#anyway some muses are in limbo for now

[celestialtrolls]

Some days I get tempted to make a big post about how all my muses are doing and what they're up to

Since I have so many and also I haven't rped in ages so no one knows how they're doing

[lxmelle]

Seems like there is some discourse on twitter/now X on the afterlife after SPOILER ALERT it was revealed that Sukuna’s unborn twin had a soul (still considered one soul with his though) that reincarnated.

This makes reincarnation canon in the jjk world, which I guess it always was, if we think about the implications of how tengen and the star plasma vessel and the six eyes were tied by fate.

I was particularly interest in the implications on Gojo and also since the chains of fate that tied them are broken.

I touched on north and south in previous analysis posts. As much as I love Gojo, he was never going to be revived because it just made sense for Gege to finish his character arc that way.

With the newer chapters showing that his brain was bleeding, and that he was sliced in such a way where his heart and gut may be cut through, it also wasn’t going to be likely.

North was starting anew, meaning rebirth / reincarnation. Not returning to life as Gojo. Gojo was satisfied with his life as he left it.

So it seems like maybe the airport was limbo. And he opted for South, as the chapter title indicated. To go back, which Mei Mei’s words to Nanami seemed to be accepted by those present. Going back to the past, as they once were.

I couldn’t really read or find multiple discourses on the subject on twitter (just a couple), but I think they’ve expanded it in the direction I touched on in my recent post on souls that went a bit too far. In sum, were all six eyes users in the history of Japan the same soul - Gojo Satoru?

Someone’s interpretation was that Gojo and Geto were also tied by fate, seeing as a CSM user can help regain balance in the world due to the increase in curses caused by the presence of six eyes + limitless like with Gojo’s birth. But this was never canon or ever officially mentioned.

I wonder myself if, in this lifetime, the cycle of rebirth / fate was broken not only because of Toji and Kenjaku, but also because of a CSM user like Geto allowed someone strong like a six eyes user to understand empathy and love. To connect with those weaker than him and not keep coming back to life - as per Yuta who questioned Uro -

Why do you keep coming back? Those with compassion and loving kindness (again Buddhist themes) may become free from the suffering and cycle of rebirth/reincarnation. Why keep choosing to? I guess the focus is on unresolved and unfinished business.

So instead of choosing to reincarnate as someone new, the cycle just ends, as they all choose to remain as souls and go South. To stay as they are. Together.

I still stand firm in my desire to believe what i wrote a while back on Camillas and musings on the afterlife:

The cover of vol. 26 was Gojo visiting

And they are a form of souls that died without regret, thus elevated to a Kami (or deity):

I think / headcannon that in the jjk world they are souls not bogged down with vengeance or being forced to reincarnate. They all presumably died, free of lingering attachments to the world.

This may allow those who died “without regret” to choose where they can live in another world. Which is pretty much a Shinto belief, but when applied to the jjk world, may depend on how they died.

Anyway, I’ll be waiting until Gege reveals more about what it all means within the jjk world. For now, here’s the link on the info on Shintoism I took those grabs from: https://justaboutjapan.com/what-happens-after-death-in-shinto-understanding-the-japanese-afterlife/

I also forgot to add this piece:

[t0m-1nn1t]

Egyptian Ratscrew. Part One.

[: [@quackity1999 @bloodofghostbur]

The bar was alive with noise, a chaotic symphony of clinking glasses and murmured conversations. The warm, dim light reflected off Wilbur’s half-empty glass as he leaned back in his chair, a smug grin plastered across his face. His voice, rich with amusement, cut through the haze.

"Do you recall, Big Q, the last time we drank together? I think it’s been far too long." His eyes sparkled with knowing mischief, as he spoke, glancing over the rim of his cards to watch Quackity.

Across the table, Quackity tilted his head, his expression one of mock contemplation. His hands toyed with his own stack, the edges worn but still sharp enough for tricks. "Y’know what, Wilbur?" His tone was light, but the glint in his eye hinted at something more.

"It's been quite a while, hasn't it? We can throw in some betting if you’re up for it."

Wilbur’s cocky smile widened, his laugh loud and unreserved. "Betting, eh? You know, Quackity, I’ve never been one to back down from a gamble. But don’t cry when I wipe the floor with you."

Quackity smirked, shuffling the deck with practiced ease, the cards snapping sharply against each other. "Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. I’ve got a feeling tonight’s gonna be a good one—for me, at least."

"It’s good to see you. Now, erm," Wilbur set a glass down in front of Quackity, the amber liquid swirling inside, "I got you one of your fruity drinks. Tequila and… something else. Not sure. I don’t drink those."

Quackity raised a brow, his lips curling into a faint smirk as he lifted the glass. "Fruity drink, huh? Careful, Wilbur, you might be projecting." He took a slow sip, his gaze unwavering as he watched the man across from him.

Wilbur chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "Are you thinking blackjack once again, Big Q? I find Egyptian Ratscrew to be a fine game myself."

Quackity let out a dry laugh, setting his drink down with a soft clink. "Really? Tsk, Wilbur. I would’ve assumed you’d play something with a little more psychological warfare." His voice was light, almost teasing, but the faint twitch of his good eye as he stared over the rim of his cocktail didn’t go unnoticed. "Spanish 21, baccarat, Texas Hold ’Em, Caribbean Stud—it goes on," he continued, his tone steady, his words measured. "I heard you had cards in limbo, Wilbur. Not easy to play against yourself, is it?"

For a fleeting moment, Wilbur’s grin faltered, the mention of limbo tugging at something just beneath the surface. But just as quickly, he brushed it off with a laugh. "I suppose not," he admitted, his voice carrying that familiar, nonchalant charm.

Quackity leaned forward, his smirk deepening. "I’ll fold. Ratscrew it is."

The atmosphere between the two was charged with an unspoken tension, a mixture of rivalry and camaraderie that teetered on the edge of chaos. Wilbur’s grin widened as he lazily spun his empty glass on the table.

"You drunk already, Soot? Sad." Quackity murmurs to no one but himself.

"I’ve only had… a couple, couple drinks? Bar hasn’t cut me off, won’t for… oh, anyway. You’ll have to trust I’ll wipe the floor with you any day." His words slurred slightly, though not enough to dull the sharpness of his teasing tone.

He waggled his fingers in Quackity’s direction, the dim light catching the metallic gleam of his rings. "Hah, haha, and be careful going for those doubles, big Q. Don’t want your delicate ducky skin, ah, blemishing."

Quackity let out a scoff, his good eye narrowing as he played along. "At the very least, I’m not a terrible alcoholic such as yourself."

Wilbur let out a laugh, leaning forward to slap down his first card—a humble eight of spades. "Not true," he mused.

Quackity’s gaze darted between the played card and his own dwindling cocktail, something clicking in his mind. Wilbur wasn’t just tipsy—he was inebriated for a very specific reason. A tactic. A strategy. And if Quackity had any hope of keeping up, he needed to level the playing field.

Without hesitation, he grabbed his glass and downed the rest in one go, the burn of the tequila a sharp reminder to focus. Already, he was gesturing to the bartender for another drink, his fingers tapping impatiently on the table as he flipped over his own card—a lowly three of hearts.

Quackity leaned back, his new drink arriving just in time for him to take a long sip. He set his glass down and tapped the edge of his cards thoughtfully. "I do want to know what you were up to in the few weeks I was out of Las Nevadas, though."

Wilbur’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, but it was long enough for Quackity to notice.

"Heard you almost slipped in through the cracks for a tour with my assistant," Quackity added, his tone laced with curiosity and just a hint of accusation.

Wilbur’s grin returned, though it was now tinged with mischief. "A tour? Is that what you’re calling it? I was just… exploring my options. Your assistant happens to be quite accommodating."

Quackity’s good eye twitched, but he forced a smirk. "Exploring, huh? Well, let’s see how much exploring you’ll be doing when you’re losing."

Wilbur's laugh rang high and sharp, almost uncharacteristically so, before he quickly smothered it behind his drink. The amber liquid swirled in his glass as he brought it to his lips, the rings on his fingers clinking softly against the rim. When he lowered the glass, he glanced down, eyebrows lifting slightly in mock surprise.

"Real glass, Quackity?" His voice was light, teasing. "Or are my ears deceiving me? You must have really poured into this place."

Quackity didn’t answer, just tilted his head slightly. Wilbur continued, undeterred, his grin widening.

"Hah, haha, but you asked a more important question—" He gestured casually with the hand holding the glass before setting it down again. "—about Charlie. Charlie, right? He showed me around a bit, yeah! Gave me a look-see at a key, let me know all your hidden chambers, secrets, you know. Wonderful guy, by the way."

The sound of Wilbur’s card flipping broke the tension momentarily. A king. He grinned smugly. "Play three, try for a face. Standard rules yet."

