keep her warm. He could host her in his veins. One day, they would wade the waters of woe together. Until then she could live under his skin.

He wouldn’t allow her to spoil. Wouldn’t place her gently into time’s whittlesome hands only to lose her peel by peel by rotting peel.

This world has taken much from you. Do not allow it to take her too.

A carnal ache etched itself into bone, a depth of passion he hadn't felt since he wrought for a false Heaven.

She is a fruit, ripe as a plum and twice the taste. Peel her open. There is a seed at her core. Plant it in your soot-field chest and watch her bloom anew.

What are these hands for if not this?

Flesh like sheets of silk. Muscle like rope. Blood like honey. Bone like an ivory trove. The splitting, the squelching, the straining, ripping, snapping; it burrowed marrow-deep and lingered there. Her chest peeled apart like jagged teeth, jaws croaking their rusted tune, and inside that redslick maw was the center of the universe.

The heart upon its throne, still as she, shielded by her precious lungs. It slid into his palm like it was always meant to be there. Raw, rich, and so very scarlet. Its sinews strained against his pull — those hollow vines that fed even the furthest parts of her — so he wrenched them free and draped himself in them like matchless finery.

Eat. Eat ‘til you’re sick. There’s a hole the size of her in the pit of your stomach. Eat until you fill it. 

What are these teeth for if not this?

Tough as leather; smooth as rubber. His teeth slid right off the rind and clicked together with nothing but metallic sheen between them. He gnashed at that ink-dripping muscle until he found a spot weak enough to tear apart. It tasted of rare meat and iron; a heady gore thick enough to drown in. He swallowed, gasped, and that first new breath felt like a blade.

The child inside him saw her split-open ribs as his cradle. He wanted to crawl inside, curl up, and die. He wanted to paint himself her color.

He lost his vision to the hot, angry wash. His own sobs were a distant sound, muffled by meat and blood and his own desperate fingers. He was numb in the mouth and in the shake of his hands, but he forced himself to eat, eat despite the choking, the gagging, the wet, weeping remorse.

Don’t you dare throw her up. Be grateful. Swallow and say thank you and finish what you’ve started.

He bit into his own palm, indistinguishable from her core, and he cried out in sour relief. His hands spread raw grief over his face, through his hair, and down his neck.

You’re no better than this starving world.

He curled into himself, hands clutching his own aching chest, and despite the cloudless sky, he called upon the rain.

[recitedemise]

𝗚𝗮𝗹𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝗹𝘂𝗰𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝗲𝗲𝗸 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗽 𝗵𝗶𝗺𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳, 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗲𝗮𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗼 𝗹𝗲𝗻𝗱 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗻𝗲𝗲𝗱𝗲𝗱. This, beyond being a testament to his softer heart, his rather sizable well of care, is a consequence of his time shared with Mystra. Being a worshipper, a follower and lover both to the mother of magic, Gale is far more familiar with giving than receiving. A tremendous deal more. Beyond those illusions of love, Mystra granted him nothing, and whenever she was troubled, even sour or short, it was Gale, doting Gale, who would smooth it out. In truth, short of the stars, he had offered her everything. His whole life to boot. Still, living for some years prioritizing Mystra, Gale's grown notably reluctant to ask for help. It's why, when strapped with the netherese orb, newly blighted and rotting to death, he'd sooner clamored in his tower than look to friends. He's loathed to show his folly, of course, and is far from a fan of stirring worry, but with Mystra, any ask he'd made was resolutely shunned, and from his lover, his deity, that left its mark. Gale--a giver, a man that wants to hope but doesn't dare to--is not a man to ask for anything. If ever he does, the ask is comically small, and even then, he expects to be denied almost immediately. Consequently, an eager kindness leaves him floored. Gale can read displeasure. (See: Mystra.) Gale's trained to soothe it, too. Yet, when confronted with the novelty of that same generosity, your resident Gale of Waterdeep is like a fish out of water.

[femmefaggot]

Gah okay I hope I can maybe sleep soon but I don't know. you do not need to read these tags is it a lot.

[tpwrtrmnky]

hindsight

[ID: A two-panel comic with crudely drawn stick figures.

Panel 1: The lime green person is talking to the leaf green person and the moss green person.

Lime: "I... have a confession to make."

Leaf: "Go ahead."

Lime: "I want to rewatch the Wizard Child movies."

