#and idk like maybe i don't want that to be here

[grvait]

old art again!! this time a rough animation of sawyer and yarnaby 😎 (looks better if u click to view 😭)

im working on a short ppt animation rn. im thinking i should post it to my youtube channel, though im not sure if people here would see it. i think i can link videos on here?? idk

okay I'm gonna talk abt more chapter 4 stuff.. this time about prototype's previous identity.. ch4 spoilers and also a theory below..

hiding the solo yarnaby under here LOL

people theorized 1006 was elliot, which was recently disproven in the chapter 4 tape where poppy refers to elliot as her dad and wishes he were there. in the same tape she addresses prototype as a completely different person. also recall that elliot died in the 90s, meanwhile prototype met theo in 1989. so yeah, they aren't the same person

I've also seen people say rich is prototype, which cannot be true either. in a ch4 tape he speaks to one of the boys who eventually got turned into doey. the kid mentions his coworkers joking about him going missing. before the bbi, it would not make sense for this to be a common rumor at the company, which means this tape had to happen after harley was hired in 1990; at a time when the company would have a reason to silence people

prototype existed in 1989 at the minimum, but considering he says "it's always been about you and me" to poppy, he's likely the prototype of HER. she's elliots daughter, she died in the 60s, meaning prototype was probably created around that time as well.

this means that rich can't be the prototype because he was human long after prototype was made

if you want my take on who prototype truly is, i'd say his identity doesn't necessarily matter. i don't mean to say his origins aren't important, just that his name and specific role in the past probably doesn't mean anything in the long run. i've never believed he was elliot or rich, and maybe in the future i'll be proven wrong but for now i'll tell you the theory i've had since june of last year

elliot's daughter dies in the 60s. he divorced his wife in 1930, so his daughter is probably in her 30s when she dies. she gets sick or injured, maybe she's actively dying or already dead by the time elliot begins his research. he looks for ways to bring her back, but it doesn't work on the rats (as he mentioned a note in the 2nd chapter)

so what does he do? he tries it on something bigger as he said he would: a human. of course he's not going to try this experimental method on his own daughter, even if she's already dead, so he finds someone else to use it on. we know that elliot wasn't evil or anything, so it's unlikely he killed anybody to use for the experiment. considering the orphanage isn't open yet (it opened in the 70s, not the 60s), prototype probably wasn't an orphan child either. if i run with my simple version of the theory, elliot may have dug up a body in a graveyard and used that. maybe a fresh one, who knows. he tried it, it worked, then he revived his daughter with the same method.

this is likely what harley wanted to know about in the chapter 3 tape (the "i learn something new about you every day" one), and also what prototype is asking harley to figure out in the ch4 tape they're both in. in that case, sawyer never actually figured out how to revive people with the poppy substance. sure, he can transfer people into the toys, but he can't bring anybody back to life

more reason to believe prototype and poppy are of the same "batch" is because it seems they are the only two who don't need food. it's outright stated about him in the ch1 trailer, and insinuated with her saying the "toys will starve otherwise" when she's talking about how nasty them eating humans is. she refers to them, not herself. her and prototype are probably the only 2 who were ever brought back from the dead, which circles back around to his monologue and gives meaning to the "it's always been about you and me, poppy. what we are". when i heard him say that i felt like my theory was lowk confirmed 😭😭

no guarantee this is right, but it's been my guess for a long time

[wormspoodle]

okay. au thing (?) i needed to get out of my head (its been sitting there for 2 months) its pretty half baked so bear with me

more context/ drawings under the cut:

im not sure if this has been done before, im pretty out of it fandom wise,, but!! this takes place during "Time Traveler's Pig" (s1 ep9)

the idea is that, while fighting over the time tape, dipper and mabel end up running into krampus and henceforth get taken by the krampus and the time tape gets dropped/ left behind in the process (classic)

ford hears the ruckus ofc and goes to investigate like he does in tbob j3 pages and also gets taken by krampus,, dipper and mabel see him and assume it must be a young stan or something bc at this point in the show they don't know anything!

they've never met bill, they only really know/remember mcgucket from the gobblewonker, and they don't know stan has a brother

so they just assume life was hard on stan and he looks different because he's younger (something still feels off to them ofc)

anyway story proceeds how it does in canon, ford is arguing at the krampus while dipper and mabel remember that they dropped the time tape and are also trying to plot a way out, mcgucket shows up and saves the day, and because dipper and mabel don't really know where to go from here, they decide to see if that guy is stan (which he is but not the one they're thinking of)

they all make their way back to the lab/shack for the time being, dipper and mabel find the time tape on the way back and it's damaged (another classic) so ford and mcgucket will have to fix it ofc

some conversations are exchanged, information is gleaned, dipper and mabel watch tv to pass the time and end up seeing on of stan's commercials on the tv and the dots start to slowly connect that something is going on here

those are the more. fleshed out concepts, everything else is pretty vague and undecided but ill also probably never revisit this

some more details/thoughts:

- ford is wearing no winter clothes bc im assuming when he grabbed the lantern to investigate the foot prints, he didn't think much and just threw on his boots or something, which is why he has to take refuge in that cave to stave off frostbite

- dipper and mabel don't connect that old man mcgucket is fiddleford mcgucket bc i don't think they a) think about mcgucket that much to make that connection at this point and b) assume he's just related and not the same person given how old old man mcgucket looks

-dipper does have the journal on him but he's keeping it hidden ofc just in case,, after they find out about stan he'd find out ford is the author probably but i don't want him figuring it out beforehand bc it would complicate things (i also don't think hed show ford his journal bc of. time/ space continuum reasons

- maybe bill will show up or something i dunno. dipper and mabel are armed with the j3 that knows bill is dangerous but they've also never met bill

- idk if they'll find out about the portal, idk if mabel will try and bring stan and ford together, idk what happens,, maybe the time police catch them before they do anything,, shrugging my shoulders

-this au doesn't really have a point i just wanted to draw it bc its fun for me to think about the implications !!

[just-sg]

"If I ever do anything to upset you, please just let me know! I can't fix what I don't realize is happening!"

"^w^ Oh of course! I'm sure it won't be any trouble though!"

[...]

":/ Hey so everyone's been talking and we agree you're really insufferable and we don't want you around anymore. Here's a long list of things we've never mentioned having a problem with until right now. Anyway goodbye forever."

"Cool so this is literally exactly the kind of thing I was talking about but thanks for being jackasses incapable of communicating literally at all. 👍"

Also always fun:

"I shouldn't have to explain to you what I found rude, you should know." Cool. Even if it was true that I should, I don't know! So that "should" isn't really irrelevant, is it. Also have you considered that your experiences are not universal actually and what some people consider friendly is deeply offensive to others and vice versa and that expecting everyone to read your mind about your own personal culture and experiences and preferences helps literally no one?

"Maybe you should actually think about what you say." Funny story, I overthink everything at all times. I constantly delete over half of what I type and rewrite the rest numerous times to try to be as gentle as possible while still conveying my own feelings even a tiny bit and apparently even that's too much for people. I go non-verbal under stress in part because I'm terrified of saying anything wrong; unlike typing, I only get one chance to say it, most people won't let you say "no, that's not what I meant." Clearly anything you say mid-meltdown is eternally binding and the truest reflection of everything about you.

And many more.

Every one of these has happened numerous times. But you know. Autistics are bad at communication. For... -checks notes-... wanting it to be clear, direct, and specific. Idk man I feel like maybe being allergic to just speaking openly even when directly requested isn't exactly the pinnacle of communication skill either but who knows.

a bottom-tier autistic experience is being told throughout your entire childhood that you are just an overthinker when it comes to social situations and later finding out that your friends did, in fact, hate being around you and tried to communicate that through weird little hints

[luvst4rc0r3]

LITTLE DARK BUT jinx x reader following the pregnancy but reader miscarries (maybe the zaun conditions or just overall stress idk) but yeah

OMG, I actually love this request. It was interesting to make.

"I don't want to be here anymore"

Jinx x Pregnant!Reader

WARNINGS: MISCARRIAGE!!!!!! If you do not like that then please leave.

WC: 2106

NOTE: set in Arcane Season 2, Episode 3. This is kinda a follow up from my post "Two pink lines"

PT.2

Jinx had never been good at sitting still.

She was always moving, always fidgeting—hands twitching, foot tapping, mind racing. The quiet got too loud otherwise, and she didn’t like what it had to say.

But now?

Now, she wished the world would stop moving.

She wished you would stop moving.

Your hands rested on your belly, rubbing circles into the stretched fabric of your shirt, as if you were already comforting the tiny life inside you. Jinx’s fingers twitched, her chest tightening as she sat on the edge of the bed, watching.

It still didn’t feel real.

Not the baby. Not you.

Not the way you looked at her like she wasn’t broken, like she wasn’t dangerous.

Like she was something worth loving.

You turned to her then, smiling so soft, so easy, like you weren’t carrying something that could change everything. “Jinx, baby, you’re staring again.”

Jinx blinked, realizing she had been, and forced a smirk. “Can ya blame me?” She flopped onto her side, propping her chin on her hand. “You’re all glow-y and shit. Kinda hot, not gonna lie.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Yeah, well, you’re gonna have to get used to it.” You gestured to your belly. “It’s only gonna get bigger.”

Jinx’s stomach did something weird then—something she couldn’t name, something that made her fingers tingle and her heart race.

She reached out, hesitating for half a second before laying her hand over yours.

“I like ya like this,” she murmured, voice quieter than she meant it to be. “Like… ours.”

You covered her hand with both of yours, holding tight. “We are.”

Jinx swallowed hard, something like panic rising in her throat. She covered it with a laugh, sharp and teasing. “‘Course, now I gotta make sure you don’t go gettin’ yourself in trouble. Wouldn’t want ya droppin’ my kid in some sketchy alleyway, yeah?”

