#at this point youre just feeding into my coping mechanism

[glorified-red]

Ok, don't ask any questions, but imma start a mini series were I talk abt the things I think u do or don't do

This series might talk abt u being in some fabdoms (ex: I can talk abt how I think youd interact with some ppls from the batfam family) so don't be surprised if I make a random ass hc abt u

I love being perceived, this is great.

I am thrilled by this idea. I'm like a little character and you can plop me into scenarios. I love it, yes.

[pathologicalreid]

Okay before i say my request can i be your 🐚 anon ??? that's all i ask in terms of that BUT:

hear me out- so spencer reid x bau!fem!sunshine!reader gets kidnapped outside of work and her kidnapper tortures her and the works, but the worst part is he has a live feed directed for the bau so they just have to watch the poor girl get borderline killed but she's still fighting back and so eventually he turns the feed off and they go to the unsub once they find his location but before they burst the door down they hear the reader like genuinely begging for him to just kill her and it's GUT WRENCHING. then they get him and she free and she's immediately back to her bubbly self until randomly she like shows up at his door and spence tells her it's okay to not be okay and she just breaks down RAGHHHH

i'm so sorry for writing you an essay but I got the idea and simply couldn't let it go to waste 😭

-🐚 (i hope if that's okay with you???)

epiphany | S.R.

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst; re: hurt/comfort content warnings: bau!reader, sunshine!reader, kidnapping, violence against reader, reader begging for it to be over, gun violence, general cm violence, exhaustion, hospitals, poor coping mechanisms and unhelpful therapists. word count: 2.92k a/n: of course you can be my 🐚 anon! this is a story in four parts, before, during, after, and epiphany! i hope you enjoy it <3 thank you SO much for requesting!

epiphany - a moment of sudden revelation or insight.

before

The horrified look on Garcia’s face couldn’t possibly be a good sign, “Uh, sir,” she addressed Hotch, “I’m being sent an encrypted link from an admin on the UnSub’s site.”

Responding with a stiff nod, Hotch looked toward the screen in the roundtable room, “Open it.”

Each team member had an instant reaction to the image projected onto the large screen. JJ had covered her mouth with her hands, Morgan had to peel his eyes away from the screen, and Spencer couldn’t get himself to do the same thing. Despite his better judgment, he kept his eyes on the screen.

“He’s killing her,” Emily observed, watching with a horrified expression as the UnSub hand his hands around your throat. You were dangling from the ceiling by your bound hands, leaving you flailing as your body begged for air.

Hotch leaned intensely over Garcia’s shoulder, “Is this live?” He asked, voice raising ever so slightly as he watched the tech analyst’s fingers work nimbly across her keyboard. As she nodded, he continued, “Can you find where he’s streaming this from?”

Parting her lips, a determined look settled on the blonde’s face as she continued to type, “It looks like he’s running it through a boatload of different proxies – it’s gonna take me a minute.”

Rossi shook his head, leaning over the roundtable, “She might not have that long.” It was the truth, a harsh truth, but the truth, nonetheless.

It had been one minute and thirty-seven seconds already, brain death would occur after four minutes, maybe five if you were lucky. Spencer didn’t want to have to take that chance. “Oh god,” Penelope cried, working through the tears that had started to stream down her face, “Okay, she’s in this general area.”

“Keep going,” Hotch ordered succinctly. “Everyone else, look at the picture. Is anything recognizable about the background?”

The lighting was dim at best, which didn’t leave the team with a lot to work with while they studied your surroundings. At one point, your attacker shouted, and Spencer’s attention moved back to you.

In the midst of your struggle, you had managed to strike him between the legs, sending him stumbling away from you, shouting expletives as space was put between the two of you. The BAU took a collective breath as they listened to you breathe, spluttering as the UnSub regained his composure. “Do you see that? The ridges in the wall?” Derek said, using his index finger to point to what he was talking about.

“It looks like a storage container,” Emily replied, furrowing her brows as she comprehended what Morgan was talking about.

Wholly focused on you, Spencer watched as the UnSub got in your face, screaming horrible words at you until you spit in his face. He swung at you, causing your face to turn with a nauseating smack until your head lolled forward and you stopped moving.

Still typing, Penelope spoke up, “Got it! Sending the address to your phones now.”

during

There was a maze of storage containers at the port, and so far, you had turned up in none of them. “Shh, wait,” Emily hissed, “Do you guys hear that?” She asked, looking over each of her shoulders, ears perked up like a bloodhound.

Straining his ears, Spencer straightened up, lowering his firearm as he focused on listening to the world around him, waiting for whatever Emily was talking about.

“Just fucking do it!” Your voice reverberated off of the surface of the numerous shipping containers. Spencer found himself torn as he knew you were alive but recognized the fear and anger in your voice. The pain as you screamed nearly stopped him in his tracks, but he found himself trudging forward.

Following closely behind Morgan, they stopped for a moment, trying to determine which direction you would be found in. Your shouts rang out into the pitch black of the night, “Stop being a coward and pull the fucking trigger!”

His steps faltered, leaving JJ stumbling into his back. “Reid,” she whispered, prompting him to shake himself out of his surprised state and continue moving. You didn’t know what you were saying, he tried to convince himself.

You couldn’t see the camera the same way he had seen it so many years ago, kidnapped and drugged against his will and hoping the team would understand the clues disguised as conversation. He had been taken from an UnSub’s property, and your apartment had been broken into – the only thing taken had been you.

It wasn’t an unfamiliar fear in the BAU, worrying about an UnSub breaking into your home, but you weren’t targeted because of your work in the bureau. You had been targeted because you fit the victim pattern.

If he never had to see the word “missing” under your face again, it would be too soon.

“Please,” you begged. “Please just kill me. Just let me die. I don’t want to do it anymore,” your voice started to grow quieter, but the team could still hear you – they were getting closer.

Emily and Morgan went to one side of the doors, leaving Spencer and JJ on the other side – Rossi and Hotch were elsewhere on the property, waiting with first responders and calling the shots via comms.

A small whimper came from the container at the same time as the click of a gun cocking. “Just pull it,” you pleaded weakly. “It’ll be so easy for you. It’ll be so much easier with me dead,” you informed him despondently.

“FBI!” Morgan called out, pulling the heavy metal doors of the container open, revealing the four FBI agents with their vests on, guns raised.

Just like it had happened in an action film, Spencer watched as the UnSub moved his hand to the trigger of his weapon. Your eyes were closed, tears streaming through the dirt that was caked on your face. Without a second thought, Spencer pulled the trigger on his firearm, sending a bullet through the UnSub’s temple before he could have the chance to kill you.

Emily went over to the body, gingerly picking up the weapon and disengaging it while looking over to you. Spencer was knelt in front of you, debating whether or not he should touch you before he decided on speaking to you first, “Y/N?” His voice was no more than a whisper as he expected your eyes to open, but they didn’t.

“His pocket,” you rasped, your traumatized vocal cords straining on every word.

Spencer hummed, “What about them, love?” He kept his voice gentle, watching you as you squeezed your eyes shut.

Sniffling, you hung your head low, “Keys,” you mumbled helplessly, unable to speak more than you already were, each word only drained you of energy you didn’t have in the first place.

Understanding, JJ crouched next to the stiff body of the UnSub and fished a keyring out of his pants pocket, handing them to Spencer.

With shaky hands, the third key unlocked the handcuffs around your wrists, and your body slumped forward, practically falling into Spencer as he tenderly wrapped his arms around your torso, “I’ve got you,” he reassured you.

It wasn’t until you were sat in the back of an ambulance that anyone got a good look at you. There was a fine layer of grime coating your skin, causing it to look at least one shade darker than it normally was, but what concerned Spencer the most was the petechiae of your eyes. The burst blood vessels were a direct result of his hands around your throat.

The paramedics looked over you despite your protests. It was non-negotiable, and that instruction came from Hotch. The strangest part of it was that you were continuously trying to wave off concern, insisting you were fine, kicking your legs off the edge of the rig while the female paramedic looked at the bruising on your cheek. “It might be a fractured ZMA, she’ll need a CT to confirm,” she continued to list even more ailments, including potential internal bleeding and extensive damage to your throat. The swelling in your neck was beginning to catch up with you, affecting your ability to talk.

Spencer rode with you in the ambulance, holding your hand while you told him, “I knew you’d find me. I never gave up.”

I don’t want to do it anymore, your pleas for the UnSub to end your life rang in his head, he’d never forget hearing you say that, and you didn’t even know he heard you.

He didn’t have any good answers for anyone while you were getting a CT. By the time you returned from surgery to repair your fractured cheekbone, he shut the door to your room, sequestering the two of you into your own little world.

The bruising around your neck had already begun to darken, and by this time tomorrow, your throat would likely be a sickening reflection of what had happened to you. Your doctor had elected to leave you intubated because they were afraid of the swelling affecting your ability to breathe.

There was nothing for him to do, nothing except sit at your bedside and hold your hand, skimming the pad of his thumb across your bloodied knuckles.

after

You were skipping - well, maybe the step pattern wasn’t technically a skip.

Spencer watched as you waltzed into the bullpen with far too much pep in your step. “I didn’t know you were coming back today,” Morgan said, being the first to greet you once you passed through the glass doors.

Waving a hand in the air, you shrugged, “I have to pass a final psych eval with Hotch, but then I’m all set to be back next week.” You were grinning as you embraced your friend, but over your shoulder, Derek sent Spencer an inquiring look. Asking a silent question that Spencer himself didn’t even know the answer to.

What was going on with you? Four weeks ago, you had been struggling to stand after being beaten within an inch of your life, and ever since, you had been nothing but smiles.

Before you could settle into the hug, you pulled away, placing your hands on Derek’s shoulders, and holding him at arm’s length. Approximately the same distance you had kept Spencer at for the past month.

As you passed behind Spencer’s desk, you left a featherlight touch on the top of his head before continuing your way up to Hotch’s office, smiling as you passed the roundtable room. The same room where the team had watched your torture as it was live-streamed to them.

“Is she..?” Emily started to ask the question on everyone’s minds, but the major issue was that no one quite knew what the question was. Had you finally cracked? Were you okay? He wasn’t sure, and it was starting to eat at him.

The only thing they could do was watch as you greeted Hotch with a chirp, entering his office and firmly closing the door behind you.

epiphany

The knock on his door was the first thing to pull his attention away from his book since he got home from Quantico. Looking down at the inside of his wrist, he frowned at the time – just past midnight.

Still, he peeled himself up off of the couch before making his way to the front door, peering out of the peephole just to see you on the other side.

Slowly, Spencer set the book on his entryway table and undid the lock and deadbolt to his apartment, swinging the heavy wooden door open to reveal his girlfriend. You were donning flannel pajama pants, not unlike the ones he had on, and an old college t-shirt. There was a crumpled-up piece of paper in your hand, but he couldn’t make out any of the words on it.

“Are you alright?” Spencer asked, the question slipping easily off his tongue. He didn’t wait for the answer, ushering you inside his apartment and toward the couch. He redid the locks on the front door before joining you on the supple leather.

You furrowed your brows, staring at the piece of paper in your lap, “I failed.”

Leaning over your shoulder curiously, Spencer looked at the piece of paper, quickly recognizing it as your psychological evaluation. He read over what he could see, noting the words “deflection” and “coping mechanism.”

“You haven’t been sleeping,” he observed aloud. You must’ve been wearing makeup this morning when you came to the BAU because now he could see the clearly defined dark circles under your eyes. He hadn’t seen you much over the past month, though it wasn’t for lack of trying. Spencer had spent many days sitting outside of your apartment, waiting for you to let him in. He didn’t dare use his spare key, it felt like an invasion of your privacy.

Turning to meet his eyes, you shrugged helplessly, “I haven’t been tired. I mean – I’m… I’m fine.”

Nodding gently, “That’s a deflection. You’re telling me that you’re fine when I can clearly see that you aren’t.”

Your lips parted in apprehension while he read you like an open book. “I’m exhausted,” you admitted, tearing little pieces off of your evaluation form as you grew anxious. “I get into bed, and I can’t sleep, I can’t convince myself to close my eyes,” you elaborated, watching as Spencer reached out and took the paper from you, setting it on the coffee table.

“Have you talked to anyone?” Spencer asked, tentatively taking your hand in his.

Humming, you leaned back on the couch cushions, “Like my mandated FBI therapist? No, I don’t really talk to him much. I’ve started pretending we’re having a staring contest. I usually win, but that’s probably because he has no idea that we’re playing.”

Raising his eyebrows, Spencer inclined his head toward you, “You’re doing it again.”

You clamped your lips shut, shifting on the couch so that you could withdraw your hand from his and sit on your hands. “I don’t do this very well, huh? Talking about the bad stuff,” you murmured to Spencer, looking over at him. “I hate the bad stuff,” you informed him.

“But we have to talk about it eventually, sweetheart. You can’t keep all of that inside,” he told you, moving over on the couch, closer to where you were seated.

Shaking your head, you pulled your knees up to your chest, and Spencer recognized that you were trying to make yourself seem as small as possible. The UnSub had made you feel small – another reason that Spencer had to hate him. “I wish I was her again,” you whispered, a tinge of fear entering your voice.

“You want to be who again?”

Looking over at Spencer, you sighed, “The me that I was before. I want to feel good and happy and perfect and free,” you spoke earnestly.  

