#THE WORST PART OF WORKING IN PEN. IS THAT SOMETIMES THIS HAPPENS.

[dandyshucks]

this one is so cutes but i messed up his mouth and couldn't fix it WAUUGGHHH

[maskedbyghost]

okaay, here's a longer fic about this, it was inspired by 'the hating game'. okay baaiii.

also look at this cute divider made by @gild-ui thank youuuu <33

MDNI!

The base always felt too small when Simon Riley was in the same room as you. Even with a desk separating you, his presence was suffocating, that familiar heat crawling up your neck every time his pen scratched against the paper. Two lieutenants forced to work side by side—Price’s brilliant idea. You hated every second of it.

And Simon wasn’t making it any easier.

“Maybe if you didn’t rush through the report like a rookie, it wouldn’t be full of mistakes,” you muttered, eyes fixed on the stack of papers in front of you.

“I don’t make mistakes,” Simon growled, his voice low, dangerous.

“You do when you’re trying to one-up me, Riley. It’s obvious you’re too focused on trying to be better than me rather than doing your job properly.” You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms as you stared at him sitting at the other side of the office.

“What’s obvious is you overthinking every damn thing,” he shot back, his gaze unwavering. The tension between you thickened as the seconds dragged on in silence.

You clenched your jaw. “If I wasn’t here, you’d screw up half the paperwork.”

He scoffed, shaking his head like you said something stupid. “You think you’re that important?”

You leaned forward, voice dropping just enough to sound like a challenge. “I know I am.”

For a moment, Simon just stared at you, his eyes narrowing slightly, like he was trying to figure out if you actually believed the words coming out of your mouth.

You could see the muscles in his jaw tighten, his hand flexing against the edge of the desk. That’s one point in your favor.

And that’s how you would spend those hours together in the office—locked in a battle of wills. Simon was relentless, always firing back, always pushing your buttons in ways that had your blood boiling.

But you weren’t any better. You knew just how to get under his skin, how to make him scowl, make him grit his teeth in frustration.

It was almost a game at this point.

A twisted game where neither of you ever won, but neither of you ever backed down.

Sometimes, the silence between you was worse. On those days when words felt too heavy, too dangerous, you’d catch yourself stealing glances at him from across the room. Watching the way his hand gripped the pen a little too tightly. The way his shoulders tensed every time you so much as sighed.

He felt it too—this invisible pull, this heat that simmered just beneath the surface, waiting to boil over. You hated it. You hated him.

But that didn’t stop your eyes from lingering a second too long on the way his jaw clenched when he was concentrating. Or how his voice dropped to that gravelly tone whenever he was pissed off at you, which, honestly, was most of the time.

You’d stare at the clock, counting the hours until you could escape the office, escape him. But when the end of the day came, and you packed up your things, the idea of walking out and leaving him behind? It didn’t feel as satisfying as it should.

And the worst part was, Simon was starting to notice it too. You could tell by the way his eyes followed you when you left the room, just for a beat longer than usual. Like he was waiting for something to happen.

Something that neither of you wanted to admit was inevitable.

-

One day, while grabbing coffee, you overheard a conversation near the mess hall.

“Yeah, Lieutenant Riley never takes his mask off. It’s weird, honestly—no one’s ever seen his face,” one of the soldiers was saying.

Another chimed in, laughing. “Guy’s is literally a ghost, I swear.”

Never takes his mask off? That couldn’t be right. They were probably exaggerating.

But as you walked back to the office, you thought about it. Simon always had his mask off when you were working together. His face was just… there. Bare. Frustratingly close. You had memorized the angles of his face, the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way his mouth twisted into that infuriating smirk every time he thought he got the better of you.

And yet, apparently, no one else had seen it.

It didn’t make sense.

Why would he take his mask off in front of you, of all people? You were the one person he couldn’t stand.

Wouldn’t he want to hide his face from you too?

The question swirled around in your mind as you entered the office. You glanced at him from across the room. There he was, mask off, eyes focused on the documents in front of him. Just like always.

You couldn’t help but stare. It had become so normal, so routine, that you’d never even questioned it. But now it felt strange—like there was something you weren’t understanding.

And for the first time, you felt that heat in your chest morph into something different. Something closer to curiosity. You hated him, sure, but…

Why was he comfortable enough to show you his face?

You tried to shake it off, but as the hours ticked by, you couldn’t help but wonder. Maybe you had missed something. Maybe this… tension between you wasn’t just hatred after all.

Nope. It is. End of story.

-

If you weren’t stuck in the office together, there was always a mission that forced you to team up. And this mission had been a brutal one—hours of tension, pushing your body and mind to the brink. By the time you returned to the base, every muscle ached, and your throat felt like sandpaper. The adrenaline was still buzzing in your veins, but the exhaustion was creeping in fast.

You dropped your gear by the door, running a hand through your sweaty hair, trying to shake off the weight of it all.

Across the room, Simon was silent as always, stripping off his tactical vest without so much as a glance your way. Normally, the lack of acknowledgment would piss you off, like he was pretending you didn’t exist. But today, you didn’t have the energy to pick a fight. You just wanted a moment to breathe.

Just as you sat down, feeling the tension in your shoulders starting to ease, something flew through the air toward you. You blinked, catching it instinctively—a bottle of water.

Simon stood a few feet away, his face unreadable. He didn’t say a word, just resumed his routine, as if the small gesture didn’t mean anything.

But it did.

Coming from him, it felt almost significant, a crack in the cold, indifferent wall he always put up.

-

A few days later, another soldier swung by your office to drop off some paperwork, and as he handed it over, you exchanged a few lighthearted jokes. From the corner of your eye, you noticed Simon watching, his expression darkening as he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

As soon as the soldier left, Simon’s glare was unmistakable. He didn’t even bother hiding it this time, the tension between you two cranking up a notch.

“You done playing the comedian?” he asked, his voice flat but carrying a sharp edge.

You blinked, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

Simon didn’t even look up from his paperwork. “Didn’t realize you needed to put on a show every time someone walked into the room.”

You scoffed, leaning back in your chair. “Oh, I’m sorry. Is being civil a crime now? Maybe you should try it sometime.”

“Civil?” He finally looked at you, his eyes narrowing. “More like you were trying way too hard to impress him.”

You rolled your eyes. “Not everyone walks around with a permanent scowl, Riley. Some of us actually know how to interact with other human beings.”

He let out a low, sarcastic laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, ‘cause flirting’s definitely the way to do that.”

Your mouth dropped open, a mix of shock and annoyance flooding you. “Flirting? Seriously? That’s what you think that was?”

He shrugged, his gaze flicking back to the papers in front of him. “Call it whatever you want. Just do it on your own time.”

You stared at him, once again letting his words frustrate you. “God, you’re unbelievable.”

-

The tension in the office was high as you and Simon argued again, this time about mission details. Papers were scattered across the desk, and the air was thick with frustration.

“You can’t just disregard the protocol like that!” you snapped.

Simon leaned back, crossing his arms. “And you can’t keep overanalyzing everything! Sometimes you just have to trust your instincts.”

“Instincts?” You shot him a look that could kill. “Is that what you call reckless decision-making? Because that’s how people get hurt.”

He stepped closer, his expression intense. “You think I don’t care about the team?”

“Right now, it looks like you’re more focused on proving you’re some kind of hero than actually doing your job,” you said, frustration bubbling to the surface.

“Oh, please! Don’t act like you’re the moral authority here,” he fired back, his voice rising. “You’re so busy trying to play it safe that you’re missing the bigger picture!”

You clenched your jaw, feeling your heart race with anger. “The bigger picture? You mean the one where you get us all killed because you refuse to follow my plan?”

Simon’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, you both stood there, breathing heavily, the air thick with unspoken words. Then, as if a dam had broken, he surged forward, closing the distance between you.

“Maybe you need to realize that not everything goes according to plan,” he said, his voice low, intensity radiating off him. “Sometimes you have to adapt on the go.”

“And that’s supposed to justify your carelessness?” you shot back, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Carelessness? You think I’m careless?” His voice was sharp, but there was something deeper there, a flicker of something that made you hesitate. “You think you’re better than me just because you follow the rules?”

You glared at him, feeling the heat rising in your cheeks. “It’s not about being better. It’s about being smart.”

His gaze softened for just a moment, and in that moment, everything shifted. The air between you crackled with something more than anger, something raw and undeniable.

Before you had time to process it, he reached out, his hands gripping your arms with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. He pulled you closer, closing the distance until there was barely any space left between you. Your heart raced, caught between surprise and something dangerous.

And then, without another word, his lips crashed against yours, igniting everything that had been simmering beneath the surface. The kiss was fierce and urgent, a collision of emotions that sent your mind spinning. It was as if all the frustrations and tensions of the past had fused into this single moment, pouring into the way he held you, the way he kissed you.

You responded instinctively, your hands finding their way to his hair, pulling him closer as you melted into the kiss. The taste of him was intoxicating, and the world outside faded away, leaving just the two of you in a heated embrace, lost in a whirlwind of conflicting feelings. Everything felt right and completely wrong at the same time, but for that brief moment, nothing else mattered but the connection you shared.

When you pulled away, breathless and flushed, his hand still holding your neck, eyes dark and unreadable.

Finally, you smiled, breaking the tension. “Still hate you,” you whispered teasingly, leaning closer.

“Then you’re really going to hate how good this feels,” he shot back, his voice low, and before you could respond, he closed the distance again.

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i think we need a smuty scene with these two. agree??

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@daydreamerwoah

[wooataes]

Real Eyes, Fake Lies (Part Three)

Pairing: soulmate!Lee Jihoon x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2.7K

Warnings: angst, Hanahaki!AU, nothing too bad for this chapter, reader is emotionally stunted sometimes 💀

Summary: What do you do when you find out the one person that was created by the universe to be yours doesn’t want you back?

A/N: thank you guys so much for your patience on this! There’s definitely going to be another part coming fairly soon, as I already have it pre-written so expect the next part in the next coming week or so! 💜

- Tae 🥰💜

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The next time Jihoon sees you since the cafeteria fiasco, it is a week later in your shared Film Studies class on a Friday afternoon. To his credit, he never noticed that you were actually in his class, but he can’t help but feel a little guilty that you’ve been near so many times and he’s never cared enough to notice anyone else besides himself.

He’s sitting close to the front of the classroom as you rush into the room as soon as the warning bell rings. He watches you out of the corner of his eye as your eyes trail over the tables for a free seat. Your cheeks are flushed a gentle pink with your hair pulled back in 2 braids tied at the with pastel purple ribbons, with a purple cropped t-shirt to match under a pair of denim overalls. Jihoon internally winces as he notices the only free seat in the room is beside him, around the exact same time as you notice as well. Without looking directly at you, Jihoon takes his backpack off the free chair and places it by his feet, leaving it free for you. You pause for a moment before slowly sitting down beside your soulmate, cautiously, as if you’re afraid that he would get up and run if you got too close.

“Sorry,” is the only word you murmur to your soulmate as you pull out your laptop and workbook in front of you. Jihoon responds with a soft, “it’s okay,” before looking up at the work board at the front of the room, trying his hardest to ignore your presence next to him, and the unwelcome feeling of anxiety and guilt swirling inside his stomach.

Most of the class goes off without a hitch, albeit Jihoon’s curiosity getting the better of him a few times, causing him to glance at you from his peripheral vision. He notices your pastel pink pen in your hand - huh, interesting. You’re left-handed -, scribbling down notes with a pretty pastel rainbow aesthetic and swirly handwriting. He also spots something on your wrist, a heart shaped red tattoo. On closer inspection, he realizes the heart is coloured in red with black polka dots and a little head at the pointy end - a Love Bug. Before you can look over to him, as if feeling his eyes on you, Jihoon turns his head back to the board at the front. If he was honest with himself, he doesn’t remember a single thing that has happened so far during this whole class; too conscious of his heartbroken soulmate beside him, your dull but constant pain running through him. He thinks he is safe until 5 minutes before class finishes, when Professor Kim announces what Jihoon thinks is the worst outcome that could happen.

“For your final project for the semester, I’m assigning a project to be completed in pairs,” he begins, writing up on the board in front of him. “You will work together to study a film of your choice; it can be any film you want. You need to work with your partner to write out a presentation on a conflict presented in the film and an opinion that others wouldn’t have thought of. Seems simple enough, right?” When the class all hum and murmur in agreement, Professor Kim’s next words make Jihoon want to disappear. “The partner you will work with will be your desk mate. Presentations will be at the end of the semester. If you have any queries please feel free to contact me outside of class.”

Jihoon nervously, for the first time since class had begun, turns his body towards you, his deskmate, his soulmate, and now his project partner for the rest of the semester. You’re pale, and dread runs through your bodies. When you turn to face him, your soulmate feels even worse when you begin to babble.

“I-I’m sorry, Jihoon. If I wasn’t late, I wouldn’t have been made to sit beside you, and you wouldn’t have had to be made to deal with me for this project.” You’re scrambling to put your belongings into your backpack as the bell signals for the end of class and the day. “I will ask Professor Kim for a switch, or I will do this project on my own so you don’t have to-”

“You don’t have to do that.” Jihoon interrupts you, and you finally pause to look back at him, confusion all over your face.

“But-”

“It’s fine, it can’t be helped. I’m not mad, y’know, if that’s what you think.” He looks away again, packing his own backpack. “I’m not going to, like, hold it against you? We’re in the same class, it’s not a big deal and bound to happen eventually.” He’s rambling now too, he realizes. “And we’re adults, we can keep this professional, right?”

You nod your head quickly. “Yeah, of course.” When Jihoon nods back in response, you nervously hold your backpack in your arms. “Umm, if you want to, we can study at mine. Soonyoung, Seokmin, Wonwoo, Mingyu, Jun and Seungkwan are coming over tonight for a movie night and sleeping over for Soonyoung’s birthday. We could get a rough idea on what we want to study.” You’re looking everywhere but at Jihoon, all the other classmates leaving the classroom in their respective pairs, seemingly discussing the project. “I know you live with the guys and, of course, Ji-ah is invited too!” You insist quickly, Jihoon raising his eyebrows at you in surprise. “You know what, forget I asked.” You laugh awkwardly, slipping your arms through the loops on your backpack. “Just let me know when you want to..”