“Oh, so now it’s your kid?”

Jinx grinned. “Yeah, and it’s already cooler than any kid.”

You snorted. “Jinx—”

“No, listen, it’s got me as a mom. That’s an automatic win.”

Your laughter was the best sound in the world, and Jinx clung to it like a lifeline. She didn’t tell you how scared she was.

How the idea of loving something this much terrified her.

How she wasn’t sure she could survive losing it.

ׄ   𓂂    ઇ⠀⠀⠀ ׅ  ⠀⠀⠀ ♡ ⠀⠀⠀ ׅ  ⠀⠀⠀ઉ⠀⠀𓂂   ׄ  

Jinx knew something was wrong the second the air shifted.

Her grip on your hand tightened, sharp eyes flicking up toward the vents lining the alley. She didn’t like being out here—too many people, too many ways for things to go sideways—but you had begged. Just a quick trip, you had said.

And Jinx?

She couldn’t say no to you.

She never could.

But now—

Now the air was wrong.

Then you coughed.

Jinx’s head snapped to you, eyes wide as you hunched over, gripping your stomach.

And then—

Then you collapsed.

“No—no, no, no, NO!”

Jinx was on her knees before she even realized she had moved, hands grabbing at you, gripping, shaking—too limp, too pale, too quiet—

The air smelled wrong. Thick. Chemical.

Jinx’s blood ran cold.

She knew this smell.

Shimmer.

No—no, not Shimmer. Something worse.

Something new.

Her heart pounded as she looked up, and she saw it.

Green gas, curling from the vents, creeping along the streets. People were dropping like flies, bodies hitting the pavement, gasping, choking, some not moving at all.

Jinx barely heard the orders being shouted.

The Enforcers.

She saw the uniforms. The guns. The masks.

And in front of them—

A familiar figure.

Vi.

Jinx’s stomach dropped.

Vi did this?

Something sharp and white-hot exploded in her chest, mixing with panic, with fury, with something so deeply broken she couldn’t name it.

Vi—her sister—the one who had promised to keep her safe many years ago, the one who had left—

She had done this.

Jinx barely had time to process it.

Because you?

You weren’t moving.

She snapped back to you, hands shaking as she grabbed your face, tilting it toward her. “Baby—hey, hey, stay with me, okay? Look at me, c’mon, please—”

Your eyelids fluttered. Your mouth opened, but no words came.

Then your body seized.

Jinx’s breath caught.

Her world cracked.

“No—”

She scooped you up, legs already running, ignoring the Enforcers, ignoring the gunfire—she didn’t have time for this, she didn’t have time—

She had to get you out.

Had to get you safe.

She didn’t care that she was bleeding. Didn’t care that she could hear Vi shouting something behind her.

Didn’t care that the green smoke was still in her lungs.

She ran.

ׄ   𓂂    ઇ⠀⠀⠀ ׅ  ⠀⠀⠀ ♡ ⠀⠀⠀ ׅ  ⠀⠀⠀ઉ⠀⠀𓂂   ׄ  

Jinx had never known silence could be so loud.

The room was spinning, her chest heaving, her fingers numb.

You lay in the bed beside her, so still, so pale, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

She had done everything she could—cleaned you up, wiped the sweat from your forehead, whispered frantic reassurances into your skin.

But nothing changed the fact that when you finally spoke, your voice was broken.

“Jinx…”

She was on you in an instant, hands gripping yours, her face so open, so raw with desperation. “I’m here—I’m right here, baby—”

Your fingers curled weakly around hers.

The world outside didn’t matter. The pain, the fear, the horror of what had happened—it all blurred into nothing as she kept you pressed against her, her fingers tangled in your hair, her lips whispering shaky reassurances against your skin.

She didn’t know how to fix this.

Didn’t know how to take away the fear in your eyes, the tremble in your hands, the way you kept pressing against your belly like you were waiting for something—anything—to tell you everything was okay.

But then—

You inhaled sharply.

Jinx’s grip on you tightened. “Baby?”

Your eyes widened. Your fingers twitched.

And then—

A kick.

Barely there. Faint. Soft.

But real.

Your breath caught in your throat. Tears welled in your eyes, but this time.

This time, they weren’t from fear.

Jinx sucked in a shaky breath, her hands flying to your belly, pressing down gently, waiting, praying—

And then it happened again.

A flutter.

A sign of life.

Jinx let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob, her forehead pressing against yours, her entire body shaking.

You let out a choked little giggle, covering your mouth, tears slipping down your cheeks. “They’re okay,” you whispered. “Oh my God, Jinx, they’re okay.”

Jinx could barely breathe past the lump in her throat.

She didn’t know how.

Didn’t know how to process the sheer relief, the overwhelming love, the way she had never felt more terrified and more alive all at once.

So she just kissed you.

Hard. Desperate. Like she was still trying to convince herself you were real.

When she pulled away, her voice was hoarse, her eyes burning.

“You scared the shit outta me.”

You sniffled, laughing weakly. “I scared myself.”

Jinx let out a breathy chuckle, her forehead knocking against yours. “Yeah, well… don’t do it again.”

You wrapped your arms around her, burying yourself into her warmth, into her safety.

And for the first time since the gas—

Since the panic, the pain, the unknown

It felt like maybe, just maybe—

Everything would be okay

ׄ   𓂂    ઇ⠀⠀⠀ ׅ  ⠀⠀⠀ ♡ ⠀⠀⠀ ׅ  ⠀⠀⠀ઉ⠀⠀𓂂   ׄ  

Jinx had never been good at feeling safe.

Not really.

But when you were around—when your fingers brushed through her hair, when your lips pressed against her forehead, when your hands cradled the small swell of your stomach—it felt close enough.

She could almost pretend that nothing bad would happen.

That you’d both get to be happy.

That your baby—her baby—would get to have the life neither of you had.

She let herself believe it.

Let herself dream of it.

Let herself think—just for a second—that she wasn’t cursed.

That she wasn’t meant to lose everything she loved.

ׄ   𓂂    ઇ⠀⠀⠀ ׅ  ⠀⠀⠀ ♡ ⠀⠀⠀ ׅ  ⠀⠀⠀ઉ⠀⠀𓂂   ׄ  

Jinx woke up to silence.

Not the kind that meant safety. Not the kind that came after a long day, curled up beside you, tracing patterns on your skin.

The kind that made her stomach twist.

The kind that meant something was wrong.

She reached for you—only to find the bed cold.

Her breath caught.

Then she heard it.

A sound so quiet, so broken, that it made her heart stop.

A gasp.

A choked sob.

Coming from the bathroom.

Jinx was on her feet before she even realized she was moving.

The door was locked.

“Baby?” Her voice was tight, shaking, already knowing—already knowing.

No response.

Another sob.

Jinx’s chest squeezed.

“Hey, c’mon—open up,” she tried again, knocking harder. “You’re scarin’ me.”

Still, nothing.

Just more crying.

Then—

A whimper.

So soft, so weak.

Jinx’s stomach dropped.

She kicked the door open.

And what she saw—

The world stopped.

You were on the floor, crumpled, half-clothed, knees pulled to your chest.

Your hands—covered in blood.

The floor—covered in blood.

So much of it.

So much.

Jinx’s breath hitched, her heart slamming against her ribs, her whole body locking up—

Then you looked at her.

And it broke her.

Your lips trembled. Your chin wobbled.

And then, barely above a whisper, voice cracking—

“Why is there so much blood?”

Jinx couldn’t move.

Couldn’t breathe.

You were shaking, staring down at yourself, hands smeared with red, fingers twitching like you were trying to understand—like you were still waiting to feel something move inside you.

Jinx fell to her knees.

“Baby—”

Your breath hitched.

Your body jerked forward, arms wrapping around yourself, fingers digging into your skin like you could hold yourself together if you just tried hard enough.

Then, the realization hit.

Jinx saw it happen.

The exact second your entire world broke.

Your whole body tensed.

Your lips parted.

Your eyes filled with tears.

Then—

A sob.

Loud. Choking.

You gasped, hands shaking violently as you reached down, pressing against your stomach—searching, begging, desperate to feel something.

But there was nothing.

Nothing.

And that was when you screamed.

Jinx felt something in her shatter.

You clawed at your belly, fingers curling into the blood-stained fabric of your shirt, pulling, gripping, gasping—like if you just held tight enough, you could keep what was already gone.

“No—no, no, no, no—”

Jinx grabbed you.

Held you.

Tried to make herself real.

Tried to keep you from slipping away.

But you thrashed against her, sobbing so violently that you couldn’t breathe.

“It’s gone,” you choked.

Jinx squeezed her eyes shut. “Baby, please—”

“It’s gone,” you sobbed harder, chest heaving, fists pounding against her.

She took it.

Took every hit, every cry, every shattered plea, because she deserved it.

Because it was her fault.

Because she should have stopped you from going out.

Because she should have noticed something was wrong.

Because she should have protected you.

Because she should have saved them.

Because the baby—your baby, her baby— was now gone

Your body collapsed against hers, trembling, arms wrapping around her so tight, like you were trying to crawl inside her, disappear inside her, be anywhere but here.

Jinx rocked you, held you, kissed your temple, muttering, pleading, whispering how sorry she was.

But sorry wasn’t enough.

Sorry wouldn’t bring them back.

Sorry wouldn’t stop the way you sobbed into her shirt, fingers gripping her so hard it hurt.

Sorry wouldn’t stop the way your voice broke when you whimpered,

"I don't want to be here anymore"

Jinx froze.

Her grip on you tightened, breath shuddering, heart slamming against her ribs.

“No,” she whispered, voice barely holding together.

