#give them silence no acknowledgement whatsoever

[delicatepointofview]

i mean this kindly but you guys need to learn to ignore trolls and insensitive people in general

[aakeysmash]

prompt here; reader going on and on about how they never find someone and bakugou is just looking at them ready to snap

hehehe love this prompt tbh 🌸

"Katsukiii," you whine, throwing yourself on your best friend, who was previously chilling on his couch. He grunts, merely acknowledging you, before pushing your head away from his chest and keeping on scrolling through his phone. You've been best friends since kindergarten, and even if you're both adults now, when you're bored you just go to each other's house to do nothing together. You find comfort in knowing you can keep on being silent together, with no type of pressure whatsoever, and no need to find topics to dwell on either. Just pure, unfiltered and plain tranquility... well, kinda. After a few moments of silence, you start poking his cheek to gain his attention.

"Keep doing that and you'll find yourself missing a finger, fucker," he tells you, side-eyeing you. You immediately see his eyes glimmering. "Look," he says, turning his phone to make you watch a tiktok about a monkey slapping a baby. He chuckles, but when he sees you're confused he mumbles something along the lines of "you're always so fucking boring," then smacks your hand away from his cheek and keeps on scrolling while frowning.

"Find me a boyfriend," you suddenly tell him.

He snaps his head toward you. He must have heard you wrong. "The fuck you said?"

You huff, getting up and pacing around the room. "I mean, you know me, right?" you ask him, looking at him expectantly.

"Damn right I do, you've been pestering me for more than two decades," he answers, rolling his eyes. He gets up too, going toward his fridge to take out a water bottle.

"Then find me a man, since you know what I like," you say, following him.

He chokes on the water he is gulping down and you have to pat his back to make him stop coughing. "Why the fuck are you searching for a man?" he raspily says, glaring at you, hands on his knees and trying to catch his breath.

"Why wouldn't I search for a man?" you ask, tilting your head a little, still massaging his back. He just stares at you for a moment, but when your expression doesn't change he just lifts a finger and points at you from head to toe.

"Are you saying I'm ugly?!" you exclaim, giving him a hard slap on the back. He coughs again, caught off guard, shaking his head.

"I need love too, you know? The few men I've been seeing in the last, I don't know, three years, were all boring as heck," you complain, going back to the couch and sprawling yourself on it. "I just wish I had a big, strong man by my side, you know? Matter of fact, keep that in mind when you search for it, okay?" you continue, face smushed on the couch pillow, looking at his still crouching figure. Then you turn your body around and stare at the ceiling. "I want someone serious who I can build my future with. I'm tired of people who only want to fuck."

"Okay dumbass, but why are you fucking searching for a man?" he asks you, ignoring the sad tilt to your voice, getting closer. He crosses his arms and looks at your face, still standing up near the couch. From this view, he looks gigantic; his bulging biceps are almost bursting out his sweater, and you feel hotter the more you look up.

"Katsuki, do you want me to punch you in the face? I'm not that ugly," you say rudely, recalling what he just said and trying to focus on the words escaping your mouth.

"I did not fucking say that, yn" the blonde barks back, the vein in his temple pulsing. You just huff, annoyed, and close your eyes.

Everything is still for a while; then you feel movement beside you before feeling one of his calloused hands on your forehead. He barely touches you, but you feel his presence. You feel he's here, next to you, warm hand on your face, thumb barely tracing little circles on it, and it calms you down. He's always had this effect on you: you remember him driving all the way to your campus while you were still in college just to curse you out for stressing too much on exams, and it always worked back then too. You lean into his touch, sighing.

"I meant to say you don't have to search for a man, men should be searching for you. And generally speaking, you wouldn't have to search for a man if you just opened your eyes a little, dumbass," he says, softer than you ever heard him being. You turn your face a bit and do as he just said, finding yourself a palm of distance from his own face.

You keep on staring at each other for what feels like hours, his hand still tracing your features and gently massaging your scalp. You don't think you've ever seen him so relaxed. You both get closer to each other, losing yourself in the moment, when-

"You mean to tell me I have a stalker?"

He pushes your face on the couch, hard, before screaming at you to get immediately out of his house. You are thrown into a fit of giggles, and before he can get up you bring him down on you.

"I guess you’re big and strong enough for me," you say, smiling.

[escapenightmare]

blue lock when you ignore them.

isagi reaches out to place a hand on yours, mumbling, “baby, are you mad at me?” as he gently rubs his thumb back and forth across your knuckles with a concerned furrow to his eyebrows. when you don't reply, he unconsciously juts out his bottom lip just a little bit in a worried pout, “c'mon honey, don't ignore me.”

nagi doesn't care, he just clings onto you tightly, pulling you to lie on top of him on the couch as he sleepily nuzzles against the crook of your neck before deciding to settle with his forehead against your shoulder. “lemme sleep, pretty,” he murmurs tiredly, placing lazy kisses on your skin. “don't ignore me when i wake up.”

michael lays down with his head in your lap, looking up at you with puppy-dog eyes. “mein liebchen,” he all but whines, “pay attention to me.” when you don't reply he maintains eye contact with you as he takes one of your hands in his and brings it up to his mouth, peppering teasing kisses from your finger tips all the way to your wrists, doing anything he could to get a reaction out of you.

bachira sits on your lap with a contagious grin and presses kisses all over your face, trying to get you to cave. “this is fun,” he giggles as he places his hands on either of your cheeks and squishes your face— not enough to make you annoyed, but enough to make your lips pucker slightly. he giggles even more at the sight and brushes his nose against yours, “babe… you're so pretty”

rin glares at you, frowning. “you really want to do this?” he asks, tilting his head to the side. when you don't reply, he places a hand on your shoulder, rolling his eyes, “come on, we both know you can only do this for so long.” he sighs, almost dramatically, before using the hand on your shoulder to gently pull you back towards him, wrapping an arm around your waist as he huffs, “fine. be like that then.”

reo is dramatic for no reason whatsoever. he grabs your hands and holds them tenderly, looking heart broken and overcome with sadness as he asks, “do you not love me anymore, baby?” his eyes look as if they're almost tearing up, but all he wants to do is press your buttons up to the point where you have to acknowledge him, even if it's just so you can tell him to shut up.

sae stares at you from across the room with narrowed eyes, unimpressed. “so, how long are you planning on doing this?” he asks in a deadpan voice, folding his arms across his chest as he stares you down. when you don't reply he rolls his eyes but his demeanor only lasts for maximum twenty minutes because the next thing you know, he's wrapping his arms around you from the back and placing his chin on your shoulder.

oliver grins at you, shaking his head with a chuckle, “you're really gonna try to ignore me, baby?” he laughs at your silence, almost teasingly continuing to trace a finger in circles on your hip, grin still on his face as he leans in tantalizingly close. “you can do this all day baby, but i'm not going to give up just yet either.”

[monvante]

persona non grata ╱ myg, 𝟏.

per·​so·​na non gra·​ta: unwelcome or unwanted. not popular or accepted by others.

pairing: myg x f!reader

genre: suspense / noir / detective au

rating: mature | 18+

chapter word count: 3,067

content warings: crime, blackmail, missing person investigation, themes of violence and murder, 90's cult references, corrupt cops, mentions of physical fighting, cockroaches, depictions of dementia, substance abuse & addiction, reader is grieving a breakup;

next chapter | series navigation | masterlist

chapter i. goodbye, kanan.

Tuesday night, March 18th @ ViCAP Unit, Missing Persons Dept.

Your hands don’t feel clean. They just never do. 

“It’s that same nightmare,” you rub them together, finding comfort in the heat.

Yoongi looks at you. He says nothing, because of course he doesn't. He already noticed the dark circles under your eyes this morning, how you looked at your cup of coffee with a bit more disgust than usual.

He admired your hatred, your devotion to your spiteful heart.

“Cockroaches.” Your sad chuckle is but self-mockery. Your gaze is crestfallen.

He’s left to calculate within the machinations of his mind whatever meaning there is in your nightmare. 

Yet, Yoongi finds none whatsoever.

“Have you eaten?” 

“Why?”

“Just asking,” he shrugs. “Take tomorrow off,” Yoongi hides his hands inside the pockets of his trench coat. His concern is disguised in his eyes, looking out the foggy windows of the department office. “You need it.”

“I can’t stop thinking about him.”

“Let it go.”

“He was eight years old! He was a child!”

The air tightens in your lungs and your throat thickens with silence. You didn’t mean to sound so exasperated, you didn’t mean to sound like anything, but you’ll have to be the first to face your emotional ties to the cold case of a young boy whose face is ingrained in the back of your mind.

Yoongi gulps ⎯  it’s the first thing he does when the truth’s engulfed in his stomach. You glare at him, but he doesn’t budge. Not for a few seconds at least, taking a few steps back as he still refuses to look you in the eye. All cops are cowards.

“You wanna know why we got this case?”

Your brows perk. 

“It’s not because we’re good,” he scoffs. “Last year... I confronted McKinnon about the money. He called me a snitch… I didn’t- I didn’t tell him you were in on it, but I figured he knew. That bastard just.. kept looking at me with those filthy eyes and I- I hit him, okay? I got him good. He deserved it.”

“Is that why you kept avoiding me all those months?”

“Kind of. He said we wouldn’t come out of it alive if the ACU so much as dreamt of it… So I kept quiet. He gave us a case full of dead ends and shit evidence to keep us busy… Said we deserved it.”

The Anti Corruption Unit had been onto the agents’ tail that month. Not that it matters. Nothing was found.

“Why– why didn’t you tell me?”

He runs a hand through his hair, slowing down his breath. In the same second, he fails himself and his fury comes out in full force.

“Fuck’s sake! And risk you being dead? Or worse?!” 

There are drops of sweat down his temple. You can see them because the yellow street lights glisten against his skin and you figure he’s telling you the truth. Even if he wasn’t, you’d be inclined to believe him. 

No one else in this godforsaken unit has a commitment to the truth like Yoongi. 

Thursday morning, March 20th @ ViCAP Unit, Missing Persons Dept.

Agent Gerwig gives you a warm, tight-lipped smile when you pass her down the hallways. You hurry past the agents down the coffee machine, avoiding small talk and nearly tripping down the stairs on your way to Yoongi’s desk. 

The insides of your stomach are twisting and turning as you rush inside, uninvited and breathless, waiting for him to acknowledge you behind his incessant typing and the meaningless emails he reads everyday. 

Yoongi seems as still and lifeless as ever, which somehow comes as a comfort to you. 

“Days off are supposed to make you look better, not worse. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He types as fast as he comes up with witty remarks. 

“That’s because I have!” You spit back, fists closed tightly around the newspaper in your hands.

He quirks up one brow, enough for you to know you’ve got his attention.

“Here,” you toss it onto his desk. “Read it.”

November 27th, 1991. Solved case: Thanksgiving kidnappings linked to man apprehended by police.

“That’s Adam Bowen. He got arrested a night after Kanan went missing,” you huff, catching your breath. “They never considered him a suspect because… the timelines didn’t add up, apparently.” 

Yoongi looks up at you from the large frame of his glasses.

“And?”

“Police always suspected he worked with his brother… but they never found enough evidence to prove it. They never even found said brother, the guy disappeared out of thin air and Bowen never told them anything. Not a word.”

He leans back, stretching his arms. His gaze diverts away from you or the paper altogether and he’s staring into space, seemingly at a loss for words.

“They got one brother, huh? Looks like it was enough for them to settle it,” Yoongi clicks his tongue. “Sloppy as all hell.”

In your heart, there’s some feeble hope, but most of it has been filled with despair and a fierce jealousy towards anyone who still maintained a sense of normalcy. Your last seven years have been haunted by nightmares, tainted by the faces of all the missing person reports hanging on your walls.

“We got a second half of the story to figure out.”

Yoongi nods. He closes off his laptop and puts his hands around his gun belt.

Friday night, March 21th @ Agent ___’s home.

Circe’s orange tail swirls around your leg before she’s meowing next to her empty bowl, with cute and threatening eyes glaring into your soul. You can barely catch your breath on the couch ⎯  you got shit to do. 

Her paws trail happily after you once you’re pouring the pack of Whiskas onto her tiny plate, making a mental note to throw nearly all the home decor away before Easter comes. The apartment is filled with portraits, vases and candles Yuri generously left you with. 

Such courtesy of your ex-fiancée to have abandoned all your memories and stories behind. 

You’re running out of coffee, hope and sugar.

Yuri was not a bad man. It’s what you told yourself, once. He wanted the kids and the white picket fence life, away from violent gangs and city lights, where he’d craft the perfect nuclear family, worthy of homemade apple pies and Sunday barbecues.

But you liked the urban loneliness, your shoebox apartment and the green subway lights on your way back home. You liked the comfort of knowing every neighborhood like the palm of your hand, the ins and outs of every highway and the thought of heartless strangers passing you by, not caring for your name.

You missed him. His warm body pressed against yours and his golden, brown skin; you missed him selfishly ⎯  your comfort zone walked away and resentment grew alongside the fondness. 

You hoped he was happy without you, but not too much.

When your co-workers asked you about him, a few days after he packed his bags, all you gave them was a shrug and a poor explanation, the kind that everyone does: we were incompatible, it wasn’t meant to be, I wasn’t ready. The list went on and on.

The only one to not probe was good old loyal Yoongi. He was indifferent enough to other people’s personal lives not to ask. When you told him, he patted you on the shoulder awkwardly and placed your coffee by your desk with extra whipped cream. 

Saturday afternoon, March 22nd @ Rosefell Nursing Home.

Violet Bowen was not, by any means, what you’d call a reliable witness. She seemed pale beyond human comprehension and her words mostly consisted of hummings or muttering. The moment you saw her, you felt a sting of empathy too strong to ask her of her missing, possibly outlaw brother.

She had no other relatives nor close visitors, except for a caring ex-neighbor who’d bring her flowers every Friday. With nails painted a deep shade of red, she looked to be around eighty, but you couldn’t quite tell. Violet was in poor condition, plagued by dementia and the loneliness of lost loved ones. 

Her caretaker is a vibrant, blonde nurse. A blonde Southern belle whose name tag read in big, uppercase letters.

CAROLYN R. NURSING ASSISTANT

It’s Yoongi who interrogates Violet, remaining unaffected by her lost gaze and brown eyes. He flashes her a picture of her brothers back in the 80’s, sporting what looks to be fluffy mullets. 

She smiles then and her shaky hands point at Adam, but nothing else comes out of her aside from a gleam of life in her eyes. Even if she knew where they were, she wouldn’t tell them a word. 

Carolyn’s smile grows disconcerted. Her hands lay on Violet’s forearm as she pulls a thick chunk of her blonde hair out of her face in typical Southern charm. 

“I think my girl’s had enough here, yes?” She forces a grin, glancing over at Violet. “If you’ll excuse us, it’s tea time.” 

