#because i almost feel like I'm unworthy of success

[brain-rot-central]

My brain: nah your writing isn't good

Tumblr: you sure about that??

[v3nusxsky]

Hey, do you write for wandanat? If not that's totally fine but if you do I was wondering if maybe I could request one?

Maybe where Wanda and nat are already together and one night at an avengers party they spot reader and Wanda falls for them and so convinces Natasha to seduce and take reader home with them?

Hopefully with smut, and maybe with daddy nat and soft mommy Wanda?

Love your work soooo much, feel no pressure to write this���️

One of a Kind 18+

*Authors note~ a) I wrote this exhausted so mistakes are mine sorry y’all. B) I know you guys are all excited for different things so I was struggling to choose what I should post, shamefully having an anxiety attack over not choosing the right fic. So to save the day my lovely girlfriend choose wandnat for tonight*

To requester, I'm sorry I took some artistic liberties here but I honestly couldn't help but write them as g!p I hope that's okay!!!

Trigger warnings~threesome smut seduction daddy and mommy kink g!p Wanda Nat fingering r receiving praise and degrading kinks choking semi public sex??

Prompt~ see ask^^^^

Wanda and Tasha really didn't want to come to this party. No. But as per normal Tony wanted to throw a party and showed off his wealth and success. Wanda opting for a stunning emerald dress and Nat going for a form fitting suit. Wanda hid her cock so well that Nat often found herself being jealous. But she couldn't deny that her girlfriend is absolutely stunning in everything and nothing.

You'd been invited by Fury as a way to introduce you to the Avengers. You'd be set to join the team soon, but no one but Fury or Tony knew. Nat spotted you first, a simple Maroon skirt tucked into a beautiful black pencil skirt. Your legs on full display and a few buttons undone to give a tasteful view of your cleavage to the public. Alone at the bar is how the story starts, a rather cliche but important fact. That was where under an agreement between her and her wife Natasha swooped in on you.

You'd be lying if you said she wasn't sexy and very alluring but you still don't quite understand why she's here wasting time trying to get you in her bed. No one ever does that. It made you skeptical of her advances and actively ignoring the way her voice alone caused your cunt to become slick. The way her voice deepened as her eyes drank you in almost got you. Almost. But your past caught you first, you ended up lashing out at the woman.

"No one's ever really shown an interest in me. I'm not the prettiest or the smartest or the funniest girl around, I'm just average." You almost whispered but the woman could hear the sadness dripping through every word. "So this cruel joke of yours. Just stop it! Because I know no one would ever want me especially when they look like you do. So just stop" your voice broke on the last few words before you fled the scene. Really how could she do this to you? You thought she was a nice person, but to suggest this and not mean it was obviously going to hurt. After all who in their right mind would want an inexperienced virgin when they can have anyone in the whole world?

"Hey, you're beautiful, and I'd gladly take you home for my wife and me to enjoy for the night, you just have to trust we want you in the way we say" she murmured to you a gentle handed rubbing at your back in an attempt to soothe the confusing outburst. Yet both women were no strangers to being used and abused by other people. "You mean it?" You were really speaking more to yourself but when she replied with a Russian pet name that slipped off her tongue, you were a goner, "детка, we've been watching you all evening, no one in this room has caught our interest because we've been focused on you."

A simple nod had Nat leading you to the table to introduce you to her wife. By no surprise, her wife was just as beautiful as the red head. You immediately felt like you were unworthy of their attention. "I um should say I've never, um" you stumbled over your own admission but you could see you had both women's attention. "It's okay детка we will take this slow and at your pace, we truly want to get to know you дорогой" she whispered to you over the loud noise of the party. The other woman who you learned was the Scarlett Witch offered you to come sit closer to the women as you all conversed over small things really, but you were now completely at ease with them, exactly how they wanted you.

Your head warm and fuzzy, you felt an electric pulse of a slender hand trailing your thighs. It appeared you were more sensitive with the alcohol but soon enough you were spreading your legs for the brunette woman with a little help from her magic. From there you exposed your panty covered core to her curious fingers. The woman seemingly unaffected by her actions and holding a conversation with her wife about how much of an asset you'd be to the team. You almost got away with it, almost, but a little whimper escaped you as she accidentally bumped your aching clit.

"Wans" Nat warned, "you best not be playing with the хорошенькая шлюха without me" she growled the last two words. Truly how rude of you both not to wait for her, especially after her work to bring you to them. "I'm sorry Natty, I just couldn't wait anymore" the woman replied and removed her fingers from your core causing you to release a very disappointed whine. "сейчас, котенок, о тебе хорошо позаботятся" Nat purred before gracing you with a kiss to your neck before taking your hand to lead you away from the party, knowing that her wife will follow behind you.

As soon as you rounded the corner the Russian woman immediately slammed your back against the wall and attached her lips to yours with ease. The need was pouring into the kiss as the brunette woman watched in jealousy. She wanted to be the one kissing you, dragging all the pretty nosies she possibly could, but then again watching her wife touch you was doing unspeakable things to her nether region. "Tashsa" Wanda whimpered feeling the tent begin to show through her dress. "Come котенок, mommy is getting impatient and daddy can't wait to ruin your pretty untouched pussy" Natasha purred leading you to the bedroom once again. Only this time she never got side tracked.

Perhaps you'd had too much, but from there it's hazy, how did you end up absolutely bare for two of the most wanted and famous women in the world? And most importantly why the hell did they have throbbing cocks just desperate for you to take them. The women wanted to do this right, they showered you in love and praises. The made sure to touch and caress every inch of skin they could. And only when your ready did they introduce you to more. "котенок, sort out mommy's problem you caused" Nat demanded, encouraging you to bring your head to her shaft, with another quick check in and some guidance you were now choking on her cock as she forced it down your throat. "Oh fuck natty, this throat is perfect, fuck a good cock whore for me oh!"

With a few strokes to own dick she enjoyed the show, you are a fast learner by the looks of it and she was now struggling to contain herself and refrain from doing all the filthy things she desired to you. Wands sensing her wife's impatience slipped from your throat allowing you to breath as Natasha guided you into a new position. With you now on your hands and knees you were able to suck off wanda and give Nat access to your untouched cunt.

She took it slow, letting you adjust to her size, Wanda telepathically sharing the image of you with teary eyes, choking on her cock as you let Nat deflower you. But soon enough you began to rock backwards in a need for something, yet you didn't know what. "Oh there she is, our flight little girl, a dirty slut for us to use. Oh you've made mommy feel so good котенок she's ready to treat you for all your work, you'd love that huh? Mommy to fill your petty throat with cum?" Nat teased keeping her thrusts slow, "and fuck you're so fucking tight котенок, if mommy doesn't hurry up daddy will paint your pretty pussy white instead."

At the pure threat, Wanda was thrown over the edge into her own pools of bliss, breath heaving as all she could do is mewl yours and her wife's name. You greedily sucked every last drop from her shaft, surprising both women with the fact it was your first time. Only when she was sure she'd finished cumming did she slip from your front and encourage you to slip onto your back so Natasha could see your face. The new position only seemed to encourage the red head, especially with Wanda dropping her head to your breast and skilfully sucking and licking the hardened peaks. She even managed to roughly tweak her wife's right bud causing you both to cry out together.

The gasp you let out when Nat brought one hand from the bed to your throat was something both women wanted on a loop, experimenting with a bit of pressure they discovered a kink for you. "Oh Natty she liked your hand as her necklace. Oh darling is your head all fuzzy?" A broken confirmation left you as Natasha picked up an almost animalistic pace of pounding into you. And when your cries became to loud Wanda guided you to her breast, allowing you to suckle and nip her sensitive skin and effectively soothe you at the same time.

When Natasha came in long spurts of sticky white cum you honestly had no thoughts other than both the women. You lost count of how many times you'd been forced over the edge and just how long you'd been here, but now you didn't care. What a first experience to have. Oh but you weren't done, they immediately started to clean up and look after you, offering food water and cuddles. You wanted to talk, what could this mean? You'd slept with married women? Was it a fling? You hoped not. And Wanda heard all those thoughts and settled you into bed between the women with promises of talking about everything when your brain wasn't still in sub space. You'd be needing a clear mind to decide if you would join the relationship as a third party. But for now, you all slept.

Word count ~ 1839

[beesmygod]

Howdy- I am just a random person and so, please treat what I am about to say as such, but who cares if people think things about your life are stupid? It is /your/ life, not theirs, and if your life makes you happy then fuck them. If they make incorrect assumptions about you, then that is based on their own lack of knowledge and limited worldviews. I have never seen you as a (and please forgive me I am on mobile so I can't go check the wording you used) "stupid housewife" with "stupid interests." I'm so sorry that this is weighing so heavy on you. I know it is easier said than done to say "fuck it I don't care about other people's opinions of me" (I am definitely fighting that battle myself) but it is so freeing to just start living your life for you.

You are great, and you are you, and that's what matters.

these are from this morning and i deleted the posts that prompted them bc i always feel like a moron hogging the collective spotlight almost immediately after attempting to make sense of what's wrong with me. first of all, i want to apologize to everyone for trying their best to fill what must feel like a black hole. this is going to sound like i'm nailing myself to the cross but: NEVER FEEL OBLIGATED TO TRY TO REASON WITH ME ABOUT MY NEUROSIS. i am not saying this bc i dont appreciate the efforts (i do!!!) but because ive been on both sides of this kind of brain problem and i know what a futile, aggravating experience it can be. thank you, but i just dont want people to burn out trying to rewire my brain in good faith. i am seeing professionals and trying to work it out, but this problem didnt suddenly develop out of the blue. its the result of a hard life and as such, its really hard to untangle.

anyway: it matters if im seen as stupid or unworthy of my station bc 1. i liked to think i was in the entertainment business. what people think of you is the entire basis of the career. you are right that for most people it doesnt and shouldnt matter. but i want to entertain the public and the public dictates my success. and 2. existing above your station in life breeds resentment from those who will, rightfully, bristle at the juxtaposition in quality being celebrated. if that makes sense. it greatly behooves me to care what other people think lol. it is the nature of the beast.

right now, after many years of what feels like blissful ignorance, my artistic life is not making me happy. ive been thinking about wally wood saying that if he could do it all over again he'd cut his hands off and i feel like i understand what he means (concerning!). i am trying to understand why. but i worry its as simple as "i have more to lose now".

[doyouknowthisdisabledcharacter]

I'm so excited a discussion about Zenos is happening! I've submitted Y'shtola and I think Arendvald was maybe me too, been meaning to type out one for Thancred, Raubahn, and possibly a couple others, too. I love FFXIV so much, is major special interest.

[SPOILERS AHEAD FOR ANYONE NOT DONE WITH FFXIV MSQ AND INTENDING TO PLAY IT] So, to add some context to Zenos! He's a villain that stands out from the rest, and the player character (WoL from hereon) is the only person he truly wants to fight. He is canonically extremely gifted, and it's both as something that makes him super deadly and one of a few factors playing into how he has absolutely no pleasure from anything in life. Except fighting people that really do pose a challenge to him, which is like... the WoL. That's the end of that list. He's the son of a ruler in an authoritorian fascist empire (Garleans), with highly rigid and cold regimes and practices and extremely large differences in power across their vast power hierarchy.

He is cold, indifferent, ruthless, and extremely dangerous. But he doesn't kill aimlessly either, it gives him no joy, and he doesn't wish to spent time on unworthy targets that wouldn't challenge him in the slightest. He canonically is miserable in life, always been an outsider, always felt alien to his society. He finds everything boring, and he despises boring. He's got lines of dialogue saying nothing makes him feel anything at all, except when he's almost killed in battle by the WoL. So he keeps seeking out the WoL, teasing and egging on to try and get that rush again.

Canon factors that cause this: - Childhood without parental attachments, because his mother died and his father was emotionally, socially, and physically distant - Forced to train and behave as an adult from an unreasonably young age, in a highly formal and structured environment without room for being a child - His giftedness, described in ways similar to real life gifted child experiences and complications - Chronic boredom and lack of emotion, described in ways similar to understimulation and flat affect - Lack of any attachments or interest in social relations of any kind, described in ways similar to antisocial personality characteristics, where he both cannot socially connect and doesn't care

I'm not sure if canon directly talks about his apparent lack of empathy using words or phrases that align with the concept of empathy, but several other characters express disgust and anger at how he shows no empathy or remorse. Aka it is heavily implied he does not have emotional empathy, and does not care about the cognitive empathy he does have. He says in different ways at many points in time that he doesn't enjoy this existence, he doesn't wish for this. He even had a nearly successful suicide attempt. He is functionally isolated and totally excluded from society, and in practice can't or won't or both do anything other than look for the next way to try and feel something.