“Movie night sounds great.” He stops you once more, feeling the bubble of anxiety that was rising up through your body disperse. “Ji-ah is with her family for the weekend, and I was going to be at home alone anyway. And we both know what Soonyoung is like if someone misses his birthday.” He deadpans, and is surprised when you let out a quiet laugh.

“Yeah, you’re right.” You hum, before giving him one final nod. “Well, it starts at 7, but you can come over whenever and we can brainstorm for a bit before everyone gets there?” You offer, and he nods at you. “Okay, see you soon.” You wave at him before turning on your heel and quickly making your way outside of the classroom and also the campus. Jihoon doesn’t know if it’s a good idea or not, but he knew he wouldn’t miss his best friend’s birthday.

Jihoon arrives at your home at 5:30, and before he can even knock, he is greeted by Kwon Soonyoung suffocating him into a bone-crushing hug.

“I KNEW YOU’D COME, JIHOON-AH!” Soonyoung cooed loudly, suffocating his friend's face into his chest, as said friend aggressively flails his arms as he tries to get the overgrown tiger off him.

“Get… off…” Jihoon whines, shoving him off with pink cheeks.

“I knew you loved me.” Soonyoung smirks as he steps aside, letting your soulmate inside. “But you know everyone is not going to be here until 7, right? Why are you here so early?”

“He’s here for me, Soonie!” You yell from the top of the staircase. Your best friend raises his eyebrow questioningly, and before Jihoon can answer, you’re leaning against the railing of the staircase. “We have a project for Film Studies, getting a head start.”

“Nuh-uh!” Soonyoung frowns, taking Jihoon’s overnight bag from him and throwing it into the spare bedroom. “It’s my birthday, and you’re not STUDYING. You have the whole semester to get that shit done, one more night isn’t going to hurt!”

Jihoon watches you lean your head back and let out an audible groan. “Really?”

“Yes, really!” Seungcheol emerges from the kitchen with Jeonghan behind him, both wearing aprons. “We’re making the snacks for tonight, and you are on snack duty with us while the guests play games until everyone arrives. Come on, Bug!”

You whine loudly, and Jihoon is amused when you fall limp at the top of the stairs, Jeonghan immediately starting to flail and rush up the stairs to you.

“Oh no you don’t! You’re not getting out of this!” He scolds playfully, taking your limp body and scooping you up bridal style.

“Noooooo…” you groan as Jeonghan carries you down the stairs and takes you to the kitchen.

“Come on, Jihoon-ah!” Soonyoung grins, taking his arm and dragging him to the living room, where Seokmin, Jun and Wonwoo are setting up beanbags and inflatable mattresses on the floor in front of the couches. “We’re almost done setting everything up.

“Oh, you made it after all!” Wonwoo smiles at his housemate, who only nods slowly and sinks down onto one of the couches to watch the others throw bundles of blankets onto the mattresses before joining him.

Jihoon can vaguely hear you and your brother nagging at each other and the various sounds of clanging pans mixed with Jeonghan’s amused laughs for the next hour or so from the kitchen as Soonyoung and the boys all take turns playing some games on the TV, and after a lull in conversation, Jihoon can’t help but ask: “are they always like this?”

“Who, hyung and Y/N?” Seokmin asks as Junhui groans at Wonwoo, who just killed his character. “I think Jeonghannie-hyung eggs them on a bit… Y/N hasn’t really been the same since a few weeks ago, so I think this is Cheol-hyung’s way of trying to get her back out of her shell a bit, y’know?”

“She’ll be fine.” Soonyoung insists, frowning to himself. “She’ll get there eventually, we just have to be there for her when she needs it. I don’t know how she is going to go when Seungkwan gets here tonight though.”

Seungkwan? Jihoon thought, eyebrows furrowed. Besides Soonyoung and Seokmin, he’s the only other person Y/N is super close with. What’s happened?

“You really should have told her, babe.” Seokmin whispers harshly, nudging his soulmate’s side.

“And make her hate herself all over again? It kills me enough to see her the way she is now.”

“What’s happened with Seungkwan?” Junhui raises his eyebrow.

The doorbell saves the birthday boy from having to answer the lingering question, but that relief is short-lived when he hears the new voice that echoes through the house.

“Hi guys!” Seungkwan’s chirpy voice resounds, and before Soonyoung and Seokmin can get to him, you’re faster.

“Seungkwannie!” You beam, rushing from the kitchen to greet your close friend, and Jihoon sees you rush down the hallway. “Thank god you’re here, I need my movie cuddle buddy tonight- oh!”

You stop as quick as you had started, pausing at the sight of another person beside Seungkwan, a person you recognize as a regular member of the set crew in the college musicals, a man you interact with quite often - Chwe Hansol.

“Hansol! Hey!” You give a small smile as your brother, best friend and their soulmates slowly make their way to the entrance of the house, Jihoon and his housemates watching from a distance. “I didn’t know you were coming!”

“Hey, Y/N-ie..” Seungkwan nervously eyes you, Hansol smiling softly at you.

“Hey. Thanks for inviting me to come along, guys.” He squeezes Seungkwan’s hand in his, causing you to stare at their intertwined hands. “It’s a bit daunting meeting your soulmate’s friends all in one hit properly, so I really appreciate being able to meet you all together.”

“Hansol-ah, I’ll give you a tour of the house and where you’ll be sleeping tonight!” Seokmin intervenes, and you watch as Seungkwan gives him a reassuring nod. Hansol nods in reply, easily slipping past you to follow Seokmin’s lead to show him around, to give you time to talk to Seungkwan.

Uh oh. Jihoon can feel it. The confusion running through your body as you eye your friend, who can’t even look you in the eye. The confusion slowly begins to turn into hurt as Seungkwan takes a slow breath.

“Soulmate?” You ask weakly, days and hours of work that had taken to build your internal wall of emotions beginning to crumble within seconds.

“Uh.. yeah..” Seungkwan bites his lip. “I found out last week.”

After a beat of silence, you smile. “I’m happy for you, Kwan-ah.” Jihoon’s eyebrows raise once more, as well as the little crowd that was around you.

“You’re… Happy for me?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? Your soulmate, Kwan-ah, that's incredible.” You take his hands, squeezing them tightly as he breathes a heavy sigh of relief.

“Bug, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he stammers now. “I didn’t know how to bring it up, especially since everything with you and-”

“Don’t be sorry,” you smile again, but Jihoon can feel it, you’re falling apart bit by bit. “I’m the one who’s sorry. It’s one of the biggest moments of your life, and I made you feel like you couldn’t tell me. I’ll just miss my movie buddy.” You laugh dryly.

“Oh? I’ll still be here for you to cuddle, silly,” he insisted, but you let go of his hands and shake your head quickly.

“No. I can’t get in the way of you and your soulmate, I wouldn’t do that. I respect your relationship too much to jeopardize it in any way.”

“Huh?” Seungkwan tilts his head. “How would you be-?”

“I-It’s getting closer until movie night begins, I got to go get changed.” You nod your head quickly, spinning on your heel and rushing up the stairs, ignoring Seungcheol and Seungkwan’s calls for you as you close your door shut tight behind you.

Jihoon winces as soon as the door is shut, feeling the dam break inside him as you silently begin to weep on the other side of your door. You’re dead silent so no one can hear, only letting out the occasional sniffle as you rummage through your closet to find some pajamas to wear for the slumber party.

“Hyung, I don’t understand.” Seungkwan frowns at Cheol, who is running his hands through his hair, exasperated. “Why does she think that she will jeopardize my relationship with Sol?”

“Don’t take it personally.” Your brother sighs. “She has got it in her mind that she can’t be platonically intimate with anybody who has a soulmate.”

“What? Why?”

“It’s what happened with our parents. Our father left his soulmate, our mother for another woman. She saw what it did to our mother, so she decided she would never ever give anything more than a quick hug to any of her friends who have soulmates. She would never want to ruin someone’s relationship like that for anything. She doesn’t want to be like our shitty excuse of a Dad.” Seungcheol looks conflicted, deep in thought as he speaks.

“Give her time.” Jeonghan smiles, patting your friend’s back as he looks towards your closed door at the top of the stairs. “She wouldn’t miss Soonyoungie’s birthday for the world.”

Jihoon frowns deeply to himself on the couch, trying to push your sadness down as his mind goes into overdrive, the voices of the others being drowned out by his own thoughts.

Why would you purposely hurt and isolate yourself like this? He hates as much skinship as the next person, but seeing how you act with your other friends, he can tell you’re torturing yourself by this unspoken rule you’ve created for no one to follow but you.

Every new thing Jihoon learns about you sends him deeper into a confusing hole of thoughts and questions he’s begging to ask you, but he’s nowhere near that close to you yet to be able to ask.

Will he ever be close to you?

Real Eyes, Fake Lies Taglist

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[misscammiedawn]

In re-reading Umineko for our latest ramble I've come to really appreciate the care and love Ryukishi put into the topic of complicated grief.

Consider this an end-coda of the two big essays (other one here) and a way of tying their themes together.

This is a short one, I promise, but I'll put it under readmore for spoilers sake.

Basically I want to talk about imagination, processing and the stories we tell ourselves to cope.

When we look at the game boards of each chapter as being authored works in universe we get a lot of information about the authors of the works.

Chapters 1 and 2 are Beatrice/Yasu, penning these elaborate revenge fantasies that haven't happened yet as both a twisted love letter to Battler, who stoked her passion for murder mysteries, and a way of coping with her pain and loss. No matter how boisterous and sinister Beatrice imagines herself to be, we do see in Chapter 7 that when she is given the family gold she is quite shy and meek and reserved and remains that way when the family discover her about to enact her revenge plot.

Beatrice as an alter/part of Sayu's dissociative system is a coping mechanism but in the end she was not capable of those acts in reality. She was able to take her scheming further because of the power she had from the gold and control over the island and its servants but when faced with the act of killing she was just a traumatized kid, unable to commit cruelty. She was as capable of murder as Maria's evil witch persona would be.

The writing was just a fantasy. A projection of her desire to retaliate.

It's also kind of brilliant as only she and Genji know that Shannon/Kanon are treated as two separate individuals by everyone on the island and have 2 separate master keys to compensate. An element of the mystery that could only be known by the mastermind.

Chapters 3-6 are written by an amnesiac Battler. The "forgeries" only began after the messages containing the first two chapters had been discovered and the news started speaking about the Rokkenjima tragedy. This likely triggers "Tohya", the name Battler had taken on, and causes the traumatic events of the island to replay in his head over and over. Every attempt to write it was an attempt to make sense of the scattered remnants hidden behind his own dissociative barriers.

He kept scratching at the itches and trying to make sense of it in a way that was, frankly, exploitative. Especially when he wrote about an unrelated person who died in the typhoon the game takes place in and placed her on the island as The Worst Girl Imaginable.

Sometimes "Umineko is about how shitty true crime as a genre is" can be the correct take.

But in this case he, like Ange, is trying to make sense of the past and turn the events over and over again. We wrote about this concept extensively in our (Dawn's) Ange essay.

The point is, where Beatrice was writing fantasies of the future to cope, Battler-Tohya (via Ikuko) was writing unclear recollections to unearth the traumatic memories that he couldn't quite reach. Inconsistencies like this are typical in recovering traumatic memories.

We experience it in our own life, when we date a memory by the sporting event that was happening about that time but the inciting incident of the memories was tied in the birth of someone who is older than that. When one tries to turn over facts, emotions and painful memories decades in the future it all gets mixed up and doesn't quite match reality. The Ange post has more to say on that.

Eva's journal may well have been written by Eva to hurt Ange. We do not know how much of it is true but when Kyrie monologues about how she intends to abandon her daughter and never loved her as anything more than a solvent to keep her marriage together, you can feel Eva's pen on the page, taunting the child who survived instead of her George.

Which brings us the final chapter and the theme of the game and why I wanted to write this little end-cap.

From our other essay:

Chapter 8 represents the idea of writing your own past with love and with kindness.

If Beatrice's mysteries in Chapter 1-2 are a wounded person enacting a revenge fantasy about the future, why not write a healing fantasy about the past?

Turning over the events over and over will not change the present and can serve to retraumatize a person by allowing the events of the past to intrude on the present.

The start of Chapter 8 even describes the 1998 Ange as such:

Stuck in trauma time, Ange is unable to grow beyond the tragedy of her entire family dying at once. Battler has all the answers and so he writes a version of the story that is pointedly impossible.

The previous chapter featuring Beatrice II's funeral was based on a "miracle fragment" where Lion had not been raised as Shannon. This was revealed to be the fantasies of Yasu after discovering their identity as Lion. An impossible version of the world that was a "what-if" fantasy.

Chapter 8 tells a similar story but it's not a "what if" in the sense that it would require a different world to function. It is the idea baked into Ange's power as the Witch of Resurrections. With imagination and with love it is possible to simply keep lost loved ones alive by writing about them. To process pain by writing a kinder reality because it is not changing the world to believe the best in people, it is simply choosing, as Maria put it, to not accept current misfortune and to choose to live in happiness.

Umineko says we have the choice to paint our outlook on the world.

Hence why Ange abandons her fortune and goes on to write stories about Sakotarou, keeping Maria and her imagination alive and delighting children.

All the way back when we first read Umineko we said that it was Anime House of Leaves.

Turns out both books have the same outcome from different angles.

“Maturity, one discovers, has everything to do with the acceptance of ‘not knowing.”

And acceptance is the only road to healing. We have to close the catbox.

Fantasy and imagination can be an escape, but they can also be a prison that locks a person in their worst experiences. If you truly can't let go. Maybe you can spin the chess board and write yourself a happy ending.

[nothums-from-tj]

Returning to my series of “barely anyone else cares abt this ship that I’m crying over so I’m gonna make a post abt them myself”: Mordeson edition

If you don’t like the ship please just fuckin scroll I don’t need anyone clowning today thnx

I have so many things I want to write and draw however I am so overwhelmed so I’m spewing my nonsense onto Tumblr to feed the like 3 people paying attention to these dorks <3 for the most part here are just like tiny little hcs/moments/ideas of them that have infected my brain. Cut provided to make it not unbelievably long for the rest of my followers

Categories: headcanons, ideas, “cutaways” (basically my iterations of what happens post-episode endings or in the midst of flashbacks/stories, between scenes, etc.)