You buried your face in her chest, crying so softly now, so defeated, like something inside you had finally given up.

Jinx pressed her lips to your forehead, eyes burning.

“No, baby,” she choked, voice cracking. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that.”

But you just curled deeper into her arms, breath ragged, body wrecked with grief.

Jinx held you like she could keep you here.

Like she could stop you from slipping away.

Like she could pretend that when you finally stopped crying, when you finally fell into an exhausted, hollow sleep, that everything would go back to the way it was.

But it wouldn’t.

It never would.

Jinx knew that now.

Because the worst part?

The part she couldn’t say out loud?

She didn’t know if she had lost just the baby.

Or if she was losing you too.

not my usual content

I want food

[wukyma]

And what if I do want to get you started 🤨

Please do yap about the relationships between Polites, Perimedes, and Elpenor

Guess who is back to the land of the living? MEEE

So here are the offerings: Poli, Peri and Elpenor chilling together, because I'm a firm believer Polites collected friends like Pokémons (affectionate) (also was lazy to draw sheep but they're there) (I'm never letting him beat the symbolism allegations)

The lil guys having a staring contest, interpret this as you will

A headcanon that I believe to be especially funny is Ody + Eury's complete unawareness of the others' existence – and Odysseus' indignation with this fact (he seems a bit, I don't know, a possessive type of kid to me? Does it make sense?)

That or I just want Ody and Peri to have incompatible personalities and argue a lot (something something foreshadowing I'm not very smart in these matters sorry)

(and yeah Polites doesn't have glasses yet. idk why. maybe he always needed them but ignored blurry vision in favor of running around, not wanting to break them? yes historical inaccuracies. do I care? no)

This is a confusing one to me, even tho I drew it myself lmao... Might be set both before and during Troy, it doesn't really matter. What matters is that Elpenor got bullied by Helios and ended up sunburnt as hell :D Polites is just vibing, trying to manage Peri's hairstyle

Now referring to the cut song ("I don't love anybody that's my power", that one), I think Perimedes would actively try to convince everyone he's so damn badass... Except for the situations when Poli is in a 3-meter radius

To summarize, I think I like them in both platonic and romantic interpretations, either is valid for me tbh... Might even indulge and throw some more PoliPeri at ya in the future :D

[lesbianherald]

so i know you're trying to process Coming Home being the top fic now but bestie are you aware that you hit 30k kudos?

ok. ok ok okok.

As a warning, I'm going to get really weird and personal here.

I got these this morning. Just like with the last one I have no idea what to do with this or how to appropriately deal with it lmao but to everyone who has been so nice - thank you. so much? this is a number so unfathomable to me that I've been trying to sit with it all day and simply cannot process it as real.

I don't want to care about numbers. I want to be super cool and chill and above that. but this is a really big one. and I think it also is really reflective of how big this community has grown. I've decided it would be odd not to acknowledge it.

This is one of the craziest, kindest, most lovely things that has ever happened to me. It feels so incredible and validating to know my work reached some people. That is quite literally all I want to do with my life. And now it feels like I might be able to with my own stuff. But its a lil deeper than that too. All the comments and support have genuinely been such an amazing balm during a really dark time in my life.

At the start, this fic was always a method of escapism for me. I've been under so much pressure in my real life. I'm in a really weird, really competitive transitional point. everything I write irl may make or break the rest of my career. It is a type of pressure I'm incredibly grateful and privileged to have, but still stressful nonetheless.

But then, as i was writing this fic, it became way more of a lifeline. Not to get too personal, and idk if people paid attention to my end notes, but if you did you'll note I fell victim to the ao3 curse last October in a really big way. I lost a dear friend of mine very suddenly.

Starting coming home was a way for me to write something just to write it, knowing that I could be myself and do whatever I want and just throw shit at the wall without worrying about anything. after my friend passed away, the escapism of it became that much more valuable. (btw I would not post about it were I not in a much better place with it so don't worry about me <3)

I feel like maybe it's important at this point to explain the meaning of all the support because I've genuinely been unable to express it in a way I find appropriate. every piece of art every sweet comment etc. etc. helped get me through this really weird, sad, shocking time. As "cringe" as it might seem... fandom and fanfic can be really meaningful, powerful, and connective.

All this being said. coming home was definitely released in the right time for this to happen. A multichapter released right before and during season 2 as well as in the months after? Like. It was primed for this a bit (not intentionally but still) So many fics that get posted now deserve the same amount of love and support.

I really hesitate with numbers. sharing them, abiding by them, gaining value from them. I also get nervous about how people will feel entitled to treat me because of them. But this is so insane it feels weird not to say a bigger thank you.

[arabellasleopardcoat]

I am having breakfast before I leave for work, and I stopped eating my toast in fascination during the end of this chapter.

Is Daemon... Growing up?! Incredible. Fascinating. A thing they should study at universities. I truly didn't think him capable of it, so credits to your writing for redeeming him after all he is done in this fic and still being believable.

I do not know if they should have a baby because I love this reader too much and you confessed on planning to kill her before, you evil woman, so I will hope they use contraception.

Also, may I ask what does reader have in your head? Like, the maesters say nerves and a weak body, Otto says hysteria, she says she is doomed to death. But she must have something inspired by our world sickness, I think? Untreated asthma maybe? Fibromyalgia? Another sort of autoinmune disease?

Talking about otto....

OTTO COME HERE I JUST WANT TO TALK

(BTW, my gifs are from tumblr, I just look up the concept on mobile, which allows better results than my computer, but Idk if that is true or my perception. In this case, "murder" Then I scroll until I like one)

I want to say that even though baby Aegon and the Arryks are my favorites and my precious babes, Laenor is becoming a close second. When you said this:

"You hark aimlessly so like my twin."

It got me thinking of how similar Gwayne and him are in this fic! And in canon, both younger brothers to amazing women (I believe everything you write so much I hadn't noticed because I was thinking Gwayne was a twin in canon, when no) I don't know, it tickles my brain the right way. It's just one of those things, I love parallels.

As always, your writing is amazing! I loved how this chapter showed so so much character developing. I am impressed by Daemon's arc and envy you a bit the fact that you can craft such amazing plots and I can't! But it's fine because I get to read them!

Cannot wait to see what comes next for these two. Also, how I will go to work after reading this:

Tormented Spirit | 17

Part 1 [...] 14 15 16 17 18

"Is it such a sin to stand up for yourself?" you mutter as tears blur your vision. The way he reacted was visceral, instinctive even. "You never have to stand up for yourself ever again," says Daemon, reaching a hand to you, "come."

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader | 5k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has brown hair, wife!reader, twin!Gwayne, arranged/forced marriage, canon divergence, alternate universe, slow burn, DD:DNE, violence, pregnancy, miscarriage, panic/anxiety attacks, suicidal ideation, attempted suicide, daddy issues/child abuse/family problems, mentions/depictions of mental/physical/psychosomatic illness, ye old misogyny, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: my mum and i got into an argument after my cat died and now i remember why i wrote this | cross posted on ao3

@arabellasleopardcoat @prettybiching @astrogirl01

You walk across the dragon pit, making your way back to Laenor, who was petting his mount. "Hello."

He turns and smiles, "hello. He watches how you pick the petals of the flowers he gave, "where's-"

Before he can finish, the sound of a dragon screeching and soaring of echoes across the pit. His own dragon huffs and bleats, making you turn to it.

"What's the name of your mount?"

Leanor looks at you as you near the beast, "Seasmoke— eh," he dashes in front of you, "careful," he takes your arm, "he's not hostile, I don't think, but then again, he's my ride and I'm biased. Regardless, Seasmoke is, in fact, a dragon."

"Ah," you step back, "forgive me, I-"

"Found yourself very comfortable around Caraxes?" Leanor smiles at me, rubbing your arm, "I'm surprised. The wyrm is rather cranky..." he leads me to his dragon, "not unlike his rider, no?"

Your eyes remain on him as Seasmoke screeches. The dragon sounds nothing like Caraxes, neither does he look or even smell the same, which you think is rather interesting.

"You may touch him if you like," Laenor smiles, stroking his dragon's scales. Seasmoke purrs, almost like a cat.

You rub your hands before touching the beast, "rytsas." Hello.

Laenor's brows quirk.

"Skorkydoso gaomagon gaomā?" How do you do?

He chuckles, "when did you learn High Valyrian?"

"While you and Daemon were in the St-" you squeal when Seasmoke shoves you with a roar, earning an equal reaction from his rider. Laenor snaps and swats his ride, commanding him to obey, to be gentle.

Your heart races and continues to against yourself. You clutch your chest, feeling a telltale uncomfortable tightening. Gods, please, not in front of Laenor.

You vaguely hear him chide the dragon for being cheeky in High Valyrian, and you suppose he says something to you, but your lungs are too constricted for you to hear. For a moment, as you feel your legs begin to buckle under the weight of your breath, or rather, lack thereof, you realize you were treating Seasmoke awfully familiarly. He gave you a simple correction, and now your weak heart was going to make him look like a villain.

"Apologies for— prin-" Laenor grunts as he catches you just as you topple. You crumble into his chest and drop your flowes. You both end up on the floor as you try to catch your breath.

Laenor looks around. He orders the dragon keepers to bring his ride to the pit and he pulls you into his arms, "can you stand?"

Stand? You can barely breathe.

Your silence, paired with the tangible tremors of your body, is enough answer for him. He maneuvers around you, arms wrapping over your form. His stomach drops at the greyness of your skin, but he tells himself he's merely imagined it. He quickly carries you out of the pit.

Alternatively, Daemon is idle in the sky. The sun beats down on his skin as the wind scratches through his hair. There is no thrill in it however, no reprieve. What's more, Caraxes seems to stagger halfway through the flight. The usual agility of his lithe body dwindles the longer they fly, and his rider is rightfully concerned. He turns back before they go very far.

