#but yes. fanfic. real.

[newlesbianprideflag]

OMG

i just finished reading your "a bed in your shape" fic and OH MY GOD ARHRHEHAGAHAHA i love your writing SO MUCHHH and the story is awesome even tho it's not done I DONT CARE!!!! im gonna read some other of your fics!! :) <3

this is INCREDIBLY sweet !! i'm several months late and i know you don't care that it's not done, but in case you or anyone is interested, bed in your shape chapter four is real !!!

[untitledgoosegay]

re last reblog I do see fanfic culture pushing/replicating a certain model of "what trauma looks like," "how trauma works"

this is a problem across all areas of society obviously, but transformative works are, well, transformative. they're about crafting and modifying narratives where the fan-creator sees a flaw or a lack -- often for the better! don't get me wrong, I've done my fair share of "I take a hammer and I fix the canon," it's the main thing that gets my creative gears spinning -- but what happens when that "flaw" is simply a narrative not conforming to popular expectations?

some people just don't get PTSD from events that sound obviously traumatic. they're not masking, and they're not coping; they just straight-up didn't get the permanently-locked stress-response that defines PTSD. they walk away from a horrible experience going "well, that sucked, but it's over now." some people do get PTSD from events most people wouldn't find traumatic. we don't really know why some people get PTSD and others don't. but fandom has an idea of events that must be traumatizing, of a "correct" way to portray trauma. you see the problems with this lack of understanding in e.g. fans pressuring the devs of Baldur's Gate 3 to add dialogue where the player character badgers Halsin about his own feelings on his abuse -- because he must be traumatized, and his trauma must fit a certain mold and presentation of sexual trauma, under the mistaken impression that anything outside that narrow window is somehow "wrong" and disrespectful or even harmful to survivors.

take, for another example, the very common trope of a traumatized character who hates touch or sex "learning" to like touch or sex as a part of their healing process. certainly that can be healing for some people; other people will never like, or want, touch or sex, because of trauma or because they just don't. the assumption that someone who doesn't want sex or doesn't like to be touched must be traumatized, must be suffering from this perceived lack, is seriously harmful -- to asexual people, to people with sensory issues around touch, and to people for whom healing from trauma means freedom to refuse sex or touch.

and there's a secondary trope, one that's slightly more thoughtful but ultimately repeats the problem -- that once someone has learned that their boundaries will be respected, they'll feel it's safe to soften those boundaries. once they feel safe refusing touch or sex, they'll feel comfortable allowing it on their own terms. but many people don't, and many people won't! many people will simply never want to be touched, and never want sex, and they are not suffering or broken or lacking because of it. the idea that proving you'll respect someone's boundaries entitles you to test those boundaries -- the paradox is obvious, and yet this is something i've seen hurt (re-traumatize) people i care for.

people are imperfect victims. people don't heal in the ways you expect. many people have positive memories of their abuse, of their abusers. many people hurt others in the course of their trauma, in ways that can't easily be unpacked in a 5k oneshot. very few narratives of trauma and recovery actually fit the ones put forward by popular children's media and romance novels -- which are the ones I most see replicated in fandom spaces, because they provide the clearest narrative and easiest catharsis, and so they're easy and soothing to reach for.

that's not necessarily a bad thing! i am not immune to goopy romance tropes. i am not immune to teary catharsis. not every fic has to grapple with ugly realities. but there's a problem when these narratives become predominant, when people think they're accurate and realistic depictions of trauma, when the truth of trauma is unpleasant and uncomfortable, and doesn't fit any single narrative, let alone one of comforting catharsis

[comfortless]

Deep Water

nix! König x fem! reader

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. no.. intentional harm done to reader but there are sporadic mentions of murder (drowning), König is kind of a creep here do you guys forgive me (say yes), implied sex; dubcon everything. König is wearing a fishing net rather than the usual hood because. it made sense to me sorry.

notes: yet again, i have found that i can not manage to write anything except for silly fantasy nonsense… bear with me this will pass (it will not). if you’re uncertain of what a nix is, i recommend skimming over this (or tl;dr— a shapeshifting water spirit).

You’ve always been told to beware of the river, especially on nights like this. When the singing starts up you were to run, as far and as fast as your feet could carry you. It would be the most beautiful sound you had ever heard, as well as the last. Whatever beast lies in wait along the silt of the riverbed luring people in with its haunting song isn’t kind. The drowned bodies resurfacing bloated and paled are enough for the townsfolk to assume that assuredly, a monster lies in wait someplace within the glassy water.

For all of the fear, town myths were just that— myths.

As always, there’s no singing when you seat yourself on smooth, mossy stones by the river’s bank. The moon hangs low, casting its brilliant reflection on calm, dark water. The air is alive with the buzzing of cicadas clinging to the trees at your back and night birds calling out to the wind. Nothing is amiss; it’s only peaceful, and that’s why despite the warnings, you often find yourself here when the temperature is favorable.

There are nights when the river isn’t calm, and currents are the most reliable reasoning for the deaths from past summers. The water is full of large rocks with sharp corners, teeming with plants that could so easily snare an ankle, and when the water is frothing and cruel it’s no surprise that one could be thrashed to unconsciousness if they weren’t careful.

You didn’t come here to take your chances on swimming, anyhow.

If anything, it’s a mere reprieve from the bustle of the town. No one wanders here any more since the myths gained traction, passed from mouth to listening ears time and time again, leaving this place entirely untouched. Occasionally the obnoxious teenager would cross your path on the walk here, declaring loudly to their friends about how they supposedly saw some slimy beast, eyes like moonbeams and scales like razors lying on the bank.

During your little adventures here, you often carry a snack with you, but not for yourself. Tonight, it’s just a small package of vanilla flavored cookies. In truth, they were awful— dry and near flavorless, but you suspect your friend here wouldn’t mind too terribly much, and if it got them out of your pantry without wasting it was a win for the both of you.

When the large dorsal fin crests over the water mere meters from the bank, you gratuitously crush the treats in a closed fist and toss the crumbs into the water. Time and time again, you’ve fed the large animal, watching as it thrashes about just below the surface before disappearing back into its depths. You’ve never gotten a good look at it, either, but you imagine it must stretch out past your height or further; some sort of gar or sturgeon.

Just as many times before, it glides further in, fin entirely out of sight now. The only evidence of it ever appearing at all were the small waves rippling in its wake. All is quieted once more as you embrace the placid bliss, readying your small flashlight and losing yourself into the book perched in your lap.

The next night, you’re greeted by a large snake basking over the rock you typically sat upon. It lies still, coiled into itself as it regards you, forked tongue flicking out for several moments before it simply slithers off, hiding itself away beneath the moss and stone.

“Best to leave you alone, huh?,” you ask to it’s retreating tail, feeling a bit silly for speaking to the reptile at all. It doesn’t respond, of course, nor does it bother to come out of hiding either.

You opt to seat yourself on the hill overlooking the water instead.

You find that after a day occupied by tedious tasks, there truly was no greater place to abandon your woes than here. Everything was peaceful; wild yet simplistic. Even with all of the death that seemed to haunt this place, you never feared the thought of ghosts. You’ve even entertained your imagination a time or two, that if you ever did meet one, you would only ask it not to disturb the wildlife you have grown so fond.

There’s a freedom and a mystery to places like this, places without the foot traffic of other people. It brings with it a sense of whimsy, especially when you glance towards the water and see the surface reflecting every twinkling star above.

The fish doesn’t appear, even as you listen to the water in wait, your head tilted as you lie back on soft grass to watch for ripples, for the swell of a large fin moving beneath. Nothing. You read your book as the night progresses, nearly completing it entirely before you make your way back home.

Weeks pass by like this— work, river, home and repeat. Occasionally it’s the same large snake that greets you when you wander there, more often it’s the large fish circling about waiting for crumbs of whatever treat you choose to bring. The bank and the small hill overlooking it have become a separate home to you, one where you can be away with the fairies, talking to your animal friends that never seem to stick around for long.