He gave you an understanding smile, pulling at your hands so that he could hold them in his own, “Nobody expects you to be perfect right now.”

You closed your eyes, “but I want to be her again.” Small tears started to stream down your cheeks while you mourned the previous version of yourself.

“I know,” Spencer reassured you. “I know you do, but if you can’t quite get to her, I’ll still be here for the you that you are now,” he said, welcoming you with open arms as you began to lean into him. “It wouldn’t have been easier,” he murmured into your hair.

Humming, you grew content in Spencer’s arms, the only place he had wanted you over the past month. “What wouldn’t have been easier?”

Ever so slightly, Spencer tightened his grip around you, “If you had died. It wouldn’t have been easier for anyone. I know it felt like that at the time-“

“You heard that?” You asked, horrified at the thought of Spencer and everyone else hearing what you had thought were your last words.

Nodding, Spencer hummed a confirmation. “I can’t stop thinking about it, and I just needed to tell you that I understand. I don’t want you to feel guilty about what you said, and I don’t want you to feel like you need to regret it. You needed a way out, and that was the one you saw,” he told you.

You were silent for an eerie amount of time, without being able to see your face, Spencer was afraid that he had misread the entire situation. “Thank you,” you whispered, straightening up and looking over at him, bleary eyes meeting his. “I’m just… thank you,” you whispered reaching out for him, embracing him as your tears sept through the fabric of his t-shirt.

The both of you stayed like that for a while, your body was tucked into his side as his fingers lazily trailed up and down your back. “Did you want to try to get some sleep?”

You lifted your head, resting your chin on his chest, “Can I stay here?”

Frowning, Spencer cocked his head to the side, “Yes, isn’t that what I just asked?” Maybe it was more of an implication, but he felt it was fairly straightforward.

“I mean, can I stay here for a while? Maybe for a couple of days?” You asked, pressing your lips together nervously.

Moving his head forward, he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, “You can stay here for as long as you want to.”

[muletia]

[tfp] obsessed!optimus prime x human!reader

summary: you had to go on a business trip. optimus doesn't take it too well

cw: obsessed!optimus, hardcore pinning, angst, i wanted to practice writing dialogues and it shows lmao

word count: 1800

an: i want you guys to know that i am reading EVERY reblog and comment from you swirling my hair and kicking my legs like a schoolgirl

you are so real for that anon

When you, out of your own free will, expressed the desire to join him on patrol, Optimus was overjoyed. You rarely got the chance to be together, just the two of you, always consumed by work or saving the world. And although Optimus wouldn’t dare ask you outright to accompany him on patrols (because the last thing he wanted was to make you feel uncomfortable), he deeply longed to spend more time with you alone. He knew he was feeding only his own illusions, fueling the machinery of madness, but by this point, he couldn’t stop. Not when you sat comfortably on his seat, gazing at the views outside the window, visibly content with your outing together.

He wanted so badly for this to be your everyday reality. Maybe then he could finally find some relief from his fixation, maybe you would even save him.

"Hey," you started, and his entire attention focused on you. "Actually, I’ve been meaning to tell you this for a while."

Oh.

Did your feelings match his? Did you feel affection for him as well? Had you noticed his suffering? Or maybe you wanted to reject him, once and for all, to make him understand that his passion was an illusion, that no matter how much he wanted it, the two of you could never be together — too incompatible, too different. That he had developed this coping mechanism, exhausted by the war.

But before Optimus could spiral further, you crushed his hopes.

"The company I work for is sending me on a business trip," you sighed, clearly dissatisfied with the news. "It’s supposed to take two weeks, but you never really know with these trips, especially since they’re sending me across the continent."

"I understand," he replied, his tone not betraying the turmoil within. "What does this business trip involve?"

"Oh, shoot, sorry! I should have explained that right away," you laughed casually as if you hadn’t just delivered news that shattered his spark. "Business trip is assigned by an employer for training sessions, conferences, exhibitions, and other boring stuff. Kind of like a mission, but without explosions, action, or danger."

It was good to hear that you’d be safe, though you would truly be safest only at the base, under his watchful optics.

Pessimistic, ugly thoughts churned in his processor. Of all the things he expected to hear from you, this wasn’t one of them. Suddenly, he feared being alone, feared his own dreams. Because he knew you wouldn’t be there to comfort him after a nightmare, and nothing else could bring him peace.

"I am sorry to hear we will not see each other for two weeks," he said, "but I am confident you will do exceptionally well on this assignment. You are dependable, unyielding. You can handle anything."

"Oh, thank you," you answered, a bit flustered. You hadn’t expected a compliment. "It just makes me sad to leave Jasper. I don’t say it often enough, but I have a wonderful time with all of you. With you."

"Likewise, [Name]. When are you leaving?"

"The day after tomorrow. Tomorrow after work, I’ll say goodbye to everyone else."

So soon. Too soon. He’d hoped you wouldn’t leave until next week, to at least give him time to mentally prepare for the separation, but you denied him that luxury. Not that any amount of time would have prepared him for this.

Slowly, subtly enough that you wouldn’t notice the change, he reduced his speed, prolonging your shared drive.

"I’m not sure I’ll have time to write," you warned. "Unfortunately, they’ve given me a really tight schedule. But! If I can, I’ll write to the kids. Oh, and expect some souvenirs — I’ll bring something back for you all."

"You do not need to spend your valuable time searching for trinkets. But if you insist, I will cherish anything you bring me."

"Aw, don’t worry—it’ll be no trouble." You waved your hand dismissively. "You do so much for me, for the kids, for the whole Earth without asking for anything in return. You deserve something nice."

"I do not protect your planet for glory or offerings."

"I know, I know. That’s very noble. And amazing. So many years, sticking firmly to your values."

He eagerly soaked up your praise, allowing himself, if only for a brief moment, to forget the world around him, to forget his duties, unfulfilled promises, fallen brothers and sisters. He’d never describe himself as 'amazing', nor did he believe the praise his own kind gave him about his greatness. But for you, he could believe it. If only for a moment, a few seconds, so that you’d leave on your mission thinking warmly of your time together and of him.

"Thank you, [Name]. Please know that I value your words tremendously."

"Oh," you blushed, "that’s nice to hear."

Embarrassed, you quickly changed the subject, unaware that Optimus was watching you closely, curious about your reaction. For now, he pushed thoughts of your departure to the back of his processor, wanting to fully enjoy your presence. You recommended songs from the country genre, one of his favorite discoveries on Earth, which he promised to listen to later. He knew well that this would lead to more daydreaming, imagining a future that would never be. Because no matter how hard he tried, his tomorrow would not be entwined with yours. His desires would forever remain mere fantasies born out of desperation, longing, and sorrow.

A week had passed since you left. In the lives of the Autobots, not much had changed because of your absence; they went on with their chaotic schedule. The kids, however, missed you. No more evenings spent helping them with their homework, working on your reports, playing games, or simply chatting. The worst part was that no one really knew what was going on with you. You rarely messaged, didn’t have time to talk, and when you did, it was just to say, "I’m alive, it’s boring, I’ll message you on Thursday." Life continued, despite how much Miko wished she could play games with you instead of doing her homework.

Everyone managed to adapt to your absence.

With one exception.

At first glance, it seemed like Optimus, the bot with whom you shared the closest bond, hadn’t been affected by such a drastic change. Nothing in his behavior indicated any longing. He didn’t express his opinion on the matter, didn’t ask, didn’t demand. As always, he buried his feelings deep within, playing the role of a diligent leader, hiding from everyone the nightmares running through his processor, now even more intense because of your absence.

He was withering, quietly and alone.

Until now, he had been content simply watching you. He had established a routine, unhealthy as it was, that kept him going. He knew that most of the time when he returned from patrol or a mission, you would be at the base. Even if you came every other or every third day, Optimus knew that eventually, you would show up. It gave him a sense of stability amidst the chaos surrounding him. But now? Maybe two weeks wasn’t a big challenge for you, but he was done after one.

Now, he wanted to be more than a passive observer. He craved physical contact, to hold you close, to feel your heartbeat against his metal. He wanted to know you were alive, to feel your pulse under his digit, to listen to its rhythm, to understand how your chest moved against his metal. He wanted to feel, taste, touch, enter.

He kept glancing at the spot on the couch where you usually sat with your laptop on your lap or spent time with the kids as if hoping that if he looked just one more time, you would materialize there. That everything would return to normal, that he wouldn’t suffer so much, that you would give him the daily dose of antidote he needed to function without plunging deeper into despair. But no matter how many times he looked, you weren’t there, and wouldn’t be for another week.

At some point, however, someone noticed their leader’s miserable mood.

"I can’t quite figure out what kind of bond you have with that woman," Ratchet said, pausing his work to look at Optimus. Before his friend could answer, he continued, "But she’ll be back soon. And whatever she’s doing, she’ll do it well. She’s tough."

"Thank you, old friend. I have no doubt in her abilities. But I would feel better if she were stationed closer to the base in case of a Decepticon attack."

"Mm-hmm," the medic scoffed. "Sure, that’s all it’s about."

Optimus had no response to that. He wasn’t surprised that Ratchet noticed his infatuation, but he would prefer that his friend not delve into the details of their relationship. At least, not yet. Not while Optimus himself was a wreck.

"Hey, hey! [Name] messaged!" Miko yelled.

The Autobot leader immediately approached the platform, finally abandoning his conversation with Ratchet, aware that it would only spark more suspicions. But he didn’t care anymore, not in such an important moment.

He stood directly behind Miko, with Bumblebee and Bulkhead beside him, equally curious to know what you had been up to over the past week.

"She sent photos, too! Look!"

Miko turned to show the messages to the others but paused when she noticed Optimus’s helm close to her.

“Whoa,” she whispered, surprised that out of all the bots, he was the one standing the closest. She swallowed, but her confidence quickly returned.

Holding her phone firmly, she displayed a close-up selfie of you. You were smiling, though the bags under your eyes betrayed that you were sleep-deprived, probably exhausted.

Optimus felt the accumulated stress, pain, and longing of the past week slowly dissipate. Everything was fine with you. You were alive, pushing forward with a smile on your face, happy to simply exist. Admiring your photo didn’t compare to seeing you in person, but it let him vent a little easier, granting him a brief respite from worry, gnawing at him from within. It was enough. For now. For a moment.

“She sends her regards to everyone,” Miko went on, “Oh, and she also asked Ratchet to take a break and mentioned she already bought a gift for Optimus and can’t wait to come back. Hey, I want a present, too!”

Optimus couldn't be certain if another week apart wouldn’t inflict even more damage on his processor and spark, or if longing would eventually consume him entirely. But he knew he was already lost, that you held sway over every aspect of his life. He was wrapped around your finger, tethered by a leash you didn’t even realize existed. And he didn’t mind one bit.

[narxcisse]

★ — As screwed as me? (HCs)

Pairing: Jimmy x Equally Screwed-Up!GN!Reader

CW: Jimmy himself is a warning, technically Reader is a CW too, toxic relationship, manipulation, gaslight, emotional blackmail, possible violence and abusive behavior, co-dependency, trauma bonding, unhealthy coping mechanisms, possessiveness, isolation, spiraling together, reckless actions, jokes about trauma and morally questionable behaviors, brief implicit mention of what happened with Anya,mutual sabotage. Don't romanticize these atrocities irl

English isn't my native language

Fights are explosive, filled with yelling, manipulation, and even physical intimidation—but you both thrive on it. You don’t break up; just let the tension simmer until find some twisted way to make up.

You both make jokes about your trauma and chaotic tendencies, laughing at things that would horrify most people. It’s your way of coping, and you love how no one else “gets it.”

Both of you are hyper-critical of the world around u, often tearing apart societal norms and other people’s behavior while secretly being just as bad, if not worse.

The relationship is a constant battle for dominance. Jimmy loves feeling in control, but you knows how to flip the script and push his buttons when he gets too cocky.

Unintentionally (or intentionally) isolate each other from the outside world. Jimmy is possessive, and you're territorial, so you often justify cutting off friends or potential allies to keep the relationship intact.

While rarely admit vulnerability outright, there’s an unspoken understanding between you. You see through each other’s facades, and it’s both comforting and terrifying.

You love doing dangerous or impulsive things together, whether it’s vandalism, sneaking into restricted areas, or playing psychological games with unsuspecting people. It’s their version of “date night.”

When one of you is spiraling, the other doesn’t necessarily help— just spiral together. You feed off each other’s energy, creating a cycle of self-destruction that feels weirdly satisfying.

You don’t trust anyone but each other. Even when you hate each other, you’re both convinced no one else could possibly understand or handle you, only you can stand each other.

Despite everything, there are moments of genuine affection. Jimmy might pull you into his lap and mumble something about how you’re the only one who’s “real.” You in return might patch him up after a fight, calling him an idiot but staying close anyway.

You admire each other’s cleverness and cunning but are always trying to one-up each other. It’s like a toxic game of chess where no one ever wins.

You have dark, borderline cruel inside jokes about people you’ve manipulated or situations you’ve sabotaged. It’s your way of feeling superior and bonded.

(You probably have one about Anya and what Jimmy did to her.)

Neither of you could imagine life without the other, even though you know the relationship is unhealthy. You’re too far gone to let go.

Jimmy will gaslight you into thinking the fights are your fault, but he’ll also kiss your forehead afterward and promise you’re the only one who matters. You play the same game, leaving Jimmy guessing whether you love or loathe him.