Leaf: "Didn't the wizard author get incredibly chromophobic?"

Lime: "Yeah I just... It's nostalgia you know? They meant a lot to me when I was a kid."

Panel 2: The three are on the couch.

Lime: "All right, let's go."

Leaf: "It's so weird how the wizard author just turned chromophobic though. Like I remember this series being pretty good for its time. It'll be weird seeing their work contrasting with their views now."

Moss: "I'm just glad we got the movies for free through normal and legal means. Heh."

End ID.]

[ID 2: Scenes from three Wizard Child movies.

Wizard Child and the Simplistic Morality: A slightly round child with a propeller hat is talking to a child with no hat.

Round child: "I am so fucking fat and greedy I am textually shown to be fat because I am greedy and also evil."

Hatless child: "You are to infer my moral purity from juxtaposition with this fat child. Woe is me for our shared parent has deprived me of a propeller hat."

Wizard Child and the Goodness of Wealth: An adult wizard is talking to the child, who now has a wizard hat.

Wizard Adult: "Wizard child you are secretly extremely rich."

Wizard Child: "I will form biases regarding the bankers all being triangular for some reason!"

Wizard Adult: "Your wealth is deserved because your true parent was Good and therefore you are also Good."

Wizard Child: "Now we should acquire consumer goods. Buy consumer goods!"

Wizard Child and the Dark Family History: A blue-grey horse person is talking to the wizard child.

Blue-grey: "No, wizard child. You don't understand. I am one of the good ones, because unlike the bad ones I don't try to spread my curse that makes you a blue-grey horselike creature to others!"

Wizard child: "Wow uncle blue-grey you are one of the good ones! I forgive you for being a horse because I am so good I would even forgive horses. I sure hope you don't conspicuously get killed off later in this movie!"

End ID 2.]

[ID 3: Oh hell no there are even more of these.

Wizard Youth and the Tokenistic Relationship Dynamics: A square headed wizard youth is talking to the former wizard child, now a wizard youth.

Square Wizard Youth: "Wizard child, as the only person with a square head in this entire series it is my duty to inform you that you are the savior of all people with square heads, too. Let us build a one-sided relationship that only furthers your character development, after which I will immediately lose all plot relevance."

Wizard Youth: "I will do this because I am a maturing wizard youth and need disposable relationships that don't threaten the endgame!"

Wizard Youth and the Escalation of Stakes: The Dark Wizard, a sort of grey-green person with a cloak, is pointing at Wizard Youth.

Dark Wizard: "Wizard Youth, I have returned!"

Wizard Youth: "Dark Wizard! Why are you green now?"

Dark Wizard: "Evil magic made me green! I am green with envy towards all who are good!"

Wizard Youth: "I will not engage with how you are clearly based on fascist ideologies and yet this narrative plays into fascist aesthetic sensibilities!"

Wizard Youth and the Post-Hoc Revelations: The Wizard Youth is leaning over their Wizard Mentor, who is laying in a pool of blood.

Wizard Youth: "Wizard Mentor no! You can't die!"

Wizard Mentor: "It is fine, wizard youth. My death will further your character development into a wizard adult. Also, I was secretly a very very dark purple this entire time. I never brought it up so I could retain narrative approval.

End ID 3.]

[ID 4: Wizard Adult and the Overdue Conclusion. Three panels. I am sorry.

Panel 1: The dark wizard is dueling the Wizard Adult with magic beams.

Dark Wizard: "Evil green beam!"

Wizard Adult: "Good red beam! Despite the enormous variety of magic in this series this is what our final battle looks like!"

Panel 2: Wizard Adult stands victorious over the dark wizard, who is dying on the ground.

Wizard Adult: "In the end, dark wizard, you were defeated because I am morally superior to you."

Dark Wizard: "I was a product of systemic failures. There will be someone like me again someday!"

Panel 3: Zoom in on wizard adult, who says:

"Not if I can help it. Because I am going to be a wizard cop now. The moral of this story is that all systemic issues can be solved by finding a bad guy to beat."

End ID 4.]

[ID 5: Four panels.

Panel 1: Return to the green trio on their couch, watching the TV say "The End." All are are silent.

Panel 2: They are sitting on the couch. Moss is looking at their phone.

Lime: "Yeah so there were maybe a few signs we missed because we were children."

Leaf: "Yeah. A few. Some."

Panel 3: Continue conversation.

