#and if i yearn for it too hard something is inevitably going to go wrong do you understand me

[virgin-superstar]

you guys know that part in The Stranger where meursault is sitting in jail and the wild hope of not being sentenced to death is so fleeting and agonizing he has to mentally beat himself out of thinking about it. well. i know exactly how that feels but for grad programs

[peachdues]

ALL THE THINGS WE LEFT UNSAID — NSFW TEASER

Tengen’s Bundle of Joy • secret pregnancy AU

A/N: oh yeah, this isn’t going to go wrong in the slightest, not at all —

CW: MDNI • explicit sexual content below

READ THE PROLOGUE HERE

Uzui slumps against the doorframe with a quiet exhale. “Look at you.”

The sound of his voice is enough to set you on edge, but the sight of him nearly knocks you over. It’s unfair that such an insufferable pain in the ass would be so damn pretty.

You scowl and the child in your belly shifts, sensing your unease. “Get out. I’m in no mood for your insults or mockeries —“

“You’re beautiful.” He chances a single, cautious step past the entryway, eyes dazed as he stares at you, as though in a trance.

“Why are you here?”

That seems to catch his attention, the dazed fog in his eyes clearing with a few, quick blinks. “I wanted to see how you were.” He swallows, hard. “How you both were.”

Warily, you step back, turning your hips away from him. “You’ve known where I was for months, and you wait until now?” You don’t bother to hold back the chill in your tone. Better to keep the distance between you firm rather than have to make up the slack when he inevitably decides to cross your boundaries.

——

“I can help,” his exhale is hot against your neck, though not more so than his hands as they skim down your shoulders. His fingers play with the opening in your robe. “You know I can. You don’t have to endure this alone.”

Oh, he could. He’d done such wicked things to you with just his mouth and hands alone, never mind what he done with the rest of him, so thick and hard.

The warmth bleeding into your back is like a drug, and you can’t help but melt into him as he ghosts his lips along the slope of your shoulder.

“Do you know how I’ve dreamed of you?” Surprisingly limber fingers push beneath the front folds of your yukata to graze the bare skin above your collar bone. Though the room is warm thanks to the fire cracking merrily in the hearth, you find yourself shivering as your robe teases lightly across your skin, baring more of you to the open air.

The breadth of the Sound Pillar’s forearm across your chest keeps you locked in place against him. “I’m at your mercy every time I fall asleep.”

“Uzu — oh,” your head thuds against his sternum when his fingers — those damn fingers — find your exposed breast.

“You realized it too that night, didn’t you?” The slow parting of your robe from your shoulders spreads goosebumps over your skin where the fabric drags. Between his hands and the teasing caress of your robe sliding down your arms, every nerve in your body comes alive. You sink further into him, bare from the top of your rounded belly, up.

Uzui’s arms swallow you up from behind, and his lips find your shoulder. “That we were made for one another? It’s why we didn’t stop, isn’t it?”

Too much; his hands are too warm, his mouth far too soft where it dances along your desperate skin. It’s been so long since you’ve been touched by anyone, let alone by someone whose caress almost could pass for something reverent. Loving.

It’s been so long since anyone cared.

“Aren’t you tired of us playing this game?” He asks, as though you’d been the one responsible for putting the pieces on the board. “Why do we have to keep dancing around it?”

Uzui doesn’t say what exactly it is he speaks of, and you know better than to ask. It is a door that cannot be shut once opened, and there is no point in trying to force it, anyways.

After all, you were not the one who locked it in the first place.

He drops to his knees before you, staring up at you with something like awe.

“I want you both to be mine.” He whispers, his forehead pressing to the generous swell of your stomach before he peers up at you. for a moment, all of the heat brimming in his eyes is smothered out by pure yearning, earnest and desperate.

“My baby,” his gaze remains locked with yours even as his lips softly graze your navel. “My woman.”

His lips travel down the outward curve of your stomach, every kiss an act of worship, until he pauses right before the dip in your thighs.

“Just say yes,” he urges, mouth hovering dangerously —infuriatingly close to where you ache. “I’ll take care of you both, I swear it.”

He seems so earnest. It is almost easy — too easy — to forget what led you here, heavily pregnant with his child.

You’d be more useful dead.

being horny doesn’t fix your problem, idiot

[soapoet]

Your first time with them (18+)

like & rb if it resonates ♡

01.

Shufflemancy: Bad seed by Beach weather

Your first time with your person is like the reward of a good hunt, the prey finally caught, and the chase coming to an end to make room for the feast. It may have been an extended game of knowing looks and eyes burning with desire across the room. It may have not been appropriate then, and for some this could mark the end of a right person wrong time scenario. Either one of you may have ended a relationship the other was anticipating, knowing their door would be the first to be knocked on once these prior entanglements had been cut loose and moved on from. There really seems to be no surprise here, as you were already intimate through longing stares. Those wandering eyes frequently looking to catch glimpses of prized skin you knew was inevitable for you to claim.

Time seems to be a scarce currency after this dreadful wait, so none is wasted. The push and pull dynamic that was there all along finally expresses itself physically, with almost aggressive passion, as though the two of you are getting back at each other for the wait. You both want everything all at once but try to pace yourselves to the best of your abilities, hard though it seems, considering you both want to sink your teeth into each other. Clothes, another irritating barrier it seems, come off on the way down halls and over thresholds, desire and desperation painting the bedroom walls long before you finally collapse into the sheets to claim and to be claimed.

You are both active participants, and this is not an act that happens to one at the hands of the other, but a dynamic escapade leaving you both breathless. Movement crafted in perfect synchronicity as though your bodies were meant to partake in this dance together all along. This could go on for quite a while as you're making up for lost time, and the need to merge with each other fully, to make two become one, becomes all-consuming, and the pleasure intoxicating like the finest, most exquisite wine. This is truly all those illicit daydreams becoming realised at last, hands and eyes and lips and tongues demanding to find and imprint upon everything you could not before, back when it was forbidden or impossible to make true due to unfortunate and frustrating circumstances. This release of anticipation, the thrist quenched at last, lends so much stamina and passion, the desire to continue on and on and on, to dive back into the linens when your breaths are caught time after time, to again and again chase down pleasure and lay claim to the hills and valleys of flesh you've yearned for.

02.

Shufflemancy: Dress by Taylor Swift

The chemistry was undeniable for quite a while, wasn't it? Though it was thinly veiled in confusion and many doubts and what ifs, the both of you could see it all along. Just how perfectly you could fit like puzzle pieces together in an intricate web of art. It seemed to be but a matter of time before the sparks would cause everything to catch on fire. You may have spent a bit of time in mutual pining, and worse yet, the both of you were well aware, though doubts clouded your judgement. Certain you were deluding yourself, reading much too far into it, there always had to be some rational explanation, and yet, each and every time you two would meet, those doubts and their noise were nowhere to be seen. The only music playing which you knew for certain were the feelings you held for the other, and how every glance and word and the language spoken by their physical body told you that it was true. That the feeling was mutual.

Something that stands out to me is that there is next to no physical contact prior to the first time with your person. You spend quite a bit of time in each other's presence, though somewhat sparce, few and far in between, and when you do the air in the room seems ablaze as your minds mingle when you speak. But physically? You may sit or stand close enough, but there is almost like a barrier between you, a yellow tape saying do not cross, invisible to all but the two of you who seem so aware of this ravine without a suspension bridge. Once contact is made it is done in earnest. Pressure previously held back now boiling over in an overwhelming mess. It may be that both of you struggle to find the balance between rough and gentle. A desperate explosion of need once the leash has been let go of and you two may finally lunge at each other, tugging and pulling at fabric and limbs to quickly tie yourselves into a double knot.

For some of you this can occur first inside an official building of sorts, or where this display of affection and desire appears improper or ill-advised. An office, a classroom, dormitory, studio, somebody else's home, or any place where there are people not too far and the chance of getting caught is high and your actions considered very risky. There will be a pause and an interruption to these advances, mostly due to your own sensibilities. Nervous smiles and quiet sorry's exchanged for the sudden charge and uncontrolled eruption of passion, and even quieter arrangements made to continue this journey in a better location at a better time. Even then, once truly given privacy and freedom to explore each other, few articles of clothing make it off your bodies as you embrace, because the need has by then grown immeasurable and requires immediate release, and may be rather rough around the edges, with desperation leaving behind many marks across flushed skin.

03.

Shufflemancy: I'm with you by Vance Joy

How delightful and sweet it can be, the intimacy between two who have journeyed through life together for long enough to truly know and trust each other. This connection feels quite pure and quaint, but giddy and bright like a fizzy drink. There is a firm and stable foundation which the two of you stand upon, always able to lean on one another, with so many secrets to share and jokes no other could understand whispered, or simply relayed in knowing looks. For some, this is a lifelong friend, a bond built upon over many years, and for others this is one of those friends who you meet seemingly once in a lifetime, wherein two weeks is all it takes to feel as though you have spent decades side by side.

So what then, when those delicate feelings begin to grow and bud and bloom? For a while you may both hide those petals, certain that though they are so soft and delicate, they would cut and tear that which you have built together. It slowly but surely grows past any veils you try to hide them behind, and the two of you both notice, yet dare not say. This line right between friendship and something more, such a scary one to cross, a terrifying leap of faith to take when the concern is that something so precious could shatter upon impact and forever change and make strangers out of dear friends and could-be-loves who could not.

One of you will finally blurt it out. It may be a little sudden, even awkward in its delivery, yet so endearing in its honesty. The dynamic between the two of you at last called out for what it is, and what it has become over the past weeks or months, or how it perhaps always was but neither dared to rock the boat in fear of ruin. And it is met with such relief. Intimacy may not even happen right away, just a gentle hand finding its match and lips brushing against the other. So cautiously exploring uncharted territory. Intimacy itself will feel a little silly too, like the many barriers, buckles and zippers and hooks and all suddenly appear so complicated and in need of instruction manuals. Many giggles are shared as you fumble through it together. Your first time is very sweet and romantic, a little bit of a mess as you stumble through this sudden shift of what you have now become, but happy accidents nevertheless, and one which feels like a sigh of relief and gentle bliss as you spill and blend together like watercolour on paper.

04.

Shufflemancy: Don't delete the kisses by Wolf Alice

Oh my dear, you may feel quite nervous about the mere thought of letting someone close to you like this. To bare it all before another, such a frighteningly vulnerable position to put yourself in. You could have avoided this for a long time, some of you even wonder if there perhaps was something wrong with you, faulty wiring, or worse yet, feeling altogether broken beyond repair. You may have quite a few concerns for a variety of reasons. For some of you it could be a haunting past or terrible past lovers, and for others, excruciating insecurity and inability to relax and let the currents take you away, much too preoccupied with worries about how you look and sound to be in the moment at ease in your own skin. For a few, all the aforementioned reasons mixed into one.

A huge amount of trust is required before your defences ease up and you agree to lower the drawbridge to your castle. Your person could be your first, or at the very least the first to make you feel safe and allowed to have a say in the script. This could ultimately be your idea, a concept entirely new to you, as you are the one to pursue an intimate touch and allow the other in. Regardless which role you fall into, you feel more in control and it is less intimidating when you know that the reins are in your hands, with a lover who is so careful and gentle with you and knows you so truly, wishing you no harm.

Your first time with this person very much serves as a mark in your timeline as a huge leap of faith and overcoming fear and insecurity. They make you feel beautiful and safe, like a priceless figurine of glass, an heirloom meant to be handled with great and gentle care, respect, and devotion. Everything is slow and steady, and very sensual. Very much a feast to all the senses which will be firing all your nerves and make you feel weak and leave you trembling. It is as though time stops to make a bubble for just the two of you, to have no need to rush, to make sure the both of you are alright and enjoy every featherlight touch and sweet caress. A lot of eye contact is made, in particular when you make it over the hill and find that love has a face and it is right in front of you, and you're held close with such tender care you may shed a few tears.

05.

Shufflemancy: Take me to church by Hozier

Very peculiar energy, slightly confusing, much like the connection itself. You or your person may at the time be experiencing a very tumultuous period in life. Something is cruelly weighing heavy on you and you're feeling worried and hopeless and lost, and seeking any sort of lifeline to hold on to. And that lifeline quickly turns out to be the other person, akin to a buoy away from the shores, something to cling to in crashing waves when your body tires and feels unable to stay afloat and much less swim back to land. For some, it is possible that this stress is sourced from this person specifically due to the state of your connection at the time.

Feelings have grown but the roses around your heart carry thorns, so though they are striking in their beauty, they threaten to wound you more and faster and deeper when you are around them and they make your poor heart flutter. For some of you, this time may not even be the first time, instead the first time it feels special, carrying a purpose beyond mere pleasure. This could be a casual thing, the reunion with an ex, a friends with benefits scenario, something which was never supposed to be more than what was bargained for or supposedly left in the past. Yet somewhere, at some point in time, lines were crossed but no renegotiations took place, and for a time, which may have felt agonisingly long, you were left suspended in the air amongst the clouds of uncertainty and doubt.