I’d also like to thank @mushtoons for letting me yap abt them in DMs/on Discord, some of these in which I’m copy/pasting from my side of conversations with them <3

Headcanons:

-Mordecai sometimes patches up Benson’s hand(s) after usually breaking it by punching something out of anger on varying occasions

-the way they likely comforted one another during the Margaret, CJ, and Audrey heartbreaks with Benson probably gave Mordecai harder/grosser jobs to keep his mind off things and Mordecai gave Benson excuses to head home late to lessen the chances of bumping into Audrey

-the car radio along with show/movie nights consist of more bickering than watching/listening to anything

-Benson is the Worst backseat driver and Mordecai has to try to politely tell him he’s going to lose his mind if he tells him where to make the correct turn to both of their place of work; that said, for both of their sanity, Benson usually drives when they’re together

-there are days where Mordo has to literally force Benson to stay home bc he's either so sick he can hardly stand, so overwhelmed he can't think, or is in so much pain his body is practically crumbling beneath him

-sometimes when Benson gets reeeally into a beat, drumming on the steering wheel or a pen against his clipboard or something of the sort, Mordecai will try to start singing along to it so he’ll remember it for practice or whatever

-he has thrown hands over people trashing Benson behind his back

-and he has to semi-frequently talk/hold Benson out of a self-deprecating spiral

-Mordecai's parents absolutely adore Benson and were some of the first people to say "so when's the wedding!!!!" when first introducing him as his bf

-the opposite happened when Benson introduced Mordecai to his parents; I’d say his parents got divorced when he was young and his mom was kinda chill though his dad was kinda passive aggressive and just didn’t really put in a lot of heart, though Mordecai learned a lot more abt him from his dad than his mom

-Mordecai is the first to say “I love you” and Benson bawls on the spot

-Mordecai draws/doodles Benson during meetings/assignments when he starts to develop feelings for him

-Mordecai gets crazy flustered at pet names bc he doesn’t expect them whatsoever; he’s always been the one giving them rather than receiving, though he always appreciates them

-Benson is also crazy touch starved while Mordecai can be pretty jealous so usually in public they’re always seen touching in some way; one leg over the other when sitting, handholding when walking, an arm around the other’s waist/shoulders, etc.

-they prob hooked up at least 1 (one) time pre-relationship and swore they’d never tell anyone abt it

-Margaret and Mordecai are platonic soulmates as much as it is a dismay to most their romantic relationships; Benson is the first/only one of Mordecai's partners to fully accept this

Ideas (if anyone writes these before I get around to them pleeeeease please send it to me I’d cry /pos):

-swap AU of sorts where they have a secret relationship while Rigby and Eileen are more “center of attention”

-in addition, switching up Benson and CJ in a lot of scenarios make a lot of sense (specifically thinking of “New Year’s Kiss” and “Thomas’ Play Date”)

-Benson is such a little cuddle bug, Mordecai gets totally thrown off guard by how affectionate he is when they start dating

-Benson gets stuck having to watch his sister’s kid for the day while on the clock and as much as he loves seeing and hanging out w them he can’t do much while at work, asks Mordecai and Rigby to hang out w them for a bit until he’s done what he needs to and he later gets confused why his heart does weird flip-floppy things to see Mordecai being an amazing babysitter later

-Benson having a rough day mentally and asks to reschedule a date, which Mordecai asks if he’s ok and wants company which he doesn’t wanna “be a burden” or thinks Mordo won’t want to be around his sad self all day and he has to be kinda regularly reminded, “You’re my boyfriend, Ben. I always want you around.”

-Benson getting nightmares and/or flashbacks of the dome experiments and Mordo does his best to help through the severe paranoia and skittishness in the morning, unless he wakes up to it happening and he’s able to help him through it/get back to sleep

Cutaways:

-“In The House” Benson was nowhere to be seen until after Rigby finished his house/wizard story which Benson was like right next to Mordecai so I like to think Benson walked in early-ish into Rigby’s story and it’s Mordecai that beckoned him over to include him in the storytelling

-“Weekend At Benson’s” post-ending in which Benson maybe just felt too horrible to bring himself home so he hangs out at the house where Mordecai figures if he and Rigby feel awful already, Benson’s gotta be going through the same thing 10 fold so he sits with him all day doing his best to provide comfort and consolation while Benson spends half the day vomiting and sobbing from the searing pain in his throat

-“Eggscellent” after Benson getting punched, in which Skips probably had to be the one to tell Benson in private that while it’s ok for him to be scared and concerned and to feel betrayed and disrespected, what he said to Mordecai also wasn’t cool before explaining Jonathan Kimble and the journal he found; after apologizing to Mordecai he tries so hard to prove himself by being his biggest cheerleader, trying not to question the eagerness to be by his side and sudden overprotective urges

-“Return of Mordecai and the Rigbys” I think maybe a little bit too much abt the times they’re sent to the hospital and being the first two awake to have a few minutes to chat privately, and some of the dialogue I had in mind to not make this post even longer

-“Dumptown, USA” particularly when Benson went after Audrey broke up w him; maybe he left his phone behind, maybe he didn’t, and I doubt he was gone nearly as long as Mordecai, though he might’ve still been gone a few days to a week and incredibly hard to reach, leaving everyone else panicking over Benson not showing up to work to the point of sending a wellness check and getting ready to file a missing persons report by the time he comes back; Mordo’s the first to see him and instinctively runs to give him a hug, surprising them both

-“White Elephant Gift Exchange” with Benson being pretty OCD coded, similar to the first hc above following the “glove incident” where Benson likely washed his hands like 6 times to the point of cracking bc he didn’t feel “clean” enough (speaking as somebody with OCD and similar experiences)

This isn’t even remotely all of what I have this is just long enough already and I’m trying to figure out how I wanna execute the rest LOL. Anyway if anything here strikes inspiration feel free to write/draw/whatever and tag me bc I’m itching for more content of them I’m losing my mind <3 feel free to talk to me abt these dorks in DMs or my ask box too!!!!

[nekrosdolly]

washing machine heart (18+)

toss your dirty shoes in my washing machine heart, baby bang it up inside.

cw; implied cheating, workplace romance, reader is the bad guy here, hurt/no comfort, eventual sex, p in v, afab reader, vulnerable wesker

pet names; dear (reader receives)

a/n; i love mitski and angst

albert isn't a stalker. not normally. he's observant, for good reason- he has to be. if he wasn't alert at all times, his life would be on the line.

that's the justification he gives himself for watching you so casually flirt with chris, and chris flirting right back. it makes his heart tick in just the worst way imaginable. his stomach tenses, a searing wave of heat washing over his back. he hates this.

you're unaware of the watchful eyes on you. how albert wesker feels about you is none of your concern, mainly because you don't work for him. and maybe it's because of that fact that you enjoy flirting with his crew so shamelessly. touching chris's arm, watching his cheeks pinken so slightly from it. chris's hand finds your waist and just as you're leaning closer, the bell signaling the end of the workday rings.

you smile seductively at Chris. "well… i've gotta go, but i'll swing by sometime, okay? pinky promise." you give the bigger man's bicep a light squeeze and then make your exit.

it hurts. albert wesker is actually hurt.

he goes home late that night after finishing some much needed paperwork, his thoughts only on you as he drives. you, again, as he gets out of his car and locks it. you, accompanying him inside while holding his arm.

and you, in his bathroom as he showers. it's not always sexual, he's a more emotionally complex man than he'd like to admit. when he imagines you with him, you're always clinging to him somehow.

sometimes, you're holding his hand as he walks through the r.p.d, other times you're kissing him with all you've got and he can't say no. if only that was real. at 38, he's accepted his life of solitude. he can't exactly have a partner with what's to go down soon anyway. it's best if he abstained.

and he does, for the most part. he goes to work, watches you flirt with chris, or barry, or jill, or even rebecca- whoever you feel like- and then goes home. rinse and repeat for weeks.

that is, until your flirtatious gaze falls on him for once. your touches on his shoulder don't go unnoticed. of course, you get little physical reaction out of him. nothing but a measly blush as he brushes your hand away.

then, you stick around until all the other s.t.a.r.s officers are gone, and it's just you and him at the end of the day.

"hey, al?" you give him a small smile, almost shy. a blush tints your cheeks, your eyes more innocent now.

"yes?" he looks up from his paperwork, still sat at his desk. pen in hand, a metric ton of papers sat on either side of his desk.

"well… i was wondering," you start, approaching his desk nervously. he stops his paperwork completely. his heart is pounding in his ears, "if you'd like to go out with me sometime."

this must be a joke.

"dear," he adjusts his glasses, "you're joking." he states plainly.

"no, i'm not. i mean it." you step closer, so you're directly in front of his desk. he leans back in his chair and sets his pen aside, his gaze fixed on you from behind his shades.

"when?"

"tonight."

"where?"

"the bar."

"what time?"

"when are you off?"

"seven."

"eight, then."

"fine. don't be late. goodbye."

successful, you walk out of his office feeling light on your feet.

the date goes well. you two drink and he's surprisingly charming under the layers of stoicism and otherworldly nerdiness. he wonders if he's dreaming the entire time. he's wanted this for so long, and now that it's happening, he feels… anxious. like he's waiting for the shoe to drop. you're stunning. too good for him, for who he really is, not the facade he's putting on now.

-

the other shoe drops in a way he wasn't expecting.

you're almost a year into your relationship. he's working all the time. it's hard for you, even harder on him to be away from you. his days off are few and far between, which he cherishes every chance he gets. while he's not the utmost affectionate person in the world, he tries. and he tries so hard for you.

"oh my god," you whine quietly as he takes you from behind, your back arched with your faced pressed into the mattress. this was meant to be quick- you have errands to run and a job to go to, all within the span of two hours. he's thrusting into you like it's the last thing he'll ever do, soft groans and breathy moans leaving him, too.

you're stupidly close, especially with how he's rubbing your clit. your cunt flutters before clamping down on his dick, a loud moan leaving you.

"fuck, chris, oh my god!" you whimper as you finish.

albert has never been an angry man.

"what?" he's pulling out and tucking himself away. it settles in just exactly what you've said. just how much you've revealed within a matter of mere seconds. you turn over and sit up against the headboard.

"why did you- what is going on? tell me. tell me right now." he sits down on the bed, his hands clasped in front of him on his lap.

"nothing is going on." you're a bad liar. you always have been.

"then what was that? why?" he's nauseated. upset. betrayed. he loved you, let you in when he swore he wouldn't, kissed your scars and told you that you're the only thing he lives for.

"i-i don't- you- it's not what you think, honestly." it's too late. he's getting off the bed, running his hand through his hair as he paces. this is his karma for living. you. agonized, he leans against the doorframe to the ensuite bathroom and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"you're sleeping with him, then. that's it. that's all it is, right? just sex, not- not love, is that right?" he can't bring himself to look at you.

"he- chris keeps me company, al. you're always so busy, and it's not my fault-"

"not your fault? what, so it's my fault?"

"i didn't say that,"

"you didn't have to. i knew something was going on from the start- you always liked him more than me, so why am i even here?" he might cry.

you're grimacing.

"can't i love you at the same time i love him?"

"no! why can't you love me!? did you ever love me? was i even on your radar?" he throws his glasses on the bed and covers his eyes, trying to will away the tears.

you approach him and he stumbles back against the bathroom door.

"don't do this to us." he whispers, taking his hand away. his gaze lingers on the floor.

"it's too late."

[katyawriteswhump]

the freak in the penthouse part 6.2

E-rated (for sexual content), accidental millionaire eddie/sex-worker steve.

On tumblr: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3.1 Part 3.2 Part 4.1 Part 4.2 Part 5.1 Part 5.2 Part 6.1 or search #thefreakinthepenthouse :)

On AO3

6.2 more than words

It was always tricky to focus on anything other than naked Steve in the luxurious walk-in wet room. Nevertheless, Steve seemed quieter than usual. Eddie found himself distracted in different ways from usual.

Okay, his first distraction was still Steve’s shiny body. He dripped with suds from the soap Eddie lathered across his chest, before teasingly wandering it lower. They were, in fact, similar in height and built, with Eddie maybe a fraction of an inch taller. Steve was maybe more trimly muscular. Yet sometimes, Steve seemed strangely… brittle?  

Nah. Not the right word. Eddie couldn’t quite nail it, and it was probably all in his ‘freakin’-the-shit-out-today’ head.

More palpably, the bright strip-lights revealed the deep shadows around Steve’s eyes, shouty as bruises. When Steve slid his wet palm to grasp Eddie’s semi, Steve yawned.

Eddie brushed Steve’s hand away, noting that, despite Eddie’s games with the soap, Steve was totally not turned on right now. “You all right, Babe? You look beat.” 

“I know what’ll pep me up.” Steve smiled tightly, turned away. He braced his hands to the tiles and spread his legs.

Eddie stroked Steve’s shoulder, eased him back around. He peeled wet hair from Steve’s puzzled face, and kissed him, deep and slow, amid the water and steam. The rumble of Eddie’s personal apocalypse grew deafening, and it wasn’t even about the money issues anymore. Dustin would sort that.

Levelling with Steve, whatever that meant, felt more important. And Eddie grew more tongue-tied than ever.

When they’d gotten out of the shower, Steve tied a towel around his waist and said, “What do you wanna do?”

This was the part where they usually ordered room service and got smashed. “Table-top pool?” suggested Eddie.

 “You hate that!” Steve threw his hands in the air, and his towel slipped beneath his hips. “I always wipe the floor with you.”

“Today could be different, Stevie.”

“Fat chance.”

The ruse worked. Steve drank beer, munched pretzels and potted endless silly balls. Meanwhile, Eddie reclined on his beanbag, chain-smoked Marlboro Lights, and necked Diet Coke. He kept his head clear, while he shared with Steve everything that happened before he’d buried himself in the penthouse.

