#but how the white effects the patches is enough for me to feel that they should be separated into two options

[cicadagaze]

feel free to explain why you struggle with them too.

[benegesseritofficial]

The effects of face paint on Harrowhark's psyche

I've now cosplayed Gideon Nav 3 times, with my wife along as Harrow every time. Naturally, this has included full face paint for both of us each time and I have some thoughts.

Let me start by asserting that everything Muir writes in TLT about the face paint is accurate. Rubbing off your lips first, smearing into gray where the black and white meet, the way sweat makes it ooze but not run. I can't say if Muir (a known Homestuck) ever cosplayed as a troll, but I'm positive she tested out the practicality of the skull face paint or otherwise has first hand experience with extensive use of grease paint. Also, the way she describes normal people flinching when they see you is spot on.

I've noticed while putting on the make up that once most of my skin is covered, any flesh tones sticking out start to become unsettling. Specifically, the red/pink of the inner mouth and around the eyes jump out upsettingly. Every time I've done skull paint I find myself meticulously trying to patch over these edges of skin, despite knowing that it's inside skin that Shouldn't Have Make Up On It. Once my face is monochrome, I don't want to be able to see a scrap of real human under there. Smiling, or otherwise opening your mouth wide enough to see the pink, looks UNSETTLING. My own skin causes the uncanny valley effect. You see where this is going. In NtN we learn Harrowhark disassociates often enough that Crux isn't surprised or concerned to see "Harrow" insisting she's someone else. Obviously this is due to her schizophrenia, and perhaps trauma besides. But it doesn't account for every aspect of why Harrow's "like that." On her most lucid days Harrow ignores her body to the point of sweating blood and passing out. She goes entire days without eating. She thinks of herself as a skeleton unfortunately covered in flesh. She sleeps in her paint.

All of which is heinous, but that last one has stuck with me. From age 13-18 I barely glanced down while I showered and whatever I saw I basically blocked out. I wore underwear and a bra under my pajamas to sleep every night. I was going through the wrong puberty, "my body was in open rebellion" as I liked to say at the time, and the only way to cope was to bind it down and pretend it wasn't happening. By Gideon's narration in HtN one gets the impression most nuns of the Ninth are putting their paint on after breakfast and taking it off when they get home. It's not even expected the average person wears it every time they leave the house. But Harrow regularly only takes her paint off in order to redo it. I suspect a combination of being the most brainwashed person in her own cult, knowing how she was conceived, and the regular disassociation make it very difficult for Harrow to conceptualize that she actually lives in a body. If she faced that fact head on she'd have to ask why it so often feels someone else is using her body. She'd have to cope with owning this body, being a part of this body, that was bought with the blood of 200 children who should have been her peers and friends. Instead she pretends it's an object on loan from them. And she does it with 10 layers of black petticoats and so much paint she never has to see her own skin.

Which brings me to the final thing I've noticed wearing full face paint. It dehumanizes you to yourself and everyone around you. I couldn't read my own expressions in a mirror. Even people who understood and were delighted with my cosplay were visibly nervous talking to me. You don't look like a person. Studies have shown that faces wearing heavy make up are ranked as harder to read and perceived as less empathetic. It's a particularly insidious trap of patriarchy that many women find self esteem in wearing make up, while that very act makes everyone around them treat them more callously. And, worst of all, if you stop wearing it once you're used to it, your naked face is shocking. You look sick due to your colors being less bold and the normal small flaws of your face appear unbearably ugly. With all this in mind, Harrow has trapped herself in a feedback loop of not being able to witness her own face and becoming more and more disgusted with the flesh and person underneath whenever she has to glance at it.

[jolalibrary]

peaches n' cream

javier peña x f!reader

summary: javi brings a new fruit to enjoy at his desk...

warnings: smutish themes, mentions of smut, 100% 18+. flirting. public flirting. javi is eating fruit at his desk… an: peach won in the poll, so thank you for those who voted. a few thanks, first, all hail @pedgito for giving me nothing but fruit ideas originally. to @goodwithcheese for reasons she knows and to the lovely @thetriumphantpanda who not only named this but read it and told me it was hot. so. wc: 1.3k javi enjoys mango here (but you don't need to read to enjoy)

He’s taken it to a new extreme.

Using an intended (and conscious) choice of undoing, letting it move it around his palm. Allowing half of it to slightly roll in his large hand, while his other hand stubs out his lit cigarette, its smoky tendrils dying with its end.

Somehow, the entire time, he's able to converse normally with Steve. Not allowing his gaze to flicker to you as you pretend to assess the open case file.

You're failing. More feigning, faking. Choosing to do the utmost to show you're unaffected.

But you can hear it, that nickname.

The one he’d chosen, selected, picked. Breathed it into your ear one night, then panted and hissed it; layered it against your sweat-smeared skin while the air is stained with sex. If you think hard enough, you can feel his fingers at the base of your neck even now. Recalling easily how full, practically stuffed with him you can be when his cock slides into you, how he makes you stretch, how he makes you moan—

Swallowing, you draw a circle on the paper with your pencil. Tapping the lead. Focusing on it. Attempting to find a beat to drown out whatever other thoughts your brain wishes to conjure, when your ears tune into it.

That bite.

The noise of his teeth sinking into the skin of it; the sound of the sweetness oozing from his chosen fruit today. And it forces your eyes up. Them flicking, chin still dipped, as you unknowingly glare—head wanting to shake, to plead.

Because this game had begun so innocently, but now is anything but.

Every few days, he’d try a different fruit—something to undo you. To make you watch, force your gaze to land on him, his own attempt at torture until he managed to slide his hand between your thighs in the file room, the small kitchen, and see if he’s earned a similar effect as the mango.

Today, your body will confirm he’s ruining you.

Although, you’re not sure it had been a fair fight. Not with it being close to eight days since the last time you’d had him alone. A thing your body was distinctly aware of. Reacting instantly to the scent of his aftershave. That was without the sound of his voice, all intentionally velvet, smooth when he addressed you—making a patch appear in your underwear just from the way he'd whispered it.

He'd given you an out when he'd been as early as you. Offered the chance at a great morning. A thing you'd smirked at, told him he needed to work harder if he wanted to have you bent over at work.

You suppose you've brought this on yourself. Shouldn't have dared him, shouldn't have pushed. Shouldn't have laughed when he'd gritted his jaw and dug the base of his palm into his eye and added, aw, you been missing me, Peña?

Because now you're on the edge, wound up, back close to snapping from how desperate you feel to have his hand, his tongue, his cock. Feeling taut, twisted up, so much so that the sound of chair legs scraping on the floor grates through you. Making you jump, causing your heart to hammer against your ribs.

It’s all you can do to focus on tapping the lead against the page, leaving dots of frustration along crisp white, trying not to look, nearly succeeding, until Steve speaks again:

“There a reason y’got a peach today, Jav?”

Your gaze snaps up, attention commanded. The elephant in the room called out, acknowledged. Breath held as this silent game becomes no longer that. Your throat dries, eyes caught on the beads of peach juice that are skating down his fingers—ones you know intimately. Practically able to conjure the feeling of how they curl inside of you as you sit, clenching around nothing, shifting, twisting in your chair to cross a leg over the other as you remain very much bothered, very much aroused.

Blinking back into the room, you realise it’s just the two of you.

A dread filling, flooding your gut. Because you’re not sure how long you can hold it together, so close to asking, to begging. Expressing how needy you are, just like he said you would be when he’d bid you goodbye before he’d had to follow a lead.

You despise letting him win.

Prefer the way you keep your cards close to your chest. But, you suspect he knows, can read how your breath is harder to find again, that is sounds louder—if that’s at all possible as you watch him smile.

Leaning back, finishing one half of the fruit, the chair groans in the quiet as he rolls his hips, lifting his leg, resting his ankle on his opposite knee. Dragging, sliding his eyes up and down what he can see of you from behind your desk.

“Don’t.”

Swiping his thumb across his lower lip, eyes glowering with something unreadable. “Keep your eyes on me, hermosa.”

“Stop it.”

“Watch.”

And you do.

Unable to break your gaze. Following, practically forced to as he picks up the second half, eyes snapping to his other middle finger as he raises it, before he drags it along the centre of the fruit. Sliding it against where the pit was, intention there, clear as fucking day. It causes your hips to move on instinct as juice is forced up from the pressure, making your mouth fall open, drop, hanging. It just opens, feeling as dumb as you likely look as you press your thighs together even more intensely.

Then, he repeats the movement. And again, and again—

“Peña.”

He makes a noise, sliding two fingers into his mouth, tongue swirling around it. “Fuck,” he groans, head bent, eyes wide, large and brown, staring into you, “Almost tastes as good as you, Peach.”

You swallow. A retort dying, wilting.

It never quite appears. And even if it did, he’d have robbed it with his next step, his next move.

Dragging the tip of his tongue along the centre of the fruit, where the pit had been, his eyes on you—brown, practically filled and brimming with lust. The act and look so reminiscent of when he’s between your legs, you know it’s intentional. A message, one only you can understand. Your mind remembers those times when your fingers are grasping at his bed sheets and his name leaves like a cry from your lips.

“Don’t call me that.”

“What, Peach?”

Leaning forward, elbows to your desk, you dig them in until it hurts.

Trying to keep yourself in control, in check—not wanting to stand because you’d be over there. Skirt hiked in your fingers, showing him the evidence of what he’s done, the concrete proof, before taking a seat on him, test to see how much of you can feel through his choice of pants today.

“Yes,” you hiss from between your teeth.

Elongating it, making the S’s almost roll as you almost plead with him with your eyes.

“Not like your nickname?”

“You know I do, Peña.”

Dragging his mouth against the fruit, you whine—somewhere in the back of your throat. Seeing the tip of his nose catching it, bits of peach lifting with his tongue as you try to clamp your mouth shut.

Until he repeats the motion, mouth fully latched to the fruit as he makes a noise so similar to the one he does when his mouth is on your pussy. When he’s devouring; when he’s trying to write out his name with his tongue as though he doesn’t own you.

As though you haven’t belonged to him for months now.

Your palms slam on the desk, finding yourself standing. Legs shaking, trembling. His face blanking, mouth detaching from the halved peach as lines crinkle across his forehead, eyes softer, apologies almost ready to appear.

“File room. Now.”

The look on his face is gone in a flash, forehead smoothing, lips curling into a smirk.

Not arguing, not demanding you sit. Be tormented more.

Instead, throwing the half-enjoyed fruit into the trash can as he swings his legs out from under the desk, striding behind you, heeled boots sounding for several steps before you feel his fingers pressing onto your lower back.

[mrsbuckybarnes1917]

← Smutlet masterlist

18+ Dry Humping

It had been a long time. Being an Avenger didn’t leave much time for … what was the phrase? … hooking up. You changed all that. Steve was nervous, he hadn’t liked anyone like that since he lost Peggy. But with you, he was smitten. Taking things slow was something you had requested and he fully supported it.

But it was getting more and more dangerous to have you sit in his lap. The way you looked, the way you smelled, the way you tasted, it overwhelmed his senses. Your kisses were always so sensual, like you poured your soul into them. They tasted like ambrosia, the nectar of the Gods.

Today was the first time you noticed the substantial bulge in his pants. It was pushed right between your hips as you sat facing him, your thighs straddling his. It had begun innocently, you'd had no seductive agenda when you had thrown yourself into his arms.

It had started with a soft brush, your crotch against his. Your intent hadn't been to arouse him, but that was the effect you achieved. It had merely been a simple readjustment, but it stirred something deep inside him. Steve found his hands gripping your hips tightly. Pulling you close. His lips never really left yours, as he pushed up against you. Acting on instinct. Moaning into your mouth as you pushed back against him. Your enthusiasm told him you were just as invested as he was, as you wrapped your arms around his neck.

Your movements were haphazard, desperate but playful. Neither of you ready enough to take the next step but both of you hungry for more. There was no synchronicity to the way you drove your hips against each other but you could feel the other's pleasure. His cock twitched excitedly inside his jeans, needy, covetous throbbing under you. It was begging to be freed and given relief from his growing tension.

In your mind, you considered this an appetizer, an amuse-bouche to the platter you wanted to offer yourself on. You thought the denim barrier between you would only be sufficient enough to wet his appetite. So consumed by the taste of him that you failed to notice his grip on your thighs, the way his fingers dig into your flesh. Spurred on by the salacious moans and whines that tumbled from his mouth into yours, you grind down harder.

Before you know it, his breath hitched and he stopped pushing back against you, letting out a low groan. Steve had mastered the art of hiding his feelings, but he didn't look you in the eyes. His ears betrayed him, flushing a perfect pink in embarrassment. Confusion was etched on your face as you pulled away, assessing the situation. A moment of blind panic hit you. Why had he stopped? Only when you lifted your hips off his, did you notice the damp dark patch on his jeans. It was spreading before your very eyes and you immediately knew what had happened. Your illustrious Captain had blown his load before you'd had a chance to touch him.

“Steve,” you cooed at him in a reassuring tone. You peppered a few gentle kisses across his face. “Did you like that, baby?”

He chuckled, darkly. “How can you expect a guy to be patient when you do these things looking like you do?”

It's your turn to blush. “Are you saying this is my fault, Captain?” you asked coyly.

“Entirely,” he grinned, beautiful blue eyes darkening dangerously. “But seeing as I'm a gentleman, let me make it up to you.”

You unzipped his jeans and freed his still hard cock. Your fingers now covered in his white hot seed. He was still sensitive to every stroke and caress. And you knew your captain wasn’t as innocent as he seemed.