Carolyn helps Violet out of her seat and into the cafeteria. You’re not sure if it’s bad timing or a deliberate attempt from the nursing assistant to end this conversation, but you’re leaning on the latter. Off they go, taking slow, mindful steps away from both of you.

You refuse to look at Violet’s way. Something about her made you want to cry your heart out; the thought of loneliness being an imminent threat to you, too. 

“It’s pointless, Yoongi,” you mutter in your seat, slouching your shoulders. “She’s not going to remember anything.”

He hates to agree. Yoongi tsks, fiddling with his watch.

“Did you check her records at the reception?” He glances over at you, mind brimming with some sort of nefarious idea.

“Yeah,” you nod. “I mean- I didn’t check if she had any funds… It looks like all her properties and money were confiscated by the government, but I should run a background check on her bank accounts, to be sure.”

Monday afternoon, March 24th @ Tech Unit, Information Management Division.

Jenny’s doodles lie by her desk, making the room feel like a high school classroom. You haven’t spoken to her since December; what was once a blossoming friendship wilted away thanks to your cowardice and the desire to protect her from Deputy McKinnon’s claws. If Jenny found out, she’d jump the gun. 

And she didn’t have the best aim.

Her Naruto sketches have improved greatly since you last saw them, a massive improvement for just a couple months. Both of you used to laugh at her poorly drawn stick figures, now it looks like she’s ready to take her comics career seriously. You’re happy for her ⎯  she’ll find a way out of this hellhole.

The air is thick and humid in the early Spring, but filled with an extra layer of awkwardness when she sees you from across the room. Jenny’s strides towards her desk are heavy with grief and resentment, but she holds her gaze your way.

“Have you had enough space from me after not picking up my calls?” She slides onto her chair, scribbling a few notes onto her monthly planner. “Long time no see, idiot.”

You don’t have much to say for yourself, even when your chest pangs with her affectionate, yet sarcastic use of the word idiot. 

“A lot happened, is all,” you gesture sheepishly, hands reaching for the insides of your pockets.

“I can imagine.”

“I’m sorry, Jenny… I didn’t mean to-” 

She looks up at you, eyes drenched with irony and something.. something which you can’t name. If it’s hatred or love, you can’t tell.

“Wat’cha want?”

You swallow dry and uneasy, unfolding the paper on your hand with Violet Bowen’s name and address. It’s crumpled and a little thorn ⎯  you were ready to throw it away seconds before coming into the Tech Unit.

“I- I need a background check on someone,” you mutter, lowly. “Bank account activity… Credit cards… Anything you can find from the last… thirty years, maybe?” 

Your attempt at a chuckle fails, denouncing your regret. Jenny notices the furrow of your brows and how concerned you seem, ripping the paper away from your hands. 

“Sure.” 

The seconds fill with silence. You stand by her desk, waiting for a snide comment, a spiteful joke, anything. She looks at you like she knows you want to apologize again.

“Nice sketches!” You smile as a desperate invitation to make friendly conversation. 

Jenny doesn’t cave in.

“You’re dismissed,” she nods at the doorway and hops onto her laptop. “I’ll text you when I’m done.”

Monday night, March 24th @ Agent ____’s home.

“Hey,” you mutter over the phone. “Just checking up on you and mom.”

“Finally!” Albeit sarcastic, your younger sister’s voice is nothing but chirpy, as it has always been. “We miss you, you idiot. You know that, right?”

Over the phone, you can hear your mom’s laugh and a few unintelligible words. It seems she’s adjusting to your dad’s absence. Somehow, you had stopped calling after the funeral. It’s not that you didn’t miss them back ⎯  you were sick of being flooded with memories every time you’d hear her voice. Like your dad was still there too, right beside her.

“Sorry, sweetcheeks. I’ve just been busy.” The explanations and apologies roll off your tongue.

“You know you can’t avoid us forever, right?” Her voice is so sober, it’s as if she’s older than you by a million years. 

When you gaze out the window, loneliness overcomes you. The years spent playing hide and seek in your childhood home are long gone, replaced by miles of distance between you and your family ⎯  how you became so caring and so bad at expressing it like your father. You hate how much of you is made of all the people you love. And miss.

“You there?”

“Y-yeah, yeah I’m sorry.” 

“I swear to God, you gotta stop doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“This.” She pauses. “Acting like we don’t exist. Seriously. We miss you.”

A pang of guilt flashes through your chest. 

“I know.” Your voice is small through the phone again. In between the anxiety and the seconds, you fiddle with your bracelet. “I’m sorry.. It’s been hell.”

“I promised you I wouldn’t tell mom about your breakup, but she keeps asking me. It wouldn’t hurt if you opened up for once.” She sounds more hurt than angry, vindicating your mother after all the months you spent avoiding calls and texts under the pretense of your busy adult job.

Even in the softness of her voice, her words feel harsh. You gulp down a threatening tear, staying silent on the phone. She was still right, though.

“Listen, we love you, okay? I don’t know what kind of shit you’re going through because you won’t tell me everything.. but dude, please, seriously just come visit us sometime. I know you’ve got your job and all, but act human for once. Please?”

“Okay, okay. I’ll try. I promise.”

“Good. I gotta go now. Mom wants to go grocery shopping for some french-whatever-pie and I promised her I’d help. Give Circe my love!”

You chuckle, sadly.

“Yeah… Yeah, it’s okay. I’ll see you guys soon.”

When the call ends, silence deepens. It’s your own doing, you know, but that doesn’t make it any less suffocating. Even when you crave solitude, you’re just plagued by loneliness. 

Wednesday morning, March 26th @ Java café.

Today, Yoongi thinks you look a little better. And by better, it means rested. Of course, your gaze is still very much zombie-like, with glimpses of terror in your eyes when you look away. 

But in this line of work, it ain’t all rainbows and sunshine.

It’s never rainbows and sunshine, he realizes.

“So,” you sigh.

“So.” Yoongi punctuates, giving you room to breathe.

Your eyes are distant, watching children play in the puddles from last night’s rainstorm. The weather has been cruel to this city, punishing sinners and saints alike with a dreadful fog in the mornings and plenty of humidity to drive your hair follicles to the brink of insanity.

“Bowen’s alive, Yoongi. There’s a big chance he just… got away with it.”

Your words aren’t met with so much enthusiasm. You suppose it’s the skepticism in this field ⎯ even the good news don’t feel like good news. Before his questioning and theorizing begins, Yoongi brings up a valid concern.

“Why didn’t his brother spill his whereabouts, though? It’s not like Adam had any reasons to protect his brother any longer.”

“Unless he did.” You counter-argue.

“Why, though? It doesn’t make sense. In ninety percent of the cases, you know what happens. So-called partners in crime turn against each other. It’s good ol’ politics.” Yoongi leans back in his chair, nodding at the waitress for more coffee.

“Maybe he had something to lose,” you purse your lips. The biting of your inner cheeks is such an instinctive habit of yours that it barely stings until you realize how much tension you’re holding in. “Or someone, you know?”

“Several someones.” Yoongi blinks. “Do you remember the Mormon Heritage cult?” His eyes narrow as he scrapes the top of his head.

Your back and forth is interrupted by the local waitress pouring hot black coffee onto Yoongi’s cup. He seems like he’s on a roll today ⎯  it’s his third cup. That you know of.

“Uhhh, kind of. They were a thing in the nineties, weren’t they?” 

“Yeah.. well… the Satanic panic might’ve contributed to that,” Yoongi nods, slipping his mobile out of his pocket. His fingers are hasty, typing up a Google search so he can word vomit every single fact possible. “But we know that the Jesus believers can somehow always be worse.”

He sounds so snarky, it earns a laugh out of you.

“The Bowens were around that time,” he says. “I mean ⎯  the connection seems unlikely, but with these people, you never know.”

You sigh. 

“McKinnon didn’t give us this case for nothing, huh?” Even with half a smile on your face, you can’t help but feel defeated.

“Cheer up, buttercup. I think we got a lead.” He smiles with his teeth for once in a lifetime, raising his eyes from his phone to meet yours. You know he is up to no good ⎯ and that can only be a good thing.

“Buttercup?”

monvante © 2021 - 2024. all rights reserved. do not copy, edit or redistribute my work.

[graves4girls]

☆ 18+ me & u | miguel o'hara

✮ wc. 4.4k ⚠︎ warning(s): 18+, unprotected, pre/noncanon, teensy tiny bit of possessive reader, fem!reader i got carried away with this so it's hella long but idgaf cuz i had sm fun writing it so if it gets rambly sorry :(( also if u can't tell by this i'm excited for halloween ⟡ be sure to check out my work on ao3 → gravesforgirls !!

You smear the black gloss across your lips, one arm stabilizing yourself as you stand bent over the vanity, fixing the small imperfections of your makeup. You cap the lipgloss and drop it into your makeup bag, straightening to eye your outfit in the mirror, fixing the ears secured to the top of your head. A knock at your bedroom door pulls you from admiring yourself any further, moving to pull the door open, smiling at the tower of a man behind it.

"You ready?"

"For what?"

Your eyebrows knit together, crossing your arms over your chest. "The costume party! You said you were going." 

His eyes run over your frame, eyebrows raising at the provocative costume. "I decided I don't want to. All it's gonna be is drunk people dry humping and vomiting everywhere."

You frown.

"We were supposed to go together. You can't just back out. You promised."

"I'm breaking it, then. I'm sure you'll have fun without me."

You drop your arms to your sides, sighing. "You're driving me then. And I need to make a pit stop at the party store. I need one more thing for my costume."

He grumbles quietly but nods nonetheless, letting you slip past him and down the hall.

You push the car door open as he shuts the engine off, but you don't get out, looking back at him.

"Aren't you coming in?"

He quirks an eyebrow. "Why would I go in? You're the one who wanted to come here."

"What if I need help getting something off a high shelf?" 

He rolls his eyes at the lame excuse, biting back a grin. "That's what the workers are for."

"Just, come in with me. It'll be quick."

He reluctantly steps out of the car, following close behind you.

You skim through the aisles, eyes locking on the bright red and blue of one particular costume hanging on the wall, and you reach to pull it down, scanning the size. He notices you eyeing the package, stepping closer.

"What do you need that for?"

You hum, giving him a grin. "I don't. But you do. You'd look so cute in this."

He gapes at you for a moment, waving a hand in the air as he shakes his head furiously. 

"You're fucking crazy if you think I'd ever wear that. I'm not ten years old. And I told you I'm not going to the stupid party."

"Come on! I'll pay for it–just come with me. I really want you to go."

He stares at you for a few moments in silence, small scowl etched into his features and his big arms folded over his chest. The way you look up at him with those big, pretty eyes, and the way you're practically begging him to go makes him weak, and you smile when he drops his head with a sigh.

"I can't believe you're actually making me go to a costume party dressed as goddamn Spiderman. Was this the only reason you made me drive you here?"

"No, I still need a cat tail."

You pull him along by his hand through the crowds of people and drag him up the stairs, in search of an empty room.

"What are you guys supposed to be?"

You turn to the voice, smiling at them.

"I'm a black cat. He didn't have time to change yet, but he's gonna be Spiderman." You can tell he's already regretting giving in to your batting eyelashes and pouty lip, not acknowledging the person whatsoever. "Is there anywhere he can change? Bathroom or something?"

"There's one down the hall, to the right. Hopefully nobody's hogging it yet."

You nod and yank him towards the room, knocking before pushing it open when you get no response. You shove the costume against his chest, toothy grin stuck to your face.

"You're way too happy about this. You owe me."

"Whatever, just hurry up. They're gonna have a contest later for best costumes and I'm gonna nominate you."

"¡Oye, no empujes tu suerte-!"

You push him back and slam the door shut, giggling at the way he groans.

"Almost done?"

You can hear shuffling behind the door.

"Uh–yeah. It's just a little…tight. This was the biggest size they had?"

The door creaks open, and he peeks his head around to look at you.

"Yeah. It can't be that bad. Show me." He pulls the door open, and you hide your laugh behind your hand at the sight of him. "See, I told you! You look cute."

"You're laughing. I look ridiculous."

"I'm serious! Give me a spin."

Another incredulous look, but he obliges when he realizes you mean it, popping your hip out as you shift your weight. He turns slowly, and you can't keep your eyes from drifting lower, taking in the way the thin material hugs his ass perfectly, along with the rest of him, really. You whistle at him as he turns back to face you, mischievous and teasing.

"Watch it. I'll ditch your ass if you keep that shit up." He points a finger at you, but you wave him off, pushing his hand down.

"Where's the mask?"

"I'm not wearing it. This is bad enough."

"You're wearing the goddamn mask. You're not Spiderman without the mask. Put it on."

You can't place it, but every girl that ogles at him and feels him up tightens something in your chest. He's not even trying to be the center of attention, yet girls are flocking to get close to him. You're supposed to be dancing with your friends, but you're too busy glaring at the Barbie hanging off his arm to enjoy the music anymore.

"Hey, what's your problem?" One of your friends bumps against your shoulder, eyes following your gaze, and she sighs. "Ignore them. You're here to have fun."

You huff quietly, fixing your cat ears.

"I know, but he's supposed to be my Spiderman. He should be over here, with me."

"Holy shit, you are pathetic. C'mon, let's get some drinks."

You tear your eyes away from the sight, sulking into the kitchen.

"What do you want?"

"Just some juice or something. I'm not in the mood to get drunk anymore."

You take the solo cup from her hands, taking a sip and turning to eye the crowd from the threshold of the kitchen doorway, getting small glimpses of him through the silhouettes of people dancing. His mask is pulled back to show his pretty face, pieces of messy curls falling into his face as he laughs at something you're too far to hear. Honestly, you can't really blame them completely, he does look gorgeous, strong muscles straining against the cheap material of the costume, leaned cooly against the wall with his arms over his chest. You decide to cut his conversation with Harley Quinn short, curating a quick cocktail and leaving your friend to call after you, slipping past inflatable dinosaurs and far too many half-assed skeletons to snake between them.

"Hey! I brought you a drink."

His eyes flicker from the cup to you once, twice, before he squints.

"Why? What'd you do to it?"

You swat at his chest, holding it out further to him. "Nothing, you dick. I'm being nice. I did drag you here."

He takes the cup from you hesitantly, searching the concoction for any sign of foul play, before taking a sip, and you mentally note the absence of the pig-tailed girl that'd been heckling him. 

"You've been getting a lot of attention tonight, huh?"

He glares at you, gently swirling his cup.

"I can't get two seconds alone. I don't know how you like these kinds of things."

"Well, try actually doing something rather than sitting in a corner acting all mysterious. And put the mask on."

You reach out to grab his free hand, gently pulling in an attempt to get him to follow you.

"And where exactly are you bringing me?"

"The dance floor. I know you've got a little something up your sleeve."

He holds a finger up as he takes another sip.

"Let me finish my drink, and I'll meet you out there."

"Promise? And don't break it this time."

"Promise. Ahora déjame en paz."

You drop his hand, smiling as you skip away to find your friends once more.