When the weather grows warmer, you even dare to take a swim.

You’re stood on the slick stones of the bank, wearing nothing but a t-shirt and a pair of underwear. It’s not proper swimming attire, but you reason that you’re not at the beach, not a soul is around, and it doesn’t really matter at all that you might look a bit silly. The prospect of swimming along that behemoth below is a tad terrifying, but you wouldn’t dare to wander too far in. Maybe the fish would even be intelligent enough to not attempt to eat you after you’ve been so kind to it.

It’s hot, and with a sticky layer of sweat glossing your skin, your worries seem minuscule in light of an easy way of cooling off. You toe at the calm water for a moment, testing its temperature before willing yourself to take a step forward, then another before you seat yourself in the vibrant expanse of darkened blue. Here, you realize, is the best place to stargaze, too; they shimmer all around you, within reach as you tap at the surface of water, watching it undulate beneath the pressure of your fingertips.

You could reach the moon, too, if you swam further out. A few meters from the bank and you would be directly beneath its reflection, bathed in that ethereal glow.

You watch for your friend for a time, trying to prioritize your wariness over your whimsy. When the fish doesn’t tread by you, the water remaining calm, you rise to your feet and take slow, metered steps as the water parts and flows against your shins.

Though the river is disturbed no matter how gently you stride forward, nothing slides out from its depths in pursuit of you. Nothing happens at all when you reach out to splay your hand out against the reflection, the water now gently lapping against your stomach rather than your legs.

You hadn’t expected any sort of shift in your reality, that would be ridiculous, but perhaps some sort of clarity; a further calm for a weary mind. It doesn’t come, and with a disheartened splash you wade your way back towards the shore.

This has been your sanctuary for some time. Excusing the snake, there’s not been any sort of threat to you, not here. A safe water world all your own. Though, that peace is shattered the moment that you make it to the bank and hear the water shift some small distance behind you. Turning your head, you’re met with the sight of a man, the bulky muscular silhouette towering in the patch of moonlight you had just stood in. Bright blue eyes catch the light, reflecting like an animal’s as you scramble back to where you’ve left your shorts.

He stands there, silent and unmoving like an obelisk even as you hastily dress yourself with a thundering heart and breaths that sound more or less like gasps, senses heightened by your panic as you turn tail to run.

No one had been there. You were sure of it when you sunk into the water. There was no sound when this person had swam over to take your place. He was just there, as if he had been the entire time and you somehow failed to notice.

You make your way into the woods framing this place, hurried steps and untied shoelaces. You don’t even bother with your flashlight.

Finding your way back home with aches in every muscle, the desperate rampage you had taken to get away finally coming to a close when the door slams shut behind you, you quickly shower and mull over what’s just happened. A ghost, perhaps. It had to of been. Any other person would have made noise in their approach, especially being that big. The mind could play its tricks; what you had seen was likely not even there at all— a terrifying figment of your imagination. That sets you at ease, somewhat, but not enough.

You don’t sleep well that night, tucked beneath your blanket and staring at the filtered moonlight through your curtains. Work isn’t on your mind at all come morning until your phone chimes with a notification from your manager, questioning your tardiness. A languid crawl out of bed follows, another shower, an unsatisfying breakfast, all before you opt to send a text back to let him know you won’t be in today.

It could be excused, you’re reliable and decent enough at the job; not one to boast, but far more eager to please than the rest of your coworkers. You would be entirely useless if you went in on no sleep, you reason.

You don’t want to go back there, not under the veil of night, but you find yourself horribly curious the longer that you bide your time indoors. You had to know if the thing that you saw was really there, had to calm your nerves. What if he had always been watching each time, and you simply hadn’t noticed? The forest bordering the river is terribly dark at night, anyone could crouch behind the shield of a tree and remain undetected until they willed the courage to drag you in, cup a palm over your mouth to silence your cries.

Maybe it was the monster the people in town rumored about.

The thought of some strange, silent thing living beneath the water waiting for an opportune moment to take you by the neck and drag you down to the silty floor to watch you drown horrified you. Yet, that’s the one conclusion that sticks. Those eyes… so lurid and haunting, no human being had eyes like that.

You inhale sharply, steeling your nerves as reach for a pocket knife for defense, toss it into the bag slung over your shoulder, and storm out the door.

The trek there is nothing short of dull.

No matter where you look, what shadows rise up beneath the dim glow of a falling sun, there’s nothing out in the woods. The river is equally tame. The water babbles over rock, cicadas buzz off in the distance, and not a thing seems amiss. Your search for footprints that don’t belong to the soles of your shoes turns up empty. The only thing that suggests just maybe it wasn’t all in your head is the book you had neglected to retrieve in your fear the night before.

The cover, every page within, now warped as though it had been pulled into the water and spit out to dry. You pick it up, peeling through damp pages, running your fingertips over the smeared ink. It’s possible that a particularly aggressive splash could have sullied it, but something tells you that that isn’t the case. Either way, it’s unreadable now. You sulk a bit as you slip the ruined thing into your bag and step towards the smooth stones to watch the water instead.

Night creeps in slowly with you there, and you’re on high alert for a time before you begin to relax as usual. Even giggle to yourself at how silly it was you believed you saw a ghost at all as you entertain yourself by skipping small stones across the water.

No large snake, no massive fish, no titan of a man appears before you, only a calming crescent moon and a few wandering wood ducks, gliding down from the bank to splash about. A thought comes to mind as the calm emboldens you: what would happen if you got in just one more time?

There’s nothing to suggest that you’re playing with fire as you leave your shoes neatly in the dry sand. If the ducks could swim unbothered by fish or men, then surely you could, too. You watch the little creatures a distance away as they dip their heads beneath the surface and chitter away amongst themselves while you take your first step in.

You don’t dare to go as far this time, stopping when the water brushes over your knees. You wait there while time seems to slow to a crawl, expecting the absolute worst, glancing further down the river, dipping your hand below the glassy surface until your fingertips brush the sand beneath.

It’s horribly hot and you’re still exhausted from the sleepless night before. The water feels nice, and you feel as though you have some sort of claim to it as you’ve been here more often than anyone else would dare to. Ghosts and monsters be damned, you seat yourself and let the water lap over your shoulders, tilting your head back to watch the stars.

When the singing begins it takes a moment to register just what it is that you’re hearing. It’s not beautiful, not like the myths have said. It’s hissed, a low whisper, a mockery of what a human song would sound like. The voice is rasped, lilted yet cold. The realization that it sings words from your book of poetry is what terrifies you the most, the warped pages all making sense now.

Your eyes dart to either side of you, forward, before realizing the voice is coming from behind you. Cold spreads through your veins as you try to force yourself to stand, but in your fear you find yourself petrified, rooted in water that would surely become your grave.

You can’t bring yourself to turn around, to inevitably find your eyes locked onto the shadowy frame of a man far too large, his eyes glistening and pale like the moon hanging above.

The voice pauses when it finds you unmoving, and you can hear the rustle of the creature shifting its weight where it’s stood on the rocks lining the bank. You’ve no clue how deep the river gets, where the opposite side leads, but your only chance of escape seems to be swimming through in the hopes that this thing doesn’t choose to chase after you. A part of you knows that he would, that that is exactly what he expects you to do, goading you to flee deeper with his eerie song so that he can drown you just as he did the others.

You do the opposite as you squeeze your eyes shut and crawl back towards the bank, making sure to keep some distance despite your willful blindness. You wouldn’t look at it, wouldn’t talk to it, you would just go home and never come back.

“Best to leave you alone, hm?”

