#but the first rule of art is making others suffer

[ciircex]

Drew Circe in the viral sexy dress because i just had to.. anyway, *scrams*

[nosyrobin]

IF UNCLE!READER GOT KILLED BY JOKER:

Imagine being the twin brother of Bruce Wayne. Dying by the hands of joker when trying to cover for Bruce as Batman. Damian saw your limp body, breathless, and motionless. It reminded him of when his grandfather died. The poor boy screamed out in agony seeing his beloved uncle die. The joker laughs and runs away, thinking he killed the real Batman. Only for his consequences to catch up to him. 

Bruce started to go to a dark place, his only brother. His brother who didn’t deserve to die, his brother who was the most sane and normal person in the bat family. He starts to break badly, wanting to kill joker at last. Wanting to break jokers face in for laughing at your body. Wanting to torture him. Wanting jokers to suffer in hell.

Dick, who cried hearing the news. His uncle, the uncle that helped him with the nightmares when he was just a little boy without parents. The little boy who would love to watch cartoons with his uncle. The little boy who felt the same as he stands at the grave of his gone uncle.

Jason who feels anger, if he was there with you instead of that little brat. He could’ve shot and killed joker before he killed you. Jason could’ve taken you to the Lazarus pit. But he’d knew you wouldn’t want that. He stays in your cold and lonely house, no longer feeling cozy and warm with you gone. No laughter of you, no uncle to nephew talks. No reading books together and laughing at parts or discussing. No planned book talk. Nothing. Only rage and sadness coming from Jason as he makes sure your house is clean…

Tim who just stayed in his room more, trying to track down joker with vengeance in his eyes. “Justice, not vengeance” is what Bruce would’ve told him. But even Bruce may not listen to himself. As this, was a serious case to the family. Losing more sleep that his body might shut down. Alfred tries to get him to sleep, but Tim cannot bother to not listen to the poor butler who is worried for all of the boy’s mental health. Tim will find joker, even if it kills him.

Damian who feels so guilty, so guilty he stays in his room. Holding a stuffed animal you had given him. When he first met you, he didn’t really want to bond with you. That was until you showed him some of your arts. Your arts made him look up to you. Damian clutched the stuff animal you gotten him from a fair, to make him feel like a real child other than a weapon, an ex assassin, Robin. It was only Damian, and his uncle. Damian cried hard as he felt his heart break. He only wished he was stronger and taller. He only wished he was there sooner so he could’ve saved you from your fate.

All the robins soon planned a plan to kill joker. Seeing their father so devastated and depressed at the loss of his brother gone. The killing rule is no longer needed when the uncle and beloved brother of the family is now gone by the hands of a monster. Now, it’s a terrible life time for joker.

You, who watch the boys with a sad look in heaven. Wanting to return and hug them, tell them that you are okay. Tell them it’s not their fault. Tell them to not go down to the dark path. Tell them to still move one and live their life. But you know it’s hard. Isn’t it?

[mogamuncher]

Heeey I'm back! It's finally time for the full Cakeverse analysis gang!

Ok, so, for a refresher:

There's the Forks, the Cakes and the Plates (normal people), and it goes like this:

Plates are just normal people, the majority of the world population, nothing new here.

Forks: Can't taste and sometimes can't smell either, sometimes they used be able to taste but lost it with age; either way, they can only ever taste cakes.

Cakes: Basically normal people except that they're delicious, everything from them (flesh, tears, saliva, etc) tastes like cake (or other foods if you want). You can't tell who's a cake or not unless you're a Fork that's tasting them in some way.

Now, I have to add some stuff that's really interesting and that the og author said, that we'll be getting into today.

• Forks go absolutely bat shit insane when they taste the Cakes most of the time, that can lead to a lot of things, cannibalism, sex, or (if you're cultured) both.

• Both Cakes and Forks suffer from their own societal plights. Cakes die a lot, and Forks when discovered are instantly pinned as murderers, criminals and perverts, even if they haven't done anything wrong yet.

• Cakes can derail a Fork's entire life, and Forks are like sin and temptation to Cakes.

Now, I want to talk about these because they absolutely fucking vexed me and now I want to make this all of y'all's problem.

「The First Taste」

It's essentially a common rule as said by the author that the Forks go insane after feeling the taste of a Cake, now, let's talk about: Why?

See, Cakeverse is technically an Au based from the likes of Omegaverse, which you can see by the structure being similar to Alpha/Beta/Omega with the three types of people out there. But, in ABO the Alphas going insane is due to a specific event, heats, which are there specifically for reproduction and are said to bring out animal instincts out of people's control, while Forks are based on simply taste, food, and not something as biological.

Of course it's up to the individual writer to an extent, but my interpretation of why Forks lose it when they taste Cakes is more psychological when compared to Alphas in the Omegaverse.

Imagine that you are completely unable to see color, never once have you seen one, you grew up hearing all about how wonderful colors are, you saw others compliment the colors of several works of art, you heard all about the colors of the world around you, but all that you see is beige and grey. Now, imagine that one day you bump into someone, and suddenly you're able to see all the colors, for the first time ever in your life, you can finally experience blue skies and green grass, you can see the same way the rest of the world sees, something that was fundamentally missing from you is finally gifted to you by this stranger on a silver tray.

You're finally complete.

That's the reality of what Forks go through, years of eating tasteless food, seeing people enjoy food wholeheartedly and rant about the tastes, hearing about the differences between expensive food and cheap food, and then suddenly finally tasting cake. Of course they go insane and fixate on it, it's like the final puzzle piece finally sliding into place, something that they've been missing this whole time being manifested with only a taste.

Before, eating was a chore, something simply to survive there was no joy in it, no fun to be found in desserts or snacks, but with only a single kiss the Fork finally feels what it is like to crave food, to want food for the taste.

Cakeverse in nature is oddly psychological, playing with the concept of taking away something extremely core to the human experience, taste. It's inherent and everyone has it, you'd probably feel like a freak of nature if you didn't have something while everyone else has, right?

That's what Cakes bring Forks; normalcy, joy and purpose, it's basically like a shot of endorphins all at once straight into your bloodstream, there's a good chance it'd hit like a truck and fuck you up majorly.

Forks acting rashly probably looks different than when Alphas do the same, because the motive is inherently different, but the desperation is arguably more raw.

A lot can be written on what that reaction would be:

Immediately trying to taste the Cake (kissing, licking, biting), trying to play cool only to strike later (potential kidnapping, manipulation, planning and scheming in general), the Fork can try to resist temptation or maybe the Cake can notice the extreme reaction and run away, maybe the Cake can instigate and bait the Fork to take a bite.

It could lead to fluff, to relationships starting, relationships ending, it could smut, it could be gory cannibalism, hell, it could be both.

Either way, the sheer amount of character study that could be made out of this tidbit alone is insane, and the story concepts don't stop there!

「We Do, In Fact, Live In a Society」

Cakes don't know who they are until it's too late, but I can imagine that in society they'd be treated with a lot of extra care if they are known beforehand, as they are constantly in risk of dying.

Imagine that they'd also be majorly babyfied, the "nooo poor babies that can't do anything wrong, poor helpless and weak Cakes, they clearly can't take care of themselves, they're so vulnerable, don't worry I'll speak for you to protect your honor" would be insane. Any Cake that consensually and willingly gets with a Fork will be doubted if they truly wanted to do it, think nosy people pulling them aside to ask if they're ok and pressing to see if they're abused, think people immediately thinking that Cakes can't consent to anything with a Fork on principle despite them being grown adults.

Online discourse would definitely have people saying "Cakes are minor coded" or some shit, mark my words.

While Forks would be instantly persecuted for everything. Because of something they didn't choose, that was inherited at birth, they now are fully seem as murderers, kidnappers, rapists and just the lowest of the low. People will gossip, people will get defensive, people will cower any time you slightly raise your voice, you're seen as a predator, treated no different than a wild bear. To society at large, you're an unruly dog, and all eyes will be on you forever, watching, waiting for the day that you take a bite.

In a sense, it's almost like any Forks that do commit crimes instantly have a justification to do so, it's expected, really, you're a Fork, of course you'd snap one day. It's both maligned and normalized, everyone expects it and it almost gives Forks a reason to do so. Forever a self fulfilling prophecy.

Now I'm sorry that I'll keep bringing the Omegaverse up, it's just that it's really handy for comparison, but I find it fascinating that in a way, the societal effects of this are a mish mesh of the societal views seen in ABO, but like, in a way that doesn't make me want to vomit.

Can I be so fr with you guys right now? I don't like the societal parts of the Omegaverse, ever since I was a kid in the early hay days of the internet, that always made me uncomfortable, and it's also a bit lazy in a way. The problems in society with the Omegaverse are basically just Sexism, it's misogyny with mpreg, and a lot of fics end up feeling like a Handmaiden's Tale with mpreg. Replace Alphas with men and Omegas with Women and you get the Omegaverse, though it gets a bit interesting since there technically is a built-in "fuck or die" and aphrodisiac system with heats/ruts, but very few writers do something interesting with it.

My problem is that it's always either uncomfortable or outright boring, very little fics do it well and most of the time authors simply choose to side step it altogether, which I completely understand and actually prefer at this point.

I bring all this up because Cakeverse actually brings a lot of interesting concepts up in it's consequences on the world at large, the nature of Forks and Cakes mirrors a lot of real life concepts, but leaves enough fantastical elements that there's still intrigue in what could be explored and seem from authors writing certain details of it.

Would there be Cake support groups? Would there be Fork rights activists? Would there be people who are both Forks and Cakes, like a hybrid type? What are different relationship types seen as in the eyes of society as a whole?

It's all so complicated and the problems are different between the both of them, also, they're evenly split, which is a breath of fresh air.

Now, it's time to get even deeper into this, what are exactly Forks and Cakes relationship with each other like?

「Would You Still Love Me If I Was Cake?」

According to the author, Cakes can derail a Fork's life and Forks are temptation to Cakes. Now, why is that?

Imagine you're a Fork, living your life trying to do what you can with what's been handed to you, probably being discriminated against if you haven't been able to hide it well, when suddenly you taste someone (kiss or by accident, like a shared water bottle), and next thing you know you lose your mind. Your entire world falls apart, thoughts of dreams, future, your own sense of morality, it all melts away like sugar in water because you just experienced heaven and now it's all you can think about.

Someone completely normal beforehand, suddenly driven to obsession with just one moment, an entire life detailed into the unknown because they just had a taste of cake, thoughts being all about one person and their taste, the inability to stop even you're desperate to do so. It's madness, and almost like a tragedy, doomed by their own personal narrative of Fork meets Cake, the Forks turns into a starving beast whether they want to or not.

But Cakes? Imagine you have someone you love, and they want you so badly it drives them mad, imagine kissing the same lips that want to be stained with your taste, imagine putting yourself in the way of jaws that any of these days can close down on you and swallow you whole. You're constantly in contact with someone that could just straight up eat you, consume you whole and leave nothing behind, but your heart aches for them, you present yourself in a silver platter again and again.

Maybe you want to be eaten, to be consumed. Maybe you like being wanted, maybe you enjoy providing something to to others, you made them so happy that it doesn't even matter to you that they are taking chunks out of you, you'll gladly let yourself be torn apart if it means someone else is satisfied.

It's all about the usage of "Cannibalism as a Metaphor for Love™", it's all about loving someone but constantly wanting to eat them into non-existence, it's about to struggle between your brain heart and stomach.

It's about having your cake and eating it too.

The themes, the metaphors, the opportunities are endless and frankly I'm driving myself insane just imagining all of it, the angst also would be utterly fucking insane, imagine you live someone and you eat them, wouldn't you be upset? You loved them and you killed them yourself, with your own hands, their taste is on your lips and you licked your plate clean.

I'm screaming and crying and throwing up as we speak, the number of things you can do here are endless, soooo. . . Let's talk about some of my ideas!

「All My Fanfiction Titles Are Just Songs」

Last post I basically tagged a bunch of fandoms that I wish would use this trope (I'll also be doing that with this post), so now I'm going to showing some of the ideas I had for this AU that I might or might not write in the future, all of which you guys are totally free to use as prompts as well (just tag me on them lmao)

So, going ship by ship:

「Loveit」: Dead Plate fanfic, Vincent x Rody, Fork!Vincent and Cake!Rody. I imagine that the moment Vincent finds out is during the Best Served Hot ending, after biting Rody's ear, his reaction would show instantly on his face and Rody would notice right away. After that it can lead to a lot of things, fighting, smut and cannibalism galore, their relationship would only get more complicated after such a discovery. Hell, you can even have Vincent find out earlier, if you truly want more juicy drama, maybe Vincent will attempt to make Rody into the meal instead of Mason this time? For funsies you could even reverse it, Rody as a Fork would be fascinating to see, him bonding with Vincent that he also can't taste anything, only for him to find out later that he can taste Vincent himself, holy shit the intrigue.

「Eat You」: Death Note, Lawlight, Fork!Light and Cake!L. Imagine Light both having to hide the fact that he's Kira, but also having to hide the fact that he's a Fork, imagine the never leaving stain that being a Fork would be on his own self-perception of perfection, imagine the so called god that punishes criminals also being considered a criminal by default in society's eyes if he's ever found out. Kira selling out his own kind because most criminals would likely be Forks (whether they were rightfully convicted or not), and then comes in L, a detective, a nuisance, Light's equal and a Cake. Maybe Light would find that out later on, maybe while they're playing as friends in college or while chained together, and now L had effortlessly thrown another wrench in his life yet again by default, like they're meant to be opposed by fate itself, where Kira is a Fork L is a Cake. L would likely goad Light on, trying to bait Kira out, by any means necessary, even if it means being eaten.

「Eat You Piece by Piece」: Hear me out, Batjokes. Fork!Bruce having to hold himself back from breaking his own morals due to finding out Joker is a Cake, Fork!Joker only getting deeper into his Batman obsession after tasting a Cake!Batman, Both Forks bonded by not having taste, maybe both are Forks that differ on how they react to Cakes (Joker regularly eating them while Bruce retains his morals and chooses to not hurt them), maybe both Cakes that got here because they were almost eaten (different Batman and Joker origin stories?). The opportunities are all intriguing and promptly end in bloodshed, expect angst and discussions of what is moral, also just so much angst holy shit this shit hurts.