Things really come to a head, as suddenly both internal and external circumstances add up to far too much to bear, and you simply crumble to pieces before them and they are fortunately quick to catch you and attempt holding together those shattered pieces. A confession through sobs, not even in the safety of a cozy bedroom but possibly in a car, a stranger's home, a storage room, or someplace else that makes this revelation of the roses blooming feel that much more misplaced and unsafe. Yet it is met with such grace and the aching heart taken in a protective embrace and the thorns pushed aside. Though the circumstance feels strange and the timing poor, it happens. One pair of hands desperate and in need of closing the gap between you, nails breaking skin whilst drowning and gasping for air like you're truly going to sink. The other pair gently but firmly taking command of your body and keeping you sane and there in the present, afloat and safe and breathing heavily, pinning you down with the weight of a body you'll come to see akin to a blanket made for anxiety, as now this person truly sees you and hears you and cares for you so deeply you might cry from a bittersweet mix of the relief of a survivor and the joy of victory.

06.

Shufflemancy: Break my heart by Dua Lipa

Quite a thorough person, eh? In all that they do, your person is meticulous and strives for perfection. Intimacy is no exception. This person is likely to be more traditional, and wine and dine you for a while at first and really take their time because they look for the perfect mate, a life partner. They wish not to make mistakes and choose poorly, because it would create such an unnecessary mess of heartbreak and wasted time and effort. Though they seem a little on the chillier side, they are romantic and have a taste for finer indulgences. And thus, intimacy with you is certainly a planned event well in advance with everything just right as if the occasion is an offering to a deity worth worship.

The wait, the slower pace of the connection itself, may be to you as new, refreshing and welcome as it is frustrating. You could've experienced previous encounters which burnt quick and fast but also faded just as swiftly, so the careful and by-the-book attentive diligence of this person is so promising and makes you feel quite special. Yet you feel the ever-increasing desire growing almost painful at the very core of your being. Nearly frightened by the power which the other holds over you. The almost urgent need for friction, for the warmth of the flame, only held back by the certainty of knowing they'd only deny you and your rushed advances because they want to take their time to fit you into their life and create the perfect step by step choreography to your romance.

Until finally, dimly lit rooms with cascading golden hues reflecting off of silks, soft tunes from the other room where a pair of empty glasses stand, as you fall into soft sheets and dainty petals. There, at last, devoured whole, consumed by desire and claimed by what you've yearned for so earnestly for so long you could've sworn you were going mad. Release, the green light to finally leap off the edge and let yourself be at the mercy of freefall. This person is observant, and determined to learn of every freckle, every nook, and send shivers skipping across your skin wherever they go on their quest to map you out like a tireless explorer on an adventure and in search of treasure. They communicate so clearly and seem so intuitive, as though they have a degree in your body language and are going for a doctorate through trial an error, and finding just the right pace and pressure to send you to the skies above to unite with the stars.

[javierpena-inatacvest]

Chapter 3- Easier Said Than Done

Summary: Frankie's been by your side through some of the hardest moments in your life. Three years have gone by, and now there's no one you want to see less when you find yourself at your lowest.

Word Count: 4.1K

Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader (reader has a name/nickname)

Warnings: Angst, yearning, mentions of death, sick parent, descriptions of a panic attack, hospitals, teenage Frankie's back at it again making it impossible for us to hate him!!

A/N: Hello, my name is Madeline and I am unable to stop writing gut wrenching angst and yearning. (Hi, Madeline). Maybe one of these days I'll stop sobbing like an idiot when I write, but I fear that day may not be coming any time soon

All The Things We Never Said Masterlist

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

You, Spring of 2006, Age 17

Most people say it’s the smell of hospitals they can’t stand. For you, it’s the noise. The constant chaos of voices, monitors, sirens, carts clattering as they roll across the never ending linoleum floor drives you insane. Even when it’s quiet, it’s still never silent. There’s always an ever present reminder looming in the distance to not get too comfortable. The inevitable fear that something could go wrong, and have you wishing that all you had to listen to was the ambiance of continual pandemonium. 

That’s why it’s such a relief when you hear the quiet ping of your cell phone resting on the edge of your chair. It’s enough to drown out everything else for a little while. 

Frankie :)))))) 

Hey where r u?

Game starts soon and I cant find u 

Katie and Morgan said they havent seen u either 

R u ok?   

You

Yeah I’m ok. 

Dad passed out and hit his head. Mom wasn’t home so I had to take him to the ER. 

Called Coach K in the ambulance to tell her I won’t be there. 

It’s times like these that it takes everything in you to remind yourself that missing big events to keep your dad alive is better than going to big events without him being here. But when you’re decked head to toe in your soccer uniform, sitting on the edge of your seat in a crowded emergency room instead of getting ready to start the last game of your senior year, it’s hard not to feel a little bitter about it. 

You read back over Frankie’s texts as you wait for his response, doing the quick math in your brain before frantically typing back. 

You

Wait, didn’t you have to work tonight? Are you at the field? 

Frankie :)))))) 

Called off work weeks ago 

U really think I would miss ur last game? Cmon Kenz 

Guess its not a surprise anymore. Surprise! lol 

You hope the nurse passing by doesn’t notice the way you’re grinning like an idiot at your phone, biting down on your bottom lip to keep your smile from growing so wide it’ll hurt your cheeks. You re-read the last three texts over and over, your face growing warmer each time. You’re not sure why you’d expect anything less. It still never fails to make you feel like your heart is seconds away from bursting at the seams. 

Of course he came. 

So lost in your train of thought, you hadn’t seen a fourth text pop up across your screen, only the fifth text of “???” that preceded it. 

Frankie :)))))) 

R u at memorial or westwood hospital? 

??? 

You 

Memorial. Why? 

Frankie :)))))) 

Be there in 15 

You 

Frankie you don’t have to do that 

Frankie :)))))) 

2 L8! Already leaving! See u soon! 

The tears welling in your eyes were most definitely ones of relief, joy even, that Frankie cared enough to attempt to make it to a soccer game you weren’t even at, let alone forgo a night’s worth of pay to drive himself to the hospital to see you. 

Your momentary excitement comes to a sudden stop as onslaught of bodies rush into your room to examine your dad. You’re quick to realize you’ve once again been caught up in a stampede where you’re nothing but another person in the way. An invisible presences that means nothing to anyone in this room. It makes the once blissful wetness welling in the corners of your eyes start to sting with a vengeance. 

But you’ve come very quickly to learn that crying doesn’t help anyone, especially when you’re not the one dying. 

You try not to let it hurt when your mom doesn’t even acknowledge the fact you’re sporting the jersey of the team you were supposed to start playing with twenty minutes ago, like you had brought your dad to the hospital in your uniform because that and your cleats were the easiest thing to throw on before you called 911. It’s even harder to try not to scream at the fact she barely pays your presence any mind, not even so much as a ‘thank you’ for getting your dad to the hospital in one piece. What’s the most painful is that you’re positive that she, or anyone else, even notices you’re gone when you slip out the door.

You’re here so often that the hospital staff don’t mind that you pace up and down the rows of the waiting room. Sure, they’ll be sending you a bill for the hole you’re burning through their carpet eventually, but that’s not today’s problem. 

Right now, part of the reason for your frantic pacing is to cool off some steam so you don’t say something you’ll regret about your dad’s cancer having the audacity to ruin the most important soccer game of your life to date. 

You’re also here so often, the hospital staff know Frankie. So much so, that your favorite receptionist, Cassandra, has more than definitely broken several hospital rules to let Frankie stick around long past visiting hours when you’ve needed it most. That’s why all she has to do is give you that look to break you from your vicious cycle of pacing to let you know when he’s arrived through the sliding glass doors of the front entrance. 

Most times, he at least makes it a few steps inside before you notice him. Tonight, he’s barely halfway through the door before you’re wrapping your arms around him in the tightest hug you have to muster. He pulls you in even tighter. 

It’s then that the reality of it all starts to set in. Your best friend had to drive to meet you at the hospital because he’s the only one that remembers you have a soccer game tonight. Your dad is in a cyclical pattern of slowly dying that leaves you feeling like a terrible person for even wishing things were different. You’ve spent the past nine of your seventeen years of life only knowing a world that revolves around cancer. For nine years, you’ve never complained that this is the way your life has been. Tonight, you’ve decided that the weight of the world is un-fucking-fair. 

Tonight, you’re not the one dying, but crying seems like the only reasonable thing left to do. 

You should be embarrassed by how loud your sobs are, how quick the damn breaks once your body finally lets you give into the pain. These are the kind of tears that make your whole body shake, the ones that make your chest hurt because you can’t catch your breath, gasping for air like some poor, lifeless fish, begging to be thrown back to the sea. 

Frankie’s seen you cry before, but not like this. You should care about how your tears are staining the fabric of his t-shirt, how he’s the only thing keeping you standing while your body feels like it’s about to give out underneath you. You hadn’t said a word to each other before you’d collapsed in his arms in a sobbing heap, but right now you don’t care. You can’t. 

You’re sure words are exchanged at some point as he practically carries you out to his truck, at least giving you the decency to finish crying without unwanted eyes in the waiting room glued to you, but right now, you can’t remember. 

You’re not sure how long it takes you to get back to the point of being able to breathe at a semi-normal pace, but something tells you that Frankie will hold you for as long as you need him too, crying or not.

He gently strokes your back, his thumb tracing over the fabric of your jersey as it draws small circles over and over, a sweet and simple dance of his fingers that steadies you just enough to keep from flying away. 

“It’s okay, Kenz. It’s okay.” It’s melodic the way Frankie coos it in your ear, like he’s trying to hush a fussy baby fighting sleep. It’ll take time, persistence and patience, but lucky for you, he’s got all three in spades. “I promise you’re okay. I’m here.” 

“This fucking sucks.” It’s not elegant or graceful, but it’s the truth, and right now, it’s all your brain can process. 

“I know it is, Kenzie. I’m sorry.” 

“It’s not fair. I don’t wanna spend the rest of my life worrying that this is the last day I see him. I just want life to be normal. I just wanna go play my stupid fucking soccer game. It’s not fucking fair.” You ball your fists against Frankie’s chest, pounding into him like he’s the one responsible for your hurt and anger. He’s not the one you need to take it out on, but he’s all you have. You hope he knows it’s not his fault he’s become your emotional punching bag as he takes blow after blow, despite how weak your swings are. You’ve got no strength left to fight. 

“I know. It’s not fair. It’s not fair, MacKenzie.” 

He takes it all until you have nothing left to give. You’ve lost a game no one ever has a chance of winning. Defeat is the unwanted trophy life rewards you with, but Frankie stands at the podium with you. He’ll take the hits if it helps ease the blow. 

“Will you be okay if I’m gone for five minutes? Just five, I promise, and then I’ll be right back.” His question catches you off guard, breaking you from your agitated state, nodding your head just enough to give him the permission he needs to race back through the doors of the hospital as you climb into his passenger seat. 

His truck gives you the kind of familiarity the hospital doesn’t. It’s hard not to find irony in the fact you feel safer in his piece of junk car where the wheels could give out beneath you at any moment than you do in a building that is built for saving people’s lives. Maybe it’s because his truck is filled with the memories of moments in life that make you feel like things are going to be okay. 

With the way Frankie’s breathing as he jumps into the driver’s seat, it’s hard to think he’s not back in less than two minutes, rather than five. He doesn’t say a word to you as he cranks the ignition, only a little prayer under his breath that now’s not a time his engine has chosen to give out on him. He doesn’t let you ask any questions until you’re already on the road. 

“Frankie, what’s- Frankie what are you doing?” 

He’s got that crazed kind of look in his eyes he gets when he’s hellbent on making something happen. He always likes to say that you’re the stubborn one. It makes you wonder the last time he’s taken a good, hard look at himself in the mirror. 

“I’m taking you to your game.” 

He says it so matter of factly, like his response to nearly kidnapping you out of the Memorial Hospital parking lot shouldn’t warrant any questions. 

“What?! Frankie! I can’t just-” 

“The doctor in the room said he’s stable and he probably won’t be conscious for the next few hours anyways. Your mom said it’s fine. I’m not letting you miss out on this. You deserve to get to play, Kenz.” 

You’re not sure at that moment if you want to kiss him or slap him across the back of the head. Maybe it’s a little bit of both. 

“Frankie, I-” 

“I’ll turn around and take you back if you want me to, but I don’t think you want me to turn around.” 

God, maybe you do want to kiss him. 

“I hate you, Francisco, I hope you know that.” 

“I know. It’s okay, you play better when you’re angry, anyways.” 

It’s always the little smirk in the corner of his mouth. The one he makes when he knows he’s right. It’s the same smirk he makes when he greets you after you’ve scored two goals to help your team win the last game of your high school career. The same one he gives you when he buys you ice cream to celebrate with two scoops of cookie dough instead of one, because you won’t stop laughing at his stupid joke about your big appetite for winning. 

That night, you fall asleep on his couch, too tired to drive back to the hospital, too scared to sleep in your house alone. You’re not sure if you mean to doze off with your head resting against his thigh like some sort of makeshift pillow. It’s easiest just to blame it on the fact you’re too exhausted to get up. But as you close your eyes and drift to sleep, you’re almost sure that the only muscle Frankie dares to move is the one that pulls the line of his lips into that same smirk you’d rather die than live without. 

You, Present

You’re shocked your initial response to seeing Frankie Morales for the first time in three years wasn’t immediately slamming your front door in his face and telling him to fuck off. 