Quackity inhaled deeply through his nose, the slow exhale almost imperceptible over the low hum of the bar around them. Fucker.

The warmth of his cocktail was already weighing down his shoulders, making him sink slightly into his seat. He shifted, trying to relax, though the pressure was palpable. One hand rested against the brass knuckle in his pocket, the cool metal pressing against his palm—a silent reminder of the weight of the past.

A beat passed before he slammed down his initial two cards with a sharp flick of his wrist. A six of diamonds, followed by a four of clubs. His lips tightened, irritation flashing in his gaze. Shit, shit, shit.

But then he drew his last card—a queen. Relief softened the tension in his jaw. Good. He was in the clear, for now.

"Pfft," he scoffed, leaning back slightly in his chair. "Wilbur, it’s truly not that hard to invest in proper glass when you’re working alongside fooli—"

He cut himself off, the words dying on his tongue as his gaze caught something in Wilbur’s expression.

"What?" Quackity asked, his voice sharper than intended, the tension crackling in the air between them.

Wilbur’s grin lingered, but his eyes had darkened ever so slightly, the playful glint replaced by something more calculated. "Oh, nothing," he replied, though his tone suggested otherwise. "Just curious how long it’ll take before the cracks start showing, big Q."

Quackity’s gaze snapped upward, his good eye narrowing as he scrutinized Wilbur’s carefully composed demeanor. There was a calmness to Wilbur that irritated him, a semi-composure that seemed purposefully designed to throw him off balance.

Focus, Quackity thought bitterly, shoving the weight of his earlier misstep aside. He pulled himself in, metaphorically kicking himself for being so careless with his reactions. He knew how this worked, far better than Wilbur could ever hope to.

His wings, usually restless, were tense and stock-still. The razor-sharp grin that stretched across his face betrayed none of the churn beneath his surface. The glint of his fangs caught the bar's dim lighting as he leaned forward, his voice dipping low with calculated precision.

"You’ve not got a key in your possession. I’m certain of that—" he started, letting the words hang in the air long enough to let Wilbur wonder where this was going. "But I wonder, Wilbur; did you have a chance to check in on your son?"

The flicker in Wilbur’s eyes was faint but undeniable. Quackity pressed on, his grin deepening. "It’s a delight to have Fundy working for me, y’know. He’s got a tendency to gravitate toward the slots, but that’s not a shocker for someone so intent on following their nose." He leaned back in his chair, feigning nonchalance as he delivered the blow. "I don’t blame him at all."

Wilbur’s fingers stilled over the edge of his glass, his expression tightening ever so slightly. He recovered quickly, though, masking the reaction with a sharp laugh. "Fundy’s his own person," he replied, his tone lighter than his eyes. "Always has been."

Quackity hummed, amused by the crack in Wilbur’s armor. He slid an ace atop Wilbur’s king with a smooth, deliberate motion, his hands quick and nimble as he secured the deck into his possession. It was a subtle boast, a move meant to remind Wilbur who had control of the game now.

"Smart kid," Quackity added casually, his focus shifting back to the cards. "Takes after his dad, I suppose. Though, I’d argue he’s made better choices." The dig was clear, but Quackity didn’t linger on it.

Wilbur’s eyes flicked up to meet Quackity’s, narrowing ever so slightly as he watched the avian tense. He wasn’t sure if it was folly or calculated shrewdness, but something about the shift in Quackity’s demeanor set his instincts on edge. What’s he thinking so hard about?

The ace fell onto the pile with a finality that made Wilbur’s stomach twist. Quackity didn’t say a word at first, letting the silence speak for him, before letting out a groan that was half exasperation, half satisfaction.

"Motherfucker," Wilbur muttered under his breath, though the word carried no real malice.

Oh, the house always wins. But this—this was something else entirely.

Wilbur could feel it, the sweep of a metaphorical kick to the ankle as Quackity snatched the upper hand right out from under him. That damned brass knuckle, now slotted onto Quackity’s fingers like it had always belonged there, was the cherry on top. It wasn’t just a power play—it was a reclamation.

Quackity’s grin stretched wide, razor-sharp and dripping with mockery. "So prone to distraction, aren’t we? Tsk, tsk." He leaned forward, the air between them crackling with tension. "Pucker up, ex-president."

Wilbur barely had time to react. He opened his mouth to retort, but it was cut short by the blaze of Quackity’s palm.

The slap came fast and hard, the brass knuckle adding weight to the blow that struck Wilbur square on the upper cheekbone. It wasn’t a punch, but it didn’t need to be. The sting was sharp, biting, and relentless, over almost as soon as it began.

Slapjack—literally.

The bar seemed to still for a moment, the background noise fading into nothingness as Wilbur reeled from the impact. His cheek throbbed, the faint metallic tang of brass lingering in the air.

Slowly, Wilbur leaned back in his chair, blinking once, then twice, as he processed what had just happened. And then—he laughed.

Wilbur groaned, tilting his head back as his drink splashed everywhere, soaking the table and threatening to drip onto the floor. The sharp, sudden impact from Quackity’s brass knuckles left a dull ache spreading across his cheekbone, and he hissed through his teeth as he sat back upright.

"That’s not what you used last time we played," he muttered, fingers swiping through the spilled whiskey before pressing it gingerly to his cheek. The coolness did little to soothe the pain, but it gave him something to focus on besides the throbbing in his skull. "Are those knuckles?"

Quackity didn’t answer immediately, feigning surprise with a raised brow and a pitchy hum as he shook out his hand, flexing his fingers to emphasize the brass knuckle glinting on them.

"Hm? This old thing?" His tone was light, almost mocking as he gave the knuckles a once-over, clearly reveling in Wilbur’s discomfort.

Wilbur squinted at him, his hand still pressed against his cheek as he groaned again. "God—ow. The knuckles can’t make up for your weak arm, you know," he said, the corners of his mouth twitching into a faint smirk despite the pain. "You’ve got to put your weight into the punch, little Q, or—oh, well, I suppose you can’t really reach across the table that well, can you? Short arms."

Quackity didn’t take the bait, shrugging nonchalantly as he leaned back in his chair. "Had it around for a while now, Wilbur. Safe to say you aren’t acutely aware of all my secrets," he said, his voice dripping with smugness. "I had—a few, uh, useless rings fused to have it customized just for me. Tight fit, good density, all that."

He played his next card smoothly, his movements casual, as if nothing had happened. The contrast between Wilbur’s whiskey-streaked table and Quackity’s still-pristine shirt only added insult to injury.

Wilbur wiped at his side of the table with a napkin, trying to ignore the way Quackity’s wings seemed far more relaxed now, the tension of earlier completely replaced with self-satisfaction.

"Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it, by the way," Quackity said suddenly, leaning forward slightly with a grin that was equal parts taunting and knowing. "I’m well aware of what twisted bullshit makes you tick."

Wilbur froze for a moment, the smirk on his face faltering. Quackity had hit a nerve—again. But Wilbur wasn’t about to let it show.

Wilbur scoffed, humor carved into the corners of his mouth as he leaned back, lazily playing a card on top of Quackity’s pile. "Yeah, you would know that, wouldn’t you?" His tone was sharp, teasing, but his eyes glinted with something more calculated. "Quackity, are you thinking about me? I bet you’re still thinking about the hit, how it felt to use that power."

He leaned forward slightly, tapping his temple with mock deliberation. "Freak."

The word hung in the air, biting but light enough to blur the lines between insult and banter. Wilbur laughed again, rubbing absently at the bruised skin on his cheek. He didn’t take his eyes off Quackity, studying him carefully, searching for a tell—something he could exploit.

Under his breath, low enough that it might’ve been missed, he muttered, "What are you pulling, Quackity?"

Quackity, for his part, didn’t flinch. He was already downing the rest of his second cocktail, his hand signaling the bartender for a third before the glass hit the table. The alcohol was working its magic, dulling the edges of his sharp focus and warming him from the inside out.

His overconfidence, however, was a glaring crack in his armor. He didn’t care. Not yet.

"Pfft, it’s satisfying," Quackity shot back, rolling his eyes as he shuffled his cards. "Whiny bitch. I don’t dare take time outta my day to think about you unless you’re right in front of me."

Wilbur tilted his head, amused but unconvinced.

"Hey—uh, you remember that one time we played so long in—back in Pogtopia?" Quackity continued, his grin widening. "You fuckin’ rage-quit? Haa. That was something. I practically saw steam comin’ out of your ears, Soot."

Wilbur’s hands clenched around his cards, the edges of them bending under the pressure. His smile stretched wider, more forced now, as he let the sting of Quackity’s words gnaw at the edges of his patience. The thought that he was nothing more than a speck in Quackity’s newly remade life had hit too close to home, gnawing at his sense of self, that primal part of him that needed to be remembered, needed to matter.

But it wasn’t just that. It was the mention of Pogtopia, of the past. Of a time when things were simpler and people weren’t so damn complicated.