「I Eat Boys Up」: Dungeon Meshi, Labru, Fork!Laios and Cake!Labru. I'm thinking post canon by accident, maybe something like sharing utensils, and I'm going to be so fr with you right now, this story coming from me would be a lot of romanticism through food metaphors and unending smut, feral Laios is my equivalent of heroin and I could imagine him describing Kabru's taste in detail to him while eating him out. But if smut isn't your jam, exploring how Laios and his monster obsession, especially in the form of food, as someone who can't taste would be intriguing, in a story so closely tied to food, you have to wonder how it would all change if the main character couldn't even taste. Also, I doubt Kabru would take the knowledge of him being essentially prey well, so there's that bag of worms to go into if you want.

「Blame Gluttony」: This one is purely self indulgent but like, Re:Zero with any ship, Cake! Subaru and Fork!anyone else. Imagine Subaru's world doesn't have this Cakeverse nonsense at all, but the world he's transported to has, imagine how scary it would be that one loop he suddenly finds out that he's essentially universal prey here (maybe in the second loop with Elsa), imagine the weight of all the things that already are trying to kill him along with the fact that he's also got a new thing to worry about? Maybe instead of just the rabbit loop, there's now multiple loops where Subaru is eaten alive, maybe there's loops where his dear friends themselves are eating him. Can you imagine if Emilia was a Fork? If he found out after the kiss of death and she commented on the taste of his lips as he was dying, if it came up again after their kiss, Subaru having to tackle with his love and heart belonging to someone that would one day eat him whole. Imagine the witch not longer just wants to touch his heart or kiss him, but she also bites him when he tries to tell the secret. Imagine maybe Rem is also a Fork, imagine that his death by her hands also involved her tearing into him chunk by chunk. What if Otto was a Fork, what if Reinhard was one? Seriously all the opportunities are equally traumatizing and I'm living for it!

Honorable mentions include: Persona Shuake and Shuada (Fork!Protags and Cake!Detectives) for the optimal mutual murder extravaganza, Okegom DSP Satanivlis (Fork!Ivlis and Cake!Satanick) for a rare case of role swapping, South Park Kyman (any way works tbh) for mutually assured destruction, Slay the Princess (Fork!Princess and Cake!Birb) because themes, Soukouku (Fork!Dazai and Cake!Chuuya) for making canon even worse than it already is, frankly any investigrave game would be peak here, Hannigram for obvious reasons.

But that's all I have for now, so, what have we learned here?

We learned that: I'm mentally ill and you need to write about the Cakeverse NOW.

[court-jobi]

Let's Heal Each Other

((banner by me! I don't own Horikoshi's work OR the mindblowing art of @gsony24))

Pairing: Midoriya x reader (fem!reader is a semi-retired pro hero)

Words: 3.6K

Rating: T+ (18+ near the end for some spicy themes)

Warnings: talk about scars, past traumas, FEELINGS, body image issues, hurt/comfort, body worship, kissing, use of petnames

Summary:

You play a game only you keep tallies of: lay hordes of kisses onto your boyfriend until he breaks and gives into your sweet affections. It works-- making him reconsider keeping the majority of his skin (and insecurities) hidden from you, until he believes wholeheartedly that your love for him goes beyond scar tissue and that he literally never wants you to feel an ounce of self-hatred anymore, either. "I don't think I like this uno-reverse treatment. Aren't you supposed to be the flustered one, green eyes?" "You want me to stop?" "..no." "Then respectfully, hush your mouth, honey."

A/N: a love letter to sweet, sweet teacher!deku… I've lowkey always wanted to write for him~ horrified I'm not caught up on the manga/anime as I write this, but I had to dabble! Back into my MHA era I go~

For my My Hero Academia Masterlist, check it out here!

Read on AO3

What began as you looking through his journals and hearing each and every one of your sweetheart’s passions from over his shoulder turned into a game of placing whisper-soft kisses on his cheeks. It was a private game that only you kept tallies of. 

Rules are… anytime he opens his mouth, the timer starts: how long can you hold out before forcing him to stop and take a breath after a quick pebbling of affection? Seeing him sigh at the first touch only encouraged you to do it more. He’d allow a few little pecks here, a few more there, or -like tonight- he’d suffer every one of your little presses until his patience broke, and he had no choice but to give you a kiss back.  It wasn’t that you didn’t want to hear the content of what he shared– he was your own personal podcast, after all… but sometimes the fight to resist kissing him silly just turned tail and was nowhere to be found.

One long kiss turned into two and under the trae lit ceiling of his study, a bit of a makeout session grew as your lovely Izuku Midoriya relaxed into your affections, his hands roaming to your back to pull you comfortably over into his lap from your spot on the couch. He hugged you close and placed plenty of pecks along your cheek and jaw until you ultimately pressed him back into place– all so you could straddle him and face him properly. This move finally made him flounder and start to lose his vocabulary- even at the ripe ‘ole age of twenty-eight. 

You had to giggle a little and tease him for it; you’d expect a boy half his age to sport such a reaction, not a faculty member at UA highschool.

 "This is ok? I just wanted to see that cute face of yours-" you leaned back to give him enough space if he needed, letting your hands trail along his arms, down to his hands.

Izuku, or ‘Deku’ as his friends and the Hero World still called him, grasped yours and fought his wavering voice  to recover.

"N-no no! uh, it’s ok- yeah, it's fine!” want and desire brought out Izuku’s voice flip, “I just uhhh-heh~ haven’t had you sit this close up, like this before. I‘m... like it a lot."

You brushed your thumbs along his hands and linked his dominant's hand’s fingers with yours– noticing the pull of some scarring there for perhaps the first time. 

Izuku swallowed and tensed, pulling back to simply squeeze your hand briefly before letting go. Turning his wrist to turn down his cuff sleeve clenched that fist  so tightly,  the scars turned white.

"U-um.. yeah, I know it's pretty rough to look at. I hurt myself a lot my first year at UA- as a student, I mean. It's kind of embarrassing..." Izuku laughed it off, massaging his hand palm side up so you didn’t have to see.

"Embarrassing? Why?" You brushed his hair back on one side soothingly. 

Izuku met your eyes, finding nothing but genuine interest. Any effort to keep him talking would reward him in the end– only now you feared this was not a game anymore, but rather a necessary act of reassurance. He shook off any initial nerves with a quick tease back,

“... You’re just–  trying to get me to lay off the stats, aren’t you.”

“Course not,” you defended, “but it seems like if I touched a nerve, it must be important and I don’t wanna gloss over that either. So, I wanna know all about that, too.”

Izuku quirked his lip and carried on, "If you insist. I guess the short of it is, I didn’t know my limits when I enrolled, and I damaged myself beyond repair while training with ‘One for All’. The tightness is a lot better now! But I overdid it... and I'll always have these scars as a reminder- they're… still there."

Care for his younger self flooded you. It’s clear Izuku still had plenty of regrets surrounding his former hero days, at least in how he went about discussing it. Were he still active as a hero, he might view battle scars differently - just signs of the lifestyle. Now on him, they must be more painful reminders  instead.

"May I see?"

Once again, the man looked up in surprise to see your little half smile and steeled himself– not having the heart to say no to you when you were being sweet. You were his girl after all. 

So, Izuku shimmied himself out of his sportek hoodie, and you scooted off his lap to give him room. You always noted he wore a black underarmor shirt, no matter the weather, and now realized why. 

Biting the inner of his cheek, Izuku kept his sights up and over your shoulder as he rolled each sleeve off, wrenching it between his hands. Jagged scars ran all the way up his dominant arm to a big patch behind his tricep. His shoulder remained largely untouched save for a dangerous slice following where the underarm curved upwards. Without the pop of a shirt collar or the bunching of a hoodie, you now fully saw the stiff scar that trailed up his neck and matched in color to the one gracing his face.

For all the years that had passed since those days which he’s fully told you were a time of intensive training and exercise, you were surprised to learn that he’s kept up a workout discipline. His body was scarred, yes, but still incredibly strong. He’s clearly prioritized keeping himself in shape, if for no other reason than to maintain  flexibility and range of motion. 

The whole moment fell quiet, but extremely intimate– even as he left his  base tank top on. You ran your fingers up his now bare arm and hummed gently.

"Well..." you leaned demurely towards the back of the couch, admiring the freckles that stood out between the changed pigments, "for what it's worth, I think they read ‘I lived’ rather than ‘I failed’. And I don’t think they’re ugly." You kissed a broad line on his bicep and met his eyes. " ‘Scars are tattoos with better stories’, right? Yours even have ‘sparkles’." 

Though touched enough to give a sweet little hum back, his expression held tears right at the surface. He looked at your arm in comparison and let out a little sigh, his own fingers caressing the soft skin there. Didn’t take anyone with a psychic quirk to tell what he was thinking. 

"Here–”

You sat up and turned around, starting to lift the back of your own shirt, and you heard his squeak of surprise–

"UhhhHWHATareyoudoing!!" Izuku reared back as if his scandalized mother would enter the room at any moment. 

"Relax, tiger,” you fitted a look over your shoulder and teased. Holding the shirt in place over your shoulders, you activated your kinetic quirk and doing so illuminated some rigid scarring across your lower back- what looked like whip marks as you'd seen from the surgery notes.

Gemlike light shone through even your underclothes, up your back, then on a diagonal across your neck. These were your own battle scars from over the years. You pointed with your thumb starting at the low spine, 

"These were from when I was first captured in Panama. Up here, when I tried to escape." Then you twisted to the side a bit where a big gash shone brilliantly to just under your left breast, "this, I got when I tried to make a quick rescue during my first internship in the States. I had a little boy in my right hand and couldn't drop him, so I took a hit on the other side." You shared these stories softly and he studied each with complete care.

 Izuku reached a bit with his good hand, but stayed his motion when he hovered an inch away. 

You encouraged, with ultimate trust, "You can touch it." 

Despite your kind chirp, his eyes checked over you briefly and simply brushed you with the back of two fingers at first. He let out a shaky breath at the sight that greeted him– the light danced around his fingers, interacting with his presence like ethereal steam rising around the contours. There were so many moments watching you in combat with these sorts of emissions that he remembered blackwhip- one of the more practical gifts ‘One for All’ had offered him, though equally dangerous and hard to control.

You had your own ‘blackwhip’ and it gifted you similar lessons learned- he wasn’t the only one. 

"See? It's not so bad," you resolved any concern Izuku had shown so far. He sought your eyes again, catching sight of the side of your other cheek which was also glowing a bit. "-- at least we match in the face shot department~" 

With a scoot, you slid back to face him again; he noted the scar across the temple of your hair trickling down to the top of your cheek bone. The way the light shone mimicked a tear’s tread down a fogged windowpane.

Ultimate care brought Izuku to reach up -to stop it’s run somehow- and touched the skin with a gentleness you came to love about him. Anticipating his concern, you mumbled something about it only really hurting when you have a glare headache after too much screentime, reminiscing on the throbbing sensation.

"Huh..." Why couldn't he see them before? Why would your quirk hold onto pain this way?

"They only show up when I'm actively using my power to its fullest, and these are usually covered by clothes or face shield when I'm driving." You tuned into his thoughts perfectly. "But… I know they’re there, even if I’m completely covered up. I see ‘em in the back of my mind anytime I’m in front of a mirror." 

As you deactivate your illumination and your skin settled back to normal, you righted your sweater down to your waist so it didn’t catch in the sofa cushions. If you were bothered at all, you barely showed it through your shrug.

"Everyone carries scars- not every single one can be seen, but we all have them. If not physical, emotional then." Running your manicured hand along the edge of his jaw made him lean into the touch, not unlike a puppy. "Please dont think less of yourself because of this... you're too wonderful to even think so poorly. If nothing else, it's proof of how great a hero you are." 

He was one, after all, according to the annals of the Pro Hero Japan Registrar… but Izuku  hardly felt like one anymore. It was an old pain in several ways past the tangible. Because ultimately, he had his chance of being an active pro hero– which was now fully over the minute he expelled the last of his power and ended the cycle for good. 

Help of friends, mentors, and loads of therapy have helped him cope with the memories and pressures of his time in school– all to bring him to a better, more healthy mindset in terms of his place in the world. Putting in the mental work was his largest success, to his credit. In many ways, his life was even more fulfilling now; Izuku fully recognized that and expressed gratitude vocally. Teaching gave him both an outlet and a purpose that he shined in. Still, a selfish twinge of him still hurt knowing how it all panned out- how different his life ended up from what he’d dreamed. 

‘What a great hero I am’…What kind of hero am I?’ his eyes grieved with distance behind them,  ‘Now that I'm no more than a living legend like All Might? He at least got to have a full career.’

Behind a tight lipped smile, Izuku wanted everything in him to sink into your loving sentiments as they often consoled him like none other; but now he found his delight dropping against his will. And how could he fight your praise when you looked at him so earnestly? Like you believed it? It seemed this sentiment upset him. Izuku never once doubted your sweetness so visibly, until now. 

It seemed dating you brought some old feelings to the surface– try as he might to ignore them.

As if sensing the turn of his thoughts inward, you read the tiniest of changes in his posture and pressed on, pulling your legs up to stretch over his lap. Unphased, Izuku dropped the hoodie to the floor and absently caressed your calves.

“You do know you’re still a hero, right?”

Izuku cocked his head, not understanding.

“You were one before any of that madness. They show it all the time at the schools, y’know,” you shared with a good deal of pride, “The sludge monster that had your friend– that was Deku’s first mission. Bet you didn’t know it then, anymore than you do now: even while you’re teaching the next generation of heroes. Your words, your mind, and your heart– you’re still very much a hero… by all three you carry with you.”

And just like that, Izuku truly didn’t think he could melt into the floor like Mirio– until that very moment. It was that pinnacle point that Allmight identified it, too. The instinct that turned the rest of his life upside down. 

Betrayed by his disciplined nerves, his weepy heartstrings eeked out a catch in his voice, 

"How is it you always know just what to say?..."

Your brilliant smile pressed your cheeks into the most charming lift, knowing him all too well and being proud of it:

"I feel like you do, more than you think. I've gotten really good at masking my own issues, so I get it.”

In a split second, Izuku channeled all  self-pitying energy into full, protective alarm–

"IsSuEs?? About what?!–Yourself- how could you say that??"