The game generally doesn't use terms for health and illness as we know them, but if I were to try and translate the terms and phrasings and tellings they do use about Zenos, I'd no doubt say he has a severe attachment disorder which with his giftedness creates a very skilled but very dysfunctional person. His giftedness for both intellect and learning and combat is a blessing and a curse. Then, if we're going more into harder to translate from in-world lingo to our-world lingo territory, he does have a variety of traits that align with antisocial personality disorder as well as dysthymia.

Overall he is a villain that portrays a lot of contrasts and conflicts in function talked about regarding 2e / twice exceptional people and who is both an absolutely ruthless one man army monster and also just alone, miserable, empty, and without any pleasure from anything in life, where a lot of it is likely caused by the circumstances of his childhood.

Thank y’all for your input + the people in the comments of the other post. He will be included, his poll will run at some point.

[theysaidhush]

Leather and Lace

➝ Lee Felix x Reader ➝ Felix looks extra good in leather and lace, and seems like he need to release a bit of adrenaline... ➝ smut ➝ 1.5k

The air was buzzing with something. And you knew what is was, you knew what was happening. Electricity running through your veins, guts churning and twisting with excitement, pupils dilated and adrenaline pumping in your heart. Dazzling lights were spinning up and down, illuminating the silhouette of your friends on stage. Sweating because of the heat, singing their lungs out, dancing the night away. It was mesmerizing. You felt like tonight was something else. They performed many times, on different stages, but there was something about tonight. You felt euphoric.

Your eyes caught the slender body of your boyfriend who was smiling brightly at Jisung, holding a banner in his hands and almost forgetting to sing his part. He was awfully pretty, especially tonight. You felt your heart sink and your head getting lost in your own thoughts - how were you so lucky ? To have him, to have such a lovable, caring and talented boyfriend. But before your thoughts could get the best of you, he turned towards you, in all his splendor, and his smiled widened, eyes turning into small croissants. And doubts left you, you no longer felt unworthy, not when he looked at you with stars in the eyes.

The end of the concert was approaching. You saw your boyfriend and his members bow in front of their fans, eyes shining with a promise of coming back to them. It was the last concert of their world tour. The whole thing was emotional, tearing everyone's heart apart, and yet, in the backstage, people were buzzing, yipping and cheering for the end of the tour, which was a success. Everything went well, the fans were happy, the artists were happy, the agency and the staff were happy too, everything was fine - although a bit sad. It probably left a sweet yet bitter taste in everyone mouths.

You almost felt guilty for wanting your boyfriend's tongue in your throat. And that was the other problem, you were so horny, so horny. You tried to blame yourself, scold yourself for being such a pervert when your boyfriend was just enjoying his night, having fun with everyone. But you just couldn't repress the feelings bubbling inside you. So you tried to blame him, how dare he being so pretty, with his blond hair and blue lenses, smooth skin and soft smiles. And his jacket ? HIs leather jacket ? Paired with his laced gloves, and his boot, knee length boots in leather, with shoelaces all over. Scratch that, the problem wasn't Felix, or you, it was his outfit. In all black with his see-through shirt.

"Hey Babe..." Felix said while engulfing you in a big hug, his head finding its place in the crook of your neck, where he felt safe. You could feel his arms shaking, adrenaline turning him into a wreck.

"You did so well, I'm so proud of you Lixie."

He giggled and hold you tighter, bringing you closer to him while walking backward to be in the corner of the resting room, offering you both, even remotely, a bit more of privacy.

"Thank you, it was incredible, I just feel so-" he took a deep breath and let out a hearty laugh and then let an open mouthed kiss on your neck. "Just feel s'good you know ?"

"I can try to imagine."

He remained like this a minute more , in the warmth of your hug, still sweaty, and suddenly, you felt a hand dragging along your back to rest on your bottom. You quietly yelp when you felt him squeeze the flesh and tried to push his head away from you in order to see him properly and grace him of your best frown. But he did not move an inch. What he did though was laughing childishly in your neck while massaging your ass, making you wetter than you already were because of his stupid awesome outfit.

"Felix-"

"Come on baby, I just have so much energy. Thought it would leave or diminish after hugging you... But now that I'm wrapped around you, all I can think about is the roundness of your tits and the softness of your thighs..."

You blushed and stilled in his hold, round eyes scanning the room to see if someone knew - or understood- what Felix was up to. "Felix!"

"Just one? Please...need it so much."

And you needed him too, so much that it hurt. You wanted to feel him inside you, wanted to feel his hands on your body, his warm cock in your mouth, dripping with pre-cum and saliva. You wanted to see his gloved hands around your throat, feel the burn of the friction of the lace on your sensitive skin. He could even walk on you with his boots and you would just thank him.

And that's how you found yourself in this predicament, legs wrapped around your boyfriend's wide shoulders, hand gripping his blond hair, eyes rolling backwards at his ministrations.

Felix looked up for a brief second before going back to his ministrations - it really was his favorite meal. His left hand tightened its grip on your legs as his fingers dug in your skin in a painfully good way, his other hand going in and out of your soaked cunt.

"Lix- Felix please...It hurts!" you moaned, throwing your head backwards, hips stuttering and looking for something else, something more, which would help you reach your climax. The feeling of the lace was doing quite a good job already, but you needed to feel him against you.

"You hurt me too, Love!" he whined a bit, moving his head, referring to your fingers threaded to his hair, pulling on his scalp. "How about you don't make any noises? Don't want people to interrupt us..."

Felix was just that, sweet in his words and actions. Yet, he was a whole new person when it came to sex. Then, he was ruthless and inflexible - while still being a whiny baby, the contrast amazes you everytime. You often makes joke outside of the bedroom, about how he is a "whiny dom". But when doing private activities, you don't even dare open your mouth for doing anything other than moan or whimpers his name.

The blond did not move, but he slid his fingers out of your warm pussy, black lace shining with your fluids. He watched his cum coated fingers with a smirk, a bit of amazement in his eyes. Every part of you was beautiful.

"Imma help you."

With his teeth, he slowly took off his glove, before rolling it into a ball, extending his arm towards you.

"Open up Love."

And you did so, getting half-back up on your forearms as you opened your mouth wide, willingly letting him put the fabric between your swollen lips.

"So good. You really want to cum don't you?"

It was not a question, or quite a rhetoric one, for he already knew you were desperate enough to accept whatever he was giving you. The way you rolled your hips against literally nothing in search of a friction was enough to tell him that. You were going to do every single things he wanted with a flick of his finger.

"Wanna try something. Can I?" He looked up at you with his big round blue eyes, and behind the layer of passion and love, you could still see this spark. The one from the concert, the sheer euphorie and adrenaline making him feel lightheaded, capable of everything and anything. If he wanted to experience something new, who were you to tell him no?

You nodded eagerly and he kissed your inner thigh, leaving a love bite before tapping on it, asking you to get up. You did so and got on your wobbly feet, tilting your head as you did not comprehend what he was expecting from you. And then, before your surprised eyes, he unbuckled his first belt, eyes going up and down your body, wandering where he could put it. His left hand gently wrapped around your throat, and his thumb stroked your cheek in a loving way, and yet, nothing about the way he was encouraging you to get on your knees was innocent or kind.

And then, before your lost gaze and slightly trembling lips, he bent down and buckled your hands behind your back, in a way that would prevent you from touching him in any way. You felt your vagina drip even more, slick running down your thighs at the mere action. But Felix was not done. Seeing your fragile wrist wrapped with leather was oddly satisfying and oh! so orgasmic. So he wrapped his second belt around your throat. It was a better collar than his hands from before - and it was useful too, because now, he was able to tug you towards his hard length. You had no other choice but to follow the action if you did not wanted to strangle yourself - it was thrilling.

He removed his glove from your mouth and smirked, "Suck."

Leather on you/him was his/your favorite type of clothes.

[50cal-fullauto-astarion]

diana. DIANA. DUDE. WHAT THE FUCK. YOU CAN'T JUST DO THIS TO ME. THIS IS HAUNTING. THIS IS GOLD. THIS IS ART.

i am LEGITIMATELY going to be so so so hard pressed not to cap the entire fic to scream my brains out, bc this is spun GOLD. it is so finely worded and expertly crafted. this is an example of words broken over knee to suit your purposes. this is BEAUTY. and ART. i don't usually say craftsmanship when describing writing, bc generally the people who do self-describe that way can be sort of pase, but this is HIGH QUALITY CRAFTSMANSHIP.

"the throat is a double-edged sword. it makes life possible...but so too does it make death readily accessible, boasting the jugular vein...the right angle, the right depth." holy SHIT. this reads like anatomy. this reads like poetry. it's just close enough to the show to be called kin, WHILE STANDING ON ITS OWN TWO FEET. and holy fucking hell your kruegannibal voice is STUNNING.

the artistry of this grisly gift is as terrifying as it is MESMERIZING. HOLY SHIT. and it being a physical representation, harvested and manipulated into a showpiece by his own hands, a GIFT--utterly gut wrenching in a way that feels like the slide of flesh down the throat. this taps on something primal, something incensed with need and desire and apology. total protraction and supplication, while still an unimaginably stark example of everything krueger can do.

i know i've screamed at you extensively about this passage and the next ones in particular in the server, but holy FUCK, diana. the juxtaposition of pedestrian humanity on the palette as nothing more than standard fare, unworthy of applause because it's only meant to be filling, not an experience, pushed up against the utter diefication and divinity of consuming the flesh of a loved one--thereby making himself a tomb, a reliquary, a holy site. how the HELL does your brain come up with such intense beauty, can i make a blood sacrifice in your honor to get a fraction of this skill??????

kjfldksjflkdjdsflKFDKJLDSKJDF GIGGLING. KICKING MY FEET. TWIRLING MY HAIR. STILL BLUSHING IRL. MAKES MY HEART FLUTTER AND MY HANDS NERVOUS. THIS IS SO SO GOOD. HOLY SHIT THE FULFILLMENT OF BEING A THING SO LOVED THAT YOU FILL THE BOTTOMLESS PIT.

"YOUR LIVES WERE JUST PREPARATION FOR THE INEVITABLE RETURN TO THAT SHADOWY LIMBO FROM WHICH YOU'D ALL BEEN BIRTHED" KJSLKJFDLKFJLSKDJDFS BARK BARK BARK BARK. THE TRANSITORY FLEETING NATURE OF LIFE, THE BOOKENDED BLACKNESS ON EITHER SIDE, THE EPHEMERAL BUT CORPOREAL NATURE OF IT. FLESH AND SPIRIT AND PHILOSOPHY.

and KJDLK AHHHHHHHH. GOD. SOME ASSHOLE AT A BAR PUSHING HIS LUCK, DR. KRUGER INTERVENING, A THING HE WOULD NOT DO UNLESS HE FOUND THE ACT AT HAND PARTICULARLY DISTASTEFUL AND GAUCHE, GETTING SOMETHING LOVELY RUINED, AND METING OUT AN EQUALLY GAUCHE FATE. AND AGAIN WITH THE FISHER OF MEN IMAGERY, FUCK. FUCK FUCK FUCK. FISHER AND QUARRY CAUGHT, PREPARED FOR GUTTING FROM KNAVE TO CHAPS.

when i tell you i GASPED at this. mixed with the preceding and successive passages, i was so fucking floored that i had to sit and stare into space for a while.

the glass-smooth transition from an abattoir-esque autopsy of dismantling, so scientific and clinical and precise, to an almost cerebral take on the fact that kreuger does not yell and had done enough of it in his military life, and thinks it almost grotesque and weak or pathetic, knowing that if you have to abuse attention to command it, then you aren't worth a shit anyway. onto this primal crawling through literal blood and guts at his singular command, this animalistic desire. like i'm shaking?!?! what the fuck, what the FUCK?!?!

i have NO WORDS!!!!! I AM OUT OF WORDS, AND I AM INSANE!!!!!!!1 I SLK;LD;FKDLSFFDDS CAN'T FUNCTION IN SOCIETY ANYMORE. AND YOU WERE NOT FOOLISH ENOUGH TO THINK YOU COULD EVER BE THE BUTCHER IN THIS SCENARIO.