Lime: "So what did you think, Moss?"

Panel 4: Zoom in on Moss, who says: "I've been zoned out on my phone since the second movie. They lost me at the magic stuff. Wizards aren't real."

End ID 5.]

Start - Previous - Next

[mad-hunts]

in response to the other's answer in regards to what jervis would prefer on his toast, jack simply nodded. he'd found himself at a loss for what else to say even though that was actually quite rare for him. maybe it was the idea that barton could be outside at that very moment, listening in, that made jack suddenly feel like a fog had rolled into his mind; making it so that he could protect himself without even knowing for sure that there was a threat in the first place.

barton didn't like talking about julien - he'd pretty much stowed away every single picture but one the family had with him in it, in fact. for it still hurt him too much to look at them. therefore, especially considering his father's history of not being able to regulate his moods well, jack might have to perform 'damage control' if that were the case. but crossing the bridge if he were to get there seemed to apply quite well here. so, the farceur chose to move on and it turned out to be wisely, too.

jervis did look very tense lying there with jack visibly appearing to want to curl up into himself and never come out. after going to the nearby trunk in the room, he opened it. this was done as a means to distract the both of them from succumbing to the weight of their own differing circumstances. though there was certainly a good cover reason for jack to, ❝ oh, wow. ahh... i almost forgot that its supposed to get down into the forties tonight so you might need this. its going to be cold, after all, ❞ it was also hitting sundown at that moment as well.

jack could tell by just looking through the crack in the curtains of the one window in the room. while gnawing on his bottom lip, he pulled out the plush blanket inside of the chest only to shake it out a bit. now, as jack tossed the blanket up just enough to cover jervis's body without touching him? something matilda told him a few years ago echoed in his mind during a conversation they had late at night: 'you know, i know you'd like nothing more than to get rid of all your feelings sometimes - but i hope you never change.'

jack just remembered looking up at the tent he was in that day of camping afterward, as he decided he should probably get to sleep. but it felt validating in a way he couldn't explain as well even now. because jack's first instinct upon seeing jervis was that he was struggling, so he should help him; though one could definitely say that sense of responsibility had made him suffer in the past. thank goodness sucking in a deep breath through his nostrils and exhaling could allow jack to quiet his mind then.

he tilted his head at the other's words and squinting his eyes, deep in thought. of course if jervis didn't believe in one, that was fine, but it appeared like he might. these sorts of concepts could trigger whole debates for a reason, however, as spirituality was something that jack affiliated himself with. but religion? he wasn't so sure, so he more than understood when jervis settled for saying his loved ones being at peace was simply something he wanted to believe in. with jack's sudden exit came the arrival of a much less benevolent figure, to say the least, and barton couldn't say he blamed jervis for seemingly somewhat disappointed that his son left.

jack was easy to get along with, and with just a little bit of time spent with him, he might just win someone over with his compassionate nature. barton knew this well along with the reality he had to learn other people's behaviors throughout the years to appear at least 'semi-normal.' how that was going for the doctor would often depend on who you asked, though. barton could only snort derisively at that, ❝ funny. just remember, you'd be in arkham right now if it weren't for me and my daughter. ❞ he pointed a sharpened nail in the direction of jervis as he proceeded into the room.

the same crack in the curtains jack had once looked through was soon closed with a quick 'swishing' motion. barton was personally raised with a very limited exposure to faith, as neither wesley nor winslow were particularly religious father figures. but barton could admire those who participate in it regardless of their level of involvement in it. though it could be used as a force of evil as much as it could be used for good, a lot of humanity existed in shades of gray.

so even if they were under the threat of suffering through something like eternal damnation after death... in barton's mind, it was only a matter of time before someone used a widespread thing like faith to their own advantage. and maybe this was bad of him but thinking about wesley being in such a place somewhat brought him a sense of twisted satisfaction; because at least barton would be getting a form of justice for every fearful moment wesley put him through that way. barton only blinked as his eyes trailed from jervis's face to the teacup that jack had presumably brought him.

shockingly enough, all he felt when he discovered that marty's father was a powerful figure was an incredible amount of disbelief for a moment before it fizzled away. barton was used to things getting worse even if he couldn't have seen this coming. plus, he'd gotten frighteningly good at treating human lives like this police captain's more as obstacles than actual beings. it remained to be seen which one jervis was to barton. he squinted his eyes before standing up and ultimately finding out that, yeah, he had done that too quickly.