You chuckled with a full heart, and gave him another doting kiss on the shoulder to try and deter him. 

"Well I'm not exactly a tiny girl anymore, hot stuff~ Mah thighs have been particularly blessed since I took a step back from active duty, and they’re at war with any skirt or pants I find." You palmed down your legs briefly, stretching and doing your best to be alluring, "You don’t seem to mind too much ‘bout my size though, so I don’t sweat it nowadays… You inspired me, actually.”

Light suspicion glared back at you, listening but friendly. “How so?”

You turned introspective yourself- but voiced your train of thought rather than shut it up behind pretty eyes and stunted vulnerability.

“Oh, that silly voice in my head shouts just as loudly as anyone else, so I’m plenty guilty of keeping myself down. She doesn’t serve me though, and that’s taken some reframing to get over… I started focusing on making you feel better, when I met you. Share something outside of myself. That makes me happy. Helps keep things in perspective and not stay hung up hard on myself either.”

Before you could read into how tenderly your Izuku was listening to you, you bombarded him with a bite of your trademark humor..

“I mean, let’s be honest– you’ve done the impossible work of convincing me to finish an entire Stanley before lunch, all in the name of hydration! That’s true love right there…”

You reclined back fully now- an extension of your true level of comfort with him. Watching you ease your way down, Izuku would have been flustered at any other time, but now? All he did was fawn after you like you hung the stars yourself.

“You deserve some happiness, baby,” you reminded him. “If I can play any part in that, give you even a fraction of what you’ve given me? I’m honored for the chance.  Not for everything you've done– but everything you are. To me."

Seeing Izuku’s newfound appreciation and sentimental smile, you feared he would slide right off the sofa and take you with him– until a newly confident smirk took its place.

A flit of his gaze down your body proved he’d decided otherwise: you were gonna pay for the  emotional roller coaster this night has turned into.

Picking up one of your bent legs and chucking it off the couch, Izuku stole you from your comfy position outright: he scooped you up, then plopped you down again with the immense strength he did in fact still carry– all to snuggle up by pinning you where he liked. The surprise had its desired effect, as you giggled at your hero snatching you– squeezing him in a tight, full body hug.

"If you're going to let me not worry about my arms,” Izuku curtailed his laughing, “-then I'll see to it that you don't worry about these–”

He muffled a kiss to your thigh after scooting backwards- one kiss each, then settled his chin on your tummy. 

"You’re really beautiful,” Izuku marvelled, “I’ve always thought that. Inside and out." 

You stuttered a bit and leaned up on your elbows. Your earlier bravery was slipping now that the roles were reversed. 

Next, he set a loving course of affections there on your stomach too, and scattered more smooches across your midsection, regardless of the barrier your sweater kept between. The hand not supporting his weight caressed your side and even dipped underneath the hem a little.

"Izuku...." you sighed a bit, running through his hair again. There he goes, making you thoroughly embarrassed.

“You should take your own advice, sweet girl,” he shared wisely, “-- treat ourselves as nicely as we treat others– and I don’t mean about keeping you hydrated, silly.”

You snorted back. No argument there– but you hear him out all the same.

“You’re right about that, y’know,” his sights adored you inch by inch as he spoke. “I can wish and wonder how things might have been n’let that keep me down… or, I can be proud of what I’m making now… the future I get to live and see… with the loveliest woman on Earth.”

These comments would be the death of you. Death by Deku.

You chuffed at the change, “Well, geez what happened to my blushing bride?  A little pep talk all you needed?”

“Mmmyup. Your turn, now.”

“I dunno if I like this uno-reverse,” you teased his scalp– “it’s definitely.. different.”

Izuku mouths a minute at your wrist, puppy eyes locked on yours, “You wan’ me to stop?”

“...No.”

“Then respectfully, hush your mouth, honey.”

Littering compliments on you caused Izuku to kiss you a bit slower, crawling up your body, pressing tiny kisses up your middle, skipping your chest (politely) and going for the open space from your off shoulder top to take a taste of you on your collarbone. He hummed on contact with skin, brushing some of your flyaways up and away.  He muttered between kisses. 

‘You smell good… well, of course, you always smell good, always feel s’soft…’

Sighs and spoken praise passed the man’s lips as chose a new spot on your shoulder to adore, claiming you as soft and warm in the tenderest of ways, humming distractedly along every spot he deemed worthy of worship.

Without your noticing, those very strong, steady, scarred hands guided your chin– leading your head away so he'd have room by your neck. This was a great tactic to hide your dizzying aversion, so you’d be damned to stop him now.

Completely unfair. Wasn’t it his job to be constantly embarrassed?!

Taking your pitiful moans as a hint for a breather, Izuku pulled back to savor how cute your face contorted in shyness.

Your darling Izuku leaned down to your ear while you hugged him closer than ever now. The hot anticipation in your belly let its tight grip loose to something relieving to your senses; a refreshing blanket of comfort, rather than white-hot lust and drive. He nuzzled you as he spoke, whispering such caring words,

 "You hold onto me, love, and I'll hold onto you. Let's help heal each other."

You hummed in agreement and gasped a little at feeling warm lips meeting your neck for the first time. The sound that left you, involuntary as it was, did nothing but give him the confirmation he wanted. 

Izuku’s kisses fell gently and sweet from that moment forward, tongue lapping after some sucked areas to ease any harshness on his way to your waiting mouth. He seemed to be lost in his actions, moaning little utterances of your name as he went. You called  for him too in your lovestruck haze, rubbing his shoulders and holding him in place lightly by the hair once he graced your lips at long last. 

His hands trailed all over your sides and with your encouragement finally reaching his ears, he grasped at your waist a little firmer. Strength and assurance on full display, he turned the both of you over so you laid in his arms fully, and he met your lips with newfound passion.

Pausing to catch a breath, you both looked at each other with such respect and understanding and  damn near reverence that you couldn't keep a smile in. He could have sworn you were sunlight. Warmth you'd never felt before bloomed inside.

Not that you’d ever be the one to make him stop once he’s on a roll, but you caught sight of the abandoned notebook on the ground beside you. Still open, long forgotten.

“What happened to quizzing me on Present Mic’s sound wave frequencies per mile~” you mouthed to him, breathless. 

Izuku simply held you tighter, onto his brightest sunflower. “Nah, maybe later. ‘Wanna play your game first.”

[thethronezone]

High Consort Pt.2

Because I could not stop thinking about this mess of a relationship and if I have to suffer, so do everyone else... Here's more.

The Emperor promised to marry his Consort once he had successfully conquered Terra. And credit where credit is due because Big E actually kept that promise. Him in his armor, you in your finest clothes (specifically made for this occasion) and with only the Legio Custodes to witness the ceremony. There wasn't an exchange of vows, no reception or officiator. He simply declared himself Emperor and that you were, from this moment on and till the stars died out, his High Consort. The Custodes didn't sing, did not cheer, but stomped the ground, slammed their weapons agains their shields, all as one, making the air vibrate and the ground shake.

Guess what? You own Luna! Aka the fucking moon. Yeah, it was a wedding gift. I mean, technically the Emperor rules over it but in name? It's yours!

Like I said in the first part, if you want to work, then it's mainly administrative duties. It's actually quite important work, since you oversee some real secret government stuff. Not the worst of it, nah, the Emperor leaves that to Malcador.

Something Big E does leave to you? Organizing banquets, feasts and other festivities. Sounds more fun than it is, considering the fact that this also entails overseeing the guest list. Do you know how many people can fit in the (multiple) imperial ballrooms and gardens? A fuckton. And as the 'host' of the party, you get to greet most of them! Isn't that wonderful?

More things the Emperor calls you instead of your name! "Spouse", "my starlight", "dear one", "treasure". Those last three are only in private. Majority of the Imperium don't know your actual name and calls you High Consort. More accurately "the revered ruler of Luna, First Lord/Lady of the Imperial Palace, Keeper of Terra, the one and only High Consort to the one and only Emperor of Mankind". The title somehow gets longer each time.

You make the Emperor a bit less of a douche. He's still a bastard but you make him just a smidge more bearable. Probably because he does care about you. Will he steamroll you in every conversation? Yes. Does he not take your arguments seriously? Yep. Will he dictate every part of your life from the shadows? Yeah. But he does like seeing you happy so he refrains from doing some stuff that he knows would upset you. At least if you're there to see it happen.

The fights you have are fucking wild. You can be absolutely furious, screaming, throwing things at him, and the Emperor will just stand there and be like "You done yet?" which will make you scream and throw some more thing. Big E might try and placate you a little, "Dear, you are acting irrational, calm down", but most of the time he just waits until you get tired. And when you're all out of air he'll go "Good thing we solved that" and LEAVE. Fucking prick.

When Malcador ain't available, you vent to your personal Custodi bodyguard. Yes, they are ultimately loyal to the Emperor and will never badmouth him but this one Custodi will nod along when you call your husband a "rat-fucking-bastard".

It's not all bad of course. The Emperor can be downright romantic when he wants to. He knows all your favorites and always has this in mind when he gives you stuff or does stuff with you. New garden? Filled with your favorite flowers. Anniversary dinner? Your favorite food. A piece of jewelry he acquired on his resent battle on some distant planet? Your favorite color. When you reunite after a long time apart, he kisses your hands. The Emperor loves your smile, loves seeing you happy. All the art work he commissions of you depicts you smiling, from a subtle smirk to smiles where all your teeth shows.

In canon, the Primarchs were made out of the Emperor's and Erda's DNA (with some major gene manipulation in there) and yeah, that's still the truth in this scenario. Except there's also parts of you in there. Because if the Emperor likes you enough to marry you, then you probably have a bunch of traits that he likes. Wisdom, tenacity, courage etc.. So congrats! You now get to co-parent 20 18 of the strongest humans in the Imperium! At least one of them has your smile.

[imperatorbaronius]

So I'm a little too obsessed now and ordered this and the art book (which comes out in February) and it's got some very interesting information about ages and relationships that'll be very useful going forward so I'll drop the ages below and anything else interesting I found

Helm: 55 years old, king for 5 years at this point in time, spent almost his entire life fighting the hill tribes and Dunlendings. This is what makes him a king who dislikes to be challenged ok his authority and decisions

Héra: 19 years old, deep love for nature and especially the more fantastical kind, her horse is Ashere. The rest, I'm sure you remember from the movie itself

Lief: 16 years old, main roles are protecting the old maps and scrolls that keep the laws and customs recorded

Haleth: 30 years old, first in line to the throne, not expected to rule for another 20 years based on Helm's own life. A brawler by nature, he's very intimidating to those who threaten his family and he's known as one of their best warriors skilled in sword, spear and axe

Háma: 22 years old, more of a gentler spirit than his father and brother, more passionate about the songs and legends. He likes to think of himself as a warrior poet and is always carrying his carved lyre. A skilled swordsman but an expert with bow and arrow

Fréaláf: 28 years old, lord of harrowdale and first marshal of the Riddermark, the highest military rank and is charged with protecting Edoras and the surrounding lands. His horse is named éored. He was raised alongside his cousins and so has a deep bond with them all but is not above teasing them frequently. He's also very ready to stand up to Helm if he believes a decision unwise

Olwyn: 45 years old, lady's maid to Héra but more become a mentor than a simple maid or servant. Thought in many battles over the years and has known great loss but finds ways to move forward and doesn't suffer fools. She sees herself in Héra as only she and a few others know Olwyn's past as a shield maiden

Freca: 40 years old, lord of the west-march. He claims to be descended from the fifth king of Rohan, Fréawine but his hair and beard instead cast doubt and suggest the Dunlendish blood runs through his veins instead. Has very little love for the kings of Rohan. Spends a lot of time dwelling on what he doesn't have and pays little heed to the king refusing summons to attend the witan

Wulf: 20 years old. Only son of Freca. His mother has also passed like with Héra. Quiet and intense most of the time, dressing in sombre colours. His belief that Héra loves him is very fragile. Expert in swords and bows. Has very little personal ambition at the start, growing up under his father's shadow and subject to his father's whims, despite this he loves his father and should anything happen he'll repay it tenfold. Should his youthful affection be spurned, that love will turn into a pathologically hatred for Helm, Héra and all the people of Rohan

General Targg: born and raised in Dunland, he has become a trusted advisor to Freca and will likely be key to Wulf's own reign. He is wise and calm but in the heat of battle will fight fiercely yet he retains a deep sense of honour as a warrior

[endearing-dalliance]

the way the Arcane team romanticize the undercity disgusts me

Especially in the new art book, they talk about how Zaun and Piltover really aren’t as different as they first seem, as they are both heavily invested in technology. Zaun is a bastion of flamboyant body modification and innovative technology. They describe it as a refuge for outcasts who are looking for a home, where people are free from Piltover’s rigid rules and politics. A communal place with a thrilling sense that anything is possible. The Firelights are described as a group uses the freedom granted by Piltover not caring about them to find beauty and innovation. People are particularly interested in recycling technology and resources because "nothing is precious and everything can always be made better". Bc obviously that's why poor people fix stuff. They are definitely able to easily replace stuff at any time, but they want to strive for perfection...

In the same breath, they describe Zaun as being oppressed, crushed by Piltover, addicted to Shimmer, having “some issues with the mob”, dangerous, volatile. They talk about how if it was better, people like Jinx and Ekko could use their skills for good. This is the same place that’s a refuge for innovative, flamboyantly augmented outcasts to be able to make wonderful technology?

Notable mention: "we had to design a prison, and that was tricky because Piltover is supposed to be a city of progress - do they really put people in prisons? Maybe only people from the Undercity, and maybe they put them really far away" like seriously does nobody realize how fucked up that is? Your issue with it is the difficulty in designing the prison?

Like have any of these people ever actually met someone who lives in an irl place like Zaun? Heard of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs? Opened any book or video on heavily polluted urban areas?

On top of that, the undercity is filled with negative stereotypes. Many of the characters are “bad” in some way, whether that be missing body parts, mentally damaged, filthy, an addict. Their food is tentacles, a drooling animal head, and a dish that looks very much like slugs in mud sauce (vs Piltover’s “normal” sandwich). Many of the people are all dressed punk/goth/sexy and look “dangerous”. This season, I expected them to address those stereotypes and show how Zaun has equal value to Piltover. That those differences don’t make people hateable or disgusting or deserving of their misery. Instead, we got “actions have consequences” theme and a dying man who suffered from chronic pain and mobility issues his entire life being told that his imperfections make him beautiful. (She-Ra did that line already and did it much better.) Because using tech/magic to fix his leg and spine strip him of his humanity.

