#anyone knows if they are still alive or not-

[midnight--sadness]

i've been called immature and brain dead for not being happy with the way s3 ended and me saying this won't help anyone's perceptions of me regarding that but like..... i'm genuinely so sad.

i feel ill, physically. i cried yesterday during dinner. i woke up today and cried again. gihun is dead. gihun is dead.

he died in an island he hated, buried under rubble, not even able to see the sun again. he died alone and scared, unable to save any of the players and not even knowing that the games would end. in his final moments, he had no hope, no comfort, nothing. no one to hold his hand or stroke his hair or tell him it was alright.

every person he cared for who died in front of him (saebyeok, sangwoo, jungbae) was cradled by gihun but when it came for his time, there was no one there for him. the only thing he got was a man who he cared about and who lied to him coming to stand over his corpse.

none of his allies seemed to care that he was gone. they didn't know for sure if he was still alive and they didn't even bother to check.

he sacrificed himself for a child who doesn't even have a name and will now be raised by a man who knows nothing about her mother or how much her and gihun cared for and protected her.

the world moves on without him and the only person who seems to remember gihun and his legacy is inho.

i know gihun he was already suicidal so maybe it was a relief for him. he wanted to die and he got his wish.

but now he had a baby, a baby that brought life back into him. he fought so fiercely for her, he told her mother he'd take care of her. wouldn't he have wanted to live for her?

[cameronsbabydoll]

BASIC TRAINING — CHAPTER ELEVEN

WARNINGS — Unprotected sex, virginity loss, virginity kink, dirty talk, tears, aftercare, power imbalance, possessive behavior, emotional intensity, 18+ only.

The barracks are quiet tonight, the kind of quiet that feels like it’s holding its breath. The air is thick with the threat of Rafe’s reassignment, your dad’s words still ringing in your ears—“You’ll be on a transport by the end of the week.” You haven’t slept since, haven’t eaten, haven’t been able to think about anything but him. Rafe. Your Rafe. The man who’s unraveled you, piece by piece, until you’re not sure who you are without him.

You’re standing outside his quarters, your sandals scuffing the gravel, your hands twisting the hem of your sundress. It’s late—too late—and you’re breaking every rule just by being here, but you don’t care. Not anymore. Not after the way he looked at you in your dad’s office, broken and desperate, saying he couldn’t let you go. You’ve made up your mind, and it scares you, but it’s the kind of fear that burns hot, that makes you feel alive.

You knock, soft and quick, and the curtain parts almost instantly. Rafe’s there, shirtless, his dog tags glinting in the dim light, his cargo pants slung low on his hips. His eyes are wild, like he hasn’t slept either, like he’s been waiting for you. “Sunshine,” he says, voice rough, low, like he’s afraid to say your name too loud. “What the hell are you doing here?”

You step inside before he can stop you, the curtain falling shut behind you, cutting you off from the world. “I need to talk to you,” you say, your voice trembling but sure. “I need… I need you.”

He freezes, his hands halfway to you, like he’s not sure if he should touch you or push you away. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says, but there’s no conviction in it, just a raw edge, like he’s fighting himself. “Your dad’s already got my ass in a sling. If he catches you—”

“I don’t care,” you cut him off, stepping closer, your hands shaking but your eyes locked on his. “I don’t care about him, or the rules, or anything. I want you, Rafe. I want… all of you.”

His breath catches, and for a moment, he just stares, like he’s trying to process what you’re saying. His eyes search yours, dark and intense, and you see it—the shift, the hunger, the reverence. “You don’t know what you’re asking,” he says, voice low, almost a growl. “You’re not ready for that.”

“I am,” you say, and it’s the most certain you’ve ever been. “I’m scared, but I’m ready. I want it to be you.”

He steps closer, so close you can feel the heat of him, the weight of his presence. His hand lifts, cupping your face, his thumb brushing your cheek, and it’s gentle, so gentle it makes your chest ache, but there’s something primal in his eyes, something that says he’s holding back a storm. “You sure, sunshine?” he murmurs, his voice soft but heavy, like he’s giving you one last chance to run. “Cause once we do this, there’s no going back. You’re mine. Completely.”

You nod, tears pricking your eyes, not from fear but from the weight of it, the truth of it. “I’m already yours,” you whisper, and it’s like a dam breaks.

He kisses you, hard and desperate, his hands pulling you against him, his mouth claiming yours like he’s starving. You kiss him back, your hands fisting his dog tags, pulling him closer, because you need him, need this, need to feel him in a way you’ve never felt anyone before. He groans into your mouth, a low, reverent sound, and lifts you, carrying you to his bunk, his lips never leaving yours.

He sets you down, gentle but firm, and you’re trembling, your dress riding up your thighs as you sit on the edge of the mattress. He kneels in front of you, his hands sliding up your legs, pushing the fabric higher, and his eyes are on you, worshipping, like you’re something sacred. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, voice rough with want, with something deeper. “So perfect. And you’re giving this to me?”

You nod, your throat tight, and he groans, his forehead pressing against your thigh, his breath hot against your skin. “Fuck, sunshine,” he murmurs. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

He stands, pulling you with him, and kisses you again, slower this time, reverent, like he’s savoring every second. His hands slide under your dress, lifting it over your head, and you’re bare except for your panties, your skin prickling under his gaze. He steps back, just for a moment, his eyes raking over you, and you feel exposed, vulnerable, but wanted, so wanted.

“Lie back,” he says, voice low, commanding, and you do, your body moving like it’s his to control. He strips off his pants, his tags clinking as he climbs onto the bunk, his weight settling over you, heavy and warm. You’re trembling, your heart racing, but you’re not scared, not really, because it’s Rafe, and you trust him, even if you shouldn’t.

He kisses you again, soft and slow, his hands roaming—your neck, your breasts, your hips—learning you, claiming you. “Gonna take care of you,” he murmurs against your lips, and it’s a promise, a vow, filthy and sacred all at once. “Gonna make you feel so good, baby. But it’s gonna hurt a little first. You okay with that?”

You nod, tears in your eyes, and he kisses them away, his lips gentle on your cheeks. “Good girl,” he says, and you whimper, because those words, that tone, they’re everything to you now. He pulls your panties down, slow and deliberate, and you’re bare, completely bare, for him.

He spreads your legs, his hands firm but careful, and you feel him, hard and heavy, pressing against you. Your breath catches, and he pauses, his eyes locked on yours. “You tell me to stop, I stop,” he says, voice serious, but you shake your head, because stopping is the last thing you want.

“I want this,” you whisper, your hands gripping his shoulders, his tags cool against your skin. “I want you.”

He groans, low and primal, and pushes into you, slow at first, careful, but it hurts, sharp and burning, and you gasp, your nails digging into his skin. “Shh,” he murmurs, kissing your neck, your jaw, his voice soft but filthy. “Relax, sunshine. Let me in. You’re so fucking tight, so perfect for me.”

You try to breathe, try to relax, but it’s overwhelming, the stretch, the fullness, the way he’s filling you, claiming you. Tears slip down your cheeks, not from pain but from everything—the intensity, the closeness, the way he’s looking at you like you’re his world. He pauses, letting you adjust, his thumb brushing your clit, slow and deliberate, and you whimper, your hips bucking instinctively.

“That’s it,” he says, voice rough, reverent. “You feel that? That’s me, baby. All of me. You’re doing so fucking good.”

He moves then, slow and deep, and the pain starts to fade, replaced by something else—something hot, something electric. You moan, soft and desperate, and he groans, his lips brushing your ear. “Fuck, you sound so pretty,” he says, his voice filthy, dripping with want. “So mine. You’re mine, sunshine. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you sob, your hands clutching him, your body arching into his, because it’s true, it’s so true it hurts. He moves faster, deeper, his control slipping, and you feel it—the primal edge, the way he’s taking you, ruining you, just like he promised.

“Gonna make you come,” he murmurs, his thumb circling your clit, his hips snapping harder now, and it’s too much, too intense, but you want it, need it. “Gonna make you mine forever, baby. You want that? Want me to fuck you until you can’t think about anything else?”

“Yes,” you gasp, tears streaming, your body trembling, on the edge of something you’ve never felt before. “Please, Rafe, please.”