barton felt like he was green around the gills all over again, ❝ that is one way to put it, jervis. but don't worry. you just reminded me that, although we're going to have to get creative, there are ways of getting away with it. i'd say pinning his murder on someone else might be the best. ❞ he uttered after swallowing thickly, making a 'turn around' gesture with his finger towards the other. barton talking about murder as if it was light dinner conversation said everything that needed to be said about how he felt about their current predicament.

maybe it was because he was still feeling a lot of malaise, but no part of it bothered him in particular. the doctor was more worried about jervis becoming queasy because he accidentally saw the scars where he'd stitched on yves's arm to his own body, ❝ uhh, just in case you didn't get that, turn around. i'm going to change my shirt. ❞ once that was done, barton slipped his current bloodied one over his head only to replace it with the other. he slumped down in the chair to the table opposite of jervis and looked over the tarot cards laid out before him.

barton, too, knew how to interpret them. ❝ what were you two planning on doing with these? a 'past, present, and future' reading? because i can do it while my son's gone for you. ❞

Jervis gave the barest of shrugs as he glanced at Jack through his bangs, the quiet rhythm of their breathing, the slow drip of the IV, and the faint shifting of the cards against the tabletop the only sounds piercing the air. "Either one sounds perfectly agreeable. I defer to your good judgment." A ghost of a smile, pale and wan, tugged at his mouth for an infinitesimal moment.

Call it the lingering pangs of paternal instinct or projection, whatever you felt was most appropriate, but some flicker of warmth—worry mingling with concern—stirred within Jervis' breast; softening the veneer of exhaustion and discomfort that clothed him like a second skin. Like an invisible cancer that had latched onto him, draining his vitality—a slow-acting poison decades in the making; only this time, the source was external, a reflection of Jack's own unease radiating across the space between them.

Jervis drew in a shallow breath, feeling the tightness in his chest not as his own, but as if their nerves had blurred and grown entangled. He tried to focus, willing his own breath to steady, his hands to unclench. A low chuckle escaped Jervis' chapped lips at Jack's query. The medications in his IV coursed through him, cold and prickling, sending a frisson over his skin as goosebumps rose in response. And yet, somehow, it eased the deep ache within him, dulling the edges of both pain and nausea. He could feel the weight of his discomfort receding, just slightly, as though the medicine were smoothing his raw nerves; coaxing him toward a delicate, unfamiliar calm.

Not quite like ketamine.... not like the cozy, blithesome feeling that coursed through his veins with each dose. Even when most of his prior consumption of the drug hadn't been consensual—thick enough to cut his teeth on, it ensured small pockets of blissful ignorance hardening into a dissociative shell, like callus. (God bless those poor, ministering angels at Arkham... only a trace of spite and animosity there, rage bleeding with sorrow at how his autonomy and consent was completely ignored, snatched... one wrong move, and he was left cowering in a crumpled heap, or otherwise dead to the world... but now? Would the scales be tipped, if they managed to drag him back there? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know that answer.) If Odysseus and his crew had been desperate to escape the Lotus Eaters only to stumble unwittingly into the clutches of Polyphemus, Jervis felt quite the opposite.

For better or worse, the ketamine had left him numb to everything.

The pain, the grief, the anguish that tore gouges in his heart and mind; lacerated his psyche to shreds, in conjunction with the ECT. Somehow, he compartmentalized it... gravitated to the cannabis as an alternative upon his discharge, once he'd regained his center of gravity and emerged from his self-immurement; the fractures left by his losses and lessons grinding him to the bone. Everything it cost him and what he'd earned in exchange. Simon. Arabella. His time in Ireland. Sylvie. The flood. Alice.

The lengths he had gone...

And so Jervis chuckled; the sound dry and hollow, barely touching his eyes. He met Jack’s gaze, his expression tightening as he mulled over the question, tasting the irony in it.

“An afterlife…” he murmured, his eyes drifting. Thoughts and memories broke the surface like apples bobbing in a bucket: Simon and Stephen putting aside their differences over the blessing at Passover; his and Arabella's quiet, but spirited discussions of Heaven and the saints and catechism, the differences between the Old and New Testaments as they strolled along the shoreline. Stories of the witch trials in Ireland, of John Calvin and his legacy in Scotland.

