#and they said I’d never make a living from art

[prince-kallisto]

☆*:.｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*☆ Ahhh thank you very much for your reply! You worded a lot of things I was trying to say much clearer- so thank you lots 😆💖

It’s very funny how some parts of the EN fandom has such strict, self-imposed views on the Yuu’s, and the “canonicty” of…OCs lol. When TWST is honestly very freeing with their gender norms and their MC. Honestly, I feel bad for the future Pomefiore MC already- I feel like no matter what, there would be no winning -v- But I’m really excited for their future concept!!

😆💖🐦‍⬛ I’m a Crowley yume, and I’m always gushing over ever line he says and taking it romantically. But that’s just me, and I know the game isn’t an Otome. It may feed us some fanservice both in and out of game (ie merch), but it won’t be an Otome. So it’s upsetting that a small yet vocal portion of the fandom are demanding it to be one for their one ship, while also disrespecting their fellow male and NB shippers in the fandom 🤷 female, male, or NB Yuu is still Malleyuu- but again, it’s for our imaginations, not a romance for the official manga to depict. It’s…ironic that a lot of these same exact accounts were criticizing a small group of BL fans who complained a “girl Yuu was getting in the way of their ship,” while they turn around and demand a girl Yuu for a “valid” Malleyuu lmao

😆💖 if you ever write an essay, I’d love to read it! I almost wanted to rant about it myself, but I knew I’d get off topic if I rambled too much in one post 🤣 I don’t understand why conversations about more diverse romance are always shut down. We ARE making our own- it’s just a shame that’s there’s very little support for them from bigger communities! And even in communities that are kinder, whenever a male or NB fan asks for recommendations, we’re always directed to completely non-romantic games just because the player character is neutral 🤷 while I’m grateful nonetheless, it goes to show how little there is out there for us male/NB fans of romance or “otome” style games. I really love the many routes, art styles, and types of romances in Otome, and I’ve yet to seen in replicated in a more gender-inclusive format. Maybe one day! 💖

I think in regards to fanfic, the main issue I have with self-insert or gender neutral fanfics is that there’s often still descriptions of a character left behind, usually afab descriptions. When everything is fully tagged, I don’t mind as much, but it can be a whiplash otherwise. This can also happen with descriptors in a self insert like…blonde hair or something, which unless it was tagged, is certainly NOT a characteristic everyone has

😭 ANXJHD. Yeah the whole Yuuka situation is so odd. I remember a lot of excitement when she was first revealed because, girl Yuu. But now that YUUNA is released, well I’m seeing some amazing yuri fanart between the two 😆💖🌷 but again, I’ve seen several cases (surprisingly???) of Yuuna being put on a pedestal for “being more of a woman” compared to Yuuka, which is so icky. I’m happy for the femme rep, but PLEASE do not equate this to the “first real girl” rep 😭😭😭😭😭😭 I tend to lean towards a femme style for myself irl (I like to be cute 🫡), and I think I just got so upset over the situation not only for the Yuuka treatment but the sudden dysphoria LMAO 😭😭😭

Ahh random note, but I’m always very fond of the Harveston event lines about Epel. A picture of his grandma in her youth looked EXACTLY like him- just in a dress. And all the other boys complimented the photo, mistaking her for Epel. When Epel was confused about what photo they were talking about, I believe Jade said “the one where you’re wearing a dress.” There was never any blubbering over the mere idea of Epel wearing a dress- it was just a charming photo that they thought was Epel in a dress 🤷

Idk it’s just moments like those that really make the twst world feel comforting that way 😆 the world is very diverse and lively, and that fact is cemented in the way that the game Yuu is genderless. All these “rules” and expectations in the EN fandom are completely contrary to the spirit of the game.

I loved reading your ramble! It was super enlightening and it made me happy to read- thank you for reading my long rant as well! ☺️💖🐦‍⬛ I’m really grateful that me and my nonbinary sona has been really accepted in my local community, I’ve never once felt unwelcome in these spaces. But when I gaze across the vast desert that is the rest of twst social media…I learn that even a cool girl like Yuuka is controversial 🤣🤣

Ahh these are the sort of topics I don’t know how to word well in English , so forgive me if I have roundabout explanations for things 😆 this is a bit of a vent, I apologize again for any mistaken words on anything 💦

But I guess I’m just a little disheartened by the EN fandom- particularly with the whole manga Yuu situation. I adore all the Yuu’s, I love all the Yuu OCs that this amazing and creative fandom has designed.

But I’m seeing an…over exaggeration? Or pedestal put onto the Scarabia Yuu, Yuuna Oujou, and the way some people have discussed the manga Yuu’s have made me a little uncomfortable.

I’ve seen some people be like “finally! A girl Yuu for the manga!” Or “finally! A Yuu who presents herself as a woman!” (This is way different than a celebration of a femme Yuu btw).

? Yuuka, the Savanaclaw Yuu, IS a woman. Some people have been claiming that she’s “hiding her gender” in the all-boy’s school, or “downplaying” her gender, and how they’re so happy that Yuuna is “unapologetically a woman.”

But Yuuka, even in her previous world, has ways presented as a bit more masc- a very bifauxnen, cool girl type of character who is resolute in her strength because of her judo experience. A translation of the manga I read even has her referring to herself as a “ordinary school girl.” It’s just her own personal style of presenting herself. She also exercises in a sports bra! The only troubles she has is the troubles ALL Yuu’s have: that they’re magicless and aren’t meant to be here at this school and this WORLD.

And frankly, it’s uncomfortable that I’ve seen so many people in the fandom act as if feminine style is the only valid way to present as a woman, the implications that Yuuka is not a woman from the way she chooses to dress or cut her hair.

I’m so so happy that people find joy in a very femme presenting Yuu- I love Yuuna just as much! But when the conversation begins turning into…implying femininity is the only way to be/present as a woman, that’s not…it just feels awful. Yuuka was our first girl Yuu, Yuuna is the second. They present differently, but neither of them ever once worry about having the “hide” their gender. Please celebrate Yuuna’s style if that’s what you mean, instead of the “true girl” Yuu.

And on another note, there is the very popular and so far very likely theory of a “boy-girl” pattern in the manga Yuu’s- especially since all the Yuu’s so far have been the opposite gender as the Disney villains of each dorm. Meaning, the theory is that a male Yuu is likely for Diasomnia.

And I’m seeing a very vocal crowd dismissing the idea of male Yuu in the Diasomnia arc, that they want a girl, they’d hate a male Yuu, “Malleus forgot it’s not an Otome so it has to be a girl Yuu!”, they want a girl to be with Malleus “because [we] want Malleyuu.”

And again. It just feels so…alienating. Malleus and Malleyuu personally isn’t for me, but I’ve spent many years hopping around Otome and romance games in the past, and male and NB fans of these genres are frequently told that they don’t belong in the fandom, that these games cater to women.

But most conversations bringing up the possibility of romance games bringing in he/him, they/them or even customizable pronouns for the player are often shut down in most community spaces. Games like TWST, with an ambiguous MC and individual interactions with a character of your choice (ie the home screen voicelines)- or even games like Obey Me or the Arcana, are a rarity have made me really happy and feel really comfortable in the fandoms. Even if the game’s audience is mostly women, the MC/Yuu has *always* had an open identity.

So…the concept that Malleyuu is only WANTED by a portion of the fandom ONLY it’s a girl Yuu just brings back those same feelings again. Of course you may have whatever Yuu you want in your own personal Malleyuu ship!! But one girl Yuu can never represent the whole fandom, one male Yuu can never represent the whole fandom. So it’s strange there’s this complete outcry at the idea of a boy, and in turn of non-het Malleyuu ships in the fandom.

The manga and the Yuu’s have never shown a romantic relationship towards any character- any fanservicey moments still remain from the game, no matter the Yuu it’s aimed towards. And not just from Housewardens- all the characters have their bits of fanservice! But it never goes farther than that in the main story especially.

With the reveal of Yuuna, the EN fandom has been celebrating the diversity and openmindness of the world of twst, and how customizable your Yuu’s truly are. Yuu is…you! Yuu can be whoever you want. But it all falls apart when a portion of the fandom see Yuuna as the only valid girl Yuu, when the mere idea of a male Yuu for Diasomnia or for Malleyuu is bashed and hated.

Or you know what- the idea of male or even NB Yuu is bashed entirely every single time there’s a damn announcement for the manga. A while back, the Scarabia manga announcements were mistranslated in English, and the gender ambiguous language for Yuu was accidental turned into he/him (which turned out to be Yuuna). And the level of vitriol I saw over the idea of a male Yuu was so fucking disheartening. And now it’s happening all over again with a future Diasomnia manga.

Is the manga and their Yuu’s really a celebration of diversity in the EN fandom? It doesn’t feel that way, at all. Perhaps I’m just being self centered about this, but I’ve found myself increasingly upset about how vocal these two issues have been, and I wish some people could be more mindful about it

Apologies for my incoherency in this vent 💦💦💦💦💦 this is NOT hate toward Malleyuu or Yuuna fans as a whole- or towards anyone in fact. This is just a vent and a slight critique just certain parts of the fan bas

[weaselishmcdiesel]

.

[kryllia]

Through His Eyes

Yandere boyfriend x reader

art from pinterest

The first time you met Aiden, he felt like a breath of fresh air. His smile was soft, his words laced with sincerity, and his eyes—oh, those eyes—were warm pools of honey that seemed to melt away all your worries. He was perfect, almost too perfect, but you never dared question it. After all, wasn’t this what everyone wanted? Someone who understood you without words, someone who loved you so wholly and selflessly?

Aiden was the embodiment of devotion. He knew your coffee order by heart, memorized your class schedule within days, and always texted you right when it was needed most. If you were stressed after a long day, he’d already be waiting at the door with your favorite snacks and that soft, knowing smile. It was as if he could read your mind.

And in a way, he could.

But you didn’t know that yet.

It wasn’t until much later—much too late—that you realized Aiden wasn’t just attentive. He was obsessive.

Aiden sat in his dimly lit room, multiple monitors casting a faint bluish glow on his face. Each screen displayed a different angle of your apartment: the kitchen, the living room, the bedroom. His eyes lingered on the feed from the bedroom camera as you shuffled under the covers, sighing softly before drifting off to sleep.

He sighed too, mirroring you from miles away.

“You look so peaceful like this,” he whispered to no one in particular, his finger tracing the outline of your face on the screen. “So beautiful... mine.”

His phone buzzed, pulling him out of his trance. It was the tracking app. You had left your phone on the nightstand, unmoving for the past hour. He smiled, knowing you were safe, knowing you were his.

You had always wondered how Aiden seemed to know everything so well. He’d always have your favorite song playing in his car, always know when illness was about to hit before symptoms even showed. It was... uncanny. But it felt good. It felt like love.

“Do you ever get tired of being so perfect?” you teased one evening, sitting across from him in a cozy cafe.

Aiden chuckled, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Perfect? Oh no, I just... pay attention to the things that matter.”

You.

It was always you.

The first red flag appeared on a rainy Thursday night. You had been at work late, phone dead, and bus delayed. When you finally got home, drenched and exhausted, Aiden was already there—waiting by the door, umbrella in hand.

“How did you...?” you stammered.

His smile didn’t waver. “You mentioned your shift would be longer today, remember? I wanted to make sure you got home safely.”

You shrugged it off. Aiden was sweet. Too sweet to question.

But the nagging feeling in your chest wouldn’t go away.

It wasn’t until weeks later, when you stumbled upon a small black device tucked discreetly behind a picture frame in your bedroom, that reality came crashing down.

A camera.

Your hands trembled as you held it up, your breaths shallow. Your mind raced as puzzle pieces began snapping into place: the perfectly timed texts, the way he always seemed to know where you were, the way he... watched.

Your phone buzzed.

Aiden: Are you okay, sweetheart? You seem upset.

The camera was still in your hand.

He knew.

When Aiden arrived at your apartment that night, his smile was softer than usual, his eyes alight with something... dangerous.

“You found it, didn’t you?” he said quietly, stepping into your space.

Your voice trembled. “Why, Aiden? Why would you—?”

“Because I love you,” he interrupted, his voice trembling with an intensity that sent chills down your spine. “Don’t you see? I can’t lose you. I won’t lose you.”

His hand reached for yours, but you pulled away.

“You’re scaring me,” you whispered.

His expression crumbled, hurt flashing across his face. “No, no, please don’t say that. I’d never hurt you. I just... I just needed to be sure. I needed to keep you safe. They don’t love you like I do. They don’t understand you like I do.”

Tears welled in his eyes, but behind them, you saw something unhinged. Something feral.

“You don’t have to run from me,” he pleaded, stepping closer. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”

Your phone was in your hand now, your finger hovering over the emergency call button.

He saw it.

Aiden lunged.

-

Hours later, you woke up to the feeling of soft fabric against your cheek. You were lying on a plush bed in a room you didn’t recognize. The windows were covered, the air filled with the faint scent of lavender and... him.

Aiden.

You tried to sit up, but your wrists were bound with silken ropes—tight enough to hold you, soft enough not to bruise.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Aiden’s voice cooed from the corner of the room. He stepped into view, his face illuminated by the faint glow of a bedside lamp.

“You’re safe now. No one can take you away from me here.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“I love you so much. You understand that, don’t you?”

His eyes glistened with something almost holy, like he truly believed every word he said.

In that moment, you realized one thing with chilling certainty:

You belonged to him now.

And he was never going to let go.

[hees-mine]

More Loser virgin heeseung thoughts

NSFW MDNI hard thought/Drabble

Loser virgin hee: who nearly loses his fucking mind cause he must be dreaming someone must be playing tricks on him. There’s no way that you’re actually taking video requests from your viewers, but no matter how many times he refreshes your page, the options still lingers, a blue button waiting to be clicked on with the price tag reading an amount he doesn’t even pay attention to before he clicks pay.

Loser virgin hee: who sends back to back requests for you to do a blowjob pov, and missionary pov with a bigger dildo so he can really get immersed and imagine it’s him and of course, a doggystyle pov. He loves seeing your pretty little hole getting stuffed from behind.

Loser virgin hee: who, when he receives said requested content, will thank you over and over again even though he knows you’ll never see it, but still he’s grateful for these works of art, a perfect canvas for him to paint in his pearly white.

Loser virgin hee: will cherish the fuck out of those videos, religiously busting a nut to each one every single day. He thinks the amount he’s cum in the last week is probably not healthy, but he can’t stop as he watches you fuck yourself with a new dildo, one much closer to his size.

Loser virgin hee: who can’t stop requesting videos of you, and he doesn’t know what’s dryer, his balls, or his bank account, but that doesn’t matter when he gets a notification that you’re live. He tuned in immediately, ready for a night of endless pleasure. He’s cum so many times in just a few minutes that the overstimulation makes him feel like crying, but he just can’t stop himself when it comes to you.