It’d begun when he’d hired a studio, some session musos, and recorded several songs that he’d performed with Corroded Coffin. He tried to get Gareth and the guys on board. However, their lives had moved on after Eddie, in Gareth’s words, “Blew them off for yer egghead friends and to live the fucking high life.”

“I taped an EP, persuaded a few indie stores and Tower Records to stock it. It was a honking great floperooza, and then, while I was merrily licking my wounds, one of the music rags reviewed it.” Eddie sighed out a cloud of smoke. “They slammed it as the worst kind of rich-kid vanity record. You know, when I penned those songs, I hadn’t a dime to my name. So yeah, I bled, dude, and now I can’t seem to stop picking that scab.”

“It sucks. Anybody would bleed.” Steve lined up his last red. Instead of potting, he began to cough, dumping the cue down and doubling over. Eddie rushed forward, placing a hand on his  back.

“Stevie? You okay?���

Steve elbowed Eddie off, took a slurp of the Coke Eddie offered him. 

“Fucking pretzel got stuck,” wheezed Steve. “Rain check?” He dashed for the washroom, grabbing his uniform pants on the way. Eddie stubbed out his cigarette—probably a good call, before they both choked their lungs out, pretzels or otherwise.

Steve shortly returned, still shirtless and wearing his hotpants. He ruthlessly potted his final red: “Bam! Champ wins again. Your turn to break, Loser.”

They reset the table, and Eddie’s breakoff shot was typically disastrous. A ball shot up and landed in an enormous potted palm, which let Steve into the game. Eddie picked his nails ragged and continued his story.

“After that journo shot me down, I holed myself away in this dump, which was insane. I detest everything about this kind of forced-conformity shithole. I should give the dough to a homeless shelter. Instead, I can’t bring myself to leave the fortress of corporate evil! Which is beyond insane, and you know what I hate the most? I’m whining about it to you, like the woooorst kiiiind of entitled brat.”

Steve missed what looked like a screamingly easy shot, at least for him. “You don’t have to be poor to be down on yourself.”

Steve passed Eddie the cue and Eddie put it aside. He didn’t know what he was gonna say, only that he had to say something. Steve merely looked confused again, so Eddie grasped his hips, tugging him close.

“Listen to me, Stevie. Hiding myself away in a tarnished-ivory tower wasn’t the answer. Till you came along to rescue me.”

“How am I supposed to do that?” Steve flashed an apparently delighted grin, flung his arms around Eddie’s shoulders. “Your hair’s not that long, Rapunzel.”

Eddie went in for the kill: “I like you, Steve. I literally never said that to anybody before, and—”

“Yeah, I can tell that.” Steve’s bitchy tone didn’t reach his wide eyes.

“Ah shit, this place has turned me soft. Look, I mean it from the top of my greasy rocker head to the tips of my dainty metal toesies—I really like you. Look, I can’t hang here forever…”

…BUT I DON’T WANT THIS THING BETWEEN US TO END.

Eddie wanted to holler it so loud the chandelier would crash from the ceiling and wake the dead in Dallas. Instead, he found himself saying:

“...and I know it sounds dumb, but I wanna help you, like you’ve helped me, and—” 

“Zip it, Eds.” Steve pressed his fingertips to Eddie’s lips and rattled out a dry laugh. “Yeah, I know what it looks like, me peddling my ass and all, but the truth is, I don’t have to do this anymore. You were an exception.” He quirked a half-smile: “Tonight’s about you breaking free, not me. C’mon, man—let's party.”

....

Chapter 7 on tumblr

Chapter 7 on AO3

Thank you for reading. Likes, reblogs and comments much appreciated and will feed the bunnies🐰💕🐰💕🐰💕🐰💕 writing this sort of fic can be lonely, and I appreciate it very much!

On tumblr: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3.1 Part 3.2 Part 4.1 Part 4.2 Part 5.1 Part 5.2 Part 6.1 Part 7or search #thefreakinthepenthouse :)

On AO3 All my ST stuff on AO3

[totallyanopossum]

Peter x y/n, well behaved quiet girl x class problem boy, roommate, awkward,cute

Why You ?

WC:1.9k

Link to story master post

Part 1, Roommates

The curse of being the well behaved quiet girl in class who always gets seated next to the worst behaving guy in hopes of calming them, strikes again as she is seated next to Peter King. Luckily he doesn't show up to English class too often, and it's the only one with double desks.

She keeps her head down and keeps interactions to a minimum, telling him the page number, giving him a pen, or one time whispering the answer when he was called on.

Sometimes she feels him staring at her but she doesn't dare look up and meet his harsh gaze. Even though out of curiosity she does look at him from afar, either in the hall or lunch room. She can't deny that she's got a thing for his goth look, if only he wasn't so scary, if only she hadn't seen him beat so many people to a pulp.

Now she can't even be free of him, she's seated next to him and now paired up with him for a project in history. Great, now they have to actually interact and spend time one on one.

She can't escape the guy she's scared of but also has a slight crush on, fan-fucking-tastic.

Luckily it doesn't take long to settle things, 2 quick meetings, the first to divide work, the second to put their pieces together. To her surprise he quality checks her work, usually that's what she does, but whatever he looks cute reading. How his hair falls to the front while he looks down at her paper, and how he blows at the hair but that only temporarily moves it aside, and how after a few attempts of blowing at it he mumbles slightly annoyed and runs his finger through his hair brushing it all back.

This keeps happening all year getting paired together, but the repetition has calmed her anxieties about being near him, like some kinda weird exposure therapy. He's not so bad, at least not to her and that's what counts in her book. But that doesn't mean she'll never admit her crush to him, he tolerates her right now and doesn't want to risk that, plus the rumor is Peter doesn't date so no real point in exposing her feelings.

Peter 🔗🔪

I need a place to stay the night. 9:25pm

What's your address?? 9:28pm

9:30pm. What? Why ask me,

ask one of your friends

You're the only one who 9:35pm

tolerates me

9:39pm Okay fine, text when

you get here

She can't believe she's agreed to this, can't believe she's his only option, but she can't leave him out in the cold. Asking for help probably wasn't easy for him.

She cleans up a bit, getting her dirty clothes off the floor, putting her dishes in the washer, and putting on some pants. The place is still messy but only so much can be done, so this is fine.

Peter 🔗🔪

I'm here 10:15Pm

She goes to the door, has a moment of hesitation as she gets hit with a wave of anxiety, but it's too late to jump ship now.

She opens the door, and wow she's never seen him look so not him. Yeah he's got the right outfit and stuff but he's lacking the imposing, aggressive, confidence. He looks like a wet dog that's very upset it was washed, you know the sad defeated eyes look.

Y/N- “ come in”

Peter- “ thanks”

Even his voice sounds defeated, what the hell happening. Wait, is he actually wet, oh not in my house.

Y/N- “ shoes off and why are you wet?”

He complies, taking off his shoes, it takes a while with all the buckles. He sees she's still waiting for an answer, he doesn't want to talking about it, he already hates that he's had to ask for her help and look so pathetic in front of her.

Peter- “ hose, it's clean water”

Y/N- “ okay, come on, follow”

He follows her to the bathroom, where she gives him a towel and tells him to strip. Wow, when did she get so confident.

Y/N- “ brb i'll bring you some clothes”

Luckily she likes oversized clothes to chill around the house in, there just so much cozier. So she has some things that will fit him, well mostly, she has to hem her pants because they are all too long so Peter will just have to deal with that.

When she gets back to the bathroom she didn't expect to see a shirtless Peter struggling to remove his wet jeans with her towel draped over his head. She just hopes she didn't freeze and stare at him too long.

Y/N- “ here these should fit”

Peter- “ thanks”

She leans against the wall in the hall waiting for him to come out. He finally does.

Peter- “umm the boxers, you got a bf or ex, who's underwear am I wearing?”

Y/N- “ mine, their comfortable, nice to wear around the house”

He's glad he's not wearing some other dude's underwear, but knowing he's wearing her’s is a bit more unsettling to his nerves in a whole new way.

She grabs his wrist to see if he's cold, and he is still a bit too cold for her liking. She doesn't want him to get sick, partly for her own benefit but also out of concern for him.

Y/N- “ do you drink tea or you want hot chocolate?”

Peter- “no i don't need anything”

Y/N- “ this is an either or question, your getting a hot drink, pick”

Peter- “ hot chocolate”

He follows and watches as she gets the kettle going, gets out 2 cups and starts scooping different powders into them. The kettle whistles and she flicks her jacket's sleeve down to cover her hand, using it as a heat pad to grab the kettle, how odd and cute using her sleeve instead of the readily available pot holders. She pours the water and stirs, he recognizes her focused look, the same look she has when she's working on a doodle in her notebook. There was one of her drawings he really liked and wanted as a tattoo but couldn't ask.

Y/N- “ it's ready”

He joins her at the counter and takes the cup pushed in his direction. He doesn't know why she's insisted on giving him a hot drink but he's not gonna say no. With her current assertive attitude he's not sure how well saying no to her would go and doesn't wanna risk it. She's welcomed him into her home so last minute after, he's trying to remember his manners right now.

Peter- “ thanks,... this is nice”

Y/N- “your welcome”

They have their drinks in awkward silence, she doesn't push him to say what's happened and risk angering him and he doesn't want to admit what happened and make himself so vulnerable.

Y/N- “ so do you a place to say for the night or a few days”

Peter- “ Oh umm, I don't wanna be a bother just the night”

Y/N- “ If you need to stay a few days it's okay really”

She knows what it's like to have nowhere to go and back then she had no one to call or turn to, so now that she is on the other side she won't turn him out no matter how much it hurts his pride to ask for help.

She walks around the counter to stand face to face with him and musters all her courage.

Y/N- “you don't have to explain and I won't ask but if you have no place to go, no place safe you'll stay here, and that's also not a question”

Hearing her voice crack as she speaks, how she's getting emotional over this, and is starting to tear up makes him panic a bit, he has no clue how to soothe someone who's crying, only know how to make them cry.

Peter- “ I'll stay, thank you”

Y/N- “good”

She grabs a blanket and pillow from her room and gets the couch made up for him, luckily the couch is long so he should be able to lay down without his feet hanging over the edge.

He stands back out of the way, she looks cute going about fixing things up for him. She takes so much care in every task, he's never had someone fluff a pillow for him, hell he's never done that for himself.

She's walking all about taking care of things so he decides to pick up after himself and take care of his wet clothes. He fishes all his stuff from the pockets and hangs his clothes over the shower curtain rod. Finding his camel pack the urge to smoke hits hard.

Peter- “ umm Y/N should I step out or?”

He holds up the cigarette pack to back up his vague words.

Y/N- “ there's a small balcony over here”

She pulls back the thick black out curtains revealing the screened in balcony that was completely hidden prior. She slides open the door and waves him over.

He steps out and goes to close the door behind him but she stops him, placing her hand next to his on the door. This closeness makes them lock eyes, both a bit unnerved and having a rush of feelings one wants to deny and the other is struggling to recognize.

Both jerk their hands away from the door and look in opposite directions, trying to clear away whatever had just flooded through them. A moment of awkward silence does the trick.

Y/N- “ I don't mind the smell, you can keep the door open”

Peter- “ really most find it disgusting, I'm not ever sure I like it”

Y/N- “ i umm, i don't really have memories of my father but I remember what he smelled like, gold camel cigarettes. I associate the smell with safety, home, love…. Yeah I'm messed up I'll just let you be”

She walks off cursing herself for oversharing such a personal thing. Oh I must have sounded crazy, fuck. She tries to distract herself from her stupid mind by gathering some supplies for him, hairbrush, toothbrush, hair ties, ect.

He's amazed she likes the smell, but secretly kinda glad, most people make disgusted or judgmental faces when he smokes, but she associates it with such sweet things. He doesn't want to like her, doesn't want to have a crush and have all those confusing vulnerable feelings but knowing she likes things about him is tallied in the good column in case he ever gets over his fear of vulnerability.

While he's coming back from the balcony he sees her placing a pile of things on the coffee table.

Y/N- “ for you, some essentials”

Peter- “ your really good at this whole hosting thing”

She gives him a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes, it looks more sad than anything else. He wonders why? What's the reason she's so emotional about having him stay?

Y/N- “ well it's late I'm gonna go to bed, you need anything else”

Peter- “ phone charger”

Y/N- “ Look through the cords around the lamp one should work”

She had her own system of organizing so cords she would need when on the couch are kept around the base of the standing lamp next to the couch.

Y/N- “ good night peter”

Peter- “ good night Y/N”

[actualpsychicability]

Psychic Blog #1 - Channeling Artists

I channel a lot of different people. This has happened a lot over the course of my life, often unknowingly. I'm also an artist who has done art for all of my life, and the people I've channeled also have done a lot of art while channeling into me. Now that I've been more consciously doing the work of channeling, I've been asking those who channel into me to do art while they're here and sign and date it so I can keep track of the work we're all doing.

And boy howdy. Do we have a lot of different styles.

Until I became aware of the fact that i was channeling different artists, I assumed that I just had a lot of different styles and mediums I liked to work in. It was actually hard to talk about my art or get art blogs going, because I couldn't post anything consistent. My style would change so often that I wouldn't be able to show the kind of consistency that often gets attention for artists. I also had a lot of trouble doing commissions because I couldn't figure out what made me do work in one style and what made me do work in another, so I couldn't guarantee a certain type of style or detail level or even medium. It was always just according to what I felt at the time, it seemed like. I couldn't control what was happening and what art i was making. Sometimes I even switched styles mid-work and couldn't figure out why I couldn't get the whole piece to come out "right."

The worst was when I'd start a work and then be unable to finish it for weeks or even months, sometimes losing track of the WIP and not being able to finish it at all. I have many unfinished sketches done over the course of years that I'd stare at in confusion before, unsure of what had happened that hadn't allowed me to complete the work. It turns out that someone had channeled into me and been unable to come back and find the WIP and finish it. I still have some work like this, paintings and drawings and books and writing that remain unfinished, waiting for the original artist to come back and do the job. Back when I didn't know multiple artists were behind the work I was doing, I sometimes felt overwhelmed and exhausted by all the unfinished work I had, and the weight of it gave me incredibly awful art block.

