#all you have to create is something about skinny white men in love and everyone will care about you and them

[fanofcarson]

[submissivegayfrenchboy2]

08 / 12 / 2024

🇺🇲🇬🇧 ENGLISH / ANGLAIS 🇺🇲🇬🇧

Sometimes I'm so tired of being myself. About the life I have, like this impression that if I don't have happiness, it's because I don't deserve it. Yes, I am not short of money (even if I earn little money), I live in a peaceful family (but very divided, with a lot of social, economic, political problems), I have a family and friends, I can go to school. Yes. But it shouldn't be something exceptional, it should be normal. Because, in reality, I have no reason to complain and I should only blame myself if I can't be happy.

The problem is that I do everything for others, everything to make people happy with me, I don't create problems.

And yet, it's never good enough. I can't go into details, and it doesn't matter because the majority of you probably only see me as an author or blogger.

I had more friends and followers on my old blog, but luckily I managed to find most of them again thanks to my new blog.

I think of @tidodore2 @leftprogrammingroadtripdean @awesomecrowdcontrol1 @fartfagoutlet @theleomarspt2 @bdsmaistories @antoniomatosxd2 @houseboi999 many others that I forget and that I beg them to forgive me but of whom I think with all my heart, who helped me to going through difficult times in my recent life. They will recognize each other, and we speak in private.

Tumblr was certainly a refuge for a submissive young gay man like me. I loved writing stories, I had a hard time losing my previous blog and I'm happy to have come back. But Tumblr, despite my porn addiction, is a haven of peace for me who feels so much family pressure, who is constantly told that I'm bad at everything, that I only have faults. I am constantly belittled, criticized for the smallest thing I say or do, or what I don't say or do. For my family, all problems are my fault.

And that's why I want so much to find love, like Snow White, Aurora, Ariel, Belle... To be saved, protected...

Submission is only an element of a relationship, not its basis. I write about submission but not because I am submissive, but because I want to be. But being with someone I love. In my experience, serving someone you don't like or admire makes the situation very uncomfortable, which prevents good service.

I sometimes write about the Black New World Order, sometimes about the MAGA regime. But who can really say which diet I want the most? These are fictions, and although sometimes I wish one or the other would happen, sometimes especially one and sometimes especially the other, my ultimate goal is love, whether it be with a tall White male conservative and muscular or with a sublime virile and dominant Black man.

When I write about the size difference, it is to forget that being a small and skinny man on a daily basis is a real social handicap beyond the physical. When I write about public humiliation, it's because my life is so monotonous that being humiliated by sadistic men or women at work would seem almost entertaining to me, even when the character doesn't like being humiliated.

But when I think that many masters or mistresses write to me in private without even trying to understand me, and ask me directly if I want to be their slave even though they live far away, but what do they hope? What do I say yes? Why do I receive this kind of message and not messages of support or friendship?

I also receive them and I thank everyone who sends them to me, of course 😘

______________________________________

🇨🇵 FRANÇAIS / FRENCH 🇨🇵

Parfois, j'en ai tellement marre d'être moi-même. De la vie que j'ai, comme cette impression que si je n'ai pas de bonheur, c'est que je ne le mérite pas. Oui, je ne suis pas en manque d'argent (même si je gagne peu d'argent), je vis dans un famille en paix (mais très divisée, avec énormément de problèmes sociaux, économiques, politiques), j'ai une famille et des amis, je peux aller à l'école. Oui. Mais ça ne devrait pas constituer quelque chose d'exceptionnel, cela devrait être normal.

Car, en réalité, je n'ai pas de raison de me plaindre et je ne devrais m'en prendre qu'à moi-même si je n'arrive pas à être heureux. Le problème, c'est que je fait tout pour les autres, tout pour qu'on soit content de moi, je ne crée pas de problèmes. Et pourtant, ce n'est jamais assez bon. Je ne peux pas rentrer dans les détails, et cela importe peu car la majorité d'entre vous me voit sûrement uniquement comme un auteur ou un blogueur.

J'avais davantage d'amis et de followers sur mon ancien blog, mais heureusement j'ai réussi à les retrouver pour l'essentiel d'entre eux grâce à mon nouveau bloc.

Je pense à @tidodore2 @leftprogrammingroadtripdean @awesomecrowdcontrol1 @fartfagoutlet @theleomarspt2 @bdsmaistories @antoniomatosxd2 @houseboi999 d'autres que j'oublie et que je les prie de bien vouloir me pardonner mais à qui je pense de tout mon cœur, qui m'ont aidés à traverser des moments difficiles de ma vie récente. Ils se reconnaîtront, et nous parlons en privé. Il est certain que Tumblr a été un refuge pour un jeune gay soumis comme moi. J'ai adoré écrire des histoires, j'ai très mal vécu la perte de mon précédent blog et je suis heureux d'être revenu. Mais Tumblr, malgré mon addiction au porno, est un havre de paix pour moi qui ressent tellement de pression familiale, à qui l'on répète constamment que je suis nul en tout, que je n'ai que des défauts. Je suis rabaissé sans arrêt, critiqué pour la moindre chose que je dis ou fait, ou ce que je ne dis pas ou ne fait pas. Pour ma famille, tous les problèmes sont de ma faute. Et c'est pour ça que j'ai autant envie de trouver l'amour, tel Blanche-Neige, Aurore, Ariel, Belle... Être sauvé, protégé...

La soumission n'est qu'un élément d'une relation, pas sa base. J'écris sur la soumission mais pas parce que je suis soumis, mais parce que j'ai envie de l'être. Mais l'être avec une personne que j'aime. De mon expérience, servir une personne que l'on n'aime pas ou que l'on n'admire pas rend la situation très inconfortable, ce qui empêche un bon service. J'écris parfois sur le Nouvel Ordre Mondial Noir, parfois sur le régime MAGA. Mais qui peut dire vraiment quel régime je souhaite le plus ? Ce sont des fictions, et même si parfois j'aimerais que l'une ou l'autre arrive, parfois surtout l'une et parfois surtout l'autre, mon but ultime est l'amour, que cela soit avec un grand mâle blanc conservateur et musclé ou avec un sublime noir viril et dominant. Quand j'écris sur la différence de taille, c'est pour oublier que être un homme petit et maigre au quotidien est un réel handicap social au-delà du physique. Quand j'écris sur l'humiliation publique, c'est parce que ma vie est tellement monotone que être humilié par des hommes ou des femmes sadiques au travail me paraîtrait presque divertissant, même quand le personnage n'aime pas être humilié. Mais quand je pense que beaucoup de maîtres ou de maîtresses m'écrivent en privé sans même chercher à me comprendre, et me demande directement si je veux être leur esclave alors qu'ils habitent loin, mais qu'espèrent-ils ? Que je dise oui ? Pourquoi est-ce que je reçois ce genre de message et pas des messages de soutiens ou d'amitié ? (j'en reçois aussi et je remercie tout ceux qui me les envoient, bien évidemment 😘)

[yapsession]

okay something funny !

so yeah imm actually so cooked its not funny

so i cant do this anymore, i snooped around because what else is a girl going to do! i like a man and i wanted to check out the other people he follows.

and gosh, even if they're friends I feel so sos sosoooo soso jealous

like why does he have so many female friends, like fuck man; i'm gonna be single forever because I can't even handle this man having female friends so how am I going to put up with this generation of men who can't stick to one girl.

like i can't be his girlfriend nor do i have a chance with him ! his female friends are this attractive and im just so boring and average. I have no chnace and that kills me, it kills me that no one could love me for who i am now. This shit gonna be my pre-workout, its killing me. i wish i was white, i wish i was lighter and i wish i wasn't asian. I hate my ethnic features and wish i was a skinny white girl. I hate how everyone around me frames being my size is good because im "thick", i don't want to be thick or ANYTHING i wish i just wasn't fat at all. I envy these skinny white women, i wish i was attractive. i wish i was his type, i don't want to be just his close friend.

I've lied to myself, creating this narrative in my head that I'd be content with just being his friend as long as he was happy which is a lie. We'll, not completely I obviously would want him to be happy but I myself wouldn't be happy if he was with a different girl. the audacity he has to say oh i dont get any bitches, boy all of your friends ARE bitches what are you talking about.

i want to smashmyhead into a wall,

[nightswithkookmin]

BLOCK AND REPORT THIS PERSON (s)

@irenysaridirae

@chimchim something something and

@everyone you come across who is guilty of the following.

For the following reasons.

1. Allowing BTS room to express their frustrations and resentments towards things and people they feel strongly about but silencing everyone else who dares to have values, boundaries and feelings.

On more than one occasion, we've seen BTS go off and cuss at and even threaten to stab people with poison needles.

And yet God forbid if we as fans have an opinion, voice it out and share our frustrations openly. Please stop oppressing anyone who isn't rich, famous, Asian and Male. BTS fans deserve to be loved too🤧

2. Dehumanizing anyone who isn't BTS and only creating space and room for BTS to be human.

They tolerate the humanness of BTS, allow for them to make mistakes, grow and show empathy and consideration towards them but leave no space for fans of BTS to do same.

Their kindness and love and empathy is performative. They preach it but they do not in any way practice it.

They terrorize, bully, oppress and take away others right to be human simply because they have differences of opinion.

3. They are fake fans of BTS

Anti bullying is one of the core values of BTS. They promote love, empathy, kindness and are against Racism and bullying of all forms.

They give BTS a bad rep and are the reason people call BTS fans TOXIC.

BTS is against Bigotry and the intolerance of others thoughts and opinions.

They disguise their bullying and harassment and abuse and bigotry and homophobia under the pretense of standing up for their faves when in reality there is no real value they are fighting for.

When i disagree with BTS or people, it's usually because our values don't align and one value oppresses the other.

BTS hate racism but when we the fans call out racism against us a fraction of the fandom go wild. Please Asian is not the only race in the fandom.

Men are not the only ones whose rights deserve to be recognized and uplifted in the fandom. Women exist in the fandom too and when they make certain remarks about us it makes us uncomfortable. Women's rights matter too.

Skinny people aren't the only ones worth celebrating in the fandom just because BTS are skinny. Fat non skinny non white people exist too and sometimes the language and behaviors they promote oppress us���

Please let's develop sensitivity and consciousness with regards to the 'others' within the fandom. We are humans in here too.

4. Performative Wokeness

BTS are the goofiest group of men on the internet. From Jin, Jungkook to Hobi, they've all called themselves Vampires and even engage with fans on the internet over this joke and yet these people out of bigotry bully people on the internet for making similar Jokes.

They carry themselves around as if they are gatekeepers of speech but really aren't promoting any value at all other than that they hate what others say.

Shippers did not invent the term Alpha male and yet they go on blogs trying to censor people regardless of your background for so much as usuing this word.

Please expand your vocabulary beyond shipping and ABO fanfiction thank you.

6. These people have no respect for human rights and feel no type of way about violating others human rights and abusing them.

Information:

Every human has the right to information. Blocking and deplatforming people simply because you disagree with them or do not share their values prevents them from accessing whatever information might have been available to them otherwise and that is a human right violation.

Education:

Everyone has the right to be educated. Blocking someone out of hate does not in anyway educate them on whatever they might be doing wrong.

You're instinct as a decent human being is to teach and help others if you can or leave them to access whatever information might be available to them that might help them learn.

But they can't do that because guess what? Everyone blocked them😊

4. Right to Religion, Assembly and Association:

If you can't tell any religious body that they are worshipping right or wrong, YOU CERTAINLY CANNOT TELL ANY SHIPPER THEY ARE SHIPPING RIGHT OR WRONG. THAT THEY ARE SHIPPING UNETHICALLY OR ETHICALLY.

Fanfic writers write the most heinous of things and you consume them for whatever reason- I'm not judging. You have no business reading about how fast or slow your idol thrusts into his bandmate. And yet here we are.

If it offends you the type of shipping I do out here, think of it as FICTION. I have no qualms with that. It's ridiculous to me when people find my blogs as - what did she say? Hold pls

Discussing the intimate life of idols but if these same blog posts are slapped with the label FANFICTION then suddenly it's OK.

I think she confused as a person.

You saw the SHIPPING SIGN POST ON THE DOOR DIDN'T YOU? That is a valid label as Fanfiction and I don't know what you think you were gonna find on a SHIPPING POST.

It's like going to the slaughterhouse and yelling murderer.

PLS THIS IS SHIPPING. THIS IS ALT SHIPPING. FUCK OFF if you are not a shipper and don't like shipping.

5. FREE THOUGHT FREE SPEECH

This little license allows me to say Jikook gay. It allows me to say Jikook fucked. It allows me to say Jikook Fucking. It allows me to say Jungkook is in love with Jimin, Jimin is in love with Jungkook, Jimin suck- dick. Jungkook suck- ass. IT ALLOWS ME TO SAY WHATEVER THE FUCK I WANT HOWEVER I WANT IT.

So if BTS are promoting a lifestyle that is inconsistent with my Values I WILL SAY FUCKING SO.

I'm "tarnishing Jimin's reputation by discussing his intimate life."

GIRL BYE.

TELL THAT TO JIMIN AND JUNGKOOK DISCUSSING THEIR HICKEYS ON LIVE TELEVISION.

TELL THAT TO JUNGKOOK ASKING JIMIN TO EAT HIS ASS- was it ramen🤔

They are the same thing to me.

TELL THAT TO JIMIN PLAYING WITH JUNGKOOKS DICK ON TV.

I did not ask them to the gay. If they do it and i spot it bet your sweet behind I WILL TALK ABOUT IT.

BECAUSE I HAVE THE RIGHT TO FREE SPEECH FREE BELIEF FREE THOUGHT AND FREE RELIGION.

JIKOOK IS MY RELIGION. THERE.

Let me worship in peace.

We will have 10 virgins at the alter and watch Jikook senpai at vesper service next Friday.

I'M SHOWING RESENTMENT WHEN JIMIN IS CHOOSING TO CHANNEL HIS MASCULINE SIDE.

Fuck you for thinking building muscles is only a Man's thing. Fuck you for the sexism and misogyny.

You dont think there are Fems and nonbinaries who build up too?

What is she channeling?? Some man's dick?

Lemme guess, you are one of those who think he looks 'like a submissive girl/gay" without the hulk muscles???

BA HAHAHAHAHA

I spent that entire post yelling about my values and how i felt it didn't align with Jimin"s anymore and you are gonna reduce that to him channeling his masculinity??

If muscles is what makes a male a man then I'm sorry there are women that are better men than men and I couldn't be more grateful I'm gay.

You think I'm worried he is building muscles??? Are you dumb?? I thought you said you was a lecturer. You've failed your students Professor and lost my respect 😥

Here, lemme spell it out for you- I'm worried he is sending a message to others that being muscly is the only valid and nice body to have because I noticed he'd been making self deprecating remarks about himself for sometime leading up to all that exercise talk.

It's just like Hobi saying today that he wouldn't eat a midnight snack because it would make him ugly(fat) and he won't look nice in photos and fans are not gonna like him and that when he thinks like that that's how he stops himself from over eating.

If you don't see how both scenarios are problematic that's on you. We all have different values and different perspectives.

Thankfully I have disillusioned myself but I think I would have descended into a very low and dark place over Hobi's remarks if I hadn't had a brush with JM's situation first.

As for how I deal with pain and trauma, pls have mercy on me like you do BTS😥 I'm human too😥 I deal with mental health issues too😥 BTS are not the only ones who deserve sympathy and empathy 😔

There are billions of us in this giant blue bulb🤥 how can you only care about the welbeing of 7 members😥

Be a good human being just like Jimin preaches on his shirt😔

ZOOOOOMMMM🤡

GOLDY

[sarahjkl82-blog]

Artistic Instinct Chapter Eight

Header thanks to the lovely @yespolkadotkitty

Summary: Marcus Pike and OC Anushka Pierce have been selected to work on a 5 eyes (Australia, Canada, NZ, the UK and US) intelligence team to track down art forgeries as a part of taking down an international white terrorism cell. Marcus is trying to escape his broken heart, Anushka is just trying to escape what the world expects of her.

Word count: 5,600

Warnings: Language as always, mentions of drinking, alcohol and drunkenness, mentions of sex OH AND HEARTBREAK

Pairing: Marcus Pike x reader (OC)

This comes with a MASSIVE THANK YOU to the lovely @yespolkadotkitty , who read, re-read, pointed out the constant flipping between tenses and gave me the confidence to try to write something. This is the first thing I have written since angsty poetry as a teenager. Apologies if it is shit!

The right person, the wrong time.

The right script, the wrong line.

The right poem, the wrong rhyme.

And a piece of you

That was never mine

K Towne Jr.

Chapter 8

The black topped streets of Lewisham radiate the day’s spring sunshine as if intent upon sending the heaven sent warmth back up through Marcus’ soles. The evening’s golden light creates a love song in his heart - one that morphs from the irritation and melancholy of the morning to a happier more uplifting tune.