He forced a laugh, loud and obnoxious, to cover the tightness in his chest. "Oh, Q. You—" Wilbur leaned in, voice a little too sharp, a little too calculated. "You say you don’t think of me at all, but even I, I don’t remember that one! Hah, hahaha—" He took a beat, letting the laughter die off.

"You uh, know what I do remember, Quackity?" Wilbur’s tone shifted, becoming more serious, almost sly. "See, I saw your ring-knuckles and found them peculiar, you might say." He paused, letting the words hang in the air, feeling the tension shift between them like a wire about to snap. "Do you remember, oh, sometime about Niki’s birthday party? You got us all three, Karl, you and I, in a room alone, and we tried to beat him at Rummy. I don’t remember if we did, but what I do know—" Wilbur leaned forward now, his eyes gleaming with something sharp. "Quackity, oh, what I know, is after I left, you stayed behind twiddling with his hair for hours."

The words landed heavier than he intended, hanging in the air like smoke. "I don’t mind that," he added with a half-shrug. "It’s a free country. But speaking of those: a little birdy told me Las Nevadas isn’t your second nation." He let the words linger. "And I just have to say, a whole country with him? What a fucking commitment. It really sounds like you had your lives planned out together."

Wilbur cocked his head to the side, studying Quackity now, watching his face for a reaction. He played his card onto the pile with a snap, a calculated move to keep the conversation flowing.

"What happened to that, Q?" he asked, his voice low and almost predatory. "Those rings, I mean, Karl can’t have wanted his turned into a brute weapon. Of the others, Schlatt, probably Eret (knowing you), they wouldn’t give a damn. But Karl? What happened to that?"

Quackity froze, his hand still halfway to the deck. The air seemed to hold its breath as Wilbur’s words sunk in. His face tightened, the smooth mask he’d worn slipping for just a moment as the bitter revulsion crawled up his throat.

"Wilbur—" Quackity’s voice was low, tight, but it trembled with a faint edge of something more dangerous.

"I don’t believe that’s, like, any of your concern," Quackity continued, trying to regain some semblance of control, but there was a crack in his voice, the tension threading through his words. "El Rapids wasn’t worth it in the end, okay? It— that’s— it never fucking mattered what he wanted. It doesn’t. I couldn’t give a shit about Karl or Sapnap."

Wilbur’s eyes narrowed, an incredulous laugh escaping him. The words spilled out before he could catch them, irritation bubbling to the surface. "God, Sapnap, of all people?" His voice shook with the weight of disbelief. He threw his hands up in exasperation, his earlier composure cracking. "Why him?"

Quackity’s expression remained guarded, but there was a flicker of something behind his eyes that Wilbur was quick to latch onto. The tension had thickened between them, the game now secondary to the rising heat of old wounds being reopened.

"Wait, wait, wait, I get it now," Wilbur continued, voice quieter, almost mocking as he leaned in, eyes glinting with that same biting edge. "You two are really quite alike. Short, loud, like to pretend you have more bark than bite." He paused, his lips curving into a smirk. "I don’t agree with your taste, for the record. But I think I can see the appeal, from a certain point of view."

His gaze flickered over Quackity, almost searching for a reaction, but Quackity was already cutting him off, his expression tightening as he leaned forward, fists slamming down on the table in frustration. "Oh my god, Wilbur," Quackity snapped, his voice low and venomous. "I don’t give half a shit about your opinion of my—ex-lovers. I mean it, okay? It—why does it matter so much to you? It’s pathetic to be jealous."

"So," Quackity continued, voice almost a growl, "shut the fuck up and let me focus."

The game continued, their fingers dancing over the cards like it was nothing more than a distraction from the underlying tension between them. It wasn’t until Quackity’s final card landed on the pile that Wilbur realized he’d been holding his breath.

Quackity’s grin stretched wide as his hand settled back, his gold canines gleaming in the dim light. There was something almost feral in his expression. Relief, yes. But smugness too, like he had just won more than a simple game of cards.

"You really shouldn’t have underestimated me, you know?" Quackity’s voice was sharp, triumphant. He leaned back, clearly enjoying the moment. "I mean—HA! Look at where we are!"

Wilbur’s eyes tracked Quackity’s movements, all too aware of the edge in his voice. "I own this entire fucking casino, Wilbur. Are you that—" He paused, a half-laugh escaping him. "That stupid? Seriously?"

[Dark frustration curdles somewhere between Wilbur's furrowed brows and his tiring eyes. He flips his collar up midway through the game, hiding the bruised purple embarrassment smearing his cheek.]

By the time Quackity finally speaks up again, Wilbur already knows the game's lost. He cut himself off far too early in the game, too, drink dry on the table now. He bares his teeth at Quackity. This one'll hurt. Maybe one more gibe at Quackity would soften the blow? "But Q, you're just so easy to think little of. See, it's because you're sho-"

-and Quackity's fist is already plummeting through his nose so hard he can smell sounds behind his eyes. It's white-hot pain, and not the fun, sexy kind. More the 'sit in the van really sadly and soggily while you try to work up the nerve to reset your nose' kind. Fuck.

"Fuck! Damn it, Q, you broke my fucking nose! Oh owww…" Wilbur's doubled over, holding his face loosely. His words come out poorly, consonants blunted by the trauma to his face.

"God, you're gonna get it, Quackity. You don't even know, haha- ow. Hurts to laugh- I had a plan, Quackity~! There was- there was a plan in place this whole time, in case you won and your damn ego got fed too much, plan B. Remember Plan B? For bomb? What a callback. God. I can't wait for you to see the show, is all."

Yeah, fuck, that brutal crunch— despite the satisfaction of the violent outcome, quackity absently wonders if that would lead to a future retaliation.

and then he tunes back in: it already has.

"wait. waitwaitwait, stop. no, what the fuck? what the everliving shit is wrong with you, wilbur?!"

"where is it? WHERE THE FUCK IS IT?"

but before quackity can even begin to throttle the revived-scumbag-motherfucking-lunatic, he's left. along with every single scrap of the avian's usual unaffected demeanour. quackity's fucked.

[farm-lust]

More Musings on Kab and the cycles

I have gone back to my Consequences notes (yes, that's real, I do have those) and I have some direct quotes that I want to share on this topic.

"Blood on hands will always be blood on hands no matter how much you try to wash it off"

“The cycles don’t end if I don’t break out of them”

“Limbo, upon limbo, upon limbo. Cycle upon cycle upon cycle. Thats all there is.”

“That’s all life is. Cycles and cycles of being trapped.”

Not only do these quotes exist, but all of her allusions to the cyclic life of stars, just floor me.

----------

Anyway, the point of the post is this: Kab is close to getting the cycles (as more thoroughly explained in my last post on the topic)and the person behind the LS!Kab, knows it.

The S4 Zam allusion will keep coming up but Zam the guy knew about the cycles far before LS!Zam did, and the same is happening with Kab now too.

Okay as always plz if you have questions ask them for I have answers <3

[milqueandsugar]

Hello

could we have some short fluffy Drabble or headcanons about a sick revivebur? I mean, after escaping limbo, this man’s hypochondria must be ten times as bad. And after he gets sick, the reader (who he is in a relationship with, although it’s been cold and distant since his revival) starts acting very concerned and motherly— just starts pampering him. imagine cooling off one’s hands (with ice pack maybe) purely for the reason of holding it to a sick person’s overheating forehead. And etc.

just petting the whiny, skrunkly, sick rat of a man.

🏵 Your Tea Is Ready🏵

Warnings: mentions of sickness and death

Genre: hurt comfort (?)

| Honey makes the medicine go down Easy |

You press the back of your hand to feverish, sweaty skin, his dark curls tickling you as he attempts to turn away.

"You've got an awful fever." You fret, trying to turn his flushed face towards you.

"Yet I'm fucking freezing." He curses, finally relenting and letting you guise his face towards yours.

"How long have you been sick? Why didn't you call?" You push the hair that had begun to stick to his forehead back, he relaxes into your touch, fluid and maluable like wet clay. He smelled a bit like dirt too.

"I didn't want to bother. What good would it do anyway?" He blinks, his golden eyes reaching yours. It hurts, a sting, a cut to your already breaking heart by you swallow your pride. You swallow your anger.

"I'm here now, so let me help you, you look like you've got one foot in the grave-" He laughs, bitter but still a laugh. Maybe his fever was worse then you thought.

"That wasn't a joke, you look awful."

"What ever man wishes to hear from their partner."

Now it was your time to laugh. "Alright, settle down, I'll get you some water." You raise from the bed and leave the room, missing as just behind you he reaches for your arm, though never manages to get to you.

You return swiftly with a cup of warm sweetened tea and a cool wet cloth, by now he had abandoned all blankets from the bed, fanning himself.

"You don't have the fire going, do you?"

