#but still so irritating that it's happening

[annasellheim]

We're sitting at the table I'm glaring at them. These heroes ("The Big Three" as they are known in the industry) are questioning me? ME? They're questioning ME???

These motherfuckers made me come to the Cape Crusaders big, tacky mansion to justify my actions to them?

The thing that pisses me off the most about their reservations is the fact that what I do IS SO MUCH MORE IMPORTANT than anything they could possibly do. These idiots just punch bad guys in the face and send them to prison, just so they can escape and start the cycle over from scratch.

I've already saved so many more lives than they ever will. I've made more of a positive impact on this planet than anyone will ever know.

Because my power is to stop disasters, and the most effective way to do that is to prevent them.

No one knows how many wars I've stopped before they began, how many diseases I found vaccines for before they became epidemics, how many cities and countries I've helped create infrastructure for so they could avoid being over run by natural disasters.

And my job is made even more difficult than it sounds because no one can truly fathom how bad things would be if I don't use my powers. I have to fight ppl tooth and nail to get it anything to happen because they don't know how bad it'll be if it's not acted on.

No one sees what I see. They don't feel what I feel. They'll never know the particular ache in my chest that somehow has has an entire narrative wrapped in it whenever a potential disaster hits me. An ache that is so powerful that it's made my knees buckle multiple times.

And the feeling doesn't dissipate until the disaster is fully prevented. It means that when I know something needs to be done, I have to make sure it's dealt with, or-

It's destroying me in a way. Doing so much, all the time, with no compensation or recognition.

The heroes at least know about my powers and know that I have nipped a bunch of really bad shit in the bud.

The villains thing has come up before and it's irritating. For years I thought it was because they were lazy and just were angling for help over shit that I didn't have time for, and in the big picture, didn't matter. Asking for even more help than I already provide.

I'm at my limit already.

But looking at these three at this table in this enormous, extravagant kitchen, it hits me how wrong I am.

These heroes don't have my powers. They can't foresee and stop disasters. For all they know, these clowns that rob banks and occasionally attack and murder people, could cause major disasters down the line. I'm not perfect, I can't stop all disasters. I have to sleep and eat and work a fucking day job.

I still feel residual aches from time to time for every disaster I've failed to stop.

They aren't trying to get more free work out of me, they're trying their best to figure out what villains can do major damage in the future.

They're scared.

"So, the way my powers work," I say while leaning back in my chair, "is that at some point, I know something will go from being an issue to a problem to a disaster. I can only intervene when I know it'll be disastrous, otherwise I can't use my powers, it's like they don't exist. Until something goes over the thresh hold of becoming a potential disaster, it's like I have no powers at all."

"How do you know when a disaster is going to happen? Is it like a vision?"

"It's more internal than that- it's like a feeling I guess...I'm not sure how to articulate it."

Huh, no one has ever bothered to ask me anything specific about my powers or the work I do. I don't have a lot of answers if they keep prodding.

"So, yeah, it's not that I'm neutral to villains, it's just all of the ones you guys been dealing with don't-" I yawned "- don't give me that feeling. I'll let you know if it changes."

I put my head in my hands. Fuck, I'm so tired. It's not like I can stop being a hero, I see the alternate world where I don't intervene, I feel it. But I'm so, so tired.

"Go take a nap."

My head shoots up, "What?"

The Masked Crusader (dumb ass name btw, just like his dumbass mansion) says it again, "Go take a nap. I'll make us all dinner. Go use my guest room and pass out for a bit.

Damn it, did I say I was tired out loud? Or was mind reading one of his superpowers? I can't remember, things have been so overwhelming recently, my memory is shot.

"No, the Masked Crusader can't read minds, that's me" Brainiac says.

Oh. Shit. Right.

"We just, we see you burning out, let us support you for once," chimed in the Singing Banshee.

This was not how I was expecting this conversation to go AT ALL.

Banshee continues, "You've got a lot of walls up, probably from years of running yourself into the ground saving thousands of people without any help. So, we're now going to help you."

"That's not a request by the way," the Masked Crusader says as he slides me a glass of water. "We're doing it whether you like it or not."

Shit, I hadn't even realized I was thirsty. Have I drank any water at all today?

And then *BOOM* I get hit with it- the feeling of an impending but preventable disaster. But it's different than any other disasters I "felt" before.

It's me... It's me, in the near future, collapsing and being unable to do anything about, well anything. I won't be able to stop future disasters, hell, I won't be able to function. And the only way to prevent it was to lean on these people.

This is a lot.

I chugged the rest of the water and wiped my mouth.

"Ok, thanks..." I whispered.

It's too much to think about right now. It's too much to feel right now. I'm not used to, I don't know, being taken care of. I don't know how to be supported.

I'll figure out a way to properly navigate this later. Right now I need to lay the hell down.

You're a superhero who specializes exclusively in stopping disasters. The other heroes just don't understand why you need to remain neutral to the villains…

[darkwood-sleddog]

i think what's really irritating about situations where i'm offered random dogs is that having multiple dogs makes people think i'm some sort of charity when it's actually the opposite. my pack is heavily and carefully curated. i know what i want from a dog that is coming into my pack and don't stray from these wants for the good and wellbeing of my existing dogs. the only person i think is acceptable to offer me a dog is a breeder i've been already talking to about potentially getting a dog from already point blank and period. (and even then i've turned down a great offer recently from MY dogs breeder because it just wasn't timed correctly/dog import law bullcrap etc). just because i have made the choice for myself to have multiple dogs does not make me a charity home for dogs people cannot care for anymore. i sincerely feel for dogs in this sort of situation, but malamutes are overall better off going to experienced fosters and breed specific rescues instead of having people blind message people who own the same breed on your facebook timeline. and i don't trust a non-breed specific persons evaluation of temperament at ALL. for a malamute to have success in re-homing you must be knowledgable about the breed or else they're going to end up right back where they started.

[jinxedbychaos]

vi x reader, where in childhood they were somewhat involved with each other . Like you can tell the love is there but they have yet to realize it themselves. And when they went to save vander, reader got hit in the head and loses their memory. And Vi is put in prison.

then Vi gets out, and they find each other. And Vi hugs reader and goes on a good “i missed you, there wasn’t a day i haven’t though about you” spiel, and reader just doesn’t know how to feel about it. Because in their mind this is just some stranger. But at the same time they feel like they know and care deeply about this stranger.

Forgotten

Vi x reader

Word count: 1,275

Warnings: some mentioned deaths (that's all I think.)

This is the first ever request I've ever done so I hope I meet the expectations of the person who send this request.

You and Vi grew up together in the the lanes. life wasn't easy, but you had each other, and that made it bearable. she'd always mess with you, messing with your hair, ruffling it playfully whenever she got the chance. You'd pretend to be annoyed, swatting her hand away with a huff, but secretly, you liked it. It made you feel warm inside.

After her fights, you'd sit her down and patch up her scraped knuckles, muttering about how reckless she was, She'd grin at you, acting like it didn't hurt, but you always knew better. You could see through her tough exterior, and she could see right through yours. Neither of you ever said what you felt, but it was there, in lingering glances, unspoken gestures, and the way your hearts seemed to beat in sync.

Then everything changed.

It happened when Silco made his move. Watching Benzo-your father figure, the man who had taken you in when you had no one else, fall dead right in front of you helpless to stop it, shattered you. The thought of Vander meeting the same fate was unbearable. And the idea of Vi having to endure the pain of losing him, too, was more than you can handle. You couldn't let that happen.

So when vi decided to go after him, you went too. You stayed by her side as the others followed, determined to save Vander.

You were right beside her when the explosion went off. The force of it knocked you off your feet, and pain seared through your entire body like fire. The last thing you saw before the world went dark was her pink hair splayed on the ground unmoving.

When you woke up, everything was gone. Vander. Claggor. Mylo. Vi. Even your memories.

All that remained were fragments, hazy feelings of warmth and safety tied to a face you couldn't quite place.

Years later-

Life without your memories felt hollow. The Lanes still felt familiar in a way you couldn't explain, like a melody you couldn't recall but keep humming anyway. you did whatever you had to do to survive, jobs you weren't proud of, choices you tried not to think about. You pieced together a new life, but no matter how hard you tried, it always felt incomplete.

And then she appeared.

You were carrying a crate of scavenged parts through the bustling streets, just trying to make it another day, when someone stepped in front of you, blocking your path.

"Hey" You began, irritation flaring. But when your gaze meet hers, the words died in your throat, she looked familiar.

The girl, no, woman stood frozen, her pink hair catching the dim light. Her wide eyes, a mix of disbelief and something far deeper, softened as they locked onto you.

"Y/N…" She breathed, her voice cracking.

The name sounded foreign to you, yet it struck something deep inside, a string you hadn't realized was there. Before you could react, she rushed towards you and wrapped her arms around you. The crate in your hands fell to the ground with a loud clatter, its contents scattering everywhere.

Her hold was tight, desperate, as if she were afraid you might disappear. "Gods" She whispered, her voice trembling "I missed you so much. There wasn't a day I didn't think about you. I-I thought you were dead after the explosion."

