#but expressions are so genuinely challenging ;-;

[wolvietxt]

𝓕IRSTS 𝓦ITH 𝓨OU !

pairing : bucky barnes x implied fem!reader warnings : implied size diff, established relationship, tfatws!bucky, fluff,  wc : 2.6k summary : you introduce bucky to the things he’s missed out on, namely the office, theme parks, and emojis :3

bucky’s fingers hovered over the screen of his new phone, brow furrowed in concentration. you had been explaining how everything worked for the past half hour - apps, texts, even sending pictures - and while he was doing his best to keep up, you could tell he was still lost in the sea of modern technology. 

“so, this is how you send a text,” you said, pointing to the message box. “you just type what you want to say, then hit send.” you hit a few buttons on his phone and then pulled away to give him some space.

he nodded slowly, looking at the screen as if it were a puzzle he hadn’t quite solved yet. “okay. and... the emojis?” he asked after a pause, his tone unsure.

“they’re just little pictures to add to what you’re saying. makes it more fun, i guess.” you flashed him a quick smile before adding, “and, if you’re talking to me, you’re gonna use them, or else i’ll think you’re mad at me.”

bucky’s lips curved upward just a fraction at the playful challenge. “right,” he muttered, glancing back at the emojis, his expression turning serious again. “this one - ” he tapped an image of a smiley face, “ - this is good, right?”

you nodded with enthusiasm. “perfect. now try sending it to me.”

bucky hesitated for a moment before carefully typing out a message: “Hey. 🙂” 

he looked at you for approval, his blue eyes searching yours.

“well done,” you said softly, holding back a giggle. “you did it, buck.”

he grinned, a little relieved but still unsure. “guess ‘m getting the hang of this.”

“you are,” you replied, your voice filled with genuine encouragement. you could see him trying, and that was enough to make you proud.

“now,” you began, leaning in closer, “I’m going to teach you how to send a selfie. It’s easy.” you grabbed your phone and showed him how to take a picture, flipping the camera to face him. “like this.”

“a selfie?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“yeah, you’re going to love it,” you said, snapping a quick picture of him as he looked confused but willing to give it a try. “okay, now you do it. just - ” you stopped yourself, realising something. “don’t look so grumpy, though. smile a little.”

bucky rolled his eyes but played along, pulling a reluctant smirk before he tapped the button to take the picture. “this feels weird,” he muttered, but his gaze softened when he saw the result. he stared at the picture of himself for a moment, before looking at you. “it’s not bad.”

“not bad at all,” you said with a smile, grabbing your phone and sending the photo to him.

you watched him check his phone, his brow furrowing once more as he took in the photo, then back at the screen as you sent a quick text: “that smile is great, by the way.”

he read it, then quickly typed back: “you’re making fun of me.”

“no, i’m not,” you teased, tapping the keys with your fingers. “i think it’s cute.”

before he could respond, you leaned in, brushing your lips against his jaw. his body went still at the contact, the soft touch of your lips drawing his attention away from the phone. without saying a word, he kissed you fully, his lips warm and steady against yours.

“you talk too much,” bucky murmured when he finally pulled away, his voice gruff but affectionate.

you couldn’t help but giggle, looking up at him. “sorry,” you said, smiling in that way that made his chest tighten. “but i’m trying to teach you how to use a phone.”

“teach me less,” he replied, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice. before you could answer, he kissed you again, this time slower, his lips lingering on yours longer than before. it was like he couldn’t help himself, needing to pull you close and forget about everything else. 

when he pulled back, there was a softness in his eyes that was so different from the gruff exterior he usually put on. “you’re a distraction,” he admitted, though he didn’t sound bothered in the least. 

“only when i’m teaching you how to text?” you asked, your smile still wide.

“always,” he said with a grin, kissing you again, this time more gently, as if savouring the moment before pulling away and reaching for his phone. 

he looked at the screen again, tapping at it thoughtfully. “okay, what about this one?” he asked, tapping a face with hearts for eyes. “it seems like... the right one.”

you grinned, unable to resist the warmth that filled you at how cute he was, trying so hard to understand all this. “perfect,” you whispered. “now, send it.”

bucky hesitated for a beat, then pressed send. he turned to look at you, like he was asking for your approval.

“you did it,” you said softly, heart swelling with affection. “now, you’re a pro.”

he raised his eyebrows. “am i allowed to text you good morning now?”

“whenever you want,” you said with a grin, your hand finding his and squeezing it gently. “and i’ll send you emojis all day.”

bucky looked at his phone again, glancing up at you with a fond smile. “then i’m gonna need to figure out a lot more emojis.”

“take your time,” you teased, before your lips met his once more, this time without interruption.

the apartment was dimly lit, the only light coming from the tv screen where the office was playing. you had insisted that bucky give the show a try, promising him that it was the perfect mix of awkward humour and heartwarming moments. at first, he had grumbled about it, saying something about not needing to watch “a bunch of idiots in an office.” but here you were, four episodes deep, and you could see that little spark of amusement in his eyes.

bucky had his arm draped around your shoulders, his large frame practically swallowing you up as you nestled into his side. you were curled up against him, legs tucked under you, head resting on his chest. every now and then, you could feel the rumble of his low chuckle vibrating against you whenever something on-screen caught him off guard.

“i still don’t get how that jim guy hasn’t been fired yet,” he muttered, shaking his head as jim played yet another prank on dwight. “guy’s got a death wish or somethin’.”

you smiled, turning your face up to look at him. there was a light in his eyes, the corners of his lips twitching upwards as he tried to hide how much he was actually enjoying the show. “maybe he reminds you of someone?” you teased, poking his side.

he shot you a look, all mock seriousness. “you callin’ me a troublemaker?” 

“if the shoe fits,” you replied with a grin, turning back to the screen.

as the episode continued, you found yourself more focused on him than the tv. you loved seeing bucky like this, relaxed, at ease, his defences down for once. there was something so endearing about the way he’d get lost in the episodes, brows furrowing when michael said something ridiculous, or the rare moments when he’d throw his head back and laugh - a real, deep laugh that you couldn’t help but adore.

during one of those moments, as pam and jim exchanged a look, you felt his chest rumble with laughter, and it was so infectious that you couldn’t help but giggle, too. he glanced down at you, catching you staring, and for a second, it was like the rest of the world disappeared.

“what?” he asked, his voice softening.

“nothing,” you said, a little shy under his gaze. “you’re just... cute when you laugh.”

his eyebrows shot up, surprise flashing across his face before it softened into a shy smile. “yeah? well, don’t go tellin’ everyone.” 

you laughed, but before you could tease him more, he suddenly shifted, tugging you closer until you were practically in his lap. your breath hitched as he wrapped both arms around you, enveloping you in his warmth. 

you fit so easily against him, his hands splaying over your waist, and you could feel the steady beat of his heart under your cheek. the show kept playing in the background, but you were completely lost in the moment, the way he held you so gently despite his strength.

“you’re missing the best part,” you whispered, but your voice was soft, almost hesitant, like you didn’t really want to break the spell.

“nah,” he murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of your head. “this is the best part.”

your cheeks warmed, and you couldn’t resist tilting your head back to steal a quick kiss. he met you halfway, his lips warm and surprisingly soft, his stubble scraping pleasantly against your skin. 

“hmm, you taste better than jim’s pranks,” he teased, a smirk tugging at his lips when he pulled away.

you rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face. “careful, barnes, you might start liking sitcoms.”

“only if you’re watchin’ them with me,” he said, squeezing your waist gently. 

you settled back into his chest, letting the familiar sounds of dunder mifflin fill the room. with one hand idly playing with the hem of your shirt, bucky seemed content, occasionally making little comments about the show under his breath that made you giggle. 

as the theme song played for the next episode, you reached for your phone to check the time, but bucky’s hand covered yours, stopping you. “stay,” he murmured, his voice low, almost pleading. 

you glanced up at him, surprised by the hint of vulnerability in his eyes. it wasn’t often that he asked for things so openly, but when he did, it always tugged at your heart. 

