#It's never too late to unlearn hate

[luffydotcom]

worst fears

synopsis: one piece characters worst fears in a relationship feat: straw hats (luffy, zoro, nami, usopp, sanji, robin) + ace and law warnings: angst + slight spoiler for ace's past notes: i honestly was a bit stuck for law's part so bear with me PLEASE also yeah not me finally posting things after ages sorry pookies

luffy

losing you.

LUFFY'S worst fear is that when worst comes to worst, he won't be able save you when you need him the most.

although he always tries to protect you, LUFFY has experienced losing loved ones before because he wasn't strong enough, and he never wants it to happen again. he loves everyone in his life so much, especially you, and never wants to lose them. but what if one day he slips up and the cost is losing you forever?

zoro

not being able to protect you.

ZORO'S unwavering loyalty to those he cares about means that he has made it his sworn mission to protect them at all times. in fact, that's practically his main role in the crew - to protect everyone from danger, so he believes he has to always do this right.

he works hard to protect those he cares about, and would never be able to forgive himself if he let something happen to you or was too late to protect you from danger.

he can't predict the future and he can't guarantee your safety at all times, and he hates it. he knows how unpredictable life is and that anything could happen at any moment, which makes him scared of what could happen to you.

nami

being powerless when you need her the most.

NAMI knows what it's like to have no one there to save you or protect you when you're in pain, suffering or in danger. thankfully, she found her way out thanks to her friends, but what if she can't help you?

when it comes to someone she cares about, she can't just rest easy when they need help because she hates seeing those she loves in pain. despite what people think, she would be ready to go above and beyond for someone she loves. she wants to do whatever she can as soon as she can to help you, and she fears that something could happen and make this impossible for her to do.

usopp

being replaced by somebody else.

USOPP wants to believe that he's just the guy you need, but he can't ignore his insecurities that tell him that he's useless and weak all the time. and this feeds into his biggest fear when being with you.

while you don't have an issue with his flaws, to him, his 'negative' qualities and weaknesses mean that he is easy to abandon. he feels like you being with him is just holding yourself back from something - or someone - better.

his worst fear is that you'll have had enough of the 'weak' parts of him, and that one day, you'll get tired of him and just replace him with someone else.

sanji

being a burden to you.

SANJI doesn't just love you - he practically worships your entire being and sees you as flawless and capable of no wrong. he sees you as someone who deserves only the best and nothing less. in comparison, he sees himself as someone who deserves basically nothing.

although you offer warm smiles in his direction and constantly assure him how much you care about him, he can't possibly understand how you could ever love a 'failure' like him.

he hates himself for thinking it, but he sometimes is afraid that your feelings are just fake or out of pity for someone like him. his biggest, worst fear is that he's just a burden to you and someone you're wasting your time on - and that and one day, you'll let him know it by just leaving him for good.

robin

you giving up on her.

ROBIN'S worst fear, in a way, is a little similar to sanji's. she doesn't want to be a burden to you because she can't forget how she was treated her whole life. people around her treated her like a nuisance and a monster just for her existence and where she came from, making her feel like she had nowhere to belong.

it's something she's been trying to unlearn ever since joining the crew, and she knows it's not very likely, but her worst fear is that you won't see her as someone worth fighting for, protecting, or loving anymore. instead, you too will see her as someone who doesn’t belong anywhere.

she's afraid that you'll see her just as how everyone has in her past - a devil whose existence only brings trouble to everyone.

ace

you stop loving him.

ACE has always felt like love is something that needs to be earned, especially for him. sometimes, he can't even believe how lucky he is to have someone like you - someone who doesn't care about the blood that flows in his veins because you know that doesn't matter to who he is.

however, his biggest fear is what happens if that love diminishes for good. he's afraid you'll start to be remember who he exactly is - the son of the world's biggest criminal, the pirate king himself. he's scared that you'll find him a nuisance to be associated with, and stop loving him altogether because of it.

law

disappointing you.

LAW knows that he isn't very openly affectionate and that he struggles to show his his feelings at times, making him appear closed-off and cold to others. although he does know that he really and truly loves you - his worst fear is disappointing you in the relationship because you may feel like he doesn't.

he knows what a healthy and loving relationship is supposed to look like and how other people show love, but he's afraid that he'll fail you by not being able to give you that. he hates the thought of letting you down when you deserve so much better than he is.

[bitchinbarzal]

Unsent Texts | M Barzal

summary: syd steals mat’s phone to uncover how your break up really made him feel.

-

You weren’t supposed to be thinking about Mat tonight.

You were supposed to be having a normal, drama-free dinner with your best friend, Sydney.

But the universe had other plans.

Because somehow, in the middle of drinks and half-finished appetizers, Sydney accidentally unlocked Mat’s phone. And now? Now you’re staring at hundreds of unsent messages—all of them to you.

It had been months since you and Mat ended things. At first, it was unbearable—learning to sleep alone, getting used to waking up without hearing his voice, forcing yourself to unlearn the way you fit so easily into his life. But you did it. You moved on. At least, that’s what you told yourself. You didn’t check his Instagram anymore. You didn’t avoid places you knew he’d be. When people mentioned his name, you smiled politely, like it didn’t twist something deep in your chest.

And you definitely, definitely didn’t still have a note in your phone filled with messages you were too afraid to send.

But it was there. Just sitting in your drafts, filled with late-night thoughts and regrets:

• I miss you.

• I saw your post-game interview today. You looked tired. Are you okay?

• I hate that I still think about you this much.

You could delete it. You should delete it. But you never did.

Sydney had mentioned casually earlier in the night that Mat was at their house before she left to meet you. It wasn’t unusual—he was always around since Matt and him were practically attached at the hip. You brushed it off at the time, convincing yourself it didn’t matter.

But now, here you were, holding his phone in your hands. Because he had left it at the Martin’s house, and Sydney—being Sydney—grabbed it, meaning to bring it back to him later.

And now you’re staring at your name on his screen.

And a message.

“I keep typing these, but I never send them. I don’t even know if you’d want to hear from me. But I miss you.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

“Y/N?” Sydney says softly.

You don’t answer.

You just scroll.

Because it’s not just one message.

It’s dozens.

No—hundreds.

Unsent texts, stretching back months.

• I saw something today that reminded me of you. I wanted to tell you but… I didn’t know if I should.

• I don’t even know why I’m typing this. Maybe just to pretend like you’re still here.

• I miss your laugh. I fucking hate that I miss your laugh.

• I hate that I let this happen.

Your chest tightens. Because you had done the exact same thing. You had unsent messages too—ones you never dared to send, ones you forced yourself to delete because you thought Mat had already moved on.

But he hadn’t. Not even close.

“Y/N,” Sydney says again, more serious this time. “What are you gonna do?”

You shake your head, gripping the phone tighter. “I don’t know.”

Because there was only one real option.

You could pretend you never saw this. Put the phone down, walk away, let the past stay buried.

Or You could type a message of your own.

And this time, hit send.

Before you can make a decision, the restaurant door swings open.

And suddenly, there he is.

Mat.

Wearing a hoodie, damp hair from the cold, looking like he rushed here the second he realized his phone was missing. His eyes lock onto you immediately. Then flick down.

To his phone.

In your hand.

And you watch it happen—the realization, the panic, the sharp inhale when he realizes exactly what you’ve seen.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath.

Sydney coughs awkwardly. “I think that’s my cue to leave.”

But neither of you even notice her get up.

Because Mat’s eyes are locked on yours, his whole chest rising and falling like he’s bracing for impact.

And then—quietly, hesitantly—he asks, “Did you read them?”

Your throat is dry. You can barely breathe.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I did.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. He swallows hard, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was gonna delete them,” he admits. “I just… never could.”

You exhale shakily. “Neither could I.”

His gaze snaps to yours, wide. Disbelieving.

And suddenly, the air between you is charged with something new. Something unfinished. Something that, for the first time in a long time, feels like hope.

The restaurant feels smaller now. Like the walls are pressing in, like the air is thinner, like you might suffocate under the weight of everything you never said.

Mat stares at you, his jaw clenched, his hands curled into fists at his sides like he’s afraid if he moves too fast, you’ll disappear.

And maybe he’s right.

Maybe you should disappear.

Maybe you should walk away right now and leave him with nothing but his own regrets, the same way he left you.

But you don’t.

Instead, you whisper, “Why didn’t you ever send them?”

Mat exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair. “Because I was a coward.”

You blink, not expecting him to say it so bluntly.

“I thought about you every day,” he continues, voice low, hoarse. “Every fucking day, Y/N. But I convinced myself you were better off without me.”

Your throat tightens. “And now?”

His lips part, but he hesitates. “Now…” His gaze drops, flickering to the phone in your hands. “Now I just want to know if you ever thought about me too.”

You inhale slowly. “I did.”

His head snaps up.

“Mat…” Your fingers tighten around the phone. “I never stopped thinking about you.”

His face crumples—like he wasn’t expecting you to say it, like he’s spent months convincing himself you had moved on completely.

And maybe you had tried. Maybe you had told yourself that he was just a chapter in your life, that you had turned the page. But standing here, seeing the desperation in his eyes, knowing that he never stopped thinking about you either?

That changes everything.

“Do you still love me?” The words are out before you can stop them.

Mat inhales sharply.

Then, quietly, without hesitation—

“Yes.”

Your breath catches.

His voice is raw, almost broken. “I never stopped.”

You swallow hard, hands shaking. “Then why did we let this happen?”

Mat exhales, stepping closer, his fingers twitching at his sides like he wants to reach for you but isn’t sure if he’s allowed.

“Because I was stupid,” he admits. “Because I thought I had all the time in the world to fix it. But then you were gone, and—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “I didn’t know how to get you back.”

You stare at him, your pulse pounding.

“And now?” you whisper.

Mat’s throat bobs. “Now I’m standing here, praying that I haven’t lost you for good.”

You don’t overthink it. You don’t let fear win this time.

Instead, you take a shaky breath—and hit send.

Mat’s phone vibrates in your hands, and when he looks down at the screen, his breath catches.

Because there, sitting in his messages, is the first text you’ve sent him in months.

“Come home.”

He looks up at you, eyes wide, glassy, disbelieving.

“Are you sure?” he whispers.

You nod.

And then, before either of you can think twice, Mat pulls you into his arms, gripping you like he’s afraid you might disappear.

And this time, You’re not going anywhere.

[alrtyhoney]

TAKING WHAT’S NOT YOURS 

(I watch her go with a surge of that well known sadness and I have to sit down for a while– the feeling that I'm losing her forever.)

The rundown: That cake scene with Miles at his father’s bodega party but it’s with Miguel and his universe’s daughter. He’s late and it’s your quinceañera. Content: Father!Miguel O'hara x Daughter!Reader / Angst! (wc: 3844)

There was something oddly peculiar about your father. People would assume that he would be the archetypal absent one who chose to abandon his child; the dead-beat-dad who ultimately never cared for them. You’d argue it wasn’t true– you were fed, you had the weight of what a fifteen year old should have, and education was proper. 

You love your papa with all of your heart, but there was no denying the fact that he would never be around often enough. You understood this when you were eight years old, and mornings would bring only a cold breakfast accompanied by a hastily scribbled note from him. He’d leave early– far too early. You tried staying up in an attempt to tell when he gets up and leaves the house, but you swear you don’t hear the door open every time. 

Then came twelve and the missed events. Miguel seemed to be missing in action when it came to certain school activities, not showing up for things that he had previously made commitments for. It became more and more frequent as you grew older– you wouldn’t hear from him for days.

He was a man dedicated to his profession, and although you felt pride in what he had achieved, there was this empty space in your heart that hadn’t been filled ever since you were eight. It was said that a child needed the presence of their parents to feel security– to feel important. You never truly understood it, not until you had to endure many nights at dinner alone and the numerous times you spent walking home with nothing but your own thoughts for company.

You had always pondered over the question of whether it was a common phenomenon that fathers seemed to love their daughters less once they had reached teenagehood– or if it was possible for fathers to unlearn being fathers. 

“Is your papa coming, bebita?” 

The faint notes of classical music filled the air as you sat on the wooden floor, stretching your sore limbs. You observed the ladies who were much older than yourself starting their exercise routines, having come in early before the group class began. You waited for Miguel to pick you up. 

– But that had been two hours ago. Your teacher finally worked up the courage to approach you, hesitantly looking for the right words to say. She wasn’t exactly pleased to be the one to let you down, but she’d seen you walk out the studio’s door alone time and time again after you told her that your father would bring you home himself.

“He said he’d come pick me up today.” You spoke, nervously twisting the ends of your skirt. Your teacher had most likely heard these words countless times before from you, but the faint ray of hope in your voice remained firm. “He promised.” You added quietly, praying that maybe it would be different this time. 

“Ay, bebita– you know how this ends. You tell me those exact words and you walk out here on your own anyway.” She slightly shook her head, her face softening with a sympathetic smile as she knelt closer to you. “Tell you what, how about I offer to give you a ride home today? I have plenty of snacks in my car that you can enjoy. You can take as many of them as you'd like.”

You took some time to consider it, letting her gently weave her fingers through the strands of curls that couldn't quite fit into a bun. Your lips pursued as you sighed softly, “What if he comes and I’m not here anymore?” You’d hate to miss the opportunity.

Of course you still had faith that he would come, having endured all the other times he had let you down. You were never one to quickly give up on people and your father was the only one you trusted the most— you’d hate to admit that his inconsistency was starting to hurt; digging a deeper wound to the already bleeding cut. 

“He’s not coming and I know you know that too.” 

She stands up, grunting slightly as she hefts herself up. You knew there was no more room for negotiation anymore when she urged you to come along. She carefully takes your backpack from off your back and drapes it over her own shoulders, “Come on sweetheart, let's get you home.” 

The silence in the car was palpable, with no one feeling the need to prod conversation. You hadn't stopped fidgeting with the hem of your bag since you got in, and you could feel your teacher's worried glances burning into you. Your mind was a jumble of emotions that kept bubbling away as they all competed for your attention. What could be his reason this time/?