All the old beliefs he’d grown up with circled back and hit like a tidal wave, tied as much to memories of family as to the concept of religious faith itself, all its beauty and diverse forms, yet it left him feeling frigid now. For a little over three decades, he'd told himself that he could appreciate the mythology of it all, even found it strangely comforting at times, but belief? That had always been a different thing entirely.

Jervis' mind tugged him back to reality. He could sense Jack’s curiosity pressing at the edge of his own awareness, a secondary presence so strong it was almost rendered a physical form. "That's.... a complicated notion, from where I'm standing.” He let out a slow, careful breath; curled his fingers back around his necklace as he dissected the question. “But... yes. I'd like to think our loved ones are at peace."

He could map it all in a dozen lines, right down to his own lived experiences, the rules he tried so hard to follow, the ideals that always seemed to warp and fray. There was karma, consequence, perhaps even the lingering shadows of what people might call a curse. But the idea of any higher being calling the shots? It gnawed at him like an old wound. And so Jervis looked back at Jack, almost apologetic, the faint sting of an old ache flickering beneath his words.

He was spared from elaborating with Barton's sudden appearance; lurking on the threshold like a wraith. Poor Jack's confidence and ease withered like a hapless petunia caught in the dead of winter. A few quiet words of dismissal and a pat to the shoulder were all that heralded the reluctant, leery departure of his one potential ally in the wolf's den.

'As phantoms frighten beasts when shadows fall.' Jervis sighed, slowly pulled himself into a sitting position, looked Barton in the eye; as well as he could, anyway, with the lingering gray spots and his missing glasses still impeding his line of sight. “Maybe we each make our own heaven—or our own hell.”

Perhaps that was petty or harsh of him to say out loud... though that was the truth of the matter. Jervis didn’t need religious belief to drive him, after all; he needed only his own peculiar code, that precarious balance between curiosity and cynicism, and the sense of duty he still felt for a daughter who had deserved something far more stable, more secure; safer than the patchwork life he had known. Whatever his flaws, his faults, some small part of him still respected the right to believe—what faith meant to others; its power to inspire, to build, to destroy. The cause and effect of human history, the double-edged promises of faith. And maybe that was the root of it: faith could be a tool, a guide, a balm.

But then the stark, often bitter truths he’d learned through survival would come rushing back. Besides, he reckoned, Barton likely wouldn't give a damn about any of his prior train of thought. In any case, on the topic of hell, Jervis never pictured the vast, cavernous expanse of fire and brimstone that Jonathan Edwards had once preached about in the summer of 1741. No. Hell always conjured up fevered images of a frozen lake in the deepest, darkest part of the center of the earth, untouched by light and warmth and life—the last of Dante Alighieri's nine circles.

'I sometimes think we must be all mad and that we shall wake to sanity in strait-waistcoats.'

He was torn from the thick mire of his thoughts, yanked back outside his mind as if caught in a sudden hurricane at Barton’s next revelation. Jervis shut his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, then reached for the cup of tea Jack had brought him. The liquid within was a warm, golden amber—like sea glass he’d once collected as a child in Bermuda, or the bits Alice would gather along Gotham’s coastline on their rare visits when she was little.

How simple those days were...

"Well." Jervis' voice was completely flat, his brow creasing with incredulity and disgust. Barton’s outline weaved and blurred before his eyes like a will-o’-the-wisp. No more, no more… no room, no room. He felt completely hollow. "Trading one problem for another, are we?" His scarred knuckles bulged as his fingers curled around the delicate porcelain; his grip hard enough to produce a faint, foreboding crack.

He would weep, if he had anymore tears left to shed over their predicament. For Marty and his partner, for the trouble Jack and Matilda had been brought into by association… but none for himself or Barton. He wasn’t certain he was worthy of it; and Barton had no qualms over their actions, he’d freely admitted it at that bistro earlier. Jervis’ hands tingled, as if they were still covered by the bloodied gloves he wore when he dispatched the driver in order to retrieve Alice’s rabbit, wielding his hatpins on pure impulse; there was no premeditation involved, but there was no discounting how surgical his actions had been in their efficacy with each targeted nerve cluster and artery. He wasn’t indulging in self-pity, oh no… nothing so shallow or solipsistic. Not like that at all. Just a pure ant mill of growing dread and horror and regret, one that couldn’t be encompassed by words alone.

His teeth sought the gouges in the corner of his mouth from where he’d previously bit himself in the throes of his nightmares, worrying at the cuts till they began to sting anew.