You jump a bit when you feel big hands catch your hips, and you're about to swing at the person that seems to think it's okay to grab random girls when his deep voice rumbles in your ear.

"Having fun?"

You look over your shoulder to find that big eyed mask staring down at you, nodding with a smile.

"Took you long enough. And you kept your promise."

You turn to face him, but he keeps his hands on your hips, and your face heats up a bit at the contact.

"I got a little held up. And you'll never guess who it was."

You scrunch your face, tilting your head a bit. "Who?"

"Another black cat. But like, Marvel's Black Cat. She had the whole get-up, claws and everything."

You heat up even more.

"Oh, really? That's funny." 

"Yeah, she was trying to get my number and shit."

You suck your teeth. "And shit? What else was she trying to get?" You tease him, wiggling your eyebrows.

"Nothing like that, you weirdo. Are we gonna dance, or what?"

You give him a half-hearted smirk as he clears his throat, brushing his hands away to turn to your friend.

Your friend's hanging off of you, drunkenly babbling and giggling, and you decide to recuperate away from the crowd, patting a hand against Miguel's shoulder.

"Help me bring her somewhere quieter. She needs to sober up."

He picks her from your shoulder with ease, following you away from the loud music and up into an empty bedroom. You retrieve some cold water as he sets her on the bed, and she plops back with a laugh.

"Hey, drink this. You're fucking plastered."

She refuses it at first, but with minimal fighting, she eventually chugs the drink and falls against your shoulder. 

Her boyfriend collects her soon enough, conveniently leaving you and Spiderman to linger in the quiet room.

"You seem to be having a good time. Aren't you happy I made you come?"

He plops onto the bed with a huff, pushing the mask up and raising his eyebrows.

"I wouldn't say happy, but I'm not not happy. I mean, I like seeing you have fun."

You step closer to the mirror hanging on the door, prodding at your makeup.

"Yeah? You looked pretty thrilled out there."

He watches you from his spot, leaning back on one of his palms. "What are you doing?"

"Fixing my makeup. She smudged it when she was grabbing at me."

"You look fine."

You give him a look from the side of your eye, pulling out a small lip gloss from your bra cup and twisting it open. "That's not the compliment you think it is." 

He rolls his eyes. "You know what I meant. You look pretty. You can't even tell it's messed up."

You close the small tube and set it down on the wardrobe, running your hands down your sides to feel the shiny faux leather fabric of the bodysuit. You can feel his eyes on you, running all over your body, and suddenly there's a tight coil in your stomach. 

"Did you ever give that girl your number?"

His eyes snap to your face when you turn to look down at him, brows knit together.

"Who, Black Cat? No, no, she's not my type. And I'm pretty sure she has a boyfriend. I've seen her around campus a few times with the same guy."

You hum quietly.

"What about Harley Quinn? She's cute."

He shrugs. "She's just in my genetics class. She was just asking about an assignment. Nothing nefarious." He sits up, a small smirk working its way onto his lips. "Why are you grilling me all of a sudden? Are you trying to hook me up with someone?"

You shake your head with a grin, cheeks heating up. "No! I'm just wondering. I mean, girls have been hanging off of you all night. Surely you gave one of them your number, or something?"

He chuckles quietly, toying with the fabric on his leg. "No, I don't go handing out my number to random girls."

"Sure."

"What about you? Don't you have guys all over you?"

You scoff, moving to sit next to him.

"Hardly. I'll be lucky if I get one guy asking for my number before I leave. And the clock is ticking. It's already almost midnight."

He's looking at you, staring, and you don't want to look back.

"I think they're just intimidated. They think you'll reject them." His voice is quieter, softer, but it still rumbles deep in his chest.

"Shut up."

He leans closer.

"I'm serious." His hand comes up to tuck some hair behind your ear, lingering before it drops back to his side. "You look stunning. I mean, you're always gorgeous, but you look especially good in black leather."

Your whole body feels like a furnace, scorching with the sudden tension in the air, and you stare down at your lap.

"Thanks."

"Oye. Mírame." His hand comes up once more to grab your chin, turning your head to face him. "I mean it."

Your eyes fall to his lips for a moment, nodding softly. 

"I know." Your own voice betrays you, nearly a whisper as you find his gaze.

He's kissing you before you can say anything else, big hand cupping the side of your face as his nose bumps against yours, and your hands are quick to wrap around his neck, pulling him closer. He leans into you, nearly knocking you over if it weren't for his hold on you, desperate to get more of you. He's hoisting you into his lap, hands grabbing at your hips as your tongue slips into his mouth, and he's letting a low groan fall from his lips. He can't pull you close enough, strong arms constricting around your waist as your hands frame his face, only pulling back when your lungs nearly burn. 

"You should've done that a long time ago."

He chuckles against your lips, brown eyes boring into your own, pupils blown wide. "I was waiting for the right time." 

You drop another heated kiss to his flushed lips, humming into his mouth when he rolls your hips down into his own.

"You really wanna do this here?"

"I don't think I can hold out any longer. I need you, now." 

You rock down against him with another kiss.

"Whatever you say, Spiderman." 

Your hands are moving to tug off his costume, leaving him in tight briefs that leave little to the imagination. He shifts your position to pin you below him, stuffing his face into your neck to let his lips find your throat, and your hands are tangling in his messy hair, black nails massaging his scalp. His fingers crawl down your side to grab one of your thighs, hooking your leg over his hip as he drops his head lower to litter your collarbones with kisses, nipping gently at the exposed skin. 

Your hands fall from his hair to feel along the muscle of his chest, down his abs until they bump into the elastic band of his briefs, stilling against the fabric. His hips roll into your light touch, begging for something to rub against, and your hand drops lower to brush your fingers against him through the thin cotton, earning a quiet groan that melts into your skin. He draws back to take you in for a moment, kissing you, eager and hot, and a big hand snakes between you to delicately pull the zipper of your bodysuit down, shoving open the piece to let the warm air hit your bare chest. 

You slip your hand beneath his briefs to wrap your fingers around him, heavy in your hold, lazily running your fingers up the underside of his shaft. He's tugging at the sleeves of the bodysuit to push it down your arms, trailing kisses down your sternum as he does so, only pulling away to discard the garment beside you on the bed, immediately latching back onto you while one of his hands slowly inches lower to ghost over your cunt. He nudges aside the lacy black panties that just barely conceal you, his thick fingers exploring you, rolling over your clit a few times before they're soaking in your juices, pulling a quiet keen from your plump lips. He muffles your soft noises against his lips, his other hand sliding up your neck to cup the side of your face, and the way he's moving against you so languidly feels far more intimate than just any other fuck. He's being careful with you, taking in every mewl and whine you make, fingers working you perfectly, as if he already knows every part of you and how to touch you just right. 

"You doing okay?" He bumps the tip of his nose to yours, warm breath fanning across your lips. 

You nod, letting a hand come up to nestle in his hair. "I'm doing more than okay. Feels really good."

His thumb rubs circles into your clit, palm pushing against you when your hips begin to lift from the mattress, keeping you in place below him.

You need something else. It's not enough. 

"Mmph–Miguel…" You manage to whimper out his name, teeth tugging at your bottom lip. "I…" Your words melt into another moan, eyelids fighting to stay open.

"Hmm? What is it, gorgeous? Tell me." He caresses the side of your face, calloused thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

"I want you…I want you to fuck me. Please." Your cheeks burn, no doubt scalding to the touch as you stare up at him through your long lashes, gnawing at your bottom lip. 

He seems to short-circuit at your plea for a moment or two before he gives an avid nod, smooshing another kiss to your lips. "I'll give you anything you want if you keep asking like that. God, you are fuckin' perfect." 

His hand slips from between your thighs to grab at your panties, and the sound of the lace tearing apart pulls you out of your mind for a second.

"Miguel! Are you that impatient? Those were my favorite pair!" You can't hide the little giggle that carries your words, hands wrapping around his forearms.

"I'll buy you a new pair." He dismisses your comment with a kiss to your jaw, throwing the pathetic string of lace aside. 

He drags the tip of his cock along your slick folds a couple times before he's stretching you open, big hands catching the back of your knees to push your legs back towards your head, groaning low in his throat at the way your warm walls hug him tight. Your own hands grab at his strong arms, clinging to his wrists as he slowly rolls his hips into your own, and you bite back a moan when he bottoms out, stilling against you. He's big, but the stretch feels so good. Filling you to the hilt, overtaking all your senses as he cages you beneath him, nothing else on your mind but him.

"This alright?" He leans down to press little kisses to your cheek, thumbs absentmindedly rubbing shapes into the back of your knees.

"Mhm." You can't find the strength to conjure up anything intelligible, mind foggy with the little grunts he makes that make you want to squirm. 

His deep moans and hums tickle your skin, nose pressed into your neck as he rocks into you. His hands drop to the mattress, letting your legs hook over his big shoulders instead, and your nails dig into his biceps, clawing at him. His slow thrusts grow more eager, rocking you against the sheets as he lifts his head to look at you, watching your expression pinch and contort whenever he brushes that sweet spot. 

Your eyes water when his hips snap against you, faster and more brutal with every roll of his hips, teeth nearly drawing blood as they sink into your plump bottom lip, swollen from his constant need to be kissing you. One of his hands has snuck between your legs once more to pay special attention to your clit, making you a whimpering, mumbling mess below him. His other hand finds its way up to hold your chin, his thumb slipping between your lips to settle on your warm tongue, and you gently suck on the digit as your eyes find his. 

"Fuck…I'm not gonna last much longer if you keep looking at me like that."

Your eyebrows knit together when he hits that sweet spot inside you, a pathetically loud moan ripping through your vocal chords as your hips jerk. The bedframe screams with every rough slam of his hips, and he revels in every whine and hiccup that leaves your pretty lips, smearing his spit-slick thumb across your jawbone. His hips grow more erratic with every moment that passes, carelessly drilling into you in a desperate attempt to chase that high. His praises have devolved into gravelly mumbles, nose bridge pressed against your jaw as his warm breath hits your sticky skin, and one of your hands fumbles to wrap around his neck, keeping him close to you. His fingers work your clit tirelessly, a silent plea for you to finish, cock bullying your tight walls. 

His hips stutter as he comes, giving one more deep slam of his hips before filling you completely, panting heavy and uneven as he continues to rub circles into the sensitive bud. He slowly tilts his head to stick lazy, hot kisses to the underside of your jaw, urging you on as your legs begin to tremble. He grins against your skin when your thighs shake, coating his fingers in your juices as your orgasm hits you, comforting you with a kiss to the corner of your mouth as you come down. He lets your legs fall to frame his hips as he pulls out of you, bringing his hand up to run along your stomach, over your chest and curling behind your neck, thumbing over your jawline as your eyes tentatively find his.

"There you are, pretty girl. How're we feeling?" He looks almost lovestruck, his expression so tooth-rottingly sweet it makes your stomach do flips.

You hum quietly, leaning into his hold. "Perfect. A little tired, though." 

He smiles at you, dropping a kiss to the tip of your nose that has you smiling right back at him. 

He pulls himself away from you leisurely, running a hand down your side before getting up from the mattress, eyeing the mess of clothes scattered across the room. You sit up, leaning back on the heels of your palms as he moves to pick up his briefs. You both jump at the sudden knock on the door, and you panic when the doorknob twists. 

"Hey, Miguel! You in here? You-!"

His reflexes are quick enough to slam the door shut before whoever it was barging in could catch a glimpse of the filthy scene, eyes wide and head snapping towards you to find your own expression just as alarmed.

"What the fuck, man?! Knock first!"

"I did, dude!"

He growls quietly. "Well, wait for me to respond! You don't go around swinging doors open! I'll be down in a bit! Christ…" He twists the lock on the doorknob, running a hand down his face.

You're already pulling your clothes back on by the time he turns around, pulling the zipper up as he slips on his briefs.

"Sorry. I should've made sure it was locked earlier."

You shake your head, waving him off and pushing him away from the door to look in the mirror, eyes widening at your reflection.

"Holy shit. My makeup is fucked." There's black streaks of dried tears staining your hot cheeks, lip gloss smeared and cat ears askew.

He stands behind you, and you want to disappear. This is what was under him that whole time? Utterly mortifying.

"Here, let me help. Look at me." 

You shamefully spin around, avoiding his eyes as his hands come up to hold your face. His thumbs run over the black marks on your face, gently wiping at them as you sigh.

"What are you sighing about?"

He continues to swipe at the messy makeup, rubbing his finger under your lips to pick up the excess gloss.

"Why didn't you tell me I looked like shit?"

He hums softly, holding you still. "Cause you don't. You look pretty. Some messy makeup isn't gonna change that." He leans closer to your ear, his breath tickling your skin. "And in all honesty, it was really hot."

You push him away with an amused giggle. "Whatever. Let me at least put some more lip gloss on." You grab the tube from the wardrobe, but he picks it from your hand before you can turn back to the mirror. "What the hell-?"

"Shh. Just let me do it." You roll your eyes but let him tilt your head back, smearing the shiny gloss across your lips. "Can I give you one more kiss before we go out there?"

He dips his head to stick one last long kiss to your soft lips when you begrudgingly nod, flattening your hair and fixing your ears when he draws back. You turn back to the mirror, pleasantly surprised at his handiwork.

"Oh my god, the contest! Hurry up and get dressed! I totally forgot about it."

He groans as you stuff your lip gloss back into the cup of your bodysuit, pulling on the tight spandex costume and following you out of the quiet room. The subtle looks you get as you pull him down the stairs makes you both giddy and horrified, keeping your head down as you shove past people. You can hear someone on the stereo system saying something about the runner up winner, and you deflate a bit. 

"Dammit! We missed it."

He nuzzles his face into your neck as he comes up behind you, sighing. "Well, since it's too late for the contest, why don't we get out of here? I think we both could use some sleep"

You hum in a quiet agreement, letting him pull you out the rowdy house and into the cool night air. 

"And don't think you don't still owe me for putting me in this stupid costume."

[gay-for-the-snz]

Day 5: Rogue Organ (tonsils, spleen, appendix, gall bladder, etc…) [M, cold]

The return of Monty! It's nice to get to write him again and return him to the scene. I had fun playing around with the way they interact, and also the way that Joseph is perceived by the people around him! 2.2k

⁂

In all of the time he has known Dr. Valentine, he's never walked into his office and received no acknowledgement at all. He awkwardly drops his bag down beside his desk chair, leans it up against the corner to prop it up.

"Good morning, Dr. Valentine."

The man in question turns in his chair, his cheeks slightly flushed. He's never seen him blush before, but it kind of...looks like he might be? He doesn't reply immediately, just clears his throat in a way that sounds painful.

"Doctor--"

He holds up a hand to silence him, and clears his throat again. He leans close, uncomfortably so, and gestures towards his throat, fingertips gently touching his skin. "Laryngitis." His voice is thin and hoarse, hardly even a whisper.

"Oh. I'm sorry." He doesn't know what else to say, but mirrors the action to touch his own throat. "Viral or overuse?"