She switched on the radio in an effort to lighten the tense mood, but when a melancholic tune filled played instead, you couldn’t help but let out a deep sigh.

“Is it possible for fathers to unlove their daughters?” 

It was a question that took her completely by surprise, so much so that another uncomfortable beat of silence passed before she could respond. The stillness made you regret asking in the first place. Your legs shifted nervously, an unconscious habit which you had never noticed before.

“Of course not,” She muttered, almost inaudibly. “Fathers tend to forget is all.”

But you knew that wasn’t the case. 

While Miguel was never home, something else resided on the corners of your house– someone you have never met at all. She smiled back at you from the frame sitting atop your dad's nightstand, wearing the similar blue soccer jersey your school had. She was the picture on his wallet and the little widget on his phone. It was beyond you– the few blue ribbons hidden on the box beneath his bed; the medals, the drawings you know you’ve never drawn or given him. For all you know, the kid didn’t even go to your school. 

It wasn’t anything sinister, but in a way she felt like a ghost. A child your father mourned for all his life and you had no idea why. 

This was a physical pain in your chest; one that was peeling away the very layers of your heart until it was nothing but ugly– just how could Miguel love a child more than his own? It was ridiculous to feel like you were in competition with someone you barely knew, yet somehow, you felt like you were losing. It felt even more absurd when you considered the possibility that maybe you weren't really his child at all.

“I joined our school’s soccer team today, papa.” 

It wasn’t an ordinary occurrence for Miguel to be at the dining table for lunch. But on this Saturday noon, he was there. Sitting across from you, quietly eating his food. Finally, he paused and shifted his gaze towards you, seeming to linger on you longer than normal before looking away, cracking a grin.

“Soccer? You hate sports, mija.” He says, a bit of laughter in his voice. "What made you decide to try out? I don't recall you being the least bit interested before."

Something in his eyes becomes brighter, a sense of familiarity as he eagerly awaits your response– and the thing is, you couldn’t tell him why. Not without addressing the elephant in the room. Maybe you’d hang my medals too? Maybe you’d frame a photo of me? You know well your question reminds him of someone else. 

“No reason.” 

It was no surprise that you were terrible at it. After barely two seasons, you'd already given up. However it was surprising to see Miguel in the stands during the times that you had a game, but there wasn’t much to watch anyway— not when you’d been relegated to the bench for most of the time. All you felt was shame. 

Oddly enough, he didn't question it. He remained silent during the rides back home, his gaze distant and never once looked at you. Had you embarrassed him to an extent where he couldn’t even acknowledge you? Or have you given him the impression that you were just no better than the little girl in his pictures?

You dared not to talk about it too.

Music was your passion; the pulse, the poise and elegance of it all resonating with you deeply. Ballet was something that spoke to you particularly in ways no other art form could. You found a special joy out on stage, a feeling that grew deeper and greater each time you danced.

But like every flame that you desperately try to keep alive, Miguel had a way of snuffing it out. 

You remember it all so vividly, even though you'd much rather the memory be nothing more than a faint blur. Your very first recital and yet he wasn't anywhere to be found amongst the audience.

Your focus was a tunnel-vision, only set to finding even a glimpse of him— you had been so determined to find him that you forgot about all of your own movements. Soon, the few wrong turns had turned to missed cues; as soon as the music stopped, you made a run for it.

Your teacher had done her best to console you that day, attempting to coax a smile from you in front of the vanity mirror with its bright lights. She had wrapped her arms around you, doing anything she could to draw even the faintest curve of your lips. But you stayed slumped on your seat, feeling the weight of the unshed tears on your eyes. 

The door swung open, finally revealing Miguel; he was out of breath and sweat glistened on his forehead. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top and his tie was undone, a clear sign that he had run all the way here. He paused for a moment to catch his breath before walking in frantically, eyes looking for you. 

His eyes softened at the sight of you in your pretty pink tutu– then the tenderness was replaced with a feeling akin to plummeting one hundred stories down. How could he miss this? How could he let his sweet girl wait? He rushed to your side, sinking down into a kneeling position. He looked upon you with lines creasing his forehead and you already knew what was to come out of his lips.

“I’m sorry muneca, I came as fast as I could.” 

The other parents of your classmates started to barge inside the very room, their children giddy with joy and excitement, running to them with beaming smiles. You could hear their loud congratulations– voices singing sweet praises and telling how they looked outstanding on stage. The noise sounded like static in your ears, like their words were unfamiliar to you. They received bouquets of flowers, sweets– gifts for a job well done. Miguel came late and only with apologies. 

“You want pretty flowers too, mijita? We can stop by the flower shop a few blocks away from here, you can pick any bouquet you want.” His lips curved into a gentle smile, desperate to make his daughter feel better– the same daughter who wouldn't even meet his gaze. “Papa had to deal with something. I’ll be sure to go to your next recital– pinky promise.” 

“But I worked really hard for this.”

You wanted so desperately to blame him; to yell at him for every mistake that you've made on the stage. You felt ashamed, humiliated, and helpless all at once- and still, you couldn’t have the heart to be mad at him.

He looked at you apologetically, "Baby, I'm sorry I couldn't make it earlier. How about we talk about the flowers you want to buy instead? There are lots of restaurants nearby as well— you can pick whatever pleases you, just name it." He paused for a moment before continuing, gently nudging your shoulder. “I know how much this meant to you.”

If he did, why couldn’t he have come at all?

You let out a deep sigh, feeling completely ridiculous in your tutu. All of the sudden, the leotard appeared to be two sizes too small and utterly irritating; your tights seemed unbearably itchy. You looked down helplessly, wanting nothing more than to leave this situation behind. “I just want to go home. Can we just leave? Please?” You pleaded softly. 

He bit the inside of his cheek, a gesture that conveyed own sinking heart in a way words could not. His shoulders sagged ever so slightly, breath hitching as he gave in to your request instead. 

“Of course.” 

After that very moment, you'd vowed to yourself never to wait in anticipation of something that may or may not come. You wouldn’t put your faith in any more of your father's promises spoken under the dead of night. It took a toll on you– your naivety had taught you better than before.

But when your fifteenth birthday drew near, you never expected he would go so far.

The locks clicked and whirred as Miguel fumbled with the keys to the front door. You could hear your Father's voice, clearly agitated as he jostled the keys back and forth in an attempt to fit them into the lock. Finally, he steps inside, eyes immediately darting to you.

“You’re not wearing your birthday dress, sweetie. Is something wrong?” He’s wearing a smile, struggling to keep the two boxes of cake upright as he locks the door from behind. The banner is lopsided and the balloons scattered all around seem small– like they’ve been there for days and were starting to deflate themselves. He kisses the top of your head once he gets close, getting a better view of what you were working on on the counter. Homework. “Did you have your friends over today? How was it? Wanna hear all about it.”

And he must have forgotten. You decided to pretend not to hear his question, continuing to jot down notes, only humming at his presence. He settles the boxes down, sitting on the stool beside you. 

“I know papa’s late, but you can still go and wear your dress. I want to take pictures– should we order pizza? Do you want something else?” He’s rambling, hurriedly searching for his tone to dial down a few numbers. Miguel turns frantic, looking at the closed signs under every nice restaurant. “Pizza should be fine, mijita– you’ve eaten dinner, right?” 

“Not hungry.” 

Miguel chuckled, dialing anyway. “Did school suck today, sweetie?” He jokes, trying to lighten the mood. “You know what can cheer you up? Cake. You love cake.”

“I don’t like cake anymore.” You say, your voice barely above a whisper. You can feel frustration boiling over inside– and you fear it wasn’t the kind you’ve grown accustomed to suppressing. He was oblivious and it was killing you, hurting you in so many ways possible. “I’m not hungry.” You repeat again.

“Don’t be like that, __. Besides, it’s still tradition.” He stands up to check the drawers, only finding worn out candles from past birthdays. He takes a lighter. “Know what’s better than a cake? Two cakes! You’ll change your mind, go and open the boxes mija,”

Miguel excitedly pressed his hands on your shoulders, pushing you gently forward to open the two boxes of cake. The look in his eyes was that of pure anticipation as he waited eagerly for you to do so. It almost hurt you to tell him the news— that you wanted more than to just take the blame itself. It was conflicting. 

You finally got up from the bar stool, settling on your feet in front of the counter. Taking a deep breath, you carefully opened the lid of the boxes. What greeted you had made you visibly recoil– the small flicker of hope that settled in your chest gone as quickly as it came. The cakes were crumbled and the frosting was all over the box, like it had been trampled and tossed around.

Was this all a joke? Were you a joke to him? Your shoulders trembled as you couldn't bring yourself to look away from it; the letter was still visible but amongst the cake crumbs lay written a name– Gabriella. Not happy birthday to you, but Gabi. 

You didn’t know what hurt most. Your lips quivered and all you could mutter was, “Gabi?”

His eyes widened in surprise as he quickly moved to your side to take a look at the cake himself. He swiftly closed the lids, shaking his head. “Must’ve been a mistake back at the bakery. I can–” 

And you could barely catch your breath, not when the hurt piled over one another. 

“Are the medals from her? The one’s from your bed? The trophies?” 

He furrowed his eyebrows, clearly irritated. “What did I tell you about snooping around my things, __?”

“Is this the girl–” A ragged inhale cuts your thoughts, “on your nightstand and wallet?” You didn’t even realize you had started to cry, but when another breath had caught itself in your throat, you were inconsolable– finally letting the dam break all at once.

Miguel did nothing to console you– he didn’t know how to. He knew he had messed up royally and all he could do was helplessly watch you break down. Who knows how long you’ve kept this? 

“__, come on. It’s just a simple mistake, it’s still cake–”

“And it was my birthday!” 

“Baby, what’s the big deal?” He was shocked and understandably so. His sweet, babygirl, who was usually so quiet and docile, was talking back angrily to him– but Miguel knew better than to point fingers. This was his fault– your unbecoming was his own doing.

“You just had to be late– on my birthday!” 

“I have work, baby, you know this.” 

“That still doesn’t explain anything!” You cried out, desperation flooding your voice. “Why are you never home? Where do you go? Who is Gabriella– why do you love her more than me?” You could feel your breath catch in your throat as your voice rose and trembled with every question. Your breathing grew unsteady and your throat began to close up, not allowing anymore words to come out as much as you wanted to scream. You feared there’d be no more room for air.

And there was something about Gabriella that everytime she was brought up, Miguel would be defensive. Perhaps it was the plenty of times Lyla would reprimand him when she catches him watching the few videos of them or when Jess would pity his state. “Don’t be ridiculous, __. I made a mistake– that’s it. We don’t have to fight.” He says, grabbing a spatula. “If it bothers you so much, here,”

Miguel frustratedly spreads the lettering with the spatula, leaving smudges of red on top of perfectly white frosting, resulting in a more muddled mess. He's making a complete mess of it and you can't bear to watch any longer. Your still figure finally reaches out to grab his wrist, “Stop— stop that! What are you doing?!”  

It was no use. The cake was nothing but totally ruined now. You didn’t even have the chance to read the message. He forcefully digs the candles on both, sliding it in front of you. Your eyes stayed on the cake– you didn’t have the heart to look at him. Anger boiled up within you and without a moment's hesitation, the words leaped from your mouth, "You're not listening to me! This is not what I'm so upset about—!"

But he responds in the same loudness as yours, slamming his hands down on the cold tiles of your countertop. “Okay, champ, you got it– go for it! Say what you have to say,” A sarcastic chuckle left his lips, adding insult to the already deep wound. “What do you have to tell me so bad?”

And you didn’t think it was possible for silence to be more deafening, but as you stared each other down, all you could think of was how maybe Miguel was worse than the archetypal absent one who chose to abandon his child or the dead-beat-dad who ultimately never cared for them. 

You were right. Fathers were capable of unloving their daughters and the way his dark eyes burned into yours was all the answer you needed. This wasn’t your papa– did you ever know him?

“My birthday was two days ago.” 

He furrowed his eyebrows, doubt creasing his forehead as he looked back to the calendar hung on the fridge. His gaze resting on your birthday date, the red circle mocking him in vivid reminder— two days ago. Your birthday was two days ago. The realization hit him like a ton of bricks, and he felt nothing but guilt tying his stomach in knots. 

“Mijita–” He’s quick to console you, the anger in his words disappearing immediately and turning into an apologetic one– but every time he’d try to move forward, you’d only step back. Miguel couldn’t even bear to think how you’ve celebrated on your own. How you waited for him all night in your birthday dress. He subtly shook his head, trying his best not to clog his mind yet. 

He needed to make it up to you. He couldn’t lose you too.

“My birthday– why did you have to take it?” You rubbed your eyes harshly, but the more you wiped the tears away, the more they seemed to fall. “It’s mine and I still had to wait for you to be able to sing the song. It’s my day and all I could think of was what time you might come home tonight.”

You wanted nothing more than for him to run to you with open arms, to let you cry on his shoulders– but as his silence stretched on, you mistook it as nothing but ruthless. He simply didn’t care. Miguel was too much of a wall for that. 

The look you gave him was nothing but hate– a look no parent wants to ever come across and it almost makes him stagger back. It was like what he had done was the most disgusting– most inconsolable act ever beyond repair and all he could do was watch; watch as another daughter of his slip through his fingers. He’s holding you like water and he doesn’t know how to keep you in.

You scoffed, averting your gaze. “You don’t want to talk about it? Fine by me.” You turned your back, letting out another shaky exhale. You couldn’t look at him the same– not after this.

“You make it really, really, hard to feel like a daughter.” 

And with that, you run to your room, leaving Miguel to stay rooted to where he stood. He thinks to himself– had he taken that from you too?

[a-griffin-in-the-clouds]

The Undiagnosed Autistic Girl

It’s funny how when boys have autistic meltdowns, it’s seen as part of their charm, he’s sensitive, he’s just spirited, he needs a little space. He hits a wall and people rush in with support: a diagnosis, a therapist, sometimes even a future carved out with understanding. But when did I melt down? I got a hand clamped around my wrist and someone hissing “Knock it off” like I was choosing to unravel. When I couldn’t brush my teeth because the texture made me gag, my grandmother pinched my nose until I bled, held my mouth open like I was some wild animal refusing to be civilized. And when all that control didn’t “fix me”? 