Loser virgin hee: who at three am is so sleepy but so horny that he pulls back his blankets and his sweats along with boxers to snap a dick pick and send it to you with the caption. “I’m so hard for you, wish I could feel your sweet wet pussy gushing and squeezing around my thick cock, bet it’d feel so much better than that stupid dildo” In his tired brain, he hits the send button, not thinking much of it until he sees a response like a real response, not the automated ones he’s used to. “Hmm, I bet it would 👅💦”

Loser virgin hee: who shoots up from his laying position. Suddenly, he’s not tired anymore, and his shaky hands send a text back. “I’d do you so good, beautiful. You’re so perfect. You deserve everything.” he feels his heart race, waiting for your response. He’s ridiculously nervous yet horny at the same time, which is a first for him, and he slowly tugs on his thick length till it’s fully erected, a bead of precum decorating his tip.

Loser virgin hee: that almost busts his load just from seeing your three dots typing. Your response makes his eyes roll in his head at just the thought. “What would you do to me?” “Take my time with you. Kiss every inch of your perfect body, prep your sweet little hole with my fingers make you cum on my face and my tongue before giving you my cock. I’d feed it in real slowly just to watch your pretty face while my thick cock fills you up, stroke every inch of your walls so deep till your begging for more, till you clamp and squeeze around me till you cum from how good I fuck you.”

Loser virgin hee: who would probably lose it if he knew you were rubbing your thighs together as you read his text. You didn’t usually text with your clients, but since he was your highest paying one, you made an exception. You’re not disappointed, especially when he sends you a video moaning your name as he strokes his cock. It’s thick, long, and veiny, and the drop of precum he spreads on his shaft makes your mouth water. When he cums, shaking while whimpering your name, you feel like you should be the one paying for personal videos of him cause seeing his cum dripping down his throbbing shaft was definitely a sight to see.

Loser virgin hee: who feels as if time has stopped when you tell him. “That was so hot you deserve a reward. How about we video call?” The speed to which he replies is lightning fast, and the next thing you know, he’s setting up a time to call you. This is by far the best night of his life, and he sleeps soundly, but this time, it’s not from the back-to-back orgasms.

Link to Patreon!

[nomie-11]

Last Call Home

masterlist! | read part 2 here!

synopsis: you had promised years ago that when Vi went to university, you would stay back and take care of Powder and tuition until she graduated. You just didn't understand the toll it would take on yourself.

pairings: vi x reader, powder is lowkey reader's adoptive daughter

“Hey, it’s Vi. Just wanted to call and let you know that I love you and I miss you, and I know I promised I’d be home for the weekend, but Cait needed me for a lab her and Jayce were working on. I promise I’ll come visit you and Pow soon. Happy Valentine's Day, baby.”

—phone call from Vi to Y/n, February 14th, 11:36 p.m.

—————————

Working at The Last Drop wasn’t where you had seen yourself in the long run. When your senior year homeroom teacher had asked you where you wanted to be in the next five years, you would have said university, maybe a job in a field you fell in love with, an apartment with Vi that has a balcony and a nice view.

Not living in the same city in the same dingy apartment since graduation, no college degree and a stagnant job at a bar no one came too unless college was on break. 

But that was you, at the ripe age of twenty two. 

Trudging home after a long shift at the bar, but you had work to get done, things to do before tomorrow. Laundry, bills, maybe dinner if there was enough in the fridge for Powder to eat for the next three days until you got paid and could go food shopping. 

The door to your apartment pushed open with a soft click, the scent of the cheap countertop cleaner you bought immediately assaulting your nose. 

“Hey,” Powder said, not looking up from her seat on the floor by the coffee table. She was doing the art assignment her (ridiculously expensive) therapist had told her to do. 

“Hey baby,” you said, forcing a smile onto your face as you kicked off your work boots and sat heavily onto the couch. “How was school?”

She glanced up at you, her soft, violet blue eyes giving you a one over before she answered. 

“It was good,” she nodded. 

You nodded back, draping an arm over your eyes as you stared up at the ceiling. It was unfair to Powder, and you knew it, but ever since her and Vi’s dad had keeled over and died of a heart attack four years ago, and Vi left for school the year after, you were all she had left. 

“Good.”

————————————

“Fuck, I totally forgot that tomorrow is Powder’s art showcase. I know I promised I’d be back home for it, but finals are next week and I really need to study. Just… send me photos of it, ok? I just want to see her. She’s getting so big. I’m sorry again, Y/n. I miss you.”

——phone call from Vi to Y/n, March 4th, 1:47 p.m.

———————————

Mornings started early. You never had time to make Powder's lunch when you got home from work, so you woke up before dawn to make her breakfast and something somewhat nutritious to eat. The last time you actually had enough money to take her to a family doctor, the only comment they had was that you must have been starving her with how underweight she was. 

You hated the implication, hated yourself more for not being able to prove them wrong. Powder deserved better. You didn’t even bother with breakfast for yourself anymore—not since the last time you stepped on the scale and realized your clothes were fitting tighter than they used to. Some days you told yourself it was just muscle from hauling kegs and scrubbing down the bar; other days you knew better, people aren’t meant to live off of cheap frozen meals and energy drinks. 

You shoved a granola bar and an overripe apple into Powder’s bag, watching her from the corner of your eye as she meticulously folded her art supplies into a second-hand tote you had re-sewn more time than you can count. Her hands moved with care, but there was a tension in her shoulders that weighed too heavy for a thirteen year old. She wasn’t even your sister, you were her sister's girlfriend by relationship, but she might as well have been your daughter at this point. 

She caught you looking, and her soft frown deepened. 

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” she murmured. 

“Doing what?” You asked, tying the handles of her lunch bag into a bow as casually as you could. 

“Pretending everything’s okay.” Powder’s words were quiet, but they struck you like a fist. 

You didn’t answer, just slid her bag over the counter to her and kissed the top of her hair. “Have a good day at school, baby,” you whispered, even as the lump in your throat threatened to consume you. 

——————————

“I finally booked train tickets for May, so I’ll be home for two weeks before I have to go on that research trip. Maybe we can plan a day, just me, you, and Powder? We can go to that art museum she loves—tickets are free for under eighteen, I’m sure we can still pass as high schoolers. Sound good? School is really kicking my ass. I just want to come home.”

——phone call from Vi to Y/n, April 24th, 11:23 a.m.

—————

A part of you wasn’t ready to see Vi. 

It wasn’t anger or resentment—not entirely. It was something deeper, heavier. A dull ache that grew each time her name lit up your phone, her voice brimming with excuses that always sounded too reasonable to argue with. You hated how your heart still jumped at the sound of her voice, how it softened just a little each time that she said she missed you. You hated that a part of you believed her. 

You glanced at Powder’s latest painting propped up against the wall by the coffee table. It was a tangled mess of blues and reds, dark shadows streaking through what looked like broken glass. It was beautiful, haunting even, but it wasn’t a pre-teen’s painting. It was too raw, too heavy. 

Powder was supposed to be excited about Vi’s visit. She’d circled the date on the calendar in her favorite bright pink pen, but now you weren’t so sure. She didn’t talk about her sister much anymore, and when she did, it was only in passing. 

The sound of her footsteps pulled you out of your thoughts. She wandered into the living room, still in her pajamas, her hair a long mess waiting for you to braid it carefully. “Is she really coming this time?” 

You sighed, unsure how to answer. “She says she is. She booked the tickets.”

Powder sat on the couch, curling into herself as she hugged a pillow to her chest. “She always says that.”

You didn’t have the heart to argue. She was right. 

—————

“I’m on the train now! Can’t wait to see you. I know I’ve been gone too long, but I’m gonna make it up to you and Pow. I swear. I brought her those paint sets she’s been wanting. Love you.” 

—phone call from Vi to Y/n, May 5th, 3:13 p.m.

—————

You heard her before you saw her—the creak of the apartment door, her familiar laugh as she stumbled inside carrying her overstuffed duffle bag. Powder froze beside you on the couch, her pencil hovering mid-stroke over her sketchbook. 

“Hey! I’m home!” Vi’s voice was warm, teasing, like she hadn’t been gone for months. 

You stood slowly, your heart pounding in your chest as Vi rounded the corner, her eyes lighting up when they met yours. “There’s my girl,” she said softly, dropping her bag and pulling you into her arms. She smelled the same—like leather and lavender, and the faint scent of cigarette smoke that lingered from the months before she quit. You wanted to melt into her, but something held you back. 

Powder didn’t move from the couch. She stared at Vi, her face unreadable. “You’re late,” she said quietly. 

Vi’s smile faltered. “I know, Pow. I’m sorry. The train—”

“Doesn’t matter.” Powder stood, brushing past her sister without another word and disappearing into her room. 

Vi��s shoulders sagged. “She hates me, doesn’t she?” 

You shook your head, forcing a small smile. “She doesn’t hate you. She just doesn’t know how to trust you anymore.” 

Vi winced, her hands finding your waist as she looked at you with familiar, guilty eyes. “Do you still trust me?” 

Your throat tightened. You wanted to say yes, wanted to believe it was true. But trust wasn’t built on promise—it was built on presence. “I don’t know,” you whispered. 

And for the first time since you met her twelve years ago, Vi didn’t have a comeback. 

—————

“Pow’s still mad, isn’t she? I don’t blame her, but it sucks. I’m trying, Y/n. I swear I’m trying. I just… didn’t think everything would be so different. Anyway, tomorrow’s our museum day, right? I’ve been looking forward to it all week. I want it to be perfect. I’ll make it up to the both of you, I promise.” 

—phone call from Vi to Y/n, May 7th, 9:42 p.m.

—————

The museum was quieter than usual, the midday crowd sparse except for a few families and a group of art students sketching by a massive installation in the lobby. Powder walked a few steps ahead of you and Vi, her eyes scanning the walls, taking in every piece like she was cataloging them in her mind. 

Vi tried to catch up with her, her usual playful energy bubbling to the surface. “Hey, Pow, wait up!”

Powder didn’t slow down. She stopped in front of a painting—abstract, full of swirling colors and chaotic lines. “This one’s new,” she said, her voice distant. 

Vi stepped closer, her gaze flickering between Powder and the painting. “It’s cool. What do you think it’s about?” 

Powder shrugged, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Maybe it’s about someone trying to fix something, but they keep messing it up instead.” 

Vi flinched, but you placed a gentle hand on her arm before she could respond. “It’s beautiful, Pow,” you said softly. 

Powder glanced at you, her expression softening just a little. “Yeah. I guess.” 

Vi stayed quiet after that, no attempts to joke or lighten the mood. You could tell she felt out of place, like a guest in her little sister and her girlfriend’s lives. 

Lunch was better—Powder perked up when she was able to order a large side of fries instead of splitting a small with you, and Vi managed to coax a small smile out of her when the three of you went out for ice cream after, and Vi shelled out the extra twenty five cents for rainbow sprinkles on top. But the weight between them lingered, a silent reminder that some things couldn’t be fixed in a single day. 

—————

“Hey, it’s me. Just wanted to say I’ll wait up for you tonight, okay? I know you’ve been working late, but I want to spend some time with you. Maybe we can talk. Love you, Y/n.” 

—phone call from Vi to Y/n, May 9th, 7:12 p.m.

—————

You came home long past midnight, your body aching from another double shift. The sound of the TV murmuring in the background greeted you as you pushed the door open, and there was Vi, sprawled out on the ouch, half-asleep but still waiting for you. 

“Hey,” she mumbled, sitting up as you dropped your bag and kicked off your worn shoes. “You look exhausted.” 

“I am,” you said simply, your voice flat. 

Vi frowned, her eyes scanning you more closely now. She took in the dark circles under your eyes, the way your shoulders slumped, the stains on your work uniform no amount of scrubbing could get out, the strain on the clothes you couldn’t afford to replace. Her gaze drifted to the pile of unopened bills on the kitchen counter, the worn-out sneakers by the door, the way Powder’s bedroom light was still on because she refused to sleep unless she was sure you were home. 

“Y/n…” Vi started, her voice low and uncertain. 

“What?” you asked, dropping heavily onto the couch beside her. 

“I didn’t realize…” She gestured vaguely around the apartment. “All of this. How much you’re doing. For Pow, for—everything.” 

You laughed, but there was no humor in it. “What did you think I was doing while you were at school, Vi? Sitting around waiting for you to come back?”

Her face fell, guilt washing over her. “No, I just—”

“You didn’t notice,” you interrupted, your voice sharp. “Because you weren’t here.” 

Vi looked away, her jaw tight. “I’m here now.” 

“Yeah,” you said bitterly. “For two weeks. And then you’re gone again, off to some research trip or lab or whatever else is more important than being home for Powder’s fourteenth birthday and her next art showcase and all of her other achievements.” 

Silence settled between you, heavy and suffocating. Vi reached for your hand, her touch tentative. “I know I’ve screwed up,” she said quietly. “And I know I can’t fix it in two weeks, but I want to try. Please, Y/n, let me try.” 

You wanted to believe her, but the exhaustion in your bones made it hard to hope. Pulling your hand away as you stood, you couldn't bear to look at her. “I’m going to bed.” 

Vi stayed on the couch long after you disappeared into the bedroom, the weight of her absence these past years settling over her like a heavy blanket. For the first time, she truly saw the cracks in the life she’d left behind—and the toll they’d taken on the people who’d given her the means to leave. 

—————

“Hey, Cait. It’s me. Look, I’ve been thinking, and I know it’s a big ask, but… is that offer for the spare apartment still on the table? It’s just—things here are worse than I thought. Y/n is working herself to death, and Powder’s not doing great. I want to bring them to Piltover. They deserve better than this. 

I swear, I’ll make it work. I’ll get a part-time job, and once we graduate, I’ll pay you back for everything. I just need to know if it’s okay, if you’re okay with it. They’re—well, they’re  my everything, Cait. I can’t keep leaving them like this. Let me know, okay? Thanks. For everything.” 

—phone call from Vi to Caitlyn Kiramman, May 9th, 11:37 p.m.

—————

The restaurant wasn’t fancy by Piltover standards, but it was leagues above the dingy diners you frequented when you had enough saved up to get Powder a vanilla milkshake and a burger. The dim lighting made the worn wooden tables look almost elegant, and the scent of freshly baked bread and sizzling garlic filled the air. Powder’s eyes were wide as she took it all in, her sketchbook clenched tightly in her hands like she wasn’t sure what to do with it.

Vi had insisted on treating the two of you, though you weren’t sure where she’d gotten the money. “A friend helped out,” she’d said with a sheepish grin, waving off your questions. 

The meal was nice—better than nice, really. Powder had polished off a plate of pasta bigger than her head, and Vi hadn’t stopped smiling since you walked in. But when the plates were cleared and the check paid, Vi leaned forward, her expression turning serious. 

“I need to talk to you both about something,” she said, her voice steady but soft. 

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at Powder, who was busy doodling on a napkin. “What’s going on?” 

Vi took a deep breath. “I want you both to come to Piltover with me.” 

Your stomach dropped. “What?” 

“I talked to Caitlyn,” Vi continued, her gaze fixed on yours. “She has a spare apartment, and she said we can stay there. Rent-free. She’s even willing to cover Powder’s school and therapy until I can get a good enough job to take care of it myself. And you can enroll in community college until I graduate and transfer to Piltover University. A fresh start for the both of you.” 