Her words pierced the fog in your mind, stirring emotions you couldn't explain. Images flickered in your head. flashes of pink hair, laughter, a hand reaching for yours in the dark. You didn't know her, not really. And yet…

The way her voice trembled, the way she held you like you were her lifeline. It felt familiar. Like home.

"I…" your voice wavered as you pulled back, stepping out of her embrace. The confusion and overwhelming emotions made it hard to think. "Y-you know me?" You swallowed hard, shaking your head, "I don't… I don't remember. I don't remember you"

Her expression faltered, the pain flickering across her face like a fleeting shadow. She took a shaky breath, forcing a small, fragile smile. "That's alright" she murmured, her voice trembling but steady enough to hide the heartbreak beneath it "We'll figure it out together. I'm not letting you go this time."

The days that followed were a whirlwind of emotions. Vi tried to reconnect with you, sharing stories of your childhood together, each one laced with hope that might ignite a spark of recognition. sometimes, fragments of those memories felt familiar, like shadows of something long lost. But just as quickly, they slipped away, leaving you more confused than before. How could someone care so deeply for you when you couldn't even remember who they were?

And yet, there were moments. Her laugh carried warmth that tugged at something buried deep within you. the way she said your name felt like home, even if you didn't understand why. The fire in her eyes when she talked about protecting you stirred something unspoken, something that felt like it had always been a part of you.

Despite the confusion, you couldn't help but feel drawn to her. Maybe it was the tenderness in her gaze, or the way your heart raced whenever she smiled. or perhaps it was something deeper. Something you couldn't name but felt in every fiber of your being, like a truth just out of reach.

one night, sitting on the rooftop, the hum of the lanes below was a distant murmur in the silence between you. You sat side by side with Vi, the weight of unspoken thoughts in the cool night air.

"Vi…" you began, your voice quiet as you stared out at the city "I-I don't know if I'll ever remember everything. I don't know if I can be the person you remember" You hesitated, your fingers twisting together nervously "But I want to try. I want to be that person for you"

Vi turned to you, her gaze soft but unwavering, her expression a mixture of hope and understanding. "you don't have to be anyone but who you are now" she said gently, her voice steady "I just… I just want to be here with you"

Her words stuck something deep within you, cutting through your uncertainty. for a moment, you were overwhelmed by how much this woman. this stranger who somehow felt like home. Had given herself to find you again.

"Vi…" you murmured, your voice trailing off as her eyes locked with yours. The space between you seemed to shrink, the weight of everything unsaid hanging heavy in the air.

slowly, tentatively, you leaned toward her, your heart pounding in your chest. She met you halfway, her lips warm and soft against yours. Her kiss was gentle yet filled with a quiet desperation, as though she had been holding back for years, waiting for this moment.

It wasn't just a kiss. It was a connection. A fragile bridge between the fractured pieces of your past and the uncertain promise of your future.

When you pulled back, your foreheads rested together, your breaths mingling as you both tried to steady yourselves. Vi smiled, her voice soft and teasing, though her eyes glistened with emotion "I've waited a long time for that, you know"

you couldn't help but smile back, a warmth blooming in your chest that chased away the lingering doubts "I think… maybe I've been waiting too. I just don't realize it"

in that moment, the weight of the past seemed lighter. What mattered wasn't what had been lost but the connection you were building now. one step, one moment at a time, together.

✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪

Hope you enjoyed reading :] don't forget to like.

I'm still working on some requests that should be out soon enough, if you want you can leave a request.

[phantomwithbreakfast]

~ Scarred For Half A Life ~

DP Phan Fic.

[“You want to see a danger? You should see me in a crown.”]

So uh—this is a scene I have in mind for my story. Because of the song, yes!

I mean, I already wrote it down, to add later on into the story! And I was really enthusiastic about it, so I drew Danny with a crown. An ugly crown (because it’s made out of paper). [sketch lurking at the bottom]

If you want you can read and follow it! But—BEWARE!

———————

Genre: Angst / Hurt And Comfort (and a little Horror)

AU — OOC

Trigger Warning: Emotional Distress — Violence — Graphic Content

Rating: M

———————

Summary:

Danny had been captured by the GiW once again, or so he thinks. Leaving him feeling utterly helpless—vulnerable. There was nothing he could do. What will happen to him? And why again? (Summary might change as the story goes on)

———————

So, this is a piece of that potential chapter:

“Wait! Don’t move. I want to take a picture!” Jazz exclaimed, her voice brimming with excitement as she reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone.

Danny groaned, rolling his eyes. “Seriously? A picture? What are you, my dad?”

Jazz ignored his protest, already angling the camera toward him. “Come on, Danny, it’s your birthday. Let me have this.”

He sighed, slouching slightly. “Fine, but make it quick. And don’t expect me to smile like an idiot.”

Jazz smirked. “Oh, don’t worry. You’re already an idiot. The crown just completes the look.”

Danny couldn’t help the small grin tugging at his lips as she snapped the photo, capturing him sitting there with the gold paper crown tilted slightly on his head, a mixture of amusement and irritation in his glowing green eyes.

“There,” Jazz said triumphantly, glancing at the picture on her phone. “Perfect. I’m definitely keeping this one.”

———————

And a piece of the scene with the song in my head that plays in the background:

“Phantom,” she said icily, her voice like a blade. “You’re not my son. You’re a danger. I was merciful letting you stay this long.”

That was it. That was the final crack that shattered the fragile restraint Danny had been holding onto. His aura flared violently, glowing with an intense, cold light that filled the room, making the shadows dance erratically on the walls.

“You wanna see a danger?” Danny growled, his voice dropping into something almost inhuman, vibrating with power as his feet lifted off the ground. His white hair swirled beneath the gold paper crown, caught in an invisible wind as the room seemed to grow colder by the second.

Danny’s arms hung by his sides, his fists clenching tightly. A brilliant green energy began to materialize, steam curling off his fingers like fire, licking up his forearms in tendrils of raw power.

“You should see me in a crown.”

A burst of cold ectoplasmic energy erupted from Danny’s palms, shooting straight toward Maddie with icy precision. She dove to the side, flipping the table over in one swift motion to shield herself. Plates shattered, the pancakes splattered across the walls, and the dining room filled with a deafening roar of energy.

———————

As for my own commentary about my DP drawing…

I hate drawing hands, and I don’t like to draw shoes. Maybe because I just can’t!! I’m not good at drawing mouths either, or I was just having a bad day at drawing. And we are definitely not going to talk about the nose. I have zero idea what went wrong with coloring/painting, and I couldn’t fix it at that moment. Maybe I was hurrying it, don’t care. I wanted it out of my head! And I really wanted to share this, because I like it for once, something of my own. As for the style, still searching my own, trying things out, so at the moment, I have no idea what I’m doing. Might redo it later.

[topzsun]

THIS IS A HAPPY HOUSE

── ♡ RUGGIE BUCCHI

loving you is fighting.

“Well, aren’t you lookin’ gorgeous?” The compliment is paired with a kiss to your cheek, and you swat Ruggie’s arm lightly while laughing, jesting him that all he’ll be getting on his mouth is sunscreen from the amount you lathered onto your skin. His arms snake around your waist, pulling you against him as he takes a moment to fully admire you in front of the full-length mirror. For now, it all felt peaceful and you truly believed you were going to enjoy this rare holiday with him.

You both have breakfast in the hotel, and the inevitable downslide happens and you were right to believe in the stone lodged in your throat.

You fiddle with your fork nervously as Ruggie carefully reaches for the tupperwares tucked away in his gym duffle bag. You don’t begin to point out how it goes against the strict rules of the hotel. He knows. He doesn’t care. Your eyes shift nervously across the room, a habitual instinct of searching to make sure no employees are making rounds across the hall. A few passing guests, carrying plates with greens and freshly cut fruit, give judgemental glances as they pass your table but do not intervene outside of that. You can feel your face burn.

“Ruggie, you can’t take any of this home,” You whisper to him, trying to keep your tone level so he doesn’t pick up on the frustration that is coursing through your being. “Why are you packing so much?”

He lifts his head from where he had been dumping a plate full of noodles into one of the plastic containers and only raises a brow as if the answer were obvious.

“It’s for us,” He says and elaborates when you don’t respond, “It’d be a waste if we paid this much just for breakfast. We’ll take ‘em back to our room and heat it in the microwave we got there. It’ll last us a couple of days easily.”

He gives you a grin that had once been so charming to you, back when you were a bright-eyed and overeager kid who was irrationally attracted to the excitement and trouble he brought along. Now, it’s only irritating you and his expression drops when he picks up on the slight twitch of your eye. Despite you not having said anything to chide him, his mood drops instantly along with his smile. His lips press into a thin line and his eyes narrow, a clear look of contained annoyance and disappointment that you have become familiar with over the past few months.

“What’s bothering you?” He asks, but you know it’s not out of any real concern. It’s an invitation to argue, because you know whatever answer you’ll give him, he’ll defend himself with his life. You huff, lowering your gaze back to your plate rather than looking at the glacial hue his eyes have become.

“Nothing. Do what you want,” Is all you mumble and neither of you look at each other even when you both arrive back to the room and you make a half-hearted excuse about wanting a nap. He leaves for the gym with nothing more than a grunt of acknowledgement and you bury your face into the plush pillow of the bed and cry yourself to sleep.