I FOR REAL jerked my body so hard the first time i read this that i slammed my knee into my metal bedframe (don't ask, i sit and lie gayly in every environment possible dskljds) and had a bruise for like a WEEK. DO IT THEN. SWEAR TO ME. HALL OF FAME LINE, I ASPIRE TO YOUR LEVEL ONE DAY DI <3 <3 <3 JDLKFJDLKDS EVEN REREADING I HAVE CHILLS.

altered my brain chemistry on a fucking FERAL level. i have this particular nibbin saved in my personal discord in a inspo channel. i would print this out and keep it in a frame on my bedside table. i actually fuckin MIGHT. MIGHT GET IT TATTOOED. I NEVER WANT TO BE FAR FROM THIS. HRHRHGKDHJLKDJFLKDJSLF!??!!??!?!?!?!

okay so first of all, that was SO INCREDIBLY, DELIRIOUSLY, WONDERFULLY STEAMY. THAT WAS A RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE. i'm going to come back to this over and over and over, i just fucking know it. and it's so amazing, jesus god, i get so lucky that i have the friends i have, bc i am inspired by their writing, but this piece, diana, i just feel super charged.

your skill is so vast and breathtaking, something as simple and gruesome as cannibalism transcended so far far far up into art, in a way i have so painfully rarely fucking seen in traditionally published books, no matter the level of acclaim some of them have that they don't deserve. when i tell you this was moving, i'm not fucking around. this is haunting, and gorgeous, and it's making so many emotions swim through my chest. i don't have the words to encompass what an utter goddamned delight this was, nor do i have the words to tell you how hard this has hit me.

i'm so looking forward to whatever you write for this au, if you choose to revisit it, and all things that you write!!!! Thank you so so so SO MUCH for sharing your work with us babe, it’s a pleasure to read, and an even bigger pleasure to think about in the night hours when I can’t sleep 😭😭😭💖💖💖

wrath of the lamb

pairing: sebastian krueger x f!reader word count: 6.9k synopsis: your first time hunting with dr. krueger tags: hannibal au, haunted hoedown, dark, serial killers, a couple that kills together stays together, enemies and lovers, unreliable narrator, unholy mentions of god, religious imagery, no y/n warnings: violence/death, blood/gore, mutilation, body horror, cannibalism, voyeurism (except the voyeur is dead), killing as foreplay, smut (blood + murder kink, hair-pulling, biting) ao3: read here  ← prev

“I am the shape you made me. Filth teaches filth.”

— Sophocles

Bait; that had been your role. The lure, the dangling bit of appetizer to ensnare prey on behalf of another. This particular catch of the day had believed you to be the fish to his fisherman, but you nonetheless had been bait, he the fish, and Dr. Krueger—

The fisherman.

Soon, you would be a fisherman yourself, capable of priming, reeling in, and fatally securing a wide array of aquatic life all on your own. Before that, however, there was much to learn about the sport and the art of choosing one’s hunting spot, of casting one’s net. Naturally, Dr. Krueger had been ever so enthusiastic to help bridge the gaps in your knowledge.  

Currently, the fish was tied up in the foyer, bound by his wrists and ankles to a wooden chair, the same in which you’d sat years ago as Dr. Krueger’s temporary patient. At the insistence of Agent Blaustein and your undiagnosed encephalitis, you had given therapy a shot. These visits had eventually increased in frequency, more so for the psychiatrist’s company than his pseudo sessions. 

Some attributed the progression of your relations with Dr. Krueger to be a product of fate and circumstance, but you knew better than that. Over the past several months, a deliberate and intentional hand had guided you to this very moment, everything meticulously planned and orchestrated by someone with a vested interest in your ascent. 

In your. . . becoming. 

What started as a chance meeting snowballed into a partnership between professionals, identifying and apprehending serial killers across the state together. Thereafter, a friendship did blossom, though this too evolved since your pure empathy made you highly susceptible to internalizing others; him. The line that separated your psyche from his thus gradually became muddied and blurred as you vacated your mind and beckoned in this monster among men. 

You would be hard-pressed to forget just how fervently he had appraised the order and disorder of your headspace. How worshipingly he had looked upon the ever-encroaching darkness that you kept shamefully hidden within the crevices of your bones, stowed away for fear of the day your worser nature might rise to the surface. How eagerly he had called forth that wickedness, that sin, happy to watch you partake and take. 

How easily he had metamorphosed you into the person you’d unwittingly been pursuing throughout all your years of existence. 

“The throat is a double-edged sword. It makes life possible, housing the airways, overseeing the safe passage of air into the lungs. But so too does it make death readily accessible, boasting the jugular vein, exacting a swift end if cut at just the right angle, the right depth,” an accented voice sounded from behind. 

Hopelessly obedient to the pull that locked your soul and his in perpetual orbit of one another, you cast a glance over your shoulder then looked down at the knife in his hand. It was an ordinary carving knife, blade sharpened and thrumming with excitement at the prospective union of steel and meat. More importantly, it was an offering. 

A gift.

Dr. Krueger quite enjoyed showering you with lavish presents, and he preferred the intimacy of being the craftsman in addition to the sender. To court you, he’d sawed off the tongue of the reporter who’d mocked your condition in her crude tabloids, coated the severed organ in poison, and shoved it down her throat until she choked on its toxicity. To express the extent of his devotion, he'd torn out the vocal cords of a suitor who’d made lewd comments about you at the opera house, fashioned them into a noose, and left him dangling from the ceiling to be discovered in the morning by a screeching primadonna. 

And to apologize for spilling your blood on his kitchen floor, he’d Frankensteined together a beating heart, openly baring his affections despite the penetrative gaze of all who sought to imprison the Cut-throat Killer. The sculpture, composed of a decapitated corpse’s inverted musculature instead of typical granite stone, had told a tale of repentance and of yearning.

My heart is yours. Broken and maimed though it might be, you have managed to assuage its ache and mend its pieces. This foreign object no longer fits properly in the cavity of my being, so do what you will with it. Even if you decide to break it once again, the resulting shards are still all for you only, just as it was. 

The twisted love letter had resulted from months of deceptive intentions, divided loyalties, and belated sacrifices. Your inevitable betrayal had struck dead the fantasy of a shared future. In his mourning, Dr. Krueger had gutted you to bestow a matching wound, yours a physical representation of his own intangible pain. However, contrary to previous prey, watching your face lose its vibrancy and a red puddle form around your twitching body had inspired not satisfaction, but fear. 

A certain desperation had seized him then. Losing you, a kindred spirit who had known and seen him, would have damned the man to a lifetime of loneliness. For someone incapable of thriving in total solitude, that was a terrifying notion.

So though the urge to slit your throat and cook you into a feast might occasionally possess him, though he might periodically contemplate cracking your skull open to reveal the beautiful brain that tormented him day and night, such calls-to-action would go unanswered. 

During periods of separation, he could easily convince himself that his feelings for you were an unnecessary suffering. A fruitless agony; a beacon of masochism. Ready to put an end to this mounting misery, a murderous plot would begin to take shape until your mere return resolutely derailed any plans of excising you from his destiny. 

Cyclical, the way he grew hungry in your absence, champing at the bit, gnawing on bone, only to find his stomach brimming with contentment upon spending a single moment in your presence. 

The rude were nothing more than livestock to a refined man like Dr. Sebastian Krueger. Just as the average non-vegetarian viewed chickens, cows, and pigs as rightful staples of their omnivorous diet, he believed disrespectful folk were no different to poultry, cattle, or swine. At least in death, these subhumans could transcend their lowly stations and reach new heights of beauty and value as his culinary masterpieces, as elaborate displays of mutilated art. 

Like God, he played judge, jury, and executioner, wielding the power to decide the earthly ends and undead beginnings of those he deemed lesser.

Between equals, however, consumption was to him the pinnacle of humanity’s capacity for love. Diligently preparing a delicacy of the vessel that housed a loved one, transforming their anatomy into a gourmet meal, was the supreme method of honoring them. Further still, intaking a pound of their flesh meant immortalizing a beloved by becoming the very urn in which the remnants of their existence could always be found. Whether they should depart by nature or by circumstance, a piece of them would forever stay inside this biological graveyard. 

The mixing of bloods, two pulses beating in synchrony, a dialogue between gullets. An irreversible breach of one’s external layer of protection that said, you are mine, and I am yours; the proof resides in the pits of our stomachs.

By his logic, if he were to eat you and satisfy his craving for fusion, then perhaps whatever hold you had over him would denature, eliminating the threat that this love posed to his livelihood. In actuality, a glimpse of you was plenty enough to sate his normally-raging appetite. 

To daily feel a stab of hunger and then obtain nourishment at the slightest bit of eye contact. . . that was how viscerally he loved you. 

Of course, Dr. Krueger hadn’t overtly verbalized these sentiments, but you nonetheless recognized and understood the unspoken truth. After all, pure empathy did not just expose you to the onslaught of his expert manipulation—it also unveiled his best-kept secrets.

“When hunting, one must always consider efficiency. Time is of the essence, as they say. It’s better spent on the artwork itself than on gathering your materials, wouldn’t you agree?” 

Your eyes jerked up to meet his appraising stare. Not the type to waste air on rhetorical questions, he raised a single scarred brow, and it only lowered once your fingertips answered by brushing the palm of his hand. As you plucked the knife from his grasp, its heavy weight took you aback. The hefty task of reaping an unclaimed soul added at least a few extra pounds to the blade, but you adjusted your grip until wielding it became effortless.  

At its core, killing was a fairly quick and simple endeavor. Humans often exited the world as fast as they had originally entered it, and, in a manner of speaking, your lives were just preparation for the inevitable return to that shadowy limbo from which you’d all been birthed. 

The fish had yet to regain consciousness, and you were determined to ensure that his eyes would never again open to anything but a dark abyss. 

You weren’t apologetic in the slightest for what was about to come. This bound asshat had been selected because he’d had trouble understanding the word no at a pub and spilled wine on an intervening Dr. Krueger’s prized coat. Such unprincipled behavior warranted an equally-indecent fate. 

Out like a light, his head was tilted back to rest on the back of the chair, displaying a ripe throat, fresh for the taking. And take you did, aligning your blade at the corner of his jaw and dragging it across the jugular, slitting his trachea, causing it to collapse unto itself. Liquid beads of crimson bubbled to the surface along the laceration, and the macabre necklace enraptured you. 

Your psychiatrist-turned-mentor had earned the moniker of Cut-throat Killer due to his apparent fixation on the neck and its surrounding regions. His kills were linked by this common denominator, whether a body was headless, or had a ripped-apart larynx, or had died by asphyxiation. Sometimes, Dr. Krueger liked to experiment with different finishing blows to keep the FBI on their toes, but his modus operandi never failed to involve the throat. 

It made sense, then, why you too had developed a similar appreciation. 

“Well done,” praised the doctor, now beside you, and the words set alight your bloodstream. His tone held no surprise; your profession had revealed your natural aptitude for the hunt and erased any reservations he might’ve had. From the very first day your paths crossed, he’d recognized what you were, what you could become. “Now, where do you wish to go from here?” 

A loaded question, one that dictated how the rest of the night would unfold. If you stayed in the foyer, cleaning up the grime and gore out from between each plank of wood would be an absolutely dreadful ordeal. If you went to the main room, splatters and stains on his Persian rug and fine fabric drapes would undoubtedly irk the man, and you quite preferred staying on his good side for the time being.

That left his extravagant kitchen. It was the ideal location—the freezer was conveniently placed, and the tools for harvesting meat were at your disposal. Also, in the not-unlikely event of blood running off the table’s edge, you could simply scrub the tiles spotless.

“The kitchen.” You diverted your focus from the dead man to the one who had mastered death itself. Although you were unsurprised to discover Dr. Krueger’s deep brown eyes already intent upon you, a chill cascaded down your spine nevertheless. He’d sooner gouge out the organs that granted him sight than stop his lingering stares, you knew. “Removing the skin from a fish this slimy is messy business. I wouldn’t want to ruin your nice hardwood floors. Black walnut?” 

His wide smile told a tale of predation tempered with adoration. “Wenge.”

You softly shook your head in fond exasperation. Of course he who settled for nothing but the best would choose one of the most rare and expensive species of hardwood in the world. 

The doctor held your gaze as he removed his outer layer, not wanting to sully a tailored, dry clean-only suit jacket. Once it was safely out of range, he cut loose the body from its restraints and dragged it to the kitchen with you trailing behind him. 

After hauling the corpse onto the center of the marble island, Dr. Krueger rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt to his elbows and slipped on surgical gloves from his vest’s pocket, handing you a pair as well. He used scissors to reveal the man’s flesh beneath his clothes, took the murder weapon from your fingers, and made an incision that started at the collarbone and ended at the navel. Wrenching open the ribcage, snapping any resistant osseous matter, the doctor efficiently primed the carcass for harvesting before it could stiffen in rigor mortis. 

His work done, he unsheathed a sizable butcher knife, handed it to you, then stepped out of reach, content to watch you pick up from where he’d left off. You imitated his previous motions, careful not to sink the blade too far in lest you ruptured any organs. The last thing you wanted to do was accidentally ruin the meat. 

Meat. 

You’d discovered a couple of months ago that the delicious protein scrambles shared with you by the kind Austrian man had actually contained bits of strangers. Initially, the revelation had repulsed and angered you in its violation of your right to informed consent. But now, while you didn’t see the appeal of human cuisine, you could admit there was something uniquely intimate about a shared hunt, about the subsequent communion, the breaking of bread and bone. 

It was with this logic in mind that you proceeded to dissect the body according to the anatomical direction given by the doctor. First, you extracted the lungs, then the spleen and liver, next the stomach and gallbladder, the intestines and kidneys, and, lastly, the heart. 

The turn of the hour quickly came and went. You moved to push back some hair that had fallen out of place, wishing you had worn a hairnet, when you caught a glimpse of your lover’s current state. He stood to the side of the counter a few feet away, hunger plain on his face, erection evident through the fabric of his slacks. 