The good doctor looks pained by the acknowledgement, and scribbles on the notepad laying on his desk. Clearly he'd prepared for this before he got in. 'VIRAL' says the absolutely perfect penmanship. He's mused before that he could probably use Dr. Valentine's handwriting to teach printing to kids like in those booklets. The man writes like a typewriter, utterly pristine in a way that's difficult to reconcile with the typical handwriting associated with the profession. He realizes, when he slightly jiggles the notepad to display it again to make sure that he's seen it, that he's just neglected to respond.

"Ah." Well, that was a lame response. "That's a shame. Are you feeling alright otherwise?"

He's not a man given to really shrugging much, but he does so now. 'MINOR COLD' is all he writes in response.

It's clearly bothering him, not being able to say anything or do anything with his voice, but he's got that weird, steely resolve to not want to show any sort of...anything. Dr. Valentine's a man who would rather not let a single person know literally anything about him. Not his birthday, not his favorite color, not anything about him whatsoever. He doesn't even like people knowing that he takes his coffee black, so it isn't really surprising to know that he doesn't want to acknowledge much regarding his own condition.

"I was about to go get myself some coffee, do you want tea while I'm up?" He shakes his head, and that's not a surprise either. "Suit yourself."

The break room is kind of a far walk, but that doesn't stop him from actually wanting to walk over there. It's nice to be able to go get himself some coffee when he wants to, and it's also nice to be able to just take himself for a stroll whenever he feels like it. There's a soft hum of people walking around in their routines, and it's beautiful to be able to watch them do their things.

He's actually fucking shaking, though, by the time he's on his way back with the coffee--and a tea, that he didn't ask for but is getting anyway--because the realization dawns on him that if Dr. Valentine isn't able to speak, that means that the duty of lecturing is going to be falling onto him. He hates public speaking. And, equally importantly, Dr. Valentine hates giving up control.

He shoulders open the door to the office, and sets the tea down pointedly on the corner of the desk to preempt the argument he knows is coming. "I know you said you didn't want it, but I decided you did."

The look he receives is absolutely venomous, and he is FURIOUSLY scribbling on that notepad. It must be painful for him to not be able to say anything off the cuff--he's a man who's composed of quips, and stinging responses, and barbed witticisms that rely on timing for their effectiveness. It undercuts him to be reduced to writing on a notepad instead of speaking over him to cut him off.

He hadn't realized, really, how much of this man's authority was centered around that. Not that he doesn't carry an authority now--he looks like someone who was born to stand on a balcony overlooking a party like a Bond villain--but that cold silence doesn't necessarily carry the same sort of weight to it when he can't immediately back it up. He is not a man whose authority can rely on his bulk, he is not someone who is physically daunting in the way he looms above others.

No. It is his voice that he uses with such precision to overrule others. He carries himself in such a way that no one doubts that he is the one in charge. When he walks into a room, others fall into silence as they await him. The fact that he's now victim to that same silence just makes him look...tired. He looks old, and small in a way that's so unnatural and jarring. It stirs pity somewhere inside of him to see, which he knows is the last thing on earth the doctor wants from him.

"Anyway," he says, as a way of attempting to break the tension, "I'm assuming that you're going to need...assistance with today's lectures?"

Dr. Valentine looks like he wants to say something, but he just sits there in stony silence, staring at him. He's about to ask the question again, until he realizes why he's been silent. He twists aside with a gasp and ducks into his elbow with a sneeze that sounds absolutely miserable--and ridiculous. It lacks the sharp, harsh sound it usually has, more leaned hoarse and squeaky in a way that makes them both wince just hearing it.

He looks like it hurt his throat, and that seems right--he always sneezes so harsh and loud and rough, the sound of it alone always makes him think that it must hurt his throat just to have happen, but especially now that he's certainly already sore and miserable. "Bless you--"

He shakes his head, holding up a finger to bid him silence, even as his features contort into a snarl of irritation, before he ducks down into his sleeve a second time with a pair of them. He holds that position for a moment more, before he finally sighs and drops his arm with a liquidy sniffle.

"Bless you!"

Dr. Valentine looks irritated by the blessing, but he doesn't say anything to overrule it. This time. Perhaps he will later, should there be a repeat occurrence, and he wouldn't be shocked if it does. He takes a couple of tissues from the box on the corner of his desk, and blows his nose.

"Anyway," he tries again, "are you...going to be canceling your lectures, or is it going to be me behind the lectern today?"

He sniffs wetly, again, and scribbles on his notepad. YOU HAVE MY NOTES, AND WILL BE LEADING LECTURE TODAY.

"Oh! Right, I can do that. You've left me the notes, then?"

ALWAYS.

"And you're going to be haunting your desk as well, then?"

AS I ALWAYS DO.

"Good. I guess we'll have to, uh, sort of look through everything real quick before I go up there, so we can potentially check everything out and get prepped for it." He is distinctly aware, as he looks at the man glowering behind his desk, that he's going to be doing this lecture with a man who's going to be sitting behind the desk like a gargoyle the whole time he's speaking.

The gargoyle in question is currently tending to his nose (again) as he drops a stack of printed lecture slides onto the desk, neatly stacked together and annotated on each page, so it seems. That's nice of him. None of this prep work looks like something he could possibly have done terribly recently, it's too thorough. Clearly he decided sometime this morning--or, potentially, last night even--that he wouldn't be able to do anything today with his voice in the condition that it's in. Perhaps he's been sicker for longer than he's wanted to admit.

He wonders what it's like for him at home. He's unmarried now--he knows that much, as does everybody else in this school. Nor does he see anybody else ever usually really spending any time around the doctor. He's always pretty isolated, cloistered in this office. He goes to this office, or to the classroom, and then to home.

He wonders if when he goes home, he's lonely. If he's doing anything to take care of himself, or if he's merely ignoring it and letting it run its course. Is he taking care of himself? Does he miss having someone else in his home?

He must catch him staring, because he leans forward and strains his voice, against certainly his own advice, to be able to whisper. "Why are you staring at me and not your lecture?"

"I was just thinking about the, uh, lecture later." He takes a sip of his coffee, paled to a soft beige that can really barely even be considered coffee anymore, and watches the doctor finally take a sip of his tea. "Is the tea fine? I figured the peppermint one might be somewhat soothing."

He nods, faintly, and Monty knows he's not going to really be getting anything better than that. That's high praise and acknowledgement to receive from a man who's built a reputation on being cold and impenetrable. And, for the most part, he's lived up to it for that as being truth.

"Good, I'm glad." He idly flips through the lecture pages, trying to make him feel like he's actually doing something important here instead of just staring at his employer and psychoanalyzing him. "I hope that--I know, I can already tell that you're going to dislike hearing this from me--and I want you to know I also know that you're not going to like it--but I hope that you're able to recover soon."

He's right, about the fact that there is nothing Dr. Valentine wants less than to be fussed over or pitied in some degree, but he seems to begrudgingly accept it, if only because he can't really avoid hearing it be said. His hand hovers over the notepad, marker uncapped, for a couple tentative seconds, before he commits pen to paper.

THANK YOU.

It's surprising to receive a concession like this from him, and it actually warms his heart a little. "You're welcome." He returns to the task at hand, a more quiet understanding sitting between them. It's good to feel more appreciated for once, to know that Dr. Valentine is actually seeming to notice his efforts in a way that he's able to really appreciate as well.

The doctor is carefully annotating his own stack of papers over on his side of the office, attempting to balance this with the tissues he's got pressed to his nose for the time being. He looks like he's probably going to want to sneeze again. More than that, he looks like that paper travel cup of tea on the desk is going to need to be joined again by another at some point.

"You're prone to this?"

He looks surprised by the question, his face betraying the feeling.

"I was just wondering, because you didn't seem too surprised by the laryngitis. It doesn't seem like this is the first time you've suffered this particular rogue organ." He taps his pen along the page, coyly refusing eye contact as he speaks. "So that would, reasonably, mean that you're either used to this, or...that you've been sick for longer than you've wanted to let on, and had the advanced notice to plan my taking over today. Not there's any shame in either, of course. Just an observation. You know, like how you always urge us to be keeping our eyes open for patterns to be sharper practitioners."

Oh, he's going to kill him. He's certain that the only thing that's stopping him from snapping at him to get out of this office--and all manner of other nasty things--is the fact that he cannot physically do so right now.

Or, perhaps, it's the fact that he doesn't get any further into it than opening his mouth to attempt to anyway, before he's muffling a racking fit of coughs into his sleeve. It isn't the wet, hacking  sort he'd fear was indicative of something more serious. No, this is the dry, ticklish and irritated sort that sounds pretty normal to be accompanying the laryngitis he's already copped to.

He politely averts his eyes, because as much as he's kind of enjoying being a little shit when the professor can't do anything about it, he does feel sorta bad about taking advantage of it, or for being a voyeur in this way. He doesn't dislike him in any way, nor does he actually derive any pleasure from the ailment itself. This particular symptom makes him feel the need to clear his own throat sympathetically.

The fit tapers off with an uncomfortable sort of gasp--not quite a wheeze, but inching uncomfortably close into that territory. He wordlessly takes the tea, defeated by himself in this moment, and drains it with the air of a man who knows he's getting his ass kicked by something that was definitely supposed to be minor. Something easily dealt with and worked around, which is doing everything in its power to become something much more.

With a resigned weariness, he takes the now empty cup and trudges out of the office to begin what will, by all accounts, become the day's routine in refilling it.

[historia-vitae-magistras]

omg, idk if anyone has ever asked you this question before BUT what are the ways the uk siblings say ‘i love you’ without actually saying it? so like what are their love languages?

Brighid is all five. Life was so nightmarishly cruel for her at points that she appreciates almost all forms of kindness. Words of affirmation, quality time, gifts, acts of service. The only one she has boundaries around is physical touch. Under Alfred's roof she found all five. Compliments, dinner together practically every ordinary night, hugs, easily spoken 'I love you' Alfred appreciated her running the household and his life very much but the most thoughtful that boy has ever been in his life is probably with his aunt and he was always making sure there was absolutely no heavy lifting for her to do whatsoever. He gave her a lot of the nice jewelry she owns. Irish gold is a beautiful reddish colour to the point that in very old accounts before the term 'rose gold' came into being you can sometimes see 'Hibernian gold' used. She has a set of opals Matt arranged to come from Australia that Alfred had set into a whole suite of jewelry for her. And after the Civil War when he's rolling in gas he probably had an account with a few auction houses looking for pieces of Irish origin he could purchase and return to her.

Alasdair is very much a physical touch, quality time and acts of service type. But its in a very physical way. Like François often tried to give him nice (French made) things and good clothes and Alasdair was a bit meh. He'd wear them, he more or less likes what he looks like in things François picks out because goddamn the man has good taste in fashion. François being very, very physical was much more his speed. Fucking like animals, but then laying there in the blissful post-nutte silence listening to each other breathe was very much an act of love for Alasdair. Also food. Francois is not really the 'I'll help you fix the water mill" type but he will make a really good spread if he gives a shit. Later when Matthew comes along, Alasdair is almost as bad at saying the words "I love you" as Arthur is sometimes but he is much more physical and playful in general and carries Matt around and prefers he sleep in a rolling trundle rather than whatever far-flung corner of the house he might otherwise be assigned.

Rhys and Arthur are shockingly similar. They are very much a quality time twosome over here. They can confuse the hell out of people though because making a cup of tea and sitting in silence without acknowledging any other person in the room doesn't read as very affectionate but it really is in actuality their highest form of it. "I willingly spend time in your presence," is as good as it gets sometimes. There's care in there too. Prying your wasted sibling out of the gutter, forcing food down their hatch and hosing them down and throwing an extra blanket on them counts as an act of service, right?

[shivasdarknight]

Fic Writer Interview

I was tagged by @sheepwithspecs for this! Looks fun, let's go! 🙌 I'm only tagging @starswornoaths and @fiercynnhere because I really lost track of who still writes and who doesn't 😅 So blanket "do this if you see this" statement here - also this goes for any AO3 alternatives people have bailed for given the state of that place right now.

How many works do you have on AO3?

20, though two are exquisite corpses so 18 are all me

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

259,190, though that's bound to jump up because a chapter I've been working on is ~22k rn, and that's just one draft

3. What are your top 5 fics by kudos

I gave you dirt, I gave you water, you gave me uncontrollable horniness (108) - this is the second exquisite corpse that I did, and it's a rosemary fic that was more coordinated so I'm not surprised tbh? I wrote two sections for it, but it's so old. title is a reference to Little Shop of Horrors

The Shape of Water (2017) (53) - the first exquisite corpse, both were the same group and this was nonsensical. I wrote after the coordinator, and it devolved fast it was fun to work on. More Homestuck - but this was dirkjake - but it's also old and doesn't reflect my current writing. Take a guess why it's named that.

spare a moment, would you? (47) - oh hey this one's all mine. Yeah is it any surprise that the top 3 are all smut? wolysayle stuff, still like this one, though being a long fic writer and seeing the 4k word one do well is. Something alright.

how long you would wait for me? how long I've been away? (28) - wolestinien for wolestinien week, and this was a higher rated fic because yeah vague smut. I still like it, don't misunderstand, but I've got a different favorite lmao

don't test the tank (25) - the noncanon one because g'raha is no longer in the polycule lmfao. I'm pretty sure that's entirely why it got attention, since all of my non-exquisite corpse fics that have high kudos feature male characters in them and that's just not my focus rn. So it's really unsurprising that my favs have like. 12 and 2 kudos compared to all of the ones above, given they center Ysayle.

4. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I respond to all comments! At least most if I can lmao I like getting them? I also like giving them when I read fics, because idk. Acknowledgement that you saw something, discussing something dear to someone. That kind of thing.

5. What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

I think probably somehow, silence hurts the most? There's not really any good resolution besides Surkukteni recovering. Ysayle's dead (as far as she knows, shh), she tried to kill someone who used to be close to her and couldn't go through with it, and she's being shuffled off to another conflict while she's still not healed from the last one - even if it's where she had wanted to be, she's still stuck with the wounds from the war she didn't want to get involved in.

6. What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending?

Oh, easy: i had a dream about you. It's a fucking rollercoaster of a fic, it's one of my favorites, and I managed to make someone cry :D It's definitely the one that has the happiest ending, because I wouldn't call one-shots really...that? They're set in their tone unless it's a longer fic. Multi-chapter is really the only way I actually like getting a happy ending from something because you had to work to get there.