The team have said they were specifically inspired by the current political climate in the US, specifically the two-party system within one nation divided and unable to reason with each other. But that is an entirely different and incompatible concept. Zaun literally doesn’t get a vote, and that kind of lack of political representation is literally why America rebelled against England. Its not as simple as them just talking it out or getting a single vote. And for me it explains why the conflict fizzled out in season 2 and felt so unresolved. I was expecting independence, which is the only solution to colonial oppression, but the creators gave us a fix for the political party problem they thought they were showing. We only got to see the Piltie’s viewpoint of Zaun, and it was unflattering specifically in the ways that are in real life associated classism, body shaming, and cultural shaming. They were never redeemed or validated, and almost everyone repeatedly proved the Pilties were right about them all along. In season 2, all the bad guys were Zaunites (Jinx, Viktor, Skye, Vanwick, Singed kind of) aided by a foreign power also trying to use them, and the solution was for them not to be part of their world anymore. They were too broken, too evil, too violent to remain. And for the rest, their only use was to die protecting the Pilties from one of their own people (whose autonomy wasn't even respected by his own partner and became his own worst nightmare). Instead of it being this glorious, Marvelesque fight where everyone bands together against one common enemy, it’s just another situation in which they are brutally exploited.

And I would genuinely be OK with all of this as some sort of tragic story that ended terribly for everyone and there was no real solution or progress, just more bloodshed. A tale of caution.

But the creators have been very clear that they feel that this is an appropriate ending to the story and the individual characters’ stories. Specifically, they are pushing this idea that the finale was to show the characters facing the consequences of their actions. But the characters themselves aren’t the problem, it’s the society that they are living in that basically corrupted everything it touched. Mel and the council manipulated and pressured Jayce and Viktor into making weapons instead of technology that was designed to help people, while also ignoring Viktor’s steadily worsening health problems that *they caused*. Vi and Jinx were repeatedly traumatized, orphaned, and weaponized. Cait literally got away with being a dictator, but even she was manipulated by someone who was only ever able to establish power by taking advantage of the situation. Singed (OG Piltie) literally committed war crimes and got everything he wanted. And according to the creators, everyone got what they deserved. Piltover received no punishment or retribution for their oppression. The undercity got no apology or redemption/validation. Piltover got no significant consequences. They’re still in power, still rich, still have Hextech, still oppressing the undercity. And I guess that's what they deserve.

What a load of absolute horseshit. I had a lot of expectations for season 2, but "the arcane team are actually Pilties in the worst way possible" was absolutely not one of them. I'm genuinely devastated.

[happy74827]

Burning Bridges

[Dexter Morgan x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Upon an incident that was out of your control, Dexter comes to the realization that it wasn't just a coincidence.

WC: 1951

Category: Slight Angst, Hurt/Comfort

I forgot how much I missed this show (him), so I decided to write another. It's been so long since I last wrote for him that I actually see the difference in my writing. It's wack.

『••✎••』

Dexter was many things… a brother, a son, a pro bowler, a serial killer… but what he lacked was being a good friend.

He didn't understand friendship or its value. It was something that he simply couldn't grasp. Sure, he was able to fake it well enough in order to make sure that people liked him and didn't find him too creepy or strange, but there was never any real emotional connection. In his mind, everyone was either someone he needed or someone he didn't need, and he would treat them accordingly. The only exceptions to this rule were his sister, Debra, and you.

The two of you had met back in college, having been assigned to be each other's partners for a group project. It was a poetry class and a course that Dexter hadn't really wanted to take, but a general education requirement and the promise of an easy A convinced him to at least show-up and suffer through it. Well, for a guy who had to fake every single aspect of his personality in order to fit in with society, it turned out that poetry didn’t come quite as easily as he thought it would.

He had always found the art form to be rather silly, with all the emphasis on metaphors and flowery language. There was no purpose or goal other than to be creative and artsy, and it bored him to no end. The first time you had sat down with him to discuss the project, you could tell how much he didn't want to be there, and the look of complete disinterest on his face as he tried to figure out what your poem meant was the most hilarious thing that you had seen in a while. You couldn't help but laugh, the sound of which made him sit up and give you a quizzical look.

"What?" He asked, tilting his head slightly, confused.

"Nothing," you replied, still giggling. "It's just that I can tell that you don't like poetry."

"Why would you think that?"

"Because you haven't said a word; you're just sitting there, staring off into space and twirling your pencil between your fingers," you told him, and he glanced down at the utensil as if he didn't realize that he was doing that.

"Oh. Sorry, I guess," he apologized, his tone making it clear that he was actually a little annoyed at having been called out on his inattentiveness.

"That's okay. I like poetry, so I'll be happy to do most of the work," you offered, smiling sweetly, and his eyebrows raised.

And that you did. In fact, you loved it so much that you majored in English and planned on getting your Masters, while Dexter got his degree in criminology. It was a nice trade-off because while he struggled in poetry, getting down into the debts of his feelings that were nonexistent, you struggled with chemistry, unable to wrap your head around the subject no matter how hard you tried.

So, the two of you had a mutually beneficial agreement. You did all the work for the poetry class, and in exchange, he tutored you in chemistry and made sure that you got a decent grade. Once the class was over and done with, the two of you stayed friends, though you had very little in common. Dexter had no interest in books, and you had no interest in criminology. He was a loner, and you had plenty of friends. You were a romantic, and he was completely unromantic. He didn't even have a girlfriend, and you had been in three different relationships over the course of the two years that you had known him.

Still, the two of you got along well enough. You were one of the only people that Dexter could actually stand for more than five minutes, and he was the same to you. So you went out to the bar sometimes, hung out with his sister, and did your best to keep him company while also doing your best to try to set him up on dates, hoping that one of these days, he'd actually find someone. It eventually did work out when you found him Rita, but as of right now, she had broken up with him, and he was back to being a lonely bachelor which it didn't bother him much until now.

You were in the hospital, your head wrapped and bandaged like a mummy. You were apparently attacked outside the grocery store, and if it wasn’t for the small instructions he had given you for self-defense, you most likely wouldn’t have survived.

At first, Dexter didn’t think of it as anything important in terms of his line of work. He believed it to be a coincidence, a random crime in the night. But it turned into something more the night he decided to visit with some cake.

“How’s the head?” He asked as he came inside, seeing you propped up reading. Of course, you were reading.

You shrugged. “Like I’m wearing a sweater hat, but it doesn't hurt, so there's that." You paused, setting down your book and glancing at him. "I’m still salty about my groceries. Almost two hundred dollars I spent on that stuff. Gone. Wasted. Poof."

Dexter had to chuckle a bit. "Hey, I can't do much about the food, but I brought you something," he said, revealing the white box.

"Is it chocolate? If it is, I love you," you joked.

"No, it's just vanilla. But, here."

He opened the lid and showed you, and you immediately lit up.

"Awww, Dexter! You are the best friend ever," you gushed, giving him a warm smile.

He smiled back. "It's the least I could do."

He was cutting it up for you when he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. You didn’t seem to notice, but out in the hall, a shadow passed by the window. His body went on alert, eyes flickering towards the door. He couldn’t see much, but he could make out an elderly man with gray hair and a beard.

Dexter's face remained unchanged, though his body language betrayed him as he sat the cake knife down. He knew that look. That look in a man's eyes when he was looking at prey. This was a predator.

"Hey, uh, what was that description again? Of the man who attacked you," Dexter asked, his tone a bit distracted.

"You mean Santa Claus on drugs? That pretty much sums it up. Why?" You looked up, confused.

"I don't know. It's probably nothing."

But it was something. The man had apparently come back to finish the job, and Dexter's jaw clenched at the thought. He was already planning his death in his mind. It wouldn’t be pretty. He gave you a piece of cake, swearing that he’d be back soon before going after the man. He stopped at the lobby momentarily, informing Angel to keep an eye on you, which, of course, the cop complied with.

Angel was a good cop. He was loyal, smart, and a damn good shot. But there was one thing that made him a great cop. He cared about his city and the people in it. He would protect the innocent no matter the cost, especially when it came down to those he was closest to. He was the kind of guy who would risk his life without a second thought if it meant saving others.

This is why Dexter liked Angel and why he was the only one that he trusted with this job.

Finding the man was extremely easy on his part. Dexter already knew what the guy’s plan was, so he stuck around outside the parking lot, watching the shadows. After a few minutes, the man appeared, heading towards the entrance once again.

He never got that far.

A hand was clamped over his mouth while the other dragged him away from the double doors and towards the side of the building. Dexter didn’t pull out his knife, though, only resorting to his arms as he applied pressure against his throat. The man fought, trying to break free, but he didn't get the chance. Dexter didn’t kill him, no, not yet, but his arm was still strong, and he had no plans to let go.

“Listen closely. If you so much as look the wrong way, I will rip your heart out and shove it down your throat. Understand? Nod if you do," he threatened, his voice calm and even. The man nodded, terrified, his eyes wide.

"Good," Dexter replied, “Why are you here?"

The man was quiet, but he was breathing heavily, and his eyes were watering.

"Talk. That girl, why are you after her?"

"I’m not—”

"You attacked her, and now you came back to finish the job, did you not? Who sent you?"

The man was sweating; his face was flushed and red. Dexter was pressing too hard, and his victim was starting to lose air. He didn’t care.

"Who?" He repeated.

The man choked, unable to speak.

"Last chance. Who sent you? And don't lie to me."

The man didn’t answer, and Dexter tightened his hold. That finally did it. The man began to squirm violently, trying to break free, but it was too late. His face started to turn purple, and Dexter had to adjust his grip and pull him closer.

“It wasn’t personal! I had to! I didn't have a choice! It was just a job!" He gasped out, struggling for air. “I got paid to do it. I was just doing what I was told! Please, please, don't kill me."

"Who was it?"

"I—I don’t know. It was some lady. I met her at a bar. She didn’t give her name, but he wasn’t American. She gave me ten thousand dollars and told me that the job was to attack this chick in the parking lot and make it look like an attempted robbery. Said it had to be done in a couple of days. Listen, man, I didn't want to do it. But the money—"

"What did she look like?" Dexter cut in.

"Dark hair. Young. I don't know! I don't know, I swear. She wore sunglasses the whole time. Please, don’t kill me. Please."

Suddenly, it hit him like a ton of bricks. The Dark Passenger was roaring, the realization washing over him like cold water.

Lila.

Everything made sense now. The way she had suddenly showed up out of nowhere, the incident outside the bowling alley, her sudden interest in you. It all made sense. She was behind it. She had done it.

Dexter wanted to snap the man's neck. He wanted to rip his throat out. He wanted to take his knife and stab him over and over again, to punish him for what he had done to you, but he refrained. He had the answers he needed, and the cameras around were still running.

He dropped him and watched him collapse, gasping for air. He didn't move, too scared and in shock to do so. Dexter didn’t say a word; his anger was silent, but it was boiling beneath his skin.

He was going to kill her. He was going to hunt her down and end her, and there was no place on Earth where she could hide.

“You ever, and I mean ever, come near her again; I will tear out your spine and make you choke on it. Understand?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I understand."

Dexter didn’t say anything else; he simply walked off, his hands stuffed into his pockets. He had a lot to think about.

[voices-in-dark-violets-head]

"Be Yourself", says the Furry Fandom.

And yet, as with many things in life, it's far easier said than done.

I've found that 'being myself' can take a lot of bravery, but I want to tell you why it's so, so important.

Storytime!

At Eurofurence this year, I ran the e621 Gameshow for the third year in a row. And for the third year in a row, we were over capacity. As in, security-comes-in-to-tell-people-to-leave levels of over capacity (Which, my dear sympathies once again with those who had to go!)

We had a crowd that was there for an hour and a half of weird furry porn. Who cheered for horsecock. Who delighted in Falco Lombardi macro art. A hundred people - a quarter of the room - gleefully admitted to being into vore.

The atmosphere was electric, and I hadn't even needed my e-stim kit. This was a crowd who rejoiced in the adult side of the fandom!

And then I asked them - how many people had a fetish they'd be nervous admitting to?

A third of the room raised their hands.

In a room that had been laughing moments earlier about the amount of Mufasa/Simba porn, or getting a 100% success rate on guessing popular cock shapes, 1/3 of them weren't confident in revealing those same parts of themselves.

I don't think this is rare.

I've had folks ask me if I get hate for the kind of art I draw (not really much at all, by the way). But worse, I get people telling me - they wish they could draw what they want, write the characters they love… but they fear what others might say.

I've had commissioners remain anonymous, for fear of people knowing what they're into. Known artists start up alt accounts, so that they can draw a kink without their friends knowing. Writers wringing their hands over possible reactions to their stories.

And I would love to tell you it's all just fear - but truth is, it isn't.

Because it ain't just the big patron sites that are swinging the axe on the 'too weird'. Our own sites - our communities - sharpen their restrictions. Whole kinks, loving and accepted, are now 'too far'.

We're fearing the gaze from the outside. We're hearing their derision. And that can scare us, cause us to hide not just ourselves, but those around us. "What if they think that I'm into that? What would they say? I need to prove I'm not!"

We all crave love and acceptance. And in a fandom formed in rejection from society, don't we just hold such ideals even more tightly? So much so that the very idea of this same community throwing us out - for being ourselves? Of course it's terrifying.

But it turns out, even us outcasts, outsiders… we can all hold prejudices. We all have the ability to draw lines, and give too little thought to what that means. We can so easily turn our own opinions, our fear of what others think of us, into rules that hurt and exclude.

And therein lies the issue. "Be yourself", says the fandom, without stopping to consider how treacherous, how thorned that path can be. To be yourself, sometimes, is to suffer the disgust of those who would tell you to do it in the first place.

But… I'm missing something.

Thing is, this fandom isn't based on any one thing. We're not just here because Zootopia was a kinda cool movie, or Twokinds is pretty sexy, or StarFox looks good when he's fifteen stories tall.

We follow no one IP, no webcomic, no TV show. We follow only one thing:

Ourselves.