“okay,” you whispered, setting your phone aside and snuggling closer, the two of you wrapped up in each other as the episodes played on, the world outside forgotten for just a little while.

the air was filled with the sounds of laughter, the occasional scream from the roller coasters, and the smell of funnel cakes and popcorn drifting through the breeze. the theme park was bustling with life, a kaleidoscope of colours and sounds that made your heart race with excitement. you could hardly contain your giddiness as you pulled bucky along by the hand, weaving through the crowd.

bucky, on the other hand, looked a little overwhelmed. his brows were furrowed as he glanced around, taking in everything like he was preparing for an ambush. it was endearing, really - the way his grip on your hand tightened every time someone bumped into you, his protective instincts kicking in.

“relax, buck, it’s just a theme park,” you teased, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze.

he grunted, still looking suspiciously at a guy in a giant mascot costume waving at children. “yeah, well, not sure i trust a place where people scream for fun.”

you couldn’t help but laugh, tugging him closer. “that’s the whole point! come on, let’s try a ride.”

you led him to the line for one of the tamer rides - a classic spinning teacup attraction. bucky eyed it warily, but he didn’t protest, letting you drag him into one of the pastel-coloured cups. once you were seated, you watched with a grin as he tried to figure out how the ride worked, his large hands gripping the metal wheel in the centre.

the ride started to spin, slowly at first, then picking up speed. you were laughing uncontrollably, the wind whipping through your hair, and when you glanced over at bucky, he had this look of pure concentration, like he was trying to out-spin everyone else.

“bucky, it’s not a competition!” you managed to gasp out between giggles.

he shot you a playful glare, a rare smile breaking through his usually stern expression. “everything’s a competition, doll.”

when the ride finally slowed to a stop, you were both a little dizzy, but you couldn’t stop smiling. you staggered out of the teacup, and bucky’s arm was instantly around your waist, steadying you. “you good?” he asked, his voice low and a little rough.

“never better,” you replied, leaning into his side.

next up was the game booths, where bucky’s competitive side really came out. you challenged him to one of those rigged carnival games where you had to knock down bottles with a baseball. he rolled his eyes at the way the game operator explained the rules, clearly unimpressed, but when it was his turn, he hit every target dead-on, not even breaking a sweat.

“show-off,” you teased, but you couldn’t hide the admiration in your voice.

“what can i say? i’m good with my hands,” he shot back with a wink, handing you the giant stuffed bear he won as a prize. your cheeks warmed, but before you could retort, he leaned down to steal a quick kiss, effectively shutting you up.

with your new teddy bear in tow, you wandered through the park, trying different snacks and taking in the sights. at one point, you insisted on getting a picture in one of those cheesy photo booths. bucky tried to protest, saying he wasn’t “photogenic,” but you dragged him in anyway.

the two of you squeezed into the tiny booth, your legs tangled together because of how little space there was. as the camera flashed, you made silly faces while bucky looked a little bewildered, but by the last frame, you managed to coax a smile out of him - a real one that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. 

you couldn’t stop staring at the printed photos as they rolled out, your heart swelling at how happy he looked. he glanced over your shoulder, shaking his head with a chuckle. “gonna frame that, aren’t you?”

“damn right i am,” you said with a grin, tucking the strip of photos safely into your bag.

the sun was starting to set, the sky painted in hues of pink and orange, when you finally made your way to the roller coasters. bucky was skeptical at first, muttering something about not trusting “rusty death traps,” but you could see the way his eyes lit up with a mix of curiosity and adrenaline.

“just one ride,” you pleaded, giving him your best puppy eyes.

he sighed, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “fine, but if we die, i’m haunting you.”

you laughed, grabbing his hand and dragging him into the line. as the coaster climbed higher and higher, you could feel the tension in bucky’s shoulders. you reached over, lacing your fingers with his. “it’s gonna be fun, trust me.”

the drop was sudden and exhilarating, your screams mixing with the rush of wind, and when you dared to peek at bucky, he had this look of pure, wild joy on his face. it was rare to see him so carefree, and it took your breath away more than the ride itself.

when you finally stumbled off the coaster, legs like jelly, bucky was grinning like a little kid, his hair windswept. “okay, that wasn’t so bad,” he admitted, looking almost bashful.

“see? i told you,” you said, wrapping your arms around his waist and leaning up to kiss his cheek. he pulled you into a proper kiss instead, right there in the middle of the bustling crowd, not caring who was watching.

“thanks for dragging me out here,” he murmured against your lips, his voice soft in a way that made your heart flutter. 

“anytime, sarge,” you teased, smiling up at him.

he just shook his head, a fond look in his eyes as he pulled you closer. “you’re trouble, you know that?”

“yeah,” you said, resting your head against his chest, “but you love it.”

he just chuckled, pressing another kiss to the top of your head, and you knew he wouldn’t trade this day for anything.

🌀 bucky barnes : @notacleangirl, @v3lv3tf0x, @dugiioh, @whxtewolf, @lemoanaid

@yvespecially

🌀 one time tags : @pvndomi

taglist form linked in pinned post :3

[infinite--92]

At the science and development conference, Dr. Miranda Hale found herself in a rare position of being the center of attention. Her reputation in the medical community had grown, especially after the work she had done with Sophie, Emily, and their condition. The university had invited her to speak about the hormonal changes and experimental treatments that were still in the early stages, but with great potential. It was a topic that was both controversial and intriguing, drawing the interest of many in the academic world.

Miranda, though usually shy and reserved, had become more comfortable with public speaking over time. She stood at the podium, explaining the scientific principles behind her work with clarity and passion. Her hands were steady as she clicked through her slides, her voice confident, though a little quieter than some of the other speakers. As the lecture went on, she could sense the curiosity and intrigue from the audience, especially as she described the unique phenomenon that Sophie and Emily were experiencing.

The Q&A

When the lecture ended, Miranda sat down at the front of the room for the Q&A session. A few questions came from the audience, some technical, others more personal in nature, all of them eager to understand the potential implications of her work.

One student in particular—a young man in his early twenties, wearing glasses and a casual blazer—had been asking several follow-up questions. He seemed particularly focused on the details of the hormonal adjustments and the potential outcomes of the ongoing experiments. His questions were sharp and precise, showing that he had a genuine interest in the subject. His enthusiasm was almost contagious, and Miranda found herself engaged in the exchange, enjoying the intellectual challenge.

After a while, however, his questions took a more personal turn, hinting at an unusual curiosity about the human side of the research. He asked about how the women involved in the study felt about the changes, how they had coped with the rapid physical transformations, and whether any of them had formed a deeper connection to the process itself. Miranda answered carefully, always sticking to the scientific facts, but it was clear that this student was more interested in the personal implications of the research.

After the Conference

Once the conference had concluded, most of the attendees filed out of the lecture hall, eager to continue networking or head to the next session. Miranda was gathering her notes when she noticed the same male student from earlier approaching her.

"Dr. Hale," he said, his voice a bit more nervous now that the formalities of the Q&A were over, "I really appreciate your talk today. It was fascinating—so insightful."

Miranda offered a polite smile. "Thank you. I'm glad you found it interesting."

The student hesitated for a moment before continuing, his eyes searching for the right words. "I—uh, I just wanted to say... I find your work really inspiring. And, well..." He shifted uncomfortably on his feet, clearly gathering courage. "I think you're really attractive. And if you're open to it, I'd love to meet with you sometime. Maybe we could have coffee or dinner? Just to talk more, maybe—about your work, or anything else."