‘Despair has its own calms.’

[melodic-melovin]

The real question is if when Один Не Один releases on November 14th I can pull the same stunt I did when Ghost's Hunter's Moon came out and play it literally so much it gets added to this year's Spotify Wrapped a month before the cutoff point. I'm already insane about this song just from previews.

[maskedbyghost]

jealous!Simon is on my mind 24/7

even better if the two of you are secretly fucking bc he is scared of feelings, commitment, relationships, and blah blah blah…

and simon wasn’t used to feeling jealous. he had trained his emotions out of him long ago, or so he thought. but as he stood in the doorway, watching you stroll across the shared kitchen on the base, your back turned to him, the name "mactavish" boldly displayed on the long-sleeved shirt you wore, something twisted in his chest.

the sight of you wearing his shirt, so casually, stung in a way simon hadn’t expected. he cleared his throat, trying to sound indifferent, but the edge in his voice betrayed him. "that’s johnny’s shirt."

"i know." was the only thing you said, smirking since he couldn't see your face. you knew exactly what you were doing, but in that moment, you didn’t care.

"why is johnny's shirt on you?" simon asked, his voice low but tight with tension. he tried to keep his tone neutral, but the undercurrent of jealousy and frustration was hard to hide. seeing you in johnny’s shirt stirred something uncomfortable deep inside him, a mix of possessiveness and insecurity that he wasn't used to feeling. he hated how something so simple made his chest tighten, how the sight of you in someone else’s name made him feel like he was losing control of the one thing he was afraid to admit he cared about.

"oh, he gave it to me because i was cold," you said, pouting slightly as you turned around to face the only man you ever wanted "he is such a nice guy."

simon managed a slight nod, his mind blanking from the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside him. everything felt too much, too fast. meanwhile, you casually turned your back to him again, giving him another clear view of soap's name stretched across your shoulders as you began making your tea. the tiny grumble that escaped simon’s lips didn’t go unnoticed—it sent a wave of satisfaction through you, a small victory that made your day. you loved torturing him. and, after all, he did deserved it.

frustrated, he walked over to the sink, grabbing a glass of water, hoping it would cool the fire raging inside. but as he turned, his grip slipped, and the water splashed across your front. simon froze, watching the water drip down your shirt, half-shocked and half-relieved for the excuse to make the shirt disappear.

simon froze, his eyes glued to the water dripping down your shirt. after a beat of silence, he muttered, "well, guess you’ll need to take that off now. what a shame."

shocked, you watched as he put the glass down and left the room, still feeling the cold water seeping through the fabric. did he seriously just accidentally splash you and then walk out like nothing happened? that bitch.

*

later, as you slept in your bed, wearing your shirt this time, you stirred slightly at the feeling of someone’s arms wrapping around you. you didn’t even need to open your eyes or turn around—you already knew who it was. that familiar warmth could only belong to simon.

"simon?" you muttered groggily, barely able to make out the shape of him in the dim light. "what are you doing here?"

"shh, just sleep, pretty girl," he whispered softly, his breath warm against your ear. "i just wanted to apologize for how i acted earlier."

"i'm listening," you murmured, your voice barely more than a whisper.

simon’s arms tightened around you as he spoke. “i’m sorry for earlier. i know i’ve been pushin' you away and acting like an idiot. seein' you in johnny’s shirt... it just brought out this jealousy i didn’t want to admit i had. i hate feelin' like i’m not enough, or that someone else might have a piece of you. the truth is, i want you to be only mine. i can’t stand the thought of you being with anyone else. i just wanted you to know that, even if i messed everythin' up.”

“well, isn’t this a surprise? i didn’t realize it took me wearing johnny's shirt for you to admit your feelings.” you said with a hint of a smile, turning around to kiss him softly. simon sighed into the kiss, his arms wrapping around you with a sense of relief and affection.

simon pulled back slightly, his eyes intense as he rested his forehead on yours “i mean it, you know. you’re mine—only mine. no one else gets to touch what’s mine.” his voice was firm, yet tender, which made his words more meaningful.

"did you have a similar conversation with soap?" you asked, raising an eyebrow playfully.

simon grinned, leaning in even closer. “yep, told him to keep his wardrobe to himself unless he wanted a 'property of simon' label slapped on everything he owns.” he sealed his words with a gentle, lingering kiss, his lips tenderly brushing against yours as if to mark his claim in the most intimate way.