Your head was spinning. “Vi, that’s… that’s huge. We can’t just pack up and leave. What about Powder’s school? She can’t handle transferring in the middle of the year. Finding a new therapist she trusts? My job?”

“I know it’s a lot,” Vi said quickly, her hand reaching for yours. “But Caitlyn’s family is crazy rich, and she said she can help with everything. We’ll find Powder a new school with a great art program, a new therapist to help with her BPD, whatever she needs. And you won’t have to work like this anymore, Y/n. You can focus on what you want to do, not just surviving.” 

Powder looked up from her drawing, her eyes wide. “You want us to move to Piltover?” 

“Yeah, Pow,” Vi said gently. “I know it’s scary, but I think it would be really good for you. For us.” 

You pulled your hands back, shaking your head. “This is too much, Vi. What if it doesn’t work out? What if we can’t—”

“It will work,” VI interrupted, her voice firm but pleading. “I’ll make sure of it. I’m not asking you to trust Caitlyn or her family. Just trust me. I’ve got you.” 

Silence hung between you, heavy with unspoken fears. Powder’s gaze flickered between the two of you, her expression uncertain but curious with the hope of a future you wished you could provide but would never be able to afford on your own. 

“I don’t know,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “I need time to think about it.” 

“Take all the time you need,” Vi said, her tone softening. “But just… think about it, okay? You can’t keep up like this.” 

You nodded, but the weight of the decision settled in your chest like a stone. Vi’s words made sense, but they didn’t erase the fear gnawing at you. This might have been miserable, but this was home. 

—————

“Do you think Powder will hate me for leaving again? I don’t want to go.” 

—phone call from Vi to Y/n, May 15th, 2:54 p.m.

—————

The train station was as dreary as you remembered it being the first time Vi left. The cold concreted floors and harsh fluorescent lights did nothing to make the moment any easier. Powder clung to Vi’s waist like her life depended on it, her sobs muffled against the soft leather of her sister’s favorite jacket. 

“Hey, Pow,” Vi said softly, brushing a hand through her hair. “You’ve gotta let go, okay? I promise I’ll come back. You’ll see me again soon.” 

Powder shook her head, her tears soaking into Vi’s clothes. “Please, Violet! I don’t want you to go!” she choked out, calling her older sister by her full name. 

You stood a few steps away, arms crossed tightly over your chest, trying to keep it together. But when Vi turned to you, her eyes shining with unshed tears, your resolve cracked.

“You’ll take care of her, right?” Vi asked, her voice breaking just a little. 

“Always,” you whispered, your voice hoarse. 

Vi stepped forward and pulled you into a tight hug, Powder squeezed between the two of you. “I love you,” she murmured against your lips. “Both of you.” 

“I love you too,” you said, your voice barely audible as you buried your face in her shoulder. 

The train whistle blew, loud and piercing, signaling the last boarding call. Vi pulled back reluctantly, kneeling to press a kiss to Powder’s forehead, and then standing to press a gentle kiss to your lips. “I’ll call as soon as I get back to my apartment,” she promised, her voice trembling. 

Powder reached for her again, but you gently pried her hands away, lifting her up as if she was still the nine year old girl watching her sister leave for the first time. She wrapped herself around like she had when she was younger, her legs around your waist and her arms clinging to your neck as if letting go would make everything fall apart. 

Vi hesitated on the platform, her eyes fixed on the two of you until the last second. Then she turned and boarded the train, disappearing through the doors. 

You and Powder stood there as the train pulled away, her sobs shaking against your chest. Watching Vi go felt like losing her all over again, and you couldn’t stop the tears that slipped down your cheeks. 

“It’s okay, baby,” you whispered as you held her tight against your chest as if she was a backpack you had strapped to your front. “We’ll be okay. Let’s go home.” 

But even as you said it, you weren’t sure if you believed it. 

The walk back to the apartment was long and heavy, Powder’s weight in your arms a reminder of how young she still was despite everything she’d been through. Her sobs quieted eventually, but she didn’t let go, her face buried against your neck like she was trying to hide from the world. 

When you finally made it home, the apartment felt emptier than it ever had before. 

—————

“Hey, Vi. It’s Y/n. I know you’re probably in a lab right now, but I just dropped off Powder at school. I quit my job on an impulse last night, I couldn’t handle it anymore. I can’t do this anymore. I miss you, and I just— I think we’ll do it. I think we’ll move to Piltover.” 

—phone call from Y/n to Vi, June 1st, 8:02 a.m.

Read part 2 here!

If you enjoyed this one shot, please check out my other series!

[sepublic]

OH FUCK????????? NEW SHOW BY DANA TERRACE!!!! WITH OTHER HEAD WRITERS JBO AND ZACH MARCUS FROM OWL HOUSE!!!!!

I’d known for a while that Dana had some project in the works, based on her Patreon ramblings but her own show? An indie show she’s in charge of again?! With the same guys she wrote TOH with, holy crap! And released by Glitch, of The Amazing Digital Circus fame!!!!

It’s glorious. It’s already got gore and cursing. We get to see these writers go unhinged. This is like a gift for me! And it’s surreal that we’re really going to get another story from these writers after all, and without the limitations. I’m really glad to see that less than two years after TOH’s ending, Dana and JBO and Zach are already working on another cartoon that they’re in charge of! I’m really happy to see them get to still create, and on their own terms. Where will they go with this…?

Also I gotta say that the princess’ idyllic dreams contrasting with the gorey reality of her body… Reminds me of this YouTube comment I saw once that really stuck with me, about a skinned frog corpse still making leaping motions, as if it still believes its happily jumping through the lily pads. I REALLY dig that.

There’s not enough to really speculate but if I had to guess, it’s about some fantasy medieval characters being reanimated in the future with technology and grappling with their past lives’ conflict with their current undead existences, and the change and existential horror of death. Like the Homunculi from Fullmetal Alchemist 2003. Yeah…!

I gotta add; I can see a bit of Dana’s art style, as well as the other features of her typical body horror, in this as well! When she said she’d been really looking forward to this year, HOO BOY… I never really imagined how much we’d be getting!

I want to give this project respect as its own thing from TOH as well, but I also gotta acknowledge that I can see just a bit of Collector vibes from this character. But also the juxtaposition of her sleeping pose feels very much like that WAKE UP gag with Hunter, which had been one of the first bits ever written for the show! I’ve looked at Dana’s past artwork too and there’s been a recurring theme of cutesy magical stuff contrasted with an unflinching brutality. Glad to recognize marks of a creator as they create!

[no-144444]

dive- c.sainz

summary: f175 is a new experience, and a confession is shared.

pairing: carlos sainz x fem! singer! reader

(inspo from the song dive by olivia dean!)

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“It isn’t workin’, I’m a tidal wave of question marks and you’re just surfin’.”

Carlos weaved through the expensive-looking crowd as he heard your angelic voice over the speakers. Charles sent him a knowing glance, a smug smile that said everything he needed it to; “you’re whipped.”

And he was right. Carlos had been waiting for this for a month. His busy schedule meant he’d never seen you perform live, and he was desperate. He felt cheated out of it when he found out that you’d be performing straight after the Williams showcase, so he rushed out. He couldn’t see you, not quite there, but he knew he would, and that was enough. 

“Leanin’ into me like it’s an art.”

“You look smart,” Lando smirked beside him. He noticed everything, it was weird. “Put on a bit of extra cologne?” he teased. 

He rolled his eyes, a playful smile. “Is it a crime to love a woman?” 

Lando pushed his shoulder, his jaw dropping. “It’s love now, is it?”  

“Yes, it is,” he said, matter-of-factly. “And I’d appreciate it if you would leave me, so I can go see her.”

“Does she know that?” he teased, pulling on Carlos’s tie. 

“She will,” he shook his head. “She does.”

“It’s so crazy lately. You just understand my feelings make me see I’m capable, I’m fine,”

“Have you told her?” he asked, stepping closer as the area they were in became increasingly crowded. 

“I plan on,” he offered with a half-smile/ half-grimace. “I just need-”

“The right moment?” Lando shouted over the music. “Trust me mate, there’s never a ‘right moment’ for that,” Why the fuck was he listening to relationship advice from Lando ‘man-whore’ Norris? “ Just talk to her. And soon. I heard she was Henry Cavill’s celebrity crush.” 

And on that note, Lando moved on, leaving Carlos with a few more insecurities than before. He again fought his way through a sea of people, all wearing expensive perfume and clothes, all complaining about something or other, all trying to get a peek in at the drivers. He didn’t care. He had to see you. 

“And I’m feelin’ beautified tonight, and I’m ready to dive-”

He finally got a look at you and, wow. Your flowing navy dress (a subtle ode to him, he hoped), your perfectly styled hair, your bright smile, your voice. All of you. To be honest, if he wasn’t totally transfixed by you, it would’ve knocked him on his ass, how beautiful you were. He smiled as you danced to your own song, your band joining you. Your voice was perfect, gentle and sweet, the voice he’d fallen in love with. The voice he woke up with, the voice he heard throughout his apartment when you’d come to stay, the voice he loved. 

“Maybe it’s the lovin’ in your eyes!” 

You met his eyes and offered him an enthusiastic wave, making his heart ache in this hopeless way, because he knew without a doubt, he was in love with you. He just wasn’t so sure you were in love with him. 

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

You smiled as you sat beside him for the remainder of the night, and he couldn’t keep his hands off of you. You easily spoke with everyone, meeting his teammates (past and present), and even dealing with what he called a ‘Lando situation’, aka Lando doing something stupid and you having to deal with it. This time it was nearly stabbing Zak Brown with a fork, and while Carlos wouldn’t much mind if he did, he didn’t condone public violence. 

“You were radiant tonight,” he murmured as he buried his head in the crook of your neck during a break in the show. 

“Thank you baby,” you smiled back, your hand going up to run through his hair. “You looked pretty good yourself.”

“Oh yeah?” he smirked. 

You nodded, a bright smile on your lips. “Oh yeah.” 

He chuckled against you. “Mi vida, you’re perfect.”

You pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You’re wonderful.”

“I love you,” he whispered. “So much.”

You turned your head, your eyes wide and almost… confused? Were you confused? Had he read your relationship wrong? Oh fuck-

“I love you too,” you smiled, and surged forward, pressing your lips against his. 

He breathed out a little laugh as you kissed him, noticing how Lando was filming the two of you. He didn’t care.

"I thought you were going to say no," he admitted with a light laugh.

You stared at him, shocked for a moment. "Did you listen to the lyrics?"

He shrugged. "You're very pretty?"

You playfully hit his arm. "I'm ready to dive. Maybe it's the loving in your eyes? Maybe it's the magic in the wine? Maybe it's the fact that every time I fall I loose it all, but you've got me from my head to my feet, and I'm ready to dive," you chuckled at his stupidity.

He sighed as he placed his head in his hands. "I am stupid."

"That's my line!" Charles barked from the table behind the two of you, sending all three of you into a fit of laughter.

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williams & merc masterlist

navigation for my blog :)

[littlemissmentallyunstable]

title: put your hand on my heart

pairing: micheal townsend x reader

synopsis: you know you’re panicking but you can’t stop it and nothing is helping. the last person you want to see you like this turns out to be your saviour

warnings: panic attack, overwhelming anxiety, dark thoughts

a/n: thanks for reading 🤍🤍

taglist: @inmyheaddd @midiosaamor @lyrakanefanatic @aleatorio1234 @maybe-dj124 @book-nerd-emi @maybxlle @foreverwinter22 @sweetreveriee @hermesenthusiast @shattered-glass-roses @gandergaal @sheisntyou @arias-archive @lila-77 @downrightbooks

Please, please, please. Not again. Not this again. I stumble into the bathroom making sure the door shuts behind me, hastily trying to reach a source of water. My finger shake as I turn on the bathroom tap, they can barely grasp the metal. I wait for the cold water to run before splashing my face three times. It’s meant to be a shock tactic, it’s meant to pull me together, it’s meant to help, but it isn’t doing what it’s meant to, it isn’t doing anything. It never does anything.

I try to swallow but it feels like I’ve forgotten how. It feels like my trachea is slowly constricting, the walls on either side slowly closing in creating a claustrophobe’s nightmare. My throat aches as my mouth fills with saliva that I’m desperate to get rid of. I touch my neck, my fingers scraping against the skin. I want to pry it open. Maybe then I’ll be able to breathe, be able to swallow.

I glance up at myself in the mirror and don’t recognise the girl staring back at me. Her eyes are rimmed with thick black smears, her lips are dry and cracked, there are red streaks of art winding down her neck and her face is a sickly pale colour. I’m but living in the shell of body that used to be mine. The things that made me myself are long gone, a ghost of a whisper living somewhere deep within my veins. I don’t know what parasite has infiltrated my body, all I know is I want it out. I want it gone.

But some things you can never kill, so long as they live in your mind, you’ll never truly be rid of them.

Panic wraps bony fingers around my ankles and yanks me into murky waters, Fear holds my head under and makes sure I can’t scream for help. Is this how you felt mum? Is this how you felt when they drowned you? My lungs burn, scream, beg but I already know I won’t ever get to grace them with oxygen again. My hands and feet are bound with thick rope that cuts deep into my flesh. They tied you up too mum. Why? Did you even fight it? I glance at my captors with pleading eyes, they only laugh. Amused by the emotions that fed them running riot through my soul. Did you look at them like me mum? We always had the same eyes, that’s what everyone said. Did they laugh at you too mum?

I feel my body grow weak, I watch as the world spins and I grow dizzy. I’m lost in a state between life and death, beneath this ocean of panic. My body is still trying to fight for survival even though I want to give up. You never wanted to give up, did you mum? But you had to, they forced you to. Panic gives me one last gift, placing something heavy on my chest. It crushes my rib cage but there’s nothing left in me to cry out. No one would hear anyway, I was underwater. No one heard you, mum. I didn’t hear you either. The weight pushes me down further and further from the surface and slowly, slowly it all grows black. Is this what you saw mum? When your body sunk to the bottom? Were you plunged into the darkness the same way I am?

I’m gasping and spluttering. My chest is in agony, red hot pain prickles over my torso. I want to rip my skin off, claw every inch away with my nails. I throw my sweatshirt over my head so the cotton of my shirt was the only thing touching my upper body. I look back to the stranger in the mirror and prod my face with unfamiliar fingers. The veins under my skin throb, almost like my pulse is so fast it might burst them altogether. Part of me hopes they might, at least I’d be rid of these feelings.

My heart thumps loudly through my ears, each boom more demeaning than the last. It feels like the organ pulsating out of my chest each time it beats. A torturous, monotonous thunderstorm that I can’t avoid.

“I don’t like the thunder,” I tremble in my mother’s arms, clinging to the soft fabric of her shirt as if my life depends on it.

“It can’t hurt you little one,” she whispers, stroking my hair with her tender touch, “but don’t fret, you’re safe, I’ve got you, it’s okay, I’m here.”

I don’t like thunderstorms. I never have. But my mother’s arms aren’t here to be my refuge, all I have are these four bathroom walls.

I try and will myself to cry but there are no tears. My face isn’t damp and my eyes don’t water. They refuse, my mind too stubborn to give me an outlet for my pain. I should be crying, I know I should, it’s unnatural not to, it’s not normal.