When did that mood change? Oh yes, that embrace.

Nush.

Marcus hadn’t realised just how low his battery was for touch until you threw your arms around him. How much much he’d needed your body close to his again. Feeling your softness against him, inhaling your intoxicating scent. How he’d longed to kiss your forehead and stroke your hair in that cuddle. Remembering the pain of breaking that contact, plastering on a smile and kicking himself for it.

Constantly having to watch his need for your touch and tempering it within the normal parameters for a working relationship, Marcus has found himself reaching out for you- making excuses to touch you as you passed him, finding imaginary eyelashes on your face. Being around you felt like a breath that he was unable to release, continuously having to dampen down his natural instincts to hold and stroke you.

Kiss you.

Taste you.

Had he been back in the States, he would have said fuck it and asked you out, but that didn’t exactly go well last time. The pain of knowing exactly what he wants and it just being beyond the reach of his fingertips plagues Marcus daily with the dream of coming home to be loved, nurtured and protected and offer it in return. How do you ever allow yourself to become vulnerable to that risk of failure again? One thing he is certain of, is your current ignorance of the true level of his feelings. The kindness you show others - so much care for everyone around you, albeit through a thinly veiled layer of sarcasm and swearing- and the love your friends show for you, demonstrate that you would be nothing but clear if he was to reveal his true feelings.

Squeezing politely through the crowds, between the narrow shack-like stalls of the fairy-light illuminated market, Marcus heads towards the Highline where Andy had told each of you to meet him. Before he could start climbing the staircase up, a large hand grasps his upper arm, another patting the space between his shoulder blades. Marcus spins, slightly surprised by the touch, to be greeted by Andy’s grinning face.

“Looking good, Sir. Bit sharper than at lunch today,” Andy observes, giving Marcus’ leather jacket, Henley and indigo jeans a once over, “and before you complain, I am going to get you a beer because of the day you’ve had. You can do your management thing of buying the first round in a bit, and I won’t take no for an answer.”

With Andy’s face explicitly telling Marcus not to disagree with him, he nods, definitely needing that drink. As they head together towards the bar, they are both absorbed into the throng of a hundred voices holding loud conversations as they compete with the soundtrack from the decks. The crowd is a mixed bag of teenagers, students and families - the children chasing or trying to catch the sparkling spotlights as their parents reminisce over large gin and tonics about lie-ins and late nights not hunched over a crib.

Winding their way through the laughing and dancing bodies, they head in the direction of the alcohol to order some locally brewed ales, bumping into an already buzzing Kiritopa at almost the front of the queue. After a round of handshakes, back slaps and hearty laughs, they edge ever closer to their goal of amber nectar. Before their drinks are poured, Marcus’ eyes scan the market for the rest of the team when they are caught by a flash of colour. Bright turquoise stockings, a mustard corduroy pinafore, red and white striped T-shirt - oh, it isn’t you. Your wildly coloured legs bring so much colour to his day and they are the first thing he checks as he enters the office. Elbow nudges and a pint glass from Andy brings his attention back to the men in front of him for a quick cheers-ing of glasses before heading out of the melée.

The table on the Highline that Andy had reserved was utterly perfect. It afforded a bird’s eye view of the market - a true dream come true for any avid people watchers, whilst also allowing everyone to talk and be heard by each other with its one storey elevation from the thronging crowds. Andy and Kiritopa are animatedly talking with each other lounging amongst the piles of cushions and blankets on the pallet seating, while Marcus leans against the walkway, clutching his beer, staring off into the urban sprawl of concrete car parks and fried chicken restaurants but only looking for one face.

“Hey, what time do you call this...Whoa - Nush, is that makeup? On your face?” Andy’s eyes are utterly saucer-like in this discovery.

“Hush your mouth - she did it to me,” you jab your finger in Dian’s direction, pouting your lips at the indignation and as Andy goes to make another quip, you add- shoving some chips in his mouth, “Dirty masala fries- thought we’d need something to line our tummies this evening. Although equally, they’ll do a wonderful job of keeping some people’s mouths shut!”

“I think I did a great job- she looks stunning!” having put three portions on the table, Dian steps back to admire her handiwork as you pull a duck face pout at her.

She always looks beautiful.

“So, what’s on these fries?” Marcus asks as he desperately tries to avoid the other thoughts running through his head of how that pencil skirt runs along the curve that falls and rises from your waist to your hips beautifully or the horizontal stripes of your t-shirt - an outfit winning in its quest to distract.

As for that goddamn red lipstick…

It would leave a mark all around my-

“Ok, so they’re skinny French fries with spices shaken over them and a dollop of channa masala on top. Oh and that white shit is garlic mayo to dip them in,” you grin broadly as you pass him a portion - the picant vibrancy of the food telling stories of the fresh, bold flavours to come. Always being a believer in food being one of the ways that you can love a person, the mouthful of potatoes, spices and chickpeas envelops Marcus in an all encompassing hug. His belly sings with happiness with each mouthful he consumes, his tongue delightfully tingling from the chilli powder.

“Y’know Nush. Not had one of your curries for a while,” Andy not-so gently hints.

Marcus can’t help but raise his eyebrows, “Nush, you make curries? How many other hidden talents?”

“She also plays the piano and did ballet until she was fifteen,” Andy adds, ducking as you lob a cushion at him - your face reddened with a mixture of embarrassment and rage.

“Badly according to my mother,” you say, rolling your eyes as you shove another mouthful in, “Mine aren’t particularly elegant but they are edible. Well they are now anyway - there was one, a keema matar, that I made as a kid where I didn’t realise that chili develops over time. Put in roughly five tablespoons by the end. Could have been used for chemical warfare. Never lived it down but it got me out of cooking for a while.”

The table explodes in uproarious laughter, earning several odd looks from the patrons nearby.

“Well, I’m considering this an invitation to try one of your edible curries as you so eloquently call them,” Kiritopa rubs his belly in anticipation, chuckling at your modesty, “When can we get a date in the book?”

“I love a good curry, so count me in,” Dian chimes in as she pops the chickpeas like sweets into her mouth.

Marcus watches you shift uncomfortably in the spotlight of demands from your co-workers, “If I do this, I need a bigger space to work in as I can’t fit you all in my flat. I’ll need to borrow somewhere that can fit more bums.”

“Could use my apartment to cook and host, if you like?” Marcus proffers, secretly hopeful at trying some of your dishes and perhaps more than a little excited at the thought of spending some one on one time with you.

“Shall we do Sunday evening, if nothing turns up from work?” Kiritopa asks hopefully.

Marcus shrugs by way of confirmation, catching your gaze, drinking in the swirl of colours in your iris, to give you a nod.

With a sigh and a roll of the eyes, you exclaim, “Andy- what the fuck have you started? You’ve all grossly overestimated my skills, and now I am going in search of alcohol to dull my senses and make poor decisions,” you dramatically announce with a theatrical bow, “What can I get everyone?”

Seeing an opportunity open up, Marcus touches your arm as you go to leave, “It’s my round. Help me carry them?”

“Deal,” Marcus feels his heart grow as he sees your smile reach every corner of your face.

Before reaching the top of the stairs, Marcus moves himself around to walk in front of you. His body on an autopilot of manners. On reaching the bottom step, he reaches back - unthinkingly - to grab your hand so as not to lose you amongst the multitude drinking, eating and dancing the night away. The momentary panic that spread at the thought of you rejecting him recedes as your fingers thread between his.

Sending a warm smile at you over his shoulder, you follow in the wake of him quietly.

The people near the bar are flowing like rivers, never stopping for obstacles but twirling, swirling around them nevertheless Marcus guides you through, never letting go. The noise of the chatter and throb of the music surrounds you, not allowing for much verbal communication so he settles for small movements and gestures with the hand that is holding yours. When you finally arrive at the queue by the bar, that is when you can speak a bit more freely albeit in theatrical whispers in each other’s ears.

Marcus watches how the evening breeze kisses you, blowing the strands of your growing-out fringe into your face. How you gaze around and observe people whilst also managing to make him feel like he’s the only person there. The way your eyes crease into crescents when you laugh or smile and how much he wishes he could thank all those people jostling you into him. But like all moments with you, it ends too quickly as soon you’re both heading upriver against the current with your trays of drinks.

“Nush, I’ve always thought it was some kind of miracle that you never spill alcohol,” Andy teases you as you bring the drinks to their owners.

“Hah! I don’t waste the good stuff,” you mutter indignantly, “Although perhaps if we want to protect the office carpets, I should…”

“No,” Marcus mock-sternly interjects at the thought of you being drunk and the chaos that would bring, “No day drinking at work, Nush. I’d prefer the coffee stains.”

Your pout and subsequent upward glance through your eyelashes, makes Marcus turn towards the railings, hiding his thoughts in his beer.

Fuck, Nush.

If you only knew what you do to me.

“Hey Kiri, isn’t it? You playing in the tourney tomorrow?” a deep, cut glass accent calls out, cutting through the crowds surrounding them. Marcus turns towards where the sound is coming from and as he does, he catches a strange look cross your face.

“What the fuck are you doing here and how the fuck do you know Kiritopa?” The tone of your voice, narrowed eyes and furrowed brow makes Marcus turn back towards the group inquisitively.

“Nush! Haven’t seen you in a long time but you are looking amazing,” the voice is attached to a face, the kind that would stop anyone in their tracks, “can barely recognise you with makeup on- you should wear it more often.”

You breathlessly mutter, “Fuck off, that’s never going to happen.”

Good girl. Don’t put up with that BS. You’re better than that.

“I know Seb through rugby training,” then tilting his head quizzically, Kiritopa asks, “How do you know him?”

“Since school isn’t it, so what? Roughly twenty years? Through her brother, Adam as we played rugger together. Although, despite such a long time friendship, you wouldn’t let me in your knickers until more recently,” Seb shoots you a wink from over his beer.

The words burn through Marcus as he considers your connection with this man - his eyes narrowing, lips thinning. Loneliness echoing through his racing heart. He hadn’t considered you seeing anyone else- even for the briefest of dalliances but then not everyone is a serial long term monogamist.

Of course you’d have needs, you are an adult woman.

I just wish you’d explore them with me.

“Every now and then it’s nice to have an orgasm attached to a pulse that isn’t delivered by a battery,” you deliver, utterly deadpan.

Seb pretends to be mortally wounded by your words, playing dead into the chair next to yours, languidly flopping his limbs around. Oh, how Marcus would like to wipe that stupid smug smirk off his face!

For fuck’s sake, Pike. Why didn’t you sit next to her when you had the chance?

White knuckles wrapped around his nearly empty pint glass, Marcus silently watches as Seb desperately works to get your attention whilst you chat animatedly with Dian and Andy while Kiri downs the rest of his beer. He hasn’t noticed the pretty young woman with bouncing corkscrew curls observing him from amongst her friends on the next table along.

“Hey. You look like you could do with a drink, can I get you one?”

Abruptly removed from his poorly concealed glowering, Marcus raises his eyebrows in surprise at this question, pausing for some time before realising that it was aimed at him.

“Oh, look don’t worry. It was just a silly thought...” the beautifully tight curls go to withdraw from view and return to their friends.

“No, I’m sorry. I was lost in thought,” Marcus offers apologetically, “It’s been a day from hell. Let me get you a drink.”

“Wanted to talk to you as I was a bit concerned that you were about to break that glass with how tightly you were gripping it. Glass is an arse to get out of wounds so thought it better to save your hands before you come visit me in A&E,” she gently proposes, “There are better places to spend Friday nights!”

Welcoming the pretty distraction from his destructive thoughts, Marcus’ cheeks dimple as he nods, “I can imagine. Are you a doctor?”

“Yeah, for my sins,” she amusedly huffs, “And on a rare night out, so shall we go get that drink? I’m Kemi, by the way.”

✪✪✪✪✪

Oh, how you long to rip the makeup from your face! As a child, it had been a form of let’s pretend that turned into a mask to hide behind as a young adult as you experimented with finding your true self. Now, that you are established in your womanhood, you feel no need to add layers to your face other than when you are convinced it would be fun by a fast-becoming firm friend.

When Sebastian made a remark about how pretty you looked with the makeup, it made you want to run to the loo right then and there to claw it from your skin.

And what the ever loving fuck is he doing here? Fucking Sebastian of all fucking people, who you accidentally keep finding yourself fucking. You’d just come around to the idea that it might be ok to occasionally go out with people from work but when they meet people from your everyday life - your home life - that isn’t ok. Especially when that person is just a hate fuck. Great in bed but an odious human being as you can’t be that handsome and a decent person, it seems.

Unless you’re Marcus Fucking Pike.

Who is now grabbing a drink with an absolute goddess of a woman.

You couldn’t quite pinpoint why it had hurt so much when he’d walked off with her but there was such an ache deep in your tummy that could not be ignored. Between that and the appearance of fucking Sebastian, you just want to jump on the 178 home and throw on your jammies, curling up under the shit crocheted throw that you’d made during your leave - more holes than stitches. If it wasn’t for Dian, you would already be on your way there, demolishing something unhealthy from UberEats, glugging a wine or two.

Dian seems to pick up on your drop in mood and decides that it’s time for a trip to the tequila bar. With Andy’s husband now joining your rag-tag gang, you agree to chase some bitter hits of alcohol. As you wind your way among the dancers and drinkers, you see him standing by one of the upturned kegs, laughing at something she has said. You catch his eye, plaster on a smile and send him a wink in the hope that your wish for him to have fun seems genuine.

You sign to him whether he wants a drink but a small shake of his head tells you all you need to know before Dian tugs your hand back in the direction of the bar. Standing in front of the bartender, a moment of sadness washes over you until Kiri passes the salt, Seb licks your hand and the rest of the evening finally takes a softer tone after one, two, three.

The tequila in your tummy makes it hard to concentrate on what Dian and Kiri are chatting about while the three of you curl tipsily upon the comfy cushions as a large fluorescent pink, plastic sign declaring TREAT YO’SELF looms large over your heads. Excusing yourself to the loo, you walk past Marcus - steadfastly refusing any eye contact but ensuring he sees you. As you go to repeat the action on the return journey - not entirely sure as to why you feel the need to seek your boss’s attention - a hand goes to balance you as you walk down the final step.

“Whoa - steady, Nush,” you look up to see Marcus’ concerned face looking down at you.

“Hah! I’m ok. You having a good night?” You ask, your eyes searching his, “She’s truly stunning.”

“Yeah, um, were you guys doing shots?” he enquires, brow still furrowed.

“Yup. It's a really good tequila bar upstairs - should have joined us,” you jab him in the chest with an index finger, “So good that the world just looks like an impressionist painting. All swooshy and a little bit blurry.”

You watch Marcus scratching his neck, “Anyway, what on Earth are you doing here with me? Go get her, idiot.”

“Ah, here you are Bad Idea Puppy- thought you’d fallen asleep on the loo. Although that wouldn’t be the first time would it?” Sebastian brays, stepping between you and Marcus as he grabs your hand to lead you onto the dancefloor. Allowing yourself to be led away, you look back over your shoulder at him, mouthing go get her with a wink as if that would soften the pain that had appeared with her.

The music flows through you - the clearest way to communicate you have ever known- your body rolling and swaying with the sensuality of the music. Sebastian moves effortlessly around you thanks to his mother, who having had only sons, deciding that her youngest would get the dance lessons that she’d hoped the daughter she never had, would take. The two of you vent in movements all of what you could never be said between you or to anyone else aloud. As you twist together under the orange stained hazy night sky, you notice the goddess’ hand on Marcus’ face, stroking his cheek. The poisonous ache returns to your tummy and however your face contorts, causes Seb to pull you closer, cradling your head into his neck. You know how the night will end and the loneliness stings.

✪✪✪✪✪

His mouth bone dry, Marcus awakes fully dressed, on top of the comforter, with a cool bed surrounding him. Reaching for his phone, pulling the charging cable from it, he flicks through messages and emails trying to work out what had happened from when Kemi had left him in the bar to rejoin her friends. Her words still ring in his ears - you didn’t come alone tonight - when she had watched his eyes trace your path out of the market. How he’d initially thought about taking her up on her offer to help him forget, wanting to obliterate last night from his memory and lose himself in her eyes and lips. Her final words to him, cutting him to the core- she must be really special and if she is as special as you think she is, you fight for her.

Bloodshot eyes and deep creases stare back at him from the mirror. More grey. They say that age exchanges beauty for wisdom but they are the same mistakes he keeps repeating. A strangled gasp escapes him as he tries to regulate his breathing, lifting his chin trying to fill his lungs with more oxygen. His shoulders are racked by gut-wrenching sobs and like an overwhelmed dam, the tears spill in hot torrents down his cheeks. Marcus slides onto the floor, allowing the grief to pour forth.