"No, not yet." You settle beside him, he turns his head lazily towards you, his hair looking particularly more wild then it did before you left.

"Here," you reach to place the wet cloth on his head, he flinches slightly, but eases as the cool water touches him. "Better?"

"A bit." He hummed, adjusting the rag further up his head. "It's going to soak the bed." He grumbled, a droplet of water already spilling down his cheek.

"You'll live." You tease, wiping the sweat from his brow.

"Will I? you seem to be quite worried."

"It's my job to be worried."

"What a horrible job."

"It's not, not for you."

You smile, your hand coming to cup his cheek, you hesitate, but he does not. Pressing he face to your palm and kissing your wrist with all the affection his fever addled brain could manage.

"You spoil me." He sighs, his hand coming up to inter lock with yours.

"I treat you as you deserve. As anyone, deserves." You hum, squeezing his hand before bringing the tea cup to his lips.

"What is it?"

"Tea, it will help you sleep."

"Well isn't that ominous."

You roll your eyes, but after giving it a curious sniff, he takes a sip, then gulps the rest down.

"Can't be too ominous then?" You Muse, putting the tea cup aside. You can hear the smile in his voice as he replies.

"If ominimity tastes that good you must be pure horror."

You tilt your head. "I can't quite tell if that was a compliment." This time, he squeezes your hand.

"I can't either."

You press your fore head to his, before leaning away. "Get some sleep, poet, you're starting to sound like a mad man." He smiles, blinking slowly.

"Perhaps I am." His breathing slows.

"Perhaps you are." His eyes flutter closed.

"You'll stay?" His grip tightens, like a frightened child on their mothers skirt.

"Of course, I'll stay."

[fcble]

INVIDIA + LIMBO for my man mingeun!!

INVIDIA — A time my muse was vindictive and held a grudge or wished harm upon others.

In which Mingeun receives the opposite of a welcome. July 28, 2024. 0.9k.

Mingeun arrives home less than twenty-four hours after he left, feeling... lighter? No. Vindicated? Perhaps. Normal? He'll settle for that. Normalcy lasts until he unlocks the door of Fable's apartment. That's when he's met with the uncomfortable sight of Daewoong on the couch, looking rather hungover, for lack of a better description. Andrew sits on his right with enough space for another person to sit between them, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world. It's like a meeting of the Anti-Mingeun Convention. All they're missing is Taein, a couple thousand online detractors, and maybe one or two of Haksu's sasaengs, just to spice things up.

It takes less than two seconds for Mingeun to process the fact that he's in an incomprehensible amount of trouble. Like he always is. He folds his arms over his chest, still carrying his backpack of one day's worth of clothes. "What did I do now?"

"I don't fucking know," Daewoong says irritably. "Andrew told me he doesn't know either. Is that correct?"

Mingeun hates him. He's hated Daewoong from the day he first arrived, another SM Entertainment reject, high and mighty and simultaneously a failure. He hates his helicopter management. He hates how he acts as an extension of Taein's will, the sword wielded by a king, with no discernible independence of his own.

"Yes," he lies. Andrew didn't throw him under the bus. It would have been easy for him to tell the truth, to say, "Mingeun went to Japan because his girlfriend is there." He didn't do that, and now he's a witness to Mingeun's latest downfall.

Daewoong steeples his fingers together, a near-perfect mirror image of Taein. "So what did you do?"

It has to be an intimidation tactic. He wants Mingeun to incriminate himself. After all, going on vacation isn't a crime. And he did what Taein asked of him, anyway. Somehow, Mingeun doesn't think the logic he used with Hwajung will go over well with his manager. He spends a minute fantasizing about wrapping his fingers around Daewoong's throat and feeling the flesh give beneath his grip. He's had similar thoughts about Taein before, sitting across from him in his office in the shittiest plastic chair known to man. He wonders how long it would take before Andrew would interrupt, or if he'd let Mingeun have his way. He digs his fingers into the side of his rib cage until it hurts.

"Nothing," he says levelly. An immediate response is a sure sign of a frantic cover up, and Mingeun is nothing if not a proficient liar. Andrew doesn't so much as shift in his seat, and Mingeun appreciates him like he's never appreciated anyone before.

Daewoong brings his phone out of his pocket. "Read the headline." He gives his phone up to Andrew in another power play.

Andrew reads out loud in a tight, stiff voice. "'Fable's Byeonghwi, Mingeun, and Intak Spotted at Neon Nights Show.'"

Mingeun's heart drops into the pit of his stomach. Daewoong plucks his phone out of Andrew's grip with two fingers.

"I wouldn't call flying to Japan last night nothing," Daewoong says. He holds his other hand out. "Passport. Phone. Wallet."

Mingeun doesn't move. He's almost twenty-five, not twelve. He pictures, again, his hands on Daewoong's throat, the realization in his eyes at the moment he recognizes that Mingeun is the one with the power, not him. Andrew would let him get away with it, he decides. There's no love lost between the two of them. His therapist hasn't told him this is an unhealthy coping method yet. Probably because he hasn't told her about it.

"Mingeun. We both had long nights. Now." Daewoong speaks like Mingeun is some unruly animal, easily tamed by a stern word and a firm hand.

There are only two ways out of this situation that he can see. First, he leaves, like he always does. The problem with that is there's no telling how long Daewoong is willing to wait. This is his job, after all. Second, Mingeun can give in. He fiddles with one of the straps of his backpack.

Andrew reads his mind. "Don't give it to him," he says, in English this time.

Mingeun is already lowering his backpack to the ground, so he hears, more than sees, the vicious crack as Daewoong backhands Andrew. He flinches nevertheless. He knows Daewoong is capable of this violence—just like he is—but he's never raised a hand against Fable before.

"Speak Korean, Yejun." Daewoong all but snarls around Andrew's old stage name.

Mingeun's passport and wallet aren't hard to find. He keeps them both in the same outside pocket. He risks a glance up at Andrew, who sits there with fury blazing in his eyes, one side of his jawline tinged pink.

"Here," he mumbles, fishing his phone out of the back pocket of his jeans and handing over the pieces of his modern lifestyle to Daewoong. He watches Daewoong rifle through his wallet and take out both his credit cards before tossing the rest of it back at him. It would be so easy, Mingeun thinks, to throttle him, to leave ten nearly identical bruises scattered along his windpipe—not enough to kill him, just enough to scare him. He hides his hands behind his back and digs his nails into his palms.

Daewoong stands abruptly. "I'm staying in Eunsu's room again. Clean it up."

He leaves, presumably to collect whatever he needs to move into Eunsu's room. Mingeun stares daggers at his back, flopping down on the couch next to Andrew, tired and phoneless and utterly drained.

"I fucking hate him," Andrew says, still in English, massaging the side of his face.

"Who doesn't?" Mingeun responds, taking great comfort in the fact that Andrew would have backed him up in his most impulsive moments.

LIMBO — A time my muse acted faithless and disloyal.

In which Mingeun flakes. April 20, 2024. 0.6k.

It took three weeks for Mingeun and his mother to plan a single dinner. Between her job and his job and the time difference and the fact that Mingeun doesn't want to see her, it's a miracle any plan formed at all. According to his mother, the timing is perfect. It's almost the end of Eunice's sophomore year of university, and Fable's New York tour stop isn't far from her campus. His younger sister seemed even unhappier with the plan than Mingeun does. He wonders how many more years will pass before his mother recognizes the common factor in all of her children moving away from home as soon as they can.

The plan they finally agreed upon is dinner at some upscale seafood restaurant, one of many in a chain run by some celebrity chef Mingeun's mother follows on Instagram, the night before Fable's New York concert. She also asked him if there's anyway the two of them can get last minute tickets to the concert, griping about prices and resellers on the phone. Mingeun lied and told her no, despite knowing that Andrew's parents will be at their LA stop in decent seats, close to, but not directly in front of the stage.

The only task left for Mingeun is to tell Daewoong he has plans for that night. The day creeps closer and closer. The practices ramp up, until he goes to bed with 'Platonic Love' looping in his head. He stays quiet. Andrew is stressed about an already-booked car rental and an already-planned vacation itinerary, on top of everything else he has to worry about. Mingeun doesn't utter a word. Then it's the first night of their Seoul concert, and the second night, and they're packed on a plane to Los Angeles. Daewoong remains none the wiser.

Mingeun wishes he could say he tried. The problem is that he hasn't tried at all. He doesn't talk to Daewoong. He doesn't talk to his mother. He doesn't even talk to Eunice when she texts him and asks, are you srsly going to dinner w/ mom?

Maybe his mother will come down with a cold and miss her flight. Maybe one of Eunice's professors will assign her a major homework assignment due on the same night. Maybe Mingeun will fall off the stage at one of the earlier stops and break his leg.

None of those things happen, and before he knows it, he's in New York and he has a miserable impending family dinner in the next few hours.