You still as your fingers brush against wet moss, the voice no longer a whisper but loud, loud as it echoes your words from days past just above you. Beating back your own curiosity proves futile, because you look up at the damned thing then, expecting to see an impossible terror before you, sharp fangs wet with blood and appendages too spindly reaching out for you. Instead, you see only a man.

He’s crouched, only a meter or so away, and you immediately recognize his broad figure. The same as the night before. From this distance you can make out the finer details, the length of net covering his face and neck, the webbing between each finger. Still a scary sight, but only in the way it’s unfamiliar and imposing rather than instilling any sort of primordial fear.

“Excuse me?” You pull yourself fully out of the water, rising to your feet and taking a tentative step back. You’re prepared to run, a coil pulled too tight on the verge of snapping.

The man, creature, whatever he may be just tilts his head, lets the silence hang in the air for a moment before he has the audacity to laugh whether to himself or at the strange, bewildered expression on your face.

His stare is assessing as he sucks in a breath, follows suit in rising to his full height. From the size of him alone, you know you’re not getting away. A mere stride for him would be two or more for you, a deliberate tug of your wrist from him could snap it in an instant.

Yet, he doesn’t reach for you, only gestures toward your bag lying on the ground with a subtle flick of a finger. You give him a quizzical glance in turn, not bothering to retrieve it. You could come back during the day with a friend, gather it and never return. Only, your knife sits somewhere inside, the only protection that you’ve got. The realization spurs you to bend over and toss the strap over your shoulder.

“I’ll… I’ll be going now.”

The stare remains fixed upon you as you take another step back, blinking slowly every now and then as you both remain in some strange stasis.

It takes you a moment to put the pieces together. The reciting of words from the book, the mimicking of the words spoken to the snake, the hint at your bag… he’s expecting something and it’s not to steal away your life, only to be fed and have your company. It’s not charming, it’s awfully strange and eerie, but you find yourself giggling at the prospect of taming some murderous, shapeshifting monster with subpar treats and poetry.

You pull open the bag, searching for anything you may have brought along that he could eat, eventually prying out a small package and offering it out to him.

“Is this what you want?,” you ask, voice hushed and trembling.

He shakes his head, rustling the net cloaking him in the process. So, he understands, he’s just been willfully ignoring every other thing you’ve said prior. You store the package away with a perturbed expression crossing over your face.

“Then what?”

Any relief you had felt seems to dwindle when the giant takes a half-step closer. His skin is cool and wet as the river as he brushes his hand over your forearm, curling a set of fingers around it. The touch is gentle, but there’s a promise of violence lurking somewhere in the depths of his eyes.

“Come with me,” he urges in that harsh whisper from before, delicately squeezing as he pulls you towards him, leading you back to the river with a tight grip and a step back over the stones. Though his touch is passive, there’s a frightening strength lurking someplace beneath his flesh, tacked to bone, and as your gaze trails lower to rest to rest at your feet, the space between you two, the evidence of a life prone to violence and strength is laid bare before you.

You don’t fight the hold as he leads you to water so deep it caresses the base of your neck, right below the milky glow of a waning moon. Deeper still, as you’re pulled below, pressed down to the very bottom with his body lain over you. You can only hold your breath so long before an involuntary gasp leaves you, and a wave is funneled straight into your lungs.

Panic is fleeting, but the adrenaline stays ever-present. You claw, push, kick, to no avail. Pinned down by a hand weighing like an anchor you feel your vision flooding and hazy as his head knocks against your jaw, mouth sealing tightly over yours. It’s not a gentle kiss, the net fashioned into a hood digs into your skin, teeth scrape over your lip until you feel the sting of blood drawn.

All at once, your vision darkens and it’s over.

You find yourself lying back on the shore as the morning sun warms your face, causes your dampened shirt to cling to your skin. Disoriented, but alive, brushing your thumb over your lower lip as you sit up to stare at the subtle waves lapping over moss and rock.

Just a dream, you tell yourself, knowing full well you hadn’t fallen asleep.

Just a dream, even though you avoid the river entirely now. Your route home from work changes too, avoiding even a glimpse of the path that leads down to that place. You don’t even replace the book, you toss what remains of it after fishing through your bag, murmuring something about it surely being cursed and entertain yourself with film at night instead.

Sleep remains tentative, you wake with every sound, and your dreaming is filled with visions of a figure pushing you down into deep water, his weight bearing down upon you so heavily that you can not move until you wake with a start, eyes searching your bedroom.

Several weeks, and the fear does eventually fade.

The morning that the rain begins to fall, you realize you haven’t even thought about the river in days. There’s no monster prowling your nightmares anymore. You lived through what may or may not have occurred, and that was the end of it, simple as it may have been.

A late shift at work has you wandering out into the rain, umbrella in hand. You’re grateful that you live close, that you’re not entirely soaked to the bone when you step inside of the mundane building. Your coworkers notice your change in demeanor immediately, chirping about how glad they are that you’re finally feeling better, looking more yourself as the hours pass you by. It brings a smile to your face, a real one that you haven’t had in place since that last night.

Even in the summer, there’s a chill to the air in the late afternoon as you hurry home from work and make your way inside, stripping out of your wet clothes and setting your umbrella aside. It’s darker outside than it should be, even more so indoors. Reaching for the switch to turn on the lights proves useless— the power’s out.

You light your way with your phone, ignoring the way your pulse quickens and your heart flutters with the fear that something just doesn’t feel right. Your skin prickles with the thought of some unseen pair of eyes watching you, blue and cold. You only relax when you slam your bedroom door shut, locking it and pressing your forehead to the wood as you sigh. The puff of breath that escapes your lips is not the only in the room, you find out when the light of your phone illuminated your bed. Crouched beside it, a towering figure with a face veiled by fishing net. Words don’t come when you open your mouth to speak, and your heart stutters in your chest as you stand shaking but otherwise petrified.

“You didn’t come back.”

Of course you hadn’t.

Most people wouldn’t have.

“No. I’ve been… busy,” you choke out the excuse, hoping to pacify whatever emotion you imagine lurked beneath his tone, undetectable through the hiss of his voice. “I’ll visit soon, promise,” you lie, back pressed against the door as your fingers curl over the knob.

Your fear seems almost unwarranted. He doesn’t move toward you, only stands to wander back to the window where he must have broken in.

“Tonight?,” he asks in a voice so soft, the voice he must use as a lure because tugs at your heartstrings immediately, makes you want to follow despite the threat this thing poses merely by existing, despite everything.

“It’s cold— I’ll get sick,” you murmur. “How did you even find me..?”

“I will keep you warm.” The question goes unanswered.

You find yourself stifled again as he lumbers towards you, brushing cold fingers across the side of your face. It’s not a mockery of a kiss you receive next but a firm bite where your neck meets shoulder, not yet hard enough to draw blood, but enough to make you shiver, to grip at the wall of muscle that makes up his chest.

There’s a desperation to his movements as he herds you towards the window, pushes you toward the path leading back to the river. You’re soaked to the bone in seconds, hardly able to keep your eyes open past the weight of dampened eyelashes. The rain is so heavy it feels as though every step is like the first you took into cursed water, your feet sinking into the mud along the path with each tentative stride. The realization that you’re there doesn’t even hit you until you’re chest-deep in the chill, violent waves pushing against you, each carrying the threat of toppling you over entirely.

The palm splayed out against your bare back keeps you upright, leading you to a smooth rock jutting out in the midst of what seems a sea of frothing white and blue. The sea above is just as dark, angry clouds roaring as you’re pressed down onto your back, shivering terribly.

He keeps his promise though, a tight grip on each thigh as he pries your legs apart, sinks in between them and blankets you from the rain. Even with the cold pressed to your back, you feel the warmth of a summer sun above you, scorching from inside, just as blazing as the look in his wild eyes. The last of any resolve slips when you’re pulled beneath the violent waves, a tangle of limbs and desperate kisses coaxing oxygen into your lungs. Each roll and pull no less tumultuous than the waves overhead. A placid end when the rain comes to an impromptu halt, just as he stills over you. Hands rush to cup your face with one final, desperate and biting kiss.