He growls, low and possessive, and pushes deeper, harder, his mouth on your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. “Come for me,” he says, voice rough and commanding. “Come on my cock, sunshine. Show me you’re mine.”

You shatter, your body convulsing, your vision blurring, a sob tearing from your throat as you come, hard and overwhelming, his name on your lips. He groans, his movements jerky, and follows you over, spilling inside you, hot and deep, his breath ragged against your skin.

For a moment, you’re both still, your chests heaving, his weight heavy but comforting, grounding you. He doesn’t pull out, just stays there, inside you, his lips brushing your forehead, your cheeks, your tears. “You did so good,” he murmurs, soft now, gentle, his hands stroking your hair, your back. “So fucking perfect, baby. My girl.”

You’re crying, not from pain but from the weight of it, the way he’s looking at you, holding you, like you’re something precious. He shifts, pulling out slowly, and you wince, but he’s there, shushing you, pulling you against his chest. He grabs his blanket, draping it over you, and lies back, holding you close, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your skin.

“You okay?” he asks, voice soft but still rough, still him. “Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head, nestled against him, your tears slowing. “I’m okay,” you whisper. “It was… it was perfect.”

He chuckles, low and warm, and kisses your temple. “Yeah, it was,” he says, and there’s something in his voice, something reverent, like he’s as wrecked as you are. “You’re mine now, sunshine. All mine.”

You nod, your eyes heavy, your body spent, and you feel safe, wanted, loved, even if it’s a love that’s filthy, possessive, dangerous. You don’t care. You’re his, and he’s yours, and nothing—not your dad, not the military, not the whole fucking world—can take that away.

You fall asleep in his arms, his tags cool against your skin, his breath steady in your ear, and you know, deep down, you’re never going back.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

The Light Between || Jinu ||

You hadn’t planned on telling him tonight.

Not when his knuckles were still scraped from him making his way back to you, still wrapped in bandages you’d replaced just this morning. Not when his jaw was clenched the way it gets when he’s trying too hard to keep everything in. Not when he’d barely looked at you in three days except in those brief flashes—like he thought you were going to vanish if he stared too long.

But you couldn’t keep it in anymore.

Not when it fluttered inside you like something sacred, something real.

You find him alone in the training room—just past midnight, sweat-drenched and shirtless, pounding into the heavy bag like he was still stuck in the other world. He doesn’t notice you at first. He never does when he’s like this.

You don’t speak. You just wait.

Eventually, his breath catches, and his fist stills mid-air. He knows you’re there. He always knows.

“Can’t sleep?” he mutters, not looking at you.

“Can’t think,” you answer softly.

That gets him. He turns, gaze flicking to yours—and for once, he doesn’t hide the storm there. The worry. The fear. The ache.

You walk toward him, slow and steady, like approaching a wild thing you don’t want to startle. When you’re close enough, your fingers find his wrist. His pulse thrums under your touch—fast, electric.

“I need to tell you something,” you say, and your voice cracks just a little.

His shoulders tense as he opened his lips then rolling his shoulders. "If it's about me trying to contact your mom about me coming back-."

“It’s not,” you interrupt. Your free hand brushes against your belly, the motion unconscious. Protective.

It’s then his eyes drop.

Not in shame. Not in deflection.

But because he feels it. Something shifting. A ripple in the air. A tug on his soul.

“Jinu,” you whisper. “I’m pregnant.”

For a moment, nothing moves. Not even him.

And then he takes a step back like the words hit him physically. Like they sunk into his skin and shook something loose.

His voice, when it comes, is hoarse. “You’re… Are you sure?”

You nod, tears threatening now, not from fear but from relief. “I went to a doctor a few days ago and I took a test twice. I wanted to be absolutely sure before I told you.”

He’s staring again. But this time it’s not distant.

It’s like he’s seeing you for the first time in weeks. Like the fog of everything—blood, fire, guilt—clears just enough for him to remember what he’s fighting for.

“You…” His voice breaks, and he steps closer, hand hovering like he’s afraid to touch you. “You’re carrying my kid?”

You laugh—soft, watery. “Pretty sure it doesn’t belong to anyone else.”

That’s when he finally touches you. One hand ghosts over your abdomen. The other wraps around the back of your neck, pulling you in until your foreheads meet.

“God,” he breathes. “You should’ve told me.”

“You’ve been hurting,” you say, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I didn’t want to add more to it.”

His grip tightens slightly, as if anchoring himself to you. “You didn’t add anything. You reminded me why I’m still alive.”

You let out a quiet sob at that, and his thumbs catch the tears before they fall.

Then—so softly you barely hear it—he says, “I’ve always wanted to be a dad.”

Your breath stutters.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, then to your lips—gentle, reverent, alive—and finally drops to his knees in front of you. Both hands cradling your hips now, eyes closed as his forehead rests against your stomach.

“I’m not gonna let anything happen to you,” he murmurs. “To either of you. Not even hell’s worst.”

You thread your fingers through his damp hair. “We’ll protect them together. Like we always do.”

He nods once against your belly, then looks up, smile blooming slowly—tender, boyish, a little awed tears swelling in his eyes as he dug his fingers into the fabric of your shirt.

“I already love you both more than my own life.”

And you believe him.

Because he’s Jinu.

And he’s always fought with his heart full of fire.

Now, he fights with something even stronger.

Hope.

[that-stag-aemilianus]

[ID 1. A screenshot of a 4chan post reading:

"I am a 36 year old with a PhD in Philosophy. I am $450k in debt and currently working two minimum wage jobs in order to stay alive. I word alongside 18 year olds and whenever they ask about my background I just tell them I've been in prison for a long time, which is less embarrassing than admitting the truth. I am probably the most well-informed Husserl scholar on the North American continent, perhaps in the world. My 1,500 page biography of his life has been rejected several dozen times. No college will take me on since they don't think Husserl is relevant, and that other applicants are therefore pushed to the head of the line. I have had 6 Husserl-related papers published in different journals and philosophical quarterlies, but have earned no money or recognition for having done so. I just moved to Abbeville, Louisiana since there is a job opening at the university in Lafayette and I decided to do all out in order to get it. But I've just found out that my application was rejected and now I'm stuck working at a Wendy's three shifts a week and a Barnes & Noble the rest of the time. I have no wife, no children, and at this point no friends I'm willing to talk to due to the shameful nature of my existence."

End ID 1]

[ID 2. A screenshot of a 4chan post, continuing the story of the last, reading:

"Sorry for blogposting but I just need to say this somewhere and it's not unrelated to /lit/. Things are finally looking up for me after years and years. I earned a PhD in philosophy a number of years ago from a mid range public university in the midwest and have been on the job market ever since. Frankly it went awfully, with rejection after rejection from every school I applied to (my research in on Husserl, which a lot of departments don't consider terribly relevant). My fiancee, who had initially supported me during my last few doctorate years and two years looking for a position, eventually left me for a Proust scholar on the West Coast.

My parents took me in for a while after that as I kept looking for jobs, but the stress of my massive debt and the knowledge of my own failure made me bitter towards everyone. I can't really describe it, just a huge sense that I had wasted the first 33 or so years of my life. I worked a few odd jobs to make ends meet but nothing lasted. I couldn't interact with anyone. Each time I talked to someone and told them about my life they gave me this pitying half smirk. Poor bastard, they must have thought, but still, it's his fault for getting a doctorate in philosophy. I became rude and this all culminated with me almost attacking my mother when she (completely innocently) asked about an application I had put in to Bennington. They threw me out, the only two people who could even tolerate my presence, and looking back I can't blame them at all.

I moved to a small town in the south and kind of went all in to get a job at the university there, but without any luck. I had to work a couple different jobs, but this time I just told people I'd stolen a car and boon in jail for while. I got less pitying stares and slowly came back to me senses. Still, I was working dead end, minimum wage jobs, and the pressure of my debt was still huge. One of them was at a Barnes and noble (inb4 pleb), and I used to kind of loiter around the tiny philosophy section as some kind of masochistic exercise. One evening an old black guy came in and started browsing in the section, nothing that odd. He picked up some greek works and chuckled, which got my attention. There was an overview of phenomenology that he picked up next, and my heart almost stopped. I felt kind of numb, and while he leafed through it I slowly stepped forward. I do not know why. He looked up and said something about it being interesting. I shrugged, and he smiled. Something in that smile made me say "I actually wrote my dissertation on Husserl."