His savior comes in the form of Byeonghwi, who descends like an angel sent from heaven, looming over him as he stews in despair in a hotel bed. "Are you busy tonight?"

Mingeun thinks about his mother and her plans and pushes them out of his head. He props himself up into a sitting position. "No."

"Do you wanna go out?"

He has a suspicion that Byeonghwi is asking him because he speaks fluent English. "Why didn't you ask Andrew-hyung?" he asks, even though he would really not like Byeonghwi to ask Andrew, and he's going to say yes, regardless of where the out is.

Byeonghwi hesitates, and then says, "He wouldn't approve."

That sounds even better to Mingeun. If Andrew doesn't approve, then Daewoong certainly wouldn't approve, and that means Mingeun should do it.

"Yeah, sure. Where are you going?"

Byeonghwi shrugs, and Mingeun can't help but wonder what he signed up for. Maybe Andrew was right to disapprove.

He might be a little bit of an asshole, but he isn't a complete asshole. He does the bare minimum and texts both his mother and Eunice that something came up and he won't be able to attend the night's dinner. Eunice responds directly to him with a gif of some animated character falling over, captioned with "dies from cringe."

Mingeun spends a minute feeling guilty about leaving his baby sister—who also happens to be an adult—at the mercy of their mother. Then he feels relieved about saving his own skin, and doesn't even bother to pry a plan out of Byeonghwi.

[astragreenwoode]

ART DUMP #1

It's been a hot minute since I posted here. Have some recent art that I've been procrastinating posting.

Life is. . .okay. Kind of in a melancholic daydream right now; a sort of limbo. I've been unemployed since February and I'm on a new med change that's pretty tough, but I'm not giving up. Remember guys, progress isn't always linear.

More info about each piece below the cut.

(1). Self Portrait - Kind of experimented with style on this one. Wanted to see if I could do a more simple, cutesy style. I'm thinking about doing a lot of silly comics that I'll eventually convert digitally, and I'm not too fond of having to do a bunch of detailed drawings of the same thing. I once tried to take an animation class when I was, like, 11 or something. It was. . .not my bag. Maybe one day I'll get there, but today is not that day. Took lots of inspiration from Night in the Woods.

(2). Good Morning, Madness - Yes, the background is official Adventure Time art. Please don't sue me, Pendleton Ward. I'm not making any money off of this. Anyway, I don't remember the last time I felt so connected to a character like this. Betty Grof is my fucking muse, and I don't care who knows it.

(3). 'The Hall Incident' - Watched Game Theory's video on Kissy Missy, and besides Theo as Catnap, Patty has the most tragic backstory. I have this whole side theory about how she had her own child and/or sibling she was raising before she was turned. When she went missing, Playtime Co. took custody of her and put her in Playcare, and that's the child in the photo we find her looking at in the secret room in Home Sweet Home.

. . .

I hope you like my work and please let me know what you think, as I really appreciate it and use it as motivation. Be sure to follow me and come back for me, please!

Stay wild, free, and safe, my dears!

-Astra

[miscgallery]

* Shivani's name means Life & Death, iirc. I just found it randomly on Pinterest.

Bestie tbh I wrote most of that at 4 am so I honestly dont know WHAT I was cooking. 😭😭

But if i remember my thought process at the time, it's more on to control her urges and satiate the need to actually go after real people (the MBCC staff, Sinners, and Chief, to an extension). Chameleon doing the hard work of being her therapist frfr. She's mellowed out a bit from her urges due to consistent therapy and psychological treatments, but there are times where she'll make people think or joke that she's taking off her gloves just to get a reaction and laugh about it. Little shit energy. 😭

As for her relationships with other Sinners, I find her getting along well with Iron and Anne because medical practitioner respect, and maybe butting heads with Oak Casket because of their different ideals with death and how it should be handled, as you've mentioned. Shivani sees Christina as her little sister figure and they give me the "😊😈" dynamic together. I'd like to imagine Christina visiting Shivani mid autopsy just to rant about a hard case that's been annoying her and Shivani not even being bothered by it and just letting her then offer to get food later after work. Her and Uni would get along at first, I think? Then they'll get into some heated argument about their perception of beauty and, most likely, will throw hands with each other then be civil afterwards like nothing happened. (Is it gay to get into a heated argument and fistfight with another woman about beauty then have coffee after?). Finally, I think she'd get along well with Cassia just because they both have similar mindsets on why they did what they did on their crimes. (Her interrogation is so good). I can see them be constantly found as a pair hanging out and discussing about things that aren't privy to anyone but them. It's either gay, or very good friends. No one knows. 😌

The gloves are there because she's a) [REDACTED], b) doesn't think she's worthy of touching beautiful people, c) it suppresses her abilities since she'll need skin to skin contact for it to work, and d) a fashion choice (hence her ordering a bulk amount of different gloves each month).

For the certain cadaver? All I can share to say that it's someone she knew.

As for the jar she's holding in her Special Conversation 3 voiceline? Don't worry about it. ☺️

(Bestie, not you squeaking about the hands in her Head Pat voiceline. All part of the plan though. 😭😏 /hj)

Also since there are new locked Librams added into the game and one of them is literally DEATH, I wanted to put Shivani there, but I have no idea what the Death libram stands for, so she's in Limbo for now until it gets unlocked (maybe when Chapter 14 comes to global with the new Sinners 😭).

all of that at 4am wtf i need your level of inspiration it took me 3 days to come up with joule's profile and i'm still not done 😭

and oh i suppose i read too far into her name:") just wanted to ramble since a name tells a lot about a character- (usually, i have no idea what "owo" is supposed to mean) anyways

little shit 😭 and her friendship with christina is so cute<3 good to know there's someone else looking out for her in the PSB aside from dole

omg now that you mention cassia ... "similar mindsets on why they did on their crimes" + shivani refering to the autopsy bodies as her "muses" = 👀 now hold on.

the [REDACTED] 😭 ok we'll find out eventually i trust 😭👍 also huh slay i suppose i thought she was getting different gloves for sanitary purposes ksjdjdkbk

oh poor girl:") if having to dissect the body of someone you knew wouldn't turn you into a sinner or a corruptor idk what else will

i wonder what in the world the other death, war, and famine librams will be like or even why they were added in the first place 😭 all the pestillence sinners are related to the dark web in some way so yeah maybe chap14 will add onto at least one of them

[kyuureimu]

💚⚖️

send a 💚 for a coming idea that still needs development

Eh heh... Uh, I actually don't really have a lot Specifically Established on whatever scientific fuckery Colress/Plasma did to Kyurem during B2W2, other than it is Really Fucked Up In the Head and I Really Need It. A part of me just wants to let it simmer in the background and only bubble up when it's relevant to the thread, or if I ever bounce around ideas with a Colress muse. Kyurem is clearly repressing that entire experience anyway, so it'll be a fun surprise for everyone involved when I finally think of something spicy!

send a ⚖️ for something stuck in limbo

...Do not ask me anything specific about the Forces of Nature, especially Enamorus. I do not know, I have been drawing blanks for years and I wanna cry. I would hate to half-ass something as significant as the kamis and their whole... everything, but I cannot ignore their overall existence either. The only vague thing I remember establishing In Ye Old Days is that Landorus may or may not be spawned from or has been cultivated by the Original Dragon in some way, since he is a representation of fertile earth and became the god of harvest that way, then Thundurus and Tornadus came... later. (And again... do not speak to me about Enamorus, nevermind the fact I didn't finish PLA to even SAY anything about her to begin with. OTL)

I do not know, please, let that remain a skeleton in the closet for now...

[welcxmetxthechaxs]

@erxsxre asked:

[ HELP ]  for the taller muse to use the advantage of their stature to shield the shorter one from something.  (For Dette)

Things were so calm at the start of patrol, one could practically hear a pin drop from 3 streets away from just the echo traveling on the breeze alone, but now? Things were set ablaze, vehicles turned on their sides, the screams and shouts of the panicked as they were guided to cover ringing in the air like a siren. On more than one occasion this evening she'd had to phase civilians through the walls of shops and other assorted structures to get them to safety, her staff gripped so tight in her hand that there was a rather prominent reddened bruise forming diagonally across her palm that it was now resting on pins and needles from the amount of blows delivered with it that she couldn't feel it anyway. Much like the rest of her body from minor scraps along the way with the more easily fought foes.

Amidst the chaos riddling the streets, through fluttering ashes and smoke that dried the eyes to the point of watering, the reoccurring thought of where Erasure had ended up, how he was doing and the hope that he was safe continued to flare in her brain. They'd started the evening together but had since gotten separated, how long had it been now? An hour? Maybe more maybe less? It was all a blur. All she could hope was that this smoke wasn't causing him too much set back or trouble. Speaking of quirks, the side effects of her own were starting to set in, the pressure rising and pulsing against the side of her skull in a steady drumming rhythm that was getting harder to ignore the more it was pushed.