That’s what your body wanted you to do. For as badly as it did, your some part of your brain wouldn’t let you. 

It’s probably the same, stupid part of your brain that won’t let you stop staring at him, either. 

He looks good. Way better than you’d like him to. It doesn’t seem fair that he somehow manages to find a way to return home more handsome than when he left. It happens every damn time. You swear he does it on purpose. You don’t know how he could, but that’s what you tell yourself. It makes it easier to hate him. 

“I didn’t know you were home.” 

It’s probably the worst thing you could have said to break the awkward silence stewing between you, because you both know it’s a dirty lie. But at this point, you’re far past granting Frankie the privilege of being a part of the truth- you’ll give him your version of the truth that you want him to hear. You’re not letting him have the upper hand. 

“Yeah. I uh- got home this morning.” 

Good to know the best either of you could do was reduce your relationship down to nothing but lying. If that’s the game he wants to play, then so be it. 

“Drive was good?” 

“Yeah.” Lie. “You?” 

“Fine.” Lie. 

For as much as you know the lies hurt, it’s the curveball you hit him with next that you hope stings the worst. 

“I didn’t think you were gonna come.” 

Because that was the truth. The way his face drops tells you the guilt ridden punch you’ve socked him with hits exactly where you want it to. You want the truth to hurt more. You want it to hurt just as bad as the way his truth hurt you. 

“Of course I was gonna come.” 

It’s a poor attempt at a swing back. He showed up with a knife at your gun fight. He knows well enough you won’t show him any mercy. 

“Wouldn’t have been the first time you hadn’t shown up for something important, Frankie.” 

“Your dad’s fucking dying MacKenzie, what makes you think I wouldn’t be here?” 

“Well, he’s been dying for the past three years so I’m glad you’re deciding to show up when it’s convenient for you.” 

That one shuts him up real fucking fast. 

His jaw ticks as he takes a deep breath, staring up at the sky like there’s something written in the clouds that will give him instructions on what to say next. There’s not much he could say at this point that would shock you, but Frankie never ceases to be full of surprises, whether you like it or not. 

“I’m- fuck- I’m sorry, Kenz. I’m sorry.” 

That shuts you up even quicker. 

It shuts you up because you know he’s not lying. The truth is buried in the way his voice breaks at the start of your name, the way the “K” trembles off his tongue and shakes in the back of his throat. 

Your heart is mangled in your chest, hearing him say the two words you’d never thought you’d get and realizing you can’t accept it. 

“Sometimes sorry isn’t enough, Frankie.” 

Neither of you are sure what to say. It’s tough to tell if the fight is over because Frankie’s stabbed you to death and you’ve unloaded every last bullet you had, or if you decided to put your weapons down and walk away before any casualties have occurred. While it’s hard to deny it’s the latter of the two options, at least the first one would have been the honorable way to go. 

“Honey, is that Frankie at the door? Let him in, MacKenzie, don’t make him stand out there!” 

If there’s one thing you can always count on your mom for, it's that she’ll never fail to have impeccable timing, for better or worse.  

You don’t intend for the sigh you let out to be as loud as it is, but it certainly makes it clear to Frankie you aren’t happy about obliging to your mom’s request. You expect him to pass you like you don’t exist, entering your house to greet the two of the three family members who still care about him enough to not burn a hole through his chest every time they look at him, but he doesn’t. He waits for your okay, frozen on the porch until the subtle shrug of your shoulders signals you’ve given him the all clear to pass. He wants to know you’ll at least let him through unscathed for now. 

You follow behind him as he enters your house, trying to ignore the fact you’re entranced by the dark brown curls that still tickle the nape of his neck as he walks, or how the width of his shoulders nearly stretch from one end of the door frame to the other. You’re starting to regret not letting him follow you in  instead. 

You nearly bump into him with how quick he is to freeze once he sees the state of your living room. In the past few weeks, it’s made a terrible transformation from the space you once knew to a makeshift hospital room. The hospice workers had crowded your house with beds, oxygen tanks, and a wheelchair your dad refuses to sit in, an endless puzzle of enough supplies to let your father die in his own home, rather than the cold, sterile wasteland of the nearest hospital. 

You’d been able to ease yourself into your dad’s decline. You’d watched the months leading up to now as his body became weaker and sicker, reducing down to nothing but bones and deep, dark set eyes. You were a first hand witness to how cancer had greedily sucked every ounce of life he had left in him, taking and taking until he had nothing left to give. 

Last time Frankie saw your dad he was in remission. He looked good, healthy, even. That was three years ago. Frankie would have never imagined barely being able to recognize the man that was the closest thing to a real father he’d ever get. 

You want to scream at him that it’s his own damn fault he’s this shocked when he comes face to face with the shell of the man your dad used to be. But with the way you can practically see the guilt oozing out of Frankie with every step he takes towards the near lifeless body lying in the misplaced hospital bed in your living room, you can’t help but let your empathy get the best of you. 

“Hi Frankie, how are you? It’s so good to see you, honey.” 

Even though your mom knows you’re seconds away from wanting to dropkick Frankie off the face of the earth, there are few things she’ll ever let get in the way of her warm and welcoming demeanor. 

Frankie’s still borderline speechless as your mom grabs the tray of cookies he’s been awkwardly toting before she embraces him, arms still glued to his sides like he’s too afraid to move. The way she’s got him in the hug gives him no choice but to stare at the unsettling image of your dad over her shoulder, barely strong enough to turn his head to see what all the fuss is about. 

“H-hi, Mrs. Anderson. I’m okay. It’s good to see you, too.” 

“Is that my Frank the Tank? C’mere, kiddo. I was hopin’ I’d get to see you.” 

The past few weeks have made you shed enough tears to last a lifetime. Never once did you expect the thing that would make you cry the hardest out of everything you’d been through was hearing the long lost excitement in your dad’s voice upon Frankie’s return. 

It’s childish, the way you storm upstairs and slam your bedroom door behind you without a word, heat seething through your veins at the way your dad was so quick to forgive, welcoming Frankie back into his home like a day hadn’t passed, like he had been there right alongside him every step of the way through his descent. Your blood boils at the fact your father can’t be bothered to remember that Frankie had been nowhere to be found for three fucking years. Not a text, not a call, not even a “Frankie says hi!” through his mother four doors down. 

You can deal with the embarrassment of throwing a full blown temper tantrum later, but that’s more tolerable than spending another second in the same room as Frankie.  

“Well,” your dad huffs, his face grimaced with sarcasm as he looks back and forth between your mom, Frankie, and the empty presence you’d left behind, “that went well.” 

“Sorry about that, she’s um-” 

“She’s fine. Just stubborn.” Your dad grumbles, cutting off your mom with the best attempt he can make to raise his arm from the bed and wave her off. 

“No, I uh- it’s fine, I just- I should probably get going, don’t wanna take um- take up too much of your time.” Frankie’s heart sinks in the uncomfortable silence, quietly cursing himself for the mess he’s made. 

“It’s what, 8 o’clock in the morning? You got a bingo game at the senior center you need to get to, young man?” 

“No, I just-” 

“Perfect, no is the only word I needed to hear.” Your dad weakly smiles, gently patting the edge of the bed for Frankie to join him. 

Your heart winces hearing the heavy footsteps a floor below you from your bedroom, knowing the direction they’re heading is only further into your house and not back out the front door where you’d prefer him to be.

Thank goodness your dad has lost the ability to speak loud enough for you to hear the words that follow the thumps of Frankie’s feet. 

“Frankie, I’ve lived a very happy life. There are few things about it I’d change. But you know just as well as me that my daughter is the one who so lovingly inherited my stubbornness. Lucky for me, God knows I’m stubborn enough not to die until you and her figure this out. Unlucky for the both of you, that my time for stubbornness is starting to run thin.”

@chaotic-iguana @bbiophiliaa @pertinentpostmortem @angelofsmalldeath-codeine

@pedrobaby @fatima-marisa @beboldbebravethings @poodlebae @kittenlittle24

@3sriracha @jungchloee @perennialdoll247 @prettyinpunk85 @raspberrybesitos

@partyofone3413 @harriedandharassed @pedrohoe04 @theorganasolo

@endlessthxxghts @beware-my-thorns @missladym1981 @milly-louise

@jay-zzle @the-one-with-the-grey-color @persephone-girl @bitchesuntitled

@pedropascallvr @millennial-teenybopper @vee-bees-blog @itsokbbygrl

@hopplessilse @mxtokko @its-nebuleuse @mandoisapunk @msmorningstaarr

@amyispxnk @honeyedmiller @mountainsandmayhem @picketniffler @burningnerdchild

@copperhalfcent @theoraekenslover @bloodyinspirationaldemon @vee-bees-blog

@samgirl4life @pigeonmama @survivingandenduring @jolapeno @ovaryacted

@amanitacowboy @mystickittytaco @anoverwhelmingdin @greenwitchfromthewoods

@witchofthedeepwoods @ericamarie093 @readingiskeepingmegoing @whimsiwitchy @whoaitspascal87

@vickie5446 @katw474 @ravenpoe67 @inthedarkestnight @brittmb115

@harryscherrysugar @wonderpillar @sunnytuliptime @pasc4lfuzz @yesjazzywazzylove-blog

@javierpena-inatacvestnotifs

[gardenofnoah]

you made a bad habit of baring your teeth at anyone brave enough to try to love you.

it wasn’t your fault, not at first—after all, there were only so many times you could stomach all of the venom spit at you by those you latched onto, before you hardened.

and it did well to weed out the weak ones—which left only those who saw your hostility as something to be conquered. that was decidedly worse.

so you tapped into something ancient and furious in your chest and broke off the taps to every other feeling. the love you sought after, the yearning to be held, to be kept safe—all pushed farther out of your reach. for your own good. to keep yourself safe.

when bakugou comes along, you’re like a cornered animal. snarling at him, snapping your jaws every time he reaches for you. knowing, somehow, that the end is not near but here now, and he will turn on his heels and flee from you faster than he came.

so it really is a shock to the circuit board when he all but scruffs you by the neck, rolling his eyes and tsking at you like a misbehaving kitten.

it enrages you. doesn’t he know how to take a hint? doesn’t he know you ruin everything you touch?

so you let it all out at him, one night on the stoop to your apartment. passerby walk on quickly, like they’re afraid they’ll get caught up in your storm if they linger too long. you look insane, and you know you do—you hope it’ll drive the point home: it’s not worth it to get close. you’re too much, too hard, too angry, and surely he’ll get that now.

to your dismay, he’s standing on the step below you, looking like the cat that got the cream.

“what is wrong with you?”

he huffs out a laugh, taking your exasperation as a green light to take a step up toward you. he’s way too close—you feel your face burn and you want to think it’s the anger you feel at his inability to know what’s good for him.

“you’re awfully mouthy,” he murmurs, soft, and it catches you off guard, “what’re you so mad about?”

he’s crowding your space now, and if he wasn’t rooting you to the spot with whatever it is that he’s doing, looking at you like that, you would’ve bolted. he reaches to brush a strand of hair behind your ear, and you want to come out of your skin. you open your mouth, fully intending to ream him within an inch of his life. to your horror, all you hear escape you is some sort of pathetic whimper.

“c’mon,” he breathes, the taste of the taunt on your tongue as he stands over you now—too close— “give it t’me.”

you want to tell him how god damn stupid he is—but you know that katsuki has an intelligence that goes toe to toe with your own. he’s aware of something that hasn’t occurred to you yet. you know this, and your heart squeezes in a panic you haven’t felt in a long while. you throw out one last ditch effort—one last attempt to distance yourself for the inevitable end—

“i-i’m going to ruin your life.”

“yeah?” bright eyes hold you in a suspended state. a challenge, aimed straight at you as he sucks on his teeth, grinning wildly, “do your worst, then.”

[blitzwhore]

looking at 24/43 👀

Thanks for the prompts! :)

24. “we’ll face this together” kisses / 43. “we’ll get through this” kisses

Stolitz | ~690 words | Teen and Up | Angst, pining, self-hatred, mental health issues, character study, crying, alternating/mirrored POV

On AO3

Long, black, slender fingers curling around wrinkled bed sheets, and tears streaming down soft feathers.

Shaky, scarred hands pulling up a blanket to hide from the world—tears running down smooth cheeks.

“I'm scared, Blitz.” “I'm scared, Stolas.”

Murmured, muffled against a pillow.

“I know.” “I know.”

And the ghost sensation of fingers wiping away tears.

“She wants to take everything away. She wants to take Octavia away. She won't stop until I'm dead.”

“I can't stop hurting the people I love most. I feel like I was born doomed. No matter what I do, I'm going to die alone.”

“Shhh…”

“Shh, shh, it's okay.”

“I'm here, Stolas. I won't let her hurt you again.”

“I'm here, Blitzø. I'm not going anywhere.”

The comfort only makes Stolas cry harder, curling closer to Blitz. Desperately craving the physical closeness; needing to be taken care of. Feeling like, maybe, all this pain is worth it if it means he can have Blitz's affection.

It's so hard to believe that Stolas means it—that he won't leave. Blitzø can't help the sobs that escape him. He doesn't deserve this, but he wants it. Hell, he craves this so badly it feels like it might kill him.