Miranda was momentarily taken aback. She had grown accustomed to intellectual admiration for her work, but this kind of personal compliment was new. She had been so focused on her research and the community she was building that the idea of romantic or personal attention from others had never really crossed her mind. She could tell from the student's expression that he was genuine, though perhaps a little too forward for her comfort.

Miranda smiled politely but firmly. "I appreciate the compliment, but I think it's important to maintain professional boundaries. I’m here to focus on my research and the work we’re doing, and I hope you understand that." Her tone was kind, but clear in its intention to redirect the conversation.

The student seemed slightly embarrassed but nodded quickly. "Of course, Dr. Hale. I understand. I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable."

"No, it's fine," Miranda reassured him, her voice softening. "It's just that I prefer to keep things professional, especially in academic settings. But I do appreciate your interest in my work."

The student gave a small nod, clearly trying to hide his disappointment. "Right, of course. Well, thank you again for the talk. It was really eye-opening."

Miranda smiled again. "You're welcome. I'm glad you found it valuable."

As the student turned to leave, Miranda took a deep breath. She was used to being respected for her intellect, but this encounter felt different. It was the first time in a long while that someone had expressed personal admiration for her outside of professional or academic contexts. While she appreciated the compliment, it made her realise that she wasn’t quite sure how to navigate this new territory. She had always been so focused on her work that personal matters like this hadn’t been on her radar. But perhaps, with the changes she was experiencing in her own life, it was time to reflect on how she might want to handle relationships, both personal and professional, moving forward.

As she packed up her things and prepared to leave, Miranda couldn’t help but think about the unexpected nature of this world she was now part of. It wasn’t just about science and development anymore—it was about navigating her own journey, both professionally and personally, and figuring out where her place was in it all.

[nickel156]

I'M TIRED,

I’m tired of people pretending that Cassian’s behavior is anything close to love.

Cassian doesn’t love Nesta; he loves the idea of having a mate. There’s this desperate need in him to fill a void, to belong to someone, but it has nothing to do with Nesta as a person. He’s obsessed with the concept of a mate because it validates him in some way.

It’s like he needs the label to feel whole, but he never actually shows any genuine love or respect for Nesta herself. If anything, he treats her like a project, something to “fix,” rather than a partner he’s committed to growing with.

Let’s start with the fact that he never once tells Nesta he loves her. For a character who’s supposedly so passionate and driven by emotion, he’s shockingly silent when it comes to expressing any real feelings for her.

Sure, he tells her she’s beautiful, that he wants her, but does he ever look at her as a person and say, “I love who you are?” No. It’s always about her body, her physical presence. He’s drawn to her in a purely primal way, but there’s no depth to it. It’s as if he’s fixated on the idea of her as his mate, this mystical concept, but he doesn’t actually care about who she is beneath that label.

And then there’s the way he talks about her, or rather, the way he doesn’t. When he thinks of Nesta, it’s almost entirely about her body, about how she “tempts” him or “challenges” him. There’s nothing about her mind, her resilience, her intelligence—qualities that, honestly, are the best parts of Nesta. And even worse, he never talks about Nesta with the kind of respect or fondness he has for Mor. It’s actually kind of gross when you think about it.

Cassian is more emotionally open and reflective when he’s talking or thinking about Mor, his "sister" than he ever is about Nesta. With Mor, he shows this tender, protective side. But when it comes to Nesta? All he seems to care about is how “difficult” she is and how he’s somehow “suffering” through it, as if he’s some saint for putting up with her. It’s like he’s comparing his love for Mor with this toxic “passion” he’s convinced himself he feels for Nesta, and it’s just… ick.

And let’s be real, he treats her like absolute trash. He constantly belittles her, invalidates her trauma, and gaslights her. Remember when he tells her that “everyone hates her”? Or when he controls what she eats and forces her into situations she clearly doesn’t want? This isn’t love; it’s control.

Cassian wants a mate who fits into his mold, who he can “fix” so he can feel good about himself. He doesn’t care about who Nesta is or what she’s been through. He only sees her pain as an inconvenience, something he has to “deal with” because she’s his mate. Love isn’t supposed to be about changing someone, yet that’s all he ever tries to do with Nesta.

Cassian’s fixation on Nesta’s body and their physical relationship just further highlights how shallow his “love” for her really is. Every intimate moment between them is tainted by this feeling that he’s more interested in her body than her heart or mind.

He’s infatuated with the idea of claiming her, possessing her, but he doesn’t actually care about supporting her, growing with her, or even understanding her. It’s all surface-level attraction, with none of the depth or empathy that actual love requires.

In the end, Cassian doesn’t love Nesta. He’s infatuated with the idea of having a mate, but he doesn’t respect her, he doesn’t cherish her, and he definitely doesn’t see her for who she really is. If he did, he would treat her with the dignity and compassion she deserves. Instead, we get a man who constantly invalidates her, objectifies her, and thinks he’s doing her a favor by sticking around. That’s not love. That’s ego. And Nesta deserves a hell of a lot better.

[danielmolloystits]

looks just like an angel (Armand/Daniel, 1/1)

Summary:

The man in the chair—who Daniel assumes must be the priest, judging by his black button-down and white collar—looks up and smiles as he enters, all gleaming white teeth like one of those ads for toothpaste that four out of five dentists recommend. He has deep skin and dark, curly hair that he keeps having to brush away from his brown eyes. “Hello,” the priests greets him. “Welcome.” “Um,” Daniel says. “Hi.” — The drug den Daniel wakes up in after his encounter with Louis and Armand gets busted, and Armand decides to pretend to be the priest at his court-ordered N.A. meetings. That’s it. That’s the fic.

Pairing: M/M, Armand/Daniel Molloy (Devil's Minion) Rating: E WC: 5,555

It’s 9:52 in the morning. Daniel’s mouth tastes like he ate roadkill for breakfast and his head is pounding so loud he wants to tell it to come back with a warrant. Across from him sits his probation officer, whose name he’s pretty sure is Sarah, wielding a kind expression and a notepad that contains a quick summary of Daniel’s many sins.

So far, he likes Sarah. Sarah is nice. Sarah is telling him how she’s going to get him through this without it destroying his entire life. Well, she hasn’t used those precise words, exactly, but Daniel has been able to glean the gist of it—she’s been saying things like “first offense” and “dismiss the charges” and it has all vaguely sounded like it might not screw everything up for him forever.

So that’s something, at least.

“Of course, pretrial diversion does come with some requirements on your end,” Probably-Sarah is saying, with a look of what appears to be genuine concern on her face. Maybe she’s a good liar, but Daniel thinks there’s a chance she actually cares about the dumb hungover kid who’s half-sitting, half-melting in her office chair. “You’ll need to start attending NA—Narcotics Anonymous, that is—and we’re going to administer periodic drug tests to make sure you’re keeping clean.”

Christ, he’s such an idiot. A stupid fucking idiot who’s just lucky to not be dead right now. His innards churn miserably in agreement with that thought, and Daniel hopes that they’re at the tail end of this pretrial check-in thingy. He really doesn’t want to throw up on this nice lady’s carpet.

Sarah continues, “But if you hold up your end of the bargain, then I’ll hold up mine.” She smiles at him, apparently oblivious to the imminently-threatening hostage situation that is Daniel’s stomach right now. It’s kind of sweet, though; she looks like she really believes he’s gonna make it through this program. Like she thinks he could maybe be somebody someday.

A bright young reporter with a point of view.

“And if all goes well, then after your probationary period is up, you’ll never have to see me again.” She tilts her head at him, and sure, it’s condescending. But, like, in the nice way moms are sometimes. “Let’s try to make sure that happens, yeah?” She passes him a stack of papers that repeat all of the information she just gave him verbally, which Daniel is grateful for, because it’s been challenging to try to pay attention when his insides are so valiantly attempting to become his outsides. “I’ll see you two weeks from now.”