The sun has set by the time he’s back. You blearily lift your head, the corner of your eyes caked with sleep crust, and you make out his silhouette from the dark of the room. You drop your head back into the sheets. He passes by your bed and there is silence in place of his footsteps. You feel his lips press against your temple, a silent peace offering you have become accustomed to. Despite the almost-routine nature of it, your heart still flutters in your chest.

You still love Ruggie Bucchi, even when you both eat out of tupperwares for dinner.

You admire the gold interior of the lounge with wide eyes, forgoing your initial intentions of not seeming like an overexcitable tourist. The high-rise ceilings, the luxury carpet underneath your feet and the enchanting chandelier muddle your senses together, a pleasant blur, and for these sparing minutes, you imagine a life where this type of luxury is familiar to you.

You scold yourself immediately.

There is a call of your name from a hauntingly familiar voice that did not belong to Ruggie and you whip around in surprise. Riddle Rosehearts, now older from his teenhood but easily recognisable, stands in the middle of the foyer with wide eyes. You can’t stop the grin that spreads across your lips at the sight of the redhead. While you both haven't seen each other since graduation, you did become good friends as a result of your near-constant presence in Heartslabyul thanks to Ace and Deuce. There is no better bonding than constant exposure, and that held true for you and Riddle.

You bound over to him and he makes the short walk to meet you halfway, a polite but genuine smile gracing his features.

“It’s great to see you,” He greets you and you mimic him with more enthusiasm. “I never expected to run into you like this. How are you?”

You fill him in on the events that happened since you’ve last seen each other, leaving out certain details. You tell him how you have moved into a new apartment (it’s a one-bedroom with a leaky faucet and peeling floorboards), how your relationship with Ruggie is going strong (you both argued just this morning), and that you have been doing great at work (you lost your chance at a promotion after months of overtime).

“I’m glad to see you are doing well for yourself,” He tells you and you can feel his sincerity from just how pleased he looks. Riddle had always wanted others to be at their best, including you, and your heart swelled at the approval in his eyes. You try to ignore the ball and chain on your ankles in the form of your bold-faced lies.

“Are you vacationing as well?” You ask him and he nods.

“Yes, with my wife. We were planning on having lunch at a bistro nearby,” He explains and you gasp excitedly, almost startling him.

“You’re married?” You ask him excitedly, wide-eyed and beaming and his face turns a flustered shade of pink.

“Yes,” He says and his tone is laced with unbridled affection as he speaks. “It’s going to be our anniversary soon and she had always wanted to travel around the Shaftlands.”

You can hear the simpering timbre in his voice and your chest squeezes, eyes intuitively falling on the gold band decorating his ring finger. Riddle is no longer the short-fused boy who used to tutor your trio of friends or save you a seat during tea parties. He is a married man in love, wearing expensive clothes and a happy wife he is travelling around the country with. Your ring finger remains bare and he is tactful enough not to comment on it. His phone buzzes suddenly, breaking you out of your stupor and he looks at the screen, a twinkle in his eyes.

“I should get going, she’s waiting outside,” He bids you goodbye hurriedly and you urge him to go as quickly as he can, watching his back disappearing behind the glass revolving doors. You don’t know when and if you’ll see him again, and for some reason it makes your heart sink.

“What the hell,” There is a grumble beside you and you jolt, whirling around to find Ruggie, phone in hand as he runs a hand through his hair. He looks at you suspiciously when your surprise seeps into your expression.

“What’s up with you? You look like you’ve seen a gh—are you crying?” For the first time in what seemed like months, you can hear the fret in Ruggie’s voice as he looks over you carefully and your head swims at the realisation that it’s been so long since you felt like he’s paying attention towards you. Not about the rent, not about food expenses, not about the bills. There is only you now.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” You blink away whatever tears threatened the corner of your eyes, plastering on a weak smile. He doesn’t look convinced but doesn’t push the subject anymore, fixing his gaze back to his phone.

“Okay… well, taxi fares cost an arm and a leg here. It’s better if we walk to the aquarium,” You stare at him incredulously, your brief moment of nostalgia and yearning to dissipate under a familiar spike of anger.

“Walk there? For over an hour? In this heat?” You stress between every pause and his face sours, a scowl on his lips and eyebrows pursing together.

“What do you want me to do? I’m not blowing all my money away on a single fare,” He scoffs. Your bottom lip trembles, something unkind sitting on the tip of your tongue that takes all your might to swallow away. You turn away from him.

“Fine, whatever.”

By the time you reach the aquarium, your clothes stick to your skin and your legs threaten to give out under you. The colourful fishes no longer held any appeal to you, because all you can think about while walking with your disgruntled boyfriend is how Riddle and his wife would be at a fancy bistro right now, enjoying lunch together with matching smiles, their rings glittering under the sun.

“Are you ever going to marry me?” You ask on the sullen walk back to the hotel, your gaze fixed on the twinkling stars. From the corner of your eyes, you can see Ruggie eyeing you as if you had just told him the sky is green.

“Huh?” He stammers out, and maybe his nervousness at the subject would have been cute if the both of you were still teenagers. Now, in your late twenties, all it does is make you sick to your stomach. “Why are you bringing it up now?”

“No reason,” You mumble, so quiet it could have disappeared with the passing breeze. There is a brief silence that goes uninterrupted by the chirping of the cicadas and the crunching of gravel under your shoes. Then, you feel a tug on your arm. You turn to look at Ruggie.

“I know you wanna get married. Trust me, I wanna put a ring on your finger as well,” He speaks softly, and you falter at the affection in his eyes as he gazes at you. However, his voice then takes a firm turn. “But it’s expensive and we just don’t have that kinda money right now. We don’t need to be married to belong to each other.”

“Will we ever have the money?” You snap, unable to stop the words before they leave your lips. You regret it when a look of hurt crosses over his expression, his ears flattening all the while. He turns away first as if he couldn’t stand to look at you, and you wish there was a river nearby that you could toss yourself into.

He sleeps on the couch that night.

The next day passes by in a blur. Your itinerary packed with activities goes down the drain in lieu of the argument, and Ruggie disappears before you wake up with a single text letting you know he’ll be back before midnight. You eat from the tupperware tucked away in the fridge, despite how even looking at it incites the kind of anger that makes you want to break anything within your line of sight.

You decide to treat yourself to a cup of coffee from the cafe downstairs, in hopes that it may help soothe the misery, regret and rage bubbling in the pits of your stomach.

Despite your initial assumption that you would likely not be seeing Riddle again, it’s a stroke of luck when you run into each other on the way to pick up your order. This time, however, he’s not alone.

In contrast to him, his wife is more friendly and outgoing but with an unmistakable air of elegance to her that came naturally to someone of a higher class. All he had to do was introduce you as an old schoolmate, and suddenly she had invited you to sit at their table and request you to recite stories of her husband as a teenager.

“He’s so tight-lipped sometimes,” She teases and he calls her name in warning but he doesn’t sound annoyed in the least, proving another change from his youth. You entertain her with whatever memory you can recall, such as your first-ever impression of him when he had collared Ace for eating a tart in the fridge, or how he put oyster sauce in his apology dessert. By the time you are finished, she is giggling while Riddle has resorted to giving you a flat stare, but the bell of his wife’s laughter dissipates any negative feelings.

Not for the first time, your stomach coils and suddenly all you can see is Ruggie’s toothy grin before the scene melts away to hardened, narrowed glares and the tight pull of his lips. Did his mild vexations use to fade away at the sound of your laughter, instead of starting up another round of arguments?

No, it’s unfair to an eighteen-year-old Ruggie for you to even ponder this question. There was a time when you would misspeak or clumsily drop something and break it. Instead of meeting you with ire, he would lazily toss the weight of his body behind you, his arms wrapping securely around you as he swayed you around. Back then, you felt like you had everything without needing anything material.

You missed it when Ruggie’s slouch and tired eyes were replaced with his easygoing disposition and cunning charm. Back then, being with Ruggie was exciting. You should be disgusted, ashamed even, for thinking this way of your boyfriend of almost ten years.

Yet, you feel nothing. Your own apathy scares you.

“Are you alright?” Riddle’s wife is the first to notice your disconnect, her soothing voice interrupting your depressive train of thought. Her manicured hand rests on your shoulder, concern apparent in her eyes and you feel bile rise to your throat, which you weakly swallow down.

“I’m fine,” A practised lie, almost a catchphrase to you at this point, and the couple believe you without any hesitance. You come up with an impromptu excuse that you need to meet with Ruggie, and excuse yourself from the table with polite farewells. You dare not to glance back.

“Where were you?” Ruggie asks, scaring you when you unlock the door to the room. You shift uncomfortably on your feet, faltering at your reply despite the fact you know he’s only being conversational, nothing confronting in the way he has his feet kicked up as he scrolls through channels. Yet, another lie escapes your lips.

“I went for a walk to stretch my legs,” You drop your bag onto the table, tactfully keeping your back towards him. You hear him hum at your response.

“That’s nice—” He breaks into a yawn, and flops to his side. He pats the spot next to him on the bed, and you only stare at him. “Man, I’m beat. C’mere, lay next to me.”

When his invite is met with silence, he repeats your name curiously.