[rintoorou]

ALOHA, HAWAII — xvi. are you still the same?

(wc: 700-ish)

while you were dating suna rintarou, you kept a mental note about all the things you found interesting about him. you knew he liked his coffee sweet, not bitter. you knew he hated using the salonpas patches but put them on before training anyway. you knew he liked his jelly fruit sticks better when cold. you knew how much he talked in his sleep. you knew he could tie his sister's hair (not just in a ponytail). you knew he disliked stuffed toys and would kick them off your bed whenever you visited the beach house.

"i feel like i'm being stared at," he told you one night.

so it's your surprise that he texts you he's at a pop-up store, filled to the brim with beady-eyed stuffed toys, next in line at the counter. you patiently wait for him outside, watching as kids and teens and their parents flit in and out of the shop. you begin to wonder how much he's changed since college.

suna's with you after five minutes. "did you wait long?" he asks.

"not really," you reply. your eyes are suddenly drawn to the paper bag in his hand, the image of him handing it to his girlfriend back home briefly passes your mind. "what do you want?" you then ask, and suna becomes internally confused when he senses a slight sting in your tone.

he nods towards your feet, "let me see."

suddenly feeling self-conscious, you try to shift his attention to something else and step back. "what? no," you brush him off, playing it cool, "i'm fine. let's just go back." he raises a brow in disapproval yet says nothing more when you begin to walk ahead of him.

but it’s a little difficult for suna to ignore how stubborn you’re being, wincing slightly when he catches sight of the red patch behind your ankles. “doesn’t it hurt?” you hear him say from behind you.

“no.” your plain response drives him to roll his eyes at you, “why in the world would you wear shoes that don’t fit?” there's a little judgment in his tone, similar to when he found out you liked your americano with three extra shots of espresso on your fifth date; underneath it all, you knew that it was because he was just too shy to show that he cared.

you puff air out of your cheeks instead of giving him a verbal answer. two beats pass and suna decides he’s finally had enough.

you’re caught off-guard when suna pulls you back by the elbow, your shoulder brushing lightly against his arm. you open your mouth to say that you're fine and he's overreacting, but he doesn't let you.

instead, he shoves the paper bag in your hands before stepping around you. this effectively shuts you up, and you watch as suna goes off the sidewalk and makes for the convenience store behind you.

it doesn't take long before he returns bringing a small plastic bag with him this time.

suna stretches his arm out towards you, telling you to take it, simultaneously reaching back for the paper bag. you accept it with thanks, but your eyes still flicker towards his with hesitance.

he tilts his head to the side, the corner of his lip quirking up in amusement. "what? do you need me to put it on for you too?" he teases, prompting you to pull the plastic further away from him even if he makes no move to grab it.

you deny how your heart skips a beat and mask your feelings with a sarcastic smile. "you read me so well," you say, opening the box of bandaids. in response, suna puts his hands up in mock surrender, "be worried if i don't."

he watches you intently, snickering when you make an offhanded comment about his design choice. "snoopy? seriously?" you rip the white paper off the adhesive at once, "you couldn't have gotten the transparent ones?"

when you're finished, you pack the bandaids into your bag before continuing your walk with suna. your ankles still sting but the pain is manageable with the bandaids.

"didn't know you and reiko still talked," suna muses after a few moments of silence. he notices the little smile that paints your lips at the mention of his younger sister, "yeah, we do."

you then turn your head to him with your brows furrowed, but look away just as quickly, "she didn't tell you?"

"nope," he answers, popping the 'p'.

you catch his attention when a small laugh escapes you. "good girl," you hum. suna rolls his eyes at this—you know he knows that you're deliberately withholding information about your topics with his sister—but a smile similar to yours graces his lips nonetheless.

"'she's a brat' is what you mean."

"wonder where she gets that from."

prev — masterlist — next

notes next chapter is gonna be another college!sunayn post so stay SEATED

tags @ilyless @strxwberri-s @bbybibi @milesmoralesluvs @hanniemylovelyquokka @nbcvs @crispchocolates @cnnmairoll @trash-master-3000 @tojirin @ryuverse @megumiif @chemiru @theycallmenanamisgirl @neoclb @krissiekris @nyxlai @tsukiran @frvppe @le000xxgrd @kr1nqu @kunihaver @toges-cough-syrup @myromanempiree @baskin-robinhoods @jeongintwt @itsdragonius @moucheslove @ichcocat @miiyas @samuel1004 @reignsaway @sonicsolos @httpshoyo

[rockrosethistle]

A list of Nightmare Time episode ideas that I thought of and I think would be cool:

1.) Mr. Chasity has been trying to sell the old Waylon Place for far too long. After trying and failing over and over, he decides to take matters into his own hands by going in himself to see what all the fuss is about. But nothing could have prepared him to meet the real ghosts of Waylon Hall. And boy oh boy do they have shenanigans in store. (The episode would be called 'Unholy Ghost') .

2.) It's been a few months since Hatchetfield was destroyed in that awful 'accident'. Emma and Paul have been living under the aliases Kelly and Ben Bridges. (there can be a joke where Emma doesn't even pretend to care about her alias and Paul cares too much.) They live in Colorado now. Emma's finally started her pot farm, and Paul is working in marketing. For the most part, they have a good life. Only Paul's acting a bit different lately. Emma caught him humming company jingles, tapping his foot to a beat she can't hear. Maybe those spores he inhaled had some effect on him. It's probably nothing, but he's never sung in the shower before...(I don't have a name for this one yet.) .

3.) Max Jägerman is failing remedial algebra. In fact, he's doing so poorly that his dad shells out and hires him a tutor, PJ. (Bryce's nerd from 'Literal Monster.) He reluctantly lets her help him. At first it seems to work and his grades are rising steadily, but as PJ lets her guard down, Max starts to notice some things. Strange symbols scribbled in the margins of her notebook, almost like...jagged smiles? Weird stains on her hands, when she gets too close she smells like roadkill. And there's this white spider that keeps showing up in his room. Sometimes he feels like it's trying to tell him something. Or warn him. Without knowing what he's gotten himself into, Max has to evade getting his soul swallowed by a hungry god of darkness. (The episode is called 'Dirty Dude Soup') .

4.) Charlotte Sweetly is jealous. Her church friend, Carol Davidson, has exactly the kind of life she wants. Charlotte's seen the way her boss talks about his wife, and would give anything for Sam to feel that way about her. One day, Charlotte finally gathers her courage and asks her how she does it. Carol takes pity on her, and decides to reveal an important secret: it's all the product of a ritual, an ancient spell she stumbled upon on a trip to an amusement park. She claims that ever since she did it, her husband can't get enough of her. "I am all he sees. He calls me the apple of his eye." Charlotte doesn't believe her at first, but Carol gave her the instructions, and why the hell not? She tries it. Unfortunately, Charlotte messes up the wording. The spell still works, but not quite as intended. And an all-seeing police officer could be a good thing, but Sam is not a good police officer. (maybe let's call this one 'Omnipocop'. But that's awful to spell so suggestions are welcome) .

5.) While trying to be an assistant, Steph accidentally botches one of Pete's science projects. He forgives her, but she still feels bad even as he assures her it's no big deal, throwing the mix of chemicals out his window just to prove it. What he doesn't know is that the last family that lived in the Spankoffski house buried their dog in the backyard, and Pete's chemical slurry just brought it back to life. On a probably unrelated note, Paul has been trying to ignore the damage he's finding in his apartment. He's been chalking most of the tipped over garbage cans and torn apart cushion up to rats--giant rats?--or maybe a squirrel. But when a decades-old "missing dog" poster shows up on his doorstep, he can't ignore the truth for any longer. (the episode would be called "Patches' Revenge" and I thing it would work because it's just the right amount of weird. It would end with Paul teaming up with the nerds to defeat undead Patches with science.) .

6.) To his utter delight, Miss Holloway finally agreed to go out with Duke on a proper date. Nothing huge, just some ice cream and a walk on the beach. They're both enjoying themselves when Miss Holloway hears something. Duke can't hear it, but he still follows her down the shore to some kind of cave grotto, where she claims the noise is coming from. She tosses a pebble into the water, testing how it might react. A few moments later, the pebble come flying out again. Duke is stunned, but Miss Holloway tosses her ice cream cone. Sure enough, a few moments later is comes flying back, perfectly dry. They've clearly discovered something, and over the next few days, Duke and Miss Holloway experiment and try to learn about the grotto and the water in it. It's too deep to see the bottom, so their tests mostly involve tossing different things to see how they'll react. Little do they know, there was a reason Miss Holloway could hear a noise coming from the cave. There's a reason it drew her in, too. There's something singing to her, something that lives at the bottom of the grotto. And with each thing they feed it, it becomes a little bit stronger...(and then it's called something unassuming like "Wavecrest Cave")

So that's Nightmare Time season four all lined up. Please tell me if you have a good name idea for episodes 2 and 4. Also if anyone wants to use these as writing prompts, be my guest (just tag me so I can read them)

[braineater444]

To Be a Princess

Chapter 5

Last/Next

fem!reader x kokonoi/bonten

TW: Rape, Victim Blaming, Poor proofreading

A/N: Short and sweet cuz writer's block was kicking my ass :)

Tears roll down your temples. He pecks them away as he works himself into you.

At first, the head nudges at your entrance. Not gentle, not rough. He pulls away. Only to spit on his hand and work it around himself. Then, more easily, but not without struggle, the head pops in. The burn that accompanies it brings more tears. He pushes in only a little, then pulls back and almost all the way out. There’s a brief, stinging halt before he plunges all the way in and stops again.

Electric shocks go straight to your extremities. Your eyes squeeze shut. You ball your hands into fists. There’s only a squeak of pain from your mouth.

“Open your eyes,” Hajime demands.

You do as you’re told and hesitate to let the tension out of your body.

“Kiss me.”

You crane your neck upwards to lock lips with him as he starts moving inside of you.

Every thrust is a punch to the gut. Every time his hips connect with your bare flesh, a sound of agony bleeds into your kiss and down his throat. 

He pushes you down, effectively separating your lips from his. He trails kisses up your neck and onto your jaw. He beats into you more punishingly. All you can do is take it.

“Fuck.” He swears breathlessly. “You’re so beautiful.”

The burn between your legs starts to become unbearable. How can this feel good for him?

His nails dig crescent imprints onto the skin of your hips. He’s grabbing you so tightly you can feel it against your bones. Every plunge carves out a deeper hole in your psyche.

The courtesy oral he offered could never defeat the ache between your legs right now. No amount of his tongue sliding against and prodding at your genitals could have fought this. This is your body rejecting him. 

You reject him. You lay there and let him have his way with no reaction. 

To think this used to bring you pleasure and joy. Now, it’s a painful waiting game. You wait out his release. It doesn’t come fast enough.

He drags your body into multiple positions, every single one more painful than the last. When he’s finally done, when he’s emptied himself inside of you, it’s not over. He lays sweaty, and tired on top of you.

✮✮✮

It’s important that you go to the bathroom afterward. You have to dig him out of you.

Dull acrylic nails drag against your walls as you scoop out his semen. EVen with dull nails, the drag hurts, and when you look at your hands, there’s blood mixed in. You don’t know if it’s your fault or his.

When you’re done. When you’ve done the best you can. When it’s too tender, too sore. You stop. You wash your hands and let your white,cotton dress fall back into place.

✮✮✮

You’re wrapped up in thick, too hot blankets. Silent tears have soaked the cotton duvet that smothers you.

The guest room has blackout curtains, and a bed never slept in. 

Even if you’re not hiding, it feels like you are when you’re alone in the dark.

There’s three knocks at the door before light floods in.

The bed dips under the weight of a body. His hand rests gently in your hair. You exhale through tears and a shiver wracks your frame.

“Please leave me alone.”

“I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine. Please, get out.”

Talking to him makes the lump in your throat unbearable. It makes the patch of light you see against the curtains blur through your watering eyes. Your body won’t rest like this. It can’t.

“It’s our first time in a really long time… I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Hajime sounds scarily sincere. “I told you. I really think a baby could fix this. Just bear wi—”

“I don’t want a baby!” You cut him off with a harsh, unsteady voice.

“A baby will take your mind off of things and give you something to do. And since I want to marry you, we could be a nice family.”

“I will never marry you, Hajime.” There’s no sternness. No conviction. Nothing. “I want to leave.”

“I don’t think you’re in a mental space to understand. That’s it.” And he leaves, shutting the door behind him.

There’s nothing but you and the darkness.

✮✮✮

You’re awakened by the force of someone shaking you.

Haru’s voice rings loud and clear. “I’ve been here for an hour. You cannot sleep the whole time.”

It must be nighttime.

You’re sweaty and gross and brutalized. You don’t want to move. The yellow room light forces you to open your eyes. You turn to look at Haru.

He looks like a dissatisfied child. Upset, you won’t come outside and play with him. His arms are crossed, and he’s frowning at you.

“Rin said he wants to see you.”

You turn back over. You don’t want to deal with this.

“Whatever.” He says before turning the light off and leaving.

Not long after, Rindou comes. He’s not supposed to be here, but you’ve never told Hajime that Haru has the Haitians as covert guests. They’ve been really good at hiding it.

“Are you okay?” He asks. It’s been a while since you’ve seen him. The last time being…

You don’t turn to face him.

“He raped me.”

“Like… for the first time?”

“Yes.” The lump in your throat is back. Not that you hadn’t been disgusted at the thought of having let him inside you in the past before. But at least then, there was consent.

“Oh.” You can hear him suppressing something between shock and amusement in his voice. It’s clear he doesn’t actually care, but it’s nice to pretend you have someone. There’s a beat of silence.

