#cleaning up my gallery as we speak

[turnipoddity]

i love all your spongebob reaction pics how maby do u have 😭😭😭

that’s classified information

[southern--downpour]

found a VHS tape from 2004 in the art department at my college, I give it a 50/50 its either blank or im about to become a horror webseries protagonist

[ghost-proofbaby]

never love an anchor (e.m. x reader)

"On some level, I think I always understood that a ship could never really love an anchor."

warnings: severe hurt/brief comfort, suicidal ideations, severely depressed reader. again: detailed recount of suicidal ideations. dead dove: do not eat.

wc: 5.8k+

an: i cannot emphasize this enough - this fic deals with a severely depressed, and blatantly suicidal reader. it is extremely heavy. it is extremely triggering. it is extremely self-indulgent. the romance aspect is ambiguous and the comfort aspect at the end is brief. this is a genuine, and sincerely personal piece of writing. it is an outline of how suicidal ideations may present themselves to some people. of these 5k words, 4k is deeply littered with reader's ideations without sugar coating. please, please, please do not read this unless you're in the state of mind to read it. you've surely heard it before but i'll say it just to be sure: it is a permanent solution for temporary feelings. and, just in case no one has told you, i'm glad you're alive. if you're reading this, i'm glad that you're alive. you're enough.

if you find yourself feeling like reader, i urge that you find resources such as those linked. hotlines, therapists, friends, your doctor, your family - please. i do not wish these emotions upon anyone, and they should never be taken lightly.

that being said, here are my guts from a very vulnerable moment, spilled out across the page. please handle them with care if you choose to read.

Technically speaking, the pressure that the human body is capable of handling almost seems infinite. When introduced slowly, and time is given to adjust, there is no pinpointed amount of pressure that dooms the human body. Like a crab in slow boiling water, your body should be theoretically able to handle a steady increase, bit by bit, and never truly notice. 

So why does it currently feel like you’re dying?

The pressure was never an overnight thing. It was a conglomeration you’d gathered, piece by piece, collecting little souvenirs of all the responsibilities you can’t currently remember if you’d ever agreed to along the way. It hadn’t been sudden, it hadn’t been with lack of adjusting, it hadn’t been a pressure suddenly unloaded upon you all at once – you’d done this, brick by brick, all with your own two hands. 

Keeping up with friends, keeping up with work, keeping up with expectations. Always trying to run ahead of the curve, always trying to be better. You should be fine. You shouldn’t even notice. You shouldn’t be sobbing on your bathroom floor, clutching the edge of your porcelain tub, every single breath a labor of survival. 

It feels like every bone in your body is splintering. It feels like the world has cracked open your ribs, one by one, just for show. You don’t feel poetic like the movies, you don’t feel like a valuable lesson learned in the books. You feel as though you’ve become nothing more than some crude display in a contemporary art gallery, and you were the one to hang yourself on the wall. 

Needles prickle across your skin with another heaving sob, as if you can feel the push pins you’ve used to spread yourself out for consumption. 

We still on for tonight? 

The text from Eddie glares at you from your phone discarded on the floor mere inches away. You’re lucky the screen hadn’t broken when you’d thrown it down on the ground on your way to the toilet, dry heaving through all your tears. 

He wasn’t a part of the issue. If anything, he was part of the solution. 

A shining clean slate, pristine whites and a scratch-free surface for you to press your cheek to when it all got a bit much. An abyss of freedom and openness for when the world was all a bit smothering. An anchor to cling to, a rope to tie around your wrists to keep from floating too far. The willow tree in a graveyard to rest your back against, the caress of a warm sun even if only momentarily as you stared out across headstones of all the pieces of you that you can never get back. Every version of you that has long since buried, a few even with newly churned dirt resting upon them. Something soft, something sacred, to rest your hands upon. 

Why does he still let you rest your bloodied and dirtied palms on his shoulders? Did he ever agree to that to begin with? 

You can’t remember. Or maybe your brain is simply refusing to recall. 

I hate to cancel, but I’m sick. I don’t think I can come out tonight :-( 

What? Is everything okay? Are you okay? Do I need to bring you anything? 

Please don’t.

The please is what gives you away. You should have forgone it, should have offered him a lighthearted response instead. 

But there is a pit in the bottom of your stomach, and seeing all the question marks across his text only made it more terminal. Only gave it more reason to swallow you whole. Only gave it more reason to grow and to tangle up and to restrict each stuttering breath of yours that you can’t seem to steady. 

Another buzz comes from your phone, but you don’t look to read it. You resort to resting your forehead against the lip of your toilet, all attempts at a deep breath futile as you finally taste the salt across your lips. 

Were you too much? Were you not enough? Was it possible to be an odd juxtaposition of both? 

A harrowing thought crosses your mind, and you know if Eddie could read minds across the intricate webbing that connects cell phones, he’d grab you by your shoulders. Maybe shake you until you see sense, or maybe cling to you until the thought has faded into nothingness. As if he could squeeze you hard enough to press together all the splinters that are left of your bones, forming a new body – a better body. One that can handle the pressure. One that isn’t imploding upon itself. A more durable mind, a more capable suit of skin to occupy. 

Does it even matter anymore? Would it even matter if I simply vanished? 

Would it be so bad to let the pit finally consume you? To just give in, to let it erase you from existence. To finally wave your white flag and let the awfulness inside of you finally win the battle, erasing you from existence and leaving behind an empty space in the world that could be filled with someone better.

Someone who could be a better friend. Someone who could be a harder worker. Someone who wasn’t choked up on their bathroom floor, beginning to contemplate if the painful gasps were even worth it. 

Were you worth it? Were you worth the air in your lungs? Or could it better serve someone who could handle all the pressure? 

And it wasn’t even that much pressure to begin with, if you pick it apart thread by thread. It was the natural weight of the human experience, and you were still crumbling. 

There was a full bottle of ibuprofen in the cabinet. There was a busy street not far from your home. There was a bathtub that could easily be filled with water – you’d never been good at holding your breath, unless someone counted the last few months, in which that seemed to be all you were good at. 

There was even a bridge, 5.27 miles away from your house exactly. You could already envision the patch of grass you could park your car at, feel the drop in temperature as you stood and overlooked the tame waves of a man-made lake.

Maybe your feet didn’t even have to leave the pavement. Maybe it would be enough to just stand in the silence and see the jump with your own two eyes. 

You felt like nothing more than a ghost of yourself, yes, but maybe. Maybe, just maybe, there would still be a broken shard within you that could stir awake at it all. Maybe if you got up off the bathroom floor and set yourself into motion, it would open its eyes just in time to scream no. 

Ghosts don’t just appear. They were a vibrant soul once – they were somebody once. 

But it’s hard to imagine that you ever were. When it gets like this, it’s hard to push through all the tumultuous thoughts and loathly emotions to remember that. A version of you vibrant, a version of you that might have been worthy, if only for a moment. 

A version of you that wasn’t insulting to compare to others. That was capable of progress, of earning your blip of existence. 

You don’t want the bottle of ibuprofen. You don’t want the busy street. You don’t want the overflowing tub. You don’t even want the calm of the bridge. You just want it to stop. 

There’s a knock on your front door that echoes through the entire apartment. You dread that you already know who it is, but you can’t get up to answer. 

You can’t move from this very spot. You’re terrified of what will happen when you do. 

Will your bones collapse into ash upon the floor? Will you make one wrong move, and in a fit of pressure, make a terribly permanent decision for what feels like a terribly permanent feeling? 

Maybe you were born with the pit in your stomach. Maybe you were born with that black hole inside of you. Cursed to always be yearning, always be a juxtaposition, always be a ghost of what could have become. 

You think you hear the click of your front door opening. You think you hear heavy footsteps across the hardwood floors. You think, you think, you think. That’s the issue. 

The tears are still coming and going in erratic tides. The salt is drying out your lips, your cheeks, the corners of your eyes. You’d thought you’d been incapable of any more emotions like this, but your tear ducts have managed to prove you wrong. 

Does it even matter anymore?

You’d left the bathroom door wide open. 

Were you worth it?

You’d been home alone – past tense.

A more durable mind, a more capable suit of skin to occupy.

A soft gasp of your name has you microscopically lifting your head from the toilet seat. You know what the scene looks like; it looks like nothing more than the excuse you’d used. You look as though you’re ill, like you’ve been spilling your guts across the bathroom floor all night. 

If you had been, would it all feel a little less heavy? 

“Hey, Eds.” 

You’re tired. You’re exhausted. Your voice is nothing more than a drag of a whisper as you look up at your anchor standing in the doorway, his face painted with concern. 

Maybe you were an anchor – maybe being an anchor wasn’t a good thing. After all, what use does an anchor have beyond weighing down the ship? 

“Jesus,” he mutters as he rushes to your side, falling to his knees carelessly as his hand flies out to brush back tendrils of your hair, “You look like shit.”

You felt like shit. 

Selfishly, you lean into his touch, desperate for comfort. Desperate for those caring palms to soothe the ache you’d carried since birth. Desperate to hear him tell you that you’re wrong – hands to promise you that you’re worthy, fingers to wrap around your bones rather than these burning ropes. You’re bloodied and raw, fully on display, and you just want to be okay. 

You don’t want the bridge. You want Eddie. You want him to magically make it okay, and that’s unfair. 

You’re not his weight to carry, not his burden to shoulder. 

After far too long of a silence, one in which he sits patiently in with you, all you can really reply is a broken, “Yeah.” 

Immediately, he knows something is wrong. Because of course he does. 

Because he’s a good friend. He’s a good person. He has the right words more often than not, and his hands were always formed to heal rather than injure. Create rather than destroy. Those warm palms are made to hold the space he’s earned in the grand scheme of the Universe, and it almost makes you nauseous as the jealousy spreads. 

He’s good. 

And you’re simply rotten.

You used to lie to yourself and say it was simply one rotted bit amongst plenty of good, but tonight, it all seemingly comes to clarity. You can’t dig out the bad, cleanse yourself of the rot, because it’s all decay. 

You don’t have to let the pit consume you – it already has. You were born with it, and it had swallowed you whole from the first cry that had ever left your lips. 

He makes himself a bit more comfortable, and you almost feel bad for reducing him to nothing more than the bathroom floor, “You wanna talk about what’s really wrong?” 

“I’m sick.” 

“This isn’t just some stomach bug.”

Your throat begins to tighten again, and suddenly, his gentle touch across the crown of your head burns. Your eyes water ferociously, and your chest caves into itself.

You can’t make a better body or a more sound mind out of the mess you’ve become. You can’t pull gold from tarnished rubble. 

Confessing to him will only be handing over something heavy, something terrible, that he shouldn’t have to struggle with as well. But not offering him a sliver of the truth almost feels more dishonoring. 

“Do you ever feel like a waste of space?” you croak, leaning back, finally accepting that the small space of the toilet that had been cooling your face has gone warm. Another thing you’ve ruined, in hindsight, “Like, this world is filled with great people, and I just… I just, I’m taking up the space- I’m wasting the space-” 

You can’t get out the proper words. You don’t know how.

How do you say you want to cease to exist when you’re not really sure if that’s the truth? You’re miserable, and you’re selfish, and you’re not entirely sure your feet would have ever left the pavement if you had driven yourself to the bridge. You’d be too scared to do it.  

Too scared to miss the day that science announces it’s found a cure to all your rot, a miracle drug to erase the pit, a way to reverse all the damage you’ve been comprised of your whole life. 

His brows furrow and his hand stops all the calming movements, “What? Are you- are you saying you feel like a waste of space?”

It feels silly to admit it to other people. To try and describe how it all feels. Like a child trying to convince their parents the Boogeyman is real, you have to make him see that you’re right. You have evidence, you have proof, and it’s not just a feeling. 

“I don’t feel like I’m a waste of space,” you finally correct, both yourself and him, “I know I’m a waste of space.” 

“Bullshit.”

“Eddie, don’t-”

“No,” he cuts you off. And somehow, in only a way that he’s capable of, it’s not offensive, “You’re not. I’m not going to sit here and listen to my favorite person claim they’re wasting space-”

“I am!” It’s your turn in the cycle of interruption. You pull away from him entirely, chest heaving with the weight presenting itself once more, tears starting to fall all over again. You can’t even distinguish where the old tears stop and the new ones begin, “I really am. All I seem to do lately is just exist. And that’s such a- such a- that’s such a waste. I can’t read any of the things I should enjoy these days, I can’t even write. All of the words feel like they just come out wrong. I’m letting everyone down left and right, I’m never living up to whatever pedestal you’ve put me on. I don’t even know what I’m doing with my life. I don’t even know where I’ll be in a year from now – I can’t even see that far in the future.”

Heaves become sobs, and the crumbling has begun once more. A cycle of breaking, a cycle of demolition. Even leaving behind the rubble feels like a crime. A waste of space. 

“I don’t think I’m a good person,” you manage to spit out between all your visceral reactions, “Every year, I tell myself the same thing – I’ll be better, I’ll be kinder, I’ll be worth it. And every year, I fail.” 