“Um, sure…” You make your way over to him, carefully sitting on the edge of the bed. It’s enough for him to reach over, snaking an arm around your waist and pulling you down to rest beside him, inciting a yelp from you. “What’s the occasion?”

“I need a reason to take a nap with the love of my life now?” He questions teasingly and your heart drops. He notices your frozen expression, his hand letting go of your waist so he props himself above you with an arm. He looks down at you, downturned eyes scrutinising and concerned.

“Hey, what’s up? You’ve been acting… different lately,” He speaks gently, carefully cupping your cheek. His hand is warm, and yet it’s not enough. You are still cold. You are still cold. It’s enough to finally spring tears in your eyes, and suddenly all you can feel is Ruggie. Calloused fingers brush against your skin, wiping at the tears rolling down the apples of your cheeks. He mutters hushed reassurances, that you’re going to be okay and that he’ll love you no matter what.

Yet, you cannot echo those words back at him, even when you have calmed down and he has dozed off with you in his arms. He was yours, unequivocally and whole. You were not his.

[insidekatmind]

Between Two Brothers~Jobe Bellingham and Jude Bellingham (love triangle)

The situation had started almost by chance, as often happens with things that later become complicated. You had met Jobe first, at an event where some mutual friends had invited you. He was charming, charismatic, with that slightly shy but captivating smile that seemed to promise laughter and adventures. By the end of the evening, you had exchanged numbers, and a few days later, he invited you out.

Your evening with Jobe had been perfect: a quiet dinner, strolling under the city lights, and, at the end, a sweet and gentle kiss. You liked Jobe, truly. But then, something unexpected happened.

Just a few days later, at another social gathering, you met Jude. Older, more self-assured, with an entirely different energy than his younger brother. Jude had a magnetic aura, and it didn’t take long before he, too, asked you out. You hadn’t found the courage to say no, perhaps out of curiosity, perhaps because you hadn’t yet realized how complicated things would get.

With Jude, the atmosphere was entirely different. There was nothing sweet or delicate about your time together: your date was full of sparks, passionate conversations, and intense, lingering gazes. When you kissed, the chemistry was undeniable.

You didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t your intention to create a conflict between them, but the truth wouldn’t stay hidden for long. And indeed, the day after your date with Jude, the two brothers found themselves alone at home, and the tension was palpable.

“So, explain this to me,” Jobe said, crossing his arms and glaring at Jude accusingly.

“What’s there to explain?” Jude replied, seemingly calm, but with a hint of irritation in his voice.

“Don’t play dumb. You know exactly what I’m talking about. You went out with her, didn’t you?”

Jude sank onto the couch, leaning his head back. “And what if I did? You went out with her too. It’s not like you own her, Jobe.”

“This isn’t about ‘owning’ anyone!” Jobe raised his voice, his fists clenched at his sides. “But you knew I liked her. I told you about her!”

Jude stood up, facing his brother directly. “And? Was I supposed to step aside just because you decided she’s ‘yours’? That’s not how it works, Jobe. She’s free to choose.”

“Oh, really? And you think kissing her made things easier for her?”

At that, Jude fell silent for a moment. He ran a hand through his hair, visibly frustrated. “Look, I don’t want to fight with you over a girl. But I can’t ignore how I feel.”

“Oh, because you think it’s any different for me?” Jobe shot back. “I can’t believe you did this. You betrayed me, Jude.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Jobe turned away, heading toward the window. Jude stayed where he was, staring at the floor. Eventually, Jude broke the silence.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, okay? I didn’t do it to… to steal something from you. But when I’m with her… it’s like nothing else matters. I can’t just pretend.”

Jobe turned slowly. “And you think it’s any different for me? Jude, you’re my brother. You’re the person I’ve always trusted. And now, this…”

Jude sighed, the weight of his emotions evident in his eyes. “Maybe we should talk to her. Let her decide. I don’t want this to ruin us.”

Jobe looked at him, the pain and anger still present, but a flicker of understanding beginning to show. “Maybe you’re right. But don’t think I’ll give up without a fight.”

Jude offered a faint, sad smile. “Neither will I.”

---

The situation was far from resolved, and you knew it. That evening, when you received two separate messages—one from Jobe and one from Jude—you realized that you could no longer avoid addressing the issue. You had to make a choice. But which brother would win your heart?

[fairiesthrum]

Can I be 🧚‍♀️ anon if it's not taken pls!! And ok... what are your thoughts on cult leader Geto? 🫣🫣

🎀 — OFC U CAN BE FAIRY ANON AHAKSJAUSJ

and abt cult leader geto hmmmm (incoming yap session y’all)

ngl, i expect his wife to absolutely HATE his guts. like i’m talking melania trump core (i made a small post abt this before).

i can just imagine some young woman from a powerful clan being forced to marry some weirdo obsessed with monkeys (cuz yes, you genuinely didn’t know what he was talking abt when he said monkeys and thought he was insane in the beginning. well... you still think he’s crazy).

i would describe suguru’s wife to be the “nonchalant” kind, very elegant, just cares abt that bag and living a good life. you have no interest in sexual relations with him at first (though he was super hot and that’s what pushed you to agree to the marriage in the first place), and neither does he (the both of you actually sleep in separate rooms). suguru only married you to gain support and followers. so all you had to do was make appearances beside him, sit pretty, act like everything was fine, and spend the rest of your life not having to lift a finger whilst gawking at your husband’s dashing looks. easy enough, right?

wrong. you actually end up learning he’s a cult leader through these strange meetings (yeah, your parents totally forgot to fill you in abt that part).

it sets you off (like fr mom and dad? a cult leader??) and you become irritated with him and everything he does more and more as the days pass. you start acting like an entirely different person, smacking his hand away when he tries to hold it in public, opting to clutch onto your designer purse instead. and geto just stands there with a close-eyed smile, laughing it off.

you couldn’t even stand to look at him. you married a psycho obsessed with killing non-sorcerers. but what could you do? your parents practically sold you to him! so the smartest thing you could think of in terms of fighting back was to not listen to a word he says. and it gets really awkward for the people around you both when you’re constantly acting like a bitch and geto sits there with a tight smile, everyone else in the room sharing concerned and nervous glances.

nowadays, all you ever really did was grovel abt your terrible life while wearing your designer clothes and wiping your tears with the designer handkerchief that you pull out of your designer handbag #richpplproblems

but suguru brushes off your behavior all the time, assuming you were having trouble adjusting even though it’s been two months and you used to act pretty normal in the beginning of your marriage. maybe it was a lot to process? so, he doesn’t do anything abt your attitude… until you really embarrass him.

it ends up with him dragging you into his bedroom, away from prying eyes, seething and red-faced. it was completely unlike your usually calm and collected husband, and it made you smug that you finally got a reaction out of him. and it pacified something inside of you, a part that was desperate for revenge due to being stuck in this god awful marriage.

geto, being the ever so observant person he was notices the change in your eyes, resulting in a back and forth between you two consisting of yelling and screaming. until, he finally slams his lips onto yours, shutting you up.

clothes are ripped off and then the next thing you know, both of you are fucking on your marriage bed for the first time, gasping out between moans abt how much you can’t stand each other.

the rest of that night was spent hate-fucking, then acting normal and back to snide remarks the next day. until it happens again… and again… and again.

only because both of you are scared to admit you enjoy the steamy sex and the fact you’ve started having feelings for each other since you’re both stubborn. so, the two of you just find an excuse to fuck all the time by getting on each other’s nerves.

anyways, that’s my take on cult leader geto ₓₓ

[pascalispretty]

mirage on sand

Joel Miller x F! Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 1.8k

Tags: age gap like woah, 1970s AU, Rockstar Joel, drinking while driving (it's the 70s, standards are different), fingering, oral sex, car sex, daddy kink

Summary: You and Joel entertain yourselves as you drive through the desert to his next concert.

A/N: written for @iamasaddie's 24 hour writing challenge! This was such a good idea and desperately needed to help me get over my writer's block. I was listening to the Daisy Jones and the Six soundtrack, so I blame that for what happened here. Title from Let Me Down Easy by Daisy Jones and the Six. (ao3).

The gas station attendant watches you unabashedly as you lean down to scoop up a copy of Texas Tattle. He’s been staring at you since you came in really, his eyes roaming freely over your bare legs as you wandered down the aisles of the little gas station store. You don’t mind the looking. Men look at you all the time; they have done for years.

You drop the magazine onto the counter, along with a six pack of Coors and two packs of cigarettes. No menthols, you note with irritation, though you shouldn’t have expected much choice in such a tiny store. The cashier smirks at you as he rings you up. His eyes dip down to where your breasts press against the fabric of your dress, the bodice just slightly too small for you.

“You find everything you needed, ma’am?” He asks, packing your purchases with exaggerated care into a paper bag.

“Yeah, thanks.”

“You’re not from around here are you? Reckon I’d remember seein’ a girl as pretty as you around,” he says with a wink. “You here on a trip with your dad?” The poor attempt at flirting makes you wince. You’re even a little annoyed on Joel’s behalf that the attendant hasn’t recognised him, though you suppose he’d have to take his eyes off your tits for more than a second to realise he has a rockstar roaming his forecourt.