When the morning sun pulls you from sleep, cool moss against your back and the weight of his head resting over your middle, the shallow water lapping lazily at your figure, you find that you no longer fear drowning.

[moss-covered-thoughts]

Hey moss balls!!! I'm finally sharing the super self-indulgent Danny art I made when I started my No Questions Asked crossover fic. This is basically how I like to imagine an older Danny, with some specific details from my fic. I'm a pretty amateur artist but these were super fun to work on hehee

[leisi-lilacdreams]

haven't left that Purple Squared brain rot yet

lil comic bit for a scene in chapter 11

note: fic is an AU where donnie is the oldest that's why leo is so tiny

[theimpurelily]

“isn’t Cui Wenyan meant to do your chores? Are you going to give it to him? Can I come with you? I want to throw snowballs at him, my aim has become so good.” “Oh. Wait. Have you spent these days throwing snowballs at him?” “And Ming Fan,” Ning Yingying cheerfully admits, “and if Zhao De was here, him too! But I would add a rock in those.” Holy shit.  (from chapter 8)

I fucking love how unhinged NYY can be in @grubus Shen Yuan of No Relation

[patolemus]

Here’s a little thing that’s been bugging me for a few weeks.

Summary: Stiles is a demon. This is common knowledge. At least, he was under the impression that this is common knowledge. He should have known better than to trust Derek Hale to figure it out.

————————————

Look, in his defense, Stiles was sure they knew. At least, he was sure Derek knew, and if Derek knew, then the rest of the pack knew. That’s just kind of how it works, when they aren’t hiding threats from each other.

(He’s not pointing fingers. It’s just that Stiles sometimes gets fucking tired when the pack does not tell him shit and then he ends up having to figure it all out by himself so they don’t get themselves killed. It wasn’t funny the first time Scott tried it back in sophomore year. It hasn’t gotten any funnier since.)

(Alright, so he is pointing fingers. Sue him.)

Stiles is a demon. And okay, before anyone gets mad and starts saying shit like ‘no he’s not, he’s just a bit chaotic’, he… well, Stiles will admit to being chaotic as a general rule, but that is more of a character choice. He’s being for real when he says he’s a demon.

His parents couldn’t have children. It’s just how it goes sometimes. But Claudia was a very powerful witch, and she knew a thing or two about making pacts with demons. So when the doctors told her she could not carry any children, she figured the next step was obviously to summon a creature from down below and make a deal with it in exchange for a child.

That’s where Stiles comes in.

Claudia probably wasn’t expecting a demon child to come to her when she did her summoning, but personally? Stiles thinks she lucked out. Stiles is a friendly demon, as far as those go, and his policy regarding humans is more ‘see what makes them tick’ rather than ‘make them burst into flames spontaneously’, so all in all, she could have done a lot worse.

So that’s kind of how he ends up as Stiles Stilinski, son of John and Claudia Stilinski. Claudia and John are the only ones that know Stiles’ true name, though only Claudia can say it right. John tries his best, but they all collectively decide that Mischief is a rather good alternative.

In exchange for being the best son anyone could have, Stiles gets to spend an unspecified amount time on the mortal realm. Claudia doesn’t put any restrictions on him, on the understanding that Stiles can’t go and kill people for kicks. Annoying them is fair game, though.

That’s fine. Stiles has never been particularly interested in needless violence. He’d much rather learn everything there is to know about humans. Such interesting creatures. Truly fascinating.

And that’s how he spends the next twelve years of his life. He makes one singular friend - humans tend to get this instinctual need to get away from demons, but Scott doesn’t have any survival instincts at all, so it works out fine - and spends most of his time enjoying the admittedly mundane life of a human child.

Stiles knows there’s a pack of werewolves living in town, but he never runs into them, and then they die in that terribly suspicious fire and the survivors leave. The town quiets down a lot after that, and Stiles tries not to mourn the loss too badly. The energy they gave off was very pleasant.

Then the werewolves come back to town.

Stiles doesn’t intent to get involved. He doesn’t. He’s a demon, he doesn’t care for mortal affairs no matter how amusing they are. So he doesn’t do anything when he feels the presence of an Alpha in Beacon Hills after seven years. A not his circus not his monkeys kinda situation. But then Scott gets turned into a werewolf, and Stiles doesn’t care for mortal affairs but he does care about Scott, so really, it was inevitable.

There’s also Derek Hale. Derek Hale with his lickable abs and his chiseled scowly face and that angryhurtsadmiserable aura of his. Stiles acuses him of murder, Derek shoves him into walls. How is Stiles supposed to not become completely obsessed?

Anyways.

Stiles isn’t sure how he ended up in a pack of werewolves of all things - demons are lonely creatures, they don’t get packs - but he can probably blame Scott for that. It’s pretty alright, even if he gets dragged into every possible supernatural matchup imaginable. At least no one is busting out the holy water. Not that it would work, that’s a myth. Stiles had that phase as a kid where he went to church every Sunday morning and received the sacrament of Eucharist just for kicks. His dad didn’t find it funny, but Stiles still thinks it’s fucking hilarious. Now he uses the name of Jesus Christ every time he can. It’s blasphemous and Stiles thinks it’s hilarious too.

Back to the point, Stiles never bothered to hide he’s a demon. He doesn’t advertise it, of course, but he doesn’t go out of his way to mask his scent or whatever. He’s powerful enough that he can take on mostly anything that comes find him. So he thought Derek knew, and was just being chill about it and not mentioning it.

Apparently not.

The bitten wolves, he could understand. They still mix up deer and rabbit after years of being bitten when they’re running in the preserve. But Derek’s a born wolf. He was trained since he was a kid, and it’s not like demons are hard to sniff out. Hell clings to Stiles like a second skin.

Well, it turns out Derek is the ultimate failwolf, because after four years, he still had no idea. It takes a run in with another demon - this one does like to set humans on fire, unfortunately, so Stiles has to banish it back to Hell - and even then Stiles has to practically spell it out for him. Stiles is only a bit disappointed in him. Mostly, he’s still a bit confused on how Derek even missed it in the first place.

“Dude, can’t you smell it?” he asks, and they’re alone in the loft because everyone else has gone out to buy celebratory donuts while they try to get the scorch marks off Derek’s wall. It’s not going as well as they hoped.

Instead of an answer, or a growl, which is his primary method of communication, Derek does something unexpected and fucking—blushes.

Huh. Okay.

Wait, no. Not okay. What?

“It’s not considered polite to act on the way people smell, Stiles,” and Derek’s voice is strangled, like it hurts him to get the words out. He’s always been bad at talking but Jesus Christ, this is excessive.

(Heh. Jesus Christ. It will never not be funny.)

“That’s bullshit and you know it. I’ve lost count of how many times you’ve sniffed out other supernatural creatures or people’s intentions. It’s what you do. Other than rip out throats and creep around my window, obviously,” Derek’s scowl makes an appearance - there it is, Stiles was getting worried for a second - looking back at the scorched wall like it’s going to magically clean itself with the power of his rage.

Stiles could probably do something like that. Maybe. His magic is chaotic on a good day, so he can’t really call it reliable. Destructive, definitely. Offensive, if he has to pick between that and defense. Stiles is terrible at that.

He’s really getting off track here.

“That’s different. You’re not a supernatural creature,” Derek says stubbornly and what?

“What?”

“What,” it’s impressive how he always manages to ask questions that don’t sound like questions.

“What do you mean, I’m not a supernatural creature? Are you—“ Stiles looks at his Alpha with narrowed eyes, mouth open mid sentence as it finally downs on him that they’re talking about very different things. “What did you think I meant when I asked you if you smelt it?”