Can he see it? All the fractures and splinters and pits and metaphors? 

Can he smell it? All the rot and the destruction and hopelessness?

Can he feel it? All the pressure? 

Through your sniffles, you press your back to the tub, knees to your chin as you wrap your arms around your legs, desperately trying to shrivel up. To take up less space. To waste less space.

“I used to think I could make up for it,” you whisper, “I could offer people things that made them forget I’m… so useless. But I don’t think I’m even capable of that anymore.”

If he’s about to respond, it’s drowned out by your cries. You press your eyes hard into your kneecaps, until you see stars, and you try to swallow down all the embarrassment. Try to stop all the hurt from spilling out, to stop all your guts from painting the bathroom walls. 

He could simply sit there, let you wallow in your misery alone. Sit and stare as the artwork finally serves its purpose to the visitors of the gallery. Maybe jot down some commentary on how with your bones all spread out like this, the point the artist was attempting to make becomes oh so clear. 

And yet, he doesn’t. 

You know it’s his arms that are wrapping around you, pulling you from the chill of the tub and into the warmth of his chest.  And you let yourself smother within the fabric of his shirt the same exact way in which you’ve convinced yourself you smother everyone around you, let yourself breathe in drugstore cologne and his last cigarette rather than think about all the thoughts that had been spiraling you into dismay over the last twenty four hours – over the last twenty four years. 

He’d probably been smoking while waiting on your call tonight. Probably riddled with anxiety, if the shake of his hands pressing into your back are anything to go off of. An anxiety and waiting game that wouldn’t have to exist if you didn’t exist.

The thought makes you cry harder. 

If a ghost dies, can it even still return back as itself? Can it still find it within itself to haunt empty hallways, and watch the ones it once loved find peace?

“You’re not useless,” it sounds as though Eddie might be crying as well, if not just a little choked up, “You’re not- I swear- You’re not useless, okay? Never have been, never will be.”

His murmured words are nice, but they fuel an unimaginable guilt. It was supposed to be a nice night. A night of movie marathons and midnight coffee, of trying to remind yourself why you still stick around. A moment of incomparable joy and sweet reprieve as your stomach ached from laughter, your cheeks swelling with an infallible grin that Eddie always seems to pull out of you.

There’s no smiling, no giggling, right now. Just his favorite band shirt from the show you two had attended a few years before, soaking with a fast-growing stain from all your tears. 

When you don’t answer him, only manage to wrap your selfish arms around his waist, he continues, “How long have you felt this way, sweetheart?”

And if you hadn’t already been shattered previously, that would have finally broken you. 

You can’t pinpoint when it started. You can’t clear the smoke of memories and find an exact moment that you can point to and say, there. That’s where the hurt starts — that’s where the rot starts. 

“I don’t know.”

In your mind, it’s a wail. Loud and ferocious, efforts of all it has taken to withstand the pressure of your undoing screamed out loud. 

But on this quiet bathroom floor, it can’t even be considered a whisper. Nothing more than the spoken words lingering from a ghost who can’t give up the haunt. An echo of a memory, an echo of the piece in you that can’t let go, not yet.

Not of existing, and not of him. Your fists hold him so firmly against you, you’re scared that you’re going to bruise him. Hurt him just from the sheer effort of trying to show that you love him. 

The only way you know how to love – a violent dog who will always bite the kindest hands. Leaving behind bloodied knuckles even if you hadn’t so much as snipped this time. 

You take a sharp breath, aware of the levity of the words you’re about to say, “I don’t want to exist anymore, but I wouldn’t even make it off the bridge if I tried.”

It’s not about the bridge anymore. In all likelihood, it wouldn’t be the bridge you turn to. There’s a grand metaphor somewhere in the admittance, but your mind is just too tired to try and paint a prettier picture of it for him. 

Because exist is just a placeholder. And there’s a bigger, scarier word that should stand in its place. 

He starts to break the hold, and you nearly sob out again just at that. Losing the warmth of his chest and arms strike pain somewhere deep within you, just north of the pit that’s devoured all that’s left of you. 

“Bridge?” Phrased as a clarifying question, but when you see his face, it’s clear he knows. There are no good words left to say about it, “Sweetheart, no.”

There are worse reactions to be had. More scenarios that end in slamming doors or deafening silent treatments. Realizations that you’re right and it’s not worth it – defense mechanisms that involve them leaving first. 

“I couldn’t do it, even if I want-” 

Even if I wanted to. The words you can’t speak, dying on your tongue. 

Do you want to? Where does the pain begin? And where could it end?

“You really don’t see it, do you?” he laughs humorlessly, his hands still gripping your biceps in a death hold, “You… you just…” 

He doesn’t know what to say, and you don’t blame him. You knew this was heavy; you knew this isn’t the type of bomb to drop on someone you love. 

But if you didn’t, where would the bomb have gone? You’re not equipped to detonate it. You’re not equipped to survive the explosion. You wouldn’t want to survive that explosion. 

“I’m sorry,” your words pour out, beginning to shake beneath his palms, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

Dry, cracked lips feel as though they nearly split from the apologies. More violence, more devastation, more of what you always knew you were. You can see it in his eyes – you’re dragging him down with you, right down to the bottom of the ocean. You’re being an anchor. 

He’s all stutters and harsh breaths, panic filling the space with your own as his eyes search yours, “Don’t apologize. You don’t have to apologize. Just-”

He cuts off and is pulling you close again. Slamming your bones into his, wrapping up around you as if he might be able to keep you safe from the world. From your own mind. 

“I don’t need apologies,” another squeeze of your closer to him, another attempt to pull you away from the dangers that lie within, “I don’t- I just… Can I help? How do I make it better? Just say the word. I’ll do it.” 

It’s not your job. That’s not your job. 

You don’t realize you’ve said the words out loud until he’s squeezing you so tightly that you now can’t breathe. Until all you are is him. All his old t-shirts he’s lent to you that hang in your closet, all the nights spent with tangled legs as you sit across from each other on your couch, all the phone calls in which he refused to be the first one to hang up. Cologne that is too cheap to be able to cling so ferociously as it does to all your surroundings, chain-smoked cigarettes you always chastise him for because they’re gonna kill you one day, the smoke of his latest blunt resting in an ashtray as his head finds home in your lap. 

All the inside jokes. All the hugs. All the simple texts, if for nothing more than to just check in on each other. The broken reminders of having someone out there that cares. That loves you. 

How can such rotten hands pull such love from others? How have you yet to infect him? 

“I know it’s not my job,” he finally says, and you know for a fact he’s crying along with you before the first of his tears have wet the crown of your head, “It’s never been a job. You’re not a job. Okay? Get that through your head. There’s- Fuck, there’s plenty of things I wanna drill in that pretty little head of yours right now, but I know I can’t, so just get that.”

He’s trying. A little trill of his tongue that falls a bit flat when he refers to your pretty little head, a brief squeeze of your shoulders as he tries to relax a little. He wants to make you feel better. He wants to make it better. 

But he’s still holding you like he’s terrified. You did that – you instilled that fear. 

“I’m a mess,” you whisper in bitter realization, ash on your tongue as you process what you’ve done. You’ve already apologized, but you’re seconds away from doing so again, “I’m- I’m a mess, and I’m dragging you into it, and I’m sor-”

“Stop being sorry.” Definitive words, no room for argument. The smallest of shifts as things click into place. He isn’t budging – he isn’t letting go, “Do you remember when I first met you?” 

You can’t tell if the question is meant to have a point, or if it’s meant to be a distraction. You let it grow into the latter.

“Yeah,” you breathe out against him, melting into his chest, trying to focus on his voice rather than the ones in your head, “But tell me about it anyway?” 

“Two years ago. Technically, two years and seven months,” he starts in the same voice he used to take on during Hellfire sessions, before the members had scattered from coast to coast and his D&D club only became a rarity when the stars aligned. There’s still a crack to his voice from his tears, but that doesn’t stop him, “We were in some cursed fucking diner we don’t even go to anymore, in the dead of the night, and all the servers knew your name and order,” he paints the picture with a humor that should feel out of place, but it settles some of your breathing. Omitting all the vivid details, opting for triggering the memory with words you’d just get. You can feel the stick of the plastic beneath your thighs, you can smell the grease of the kitchen. You can see the cloudy night out of the oversized windows. He’s a natural born storyteller in the most subtle of ways, always knowing his audience, “You were sitting all alone in that booth, and all of Hellfire had just left. Gareth had just told us how he was going to college in California – did you know that?” 

“I didn’t.” 

“Well, he did,” his chin presses against the top of your head, a huff of a laugh escaping him, “Dropped the bomb it was our last summer as a club probably. We were happy for him, though. Real fucking happy. Got milkshakes to celebrate and made plans to get drunk off our asses the next night to keep the party going. It was dumb, and I’m getting off track, but…” 

Baited breath, you’re waiting for him to continue. No thoughts of the bridge. No thoughts of your failures. Living in a small memory with him on the floor of your bathroom. 

“Anyways, you were sitting there all alone, with a plate of fries and ranch.” 

“Oh, God,” your nose scrunches and you try to pull away, suddenly remembering how embarrassing this memory ends for you. It suddenly didn’t seem like the best way for him to make you feel better by any means, “No, I remember how this story ends, and-”

“I’m not done,” he locks his arms around you, and you can feel the whisper of a smile as it brushes against your temple, “Obviously you know where I’m going with this, but I’m not done, sweetheart. Because all the other guys had just left, and I’m sitting there, realizing the only other customer was some random person over across the diner, scribbling away in some notebook. Thought you looked cute when you were all focused like that, y’know? But then you were so focused that it became distracted, and you spilled that ranch all over yours-” 

“Please, stop.”

You’re laughing through the words, weakly, the air of desperation in the word please being far different from earlier in the night. No bridges, no failures. 

“I was probably being a weirdo, trying to run over and help you or whatever the fuck I was trying to do. I probably made it worse, right?” 

You’re there, remembering a version of Eddie that was a stranger, taking napkins to the knees of your jeans and smearing the ranch rather than really helping you clean it up. “Yeah, just a little bit.” 

“Sorry for that, by the way,” he airily apologizes before continuing, “But I just remember thinking about how focused you were on that notebook. And how you laughed with the waiter. And how you were just… lost in your own little world. And how you were so cute. You were so nice. The type of person I wanted in my life. Took one look at you with that ranch all over your lap and thought, huh. I want to get to know that person.” 

“Nice? I was not nice, I was-” you cut off, heart all but stopping as you recognize the point of it all. It wasn’t meant to just be a distraction. He was making a point. “I was a… a mess that day.” 

“Exactly.”

He pulls away again, and this time, it’s a little easier. The world has put a pause on its ending and you can handle the weight of his arms lightening for a few seconds, just so he can get a good look at your face. 

“You were a mess the day that I met you, and I still wanted you in my life,” he says each word deliberately, not breaking eye contact. Fear has broken through to determination. “And even if you’re still a mess today, I still want you. Nothing changes. You get that?” 

No bridges.

No failures.

The weight of it all had been heavy. The type of sorrow you thought was never meant to be carried by more than your own two hands. But he had taken it in his palms, lifted it from you entirely, even if it would only be temporary. One day you’d have to endure the pain again, get to the root of the problem. Figure out if all your ailments had been something wired into you since birth, or things you’d picked up along your way. But for now, you could breathe again. You could hear the drumming of your heart in your ears, and you could hear every single one of both yours and Eddie’s breaths in the silence, and that was enough. 

“I don’t want to die,” you finally quietly admit. Saying one of the bigger, scarier words. The thing you’d been too afraid to let slip off your tongue originally. “I just- sometimes it all gets a bit loud, you know? And I know you said don’t apologize, but I am sorry that I scared you. And I’m sorry that you have to take the bad to also get that little bit of the good with me.” 

His hand leaves one of your arms for the first time since he’d first wrapped you up, and it finds its way to cradle the side of your head. Holding you as if you’re porcelain still. You know that won’t go away, not tonight. “I’d rather have your bad days than have nothing at all,” he chokes up once more, and you can see tears threatening to welt in his eyes, “You get that, too. Alright? You’re worth it. Bad, good, funny, sad – give it to me. I’m asking for it. Just don’t… don’t leave me with the nothing.”

You’re worth it. 

He’s found a worth in you attached to nothing at all. He’s sitting here with you, on the bathroom floor, and his perception of you has nothing to do with what you can only offer. 

It just has to do with you. He sees you, and he’s decided you’re worth it. Even now.

He smiles softly, as if he can see the realization dawning upon you, “You wanna get up off the floor now? We can go sit on your couch or bed or something.” 

You’re quick to shake your head. Your knees are partially digging into his thighs, your breaths are matching his. 

“Okay,” his face falls slightly, but not entirely. Not entirely, “That’s okay. Do you want me…. Do you want me to go?” 

Another shake of your head. But this time, you need to offer more than just the motion of your head, especially when you can feel tears returning as your throat tightens up, “No. No, just- Stay with me? Please?” 