“No matter what comes. We'll face this together, okay?” Blitz murmurs, kissing Stolas’ forehead delicately. Stolas nods through the tears, burrowing closer to his chest. Blitz's warmth permeates his body, sinking deep into him, and, for the first time in who knows how long, Stolas feels safe. Feels wanted, and cared for, and cherished.

“I know you're scared, Blitzø. But you won't scare me away. And if ever you feel afraid again, I'll be here.” There's a soft kiss pressed to his temple, and then Stolas says, “We'll get through this together, as many times as it takes.” The hope that Stolas’ words awaken in him is terrifying, but Blitzø can't help but cling to it, desperate to believe it's true.

If only this was real… Oh, if only it was real.

Inevitably, the warmth against his chest fades, leaving Stolas curled up around nothing. Nothing but cold bedsheets and the imagined presence of someone who isn't here to comfort him, or to cradle him gently and envelop him in warmth; someone who, perhaps, never will.

He isn't really here, of course. Why would he be? To listen to Blitzø bitch and moan about his stupid issues? He scoffs. He's only torturing himself by imagining that Stolas could ever care about someone like him.

His bed is too big, too empty. The vast, hollow loneliness that engulfs him threatens to suffocate him. It makes Stolas feel small—insignificant—invisible. He's screaming, but nobody listens. Nobody cares.

He's curled up on the shitty couch he calls a bed—all alone in the darkness of his and Loona's flat. No one to witness his pitiful display of self-loathing. And still, somehow, Blitzø feels like he's taking up more space than he deserves. Like, maybe, Hell would be a better place if he just wasn't here at all.

He can't breathe.

He aches.

Drowning—sinking deeper and deeper into sorrow and despair.

Not knowing how to stop feeling so wrong inside—so useless and broken beyond repair.

Aching for a life past appearances and duties; past the facade of a fabricated smile.

Hoping he could start over and turn his life around. Make amends. Soften his rough edges, and not be so terrified to let his walls down.

Yearning for something, anything he can hold onto. A version of himself that feels genuine and free.

A life where he hasn't fucked up everyone who's made the mistake of getting close to him.

A life where he can laugh, and have sex, and cuddle, and be silly. Where he can be spontaneous, adventurous, real.

A life where he's worth something. Where he's worth keeping around.

A life that is vibrant and fulfilling.

A life that feels safe.

… A life with Blitz.

A life with Loona, and Moxxie, and Millie, and Fizz, and…

… And Stolas.

A life he fears he might never have.

A life he knows he will never deserve.

[affectiondeficitdisorder]

Attachment vs Addiction: Where does style end, and diagnosis begin?

by Ethlie Ann Vare

I was recently asked what my attachment style is. I didn’t know what to say. Is “un” a style? I’m also not clear on my love language. Something with a hard-to-decipher accent, I suspect. 

Love languages, attachment styles… I don’t think love addicts fit well into these relationship categories. We are not the average Dear Prudence reader. We are the few, the proud, the neurochemically distinct. At least, I think we are. But I could be wrong. Maybe love addiction is just a dysregulated attachment style? 

I got curious so I did some research, because that’s what the internet is for. Unless you’re a sex addict, in which case it’s for pornography.

In a nutshell: Attachment theory was first proposed by British psychoanalyst John Bowlby back in the 1950s, and refined by his work with developmental psychologist Mary Ainsworth in the 1970s. The idea is that a person’s comfort and confidence in close relationships – mainly but not exclusively romantic – is set up in early childhood, essentially based on how safe an infant feels with its caregiver/s. Safe = Secure Attachment. Unsafe = three flavors of Insecure Attachment.

Inconsistent or unreliable parenting leaves the child with unmet needs (“affection deficit disorder,” one might say) and sets them up for insecure attachment. That push-pull between a yearning for intimacy and a fear or rejection is factory installed. So the good news is, this isn’t a series of stupid choices you made. You didn’t just fuck up. The bad news: You can’t go back and unfuck it.

 The basic Attachment Styles are: 

Secure Attachment: The good one. Fewer than half the population (as few as 15%, according to some researchers) can boast of this. You need to have had consistent and reliable parents, preferably in a strong partnership. I haven’t met many of those parents, personally, but then you have to consider the circles I move in. Individuals with secure attachment feel comfortable with intimacy and trust their partners. They can express emotions openly, manage conflict healthily, and value both independence and connection.

If your parents were absent, or drunk, or mentally ill, or untrustworthy in other colorful ways, you end up with insecure attachment. There are three basic insecure attachment styles:

Anxious Attachment: Sometimes called “fearful” or “ambivalent” attachment. These are people who crave closeness but fear rejection. They might be clingy and seek constant reassurance, constantly on the lookout for signs of a partner’s disapproval. This is the “never leave me” partner, even in abusive situations.

Avoidant Attachment: Those with avoidant attachment prioritize independence and downplay the importance of intimacy. They fear commitment, may be uncomfortable expressing strong emotions, and can push partners away to avoid feeling vulnerable. This is your basic player.

Disorganized Attachment (Fearful-Avoidant): This attachment style usually stems from childhood trauma. Individuals with disorganized attachment desperately desire connection yet desperately fear it. They struggle with trust and can behave erratically in relationship. “Come here go away” is their motto. 

So which one am I, you ask? Nosy parker. But I was curious, too, so I took a test. (I liked this one, but there are tons online.) Turns out, I am… sort of all of them. Light on the Secure, naturally, mostly Avoidant, but with a healthy dollop of batshit Disorganized. 

Here, look:

Disorganized attachment folks say stuff like “Relationships are confusing.” “People let you down.” “My partner is unpredictable.” “My partner says I’m unpredictable.” “Sometimes, I mentally check out because it’s all too much.” “I want to be close, but I’m afraid of getting hurt.” “Getting hurt is inevitable.” We don’t make a lot of eye contact. I can relate.

Avoidant attachment people might say, “I don’t see the point of talking about my feelings. Feelings are overrated.” “I don’t like to depend on people or ask for help. I’d rather do things myself.” “I can seem standoffish or like I don’t really care.””I need time to myself.” “I’m fine on my own.” I can relate to this, too.

Anxious attachers would say (albeit probably not out loud) “I want to be with you or in contact with you all the time.” “I’m terrified that you’ll leave me.” “I need constant reassurance of your love and commitment.” “My insecurity makes me jealous.” “Is there something wrong with me that makes you pull away?” This I don’t relate to as much, although I have stayed with a few men it would have been healthier to leave. 

Which of these, then, is the love addict? In my experience, it can be any of them, except maybe for secure. We are anxious attachment squared. Avoidant attachment on steroids. Disorganized attachment on crack. Sometimes literally with the crack…. We love addicts can get addicted to whatever kind of attachment we are in at the moment, because first and foremost we are addicts. And addiction is the result of a more complex soup of causes than just your parental units. 

As you know, I subscribe to the three-alarm fire theory of addiction: To make a decent fire, you need to have something to burn, a match to light the flame, and oxygen to keep it going. Adverse childhood experience (ACE) — like inconsistent and unreliable parenting — might be the match that lights the firewood. But you have to have dry kindling to start with, and that’s the brain chemistry you were born with: Inefficient reward transmitters, lousy dopamine receptors, all the stuff I’ve been writing about lo, these many years. 

And of course you have to have an environment that keeps the fire raging. Nightclubs and dating apps are great for that. Harems and convents, not so much. Absent any of these elements and your attachment style is just… your style, like Business Casual or Vintage Bohemian.

Me, I like cargo pants and combat boots and lean Fearful/Avoidant. Neither makes me an addict. Attachment styles I can learn to change. Addiction I get to recover from. Cargo pants and combat boots… those are just fatal.

[yourgamemasterthewhiterabbit]

I started playing this new code breaking game for funsies, and it isn't as much like real code breaking because:

It's annoying as shit and plays ads even if you start guessing correct letters too quickly [punishing success]

It tells you immediately if you guess a letter wrong, has a 3 strike system and no way of notating theoretical letters so it's both harder and easier that actual code breaking in various ways [harder because any wrong guess or accidental button press means watching stupid fucking ads that I want to light on fire]

I'm not sure if having set themes to work from during events makes it leaps easier, or if not knowing common media and quotes makes it harder, but it giving you a few letters to start off def seems like easy mode, I want a dark mode and there is no dark mode... I mean the colour the app is very bright it's like all white.

But letter frequency and other 'techniques' still apply, like your most common letters are prone to being e t n and a, and there are ways to figure out whether a single letter word is I or A, etc...

Anyway I'm disabled so if I have a day where I can't do much but be on my phone, there's nothing to stop me from solving puzzles all day unless the brain fog is hitting hard

So there was an event with ranking like there are in a lot of games and as usual I expected not to even place, as usual, because I am doing this for fun and I don't tend to play mobile games all that much, I'm not even 'good' at them the way someone would be if they just did it daily... Like my grandmother does the daily newspaper puzzles way faster than me because she does them daily and that's what most mobile games are like for me when I play them, I just have no practice.

And then I accidentally won the tournament, in first place, out-lapping the second place person [score something like 2000 when other people were mostly under 300, I think second place was around 500-700 ish?], because I was solving the puzzles while watching supernatural and wanted to finish the -unrelated- seasonal event puzzles so that I could ignore the rest of the event for the remaining days without missing the puzzles, and -apparently- all the event puzzles count towards your ranking and not just the main ones on the app? It gave me a bunch of in-game tokens or keys or whatever I don't even think I'm going to use?? [sorry]... Imagine some new guy blows in and just smashes everyone out of the lead in 3 days right at the end of the challenge. The worst part is I don't even use the hints. I almost quit 20 times just because of the fucking ads [got distracted playing a few]. I would like to personally apologize the the people in second and third but especially 4th place who probably expected that ranking not to budge and probably actually cared and actually wanted the prize, if it makes you feel any better I have no life.

I've only been playing the game for 6 days. But like, I do real code breaking sometimes for fun?

My brain needs something to do that's of some higher value and challenge than fake code breaking games, but my only jobs right now are seasonal 'gathering' and resting. I can't even get into most of my hobbies until I get my apartment better put together.

This is me going stir crazy... Just solving puzzles all day until I want to resort to arson [against the ads]... I need something to chew on but media is not holding my interest [joy is stored in the nothing, I yearn]. Maybe I'll stream a game again soon. Maybe the next zero dawn game will go on sale. Maybe we'll play Mass Effect?

Anyway, I want to design a code breaking game that's better, and I have some suggestions for mobile ads to make them more effective and less annoying.

I've tried a number of simple mobile puzzle games I just uninstalled within a day because they were too fucking annoying. Like most of them are designed with inevitable fail states that force you to watch ads constantly to keep playing at all, making it so fucking tedious and obnoxious and unsatisfying. I think they expect you not to notice that it isn't a lack of skill responsible for you failing but is instead designed into the game. I think they are targeting mostly children and people who don't know better to make ad revenue.

When my life gets better put together I think I'm just going to develop mobile games for practice and make them cheap af or free and not have ads. I can code and do the graphics so why tf not. Like imagine decoding for days on end and getting to read something fun or solve a cool mystery with actual code breaking techniques and there's cool graphics and no annoying ads.

[einloukrativesangebot]

January 2024 Destiel Fic Recs

Here are some of my favourite Destiel fics posted in January 2024. The point of this rec list is to shine light on some new fics that otherwise might go drowing in the ocean of Destiel fics on ao3.

cure of all, this fruit divine by hurtygurdyman

Father, I am sorry my nature does not come easily to me. I know neither how I was made nor why I feel so alone.Cas draws a line in the soil that will one day become the Mississippi River. He looks up at God with a feeling in his gut he doesn’t want to name. spnflash day 4: envy.

This one is very short and poetic. (868 words)

i'm half-doomed, and you're semi-sweet by 13zepptraxx

“Thanks,” he whispers still, allowing Castiel’s hand to reside on the side of his face. He could shrug it away, and he knows he probably should, because right now he and Cas are tiptoeing along a line set a long time ago, one that they both silently agreed they should never cross. Across this line is uncharted waters, unknown consequences, no semblance of what will become; but it’s important to note that Dean wants to cross that line, all the time, every single day. He yearns so badly for it; so he’s taking this moment, this blurring of the line. Tomorrow they can go back to only looking at one another when the other is looking elsewhere, and stealing touches in the form of healing or in a quick pat on the shoulder that turns into a balled fist as they walk away. Tonight, Dean will allow himself to be weak.

Everything about this fic is just perfect. The fucking hours I spend going through every fic posted in january were worth it just for this one, honestly. (1,642 words)

What a Brave Little Ant You Are by withthekeyisking

The first time man-in-charge Cas shows up at Bobby's place, Dean promptly flips the fuck out and shoots him.By the fourth time, Dean doesn't bother reaching for his gun.

Season 7 godstiel, very interesting dynamic. (2,320 words)

Baker Company Pie by S1nging_Y0u_S0ftly

Castiel remembers a recipe from the Great Depression, and decides to bake it for Dean. It's a water pie, something he'd had a few times as a child and remembers it being edible. It will have to do.