“Well, I think, if you drink with us, you can feel a little better.” 

You take more convincing than that. He talks to you like a good friend, but you know in your heart he’s not. He’s just like the rest of them. It’s twisted. You’re starting to separate him from his actions. That’s why you’re convinced to drink with them.

✮✮✮

Everything is a little blurry and still, the soreness between your legs doesn’t quite go away even when you’re drunk. Maybe the drinking is making it worse? Or perhaps it’s sitting on the floor? You can’t even remember what card game you’re playing or if you’re still playing.

Rindou refills your glass. 

“You’re going to kill her,” Ran remarks. His cold eyes flicker over Rin, who’s sitting next to you.

He might be right. It’s getting hard to hold yourself up.

“Who cares? You know, he raped her. I’ve heard women say they’d rather be killed.” It’s almost sarcastic sounding.

It takes a moment for you to process what he said and when your head turns to look at him, slack-jawed with hurt, hazy eyes, you see he’s already looking at you. 

Why would he tell them?

He stares at you with unnerving blankness, but maybe you’re crazy. It shouldn’t be unnerving. He hasn’t been a full person in a very long time and you know this. His hand comes to your chin and his thumb glides over the bottom lip of your open mouth. Then, with his palm under your chin, he shuts your mouth, “Right?”

You nod.

“Bullshit. Can you even rape someone you’re with?” Ran asks, then shakes his head. He sounds disappointed.

Haruchiyo bursts out in laughter.

“We’re not together.” You mumble.

“Yeah, Ran.” Rins statement comes up off the back of a giggle.You can tell he finds amusement in his brother’s careless words. He pulls your body into his. You’re both so warm. This is making you sweaty.

“You can rape people you’re in a relationship with.” You add meekly. Your nose tingles, and your throat hurts. Rindou nods.

“Sure. Whatever. I guess it’s a new feminist thing.” Ran dismisses with a flick of his wrist.

“You’ve definitely raped me before.” Haruchiyo chimes in.

“You’re a grown man.” Ran looks confused.

Before you know it, the conversation is drowned out by Rindou bringing the glass he poured for you to your lips. He all but pours it down your throat until it’s empty.

“No more. Please.” You practically beg when he grabs the bottle to refill it. He chuckles and nods while rubbing your back.

“Get a room.” Haruchiyo scoffs.

“Did it feel good, though?” Ran asks. At your confused look, he clarifies, “When he raped you?”

You were burning up before, but now there’s three spotlights shining down on you. Rans eyes bore into yours as he waits for your answer.

You look down at your lap. Rin’s arm is its own unique weight on your shoulders. “No. It really hurt.” You can barely hear the last part of the sentence coming from your own mouth.

“Does it still hurt?” He prods even further.

“Yes. A little.” You play with your fingers. Even without looking up at him, you know he’s looking at you.

“Did he hit you? Or like choke you or something?” Ran sounds amused.

“No.”

“He wasn’t violent?”

“No.”

“Then how is that rape? Doesn’t sound like you were forced?”

“Ran…” A single tear hits your finger tips.

“Stop acting like that.” Haruchiyo pipes up and slaps Ran’s arm.

“I’m just looking for clarification. Sorry.” He chuckles.

✮✮✮

There’s a sharp, throbbing pain at the left side of your head. Your eyelids are heavier than they’ve ever been, and it’s a fight to open them. When you do, Haruchiyo is looming over you with a look of concern.

“I told you she wasn’t dead.”

“Concussed maybe?” Haruchiyos’ words come well after his mouth starts moving. He’s talking to a distorted voice behind you. Deeper than anything you’ve ever heard.

You look up. It’s Ran. Your head is in his lap.

You touch your head where it hurts and groan loudly at the ache as it worsens. It reverberates, bounces off of your bones, and makes you cry. You bring your hand in front of your face only to find it coated in blood.

“Ah…” You turn over. “No. I’m blee-ding.” It comes out slurred through hiccups. 

“No, you’re not.” It’s the same weird, nasty voice coming from Ran. He turns you back over.

“Yes, I am!” You wipe the side of your face and slick your hand with more blood. “Look.” You show him your open palm.

“You’re just sweaty.” He pushes your hand away. Ran makes a confused face and looks up at someone. You follow his gaze. Rindou. You show him your bloody hand too, but he doesn’t react.

Why doesn’t he care?

You push yourself up and off of Ran’s lap. He doesn’t stop you. 

“Help.” You mutter, attempting to stand. Your legs don’t seem to work right. They shake violently as you push yourself up from the ground. You can only stand for a brief moment before you collapse.

[asgardian--angels]

Talking on the phone with my mom I finally broke down and cried thoroughly about the cancellation. I think I'd been holding it in for the last two days, or two months. And honestly I've been wondering all along why this show means so much to me. I am not queer, I am not neurodivergent, I am not POC or disabled or any of the groups that this show has been so important for in terms of representation and being treated with respect and dignity. I understand and completely empathize with all of you, and fight for this show and your rights worldwide alongside you, but it still left me wondering why I myself have latched onto Our Flag Means Death. I suppose part of it is that despite being white and cishet and the privileges that have always come with that, I have been treated like an outsider and ostracized my entire childhood and teenage years, for being ugly and having "disgusting" interests (primarily liking insects, reptiles, other creepy-crawlies - aka the thing I literally do for my career now). I was bullied relentlessly from preschool through early college and became a very lonely introverted person - I still am. Undoubtedly Our Flag Means Death gave me renewed hope that I haven't missed some key window for finding love or relationships of any kind that matter, as I sit here typing this at age 28 having never dated anyone.

But it had to be more than that. And with everything that's happened the past couple of months, and the last few days, I think it finally clicked for me.

Followers of my blog may or may not know that I am a conservation biologist, or pollinator ecologist, whichever hat fits best on a given day, they're quite close. I don't make many original posts like this anymore on here because my job is so busy. Basically, I do a variety of things - academic research, habitat management & restoration, and public outreach - to try and preserve biodiversity and ecosystems on our planet. I'm just going to say it: it's a thankless job. Nothing we do ever feels like it's enough, and burnout is common in our field because we sit with the guilt of feeling like we are the only thing between survival and utter destruction of planet Earth, and work ourselves to exhaustion. It's one of those jobs where your work is your life, and your passion is your work, and it's inseparable from who you are on a molecular level. We are often faced, on a large scale, with hostility, from people that don't believe in science and are more than happy to pull a shotgun on us, or rich old men in power who are content to watch the world burn for another penny in their bank account. There are days when sometimes it sinks in just how bad things are, and it's terrifying, and I feel like we will never be able to do enough, to change enough, before it gets catastrophic. It's paralyzing.

My ability to do my job is dependent on hope. Unwavering, unrelenting hope. Hope beyond hope. We have to believe what we're doing matters, otherwise we'd fall down and never get back up again. I'm no big-shot, I give talks to a few hundred people at a time, and make urban pollinator habitat on a local scale. Is any of that going to make a difference compared to the ramifications of a single oil mogul deciding to cut corners and cause an oil spill that kills millions of seabirds and damages ocean food chains for decades to come? If people in my field let thoughts like that linger, we'd be paralyzed to inaction. I have to hope that the people I teach choose to do something good with that knowledge, and go on to inspire others, or that the patch of habitat I make allows a declining species to maintain a foothold instead of going locally extinct. You just have to keep going.

And Our Flag Means Death got wrapped up in that for me. The Stede Bonnet effect, if you will. He set out to do pirating differently, treating his crew with respect and helping them grow. In return, they internalized that mindset, and it spread to how they interacted with others. It changed the trajectory of individual lives, and also at least began to change how the society of pirates operated as a whole. It was a beacon of hope that choosing small acts of kindness did matter, even if you yourself could not see the ripples it made. It renewed my faith that love persevered and would win. That we could all make life a little better for each other and ourselves through kindness, compassion, forgiveness, and mutual support. I think a good chunk of that is from Taika - these are running themes in his projects, and his films move me deeply for that. This show became in some, perhaps subconscious way, a source of strength for me to keep putting myself out there in my line of work to do whatever I was capable of to help the cause.

The cancellation was devastating, but the second cancellation (turbohell cancelation?) was even more so. Because now it's so clear that this is largely the work of David Zaslav and the regime he's built. It's petty, it's greedy, and more than anything, it's cruel. Indifferently, indiscriminately cruel, when one person at the top can have such power to make or break the lives of thousands, millions, beneath them, and though it would have been barely a drop in the bucket, a hand wave, to renew our show or let it pass to another streamer, he actively chose to shackle it to this sinking Titanic of a company WBD has become. I have always operated on the belief that you can do anything if you work hard enough at it, and believed deep down that there was some order, some justice in the universe, atheist though I be. We as a fandom did everything we possibly could, we loved this show harder than anything. The numbers were there, the awards nominations were there, the critic praise was there, and we were loud and loyal every single day. I felt like we could do this - how could we not win when we've done so much, and the show deserves it so much? Surely cause and effect will prevail.

This fight seemed small, though really it wasn't; we fought for the right of artists and creators to make quality, original stories and have them told to their natural end, we fought for diversity representation to be more than a token character - OFMD raised the bar so much higher on all fronts, we fought to shed light on the chaos and impending collapse of this industry silencing art and exploiting writers, actors, and all manner of production workers. It was a small fight from the outside, one that I really felt we could win. And I put my heart and soul into it, because if we could win this, if we could save this simple, kind love story about two guys on a boat, then maybe there was hope for the bigger, badder stuff too. It shouldn't seem an insurmountable task for several thousand fans to convince a streaming service that they'd turn a tidy profit to give our show one more season.

Yet we lost - through no fault of our own. I am so proud of us. But that really struck deep for me. If one peabrained CEO of a media company wouldn't budge on greenlighting a show that was in his every best interest business-wise - perhaps enough to even save Max from going under in the not-too-distant future - my god, what hope was there for changing anything bigger? The 'real' problems of the world? When no amount of ethos, logos, or pathos can penetrate these men at the top, where's that hope to fight? Lately the world seems like it's just going belly up all over. If we gave everything we could, and it still wasn't enough - if it could never be enough - what hope is there? It's like chaining yourself to a tree and the bulldozer plowing right on ahead. And I think that broke something in me. It shook me to my foundations because it broke my rules of how things are supposed to work. We believed hard enough, we worked tirelessly, and we deserved it for how important this show was to so many people. And it didn't matter. Our best wasn't enough. And that caused an avalanche of all of the horrible, scary things piled on my shoulders - we're losing the Amazon rainforest too fast to save, climate change is going to turn the corn belt into a dustbowl by mid-century, a border wall is going to devastate imperiled wildlife in Texas, deforestation and hurricanes on songbird wintering grounds could lead to entire species extinctions, saltmarshes are our lifeline and they're shrinking and we're still building stupid concrete stormwalls, invasive diseases will completely alter the composition of our forests to be unrecognizable to our children, and if you don't make every slide of this powerpoint utterly perfect and you fail to convince every single person in attendance to get rid of their lawn then you've failed and the world is doomed.

I've struggled with being a perfectionist my whole life. This didn't help.

That's where I was a couple hours ago. But I took some deep breaths. I know the world isn't fair. But I really thought if we could win this one battle, then we could win the war.

But here's what I realized. Everything we did mattered. It mattered so much. Because there's the show, and then there's everything that was birthed out of that show. The community, so many of us around the world who have been uplifted by Our Flag Means Death in a real and lasting way that we will take with us and spread to affect those around us. The Stede Bonnet effect goes global. We raised thousands and thousands of dollars for charities around the world, real people whose lives have been improved, or maybe even saved, because of us and this silly pirate show. We brought a hell of a lot of attention to WBD and their shitty practices, keeping the momentum going in a way that I think is only going to build - and I sure hope it leads to Zaslav getting deposed. We have demanded more queer stories, more BIPOC stories, more disabled and autistic and middle-aged stories, stories with exquisite costumes and award-worthy wigs, dear lord, and we are being heard. We have expressed such love and support for the cast and crew, showing them that we appreciate their hard work and that we will be behind them in their future projects. So many of them have told us how the show and its fans have changed their lives. We convinced Rhys that his career isn't winding down but winding up, and to be unapologetic about his wonderful weirdness - we've proven to everyone through this show that your weirdness is what someone out there is going to love you for, not in spite of. We rallied to help writers and actors during the strikes in a way that was taken to heart and remembered. We have been out here talking it through as a crew, and turning poison into positivity, for over two years now, and that impact is permanent. They can cancel our show, they can try and slap copyright notices on our fan merch, and spew bullshit excuses about the numbers not being there. But Our Flag Means Death sparked a movement, the biggest pirate crew the world has ever seen, using our power for good.

We may not have any more new material for our show for a while, or ever. But I maintain hope that when the dust has settled and streaming has entered its 'new era' that they'll remember us and throw us a lifeline. Because hope is a part of my genetic makeup, and even in cancellation my hope has been renewed that the fight is worth fighting, that our individual choices of kindness are having an effect, and making the world a little easier to live in bit by bit. No one can take from us what we have built out of this show. And thanks to pirating, they can't take the actual show from us either. Despite this, no matter the outcome, I am so happy we got two seasons of this wonderful series. That was more than almost anyone expected. The story belongs to all of us, and it will always live on. We did not truly lose this battle, because in the process we gained more than we could have ever imagined. And I know there's still so much more to come. That gives me the strength to keep doing what I do, every day.

To me, Our Flag Means Hope.

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Change | Changing | Changed?