7. Do you write crossovers?

Well, I used to. FanFiction Dot Net was just...better for crossovers than AO3 tbh? Even though AO3 is better set up for it, most people on there hate crossovers unless it's an AU of something (y'know, like the old -stuck fics). I've still got some of those mentalities from that site in that I've used adjacent crossovers to fill out the cast of things, but most notably would be Inkspill. It's a Bleachstuck fic, but there aren't any Bleach characters whatsoever. It's just the setting and Rose is the main lead. It also epitomizes the fact that I don't like crossovers/AUs where people stick to the OG plot beat-for-beat? Like if you're coming to it as a fan, why do you want to see it exactly but with new faces. Bending the plot to the characters is a lot more fun and you get more stuff out of it (see: a ffx/homestuck AU i was plotting at one point that saw Jake replacing Yuna and Dirk replacing Tidus). But Homestuck was one of those weird fandoms where this kind of thing was encouraged and thrived. Being in XIV, I'm kind of loath to step outside of it because the setting itself has so much going for it that I don't really need to supplement it with anything else - which is hilarious, since this is the game full of crossover events! With those, it's like...I'll supplement other FF titles in the same vein as the game does already (eg: you can tell what era of Allag's rule tech is from based on if it's Pulse or Cocoon tech from FFXIII; Garlemald uses FFVI and FFVII stuff, while older stuff they've appropriated is things like Tactics and FFXII; the FFIV stuff, etc), but all the non-XIV stuff (sans tactics ogre, because POTD is Staying), that just gets a passing reference and not a main focus. The most notable instance of this is how Nier is handled, because while the storyline is canon, it's more of a joke. Everyone talks about it, everyone is confused by it, but I'm never going to actually write them dealing with the crossover because they don't really add much? It's just more funny having a bunch of medieval fantasy heroes trying to grapple with Yoko Taro-ness and breaking their brains over it.

8. Have you ever received hate on a fic?

...hm. I mean, the worst I've gotten on a fic was on Inkspill, where someone decided to get snippy with me because the second chapter is ~10k words. I'd love to find them to show them the word counts of my current drafts lmfao. But actual worse stuff was role play, which involved people tearing apart my writing in private and using it as an excuse to try and get me kicked. But considering I lost the receipts from the person who leaked it, I can't say shit despite one of them being a large ffxiv account who runs an anti-bullying schtick here and on twt so. Yeah.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I definitely write smut, but good god is it difficult to work on. Like, I don't have issues visualizing it, it's just the language. And actually writing the scene out. Makes me so gd awkward, even if it's arguably vanilla shit. Which is admittedly really frustrating, because part of why I do write smut is to try and reclaim that facet of writing from some pretty nasty stuff from a past relationship (no details; very few people actually know the details). So much of it comes from trying to be able to write stuff for myself, but that hesitation is still there. As for what, it's predominantly female focused. As in, you're not really going to see a lot of shameless smut focusing on men (be it m/m or m/f). If men are involved, it's predominantly service stuff for a female partner. Cunnilingus tends to be my go-to, obviously fingering and w/e, but I'm trying to also expand what that means because Surkukteni frankly has had a fair number of flings with trans women and fems. So muffing is on the list of stuff to write (the surkie/cylva fic, stuff with heustienne and venat...), but in general just trying to get away from this pervasive idea that trans fems always have to be tops and have to penetrate their partner. If you're looking for this kind of stuff, I recommend Fucking Trans Women. But either way, most of what I write tends to be a response to stuff I've had to go through + wanting to see other depictions in fanfiction since it's. So often so samey.

10. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not really, but I did have this weird encounter on an AU server where they said that people could just set up channels to discuss their AUs and whatever, but I wanted to distance myself from that group and they really did not want me to delete my stuff. Like, they got aggressive and snapped at me for not wanting people to to use an AU that was fairly personal to me. ...Like, they said it was just a place to talk about AUs, I was never told that their intention was that if you post it, it stays, and free reign for everyone else to do stuff in it. This and the role play server have just really made me never want to engage with Kingdom Hearts ever again.

11. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Nope, but I'm open to the idea.

12. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Well yeah, I'm part of two exquisite corpses that I linked above lmao Those are seriously fun, y'all should try it sometime. But aside from that, I tried to with my ex gf but that was. Less actually co-written, and more me doing all the work.

13. What’s your all-time favorite ship?

If we're talking about normal definition of ships, probably Edelgard/F!Byleth. Like, don't get me wrong there's a lot of stuff in XIV that I care about npc/npc wise, but something like Ryne/Gaia is like how I feel about NamiXi in that...I adore them, but I wish they'd been around when I was that age? They're cute, but I was introduced to them as an adult and there's still that disconnect. Love queer teen stuff for the queer teens, but I'm nearly 30 lmfao Obvs I'm extremely deep into stuff like Ysayle/Venat, Ysayle/Heustienne, etc. but that's like. So minor that there's not a lot of community around them like there is with edeleth. But that's what happens when you're a f/f shipper 💀💀💀 But in all honesty, the actual answer is wolysayle. I'm blanket including other peoples' dynamics because I just really like seeing people actually use Ysayle and give her further purpose, but also I'm super deep into Surkukteni/Ysayle and all the nonsense that surrounds it - especially how partners like Venat are involved. I care them, I'm very emotional over them.

14. What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

As much as I would like to return to Inkspill, I'm never going to. It's an old fic and if it wasn't clear already, I'm not super interested in writing exclusively about teenagers. I'm also working on a fic that has been shown in snippets and whatever, but I'm hesitant about it because it's. This frustrating fkn thing of the fact that it's Perfectly Goddamned Normal, but people are so weird about it online - both the people who are way too into it, and the detractors. I just want to write about what Surkie goes through from post-shadowbringers to endwalker (which, iykyk what that entails), especially since this Scenario actually allows her to slow down and focus on other aspects of her relationship with her now-fiances, but people get so genuinely nasty about this topic. So even if I enjoy writing it and how it has her navigate her relationships - romantic, familial, and platonic - I'm not sure I'll ever finish it because of gestures.

15. What are your writing strengths?

I've been told I'm very good at writing dialogue, and I can't really argue that because I really do enjoy writing conversations between people. I know people are sick of the Marvel irony that shows up in dialogue and so it makes everyone leery of sarcastic exchanges, but sarcasm and banter are genuinely my favorite things to write. I like obnoxious assholes who know what the other's boundaries are, so they can just be as blunt or snide as they like without a wrong word causing things to get contentious. It's a stark contrast between Surkie and Estinien dialogue and Melisande and Ysayle, because the former is two people who deeply understand the other and know when to stop, vs the current stuff which is Melisande picking at every way she can upset Ysayle because she just does not like her. I try to keep speech habits in mind when writing, I also keep track of how frequently someone curses and what expletives they use, and it's just...really fun trying to make it so distinct that you don't need tags to tell who's speaking? Means I've done something right. And - at least, according to my mother (because she does know about my writing) - I'm apparently good at descriptive prose, because it's "very evocative" and "paints a good mental image".

16. What are your writing weaknesses?

Writing smut, tbh? Like, I know it's similar to action, but I just can't get it for the most part. I'm also not very good at writing stuff that skims over things to cover a long span of time because I like idling in moments and having things go slow. Jumping from place to place and scene transitions are the bane of my existence.

17. What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I think it's important to at least try. I've run into this issue because my WoL is a polyglot but also has the Echo. Like was mentioned in the tag's post, I use Writing with Color a lot to inform me about how to better handle accents from other languages so I don't wind up with how people like Lovecraft write (because that's embarrassing), but I also try to use what I know to inform sentence structure because people kind of just...ignore that? I'll be more specific: I incorporate various English accents and dialects into what I write to get a better idea of what their voice sounds like, but nowhere in there is that used as a signal to view them as unintelligent the way that XIV (and frankly most English-speaking media) does. Kitase has a thick accent, but it's more Lominsan so it's reflected in his speech. However, both he and Surkukteni speak Hingan (japanese), Doman (ig japanese as well because fkn stormblood), and Rural Doman (chinese). I don't know if anyone's picked this up, but Surkie and Kitase both tend to drop the subject of who they're talking about after a while, and very rarely use self pronouns if talking at length. "You" is also fairly absent compared to a native Common (english) speaker, more so in Kitase than Surkukteni due to exposure. These habits come from Japanese sentence structure and how a lot of context is dropped if it can be clearly inferred. Obviously, it's a habit in English, but not to the same degree. Sign language is in here and a version of it used with the dragoons is prominent to Surkie. That led to a long research stint into trying to figure out how to portray that - and there's no good one answer? So I settled on using [Stuff like this] to show that it's talking, it's formatted as talking, and doesn't have the same flourishes as other speech. This is mostly because of how I format dragonspeak, internal brain buddies, and other things. It's treated exactly like normal dialogue, it just has different tags and punctuation. Otherwise, it is exactly the same to not make it seem like it's lesser to spoken languages.

18. What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Kingdom Hearts, but we don't talk about that.

19. What’s a fandom/ship you haven’t written for yet but want to?

Fire Emblem Three Houses, but HEAR ME OUT. HEAR ME OUT. Yes, I would love to contribute to the femslash edeleth, but my main motivation for an FE3H fic is a New Game+ meta fic. I got the idea from starting a new route and finding that supports and skills could transfer over, so it got me thinking about a looping story involving Byleth - an ever changing person, in presentation, name, and relationships - having to relieve the story of FE3H and trying to figure out how to break out of it. They're more cognizant with each loop, more manic, until it finally splits into the femleth and guyleth. Femleth remembers the fact that this isn't right, Guyleth stands in opposition to her. Femleth ends up with Edelgard and the Black Eagles, Guyleth ends up with Dimitri and the Azure Lions. And it's going to get messy. But I havent really had the energy to write it because it means finishing all the other routes, and doing Black Eagles first has made it very hard to go through Azure Lions. I'm sparing people my feelings on it, but omfg. I just want to go back to Crimson Flower.

20. What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

i had a dream about you and you want a better story. who wouldn't? Like, they were the most fun to write (the latter is my active draft), and I just care them. Very proud of these two uwu

[dcwnthercbbithcle]

There is... nuance, to say the least in which names you call Doe and which ones she actually prefers. If I had to rank them though, I'd say

Doe is definitely the best and her chosen one, it's the name she's attached to herself and who she'll introduce herself as, with the exclusion of her post-fog verse)

Jean/Blue-Jeans/Barbie are close seconds, they're nicknames, yes. But it's a source of pride, Doe loves her style and loves it more when her style and fashion is acknowledged, especially to the point of being called after the hottest toy of her decade (even when it's not meant complimentary)

Then there's Rira, this is exclusively for verses where she's been informed of her former name, but Doe HATES and I mean HATES that her parents and family decided for her to give her an anglicized name when her birth name is so beautiful and bird like. She thinks it fits her, much much better than Rachel does; but something something her parents misguided INSISTANCE it can't be commonly know they're not from the area with the hopes of it making it easier on them socially (which hasn't worked whatsoever, but I digress).

Then come all the other nicknames, the ones that are more on her appearance but feel less complimentary because they're attached to parts of herself she doesn't feel the same great pride over. Ones like Freckles, Hairspray, Click, Spot, Shorty, etc. She doesn't HATE them, but she doesn't love them either. If you insist on using them she's giving you the side-eye

THEN THERE'S JANE, DOE DOESN'T LIKE THE 'JANE' PART OF JANE DOE AT ALL. It feels so old to her and just not her in every conceivable way. You could walk up to her and call her George and she'd feel the same way. 'But Bun! Doe is her last name technically, she needs a first name!' to that end, Doe is rolling her eyes. If a first name is THAT important, call her Barbie or Jean Doe, or hell! Miss. Doe will do! She likes that! But she's not Jane, stop trying to make her into plain Jane, she is so much more!

AND LASTLY THERE'S RACHEL, Doe hates the name Rachel so much, it's a name she wears with as much pride as a grease stained sweater. She loathes it, it's old, it's harsh, it's not her. It's so unlike her and either her REAL name (Rira) or any of her chosen names. She really wishes she could go out back and burn it in effigy, but unfortunately to keep the peace with her family in post-fog verses, she's stuck with it, but she's glaring and growling over it the entire time (in silence). The nicknames from it (Rae, Ray-Ray, etc.) are just as bad, she thinks it's ugly, she think's they're ugly and she'll go by literally anything else, to the point that when people make up nicknames for her, she could cry with joy.

[ambercast]

(in response to this post by/with @endlessreruns)

tw: death, depictions of grief, suicidal ideation

Roman wasn't sure what he was going to say when he saw Lucy. Maybe he should have been thinking about it on the rest of the walk towards the commune, but in reality it was almost like his mind had suddenly went blank. Devoid of any thoughts whatsoever. He got to the commune, not even bothering with the few members that called after him as he made his way up to the door, and then inside to look for her. Still not saying a word to anyone or giving them any type of acknowledgement if they were saying something.

There was a bit of a commotion that caught Lucy’s attention. They’d been working on a donkey for Bram with the new tool Lincoln had given her. She looked up as Roman entered the room, someone calling after him that he wasn’t supposed to be there. He hadn’t snuck in. That was strange. The look on his face was also strange.

Standing quickly, she moved to shut the door. They couldn’t lock it, but it was something. “What’s wrong?” she asked quietly, moving around him to stand in front of him, looking up into his face.

"it's - " he started, looking at her and swallowing, before he began to pace back and forth some. "it's-" the word came again, followed by silence as he reached up to scratch behind his head "fuck. Fuck!"

This was even more worrisome. Lucy watched him pace for a moment before reaching to take his hand. Pulling him over to the bed, they set him down on the edge of it, sitting down beside him. She didn’t say anything else, allowing him to take his time. Obviously something was very wrong, but they didn’t want to push him.

His pacing stopped only when she took his hand and brought him over to sit on the edge of the bed. He hated that she was doing this for him, when he knew that what he had come to say was going to hurt them. He stared down at his hands, maybe it would be easier if he wasn't looking at her.

It still took a few minutes before he spoke, "I was - I was on my way here and I found him."

Lucy watched his face, not understanding what happened or what he meant by that. Found who? What happened? She told herself not to push. They moved to take his hand again, lacing their fingers together.

He stared at her hand, before his face traveled back up to hers. Roman's eyes giving away more than his words had. "I'm -" he started before just giving a shake of the head and pulling his hand from hers in order to wrap his arms around her and pull her into a hug without another word.

Roman’s eyes and the hug had Lucy’s mind racing. Who had he found? What happened? Was someone hurt? Dead?

They pulled away from the hug, staring at his face. “Who?”

"Don't make me say it, Lu"

“Most of my friends use he. I don’t know who you’re talking about. If one of my friends is hurt . . .” Lucy was babbling a bit in Spanish now, gripping Roman’s arms tightly.

"It's not one of your friends, Lucy" he inhaled, shaking his head. Lincoln hadn't been Lucy's friend. Not really. Not in the way that the people Roman had seen Lucy talk to and be around at events had been. Their relationship had been different. More familial. More paternal on Lincoln's end.

It took a moment before Lucy realized who he meant. Lincoln was a “he” who wasn’t one of her friends. The color drained from their face, and they stood quickly. “Where is he?” she demanded.

"The forest." That's where he had been last he knew at least. There was the possibility that he'd been moved by now, but he doubted it.

Lucy turned and opened the door to head out. determined to see for herself. It couldn’t be true. Lincoln was probably just injured or something. He couldn’t be dead. He was their father, in every way that counted. She couldn’t lose another family member.