As ravenous for your fill of him as he was for a taste of you, you set the knife on the cutting board and started to walk over to—

“No.” 

The lone, measured syllable echoed throughout the large kitchen, ringing in your ears, and you instantly halted mid-step. A trait that separated the doctor from so many other men of his stature was his refusal to resort to yelling. He’d done a lifetime’s worth of it in the Austrian Armed Forces, had been his explanation, and it was beneath him. It signaled that one lacked omnipotence and control, that they didn’t have an effortless dominance with respect to the masses over which they resided. 

Dr. Krueger, however, had no shortage of charisma and no trouble garnering an obedient audience. The personification of sin beckoned you forward. “Crawl to me.”

Without hesitation, you slowly descended to the floor, gaze steady and stuck on his looming figure. Your clothed knees met tile first, then your palms followed suit as you navigated your way towards him through a pool of blood and innards. Something unnamed coiled tight in your stomach the nearer you drew to him who looked down at you, stoic and unfazed. From here, a passerby might think you a worshiper bowed in supplication to her god.  

For what purpose did you plead? 

If I should die, let it not be his blade that strikes the finishing blow. 

To what end did you pray? 

If he should rot in a cell, let it not be my testimony that sends him away.  

When your fingers brushed against his shoes, imprinting red on the fancy leather, the doctor leaned forward to snake a hand around to the nape of your neck, lightly massaging your scalp. The soothing pressure made your eyes roll back, but the false sense of security it had given you evaporated at the following sharp tug on the roots of your hair.

His grip firm, Dr. Krueger pulled you up until you were on your feet once again. Before you could properly calibrate to the change in orientation, he spun you to face the kitchen island then sandwiched you in between his pelvis and the counter. Squirming against him, your instincts commanded you to escape, but you remained steadfastly in place. Trapped.

Ensnared.

Skillful hands made quick work of your attire, throwing your belt to the ground, shoving your jeans and panties to bunch at your ankles, unbuttoning the flannel he’d called hideous yet endearing, snapping free your cheap bra. Satisfied with your current state of undress, Dr. Krueger used his teeth to tear off his gloves so that he could begin exploring the treasures he had uncovered.  

You never let him touch you with gloves. The sensation of latex on skin was too reminiscent of a butcher prepping slaughtered livestock to be further chopped up into refined cuts of meat. And you were not foolish enough to think you could ever be the butcher in this scenario. 

His hands journeyed up your front to your neck, rubbing at the splatter of blood there that had yet to be cleaned. Adamant on dirtying you further, he smeared it downward as he cupped the heft of your breasts and rolled your nipples between his fingers. You must’ve looked like a sacrificial offering to some deity, back bowed, though the only who would partake in the enjoyment of your flesh was him.

Once you were sufficiently marked, the man wiped any excess blood off his right hand and onto your stomach then continued his descent to the epicenter of your heat. When he finally reached your mound and dipped an explanatory finger inside, he found you wet and wanting. 

“Filthy thing,” Dr. Krueger admonished with a click of his tongue. “I���ve barely touched you, and yet here you are, already dripping onto the floor. Tell me, how long have you been like this?”

“Since you—” The rest of that sentence died in your throat, cut short by the featherlight brush of his thumb against where you wanted him most. A sudden jolt traveled through your body, and you struggled to form a coherent thought, let alone string together a sensical series of words. “Since you rolled up those stupid fucking sleeves, you bastard.” 

His answering smirk could be heard in the gravel of his voice, smug and self-assured. “I didn’t know my forearms had such an effect on you.”

Said forearms came into view as he encased you, both of his hands relocating to either side of yours, flat on the countertop. A knee replaced where his hand had been between your legs, and he ground it upward, pulling back whenever you tried to reciprocate, relief just out of reach. 

“Like hell you didn’t,” you snapped, your frustration getting the better of you. “Don’t play dumb, Doctor. It’s not a good look.” 

All traces of his humor evaporated at the snark. Announcing no warning, your lover sank two fingers into your weeping core, curling them to stimulate the spot within that never failed to make you see stars. He scissored you open and gathered enough slick to begin working in a third finger, intent on making you plead for forgiveness. Absolution. 

Most nights, Dr. Krueger prided himself in his patience, in his ability to draw out one, two, three orgasms from you before his cock got anywhere near your cunt. But tonight, you knew, would be different. It would be hard and fast. 

Carnal. 

Upon deeming you ready to take him, you heard the unclasping of a belt buckle followed by the zipper of his pants coming undone. A soft caress along the notches of your spine, and then he aligned himself with your entrance and immediately surged to erase the distance between your bodies, filling you to the hilt. 

The force of it caused you to double over, and your elbows buckled at the sudden shift in weight. With the side of your face now pressed against the counter’s cold surface, you couldn’t help the way your ass slightly elevated and protruded. This position felt explicit, dirty, and you gleaned from his sharp inhale that you looked as much from his perspective. Rather than allowing you to rise, Dr. Krueger dug a hand into your hair and pushed you further into the granite. 

“Have I neglected you, mein Schatz?” Each thrust was punctuated by a tug on your hair, a scrape against the surface, the repeated motion jostling you forward, while you fucked back into him. “Have I left you wanting? Is that why you’re so needy tonight? So rude?” 

When you didn’t answer, he retracted his hips until the tip was all that remained nestled in your warmth, leaving you empty and unfulfilled. Then, as though sensing you were on the verge of complaining, the doctor slammed home, yanking from you a pitiful mewl of agonized desire. 

“Please.”

This particular word was a shapeshifter; it adopted a different meaning based on ite context. Here, it served as a Hail Mary, as a cry for mercy, but you weren’t sure whether you were imploring his punishing rhythm to abate or for him to give you more. Regardless of your intention, Dr. Krueger intensified his torturous movements, a dark chuckle tumbling from his lips. 

Damn sadist. 

“Begging will get you nowhere. Not tonight.” At your despairing whine, he laughed again. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, you’ll get your wish. Eventually.”

So attuned to the ins and outs of your body, was this man, so intimately aware of where to press, where to pinch to elicit sweet melodies and moans. And yet, he toyed with you, glossing over these erotic zones, waiting for you to confess something before he might grant you penance, a token for your suffering. The thread of your sanity was wearing thin. 

“Stop teasing, or I swear to God.” 

You’d expected him to ignore your pleas as he had done before, but instead, you felt him thicken inside you. “Do it, then. Swear to me.”

His ego almost earned him an eyeroll, but you couldn’t help giving into his demands. The relentless pace he’d set was very persuasive, and you were only human.   

“Sebastian—”

It had the desired outcome. Hardly ever did you call him by his name, so if you did, that meant something. Due to said infrequency, using his name had a kind of Pavlovian effect on the man.

“Scheiße,” he groaned out the curse, hips stuttering forward and reaching a newfound depth that made you both gasp. “Yes, my heart, that’s right. You’ve made me your god, and I’ve made you. . .” 

. . . mine. 

Because that was the truth, wasn’t it? Dr. Krueger had plucked a rib from the cavity of his chest, sharpened it into a blade, and carved you into his vision of perfection. In turn, you had turned him into a conduit for your enlightenment, for your becoming. He was your tangible nirvana, and you were his sole gateway to heaven. 

The two of you had found religion in each other, and there was little else more dangerous than that. 

“Is this what you wanted? What you were so impatient for?” At your jerky nod, he seized your slackened jaw and tilted your chin up to direct your attention towards the kitchen island where the corpse still laid. “My, we haven’t even cleared the table yet. Can’t let the meat sit out, or else it’ll go sour.”

When your brain finally caught up to what—or to whom— he was referring, an epiphany struck you with startling clarity: 

This dead man was evidence of what had transpired here tonight. Better yet, he was the first witness to this taboo consummation. Perhaps it was stupid to believe that gave your relationship any real legitimacy in the world’s eyes, beyond the perimeters of this manor. Nonetheless, the thought caused you to involuntarily tighten, and you prayed the correlation would go unnoticed.

Dr. Krueger froze, because of fucking course nothing ever got past him. “Oh, you like that, do you? You like that we have a guest for dinner, that another finally sees the truth of what we are. Hunters. Lovers.” 

Oftentimes, being known was a riveting experience that bridged the gaping chasm of solitude. But there came moments when you wished to conceal the ugliness. You lowered your head, mortified that he might at last realize you were unworthy of his affection, his touch. 

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of when you’re here. This home is yours, Liebling,” he murmured, reverent as he resumed his torturous ministrations, regaining momentum. “I can think of no more beautiful a sight than you happy and honest in it. Never hide from me.”

A horrific prospect, baring one’s heart to someone so well equipped to tear it to shreds, but your walls were already beginning to crumble. Brick by brick, he dismantled you, intending to undo a lifetime of repression then reconstruct you in his image. 

Sex with Dr. Krueger wasn’t just a physical release. It was near ritualistic in its conjoining of two souls. It was a collision between two supernovas, a calamity in progress. 

It was an inevitability.  

What a pair you made—serpent and Eve. Ravisher and ravished, entangled in a web of debauchery and death. 

In spite of everything, you didn’t believe that he made you worse. He made you real. 

Time after time, warnings that this should never happen again would echo throughout your mind, but time after time, you found yourself in this same position, wrapped up in him. Coaxed by his sweet nothings and consumed with the way he alone understood what you still refused to speak aloud, it was through this union of flesh and bone that you elevated each other to art. 

And hell, if he made you worse, then you accepted that to be worse was to be honest. In this realm, you were closer to God than to the Devil. 

And was it not so that every devout follower hoped to be in league with their god, to be rewarded for their unshaken faith? What better way to actualize that hope than to devour?

A well-angled thrust brought you back to the present. Man or monster, God or Devil, neither distinction mattered as he pummeled into you, a fusion of the ultimate caliber. In this room, he was not your enemy, just the equal who helped you ascend to great heights, who guided you until your eventual arrival to the precipice. 

Lucifer before the fall. 

“I—” The word broke off in an airy gasp. Second attempt. “Sebastian, I’m—”

That too went interrupted, for it was then that your lover decided to circle your swollen clit with his calloused fingers. Dazed and nonverbal, you felt him wrap your hair around his fist and use it as leverage to assist in his corruption of you, tugging your head to his chest, baring your throat, arching your back. 

“I know, it’s alright,” he lovingly hushed your cries, lips nibbling on the rim of your ear. The wet roughness of his tongue licked away the tears that had begun to flow freely from your eyes, glossy and unfocused. “You can let go now. I’ll be here t catch you, yes? I’ll always catch you.” 

It shouldn’t have been a comforting sentiment. This was a man who killed people for being rude, who had seriously told you it’s only cannibalism if we’re equals. And yet, hearing that he would be there to envelop you in his arms if and when you plunged into the deep end was what at last sent you over the edge.  

Before him, no partner had successfully brought you to an orgasm. He loved to lull you into a state of la petite mort, compensating for his inability to actually kill you by inducing several little deaths whenever you laid together. But he had your brain short-circuiting as you came apart, your thighs trembling and jaw unhinged, your nails notched into the muscles that rippled across the expanse of his back, a bright light behind halfway-closed lids.

Thick fingers crawled across your left cheek to enter the black hole of your wet mouth, and you instinctively closed your lips around the intruding appendages. As you sucked and lathered them with spit, you pushed your ass further back into his pelvis, wordlessly encouraging him to use you to chase his own release. Several strokes later, his pace grew desperate, erratic, and he removed his fingers to cup your face, angled it just right, then bit down on the side of your neck, drawing blood. The brief flare of pain made your walls flutter and take his cock even deeper, your bodies reluctant to separate. 

Harvest me, and don’t waste a single drop. 

The moment of stillness that ensued when he at last emptied his seed in you was something holy, you decided. Ropes of cum seemingly endless, the pulsing of his member combined with his low groans brought you unparalleled bliss. While he descended from his lustful high, he lapped up the metallic trail along your throat, and the pressure of his tongue soothed the wound’s mild ache. Dr. Krueger, the man who had no qualms about eating within his species, was content to stop his consumption of you here, at a bite and a drop of ichor. 

Is my taste as divine as you imagined?

His hips continued to jerk and lurch in the aftershocks, and the noise of skin ricocheting off skin was more audible now that your senses were starting to return. Some might consider it to be an obscene sound, blatant and crude, but its obviousness appealed to you. Anyone who heard these echoes of anatomical convergence would have no misgivings regarding the recreational activities in which you and the doctor participated. 

I fear I would give you the most tender parts of myself, if only you were to ask. 

One hand caressed the top of your head, smoothing back your sweat-slickened hair. The other used his pristine white shirt to wipe the sweat from your brow, the gore from your body. Its fabric was rough against your overstimulated skin, but his movements were gentle. 

So please—

The doctor finished remedying the mess he had made of you and tossed the clothing aside, murmuring something about how he would have to explain to the lady at the dry cleaner’s that he’d spilled red wine again. Wrapping both arms around your waist to pull you impossibly closer to his chest, he then pressed a soft kiss to your nape. 