They didn’t ask questions, they gave me medication that numbed me out so completely that I stopped reacting altogether. Not better, just quieter. That’s what happens to undiagnosed girls. You’re not quirky, you’re difficult. 

You’re not misunderstood, you’re bad. You’re not struggling, you’re “too much.” And society? It hates “too much,” especially in girls. It punishes you until you shrink, soften, or disappear. I was lucky, I eventually got an ADHD diagnosis. But even then, all I got was a prescription, not support. No tools, no accommodations, no compassion. Just a pill and a patronizing smile, like that was enough. No one ever asked why I was screaming; they just wanted me to stop.

No one ever wanted to know what overstimulated me, what scared me, what made the world feel too loud and too fast and wrong. Boys got therapy appointments and fidget cubes, and understanding smiles. Girls like me got labeled dramatic, handed a pill bottle, and told to calm down. And if we didn’t calm down fast enough? Suddenly, we were the problem. Ungrateful. Broken. Even when the meds didn’t help, just numbed everything until we weren’t screaming anymore, until we were hollowed out and silent, they called it progress. But I wasn’t better. I was sedated. And now that I’m older, I’m unlearning all of it. I still remember the exact moment something cracked open inside me. 

It wasn’t a breakdown or a big crisis, it was just one offhand comment from my grandmother, sharp and casual like the flick of a match, and suddenly I was sobbing in the middle of a restaurant, unable to breathe or think. I ran outside, choking on something I didn’t have the words for, and my mom followed, finally asking: “You want to go to therapy?” I still needed medication. I still needed time. But slowly, the fog started to lift. I gained weight. I felt hungry again for food, for life. I felt real, like maybe I didn’t have to disappear just to survive. But here’s the cruel truth: even after all that, I was still too much for most people. Too emotional, too reactive, too weird, too intense. Even after healing, after doing everything I was told to do, they didn’t want me. They wanted a softer version. A quieter one. A smaller one. 

That’s what being a woman on the spectrum is like: being punished for existing too loudly, and praised only when you fade.

You don’t get support, you get scolded. You don’t get understanding, you get silenced. You don’t get recognized, you get erased. 

You learn to mask before you even know what masking is, trained to be palatable before you’re ever allowed to speak your truth. They call you dramatic, lazy, selfish, rude when really, you’re overwhelmed and doing your best in a world that never slows down or makes room for you. You cry in a restaurant, and they call it a scene. You stim and they say you’re disgusting. You melt down, and they call you manipulative. And even when you finally get a diagnosis, it feels too late because the shame has already taken root, twisted itself around your identity. Medication might help, but it doesn’t erase the years of being told you were the problem. And yet, here’s the good part: we’re talking now. We’re breaking the silence they forced on us. 

We’re naming the things they told us to hide: sensory overload, shutdowns, stimming, masking, burnout. We’re finding each other in the margins in comments, blogs, DMs at 2 a.m., and we’re saying: I see you. I get it. You were never too much. You were never wrong. And it’s time we talk about the double standard the “he’s autistic” excuse that only ever seems to go one way. When autistic men cross boundaries, act inappropriately, or harm someone, especially a woman, people rush to defend them: “He doesn’t understand social cues,” “He means well,” “You’re being too harsh.” But when an autistic woman has a meltdown in public, she’s labeled crazy, dramatic, unstable a Karen. When she can’t make eye contact, she’s rude. When she overshares, she’s embarrassing. When she stims or forgets to mask, she’s weird too much. 

So let’s be clear: autism is not a free pass to ignore consent, violate boundaries, or cause harm. Being autistic does not mean you can’t learn right from wrong. If autistic girls are forced to sit still, smile politely, and internalize every ounce of shame just to survive, then autistic boys can be taught to respect others. Autism doesn’t excuse harm, and we’re done letting it be used as a shield for men, while women get nothing but blame, silence, and scars.

When I was in high school, I once walked by a guy I thought I knew and gently tapped the top of his head, like a light head pat. I was autistic and didn’t fully understand that boundary, didn’t know that it might come across wrong. But instead of telling me to stop or setting a boundary with words, he strangled me. Full-o,n wrapped his hands around my throat. I panicked, thrashed, punched him in the chest, trying to get free, screaming, “What is wrong with you?” I went over to the security guard after I calmed down, shaking, but in the end, they blamed me because I touched him first.

 Not violently. Not aggressively. Just a misunderstood, socially awkward gesture. And somehow, his violent overreaction was more acceptable than my autistic mistake. That’s the kind of world autistic girls grow up in: where our intent doesn’t matter, where our social missteps are treated like crimes, and where our pain is always less important than someone else’s discomfort.

The administration didn’t punish him. Nothing happened to him. Because technically, I touched him first. That was the logic they used, as if a gentle tap to the top of someone’s head justified being strangled in a school hallway. I learned quickly that speaking out would only get me in more trouble, that being autistic didn’t excuse me, but somehow excused him. I still had to see him in the halls after that. And maybe the worst part? My friend, someone I trusted, stood there and did nothing. 

Just watched. Didn’t step in. Didn’t say a word. Later, he called me and told me I shouldn’t have touched him or punched him, like it were my fault. I snapped. I screamed at him over the phone for thirty minutes, telling him exactly what kind of hypocrite and coward he was. Told him if he wanted to join the army so badly, maybe he should start by learning how to stand up for his friends. Our friendship was never the same after that. And honestly? I don’t think I ever want to speak to him again.

So an awkward autistic girl gently taps someone’s head, and she’s seen as crazy, unstable, violent, out of control. Meanwhile, autistic boys can shout, throw chairs, even physically assault people, and still get excused because they’re “working on their coping strategies.” The double standard is real, and it’s brutal. Women and girls on the spectrum are held to impossible standards of politeness, emotional regulation, and social performance. And it doesn’t stop after high school. It follows us into adulthood, where the bullies become our bosses, and we still get pushed out, punished, and pathologized for not being “normal” enough.

 We’re still denied help. Still mislabeled. Still gaslight. So if you’re a woman with ASD reading this please hear me: you are not broken. You don’t need to be fixed. You just need different accommodations, different support, and a world that stops pretending one-size-fits-all. Men get coddled for their diagnoses. We get discarded. You’re not wrong for feeling like you were treated worse, because you were and are. Don’t let them gaslight you into thinking you’re crazy, you’re not. You’re surviving in a world that was never designed for you.

[iznsfw]

Like a Feather From a Swan’s Broken Wing

LE SSERAFIM's Nakamura Kazuha x Male Reader Smut

7,468 words

Categories | agent!You, ballerina!Kazuha, cunnilingus, daddy kink, spanking, fingering, slight bondage

Masterlist | Mobile Masterlist | Commission me!

This is a commission in which I was given the task to write literally anything I wanted (thank you!)

“The art of pleasing is the art of deception.”

— Luc de Clapiers

-

The gun’s in a steady direction, only looking forward. It’s aimed at the dark, at wherever the partners of the man you’ve been hunting for months might hide. On the darker side, you wish that if there would be anyone coming out, it would be the man himself so you'd be able to shoot him. He's the source of more headaches than you could count and the one who keeps you up late at night, and never for a good reason.

It's the selfish part of you speaking. You shouldn't let that interfere with the operation. 

You're in uniform, wrapped head to toe in camouflage green. It feels heavy on your skin, but that doesn't stop your determination. You'll carry the weight of your uniform before you carry the burden that is him, who prolongs the operation, leaves your coffee powder short, and keeps the nation in distress.

Today, you'll catch him, once and for all.

Look around briefly. The night covers you completely, and hopefully doesn't cover the enemy, too. You only take a flashed look; quickness is a skill you once were unlearned in but developed later into the senior years of your profession.

Physical strength is another—the door meets the ground with a harsh thud after you kick it down. Training isn't easy by any means, but it's worth it. Hopefully this mission is the same as well.

Teamwork is a skill you learned, too, for like a flock of crows, you and the squad enter the warehouse. Altogether, they're shouting. They call for the victim (add an "s" for plural form, if necessary), telling her she's okay. Everything's going to be alright, they say, no need to worry.

However, they promise a much bloodier end for the kidnapper, who's probably lurking in the shadows.

"Come out now!" Yunjin shouts. She's frightening when she's angry; her brows are downturned and her fierce eyes are locked onto any movement. Hands on her gun, she's always prepared. "We're not going to ask again!"

"Scan the whole place," Sakura, your leader and chief, commands the rest of your team. The hate for the man glistens in her eyes; for her fierce predator looks, the team often dubs her as the cat of your group. "Don't leave one stone unturned."

The cramped warehouse is emptied out by the sounds of boots on the stairs. You take over the mission half and half: you, Sakura, and Yunjin on the first floor and Chaewon, Wonyoung, and Minju on the second. 

Your half of the team knocks over the boxes. They spill out packing peanuts and hints of drugs packed in Ziploc bags. Doors fly open and welcome you into empty darkness. Above you, you hear the newer ones in the squad yelling. It's an amateur habit, but maybe it would work. Maybe it would finally draw the criminals out to justice, and all of this would be over.

But, of course, when they run down the stairs with faces devoid of any recognition and your face mirroring theirs with disappointment, it's clear that this whole thing is far from its end. 

In fact, you're only at the beginning of a long, uncertain road. 

-

Thread twisted around pins lead to everywhere but the answer. You've been staring at the billboard for too long, trying to piece together the olden newspaper scraps and sticky notes, but there's nothing. Any signs of an answer bring you to nothing. Each path, strung by thread and yarn of colors signifying this and that, draws to a dead end.

If you don't work harder with your team, Bae Suzy would be dead, too. 

So why haven't you caught the abductor yet?

You and your team sit at the rounded table. They look solemn, and perhaps a little irritated. You can't blame them—the mission you thought would be the last became another one to the list of failed rescue operations. 

They're getting tired of this, and if it were any other case, they'd let go of it. But this is Bae Suzy you're talking about—she's famous, reputable, and intelligent. She's an accomplished actress, a loveable idol, and an excellent model. All of these make her the treasure of many high-class individuals who’d pay billions and fans who'd give their lives to have her back, so you have to go through. Whether you like it or not, that’s how the story goes.

Your boss, chief Miyawaki Sakura, crosses her arms sternly. High curved nose, straight-set lips, and eyes that never failed to scour through the team, she nods at you. It doesn't take a sign language translator to get what she means: start talking.

"The mission was aborted due to fallacies in translation and sources," you say. You're using your classic, signature neutral tone for meetings like this one. There's an edge to it today, though. No one dares to tell you about it. "One of our sources translated the location and transferred the information to us incorrectly, hence bringing us to another failed operation."

Your teammates nod. Sakura sighs, pinching her nose.

"Due to this," you continue, slapping down on the table a picture of Bae Suzy, in which she smiles charmingly and waves to a mass of reporters, "we must conduct further readings into the case to ensure that the information is accurate. For Bae Suzy, and for us."

Another series of nods from across the room. Most of them are half hearted.

"So, do any of you have a proposal as to where the kidnapper is now? And where he might have brought miss Bae?"

The quiet Kim Chaewon raises her hand. She used to be the one who brought and made the coffee, but after she helped you solve a cold case during her night shifts, you brought it upon yourself to let her join the team. She listened to the seminars well and was excellent in the training. She had potential, is what you're saying, so you're more than glad to hear from her side.

"I believe the kidnapper is a dancer. Maybe he’s brought her to a studio."

"That isn't relevant," says Sakura, venom in her voice. It’s wholly unintended for her to lash out at the new member of the squad, but her exhaustion is getting the better of her today. 

Chaewon blushes. "I believe it is, chief," she retorts timidly. "He left ballet shoes and leotards in the last operation. It might lead us to his location, especially if he's the sentimental type."

"And you say that after we ransacked an old man's warehouse? After he thought we were little shits playing soldiers and looking for some coke?"

“B-but the operation was your idea!”

"I launch all operations, honey," Sakura informs her, smiling with fake sweetness. "What do you do?"

"Sakura," you warn. Your words are tight. You don't have it in your soul to deal with her feistiness today. Any other day you would have let the bickering go on, but the failed mission has downed your spirits. 

Silence passes around the table. Wonyoung's looking around, waiting for someone to speak. Sakura's staring daggers into the flushed Chaewon. Minju and Yunjin are as quiet as they can be. 

Let the silence ferment with acknowledgement: "Thank you, Chaewon, for your input. Any other ideas?"

"I believe Chaewon is right,” Minju pipes up. “We received a letter from the suspect after the operation.”

You smile, both at the good news and the fact that Minju is, so far, the prettiest out of the squad, and doesn't have only a pretty face but the good wits to back it up, too. That's part of the reason why you love welcoming her point of view, but a letter sounds interesting. Probably even more interesting than getting close with Minju, a thought you entertained more than you should.

“Were there fingerprints?” you ask.

She hands you the letter, which is wrapped in an envelope with newspaper and magazine letters carefully pasted on its front. “No. He probably used gloves.”

You carefully rip the hood of the envelope upwards and pull out the folded paper. You then read it out loud:

"To the police, agents, and detective teams—

"You won't ever find me. I float through the crowds unseen. I glide through the lake of circumstance like a swan. I bring her along, and though she's a kitten scared of water, she's mine now. Forever.

"It would take years before you're even able to save your precious little Suzy. It might not even happen at all.

"For that reason, although I abhor you more than you'd think for you all are built on a system of lies and corruption, I offer you this clue:

"I have flown to other nations where my flock calls for me in our garden. Will you be able to shoot me down?

"Soar with me,

"The One Who Dances, A Flame Eternal."

It must have taken hours to cut out all those magazine letters. That's one thing you'll commend the abductor for.

"'The One Who Dances,'" says Wonyoung in awe. She realizes that Chaewon was right about him being a dancer. For someone as young and new to this side of the profession, it’s like watching a thing straight out of a thriller movie.