When they arrive at the pit, Seasmoke is no longer there. Daemon is alarmed by the way Caraxes lands. It's not at all like his usual demeanor. He drips into saddle and yelps when Caraxes flops and crashesbelly down on the ground. The dragon keepers are as equally concerned as Daemon upon witnessing this.

Daemon dismounts and gazes upon his mount. One of the senior keepers asks him, "skoros iksis pirta lēda Caraxes, ñuha dārilaros??" What is wrong with Caraxes, my prince?

"Nyke ȳdra daor gīmigon," Daemon mutters, "ziry massitas hen daoriot." I don't know. It happened out of nowhere.

The prince watches as one keeper brushes Caraxes by the snout. The dragon huffs and closes his eyes, rolling on his belly. Daemon's brows furrow tightly and his lips part. This was severely unlike his vicious mount— falling prostrate? He was deeply concerned.

Daemon explains to the keeper that his dragon was well earlier today, in the funeral, and when they just got back from it. It was only after they had flown again did Caraxes begin to act rather dreary.

The keepers try to feed Caraxes but he does not eat. They try to bring him into the pit, but he does not stand. It troubles Daemon. He does not wish to leav, but as much as his heart aches for his companion, it bleeds for you.

"Laenor."

Laenor freezes upon hearing your voice. He had already managed to carry you halfway towards the maester's ward when you regained your voice. He looks at you, brows furrowing at the sight of the tears you'd silently shed. He speaks your name.

"Will you set me down?"

Laenor nods and slowly brings you to your feet. You wobble against the young prince and lean your weight into him as you find your footing. You shudder, struggling to keep yourself upright. A shameful heat wraps around your body. I hate to have you see me like this.

"Hush," Laenor mutters, guiding you to the window sill.

You look up at him, brows furrowing.

"Are we not friends?" he tilts his head, "do friends not help friends?"

Gods... you had said that aloud. You were losing yourself. You shake your head, "yes, but-"

"But what?" Laenor purses his lips, "but if I could not find the strength to stand, surely you would do all you could to help me."

You frown.

He follows suit as you sit by the window. He squeezes your arm, "it's just me, the same Laenor you wrote heartfelt letters to."

Your brows furrow. You gulp as your throat tightens, "I never wrote to you about my affliction."

He shrugs, taking your hand in his, "it is your prerogative what you do and do not wish to tell me."

"I am dying."

He does not respond.

"I'm already dead inside."

He hums, "how macabre," he looks off, "I was rather hoping you'd bring up something more mundane, like how the drapes in these halls are rather plain, considering the fact we are in the capital castle."

You stare at him for a moment.

He looks back at you, "it's safe to say the king cares little for drapes."

You snort and shake your head.

A faint smile spreads across Laenor's lips. He squeezes your hand, "I suppose that is good. A king has much more to worry about than the drapes that drape across his halls."

You release a deep breath. The heaviness of your shoulders become apparent to you. You tentatively lean into Laenor's shoulder; he shifts towards you, offering his arm.

"You hark aimlessly so like my twin."

He steals a glance of you, lips curling into a soft smile, "you speak this as if you believe it would offend me."

"It should."

He chuckles and examines the texture of the wall in front of him, "to be likened to Ser Gwayne is an honor."

You snort and roll your eyes, "it should not be. He is ugly."

"He has your face."

"He does not!" you pull away to look at him, "pray tell, do you think I am comely?"

Laenor looks at you. He purses his lips where yours curl mischeviously.

You raise your brows and snort, "my point exactly."

"Your beauty is simply not to my taste."

"But my brother's is?!" you exclaim, "he has my face!"

Laenor rolls his eyes, "he does not."

You swat his arm.

He raises a brow at you, pretending to be offended, though it barely lasts. He instantly melts at the sight of your smile. He smiles back, "I am glad to know banter livens your spirit."

Your expression softens, "I am glad to know you will be living here."

"Yes. Perhaps initially. You might soon find me irritating like mine own sister does."

You share a chuckle. You shake your head and come to a stand; the prince immediately does the same. You link arms with him and begin walking, "might I show you the gardens, my prince?"

He thinks for a moment, "should you not go to the maester's?"

"They have nothing for me but scolding and milk of the poppy," you tighten your hold on his arm, "the roses are in full bloom."

He nods, "very well."

You saunter to the gardens with no sense of urgency whatsoever. Laenor is good at concealing his worry over you, but unfortunately, you are better at sensing other's agitation over your affliction. You fill the walk with hushed chatter, "you cannot like my brother more than I. I wish to hold your affection."

Laenor turns to you, brow raised, muttering, "you hold my affection."

"Yes, but you've not met him, yet still your prefer him," you whisper.

He looks away, shrugging, "I think he is pretty but I do not prefer him. If I recall correctly, he drank much during someone's nameday and became rather less pretty to me."

You chortle.

Laenor chuckles, turning back to you.

You look at him, thinkinv his eyes are very kind. Your smile turns into a frown as you squeeze his arm, "where were you when they were forcing me into marriage?"

His jaw feathers. He rubs your hand, "you do not want me as a husband. I would not satisfy you."

"I would not ask you to."

He shakes his head, "I do not think I would be able to give you heirs."

You tighten your hold on him, "I do not think I would either."

He frowns, "I-"

"Daughter."

The two of turn back, finding the Hand of the King rushing towards you. Normally, such a sight would cause you concern, but presently, it made you feel only exhaustion... and dread. You pull away from Laenor, preparing to face your father.

You huff when Otto reaches you. The first thing he does is place a hand on your cheek, "are you well?"

You frown and nod, "yes."

"The servants say your husband left you in the pit and your affliction flared. Prince Laenor," he offers him a glance, "had to carry you off."

"I am fine," you mutter, shaking your head, pushing him away.

He lowers his hand, "have you gone to the ma-"

"I'm bringing my friend to the gardens, father."

Otto stiffens. Laenor notices the way Otto's hands clench; he clears his throat, "she has told me pl-"

"Forgive me, my prince, but it would be best if my daughter goes to-"

"The gardens," you blurt, "to show my friend my flowers."

Your father mutters your name.

Laenor knows the argument is quickly going to inflame. He steps forward, "the princess assured me she is well enough—"

"She is not well," Otto blurts, "she just burned her children and fainted in the pit-"

"Why do you despise me?"

Laenor stiffens where he meant to take your arm. Otto altogether loses his words.

You huff at his terse expression. You clench your teeth and turn to Laenor, "perhaps I ought to show you my garden another time."

The prince furrows his brows. He mutters your name slowly.

You shake your head and manage a smile, "perhaps after supper?"

Though he was rather reluctant to leave you in the thick of it, Laenor nods. He squeezes your arm one last time and gives your father a curt nod, "Lord Hand," before walking off.

"Have you gone mad?"

You turn to Otto. He is seething with rage.

"You would speak so carelessly in front of-"

"My frien-"

"He is not your friend," he blurts, stepping forward, "today? Tomorrow? He is promised to Rhaenyra and-"

"He is my friend!" you interrupt. "And my question does not involve him but you, my lord." You shake your head, "why do you despise me?"

He scoffs. He feels his collar tighten around his neck, "you think I despise you?"

"No," you mutter, "I know you do."

He scoffs once more and wipes his face with a sigh, "you stupid, fucking girl."

You feel like you're drowning as tears stream down your face. Your father paces and you gasp when he suddenly walks off. You watch him take large strides, only to stop at the end of the hall to turn back to you. Your heart races when he storms back with a finger pointed at you.

You gulp and step back, but you do not trust your feet to take you very far, so you end up freezing in your spot.

"You are ludicrous!" he pokes the air, "and you are wrong!" he pokes again, face red as he comes back in front of you.

You shudder when he grabs your shoulders and shakes you slightly.

"Despise you?!" he snaps, spittle spattering to your face. He releases you roughly, his chest rising and falling, "you unwitting pup! You've no idea the measures I've gone to ens-"

"DOES IT MATTER?"

Otto clenches his teeth so hard his head shakes.

Your outburst costs you all the air in your lungs. You care little to chase after it, "you fed me to your enemy! Left me to die!"

"I HAVE DONE NOTHING BUT PRESERVE YOU!" he screams, loud enough that his voice echoes in the hall.

Your ears ring and your struggle to breathe.

"Out of all my children," Otto's voice comes out shaky, "I have not lost sleep and coin as much as I have for you."

You manage to reply through the thrumming of your chest, "then you have your answer."

Otto's face hardens as he screws his eyes shut and shakes his head. He wipes both hands across his face in exasperation, "I do not despise you."

"Look at what's become of me," you bring your fists into your chest. You chuckle dryly, "perhaps if you despised me more, I would be better."

"All I've ever done is to better you!"

"Like how you forced me to bear children?!" You quip, "my body could not keep them!"

"If you did not do this, you would have been casted out or killed!" he raises a finger, "you did your duty."

"I did what you wanted-" you groan, "AND IT IS NEVER ENO-"

"ENOUGH!" he snaps and you flinch. Otto grabs your arm, "you are hysterical."

Hysterical. You wince at his tight grip. How you loathe the word. Though you knew it was pointless, you still attempt to wrangle out of his strong clutch.

Even in his vehement vexation, he does not force you to stop. He loosens his grip, speaking your name.

"Release me," you mutter, heart racing.

"No," he mutters, "you need a maester."

You whimper and yank at your arm, "father."

His stomach rolls. For a moment, he hears the voice of his young child begging for his presence. His grips tightens, "let me bring you to-"

"I hate you!"

Otto clenches his jaw. He mutters your name.

"You will not let me be happy. You will not let me die."

He shouts your name.

"Release me!" you whimper, begging to feel light headed.