Your eyes fell shut. 

—do not ask. 

The manor was silent save for heavy breathing, yours and his. A sudden foul stench of rot and decay reminded you of the gruesome company on the kitchen island across the counter. You forced yourself to meet the vacant stare of the fish whose death had started this spontaneous coupling session, passion fueled by elevated adrenaline and a godlike rush of power.  

“I thought you didn’t get off to killing,” you murmured, energy half spent. 

An affirming hum vibrated through your bones, and you felt him rub his forehead against your back, up then down, nodding. “You thought correctly. I do not.”

A snort escaped from your throat since very recent evidence pointed to the contrary. Still inside you, his cock twitched at the sound. 

Perhaps he found the noise undignified and the response rude. The man had probably killed people for far pettier reasons; nonetheless, you continued to push the envelope because he continued to let you. 

This risky game would someday reach its limit. Someday, you might cross a non-negotiable line, and then you’d be dead before you knew what hit you.  

But today was not that day. 

“There is no sexual gratification in my hunts,” he further clarified. “Such perversion indicates one who is subjugated to the whims of his more primitive nature, one who is being controlled rather than doing the controlling. 

“Arousal at its most basic implies common ground. It drives us to seek a favorable mate with whom we can sire offspring to carry on our legacies. Should the hunter find this kind of pleasure in the hunted, it would mean a debasement of the self. Dethroned from the top of the food chain, he would forever live among his lessers. Since my prey are not and never will be my equal, killing is a strictly nonsensuous act.”

You are my equal, my mate, were the words you heard him omit. 

“But I keep discovering how much you defy my logic. I did not expect to be so. . . moved by that insatiable look in your eyes, by your presence in my kitchen, holding my knife.” The sigh he exhaled contained genuine frustration, not at you, but at himself. At his lack of self-control, at his underestimation of your ability to undo him. 

His right hand strayed from your midsection to ghost over the swell of your ass, vexation having seemingly passed. “And what a lovely painting you made of yourself. The only improvement is for you to coat your bodily canvas with my blood instead of that unworthy pig’s.”

Your brows furrowed at the thought of him gravely injured, stained red, and you grabbed his wrist, gave it what you hoped was a reassuring squeeze. “I don’t want to hurt you, Sebastian.”

The rare occurrence of you using his first name outside of sex had him nuzzling deeper into the crook of your neck and lightly nipping at the soft skin there. Although his teeth were eager to pierce flesh, his canines maintained a respectable distance. In the afterglow, he was always so, so careful not to cause undue damage. You were at your most vulnerable, and he was at his most untamed; a dangerous combination, like fire and gasoline.

Who was the struck match that would sacrifice wholeness to ignite the other, and who was the ignited that would disappear without a trace post-explosion?

Did it even matter?

“Very pretty lies, Liebling, though not quite as beautiful as you.” 

Despite his sardonic delivery, the fondness with which he uttered the term of endearment betrayed his affections. Complicated relationship with the Cut-throat Killer aside, none could deny that there was genuine love between the two of you. 

An unconventional, tempestuous love, true, but love nevertheless. It made the dichotomy between your loyalties all the more messy. 

Because yes, you appreciated his craftsmanship and were awed by the artistry behind his kills. Yes, you had moments ago indulged in your first hunt alongside him and had enjoyed it.  

Yes, you would probably do so again in the future.  

Yet somehow, the FBI profiler in you still felt obligated to confront the man, to put an end to his reign of terror. Why your lover would forever be visited by the need to eat and savor every inch of you, why you couldn’t ever entirely relax in the breadth of his embrace. . . it all tied back to this:

You couldn’t reconcile your ethical code with your want for him. The enormity of your desire approached suffocatingly-absurd levels, and the extent to which you ached for and craved this man was sickening.

No matter your personal feelings, the bitter reality of the situation remained unchanged. Before you could irreversibly walk the path of either love or duty, you needed to perceive your brain as something other than deformed, to conceive that the unnatural was a natural product of the universe in its own right. You needed to believe that the person who returned your stare in the mirror was not a disfigurement of humanity, nor a bastardization of goodness. 

But what constituted good, and what qualified as evil, anyway? Who had the right to decide which was which? Was it Agent Blaustein, who had pushed you to the point of breaking, who saw your mind only as a tool, caring not if he damaged you beyond repair in the field? 

Or was it Dr. Krueger, who had made you question your sanity, who wished for you to access and become indivisible from the rawest pieces of your marrow, even if it damned him in the process?

One thing was for certain: until you unabashedly accepted the darker elements of yourself—the same facets that he reflected back at you—this game of cat and mouse was cursed to resume and repeat, over and over. The roles seemed to reverse each time; you had first been the mouse to his cat, then you’d briefly turned the tables as the cat to his mouse. 

Recently, neither of you could puzzle out who was who. 

And the scariest part about all this was that you had never known yourself as well as you knew yourself when you were with him, a fucking serial killer. How frightening, that your ability to acknowledge and make sense of your own existence might hinge on whether or not he was in your life. 

Even a fool could see how you had changed under the gravity of his influence. In the beginning, you’d shunned the ugly bits, the chunks of you that proved too abhorrent to swallow. Now, you were learning how to indulge, how to see the beauty in the so-called horror. During the day, outsiders reminded you of your malignancies, of the shame that accompanied the sin of authenticity. However, at night, with him, you at last shed these social shackles and basked in fantasies of what could be, for the mere weight of his stare had the power to propel you toward self-actualization. 

Obviously, Dr. Krueger was well aware of this war between your moral duties and your innermost shadows. You expected as much, considering he had almost killed you for it. 

In your quest to unmask the Cut-throat Killer and confirm your suspicions, you’d nurtured a budding friendship with the doctor. You had wormed your way into his good graces by telling him exactly what he wanted to hear, nevermind that it had been you at your most honest. When the scheme eventually fell apart, murdering you had surprisingly not been his immediate reaction. Instead, he had offered you the chance to come clean so as to leave all the secrecy in the past and move forward anew. 

Together. 

It made perfect sense for Dr. Krueger to try holding onto his one true companion in life after getting a taste of reprieve from loneliness. Except, oblivious of your blown cover, you had doubled down, giving him no choice but to clutch you to his chest and carve his heartbreak into your gut. As you drifted toward Death’s door, as regret and fear willed him to frantically press onto your wound, the man had realized just how much you’d changed him, too.

Although you were indeed the harbinger of his ruination, he’d concluded that imprisonment paled in comparison to the grief of losing you. He loathed to imagine spending the rest of his days in a jail cell, but he could not commit to killing you, his greatest weakness and threat. You sought to cleanse this town of him, but you too could not pull the trigger on this evildoer. 

Two halves of a whole, locked in a stalemate. 

Can’t live with him, can’t live without him. A grotesque and ghastly piece of work, this man you called lover. And yet, you wouldn't dream of leaving his side. 

Because Sebastian Krueger was never going to get better without you. And you were never going to become better without him. 

“Apologies, but I insist we skip our entrée tonight.” 

That caught your attention—an absurd statement from someone who would probably make the time to properly dine even if the FBI was actively storming the gates of his manor. You twisted your spine to at last come face to face with him, and awaiting your curiosity was his hungry brown eyes, his dark blond hair freed from its gelled confines. 

“I know you worked hard to provide us this meal, and the meat will not go to waste,” the doctor assured, expression neutral, the perfect picture of calm if not for the way his fingers dug further into the meat of your hips. “The problem is me. I simply cannot curb my craving for dessert anymore.” 

You nearly scoffed. “Was this not dessert?” 

“No, mein Schatz,” he chuckled, as if you had just told a funny joke. The low timbre of his laugh caused a wave of desire to pool in between your legs, and you pressed your thighs together to trap the renewed heat.  

Ever intuitive, Dr. Krueger moved one arm away from your body to rest flat and steady on the countertop then dragged the other down to pinch your inner thigh, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake. 

“That was only the appetizer.” 

fin.

[emo-gremlin]

I just want to say I'm happy that I'm not alone....

My high school experience made me regret getting honor role my freshman year....

My parents were tricked into signing away my benefits/aids in school because the school didn't want to deal with me.

My entire senior class erased my existence from the yearbook.

All my friends, bar one, abandoned me and never said why, making me feel like I did something wrong.

I was told to 'stop being so happy' at my junior prom by one of my 'friends'.

And to top it off:

My favorite teacher was the one who lead the charge in taking everything away from me.

So, Decker

Fuck you and everything you did. I looked up to you, and gave me hope that someone as weird as I was could still be successful in life.

I couldn't write for years after I found out what you did, why? Because you pushed so fucking hard, you praised me for it, you made me think that I could actually do something with it.

There's no fucking way I can look at the recordings of the school plays I was in.

Almost every creative thing I did you had some kind of hand in during high school.

And Nute High school?

Fuck you guys too.

Fuck you for never listening when I screamed for help.

Fuck you for making me sit in the waiting room of the counselors office because someone applying to college was more important than someone literally losing their fucking mind with stress.

Fuck you for throwing out all my files the SECOND I graduated, and shoving the only SHRED of paper you still had into my mother's hands before kicking her out.

Fuck you for making me doubt my disability for YEARS afterwards.

Fuck you for making me feel unworthy.

Fuck you for making me unable to look at purple and gold together without getting upset.

Fuck you.

Fuck all of you.

Now, me getting any kind of meaningful "I'm proud of you." From anyone is a fucking death sentence because I get scared of fucking up and then fearing that I'm going to get fired from my job.

Fuck you Decker.

Fuck you Nute High School.

I hope I get to see that place burn to the fucking ground. Because I'll be there with a bag of popcorn watching it smolder.

[dottiechan]

ICEBREAKER Pt. 2 & 3

Read on AO3 (link in bio)

Part 1 | Part 2&3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

Pairing: Crosshair x Reader x Hunter

Wordcount: 2060 (Pt. 2); 2050 (Pt. 3)

Summary:

Pt. 2:  Three are awake on the Marauder. Two are holding onto one another. One is barely holding on. (Hunter-centric chapter)

Pt. 3:  You can only keep saying no to your old addictions for so long before they return with full force. (Crosshair-centric chapter)

Warnings: cursing, smoking & implied nicotine addiction

Part 2

The stars streak and melt against the abyss of space, unsteady and bleeding. You miss the stationary points of light, precise and dependable and easy. Stars make constellations that guide you, that show you the way even when you're lost. Hyperspace just confuses you, chills you to the very bones, makes you feel more lost than you already do. Which, to be fair, is not too difficult right now.

Having left the ice planet behind after the successful elimination of a remote Separatist research centre, you're en route to Kamino once more. What's more, you have the cockpit all to yourself, and you sit with your knees up, head rested back, throat exposed, undone by the comfort of solitude as you allow yourself to lower your guard. It'd be peaceful on any other day.

But your mind is plagued by Tech's revelation.

Your rational side knows he must have made a mistake. After all, what's the chance of either of them liking you? And why would they? You're fighting together, and you're bleeding, and sweating, and trying, and maybe even dying together. But that's nothing more than what's expected of you, of each soldier of the GAR, clone or otherwise. You're coexisting now, but you could be reassigned at any moment really. You try to convince yourself that you wouldn't feel the change, that working with a squad other than the Bad Batch wouldn't chafe you terribly, but you see through your own lies.

Of course you'd hate it.

Where would you be without Tech's advice and sage-like aura? Without Wrecker's enthusiastic support? Without Crosshair correcting your stance when you shoot, without him always watching your six? Without Hunter's hand on your shoulder, saving you from dangerous situations, but also, and maybe most importantly, even from yourself?

It would be easy to answer those questions. But you don't have the power to do so now.

So you sit back, wishing for simpler times, times when your greatest worry was Bracca and thinking they hated you. You'd rather they hate you than... than what Tech said. Somehow the idea of either of them liking you in an unprofessional way, even remotely, sends your head spinning. It makes your throat constrict, it makes you feel unworthy and angry and confused beyond belief. The idea of both of them liking you at the same time - as outlandish as it sounds - just makes you absolutely lose your mind.

So you try not to think about them, you try not to think about Hunter's softness, and Crosshair's piercing gaze, and what it would be like to let them close to you. They already feel closer than what you're comfortable with. Maybe they are already closer than you know.

But they can't get any closer. You can't let them, and you promise yourself to shut them the fuck out. No, you don't deserve this, you don't deserve them fucking up whatever respect you've built up with the squad. And you don't have the right to mess up their friendship either. They belong with each other, all of them, and no matter how much you like calling them your boys inwardly, they'll never be yours. They'll always be a family, with or without you. And just who are you to tear it apart?

You try so hard to fit in, but it all seems too much, as if the four walls around you were pressing closer and closer until you suffocated, and you breathe in shakily, afraid of your doubts manifesting into anxiety.