If one of you tries to improve, the other will feel threatened and subconsciously (or deliberately) drags them back down.

No matter how much you hurt each other, you always come back. You’re addicted to the chaos, the drama, and the feeling of being seen—even if it’s through a cracked mirror.

You don’t need to say much to communicate. A raised eyebrow, a smirk, or a slight tilt of the head is enough to get your point across, especially when you’re plotting something together.

You tease each other mercilessly about your weaknesses or past mistakes, but if anyone else dares to do the same, you become a united front of pure wrath.

You’re the most “at home” when things are chaotic. Quiet, stable moments make you both uneasy, and one of you usually stirs up trouble to restore the normalcy of your dysfunction.

You’re not above using each other’s vulnerabilities to get what you want, but it’s almost like a game—you both know what’s happening and let it slide because you’d do the same thing in reverse.

Instead of normal couple activities, your “dates” involve things like watching the world burn (metaphorically or literally), staking out a place for a potential con, or picking apart other people’s relationships while drinking cheap whiskey or red bull.

You both laugh the hardest when things are falling apart. Whether it’s your lives or someone else’s, the absurdity of it all fuels your bond.

Jimmy gets irrationally jealous if you shows interest in someone else, even in passing. But instead of addressing it maturely, he’ll find subtle ways to remind you who you belong to. What do you do? Flirt back just to see how far you can push him.

Both of you have physical or emotional scars that sometimes compare, almost competitively. You act like they’re bragging, but deep down, it’s a weirdly vulnerable bonding moment.

Instead of saying “I love you,” you’ll say things like, “Don’t screw this up,” or “You’re lucky I tolerate you.” Yet, there’s a warmth in your tone that says everything.

You both live for the adrenaline rush—whether it’s Jimmy pulling off a risky scheme or you egging him on. When things calm down, you get restless and look for the next thrill.

You’re honest to the point of cruelty, especially when calling out each other’s flaws. Yet, secretly value that honesty because it’s proof you’re not being lied to (at least not about that).

Despite the toxic tendencies, you're fiercely protective of each other. Jimmy might be a manipulative mess, but if someone even looks at you the wrong way, he’ll make sure they regret it. And you’d burn the world for him, even if you’re the one who started the fire in the first place.

When one of you is down, the other doesn’t offer soft encouragement. Instead, it’s more like, “Get up. We’re not done yet,” or “Don’t let them win. That’s our job.”

You validate each other’s worst traits. Jimmy praises your ruthlessness, and you admire his cunning, even when it’s clearly harmful. It’s a vicious cycle that neither of u wants to break.

You know things about each other that no one else does—things so dark or personal that would horrify others. Instead of using it as leverage, you let it fester as a reminder of your unspoken loyalty.

The fights escalate quickly, with both of u knowing exactly where to hit to hurt the most. But after the dust settles, you act like nothing happened, as if the screaming matches are just part of the routine.

After a bad day, Jimmy might rest his head on your lap or chest while you absentmindedly play with his hair. Or just sit in silence together, sharing a cigarette, no words needed.

No matter how much you mess with each other, you’re in it for the long haul. If Jimmy is going down, you're going with him—and vice versa.

It’s not healthy, and you both know it. But in your twisted, screwed-up way, you "genuinely" care for each other. Your love might be sharp-edged and destructive, but it’s still love, at least from your point of view.

[scoobydoodean]

WAIT WAIT WAIT pleaseeee expand on sam separating his soul himself??? i’ve literally never heard this before (i really wanna agree cause i just can’t work out how cas just did not realize he’d forgotten sam’s soul)

This is just a pet theory I have. I first suggested it here when talking to Shal about Bobby not clocking Sam as soulless. The TL;DR is that Sam has a tendency to create emotional distance to protect himself from grief and other painful emotions. Shal's careful examinations of scripts reveal that it's even in the script direction when Mary dies that "Sam disassociates". In 8.08, Sam is paralleled with Fred, who disassociated to deal with grief (I talk about Sam distancing himself from his emotions in season 8 more largely here). I've been slowly collecting (when I remember) little bits and pieces around this idea that Sam tries to distance himself from his emotions in the tag #i just stopped—named that because of 11.11 when—after being confronted by Lucifer—Sam apologizes for leaving Dean in Purgatory, saying—seeming perplexed by his own actions:

I should've looked for you. When you were in Purgatory, I... I should've turned over every stone. But I didn't. I stopped. And I've never forgiven myself for it.

So this pet theory I have is that in The Cage, to cope with the torture being inflicted on him, Sam simply separated his soul from his body. It was the most extreme possible case of dissociating from his own suffering possible.

6.22 strengthens my belief in this theory because Sam splitting into three pieces is treated as a defense mechanism. It's kind of like an Id/Ego/Superego situation, except that the pieces are soulless Sam, Sam the hunter and family man, and the Sam who remembers hell.

SOULLESS!SAM: Well, your BFF Cas brought the Hell-wall tumbling down and you, pathetic infant that you are, shattered into pieces. (he points at Sam) Piece. (he points at himself) Piece.

SAM: I - I have no idea what you're talking about. SOULLESS!SAM: Why would you? You're jello, pal. Unlike me. SAM: What are you? SOULLESS!SAM: I'm not handicapped. I'm not saddled with a soul. In fact, I used to skipper this meatboat for a while. It was smooth sailing. I was sharp, strong. That is, 'til they crammed your soul back in. Now look at you. Same misty-eyed milksop you always were. That's because souls are weak. They're a liability. Now, nothing personal, but run the numbers. Someone's got to take charge around here, before it's too late. 

Sam and soulless Sam have a power struggle inside Sam's head over who gets control. Soulless Sam is really an enforcer, trying to protect Sam from his worst memories. As we see after Sam kills him:

You think I'm bad? Wait 'til you meet the other one.

Then when Sam finds the other part of himself:

SAM: I have to know what you know. What happened in the cage? TORTURED!SAM: Trust me, you don't wanna know it. SAM: You're right. But I still have to. TORTURED!SAM: Sam, you can't imagine. Stay here, go back, find that bartender, go find Jess, but don't do this. I know you. You're not strong enough. SAM: (exhales) We'll just have to see.

Of course, one could argue that Sam's subconscious creates this scenario with soulless Sam and the Sam who remembers hell because Death told them Sam would crumble and Soulless Sam was scared of the fallout of having his soul reinstalled. But idk. I feel like it goes deeper than that, and tortured Sam and soulless Sam's attempts to protect Sam from the truth feed into that to me.

[hazbin-critique-place]

THINGS I HATE ABOUT THE THE APOLOGY TOUR (part 1)

Blitzo just randomly walks in. AND DON'T GET ME WRONG, I LOVE HIM, HE'S LITERALLY THE CLOSES THING TO MY COPING MECHANISMS IRL AND PEOPLE HAVE DESCRIBED ME THE SAME WAY AS HIM, I'M NOT SHITTING ON HIM, but rather the storytelling... Like... What??? Like, make it make sense.

So he just randomly comes and goes, as he wishes??? And we saw he didn't have any problems with stealing (maybe just felt bad a bit but come on he kills ppl for living and we see how sadistic he can be he's NOT gonna have problem with that) why doesn't just steal from Stolas' house and sell that shit????? Like - he could fucking quit his job or find a better one!!!

And then he wouldn't need the grimoire, and... Boom.

Then, why is he even there??? Like - did he use his brains at all?? Like - bruv, you got rhe crystal already, so if you wanna act like you don't give a shit... Just don't come pleading to him (bird dick guy) and basically annoy the shit out of him for next 10 minutes even if you're right. Trust me, that's not how you feign nonshalance. I would know.

Stolas being sassy at him, then??? Like - if you have the guts to be sassy, why don't even have the whole conversation wuth him and sit and talk the relationship out with each other already??? Are you THAT stubborn?! That's not normal.

Also, if you really don't want him there, Stolas, just teleport him out. Or yourself. Just - fucking make it make sense. You HAVE the powers, and I KNOW that in Good Omens Crowley and Az would in this situation probably forget that, Neil even speaks about it in some interview or idk, but... Come on. HE'S SMART. STOLAS LITERALLY READS. (I know this is stereotyping but there IS a reason for the stereotype - literally a majority of people who'd read in their free time (and c'mon, even I, an ao3 monster, wouldn't read after such a fight like Sto and Blitz had - my anxiety would be making scenarios and pacing through the garden already -) ARE smart.) Don't make him look all educated and priviledged and informated and shit just to act like this mean asshole, like - does he ENJOY annoying Blitzo back??? (Also, pls shut, you twitter users who "dOn'T dEaDnAmE hiM!!!1!" all over reasonable posts when you lack better arguments. It literally IS his legal name, and if he had such a problem with it, he could change it easily... Take Anthony to Angel Dust, after all. Or just nicknames could work.) Bcs I at this point honestly think he does.

Also, you dumb, dumb, hypocritical bird, why would you show him a fucking invite when you could just repeatedly tell him to at least 'go away' or just act objectively reasonable????

And if you're trying to be so polite bro, just magic him a cup of tea, or something, to match the yours. It would nicely fit to the scene and aesthetic, also it would make you seem more nice and classy... At least I could like you.

Also, are you ignoring Blitzo or fuck¥ng talking to him???

Because at the same time, you want to have an alone time, but you still throw baits to elarge the conversation at him.

He's all sassy and makes comments and aaahhh - so you're like satisfied with the situation now or what???

I mean, poor Blitzo -

Like-

If you hate him, just tell it to him already. Poor boy.

Oh god, we aren't even 3 minutes in and I have already writen a goddamn novel.

Also, I know it's supposed to be funny, but the whole party idea is honestly just dumb. Like... I would be so bored and not even excited to even go to a place designated to constantly talk about a person I hate? Lol

Like I love a good gossip but not as a theme for a goddamn concert-having function!

Also, you know that happy people live longer, right? This is kinda unhealthy - I mean, that's just basic, no? Like don't support and feed your hatred towards an individual just to feel better about yourself, or at least don't force it.

Bcs I get the guy who broke down crying at that one shot after he tried to hit the blitzi plush so much. And the other dude was hyping him up. I'd be so much confused, like him. Like - he's going through some hard stiff, like some facking serious character development right now, just let him be!

About Martha... Ehhh, I love her new design and character, but it just seems boring and soul sucking now that every character, after they're denonised, they just happened to be the same, most generic, and shitty snappy, constantly angry and always frustrated (and frustrating) characters ever. Like - does hell really that much brainwash people??? I mean, it would be interesting, but honestly I don't think that Vivzie did this intentionally at all.

Also, why would you even sleep with your nemesys... 😭 I'm a number one enemies to lovers fan and I don't ship it if they don't bite rach other but this, especially so unexplored and just randomly thrown in, does NOT make and sense.

It was funny though lol. I want more of these just to see how much Viv's one-dimensional view of her own fucking characters transforming to hell changes.

Part 2 soon.

[pacific-rimbaud]

i was reading your thoughts on how fans felt about l&oha and while i concur it is a perfect piece of work in my head and have reread it 5x, i wonder if you think fans tend to be harsher/more critical of hermione and let draco slide? i see it a lot in fics where he's more of an alphahole type

Oh, man. Okay. The can is open, the worms are loose. Rant under the cut.

I'm actually going to set men aside entirely. Just. To the side with you. I desperately need more realistically complicated men, too, but that's a whole separate discussion. Right now: women.

There must be whole dissertations out there on the phenomenon of readers hating female characters with negative traits. I'm a fandom old, so I didn't grow up identifying with Hermione, and wouldn't have even if I'd been young enough to. I did that "which character are you" test just now and my top three matches were Janis Ian from Mean Girls, Jughead from Riverdale and April from Parks and Rec, which, massive grain of salt, etc. BUT gives you an idea. I am not a Hermione and never was, so she's never been a comfort character or self-insert for me. Some of my favorite fictional women are Sophie Hatter (mean, irrational, petty, old and mostly loving it), Harrowhark Nonagesimus (evil stick), Phryne Fisher (zero fucks to give). What I like about Hermione is how imperfect she is. I'm a "cleverest witch of your age I've ever met" truther (book!Lupin is absolutely saying "you're the canniest 14 year-old child I have personally met, saying this as a guy who doesn't get out much," not "you are a once-in-a-century genius"), and from my perspective, she's often wrong and often a dick, and not in a fun and fiesty burn-down-the-world BAMF way. Which. Good for her! Be human.

And that's the thing. I personally don't want Hermione to be perfect, I want her to be what I think she is, textually, which is intelligent, hardworking, loyal, competitive, compassionate, controlling, belittling, rude, petty, insecure, vindictive, volatile. She has the right to be that way, because she's human. The desire for perfected women (or unapologetically and unstoppably awful ones, another brand of female power fantasy) is not limited to Dramione fandom. I think it's amplified in DHr by many readers who DO identify as former gifted children, books-as-coping-mechanism kids and Strong Female Personalities who felt marginalized in childhood and want to see Hermione have it all: she's slim, she's tiny, she's fragile as a bird, she'll break your neck, she'll step on your throat, she'll tear down the system, she'll heal all wounds, she does not need help, she holds all the knowledge, she holds all the cards, she is forever wronged, she can do no wrong, her vagina is tight, her nipples are hard, her hair is on point, her waist is tiny, her tits are bouncing, her ass is in the style of Now. And like. This isn't at all unique to DHr and Hermione. It's pervasive in fiction written by and for women. Female power fantasies are obviously feeding a massive hunger. It's just not what I personally want. Personally, I find it alienating and uncomfortable, which I know equates to, "That is wrong and shouldn't exist" to a lot of people, but that's its own tale as old as time.

