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antimisinfo · 8 months ago

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Endos / endogenics and why they aren't valid :

We've made posts on this before but we decided it might be good to make one big post to link to for when / if anyone asks again. We tried to cover everything we could in this post but we'll likely be making other posts similar to this later on.

So what are endos? Endos or endogenics are people who claim to have DID/OSDD without trauma or claim to have alters / be a system without having DID/OSDD.

Why is this bad? This is misinformation because as far as science knows DID/OSDD is a trauma based disorder (specifically caused by trauma in early childhood, which is speculated to be 1-9 / 1-12 years old) and your brain would not split / create alters without reason. You cannot have alters without having a disorder, this is common sense as it's not normal to have alters. To add onto this endos also take over our communities and steal our terms. (We'll make a post with further information on that in the future).

There is also a carrd that explains why endos are bad and debunks a few myths if anyone is interested in it! If not continue reading

Why can't you have DID/OSDD or alters without trauma? As far as science knows DID/OSDD is a trauma disorder and in order to have alters in the first place you require dissociation, which is also a trauma ((or stress)) response. Here are tons of medically reviewed sources that say this:

“ They suggest that DID is caused by experiencing severe trauma over a long time in childhood. By experiencing trauma in childhood, you take on different identities and behaviours to protect yourself. As you grow up these behaviours become more fully formed until it looks like you have different identities ” — rethink.org

“ Dissociative identity disorder (DID), previously known as multiple personality disorder, is a complex psychological condition caused by many things. These include severe trauma during early childhood (usually extreme, repetitive physical, sexual, or emotional abuse). It's also known as split personality disorder. ” — webMD

“ DID is usually associated with adverse experiences in someone’s past and traumatic memories. ” & “ Dissociation — a major part of DID — is a defense mechanism the body uses to reduce your awareness during overwhelming trauma ” — pysch central

“ DID is associated with long-term exposure to trauma, often chronic traumatic experiences during early childhood. ” & “ Dissociation—or disconnection from one’s sense of self or environment—can be a response to trauma. It can happen during a single-incident, traumatic event (e.g., an assault, a natural disaster, or a motor vehicle accident), or during ongoing trauma (e.g., wartime; chronic childhood abuse). ” — mcleanhospital.org

“ Dissociative disorders often develop as a way to deal with a catastrophic event or with long-term stress, abuse or trauma. This is particularly true if such events take place early in childhood. At this time of life, there are limitations to your ability to fully understand what’s happening. In addition, your coping mechanisms aren’t fully developed and getting support and resources depends on the presence of caring and knowledgeable adults. ” — my.clevelandclinic.org

“ There are many possible causes of dissociative disorders, including previous traumatic experience. ” & “ Switching off from reality is a normal defence mechanism that helps the person cope during a traumatic time. ” — nhs.uk

“ Dissociative identity disorder is the result of a natural way of coping with childhood trauma. Our page on the causes of dissociative disorders has more information. ” & “ Dissociation is a natural response to trauma while it's happening. But some of us may still experience dissociation long after the traumatic event has finished. Past experiences of dissociation during traumatic events may mean that you haven't processed these experiences fully. ” — mind.org (two links since they're two different pages)

“ Dissociative disorders usually start as a way to cope with shocking, distressing or painful events. The disorders most often form in children who go through long-term physical, sexual or emotional abuse. Less often, the disorders form in children who've lived in a home where they went through frightening times or they never knew what to expect. The stress of war or natural disasters also can bring on dissociative disorders. When you go through an event that's too much to handle emotionally, you may feel like you're stepping outside of yourself and seeing the event as if it's happening to another person. Mentally escaping in this way may help you get through a shocking, distressing or painful time. ” — mayoclinic.org

Most of these sources are pretty recent too, with the most recent one being made in September 2023 (webMD)

What about religious beliefs / tuplamacy? First people are not required to believe or participate in your religious beliefs (and religious beliefs are not exempt from criticism) and second tuplamacy is a closed Buddhist practice that has nothing to do with being a system and should not be compared to being a system nor should it be included / involved in system communities. Note that the DSM-V also says that in order to have DID; "The disturbance is not a normal part of a broadly accepted cultural or religious practice." <- this does not mean it's possible to have alters due to a religious thing, if anything it says they cannot be counted as alters / as a system.

To add on, no you cannot pray to be a system or transition into being a system. If you were to pray and one day magically become a system you are either in denial or you've convinced yourself you're something you're not. Believing you can be a system without trauma or that you can become a system by praying is like believing you can get autism from vaccines or drinking too much dairy milk, that's just not how it works.

What about mixed origin systems? Mixed origin systems are not a thing. DID/OSDD forms purely from trauma, you can't form from a mix of trauma and not trauma, that's not how it works. If you identify as mixed origin you are likely in denial and really need to come to terms with the fact that you are either traumatized or you're not a system at all.

What about other kinds of origins? Other origins like "willowgenic" and all that bullshit? Yeah no, same thing as endos, not possible. Look above for all the proof you need, DID/OSDD is only caused by trauma. Traumagenic is the only valid origin.

But I gave myself DID! / But I created my own alters! No you didn't. That isn't possible, you cannot turn yourself into a DID/OSDD system and creating alters is a coping mechanism, not something you do for fun, sources on this;

“ DID Isn't Something You Can Give Yourself on Purpose. Having DID was not a conscious decision those of us with the disorder made when we were children. Dissociative identity disorder is not a selective disorder, meaning you cannot decide that you want to develop this brilliant coping mechanism and then you have it. ” — healthyplace

“ In any case, additional alters are usually the result of extreme stress. The mind does not like to be fractured even when an individual already has DID or OSDD-1. Many individuals cannot split unless a split is strictly necessary for their protection, functioning, or ability to remain hidden as a system. That said, there are exceptions. Some individuals may become so used to using splitting as a coping mechanism that they may split easily in response to seemingly minor stressors. ” — didresearch.org

Isn't being a system like the same as being trans or being LGBTQ? No, many endos compared the two but they are completely different. Being LGBTQ is an identity, it's something you are born as. Being a system is a debilitating disorder caused by severe trauma, it is counted as a disability which is;

“ 'A person has a disability if: They have a physical or mental impairment, and the impairment has a substantial and long-term adverse effect on the person's ability to carry out normal day-to-day activities.' ” — gmc.org

The reason DID would be counted as a disability is that;

“ Having a dissociative disorder can affect your ability to keep a full-time job, especially one with work stresses, which can worsen your symptoms. ” — disabilitysecrets

And the DSM-V criteria literally says;

“ The symptoms cause clinically significant distress or impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of functioning ” — traumadissociation

But the DSM-V says that trauma isn't required! No, the DSM-V actually says CSA isn't required, there are other forms of trauma that don't involve CSA or child abuse. To act as if it saying that the trauma isn't always CSA or child abuse means that it doesn't require trauma at all is extremely invalidating to those who are traumatized in ways that don't involve child abuse or CSA.

But this source claims endos exist / DID doesn't require trauma! Most of those sources are extremely old and / or made by endos (or pro endos) themselves. (We'll make a more in-depth post on this topic some other time, but for now this is all we have to say on it)

But we don't know everything about the human brain! You're right, we don't. The brain is mysterious, but we do know enough to know that it doesn't do these kinds of things for no reason. We know the brain reacts to trauma and we know what the difference between a normal brain and a disordered brain is. Just because we don't know everything doesn't give people an excuse to jump to conclusions and spread misinformation. It is better to stick to what science currently knows which is the theory of structural dissociation, which is the current theory about how DID/OSDD forms, and so far no one has been able to disprove it. And before someone says it, no it is not only a theory, it is a scientific theory which is;

“ A theory is a well-substantiated explanation of an aspect of the natural world that can incorporate laws, hypotheses and facts. The theory of gravitation, for instance, explains why apples fall from trees and astronauts float in space. Similarly, the theory of evolution explains why so many plants and animals—some very similar and some very different—exist on Earth now and in the past, as revealed by the fossil record. ” — amnh.org

And to add on;

“ Scientists develop theories to explain the natural world and to advance scientific knowledge. A theory is the highest level of explanation in science. Some features of scientific theories are that they: have been thoroughly tested over an extended period, provide accurate explanations and, predictions for a wide range of phenomena, are widely accepted by the scientific community, demonstrate strong experimental and observational support ” — study.com

#endo misinfo #sourced #anti endo #endos dni #system #traumagenic system #did #did osdd #didosdd #osddid #system stuff #plural system #plural #did system #osdd system #this took a long time

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howtofightwrite · 7 months ago

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Is it possible to punch someone in the face in a way that causes visible damage, but doesn't impair them much in the long term?

It's extremely possible.

Your face is, mostly, a lot of soft tissue positioned directly over bone. This means that blows to the face, even relatively minor ones, are likely to produce disproportionately nasty looking injuries, without inflicting any meaningful impairment.

The first two are bleeding. Either from splitting the skin open, or via bruising. When there is bruising, there's also going to be some swelling (because there's relatively few places for the blood to go), so the victim has extremely visible injuries, which will be painful, but are otherwise mostly cosmetic.

Of course, bleeding from the face will look incredibly bad, whether that's from the nose, a split lip, or from simply from the skin tearing during the punch, but, again, that's going to be mostly cosmetic.

Cuts in the mouth can be a bit worse, but again, this can result in symptoms that look much worse than they are. Normally, if you're coughing up blood, that's an extremely bad situation, however, if someone has punched you in the nose and started a bleed running back down your throat, or if you've bitten your tongue or cheek, you may be literally spitting up blood, without being in serious peril.

Cuts to the cheeks and lips can also be caused by your foe driving the soft tissue into your teeth. This can also result in injuries that have difficulty clotting. The actual blood loss isn't serious, but it can be annoying if you've gotten a gashed lip that refuses to stop leaking blood for hours. (I'm speaking from personal experience here.)

A broken nose is a bit more serious. Not because they're particularly dangerous, but because it's likely to permanently alter the angle of your nose. This will also result in a lot of blood making the injury look worse than it actually is. Again, you're not going to lose a meaningful amount of blood, but it'll look exceptionally bad.

While it's less likely to occur with a punch, cuts to the forehead, even relatively solid gashes, are another cases where it will look far worse than the injury is. Your forehead is one of the most heavily armored portions of your body, and cuts there are likely to cause a lot of visible bleeding, without resulting in a meaningful loss of blood. If your body works the way it's supposed to, bleeding from the forehead should get into your eyebrows and flow around your eye, without obscuring your vision. In practice, you absolutely can get blood in your eyes, depending on your facial structure. I can't really speak to that experience, though I'd be inclined to say it's probably not especially pleasant.

Now, a lot of facial injuries hurt. Your face has a lot of nerve endings, and those are quite happy to report to your brain, when something's just caused it harm. This is especially true of your lips and tongue, as you use those organs extensively to evaluate the safety of the food you consume (even if you don't think about it.) (Chewing off a portion of my own lip to get the bleeding to stop still ranks as one of the most unpleasant bits of field care I've every experienced, and I strongly recommend not seeking out that experience.) So, this isn't without any impairment whatsoever, but in general, these aren't going to be life altering injuries, or even wounds that require weeks to fully recover from. Facial injuries are singularly unpleasant, but they are rarely serious. (Unless we're talking about damage to the eyes, or broken bones. Both of which are unlikely outcomes from punches.)