By the time she'd hit the city center, the area was practically in shambles. Fallen over billboards, phone posts, downed lines, broken hydrants that were leaving sizable streams and puddles, but for the most part it looked unsettlingly void of any people, both friendly and otherwise. Cautious steps were taken leading up to the center of the road, the only light being the roaring flame from an exploded SUV that hadn't quite gone out yet. Her eyes scanned over the street around her, ears listening for signs of anything or anyone that might give her an idea of where to go. Had everyone moved on?

Crash!!

The sound of screeching metal, from what looked like some sort of support beam or construction scaffolding, across the damaged road rang for a good few blocks, along with the booming impact that followed along with it not only crashing into the wall that stopped it's motion, but the blonde stupidly standing right in its path. Having no time to evade before it dragged her along with it, rolling and scraping straight into the side of the building, her staff clanging and rolling to a stop a good meter from her. The blow had knocked her into a limbo state of conscious yet still very disoriented and foggy visioned, the world around her fading in and out of clarity while forcing herself to try and stay aware. Her costume now torn in a few places, something was throbbing, but where it was she couldn't place amongst the soreness of everywhere else and she could feel a warmth dripping down the side of her temple. Wonderful..

Somewhere in the distance there was a burly figure emerging from the smoke, and the way it was approaching? It was far from coming to help. With what little energy she had, what was left of the adrenaline fumes were keeping her awake and moving she activated her quirk one last time, dragging herself across the sidewalk and away from the mess of metal that had damn near taken her out, and towards the slime shining silver shape that was her staff. The movement didn't come without it's fair share of pained grunts and winces, if her body could speak for itself it would more than likely begging to be still, but what else was she supposed to do?

The overly sized fist of the figure was drawn back, plummeting into the ground beneath their feet causing a harsh rumble that rocked and crumbled at the building towering above her that had now become weakened by the impact, a low hanging fire escape platform being knocked loose and now falling straight for the spot in the pavement that she'd dragged herself to. There was no way to move, especially given the fact she couldn't even get up, so the only thing left to do was cover the head and brace for it, eyes squeezing shut and her spine arching to curl into herself, just waiting for the impact.

[lordofbrattiness]

Musing Section 1: Blue Rafters Tavern

I knew that you had preferred for me to stay but I simply could not ignore the maddening visions of an entire world so unknown and so far away.

I had so many wicked dreams of leaving limbo town- tis was the world above sending their siren call down!

this will not make my mother proud. she will only cause a scene, upset upon seeing her baby boy "wasting" away his life.

I know she'd feel that she ought to scream- " oh foolish witch-boy, what have you done? you are now a blue rafters boy! I reckon you cause trouble in some blue rafters tavern."

oh, mother, I am merely looking for thrills! it is quite fun to watch others get the chills when they see me. it is simply where I must be up at the blue rafters tavern!

I will follow through with my antics up at the blue rafters tavern. I will follow through with my antics up in the city of the bat and the shadows. I will follow through with my antics up at the blue rafters tavern- the blue rafters tavern!

do not.. think for a second I could simply leave it all behind me. you all back in limbo town are often images that I can see. mother, I should note that at least once per week- I hear your old fashioned and ever-lecturing whisper through the barrier and the earth crusts down below. you say this:

" oh you foolish witch-boy, did you even know what you have done? transforming into a blue rafters boy. you are beginning to behave more and more like your father!"

and I simply reply saying:

" mother, this is simply what I was meant to be. there is no turning back time - no longer anyway! an' wouldn't ya know it? even if I mess up and blow it, it doesn't even matter anymore because as you should know by now - chaos follows me wherever I go!"

[missvelvetsstuff]

Firstly there is no need to apologize to us. Whenever you update ur stories is completely up to YOU no matter the circumstances. I very much appreciate all of the time and effort u put into ur work it’s so amazing well written. You’re truly one of my favorite writers on here.

Anyway if u don’t mind me asking how was the visit from ur dad

First, I'm so sorry that it took me so long to reply to this, I rarely get messages so am bad about checking my inbox.

Thank you so, so much for your kind words. Reading, and now writing, fan fiction has helped me keep my sanity in the world since covid. Bucky is always here to listen and love me when I need him. Even if he's a dumbass sometimes. I'm glad you have enjoyed our misadventures.

My visit with my dad was really nice, he's 83 so I'm grateful that he's still here and spry enough to drive around the country and come see us. The last 2 years we took a father/daughter road trip to see some of the sights and really got to know each other more. Learning about the challenges we've both been through has really strengthened our bond. He wasn't up for that this year and I really missed it, realizing that it's unlikely we'll be able to do that again.

I lost my mom 12 years ago, we went thru it when I was a teen but when she passed she was my closest friend, like the saying goes 'my mom taught me everything, except how to live without her'. My dad has tried to help fill that void.

The week after my dad left, my youngest graduated high school and we're both trying to figure out what happens next.

I'm in Phoenix summer limbo now, too hot to do anything outside that doesn't involve water and the stable where I volunteer is on hiatus until November when it gets cool enough to ride. Hopefully that means more time to write but we'll see if my muse cooperates.

I actually have a couple of ideas I've been writing little bits of but trying not to get too into anything new until I finish some of my WIP's, so I haven't posted any of them yet.

Sorry for the ramble, apparently I have a lot on my mind but Thank You so much for reading and taking an interest in me and my life outside of Tumblr.

XOXO

[angelicgentleman]

There's a small pinch in his non-beating heart at the mention of his home country. He never really got out of South Park, ultimately meeting his demise here, far away from friends and family. Were they even aware of all this? Or were they still hoping to hear a word from him? There's a slight drop in his expression and pause in movement; even a hold of pretended breath. He never thought about it.

It takes him a while to look at Nimue again, but when he does, he's back on track, smiling again. He'll have to think about it later, it would be impolite to run off now. It's not like he can get home anyway. "I am." he finally replies, "I suppose ghosts do get stuck in places." he mused.

"Well, you're a step ahead of me then." he chuckled, shaking his head lightly, "Some of us aren't even alive." Pip has slowly accepted that he has died, or rather, he is getting used to it. He never really denied the fact that he had died. It happened, he couldn't change that. It was sad and upsetting, but he couldn't return to the living. Not alive, at least. "Still, you don't owe yourself to anyone but you. I do know it's difficult to think about it like that, though. Just try to get to it before something stomps on you." he offered her a warm smile. It took him his whole life to understand it, granted it wasn't long. Nimue showed him genuine kindness right from the start, so he didn't see why wouldn't he return it, even if they had just met.

Philip tilts his head slightly as he listens to her, "The fall happened. I can't undo it." he replies softly, "It doesn't mean I'm happy about it. It hurt back then, and it hurts now, but it happened." The pain might just never go away. Not until Damien can help him, at least. Still, pain or not, he won't be able to forget the fall if he tries. Sure, it might have looked pretty, poetic even. But one more thing he remembers from it is the fear and solitude. No one hears you fall in limbo. So, while he can never forget this, he tries to take the best out of it, even if it hurts right now.

"Oh, Damien is likely right. He knows things." he mentions, thinking about it. Back in middle school, he never really thought about Damien as the son of the Devil. Many have perceived him as just it, but Pip couldn't be bothered less by where someone comes from. Granted, their meeting was rough, to say the least. Still, being the Devil must have its advantages, at least a few in all of the hell... of Hell. "I don't think Angels are really up to talking if you're not an Angel yourself. Which you are, by the way, but you know what I mean." was it a slight tease? Maybe. Or maybe he was just awkward like this. Talking to yourself in limbo really doesn't boost your social skills.

   He says that at as a joke, but a small frown crosses her face. She wouldn't put it past the town to have some sort of supernatural ability to keep people in this terrible place. Everything she's seen, everything she's heard. It all just continues to spiral and spiral, but never end. Something she'll never understand.

" You're from England, I'd wager? I probably shouldn't assume that I suppose. It's a shame you never got out of this town, even as you are now. It's like you're stuck here .. unable to get free .. "

   Her voice trails off for a moment, it's amazing how unfair the world can be, even to those who are dead it seems. A part of her wants to offer him a hug, but perhaps it would be considered as pity, and she didn't want him to think that she pitied him, especially since it can make someone rather bitter. Instead she stands there awkwardly, tapping her nails together as she looks for a response. 

" I suppose not, but it's hard when you grow up with it. It becomes ingrained in you, everything they say and the insults they throw. Or maybe I'm just weak. " There's a slight shrug. " I'm still alive though, surprisingly enough. I live out of spite at this point, I suppose that'll do for now. "

   There's a frown as he explains things further, of course that has to be the case, god forbid he be an angel before passing through. Still the casual mention of the fall makes her want to grab him and shake him lightly, to say that it's not something to be casual about, but she's not close with him, so she doesn't dare try.