His first marriage was too much, too soon, too young. An art historian and an artist in love with creating and observing beauty until the former decided to change tack after being recruited by the FBI. The long hours of training at Quantico, the subsequent hard days and irregular nights as he worked his way through the ranks of the Art Crime department, wrung the patience from his wife. Gradually growing further and further apart until all that was left were two strangers constantly at odds, her cutting comment about how she felt that he gave her only apathy - never coming to her when she needed help or affection. She hated him for the choices he made - feeling that his work was merely interacting with the meaningless. The law enforcer spent more time at work to hide from the inevitable ending until the artist found someone who appreciated her and the beauty she created.

As for Lisbon. Was she really ever his? Wasn’t he really just a footnote in the Patrick Jane story? The whirlwind romance that progressed and extinguished again at such a heart attack inducing pace, emphasised by that stupid-ass move to DC. Although, if it wasn’t for that move, he wouldn’t be here in London now. Oh yeah. That was out of the skillet and into the fire, Pike. Another excellent career move.

So much love to give and nowhere, no one to give it to. The lessons he has learnt and is still learning but oh, just to find that person with whom you can drop that mask and enjoy togetherness, warmth and serenity.

The side of the bath offers a solid cool support to Marcus as he sits there on the herringbone tiled floor, sobbing into his arms. There is only one voice he needs to hear right now. Grabbing a tissue from the side to noisily blow his nose into, he rubs the heels of his palms into his eyes before putting his glasses on. Phone in hand, he dials the number he knows better than his own name.

The familiar dial tone is like a lullaby in his ear, “Mamá?... Hey! How are you doing?... I’m sorry Mamá - I forgot about the time zone difference... I’m ok, just missing you… It’s just been a long week and... Yeah, London is awesome and I managed a trip to France this week which was incredible to be back there. So weird having so many different countries within such easy reach…Come visit me soon?... Thank you... I miss you… Te quiero mucho Mamá… I’ll ring you in a couple of days. Hasta luego.”

Hanging up, everything feels a bit more manageable and less painful- I wish I could bottle my Mamá’s voice. Hauling himself off the bathroom floor, he turns on the faucet to splash icy water on his face. Sniffing his t-shirt, realising the shower could wait - perhaps a good run to get the endorphins pumping would be his best move. Or perhaps a text to Nush to check what ingredients he’d need to have in for the curry tomorrow?

Stop it, Pike. You’re just fucking torturing yourself.

Opening a drawer, he pulls out basketball shorts, a clean t-shirt and a pair of sneaker socks to throw on, discarding last night’s clothes in a heap by the washing machine.

AirPods in and classic nineties dance anthems to pace himself to, he gives his quads and hamstrings a quick warm up by the front door before it is time to convert the emotional pain into miles.

One of the many things that Marcus loves about London is the constant greenery with every second corner a park or stretching heathland. Texas is so proud of its big sky country status and yet, there are parts of central London where you could lie down and not see anything but skies around you. It is truly hard not to fall in love with such a beautiful, historical and spacious city.

Pounding the pavements towards the park, his feet hit the concrete slabs softly, sending small shockwaves to his brain. Whilst Marcus knows that the power in his thighs could have him across the park in seconds, he savours each step. The precision in his movements is perfect as he takes lungful after lungful of the sunshine filled air. It feels like part of a meditation - a mindful prayer. Dodging around errant dogs and small, clumsy yet terrifyingly aggressive children on scooters, he winds his way through the avenues of trees until he comes across a small lake.

He pauses the thrumming music in his ears to just soak up the tranquility of the moment as he stretches out his limbs. The lake is the kindest of nature’s mirrors, never truly showing exactly what is above, but converting it to an image so beautifully smudgy. The weeping willow stroking its branches elegantly across the skin of the water, the clouds gliding silently above as a host of waterfowl paddle effortlessly through the cool, clear pool, all become a priceless Monet hanging in The National Gallery – all free for the looking. Sure, it is transient, changing by the day - unlike the fixed in a moment of time pieces by the grumpy old Frenchman - but that's what makes it all the more precious.

There’s a family by the water’s edge. Marcus can’t help but be amused by the toddler’s antics as they threaten to jump in and become irritated that they can’t, especially when they have their wellies on. Can’t fault that logic! The older child is gathering sticks to make a “campfire” with their dad - discarding most of their parent’s choices with withering looks and expressive rolls of the eyes. The dark-haired mom, whilst trying to reason with the toddler, is swaying with some sort of baby carrier tied around her - a tiny one clutched tightly to her chest. The infant is virtually invisible from the passes of material, only two tiny socks and its little woolly hat peeking free. A collie is also darting between and around them, rounding up his flock of sheep, taking his role as protector very seriously.

The scene makes Marcus smile as he stretches out his muscles. Whilst he can’t help but watch and yearn for something similar in his life, the mom looks up and over in his direction,

“Are you going to come over and say hi or just be a park weirdo that lurks in bushes pretending to stretch?” a familiar voice curtly teases.

Nush - what the fuck?

“Your face is a fucking picture! Take a breath - these are three of my five niblings - big one is Sophia, middle one that keeps threatening to swim in the pond is Alexa and this little dot is Oscar. As for that blundering idiot, this is Adam, my oldest brother- their dad,” gesturing towards your brother you giggle, creasing up in laughter at the sheer shock then relief on Marcus’ face, “Ads, this is Marcus, my new boss that I told you about.”

The male version of Nush outstretched his palm, offering a sympathetic look, “Hi Marcus, pleasure to put a face to a name. I’m so sorry that you have to put up with my cowbag-of-a-sister at work.”

Marcus can’t help but laugh at the friendly sniping between brother and sister, reminding him of his own teasing relationship with his sisters back home, “Hey! Your kids are beautiful. Oh, you must be Sebastian’s friend - who we saw at Model Market in Lewisham yesterday, Nush?” he questions.

“As much as Sebastian can have friends… Oh Nush, you didn’t, did you?” Adam’s face scrunches in disgust and judging in the way that only a sibling can do.

“No! Not this time,” Marcus loves the speed and vehemence to which you respond to your brother- and enjoys the sheer relief that is now guiltily coursing through his veins, “To give the man his dues, he won’t ever sleep with me when I’ve had too much to drink. Not that I was going to and not that it is any of your fucking business in the first place.” You add jabbing your brother in the softness of his tummy with every word you say.

“Nush, I was gonna text you this morning about tomorrow, if you’re still on to make the curries?” Marcus gently questions, willing you to agree.

“Hah! You’re trusting her to cook?” Adam laughs heartily at the suggestion, “I’m not sure that’s the best idea. Our mum still won’t let her near the chilli powder now.”

You growl at your brother, “I was a fucking kid at the time! And yes, I am more than happy to come and cook curries- what time suits you for me to come over? They do take a bit of time to make.”

Marcus struggles to hold back a snort of laughter, “Any time is good - and perhaps while they’re simmering, we can have some classic films on in the background?”

“Ah that sounds perfect,” your smile warming every inch of his skin.

“You sound perfect for her,” Marcus catches Adam muttering under his breath, his eyes widening at your brother’s comment.

“Shut your damn cakehole, twatface,” you slap your brother’s arm hard as you grind the words between your teeth, the two of you glaring with a mirror image of your eyebrows raised at each other.

“Um, I’d better continue my run before I cool down too much,” Marcus manages to spit out between the flushes of heat through his skin, “Great to meet you and your family, Adam. Nush, it’s lovely to see you and I’ll catch you tomorrow?”

“See you tomorrow, Marcus,” you smile at him before turning back towards your niblings, who are working together to create a den using an old fallen branch.

“I saw you running earlier,” Adam adds, “You’ve got a really good gait - as a physio, it’s great to see someone not destroying their joints. Do you do anything to support your running through cross training?”

“Uh no, but that’s a good idea as I don’t want any injuries. What would you recommend?” Marcus asks, genuinely intrigued and flattered by your brother’s compliment of his running style.

“Speak to Nush - yoga is perfect for stretching your IT bands, which as a man they’re generally always tight and only get tighter with repetitive movements like running or cycling. She’s the yoga queen and will know of a local teacher who can help you,” Adam grins, nodding towards his sister.

“There’s so much I have yet to learn about her,” Marcus shakes his head as he sorts out his headphones.

“Yeah, good luck with that!” Adam laughs as he pats Marcus on the back, “Anyway, enjoy the rest of your run and hopefully see you again soon.”

As Marcus gradually picks up his pace away from you and your family, his heart that had felt so dark and lonely, now feels light and airy. The release valve in his chest is finally loosened and there is a little bubble of excitement in his belly that he allows to build at the thought of tomorrow. The thought of your presence in his apartment, doing something as domestic as cooking, is truly a salve for his soul.

Perhaps he can just make believe until it becomes a reality.

Tag list of glory: @astroboots @silverwolf319@sirowsky @leonieb @disgruntledspacedad @bison-writes @the-ginger-hedge-witch @danniburgh @sugarontherims @green-socks @tardisfangurl @absurdthirst @pedropascalito @mouthymandalorian @mrsparknuts @lunaserenade @zukoyonce @agirllovespancakes @yespolkadotkitty @theravenreads @lv7867 @songsformonkeys

[redhoodieone]

Too Late to Apologize

Hi everyone!!!! This is my first fic since my absence and I hope you all enjoy it! If this fic is well received, I’ll write a part 2 with the “dirty deeds”.

Warnings: Language, Cheating, Heartbreak, Fluff, and Talks of oral sex.

I’d have to be the biggest fool to not see it. Here we are in our big king size bed and we couldn’t we be further apart. I’m lying on my right side and stare at the way his back muscles relax rise and fall with every deep breath. The way he grips his pillow where his head lies facing the other way, I can’t help but wonder if he’s dreaming of her.

Because Dick Grayson sure as hell doesn’t dream about me anymore.

It’s midnight. Dick had taken the night off so we could have a night together. After fast and satisfying sex for only him, he had dozed off before 10:00 leaving me horny and puzzled about what just happened.

Sure, I’ve done everything he likes which only involves a blowjob (with always harsh constructive criticism from him) and having to cum once in my mouth and the other in a condom.

I think about touching myself under the sheets but change my mind considering the urge for a release had suddenly passed.

After a minute of hesitation, I finally crawl over his naked body to get his cell phone that has been lighting up with several text message notifications.

Settling back on my side, I turn away from Dick and unlock his cell phone to access it.

10 unread text messages from Barbara and Kori.

My throat tightens from fear and nerves.

Hey, can you meet up tonight??? I miss you :)

from Barbara

I need you Richard...I need you so much right now.

from Kori

When are you going to tell Y/N you guys are over?? It’s been like three years, babe. Seriously.

from Barbara

I don’t know why you can’t just leave her. She’ll never love you as much as I do. You and I have history, Richard. Y/N would never keep you happy.

from Kori

And come on, you know that I’m always down to do anything you want. She’s such a prude!

from Barbara

If you come over tonight, I’ll let you put your penis anywhere in me...is that dirty enough for you?

from Kori

I exit out of his text messages because I can’t read anymore. The tears behind my eyes sting like fuck and threaten to fall, but I don’t want to waste any of them on someone like Dick.

The truth settles in bitterly for me. Of course I knew Dick’s entire past of girlfriends and one night stands. He never hid the fact that he’s a charming and irresistible womanizer like his adoptive father Bruce Wayne. Even though I wasn’t a superhero like him, his family, and friends, I knew almost every girl he’s been with.

Barbara Gordon. Batgirl.

Koriand’r. Starfire.

Donna Troy. Wonder Girl.

Zatanna.

Even Raven and Helena Bertinelli aka Huntress.

And what strikes a nerve within me is when I remember Zatanna admitted that every time Dick has a serious girlfriend, he’ll end up seeing another girl behind their back.

Just because he can.

But here I am now. In bed with a sleeping Dick Grayson. Who is secretly seeing two girls behind my back.

The thought disgusts me.

Thank God Dick and I had the brains to remember to always use condoms. I’m even on the pill; and always have been since I was a teenager.

As much as I want to cry, wake him up and beat his ass for breaking my heart, and kick him out of my life forever, I know it’s not possible.

Because Dick wouldn’t mind that would he? He probably wouldn’t care to lose me. He...he would find the next girl he’d move in with and start a life with them, only to have the other girl or two on the side to keep him interested and fulfilled.

Why am I not enough for him? What is wrong with just being with me? Does he feel like I’m wasting three years of his life just from being with me?

I slowly climb out of our bed and slip my black skinny jeans on, throw on a faded Van Halen t-shirt, and grab my black Converse before sneaking out of our bedroom. I quickly throw my hair up into a messy bun, pick up my small black backup and leave.

Only a note is what I leave behind, along with my heart, that says,

If I can’t have all of you, then you don’t deserve any part of me. I’m sorry.

Because Dick won’t miss me. He’s dreaming of two girls or maybe more. I’ll never be in any of his dreams now.

***

I find myself walking down the sidewalk during the constant icy pouring rain of Gotham. I hadn’t brought my jacket so I’m forced to cross my arms in create some kind of warmth. My teeth chatter and I suddenly wish I didn’t leave Dick’s apartment until morning.

I see my favorite coffeehouse that’s opened 24 hours a block from where I am. I quickly make my way to the crosswalk until strong big hands grab my shoulders from behind.

“BOO!!!!”

I scream in complete horror and whip around only to discover it’s Jason Todd. Laughing his ass off at my scream.

“Jason! What the fuck?!” I yell, slapping his arm repeatedly.

The tallest brother in Dick’s family throws his head back and laughs harder; the kind of laugh straight from the gut that’s real. Having to look up at him because of my short height, I can see the way his body rumbles while chuckling.

Jason finally settles down and his irresistible green eyes shine at mine. He smiles, revealing his white teeth and perfect grin. I suddenly feel like I can’t breathe when my eyes instantly take in his appearance.

It’s no surprise that Jason fucking Todd is hot. Anyone with a pair of eyes can see that. He’s extremely built; at just 6’0, he has strong big muscles that would shame any men. His strong jawline can cut anyone. And then there’s his thighs...

Oh no.

What am I doing??!

I can’t fantasize about Dick’s brother! That would make me a whore, right?!

But I can’t help myself at all. My eyes continue to take in the way Jason’s dressed tonight. He’s wearing black pants that define his bulge and thighs. And underneath his tan leather jacket is a tightly muscle fit black t-shirt.

And with the way the rain’s drenching me like a wet rat, the rain sprinkles beautifully over Jason’s face. His dark hair was clearly spiked and styled tonight, but the rain hasn’t flatten it in the least bit.

I’m suddenly thirsty. I might be dehydrated.

“Y/N,” Jason speaks, his smooth, deep, whiskey rough voice snaps me back to reality. I blink a few times.

“Oh! Uh...sorry. I zoned out,” I admit softly. I can feel my cheeks darken in embarrassment.

Jason chuckles lightly. He tilts his head to the coffeehouse. “Let me walk with you. I was heading over there for a cup of coffee anyways.”

“Just for a cup of coffee? It’s past midnight,” I point out, with a raised eyebrow.

“I...I wasn’t exactly having a good night so I just needed to get out,” Jason says, shrugging his shoulders. He smirks at me and quickly takes off his jacket to give it to me. When I don’t reach for it, he puts it on me. His hands stay on my arms and he smiles proudly. “There. You looked freezing and I don’t want you to get sick.”

I stare at him in shock. He takes the opportunity to guide me to the crosswalk. When the coast is clear, he walks beside me. Once we reach the other side, we head straight over to the coffeehouse.

Jason wraps a protective arm around my waist as he opens the door and lets me go inside first. The place is empty, except for a rough middle aged trucker sitting on a stool at the counter. Jason leads me to my favorite spot to sit: the corner booth where the large windows gives me the perfect view to look up at Wayne Enterprises.

He sits across from me. Once we get comfortable, the young fresh-out-of high school waitress comes over to take our order. And she doesn’t even hide the fact that she’s checking out Jason.

“Hi, are you ready to order, handsome?” the bubbly waitress giggles, as she looks at Jason as if he’s God’s greatest creation on earth. And I can’t help but silently agree with her.

Jason smirks and looks away from the waitress and stares at me. “What are you gonna order, sweetheart?”

I swallow hard. His attention on me is new...or has he always looked at me like I’m important and that I matter?

“I’ll uh...I’d like a hot skinny vanilla latte, please, and a blueberry muffin,” I request politely.

“I’ll have the same, except make my coffee regular,” Jason says and focuses his attention back on me.

The waitress huffs in annoyance and heads to the kitchen. Once she’s out of earshot, Jason reaches across to touch my shaking hands on the table.

“You’re still freezing. Come sit next to me.”

“Um, are you sure? I don’t want to get you cold and sick.”