Finally, he does.

You gasp when you topple into a wall. You are shocked when arms come around you. You turn, breath staggering, eyes meeting the hard face of your husband.

"If you ever touch her," Daemon mutters, hands clutching your waist and arm. He pulls you into him, "if I even hear that you touched her- nyke hobrenka kivigon jaehossi uēpossi arlȳssī-" I fucking swear by the old gods and the new—

You can feel him trembling against you. You will yourself to breathe in deep to try and calm yourself. Your hand comes to his cheek.

Otto draws breath, "my daughter is-"

"Do NOT fucking call her that," Daemon snaps as he pushes you upright only to bring you behind him. His hand clutches the hilt of Dark Sister, "it matters not who sired her— she is my wife."

"She needs medicine," Otto blurts raising a hand, "she is in hyster-"

"Of fucking course she's in hysterics!" Daemon growls and steps forward, "you're her fucking father—"

The Hand scoffs.

"— It's a miracle she's withstood the poison you've been sledging into her throat since gods know when. You're the reason she's fucking sick-"

"DO NOT," Otto barks, "speak to me of her—"

"Daemon!" you grab his arm as Daemon presses closer to him.

"Ivestragī nyke ossēnagon zirȳla!" Daemon barks, eyes fixed on Otto. Let me kill him!

He repeats this twice, leaving you in a fit of tears. The sound of your staggered cries is the only reason he stays his hand.

Otto watches as you crumple into Daemon's arms. He feels helpless to see the monster clutch your cheeks and hold you close. He can see you struggle for air, and it makes his own breath hitch. He feels an overwhelming sense of horror overcome him.

Daemon's brows furrow as you shake your head. He wipes your tears before carrying you and walking away.

Otto stands there, balked, torn, angered, hurt, resentful, tormented. He watches the devil usher you deeper into his hell.

"Maester?" Daemon mutters as he hurries down the hall.

You shake your head.

He makes a sound, "are you certain?"

His throat tightens as you grip his collar, tugging it ever so slightly. You shake your head, "bed."

He nods, heading to your chambers.

When you arrive, Daemon is quick to sit you upon your bed, leaning you on the headboard. He removes your shoes and undoes the braids in your hair. He is gentle, far gentler than anyone who has ever touched your hair.

His face is grave when your tears do not cease. He notices that your breathing is still heavy and ragged. Images of the day you nearly died flash in his mind's eye. He stops undoing your hair and takes your hand, kneeling beside you on the bed. His eyes begin to water, "you must breathe."

You groan and turn away from him, pulling your hand with you. You strangle out, "it is difficult."

Daemon whimpers, kicking his shoes off. He climbs on the bed and sits beside you. He rubs your chest and leans on your shoulder. He cannot help himself; he kisses your neck, "please-"

"Daemon."

"I- I-"

You grab his wrist and shake your head again.

He clenches his jaw as you lower his arm to your lap.

"I can do it."

He gulps and nods slowly.

You inhale deeply and exhale slowly.

Daemon squeezes your hand. He is restless.

"When I die—"

"Stop-"

"— you cannot kill him."

He makes a terrible sound. He shakes his head, "do not speak to me of this."

"I must," you squeeze him, "he deserves to suffer me, to flinch each time my name is spoken."

"Do not die to spite your father," Daemon grunts, "spite him with your life."

You close your eyes and sigh, "and what if I do not want to live?"

You gasp when you hear him whine. Daemon crumbles into your lap. He squeezes your hands tightly, "speak no further... I beg you."

You look down at him. Your heart aches. You sigh and brush his hair, "I would not kill myself. You know this."

He turns his head, one eye peeping up at you, "am I supposed to be comforted?"

"Yes," you blurt, "be sure that when I pass, it is my time."

Daemon sits up, "and what if he kills you?"

You sigh. You take a moment to calm yourself before reaching for his face. He instantly presses his hand over yours and leans into your touch. You rub his wet cheeks, "my father would not kill me."

"Yet he does."

You feel Daemon clench his jaw.

"Slowly... subtly."

You lean your head back. You whimper at the feel of the braids that were still not undone. You pull away from Daemon to undo them yourself. He's about to help you, but then you mutter, "get me shears."

"... why?"

"I do not wish to fashion my hair ever again."

He looks at you for a moment before standing. He heads to your vanity and quickly finds what he is looking for. He reluctantly hands it to you and you gratefully take it.

He watches you undo your hair wholly and bring it to one side. You bunch your dark strands together and haphazardly try to cut it. You cannot, your hair is too thick and the blades too dull; it barely cut parchment. Still, here you were trying to cut your hair. Daemon is silent as you do.

You grow frustrated and look at him, finding his eyes are fixed upon your tresses. Your eyes water, "am I hysterical?"

Violet eyes meet your glassy ones. He strokes your head, "you are my wife."

You grip the sheers tightly before lowering it.

Daemon frowns, "did you not enjoy my braids?

"I-" you stare at the shears, "that is not why."

"... would you like me to help you?"

"No," you look up at him, handing him the metal object, "I am hysterical."

"Do not listen to that cunt," he takes the shears from you, putting it back in its place. You watch him crawl beside you again. He takes your hand and frowns, "you are far tamer than you ought to be."

You raise your brows at his words. You reciprocate his hold and rub your thumb against his skin, "you would feed my madness."

He gazes at your sad face and shrugs, "we could be mad together."

You chuckle.

His heart skips. He squeezes your hand.

"You mean to tell me you aren't yet mad?"

Daemon dares to lean into you.

You do not pull away when he rests his head upon your shoulder.

He whispers, "no."

You feel him bring your hand to his chest. You feel him kiss your hand.

"You are my sanity."

You feel him kiss your neck. You shudder.

Daemon is entranced by your scent. He soon has his hands brushing around your torso, pulling you close to him. He breathes you in like air, because you were his. He buries his face into your hair. Gods, he's missed this. Gods, he's missed you.

You close your eyes and sigh, palms brushing up his shoulders. He takes this as permission to kiss you more, so he does. He peppers his lips across your skin, down your throat, across your neck. He clutches you into his chest, willing you into his ribcage. You gulp and melt into him with a sigh.

The sound encourages him. He pulls you down to bed as if you were weightless. Your skirt hikes up in consequence, and he hisses when he repositions you and feels the bareness of your thigh.

Daemon breaks the kiss, panting like a dog as he examines your from. He gulps, mind reeling at the skin your dress no longer concealed. He remembers what you told him in the garden, how you no longer loved him. He slowly withdraws his hand, feeling it trembld.

You watch as he battles with himself. You dig your fingers into his collar, urging him to look at you.

He does, pupils blown. Your name slips past his parted mouth.

You rub his shoulder, "do you want me?"

"Fuck," he laughs manically, "d-do I want you?"

Goosebumps prick on your skin as he rubs up your thigh. You feel your breathing heavy as his nails dig into the flesh of your hip.

He draws a deep breath and whispers, not trusting his voice, "I want you."

You huff and close your eyes. Your tug his top and part your legs.

"Fuuuuuuck," Daemon whines through a sigh, sinking his head into your neck as he slots himself between you. He curses again when he hears you whimpe. He wraps your thighs around him.

He bucks into you. His teeth nip your jaw. Your nails scratch up his nape and tug his short hair. Your eyes water.

Daemon could peak from this alone.

You mutter his name.

He moans and squeezes your thigh in response.

You whimper as you feel his erection against your core. Your lips wobble. You press your face against his and whisper, "I'll let you put a babe in me again."

Daemon turns to stone.

You begin to breath heavily again.

His voice is muffled, "what?"

"I said I'll let you put a babe in me again."

He lifts his head. His eyes are reddish and his brows are furrowed. Little did you know you mirrored him, if not worse. You were crying, and you couldn't even feel it.

"And then w-hat?" his voice cracks.

You clutch his cheeks.

"And then you die?"

You brush his chin. You cannot reply.

He chokes on your name and screws his eyes shut. He buries his face into your neck and shakes his head. He sinks into you, but he's no longer hard, just sad and desperate.

"... if gods be willing... I'd have a reason to live."

"I am unwilling to gamble."

You lean into his head, "it's always a gamble, affliction or not."

Daemon lifts his head and looks down upon you. He rubs your cheeks frantically as he says your name. He mutters, "I do not even have you yet. Do not be so eager to leave me."

You close your eyes, relishing the feel of his thumbs on your face.

He kisses your forehead, "give me a chance. Please."

You sigh, "I'm exhausted."

His hand trembles, "please."

Your brows furrow.

He examines your face restlessly, brushing your skin in hopes it will coax the answer he wants.

"I'll try."

He breathes a sharp sigh of relief. He kisses the corner of your mouth, "thank you."

[miwiheroes]

Hii <3

Respectfully, can you show me your pov? In my mileven pov, Finn did confirm that Mike "lied" during the confession, which is weird to me, I never percieved it as lying (he said he knew he loved her, he didn't say he loved her since moment 1)

It just puts down a lot of byler theories, they say Mike genuinely has feelings for El, at least, in seasons 1-3, the supermarket is like a checkpoint, since he says to her that it's the first time he likes someone like that, so I don't think he liked Will at that point. I thought he did like Will until the love confession. He is a teenager who is scared of people leaving him, so it makes sense that he didn't say it because he feared losing El.

Idk, I don't see why would they break up hehe

Hi, I'm just a bit confused by ur wording in the first paragraph because you say that "he said he knew he loved her" which is true, but then you say that "he didn't say he loved her since moment 1".