(1/2)"

"His smile got a lot bigger then, and he invited me over to the little cafe inside the store. It turns out he was a professor at a small Christian liberal arts school in Georgia. We talked, and it was like the anger and resentment and fear of the last ten years of my life melted away. For the first time in a long time I was not afraid to be passionate about Husserl. I even mentioned my giant biography of the man, which I had long ago hoped to have published. He asked why someone like me wasn't teaching, and suddenly tensed up. But I fought through the years of self-loathing and explained how it had just never happened, and he told me he understood. "We're actually looking for someone right now," he said then. He told me the position was really for a generalist, someone to teach intro to philosophy and maybe a class on his specialty. He told me to apply, and I said I'd think it over. He stuck out his hand and I gave it a firm shake. Inside I was alive for the first time since my ABD days. I applied a few days later, interviewed, and, somehow got the job. It still amazes me when I think about it. I'm still deeply in debt but I'm starting to pay it off, I've spoken to my parents for the first time since the incident, and I just don't feel like a waste of life anymore.

I used to browse /lit/, back when I was in a really bad state, but I stopped after that night in the barnes and noble. I just wanted to tell you guys that everything turned out for the best for me in the end, and that you shouldn't give up hope that it'll turn out okay for you too."

End ID 2]

It's never over. You can recover from anything in life, even a PhD in Philosophy on Husserl.

[unifybullseye]

Maruki's Reality: the Misogyny Within It

I've come to a realization through my replaying of third semester, and that is that Maruki's reality will inevitably, cater towards the men.

How so? Maruki in the third semster is slowly once again letting Mementos fuse with reality, and it will fully fuse on the day of Febuary 3rd. In Lavenza's words, "he still continues to actualize the world of the masses as a whole." In the meantime, before the full fusion of the worlds, he is catering to individuals desires, which creates contradictions. That is his main flaw in his work, the fact that his reality will contradict itself on itself over and over until it falls.

Mementos is a place where the desire and cognition of the general public takes form, as we know. It is built off the reality that we see as our true reality. The facts we hold as true, or a popular thought society shares, are true in Mementos.

Where am I going with this? Well, misogyny is inside every crevice of our society. It bleeds through every social construct. If misogyny is something so grand in our world, something we are aware is true, then Mementos contains that misogyny, holding the "Man above anyone else," as fact. Men's voices are the loudest in society, so they are the loudest in Mementos. Not to mention, the view of women that the general population of men has, from the worst man to the kindest man, will still outweigh women's voices. The kindest man is not exempt from misogyny.

So Maruki's reality once fused with Mementos, will still have misogyny, because it's catering to the desire of men. Maruki fulfills desire. Whether that desire is morally good or bad, it doesn't matter, as long as everyone is happy. And the concept of man, desires to be above women.

We see several instances of this in the game. And I want to preface first, that I am not saying men aren't also changed in this reality to appease someone else. The women's desires are also fulfilled. This is just a showing of the fact that the desire of men is more prevalent.

One of the most disturbing ones being in NPC dialogue between two "pick up artists," who suddenly are able to obtain women.

To clear some things up first:

The women they are speaking of cannot be fake people. Maruki has never placed any shadows or cognitions inside his reality. The only people he has added to the world are the deceased, who are accounted as fully alive.

It could be argued they were planted with fake memories of getting girls, however, we more so see the removal of memories instead of fake ones in people. Maruki changes cognition, but that cognition in turn changes reality. We are constantly hearing NPC's changing jobs, moving houses, abrupt career and hobby changes, abusive families becoming nice, friends and family getting back together, etc. People are constantly being ripped from the path they planned on, and being put onto another one. It is not far out there at all to say that it's extremely more likely the cognition of the women were changed to like the two men's romantic interest.

No, the women originally would not have wanted this. It is true Maruki's reality is everyone's supposed ideal reality, however, people are constantly being warped and changed to fix the contradictions of individual desire. The reality is actively changing the wants of people. If the women's cognitions weren't changed to like it, the men would've been more successful on their advances before.

This singular interaction reveals a lot to us. That people's wants can be changed. That shitty desires are still granted. Getting women to appease them makes them happy, so they are granted that.

It also implies a much darker, possible thing that very much wouldn't be a reach in this reality. If women's cognitions can easily be changed to want men's advances, then that means sex, too. Women's consent towards romance and sex is non-existent.

The little speech bubbles of the NPCs that pop up on screen use she/her way, way more than they use he/him. A lot of the time, the gender is not revealed through speech bubbles when they are talking about a person or themselves, but when it is, the ratio of women is far more than men.

Is this intentional? I couldn't say, but regardless of intention, it's there, canon within the story, so intention doesn't mean much.

This information weirdly has a common theme: of women suddenly getting closer to people they weren't before, or becoming 'nicer' to people they weren't before.

And the maid cafe exchange is interesting, because its implied the girl suddenly started working there when she did not originally, nor does it seem that she would have wanted to work there originally. Yet, she describes it as the best job she's ever had. Please correct me if I am wrong, since I am not completely well-versed on the Japanese culture of maid cafe's, however reading up on it, it's a business that is easily exploitative. They are often managed by men, and they often run with the underlying misogyny of women being submissive and "serving."

Point is- these all share the same moral of these girls becoming "submissive" to whoever is speaking's desire. The general desire that men want women easy, and nice. It's disturbing.

Here's another interesting NPC interaction:

Now, this one's a little different, because it's obvious the man's cognition has been changed, and the woman is confused by it. We also cannot really tell if his cognition has been changed to appease her want of going to Tokyo. But if you want my interpretation, I don't think that is the case. If her desire was being fulfilled to make her truly happy, it would be strange for her to act weirded out and confused. When people's wants are fulfilled by the reality, they often don't question it, because why would they? They are in bliss. When we see NPCs question the world, it is often the person witnessing the person who has had their desire fulfilled who is questioning what the hell is happening. And the statement of "You like it over there," instead of "You like it over there, don't you?" makes me think this is the man's desire that he is deciding she wants too.

Another showing of women's consent being nonexistent, and their desires being favored towards the men, is the unused harem Valentine's day in Maruki's reality. You can watch it: here.

It is very unsettling and weird. No one acts like themselves. Every single one of them has had their cognitions changed to be okay with Joker cheating on them, instead of getting angry like they originally would. They aren't bothered by it at all, they don't even bat an eye towards it. The cognitions of what, ten women, changed to appease the singular man? Willingly letting themselves get disrespected? The fact that they are pushing to give joker more chocolate after he already said he was full is unnerving. The desperation to make him happy, to appease what he wants, constantly being like "Is that good? Is that enough? Do you want more? I can give you more."

I've been told that P4's harem ending "punishes" the player for it, so I really have no doubt this was supposed to be in the same realm. The purposeful unease that all the girls have zero voice at all.

I also want to bring up Maruki and Rumi.

I'm putting a disclaimer on this that Maruki truly, genuinely loved Rumi. He is also not directly appeasing men's desires over women's.

But something I find worth of value here, is pointing out that he decides right in this very moment, that what he thinks is in her best interest. Rumi loved Maruki, and he is ripping away that happiness from her "for her own good." This follows the theme of people not having a choice, not having consent about what they want. Him deciding to stray away from her life was both selfless and selfish.

He holds Rumi to this ideal. After all, she was the person that made him want to do all this, that he wanted to do all of this for her. But at the same time, he never truly told her what he was doing. Just that he's going "to make her happy, going to make it better." I think that if Rumi knew what Maruki wanted to do, she'd slap him to hell and back. Say to him that she can get through the hardship of the past, that she wants to get through it and love him. Maruki literally changed her as a person fundamentally, with her not having the memories that make her, her. He also sees her as his "Eve" if the statue of Rumi holding an apple in his "garden of eden" in his palace is anything to go by. An ideal of grand love, and grand selfishness to do what he wants.

There's also something to say about how maruki's first test of his actualization was a vulnerable teenage girl who just went through something traumatic. I mean, he outright says that she's not strong mentally.