“I rarely get sick. And I love the cold. Come on, Y/N. Dick would kill me if you get pneumonia,” Jason says seriously. He motions me over. “And die.”

I tense up at the mention of Dick. I force myself out of my seat and move over to Jason’s side. He immediately stands up and motions me to scoot in first, as he’ll sit on the end. As I sit down, Jason quickly sits beside me and wraps an arm around me. He rubs my arm soothingly before he rubs my other arm.

His touch is special. I practically feel static shooting throughout my body every time his fingers rub my bare arms to heat me up. I glance up to look at him and immediately notice he’s staring right down at me. His emerald eyes look concerned.

“Something happened with Dick, huh?” Jason asks, his question clearly takes me by surprise.

I hesitate to answer. But his fucking beautiful eyes beg me to respond.

“He’s...cheating on me,” I choke out. I can feel my throat tighten. The fucking tears threaten to fall again. I mentally scream at myself not to. “He’s...he’s seeing Barbara and Kori behind my back. I-I saw their text messages on his phone.”

Jason immediately looks shocked...and pissed off???

“Listen, I know what you’re going to say. I know I shouldn’t have looked through his cell phone, but-but I felt like he was hiding something from me. And it turns out he was,” I say sadly.

“Y/N...” Jason sounds broken at my confession.

“I know I deserve it. I...I wasn’t exactly keeping Dick happy, let alone keeping him satisfied in bed. I really had this coming, didn’t I?” I ask, completely unraveling before Jason. “And do you wanna hear the fucked up part about our sex life? He constantly always criticized me for the way I sucked his cock. Like...I could never do it the way he wanted me to. It’s like, he wanted me to suck his cock like how all his past girlfriends and sluts did it.”

Jason stared down at me in disbelief. He clenches his jaw in anger. I’ve never seen him act this way; mostly around me when it’s just the two of us hanging out. Which is quite rare, actually.

The flirty waitress returns with our coffees and blueberry muffins. She sets them down and walks away quickly with a pout. Jason still pays no attention to her.

“He was always like, ‘Y/N, swallow more of my cock,’ ‘I told you to relax your fucking throat, Y/N,’ and especially, ‘why the hell can’t you deep throat me?! What the hell’s wrong with you?! Stop gagging! Stop crying! Can’t you follow my fucking instructions?!’ Its like, I tried my hardest with him. I really did. But...sometimes I think it was just something that’s too difficult for me to do when he never even tried my requests in bed,” I reveal, my cheeks must be red like roses. I’m almost too shy to tell him, but a part of me wants to do it.

“What are your requests in bed?” Jason breathes out.

There’s no going back now. I’m too far gone with him. “He never...went down on me,” I admit quietly.

“HE NEVER ATE YOU OUT?!?!”

“Jason! Quiet down!” I hiss out.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m just...very shocked to hear this,” Jason says dramatically, and even clenches his chest where his heart is. He then straightens up and really looks offended. “That is the most fucked up thing I’ve ever heard that’s come out of your mouth, sweetheart.”

I reach out for my coffee and sip. The heat warms my mouth and body. “Why do you think that? Dick said pussies are always ‘too wet’ and sometimes the smell bothers him, even though I never complained that his cock lacks girth,” I say.

Jason gasps dramatically again, and wraps his arm tightly around me. He looks me straight in the eye and I’m suddenly drawn to whatever he’ll say to me...

Or do to me.

“Jesus Christ, doll! Listen to me. I can honestly tell you that nothing is more sexy than a girl’s pussy. God,” Jason pauses to close his eyes. He appears to be imagining a woman’s vagina because he hums in pleasure. When he opens his eyes, he immediately looks...horny. “You know, I can actually get off by just eating a girl out. Nothing is sexier and tastier than a wet, tight, and delicious looking pussy. Just the natural smell and taste is truly divine. If I had the perfect girl and her pussy in front of my face, I wouldn’t fucking hesitate to eat it. I’d eat it every day if I could!”

Jason’s words shock me to my core. My panties dampen with fresh slick. I desperately wish he could show me exactly what he would do now.

“And don’t listen to dick face, Y/N. I bet you suck cock real good. You just haven’t had the perfect, big cock you deserve,” Jason says, before he kicks his lips. His eyes darken with animalistic lust. “What do you say we...show each other what we could do with our mouths, sweetheart?”

I would be a fucking idiot if I say no. And without a second thought, I answer truthfully. “Yes, please.”

[aziraphalescloset]

Aziraphale at the Bastille Part 1

This costume is going to be a long process so I’m going to post about it in chunks. 

I think everyone who watched Good Omens who cares a whit for fashion fell in love with this confection of a costume: the angel Aziraphale in lace and frills and white satin pumps in a French jail, possibly about to be guillotined, until he’s rescued by a tall, dark demon.

(The left two pictures in the second image show the executioner, now wearing Aziraphale’s wasitcoat and frock coat, after Aziraphale miracled a costume swap.) Close examination of the costume reveals a couple of things: first, it’s actually kind of shabby-looking, and second, it’s out of date for 1793; by that time, men’s waistcoats and frock coats had become much shorter and more svelte, with smaller cuffs and coat fronts that sweep back, exposing more leg. Naturally, that’s what Crowley is wearing in the scene, though he’s dressed as more of a plebe than Aziraphale.

Now, Aziraphale looks a little shabby in modern times -- his waistcoat especially is very worn around the buttons and hem, presumably because it’s the same one he’s owned since Victorian times. But I’m not going to go to all the trouble of making this outfit and make it shabby, so I’m going to upgrade it when I make it in doll form.

Process photos after the jump.

First, I need a shirt. Again I’m turning to Thimbles and Acorns via Pixie Faire for the pattern for an 18th Century men’s shirt and stock. At this time, a man’s shirt served exactly the same purpose as a woman’s shift: it was a simple, comfortable, readily washable garment that separated the human (with its attendant grime and odor) from the clothes (which might be made of harsh fabrics and dyes). The tails were very long in order that they could tuck between the legs to act as a sort of underwear. In fact, the shirt was regarded basically as underwear; it was unseemly for more than the cuffs and collar to be visible, and the collar was always held closed with a tied neckcloth called a stock. The basic design of the men’s shirt remained unchanged for centuries. For those of you who are fans of the 1995 TV version of Pride and Prejudice, this is the garment that Colin Firth goes for a swim in, and for Elizabeth to stumble upon him, post-swim, still clad only in shirt and breeches, was really quite shocking!

Anyway, back to the matter at hand.

The Thimbles and Acorns pattern is fairly simple with a self-ruffle at the cuffs and neck. For Aziraphale I upgraded the cuffs to two layers of lace, and I added lace ends to the stock. I originally planned to use a very thin cotton batiste but it was just too transparent and was too stiff. So I’m using a white synthetic fabric of some kind, rayon or nylon or something. It’s a little staticky but it has a beautiful soft drape.

There is a lot of fiddly hand-sewing in these patterns to make facings that cover seams. This is the view through my magnifying lamp while I’m sewing the facing down over the front neck opening with its self-ruffle.

Finished shirt, without the buttons and button loops yet.

The next thing I did was adapt this pattern for Crowley. I have a Crowley doll that is a different type than Aziradoll. Aziradoll is an American Girl, which has a pretty wide, soft body compared to most such dolls. I found on eBay a used doll of a skinnier type, Just Pretend, Inc., with extremely weird pink eyes and red hair. It is roughly the same measurements as more popular skinny 18-inch dolls like Kids N Cats and Carpatina. So I modified the width of the shirt and made a few other changes to convert the pattern to Crowley’s size. No lacy frills for Crowley; it’s crisper self-fabric cuffs and stock. The fabric is just a regular acetate lining. It’s a little shiny, which seems suitable for a flash bastard like Crowley. Here’s a process photo of those self-fabric cuffs.

It’s still loose -- these shirts are supposed to be loose -- but fits the doll pretty well. Here’s a photo without buttons or stock.

Next step is breeches. Again, Thimbles and Acorns provides with this pattern for a George Washington military costume. I made the breeches almost straight from the pattern, using a really luscious-feeling crepe-backed satin. (The parts on the left are for a waistcoat, which I’ll post about another day.) The parts for these breeches are weirdly shaped -- these bear no similarity whatever to the cut of modern men’s trousers.

I discovered while making these that crepe-backed satin is a pain in the butt to work with. It seems like a very fine fabric, but it’s made of rather wide warp threads with very thin weft threads, and once cut it really wants to fall apart. It’s also desperately easy to accidentally pull a little weft thread and create what looks like a run in the fabric. My first assembly attempt ended in failure because the fabric started disintegrating around the tight corner at the junction of the drop front and the trouser leg.

I cut some new parts and substantially beefed up the interfacing around that seam. I also used a more stable cotton fabric for the invisible inner facings of the drop front and vents. It seems to be holding.

More assembly pics. Really interesting topologically.

Leg plackets. The detail in this bit is exquisite. If I ever need to sew a placket on any garment I’m creating from scratch, I’ll work from this pattern.

Drop front is sorted. It got a little off-center, I’m actually not at all sure how, but it didn’t matter in the end.

Adding the waistband.

Test fit. The next step after this was the sheer terror of buttonholes. I hate buttonholes. BUT I DID IT.

At least the terror of sewing buttonholes comes with the pleasure of selecting buttons. After a lot of agonizing (and, I’ll admit, some shopping), I eventually used some vintage pearl and mother-of-pearl buttons for the breeches. They’re Heavenly.

That’s it for shirt and breeches for Aziraphale. I’m working on the waistcoat, but more urgently, I need to replace those plain brown shoes with some gorgeous satin pumps. I also need to adapt that topologically weird breeches pattern for the smaller Just Pretend doll for Crowley. 

In the meantime, here are the two Ineffables lounging around in, basically, their underwear. How indecent!

[mult1tude]

TWO STARS ✰ AN ETHAN NESTOR STORY — CHAPTER 1

story synopsis: adele belanger, an upcoming star begins to fall in love with a man named ethan nestor after doing a press junket to promote her upcoming series that’s going to push her fame further than she expected. will problems arise?

word count: 3k triggers: none

     adele belanger - the name spoke few and far on the dazzling and glamorous world of hollywood. celebrated for her roles in roles in indie films produced and created in canada, where she was born and raised, she is soon due a big break as she was in the process of getting ready for the rest of the world to know she was starring in netflix’s latest series.

saying the heat resonating from beneath her laptop was hot was an understatement, she didn’t dare to budge or move it in the slightest as she restlessly refreshed the youtube page waiting for the trailer to pop up, almost wearing out the button on her keyboard. the sable black strands at the nape of her neck that had evaded her grasp as she hurriedly tied a ponytail began to itch at her skin but she didn’t have time to fix it, not until the trailer was posted.

after what felt like a lifetime, her eyes were quick to notice a new thumbnail appear on the page and she reactively clicked it, pressing the mousepad button-down slightly too hard out of excitement. the entire video played, a beaming smile was plastered across her face, her dimples displayed prominently as she approached the end of the video. the young actress felt like a firework in a glass jar, so much excitement contained inside of her as she brushed the laptop from her lap, jolted from her rumpled bed and clenched her fists as she excitedly hopped around her tiny apartment and squealed. adele rushed to the dust speckled mirror that was hung near her front door that had a few dozen, in a hyperbolic sense, of her unused coats after moving from canada. she deeply exhaled as she examined her face, noticing her own excitement couldn’t even contain itself as a smile sidled upon her lips as she delicately let out a few words. “i’m going to be famous.”

her emotions shot off again like fireworks, her chest fluttering and her palms tingling and red from the nails she didn’t realise she had dug so deep into her own skin. but it didn’t matter, adele was finally making the biggest leap possible into her career - it was everything she ever wanted.

“ok, i need some water.” she softly spoke to herself, taking another deep breath as she headed towards her apartment’s small open-planned kitchen. her shaky hands picked up a bottle of water from the fridge; she vowed that she would never drink l.a’s tap water after hearing an endless conglomeration of negative things from acquaintances and friends after moving only 6 months ago.

swigging it back and almost completing most of the bottle, she slapped it onto the counter whilst letting out a satisfied gasp for air. a few drops making wet patches on her eggshell coloured sweatshirt that may or may not have a few foundation marks around the neckline. a sudden change of thought, she remembered she needed to send the link to all of her friends and family if they already hadn’t seen it. adele slid the phone from her sweatpants noticing she was already getting congratulatory messages from some of her friends and even people that she hadn’t spoken to in a while. moreso, a lot of the messages from her friends were them completely fangirling over the fact that she had in fact worked with henry cavill.

adele replied to and messaged everyone she needed to before opening twitter and the rest of her social media to find that they were starting to blow up, multiple people talking about how cool the show looked and how excited they were. a lot of them were generic but few mentioned how intricate and interesting adele’s sidekick companion character seemed which made her stomach twirl once more and she felt like she had her ego stroked enough it would last the rest of the week. she put aside her phone and began to practice her bedtime routine before throwing herself back onto her bed where she only was an hour ago. her head smacking her pillow must have activated a switch because adele immediately felt her eyes involuntarily shutter closed and before she knew it, she was fast asleep.

                                                         ✰

today was the first day of recording stuff for the press. needless to say, adele was super excited. from what the actress was able to gather from her manager jenna, since henry cavill was known to be such a huge gamer online, buzzfeed had organised the cast to play the game version of the new netflix series with a few special guests. it was undeniably going to be a great day and a great way to start the press junket as it progressively and eventually got more tiring and mind-numbing. plus, she had gamed a bit before so it would be funny if she were able to show up a few of her cast members, especially henry.

at 8am sharp, the assigned makeup and hairstylist, and wardrobe stylist arrived at her apartment. she was so giddy with excitement that she wanted to run around and shout and tell everyone but she had to sit silently for the meantime as the makeup artist worked on her face. edging elation bubbled through her every vein as they talked about varying outfits to wear, expensive designer brands she was allowed to borrow. she felt like a proper celebrity.

finally, the crew decided on a casual look for today. her slate black, silken hair was bundled in a half-up loose french plait whilst the rest of it waved down just below her shoulders, the front strands falling in front of her face. light and delicate makeup that made her eyes shine and sparkle like a glossy nephrite stone; the minimal makeup also allowed her ubiquitous, chocolate freckles to proudly be displayed on her face. polished, golden dangle geometric earrings to frame her heart-shaped face and overall elevate the look from simple to elegant. an ivory laced-back milkmaid top with puffed long sleeves, high-waisted, sun-bleached skinny jeans with a few sparse rips and shreds, tattered white thread entwined between the tears and loosely hanging like vines. to finish off the look was some pearly white stilettos and few rings as well as a similarly styled necklace to match the earrings.

“i feel, amazing.” adele faltered in disbelief as she longingly stared at herself in the mirror, turning to the crew exhibiting an approving smile. “thank you.” she softly spoke before squeaking with excitement as she danced on the spot causing her team to giggle in response. “time to get going!” she excitedly commanded herself as she made a poor attempt at trying to control her out of rhythm breathing. the exhilaration and eagerness began to convolute into a ball of anxiousness and fret. it was something new and different which was scary but she didn’t want it to hold her back. another deep breath and she made her way to the contemporary, modern lobby of her apartment block where she spotted the black suv through the towering glass front doors in which her chauffeur was waiting for her.

“per jenna’s request,” the chauffeur nodded towards the coffee in the cupholder. adele wrapped her hand around the starbucks cup — still hot. “vanilla oat milk latte?” she asked as she brought the almost searing coffee to her lips, the steam floating upwards and brushing past her skin. the chauffeur nodded as he put the vehicle into gear and started to head towards the destination. effortlessly, the sweet drink passed her lips as she took a few sips before she threw her head back in a satisfied manor. surely the coffee would help with the nerves and just overall elevate her mood. she scoured her social media for a short while, taking breaks to finish the rest of her drink before they arrived. it’s l.a, so it was always bound to take a while even if it just was a few blocks over.

discreetly, the car pulled into the back entrance where she was able to enter without getting noticed and was directed to a very bright and lively reception where the young actress signed in. her heels clicking against the laminated wooden flooring as she followed the operations manager who was indistinctively talking through the black earpiece attached to her ear and was clutching a clipboard to her stomach. a few corridors later they had arrived, the manager twisted the handle to the door and entered, allowing adele to trail behind her.

almost blinding, the room was filled with numerous studio lights. littering the floor almost completely, cables and all different sorts of leads and plugs lay disorganised on the floor. a huge monitor was placed in front of the white screen which was the focus of all the beaming lights. “hey adele!” vocalised the director as he approached her, also bearing a black earpiece. “so the premise of today’s shoot is quite simple. you’re going to be playing the game with our two guests over here,” he briefly motioned towards two gentlemen sat in the corner of the room chatting and chuckling between themselves clearly in a world of their own, “and we’ve paired you with henry because we only have two controllers and we want to get everyone to be involved so the others are being shot later. does that sound good?” he queried, concluded his speech.