“Something like that,” you say noncommittally. You hand him the bills Joel had given you before you came inside. “That should cover the gas too. Keep the change.” You grab the paper bag, eager to leave, to set off with Joel again.

Joel’s already back in the car when you step outside. The heels of your boots click on the asphalt as you cross to the car and open the passenger door.

“You get everything you wanted?” Joel asks, looking at you over the top of his sunglasses. He looks so handsome, the teal of his shirt a gorgeous contrast to the golden tan he’s sporting after weeks of Texas summer.

“And more,” you tell him, shoving the paper bag into the footwell. Before you get into the car, you bring one leg up to take off your boots. Joel had insisted that you should get a pair of real cowboy boots if you were gonna stay in Texas with him. That had been fine in Austin, but once you’d hit desert your feet had gotten way too hot.

With everything stowed in the footwell, there’s just you left to get back in the car. Rather than sitting down in the passenger seat, you crawl over it and straight into Joel’s lap.

“The cashier asked me if I was on a trip with my daddy,” you giggle as you straddle Joel’s hips. Your pretty white sundress rucks up at the top of your thighs and Joel’s hands push the hem higher as his hands slide up to cup your ass over the fabric. The passenger door is still hanging open; you know perfectly well the cashier has a perfect view into the car right now.

“I hope you told him yes.” Joel kisses you then, his stubble scraping your skin as he pushes his tongue into your mouth. It’s messy and desperate and entirely deliberate in showing the cashier exactly who you belong to. He doesn’t let you linger long on his lap; he has a concert tomorrow, and he’s supposed to be in El Paso by tonight.

You’re settled back in your own seat when the car pulls away, the desert opening back up before you like a vast orange ocean, only bisected by the ribbon of asphalt. You try bickering with Joel over control of the radio, but you’re fighting a losing battle. You content yourself with the way his hand feels resting on your thigh, his large palm warm against your skin.

Instead, you amuse yourself by pulling the magazine out of the bag by your feet.

“Whatcha got there?” Joel asks, his thumb tracing idle circles on your thigh.  

“Saw you were mentioned on the cover and got curious.” You start flipping through pages to find whatever they’ve said about him, pausing on some salacious story about the Governor’s wife and a bodyguard.

“If you’re gonna read that trash, you can make yourself useful and open a beer up for me.” You’re reluctant to lose his hand on your leg, but reluctantly you do as you’re told. You hand him a beer, admiring the flex of his forearm as he brings it up to take a sip.

The two of you drive in companionable silence for a while, the desert flying by in a faded golden blur and Fleetwood Mac playing on the radio. You find the article about Joel in the magazine and read him the highlights.

“Apparently half the country is brokenhearted you’ve taken up with some young hussy,” you tease. He chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“That so?” He puts the now-empty can back in the paper bag and, blessedly, puts his hand back on your thigh. “I don’t think they’re allowed to use words like that, baby.”

“It’s heavily implied. This gossip columnist says it’s like watching a Triple Crown Winner try and enter the Derby with a filly.”

“I got no complaints about the ride.” Joel’s hand slides a little higher up your leg, just beneath the hem of your dress. You let your legs fall open a little. It’s pathetic, really, how easily you respond to Joel. Sometimes he’ll just look at you right and set you to squirming.

“And I’m much more fun to whip.” That gets another chuckle out of Joel, another slide of his hand up your thigh. He’s so close to where you want him that you want to whine, or to beg, or to shimmy your hips down to meet his fingers.

“That you are, baby,” he says fondly, squeezing your thigh. “You gonna tell me what the whole thing said? Apart from callin’ you my pretty little filly.”

“Oh, they started with talking about the new album. How well it’s doing, the guitar auction, who you wrote ‘Please Hold to My Hand’ abou-” You cut yourself off abruptly as Joel’s pinkie finger finally brushes against your cunt.

“Are you not wearin’ panties?” He asks. You turn to look at him with a contrite look on your face.

“Oops. Must’ve forgot,” you say, faux-innocence seeping into your words like syrup. Joel rotates his hand and grunts when he feels just how wet you are.

“Bad girl. When you were crawling around on the seats before, do you think you flashed that teenager a glimpse of this pretty little pussy? Really give him something to think about?” He slides two fingers into you in one smooth motion. The swiftness of it makes you gasp, his thick digits a stretch even though you’d literally woken up to him pressing his cock inside you this morning.

You don’t ever want to get used to Joel. You like that it feels like a challenge every time, Joel pushing against your limits because he knows them better than you know them yourself. Your walls flutter around the intrusion of his fingers, the ache quickly outweighed by pleasure.

“You happy now, baby? Did I ride my pretty filly too hard this morning and put her away wet?” His tone is condescending, but somehow that only makes you wetter.  

Your hands clutch at the gauzy white fabric of your dress as he slowly fucks you with his fingers.

Joel steals glances at you when he can; the road is empty, but he mustn’t want to risk taking his eyes off it completely in case he drives you into a ditch.

It’s hard to sit still, your back arching away from the leather seat as his fingertips bump up against that spot inside you, that secret hidden place he’d found. Your own fingers were too small to reach it; it had been further proof of how Joel just knew you, on the inside as much as the outside.

“Oh daddy,” you moan, clutching your dress so tightly you’re worried it might tear. “Feels so fucking good.”

“I know, baby. You know I only work you hard because you need it, don’t you? Little fillies like you need a firm hand.”

Your hips arch up in presentation, sweat beading on your skin in the too-hot car. It’s the middle of a heatwave and you’re in the desert, you didn’t think it was possible to feel any hotter. And yet Joel does, sending so much heat pouring through your veins you think you might combust.

“Joel,” you pant in between moans. “Daddy, am I allowed to come?”

“You’re allowed to come, baby,” he says magnanimously. “As long as you show me how grateful you are by puttin’ that pretty mouth of yours to work. Been too long since I fucked your throat.”

“Blew you last night,” you remind him, with a flash of indignation. You’d both been drunk, but surely you hadn’t been so forgettable as that.

“Exactly, baby, it’s been hours. I nearly put you on your knees back at the gas station,” he tells you, as nonchalantly as if he’s talking about the weather. You nearly choke on your own tongue at the mental image, and Joel takes that as his cue to work his fingers faster.

“Oh Joel, please,” you whine. Between the tension building in your body and the oppressive heat, you feel like you can barely even breathe anymore. You throw your head back against the headrest, mouth opening in a silent scream.

Your orgasm crashes over you abruptly, all that tension letting to at once until the pleasure of release reaches all the way down to your toes.

A sharp sound of dismay wrenches its way from your throat when Joel removes his fingers from your cunt. Without turning to look at you, he absently wipes his hand on his jeans.

“Good girl. You gonna keep being good for me?” He’s already hard, his cock straining against his tight jeans. You watch, a little mesmerised, as he undoes his belt one-handed.

“I’m always a good girl,” you protest, leaning over to unfasten his jeans. He’s not wearing underwear either, making it easy work to get his cock out. You wrap your fingers around the base, enjoying the weight of it against your palm.

“Careful now, baby. Lie to me and I’ll tan your hide.” Joel says, voice low. You shift in your seat, finding the least uncomfortable way to lean down into Joel’s lap. “Were you bein’ a good girl when you flashed your pussy at that boy?”

“….no,” you admit reluctantly. “Sorry.” Joel’s free hand finds a fistful of your hair.

“Yeah, you’re gonna be sorry, baby. Next time I catch you misbehavin’ like that, it’ll take more than a blowjob to make it up to me.” He says it fondly, even as he pushes your head down. It’s all you can do to open your mouth, the first few inches of him heavy against your tongue.

“I want it messy. Be a good girl an’ get to it.”

Taglist:

@avengersfan25 @misscharlielulu @apenny4thots @its-nebuleuse @totallynotastanacc

[letteredlettered]

Related to your last post: For me tumblr would work better as a community site if there was a function that would hide reblogs of the same posts. I get overwhelmed if I follow more than ten people in the same fandom because of the repeating posts. With work and everything else, I don't have the hours to find the original things people are saying. Reddit works better sometimes except the subreddits often have very surface level discussions with high amount of newcomers asking the same questions and the topics are quite limited. Maybe I should just try if there is life on Dreamwidth :P

This ask is a response to this post I made about feedback to fic and fandom community.

Anon, I agree 100% regarding the difficulties of tumblr for discussion that builds community. If you're following this discussion, than you may have already seen these follow-ups:

@eleadore added their thoughts about preserving reader spaces in a reblog here

@yiiiiiiiikes25 added thoughts similar to yours re tumblr's poor functionality as a community space here

@thehoneybeet added to the post that sparked my post here, about how to foster the kind of community we're all saying we want.

I'm linking these posts because I want to call attention to them; I think they're great. But I'm linking them in response to you specifically because yes there are multiple vectors to this problem--the web enshittification I described in my post, the splintering of fandom after the death of livejournal, and the difficulty of tumblr as a venue.