This is a coda fic for Ninety One Whiskey, and if I loved 91w as much as I did, you'll love this one as well. (2,570 words)

Nobody Here But Us Chickens by ImYourHoneyBee

Dean has been trying out endearments inside his head for years. He can’t help it. Some sentences feel wrong on his tongue without one, the unsaid words jumping over themselves to leap out of his mouth like living things. It took him a long time to label it love, but what else could the urge be when Cas makes him feel so much? When Cas is hurt, Dean's gruff, “You good?” needs a comma and a ‘sweetheart’ at the end. Calling out in a dank, dusty storage room for a hand with hauling boxes or needing a clarifying eye on an obscure, potentially magical trinket wants to start with a questioning, “Hey, honey?” He can almost taste it, dripping off his tongue sweet and wanting, casual in its intimacy. Sometimes, Dean slips up. “Good morning, sunshine,” while passing Cas a doctored-up cup of coffee in his favourite mug has become a morning ritual. It’s innocuous enough to get away with if he doesn’t think about it too hard. Sometimes, he tries his best to make it sarcastic, but it inevitably comes out too sincere. Cas hasn't caught on yet, though, and Sam has stopped shooting him questioning side-eyes, so Dean's pretty sure he's pulling it off. The problem is that it’s not enough. It’s never enough. 

Very fluffy, they are soo soft in this, I love it. (4022 words)

45 by soft_pine

Dean's 4th, 5th, and 45th birthdays.

The contrast between those birthdays just chef's kiss! (1,158 words)

found it here in your love by nevernevergirl

Dean's birthday doesn't go as planned. Cas is definitely not throwing a tantrum about it. (In which learning to live your life after nearly two decades of saving the actual world is a process. They're doing it together, though.)

Another Dean's birthday fic, I actually read this one his birthday :). (2,779 words)

Don’t Let the Sound (of Your Own Wheels) Drive You Crazy by Eightbitpale

Like a crazy person, like this is new information, Dean thinks: there’s an angel of the lord in my passenger seat. One day I brought him home with me and he hasn’t left since. Cas sighs loudly, and turns a little in his seat to look at Dean head on.

“You’re thinking very loudly.”

“Don’t read my thoughts, Cas”, Dean replies on autopilot, knowing even as he says it that that’s not what the angel meant. There’s a beat of silence between them where Cas just lets the tension hang, knowing all too well that the steely look he’s currently beaming into the side of Dean’s head is enough to make him crack eventually. Dean cracks. “I guess I was just thinking that some shit never changes, y’know?”Its been a long drive. Dean is thinking loudly.

I love the way this one was written, the atmosphere was really special.(3,917 words)

I (22m) am concerned about a coworker (30sm) but am wary of getting too involved in his life by bitterred

A coworker at the Gas-N-Sip that Castiel works at has noticed some weird things about him and decided to write into /r/relationships for advice. "I (22M) have a coworker (mid-30s, I think, M) and this dude (I guess I’ll call him Steve, it's anonymous enough) is more than a little weird. We work at a convenience store/gas station. It’s like he doesn’t understand any pop culture reference, at all, but talks about stuff from ancient history (like, literally, stuff that is in the bible) like he knows it happened for sure."

Short reddit fic about a one of Cas' coworkers perspective on Dean. (492 words)

but honey, most of them are true by Owco

Sam overhears some gossip between two hunters at a bar. He is surprised to learn that it’s all true. Set sometime after Exodus, around Let the Good Times Roll.

A very funny and unique take on the "Sam finds out about Dean and Cas"- trope. (2,996 words)

If you read and enjoy these fics make sure that you leave kudos and/or write a comment! Some of these stories are first fic the author posted on ao3 and they deserve all the love and motivation.

(And please feel free to point out any mistakes I might have made with the links and stuff... hope you enjoy! See you next month for the february recs.)

[bikinis-and-sneakers]

Nobody really knows me

-  a. reeves 

I have a special talent, and that is the ability to still feel melancholy when everything is going right. Feelings of nostalgia, longing, and yearning creep in, even at the happiest of moments. It’s like the Kasey Musgraves song, “happy and sad at the same time”. In the best of times, I’m just bracing myself for the sadness I know life inevitably brings at some point.

I often feel a sense of being misunderstood, or unknown because of this. Usually I don’t share when I’m feeling the most low or anxious or apprehensive. Maybe I fear that it’ll ruin a good moment, or maybe I just fear digging deeper into that feeling itself, and I’ll let it wash away. The moment will pass, and the very real and prominent feelings will go unnoticed by everyone other than myself.

This year in particular life has been filled with lots and lots of profound sadness, much of which was shared with many other people. This year was riddled with illness, trauma, loss, and ultimately grief. Through these difficult seasons and the immense weight of grieving, I found it extremely hard to communicate exactly what I was feeling. I think because so much of the year felt so overwhelming and the sadness came from many different places, my thoughts and feelings became muddy and hard to pinpoint. Life was kicking me while I was already down, and I wasn’t able to tell anyone where I was on my journey because I wasn’t even sure if I knew. If the emotions didn’t manifest physically, they would just go unnoticed by the people I needed support from, and life became lonely. 

On the other side of the coin, I realized my family members and loved ones, in sharing this grief, probably felt the same way as me. While I spent a lot of time with family and loved ones this year, each time we were together this weighed on me. I felt a sense of discomfort that I truly did not know what internal battle each person was fighting and I did not know what support they needed from me.  There was a small very deep part of each person I couldn’t reach. 

It felt strange to think that even the people I’m closest to may not entirely know me, and I may not entirely know them. The complexity of grief and the uniqueness it holds to each person made something very clear - we each have an inner sanctum that can’t be breached, even by the people we consider closest to us. In other words, we are never truly and fully “known” by anyone. 

This was a hard pill for me to swallow. The thought of never being able to have anyone truly know each intricate part of you feels sad and lonely. The idea that even your family or closest friend or partner, who may know nearly everything about you, probably still doesn’t know certain things about you feels wrong to me. Sure these people know a lot about me. But does that equate to really knowing me? I don’t think it always does. Is there ever truly enough intimacy that can be achieved for another person to 100% truly know us? 

Our yearning to be fully known is inevitable but may be misleading.

I think about my immediate family. They have many memories of me and many ideas of what I’m like based on past experiences of me, but those experiences range from the day I was born until the present day. I’ve changed significantly over the last 27 years, but perhaps they’re more connected to a certain version of me they have a particular fondness for. Or maybe their perception of me is skewed because of their love for me and the kind of person they want me to be or believe I could be. I think, too, the older we each get the more difficult it is to be known. We become so storied, detailed, and complex that you couldn’t ever expect someone to know each and every in and out of your life. And even if they did, would they understand how certain situations made you feel or why they made you feel that way? 

Each day I have at least one small moment where I really feel unknown. Maybe I’ll have a very secret deep thought that I wouldn’t dare share with anyone else. A nasty opinion of something that I know is wrong. Maybe it’s something so small and minute that it’s not worth saying out loud, it’s just something I noticed. A memory coming back to me that no one knows the significance of or why I hold it so close to my heart. The very specific feeling and emotion that a particular song makes me feel, that I can’t seem to put into words. An old version of me pops into my head that makes me feel embarrassed or ashamed. All of these little hidden things, amongst others, make me feel unknown. 

It’s not hard to get caught up in all of these little details, which is why with time I’ve tried to get better about sharing my own inner workings to those who are dear to me. I’ve found that the more I share the less isolated I feel. I’m working on helping people know me better, even if there’s always a lingering idea that all humans are truly impossible to completely figure out.  In practicing this I’ve begun to care less about controlling how others perceive me. In fact, I’ve realized that the way others perceive me, in turn, helps me to shape my identity. It’s like a collaborative effort to create a shared idea of who I really am.

So sure, I think in this life, to be completely and utterly known may be an impossible task. However, the desire the be known will never go away. I think it’s human nature and it’s a romantic thought that maybe, possibly, oddly enough, it could be achieved. So really what we can do is persist and understand that there aren’t walls built that prevent people from knowing you, rather, each person is seen by others through very unique and one-of-a-kind lenses. Who you truly are will always be a truth that is very sacred to you as an individual, and it’s yours to share in whatever ways you see fit. It’s impossible to know everything about each other but I think the point is wanting to be known makes you feel significantly less misunderstood. This melancholy that I feel in happy moments is just a part of who I really am. Not being known scares me. Wanting to be known is human. And now you know me better. 

[seigephoenix]

Happy Friday! How about "Comfort after a nightmare" from the cute couple prompts for the pairing of your choice?

Thank you! I do love the variety of ships I have that fit this prompt! I had to roll a d12 to figure out who to write for it. XD I wound up going with Elaina Cousland x Alistair for this prompt. It seemed to fit just right.

Content Warning: canon storylines mentioned Length: Again I forgot to look. XD Oops

Elaina jerked awake grasping the front of her shirt as sweat poured down her face.  She struggled to breathe, forcing the air in her lungs was too hard with the panicked thoughts still racing through her head.  She pressed the heel of her palm against her temple, as if willing the panic to go away would work.  She knew it wouldn’t, it never did.  She looked up as she heard footsteps outside of her tent and she braced for the inevitable questions.

“You alright?”  Elaina released a shaky laugh as she realized it was Alistair.

“I’ve been better,” she admitted.  Her eyes widened as Alistair pulled back the flap on her tent.  “Yes?”  She shook her head at the unspoken question in his eyes.  “It.  It wasn’t about the darkspawn if that was your question.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”  He shifted until he was inside her tent, letting the flap fall close behind him.  She felt the tears welling up and hastily brushed them away with her fingers.  “That bad?”

“I.” Her words were broken on a quiet sob, and she bit down on the inside of her cheek.  There was no time for grieving, not until Howe was dead at her blade and the Archdemon no longer a threat.  Only then would she let herself break.  “I was just reliving what happened at Highever the night Duncan recruited me.”

Alistair thought back and realized what she meant.  He reached out and grasped her hand in his.  “You know, it’s alright to let yourself feel.  Duncan told me that keeping everything pent up would create a wound on your soul.  That’s not something you can heal like a wound.”  Alistair ran his thumb over her knuckles and Elaina paused at the ache in her chest.  This wasn’t sad and it made her heart yearn for something she didn’t want to put a name to.  “If you need to talk about it…”

“Maybe I should…”  Elaina whispered as she stared down at their hands.

“I’ve always been told I’m a good listener.”  He grinned and she couldn’t help but laugh at how earnest he looked.  She had no doubt he was a good listener, Alistair had just as much a sad story as she did.

“I saw my father again, begging me to leave Highever.  So that at least one of his children would make it out alive.  We.  We didn’t know if Fergus was still alive or not.”  Elaina sorely missed her older brother and did not want to tell him the news if he did live.  “The last image I have is of them facing their deaths because they trusted the wrong man.”  Alistair’s thumb never stopped moving across her hand, just silently reassuring her that he was there.  “I.  I can’t help it.  I should have stayed.”  She closed her eyes as the tears began anew.  His hand reached up and brushed across the tears on her face, until his palm rested against her cheek.  The touch startled her, and her eyes darted towards his.

“I think that your parents would have been very sad if you had stayed.”  Elaina felt the tears welling up again and she hiccupped around the sob rising in her chest.  Alistair pulled her against his chest as she let the tears fall and she broke down.  “We can’t ever change the past.  No matter how much we wish we could.”  She felt his hand running down her back as he spoke.  “The only thing we can do is live.  Live and fight on as they would want us to.”  Elaina sniffled and leaned back.  “Better?”

“Haha, somewhat.  Thank you, Alistair.  I’m glad I wasn’t alone.”  He gave her a cheeky grin.

“That’s me.  Look, whenever you do need a shoulder?  I’ve got two really strong ones.  Okay?”  Elaina nodded and leaned back as she sensed he was growing uneasy.

“Alright.  I’ll remember.  Thank you again Alistair.”  He nodded and shifted.  “I think I’ll try to get some more sleep before sunrise.  We’re heading into Orzammar and I don’t want to be sleepy when facing the king.”  Alistair nodded and bid her good night before he headed out.  Elaina looked down at her hands and closed her fingers as she felt them aching to feel his warmth again.

[nutteu]

slowly, this woeful omen in your veins

-

[AO3]

And it shouldn’t come as a surprise when Nathan stared at him, wide-eyed and desperate, inferno burning him from the inside as his body rioted for something he didn’t understand. “Please,” he whispered, and Sykkuno finally, finally lowered his head, bared his neck for the wolf to feast upon. [Blau/Sykkuno; abo au; published 2021-09-22; word count: 3,394]

-

There was a storm brewing in his lungs.

Sykkuno looked up at the digital clock on his table, the blaring red digits staring back at him, bathing the dark room in an ominous wave. It wasn’t even three in the morning, and he wasn’t supposed to be up at this hour. But there was something under his skin; ever restless, screaming to be let out, growling for him to claw at his veins. He breathed slow, blinking eyes that were becoming redder by the second. His pulse was laughing, mocking in its erratic beat.

I know something you don’t, his alpha whispered, and Sykkuno ran to the bathroom, dry heaving every prayer and gentleness that he tried so hard to attain. How ironic, that he had never been able to own his alpha for more than a decade, and now it had come to jeer and sneer at him.

There was a storm brewing outside, and the air was too still for him to rest properly. Thunders caressed at his ears, a cruel laughter that made him shiver in apprehension. He sat on the edge of the bed, before sliding down to the floor, curling in into himself. Everything felt wrong, wrong, wrong.