But I’m not normal.

I feel the dreaded panic attack me again. It’s like a million tiny bullets are being fired at my body all at once. I can’t avoid a single one, I’m stood in no man’s land. And yet despite being shot so many times, I don’t seem to be able to die. Only writhe in my own agony.

My breathing quickens still, which by now I’d thought might be medically impossible. I wish for Sloane to be here to give me a statistic about breathing or wallabies, I wish for Lia to tell me the lie that I would be okay a thousand times over, I wish for Cassie to hold me until I stop shaking looking at me with her kind eyes, I wish for Dean to help me understand why I’m like this and I wish for Micheal to never, ever see me like this.

My wishes don’t come true. Wishes usually don’t for girls like me.

I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have control of my own body, of my own mind, thoughts and feelings. They’re constantly hijacked by a stronger power. A power that comes dressed in black hood and carries weapons of destruction. Though he doesn’t always use them, not straight away. He presents them first, the fear of the threat. Then at the moment of his choosing - the middle of the night, when I’m out shopping, the early morning, in the middle of a case - he would use them.

I have become a prisoner to the man in my mind.

He remembers everything. My mother. He knows all. She was kind and smart and funny and passionate and bold. The details I wanted to forget. Her cold dead body, hauled from the bottom of a lake. Blue skin, closed eyes, hair plastered to her forehead. The things I’d left in the past. She used to tell me I could do anything, be anything. That I was something. That I was special. Brighter than the stars. All that I’d blocked out. The killers that I couldn’t find, that I’d failed to find.

Another overbearing wave of panic crashes into me and my legs begin to feel unsure of themselves adopting an unnatural wobble. Sure I might fall, I sink to the floor in a helpless heap of heavy breathing and blurred thoughts. The cold tiles that press against the back of my thighs are the only thing to remind me that I can feel.

I need five things. What can I see? What can I touch? What can I hear? What can I smell? What can I taste?

I pry my eyes back open. I can see the bathroom door, it’s white with a golden handle. Two towels hang on a hook from the back of it. They’ve been recently used and are still a little damp. The smile on my mum’s face.

I can touch the fabric of my shirt. I play with it between my fingers. It’s soft, it’s smooth, it can’t hurt me. Her fingers weaving a braid through my hair.

I can hear my heart. No, I have to hear past it. I strain my ears. Talking, I can hear my friends talking in the room next door. Sloane, Cassie, Lia, Dean and Michael. I can hear Sloane’s voice most immediately, then Lia’s. The words are blurred, a soup of sound, too overwhelmed by the pounding in my chest. The hum of her sweet song, the one she wrote just for my name.

I can smell bleach. It’s strong and sterile. The bathroom has been recently cleaned. Rose water and buttermilk. She always smelt of rose water and buttermilk. As long as I could remember.

I can taste nothing. My throat is dry, my lips are dry, my tongue is so dry it’s stuck to the roof of my mouth. The honey sweet syrupy liquid she often gave me before I slept.

I lean back further into the wall and close my eyes again. Is it working? Is it helping? I’ve listed the five things, my task is done. Why do I still feel the same? I shouldn’t still feel the same. It’s not working, it never works, I don’t know why this time I thought it might. I’m an idiot. I always have been.

“y/n? Are you in there?”

I know that voice and I know I don’t want him anywhere near the door. I know I’ve forgotten to lock it and I can’t move from the position I’m in. I know I need to tell him I’m fine, that it’s okay. I know that I should then explain I need Lia to get me a tampon to scare him away.

But I can’t speak, I can’t answer him. When I try I end up gasping for air like a fish out of water. I grip the side of the sink, my knuckles going white, trying to hoist myself up. He can’t see me like this, out of everyone it can’t be him. The moment I get myself to stand, my legs give way and I fall back to the floor. They’re too weak to support me anymore.

I’m too weak.

I land with a crash, sending a shooting pain up my back. I wince and make some sort of strangled sound, a scream but with no breath to make it sound like a scream. Immediately he bursts in, uninvited in classic Micheal style. Though he might be the emotion reader of the two of us, I see the worry on his face, through his eyes. I try to glare at him but can’t even muster that. I know there’s no getting out of this now, the moment he lays eyes on me he knows exactly how I feel. Even if I were Lia I don’t believe there’d be any lie good enough to cover up my situation.

“Woah, woah, woah,” he rushes, dropping to his knees immediately, “hey, it’s okay, I’m here.”

“It’s okay, I’m here.”

My mother’s words echo through my mind. His hand settles on my thigh. I don’t need you here’ I wanted to scream. I need Sloane, Lia, Cassie, Dean, Judd, heck even Briggs just anyone but him. He shouldn’t know that this is the real me, that this is the kind of relationship he is really getting into.

He sees it. He sees my fear, my desperation, my panic, my worry, my pain, my anger. He sees it all in technicolour.

Micheal takes my face between to soft palms, “breathe with me, sweetheart,” he says very slowly, “I need you to breathe with me.”

I can’t even talk. I try to reply, but I physically can’t.

“Don’t try to talk,” he tells me gently, “it’s not going to help you. I need you to try and breathe with me.”

I can barely hear him over the sound of my heart raging through my ears yet manage to shake my head vigorously. I need to explain to him that it won’t work, that it never works.

“Try,” he murmurs, understanding, “with me. In… and out…”

Inhale through the nose, exhale through the mouth. Nothing overtly complicated. Yet it feels like the most difficult task I’ve ever had to do in my life.

“In…” he guides me, steadily, “…and out.”

One. I do it once.

My breathing is still rapid, I am panting like a dog but I did it. Once. He sits down beside me, interlocking his hand into mine. A constant, a rock, he’s telling me he isn’t leaving. His back is up against the cool tiled wall. Gently he puts his hands on my hips. I don’t shy away from his touch, I don’t flinch, I don’t slap him away. I want his hands on me. I want him to distract me.

He pulls me between his legs. I lean on him pressing my back up against his firm chest. I need to feel something, someone, anyone. I need to know that I’m not alone. I want his lips to transport me somewhere else, I want his hands to make me forget everything. I tilt my head so ours eyes meet. I plead silently. I know he can read what I want, what I need. I know he can see it all displayed on my face.

“You have to get your heart rate and breathing back to normal,” he says, “a distraction won’t help that.”

“Need,” I choke, through loud gulps of air.

He presses a kiss to my temple, “breathe, my love, you’re safe, I’ve got you.”

“You’re safe, I’ve got you.”

I see my mum’s face. I roughly grab onto his legs, clawing at the material of his trousers, digging my fingernails in, like some sort of scared animal. I feel his hands on my waist as my chest heaves up and down, still uncontrollable. The untameable beast in my brain still a torrent of darkness.

“It’s okay, I’m here,” he repeats, his voice so smooth, so soothing. I want to believe him, “focus on me…”

I do. I’m focusing on his breath I can feel tickling the back of my neck and his outstretched legs I can see in front of me. I’m focussing on the shade of blue the sweatshirt is and how he smells of that fancy cologne he insists on buying. I’m focussing on the tingling sensation his lips let behind on my temple and the warmth of his body against mine.

“My voice…”

It’s low and even. Steady and constant. The words he says are sweet and soothing and kind. He wants to help me. He cares enough. They’re said softly, gently, tenderly, calmly. He wants me to know I’m safe. He wants to fight the man in my head as much as I do.

“My touch…”

His fingers are delicately wrapped around my waist, but one hand is drawing slow, light circles on my stomach. I feel the shape spiralling in and then back out again. The muscles in his upper arms are against the muscles of my upper arms, they brush together. His heart is beating a little faster than usual against my back.

I think about Micheal. I focus on what he tells me to. Each time I take in oxygen it gets the slightest bit easier. I inhale and I exhale. He waits and he listens and he draws circles on my belly. Sometimes he talks and sometimes he stays silent. But we stay like this until my breathing is only a little worse than normal. The breaths are still short and jagged but they’re less of a gasp, less of a prayer for air.

“You’re okay,” he repeats, “I’ve got you, you’re safe, I’m here.”

I twist my neck to meet his eyes. He looks like he’s in pain. I never meant to cause him pain.

“I’ve got you. Can you feel me?” he whispers, “I’ve got you in my arms. That means you’re safe.”

Safe. Would I ever really be safe when my biggest enemy lived in my own mind?

“I… need… touch…” I tell him, through little breaths.

I haven’t heard the man in my head since Micheal got here. I know this will help. I know I need it. He can make things go away, he can help me, he can keep me safe. He’s got me in his arms. That means I’m safe.

“Okay,” he whispers.

His hand slowly moves from the tight grip on my waist to the bottom of my shirt. It slips under the material, slowly trailing up the bare skin of my stomach. His fingertips skim over my bra and find their way to just below my collarbone on the left side on my chest. He flattens his hand against my heart, pressing down firmly. It’s warm in contrast to the coolness of my skin.

“Breathe again love,” Micheal says in my ear, his voice in the back of his throat, “breathe for me.”

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Do it again. Do it again. Do it again. It’s getting easier. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Do it again. It’s getting easier. It’s getting easier.

I can feel him, only him. Micheal Alexander Thomas Townsend. My heart thumps against his palm. I close my eyes and rest my head back onto him. I feel it, as he presses the lightest of kisses onto my face, first my forehead, my nose, then my lips. Him, it’s all him. He can take this away, this darkness, this sickness, this disease in my mind. He can make it leave.

After what feels like a while, I’m somewhat what I was before. I can’t say things are back to normal because I am not normal. But I can breathe again, my chest doesn’t hurt, my heart isn’t the only thing I can hear and the man in my head has left. For now.

I realise for the first time how Micheal has seen me. This isn’t the me he’s used to. I take his hand from my shirt and move away from his touch. I stand up shakily and he’s quick to follow, ready to catch me should I fall. I lean against the sink, breathing deeply in and out. I can’t rely on him,I can’t afford to. The last person I relied on was my mother and look where that got me.

“You weren’t meant to see that,” I say, my back still towards him. I can’t bear to look him in the eye, not even for a second.

“It’s not a crime to panic,” he tells me slowly, there’s something tentative in his tone.

I turn around to face him, “yes. It is.”

I’m no emotion reader but something in his face looks scared. I had been taught long ago that I had to stay in control. That if anyone saw me out of control, unnatural, disobedient to the requirements set, that I would be less of a person. A nothing in this world. I’m not going to let this make me nothing. Not after I’d been something for so long.

Something to my mother. Something at school. Something to Briggs and his colleagues. Something to the Naturals program. Something to the friends I’d made here. Something… something to Micheal.

“I’m strong Micheal,” I say trying to steady my shaky voice, “I’m strong, I don’t break,” I falter as tears fill my eyes, I haven’t cried in so long, “I’m not like this, it’s not me.”

I meet his eyes again. He can see all of it, the emotions I show him and even the ones I’m holding back. I’m like a naked body in a room full of mirrors.

“Oh sweetheart,” he says, reaching out to take me in his arms once more.

And as much as I want to, crave to, yearn to, I don’t. I jerk away from his quickly, hitting my hip on the corner of the sink. The porcelain sends a sharp jolt of pain through my body. There will be a bruise tomorrow. He immediately backs away, a concern I’m not used to seeing rippling through his features. He could hide it if he wanted but he’s choosing to show me. He’s showing me he cares.

“Don’t pity me Micheal,” I try to snap but instead my voice strains and instead sounds like I’m in pain, “please.”

‘I’m not pitying you’ the unspoken words hang in the air but never reach his lips.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks instead.

“I don’t know,” I whisper, fumbling over my words, “I don’t know.”

“Come here,” he says, opening his arms again. This time not reaching out for me, this time letting me choose to come towards him.

And I do.

I fall into his arms and melt into his touch. When I feel him around me, everything falls silent, the noise, the stress, the expectation. It’s only him and me. Him and me.

“You are still strong, even after breaking,” he says into my ear, such power in his words but gentleness in his voice, “because you haven’t broken completely, you’re still here,” he murmurs, “and that’s the strongest thing someone can ever do.”

There isn’t any words to reply and he knows that. I let him hold me for a long while before finally, finally I let myself cry.

ahhhh this is my first naturals fic so I’m lowkey nervous… i try and avoid y/n at all costs but I felt like it was sort of needed here. anyways i hoped you liked it and let me know if you want to be on the taglist :))

the natural’s masterlist

[childrenofcain-if]

How would the RO's change MC died after they were romanced?

C LACROIX

C wasn’t made for grief.

they were made for insulting words and cutting smiles, for elegant lines and perfected exteriors. loss was not something they wore well; it settled wrong, like a coat several sizes too heavy, dragging them down. they didn’t know how to process it, not when they first heard the news, not when they saw your body, not even in the quiet moments afterward when the world felt like it had slipped out from under them and left them hollow.

it was a plane crash. nothing grand or cinematic, just a routine flight that went horribly wrong, the kind of accident that everyone reads about but never imagines happening to someone they love. one second, you had been flying back from a conference, and the next, you were gone. just like that. no warning, no chance to say goodbye.

C had stared at the TV when the news broke, their face frozen in something close to disbelief, their hand still clutching his phone like maybe, just maybe, you would call and say it was all a mistake. it was supposed to be a big fucking joke, wasn’t it? it had to be. you were too alive to just disappear. you were too vivid, too present, too… everything.

when the silence settled, after the news anchor had moved on to some other tragedy, C let their phone fall from their hand. the sound of it hitting the floor was distant, a hollow echo that meant nothing. everything meant nothing.

they never cried. not at the funeral, not during the long, agonizing weeks that followed. people expected them to, C could tell. they waited for the breakdown, the outpouring of emotion, the proof that C.A. Lacroix was, in fact, human. but it never came. instead, they stood by your grave, their hands in the pockets of their coat, their eyes as dry as the winter air around them.

“i always thought i’d be the one to leave first,” they said quietly, their voice almost drowned out by the wind. it was a bitter truth. C had lived their life like they were invincible, like nothing could touch them. and now, standing there in front of the cold stone with your name etched into it, they realized how utterly foolish that had been.

one night, weeks after the funeral, C found themself in your apartment that you’d rented after graduation, sitting on the edge of your bed. the door had been left unlocked for them by the landlord, who had given them a look of pity before leaving them alone with the memories.

the apartment was the same as it had always been. same stupid art that C had painted on the walls. same worn leather couch. same lingering scent of lavender in the air—so faint now it was barely there, but enough to make their throat tighten. they walked through the space like a sleepwalker, their fingers brushing absentmindedly over the coffee table, the kitchen counter, the handle of your favorite mug.

this is it, they thought. this is all that’s left of you.

they then proceeded to walk to your bedroom. it was untouched, as if you might walk in at any moment. they picked up one of your books from the bedside table, thumbed through the pages without really seeing the words. it was a tattered old paperback you’d read a dozen times. they flipped through the pages, stopping at the footnotes you’d scribbled in the margins, half-formed thoughts, sarcastic remarks, things you’d meant to tell them but never got the chance to.

their fingers traced the words as if that action would bring you back to them.