“of course.” she eagerly spoke with a grin. “great,” the director spoke as he adjusted his wire-frame glasses, “let me introduce you to the guests. they’re going to be guiding you along with the game,” he spoke, leading adele over towards the boisterous men who were still conversing right up until adele and the director were stood only a few metres away.

“mark?” adele apprehensively suspected as she reached her hand out to his, inviting the suave gentleman to shake hands. “yes!” he answered in a shocked yet pleased tone as he stood to be polite and accepted the handshake with a beaming grin. “i think i watched a bit of your stuff a while back,” adele admitted before briefly catching eyes with the other guy who was staring up at her with gleaming eyes and a dopey yet adorable smile. “i’m honoured,” mark softly spoke before looking down at the other guy who was now standing to follow suit. “this is my friend ethan,” mark continued, placing a firm grip on his pal's shoulder.

“hi, nice to meet you.” ethan spoke in a much more gentle manner than mark did as he reached his hand out to replicate the greeting. “nice to meet you too,” she replied, reciprocating the greeting. “have you watched my stuff too?” ethan asked with a bashful smile as he ruffled his hair with his painted black fingernails. adele hesitantly shook her head not wanting to hurt his feelings, “no, but if it’s anything like mark’s stuff i’m certain it’s great.” she stated looking back at mark who had an affirming smirk on his face as he looked down at his younger friend who’s face had started to flush pink.

“henry is meant to be here right now, but he isn’t,” the director addressed somewhat annoyingly, “i’ll go and have a word to see where he is you can just stay here and talk to each other.” the director stated before hurriedly making his way to the door which adele entered through. she sat down in one of the spare seats that sat opposite the boys as they sat down once more.

“can i just say i watched the trailer this morning and i can’t wait to watch it.” he admitted as he began to pull at the strings of his coal-black hoodie. “thank you, it really means a lot,” adele’s cheeks blushed as she began to fiddle with the rings on her fingers yet still keeping her eyes on the boys. “seriously. we’re not just saying this it looks fantastic,” mark chirped in enthusiastically as he leaned forward in the seat, “i’m never usually this excited about a new series. so congrats!” he admitted with a deep chuckle, looking towards ethan who was nodding in agreement.

the conversation was silenced when a huge figure walked through the door followed by the director and operations manager. the director hastily wagged his fingers at adele and the boys who obediently made their way over. “adele!” henry happily bellowed in his charming english accent as he pulled her into a gentle hug, remembering he probably was over two times her size. “long time no see,” she affirmed as she hugged him back before breaking their embrace. her eyes involuntarily wandered over to ethan as the director began briefing henry. ethan quickly darted his eyes to the director as if he just hadn’t been gazing at her causing adele to grin to herself as she put her concentration back to the director.

“great, so follow me and i’ll seat you.” the director asserted as he walked towards the chairs in front of the white screen, two at the front and two at the back yet not parallel to each other. the front seats were more centred whilst the back two were offset so nobody would be getting in the way of each other when seated.

“adele if you sit in the front left seat, henry in the right.” he requested as he took a step behind the camera and watched the monitor to see if it was what he had envisioned. adele and henry sat which the director reacted with a thumbs up. “okay, ethan if you sit on the left and mark on the right please.” the director concluded as he continued to watch the monitor. the boys did as they were told before mark immediately remarked. “gosh it’s bright behind here,” he joked shielding his eyes as he laughed, eliciting a few giggles from everyone as the director adjusted some of the studio light placement with a few apprentices.

after everything was adjusted to the directors liking, they were ready to roll. the director placed his 3 fingers up as he counted down whilst mouthing the numbers. the thumb was up, which meant everyone introduced themselves and surprisingly it didn’t need multiple takes. “today, adele and i are going to be playing the symbols of shadows game which is very similar to the new series on netflix september 4th.” henry beamed, clutching the xbox controller in his hand as he looked over towards adele. “and i’m going to win. i’m going to beat henry.”

henry scoffed, dismissing adele’s statement as mark and ethan giggled behind them. “we’re also going to try to help, but it looks like they’re gaming experts,” mark spoke, wavering his tone with the last two words as he jokingly mocked adele and henry. “well, there’s only one way to find out.” ethan spoke energetically in a slightly goofier voice than what he was speaking in before. ethan looked at mark before they both turned towards the camera with a raised eyebrow. “okay great. we’ll cut there. let’s load the game up.” the director approved, leaning back in his chair, fixing his corduroy jacket as one of the apprentices loaded the game up and set up the first level. “we just want you to complete the first level so don’t try and rush.” the apprentice handed back the controller to adele as he quickly rushed out of view.

the camera began to roll again and the pair began to get a grasp of the controls and the setting of the game as they intentionally tried to set each other up in the game: pushing one another of the map, friendly fire, stealing points and collectables, and deliberately annoying each other which resulted in many laughs around the room. matter-of-factly, ethan and mark didn’t really do anything to help, however, they did make for a great commentary and supplied multiple belly-aching jokes.

the screen faded to black as they’d finished the first level; mark and ethan clapped and congratulated the pair in between giggles as adele and henry carried on the bit and refused to display any means of sportsmanship. “guys, i don’t know about you but i definitely won.” henry retaliated as adele shook her head and rolled her eyes. mark and ethan were laughing so hard it was almost silent. “this was a team game,” mark giggled as the pitch in his voice heightened. “let us know in the comments who you think won. because it was moi.” adele stated confidently, trying to hide the smile that wanted to appear on her lips so badly. the pair promoted their netflix series as they wrapped up filming. “okay, great. that’s everything. thanks, guys.” the director spoke as he picked up his macbook from the desk and began typing away. “if you just wait here until someone comes and collects you,” the director struggled to speak as he was too busy multitasking. he pressed the side of his earpiece and spoke to himself as he called for the cast to be escorted.

“you’re really good, i was impressed.” ethan spoke to adele softly, as everyone got out of their seats. “you really like to flatter me don’t you.” she joked which caused ethan to halter in his thoughts for a moment. “it’s not a bad thing,” she reassured him, “it’s really nice to hear. especially coming from you.” delicately spoke, eyes quickly moving over to see if anyone was listening but mark and henry were engulfed in their own conversation. ethan’s cheeks flushed pink again as he displayed a meek grin.

he was about to respond when the door re-opened and the manager stepped through, immediately grabbing everyone else’s attention. ethan bit at his lip as anguish washed over his face as he realised the conversation was over. adele was disinclined for a moment, lingering for a few more seconds as the butterflies in her stomach began to fade. “it was nice talking to you. talk soon?” she asked which brightened up ethan’s face as he nodded, “of course. see you soon.” he timorously spoke with a contemptuous smile as he waved goodbye, for now.

[all-of-the-above]

Being a woman today

As a woman in today’s world, you may feel…

a)     Insecure

b)    Body conscious

c)     Unpopular

d)    Not pretty enough

e)    Not perfect enough

f)      Weak

g)     Scared

h)    Unsatisfied

i)      Pressured

j)      All of the above?

Well, I think most of us can say me too. One thing I think we know for certain is that we are not alone in how we feel, yet the world can still make us feel like the odd one out. You see, being a woman is entirely one thing, but to be one in the society we have today is another. We face so many different things, fight for so many rights and are still put down, shamed and ignored. To feel uncomfortable in this world I think is honest and true. I hear you, so many of us are listening its just not enough. Who knew those princess stories weren’t true?

To be male or female in our society is highly pressurising, but I think we can all agree it is more so for women. Social media has infiltrated our lives, bringing connection, laughter and creativity but also pressure, bad body images, abuse and suffering. We scroll through pictures and think this is how I should look, why am I not that skinny, why don’t I have her hair, my teeth aren’t perfect, my lips are too small, I should wear more makeup, but also, I shouldn’t wear too much makeup. I need that outfit, I should go there, I need to be that happy, I should have that by now. No. Stop. Stop hurting yourself, stop hurting your body image, stop hurting your mental health. Take a breather, step back. No one is that happy all the time, no one looks like that 24/7. Stop comparing yourself to others, stop putting yourself down and wishing you could be more. You are already enough, and I know it is hard and it is tough, but so are you. Since when did life become this huge competition sometimes with complete strangers? Why put yourself through more stress just to look good for people who don’t really care. We consistently want something we don’t have and forget what we do have. You don’t need to post every time you do something just to show off. You don’t need to edit your photos so much that you lose yourself. You need to be you, post reality, post if and when you please, post for you. Stop editing and instead start loving what you see, embrace your ‘flaws’, your individuality. Life is for living, for real conversation, for smiles and for sunsets, for food, for music, for friends, for family, not for a screen that makes you feel unhappy in who you are. Stop competing, stop wishing to look like them or be like them, stop scrolling and start being you each and every day and don’t hide it from the world, share it, make a change, be someone who posts life and inspire others to stop wasting precious time editing and putting down and under appreciating themselves and their life.

Something else that really bugs me is the cost of being a woman. Why is everything so much more expensive? No, I don’t want to hear all that rubbish about women being the bigger consumers okay, I get it, we all do, but its still no reason for such stark differences. Why can a man get is hair cut for £10 whilst I have to pay £40 and up? So, women’s hairstyles can be more complicated, okay, but that’s a lot of money! Why is my plain white top £10 whilst his is £5, there’s no difference? Oh, and last time I checked sanitary products still cost. Those are not cheap, it is something we haven’t even chosen, we have no choice, but have to pay for it? What’s all that about? And why in the hell are they considered a luxury? It is a necessity, a healthy and clean way of caring for our bodies and they should be available everywhere for everyone, free of charge. But no. We pay again. And not only this but men have the gall to say periods aren’t painful, we shouldn’t be so moody, there’s no need it’s just natural. You see they refuse to understand, to listen, to help. A Professor of reproductive health at University College London, John Guillebaud, told Quartz that patients have described the cramping pain as 'almost as bad as having a heart attack.' Even a fact like that isn’t believed. Yet again women feel another form of pressure to be a certain way, to deal with it and move on. We are told to look certain ways, so we buy the latest fashion instead of being mocked, we cut our hair to just simply keep it healthy, we get our nails done, our eyebrows, eyelashes, we tan, we wax, we shave. We do so much, yet still pay more. How is it fair that we should pay more for things that men have too (like a haircut) when we also have so many other expenses. To be a woman means to feel under constant pressure. Maybe we don’t need to update our wardrobe every year, or consistently get our nails done, okay, but I think the point still stands. To be a woman is not cheap, it’s not easy, it’s not for the faint hearted, it’s tough.

A woman feels pressure from many aspects of society, and I know one in particular is clothes. We can feel insecure and even scared to wear a particular outfit to a particular place at a particular time. Why is that a thing? How is that fair? Its not. I should be able to walk down the street in a dress and not be starred at by men that are old enough to be my dad. I shouldn’t worry that someone may take my outfit as an invitation. I should be able to wear what I want and not be called out for it. Why am I starred at for wearing leggings and a top yet when I wear jogging bottoms and a large sweater, I’m invisible? You see sometimes it’s like a disguise, a safety net, a comfort blanket. My own invisibility cloak where I can go out and feel maybe just that bit safer, less looked upon, freer. This isn’t right, we shouldn’t be creating a world where girls are scared to wear skirts, to wear shorts or a dress or even jeans or leggings. Girls shouldn’t feel scared to wear their clothes. We don’t take a guy walking around with no top on and shorts as an invitation do we? So why take a girl in a dress, more covered up than a guy like that, as an invitation? I think we’ve proved that even at this point sometimes it doesn’t matter what you wear, its still scary out there. So how on earth have we built a society where women now could wear a mini skirt or high-vis coat and still be taken advantage of, still abused, used and even killed? Its wrong. Why is being a woman labelled as easy, that we don’t have to do much or worry about much. If you listened, looked, read, researched, you would see just how hard it is. It’s not easy, it’s scary, it’s pressurising, it’s tough.

To be a woman today means to be tough, it means to have a hard shell, to be prepared for the world, to support yourself, to love yourself as much as possible and feel comfortable in who you are. It means to be satisfied in your life and in you, whilst trying to not let the world around you scar your skin. This is for all the women out there, I hope you know you are not alone, you a brave, beautiful, bold and brilliant. The world is cruel but don’t let it stop you, know you are strong and capable of so many things. Know that who you are right now is more than enough.

[wormtoxin]

Carrion Flowers

Prologue

(yes, under the cut is some long-form original fiction, and yes, i am embarrassed about it, but it’s fine)

When he hears it was through the eye, he remembers that day on the lake.

It’d been cloudy for a week, but the skinny black kid in the dark suit wouldn’t have known the difference. The curtains had been replaced, and the windows and mirrors shrouded in heavy, black cloth. Pictures of his father in his cap and uniform were everywhere, each adorned with a black satin ribbon.

He hated it. The air was getting stale and hot in his lungs, and the black wool suit was suffocating. He didn’t understand back then why he and his mother had to set out white lillies and wear these awful clothes and shut out all the light. The two of them weren’t dead yet.

His mother wasn’t really meant to travel yet- especially not to a friend’s- but she hadn’t been meant to go the cemetery either. Regardless, she had followed the hearse with the men through all of Paris weeks ago, and she would help her son load his black wools and silk into a suitcase now. They both caught an early train out of the city, then a cab, and he was thankful for the sharp, cold smell of green earth and ozone.

When he arrived at the cabin, a woman he didn’t recognize threw open the door. She wore another black dress, like his mother’s, and they kissed each other on each cheek.

“Madame Stein, my love, je suis désolé,” she said, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. Since the funeral, he had seen many of his mother’s friends, but each carried the cold pity of a mourner, veiled beneath formality. With this woman, whoever she was, there was an instant connection. He saw his mother light up with warmth and comfort, and felt himself warmed along with her. His mother pulled him from behind her skirts and introduced him.

“Madame Hyde, c’est Jacque”, she said, and the other woman bent down to hold him tight.

“You’re so grown,” she said, “I haven’t seen you since you were in your cradle”. She stood, and a young boy, about Jacque’s age, emerged from the cabin behind her. He held a hand out for Jacque.

“Je m’appelle Cyrus!” He grinned broadly.

Jacque took his hand and shook it, “One of your teeth is gone”. Cyrus took his other hand out of his pocket, and placed the milk-white baby tooth in Jacque’s open palm.

“I was gonna leave it for the tooth fairy, but I want you to have it!” Mme. Hyde rolled her eyes, and Jacque’s mother stifled a laugh.

“Thanks,” Jacque said, and pocketed it.

“Shall we?” Mme. Hyde said, and stepped into the cabin. The hearth was roaring, and something must’ve been cooking in the heavy iron pot, because the smell was incredible. Jacque and his mother unpacked, and the first night, the two women made apple pie together. Jacque’s mother was rolling the pastry and the butter together when she started to cry, and she cried for a long time while Mme. Hyde held onto her. The butter melted out of the pastry, but they all ate the sweet, buttered, cinnamon apples out of a great wooden bowl, and his mother slept through the whole night for the first time since they’d gotten the news.

It was still raining the next day, so the two Madames sat by the hearth and stitched old clothes while the boys ate porridge.

“Mom, I want to show Jack the lake”.

“Alright dear, but take an umbrella, and lend Jacque your boots. It’s still muddy out”.

Cyrus took Jacque by the arm, and they set out together in the rain. Jacque held the umbrella while Cyrus talked excitedly about the games he’d play at the schoolyard, or facts he’d read about in books.

“Did you know? Sometimes a dragon isn’t actually a dragon, so instead they’re called wyverns,” Cyrus said “Weye-verrns” with the distinctive lull of an English accent, and Jacque wondered how long it’d been since he came to Paris. “They’re only called Dragons if they can breathe fire, and then they’re called ‘True’ Dragons, which I guess makes all the other ones ‘Liar-liar-pants-on-fire’ Dragons”.

“It’s not fire,” Jacque said beneath the hood of his black cloak, “Papa said it’s called ‘radiation’. They call it Wildfire because it spreads”.

Cyrus was dumbstruck. “Wow!! Really?? You must be so smart, Jacque!” Jacque had been praised a lot in the last few weeks by the mourners, but always because he was So brave or So strong or The man of the house now in a way that felt like You poor thing. It was nice to hear smart for a change.

When they got to the lake, it looked so high from the rain that Jacque thought it might spill over. Thick trees blanketed the banks from the rain, allowing only a few heavy drops to spill over onto the moss or the water, each creating a soft plonk.

“It’s pretty,” Jacque said.

“Have you ever skipped a stone before?”

“Um, no”.

Cyrus sorted through the mud for a while before finding a smooth flat stone, and tossed it into the clear water. Instead of sinking, it touched the water and flew, hopping three or four times before finally dropping down into the lake.