Now? Now I feel incredibly grateful to have so many artists willing to come in here and share their work with me and let me have the memory of the art being made. I learn something from every artist who does artwork while channeling in me. I also get to teach people channeling into me how to do art and give them an opportunity to discover their own artistic ability. Since I've had years of professional art training, they get to skip past the boring parts where you learn to draw spheres and drill on perspective and instead they get to just start drawing what's in their head and see it happen.

it's fun to see all the different styles and also what supplies people tend towards. Eraseable versus pen, color versus black and white, paint versus marker. Collage, one-edition assembly book projects, sculptures, objects in the house that become decorated and customized with painted designs. Even a whole decorated Christmas tree.

All three of these pictures are by different artists. The leftmost one is the only one that I actually drew. The others are by guest artists who left behind something beautiful after they stayed with me awhile. And that's something I'm still having feelings about, will probably be having feelings about forever. There's something about someone doing art and being part of their making art that means a whole lot to me and really makes me feel complete as a person. It also just feels like a service I did for others, that I helped the world in some way.

I still have a lot to learn about this aspect of psychic ability and about artistic ability itself--where it comes from, how it's developed, what fundamental skills a person has to be drilled in versus what skills can be passed to them via this interesting form of transference. There's experiments that have been started when it comes to if these skills can truly be exported out of me--if someone can channel into me, do art, and then go back to their body or to another body and be able to do art in there. It's much different than AI art that sort of just copies an artist's style and regurgitates an imitation of their work. Every artist that channels into me has a different and unique style, a different creative process, different motivations and needs as artists. There's no way to know what to expect from any of them, because they're all real artists.

And sometimes, I get to be the art school.

[aerkame]

Any advice on how to break out of an insane long art/writing block? My minds been going crazy with ideas, yet my hands say “Nope! lol!” Mode for some time.

I absolutely hate art blocks they're the worst. I've had some that lasted for months on end, sometimes a whole year so I'll give what advice I can to help you break out of this funk. 👍

Important bits are highlighted.

I suggest changing up your drawing environment for a bit, declutter anything on your desk or drawing spot, clean anything that could be in the way. Sometimes a change in your environment can help you feel less stressed. Cluttered spaces can change how we behave and it can also mess up our thinking process without us even noticing it so give that a try. (This applies to studying and doing homework as well!)

If you can, go to a new location and just try relaxing. Try going to a park, a colorful part of a city, a zoo you never went to, or even just walk around a neighborhood. This works similar to the above advice with changing your environment.

Write down the drawing idea you had for later and sketch something else lazily, do not put effort into the sketch, just feel and do whatever. After that, practice SKETCHING (sketching, not drawing, this does not need to be perfect or a masterpiece or a final product of sorts) parts of your desired drawing idea. Do this until you feel yourself being more comfortable.

RELAX! A lot of times when I start to feel an art block coming on mid-drawing, I notice my hand and face is not relaxed. If you feel yourself gripping a pencil/pen hard when drawing, take deep breaths in and out and relax. Drawing with your hands gripped is a sign of stress and art should be relaxing, not a stressful chore.

This follows up on number 4. Try lightly exercising. And I emphasize lightly. Especially if you are not someone who regularly exercises (remember to stretch before). Do something to get your heart going just a little bit. Sometimes doing this helps relives stress you may not be aware of and it also makes you feel more loose and energetic afterwards. This is because your body will release endorphins (the hormones that make you happy) into the body after exercising. Along that, make sure you're hydrated. No really, drink water.

SLEEP WELL! Make sure you are taking care of your body by getting enough sleep.

Draw out of your comfort zone. Try to start practicing on drawing things you are not usually used to drawing. Your Kryptonite basically. Personally, my kryptonite is cars and mechanical things.

That's all I can think of for now. If I think of more, I will reblog this with the attached new list.

You may or may not be confused on why I am focusing so much on the body and not actual drawing part itself. The thing is, art block is both a mental thing and physical thing that results from stress, exhaustion, or other factors you may not be aware of that can be helped (usually). An example? When I'm busy with college or when I had my first job last year I was so stressed out that the very idea of getting out my graphics tablet and drawing made me feel like I didn't want to draw anymore. I lost interest in doing something I really like. The same happened when I was in a STEM high school. I was too stressed out to pick up a pencil and draw.

You need to make sure your brain is stimulated and relaxed before you draw and after you draw and that can be done through exercise, new changes to the environment, or simply just trying new things with art. Your brain is in charge of so many things and that includes how you're feeling, so do what you can to take care of it.

[awanderingmuse-fandom]

🎯🥳🔮 for the ask game! hehe!

More asks, yay! Thank you!

🎯 Do you have a writing milestone you’re working towards?

I do actually. Besides the typical "actually finish my long fics" milestone I am 100,000 words shy of having written 1,000,000 words on Ao3. So, I'm striving to do that if possible. ::3

🥳 Why did you start writing fanfic?

I started writing as a very angsty (pre-teen) poet! I continued to write poetry and prose into highschool and college, but also often talked to my bestie about things I wished would happen in the media we consumed. She finally was like hey why aren't you writing fanfiction and uh, I just never stopped?

🔮 Any advice for writers working through burnout or writer’s block?

That's a tough one. The answer is always be gentle with yourself, but sometimes it's take a break and sometimes it's do it anyways. The trick is learning when each applies.

If it's a case of "I'm tired of this story", "I've been pushing myself too hard", "I'm out of ideas and need a chance to restock with experiences", or "I just need a break". I find it's often time to take a step back. Put the pen/key board down and go do something that refreshes you. I like to take my dogs on walks and invite friends over for dinner and playing cards against humanity-like card games!

If it's "I don't know what I'm doing" or "I'm not a good writer" driven, you have to go ahead and do it anyways. The worst part of this one is you still have to be gentle with yourself when you do it. It can't be "yeah yeah well get over it and write!" it has to be "well, then I'll put some words down and see where that takes me" or "Hmm well maybe writing more help with improvement!"

Having folks I talk with about what I'm writing helps too. "Hey wouldn't it be cute if they had a picnic this is what I think it would be like" to a friend isn't as far removed as you might think from "I wrote a story about a Hearthian picnic!" It's like practice writing without the pressure and when your friend is like oh that's cute, then you go forward with a little more confidence when actually writing!

[maelstrom-of-emotions]

for the wip folder game, i would love to read the snippet for "oh darling, even rome fell" !!

Thank you so much for the ask! This is one of my favorites. It's inspired by Don't interact with them by Pebble_Dragon and Within The Dark by EnchantedSky, which are both beautifully penned and dug the rabbit hole for my cryptid and mythological creatures hyperfixation!

I tried searching it up, but the closest thing I can find to is creepypastas that are not based on any mythology, so I'm guessing it fits the crytpid term. In this universe, monsters exist and people are very much aware of them, but the only way they can touch you is if you interact/react to them.

The title is the name of this poem that I read on tumblr, which is gorgeously written and I thought fit this perfectly.

What I wanted to do with this story, was build on the familiarity. The snatching is inevitable, but what comes before and what comes after seem to be of equal importance. And the middle, like all middles will just be filling. So, I'll send three snippets of this work, because I want to build upon this a lot more and this will now be my motivation for continuing it now, because otherwise, I’d have spoiled the entire story, which is something I take incredibly seriously.

•••

Whisper not into the night for even the lilies bow in silence.

Monsters, if you’re lucky, are the kind that gnash their teeth and howl at the moon. Those, at least, you can stab, shoot, or trap behind a well-locked door. The ones you truly need to fear are the ones that knock politely, step inside, and make themselves at home in the soft parts of your soul.

By the time you notice the teeth, it’s already too late.

•••

Monsters don’t always wear their hunger on the outside. Sometimes, they look like a shadow that lingers too long on the edge of your vision or a voice that knows exactly what to say when you’re alone in the dark. They don’t roar or snarl; they whisper. They ask questions you’re too afraid to answer, and they wait for you to invite them closer.

The clever ones don’t hunt you down; they make you open the door.

And the worst part? Half the time, they don’t have to try very hard.

•••

This world, like many others before it and those to come after it, lives to fuck it's people over. Monsters do not hide under beds or slink through the forests where the shadows run thick. They walk among us, bold as day, brushing shoulders with unsuspecting strangers in crowded streets or leaning casually against alley walls. Their presence is a knot in the stomach, a creeping prickle at the base of the spine, but you must never, ever acknowledge them.

No glances, no gasps, not even the slightest hitch of breath. To see them, truly see them, is to invite them into your life in the most final of ways. They don’t snarl or roar like beasts from childhood stories; they watch, silent and still, with eyes that gleam too brightly or faces that twist too slightly to be human.

And when someone slips—a child pointing with too much curiosity, a mother’s involuntary scream at the wrong time—they vanish. Not with a sound or a struggle. Just…gone. The unlucky ones, the ones who falter too close to the monsters, reappear in pieces. Children speak in whispers about them, of bones gnawed clean and hearts split like fruit. The mutilated corpses tell a story no one wants to hear: the price of breaking the rules.

No one knows where the taken go, only that they don’t come back. And so the unspoken law prevails: don’t look, don’t flinch, don’t notice. Even when their long, spindly fingers brush against your arm in passing. Even when their shadows loom larger than they should in the pale light of the moon. Even when you feel them watching.

Especially then.

Because the monsters may not be hunting, but they are waiting.

•••

[...]

When the monsters take Tommy, it happens quietly, like a scream swallowed by velvet. He is cradled in a field of yellow—daffodils and dandelions blooming unnaturally bright, their jeweled centers glinting with mellifluous malice. The petals brush against him, soft as a mother’s lullaby, muffling his cries until they are nothing but whispers lost in a windless meadow. He had struggled, at first, wild and furious, but somewhere between the crushing arms of the floral tide and the realization that no one was coming, he stopped.

Now, children have always been the best storytellers. Adults write of heartbreak and beauty, but children—those small prophets of chaos—spin tales that sting like nettles and bury themselves in your bones. Five-year-olds turn fears into fairytales. Seven-year-olds turn whispers into warnings. By nine, they’re masters of horror, spinning threads of dread finer than any spider’s silk. And Tommy, newly eleven and waiting for letters that will never come, was no different.

He told the stories. Oh, he told them. The younger ones listened, wide-eyed and trembling as he described claws like shattered glass, smiles gaping and wrong, eyes hollow as the bottom of a well. He spoke of splintered bones, torn flesh, and the quiet horror of vanishing. Children listened better to other children—they always had. But Tommy, the self-made hero of every tale, had never imagined this:

A swinging cradle of flowers, millions upon millions of them, swaying as if rocked by an unseen hand. Their centers glittered with crystalline jewels, beautiful and terrible, the way a polished blade glints before it cuts. The petals bled when they touched him, their ruby tears soaking into the golden sea. They broke against his skin like brittle promises, leaving splinters in his flesh that glimmered faintly in the dark.

“Home,” a voice whispers, low and gravelly, like a storm gathering strength on the horizon. It’s Technoblade, of course. He had warned him, hadn’t he? That they would take him if he faltered. That struggle was futile. That this was where he belonged.

Days blur together before he sees Tubbo again. Tubbo, caught too, gripped tightly by another monster—a creature with curling horns and a grin too wide for its face. Relief and the curdling devastation battle in Tubbo’s eyes as he is dropped unceremoniously into the field. Tommy runs to him, catching him before he can stumble. Tubbo buries his face in Tommy’s shoulder, clinging like a drowning man to driftwood.

(Neither of them acknowledges the monsters cooing softly, their voices syrupy and wrong.)

“Tubs,” Tommy whispers, his voice cracked and thin, barely more than a thread of sound. Tubbo’s hold tightens in response, but there’s no pitchforks in his smile, eyes bereft of chaos and arson. Tommy aches at the emptiness. The fight isn’t gone—no, he can see it in the flicker behind Tubbo’s eyes—but fear has taken the wheel.

“Bossman,” Tubbo murmurs, managing a wan smile. This is it. It seems to say, paired with his eyes, far too hollow and too bright, saying what neither of them dare to. This is our fate. In the folly of our youth, we denied it. But it swalloed us whole. The monsters always come. They always win.

“What about—” Tommy begins, but he doesn’t need to finish. Tubbo catches the question, his lips twisting into something almost defiant if it didn’t look so sad.

“Ranboo’s on his way,” he says, the faintest spark of his old self breaking through. “He’ll be here in a few, if he knows what’s good for him.”

Tommy swallows hard. They came for him. They followed him into this endless field of gleaming flowers and unseen terrors. And as much as it breaks him, it burns brighter than any jewel-studded petal:

They’ll go down together, as they always have. And maybe, just maybe, they’ll find a way to fight again.

•••

That doesn’t happen, of course. It never does. Humans write stories about monsters and myths and merlin knows what else, but the rules of such tales are clear: if the monsters are not defeated by the story’s midpoint, then they will not be defeated at all. The children taken do not come back. Tommy and his friends are no exception.

And it’s not all bad. Isn’t that the worst part? That here, wrapped in the arms of the monsters, life feels softer, warmer, kinder than it ever did in the jagged, unforgiving world of humanity. It’s a place where bruises—old and new—fade into nothing, where the sun knows precisely when to shine, and the rain listens when asked to dance. Sweetness melts on the tongue without ever turning sour; the ache in Tubbo’s gums is gone, his chipped teeth healed. Ranboo’s mind becomes clear as can be, memories sliding neatly into place like beads on a string. Tommy’s days are filled with dandelions blooming at his feet, granting endless wishes, and clothes softer than any earthly fabric. The sharp edges of their lives dull, replaced by a comfort so rich it feels wrong to trust.

Because the children, as they always do, know better. They are the best storytellers—better than adults with their quills dripping ink and love-laden metaphors. Adults may spin tales of sirens’ songs and succubi’s seductions, all tethered to a longing they don’t quite understand. Children speak of different things. They tell of kidnappers who treat you better than your family ever could. Of the fae who steal you away to live as royalty in courts of gold and moonlight. Of trolls who ensure no child sleeps cold. Of wolves who stitch you into their pack, of vampires who never let you hunger, of sirens who sing you to sleep and feed you with the spoils of their hunts.