There's a disconnect that happens too often where a reader wants one (1) thing from their fiction, and receives something else, even when the contents are clearly labeled on the tin. In this case, wanting a female power fantasy and encountering a woman who's written with flaws makes people upset. And maybe if we could be more honest with ourselves about what we're looking for when we read, work to accept that not everyone wants the same experience, and learn to close a book when it's not working for us and say, "No shade, this isn't for me," it would be less upsetting when we encounter a character who isn't written to meet our personal expectations. I will open a book, realize the FMC is a female power fantasy archetype and close it, because that's not what I show up for. I like my women gritty and weird and foolish and vulnerable and liable to hurt people and feel terrible about it. Give me all the exhausting chatterers and evil sticks and jocks with swords and their hearts on their sleeves (their hearts ripped out), give me shy Anne Elliot and her suitcase full of regrets and the ugly fuckup who never has a glow up, give me dirtbag stoners and Fleabag and Alicent Hightower apologetics and every role Natasha Lyon has ever played. It's not a moral high ground, it's about a preference for seeing actual, demeritus flaws on the page and on the screen. Blame that woman. It's her fault. She has so many faults. Then show me how to forgive her so I can figure out how to forgive myself.

The thing is, I love women. I love women so fucking much. I want to be around them, to get to know them, to read about them, to watch them on TV and see them in films. And personally, I like them ugly. Physically. Spiritually. Morally. Give a woman a Bad Personality and watch her succeed in the most self-injurious way possible, fuck you. Give her a gaping chest wound and line it with teeth. Stick a piece of grit in that girl's tightly sealed shell so that a pearl is her only option. Make her love other women, make her fuck it up, make her have to earn them back.

Thankfully I do feel like we're getting more ugly women in fiction, especially BIPOC, queer and marginalized women who deserve gross, weird, nasty representation and not just didactic moralism, patronization and misguided sainthood. Some readers won't want that, and that's fine. Again, personally (it's all so personal, please, please remember that when you hit that comment button), I'm here for it. If you write about women like this, know that you have a thirsty reader here. I'm swallowing them up. I'm smacking my lips. I'm smashing my mug on the cafeteria floor and calling for another.

[raccoon-eyed-rebel]

Part 26

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Part 25 🟣 Part 27

A reverse harem vampire AU ft. Mikey, Marshall, August and Sherlock

Series summary: Somehow, you've managed to live with your boyfriend and his roommates for months before finding out they're vampires, but the real shock first comes when they find out you have a special quality. A quality the guys would love to make use of...

Warnings: Fluff, ongoing vampire shenanigans, angst, Mike being an idiot, feral!Walter.

Word count: 2k

A/N: Soooo we're back with another instalment of the vampyboys! We're not hating on jellybeans today, no worries! (Ain't that a relief?) Enjoy!

@geralts-yenn @deandoesthingstome @ellethespaceunicorn @summersong69 @mis-lil-red

@sillyrabbit81 @livisss @itsrubberbisquit @ktficworld @proud-aroace-beastie

@plaidcat4815 @wa-ni @lovemusicpart2 @lizzystuffsthings @manysecrets2020

@sarcasmoverlordxo

“Hey, Mikey…” Your voice came out hesitant and small. Not for any particular reason, other than an especially useless fear of rejection. “Would you please feed?”

“Oh, yeah, sure!” He sounded surprised, especially when you stopped him from going for your neck. “Ohhhhh, like that!” He grinned up at you while simultaneously pulling the hem of your shirt up. You let him take it off, barely noticing when he took off your bra as well.

“There’s one more thing I’d like you to do,” you muttered. You were so certain you wanted this, and so afraid Mike wouldn’t be okay with it…

“Anything, Sweetcheeks,” he said with a big smile while he wriggled his way down until his face was where it needed to be.

“I want you to leave the bite,” you whispered, stroking his cheek.

Mike moved back up, leaning his forehead against yours. “Are you for real?”

“Yeah,” you sighed. “More than anything. Don’t get me wrong, I want the others like that as well, even if they don’t know it yet—”

“They know,” he interrupted. “We’ve been talking about it, kinda… August complained that he wanted to mark you, and Sherlock countered that he wouldn’t let that happen unless he got a black-on-white promise from you that he’d get his turn, too. He was kind of aggressive about it. I— ehh… I really think we should let them know about this.”

“Wise words,” you mumbled. “I'm impressed.”

“I hope the offer to let me feed my favorite way still stands, though?” he asked, smiling at you like he was looking at his favorite thing in the whole world — which probably wasn't even too far from the truth.

“Why do you like that so much,” you wondered out loud. There had to be more to it than a simple love for boobs, right? You looked down at Mike, who looked up at you, his deep frown telling you he didn't appreciate the disturbance just as he was about to sink his teeth into you.

“I think by now we've established that I have severe abandonment issues,” Mike said. It sounded like he was joking, but you knew he wasn't. It was a silly coping mechanism, and you weren't going to accept that this time.

“Yeah, I noticed,” you said softly, running a hand through his unruly curls. “But we can't always accommodate those, Mikey. That wouldn't be healthy, either.”

“Are you suggesting I go to therapy?” Mike said, faking shock and indignation. Then, he smiled. “Great idea, Sweetcheeks. Which is why I scheduled an appointment immediately after I came back from… being gone, I guess? But the waitlist is kinda long, so… It'll be a while.”

“I'm proud of you,” you hummed as Mike finally got to start his dinner — well, snack. You immediately sensed his desire for closeness, intimacy and, just like last time, you — ‘boobs' and ‘blood' were actually very low on the list. You locked your fingers in his hair and sighed, almost with relief. There was no need to pull him closer: he took care of that for you just fine, wrapping his arms and legs around you in the most adorable, comfort-seeking way.

Suddenly, you were overwhelmed with Mike's need to be taken care of, stronger than anything he'd desired up until this point, and when you unclenched your fist to move your hand…

“No! Don’t let go of me.”

“I'm not letting go, silly,” you whispered, stroking his hair and the back of his head. You were about halfway on your way to realizing what had happened when you felt Mike's teeth retreat and he looked up at you with big eyes full of shock.

“I didn't say that out loud,” he stammered. “I know I didn't say that out loud, because I very specifically remember thinking I didn't want to say that out loud.”

“That's…” But you were out of bed before you could speak, with Mike at your side who was furiously knocking on a door at the end of… some hallway — you weren't even sure it was the same hallway your room was on. Mike had managed to put a shirt on you, but it was both inside out and backwards.

“Sher-lock, open this door! Now!” What was this door made of? Reinforced concrete? Mike was definitely slamming it hard enough to…

“What the devil is going on, Mike?” A disgruntled Charles appeared behind you. “Unless you somehow managed to accidentally almost kill her, I hardly think this can't wait until morning.”

Marshall appeared next to Charles, with an equally unhappily surprised look on his face. “What did you do now?” His eyes dropped to your chest, where they rested for much longer than what you considered appropriate. He kept his gaze locked on you for so long, that you looked down yourself. Mike, in his infinite wisdom, had put you in a white shirt, that now showed two very obvious red dots at boob-height, and you watched Marshall as he clearly summoned every shred of restraint in his broad, imposing body to keep himself from dragging you back to his room — or maybe even just taking you right here, you weren't quite sure.

“I'm considering ‘right here’,” he growled at you.

“Am I stating the obvious when I say it would not be appreciated?” Sherlock said from the doorway as he dodged Mike's fist, which he’d still been slamming into the wooden door with nearly unperceivable speed and strength. “Might I inquire as to Mike, what the fuck?” For God knows what reason, hearing Sherlock swear was hot.

“She heard my thoughts,” Mike said breathlessly.

“Were you feeding?” Charles said, taking Mike's quick nod for an answer. “Well, there's your—”

“Mike doesn't hear thoughts, Charles,” Marshall reminded him quietly. “I do.”

“And you're sure it was a thought?” Sherlock asked carefully.

Mike nodded furiously. “Hell yeah. And not something I was even planning on saying out loud. So. That's Marshall's gift, right? She heard my thoughts using his gift while I was feeding. That's weird, right?”

“Uncommon? Yes,” Sherlock said with amusement to his voice. “Weird? Not particularly. Apparently, she has an aptitude for the gift.” He turned to you. “We might see if we could train it, if you're interested. Tomorrow. Now, please leave. I’d like to get back to bed.”

“I thought you didn't need to sleep,” you said with a smile.

“Oh, I don't think we interrupted his sleep, Sweetcheeks,” Mike said while his normal smile widened into a cheeky grin. Was he implying… The mental image of Sherlock, ehm… taking care of himself was almost too much.

“Mike…” you started, intending to tell him to stop joking, but as you watched Sherlock’s cheeks, which were suddenly flushed… Mike was right. That was… unexpected.

“Darling, I—” He stammered the words so softly you barely heard him.

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” you said with a smile. He wouldn't be apologizing for another damn thing. Not something as mundane as this. Not on your watch.

Sherlock was gone before you blinked, and Charles was nowhere in sight anymore, either. That left just you and Mike, and a once more very intense-looking Marshall in the otherwise empty hallway.

A heavy hand closed around your throat — not squeezing, just… holding you. The other, you saw from the corner of your eye — held Mike pinned to the wall.

“I don't care,” he said, his voice a deep, threatening growl, “that he gets laid three times for every single chance I get. I really don't.” Sure didn't sound like he didn't care… “But this is the second time he's paraded you around like this — bleeding and wet… Is that for him, love? Because he likes to spend his time sucking on your tits?” His hand moved from your throat to your chest, where he brutally squeezed the boob Mike had used as a juice box. You winced when he put his fingers directly over the bite. “Is it sore? I bet he didn't take care of that bite the way he knows he should before he rushed you out of his room, now did he?”

He pulled your shirt up with one hand, still pinning Mike to the wall with the other, and sealed his mouth over your nipple, covering the wounds Mike's teeth had left, and he ran his tongue over both marks with great care. Mike squirmed against the wall while he watched, powerless in Marshall's tight grasp. For the first time since the ambush, you took the time to take a good look at the way Marshall was holding him, and you noticed his feet didn't touch the floor.

“Mike,��� he growled when he took his mouth off your breast again. “If you do this to me one more fucking time, I'm going to ask August for the keys to the" — he side-eyed you for a split second — “basement, where I'll chain you to the goddamn wall, and then I'll fuck her right in front of your eyes, understood?” Ehh, did you have a say in this? Not that what you'd be saying wouldn't be ‘yes, please', but still. It was nice to be consulted every now and again.

When Mike's feet hit the floor again, he grinned at Marshall. Bold choice, if you were perfectly honest. You probably would have gone with ‘cowering in fear of what he'd do to you', but alright. “Don’t threaten me with a good time,” he said casually before walking off, leaving you standing there with Marshall.

“Punk,” Marshall muttered under his breath before smiling at you and turning around.

“What's in the basement, Marshall?” you said as he started to walk away. “Marshall! What's. in. the. basement?”

He was already gone, of course — as was Mike — and you were standing in the unfamiliar-looking hallway all by yourself, telling yourself that it was physically impossible for the hallway to become longer the longer you looked at it. Mike hadn't picked one of the doors you saw, so you had to be in a different part of the house. A different floor, maybe.

“I'll take you back to Mike,” Sherlock's voice sounded softly behind you. “It's a bit of a maze, especially in the beginning.” He silently asked for permission to carry you, which you granted him, and within seconds you were at the right door.

Sherlock knocked before you could. “Girlfriend delivery,” he said, waiting for Mike to reply before he opened the door — probably a wise decision. You could never be certain what you'd find where Mike was concerned.

“Mike,” you said as you crawled into bed with him again and Sherlock left the room. “What's in the basement?”

“A wine cellar,” Mike said, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Some storage…”

“Mike!” you hissed.

“Now, if someone told you August had the keys to a special room in the basement of this house — as Marshall did — what would your very first guess be?” he teased.

“Sex dungeon,” you blurted out without thinking about it for so much as a second. On top of that being so completely on brand for August, it was also the only thing that would remotely make sense considering the conversation that had just taken place.

Mike grinned from ear to ear. “Duh. It's not technically his, by the way,” Mike told you. “And, before you ask, yes there are restraints that we — or… Me, specifically, apparently,” — he glared at you — “can't break. Why you wanna tie me up, babe?”

“Because I think it would be so fun to watch you squirm, especially since you’ll know exactly what I’ll so desperately want to do to you,” you said with an evil smile. Mike groaned — it was the sweetest sound on the planet, as far as you were concerned.

“You’re mean,” he muttered as he snuggled into your side, pulling the covers tight around him. “And Marshall is mean, too.”

“Why is he mean?” Your mouth morphed into a sweet smile involuntarily. “Because of the threats he made back there?”

“No, that sounded like a perfectly exciting night, actually.” Mike grinned up at you. “His stupid gift ruined my snack.”