WE make the fandom we live in. We're dozens of sexualities, a hundred meetups and conventions, a thousand discord servers and Telegram channels, a million pictures and stories and alt-accounts and roleplays…

We decide what we are.

Aren't we the haven of the weird? The questioning of sexualities? The taboo, even incomprehensible kinks? We joke about vore, knots, gratuitous foot fetishists, but isn't that what makes this place home? Isn't every artist drawing obvious kink art following a beautiful legacy?

We are the monsterfuckers. The maw-obsessed, the paw-sluts, the musk-lovers (er, not that one). With every fetish we draw, every kink we commission, every smut-filled story and problematic character and taboo-laden roleplay…

We're the fandom, making ourselves.

Through being myself, through art and stories and chats and servers, I've found new communities. New friends. New ways to think, new art to enjoy. I've found love, deeper than I ever thought possible.

I've found myself.

And I've been told that through my artwork, stories, friend groups, I've helped people do the same. They've found the words to describe what's been inside them this whole time.

They've found they're not alone.

It's one of the sweetest and most delightful things I've heard.

Yes, it takes bravery to be yourself. You risk being misperceived, either accidentally or wilfully. You risk hurt. You risk confusion. But it's nothing you haven't done before. And in its wake, you will find yourself.

Do not let other people dictate who you are.

Do not let other people dictate who you are.

So when I say to keep furry weird, this is what I mean. Find that part of yourself that yearns to be free, and make this fandom the place for it.

Be yourself. Be so amazingly yourself that your very existence is an act of rebellion.

And Keep. Furry. Weird.

[spookieloverslittlemind]

How protective are they…

includes: Michael Myers, Pinhead, Brahms Heelshire, Art the Clown, Sun and Moon (fnaf), Marta (Outlast 2)

a/n: it’s grey and rainy outside yk what that means

Michael

Is this a joke. Michael will literally kill anyone who breathes your air if you ask him to. In fact, at the start of your relationship you had to set a boundary by telling him not to kill every person you encounter, unless you give him the clear (given those kills aren’t his own random kills, he allows you to set a rule of “don’t just kill everyone”). This stems from him walking out your front door, following the mail man one time. Michael is the epitome of the “me and my bitch don’t argue she tell me shut up and I do” trope when it comes to you except his version of shutting-up is putting down the knife. That said, you’ve got plenty of time to stop Michael because he’s only ever walking after someone, so there’s not much danger of him accidentally killing the wrong person. When, however, you do give him the green light to commit murder in the first degree…Michael’s all over it like a bad rash. You’ve never seen him walk with more purpose than when you’ve sighed and said “fine” to him killing someone. Once, you made the mistake of telling Michael he was allowed to threaten but not kill - you were very specific - man who’d been bothering you at work. At first, you thought the guy was just off sick for a couple of days out of pure fear from his encounter with Mike. Then you started seeing the missing person posters. You had one of them on the dining room table when Michael next came to visit and he just tilted his head with the closest expression he can pull to resemble 🥺👉🏻👈🏻 behind the black eye holes of his mask.

Pinhead

Is this a joke. Pinhead can and will summon a portal to any circle of Hell of his choosing to forcibly grab any mf that tries you in any capacity via chains and drag them to eternal suffering. He doesn’t even have to be there to witness the crime before he’s playing judge, jury and executioner that omniscient bastard. He’s very calm and collected about his protectiveness unless someone actually hurts you, in which case he personally handles their eternal torture. Pinhead doesn’t have much of a concept for politeness but the first time he felt the energy of a cashier being less than friendly to you he summoned a portal and you had to rush home to explain that any poor soul working in customer services suffers enough and should not be sent to Hell for being less than happy working in a different kind of Hell for minimum wage. Thankfully, Pinhead brought them back and erased their memory (and injuries) so that trauma never really happened and he learned a valuable lesson that day x

Brahms

Is this a joke. Brahms will not hesitate to kill anyone that sets foot in the house unless you give him a full briefing on, like, your sister coming to visit or something. He’s more lenient with women coming over because he likes watching you smile as you talk to them from where he resides behind the walls but men? Hahahaha. You’re funny. Real funny. You should try standup. ‘Cause you know who’s standing up whenever a man’s voice is heard. And you know who’s killing them with his bare hands. It’s rare anyone has the opportunity to upset you because you’re trapped in Brahms’ mansion, but he’s the kind to track down the exact piece of paper that gave you a paper cut and tear it to shreds. Burn it. Eat it. So it’s fair to say Brahms is very, very protective. It’s a good thing he’s not allowed out, really.

Art

Is this a joke. Like everything about him, Art’s protective nature is…unique, but he’s definitely got it. He’ll watch someone upset you until it makes you cry and then flay a man, type beat. If anyone physically hurts you then yeah, they’re dead, but apart from that he likes to test how far someone will go to upset you before he steps in to act their punishment. Surprisingly, Art’s a lot more laidback than others on this list when it comes to not wanting to kill every person you come in contact with; he’s more prone to jealousy, really, because if he sees someone else making you laugh anywhere close to the amount he makes you laugh, he will want to gut them. And he probably will when you’re out of the room. And he’ll dispose of the body before you get back and mime something about “oh 😱 they had to go ☹️👉🏻 suddenly 🤭” and then you never hear from that person again, for reasons Art pretends he doesn’t know.

Sun and Moon

Is this a joke. Sun is incapable of withholding Moon if you get even mildly disrespected in any given circumstance they’re so protective of you, just hearing about you being upset is enough to get Moon appearing. Sun’s the type to remind you that you are safe and he (and Moon) will never let anyone or anything hurt you. Moon’s the type to shout at and throw toys that have hurt you or tripped you up in the Daycare. Sun is very good at comforting you and cheering you up after the fact, but it’s Moon who handles the punishment. He’s been known to leave the Daycare out of working hours to hunt down “naughty” people, and because you’ll feel guilty about it he deliberately doesn’t tell you the things he does, except to say “they will not upset you again…🌚”

Is this a joke. This servant to God has dedicated her life to cleansing the world of heretics and you think she won’t disembowel every soul that blasphemes in the presence of God’s purest gift to her? She may not have a sense of humour but you, my friend, are hilarious. Marta doesn’t understand petty offences of someone being unkind to you, unless you explain it to her, but as soon as she comprehends the fact you are even remotely unsettled by someone’s presence…God has whispered that person’s fate in her ear, and she won’t hesitate to bring it forth. Marta is not someone you can reason with, so people very quickly accept that to harm you, your spirit or your purity in any conceivable way, is to sign their own death warrant. You can’t stop her, either, because unfortunately when you say “they hurt my feelings”, God sends her a telepathic message that’s the equivalent of “🫵🏻👁️👁️👉🏻🔪”

[hajihiko]

please share you D&D characters (if you’d like to)! I am intrigued

you can find a lot about them on my personal art blog @aldasart and my YouTube channel (link in pinned post) BUT HELL YEAH ILL TALK ABOUT THEM MORE i am ALWAYS ready to ramble about my babies

Vrey: (tifeling warlock)

the OG baby's-first-serious-character so she has so much angst. Stolen from her mommy, cult baby, horribly psychologically abused until she snaps and makes a pact with an eldritch god for revenge....against whom, who can say (it might be the God itself). She got indoctrinated to a team of other fucked up ppl and scored a villainous boyfriend for the ages. Also she's like the daughter of Satan and next in line to rule the underworld. She plays the violin badly.

Ca: (aaracokra ranger)

Just a simple bird from a non-serious campaign. They're an American crow with a southern accent that really loves their family (and cheetah sorta-boyfriend). They're aro-ace and an arrow-ace!

Dana: (shifter barbarian)

My current active baby that i love so so so much. They're pangender and can feel no physical pain, behind those empty dumb eyes is a lot of turmoil that neither I nor she understands. Has bad history with any kind of romantic/affectionate feelings. Dumb as hell. Also a demigod???

Cairn: (necromancer zenadrim/giant)

Sweet baby huge guy whom no one wants and he is so so afraid. He has a mechanism in his back that allows a wielder to control his body and senses, and they sure do! He has suffered a lot for it! Mental torture style! Nonetheless he somehow has a very close team and two potential love interests (basically confirmed they're all VERY close). Also he's gay.

[olderthannetfic]

https://www.tumblr.com/olderthannetfic/772829987712778240/i-think-people-who-know-mouthwash-might-know-abt?source=share

I haven't heard of this so I put "sexy boob elf Anya" into duckduckgo image search. Sure enough, it was the first result.

The way anon described this, I was expecting like stark naked bimbofication fetish with boobs the size of houses and overt noncon dialogue or humiliation and bondage. Not that that would make what anon describes OK, but you'd expect that something that provokes that extreme a reaction in people would be a bit out there.

But these are antis, I should have known better than to expect anything other than what I got, which is just a nervous tsundere cartoon elf with her bra and panties peeking through her clothes. Her hips are cartoonishly wide, but her boobs are pretty reasonable for the art style.

Nothing about this really says noncon or sexual assault to me. Maybe she's an SA victim in canon? But all I'm getting from the image itself is "please be gentle, it's my first time".

https://rule34.xxx/index.php?page=post&s=view&id=11806670

Rule34 has comments locked (which only happens when there's a troll party) and the ones that haven't been deleted are things like

^^ you cannot tell someone on R34 to put their clothes back bruh

and

Why is this site suddenly full of kids who suffer nervous breakdowns whenever they see a character drawn in a way they don't like, this is a fucking porn site, go back to Tiktok or wherever you came from if you can't handle it

And here, lets credit the poor artist, who is just doing what the rest of us are doing and presenting a character they like in a manner which they find appealing.

https://x.com/USA37107692/status/1859987790840426657?mx=2

Also note that the artist has not published their gender or sexuality and any assumptions about them are just that, assumptions.

--

*dying*

Yeah, Rule 34 comments post troll ejection are always hilarious. Even the wanks not coming in from outside are like "I don't come here to see GAY shit!" vs. "Bro, everyone likes Link. Shut up and learn how the blacklist function works, you incompetent."

[okuhle23]

Astrology Observations- 020

Saturn in the 12th house can mean that you've got a fear of abandonment, this is because the 12th house rules one’s fears, and Saturn can represent abandonment. 

Having a lot of Mercury or Neptune aspects in your chart can mean that you tend to get distracted easily, and have quite a short attention span. This is me fr, because I cannot finish a whole movie without checking my phone or something. 

People with Moon conjunct Ascendant, may be told that they resemble their mother a lot, this is because the ascendant rules one’s appearance and the moon represents one’s mother. 

Pisces mercury is the true sweet talker placement, these people will tell you what you want to hear, and you’ll be charmed. They also tend to be good singers. Singers with this placement include: Rihanna, Pharrell Williams, Justin Timberlake and Lady Gaga. 

Moon square Mars often don't like being vulnerable and showing people their emotions. This is because Moon represents one's emotions, while Mars is an aggressive planet, and so in this instance, the square aspect is causing the two planets to oppose each other instead of working together.

Having Mercury as your dominant planet, or having Mercury aspecting your personal planets can mean that you often suffer from hayfever, headaches or anemia.

Prominent Gemini placements often have glowing skin because Gemini rules the oxygenation of blood,  and therefore= glowing healthy skin. This is why Geminis are often associated with looking really young.

Mars rules piercings, the sign in which Mars is located can show which areas you'd wanna pierce or have already pierced. It can also show which piercings would really suit you. 

 ♂ Mars in Aries: you may have facial piercings such as eyebrow, monroe piercings etc

♂ Mars in Taurus: nose and ear piercings would look really good on you

♂ Mars in Cancer: nipple piercings and belly ring would suit you well

♂ Mars in Libra: you’d look really good with a belly ring and dimple piercings 

Where your Mercury is placed can show what you frequently think about: 

Mercury in the 1st: you may  think about about your interests, and you may enjoy telling others about yourself. 

Mercury in the 2nd: you may talk about money quite a bit. 'If I were rich I'd....' You also like to think of ways to spoil yourself and make more money.

Mercury in the 3rd: you like to spread fun facts, and also talk about the new things that you've learnt. You may often think about your siblings/ cousins.

Mercury in the 4th: you can clearly express yourself around your family. You can also talk about real estate often, or you like imagining how your future house would look. You may think about how it would be like having kids. You often think about your past and how you could have done things differently.  

Mercury in the 5th: you like talking to new people and you enjoy socializing. You could also talk about your art (if you make any) or you enjoy talking about your hobbies. You may be constantly coming up with new ideas relating to your hobbies. 

Mercury in the 6th: you probably like to talk about ur job. You could also like talking about your future/daily plans. You may often think about your health too. 

Mercury in the 7th: you probably (pretty frequently) think about what it would be like to be in love, you also prolly read FS pacs (I see u👀). If you've got a partner, they prolly live rent free in your mind💕😌. 

Mercury in the 8th: you like to think about how you can transform yourself (whether it be clothing style to the way u think).

Mercury in the 9th: you could think about your spiritual journey/your God or religion quite a bit. You could also like talking about your university/college. 

Mercury in the 10th: you may often think about what you want to do in the future (career-wise). You may also think about your reputation, and the first impressions u make.

Mercury in the 11th: you often think about your friends. You may also think about the injustices of the world (racism, misogyny, domestic abuse, climate change, global warming etc etc). 

Mercury in the 12th:  you can think about what haunts you from your past (as 12th house rules the subconscious mind). You also may think about the secrets that you keep from others (whether those secrets are yours or not). Your thoughts also manifest into your reality, you’re really good at manifesting.

Mercury square Pluto can make others misunderstand your words. Others may also be quite offended when you share your opinions, even if you don't actively try to offend others. 

Saturn in the 3rd house can mean that you sometimes have problems breathing normally. This is because Saturn represents restrictions, and the 3rd house rules the lungs. You may also have a respiratory illness, like asthma or something. This placement can also mean that you have anxiety in front of people, or that your voice is really quiet, you may be asked to repeat yourself often. 

♀♀♀♀♀♀♀♀♀♀♀♀♀♀♀♀♀♀♀♀♀♀♀♀♀♀♀♀♀♀♀♀♀♀♀♀♀♀♀

Thank you for getting this far, let me know which observations resonated with you in the comments below. If you enjoyed these, click here to access my paid readings <3. Until next time my lovelies. <33

x Okuhle ♥

[bardicbird]

Working on my own Disco Elysium skills! Individual art pieces and descriptions (in the style of the game) below the cut :]

DIALECTICS

Examine verbal landscapes. Get to the truth of the matter.