But the slight tremor in your fingers is a telltale sign you can’t ignore. You are good at repressing emotions in the heat of battle, but you weren’t engineered to feel no stress. Nature formed you to thrive on it.

...

He's been awake ever since you refused to turn in and insisted on staying in the cockpit. Hyperspace en route to Kamino is the safest possible space travel for the squad, but he doesn't argue with you. At some point, Crosshair is up - he knows it's him from the very specific way his feet touch the ground. He skulks about the ship for a while before returning to bed. And then it's just you.

He's trying his very best to ignore you, he presses his pillow over his head and bites down on his lower lip so hard it almost draws blood. He hates the power you have over him, he hates how he can't have anything to himself anymore that isn't tainted by thoughts of you. And apparently, he can't even fucking sleep without knowing you're okay, calm, quiet, dozing off, hopefully dreaming about him.

But your next breath, it really sounds disturbed, almost gasping, and his heart clenches in his chest. He'd protect you from your very own thoughts too if he only knew how, but he grows shy whenever he sees an opportunity to really be there for you. All he ever wanted was to make you happy, and he doesn't know how it ended up like this, how his own happiness ended up being intertwined with yours so irreversibly. His own breathing grows a little more restless, chest rising and falling with your anxiety, throat tightening with your worry, mouth running dry with your confusion. And he'd take it all from you if he could, he'd drain you of all of your worries and pains if he knew you'd feel better.

He says he hates the power you have over him, but what he really hates is his inability to fight it.

He slips out of his bed, carefully and quietly to not wake the others, for once in his life grateful for Wrecker's loud snoring as it covers the sound of his footsteps on the metal flooring.

Before opening the door leading to the cockpit, he looks down at himself in his blacks, bandana abandoned with his gear back at the crew's quarters. He runs his fingers through his long curls in vain, fighting the urge to turn back and make himself more presentable, someone you could like. He's not doing this for himself, he scolds himself, but his insecurities keep buzzing in the back of his mind as he presses the button on the control panel and enters.

You've been crying.

The red rims around your eyes shatter his heart into a million pieces almost instantly, and he struggles to say anything for a second as you stare back at him wide eyed, startled. You're beautiful and sad and Hunter just wants to undo your pain any way he can. He'd be your collateral damage if you'd only let him.

"You should be resting," you say suddenly, the heels of your palms flying up to your tear streaked cheeks in a futile attempt to hide the fact that you've been crying. He wishes you wouldn't, he wishes you were comfortable with just being unapologetically yourself around him, sharing whatever sorrows and joys you had in your heart with him.

"I couldn't... You..."

"I'm fine." The little lie is so soft, almost like a caress against his cheek, a plea to let you wallow in your own misery. He'd never forgive himself for walking away now, and he can't understand why you want him to treat you so shitty.

"As your superior, I have a duty to make sure you're alright." He wants to wince when his words escape his mouth - he sounds so strict and stuck up and distant, and he wants to take it all back when a sour smile appears on your lips for a split second.

"I'm not crying as a soldier."

Hunter wills himself to sit, and forces himself to keep holding your gaze even though he wants to retreat. He's afraid, he's never been so close to breaking around you, but that damned shine in your bloodshot eyes doesn't let him back down. He knows he's already started down his road. Maybe it was time to commit to it.

"Well, I'm not asking as your sergeant then. I'm asking as your-"

"Friend?"

"I'm whatever you need me to be."

"I can't talk about it," you say after a short pause, looking away, leaving Hunter wonder whether that flush on your cheeks is because of him or not. He's disappointed you don't trust him, but he can't really be mad at you. He probably wouldn't trust himself in your place. And yet he can't stop yearning and wanting and tripping over his damn feet to make you feel better.

"That's okay. I'm still here, if you need me."

But maybe you don't need him, he thinks, his heart sinking, as he watches the colours of hyperspace reflect in your silent eyes. He stands, a hand stretching out towards you. He grabs the leather of your seat, digits sinking into it with helplessness before letting go completely, of the headrest, of your sadness, of you, and allows his own hell to swallow him up completely. He'll go back to his cot, and Wrecker snoring, and Tech mumbling in his sleep, and he'll listen to your misery in silence, suffering along mutely with every hitched, disturbed breath of yours. If that's how you want it to be, then he doesn't have the strength to change your mind.

You grab him in the corridor, catching him off-guard. He's always been off-centre around you, but so far it was only your retreats that unbalanced him. Your proximity is another intoxicating distraction, and for a moment, he feels like he can't move, he can't swallow, he can't reach out to touch you.

But you're hugging him, and how could he not return it?

Change comes slowly for him. First, it's his fingers that find your hair, and they tangle themselves in it at the nape of your neck tentatively. Your face is turned away from him, but your cheek is pressed firmly against his shoulder, and your arms have him locked in a tight hug, your ice cold fingertips seeping in his own heat. Hunter can't think straight, but he knows he's your lifeline now, and he slowly warms up, and tightens his embrace around you, and eventually holds you as if the world was ending, and you seem to need it. If only he could make your problems disappear simply by squeezing you against himself tightly enough.

It's unprofessional, so unprofessional, and yet nothing felt more natural to him than you in his arms, his nerve endings singing with the joy of your proximity. Now that he knows how sweet having you this close can truly be, he doesn't know how he's ever going to go entire days without your embrace. As if he needed anything else to prevent him from sleeping peacefully. He doesn't think he's slept well ever since you joined his team, and he doesn't seem to find it in his heart to regret it. It's bad, and destructive, and unhealthy, but it's also out of control, and Hunter promises himself not to stand in its way anymore.

No more swimming against the tide.

He just wishes, so desperately wishes he didn't have to hurt Crosshair in the process.

...

Fucking hell, he knew it'd hurt, he knew it'd come, inevitable and destructive like a tsunami, but he never actually believed it would be this bad, this paralysing. He hates it, he just wants it all to stop, he just wants to get out. But loving you doesn't seem to have an exit, and just like with breathing, the only way he'll stop doing it is when he dies.

But what's even worse than all the repressed anger and helplessness and loneliness is the hope, small and fragile but blinking steadfastly amidst the darkness of his feelings. The hope that - despite you being in Hunter's arms right now - somehow you'll still end up falling in love with him. It's false hope, Crosshair knows, but he just can't help holding onto it like a fucking lifeline.

He leans his head against the doorframe for a second, dizzy and momentarily overcome with sickness. Then he turns and lays down, curling up alone. Crosshair can't watch another second of this, of Hunter acting out all his forbidden fantasies until there's nothing left for him anymore.

He squeezes his eyes shut, but all he sees is Hunter's fingers tangled in your hair.

Part 3

You glance sideways, head propped up on your hands. He's surveying the street once more through the scope of his rifle. You consider yourself a rational person, someone who's not gross and would never violate any lines of decency, but there's something so unbelievably attractive about Crosshair as he aims his sniper rifle that you have a hard time restraining yourself from staring too much. Well, maybe you're willing to cross a few lines for him, but what the hell.

This stakeout is lengthy and has you stretched a little too thin anyways. Might as well pass the time with something.

Crosshair seems bored as well, more restless than usual. He lowers his gun and slings it over his shoulder, and you observe his lazy but meticulous movements, hoping to catch his attention before the silence drives you absolutely crazy. He comes to sit beside you on the rooftop as you watch the busy streets below you. You both know the rhythm of this place by heart now. First, there's a great bustling crowd in the late afternoon, mostly the poor workers of the adjacent factory fighting their way over to the beaten up shuttlebus station, and the merchants packing up shop and going home, leaving their stalls behind for the night. Then there are a few odd stragglers later, mostly seeking out the cheap watering hole on the other end of the street. And then around midnight, your separatist spy would finally show up to drop off his intel in the form of old, harmless looking datacards in a seemingly abandoned alley that ends in a cul-de-sac.

And then of course you'd alert the squad before the intel was retrieved, and Tech would make copies and start tracing the spy's sources, while Hunter would inform Commander Cody about the developments. Because there's a war on the other side of the planet that your information can help win, and while things look sad and boring here, at least this dusty city hasn't been bombed into oblivion yet.

"I can't wait to finally get the jump on this guy."

"Tech says we ought to wait a few more days," you remind Crosshair as you stretch your feet out in front of you.

"We're wasting our time here. There's a battle to be won on this very planet. So why are we stuck with this boring job?"

"Don't you like spending time with me?" you tease him, but you're scared of his answer, so you don't give him enough time to respond. "This is important. We're saving lives, Cross."

He bristles at the nickname, but nods reluctantly in the end. You hope it's the job he can't stand, and not you, because deep down you like this, you like not being shot at, you like having the upper hand, you like spending time with Crosshair, away from Hunter's suffocating lingering heavy with expectations posed towards you. You're none the wiser since you had that conversation with Tech some time ago, but you're all the more confused, and you're trying even harder to get back to how things were before. So maybe taking a page from Crosshair’s book and outright ignoring Hunter wasn’t the smartest idea, but you don’t have a better one yet.

"And who's going to save us before we die of boredom?"

From somewhere he produces a cigarette, and he flicks his toothpick off the roof before placing it between his lips. You raise your eyebrows, and he catches your eyes and smirks. He knows you've been trying to beat your own addiction, he knows how Hunter fucking hates the smell of smoke lingering about you, and maybe at this point he's only doing this to spite him, but he lights it, takes a drag and offers it to you.

"I really shouldn't," you wince, your rekindled craving suddenly running rampant in your veins. "I've been off it for a few months now."

"I've only got the one. But suit yourself," he shrugs, and takes another drag, smoke curling past his parted lips so enticingly that you lean closer involuntarily.

"I can't let you ruin your lungs alone." You break, and extend your hand. He chuckles, his fingers brushing against yours as he passes you the lit cigarette. You inhale the smoke, and you remember why you used to be so hung up on this shit as the nicotine soaks in your blood. Then you look at Crosshair, sweet and angry and oh so bitter Crosshair, and you soak him in too, unsurprised when he triggers the same reaction in you as nicotine does.

You remember why you used to be so hung up on him and you swallow hard, because all you can think about is what Hunter would say if he knew.

...

"I think I'm getting some sleep."

"Knock yourself out."

"I don't get how you're not tired."

"I am." If only you knew just how tired he really is, with all the pretending he has to do, with all the looking away whenever Hunter is by your side, hands drawn to you as if you were magnetic. But you are magnetic, you fucking are, he knows, he has a hard enough time to tear his gaze away from you constantly. He dreads to even think of what it would be like to have to keep his hands away from you too. He'd probably go mad.

That's why he never touches you, he avoids you, he withdraws like the losing party he is.

"Well, spyboy has already made his appearance tonight. It wouldn't be characteristic of him to come back again," you shrug. “Maybe we could both turn in for the night.”

"You really don't understand the concept of a stakeout, do you?" A snort and an adjustment to his posture later he's back to being mean to you because he needs to reinforce those walls he's pulling up between you. He'll be as cold as ice and you will burn your fingers and pull back and never come close to him again. Or at least that's the plan, he can't account for all times he's slipped out, all the times you made him laugh, made his heart race, made him wish he was more bite than bark with you. "There's a reason why we need two people here, remember? Someone needs to watch the street while I'm resting. Otherwise it'd be pretty difficult for me to do my job properly."

You take the bait so easily, and the pout and the crossed arms almost makes him smile. "Oh, so that's all I am here? Your backup? Your sidekick? Number two?"

"Pretty much." It clearly hurts you, but you deserve it a little. After all, he's your number two as well.

"It's such a joy working together with you."

Satisfied, Crosshair turns back to the street, ignoring the ache in his heart. He goes against his own wishes, but he's always taken care of himself, and he knows what's best for him. And pining after you like a lovesick cadet is not it, he can do so much better than that. You'll go now, probably pick a spot on the roof that is far away from him, you'll curl up on your mat and fall asleep, angry with him for the rest of the night.

But damn you, you're probably right, and the spy's not coming back again.

When you sit next to him, he's blinking in confusion, blank, nothing witty coming to mind. You sigh, annoyed but already letting it all go. Your elbows are touching, and he's too afraid to move.

"Do you have another cigarette?"

"You think I was lying when I said I only had the one?"

"Yeah. I think you were planning on waiting for me to fall asleep and then smoke them all alone."

"Smart girl."

The praise awakens something feral and primal in you, but Crosshair is too busy fishing out his pack of smokes to see it. You're sitting under the stars soon, ducking behind the half wall to hide the burning tips of your cigarettes, arms pressed together as you lean into his side more. You flick the ash off absentmindedly, and he watches your fingers, knowing he couldn't possibly look into your eyes now without feeling things he shouldn't feel.

"I don't mind being your sidekick."

And there you go again, fucking up his plans once more as he has nothing smart to say. He just sits, and smokes, and ignores the drumming of his heart in his ears as he focuses on you being so close to him. Just one last slip-up, and he'll do better tomorrow, he'll chase you off, he'll make you fucking hate him. But tonight is his, selfish or not. Tonight he will steal from Hunter, and then he'll never insert himself into your life again.