[hana-no-seiiki]

excuse me if this post doesnt make sense it’s midnight and the only things in my mind are my boyfriend, my boyfriend and kylar-

also kylar.

but like narcissistic/ delulu yandere that thinks you’re head over heels in love with them

like they have this kaguya love is war mindset that cause you confessed it basically means they’re the one that has power in the relationship and whatnot and that you’re just oh so down bad for them

unbothered! reader who doesn’t actually love them that much/sees the relationship as anything serious. maybe you don’t even know you’re in a relationship-

or cinammon roll! reader who’s too kind and delulu yan saw it as them being in a relationship

either way it ends with you saying you want some space/clearing up the confusion

…but they either attack you, assault you, or do nothing but further feed into their delulu as a coping mechanism-

they’re kind of pathetic cause they ask your peers for help and talk shit about you

but people can clearly see the truth

bonus point if yan is rich as fuck and people have to be like “yeah yeah, reader totally was being a bitch, you totally were in a perfect relationship.” in an attempt to soothe them

only to get murdered brutally for calling you a bitch

…

reader who uses that as an advantage and gets rid of competition/coworkers so that they can reach the top basically abusing the rich delulu yan

but is it abuse if it’s consensual?

[nowoyas]

koi no yokan 30: suffocate (nishinoya yuu/reader)

First - Prev - Next - M.list - Ao3

A/N: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO READER-PROCLAIMED BEST GIRL NISHINOYA SATSUKI. have some suffering.

Summary: You do your best to support Noya, but things have to get worse before they can get better.

Warnings and Tags: some truly unhealthy coping mechanisms

Words: ~4100

You are the one who wakes up first.

It feels… wrong, to be the one blinking into the morning light and getting your bearings. You're too used to waking up to an uncooperative pillow that insists on shaking you until you set it free (and, ideally, get up with it). Otherwise, waking up to Noya already moving around the room, getting ready for the day like he's never experienced sleep inertia before. Towards the end of your little concussion vacation, you'd pretend to sleep until he decided to commit the ultimate violence by way of opening all the curtains and shaking you until you got up.

You wish this was one of those mornings. You'd take the too-bright sun and all the annoyance any day over seeing him like this.

Even in his sleep, he looks exhausted. You'd bet money that he's barely gotten a few hours, even with your attempts to comfort him, and you have the sinking feeling that, had you not stayed, he might not have slept at all.

You brush his hair out of his face, try to untangle without waking him. He mumbles a protest, clings to you tighter.

"I gotta pee," you whisper back. "Lemme go."

He lets you go wordlessly, turns over to lay with his back to you.

He looks deeply lonely.

"Noya. How much does Soba eat?"

"Give ‘er a can," he mumbles. "She's been working hard."

"Okay. I'll make sure you wake up in time for practice today."

You slip out and pad down the stairs, where Soba joins you with a starved meow.

Last night's conversation weighs heavy on your mind—you're allowed to use my first name if you want. Like you're that close. Like it'd be normal. You don't discount that he's obviously not doing well right now, but… I mean, come on. You'd need practice before you could ever get to that point.

Maybe that's why you greet Soba the way you do: "Hey, baby. Can you show me where Yuu keeps your food?"

Immediately, your face burns something awful. Sure, you've gotten used to sleeping in his clothes, in his futon, in his arms, but his name tastes different in your mouth.

You've got to back away from him. Right now he needs you to stay close. The two needs scrape against each other inside you, and instead, you focus on the more pressing matter: feeding the cat.

Soba winds between your legs, nearly tripping you as you walk. At the foot of the stairs is Satsuki, looking like the living dead as she stares you and Soba down.

"You spent the night," she notes.

"I was worried about Noya-senpai," you admit. "He… didn't seem like he could handle being alone last night."

"Noya-senpai, huh." She takes a slow sip of her mug. "Pretty sure that's not the name I heard just now."

You have the grace, at least, to not faceplant when you miss the last step, and the excuse prepared of a certain someone walking between your legs as you descended if she calls it out. "I'm the only one in the house who calls him Noya," you explain, keeping your voice even. "Soba doesn't know who I mean if I don't say his first name."

She lets out a heavy sigh. "I don't have the energy to tease you until I finish this bullshit. Come on, I'll show you where we keep her food."

"Should I ask what's in the mug?"

"You can ask, but I'm not gonna answer until you try a sip."

You reach for the mug. She lets you take it without complaint. One sip makes you flinch and gag. You almost fling it in retaliation—it's some concoction, more than a beverage. It tastes medicinal in the worst way. "What the fuck is that? Holy fuck, that's disgusting."

"Made coffee, but I poured Monster energy⁴⁴ into the coffee maker instead of water. That was like, four hours ago, so now it's totally cold and somehow tastes even worse."

"Okay, follow up—why?"

A shrug. "Same reason you felt compelled to sleep in Yuu's bed last night. Shit sucks." She pauses in front of one of the cabinets, twists the key in the conspicuous lock to open it. "We have to keep the cabinet door locked because Soba figured out she can bite through metal to get some of the juice out of the wet food. Somehow, she hasn't figured out how to bite through kibble bags, but I think it's just because she doesn't like it as much."

"Do you want a real breakfast? Like, something that isn't a mug of toxic waste?" you ask as you reach past her for a can of cat food. "I was gonna make something for Senpai once he was up so he'll actually eat before practice. I'm gonna try to make him stay home, but I don't think he's gonna go for it."

"Might as well. Honestly, I'm starting to see things, so I could probably stand putting something into my body that isn't straight poison."

"Oh my god, sit down. I'll make you something."

"I don't take orders, babygirl," she replies. "Happy to give ‘em out, though." At your flat look, she sighs and slumps into a seat at the kitchen table. "…sorry. That usually works on pretty girls."

"Don't get down on yourself. It would have worked in another life." Soba accepts the food you proffer with an ongoing purr.

"Never did get a straight answer from you on that. You're strangely immune to flirting. Are you just a really secure straight girl, or…"

"Nah, I like girls, too." You shrug. "And I'm not really immune or anything like that. It's just kinda… harder to feel flustered than it used to be? That, and I know you're just messing around. Stuff like that hits different when the person really means it."

"Oh, is that your game? You convince yourself that your pursuer doesn't mean it so you don't have to think about it?"

You roll your eyes and move to the fridge. "Your game appears to be flirting so you don't have to think about other shit, so I'm not sure you have much room to judge, Nee-san."

She lets out a low whistle. "Yeah, you got me there."

She watches you work for a little bit before she speaks again. "So you know you're bi. Ever been with a girl? Out of curiosity, not flirting."

You shrug. "Kinda-sorta, not really. I dated a girl for a while back in middle school, but we never went all that far. Made out a lot, though."

"Ooh, mystery ex girlfriend. Mind if I ask how it happened? Someone else's misery would be lovely right now."

You let out a startled snort of laughter. "I guess I don't mind. She blew up because I decided to go to a different high school from her, and we both stopped talking after that."

She raises an eyebrow. "There's… a lot missing from that story. Why'd you come to Karasuno instead?"

A shrug. "We had a whole plan to go to this school and dorm together even though we were close enough that we didn't really need to board. Y'know, so we could, uh, focus on our studies, but I was too distant and made her cheat on me and then my issues and bisexuality got my mom killed in front of me and I didn't really feel too good leaving my dad alone while I went to bang my disloyal girlfriend every night for three years."

"Wait, back up—there's so much wrong with what you just said and I'm running on negative sleep and the combination is making it really hard to figure out where to start unpacking that. Uh, sorry about your mom? I'm not sure it was your fault, necessarily, but—"

You turn, slide a plate across the table to her and take her mug of poison as penance. "I'm not asking you to unpack it. Eat your breakfast."

She stares down at what you've thrown together—a fried egg, toast, some crushed-up tomato. It's nothing particularly special, but she seems thrown off by it. Probably just from the trauma dump and poison combo, but, well, she asked.

"Holy shit, that's fancy."

"It's toast."

"It's fancy toast."

You roll your eyes and raise the mug to your lips. The foreboding scent greets your nose, and you nearly gag a little at the reminder.

It doesn't stop you from chugging the rest of it.

"Ugh. Don't ever make this again. I think I can feel my blood vibrating already. I'm gonna go wake up Noya-senpai; pretty sure he's gonna insist on going to school today, but I'm gonna try to convince him to stay home."

She protests after you, but you slip away and up the stairs all the same. Noya is laying in the same spot, the same position. You sigh and come to rest on your knees beside him, laying a gentle hand on his arm. "You should stay home from school today."

"No."

So he is awake. "No one would blame you for taking some time after everything yesterday, Noya."

"I'm not skipping," he snaps. You flinch away, and he turns to look as you do. "Shit, sorry, I—I'm sorry."

"I made breakfast," you say slowly. "Even if you're not hungry, you should come downstairs and eat. Since you're so insistent on going to practice today, it won't do you any good to practice on an empty stomach."

"I really am sorry," he says weakly.

"Noya." You reach out, place a hand on his cheek. "It's okay. I'll forgive you if you get up and come eat breakfast before it gets cold or Satsuki-nee steals it."

"Satsuki's awake? There's no way."

"Satsuki-nee has not slept. She made some absolutely disgusting concoction that I'm pretty sure is currently turning my blood into motor oil? But I'm not sure. If I pass out at practice, please assume it was the poison that killed me."

He sighs, stands, and offers you a hand to help you up. "You didn't need to make breakfast."

"You needed to eat," you shrug.

"Thank you. Please marry me."

"Ask me another eight hundred fifty-eight times and I will."

Over breakfast, he compliments you sincerely but with half his usual enthusiasm, and you finish up prepping some low-effort, low-time lunches while he's spiking his hair up on your reminder. (You wouldn't have complained if he'd left it down, and normally he'd be able to endure the teasing, but, well… not today.)

On the walk to school, he is quiet. He carries your bag for you without offering, barely talks. You wish he'd stay home. You wish he'd relax a little.

Maybe it'll be good for him. He relaxes when he plays volleyball. You can always try to keep him from pushing too hard if he overdoes it. The distraction will be good for him.

Then you get to school, then practice, then you watch him shift into a completely different person, and your heart cracks audibly at the sight.

He's… eerily good at pretending to be fine. If you weren't aware of the night he had, if you hadn't held him while he cried, you wouldn't have noticed any difference. He's maybe just a touch less loud, his smile doesn't seem to quite reach his eyes, and there's moments where he might've normally said something stupid for you to pretend not to find funny, but no one else seems to suspect a thing. In practice, he's as intense as usual, if not more so. Yachi cringes as she watches him throw himself for a receive—everyone's always so intense!—and so do you, but for a completely different reason.

"You're staring at Nishinoya a lot today," Shimizu notes while you space out. "Did something happen?"

"Oh, no, I just…" You sigh. "My head's in a weird place today. Honestly, I drank straight poison this morning on a dare and I think it's turned my brain off?"

"Poison?"

"Nee-san brewed coffee with Monster energy instead of water. I can still taste it in my eyes."

She stares at you in muted horror. "Are you… okay?"

"When I space out, I can feel my teeth in my legs."

The explanation proves an effective diversion, although it does have both girls watching you more closely. You'll have to stop staring at Noya and focus on something else, however worried you may be.

Good luck with that.

~

At lunch, first thing:

[name] to Noya at 12:40

[name]: I know you're pretending everything's okay today but do you want an escape so you can stop pretending for a little bit

[name]: I can give you an extremely understandable one that no one will question the validity of before you suffocate

Noya: yes please (marry me)

Noya: would you be totally mad if I stole some of your lunch also

Noya: I uh. Forgot to make or bring one today

You roll your eyes. You'd packed two bentos this morning—nothing fancy, but food, at least, that would nourish him enough to survive the day without falling out or starving to death. Both of them travel with you to the second years' floor and Noya's classroom in particular, where he's hanging out with the other second year guys. None of them notice your entry until you're knocking a bento gently into the side of Noya's head.

"Hi," you greet the others with a nod. "Eight fifty-seven, Noya-senpai."

"Oh, [surname]-chan. You don't usually come to visit us. What's up?" Ennoshita says.

"Noya-senpai seems to have spent the past twenty-four hours gloating to me about winning a bet and then immediately forgotten that he won said bet. I've come to make sure he eats and hope he's also forgotten about the rest of the wager."

Noya snatches the bento from you with wide eyes. "Lunch date?"

"Not a date. But yes. But hey, since you're already—"

"No, don't even finish that sentence, we’re going to the roof. Sorry guys, I forgot I had a date—"

"—not a date—"

"—with [name]-san lined up, so I will be—"

"Yeah, yeah, get out of here," Ennoshita cuts him off. "[surname]-chan, you can always hit him if you need to."

You snort. "Thanks. Sorry for stealing him."

"Do we get to ask about the bet?" Tanaka says.

You pat his shoulder with a wry little smile. "Do yourself a favor and don't ask questions you're not prepared to know the answer to."

That earns you a few wide-eyed looks along with the realization that you're definitely implying something you hadn't meant to, but, oh well, innuendo's out of the, uh… closet, or something. You can always damage control later, or else simply refuse to ever elaborate and threaten to add more to Noya's quota if he elaborates. Just for a little fun.

When you're out in the hallway with him, he flashes you a grin that actually looks genuine. "Your lie to orchestrate my escape was saying we had a date?"

"Uh, no, your lie to corroborate mine was that we had a date. Losing a bet isn't romantic, and you should consider yourself lucky that I was willing to debase myself by pretending to have lost to anyone."

"I can think of a pretty big bet you're gonna lose, actually," he replies.

You scoff. "It's hardly a bet. We never even properly outlined it."

"Well, we've got a date, and talking about our wedding is lifting my mood, so let's outline it so I can win that bet, too. I can be a gambling man."