Roman saw her head towards the door and stood to follow her. "I told one of the rangers that was out on patrol. He might not be there anymore"

That was fine. She’d go to the funeral home. Lucy didn’t look at him or speak, simply walked with determination toward the funeral home and cemetery, hands curled into fists at their sides, nails digging into palms. Maybe he was fine and he wouldn’t be there. Maybe he’d be back at his shop, perfectly healthy and alive and it was all a misunderstanding.

Roman wasn't sure if he should ask if they wanted him there or not, but there was a part of him telling him to keep going with her. That she was going to need him.

It was a tense walk down to the funeral home, and as they arrived the paramedics were wheeling the body toward the back entrance. Lucy sped up in order to catch them, flinging herself onto the gurney before anyone could stop her. Someone grabbed their shoulders to pull her away, but she practically climbed on top of the thing, grabbing the zipper of the body back and ripping it open.

He was pale. Cold. His eyes were closed, almost as though he were asleep. Lucy grabbed his shoulders, shaking him, trying to wake him up. More hands grabbed at her, trying to pull her away, but she struggled against them, still shaking Lincoln’s shoulders over and over again. A small sound escaped her, like an animal in pain, a cross between a whimper and a cry, as she struggled and shook and tried to wake him. He couldn’t be dead. This couldn’t be real. He had to wake up. He had to.

"Just give her a fucking moment!" Roman shouted as he saw them trying to pull her away again. His hand was on the pocket knife in his pocket, ready to pull it out and threaten them if they didn't back off.

At Roman’s shout they backed away, leaving Lucy on top of the gurney. He wasn’t waking up. Slowly, her frantic shaking slowed and then stopped. He was gone. He was gone. Just like they all were gone.

She started to climb into the body bag, and as the paramedics jumped forward to try and stop her, she did her best to fight them off. She had to go with him.

Roman saw them jump forward and in one quick move the knife was out and open, blade pointed outwards. "Back the fuck off" he growled.

“She can’t be in there,” one of the paramedics said, holding his hands up as he saw the knife.

Lucy took the opportunity to finally wiggle into the body bag, resting her head on Lincoln’s shoulder and biting her lip. He was so still and cold. They started to try and zip the body bag up again from the inside.

"Lucy" Roman said, glancing back in her direction. "you can't stay in there"

Lucy didn’t want to listen. She didn’t want to leave Lincoln. He was cold and he shouldn’t be alone. At least her family had gone together. Lincoln was all alone.

The paramedic gave Roman a pleading look, not wanting to get his captain involved if he didn’t have to.

Roman lowered the knife, but still kept it out, as he moved to turn fully towards the gurney. "You want to go with him don't you?" he asked

Lucy hadn’t managed to get it closed completely, and at Roman’s voice they paused, eyes burning as they nodded silently. The Weirdlings had each other. Cat had the commune. Roman had Saffron. Lincoln had no one. She had to go with him. He was everything and so much more. Her father. Her savior. Her mentor. Her best friend.

"would that be what he'd want for you?" he asked, moving to slowly unzip the bag some, though not all the way. "would he want you to die because he did?"

Lucy didn’t like that question. Obviously Lincoln didn’t want her to die. It’d broken his heart when he’d found her in his workshop. But . . . he wasn’t here to save her now. He was gone, and Lucy felt a gaping hole in their chest that just seemed to be getting bigger with every minute, threatening to swallow them whole.

Slowly, they shook their head but didn’t move from Lincoln’s chest.

"I'll make them give you five minutes, but then you have to come out" his voice was soft as he spoke, "please promise you'll come out. For me"

For a moment Lucy was tempted to refuse. She’d known Lincoln for nearly a decade. She’d known Roman for practically five minutes. But that thought didn’t last long. It was a selfish thought. Lucy didn’t like being selfish.

Slowly, she nodded. Five minutes.

"okay" he nodded before turning back towards the paramedics. "you're going to give her five minutes. If any of you even think about grabbing her I will stab you. Don't think I'm fucking joking"

The paramedic lifted his hands and took a step back, allowing the five minutes.

Lucy curled her fingers into Lincoln’s shirt, closing her eyes and pretending to be dead with him, just like she did with her family. Where she could see them all like they were, and they were all together, and she wasn’t alone. The tears came slowly and then all at once, and they muffled their sobs against Lincoln’s chest, wishing he’d hold her. But his arms didn’t move, and there was no reassuring heartbeat.

Roman kept his place in-between the paramedic and Lucy, his knife raised again out towards the paramedic, in a stance to strike if he so much as thought of getting close.

The five minutes passed and as much as Roman wanted to give them more time the five minutes was what had been agreed on and if he gave her another five then he'd just give her another and another. "Lu. Lu we have to go"

Lucy made herself stop crying. It was something they’d gotten good at over the years. Slowly, she sat up and crawled off the gurney. She paused, leaning up on her toes to give Lincoln’s forehead a small kiss. They watched, then, as the paramedic moved forward again and rolled the gurney into the funeral parlor.

Lucy stood and watched, arms crossed tightly over her chest, knowing what would happen next. His body would be prepared and then there’d be a memorial. Then he’d join the many others in the cemetery.

Their feet felt like lead. Maybe they would just stand here until it was all said and done, no matter how long it took.

Roman just watched her, and then the paramedic as they rolled the gurney and Lincoln's body inside. He closed the knife and slid it back into his pocket.

After a few more minutes he reached out to touch their shoulder. "We should go."

Lucy didn’t move. They were returning to the earth, their feet buried into the ground, just like Lincoln would be buried.

Roman moved in front of them, holding her face in his hands. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry it was him. If I could bring him back for you I would."

Lucy could feel her eyes filling with tears again. She couldn’t quite look Roman in the eye, rare for her. It was nice to hear he felt that way, but it also told her he felt guilty, which wasn’t good. Slowly, she dropped her head forward to press her forehead into his shoulder.

"you can stay with me if you want. For a little while" he offered, knowing she might not want to be at the commune for now.

Lucy didn’t know where she wanted to go. Everything was a haze and she could barely think, let alone make any decisions. She continued to stand there, forehead pressed against his shoulder still.

He stood there with her for a moment or two longer, before he wrapped his arm around her. "come on" he said quietly, as he began to walk, guiding her with him as he started back towards his place.

[riftwalker-limbro]

fractured - part 2

masterpost

----

Debriefing Kali wasn’t the smooth ride Kelth had expected it to be, though it had absolutely no problems letting the drives pass it by - Kelth hadn’t even mentioned it contained recordings by Ordis, it just hadn’t cared about them whatsoever, once it heard that-

“Warframe fragments? Floating in space?” it had asked, signing stilted with what Kelth had initially assumed to be surprise, but was quickly starting to suspect was more like shock, maybe with some horror mixed in, from how often it was repeating questions.

“Yes, and-”

“In- tiny pieces?”

Kelth was starting to get a little impatient. “Yes, could you help us gather them all up? The drives are equally important and time-sensitive, and I can’t split myself or Sufford in two.”

“Yes, of course- send Yura the data, please, I’ll go immediately. No time to waste.”

Kali had left as soon as it had received all the necessary information. Kelth was left staring after its Liset speeding off chasing the signal in grateful confusion. It didn’t look like they would have to worry about that task getting completed.

“Well, Sufford,” they said, turning back to look at their friend. “Ready to go find some more drives?”

He made a show of thinking about it, but signed a quick okay when they started laughing and swatting at him. Ordis was already crawling the Weave for any signs of either of the category of object they were interested in, so to the silence of his concentration did they board the Liset, setting off for their own task, last of the group. 

—

Ordis, Kali and Kelth kept an open comms channel, and for the first several hours, everything went smoothly. Kali reported in frequently, Kelth found drives at a slightly slower rate, having switched over to the next planet after Earth stopped pinging on Sufford’s scanners, and Ordis was silent. When asked about this, he grumbled something about human component bottlenecks, and then continued to be quiet.

The total drive count was up to a dozen, the amount of warframe fragments Kali had managed to find looked like it might be the same volume as Sufford’s upper body, and Kelth was getting tired and ready to call it a night then - focusing for so long felt like it was about to  give them a headache, and they could tell that Sufford’s energy levels were starting to run low, too. Kali was showing no signs of stopping - it sounded equally frazzled every time it reported in on a new milestone, and the concern and unease that that fostered under Kelth’s skin kept them from returning to Ordis’ Orbiter for a quick rest.

Then, Ordis reported in.

“Ordis found a few Tenno with fragments, a few with drives, but not all are willing to part with them for free,” he complained. “Kelth, may Ordis use your funds to see if these Tenno are to be persuaded financially?”

Kelth didn’t have to think about that one. “Yeah, sure-”

“Yura, give them access to our funds for the warframe fragments,” Kali butted in, grim. “Hustle them, Ordis, but don’t reject if they don’t budge.”

“Only for the fragments?” Kelth asked, surprised.

“You gave this task to me,” Kali said. “My responsibility.”

“Well, I mean, I asked you to help, but you don’t have to-”

“We will help reassemble this warframe,” Kali said, tone brooking no argument. “It is worth every credit.”

Kelth took a moment to process that, slightly baffled. “Well, sure, okay. Uh, same policy for my funds, for the drives, then, Ordis.”

“Thank you both,” Ordis said, already sounding distracted again. “Ordis may need one of you to go pick these up at various relays all over the system after negotiations conclude.”

“I can do that,” Kelth said. “While Sufford and I do that, you can reevaluate the frequencies of the new drives we found.”

Ordis acknowledged that with a short ping. Kali remained quiet, likely on the trail of yet another batch of warframe fragments. They seemed to be showing up in small clouds.

Well, maybe Kelth and Sufford could get in a quick nap while travelling across the system to pick up various fragments and drives. For now, they soldiered on.

—

Ordis was done first - with their combined funds, there had been no Tenno that he had found who hadn’t eventually ceded their drives and fragments to their group. He’d placed posts on forums in various places, hoping to draw the attention from those who hadn’t communicated about their strange finds online and who might be motivated by a financial reward, but that might as well be a dead end for now.

Next was Kali, which wasn’t surprising given its eerily intense motivation to find as many fragments as it could, combined with Kelth and Sufford’s break to go pick up Ordis’ purchases. Done was a strong word, though - they’d found enough fragments for Ordis to reconstruct a rough estimate of what this warframe had looked like before it was destroyed. Yura and Ordis’ scanners couldn’t pick up the frequency anywhere anymore, so this was all that they would reasonably be able to find - any pieces left floating around were likely too small to be detected.

The reconstructed projection was a hologram, floating in Ordis’ Orbiter’s lounge, around which they were all gathered. Kali was standing up, arms crossed, shoulders drawn up high, the picture of distress. Next to it, Sufford appeared calm but curious, and Kelth themself was incredibly intrigued but exhausted, sitting down on the couch. 

The projection itself showed a warframe in black, white and blue, with armour like old-world formal dress, shaped like a tailcoat and a top hat. He had fins on his ankles and wrists, elegantly accenting the long lines of his narrow chassis. Ordis had highlighted the missing material in red - the damage spread out from his chest and spiderwebbed across his limbs and head. At the centre of his torso, he was almost solid red.

“The damage is too substantial,” Ordis said, pensive. “This isn’t enough to recreate a viable warframe. The missing material of his chest alone-”

Kali snapped its fingers and started signing, quick and jerky. “Can’t we reuse some parts, fill up the gaps? It’s not ideal, but warframe material is flexible, adaptable - the coattails, can’t we use them to patch the worst of it? We got most of those, right?”

Ordis simulated sucking in a breath. On the projection, the coattails disappeared, and some of the red of the warframe’s torso resolved to neutral grey, to set it apart from the original material in its original places.

“That doesn’t look too bad,” Kali signed, hopeful. “Right?”

“Hmm,” Ordis said. “It looks better, but he wouldn’t be completely stable… If we could also-”

The wrist-fins were also removed from the projection, filling in even more grey material on the chest.

“Like that, he has a good chance of being viable,” he said. “I’m not sure how combat-functional the parts we just removed were, but I don’t want to change too much more about the design, to avoid the risk of him not being able to use his abilities at all anymore.”

“Let’s do it like this,” Kelth said, decisive.

“I’ll inform your Helminth of the changed design,” Kali signed, jumping up immediately. “The material is in there already, right?”

“Kali- wait one fucking second, you’re not the boss of- let’s first discuss the, ah, resource costs of this reparation effort,” Ordis said, tone careful when he could keep it free of glitching. “This warframe has already cost us a great deal of effort and credits, and now it may cost us a small trove of resources, too. Scanning the collected material has revealed that it is missing a lot of basic warframe functionality - no transference bolt, no comms systems, and various other missing or poorly-arranged internals-”

Kali straightened up and started signing immediately again, not letting Ordis finish. “Yura and I will-”

“Ordis, it’s fine, whatever the Helminth needs we can provide,” Kelth said, at the same time.

Kali gave them a look, having halted when they started speaking, and just nodded. “If you need any resources you don’t have or aren’t willing to invest into him, please check with Yura and I first. This warframe should-” it halted for a second, as if unsure what to say. Finally, it settled on: “It’s not right.”

Kelth frowned at it a little in confusion, but after a moment recollected themself. “Alright,” they said. “Let’s do this, then. Kali, you said something about the Helminth?”

“Your Ordis can’t talk to it the way warframes can, and I’m a bit of an expert with it. Also, I want to ensure this warframe gets reconstructed as well as possible,” it said. “Thank you for asking me to help, and for trusting us with this task. We’ll get him put back together as well as possible.”

Then, it turned, and briskly walked out of the room. Kelth turned back to look at the projection in front of them, still slowly rotating. It was now robbed of the coattails and wrist-fins, but slightly less suffused with red than earlier. They sighed.

Kali’s behaviour about this warframe was not making much sense to them. They still hadn’t asked it about its Tenno body, and it wasn’t bringing it up, either. Was this an autonomous warframe? Was that maybe why it was so set on doing right by this broken one?

They’d had a long day, and this was too much to wrap their head around, especially right now. They looked to their side and found Sufford. “I think I’m done for the day, if I’m honest,” they said, giving a tired half-smile.

He nodded. “Go get some rest,” he signed, “I’m going to stay up until Kali’s back on its own ship again.”

Kelth smiled in thanks and got up off the couch, easily finding their balance with their cane, and slowly made their way back to their own room. They were asleep before their head hit the pillow.

[midnight-stormm]

I adore quackity. I really do. I like his content, its entertaining I've been enjoying the lore lately for the qsmp. now what I'm about to say, is no hate towards quackity whatsoever.

Quackity is the one that should speak up. Dream has responded to this situation not once, not twice but three times! At this point the hate is still being thrown around and nothing is stopping.

Quackity fans aren't going to listen to dream. They don't care about dream. They care and listen to quackity and quackity only. They feel that dream "disrespected " quackity. They feel that dream is trying to take all the "attention " away from quackity's project. They feel that dream is "jealous " of quackity and no matter how much dream states that there's no issue between him and quackity. And how they are both great friends and he has alot of admiration and love towards quackity, they do not care.