Derek stubbornly refuses to say anything. That’s fine. Stiles is the king of stubborn, he can out-stubborn anyone at any given time.

“Tell me,” he presses. Derek doesn’t say anything. “Tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell—“

“Jesus fuck, Stiles, fine!” heh. Stiles knew he’d break. “I was smelling that you’re horny. All the time.”

That— that’s not what Stiles was expecting. Um. Okay. So things got awkward very fucking quickly.

“Oh,” he says, and now he sounds strangled because he thought he’d kept that little tidbit of information hidden quite nicely. It turns out Derek was just being polite about it.

God, does it mean the betas can smell it too? Oh, no, no no no no.

(Heh. God. Stiles is so funny.)

(He really has to stop unfocusing like this.)

Stiles is officially mortified. Turns out even demons get prudish after spending so much time in the mortal realm. Who knew? It’s okay, Stiles will just find the nearest bridge to throw himself off from. If he has any luck he’ll die instantly and won’t get back to Hell so he doesn’t have to live with this knowledge forever.

“It’s okay. I know it’s not personal or anything,” Derek’s still not looking at him. He’s grabbed back his rag and is valiantly rubbing away at the wall. Stiles doesn’t have the heart to tell him that if the mark hasn’t come out already, it probably never will. He’d know, he’s burned plenty of walls before.

By accident, if his dad ever asks.

“That’s fine and all, only it’s very personal,” and Stiles is just making a bigger hole to bury himself in, but his mouth is faster than his brain. It’s an ongoing issue. “You don’t think I’m horny all the fucking time, right? I mean, demons do have that hyper hormonal stage at my age but assuming it’s all the time is a bit excessive. I’m not a succubus. This is completely a you thing.”

Derek’s face does that thing where it pinches in between his eyebrows and his eyes narrow a bit, lips pressed together tightly. It’s his Stiles Just Said Something Deeply Upsetting face. He uses it a lot.

Alright, time to backtrack.

“It’s really okay that you don’t feel the same. Really, I get it. I wouldn’t feel the same about me either. So let’s just ignore I ever said anything, and we can go back to trying to clean this up even if we both know it’s not going to come out,” he offers Derek his most winning smile. Derek’s face just gets even more pinched.

Stiles’ senses are pretty dulled here on the mortal realm, but he doesn’t need them to know his Alpha is probably very pissed. At him, specifically.

So it’s Tuesday, then.

Stiles takes a step back, just as a precaution. He doesn’t think Derek will throw him against a wall - he stopped doing that a couple of years ago. Stiles refuses to acknowledge he kinda misses it - but you can never be too cautious. And Stiles did kind of just confess his undying horniness for him.

Imagine if he’d also told the guy he’s utterly and helplessly in love with him. That would have gone fantastically. Not.

“You’re a demon?” Derek’s voice comes out more high pitch than Stiles has ever heard it. He’s surprised. Why is he surprised? This is what they were talking about, before Stiles stuck a foot in his mouth. “Since when?”

“Since always? Seriously dude, can’t you smell it?”

It’s like they’re back in square one.

So. Turns out Derek truly had no idea Stiles is a demon. No wonder he’d looked like Stiles had grown a second head when he banished that fiend back to Hell.

On the good side, Derek apparently also returns his feelings, after they go in circles a few more times and Stiles gets across that he’s not just horny, he’s in love. A happy ending, in Stiles’ opinion.

(“How did you end up as the son of the Sheriff anyway? Is he a demon, too?”

“Hmn? Oh, no. My mom just did this summoning ritual for a Prince of Hell to get them a child, and I showed up. It was kind of a two for one deal,” he waves his hand dismissively.

“You’re a what?”

Oh, boy. Stiles knew he was forgetting something.)

[calicos-clones]

I don’t think people realize how freaked out fanfic readers get when their favorite author(s) doesn’t update their ongoing schedule ON TIME.

And it’s not cause we want the chapter…it’s cause we’re so fucking worried about the Author.

Like— OMG ARE YOU OKAY? YOU’VE BEEN GIVING US THE TRAGIC UPDATES OF YOUR LIFE IN THE NOTES THE PAST 10 CHAPTERS?! WHY STOP? ARE YOU DEAD? DID YOU GET STUCK IN THE WALL LIKE YOUR CAT?? HAVE YOU EATEN?? HAS YOUR BRAIN EXPLODED??

Readers no longer care about the story when they don’t get their usual update. We panic and flag S.O.S as we track down our wayward author who has been both blessed by the universe with a creative mind and cursed all the same with the worst luck.

So any authors who are reading this please understand— when we comment “hey are you okay?” in your comments. No, we are not asking about the chapter.

We are legitimately concerned for your wellbeing. Do not force yourself to shit out a chapter just to appease other ppl when you yourself are not in the mental state to enjoy it or even write it to begin with.

TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF DAMMIT

[little-annie]

Just another @strangerthingswritersguild drabble.

G | WC 635 | Steve, Eddie & Robin

It was a typical Thursday evening in Buckingson home -as previously named by a very inebriated Robin and Eddie. Some random record playing on low, the small space lit by nothing but the orange glow of lamp light and candle flame.

To anyone it would sound like a peaceful night at home.

But not just anyone had Eddie for a live-in boyfriend and Robin for a best friend who also happened to be a roommate. And surely no one had the pair of chaos twins constantly bringing in stray animals to their home.

The first time it'd been a bird, some small feathery thing with a damaged wing that Robin carried into their home with her bare hands and made a nest for out of grass clippings Eddie had gathered in the park. They named the chirpy little thing Squeaker, and by the time it's wing had healed the small animal had been on several road trips and one memorable trip to the grocery store. He'd (?) joined the next migration and now every year since when his flock comes through the city, he'll perch himself on their balcony and chitter until Robin or Eddie come out to say hello.

Then there had been Bambi. A small abandoned fawn Eddie somehow managed to sneak past Steve and into Robin's room where the pair cared for the thing until a wildlife rehabilitation centre could pick it up. Steve didn't find out about that one until he answered the call from the rehab centre offering their update on the creature several weeks later.

There was also Bob the baby Racoon, Dorothy the dumpster cat, Roco the abandoned puppy and now, there was Pumpkin, apparently.

Steve had been in the kitchen slaving away over dinner when he heard the soft click of the front door and the insanely uncharacteristic whispers between Eddie and Robin.

And then there was a meow.

A wretched, croaky thing that sounded as if the newest addition to their home had the same nicotine problem as Eddie.

“Shhhh,” Steve could hear Eddie whisper as he continued to stir the pot of pasta sauce he was making, “Don't want Stevie finding out about you just yet.”

“We gotta bath you first baby,” Robin added.

Steve could only imagine the condition of this animal, let alone the event it would be for Robin and Eddie to bathe it.

But as he had a handful of times before, he pretended he hadn't heard a thing and let the chaotic two carry on.

Just the sound of them attempting to wash the cat was rather comical. Of course there was lots of swearing and one quite loud yelp from Eddie, accompanied by Robin's hushed placating. Funny enough they were still trying to be quiet, but Steve could still hear the murmurs of…

“Are you bleeding?”

“Of course I'm bleeding, Buckley. Did you see the claws on this thing.”

“Did you see the nuts on ‘em?”

“Unfortunately, yes. What the fuck?”

“Should they be that big?”

“I don't know. We'll ask Steve.”

“What do you think happened to his tail?”

“Probably froze off like his ears.”

Jesus Christ.

Twenty minutes, several yowls from the cat, one loud painful sounding yelp from Eddie later, Steve is introduced to Pumpkin.

He's a scraggly looking thing.

One eyed, half tailed and missing the majority of his two ears. The definition of a dumpster cat. Steve's sure the cat stunk before the bath the apparently three before him endured.