"I'm sure you can, Casanova."

It's a gloomy day, the impending threat of rain having chased most people off the roof. Absolutely perfect, in all honesty. You and Noya find the comfiest corner of the roof to curl up in and, finally away from the potential eyes of anyone he knows, the exterior he's been keeping up all morning cracks a little.

"Thank you. Really. Usually I like hanging out with everyone, but today everything just seems so…"

You nod. "I get it. Not fully, but I do get it."

"Did you seriously make me lunch?"

"Yes, and don't read into it. I had a strong feeling it would be necessary after the night you had, and I was right."

He smiles a dopey smile. "Beautiful girl making lunch for me… what did I do to get so lucky?"

A snort. "Luck's got nothing to do with it. Like I said last night, you're always taking care of me. Least I can do is make sure you eat. How're you doing? I noticed you're like, concerningly good at pretending to be okay."

"Oh, that." He shrugs. "I'm kinda used to acting all keyed-up around everyone. It's hard to turn off, honestly. Makes it easier on days like these."

"Okay, but how are you doing?"

"Will you hit me if I say better now that you're here?"

"I'd like a direct answer, if you can manage that."

He deflates a little further. "I honestly don't think I remember a single thing from any of my classes this morning, and Chikara says he's not letting me copy notes from classes I was in anymore unless I show I'm really trying."

"I'll get them for you. Right now, you just focus on eating and recovering, okay?"

He nods, unwraps the bento you made. It's completely standard—he shoots you a disappointed look. "You could've made it all cute with hearts and stuff."

"When have I ever done something cute?"

"Like, every day. I hear you talking to Soba like she's people and kissing her head all the time."

"Senpai, Soba is a cat. She deserves little kisses on her little head. It would be a crime not to give that to her."

He smiles, smug and fond all at once. "Well, it's still adorable behavior, and maybe I deserve little heart shapes in my bento."

"I'm about two quips away from crushing those spikes of yours, Senpai."

"Oh?" He raises his eyebrows. "Are you? You know if I come back from our private little rooftop date with my hair messed up, the guys are gonna think we were making out?"

Your cheeks flare. "I hate you."

"No you don't."

"Let's just hammer out this bet thing," you grumble.

"Right," he says, pausing to get a mouthful of the food you've made. "Oh my god, this is good. Does food just taste better when a pretty girl makes it?"

You roll your eyes. "Yeah, sure, if that explains things for you."

"Sho whaddid you wanna figure out to make the bet—" He pauses, swallows a mouthful of food. "—official?"

"I mean, I gave you a challenge and at some point we started saying it was a bet, but I don't get anything out of it if I win, right?"

He hums thoughtfully. "Well, if I win, you'll marry me, right?"

You nod.

"So if you win, then I'll have to marry you. Easy."

A laugh startles from your throat. "Uh-huh. That's a materially different outcome. I'll think of something for if you give up. I'll say this, because I think I only said this to Satsuki-nee and Mei-san? But my end of it holds no matter what. If you hit a thousand at any point, even if I'm with someone, I'll break up with 'em and uphold my end."

"Aw, you like me that much?"

"Focus, Casanova."

He nods, swallows another concerningly large mouthful of rice. "You plan on dating while this is happening?"

"I mean, not really, but we're also not like… together. We're both still on the market right now, technically."

"You wouldn't get pissed off at me for continuing to propose to you while you're in a relationship with someone else?"

"Why would I? We're just friends until something happens to change that. I do think that there should probably be an official give-up option for you. I mean, otherwise, you can just pick it back up later. I guess probably just that you have to outright say if you're giving up?"

The door to the rooftop opens. Your eyes dart towards the noise mostly on instinct and land on the new arrival.

Oh. Asuka.

"Hey, there you are, [surname]-san!" he says, waving when he spots you. "I was looking for you. Am I interrupting?"

"Not really," you say at the same time that Noya says, "yes". You shoot him a Look™ before turning back to Asuka. "What's up, Asuka-san?"

"Can I get some pictures of your notes from Saturday? I had some questions about the content, and… basically, I could just use your help if you've got time."

You wince a little. "I, uh, left my bag in the classroom, sorry. I could help you out tomorrow?"

"I've got science in the mornings, though, and you know how the teacher is for that class… she said something about there being a quiz for our class tomorrow and I really don't want to do a bad job. Can't you come help me out real quick?"

You glance to Noya. Bat his arm gently when you realize he's glaring down Asuka. "Stop that," you whisper. He only drops the expression slightly, but at least it's an improvement. Still, you're not leaving him to eat alone right now. "I'm sorry, Asuka-san, but it is actually not the best time for more than a quick question. You can ask me any particular questions you have now, or I could help you out before practice."

For just a moment, you swear a storm crosses his face, but in the next moment, it's gone, replaced with a boyish smile. "Right. Sorry to bother you. I'll come find you after school lets out?"

"Sure, I can work with that. Do you mind if I hang out here for lunch?" He moves to sit with you and Noya, but Noya is not having that. He shoots his leg out, just a bit too far to be taken as anything other than an intentional no the hell you don't. His foot rests just where Asuka was about to sit.

"She's busy right now. She just told you to talk to her later."

Asuka smiles back, unbothered. "Oh, are you her boyfriend? Last I checked, she didn't have one."

You blink. "You checked?"

"Never mind that. I can tell I'm not really welcome here, so I'll catch you later, [surname]-san. Sorry to bother you."

Asuka leaves. As his back retreats behind the rooftop door, your jaw drops, and you hit Noya again, slightly harder this time. "What was that?"

He's unabashed. "He was interrupting. You're with me for lunch today. And who was that guy?"

"That was Asuka-san. He's a friend, you ass. Could you maybe not chase my friends off?"

His gaze hardens at the name. "Asuka? Satsuki told me a little about him. He's bad news."

"What, were you keeping tabs?"

He shrugs. "She's sleeping with his sister right now, 'sall. She has a whole information broker thing going, anyway. Keep your distance, alright?"

"From who?" You roll your eyes, the anger ticking up. "From the guy who just wanted some science notes, or from the one who's apparently secretly gathering information on my friends and chasing them off if they dare to talk to me?"

He flinches. "I just—"

"You're overstepping, Noya. I know you're going through some shit right now, and I can shut him down myself if I need to, but you're also going too far. Stop."

He falls quiet. He doesn't apologize. The two of you stew in uncomfortable silence for the rest of lunch.

44. I had to check and, while the formula of Monster is slightly different in Japan (something about not containing tannins?) they do have Monster energy drinks. I have a heart condition and can survive drinking neither coffee nor energy drinks, so I have not tested Satsuki's concoction for fear that existing within the same room as it would kill me instantly. (I also do not own a coffee maker for this reason.) A friend has assured me that this is suitably cursed, seeing as the brewing process would completely fuck with the carbonation of the Monster even before we factor in what kind of flavor that would have. Please do not try this concoction at home.

Tags: @deeplightgarden @idonthaveanameideayet @dusstory @kazunish

[goodluckclove]

An Open Letter to a Professional Author

I came across a writer here who I imagine will probably never see this, but their presence was enough to make me pretty mad for two days now. I've decided to pen a little statement to this Long-Term, Professional, Full-Time, Published Author who makes a habit out of being deeply unpleasant in a way that apparently has only attracted an audience of other deeply unpleasant people.

People here seem to like it when I get mad. So, uh, enjoy?

Dear Professional Author,

I came across a post of yours on some feed here the other day and enjoyed your commentary. It was one of those writing memes that sort of called attention to actually writing as opposed to just thinking about your project - the kind that people usually respond to with some sort of joke expressing their repulsion at the concept.

You responded with distaste and I generally agreed. The tone was a little aggressive for me, but that kind of humor also leaves me generally confused. I personally ended up concluding that the self-deprecating humor was a coping mechanism for a larger issue that keeps these people from writing - intimidation, lack of confidence, physical or mental pain, things like that. You seemed to think it was a matter of will, which I found to be an approach that at the very least was well-intentioned.

Turns out it wasn't.

First off, I should say that this isn't about your political beliefs. Your political beliefs that are really more like general human beliefs. I don't want to get into that. Instead, I just want to talk about your writing. You are a full-time, published author, as you say in nearly post where you talk about writing. A major point of pride to you seems to be the fact that you are traditionally published. Any other method doesn't seem to be as legitimate to you. That's interesting to me.

You also don't seem to have much of an audience outside of people who mainly come to agree with your politics. I didn't really see a single positive interaction between you and another writer on here for as much as I was willing to scroll through your blog. That's also interesting to me.

I didn't spent too much time on your blog once I realized that you were definitely not the kind of person I would ever want any interaction with. What I did want to do is use your presence indirectly to prove a point that I've been wanting to get into for some time now.

To put it simply, I'll say this: a career in professional writing is not actually as cool or important as you might think it is.

Now I'll be direct and say that I've never been traditionally published for anything longer than a short story or long-term, unpaid column. You don't give any details on any of your writing, as far as I've seen (Once again - interesting!), so there's a chance you've made more in contracts and royalties than I have. But I'm a working writer. I've had a career in ghostwriting and technical writing. I've written and produced plays that have been featured in festivals in multiple states. I'm not speaking from a place of no experience, is what I mean to say.

What I also mean to say is that - while I view writing in many ways as a spiritual and healing act that I couldn't live without - it's also a job. It's not always exciting, and even when it is exciting it's only exciting to me. I consider the best date night to be when my wife works on video game development while I write my draft. I leave the house on a regular basis, but it's mainly to go to different places to write.

In short - I love to write, but I don't think it makes me cool. Or interesting. Or valuable. Or intelligent. Or just generally fun to be around and talk to. These are things I strive to cultivate in other aspects of the way I live and grow as a human being on this planet.

Being a Professional Author in one particular genre doesn't give you authority over the craft as a whole. You can't just throw yourself into conversations and start with I'm a published writer and assume that means you have the final say on any discussion. Believe it or not, in many cases it does not matter.

Lots of people are published traditionally, and it does prove some level of validity in their line of work. But there are a huge variety of people in the world of trad pub. There are people who write books in genres that don't apply to writers here. There are people who write books that aren't very good. There are even people who write trad pub books that are very good, but their careers are sullied by the fact that the authors themselves are not good people.

Being a successful writer does not mean you're a good person. Being a writer at all does not mean you are a good person. I believe in Death of the Author to an extent, but when that author insists on making a presence on a public website and doling out advice and opinions to other writers the lines start to blur considerably.

Writing is a job. You work it over a period of time and learn skills and strategies that work for you. The same applies to virtually every other job, including ones that society views as less romantic as something in the arts. Can you imagine me breaking into your home while you're making lunch and telling you how to arrange your cheese slices based on what I know as a full-time, professional sandwich artist at Subway? You might be interested based on leaning something you didn't know about a place you might've eaten at before. But that does not entitle me to your respect on its own.

I am not entitled to your respect based on how well I learned how to make a sandwich based on my hypothetical career at Subway. Just as I don't deserve it solely because I know two card tricks, can get out a variety of stains, read most of the works of the major beatniks, can make a really good carbonara, or any other specific about my life that ultimately does not play a huge part in who I am as a person.

When I am on my death bed, I hope to god the core of my character was not the fact that I typed stories from my brain until I got carpal tunnel. If my obituary begins and ends at "writer", no matter how positive the qualifier is before that, it will be the greatest failure of my life.

Because I am a writer. But that does not matter. It does not matter if you're a writer. It can be fun and enjoyable if you are, even better if you make a living at it, but it doesn't mean you'll be happy. It doesn't mean people will like you or perceive you to be the leader and teacher you might think you are. It certainly doesn't give you a free pass to throw cruelty at strangers for truly no real reason.

Professional Author, you had a chance to raise up the next generation of an industry I assume you must value. You're choosing not to, and that's fine. You don't have the obligation to. You do have the choice to not get involved and pretend to give advice that ranges from vague to untrue. You seem to be taking that responsibility very seriously.

It's like some twist on crab mentality, where instead of dragging crabs trying to escape the bucket you're swiping at anyone who tries to crawl in with you. Then, as they struggle, you're looking down at them and making comments on how easy it is to get in the bucket, if you only just do it and maybe read some books.

To all of us, I say this: question authority, even in the arts. Especially in the arts. Nobody knows as much as they say. That includes me, but I do know this - any branch of publishing feels really good. It's scary but it's fun. If you're traditional published or indie published or self published, it says nothing about how good your book is or how good you are as a writer or how valuable you are as a human being.

Don't be this lonely bucket crab. They seem mean and I'm tired of talking about them.

Best Regards,

Clove

[honey-crypt]

Hello! This is not a writing ask actually Its a question. Can you feed us with info about your Oc Benny?