I know something to make you feel better, darling boy, don’t you want to know? his alpha said gently, but it wasn’t telling him without a considerable price to pay.

Sykkuno closed his eyes tightly, praying, praying, holding onto the edge of the cliff with desperation that he could feel in his bones. His blood yearned for something, his whole body working against him in the worst possible ways. Nature was inevitable, and he couldn’t fight it; couldn’t fight his blood, couldn’t fight the monster he had locked up inside the pulsing gland on his nape. This was the price he had paid for a trade he had never wanted—the price of being an alpha.

His phone rang, and he stared at the blinking screen, dazed and trying hard not to scream. He swiped at it with shaking fingers, struggling to get his breathing under control.

“I’m sorry,” Nathan said, a static voice, sounding like he was trying to crawl out of his skin. “I can’t sleep. And I just suddenly thought of you. You must have been sleeping, I’m sorry.”

“No,” Sykkuno said, and nearly whimpered when the restlessness grew, encompassing, enveloping him whole. “I just woke up, too.”

“I don’t know what’s happening,” Nathan whispered, a dark secret that Sykkuno hang onto with broken nails. “I just feel like I’m about to explode.”

I feel like I’m seconds away from that, too, Sykkuno wanted to say, but he stayed in his silence. Nathan’s breaths were a series of staccato that Sykkuno could count, could cradle between his palms. He wanted to say that they could share a breath; maybe it’d make them breathe easier, sleep a little faster. He didn’t. He just waited, his alpha laughing hysterically when he could predict what Nathan was going to say next.

“I wanted to see you,” Nathan said, and he sounded pained from that admission. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why. I just feel—I need to see you.”

Sykkuno closed his eyes, nearly cried from relief when the restlessness eased up. “We’ll meet soon, remember?” he said, and neither of them acknowledged how shaky his voice was.

“Okay,” Nathan breathed out. It sounded like a plea, a prayer. Sykkuno felt like he was an ancient god, dying in the loss of belief. Nathan was kneeling at his altar, begging for him to stay while Sykkuno was crumbling away in his ruin.

The call clicked off with hesitation that he could feel connecting them through miles apart. He felt like he should go out, run into the storm, feel the thunder sinking deeper into his heart. He curled tighter into himself, and dreamt of the wolf’s eyes; cruel and knowing, whispering, give up, darling boy, this has never been meant for you.

Sykkuno didn’t let himself admit that he wanted to give up too, from the start, all along.

-

Nathan didn’t show up on their variety games, didn’t show up on his own stream, didn’t say anything about where he went either. He was sick, he said, and Sykkuno knew it was a lie and the truth, rolled into a word he said with gritted teeth and thunderstorm roiling under his tongue. He wanted to say, I know. But it wasn’t him who knew, it was his alpha.

Ray said that it might be possible that Nathan was about to present. Typically, no one presented past their twenties. Omegas presented in their childhood, betas knew about their identity in their teenage years, and the remaining ones would be alphas. The range of presenting time for alphas was between twenty to twenty-five years old, never early, rarely late. Anyone beyond that would be considered an anomaly, and would be more likely to circle back as a beta or an omega instead.

The sickness was a sign of late presentation, and it was normal, Ray said. He would know; everyone in the medical field was briefed with the biology of the dynamic. Sykkuno nodded along and tried to believe, even if he wanted to say how wrong, wrong, wrong that deduction was.

It wasn’t just a sickness that Nathan was ladened with. It was the never-ending burn that consume him whole, the urge to destroy and maim, the encompassing need to possess and claim, the ease that he would only get once he sink his teeth deep into someone’s skin, and protect them for eternity from the world and anyone who dared to touch what was his.

But no one knew about it, and Sykkuno swallowed back the pain he felt because he knew. Even without Nathan telling him, he knew it since the first time he felt this restlessness. It strained his smile, and made cold sweat break all over his skin when his alpha taunted with, feel it, little boy? He’s calling for you.

“He could be an omega,” Tony said, flippant and sure of himself.

“Maybe,” Ray said. “It seems fitting enough. There isn’t the typical aggressiveness of an alpha, and it’ll be long past the presentation age for that dynamic, too. There isn’t the unique serenity of a beta, either. It’ll be hard for him, presenting as an omega this late.”

“Guess we have to push back our meet-up,” Buddha joined in. “It won’t be good for him to travel in that condition. It won’t be safe.”

“Yeah,” Sykkuno croaked out, and knew that it was futile.

The storm was brewing still in his lungs, and he knew that it would come, would catch him in his most vulnerable moment to tear him into shreds. He counted on it, he awaited it. It was inevitable, and maybe, if he let himself be broken apart, it would finally ease his restlessness, too.

-

Nathan came into his dreams, teeth slicked with blood, fingers curling around a beating heart. Sykkuno lay back and stared at the night sky, devoid of the stars. There was emptiness in him, there was an electric static enveloping him whole. He prayed to the endless void to be saved, to be condemned; for strength to run, for endurance to stay. He lay there and closed his eyes when Nathan sunk his claws into his throat.

-

“I’ve waited,” Nathan whispered in his dream, pleading and pliant as he held Sykkuno down with sharp fangs, sharper heart. “I’ve waited for so long.”

Sykkuno heaved a breath that tasted of blood. He was torn apart, and yet his heartbeat was steady, finally at peace with Nathan’s fingers clasping around his neck, nearly crushing him whole. “I know,” he whispered back, and jerked awake into an empty room, thunders clapping from afar as if reminding him of a reality within his reach. The digital clock tinged the room in red, as red as Sykkuno's eyes as his alpha came to life with a yearning he couldn’t quell.

He reached to the nightstand with shaking hands, blindly calling for a Nathan and failing a few times from how much his fingers were trembling. There was no one in the other line; his call left unpicked. He swallowed back a scream, and rocked himself back and forth.

There was a fever, climbing from his spine, to his head; burning him from the inside and taking away what was left of his sanity with it. He wanted to step out of his door, stand in the rain so he’d be drenched, washed away into the ground until he became nothing but forgotten existence. His alpha played behind his eyelids, a smile full of open secrets, whispering, taunting.

There had never been acceptance in him for his alpha, and there was no acknowledgement from his alpha towards Sykkuno. Two entities fighting for eternity in a soul, ever present in their clash.  He had never been deserving of this power, this throne at the top of the hierarchy, and his alpha knew it. It was waiting, for something, someone, to dethrone Sykkuno and pierce his heart with a poisonous blade.

It was only fair, in a power struggle that Sykkuno had never wanted. It was only right that he admitted defeat since the start, and waited for his demise.

Soon, little boy, his alpha crooned, sweet and toxic, soon.

-

Nathan was gone, completely. No texts, no calls, no news—nothing. His friends were worried. They speculated and talked of something they weren’t sure of. Amidst their arguments, none of them realized how silent Sykkuno had become.

-

The restlessness had consumed him whole, rendering him unable to think, to even move. He lay on his bed with his heart pounding wildly in its cage. The storm was unending outside, and Sykkuno laughed. He laughed and laughed until tears streaked down his face. How ironic, that the storm inside him was roiling in tandem with the storm raging in the expanse of Las Vegas.

He waited for something that would never come, and still his breath was bated. And still, his blood boiled in apprehension. Doom would come to him, and still he waited patiently, like a faithful dog. People had asked, but Sykkuno didn’t know how to explain to them that he was going insane with his trepidation. He didn’t know what he was expecting, whether this fever would end, whether the storm would finally end.

Thunder roared outside, and Sykkuno shuddered. He trembled, trying with all his might to drag his body away from the bed. There was something in the storm, calling to him, and he would heed it. His steps were agonizingly slow, legs felt like they were chained, shackled. He stumbled halfway, closed his eyes against the onslaught of fever ravaging his insides. He felt like he was about to explode, about to shatter into a million sharp pieces and taking along everything in the destruction.

The rain pelted down his roofs, knocking harshly against his windows, as if urging him on. Everything was so loud in his ears—his blood rushing, the hammering of his heartbeat, the laughter of his alpha, the fever boiling like molten lava, the need for something, anything to stop this madness. He crawled on the floor, breathless and in pain.

In the midst of the thunders and the rain, he failed to notice that someone was pounding their fists on his front door. His heart stopped for a beat, before coming back with vengeance. He waited as the hinges creaked dangerously, struggling to sit upright as he watched the door shook under the assault. His desperation reached out to wrap around his lungs, constricting them until he felt a stab of pain in every breath he took. He felt like he was losing air, eyes clouding; mind hazy from pain and burning fever.

When the door finally gave in, slamming open with a harsh bang, Nathan stood there; drenched in the rain, shaking like a leaf, eyes alight and wild. He looked around the room with such wildness, until he found Sykkuno on the floor—wide eyes bleeding red, reaching out to him without his realization.

Sykkuno's heart rioted against his cage for a second, before everything went silent. It was almost deafening, how the noises were unstoppable beforehand, and here he was; watching as Nathan took a hesitant step forward, the need and the same fever Sykkuno felt in his bones mounting high and fast in his eyes. The bleed of red that consumed him whole.

Ray was wrong, and Sykkuno had known it. But to see it with his own eyes, as Nathan’s alpha came to life, as the wild beast slowly took control of his inhibition, was a terror and something magnificent to witness.

Nathan opened his mouth a few times, letting out words he didn’t know how to say, didn’t even know what he wanted to say. Sykkuno wanted this to stop. His alpha was laughing, laughing, kissing his nape gently as it whispered, there he is, darling boy, your demise.

So he waited, until Nathan recognized his desires, until they both could start tearing at each other. And it shouldn’t come as a surprise when Nathan stared at him, wide-eyed and desperate, inferno burning him from the inside as his body rioted for something he didn’t understand.

“Please,” he whispered, and Sykkuno finally, finally lowered his head, bared his neck for the wolf to feast upon.

Nathan moved faster than he could anticipate, stalking close to him in long strides as he pushed Sykkuno's shoulders roughly until his back met with the cold, hard floor. He lowered himself down, dripping water into Sykkuno's shirt, into his skin. His fever was burning bright, nearly blinding in its heat. Nathan cradled his face, gently, at odd end with the savagery that was slowly replacing the last shred of consciousness in his red, red eyes.

It was the way Sykkuno needed something, anything to ease this qualm. Nathan needed something from him, too.

“Please,” Sykkuno said, reverent, desperate, and let himself be manhandled roughly, flipped with arms ladened with unnatural strength until he was kneeling. His nape was bared, vulnerable with nothing to protect it.

Isn’t this what you have always wanted? To reject me completely, to denounce me, to submit. Let the wolf tear you apart, darling boy.

“I’ve waited,” Nathan whispered, pressing himself on Sykkuno's back, wrapping his arms around his chest to pull him flush against him. “I’ve waited for so long.”

A shudder broke all over his body, déjà vu filling every corner of his mind. He breathed out slowly, and closed his eyes, lay himself bare. “I know,” he said, and felt a piece of himself break into shatters when he succumbed at last.

Nathan kissed his nape softly, before sinking his sharp canines to pierce the skin, unyielding even when Sykkuno let out an agonized scream. His alpha shrieked in cruel laughter as Sykkuno's body reacted violently, thrashing and struggling to be let free from the pain, pain, pain that spread from his neck to his whole body, swallowing even the fever, his restlessness, his decade-long battle against himself.

Alphas weren’t supposed to submit, weren’t supposed to be marked, weren’t supposed to kneel and let themselves be claimed. It wasn’t their choice as much as it was the nature that had written itself for millennia.

But Sykkuno gritted his teeth, let out staccato of breaths as Nathan’s teeth close around his gland, biting harder and harder still. Warm blood seeped into his shirt, into Nathan’s mouth. He held Sykkuno tighter, immovable even when Sykkuno clawed at his skin. He wouldn’t stop, Sykkuno knew. He wouldn’t stop until the claiming was done, until they could reduce the fever into smoldering amber instead of the blaze of inferno that had caught their hearts.

It was the most painful thing Sykkuno had ever experienced in his life, when Nathan didn’t let go, didn’t let up with his bite. The bitter tang of another alpha crowded his nose, along with the faint scent of rain and freshly grounded coffee in the morning. He groaned when Nathan pushed them both until they were lying on the ground, pressed close in their combined weight as Nathan gripped his wrists tight and bound them above his head with steely strength.

“Please,” Sykkuno keened, breathless and trembling. “Alpha, please—please!”

Nathan growled out, low and pleased at his submission, and clenched his jaw that much harder, until he finally, finally broke the gland buried in flesh and blood. Sykkuno screamed, bloodcurdling and deafening in his desperation of letting out the pain that made his body numb.

This is your death, little boy, his alpha whispered, faint and faraway, this is your end.

Sykkuno smiled, despite the pain, despite the way his body was shaking terribly. Everything was hazy and blurred around the edges. This was his end, and he embraced it with open arms; finding ease and peace at last amidst the storm. This was what he had been waiting for years, with his struggle and unending battle with his unwanted alpha; this was what he needed, and he had finally gotten that. This was his death, and nothing had ever tasted this sweet on his blood ladened tongue.

-

When he finally came to, there was someone sobbing. Sykkuno slowly opened his eyes, and found himself in someone’s lap, cradled gently. He had fainted from the ache that his body couldn’t withstand. It was still raining outside, dark and loud. His front door was still opened, and he felt sore all over. His clothes and skin were damp, the scent of rain clinging to his nose and he smiled as he looked at Nathan’s face.