Daniel nods and hurries out of the room, right as the hostage situation devolves into a massacre with no survivors. He swallows against the gastric acid and bits of egg that are currently attempting to escape his throat and rushes to the single-stall bathroom down the hall, sending a prayer of thanks to every higher power he can think of that it’s unoccupied. By some small miracle, he manages to keep his shit together until he is on his knees in front of the toilet, at which point everything he’s put in his body for the past week unceremoniously comes back out.

Idly, he wonders how many public bathrooms he’s done this in by now, how many times he has been in this same stupid situation—his mouth and nose hovering above a filthy fucking toilet seat that’s touched the asses of God knows how many strangers—as the choices from the night before come back to haunt him like an ex-lover after a bad breakup.

Too many, he thinks. Definitely too many.

He looks down at where the informational materials are still crumpled in his left fist, pastel-colored pamphlets with titles like Self-Acceptance and Am I An Addict?, and thinks he could probably use a break from living like this. Thinks maybe this won’t be such a bad thing if it leads to him finally getting clean.

After all, it sure as hell can’t get any worse.

***

Two nights later, Daniel arrives at the church closest to where he’s staying in the Castro, which the Welcome to Narcotics Anonymous pamphlet told him hosts meetings three nights a week. Our Lady of Most Holy and Ardent Redemptions, or whatever. He doesn’t actually remember, but he’s sure it was something like that: all overwrought and Catholic, a name that’s meant to imply you have to absolve yourself for the crime of being born.

As he walks through the vestibule, he’s surprised to find it utterly abandoned, blanketed in a thick layer of silence that clings to the dusty pews and eggshell-colored walls like a film. It’s eerie, almost, this conspicuous absence of life—if it weren’t for the printed-out sign attached to the back of the pulpit that reads NA meeting downstairs in Rosary Room!, he’d assume he’d gone to the wrong place entirely. As it is, he wanders around the nave with a vague sense of unease until he finds the stairs to the basement, then follows the unsettlingly-cheery instructions of yet more signs until he reaches one that says NA Meeting here!!! taped to a mahogany door.

For a moment, he has the absurd impulse to knock, as if he’s intruding on something he shouldn’t be. He shakes himself out of it and opens the door.

Inside, there isn’t much to look at: a handful of low bookshelves pressed snugly against the wall, a long table with a coffee pot and an unopened box of donuts, and seven or eight folding chairs arranged in a circle.

Only one of them is occupied.

The man in the chair—who Daniel assumes must be the priest, judging by his black button-down and white collar—looks up and smiles as he enters, all gleaming white teeth like one of those ads for toothpaste that four out of five dentists recommend. He has deep skin and dark, curly hair that he keeps having to brush away from his brown eyes.

“Hello,” the priests greets him. “Welcome.”

“Um,” Daniel says. “Hi.”

“It would seem you are our only attendee for this evening.” A sheepish little laugh rumbles out from the priest’s chest as he adds, “I suppose sobriety is not so much in vogue these days.” He has an accent, Daniel notes, like maybe he emigrated from England but was somewhere else before that. The way it squeezes around his vowels is dimly familiar.

“Guess not,” Daniel agrees, casting a sideways glance at all of the empty chairs. The poor attendance doesn’t bode great for the overall well-being of the Castro’s citizenry, he reckons; it’s certainly not because they don’t need to be here. “Isn’t NA supposed to be group therapy? Is it still gonna...work?”

The priest chuckles softly again, a light exhalation of air to break the stillness in the room. “Yes, though it appears our session will perhaps be a touch more intimate than most. I hope you don’t mind a bit of individualized attention.” His eyes sparkle, almost seem to shine, as he gestures for Daniel to take the seat across from him. “Please, sit. I’m Father Armand.”

He does. “Daniel.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Daniel,” Father Armand says sweetly, and wow, he has really thick eyelashes. So thick and dark that Daniel wonders briefly whether he’s wearing mascara—though he isn’t sure whether priests are allowed to do that. “What brings you to Narcotics Anonymous?”

“Um.” He stutters, flushed and awkward with the weight of Father Armand’s undivided attention. “This is the part where I’m supposed to say I’m an addict, right?”

“It’s just us, Daniel,” the other man replies, in a low and conspiratorial whisper. Like the two of them are getting away with something, like this is a part of an inside joke they’ve shared for years. “You may say whatever you’d like.”

“What if I don’t want to say anything?”

“That’s fine, too,” Father Armand answers easily, a reassuring smile on his face. “Though we might not make much progress on the issues that brought you here if we sit in silence.”

“Fair enough,” Daniel says. “All right, I guess I’m here because a court ordered it. I’d really rather not be.”

“This is not the outcome you’d have wanted, then, but perhaps it is the one you need.” And, warm and friendly as he is trying to be, the priest’s stare seems to cut straight through him, right down to the ugly things inside him that he endeavors to hide. It is wildly discomforting. “An intervention from a higher power, of sorts.”

“Not how I’d put it, personally,” Daniel says, simultaneously bemused and on-edge. He scratches an itch on his forehead. “More like an intervention from the SFPD.”

“Even the SFPD answers to God, Daniel.”

“O-kay.” Unsurprisingly, the fatalistic religious bullshit is not doing much to set Daniel at ease in this situation. “But yeah. I’m, uh. Here because I got busted. In a drug den.”

“What were you doing in a drug den?”

“Well.” Daniel blinks at him. “Drugs, mostly.”

“Yes, that much is obvious,” Father Armand says, waving a gloved hand dismissively. “But what compelled you to the drug den in the first place?” Then, before Daniel can answer, he continues, “Don’t say ‘drugs’ again.”

Daniel was definitely about to say ‘drugs’ again. “I’m not sure what you’re looking for here, man,” he answers instead, shrugging one shoulder noncommittally. “I like getting high. Not a lot more to it.”

“There’s always more to it,” the priest replies, sage-like and frustratingly stoic. “Whether we want to admit to it or not.”

“Orrr,” he drawls the single syllable out sarcastically, “maybe it’s just not worth telling. I was there because I wanted to do drugs and I got caught, dude.”

Father Armand hums thoughtfully. “Surely something in the evening must have led you there, though.”

“I don’t really remember,” Daniel says, and he’s maybe starting to lose his patience a little. “Probably on account of being radically high.”

“You can’t recall anything about the evening other than its conclusion?” In the dim lighting of the basement, the priest’s expression is difficult to read.

He frowns. “I might’ve met a guy at a bar, before. I think I was at Polynesian Mary’s, maybe?”

“Do you meet guys at bars often, Daniel?”

Immediately, he tenses, a frisson of indignation alighting in his gut at the priest’s thinly-veiled judgment.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He probably should’ve known better than to expect anything approaching compassion or understanding from the Catholic fucking Church. Lesson learned for next time—maybe the Episcopalians are running NA somewhere in the city.

“I meant no offense, Daniel,” Father Armand says, voice calm and composed in stark contrast to Daniel’s rising indignation. “I’m just inquiring as to your habits, to get a sense of where you could benefit from some lifestyle changes.”

“Oh, and I’m sure whatever you think I’m doing with these men is high on that list, right? This is the Castro, dude. Fuck you.”

“You have quite a lot of anger,” the priest comments dryly, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees as though he’s inspecting Daniel. “Is that what drives you to use?”

Is that what makes you fascinating?

“No, seriously, dude: fuck you. I’m not putting up with this shit.” He stands to leave, but Father Armand reaches out and grabs his wrist before he can, his grip unexpectedly steely.

“A reminder, Daniel, that your participation in this process is necessary if you wish to avoid jail time,” he says, still smiling that same, infuriating smile.

Daniel stops in his tracks. “Maybe not. I’ll work something out with my P.O., I’ll–”

“Yes, Sarah, was it?” Father Armand asks. “I wonder how she would react to news of your resistance to the process.”