But it's that last, the difficulty of tumblr as a venue, that means that even like-minded people who want the community we're discussing can't really have it. Some went to, and are still on, dreamwidth. Frankly, I still find myself deeply irritated that fandom didn't move there, that it accepted AO3 and not DW. But I think a large factor in that particular exodus actually has to do with the fact that AO3 is closer to the direction the enshittified web went than DW ever could be. AO3 has a "like" button and is not built for deep, meaningful interaction. Again, this is because it was meant to be a limb of the fandom community, not replace community entirely. I'm not claiming that AO3 is enshittified but rather that it bears more similarity to current social media sites because it's only one part of a community that was at the time, thriving (yes, in spite of strikethrough and everything that was happening on LJ at the time).

In my opinion, tumblr straddles the divide between that old style of community website and the new one. Like livejournal and DW, you can view tumblr chronologically, without an algorithm feeding you content. You can remain anonymous, and everyone can see anything you post. But like other more modern social media sites, you can reblog and like, which you couldn't do on LJ and DW. The fact that tumblr is sort of both--and that it wasn't sold to the Russians and torn apart, like LJ--is why fandom fled here and why scattered pieces of it remain here, despite so many others moving on.

One thing I wanted to talk about in my original post, but couldn't find a place for, was how so much of the "community" aspects of fandom are now private. I think that's happened partly because tumblr isn't a great place to hold a conversation, so the conversation quickly gets moved elsewhere--but instead of somewhere where everyone is still welcome (ahem, like Dreamwidth), it gets moved to private spaces. Or the conversation never starts and exists only in the kinds of spaces meant for such things.

@thehoneybeet makes great points about this in the post I linked above. They mention "the invite-only server, the private ao3 challenge, groups and experiences that you need to be in-the-know about to even begin to participate in. that, essentially, require an invitation."

@eleadore mentions it at the beginning of their reblog (also linked above), saying, "i feel discussions of this nature have been severely crippled over the yrs, and people prefer to take to private group chats and such instead of engaging [...]" But they go on to mention "private discord book club servers."

To be clear, I'm 100% with @eleadore about the necessity for spaces for readers, and also 100% with them at the idea that there can be spaces authors don't have to touch. Writers don't "deserve" to hear every single thing anyone's ever said about their fic, positive or negative. Earlier this year I in fact made an impassioned post about the fact that I believe that bookmarks are for readers, not writers, and that making them a space purely for an author's comfort limits the functionality of bookmarks for readers, both in terms of finding fic but also in terms of finding friends.

So, yes, I agree that it's okay to have private discord book club servers. But the mention of discord did make me do a double-take, because in my opinion, discord is a huge part of what I perceive as the problem. You can't find a discord for your chosen fandom by searching discord. You have to have the link. Even if the discord isn't invite-only--which many of them are, you can usually only get the link by knowing someone.

There are all kinds of reasons for why discord is so private. Discords are run by mods, who feel responsible for what happens to people in spaces for which they are responsible. And mods who take a laissez-faire "everyone just do what they want" approach often have servers dominated by people who make the environment difficult, sometimes through racism, sometimes through bullying, sometimes by constantly bringing up traumatic or triggering content, sometimes just by making everything about them all the time. It's not like lj or even tumblr, where you can just unfollow. You're kind of stuck, unless you've got a mod who is policing vigorously, which is a huge job and impossible to do in ways that will make everyone happy. It's just easier if you don't have anyone and everyone wandering through.

I hate that. It makes me want to throw things. To me, fandom is about a space that's for anyone and everyone. You shouldn't have to know someone to get to have discussions about the thing you love. That's not why I'm here. In fact, in some ways I'm in fandom to get away from that kind of bullshit, so I don't have to construct some kind of social persona that is palatable enough to be accepted. I'm hear to talk about blorbos and read porn, maybe write a thing or two. A private discord book club made intentionally as a safe space for readers is a great use for discord. But discord as a place for fandom actually makes me feel a little ill.

I don't have a good suggestion of where fandom community should be built. To me, the best place is dreamwidth, and I think that after fifteen years, I really need to give up on the idea that enough people will move there (in this economy????) to really get the numbers you need to be able to find the people with whom you really click and connect. When tumblr tried to ban nudes, a lot of people talked up other possibilities--and some people went, to Mastadon, to pillowfort, even to twitter and IG. But those spaces all have their downsides, and none of them have the critical mass to be a real fandom home. As before, I have no conclusions about this. I just wanted to highlight some other aspects of this problem and describe some other food for thought.

[soniclozdplove]

@quitealotofsodapop you thank you for helping me so much with this au

Wukong is playing to good host to the Pilgrims, even whilst they seemingly continuously made asses of themselves. To be fair to them, their reaction to a television could have gone worse. The only casualty to that anomaly of technology and magic is a broken VR headset at least, and Wujing had been profusely apologetic since they got it into his head that the machine wasn't some demon trap. And they were trying very hard to be gracious guests! There was just one singular problem that kept getting on the way.

This is not the Pilgrims Wukong had known at the end of the Journey. Not the brave and selfless Tripitaka, not the loyal and true Ao Lie, not the steadfast Wujing, and maot definitely not the rough around the edges but still very kind Zu Baije. And it was clear to them that they felt much the same about Wukong, flinching st every move he made as if e expecting him to attack if given the chance, much like he would have done had he been given the chance early on in the journey. Wukong was happy to see his brother's again, but instead of the family he had found along the journey, he instead has the cowardly monk, selfish pig, meek dragon, and unenthusiastic water demon he had started the journey with. The ones who hated and feared him and he hated and feared in turn before time and many enemies along the way broke through each other's walls and forced them to bond together.

At the very least Ao Lie was enthusiastic to see him and excited about learning about how life has evolved from the Tang dynasty. He took one glance at the many photos around the house and clocked onto Mei as being his decendant immediately. He's been enthusiastically talking about baby dragons since and asking about every little thing in the picture. Wukong was happy to tell him of the little spitfire hatchling thay inherited his sword and how the world has changed their view on many things, proper behavior of men and women included. He even showed Ao Lie some of the outfits Mei and he picked out together in their last shopping trip, dresses and skirts included.

That's when Zu Baije put his foot in his mouth by commentating on the fact Wukong was cross dressing, putting Wukong in a terrible mood. After reaming Baije out on his sexist ideologies and how out of date they were even amongs Tang era demons, frightening Tripitaka into hiding under the couch cushions in the process, Wukong had stormed out to where MK had been cleaning up a bit, havinf insisted on doing that to give Wukong time with his old friends, fur puffed irritably.

"Oh, that's not a good sign." MK paused from scrubbing the wall he was cleaning to comment the moment he saw Wukong's tail lashing about like a snake, "What happened?"

"I didn't hit any of them, if that's what your asking about." Wukong grumbled, grabbing a spare bristle brush and stepping up next to MK to help, "Just... forgot how people in the Tang dynasty viewed... certain types of dress."

"They found the dresses?"

"Yup."

"Baije make fun of you?"

"How'd you know it was Baije?" Wukong quirked a brow at his apprentice, fairly certain he'd never told him anything about the Pilgrims for him to come to that conclusion. MK gave him an awkward grin in return.

"I maaay have started reading the book. At least some of it. Macaque was bugging me about it."

"I see." Wukong frowned at that, because if MK had gotten far enough into the book that he'd know Baije was an asshole, then he probably knows about all the things Wukong had done at his worst. It makes him worry about what impression thay made on his young apprentice.

[alextydaisuda123]

So I decided to just sketch, why, I don't know. But then I was hit by a wave of Weirdcore on YouTube, and I realized that I wanted to draw something about the theme of my AU Weirdcore Tower. It also coincided that I had a bad headache (I passed out for 4-5 hours). And one thought came to my mind. Diseases. Yes, again, well, sorry, I just like such topics, and I also had some thoughts on this matter. Well, it's no secret that in Weirdcore Tower there are not only strange and frightening locations, but also events related to the inhabitants of this tower themselves. One of such events is diseases. These four (PM, Vigi, Noise and Noisette) can get sick. They can get sick from anything and each one will have different symptoms and consequences. But everyone has the same pain.

Pepperman

If he gets sick, expect that he will start to hide his illness at first, because he is AFRAID of getting sick. His body will start to melt like a piece of butter, his body will start to heat up and to the touch he will also be as hot as a boiling kettle. Black liquid will flow from his eyes abundantly without stopping, and he can go completely blind. Also, his arms and legs will slightly look like tangled threads due to tension and pain.

Vigilante

If you thought that because of his "ghostly" nature he will get sick less, then no. He does not like to get sick. His symptoms are as follows. His body will seem heavier than before and everything will get to the point that he can simply fall to the floor and spread out like slime. He will not be able to get up and fly and he will simply stick to the floor. And he will also have a terrible smell, like a rotten body or a moldy product. At least he will not hide that he is ill, the smell will still give him away.

Noise

Who hates being sick even more is Noise. At this moment, he is overcome by unbearable pain. Every step, every touch and every movement will bring him pain, as if he is walking on knives or being pierced non-stop by thousands of needles. It hurts him even to stand or lie down, although he does nothing. It happened that Noise tried to endure the pain and try to prolong the show, but it was unbearable and brought even more torment.