“you were always smarter than you’d think,” C murmured to the empty room, their voice rough, broken at the edges.

but there was no answer. there never would be.

the door creaked slightly, and C’s heart leapt for a fraction of a second before reality crashed back down. It wasn’t you. it would never be you again. they closed their eyes, trying to will the ache away, but it only spread deeper, gnawing at the hollow space you had left behind.

***

for a long time, they did nothing. they went through the motions of life—work, social engagements, even the occasional meaningless flirtation—but it was all mechanical. they weren’t there, not really. they were somewhere else, trapped in the memory of what you two had, of all the things they never said to you when they had the chance. the words that stuck in their throat now were the ones they’d dismissed as unimportant then.

because they thought you still had time.

“come back,” C would whisper into the dark of their empty apartment one night, drunk and foolish. “you’re supposed to be here, damn it.”

C hated how small their voice sounded. they hated the vulnerability that seeped in when no one was watching, when the mask they wore for the world slipped just enough for the cracks to show. they didn’t want to be vulnerable. not to anyone. especially not to a ghost.

***

years passed like water through cupped hands, but it didn’t heal the way it was supposed to. instead, it twisted the wound, making it fester in the quiet moments. C became colder, more rough. people commented on it behind their back, how they’d changed, how they’d become more distant. as if they hadn’t always been distant. they avoided relationships like a plague, finding them tiresome, pointless.

they took to spending more time alone. alone felt safe. alone meant no one could disappoint them. alone was all they had now.

***

C never married. they never loved anyone after you, not in the way that mattered. there were flings, of course—fleeting, shallow things that never stuck. they didn’t want them to stick. they’d feel sick everytime afterwards; it was a subconscious way to punish themself.

when C died, at the age of 74, it was in a quiet, sterile hospital room, their body finally betraying them to some nameless illness they didn’t care enough to fight. no one was at their bedside. no family, no lovers, no friends. just them, alone, the way they had spent the last decades of their life.

the nurse who came to check on them found a small silver bracelet on their wrist, the only piece of jewelry they ever wore. it had been there for as long as anyone could remember, though no one ever asked them about it. but rumours are fickle, and there were many. they believed it belonged to the only soul C had ever loved; they’d be right.

alas, there was no confirmation. C never talked about their past, never spoke of the person who had owned their heart so completely all those years ago. but the bracelet stayed with them until the very end, a quiet reminder of the love that had once been, the love that had shaped them in ways no one could see.

and so C.A. Lacroix left the world as they had lived in it—cold, distant, and untouchable. they were buried next to an heir who died young, a fortune to their name which C had inherited and then donated to several charities around the globe.

V NÆSHOLM

V would’ve never imagined that their life could unravel so completely in the span of a single, terrible moment. they’d spent so much time wrapped up in their faith, in the steady rhythm of prayer and the familiar weight of their cross resting against their chest, that the thought of losing you seemed almost impossible, even when they whispered it in the quietest corners of their mind.

but now, you were gone, and all V could do was stand there in the hospital room, staring at the empty bed, their mind slow to catch up with the horrifying finality of it all.

it had been a car accident. quick, brutal, unexpected. you had been walking home, your usual route through the city, nothing unusual. just a random, terrible twist of fate—a driver who wasn’t paying attention, a red light ignored. and then the call. V had gotten the call, their heart dropping into their stomach the moment they heard the voice on the other end, calm but clipped, like they were just delivering bad news in a routine, detached way.

at first, V had held out hope. they’ll be fine, they told themself, clutching the metal cross around their neck so tightly the edges dug into their palm. they’re strong. they’ll be fine.

but you weren’t fine. you didn’t wake up. you didn’t squeeze V’s hand back or open your eyes when V whispered their name. the machines hummed, the doctors muttered their apologies, and in the end, it was just… over.

***

in the days that followed, V couldn’t seem to find solid ground. the world tilted around them, spinning out of control, but they kept moving as if through thick, suffocating fog. people spoke to them—friends, family, even strangers at the funeral—but none of it registered. the condolences, the words of comfort, they slid off V like rain on glass, unable to penetrate the haze of disbelief and sorrow that wrapped around their heart.

they spent hours alone in the small church near their apartment, staring at the flickering candles that lined the altar. the scent of incense hung heavy in the air, but it didn’t soothe them the way it used to. nothing did. not the prayers, not the hymns, not even the familiar rhythm of the rosary beads sliding through their fingers. they prayed, but the words felt empty now. they didn’t know what they were asking for anymore. forgiveness? strength? understanding? none of those things seemed to matter when you were gone.

one evening, weeks after the funeral, V found themself at the spot where it happened. it wasn’t a conscious decision; they had just been walking, trying to escape the suffocating quiet of their apartment, and their feet had carried them there. the street was busy, cars rushing past, people laughing as they walked by, utterly unaware of the history beneath their feet. V stared at the pavement, at the place where you had fallen, and something inside them broke.

“i should’ve been there,” V whispered, their voice swallowed by the noise of the city. “i should’ve… i should’ve done something”

they didn’t know how they could’ve stopped it, but the guilt was there, gnawing at their insides like a slow, relentless tide. they wrapped their arms around themself, clutching at their cross like it was the only thing holding them together. but the truth was, they weren’t holding together. not really.

“i don’t understand,” they murmured, their voice trembling. “i don’t understand why god took you. you didn’t—” their voice broke, and they pressed a hand to their mouth, the tears coming faster now, hot and relentless. “it wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

V stood there for what felt like hours, the world blurring around them as their tears blurred their vision. they had no answers, no solace. only the terrible, aching silence of a world without you in it.

***

in the months that followed, V’s faith began to falter. they went through the motions, attending church, praying before bed, but it all felt distant, disconnected. the questions swirled in their mind, louder and more insistent with each passing day. why would god take someone so good, so full of life? what kind of plan was this? V had always believed in a higher purpose, in the idea that everything happened for a reason, but now? now, nothing made sense.

V stopped wearing their cross. they couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it happened—one day, they just forgot to put it on, and then the next day, and the next. eventually, it stayed in the drawer by their bed, tucked away like a relic of a life that no longer made sense. their prayers, once a source of comfort, felt like words spoken into a void. and V, for the first time in their life, felt truly alone.

***

time passed, but the ache never really went away. V learned to live with it, the way one learns to live with an old wound that never quite heals. they moved on, or at least that’s what everyone said. they got a new job, met new people, filled their days with distractions. but every time they walked past the spot where you had died, they felt that same hollow ache in their chest, the same weight of regret pressing down on them.

V never got married. they didn’t believe in soulmates anymore, not in the way some people did, but they knew deep down that they’d never love anyone the way they’d loved you. they carried that love with them, quiet and steady, like a flame that never went out, even as the years blurred together and their hair turned gray.

when V died—peacefully, in their sleep, at the age of 83—they were found with an old, worn photo of you tucked under their pillow. the photo was crumpled and faded, but V’s fingers had held onto it until the very end. they were buried with it, and when the priest spoke at the funeral, he didn’t know the story behind the photo. he didn’t know how V had spent a lifetime missing someone they’d lost too soon, someone they’d never stopped loving.

but that love? it stayed with V, even in death.

W OSTENDORF

W had never been good at letting go. of anything. not of people, not of feelings. so when you died, it was like losing gravity, like the world had unmoored itself from beneath their feet and left them floating, untethered, in an endless, cold space.

for a while, they had you. they had you in all the small ways that mattered—the quiet moments in the morning when you would drink coffee together, the long, easy silences that wrapped around you like a second skin, the unspoken understanding that nothing could break them.

until something did.

it had been an illness, terminal and insidious. at first, W thought it was just exhaustion—long nights of work catching up with you, a bout of stress, nothing that couldn’t be fixed. but then the doctor’s visits turned into hospital stays, and the vague reassurances became grim warnings.

you got weaker, thinner, your voice a little quieter every day until W couldn’t ignore the gnawing dread that curled in their stomach every time they looked at you. you tried to be brave about it, for them, for everyone, but W could see it in your eyes—the fear, the acceptance.

“i’m not scared of dying,” you had told them one night, your hand trembling as you reached for them. “i’m scared of leaving you.”

W had kissed the top of your head, their lips pressed hard enough against your hair to hide the fact that they were shaking too.

“you’re not going anywhere,” they’d whispered, because the alternative was impossible. they couldn’t lose you. not you. not again

***

but you did go. slowly, painfully, slipping away in a way that left W feeling raw and powerless. they were there, at the end, holding your hand, their voice cracking as they begged you to stay. but you didn’t.

and W broke.

it wasn’t a loud break, not at first. it was quiet, a silent shattering of everything they had built around themself, a slow unraveling of the person who had once known how to smile, how to laugh, how to love. they went through the motions at the funeral, shaking hands, offering nods of thanks to the people who said they were sorry. they were all sorry, but what did it matter? sorry didn’t bring you back. sorry didn’t fill the gaping void that swallowed them whole every time they closed their eyes and saw the empty space beside them where you should’ve been.

***

in the weeks that followed, W became a shadow of themself. they stopped going out, stopped answering calls. their apartment was too big, too empty, every corner of it a reminder of the life they’d lost. the couch where you used to sit together. the kitchen where you would make fun of their terrible cooking. the bed—god, the bed—where your absence felt like a punch to the gut every night when they lay down and realized they’d never feel your warmth beside them again.

they didn’t cry, not really. not like they thought they would. the grief was too big for tears, too vast and strangling. instead, it weighed them down, pressed against their chest until it hurt to breathe. every morning, they woke up and went through their routine—shower, coffee, sit at their desk—but it was all mechanical, all pointless.

emerson tried to reach them, worried out of their mind. their aunt asked if they were okay. but W couldn’t answer them. they didn’t know how to explain that the person they had known, the person they used to be, had died the same day you did.

***

time passed, but it didn’t heal. W didn’t move on. they didn’t want to. moving on felt like a betrayal, like erasing the only part of them that still felt real. they didn’t go on dates, didn’t flirt or laugh or even think about love. they couldn’t. not without thinking of you, not without comparing everyone to you and finding them all lacking.

sometimes, late at night, W would pull out the old letters you had written them. small notes, tucked into books or left on the counter, filled with inside jokes and quiet declarations of love. they’d read them over and over until the words blurred, their vision clouding with tears they never let fall.

“i miss you,” they whispered one night, the paper crinkling in their trembling hands. “god, i miss you so much.”

the apartment echoed back in silence.

***

W never married, of course. people talked about it sometimes, behind their back, wondering why someone like them—successful, good-looking, with their whole life ahead of them—never found anyone else. they didn’t understand. they didn’t know what it was like to have your heart buried with someone else.

they grew older, their hair turning silver, their body slowing down in ways they hadn’t expected. but they kept going, day after day, carrying the weight of their grief with them like an old companion. it wasn’t sharp anymore, not like it had been, but it was always there, lingering at the edges of their mind, a dull, constant ache.

when W died, quietly in their sleep at the age of 79, they found them in their armchair, a book in their lap and a small silver band on their ring finger. it was worn, the inscription inside barely legible after all the years. but if you looked closely enough, you could still make out the initials: three letters which belonged to a young heir of a massive fortune who died a long time ago.

W hadn’t spoken about you in decades. they hadn’t needed to. you were always with them, in the silence of their apartment, in the spaces between their thoughts, in the worn pages of the notes they had never thrown away.

D DIACONU

D—rook, as many would know them—had always been too good at running. they knew how to leave feelings behind, how to laugh things off, how to keep people at arm’s length so nothing ever hurt.

“flighty little wolf,” mihail, their older brother, would laugh when they were younger. the sentiment didn’t lose itself even as D grew older.

it was easy, life was easy, until you. and suddenly, nothing was easy anymore. they were flirty by nature, playful, keeping everything light, but you were the exception to every rule D had lived by. the one person they couldn’t outrun.

but even then, D didn’t want to acknowledge it—not completely. love was an unwelcome thing, something that made people weak, made them care too much. so, they danced around it, avoided the word, kept things just close enough but never fully admitted it.

they were still D, still flirty, still detached on the surface. yet, whenever you were around, something about them softened in ways they’d never allowed before. in those moments, they were scared shitless. because what if one day you weren’t there? what if you disappeared like everything else D had been too afraid to love?

***

and then it happened. suddenly. the kind of thing that’s supposed to happen to other people, in distant stories, not to you. you were in an accident—an unforgiving, tragic turn of events that left D shattered. they were at the scene. D could still remember the way the sky looked, overcast and thick with grey, how the sirens sounded distant, like they were underwater. it wasn’t real. it couldn’t be real. they stood there, frozen, heart in their throat, staring at the wreckage that used to be a car, and everything in their world stopped moving.

D didn’t say a word, not to the paramedics, not to the people around them. they couldn’t. there was nothing to say. nothing mattered anymore. you were gone.

***

“you’d laugh if you knew,” D muttered under their breath one night, sitting alone in the corner of some dingy bar. they stared down at the half-empty glass in front of them, spinning it slowly between their fingers. “all this time, you thought i didn’t care. that i didn’t... feel. but here i am. utterly wrecked by you.”

they chuckled, but it was hollow. the kind of laugh that only came out when the truth was too heavy to hold in. because you had gotten under D’s skin in a way that no one else had. even after all those times D had told themself not to fall, not to let you get too close, it had happened anyway. and now, D was stuck with all these feelings they didn’t know how to handle.

so they write and write. songs after songs, pages after pages filled with their long-gone eternal muse. the band’s popularity skyrocketed, the producers milked it for as long as they could.

D could not bring themself to give a shit.

***

months passed, and D became a ghost in their own life. they showed up, sure, but it was like they weren’t really there. they’d skate through the days with the same careless swagger, but something was missing. people started to avoid them. it was too hard to be around someone who looked alive but was dead inside. it seemed like the only people who tried to be there for them at that point were their bandmates and C.

they would laugh it off when their friends asked if they were okay. “me? i’m fine. never better. just living, you know?” and they’d wink, flash that charming smile that always got them out of trouble.

but the world became smaller, dimmer. D moved from one party to the next, one high to the next, chasing something they couldn’t name, something they had lost with a bright-eyed heir with an evergreen heart. nights blurred into mornings, and nothing felt real anymore. nothing except the ache, the emptiness that had been left behind.

on some nights, after too many drinks and too many bad decisions, D would find themself sitting in a bathroom, staring at their reflection in the mirror. their pale face would be gaunt, their gray eyes hollow. they would look like a stranger.

rook didn’t know who they were anymore.

***

D died young. too young. it was late one night, after another wild party, and they had pushed things just a little too far. the drugs had been an easy fix—an easy way to drown out the feelings they didn’t want to face. but this time, their body couldn’t handle it. the paramedics found them slumped on the floor of a room at chelsea hotel, empty pill bottles scattered around like confetti from a life that had spiraled out of control.

but what was strange—what the paramedics couldn’t quite understand—was the look on D’s face. even in death, behind the glazed-over eyes and the pale, lifeless skin, there was a smile. a soft, almost peaceful smile, like D had finally found what they’d been searching for all along.

in the end, D had stopped running.