In a somewhat perverse way, blows to the face is ideal for inflicting injuries that look far worse than they actually are.

-Starke

This blog is supported through Patreon. Patrons get access to new posts three days early, and direct access to us through Discord. If you’re already a Patron, thank you. If you’d like to support us, please consider becoming a Patron.

#writing reference #writing advice #writing tips #how to fight write #starke answers

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titsthedamnseason · 2 years ago

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this was not an invitation to hate on regret me (show version). all the homies love regret me (show version)

goodbye goodbye goodbye you were bigger than the whole sky

#listen…..if you’re disappointed you played yourself #like taking out the rock n roll lyric is a travesty and i hope it shows up somewhere else #but seriously if you had this very concrete vision in your head of what the songs should be like you set yourself up for disappointment #and if you’re complaining about billy being on the song you are a silly silly goose #because for one they altered the meaning to be far more of a two way street #and ALSO him singing backup on the song is canon….so that’s really awkward for you. very incredibly awkward thing for you to be upset about #also some of you are telling me you’ve never heard a fleetwood mac song before without telling me you’ve never heard a fm song before #like i’m sorry but they NAILED the sound and the sentiment. IT IS SO RUMORS CORE #replies

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javierpena-inatacvest · 2 months ago

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Chapter 1- Jello at Your Front Door

Summary: 15 years ago, a football and a boy four doors down makes your move to Florida a little more bearable. Now, you're not quite sure how to feel when you find out he's shown up back at home unannounced

Word Count: 5.5K

Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader (no use of y/n, Frankie has a nickname for reader)

Warnings: Angst, yearning, mentions of death, sick parent, meeting Frankie for the first time, cute, awkward baby Frankie, a football throw Santi will never forgive you for

A/N: ... Hey.... How y'all doin'.... Remember when I said I was gonna start a different Frankie series months ago? I hope you humbly accept this as my official formal apology for not being able to get my shit together, as I present this offering to you instead 🙂 I started writing this 24 hours ago and I legitimately couldn't stop, so here we are??? I know this is a different style that what I normally write, but here's to trying new things (and hopefully finishing them). I hope you guys enjoy 🥺💛

All The Things We Never Said Masterlist

Next Chapter

You, Present

“Frankie’s home.”

You weren’t really sure how to comprehend how the combination of those two words would be one of the worst sucker punches you’d taken to your gut in the better part of the last decade.

As the sentence replayed over and over in your head, you could think of any other combination of two words that would have scared you less.

“Hurricane’s coming.”

“Bomb’s dropping.”

“World‘s ending.”

In a universe where things make sense, the response these would elicit from the average person would be reasonable, rational even. When you’ve been given a warning about the way two words have the potential to alter your reality, you can’t help but panic.

But today, you’ve woken up in a universe where things don’t make sense.

And what’s worse is, you didn’t even get a warning.

The statement shouldn’t have shaken you as much as it did. When you’d seen his truck parked in the driveway four houses down, you knew it had to be him. Anyone else in the world would be caught dead driving the barley mobile piece of metal he’d been traveling in for the better part of 20 years. But Frankie Morales was not anyone else. He’d drive that damn car until the wheels fell out underneath him.

It wouldn’t be the first time you’d gotten in a stubborn stare down with his 1989 maroon Chevrolet Silverado. You had a sneaking suspicion that today wouldn’t be your last.

“Why is Fr- Why is he back?”

You hadn’t intended for your tone to be so bitter, but the taste of Frankie’s name on the tip of your tongue left a taste in your mouth so sour, you wanted to recoil into yourself.

“Why do you think?” It was clear your mother had no interest in playing into your game of cruel intentions, barely paying you any mind as she glanced out the window, unphased by the looming presence in the Morales’s driveway, “You should go say hello.”

“No thanks, I’m not a fan of purposely ruining the rest of my day.” You don’t mean for your eyes to roll as far back into your head as they do, but you can’t help it. At this point it seems like an innate, programmed response. Simply the thought of Frankie Morales was enough to dampen your mood; an intentional confrontation was the last thing you needed.

“You’re going to have to see him at some point, you know. Can’t hide from him the whole time he’s here.”

Your mom hadn’t even given you the chance to rebuttal, disappearing from your bedroom to leave you to stew in your own resentment, because she knew as well as you that it was pointless to fight back.

At some point, you’d have to face Frankie. Today, you’d stick to hiding.

You, Summer of 1999, Age 11

26 total hours trapped in a U-Haul with your family and every item you’d ever owned was not the way you had planned to spend your last week of summer before starting middle school. You’d hoped that the nearly 3 day journey from Michigan to Florida would be long enough to help you cope with your distress. Unfortunately, you weren’t shocked that cramped quarters and unclear driving directions in the midst of uprooting your life wasn't doing much to lighten your mood.

Your parents had promised you the move would be worth it. That starting a new life halfway across the country would be good for your family. You weren’t quite sure what positives Florida posed to you, but even at the ripe age of 11, it didn’t take a genius to realize that “starting over somewhere new” was code for “trying to keep your dad alive.”

The doctors back home were thrilled to tell you about the new, potentially life saving treatment for his rapidly progressing colon cancer. You were thrilled too, until that new, life saving treatment meant moving 1,300 miles from home.

Not once did you protest- keeping your dad a living, breathing part of your life was better than having to say goodbye to your best friends, but it still didn’t mean every mile you drove further and further south down I-75 was another grain of salt in your freshly open wound.

Your parents had tried to incentivise you with all the joys that Florida would have to bring- warm, sunny weather, beaches, being a 3 hour drive away from Disney world, a bigger house, the list went on and on. And while you knew one day you’d find joy in the rewards you’d reap from your sacrifice, you had a feeling that day wouldn’t be coming any time soon.

It took too many movers to count to finally get your new house to resemble what was supposed to be a home. There was something so unsettling about seeing your furniture reassembled into unfamiliar corners of a place you’d never been. Even the things that were supposed to feel familiar and comforting now felt distant and foreign, scrambled in the walls of your new residence like a child who had shaken up a box of their favorite toys and dumped them out on the ground, leaving behind a mess for someone else to clean up.

The only solace you could seem to find in the wave of chaos that had washed over your life was the view outside your bedroom window. A quiet escape, perfectly positioned to watch the warm rays of sunset fade behind the rooftops, the night slowly shifting into shades of black and blue as your eyelids became heavy.

Each night as you drifted to sleep, you dreamt about the ways you could be saved from the lonely island you were trapped on. A sole survivor begging to be found. You tossed and turned in the sea of your twisted bedsheets, crying out that there would be someone, anyone who would risk their life to rescue yours.

On the first two nights, the only response to your pleas was a deafening silence, an insult to injury that you were destined to spend the rest of your life on a godforsaken landmass no one would ever find. On the third night, your cries carried on the winds of the warm summer air, sneaking through the cracks of an open window four doors down.

“You should go out there and play with those boys down the road! They look like they’re probably about your age!”

You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t noticed the two gangly figures racing up and down the street for the better part of the last hour, hoping they wouldn’t catch your passing glances through your living room window as you pretended to watch whatever episode of “Rocket Power” aired next on Nickelodeon. Perhaps the pair boys hadn’t noticed you watching them, but your dad had surely noticed the way you could have cared less about whatever was on the TV in front of you.

“They’re playing football, I don’t really think they’d probably want me to play.” You huff under your breath.

“You’re good at football. Probably better than they are.” Your dad laughs like it’s meant to be funny, but you know he’s serious. He’ll never admit to you out loud he wished his only child would have been a boy, but you’ve never minded playing the role of the son he never had.

And he’s not wrong. You definitely are a better throw than either of them.

“They’re gonna think it’s weird that a girl’s asking to go play football with them.” The sigh that follows this is even more annoyed than the last, now too self aware at 11 years old to revert back to the days of approaching kids you’ve never met on the playground and asking to join in without needing to worry about the social repercussions of your actions.

“Well, you can either pout and pretend to watch TV, or you could go try to make some friends. That’s up to you, Bud.” He smirks at the scrunch in your brow and flair in your nostrils, the same face he knows he makes when he’s been hit by the cold, hard truth he doesn’t like.

You know he’s right.

“Fine,” You grumble, reluctantly pushing yourself off the edge of the couch, “But if they’re dumb, I’m coming back home.”

“Atta girl. Go easy on ‘em, Killer.”

As you step outside, it feels like you’ve become some sort of jungle explorer, trying to approach a herd of wild animals in their element without startling them to the point of attack. You’d even brought a peace offering to ease the introductions, hoping that your own football would be an appreciated contribution to their game.

As you make your way down the street, you’re not sure if you’re particularly good at sneaking up on the boys, they haven’t noticed your presence, or worse, they’re actively trying to ignore you in hopes that you’ll go away.

“H-Hi.” You stammer, half attempting to wave at the back of their heads, nowhere near close to catching their attention.

“Hello?” This time it’s a little louder, slowly taking a few steps closer, “Hi?”

God, maybe it’s a fourth option you hadn’t considered and they’re both deaf.

“Hey!”

This one finally catches their attention, causing both boys to turn around cautiously, not sure whether they’re more shocked that someone’s interrupted whatever play they’re about to run, or that the person who’s interrupted them is you.

All of three of you stand in silence for a moment, mind racing in curiosity as you take in the image of clumsy limbs and messy mats of hair stuck to sweaty foreheads. The one boy is shorter, thick, jet black curls sprouting from the top of his head and arms crossed over his chest with a scowl on his face that’s not quite mean, but most definitely not welcoming.

The other, taller and lankier, a mop of dark brown hairs twisting at the nape of his neck, eyes soft as he glances back and forth between you and his friend. His demeanor is much different, almost nervous compared to the boy standing next to him, fits balled in the pockets of his shorts while the adam’s apple he still needs to grow into bobs in his throat.

For as much as no one wants to draw in the silent standoff you’ve entered, you started this mess, so you might as well be the first one to fold.

“H-hi. Sorry, I um, I didn’t wanna interrupt-”

“I mean, you did.” The shorter boy mumbles, wincing as the nervous one slaps him in the chest with the back of his hand. “Jesus, what was that for, asswad?!”

“Let her talk!” He grunts, sneering at his friend before turning back to you, his face much kinder now than the expression he just gave to his friend. “Sorry. You can um, you can keep talking if you want. Sorry about him.”

You try not to laugh at the exchange, but it’s hard not to smirk at the way the two have managed to put themselves on display in the thirty seconds you’ve spent talking to them.

“It’s okay. I um- I just moved in down the street. That green house over there.” All of your eyes shift as you point behind you, signaling where your journey had begun a few moments ago, “I was uh- I was wondering if you guys wanted another person to play with? I- I brought my own football.”

“Normally you only need one football to play football, duh. Do you even know how football works?”

In an instant, your heart sinks to your gut, eyes dropping to the ground to watch your feet start to drag across the pavement, back to where you came. But before you can lift the sole of your sneaker from the cement, a voice stops you.