I made the same ask to @fuerrziah and I wanted to ask you as well (I am coming for the Elliott squad >:) )

Here are the questions ^^ You don’t have to answer all of them you can just pick and answer ^^

eeeee i love this ask!!! tysm for asking this, i def need it to help develop benny more :3 i’m gonna try to answer as many questions as possible

5) exactly thirty three minutes. benny did so as a fun challenge for themselves and ended up having to get up because his legs and pelvis started to ache

6) benny laughs pretty easily! he uses humor as a coping mechanism and you can’t be sad if you’re laughing! at least, that’s what they think

8) it’s very hard to earn benny’s trust. they grew up getting harassed and bullied for being half-solennian (see here for context) so they learned to be on guard with new people. benny doesn’t actually trust many people; sure, he can buddy buddy with many people but trusting them is a whole other story. it’s very easy for benny to lose trust in people, especially if they find out he���s half-solennian and react negatively to it

9) the laws are flexible. benny has a degree in sociology and knows that laws are social constructs set up by the ruling class (leftist benny moment). he believes that you can’t apply a “one size fits all” mentality to the law, there has to be flexibility and there is flexibility, such as leniency for homicide in cases of self defense. he’s also not afraid to steal some shit from joja mart as a means to “stick it to the man” (morris has yet to catch them)

11) benny was told to stop being so reckless as a child. they weren’t diagnosed with bertolotti’s syndrome at the time but the doctors did confirm that they had early onset complications from an unknown spinal disorder, such as scoliosis and instability in their discs. this meant that they had to be mindful of how they moved their body or else they could risk a spasm or a flare up of pain. nonetheless, benny was still a rambunctious child who often winded up in the emergency room because of their adrenaline seeking behaviors. his parents were very exasperated by their actions and struggled to find ways to keep them safe while letting them engage in typical kid things

12) benny swears like a sailor and to the point where he can make willy (a former sailor) blush with his language. the first time benny ever swore was in middle school where he was confronted by a bully and he was so done with the abuse that he told them to “suck my fucking dick, you asshole!”

15) benny's defining strengths are their ability to adapt to most situations, their passion, and their kindness

16) benny's defining flaws are their recklessness, their stubbornness, and their tendency to isolate from others

17) benny loves odd numbers, specifically odd multiples of 3 (9, 15, 21, and so on); they usually do tasks like brushing their teeth in odd multiples of 3 (brush teeth -> mouthwash -> floss)

18) benny's a major stoner, he primarily uses it for pain relief but has been known to do it socially and provides his homies with weed; they're not much of a drinker, they think alcohol tastes like fire

19) HAHAHAHA THE LOVE QUESTION!!! benny's very turned off by the prospect of romantic love, given that they're cursed with the knowledge that they will die from broken heart syndrome. nonetheless, they 10000% believe in queerplatonic and platonic love

once again thanks for sending me this ask!!!

[melonteee]

First I really would like to thank you for your amazing work, it’s thanks to your videos that I finally kicked myself into catching up on OP. I don’t regret it the slightest, thank you for dragging me back into my life-long mad obsession, it really feels like coming home lmao.

Your Law video in particular really punched me in the guts, your analysis really shed a new light on him for me and now I’m obsessed with him. I was thinking about the potential place of guilt in Law’s quest of avenging Cora, especially survivor’s guilt and it's something that is worth mentioning I think. I noticed that Law blames himself a lot in his flashback, saying at several occasions that Cora’s been hurt because of him, and also in the light novel, where he loses himself in “what if”, where guilt eats him alive to the point of having nightmares and even telling himself than if he hadn’t met Cora then Cora would still be alive. That’s such a sad thing to think.

For survivors who suffer from this kind of ptsd, the mere fact of being alive is a constant source of guilt and anxiety. Law probably doesn’t feel worthy of living over the sacrifice of Cora, feels responsible for his death and overly blames his whole existence for it. His already existing feelings of worthlessness (induced by Doffy’s teaching methods, the internalized rejection due to amber lead and the emotional neglect he suffered from) and this overwhelming guilt definitely feed into each other in a vicious circle. This leads him to this need of constantly trying to make sense of his survival and his existence, like trying to pay penance and justify being alive. This is why he came to overburdening himself with the responsibility of avenging Cora’s death, and why he was so self-destructive while doing so. Because there’s also a strong process of identification to the deceased, as a coping mechanism. The survivors have this need to mirror the suffering the deceased went through, it’s a way for them to feel closer to the dead, like if they want to join them in death. It’s the survivor’s attempt to regain his own identity and to reduce the guilt and the psychological distress. I can definitely see that in Law, in how he made Corazon his whole identity, and how he was very willing to die to achieve his quest. There’s definitely a martyr complex going on there. He launched his whole-ass plan at 26 years old, same age Cora died, and I refuse to believe this is a coincidence. It's like he was forbidding himself to live longer than Cora did. And to think that he had all this simmering in him for basically half of his life...that's insane.

Anyway to me this guilt plays a lot in Law’s dedication to Cora and his obsession in avenging him. I also think about how he felt responsible for dragging Luffy into his mess and how he was willing to die as a penance. For me it is also one of the things that definitively separate Law from Doffy on a fundamental level. Because Doffy never has shown the slightest amount of guilt for everything he did, and while he might feel regrets for having killed his brother, regrets are different than remorses.

I’m sorry that was a long one. Told you I was obsessed. I hope the read was interesting anyway!

This is an amazing read anon! I don't have much else to say other than I totally agree! Law's character totally explores survivor's guilt, even if not said outright. It hits double hard considering not ONLY has he gotten this guilt from Corazon dying, but from being the ONLY survivor of Flevance town as well.

Robin was similar in this case, thinking her life was somewhat expendable and 'allowing' herself to die. The only thing is, Robin very much DIDN'T want to, she just saw no way to be ABLE to live. Her mother told her she must live, and Robin only found the will to KEEP living and being ALLOWED to live due to the Strawhats.

Law, on the other hand, was seemingly ready to die from the get go. At 10, he accepted his death from white lead poisoning - expecting to die at 13. Then, after Corazon saved him, Law fully expected to die at 26 with his fight against Doflamingo.

Law has never been able to grasp his own life in his hands, it feels as if he's had this idea he SHOULDN'T be alive and - since he IS alive - he must be alive for SOMETHING. Which is why when Sengoku tells him that ALL Corazon would want is for Law to LIVE, the way LAW wants, it was a big thing for Law!

Law's never had the thought that maybe he can just...exist. Maybe he doesn't need to be alive for a reason. There's truly an aspect of survivor's guilt in such an idea.

BUT now, thanks to Luffy and the people around him, Law's managed to break away from this line of thought. Law is truly starting to live for himself now, and it's wonderful to see!

[darlingshane]

Reckless

Pairing: Ethan Sawyer x GN!Reader

Summary: Your whole world crumbles after your brother's death. You push everyone away, including your boyfriend Ethan. He gives you all the space you need, but today he's not having it, and he arrests you in an attempt to make you listen to reason and find a way to get through to you.

Content/Warnings: Language, Heavy Angst, Depression, Grief, Feels, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Tough Love, Established Relationship. + Hopeful ending.

Word Count: 2,4k

A/N: This is an adapted scene from the film that was suggested by the lovely @tazbethxavier98. Hope you like my take on it 💛

— Read below or at AO3.

His gut was right.

And he hated it.

The moment he saw you hanging with the guys, Ethan knew that you were going to try to do something stupid. Potentially dangerous even. Because every single time you get together with your old crew, you can’t help but fall into old habits.

It’s been a while since you’ve gotten together with them, and it’s worth celebrating by doing something memorable that you could look back to, but your definition of doing something memorable goes hand in hand with being reckless; like that time you all BASE jumped from a crane.

Ethan was baffled when he found out later. The fact that you didn’t disclose that right away and had to hear it from someone else was something that caused one of the biggest fights you ever had when you were still a couple.

Eventually, he forgave you after you promised that you'd never do anything as dangerous as that ever again. But since your relationship with him is on pause, there's absolutely nothing stopping you from breaking that promise as well.

Your fierceness is unparalleled, nothing ever fazes you, and Ethan has always admired and feared that equally. Right now, it only scares the shit out of him.

It's been only a few months since you decided to take some time off from him. You didn't call it a breakup back then, cause you just needed some space after your brother's death. Everything went downhill after that, and you're not sure if there's anything else left to pick up.

He did everything in his hand to help you deal with that loss, but the more he tried, the more you pushed him and everyone away.

No matter how much time it passes or how much you ignore him, Ethan Sawyer still cares a great deal about you. No, that’s selling it short. He loves you. He fucking loves you and hates seeing how much you're hurting.

All he ever wanted to do is find a way to get back to you, and what you two had. Despite your differences, being with you was the best thing that's ever happened to him, and he thought it went both ways. Three years, and five months, is how long it lasted. You shared a house, adopted two dogs, and a cat, and almost added a python to the family, if he had let you. With time, he'd given in with some more convincing.

For the past few months, you've stayed at your father's cabin, and split pet duties with him. You go by the house every other day to care for your babies while he's at work, and that's pretty much it.

When you stopped listening to reason, he took the hint and decided to give you that space you needed. He stopped calling, texting, or trying to figure out a better way to reach you. But today he's not willing to not take the back seat and watch you hurt yourself for the sake of proving a point or going against his warning.

Admittedly, he might have contributed to feeding the fire with fuel when he said, “And please do not jump off of shit with parachutes, okay?”

It was aimed at the group, but his stare was fixed only on you. And knowing how much you hate being patronized like that, in hindsight, he should have kept his mouth shut, cause the way your jaw clenched as you looked away with disdain was absolutely frightening.

His words went in one ear and came out of the other.

As he feared, when you leave the bar, you slip into a harness with a chute on your back and hop onto the bed of Jay's truck without thinking twice.

The truck starts rolling and the rest of the guys follow in another car.

Ethan tails right on cue and witnesses your body being launched up into the air by the chute after pulling the ripcord in the middle of the road. You land on your ass in a ditch by the roadside, and as your audience applauds your act, Ethan pulls up on the other side of the road.

Your butt hurts like a bitch, but the rush of adrenaline is worth it, which lessens that blow a little.

You let out another laugh watching Ethan strutting like a motherfucker towards your direction, with that hard-ass stare you don’t see often, sending daggers from behind his aviators.

He has nothing to lose, and since you’re not heeding reason, he's going to lay down the law and some tough love. It's the only card he has left to make you see you can’t keep marching on the self-destructive path of your own making. He's done treating you with kid's gloves, too. It never worked, he’s come to realize.

“What are you gonna do, arrest me?” you grin without an ounce of guilt.

“You’re goddamn right I am,” he barks and then orders your crew to help you get out of the ditch.

Once you back up on the pavement, after slipping out of the harness, Ethan shoves your front against the SUV without warning. He handcuffs your wrists and ushers you to the backseat of the police car.

“Christ, these are sawing my wrists,” you complain behind the partition as he drives away. “Did you have to close ’em all the way down?”

“Oh, does it hurt?”

“Yeah, it fucking hurts, asshole!”

“Good. Maybe you'll learn something,” he counters, unbending.

Ethan catches you rolling your eyes through the rearview mirror and keeps scolding you.

“Hey, eyes on me. Quit your sulking, all right? You got yourself here. This shit is on you.” There's a pause as the car slows down. “Fucking earned it.” He says last before pulling up in front of your dad’s cabin, where you’ve been staying for months.

As he climbs out and goes around the car to release you, he lets out an exhalation and brings you out, manhandling your body without releasing your hands. Not yet. There’s a lot he’s got to say, and he presses your back against the side of the SUV and takes off his sheriff cap to throw it on top of the roof of the car.

“Here's the thing. We both know that had nothing to do with fun, and it sure as shit wasn't an accident, all right? I know what you're trying to do. Maybe those other assholes don't see it, but I certainly do. And I’m not gonna sit and watch you throw your life away cause what? Cause you feel guilty that your brother gave his life to save your sorry ass?”

“Shut up. Shut the fuck up,” you mutter, wrangling in your cuffs.

“Did I touch a nerve, big shot? Stay still, I’m not done,” he presses a hand to your shoulder for a beat, so you stop moving.

“You’ve got no idea what you're talking about,” your eyes well up against your will.

“I was with you, sweetheart. I know better than anybody. Your brother’s death is not on you. He went into that building cause it was his job, whether you were in there or not, he died doing what he was trained to do. And he must be turning in his grave knowing you're risking your life doing bullshit like that again. I get that he was your hero. And that you’re still grieving. But what you’re doing… you’re going to get yourself killed or worse. You think he’d like that?”

Your head bows, looking at the ground as tears start slipping down your cheeks. You agree internally, your brother definitely wouldn’t like that, but you don’t respond to his preaching.

“You think I’d like that?” he rephrases that last question and adds another, “do you think that I don’t care for you or love you?”

“You don’t love me. You just have a fucking savior complex, and it kills you that can’t save me.”

“Don’t love you?” he huffs, irritated; and inhales sharply before turning you around, so he can unlock your hands. “You’re everything to me, sweetheart. And it breaks my heart seeing you like this. I’m not trying to save you… but I can't watch you going down this path. Is that how you wanna honor him?”

“You have no idea how it feels… What else can I do, huh?” you wince, soothing one of your wrists with your opposite hand.

“That's why I'm here. You talk to me about it instead of pushing me away. You're so smart and strong, but so fucking stubborn. And yeah, grief is a bitch, but you can't let it cripple you forever. And if you can't talk to me, at least find someone you trust… There's no shame in asking for help.”

“It's not that easy.”

“Nobody said it'd be a cakewalk. Is that why you failed your evaluation, or you just didn't give a shit anymore?”

“You got me, Ethan. I'm broken. Neither you nor the best therapist in the world can fix me.”

In less than a beat, you set yourself straight and walk past him in the direction of the cabin.

“I… I don't think you should come by the house anymore. If this is over, just call it. I'm not gonna wait around forever for you to realize that I only love you.”

You come to a halt mid-walk. “What about the dogs and the cat?”