Noisette

With this poor thing, the symptoms are no better. From her mouth and under the buttons, a black liquid begins to flow non-stop, from which she will not be able to say anything. It feels like everything inside her is trying to get out. This also spoils her taste buds and sense of smell (she will find everything she eats or smells disgusting, even her own food). As for smells, she will also be irritated by the smell of the environment, which no nose can sense. At some point, she will cough up her "bloody" filler, but this happens rarely, and if she does not strain herself too much to cough up the black liquid. There will also be stages of dizziness. Well, as I said, the consequences after the disease are also unpleasant: PM will remain blind after the disease (vision will return over time), and his body temperature will still be hot; Vigi will remain with an unpleasant temporary smell; Noise will continue to experience pain, but will resume movement; Noisette will be silent for some time and smell unpleasant odors. That's how it is, phew. And yes, if anyone has a question about whether Bruno and PH can get sick, then no. In general, they are not adapted to diseases.

[dustcrumbs]

Dear Dustcrumbs. with HorrorDust, what would happen if Dust goes to needles and harder doses of dugs?

I would like to know Horrors reaction if he found Dust passed out on the floor on the brink of death. And then seeing it happen again literally the week after that.

Horror would be more prone to outbursts towards the other members. If he even spots a sign of irritation or stress from Dust. Horror makes it his priority to keep him distracted and focused solely on him. Because he is trying everything to prevent Dust from feeling the need to take any substance.

Anytime Dust leaves Horrors sight, he picks at his skull and scratches at his eye socket. He's always so paranoid on where Dust is and what he's doing because he CANT trust him.

Horror quite literally begins to cling onto Dust like some pathetic puppy. Always whining in his ear and constantly pawing at his knees whenever they sit down (not literal, but ykw, I mean).

Whenever Dust is found on the ground, barely breathing. Horror always keeps his head over his chest, making sure his heart is beating and his lungs are pumping. He can't call Nightmare for help unless it's an emergency. Since Dust practically begged him not to call him unless he wasn't moving at all.

And as the good stupid dog he is. He obeys.

Dust always feels guilty for forcing Horror to stay with him and constantly tries to distance himself from him. But Horror continuously clings onto him and seeks affection or the need to care for Dust.

No matter how much times Dust screams at Horror and curses him out, Horror will be the first to apologize. And it just pisses Dust off, that Horror has little respect for himself. He hates how Horror let's him push him around.

But Horror can't really be mad at Dust. All Horror sees is just a pathetic sad man, and he can't get angry with someone he adores. He'd rarely lash out, and if he does. It's usually having breakdowns when he's with Nightmare or Killer.

Horror is just a mess, and he desperately wants to be loved the same way he did. But Dust is constantly on the brink of death or too focused on getting high than to sleep with Horror for one night.

They really go more into the

"I'll love you like a dog"

"So I'll treat you like one."

But ending on a good note!!!

Dust would always cuddle and nip at Horrors shoulder, affectionately, whenever Horror seemed upset.

And if Dust had ever seen that his drugs got Horror injured. Then he'd abruptly stop and ask Nightmare for restrictions on himself or help to stop.

Ex: Dust lashes out at Horror and quite literally begins choking him, till the very last breath. He snaps out of it after Horrors whimpers faded away and him clawing at Dusts arms had went still.

Dust would obviously check if Horrors alive before he clings onto the big man, desperately apologizing before calling for Nightmare. Then he'd beg for some solution and ask if he could be locked up away from Horror or smth

And Nightmare is like

"Woah, what if we jsut put you in therapy vro"

And dusy is like

"Please."

And boom!!

Him and Horror cuddle, drug free, nicotine free, alcohol free, trust.

They kiss and Horror no longer tastes the bitter taste of beer anymore

(Horrible summary but shh)

[zylian]

day 5 i think ,_,

anger/wounds: knights au

zam, a knight who doesn't lie, has lied to mapic, which wouldn't have been a big deal if it wasn't for him participating in a coliseum event, mapics event, his friends event he promised to not die in if he participated since it was extremely important to mapic

zam had lied about a very deep wound he had from a prior fight he got while training being fully healed which means he shouldn't have been allowed to enter the coliseum in the first place

mapic organized the event for long entertaining fights and a clear rule for fighters states that one must not have any serious wounds upon entering as it could lead to an accidental death while training and mapic did not want any quick fights which zam has heard him countlessly complain about avoiding at all costs

zam was so screwed, not just because he lied about his wound healing, he didn't want to let mapic down so he made the wound even worse by continuing to train for the event so now his unfortunate reality is that he has just respawned after dying in a fight in the event that literally started ten minutes ago

it was horrifying for him, not the fact that his wound reopened, which stays with him after death and would be ten times more painful to heal, but the fact that mapic probably put the pieces together on why he lost either from him lying to him by seeing the wound if he checks in on him in the recovery room or from how quick he lost

zam was spiraling so much, the poor help staff couldn't calm him down as he started to openly talk about mapic hating him forever for ruining his event, he explained everything to the one help staff who was trying to calm him down, 4C, who couldn't stop him from crying as he urged him to rest to not irritate the wound

unfortunately for zam, 4C was too late to calm him down and mapic who happened to walk in the recovery room 5 minutes ago had witnessed everything

due to zam blacking out, he doesn't remember what happened next but he's been put on strict watch unable to leave mapics sight and is receiving the silent treatment from him as mapic redirects his anger on anything and anyone except for him

zam is happy he's still breathing, though, he's slowly dreading the day his seriously life threatening wound heals cause despite being able to pick up a sword and train again, the anger that mapic has been using in training, which is making every knights life a living hell right now, hasn't lessened at all

despite mapic being kind to zam, his eyes don't lie and zam is well aware that as soon as he's healed, the second he's cleared to wield weapons again, he might have to endure another long painful healing process from obtaining another seriously deep wound and having one less life immediately after this recovery

[darklilacs]

in true ridley scott fashion: fuck history fuck canon. geta forgives caracalla and they cross over to the other side together :)

It happened quickly. Much faster than he had anticipated. Thousands of times, he had seen gladiators take their last breath to entertain their emperors and the crowd. They spat blood, their panicked eyes darting around in a desperate attempt to free themselves from bodies that, in their final moments, became inescapable cages. 

Back then, he had found it somewhat amusing. Seeing how, when the end was near, people behaved like desperate. Deep down, Caracalla had always thanked the gods that he would never stand in the arena. His pain would not be a spectacle. Even now, just after death, though a whirlwind of emotions tossed him around like a ship with no destination, he felt relief that he had gone quietly. Without applause or laughter. Just like that. Like an echo.

Caracalla woke up on a beach. The rough, gray sand should have irritated his skin, and left red marks. But his hands remained unchanged. He would have gladly scraped them down to the bone because, he still saw Geta’s gaze behind his eye every time he closed his eyeslids. His brother wasn’t angry with him—that was perhaps the worst part. Geta looked at him with terror, with concern, silently pleading for his brother to come back to him.

Snap out of it, brother. Calm down. Wake up!

Caracalla wasn’t the boy Geta had known his whole life at that moment. 

Caracalla saw red. Lightning in his head thundered loudly, preventing him from forming a coherent thought. The worst thought emerged from the chaos in his gut like a well-nurtured plant: Kill before you are killed.

Caracalla saw red when he was angry.

He saw red in his brother’s hair as the servants carried away his body. His laurel wreath fell to the ground with a clatter. Geta never liked taking off his jewelry. He would have been so angry if he had known...

Caracalla saw red on his own hands when he woke from his trance after the murder. When the ship of his thoughts quietly sailed past the rocks, and the storm subsided. For a long time, he tried to wash the blood off himself. But it kept coming back, as if Caracalla had been condemned after the murder to live as a statue that will always be covered in rust. The color of dried blood on the floor.

Caracalla couldn’t see blood as he rubbed his hands in the sand.

He wanted blood.

Isn’t it funny that he had shouted that just a few days ago, looking down at the arena? Wishing for a spill so vast it would create a sea. And he always got it. Now, he wasn’t worth even a drop.

He buried his face in his hands, breathing heavily. In the afterlife, oxygen was unnecessary, but out of habit, his chest rose and fell unevenly. Sweet air did not grace him with its presence. Having lived in abundance, he was now left with death and grayness. With storms and lightning. No red at all.

The sound of a boat docking on the shore suddenly caught his attention. Was it possible that a lost soul had wandered into the abyss he had created himself? Pluto must have a sense of humor if a stray mortal had been sent to haunt him for eternity. To torment him until, finally, a single drop of blood fell onto the earth covered in gray sand.

Caracalla curled in on himself. Perhaps his new tormentor would be merciful.

"Brother."

Caracalla heard it right beside him.

His muscles tensed instantly. Of course. From now on, Geta's voice would haunt him, accompanied by the endless black sea before him. Instead of the beautiful song of sirens, his brother's concerned voice would lure him toward a happier place he would never find.

"Look at me."

Caracalla felt a hand on his shoulder. He was a fool, yet he raised his head.

Geta’s eyes looked at him with the same concern as that night. He wasn’t afraid for his own life but for Caracalla’s. He feared that he had lost his brother forever.

“I’ve been waiting for you. It’s time to go.”

Geta took his hands and led him closer to the boat. Onboard, a hooded figure was already waiting. Charun.

The myths did not reflect the calm that emanated from his presence. People fear death, the moment they are left alone. It is somewhat comforting that, during the final journey, someone accompanies us.