"'The One Who Dances,'" Sakura repeats, but in a more sarcastic tone than the interested girl. She scoffs. There's a smile on her face that’s amused despite the situation. "Boo, what a fucking nerd. Did he take up human sciences or something?"

"That's not relevant," you tell her, avenging Chaewon (and defending yourself, too, because you also studied human sciences. That's not fair. You aren't a nerd.)

"I’m telling you, those essays they make those kids do rot their brains. Oh, and shut the fuck up. This is why you aren't a team leader."

Choose to ignore her. "I… I just don't get it," you say hopelessly.

Your hair is thin between your fingers as you crawl your digits into it. They're tense, just like you are. You've been tight and stressed through the whole investigation process, in fact, because you've rolled through every possible location: a school, a secret hideout, an old building. None of them are occupied by the criminals. None of them have Bae Suzy.

"We're getting there," replies Yunjin softly. She pats your shoulder and looks at your billboard of pictures and clues, too. "We already know Suzy's being held captive. We just don't know where."

She's lying. That's what friends are for: to lie to make you feel better in situations where it's impossible to be. In that case, Yunjin’s an excellent friend because you're getting abso-fucking-lutely nowhere. It's been one failed rescue mission after another, and it doesn't seem like the next one would be successful either.

"That's the problem, Yunjin." Twirling the black ocean of coffee with a teaspoon, you point to a newspaper clipping thumbtacked to the west side of the board. "Last time, they said the kidnapper took her to the USA because she was seen at the airport."

You rise from your swivel chair to tug out a printed screenshot of the CCTV at said place, and raise it for everyone to see. It shows the timestamps and Bae Suzy looking scared as she stares into the crowds.

"But then she went back to Dutchland," Sakura adds. 

“Correct.” Take another grayscale photo where Bae Suzy waits unwillingly at the airport, and tap on the sign at the very front of the line she's in that says the name of the country. "The sources are just as confused as we are."

Yunjin's furrowed brow quirks. She picks up the folder and goes through it. The papers reflect in her black-rimmed glasses. "Why would she be in Dutchland?"

"Because," jab a thumb into the picture of Suzy again, "Dutchland means something to the kidnapper. He wouldn't have gone with Suzy there for nothing. It risks everything."

Dutchland is the main setting of the case, actually. Everything begins and ends there. Everything you know about the kidnapper lies in the note he addressed to the police, issued by Minju earlier.

Wait—

Pull out the kidnapper's letter again. It's impossible to mistake it for anything else even through the mess on the table when it's smoother than the other scratch papers. The identifying marks are your fingerprints from pen ink branded onto the thin piece of parchment.

Open it, rolling it out on the table like a mantle. It's a mantle of clues you run your finger on. Flown to other nations… soar with me… our garden… The One Who Dances…

Your breath catches in your throat. "Chaewon," you say, looking up at her, “you’re a fucking genius.”

-

One Leaf Academy is a rich, well-established school for aspiring ballerinas and professional dancers alike. There can't be any other the abductor was referring to. There's only one particularly famous ballet academy in Dutchland, and since he's mentioned that he was the one who danced, this was it. The "garden" mentioned in the letter helped map it down to one location.

It looks good even from bird's eye view. You can see it properly without the pane of a window standing in the way. When you’re part of the squad, flights aren’t taken on planes. Instead, you use helicopters, government-owned and government-approved. 

It took only two days for Dutchland to issue an agreement to let you through the borders. They love Bae Suzy, too, apparently. They love her so much that the process went by quickly and you weren’t even stressed about it. There’s more things to stress about later on, but there’s no use in lamenting the future when the present is already good as is.

The green helicopter lands in the forest behind the school. It camouflages among the leaves and trees, giving you the freedom to hop out of it as noisily as you’d like. 

Twigs and branches snap under your feet as you do, and you have to catch Sakura to stifle her trip.

She slaps your hands away and brushes down her dress, as if your touch ruined it. "Keep your fucking hands to yourself."

"You're welcome, Sakura," you say, shrugging.

"Can you two please stop fighting?" Wonyoung asks. Her delicate voice, irresistible even to the hardhearted Sakura, ceases the argument before it could continue.

Pull the ridiculous blazer they made you wear on and look at the team. "Everyone ready? You know your jobs?" you ask. 

"I'm the mother," says Sakura spitefully. She glares down at the gradient dress assigned to her. "I'll pretend to take pictures and talk to you through the phone."

"Who's the baby daddy?"

"For once, I beg, shut the fuck—"

"Guys," Wonyoung repeats with a more pleading voice. 

Sigh. The fight was on you and it's up to you to end it as well. So, turn to: "Wonyoung?"

"I stay behind and watch out for suspicious people," she replies, back to her usual bright but professional self. You hope she doesn't lose the shimmer in her eyes years down the road of being on the investigative team. You'd hate for her to go through what you had to deal with.

"Yunjin?" 

"First round of backup with Chaewon unnie." Yunjin taps the gun hidden in the loop of her jeans. 

"Minju?"

The girl blushes. "Look for Bae Suzy," she says in a small voice. She looks pointedly at you. "And you?"

"Find the abductor." Look down at your shoes and wonder if they'd ever experience a trip that isn't about work. "Put an end to everything."

Everything's been fleshed out already. There are backup plans of backup plans, earpieces hidden on the sides of your head when the need to communicate comes. This is how it usually is with undercover work. 

You ponder, for a moment, and think if it would forever be like this: a game of cat and mouse, always led on but never going through. It just fuels your passion to find Bae Suzy once and for all.

"Remember, this is a recital," Sakura informs all of you. She points to the backdoors of the ballet academy, which suppresses classical music from the inside. "We have to fit in. Don't drop your cover."

She looks at you and narrows her eyes. “Even if somebody tempts you.”

-

"Operation One Leaf, launched immediately."

You enter the recital with the subtle earpiece strapped to your lobe and your steps light. You carry your posture well, and with the suit, draw looks from the other parents and from children, too. They're wondering if you're the owner of the place, or maybe you're a well-dressed teacher? A wealthy father? They'll never know because you won't dare tell them. 

Regard them with a cold yet polite nod and walk through the sides of the chairs. There's not much of the audience left, but you still have to play your part. 

You lock eyes with Minju, who steps into the recital wearing preppy yet casual wear. Mouth her good luck. She smiles, but proceeds into the backrooms without another word. Right. She plays a part in the mission, too. You shouldn't disturb her.

"You're here, agent," she says anyway, tapping onto her own earpiece. Her voice rings in your ear. "Break a leg."

Sakura gets in a little while later. As per her job, she pulls out the communication device disguised as a phone and lifts it to the air, "recording" the dancer on the stage. 

Blend in with the crowd as you will. You're a little embarrassed by the attention you draw with your suit since the whole thing is supposed to be undercover, but there's no going back now. You have to act the part.

So: stride confidently into the room, never looking down. Take the first seat you see at the very front and look at the performance.

That's kind of how it all started: a look. It wasn't supposed to be anything else, but yes, one single look keeps you hypnotized, not just because of the dance, but the girl who performs it.

She might as well be a swan in disguise. She's got this resilient, princess-like look on her face that's more alluring than it should be. Even her hair serves her royalty; it elegantly floats around her neck and shoulders as she prances and twists.

The uniform, a long-sleeved blouse finished off with a flattering tie and a flowing skirt, doesn't hide her gracefulness. She moves in it as if she were the swan lake herself. Her movements are as fluid as can be. Each rush and lift of her leg guarantees an upskirted moment in which you're allowed to bask in the beauty of her legs and the fullness of her butt, and you know you shouldn't look. You're better than that; you shouldn't let a young, pretty girl stall your job, but there you are, front seat at a recital for professional senior high ballerinas, hypnotized by a ballerina's dance.

You have to snap out of it. You have better and more important things to do than mentally undress a pretty dancer, yet your eyes are glued on her. It's like your vision was programmed to catch every twirl and glide she makes across the platform, to relish the poke of her chest through the blouse that's a little too small, to yearn for her.

The music is just a dreamful background to her. You're dazed. Hypnotized. Locked into a passive position because of her. 

You want this ballerina. You can't do anything but look and want and long.

It's almost heartbreaking when her performance ends. She bows deeply, and you swear she's fired you a wink right before she rises up again. 

You have to get to know her. You want to ask her out, maybe even escalate things further on the first date if she’s willing. But you have a mission to do. The squad and saving Bae Suzy come first.

Regretfully, you stand from the monobloc chair and turn your heel. But then there she is, dressed in perfection and uniform, and looking prettier up close when she shouldn't be that close but she is close and you swear one more centimeter closer and you'd be closed up to her lips.

"Hi," she says, casually. 

That deep voice, fuck.

Wait, when did she get here? 

"I, uh, hi? Wait, how did you… why are you—"

"Please." She rolls her eyes, sets a hand on her tiny pinch of a waist. "Did you think you weren't obvious staring me down?"

"Well, uh—"

(What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you stuttering and stammering and stumbling over your words like you aren't more mature and older than her? How could she say that to you and disregard that fact? 

You couldn't be assed to know, but she's intimidating you in a whole different way: making you feel like the platform she dances on by acting sweet but not too sweet, flirty but not over the top. That's what you know, but here's the problem: you have little idea what to do.)

"Calm down," she says. She's a tall girl, but smaller enough to smooth down your blazer and close it softly around your chest. Her eyes are enticing. "I'm just playing with you." 

Swallow. Try to collect your composure back into a neat pile, but it overflows and ceases. "Excuse me," you say, voice shaking, "do I know you?" 

She pushes out her pink bottom lip, bites it, then shakes her head. "It's Kazuha, if that rings a bell."

"If I didn't know your name, Kazuha," you say, "I'd say I recognize you from somewhere."

"You do?"

"Yeah." The more you talk, the more she looks like Bae Suzy. "You, y-you kind of look like someone I'm looking for."

Kazuha guides you with a hand around your wrist and walks you to the backroom. You have no sense of direction when your eyes are sealed onto her gorgeous face, perfect with their brown eyes and sculpted nose. It's a tour guide to danger, and you don't even know that you're hiking.

"Is she your wife?" She rubs the back of your hand with a thumb, looking at you with such authentic concern that you almost fall for it. Almost. "Girlfriend?"

"No." Breathe through your nose. "Just someone I have to look for."

Slam. The door shuts, and now you're effectively pinned upon its wood like a poster. Amazing how a woman smaller than you could do you like that: have you weak at your knees as she keeps you on the flat of the door, stares you down with no hatred in her eyes, but sultriness. You don't know how you pick up all those clues when she's not speaking, but Kazuha, as you come to find out, isn't like any other girl. She's known her whole life to speak through her body, and the message from her hands pushing you into a flattened position and her leg propped next to your hip is clear.

You’re not sure if you want to open her note and read it.

"Tell me," Kazuha says, chastely, although her actions are anything but, "am I as hot as her?"

Your eyes widen. It's utterly unprofessional; you as an agent shouldn't even begin to engage in a conversation about how the victim's sexually attractive when she might be in the most vulnerable place right now.

Stutter again. Broken words become a new language you're fluent in, and might as well be a native speaker of with how much Kazuha learned you into it. You have her slim, hot body pressed up against yours to thank, and the look in her eyes. The tilt of her pretty little head. Her subtle, knowing smirk.

"I can't talk about that with you," you say, because it's true—you can't. You have a mission to do and your morals to keep.

"Sure you can," Kazuha counters. Her eyes glimmer. "I'm the top student in One Leaf. They basically made me a star when they knew that my name meant 'one leaf,' too. Isn't that funny?"

"What's your point here?"

"The point is," she says, leveling your gaze, "if I fuck you right here in this room, they wouldn't give a damn."

She has a hold of your hands, imprisoning them and trapping them on the slopes of her sizable chest. Your breath hooks on nothing and is released incompletely. Kazuha's breasts are so soft, not the biggest but fill your hands up so well that you'd take them over any other pair. 

Have to resist the voice inside you telling you to squeeze. "What are you doing?" you ask. 

"Tell me, what do men like you want?" 

Kazuha curls your hand into her flesh so that she's making you squeeze—

"Tits—" 

—then leads it below her pleated skirt, lets it cup the globes and touch places that should otherwise be left untouched—

"—or ass?"

Both are tastes of heaven. The two choices are soft yet alluring. But you really shouldn't, though you want to rip that skirt clean off her legs and spank her till her cheeks are red. She deserves that for tempting you, for being such a bad girl when she's otherwise excellent at being a ballerina.

"I can't talk to you about that," you have to repeat. But it sounds more like you're convincing yourself rather than her. 

Oh, and she's far from being budged. 

Kazuha pulls you by the tie and drags you to the nearest monobloc chair. There are plenty of other seats just like that here in the utility room, but she chooses to throw a beautiful, toned leg over each side of your hips and sit on your lap instead. Her ass snuggles your crotch and her legs keep you trapped onto the chair.

"What about now?" she asks. 

Then her hips start to sway—it's another coax for you to drag out of your shell and do what you shouldn't. It's another dance besides ballet that she knows well, and you can tell from how her thighs flex and bounce underneath your touch, she's very good at it. 

"K-Kazuha… fuck—"

"Come on." She's straight up dry humping you, dragging her perfect pussy up and down your growing erection. Her eyes and mouth both pose a challenge: "Tell me I should stop. Tell me you want to do anything that isn't to fuck me."

Kazuha rubs herself on you. She uses your clothed cock as a personal toy for a few delicious seconds, then rises from your lap to unbutton her blouse. One by one, they undo themselves and the pale skin of her chest is revealed. There's her small cleavage. A collarbone carved from perfection. Her beautiful chest. Too much is what it is, yet your perverted self can't stop gawking.

You remember Sakura's words earlier. She told you not to drop your cover, not to get tempted. You dislike Sakura, yet it's her warning that ignites your hesitation. She suspected that you'd fall like this. She was only trying to hold you back.

"Well? What's gonna happen then?" Kazuha crosses her arms. They frame the underside of her tits, a perfect picture. "Do you want to go out there and find some stupid girl or fuck the one on your lap? What's it gonna be, daddy?"