The stories don’t end with rescue. They end with acceptance.

Tommy knows this now, as he wraps himself in a sweater soft as the summer wind, dyed the color of daffodils in bloom. He knows it as he watches Tubbo laugh at a joke spun from golden strings, as Ranboo hums a song that sounds more whole than the fragments of his mind ever did before. He knows it when the monsters—beings more tender than anything humanity ever offered—speak to them in voices like rivers, soft and ceaseless.

The truth is this: humanity has made the world so cold, so sharp, that comfort is found in what it has learned to fear. Humanity wished to be gods and, in doing so, forgot how to be kind.

But monsters remember. They remember how to cradle a child’s soul in hands that could crush but choose not to. They remember how to listen, how to mend what is broken. And when the prayers of the desperate go unanswered, when the wounded cry for gods who will not come, the monsters answer instead.

Tommy realizes, too late, that the line between monster and mortal, mortal and god, was always thinner than anyone cared to admit. Humanity created monsters, forgot it had the power to create gods, and then let the world twist into something so cruel that salvation would be found only in the arms of the things they feared.

And so the world moves on, while humanity stands still.

⌀⌀⌀

Might make the story into two parts as since posting these snippets, the brain juices have been churning. I ended up reading far too many Pinterest quotes at the time and it ended up with me making this philosophical.

I've read quite a lot of Tommy-centric fics, and I've always found that they either make him a brash child or a heart-of-gold butterfly whose wings are crushed, and I wanted a Tommy who is both but with a lot more backbone + benchtrio, because I adore them. You have no idea the amount of bonding moments I have in that W.I.P.

Thank you for the ask, again! Hopefully, I can get back into this! <3333

[ws-01-elena]

As part of her research in understanding the current state of the hybrids Elena took most of her free work time to review footage. Specifically she wanted to understand the hybrids currently in the Federation position: the prisoners. Due to her schedule she hasn’t made any appointments to talk with them in person. Perhaps if possible she should consider it, Elena wonders.

On her desk laid the files of the prisoners. It was nothing in depth- just their basic health information. She had already reviewed a couple, especially the active ones, but there were two prisoners that caught her sensors.

Lenay and German.

The reports claim there is a “German” within the Federation prison cells. Yet- from what she’s seen there is no German currently. In past footage he’s there. Even his medical files are here. Everything but the person was there. With prisoner Lenay waking up, just as confused as Elena, it left a curiosity somewhere burning the metal that holds her together.

He couldn’t have escaped. Someone would have known and brought him back accordingly.

Typing into her computer she changed the date to the recorded time Lenay’s freezing began to take place. The lack of patience made her speed the recording up and she almost missed the figure who seemed to be trying to take Lenay out of her cyrochamber.

Pause.

That was the demon hybrid. Elena isn’t sure which procedure led to his natural body heat being ignored with an attempt to freeze someone that burns like literal hell, but it likely was why he wasn’t in his own chamber.

Something in her felt.. wrong, as she watched German attempt to pull Lenay out, desperation etched onto the pixels of the screen.

Even at arguably the worst time he still seemed to want to save her. Easily German could have tried finding a way out, leaving Lenay, but chose to risk punishment. German could have been killed for an attempted escape.

It made her wonder if she had done enough. Elena still doesn’t know what happened to her partner. There are no answers. Yet, she still wants them. Maybe if she knew then she could have tried to save them- like German is.

Though, she would hope to have a better fate than German. She watched as German seemed to give up, instead, climbed into his wife’s cyrochamber. As their bodies began to freeze, almost ironic them in the same chamber, Elena was fascinated by the way German seemed to flicker. As time went on German seemed less and less there before finally disappearing.

The ice perfectly melded back into where German’s body once stilled. It was like he was never there.

Looking back down at previous records the system appeared to still mark German as living. From the looks of it he was dead. Not even present. The Federation sensors somehow picked up signs of another living being in Lenay’s cell. With her.

Elena closed out of the files of German and Lenay. Something still hung heavy inside her.

The thought crossed her mind to tell Lenay the fate of German. They were married. It’s only fair. Lenay would want answers about her lover just as Elena does. Sometimes Elena still wishes a convenient figure would give her the answers she wants about them.

However Elena made an oath to the Federation. In no form was Elena going to share this information. Unless required for Lenay’s safety the matter isn’t hers to handle. (Maybe Elena wants Lenay to feel that desperation too. It’s not fair. Why should she get an easy way out?)

Picking up her pen and clipboard Elena writes a few notes down before clicking on the next profile. Without a face there wasn’t a trace of any feeling, not a hint of anything. There was nothing. Maybe Elena would appear bitter.

Oh, the things people do for love.

[knoxic]

Random Criminal Minds canon things (based on my DR)

(I think it accidentally happened because of my headcannons?)

divided it into 2 parts, 2nd one under the cut is NSFW and contains: panic attacks, anxiety, homophobia, suicidal thoughts. (but there is a fun part dw)

SFW

• Derek is lactose intolerant, still drinks milk almost every day and loves icecream.

• Dave and Hotch genuinely consider each other best friends.

• Hotch and Pen give the best birthday gifts.

• Derek broke someone's nose because they made fun of Spencer behind his back, Spencer doesn't know what happened and gave him a lecture on why he shouldn't pick fights.

• JJ is in charge of ordering food and coffe while we're on cases, chooses the best food and place and somehow always knows what we want.

• Dave made pizza one night and now Garcia keeps begging him to open a Pizza restaurant. (he rolls his eyes and says "it's a family thing" as an excuse every times she asks)

• Hotch kept groaning and mumbling for 7 hours straight because our coffe machine was broken and we couldn't get coffee.

• Emily has terrible migraines, only Spencer and I know because we shared medicines once.

• Hotch thinks everything he does as a father is wrong and Jack hates him for them. Cried on my shoulder one night after Jack called him his hero.

• Out of everyone in the team, JJ has the best aim and worst eye sight. (she wears lenses at work and glasses at home)

• Hotch banished Spencer from making everyone's coffee ever since he put 4 cubes of sugar in each cup. (I let him do mine tho)

• Dave keeps 3 bottles of whiskey in his office. Tried sneaking one in Hotch's office once claiming its "so you can have a drink every time you're feeling miserable:)", Hotch felt like it was wrong so he took it home without Dave noticing (he did).

• Penelope once dreamed about getting married and having a kid, sometimes cry herself to sleep missing the baby.

• JJ never took Henry to a church but taught him about every religion she knows so he could choose if he wanted to have one. Will teaches him to be acceptable and open minded.

• Spencer likes fem terms (especially being called pretty)

• Jack has a doll named Lisa, plays with her as if she was a baby (Hotch gets baby fever watching him).

• Hotch, Spencer and Emily are queers.

• Penelope is pansexual.

NSFW

this is the not fun part... feel free to skip

• Emily once had a panic attack because Strauss forced her to "sit properly", her mom used to tell her that all the time.

• Hotch has CPTSD (Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder)

• JJ was homophobic, knows its wrong but its the way she was raised to be as a kid, grew out of it but still catches herself judging ppl.

• Emily had a ED for a great part of her life.

•Emily and Spencer have chronic anxiety.

• Hotch used to have suicidal thoughts during his 8-18 years, never tried anything because he heard his dad say that "people who kill themselves are cowards"

• Derek had toxic relationships (on both his side and his partners side) for years,

• Before Haley, Hotch had an abusive relationship with a girl older than him (he was a minor, she wasn't...).

ehhh

• Emily used to only have one night threesomes to avoid relationships and feelings.

• Spencer and Ethan had a established dom/sub relationship. It ended when they had a fight over Spencer going to the FBI, Ethan knew it meant they wouldn't see each other much and he just wanted to settle down with Spence, so he left.

now to the fun part:))

• Hotch likes to have his nipples sucked.

• Spencer has a thing for biting (being bitten and biting)

• Derek tried men before, it didn't stick but he had a great time.

• Hotch also tried men (college) but he actually liked it, would do it again 100%, asked Haley to top him once but she refused.

• Emily owns a strap-on.

• Hotch and Spencer have a insane libido, literally the wind could turn them on.

• JJ could cum just from giving head.

• Hotch + couch sex =👩‍🦽

• Suck JJ's Fingers.

• Make love = Hotch Derek

Fuck = JJ Emily

Have sex = Spencer Pen

• Penelope is not extremely experienced but she does it good.

• Hotch loves body worship (giving)

• Kinks

Hotch = Breeding, Exhibitionism, Pregnancy, Age Play, Quirofilia (hands🥴), Somno, Praise (giving) Dd/Lg, Deepthroat.

Derek = Collaring, Blindfold, Roleplaying, Corruption, Dom/sub.

Emily = Somno, Corruption, Choking,

JJ = Cuckolding, Corruption, Deepthroat

Penelope = Roleplaying, Age Play, Spitting,

Spencer = Bondage, Praise, Quirofilia, Corruption.

(btw I'm not sure if Hotch got more kinks because hes kinky or because I just (sexually) know him better than the rest?)

anyways:) that was it, might do another one if I remember other things later.

[silverhallow]

This means War

Benedict Bridgerton x Sophie Beckett

Mafia AU

Rated: T. Kidnapping

Word count: 910

Summary: what’s the worst pain a person can go through…?

Author's Note: this is set in the Mafia Au but it’s a one we’re they never went legitimate…

Enjoy

“Lady Penwood…” came the voice of her trusted advisor… John Footman had been by her side through thick and thin and remained loyal even after she’d joined the Penwood Crime family with that of the Bridgerton Crime family when she married Benedict and her second in command, Kate Sharma married Anthony.

Together they’d become the most feared crime family in the country and no one fucked with them…

Or she thought.

She looked up from her note book, her pen perched between her teeth as she figured out her next moves.

She and Anthony ran different parts of the business. She handled the illegal goods and he dealt with everything else. She had the connections.

“Yes John what is it?” She asked, glancing at her husband who was sketching again.

Sophie loved that he’d sometimes just sit and draw her whilst she was working and now she was pregnant again with their second child, he was obsessed and couldn’t stop drawing her.

“I… erm… there has been… there has been an incident” John said, the hesitation was noticeable and Benedict didn’t like the nerves coming from their head of security and he put his pencil down and got up from his slouched position.

“What kind of incident?” Benedict asked.

There were a million possibilities going through through his mind at that very moment but what came out of his mouth had not even made the top 1000 things he thought it could have possibly been.

“Ms Metcalf and the security team… they… they were attacked on their way back with Master Charlie…”

Sophie’s face drained of all colour as she felt terror like she’d never felt before.

Benedict stood up “are… are they okay?!” He demanded

“I…I…” John stammered

“Out with man!!!” Benedict yelled

“Ben! Stop! Just give him a chance!” Sophie managed to get out. She needed her husband to keep his cool, to keep calm… at least for now.

Revenge would come later.

“Jameson and King took a bullet each, Emily has a broken nose and concussion” John managed to explain and Sophie was getting irate at the thought of someone touching the security team around her 18 month old son and his nanny.

Emily was practically family. She would be family eventually as she was engaged to Edwina but that was besides the point.

Sophie had made it clear in the last that her family was out of bounds… and to attack the men around her son… this was unforgivable and was tantamount to declaring war…

But she noticed he hadn’t said anything about Charlie “what about Charlie? Is he safe?” Sophie asked

“I… they took… they took…” John stammered trying to fight back the tears he felt and the news he didn’t want to pass on.

“Took who?”

“Ma…master Charlie…”

Sophie let out a scream of pain and fury like she’d known she could manage, it was a sound that put the fear of god in anyone who heard it and Benedict’s noise was something akin to that of a wounded animal.

“Who where they John? Who the fuck has my son?!??” Sophie screamed.

“Please calm down Lady Penwood!”

“Don’t Fucking tell me to calm down!! Someone has my baby!!!! I will fucking not calm down!!!”

“Sophie I get your furious and worried and I am too but please… just please try and calm a bit for the baby… we will find out” Benedict said turning on John

“What is being done?”

“I’m scanning all the CCTV in the area. They weren’t too far from the house when it happened sir. I’ve sent for Eloise, Mr Anthony and Edwina to help… we have some evidence as Emily fought back”

“I want everything on my desk in an hour. Everyone is to be called in. No Fucking excuses. This a fucking code red. Anyone who doesn’t show, and doesn’t have a fucking good excuse is fired and assumed to be part of it and will be dealt accordingly!!! Whoever has taken my boy is going to Fucking pay for it…the gloves are off. They’ve picked a fight with the wrong Fucking family and anyone who gets in my way… will pay the fucking price” Sophie declared.

“Right away with Lady Penwood” John said and ran out of the room and the moment he was gone Sophie’s strength left her and Benedict saw as he rushed to his pregnant wives side and caught her just in time and held her as she sobbed.

“My baby!! They’ve got our baby Ben” she cried

“We’ll get him back. They’re stupid to think they will get away with this. We will get him back. I swear on my life. Come hell or high water and if they’ve hurt a single hair on his head i will personally make sure they pay for it with blood a hundred times worse than they have done to him” Benedict vowed as tears fell down his own face.

He wanted to go pound the pavement, bang on the doors of all their known associates and enemies and demand they tell what they know.

They needed Anthony here. He’d keep a calmer head than them right now and help them through this.

It was the longest hour of their lives as they waited for news and their family. And finally Anthony burst in, a face like thunder, looking scarier than Sophie had ever remembered seeing him as he barged In “we’ve got a lead on Charlie!”

[ajokeformur-ray]

Merry Christmas, Rose!❄️🎄🎁💖

Merry Christmas, Rose!!! I hope that you're having a lovely festive season, full of good food and spending time with your loved ones!!!💗💗💗💗

@rosesloveletters

Total word count for this gift set: 6, 442.

First, a handwritten letter from me because we always do this first!!😭

Now for some fics!!! I had so much fun writing these; I hope you enjoy! I think you will😉 If you don't like them, please don't be shy in letting me know and I'll happily write you something else.🥺💗 I love you so so much, I had a lot of fun writing these and I hope you enjoy them!!