Sumire never outright said "I want to be Kasumi" until Maruki pushed her in that direction with his questions. She said "I think things would've been better if I was Kasumi." That is when he started pushing the agenda that it's okay to want to be another person, and manipulating her.

If his client was a teenage boy, would he have done the same thing? Yes. So again, it is not direct misogyny from him, but a cycle that happens over and over again, nevertheless.

After all, he manipulated Ren so bad that Ren didn't even suspect that Akechi could've been a desire of his, despite the absurd situation, until he was told. His heart was weak, and he was just happy Akechi was there. I am bringing them up just to solidify that Maruki's fault is not directly favoring someone over the other, but that he didn't think like, literally anything through, leading to his reality unintentionally favoring people over the other and granting unmoral desire.

TLDR if Mementos holds misogyny as a truth and wishes are granted off of the desires in cognition than if a man and a woman's wishes contradict each other then it is likely that the man's desire will win out. And we have proof of this already happening in third sem, before the full fusion.

[centaurianthropology]

Another thing I've been thinking about in regards to 'Murderbot' is how far Murderbot's accusations really go as confessions. I've seen people complain that PresAux are 'ungrateful', as Murderbot constantly characterizes them as such. It complains that they don't appreciate what it's done, don't recognize the efforts it's made.

But it's not taking into account what a bad communicator is constantly is. Yes, PresAux don't really understand Murderbot, but it has put very little effort into understanding them. The miscommunication goes both ways! Murderbot is a deeply self-sabotaging character, constantly walking away from moments it might have made a connection, refusing to explain itself or its actions, and then getting upset when people don't simply intuit them and thank it for what it refuses to put voice to.

It's an incredibly understandable flaw. So many people have the flaw of not explaining themselves, refusing to connect or communicate, and then getting angry when they're not understood. It's refusing to meet anyone half-way, because it's spent its existence being treated as an object. So why should it put forth any effort to explain itself now?

Except it still wants to be understood. It still wants to be appreciated. And when it does put forth that effort with Mensah, it's rewarded. She reaches back. She connects with it, but the problem is that she has other connections. She has other people she's responsible for, and so once again Murderbot feels misunderstood because it won't make the same effort with them, and they don't understand, and Mensah has to choose between chasing after it (again) and trying to keep her people cohesive and alive. She chooses the prior commitment, and she chooses to respect its autonomy.

"It's not your pet" echoes in my head, because I think there is a certain impulse in the audience to woobify Murderbot, to reduce it to a sweet baby pet thing that can't possibly help when it spies on people, or invades their privacy, or refuses to explain why it does what it does, or hurts people in unexpected ways (or very expected ways), or gets upset when people can't read its mind. But it's not a pet. It's a wholly realized, broken person. And it's fucking up every bit as much as PresAux is fucking up. Its war with Gurathin is 100% a mutual affair, where they've both been absolute shit to one another simply because they could. Its refusal to speak to the team in anything like an actual back-and-forth conversation is an understandable reaction to what it's been through, and it's still the wrong call and is actively worsening the situation everyone finds themselves in.

And that's what I like about this show. It's not taking the easy way out with any of these situations. Murderbot is an ASSHOLE, and it's wrong about half the things it says. It wants outcomes it can't or won't work for, and wants recognition for things there is no way for people to have know it did. And haven't we all done that? Haven't we all been in that mental place? Having to make connections is HARD. It's scary and puts you in a vulnerable place and may not pay off. And it's the only way to really live. Right now, Murderbot wants the rewards of connection without the risks and pains of connection.

That's a great place to start a long-term character arc! It's wrong and broken and dumb in the most honest, real ways. It makes massive mistakes, and refuses to acknowledge them, and hopes they just go away. Or it tries to tackle them, and does it in the worst possible way.

And then, occasionally, it gets it right. It opens up, and makes a real and beautiful connection. What it has with Mensah is as good as it is because Murderbot, even just a little, was willing to open up, to be vulnerable, to share pieces of itself. And that's the first thing that really matters in its life.

This show has a hopepunk heart, where genuine connection is not only rewarded, it's the only thing that really matters. It's a lesson Murderbot is going to learn, but it's going to be a slow and difficult path to understanding, just like it is for any of us.

[syrecjh]

──★✈️ ̟!! Swipe Error: He’s Right Behind Me

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader, pure fluff

Airports have a strange kind of gravity. Not the kind that keeps planes grounded, but the kind that tugs at your nerves — stretches time thin, stretches patience thinner. You’ve been sitting for over an hour at Gate 34, legs crossed on the uncomfortable vinyl bench—the kind that were designed by someone who clearly hated comfort , headphones dying and patience already declared missing in action. The boarding gate screen glows blue with your flight to New York: delayed by thirty minutes. You nearly throw your iced coffee across the terminal in protest.

You weren’t built for waiting. You were built for movement, for noise, for anything other than scrolling endlessly on your phone under cold fluorescent lighting. You’re traveling solo for the first time — a summer break declaration of independence from university and all its soul-crushing midterms. And as poetic as that sounds, the reality looks more like leg cramps, stale croissants, and a dying battery. Not to mention, you are surrounded by families bickering, kids screaming, and couples who apparently think PDA belongs in an airport.

Out of sheer boredom — or possibly desperation — you open Tinder.

A mistake. You know it’s a mistake. But you tell yourself it’s just to pass time, and maybe to flirt. Definitely not to find love. Just swiping. Just harmless, mindless swiping. You start swiping through profiles with the detached precision of someone sorting socks — right, left, maybe, definitely left. It’s not that you’re picky, it’s just… well, okay, maybe you are. Half the guys look like they’d ghost you after borrowing your charger. A left here, a right there, a brief pause for someone with a decent dog in their profile. Another left.

And then he shows up.

Blond. Fierce-eyed. Hero suit in one of the pictures. Dynamight. You squint. What is he doing on tinder? I mean you don't judge anyone with one but you can't help it. It's him after all. You’ve seen him on news clips before — the explosive pro hero with a temper and a fanbase that probably writes fanfiction about his jawline. His bio is short and alarming: Don’t be annoying. I cook better than your mom.

You raise an eyebrow. Bold. Definitely not your type.

Blond guys never were.

Swipe left.

“Damn,” a gravelly voice says just behind you. “Hard pass for that one?”

Your soul leaves your body.

You whip around like a gust of embarrassment made flesh, and there he is. Sitting directly behind you. Arms crossed, thighs spread, hair as unmistakable as his voice, red eyes glittering with something dark and amused. Katsuki freaking Bakugo. The literal walking embodiment of the profile you just rejected.

You feel your face catch fire.

“Oh my god—” you blurt, mortified beyond repair, trying to stuff your phone in your hoodie pocket like that’ll undo your crimes. “I didn’t mean—I didn’t know—”

“You didn’t know it was me?” he says, feigning offense, leaning forward just slightly. “What gave it away, the hero name or the picture of my actual face?”

“I—I don’t even like blonde guys!” you blurt like that somehow helps.

“Oh, that makes it better,” he snorts, and there’s a devilish glint in his eye that says he’s going to be thinking about this for a long time. “So I’m not your type. Got it.”

“I mean—you’re handsome, obviously—” you sputter, digging a deeper grave with every word. “It was just… the vibe. You looked like you’d roast me alive for using the wrong fork.”

He leans back, arms stretching over the seat beside him like a throne. “Not wrong.”

You groan and bury your face in your hands. “Kill me. This is why I don’t go outside.”

But Bakugo just chuckles — an actual chuckle — and something soft and dangerous unfurls in your chest. You glance up, blinking, just in time to catch the corners of his mouth still curved, his head tilted slightly.

“You’re funny when you panic.”

“And you’re mean when you’re smug.”

“So always?”

You glare at him, cheeks hot, but he just shrugs and props his boots up on his carry-on like he’s settling in for a show. You’re about to fire back when the gate agent’s voice cuts through the overhead speakers, finally announcing boarding for your flight.

You shuffle into line, praying to every deity that fate won’t take this joke any further. But of course, fate is petty.

You're seatmates.

23A and 23B.

You drop into the window seat like a woman being buried alive, and moments later, Bakugo slides in beside you with the lazy ease of someone who’s enjoying this.

“I swear I’m not a bad person,” you mutter as you adjust your tray table.