You're not a daddy kink type of person. In fact, you don't really have that much of a sex drive. Intercourse and the like are things you have no time for when your job is like this, much less a discovery of a daddy kink.

So why is your dick so much harder now that she's said it?

Why are your hands on her hips?

Why are you carrying Kazuha's lithe form and placing her right on a desk?

Why are you kissing her?

When your lips and hers meet, an apocalypse is birthed. An apocalypse of sex, hunger, and desire breaks out. Your eyes are closed, yet your hands and Kazuha's own know exactly where to touch and hold. She unbuckles your belt and pulls down your pants. You slide your greedy fingers over Kazuha's perfect buttcheeks. Tug off the ridiculous shorts that saved her performance from being pornographic. Rip off the panties that are sticky with need.

"Oh, ohhh, you like that?" Kazuha moans while you kiss her neck and chest. Don't bother to rip off the uniform when it looks incredibly sexy on her fit body. "You like me calling you that, daddy?"

"Quiet. We're making this quick."

"So you do want to fuck me."

Thighs touch your lips when you make your way down. Or is it the other way around? Whatever, the point is that Kazuha's thighs are a delicacy. They're full yet sculpted and would look great looped around your head. Luckily, you find that the sopped core between them is more delicious.

Lick a line from the bottom of her slit right up to her bundle of nerves. "Who says I want to fuck you?"

"D-daddy!" Kazuha gasps, covering her mouth. 

"You're quick to call me that." You kiss the insides of thighs then start trailing your tongue around her clit. On top of it. Under it. Each side is subject to immense pleasure. "Where's the shame, little dancer?" 

"Right on with the nicknames." 

You splay Kazuha's pink lips and stick your tongue in between them. Her hips buckle forward. Her eyes are all wide and eager and needy, and it takes a few more thrusts of your tongue to have them shut. 

However, it doesn't take a lot for Kazuha to moan. Her voice is tinged with deep tones, and they pronounce out prolonged cries as you toy her cunt with your tongue. Her thighs threaten to crush your head, but, if anything, you'd welcome it. You're happy to be trapped in between her luscious legs and keep the feminine scent of her pussy right up close. Her juices could be your water, the food would be her core itself—you're already eating it like a meal anyway.

"Of course. If you want to play games, I'll give in." Toy with her clit, then proceed to give it harsh sucks and slurps that her lower body spasms. "I'm just playing along."

Kazuha bites on a bated breath and beats the table with a bent hand. "What if I'm not playing around, daddy?" 

"Hm?"

"What if, fuck, I'm not playing around?" She pushes you deeper between her legs and wraps them around your head. She toys with the sides of your ears. "Maybe I like fucking people who obviously shouldn't be doing it. Maybe I like calling a hot man daddy. It just feels so good for me. Did you ever think about that?"

And maybe you like fucking a girl who's a hindrance to your mission. Maybe you like eating out her wet cunt, driving your tongue deeper into the soaked fuckhole, and doing everything you wanted to do to her when she was onstage. 

But all of that is just one maybe after another. As far as you're concerned, you don't actually like doing it, yet when Kazuha whines and squirms like that, your mind is quickly changed.

Self-discovery, you guess.

"So do it," you challenge her. Look up at her while you quickly rub her clit. "Call me daddy."

"Daddy, hngnnn, fuck, daddy!" 

Kazuha's pussy creates the most obscene wet sounds. Your index finger doesn't rest; it fires away at her clit, her most sensitive spot, and urges it to become more swollen. More sensitive. More desperate.

Push her other leg up for more access. As you expected, it effortlessly rises. Who knew that her years of dancing as a professional ballerina would translate well when eating her pussy? You love how her thigh quivers and tries to stay upward while you eat her out. That's one thing ballet didn't teach her: to stay stabilized when there's a tongue and finger assaulting her center.

"Are you usually this wet, Kazuha? After you dance out there with your legs and thighs out for everyone to see?" 

"No, no, I'm not wet! You're, hnnn, daddy," her eyes lose focus and she rolls her head back, mouth gaped, "oh, fuck, daddy, I'm gonna cum!"

Start to jack yourself off to the unholy, R-18 scene of Kazuha approaching orgasm. Is it a known thing that ballerinas are the most beautiful when they cum? If not, it should be, for Kazuha's blissful face—eyes shut, mouth wide with moans—and her shaking legs enchant you. They draw you into her and have you rubbing and tapping at her core to coax out more euphoric reactions from her. 

Slip your fingers inside her. Be greeted with a fountain of liquid and scent. Appreciate how tight she is when it's only your fingers in her.

"God, daddy, not there!" Kazuha screams. Have to dodge a few times for her kicking and flailing legs to miss your face. "I'm so sensitive there, oh no, you can't—oh, fuck—daddy!"

Her deep voice thrills your erection, and you could have cum on the spot with her if you were more focused on rubbing her orgasm out. A bit of squirt stains your fingers, but you end up getting more stains of girl cum on yourself as you go on fingering and rubbing. 

Kazuha rubs her own nipples as she settles down from her high. "That, that was—daddy—"

You hush her. There's no time to talk. You unravel Kazuha's tie and wrap the little gray thing around her wrists. You knot them tightly after you wring her arms behind her back. She watches on with confusion, wondering why you're suddenly being so horny. 

If she asked, you'd explain that it's because of her. Who else could be the culprit when she's there with her incredible thighs and perfect, fuckable body? When she's the feistiest little thing who just turns out to crumble if the right guy crosses her? Everything about Kazuha seems to be designed and fabricated to tempt you, and look at you giving in.

"You're tying me up, daddy?" she asks, tone varying between disappointment and excitement.

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

She's so cute, really—she closes up to you with the biggest eyes of hurt and want, with her slim lips curved downwards into a pout. "You have to fuck me," she says, like it's a promise you made that she's been waiting on to be granted for a while. "It's not fair. You can't even fuck well, daddy, and you're tying me up? You must be joking."

Scoff. "I wasn't so bad at fucking when I ate your pussy."

"I was just moaning to make you happy." Kazuha leans forward, presenting her exposed cleavage and face that looks otherwise innocent besides the smirk. "I love making big handsome daddies like you happy."

Her words and cutesy tone send chills down your spine. She's so attractive that it's becoming scary, even when she's bound by the hands. 

"Don't you feel bad, daddy?" she asks with a timely lull of her head to the side. "You're giving your whole career away to fuck me. You're supposed to be doing something else, aren't you? Something other than fucking me? So why are you here?"

Her words hit too close to home. "You don't know anything about me, Kazuha." 

"Sure I do."

"Turn around."

"Make me. Holy shit, daddy, you have such a big cock, but you're so pathetic. You didn't expect to fuck a girl tonight, did you? But you saw me and thought about it. And now that I've figured you out, you got mad. Why's it the fault of a good little girl like me that you're doing the wrong thing? Maybe it's because you know you're such a bad person, a bad guy—"

You grab her and push her stomach down on the table. Your rod slips inside the ballerina, and she breaks.

And it's everything you've ever wanted: she's hot and tight and wet around you. Her bouncy ass lives up to its description as you pump at a rapid fire pace inside her. Her pussy's so tight that it feels like it's pinching you to keep you inside, and you do exactly that. You'd never want to be anywhere else.

But you still make sure to pull out to let your length breathe, then submerge them into the tightness of her vagina again. Her lips cling to your dick. They don't want you to be anywhere else either. 

“Say you’re sorry.”

"S-sorry, daddy!" she's quick to say. A broken mirror lies across the table, and from there you can see the expressions of winces and moans on her beautiful face.

"Fucking mean it." 

"Kazu… ha, Kazuha… Kazuha's sorry, daddy!"

There's a certain power you impel on this thrust specifically, and it sends her legs buckling. Place a hand on her bound wrists to keep her in place just like she did when she had you trapped to the door.

Frankly, you did it for the chance to slap her cheeks. Spank one and it jiggles beautifully. Spank the other and her hole tightens. Make it a point of yours to spank there particularly, all while keeping the unyielding quality of her hole. It's how you keep the brat that is Kazuha on a leash.

"Daddy, daddy, fuck!" she screams. "You're so, so good, please keep fucking me!"

"Contradicting yourself." Pull out, much to her disappointment, and slide your cock up and down in the plateau of her asscheeks. The flesh of her ass hugs you. 

"Why'd you pull out, daddy?" Kazuha asks. She looks back at you and pleads with the shimmer in her eyes.

"I wanted to see if this ass is as soft as it looks."

For a few blissful moments you fuck Kazuha's ass cheeks, but never really entering her puckered pink hole. It causes her to whine and pout. It's impossible to not give in to such a pretty face, so you continue for a few seconds, letting the pleasure entice your cock to a full solidness, then pause.

"Are you a good girl, Kazuha?" Rub her pussy then bring your slick digits to her mouth. 

Kazuha licks them clean and nods repeatedly. If you weren't so focused on riling her up, you'd go back to the moment your squad nodded their heads as you went over the mission plan. "Yesss, daddy."

"So much you'd let me fuck this perfect pussy till I'm spent?"

"Yes!"

Twist Kazuha around and prop her on the desk. Then, you tear her blouse. Buttons soar in the air to make way for her full, ab-ridden midriff to be exposed. Her tiny slutty waist has your mouth agape. Her small breasts peek through her black lace bra.

"And let me cum all over this midriff?" you ask, staking the deal higher.

"Oh, what's that?" Kazuha smirks. "Is little old daddy scared to breed me?"

Her character when she's not being fucked confuses you just as much as it arouses you. She looks way better when she's being a submissive little dancer, though.

"Bad girls don't get to be bred."

Push inside her. Yes, you're doing this again. Kazuha's abs flex, and the breaths she takes and releases become more strained. 

As you pound her, she looks at you with this face that's lost any elegance from dancing. It's looking like she's slightly sleepy with pleasure, like she wanted to lay there while she let you have your way with her. And you'd be glad to—her ripped uniform and pretty legs would spur you on in no time.

You grab her ass and start dragging her to yourself, too, to fill her deeper. It works; your tip makes it to her womb and right then and there you're tempted to be hypocritical and breed her anyway. You'd love to imagine how her face basked in pleasure would look when you fill her with your load. You'd love to see her pull the weight of being bred well and dance out there with no care that your semen's rolling down her soft legs. 

But she doesn't deserve it.

"Pleaaaase, I'll be so good!" she says. Her hands end up on your shoulders and she's kissing you everywhere. "I'll be a good girl, daddy, just fffucking fill me up. I'll never… I'll be…. oh!"

You're going too fast. Your sudden burst of energy leaves her on the edge. On the wall, to be more precise, because you're ruining and rearranging her insides so well that she's knocked onto the walls again and again. 

"Daddy…" 

Kazuha winces. Moans. C-cries? She doesn't know what to do. Her legs feel hot and she feels like she's going to burst anytime soon. Your cock's impaling her in all the right ways, grazing her cervix and G-spot but also parting her walls just so that the pain transforms into pleasure. "Gonna cum now, daddy, please let me—oh, please—"

The last word comes out wrung in between pitches. Kazuha shudders and squeals. The pleasure's overwhelming her so much that she's let go of her strength. Her legs feel too weak. Her throat, although you haven't fucked it, is sore. Then you're painting her abs, white fluid against and above and over white skin, and she immediately fingers some of your release and pushes a digit inside herself. She's a resourceful girl besides being an excellent ballerina. Good to know.

"You really didn't breed me, daddy?" she asks sadly.

You regret not doing so seeing the hopeless look on her face. "Sorry, but I've got to—"

Your eyes size up to planets.

—"go."

It's only at the finish of your sentence that you realize that you're right. You do have to go. Why are you here when you have a mission to find the abductor? 

"Shit, shit, shit!" Pull your pants up and fix your blazer. It's cool inside the utility room, but your blood's run cold. "I have to go, Kazuha. I—"

Kazuha rolls her eyes. "Fix your earpiece first, daddy. You're a mess."

You blindly follow her words before you even suspect why she knew about the earpiece, or why it's off. After you tap on it, you hear the following, haunting words:

"Mission aborted. Mission aborted. We've been betrayed."

"No, no, no." You shake your head over and over. You can’t believe that was happening and you missed out on assisting your teammates out. Speak through the piece in a shaken voice, "What's going on? Yunjin? Yunjin, what's going on?"

"What the fuck?" she says, obviously infuriated. "I've been trying to reach you, agent! Where the hell are you?"

Look around. "Uh… I met a girl. We're in the back."

"Fuck. What's her name?"

"Kazuha."

Yunjin's voice reaches an alarm you've never heard from her. "Get the fuck out of there, agent! Get away from her, kill her, I don't give a fuck, just run!"

"B-but why?" 

"The kidnapper's not a 'him,' she's a 'she'! It's a trap!"

As Yunjin's voice echoes from your earpiece in the small room, Kazuha's creepy smile grows. 

"Yunjin," flash a look at the ballerina, who’s still smiling, then at the ceiling, "I don't understand."

"Get your fucking head in the game. 'The One Who Dances', agent. 'One Leaf'! The answer was right in our face, it's her!" Yunjin's practically shouting now. It deafens you, but you hear every word loud and clear. "She impersonated Bae Suzy at the airport, agent. The ‘cat’ in the letter wasn’t about Suzy, it’s about Sakura! She betrayed us!”

You look at Kazuha, and suddenly her smile isn’t as alluring as it was when you were fucking her. It speaks of an impending doom. It tells you that you should really run, but there wouldn’t be much change if you did because she’d still catch you. You’d still end up dead.

Suddenly, all the pieces to the story that played behind the scenes fall into place. They connect too well for it to be false. You never questioned once why Sakura led you in each of the operations, and now it’s clear why she did: she was holding you back from saving Suzy. There was a reason why she was team leader. How did you not catch it?

And Kazuha… she didn’t come up to you just because she wanted to, did she? She had a partner and a purpose. You were searching for the culprit ever since you stepped foot into the academy. It didn’t hit you once that you might be fucking her. 

Kazuha takes a few steps towards you and lays her forehead into your chest. “You’re not mad, are you, daddy?”