The man was crying still, whispering numerous apologies. His grip on Sykkuno was unrelenting, but there wasn’t the same savagery, the wildness in his red eyes anymore. Sykkuno felt around his lungs, and found that his own alpha was curled up in a deep sleep. He could never erase it, could never run away from his biology. But Nathan had quelled down the decade-long fever he felt, the restlessness and itch of crawling out of his skin.

“I’m sorry,” Nathan cried out, shaking like a newborn fawn. “I’m so sorry, Sykkuno. I’m sorry.”

There was a smile on his lips at this gentle beast. He reached out a weak hand to caress the side of Nathan’s face. “Don’t be,” he said, voice a wreck from how much he was screaming. He wondered if someone could hear him back then, found that he didn’t particularly care. All that mattered now was this alpha, his alpha. “This is what we both need.”

Nathan held him for hours, and Sykkuno slipped in and out of consciousness. The storm was still raging outside, but his head was finally calm, his heartbeat slow. This was the end of his storm, too. But it wouldn’t be the end of Nathan’s inferno, and Sykkuno would go through it with him. He was Nathan’s now, claimed and subdued by the man’s alpha. It was alright, he thought. They both could take a refuge in the eye of storm until it had calmed down outside.

“Don’t cry,” Sykkuno whispered, thumbing the tear that had fallen from Nathan’s beautiful eyes. He smiled at the man, and pulled him down to kiss him softly, tasting his own blood that had clung on Nathan’s teeth, the bitter taste of his gland that he had wrecked. “I’m yours, now.”

“Mine,” Nathan murmured, closing his eyes as he had finally accepted their bond, one that could never be broken now once it was made. He swallowed and held Sykkuno tighter. “Mine, now.”

He placed a gentle kiss to Nathan’s temple, ran his fingers through damp hair. “Yours,” he said, again and again until Nathan’s trembling subsided, until he dared to look into Sykkuno's own red eyes with certainty.

“Mine,” he replied, and repeated it until Sykkuno was lulled into sleep.

Once the morning came, there would be another storm they had to weather. But here, in his alpha’s arms, surrounded by their scents mixed together in an ominous mist, Sykkuno had found his home. With the blood still running from his claiming mark, the woeful omen running through his veins, peace had found him at last.

-

[britesparc]

Weekend Top Ten #564

Top Ten Christmas Films 2022

Merry Christmas! 

So I’ve been doing this blog for ten years. You’d be forgiven for not knowing that, as I spectacularly failed to do an anniversary list on the actual tenth birthday of my first blog. But I digress; over a decade, it’s inevitable that tastes will change and lists that I made earlier in my tenure won’t ring quite as true anymore. I’ve addressed this before; I do a “Top Moments of the MCU” list about once every four years, and I’ve revisited a couple of older lists in various ways. I try to avoid doing too many outright “same list but different” – however, today is, in fact, the same list but different.

I last did a Top Ten Christmas Films on the very first Christmas I had this blog, back in 2012. You can check that list out here. Back then, I was very perfunctory, not really writing much and hardly ever attempting analyses of my choices. So I think it’s only fitting to return to the scene of the festive crime, like the Ghost of Christmas Present dragging Scrooge around poor Bob Cratchit’s house, and take another look at the best Christmas films of all time.

I’m tempted to go deep here into “what is a Christmas film?” but I think I’ve kinda covered this before. In general terms, then, I feel very strongly that a film set at Christmas isn’t necessarily a Christmas film. Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, Jurassic World, Jumanji: Welcome to the Jungle, Prometheus, even my beloved Iron Man 3 are not really Christmas films I would say. No, the inherent Christmassiness has to be woven throughout the film. Themes of family, reconciliation, redemption, joy, togetherness… also music, music’s a biggie. They do have to be set at Christmas, too; hence I’ve excluded Christmas-feeling films such as the Paddingtons.

So that’s the arbitrary rules done and dusted. I guess there’s nothing more to do that wish everyone a very Merry Christmas, and start unwrapping these bad boys. God bless us, everyone!

Die Hard (1988): a film so Christmassy it’s got Christmas music woven into the score. A man journeys across the country to reunite with his estranged family, but practical problems beset him; as he overcomes his issues, he realises his own failings and love for his wife just in time to save Christmas with the help of some conveniently-placed gift tape. Plus it’s hilarious, tense, exciting, well-acted, and just overall excellent from beginning to end. Not just the best Christmas film; the best film set at Christmas, and very easily one of the best films ever, full stop.

The Muppet Christmas Carol (1992): a surprisingly faithful Dickens adaptation, considering 70% of the cast are made of felt. But it’s supremely heartwarming, a delightful, optimistic, uplifting mini masterpiece. As well as the great execution of the material and the awesome Muppet japery, it deserves a special mention for Michael Caine’s note-perfect Scrooge, a naturalistic centre amidst the madness.

The Nightmare Before Christmas (1993): is it a Christmas film or a Halloween film? I say it can be both! Terrific production design and gorgeous animation help sell the story of a disillusioned man yearning for something new before realising what he had was pretty great to begin with. Cute and sweet but also nasty and grimy, it threads this needle perfectly. Great soundtrack, too.

White Christmas (1954): speaking of great soundtracks… whilst fact-lovers will let you know the title song originated in the film Holiday Inn, White Christmas features fewer scenes of blackface, so it gets the nod. The war veteran plot may smack of American patriotism, and the romantic entanglements underserve the women somewhat (basically, Bing can do no wrong in this film), but overall the sentimental storyline meshes with the excellent songs and gorgeous dances.

Scrooged (1988): our second Christmas Carol adaptation, this one giving the old tale a modern twist (well, modern for 35 years ago…). Bill Murray is perfectly cast as the cynical, capitalist TV mogul who’d staple antlers to a mouse’s head to get ratings; his descent into mania followed by his teary-eyed redemption is beautiful to behold. Arguably the best ghosts in any adaptation, too. Niagara Falls!

It’s a Wonderful Life (1946): from Niagara Falls to Bedford Falls. Wonderful Life is a Christmas movie that probably spends most of its time away from Christmas, charting the life of George Bailey (James Stewart, effortlessly loveable). It’s also a film that understands the melancholy aspects of the holiday, as it’s pretty dark, Bailey’s life a series of disappointments until he’s reminded not only of his own worth but how much what he has means to him. It’s a bit like Die Hard, really. But very few films can possibly have an ending as uplifting and tear-inducing as this one.

Gremlins (1984): from Bedford Falls to Kingston Falls. Gremlins succeeds as a Christmas film by really undermining most of what a Christmas film should be about. It’s not really a heartwarming treatise on togetherness; it’s actually a gory, hilarious, nasty little horror film. But the Christmassiness shines through because of the way it’s punctured, from the ironic use of Holiday standards to Phoebe Cates’ unforgettable monologue.

Scrooge (1951): outside of modern twists and talking rats, this is the best version of A Christmas Carol out there, and once again it hinges on its central casting. Alastair Sim gives Scrooge a Shakespearean streak of cruelty, his hangdog face showing glimmers of malevolent joy in his every mean turn of phrase. And then when he sees the light, he’s standing on his head and accidentally flashing his housekeeper. Plus it’s beautifully shot in black and white, almost noirish at times, and gets bonus points for including the creepy Ignorance and Want kids.

Miracle on 34th Street (1947 & 1994): I couldn’t choose! I just couldn’t! Which is better? Neither! They both rock! Showcasing the general niceness of Santa by sticking him in a department store and making him charm the pants of the capitalists and careerists is one thing. turning it into an engaging courtroom drama is genius. The original, I feel, is the sharper, funnier, slightly edgier film; but the remake has arguably (by a nose) the better Santa, Mara Wilson, and the great “In God we trust” ending. So it’s a tie.

National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation (1989): a dose of genuine silliness to round things out as we enjoy the best Griswald movie. Loads of daft jokes about Christmas traditions and preparations, dreadful family members, and exploding cats, plus a great dose of Mele Kalikimaka. But beneath the blocked-up shitters there’s some genuine heart and warmth to this film, making it more than just an excuse for some OTT Chevy Chase antics. And in the UK, at least, it remains more-or-less family friendly.

I’m not gonna be sniffy and explain why certain films didn’t make the cut. Although there are a couple – Trading Places, for example – that I think I need to re-watch to decide if they’re quite Christmassy enough, or just “set at Christmas”.

Anyway, I think that’s enough for this year. Merry Christmas one and all, peace and goodwill to all men, women, and non-binary people. Best wishes for 2023. Now let’s all open our presents and rewatch The Guardians of the Galaxy Holiday Special.

[sharonisthebettercarter]

speaking from direct experience of the numerous abusive relationships i tried to "fix" because i so badly believed in that fucked up disney mentality and thought that if i "just loved hard enough", everything would be perfect?

yeah... i'll vouch for that. not particularly the happiest past here, have had too many friends and familiy with the same if not similar 'disney-esque' mentalities that have faced an insurmountable amount of harm because of said mentalities, drilled into them back when they just kids, have had WAY too many toxic people in my life i've needed to cut off cold turkey because of just how bad things got for me, but if just scratching the surface of the whys and hows serves as a warning to help others, i'll gladly talk

also, lmao, think i know who made this<3

disney has a lot more to answer for than just abusive relationships, how many times have we seen little girls develop eating disorders because they wanna be *just like a disney princess*?

and while sure, you could argue that disney never intended for that to happen, they can't be held *directly* responsible, that people take fantasy to the extreme and misconstrue it and they have no control over that.

you'd be wrong. just flat out, in my humble opinion.

and this is coming from someone who fully fully FULLY supports artistic freedom. i think all art has a right to exist, good or bad, tasteless and disgusting or fantastic. troll 2. i think there's something we can learn in almost all of it, whether through analysis or criticism, or both and beyond, art holds its own intrinsic value with humanity and the lessons we learn and grow from or with, or even in just keeping our dumb asses entertained

question is, who is it targeting? how far does the influence go? and is the messaging responsible?

disney is a multibillion dollar megacorporation with their thumb in a whole lot of pies, and a knowingly HEAVY influence on society today, and they weren't so small back when their first "love stories" came out either.

while there's some debate on whether or not walt disney had mal intent behind some of his creations, there's no debate that any subliminal messaging to be found directly influenced the young minds of very vulnerable children absorbing the content like sponges, without a disclaimer in sight or too often, no educated enough adult to help explain the difference between fantasy and reality and how some things sincerely aren't okay in reality.

the reality is that we should never *assume* that someone, especially a child, can simply *know* or learn something by default with zero help or discussion. (hence this long ass psa, yet again~)

setting aside the very classic and well known toxic positivity disney touts, they may not have been directly leading children into abusive relationships and situations, but they completely destroyed entire generations abilities to recognize psychological ***red flags*** with their portrayals and examples of "true love", as well as gave abusers both excuses and fucking BLUEPRINTS on how to catch and KEEP a victim.

disney *can* be linked almost if not directly to the reason a person will *STAY* in an abusive relationship, once they've already taken that leap of faith or lost the luck of the life draw. Why? because DIRECTLY from disney's portrayals, those ***red flags*** are held in high esteem, *romantic*, *beautiful*, *the ideal*, when the reality is so much fucking worse and to our inevitable detriment.

abusers go out of their way to *paint a fairytale*, and once they know you're hooked on the whimsy and *magic* of this *too good to be true* person, that's when the switch flips. and you wonder and *yearn* for the person *that never was* because it was a ruse designed to FOOL you.

and the most ironic bit about it is that almost every fairytale disney managed to get their claws into actually HAD a well thought out CAUTIONARY tale and lesson for children. gruesome for some, sure, but ripped apart by the disney rendition nevertheless.

the original beauty and the beast is SO MUCH FUCKING BETTER than the sorry excuse for glorified STOCKHOLM SYNDROME made by DISNEY. the difference being not only the reason the beast is cursed, but how beauty ends up at his castle AND how he treats her vs. the toxic and abusive fucking family members she has.

to put it bluntly, SHE WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO BE HIS PRISONER.

BUTT, I DIGRESS.

setting aside all of the disney bullshit, it doesn't get any bit better with the way the mcu portrayed steggy in these two movies.

the first movie, point blank, had her do something BLATANTLY ABUSIVE AND PSYCHOTIC when she SHOT AT HIM.

hmm.. let's see. because he cheated--oops, NO. they weren't together. RIGHT.