Cool for: Logicians, Philosophers, Asshole Devil’s Advocates

Dialetics urges you to look beyond the basics of conversation. It encourages you to discuss theories, truths and falsehoods, until you exhaust everyone around you with your sheer affinity for taking the most convoluted routes to your deductions—but, hey, it works! Those people are only *really* annoyed because you very accurately psychoanalyzed them.

At high levels, Dialectics will help you reason with even the most convoluted of situations. You will be an unstoppable detective, who may occasionally suffer from some unintended side effects such as: your brain and mouth moving too fast, overcomplicating little things, becoming an insufferable jerk, and joining your local debate team. With low levels of Dialectics, you’re going to have a difficult time seeing through both worldly and interpersonal deceptions. You may find yourself being taken advantage of. 

EVOCATION

Recall emotions and imagery. Paint complete pictures of the past. 

Cool for: Visualizers, Chronic Observers, Witnesses Of Crimes

Evocation allows you to call forth memories that may otherwise be lost in the recesses of your mind. Previous instances of sound, touch, taste, feeling, sight—all of these are at your beck and call: able to be summoned within and around you in a great miasma of experience. You will be able to relive important events, even those that were only mere seconds, and examine them closer to reveal what you couldn’t comprehend in the moment. 

At high levels, Evocation will help you reimagine scenes that may have happened years ago, lasted the length of a blink—or, perhaps, even allow you to picture memories that you were not present for. You will find yourself constantly transported to the past: a single whiff of a familiar perfume enough to completely derail your senses. With low levels of Evocation, you’re going to have a hard time remembering simple conversations and potentially important visual details. You will have to rely on others in such scenarios. 

BODY OF LAWS

Know your rights. Remember fun courtroom trivia. 

Cool for: Lawyers, Law-Evaders, Stick-In-The-Muds

Body Of Laws is responsible for your ability to follow the law at any given time—or don’t! Just because you know the rules doesn’t mean you have to play by them. Regardless, it certainly allows you to recall a, frankly, embarrassing amount of your government’s regulations, and may encourage you to ‘stay in your lane’, so to speak, regarding them. Governments aren’t the only entities that enact rules, though: you will also find yourself privy to understanding unspoken boundaries set by people, nature, and even your subconscious self.

At high levels, Body Of Laws will either make you an *extremely* insufferable goody-two-shoes, or a *wildly* effective cheat-of-the-system. You may end up feeling suffocated by all these restrictions you can so clearly see, causing you to become complicit with the movings of the machine—or potentially apathetic to why we need some of these restrictions in the first place. With low levels of Body Of Laws, you may find yourself accidentally violating boundaries you didn’t know existed—whether they be legal, personal, or cultural. 

[bonefall]

Unrelated to the new book blurb:

do you have any tips on processing the absolute mess that is the family tree? Like, how does one put it into smaller bites for re-doing/adjusting? How does one even begin to rework it when it's such a confusing tangle?? I'm just so overwhelmed by the tree(s), and I've read the whole series (because I would love to re-work it, but FUCK).

I will be 100% earnest with you; reworking the tree from scratch as a single person is both difficult and time consuming. I have a penchant for it, and even I'm not completely done. I make my reduxed trees totally free to use so that others at least have a jumping-off point for your own "cleaner" Clans.

So my most helpful tip would probably be Don't. PLEASE take my trees and cut them, prune them, bonsai them, clean them up even more than I did, anything you'd like. I do not wish this fate on my worst enemy.

That said-- let's say you love pain as much as I do, or you just want to see how much work I put into these trees. I'll babble about my process.

This is my WIP file for the ShadowClan Family Tree. Consider this image a content warning for self-inflicted pain and suffering 💕

Uhhh and also; an ACTUAL, serious content warning. Because of the nature of them asking how to fix trees on their own, I have to talk a little about incest. It comes with the territory.

A few things to know before you start;

You will need a FUCK OFF MASSIVE monitor for this. Mine is an ASUS a little under 2 feet long-- I've tried doing this on my smaller, secondary monitor, and these trees just get too big to work on.

FamilyEcho will not cut it. You NEED an art program. You will have to do this by hand, because there is no lineage-drawing tool that can handle families this large and tangled.

You will need to decide your "rules" beforehand. How closely related are you allowing valid couples to be? Are you allowing Queen's Rights? Can you add OCs, and if so, how often? On this point-- I have my Three Strict Rules, and do not use OCs. Because of this, I do a LOT of research beforehand and usually have the wiki open as I work on these. I'm always scouring for forgotten warriors to use for this.

There are going to be multiple drafts. You will not do this in one go. That does not mean you "failed" or you're "stuck," that's a good thing.

With all of that out of the way.

Usually, the first thing I do is pick a Clan to work on. There's over 1,000 cats in this series, so I break that up by picking one group at a time. Once I do that, I draw out the canon chart.

In this case, I've already drawn out all of the canon charts. River, Thunder, Shadow, Sky, Wind.

I call this a Diagnosis because I'm taking a look at what the problem is, so that I know what I'm fixing. In Shadow's case, it's a solid brick of inbreeding with a "missing generation" line. In ThunderClan's case, it's mostly a Robinwing x Fuzzypelt problem. Each Clan has its own unique issues.

Once you know the issue, step two, start drawing out what you want to do and keep. For example, let's say that you want to use the Ivy/Dove as Holly/Cinder kittens idea.

I generally try to start with the "modern" cats and work backwards, but it can also be helpful to just doodle out floating "branches" that you want to work in backwards.

You can see examples of those in my ShadowClan draft, up there, but I've zoomed in and circled them.

Don't be afraid to draw "notes" like this. You can just grab them and drag them around when something clicks!

Getting back to our "example" tree with Holly/Cinder Ivy/Dove, you might notice now that Lionblaze has no mate. Another thing I do when I see an immediate problem but don't have a solution in mind yet is use a little ? mark. You don't want to get hung up on deciding everything RIGHT away.

Now, this is where my 3 Strict Rules would come into play, in two ways! I'm sure you'll be able to spot them. For one, Lionblaze has waaaaay too many kids here who would go on to have kittens of their own, so I'd start breaking them up. For two, this tree makes Ivypool and Fernsong a first cousin pairing, something I don't allow.

You can fix this in any number of ways, and I'm sure there's someone out there shouting their preferred Lionblaze ships and Alt Fernsong Parents like they're the crowd on a game show, but for this demonstration I'm going to do this;

Here, I decided I didn't want to undo FernIvy, but I still want Fernsong to be Clanborn with two parents, so I have removed him from Lionblaze and given him unknown family. I've also taken Sorrelstripe and Spotfur, and moved them to a little spot on the side. I can now use them to patch up the little ? placeholders.

You'll also notice this is already becoming a mess. This is why you will need to redraw this a few times, for readability. The best tip I can give you for that is that families who only have one kit to carry on the lineage should go in a long line in the center, but otherwise, offspring who do not have kits should go between their siblings who do.

It's easier to visualize it imo, so here's what I mean;

The vast majority of the time I spend doing these is just "puzzlework." Trying to figure out a way to make line connections look good, making sure cats are far enough apart, trying to make "wishlist" stuff work.

Here's some insight to that with the big ShadowClan mess I showed at the beginning of this post;

And, mind you, this is Draft 3 of this tree. Those grayed-out parts of the first image were my first two. I wasn't satisfied enough with them, so I started from scratch several times!

I wish I could share some kind of good, simple process for this, but unfortunately I don't have one. It's just a lot of work, familiarity, creativity, and problem solving. I spend days, sometimes even weeks on these. My intention is that they can be a fandom resource that's easier to read than the website tree, less carelessly inbred with more thought given to immediate family units, AND more comprehensive.

In any case, I hope this was insightful, or these tips I share helped in some way!

[goblinontour]

Byronic Unhappiness

television and a little bit too much of him

warnings: feelings, self-hatred, suggestiveness, not much happening but it’s implied, kinda sub!alex

word count: 7.1k

He’s been made aware — against his will, of course — that he tends to have a subtle preference for suffering his way through life. The awareness came unbidden, unasked for, like an unflattering photograph slipped under his door, exposing him in some hideous angle he could no longer ignore. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t need it laid bare like that, spelled out in a clarity that burned, leaving him more self-conscious than he cares to admit. The kind of self-consciousness that makes him wonder if he’s always looked like this to the world — a man feigning detachment while secretly clutching his anguish like a talisman.  

Because that’s exactly what he’s doing. He knows it, though he hates knowing it. Hates the way it turned him into a caricature of himself, a pretentious man who regarded suffering not as an affliction, but as some sacred currency, something that might bring him closer to truth. To beauty. To transcendence.  

And so he sits in his car, drowning in the low hum of the engine, or now, in front of a flickering television screen — despite his loftiest resolutions to abstain from such vulgarities. Television? For him? A man so far above the common delights of cars running circles or balls being kicked. And yet there he is, his gaze locked on the screen, letting himself be lulled by the banal rhythm of it all. The predictable rise and fall of action, the simulated drama, this boredom. He despises it. 

But not nearly as much as he despises himself.  

Him. This contemptible creature. A tyrant in his own mind, dictating his own rules of existence. A pendant, draped heavy with the weight of his self-assigned meanings. A crackpot, circling the same tired theories about pain and art and brilliance and decay. And a snob — God, the worst kind. The kind that looks down on everything but can never look away.  

It was this awareness that ruined him most. Not the suffering itself, but the way he had dressed it up, paraded it around as though it were something noble. As though it could save him.

“Are you watching reruns again?”  

Your voice breaks through the thick, stagnant air, and it feels like a needle sliding under his skin. First, the sound of it. Then, the sharp punctuation of your presence: one leg, then the other, until you’re fully in his field of vision. And then — just like that — you’re in the way.  

Between him and the screen. Between him and whatever dull, flickering narrative he had convinced himself was enough to fill the silence.  

A shiver runs through him, involuntary, and he blames it on the draft from the open window brushing against his bare calves. His robe had fallen loose around him, the terry cloth pooling limply on the bed like a flag of surrender. He convinces himself it’s the cold. Not you. Not the abrupt severance of the line of static connecting him to the screen.  

But the connection is gone now. He’s aware of it in the way a man notices his pulse after holding his breath too long.  

“Yeah.” He scratches at his face, nails dragging over the rough grain of his stubble. His tone is clipped, barely containing the irritation that prickles under his skin. “Can you move?”  

If the question wasn’t impolite enough, the way he says it is. There’s a sharpness to it, an edge honed by the hours of restless discontent that had preceded you. The way he gestures with the remote — jerky, almost dismissive — makes it worse. Like you’re a piece of furniture that’s been misplaced. Like you’ve forgotten how to exist correctly in the space around him. 

You don’t move right away.  

Instead, you linger there, in the glow of the screen. A shadow cutting through the dim light. For a moment, you look like an interruption incarnate, something solid and real in the midst of his hollow distractions. It’s maddening, the way your silhouette obliterates the little thread of meaning he’d been holding onto.  

“I’m in your way?” you ask, the words slow enough to show the irritation, so slow it’s as though you’re just now tasting them for the first time.  

He nods once, curtly. “Yeah. You’re in the way.”  

You cross your arms, unmoved. And there’s something about the tilt of your head, the slight narrowing of your eyes, that makes him feel as though he’s been caught in some small, pathetic act. Like you’re reading him — scanning — seeing through his own irritation straight to the ache buried beneath it.  

“What’s so important?” you ask, nodding toward the screen. “What’s worth watching over and over again?”  

The question lands heavier than it should, as if it’s meant to unsettle him. It is. And maybe it does. Because he doesn’t answer right away. Doesn’t look at you. Just keeps scratching at his face, pretending you’re not there. Pretending he’s not been made to feel small by the simplicity of your presence.

“Martha Stewart is making a cake.” he says at last. 

Cake.  

The word lands flat, humorless, as if he’s spitting it out just to end the silence. A verdict, final and immutable. 

His eyes don’t meet yours. They’re locked somewhere near your knee, his hand twitching slightly on the remote. He looks small, folded into himself, his body slouched on the edge of the bed like he’s trying to collapse inward and vanish. His robe hangs loosely off one shoulder, exposing the pale curve of his collarbone, the soft, hollowed planes of his chest. The fabric is bunched awkwardly around his waist, his legs stretched out but restless, the heels of his feet pressing into the carpet.  

“Now can you…?” he adds, gesturing vaguely with the remote, the motion clipped and dismissive. His hand is pale, thin, the tendons flexing visibly under the skin, but the movement is graceless, almost petulant, like he’s trying to swat you out of the air.  

It’s bad. It’s bad, and you’re getting caught in it. You know it’s bad. You can feel it like a hum in the air between you, a sharpness that makes your skin crawl. This Alex — this version of him that stews in his misery, clinging to it like it’s all he has left — is the hardest to be around. And yet, you can’t leave him like this.  

“No.”  

You cross your arms, your posture firm, your body a wall between him and the flickering TV screen. You don’t move, don’t flinch, even as his jaw tightens, his lips pressing into a thin, bloodless line. His eyes flicker up to meet yours for the briefest moment, dark and sharp and full of something that looks too much like loathing. But whether it’s for you or himself, you can’t exactly tell.  

“Babe-”  

“No.” you say, firmer this time. 

Your hands drop to your hips, fingers digging into the fabric of your jeans as you plant yourself more solidly in place. You don’t step aside, don’t grant him even the smallest sliver of his precious view. You block it entirely, eclipsing the screen, erasing the shallow distraction he’s clinging to. His lips part, a protest forming, but you interrupt before he can even begin.  

“No.” you say it again.  

And it’s then you feel it — the shaking. Not visible, not yet, but it radiates from him, a tension vibrating in the space between you. It’s as if his insides are unravelling, thread by thread, and you’re the only one close enough to hear it.  

“Baby, please…”  

“No.”  

A barrier against whatever flimsy excuse he’s about to offer. You’re caught in this Alex, the one who quacks on and on about the infirm, the diseased, the broken — and doesn’t see that he’s the diseased.