They are rallying in his defense and they feel like he's been targeted. So they will continue to send hate. They will continue to say disgusting and harmful things. They will continue to attack his friends and other ccs because you know why, no one is telling them that they are wrong. Well. Correction, alot of people are but the person they look up to isn't telling them they are wrong.

Quackity silence is giving them the power to continue to send hateful things and that's the sad part.

I'm not saying he's obligated to speak out because he doesn't have to. He can continue to focus on himself and his project. The reason why something needs to be said is because of the mass hate that's been going around for a week.

I know that he can't control his fans and I'm not asking him too. No one can control thousand of people because everyone has a mind of their own but acknowledging the issue and make a two second tweet saying, "please don't send hate on my behalf" can mean alot. I'm not saying it's going to completely ease the tension but it's worth a try.

At this point, what dream says is out the window. They listen to you and only you.

And it's sad that this is even happening because both projects(qsmp & usmp) is ground breaking. This can help open doors for a more diverse community and this is something that we all should be cheering about and sadly it isn't happening as much.

[austennerdita2533]

@sekretny friend, I need you to explain all the reasons you paired invisible string with emma x knightley? I want to crawl into your brain, please share your thought and vibes 😭❤️

Well, of course! Since you asked so nicely, I’d be happy to give you a window into my thought process. :D

(Had to answer you here because this got way too long!)

SO. I think the main reason I paired ‘invisible string’ with Emma and Knightley is because the song, as a whole, feels reflective to me. Wistful. Experiential. An echo of love that follows along as well as points you, like an arrow, back to where you belong. 

It’s a full circle tune, beginning and ending in Centennial Park, which tells the story of a relationship over time. A friendship that becomes more, perhaps. Or will. One that evolves in increments - subtly, of course - with the changing seasons and the “barbed wire” mistakes that are tended to with care, concern, and genuine affection. It’s this idea that unconditional love has been the underlying “thread” or “string” between them all along. And it’s been there from the start. 

That, to me, is what Emma and Knightley have always had. They’re friends and neighbors. They’re confidants. They have good rapport. He sees her for who she is - graces, faults, and all; she values his opinion more than anyone else’s and always strives to do better when she knows she’s erred. They bicker, naturally, (which is part verbal foreplay, part challenge to grow), but there’s an ease and familiarity between them that allows for frankness. For authenticity. There’s no pretense in their dynamic whatsoever, they’re simply free and open to be themselves no matter what. And the fact that they genuinely like and respect each other at face value is the “invisible string” that binds them together. It’s the base, the sturdy foundation, on which their love is built--allowing them to elevate from friends to lovers with the naturalness of a released breath. 

This song is also about the passage of time, with someone looking back at significant moments they’ve shared with someone they’ve known for a long time. For years and years. (Centennial Park --> The yogurt shop --> First trip to LA --> Getting lunch down by the lakes --> That dive bar --> Centennial Park again) It’s about two people being tethered together since they first met - in a soft, understated, maybe even unobserved way - and one of them is only now realizing the truth of it all. What they are to each other, what they have. Where they’ve journeyed apart to get here, now. How special and “pretty it is to think” that something invisible could have been working behind the scenes this whole time to pull them together. 

There’s a sort of epiphanic feel, mid-song, where one of them is finally deigning to ask, “Were there clues I didn’t see?” And the best part about it is that the question is rhetorical. Why? Because the answer is “one single thread of gold tied me to you”  and they know that now. THEY CAN SEE IT. FINALLY.  So here they are, in this reflective headspace, tracing it backward and forward, letting it burn their retinas in shades of gold.

I think this song fits particularly well with Emma, who, while quite taken up with other people’s romantic sensibilities, takes almost the whole novel before she evaluates her own feelings for Mr. Knightley. However, once she does, after she probes the inner-workings of her own heart, she realizes he’s been there, waiting to be discovered, yet also never to be removed, the whole time. 

Likewise, Mr. Knightley had to endure the agony of suffering in silence. The passage of time is excruciating for a man who must love and admire in secret, never at liberty to speak, watching the years roll by like monotonous hills. For him, the thread was already apparent and he was following it--only at a longing distance--while Emma remained oblivious.

In a way, Emma and Mr. Knightley each had to grow to acknowledge, as well as express, the “invisible” regard they harbored for one another, so that’s why I love this song for them. 

[marithlizard]

This post has only gotten more useful and relevant over the last five years. It's become my go-to guide for dealing with not just family members, but everyone infected by the ugliness. Detached politeness, refusal to engage with or even acknowledge what they're saying unless there's an urgent reason to. Trying to give them something positive to engage with instead.

It's tough, because there's a lot of calls to action out there to challenge the ugliness, to have the awkward conversations, because so often silence is complicity. And that sounds true and great on a social media post but when someone's throwing hateful bigoted statements in my face, I freeze up and go through a frantic mental calculation of risks and priorities. Is there someone right here being targeted who needs me to step up for them? Could I get fired, or suffer big family/social negative consequences? Will speaking up have any positive effect whatsoever? Most often I end up halfway between Polite Disengagement and Freezing Displeasure, an unsatisfying compromise, and feeling sick with rage. The idea of having to go through that daily - anon, I hope you're doing okay, and that your brother has found his way back.

My sibling is alt-right and extremely hateful about his beliefs. He goes on tirades about liberal agendas and screams and insults me and our other family members when we attempt to debate with him. I live with him and being around him negatively impacts my mental health, especially with me being part of some of the groups he hates so much. I don’t know what to do. I feel so much hatred for him, but he’s my brother and we used to be close.

Members of the so-called “alt right” or “manosphere” actually bear very strong similarities to cult members - they become increasingly rigid in their beliefs, they have decreasing tolerance for ambiguity (everything starts to become either right or wrong, with no room for grey areas), they become increasingly preoccupied with “purity” of thought, their beliefs start to become the core of their personal identity, they accept the word of thought leaders without question or critical thinking, their relationships with family and friends deteriorate, and they often experience negative consequences at work or school as a direct result of their beliefs. 

Dealing with a friend or family member who has joined the alt-right is very different from dealing with a family member who is dabbling with the idea of voting Conservative for economic reasons, or dealing with a family member who erroneously believes that Game of Thrones isn’t very good. Reasoned discussion and laying out your point of view will not work here. The tactics that you need to use with him are actually the tactics used to deprogram cult members, which includes things like:

Do not debate him. Never debate a cult member under any circumstances. It’s a complete waste of time for everybody involved, and it only serves to further entrench him in his toxic beliefs. Cult members do not approach debates in good faith - they are not open to having their minds changed, and they have no intention of ever listening to the other side. Cult members use debate as a tool to recruit people with possibly like-minded beliefs, or as a tool to gather evidence that the “other side” is delusional. The more you debate, the harder he will fight to come up with justifications for his beliefs, and the more satisfaction he will get from feeling like he is defending his “side” from attack. Shut down all debate with him. If he tries to start a debate, redirect immediately. If he makes an inflammatory statement at the dinner table, respond with something non-committal ( “hmmmmm”, “is that so?”, “okay” ) and immediately change the subject. Don’t get sucked in. No matter how hard he tries to open up a debate, deflect, shut him down, or walk away. 

Treat him with detached politeness. I know that it is very difficult not to get visibly upset when someone is insulting the very core of who you are as a person and what you believe, but but you have to stay calm and detached here. Do not let him see that he is upsetting you. When he is going on rants about his beliefs, treat him like a child who is explaining the rules to a video game that you don’t particularly care about - have an air of detached boredom, and no matter how hostile he gets, respond only with politeness. Remember, part of the core beliefs he’s being fed is that people outside of the alt-right are “emotional”, and that his beliefs are “triggering” to those people. Give him no evidence to suggest that is true. Stonewall him. Give him nothing but bored stoicism in response to his outbursts. No matter how much he escalates or how horrifying his beliefs get, always act as though you are having a polite conversation about the weather with a stranger at Starbucks. If he tells you that women should should be property and gays should be killed, respond only with a polite “Well, I suppose that’s one perspective”, or “Yes, I believe you have mentioned this before”. Nothing takes the wind out of a cult member’s sails faster than being treated with calm politeness when they are expecting a fight.

Do not insult him or the people who share his beliefs. The glue that holds cults together is a persecution complex. Cults absolutely thrive on being persecuted for their beliefs, and they depend on it to keep members from leaving. “People outside this group hate you and they will treat you much worse than we will” is the message that keeps people from leaving hateful cults, all the way up until the Kool-Aid is served. He is being fed the message by his fellow cult members that he is hated for who he is - a, presumably, straight white man - and that “Liberals” hate him so much that they want to take away the things he is “owed” (money, power, security, etc) and give it away to undeserving minorities who haven’t really “earned” it. Give him no evidence to suggest that this is true. Refrain from insulting him, or insulting the people he views as thought leaders or role models. You can definitely express your political opinions and make it clear that you are not buying into your brother’s worldview, but keep things direct and refrain from personal attacks. If he is gloating about the president to intentionally get a rise out of you, a simple “I disagree with his policies” is all you have to say - launching into attacks about the president’s looks, family, mannerisms or intelligence is fuel for your brother’s hateful beliefs. Remember that when it comes to your brother, you are not acting in the role of a left-wing activist facing off against a dangerous right-wing activist with a platform. You are a concerned family member dealing with a family member who has gotten involved in a cult. 

Ask polite questions, but do not engage directly with his beliefs. Do not read any of the reading material he recommends, listen to any of the podcasts he puts forward or view any of the videos he asks you to watch; it might be tempting to do so just to prove that you are engaging with him in “good faith” and that you have given his views an “honest try”, but this is a mistake. There is no such thing as “good faith” or intellectual honesty when it comes to cults, and there is nothing to gain from engaging in their propaganda. Do not treat anything produced or recommended by a cult as if it has value, because it does not. When he provides you with something he wants to you read, behave as though a young child has just handed you a live earthworm - thank him for the gesture, but decline to accept. Engaging with propaganda just legitimizes it, and gives him more ammunition to hunker down in his beliefs. When you do ask questions of his beliefs, be detached and polite. If he is ranting that all women are whores, ask him what the basis is for that belief. You are not looking to debate him or get a rise out of him - don’t fire back with counter-points, but make a polite, disinterested noise of acknowledgement, or ask for further clarification. You are merely looking for holes in his reasoning, or gaps where he doesn’t have evidence to back up what he says. You don’t need to point these holes out to him - there will be many. When he is unable to be specific, once again, make a polite acknowledgement ( “Interesting.” ) and move on.

Emphasize how much you miss your former relationship with him. Tell your brother that you miss him. Be specific - talk about the things that you used to do together, and the ways that he used to be involved in your life. If he tries to deflect and start talking about his beliefs again, or how he can’t be involved with you anymore because of your own beliefs or identity, don’t engage. Go back to talking about how you miss the relationship you used to have with him. If he insults you, pretend you didn’t hear him and remind him of a happy memory or a fun thing that you used to do together. It can take a really long time to have success with this tactic, but your brother does remember the relationship he used to have with you, and it is possible to remind him of what he is missing out on by continuing with his hateful beliefs. The idea is to take his beliefs out of the equation as much as possible - make him miss the relationship that he used to have. Any attempt at mending the relationship on his end will necessarily require that he get less extreme in his beliefs - it’s difficult to pursue a close relationship with someone and still insult them. 

Remind him of normal life outside the cult. People in the alt-right - and other cults - tend to become hyper-focused only on issues that concern the cult, and begin to forget about normal life. Your brother is likely spending a lot of time and focus on things like the “sexual marketplace”, abortion rights, refugees, gay rights, female superhero movies etc. Bring him back to earth as often as you can with reminders of things that are outside the scope of the alt-right, and are minimally politically charged. Start a conversation about a new restaurant that is opening up in your town. Show him a funny cat video. Ask him if he’s seen a minimally controversial movie. Constant reminds of normalcy can gradually help him realize how hyper-focused he has become on a few small issues, and remind him that his worldview and priorities are incredibly skewed.

Protect your own mental health. Living with a cult member is exhausting. The combination of fending off the insults, being bombarded with hate rhetoric and missing the person they used to be is exhausting. Make sure you are protecting your own mental health. Take breaks. Leave the house and spend time with other people. Lean on friends and other family members for support. Take care of yourself. Getting someone out of a cult is a marathon, not a sprint, and it’s important to conserve your energy. It can take up to five years to get someone to fully leave cult beliefs behind. Be patient. 

One of the hard parts about dealing with alt-right family members is that people make the mistake of approaching them as a political movement, when it is more appropriate to address them as a cult. The way that they operate is much more similar to the dynamics of a cult than the dynamics of a mainstream political movement, and deprogramming techniques are your best bet for getting your family member back. I highly recommend that you and your family read up on cults and the tactics used to get people out of them. It is especially helpful to read testimony from people who have escaped cults or successfully been persuaded to leave them - if possible, look for materials from people who have left the alt-right, and try to present this material to your brother. This is an incredibly difficult thing for a family to go through, and I highly recommend that you seek out other families who are dealing with similar situations - you are far from alone here. 

Best of luck to all of you. 

[heavenforblog1111]

'Can You Feel My Heart' is perhaps the most significant piece of music that Bring Me The Horizon has ever created. The song was released on 8th October 2013 as the fourth and final single from the studio album 'Sempiternal'. It was written by singer Oliver Sykes, guitarist Lee Malia and keyboardist Jordan Fish who wasn't even officially a part of the band at that time in 2012. Jordan had a major role in overall creation and writing of the song and officially joined the band in 2013. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QJJYpsA5tv8 Jordan's addition had a very direct impact on the creation of their music going further. The electronic element was missing in their earlier music. Jordan filled the gap and elevated their music to a different level altogether. The overall flow was much better and the rhythm was greatly improved. I was not much of a fan of their music prior to the 'Sempiternal' album. Most of their songs before 2012 felt like them screaming with no aim whatsoever and just making random noises if I were to be brutally honest. However, this song changed the way that I viewed the band and I also liked some of their other songs produced afterwards like 'Throne' for example which was also a very good song. Song Meaning Oliver Sykes spoke about the meaning behind the song. The song was about admitting that one has a problem and it is about realizing that in order to move forward, one has to admit and acknowledge that there is something wrong. Can You Feel My Heart' is all about admittance, admitting you have a problem and admitting something's wrong, that's the first step of the whole album. In my life, I had to admit certain things to go further. They all deal with different topics. Oliver Sykes The song gives a glimpse of what the person is going through. Often times, we deal with problems that are not known to other people. No one apart from ourselves realize the problems we are having. The lyrics talk about one feeling despair and hopelessness. It seems like no one can fully understand our problems and that we are alone in our battles. Through the lyrics 'Can You Hear The Silence, can you see the dark, can you fix the broken and can you feel my heart' the singer is pointing to the fact that rarely can people recognize what one is going through, and many times the solution for problems lies within us only. These issues often affect our relationships with people. One may feel lost or a sense of confusion while connecting with other people. This often times results in people isolating themselves even when they don't like being lonely. It is important to realize one's problems and admit them so that one can resolve them. The song encourages us to push forward because there is always light at the end of the tunnel. It is about realizing that everyone is going through problems and one has to face one's challenges and overcome them to move forward in life. That was my take on the song. Let me know your opinions in the comments below.