To have and to hold // 1971!Wonka x Rose

Summary: Sometimes, you just want to sit in Wonka's lap while he's drafting letters to the queen, working on his recipes and seasonal confectionaries, filing invoices and working on the organisation of his international business, you want to hold him while he works. And if you happened to fall asleep, well... who would he be to disturb you?

Quote in italics found here, by Pavana.

Word count: 1, 168.

Everything was cut in half in this room; Wonka's office.

The grandfather clock that hung on the wall, the papers and posters detailing various contracts, legislative guidelines, and other things which needed to be known but couldn't always be remembered off the top of a very crowded head, the mirror, the lamp shade, the desk and its many accessories...

Everything was cut in half in this room, except time and the reality under which Wonka occasionally had to bow, even in his world of pure imagination.

And the depth of your affection.

You never withheld affection or love from Wonka, no matter what kind of day either of you were having. In fact, the worst days involved more affection, with both of you holding onto each other even tighter just so that you could make it through. Wonka held the weight of the world on his shoulders with poise and grace; he knew how to handle even the most stressful of situations, and he did it without a curl falling out of place. Even the curls that sat atop his head, concealed by his top hat, stayed perfectly imperfectly whenever he took his hat off. The way they flopped around on one side often made you laugh, though you tried to hide it behind a hand sometimes. He carried himself as if nothing ever affected him, and for the most part nothing did - his reputation was his blanket - but sometimes his gorgeous smile was a little dimmer than usual, his oceans of blue a little icier and his gaze a little further away than you were used to.

On those days, which occurred more frequently during any and all potential holidays one could celebrate in a given year, you gave yourself permission to love on your chocolatier a little firmer than you already did. You wanted your affection, your love, for him, to cut across the meaningless noise of his thoughts until all that remained was his ability to make his way through his to do list, to face what has to be faced and to handle everything as gracefully as he could without even slightly marring his reputation.

All of this so that then he could stop working, put the pens down and the papers aside, close the lodgers and the financial books, and get some rest in the arms of his beloved; his sunshine.

You.

You were the one success Wonka never counted on; for years, he had been locked away in his factory churning out new confectioneries, designing new packaging and continuing to churn up his chocolate by waterfall. Everything was regimented, precise, controlled and measured, except for his imagination, the endless source of his success...

... And the appearance of you.

There was to be no controlling of the way that the sunlight had come to resemble the face of his beloved as it poured in through the windows of his office, the way you had so suddenly turned the world - his world - upside down and righted it again so quickly that Wonka felt his aptly named rose tinted glasses slide off his face, though his vision remained bathed in pink as he took in the new angles of the world with his love of you and for you cradled so closely to his heart.

Wonka, in all his wildest dreams, in his world of pure imagination, never saw you coming, and it only made him all in love with you all over again every single day.

He liked surprises, and you continued to astonish him even months into your relationship when he should have been used to you, and yet he found that he never really could be; you were simply too ethereal, too rich a personality in your own right. Every time he thought he knew you, you revealed more of yourself until his pure world spun on its axis anew and your image, forever carved into his tired heart with the gentlest of blades, became deeper, more vivid, a knowledge of the garden of your soul only for him.

Try as he might, Wonka was always almost shocked by all the ways in which you managed to show that you loved him.

One such way was your newly adopted habit of letting yourself into his office when he was bent over his desk so close that the tip of his nose was almost brushing against the surface of the ink filled pages he was diligently working on, and curling up in his lap. Your arms looped around his shoulders so that you could pull him up to sit in a way where you could easily slide into his lap, the cool tip of your nose buried in the warm crook of his neck, your body perfectly cradled by his own.

Wonka always sat back in his chair immediately once he realised your intentions, his pen loosely dangled between graceful fingers, his hands slightly raised above his desktop as he waited for you to make yourself comfortable before he would resume his work. It was almost like two puzzle pieces slotting together; his touch as you settled into his welcoming lap felt right, like it was where you were always supposed to be.

You always tucked yourself as close to him as you could, keeping out of his arms' way as best as you could even though they caged you on his lap quite naturally from how he sat as he filled out paperwork, but Wonka never would have asked you to move even if you were in his way. He would have simply rested his chin over your shoulder so that he could still see and carried on regardless; accepting your love without a word and returning it to you as best as he could.

"The greatest intimacy lies between the nakedness of two minds."

The smile which broke across your face at the sound of his quiet voice, the way he so often spoke when he was quoting someone literary, was serene, hidden though it was in Wonka's neck, and you shifted ever closer into royal purple, your fingers slipping into golden curls. Fingers scratched, soothed over scalp, and for a brief moment the two of you had closed eyes and wore smiles which came from within; there was nothing unnatural about the bond between you.

As Wonka finished a letter to the Queen and began to go over some business invoices for the next bulk of monthly stock orders, he began to hum. He knew by the way you were holding him that you were falling asleep, and he had much work to do and not much time in which to do it - yes, that was the right way to say it. He felt a touch of pride in you as the first few notes drifted into your ears and sunk into your mind, helping you to find rest by creating a heavy cloak of sleep which you couldn't help but to slip into.

"Come with me, and you'll be - "

I had two ideas for you and Wonka; I couldn't pick one so I figured I'd write you both!!💗

Alternative delights // 1971!Wonka x Rose

Summary: Wonka finds out that you are allergic to dairy and as such, can't eat anything in his chocolate room. To you, it is a throwaway comment, but to Wonka... it's not just a challenge, it's a certainty that he's going to make sure you can enjoy his world of imagination just as much as he can.

Word count: 1, 055.

Wonka couldn't help but to notice that even as you walked around his much beloved chocolate room, his much prized creation carefully cultivated to showcase the best of his many talents and skills, you didn't touch anything.

You didn't even dip a finger into a mushroom stool on your way past and lick it.

You didn't touch, you didn't taste, you didn't indulge.

You just looked, awe-struck, and explored. All you left behind was the ghost of who you had been before you stepped through the deceptively small door, changed by your experiences with Wonka and ever-growing and evolving as your own person.

Somewhere deep inside him, Wonka knew that he would get to watch you blossom, and he couldn't wait.

Finally, he had to know why you weren't using the chocolate room for its express purpose, and he stopped you in your tracks with a gentle hand curled around one of your elbows as he pulled you closer so that he could murmur in your ear.

"Is there something wrong, my dear?" Wonka used a casual hand to gesture towards the nearest creation; a giant gummy bear. That likely wouldn't harm you, but you could never be too sure unless you were reading the ingredients list, and you knew that curiosity was never worth the very visceral bodily reactions to ingesting dairy.

"No," you shook your head with an easily smile, "I just can't have anything with dairy in it."

Wonka's eyebrows shot up in surprise; he thought he had heard it all in his decades as an international business owner, but clearly he hadn't. You were full of surprises, and it only served to draw him to you even further. He could only imagine how hard it must be for you to be able to find good food which you could safely enjoy, and he channeled that into figuring out how he could make that happen for you. There was nothing he couldn't do if he put his mind to it, and the very same could be said for you.

You continued to explore, not even trailing your hand along anything in case you forgot to wash your hands before ingesting anything later on (again, you had learned the hard way to treat anything potentially containing dairy as being like poison to you, and you always took your medication) and Wonka waited until you had gone out of earshot before he pulled his flute out from his inner breast pocket and flagged down an Oompa Loompa. "Find out everything you can on people who are allergic to dairy, please. I want symptoms, alleviations, and alternative ingredients."

Five hours later, he and the Oompa Loompas got to the real work. They started working on new adjusted recipes, and Wonka set about clearing out a room for you - a chocolate room.

There was little to do and too much time to do it in - wait. Strike that. Reverse it.

It was fine, Wonka shrugged, he knew what he meant the first time. He only clarified his thoughts for everyone else's sake, even if there was no one else in the room. One could never be too sure if there was an Oompa Loompa around, they were rather mischievous.

As he did with all things, Wonka threw himself into this latest (and therefore greatest, a magician was he with taste buds) innovation - if this proved to be a success for you, then perhaps he could look at developing a dairy free line for the general public, too. That was not to say that you were to be his guinea pig, only to say that he trusted your judgement implicitly and if you enjoyed his adapted creations, that meant everything to the chocolatier. It was to be only the best for you, as was befitting for someone as incredible as you.

You hadn't known one another long, but you gravitated towards each other all the same, like you were both the moth to the other's flame. Leading each other quite naturally into your new lives together. It had only been some months, and yet Wonka could already see that you were kind, tender, compassionate, gentle, creative, logical, funny, caring, wise, and someone he would go above and beyond for... as he was doing right now.

Five days to the hour later, and there was a new chocolate room on the other side of the factory, to make sure that cross-contamination was kept to an absolute minimum, with a sign on the door which read, no entry; chocolate Roses within.

Hope swirled within you as you stood in front of it, your beautiful eyes taking in what was inscribed on the door, but you pushed it down forcefully. Maybe the sign wasn't implying what you thought it was. You refused to let yourself get excited. You had done that before, and you weren't so keen to get bitten again.

"Well, my dear... this room, which is an exact replica of my own chocolate room, is entirely for you." As he spoke, Wonka dipped into the same pocket which held the flute he used to communicate with the Oompa Loompas, and withdrew a large key. "All of it is dairy free and entirely safe for your consumption. I hope that you enjoy it..." He smiled wistfully. "I'm sure you will." Another pause. "Yes, quite sure." His voice trailed off as he got lost in his thoughts, though he quickly recovered. The tip of the key he had given you was much smaller than the head, which made the key look almost comically large, the tip looking like it would snap under the slightest pressure put onto the top-heavy key. He handed it to you, ignoring your furrowed brows of confusion, and gestured to the door with a graceful hand.

After you.

With a slight tremor to your usually steady hands, you slotted the key into the lock, and Wonka raised his eyebrows in anticipation as you pushed the door open with your other hand.

"Welcome to your chocolate room..."

The door opened, and the gorgeous room was a perfect replica. The only difference was that you could fully enjoy this journey into a world of pure imagination, made only of chocolate, sugar and love.

The look of absolute awe on your face was all the thanks Wonka ever needed.

Planting new life // 2012!The Onceler x Rose

Summary: The Onceler inspires you to plant some trees in your back garden. It becomes a moment of bonding between the two of you. The Lorax looks on, proud and serene.

Word count: 1, 174.

You had always been a bit green-fingered.

For years, it had been a dream of yours to have your own garden, to be able to grow and eat your own vegetables and nurture your own plants. There was something so therapeutic about getting your hands in the soil and planting seeds; peppers, tomatoes, sunflowers especially were amongst your favourite to plant and observe in their element, and, you hoped and planned for trees. Watching them grow, knowing that you were the one who put them there, and many years later being able to see the sun shining through the pure green leaves as the tree continued to flourish and thrive under the conditions you had created and then maintained for it as best as you could. There was nothing in the world quite like it, and you did your best to grow what you were able to.

There was a great oak in your back garden, close to your neighbour's fence, which needed to be cut down for various reasons. Out with the old, and in with the new. It needed to be cut down, there was no other way, but rather than pay for someone else to do it, you would rather have your Onceler do it. He knew what he was doing, having cut down many a tree in his time, but those trees had still been alive. This wasn't anything more than doing what had to be done so that you could plant new life where the dead had fallen.

You knew that The Onceler had once sworn that he would never, he promised, chop down another tree, but this one had to go. Its roots were compromised, it was actively dying, and cutting it down so that you could then dig it out at the roots before planting a new one in the same place was the best decision out of all of the available options.

And who could you turn to, who else knew how to do this quickly, but your Onceler?

It was a process greatly deliberated between the two of you, with many a bad memory attached to the felling of a tree, and even more bad memories attached to why such an act had become a frenzy for your thneed creator. No one had cared, no one, as the invasive greed of capitalism had taken hold of a once pure intention and twisted it, warped it, beyond recognition, until it was an ugly festering thing which brought devastation and starvation to those left in its wake. No one had cared, The Onceler had taken it too far, his abusive family encouraging him into worse thoughts and worst actions, only using him for his fame and money, with little care for the man himself, and so nothing had changed, even when it was far too late. Caring was the first step to making any change, and you cared enough about the health of your garden that you had to change the tree.

The lessons you had learned from The Onceler, the mistakes you had watched him make and spend much time trying to correct and make right, were cherished within you, and you carried them with you as often as you could in as many places as you could. You understood his journey like no one and nothing else, except perhaps The Lorax, and you helped to humanise him even to himself.

You were, in short, his 'unless'.

Unless you cared, nothing would change. That tree would still be rotting where it stood and your garden's health and the overall view wouldn't change. Unless you took the initiative to go after what you wanted, nothing would improve. Unless you humanised The Onceler, he'd never come to experience genuine unconditional love from anyone; he would only know the manipulative and conditional love from his family.

Unless, unless, unless...

How could one word mean so much?

As soon as the great oak came down, you would empty out the remaining hole and immediately plant a new one.

Your resolve in this decision, the way that you couldn't be swayed from doing what was right because it was right, was a much more positive attitude to have towards the act of cutting down a tree than what The Onceler had ever had, and in less than thirty seconds, with two of his sure swings of the axe which was favoured in this work, the dying oak was on the ground, the stump raw but quickly dug out to expose where the roots had taken hold. He made quick work of clearing the hole, and then looked at you expectantly, almost reverently, as you swiftly and with great care re-potted the chosen baby tree to take the place of the fallen one.

Such was the cycle of life. From death came life, the soil in which new things grow nurtured by the flesh rotting within, the worms working hard to consume all they came into contact with, everything ends as everything begins, and so it goes.

You patted the new tree down into the soil, got it comfortable and fully tucked into its bed of earth, and stepped back so that The Onceler could put a wooden plague down before it, fashioned hastily from the fallen tree. The date was carved into it, as was the species of tree.

Neither of you spoke beyond shared weighted glances, your hands brushing together as you worked to complete the task as quickly as you could without damaging the spirit of the garden. It was your garden and therefore it deserved the utmost care.

The Onceler dropped to his knees beside you, his thighs pressed against yours along the outside, and watered the baby tree, a soft smile on his face. It was tinged with the bittersweet ache of regret, so you leaned over to rest your head against his shoulder.