Sooo Ive read Change like 10 times and though I love ALL your fics, that one gained a special place in my heart as soon as you posted it. I really vibe with Roman (maybe I am autistic…) and I love projecting onto him and watching him suffer. Anyway I was wondering if you feel like it or had any ideas, if we could get a third chapter? Maybe more about how the others react to finding out what Patton and Janus did to Roman, or more protective Ollie! <3 – stealing-babies

Had this concept idea hit me: Patton (as part of being Thomas’s emotions) is hypersensitive to the effects of the other sides's rooms + the imagination. No idea what one could do with that but thought it was neat enough to share. – ax3-e0ns

Have you seen the new incorrect quotes? I feel like there could be some Roman angst/hurt/comfort potential, either with Logan or Janus, what with the stress ball or the 4am chocolate pudding scene – anon

Hey, I was wondering if you’d be interested in writing a fic where Roman’s actually the one who finally snaps and goes off on everyone about he himself has been treated? I don’t see enough of the boy standing up for himself for a change. No worries if not! – anon

Read on Ao3 Part 1 Part 2

Warnings: panic attacks/dissociation

Pairings: none

Word Count: 7191

Roman is over the top, bombastic, and enthusiastic. He is prone to fits of passion and emotional outbursts. Such is the nature of Creativity. But the others...don't like that. They aren't exactly ambiguous about it either. Or, Roman struggles to walk the line between being himself and being something the others can tolerate. It gets far worse before it gets any better. Getting better takes...a long time

The deepness of the Imagination's oceans vary according to the demands of its various creatures. On this day, when Red Prince is too quiet and a little too sad, Oliver the Kraken decides that the ocean needs to be as vast and monstrous as it can be. He takes Red Prince in his arms, cradling him against his bulbous body to afford him protection within his aura from the crushing depths, swimming down, down, down, past the shoals of fish and pods of whales to the hidden tunnel near the base of the great cliffs. The water here is icy cold, lit only by the sparse bio-luminescence of the deep-sea folk, briefly illuminating the jagged rock walls and mountainous sea terrain. Oliver moves through as silently as a monolith of his size can, Red Prince held delicately in the safety of his grip. As they reach the end of the tunnel, it begins to curve upwards, a faint violet light coming from someplace above the surface of the water.

The Kraken breaches with a soft splash in the hidden cavern, lit by the glowing crystals growing along the walls and the ceiling. Red Prince lets out a breath, sagging in his grip, his tiny fingers stroking the bumps and scars along his skin. The cavern rings with the quiet music of water lapping against the crystals and the slight breeze that blows through their hollows, interrupted by the sloshing sounds of him swimming toward the island in the center of this sheltered cove. Small piles of glowstone highlight the soft white sand underneath flowering trees. The faint smell of them wakes Red Prince from the stupor he had been in since entering the Imagination, and he reaches for them as Oliver nears the island.

"Thank you for bringing me here," he mumbles as he's deposited on a patch of pale green grass.

Of course, Red Prince. You know that you will be safe here, whenever you want to be. He shifts his arms around to prop himself up a little. I will not let any harm come to you.

"I know." Still, Red Prince shuffles a little, tugging his limbs close to himself. "I just—I suppose it's stupid."

Nothing is stupid to me, Red Prince, not if it concerns your well-being.

"Are—you like spending time with Remus too, right?"

Oliver burbles quietly, the water frothing around his arms. Yes, Red Prince, I do. And despite that, I do not favor him anymore than you.

The hidden meaning seen, Red Prince's shoulders relax and a small smile comes to his face. Oliver reaches out to lay an arm within Red Prince's reach and his hand rests on it. Little birds twitter in the trees. The crystal song changes pitch.

You need not fear anything here, he says again, and you may stay as long as you like. She-Who-Tends-The-Clouds knows you are here as well, even though she cannot get here. Is there anything else I can do for you, in this moment?

"I—I don't know." He curls up a little tighter. "I'm just…I'm just really scared. And it feels like nothing I do even helps make it go away."

The water bubbles again as his arms churn. What does it feel like? Does it feel like the type of fear that Green Duke makes?

"Sort of? I just—I keep waking up sick to my stomach like something bad's going to happen, like, bad enough that I don't want to wake up anymore."

That is worrisome indeed. The arm wraps around him and tugs him slightly back toward the water. I regret that I cannot hold you the way you might desire.

"This is great, Ollie, you're…you're great." Red Prince now sits near one of the piles of glowstone, turning to rest his cheek upon it. "I think I'm…I think I'm tired."

The bone-weary ache of his words ring through the cavern. A few birds flutter down to perch on the rock, making soft chirps as they run their beaks through Red Prince's hair. Red Prince's smile brightens just a smidge.

"Thank you, little birds."

You know that we all would gladly give you whatever you need, Oliver says, there is nothing you could ask of us that we would not try to provide to you.

"I know."

Although none of us have arms that would embrace you, would you like to be held still?

"Yes, please."

It would be our pleasure.

It is not a simple thing for a Kraken to embrace Red Prince, but Red Prince is sad and upset and in need of comfort, and so he takes two arms and wraps them gently around Red Prince and the pile of glowstone. The pile is not the most forgiving of surfaces, but glowstone is warm to the touch and yields ever so slightly if pressed. Red Prince does not seem to mind, closing his eyes as a soft sigh leaves his lips. The birds perch on his head and shoulders. One of them settles into the crook of his neck, a wing brushing his cheek. He turns his head and his lips brush the tip of its beak. It chirps.

"Not the most fairytale of places," Red Prince mumbles, "but I do like this a lot."

We do specialize in the unconventional, Red Prince, and if I may speak for the birds, we all are quite happy to stay here for as long as you need.

The ocean is vast and hungry, monsters swim its depths and light vanishes from the waters far before it approaches the entrance to the hidden cavern. But here, in the quiet light of the crystal cave, Red Prince is safe for the moment and Oliver is content.

***

At the very tops of the mountains, high beyond the clouds, grow small trees no taller than a bush that could grow anywhere else. The trees have soft and warm bark from the sun's warmth, for there is little cover up there amongst the flat planes of rock and stone. She-Who-Tends-The-Clouds nests at the very peak, between the trees, sleeping in the light of the endless spinning galaxies of stars. The wind blows cold in the darkness of storms alone, where the clouds can rise high enough to block out the infinite skies. Otherwise, the sweet warm gusts of wind waft the secrets of the valleys up, up, where she may peruse them in comfort and safety.

It makes it far easier to rest easy when she has her charge nestled against her chest, humming a quiet song to keep her company.

I have missed your voice, Red Prince, she says gently, I cannot say I have heard it nearly enough in the recent times you have come.

"I haven't really felt like singing all that recently."

I know, says she, and leans down to nuzzle her snout against his chest, is there anything I can do?

"Just sitting here with you is nice. I haven't really had a lot of places that I feel safe enough to just exist in for a while."

The now familiar tingle of irritation flickers down her scales and she lays her head down next to him, watching him fiddle with a small amulet—from the kindly man who lives deep in the woods, no doubt, he had long ago taken a liking to Red Prince and provided him with many gifts and trinkets. She puffs a small smoke ring. What is this one for?

"He said it was to bring a sense of comfort to me." He runs his thumb over the engraving, the shape of a blooming flower worked beautifully into the metal. "I don't know if it was just supposed to be figuratively or if there's some magic in it, but…I like it."

It is a most thoughtful gift. Partway between sentiment and practicality, is it not?

Red Prince smiles. "Yes, it is."

Then it is perfect for one such as you. She nudges him with her snout to make him chuckle. Perhaps he has been refining his gift-giving for you intentionally.

"I didn't come here to be teased," he protests, but it is only lightly, and she relents as soon as she began, turning her head to rest once more towards the edge of the mountain to sniff the breeze. "I…I said thank-you, and that I'd be…interested to learn from him."

Her ears prick up slightly. Oh? I did not know you would be interested in such a craft.

"I'm trying new things."

It does not take a dragon of superior wit and mind to know that Red Prince has long be afraid of sharing new things with Those-Who-Do-Not-Shape, and as such, has even hesitated to try something in the safety of the Imagination. Her chest warms with contentment, a low and pleased rumble thrumming through the surrounding stone. Red Prince smiles. She turns once more to press her snout into Red Prince's stomach.

Words cannot express how pleased I am to hear that, Red Prince.

"Yeah," he says quietly, "I know. I…yeah."

The breezes forgotten for the moment, she sighs happily and lets Red Prince run the medallion across the ridges of her snout. I do not wish to push you, but I have questions if you would answer them.

"I trust you."

I will not abuse it, Red Prince, you have my word. She shifts her tail to curl it around him, adding another degree of safety even atop this mountain where none else would dare to tread. Does Green Duke still help you?

"Remus is great. He's—he's really helpful, he's—I wouldn't—I don't think I'd be able to do any of this without Remus."

What does he do to help, if you would tell me?

"He helps take the heat off me when I need it, or he's always there to help me escape if I need to. He also helps me explain what's going on with me or—or if I need to do things a different way than what they want."

I see. Are you…safe with him?

"I've never not been safe with Remus."

She lets out a quiet growl, not quite a reprimand, not quite not a reprimand. You were frightened when he came upon you on the grass, where The Deep One and I were tending to you.

"Yeah, but that wasn't—that wasn't really because of him, it was…I think it was…"

Even now, just speaking of it, Red Prince hunches in on himself, curling up in the lea of her. With another soft rumble, she moves them a little closer to one of the small trees, affording him something to clutch if he needs it. He rests his cheek against the warm soft bark, taking in the shade. She gives him the time he needs, but keeps up the gentle rumble of her breath to ground him.

"…I was scared of him being there because the others would—because I thought they would just immediately be mad at me, not because I thought Remus would hurt me."

And the others, do they still frighten you?

Red Prince lets out a long sigh, slumping against the tree and her chest in turn. He looks like the little child whose favorite toy has floated away in the river, and the old man who has seen a thousand thousand years and still must watch the sunrise.

"Yes," he says with that voice of infinite sadness, "every day."

I am sorry, Red Prince, that I cannot always protect you from the hurt they cause you.

"It's not your fault. I know…I know most of it's my fault."

No, she says firmly, raising her head up to look him in the eye, it is not your fault, Red Prince, you are scared and hurt, and that is not and never will be a burden that falls on your shoulders and your shoulders alone. You are scared, that is true, and you are hurt, that is true. But you have been taught to be scared and hurt, and you are far too gentle of a soul to have done that to yourself.

Red Prince sniffles and oh, her intention was not to make him cry, and so she leans forward to gently lick away his tears. He tucks the medallion into his pocket and hugs her back, the tears subsiding quickly as he falls into a doze against her heat.

You are welcome to come back here, Red Prince, whenever you need.

"Will you take care of me like this if I do?"

Yes, of course I will.

***

Patton sits next to him on the couch and Roman immediately tucks the medallion into his pocket on the far side of his leg. He can tell by the way Patton shifts that he notices it, but doesn't say anything. Remus comes over a moment later and sits on his other side, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pressing a smacking kiss to his head.

"Hey, Roro."

"Hi."

"You doing okay today?"

"Yeah, I think so."

Across the room, Janus gives him a look but doesn't say anything. After another moment, he gets up and ruffles Remus's hair, kissing Roman's forehead. Roman tenses a little and Janus doesn't seem to take any offense, moving away and sitting next to Logan. "Well, shall we decide what movie we're watching tonight?"

"I'm partial to something along the lines of The Imitation Game," Logan says, looking up from his notebook, "but I am aware that we've been going with my choices quite a few times over these past few weeks."

"I'd be down with watching that," Virgil says, "but I think I'd rather—I mean if we're throwing out choices, I wanna put Pacific Rim out there."

"Ooh, I do like watching giant robots punch giant aliens." Remus nudges Roman. "What about you, Roro?"

"Um, I don't really have an opinion right now."

"Okay." Janus says quickly before anyone can say anything else, "that's fine, sweetie. What about something like one of the documentaries we've been working through?"

"That sounds great," Patton says, but Roman can tell he's still looking at him, "Roman, does that work for you?"

"Yeah, I like documentaries."

"Settled, then." Logan stands up and fetches his laptop, beginning to hook it up to the TV. "Roman, would you mind helping the—"

"Yep."

He doesn't give anyone the time to say anything else, immediately going over to Logan's side to fiddle with the cords and make sure everything's good. Behind him, he can feel the eyes creeping up his back and rounds his shoulders. Logan touches his back lightly in thanks as he finishes, quickly going back over to let Remus lie on top of him. Janus chuckles at the two of them even as Patton yelps, quickly getting up and going to sit by Virgil.

"Sweetie? Can I play with your hair?"

"Um, if you want to."

"Thank you." Gloved fingers begin to scritch lightly through his hair and he closes his eyes, letting Remus's weight sink him into the couch. The sensation is soft and makes his brain go a little fuzzy, and he thinks that maybe he'll fall asleep here, before the documentary starts…

"Is everything ready?"

Patton's voice wrenches him back to wakefulness and he knows that Virgil, Janus, and Remus can all sense it. Remus lets out a quiet growl, holding him a little tighter. Janus kisses his fingertips and ruffles his hair again. Roman keeps his eyes open for the rest of the documentary and there's a sickness curdling in his stomach that he can't quite shake.

"Hey," Remus whispers when the documentary is loud, "hey, Roro, just stay with me, okay? Just hang out."

"I'm trying."

"I know, and you're doing great. Hey, can you name all the colors on the screen right now?"

He turns his head and looks at the animals, the plants, the skies. "Brown…white…purple…green…blue…black, yellow, red, and pink."

"Hey, nice, good job." Remus nuzzles into his neck. "You're my favorite brother."