" I .. suppose that's one way of looking at it. I wouldn't really think about the view if I was plummeting to God knows what kind of pain. Makes me wish I had the power to do something y'know? Damien tells me not to mess with witchcraft and anything spirit related though. Says it only causes problems. Not that he's wrong I'm sure. Be nice if there was a way to contact angels though, find out why they let this happen. "

[heartsings]

nothing is posted there as of now, but the pages are basically done, so find this multi  OVER HERE NOW.

[inkheartedwanderer]

please, let me get what i want || e.m.

(lord knows it would be the first time) 

in which the wounds of the heart hurt more than those of the flesh, but they’re easier to fix

based on this song

eddie x reader.

content: post S4 (super minor spoilers), eddie survives, mentions of death and blood, this is mostly eddie’s headspace, i guess? pining, jealousy and insecurities. i just really want to give this guy a hug.

word count: 3k

Eddie Munson doesn’t consider himself a religious person. He’s dealt with too much shit in his short life to really care about whether there’s a higher power somewhere in the universe or not. If anything, he’d say he’s always been left to his own devices, so fuck whoever’s supposed to be looking after him. Theological matters are not something he’s ever been particularly concerned about, anyways. 

Having spent the last ten days bound to a hospital bed, however, Eddie’s had plenty of time to reflect on his pathetic existence and the string of unfortunate events that have led him to this situation. In these ten days, he’s thought about his parents more often than he has in the last ten years -his father leaving for good after being in and out of prison for months, his mother’s untimely passing when he was too young to understand she was never coming back, and the sharp pain that floods his chest if he dwells on the thought of them for too long. He’s thought about Wayne, constantly taking extra shifts at the plant so he could put food on the table, and how he’s repaid him by failing senior year once, and then a second time. A triple-senior loser drug dealer, always being too much -too loud, too weird, too freakish-, but never enough. Not attractive enough, not smart enough, definitely not rich enough.

He’s also thought about death, and how closely he tasted it. The harrowing tangibility of his own mortality, sticking to his skin until he was coated in it, until he couldn’t breathe, washing over him like a tidal wave. He’s thought about Chrissy, and Patrick, and Nancy’s friend Fred, who weren’t as lucky as him. About how scared he was when Dustin found him, choking on his own blood, scared of dying, of dying alone, scared of what was waiting for him, scared that he wasn’t seeing any holy light amidst the darkness and he was supposed to, right? 

And all he feels right now is guilt, because he’s thought about all of that and still, the main object of his musings the last ten days has been you. That’s why he’s considering that surely there must be some kind of deity, that there must be a heaven somewhere, because you’re an angel.

Soft in the way you speak and in the way you move, delicate when you touch him, Eddie still can’t believe that you’re not a figment of his imagination. In this aseptic limbo, the best part of his dreary days is getting to spend time with you. You, sweet as sugar, lovely as can be, arriving with the early morning light and leaving at nightfall when someone else forces you to go home and get some rest. 

You didn’t even have it in you to pretend to be mad at him when he woke up, disoriented and confused, covered in bandages, every inch of his body sore and in pain. “You scared me half to death, Munson,” you’d said, looking at him through teary lashes, “don’t ever go playing the hero again, please.” It was a whispered imploration, so gently spoken that he could only nod his head yes.

He’d do anything you asked him to.

Ever since he met you, there’s a strange new feeling nestled in the pit of his stomach, or maybe just above, by his heart, and Eddie can’t quite put a name to it, can’t make sense of it, because he didn’t know who you were two weeks ago.

The feeling is warm and light, a comfortable weight in his chest that blooms in flowers and vibrates through his bones when you walk in the room, when you sit by his side and quietly start talking to him. About nothing, about everything -news about Max, who’s doing better by the day; a book or movie or song you like and think Eddie will enjoy too, the puppy that came up to you that morning on your way to the hospital-, whatever crosses your mind is good. And he listens willingly. He likes hearing your voice and its cadence, he likes how everything you say seems deliberate and how your smile shines through your words.

He felt it first in the cold, humid boathouse, as you sat side by side on the wooden floor for two days, your leg pressed against his and both of you scared to death. Eddie found solace in your company, in how you chose to stay with him even though you had, quite literally, just met him.

“We’re not leaving him here alone, Steve.” You’d said, an unexpected determination settling in the frown between your eyebrows.

And you didn’t, even though Steve tried to dissuade you and Max and Robin shared a worried look. You stayed, and told him things would be alright. You sat down next to him and let him hurt in silence when he needed to, and vent when his thoughts became too much. 

You stayed, you sat and you listened to him without judgement, and suddenly you were looking out the window as the sun set outside, and your face was painted in shades of gold and lilac and Eddie had never seen anything quite as beautiful as you.

Minutes blended into hours and lighthearted comments turned into lengthy conversations inside that boathouse. In the rare times Eddie felt safe enough to let his guard down, his usual playful demeanour surfaced. Somehow, you found his knack for the dramatic hilarious, and countered his witty remarks with your own, good-natured and sprightly, with just the right amount of mischief to keep up with him.

The feeling blossomed in his heart and took shelter between his ribs, a nice kind of ache, one Eddie wasn’t used to, but that felt strangely familiar, as if he had been born to feel it, to find you, to know you. Damn his fantasy books and their promise of adventure and true love, and damn those metal songs for tricking him into thinking freaks like him could find the one, too.

But it grows heavy sometimes, a lead blanket that weighs him down and makes him feel vulnerable, minuscule. When his insecurities take over, it’s easy to believe the darkness that clouds his brain, his own voice humming harsh cruelties, reminding him of everything that he is -loud, weird, a freak- and everything he’s not -not enough, never enough, and not Steve fucking Harrington.

How could he ever compete if he doesn’t even compare?

Although you’ve mentioned before that Steve’s like the brother you’ve never had, it’s hard for Eddie not to read too much into the way he looks at you, or how easy it is for him to reach out and touch you, how easy it is for you to lean into it, and just how fucking much Eddie wants to be the one by your side… well, at all times.

Like right now.

It’s late. Eddie’s not sure exactly how late, but the sky outside is the colour of dark blue ink, splattered with stars, and the rusty orange glow of the streetlamps is casting shadows across the floor of his hospital room. He’s just woken up from a long nap, one of the many his body demands every day (who knew that almost dying would be so exhausting?) and the chair beside his bed is empty, your jacket draped over its back, your perfume lingering in the air.

He sighs deeply, eyes closed, sinking against the pillow. There’s an ache in his bones that doesn’t seem to go away despite all the painkillers the doctors have put him on, and it clings to him like the cold in the room. He’s tired and he’s cranky, it’s hard not to be when inhaling feels like breathing fire and he’s only allowed to get out of bed to go to the toilet; even harder when he looks out the ajar door and sees you, leaning against the wall next to Steve, eyes closed, your head on his shoulder.

The boy’s hands are respectfully tucked between his legs, and his gaze is trained on the floor. You are muttering to one another in low voices that Eddie can’t make out, but you look exhausted. Harrington, of course, looks straight out of a magazine with perfect hair and fancy clothes.

Eddie stares forlornly, eyebrows furrowed and pouting lips. He wishes more than anything to be the one to ease the worry on your face, the one you go to for support, for company, for advice. Still, the weight in his ribcage and the lump in his throat are too heavy to call your name, tell you to come and sit, tell you that he’ll let you rest your head on his shoulder and he’ll even hold your hand, ask you to please let him.

It’s a sensation he knows all too well, the bitter resentment of feeling like the second, third, last, worse choice. He’s good at pushing and pushing it down until it becomes nothing but a dark smudge at the back of his mind. This time, though, it poisons him from within until it’s all he tastes in his mouth.

And the worst part is he can’t even hate Steve. He’s been kind to Eddie. He helped him get out of the trailer park alive, he’s come to keep him company every other day, and he’s actually a pretty nice dude. Could he really blame you if you fell in love with Steve? He doesn’t believe so, but his throat constricts at the thought.

But as if you could read his mind, you open your eyes and find his gaze with yours. Suddenly, the sullen expression is gone from your face, the corners of your mouth are curving upwards and you're moving away from Steve and into the room.

"Hey, you're awake!" Your voice is soft, barely a loud whisper, and the dim light from the hall obscures your silhouette for a fraction of a second as you rush through the door and plop down on the worn-out chair by his side.

Eddie doesn’t miss the way your hand falls to rest on the bed, close to his own, twin sets of fingers twitching, tips tingling, eager for contact. He doesn’t dare move, but he looks up at you and you’re wearing the sweetest smile he’s ever seen in his life, the type of smile he’s never felt worthy of receiving.

His voice is hoarse with sleep and stuck emotions when he mutters, “Yeah, hi. You’re here.” The boy gasps when he feels the gentle touch of your fingers on the back of his hand, drawing circles and waves that ripple through his blood and tint his cheeks pink. Your smile widens, becomes softer, and your eyes mirror the look in his, shiny with unspoken affection.