“She obviously does or she wouldn’t ask, numbnuts! C’mon, Santi, don’t be a dick.”

Although it’s not directed at you, it’s enough to bring your attention back to the kinder boy, no name yet, but quite positive it’s not also Santi (or asswad). The two of you lock eyes for a moment, a strange sort of calm running through you as his slight half smile reveals his brace covered teeth, looking at you in a way that makes you feel just a little less small.

“Yeah, you can play with us. I’m Frankie, by the way.”

Frankie.

There’s something about his name that fits him so perfectly. You can’t quite put your finger on it, but you know from the way it rolls off your tongue that it just feels right.

“Hi, Frankie. I’m Mackenzie.”

Frankie’s hands are now out of his pockets, a line of defense dismantled after hearing your name.

“Hello? Have we forgotten about me? There are three of us here, remember?”

“This is Santi. Well, Santiago, but we all call him Santi.” The way Frankie rolls his eyes at his friend tells you everything you need to know about their friendship, giggling at the way he dramatically pouts as he introduces him.

“Mackenzie? Isn’t that, like, a last name?” Santi asks, still not yet warmed up to the idea of you, but intrigued enough to ease how tightly his arms are crossed.

“And? Isn’t Santiago the capital of Chile?” You sass, your mater-of-factness and quick wit making Frankie unintentionally snort.

“Alright, touché, Christopher Columbus.” Santi mocks, acting tough to try and hide the pink blooming in his cheeks.

“I like Mackenzie. I think it’s cool.”

There’s something about the way he says it that you know he means it, wondering why the way hearing your name fall from his lips churns your stomach in a sensation you’d never felt before this moment.

“Yeah, well, just so you know, Frankie is short for Francisco.” Santi interrupts, trying to find a way to get a jab back at either you or Frankie, at this point he doesn't really care which.

“Well, last time I checked, there wasn’t a Francisco, Chile.”

That one sends Frankie into full blown hysterics, boyish snickers taunting his friend, whose attempt to save his namesake has left him the butt of the joke.

“Will the two of you clowns just shut up and throw the ball? If you’re gonna let her play, Frank, can we at least make sure she can throw?” Santi whines, using every ounce of prepubescent strength he has left to play into his unbothered facade.

“You can use your ball if you want.” Frankie suggests, shrugging at his indifference to the ball held in your hand compared to the one held in yours.

“No! If she’s playin’, she’s usin’ our ball!” Santi’s voice trails further away with each step back he takes, settling himself in the middle of the street a few feet down from where you and Frankie stood, not willing to take any more risks when it comes to you, even if it’s something as stupid as a football.

“Fine by me.” You shrug, happily obliging to his request, Frankie giving you a silent nod of reassurance as he passes his football off to you.

It’s only now you notice he’s nervous again, one hand back in his pocket as he wriggles his toes in the ends of his worn sneakers while you size up your toss, knowing he’s worried that Santi will never let him live it down if the ball can’t make it more than three feet in front of you.

Neither of you would know it then, but the silent exchange you make with Frankie as you line up your throw would be the first of many unspoken promises you’d keep to him. What seemed like a simple task, to prove worthy of his friendship by throwing a football, would turn out to be the most important promise you'll ever make to Fransisco Morales.

You weren’t ever going to let him down.

“You can go further back.” You shout, almost offended by the distance Santi had chosen to stand away from you.

“If you can make it this far, I’ll be impressed.”

“You promise you’ll go get it after I throw it past you?”

“I promise, Joe Montana, throw the damn ball.”

You shrug at Frankie, like he’s supposed to know what comes next. He’s too scared to question either of you, all he can do is let his eyes dart back and forth between you and Santi, knowing there’s no world where both of you can prove your point. What scares him more is that he trusts you more than his friend.

You line your fingers up on the laces, gripping the leather like your life depends on it. In a way, it does. With a step forward, your arm hurls the ball, two of the three of you standing dumbfounded in the street as you watch it soar further and further past its intended target, spirling through the sky until it bounces off the cement with an acrobatic roll, three times the distances of where Santi had placed himself.

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to. You just smile and shrug- it's the best “I told you so” you could give them.

“Fine. She can stay.”

To this day, it’s the closest you’ll ever get to a compliment from Santi.

“Nice work, Kenz.”

Your stomach flips. You try to blame it on the adrenaline of it all, that there was no way a compliment so simple had you wiping your sweaty palms over the denim of your shorts, trying your best to erase any evidence that he was the reason your heart was racing out of your chest.

Now it’s 15 years later, and as much as you hate him, you still can’t get that goofy, brace faced smile out of your mind.

Frankie, Present

There’s a reason he shows up at 1 A.M. Everyone’s asleep. If the world is asleep around him, he’s safe from having to deal with anyone, at least until morning. There’s a part of him that wishes he would have parked his truck down the street, tricking you into thinking that he wasn’t even there.

It’s hard to justify when you’re the reason he’s back home in the first place.

When he got the call from his mom, he knew he had to come. He didn't want to, but he knew he’d hate himself forever if he didn’t.

“Hey, Mamá.”

“Francisco, how quickly can you make it home?”

“Mom, I told you, I’m not-”

“It’s Doug. He’s in hospice.”

“Fuck. How um- how much longer do they think he has?”

“When I talked to Michelle, she said they were hoping for a few more weeks. But I’m not sure. He doesn’t look good, mi amor. If you want to say your goodbyes, now’s the time.”

“O-okay. I can probably be home by tomorrow. Gonna be late though. Is uh- is she, um-”

“She’s here. For about a week or so already. She keeps looking over at your empty spot in the driveway just like she did all those years you were away. Waiting for you, Francisco.”

It’s the lump in his throat and ache in his chest that gets him home an hour and fifteen minutes faster than what his GPS said it would. He’s not sure what delusional part of his mind thinks that maybe you’ll be waiting for him when he pulls into the driveway. Maybe it’s the same delusional part of his mind that pictured you sitting there, cross legged on the concrete, staring up at the sky to count stars like sheep, waiting for him to come home all those years ago.

He’s also not sure why it hurts so bad when he shows up and you’re not there.

Frankie feels like he’s 16 again, sneaking into his own house in the wee hours of the night, digging the spare key out from under the doormat, attentive to the practiced pattern of how to avoid squeaks in the hinges as he turns the lock behind him, careful not to wake a single sleeping soul. He tiptoes over the 4th stair to the second floor and barely taps the 7th before he finds shelter in his room, successful from his journey.

Every time he comes home, he can’t help but laugh at the fact his mother refuses to change anything about his bedroom. Everything is in the same place it was the day he left for the Air Force, down to the pile of unfinished homework from his Senior year of high school stacked on his desk. Each time he sees it, he’s never sure if the source of his laughter is nostalgia or irony. Maybe it’s a little bit of both.

When he looks at the picture frames scattered across his nightstand, a 17 year old Frankie stares back at him, tall and gangly, arms too big for his own body, an awful haircut he begged his mom to let him get. It was the year he discovered how much he couldn’t live without a hat, simply out of necessity for the 6 months it took for his hair to grow back out. You were the first one to tell him how cute he looked in the one hat he already owned. He bought three more in the weeks to come.

He wonders what the 17 year old in those pictures staring back at him would think of him now. If there’s one thing he knows for certain, it’s that high school him would have beat the shit out of him for the way things turned out, scrawny limbs and all.

It seems like the military has taught him how to sleep anywhere besides his own home, keeping company with the shadows dancing on his ceiling in the moonlight, tossing and turning in the tattered sheets of the twin sized bed his mom promised she’d upgrade when he got big enough. To this day, he and his mom both know he was never begging her for a new bed because he had outgrown it, he just always wanted to make room for one more person.

He clocks 3 and a half hours of sleep as good enough, creeping out of his house the same way he had come in, making the 5.4 mile trip to Benson Park to watch the sun rise. Frankie’s always hated running, it’s just as much of a surprise to him as it is to everyone else that he keeps doing it. It makes his knees hurt like shit and his lungs feel like they’re being strangled by rubber bands, a cruel cycle of self punishment he can’t seem to shake his addiction for.

He’s sat on the same side of the bench underneath the ancient Blooming Dogwood since the first time he came here. He tried one time to sit on the other side. He’s superstitious enough to believe his one time fuck up has had a lasting effect. The bench is so hidden at the back of the park, he likes to think that the two of you are the only ones to have ever found it. No one else has ever burst through the bubble of secrets shared between the two of you there, leaving the wood grain to be stained with memories and moments that have shaped the both of you, good and bad.

It’s the first place you ever told him about your dad. It’s the first place he ever told you about his. His dad was already nothing but memories by then. It makes him sick to his stomach that soon, that’s all you’ll have left, too.

Frankie, Fall of 1999, Age 11

“How much longer do we have, Frankie? I feel like my legs are gonna fall off!”

“Quit being such a baby, you’re fine!”

“Next time we have to ride our bikes this far, I’m pulling an E.T. and riding in the front basket of your bike.”

“Perfect, you look just like him.”

“Frankie!”

“Kidding, kidding!”

Frankie’s never had a friend like you before. Sure, he’s got Santi, but it’s not quite the same.

Santi took some easing into- five years ago, when Frankie moved onto Everett Street, he became a friend by force, not choice. Santi staked his claim on him, seeing Frankie as a gift sent straight from heaven, finally having another boy his age to play with after too many years of being sentenced to dress up and tea parties from his 3 older sisters.

Santi was everything Frankie wasn’t- loud, assertive, the kind of friend who grabs you by the hand and drags you along with them whether you liked it or not. There’s times now, after a half a decade of friendship, that Frankie still questions the way Santi’s brain is wired, but Frankie’s too good of a friend to ever make a fuss about it.

You, on the other hand, needed no easing into. From the moment he met you, watching you toss that football so far past Santi that he was convinced it would disappear on the other end of the street, Frankie had been mesmerized by you.

There’s something about you that makes him feel a weird thump in his chest every time you’re together. Everything about you gives him comfort in a way he can’t describe, a safety he’s felt with very few other people in his life until now.

There’s just something about you. He still hasn’t been able to quite pinpoint what it is.

Whatever it may be, it’s enough to invite you on a bike ride to the back of Benson Park instead of Santi.

“Do you even know where we are? I don’t think there’s any more park left past this point, Frankie.” You huff, slowing the wheels of your bike behind him as you come to the edge of a steep rolling hill, nothing left in front of you but acres of empty land and tall grass.

“Yeah, I do. Maybe we just passed the trail on the way in. We’ll just- We can just find it on the way back.”

He knows you know he’s fibbing, but he wants your trust that he won’t lead you astray more than he wants to tell the truth.

“Okay. There’s a bench underneath that tree. Can we just sit for a little bit before my legs turn to jello?”

You’re already halfway off your bike before he can respond. Even if he had said no, there’s no way he’d leave without you.

“Fine. What flavor jello?”

“Whatever flavor is your least favorite so you don’t eat my legs, Francisco. That’s just weird.”