How did her tie suddenly disappear from her wrists?

[jhutchh19992]

Late Nights and Lost Words

plot: you and clapton had been best friends forever. and you like him. so you decide to go to the cinema together…

tags: hurt, soft, no smut, readerxclaptondavis, best friends, unrequited love, Part 2?

Clapton always chose the middle row, third seat from the left.

I always chose the fourth. It had been our unspoken tradition ever since high school. Sometimes we talked the whole ride to the cinema, other times we didn’t. I liked both equally — because I was with him.

Clapton Davis.

He was the kind of guy people either admired or misunderstood. Smart, a little scattered, unreasonably charming in that boy-who-hates-homework kind of way. He had this laugh that cracked halfway through like he’d surprise himself with how happy he could sound. I was addicted to that laugh.

We met in the ninth grade. He was the new kid who couldn’t figure out the lock on his locker. I helped him out, not because I cared, but because his frustration looked too funny to ignore. That was the start. A week later, we were skipping science class together. Three years after that, he was my best friend.

And I was hopelessly, stupidly in love with him.

That night was a cold one — a Friday in late October. The air smelled like rain on pavement and cheap popcorn, and Clapton had just found a little cinema that was doing a special screening of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

He texted me at 4:12 PM:

"Found your dream movie. You, me, 7 PM, no takebacks."

I smiled like a damn idiot.

The cinema was nearly empty when we got there. Clapton grabbed a large popcorn and poured half a bag of M&M’s into it like a psychopath. I teased him about it. He offered me a handful anyway.

“I still don’t get why you like sad movies,” he said as we sat down. “They feel more real,” I shrugged. “People don’t get happy endings all the time.” He looked over at me then, a little longer than usual. “That’s depressing.” I laughed under my breath. “Guess I’m a little depressing.” He smiled. “Nah. You’re... honest.”

I wanted to kiss him right then.

During the movie, I watched him more than the screen. The flickering light painted his face in shades of blue and white. He had a habit of whispering thoughts mid-scene — stuff like “This part’s genius” or “I’d erase my memory of high school in a heartbeat”.

My hand was inches from his on the armrest. I could feel the heat. I could reach out, lace my fingers in his, tell him everything — how I stayed up at night thinking about what it’d be like if he ever looked at me the way Joel looked at Clementine. But I didn’t. The credits rolled, and the theater went quiet.

He stretched. “That was heavier than I expected. „Yeah,” I murmured. “It kinda guts you.”

Clapton turned to me, smiled again — softer this time. “You’re so weird. I mean, in the best way.” I swallowed hard. “Thanks, I guess.”

We walked out into the cool night, the kind where your breath fogs and your thoughts do too. The parking lot was empty except for his car. Neither of us talked for a minute. Then he broke the silence.

“I’ve been talking to someone,” he said casually. “Like, dating, I guess.” I didn’t even flinch on the outside. I just smiled and nodded. “Oh? That’s cool.”

“Yeah. Her name’s June. She’s in my psych class.”

“Nice. She sounds… great.”

He chuckled. “You’d like her. I told her about you — my weirdo best friend who makes me watch melancholic films about memory and heartbreak.”

I laughed too. Not because it was funny, but because that’s what you do when your heart caves in quietly.

He dropped me off outside my place. The porch light was off. I liked it that way.

“Thanks for tonight,” he said, half-leaning out the window. “Let’s do it again next week. Maybe something lighter?”

“Yeah. Definitely.”

He gave a mock salute and drove off into the darkness. I stood there for a while, hands shoved deep in my pockets, heart trying to unlearn the shape it had made for him.

He never found out.

And I never told him.

Some stories don’t end with confessions or kisses in the rain.

Some end quietly — with unspoken truths, half-finished sentences, and a third seat from the left that never gets any closer.

But I loved him.

God, I loved him.

And maybe that’s enough.

Even if he’ll never know.

[the-dragon-hearted]

Love in Arcane

There are a lot of themes in Arcane but an overarching theme is the dangers of love. Often times, love is put on a pedestal and mistaken as sacred. Love is always good, always "pure".

Arcane actively pushes against that.

I think a lot of the discourse surrounding some of the relationships wouldn't be as big if we recognized that love is just... not always a good thing. Silco and Jinx, Powder and Vi, Mel and Ambessa, they all display that - let me explain.

Silco and Jinx: Probably the most obvious example of this

Silco loves Jinx. This earnestly cannot be argued, he was willing to throw away his dream of an independent Zaun because he could not handle the idea of betraying her. Not losing her - betraying her. Hurting her. He was willing to give himself up, telling Jayce everything she did was what he ordered. It is not a possessive twisted love where he wants her near - he has spent her entire life promising that he won't betray her and he meant it.

BUT!

That does not mean Silco is a good father. He loves her - absolutely. But love is not always good. Everything Silco passed on to Jinx was an example of how he saw the world. Silco was a paranoid, hurt man and as such he made his daughter a paranoid, hurt woman. Love forms us, it teaches us and builds us. Silco loved Jinx but he hated Piltover. He was willing to use violence and use people to get to his goal and he taught Jinx that those methods were acceptable. And he loves Jinx, so she learned.

And after he dies, part of her healing is unlearning those lessons. It's no mistake the ghost of Silco she sees in that cell is a somber one - warning her about the cycle of violence she knows all too well. It's no mistake that Silco's solution was one he never managed to do.

A parent can love you, but that does not change who they are. It does not change what they teach you. Especially if they think they're right.

Powder and Vi: this one hits a lil personally for me

Violet is a parentified older sister, she doesn't just feel responsible for Powder - it's her purpose. It's more than a role to fill or a job to do, if something happens to Powder it is Violet's fault.

And Powder? Vi was everything to her. She looked to Vi for praise, for guidance. Everything she was supposed to seek out in a parent she had to look for in a fellow child. And when Violet leaves her (not really but that's how she understands it), she is ripped away from the only source of dependency she has. So there's a level of resentment there and a fear of further abandonment. Because if the most reliable person in her life can leave her, who won't?

When they reunite, Vi is trying to fulfill a role Jinx no longer needs. Jinx is independent. A lot of people try to say that Vi made Jinx or Silco made Jinx but remember that at the end of the day, Jinx is Jinx. She is a person who makes her own choices and has to find her own path. Violet can't recognize that until it's too late - and then, because she's known her whole life that it is her purpose to take responsibility for Powder, she betrays everything she ever stood for, puts on an enforcer badge, and takes to the streets to try to atone for her failure.

Vi sees Jinx as her failure.

And Jinx? When Vi comes back she tries to find that dependency she once knew. She tries to figure out if she can still depend on that sister who once meant the entire world to her. But she can't. She never should have. And learning that the person you idolize most sees you as either a child or a threat is gutting. Jinx is not a child, so she must be a threat. Because Vi can't love Jinx, she loves Powder. And Jinx can't be Powder anymore, and if that's the case then Violet can't love her.

They both do love each other. They love the memories of the other. Who they once were. When they start to learn about one another again and rekindle that siblinghood it becomes healthier - it's more meaningful and respectful but before then? No matter how hard Violet tried, even if Jinx had chosen to be Powder again, their love would not have been healthy. Violet needed to learn that Jinx was her own person. And that she was not responsible for her, not anymore. Jinx needed to find herself and recognize Vi's failures. Recognize Violet as a person too.

Because siblings change. They grow. Apart and then back together, usually. Siblings love each other but you have to love more than the person someone used to be. Otherwise, you're just pouring your grief on the person they've become.

Ambessa and Mel:

Perfectionist mother meets over-achiever, independent daughter. This is the clearest cut of all the relationships, in my opinion. We know Mel resents that her mother sent her away because she wanted to stay. She wanted to make her mother proud and if she couldn't make her proud she'd damn well spite her. And Ambessa? She loves Mel. She makes that very clear.

But sometimes, love is not something to desire. Sometimes love is synonymous with prison.

Ambessa's love meant she wanted her children to be survivors. Fighters. Winners. She wanted her children to be her.

Mel? Mel figured out quickly enough she didn't want to be her mother, she wanted to be herself. She feared what her mother could do but recognized the tactics and skills she honed were granted to her from the cradle.

That last word: "You have become the wolf."

The nail in the coffin. All the love, all the adoration in that tone, and yet Ambessa's love condemns Mel to a life she never wanted. Because now Mel is her mother's daughter. She is the wolf her mother raised. The heir. Mel loses everything she built and fought for as her Mother dies in her arms, by her hands.

Love. Succession. They can coexist with hate and damnation.

You can love someone and hurt them. Being loved can be hurtful. Love does not mean healthy. It does not mean good. Because love doesn't really have a tangible definition. You can love someone with everything in your body and still be bad for them. Someone can love you with all they have and yet haunt you long after their gone. I think we've placed love on this untouchable pedestal that we dare not touch or critique.

Because: "If it's bad for you it can't be love. No - people who love you don't hurt you. Love is only good. Love is good!"

It's important to know that being loved does not equal being happy, fulfilled, or safe. Better love exists. Healthy, meaningful, caring love exists. But even that will not always be perfect.

Love hurts. Love can be the most hurtful thing out there. Adoring someone rides a find line with glorifying them - love doesn't do that. Love knows your faults. It comes with faults. And adding the right combination of faults can make love a twisted sort of thing. Toxic is a word that's thrown around a lot and often separated from love.

Love can be toxic. It doesn't always become some separate entity, it just manifests sickeningly. Arcane shows us that.

It also shows us love can be good. It can forgive and accept. It can cradle and hold and save. It can last through dimensions and centuries, even through death. Love, like anything else, has many forms. Good and bad.

Doesn't Singed do atrocious things in the name of Love?

Doesn't Ekko recognize that even if he loves Powder, it's not his world. It's not his happiness to have. Doesn't leaving that love take strength?

Don't Viktor and Jayce find love in faults? In each other's shortcomings, not despite them but because of them?

Arcane encourages us to recognize Love's complexities and contradictions. And I think that's neat.

[rejectedfables]

rewatching House MD, and s1ep10 "Histories" is just such a masterpiece in crafting empathy for the unhoused, and it's striking me how much I miss characters who are allowed to be complicated and messy and deeply flawed even WHILE they impart a heavy-handed lesson to the audience. And how much more effective those lessons are when said characters ARE complicated and messy and deeply flawed.

In the episode, a homeless woman is brought to the ED, and House, Foreman, and Wilson clash over how to handle it. Wilson is immediately invested, Foreman is immediately dismissive, and House's interest in the case is piqued by wanting to learn why Foreman hates homeless people.

Foreman, who's perspective is the least sympathetic but the most like how the average irl person perceives and responds to unhoused people, is never given a backstory justification for his views. House assumes he's angry at an unhoused loved one, or perhaps he's just a snob, but the audience learns that Foreman's instinct to distrust Victoria was correct; she WAS trying to manipulate the system. AND she is also extremely ill. Foreman is merely forced, against his will, to observe her pain until he cannot ignore it anymore. He is dragged to empathy and compassion and emotional investment in her wellbeing, and he is rewarded with a lesson he will never unlearn.

Wilson starts the episode invested, remains invested, and is unsurprised by the ultimate tragedy of the episode. We are then told that, 9 years prior, he lost contact with his brother, who was homeless. We are shown that he was forced, in the past, against his will, to face the reality of homelessness.

In the beginning, Foreman dismisses Victoria's need to be there, saying homeless people lie about ailments so they can sleep in the hospital. In the middle, she admits that that is actually why she came in. He was right. By this point she is actually observably very ill with multiple serious ailments. In the end, she dies of something she would have been treated for long ago, if she were not homeless.

Wilson and Foreman dig into her past and discover that years ago she, while driving, had caused a car crash that killed her husband and son. We, the audience, are left to assume that that event led to a series of events culminating in her current unhoused status. She is an unreliable narrator of her own story, she is paranoid and scared and she attacks a doctor, she is an artist, she is a nice person, she DID lie to get help, AND she DID really need that help. And by the time she was in the hospital getting help from a team of atypically invested doctors, said help was too little too late to save her.

The complexity does not detract from this story or this lesson, it is an inherent part of it.

And I can't help feeling that the same episode, if it were filmed now (or perhaps what I mean is, if it were filmed at any time but with slightly less care), would give Foreman a backstory reason to distrust, and Wilson would NOT need a backstory reason to be compassionate, framing Goodness as default and Badness as other. Victoria would be a sympathetic victim of others evils, only ever kind despite her pain, dismissed despite pure intentions. She would be diagnosed with something that could affect anyone, showing that the homeless are just like the housed; we're all the same, actually. And maybe she would be cured, and offered help (money, a job, access to a shelter), to teach the audience, bittersweetly, that systemic problems can be overcome if you know the right people.

Instead, this episode was expertly written. Dismissal of the unhoused is commonplace and normalized. Compassion comes rarely and is hard won. People from any economic background can and do become unhoused. People in bad situations are inherently going to be complicated, and sometimes their situation IS their fault in one or many ways, and they still need help and support and medical care, and dismissing their needs is both easy and wrong. Unhoused people face many different problems than housed people do, their lives are different in many ways, and they are deserving of compassion despite and BECAUSE of this; being different does not make them less than. Systemic class oppression and the othering of unhoused people costs those people their lives in every way and at every level, and this is a tragedy. This is a tragedy.

This is a tragedy.

[hotluncheddie]

t4t chubby autistic steddie GO

i have been thinking about this (nsfw from twitter!!) art lately so i am here with u <3

even tho i get nervous to write trans characters, idk why, i just don't wanna mess it up i think

but im doing my best!! bc autistic and gender exploration are very lovely wonderful cozy subjects so i'm gonna focus on that

this is such a string of ideas but - 4 u <3 :3c

Stevie leaves with Eddie and Robin, taking their trust fund and leaving their parents to it - too the rest of their lives - without her. Like the Harringtons always hoped, really.

Stevie doesn't need them, the money is useful but they offer nothing more to her.

She's able to buy an apartment. In Chicago. With her loves. They learn how to live. How to live together. How to be at peace.