"I'm your only brother."

"So?" He nuzzles into him again and it tickles. "You giggling down there, Roro?"

Roman glimpses Logan glancing at them and braces himself to be scolded, but Logan only smiles fondly at them and shakes his head, looking back at the screen. Remus follows his gaze and huffs, flopping down like a cat and making a show of being comfortable while shielding Roman's head from everyone else.

"You're safe," he whispers into his ear, "you're safe, I've got you, nothing's gonna hurt you right now."

There's nothing like this in the Imagination, Roman knows, nothing like this comforting weight and warmth and safety that he can't really get from the dragon or Ollie or anything else. He curls into Remus and tries to lose himself in the documentary. It's interesting, something about how these animals have adapted to living in urban environments. But he sees a rat scurry through a dark, dank alleyway, and can't help but feel like he's recognizing something in himself.

***

"Remus," Logan calls, walking down the hall, "can I speak to you for a moment?"

"What's up, Lolo?"

"Can we…" He indicates Remus's door. "Would you mind if we spoke somewhere more private?"

Remus nods and opens his door, welcoming Logan inside. Logan fiddles with a notebook, turning pages back and forth. After a while, he sighs and looks up.

"I have a question about Roman, and I want you to know that I don't intend to cause him hurt by investigating this information."

Remus raises an eyebrow. "Well, this definitely doesn't make me incredibly inclined to help you."

"I don't think it's anything that you did, if that's any consolation."

"It's not, but proceed."

Logan sighs. "Can I have your word that you will not immediately attempt to cause me physical harm when I ask this question?"

"I will not immediately break your spine, no."

"Is that the best I'm going to get?" Remus grins a little two widely and he sighs again. "I suppose that's a yes. Very well: I am…concerned that something has happened between Patton, Janus, and Roman, and I don't know what to do."

Remus takes a deep breath and sits down, pinching the bridge of his nose. "What's he told you already?"

"Something stemmed from the incident between the three of them when Thomas was still uncomfortable with his homosexuality, but I don't know—"

"The 'incident,' is that what he called it?"

"…no, that's my word for it."

"'Cause it was a fucking incident, alright." He reaches out and grabs a squid ink sac. It bursts in his hand. "That was—shit, and you and Emo didn't learn about this until later, did you?"

"I was not aware of an incident until Roman told me about it recently."

Remus growls at him and he steps back with his hands raised. "You mean that Roman was physically locked out of the Imagination for months, and you guys didn't fucking notice?"

Logan's expression drops. The notebook clatters to the floor. "Roman was what?"

"How the fuck did you not know about it? The Imagination—shit, Lolo—"

"No, I knew that Roman didn't go into the Imagination for a while, but I didn't—I was not aware that it was because his entrance was prohibited. What—why—"

"Because Roman's existence hasn't actually been appreciated by everyone around here for a long time and things like stuff he needs to do to stay alive are viewed as privileges that can be revoked."

Guilt and regret tremble at the corners of Logan's mouth and he adjusts his glasses. "I know I have played no small part in this—"

"No shit."

"—but I didn't…Remus, you must understand, I never meant to…I had nothing to do with this. I didn't know. I wasn't—I don't—I wouldn't—Roman is Creativity, how would I—"

"I believe you," Remus says quietly, reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder, "I know, Logan, I know."

Logan lets out a shuddering breath, removing his glasses to rub his eyes. "I apologize. I did not foresee myself becoming this upset."

"Yeah, I know."

"The…the incident, if I may still call it that—"

"That's fine, yeah."

"—would I be incorrect in assuming that it was not the only one of its kind?"

"Well, they never tried to banish Roman from the Imagination again, that's for fucking sure." Remus shakes his head. "God, I've never—I've never fucking seen Roman like that before and I never want to see him like that again. But yeah, Lolo, I don't—you're smart enough to know that Patton and Janus have been holding some sort of power over Roman for a long time."

"Yes."

"That's not an accident. Roman's really vulnerable to stuff like that—and you need to know that I'm telling you this because if this somehow gets back to them," he continues, tightening his grip on Logan's shoulder, "I'm going to know exactly where it came from."

"I won't betray your confidence."

"You'd better fucking not. Yeah, Roro's the Ego—he's fragile in ways that Patton and Janus can exploit. Uniquely exploit, because Patton can feel what's going on in the Imagination to a certain extent, and Janus…"

"Janus knows Roman," Logan says softly, "and that is perhaps all he needs."

"Yeah."

"You said Patton can feel what's going on in the Imagination?"

"Well, Thomathy isn't exactly unaffected by what happens in the Imagination, nor is he immune to what his Ego does to take care of him. So when Roro's trying to make himself feel better, Thomas can feel it, which means Patton can feel it."

"So Patton knows when Roman's trying to cheer himself up."

"Yeah."

"How…how is this a bad thing?"

"Well, if you have a conversation with someone and they immediately run to make themselves feel better…"

Logan's expression shutters and his jaw sets. He adjusts his tie and covers Remus's hand with his own. "I don't know what else I can do for Roman, especially since I have contributed to the pain he has felt, but if there is anything, please, tell me?"

Remus looks at him, eyes narrowing slightly. He seems to be content by what it is that he's found, however, and nods sagely with a seriousness that seems almost foreign to him. Logan nods back and picks up his notebook.

"Is there anything else that I should know?"

"Not right now, I don't think."

"Can I…is Roman in the Imagination right now?"

"Why?"

"I…wanted to tell him that I had an idea for another board game I think he and I could play together. You could play it with us too!" They start moving toward the doors. "It's a mystery horror themed thing—"

"Sold!"

"Remus, I didn't even explain what it—"

"You said 'mystery' and 'horror.' Lolo, I'm in already."

***

"I'm sorry, he did fucking what?"

Logan puts his hands on Roman's shoulders and a different shudder goes through him, one triggered by the dry warmth as opposed to the near flinch in response to Virgil's shout. He leans into the touch as much as he can.

Virgil, of course, senses his fear, and quiets immediately, slouching a little to make himself seem smaller. "Hey, I'm sorry, Princey, I didn't mean to shout."

"It's okay."

"It's not," Logan says softly, "and that's alright too."

"L's right." Virgil even goes so far as to ease himself into a seated position on the other side of the room. "I know how bad yelling can be for you, Princey. I'm—shit, I'm just really upset for you right now."

Roman peeks out at him under his hair, surprised to see a soft smile on Virgil's face. After a moment, he holds out a hand, and Virgil gets up and ambles over. He sits down next to the base of Roman's chair, tangling his fingers with his. He gives a few reassuring squeezes and Roman squeezes back.

"Can I—so obviously I'm gonna try not to shout again, but can Remus keep telling me about this incredibly fucked up thing that happened to you?"

Roman nods. Logan squeezes his shoulder. He drifts away again, for he has no need to relive this more than he already does, focusing on the comfort of Logan's touch and the way that Virgil squeezes his hands every once in a while. Remus's voice stays low and even, but there's an undercurrent of steel that doesn't quite vanish even when the words never raise louder than the low thud of the wind against the walls of the Imagination's cabin.

"—incey? Princey?" Roman blinks. Virgil looks up at him. There's a furrow between his brows but he makes an effort to smile. "Hey, there he is. I'm so fucking sorry, Princey, that's fucked up. That's really fucked up, and I'm sorry that I've—I'm sorry that I've ever had anything to do with making this worse. I don't really—I'm not great with words, but I—"

Roman squeezes his hand. "You didn't do it to me, I don't…I don't blame you for that."

"But I've been doing the same sort of shit. Hey, hey," and here his voice softens a little when Roman goes to protest, "I'm not trying to make you feel bad. I'm not trying to run my own fucking pity party over here, I just—fuck, Princey, you're owed so many fucking apologies about all this shit, okay?"

A lump suddenly appears in his throat. He swallows heavily.

"Oh, hey, hey, c'mere…" Warm arms wrap around him and he's leant back into a strong chest. "Hey, it's okay, you can cry, Princey, that's okay."

"Shh, little one," Logan murmurs when Roman starts to try to apologize, "you're safe here. You're doing very well."

There's a soft thwoop sound and he peeks out to see Remus has summoned a massive mattress on the floor of the cabin. The windows are open, the late-afternoon breeze blowing in with the soft sweet smell of grass and flowers. Virgil and Logan must've had some sort of silent conversation, for he's lifted up into two pairs of strong arms and laid down on the mattress. Remus tucks a blanket over them and then gleefully flops down, much to the surprise and chagrin of the other two.

"Hey!"

"Remus!"

"Cat pile time, everyone hush and cuddle Ro."

Roman chuckles, a little watery, but snuggles into the midst of the three of them. Logan sighs, far too fondly, and presses a kiss to his temple. Virgil scoots a little further away so none of them are at risk of losing circulation, still holding onto Roman's hand.

"I vote that we don't talk about this anymore for right now," Logan says quietly, "all in favor?"

"Me."

"Also me."

"Yeah," Roman mumbles, "can…can we just stay here for a while?"

"Of course, little one."

***

"Sweetie," he hears distantly, "sweetie, it's alright, it's just me, I'm not here to hurt you, can you open your eyes for me?"

Roman opens his eyes. He's lying on the floor in the hallway. It's dark. Someone is leaning over him.

"Sweetie," he hears again, "sweetie, can you say something?"

"J-Janus?"

"There you are, my sweet prince." Janus smiles and cups his face. "Can I help you sit up for me, sweetie? I don't think the hallway is very comfortable at this point at night. There's nothing wrong with sleeping on the floor, believe me, but I think a fine prince such as yourself would be better suited to your bed."

Roman blinks again. "I'm…on the floor?"

"Yes, sweetie, you're on the floor. Do you remember how you got here?"

"I was…I was in the kitchen."

"Yes, that's right. You were making chocolate pudding."

"Why was I making chocolate pudding?"

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "I believe you said it was because you've lost all control."

"That does sound like me."

He chuckles. "Now, sweet prince, can we see if we can sit you up? Come, come, lean on me…that's it, there you are."

Roman blinks a few more times as he slowly lifts himself up, holding onto Janus's shoulders. Janus slips more of his arms around his waist to help him, murmuring more encouragement in his ear as he goes. He lets out a sigh of relief when he sits up, leaning now against the wall. Janus crouches there with him, tucking his hair back behind his ear.

"Janus?"

"Mm?"

"I'm sorry."

"Whatever for, sweet prince?"

"I was—I'm—I didn't mean to—"

"I'm not angry with you, sweet prince," Janus says gently, "I promise. I'm only worried—can we get you to bed?"

"I don't want to impose—"

"Sweetie, I'm not asking you because I have some obligation, I'm worried, and I want you to be safe in your bed so you can rest." He leans down and kisses his forehead and everything is fuzzy for Roman, and he doesn't know what to do, but warm touches are warm touches and he's always been weak to a soft voice with gentle words. "So?"

"…okay."

He leans against Janus's side as they move down the hallway, opening the door into Roman's room. He pulls back the covers and lies down, leaning to help tuck him under the sheets. "There you are, sweet prince, is that better?"

"Why…why're you only nice to me when there's no one else around?"

Something shutters across his expression before it settles on something terribly sad. "I don't know, sweetie. I'm—I'm trying to be better about it, but I seem to keep messing it up."

"I don't know what to believe anymore, Janus." His voice grows thick. "I don't know whether you're going to be nice to me or hurt me."

The bed dips as Janus sits down near his head, still carding his fingers through his hair. "I'm sorry, Roman. I'm so, so sorry."

"You hurt me, Janus," and now he begins to sniffle, "you—you keep hurting me."

"I'm sorry, sweetie, I'm sorry."

Janus doesn't move away, not as Roman sniffles and sobs his way through saying how much pain Janus has caused him, not when he tells him how difficult it is to keep moving forward, not even when he says how scared he is right now, with his belly showing and Janus's teeth at his metaphorical throat. He just sits there, listening, pressing kisses to Roman's hands and cheeks.

***

"Patton?"

"What is it, Roman?"

"Shut up."

Virgil mutters oh, shit. Logan takes a deep breath. Janus's shoulders tense. Remus steps closer.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me," Roman says through gritted teeth, "shut up. You don't know what the hell you're talking about. You don't get to talk over me like that. You don't get to act like I'm just some good-for-nothing spoiled kid that doesn't know anything."

"Now, Roman—"

"No. I've had to sit here and have you talk at me for ages. You're gonna listen to me for once." His hands ball into fists. "You don't get to act like you're the one who's always going to be right. You don't get to do that, not to me. You don't get to act like I'm the one who always comes into this sort of thing with a preconceived notion of how it's going to go. I'm the one who's tried with you. I've tried so many times to just talk to you and you never listen to me."

"That's not—"

"It is. It is true, because every fucking time I have to walk away from those 'conversations' with bruises all over me because you can't be bothered to think about what your words do to me. Because they hurt, Patton, and you don't get to act like they don't. You don't get to act like you don't know what you're doing when you tell me I'm stupid or petty or a bully, you don't get to act like you're hurting me because you don't have a choice or that it's my fault I'm getting hurt."

Remus brushes against his arm. A silent keep going.

"You don't get to act like you don't know why I'm scared of talking to you sometimes, not when you've claimed the authority to remove my fucking coping mechanisms like they're some luxury that you think I don't deserve anymore. You don't get to hold that shit over my head like you have the right to it. No, I don't want to talk about this stuff with you. No, I don't feel safe to talk about with you, and no, I don't feel bad about saying any of that because it's true."

"Those are very hurtful things to say, Roman."