The two of you laugh, tossing your bikes to the ground as you bottoms find the wood of the bench you’d pointed out, you on the right side, Frankie on the left.

“My mom only ever gets the red kind. I don’t even really like it that much. Don’t worry, you’re safe, Kenz.”

“I don’t really like it either. But we have every flavor at my house ‘cause that’s like, all my dad eats.”

Frankie starts to laugh like you’re playing a joke on him, trying to pretend your dad’s diet exists exclusively of artificially flavored gelatin, but your sudden silence and the way your voice drops to the ground right with your eyes tells him he’d better stop snickering.

“Your dad only eats jello?”

“Well not only, but a lot of it, I guess.”

His face scrunches with a mixture of confusion and concern at your sadness. He’s never heard you this quiet before.

“Um, w-why?”

The silence is almost deafening. He’s not sure why he should be so concerned with asking about jello, but he’s too curious to let it go. He selfishly wants to know what about it makes you so upset, because he just as selfishly hopes there’s something he can do to make you feel better.

“My dad has cancer. He’s really sick. He can’t really eat a lot, but jello’s the one thing he can keep down most of the time without, like, throwing up or whatever.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, like you’re worried someone else will hear and spill the rest of your secrets right along with this one. You say it like he’s the only one in the world you want to hear it.

“I’m- I’m sorry. That sucks.”

Frankie blames it on his instincts, the way his hand finds yours, outstretched on the bench. He touches you like he’s handling a baby bird who’s fallen out of its nest, delicate and careful, calculated, hoping you won’t try to fly away in fear. Instead, your hand welcomes his, scooting closer to the weight of his palm resting on top of it. He feels you give in as you let him carry you back to safety of the tree you’ve descended from.

“It’s okay. That’s why we moved here. The doctors in Michigan said that there were even better doctors here who could maybe help make his cancer go away.”

“And then maybe he won’t have to eat as much jello.” He takes a gamble with the joke, but it pays off with your surprised snort, “Sorry, that was stupid. I shouldn’t be joking about it.”

“I mean, it was, but it was funny. It’s okay, my dad jokes about it, too. He always says, one day, it’ll be funny, so might as well make that day today.”

His heart warms as he watches a small smile return to your face. It heats the pink in his cheeks when he realizes he was the one who helped bring it back.

“Your dad sounds nice.”

“He is. Even though he doesn’t feel good a lot of the time, he still always tries to come to my soccer games and stuff. I know he can’t be like what he was before he was sick, but he tries to be. What about your dad?”

Frankie prays you don’t notice the way his heart sinks like he noticed yours. He chews on the inside of his lip so hard, he thinks it may bleed. He wants to lie, but he knows that you’ll know. You always know.

“Um, I don’t- I don’t really see my dad.”

It’s you now who's grabbing his hand, offering him the same type of safety net he’d made for you. He’s barely known you two months. He’s known Santi for five years and all he knows is that his dad doesn’t live with him. Frankie didn’t want to tell him, he’s not sure he’d understand. There’s a strange sensation that swirls in his gut, because he wants to tell you. You’d laid the first brick in the foundation of trust between the two of you. The least he can do is help you keep building.

“Oh. Why don’t you see him?” He sees you’re prying, but not in a way that hopes to expose him. He knows you’re prying because you want him to let you in, to get a peek at what's behind the curtain. It’s a locked door most people in his life will ever get access to, but he’ll let you have a spare set of keys.

“I never really knew him. My mom said he left when I was a baby. She says she’s always been happy it’s just me and her. That it was easier to live with one less person than to live with someone who was mean.”

“Your mom sounds like a wise lady.”

He appreciates the fact humor was your first response, too, it makes the sting of ripping the stitches off a still-healing wound hurt just a little less.

“Yeah, I guess so. Still kinda wish I had a dad, though, ya know?”

“You can borrow my dad whenever you want. As long as you don’t mind super embarrassing, stupid jokes.”

“Are they as bad as mine?”

“No. They’re worse.”

Neither of you would have minded staying just a little bit longer, but the bright reds and yellows of the setting October sky remind you both that the parents you’ve opened up about are expecting you back before night washes over the quaint suburbia of your town. The bike ride home is much quieter than the one there, but the simple silence seems to speak louder than anything he’d have to say.

The next day, Frankie would raid the cabinets of his kitchen for every last packet of jello he could find and bring them all to your front door.

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

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

@3sriracha @jungchloee @perennialdoll247 @prettyinpunk85 @raspberrybesitos

@partyofone3413 @harriedandharassed @pedrohoe04 @theorganasolo

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

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

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

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

@amyispxnk @honeyedmiller @mountainsandmayhem @picketniffler @burningnerdchild

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

@samgirl4life @pigeonmama @survivingandenduring @jolapeno @ovaryacted

@amanitacowboy @mystickittytaco @anoverwhelmingdin @greenwitchfromthewoods

@witchofthedeepwoods @ericamarie093 @readingiskeepingmegoing @whimsiwitchy @whoaitspascal87

@vickie5446 @katw474 @ravenpoe67 @inthedarkestnight @brittmb115

@harryscherrysugar

@javierpena-inatacvestnotifs

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stqrgirlie0 · 9 months ago

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⋆✮theodore nott✮⋆

part 2 /part 4

theo’s had a hard childhood, his mother sadly died and all he has left his father. his fucked up father. there’s no wonder as to why theo took up smoking, but this doesn’t change the fact that he’s completely addicted. every inhale and exhale takes him further away from the walls of the castle, just what he wants. just what he needs. despite his mother leaving him from a young age, theo continues his and his mother’s shared passion for learning, doesn’t necessarily mean he’s at the top of his classes but he’s doing pretty good if he says so himself. theo was also taught how to play the piano but avoids doing so because he thinks it reminds him of his mother too much. but if you wake up in the middle of the night, you might faintly hear a sweet sweet melody being played from the common room.. all the neglect from his father’s end corrupted his innocence growing up, and as a child Theo often spent his time in solitude. however he didn’t let this affect his relationships in his teenhood, and still chose to foster relationships- but only as far as friendships. Theo has never been in a relationship and the ‘sleeping around’ thing his friends so often did, didn’t seem so appealing to him. that is, until he saw you. he was sure you were new but when you first talked and told him you’ve been here since first year, let’s just say it wasn’t one of his proudest moments. from that moment he knew exactly what he was going to do. it took a while, his grovelling weirded you out at first- did he like you? was he trying to do this as a joke? eventually you’d realised it was in fact not a joke, and theodre nott actually did like you, yes. however did you know what to do in response? absolutely not, so of course you turn to everyone’s go-to flirting method: feigned dislike. it worked wonders while also creating a tense but playful rivalry between you and theo. did this confuse theo at first? slightly, yes. but was he also turned on by it? absofuckinglutely. in case it isn’t obvious, things did eventually get heated… everything about you had him going crazy- your smile, your eyes, your laugh, your comebacks, your scent, your hands, YOUR HANDS. gosh he goes absolutely feral over your hands (mainly because he imagines he’ll be putting a ring on it one day, but asides from that..) the way that they fit so perfectly into his alters his brain chemistry or something because trust me this man will be holding onto it and fidgeting around with it EVERY. SECOND. OF. THE. DAY. while everyone thinks he’s a complicated character, he’s actually not. there’s a limited amount of ways to get to his heart- food, hugs and hickeys. food: you know it, every theo enthusiast has heard this about a million times, all the more reason to believe it to be true!! he will literally eat his whole weight and won’t think anything of it, and will STILL be skinny af. hugs: this man needs his hugs just to relax and have a lil breather. a back hug, a side hug, a bear hug, straddle hug, you name it he will hold onto you like a koala! hickeys: alright, enough of our soft teddy, Mr Nott knows his way around your neck, shoulders, chest, EVERYWHWRE. there’s nothing sweet about this, he wants everyone to know who makes you a hot moaning mess every night.

#hmm should I do a part two??🤔🤔#y’all know I’ll do anything for my theo bby

#slytherin #slytherin boys #theo nott imagine #theo nott smut #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott smut #theodore nott imagine #theodore nott #theodore nott x you #theodore x reader #theodore nott x y/n #theo nott #theodore nott x slytherin!reader #lorenzo zurzolo

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badplayerana · 2 months ago

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Current favorite cherik fics

part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6

And I really mean 'current' because this changes every other week lol but for now I'd like to give back and rec them, if the cherik nation is looking for some really good stories

Stars Will Tumble From The Blue by Baamon5evr

“Just one night, no fear, no shame, no blame or rage. Just serenity. Just us. Just one night to acknowledge that there is more here and then we go our separate ways and you go back to being angry and hating me.” *missing scene* set between First Class and Days of Future Past

One Life for Yourself and One for Your Dreams by endingthemes

When 00 Agent Raven Darkholme manages to capture the elusive Magneto and bring him in for questioning about a dangerous arms deal involving international criminal Sebastian Shaw, it’s up to Quartermaster Charles Xavier to get him to talk. With time running out, Charles needs to convince Magneto to trust him, but they’re both far too good at keeping secrets, and the growing attraction between them is only making things more difficult.

Dark Flowers by Niphrehdil (I made a post dedicated to this one a while back but this might be my all time favorite, so here it is again)

When Charles is captured by a secret organization and used as a weapon for searching and destroying other mutants, Erik has to go after and save him. Erik keeps telling himself he does it only for the mutant kind. At least until he finds Charles.

the way it travels in and keeps emitting light by populuxe

Charles and Erik aren’t friends: their mutual dislike was both instant and enduring, from that very first day Raven introduced them. But when Charles gets into a life-altering accident, the connections between all three of them start to fundamentally shift, too.

Robbers by dsrobertson (mind the tags/warnings!!)

1933. Bank robber AU. The Bureau of Investigation are after Public Enemy Number Two, bank robber Erik Lehnsherr. Charles Xavier is fiancé to Special Agent Moira MacTaggart. A closet homosexual, Charles visits the Manhattan pansy club scene and meets Max Eisenhardt. Only as time goes on, Max Eisenhardt turns out to be Erik Lehnsherr. Public Enemy Number Two. Charles learns exactly what happens when you accidentally fall in love with a male bank robber in 1930s America.

#cherik #charles xavier #erik lehnsherr #xmen #cherik fic #cherik fic rec #cherik au #fic rec #current favorite

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tsaomengde · 10 months ago

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The Villeneuve Dune(s) can be broadly interpreted as one of the two possible futures Paul sees in the original novel

Spoilers below for Dune Part Two. (And for the original novel, but that's been out since the 60s.)

He had seen two main branchings along the way ahead--in one he confronted an evil old Baron and said: "Hello, Grandfather." The thought of that path and what lay along it sickened him.

The other path held long patches of grey obscurity except for peaks of violence. He had seen a warrior religion there, a fire spreading across the universe with the Atreides green and black banner waving at the head of fanatic legions drunk on spice liquor. Gurney Halleck and a few others of his father's men--a pitiful few--were among them, all marked by the hawk symbol from the shrine of his father's skull.

"I can't go that way," he muttered. "That's what the old witches of your schools really want."