“You–”

“I’m only here to help, Daniel,” the priest interrupts with an infuriatingly placid smile. “Now, are you intending to cooperate, or shall I go ahead and inform Sarah of your refusal to participate?” He gestures once more for Daniel to sit, his expression replete with a cool smugness. Begrudgingly, Daniel complies.

“Fucking—whatever, fine.” He closes his eyes and exhales noisily through his nose, trying to will himself into a state of calm. When he opens them again, the priest is staring at him expectantly. “I guess I use because I...I get bored.”

“Bored of what?”

“I dunno, dude.” He shrugs. “Sobriety. Life. Everything.”

Father Armand leans in even closer. “Interesting.”

“If you say so, man.” Daniel rolls his eyes. “Mostly it’s just tedious. I mean, all of it.”

“How so?” There is nothing but apparent sincerity in the question, which makes Daniel’s shoulders relax a fraction.

“It’s the same shit every day, isn’t it? Wake up, go to work, eat dinner, watch TV, over and over until you die,” he says, and the priest nods along as he speaks attentively. “At least drugs break up the monotony a little.”

The unnamed malaise you feel on Sunday afternoons.

“Sure,” Father Armand agrees breezily, his eyes never straying from Daniel’s. “If you do them once in a while, maybe. But they’ve become part of your routine, haven’t they?”

Daniel crosses his arms belligerently. “You don’t know me, man. You’re not my fuckin’ friend.”

“I’m not here to be your friend, Daniel,” Father Armand replies, tone clipped and succinct; annoyed, almost. But then, more delicately, he adds, “I’m here to help you get better. The first step is admitting you have a problem, no?”

“I guess.” Daniel slumps back in his seat, running a hand over his face in exasperation. “All right, so let’s say I have a problem. What next?”

“The next step is coming to believe in a power greater than yourself.” The priest’s hands are clasped together, his thumbs twiddling idly as he speaks, “One that is capable of delivering you from your illness.”

“So, what,” Daniel deadpans. “I’ve gotta convert to Catholicism?”

“If you’re so inclined,” Father Armand responds wryly, as if he’s privy to some great secret that eludes the poor, ailing addict. Daniel wonders in that moment how old the other man is. He can’t have too many years on Daniel, surely, but he seems so much older that it’s almost a little unnerving. “However, it could be anything, really; your love for your family, your will to live. It could even be me, if you wanted.”

He says it like it’s meant to be another bad joke, but something about it brings Daniel up short. Like he’s not really joking at all, actually. “You could be my higher power?” he asks flatly, unsettled and using a fair amount of bluster to cover it. “Isn’t that sort of sacrilegious?”

“I’m not suggesting you pray to me; I’m suggesting you allow me to carry some of the pain that troubles you. To share in the weight of the dreary mundanities that lead you to use.” The priest’s eyes bore into his, his tone soft and reassuring. “I assure you, Daniel, God will have nothing to say about it.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

Father Armand smiles. “I want to help you. Is that so difficult to believe?”

And it is, really. But despite his misgivings—practically against his will—a sense of calm washes over Daniel at the sound of the priest’s voice; the crash of a wave lapping gently at a shoreline, soothing the impotent swell of restless irritation that has been building inside of him since he first sat down. All of that rage, those years and years of tiresome anger, snuffed out as easily as the flickering light of a candle. With nothing more than a few words, Father Armand has taken the heft of that burden from him, as effortlessly as if Daniel had handed it over to him willingly.

Rest, now.

Maybe he wouldn’t mind so much after all, he thinks—putting the confusing knot of chaos inside of him into someone else’s hands. Maybe it would be nice to give his will over to something greater than himself.

“Okay,” Daniel hears himself saying, as though from a great distance. He’s hardly even aware he’s speaking. “Okay. It can be you.”

Rest.

Father Armand beams at him then, and Daniel realizes for the first time how beautiful he is; he looks just like an angel in a Renaissance painting, like a portrait of a martyred saint. His eyes seem less brown, now, closer to the rich and vibrant glow of an ember. Of course Daniel can trust him. Of course.

“Excellent,” he says, and his hands extend to clasp around one of Daniel’s. The leather over his skin is cold. “You are safe with me, Daniel.”

Rest.

Mutely, Daniel nods. The part of him that wishes to object is so quickly subdued, as if smothered by an insistent hand.

“Now,” Father Armand begins, the dingy gold of the basement lights glistening off of his teeth, “you’re going to tell me about what happened before the drug den. What do you remember, Daniel?”

I’m the quiet you’ve been longing for.

As the unspoken words pierce through the veil of his cognition, Daniel jerks like a sleeper agent awakened. In between one moment and the next, his mind is inundated with lurid images of an apartment, the apartment he was in before he wound up in the den: a man—if he can even be called a man—who looks so much like the priest is hovering over Daniel, whispering devastating kindnesses into his ear until the fight slowly drains from his body. He tries to hold onto the shape of them, to remember what it was that happened, but the flashes slip through his fingers as easily as soap bubbles off of a dinner plate. As he reaches for them, grasps at them, a pressure builds in the base of his skull like a low roll of thunder, and a scream tears through his shaking body. He cannot hear it over the ringing in his ears, but he can feel it, feel it rattle his chest and reverberate in his bones. It is agony, unending and complete. It is torture.

The only comfort through all of it is the weight of Father Armand’s hand around his own.

“It hurts,” Daniel whines, instinctively trying to shy away from the throbbing fissure in his head by leaning further into Father Armand’s touch. Tears prick the corners of his eyes like pins.

“Does it?” the priest asks, voice steady and still like the face of a mountain. “Good. Pain is your body’s way of telling you to avoid something. If it hurts, move away from it.”

Daniel sobs, and the next thing he knows he is on the ground, having fallen off of his chair; the hard press of the floor underneath him is the only thing holding him up. “Please,” he begs, not really sure what it is he’s asking for.

A cool finger crooks under his chin to tilt his head up. Through his swimming vision, Daniel sees Father Armand looking down at him. “Do you want me to make it stop?”

“Yes,” he breathes, his body curling up into the fetal position like a dying cockroach. “Please.”

The priest frowns, dispassionate. “What would you do for it? What would you give?”

I could be on my knees in a second.

Another burst of pain blossoms underneath Daniel’s eyes and he winces, cries out. “Anything,” he promises, his fingers reaching out to clutch at the leg of Father Armand’s trousers. “I’d give anything.”

“Would you give me money, Daniel?”

He nods enthusiastically even as the motion of it only exacerbates his anguish. “Yeah,” he says, “everything I have.”

“Hmm,” the priest hums. His expression as he watches Daniel is calculating, frigid. Slowly, he lifts one Doc Marten-booted foot to rest on Daniel’s chest. “Would you give me your obedience?”

Instinctively, Daniel’s spine straightens under the weight of his heel, the firm way it presses down on him a strange but poignant comfort in his addled state. The feeling it grants him is not quite relief, but it is something adjacent to it, something that loosens the tightly-wound tangle of anxiety that squeezes his lungs. He craves more of it. “Yes.”

“Yes what, Daniel?”

He swallows roughly. “Yes, Father.”

Lowly, the priest murmurs, “Good boy.” He runs his tongue over his teeth, his gaze growing half-lidded and hungry. “Ask me what you can do for me, Daniel.”

A shudder runs through him, sharp and electric. His mouth tastes of ozone. “What can I do for you, Father?”

The priest grins at him, then, wicked and predatory. “Worship me.”

The words echo around Daniel’s mind like a hollow room, silencing all other thought. Silencing the terrible cacophony that has been threatening to rend his very self in two. He squirms with the ecstasy of it—the unparalleled bliss of reprieve—mewling his acquiescence to the priest’s demand.