SO. because she felt JEALOUS when another woman kissed him, because she felt... ENTITLED to his body and affection when there had been ZERO prior discussion or promises made.

so basically, she shot at him, when steve owed her NOTHING, and he'd done nothing wrong.

yes. that is motherfucking abusive. and it is a motherfucking red ass flag.

by endgame, we see steve go back for a promised dance with a woman... who'd happily lived her life moving on without him, that he'd never dated, was never actually with, and never even had a fair discussion about CONSENT with, after he's callously abandoned and mistreted her niece--by choice.

and peggy is... apparently okay with this???

oh right, the niece is just a gross stain afterthought and collateral, and she always felt entitled to steve's body despite no conversations about the subject, or even a first fucking date! *perfect* and *lovely* right~?

well, i guess we can forget about her having autonomy or actual motivation and care beyond steve's dick, whichever version this was, because if it's the peggy of the main universe? she lets hydra win~... yay, or at the very least is the worst fucking spy known to exist, and gives no shits about her niece at all.

and if she's the alternate? well, she really gave no shits about *her* steve, given this being a *different* steve she readily accepts while *hers* is in the ice, and this much older *not her steve* gives equally no shits about the actually peggy *he knew* seeing as she still lives out her life without him, *and apparently a husband and kids that were collateral and she gave no fucks about because they weren't steve*.

but who cares! she was gross and old and steve now gets to be with a young identical clone of the woman he knew--oh... ooohhh...

pick your poison. gross misogynist steve rogers who thinks all women are replaceable and interchangeable? or creepy uncle steve who knows he makes out with sharon, watches her grow up, and does nothing to stop it... because perfectly fine i guess to swap women, yet again.

of course, setting aside who steve was a character, first off, and also the fact that he always abandons his not good enough non-nuclear family~<3

SOMEONE told the writers of endgame that the final scene with steve and peggy would *ruin the whole franchise*, because they apparently joked about it with atwell in an interview she did regarding the scene.

i'm willing to bet it was stan lee who gave them this very observably true advice, and the mouse chose to dance and stomp all over his grave the second he died for another chance at one of their most awful 'love stories' to date.

dreamworks was always better at REAL romance anyhow~<3<3<3

[goldsainz]

MASTERLIST.

A/N: after the last episode i knew i had to write something about it, or even slightly related to it because IT WAS AN AMAZING EPISODE!! also this is is angstyyyy, there’s not much comfort really, just right person wrong time type of beat [gif cred: @alicenthightcwer]

WORD COUNT: 1,8k

──────────

CHOICES

You wished you could say that after the three years he had gone away, you had forgotten all about the Rogue Prince, but that just wasn’t the case. You heart yearned for his warm touch, and the sleepless nights in which you preferred staying awake than losing time together in favour of some sleep.

Daemon Targaryen was everything to you, you hoped he thought the same. You were almost certain he did, the longing looks he threw your way did not go unnoticed. 

You were no longer the young girl Daemon had once met, you’d seen each other grow up and form into your own people. You had to watch with a lump in your throat as Daemon fucked around with people who meant nothing, people who would never get to know him, not like you did anway.

In those three years in which he was away, the prospect of getting married was all too familiar to you. Your father wanted to marry you off to Harwin Strong, it would be proper, noble of you, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to be happy about the notice. Yet there was a part of you that knew your life would be much safer in the hands of your future husband, than it really ever would be with Daemon.

There were numerous things you’d rather do than stand in the throne room, receiving news that probably meant so little to you. 

As you walked down the halls, accompanied by your father, you couldn’t help but overhear some rumours as to what the King had to announce. Some whispered he was naming Aegon II his heir, others that Alicent was yet again pregnant, but the one that stuck out to you was that Daemon was back. The whispers of Caraxes landing today with his rider made you uneasy. 

Could it be? Could Daemon truly be back?

You stood amongst a crowd of people, awaiting the King, and whatever news he bore. His crown was at the top of his head, sword in hand, his attention fully on the doors, or rather who hadn’t yet come through them.

Suddenly steps could be heard, the hard clink of an armour filled your ears. 

Finally Daemon stepped through the doors, a “crown” above his head while he held a sword. If you didn’t know who your King was, you would not have doubted it if someone said the Prince was him.

You stood frozen in her place for a while, but slowly started to follow his movements. He paid no mind to his surroundings, only looking forward to his brother.

When he finally reached the throne, the guards sethed their swords, one of them placed right on his chest. Daemon moved his hand, placing the sword in an offering motion.

“Add it to the chair.” Were the first thing she had heard from Daemon in three years, the noise of the sword falling on the ground was white noise for her ears. 

The crowd whispered, but you remained speechless. He always had that effect on you, but right now you just didn’t know how to feel, how to act. You didn’t know how to ever speak to him again, not with the things that would inevitably spill from her mouth if she were to open it. 

The two brothers were speaking, Daemon kneeled while the King watched him intently. Your train of thoughts had made you space out for far too long, but you still managed to catch onto the conversation.

“My crown, and Stepstones are yours.” The King had a small smile on his face, though it was evident it bore intrigue.

 “Well, where is Lord Corlys?” 

“He sailed home, to driftmark.”

“Who holds the Stepstones?”

“The tides, the crabs, and two thousand dead Triarchy corsairs. Staked to the sand to warn those who might follow.” After his words, Viserys started to walk towards Daemon, and you held your breath, fearing the worst. Even if your King was kinder than most before him, the Prince had still done things many would have no mercy while judging.

“Rise.” You let out the breath you were holding when Daemon placed his head on the King’s shoulder, clapping slightly alongside the crowd. “The realm owes you a great debt, brother. Come.”

Everyone slowly left the room, following their King, and you did so too. Though you hoped you would get even the slightest of moments with Daemon, you truly dreaded the idea of having to speak to him.

━━━━━━

“Why are you ignoring me, Y/N?” A voice boomed from behind you, the pastry you were eating, now made you slightly choke.

“I’m not, my Prince.” You responded, slightly defensive from his words.

“Drop the formalities, we’ve known each other for long enough.” He sounded amused, but you were far from being in the same mood.

“Yeah, and then you left for three years…” You mutter under your breath, making him tilt his head. 

“Pardon?” Daemon sounded almost offended, like he couldn’t understand why you would say that, as if he hadn’t whispered more times than you could count how you would run away together. Only to ultimately have left without you.

“I said nothing, my Prince.” You continued to use his title, slightly enjoying the annoyance that coursed through his body. You tried to leave, only to have your arm grabbed by him.

“Stop this game,” He told you, his violet eyes looking like flames rippling with conflicted emotions, “I missed you.” He whispered softly, almost making you falter, but you knew he could do better than that.

You said nothing as you walked away, his hand falling off your arm. His touch seemed to burn you, like it was too much for your own body to bear. Something that had never happened before, you wondered if it had been too long without it that your own body repelled even the slightest of touches.

You quickly made your way to your chambers, grabbing your dress so moving was easier. You knew some people stared as you practically zoomed by them, but you could not be bothered, when all you wanted was to wash your skin. You were betrothed, it was improper for you to be touched by anyone who wasn’t family, much less the Prince whose infamous reputation was hard to forget.

You threw yourself onto your bed the moment that your maid had been called to run you a bath. Now all you had to do was relax, and definitely not think about Daemon Targaryen.

You heard a knock on your door, and blindly assumed it was your maid. 

“Come in!” You exclaimed, pulling yourself off your bed, preparing to take some of your clothes off. Except that who came through the door was not your maid, but rather the one person you did not wish to see.

He smirked at the looser hold on your dress, making you roll your eyes.

“Daemon, get out.” You gritted through your teeth, going straight at him to kick him out.

“Is this how you treat your Prince?” He said, ignoring your demand.

“I’m serious, get out. Someone could see.” If anyone saw the state of your clothing - the state of a betrothed woman - it would be a scandal. No matter if the Prince was involved, no one would want you if people believed you were no longer a maiden.

“How terrible that would be.” He mocked, getting closer to you, closing the door behind him. 

“”It would be, yes.” You admit, annoyed at his light behaviour, acting as if he hadn’t abonded you. “Some of us don’t have the luck to be royalty, we can’t all damn the consequences of our actions.”

“If you married me you would be free, you could be whoever your heart desired.” You scoffed at his audacity, he disappeared for years and yet again made empty promises.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not.”

“Daemon, you left for three years. I had no notice of what you were doing for months, you left with some whore I presume you don’t even know where she is now, and you expect me to believe you want to marry at all?” There were some tears gathering in your eyes, but you refused to let him see you cry.

“I came back, didn’t I?” He stepped forward, and as much as you wanted to step back, you couldn’t. 

“You can’t just come and go whenever you want to! You don’t get to say you want me so deeply, and then leave me stranded as if I mean nothing to you.”

“You mean everything to me, Y/N.” He murmured, cupping your face in his hands. You turned away, not looking at his eyes.

“You’re too late for those confessions.” You say after moments in silence, finally looking at him.

“What?”

“I’m to be married, Daemon.” You finally speak the truth, the truth that had been haunting you. You saw his eyebrows furrow, the crease on his forehead, some hairs shaking with his head. “Ser Harwin Strong offered his hand, and my father thought him to be the worthiest suitor.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“By the next full moon we’ll be married-”

“Stop…” Daemon cut you off, whispering words that were meant to bring comfort to his own thoughts.

“He’s kind, Daemon. He kisses my cheek when he sees me, wishes me goodnight, tells me where he’s going when he has to leave…” Yiou knew you were being harsh, but Daemon had to get your picture, he couldn’t walk over your feelings. Not this time.

“Don’t marry him, Y/N.” He pleaded, it felt strange to have a Targaryen plead for something like this. 

“You know I have no choice in that.” You whisper sadly.

“Then I’ll fight for your hand.”

“And then what? You marry me, and then what? What will my life be like if my husband does as he pleases, when he pleases?” 

“It won’t be like that, I promise you.” You wished you believed him. He looked so honest, and a part of you knew he could be true to his word, but you also knew his word wavered when he didn’t find it appealing anymore.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Daemon.”

“I swear, Y/N.”

“I’m sorry, Daemon, but we’re no longer kids. Marriage is all I have, all I can truly have, I won’t risk my whole life on the idea that you won’t mess it all up.” 

You both stayed silent. As Daemon rested his forehead against yours, you relished in the small comfort of his steady breathing. Your lips brushed, and if you had been the girl Daemon knew years ago, you would've kissed him. BUt you couldn’t. 

“Please leave, that’s all I ask.”

You watched defeat cross his eyes as he pulled away from you. All you could do was watch him leave. He didn’t turn back, you weren’t sure if him turning back would’ve been better, but regardless this was your choice. You had made your bed and now had to lie on it. 

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[c-is-for-circinate]

Yes, I'm still thinking about Laerryn, of course I'm still thinking about Laerryn, she frustrates me so much on the level where it very much says more about me than it does about her. In the way where the question is, "what about this character do you not like to see reflected from within yourself?"

And I think the answer is, god, I feel her goals so, so hard. I feel them in my soul.

I'm an academic! I'm a scientist. And I really do believe, deep down, core-deep, where logic has little enough to do with anything, that fundamentally, no knowledge is forbidden. There are things that it is so, so dangerous to try and learn. There is an absolute imperative to be ethical in pursuit of that knowledge, to be careful, to refrain utterly from doing others harm without their informed consent. There is proprietary knowledge, traditional knowledge, secrets that belong to specific people or cultures and doesn't affect anybody else, which is nobody else's business -- but somebody still holds that knowledge. The knowledge exists. The unthinking universe keeps no secrets. Ignorance is not a moral imperative.

People are allowed to want to know, people are allowed to work to find out. The desire to open the doors to other planes -- why shouldn't they be able to explore? Just to find out? Just to go there? Just to know? The goal is beautiful. To open the horizons of your traveling city in brand new directions where nobody ever thought it could go! To see the wonders of the universe laid out before you! How wonderful! How incredible! How beautifully, glowingly human, the curiosity, the desire to strive!

(After all -- why is it ethical for Vox Machina to traipse across half a dozen planes, scouring for weapons to claim as their own, and not a city? Who are they, except main characters, our vehicle for exploring all of these different places that we want to see just as much as Laerryn does?)

And so I get so frustrated! With myself, with the narrative, with her, with the inevitable tragedy of it all, with the way stories like this always get told -- with the fictional thirst for knowledge that goes so, so badly, because that's what makes the good story. Because the tragedy needs to happen. Because greed and haste and bad science always ends in this fictional disaster.

(The crime wasn't cloning dinosaurs. The crime was creating a poorly-appointed zoo of a theme park, trying to patent and milk your brilliant discovery for money, cloning dozens of species to adulthood all at once without bothering to watch and learn about the enrichment and welfare of the animals, to create safety protocols for the guests, backup plans, employee background checks. The crime was careless, selfish greed. But it wasn't wrong to want to see dinosaurs alive again.)

And yet we say: Hubris! It was wrong to want so much. It was wrong to ask these questions of the universe, to challenge the gods. It was wrong to try.

Laerryn wanted something beautiful, something dangerous to try and achieve but so, so wonderful to want to try. And that desire overcame her sense, overcame her caution, overcame her patience and ethics, and drove her to the same place that so many fictional (and far too many real-life) scientists have arrived at before her: poised to do so, so, so much harm, negligent of the welfare of those around her.

And it makes me so angry, it makes me so frustrated, it makes me so sad. It's infuriating, to see the yearning for freedom and discovery once again turned into a weapon of greed. I hate seeing it. I hate seeing Laerryn decide that this thing, this beautiful thing, the thing that I also fundamentally want to see succeed, is more important than actual living people around her.

I hate how the deck was stacked against her, against Avalir and the whole world, such that even if she had been cautious and careful and kind, they'd still all be doomed. I hate how much the finger on the trigger was hers and also how much it doesn't actually matter. I want to blame Laerryn. I want to blame the story. She makes so much sense (she's such a good, dense, layered, beautifully-rendered character), and it makes me so mad.

Which. Y'know. Art that can give you that many feelings is probably pretty good art.