Your hands reach out without you even processing it, gripping his wrists, desperate and clinging and still verging on the edge of violent. The thought of being alone is terrifying, but the thought of having to watch him walk out of this room is even more petrifying. 

He doesn’t even flinch as you sink your claws in. His smile only returns, and he shuffles to pull you both to hold your backs up against the wall across from the toilet, “Of course. I’ll stay, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere – wouldn’t even dream of it.” 

His words shake just a little less than they had when he’d first entered the room. 

He can’t fix it all magically. That isn’t his job, isn’t his role, isn’t his choice. But he can sit here with you, on the floor of the bathroom, endlessly patient and tragically caring as he urges you to lay down. He stretches his legs out and pats his lap once before hovering his hands over your shoulder, guiding you until your temple is flush with his thigh. 

He can choose to not hesitate as his fingers immediately push through the baby hairs by your temple, a soft hum in the back of his throat that sounds exactly as you feel.

Hesitantly content. Just for now. It’s enough. 

The storm is receding. As hours pass by, and noises of uncertainty become more confident hums of a song you faintly recognize, it all settles. He stays. You stay. The storm passes for the time being, and the hole tempers itself for just the night. 

It’s enough for now. You’ll worry more tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. You’ll talk more about why you feel this way, and he’ll offer better solutions. The weight won’t simply be passed into his waiting hands and forgotten – one day, you’ll find a way to lighten it through dissipation rather than through catastrophe. 

One day, the seas will calm, and you’ll find yourself the ship rather than the anchor. 

And the captain can be the boy who sits on the floor with you through the sadness, content to wait out the storms with you until you find the worth he sees in you.

[atlafan]

Layna's never been so ravenous for her boyfriend. Which is shocking because there have been many times where she's felt more than desperate to have his body on hers, but this is something different entirely.

Normally, she doesn't like winter by the time February hits. The holidays are long since over, and the snow is less magical. There's black ice everywhere, and the air hurts her face. All that being said, she just found a new reason to like winter.

Sweater vests.

She had no idea Harry even owned them until she saw him wearing one at the latest showing at her gallery. He looked so handsome. All dressed up in a pair of slacks, loafers, sweater vest, and a long jacket. He hasn't exactly been dressing appropriately for winter, so when she sees him walk into the gallery, she feels like the wind has been knocked out of her. Layna is a professional, but she only has so much willpower when it comes to Harry. She's let him fuck her in the backseat of her car in the gym parking lot for fuck's sake.

They lock eyes from across the room. Layna takes out her phone and sends him a text. He raises an eyebrow when he sees her name lit up on his phone.

You're mean

how am I mean?

You look too good

not sry

Bet you're wearing that nice cologne I like so much too

u bet ur🍑

need you

ur werking

come to my office, no one will notice if I slip away for a few minutes

bet

Harry shoves his phone into his jacket pocket and makes his way to Layna's office. It's in such a private area, she's not worried about being caught. Besides, the gallery sold out. Her work is essentially done for the night.

So, that's how Layna ended up clutching at Harry's chest with her leg up over his hip, pressed up against the door of her office on a work night. His lips are on her neck, sucking on her like a leech as her fucks her with his fingers. Her fingers twirl in the material of the vest and she's doing her best not to make too much noise. Her lips are going to be incredibly swollen by the time they're done. She's panting and near convulsing in his arms. Her fingers move up to his hair to rug on. It's finally grown out to a length where she can actually tug on it again. He moans into her neck and pushes her harder up against the door. One of his hands presses flat against it by her head, and she can't help but whimper as she looks at his pulsing veins and rings.

"Shit, I'm gonna make a mess." She gasps when she feels Harry's fingers fucking shallowly into her while his thumb rubs her clit. "I don't want to ruin your pants."

Harry pulls away and looks at her before sinking to his knees and wrapping his lips around her clit as he continues to fuck her with his fingers. Her hands fly right back to his hair. She nearly loses her balance, but Harry keeps her stead, placing one of her legs over his shoulder. He looks up at her and smirks, and that's when she loses it. She lets out a loud cry of his name as he laps away at her juices. He drags her panties back up when he's done and stands up slowly as he runs his hands up her body. He cups her jaw and licks into her mouth. She melts into him.

"I knew you'd like this outfit." He smirks. "Daddy cleans up real good when he wants to, hm?"

"You mean you did this to me on purpose?" She pouts.

"Payback for all your relentless teasing the last few weeks."

"You can't tell me that wearing shorts in the freezing cold doesn't look funny." She scoffs. "Besides, thought we made up from all of that."

"We did." He nods, squeezing her hips. "But I couldn't resist making you sweat."

"Well, you succeeded, and then some. Let me-"

"Nope." He steps back from her. "You can wait until we get home. I'm gonna shove my dick so far down your throat you'll be gagging all over it, and it'll ruin your pretty makeup. You're working, Layna. Compose yourself and be professional." He moves her, she's too stunned to speak. He wacks her ass before leaving the office.

A shiver runs up her spine. How much longer does she have to stay at work for?

NO COMPLAINTS BLURB

[abbysimsfun]

Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 38 (Running Into Fate in San Myshuno?)

When Heather delivered her son to San Myshuno for time with his father a few weeks later, she decided to stay in town until Sunday to spend time with her loved ones. While visiting the Casbah Gallery so Kris could review a new art show, she found herself a third wheel to her loved up sister and brother-in-law.

Stepping into the muggy summer air, she spotted a familiar dog bounding toward her across the plaza.

She grinned as Gord jumped into her open arms, laughing as he happily tried to bowl her over. Conrad raced up behind his dog dressed casually in blue, which brought out his eyes.

"Sorry! He's been cooped up all day. I thought I could trust him without a leash but I should know better by now."

"Never apologize for a happy pet. I told you at the clinic, it's the best feeling in the world!"

Gord entertained himself sniffing around the plaza. "He's been in great shape since his check up, thanks to you."

Heather's cheeks flushed, disguised by the neon lights of the city. "There was nothing wrong with him when you came in. I just gave him a preventative shot and a wellness treat. And a bottle of shampoo."

"He knocked it right out of my hand when I gave him a bath later that night. Spilled all over the bathroom tiles." He groaned at the memory. "But hey, they've never been cleaner and now the tiles won't get fleas."

She laughed, searching for something to say that didn't make her sound like an idiot. "There go your dreams of running a flea circus!" Watcher, that wasn't it.

Conrad smiled. "What brings you to San Myshuno?"

She sighed, trying not to speak of Malcolm with too much venom in her voice. "My son's with his father this weekend and I'm spending time with some family in town," she explained.

"Sounds like cooler heads might be prevailing between you two," he said. "That's a good thing."

Heather raised an eyebrow. "Malcolm said someone convinced his family to let cooler heads prevail. You didn't..."

"My dad worked Landgraab security for decades," said Conrad. "He retired after Nancy took over the company from her father, but I used to know Malcolm pretty well when we were kids, before he left for boarding school. He's not the nicest guy in the world, but the Landgraabs love money and reputation too much to be completely unreasonable."

"Why get involved at all? I'm not saying I didn't need an advocate after what I did, but what do you owe me, really?"

"Nothing. But Landgraab Corp. was ready to spit you out and send you to prison for the hack, and when I saw you with your son, I...the Landgraabs lost more in pride than market share and I'd already been asked to deal with the case under the table."

Heather scoffed. "Nancy Landgraab doesn't like to do anything legally. I heard she stole the company from her father."

"It wasn't exactly like that. Chester Landgraab was getting older, and Nancy did what she did because he was too ill to realize he couldn't run the company anymore. My dad said he was close to gambling away the business to build a spaceport on Sixam!"

"Doing what?!"

"He wouldn't even say! My dad was ready for retirement and relieved when Nancy told him to collect his pension. Her father stayed in Ciudad Enamorada after the vote and she cleaned house. Even fired her own brother." Heather inhaled. No wonder Johnny hated his sister. "I don't mean to say that makes Landgraab Corp. a shining example of the right way to do business, but..."

"But thank you," she said. "It's no small thing what you did."

Conrad's cheeks flushed. "So, are you in town all weekend?"

"Until Sunday."

A nervous silence passed between them. Heather's gregarious younger sister, Holly, had been curiously spying from a distance, waiting for her husband to finish networking before she dragged him toward Heather and the handsome man in blue.

She greeted him with a wide smile. "Hi there! My name's Holly and this is my husband Kris. We were just wondering what you and my sister were talking about."

He greeted them respectfully. "Pleasure to meet you. I'm Conrad, and I got to know your sister through a recent investigation. We were just getting caught up."

Holly's eyes bulged. "Is this him?!"

Heather blushed and Kris shook Conrad's hand. "My wife's just wondering if you're the detective who visited Heather about her recent felony."

Heather wanted to crawl into the sewers and hide from the creeping embarrassment, but Conrad couldn't pull his gaze. He smiled as she fiddled awkwardly with a ball of clay she'd grabbed from the gallery. "That would be the investigation, but the Landgraabs never charged anyone."

"Apparently, Conrad knew Malcolm when they were kids and convinced the Landgraabs not to press charges."

Holly looked at Conrad with an impressed grin. "Are you a cop or my sister's knight in shining armour?"

"Holly, don't," Heather pleaded, but she couldn't wipe the stupid grin from her face.

"Come out with us tomorrow night," Holly suggested, because she knew her unflirty sister needed a push. "A bunch of us are going to the Romance Festival. We were going to bring my sister along to try to find her a date, but I think she's already found one."

Conrad blushed, and Kris again stepped forward. "It's a bit over the top and everyone always gets too flirty on Sakura tea, but if you're not doing anything, the more the merrier."

Heather was afraid to speak, trying not to stare at his gorgeous blue eyes, but she wanted him to say yes.

"I'd love to." Conrad grinned, but they were interrupted when Gord sped across the plaza to chase a raccoon. "Damn, and he's off. Gotta go!" He called after her while trying to catch up with his dog. "I'll meet you at the festival tomorrow. Four o'clock?"

"Four's great. See you then!" Heather smiled to herself. She couldn't wipe the blush from her cheeks and turned to her sister and brother-in-law. "Let's go inside where there's air con. It's hot out here."

"He's so hot!" Holly cried. "No wonder you're sweating."

Heather worried she’d make the same mistakes again, afraid to trust her instincts. But at least she wouldn't be alone tomorrow, if it was horrible... ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 1 Summary | Gen 1 Start

[slutforsnow]

His Sunflower

Chapter 7

So how we feelin' about I.E.D Coryo 😃 I figured it makes sense :3

Small sidenote, Sunni is chubby in her face and tummy, but not really anywhere else. She's kinda... small but chubby (?)

When Sej was told that Sunni was awake, he almost teleported to her side, and hugged her tight, squeezing her as tight as he could.

"Hey, Sun," he greeted, mildly out of breath from running across the estate to come see her.

Sunni merely smiled in the embrace, leaning into his touch and snuggling into him. She was rather short, standing at a mere 5'2", so compared to Sejanus, she was rather tiny—even with her slightly bigger frame.

"Hi, Sej," She whispered, her throat sore from whatever the fuck happened after she had puked last night.

"How ya feelin'?" He asked her, holding her face in his hands.

"Terrible. Gross. Sticky. Like I need 20 showers to rid of the feeling of him on me," She replied, sitting up somewhat. "God... why didn't I believe you when you warned me... Sej, I'm sorry-"

"Hey, hey, hey, it's okay. I should've warned you when you texted me that you were coming to the Capitol. It's my fault for not remembering to," Sejanus interrupted, sitting next to her.

"You still warned me. I should've listened to you. You're normally right about these things and Festus... he had me wrapped around his finger..." Sunni sighed, looking at her hands, silently counting the freckles that decorated her arms. "Maybe I am too stupid to be here."

"Sunni, you're not stupid," Sejanus reassured. "Everyone makes mistakes."

"But I'm naive; I took your words with a grain of salt and look where that got me! Drugged, puked, and publicly humiliated. Festus created the game and I played right into his trap—he won," She countered, miserably.

"Actually, Festus lost. Especially when I beat the hell out of him," Coryo corrected, holding Sunni's breakfast tray as he stood in the threshold of the door. "Sejanus had to pull me off of him, but eh, he'll live."

The room filled with the scent of blueberry pancakes and syrup, followed by bacon, hashbrowns, honey tea, and scrambled eggs. Coryo walked I'm, setting the tray on the bed, over Sunnis lap, being careful not to graze anywhere he shouldn't. He then took his seat back in his chair.

Her stomach growled loudly, and Sunni immediately dug into her breakfast, as she hadn't realized how she was literally starving.

"What happened? After I puked?" She inquired between bites. Sej and Coryo shared a look, silently conversing about who would tell her what.

"Well, after you puked, Festus continued to degrade you. We were holding you, trying to get you to focus and make sure you could hear me. Then he said something about... your body weight, and well..." Sejanus trailed off, seeing Coryo get his phone out and open his gallery.