He shrugs. “Didn’t say you were. Just got a thing for brutal honesty, I guess.”

You blink at him, surprised.

And then he smirks.

“You’re really funny when you panic.”

“Don’t flatter me.”

“I’m not. I just like watching people suffer.”

“Wow. Romantic.”

You both glance at each other — and the tension hangs there, electric and strange, somewhere between playful and unreal. You don’t know what’s happening, not really.

You scoff softly. “I’ve just humiliated myself in front of a national hero and then get stuck next to him for twelve hours.”

“Could be worse.”

“How?”

“You could’ve swiped right.”

You snort, unable to help it — and from the corner of your eye, you see him smirk again.

You spend the flight talking, somehow. About trivial things at first — dumb airport food, weird quirks, how babies crying on planes should be banned. Then deeper things — pressure, expectations, what it's like to be known for something before you even figure out who you are.

You talk like people who have nothing to prove. You listen like people who might want to see each other again.

He tells you he plays music while cooking. You tell him you once cried because you dropped a slice of pizza face-down on your only pair of jeans. You exchange Instagram handles. He follows you before you even land.

Somewhere in the middle of the flight, you accidentally doze against his shoulder, he doesn’t shove you off. He just sighs — loud and dramatic — and lets you stay

And when the plane finally touches down in New York, taxiing slow across the runway, you turn to him, smiling despite yourself.

“So,” you say. “Still mad I swiped left?”

He stretches, cracking his knuckles with a lazy shrug. “Not really.”

Why not?”

He leans closer, voice warm like the sun creeping through the airplane window. “Because I’ve got twelve hours of proof you were wrong.”

You laugh, and he actually grins this time. Fully. Briefly. Like the sun rising and setting in one heartbeat.

As you walk off the plane side by side, you don’t feel like two strangers anymore. You feel like a story halfway told — and suddenly, you’re not so mad about the delay.

After all, some accidents are meant to happen.

────୨ৎ────

I actually got this idea weeks ago while scrolling through IG reels. It completely hooked me—I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Like it really happened to someone! Imagine swiping left on Tinder… only to realize the person you swiped left on is standing right behind you. I don’t know the name of the girl in the video, but yeah—thank youuu!

[thewritingfairy]

⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .𖥔˚Birthday

trigger warnings: none main m.list        series m.list      bad ending m.list    

It’s your birthday, you are one year older once more. You are still alive, and in just a few years you’ll be as old as your mama when she met Bruce.

But you won’t fall for a man with nothing but empty promises, your mama taught you all you need to know about dating. You know who you want to be. So here you are in front of her grave smiling brightly.

You left the family, you left that damned family behind and you gained one you would never trade. Not even for you mama, sure you wish she was next to you on your birthday. But this was the way your life was meant to go. This was the way your life was destined to go.

So don’t worry mama,

your child has grown up.

And they are never letting anyone bring them down.

no tags as this is a birthday special for me lol

[spicytattoo]

The Invitation

AU: Vampire!Actress! Natalie Scatorccio x You

Request: @deenayw

Synopsis: When a student journalist gets a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to interview the infamous: Natalie Scatorccio, will they keep their calm? Or be sent running?

Content warnings: Slightly suggestive, Themes of threat and danger

The email came at 3.13am

Subject: NATALIE SCATORCCIO - PRIVATE PRESS EXCLUSIVE

At first, it looked fake. A hoax. A journalist’s equivalent of a chain letter. Natalie Scatorccio hadn’t given an interview since 2017 - and that one ended with her publicist in tears and a camera shattered against a marble floor.

But there it was. Official letterhead. Confidentiality agreement attached. Contact details encrypted and redacted, save for the address: a hillside estate tucked away somewhere above Laurel Canyon. The message was brief, unapologetically so:

‘Natalie has agreed to one exclusive interview to promote her latest film. She has personally requested you conduct it. Please reply to confirm availability.’

No explanation. No flattery. No ‘’We love your work.’’

Just: She wants you.

Everyone had a theory.

‘’You must’ve written something that pissed her off,’’ joked a classmate.

‘’She’s going to eat you alive,’’ Said another, not entirely kidding.

Your professor said nothing at all - only stared at the screen, then at you, with a look that was equal parts disbelief and concern.

‘’I wouldn’t go,’’ He said quietly. ‘’But if you do…don’t go alone.’’

No matter what they said. No matter what unsettled feelings you felt in your bones. You couldn't turn down the opportunity. You were going.

The house was exactly what you expected - and somehow not at all.

Hidden behind a wrought-iron gate, it slouched like an old film star: glamorous in its bones, but half in shadow. Ivy crawling up the stone. Every window was dark.

You stepped out of the cab and adjusted your coat, staring up at the place. The air smelled like rain and roses left too long in a vase.

Before you could lift your hand to the buzzer, the door creaked open.

Natalie Scatorccio didn’t so much stand as emerge. Barefoot, silk robe open over a tank top and cigarette pants. Her hair was undone, like she’d just woken up. Or hadn’t slept in days. A thin smile tugged at her mouth like it had forgotten how to form properly.

‘’You’re early,’’ she spoke, voice low and husky, like whiskey soaked in velvet. ‘’That’s rare.’’

You blinked. ‘’Am I?’’

Natalie tilted her head. A moment passed.

Then she laughed - a strange, lazy sound. Not unkind. Just…amused.

‘’You don’t look like a fan,’’ Natalie said. ‘’Or a journalist.’’

‘’I’m both,’’ You replied. Calm. Direct.

Natalie’s smile deepened slightly, but her eyes didn’t match it. They were too sharp. Too old.

‘Not a journalist’, Natalie thought, ‘Not really. Not Just.’

She stepped aside, holding the door open. ‘’Come in, then.’’

Inside, the house was museum-like. Antique furniture, faded photographs, dried flowers in tall vases. It didn’t smell like anyone lived here. No food. No pets. No warmth. Just old perfume, leather, and something vaguely metallic beneath it all.

Natalie led you to a sitting room and collapsed into a low velvet chair like a painting falling into itself.

‘’Well?’’ She said, one eyebrow raised expectantly. ‘’Start your questions.’’

But you didn’t reach for your recorder.

You just looked at her.

‘’Is this really about the film?’’ You asked softly.

Natalie went still. Not visibly. Not dramatically. Just…still.

The air in the room cooled.

And for the first time in what seemed like hundreds of years, Natalie Scatorccio felt something rare.

She felt watched.

Not in the way fans watched her - hungry, infatuated, half-drunk on her image.

No. This was different.

This girl was looking at her like she saw right through her. Like the bones beneath her skin were the interesting part.

‘She doesn’t care about the film. She wants to know what I am.’ Natalie thought.

Natalie leaned back, one arm slung lazily over the velvet chair’s edge, but her expression had changed. Her smile had lost its edge. Now it was quieter. Sharper. Like a knife turned flat against skin.

‘’No one’s asked me that,’’ She stated. ‘’Not first, anyway.’’

Your notebook remained closed on your lap. Your voice was low, unrushed. ‘’I don’t think you care about the movie.’’

Natalie tilted her head. ‘’And what makes you think that?’’

‘’You agreed to this interview. That’s already strange. But there’s no press kit, no assistant, no studio notes. Just me. Here. Alone.’’

A beat passed.

‘’I think you want something,’’ You continued, gaze steady. ‘’I just don’t know what it is yet.’’

Natalie stared, still as a portrait. Then she laughed again - but softer this time, a half-breath of amusement and surprise.

‘’God, you’re calm,’’ She murmured. ‘’Do you even know how rare that is?’’

You blinked. ‘’I’ve read your interviews. The few that exist.’’

Natalie rolled her eyes, lips curving into a smirk. ‘’The Times piece? Christ. They made me sound like I sleep in a coffin.’’

‘’Do you?’’

Natalie’s smile faltered - but only slightly. She reached for her glass of something dark - wine or blood or both - and took a slow sip, eyes fixed on you.

‘’You ask like you already know the answer.’’

‘’I don’t. But I think you want me to.’’

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was… heavy. Electric. Like the air before a thunderstorm, full of static and held breath.

Natalie sets her glass down and stands. Slowly. Fluidly. Not quite human in her grace, but not monstrous either. Something older. Something practised.