Here's what happens in the monologue. Mike describes "the day we found you in the woods" and then goes on to say "i knew in that moment that i loved you". So yes, he did say he loved her since the very first moment he met her 😭

I would understand your reasoning if Mike made it way clearer and said "I know in that moment that I loved you", rather than making it past tense. Making it past tense and saying "in that moment" makes it seem like him in the past knew that he loved her already, when the evidence clearly shows that he did not know that, nor did he feel it. Even if Mike didn't know it at that point, I still don't think he had those romantic feelings, because, as Finn and the Duffers have said multiple times, Mike felt the way about El as Elliott did about ET (which is not romantic love?? its just a fascination, curiosity and deep care for someone in trouble).

I would believe the monologue perfectly well if the writers didn't write insta-love. If Mike had just said something else about loving her, then I would have maybe believed it. But the writers chose to write a provable lie, which is not the easy way out if they wanted to make mileven endgame.

I understand why you don't want to believe byler theories, no matter how provable they are, because they go against something you really like. But believing that Mike's love monologue is something to be taken at face value is not going to work out in the long run. It would have made more sense to have mileven's story end with the love monologue, rather than have S4 end with it. There are still so many questions like:

Why did Mike call her a superhero and say that she can fly and move mountains when she specifically hated being called that and threw those words in his face previously? (yes i know finn added that part but they kept it in)

Why did Mike say he knew he loved her when he met her when he only ends up keeping her when she points to Will in the photo in S1?

Why did Mike say he knew he loved her when he met her when the writers could have just made him say he loved her without making a provable lie?

Why did Will have to be the one to persuade Mike to say I love you?

Why did Will's queer feelings that cause so much pain for the viewer become a tool for mileven's love without pay off?

What will happen when Mike finds out that Will lied about El saying all that stuff? The stuff that made Mike want to say I love you to her? And that Will actually meant all that stuff instead?

Why did El look so angry when Mike said I love you?

Why didn't the love monologue work to save Hawkins?

Why didn't Mike and El talk after the love monologue? Why didn't they simply write a scene where El talks to Mike and is happy about him expressing his feelings?

Your point about the grocery store scene I have explained in this post.

And yes, Mike is a teenager who is scared of people leaving him??? Exactly?? That's why he felt the need to say I love you to her. Some of u ppl have no concept of care and love outside romantic love and it shows-- Mike was scared of El not needing him anymore, he was scared of losing her. Which is why he was so scared of telling her the truth and explaining himself. He felt that the only way that she could be saved from harm was to say I love you.

But he needs to be wrong. He should be wrong about needing to say I love you to not lose her. She needs to express, or Mike needs to find out, that he does not need to force himself to love El to not lose her. If that makes sense?

If Mike ends up being right -- that means that he was forced to say I love you to save her, sacrificing his true self to not lose her. But he doesn't understand yet that he did not need to do that. Mike still has the view that he had at the beginning of the show: El needs me to say I love you in order for me not to lose her as a person. But in S4, El finds out that she does not need him to say I love you to know that she is not a monster. Her opinion on that front changes without Mike's knowledge.

Mike does not yet know this. So she should tell her that she did not need him to say I love you, in order to relieve him from being scared of losing her by her finding out the truth.

okay oof thanks so much for ur ask, hopefully that all makes sense.

TLDR: Basically, Mike can't lose El, yes, but he only says I love you because he's scared to lose her, not because he actually loved her in that moment he met her.

If you want more on Mike's heroic obligations to say I love you to El, read this post please <3

[darlingdaisyfarm]

You know I've been meaning to ask.. is everything okay? I mean your pfp is blank. I understand you're uploading, but I also want to make sure you're okay

idk if i have some mental connection with you, anon, because how else i can explain that you sent this ask right when i felt so bad??? but yeah i should really put a pfp, i just can’t choose the right pic and at same time im lazy….

honestly i promised myself i wouldn’t vent online and irl because i don’t wanna be annoying or be the kind of person people get tired of. but i guess i just feel emotional rn sorry again

well 2025 kinda kicked me in the face already LMAO, it already reminded me that some people will always pick someone else and some things are just not meant to be yours. i just got reminded once again that i’m super replaceable to person i really loved and cared about. so now im realising that i was just there to pass the time until they found smth better, someone better. and they did, they did and that’s just unfair for me, i literally loved this person for 10 years and that's how i ended up

not exactly the fresh start i was hoping for lol

been feeling like a ghost in my own life lately so i guess i made this blog to just be somewhere, to talk to people, to share things i love, to feel like i exist in some small way. to find friends? idk. sometimes i wonder if i’m just taking up space here, but deleting this blog feels dramatic so whatever. although i thought bout this a lot and still think about it, but i guess im just being... yeah, dramatic, i mean i am, ive been told. so, i don't know, deleting feels rude ? and i don’t wanna be rude, i hate being rude :( i still hesitate every time i post though. and i don’t want to be that person who craves reassurance but damn, it gets lonely and im embarrassed to even say that rn

+ last year drained me so much that i couldn’t even start anything for a whole month. its about my work, i just felt stuck, exhausted before i even tried. things are getting better now with my work, though. it’s actually tied to people and honestly, i love that?? i mean, i love people very much. in general. so whenever i meet someone kind or understanding in my work, it lifts my mood

but when it comes to writing or fics, i feel like i’m always fighting myself. actually i enjoy writing, ive been writing since… 14? 13? so i try, i push through, but nothing ever feels right lately. i don’t know if it’s just a phase or if this is how it’s always going to be. why i always feel like i could’ve done better or that maybe i shouldn’t have posted at all

anyways….. i don’t usually post stuff like this. i really don’t want to be like this, i hate sounding so negative, i really do. i promised myself i wouldn’t. i usually just keep things to myself, but you seemed like you genuinely cared, sweetheart and i figured i might as well be honest, i appreciate your worry! thank u sm angel! ♡

[jd-loves-fiction]

Hey there! I might have an oddly specific request, but like. I am craving a trope but I am too lazy to write anything myself. Feel free to not accept this :"D

Could you write maybe like a *micro* oneshot about Boothill finding his past lover (from before his planet got nuked), but here's the thing, the lover did an ftm transition, so Boothill may have not realised at first.

And secondly, there is a child. Boothill's, but he had no idea.

The circumstances under what they reconnect is up to you. Wether it's fluff or angst, also.

Thank you in advance, cool writer person!<3

🌑felt that first part😭 ALSO this idea is so good rAAAH I CANT STOP THINKING ABOUT IIITT (idk if this sucks but i hope i did this wonderful idea justice my dear, i poured all my love into this ❤️)

ALSO ALSO listened to 'Would you fall in love with me again' on loop writing this cuz the vibes are immaculate :)

Warnings: Spoilers for Boothill's backstory, mention of reader pre-transition as 'her' once but by male descriptors everwhere else, I have no experience writing ftm reader's so forgive my ignorance and let me know if I did good if you can 🥺

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 / 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠

The saloon is lively, crowded, not Boothill’s usual scene but fate or whatever sorry god is in charge of his path brought him here. His mission is complete and he’s exhausted – so out drinking he goes, even though he can barely feel the drink’s effects anymore. He supposes it must be the principle of the thing, a sort of tradition that helps him not lose his mind along the way.

Boothill scans the room by instinct, seeing dancing couples fill the entire room up to the corners – some slowly, some so fast it’s as if the universe is about to implode. A flash of a memory stings at the back of his brain, but he ignores it.

“Uhm! Mister!” Chirps a high pitched voice from below, clearly directed at himself. Looking down he spots a chubby-faced little girl, at which he raises a brow. Why a girl her age would ever think to approach him of all people in the saloon, he cannot imagine.

“Can you help me up, please? I wanna ask for some water,” she asks, polite but determined.

“Oh, well of course little lady!” He responds, gently holding her up and placing her onto the stool, once the cloud of nostalgia is gone from before his eyes. She just looks so familiar… The particular shade of brown of her eyes–

“Thank you mister!” The girl says brightly, sitting all cute and proper as Boothill waves the barkeep over, “It’s no trouble. Whatcha doin’ here, anyway? Y’ain’t alone, right?”

“Oh no mister, I’m here with my papa!” She replies cheerfully, pointing to the center of the room where the most people gather. Between swaying bodies he finds who she points at – twirling a giggling old lady is who Boothill suspects is the girl’s ‘papa’.

The cyborg cowboy no longer has a heart, nor a chest really, but it feels as if it stops in that moment. You don't spot him yet, lost as you are in your own little world, twirling around as sweat builds at your hairline.

But to Boothill everyone else fades as the pieces click into place – a grassfield beneath a starry sky, the love of his life before him, his flesh and bone hands around her blushing face… your face… no matter how you’ve changed, it’s you, he’d recognize you anywhere.

He must be seeing ghosts, surely. The girl’s father must just look like you, that’s it, it has to be, you’re dead… you have to be.

But Boothill knows in his soul that it is. You’re right there, dancing without a care in the world, changed and yet the same.

“Mister?” The little girl to him again, grasping at one of his sleeves and he turns. Her eyes, that particular shade of brown… it’s his, from when he was still flesh and blood. His head hurts. He feels drunk and crazy, maybe he should stop drinking after missions.

“There you are! You should’ve told me you wanted to rest,” You lightheartedly tell the girl, panting as you wipe sweat from your brow. From this close he’s sure it’s you, but Boothill still feels a little crazy for his thoughts. “Made a friend–?!”

The moment your eyes meet his, Boothill is finally sure it’s you. And he can tell you remember him too. Both of you seem stuck in time, gazing at each other like you’ve seen a ghost, which maybe you have, all things considered. The both of you should be dead.

Your mouth opens to speak but no words come out and you’re aching for a glass of water of your own. He’s here, alive and…

“You’ve… changed.” Boothill says lamely – so many things he wants to say, things he should’ve said long ago, things he would’ve said if he knew you were alive all this time.

“S-So have you!” Your voice cracks as you gawk at him, “You’re all… metal?”