"I did that," the blonde finished, showing Sunni a photo of Festus being bloodied, bruised, and with a clear broken nose and broken fingers. Sunni didn't flinch, though, or look disgusted as she continued to eat.

"Damn, Cori- did you let him get up?? At all?" She asked with a hint of teasing in her tone.

"Nah. Sejanus had to pull me off him once he got you sitting by a wall where no one could see you unless they were searching for you." He waved off the topic dismissively as he closed his gallery, giving Sunni a glimpse of his wallpaper; a blonde woman who looked a tad older than him and an elderly woman.

Coryo put his phone away as Sejanus continued to speak, and Sunni noticed that Coryo's dark red hoodie wasn't anywhere near him, which was odd, considering he never went anywhere without it.

"Once we got you back here, we told the maids what happened as they took you to get cleaned up and put to bed. Coryo and I stayed here for when you woke up so we could explain what happened. Oh, your mom's on her way here to talk with Ma and dad," Sej added, earning a nod from Sunni.

Sunni put her fork down, feeling tears build up in her eyes again. They had stayed with her the whole time and even took care of her. She had no words to express her gratitude for what they did, so she ended up breaking down in tears, saying a bunch of jumbled out sentences, comprised of "I'm sorrys", "thank yous", and other words the boys couldn't make out.

They both embraced Sunni, telling her it was okay and that she didn't need to worry about them being mad.

God, what did she do to earn these two to be so loyal and understanding?

The next day, Monday, Sunni was getting ready for classes. Despite the massive headache she still had from Saturday, she wasn't going to let Festus, Arachne, or Clemensia think they got to her. Not even with her mother's very tempting offer to come back home to district 2 for a little bit to relax.

As she grabbed her uniform from the closet, she saw a dark hoodie next to it. Curiosity tickled her mind and when she grabbed it, she saw a note pinned to it.

" 'Hey, Sunshine. Figured you could wear this on Monday; it gets pretty cold after midterms, so I want you to wear it. Not to mention that red's a nice color on you. -Coriolanus Snow' " She read quietly. The tips of Sunni's ears burned; she didn't think Coryo would just give her his hoodie—especially not his favorite one.

She changed into her uniform, and once she slipped on his hoodie, she felt her blush grow. It was huge and came down to her knees, whereas on Coryo, it came down to his midthigh. She felt safe in his hoodie, loved even. The smell of Cori infiltrated her nostrils, and she hugged the hoodie.

Coryo was making her smile, even without his actual presence.

Tags: @etfrin @hearts4court @snows-wife @delusionalbunni @kiraflowersworld @victory-scream0462 @curled-hair-red-lips @morallygrayboys @phoward89 @xoxo-eyeballs @thereeallink @graciouslyc @acidaciruela @wanda-maximoff-enthusiast @firstworldproblemthings @nowitsmissing

[melancholicheart]

All This Time- Chapter 6

cw: trans male pregnancy (past, mentioned), angst, miscommunication, fluff and happy ending

Two weeks have passed and they have been- hectic, for want of a better word.

Simon got in touch with Price, using a mobile of all things, and Johnny fumed at the fact they’re using mobiles now after all he went through trying to contact base.

Regardless, Price- and subsequently Gaz- were informed of everything. From Elizabeth, to the General, to Johnny himself and how he’s doing and it’s safe to say, Price was incredibly pissed too. So pissed, in fact, that he and Gaz have put work aside momentarily to launch an internal investigation with the help of Laswell.

They said they would keep in touch but these two weeks have passed without a peep from the 141 so Simon and Johnny are making assumptions that they’re busy working on it, scrounging up as much info as possible.

As morning rolls around, Johnny finds himself coming around at a distinctly later time that usual, which is all thanks to Simon. Johnny was used to the 5:30AM starts, working on breakfast and cleaning before Elizabeth would wake but now, it’s 8AM and Johnny’s never felt as well-rested.

He wakes to an empty bed, suddenly an unusual feat, as he feels around for Simon.

That’s another change. Somehow Simon has ended up sharing a bed with Johnny again and neither of them are complaining about it. There were brief words of ‘the couch isn’t that comfy, y’know, and the bed’s big enough’ and that’s all it took.

So lying in an empty bed feels strange despite the last five years being spent in an oversized empty bed. He’s quick to his feet, running quickly through his morning routine, before going to find his daughter and Simon.

He knows the second he steps out of his room to use the bathroom that they’re in Elizabeth’s room. The door is slightly ajar, light on and voices bouncing off the walls as they speak in relatively hushed whispers. Johnny is quick to join them.

Johnny pokes his head around the door, not disturbing the two but watching as they play. They have their backs to the door and Elizabeth is sat on Simon’s knee. His arm is draped over her legs as she doodles all over his arm.

There’s little creatures, ants and butterflies namely, scattered over his wrist. Up towards his elbow there’s little dinosaur looking things and just below the crease of his elbow, there’s a pretty good drawing of a flower (for an almost 5 year old, anyway).

“You’re just like your Papa,” Simon mumbles. His other arm is round her back, holding her still on his leg so she doesn’t topple backwards, “Always doodling. Your Dad used to colour in my tattoos when he was bored.”

“Papa always lets me doodle! I like it.”

“You’re very good at it sweetheart. The flower is excellent.” Simon says.

“It’s a daisy!”

“So it is.” Simon chuckles, staring at his arm that looks more like an abstract art piece than a limb at that point.

Johnny makes himself known then, stepping into the room and perching on the edge of Elizabeth’s bed. He takes a closer look at the drawings and smiles, “My, my! Who drew all these masterpieces?”

Elizabeth beams, “I did it, Papa!”

“I would pay millions for them, put them up in a gallery if I could!” Johnny exaggerates, making Lizzie giggle.

“You can’t put my arm in a gallery,” Simon argues, “I need it!”

Johnny almost makes a crude joke before remembering little ears are around, “Yeah, I’m sure you do. Should we go and get some breakfast?”

Johnny picks Elizabeth up and sits her on his hip, giving her a cuddle like he does every morning. Simon makes his way to the kitchen and starts poking around for food, “Not got so much in,” Simon says. He opens the fridge and gets the milk out. He sniffs it and grimaces before slamming the lid back on, “Can’t even have a brew.”

“I suppose we’ll have to go food shopping then,” Johnny sighs. A groan tumbles from his lips, “Again!”

Simon shakes his head, “Don’t worry, I’ll sort it. You and Lizzie stay here, I know you said you’ve got some things to talk about with her.”

Johnny ponders for a moment. He’s been wondering what to do about the entire ‘Simon’ thing and he spoke to him about what he wants to do. Simon said he’s more than willing to leave the army, move nearby and be a parent but Johnny wants to hear with Elizabeth has to say. He doesn’t expect much, not from a 4 year old, but he wants to give her a chance to ask questions either way.

“Alright. I’ll make you a list. We need more soap but you have to get the sensitive one because she gets rashes really easily.” Johnny says, picking Elizabeth up and sitting her on the counter in front of him.

Simon already knows the one, he uses it on his own skin since he is prone to outbreaks of his eczema. He lets Johnny make the list regardless. He lets him leave with a promise of sending him the money but Simon shrugs him off and says, “I think it’s about time I helped out.”

Once he is gone, Johnny manages to scrounge a small breakfast together, just apples and yoghurt for him and Elizabeth but he hardly touches it whilst he talks to her.

“Lizzie, darling, can me and you have a big grown up talk?” He asks.

She nods, dipping her apples into the yoghurt and kicking her feet about whilst she eats them.

“Now Daddy is here, I want to know how you’re feeling?” Johnny asks.

“Wha’ you mean?” She mumbles around a mouthful of food.

“I mean are you happy? I know you missed him before but I want to make sure you’re happy he’s here, and that you like him.”

Now her nods are more vigorous, “Yeah Papa! I like him, he’s nice! He tells silly jokes, like you.”

Johnny chuckles a little, “That’s what happens when you become a Dad, they give you a book on the silliest jokes to tell your babies.”

“You’re lyin’!”

“Okay, maybe a little, but it is a thing! The best jokes come to you when you’re a Dad.” Johnny says.

“So, is Daddy gonna go back fightin’ again?” She asks. Johnny takes a moment to eat some of his own breakfast as he thinks of a response.

“I don’t know yet, there’s a lot of grown up stuff to sort out but I know Daddy wants to be here with you, he told me himself.” Johnny explains.

“I wan’ him to stay. I loves having him here!” She exclaims and Johnny smiles.

“I do too sweetheart.”

Simon takes a long time getting back. Johnny wonders if something’s happened, if he got lost or he skipped town. He would be so pissed that he would storm onto his old base and beat the shit out of him if he skipped out on his daughter.

He manages to work himself into such a worry that he becomes angry and starts furiously cleaning the house whilst Eliza plays with her dolls and her dinosaurs. By the time Simon comes back, Johnny breathes such a sigh of relief that a few tears slip from his eyes and he wipes them away swiftly.

“Hey,” Simon says, placing the few bags on the counter, “Everything okay?”

Johnny nods, drying his hands on a tea towel after doing the dishes. He takes a deep breath, smiles and turns around to Simon, “Yeah.”

Simon looks straight through Johnny’s facade, just like he always did, and goes to question him when Elizabeth comes over and clings to Simon's leg, “Daddy you were gone ages!”

“I wasn’t gone too long sweetie, I needed to get a few extra things.”

“Like what?” Johnny suddenly snaps and he turns away before either of them can see the tears in his eyes again. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap- I just- yeah.”

“Johnny, what’s going on?” Simon asks, stepping closer to him and pressing a hand to the small of his back. Johnny takes a deep breath and sighs.

He looks down at his daughter who sees he looks upset and rushes to him, clinging to his leg instead and he reaches a hand down to play with her hair. He looks up at Simon and his heart clenches, “I- you were gone so long and I got worried. I thought- I thought you left.” He whispers, quiet enough so Elizabeth doesn’t hear.

“Left? Oh shit, Johnny I’m so sorry, I should’ve told you where I was going-”

Johnny shakes his head, “No I should’ve just trusted you, you’re a grown man, you don’t have to tell me where you are 24/7.”

“Well, you’re right I guess but I should’ve told you either way. We’re a team, right? Can’t be a team if I’m off sneaking around, can we?” He asks and Johnny shakes his head.

“Can we know where you were?” He asks and Simon nods, suddenly looking less guilty and more enthusiastic.

“Of course! I actually had a little surprise planned but I needed to go to multiple places to execute it,” Simon explains. He reaches to one of the bags, not a supermarket one and pulls out two beautiful bouquets. One is smaller than the other, a mix of beautifully colourful flowers with little decorations accompanying the flowers, dinosaurs of all things.

The other bouquet is full of purple, blue and white flowers, very deep but very pretty nonetheless and the decorations in there are full of bees and butterflies, Johnny’s favourites. He hands them both a bouquet each, corresponding to the decor within them.

“I suppose this is a sorry, a thankyou and a everything all together bouquet,” Simon explains to Johnny, before turning to Elizabeth, “And I couldn’t get Papa flowers without giving some to my beautiful girl, could I?”

Elizabeth smiles and begs to be picked up. She cuddles into Simon and plays with the little dinosaur decor in the flowers, “Daddy, I love it!”

“I’m so glad baby,” He mumbles, looking to Johnny who is staring at the bouquet with a bright smile, “I have another little surprise too.”

“Another?” Johnny asks as Simon sits Elizabeth on the counter, rolling his sleeve up.

On his arm, below his elbow crease, is a tattoo of the flower Elizabeth drew that morning. Perfectly imperfect, just like the original drawing, and just below it, there’s Elizabeth’s birthdate.

“Papa! Daddy got the drawing!” Elizabeth squeals. She kicks her legs in delight and Johnny places his bouquet down to look at the tattoo on Simon’s arm.

Johnny looks up at Simon, words escaping him and he just hugs him. Simon seems shocked before he melts into it and hugs Johnny back.

“Thankyou,” Johnny mumbles, “Thankyou Si.”

“I’m sorry.” Simon mumbles and Johnny knows what he means and that he means it.

“I know. It’s okay.” Johnny holds him close and Elizabeth begs to be invited into the hug, the two of them squishing her between them to cuddle her as she yells in laughter at them both.

[smoments]

✧ part 14: memories of a stranger // a satosugu reincarnation au

❝ let's meet again, for the first time. ❞

╰┈➤ in which 19-year old gojo satoru happens upon a stranger at a cafe who speaks his name with a kind of softness and familiarity that satoru’s sure he’s heard before.

➽ chapter 14: the transience of summer

“This is pretty smart, if you think about it. They have students make the art, set up the displays alone, and take everything down at the end. And then they get the money from the whole event!”

“Satoru, they do it primarily for your benefit. It’s a good way to expand your horizons and have professionals see your work.”

“Plus, what do you mean, alone? We were there too.” 