"It's hurtful to tell someone they're wrong when you haven't even taken the time to actually listen to them. It's hurtful to invite someone to a 'conversation' and then just lecture them the whole time. It's hurtful to hold someone's insecurity over their head for actual fucking years and use it whenever you want because it's a convenient way to make someone listen to you."

Patton just looks at him. Roman's breath suddenly catches in his throat. He's yelling at Patton. He's yelling at Patton.

"He's right, Patton," he hears Virgil say, "you're—I'm not gonna say the rest of us are blameless here, but you're really unfair to Roman sometimes and that's not cool."

"And now, how am I supposed to react to all of these accusations? Are you all going to gang up on me now?"

"We're not ganging up on you," Logan says, "the rest of us have barely said anything."

"But you're not disagreeing with Roman."

"No, we're not, because he's right." Remus squeezes Roman's shoulder. "And you know he's right."

"I don't think it's right that he's making me out to be this big bad guy who's trying to hurt him on purpose!"

"I don't think it's right to act like we don't know what they're talking about," Janus says softly, and Patton turns to look at him, "you know we've been unfair to Roman, Patton. We've been cruel to him, almost, and even if we didn't know the effects of what we did when we did them, I think we both know better now."

"Why are you looping me in with you?"

"Because the reason Roman was so receptive to praise and positive attention was because it was so foreign to him he didn't even think to question it," he says, voice a tad sharper now, "and there's really only one person who could've started such a thing."

Patton goes quiet for a long, long moment. Then he looks at Roman. Roman flinches just at that look.

"Roman? Is…are you…did I really make this a lot worse for you?"

Trap. This is a trap. This is a trap, this is a trap, this is a trap.

"You can tell me," Patton says, which doesn't make him think it's any less of a trap, but then Janus nods at him and he manages to swallow.

"Yeah," he mumbles, "yeah, it's—it's really bad, Patton."

Silence. Remus squeezes his shoulder tightly. There's a roar of blood in his ears. Distantly, he hears Virgil mumble something to Logan and Logan starts talking. They're all talking now, but Roman can't say a thing. He's so scared. He's so scared. He's going to pass out. He's going to throw up. He's going to have a sword thrust into his chest and split his ribs.

"Roman," he hears Remus say, cutting through the fog, "Roro, you did great. You did it, it's over now. If you need to run and hide, you can. We'll take care of it. It'll be okay."

He thinks more than says I can go?

"Yeah, Roro, you can go."

Roman's gone in the blink of an eye.

***

The forest is dark. There is no moon. The sky is black. The trees loom over the clearing. The wind is bitingly cold. The grass crunches and snaps. No living creature dares move.

Roman curls up on his knees in the middle of the clearing. The wind whips across his bare skin so harshly it feels like a blade. In the dark of the night, there is no refuge from the biting cold, no place where he could go and be free of the pain ravaging him inside and out. Breath shudders out of him in pitiful clouds of steam. He shakes and trembles.

The reverberations of the approaching footsteps are so powerful that he feels them deep in his chest.

With jerky movements, he looks up. It's difficult to tell at first what's different, just because the mass is so large it's hard to distinguish it from the surrounding sky, but as he moves, the faint silhouette of the wolf becomes discernible from the forest. Glowing eyes gleam down at him, light reflecting off of the fangs, as the enormous paws come to a stop right in front of him. His head bows, his snout lowering to breath warm air across Roman's frigid form.

The wolf, unlike the other creatures in the Imagination, does not speak. Not in the way that Oliver or She-Who-Tends-The-Clouds speaks. But he knows Roman, more perhaps than any aside from Remus, and so he needn't speak to be able to communicate. He leans down, taking Roman's limp form in between his giant teeth, beginning to carry him through the woods. His tongue presses against Roman's freezing arms, trying to convey some warmth back into him, but he is too massive and too focused on carrying him to safety to be able to do something more right now.

There is no fear sweeter than the kind that curls in Roman's stomach at this moment, for what could be more terrifying than the one that carries him in his jaws? They move through the dark forest, over fallen logs and past trickling streams, deeper still into a thicket where the warm air from the valleys below has created a dense fog. A few skittering noises as different small critters move away from the wolf's path. They reach the base of a cliff and he recognizes the entrance to the wolf's den.

He's carried into the den, laid down on soft moss next to a small fire. The warmth licks at his limbs as the wolf lies down with a growl, circling him with his bulk. Roman turns and snuggles into the soft fur of the wolf's belly, hearing another soft growl that sounds almost like a huff of endearment. The fire snaps and crackles, a soothing noise as the wolf's heart beats steadily against his side. He continues to let out low huffs and growls, reassuring Roman of his presence and safety in this moment.

The fear re-surges. He retches, clapping a hand over his mouth. He curls up tighter, as if he could squeeze it from himself. The wolf growls again, a little louder, and his tails flicks up to almost cover him as though it were a blanket. He knows it is ridiculous to be scared, here, between the paws of the wolf, but he is only small and cannot help it.

Another huff of breath and the snout pushes against him.

I know, he thinks, I know it's okay to be scared, but I—I—I—

The wolf rumbles again, tongue darting out to lightly lick his hand.

Can I just be scared? Is that okay?

Another rumble, and this time he feels the wolf shift slightly so he can curl better around him. He noses gently at Roman's head, lapping at his hand again, his tail lightly tickling under his chin. He closes his eyes and leans into the gentle attention, letting the wolf protect him. The sound of the fire soothes the frantic part of his hindbrain, the fur too tempting not to burrow into just a little. He's barely the size of a thorn in the wolf's side. The wolf rumbles, lying his head down and leaning it against him so he's pressed in on all sides.

The sickness recedes ever so slightly. Exhaustion quickly replaces it. The wolf breathes slowly. Roman turns his cheek to rest against the soft fur.

***

"I just don't understand!"

"You're hurt because Roman has expressed that you've hurt him."

"Well, yeah!"

"I don't think you get to be mad at him for that, Patton."

"I'm not mad, I'm just very disappointed that—"

"Okay, no, you don't get to do that either. That's not—Patton, the reason this got as bad as it did is because Roman doesn't feel like he can express that he's upset. At you or anyone else."

"But that's—how is that fair?"

"Okay, I think we're going in circles here—look, Pat-Pat, the point here is that Roro's upset—rightfully so, and he needs to time be upset about it now that he knows it's safe for him to be upset."

"It's always been safe for him to be upset!"

"No, Patton, it hasn't."

"Not when we've been jumping all over him for just expressing how he's feeling."

"He knows he can come and talk to me, he does! I don't understand why—"

"Patton, when was the last time Roman sought you out? To talk to you, or even just to hang out?"

"…"

"Patton?"

"…oh, no."

***

It takes a long time.

Roman spends a lot of time in the Imagination. Patton can feel it, can feel how hurt Roman is and how Thomas must be feeling by association. Everyone spends more time just…existing around each other without actually doing anything.

It takes a long, long time.

Fear never completely goes away, but it does become a little less omnipresent. Pain fades, or dulls, but the memory still causes flinches.

In time.

In time.

***

"Roman?"

"Hm?"

"Any ideas?"

Roman glances up at the others. They're all looking at him expectantly. Logan raises an eyebrow and gestures for him to go on.

A slow smile spreads across his face.

"Well, I did think of something."

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[terramous]

i promise you, i will bring you home

fandom: agatha all along relationship: agatha & teen word count: 2.9k title: secondhand serenade - why bad things happen bingo - barely conscious AO3

There’s ozone on Agatha’s tongue and bile burning at the back of it. The smouldering heat of whatever Teen just unleashed hangs heavily in the atmosphere. There’s a sizzling in the air of leftover magic, enough power to have knocked Agatha from her feet and leave her reeling. 

With a great deal of effort, Agatha manages to lift her head, blue leaf stuck to her cheek and undoubtedly many twigs in her hair. She should have packed a hairbrush for the road. 

Oh well, hindsight is 20/20.

She casts a look over to where she can pinpoint the source of the magic. At least approximately. Magic isn’t an exact science after all, if it was there would have been an easier way for Agatha to get her magic back that didn’t involve risking her life and the others’ on the road. 

Teen is still on his feet, miraculously, but Agatha can tell that something is off even from her current distance. He doesn’t move, his arms are jammed at his sides and he is staring blankly ahead of himself. He’s not even visibly panting like Agatha would expect from someone who just unleashed the motherlode of magical energy. 

She pushes herself up onto her elbows, it’s like shifting a bag of rocks, her every movement is dragged down by the imposing air and whatever effect Teen’s magic had on her. Everything spins for a few seconds, her axis tilted in response to the change in position.

There isn’t even time for Agatha to blink between when the spinning stops and when Teen moves. It’s a single heavy step, and then he stumbles. His feet catch him and he’s still upright but in the briefest flash his nose starts bleeding, dripping off of his chin and hungrily soaking a dark patch into the worn grey knit of his sweater. His body can’t handle it.

The magic is overloading him. 

Agatha has never seen it before herself but like any witch she knows it could happen and to be wary of it because very rarely do witches ever survive. Her heart leaps to her throat and for a split second she can’t figure out why, until the realisation dawns. She’s scared for him. 

He takes another heavy step but this time when he stumbles he doesn’t catch himself and just crashes to his knees. 

That spurs Agatha into motion, she forgets everything the magic is doing to her as she breaks through the haze and scrambles over to Teen, crossing the distance and finally seeing him up close. He’s deathly pale and barely breathing. 

“Hey, hey- look at me,” Agatha says, grabbing his head in her hands much like she did in the morgue trial. Even with Agatha on her knees in front of him, he just stares right through her. 

Unsure of what to do, Agatha moves one hand to tuck an errant curl behind his ear. She runs the same hand down the side of his neck feeling his hammering pulse under her thumb. A pulse that doesn’t match how still he is. 

His deep brown eyes flicker up slightly, just enough to meet her gaze. He still doesn’t speak. In contrast with his dark hair and eyes and the smear of eyeliner, his skin looks almost paper-white. 

“Billy?” Agatha tries, “Billy, come on.” 

With both of her hands on his upper arms, she is in prime position to feel when all of his muscles tense. Like iron under her fingers. 

That’s when the convulsions start. 

He falls heavily towards Agatha who catches him and eases him to the ground, positioning him on his side in the leaves. 

At first it just looks like he’s shivering but within seconds he’s almost thrashing. His jaw is clenched and she can see every muscle in his neck is taught underneath the pale skin. His teeth are loudly clacking together and his eyes are still open although more sclera is visible than iris, his eyes having mostly rolled up into his head. 

Agatha keeps a hand on his shoulder, keeping him on his side but there’s not much else she can do. She knows that she’s meant to time it but she didn’t have the foresight to bring a damn watch into the road so she can’t do anything but sit there with him. Stay with him when he’s vulnerable and needs someone. 

“It’s okay,” she says. He probably can’t hear her but it makes her feel better. He’s too old to be coaxed like a scared child but at the same time he is so young compared to Agatha. Too young to die on the road. “It’s going to be okay.” 

He is going to die here and Agatha is going to lie to him. 

Something in her chest tightens at the idea of leaving him here to be claimed by the road. He isn’t even a member of the coven, he just wanted his brother back. Maybe she will get lucky and she can at least take him out of the road with her, give him a resting place that not only the stupid and power-hungry can visit. 

With her free hand gripping her locket, she just looks around at the road. It’s purple skies and winding path, the trees contorted like they’re in pain and the path of blue leaves. It’s almost beautiful if you ignore the horrors that took place. All the lives lost. 

Perhaps once again Agatha would be the only one to leave the road. She could have sworn she was going to take Teen with her, take him back to his dull life in Eastview, but he wasn’t going to make it that far. 

Eventually the convulsions slow, the seizure tapers off, and he stills. 

He’s breathing heavily but he doesn’t wake. 

Carefully, Agatha wiggles Teen out of his hoodie and she bundles it up to put under his head. She runs her fingers through his hair before catching herself and snapping her hand back. She’s not his mother and he’s not her son. They were strangers before the road. 

Still, she sits with him. It’s like after he was stabbed and she waited for him to wake up. But this time there was no Jen to heal him with water and moonlight. Still, she won’t let Rio take him. 

Time passes slowly but Agatha carefully checks to make sure Teen is still breathing. Every time she feels the push of air as it runs over her fingertips it eases the ache in her chest by a little. 

The colour of the leaves begins to fade, from blue to grey. For what feels like the first time in a lifetime, Agatha looks away from Teen and up at their surroundings. The hue of the sky shifts and fades, turning to black. The stars glitter and blink out one by one. The moon disappears behind the clouds and no longer gives off enough light to illuminate every dip and curve of the road. The trees lose their leaves. The dirt becomes asphalt. 

The final trial is done. The road has let them leave. 

They’re on the road outside Agatha’s house. 

As if sensing the change in environment, Teen finally stirs. He groans and Agatha eagerly searches his face for any signs of consciousness. She finds his fluttering eyelids and furrowed brow. He’s awake. 

“Good morning, pet.” 

It takes a few more seconds for Teen to process her words. 

“Morning?” he grumbles, confused. 

“Or night, whichever you prefer,” she says with a smile. She never would have thought that she would be happy to be back here where she was hexxed for years and lost so much time to the scarlet witch. Only to return from the road with her dying son and a desperation to save him. 

Maybe if she walks the road again he can live. 

But who would she even take? Everyone who opened the road with her was dead. Rio was still alive but she would always be alive. There’s no stopping death. 

Teen rubs his face with a hand, smearing the blood across his cheek. “What happened?” 

Agatha shrugs, “we finished the road.” 

“What was at the end of it?” Teen asks. His voice is slow and heavy and he looks down at the blood on his fingers like he can’t quite figure out how it happened. Agatha wonders how much he remembers. 