By the time you've put yours out, he's already lighting a second cigarette, and you blink slowly, exhaustion creeping up on you. Crosshair is about to shove you, about to tell you to fuck off finally and get some sleep, but then you put your head on his shoulder and he shuts up.

He's too scared to move, to ruin this moment. Tomorrow, tomorrow he'll stay true to himself, but tonight, he'll stay true to you.

...

"They've missed their check-in."

"Actually, they haven't. Crosshair gave me a status update not long ago. Looks like it’s all quiet - we won’t be seeing more of our spy tonight.”

While Tech is busy tracing the origins of the spy’s latest intel, Hunter paces up and down the abandoned cellar they established as their momentary camp. This temporary imprisonment has them all restless and stupid and twitchy, and he blames his own jumpy nature on being so understimulated. Listening to nothing but Tech’s datapad and Wrecker’s whining all day in the dark and damp confinement of these four walls is enough to drive him positively mad.

It has nothing to do with not seeing you or hearing your voice for days on end, no. Nothing to do with not catching a whiff of your scent in the mouldy air underground. Nothing to do with knowing you’re up on a rooftop, exposed, with no other than Crosshair.

Hunter trusts him to keep you safe. But he’s being irrational and jealous even though it is totally unwarranted.

Because he loves you.

It was a hard labour, to give birth to that internal confession, but he’s never felt so relieved ever since he’s done it. He finally has a name to put to all the yearning and pain and hope he’s harboured for seemingly endless months. But you’re not ready, he knows that. And maybe he isn’t ready to say those words out aloud either, and yet he knows the day will come. Because in the corridor of the Marauder those few weeks ago, while the rest of the ship slumbered, the two of you shared a moment that meant something.

You’ve been careful not to repeat it again, and he’s respected your wish, but he sees the way you look at him. Sees the purposefulness in your avoidance of him. Hell, he can practically smell your confusion. So he backs up as much as he can to give you the much needed time and space to hopefully figure out how him wanting to be close to you makes you feel.

But he likes to keep an eye on you nonetheless, not necessarily just to keep you safe, but also for that. And allowing you to tag along with Crosshair on a stakeout doesn’t exactly help him do that.

So he paces, dragging along his love for you with every step, ignoring his festering jealousy. Crosshair doesn’t even seem to like you anymore, he’s been vocal about it lately too, so there’s nothing to worry about. Despite it being an irrational fear, he still dreads leaving you alone with him, but he won’t have it. He knows you and his brother better than this. He knows. It’s just his mind playing tricks on him.

And as Hunter paces, Tech occasionally glances up to check on his sergeant, his friend, heart heavy with worry not just for him, or you, or Crosshair, but for the future of the whole squad in general.

[khanze]

Failsome - fear of failing

Redefine awesome. It’s okay to fail some but be persistent and believe, to not fail it all. Success is not the opposite of failing. Failsome is not the opposite of awesome. And the best try is after trials—this is the real awesome, which happens post your failsomes. So failsome is the prequel to awesome. Why not make dreams step outside of your daydreams and support yourself? Validation is like underrating your true potential. Do the work and gradually results will pop. Success takes time and process to deliver success. The world wasn’t made in a day, in fact it’s an every day, every seconds’ creation, so do a hope experiment and be relentless in your efforts to make it happen. Whatever it is that breaks inside of you—that voice who refuses to quiet down—you're calling. What if I say, you are born to failsome before you meet your awesome—which part will you believe?

Focus on purpose, value and what these mean to you as an individual. There is no shame in failing some. But it's a shame to give up new adventures and healthy risks due to an obtained fear of failing. Turn your dreams to goals—don't impose them, but reveal them, to achieve them and not for agreement. You are doing enough if you're failing some, because this means you're working on overcoming your state of sorriness and moving towards awesome.

Let it pass, without fail. There is no awesome without failsome. No success without failure. Never fail to keep going. Never fail to realise you're awesome. Never fail to disappoint validation. Never fail to accept you’re humanness.

It's easy to give up and true failing is like a fearful stoppage. You can't accept failing to become your limitation and affect your doing so that you stop often. Stop often, but remember to start often too. Disowning a challenge is the easiest form of failure and if you choose to fail, at least fail hard before you throw your hands up and claim to not know anything anymore. Why not use those same hands to smack the fear of future failure and shake it off the abyss of your shoulders, where it’s resting like cold dust on a shelf? It’s never that the shelf can't be cleaned again unless you imagine it deserves the mess. It doesn't. Your failure starts from you and you give power to it. You nourish it with fear, its prime fuel and you helplessly accept it as your fate. You let it possess you and don't even exorcise your right to do anything about that possession—That's true failure.

Can you be certain where to know where you came from? I don’t know. But some of us believe in theories which state that we arrived from the big bang or dropped off the cosmos. Well, what’s untold yet an established story, is that, where you came from, is actually a mystery slave to theories—or it can be an awesome imagination! So why fear where you're going? I'm sure there is a plan revealed at the end of a journey and even if or not, when you don't summon up the courage to take, walk and live that mystery, it may feel like you're baggage is walking into a void—that emptiness and buckets of failures and hurt on an unfulfilled chariot. But isn't it so that you can empty your miseries and drop them all and leave these all behind you? So when a new journey begins, perhaps that’s your purpose—to failsome, offload the unworthy and walk forward with awesome.

Awesome. So what is awesome really—Healing, moving ahead, succeeding, overcoming, filling your gaps, loving yourself, or all of it? All of it if you allow. It's asking for your consent—you see it respects your rights—awesome is decent like that. It’s not an antihero, or a shocking rude failure. If you give up and act broken, timid and cowardly, then I lose nothing. If I give up on doing and act frozen, I am defeated, and you lose nothing. But if we lose to fail some, we lose the chance to become awesome.

We need to be in awe of something. Something to keep us going and not lose hope, value and purpose to stay alive when we go offtrack or when we take a forced detour - perhaps it's another route to the same awesome we were set out for in the first place - have you thought? Yes, a happy ending to a rotten failure. Maybe this something is the very oxygen, the inner validation AKA affirmation, to take that risk and keep working while surviving some failsome, as we move closer to awesome.

If I give you a choice: at the conclusion of every failure you may cry or die or try, then what will you choose? There’s some omnipresent power within each of us, the ability to regrow—a limb—perhaps or not, but the ability to regrow spirit, a walk away, a path. When we are lost, all we need is a map, some direction, the courage to ask for directions, to feel stupid and alone. Whether a social misfit, whether alone in solitude or alone in a crowd, or unsuccessful according to the desires and chronology of this world, press on. The circaic rhythm of society may not match your heartbeats. But value your contributions to all times. You could've given up halfway and had no progress, but you're a WIP and the day you are titled complete, will be the end of a journey—a life. Perhaps something awaits post that biological death too—the awe of something continues. But even if not, at least you would fail some of the regret of giving up too soon, and of spending hours looking down on yourself too much, while you could've looked around at nature to find some reason to be in awe of something and make meaning out of your failsomes.

The laws of life are strange: you have to invest in blood and bones to make an existence. After all, raw materials make the finished product and so several failsomes = awesome—yes that rare awesome. That unique euphoric almost magical something your being craves—I call it dreams. The ones you play on loop after waking up and before you’re asleep. And dreams? They take a lot of raw material AKA failsomes to make an awesome, but the result is worth the sacrifice—you become anew, you regrow your lost self-worth and sometimes even outdo yourself, refusing your sorry-self, and that's true success in my eyes. The void within fills with hope. The storm settles to sail. A new bloom of hope and persistent work makes the almost lifeless failure become awesome—the reason to live.

[instantpansies]

yeahyeah he can have his moment to shine or whatever. but dorothy hasn't had any moments to shine so far this movie. did you ever think about that

one of my favorite things about oz is how much it loves its girl protagonists. they're presented genuinely and with a balance of tenacity and sweetness that's often not seen in the way they show it. the reason oz adaptations are so compelling for me is because they don't feel like bland fantasy hero white bread characters!!! and this movie unfortunately feels like a netflix cheap fantasy adventure with exactly that type of protagonist. tim is so exceedingly nothing new that i cant even sympathize with him. he's the earnest loser who goes on a quest, unlocks his true potential, and gets the girl. and it goes so strongly against what oz seems to be all about!!

in the books, there are maybe three characters who fit this trope at all: the tin woodman (in his eponymous book), pon the gardener, and general files. files is actually given these attributes by those around him, and his implied romance with ozga is based on her finding him honorable and attractive and deciding to cultivate a friendship. he doesn't pine away trying to prove his worth for her - he's already worthy and acts on behalf of the greater good, and the romance comes about because that worth is called out by ozga separately. pon is a tragic version of this bc he's the nice boy who doesn't get the time of day from his mean girl crush. he proves his worth to other people, who bestow on him the ability to get the girl. gloria never actually has a natural change of heart; her personality has to be completely shifted in order for them to be together, when her heart is unfrozen. finally, the woodman is a subversion of this trope - he believes himself unworthy, is found worthy by others, and eventually decides to do the chivalrous thing and reject the girl rather than attempt to trick her into liking him. (this is for a number of complex reasons, and this isn't what ends up happening in the tin woodman of oz novel, but this is essentially his reasoning at the beginning). so, oz never really shows this trope in its fullest, and when it does attempt it, the assumptions are always subverted or reversed in some way. any male love interests are treated with respect but (with the exception of pon for like one chapter) are never the focus of a story. they're treated like real people whose success doesn't rely on getting the girl. which is really cool in my opinion. i love all three of those characters, they're a really interesting subversion and interpretation of the 'loserboy knight in shining armor' trope.

anyways this movie throws out that legacy and way of thinking and goes 'you know what? dorothy needs a boyfriend' and that was the extent of the reasoning behind tim. i'm disappointed.

almost done

ok i'm watching the sequel now. fantastic return to oz (2019), i ended up liking the first one but i'm not so sure abt this one. i think zeb is in this????

[skaylanphear]

Can you tell us about your OCs? I'm really interested. Who's your favorite out of them?

breecandraw said: Ocs? I would like to learn about some cool ocs!!!! Plz share?

The OCs I’m working with right now are the ones from my fantasy novel, Dragon Seer. 

Nadraya: The protagonist is a princess named Nadraya. She’s always had visions, but because magic is so stigmatized in the desert kingdom of Casasis, discovering what these visions mean has never really been a possibility. That, and the fact that she and her two sisters–Amirya and Ventya–are completely isolated from the rest of the world contributes to her ignorance. There’s a plague that’s been ravaging the borders of her kingdom for generations. After the empress contracted it and died, their father forbade them having any physical contact with the common folk. But tragedy strikes nonetheless and Nadraya, faced with a future she doesn’t want to accept, makes the decision to run away, searching for a cure. She joins up with a band of rag-tag mercenaries with the same intents and so they leave her kingdom and encounter all sorts of mysterious dangers along the way–races of people that had once thought to be banished, undead brought to life anew (Deathborne), dragons, and an impending threat that could change the future for all the peoples of Vraed. 

She’s about 24 years old with a sharp wit and a developing bravery for facing the unknown. She’s a bit insecure about the fact that she thinks she contributes very little to the quest and is more of a burden, and reacts rather defensively when others try to boss her around. Sometimes she lets her self-righteousness get the best of her, leading her to take actions that offend or upset her comrades because she thinks she’s doing what’s best.

She’s got long, wavy black hair that is usually held up in a bun, and tanned, darker skin trademark of those born in the desert. Brown eyes too, if anyone cares. She’s got some curves, but their quest and all the physical activity involved quickly wears those away, as they’re starving a good chunk of the time, lol. 

Vaun: Prince of Zrao, the country north of Casasis across the Siants River. He’s a thoughtful young man with good manners coming to Casasis for “diplomatic reasons”–because Emperor Devrah, Nadraya’s father, hopes to marry her off to him and send her north to eventually become queen of Zrao. Which Nadraya knows very well and has no interest in, but Vaun’s pleasant personality wins her over anyway and the two become fast friends. He’s got a charming, teasing type of humor, which sometimes leads him into saying things he shouldn’t. But he’s well-intentioned and fond of Nadraya despite the expectations of their meeting. He’s one of the first to willingly open up to her about the world and all the things she doesn’t know. Black hair, blue eyes, pale skin.  

Erof: The number one sword for hire that the people go to when there’s a beast in need of taking care of from the deep sands. He’s pretty well known in the city for both his beast hunting skills and his common sense wisdom. Even those considerably older than him give him an ear where advice is concerned. He’s one of three that Nadraya would eavesdrop on during her illegal ventures out into the city (she disguised herself), a pastime that Erof becomes quickly aware of. He’s the most down to earth of the group, facing both people and circumstances with an open mind. He does tend to be distant, despite his friendliness. Suffers from chronic insomnia. He’s a wiry, muscular sort with blue eyes, platinum blond hair, and pale skin to match (sunburns very, very quickly, so he wears a cloak a good chunk of the time). Add in his foreign black leathers and he stands out considerably in the desert landscape, at least compared to the locals. 