Obviously the Doylist explanation for why there are differences in the new films is that the original book is 60+ years old and has certain elements no longer in cultural vogue that were adapted out or altered to better fit modern sensibilities, and I'm all for that. But I did find it interesting that there is an explicit moment at the end of Part 2 where Paul confronts the Baron, utters the "Hello, Grandfather," line, and kills him.

This isn't necessarily because there is any one choice that Paul makes throughout the course of the two movies that leads here instead of to the jihad. In point of fact, most of the changes that drive him here are caused by choices made in the adaptations of the films.

The causal chain that leads to Paul undertaking the spice agony is his failure to predict the attack on Sietch Tabr, rather than his failure to predict Gurney's attack on Jessica; this is, of course, necessitated by the omission of the Harkonnen scheme in part 1 to impair Thufir's Mentat efficiency and potentially drive a wedge between Leto and Jessica by framing Jessica as the traitor. The final push that causes him to make the decision is, of course, the vision he experiences of an alternate future in which he didn't have to kill Jamis, with Jamis counseling him to climb as high as possible before the hunt so he can see as far as possible. (In other words, he ignores Stilgar's advice of not listening to the djinn.)

Similarly, his killing of the Baron is necessitated by the adaptational choice to keep Alia as a fetus so the audience doesn't have to deal with a two-year-old talking like an adult and killing the Baron, which they probably did because it would have been distracting.

However, I might argue that a Watsonian explanation for the film omitting the two-year time-jump lies specifically with Paul's decision to explicitly disavow the prophecy when Jessica undergoes the spice agony, and to explain to the Fremen that her survival is because of her Bene Gesserit training. He then attempts to secure his position with the Fremen through secular deeds, rather than letting Jessica carve a place for them with the BG prophesy.

This disagreement between the two of them causes her in turn to take a more active approach in cultivating Paul's status as Lisan al-Gaib, which accelerates the timeline of the Fremen being ready to submit to him. In turn, Paul focusing more strongly on guerrilla war against the Harkonnens accelerates the timeline of Feyd-Rautha being put in charge of Arrakis and cracking down hard in the north, leading to the aforementioned crisis point of Sietch Tabr being attacked without Paul's foreknowledge.

Notably, while we do see the shrine of Leto's skull in the film, we only see it in a vision; there is no moment in the movie where Paul explicitly finds his father's remains and enshrines them. Hence, going from a strict interpretation of the film's "text," this is not the future in which the legions are marked by the shrine, because the shrine doesn't exist. It is the other future. The compression of time means that Paul and Chani's relationship is much newer and more fragile and doesn't survive the strain of his apotheosis, and that's what sickens him most.

Of course, the "Hello, Grandfather" path also leads to the jihad, because Paul's tragedy is that his very existence was always going to lead to it, regardless of what he chose to do.

And Paul saw how futile were any efforts of his to change any smallest bit of this. He had thought to oppose the jihad within himself, but the jihad would be. His legions would rage out from Arrakis even without him. They needed only the legend he already had become. He had shown them the way, given them mastery even over the Guild which must have the spice to exist.

Obviously none of this passes explicit, close scrutiny, and is more of a fun "if you squint and look at it a certain way it kind of makes sense." I expect that the line was put in as a nod to the original book, no more or less, but making up head-canons like this is fun for me and if even one other person finds it edifying then I consider sharing it time well spent!

#dune #dune part two #headcanon #analysis #paul atreides #lady jessica #chani #chani kynes #dune part two spoilers

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sky-scribbles · 5 months ago

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There are a lot of things to love about the SSV Normandy. It’s a symbol of cooperation between two species historically at odds. It’s a miracle of engineering, a technological masterpiece that could alter every pattern of space warfare. Its crew is the highest calibre that the Alliance has to offer, bolstered by multispecies allies: an emblem of flying hope.

It also has far, far too many flashing lights. Everywhere.

One hand pressed to the wall to keep himself steady, the other pressed against his forehead as if that’s going to do any good, Kaidan shuffles down the hall toward the med bay. Every light panel and display interface feels like a laser drill boring directly through his eyes, sounds reverberate against the inside of his skull, and his sense of balance is a distant, pleasant memory. Kaidan sucks in a tight breath between his teeth. It’s going to be okay. He can do this. He’s done it before.

He drags himself the last few feet, and the med bay doors slide open. Kaidan opens up his omni-tool – god, why are those so bright, too? – and does what he’s done a hundred times, scanning the medical interface so that the med system logs him. Doctor Chakwas isn’t here, which means she’s on her rest shift, but that’s fine. The med system will alert her if there’s a problem.

Kaidan, turns, so ready to collapse into the nearest med bed – except he can’t. Because there’s someone already in it.

‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Hey, Tali.’

‘Hey, Lieutenant.’ She still seems shy about using his first name. Maybe it’s a habit from being raised on board ships, or maybe she’s just not sure if she’s allowed. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I will be once the pain meds kick in.’ Kaidan makes it to the next bed along and finally, finally lies down and shuts his eyes. ‘Doctor Chakwas is just… pretty strict about me coming here whenever a migraine kicks in. Just in case it’s a sign of something going wrong with my implant.’

Through the fog of everything hurts, it finally surfaces in his brain that Tali in the med bay is… that’s bad, right? ‘What about you? Are you, you know –?’

Okay, he’s not sure how to finish that sentence. There’s probably not a polite way to say hey, are you here because you’ve picked up a fatal illness?

He cracks one eye open, just enough to see her looking glumly at him. He’s not sure how he can tell that she’s glum when all he can see is her eyes, but yeah. She’s glum. ‘You know how I took a hit on Feros?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And how I disinfected it, and used my patch kit on the suit breach, and told Shepard I was fine?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I was not fine.’ She slumps down miserably. ‘My throat is full of painful slime, my sinuses are on fire, and my halesh –’ Okay, that’s obviously some piece of quarian anatomy – ‘is more gummed up than I can describe.’

Kaidan shuts his eyes again. ‘Well, my skull feels like it’s slowly contracting and crushing my brain, so… I sort of feel you.’

She laughs weakly. ‘I should have run an extra med scan once I got back to the Normandy. I just – I wanted to help with the engine maintenance today. And there’s this combat drone design I’m working on. And now…’ There’s a sound of movement; Kaidan gets the impression that she’s gesturing at the med bay in angry helplessness.

‘I feel that too.’ And he does. He really does. This isn’t the worst migraine he’s ever had – he can actually hold a conversation, which some days would be beyond him. But it’s… it’s not great. And he had things to do. Ash was running a drill and wanted him to look over her plans. He had a cleaning shift at fourteen hours. Shepard wanted to talk strategy for Noveria. And yes, he knows he has a right to take time off for a medical issue. He knows he’s no use to Ash or Shepard or anyone when he can’t even walk in a straight line. But knowing that doesn’t quite get rid of the squirm in his belly, the one that feels like letting people down.

Tali’s quiet for a minute, aside from the ever-present, barely-audible hum of her suit systems, and the occasional sniff from behind her helmet. Then she says, unexpectedly, ‘I’m just… I’m so tired. You know what I mean?’

Kaidan’s head throbs. He swallows. ‘Oh, yeah.’

The constant vigilance. Always having to be careful about where he goes – is this room too bright? Is this one too loud? – in case something triggers another bad spell. Taking hits to the head in a fight that anyone else could just shrug off, but that for him mean another trip to the med bay to make sure his implant isn’t damaged. Trying to do his job and suddenly finding, no, he can’t, because his body has decided that today’s the day he just doesn’t get to function.

Tali… she must go through the same awful deal, just in a different flavour. Always being careful, so careful. Someone else’s minor injury being her okay, let’s get a med check to make sure I won’t die. It’s not the same, of course: Kaidan can eat food without filtering it, touch people without protective layers, see people’s faces without a tinted mask. Still… there’s a tone in her voice that he knows from his own.

There’s a heavy silence. Then Tali says, ‘You know what’s really stupid? I left my datapad in my cabin, so I can’t even watch vids.’

Kaidan smiles. He’s seen her down in Engineering, a few times, hands flying around over the machinery, rocking back and forth on her heels. Idleness obviously doesn’t suit her. ‘You can borrow mine, if you like.’

‘Really?’ Her voice is already brighter. ‘I mean – won’t the noise will make you feel worse?’

‘Nah, I’ll be good.’ He’s not just saying it; there’s a blissful numbness creeping through his head which means that his meds are finally getting to work. He fishes the datapad from his pocket, taps in his passcode, and hands it over. ‘What kind of vids do you like?’

Her whole being perks up – tone, body, everything. ‘Oh, all of them.Any genre, any species. I mean… asari vids can be a bit long. I mean, they’re made by people who can spend a decade making a vid and a whole day watching it. Turians… their vids can be a bit depressing. There’s a lot of ‘this war ended with almost everyone dead, but one turian is still standing, so it’s a victory!”

‘What about quarians? What kinds of stories do your people tell?’

A small laugh echoes inside the helmet. ‘Quarian vids are pretty limited by environment. We don’t have a lot of varied sets to work with. So we tell the best long-running dramas. There’s one ship in the Flotilla that’s been hosting the same series for over eighty standard years now. Following the crew as they change over time, that sort of thing.’ She taps the base of her helmet. ‘It’s pretty good, but… I think if you watched it, you’d think there were a lot more explosions, murders and shipwide romantic entanglements in the Flotilla than there actually are.’

‘Human dramas are like that too.’

Tali laughs. ‘Quarian dramas make human dramas look relaxed.’

Kaidan finds he’s actually able to grin. ‘So what do human vids tell you about us?’

Her helmet tilts as she considers. ‘That you’re very individualistic. I mean, not every human culture. But you put a lot of focus onto characters and personal journeys.’ She scrolls down the datapad screen – looking through vid lists, presumably – then stops. It’s hard to tell, but Kaidan thinks she might be frowning. ‘I did notice… in a lot of human media, the biotics are…’

Another insistent pulse of pain through his temples. Kaidan sighs. ‘Crazy extremists?’

‘Yes. Do you… do you mind if I ask why that is?’

‘No, it’s fine.’ Kaidan turns onto his back and stares up at the dim ceiling. ‘A lot of the early generation of biotics, the ones who got the same implants as me… let’s just say I got off lightly. Most ended up with much more serious medical conditions. And when people found out about the side effects of the L2 implants, the media got the bit between its teeth and –’ Yeah, no, that wasn’t going to translate. ‘Sorry. Human saying. They got a certain impression, and they ran with it.’

Tali’s quiet for several seconds. Kaidan twists his head to face her, and sees the pale eyes behind the mask giving him a long, steady look.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says. And then, after a moment, ‘They tell lies about us, too.’

Kaidan holds her gaze, and feels terribly, achingly sad. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I bet they do.’

The way people look at Tali as she walks through the Presidium… it’s familiar. Not quite the same. There’s a note of scorn in the looks they give to Tali – but there’s suspicion, too, and that’s something he knows. All the times back on Earth, after he got back from Jump Zero, when he shook someone’s hand or opened a door, and their eyes found the implants. They way they stared at him like he was a loaded gun. All the documents he had to fill out to do anything, the knowledge that any government he lived under would always be hovering a few steps away, keeping tabs, making sure.