Satoru hefts the canvas up above his head just to set it back down atop the set of stairs leading outside, exhaling dramatically and shooting them a wide grin. “You’re right! Whatever would I do without you two.” He pulls them into suffocating side-hugs, beaming like a proud parent when neither of them slap him. 

After a second, Shoko swats at his shoulder in a request to be released and looks at him sideways when he relents, her gaze curious. 

“I told you about that one guy, right? Who was, like, obsessed with your painting?”

“For real? First I’m hearing of this.”

She tilts her head at him apologetically, fighting a smile. “Oops, must’ve slipped my mind. But he owns a gallery somewhere over in Minato, and he wanted to display it there.”

“Oh, wow. Thanks.” 

“Think you’ll do it?”

“That’s… Well, wait a second. I forgot to tell you guys, but I’ve been thinking deeply about my future lately,” he starts, looking around at his friends for shocked reactions and realizing he definitely expected too much when they simply meet his gaze with blank faces, “And I don’t think I want to be an artist.”

This part captures their attention; Suguru flinches back as though slapped, and Shoko gasps like he’s just admitted to locking a very artistic body double in his basement and forcing them to make all his paintings for him. 

“Excuse me?” 

He waves off their concern, speaking lightly and self-assuredly. “Don’t get me wrong, I do love painting and stuff, but do you know what I like even more than that?”

“Being a bad influence on others?” Shoko offers.

“Educating the youth!”

“Half points.” Suguru tells her sagely.

“My life is not a game show.” 

He chuckles at this, lifting his shoulders in surrender. 

“We never said you wouldn’t be a good teacher. I bet you’d keep things interesting, at the very least.” 

“Yeah, and besides, you know we don’t really care what you do. Like, it’s whatever as long as you’re happy with it.”

He gives her an indulgently gratified look as Suguru walks over to the display, checking for any forgotten pieces of the setup. “Is it just me, or was that actually kinda sweet?”

“Yeah, obviously,” she responds, mildly offended. 

“Satoru?” 

In spite of its softness, Suguru’s voice has a way of attracting attention, and they both look over curiously, searching his face for the same surprise that was so clearly audible in his tone.

“What’s this?”

Satoru’s eyes widen when the cool light overhead catches on a glint of gold in Suguru’s grasp, and he lets out a shriek as Shoko covers her mouth to stifle a delighted laugh. 

“Shoko! Get that away from him!”

“Can’t. I’m holding this.” She lifts the basket in her hands, which would have been haphazardly put together except that Suguru turned out to have a knack for arranging gifts. He’d turned pale when Satoru announced that it was finally ready and held it up proudly for him to see, insisting that he’d clean it up a little before giving it to Shoko (Satoru was greatly wounded by this until he laid his eyes on the final product and decided his pride was a worthy sacrifice for such a beautiful result).  

“And what’s the issue, anyway? I like your poetry.”

“I told you already, it wasn’t my poetry! And it didn’t rhyme, either!”

“Thank you, Satoru.”

Satoru looks up sharply when Suguru finally speaks, his face aflame, and does his very best to sound unbothered.

“It wasn’t even anything. Really. I didn’t even write it.”

Suguru smiles back at him warmly, and he feels what he’s sure used to be clear, perfectly formed thoughts falling away and melting on the floor of his brain in a pool of mush. This is definitely not healthy. Luckily for him, Shoko sets a prompting hand on his shoulder, startling him back into clarity.

“I’ve gotta get back - an American singing show Utahime accidentally got us both hooked on is airing today. Thanks for all this, though.” She gestures to the basket in her grip. “My skin gets dry sometimes, especially in winter.”

“I knew it!” 

“What?… Okay then, bye.” 

“Bye, Shoko.” 

He loses himself in thought as watches her turn to leave, pausing to whisper something to Suguru on her way to the door. She’s only just made it down the front steps of the gallery when he calls out to her. 

“And- uh- sorry I didn’t take the time to say anything to you earlier.” 

She slowly spins to face him, surprise written into the curves of her face and the part of her lips, and he meets her gaze with more earnestness than he’d ideally like anybody to associate with him. 

“I’m trying to work on being more proactive and stuff. Not that it’s an excuse for being so dense about what you were going through. Anyway, you needed someone to talk to, I think. I should have been that for you. So… I’m sorry.”

Shoko stills, her throat bobbing visibly when she swallows, and she laughs with that casual ease that he’s come to know her for. It’s too high this time, though; almost like she’s nervous. And he didn’t expect his words to mean anything to her, because it wasn’t as though he could actually go back and fix his maddening lack of initiative, but her dark eyebrows are uncharacteristically taut with emotion, and she’s looking at him now with something like gratitude. 

“Thanks, Satoru. It means a lot.” 

She waves at them quietly, then continues on her way, her other hand coming up to support the weight of the basket in her grip and her fingers tightening ever-so-slightly around the handle. She glances down at the little cat that rests right at the top, a centerpiece among the overflowing snacks and hand-picked gifts packed into the large container, and it smiles complacently back at her with those dark, painted eyes as her own lips curve upward. 

“What did Shoko tell you?”

Suguru is staring glassy-eyed into the wall like he’s just witnessed something unspeakable, and Satoru eyes him with concern. 

“What…? Nothing. Just to have a good day.”

“Why would she only say that to you?” He asks bemusedly, his brow furrowed. His gaze trails down the collar of Suguru’s uniform to the item in his hand, and his heart skips a beat. He reaches over to pry his fingers off of the placard and tuck it into his own pocket, thanking his luck that Suguru is so out of it he barely notices. 

“Let’s head out?”

“Yeah.” 

He lets Suguru lead the way, fishing through his pocket and slipping out the smooth, shiny rectangle to get another look at it. 

He wasn’t thinking when he wrote it, really; the words came to him in a dream. They didn’t feel like his, and he didn’t remember ever taking the time to put them together, but the raw emotion seemed to pour from them like water, a tidal wave that sent him to his knees with how deeply it resounded in his chest, and so he allowed them to grace the placard that ended up just below his treasured painting on the wall of the gallery. Even now, his breath catches when his eyes skim the small, engraved letters carved into the golden metal, and he picks up his pace to come to Suguru’s side, trying to ignore the incessant pounding of his heart.

to you, who bloomed and fell away like a fruitless flower. 

even if these days fade away, they will remain forever colored. 

“we’ll meet again, right?” 

words spoken in an unheard voice. in the depths of eternity left behind. scattered within a sea of endless blue. 

i’m sorry we couldn’t ever reach you. 

-

Suguru shoots him a subdued glance as he rings the doorbell beside the wooden sign that spells out ‘Fushiguro’ in dark, neat letters, trying and failing to sound exasperated.  

“We saw him last week, Satoru.”

“Don’t act like you haven’t been missing that kid too. You mentioned him, like, four times yesterday. You were obviously hoping I’d pick up on the subliminal messaging behind your words and come here with you.” 

The front door creaks open after a notable amount of time, and a pair of large, sharp eyes peek through the gap in the entrance. Megumi’s wary gaze finds Satoru first, and his expression drops. He moves to shut the door in their faces without appearing the slightest bit remorseful about it, but Satoru sticks his foot through the gap and eases it open before he has the chance. 

“We came to hang out with you!” He announces gaily, beaming down at the child through his dark sunglasses.

“Don’t you have any friends your own age?” Megumi grumbles dispassionately, but allows him to push open the door without any voiced complaint. Satoru narrows his eyes, open hands gravitating towards Megumi’s mess of hair threateningly. 

“This brat-”

Suguru cuts him off by stepping lightly on his foot, making him roll his eyes and press his lips together. “Yes, of course, Megumi, but we were hoping to take you somewhere if you have time. Would Tsumiki like to come too?” 

Megumi looks at Suguru with a bit more tolerance - likely thanks in part to him putting Satoru in his place. Still, he averts his eyes as soon as he’s finished speaking, resignation settling on his features.

“I can’t. I have somewhere to be.”

Satoru crouches down so they’re at eye-level, giving him a suspicious once-over.

“And where’s that?”

“None of your business.” He looks vaguely embarrassed all of a sudden and drops his gaze to the ground. “But… I have to go to a… school meeting.”

“Going to school after school? Did you get in trouble? I knew the nerd act was all a show.”

When Megumi remains silent and fidgets with his hands nervously instead of giving him the scathing look he expected, Satoru’s mouth drops open. 

“Wait, for real?”

Suguru speaks up as Satoru sits there gaping, his tone gently coercing. 

“What happened?”

“I have to… I did something to this guy, but he deserved it.” When he catches the look of awe on both their faces, he continues with a touch more defensiveness. “Maybe you shouldn’t be a jerk if you don’t want to face the repercussions.”

Satoru knows Suguru has been teaching Megumi new vocabulary words on top of the knowledge he must amass from the books he always has his nose buried into, but he’s still unnervingly well-spoken for a seven year old. He nods slowly, pretending to be deep in thought, and then sighs like he’s just been requested to do something horribly strenuous. 

“Okay, okay, sit down and walk us through it.”

Satoru strolls past the elementary schooler and into the house, making himself at home on the small couch in the living room. Megumi gives him a look, but follows him inside silently, leaving the door ajar for Suguru to enter too.

After receiving a slightly more detailed account of the situation that leaves him feeling equal parts proud and disbelieving of the seemingly innocuous child in front of him, Satoru snaps his fingers, beaming.

“Suguru, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“God, I hope not.”

“Megumi… you just need parents, right?”

Suguru immediately understands his intentions and returns his meaningful look with a warning one. 

“Satoru.”

“It’s fine! As long as they’re not, like, homophobic. And see? He looks just like us!”

He leans down next to Megumi, who is seated between them, and grins, poking his cheek in an attempt to squish his face into a smile while he struggles to get away. 

“They don’t just let you do whatever, you know. I’m sure they’ll check for identification of some sort. And besides, Megumi probably doesn’t want-“

“Okay.”

“What?” 

“Really?!”

Megumi rubs his cheek, which is slowly returning to its normal color, and sighs heavily.

“It’s fine. It’s better than nothing, I guess.”

“Woah, don’t get too excited there, kid.”

-

“And you two are… Megumi’s parents?”

His teacher, a kind-looking young woman with blond hair cut to her chin, looks uncertainly at the odd group before her - and Satoru can’t really blame her, because he and Suguru are quite clearly college students and barely old enough to drive, let alone have a seven-year-old child.

“Yes, but we really do just love him so much, and we only want what’s best for him, so I hardly think this conversation-“

Suguru cuts off his tirade with a picturesque smile, his tone agreeable. 

“That’s right. Thank you for having us here. There was something you wanted to discuss?”

She shuffles the pile of test papers on her desk hesitantly, the tips of her fingers brushing the width of the stack, and then sets it down again and dips her head in acknowledgement, bringing her hands together primly. A folded paper name tag rests next to them with Ms. Nitta written in neat print and bordered by colorful, doodle-esque flowers and hearts. 

“Right. So, based on what we’ve gathered from his classmates’ accounts, Megumi has been getting into fights on school property.”

Satoru bites back an ‘is he winning’ and instead gasps dramatically, putting an affronted hand to his heart as though the very idea is unthinkable. Anyway, didn’t Megumi say ‘guy’, as in singular? He was definitely not properly prepared for this. Suguru, on the other hand, is playing the role of concerned parent a little too well, especially considering his earlier protests. 

“My darling child would never-“

“Was he provoked? Was it well-deserved?” Suguru inquires. “You see, I don’t think he’d go around starting trouble without reason.”

Satoru tilts his head toward him, slightly surprised at how reasonable a question it is, and Ms. Nitta clears her throat awkwardly.

“Well, perhaps, but that’s quite besides the point. You can imagine a parent’s reaction to their kid coming home all beaten up. Still… he does tend to gravitate towards those who are… aggressively inclined.”

“See? Case closed,” Satoru exclaims triumphantly, throwing up his hands. “He’s just beating up losers. He’s basically a superhero.” 

She wrinkles her brow, confusion apparent on her face. “Even if we were to gloss over the other things, I’m afraid that’s not it. Megumi is undoubtedly a very smart kid, but he has some trouble getting along with his peers.”

“Aw, yeah, he’s our antisocial little… guy. He takes after this one.”

He jabs a thumb at Suguru, whose eye twitches in annoyance. He directs a tight, closed-eye smile at Ms. Nitta. 

“Yes, and he gets all his agreeability from Satoru here.” 

“Are you saying my son is disagreeable?! How dare you!”

“He’s fifty percent my son, too.” 

“Well, I carried him for nine months, so I think I deserve at least fifty-one percent!”

“You carried him? Nobody decided that!”

“Yeah, ‘cause it was obvious that-“

“If we could keep personal matters out of the discussion…”

“Please.” Megumi agrees, making no effort to mask the disgust on his face.

“You sure this is the right classroom, right, Yuuji? Damn it-“ The sound of a rattling door knob and muffled swearing pulls them from their heated argument regarding the rightful custody of their non-rightful child, and Satoru squints at the door before leaning in to whisper to Suguru.

“Does he have… tattoos on his face?”