She crossed the room and stood behind your chair, not touching you - just close enough that the temperature shifted.

‘’You’re not afraid of me?’’Natalie questioned, quietly.

‘’I don’t think 'afraid' is the right word.’’

Natalie hummed. ‘’And what is the right word?’’

You turned your head just enough to glance at her over your shoulder. Her eyes were unreadable. ‘’Curious.’’

Natalie’s lips brushed the barest smile again, something in her jaw tightening like restraint. 

‘’Curious,’’ She echoed. ‘’That’s dangerous.’’

‘’To whom?’’

Natalie stepped back. Sat again. But her whole posture had changed - less aloof, more alert. There was a tension in her that hadn’t been there before. Not desire, not yet. But interest. Fixation.

She leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on her knees, watching you like a hawk with patience and hunger stitched behind her eyes.

‘’I said yes to this interview because I saw your photo,’’ Natalie stated. ‘’You were in a college profile piece. You’d won some award.’’

You didn’t speak, waiting.

‘’You looked… out of place,’’ Natalie continued. ‘’Like you didn’t belong in the world around you. Everyone else in the photo was smiling. You weren’t. You looked like you were thinking of something far away. Or maybe something close that no one else could see.’’

Her voice dipped lower.

‘’I haven’t seen a look like that in a long time.’’

You said nothing. Your pulse ticked lightly in your throat - but not with fear. Natalie watched it, fascinated. She wasn’t hungry, not in that way.

Not yet.

She was intrigued.

‘She’s not like the others’ Natalie thought again. ‘She doesn’t want anything from me. Not fame. Not glamour. Not even answers, really. She just wants to know.’

Natalie stood again, slower this time. She moved towards the hallway.

‘’Come,’’ She commanded without turning. ‘’There’s something I want to show you.’’

You follow Natalie deeper into the house - past shuttered windows, faded film posters, the scent of lavender and rust. Natalie leads you into a room full of vintage media: old scripts, newspaper clippings, black-and-white photographs.

There are no mirrors. None in the entire house.

Natalie stands at the far end and points to a framed photograph. Her, on set in the late ‘90s. A red carpet moment. But the reflection in the limo window behind her?

Nothing.

Natalie looks at you, calm.

‘’You can ask now,’’ She encourages. ‘’What you really came here to know.’’

The room was colder than the rest of the house.

Not freezing. Just…bloodless.

You stepped in slowly, your footsteps softened by the thick Persian rug beneath your boots. The scent changed here. Less perfume, more cedar and dust. Time lived in this room. Time, and something else.

Natalie watched you as you entered, leaning against an old bookshelf with one shoulder propped casually - almost bored. Almost. But her eyes betrayed her. Calculated. Focused.

You glanced around at the old photographs, newspaper clippings, press badges yellowed with age. The only source of light came from a stained-glass lamp humming faintly in the corner. Nothing that could encourage a reflection. Not one.

You turned, gaze landing on Natalie. ‘’You don’t keep any mirrors?’’

Natalie followed your eyes around the room. ‘’They lie.’’

‘’You mean they don’t show you.’’

Natalie smirked. ‘’Same thing.’’

She stepped forward, slow, deliberate. Her bare feet made no sound on the floor. When she was close enough to touch, she didn’t - just stood there, close enough that you could smell her skin: something smoky, earthy, old as ash.

‘’You figured it out yet?’’Natalie teased, voice low.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

Natalie circled behind you - close, not touching, just letting her presence crawl across the space between you like static.

‘’Most people,’’ She whispered, ‘’would’ve run screaming by now.’’

‘’Then why did you choose me?’’ You asked, still calm, though your pulse began to rise.

Natalie’s lips hovered inches from your ear. ‘’Because I knew you wouldn’t.’’

A sharp silence fell between you.

It wasn’t fear. Not exactly. It was something hotter. Denser. Like standing at the edge of a cliff and wanting to fall - just to see how far.

Natalie moved again, brushing past you, letting the barest edge of her fingers ghost across your wrist.

The touch was cool. Not cold. Not dead. Just…ancient. Like marble in the shade.

‘’I haven’t wanted anything in a long time,’’ Natalie spoke. ‘’Not really. Not like this.’’

You turned, facing her now, close enough to touch but still holding back. Her eyes had changed - darker now, wide and gleaming like something nocturnal.

You swallowed, but stood your ground. ‘’You don’t even know me.’’

‘’I know enough.’’ Natalie challenged. ‘’I know you don’t flinch. I know you don’t crave fame. I know you didn’t come here hoping to be devoured-’’

She paused. Her smile returned, slow and dangerous.

‘’-But you might let me, anyway.’’

Your breath hitched.

Just slightly.

That was all Natalie needed.

She moved like water - sudden, fluid, unstoppable - and closed the space between you until you were nearly touching. Her hand rose slowly, trailing a fingertip down your throat, tracing the line of your pulse. The touch was feather-light. Reverent.

‘’I could,’’ Natalie murmured, voice barely audible. ‘’Right here. Right now. You wouldn’t even feel the pain. Just heat. Just surrender.’’

Your eyes locked with hers.

‘’Then why don’t you?’’

Natalie stared back.

Then, she pulled back - just an inch, but enough to feel like the world shifted.

‘’Because you don’t want to be prey… And I’m tired of pretending I only want to feed.’’

Another silence, heavier now. The air was thick with something almost unbearable - tension not just of lust, or danger, but recognition. Of two predators orbiting each other in disguise.

Natalie’s voice was quieter now. Almost a confession.

‘’I think I want to know what it feels like to want someone… and not take them.’’

She stepped back at last, her body reluctantly giving space.

‘’Go home,’’ She said. ‘’For tonight.’’

You didn’t move.

‘’Why?’’ You questioned, almost disappointedly.

Natalie’s smile faded. There was something unreadable in her face now - fear, maybe. Restraint. Longing.

‘’Because if you stay, I won’t be able to stop myself.’’ 

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

Thank you so much for reading! Hope you enjoyed. This was my first attempt at writing something spooky and supernatural, so I hope it wasn't too terrible.

Thanks again to @deenayw for such a cool request!

[14muffinz]

when the accident happens, danny's body can't handle it. his ghost form is launched out and his body falls unconscious beneath him while it recovers.

fenton is comatose. phantom doesn't think there's any chance of being alive again, after all, how could he be a ghost if his body's going to wake up?

phantom does his hero thing. doesn't own up to being danny, because it'd crush his friends and family, and this decision is solidified by his parents shooting at him

but, eventually, fenton recovers. the two forms are snapped back together as tight as a flat lego (you know the ones) and they dont come back apart. the human form is weak, needs PT and tons of checkups. he's antsy, there are still ghosts wreaking havoc and he's stuck in the hospital

now danny needs to fight off ghosts without further damaging his human half, without tipping anyone off to boot

[lucydixon]

Older!Eddie Headcanons

When I say older, I'm talking mid to late 40s. Bitch, I love me an older man and I feel like this fucker would be so fucking hot as a middle aged man. IDK if any of y'all have ever met a retired Metalhead/Rocker, but GODDAMN, they age like fine fucking wine.

Warning: Gets a little spicy towards the end, NSFW

I always picture Older!Eddie, with a biker look and covered in tattoos. Real intimidating, but pretty as sin with his salt and pepper beard and the silver streaks in his unruly mane. He’s probably a mechanic, or maybe a rockstar. 

He’s either divorced or a serial dater, maybe both, but as soon as he meets you, his eyes never wander. You’ll never know loyalty quite like that of Eddie Munson. 

You could meet anywhere. A coffee shop, the post office, maybe a gig, but wherever you are, his eyes are locked on you immediately, and he’s going back and forth on whether or not you’re too young for him. If you’d go for a washed-up metalhead when you could have your pick of all the other people he’d seen staring at you. 

That nagging insecurity from being bullied relentlessly as a child is still there. It always will be. However, his ability to put on a show instead of allowing his thoughts to eat him alive never fades, and he’d saunter over you with enough confidence that you can’t help but swoon.

He’d be very upfront about the fact that he is hitting on you, blatantly flirting with a cocky little smirk and cheesy pickup lines. They should be cheesy, but the way he delivers them, they sound smooth and suave. 