*

soap: so, i guess it worked?

y/n: your shirt got wet, but i got what i wanted. thanks, bestie.  

soap: i think i got worse treatment from simon than the shirt did, but anything for my two lovebirds.

[txttletale]

Sorry for anon, I'm shy. I think I'm one of the liberals you're complaining about and I don't want to be. If (and only if) you have the time/energy, could you elaborate more on where the Harris campaign went wrong? I promise I don't mean this in a sealioning way - I genuinely want to understand and move towards a better perspective, but I don't even know what to Google to start.

it is extremely conventional political wisdom that running as the incumbent party during an unpopular administration is a gruelling uphill battle--harris was in this position, and i think going all-in on her continuity with biden, who is extremely disliked (for many reasons, ranging from his fervent passion for genocide to a vague sense that He Made The Ecnomy Bad And Woke) was a catastrophic error that any dickhead with a political science degree would have told her to avoid. unfortunatley she surrounded herself with biden's people who in the run-up to him stepping down had already proven themselves to be completely self-deluding and isolated from reality.

the absolute worst thing you can do in the electoral situation harris was in is go on television and say "i would do absolutely nothing differently to the current (unpopular) administration" and she did literally exactly that.

other facts are that the constituency her campaign decided to go all-in on, of, like, sensible moderate center-right republicans who value bipartisanship, basically hasn't existed since tea party birtherism became ascnedant in the republican party if it ever did at all. the idea that there was an election-winning segment of voeters who would vote for harris if she proved that she wasn't "too liberal" through serious policy commitments to right-wing positions was just not founded in reality--like it was a strategy that failed to grapple with the basic reality that the modern republican position on democrat politicians is that they're adrenochrome-chugging child rapists.

in a similar vein her hard pivot to border fascism was morally deplorable but also a total waste of time because donald "build the wall" trump has made his personal brand synonymous with anti-immigration politics and so she was simply never ever going to win anyone over from him on that ground. & finally of course there was the campaign;'s wholehearted and total contempt for her own potential voters, which manifseted most obviously and evilly in their treatment of anti-genocide protestors and their flying bill clinton out ot michigan to lecture arabs about how they deserved to be bombed but also seems responsible for their total lack of consideration of (again) conventional elecvtoral tactics 101 like "energizing the base" or "getting out the vote"

so tldr it was just a disastrous campaign that prioritized the egos of biden campaign staff and biden himself over winning or facing basic reality

[dreamsteddie]

Wowza. Part one blew up way more than I thought it would so here! Part two! I do have more thoughts about this so there might be a couple more parts to come. We'll see ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

------

Eddie takes half a second to consider just not answering. Maybe throwing his phone away and never going back to the restaurant they went to last night so he never has to confront whatever it is that's about to happen. Maybe even fleeing the country and living alone on a sheep farm with no friends and go relationships ever again so something like this never happens again.

But then he thinks of Steve. Kind, funny Steve with the bright eyes and soft skin who looked at Eddie like he could fall in love with him and he knows that whatever comes next, Steve deserves for Eddie to see it through with him.

New Message: Steve H.

Hey

Just that one word sends Eddie's heart into his throat. He can see that Steve is still typing, those little ellipses of doom popping on and off the screen. Realistically, Steve probably doesn't know what happened, right? Eddie's pretty sure Steve wasn't in on it and it's been less than an hour since Eddie himself found out, so probably not.

Steve H: Gareth called me

Fuck.

Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck.

If Eddie's heart was in his throat at the first text, the second one has it dropping through his body and out of his goddamned ass. It's not that he doesn't want Steve to know. He was always planning to tell him, he was just hoping he could be the one to do it. Gareth being a little shit and calling Steve first was not part of the plan.

Steve H: He told be about the prank. I'm sorry if I wasn't what you expected and you were just being nice. We can pretend it never happened. No hard feelings.

Eddie slams his head into his pillow. This is such a cluster fuck he can hardly bring himself to look at the text but he needs to come up with some kind of response, like, yesterday if he wants any chance of keeping the man of his dreams from running for the hills because apparently, Eddie's friends are trying to destroy his life. He takes a deep breath and starts typing.

Eddie: Hey, I'm so sorry about that. I just found out about what they did an hour ago at practice. I didn't think they would just call you out of the blue like that, I was just about to text you.