M WHITLOCK-SINGH

the news of your death came to M as a whisper, traveling through the rigid, polished halls of their life before it reached their ears. at first, it didn’t make sense. death, for someone like you, felt improbable, impossible even.

you had been everything untamed in M’s world, everything wild and unpredictable, a force of nature that couldn’t just stop. yet, the world had stilled. all the reckless plans you had made—the fleeting escapes, the late-night laughter—had ended in a way too final for M to comprehend.

M grieved in silence. royals were trained for composure, for duty above all else, and M had mastered that lesson too well. there were no public displays of despair, no headlines that suggested the depth of the loss they felt. even when they stood at your graveside, surrounded by others who wept openly, M stood perfectly still, a model of grace and solemnity. inside, though, their chest felt hollow, as if someone had reached inside them, twisted through the maze of their ribs and snatched their heart away.

after the funeral, M’s life became a carefully curated performance. they married—someone of equal status, someone safe and suitable—but it was all a façade, a slow march into an existence they hadn’t chosen. the marriage was a duty, a requirement. it lacked everything you had ever been. The late-night conversations that made the world feel infinite, the reckless plans that filled the air with electric energy—all of it was buried with you, and M was left with nothing but a name and a title they never cared for.

they’d close their eyes at night and still hear your voice, soft at first, then louder, like a song they couldn’t forget but could never play again. the world, once vibrant with you, felt drained of color. the laughter that used to spill from M’s lips was replaced by brittle smiles, the kind that didn’t touch their umber brown eyes.

they never spoke of you—not to their spouse, not to anyone. it was as though speaking their name aloud would unravel M’s delicate grip on sanity, on the life they were barely holding together.

***

a few years passed. M became more distant, more remote, even within the walls of the palace. their marriage grew cold, each day more formal and lifeless than the last. they were trapped, locked in a gilded cage with no way out. your memory remained, a quiet presence that lingered at the edges of M’s mind, haunting them with the life they could’ve had, the person they should’ve been.

there were whispers, of course. rumors about M’s detachment, their coldness, their increasing absence from royal duties. but no one knew why. no one could have guessed that their heart had been buried in the grave of a lover they couldn’t even publicly acknowledge.

***

a scandal. a disappearance.

the royal family awoke to find M gone, their accounts drained, their titles stripped of meaning. no one knew where they had gone, or why. the official story was vague—an extended sabbatical, perhaps—but there were no answers. their spouse, barely more than a stranger, said nothing. the media speculated for weeks, but no trace of M was found.

***

years later, in a small village (zaanse schans) in the netherlands, a farmer passed away in their sleep. they had been quiet, unremarkable, living in a modest cottage on the outskirts of the village. they kept to themself, never married, and was mostly known for their collection of british royal memorabilia. it wasn’t until after their death, when the local authorities came to settle their estate, that they discovered who they truly were.

a runaway royal. third-in-line after their mother and older sister.

the village was stunned. for all the years they had lived among them, no one had guessed their identity. but as they sorted through their belongings, the truth became undeniable. among the memorabilia were photographs—of you, smiling beside M in moments no one else had ever seen. there were letters, too, carefully folded and kept in a box, written in a hand that only M could recognize. letters that had never been sent, but that held all the words M had never been able to say.

the villagers spoke of them with quiet reverence, a kind and humble individual who had always paid their bills on time and helped their neighbors when they could. they didn’t know about the wealth that had quietly flowed into anonymous accounts over the years. they didn’t know about the palace, the titles, the life of privilege M had left behind. all they knew was that they had lived simply and that they had loved someone fiercely until the day they died.

***

and that was how they were remembered. not as a royal, not as someone of wealth or power, but as someone who had once loved deeply and had chosen, in the end, to live for that love, even if it meant leaving everything else behind.

M’s name would never appear in the official histories, but in that quiet village in the netherlands, they were remembered for who they truly were—someone who, despite it all, had found a way to keep you with them until the very end.

[svt-rizz]

Make you mine (18+)

pairing: mingyu x reader warnings: detailed smut..

[This is pure fiction}

“Yeah, I don’t really like crowds.” I said as I stood with Mingyu near the pool.

He smiles, “How about I show you how to actually have fun?”

“What do you mean?” I ask. He holds my hand and leads me towards the party house.

“It’s ok, it’s not too crowded here. Have some fun.” Mingyu says as the loud music gets closer to us.

He was right, there were less people dancing at this side of the house. Mingyu asked the bartender for some drinks and handed me one. I really wasn't in the mood for dancing today, but this vibe was different. With Mingyu, it felt different. He was making me feel safe and comfortable.

Mingyu started dancing with the drink in his hand. He asked me to follow his moves and as I did, I realised it was fun. He held onto my hand and twirled me around. Soon, we both were laughing at each other as we did stupid dance moves.

The vibe of the atmosphere suddenly changed as the song changed to Swim by chase atlantic. Mingyu smiled as he suddenly held onto my waist. He held my hands and placed them on his shoulders.

We stood there for a while, looking into each others eyes. I never knew I’d be dancing with a beautiful man here in a party. Mingyu leaned in, close to my ear and whispered, “You wanna go home with me darling?”

His voice gave me shivers, and my stomach filled with butterflies. I looked up at him, do I really want this? Do I? Yes, I did.

Mingyu understood what I wanted. He held my hand as we both left the house to the car parking. I texted my best friend saying I had to leave early. She'd understand later when I explain.

Getting into Mingyu’s car felt strange yet exciting. I’d never liked a guy so much that I’d go to their house even if they asked me. But for some reason, I wanted to spend time with him. I didn’t even know what we’re gonna do at his house. But I’d still said yes to him.

Soon, we arrive at his apartment. He’d decorated it quite well. It looked like a museum with all the art works hung up on the living room wall. “Why don’t we get changed first?” Mingyu asks, switching on the lights of the room.

He hands me an over-sized shirt and shorts, his clothes. I use his bathroom to change and soon we both were sitting down on the sofa with popcorn. He asks, “Which movie would you like to watch, pretty girl?”

“Why don’t we watch the idea of you?” I suggest. I’ve been wanting to watch for a while as my favorite actress and actor are in it.

Mingyu searches up the movie and plays it. He hands me the popcorn bowl. I hold onto it as he takes some after every few minutes, he looked cute watching the movie.

It's almost 11pm, when the movie is about to end. I usually sleep around this time, but today I don't feel like sleeping at all.

Mingyu was laying down with his head rested on his arm looking at the tv. I couldn’t help but take a glance at his collarbones, which were visible from this angle as he was wearing a loose shirt.

My mind was going somewhere it shouldn’t go. The movie soon ended and Mingyu shut the tv off. Not realizing I was still staring at him, Mingyu looked at me.

He knew I was staring at him. He knew I wanted him. But he still teased me for two hours.

The tension in the air was evident, as we held eye contact. Suddenly his arms wrapped around my waist and he pulled me towards him. I landed in his chest as his hands held onto my face and he placed his lips on mine. It felt like the butterflies in my stomach had suddenly erupted. His lips felt perfect on mine, just like they were made for me.

He started placing wet kisses on my jaw and neck. "I wanted to do this all night. You look so good in my clothes" Mingyu whispers.

"Why'd you tease me for so long?" I ask holding onto his neck.

"I wanted to see if you really wanted me." He smirks.

I placed my lips on his again, wanting to deepen the kiss. His hand holding onto my thigh as he continued placing kisses on my neck. He had such a muscular body that he could probably hide me under it.

He let me straddle his lap as I held onto his hair and start marking his neck. "You want everyone to know I'm yours?" He asks.

I grind onto his lap by mistake earning a moan from him. That's the hottest thing I've ever heard. "Do that again, baby." He says.

I roll my hips against him and he throws his head back on the sofa edge. Feeling confident because of his moans, I repeat the action.

He takes off his shirt and helps me unzip my black dress. He starts kissing from my collarbone down to my stomach, slowly taking off the dress.

I'm almost naked in front of him. The only things covering my body was bra and panties. His lips trailed upwards towards my chest as his hand reached my back to unclip my bra.

His hands kneaded my breasts, "Fuck, these were made just for me."

His lips attached onto them as he sucks and slightly bites on it, making me arch my back. He was too good at this..

His right hand found the wet spot forming on my panties as he started rubbing the spot. I was already so wet for him, his middle finger entered me and he kept rubbing that spot as he captured my lips into a needy kiss.

I wanted to pleasure him, I wanted to see his face and hear his moans while I give him what he wants. I stopped his hand and stood up to hold his belt. We made eye contact as I slowly unbuckled the belt and let it fall to the floor. Unbuttoning his jeans, I removed his underwear.

Mingyu gulped, I could see his apple adam's moving. He looked so hot. Getting on my knees, I took one final look at him before I licked his cock from the base to the tip.

Slowly, I took him in my mouth his length hitting the back of my throat. I look up to see Mingyu's mouth open and his head thrown back. His hands wrap around my hair as he begins to move his hips forward.

Soon, his hips snaps forward deep throating me. His hands wrap around my neck, his eyes closing as he's chanting my name, speeding up the movement of his hips.

"I want to come inside you, baby." He says as he suddenly flips us over landing with me under him. He doesn't waste any time and pulls my underwear off throwing it somewhere on the floor. His lips find my lips as he holds onto my thighs before entering me.

His cock entering me producing a delicious sound in the room. His thumb found my clit as he watched himself entering me. Wanting him deeper inside me, I move my hips forward allowing his cock to fully enter me.

Both of our mouths open as we accustom ourselves to the pleasure. His hips speed up as he fucks me harder. His hands held onto my legs, pulling me forward as my legs wrapped around his shoulders. With the new angle, he was deep inside me.

"Fuck baby, I'm going to cum." I say holding onto his hand.

"Me too baby." Mingyu replies with eyes closed. Soon, my head feels fuzzy and I start seeing stars. I look at the beautiful man in front of me. I capture his lips again before we both lie down on the bed, exhausted.

"You're mine now." He says.

[reallyromealone]

This request is random and it’s all up to you if you want to write it

So say muzan makes the upper six to watch over his infant son and I’d imagine it be chaotic

Like baby reader cries whenever akaza carries him, hates doma and throws his toys at him, maybe his enjoy chasing hantengu (which would lead to hantengu to run away crying), maybe gyokko would teach baby reader about art, maybe for gyutaro he’d be a decent care taker while daki is confused on how to take care of baby reader and kokushibo is baby reader baby reader favorite person and likes to be carried by kokushibo

This is totally up to you if you want to write it

Ohohohoobnonoo

🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐

Muzan was a very attentive father despite himself, his son; his /heir/ was his world.

(Name) was precious and perfect, given anything he could desire in the world.

An absolute papas boy.

So when the moons had to watch the little bundle...

It was a nightmare.

"WAAAAAAH!" (name) screeched as tears rolled down his face, smacking the demon angrily as his barely present fangs bit at Akaza, not harming the demon in the slightest.

"Please behave, our Lord will be home soon!" He tried soothing the babe who wailed louder.

Doma was treated no better though instead of crying it was violence.

"Please little Lord, I just wanna be your friend~" Doma said playfully as he shook a raddle infront of the little one who looked absolutely furious that he cult leader was touching his rattle "ABABABA!" He screeched and smacked his hands against the tatami mat and the blond cooed but glared when a stuffed toy hit him "that's very rude little lord~" Doma said and lifted (name) who immediately tugged at his hair with force "why are you so full of hate~!" He said with almost sadness in his voice "I'm the best one here!"

"Dada!"

"He's gone right now little one!"

(Name) was /facinated/ by hantengu and followed him around everywhere, Shakey little feet as the upper moon tried to get away from the little one, tiny Muzan picking up speed wit his waddles as the poor demon tried running away.

And that's when they learned little (name) could crawl on walls.

"GET AWAY!" He said anxiously and (name) made loud happy baby noises.

Gyokko looked fond as the little one finger painted, messy and colorful and proudly showed it to the other, it was a mess but he could see a vague shape of Lord Muzan based on the black blob with little red eyes.

"Very good little one" (name) beamed at the praise.

Gyotaro was an excellent care taker, soothing the little babe for his nap as Daki played dress up, she wasn't sure how to care for a baby having never had done so but she always thought infant clothes were precious, the siblings watching him as he sleeped on a blanket.

But out of all the moons, (name) always prefered Kokushibo who sat in silence reading as (name) sat in his lap drinking his bottle, the demon glancing down as the babe pat his arm "do you wish for me to read to you?"

"Ababa..."

"Very well..." Kokushibos voice was deep and relaxing to the boy, reminding him of his papa in a way and Kokushibo was reminded of his own children with (name).

Rarely did he think of them but occasionally he wondered what lives they led.

He wondered what life (name) would lead.

The babe sneezed and Kokushibo was confused as a daisy bloomed from the tatami mat.

Well then.

[rebelliousstories]

Family

25 Days of Ficmas

Relationship: Louis Pointe du Lac x Reader, Lestat de Lioncourt x Reader

Fandom: Interview With The Vampire

Request: No

Warnings: Fluff, Light Angst

Word Count: 910

Masterlist: Here

Summary: Claudia has requested that everyone get along for one night. Hopefully, they can make her Christmas wish come true.

Every Christmas, Claudia was given any and every present she desired. New dresses, dolls, fabulous art; you name it she had it. And since being gifted a mother figure, she only had one wish for Christmas. Well, one main wish. She wanted everyone to play night and have a family night in for Christmas. Her two papas and mama bickered constantly. Louis tended to isolate himself from the other two, but she never went without love from them.

Oh, they would pretend in front of her, but she knew that they would argue when she retreated into her coffin for the evening. They would try to keep their voices down in the beginning but inevitably, they would start shouting at some point. One night, Claudia hit her breaking point. Her papas and mama had been arguing for hours. The sun had almost risen, and they still were not done. Crawling out of her bed, she held her doll tight as she made her way to the living room where the adults stood.

“All he is asking is that you don’t bring Claudia along with you to hunt all the time, Les. Please, she’s an impressionable young lady and it’s Christmas. Will you please calm down for an evening?” Her mama pleaded, grasping Lestat’s hands in hers. He tugged them away sharply.

“Well, I think she should be going out. Experiencing life as a creature of the night. Why shouldn’t we when it’s Christmas? It’s not like god has forsaken us or anything.” He lamented, as dramatic as ever. Louis remained silent, which gave the young girl the perfect time to slip in.

“Will you all stop fighting?” Claudia demanded, standing firm in her place.

“Claudia, what are you doing up?” Louis finally spoke after a moment, coming to scoop her up. She let her papa hold her to his chest, while she continued to speak.

“I couldn’t sleep because of the arguing. It’s not right for you all to be this unhappy at Christmas.” She cried, tucking her face into Louis’ shoulder.

“Oh dear,” her mama came near, “we’re not unhappy. Just sometimes adults sound that way when they are passionate about something.” Stroking her daughter’s head, Claudia’s eyes became wide and filled with tears as she looked around.

“Will you please get along for one night? No arguments or anything. Just one night, please?” Her tears flowed down her face, and even Lestat seemed moved by the display. No one said anything as they looked at each other.

“Let’s get you to bed, little one.” Mama and Louis walked with her still in his grasp to her coffin. They laid her down, and with a final goodnight kiss to her perfectly curled head, the lid was shut. Walking out of the room, the couple stopped for a moment and stood in silence as they took in the gravity of Claudia’s words.