I'm here with you.

No matter what, you made sure that he never felt alone in what he was going through, even when he committed acts you weren't fully sure you could condone. Even so, you understood, you accepted him without judgement, and your love was quintessential in The Onceler's redemption. Similarly, your love of gardening was essential to your plants flourishing, as was your love for The Onceler being able to grow into a better version of himself after the mishaps of his past, his grievous errors and his lost way, and his love for you was important, too. People were like complicated plants; they needed nutrients, water, a careful hand to guide them to grow, patience, and most importantly of all, love.

It always, always came back to love.

As The Lorax watched the two of you, somewhere close and yet so very far away, his yellow chest filled with oxygen and pride in equal measures. He smiled, and as he exhaled, he thought with all the serenity and goodwill of the world, you done good, beanpoles.

The Lorax spoke for the trees, but the baby you just re-potted was singing.

You can keep the towels // Terry & Rose Benedict (familial) ft. The Boys™️

Summary: You're as strong as your father, and he couldn't be prouder of you.

Word count: 1, 574.

The older you got, the more like your daddy you became.

It was obvious to absolutely everyone that you were, more than anyone else, your own person, and that was definitely something you got from Terry. It had taken a lot to get you to where you were, but you kept pushing and persisting because you knew that there was no other way; no one could save you but you, though he always had a hand on the middle of your back to gently nudge you one way or the other if you happened to look back at him. Lost or unsure, he was there to advise you.

One nod from him was all it ever took for you to find your footing again; if your daddy approved, it was 'safe' or 'right' for you.

You had a quiet confidence about you; you listened to the music you wanted even and especially when Danny and Rusty tried to get you to listen to what they listened to by playfully snatching your earbuds and swapping them for the wires from their phones. You wore the clothes you wanted, ate the food you wanted and gave yourself permission to spend money on what you wanted. Even if it took you months to buy a $200 bag, you still bought it in the end because you knew you wanted it, and that meant that the price tag meant nothing in the face of the joy it would bring for you once it was in your possession. Its usage would pay for itself; the more you used it, the faster you earned back that $200, though you paid it in smiles, rather than in money.

Even if you hadn't bought it yourself, your daddy eventually would have, and left it somewhere for you to find. It would have been placed on your pillow, most likely, or perhaps at the foot of your bed if Tess had been the one to bring it into your home on Terry's behalf. He would have spent the money without hesitation, just held his bank card out with a lazy hand to his most recent assistant without looking at them, and that would have been that.

But not you.

You deliberated, you considered, you planned, you restrained, you waited, you were patient... and when you spent the money, you were so excited that all of the previous worry seemed not to matter, when you were so happy.

You lived your own life on your own terms, and even if it sometimes felt like your screams were nothing more than whimpers, you still made some kind of noise in protest when things weren't working out well for you. Your ability to still speak up in some kind of way was something which Terry had instilled in you from a young age, and he was always so proud of you for having the bravery to be yourself. It wasn't easy, not with the world trying to tell you who you should be, how you should live, but you knew yourself, you knew yourself, and that was what counted when nothing else mattered anymore.

Even when you were working, you were yourself. You handled yourself with such grace and maturity; you answered the phone within three rings every time, your greeting rolling off your tongue as you cradled the phone to your one ear while you typed or scrawled down notes of follow-up questions to ask your daddy or any of his staff members, but your desk was full of things which were yours. Grinch stress balls which Rusty had thrown at your head one time as a joke, but they had actually really helped you, both in the moment and later on. Cat pens of various colours and silly shapes, Van Gogh notebooks which resembled the same paintings on your father's walls, an onyx fox figurine with a blank white calling card slotted underneath it for safekeeping, framed photos of your sister standing beside you... you never lost sight of yourself, even when the world most pushed for you to.

You kept yourself within your line of sight at all times, reminding yourself of who your daddy was, and therefore of who you were. Invariably, it helped you to do what needed to be done. Even and especially at personal cost, though that never included compromising who you were; it referred more to skipping meals or forgetting to look after yourself. All of the bad habits your father had, though he hid them so well even he didn't notice them sometimes. But you did. In reminding Terry to take care of himself (or, at least, to eat the food brought to his desk, rather than pushing it aside in favour of getting some more work done and then forgetting about it all together), you were also reminded to take care of yourself.

He had raised you and continued to raise you with the utmost care, and now that you were an adult, the two of you grew and blossomed together, taking care of one another through impossible to do lists, chores, workloads, meetings, heist plannings you both liked to sit in on without making any concrete plans as to where you would rest your weary head that night, and other challenges that life threw at you. Sometimes you returned home, and sometimes you crashed with Ocean's Eleven; it depended on the situation and how tired you were. With Terry kept in your eyesight just as much as you kept yourself there; home is where the heart is, and you would always follow Terry. You would follow yourself there, too, because you knew the way of your own path better than you thought you did, and in our quietest of moments is this truth revealed.

Terry watched as you stood at the top of the stairs, looking over the lobby of The Bellagio as you did floor staff head counts and other security checks. He watched as you checked the clipboard, which contained a sheet of paper outlining all of the day's tasks; it was a long list, but he knew that you could do it. He never thought otherwise; he had not the time or luxury for self-doubt. Sometimes you got scared to begin with, but you always found your way forward, and Terry's chin dipped forward as he eyed you, making sure that you were doing what he always did when he was taken unawares; closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then faced it. He had always been your guiding light, this he knew, in all things.

He tried to stay as bright as he could, to help you light your way in any varying degrees of darkness. Leading by example was one of the best ways for a parent to pass on wisdom to their children, and Terry Benedict was one of the very best and the very worst, depending on whether he liked you or not. If you were Linus, then he was always the worst - Linus was so easy to wind up and it was too entertaining to ever miss an opportunity to mess with him. On this one thing, Terry and the Oceans' boys were firmly agreed.

Terry turned to his assistant and inclined his head, talking quietly, "make sure she has a fresh pink drink when she gets to her office, please." He knew how much you liked having a drink while you worked; it often lasted for hours, long enough for the ice to melt and the freeze-dried strawberries to stick to the inner lid of the takeaway cup.

Your office was in the same room as his; he had sectioned off the biggest corner for your own workspace some years ago, so that the two of you worked together and your daddy was in easy access for you to have hugs as and when you felt the need for them; truly, you both received comfort from the affection.

You turned and caught sight of Terry as you marked numbers down on the paperwork, your checks finalised. Your smile broke your face in two and Terry couldn't - wouldn't - fight the very small smile which he allowed to show on his face. It wouldn't do to appear to frown at you, just as it wouldn't do to beam. But his daughter would know that he was happy to see her, at the very least. Terry gave his loves everything he had, just as you poured all of your heart into your projects. He was always so very proud of you, but most especially when you were still trying, still fighting, in the moments when you thought that no one was watching.

Because your daddy was. He always was.

He inclined his head - let's go to our office - to tell you that it was time for the next part of your very busy, very chaotic but ultimately manageable day, though you wouldn't know how you would get everything done even after the shift was through, and then he was off at his usual break-neck pace. He followed his schedule almost to the second, and it had always inspired you to try to be a bit more like him in the ways you approached your own work. You followed at a leisurely pace, your steps confident and a content smile on your face as you took in the sights of The Bellagio - she was beautiful, and so were you.

Profundity, simply stated // Abbé de Coulmier x Rose ft. The Marquis

Summary: you admire the Abbé's intelligence, while he's admiring yours.

Word count: 1, 471.

Abbé de Coulmier was one of the most beautiful men you had ever met. He would tell you that you were blasphemous for making such a comparison, but he really was an angel amongst all of humanity. You firmly believed it with everything in you. He inspired you, especially in the ways of the academia, and you took to heart his opinions pertaining to creativity; the flesh could starve as surely as the spirit when asked when he allowed the patients to take art classes, singing lessons and other such 'luxuries' which were seen by external authorities as being a waste of money.

Indeed, most others in the asylum were horrible to the poor souls being housed there; they dehumanised the patients, ridiculed them for their struggles, kept them cold and hungry if they acted in a way which was true to themselves and did little to make an already difficult life easier in any kind of capacity. There was no privacy, no respect, little care and definitely not even a glimpse of hope for future improvement or for a better prognosis. People were dumped in the asylum by tired family members, by doctors who knew not what else could be done for the 'wretched souls', the key and their future was thrown away without a second thought once they were deemed to be criminally insane, and left to rot.

And yet... the Abbé didn't like that, he wasn't like that. He tried to counteract the horrific state-approved treatments as best as he could, to be the one shining beacon in the patients' lives. He was a man of God, and this was the path he had chosen to devote his life to. To guide, to nurture, to protect, to hope, to love.

The Abbé was... he was kind. He was wholly good, though misguided at times, and someone you could converse with for hours on end if he let you. Most of the time, he did. He was just as enthusiastic about conversing with you, someone with whom he was on equal footing despite the fact that you were both stood on unholy ground.

He cared about the patients he was charged with rehabilitating and housing; he engaged with them and encouraged their creative endeavours, be it painting, writing, singing or acting, taught the illiterate how to read and write and continued to educate those who knew the basics. He made sure that the linens were washed well - though he never doubted Maddy's abilities, he saw fit to check everything that went on in the Charenton Asylum to make sure that the patients only received the best of everything he could offer them with the limited funds available. He made sure that the entertainment provided for and by the asylum was tasteful (though he never disciplined those who put on an unscripted show; to quell their creativity would mean willfully harming their spirit, and that was unthinkable), and that the funding was adequate to cover all overheads, meagre wages, expenses, supplies, and charitable donations with any spare money every month to encourage healthy publicity to later bring about potentially increased funding... the Abbé's responsibilities were dizzying.

He couldn't even list them out to you without becoming overwhelmed, and yet he loved his position. He laughed at the patients' jokes, especially when he had heard them before so that each of them felt joy at having shared something they had rehearsed in their own rooms, he cried at their sorrows and spent time with every patient individually, he gave polite ones extra pillows and gave The Marquis all the paper and ink he required, and above all else, he cared he cared he cared.

He was an angel with revolutionary ideas, controversial medicines and methods; unfortunately and fatefully ahead of his time.

The Abbé's relationship with you, such as it was when he was forbidden to devote himself to anyone other than God, was based on a foundation of intellectual conversation and of consistent guidance, for any and all issues you encountered in your life. You spent a great deal of your time in The Marquis' quarters, laughing at his vulgarity, reading his books and asking for recommendations similar to one you had just finished and enjoyed, but most often did the two of you sit side by side, your elbows and shoulders brushing against one another's as you worked on your own tales; you, on your poems and stories, and The Marquis on his soulful depravity.

The scratching of quills on expensive paper, the smell of ink and the flickering of burning candles, deep baritone humming coming from The Marquis and the crisp and sudden turning of pages when inspiration seized him by the heart and sent him into a frenzy... it became your heaven, your solace, the one place that the Abbé knew he could find you when he needed or wanted to. It was where you retreated to at least twice a day, with Maddy having taught you that the trick to getting in to The Marquis' chambers without being caught was to make sure that you pulled the latch up before you ran it across the bolt. It allowed for a quiet entrance, as long as you pulled the door shut behind you. The Marquis would never tell on you; he welcomed your presence. He coveted it. You, who understood his creativity frenzy, for you experienced it too in your own ways.

"All we can do is guard against our own corruption." It was something the Abbé had said to you late one night, when rain had lashed against the windows and the wind had howled, thunder rumbling across the skies and scaring you. He had meant it as comfort, as something for you to think upon, though your interpretation of his wisdom was perhaps not what had been initially intended when you had confided in the Abbé. Still, you had thought on what was said to you and you had reached your own conclusions, which was really all he wanted; to share wisdom, to have conversations which came from the soul, and to share himself with someone else in one of the few ways he could as a priest. He was more than willing to guide you with cryptic statements, but what you chose to do with that was entirely up to you, and he would support it as he supported all individuality.

The Marquis, for his part, had been slowly teaching you the life-saving importance of the art of self-indulgence; to eat what you wanted, to listen, to write and to write and to write, to be innovative and yourself, even when the world was so shocked and horrified by you that it locked you away and threw away the key. Especially then, should one be true to themselves, lest they died inside long before their body had gotten to an age where it could begin to rot; unable to withstand the sands of time. You had to change, to grow and to flourish, but only as yourself; never masquerading as someone else. It would simply be a tragedy, one worthy of the Greats, if you lost who you were in your pursuit of others' approval. The Marquis had yet to teach you that the only person whose approval of your actions mattered, was your own. What good was external validation if you were still, at your very core, unhappy with yourself? You could only be happy - and untouched by corruption - if you remained true to yourself and all that that entailed.

With these two men in your life, with these lessons imparted upon you simply by spending time with them every day, you had come to the conclusion that the only way to guard yourself against corruption, was to protect your inner sense of peace. To treat yourself well, with music and books and creativity, while the world raged on outside these walls. These methods would protect you from the world's teeth, keep you from bleeding out when the world inevitably took too big of a chunk out of your too-small soul (as the world often made you feel; in reality, you were larger than life), and guard you against the evils of the world.

You were precious to the Abbé and the Marquis, too precious, and between the two of them, why, your every need was met and you were well cared for. If one man came from Heaven and the other from Hell, then perhaps you were an altogether celestial being deserving of only the best of the best. For you could unite heaven and hell, and that was sure proof of the miracle of God's love.

Or, if you asked The Marquis, it just meant that there were two sane people in the asylum - him, and you.

And finally, the prose I wrote in September has finally been typed up. I have included the censored version here to protect personal details, but I will DM you the actual version.

And a moodboard! I was gonna put it with your fics but I used GIFs for those and didn't wanna disturb the flow 🥺

I do have another moodboard for you but I've used my 10 images per post so I'll DM it to you once you've read everything so I don't give you spoilers🥺❤️

And there we have it! I hope that you enjoy, honey, and if there's anything you didn't like, then please feel free to let me know! I'm happy to write you something else.🥺💗I love you so so much, and I'm so sorry this is posted a day late - between shifts at work, uni, technical issues with my laptop, it was a challenge to get this posted but I really hope the content makes up for it all.🥺