There's big bright widows in the main space, with light and air and the sunset. The two bedrooms are cozy and warm and it's a place for them all to grow.

'There's chips here.' Eddie says. They have a matching day off and she's trying to practice what it is to do nothing, to truly rest. Eddie helps, by being there, keeping her still with his hands and his love.

But Stevie tenses up, she was snacking, has been snacking, trying to learn her hunger signals better - what they feel like to her. It was always a rule not to east in her room, not to eat between meals. But she was hungry, she had a snack.

'I'm not judging, I'm saying so we remember to take it out next time one of us goes to the kitchen.' Eddie says, coming back from changing the tape, kissing her. Kissing her and kissing her.

Stevie relaxes.

'You've gained a little weight.' Robin says, laying on Stevies thighs on the couch, crocheting while Stevie watches sports and rubs her knuckles agains her teeth, twirling a strand of Robins hair in her fingers.

She looks down at her best friend. Robin looks back at her.

Robin smiles.

'It's good. You look more like you than you ever have before.'

Stevie smiles back. Tries not to cry.

Stevie letting herself change, relax. Unlearn those eating habits that helped her feel in control. Instead allowing herself to enjoy, and eat the things she wants to, the things she likes.

Eats pasta every night for a month and doesn’t feel bad about it. Doesn’t force herself to eat kale because she hates it, spinach is good enough. She is good enough.

Eddie gets little chubbier, in this new life. After recovering from nearly dying. Explains to Stevie in his long lilting way that he likes it, feels more protected, like his skin isn’t so fragile now.

He’s never liked his body but now he truly knows how short life is, and, maybe he can learn to like this new one. In this new place, in the love that surrounds him.

Plus, the bats destroyed his chest. So without that in the way, no longer lurking and potentially ruining his day. He realises he can shed that background fixation he always seemed to have with thinness. The idea that it would make him look more masculine or more androgynous. Curves were for girls and Eddie was not. That.

But now, now, who fucking cares. He’s alive. He needs to eat.

Steve feels a finger trailing over her hip, dipping into the band of her underwear, skimming over her crack and the the ridges of stretch marks that lead up to her waist.

'So so pretty' Eddie whispers, and it's filled with so much awe, so much grace, so much reverence and love.

Stevie shivers, feeling endless and grounded and like her body is here and hers and everything she ever dreamed of because it exists now.

She puts her hand under her loose shirt, cupping her belly. Skin still sleep warm and the energy of her palm seems to cover her whole body in warmth, in light and softness. Tinging and bright. Still being traced lightly by the love of her life. But being loves by her own hands, now, too.

She exists. And finally, everything is beautiful.

[eddieisashifter]

HEYY ITS @chaaistained

for the hozier ask game:

— 💋 like real people do

— 🥀 in a week

— 🌲 in the woods somewhere

thanks eddie ily <3

CHAAI MY BELOVED HELLO!! tysm for the ask! i had so much fun putting the game together and hoped I'd get asked for it!!

I shall answer for a couple drs, because I can't decide. my six of crows dr (current hyperfixation) and my better cr!

💋 LIKE REAL PEOPLE DO — how did you meet your s/o? did you know each other since you were kids or did you meet in a drunken fling? did you like each other at first, or did you hate them, or was it love at first sight? tell us your meet-cute!

I don't have an s/o in my better cr, so I'll just answer for my six of crows dr!

A bit of a complicated question because I have six partners in this dr lmao, but I'll simplify each of our meetings.

I met kaz brekker when I was hired to kill him. no, literally. I was hired by one of ketterdam's rival gangs to take out an upstart who was causing a whole lot of trouble. however, kaz was better than I thought and he saw me coming. he ended up besting me in a fight, but was fairly impressed with my skill, so he let me go. eventually, he started hiring me himself to do jobs for the dregs and then recruited me to join. kaz brekker is very very bad at expressing how he feels, so it takes forever for him to admit he loves me. but, he honestly doesn't need to. his actions speak volumes.

i met inej ghafa when kaz paid off her indenture and brought her into the dregs. I sort of started swooning when I saw her skillset was just as good as mine and promptly forgot how to be good at what I did. though, I quickly had to figure it out when kaz began to assign us to work together. inej caught onto my little crush so quickly and teased me forever just to fluster me before admitting the same.

I met jesper fahey through the dregs as well. he initially annoyed me with him inability to take anything seriously. but, after a late night at the crow club and far too many drinks, we had a fling. it was just supposed to be casual, but we never quite acted it. and I found myself, secretly, becoming very attached to jesper.

I met nina zenik when kaz brought her on for a job that needed a heartrender. we didn't get along well at first. she was ravkan, same as i, and had grown up with the stories about the black heretic and the danger of shadow summoners. she was wary, but nina has never been one to follow tradition. she was the first ravkan I met who didn't look at me with suspicion, and quickly found myself growing attached to nina. though a crush is quite difficult to hide from someone who can literally feel your heartbeat, and it's even worse when that person is a relentless flirt.

I met wylan van eck on the ice court heist. I was put in charge of baby-sitting him before we left and was irritated at being reduced to such. however, I quickly realized that wylan was far from needing a baby sitter and was very capable in his own right as a chemistry prodigy. something about a nerd yapping about their interest makes your heart leap, but don't tell him I told that. Or jesper, he'd tease me forever for falling for his boyfriend.

i was initially scared of matthias helver. I mean, he's a druskelle, a fjerdan witch hunter. and, you know, I'm grisha—a witch. but, seeing how he interacted with nina made me ease in his presence. I quickly realized that there was a softer side to him, like a giant teddy bear, and his prejudice wasn't his fault. it was how he was raised—what mattered is that he was choosing to unlearn it. he was gentle, like a protector, and that was something I wasn't used to.

🥀 IN A WEEK — is there a place you could spend hours or days in, just existing? what makes it so calming to you? is it the atmosphere? the people there? does it ever become hard to leave?

BETTER CR — i could spent all day in my university's library. something about it just smells of pure magic, with books older than most people who are alive. it's giant windows have stained glass pictures that bathe the place in a tinted glow of sunlight. the best place is the small nook between the fiction section and non-fiction section. there's a small sofa tucked behind one of the bookshelves that you have to look for to find, but it's my favorite place to work on my writing.

SIX OF CROWS DR — honestly, the most calming place in all of ketterdam is kaz's office. upstairs from the crow club, where the noise and hum of the busy gamblers and drinkers downstairs bleeds through the door as a pleasant hum in the background. there's a sofa on the wall across from his desk that's so comfortable it should be illegal. plus, the window is usually cracked open for inej to get in, but it also lets in a breeze that stirs the air and brings life into the room. bonus points if kaz is sitting at his desk writing something. the snatching of the pen nip against parchment and his murmurings under his breath can put me right to sleep.

🌲 IN THE WOODS SOMEWHERE — fun question! what's the craziest dream you ever had (that you can remember)? what made it so crazy? can you even remember all the details or did you wake up with fragments?

damn, not to disappoint but...I don't really dream?? not ones that I remember anyway. I go to sleep and wake up instantly later, like no time passed. weird.

I do have vague recollections of a dream when I went to a university where all the students were rats and I was the only non-rat there. I spent the whole dream in fear that I would accidently step on one and go to jail for rat-murder. woke up very confused. and no not psychoanalyze me for this, my friend already did and was eerily correct.

oh, and I also had a dream last night where I suddenly became self-aware of the fact I was dreaming. I was like "oh yeah! I'm dreaming, I can control it!" and all I did was move a hairdryer with my mind before getting really immersed in the plot of the dream. I wish I remembered what was so fascinating so badly.

[zvtara-was-never-canon]

thoughts on sokka and zuko's netflix actors ian ousley and dallas liu (jokingly?) teasing zukka in interviews? are they queerbaiting?

For those who don't know what the fuck queerbaiting is: you know how Disney announced "it's first openly gay character" in literally every movie they've been releasing lately, and these "characters" are always on screen for only 5 seconds so it won't annoy conservatives or be banned in China?

That's them trying to use the promise of gay content to get people (be it gay people or someone that just wants to know if Disney will handle the subject properly) to watch their stuff. It's just false advertizing in rainbow colors.

Netflix, being the cheap bastards that they are, love using "We got minorities in this!" to advertise either their bland, bad shows that will get a million seasons, or the rare good show that they'll cancel way too soon because they seem to be alergic to quality. Either way, the gay content they promise audiences is usually there - you know, it's just not good because Netflix hates good things. Hell, they made Oma and Shu a lesbian couple from what I've seen.

Considering I've heard that the cast of the Avatar Live Action is pretty comfortable dunking on Zutara as a ship despite it being crazy popular and some fans literally only watching the show because they thought it'd make Zutara canon, and even having the balls of saying their show is less problematic than the OG one because they cut the plot of Sokka unlearning sexism, I'd say they're not claiming to like Zukka because some executive told them to, in the hopes of getting people to watch. The actors are probably either two buddies joking around because "Dude, what if our characters got together?" or saw some fanart/headcanon on Twitter and rolled with it.

So no, it's not queerbaiting, it's just actors voicing their opinion - basically the same as the Wedneday situation. The actresses for Wednesday and Enid ship their characters, but Netflix never gave any indication that these two would be a thing, and the internet only cried QUEERBAITING because people can't accept that sometimes the goth girl and the girly girl don't kiss because none of the writers even thought about making them gay.

And before someone inevitably goes "Oh but one/both of them are straight/don't want to discuss their own sexualities - are they queerbaiting when showing excitment at the idea of their characters hooking up?"

1 - Real people can't queerbait because their sexuality is a personal matter, not a product meant for other people to consume.

2 - If Netflix does want to make Zukka a thing (and I've seen nothing to sugest that they do) and starts promoting it, it's the CHARACTERS that would have to be gay, not the actors. I'm pretty sure Zuko's actor can't create/control flames at the palm of his hand, but that doesn't mean he's lying to people, he's just an actor acting. Even if and Sokka's actor have to play a gay couple at some point, it won't be queerbaiting for them to do so and even be excited for it/thinks it makes sense for their characters, regardless of what sexuality they are in real life, because the actors are not their characters they're just people doing a job.

[arcadias-hell]

Replacements

(it is super late, sorry for no proof read. also not a request, this was an oc work that was changed to be able to be read as x reader. Singular use of Y/N bc it might be confusing otherwise. Also CW for alcoholism? only mentioned)

Questioning Monty never worked. 

No matter how hard she tried or what mood he was in. Being all nice and sweet didn’t work, neither did being distant or aggressive. Not once did she ever get any information about Bonnie, any confirmation about his death or if he was still alive, somewhere. Nothing. Threatening to deactivate him didn’t work, so what else could she do. She gave up. 

“Whatever,” she told herself, “it will resolve itself if I’m patient enough”. But she hated these thoughts the longer they stayed in her head. Hated herself because the thought of betraying Bonnie was always present. It kept her awake at night, worried Chica, who was concerned about her dear friend. So much so that she would sneak into her room at night, making sure that she was fine.

These thoughts intensified when she became Monty’s Handler, which is really just a fancy word for “make sure he doesn’t kill someone”. And oh, did she make sure of that. Besides a few staff bots, there were no ”accidents”. Well, not counting the time he tried to bite off Vanessa’s head, ending with her own arm in his maw thanks to her brilliant idea of “he can’t kill her if I put my arm between them”. Or the countless times of him falling off the catwalks of Gator Golf.

Her relationship with Monty was build on pissing each other off. He’d be a menace, making a mess for her to clean up. She’d tease him about the smallest stuff. Messed up at golf? Scared some kid? She would know and tease him about it. But they always kept it playful. She never found herself in a situation where she was actually afraid of him.

————————————-

Most of her time was spend after hours in the empty Bowling Alley. People would rarely come here anymore, it getting more empty day by day. She knew they, Faz Ent., wanted to rebrand it, a thought she couldn’t handle. They already got rid of it all. His posters, his cutouts, his merch. It was all gone. Even the damn candy and soda was discontinued. Everything was ripped from her and fuck, it hurt. It reopened old wounds that she thought were long sealed, brought back old habits that she tried so hard to unlearn. She begged them to at least leave the Alley be, let it be a silly attraction like Foxy’s Pirate Cove. And while they let it be for the time being, she knew she was only stalling for time and sooner or later this place would be taken from her too. It all would be taken. That’s how it always is, was, will be. 

This place was her home, she felt safe. The damn Pizzaplex, a place that scared many people thanks to the company’s past, was her home. The animatronics were her family. For once, since a long time, she felt safe. But it was falling apart right beneath her fingers. The sinkhole in Roxy’s Raceway started it. Or was it firing almost all human staff? Or perhaps the Virus that spread a while ago and almost ruined the place? Or maybe it was her. She had a habit of destroying the things she loved. Everything she touched died, or so it seemed. 

All she had left was getting drunk at the Alley, listening to Bonnie’s stupid favorite Jazz music on that damn Jukebox. Often Chica would be there with her. They usually did everything together. She’d even sneak her a pizza from time to time, even if it meant having to hose her down for yet another time that day, due to her being a very messy eater. It happened so often that they just put a trash bag into her stomach area, for easy cleaning. 

Apart from that small problem, Chica was very girly. She loved being at the saloon and ,oh man, did she love dates. Freddy was rather unromantic and obvious, so often they needed a little push, which she lovingly provided. She’d often catch glimpses of them on their little dates. It was simple stuff. Playing some golf, watching a movie in the daycare theater, that kinda stuff. It reminded her of the better times. But now she and her would talk about their feelings. But no matter how much she talked about it, screamed it into the world, it just would not get better. Freddy would check on her sometimes, they shared their grief, he lost his best friend after all. He grew protective over her, was careful all the time, walking on eggshells. It aggravated her more than it should, this behavioral change in him made her feel small, useless. He always had a caring and fatherly nature, but this was much, even for him. So, while he was trying to find kind and calming words for her, she was sitting at the bar with a glass in her hand, barely even registering what he was saying. It was the same stuff all the time anyway, “sorry”s and life advice that she had heard all the time else where. Luckily for her, Roxy knew better than to pity her or give her some silly advice and she mostly kept to herself in the Raceway anyway.