Robin and Eddie are soaked head to toe. Bloodied and bandaged. Hair in utter disarray. They look exhausted. But they also look to be just beaming with excitement.

The cat on the other hand, held tightly in Robin's arms looks less than thrilled.

“Steve,” Robin starts, joined by Eddie a moment later, “Sweetheart,”

“Meet Pumpkin.”

[cambion-companion]

I really think a major problem with the whole AI debacle is it feeds into this cultural shift where everyone needs instant gratification.

Don't want to wait or pay for an art commission? Feed a prompt to AI.

Don't want to wait for your favorite fanfic author to update? Feed their fic to AI.

It's truly unfortunate how greedy, selfish and impatient people are becoming.

In so doing we lose a crucial aspect of art. The heart and humanity that colors the passion behind such beautiful human-made creations.

When you rely on AI for your media content, what you get is a hollow replica of others' hard work. And you're doing everyone, including yourself, a disservice.

[sturnina]

Showtime

Matt Sturniolo x actress!reader

— tags;; resolved angst, relationship angst, jealousy, arguments, happy ending

— wc;; 2.8k

— author's note;; based on this ask, i changed the setting to a theatre performance since that's easier for me to relate to, i hope that's okay <3 + the ending sucks, sorry for that

The energy backstage is unmistakable. The air is buzzing with excitement, garments are rustling, and you can hear the faint whispers of people rehearsing their roles one last time before it is time to step on stage.

You’re standing at the end of the room, arms crossed over your dress, and trying to ignore the nervous pit in your stomach. This is not the first time you’ll be standing on a stage in front of hundreds of people, far from it. It will also not be the last time, hopefully far from it as well. It’s also not your first time having a huge role, so that’s not what you’re worried about either.

What makes this premiere such a big thing for you is that your boyfriend of a few months will be watching. You got Matt and his brothers first-row tickets, and the way you know him he forced them to leave early so he could guarantee that he’s on time. It’s the first time he’ll be seeing you on stage, and you refused to tell him anything about the play or your part — except that you might just have got the main role (and are very proud of that fact).

You must’ve looked absolutely frozen because your friend walks up to you and lays a hand on your shoulder.

“It’s gonna be alright,” she promises, an encouraging smile on her lips. “You rocked the rehearsals.”

Grinning, you quickly shake your stiffness off. “Yeah, it’s gonna be great,” you agree.

“Your boy Matt, he’s coming, right?”

“Yeah,” you say, even just the thought of him lighting your face up in a smile.

“And he’s okay with… you know, that scene with Oliver?” she asks, nodding over to the guy who plays your love interest, aka Odysseus, the Greek hero lost on the sea for a decade. He‘s standing in front of a wall, staring at it intently, challenging the plaster as if it were Poseidon keeping him from returning home. He’s locked in already.

Smacking your lips, you nod. “He’ll know it’s not real,” you say, nodding, almost as if to convince yourself. “It should be fine.”

“Girl… you didn’t tell him?” your friend asks, clearly doubting what you said.

“He knows nothing about the Odyssey, so I didn’t tell him,” you justify yourself. “Especially not a major spoiler like that.”

“I don’t think that was a good idea,” she sighs, “but you do you.”

Someone claps twice, and everyone immediately turns around. “Alright, it’s time,” the boy responsible for time-keeping says, his voice awkwardly loud in the sudden silence.

All you can hear is the audience, even through the thick doors to the dressing rooms. It’s barely there, even the whirring of the lamps above is louder, but it immediately multiplies your nervosity as you remember how many people will see you tonight. The tickets were sold out only two weeks after the performance was announced. Sold out. You can still barely fathom it, even after so many years of theatre.

“Break a leg,” you whisper to your friend who squeezes your shoulder one last time before hopping off the table and joining the group leaving the dressing room.

You follow her silently, well aware that the audience is slowly calming down, the lights are tuned lower and an almost electric atmosphere fills the room. It finds its way into your lungs, too, but you keep breathing steadily, nonetheless. You got this.

It‘s already there, the well-known feeling of slipping into a role. The person who walks on stage isn‘t you, it is Penelope, waiting for her husband to return home and tending to his land and wealth.

The murmurs behind the curtain eventually stop completely. Anticipation floods the room and replaces the pit in your stomach. The light changes. The actors and actresses are behind the stage. Except for you. And slowly, the curtain opens, revealing you, alone, in the middle of the stage. In the spotlight. Showtime, baby.

Time passes quickly when you‘re on stage. With your thoughts constantly ready for the next costume change, the next scene, the next text, you can hardly focus on the now, and yet that’s the only place where your consciousness lies. You show grief, desperation, hope, and most importantly determination every second you‘re on stage. And every time you look at the audience, you can see Matt‘s eyes looking at you with utter fascination and wonder, making your heart warm with confidence.

And then the last scene arrives. Odysseus, clothed as a poor beggar, reveals himself. Oliver tenderly takes your face in his hands. You look up at him, lips parted in awe and shock, just as you rehearsed.

“Odysseus,“ you stage-whisper, running a hand along his temple. “Is it truly you? Or have the gods deceived my eyes and feasted on my hope?“

“Penelope,“ he whispers back, the name falling so sweetly from his lips. “It’s me.” And then he leans down, pressing his lips against yours. You can‘t see Matt‘s stiffness or the bitter tug that lies around the corners of his mouth after that single movement. 

The audience sighs collectively, so much pent-up tension releasing. It‘s almost palpable as you melt into Oliver‘s- no, Odysseus‘ arms and rest your head against his chest while the curtains slowly close.

The room explodes with people cheering and clapping while the other actors and actresses quickly hurry onto the stage. With a euphoric grin on your lips, you lay your arms around the shoulders of Oliver and whoever happens to be on the other side of you, waiting for the curtains to open again. And then you bow and bow again, and run off the stage, and run back, and bow, and look for Matt in the audience, and almost trip over your own feet, and bow again, and everyone‘s laughing and cheering…

Backstage, the room is buzzing with energy as everyone hurries to change out of their Greek dresses and clean up their makeup. No one‘s actually talking, the air is filled with rustling and clinking and occasional questions like, “Can you help me open my dress?” or, “Where‘s my blush?” And then the director enters and congratulates everyone, and everyone is smiling but no one is listening.

You’re the first to leave, unable to wait any longer before seeing the triplets. But especially Matt, you can‘t wait to see his reaction.

The cold air bites your lungs, but you can‘t bring yourself to care about that as you run across the pavement, heading to the front doors of the building. With rosy cheeks and out of breath, you stop before the entrance.

But there‘s no trace of the triplets in the crowd. Assuming that they only needed to use the toilet or something, you lean against the wall, making sure to keep the doors that swing open regularly in your peripheral while you let your gaze wander over the crowd. Every time someone walks out, your head snaps back in their direction, but it‘s never a familiar face.

It takes you at least ten minutes before you realise to check your phone. The second you pull it out, a sense of dread washes over you. Nick sent you a message, a quick, “Matt wasn‘t feeling well, we needed to leave soon. Absolutely loved your performance tho, you crushed it!!” You respond with a nervous, “Okay, and thanks!”

Matt isn‘t feeling well. Now you‘re feeling ill too, the pit in your stomach coming back even worse than before the performance.

The others are going to party all evening, celebrating the premiere. You wanted to invite Matt, but now you‘re torn between going home to him or staying with a bad feeling for the rest of the night. The choice isn’t difficult, and you order an Uber.

The second you walk up to the porch of the house, Nick has already whipped it open, running to hug you first.

“Oh. My. God. That was a-maz-ing!” he exclaims, almost lifting you from the ground with his embrace. You giggle, another rush of blood flooding your cheeks as you relish in his compliments.

“Like girl, I know nothing about Greek mythology but I just know that that was exactly what Penelope felt all that time!” he continues, guiding you to the house. “So vulnerable and yet so strong. Unbelievable.”