“Ah - this is one of Megumi’s classmates. He requested to be here today.” Ms. Nitta explains, moving swiftly to the door and turning the lock on the knob. She holds it open for them to enter, smiling down at Yuuji, who trots in second. The tattooed man gives her a gruff nod of thanks as his eyes travel the room indifferently, double-taking when he notices Megumi sitting between them. 

“Fushiguro?” He nudges Yuuji with his elbow, leaning down to hiss at him in what is quite a poor excuse for a whisper. “You didn’t tell me Fushiguro would be here.” 

“I did, ‘kuna,” he protests, indignant. “You were busy playing video games.” 

“Huhh? I don’t think so. Anyway, let’s get this over with.” 

Ms. Nitta looks to Yuuji questioningly as he and his acquaintance take seats in the tiny plastic chairs usually reserved for her elementary schoolers. Her doubtful eyes flick to the latter, who crosses his legs importantly as the bright yellow plastic squeaks beneath his weight.

“And… are you Yuuji’s father?” She winces at the thought. 

“Nah, I’m his brother,” he replies, making a barely perceptible amount of effort to incline his tone towards politeness.

“Big brother,” Yuuji adds unnecessarily. “His real name is Sukuna, but I think he prefers ‘kuna.”

“I absolutely do not, brat.” He glares down at Yuuji, a tinge of red coloring his cheeks, and Ms. Nitta clears her throat. 

“So, you had something you wanted to say for Fushiguro?”

“Yes!” Yuuji’s hand shoots into the air enthusiastically. He lets it hover, waiting for stated permission to speak, and she gestures for him to continue. Sukuna rolls his eyes at Yuuji’s behavior, the beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips. 

“Fushiguro didn’t do anything wrong!”

“Itadori-” Megumi tries self-consciously, and frowns when Yuuji waves him off.

“No! These annoying brats were bothering Junpei, and Fushiguro took care of them!”

“Whaddya mean, ‘took care of them’? He’s seven.” Sukuna replies disbelievingly. “Not some, like, old war hero-veteran.” 

“So am I!”

“Yeah, exactly. You better not be beating people up, either.” 

“But you beat people up.”

“Right. Because I’m a grown-up.” 

Suguru appears slightly troubled at this particular thread of logic, but thinks better of voicing his concerns. “…Right. Megumi is good to go, then?”

Ms. Nitta lifts her eyes to the ceiling, apparently quantifying the emotional turmoil of having to listen to their side conversations against that of explaining to a livid parent that the child who beat up their own (rightfully, but they wouldn’t hear that) was running free without consequence. Eventually, she settles on the latter of the two evils.

“You all can be free to leave if you promise that this won’t happen again? I’d rather avoid any more trouble, and-“

The unpleasant screech of shoes against linoleum cuts her off, and they all look with interest at the young girl standing resolutely in front of the classroom door, her shoulders heaving with the effort expended on her run over. She blows a bothersome strand of brown, chin-length hair out of her face and opens her mouth to make a resounding declaration to the room that leaves little room for argument. 

“Fushiguro didn’t do anything! He’s not even that strong! I bet I could beat him up.” 

-

“If you notice any bullying in the future, just talk to me, okay, Megumi? You can’t cancel out violence with violence, can you?”

Ms. Nitta smiles, patting him gently on the head and confirming Satoru’s suspicions that resisting the gravitational pull of that porcupine hair is next to impossible.

“No, ma’am.” Megumi mutters, embarrassed. Despite his grouchy insistence that his friends didn’t need to show up for him and he would have been fine just dealing with the consequences of his actions all on his own, Satoru can tell from the lingering softness in his gaze that he’s grateful to them for stepping in. 

The brief walk back to Megumi’s house passes mostly in silence. They wave him off at the entrance to his house, and he returns the gesture half-heartedly, offering them a rare smile before stepping inside and quietly shutting the door behind himself. Satoru grins to himself, warmth enveloping his body at the small act. 

It goes without question that they've grown attached to Megumi in the few months they've known him - it would have been hard not to, really. He's the kind of person whose kind nature melts right through the ice around his words, his occasional moments of naivety made to feel even more precious against the dark, impenetrable backdrop of his mind.

Satoru was never so fond of children, in all honesty; as a teenager, he thought them annoying, a sentiment heightened by the resentment that welled up within him whenever he caught a glimpse of a clearly well-loved child laughing in the arms of a parent, pant knees grass-stained and clothes streaked with dirt. How could their parents still want to hold them when they looked such a mess? What had they done to elicit such affection? And what had he done wrong not to? 

Satoru had always wondered if the reason that he remembered his childhood as being so lonely in spite of how many people starred in it was his ungratefulness. Maybe it really wasn't so bad. Maybe he was just a brat. There was always food on the table, after all. He was always taken care of - sometimes to the point of feeling suffocated by it. So why couldn't he stand to speak to his parents, even now? 

Children brought up uncomfortable feelings. He preferred to avoid them. 

But Megumi was tolerable. Not because of his independence, necessarily, but because of his goodness. It was clear that he didn't have it easy. But it was also clear that his struggles weren't rooted in some misdeed he'd committed. 

How could he look at this seven-year-old child and blame him for the situation he was in? How could he even think for a second that it might be his fault? 

He couldn't. 

And if he couldn't do it to Megumi, he couldn't do it to himself.

So, at his most selfish, he enjoyed being around Megumi because it healed something inside him. 

And somewhere along the way, it dissolved into the kind of warm affection he never thought he could feel for what was supposed to be some random kid. 

Such emotional vulnerability frightened him, though, especially because theirs was a bond that seemed so precarious; each unpleasant reminder that he wasn't really theirs brought a pang to his chest. They had no real connection to him, no matter how Satoru might have tried to pretend, and no matter that his teacher now believed they were his parents. He had his own life that didn't involve them, and if he decided that he didn't want them to be part of it, that it had been fun while it lasted, but he had better things to do now, then that was it.

He would rather not consider that such an event might come to fruition. And it probably won't.

That's right- Suguru won't be so rash. He won't let his mind be clouded by emotion.

Suguru will tell him he's being ridiculous. 

Satoru locks eyes with the only other person who might be able to understand the mess of emotions swirling in his chest, and immediately senses that he’s following an identical train of thought. So when Suguru speaks up, his voice soft, he isn’t particularly surprised. 

“You think it’ll always be like this?” 

Satoru wants to reply with the kind of incredulity he doesn’t feel; he wants to say that of course it will, that everything will turn out okay, that all of them will stay just like this forever. Instead, he lifts his shoulders in a helpless shrug. 

“I don’t know. I hope so.” 

They linger on the sidewalk for a second without breaking the silence that now hangs in the air between them, the spring breeze tender against their skin. And then, Suguru clears his throat, straightening up abruptly like he’s just come back to himself.

“We’re loitering.”

Satoru rolls his eyes. “Loitering is dumb. What does that even mean?” 

He lets out a breath of laughter, and Satoru’s mouth twitches into a grin at the gentle familiarity of the sound, fondness coursing through his chest. Then, a flash of movement in his peripheral vision directs his attention to the entrance of Megumi’s house, where a crack has now emerged in the doorway, and he blinks, wondering if he’s seeing things until a small head pokes through the gap and calls out to them in that characteristically monotonous tone.

“You said Tsumiki can come next time, right?”

It takes a moment for him to process Megumi’s words, but the second he does, a beam spreads over his face. He elbows Suguru in a way that comes off as more excited than smug like he intended, then looks over at him and finds himself unable to drag his eyes away from the wide-eyed relief on his face- even though it’s an expression that is almost certainly mirrored on his own. 

When he remembers that he still has yet to respond, Satoru coughs and turns away, lifting a hand to wave at Megumi, and wonders why he feels so unexpectedly sappy when he wasn’t at all worried in the first place.

“As long as it’s not another one of your behavioral conferences, sure.” 

He and Suguru exchange a fond look as Megumi rolls his eyes and shuts the door once more. 

[dearestkong]

saturday, 30th march

sleep: ??? (in jet lag hell)

screen time: 3h 8m

wins:

- ate MAPO TOFU and went to the fucking ART GALLERY with my loved ones and it fixed me

- unpacked my suitcase and spring cleaned

- history wider reading

- drew up a battle plan for the easter holidays

losses:

- i haven’t seen my family for weeks and the 1st thing we did when I got home was argue. it’s like a tradition LOL… kind of bittersweet in a way

- interrogated by my mother vis-a-vis the many many relapses. had the “it’s all about self-discipline/do you need to speak to a professional/you gave yourself this problem” talk for the 1000000th time. Can’t really make a joke about this. sorry gang

☆彡

battle plans set. we’re at war from here on out!!!! i’m going to work hard

[bibliocharlie]

Things to know about me as a person:

aka dream life manifesting

I love reading. I read in every spare moment I have. I often finish two books a week.

I fuel my body with foods that nourish me. I know what foods I am sensitive to and I do my best to avoid those. I limit processed foods to occasional snacks. I choose a variety of fresh foods to eat.

I clean up/tidy my house every night as part of my night routine. This way, when I deep clean my house once a week, all that’s really left is sweeping, mopping, and vacuuming.

I am always on top of my laundry. I only have my favorite pieces in my closet because I never let laundry go undone for longer than it should be done. If there’s a load to do, I do it ASAP.

I move my body every day. As a disabled human, all I can manage is a 15 minute walk, but I prioritize that as part of my routine.

I love my body. How it looks, the things it allows me to do, all of its abilities. I recognize that I have a body, but I am a soul. My body is perfect because it is mine and no one else’s.

I take care of my body. It is important to me that I properly care for myself. My body is always in tip top shape because I value myself that much.

I journal everything. I don’t leave home without my journal and all my lists, thoughts, plans that it contains is important to me. I’m always journaling.

I drink 2+L of water every day. I don’t drink sodas or other sugary drinks. I opt for Olipop if I want a lil something extra. I rarely drink alcohol.

I wake up early every day (before 8am). I love mornings. I love this time to jump start my day.

I love plants and I have a LOT of plants that I properly care for.

Every spring, I plant a small garden. We eat from this harvest regularly.

I have a morning and night routine. I’m neurodivergent, so my routine looks different from others’ but it’s mine and it works for me. It is second nature.

I brush my teeth twice a day, floss once a day, and use mouthwash twice a day. Oral health is important to me.

I always dress my best. How I dress is a reflection of me as a person, and I make sure that my best is always on display. (reminder: sometimes my best is 20% and that’s okay!)

I make time for those who are important to me. I go out with friends. I spend time with my partner. I call my family (family is chosen, not blood).

I have boundaries and self-respect. I have high expectations for how I am treated. I treat people with a high level of respect.

I am always kind. I don’t speak poorly of others. I lift others up.

I shower regularly. I have a signature scent. (perfume, body wash, laundry detergent, etc.) Cleanliness is important to me.

I make time to indulge in my special interests, hobbies, and any activities that bring me joy. I recognize that they are important to my mental health.

I am cultured and informed. I read local news. I watch old movies. I read magazines about topics I am interested in. I am interested in the arts. I go to local theatre and orchestra concerts. I walk through art galleries. Anything I can do to broaden my knowledge and understanding, I do it.

I don’t allow people to run me over, treat me with disrespect, or manipulate me. I have been bullied my whole life (especially by people close to me who I trusted) and I don’t allow that to happen anymore. I treat myself with respect so that others can follow my example. I have cut out the toxic people in my life, and I move forward.

At the same time, I recognize that people can change. I am always willing to forgive if the situation calls for it and genuine change has happened. I don’t speak poorly of those who have wronged me, but I also am cautious when others speak highly of people who have wronged me. I am [rightfully] guarded, but I am always willing to be vulnerable. I am an enigma of self-respect. I value genuine and mature relationships.

I cook. Most of my meals are made at home using the best ingredients and tools. I love that I have the ability to feed myself. I love that I can choose anything and make anything.

I am always my most authentic self. I do my best not to mask unless it is necessary for my safety. I allow people to see the real me and if they don’t like it, they can leave.

People look up to me. I am an admirable person. People want to be like me.

I am my biggest supporter. I am my loudest cheerleader. I am in my own corner. I will and can accomplish anything.

I understand that I won’t be perfect every day. As a neurodivergent person, I give myself grace when I need it. I understand that my spoons are limited and if I pass over something, I am sure to allow myself forgiveness and compassion. I love my routines, but listening to my body is top priority.

[r-ex-mor3]

Something for your M.I.N.D

Feat. Mikitaka Hazekura

Genre: Fluff (Platonic)

Synopsis: Basically, Josuke and Okuyasu tells you about Mikitaka and you practically adopt him

Reader’s age: 26

Mikitaka’s age: Unknown but presumably 16

(If I ever feel like it, I’ll do more Headcanon’s of you being a mother figure to Mikitaka cause I love it)

(Warnings: None except this not being proofread so it might be ass 💔)

You were at home relaxing as you had a day off and you decided to make the best of it. Sitting on your couch with a cute coffee mug, you heard a knock on your door as you got up PRAYING that it’s not anything that had to be related for work or anything to do with your job.