Agatha holds her hand up and flicks her wrist. 

“Nothing. There was nothing at the end of the road,” she says.”

Teen drops his hand and actually looks at Agatha for the first time since he discharged all that magic. His brown eyes are big and doe-like and saturated in innocence. Agatha can’t help but feel like she ruined him. “Still no powers?”

She laughs. It’s a dry and hollow chuckle with no mirth. “I wouldn’t worry about that, you seem to have enough for the two of us.”

“Do I?” 

“Oh definitely,” she says. “You managed to throw Rio from the road. I don’t know how you did it but she’s going to be so pissed.” 

“I’m sorry,” Teen replies in a small voice. It’s the most frail she’s ever heard him sound. 

“Why are you sorry?” 

“I know you love her.”

Agatha doesn’t dignify that with a reply. She knows it’s true and so does he, hell, she’s sure even Herb knows by now. They were never really known for their subtlety. 

She pats her hands on her thighs and moves to stand. “We should probably head inside. It might be the middle of the night in a cul-de-sac but lying in the middle of the road is generally frowned upon regardless of the time of day.” 

As she stands, she extends a hand for Teen. He happily grabs it as he awkwardly finds his footing. Agatha has to grab his other arm to pull him up as he is still quite obviously drained from what transpired at the end of the road. He staggers but stands upright. 

Now that they’re face to face Agatha can see the faint red flush on his cheeks and the thin sheen of sweat all over his face. So much for hoping he’d be okay once they left the road.

The front door is still unlocked when they get to it but Agatha has to push against it with all her might to clear the couch barricading it from the inside. Teen’s touch, she assumes. 

By the time she clears enough room for the two of them to enter, she looks back at Teen who is leaning heavily on the porch railing, looking like he is about to collapse. Agatha’s heart pangs painfully in her chest but Teen is none the wiser. 

“Come on,” she says, waving for him to follow her. “I’ll get you a beer–wait, you’re underage. Tea? I don’t have tea–coffee?” 

Teen rolls his eyes but follows Agatha anyway. “It’s a bit late for coffee, don’t you think?” 

Agatha snorts and turns away from him again. “You’re sixteen. I doubt you go to sleep before dawn anyway.”

There’s a soft click as Teen shuts the door behind them. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” 

She tracks mud into the house courtesy of her filthy clothes thanks to Teen’s temper tantrum but she pays it no mind. When they get to the living room she gestures to the couch. “Sit.”

Teen looks like he wants to argue but bites his tongue and sits anyway. He looks like utter crap and his eyes fall shut almost as soon as he hits the cushions. Agatha worriedly taps his ankle with her foot. 

“Hmm?” Teen mumbles, opening his eyes again to give Agatha a half-hearted glare. He must be exhausted as the magic continues to ravage his body.

“Just making sure you’re not going to pass away on my couch.” She frames it like a joke but it’s not funny. Teen smiles anyway, amused.

Teen closes his eyes again and Agatha just stands in the middle of her living room feeling out of place. She doesn’t know what to do or what to say so she doesn’t do anything. 

“I’m going to shower,” she eventually says. There is mud dried in her hair and her clothes are stiff with it. 

Teen hums in acknowledgement but says nothing. 

Shaking out her stiff and mud-filled hair, she stalks out of the room. She regrets it as soon as she turns her back on Teen but she keeps walking. No use getting soft now. 

She strips off her muddy clothes in the entry of the laundry room and dumps them at her feet. She doesn’t have the energy to wash them tonight. 

The “Bohner Family Reunion” shirt is on the floor too, its red font sticking out even with only the light from the hallway to show it. The hex and the time before the road feels like it happened to someone else, she is a completely different person than she was when Teen broke her free. 

A shower is exactly what she needed. She lets the hot water unpull all the knotted muscles in her back as the water beats down on her skin. She pulls twigs and leaves from her hair as she lathers up the shampoo. It’s almost like meditating if her heart issn’t so heavy with loss. She feels like she’s been gutted like a fish. 

After her shower she stands in the middle of the small bathroom, wrapped in a towel. With a hand through the condensation on the mirror she can see her face. The harsh lighting of the bathroom carves out all the slopes and curves of her face and emphasises the bags under her eyes. The road was not kind to her, and yet she received the most of its mercy.

Teen is still sitting on the couch with his eyes closed when Agatha comes back down the stairs. She can see his chest rising and falling and lets out a sigh before turning to walk into the kitchen. 

True to her word she brews him a coffee. In a stupid mug left from when it was Ralph’s home that says in big black font “I’m not on drugs. I’m just weird.”. There’s a wonder how such a dumb design ever sold but then she remembers actually being around Ralph and it makes sense. 

While waiting for the coffee to brew she runs a handkerchief under the tap and wrings it out, leaving it damp and cold. 

With the coffee done, Agatha returns to the living room. She sets the mug down on a coaster and sits next to Teen with the handkerchief in hand. 

“Coffee,” she announces in a soft voice. It was just the two of them after all. The only two to leave the road. 

Teen blinks his eyes open and looks at her. He furrows his brows when he sees the damp cloth hovering close to his face. “What’s that for?” 

“The blood on your face,” Agatha says as she starts to dab the handkerchief along his jaw, watching as the blood smears and pulls away from his skin, red blossoming into the moisture of the white cloth. 

They sit there in silence for a bit, Teen with his eyes closed again and Agatha cleaning off his face. She knows that Rio said that he is not hers but regardless she still feels like he could be. Which doesn’t make sense because this kid has two sets of parents and she’s just a cruel and callous childless witch, but she has come to care for him. 

As Agatha finishes wiping up the blood she looks back over at Teen who appears to have been silently watching her for a while. 

“Thanks,” he says, albeit a little nervously. “I should probably get going. My parents must be worried about me.” 

Agatha’s heart hurts. “Why don’t you stay the night?” she hurriedly suggests. “Crash here to avoid falling asleep at the wheel. Safe driving and all.”

“Are you sure?”

She presses her lips into a tight line and nods. “Of course.” 

Teen offers her a small smile. “Okay then. We’ll have a sleepover.” 

“You can sleep in my bed,” Agatha suggests. “Better for those growing bones.” 

“I’m okay on the couch, I promise.” 

“It wasn’t a suggestion.” She was going to at least let him be comfortable. 

“Okay then,” he says, wiping his palms on the denim of his ripped jeans. This time he stands up unassisted and follows Agatha with heavy footsteps. 

He struggles to pull his sweater off so Agatha helps him, underneath is a black t-shirt with a bat printed on it and the words “Bela Lugosi’s Dead” scrawled across it. 

Agatha discards the sweater on the foot of the bed frame. Soon follow his jeans, that he outright refused to have assistance removing. 

The lamp is still a smashed mess on the floor but Agatha pays it no mind. She’ll clean it up tomorrow. 

Teen must notice Agatha’s near-smothering constant presence at his side but he doesn’t comment on it. He just lets her tuck him in and sit on the floor next to the bed, her back pressed against the mattress and her hands resting over her crossed legs. 

It doesn’t take long for Teen’s breathing to even out as he falls asleep. The exhaustion caught up with him. 

Agatha doesn’t sleep even though she’s beyond tired. She stays by his side until dawn creeps over the horizon and the warm glow melts through the window, bathing the broken pieces of the lamp in light. She doesn’t move even though there’s a crick in her neck and a pinch in her back. 

She is reminded of her many bedside vigils with Nicky in his final days. 

Maybe she can do right by Teen.

[hold-on-a-little-longer-whump]

Quick!! Link a scene or piece of work you're created that you're proud of! First one that comes to mind!!

*bounces in place* ohohohohoho you've gone and done it now!!! Feast your eyes on this scene from one of my many WIPs - I hope I'll finish it one day. It really is one of the Big Three of my Magnum Opuses.

Below the cut:

Female whumpee

Mute whumpee

Disabled whumpee

Female Caretaker

Recovery

Mentions of Scientific/Medical Trauma

Bruises and bandages

Collapsing

Fatigue/Weakness

Samira slept for another day. Until the pangs of hunger and other necessities grew to be too much to ignore. She drew in a slow breath and sighed, then lifted her arms in a stretch. The skin of her elbows pulled uncomfortably and she stopped at the telltale sensation of scabs beginning to split. Even now, days later, she felt the bone-deep ache from her journey here. The dull throb of a lingering headache. The pulsing pain in her knees. Her hands still held a tremor without the slightest provocation. More than anything, she wanted to go back to sleep until the soreness went away, but nature had other ideas.

Turning her head, she saw she was alone. The lights to the room were dimmed low, and the only other source of light came from the glow of a safety light in the bathroom five feet away. Blessedly, she saw the IV pole was on the same side of the bed. All she had to do now was walk. Piece of cake. Pulling the blanket back, she slung her legs over the side of the bed. She stopped long enough to wonder at the sight she saw.

Socks. Soft, fuzzy yellow socks with grips on the bottoms. She turned her attention to her gown. It, too, was buttercup yellow, decorated with bumble bees and daisies, and the hem - stopping at her knees - even had the tiniest decoration of white lace. She longed to rub the material between her fingers, but the bandaging on her hands prevented her from doing so. It would have to wait. Besides, the thick wads of cotton taped over each knee ruined the effect. Her skin, she noticed, was far paler than its healthy cinnamon color, and even the patches of vitiligo, normally rosy, held a sickly shade. She frowned, feeling like the ghost of her former self.

Gripping the IV pole for balance, Samira scooted forward. Tentatively, she settled her feet on the floor. No fear driving her to move. No dizziness. It didn’t matter how many times she had tried to stand on her way here. She was stronger now. She was rested. She could do this. Carefully, as if to balance on an egg without breaking it, she put weight on one foot. Her knee began to quake and she grabbed the IV pole with her other hand, clinging to it, and the momentum of doing so forced her full weight forward. Quickly, she brought her other foot forth to catch herself.

For the briefest of seconds, she teetered, awkwardly poised between the IV pole and her fawn-like legs. She could feel the cuts in her palms reopening as she clung to the pole, the gauze slackening her grip. Then the wheels of the IV pole rolled. Samira flailed, gasping as her crutch moved before she was ready, and tried to snatch it back. It fell, and she followed, knocking a metal tray and its contents to the floor with a great crash.

She might have cringed at the noise if she hadn’t instinctively tried to catch herself. Though the gauze cushioned the fall somewhat, it didn’t stop her knees and elbows from cracking against the hard tile - biting through the cotton and clawing at her already-shredded skin. Tears sprung up and a mute yelp rattled her throat before she could stop herself. She bit her lip until she tasted blood, and still a hoarse sob wrenched itself from her chest.

Hurried footsteps sent a dart of panic up her spine, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. The lights switched on, then a set of hands were on her. She flinched, but they didn’t release her.

“Samira.” Jean. Jean was there. “Samira, it’s alright. It’s just me.”

Without waiting for a response, Jean lifted her back to the bed as easily as a child might lift a dropped doll. Samira tucked her hands beneath her chin, arms pressed against her chest, and tried to control her breathing - all while fighting the urge to curl in a ball right there. Hot, thrumming pain rolled up her limbs, coiling into tight knots and biting, clawing, digging into her bones. Why did it hurt so much? How could things go wrong so quickly? She opened her eyes from where she’d squeezed them shut, peering between wet lashes at the mess she’d made. Fresh, unused medical supplies lay strewn about on the floor. The IV pole lay on its side, and the tray had skidded a couple feet away. She drew in a shaky breath, shame heating her cheeks.

Automatically, an apology tried to leave her lips. Instead, it came out in a pitiful wheeze.

Mistaking the gesture for one of pain, Jean smoothed a hand over Samira’s back. “It’s alright, Samira. Do you want something for the pain?”

Samira shook her head and hid her face behind her hands, the gauze absorbing her tears.

“It’s okay if you do. You don’t need to be brave, not here.”

Samira shook her head again, gulping back another sob before it could surface.  She already owed them so much, and it shamed her to anticipate their response to her inability to speak - and now, it seemed, the inability to walk. Had the Team left any part of her untouched?

[rxqueenotd]

The Girl Next Door Epilogue

Pairing: Jeryd Mencken x OFC

Warnings: Shockingly enough, none.

A/N: Goodbye, my dear world of a fic.

WC: 423

Seven months passed before I saw Mencken again. As fate would have it, our reunion took place in the same church in which we had first laid eyes on each other.

This time, however, the scene had changed and where he and his wife had previously sat in front of me, the two of them on a lone, empty pew, they now sat a few rows behind my family and I, occasionally their hushed tones would float up to us, lost somewhere between their newborn’s grunts and the cooing of the choir.

When the newborn’s shrill cry rang out amongst the stillness of the congregation—something akin to a rosary clanging against polished marble—my instinctive reflex had my head on a swivel, turning quickly to survey the scene behind me.

Unlike Mencken a year prior, I didn’t gawk or stare. There was no malice in my curiosity, a kind smile pulled at my lips as I looked down at the newborn in his arms and back to his face, turning back around with a lump in my throat brought on by pure nostalgia for a time that I had worked so hard to come to terms with and accept as nothing but a dwindling high followed by a dangerous low.

“Peace be with you.”

_________________________________________

Walking around my house, seeing the pool, the dock, the patch of yard between mine and Mencken’s house and the white picket fence that divided evoked feelings in me that had long since been dormant. Cognitive dissonance, my therapist called it. The need to be loved and to be healthy, but longing for a time where I was anything but.