His breath hitches, and for a moment, the only sound in the room is the low buzz of the TV, the faint hum of the wind outside. He doesn’t move, doesn’t argue. Not anymore. But you can see it — the way his hands tremble slightly, the way his fingers curl tighter around the remote, like he’s holding onto it for dear life.  

A hand shoots up to his hair, dragging through it roughly, almost violently, his fingers spreading and clawing through it as if he’s trying to rip the thoughts from his skull and make sense of whatever storm is churning inside. But it doesn’t make sense. It never does. His breathing is uneven, shallow, and you can see the tension in his neck, the way his shoulders hunch as if under some invisible weight.  

He judges.

The strands catch between the webs of his fingers, and still, it isn’t enough. You can see it in the way his eyes dart around the room, in the way his lips part as if to speak but then close again, like he’s already decided the words won’t be good enough.

He judges poorly.

You see it. He folds into himself, trying to disappear into the tension, into the hate. The hate he has for himself. The hate he has for the world that dared to leave him here, abandoned in this half-life he never asked for.  

You step closer. Slowly, until you’re standing right in front of him. And so you reach. Your hand finds his hair, fingers curling with purpose, and you pull. Hard.  

His head jerks back, his neck arching, the motion sharp enough to make his whole body jolt and shake the surface of him but not yet touch the source inside. 

“Look at me.” 

And he does. His eyes snap up to meet yours, wide and startled, and for a moment, he’s still. Frozen. His chest rises and falls quickly. Pupils dark, the whole orb glassy with the faint sheen of tears gathering at the edges. And the pain in them is so palpable, it’s like a blade slicing through the space between you. His face is pale, drawn, his cheekbones jutting out sharply. He looks wrecked, utterly and completely undone, and all you can do is to not flinch at the rawness of it. Even though the look on his face wounds you. Not because it’s aimed at you, but because it isn’t. It’s aimed at no one and everyone and mostly himself. All that hate and anger, burning like a furnace with no outlet, no direction.  

And then the droplets fall.  

The first tear falls, tracing its way through the redness of his skin. Then another. They come slowly at first, then faster, and you can feel the way his body trembles under your touch, the way his chest heaves with the effort of holding it all in. They slide down the hard edges of his cheekbones, catching in the curve of his jaw before disappearing into the dark curls by his ears. They carve paths through the anger, leaving behind something softer, something that trembles and begs even as he fights it. Something that asks for his heart — something he’s spent so long denying, because feeling it only makes everything worse.  

He invents faults when he cannot find any.

But you don’t let go. You keep your grip firm, your fingers curling deeper into his hair, forcing him to look at you. His hands shoot out, wrapping around your wrist with enough force to bruise. His grip is so harsh, it’s desperate, but you don’t relent. Not now. You hold firm, even as his nails dig into your skin, even as his chest heaves with that weight of something too big for him to carry but that he forces himself to manage anyway.  

You lean closer, your free hand coming to rest on his shoulder, fingers pressing gently into the tense muscle there. “It’s okay.” you whisper, though you know it won’t fix anything. “I’m here.”  

His eyes narrow, the anger flashing through them like lightning, but it fades just as quickly, replaced by something else. Something softer, more fragile. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, but his grip on your wrist loosens slightly, and his head tilts forward, his forehead brushing against your arm.  

And for a moment, just a moment, he lets himself lean into you. Lets himself feel the warmth of your presence, the solidity of you standing there, refusing to leave.

But his eyes don’t close. He can’t look away. His brain won’t let him.  

So he stares as if you’ve torn something open in him, as if your refusal to let him sink is more terrifying than the sinking itself.  

To no authority, his mind protests, but it falters. Obeying nothing but the mysterious stirrings of his heart and his mind.

And still, you hold him there, locked, refusing to let him escape. Refusing to let him disappear into the nothingness he so desperately craves. Because even if he can’t see it yet, you do. The part of him that still exists, still breathes, still reaches — even when it hurts.

He takes a deep breath that rattles on its way in and barely makes it out. His shoulders shudder, his whole frame trembling like a taut wire about to snap. He’s like a kitten shaking with the pure weight of being alive, fragile and overwhelmed by the sheer effort it takes to exist in this moment. You can hear the struggle in the inhale, the way it scrapes against his throat. And when he exhales, it’s more like a collapse, a hollow sound that speaks of exhaustion and defeat. 

“I hate you.” he whispers.  

It’s cruel, not just in the words but in the stripped, raw silence that follows. The way he looks at you as he says it, straight into the deepest part of you, his gaze sharp and deliberate. There’s no static now — he must’ve turned the TV off without you noticing. No hum to hide behind. Just the weight of his words and the heavy, aching truth that they don’t feel entirely real.  

“You didn’t sleep, did you?” you ask, ignoring the venom in his voice, stepping over it like it’s a crack in the pavement. Your hand moves to his cheek again, brushing away the lingering wetness. He stays still, frozen through the sniffles and shallow breaths, but there’s tension in the set of his jaw. He won’t let himself be viewed as weak, not without his permission. Not against his will.  

“You stayed up again.” you say softly, searching his face. “Your eyes are all veiny and sunken.”  

It’s the story of his insomnia written all over him, etched into the shadows beneath his eyes, the tautness of his skin, the heaviness in the way he holds himself. He doesn’t respond, just stares ahead, his lips pressed into a tight line, willing you to disappear with his silence.  

“I want you to leave.” he says finally.  

“You’re being an asshole.” you reply, without hesitation.  

Because it’s true. His need to criticise the world around him, to pick apart its flaws and failures, can be a force of good sometimes — a way of making sense of the chaos. But there’s a fine line between a critic and an asshole, and Alex has been stumbling over it for years. Sometimes it feels like he’s built a home on that line, living in the cracks of his own discontent. And now, here he is again. Lost in it. Letting it consume him, letting it turn into a mood, a state of being.  

But not this time. Not today.  

“I’m not leaving.” you declare.  

You shift, moving with quiet determination, your leg rising and crossing over his, your body weaving through the valleys of mattress dips and the folds of his robe until you’re settled behind him. He stiffens, but you don’t stop. You wrap your arms around his middle, locking him in place, your legs pinning his down with enough pressure to keep him still without hurting him.  

Your head rests on his shoulder, close enough to hear the uneven cadence of his breathing. Your lips find the curve of his neck, pressing there softly, a quiet gesture of reassurance. Little fragments of empathy, transferred into the mess he’s made of himself.  

And still, he doesn’t fight it.  

He doesn’t struggle, doesn’t pull away. Because the truth is, he can’t. Even if he wanted to. Because the moment you walked in, his narratives — those grand, intricate stories he tells himself about the world, about his place in it — fractured. The version of reality he’s built, where he’s the lone martyr trudging through the cold and the dark, is crumbling under the weight of your presence.  

Your warmth radiates into him, unwelcome and unyielding, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. He wishes it would blind him, scorch him, drive him away from you. But it doesn’t. It only serves to thaw the freezing, brittle parts of him, the parts he’s spent so long keeping locked away.  

All of a sudden, reality doesn’t look so bad.  

His breathing slows under your touch, the trembling in his body easing as you hold him. You don’t say anything, and neither does he. The silence stretches out, heavy but not suffocating, and for once, he doesn’t feel the need to fill it with something sharp, self-defensive or self-destructive.  

For the first time in what feels like forever, he lets himself rest. Not in his narratives, not in his misery, but in you.

“This feels…nice.” he says, so softly that it almost disappears into the space between you. But it’s there.  

But Alex…Alex…Alex.  

Alex, with his restless mind and his perpetual suspicion, can’t leave it at that. Can’t let himself have it. Because it can’t be that simple, can it? That’s what he thinks. That’s what he’s always thought.  

It can’t be that simple, can it? 

That’s the thought spiralling through his mind, relentless and sharp-edged. It can’t just be this. It can’t just be lying here, letting himself feel held, feel wanted, feel human. It can’t just be spending his days — your days — being lazy and letting the world fade away. It can’t just be the warmth of your skin under his hands, the way your lips brush against his neck, the way your arms encircle him as though you could keep him together with nothing but your presence.  

It can’t just be lazy mornings spent tangled in sheets, the two of you drifting in and out of dreams like it’s the only thing that matters. It can’t just be being goofy and silly with you, laughing until his sides ache, or being freaky and intimate and letting himself get lost in the heat of you. It can’t just be the easy rhythm of your hands brushing through his hair, the press of your lips against his neck, the weight of your body grounding him in a way he doesn’t fully understand. It can’t just be lying here, in this fragile moment, with nothing to distract him but the quiet sound of your breathing.  

Even with you, his heart is not content.  

It can’t be.  

Even if he spends every second with you, tangled up in this intimacy, in this love you so freely offer, his heart still won’t settle. There’s something inside him, a gnawing ache that refuses to be soothed.  

Because anything could be propaganda.  

Anything could be a trick, a mirage designed to lure him into complacency. Anything could be delusional thinking — a fantasy spun from the threads of his own desperate longing for connection, for purpose, for something real. Anything could be fooling him into believing in the sense of safety you’re so determined to provide, a trick his mind is playing on him, lulling him into a falseness he can’t discern. 

Anything could be a lie.  

So he has to stay vigilant. He must.

His back presses more firmly against your chest as he’s trying to sit up straighter, sudden and rigid, as if trying to reclaim or impose some semblance of authority over his own body. But even as he does, he’s betrayed. It’s a fragile defiance, one that crumbles the moment your arms tighten around him. Melting down in your arms even as he fights it. Muscles tremble with the effort of keeping himself upright. His breathing is uneven. And the tears keep falling, hot and relentless, unwanted but unstoppable, carving quiet trails down his cheeks like molten rivers through the stubborn set of his face.  

You know this. You know him. You know the fear that clutches at him, the fear of being deluded, of believing in something only to have it ripped away. You’re aware of it. You can’t blame him for it. You don’t understand it entirely, but you recognize the mood. The suspicion. The way he questions every good thing, every moment of peace, everything around him until there’s nothing left but the raw, aching truth. Expecting it to crumble beneath his touch.  

His fear is palpable. 

And you hold him through it.  

You don’t speak. You let your body do the talking, your arms tightening around his middle, your legs shifting to press more firmly against his. Your breath, slow and steady, whispers against his neck, an unspoken reminder that you’re here. That you’re not going anywhere.  

Your lips brush against the side of his jaw, tracing a path to his temple. His skin is damp, and you press a kiss there, gentle and lingering.  

He stiffens, just for a moment, but then he exhales shakily, his body sagging back into yours. The fight is still there — you can feel it, simmering beneath the surface — but he’s letting himself rest in you, if only for a moment.  

“Alex…” you whisper. Your hands move slowly, deliberately, one sliding up to rest over his heart, the other tracing small circles against his stomach. “You don’t have to figure it out right now. You don’t have to know. Just…let it be, for now.”  

He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t have to. You feel the way his breathing begins to even out, the way his hands — still clutching at your wrist — begin to loosen their grip. The way his head tilts slightly, leaning into the crook of your neck as though seeking something.  

“It’s okay.” you murmur, your lips brushing against his neck. You press your forehead to the curve of his shoulder. “You don’t have to always fight it.” His fingers are curling and uncurling nervously. His chest rises and falls in sharp, stuttering motions. “It’s just me.” you say softly. “Just us. That’s all it has to be.”  

And you stay like that, holding him as the storm inside him rages on, your warmth a quiet defiance against the cold logic he tries so hard to cling to. You can’t fix him. You can’t make the fear go away.  

But you can hold him. 

He’s still. Then, slowly, his hands move, hesitantly, almost reluctantly. One of them settles over yours where it rests on his stomach, his fingers brushing against your knuckles. The other comes up to wipe at his face, smearing the wetness across his cheek, trying to erase the evidence of his vulnerability.  

But he doesn’t pull away.  

And you don’t let go.  

Because even if he doesn’t believe it yet, you do. You believe in this. In him. In the fragile, complicated mess of him that somehow feels like home.

You can color in his cynicism. 

That sharp-edged need to peel back the layers of the world, to dissect and unveil, to pull everything apart until it’s nothing but pieces in his hands. It’s relentless, exhausting, and so entirely Alex. But it leaves you no choice but to do the same to him.  

To unveil him.  

Your hand moves to his shoulder, firm and unyielding, pulling him down, closer. His body reacts instinctively — another shiver under your touch, muscles tensing as he braces for impact. A soft sound escaping his lips, part wince, part surrender. You’re engaging with him in every way possible, positively and negatively, challenging and comforting, breaking and rebuilding.  

It can’t be a sober analysis. Not with him. So you make him get drunk on it — on the heat of your palms pressing against his chest, on the way your fingers trace the contours of his ribs, slipping into the spaces between his heart and his head.  

He can’t help but take the opposition. His arms move instinctively to block you, to keep you still, to stop you from peeling back too much. But even as he resists, you feel his heart pounding beneath your hand, erratic and unguarded. His body betrays him, his breath catching as your fingers twist at the rosy peaks of his skin, drawing out soft, pained sounds that don’t match the way his hands tighten on your wrists, pulling you closer instead of pushing you away.  

“Are you done crying for yourself?” you ask. 

The words are pointed, sharp enough to wound, but you can’t be cruel — not like he was. You won’t meet his bitterness with your own, won’t let him drag you into the same dark spiral. If you were to fall with him, you’d both end up in ruins. And you have to bring him back.  

“I love you, Alex.” you say, softening the edge of your words, letting them sink into the space between you.  

Another shiver runs through him, and he murmurs something, low and indiscernible, but there’s a flicker of something in his voice — pleasure, maybe. Relief. You’re not sure, but it’s enough.  

You hug him tighter, your arms wrapping around his trembling form, your lips finding his cheek in a soft, lingering kiss. You let your breath fan over his face, warm and steady, melting away the coldness he’s been carrying.  

“You’re so lovely, you know that?” you whisper, your voice gentle, a contrast to the sharpness of his pain. “Even when you’re mean, I can’t stop loving you.”  

You kiss him again, slower this time, your lips brushing against his skin as if to seal the words into him. He stiffens, but he doesn’t pull away.  

“I don’t know what’s going on in that stubborn head of yours,” you continue, “but it’s going to be alright, baby. I promise.”  

Another kiss. This one lands just below his temple, your lips lingering there as your hand moves to his hair, threading through the dark curls and tugging, gently this time. He exhales shakily, the tension in his body easing bit by bit, his head tilting slightly toward you as if seeking more.  