“Amazing!” Jacque picked one up and threw it, but it only made a splash. Without a word, Cyrus found another skipping stone, and put it in Jacque’s hand. He held Jacque’s wrist and moved the rock between his forefinger and thumb. Even at his school, Jacque didn’t often touch hands with the other students. They’d throw balls or play hopskotch. And of course, Jacque’s mother held his hand often, to cross the railway or walk to the store, or just to comfort him. But Cyrus’ hands were small like his own, warm, and rough from years of scrabbling up trees or over brambles.

“You have to throw it like this”.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Jacque asked, “You just feel bad for me like everyone else”. Jacque pulled his hand away, and threw another rock straight beneath the surface.

Cyrus picked up another for him. “Am not,” he said, “Momma said you need some cheering up, s’all”.

“You do feel bad for me!” Jacque threw it, and again it failed to soar like the first one did.

“Do not!” Again, Cyrus put a flat, muddy rock in Jacque’s light palm. “And I know you’re sad. What’s wrong with feeling bad for you, anyways?”.

“Am not!” Jacque threw it, hard, but it missed the water altogether, clacking against a big rock on the shore, and ricocheting out towards the boys.

Jacque found himself crying. Hot, wet tears spilled down his cheeks, and he found his breath coming out in little hitching gasps before he knew why. Jacque wasn’t sad. He missed his dad, of course, and he wished his mom wouldn’t cry. But he wasn’t sad. So what was he feeling now?

Cyrus sat next to him in the mud. When Jacque looked up, he realized the rock had hit Cyrus, cutting his eyebrow. Blood streaked down his cheekbone, and his eye had already purpled and swollen shut. Even still, he smiled. Cyrus’ grin was so wide, it showed his gap tooth and curled his other eye up in delight.

“What?” Jacque muttered.

“When my papa died,” Cyrus said, “everybody told me I had to be big and strong for my momma. It took me a long time to cry. I thought I was dead too, because he was. But I felt better when I cried.”

Jacque laughed a little, sniffling. “You wanted to make me cry?”

Cyrus took the sleeve of his coat, and wiped one of Jacque’s tears. As they sat together, and Jacque finished crying, a cloud finally broke. Sunlight reflected from the shimmering surface of the lake. Cyrus’ hair and eye were dark, but in the light, Jacque saw their fiery warmth, each eyelash shining gold. Jacque felt the sun move over him, heating him to the bones.

That was when he first fell in love, Jacque thinks.

Years later, when a dragon had flown too close to Paris, the military police shot it down over the lake. The water was ruined, along with the rest of the countryside, and a few years after that, Cyrus joined the Dragon Corps. Jacque went to University, but they still saw each other often. Cyrus would sneak out of the barracks to visit, and to tell Jacque stories about the latest thing he had seen, or the place he had just been. Cyrus would tell him about being stationed in Italy. Verona had huge open-air cemeteries, he would say. You’re studying cemeteries, aren’t you, Cyrus would ask. I’ll take you someday, he’d promise. Now, this morning, his picture was in the newspaper.

It was through the eye, the newspaper said. That same eye Jacque had hit with his skipping stone, and that bore a mark on its brow from that day at the lake. That eye that shone gold in the sunlight, and that peeked out at Jacque, only Jacque, with a wry delight from beneath the military cap, making his chest ache.

It went through that eye, and lodged itself somewhere in the back of his skull. Jacque keeps rereading it, looking back at that picture. He must be reading it wrong. He feels dizzy, keeps expecting the words to change as they spin, but each time they stubbornly refuse. Pronounced dead at 4:32 this morning. Jacque doesn’t know what to do. Then, all at once, he does.

[belladonnasatenaeum]

'Dernière Danse': The Underlying Message

There's a French song you likely might have heard on TikTok, used more often than not in Gothic TikToks or even some Academia TikToks. One TikTok I recall seeing it in was a vampire aesthetic based TikTok, with someone lipsyncing to the chorus of the song. Sometimes, you find out later what the song is actually called, and my goodness, the quick 15 second videos on TikTok do not do any justice to the song. The song is called 'Dernière Danse' by the singer Indila, the title roughly translating to 'Last/Final Dance'.

When you first listen to the song, you would naturally think of balls within a dark manor, candles flickering and lighting the space within its warm amber glow. The unique element of orchestra and pop elements creates a song quite like nothing you've ever heard, and something I've yet to hear other musicians do. However, if you think this is a song of love, you would be sorely mistaken.

You see, Indila isn't just some pasty white woman. Sure, she is kinda pale, but that doesn't take away from her heritage. You see, she has ancestory from Algeria, India, Egypt and Cambodia - so much so that she calls herself "a child of the world." And it seems, 'Dernière Danse' does have a lot of emotion to it, but not of a romantic kind. It is one of deep, immense pain and sorrow. The song tells the story of a young immigrant woman who must endure racism throughout the day as she desperately wishes to escape the torment and comfort herself from the harsh judgement of the people around her.

There is some incredibly interesting wordplay in the lyrics for the song, one only those who speak French can spot and breakdown for those who can't. But once they have, it forever sticks out in your mind. If you want to understand what is being sung, then please follow this link here: https://www.frenchlyricstranslations.com/derniere-danse-lyrics-translation-indila/

The word play comes in the line "Ô ma douce souffrance" (Translation: "Oh my sweet suffering"). This is our indication of what is causing this young woman her pain and misery. It's right in front of you, and yet it takes a keen eye to spot it. This wordplay actually indicates that France itself is the cause of this woman's pain. And let's be real for a second, France is just as guilty as Britain, Spain, Germany and The Netherlands when it comes to colonialism, and thus the rampant spread of racism and all other horrific things that come with colonial rule. And after the terrorist attacks in 2015, 2 years after the release of "Dernière Danse", racism has been sadly seeding it's way into French way of life such as with France's ban on face coverings which could impact specific cultures and religions such as Muslims, which, more often than not, many immigrants making their way to France are. While the bill does try to bring about good - by essentially making it illegal to FORCE someone to wear a face covering veil if they don't want to (especially in the case of children, where I personally believe that religion should be kept away from children until they are old enough to understand it), it could also become a slippery slope to what a certain President Orange-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named attempted in the US, and in some degrees succeeded.

Which leads me to think, while it is a brilliant song and many can relate to it with its feelings of sorrow, how do I feel about seeing white people - like myself - lipsyncing to it? I've not heard any complaints, and as I mentioned, the song is very relatable, and it can be applied to things outwith racism - grief, loss, bereavement, breakups, stress, mental illness and so on, but is it really a song for white people to cling to? The song contextually is about an immigrant, so how come most of the TikToks I've seen with this song are everyone but immigrants and BIPOC people? The ones I've seen get shared on YouTube in compilation videos usually are skinny, white women/AFAB people. When BIPOC creators have made TikToks with this song. In fact, here's a TikTok made by a Black creator also following a vampire theme: https://www.tiktok.com/@tatendaluna/video/6939523674877758722?lang=en&is_copy_url=1&is_from_webapp=v1

And yet it seems, as I am scrolling through TikTok, the vast majority of the videos are by white people. Sure, white people emigrate, but we will never truly understand the pain of the immigrant who arrived in France to hatred and disgust, getting abused day in and day out. Now, there could be a logical explanation; maybe more white people just happen to know about the song? Given when I first heard it, I only had the melody to go off of, and Googling "da da da da da-da da da da" isn't going to get me anywhere. But even having that as a factor, there is a known history of TikTok promoting more white people's TikToks over the creations and hard work of BIPOC people.

So, do I think white people should lipsync to the song? I mean, if it's all in harmless fun, then sure. It's a song - we all love to sing and lipsync, it's not gonna harm anyone, even if you sing like a cat just got scared down a dark alleyway. However, I think it is also incredibly important that we understand and recognise the context of the song - it's not a song for vampire lovers to sing, it's not a song for witches to sing during a ritual, it's not even an Academia or aesthetic song; the song is a harsh reality for many immigrants fleeing war and persecution, and wherever they land they are immediately slammed with hatred.

'Dernière Danse' is one of my favourite songs to listen to. It is a beautiful blend of orchestra and pop that never get tiring, and for the people who do like vampires and witches and academia I can see why this song would stick out. For crying out loud, I'm one to talk - I'm a Goth Pagan from Scotland! And with this 'essay', I do not wish to shame people from creating TikToks with this song. On the contrary, actually. This song is brilliant and as an artist myself, the amount of ideas this song brings to me is wondrous. However, I think it is high time that people understand that 'Dernière Danse' is, and will forever be, a song for the immigrants. It is their song to express frustration and pain; and I implore you to look out for your immigrant neighbours. Recently, the city of Glasgow stopped the deportation of some Indian men, which when I caught wind of it made me incredibly proud to be a Scot. Sadly, though, the fight is far from done. It is our duty to fight for those seeking security and safety. If I recall correctly, that's exactly what Odin asks us to do in Stanzas 2-4 of the Havamal, correct? To be hospitable to those who come to our doorstep. Now, I may question Odin's logic from time to time, but on this I think his words are sound wisdom. If even the All-Father tells you to be hospitable to immigrants, then you best take his advice.

At the very least, I hope that either you got the chance to discover this song, or you found a new way to view the song, from my little 'essay'. As mentioned, I do not intend to shame anyone who likes the song. Indila is a brilliant artist and I heavily enjoy her works. I merely hope this highlights the underlying message that I think often gets overlooked. I hope you found some enjoyment in this. If I am incorrect about anything, please do feel free to correct me. I am always open to learning. Until next times, yours

~ Belladonna

[reallyverynormal]

hey im a proshipper, but i have a friend who isnt either proship or anti. she wants to know more about the anti side of things, if you dont mind could you tell me why you are anti ship? and why you believe others should be? i wanna let her make this decision on her own, but idk how anti shippers think and i cant find informational posts on it

this ended up getting kind of long so i’m just going to put it under a readmore but basically anti shippers are people who say this: don’t fetishize minorities, abuse and abuse survivors and also don’t write paedophilic porn and act like that’s a normal thing for cishet women to get off to.

-don’t fetishize abuse and act like it’s hot or cute. by that i mean don’t take a character that is canonically abusive to another character and write some romanticized tortured love story about it, or act like victims have to or can forgive their abusers for abusing them (not saying they can’t, but perpetuating the idea that they can/have to is bad, actually). just fucking don’t -don’t fetishize paedophilia and act like it’s hot or cute. by that i mean don’t write porn of children, don’t write porn of ‘aged up’ children, don’t write porn of adults raping/being in sexual contact with children and act like it’s hot or cute or something normal to get off to -don’t dehumanize gay men, lesbians, trans people--basically the entire LGBT community--by fetishizing them, calling porn of us “sin”, only writing smut fics about us and nothing else, trying to constantly find ways to ship two men in every piece of media, hate literally any female character that could potentially be a love interest just because she gets in the way of your ship. don’t fucking fetishize us, actually! -don’t act like rape/sexual abuse/sexual assault is hot. period. -also don’t write porn about real life fuckin people without their permission, especially, in the cases of people like dan and phil, when they are very clearly deeply uncomfortable with it and the abuse/harassment they have received from this, (tomska and tord from the eddsworld team and 1direction as a whole are also good examples of this shit affecting real life people).

and by these things, i don’t mean that you can’t write about these subjects ever or portray characters involving some of these subjects ever, i’m saying don’t fetishize them. don’t act like fiction doesn’t affect reality, because it does, (look up the jaws affect, as a huge example), and don’t act like you are above the law, because even the law (in the US and canada, at least), can and will punish you for drawing and writing porn about children. 

fetishizing minorities is, you guessed it, dehumanizing and wrong! black people, asian people and the LGBT community especially get this kind of treatment, and if you go around agreeing with the black and asian people who are talking about the fetishization of their races by white people, and you don’t agree with actual LGBT people talking about the fetishization of their gender/sexuality, you’re a fucking hypocrite*. fetishizing any fucking minority is bad, even in fiction.

note that there is also a difference between LGBT people going out of their way to ship two characters together in a queer/gay/etc ship and a cishet girl going out of their way to constantly ship two men together in every piece of media no matter what, especially if those two characters are white/light-skinned, skinny, conventionally attractive cis men. in the case of LGBT people, we’re doing it to create the representation we don’t get in media. for a cishet girl to go out of their way to ship two men in every fandom they join is just fetishization and it’s dehumanizing because we are not your fetish, we are not here to entertain you, we have lives to live outside of entertaining you and getting you off and often times we have spent years trying to get out of circles where people only see us as sex objects. fuck off. 

fetishizing people’s abuse and turning something horrific into something you can get off to is also extremely shitty and spits in the faces of actual abuse survivors because you’re acting like it’s cute, hot, something to get off to when we’ve often spent years trying to forget what’s happened to us. when we’re still going through this every fuckin day. when people have killed themselves because of the abuse that we’ve gone through. when you do this, you act like what we went through is just something for you to get off to when it is often so bad we are left permanently scarred, our consciousnesses permanently broken, struggling with life-long mental health issues directly caused by the abuse we went through. that is not your fucking fetish.

again--i’m not saying you can’t write about these subjects, i’m saying don’t fetishize them, i.e. don’t act like any of these things can be a good thing, don’t write them like they’re something to get off to, don’t write them like they’re something to strive for or can be in any way, shape or form healthy. write them as they are: horrific, scarring, mentally and physically draining, terrifying, and nightmare-inducing. do not portray these things in a positive light is all we are fucking asking.

inb4 “so we’re not allowed to write characters who think their abuse is good???” or some bullshit like that, no, that’s not what i’m saying. you can write a character who has an extremely complicated relationship with their abuse, for example being sexually abused from childhood and “liking” it because that’s how they were trained to respond to sexual situations, that’s how they were introduced to sex and their body responds to sexually violent situations by being aroused, even if the person doesn’t want to be because biology =/= consent, and that’s how sexual trauma works, albeit not for everyone, but for some people like me. you can write about a character that struggles with “liking” their trauma because sexual violence and being a victim of it is what feels safe, “normal” and familiar to them, while healthy sex is foreign and terrifying because they don’t know how to behave in a healthy sexual environment. that is a normal thing to write about and should, in fact, be written about more because i don’t see anything like that being written by anyone anywhere, and is, in my opinion, FAR more interesting than forcefully writing a character to be in love with their abuser and entirely romanticizing their abusive relationship, (that isn’t to say that you can’t write a character that’s in love with their abuser and wants to forgive them/make it work/ignores the abuse/doesn’t know it’s abuse/etc, just stop acting like their relationship is in any way healthy or something to strive for or cute/hot/etc, just don’t fucking romanticize the abuse they’re going through, portray it as a bad thing because that’s what it is--a bad thing).

that’s the anti-shipper argument: don’t fetishize people, don’t fetishize (sexual) abuse, don’t fetishize (sexual) abuse survivors, and don’t fetishize paedophilia.

it’s pretty simple once you break it down, but i hope my relatively detailed explanation shows you why you’re an asshole, and i desperately hope your friend doesn’t turn out to be like you in this regard :)

*i’m a white person, so if any POC finds this statement racist or offensive or knows of a better way to word it, feel free to let me know and i’ll delete it/change it/etc

[nanamicide]

A life of her own - chapter 1

Summary: Junko Enoshima's blackmail attempt on Sakakura Juzo has failed. Love has trumped despair. Mukuro has to watch her sister's plans fail, and learn how to live without her and her orders. Yet, she doesn't have any particular likes or dislikes, or things she wants to do.

Read on AO3

Mukuro had never loved, nor cared about despair. The only thing she loved and cared about was her twin sister, Junko Enoshima. Ever since their parents had died in that tragic accident when they were only three years old, she had made her happiness her only purpose in life. Since the strawberry blonde loved despair, it had only been natural for Mukuro to join the Ultimate Despair and help her create the most awful, most tragic, most despair-inducing event in human history. She’d had to do horrible things to make her sister’s maddest wishes come true – things she would never be able to share with anyone around her – but she had no regrets. The smile on her sister’s face whenever she saw another human being fall into despair was the best reward for her. It made her feel so alive, as if she were doing exactly what her parents would have wanted her to do, were they still in this world.

Despite all of this, and regardless of the happy chatter about despair and despair-inducing plans for the future between Junko-chan and Yukizome-sensei, Mukuro couldn’t help but feel uneasy. There was something about the room they were in that made her feel as though something terrible was going to happen today. It was probably because too many people had been getting involved in their secret plans in the past few weeks – she had always felt uncomfortable around strangers, after all.