If it wasn’t Freddy or Chica bothering her in her quiet time it was Vanessa. She meant well, but damn. Ness had a talent for making jokes at the wrong time and just generally saying the wrong stuff at the wrong time. On good days they’d play a few rounds of bowling and talk about their old home, family and work gossip. It was a nice but more and more rare thing. At some point Ness suddenly started taking her job very serious. A little too serious. And she’d disappear a lot, seemingly dodging the security cams. She’d wouldn’t ask. She did the same back when Bonnie was still here, knew all the blind spots. 

God, she should know better than to sneak around. She’s a “talented Tech” after all, blah blah.

————————————

This day she returned from the Bowling Alley, a little more upset that usual. It was nothing more than her thoughts that were troubling her, the usual. Besides that, her watch was dead and needed recharging, which always was a sign that its time to return to her room. Making her way to Rockstar Row to have a last daily check up on the band, she met Monty halfway. He seemed more aggravated than usual, growling and being in a defensive state. This was nothing new for him, he was always acting like this. Nobody knew what exactly it was, maybe his programming. Or maybe it was just the way he was. Though, he was different back then. He used to be chill, almost innocent. But now? No emotions other than anger.

She liked to think deep down he was still the same, she never feared the animatronics, even at Monty’s wildest she stood up to him bravely without a thought but tonight felt different. 

They met, looked at each other. Not a word was spoken. It was completely silent, until he suddenly creeped closer. His heavy footsteps felt like hell, a possible death sentence, her sudden end. She often fantasized that she would end up like Bonnie. She didn’t know how he ”died” but she could imagine it if Monty was the one who caused it. Wrecked, torn apart, mangled.  Her mind would imagine how it felt. The feeling of being torn apart while alive. Was it painful or would her body block out the pain due to the trauma? She hoped she’d feel it. She wanted to feel it, to end up like him. 

She always knew her eventual death would be caused by Monty, or maybe Freddy, he was scary without the safety protocols. Or god, even by Bonnie himself when he was in one of his moods.. She’d be fine with that, honestly. But now, with a more than pissed Monty in front of her? Yea, probably him.

Monty’s issues being the reasons why, jealousy, envy, the pure rage he felt every time someone even mentioned the bunny. He couldn’t handle Bonnie being more popular than him. Something he wasn’t able to deal with in a healthy way. The jealousy tore him apart. Bonnie was the bassist, part of the main band. Monty was only part of his own one man band in his golf course. It was just him, nobody else. He had nothing to call his own. Maybe the golf course but back then, even that was just a half thing, Freddy would often be there. Even Bonnie would, all while Monty was banned from the Bowling Alley. It wasn’t fair. But what was fair in this place? Humans were replaced by Staff Bots that couldn’t even hold conversation or do the most basic tasks that they were programmed to do.

Or well, this was how things used to be. Back when Bonnie was here. Now Monty took his place. Every banner and poster had his face on it. He completely replaced him. Even on the huge main sign of the Pizzaplex. Perhaps this was the reason for Chica’s unhealthy food addiction. She’d be next to be replaced. And she just witnessed how easily replaceable she and her friends really were.

(Y/N) was there since the beginning, watching them and taking care of all of them. Not judging, only caring. Treating them as equals. It made Monty feel a certain way. He didn’t know these feelings or understood them, but he knew Bonnie felt the same way towards her. Only was she closer to him. Way closer. Yet again, something that he can’t have.

And now they stood there, just staring at each other. Complete silence. 

He was furious. He didn’t even know why. The smallest things caused this. Perhaps a string of his bass broke. But it wasn’t really HIS, was it? Or maybe it was him losing his shades again. The shades that didn’t originally belong to him. So, he started smashing stuff in his green room. Bonnie’s former green room. Nothing is truly his, is it? There it was. The reason. The anger. 

And now before him stood the fourth “not his”. Something he knew he couldn’t just break and get a replacement for. A human can’t be rebuilt after all. It took everything in him to not lash out on the spot. To dig his claws into her flesh and leave bite marks all over her body. Instead he just stood there, silent. Getting a little closer, just close enough to read her vitals. She was nervous…she was scared. He took notice of her watch, it was empty and turned off. Meaning she couldn’t call for help even if she wanted to. What good would help do anyway? Before anyone could reach them it would be too late. Why was he having these thoughts? All he knew was that he had to remove himself from the situation right now or else bad things would happen.

And so he did. Walking past her. Stopping for a short moment to look at her. He wondered what she felt when she looked at him with these shades, the bass or the stupid room. Would it bring them closer eventually or drift them apart further? Did she see a part of Bonnie in him or an imposter who forcefully took his spot? Maybe she had the mercy to just think of him as the killer of her lover. 

Continuing on his way towards Gator Golf, she was left alone. Still, she stood there, her heart eventually calming down but thoughts still racing. She was sure she was one word away from getting torn apart, but god, she wished she spoke it.

[rahleeyah]

There's a lot you have to unlearn - they call it deconstructing - when you leave behind an evangelical faith, and sometimes the impacts of that training are so deeply rooted they don't become visible for years. One consequence of evangelicalism in my own self that I didn't really identify until recently is this belief that you, personally, are responsible for saving people from themselves. You, personally, bear the weight of every immortal soul in the world. Militant individualism and a deep seated sense of communal responsibility don't at first appear to go hand in hand, but they do.

If not me, then who? If not now, when? These are the refrains of the evangelical church calling its people to go out into the world, you, now, and reach as many people as possible before it's too late. Telling people The Truth™ is your purpose. Whether or not ignorance of God/Jesus gets you a pass out of hell is a tenet that varies based on what flavor of Christian you are; some believe that if no one ever told you about Christ you will not burn when you die without accepting him, but the church I grew up in did not hold to this. The church I grew up in believed that if no one ever told you about Jesus you were going to hell anyway - a neat ideological tool for energizing people to proselytize.

Results may vary; some people grew up hearing this message every day of their lives and never internalized any personal responsibility. Some of us did, though. There was a time in my life when I actually wanted very much to be a missionary - I wanted to help people! I wanted to save them! I wanted to be a light in dark places, I wanted to spread love and joy everywhere I went.

I am, obviously, no longer evangelical. I don't know how I'd describe myself, besides Not That. But the urgent mission of the faith of my childhood remains written on my bones; if not me, who? If not now, when?

The point I am getting around to is this: in our current climate of hate and fear I want to retreat from the vilest among us. I want to starve the trolls of fodder, want to leave them yelling alone into the void. I do not want to break bread with magats, I want to shield myself from them and their vile words for the sake of my own peace.

But if not me, who? If not now, when? If we all retreat into our separate echo chambers, how will we ever have any hope of change? You cannot learn or grow or change your mind if you do not ever encounter a perspective that differs from your own. There are millions of people out there who do not know The Truth. Who will tell them? Who will save them?

I don't want to do it. It's uncomfortable. It isn't safe. It's emotionally draining, it feels futile.

The church tells you to do it anyway. That we are not here to find peace, to be safe; that we are here to follow Jesus's example, to sacrifice material comfort and physical safety, our very lives if need be, to go into the dark places of the world and shine a light.

I don't go to church, anymore. I haven't for a long time. But I can't silence the voice in my heart, and I'm not sure I should.

If not me, who? If not now, when?

[ladyofthe-manor]

Ronmione shippers... in 2024?

I don't know what I did to big Tumblr for them to be punishing me with my timeline but lately I've been bombarded with Dramione hate seemingly out of the blue. I don't know why, but it has been kind of funny to see other people's posts.

I saw someone wrote out a list of reasons Dramione would NOT work, and it included things like "Hermione being unforgiving and petty" and "Hermione shouldn't need or want a man to change for her" and it left me honestly baffled. Maybe it should be a prerequisite that you read Dramione fanfiction before you attempt to bash it, because clearly some of these people are just outing themselves.

The misogynistic hatred of Hermione as a character is nothing new, so I won't touch on it here, but some of these posts are so telling.

I will talk about Draco though, because he gets almost double the flak because of all the hatred of Drarry on top of it all (which reads as homophobic to me but well, that's a story for another time.)

Most Dramione readers and writers don’t ship Hermione Granger and the 12-year-old boy that prayed on her downfall and wished for her death. Do you think we seek out 100k+ word stories just for the long awaited epilogue where he calls her a mudblood in their marital vows? 

Are you that judgmental that you would begrudge a sixteen-year-old (threatened with the death of his mother) the chance at redemption?

A brainwashed, bullying, ignorant CHILD? Who goes through an entire war? Who watches and is forced to participate in torturing his own classmates? Do you really think he went through all of that only to come out on the other side STILL believing everything he was taught? Or is it more feasible that he might have had a change of heart or two?

(And honestly, even if he does come through the war still believing in blood purity, the fanfictions that explore his subsequent journey of self-discovery and learning are some of the most popular on ao3. I wonder why?)

Isn’t it more exciting to read about Draco and EITHER his redemption arc, or if you hate him so much, his own downfall? Especially over canon pairings? Ron and Hermione are childhood friends-to-lovers. BORING. 

You can't have it both ways. I've seen people absolutely shit on Hermione for the birds, and the permanent disfiguration, and the jar, but jeez, do you know who would have loved that side of her? Probably Slytherin Draco, don't you think? Or is it Ron, the object of her ire with the birds and the one that thought she took it too far and was too ruthless?

Also, to so confidently argue that Hermione would never forgive Draco and that he would never change (even for himself if not for her) is such an incredibly pessimistic outlook on life that I can almost understand why you sad people still ship Ronmione. It's giving... ordering chicken tenders at a fancy restaurant. Grow up, lmao.

Hermione can forgive her childhood bully... for HERSELF. Draco can unlearn the harmful brainwashing of his childhood... for HIMSELF. And then the two of them can learn from the other's experiences and heal together. Or they can bicker until the sun comes down and turn slowly from enemies to lovers. Or they can become friends to lovers. The possibilities are endless, and more importantly, it allows for something Ronmione inherently lacks: GROWTH.

It's especially funny to me, because unless you specifically go looking for it, most of the quality Dramione fanfiction that gets posted on a DAILY basis doesn't even mention Ron except to say that their stale high school sweetheart relationship ended quietly and amicably and everyone moved on. You guys love to go on and on about Draco and Dramione readers are sitting there like... Ron? We don't think of you.

[lemon-badger-77]

unlearning the ABC's

Abracadabra Bibbity boo Can’t you see the Damage you do?

Everyone here’s Frustrated with how Gnashingly stubborn, Horrible and brash you are now.

I think I could Just about Kill you for this, and Lately I doubt My feelings will change.

Never move on from hate. Outwardly I may, but Perhaps it’s too late.

Queer changes between Require work from both Sides, which I’ve seen

That you struggle to Understand or to render Verily, ever since When I first remember

Xpectations shattered, Yelling tongues and hearts battered, Zipped lips as tears splattered.

[lepierr0t]

“Stubborn Artist”

So. I have Lateral Epicondylitis. Which is an inflammation on the root of the tendon on my arm. Apparently it takes a long time to heal and I’ll need to do physiotherapy for a while.

How did I get here? Well…

first I’ve always had some wearing pain on my arm, from either drawing too much for long hours without pauses, or drawing with a bad posture. I tend to bring the paper, canvas, screen, too close to my face when I draw, and that makes my arms flexed in a narrower space to move my hands and draw, tensing my muscles.

My setup is… not ideal 😂 so when I’m on the computer, I was drawing with my hands on a 90 degree angle. That was tensing my arms even more…

I was ALSO not taking breakes 😅. My anxiety and abuse on energetic drinks, got me hyperfocusing for about 6/8 hours with no breaks. I wouldn’t even notice 6 hours have passed. My therapist that’s a symptom of my HDAD. Well I guess that was one of the aggravations.

Besides using the phone for long hours. For a while I was addicted to tiktok.

AND THEN I went to help my grandfather to renovate his house and took the task of breaking the old tiles attached to the floor, with a hammer. On my own. For reference, I weight 50kg.

After that I completely fucked my arm. And haven’t been able to grab a pen, type or anything that uses my hands. Just doodling that drawing above already made my arms sore and hurt.

It be a lie to say that I’m okay, it came to me that I don’t really know who I am without the craft. It’s weird and I don’t know what to do. So lately I’m being forced to look at other areas of my life besides art.

I realised there were a lot of things I just wasn’t doing. I convinced myself I’d be progressing as long as I kept practicing, but there were a lot of things that needed my attention. Areas in my life I’ve been neglecting. People in my life who needed me.

I am taking the time to think carefully about what I will do next, and reflect on what I can do in my life that doesn’t involve drawing or art. I ended up isolating myself from the world specially after the pandemic, and for these past years my social life was inexistent, and I didn’t realise how much it affected my confidence in actually showing my work and not being a dictator, judge, devilish Anton Ego on myself every time I grab a pen.

I am noticing now, even though I am very introspective, I do enjoy being around people. It’s healthy for me to actually be present, to talk to them, being on conventions, and workshops, and presencial courses, and getting to meet new people, and see their work. I guess, for having a tendency for introspection and self isolation, and, I think the pandemic collaborated to that immensely as well, I just unlearned how to interact with people, and that raised my anxiety levels, because I have forgotten how people can be nice, and funny, and beautiful, creative. And my experiences on high school had me believe otherwise. Media, series, books, stories, all that invests into narratives where random people are mean and hostile with the main character. And that’s because that kind of conflict fascinates us, it makes the story more interesting. But life isn’t always like that. In fact those cases, bumping onto someone deliberately trying to attack you, is mora rare than kindness and empathy. People don’t like conflict, we enjoy watching a show with it, but being involved in it brings stress and anxiety. And we hate that.

Being so much in my own head, made me forget, or maybe I’ve never actually learned, that there is nothing to be anxious about showing your work. It’s the best way to connect with people.

it's funny to me that the right mindset for art was only brought to me when I was forced to stop practicing, it's absurdly ironic in fact.

I'm not helthy, but I feel like I'm in the right path now...