As you open the door, you looked to see the familiar sight of the two dumbasses and a new friend along with them. Before they could speak, you slammed the door on them and walked back to your kitchen to lean over the countertop as you heard banging and yelling from the other side of the door that you tried to ignore.

You soon gave in and swung the door open and you glared at Josuke and Okuyasu.

“What do you need? I literally get a break from my job and of course you two had to show up.”

Your eyes glanced at the platinum blonde male beside them.

“Now, who’s the new kid?”

Josuke collected his breath from yelling so much and he began to speak up after a good 3 minutes.

“This, this is Mikitaka.. he’s an alien. We can’t tell if he’s a user or truly and alien and we need your help..”

You looked at Josuke as Okuyasu nodded at Josuke’s statement and Okuyasu decide to speak up.

“And, you know stuff about space and all that, so we decided to wonder if you can like, I don’t know, help him settle in and get used to being.. normal?“

Josuke jabbed Okuyasu in the arm causing Okuyasu to whisper-yell a “What??” You mentally facepalmed and looked at the platinum blonde who’s named Mikitaka. He looked to be staring at a butterfly out of curiosity.

“Surprisingly, I understand what you’re saying Okuyasu. For ONCE in a life time. Anyways, I’ll take care of him. Now shoo.”

Okuyasu nudged Josuke in triumph and thanked you before walking away and you looked at Mikitaka.

“Hello Mikitaka, names _____! I’ll be helping you get used to your new home.”

Mikitaka perked up realizing you were talking to him and he blinked twice and he straightened himself up.

“Ah! Thank you for taking me in. I’m grateful for the opportunity.”

You took a mental note of his behavior and let him inside your residence. It was really clean and there were a few papers in a neat pile on the counter. Mikitaka seemed clueless and didn’t know where he was.

“Okay, Mikitaka, let me help you get used to this new life style, alright?”

He only nodded and motioned him to follow and he did so and ended up at a gallery like area that was dark but not too dark. It had information about space and all the little things about it. You begin to talk to Mikitaka, asking a few questions and jotting it down on a paper as he asked questions about his own surroundings. All of this was honestly cute in your opinion.

As time passed, you concluded he was indeed another terrestrial being! It was interesting to you and you decided to care for him and teach him about all the human things around him. You even helped him with writing. He knew how to write but not in Japanese so you had to teach him but thankfully, he’s a swift learner and understood quickly and it was honestly a relief.

As the day slowly turned into days together and days turned into a week. You showed him many things and cared for Mikitaka like you were his mother. He felt comfortable around you and you can’t help but smile at it. Seeing him get used to everything made you ever so happy..

You took him everywhere he wanted to explore as he was a curious mind. It warmed your heart to see him so happy, you can’t help but call him your son!

[tired-reader-writer]

G-witch AU Infodump

Enabled by @werewolfcoochie @marchdancer @sharpdistances @germanpillow @kallista-dragonsoul and @iwantthatdickgrayson here is me infodumping about random shit in my G-witch AU:

After being rescued by Ellyus, El4n takes on a new name and identity— one he would choose for himself— though Shin Sei doesn't quite have the means necessary to turn his face into something else, nor does he remember what his original face is supposed to look like anyways.

Anyways, his new name is Nary, bc “nary” means “nothing, none” and he's basically someone who has nothing, starting from scratch with a clean slate and even before that he had nothing. Also it's a reference to @stil-lindigo 's fantastic poem-comic here and @telamont 's fic may the little garden where you smile, last forever since I read both of them at roughly within the same timeframe and they double-teamed up on me in terms of brainrot. I am not sorry for this.

I'm still struggling over his new surname however, though Frey is a temporary placeholder— as a reference to the goddess Frigg whose divine domains included clairvoyance and prophecy, and though Nary himself is no prophet his love interest is so hmmm. Does Ellyus count as an Odin figure? I'm not well-versed with Norse mythology. (what El definitely is is a trickster/prophet/fey type character)

Shin Sei in this AU is comprised of the friends and families of the slaughtered Vanadis researchers who want justice/vengeance for their fallen loved ones— and so support Prospera in her schemes. There's also mercurian folk in there but yeah.

Ellyus gets his mother and Shin Sei to fake/develop a new identity and backstory for Nary/El4n. It's up to him whether he comes back to Asticassia but I like to think he does.

He dyes his hair the same colour as the woman who's presumably his mother, the lady with the birthday cake? Yeah? The same brown.

He still wears soft earrings bc this analysis of El4n's gender thing lives in my head rent-free. He also wears a lot more feminine clothing because he can. (EDIT: added the link that I forgot to add bc fucking hell I knew I was forgetting smth)

He has a new hairstyle. I actually have a design in mind but since I can't draw right now... lemme dig up my gallery in hopes that there's something that looks like it—

(I'm not sure if I could share these, as far as I could track these were drawn by the original artist of the comic this character is from, I eventually seek to replace these w my own drawings when I can.)

He probably ends up taking the surname of some Shin Sei employee, though argh, it fucking pains me that we know practically nothing about Shin Sei!! Who's Godoy and what does he even do?!

The Plant Quetta attack does not happen. There will be another attack to replace it, alright, but it's been moved down the timeline. I don't know when it'll be or by whom, but it happens on Earth, while Ellyus is there. Why is he there? Dunno, probably some GUND-ARM related reason. He's one of the main mechanics of Aerial after all, and someone who's heavily involved in the production of GUND-prosthetics.

Speaking of Ellyus' engineering work, Shin Sei did develop the drone technology Prospera mentions in the witch trial— it's just that Ellyus is the one who created it. Maybe he could also be present in the trial room? His presence wouldn't really help against Delling but hey, it's the thought that counts. Besides, he (and we the audience) already knows Miorine will come to save the day.

Delling is fucking dead. No mercy for the fucker, he probably dies in the same attack that lethally wounded Ellyus? Or perhaps after that, in another incident. Vim Jeturk is accused of the murder, and subsequently silenced by Prospera and/or Shaddiq.

Shaddiq takes the presidency. Ellyus left behind pre-recorded video messages tailored to each recipient, he sat down and recorded them before he died, set to automatically be sent to the ppl he wants in the Know after his funeral, and Shaddiq and El4n's messages include the entire backstory, basically, and so Shaddiq knows about Quiet Zero and who it's for. He seeks out Prospera and basically proposes an alliance— much of their goals align, he can use QZ's might to strong-arm favorable negotiations for Earth, he knows who QZ's for and realizes that Ellyus can be “alive/free” again like Ericht since he's deduced that the night Ellyus went missing from his hospital room and came back dead was actually him being uploaded into a GUND-bit.

(It's part of Ellyus' machinations, to protect Miorine from Prospera, to bridge Shaddiq to a strong ally who shares a lot of his goals, and... yeah. Fuck Spacians, this alliance is gon be a bulldozer.)

Shaddiq does not ally with Peil.

Peil will meet a karmic end. I don't know how yet, but El4n and El5n are involved. Anyways, that'll probably happen during or after the struggle for the Benerit Group presidency.

Guel actually learns something beyond “daddy good”, dammit.

Miorine and Prospera have a... complex, shall we say, relationship. Prospera holds back from roping her into revenge unlike in canon— mostly because of Ellyus' pleas to not let GUND-ARM be ruined/soaked in blood, partly because Miorine is the one who resurrected and kept true to GUND's ideals of medical research and stuff. Prospera hates her bc well, Delling's daughter, but on the other hand... a successor of sorts to carrying the GUND research torch. Miorine doesn't trust her, no, buuuut she still can't deny that together w Shaddiq they're... actually doing decent work. (Again, unlike in canon LOL)

Suletta's off to the side having her own Identity Journey. The video message to her also explains her origins and everything, so she now knows she's a repli-child. I don't know what I'll do with the journey proper but I want the eventual outcome to be: “I am not Ericht, I was never a Samaya and that's just fine. I'm Suletta, and the name Mercury is mine in a way it isn't for mom. I still love you, mom, Aerial/Eri too, but I am a Mercury and I'm proud of that. I still love you but I'm me and you're not my entire world.” kinda deal. Basically, independence, loving her family on her own terms.

No Plant Quetta means no tomato paste and no divorce! Huzzah! (I mean, another attack still happens but due to Ellyus' and Miorine + Earth House's influence Suletta focuses more on disaster relief and evacuation and stuff.)

Adding a new layer to Ellyus' non-linear time thing (I've posted about it, I've linked to it before in another post, it can be found in his character tag), he's allowed to make phone calls to One (1) person in the past. That person happens to be Jeru Ogul, aka Shaddiq's child self, way before he's learnt to put up barriers around his heart.

(Ellyus was never meant to be human. If the G-witch cast proper is comprised of 3D beings and us the audience 4D, he'd be like, 3.5D. That's why he's allowed time shenanigans by me. Only as far as I allow it, though. He's a plot device, a robot w its guts exposed. I have also posted about this before. I won't link to it here bc well, I already have before and ppl didn't seem all too interested in the makings and structure of his character. Meta-narrative fuckery ftw.)

The calls are sporadic, but kid Jeru comes to hold this mysterious friend person in the phone very dear to his heart. Their non-judegmental and gentle encouragement was one of the things that kept him going in those days.

He's buried the memory now, in the deepest layers of his heart, under twenty vaults, along with the tender hurt and angry child self that was Jeru Ogul and everything that it represents. It fuels him, it's his impetus, but it's hidden, carefully so.

It's a surprise to the both of them when they find out.

(basically, Doylist reason was that I needed a narrative tool strong enough to break through his walls and allow him to be changed for the better, to stop having tunnel-vision, and Ellyus became the narrative device responsible for that task)

This development allowed for Shaddiq to be more proactive and open. To the point he might actually ask for Miorine's support/help during the competition for the presidency. I'm still contemplating it.

I don't know what I'll do with Dawn of Fold yet.

Not the Space Assembly League, really.

Somebody help.

Well, that's it for this episode of info-dumping! Thank you for enabling me, I was afraid to do it bc it's disheartening to scream your heart out into the void and have no response.

[slowlyhardgoatee]

Boy, I’m not gonna beat around the bush here. 

You’re here to be a slave. A cum-guzzling pig-boy slut. That’s all you are. That means you do exactly as you’re told. Instantly. I will be renting your holes out to my mates, every day. That’s right, slut boy, seven days a week. I’ll be making good money off your tight cunt, not to mention that talented mouth of yours. But don’t get the idea that you’re anything more to me than the hole between your legs, and the hole that faggy voice comes out of. 

So, some ground rules. You don’t speak unless expressly spoken to. No one wants to hear that lispy faggot voice. If you do get to talk, you keep it to ‘Yes, Sir’, ‘Thank you, Sir,’ ‘Rape me harder please, Sir’. Stuff like that. And obviously, your own cock is off limits while there are Real Men here.

Now, if you’re a good pig, once a week I will allow you the privilege of jerking off. You will do so in the bathroom at the end of the hall, with the door closed and locked, and with no external stimulation whatsoever. No porn, no Tumblr galleries, nothing. You will jerk off in complete silence, boy, I mean I don’t wanna hear a fucking sound. When you’ve finished, you will clean up after yourself - I don’t think I need to say, but I will, that I do not want to see any evidence whatsoever of you having pleasured yourself. Then you will come back in here. Before you resume servicing my cock, you will kneel in front of me, privates exposed, and you will beg me to boot you in the balls, boy. After I’ve done that, I wanna hear a nice loud ‘Thank you, SIR’ before you deep throat my fat hog. Is that clear, faggot? Good boy. 

Why don’t we do a practice run, slut? You heard me, boy. Knees. Now. Look at your Owner’s boot, pig. Steel toe caps, and good clean leather. Now look down at your pathetic cock and balls. They deserve to be kicked in, don’t they, boy? Eh? That little dicklet is just about the smallest I’ve ever seen. 

Now, I’m gonna light up. Nothing turns me on more than using and abusing a faggot while I’m smoking. You’re gonna beg for my boot in your useless balls while I take my sweet time huffing on this cigar. Be warned, boy - if I see you starting to get hard I’ll be tapping off my cigar ash all over your fucking cock. 

Go on then, boy. Start begging for Sir’s fucking boot. Let’s see how pathetic and desperate you can sound. Slut. If you’re a good boy, I might see my way clear to having you over my knee for a good fucking belting, and all. You like the sound of that, pig? 

Oh - I can see your little dicklet trying to get hard, boy. You know what that means, don’t you? Time to use your cock head as a fucking ash tray, faggot. Scream all you want. It only gets me harder. 

[eleni-cherie]

among thieves ✨ || bts • pjm - chapter 0.3

"what even am I to you? your rival, your lover, an obstacle or am I supposed to be your coffin?"

about two thieves who can't live with nor without each other. and a joint past that comes back to threaten them.

© 2023 | eleni_cherie

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masterlist: here

— genre: thief au, gangster comedy, adventure, romcom, humour, angst, fluff, very flirty jimin, friends/rivals/exes to lovers (it's complicated, ok?!) f2l e2l ex2l all members play a role in this story!