Not knowing what to say except for thousands of thank you‘s, you just grin and sheepishly look away until you enter the house, looking for Matt. But he isn‘t here, not even as you enter the living room. Chris is lounging on the couch, lazily scrolling on his phone. He looks up as you enter, and all you can see is his slightly tense expression.

“Matt‘s in his room,” he says, just a bit too quick for your taste. And then he adds, “Great performance, by the way. I really liked… everything about it.”

You chuckle slightly at his cluelessness. Muttering a quick, “Thanks,” you proceed down the hallway to Matt‘s room.

He doesn‘t react when you knock the first time, so you do it again, even fiercer.

“Matt,” you say before you open the door and enter the room. He‘s lying in the dark on his bed, staring at his phone screen. He doesn‘t even look up.

Not that you expected him to shower you with compliments—well, you kind of did, but was that so wrong of you?—but at least something would‘ve been nice. Instead, he just keeps ignoring you. You cross your arms in front of your chest, the hurt obvious in your eyes. But he can‘t see it because his back is turned to you.

“Matt,” you say again. The air in the room is thick, but not because it smells bad. It just feels bad.

The adrenaline after the show has disappeared by now, leaving you completely drained. If you could just have this one thing—have one performance to be happy about. But no. Your boyfriend won‘t even congratulate you.

Tears dwell up in your eyes and you don‘t even try to suppress them. Everything was so much half an hour ago, and now it‘s nothing, worth absolutely nothing. The euphoria before and after the performance has dissolved, and you miss it already.

You know this feeling and hate it so, so much. Every time you get time to think after a play, everything feels like shit. You feel weak. Empty. And Matt is ignoring you. People have often wondered why you still have so much energy after acting for two hours. This is the reason: if you let go of the energy, it will absolutely wreck you.

A strained sob finally escapes your lips. Matt tenses up immediately, and he turns around to face you in the darkness of his room.

“Baby?” he whispers. “Are you crying?”

A thousand and one answers lie on your tongue, but you have the energy for none of them. Instead, another weak sob claws its way out of your chest.

Matt bites his lower lip, obviously hesitant about what to do.

“Why did you… why are you ignoring me?” you ask, feeling pathetic for the tears and sobs and choked-out words. But you don’t care to pull yourself together.

“C‘mere,” he mutters, patting the bed beside him. He‘s avoiding the question, but you don’t care. The exhaustion in your movements is obvious as you flop down next to him.

The silence is thick, despite your occasional laboured breaths and sniffles while Matt awkwardly keeps his arm around your shoulder. Eventually, when you have calmed down enough for his measures, he clears his throat.

“You didn‘t tell me.” Your heart drops.

“Tell you what?” you ask and immediately regret it.

“About… him.”

“Oliver,” you say, and he nods. “I didn‘t think there was anything to tell.”

He pulls his arm back, and you know that if there were light in the room right now, you‘d see his hurt expression.

“What do you mean, there wasn’t anything to tell? You made out with him in front of hundreds of people!” he exclaims.

“I didn‘t mean it obviously,” you try to reason. “It‘s my job, remember?”

“I know, but that doesn’t make it better.” The bitterness in his tone, the way you already know he won‘t give in, makes you grind your teeth.

“You apparently don‘t know, if you‘re behaving like this now,” you snap, scooting away from him slightly.

You just spent the entire day with last-minute rehearsals and the final play. You‘ve been up since six in the morning, working hard for it all to be perfect, for it all to work out, and all he can think about is a moment that lasted less than three seconds? Your exhaustion is gone again, blasted away by another wave of adrenaline which your body apparently can‘t get enough of.

“I can‘t help it,” he mutters, “I don‘t want to see you like that.”

“Like what?” you demand. “Doing what I love? Making it my job? Properly fulfilling my dreams?”

“That‘s not what I meant-”

“But it‘s obviously the only thing you can remember.”

“Can you stop?” he groans, running a hand over his face. “I‘m just saying, you could‘ve warned me at least. I wasn‘t expecting… that.”

You sigh, laying back on the bed. “I‘m sorry, okay? I just wanted to keep the entire thing a secret because you didn‘t know the Odyssey. I didn’t think it‘d be that big of a deal.”

He stays silent for a second, staring at his hands. “But it is,” he finally mutters. “Next time you kiss a guy, I want you to tell me.”

“Alright, fine,” you mutter, looking up at him. But the hurt and disappointment don‘t recede. “Next time I have a play, I‘ll just tell you everything about it so you can‘t complain.”

“Don‘t say that,” he says sternly. “The play was great, I just…”

“You just can’t remember any of it because you got fixated on one single moment.”

“Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Putting words in my mouth.”

“But I‘m not, am I? I‘m just reading between the lines,” you scoff.

“You‘re making me sound like an asshole who can‘t appreciate…” Your eyes snap up to meet his, and his voice slowly trails off.

“Yeah? Tell me more about this asshole I‘m making you be that‘s definitely not you.” Your voice is sarcastic and relentless.

“Fuck, I didn‘t mean it like that.”

You look at him. One eyebrow arched, arms crossed, and not going to let go of it soon.

“I‘m just jealous,“ he mutters, avoiding your gaze. “No one should get to see you like that, much less be the one to kiss you.“

Your gaze softens, but you keep looking at him. “I know. But it meant nothing. It was just for a job, and you should know that. You need to trust me.“

“I do,“ he says without hesitation. “I just don’t trust him.”

His voice is bitter again, and his eyes are focused on his hands, the fingers on his right hand twisting his ring around. You lay a hand over his, stopping the anxious movement.

“He’s an idiot,” you say firmly, “I’d never voluntarily spend time with him. But he’s a good actor, and we work well together. I promise you that all there’s ever going to be between us is respect for the others’ acting.”

The conviction in your tone seems to calm him, but he’s still not looking at you.

“God,” he eventually whispers, “I’m such a dick. I ruined your evening, didn’t I?”

“No, you…” you quickly reply, but then you hesitate. “Well…”

“You should be out celebrating with your friends because you did great at your performance, but you’re here, making sure I don’t feel bad about it, that’s not fair…”

“I’m not gonna argue against that,” you mutter, “but I get it. I should’ve told you.”

“You wanna go out?” he offers, but you shake your head.

“Next time. ‘m too tired now.” Sighing, you lean against him. He immediately stretches his arm out and lays it around your shoulders, pulling you closer again and leaning back until you’re lying in bed next to him.

“I know that I didn’t make it clear enough, but I loved it. You’re such an incredible-”

“Matt,” you interrupt him. “Not now.” Not after he refused to think about anything but the scene with the kiss.

“Okay,” Matt whispers, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I’ll come watch again tomorrow, and then I’ll say all the beautiful things you deserve.”

You can’t help but let out a small giggle. “It’s sold out,” you say, shaking your head. “But…”

“But?”

“I could get you in from the back, so you’ll meet Oliver as well,” you say. He visibly cringes at the thought, but then he seems to think about it.

“Maybe that’s a good idea,” he says hesitantly, pulling you flush against his chest.

A small smile is painted on your lips for the rest of the evening.

masterlist

[awnrys]

ʜᴇᴀᴠʏ ᴄʜᴇꜱᴛ✧.*

bestfriend!megumi x f!reader

megumi miscommunicates his feelings to 'cure' his heavy chest.

↳˳;; ❝ part of my jealous? me? never! fic, masterlist here ᵕ̈೫˚∗

content: angst, miscommunication, implied relationship, readers pronouns are she/her, toge being a jerk, smau briefly, a few weeks after

wc: 1k

an: currently on the school bus 4 a trip nd writing this out 😭 kinda rushed, pls don't come at me

﹋﹋

megumi slogs into the school, giving a nasty look to anyone who isn't you. especially when he see's inumaki.

megumi doesn't know what hurts him more, the fact that his ex-bestfriend is choosing to try and win over his bestfriend that inumaki knows he likes, or the fact that your choosing to be friends with inumaki rather than just hearing him out on this one.

he decides before lunch would be the best time to discuss it with you and he shoots you a text.

﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋

﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋

you left him on seen, which was unusual of you but he assumed it was because of the little arguments you guys had the previous few weeks.

he wasn't mad you had decided to rule out being friends with him for yourself, he understood, but he was still hurt a decent amount considering you guys had been friends for 15 years.

megumi came out of his trance and his heart started to race when he saw your little '...' bubble pop up.

all the hope quickly left him and his heart sank when it disappeared. megumi was disappointed. he had prayed that you would still show up so he can truly express his heavy feelings about this situation to you.

﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋

it was 30 minutes before lunch and megumi clutched his phone in his clammy hand as he jogged to the meeting location.

he was praying this wasn't for nothing and that you would actually show. 5 minutes pass, then 10. he was slowly loosing hope that you would actually show.

all of a sudden, he saw you shuffle up to the tree out of the corner of his eye. he didn't wanna show it but he was happy. happy that you showed. happy that you cared.

"hi megumi." you say, shyly. he worries, why are you shy around him? you're never shy near him, and you never should be.

"hi y/n," megumi answered. he tries to add on to his sentence with his reason of bringing you here but you cuts him off.

"listen, i know its really soon but, i think i like toge. and he told me that you guys are bestfriends so i thought you could help me out. you know, since you and him are bestfriends and so are we," you confess.

megumi feels his heart sink all the way down to the core of the earth. you like toge. you like toge and not megumi. out of all the people that like megumi, you are not one of them. toge has now gotten you officially wrapped around his finger and there was nothing in the universe megumi could do about it besides wait.

he blinks away the few tears threatening to fall out of his tear ducts at any given moment and stutters.

"oh, y/n," i continue, "that's.. great. i'm so happy for you. you guys are gonna be so cute together..!" he lies out of his teeth.

he was praying all this time that maybe, just maybe, he could revamp this relationship he had made with you and finally confess his feelings that he's had pent up for years but now that chance has faltered.

you don't catch onto the little big lie megumi had told and continue.

"thank you, gumi! i'm so happy you understand. you know what's funny," you pause for a few seconds of silence, "i actually thought you and me would get together!"

megumi was sure he was absolutely sobbing his eyes out by now.

"i had liked you and i was sure you liked me but after these few weeks, i told myself to move on because i could tell by the way you were acting towards me and shit that you hadn't liked me.." concluded y/n.

megumi was about to go batshit insane. you had liked him, and you hadn't said anything to him. megumi didn't wanna lash out at you so he chose to go for the better option and ditch this whole talking-things-out plan all together.

"oh! haha.." he fakes, "that's funny y/n. what's the ti- oh shitt! i have to um, go somewhere. b-bye now, y/n." he lies with a scarily convincing fake smile.

you noticed he hadn't been using the little nickname he had given you after you gave him the nickname 'gumi' but you shrugged it off.

megumi was so fucking dumbfounded. why wouldn't you just say something to him? it was so clear as day that he had liked you! he made it so obvious and he even had yuji help him out on making it even more obvious!

megumi ran out of the school, leaving a trail of tear drops soak up little spots on the floors behind him.

he stops to take a breather. meanwhile. you pace as you head to lunch.

you let your mind wonder about megumi. why was he acting so weird? did something happen? why did he run off so quick? did he wanna ask me something?

you decided on stopping your stupid mindset and just hurrying up to lunch as fast as possible. you knew toge was probably waiting for you, and you were (almost) positive megumi was a-ok.

once you get your lunch, you head over to the table at which you and toge both sit at. you see toge waiting for you to eat his meal and quickly advance over to the table.

"hi toge!" you speak, excited. he flashes a cute smile as you and responds.

"hey y/n/n!"

you completely forget about the whole weird interaction with megumi and continue to chat with toge but megumi doesn't let his mind rest from you.

he can't stop thinking about you and how to stop you from liking toge and to like him. he knows there has to be some way and that he can finally, hopefully, get you to see that he does love you.

he plots on finally discussing the whole thing and maybe asking you out. that part is still in the works though. he's not sure if now is the right time.

he wipes off his tears and takes a deep inhale, hoping to get you back.

@1l-ynn @theweirdfloatything @morideadcat

[lordoftablecloths]

arrival

more cowboy-logic stuff (yes thats what im calling this, tell me if you come up with something funnier) expect to see more of this stuff :3

[cfffrk]

TW// D**D BODY, PUTREFACTION

the ONE fanfic that shouldn't be named

(The first picture – censored version)

The poor man did not accept the accident to the last. His once mighty mind, like a layer of eternal frozen ice, had at all times kept him firmly on the surface of sanity. It took about a week for the calm in his soul to change to a storm, and those miles and miles of permafrost to melt away and leave only a thin slippery ice flake, the last thing that kept him from sinking into the dark raging waters of madness. He clung as hard as he could, though the cold water was already washing over the top of his head. The wave hit. The ice cracked...

and darkness fell.

(all coincidences with actors from the show are coincidental)

[ganondoodle]

utterly random late night panic thoughts but

if you read my zelda comic and like it i love and appreciate you but i really do need to be upfront about it being very much a self indulgent enemies to lovers story with a villain at the center that has done bad but isnt bad at his core and is struggeling to come to terms with the fact that he doesnt actually want to be the evil beast he and almost everyone else believes he should be

yes im one of those people ... fake villain fans or something ... i think .. i dont know the rules to that ... q-q

[torchstelechos]

Once, a long time ago, when you were still trying to figure out who you wanted to be, you read a book on the ethics of psychology. It wasn’t a big interest of yours at the time, but you had been told that trying to manipulate social situations to get people to like you was bad and wrong. As a child you had wanted to know more to understand what was considered bad or wrong so that you wouldn’t get in trouble (you had also wanted to know any loop holes so that you could continue to get people to like you without breaking any “rules”).

In that book, you had read about animals and their rights. Specifically, the different types of experiments you could do to an animal before it became cruel and harmful. Surprisingly animals had a lot more rights than humans in this regard. Though you think it was because they couldn’t speak up and tell you you were harming them in the moment, so it made sense. But one of the experiments was called “Learned Helplessness” which was a study about dogs who were taught helplessness via pain and then continued to not help themselves even when the harmful stimuli was gone. It was a psychology experiment conducted to learn about motivation in humans and how that may appear in abuse or harmful situations. 

Looking at Loop, all you can think about are the dogs in those experiments. Taught to fear the pain of trying, taught to be unable to help themselves. It’s a grim reminder of what Sif could have become if he had no one to talk to, it’s a grim reminder that you aren’t enough to keep him stable. It hurts your stomach to think about but. You can’t look away. Because that’s a version of Siffrin you failed, that’s a version of Siffrin that will never be truly happy with this life. This is Siffrin without a Loop. 

This is a Siffrin that learned to roll over and accept defeat. This is a Siffrin that is a helpless dog who could do nothing but cower from the unknown. 

You… Cannot say this. You will not say this. This is something that can NEVER leave your mind. So, lets try this again. 

Looking at Loop, you see a new friend. One you hope will let you be someone to them, someone they can count on. You will not let them cower away anymore. 

“Loop, can I ask you something?” 

“What is it, Fighter?” 

“Howl you doing?” 

“...Was that a pun? What were you even trying to pun that with? There aren’t any dogs here.” 

“Oh! Yeah! You're right, I was just thinking about that reeeeeal cute dog back at the House. You remember them? They were really fluffy and sweet!”

“You confuse me, Fighter.” 

“I know! But hey, that's what getting to know each other is for. We can learn how to not confuse each other, together!” 

“...Sure, let's try that.”

"Awesome!!"