Remembering Rahna – remembering that obvious, instinctive fear in her eyes – is an old memory now, the kind that’s a faded scar. But he remembers the shock of it, back when he was seventeen. When no one had looked at him like that before, and it was dizzying and new and felt like a hole in his gut.

He bets Tali has that hole in her gut all the time.

Kaidan pushes himself up a little – which makes his brain spin, but he manages it – and gives Tali a smile. ‘Well. Let’s look for something that gets us both right.’

‘Definitely.’ She flicks through the options for a minute more, then pauses. ‘Have you ever seen Fleet and Flotilla?’

‘I think I’ve heard of it.’ There’s a faint memory of seeing an ad for it, maybe, and thinking it was the kind of thing he’d have loved as a kid. Space exploration. Justice. Love. ‘The… war romance, right?’

‘Yes!’ Tali’s legs bounce. ‘It’s – keelah, it’s so good, it’s – it’s about this girl, Shalei, who’s on her pilgrimage. And she’s interested in the geth, because she’s got this dream of finding a way to defeat them and take back the Homeworld, right? And when she finds something, she goes to the Citadel for help, but no one will listen except this one turian called Bellicus –’

‘Hold up. Wasn’t that… exactly what you were doing when we met you? Minus the turian, I mean.’

Tali ducks her head, suddenly shy. ‘I… I really, really like the vid.’

No kidding. Kaidan smiles. ‘So let’s watch it.’

His head still feels like a bombsite, and when he thinks about all the things he wants to be doing for his crew and isn’t, the rest of him hurts too. But maybe he’s still doing something for his crew, sitting in the med bay with his sick squadmate – his sick friend – and sharing her favourite vid with her. Maybe he’s doing something for him, too. He doesn’t do that too often.

Tali props the datapad up on the table between their beds, her whole body one big smile. ‘You’re going to love this,’ she promises, and presses play.

#sometimes your disability gives you a day tm so you write 1900 words about ME1's disability duo #i love their friendship. beloved nerds.#(if you're wondering 'did i see this two hours ago?' I accidentally posted it while I was still editing.#and I deleted it until I was ready to post because I'm a perfectionist)#mass effect #mass effect fic #kaidan alenko #tali'zorah #sky's writing

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s4lv4tions · 1 year ago

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war god sukuna has no need for you. you know this as intimately as you know yourself.

he is a monstrous god, well-suited to the mantle he was given from birth; two pairs of muscular arms as thick as the average man’s torso, two cruel faces, a gaping maw carved into the hardness of his stomach. to peer into sukuna’s eyes is to see death and famine and destruction — wars raged long before you and long after you — and live through it all.

he has no need for you. he is perhaps more powerful than the entire pantheon, even the six-eyed-one and the curse-consumer, who swallows the sky every day to bring night. you have little understanding of the sheer magnitude of his power — your pathetic human brain can only fathom so much — but you know that sukuna, undoubtedly, is the very meaning of the word. and yet, he keeps you.

you are not a concubine, though he shirks those he has in favour of your company. you are not a general, nor an admiral, nor a soldier, and yet he seeks your counsel. you are not a mage, and hardly a grand priestess, and yet sukuna finds your door instead of that of his great temple, where hundreds live and breathe to serve him.

you had only reached the status of alter-maiden before your own temple was crushed to dust; little responsibility was given to you beyond tending the hearth, studying, and occasionally helping with chores. but sukuna dresses you in the finery of high priestesses — gauzy crimson dresses that bare your stomach and chest, fine golden jewellery and garnets that appear almost black in low light — and instructs you to dance in the way your superiors did. dances of worship, dances that he does not need, because he is already all-powerful.

the dances fit you like armour fits the weedy frame of a young boy — your legs don’t quite stretch far enough, your arms can’t move with a fluidity only gained by experience — but sukuna watches you like you are a sorceress, enchanting him with each step. he hushes uruame as they try to speak, insisting on remaining undisturbed during your worship — and when you finish, panting and glistening with sweat, your god only hums in satisfaction, grin all sharp-toothed and feral.

it must be blasphemous, you think, to perform such revered dances so clumsily—

but perhaps even more blasphemous, though, is the lingering touches your god fixes upon your waist; the hunger in his eyes as you dance; the scrape of his pointed nails against your jawline; the tent in his robes at the sound of your laboured breaths after dancing.

you fear the god of war means to have you in more ways than one — and worse still, you can’t find it within you to care.

#sukuna x reader #nsft #sukuna x you #jjk x reader #jjk x you #sukuna smut #jjk smut #listen i have a lot of thoughts abt how u really r just like #a toy for him at first #like a cat batting at a dying bird #ur just like so pathetic and human and hes like yeah ill take that one #and it means absolutely nothing at the start - ur just amusing and entertaining and ur heart beats like a hummingbirds when he looks at u-#-like he wants to split u in two on his cock (he does)#and then hes like oh fuck ur humanity has endeared u to me. oh fuck #etc but add more jealous concubines and godly drama of course :3333

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nqctar · 5 months ago

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εϊз salt air, and the rust on your door ; anton lee

pairing. bf!anton lee x f!reader. genre. fluff, childhood friends to lovers. inspired by tsitp. synopsis. (the summer house pt. 1) breathing in the salty air during a hot august night spent at anton's summer house alters your brain somehow. you gather the courage to tell anton that you love him. warnings. kissing/make out, physical touch. wc. 883 words. author’s note. sorry that i disappeared for so long, i was on trial for fraud :/ i’m back now though !!

( 🐚 ) ONE SUMMER CAN CHANGE EVERYTHING.

you awake from your nap sometime late into the evening. in the distance you hear something orchestral, it’s soft and melodic and surrounds you like a chorus of angels welcoming you into your new forever. “must be anton’s cello,” you think.

of course it was. you step out of his bedroom, the floorboards creak one by one as you tip toe out into the living room. you’re greeted by his silhouette, the point of his shoulders broad as ever as he sits up tall, hands moving the bow as he plays. you hear him mutter a few frustrations.

he pauses, and then halfway turns to you.

“finally, you’re up. please sit down and tell me what the hell i’m doing wrong.” you smile as you sit crisscrossed on the shag carpet in front of him, somewhat reminiscent of the first kindergarten day you’d ever met him.

anton begins again, his eyes focused on the sheet music in front of him. you admire how handsome and focused he looks, his movements sophisticated to a standard you’d never seen before. he proceeds to play something that makes you feel as if you’re floating in the clouds. every note rings out thick through your ears, you’re practically surrounded by music notes by the time he’s done. whatever he’d just played had changed your life in only three minutes.

“fuck you forever,” he mutters. it catches you off guard and you look at him like a deer caught in headlights. anton notices your expression and quickly follows up. “oh my god, not you. the cello. i didn’t mean you.”

“why do i suck at playing today?” you shake your head at him. suck at playing? anton?? there's no way. "that's impossible," you retort. "i think i literally ascended just now. you're fine, anton. actually— you're perfect." he flashes that wide grin at you and woah, you are so glad you were already sitting down because you would've collapsed otherwise.

"thanks, baby. i hope you aren't just saying that because you're my girlfriend." you shake your head at him again. you could never lie to anton. to you, he was the greatest cello player on earth. you'd spend an entire lifetime proving it to the world if you could.

"anton, i'm saying that because it's the truth. and also because i love you." his head jerks back at your words, eyes going wide as ever. your face goes red and you question what overcame you to finally admit the quiet part out loud. was it the salty cape cod air altering your brain chemicals? had you been possessed by cupid himself?

anton puts his bow down and steps away from his instrument. you're curious as to what he's going to do. he walks over to you and then somewhat crouches onto his knees, caressing the back of your head with his hand. you're face to face and closer than you'd been all day. the air must be doing something to the both of you, because any of your usual shyness is gone. far, far gone. anton gives you a soft smile. you admire how pretty he is up this close, lucky that you're the only one who gets to see him in such an intimate way.

the silence between you two is more than comfortable. it feels like it was your destiny to be here, in this moment. the sound of waves crashing against the nearby shore fills the space around you. in a way, it's harmonious. it's just as comforting as waking up to the sound of anton practicing. perfect doesn't even begin to describe your summer.

he leans in and kisses you. first softly, and then with more intensity. his hands run through your hair, they caress your skin and light little fires all over your body. the both of you end up laying on the floor as you're on top of him, with your hands in his hair this time, sending shivers down his spine as he tries to find the meaning of love within your lips. by the time you both pull away for air, your lips are red and faces flushed with nervousness. "there's that familiar shyness creeping back," you think.

"i love you too, y/n. i love you so much." anton whispers as you hover above him. you two move so that you're sitting next to each other, backs against the couch. you lean your head on his shoulder and take his soft hand in yours. "you're so sweet," you say. "how did i get so lucky?" if the intensity of your feelings are only temporary, damn, you never want the honeymoon phase to end. you savor this moment. you savor every moment as if anton would disappear right before your eyes.

"i still don't believe you. tell me i suck at playing the cello and then we can do that again." anton says, disturbing the silence.

"oh my god, shut up."

"fine, you suck." you obviously lie to him.

anton smiles as he leans in once again.

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shadowdaddies · 1 year ago

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Wings of Desire

Azriel x Reader

based on this request

Summary: meeting your mate’s family for the first time doesn’t go as you hoped

This can be read on its own, or as a part three | Part 1 | Part 2

Your body hummed with content, a soft smile gracing your lips as you savored the moment. The cup of tea in your hands spread warmth through your body with each sip, its spices filling your nose with a pleasant aroma as the sound of Azriel frying eggs on the stove echoed through the quiet cabin.

Biting your lip, you admired how your mate’s exposed muscles moved, his large dark wings relaxed half-open at his back as he swayed slightly over the pan. Nearly a week had passed since you had recognized the mating bond, and while you hadn’t known Azriel long, you were already certain there was no one else you would rather spend your life with.

Memories of the past week flooded your thoughts. From finding ways to show his tender affection towards you in the cabin - cooking for you, picking out books he thought you would enjoy, affirming you with his words - to being your fierce protector whenever you were training at the Illyrian camps, Azriel was a constant source of both excitement and security that you were shocked you had ever managed to live without.

A shadow curled around the spymaster’s ear, Azriel turning over his shoulder with a knowing smirk, hazel eyes darkening as they raked over you.

“See something you like?” Azriel teased, his gravelly morning voice causing you to clench your legs instinctively. Flushing under his gaze, you licked a drop of tea from your lip, moving to rest your chin on your hand as you gazed up at your mate.

“I like everything I see,” you replied, your own tone breathless as Azriel turned, his tattooed chest bared to you as he scraped the eggs onto each of your plates. As he held a plate out towards you, you popped up in your seat, leaning across the table as you grabbed it. With a kiss to his lips, you whispered a “thank you,” the both of you taking your seats across from each other to eat.

Humming quietly, you spread strawberry jam across a piece of golden toast, grinning at the tart smell of the fruit as you raised it to your lips. Just as you crunched down on the bread, Azriel cleared his throat, drawing your gaze back to his.