Boothill chuckles, nerves eased by the familiarity that settles over the two of you – seems you haven't changed where it counts. “Yeah… it’s a long story.”

“Well, all I have is time.” He can tell you’re still upset with him, perhaps you will be for a while– heck! He’s upset with himself! He should’ve gone back for you, checked, double checked, triple checked!

“Just tell me one thing first;” The cyborg asks, watching as the girl sprints off towards who he assumes is a friend of hers, “Is she…” he points at himself.

“... Yeah. Her name’s Julia.” You tell him, sitting where she was, shoulders still tense as you watch him closely. He’s still as handsome as always, more rugged perhaps, more tired and grim, but the sight of his face still makes your heart stutter with affection. 

Boothill sighs heavily at the information, like the air’s been punched from his lungs, slumping over the bar and covering his eyes. You, alone as your planet burned while he went off to punish the ones who did it, was a heartbreaking enough picture to paint, but with a child? His child?

If they hadn't taken his tear ducts, he’d be filling the saloon up to the ceiling with his tears.

“Hey now, you can cry about it later, ok?” You say awkwardly, knowing you might start crying too if he does. 

He does as you ask, finally raising his head to look at you properly. You’re as beautiful as he remembers, of course you are. You could never stop looking so unfairly stunning to him, never.

Squirming in place as his cybernetic lock onto you, you feel the need to fill the empty space between you – as much as you wish to act like nothing had changed, a lot had, “How did you… recognize me?”

He finds it to be an odd question, of course he’d recognize you, yours is the only face he seems when he closes his eyes, haunting the few dreams he does have like a siren’s song beckoning him to linger within the memories of a better life before he became what he is now, “Y’haven’t changed that much.”

You blink at him, suddenly self-conscious, “... haven't I?”

Oh no, you look upset. He should’ve just said what he was thinking instead of whatever that was, “I– I didn't mean it like– I mean, you look great! Fudge I–”

You’re laughing, open and bright and lovely. Laughing at him no doubt, but laughing, “W-what– why do you– Fudge?”

“Ah, well, that’s part of that long story I told ya’bout.” He replies bashfully, because yeah, it would be strange to hear that coming out of his mouth to you.

Catching your breath and wiping the tears from your eyes, you smile fondly at the cowboy, “Sounds to me like we have some catching up to do.”

The farm boy in him wishes still that nothing had changed, that he could wake up from his dream and lay in the field beneath the stars again, hold you against his warm chest like always and have no IPC blood caked under his metaphorical nails, only dirt and sand from a hard day’s work. But the galaxy ranger he is now likes it better this way – change is inevitable and all things considered, this is one of the more fortunate outcomes of your story. 

You’ve both changed, but not where really it counts.

“That we do, sweetheart.”

[redrayvenrr]

Y'all are sleeping on Sweets headcanons, so I am here to pick up the slack (which ended up becoming a long rant, and I'm not sorry)

-Sweets' bitch from another ditch Gael is a tattoo artist, y'all know Sweets is Gael's test dummy

Sweets is probably covered head to toe in the randomists tattoos. They got at least one full sleeve, 7 of them are incomplete, and maybe like 3-5 of them are actually ones Sweets wanted

But I offer you Nat coloring Sweets' tattoos to the point where Sweets buys her temporary tattoo markers for her birthday

-Essence Eaters live longer than the average person, right? So Sweets could easily be twice Law's age but is still making fun of him and calling him an old man despite him being in his 20's (imagine Sweets being born in the 70's-80's and Law 90's-early 2000's XD Sweets is very happy that ripped jeans are back in style)

I also imagine Sweets with longer hair because at some point they decided that going to get a hair cut every month or so is too much of a hassle for how long their life span is (and I offer you Sweets eventually needing to dye their hair grey to match Law's so they still look like a couple to non-attuned (I'm not sorry))

Also, remember that in the "getting patched up-" video Law says that "this doesn't look like one of the little scuffles you do for fun at the circle"???? Hello??? Street fighter Sweets??? Go kick ass Sweets you got this baby

-And scars?? I'd imagine they'd obviously have the few you get from childhood, and if we're going with street fighter Sweets, then they probably have a bit more than normal. Like on their knuckles and maybe one on their cheek/forehead/lip/ankles or something. But ya know, it's just for fun, and every once in a while, they're not addicted to fighting or anything

But then the fight with Joel? Joel was out for blood, and Sweets practically died. There are definitely scars, one of which I imagine being a scratch over their eye cause I'm edgy like that (plus it makes sense that Joel would use everything in his arsenal to take down the all powerful Sweets which means nails and playing dirty).

But there is definitely a bite scar since he drained Sweets' lifeforce, which is why they were so concerned about Law getting scarred after the train incident. They don't want him living through that pain they feel every time they see their own bite scar (and ya know they can't live with the idea of hurting Law so "please at least don't let my mistakes scar")

-And speaking of the train incident Law stated that Sweets is strong as all hell and I'm here for it and I need them to crush a watermelon and Law looses his shit (buff Sweets for the wiiiin)

-Sweets' heartbeat was already a comfort for Law, but after Joel, you'll often find Law pressed against their heart. Cuddling on Sweets' chest is a must. When Law has a bad day, Sweets immediately presses him against their chest. Hugs often are one of Law's arms wrapped around them and his other hand press against their chest. Law sitting in between Sweets' legs so he can lean his back or shoulder against their heart

-I think it would be funny if Sweets also had an accent (like Bitish or Scottish or some shit) and everyone enjoys watching Nat struggle with her own accent because she'd have the weirdest mix of her father's southern, her mother's average american, and Sweets' (maybe a bit of uncle desdes)

(And while we're talking about Nat, when are we getting her dog!??! Please, I need the household to just become Spy X Family)

-Can we talk about how good Sweets is with kids? Where did you pick that up? Cause I just always imagined them as an orphaned only child? Like I physically can't see them with a family before Law and Nat, but maybe that's just me

(Maybe they grew up in foster homes and were always the older sibling of the group? Idk)

-One order of Sweets being good at the guitar and singing, strumming their guitar while Law plays the piano and singing Nat to sleep please

Sweets being in a band as a teen in the 80's/90's sounds like good blackmail for Gage to abuse (especially the hair) (but like imagine them doing a killer rift then proceeding to sing Def Leppard)

-I think their job would be like a metal worker or glass blowing, and I don't have an explanation as to why

-Sweets honestly feels like the most responsible and mature person out of all the characters they're just shit at taking care of themself and, say it with me: ✨️traumatized✨️

-I also imagine Sweets as a male, but that's my own problem

But imagine Nat finally calling them dad, and they just combust

Plus Sweets feels like one of those dads who drops a piece of lore then never speaks of it again (whereas Law is the hands on hips, legs apart dad pose (you know the one I'm talking about))

The idea of Sweets being "one of the guys" with Law's coworkers gives me life (because yes Love/Newbie is also a male cause if Desmond isn't just a pure gay man then you're wrong (honestly like 90% the listeners are male in my head)idk)

[nthspecialll]

So I feel extremely conflicted about Mary Linton and I'd love to hear your input (and maybe others people's as well) regarding this.

First of all, I love her. She's an incredible character and I understand her actions before and throughout the game. Of course she didn't stick around with the gang and Arthur. It simply wasn't the type of life she wanted for herself and that is so okay, because they're criminals after all. It's totally understandable to feel uncomfortable in that environment and it's totally understandable that she wanted a better life for her partner, in this case Arthur.

I can also get behind why she specifically wrote to him back in Valentine and Saint Denis. I don't see anything selfish behind this. She wrote to him, because he was the only person she could trust with her worries and these particular things. It's not like she forced him to help her even. When you declined the missions, she showed nothing but compassion and understanding.

Now to the conflicting part (which could absolutely just be me). Maybe I'm the problem and that is precisely why I wanna here more opinions about this. I do not like the way she talked to him.

Almost every (but not strictly every) interaction with her filled me with dread. It felt like whatever I (or in this case Arthur) did, she'd drag him down. Like the cut scene at the train station right before her and Jamie leave. She says to Arthur "Ah you'll never change"

She's justified to think that way I guess after everything that has happened, but man...I just feel like it's only adding to his already existing insecurities.

I also wanna make clear that I'm not hating on her! I love her as a character, but I just felt like absolutely dog shit whenever I talked to her and maybe a different view on the situation could change it or whatever💞

I think that is a fair thing to point, and I do agree with you, she did kind of fuel some already existing insecurities, but I think it was a moment of weakness, yk? It has been years since they met and maybe she did have a hope that he had changed only to discover he hadn't. It does hurt to hear for Arthur, I am sure, but it is worth adressing.

I will say she likely shouldn't have said it but she is good at holding Arthur responsible at his own faults, which can be annoying.

Idk how to explain it, I think I am 50/50. I can see both sides.

[reagan-the-saunders]

Good fucking god your art is absolutely atrocious. It's unironically the worst thing I've ever seen. I admire your dedication to the hobby but mayhaps something like a base course in anatomy on YouTube or, idk, looking at an actual person might help here. Or basics on painting. Or anything else. Honestly maybe just don't draw again because good lord seeing that took several years off my lifespan.

The anatomy is SO BAD. Like. Do you not know how humans work?? The painting looks like you did it with your non dominant hand on a mouse in MS paint on Windows XP. And the absolutely deranged audacity to add the "do not repost or use commercially" as if anyone would EVER want to do that, other than maybe a government psyop as psychological torture. Girl sometimes you gotta step back and realise that you're BAD at something, and you've passed that point multiple times. This would be entirely fine if you were like 11 but I have a sneaking suspicion you're in your 30s which makes this whole blog an absolute dumpster fire

Get a hobby. Ooooh I hear art is fun!