ALTERNATIVE UNIVERSE. CHARACTERS NOT NECESSARILY LIKE THE REAL PERSONS. ALSO VERY UNREALISTIC PLOT LOL - JUST PRETEND READING A MANGA/COMIC OR WATCHING A FILM, REALLY.

SUGGESTIVE THEMES. MENTIONS OF VIOLENCE & BLOOD (BUT NOTHING TOO GRAPHIC, IT'S STILL A COMEDY!)

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Tokyo, Japan

"Say, Jimin-" Taehyung adjusted his grip around the bag that was slung over his shoulders. Glancing at his friend. "Why are we after these monkeys?" "Not all," Jimin corrected him, "Just one. The one with the sapphire in his embrace." He stopped when reaching the well in the basement. After getting rid off their cleaning stuff disguise, he laid out the blueprint on the ground. "Yeah, that. Why are we even bothering?" "Because that along with the document we got will lead us to the actual treasure, duh," he frowned. His finger tracing over the piece of paper until eventually finding their current position. He touched his earpiece then. "Yoongi, you hear me?"

White noise was heard before a bored voice anwered. "Yeah, in position." "Alright. Did you see anyone out of place?" "Yeah, tons of cops pretending to be normal gallery visitors." "Huh, so pops did find out after all," he smirked. "He may be an idiot sometimes, but he isn't that dumb," Taehyung mumbled then, "It was a quite easy one." "Indeed," Jimin shrugged, his lips tucking into a smug grin, "But that was on purpose. He surely didn't notice the second one. He felt probably too proud of himself to question it." "Let's hope you're right." "I'm always right!" Yoongi laughed out on the other end of the line, while Taehyung gave him an irritated glance.

"Fine, maybe not always. But ninty percent of the time." "Sure." "Yoongi, we'll switch off the lights for exactly five seconds. You sure that's enough time?" An annoyed groan was heard. "Did I ever need longer?" Jimin rolled his eyes. It was true, Yoongi was fast as lightning when it was about cutting something with his sword. This time it being disguised as a cane, perfectly fitting his own disguise of an old man. Like his in-ear which looked like a deaf-aid. Hopefully this wouldn't be an exception. "Alright, I'll count down. One.." His finger hovered over the switch. "Two.." It touched it. "Three." And pressed it down.

Before anyone even understood what was going on, the lights were back on. And Yoongi walked away like nothing had happened. "Done."

"Did the cops react?"

"Yeah, some are nervously -and not obvious at all- speaking into their collars." He chuckled amused. "Okay, my cue," Jimin said and pulled out a walkie-talkie, switching it into the right frequency. Clearing his throat, he prepared his voice. Disguising it perfectly when speaking. "We were just informed by the maintenance team this small electrical abnormaly was normal due to a light earthquake causing this. No need to let your guard down."

"Roger" someone answered.

He turned off the device, chuckling contently. "Yoongi, did they buy it?" "Seems so. They're back to pretending being normal visitors and observing the art pieces." "Good. Now phase three. Taehyung?" "Yeah, yeah. On it," he smirked and put the bag down. He got his Magnum out of his holster and put the silencer on. Shooting precisely three times on the three studs of the security bars on the top. Knocking them out. Meanwhile Jimin rummaged in the bag until finding the screwdriver set. He checked his watch then. "Eight minutes till they'll start asking everyone to leave. Before pops shows up and the cops come back in, invading the place."

Taehyung nodded and Jimin climbed on his shoulders to reach the top and took off the security bars. Starting undoing the screws inside. Taking off the lid then he gave it to Taehyung who was trying his best not to lose balance with the additional bodyweight. The ceiling wasn't too high, but Jimin needed him for the next step. Taehyung straightened himself more and so Jimin could grab the edges of the vent, pulling himself up into the subceiling. He breathed out deeply and looked at his watch. "Five more minutes," he informed. Pressing his earpiece again. "Yoongi? Did you also cut the other thing?" "Yeah, yeah. I'm waiting for you guys at the car."

"Thanks," Jimin cooed happily. Three minutes. He crawled a meter to the right, patting the top until finding the spot on the ground that Yoongi had cut for him. Waiting patiently. One minute. He calmed his breath, clearing his mind. He had a few seconds to due the exchange, nothing new. But also still nerve-wreckingly exciting. The loudspeaker announcement was finally heard dully through the floor. First in japanese then in english.

"The museum is closing in ten minutes. We ask all visitors to soon make their way to the exit."

Shuffling and steps were heard above. Knowing their object of desire was in the far back of the room, he dared to push the square-shaped cut out. Peeking his head between a tall plant and the exhibition show case. The room being empty. They knew were security cameras were placed and this was a blind spot. As long as he didn't go beyong the glass cube or the plant, he was save. So he slowly crawled out.

"Now!" Jimin whisper-yelled and instantly the lights flickered shut thanks to Taehyung at the switch downstairs. Giving him exactly ten seconds to switch off the real sapphire with the fake one he had prepared. And thanks to Yoongi cutting off the wires of the warning system, without cutting the actual electrical wire which would have immediatelly caused an emergency alarm, he was able to pull it off within the time limit. Disappearing into the hole on the floor right when the lights flickered on again. Carefully he put the piece of floor back on and fixated it before going back down the vent. Taehyung already waiting at the opening to help him get down. Jimin quickly screwed the lid on again and put the security bars on before jumping down.

They quickly gathered their belongings and put their disguise back on. Going the same route back which they had come from. Disguised as cleaning stuff they made their way to the backdoor. Walking fast down the back alley and out to the street. When they turned a corner, they started running. Already spotting their car. Yoongi, still dressed as an old man, sitting on the backseat. Eyeing everyone that passed by.

"Took you long enough," he simply said as the two slid inside into their seats and Jimin started the engine. "Right on time I'd say," he said when spotting multiple police cars driving past the street in front of them, to the direction of the museum. "They'll now get onto position. And in five hours they'll notice we're already far gone with the jewel," he chuckled and drove off.

"What did you write on your note?" "My note?" "Yeah, the one behind the fake jewel." "Oh, that one," Jimin said, the cool breeze of the evening brushing against his face, "Just explained that not only the gibberish was meant to be read taking five steps back. The time written in cursive as well."

As they turned into the ring rode, a black suv appeared behind them. Jimin noticed from the driving mirror. As he took the exit and left the ring rode, the suv followed. Whenever he turned into a road, the black car also turned. "Gentlemen, seems like we got a tail." The two other guys took a quick glance behind them as well. Easily spotting what we meant.

Seeing they got discovered, the windows of the black suv cranked down and its passengers started shooting. The rear window broke and Yoongi sighed, pushing the blade out of the sheath as he slid down, taking cover. "Gotta cut something unworthy again," he quietly mumbled and turned around. Fending off the bullets with his sword. Giving them cover and Taehyung time to get his Magnum out once again. "Don't disappoint me, baby," he whispered to his gun before also cranking down the window. He gave Jimin a nod, which he understood instantly. "Hold on!" Taking a sharp left turn, he gave Taehyung a good angle to aim.

He shot all his six bullets. Hitting the windscreen. But it didn't crack, seemingly being bulletproof. He reloaded his magazine, three by three at the same time. He aimed again and shot exactly twice. Perfectly hitting both car tyres, causing the suv to lose control. And another shot, hitting the motor. Sparks popping out from the rimes scratching the road surface and smoke coming from the motor as it hit a light post.

Jimin floored the accelerator, escaping further while dodging the cars in front of them and overtaking them. Sirens being heard from afar all of a sudden.

"Great," he groaned, "Those guys got us unneeded attention."

He turned into a sidestreet and then another. Gearing down. He turned into another street and into a parking lot. "Time to change cars."

"Who were those guys?" Taehyung frowned, looking at his friends then as the car came to a halt. Seeing them shrug. "Not sure, but they did leave us a souvenir," Yoongi said and picked up one of the bullets he had cut from the floor. Holding it between his thumb and index finger. The metal shining in the light. Making a carving visible. He squinted his eyes, trying to decypher the symbol. "What is this?" Taehyung grabbed the bullet. Inspecting it. ".308 semiautomatic," he noted. He turned it a little. Also seeing the little symbol carved on the side. "Is this some bird?"

At the mention of a bird, Jimin perked up. Becoming all ears. "May I see?" He took it from Taehyung and indeed. It was a bird. An owl, to be precise.

"Crap." He slid the bullet into his pocket and immediately grabbed his phone out. Starting dialing a number.  "What is it?" Yoongi asked, confused about his sudden reaction. Jimin's lips parted to explain but right in that moment the ringing tone stopped and his call got answered. "Bella-baby? We got a problem."

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next chapter: 0.4 here

[heylabodega]

I took the week off, because I've been hitting burnout -- I can feel the thoughts dribbling out of the holes in my brain as I try to write or even schedule meetings -- and because my boss lowkey made me, but I can't afford to go anywhere so I've kind of been dreading the routine I know myself enough to know I'd fall into, of waking up at 10am, not getting moving til 11 or 12, and getting nothing done, fun or otherwise. But I find myself a little at loose ends, a little head empty and nothing to do without work, and that's not good. Reminder to myself that we take time off so that we have things to fill our non-work time.

Last week I cleaned my room (sort of) because Sarah was coming over. And the weather is good this week. So I'm slowly easing into days off. Wake up and luxuriate in the brightness of clear floors and clear skies. Get my iced latte. Listen to music. Put on a lounging around outfit that makes me look and feel like a 90s romcom protagonist. Pack up my running stuff to coach tonight, and maybe I'll go into the city a little early and leave it in a locker and go to a gallery before. Plan a fully indulgent day for tomorrow when I don't have to coach. Read something. Pick some books to send to my brother. Figure out what to think about besides [redacted]'s upcoming speaking engagements and the comms plan for [redacted]. Reminder to myself that liking my job doesn't have to mean it's the only thing I like. Figure some stuff out.

[presumenothing]

assorted translation notes on the novel opening sprinkled with peanut gallery comments (or possibly vice versa, idk):

yes that is a cluedo reference in the case title i couldn't stop myself and i'm not sorry

"…of the sixth month": not july, because this is in lunar calendar

"lucky pattern lotus parlour": ok i spent like at least One Whole Minute considering whether or not to talk myself out of this one. still didn't, still not sorry, alliteration funny

"bingshan town": could also be pingshan, flip a coin

anyway li lianhua arriving in their main street with his wholeass house like. it's Free Real Estate

"town god/local shrine": original term here is 土地庙 for the record. anyway who's gonna write the crackfic where li lianhua wakes up one morning in some random town to find that the locals have set up an entire shrine offering right outside complete with massive incense burner and all

wait hang on li lianhua was spring cleaning for TEN DAYS STRAIGHT??

"surname Li, named Lianhua": if anyone has come up with a better way of rendering 姓李，叫莲花 please tell me because i haven't

pov you're swiping through tinder when suddenly one of the profiles is just like Jianghu's #1 Most Very Mystery every biodata field is We Just Don't Know, Man and the pic is a badly circled cryptid sighting (idk i don't use tinder)

(li lianhua voice) "excuse you i didn't do two things i just did the same thing twice. technically speaking"

"lifelong learner": well Actually what the results for 皓首穷经 kept insisting on giving me was "hoary head" but i didn't go with that, so there but for the grace of me goeth you, shi wenjue

im sorry but the true utter crack au where he picked 李乌龟 instead (because yknow. turtle. house and all) and we are forced to live with the consequences

yunhe my dude you should've just bought a roomba instead of wasting your money on that incense and letter paper

"precious softwood": specifically nanmu, which (to collective unsurprise) was also used for shipbuilding, among other things

just........ the sheer over-the-top hercule poirot short story energy of this entire intro part, really

"king of hell": none other than 阎罗王 ofc

"a sound of dismay": he straight up "aiya"s here. i just could not figure out how to work it in for the life of me

"dust and sawdust": curse this stupid language that made both of these words contain dust this sounds So Awful

it has been 0 days since li lianhua last said "ah" (the counter never moves past zero)

toss em eggs, bystanders, we believe in you

(cheng yunhe walking in) you live like this??

"could only work with what he had, dead or otherwise": the original actually invokes 死马当活马医 (a saying which Literally means "treat a dead horse as a live one"), blast the english language for not having an equivalent

fang duobing's intro paragraphs? 10/10 sheer hilarity no notes

....why is "commit robbery"" up there on the list next to "plant crops"

"melancholic young master": 多愁公子 (he's got 99 worries and somehow li lianhua is all 100 of them)

how HAS fang duobing known li lianhua for literally just as long as he's been in the jianghu tho

ok three crackfic proposals in one post is a bit much even for me but. the one where li lianhua keeps accidentally digging up non-dead people/lost treasure/unmentionable secrets when actually he just wanted to borrow some onions for tonight's soup. honest

(this may possibly just be canon)

aaaand fifty taels, welp