Hazel eyes honed in on you, a thick swallow working down the Illyrian’s throat before he reached a scarred thumb to the corner of your mouth. It was a challenge to focus your breathing as you watched Azriel draw his thumb away, his tongue flicking out against the jam he’d collected from your lips before wrapping his own around the digit and sucking.

Seemingly oblivious to what he was doing to you, Azriel cleared his throat once more before speaking.

“I would like to take you to Velaris.” He spoke so casually, leaning against the counter as he used the side of his fork to cut through an egg, scooping it onto a piece of his toast.

He had told you of Velaris last night - his safe haven, treasured home where he lived with his family. It struck you then, what a monumental moment this was for him - for the both of you - as the spymaster of the Night Court offered to bring someone from another court to his home.

But you both knew that you weren’t just ‘someone.’ And you both knew that what was happening between you two was not a fling. This was Life Altering, World Tipped on its Axis, Head over Heels, Love.

You must have been quiet for a moment too long, because Azriel’s relaxed demeanor vanished in favor of widened, anxious eyes and a stiff back.

“I just mean that I would like for you to meet my family... And, if you are comfortable...” he trailed off, searching for words. “I would just like to show you my home.”

You couldn’t hold back the bright smile that took over your face, the joy that could not be held back as you imagined it. So far, your relationship with Azriel had been limited to your stay at the cabin and spy work. But this, this was real. This was confirmation that this incredible, beautiful male was not a dream, but your mate, and you could have a future with him.

Leaping up from your seat, you ran to embrace Azriel, his warm chest relaxing in your hold as he returned it. Leaning down, he pressed a soft kiss to your hair, murmuring against you. “So, is that a yes?”

You giggled against him, noting the rapid thumping of his heart at the sound as you said, “Yes. Of course I would love to, Azriel.”

An overwhelming sense of bliss flowed through the bond as you felt Azriel’s lips curve into a smile against your hair before tilting your head to look up at him. “We will go there for dinner tonight, then, if that is alright. Rhysand and Feyre are having dinner with the family at their home.”