He can feel Father Armand’s pleasure at his submission trickling like a leaky faucet down his spine. “Do you feel that, Daniel?” he asks, as calmly as if he were asking about the weather.

Tears are still streaming down Daniel’s cheeks; his nose is stuffed and snotty from crying. “Yes, Father,” he croaks.

“That is solace, my dear boy,” the priest tells him, unwavering and impassive. “I have given it to you, and I can take it away from you just as easily.”

At the thought of the pain returning, a fierce panic slices through Daniel, hot and pointed as a knife in his guts. “No,” he moans, his bottom lip quivering as he stares at Father Armand. “Please don’t.”

The boot presses down harder, pinning him to the yellowed carpet. “You forget yourself, Daniel,” the priest replies.

He whimpers and corrects himself: “Please don’t, Father.”

“That’s better,” Father Armand says with a mean twist of his lips. “Tell me: where is your place?”

And Daniel has played this role before, knows the script by heart. Could recite it in his sleep if he had to. “Beneath you, Father.”

The priest grinds his heel into Daniel’s sternum, then, wrenching a pitiful cry from between the boy’s lips. It hurts, of course, but in a different way than before; this isn’t the horror of his soul being cracked in half and poured over the ground. This is a familiar pain, a welcome one, one that Daniel arches up into like a cat stretching its back.

“Do you like that, Daniel?” Father Armand asks, a trace of amusement coloring his voice. “Do you like it when I hurt you?”

Wordlessly, Daniel nods, because he does. He always has. He’s always pining to feel something, anything. Whatever it takes if it means not being bored.

“Say it.”

“I like it,” Daniel wheezes, forcing the words out from underneath the weight on his chest. “I like when you hurt me, Father.”

“Greedy, aren’t you?” the priest purrs, half-aroused and half-contemptuous.

“Yes.” Daniel hisses, his fingers clawing into the carpet as his body curves to accommodate—to seek out—the press of Father Armand’s heavy boot. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, that he wants this after everything that’s happened today (the past week, some distant part of his mind whispers), but he does. Maybe he simply craves the release of oblivion after teetering over the edge of it. “Yes, Father.”

“I could make you feel good, too. If I felt like it.” He lifts his foot a fraction of an inch, enough to make Daniel’s lungs expand gratefully where they’ve been compressed. Then, slowly, he drags the toe of his boot down, down, down to where the boy is hard and aching in his jeans. He runs his instep along the shameful bulge that presses against Daniel’s zipper, pressing just lightly enough to tease. To threaten. “Do you want me to make you feel good?”

Daniel moans, a needful, pathetic little sound that makes Father Armand snarl. “I do, Father.”

“Do you think you deserve that, Daniel?” His boot pushes down a bit harder, and Daniel writhes into it, gasps at the delicious torment of the priest’s brutality.

“No, Father.”

“Beg for it, then.” Even though Daniel’s eyes are screwed shut, he can feel the burning weight of the other man’s stare boring into him. His boot steps harder still. “Beg for me. Tell me what you want me to do to you.”

Daniel wants to reply, knows that he needs to reply, but he can’t; his mouth is too occupied with crying out, held captive as he is in a state of delirium.

“Pathetic,” Father Armand spits at him. “Must I speak for you now, too?”

He can do nothing more than nod, than accept the fate he has been dealt at the hands of this cruel master.

“You want me to fuck you.” It isn’t a question; rather, the priest speaks flatly, clinically, down at the boy he has pinned. “You want me to bury my tongue in your ass until your voice gives out from screaming and then fill you to the point of breaking, is that right?”

The words are torn directly from Daniel’s thoughts as though Father Armand heard them uttered aloud. As though he can read the twisted desires playing on repeat in Daniel’s mind as plainly as thumbing through a children’s picture book. The noise Daniel makes isn’t so much language as one of desperation distilled.

The boot lifts off of his chest, suddenly. “Stand.”

Daniel does, albeit slowly and on shaky legs that threaten to buckle from underneath him.

Father Armand smiles. “Good boy.” He gestures with his chin in the direction of the table, still covered in untouched donuts and cold coffee. “Bend over. And drop your pants.”

Sweating and trembling, Daniel feels more of a mess now than he did the day he awoke from his bender. Like the screws holding him together have been loosened and he is the lightest touch away from falling to pieces. Nevertheless, he complies, bracing himself on his elbows as he awaits further instruction.

“You’ve been insolent,” Father Armand comments as he slowly comes to stand behind Daniel. He runs the fingertips of one gloved hand over the swell of the boy’s ass. “Don’t you think you deserve to be disciplined for that?”

And Daniel is still beyond the point of language, so all he can manage is a thin, reedy little moan. Internally, he is only capable of thinking the word please on a recursive loop.

There’s a rush of air, then, followed by the sharp sting of Father Armand’s leather-covered palm striking one cheek. Daniel sucks in a harsh breath, an involuntary inhalation somewhere between a hiccup and a gasp. He gets almost no break before he is being hit again, then again, over and over until he can feel the blood rising to the skin from the burst capillaries. Almost as if from another room, he can hear himself crying out. Although the soles of his feet are rooted to the church carpet, he feels as though his consciousness has abandoned his body to wander elsewhere. The pain is practically transcendent in its savage persistence, the only thing anchoring him to this material plane the rhythmic pulse of the blood rushing to his cock.

Father Armand is relentless, and Daniel wonders whether he is going to be punished past the point where he can no longer withstand it. Until suddenly, the abuse stops, and the priest instead permits his cool fingers to trace over the damaged skin. His touch is surprisingly gentle, laced with a fragile sort of reverence; Daniel can hear the rustling of fabric as the priest crouches down, as if seeking out a better angle from which to admire his own handiwork.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, spreading Daniel’s ass open, the word ghosting feather-light over the sensitive flesh. Daniel whines, restless with the effort of keeping himself still against the overwhelming urge to arch into the contact. “What a beautiful little thing you are.”

The praise wrenches a strangled cry from Daniel’s throat, wanton and depraved. He wishes he still possessed the ability to speak, wishes he could beg for Father Armand to please, please fuck him now. Beg the priest to make him full, to try and satisfy the yearning cavern inside of him.

He’d do anything to not be so fucking hungry.

The priest laughs as though he knows precisely what Daniel is thinking and then, with no warning, he is blowing a teasing breath over Daniel’s hole.

The boy nearly screams, his mind still running on the frantic hamster wheel of please, please, please, please, please—

Father Armand interrupts that train of thought by dragging the flat of his tongue over the skin that his breath just kissed, carefully unraveling what little remains of Daniel’s sentience until all that is left in its place is a moaning, bestial creature. A thing composed entirely of impulse, the only thing he understands at this point being what it means to want.

Instinctively, Daniel tries to grind back into the sensation, but the priest does not allow it, his leather-clad hold on Daniel wrought in immovable iron. At the denial, Daniel merely whimpers, no longer able to beg with anything other than his body and sincerely running the risk of going mad with need.

Patience, Daniel, he hears Father Armand admonish, as if from a stereo system inside of his head while the priest licks over him once more. He doesn’t even question it, really, content to assume that the universe is fracturing around him and that reality itself is simply splintering. It certainly feels that way, with how Father Armand’s tongue writes filthy love poems into his skin, with how he fucks into Daniel just enough to torture.

It is not unlike he is drowning, stranded in the middle of a vast ocean and being pulled under by the grasping appendages of the monsters below. He is overcome with a pleasure too fathomless to name, one that threatens to steal the air from his lungs and fill them with something more volatile and fluid. It’s exquisite. He needs it to stop. He never wants it to stop.

Again, Daniel hears the priest’s voice inside of his mind. So very needy, aren’t you? Filled to the brim with unrealized desire, aching for anything that might scratch the persistent itch deep within you.