[animentality]

I've always harboured a mild dislike for x reader stuff. I never really held it against people because I don't have the time to antagonise them, but it was so upsetting when every time I opened the fandom tag and all I saw were posts and posts and posts of bland x reader stuff that clearly is ooc with no real substance to them at all. So many of the RP blogs seem the same way.

As someone who tries to make analysis posts and art for the same fandom, it is disheartening when I spend hours and hours on an analysis post about a character and it maybe hits 120 notes while an OOC x reader of the same character soars to the thousands. Maybe it's selfish of me to say but I say it anyway.

The fandom is full of youngsters and I never felt comfortable voicing my opinion for the same because it just felt wrong to tell kids to stop existing in communities. But the amount of times I've been put down for shipping characters with each other rather than myself is an honestly surprising number.

Um. I don't really know where I was going with this.

But your post definitely opened my eyes a little bit on even why I dislike x reader so much. It's sinking in a little bit. My hatred for OOC stuff seeps into this, I suppose. So I wanted to say that. Yeah. I agree with you.

Thank you for saying it.

Signed,

A fellow analyser / artist / fanfic writer lmao

— @lunarcloak

I get you, man.

I know self shippers have always existed.

I don't mind them. If that's how you enjoy the media, then fine.

However.

I just don't think that the sudden rise of self shippers over fan analysis and shipping is a good sign.

I think it comes from a lack of media literacy and willingness to actually engage with a piece of fiction. At least shippers and fan analysts actually talk about the world and plot itself.

self shippers imagine themselves dating a character in an au that is completely disconnected from the story, and acting in a way that's not even close to how they are in canon.

which to me is like... you have a creative writing prompt but it's not a story you're actually engaging with. someone showed you a picture of a handsome man and said write a story about how he'd kiss you.

and it's like... ok. there's no crime in just being horny, but... when that's all a fandom is... I don't consider it a fandom, it's just a masturbation fantasy.

I thought the whole point of fiction was to dive into the human experience and try and understand ourselves better. See the perspectives of others. Live vicariously in another person's shoes.

Fan analysis about themes? Perfect. You're thinking. You're feeling. You're articulating. You're growing as a person as you decide what you like or don't like, or try to put together puzzle pieces so that the whole picture makes sense. Shipping? You're imagining scenarios. You're bending canon to fit your interests. You are developing your own ability to write characters, and growing as an artist and a writer.

But self shipping...?

Eh.

You're writing, I guess, but when you reduce yourself to just... idk, some generic girl that Gojo decides is the Bella to his Edward... I mean I'm glad you're happy and all.

But how happy are you

Are you happy at all, or are you frustrated by this aching loneliness deep in your gut that you just don't understand, and it never quite feels whole bc you keep cramming nothing into it.

And it's not the loneliness or the social awkwardness that I'm criticizing here ok, shippers and fan analysts can be just as lonely. I just think that the human relationship to art should be confusion and appreciation.

you should be trying to understand others or yourself.

you can insist well what's so wrong with escapism? why does everything have to be an intellectual exercise?

it doesn't have to be ... but there's a reason people feel so hollow watching marvel movies.

art without substance is consumption. it's a distraction from your own humanity, it is not anything more.

not to you, anyway.

and I don't know.

that's really sad.

I've made so many friends through ships and babbling about canon and gushing about narrative beats.

I feel like I got something out of fandom, if other people force me to see the world in another light. I feel like a story has done its job if it's made me feel something. and it's really done a great job if I feel invested enough to hope two characters smooch.

but self insert?

eh. so you just like the character and think they're hot. that's fine.

not that interesting to talk about either. requires very little analysis on your part.

they just provoke sexual feelings or romantic feelings , which are easiest for you to process, and then you can move on to the next pretty boy you can turn into a Dom.

it irks me, man.

just a tad bit.

[johannestevans]

genuinely don't understand many other self-published fiction people's approach to marketing, which seems to take its cues from like. people who sell self-help books, or like. fucking do drop shipping

your goal is to find the people who like work like yours and connect them with it.

i think it's really difficult for people to envisage this because they're just poisoned by commercialism & capitalism as exists today, where every company is basically trying to strongarm, manipulate, and trick every single person in the world into buying their product

it's not just stupid and impossible from a marketing perspective, even for whatever garbage they might be shilling, but it's particularly misguided to do for a piece of fucking art or entertainment

and part of it i suppose is just like. a lack of identity but also a desperate fear of rejection

in order to meaningfully think about who will like, love, identify with, crave, and otherwise want to engage with your work, you have to meaningfully think about the people who won't

and that's scary bc a lot of people want to be vulnerable by creating art but don't want to be perceived or judged

and certainly don't want to be rejected, or receive negative reviews, or have people say "egh, it's not my thing", as if that's going to be the immediate death knell on their career

but it's just like. the thing of "i must try to make everyone in the world buy my book" will lead to MORE rejection

idk man. who are you? what's your work, like, about, at the core of it? what are the problems in it? what's the pathos, the core tragedy or core comedy, the meaning? what makes it entertaining? what makes it fun, or miserable, or horrifying? why did you write it? that's why people will read it

what's funny is that i talk to straight people all the time who can't do this, and they think that the way i do it is just by being like. hey boys, i'm a homosexual crippled jew, and my work is about that. and then i sell my books to my fellow disabled gay jews and such

which, sure, a bit

but what my work is actually about is like. trauma and trauma recovery. making peace with the many limits of your body and your relationships, and the limitations placed on you by your scars or your circumstances. fucked up monster sex, which is itself radical acceptance of the horror of our bodies

a lot of gayjew cripples and trans folk identify with that shit because… you know. of fucking course

but a lot of other people do as well, my work is in many ways informed by my identity, but the core themes aren't

many people DON'T like my work bc it's not plotted or structured traditionally

"what was the point?" many disappointed readers ask. "there's no actual STORY here," many complain. "nothing happens," many understandably grumble.

any jew or homosexual will tell you - there's no story. there's just suffering, and then you try to make it better, and then there's more suffering.

but you try to make it better, and it gets a bit better. you take your painkillers, you put balm on the wound. you fall down - maybe someone pushes you down. doesn't matter. get up again.

and for a lot of people, that's fucking dull as shit. where's the adventure? where's the fucking stakes?

and that's fine. there's plenty of books written for those people, they're just not written by me. i'm too busy doing my thing. and what i'm also too busy doing is selling my work to people who actually WANT it, rather than trying to trick people into buying it who won't.

part of the horror of meaningfully looking at your work and going, "okay, who is this for, and who is it NOT for?" is like. not just accepting your limitations, but also having genuine faith in your work. some people won't like it, but some people will fucking adore it. and you have to lean into it

and mostly stop paying for fucking facebook ads. jesus wept. what's wrong with you.

[m00nkissedlover]

・｡Hey Siri! 📱

You've ordered: butterscotch ice cream! enjoy!

"But maybe that's the way I feel."

modern au! Sirius Black x reader | word count: 515 words

Summary: your boyfriend is jealous...of your smartphone? 📱

Warnings: none!

Note: very short, silly little drabble i came up with! idk, personally, i thought it was a funny idea.

"Hey Siri, tell me where the nearest coffee shop is."

'The nearest coffee shop is Muggle Brew Bakery and Cafe, 1.5 miles away. Would you like for me to place an order?' your smartphone answered in a timely manner.

"Great! Yes, go ah-!"

"Babe, the nearest coffee shop is Muggle Brew! Want me to order something for you?" your boyfriend, Sirius yelled from the next room.

You had to stifle a laugh, poking your head into your shared bedroom. This often happened since your nickname for him just so happened to be Siri.

"Thanks, Siri already told me." you said, holding up your phone.

"Oh. Of course, a thousand thank you's Siri for helping my girlfriend." Sirius responded in the most sarcastic tone ever.

You rolled your eyes playfully and poked him in his side, getting into bed to cuddle with him.

---

"Hey Siri, what time is it?" You asked as you scribbled something down in your planner.

'The current time is-'

"3:55! It's 3:55 pm, babe." Sirius exclaimed as he slid into the dining room.

You set your pencil down and stared at him for a moment, an endearing smile forming on your lips.

"Did you come all the way here just to beat Siri?"

"What? Pssh! No, that's ridiculous." Sirius said, and as you turned back to your planner, you swore from the corner of your eyes you could see him stick his tongue out at your phone.

You shook your head, laughing to yourself at your boyfriend's adorable behavior.

---

"Siri, can you get me some chips?" you asked as you lounged on the couch.

'Here's what I f-'

"Not you, Siri! Sirius! Siriiii!" You called out, getting up from the couch and going into your room, where Sirius was scrolling through his phone mindlessly.

"Sirius, you didn't hear me calling you? I wanted a bag of chips."

"Why don't you ask Siri to get them for you?"

"Sirius, are you serious right now?"

"Yeah. Go get your phone and ask Siri to get you chips. I'm sure she'll get some delivered or something." he grumbled.

You narrowed your eyes at him before lunging forward and flopping on top of him. A surprised "Oof!" left Sirius as the wind was knocked out of him.

"What the-?"

"1) Siri doesn't have legs to get me chips. 2) Siri is also your nickname. 3) I'm sorry for making you feel like I don't need your help. I'll always need your help and vise versa."

Sirius's stern stare faded immediately as you cupped his face in your hands and kissed his forehead. He hummed, nodding his head, a goofy grin now plastered onto his lips.

"It's okay. I was just messing with you, sweetheart. Some stupid smartphone assistant could never replace the all knowing Sirius." he said, a cocky grin on his face.

"Hey Siri-!" Sirius cut you off by grabbing you in a big bear hug, rolling over to pin you beneath him.

You laughed, leaning up and pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

"I guess I won't be needing Siri anymore." 📱

© m00nkissedlover, 2025