“Have you finally decided to join me once more, or am I too much trouble for you?” Lestat growled as they re-entered the room. She made her way across the floor, skirts flowing behind her to hold the blonde vampire.

“Les, we only want what is best for Claudia. But you heard her tonight. All out arguing is doing her no favors. Let’s just try to be more understanding for the season?” He stopped, and just stood there with an indignant expression on his face. Looking over, Louis seemed to straighten up under his gaze, with hopeful green eyes. Lestat held out a hand to his other lover, and brought him into the mix. Everyone was holding each other and standing still in the moment.

“I suppose we can put the debate on the back burner for now. I’d like to spend the night surrounded by my people, if that’s alright.” His tone was teasing,but the other two vampires were content to being there with him. It was a tight fit, but they made all three of the sleeping in the same coffin together work.

They spent the evening together, loving the ability to get back to how they used to be as younger vampires. Kisses were shared, as well as words of love that seemed to envelope the vampires in the coffin. No one called attention to the fact that this was the most Louis had spoken to Lestat in months.

The next evening, after the sun had fallen and the moon had replaced it, everyone began to stir from their resting places. However, Claudia noticed she heard no voices. No one was talking, or arguing, or shouting. It was silent. Tentatively, she opened the lid of her coffin and went to check the others. Louis’ was empty, as was her mama’s. Maybe they had taken off to go do some shopping before the shops closed for the evening.

But her ears caught something, that her eyes found next. Lestat’s larger coffin was emitting noise and was slightly cracked open. Tip toeing over, Claudia peaked her eyes in and found a sweet scene. Her two papas were wrapped around her mama in a sleepy embrace. No one had quite made the effort to get up, but all of their eyes were still closed. She smiled as she beheld them, happy to see them get along for once. Closing the lid back to where it was cracked, Claudia went back to her own coffin and figured she could use some more rest on this cold winter’s night.

[professonalarttheclownfan]

Jealous

David x fem!reader

(I am obsessed with this man)

UPDATE-finally got round to editing it and making it a little better in my opinion.

You been hired as a part of the makeup team for the 3rd Terrfier having the first 2 be some of your favourite films, you were stoked beyond words.

The makeup and costuming department was a small due to a smaller budget. So you’d gotten the know the others well. It was the first day on set and you’d yet to meet any of the actors, getting the prosthetics ready, and talking through any final makeup changes with Damien.

You’d been given the golden ticket, working on the man himself, thee art the clown. Due to clashing schedules the cast read through was something you’d had to miss out on, so you really were a newbie. Having been in awe of David since Terrfier came out, getting to be so up close to him was a dream come true.

You’d come to set early to get set up and after talking with Damien, you grabbed your kit, laying out the things you needed and the order you’d use stuff in. Being able to be in the quiet was calming, your nerves were heightened, feeling like you were living in a dream. You were talented, but to be working with the likes of Damien and David had your head spinning.

A light knock pulled you out of your head, it was still slightly early but nothing major, still, the knock surprised you none the less.

“Come in” you called out, pushing your half empty kit bag on the the shelf. You hadn’t realised it was David that had knocked since you were stood with your back still facing the door.

“Thought I’d come say hey” his voice was gentle yet charming, you spun on your heels to face him, your cheeks turning up ward into a bright smile. There he was stood right there, within arms reach. You were taken aback at how truly handsome he was, you knew he was attractive from photos and panel videos but nothing like having him stand in-front of you in the flesh.

“Since you know we’re going to be spending hours a day together. Plus we never got to meet at the cast reading. I was kinda gutted you weren’t there. I love your work, especially that joker piece you did” he continued, letting out a small laugh.

“Hey! yeah, im y/n. It’s actually nice to finally meet you. I was so bummed I had to miss it. Im in shock that you know of my work! But thank you that really means alot!” You answered sticking your hand toward him, he returned the gesture. Gently placing his hand in yours and shaking it. You locked eye contact with the tall man, a blush rose to your cheeks, which in turn caused to look away.

You both clicked instantly, after light flirting and a conversation that seemed to flow like water, it was time to get him in the chair. This man was a charmer, you don’t know how you’d survive the duration of filming, you could already feel yourself gaining feelings for him.

~a couple of months into filming

You’d gotten to know David well, and he you. You two had become kind of inseparable. Finding that you both seemed to gravitate toward each other, even on days that David wasn’t filming you’d usually end up doing something together to get your and his mind off of work for a while. The early mornings and late nights you had together became the best part of the working day for both of you, although doing the makeup and taking the said makeup off was tedious, you and David got the trailer to yourselves and that time was filled with belly laughs and constant chatter between the two of you. Your feelings had developed for David, being around him so much just intensified them.

After filming finished, premiers and cons were beginning. Your name had gotten out there, you’d become as popular as the main cast especially due to all the content fans got from your and David’s outings.

~You’d been invited to a panel, along with David. You’d stood at the side of the stage. You’d never done anything like this before, your anxiety was through the roof, your knees shook as you waited shifting your weight from one foot to the other. You felt a firm squeeze on your shoulder you knew instantly who it was, David. He kept his arm over your shoulders whilst he stood beside you. As if he was magic, he could tell how nervous you were about the whole thing. You appreciated him.

“You’re gonna smash it pretty lady” he whispered to you, pulling you into a hug, he rested his chin on top of your head not letting go until he was called up onto the stage.

It was your turn, you tapped the tip of your middle finger against the pad of your thumb a habit you’d picked up to replace picking at the skin around your fingers when you got anxious, the crowd was far larger then you’d expected. You took the seat next to David, and plopped your self on the chair behind the long table.

The interviewer was pretty, no. Drop dead gorgeous. And you could tell she had eyes for David, you swallowed down the pit you had in your stomach. The flirting was obvious, she batted her lashes, pushed her arms to reveal more of her cleavage, all the text book things. You didn’t hate her, why would you? but you envied that she could probably have David right there and then if she wanted too. You were quiet on the stage, you’d usually be able to keep your anxiety in check and David picked up on this instantly, he hated seeing you struggling, he wanted to hug you, comfort you, but he couldn’t so instead he hooked his pinky finger on to yours under the table, if anything it helped calm him too.

If asked a question you’d answer and thank fans when ever they came up. You were extremely grateful and loved every single one of them, they meant you could be sat were you were today. But due to your inner turmoil you tried your best to stay composed remaining polite and appreciative but quiet. Jealousy bubbled, even though he sat there with his pinky intertwined with yours you’d convinced yourself he only viewed you as a friend, he was a charming beautiful soul, you hated being like this you were a grown adult. But with it mixed in with the shame and the embarrassment, for thinking about David romantically. Why would a man such as himself glance your way, when he was surrounded by such interesting, gorgeous women?

A fan had walked up to the mic situated in the audience, you were away with your thoughts and you hadn’t realised the fan had asked a question directed toward just you, having the majority of fans ask questions primarily for David you hadn’t realised this one was for you. You felt David unlink his pinky with yours and gently place his hand on your wrist, David gave your arm a slight stroke with his thumb to get your attention, offering you a reassuring smile whilst tilting his head ever so slightly toward the fan.

“Hey, Sorry! Could you repeat that? I didn’t quite hear” you smiled at the fan, feeling bad for not listening.

“Of course! hi I’m kay! im such a huge fan of you! So obviously me and the fans want to know what was your favourite thing to do in your down time when you weren’t working on the film? We’ve seen all the photos of your guys days out but I really wanna know!” Kay finished, it was an odd question but a sweet one at that with all the photos circulating of you and the cast hanging out, fans get curious.

“Hmm, probably just catching a film with David and sometimes other cast members every so often! Or me and David would find the BEST takeout places if we were filming in the same location for a while so we’d always get takeout then build Lego sets together. Elliot would join in when he wasn’t too busy too! Me and David also have a shared love of theatre so we’d catch shows together! Especially musicals. I think having down time when filming a project like this is highly important! being around guts and gore is so so fun but day in day out can get tiring”

The fan seemed super happy with the answer you gave, but what you did miss out was any time you spent with David was your favourite when working or not, even when the job load was stressful David made it all feel okay again.

You were desperate to get off of the stage, your emotions were starting to drain you and so was your social battery and thankfully the panel was coming to a finish,

“We want to thank the panel today! to the wonderful David and Y/n!” The lady said, the crowd erupted with applause, you thanked the crowd and left the stage. The interviewer nodded her head toward you as you walked off, you returned the gesture. Once off the stage you turned to wait for David releasing she’d swooped in to give David a goodbye hug, the hug lasted a while, and with that you walked away you needed air.

Mentally beating yourself up for ever thinking there was something special between you and him, surprised at yourself for just walking away, as you’d usually wait for David or vice versa. But you needed a breather. Being in love with this man was too much. Soon as the press and cons were over you’d have to go back to your old life anyway, a life that was a million worlds away from David’s . His new found stardom would mean, you’d soon become just another makeup artist he’s worked with. And it hurt.

You’d managed to make your way outside avoiding the large crowds of horror fans by navigating the labyrinth of corridors in the venue,“Hey, y/n wait up!” David called out to you, you hadn’t realised David was behind you, his tall frame taking large fast steps toward you making his way through the door that was propped open.

“Why’d you speed off? I saw you wait for me off stage for a sec then you vanished. I was gonna ask if you wanted to sneak off and go get coffee, luckily I’d seen you through the window” he smiled down at you once he caught up, your face was flush and red. It’s like you couldn’t even look at him, you’d made your self feel like a child with a one way crush.

“Just needed some air, big crowds, it’s all new to me.” You answered him, you both walked in sync with each other. You allowed yourself to take deep breaths, it was all abit overwhelming. From being around people you now considered family every day, to falling in love, to having to do press and premieres. To knowing it was all going to go back to how it was before again.

“Wanna sit?” He gestured toward a bench, and you obliged. You had seemed to manage to find a quiet haven away from the craziness that was just beyond a wall.

“Y/n, what’s really going on? I know you were anxious but on that stage, it’s like you’d lost your sparkle. And I know for a fact you can handle your anxiety like a badass.” he was so in tuned with people, especially yourself.

“I don’t know, I guess I was in my own head. Which I shouldn’t have been. The fans had come from far and wide. And I sat there, like an idiot” you looked toward your feet, kicking at the dry, dead leaves that lay on the floor.

“well, despite what’s going on in that head. You did well, I could tell you were struggling with something but the fact you got up there and did it anyways. I’m proud of you” he once again smiled at you, nudging you lightly with his shoulder.

“Thank you David, I’m so proud of what we’ve all created. But those crowds dude. They’re intense” you said whilst letting out a long breath,

“Y/n, wanna know something funny, the interviewer slipped her number in my pocket whilst we were leaving the stage! That’s an old school trick if I ever did see one.” He laughed, suddenly the jealousy came bubbling back in your stomach again, you gave a pathetic attempt at a laugh back trying to hide the hurt but failing miserably , you were never an actor.

“Bless her, I’m sure some horror film buff will make her happy” David said as he took the piece of paper out of his pocket and crumpled it in his fist. You looked at him,

“Your not going to text her?” You questioned, genuinely confused.

David looked at you, raising an eyebrow, “Why would I want to text another woman when I’ve got the woman I want right next to me.”

Your eyebrows knit together,

“Y/n, have you not caught on yet? You think I let just anyone paint my nails” he stated, as if the question was rhetorical.

you chuckled, genuine this time, “Yes David, because you’re so sweet if someone asked if they could paint your nails you’d let them” smiling at him, he was a man to be cherished.

“Well that’s besides the point, y/n. I am absolutely crazy about you. Silly. Head over heels or what ever you want to call it. I’m in love with you. And I need to tell you now, before you have to go back, other wise I’d never do it.”

You grabbed his arm, hooking yours onto his, relaxing into the bench and crossing your leg over the other in the process. A smile so wide slapped on your face you’d look manic to anyone walking by.

“Good, because im in love with you too. And thank god, because it means I don’t have to be jealous anymore” you smirked at him, as he turned to look at you, a grin plasters on his face too.

“Jealous nelly are we? I could tell you weren’t fond of that interviewer” he said as he leaned in, to finally kiss you.

[ladykailitha]

You're a Dream to Me Part 2

Woohoo! I love the response the first part got for this! Keep it up! I loved every like, comment, and reblog!

In this one we have the only chapter without a dream at the start, but we get see Eddie and Steve's lives without each other.

Part 1

~

To say Steve hadn’t ended up where he thought he would when he was in high school was an understatement. He had imagined working for his dad at the consulting firm he owned. But when he hit college and met Robin working at the on campus ice cream shop. The school’s mascot was the Buccaneers and so the place was called Scoop’s Ahoy.

They hadn’t started off as friends, but after being locked together in the back of the shop when a bomb threat had been called into the school, they came out of it as best buds.

He had decided after that that he didn’t want to do work for someone else, he wanted to own his own business and like the universe was looking out for him, after he had graduated from college he had come home and learned that the local bookstore was looking to sell.

And as much as Clint Harrington would have preferred his son with him, owning his own business was still in line with what he wanted for his son, so he didn’t think anything of it. That was until Steve turned it into a liberal arts bookstore with a strong leaning toward the LGBTQ+ community.

That was the final straw for the elder Harrington, cutting Steve off without a thought or so much as a backward glance. But what Clint hadn’t realized was that the trust fund had been setup by his grandparents and that the only access Clint had to it was to put money in and not take anything out, so Steve took the money from the trust fund and built the bookstore to what it was now, a thriving hub for the lost souls of Hawkins.

So when he said he loved his job, he meant it. But it wasn’t easy. He had a constantly revolving door of high schoolers who worked for him in the afternoons. But the mornings were tended to by Robin or him. Today it was him.

She would be by around ten coffee and donuts in hand. Vickie was a fifth grade social studies and band teacher. Which is why she hadn’t been grumpy with the wake up call this morning. She had already been at work for an hour by the time Steve had called.

He got to work opening up his store, happily humming some tune that was always playing in the background of his soulmate dreams.

The bell above the door rang out signaling his first customer. Steve looked up and died a little inside. It wasn’t a customer, because that implied the person might make a purchase and this one never would.

“Mrs. O’Donnell,” Steve said warningly. “I’m pretty sure that Chief Hopper told you to stay out of my shop, so don’t make me call him.”

The old English teacher had retired the year prior and made her mission to terrorize the bookshop about the books they sold. She stopped in her tracks when she saw who was manning the shop today. “Where’s the girl?”

A sudden chill slid down his spine. “If you aren’t out of my shop by the time I finish dialing the cops, you’re going to regret that statement.” He picked up the phone and started dialing from memory.

She continued to stare him down. “This is public property, I can come and go as I wish. You can’t stop me.” She gathered her purse to her chest like a shield and stepped further into the store.

Steve raised an eyebrow. “One, stores are private property and two, you started throwing books off the shelves the last time you were here, and that’s destruction of property.”

The old bat stopped in her tracks for the second time and turned to him with an evil grin. “They’d be my property if I bought them, right?”