First it had been Izuru Kamukura, the Ultimate Hope that was artificially created by the academy. Mukuro had understood why he was important for Junko-chan’s plan, so she’d let her be in touch with him in spite of how dangerous he seemed to be. Then, it had been that frail animator boy, Ryota Mitarai. Even though he seemed completely harmless, Mukuro got the feeling that he may bring about their demise. Unlike her, Junko-chan or Kamukura, he had people who cared about him. It would only be a matter of time until these people would be worried about how her sister had turned him into a terrified mess. In fact, it had only taken two days for that to happen. The Ultimate Nurse, Mikan Tsumiki, had been sent after him to help him with health issues. She didn’t seem dangerous either, but Mukuro had known from the start that people would end up looking for her as well, bringing more attention to their activities.

Once again, she’d been right. Yukizome-sensei, Mitarai-kun and Tsumiki-san’s teacher, had come looking for them. Of course, Junko-chan was delighted with all the attention they were suddenly getting. This gave her more people to brainwash into joining their cause, which in turn, made her feel stronger about what would come next. Mukuro wished she could be as confident as her.

“Ah, Yukizome-san,” Junko-chan beamed. “I have to go take care of one of your friends right now. You know, the one who’s totally not in love with your boyfriend or anything. He’s been sticking his nose in my business recently, and I can’t wait to see his strong, manly features turn to despair when I expose his dirty little secret to everyone in the Parade!”

The gyaru took a few steps towards the door and glanced at her sister. Mukuro turned to her.

“Please make sure none of them do anything stupid, idiot,” she spat at Mukuro, leaving the room and slamming the door behind her.

She’s right, Mukuro smiled to herself, I really am an idiot compared to her.

-

When Junko came back, an extra person had joined them. Mukuro had expected her to be furious and call her useless for not managing to keep him out of the room – she had left for a quick bathroom break when he barged in – but she was ecstatic. This wasn’t enough to help Mukuro with the nervousness she’d been experiencing all day, though. She was still feeling as though something bad was going to happen to them today, and that feeling was only growing bigger with every single passing second. Komaeda-kun’s sudden arrival and attempt to rescue his teacher – who had since then left to try and gather some of her students here and make them fall into despair – and classmates had had a completely different effect on Mukuro than on her sister.

The skinny white-haired teenager was saying something about how Junko-chan’s death would be nothing but a stepping stone for hope, and how he was so lucky to have found their hideout. Mukuro was on edge, keeping close watch of him. She couldn’t tell if he was serious or if he was just some of sort of comically stupid lunatic. It was only when he pulled a gun out of his pocket that Mukuro realized that had meant every single word he’d said. Luckily for her, the gun was jammed and he spent a few minutes trying to fix it. If he tried anything else, Mukuro would have time to disarm him.

He was still talking about how lucky he was when Kamukura appeared. Mukuro couldn’t get used to his sudden popping in and out of the places they stayed in. She was never able to tell how and when he arrived and left, and this made her feel unsafe. She knew that if he suddenly decided to do away with her and her sister, she wouldn’t be able to put much of a fight, and she hated that. She hated that Junko-chan had decided they needed him for her plan, no matter how sensible her reasons were. Kamukura was way too dangerous, and what was happening right in front of her eyes was yet another piece of evidence of the fact.

The slender dark-haired figured had swiftly grabbed the gun from Komaeda-kun’s hands and shot him, telling him that he also had what was called ultimate luck. Mukuro gasped as Komaeda-kun fell onto the floor. She had killed people before, but it’d never been so quick and easy.

“Are you scared, sis?” Junko asked her. “Isn’t seeing someone who’s better than you soooo despair-inducing? If he were better at following orders, you’d be completely useless to me now. Not that I really need you, anyway.”

Mukuro wanted to respond, but she knew it was no use. Instead, she kept her eyes on Komaeda-kun who was still… breathing? She wasn’t sure how it was possible – Kamukura had shot him in the chest, she’d seen it with her own two eyes – but the boy was still alive.

Thank goodness, she thought. Maybe things won’t be so bad today. At least we don’t have an extra and unnecessary death on our hands.

The tension she’d been feeling all day began to drop, and she stretched her arms in front of her. They would be okay – they always were. Even though she was always in charge of the dirty work, at least Junko-chan’s analytical abilities always enabled them to get away with things, no matter how bad the mess they had caused was.

Mukuro’s relief was short-lived, though. A few moments later, two men walked into the room. The soldier had no trouble recognizing them – Munakata-san, the former Ultimate Student Council President, and Sakakura-san, the former Ultimate Boxer, had been Investigating the Ultimate Despair ever since they’d organized their very first killing game.

Wait, Mukuro suddenly realized, her eyes widening as her thought process went on, this means Junko-chan didn’t manage to blackmail Sakakura-san? This means… They know everything. We failed? This is it?

As her brain processed what was happening, Mukuro’s legs started feeling weak. She collapsed on her knees, a few tears rolling down her cheeks. She glanced at her sister, whose expression had turned into that of a madwoman. Despite their now impeding doom, she still seemed happy, as though everything were still going according to her plan. It didn’t take long for Mukuro to understand that Junko-chan was finally feeling the despair she’d been craving for all these years. Failing meant that she was the one who was falling into despair this time. She was finally getting a first-hand taste of despair, and she was loving it.

“Look at that! It’s the Ultimate I Swear I’m Not Gay and his Ultimate Forbidden Love Interest!” Junko-chan sounded more excited than ever. “What will they do once they take care of the big bad guys? Kiss and fall in love? Of course not, that wouldn’t be despair-inducing enough!”

The two men ignored her provocation and walked towards her, ignoring everyone else in the room. It was clear they’d come for her and her only. Mukuro wanted to move and get rid of them, if only to save her sister, but something within her was stopping her from doing so. If she killed even only one of them, she wouldn’t be able to get away with it. It would have caused her sister more despair, but for the first time in her life, Mukuro thought that this wasn’t what she wanted.

She didn’t want what Junko-chan wanted. She didn’t want to kill anymore. She’d never liked despair. Thus, Mukuro stayed there, silent. She waited for everything to be over, unsure if she would be able to watch more of what was happening. Yet, she couldn’t keep her eyes off the scene, as if her brain was forcing her to witness this – as if this would be of help to her in the future.

Yukizome-sensei had come back in the room, telling Munakata-san something about how she was glad he’d found this room.

Why is she lying to him? We just brainwashed her, there’s no way she would turn against us so soon – or any time, for that matter. Why is Junko-chan not warning them? Why is she playing along? Mukuro wasn’t sure she understood any of it anymore. Hope, despair – it didn’t make much sense to her at that point.

Kamukura took a few steps forward and grabbed Junko-chan, immobilizing her. He’s… Betraying Junko-chan. I always knew he was dangerous. Ever since we met him, I thought dealing with him was a bad idea. Why didn’t she listen to me? Why do I have to see this?

“You guys take care of them,” Yukizome-sensei said, referring to Kamukura and Junko-chan. “I’ll protect everyone else.”

Mukuro wanted to scream as the redhead came close to her, but she had no energy to do anything. She had completely given up on everything. The mental strain she’d experienced throughout the day and how she’d been surprised by the turn things had taken had drained her. She didn’t want to do this.

All I’ve ever wanted was to make Junko-chan happy and I’ve failed. I’ve pathetically failed by doing everything she wanted me to do. She looks so much happier now that she’s about to be stopped. I should have known that the only thing that would satisfy her was making her fall into despair. I was so stupid. I’ve failed her, and our parents. But most importantly, I failed myself. I’ve only given myself one duty in life, and I wasn’t even able to fulfill it. Just what type of soldier am I? What am I supposed to do?

Mukuro let Yukizome-sensei help her up and get her out of the room. She had no idea what the academy would decide to do with her, but she didn’t care anymore. It wasn’t like there was anything she really wanted to do, anyway. She had dedicated her entire life to Junko-chan, and had done everything in her power to make sure she would succeed no matter how crazy and farfetched her plans were.

Mukuro didn’t have any wishes of her own. She didn’t have any future to look forward to now that Junko-chan would be arrested. That was why it didn’t matter what would happen to her. It didn’t matter what they would do to her because if her sister wasn’t free, Mukuro wouldn’t have anything to do with herself.

As Yukizome-sensei sat her down in headmaster Kirigiri’s office and explained everything that had happened to them, Mukuro cried. She cried and cried and cried for the first time since her parents died. She had no idea what her tears meant, or why she wasn’t able to stop them, but her vision was blurry and her mind unable to follow the conversation that was happening right in front of her.  

[the-overgrowth]

Retrospective: “Faybane” #1

This is where it all started, on July 8th, 2016. Although probably a bit earlier than that, but this is the earliest thing I can find that’s actually written down, so that’s what counts. And back in the day I didn’t let ideas marinate the way I do now, I just started writing pretty much as soon as I got the idea.

Anyway, the document was created at this point in time according to Google Docs, and was last modified in October 3rd, 2016. It’s only 3 chapters long, plus one incomplete fourth chapter, and the whole thing is about 17k words.

Which is a lot for 3 chapters. I would say something about how I’m less wordy now, but the latest draft is like 107k words long, so, like, I will always struggle with shutting the fuck up, methinks.

Also, the reason this is called “Faybane” is because that was the working title I used, and the name of this document. I thought it’d be the proper title but like. It’s bad lmao.

Anywhomst, let’s get into it!

Some background info for those who are new or need a refresher: this WIP became a thing after I read and was disappointed by A Court of Thorns and Roses by SJM, as well as The Iron King by Julie Kagawa and some book by Holly Black, was it Tithe?

ACOTAR was the biggest culprit. I feel that this is important to keep in mind as we go through this mess.

We open on Sidra in the forest with a bunch of men she calls a hunting party. It’s clear she doesn’t want to be there, but since she’s the only decent hunter among them and it’s her sister’s wedding today, she has to make the kill to feed the people attending said wedding.

This is, as the kids say, big stupid, and seems like a very ill-prepared celebration? I guess it makes some sense for them to want fresh meat, but this fresh? What if they didn’t find anything? What if they didn’t manage to kill anything? Is the whole thing cancelled? Stupid.

We find out they’ve been hunting a boar and that this dude named Liam, our Gaston replacement, previously wounded the animal but didn’t kill it, causing it to flee and force the hunting party to follow. It’s up to Sidra to make the killing blow, which she does with an arrow straight into its head. This was back when Sidra was still YA Heroine Extraordinaire and the time period was Vaguely Medieval, I guess.

They begin taking their quarry back home and Sidra thinks about how she normally doesn’t hunt this close to the “Faewilds” because animals closer to the border are said to be bigger and more violent. There isn’t an actual border, people just had to rely on intuition and not wander too far into the forest.

She also mentions a girl named Wilda, who disappeared fairly recently and everyone suspects it was the fae. This isn’t relevant now, but Wilda will return in later drafts, I think.

Everybody, especially my family, knew that I was one of the best archers in town, whether I used a bow or a crossbow.

Shut up, Not!Feyre. Nobody likes you.

I should mention that at this point I didn’t bother googling how big wild boars get and just assumed they were the size of like, a thick medium dog. Which is, if you know how big boars are, very incorrect. Four men pulling the animal seems realistic enough, but then Liam just lifts it up on his own? Not buying it.

Sidra laments how much she hates Liam and we find out that he apparently tried to assault her and she stabbed him? And apparently she’s not happy about his marriage to Sinéad but can’t do anything about it because “Father’s word is law” and Sinéad herself laughed it off when Sidra tried to warn her?

Yeah, gonna call bullshit on that one. No idea why this was here or what purpose it serves, the reason Liam doesn’t exist in the latest draft is because I never figured out what his purpose was so I axed him entirely. 

Current!Sidra would just kill him the moment he showed an interest in Sinéad, and Current!Sinéad would 100% believe her sister about something like that.

Some bloke named Connor strikes up a conversation with Sidra, seemingly worried about being this far away from human civilization. Liam teases him about it and calls the fae “knife-ears”, because I still had brainrot back then and liked Dragon Age and had zero original ideas in my head.

The men make jokes about having sex with fae women and Sidra seems so disturbed by this that she nocks an arrow. This isn’t the first time she makes references to feeling unsafe around these men, I have no idea why I wrote it this way aside from being edgy, I guess.

My village was mostly populated by men, and even though I wasn’t one of the pretty girls there, I knew these men weren’t picky, even with all their talk about beautiful fae women. I’d heard that fae women would kill their men after sleeping with them. I had no way of know it was true, but a part of me hoped it was and that Liam would some day soon get “lucky” and encounter a female fae, so she could end his misery.

Edgy, dude.

They eventually arrive and Sidra goes inside her house, which is a simple cottage with three rooms. I think her family are all farmers? It’s kind of confusing. She goes into her and Sinéad’s bedroom, where Sinéad is preparing for her wedding. Also, she’s blonde.

“Sid! There you are!” she said cheerily. “Killed a boar, huh? Good on Liam for taking all the credit.”

If you know your man is trash, why are you marrying him?

Apparently Liam seduced Sinéad with sweets and baked goods. I mean ... fair enough. Considering how Sidra complains about being hungry and skinny and going without food if she doesn’t kill the boar because this year’s harvest was minimal, I’m assuming y’all are starving.

We find out Sinéad’s mother doesn’t let her do anything around the house or farm, to preserve her “soft and white” hands and pale complexion so she could be married off easily. This makes zero sense, you’d think these medieval men wouldn’t have the same beauty standards as Victorian England, plus having a mouth to feed that doesn’t even help feeding itself is just nuts. 

But remember, this isn’t Sidra, this is Not!Feyre. She needs to be sad and put-upon and a victim. She explains how she was never pretty to begin with and thus nobody considered her to be worthy of marrying off, which then meant she was put to work and became even less attractive because now she was so cool and badass that all the men were intimidated by her.

Yeah, in a village that already doesn’t have a lot of young women? I’m not buying this, lmao. But go off, Not!Feyre.

I’d been the one helping around, instead. Hunting, mostly. Sometimes I’d chop wood or work the farm. Marrying out of the house seemed impossible. Marrying up was practically a dream you forgot upon waking. Had I been pretty from the start there would’ve been a foundation to work from, but I was a lost cause even before my skin became tan and my hands grew veined and calloused. I had freckles which people mistook for mud and dull brown eyes, a long nose that had been broken one time too many and a mouth that made it look like I constantly felt a bad smell no matter what facial expression I made. I’d always been of rather short stature and had brown hair and thick eyebrows, which in combination with everything else made my parents call me their “little goblin”. The scar on my face didn’t help me either: men didn’t like it when their women were more battle-hardened than they were.

Oh god please, don’t go off! We don’t care! Stop going off!

Also what fucking parents call their poor kid a goblin? Yikes.

Sinéad convinces Sidra to get prettied up and Sidra is all “oh I bet all the men will just fall over themselves for my favor now huh” which is just the most annoying fucking thing, prompting Sinéad to respond:

“Well, winter is coming and game is scarce. If they want to survive, marrying the best hunter in the village might be a good bet.”

Yeah! This is correct! I refuse to believe people wouldn’t be into Sidra! Not only does everyone apparently know she’s the best hunter in town, but Sidra herself confirmed the men here outnumber the women and aren’t very picky.

This is fucking stupid. I’m glad I axed it. In my defense, I was very much trying to emulate the YA shit I’d read so far.

Sidra’s grandmother enters the stage. She’s very old in this draft, but otherwise unchanged.

She was a short and wrinkled old lady with extremely bad vision and an even worse grasp on reality. Or maybe an extremely acute grasp on reality, depending on whether you believed her stories or not.

Sidra changes out of the dress again to go out and help her father prepare the boar, all while sulking.

I didn’t envy Sinead, nor any other bride. Despite what most people thought of me, I wasn’t some poor ugly girl longing for the love of a man and the security of marriage. Did I enjoy the idea of having somebody care for me? Sure. But it wasn’t on my list of priorities. I was still trying to figure out what actually was on that list. Not that it mattered. The prospects for a poor village girl were very finite.

Womp womp.

We get some confusing and barely related stuff about Sidra possibly becoming a royal hunter for the king and also about where the village is located in relation to the Faewilds. She speculates that maybe the fae aren’t real, but the way she and everyone else talks about them makes it pretty obvious that they are? This was supposed to build mystery, I guess.

We skip forward to the wedding and Sidra is moping again.

“How are you feeling?” Father asked and squeezed my shoulder. 

I wasn’t sure why he was doing that. I assumed it had something to do with the wedding and the fact that despite there being fewer women than men here, I was still not asked to dance. Though this didn’t really bother me, so I just shrugged.

“It doesn’t bother me. Anyway I will continue to mope and feel bitter about this thing that doesn’t bother me.” Hunny ...

At least Current!Sidra has the self-awareness to admit she’s sad and lonely.

 [Father’s] marriage to Sinead’s mother was never out of love, more out of necessity. It was easier when you had a big family.

Except for when this “big family” is 3 people who work and 2 people who are just being fed, right? See, I knew back then that having a big family helps when you have a farm, but I also needed to make Sidra Special so Sinéad had to sit on her ass to highlight how pretty and feminine she was or whatnot.