“I'll take care of them.”

“But they're mine, too.”

“Well, I got full custody now.”

“Go to hell, Sawyer.”

“Wanna see them? Come back home. That's the only way. There's still time. It doesn't have to end like this.”

Emotionally spent, you exhale and push your feet to move, leaving him without an answer. It does feel like the end to you, at least right now. The void in your chest grows larger every day, and you can't really go back to him before fixing that.

As you reach the porch of your father's cabin, you notice Ethan's stride catching up with you, and you turn your head as he starts speaking.

“Hey, for what it's worth, I don't think you're broken,” his tone is softer than before. “I'm sorry if I was hard on you and that I made this about me… but I needed you to see that you don't have to do this alone. Whatever you're afraid of… we can face it together.”

“Me.”

“You?”

“I'm afraid of me,” you finally confess. “All I want is to stop hurting. And jumping out of that truck was the only thing that made me feel anything other than endless dread. As fucked up as it is. And maybe it was a good thing that I failed my psych eval, cause I don't… I don't think I can do that anymore. Not without him. And without that, I don't know what I'm supposed to do or who to be anymore.”

“I…” his voice dies down in that syllable, processing your fears for a long pause. “There's no quit fix. That's something you'll figure out with time, sweetheart. It's all still very raw. Your whole world turned upside down, I get it. And for a while that's how you're going to see everything. No one's going to blame you for taking some time or quitting altogether. But putting yourself in danger to stop feeling is not the answer. You can't give up on the things that you love. Those are what makes you— you. And I’d hate to see that part of you fade away.”

Ethan has always been insightful. It's not something you've just realized, but maybe you've forgotten. Alas, he's right. You desperately wanna back to some sort of normalcy and find some peace in it, but it’s hard to pull yourself out of that deep hole of pain and sadness that has swallowed half of your being like quicksand. And perhaps that’s the reason you pushed him away, cause you couldn’t bear the thought of him sinking with you.

“I want you to be happy, Ethan. I’m not sure that I can be that for you anymore.”

“I only want you, no matter what. Happy or sad. For sickness and health, and all that shit. I want it all. Even if we’re not married. Just… sleep on it. Don’t make any rash decisions right now. Promise me.”

He deserves at least that.

“Okay,” you say low with a shy nod.

After parting ways, you bury yourself in your bed, in the solitude of the cabin as the sun goes down.

As promised, you sleep on it one night and another, and a third one, as it gets so much clearer that you’ve been an asshole to him all this time. He was harsh, rightfully, the other day, but you’ve been nothing but neglecting the most beautiful relationship you’ve ever had. It wasn’t on purpose, but still that’s another weight to add to your back.

Four days later, you wake up unusually early. It’s still dark when you take a shower and set the coffee machine on. You find a thermos in your dad’s cabinets and fill it with black coffee after pouring yourself a mug.

You’ve come to the decision that you can’t stay here forever. As much as you want to, it’s time to try something different, and going back to Ethan and your babies is the right thing to do.

So, as the sun rises, you take that thermos and drive up to your house. Ethan is still asleep, you’re sure, even before opening that familiar door and being greeted happily by one of your dogs, Sadie, who licks half your face as you bend down to hug her, and kiss her head. Murphy is soundly asleep, and snoring, in his bed below one of the windows of the living room and doesn’t even wake up when Sadie whines after you stop petting her.

You find Rogue, your cat, curled at Ethan’s feet, who’s barely covered by the sheets.

Toeing off your sneakers, you place down the thermos in the night stand and slip into your side of the bed, facing Ethan. You push his hair away from his forehead, and trace the shape of his ear with your finger. It makes his nose scrunch before tiredly opening his eyes, that close in a beat, and open quickly again, wider, surprised by your presence.

“Hey.”

“Hey, baby,” he utters hoarsely, as his lips curve up.

“I brought you coffee.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh-hmm.”

“Are you back?”

“Do you want me back?”

Wrapping an arm around you, pulling you closer, he huffs, “of course, I do.”

“Just checking.”

“How are you, baby?”

“I don’t know… I’m here.”

“That’s okay. We’ll figure it out. One day at a time.” He kisses your temple as you curl against his warm chest, basking in his much-missed embrace.

npt: @anna-hawk, @lucy-sky, @munsonownsmyass

[enneamage]

hey what’s your thoughts on the ‘we must protect and infantilize ___’ agenda?

I’m on the kpop side of twitter (the outskirts and checking idols update pages only tbh, but I’m a but in the MC sphere!), and the psych side of it all is facinating.

I feel like it’s a coping mechanism for control in one’s life, but also loving and feeding into the parasocial side/idea of someone and not the … reality of a person I guess?

Thought I’d ask because of the streamer/idol parasocial overlap!

Not all streamers obvi do this, or intentionally (or double sided-ly), ofc ofc (felt the need to throw that in ;-;)

👏 LETS GO, 

Like with a lot of topics under the Parasocial umbrella, it’s hard to be sure that the seed of the issue is a problem itself and not a reasonable instinct gone haywire. Pity / empathy / the urge to be gentle or considerate to the people we like is pretty healthy in small doses, and it would be weirder if we didn’t have it, so I try to start from there. 

Part of this is the fact that you can get high on love and investing in a celeb is a fabulously easy way to do so. Having idealized love for someone or something feels great, and celebrities have been outlets for this forever. It’s much more difficult and high stakes to put this kind of faith in someone you actually know, and I think some part of people knows that, which is why we try to get our ‘unrealistic’ faith out in the celebrity world just to have something to hold onto. I haven’t felt it in god-knows-how-long, but in a world where there’s not much else to hold onto I get the appeal. The blend of romantic and parental protectiveness that some fans bring to the table is a hormonal cocktail for maximum payoff as well. Then there’s the more Symbolic angle where people will see something in someone not just for the experience of the feelings, but because they see something they value in a person, whether they were looking for that trait before they found them or they were inspired by seeing a bit of it in them when they appeared. Celebs tend to have some kind of star power element that makes them worth thinking about, so again, it’s free real estate. Through defending the celeb, you get to defend someone or something that is important to you. 

Protecting and infantilizing don’t always have to go hand in hand, is the thing. I think that people can be protective of someone who fits any kind of descriptor as long as seeing Certain Content either bothers the audience member, or the audience member imagines it would bother the Celeb. A lot of Standom™️ on the more toxic end can be defined by their defensiveness of a given celeb, but that isn’t all infantilizing– sometimes it’s done to try and make someone come off as more grand or tough by acting as an army on their behalf. 

The infantilizing part is interesting. Interpretation is inevitable (Roxy paraphrase) so you can’t really have a celeb without people having some kind of read on them. You can’t be famous without people thinking about you, it’s just a question of how. Small bean / cinnamon roll / babygirlification is an ingredient that goes into this, how much the concept of vulnerability or innocence or moral purity is part of their perceived persona. You can even chunk it down further into how ‘likely’ it is that they are a certain way from their persona, versus gratifying it is to imagine them a certain way anyway.

I’m not an expert on the kpop angle at all compared to how complex it is over there, but from my very shallow observation it looks like some people kind of get assigned Baby by management because they know it’s a persona that works well with people. The Kpop industry seems to be good at being brutally honest about what people ‘parasocially’ want from idols and isn’t afraid to give it to them. I think your last line is drawing on that a bit, the idea that some of these personas are deliberately baited / played into in a sinister way instead of just being upheld by the fans. 

The real breaking point for the babying tends to come when the person who was being made baby does something very un-baby and people move to dismiss or defend or protect them (or the idea of them) from the situation. It pushes people on the outside to the limit when they see people acting to defend someone who seems to be clearly out of sync with the image people have of them in their heads, since the evidence for them not being that way is right there. Some people snap out of it and have to deal with the heartbreak of losing what they thought they had in that person, which is as real a pain as anything, but I know that people can get self-righteous and annoyed from the outside looking in. 

I think people react very badly to ‘misplaced’ pity online. Even in fictional contexts people tend to get uneasy seeing people get too Soft with any one given person, let alone people who have canonically done Evil. This has different and way more grounded stakes IRL where everyone involved is real, but just as a baseline I think online spaces can be particularly against anything that goes against the hard factkeeping of who did what. Explaining away or forgiving things can feel like a lapse in justice, the opposite of holding people accountable, because it takes entire events and voids their importance, or fails to give them importance to begin with. It’s hard enough to get any kind of accountability to take place online where laws barely apply, exploitation of audiences is the norm and the mental refresh rate of the average viewer (who brings in the ad revenue) is on the level of a goldfish. Nobody can take justice for granted online, and the immune system that’s grown to try and counteract that tends to be strict to make up for it. 

The topic of humanizing is hard. It’s more of a literary concept than something you can objectively point to. Is trying to extend empathy humanizing? Is playing down someone’s seemingly larger-than-life traits to bring them back down to earth humanizing?  Honestly I don't think people agree what being human / ‘regular’ off a pedestal looks like, and that sometimes people are just telling other people to have less intense and specific emotions about someone. Does falling in or out of love with someone humanize them more? What is essentially human is a massive question that we do not all agree on, so not everyone can be tweaked back to a baseline that doesn’t exist. 

(Tangent while I’m here, getting random lectures to not put CCs on pedestals when the standard that was failed is “do not commit crimes or exploit minors” has been getting to me. It kind of backhandedly implies that you need to be aware / okay with that being a possibility when getting into CCs because That’s How It Be Sometimes, and can come off as weirdly callous.) 

I feel like we’re talking about Boundary Culture in a sense, in the unfortunate way that it actually manifests versus the hard-to-disagree-with concept of boundaries as found in therapy speak. People with deeper investment do ironically have a certain civilizing effect that the people who aren’t as deep in the pocket tend to lack– boundary culture does not fly if you don’t think that the Celeb’s sense of what they want to allow is more important than what you may want to do. People who are less invested may not always be outright violating because they may just not care, but it doesn’t come from a deeply held moral place so much. 

I tend to take the stance that I don’t like what internalizing an absolute sense of duty to famous strangers does in the long run, both to individuals and the internet. It brings in a weird feudalism angle that feels too image-controlled for someone as paranoid as me. Plus, too much optimism freaks me out because I lost most of it like six online fallouts ago. 

Having written all this out, underneath it all it’s kinda sad. People get desperate for something Pure because of how bad it gets in the world, and then they can get preyed on for wanting to invest that hope somewhere, even if that place exists outside of normal life. When The Shit goes down, the value of the ‘betrayer’ drops through the floor, but the emotional desperation only gets tighter as another person fails to be decent, and the spiral continues. Touching grass doesn’t always fix despair like that if the grass is also fucked up. 

In general I Am Skeptical when it comes to hanging hopes and affections on personas that seem too good to be true, but I also like to de-escalate things a bit because we’re in a massive moral panic right now with parasocial relationships, and we’re much better learning to deal with them than pretending it’s possible to stop having them. 

[death-in-a-handbasket]

Ooo headcannon time okay! So some of my headcannons don’t really have much if any cannon evidence, in fact it’s mostly just from vibes alone. Theres the simple ones like how I think he actually has eyebrows but they’re just white like the tips of his hair, or like that I personally don’t see him as cis (no cannon reference I just got a feeling) Oooh and I have a headcannon that he feeds the stray cats by his house/apartment.!In my mind, akutagawa is a protector by nature like he was with his group back in the slums, and over time due to being in the mafia for so long it kinda morphed into something else If that makes sense? I don’t really know how to word it lol. I can’t remember the rest, but if I have anymore I’ll send them in.

honestly sometimes making hcs IS about the vibes alone, sometimes the shit comes to you in a vision with no other explanation besides “it feels right” that’s how I make my playlists half the time, I can’t properly tell you why blood roses goes in his playlist other than that bitch is fucking it up on the harpsichord and it’s cunty

also tbh I’ve always liked the thought that his brows are actually white and just match the tips of his hair, that’s very pretty to me actually 🤭 imagine if bits of his eyelashes are also white ohhuuu preettyman ,,,,,,

also what kind of cisn’t are you feeling? transman? enby? I think it would be interesting if he was agender, him and gin both are abstaining from explaining whatever is happening in the gender department

also he seemingly isn’t a dog person so it would be really cute to me if he was soft to cats as a result, he probably sits with them and drinks tea while they eat and they have a sweet little routine going on at this point, imagine he names some of them after his old friends 🥹

also YES I totally agree that he’s got a protective nature, he’s also prone to obsession and stubbornness which combined tells me instead of it being expressed in healthier ways, the mafia has him semi stuck in fight or flight mode, all his protective nature is going towards keeping his reason to live intact, he’s guarding his purpose because he kind of goes off the rails when he doesn’t have a purpose. Even if he isn’t protecting himself or his will to live, I feel like all that energy and obsession would default to protecting someone even to the point of self destruction

picks him up puts him under my arm alright pookie it’s time to get some better coping mechanisms than this :’)

I think even if he were raised in healthier circumstances I think there’s always a little bit of him that does see violence as a very good option to fix bullshit, like even if he had parents that took good care of him I still feel like if he thought one of his classmates was being a dickhead he would wind it back and knock a few teeth in LMAO bro walks a very tenuous wire of violent and cutthroat but also inexplicably sensitive and deeply caring

also take your time! whenever you think of something send me asks or just straight up tell me random stuff, shit man you could straight up dm me and I’d rock with it, I love visitors in my inbox regardless :]