If you truly grab his attention, he won't fuck you the night he meets you. He’ll be a gentleman and walk you to your car or offer to drive you home, holding the door for you and everything, and ask to see you within the next few days. 

This man is thinking about fucking a baby into you from the second he lays eyes on you. He knows it’s wrong and that he shouldn’t be thinking about tying you down in such an extreme way, but he is the opposite of a slow burner. 

He’d try and have you move in with him after only spending one night together, desperate to keep you as close as possible while you’re still in the morning after honeymoon phase. 

I feel like he’d be possessive as fuck. He’s old enough that he doesn’t put up with games or any kind of back-and-forth. Eddie Munson knows what he wants, and he does not share. He’d keep a hand on your waist or resting on the swell of your ass whenever you’re out and about, especially in bars. He likes to make it very clear that you’re with him. 

Would be incredibly protective of you. He’ll protect what's his at any cost, and you can expect him to step in if someone so much as breathes any negativity your way. God forbid someone lays a hand on you, because this man will beat anyone who dares within an inch of their life. 

Side note, The thought of him just beating the shit out of someone on your behalf, cutting into their cheekbones with his heavy rings and drawing blood, is so fucking sexy oml. Maybe there’s something wrong with me, idk. ANYWAYS,

Older!Eddie fucks. Those experienced hands would have you seeing stars every. Single. Night. He’d be manhandling you into positions you didn’t even know existed and fucking you into the mattress so hard that it leaves his back aching in the morning, but then he’d do it again the next night. 

Very generous lover. You never have to worry about not finishing, even if the two of you are having a risky lil quickie in a bar bathroom, he will make you cum at least twice before even thinking about himself. There’s nothing he loves more than watching you fall apart. 

This man would live between your thighs if you let him. Eddie Munson is and always will be a munch. And he knows what tf he’s doing down there. He’ll have you cumming over and over again until you are sobbing and physically pushing him away.

Dividers by @saradika-graphics MDNI banner by @cafekitsune

Masterlist

[cait-sith]

Hey what if Starscream repainted himself post-canon

Unnecessarily long thoughts and ramblings (mostly about Starscream) under the cut.

This was originally in the tags but then it became an actual wall of text so. Keep Reading be upon ye.

So in IDW Till All Are One 12 Windblade shows Starscream his “true” form quote unquote and it's like this blue-white-and-red colour scheme. And while I don't really know how to feel about that; got some implications vis-a-vis transgender stuff, Starscream clearly took it as something that was taken from him, something that defined him, something that would have made him different (more likeable, more successful, unclear). On the other hand, I also think that Starscream sort of clings to that idea, because it's more painful to believe that he couldn't have changed anything, that it might just be a flaw in him. Something external to blame, y'know.

Windblade kinda points that out, it wasn't really the point of showing him that, but maybe that's just my personal interpretation. “I could have been so much more had I just been allowed to be born as I was meant”. Missing Windblade's point that he is still the same person in his spark, regardless of frame, it is ultimately up to him who he is. His actions define him, not his appearance. BUT. I feel like that kinda misinterpretation would be in-character for him, and so maybe in post-canon he'd... well really I think he'd reframe but maybe as like an attempt to reclaim what he thinks he should have been (even if he doesn't need to, even if he was perfectly capable of changing who he was without that). He frequently sabotages himself, because he doesn't believe in trust and he's so used to being in adverse relationships where he cannot rely on anyone being on his side. So then he gets everything he ever wanted, and it's.. not really what he wanted. Metalhawk, Wheeljack, Windblade and Bumblebee all sorta get under his plating, in different ways, and he admits to liking them, but can't bring himself to trust them. He's constantly at loggerheads with Metalhawk and Bee at the start, but Metalhawk tries and gets murdered for his troubles.

Wheeljack, well, he's just kinda mostly nice and willing to forgive and help, even while he's wary. In a way, I think Starscream gets attached to him because he's safe to get attached to, because Wheeljack doesn't take the shot when he's vulnerable, offers to help, to be on his side. From a distance. He doesn't really... actually initiate much of a friendship, but he talks about the idea.

Windblade, I think that relationship is a bit more fraught. They end up working together a lot by necessity, given their positions, and Windblade frequently has to fix or contend with Starscream's messes, and she has none of the prejudices of the others, but again, she's a threat to his power, to what he wants, can't really look past that. She tries, though, and I think he does sort of like her as time goes on. It just doesn't stop him from doing what he always does. No trust and all that. As for Bee. Bee. While he's alive, he's much like Metalhawk and Windblade: A threat to Starscream's power, with the added issues of being a major enemy and an autobot, with all the prejudices that brings. They don't make friends. Only Bee "dying" changes that, and only because Starscream is utterly convinced he is a ghost. In his own mind, he's *almost* okay with admitting to his flaws, his worries. Bee's ghost becomes his conscience, his confidante and companion, and because he's fictional, a fragment of Starscream's mind (or so he thinks), he's safe. Safe in ways none of the others are. And Bee tries, he has nothing really left to gain, no power to hold onto. For all intents and purposes, he *is* a ghost.

That was probably terrifying when Bee turned out to not be dead. Someone who saw all of Starscream's vulnerabilities, with so much power to hurt him. He can't help himself. He does have moments, though. Rare choices where he does trust, sometimes for lack of better options but still. And by the Unicron-finale, he's, well, still not friends, but he admits to everything, he comes clean, kind of.

So. We're going to ignore that he dies for the sake of this. <3 Just temporarily. In a hypothetical post-canon, I think he'd try to get a bit of agency back, try and follow that dream of his better self. And I think Windblade, Wheeljack and Bumblebee are the closest thing to friends he's had since his trine. And Metalhawk, technically, but he's kinda dead and also with the dead universe revival wasn't too happy with Starscream lmao. Perhaps Bee's the most comfortable, after that, if he ever gets over himself, because he's already spilled his guts to him, if accidentally. I don't think Starscream would ever be *easy* to get along with, and Bumblebee doesn't really take shit, but I'd like them to be friends. Squabbly-bantery friends, but still. Wheeljack seems a bit gentler, while Windblade's a bit more professional, she's kind but responsible.

Point being: this is Bee helping him repaint himself to leave the past behind.

Thanks for listening lmao

[crow-quilll]

CROW WHAT DO YOU THINK ABT THE S3 ENDING?

Well. Hello all that submitted asks asking about my thoughts on Squid Game season 3 + its ending. I needed a day to. Register. What I just watched. So here are my thoughts, get ready for a rant! WARNING FOR MAJOR SPOILERS FOR SG3 UNDER CUT

Long story short: I hated it -- and justifiably so. Now, don't get me wrong, I don't hate it because it didn't get a happy ending-- we all know I love me some tragedy. BUT. Gi-hun's death was just so.. empty? There was no mention to sae-byeok or sang-woo in the end, or even JUNG-BAE who died like the day before? Nothing to pay homage to how Gi-hun suffered and what he sacrificed. Honestly, his whole role in the season felt so passive. Those first two episodes I enjoyed his more manic side, but then he just becomes a background character. And then he gets stuck with the baby, and that is just a trope that I absolutely despise because it feels so very lazy: You take a main character who has lost the will to live, hand them a baby/kid, and suddenly they've got something to fight for again. Gi-hun's goal was no longer ending the games, it was saving this one kid (which yes, is symbolic of fighting the system, but I hated it). It's just so whatever, you know? All of that fight in him that we saw in s2 was completely disregarded. We never saw him take down the system he vowed vengeance again. He didn't accomplish anything, he never fought In-ho again, never got any sort of victory. He lost. And lost again. And again. And finally, one last time. He failed and sacrificed himself to save a kid that isn't his own (which is admittedly in character for him, but is still so lazy and unsatisfying).

AND we never got the Gi-hun x In-ho confrontation we needed. When In-ho revealed himself, Gi-hun said nothing. Nothing. No big ideological verbal fight between them, no hurt words of betrayal, no "... young-il?" or ".. why?" We got NOTHING. Nothing. And the season was marketed as the big finale to their feud -- we got one scene with them together, nothing was concluded and that was it.