Bleh.

They talk a bit about Sidra’s mother, who passed away five years ago, and Sidra reminisces about how she used to tell amazing stories. It’s all very ... whatever, and serves only to make this point for the hundredth time:

I wasn’t like Mother. I wasn’t full of life and spirit like her. I wasn’t loved and respected by the entire village like her. I was just her disappointing child whose existence they’d rather forget except when they wanted something killed.

Right after this there’s a really abrupt scene transition. Nothing about the wedding coming to an end, nothing about her going to bed, it’s just ... some while later?

Sidra’s father comes back home from ??? and tells Sidra he saw a stag somewhere, but it was hours ago so she better get a move on.

I’m not sure what either of them thinks this will accomplish? Like ... what is she gonna do with it when she kills it ... Carry it home? On her little boney ass? Hmm? I guess I didn’t think of that because I had meta knowledge that she wouldn’t get it home either way, so who cares about logic, right?

Sidra kills two rabbits while stalking the deer, and despite telling us earlier that she doesn’t venture far away from human civilization and the boar hunting being the farthest she’d been and that she wouldn’t go this far alone, she has no issue dwelling very deep into the forest this time.

Like. Henlo? Can we have one logic please and thanks you? Granted, she keeps stopping every now and then to Feel Things Out, but this really goes against how careful she was before and at no point do we get an explanation to her sudden boldness. Plot reasons, I guess.

She nearly stumbles into fae territories and finally decides to head back, except when she starts returning, she sees the stag she’s been tracking. It’s abnormally huge and has a “dark brown” coat that she finds odd, but of course she’s too stupid to connect the dots.

She sneaks up on it and honestly? This chapter ending still slaps.

A scream of pain left the creature and I saw it topple. But though my arrow hit a deer, a man fell to the ground.

DUN DUN DUN.

And yeah, the ACOTAR roots rear their ugly heads again. I liked the idea of the protagonist shooting a fae disguised as an animal, but I decided to cut out the middleman and just have her obliterate Val right in chapter one. Don’t worry, he doesn’t die.

[good--bye--binary]

How Splatoon 2 Helped Me Understand My Queer-ness

With Splatoon 2 ending its schedule of updates with the final Splatfest (aka the Splatpocalypse) this weekend, I took some time to reflect on one of the things that makes this game so important to me, and perhaps some others like me.

Splatoon 2 will undoubtedly remain on my most important personal video game list for many years—possibly forever. My partner bought me a Switch for Christmas in 2017 and with it Mario Odyssey. Of course the first main-line Mario game would be the first game I would play on my new Nintendo console, and while Splatoon 2 probably wasn't even the second game I played on it (I would guess it was fourth or fifth?), in my mind it eclipses every other memory I have about my first few months with the Switch. It feels like my first Switch game, even though I know it wasn't.

While I enjoyed the Wii in its hay-day, I have a pretty small catalog of games for it, and like a lot of folks, I never bought—nor did I have any interest in—a WiiU. However, anticipating that the Switch would reignite my love for gaming (which it most definitely did), I signed up for the by-mail video game rental service GameFly. I knew I wanted to try a lot of Switch games, but I didn't want to shell out $60 too early in the system's life. That's how I first tried Splatoon 2.

I was a bit uncertain when I added it to my GameFly wish list, but again, I was hungry for any content the Switch was offering in its first year. I really don't like shooters and online multiplayer features are usually a second-thought to me. However, the art style and whimsical tone lured me in for a try. After getting my feet wet in the first couple of hours, I was hooked...puns definitely intended.

I had also just seriously begun grappling with my gender identity beginning in October/November of 2016, and by the end of 2017, I was well into my transition as a non-binary, transfeminine person. I should note that those are the terms I use to define my gender identity now in 2019. From the end of 2016 through a lot of 2017, I was actively repressing using the word “transgender” to describe myself; not that I harbored any type of transphobia, but rather that the idea of being anything but cisgender seemed like something I would never be able to “pull off..” I didn't hate the idea of being trans non-binary, I just didn't believe that I was “good enough” to call myself trans. There was a lot of soul-searching going on at that time as I experimented with pronouns, names, my wardrobe, and use of make-up that brought me to a much happier, more authentic place with my gender identity, but I would be remiss to not also acknowledge my obsession with Splatoon 2 at the same time.

Starting up the game for the first time, I was prompted to create my Inkling avatar character. Like always (as in even before I began my gender-identity journey), I chose a female character model, assuming that I would like the available costume and hair options more than a male character. Wanting her to look slightly queer, I chose the Inkling equivalent of the shaved-on-one-side, long-flowing-on-the-other haircut that is commonly associated with trans women and non-binary transfem people (including myself now). “She's so cute,” I thought, seeing in her a highly-stylized ideal of how I wished I looked; feminine, but with a slightly butch edge. “Futch” as many in the LGBTQ+ community call it.

As I played and absorbed myself into Splatoon 2s lore and aesthetic, Inkopolis, the epicenter of Inkling culture and life in the Splatoon franchise, quickly came to represent a type of gender-inclusive utopia to me. As I logged on religiously multiple times a day every day to see what new clothes and accessories I could buy to customize my Inkling doppelganger as well as taking note of how the other players were dressing both their male and female characters, I noticed that the game didn't make a distinction between “girls clothes” and “boys clothes.” All the same shirts, shoes, hats, glasses, everything was available to everyone.

And yet, I didn't feel like the Inklings were genderless. When you start Splatoon 2, your character begins in a basic t-shirt, a decidedly unisex, non-gendered article of clothing even in the human world. However, as my Inkling's wardrobe expanded, I found her just as cute (and found myself just as envious) in a ska band appropriate white dress-shirt and skinny black tie, a polka dot button up, and a New Wave French cinema-esque white shirt with thin horizontal black stripes. She could wear clunky black combat boots ala Daria Morgandorfer, brown penny-loafers, and neon green Chuck Taylor-inspired hi-top sneakers. However, I never felt like any of these or the literally hundreds of other clothing and accessory options in her virtual wardrobe invalidated her gender. There were some items I liked more than others, of course, but she was always that cute, spunky, confident futch girl that I had longed to be for years.

There's a common misconception, particularly among cishet people, that transfolk want to do away with gender entirely, that we imagine a gender-neutral world were there are no men or women, but of course that isn't true. What we DO want is a world were the gender-binary, where everyone is either 100% a man or 100% a woman, isn't the expectation. To me, that's one of the things that the world of Splatoon 2 represents. It isn't a gender-absent world, it's a gender-inclusive world.

It may sound silly, but dressing up my Inkling and seeing her in this world played a huge part in helping me overcome the expectation (and admittedly some internalized trans misogyny) that if I didn't want to look like/be a cis man, I had to “look like a cis woman.” I put that phrase in quotes because of course it's a very loaded phrase that suggests all cis women have to adhere to a strict gender-binary and wear dresses and makeup 24/7 to be considered women, hence the misogyny. Just like my funky little head-canon queer Inkling avatar, I feel more comfortable knowing that I can wear whatever I want, even “mens” clothes, without being a man.

[kinkinwrites]

Pink Colored Love ~ Ramuda Amemura [Angst/Fluff]

Warning: idk bro, you tell me, it’s just really sad. Also, it’s after the most recent Drama Track, Fling Posse before the 2nd DRB, so I recommend listening to that first if you haven’t, but you do you boo.

-------------------------------------------------------

He breathed out the smoke from his lungs, the smell of cigarette impregnating his clothes. Out of the window of his apartment, he could see his beloved Shibuya. It was early in the afternoon so the streets were bursting with people, every single one of them living their lives without a care about what those above them could do. With one last puff, he pressed the lighted tip of the thin stick cancer against the ashtray.

It was completely unacceptable for his works to smell bad, so he always had to be careful to keep the smoke outside of his home and he did that by standing beside the wide open windows. Sighing, he used the remaining of his strength to close said window and move to the couch, kicking his feet on top of the coffee table. His entire body felt numb from the fight against himself, damn it, Chou-ku had managed to create subjects who were way stronger than he could ever be. They didn't have a single thread of humanity, unlike him they were perfect machines. 

A mix of guilt and something less bitter but more painful filled his chest. He couldn't put a name to it, that sensation, that feeling that had awoken inside of him the second that stupid duo stepped in to help, the moment Gentaro called him his friend. Ramuda's eyes fluttered closed. His delicate hands reached inside of his pockets to retrieve and unwrap one of the various lollipops Dice had found inside the jackets of the clones. The other clones, his brain didn't fail to remind him. He was no better than them… Actually, he was the failed experiment.

He had always hated it in silence. His cute face, his small and skinny body. He was a twenty-four year old man trapped inside the body of a child. It didn't matter how many women he fucked, he never came to terms with how disgusting it was every time he stood in front of the mirror. He wasn't a child for God's sake. Why couldn't he be like Samatoki? Or Ichiro? Or… God damn, he would settle for someone like Dice! And that child-like attitude he had to keep to make everything work like they needed him to… 

His blue eyes opened. And although he couldn't see himself, he knew their reflection showed how all he was could fall to pieces at any moment. Bringing an arm up to his face to choke the sobs that threatened to fall out of his lips, he used his free hand to pick up his phone. Well, the phone Gentaro so gently gave him after he smashed his own. It wasn't an issue really, he knew this number by heart and he needed it now.

You continued to climb the stairs that lead to the top designer's apartment. Were all the other floors sold when he came or was it his Napoleonic complex? Anyways, you were out of breath as you quickly jogged the last dozen steps. Ramuda Amemura was one of your frequent clients and although you weren't exactly fond of him when he wanted to play the idiot, he could afford your fees and then some. However, something felt terribly wrong as you picked up the phone, even though it wasn't unusual for him to call you out of the blue, he didn't use his usual playful tone and when he tried to call you "big sis" it felt off, like he was tired of playing pretend.

In your line of work it was part of your daily routine to deal with broken men and women that looked desperately for leftovers. Leftovers of whatever love they could get. But it sure wasn't something you had ever expected Ramuda to do. He already owned the hearts of multiple ladies with cleaner resumes than yours. You knocked twice instead of ringing the bell. "Come in." 

You gulped at the sound of his deep voice but decided to enter anyway. Pieces of fabric thrown everywhere, cigarette butts filling the multiple ashtrays scattered around the room, candy wrappers on the floor… what on Earth had happened to him? People could argue that you shouldn't care and that with the filthy job you had maybe it'd be a better use of your time to worry about yourself, but you had left society expectations behind long ago. In this fucked up world even someone like the pink haired man, who was lying on the sofa, could go up in flames and become nothing but dust in the blink of an eye.

He hadn't even bothered to look up at you. Head thrown back onto the backrest, both arms covering his face, the end of a lollipop stick sticking out of his closed lips. You took your sweet time taking off your jacket and shoes, leaving everything by the door before tiptoeing around the small pieces of plastic paper that covered every inch of the normally tidy apartment. Although you didn't bring it up to your conscience, you kept note of the unusual deep breaths Ramuda took, and the way his whole body trembled when he exhaled. 

"Can you prepare a bath for me, please?" His voice albeit shaky was clear enough for you to make sure you hadn't misheard. He was asking for it, not ordering you around. Yes, sir, you could. Making your way around the sofa to reach the bathroom door, you made a strategic stop behind him. Both your hands reached down to his arms, slowly moving them down his face. To your surprise he didn't offer any resistance which, to be honest, only fueled your theory of    something being wrong with him. You had never seen the short male look this tired. 

As soon as the idea came to life in your mind, you leaned forward, pressing your lips to his forehead in a soft loving kiss. "I'll get the bath ready, you can relax here Mr. Amemura." His body seemed to stop shaking for a moment as a smile you couldn’t see creeped up his lips. “Don’t call me that.” But he liked it. You could hear the tension leaving him.

Warm, not hot. You swatted your hand slowly inside the half filled bathtub to check the temperature once again before closing the tap, the water tainted a soft pink. Without taking a moment to dry your hands, you stripped off your clothes and covered your naked body with one of the multiple satin bathrobes Ramuda kept in the bathroom.

When he heard you were done preparing his bath, the young man stood up, taking a moment to stretch his sore body before dragging his tired self next to you. He looked up at you for a moment trying to find a reason why it was your face, the one that came to mind when the world spinned out of control. At the end of the day you were just another girl on his bed… even more, he paid for you to be here. Why you, then?

Like almost everyone else, you were taller than him but he didn’t mind it. You were pretty but not like the models that tried on his works and posed for the cameras, you were attractive in a different way. He could recite by heart every single detail about your body yet he never got bored of it. You were a professional, he reminded himself, of course it was part of your duties to keep him hooked. Still, he caressed your cheek with the back of his hands, letting his fingers trail down to your chin.

Maybe it was stupid of him, maybe he should transfer the yen and tell you to go, maybe he should resort to the usual service, to tie you down and have his way but… that sweet bitterness he felt stopped him. You saw his eyes grow teary and tired and just a little bit hopeless. Your hands trembled but your skilful fingers worked through his clothes, taking off his blue coat, putting aside his white shirt and helping him with his black pants and underwear. As you straightened up after picking up his bottoms from the floor, you felt his arms around your waist. 

He didn’t want you to see, not yet. Ramuda’s bright eyes were closed as he buried his head in the space where your collarbones met, inhaling the sweet scent of your perfume mixed with the rose smell that came from the tub. Almost without realizing it, you found yourself threading through his soft pink locks. You were almost afraid of talking, of moving, of breathing in any way that could finally shatter what was left of him.

“Close your eyes for me?” The barely audible whisper made your heart ache but you obeyed nonetheless. He slowly raised up his head, making sure you weren’t looking and only then letting go of you. His hands made quick work of the bathrobe and tugged gently at your wrist, guiding you in the direction of the tub, making its way to your waist as he helped you sit down in the water. “Please, keep them closed.” He asked- no, begged you. He didn’t want you to see, he couldn’t bear to let you see a body that wasn’t that of a man.

He took a moment to admire the scene before his eyes and it took all of him not to break down in tears. You looked so calm, so serene, so… beautiful. The water pooling around your body, your head resting against the wall, your hair slowly getting wet from the dampness in the air around you. Maybe this was the reason he kept on calling your number, not minding how much money he had to throw away. Maybe it was the fact that you didn’t see him as an ex-member of The Dirty Dwag, or the leader of Fling Posse, or even a fashion designer. No, you only saw a man. You saw past his walls, you saw the broken man inside cause maybe, just maybe, you were broken too. 

You rejoiced in the comfort of the bath for a moment, when you felt him enter the tub as well. His breath hitched, as if the simple effort of keeping his balance was too much for him but without receiving his orders, you kept still. You didn’t want to do anything that could potentially hurt him. But why in the world did you care about him? Tears stung your closed eyes at the feeling of him slowly resting his back on your chest, the back of his head finding the perfect spot on your shoulder. He moved your hands towards his torso, your brain picking up fast enough on it and holding him between your arms, a long sigh escaping his lips to be followed by the almost imperceptible trembling of his entire body as silent tears rolled down his cheeks. 

“(Y/N)?” He muttered, between quiet sobs. You hummed in response, your heart breaking at the loss of his playful tone. There weren’t many things Ramuda was truly scared of, probably part of how he was programmed to be, and probably this one fear was the failure in his coding. The terrified faces of Gentaro and Dice filled his thoughts again, the fear they felt not by being in danger but by the possibility of losing him. 

As if he was worth the sacrifice.

He was nothing but a weapon. And useless weapons are supposed to be disposed of. A whimper crept unbidden out of his throat, making you spill the tears you were trying to keep at bay. In his pain, the real Ramuda had stepped out of his persona. He shifted his position so he could hug you as well, holding onto you like you were the only thing that kept him in this world. And for him, you were. He pressed an innocent kiss to each one of your cheeks, and then to each one of your eyelids, a sign you took to open your eyes. “(Y/N)...” He repeated.

He had accepted those feelings in his chest long ago but refused to put a name to them, he wasn’t supposed to feel them in the first place and name them would make them real. But when push came to shove, he wasn’t truly scared of dying. And he was certain that was also the case for everyone else. No one could stop death and therefore there was no point in fearing it, what feared was losing it all. Losing the world, losing his newfound emotions before having the chance to truly feel them all. His fear wasn’t dying, it was never getting the chance to live.

His turquoise orbs fluttered shut as his thin lips pressed a tender kiss to yours. Contrary to what you usually expected his touch was soft, like you were an illusion that could vanish in front of his eyes. Warmth filled your chest and this side of him. If only… no, it was impossible, he was just a client and- Ramuda interrupted your train of thought by licking your bottom lip oh-so-gently, just a touch of the tip of his tongue. His small but sure voice coming right after.

“Please… love me.”