Steve snorted and ignored her. If she was really that stupid, he wasn’t going to correct her. “Hello, yes, this is Steve Harrington from Coming of Page. Yes, I’d like to report a trespass. That’s right. Kathleen O’Donnell is back. Mhmm...of course I’ll wait.”

He waited, but Mrs. O’Donnell did not. But according to Officer Callahan, they had picked her up only a couple of blocks from the shop.

“Are you really going to press charges against an old woman?” he asked when Steve brought it up.

“It’s either this or you find another way to keep her out of my shop,” he snapped. “Because it’s a bookshop. It’s not even the only bookshop in town there are three other small bookshops and a Waldon’s Bookseller in the mall. I’m not making bank and it was lucky insurance paid out for the damage she did last time. An actual fucking crime, no less!”

Callahan grumbled but was duty bound to arrest her. So when Robin came in with her coffee and donuts he was already ready to throw in the towel.

“I’m sorry, Steve,” she murmured after she heard about his morning. “I should have told you she was harassing me when you weren’t there, but I didn’t want to make a bid deal out of it.”

Steve gave her a hug. “I understand that, but with you not telling anyone it just gave her permission to keep doing it, okay?”

She nodded sadly. “I’ll be sure to call you the next time it happens.” She wrapped her arms around him and settled into the hug.

“Hopefully there won’t be a next time because the old bat will be in jail,” he said fiercely. “People are just so bigoted these days.”

She raised her head. “That certainly true. Let’s eat these donuts and drink this coffee and you can tell all about your dream hunk.”

Steve laughed. Then they did just that. They talked about the sound of his voice and the feeling of his broad chest pressed against back.

“Well it sounds like he’s finally coming around to the idea of you as his soulmate,” she said when he had finished telling her about every detail of the dream.

“Yeah,” Steve sighed wistfully. “I can’t wait to meet him.”

Later that day, Steve was humming a little tune and bopping to the music in his head when Dustin came in. Dustin still worked at the bookstore during his breaks from school for what Dustin called D&D money.

“Hey, I didn’t know you knew Corroded Coffin,” Dustin said as he clocked himself in at the computer. “That’s one of my favorites.”

Steve stopped what he was doing and turned to him. “I hear it in my soulmate dreams. My soulmate must be a huge fan.”

“Your soulmate is a metal fan?” Dustin said brightly. “That’s so cool!”

Steve just shook his head. Now that he knew the band his future soulmate liked, he would have to look them up to see what other songs might have been playing during his dreams.

“I’ll send you a link to all my favorites,” Dustin was saying. “And some other bands too, so that when you two finally meet, you aren’t totally a fish out of water with his tastes.”

“Thanks, bud!”

All the kids knew that Steve strongly suspected that his soulmate was a man. It made things easier for Mike and Will to get together as Mike had Steve to help work out his internalized homophobia.

He pulled out his phone when it went off to see that Dustin had done what he said he was going to do. He smiled fondly. Yeah, Mrs. O’Donnell could go kick rocks for all he cared, because he had his people.

~

Eddie was a professional above all else, especially when it came to his music, but there were days when he didn’t feel the music. Like he had been disconnected from the mainframe or like a puppet with its strings cut.

Jeff noticed it first. But that was because being on rhythm guitar he took his cues from Eddie so when the energy didn’t match their opening song he knew something was up. Brian and Gareth didn’t notice until about halfway through the third song when Eddie actually fucking missed a chord.

Gareth called a halt with his sticks, crossing them like an X to get the techs to stop, too.

“Okay, man,” Brian huffed, “what is with you today?”

“‘Cause if this about us teasing you about Steve,” Jeff said, gripping the body of his guitar, “we’re sorry. You are usually right there with us laughing about it.”

Eddie let out a long shuddering sigh and rubbed his chin. “It not just that. Because yeah, today I wasn’t in the mood to be teased about my long standing crush, but it was sleeping through my alarm, too. Getting yelled at first thing in the morning is exactly a recipe for a good day, you know?”

“Yeah,” Gareth said, “I’d be in a pretty shit mood, too.” The other two members nodded. “So why don’t we take a break, grab a smoke and clear our heads a bit?”

Eddie ran his fingers through his hair and let his eyes flutter shut. A cigarette did sound really good right now. “Yeah, and have one of the PAs run and get us some burgers. I didn’t have time to eat, so that might be affecting my mood too.”

So they took a break, had a smoke, got some food in their bellies and cleared their heads. They were all feeling a little better as they got on back on the stage to finish the sound check.

As Eddie was plugging in his guitar, Chrissy came up to him.

“Hey, you got a minute?” she asked. Eddie half shrugged, so she took that as sign a to continue. “I wanted to apologize for this morning. I heard a couple of the guys talking about how much it upset you and I shouldn’t have came in like a bull in a china shop, no matter how late you were.”

Eddie half shrugged again. “I’m an adult, Chris and you treated me like a child who was late for school. And I checked, no one had even tried calling me or texting me to see where I was. So yeah, I think I have a right to be pissed.”

Chrissy sighed. “I know. When I arrived and saw that you weren’t there I just stormed up on the war path and that wasn’t fair to you. So this me apologizing for it and I promise it won’t happen again, okay?”

Eddie nodded and then turned to Gareth and jutted his chin up to indicate that he was ready to go. Gareth counted out time on his sticks as Chrissy stepped back, chewing on her thumbnail.

She had royally fucked up this morning because she had a fight with Georgia this morning about how the two tours were going on at the same time and that it had been a deliberate choice for Chrissy to join Corroded Coffin instead of Lilith’s Little Monsters.

Which of course it had, Chrissy was their manager, but she wasn’t the one who had set the touring schedule that was the label, but no amount of explaining that did any good. So she had taken Eddie being late as a personal attack and went up there guns blazing. Which she really, really shouldn’t have done no matter what her own morning had been like.

She had known that the boys had gotten in super late and literally crashed into their beds and slept like the dead. She should have set up morning calls for all of them to make sure they were awake in time. But she hadn’t because she relied so heavily on Eddie’s need to be on time.

So she had set the tone for their morning and while their playing was vastly better than it been before the break, it wasn’t their best.

It was time to do some grovelling and not just with her band, but with her soulmate too. Since her boys were currently playing, she was going to start with her soulmate. She pulled out her phone and dialed Georgia.

“Hey, babe,” she murmured softly. “I’m sorry. You were right. I could have pushed a little harder so that the two tours wouldn’t line up, especially with Corroded Coffin having way more control with that sort of thing then most bands.”

“Oh, wow,” Georgia said, “I wasn’t expecting an apology, like ever. Thanks.”

Chrissy winced. “I know. I’m such a bitch. But I’m your bitch and I love you so much.”

“I love you too, honey,” Georgia laughed. “And I do know that it’s your job that you have to be there, I just rolled over in bed this morning and you weren’t there, so I chose violence.”

“I would have too,” Chrissy admitted. “We’re going to be in the same city at the same time for Boston, so I thought I would come woo my pretty wife and bring her flowers and the whole nine yards. How does that sound?”

“Sounds great,” Georgia breathed. “I’ve got to get to my sound check, but I love you.”

“Love you more,” Chrissy replied.

And then they said their goodbyes and hung up. Now to figure out how to make it up to Eddie.

She was going to have to do a lot of groveling to start. but she would figure it out.

~

Part 3

Tag List: FIVE SLOTS REMAINING

1- @itsall-taken @estrellami-1 @zerokrox-blog @sadisticaltarts @dolphincliffs

2- @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @irregular-child @cryptid-system @kultiras

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji @dreamercec @blondie1006

5- @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @genderless-spoon @fearieshadow @thesecondfate

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

9- @themoonagainstmers @eyehartart @tartarusknight @chaotic-waffle @dotdot-wierdlife

[buskingalbatross]

AmazingPhil channel marathon musings

during a pre-show q&a back in november, in response to a question about what show someone should binge next, dan said they should watch all of the AmazingPhil channel from the start. I was not the person who asked this (nor was I at this show), but regardless I did decide I wanted to take dan’s suggestion seriously. just a few days ago, I finished watching all of AmazingPhil in chronological order. and now i really want to talk about what it was like and why I would recommend marathoning his channel to pretty much anyone—because it was a blast.

I watched all of the 369 currently public AmazingPhil videos over the course of 35 days, which is from my perspective a pretty casual marathon. 369/35 = roughly 11 videos a day, though due to algorithm and monetization policy stuff, phil’s videos became longer in duration around 2015-2016; for many years, most of his videos were around 4 minutes long or less, which for me meant that early on in this marathon I was watching more videos per day, and then later on my pace slowed. phil’s videos with dan are usually pretty long as well, so if I had something like a baking video or wdapteo up next to watch, I might have only watched one or two videos that day. 

unsurprisingly, watching all of phil’s videos in order in a relatively short span of time gave me a really cool perspective on how phil has grown as a person and as a YouTuber over the past eighteen years. surprising to me, though, was how I felt like watching his channel in such a linear way felt a bit like coming to know who phil is for the very first time, again. despite having watched his videos for over a decade, i feel like i understand his style and creativity and personality more fully, and in general better, than I did before. watching 2007 phil become 2009 phil become 2011 phil and so on in the span of a few days or a week meant seeing clearly how his sense of humor evolved, how his editing and creativity developed, how his perspectives on life and relationship with his audience shifted. much as when you binge an entire tv or book series and immediately afterwards feel like you’re brimming with information, and have all the context, that’s sort of how I felt. and it was new for me because I’d never done that with phil’s content before—I’d never followed the course of his life the way you might a fictional character’s. 

AmazingPhil is also an incredible capsule of 2000s, 2010s, and 2020s Western internet culture, obviously. it’s like an anthropologist from the future with a very hyperspecific thesis topic’s dream treasure horde. what a person can learn about one corner of the world, and one corner of society, from AmazingPhil’s videos is, well, a lot. I see so much cultural value in AmazingPhil, it’s insane. his videos are not sketches, essays, and commentaries on society and life like Dan’s, but I’d make the argument (as I’m sure most of you would) that they’re just as important and critical to helping people understand themselves and the world they live in. and the kind of people they want to be, too, perhaps.

there were also certain videos that stuck with me more than they had in the past. I discovered new favorite videos and videos that I considered more interesting than I previously had. (I tried just now to make a list of some of these but it rapidly got too long, so instead I’ll restrict myself to mentioning only one, a new favorite, from 2021: “I Got Catfished.” - which i think is a fantastic example of phil’s storytelling style). dnp have both said before that they view life as a performance – and phil is without a sliver of doubt a magical and incredible performer. he knows so well how to tell stories with words, pacing, structures, and effects that are hilarious and entertaining; he turns anecdotes from his life into these amazing whimsical pieces of art made in a way no other person has ever made things. YouTube has from the beginning presented him with the perfect way to be creative in a way that suits him. and more than that, i found that it was never even remotely unpleasant to watch his videos every day for over a month. there is simply not an AmazingPhil video that doesn’t bring me joy and make me sit there smiling like a fool. my cheek muscles are probably stronger than they were 35 days ago. 

so, to you I say, go: watch all of AmazingPhil, draw your own conclusions from his current oeuvre and deepen your parasocial relationship with Phil Lester in ways you cannot yet comprehend. I really recommend. 

(final notes: one side effect of watching all of phil’s videos was being unexpectedly yet thoroughly convinced he does indeed possess psychic talents. even though i don’t believe in magical anything, i do now believe phil lester inherited prescience from his grandmother.) 

(also dan is completely right that every time phil changes his hair, he regenerates into an entirely new man.)

(also also I made an AmazingPhil spotify playlist that is highly specific to my music tastes but that anyone is welcome to listen to all the same) ✨🐗💙🥱

[mrsshabana]

𝐀 𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐄𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐁𝐨𝐲

❀ Content Gyutaro x female!reader, taisho era, pure fluff

❀ Note So I decided to write an alternate ending to that Gyutaro comic that's been going around. I won't share it here because I don't want to post someone's art without their permission, but I've seen it all over Pinterest. If you haven't seen it, basically Gyutaro is working in a garden and three girls shout to him from their window. They ask him to come up and hang out with them. He becomes flustered and says, "Wait... really?" and then they say, "You really thought we were serious?" and start laughing at him and making fun of him, calling him a loser - causing him to run away in embarrassment. When I first saw that comic it broke my heart so I had to write something to give Gyutaro the ending he deserves.

He shouldn’t have been so gullible. But can you blame him? Girls never notice him, or if they do it’s always in a negative way. So the one time some cute girls asked him to hang out with them, of course he got excited. But it was just a cruel joke. 

After being so cruelly embarrassed, Gyutaro scurried away in a hurry. Trying to hide his tears so as not to embarrass himself further. 

He sits under a tree, away from view, and cries. Sobbing into the sleeve of his yukata, 

“I’m so stupid…” the boy whimpers. 

The weight of it all bearing down on him. He’s going to be a joke forever, isn’t he? No girl would show kindness to him, let alone give him a chance. As he soaks his yukata with tears his heart gets crushed by the rejection. 

Until someone’s voice calls out to him, “Hey! Garden boy!”

He looks up and sees a beautiful girl coming his way. He quickly wipes his tears and tries to hide the fact that he’s been crying. 

“Wh-what do you want?” 

“I wanted to join you, is that ok?” you say with a smile.

“No, I’m not an idiot,” he frowns, “I-I won’t fall for it again!” He tries his best to stand up for himself.

Your cheery expression shifts to one of sadness as you sit beside him, “Listen, I saw what happened.”

Gyutaro feels even more embarrassed now, knowing that you saw how he was rejected by those other girls. He wishes he could just hide and never face anyone again.

He looks down and says nothing, utterly ashamed. 

“Don’t listen to them, any girl would be lucky to spend an afternoon with you.” You gently place your hand on his shoulder.

“You’re lying… I’m disgusting… I’m a loser,” his voice quivers and his eyes begin to fill with tears. 

“No, you’re not! I’ll prove it to you.”

He quirks a brow and stares at you. What could you possibly mean?

You lean forward and kiss him. Softly pressing your lips against his. 

Immediately his entire face turns red. He can’t believe that just happened. If anything was going to shut up his insecurities, it would be a kiss from a cute girl. 

“I-I…” he stutters. 

You chuckle, “I’ve had a crush on you for a while. I never said anything because I was too shy. But when I saw how those girls treated you I felt like I had to say something.”

“A crush? On me…?” his eyes widen and he stares at you in disbelief. 

You nod, “I’ve watched you tend to the gardens here for a while,” you say shyly, “I think you’re really cute.”

This definitely made up for the embarrassment he had gone through earlier. Not only are you cuter than those other girls, but you’re really sweet too. Other girls don’t even come close to him because they find him too repulsive. But you actually kissed him! So there’s no doubt in his mind that your words are true. 

“W-Well um… I wouldn’t mind hanging out with you sometime,” he says as he shyly rubs the back of his neck. 

“I’d love that! I live in the blue house over there,” you point to the other side of the garden, “You should come by when you’re done working.”

His face heats up as he imagines visiting you at your home, “O-Ok, I’d like that.”

Before leaving you give him a kiss on the cheek. 

Excited to see you again, he quickly gets back on his feet and works like he was never rejected in the first place. Honestly, he’s never worked so fast.