Eventually, after indulging myself in sordid memories, I made my way to my bedroom. Nothing had changed, not that I would have expected it to in the months I’d been away at Georgetown, however, a new set of curtains billowed in the soft breeze provided by the ceiling fan in the window that faced Mencken’s bedroom.

Such a simple object, but what a difference they would have made seven months prior. I laughed at the thought, how hindsight truly is twenty-twenty, running my fingertips along the silken fabric.

It wasn’t long until my eyes met his across the way, a silent exchange occurred between the two of us as we surveyed one another for damage, for any signs of life, of yearning. If there was any, it must have been occluded behind our windowpanes.

I closed the curtains, effectively blocking Mencken out of my vision, out of my life.

Tag list: @aurorag98

[tortillasconsal]

I thought I should share my design for Jeff the Killer since I'm done with his headcanons

Here he is

Now my thought process:

I didn't do a lot lmao

Let's start with the biggest detail: his face. My first thought when I started Jeff was that I wanted his skin to actually look like it was lit on fire, I'm tired of fair skinned paper-white Jeff, give me scars and deformity.

His hair was the most complicated thing to figure out oddly enough. I wanted to add some bald spots but I also wanted him to keep an emo hairstyle and be true to the character, but couldn't figure out how. I'm not really upset at it because I feel like he could use it to cover up his face more for when he's in public.

I also struggled a lot with how I was going to draw it (the most accurate hairstyle is the one on the full-body drawings).

I feel like his hair would be very mistreated. It would have the texture of an old wig and a matted dog's hair, quoting the comment a friend made on my WIP post of this piece.

His eyes are now brown, because he took them from his mom let's say. I tried to stick with the blue eyes but I didn't like it, I did add like a white thing on them to keep the same effect blue eyes would have and to show the fact that he's almost blind because he almost got his eyelids burnt.

Now the clothes. So I just kept the white hoodie-black pants combo because its iconic, but I did my best to decorate it because it was very boring and it looked very flat in contrast to the hands and the head. But not too much because I don't want to have a very meow-meow scene aesthetic for my AU.

I mainly went for stitches, a patch and some wholes on his clothes to kind of show off how worn they are because I didn't want to go for too many accesories because that'd take away from the seriousness.

I wanted to add dirt and dubious spots on his hoodie but I forgor 💀

I was planning on skinny black jeans, but I didn't liked how the silhouette looked so I gave him some baggy pants. I think its better for him anyway, since some skinny jeans would probably irritate his skin a lot.

I did gave him a classic belt to keep the whole emo style around because I think that could show how he's still a young man who's into sad music and whatever emos like. To show some personality. There's also a chain to add balance to the belt and add depth to the pants.

I also wanted to give him a bandana (a paliacate) because I feel like it would be more usefull and also link him to his mexican background. I didn't add it because I forgot about it, but I do want to say that he would also use a bandana.

I wanted his gloves to have fingers because carrying gloves just makes more sense in order to protect his hands with all the killing, forest environment, carrying knives and guns and his sensitive skin. They didn't look good with fingers, because I didn't feel like putting effort on the hands so it just looked like a weird black thing that fused with the pants so I had to switch it up to fingerless gloves.

It makes sense with his emo style anyway.

I gave him a rosary to link him to his mexican and catholic background, I've seen a lot of alt people use them so I though it would be a nice accesory to give depth to his black tee's.

The rosary also has a deeper meaning, but it would be too long to add in this post so I'll probably do another one purely focused on it since it also involves Liu's backstory and relationship with Jeff.

Yeah, so this is the Jeff or my AU 🤙

I was originally planning on sharing this on the Headcanons post, but it got too long so I decided to share this on a separate post. And also to have something while I work on the other requests.

I might do the same for those characters as well, though it will take me more time since uni is giving me more and more homework.

[hoodoo12]

Dec 16th show

This show was the last I'll see till closing night, which I am lucky enough to be able to go to. Is lucky the right word? Shouldn't it be heart-breaking or something? idk

It has been nice to be able to have seen the show a few times, because I pick up new things each time. I don't mean that a lot in the show has changed, but because I familiar with it I'm not hyper-focused on the "action" of the scene and can watch the secondary actors on the stage. I feel like I saw a lot more of the individual clones during TBS, and of course I watched Elliott a little more. (Okay, a lot more, lol)

Dana Steingold was Lydia. She did an excellent job of navigating all of Lydia's emotions, instead of having just one overwhelm the nuance of the character.

Notes from show:

Alex wore a plain white shirt for several of the numbers. But not all of them (TBS, for example). I don't understand why.

Alex mocked my laughter at one point (after 'gay republican'), copying it before going to the next line.

The kid he picked for sad puppet show was right behind us (over our left shoulder). We overheard the family talking before it the show and the kid had never seen it before. His mom had to answer for him because he Alex terrified him mute (the kid was 10, for christ's sake). Alex could def see how uncomfortable the kid was because he crouched down to stare him directly in the eye and shouted, "YOUR PARENTS HAVE MADE A HUGE MISTAKE BRINGING YOU HERE", which only scared the kid more.

During his Katherine Hepburn speech, he pretended to be her down on all fours like they were going to screw doggy style.

During FoTL when David suggests, "act like a baby" Alex says, "What the shit is wrong with you?" and now that's my new favorite line.

Alex fumbled for "Brigadoon". He said, "I know my name is on the marquis, but you'll have to watch a new show. The Maitlands," and then stood there for a moment too long, gestured to them again for more time/effect before finally coming up with the line. The person with me thought since he couldn't remember the word he'd just finish with, " . . . the Maitlands. I'm out of here" and then "Yeah, I'm out of here. Fuck me, I guess" instead of "fuck Brigadoon."

Alex screwed up his mic during SMN. He went a little extra (more on that later) when he pulled back his wig to showcase the maggot brain, which messed it up. He repeatedly had to tap it/adjust it during the song to get it working correctly again. This is the second time I've seen that happen to him; it was pointed out that maybe I'm the common denominator when it stops working correctly . . .

Adam Dannheisser almost lost it when Leslie said "prostitution?" responding to his, "you're my employee and my lover" line. He had to take several moments to compose himself to not laugh. He did it though! Good job!

The guy Alex picked on as "that guy" was wearing a suit. The last time he addressed him, he added, "You got all dressed up tonight and got ROASTED." Pause for laughter. "Thanks for coming."

The guy sitting by me was INTO the show. Like leaning forward to laugh and shaking enough during it he rocked the seats.

The two kids (mid-teens) next to us were NOT into it. I don't know why their mom paid for front row seats for kids who didn't give a shit and who, during "Home", pulled out their phones to check their IG or Tiktok or whatever.

Maybe this is something everyone else was aware of, but the knees on his red suit are completely patched. Like his overcoat and the striped suit, they have these big stitches which I had never seen before. That whole suit looked a little more ratty to me than I remember it.

During COG when he and David swing each other over to stage right, Alex got some serious air. He was literally parallel to the ground (my companion pointed out after the show that I gasped, lol) so David must be gdamn strong to lift Alex like that.

Alex also made not one, not two, but three attempts to kiss David at stage right + made a grab at his crotch. Two of those things David was either not expecting or he's just a really excellent actor. It could be both.

Juno's leg skittered across the floor and almost fell into the pit, which I would have paid extra money to see because what the heck would they do??

Going back to "Alex being extra" . . . during intermission the person I was with was like, "What the hell? Why is he exhausting himself? Did you see? His make up is sliding off his face he's so sweaty and I've never seen him go so ham. This is Beetlejuice, not Alex."

She was genuinely concerned for him. Honestly, me too. He exuded more of a frenetic energy which, while appropriate for the character, was so much for so long the miasma of it hung in the air. Maybe he's just giving his all because the show is closing in 3 weeks. idk But with flu, COVID, and RSV also floating around, I hope he doesn't overstress his immune system so he can close the show out.

[autumnalwalker]

A Dream About A Repurposed Resort

I wake up from my midday nap atop a patch of soft green grass surrounded by shade-giving trees.  Something about the combination of tree cover and the way the ground dips right here reduces the nearby rumble of machinery and roar of the ocean to a barely audible soothing white noise.  I stand up, brushing off my clothes, and those sounds come back in full.  I glimpse the ocean through the trees and the sight of it dispels the last bit of post-waking haze, reminding me where I am.  I can’t help but smile.  I love this place and at times it feels unreal how fortunate I am to be here.

I walk out of my little grove of trees that hides the maintenance shed and pass by the pools on my way to the main building.  Once upon a time, this place was a resort for wealthy tourists.  These days it is a combination of school, community center, and boarding house.  I live here with my brother’s family as part of the faculty.  The children far outnumber the adults around here.  Many of them no longer have parents.

Inside, I happen upon the oldest of my young nieces morosely lingering in one of the former conference halls.  By the decorations, it seems that some event for the students has just wrapped up, but for whatever reason she’s the only one still here.  I ask her what’s wrong and she tells me that she just lost yet another duel (a popular pastime amongst the children here).  I suggest that next time she could try calling upon darker, more taboo powers in order to win.  Once again she laughs it off as yet another one of my eccentric jokes, but I can tell that this time a part of her is considering it.

I wonder how much longer I can get away with these little nudges before her parents say something to me about it.  Then again, it’s not like I’ve ever denied any of the rumors about what I can do or my willingness to teach others.

After cheering her up, I walk with her to go find her sisters together.  We find her stepmother – my sister-in-law – first, coming around a corner and muttering something in an irate tone utterly at odds with her reputation as a favorite teacher of the students here and her brightly colored skirt and blouse.  She has apparently just come out of a particularly stressful administration meeting that has her worked up enough that the usual hug of greeting between us is forgone.  Whatever the issue with administration is, I tell her I’m confident she’ll work it out.  She always does.

My brother arrives shortly behind her – clean-cut, casual, and good natured as ever – and the mood lightens.  He has that effect on people.  Few would ever guess by looking at him that he was once a pirate.  We were all here as tourists from the mainland when this little island nation seceded from the nation that colonized  it long ago.  If not for his going pirate in service of the independence faction (an act some would call a betrayal of his homeland), we probably all would have been deported long ago.

I like to think these days we’ve become an accepted part of the community here, despite obviously having come from the people that were once the enemy.

[nemesis-is-my-middle-name]

we need more vivi hurt/comfort in this fandom. #25 prompt (“I’m going to ask you how you are and I would like you to answer me honestly.”) from Artie to Vi if you're up for it? 💛🩵

(hurt/comfort dialogue prompts)

(oof god i'm rusty with these characters. let's get into it)

"I'm fine," she says, for what feels like the millionth time.

"Bullshit," is Arthur's response. "I'm down an arm, Vi, not my fucking eyes. And ho- honestly, I wouldn't- wouldn't even need th-those to tell right now." A hand lands on her shoulder, pushing her down further into the chair for emphasis. "One more try. I'm gonna ask you how you are, and it'd be nice if you c-could answer me honestly."

She shoves him off and stands up, already stalking away, ignoring the shooting pain all up through her side when she does. "God, fuck you. Fuck off. This is so stupid. I don't need,"

And then her vision whites out.

---

She blinks herself fuzzily awake into a world much softer than the one she was just in. She's in bed, she registers, or at least a pile of blankets. The pain is gone, but it also feels like everything else isn't quite online, either. There's a vague clicking noise from somewhere to her right.

"...you hovering all the time," she finishes her thought, although it comes out too mumbly to really deliver.

"j'you say sa- s-something?" The clicking noise stops, and an Arthur appears in her field of view. He looks worried. So, like normal.

"Yeah, uh, what? Why am I in bed?"

Now he just looks exasperated, throwing his hand up in annoyance, which is an improvement at least. "You passed out, stupid! And th-th-then when I freak out, out about it you're all like oh no never mind it's whatever fr- from the fucking floor. 'Why am I in bed.' Dumbass."

She only vaguely remembers that, not that she's going to admit it. Well, okay, question answered. She tries to get up, and Arthur immediately shoves her back into the pillow.

"Hey," she protests.

He makes his usual staccato ch-ch-ch disapproval noise, which she usually thinks is cute when it isn't directed at her. "Nope. I j-just got done bandaging you up, you are not getting up. You, you are st-staying right here."

She tries to wrestle him off, but he's annoyingly persistent and her angle's all off. "Okay, I'm patched up! So it's fine! Let me out!"

Whup, and her hand is flat against the bed, and Arthur's hanging out of his chair to get his arm over her chest and pin her down. "No."

Probably she could flip him. Maybe. He'd hit the wall behind her but not, like, hard. She thinks about it. It's really hard to lift even the non-pinned arm. Maybe she couldn't.

"Stop being stupid," she tells him instead, sounding normal and not at all desperate. "This is nothing."

"It is- v-very much- not nothing."

"This can't be enough to stop me. It isn't! I'm better than this!"

"Get up, th-then!" he challenges.

"I'm not a fucking tranq'd animal!"

He yells wordlessly at her, she shouts back, until they're both panting.

She shoves him again, no real force behind it this time. This is such a waste of fucking time, when he damn well knows they never have enough of it. "I need to get up. You need me out there, you know that."

"Go to hell."

Now tears are welling in her eyes. She's screaming at herself, internally, but for some stupid reason it's not translating into more strength. "We're wasting time, here. I'm ready to go, I can move, I can work. Let me up."

He flops over, into a less aggressive pin, but not actually a less effective one. Their faces are almost touching, which was maybe the idea. "One more try," he says, again.

His damn stubbornness is another thing that she likes more when it isn't being used on her. This is not a fight she is going to win.

"If I fall asleep," she says reluctantly, "and you're not there when I wake up, I'm going to fucking kill you."

That gets a laugh out of him. "M'not going anywhere, Vi."