Anier: Erof’s best friend. He’s a teasing, joking, fun-poking type that gets considerable glee out of prodding at others with his words. As a result, Erof ends up scolding him quite a bit–not that it makes much difference. He goes with Erof on a lot of his hunts, but isn’t nearly as well-looked on by the locals. Underneath his bravado, however, he’s pragmatic and will generally warm up to people once they prove their worth. His pragmatism leads him to be very careful. He’s the type that would prefer to avoid danger whenever possible, and is oftentimes the voice of caution for the group, pointing out the potential ill-consequences of their actions and lamenting the dangers they’re always facing. Despite this, he doesn’t shy away from confrontation and is happy to call out others’ behavior when he feels it’s uncalled for. He’s a tall, skinny guy with long, black hair and russet skin. 

Fratalie: The last of the hunting trio. Tall for a woman and built like a brick house, she stands just as sturdy in person as she does for her beliefs. Though she does not conform to the gender norms of her society, she does avidly believe in the teachings of the God King and isn’t shy about calling out heretics. She’s a bulldog and will force her way into getting what she wants, both in conversation and with her sword. But much like Nadraya, she’s seen very little of the world and so is ignorant of a great many things. Her bullheaded behavior and self-righteous beliefs tend to rub those of a different mind the wrong way, thus she and Anier bicker constantly. But even so, she is a loyal companion and determined in the face of things that would send most others turning tail. Short, auburn hair. Bronze, tanned skin with vague freckles. Brown eyes. 

Siateve: A Knight of the First Order. The Congress of Knights are supposed to be the servants of the God King directly, and so align themselves with him first and serve their assigned sovereign second. Having no loyalties to any kingdom, knights are dispatched to each kingdom equally to serve, but also to maintain peace. Their ranks have suffered in reputation in recent generations, however, the title of knight earning little respect as they’re seen as lazy crooks that abuse their power by a majority of the people. Despite this, Siateve is proud of his service and tries his best to live his life by the knight’s code. Though he is meant to have no loyalties, he was born in Casasis and was also assigned to serve there. He has little respect for rule-breakers, no matter their intentions, and no qualms with voicing his opinions about such. The teachings of the God King are secondary to what he views as the proper way to conduct oneself. They are a common sense backdrop to his stern, unyielding lifestyle. Despite this, he does have a softer side that makes him prone to sympathy for others even when his code would deem them unworthy. While the teachings say one thing, he is more likely to make the final judgement of a person based on their character and actions, less so on what the rest of the world thinks of them. He’s determined to get Nadraya home after she runs away (he kind of views it as his own fault) and so ends up dragged along on their quest despite constant objections. He’s young–the youngest of the group (maybe 21?) with a tall, broad form, short brown hair, and a light dusting of facial hair. Darker, bronzed skin much like the other desert natives. 

Chaswyn: An incompetent wizard that gets forced along on their quest. Timid and generally one to avoid confrontation, Chaswyn ended up with the group because his mentor forced him. He’s a Lreesadian civilian–Lreesadia being the country our party is headed to–and so he will make it easier for them to get inside the capital city because of his good family name. As far as magical ability, however, his worth is lacking. He’s never had much success in casting any spells, though he can sense magic and its aftereffects. He’s also very knowledgable about magic and other lesser known things and so proves his usefulness to the group in that respect. He’s a scholarly, bookish type, who relies more on his knowledge than superstition or religious beliefs. He’s curious and thoughtful, though shy and initially quite intimidated by the rest of the group. Skinny and always swathed in mage’s robes. Dark, umber skin, dark eyes, long hair that he keeps in dreadlocks and tied low down his back. The lower half of his hair is dyed white. 

Iera: Forest Elf with a chip on his shoulder. Initially helps the group of travelers out of obligation, as it goes against elf practice to allow life to be wastefully spent. He has no respect for humans, however, and has no problems voicing such things–much to the irritation of a few in the group. There’s a bitterness about him as well that makes him standoffish from the start. But he does feel companionship for the group and is more than willing to put himself in harm’s way for their sake. He’s rather long-winded when he wants to be, much to Siateve’s annoyance. Where Siateve believes that all things should be done the right way, Iera is more of the opinion that the ends justify the means, and so the two butt head all the time despite actually having a lot in common. Wispy in form, yet rooted, Iera is skinny but strong, with wavy, copper hair flecked with gold. His skin is almost paper thin and pale, and his eyes are entirely black (sclera and all, like a barn owl). His ears are long and described as blade-shaped along the side of his head. 

Beatrice: Commander of the Lreesadian military. Strict in personality, she’s known as the best swordsman in Lreesadia, though some say that doesn’t say much as Lreesadia doesn’t have much of a military in the first place. Most of their guards and such are knights, the corruption of their ranks leading Beatrice to be very strict in her own practices as well as rather ruthless. Despite how she views the Lreesadian upperclass to be foolish, she is loyal to the crown and serves without question. She’s strong and steady, more fuller-figured, with dark, copper skin and hair that is layered in long, tightly-woven, golden braids. 

Gwenira (name subject to change–I haven’t finalized her character yet): Queen of Lreesadia, though her position is more of a formality as she has very little power and what power she does have is puppeted away from her by her court. As a result, she is quiet, demure, and very rarely possessing in opinions of her own. Nadraya’s forward thinking is, therefore, quite a shock to her, and she spends a good chunk of the time they’re together asking questions behind the backs of those who would rather keep her silent. She is unhappy with her situation, but knows not what to do about it. She’s oftentimes described as the most beautiful queen to ever grace Lreesadia’s throne, and even those from other kingdoms have been known to admire her beauty. She’s rather waif-like in appearance, adding to why some refer to her as “delicate” and “graceful.” Dark brown skin, dark eyes. She generally wears her hair in a tight afro that she pulls back with a headband–it kind of appears like a halo around her head as a result.            

That’s the main cast for the first book, anyway. Uh… I don’t really know what else to say, so if you want to know more, I guess just shoot me an ask?

EDIT: And who’s my favorite? Kinda tied between Siateve and Beatrice I guess, but I like them all, lol. 

[acrossthenewdivide]

Today I realized I don't have to respond.

Bit of background: I'm an adult. Full-fledged. I finished school with a doctorate in a scientific field. I work a cushy 9-5(ish) job, I'm happily married to my best friend, and we are financially not only independent, but borderline comfortable.

None of that matters though to my mother.

I have a PhD, but that's not as good as an MD to her (nevermind that I would have been miserable and made a terrible medical doctor).

I work a great job that pays well, is stable, and allows flexibility. That's not as good as the toxic environment I left behind (that she knows nothing about and wouldn't survive a day in).

We rent a beautiful townhouse downtown, but that's not as good as owning a home (in this market mind you, and we don't think we'll be staying here long-term).

I could go on. The bottom line is that my mother raised me in a such a way that my self worth was based off of my tangible success, or rather, what my parents deemed successful. My grades were worthy of acceptance. My behavior was worthy of love. I was told I was weak for feeling emotion and was never ever allowed to be anything less than perfect. (My brother can be a shit show that she praises, but that's another can of worms entirely).

Naturally, I grew up a typical first born millennial of boomer parents, with crippling anxiety and perfectionism. I have a difficult time expressing my feelings (which is probably why I have always been so drawn to writing), and a difficult time accepting failure as part of growth. I have this desire for everything to be perfect because I was taught that anything less made me unworthy of love or acceptance. This has led to many hurdles in my marriage and relationships in general, learning how to fail, learning to accept that everything doesn't always have to be perfect, and learning how to feel and how to process and express those feelings in a healthy way.

How's that for a therapy session?

As an aside, hats off to my all-to-understanding husband for working through this with me.

I'm an adult. But my mother still treats me like I'm a 15 year old she can control. And part of that is my fault; I let her emotionally manipulate me for years. We almost stopped speaking after my husband and I got married, and have had an emotionally distant relationship since.

Today, she was up to her normal games. "I expect more of you" bullshit. I'm a fucking adult. And I realized I don't have to respond. I don't have to play into her emotional manipulation anymore.

So I didn't. And it's difficult. I feel so good to not play into her hand and yet so guilty. That guilt is a lie; it is 30 years of manipulation trying to trick my brain into accepting emotional abuse.

No more.

Its been relieving to see posts on social media, terrible though it may be, about these toxic parenting traits I experienced. It's comforting to know I'm not alone and what I experienced wasn't okay. These and the support of friends who have been through similar experiences and my husband reminding me this isn't okay, has led me to simply not respond.

And that's it. That's the post. Will it destroy my relationship with my mother? Maybe. Does that upset me? Marginally. There isn't really a way to win, but I must be above this ploy.

What happens next is in her court.

Cheers.

[isingforjesus-blog1]

Song: Parachute

by: Hawk Nelson

Blog #2

Depression and Anxiety is relevant in this generation. It’s hard to say that I almost been there, because I thank the Lord I have him!

I’ve been in tons of storms and circumstances in life. It never leaves me. It breaks me—drained me. For me, I grew up screwed, foolish everything was a mistake! I look at my self as “Reyna ng Sablay”. I’m always wrong. I admit it.. The hard thing in this was I feel so upset. I hate myself for being me. And when I’m in the middle of that situation I hear this song.

“The way that my mistakes, my regrets, and all my shame like gravity, it’s pulling me.”

“The waves keep crashing in, Things I've done and who I've been, The gravity, it's pulling me”

The lyrics of the song on verse one says it all. That feeling, when you just wanna run away, You just want to disappear to escape this tedious life! The world pulled you to the ground, it seems like you can not go up. All the shame and regrets. All your mistakes makes flashbacks and echoes in your mind. So the more I reproach my self. Then all these things successively happening, I am drained, crushed, stumbled, struck down. As I think all the things I’ve done, I don’t know myself anymore. Again. I lost my identity, again.

“The fear that I'm alone, Around my neck like a stone, And gravity, it's pulling me I've heard that You are good and You are strong, And if I could I would believe. Help me to believe”

This lyrics on verse two reads my heart. I really feel how the enemy oppresses me, I cried. I cried hard. I thought I already lose my battle. But then, I remember His promises, I remember how He looks at me, I remember his love, How great is his love. And I cried again. I cried harder.

“I am falling, will You catch me?

God, I need You to be my rescue

I am broken, will You fix me?

God, I need You to be my rescue

Be my parachute”

I failed, He rescued me. I’m broken, He fixed me. He reminds me again that He chose me. He reminds me of his love, even I don’t love myself. And that’s enough. He is greater than my mistakes. He is bigger than my failures. I am imperfect but that’s why I need him. It means He’s not done on me yet. The more I am in the battle the more He proves himself that He is God! He fought with me. He never leaves me.

“I know I need You to save me

'Cause no one beside You

Could save me now

Could save me now”

We fail. It’s okay were not perfect, But in those failures we should get up and learn those lessons. We need God to change us. Failures and mistakes doesn’t mean your unworthy. Because Jesus came here for us. He doesn’t look us into our failures. He embraces us as if we never done one. People will always look at our mistakes and sins. They judged us by those. But it is important to know that the love of God is sufficient. We just let him to cleanse us and change us. Correction is love. (Hebrews 12:6) So in times of trouble know that God only want is to change you, because He just want to use you.

So every time you fail, GET UP! Learn your lessons. START TO LIVE RIGHT WITH GOD. Surrender your life to God. Let’s fly with Jesus like we were in PARACHUTE.

[oldcoyote]

Success is honestly what you decide it's going to be. Many "successful" people are driven by almost crushing self doubt and a sense of unworthiness which causes them to keep striving for more more more, and we never know because they're not going to admit it. I know because I'm surrounded by these kinds of people and even I feel like it. I often feel like a failure, but it's because I haven't saved the world yet and can't afford to go to Italy right now. I have to remind myself that success (1)

(2) is often times, waking up, willing yourself to get out of bed, and doing something that makes you happy. Success isn't about the grand things. It's about all the little things that may one day build to the bigger things. I know it's hard because your future is so unknown, and it's so hard to be positive when all the shit is happening, but again, success in the end is what you decide it's going to be, and it's ok to take baby steps to get there as long as you're taking those baby steps.

it’s a beautiful way to see the world, and i wish i had that. i wish things like success and failure weren’t so sharply and painfully defined for me, and that i could find things that genuinely make me happy instead of being mired things that i do to please others because i’ve always believed that their approval will make me happy. i keep looking to find anything that i enjoy doing simply because i enjoy doing it, not because i want other people to see me doing it/see the outcome and praise or approve or like me. i wish there was a single fragment of my personality that wasn’t 100% occupied with what other people think of me and how important it is to try and make them think better of me at all times

i wish, i wish, i wish. i envy you so much the flexible and open, free definition of success. it’s a beautiful way to see the world ❤️