The words seem to strip him bare, to peel back his skin and the viscera that holds him together until all of his nerves are exposed to Father Armand’s touch. At this point, he is cognizant only of the places where the two of them connect, the world zeroed in like a pinhole on the press of the priest’s tongue against his ass. He has no self outside of this point of contact, he thinks, and he doesn’t care at all. Can’t imagine caring about anything else ever again.

He keens, his hips attempting to roll back once more. This time, Father Armand lets him, allows Daniel to ride his tongue in the way he so desperately craves, and he gasps with the relief of it, his face buried in the crook of his arm as he thrusts backwards to where the priest’s mouth is waiting for him.

Then, one of Father Armand’s hands snakes around to grip Daniel in his fist, and it only takes a few strokes before the feeling of it swells into a feverish crescendo, before Daniel is twitching and spilling messily over the priest’s fingers.

Good boy, Father Armand says, tongue still deep in Daniel’s ass as he works him through the spasming aftershocks. Now, I need you to do something for me.

Daniel slumps onto the table, barely able to hold himself up, and nods limply. Anything. He’d do anything.

Stay still, Daniel.

Father Armand’s mouth moves to lavish a hot, wet kiss to where Daniel’s pulse pounds in his thigh, his teeth scraping delicately over the skin there. Then, there is the sensation of ice piercing his arteries, of numb and cold and bad and wrong.

The world begins to grow dim around the edges. The last thing Daniel remembers thinking before it all goes dark is, Please don’t kill me.

***

When Daniel awakens in his apartment the next morning, he has a bruise on his butt the size of an apple, a killer headache, and a voicemail on his answering machine:

Hey Daniel, this is Sandra. I was wondering why you missed your first N.A. meeting last night; Father Reynolds said you didn’t show. If you need help getting to them, let me know and I’ll help you work something out. Either way, try not to let it happen again, okay?

As he listens to his P.O.—who is apparently not named Sarah—speak, a lot of conflicting thoughts occur to him at once. Most of them are confused, disoriented, wondering what the fuck happened last night and who the fuck Father Armand really was.

But perhaps the loudest of all of them is the realization that that part of him that is so constantly reaching, so constantly starving, is finally contented.

For the first time he can remember, he is satisfied.

[elexuscal]

i must've made a post about this like a decade ago when it happened, and even writing it i know it sounds like a "and then everybody clapped" moment. but it's been on my mind with the current Gravity Falls renaissance-- the release of the Book of Bill (I still gotta read it) and my sister watching the series for her first time with me.

But okay. Go back nearly a full year; I'm teaching English. This sounds very sophisticated but I assure you it was not. I was in [Asian location redacted] and I was in the unhealthy environment of the Children Educational-Industrial Complex. e.g. a bunch of tutor centres that promise the moon for giving kids as young as six the edge to put on their eventual university applications, that are very mismanaged and underpay the actual new college grads doing the teaching.

okay, so that's the situation. On Saturdays I work a whole gamut of classes on drama and poetry and theatre, from like the wee toddlers to eighteen year olds working on reciting Macbeth.

I'm teaching like a 2-hour session of the 8-10 year olds, and we take a ten minute break. I drink some water, eat an orange, enjoy having a couple brief moments of me time, etc.

The room I'm teaching in has windows into the wall that also functions as the white board. Coming back in from the break, I see the kids have scrawled all over it in the board marker pen-- genuinely not an issue, I told them to have fun. But the center piece of their little recess is a triangle with a bowtie and red eyes, looking impressively ominous.

The kids look at me. They giggle; their expressions are mischievous, challenging. They want me to comment on it, and more to the point, they want me to be confused.

I cock my head and I say, "He's missing his tophat."

and the kids all LOSE THEIR FUCKING SHIT

[mythicalninjas]

Cowabunga! 🐢

So... I was here thinking, how would they (separately, please) act or react, with f!reader having the same personality and attitudes as Wednesday?

Cowabunga! 🐢🐢🐢🐢

Is Wednesday Addam were you talking about? I hope I have written about the right character.

Leonardo:

Leo would probably be the most intrigued by Y/N's personality. He’s disciplined and serious, so he would respect her cool-headedness and sharp mind. However, her morbid sense of humor and indifference to emotions might throw him off balance at times. He would try to understand her, showing patience, though occasionally, he might try to "soften" her outlook, offering subtle encouragement to open up emotionally.

Might appreciate her composure in stressful situations, valuing her ability to remain calm. However, her morbid comments might leave him at a loss for words, unsure whether to laugh or worry.

While trying to maintain his calm and collected demeanor, Leo would find himself fascinated by her uniqueness and challenge his own seriousness by finding humor in her deadpan wit, even if it takes him a while to get used to it.

Raphael:

Raph would find himself drawn to f!reader’s sarcasm and dark humor. Her indifference to typical social norms would appeal to his rebellious nature. However, there might be some clashes—Raph is passionate and emotional, and her lack of overt emotion might frustrate him at times. He could misinterpret her stoicism as a lack of interest or care, which could lead to tension.

Probably throw some of her sarcasm right back at her and would enjoy their witty back-and-forths. When she says something morbid or weird, he might give a half-smirk, appreciating her quirkiness but unsure how to respond to some of her more macabre tendencies.

He might challenge her to "lighten up" or show more intensity, but over time, he would come to respect her consistency. He’d be more protective of her, even if she insists she can handle herself.

Donatello:

Donnie would be intrigued by f!reader’s intelligence and dry wit. He would appreciate her unique perspective on the world, even if it sometimes bordered on the macabre. He might be a bit uncomfortable with her fascination with death and the darker side of life, but he’d still be drawn to her intellect and logical approach to problems.

Would try to analyze her behavior, wanting to understand her more deeply. Donnie might awkwardly laugh at her dark humor, not always knowing if she’s joking or being serious, but he'd definitely admire how quick she is to observe and make snappy comments.

He might try to engage her in intellectual discussions, where they both could express their unique viewpoints. He’d value her ability to remain calm in chaotic situations, but he'd likely spend a lot of time trying to "crack" her more vulnerable, emotional side, if only out of curiosity.

Michelangelo:

With his lighthearted and fun-loving personality, would probably be the most challenged by f!reader’s Wednesday-like demeanor. He’d likely be a bit confused by her disinterest in fun activities and would constantly try to make her laugh or loosen up. Despite her indifference, he’d probably find her mysterious vibe attractive and would be undeterred by her sarcastic comments or dark outlook.

The orange-clad-boy would respond to her deadpan remarks with wide eyes and playful comebacks. He might not always get her humor, but he’d still laugh and try to match her energy, albeit in his more sunny way. Her morbid nature would likely lead him to try extra hard to “brighten her day.”

Mikey'd be relentless in trying to draw out some positive emotion from her, constantly cracking jokes, inviting her to fun activities, and even creating a friendly challenge of getting her to genuinely smile. Despite the differences, he'd enjoy the balance her personality brings to his upbeat energy.

Each Turtle would be attracted to different facets of Y/N’s Wednesday-like personality, whether it's her wit, composure, or dark charm, but they’d all face the challenge of balancing their unique personalities with her stoic, slightly eerie nature.

[dxxtruction]

Something to just consider is that Armand is a collectivist. Culturally I think this makes sense, considering he would've been raised in his foundational years in that sort of culture that values collectivism over individualism. He's also had to live in several high control environments afterwards, which demanded servitude, where putting himself first would've led to trouble, up to and including death. In the Children of Darkness, for example, the very idea of seeking pleasure at all is against the commandments, and since he is forced to lead this group (under careful surveillance), he can not therefore show if he even wishes to seek pleasure, because this would disrupt the collective thought, and further, place a level of threat upon himself for disobeying the laws he's meant to be upholding. He's at threat that he can be killed for it, because that's how such laws are handled. So he necessarily can not hold an individualistic, self serving, opinion, and hope to live, and lived in that kind of envoirment for centuries. Even the TdV carries on the same sort of traditions to less strict, more secular, degrees. Seeking pleasure in TdV is rewarded, even exhaulted, but the great laws are still imposed to the level of threat which is death, and everyone is always surveilling each other on this matter. He's a collectivist, especially in situations which impose certain, or uncertain threat of violence, for going against the group, or person, as in such a situation being individualistic is perhaps the last thing you may get to ever do. Nothing personally driven, therefore, seems that worth it provided the risk.