And you give it to him.  

You give him all of it — the warmth, the softness, the love he’s so determined to question. Because no matter how much he fights it, no matter how much he doubts, you know this: he’s worth it. Every sharp edge, every bitter word, every tear and every shiver.  

He’s worth it.

“Stop.” he says.  

“No, baby. I’m not going to let you do this to yourself.” you reply, holding him tighter. You don’t let go. You don’t ease up. You stay, soothing him, no matter how much he tries to pull away from his own breaking point.  

“At least, uh…” He pauses, his voice faltering, breaking apart under the weight of his own resistance. “Keep your…keep your fluffiness and- and your sentimentality at the door.”  

His words are strained, half-hearted, but there’s no real venom in them. Not anymore.  

A small laugh escapes you, breathy and barely audible. “You really think that’s possible right now?”

“I’m serious.”

And then he leans into you. Slowly, tentatively, testing his surrender. His head turns toward you, his eyes locking on yours, and you see it — the ache, the confusion, the quiet plea for something he can’t quite articulate. He’s looking for clarity, for a way to make it all make sense.  

You stare back.  

A pause.  

A regroup.  

Understanding blooms between you, unspoken but undeniable.  

“Okay.” you say softly, a word heavy with compromise and promise.  

He blinks, as if signaling something only he can understand, something you’re meant to decrypt.  

“We’re doing reality, yeah?” you say, your voice firmer now, breaking the silence with a decision, a declaration. “We’re doing reality.”  

He hesitates, his jaw tightening as he wrestles with the words, with himself, with you. But then he nods. A reluctant, almost imperceptible nod.  

“Reality’s overrated.” he mutters.

You feel him shift against you, his hands fumbling with the edges of the robe draped loosely over his body. It had been barely covering him — his hips, his forearms — serving no real purpose other than to shroud him in a thin layer of pretense. Now, he pushes it off, letting it fall away in a soft, crumpled heap. Finally deemed useless. Finally exposed.  

He’s letting you in. Letting you see him. Letting you do all the hard-nosed critique, all the unveiling, peeling back the layers of his carefully constructed defenses.  

“‘S cold.” he mutters under his breath, almost petulantly.

You almost smile. Your fingers graze the curve of his shoulder, marveling at the delicate slope of it, the faint bluish veins just visible beneath the surface. His skin is cool to the touch, soft and unblemished, like porcelain that’s been left out too long.

“You’ll live.” you say softly. Your touch lingers, trailing down the line of his arm, lightly, afraid you might bruise him with anything more.

And yet, he’s not entirely still. He’s crawling, shifting, searching for his place in this — this moment, this connection, this reality you’ve declared. He’s exposing himself in the only way he knows how, piece by piece, inch by inch, fighting and surrendering all at once.  

He finds his place in your lap.  

He settles there, hesitant but present, his weight pressing into you. His head rests against your chest, his breath warm against your skin, and you wrap your arms around him without hesitation, holding him close.  

“Do you always have to win?” he murmurs, his voice muffled against your shirt.

“Always.” you reply, pressing a kiss to his ear. “You make it too easy.”

Something between a scoff and a sigh can be heard, and he shakes his head faintly. “Unfortunately.” he mutters, but his arms loop around your waist, holding you tighter.

“This is pathetic.” he says.  

Restless, he shuffles, his cheek pressing into your chest like he’s trying to burrow deeper, trying to lose himself in the warmth you offer. 

“Maybe.” you reply, fingers trailing slowly through his hair. “But you’re here.”  

“Yeah.” he says, and it sounds like surrender, but also like a question.  

Your hand moves to his back. “You want me to stop?”  

“No.” The word comes fast, too fast, and then softer. “No. Just…don’t make it worse.”  

“What’s ‘worse’, Alex?”  

He exhales sharply. The question irritates him, but you know him too well to let that stop you. “Worse is…this. Worse is me. I’m worse.”  

“That’s not true.” you say.  

“It feels true.” he counters, his fingers twitching where they rest on your leg, scratching into the fabric. “Everything always feels like it’s…falling apart.”  

“Maybe it’s not falling apart.” you murmur, brushing a kiss against the crown of his head. “Maybe it’s just falling into place.”  

“Don’t.” His voice wavers. “Don’t say things like that.”  

“Why not?”  

“Because it makes it harder. You make it harder.” His head tilts up, his eyes catching yours. “You make me think it- it could be real. That- that I could be real.”  

“You are real.” Your hand moves back to his chest, resting lightly over his heart. “This is real.” You think he might argue, might push back the way he always does.  

Instead, he says, “Why?”  

“Why what?” 

“Why are you still here?” His voice cracks. It hurts to hear it every time. 

“Because.” you say, brushing your thumb across his jawline, letting the warmth of your touch linger there. “You keep asking me that, and my answer never changes.”  

“I hate you for that.”  

“No, you don’t.”  

“I do.” he insists.  

“Okay.” You lean down, your forehead resting lightly against his, your breath mingling with his. “Then hate me. I’m not going anywhere.”  

He closes his eyes, his hands coming up to clutch at your shirt, and when he speaks again, it’s barely audible.  

“Stay.”  

“I’m here.” 

Man, in reality, things are a lot more complicated. But neither of you wants to admit it.  

Neither of you wants to acknowledge the absurdity of him — nearly naked, trembling, his face pressed into your chest while you cradle him like a child. It’s too much, too raw, too uncomfortably real. And yet, here you are. His body quivers, the shivers starting somewhere deep inside him and finally radiating outward. You hold him tighter.  

It’s complicated.  

It makes enjoying this moment — the intimacy, the connection — feel like an act of rebellion, like something sacrilegious. There’s guilt in it, religious and repressive, as if joy itself is forbidden. How could he let himself enjoy something like this? But how could he not? How could he just give in without questioning, without scrutinizing every angle, every possibility?  

He doesn’t want to be the deluded one. He doesn’t want to fall victim to some imagined trap.  

So he deflects.  

His hips shift, just slightly, but enough to make his intentions clear. It’s a desperate, uncoordinated movement, almost involuntary, but it’s there. A sharp exhale escapes his lips, and he presses closer, rutting against your thigh like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality.  

How is he supposed to know when it’s okay to enjoy something? When he’s already anticipating it, overthinking it, sabotaging it? 

How are you supposed to know when to push and when to pull back?  

“I-” His voice cracks, a broken whimper spilling into your ear, and the sound makes your chest tighten. It clings.  

“What is it, baby?” you whisper, coaxing him to speak.  

“Everything.” he chokes out, his breath hitching on the word. It could have only been one syllable, but it still would have carried the weight of his never-ending spiral, a tangle of emotions too complex to name.  

You know this mood too. You’ve seen it before. It’s a storm that doesn’t pass on its own.  

The spiral pulls at him, drags him under, and you feel it too, the way it loops endlessly, pulling him back into himself. It’s a pattern you know all too well: his need to resist, to reject, to fight against anything that feels good because it’s easier that way. Safer.

And so, you’re left to force him to enjoy it.

It’s the cruelest irony, the self-fulfilling prophecy. He braces himself for the worst, anticipates the fall, and in doing so, denies himself any chance at the softness you offer. But you don’t relent. You can’t.

Your hands move against him, firm and deliberate, not letting him sink too far into his own darkness. “Breathe.” you whisper, your voice steady, commanding. You guide him, coaxing him to feel something other than the crushing weight of his own mind.

He presses harder against you, his movements erratic, desperate, like he’s trying to escape his own mind through sheer physicality. “I’m sorry.” he mumbles, the words barely audible. “I’m sorry.”  

“Shh…” you murmur, your hands smoothing over the trembling muscles. “You don’t have to apologise.”  

But he does. Or at least, he thinks he does. He thinks he’s done something wrong simply by existing like this, by needing like this.  

Then you feel it — a sharp, sudden sting on your shoulder. His teeth. He’s bitten down, even through the fabric of your shirt, and it sends a jolt through you. His teeth are sharp, almost animalistic in their intent.  

“Alex.” 

“I’m sorry.” he repeats, his voice frantic now, his hands clutching ‘cause now he’s afraid you’ll pull away. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just-”  

“It’s okay.” you cut him off, cupping the back of his head and pulling him closer, holding him tightly enough to still him. “It’s okay. Just breathe, baby.”  

He shakes his head against you, his breath hot and uneven against your neck. “I can’t. I can’t stop.”  

“Yes, you can.” you insist, your voice firm but gentle. “You don’t have to- to…Just let it happen. Let me help you.”  

He’s frozen. He’s rigid. And then, slowly, he exhales — a shuddering, broken sound that seems to drain the tension from him. His head falls forward, his lips brushing against the curve of your neck, and he lets out a soft, muffled sob.  

“I’ve got you.” you murmur. “I’ve got you.”  

He pulls at you like a child lost in the chaos of himself, grasping, clumsy with need, and clinging with desperate fingers, his body trembling with the force of something he can’t name and can’t escape. 

His arms wrap tighter around you, his face buried in your neck, hiding from the weight of his own desires. But his body betrays him, his hips shifting insistently, and when his hand drags yours downward, pressing it against the heat between his legs, you feel the humiliation radiating off him like a second skin.  

The shame is overwhelming, sharp and heavy in his chest, threatening to choke him. He presses your palm against himself, his hips moving instinctively, helplessly, even as his mind screams at him to stop. He can feel the heat radiating off his own skin, the hardness straining against the fabric, and it only makes it worse.  

He’s caught in the push and pull of it, the unbearable shame of needing and the equally unbearable ache of denying himself. “I’m sorry.” he mumbles again, the words barely audible against your skin. He’s apologizing for everything — for needing, for wanting, for being this mess of contradictions in your arms. “I’m sorry, I-”  

“Stop.” you whisper, your voice soft but firm, cutting through his apologies before they can spiral out of control. “Don’t do that. Don’t apologise for this.”  

“I can’t help it.” he chokes out, his voice raw and uneven. His hips shift again, seeking friction, but it’s hesitant, as if he’s still bracing himself for rejection. “I don’t know how to-”  

“You don’t have to know how to…” you interrupt, cupping his cheek with your other hand, forcing him to lift his head, to meet your eyes. 

Wild, panicked, cheeks flushed with shame and lips trembling with words he can’t bring himself to say.  

Your hand presses firmer against him, and his breath stutters, a shuddering exhale that feels like it’s being ripped from him. “It’s okay.” you say softly, your voice teasing, cutting through his haze of shame with ease. He hates that tone, hates how it makes him feel exposed, seen. Your fingers curl slightly, pressing into the firmness of him. “It’s okay if you’re a bad boy, Alex.”  

A whimper escapes him, high and broken, and he shakes his head against you, a denial that carries no weight. It hurts, you can tell — it always does for him — but you know the pain is what he craves, what he needs. His hips buck slightly, chasing the friction, and he wants to sink into the floor, to disappear, to escape the humiliation of it. But he doesn’t stop. He can’t.  

“It hurts.” he murmurs, his voice trembling, and you can feel the heat of his tears against your skin.  

“I know.” you say, and your voice is so steady, so calm, it almost makes him break right there. Your hand moves deliberately now, slow and firm, cupping him, pressing into him. “It’s supposed to. It’s good, isn’t it?”  

His mind is a mess of thoughts he can’t untangle. It is supposed to hurt, isn’t it? That’s the point, isn’t it? The pain is what he deserves, what he needs. But then there’s you, holding him, touching him, making it worse and better all at once.  

He whines again, a soft, pitiful sound, his hips bucking slightly into your touch despite the weak protests he keeps mumbling. “No…I- I don’t…” he starts. His voice falters, the words dying in his throat.  

“No?” you say, tilting your head to look at him, your eyes piercing through the layers of shame he’s wrapped himself in. Your hand is still there, and it’s unbearable, unbearable in how good it feels. “Are you sure about that, baby?”  

He can’t answer. His voice has abandoned him, but his body hasn’t. His hips press harder into your palm, his breath hitching with every tiny movement. He feels ridiculous, pathetic, and yet he’s still doing it, still grinding against you like he has no control.  

It tells you everything you need to know.  

You tighten your grip, and the sharp, sudden pressure makes him gasp, his head falling back against your shoulder. “We need to get rid of this disobedience.” you say, your tone soft but firm, like you’re scolding him and soothing him all at once. “Don’t we, sweetheart?”  

His grip on your hand tightens, and he presses his forehead against yours, his eyes closing — shutting out the world.  

He shivers at the words, his body betraying him again with the way it arches into your touch. He wants to say something, to protest, to push you away, but all that comes out is another broken, pitiful whisper: “I’m sorry.” He’s trembling now, his body caught in that familiar, torturous space between pleasure and shame. “I’m sorry.” he whispers again.  

“Shh…” you murmur, leaning in closer, your breath warm against his temple. “You don’t have to apologise, baby. Not for this.”  

He hates how your voice makes him feel, hates how it softens the edges of his shame, makes him feel almost…safe. He doesn’t want to feel safe. He doesn’t deserve it. But then your hand moves again, your fingers pressing into him through the fabric, and he can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but feel.  

You lean in closer, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear as you murmur, “I’ll fuck it out of you. Is that what you want, hm?”  

His whole body goes still at that, his breath catching in his throat. “No…” he whispers, shaking his head, but the denial feels hollow, like it doesn’t belong to him.  

And you both know it.  

“Are you sure?” you press, squeezing him gently in your palm, watching as his eyes flutter shut, his body arching involuntarily. “Are you really sure, Alex?”  

He wants to say yes, wants to cling to the scraps of resistance he has left, but his body has already answered for him. 

“You don’t have to do anything.” you tell him, your thumb brushing softly over his cheekbone, over the tracks of dried tears. “Just let me.”  

“Okay.” he whispers finally, his voice barely more than a breath. “Okay.”  

“It’s alright.” you murmur, your lips slowly kissing his temple. “It’s alright, Alex. I’ve got you.”  

a/n: Title is stolen from some video I watched. And that is what started all of it. It feels like the opposite scenario of my last post, you can consider them being the same world, kinda. That is how I see them, together with 'My Love', 'Somewhere In The Ether', and 'Come Undone'. Makes sense to me. Also this one is more or less inspired by @futuristicanoe and their works. They're on my mind quite a lot and I think I subconsciously lean more into that sort of tone lately because of that.