You had met the High Lord and High Lady twice now, both in meeting with Tarquin and at the camps. Their kindness had surprised you, the Night Court’s leader nothing like his reputation. With an eager nod, you suddenly found yourself anxiously awaiting this evening, overcome with the excitement of meeting Azriel’s loved ones.

~~~

Adjusting the straps of your gauzy periwinkle dress, you thanked the Cauldron for Emerie. Dressing for a nice dinner was not something you had planned when you left for Illyria, but neither was Azriel. Your wings twitched in excitement as you took in your appearance in the mirror. Gowns weren’t something you wore often, and you were astonished at how beautiful you felt.

Boots scuffed, rubber soles hitting the wood harshly as the sound of liquid sloshing and splattering perked your ears. Turning over your shoulder, a gasp escaped you at the sight of Azriel, one hand on the floor in front of him as the other held a nearly-empty glass.

While you had not known Azriel long, you were certain that tripping was an uncommon occurrence for the spymaster. “Azriel, are you okay?” you breathed out, rushing forward to kneel next to him on the floor.

His cheeks flushed a now familiar pinkish hue that made you melt. Az simply gaped at you, awestruck as his eyes shone with emotion. “You are the most beautiful sight. I am not worthy of your presence,” he admitted, almost more to himself as he stayed dazed in front of you.

The sound of your laughter, like morning bells that awoke his soul, brought Azriel back to reality. You shook your head, standing as you offered your hand to help him stand with you.

“I will have Feyre paint that image one day. You, standing in the mirror - a female so ethereal that everything around her is abhorrently ordinary. You are incredible,” Azriel breathed the last words, a scarred thumb rubbing your cheek as he pulled you in for a kiss. Lightning shot through your bones, as though his kiss was an effervescent light that gave you life.

Reluctantly, the both of you pulled away, catching your breath as Azriel wrapped his arms around you. With a nod from you, he wrapped you both in darkness, carrying you away to the City of Starlight.

Darkness faded away, Azriel pulling back slightly as he took your hand in his and turned towards a large mansion. It was understatedly beautiful, clearly a modest home where the High Lord and High Lady often hosted family. Behind the home, you could see the mountains upon which you stood moments ago, now playing the part of a backdrop in a stunning painting.

Azriel led you forward, hand sliding to the small of your back as he held you close in a protective, claiming manner that made you smile with pride. As though she sensed your presence, the High Lady swung open the front door, a smile on her full lips as she greeted you.

“Hello! You look beautiful, please come in,” Feyre greeted, catching you off-guard with a warm hug before moving to greet Azriel the same. Rhys came up behind her, the lack of power emanating from him making the male seem almost normal. It was jarring to see them like this - so domestic and comfortable, a true family.

The couple guided you and Azriel down a grand hallway, the home simple in decoration with the exception of grand, beautiful paintings that lined the walls. “Those are all painted by Feyre,” Azriel whispered in your ear.

“They’re beautiful,” you whispered back. Raising your voice slightly, you gushed to Feyre as you passed a picture of Rhysand on the balcony of the Summer Court palace. “Your art is so beautiful. I didn’t realize how talented you are.”

With a small laugh, Feyre waved off your compliments. “It’s a nice outlet. I like to commemorate moments with my family that way,” she explained, ushering you into a dining room where several people stood around a table.

You weren’t usually nervous when meeting new people, but finding yourself face-to-face with your mate’s family, you suddenly became very conscious of everyone, intent on making a good impression. Cassian greeted you first, the war general much more jovial than he had been when you’d met prior in training. He introduced you to his wife, Nesta, who greeted you with a polite, knowing smile. “I’ve heard much about you from Azriel... and Emerie,” she added with a wink, her eyes moving to Azriel as the stunning Valkyrie pulled him in for a hug.

You laughed at her comment, gesturing to your dress. “Emerie lent me this dress for tonight, actually.” Nesta opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted.

“It is a beautiful dress,” a small voice sounded from Azriel’s other side. You stepped around your mate to see a petite female, similar to Nesta and Feyre but breathtakingly striking as her brown doe eyes assessed you. Her stiff form betrayed her kind words, tension building in the room as everyone turned towards her.

Fae instincts took over, your need to claim your mate guiding your hand to grip Azriel’s arm more firmly than necessary. “Thank you, very much...?” you replied, a polite but questioning look prompting the gorgeous fae for her name.

“I’m Elain - Feyre and Nesta’s sister,” she explained with that same strained politeness that had your hackles rising. You didn’t miss the scathing look Rhys shot towards Azriel, everyone else seemingly oblivious as the High Lord bode everyone to take their seats.

Azriel pulled out your chair, placing a kiss to your hand before taking the seat next to you. The muscles in his hand stiffened slightly, alerting you to look around him where you saw Elain taking the seat on his other side.

While everyone else continued to eat their meals, enjoying the casual conversation, you could hardly breathe as Elain continued whispering to Azriel, giggling at everything he said. Rhys watched you with caution, sending an encouraging smile as Nesta attempted to make conversation with you about the books you had been reading.

The world stopped turning when Elain put her hand on Azriel’s thigh, your vision red as an animalistic growl left your lips. Everyone in the table turned towards you in alarm, surprise on their faces as they took in the situation.

The usual dark power that Rhysand emanated returned, bringing a chilly air to the room as he spoke in a deathly calm voice. “The three of you,” he nodded at you, Azriel, and Elain, “come with me.” Like ashamed children, you left your seat, yanking your hand from Azriel’s when he attempted to reach for it.

Fists clenched, you stormed from the room and followed the High Lord into his office, his eyes matching yours in their glowing fury. Azriel timidly clicked the wooden door shut behind him, just in time for you and Rhys to shout at him in unison.

“What the fuck, Azriel?” You screamed, both regret and pleasure snaking through you at how he and Elain flinched at your anger.

Rhys put a placating hand on your arm, stepping forward as his power granted him a raw authority over the room. “Azriel, it appears as though you did not inform Elain,” violet eyes flicked towards you, “or your mate, of the situation.”

Elain’s jaw fell slack, brown eyes lining with silver as her long curls whipped around her face. She glared at Azriel. “I thought that mates didn’t to you, Azriel. At least, that’s what you let me believe when you pursued me despite my having a mate.”

It was as though you had been shoved in ice water, floundering for breath in the shock as you began to comprehend the situation. Your voice cut through the air like a knife, Azriel flinching visibly as you spoke. “You are in a relationship?”

It was Elain and Azriel’s turn to speak in unison.

“Yes,” she spoke.

Just as firmly as he said, “no.”

The two of them stared at each other for a long moment, hatred shining in their eyes before Elain broke into tears. “Of course not,” she whispered. “I should have known. I’m a pretty face, but not worth fighting for. Isn’t that right?” Her voice broke on the last words before the beautiful female ran from the room, leaving heavy hearts behind.

Rhysand only paused for a moment before following Elain from the room, closing the door behind him in a silent request for you and Azriel to speak alone. A long moment passed as you stared at the door, half-ready to walk through it yourself when Azriel sounded next to you.

Daring to turn your head, your heart cleaved in two at the sight of tears running down your mate’s cheeks. His eyes never left yours, body angled fully towards you as he stayed determined to remain with you. He spoke slowly, carefully, in a measured tone. “I did not have a relationship with Elain. There was mutual interest, and she clearly thought it was more than I did. We never even kissed.”

Hating how your heart softened hearing that, you began to pace back and forth. Thoughts formed, and you stopped in front of Azriel with anger and sorrow in your voice. “She has a mate. So clearly you don’t care about what that - what this - means in the same way that I do if you were with her.”

“NO.” Azriel spoke louder than you had ever heard the quiet male. He sighed, walking towards you cautiously, reaching out a hand before dropping it cautiously. “I didn’t care about mates, because I didn’t think I would ever have one. I have been labeled as ‘different’ my entire existence - mocked, ridiculed, tortured for it. I settled for what was in front of me because I thought I would never find someone so perfect. Not just perfect for me, but the most incredible, kind, clever, ethereal female I have ever met. I still do not know how the Cauldron could bless me with you, but I will fight until my dying breath to keep you happy. I am sorry that I hurt you. I promise to spend the rest of my life loving you.”

A tear fell down your cheek at his words, sniffling through a small laugh as you replied. “And I promise to spend the rest of my life showing you how worthy you are of extraordinary love, Azriel.”

A burning sensation at the tips of your wings drew a gasp from you - your eyes searching Azriel as you saw dark swirls of ink appear on the tips of his wings. “That makes a bargain,” he whispered. You looked up, seeing swirls of black decorating the tips of your white wings, a beautiful contrast to their color. “I’ve never seen a bargain mark left on wings before,” he murmured, his finger lightly tracing the marks on your feathers.

You bit your lip, head growing dizzy with pleasure at the feeling when Azriel pulled away, smirking. Stepping closer to him where you were now chest to chest, you brought your fingers to trace the marks on his wings, reveling in his reaction to your touch. “Well, there’s never been anyone like us,” you whispered, pulling him in for a passionate kiss, breaking apart as you both smiled too broadly to continue.

“You need to speak with Elain, and apologize,” you stated. Azriel nodded in agreement, taking your hand in his as he opened the door to leave the study. You were shocked to find Azriel’s family all standing around, turning towards the two of you and your matching tattoos with intrigued looks.

With a glance back at you, Azriel broke the silence. “I need to go speak with Elain.”

Amused smiles filled the room, knowing glances being exchanged. Feyre let out a small, almost choking laugh. “Maybe another time, Azriel. Lucien stopped by. He and Elain went for a walk.”

You didn’t miss Cassian’s especially broad grin at the mention, but dismissed everyone else when Azriel turned towards you. “I will talk to her another time, love. For now, let me show you Velaris,” he promised, and you gave his hand a loving squeeze as you nodded, following him outside towards the city and your future.

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pandafruit · 7 months ago

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Ok, I’ve been tossing this AU around in my head for AGES, and I have to get it out or I’m gonna explode.

So in TEC, it’s made pretty clear that there are numerous risks to reviving Butler that even the fairies can’t fully account for. No healing like his had ever been attempted before, and there was really no telling what was gonna happen.

What if, in the face of all this, Holly refuses to heal him?

She’s not a trained medical warlock. She’s on her own. And she’s being asked to desecrate the body of her friend, with unknown, possibly catastrophic results. She refuses, tries her best to console Artemis and goes home.

Now, a lot changes from here.

Artemis obviously isn’t giving up hope. He transfers Butler to longer term cryogenic storage and has human surgeons fix his wounds as best they can in the meantime.

Artemis and Holly’s friendship is shattered. Artemis could never forgive her for not even trying to heal Butler. Holly doesn’t hate him in turn, but she does (mostly) believe she did the right thing, and wishes he would see her point of view. The LEP might still occasionally contact Artemis for help (though not for long - I’ll get to it) but the two of them remain, at absolute best, frosty around each other from then on.

Spiro and Blunt are no longer getting the “off to prison” treatment lmao. Artemis contacts Carla Frazetti and convinces the Chicago mob to turn on Spiro and assassinate both him and Blunt. Afterward, Artemis ends up taking Spiro’s place as benefactor and strategist for the mob. In return, Carla provides him with a security detail when needed (which is how I’m getting around Artemis not dying without Butler every 5 minutes lmao). The relationship proves very beneficial to Carla, and absolutely horrible for Artemis’s moral compass.

Artemis becomes obsessed with learning how to use magic - if the fairies won’t heal Butler, he’ll do it himself. This strains his working relationship with the LEP to the breaking point, and he eventually becomes a fairy fugitive. (I’ll be honest, this one is just bc I think Warlock!Artemis is cool as hell. They should’ve let him keep the magic >:(((( ) (Also cue tragic-yet-awesome scene where Holly is trying to bring him in and they get into a magic fight. The drama. The cinema).

Speaking of his magic! Artemis is no longer actively monitoring Foaly’s work, and the calculation error for the demons goes unnoticed until far too late. Thousands die in Hybras’s return to Earth, and the fairies come dangerously close to being revealed altogether.

When Artemis’s Atlantis Complex hits, because of his decidedly more amoral life path and extra dabbling in magic, it’s a hundred times worse. He has full blown hallucinations, panic attacks, multiple alters, and can no longer access fairy help for any of it. He stumbles by with human OCD treatments, but it’s not nearly as effective. He still refuses to see a psychiatrist.

Eventually, years down the line, Artemis masters magic well enough to revive Butler. It’s both better and worse than it would’ve been had Holly healed him - he no longer has to deal with the Kevlar strands thanks to the human medical intervention, and Artemis was able to train for years specifically to heal him, but the extra time in stasis means it takes even more of Butler’s life force to revive him.

When Butler finally awakes, he no longer recognizes the cold, paranoid, angry young man he used to dutifully protect. Butler may have been the one who was revived, but it’s Artemis who came back wrong.

There’s a million different ways this AU could go, but this is the stuff I’ve been tossing around. Also I know for a fact I haven’t hit every plot hole - PLEASE please share what you guys think would happen with me!! As of rn, I have no name for this AU, so I would appreciate suggestions for that too lmao

#artemis fowl #fowldom #one thing I like about this AU is there's a lot of room for interpretation #p much anything could happen after Holly leaves #if you guys want to take this idea and run w it please do! go nuts!!#and please do help me w a name bc I am terrible at those lmao

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angelickisscs · 5 months ago

Text

we are or we aren’t ~ angst ‧₊˚

୨ ୧ ˚₊ ~ pairing ~ jude bellingham x reader

summary: Sometimes, you have to be true to yourself even if that means breaking two hearts in the process !

warnings: no happy ending, my sincerest apologies!!

YOUR HEAD WAS in your hands, that nagging feeling of embarrassment pulling on your heart as it inflicted life altering pain like it was nothing. The sound of it pounding against your ears, looking for anyway to escape had you close to explosion.

It was a form of embarrassment you had never felt. Sure, you had tripped and fell in front of masses of people or stuttered while speaking to your superiors but those only kept you awake, searching for a way to make it stop.

This situation had you clawing down metal walls, screaming at the top of your lungs to be heard by no one.

The anger was what stood out the most, however. It was indescribable how this man had been making you feel for months. It engulfed you, flowing through your blue-tinted veins as if it were your own blood.

He had you running in circles around him, clasping at any form of attention he gave you that wasn’t to do with the main reason he associated with you. Sure, it had you embarrassed. But after it lingered in your mind for a simple day more than it should have, it turned into relentless rage. Being taken out on everyone but him because you could not tolerate the thought of hurting his feelings.

You could not bare the thought of making him feel the same way he had been making you feel since the very second you met him.

“Look, I did not mean to upset you. If I’d know this is how you’d react, I wouldn’t have said it.” Jude said, digging the hole he had willingly stepped in far deeper than it ever needed to go.

“What else could it make me feel Jude?” You scoffed, looking up towards him with a slight grimace.

You had done that weird side-stepping thing with people where you would always end up going in the same direction. You had coughed in a completely silent room. You had taken your dog out for a walk where she had started barking at every living being like crazy.

All moments where you had used the expression worst day of my life. But now, it was no longer an expression. It was an emotion so deeply imprinted inside of you that you could feel it soaring in your bones.

“I’m sorry. So sorry.” The uncertainty in his voice threw knives at you and yet his eyes refused to watch as you bled out directly in front of him.

“What for?” You tried, your body standing up only to take a step back from him. The position you had taken on the sofa when walking in making you feel more vulnerable than ever.

Jude paused, reaching his hand up to scratch at the back of his neck. A nervous act that you had swiftly caught onto. “For saying all of that to them. I do not know what I was thinking.”

The silence was deafening, eating not only you alive. It tore you apart limb from limb, taking time between choosing what to go after next.

You knew exactly what he was thinking. A mutual friend had asked if the two of you were dating, something not even you knew the answer too. But Jude did, he was quick to deny the innocent allegation. Explaining that you were just friends and nothing more. And you could do nothing but stand there, eavesdropping on the conversation he was having from afar.

It made each muscle in your body seize, the pain that he had caused not only mental.

“I panicked, it was stupid, and I take accountability for that.” He made an attempt to fill the gap you had previously set between you both. All he needed was a weak hand raise from you to stop in his tracks and you gave him that.

There was not much you could think to say. His weak attempt at an apology like putting a plaster over a gun shot wound. Your heart tightened, feeling everything that he was saying, the shattered pieces of it tearing apart the rest of your body.

Words barrelled against your closed lips, jumbling themselves into sentences that did not even make sense to you. Your gaze drifted towards the hardwood floors that coated much of his house, having falling victim as you stared harshly at them in attempt to not let the tears fall.

Why did you even come here in the first place?

Why would you even get in a car with him? Sitting silently, letting the emotions brew in you like you were creating a mystical potion. That was until he had pointed your silence out, asking sincerely if you were okay.

“I can’t keep doing this.” You shook your head, some silly part of you disagreeing with your own feelings but it was far too late to go back. “We can’t.”

“Doing what?” The crack that split his words in half had you allowing the first tears to break free from the prison they had found themselves inside.

“Whatever this situation is! You said it. We are just friends, nothing more,” Each syllable duplicated the anguish you were feeling. “But then we get back home and then it’s the complete opposite.”

The air that surrounded the both of you was freezing, wrapping you in a not so comforting hug. It circled around the room like a lion encircling its prey.

Finally looking upwards, your eyes met with his brown ones, the pain that filled them so deeply confusing you. Minutes ago, it was the exact opposite. A barrier of some sorts keeping you from seeing what he was actually feeling and now it had finally lowered, you could not help but wish that it had happened sooner.

“I don’t-.” He had begun but you were not in the correct state of mind to listen to why he was not ready to be in a relationship for the thousandth time.

“It’s either we are, or we aren’t Jude. I am exhausted of being some little toy you can play around with, leave, and then come back when you need a fuck or some comfort.” Your voice was exasperated from all the weight it forced itself to carry, your throat begging for any form of liquids, the tears that were now rhythmically falling down your cheeks not doing enough to complete this request.

“You’re so much more than that to me, I promise.” Jude stated, taking steps towards you so he could place his hands upon your cheeks, wiping away each singular tear. His forehead fell downwards to meet yours, his eyes closing as he did so.

You paused, cherishing the feelings of his skin against yours for what was the last time. “So, we aren’t then?”

Keeping your eyes open, you awaited an answer. The answer you were bound to get from the very beginning.

“No! I just-.” His eyes stayed closed as he spoke but your face moving away from his grip had them opening once again, the panic beginning to set in.

Words failed to fall past his open lips, a sense of urgency fuelling his every movement. His hand moved out to grab yours and yet it could not. The ever-growing gap you were putting between the two of you only now hitting you.

“Please, I just need to figure some stuff out. I want you; I want to scream from the rooftops how much I enjoy being around you. How my mind is filled with thoughts about you every second of the day. I want to be with you.”

“But.” You finished for him making his shoulders slump in defeat. “Theres always a but with you and even if you want all of that, you have continuously failed to give it to me no matter how much I have asked you to.”

Jude’s head began to shake, refusing to process and accept everything you were finally saying. You were ready to let him go but he was not ready to let that happen.

“I will give it to you and so much more. I know I have failed you, just let me make it right.” His pleads fell upon death ears.

Your legs began to take control of your body, your head not in the right space to be able to make any qualified decisions in this second. They took you out of that monstrous room, guiding you seamlessly through the house using a route you had taken far too many times.

Jude was quick to follow you, calling your name but as your pace quickened, his body froze. He had never felt this type of pain before. So deeply and harshly like a million knives had punctured one particular section of his heart.

His eyes followed you as you opened his front door, the shock that overran his paralyzed body finally giving way to the adrenaline so he could chase after your retreating figure.

But it was far too late, just like everything else he had done with you. With nothing to do but watch, that is exactly what he did. From his doorstep on the cold and windy night, his eyes painfully trained on your car as you drove out of his life.

You had stupidly given your heart to the brown eyed thief and would spending the rest of your life in debt for that.

#୨୧ angelickisscs ࿐#jude bellingham imagine #jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham x you #jude bellingham blurb #jude bellingham fanfic

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