Whether he remembers this earliest period of childhood, or not, those sorts of values (likely positive then as things like sharing, community building, reaching mutually beneficial decisions, aid, and consideration of others feelings). Ingrained into his personality, and he doesn't have the kind of amnesia where it appears his personality was fundamentally changed by it. Rather, that since it's more of a dissociative amnesia barrier protecting him from traumas, that his personality would rather be fragmented, as opposed to altered. (Meaning such values are still there, but are now also acting alongside various further alteration to what is means to be in collective. And that if such amnesiac parts ever do surface, it is only reacting as if it is re-experiencing, and in the same context to the trauma. Depending on how complex this part is it could take on further environmental inputs while in this state, developing or simply having, essentially, its own personality... but I digress).

He does things for the group, which can at times only be one person, more-so than he serves himself. Placing what serves situation and context more highly that individual personal traits and feelings. But, by thinking he has no self, he naturally falls to self justifying everything wrongful he personally does, as for the benefit of the group. It's a cognitive distortion which doesn't recognize it's own selfishness because it sees itself as being selfless regardless of actual outcome. Further, this makes it so he takes no responsibility for others actions he may have caused, or to how a situation came about because of himself, if he doesn't then apply having any self to that situation. He'll bend to opinion even if its false, and create or even take on an entire role of falsehood, if he believes it serves a mutual benefit.

He uses this as a kind of shield against the world he must fundamentally view as threatening, and imposing, with very limited spaces of safety. But doesn't impose himself in healthy ways, therefore becomes an enabler of certain toxic behaviors getting out of hand, and creating unsafe environments. Desiring such places being controlled, and predictable, environments, but not fostering what's needed for that, and certainly not in a healthy way. Rather lending to manipulating others, or using threats, or force, to make it so he's secure in this. Again, self justifying that it's for a collectivist benefit. If he does at all recognize his own selfishness it's due to how he's able to come out of his own cognitive distortions, and dissonance, and admit faults and failings. Seeing that hiding his own faults and failings from others is something selfish, and therefore that he does indeed have a self there. In doing so, developing an understanding that he acts as a self in all things, and therefore understanding the effects of his actions are actually his. (Or else falling right back into the distortions). He has to be selfish, in a way, to ever be truly selfless. If that's really his goal.

To want something for itself, as opposed to some other means. To want good, love, and safety, for itself as opposed to what it does. He has to develop a sense of his own idea of these things, in order to form a consistent and more secure identity, not founded or attached to a group or person. And further needs whatever self that is, to be embraced, by himself, and not insecure in how others would react to it. To not be afraid of this self expression and personal desire, thought, opinion, feeling, and so on. By developing his own person he'd be able to better embrace his own bad qualities, even change them. As he then feels he has such agency, and isn't just simply reacting and serving to the world around him. I think there's something in how he changes Daniel which says he is moving in sort of this direction, there's something in how it appears he's roaming around on his own right now that suggests he is on a journey of this sort. I'm not expecting greatness out of it, but I am thinking there will be progress for present day Armand in future seasons. I think he is capable of change, and is not fundamentally as he appears. (And this would align to his narrative arc in the books anyway.)

And just also like I don’t think he knows entirely where the boundaries of anything really are or should be. Between himself and others or like where right begins and wrong ends and so forth. Not a moment in his memorable life, mortal or immortal, hasn't been without the presence of vampires, and therefore conditioned more under vampiric understandings as opposed to human ones. And because he's disconsidering of self, and hasn’t exactly been modeled what these should be, he's not able to function sanely in his environment. He's not sane I think I can say. But I do think he’s someone who learns experientially, and can do that on his own, so where those must lie he’s not in total lack of awareness either.

[hythlodaes]

thinking about how emile’s hair was about this length when he met estinien and then estinien tried to fight him 😀

[agentcricket-art]

happy valentine's day!!! 😘😘😘

[rebornrosess]

i think there is something to be said about queer subtext in glass animals songs almost always being likened to obscurity and murkiness throughout zaba vs explicit queer text being likened to the sun in helium as in…literally coming out into the light.

[sysig]

Went absolutely feral on WOY again recently (Patreon)

[daz4i]

smh fics give me this false hope that someone might love me even while knowing all my baggage. so unrealistic. not fair.

[todayisafridaynight]

Daigo has so many genuine connections, all these people who would stand by him regardless of if Tojo still exists. It just sort of feels like it plays to the way Masato is just chronically blind to the love around him and the strength of Ichiban's whole thing and surrounds himself purely with transactional relationships. It's the way Mine viewed the world before he met Daigo, but Masato is purposefully cultivating this environment around himself. Masato HAD those bonds where Mine didn't, but Masato's "those who use and those who are used" still feels like a worse distillation of Mine's philosophy, or at least that the two rhyme even if they aren't the same. Daigo originally defying Mine's worldview led to a longing to understand it and be a part of it; Daigo defying Masato's would probably just lead to more seething lol. Tojo going away, not only is just 'oops daigo already planned on that' robbing Masato of the satisfaction, idk it just further highlights that without being wrapped up in the status of Chair that these people are still with Daigo. Aoki bought his connections through lies and money and destroyed the only ones he sincerely had by following "use or be use" to its end, but Daigo could just fuck off anywhere he wanted and still have not just friendship but as Masato might see it absolute loyalty (esp in a Mine lives scenario; Aoki's lil pet bastard Kume's devotion is absolutely a speck vs **Mine** ). Both Aoki and Daigo can lose their positions of power, but its only Masato who feels like he's lost everything. sdfklfsjld idk goodbye anyway the brainrot is strong please keep going I'm here for every second

OK BUT LIKE. ALL OF THIS. ABOVE MY FIREPLACE AND FRAMED

the note bout mine and masato's worldviews IS SUCH an interesting point too: in essence they both believed the same thing (genuine bonds are a myth and people only use each other), it was just that mine held onto the small hope that he'd be wrong one day. by the time daigo does prove him wrong, he's almost automatically willing to accept it. his problem is that he became so attached to daigo that when the possibility of him being taken away became real, he went off the deep end

in masato's case. Lord he's a field day to explore psychologically maybe in another post, but he did have those bonds mine wanted so earnestly for more than half his life, exactly. ever since arakawa saved him- hell, even after sawashiro realized the life he inflicted upon him, masato was showered with nothing but love from the arakawa family. it's a wonder that despite that fact, masato still insisted he was neglected and alone. settling for relationships he knew were fake and for the most part temporary, he wanted to protect himself- he didn't want to be attached and become hurt and vulnerable again

it really is a cruel twist for masato and daigo and how they end up: despite daigo actually having grown up alone, that didn't stop him from having a warm and inviting attitude towards people and giving him a sizable amount of people who'd follow him to the ends of the earth. inversely, masato had become greedy and wanted more adoration, even if it was superficial or surface level.

[spectrearia]

aaAAAAAAAAA IT HAPPENED!!! A PERFECT!!!

i was. literally shaking by the time I got to the end of this song haha i didn't think i'd ever actually get a perfect run omg i'm so happy 😭

[lemon-3ds]

The world is in turmoil. And people are in pain. Even still, we can take comfort in knowing that I am one of the greatest Inscryption players on the planet. *grins*

[lock-my-feelings-in-a-jar]