And don't even get me started on what they did to In-ho's character too, who was just as passive as Gi-hun the whole time. Also, the fact that he gets to walk away alive from the island after all he did?? And Gi-hun dies?? And don't give me that "in real life, bad guys get away with everything" spiel - he was too complex a character for that to be a satisfying conclusion to his entire arc. He should've never made it off that island alive - he should've died there, surrounded by the ruins of a system he built and was built by.

There's so much else to say about how bad this season was. The pacing, the finalist choices (Player 100... really?), the arcs of the other characters (im looking at you, Dae-ho), the VIPs (again?). But honestly, I just don't want to lmao. I'm not gonna sit here and tear apart the season because I hated it enough that I don't even care to.

There is a silver lining in the end (and no, it's not that the kid lives, I don't care that was stupid and I saw it coming from a mile away). The silver lining is that we are still here: the artists, the writers, the readers, the animators - all of us. We still hold these characters, we can still write the stories they deserved and never got.

To anyone who enjoyed the season, I am glad you did! Just because I didn't doesn't mean you can't. I'm glad you found a satisfying conclusion to the story. But as a lover of stories myself, I was sorely and completely disappointed -- and that's okay too.

With all of that said, Nobody's Soldier will certainly have a better ending than what we got (although, that doesn't say much considering how bad the canon ending was). I will finish it and it will be more satisfying and truer to Gi-hun and In-ho's characters.

I can't say when the fic will be updated next, but it's coming. Until then, brandish your fanart, your fanfictions, edits, and everything in between. These characters deserve better, and we're going to give them better <33

[the-hopeful-squid]

"S3 is a good ending! It's realistic that heroes never win and The System is too big to ever truly be defeated!"

Look, even setting aside the issue of whether or not the whole, "Heroes will lose if they try too hard to change the system, and bad guys who work the system to their benefit always win," is realistic (spoiler: it's not! the world has changed about a zillion times already over the course of human history! and plenty of those changes were for the better! it can and will change again towards better things before human history is over!)-

If you expect me to believe that a young woman could give birth to a healthy premature baby in like five minutes in the middle of a death game full of people trying to hunt down and murder each other, that the woman could then live through that death game and into another one while carting her baby around with her before dying, and that the baby could be carted around alive through two more death games by a guy who last held a baby almost 15 years ago and still be alive and reasonably healthy at the end-

Then I don't know where anyone gets off claiming that it would be too unrealistic to also have the main hero win, survive, and bring a few other people out of those stupid death games alive, too.

Symbolism! Metaphors! Hope for the future through even the darkest of times!

Oh. So it wasn't about absolute Realism? Great! Then you can have all the above in a show where the hero also lives, defeats the games, and saves a few other people who held onto their own hope and kindness and fighting spirit on the way, too.

[i-am-cybersmith]

since palestinians don't always have the clearest material connection to the land they were ethnically cleansed from

That was not your opening argument. You STARTED by assertificating, and I quoterise:

They literally still have keys to their own houses, some of them can literally see their own villages from gaza. They don't claim it by right of "it was ours thousands of years ago".

That was your bailey, and now you've withdrawn to the motte of "unclear material connection".

The trouble is, you do not live in 1947. You live in 2025, and by the time anyone is in a position to even discuss "Right of Return", you'll likely be in at least 2028 (if we assume the conflict continues for at least as long as it already has, and peace talks take a while to get started).

The actual clearest material connection to land at any given point in time will be the people actually living on it. The Israelis can say, truthfully, that they live on that land, and many of them can now say that their parents and grandparents did the same.

A naturalised Israeli citizen who comes over from "Brooklyn" in 2027, then becomes an Israeli in 2028, has a stronger material claim to the land than a Gazan who asserts that his great-grandfather used to live on that land. Present claims are typically stronger than past claims, and you know this, otherwise you wouldn't raise such a fuss over the events of 1947-1948!

And maybe you're right! Maybe, if either of us had been alive back then, we would have sided against the Zionists, and claimed that the people already living there had the right to stay there. Certainly, there would have been an argument for it (and also strong counter-arguments, to be clear).

However, we were not even born then, and neither were virtually all of the people who will be alive in Gaza when the dust settles.

The strong claim, the claim of current possession and residency, is with the Israelis. The people making the ancestral claim are now the Gazans.

You are trying to obfuscate this by appealing to an 80-year-old situation that no longer applies.

If you considered the hazy claim of a great-grandparent living in what is now Israel to be compelling, you would have used that in your initial post. You didn't because you know it's a weak argument.

[stlllle]

Cho hyunju with a reader who has ptsd after the games 💔💔 thanks !!!

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Healing in Pieces

[ Cho Hyun-ju x Reader with PTSD after the Games]

Word Count: ~2.5k

Warnings: PTSD, panic attacks, anxiety, trauma, emotional distress, but with lots of comfort and fluff at the end.

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Author’s Note:

First of all: thank you SO much for the request! 🖤 This theme really touched me and I tried my best to approach it with care and sensitivity.

However, if at any point I misrepresented PTSD or any trauma-related symptoms, I deeply apologize. This is purely fictional and written with love and respect for anyone going through mental health struggles.

Also… as always: my requests are open! Feel free to send me anything you’d like me to write 🫶

Masterlist –[link]

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You weren’t the same person anymore.

That was obvious.

That was cruel.

That hurt.

Ever since the games ended… every step outside felt like an emotional minefield. Loud noises made you flinch. People running on the streets made you want to curl up in a corner. Sometimes, the metallic smell in the air made you throw up.

You were trapped between two realities: the now… and there.

Hyun-ju was the first one to notice.

Even after everything she went through, even with her own scars, she was always… present. Always watching you like she needed to catch you before you shattered completely.

The first night she stayed at your place was when you had a full-blown panic attack in the bathroom.

You had just finished showering… but suddenly, the memories of blood, cold floors, and screaming voices hit you like a wave.

You collapsed to the ground, hugging your knees, heart racing so fast it felt like it might burst.

When she forced the door open—almost breaking the lock—she found you shaking, crying, scratching your own arms.

— “Hey… hey, breathe… look at me…” — her voice trembled, but she kept trying to sound firm. — “You’re with me now… You’re safe…”

She hugged you right there, with your body still wet from the shower, her fully clothed, on the cold bathroom floor.

She stayed until you stopped trembling. Until your sobs turned into quiet whimpers. Until the panic turned into exhaustion.

---

After that, she practically moved in with you.

Bringing blankets, pre-cooked meals (even though she sucked at cooking), silly movies to distract your mind…

She left sticky notes all around your house:

“If you wake up scared, call me!”

“If you start shaking, text me. Even if it’s 3am.”

“Don’t forget: You’re alive. And I’m here.”

---

The nights were the worst.

You’d wake up screaming, sweating, your chest hurting…

And she would always, ALWAYS, come to you. Even with messy hair, oversized shirts, sleepy eyes… she would crawl into bed and hold you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

— “Shhh… I know it’s horrible… I know…” — she’d whisper, running her fingers through your hair. — “But you’re not alone. Not anymore.”

Sometimes, she’d ramble about random stuff just to pull you back from the spiral:

— “You know… I still haven’t taken you to that new burger place… we should go… or anywhere you want… just to get out for a bit, you know?”

She’d pretend it was casual talk… but you knew it was her silent way of begging you… to stay alive.

---

One day, you snapped.

— “Why are you still here, Hyun-ju?! Why do you insist? I’m a mess! A burden! You don’t deserve this…”

She went quiet for a few seconds. Then she crossed her arms and huffed, her usual stubborn self shining through.

— “First: shut up. Second: shut up again. Third: do you really think I’m gonna leave after everything we’ve been through?!”

She took a deep breath, her eyes filled with both frustration and care.

— “I saw you almost die… I saw you fight like hell to survive that nightmare… I saw how strong you are, even when you don’t believe it. So if you think I’m walking out that door and abandoning you… forget it. Not happening.”

She pulled you into a hug so tight it knocked the air out of your lungs for a second.

— “Hate me… yell at me… push me away… but I’m staying… because I like you, idiot.”

---

From that day on… you started trying a little harder.

And on the bad nights… she was still there.

Dragging you back into bed.

Making you promise to breathe.

Whispering that she loved you… even if you still couldn’t believe it.

Because if there was one thing Hyun-ju did best…

It was loving you in pieces.

Even when you felt broken…

She saw you as whole.

---