[shemarmooresfedora]

Bad Excuses & Blue Slushies

Summary: After playing hard to get for so long, you finally agreed to go on a date with Steve. When he stands you up, he comes back with the strangest excuse as to why.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

Content/Warning: no season 4 spoilers (season 3 spoilers though), fluff with some angst, swearing

Word Count: 2.9k

You hastily tied your red bandana around your neck as you ran into Starcourt Mall.

Your scuffed converse skidded along the tiled floor as you sprinted into Scoops Ahoy, headed to punch yourself in before you were late.

“I already punched you in,” Steve spoke from the register, handing change back to a customer.

“Thanks,” you heaved, hunched over and trying to catch your breath, “My. bike. broke. Had. to. run. over. 2. miles. in. this. stupid. fucking. uniform.”

Steve grinned, “Well, at least you still look as gorgeous as ever.”

“Ha-ha, very funny” you deadpanned, “I do a nice thing and agreed to cover Robin’s shift and this is how I’m repaid.”

“Wow, I’m hurt,” Steve clutched his chest in fake agony, “I pay you a compliment and I’m met with cold sarcasm.”

“Sorry if I find it very hard to believe that the Steve Harrington thinks a sweaty girl in an unflattering sailor’s costume is the epitome of beauty,” you retaliated.

“All the boxes on my dream girl checklist are ticked off,” Steve grinned, “What are you doing Friday night?”

“And how is that your business?” you inquired.

“Because I’m trying to ask you out,” Steve replied.

You let out an audible laugh, stifling it as a customer came into the shop.

“Ahoy there! What can I get for you today, matey?” you greeted them.

“Can I have a large chocolate overboard cone please?” the older woman ordered.

“Right away, ma’am,” you began scooping the ice cream.

“Come on,” Steve continued, “Give me one good reason you won’t go out with me on Friday.”

“Steve,” you chastised, “I’m with a customer.”

“She doesn’t mind. Do you?” Steve looked to the woman.

“Oh no, I’m loving this. Why won’t you go out with this hunk, sweetie?” she asked you.

“Steve, tell this woman where you were just last night?”

“On a date with Stacy Johnson,” he sighed.

“And two days before that?” you inquired.

“With Stephanie Williams but-”

You interrupted him, “I rest my case. $4.82, ma’am,” you handed her her ice cream.

“She makes a compelling case,” the lady handed you the money, “Have a good day, dears.”

“I can list more reasons if that’s not enough for you,” you grinned at Steve who scowled in return.

-

After cleaning up after the store had closed, Steve locked the doors as you waited for him.

“Until next shift, Harrington,” you waved goodbye to him as you entered the parking lot.

“Wait, your bike is broken,” he spoke.

“I’m aware,” you replied.

“Well, how are you getting home?” he continued.

“Walking, I guess. My parents aren’t home,” you shrugged.

“Let me give you a ride,” he offered.

“You live on the opposite end of town and we just worked a double, I’m sure you want to get home. I’ll be okay, really,” you assured him.

“I don’t feel comfortable letting you walk miles home in the dark. Just please get in,” he returned, opening the passenger side of his car

“Fine,” you sighed, getting in, “Thank you.”

Steve started the car and pulled out of the parking lot just before you added, “But if you try any funny business, I will snap your neck.”

Steve chuckled, “I’d expect nothing less.”

You rested your head against the window, completely exhausted after your shift. You hated to admit it but Steve was right. If you walked home alone in the dark, you probably would have fallen asleep in a ditch about half a mile in.

“Are you ready for the math test tomorrow?” Steve broke the relative silence of the car.

“I didn’t even know you knew I was in your class,” you snorted.

“Believe it or not, Y/N, I notice you,” Steve spoke.

You hummed in acknowledgment but didn’t believe it. Steve was popular, you were decidedly not. There’s simply no good reason he should have any interest in you whatsoever.

“To answer your question, no. I’m completely unprepared but I’m ready to wing it and hope for the best,” you responded.

“That's my strategy with everything in life,” Steve smiled.

He flicked on his blinker as he turned down your road.

“One chance, Y/N,” Steve spoke, “You go out with me Friday night and if it goes bad, I won’t ever bother you again. Deal?

“Why are you so hellbent on me going out with you? Have you seriously run out of all other options?”

“Is it really that hard to believe that I genuinely want to go out with you?” Steve asked, pulling into your driveway.

“Yes, very much so actually,” you spoke softly.

Steve put the car in park and turned to look at you, “I find you witty, intelligent, gorgeous, and overall remarkable. Yes, I do go on a lot of dates but that is because I’m trying to find the right girl for me. No one else makes me laugh like you do, Y/N. No one else could make me so excited to work an eight hour shift scooping ice cream in an overcrowded mall. Frankly, all the past girls don’t even hold a candle to you, Y/N. They’re boring and you’re so incredibly the opposite.”

You relented “Friday night?”

Steve smiled widely, “I’ll pick you up at 7.”

You opened the car door and slipped out of the seat, “I’m looking forward to being nowhere near how high your expectations of me are.”

Steve wholeheartedly laughed, “I’m looking forward to making you admit you actually had fun for once…and on a date with ‘the Steve Harrington’,” he quoted you.

“I’d. rather. die.” you grinned, “Good night, Steve.”

“Night, Y/N,” he waved and watched you until you were safe inside your house before pulling out into the road.

-

Friday night was finally here. You’d never admit it out loud but you were actually looking forward to hanging out with Steve. Even a bit nervous.

You doubted any of your normal wardrobe was suitable for a first date so you bought a sage green skirt at the mall after one of your shifts that week.

You paired it with a plain white tank top and your usual black high top converse (you couldn’t stray too far from who you really were).

You straightened your hair and almost poked yourself in the eye putting on mascara.

“Not too bad, Y/N,” you surveyed yourself in the mirror once you were finally ready.

You grabbed your purse and sat on the front steps of your house, waiting for Steve to arrive.

Ten minutes late was excusable, his hair routine was quite complicated and thorough.

Twenty minutes, maybe there was just really bad traffic.

Thirty minutes was pushing it.

You called it quits when the clock hit 8:01. If he tried to show up any later than this, you wouldn’t be going out with him regardless.

You sulked back inside and stripped off your outfit, trading it in for pajamas. You wiped off your makeup and put your hair up in a ponytail.

This is how your Friday night was supposed to go anyways, minus the crushing disappointment of being stood up.

You pulled a pint of ice cream out of the freezer and clicked on the TV, trying to distract yourself from the pain of rejection.

-

You woke up in the same spot on the couch the next morning, the TV still on and your empty ice cream carton sticking to the coffee table.

You had the opening shift at work today so you forced yourself to get up and change into that god-awful uniform.

Luckily, you managed to fix your bike so you could get to work on time.

However, that didn’t seem to matter because when you pulled into the parking lot, the mall was completely burnt to the ground.

You set your bike down on the sidewalk and ran up to a group of firefighters who were chatting.

“Excuse me?” you asked, “What happened?”

“We don’t know much of anything right now, sweetheart. Just that the whole place set ablaze last night. Two casualties,” he reported.

“May I ask who?” you gulped, suddenly concerned for Steve’s safety.

“Chief Hopper and Billy Hargrove,” he stated.

“That’s awful,” you shook your head in disbelief.

Sure, you weren’t really a big fan of Billy but you didn’t want him dead.

“You should get back home. I doubt you’ll be working for a while,” the firefighter turned back to his group.

You biked home, trying to process all this information. You must have zoned out and gone into autopilot because when you looked up from your handlebars, you were home.

Except there was a very unwelcome guest leaning against his car hood in your driveway, waiting for you.

His face was clearly swollen and bruised.

“Don’t you look pretty?” you quipped, hopping off your bike and pushing it up your driveway.

“Y/N, can we please talk?”

“Let me remind you of our deal, Harrington. I give you one chance and if it doesn’t go well, you won’t bother me ever again. Suffice to say, it didn’t go well. It didn’t go at all actually cause you didn’t fucking show up.”

“Yes but I have a really good excuse,” Steve countered.

“Try me.”

“I was kidnapped by Russians who have a secret laboratory under the mall,” Steve spoke like it wasn’t the most bizarre statement ever.

“Yeah, okay,” you laughed, “So when’s our next date?”

“Really?!”

“No, moron!” you snapped back, “Clearly, that’s so made up. If you’re going to lie, at least make it something believable. Or, just tell me the truth that you didn’t want to go on a date with me! Or even better, don’t ask me out just to mess with my feelings if you aren’t going to fucking show up,” you yelled.

You could feel the tears of frustration welling up in your eyes.

“Robin was there too! You can ask her,” Steve insisted, “Or Dustin. Dustin Henderson who comes into the shop all the time.”

“Sure thing, I’ll just ask your two best friends who would clearly lie for you and just believe every word they say,” you sarcastically replied.

“You have to believe me, Y/N. I seriously wouldn’t miss this date if this didn’t happen.”

“Please just go home and stop bothering me, Steve,” the tears started to roll down your cheeks, “Please.”

“Alright, I’ll go,” Steve relented, witnessing the pain he was putting you through, “Um, you have my number if you ever wanna call. I guess I won’t be seeing you at work for a while.”

“I think that’s for the best,” you sighed, wiping your eyes against your sleeve.

You turned to go inside and placed your hand on the doorknob.

“Is there any way I can make this up to you?” Steve called out.

“Not unless you can actually prove you’re telling the truth,” you spoke before heading inside and locking the door behind you.

-

“That’ll be $11.37, sir,” you slid the box of cigarettes and soda back across the counter.

The man handed you a twenty and you gave him his change before he returned back to his car at the gas pump.

Since the mall was still in ashes, maybe never to be rebuilt, you had to look for work elsewhere. You got a job at the gas station convenience store in town.

Despite not having to wear that stupid sailor uniform, you hated it more than Scoops Ahoy. It was lonely.

You wished the mall hadn’t burnt down. You wish you could still be scooping ice cream with Steve. And you wish he hadn’t stood you up so you could still hang out with him.

I mean you technically still could, but your pride wouldn’t allow you to go crawling back to him, only to be most likely stood up again.

A familiar maroon BMW pulled into the gas station. Great.

The bell chimed above the door, meaning he had entered but you kept your head down.

You heard his footsteps stop when he realized it was you behind the counter.

He cleared his throat, “I didn’t know you worked here.”

“Got to make money somehow,” you replied.

“Twenty dollars on pump two,” he slid a twenty across the table.

“That all?” you asked.

“Add a large blue slushie and M&M’s too please,” Steve pulled out another five from his wallet before heading to fill his cup.

You handed him back his change as he set the cup back down at the counter. He pocketed the change and began to leave.

“Um, you’re forgetting your stuff,” you gestured to the counter in confusion.

“Oh, those are for you. They’re your favorites, right?”

“Yeah, they are. Um, thanks, I guess.”

“When does your shift end?” Steve asked.

You glanced at the clock, “An hour and twenty minutes.”

“Do you mind if I bother you once last time tonight?”

“I guess it couldn’t hurt, I’m already bored out of my mind. I’m literally counting holes in the wall at this point.”

“Okay, stay right there,” Steve spoke, “I’ll be back in 30.”

“It’s my job. I’m kinda stuck here,” you smiled ever so slightly.

“Right,” Steve remembered, “That was stupid. Anyways, I’ll be right back.”

You watched Steve run out to his car and swiftly pull out of the gas station.

“He forgot to get his gas,” you laughed to yourself as you refunded his money.

-

As promised, Steve was back in 27 minutes and 42 seconds. No, you weren’t counting.

He was followed into the store by a young girl who had her arms crossed.

“This is Erica Sinclair,” he introduced her to you.

“Um, hello,” you waved to her.

“Tell Y/N how you feel about me,” he prompted her.

“He’s a nerd who spends way too much time on his hair. He’s not very bright which might explain why the majority of his friends are like five years younger than him. And he wasn’t even that good scooping ice cream,” Erica sassed.

“So you agree she doesn’t like me?” Steve looked to you as you stifled a laugh.

“Yeah, I would say so,” you replied, giving Erica a high-five.

“Erica, what happened on the night of Friday, July 4th?” Steve asked her.

“I had to go through this tunnel in the ceiling at the mall because I was bribed with free cream for life. But then, we discovered this secret elevator and the older kids got captured. Basically long story short, we saved their asses from evil Russians who were trying to open up this portal thingy.”

“How do I know you’re not paying her to say whatever you want?” you asked.

“Oh, I’m being paid to come here,” Erica answered, “Erica does nothing for free. But I wouldn’t lie on this guy’s behalf just to get him a girlfriend who is way out of his league.”

“Okay, that’s enough from you,” Steve handed her a twenty, “Please go wait in the car.”

Erica happily skipped outside.

“I can’t say I believe it but I guess I’ll just have to trust you on this,” you spoke.

“I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not.”

“Should I not be?” you questioned.

“No, you definitely should be. I’m 100% telling you the truth here,” he answered sincerely.

The more that you thought about it, it was way too crazy of a story to make up as an excuse. Plus, that would explain the bruises all over his face that morning. And the reason for the mall fire was still a mystery so you couldn’t exactly disprove him.

“One more chance, Harrington. I’m serious. No excuses this time, not even evil Russians.”

“Yes, thank you! I promise you won’t regret it,” he smiled widely.

“I really don’t know why this was worth all your trouble. A date with me already cost you twenty bucks in bribe money.”

“Worth every single penny,” Steve replied.

You just stared at him. How was he so damn charming all the time? You hated it. That was a lie. You were a sucker for it.

Your eyes flickered down to his lips. He noticed and smirked.

“Do you want to kiss the Steve Harrington, Y/N?” he spoke smugly, leaning over the counter.

“Nope.”

Such a lie.

“That’s a real shame cause I really want to kiss you,” he answered.

You blushed, finally giving in and leaning to meet him halfway. It was gentle and deliberate, as if he was scared one wrong move would have you disappear from his life again.

His hands came up to cup your cheeks, his fingers tangling in your hair. He tasted like peppermint gum and cherry chapstick.

When he pulled away, you felt like you were floating. Your lips tingled with a fuzzy sensation.

He leaned his forehead up against yours, “I have to bring Erica home before her bedtime. Lucas is covering for her.”

“Don’t forget to actually get your gas on the way out this time,” you whispered, smiling.

“Give me another blue slushie. I think they’re my favorite now too,” he grinned.

A/N: sorry if you were expecting a spencer reid fic lol. i tried writing for a different character, i would love to know what you thought <3