“I’m gonna go see Max and then I’m out.” Steve, leaning against the rails of the bed, throws a thumb over his shoulder and nods his head at you. “You sure you don’t want me to drive you home?”

You shake your head no and tuck your hand in Eddie’s, and he swears he sees the sparks flying where his skin and yours touch. “I’m staying here tonight if that’s alright with you.” A gentle pressure of your fingers brings Eddie’s attention back to your eyes. “Is it?”

He nods, the most subtle movement, almost a blink-and-you-miss-it gesture, but enough for you to chuckle and tell your friend to go.

“Alright then,” Steve pats Eddie on the shoulder, more gently than anyone would expect from him, that fervent need to look after people shining through, so characteristically Steve, Eddie has learned, “you take care of each other, yeah? I’ll swing by tomorrow.”

And, with a soft smile, he leaves without waiting for an answer, leaving you two alone. A comfortable silence fills the room, one you’re both used to by now, as you stand and move around the space, placing your backpack on the windowsill, getting ready to spend the night by Eddie’s side. His skin still feels the ghost of your hand over his, its absence an emptiness that he yearns to fill again.

"You don't have to stay, you know that, right?" He whispers, the remnants of his jealousy still burning on his tongue, words fighting against his own willpower when he speaks next. “You should go home and get some rest. Go find Steve, go home.”

“Don’t be silly,” you reply, mirroring his tone but softer, sweeter, oozing a kindness Eddie’s not sure he’s earned. “I want to stay. Plus, I had a great nap earlier today.” 

Eddie doesn’t understand why you’re so nice to him all the time, but he’s not about to argue. He falls silent, looking up at the ceiling as you sit down, bend your arms and lean on the edge of the bed. He can feel your eyes studying his face carefully, blinking slowly, and your lips turning upwards.

“Do you remember when we were hiding in Skull Rock?” You say, sitting down and bringing your knees to your chest.

“Yeah.” Eddie frowns. The memories of his days on the run are the most unwelcome ones.

Soaked and tired, covered in mud and sticky leaves, you sat side by side under the solid protection of the rock. Eddie was trying hard not to cry, not in front of you. It would’ve been the cherry on top of the cake, and the last thing he needed was to embarrass himself further.

He leaned his head against the stone and willed himself to calm down. He then looked at you through pinched eyebrows, calling your name softly. “I’m sorry.”

You rubbed your clammy cheek with the back of your hand and shrugged. “This is not your fault, Eddie.” It hurt to see the pained expression on the boy’s brown eyes, their usual sweetness replaced by pure despair, their spark gone.

“But it is.” The boy shut his eyes tight and ran a dirty hand through his hair. It felt gross, messy and knotted. “I’m sorry that you’re stuck with me. This sucks. I’m sorry.”

A cold hand wrapped around his, pulling it away from his face, and you were looking at him with so much resolve he almost fell backwards. “Eddie, I said I’d stay with you and I meant it. And I’d do it again, alright? I’ll be damned if I let you go through this alone. Okay?”

Eddie blinked and you blinked back at him. Your next words cut through the cold air of the early dawn like a knife, an arrow straight to his heart. “I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

Your eyes now are softer than they were that night, but the conviction shining on them is just as firm, exuding reassurance and affection just for him, an affection you’ve never felt for anyone before but the boy in front of you earned in a matter of hours. “My word still stands.”

No, Eddie Munson is not a religious person, but later tonight, when he wakes up after a vivid nightmare, he looks at your figure, curled up on that ugly, uncomfortable chair, so close to him that he can hear your soft breathing, so close he could caress your cheek if he reached out; and then he looks at the clear dark sky behind you, and the million shiny stars that frame you, rings of diamonds with you at the centre, and then Eddie whispers a quiet prayer, a humble plea, a wish for only him and the quiet of the night to know. 

He asks for you to stay, once again, to stay as you have before, like you said you would; he pleads to keep the one good thing that's come out of this nightmare, the best thing that's happened to him in a long time, maybe ever. 

Eddie Munson calls to the gods, the ones people talk about on the street and the ones he knows from his books and his games, and he confronts them -his life is a mess, where are they, where have they been all this time- and bargains -they owe him, they owe him this one thing, this wish that's hidden like a secret in his heart-, and whispers your name like a sacred prayer, very low and very carefully, cherishing every letter, kissing them as the air leaves his lips.

And he truly thinks you can read his mind, there must be a connection between you two, because your eyes flutter open, and they gleam in the faint light that creeps under the closed door when you look at him, and your mouth curves upwards in that sweet way you save for only him.

You look so lovely, with your hair tousled and your cheeks apple pink, so sweet in your big clothes that seem to swallow you whole -in his sleepy state, it takes him a second to realise you’re wearing an old black hoodie of his-, that Eddie feels his heart skip a beat, and two and three. It’s overwhelming, really, how much he likes someone he’s just met, someone he barely knows. It’s worse when he notices you’re looking at him the way he’s looking at you.

The chair scrapes the floor when you pull it closer to his bed, and you lean your head on the uncomfortable mattress, your temple against his shoulder. Your hand travels down his arm until your fingers can wrap around his, warm and soft against his calloused digits. 

Eddie blinks back the tears that threaten to fall from his tired eyes. You’re real, and you’re there by his side, looking up at him through your lashes like he’s the only other person in the world. 

He squeezes your hand. You squeeze back. Your twin giggles break through the silence of the hospital room. Maybe for now, this is enough.

The stars outside twinkle when he looks out the window again, the words dying between his lips. Thank you.

                                                 🌷 🌷 🌷

a/n: thank you for reading if you’ve made it to the end, I hope you liked it. I had the song on repeat for hours when I started this one, and it’s both very sad and very beautiful, I had to write something. Likes, reblogs and comments are always welcome and appreciated. Much love!

[orchardisland]

━━   𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐨𝐫𝐢

Let me tell you the story of one of our unfortunate residents who seems to be a STUDENT & SUNRISE WAITRESS on the island. Fate has assigned this individual guidance from THE HANGED MAN REVERSED card. But they needn’t worry, their secrets are safe with me.

DOB: december 15th, 1995 DEFINING TRAITS: endearing, kind, listener, immature, stubborn, flaky RESEMBLES: wjsn kim hyunjung (seola)

YOU ARE PRESENTED WITH A PRISTINE DECK OF TAROT CARDS. TAKE YOUR PICK.

woori is at the point in her life where everything seems completely busy, yet absolutely mundane all at the same time. she feels left behind as childhood friends of hers have moved out of the island, and she doesn’t have many friends from her younger days left, often befriending those from her latter years in life. she feels as if she’s falling behind, yet she’s doing the best she can. she’d piled on the classes only to burn out and drop out of many courses, only to pick it back up part time, and continue working all the same. but it’s all a cycle that woori can’t seem to escape out of. bullet journals and phone notes have calculated that this is going to take a few years, if not many years to finally graduate, if she even does. and then what will happen after that? so, she’s pressed the unpause button to get her out of the point where she was completely stuck and not making a decision to go back to school, but at this point, woori feels as if she’s suspended in limbo, stuck enrolled and working part time, eternal. the perception of failure and success are so contradictory, yet are what keep her going. there’s mild unawareness behind her decisions, or lack thereof. and while she wants to move forward, she’s not quite ready, perhaps her biggest struggle.

THE CARD FLUTTERS TO YOUR FEET. WHO WERE YOU BEFORE THIS STORY BEGAN?

gwasuwon. this is life as she knows it. woori has rarely left the island, if only for short trips, finding herself overwhelmed by big city life and preferring the quiet life of more rural places. good thing her family home is literally in suburbia and is such a solace of sorts. stray cats visit her in her backyard. that’s good enough. growing up in her childhood home, woori didn’t imagine that she’d still be there to this day. she’s moved out a few times but ultimately, she’s moved back in due to financial reasons. yea. that’s precisely what she’s going through right now. a portrait of a girl who hasn’t quite grown up and isn’t quite classified as a woman yet in her mind because she hasn’t taken all those ‘rites of passages’ (whatever rules people would abide by.) there are expectations that are theoretical in her mind, yet woori doesn’t reach them, nor does she necessarily want to. simply though, the standards are set in a strange way that will never be unattainable for her. what is the meaning of baby steps?

is anything truly wrong with spending all your free time lollygagging in the yard and curling up with said cats in the hammock that she’s hung up between some trees? no. (yes, her mother chides. but she allows her to do so anyway.) but there has to be more to life.

which is absolutely not found thus far, beyond hearing the interesting stories of customers that come in through work. some of them throw her for such a ride, though woori is probably equal parts skeptical, yet entertained enough to let the strangers and some regulars go off with their tall tales. if this becomes the rest of her life, woori muses as she pours a refill of hot coffee, certainly it can’t be all that bad... ah to settle.