During Caracalla’s final journey, he will be accompanied by two people. Pluto’s envoy and Geta. Because before they were emperors, before they fell in love with power, they were brothers. Brothers who, during childhood games, made a promise. A promise not meant to be taken as seriously as a vow to the gods. Yet, somewhere in the hearts of both brothers, that promise must have been hidden, safe from the specter of hunger for violence and gold.

Always by your side. Wherever we are.

Caracalla dug in his heels, frightened of this last journey. Geta stopped mid-step, still holding his hands.

“I—I’m sorry,” Caracalla stammered uncertainly. As if he had just learned a new word, one that carried a magic he feared. A word he had avoided like fire—until now.

“I know,” Geta replied gently.

As if he truly understood, what Caracalla felt before he had even managed to voice his emotions aloud. That’s just how he was, wasn’t it? Geta was always right, always knew better. When they were children, Caracalla thought it was a gift. Now, it seemed more like a curse. Whatever he will say, Geta won’t be surprised by his remorse. He won’t notice the change growing within him, hesitant and fragile, like a bird too weak to break through its eggshell.

“Forgive me. I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

Caracalla fell to Geta’s feet. His brother knelt down in front of him, not letting go for a second. A comically tragic mirror of the pose they had taken that night. On their knees, torn by conflicting emotions. 

But this time, Caracalla didn’t see red. He saw a warm brown. The color of Geta’s eyes. The color that reminded him of home. Of reassurance.I’m here with you, and everything will be okay.

“I forgive you, brother.”

Caracalla exhaled unevenly, as if he had taken a breath of fresh air. He tasted the sweet fruit he had longed for.

Caracalla buried his face in the crook of his neck. He could have started crying. But not now. Not here. It was too soon. He couldn’t wait to see the blue again.

“Come on. We should go.”

The brothers left the beach. Together. Just as they had promised each other years ago. Caracalla could have sworn that before the boat pushed off from the shore, he heard Geta’s voice.

Always by your side. Wherever we are.

read on ao3 :) Did I disappoint you? Will they still let me over If I cross the line? - beautyofsilence - Gladiator (2000) [Archive of Our Own]

[dykedvonte]

I was rewatching mouthwashing, and I ended up thinking of the different reactions that Curly and Jimmy had in doing their tasks. How during the scene of Anya evaluating Jimmy and showing dread towards the idea of doing his evaluation, Curly was the one that offered to take it off her hands. He had no issue with adding more to his plate, because he knew - or well, thought, he knew that Jimmy wasn't going to "bullshit" with him since he's known him for a long time. When Anya hands Curly a note from Swansea, Curly goes to check out what the issue is and he takes care of it without a complaint, the only "complaint" he has is how this incident could have damaged the pods. Which is reasonable, those pods are their only way to be saved if anything tragic happens on the ship. However, in comparison to Jimmy being asked to do things, he's passive-aggressive about it. When Anya asks Jimmy if he could help her out with Curly's painkillers, he tells her that people should be worth their titles, specifically using her title as a nurse when she asked him for help and then when she says forget it, since he made her feel insecure, he still goes "Oh no, I'LL take care of it" as if he was doing a chore, a favor for her. Then, there's that part where he blows up at her for things that she didn't even ask him to do - more so the others asked him about it, like the code scanner, him deciding he needed to find the axe for the foam, and then, there's the medicine part (which when she does ask, and she reconsiders - going to do it herself, he takes that away from her). Jimmy complains about the tasks he has to do and he treats it like a big issue, a "woes me" that he has to do this and that - wanting the praise of the capital without actually doing any work. While Curly doesn't complain about it, in fact, he even mentions that he's aware of how well he is doing at his job as a Captain during that cockpit scene with him and Jimmy. If Jimmy only had to do a small amount of tasks to get irritated and annoyed at being captain, while Curly didn't which I feel like encapsulates their personalities. Curly understands what he's doing is a job, it's a responsibility, why would he complain at any point for doing what he's suppose too? Why would he be upset at people asking him to do tasks? While Jimmy on the other hand, isn't used to it at all and it's different to what he's had before and he's realizing that he doesn't actually like doing the work he has too. I just wanted to ramble about it even if it seemed kind of obvious xd

It’s obvious but it is a thing people miss or understate when trying to find parallels in Curly’s and Jimmy’s relationship/personalities.

Like the way people portray it as neither taking responsibility when it is almost split down the middle of Curly taking responsibilities and faults that shouldn’t be his and making himself unequipped to handle the ones that are while Jimmy refuses to handle the responsibilities he has because he wasn’t expecting the work that comes with them.

Not a lot to say but people forget that another thing the game comments on is prioritization of issues and responsibilities and how the guys fail at it in one way or another in the situation.

[missmoonfrost]

Potions with the Slytherins - a wolfstar microfic

@wolfstarmicrofic - November 26: Potions Dungeon - Words: 844 - Warnings: Violence

Sirius is already tense. School is a lot of work, however much he likes to pretend he doesn’t care. His feelings are… confusing. The letters from home have kept coming lately, each one nastier than the last.

His friends are brilliant, but having Potions with the Slytherins doesn’t help.

Sirius is determined not to let them agitate him. He keeps his head down and focuses on stirring his potion. Despite his best efforts, Severus, the leach, seems to sense that is extra irritable today. And despite trying to stay calm, he loses focus and messes up the amount of peppermint leaves which leaves his potion a dull yellow instead of bright green.

Severus laughs exaggeratedly and has his fellow Slytherins join in. “I knew you weren’t cleaver enough to be sorted into the superior house, Black. But I didn’t know you were dumber than a squib. Don’t even know how to count, apparently.”

James reaches an arm out in front of Sirius and mumbles “Easy mate.”

But he turns the wrong way. It’s not Sirius who lashes out. It’s Remus. Quiet cautious Remus. Who leaps up, kicks Snape’s cauldron over so the green gooey potion splashes all over the floor, and sticks his wand out.

”Take that back!”

For a moment, Severus seems as stunned as Sirius feels. But he quickly snaps out of it, looks furiously at the spilt potion and shoots a hex Sirius doesn’t recognize Remus’ way. Remus doesn’t react fast enough to shield himself but throws his arm up to protect his face and tumbles backwards with a yelp.

Before Sirius can think he disarms Severus and, in the process, has him flying right into the ingredient cabinet behind him where jars and pots rain down around him.

“Boys! Boys!” Slughorn clears the mess with a few whips of his wand and looks sternly at Sirius and Remus.

“Detention, both of you. And ten points each from Gryffindor.”

“But, Professor –“ they both complain.

“I don’t want to hear any of it. You are dismissed from this class. Zero points on today’s potions.”

“That’s not fair!”

“Isn’t it?” Professor Slughorn sniffs Sirius’ potion ” This is useless anyway”, and then he turns to Remus, “and you sabotaged Mr Snape’s, he can take over yours and continue if he wants to.”

“Come”, Remus mumbles and pulls discreetly at Sirius' robe. Sirius follows him out, careful to keep his gaze in the other direction than the Slytherins he knows will be watching gleefully.

They reach the first flight of stairs before Sirius realises there is something wrong with Remus. He still clutches his arm tight against his body.

“Let me see” Sirius demands.

He gasps when Remus does what he asks. A deep gush runs along the forearm. Blood starts dripping as soon as Remus loosens his grip.

Sirius doesn’t want to think about what would have happened if that hex had hit him straight on.

“Let’s get you to the Hospital Wing,” he ushers.

Remus silently obliges. It doesn’t take long for Madam Pomfrey to fix him up. She is a splendid medi-witch, with her muttering about stupid violent boys, and all. But Sirius is still distraught when she leaves them, Remus sitting on the bed, Sirius crouching beside him with his arm on top of the bedding.

Remus looks at him and smiles a tentative smile. Sirius feels the sting of tears behind his eyes. Remus tries to reach out and touch him, but he elegantly ducks away.

”I am so sorry. I know it hurts.” Remus says.

”Hurts?” What does he mean? If anyone is hurting it is Remus.

”It must suck to hear things like that.”

”Hear things…? Moony? You are hurt! Because of me. That’s what upsets me.”

Sirius runs his hands down his face and swallows before he continues.

”I watch you get hurt every full moon, and it’s already more than I can take. I can’t watch you get yourself hurt over me. It’s not supposed to be like that. I am supposed to protect you.”

Remus smiles. ”I want to protect you too.”

”No! You don’t get it! I think I.. I think I love you, Moony. For real.”

Remus puts a hand on each of his shoulders and ducks his head low, trying to meet Sirius' downturned eyes. ”I think I love you too.”

Sirius sighs. “You don’t get it…”

”I think I do.” Remus leans forward and forces Sirius to meet his eyes. His hand lingers for a moment at Sirius’ jaw, thumb tracing the curve of his cheekbone. Then he slowly brushes his lips against his, soft and tentative.

Sirius winds his arms around Remus, pulling him closer, and the tentative kiss deepens. The heat of it, the overwhelming rightness of it, consumes him until he feels Remus’ laughter vibrate against his mouth as they topple backwards onto the bed. Sirius braces himself above him, grinning like a fool.

Madam Pomfrey sharply clears her throat. “You may leave now.” Sirius can hear the smile in her voice from across the room.