Not completely true, but Eddie was going to text him about it, just after screaming into his pillow and making a couple Vudu dolls first.

Eddie: For what it's worth I really do like you and I would love to still take you out on that second date, but I understand if my friends scared you off and you want nothing to do with me. I know it's fucked up.

It takes a minute for Steve to respond, the typing bubbles ebbing and flowing as Steve types and retypes whatever it is he wants to say. Eddie is about ready to call it a wash and start googling sheep farms for sale in Ireland when a new text comes in, dispelling all thoughts of learning to sheer wool.

Steve H: Are you sure?

And fuck if that doesn't hurt his heart. Eddie has spent all of two and a half hours with Steve, he's a virtual stranger, but Eddie can swear he can feel all of Steve's secondhand insecurity through that one lonely sentence. Before he even registers what he's asking, he send a quick reply.

Eddie: Can I Facetime you?

Before Eddie can try to rethink his decision, his screen lights up with a notification. Steve is calling him.

Eddie scrambles to answer, fumbling his phone a little in his haste and almost missing the call completely. He manages to get it on the last ring, breathing heavily in a way he knows can't be flattering.

All thoughts about his lack of dexterity fly out the window when he looks into his screen. On their date, Steve was perfectly put together. Hair meticulously done, clothes freshly pressed, and a light sheen of lipgloss accentuating the perfect curve of his mouth. While Steve is still beautiful through the lens of his camera, it's clear that he's been crying. His eyes are red and a little puffy, hair out of order in a way Eddie thinks is probably unusual for him, and Eddie can see that he's wearing a well-loved beige hoodie.

"Hi," Steve says, waving a shy hand almost the same way he had last night.

"Hey sweetheart," Eddie says, keeping his voice low and gentle, desperate to soothe Steve however he can through the distance of their phones.

For a minute they just look at each other, neither one knowing what to say in a situation like this. Eddie sees Steve gearing up to say something, but he cuts in before he starts. There's something he needs to say while Steve can see him face to face.

"I'm really sorry about what happened!" He says, much lounder than he intended. "My friends were being dicks. I haven't dated in a while and instead of being normal fucking people they set up this whole stupid prank but I swear I wasn't in on it!"

Something about what he says draws a small smile from the corner of Steve's mouth, so Eddie keeps talking. "Besides, if they wanted to prank me they should have picked someone that isn't a literal fucking model in disguise. There wasn't a chance in hell I wasn't going to beg you for that second date."

At that, Steve gives a little chuckle and it lifts Eddie's heart from where it'd fallen onto the floor and puts in back in his chest 10 times lighter than before.

"Jesus, are you always such a flirt Munson?" he says.

"Only when the boys are especially pretty," Eddie responds.

Steve gives another little laugh at that before sobering up. He gives Eddie a long look through the phone, and Eddie lets him.

"Are you sure you don't want to just call it quits here man? Gareth was pretty adamant that I'm not the kind of guy you usually go for. I don't want you to feel like you have to humor me out of kindness." There's a forced flippancy to Steve's words that Eddie knows well from his own Munson Coping Strategies Handbook. Steve is trying to give him an out, but Eddie can tell that he doesn't want to.

For the first time since this all started, Eddie is well and truly mad. Gareth and Jeff had absolutely no business poking around in his love life in the first place, but now they've reached out to the guy Eddie already told them he liked to what? Tell him never mind actually, we don't think you're the right guy for our friend even though he told us very explicitly how into you he is.

Eddie lets all the frustration, anger, and tenuous hope building up in his chest fuel his reply. This one has to count, he can feel it. It's a charisma saving throw with the whole campaign on the line. He can't miss this one.

"Honestly Steve, if you asked me two days ago what I was looking for in a partner, I probably would have said I wanted to date another alternative metalhead or punk who likes playing DnD and getting high on the weekend." Eddie can see Steve's shoulders slump as his eyes dart away, but he pushes on, determined to make his point.

"But, I haven't had as good a time as we had last night in a really long time." Steve looks back up, eyes alight with the same tentative hope Eddie himself is channeling. "I think you're funny and interesting, and you have the absolute worst takes on ice cream flavors, and you're hot as hell. Like, seriously the hottest guy I've ever seen in real life."

Steve smiles, the edges of his eyes crinkling.

Critical success.

"So, about that second date."

-------

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